PART II. Readings and Recitations from the Most Celebrated Authors (continued 6)

Dead! Dead! Dead! To the solemn beat of the last retreat That falls like lead, Bear the hero now to his honored rest With the badge of courage upon his breast, While the sun sinks down in the gleaming West— Dead! Dead! Dead! Dead! Dead! Mourn the dead! While the mournful notes of the bugles float Across his bed, And the guns shall toll on the vibrant air The knell of the victor lying there— ’Tis a fitting sound for a soldier’s prayer— Dead! Dead! Dead! Dead! Dead! Dead! To the muffled beat of the lone retreat And speeding lead, Lay the hero low to his well-earned rest, In the land he loved, on her mother breast, While the sunlight dies in the darkening West— Dead! Dead! Dead! Ralph Alton.

Come along old chap, yer time’s ’bout up, We got another brindle pup; I ’lows it’s tough an’ mighty hard, But a toothless dog’s no good on guard, So trot along right after me, An’ I’ll put yeh out o’ your misery. Now, quit yer waggin’ that stumpy tail— We ain’t a-goin’ fer rabbit er quail; ’Sides, you couldn’t pint a bird no more, Yer old an’ blind an’ stiff an’ sore, An’ that’s why I loaded the gun to-day Yer a-gittin’ cross an’ in the way. I been thinkin’ it over; ’taint no fun. I don’t like to do it, but it’s got to be done; Got sort of a notion, you know, too, The kind of a job we’re goin’ to do, Else why would yeh hang back that-a-way, Yeh ain’t ez young ez yeh once wuz, hey! Frisky dog in them days, I note, When yeh nailed the sneakthief by the throat; Can’t do that now, an’ there ain’t no need A-keepin’ a dog that don’t earn his feed. So yeh got to make way for the brindle pup; Come along, old chap, yer time’s ’bout up. We’ll travel along at an easy jog— Course, you don’t know, bein’ only a dog; But I can mind when you wuz sprier, ’Wakin’ us up when the barn caught fire— It don’t seem possible, yet I know That wuz close onto fifteen years ago. My, but yer hair wuz long an’ thick When yeh pulled little Sally out o’ the crick; An’ it came in handy that night in the storm, We coddled to keep each other warm. Purty good dog, I’ll admit—but, say, What’s the use o’ talkin’ yeh had yer day. I’m hopin’ the children won’t hear the crack, Er what’ll I say when I get back? They’d be askin’ questions, I know their talk, An’ I’d have to lie ’bout a chicken hawk; But the sound won’t carry beyond this hill, All done in a minute—don’t bark, stand still. There, that’ll do; steady, quit lickin’ my hand, What’s wrong with this gun, I can’t understand; I’m jest ez shaky ez I can be— Must be the agey’s the matter with me. An’ that stitch in the back—what! gitten’ old too— The—dinner—bell’s—ringin’—fer—me—an’ you. Charles E. Baer.

He went to the war in the morning— The roll of the drums could be heard. But he paused at the gate with his mother For a kiss and a comforting word. He was full of the dreams and ambitions That youth is so ready to weave, And proud of the clank of his sabre And the chevrons of gold on his sleeve. He came from the war in the evening— The meadows were sprinkled with snow, The drums and the bugles were silent, And the steps of the soldier were slow. He was wrapped in the flag of his country When they laid him away in the mould, With the glittering stars of a captain Replacing the chevrons of gold. With the heroes who slept on the hillside He lies with a flag at his head, But, blind with the years of her weeping, His mother yet mourns for her dead. The soldiers who fall in the battle May feel but a moment of pain, But the women who wait in the homesteads Must dwell with the ghosts of the slain. Minna Irving.

He offered himself for the land he loved, But what shall we say for her? He gave to his country a soldier’s life; ’Twas dearer by far to the soldier’s wife, All honor to-day to her! He went to the war while his blood was hot, But what shall we say of her? He saw himself through the battle’s flame A hero’s reward on the scroll of fame: What honor is due to her? He offered himself, but his wife did more, All honor to-day to her! For dearer than life was the gift she gave In giving the life she would die to save; What honor is due to her? He gave up his life at his country’s call, But what shall we say of her? He offered himself as a sacrifice, But she is the one who pays the price, All honor we owe to her. Elliott Flower.

There on the ground he lay, a fireman so brave, He’d risked his life, he’d fallen, a little child to save; Life’s stream was ebbing fast away, his comrades all stood by, And listened to his dying words, while tears bedimmed each eye: “Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died, Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried; Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I’m dead and gone. Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn.” There in her home she rests, that mother old and gray, She lost a son, but others—they took his place that day; And nobly do they care for her and honor her gray head, In mem’ry of their comrade and the last words that he said: “Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died, Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried; Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I’m dead and gone. Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn.” There on the wall it hangs, within the engine-room, The picture of the bravest lad that ever faced his doom; And, as they point it out and speak the virtues of the dead, They tell about that awful night and the last words that he said: “Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died, Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried; Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I’m dead and gone. Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn.”

I’ve wandered to the village, Tom; I’ve sat beneath the tree Upon the school house playground that sheltered you and me; But none were there to greet me, Tom; and few were left to know, Who played with us upon the green, some twenty years ago. The grass is just as green, Tom; bare-footed boys at play Were sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay. But the “master” sleeps upon the hill, which coated o’er with snow, Afforded us a sliding place, some twenty years ago. The old school house is altered now, the benches are replaced By new ones, very like the same our penknives once defaced; But the same old bricks are in the wall; the bell swings to and fro; It’s music just the same, dear Tom, ’twas twenty years ago. The boys were playing some old game beneath that same old tree; I have forgot the name just now—you’ve played the same with me On that same spot; ’twas played with knives, by throwing so and so; The loser had a task to do—these twenty years ago. The river’s running just as still; the willows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom; the stream appears less wide; But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau, And swung our sweethearts—pretty girls—just twenty years ago. The spring that bubbled ’neath the hill close by the spreading beach Is very low—’twas then so high that we could scarcely reach; And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so, To see how sadly I am changed, since twenty years ago. Near by that spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name; Your sweetheart’s just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same; Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark; ’twas dying sure but slow, Just as she died, whose name you cut, some twenty years ago. My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes; I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties; I visited the old church yard, and took some flowers to strow Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago. Some are in the church-yard laid, some sleep beneath the sea; But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me; And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, I hope they’ll lay us where we played, just twenty years ago. Stephen Marsell.

