PART III. Programmes for Special Occasions

My country, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrim’s pride, From every mountain-side Let freedom ring. My native country, thee— Land of the noble free— Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills, My heart with rapture thrills Like that above. Let music swell the breeze And ring from all the trees Sweet freedom’s song; Let mortal tongues awake; Let all that breathe partake; Let rocks their silence break— The sound prolong. Our fathers’ God, to Thee, Author of liberty, To Thee we sing; Long may our land be bright With Freedom’s holy light; Protect us by Thy might, Great God, our King. Samuel F. Smith.

To the sages who spoke, to the heroes who bled, To the day and the deed, strike the harp-strings of glory! Let the song of the ransomed remember the dead, And the tongue of the eloquent hallow the story, O’er the bones of the bold Be that story long told, And on fame’s golden tablets their triumphs enrolled Who on freedom’s green hills freedom’s banner unfurled, And the beacon-fire raised that gave light to the world! They are gone—mighty men!—and they sleep in their fame: Shall we ever forget them? Oh, never! no, never! Let our sons learn from us to embalm each great name, And the anthem send down—“Independence forever!” Wake, wake, heart and tongue! Keep the theme ever young; Let their deeds through the long line of ages be sung Who on freedom’s green hills freedom’s banner unfurled, And the beacon-fire raised that gave light to the world! Charles Sprague.

The sword was sheathed: in April’s sun Lay green the fields by freedom won; And severed sections, weary of debates, Joined hands at last and were United States. O city, sitting by the sea! How proud the day that dawned on thee, When the new era, long desired, began, And, in its need, the hour had found the man! One thought the cannon salvos spoke; The resonant bell-tower’s vibrant stroke, The voiceful streets, the plaudit-echoing halls, And prayer and hymn borne heavenward from St. Paul’s! How felt the land in every part The strong throb of a nation’s heart, As its great leader gave, with reverent awe, His pledge to union, liberty and law! That pledge the heavens above him heard, That vow the sleep of centuries stirred; In world-wide wonder listening peoples bent Their gaze on freedom’s great experiment. Could it succeed? Of honor sold And hopes deceived all history told. Above the wrecks that strewed the mournful past Was the long dream of ages true at last? Thank God! the people’s choice was just, The one man equal to his trust, Wise beyond lore, and without weakness good, Calm in the strength of flawless rectitude! His rule of justice, order, peace, Made possible the world’s release; Taught prince and serf that power is but a trust, And rule, alone, which serves the ruled, is just; That freedom generous is, but strong In hate of fraud and selfish wrong, Pretense that turns her holy truths to lies, And lawless license masking in her guise. Land of his love! with one glad voice Let thy great sisterhood rejoice; A century’s suns o’er thee have risen and set, And, God be praised, we are one nation yet. And still, we trust, the years to be Shall prove his hope was destiny, Leaving our flag with all its added stars Unrent by faction and unstained by wars! Lo! where with patient toil he nursed And trained the new-set plant at first, The widening branches of a stately tree Stretched from the sunrise to the sunset sea. And in its broad and sheltering shade, Sitting with none to make afraid, Were we now silent, through each mighty limb, The winds of heaven would sing the praise of him. Our first and best—his ashes lie Beneath his own Virginian sky. Forgive, forget, O true and just and brave, The storm that swept above thy sacred grave! For, ever in the awful strife And dark hours of the nation’s life, Through the fierce tumult pierced his warning word, Their father’s voice his erring children heard! The change for which he prayed and sought In that sharp agony was wrought; No partial interest draws its alien line ’Twixt North and South, the cypress and the pine! One people now, all doubt beyond, His name shall be our Union-bond; We lift our hands to heaven, and here, and now, Take on our lips the old Centennial vow. For rule and trust must needs be ours; Chooser and chosen both our powers Equaled in service as in rights; the claim Of duty rests on each and all the same. Then let the sovereign millions, where Our banner floats in sun and air, From the warm palm-lands to Alaska’s cold, Repeat with us the pledge a century old! John Greenleaf Whittier.