Unarmed and unattended walks the Czar, Through Moscow’s busy street one winter’s day. The crowd uncover as his face they see— “God greet the Czar!” they say. Along his path there moved a funeral, Gray spectacle of poverty and woe, A wretched sledge, dragged by one weary man, Slowly across the snow. And on the sledge, blown by the winter wind, Lay a poor coffin, very rude and bare, And he who drew it bent before his load, With dull and sullen air. The Emperor stopped and beckoned on the man; “Who is’t thou bearest to the grave?” he said. “Only a soldier, sire!” the short reply, “Only a soldier, dead.” “Only a soldier!” musing, said the Czar; “Only a Russian, who was poor and brave. Move on. I follow. Such a one goes not Unhonored to his grave.” He bent his head, and silent raised his cap; The Czar of all the Russias, pacing slow, Following the coffin, as again it went Slowly across the snow. The passers of the street, all wondering, Looked on that sight, then followed silently; Peasant and prince, the artisan and clerk, All in one company. Still, at they went the crowd grew ever more, Till thousands stood around the friendless grave, Led by that princely heart, who royal, true, Honored the poor and brave.

The pilgrim fathers—where are they? The waves that brought them o’er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray, As they break along the shore; Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day When the Mayflower moored below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The pilgrim fathers are at rest: When summer’s throned on high, And the world’s warm breast is in verdure dressed. Go stand on the hill where they lie: The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallowed spot is cast, And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last. The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell; For by their blood that land was bought, The land they loved so well, Then glory to that valiant band, The honored saviours of the land! Oh! few and weak their numbers were— A handful of brave men; But to their God they gave their prayer, And rushed to battle then. The God of battles heard their cry, And sent them the victory. They left the ploughshare in the mould, Their flocks and herds without a fold, The sickle in the unshorn grain, The corn half garnered on the plain, And mustered, in their simple dress, For wrongs to seek a stern redress; To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe To perish, or o’ercome their foe. And where are ye, O fearless men, And where are ye to-day? I call: the hills reply again, That ye have passed away; That on old Bunker’s lonely height, In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright, Above each soldier’s mound. The bugle’s wild and warlike blast Shall muster them no more; An army now might thunder past, And they not heed its roar. The starry flag, ’neath which they fought In many a bloody fray, From their old graves shall rouse them not, For they have passed away.

It was Spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa and mamma moved in Next door just as skating was over and marbles about to begin, For the fence in our back-yard was broken, and I saw, as I peeped through the slat, There were ‘Johnny Jump-ups’ all around her, and I knew it was Spring just by that. “I never knew whether she saw me—for she didn’t say nothing to me, But ‘Ma! here’s a slat in the fence broke, and the boy that is next door can see.’ But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know Mamma says I’ve a right, And she calls out, ‘Well, peekin is manners!’ and I answered her, ‘Sass is perlite!’ “But I wasn’t a bit mad; no, Papa; and to prove it, the very next day, When she ran past our fence, in the morning I happened to get in her way, For you know I am ‘chunked’ and clumsy, as she says are all boys of my size, And she nearly upset me, she did, Pa, and laughed till tears came in her eyes. “And then we were friends, from that moment, for I knew that she told Kitty Sage— And she wasn’t a girl that would flatter—‘that she thought I was tall for my age,’ And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to ride on my sled, And—‘What am I telling you this for?’ Why, Papa, my neighbor is dead! “You don’t hear one half I am saying—I really do think it’s too bad! Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and noticed to-day I’ve been sad; And they’ve got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they have dressed her in white, And I’ve never once looked through the fence, Pa, since she died—at eleven last night. “And Ma says its decent and proper, as I was her neighbor and friend, That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that you ought to attend; But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the way, And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I wouldn’t know just what to say. “So I think I will get up quite early, I know I sleep late, but I know I’ll be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that I’ll tie to my toe, And I’ll crawl through the fence and I’ll gather the ‘Johnny Jump-ups’ as they grew Round her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I’ll give them to you. “For you’re a big man, and you know, Pa, can come and go just where you choose, And you’ll take the flowers into her and surely they’ll never refuse; But, Papa, don’t say they’re from Johnny; they won’t understand, don’t you see; But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, she’ll know they’re from me.” Bret Harte.

The lightning flashed across the heaven, the distant thunder rolled, And, swayed by gusts of angry winds, the far-off church bell tolled, The billows crashed against the rocks that kiss the ocean’s foam, And eager pilots trimmed their sails and turned their skiffs for home. As darkness fell upon the earth, and we were gathered round Our blazing hearth, and listening to the storm’s terrific sound, We all looked up to Uncle Tom, who sat beside the fire, A-dreaming of the bygone days, and of disaster dire. For memory brought us back again to times of darkest woe, When, strong in hand and light in heart, he fought the Northern foe. He often spoke of ’46—the fight on Mexic’s plain— How Buena Vista heights were reached while bullets fell like rain. How Shields had gained Chapultepec, how Santa Anna fled, And how the Sisters labored even where the bullets sped; And oft he spoke of later times, but always with a sigh, When South and North rose up to fight en masse for cause or die. And as beside the fire he sat and piped his meerschaum well, We asked, to pass the time away, that he a tale should tell. He paused a moment, then he laid his good old pipe aside, And said, “I’ll tell you boys, to-night, how Stonewall Jackson died. “We were retreating from the foe, for Fredericksburg was lost, And on our flank, still threatening, appeared the Union host; Down by the Rappahannock, in our dismal tents we lay, And the lightest heart was heavy with our grave defeat that day. “For ’tis better for a soldier like Montgomery to die, Than live to see his comrades from a hated foeman fly; But reverses often come upon defenders of the right, And justice seldom conquers, boys, when nations go to fight. “With heavy hearts we laid us down, but, mind you, not to sleep, Nor did we turn aside to sing, or turn aside to weep, But as we pondered o’er our griefs, a sudden moan was heard, Far louder than the willow’s moan, when by the wind ’tis stirred. “It woke the camp from reverie, it woke the camp to fear; And louder, louder grew the wail, most dreadful then to hear. And nearer came the weeping crowd, and something stiff and still Was borne, we knew not what it was, but followed with a will. “At last within our Gen’ral’s tent the precious load was laid, And then a pallid soldier turned unto us all, and said: ‘We thought it hard, my comrades brave, to lose the field to-day; But harder will our struggle be, to labor in the fray; For he is gone, our gallant chief, who could our hopes restore, And rout and ruin is our fate, since Stonewall is no more.’ “I cannot tell you how we felt, or how we acted then, For words are weak to tell a tale when grief has mastered men; But this I know, I pulled the cloth from off brave Jackson’s face, And almost jumped with joy to see him gaze around the place. “But, boys, it was a fleeting dream, a vacant stare he cast; He did not see the canvas shaken by the sudden blast; He did not see us weeping as we staunched the flowing blood, But again in battle fighting, he was where the foemen stood. “‘Order Gen’ral Hill to action!’ loud he cried, as he was wont; And then he quickly added: ‘Bring the infantry to front!’ As he saw the corps pass by him—as it were—in duty’s call, Suddenly he shouted: ‘Drive them! charge upon them, one and all!’ “Then he turned aside, and, smiling, said with voice of one in ease: ‘Let us cross the foaming river; let us rest beneath the trees.’ Then we waited, boys, and watched him, but no other word he said; For adown the foaming river had our leader’s spirit sped.” Paul M. Russell.

You’re a kind woman, Nan! Ay, kind and true! God will be good to faithful folk like you! You knew my Ned? A better, kinder lad never drew breath. We loved each other true, and we were wed In church, like some who took him to his death; A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost His senses when he took a drop too much. Drink did it all—drink made him mad when crossed— He was a poor man, and they’re hard on such O Nan! that night! that night! When I was sitting in this very chair, Watching and waiting in the candle-light, And heard his foot come creaking up the stair, And turned and saw him standing yonder, white And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair! And when I caught his arm and called in fright, He pushed me, swore, and to the door he passed To lock and bar it fast. Then down he drops just like a lump of lead, Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter, And—Nan—just then the light seemed growing brighter, And I could see the hands that held his head, All red! all bloody red! What could I do but scream? He groaned to hear, Jumped to his feet, and gripped me by the wrist; “Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell!” he hissed. And I was still for fear. “They’re after me—I’ve knifed a man!” he said, “Be still!—the drink—drink did it!—he is dead!” Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn’t weep; All I could do was cling to Ned and hark, And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep, But breathing hard and deep. The candle flickered out—the room grew dark And—Nan!—although my heart was true and tried— When all grew cold and dim, I shuddered—not for fear of them outside, But just afraid to be alone with him. “Ned! Ned!” I whispered—and he moaned and shook, But did not heed or look! “Ned! Ned! speak, lad! tell me it is not true!” At that he raised his head and looked so wild; Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw His arms around me, crying like a child, And held me close—and not a word was spoken, While I clung tighter to his heart and pressed him, And did not fear him, though my heart was broken, But kissed his poor stained hands, and cried, and blessed him! Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold With sound of falling rain— When I could see his face, and it looked old, Like the pinched face of one that dies in pain; Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun, We never thought to hide away or run, Until we heard those voices in the street, That hurrying of feet, And Ned leaped up, and knew that they had come. “Run, Ned!” I cried, but he was deaf and dumb; “Hide, Ned!” I screamed, and held him; “Hide thee, man!” He stared with blood-shot eyes and hearkened, Nan! And all the rest is like a dream—the sound Of knocking at the door— A rush of men—a struggle on the ground— A mist—a tramp—a roar; For when I got my senses back again, The room was empty, and my head went round! God help him? God will help him! Ay, no fear! It was the drink, not Ned—he meant no wrong So kind! So good!—and I am useless here, Now he is lost that loved me true and long. That night before he died, I didn’t cry—my heart was hard and dried; But when the clocks went “one,” I took my shawl To cover up my face, and stole away, And walked along the silent streets, where all Looked cold and still and gray. Some men and lads went by, And turning round, I gazed, and watched ’em go, Then felt that they were going to see him die, And drew my shawl more tight, and followed slow. More people passed me, a country cart with hay Stopped close beside me, and two or three Talked about it! I moaned, and crept away! Next came a hollow sound I knew full well, For something gripped me round the heart—and then There came the solemn tolling of a bell! O God! O God! how could I sit close by, And neither scream nor cry? As if I had been stone, all hard and cold, I listened, listened, listened, still and dumb, While the folk murmured, and the death-bell tolled, And the day brightened, and his time had come. All else was silent but the knell Of the slow bell! And I could only wait, and wait, and wait, And what I waited for I couldn’t tell— At last there came a groaning deep and great— St. Paul’s struck “eight”— I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire and fell! God bless him, alive or dead! He never meant no wrong, was kind and true. They’re wrought their fill of spite upon his head Why didn’t they be kind, and take me too? And there’s the dear old things he used to wear, And there’s a lock of hair. And Ned, my Ned! is fast asleep, and cannot hear me call. God bless you, Nan, for all you’ve done and said! But don’t mind me, my heart is broke, that’s all! Robert Buchanan.

The wide gates swung open, The music softly sounded, And loving hands were heaping the soldiers’ graves with flowers; With pansies, pinks, and roses, And pure, gold-hearted lilies, The fairest, sweetest blossoms that grace the spring-time bowers. When down the walk came tripping A wee, bare-headed girlie, Her eyes were filled with wonder, her face was grave and sweet; Her small brown hands were crowded With dandelions yellow— The gallant, merry blossoms that children love to greet. O, many smiled to see her, That dimple-cheeked wee baby, Pass by with quaint intentness, as on a mission bound; And, pausing oft an instant, Let fall from out her treasures A yellow dandelion upon each flower-strewn mound. The music died in silence, A robin ceased its singing; And in the fragrant stillness a bird-like whisper grew, So sweet, so clear and solemn, That smiles gave place to tear-drops; “Nan loves ’oo darlin’ soldier; an’ here’s a f’ower for ’oo.”