O, land of a million brave soldiers, Who severed the bonds of despair; O, land of a million true-hearted Who failed not to do and to dare! May ever thy shores gleam before us, With harvests whose wealth shall not cease, May ever in beauty bend o’er us, The wings of the white dove of peace. CHORUS. Hail the glory of Freedom’s glad light! Hail the passing of Slavery’s night! Hail the triumph of Truth over Error! Hail the glory of Freedom’s glad light! Though hushed is the voice of the cannon Though silent the loud battle cry, There’s many to-day, who if needful, For Freedom would suffer and die. Columbia’s sons still are loyal, Columbia’s sons still are true, ’Neath the emblem of Justice and Mercy The banner of red, white and blue.

Young ladies in town, and those that live round, Let a friend at this season advise you; Since money’s so scarce, and times growing worse, Strange things may soon hap and surprise you. First, then, throw aside your topknots of pride; Wear none but your own country linen; Of economy boast, let your pride be the most To show clothes of your own make and spinning. What if homespun they say is not quite so gay As brocades, yet be not in a passion, For when once it is known this is much worn in town, One and all will cry out—’Tis the fashion! And, as one, all agree, that you’ll not married be To such as will wear London factory, But at first sight refuse, tell ’em such you will choose As encourage our own manufactory. No more ribbons wear, nor in rich silks appear; Love your country much better than fine things; Begin without passion, ’twill soon be the fashion To grace your smooth locks with a twine string. Throw aside your Bohea, and your Green Hyson tea, And all things with a new-fashion duty; Procure a good store of the choice Labrador, For there’ll soon be enough here to suit you. These do without fear, and to all you’ll appear Fair, charming, true, lovely and clever; Though the times remain darkish, young men may be sparkish, And love you much stronger than ever. Then make yourselves easy, for no one will teaze ye, Nor tax you, if chancing to sneer At the sense-ridden tools, who think us all fools; But they’ll find the reverse far and near.

God bless our native land! Firm may she ever stand Through storm and night; When the wild tempests rave, Ruler of winds and wave! Do thou our country save By thy great might. For her our prayers shall rise To God above the skies, On him we wait; Thou who art ever nigh, Guardian with watchful eye! To thee alone we cry, God save the State. Our fathers’ God! to thee, Author of liberty, To thee we sing; Long may our land be bright With freedom’s holy light; Protect us by thy might, Great God, our King!

Oh, the Fourth of July! When fire-crackers fly, And urchins in petticoats tyrants defy! When all the still air Creeps away in despair, And clamor is king, be the day dark or fair! When freedom’s red flowers Fall in star-spangled showers, And liberty capers for twenty-four hours. When the morn’s ushered in By a sleep-crushing din, That tempts us to use philological sin; When the forenoon advances With large circumstances, Subjecting our lives to debatable chances; When the soldiers of peace Their attractions increase, By marching, protected with clubs of police; When the little toy gun Has its share of the fun, By teaching short-hand to the favorite son. Oh, the Fourth of July! When grand souls hover nigh! When Washington bends from the honest blue sky! When Jefferson stands— Famous scribe of all lands— The charter of heaven in his glorified hands! When his comrade—strong, high, John Adams—comes nigh, (For both went to their rest the same Fourth of July!) When Franklin—grand, droll— That could lightnings control, Comes here with his sturdy, progressive old soul; When freedom’s strong staff— Hancock—with a laugh, Writes in memory’s album his huge autograph! But let thought have its way, And give memory sway; Do we think of the cost of this glorified day? While the harvest-field waves, Do we think of those braves In the farms thickly planted with thousands of graves? How the great flag up there, Clean and pure as the air, Has been drabbled with blood-drops, and trailed in despair? Do we know what a land God hath placed in our hand, To be made into star-gems, or crushed into sand? Let us feel that our race, Doomed to no second place, Must glitter with triumph, or die in disgrace! That millions unborn, At night, noon, and morn, Will thank us with blessings, or curse us with scorn, For raising more high Freedom’s flag to the sky, Or losing forever the Fourth of July! Will Carleton.

Oh, behold in all its beauty, Freedom’s flag unfurled! Glorious flag—to us the fairest In the wide, wide world. CHORUS. Proudly float, O flag of Freedom, Fair Columbia’s pride! For thy stars and stripes of beauty, Many a hero died. Great the price of Freedom’s purchase— ’Twas the price of life; Oh, the pain and loss and sorrow Ere the end of strife. Ever mindful of the struggle, Let us all be true To the colors of our nation— Red, and white and blue.