’Twas a crowded street, and a cry of joy Came from a ragged, barefoot boy— A cry of eager and glad surprise, And he opened wide his great black eyes As he held before him a coin of gold He had found in a heap of rubbish old By the curb stone there. “How it sparkles!” the youngster cried, As the golden piece he eagerly eyed: “Oh, see it shine!” and he laughed aloud; Little heeding the curious crowd That gathered around, “Hurrah!” said he, “How glad my poor mother will be! I’ll buy her a brand-new Sunday hat, And a pair of shoes for Nell, at that, And baby sister shall have a dress— There’ll be enough for all, I guess; And then I’ll——” “Here,” said a surly voice “That money’s mine. You can take your choice Of giving it up or going to jail.” The youngster trembled, and then turned pale As he looked and saw before him stand A burly drayman with outstretched hand; Rough and uncouth was the fellow’s face, And without a single line or trace Of the goodness that makes the world akin. “Come, be quick! or I’ll take you in,” Said he. “For shame!” said the listening crowd. The ruffian seemed for the moment cowed. “The money’s mine,” he blurted out; “I lost it yesterday hereabout. I don’t want nothin’ but what’s my own And I am going to have it.” The lad alone Was silent. A tear stood in his eye, And he brushed it away; he would not cry. “Here, mister,” he answered, “take it then; If it’s yours, it’s yours; if it hadn’t been——” A sob told all he would have said, Of the hope so suddenly raised, now dead. And then with a sigh, which volumes told, He dropped the glittering piece of gold Into the other’s hand. Once more He sighed—and his dream of wealth was o’er. But no! Humanity hath a heart Always ready to take the part Of childish sorrow, wherever found. “Let’s make up a purse”—the word went round Through the kindly crowd, and the hat was passed And the coins came falling thick and fast. “Here, sonny, take this,” said they. Behold, Full twice as much as the piece of gold He had given up was in the hand Of the urchin. He could not understand It all. The tears came thick and fast, And his grateful heart found voice at last. But, lo! when he spoke, the crowd had gone— Left him, in gratitude, there alone. Who’ll say there is not some sweet, good-will And kindness left in this cold world still? G. L. Catlin.

Beautiful faces are those that wear— It matters little if dark or fair— Whole-souled honesty printed there. Beautiful eyes are those that show, Like crystal panes, where earth fires glow, Beautiful thoughts that burn below. Beautiful lips are those whose words Leap from the heart like song of birds, Yet whose utterance prudence girds. Beautiful hands are those that do Work that is earnest and brave and true, Moment by moment the long day through. Beautiful feet are those that go On kindly ministry to and fro, Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so. Beautiful shoulders are those that bear Heavy burdens of homely cart With patience, grace and daily prayer. Beautiful lives are those that bless— Silent rivers of happiness, Whose hidden fountains but few may guess. Beautiful twilight at set of sun, Beautiful goal with race well run, Beautiful rest with work well done. Beautiful grave where grasses creep, Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep, Over worn-out hands—oh, beautiful sleep.

’Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown, And its organ was the finest and the biggest in the town, And the chorus, all the papers favorably commented on it, For ’twas said each female member had a forty—dollar bonnet. Now in the “amen corner” of the church sat Brother Eyer, Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir; He was poor, but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white, And his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might. His voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords, And nearly every Sunday he would mispronounce the words Of the hymns, and ’twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind, And the choir rattling onward always left him far behind. Then the pastor called together in the lecture-room one day Seven influential members who subscribe more than they pay, And having asked God’s guidance in a printed prayer or two, They put their heads together to determine what to do. They debated, thought, suggested, till at last “dear Brother York,” Who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork, Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Eyer, And proceed to rake him lively for “disturbin’ of the choir.” Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four, With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer’s door; And the sleek, well-dressed committee, Brothers Sharkey, York, and Lamb, As they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jam. They found the choir’s great trouble sitting in his old arm-chair, And the summer’s golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair; He was singing “Rock of Ages” in a voice both cracked and low, But the angels understood him, ’twas all he cared to know. Said York: “We’re here, dear brother, with the vestry’s approbation, To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation;” “And the choir, too,” said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge, “And the choir, too!” he echoed with the graveness of a judge. “It was the understanding when we bargained for the chorus That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us; If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother, It will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another. “We don’t want any singing except that what we’ve bought! The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught; And so we have decided—are you listening, Brother Eyer?— That you’ll have to stop your singin’, for it flurrytates the choir.” The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear, And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear; His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky snow, As he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and low; “I’ve sung the psalms of David for nearly eighty years, They’ve been my staff and comfort and calmed life’s many fears; I’m sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I’m doing wrong; But when my heart is filled with praise, I can’t keep back a song. “I wonder if beyond the tide that’s breaking at my feet, In the far-off heavenly temple, where the Master I shall greet,— Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of God up higher. If the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven’s choir.” A silence filled the little room; the old man bowed his head; The carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead! Yes, dead! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us, And the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus. The choir missed him for awhile, but he was soon forgot, A few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered not. Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sings his heart’s desires, Where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs. C. T. Harbaugh.

’Twas a hovel all wretched, forlorn and poor, With crumbling eves and a hingeless door, And windows where pitiless midnight rains Beat fiercely in through the broken panes, And tottering chimneys, and moss-grown roof, From the heart of the city far aloof, Where Nanny, a hideous, wrinkled hag, Dwelt with her grandchild, “Little Mag.” The neighbors called old Nanny a witch. The story went that she’d once been rich— Aye, rich as any lady in town— But trouble had come and dragged her down And down; then sickness, and want, and age Had filled the rest of her life’s sad page, And driven her into the slums to hide Her shame and misery till she died. The boys, as she hobbled along the street, Her coming with yells and hoots would greet; E’en grown folks dreaded old Nan so much That they’d shun, in passing, her very touch, And a mocking word or glance would send. Poor little Mag was her only friend: Faithful and true was the child, indeed. What did she ever care or heed For those cruel words, and those looks of scorn In patient silence they all were borne; But she prayed that God would hasten the day That would take her sorrow and care away. Alas! that day—that longed-for boon, That ending of sorrow—came all too soon. For there came a day when a ruffian crowd, With stones, and bludgeons, and hootings loud, Surrounded old Nanny’s hovel door, Led on by a drunken brute, who swore, In blasphemous oaths, and in language wild, She had stolen a necklace from off his child. Crouched in a corner, dumb with fear, The old hag sat, with her grandchild near, As the furious mob of boys and men, Yelling, entered her dingy den. “Kill her!” shouted the brutal pack. “Cowards!” screamed Little Mag. “Stand back!” As she placed her fragile form before Her poor old grandmother, on the floor, And clasped her about the neck, and pressed The thin gray hairs to her childish breast. “Cowards!” she said. “Now, do your worst. If either must die, let me die first!” Cowed and abashed, the crowd stood still, Awed by that child’s unaided will; One by one, in silence and shame, They all stole out by the way they came, Till the fair young child and the withered crone Were left once more in that room—alone. But stop! What is it the child alarms? Old Nan lies dead in her grandchild’s arms! George L. Catlin.

Alas! I’m growing old, my hair, once thick and brown, Is now quite white and silky, and sparse about the crown; A year, that once seemed endless, now, passes like a dream, Yet my boat still rides the billows, as it floats along the stream. My eye, once like the eagle’s, is now much dimmed by age, And art alone enables me to read the printed page, Yet still it rests with quickened glance upon each lovely scene. As years roll by with silent pace and changes come between. Life is full of gladness if we but make it so, There’s not a wave of sorrow but has an undertow. A stout heart and a simple faith gives victory o’er the grave, And God awaits all patiently, all powerful to save. ’Tis not a cross to live, nor is it hard to die, If we but view the future with steadfast, fearless eye, Looking ever on the bright side, where falls the sun’s warm beam, Our boats will ride the billows as they float along the stream. Wayne Howe Parsons.

I put by the half-written poem, While the pen, idly trailed in my hand, Writes on, “Had I words to complete it, Who’d read it, or who’d understand?” But the little bare feet on the stairway, And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, Cry up to me over it all. So I gather it up—where was broken The tear—faded thread of my theme, Telling how, as one night I sat writing, A fairy broke in on my dream. A little inquisitive fairy My own little girl, with the gold Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy Blue eyes of the fairies of old. ’Twas the dear little girl that I scolded— “For was it a moment like this,” I said, when she knew I was busy, “To come romping in for a kiss? Come rowdying up from her mother And clamoring there at my knee For ‘One ’ittle kiss for my dolly And one ’ittle uzzer for me?’” God pity the heart that repelled her And the cold hand that turned her away! And take from the lips that denied her This answerless prayer of to-day! Take, Lord, from my mem’ry forever That pitiful sob of despair, And the patter and trip of the little bare feet And the one piercing cry on the stair! I put by the half-written poem, While the pen, idly trailed in my hand, Writes on, “Had I words to complete it, Who’d read it, or who’d understand?” But the little bare feet on the stairway, And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, Cry up to me over all. James Whitcomb Riley.

Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit, I start and wake, it is so strange To find myself alone, and Tom Across the Range. We brought him in with heavy feet And eased him down; from eye to eye, Though no one spoke, there passed a fear That Tom must die. He rallied when the sun was low, And spoke; I thought the words were strange; “It’s almost night, and I must go Across the Range.” “What, Tom?” He smiled and nodded: “Yes, They’ve struck it rich there, Jim, you know, The parson told us; you’ll come soon; Now Tom must go.” I brought his sweetheart’s pictured face: Again that smile, so sad and strange, “Tell her,” said he, “that Tom has gone Across the Range.” The last night lingered on the hill. “There’s a pass, somewhere,” then he said, And lip, and eye, and hand were still; And Tom was dead. Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit: I start and wake, it is so strange To find myself alone, and Tom Across the Range. J. Harrison Mills.

“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard the voice and looked Out on the road that passed my window wide, And saw a woman and a fair-haired child That knelt and picked the daisies at the side. The child ran quickly with its gathered prize, And, laughing, held it high above its head; A light glowed bright within the woman’s eyes, And in that light a mother’s love I read. She took the little hand, and both passed on; The prattle of the child I still could hear, Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone, That came in loving words upon my ear. “Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone, But yet had left the recollection of that scene— The woman and the fair-haired child that knelt And picked the daisies on the roadside green. I looked. The old familiar road was there— A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too; And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stare That fixed itself back where the daisies grew. “Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired child Run from the daisies with its gathered prize; “Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laugh To light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes. “Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the road The plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear; Caressing tones—not mixed with prattle now, But full of loving words—I still could hear. I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door; He told the story—all there was to tell: A little mound the village churchyard bore; And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell. Joseph Whitton.

I have seen the first robin of Spring, mother dear, And have heard the brown darling sing; You said, “Hear it and wish, and ’twill surely come true,” So I’ve wished such a beautiful thing. I thought I would like to ask something for you, But couldn’t think what there could be That you’d want, while you had all these beautiful things; Besides you have papa and me. So I wished for a ladder, so long that ’twould stand One end by our own cottage door, And the other go up past the moon and the stars, And lean against heaven’s white floor. Then I’d get you to put on my pretty white dress, With my sash and my darling new shoes; And I’d find some white roses to take up to God, The most beautiful ones I could choose. And you, dear papa, would sit on the ground, And kiss me, and tell me “good-bye;” Then I’d go up the ladder, far out of your sight, Till I came to the door in the sky. I wonder if God keeps the door fastened tight? If but one little crack I could see, I would whisper, “Please, God, let this little girl in, She’s as weary and tired as can be. “She came all alone from the earth to the sky, For she’s always been wanting to see The gardens of heaven, with their robins and flowers; Please, God, is there room there for me?” And then when the angels had opened the door, God would say, “Bring the little child here.” But He’d speak it so softly, I’d not be afraid, And He’d smile just like you, mother dear. He would put His kind arms round your dear little girl, And I’d ask Him to send down for you, And papa, and cousin, and all that I love— Oh, dear, don’t you wish ’twould come true? The next Spring time, when the robins came home, They sang over grasses and flowers, That grew where the foot of the long ladder stood, Whose top reached the heavenly bowers. And the parents had dressed the pale, still child For her flight to the Summer land, In a fair white robe, with one snow-white rose Folded tight in her pulseless hand. And now at the foot of the ladder they sit, Looking upward with quiet tears, Till the beckoning hand and the fluttering robe Of the child at the top re-appears.