By wind and wave the sailor brave has fared To shores of every sea; But never yet have seamen met or dared Grim death for victory In braver mood than they who died On drifting decks, in Apia’s tide, While cheering every sailor’s pride, The banner of the free! Columbia’s men were they who then went down, Not knights nor kings of old, But brighter far their laurels are than crown Or coronet of gold; Our sailor true, of any crew, Would give the last long breath he drew To cheer the old red, white and blue, The banner of the bold! With hearts of oak, through storm and smoke and flame, Columbia’s seamen long Have bravely fought and nobly wrought, that shame Might never dull their song; They sing the country of the free, The glory of the rolling sea, The starry flag of liberty, The banner of the strong! We ask but this, and not amiss the claim, A fleet to ride the wave, A navy great to crown the State with fame, Though foes or tempests rave; Then, as our fathers did of yore, We’ll sail our ships to every shore, On every ocean wind will soar The banner of the brave! Oh! this we claim, that never shame may ride On any wave with thee, Thou Ship of State, whose timbers great abide The home of liberty! For, so, our gallant Yankee tars, Of daring deeds and honored scars, Will make the banner of the stars The banner of the sea. Homer Green.

Ye sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought For those rights which unstained from your sires had descended. May you long taste the blessings your valor has brought, And your sons reap the soil which your fathers defended. Let our patriots destroy anarch’s pestilent worm, Lest our liberty’s growth should be checked by corrosion; Then let clouds thicken round us: we heed not the storm; Our realm feels no shock but the earth’s own explosion. Foes assail us in vain, Though their fleets bridge the main; For our altars and laws with our lives we’ll maintain; For ne’er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. Should the tempest of war overshadow our land, Its bolts could ne’er rend freedom’s temple asunder; For, unmoved, at its portal would Washington stand, And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the thunder! His sword from the sleep Of its scabbard would leap, And conduct, with its point, every flash to the deep! For ne’er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. Let fame to the world sound America’s voice; No intrigues can her sons from their government sever; Her pride are her statesmen—their laws are her choice, And shall flourish till liberty slumbers forever. Then unite heart and hand, Like Leonidas’ band, And swear to the God of the ocean and land That ne’er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. Robert Treat Paine, Jr.

Off with your hat as the flag goes by! And let the heart have its say; You’re man enough for a tear in your eye That you will not wipe away. You’re man enough for a thrill that goes To your very finger tips— Ay! The lump just then in your throat that rose Spoke more than your parted lips. Lift up the boy on your shoulder high, And show him the faded shred— Those stripes would be red as the sunset sky If death could have dyed them red. The man that bore it, with death has lain These thirty years or more— He died that the work should not be vain Of the men who bore it before. The man that bears it is bent and old, And ragged his beard and gray; But see his proud form grow young and bold, At the tune that he hears them play. The old tune thunders through all the air, And strikes right into the heart; If it ever calls for you, boy, be there! Be there and ready to start! Off with your hat as the flag goes by! Uncover the youngster’s head! Teach him to hold it holy and high, For the sake of its sacred dead. H. C. Bunner.

Scion of a mighty stock! Hands of iron—hearts of oak— Follow with unflinching tread Where the noble fathers led. Craft and subtle treachery, Gallant youth! are not for thee; Follow thou in word and deeds Where the God within thee leads! Honesty with steady eye, Truth and pure simplicity, Love that gently winneth hearts— These shall be thy only arts: Prudent in the council train, Dauntless on the battle-plain, Ready at the country’s need For her glorious cause to bleed! Where the dews of night distill Upon Vernon’s holy hill; Where above it, gleaming far, Freedom lights her guiding star: Thither turn the steady eye, Flashing with a purpose high; Thither, with devotion meet, Often turn the pilgrim feet! Let the noble motto be, God—the country—liberty! Planted on religion’s rock, Thou shalt stand in every shock.