How the reeds and rushes quiver On the low banks of the river, And the leaning willows shiver In a strange and deep affright, And the water moans and murmurs As it eddies round the lilies, Like a human soul in sorrow, Over something hid from sight. How the shadows haunt the edges Of the river, where the sedges To the lilies whisper ever Of some strange and awful deed! How the sunshine, timid, frightened, Dares not touch the spot it brightened Yesterday, among the shadows Of the lily and the reed. What is that that floats and shimmers Where the water gleams and glimmers, In and out among the rushes, Growing thick, and tall, and green? Something yellow, long and shining Something wondrous fair and silken, Like a woman’s golden tresses, With a broken flower between. What is that, so white and slender, Hidden, almost, by the splendor Of a great white water lily, Floating on the river there? ’Tis a hand stretched up toward Heaven, As, when we would be forgiven, We reach out our hands, imploring, In an agony of prayer. Tremble, reeds, and moan and shiver, At your feet, in the still river, Lies a woman, done forever, With life’s mockery and woe. God alone can know the sorrow, All the bitterness and heartache, Ended in the moaning river Where the water lilies blow. Eben E. Rexford.

The sunny land of France with streams of noblest blood was dyed, Nor could a monarch’s royal veins suffice the insatiate tide; And youth and beauty knelt in vain, and mercy ceased to shine, And Nature’s holiest ties were loosed beneath the guillotine. Wild war and rapine, hate and blood, and terror ruled supreme, Till all who loved its vine-clad vales had ceased of peace to dream; But there was one whose lover’s blood wrote vengeance in her soul, Whom zeal for France and blighted hopes had bound in fast control. Dark “Discord’s demon,” fierce Marat, his country’s fellest foe, Belzance’s executioner, the fount of war and woe; Demon alike in mind and face, he dreamt not of his fall, Yet him the noble maiden doomed to vengeance and to Gaul. O! had an artist seen them there as face to face they stand; The noblest and the meanest mind in all that bleeding land; The loveliest and most hideous forms that pencil could portray— A picture might on canvas live that would not pass away. “Point out the foes of France,” he said, “and ere to-morrow shine, The blood, now warm within their veins, shall stain the guillotine.” “The guillotine!” the maid exclaimed, the steel a moment gleams, A moment more ’tis in his heart; adieu to all his dreams! Before her judges Charlotte stands, undaunted, undismayed, While eyes that never wept are wet with pity for the maid, Unstained as beautiful she stands before the judgment seat, Resigned to fate, her heart is calm while others wildly beat! Alas! too sure her doom is read in those stern faces, while Fear from her looks affrighted fled, where shone Minerva’s smile; Hope she had none, or, if perchance she had, that hope was gone, Yet in its stead ’twas not despair but brightest triumph shone! “What was the cause?” “His crimes,” she said, her bleeding country’s foe, Inspired her hand, impelled the steel, and laid the tyrant low; Though well she knew her blood would flow for him she caused to bleed, Yet what was death?—The crowning wreath that graced the noble deed! Her doom is passed, a lovely smile dawns slowly o’er her face, And adds another beauty to her calm majestic grace; She does not weep, she does not shrink, her features are not pale, The firmness that inspired her hand forbids her heart to fail! ’Tis morn; before the Tuilleries the dawn is breaking gray, And thousands through the busy streets in haste pursue their way; What means the bustle and the throng, the scene is nothing new— A fair young lady, doomed to die, each day the same they view. Before that home of bygone kings a gloomy scaffold stands, Upreared in Freedom’s injured name to manacle her hands; Some crowd to worship, some insult, the martyr in her doom, But over friends and foes a cloud is cast of sombre gloom. She stands upon the fatal spot angelically fair, The roses of her cheek concealed beneath her flowing hair; “Greater than Brutus,” she displays no sign of fear or dread, But in a moment will be still and silent with the dead. Her neck is bared, the fatal knife descends, and all is o’er, The martyred heroine of France—of freedom dreams no more; The insults of the wretched throng she hears no longer now, But Death, man’s universal friend, sits on her pallid brow! In life, fear never blanched her cheek; but now ’tis calm and pale, Love and her country asked revenge, and both her fate bewail; She fell, more glorious in her fall than chief or crowned queen, A martyr in a noble cause, without a fault to screen! Clare S. McKinley.

Three little children in a boat On seas of opal splendor; The willing waves their treasure float To rhythm low and tender; Over their heads the skies are blue— Where are the darlings sailing to? They do not know—we do not know, Who watch their pretty motions; Safe moored within the harbor, though They sail untraveled oceans; They rock and sway and shut their eyes; “No land in sight!” the helmsman cries! “Oh, little children have you heard Of ships that sail for pleasure; And never wind or wave hath word Of all their vanished treasure? They were as blithe and gay as you And sailed away as fearless, too!” Then from the pleasure-freighted crew One spake—a little maiden, With sunny hair, and eyes of blue, And lashes fair, dew-laden, Her wise head gave a thoughtful nod—! “Perhaps—they sailed—away to God!” Mrs. M. L. Bayne.

“Tis the last time, darling,” he gently said, As he kissed her lips like the cherries red, While a fond look shone in his eyes of brown. “My own is the prettiest girl in town! To-morrow the bell from the tower will ring A joyful peal. Was there ever a king So truly blessed, on his royal throne, As I shall be when I claim my own?” ’Twas a fond farewell, ’twas a sweet good-by, But she watched him go with a troubled sigh. So, into the basket that swayed and swung O’er the yawning abyss, he lightly sprung. And the joy of her heart seemed turned to woe As they lowered him into the depths below. Her sweet young face, with its tresses brown, Was the fairest face in the mining town. Lo! the morning came; but the marriage-bell, High up in the tower, rang a mournful knell For the true heart buried ’neath earth and stone, Far down in the heart of the mine, alone. A sorrowful peal on their wedding-day, For the breaking heart and the heart of clay, And the face that looked from the tresses brown, Was the saddest face in the mining town. Thus time rolled along on its weary way, Until fifty years, with their shadows gray, Had darkened the light of her sweet eyes’ glow, And had turned the brown of her hair to snow. Oh! never the kiss from a husband’s lips, Or the clasp of a child’s sweet finger-tips, Had lifted one moment the shadows brown From the saddest heart in the mining town. Far down in the depths of the mine, one day, In the loosened earth they were digging away. They discovered a face, so young, so fair; From the smiling lip to the bright brown hair Untouched by the finger of Time’s decay. When they drew him up to the light of day, The wondering people gathered ’round To gaze at the man thus strangely found. Then a woman came from among the crowd, With her long white hair and her slight form bowed. She silently knelt by the form of clay, And kissed the lips that were cold and gray. Then, the sad old face, with its snowy hair On his youthful bosom lay pillowed there. He had found her at last, his waiting bride, And the people buried them side by side. Rose Hartwick Thorpe.

In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came, Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate and lame; He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was born, Dragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn. He was six, was little Tommy, ’twas just five years ago Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so. He had never known the comfort of a mother’s tender care, But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear. There he lay within the cellar from the morning till the night, Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, naught to make his dull life bright; Not a single friend to love him, not a living thing to love— For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above. ’Twas a quiet summer evening; and the alley, too, was still; Tommy’s little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till, Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street, Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and sweet. Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing nearer came— Oh! that he could see the singer! How he wished he wasn’t lame. Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound, And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found. ’Twas a maiden, rough and rugged, hair unkempt and naked feet, All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat; “So yer called me,” said the maiden, “wonder wot yer wants o’ me; Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?” “My name’s Tommy; I’m a cripple, and I want to hear you sing, For it makes me feel so happy—sing me something, anything.” Jessie laughed, and answered, smiling, “I can’t stay here very long, But I’ll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the ‘Glory song’” Then she sang to him of Heaven, pearly gates and streets of gold, Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold; But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end, And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their Friend. Oh! how Tommy’s eyes did glisten as he drank in every word As it fell from “Singing Jessie”—was it true, what he had heard? And so anxiously he asked her: “Is there really such a place?” And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face. “Tommy, you’re a little heathen; why, it’s up beyond the sky, And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die.” “Then,” said Tommy; “tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love, When I’m down in this ’ere cellar, and he’s up in Heaven above?” So the little ragged maiden who had heard at Sunday-school All about the way to Heaven, and the Christian’s golden rule, Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love and how to pray, Then she sang a “Song of Jesus,” kissed his cheek and went away. Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold, Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold; And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room, For the joy in Tommy’s bosom could disperse the deepest gloom. “Oh! if I could only see it,” thought the cripple, as he lay. “Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think I’ll try and pray;” So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes, And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies: “Gentle Jesus, please forgive me, as I didn’t know afore, That yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor, And I never heard of Heaven till that Jessie came to-day And told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray. “You can see me, can’t yer, Jesus? Jessie told me that yer could, And I somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good; And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die, In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky. “Lord, I’m only just a cripple, and I’m no use here below, For I heard my mother whisper she’d be glad if I could go; And I’m cold and hungry sometimes; and I feel so lonely, too, Can’t yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to Heaven along o’ you? “Oh! I’d be so good and patient, and I’d never cry or fret; And yer kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget; I would love you all I know of, and would never make a noise— Can’t you find me just a corner, where I’ll watch the other boys? “Oh! I think yer’ll do it, Jesus, something seems to tell me so, For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go; How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright! Come and fetch me, won’t yer, Jesus? Come and fetch me home to-night!” Tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul’s desire, And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire; Then he turned towards his corner, and lay huddled in a heap, Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep. Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have seen his little face As he lay there in the corner, in that damp and noisome place; For his countenance was shining like an angel’s, fair and bright, And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, heavenly light. He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged singing girl, He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl; But he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there, Simply trusting in the Saviour, and His kind and tender care. In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy, She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy, And she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple’s face was cold— He had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold. Tommy’s prayer had soon been answered, and the Angel Death had come To remove him from his cellar, to His bright and heavenly home Where sweet comfort, joy and gladness never can decrease or end, And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sovereign and his Friend. I. F. Nichols.

Robby and Ruth strolled out one day, Over the meadows, beyond the town; The robins sang, and the fields looked gay, And the orchards dropped their blossoms down: But they took no thought of song or flower, For this, to them, was love’s sweet hour; And love’s hour is fleet, And swift love’s feet, When a lad and a winsome lassie meet! Robby and Ruth in the church were wed, Ere the orchard apples began to fall; “Till death shall part,” were the words they said, And love’s pure sunlight hallowed all. Ah! never a bride more sweet and fair Wore orange-blooms in her sunny hair! The maiden sung, And the joy-bells rung And echoed the orchards and groves among. Robby and Ruth kept house together, Till both were old and bent and gray, And little they cared for outside weather, For home’s sweet light gilded all their way; And many a precious nestling came To be called by the dear old household name; And the love that blessed When first confessed Remained in their hearts a constant guest. Robby and Ruth grew weary at last— Bobby went first the shining way; And when the earth on his grave was cast, The faithful Ruth could no longer stay; And daisy ne’er blossomed or wild-rose grew O’er hearts more tender, leal and true! Love’s vows were sweet When they sat at Love’s feet, And Heaven makes love itself complete. Louisa S. Upham.

A sorry little maiden Is Miss Fuss-and-Feather, Crying for the golden moon, Grumbling at the weather; The sun will fade her gown, The rain will spoil her bonnet, If she ventures out, And lets it fall upon it. A merry little maiden Is Miss Rags-and-Tatters, Chatting of the twinkling stars And many other matters; Dancing in the sunshine, Pattering through the rain, Her clothes never cause her A single thought or pain. Agnes Carr.

Drive the nail aright, boys, Hit it on the head; Strike with all your might, boys, While the iron’s red. When you’ve work to do, boys, Do it with a will; They who reach the top, boys, First must climb the hill. Standing at the foot, boys, Gazing at the sky, How can you ever get up, boys, If you never try? Though you stumble oft, boys, Never be downcast; Try, and try again, boys— You’ll succeed at last.