Ring, O bells, in gladness, Tell of joy to-day; Ring and swing o’er all the world so wide. Banish thoughts of sadness, Drive all grief away, For it is the Merry Christmas tide. CHORUS. Ring, O bells, from spire and swelling dome, Ring and bid the peaceful ages come; Banish thoughts of sadness, Drive all grief away, For it is the Merry Christmas Day. Ring, O bells, the story From the ages far; Of the Christmas joy and song and light; How the wondrous glory Of the Christmas star Led the shepherds onward through the night! Ring, O bells, in gladness Of the Saviour King; May your silver chimings never cease; Banish thoughts of sadness And all nations bring Glorious dawning of the Day of Peace. Alice Jean Cleator.

Blessed old Santa Claus! king of delights! What are you doing these long winter nights? Filling your budgets with trinkets and toys— Wonderful gifts for the girls and the boys? While you are planning for everything nice, Pray let me give you a bit of advice. Don’t take it hard, if I say in your ear, Santa, I think you were partial last year; Loading the rich folks with everything gay, Snubbing the poor ones who came in your way: Now, of all times in the year, I am sure This is the time to remember the poor. Little red hands that are aching with cold, You should have mittens your fingers to hold; Poor little feet, with your frost-bitten toes, You should be clothed in the warmest of hose. On the dark hearth I would kindle a light, Till the sad faces were happy and bright. Don’t you think, Santa, if all your life through, Some one had always been caring for you, Watching to guard you by night and by day, Giving you gifts you could never repay, Sometimes, at least, you would sigh to recall How many children have nothing at all? Safe in your own quiet chamber at night, Cozy and warm in your blankets so white, Wouldn’t you think of the shivering forms Out in the cold and the wind and the storms? Wouldn’t you think of the babies who cry, Pining in hunger and cold till they die? Blessed old Nick! I was sure, if you knew it, You would remember, and certainly do it; This year, at least, when you open your pack, Pray give a portion to all who may lack; Then if you chance to have anything over, Bring a small gift to your friend—Kitty Clover.

FIRST CHILD. From the wild Northland where the wolf’s long howl Stirs the depths of down in the ocean fowl, And the white bear prowls with stealthy creep To the spot where the seal lies fast asleep, And the sledges flash through the silence vast Like a glittering dream, now here, now past,— On this waste of sparkle and waste of snow ’Neath skies aflame with a crimson glow; The feet of the Christ-child softly fall, And Christmas dawn brings cheer to all. SECOND CHILD. ’Tis the homestead low in the quiet vale Where the farm-dog follows Dobbin’s trail To the pasture lot, now cold and bare, And sniffs with glee the snow-filled air. In this home of busy household joys, ’Mong the rosy girls and sturdy boys, Sweet peace descends on wings of light, And all exclaim, “’Tis Christmas night, The dear Christ-child is hovering near Let each one share our Christmas cheer.” THIRD CHILD. ’Tis the prairies vast where cyclones sweep, And their sturdy men world-harvests reap, Where the skies are such an airy blue An angel’s robe might flutter through; And the lark flings down her music sweet A chain of song, each link complete; Then a white day comes, so bland or wild, It bears in arms the sweet Christ-child, And hearts touch heart and hands touch hand, While Christmas light illumes the land. FOURTH CHILD. ’Tis the land of palms and of orange trees, Whose lamps of gold swing in the breeze, Where the pickaninny’s black eyes glow, O’er swarthy cheeks and teeth of snow, And the dusky hand is raised to bless The gift that makes his misery less; For rich and poor and young and old Stand in the charmed ring of gold Which Christmas brings. Lo, want and sin Flee from the blessed eyes of Him, The dear Christ child, who far and near Gives Christmas love and Christmas cheer. G. A. Brown.

On a Christmas eve an emigrant train Sped on through the blackness of night, And cleft the pitchy dark in twain With the gleam of its fierce headlight. In a crowded car, a noisome place, Sat a mother and her child; The woman’s face bore want’s wan trace, But the little one only smiled, And tugged and pulled at her mother’s dress, And her voice had a merry ring, As she lisped, “Now, mamma, come and guess What Santa Claus’ll bring.” But sadly the mother shook her head, As she thought of a happier past; “He never can catch us here,” she said “The train is going too fast.” “O, mamma, yes, he’ll come, I say, So swift are his little deer, They run all over the world to-day;—I’ll hang my stocking up here.” She pinned her stocking to the seat, And closed her tired eyes; And soon she saw each longed-for sweet In dreamland’s paradise. On a seat behind the little maid A rough man sat apart, But a soft light o’er his features played, And stole into his heart. As the cars drew up at a busy town The rough man left the train, But scarce had from the steps jumped down Ere he was back again. And a great big bundle of Christmas joys Bulged out from his pocket wide; He filled the stocking with sweets and toys He laid by the dreamer’s side. At dawn the little one woke with a shout, ’Twas sweet to hear her glee; “I knowed that Santa Claus would find me out, He caught the train you see.” Though some from smiling may scarce refrain, The child was surely right, The good St. Nicholas caught the train, And came aboard that night. For the saint is fond of masquerade And may fool the old and wise, And so he came to the little maid In an emigrant’s disguise. And he dresses in many ways because He wishes no one to know him, For he never says, “I am Santa Claus,” But his good deeds always show him. Henry C. Walsh.

At the break of Christmas day, Through the frosty starlight ringing, Faint and sweet and far away, Comes the sound of children, singing, Chanting, singing, “Cease to mourn, For Christ is born, Peace and joy to all men bringing!” Careless that the chill winds blow, Growing stronger, sweeter, clearer, Noiseless footfalls in the snow Bringing the happy voices nearer; Hear them singing, “Winter’s drear, But Christ is here, Mirth and gladness with him bringing!” “Merry Christmas!” hear them say As the east is growing lighter; “May the joy of Christmas day Make your whole year gladder, brighter!” Join their singing, “To each home Our Christ has come, All Love’s treasures with him bringing!” Margaret Deland.

From the cold and frosty northland; Oh so far away, Santa Claus will soon be coming In his little sleigh; Let us listen for the reindeers’ Dancing, prancing feet, Let us wait old Santa’s jolly, Jolly face to greet! Listen, don’t you hear his sleigh-bells Oh so faintly ring, Santa Claus is surely coming Many gifts to bring; In his busy little workshop Many a long, long day, Pretty presents he has made To give them all away! Oh his sleigh-bells jingle, jingle, Very, very near; Can it be that dear old Santa’s Really almost here? Hark, they cease their silver music, Santa Claus has come! Welcome, welcome, dear old Santa, Welcome to each home!

One Christmas eve when Santa Claus Came to a certain house, To fill the children’s stockings there He found a little mouse. “A merry Christmas, little friend,” Said Santa, good and kind. “The same to you, sir,” said the mouse, “I thought you wouldn’t mind If I should stay awake to-night And watch you for awhile.” “You’re very welcome, little mouse,” Said Santa with a smile. And then he filled the stockings up Before the mouse could wink.— From toe to top, from top to toe There wasn’t left a chink. “Now, they won’t hold another thing,” Said Santa Claus, with pride. A twinkle came in mouse’s eyes, But humbly he replied: “It’s not polite to contradict,— Your pardon I implore,— But in the fullest stocking there I could put one thing more.” “Oh, ho!” laughed Santa, “silly mouse! Don’t I know how to pack? By filling stockings all these years, I should have learned the knack.” And then he took the stocking down From where it hung so high, And said: “Now put in one thing more; I give you leave to try.” The mousie chuckled to himself, And then he softly stole Right to the stocking’s crowded toe And gnawed a little hole! “Now, if you please, good Santa Claus, I’ve put in one thing more; For you will own that little hole Was not in there before.” How Santa Claus did laugh and laugh! And then he gayly spoke: “Well! you shall have a Christmas cheese For that nice little joke.” If you don’t think this story true, Why I can show to you The very stocking with the hole The little mouse gnawed through! Emilie Poulsson.

“I don’t care, I will go! So there, Mamma Mouse! The folks are all sleeping All over the house; “The stockings are hanging— I smell the sweet bits. It’s enough to drive mousies Into wild, crazy fits!” So when old Mrs. Mouse Went off to her bed, The little mouse watched, And popped up his head. Then smelling his way Very nicely along, He jumped into a stocking, So new and so strong. But a string on a bundle Stuck out in a loop, And in it he tumbled, The poor silly dupe! Oh, then what bewailings Came out of that stocking! Such moans and lamentings, It really was shocking! “O dear! and oh dear! I wish I was home! If I’d minded mamma, And hadn’t ’a’ come!” But ’twas all of no use. The string was so tight That all he could do Was to wait for daylight. Then Ted gave a shout That awoke the whole house; For there in his stocking Was a little gray mouse! What became of him then The cat only can tell, But one thing I’ll say— I know very well (By Whole School in Concert). That he’ll never again on a Christmas Eve Jump into a stocking without any leave!