When Sunday mornin’ comes around My pa hangs up his strop, An’ takes his razor out an’ makes It go c’flop! c’flop! An’ then he gits his mug an’ brush An’ yells t’ me, “Behave!” I tell y’u, things is mighty still— When pa begins t’ shave. Then pa he stirs his brush around An’ makes th’ soapsuds fly; An’ sometimes, when he stirs too hard, He gits some in his eye. I tell y’u, but it’s funny then To see pa stamp and rave; But y’u mustn’t git ketched laffin’— When pa begins t’ shave. Th’ hired hand he dassent talk, An’ even ma’s afeard, An’ y’u can hear th’ razor click A-cuttin’ through pa’s beard! An’ then my Uncle Bill he laffs An’ says: “Gosh! John, you’re brave,” An’ pa he swears, an’ ma jest smiles— When pa begins t’ shave. When pa gits done a-shavin’ of His face, he turns around, And Uncle Bill says: “Why, John, Yu’r chin looks like plowed ground!” An’ then he laffs—jest laffs an’ laffs, But I got t’ behave, Cos things’s apt to happen quick— When pa begins t’ shave. Harry Douglass Robbins.

Set still, honey, let ole Mammy tell yer ’bout de churn, Wid de cream en clabber dashin’, En de buttermilk er-splashin’. Dis de chune hit am er-singin’ ’fore hit ’gin ter turn: Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum, Bum-bum-bum, But-ter-come, Massa give old nigger some.

Now de cream, en milk, en clabber’s churnin’ up so fas’, Hyah hit splatterin’ en er-splutterin’, En er-mixin’, en er-mutterin’, In de churn en roun’ de dasher, singin’ ter de las’; Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum, Bum-bum-bum, But-ter-come, Massa gib old nigger some.

Sooen de lumps ob butter ’ll be er-floatin’ on de top— Now de ole churn’s fa’rly hummin’, Tell yer wot, de butter comin’— Done come! Mammy’s arm so ti-yerd, now she’s gwine ter stop. Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum, Bum-bum-bum, But-ter-come, Mammy ’ll gib de baby some.

Twenty froggies went to school, Down beside a rushy pool; Twenty little coats of green, Twenty vests all white and clean. “We must be in time,” said they; “First we study, then we play; That is how we keep the rule When we froggies go to school.” Master Bullfrog, grave and stern, Called the classes in their turn; Taught them how to nobly strive, Likewise how to leap and dive. From his seat upon the log, Taught them how to say “Ker-chug,” Also how to dodge a blow From the sticks which bad boys throw. Twenty froggies grew up fast; Bullfrogs they became at last; Not one dunce among the lot, Not one lesson they forgot; Polished in a high degree, As each froggie ought to be; Now they sit on other logs, Teaching other little frogs.

Only a bird! and a vagrant boy Fits a pebble with a boyish skill Into the fold of a supple sling. “Watch me hit him. I can an’ I will.” Whirr! and a silence chill and sad Falls like a pall on the vibrant air, From a birchen tree, whence a shower of song Has fallen in ripples everywhere. Only a bird! and the tiny throat With quaver and trill and whistle of flute, Bruised and bleeding and silent lies There at his feet. Its chords are mute. And the boy, with a loud and boisterous laugh, Proud of his prowess and brutal skill, Throws it aside with a careless toss— “Only a bird! it was made to kill.” Only a bird! yet far away Little ones clamor and cry for food— Clamor and cry, and the chill of night Settles over the orphan brood. Weaker and fainter the moaning call For a brooding breast that shall never come. Morning breaks o’er a lonely nest, Songless and lifeless; mute and dumb. Mary Morrison.

I’ll tell you how I speak a piece: First, I make my bow; Then I bring my words out clear And plain as I know how. Next, I throw my hands up—so! Then I lift my eyes: That’s to let my hearers know Something doth surprise. Next, I grin and show my teeth, Nearly every one, Shake my shoulders, hold my sides: That’s the sign of fun. Next, I start, and knit my brows, Hold my head erect: Something’s wrong, you see, and I Decidedly object. Then I wabble at my knees, Clutch at shadows near, Tremble well from top to toe: That’s the sign of fear. Now I start, and with a leap, Seize an airy dagger. “Wretch!” I cry: that’s tragedy Every soul to stagger. Then I let my voice grow faint, Gasp, and hold my breath, Tumble down and plunge about: That’s a villain’s death. Quickly then I come to life, Perfectly restored; With a bow my speech is done. Now you’ll please applaud. Mary Mapes Dodge.

Said the first little chicken, With a queer little squirm, “I wish I could find A fat little worm.” Said the next little chicken, With an odd little shrug, “I wish I could find A fat little bug,” Said the third little chicken, With a sharp little squeal, “I wish I could find Some nice yellow meal.” Said the fourth little chicken, With a small sigh of grief, “I wish I could find A green little leaf.” Said the fifth little chicken, With a faint little moan, “I wish I could find A wee gravel stone.” “Now, see here,” said the mother, From the green garden patch, “If you want any breakfast, Just come here and scratch.”

Come, Kitty dear, I’ll tell you what We’ll do this rainy day; Just you and I, all by ourselves, At keeping school, will play. The teacher, Kitty, I will be; And you shall be the class; And you must close attention give, If you expect to pass. Now, Kitty, “C-A-T” spells cat. Stop playing with your tail! You are so heedless, I am sure In spelling you will fail. “C-A” oh, Kitty! do sit still! You must not chase that fly! You’ll never learn a single word, You do not even try. I’ll tell you what my teacher says To me most ev’ry day— She says that girls can never learn While they are full of play. So try again—another word; “L-A-C-E” spells “lace.” Why, Kitty, it is not polite In school to wash your face! You are a naughty, naughty puss, And keep you in I should; But then, I love you, dear, so much I don’t see how I could! O, see! the sun shines bright again! We’ll run out doors and play; We’ll leave our school and lessons for Another rainy day. Kate Ulmer.

“A fellow’s mother,” said Fred the wise, With his rosy cheeks and his merry eyes, “Knows what to do if a fellow gets hurt By a thump, or a bruise, or a fall in the dirt. “A fellow’s mother has bags and strings, Rags and buttons, and lots of things; No matter how busy she is, she’ll stop To see how well you can spin your top. “She does not care—not much, I mean— If a fellow’s face is not always clean; And if your trousers are torn at the knee She can put in a patch that you’d never see. “A fellow’s mother is never mad, But only sorry if you are bad, And I’ll tell you this, if you’re only true, She’ll always forgive whate’er you do. “I’m sure of this,” said Fred the wise, With a manly look in his laughing eyes, “I’ll mind my mother, quick, every day, A fellow’s a baby that don’t obey.” M. E. Sangster.