1st Pupil. There is peace, there is peace in the South and the North, When the suns of the May-time shall call the blooms forth. 2nd Pupil. There is peace in the vale where the Tennessee runs— Where the river grass covers the long silent guns. 3rd Pupil. There is peace in Virginia amid the tall corn; Where Lookout’s high summit grows bright in the morn. 4th Pupil. There is peace where the James wanders down to the main; Where the war-torn Savannas are golden with grain. 5th Pupil. There is peace where the squadrons of carnage have wheeled, Fierce over Shiloh’s shell-furrowed field. 6th Pupil. There is peace in the soil whence the palmettoes spring; In the sad Shenandoah the harvesters sing. 7th Pupil. There is peace in Manassas, Antietam’s dark rills; No more throb the drum on the bare Georgian hills. 8th Pupil. There is peace where the warriors of Gettysburg rest; On the ramparts of Sumter the summer bird’s nest. 9th Pupil. There is peace where the “Father of Waters” ran red, Where the batteries of Mobile lie soundless and dead. 10th Pupil. There is peace where the rifle hangs mantled with dust, Where the once reeking saber is sheathed in its rust. 11th Pupil. There is peace where the war-hoofs tore up the smooth lea, Where the hoarse-noted cannon rang over the sea. 12th Pupil. There is peace in the North, though her soldier is yet Far away on the field where the fierce columns met. 13th Pupil. There is peace in the South, though her soldier is lost In the path where the lines of the foeman have crossed. 14th Pupil. There is peace in the land, and the “stars and the bars” Forever have merged in the “stripes and the stars.” 15th Pupil. There is peace where the flowers cover the tombs, And the Blue and the Gray now blend with the blooms. All. God grant that this peace may forever be ours! And the Blue and the Gray alike sleep neath the flowers!

It’s lonesome—sorto’ lonesome—it’s a Sund’y day to me, It ’pears like—mor’n any day I nearly ever see! Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a flutterin’ in the air, On ev’ry soldier’s grave I’d love to lay a lily there. They say, though, Decoration Days is generally observed— Most ev’ry wheres—especially by soldier boys that served— But me and mother never went—we seldom git away— In pint of fact, we’re allus home on Decoration Day. They say the old boys marches through the streets in columns grand, A-follerin’ the old war tunes they’re playin’ on the band, And citizens all jinin’ in—and little children, too— All marchin’ under shelter of the old Red, White and Blue, With roses! roses! roses!—ev’rybody in the town! And crowds of girls in white, just fairly loaded down! Oh! don’t the boys know it, from their camp across the hill? Don’t they see their comrades comin’ and the old flag wavin’ still? Oh! can’t they hear the bugle and the rattle of the drum?— Ain’t they no way under heaven they can rickollect us some? Ain’t they no way we can coax ’em through the roses, just to say They know that every day on earth is their Decoration Day? We’ve tried that,—me and mother,—where Elias takes his rest, In the orchard, in his uniform, and hands across his breast, And the flag he died fer smilin’ and a-ripplin’ in the breeze Above his grave—and, over that—the robin in the trees. And yet it’s lonesome—lonesome! It’s a Sund’y-day to me, It ’pears like—more’n any day—I nearly ever see— Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a flutterin’ in the air, On ev’ry soldier’s grave—I’d love to lay a lily there. James Whitcomb Riley.

Memorial Day again has come, When throbs the music of the drum. Each muffled accent seems to tell Of heroes who in battle fell. Memories return to boys in blue, Of vanished comrades brave and true. On camping ground and battle plain Alike they met with want and pain. Rivers of blood their courses swept, While sad Columbia mourned and wept. In fever swamp and prison pen Died many of her bravest men. All honor to the soldier bands Who followed Freedom’s stern commands. Let each true soldier’s noble name, Glow brightly on the books of Fame. Deeds wrought for truth can never die For they are penned in books on high. A nation now in reverence stands With sorrowing heart and flower-filled hands. Years may into long ages glide, These names shall still be glorified.

“Strew with flowers the soldier’s grave, Plant each lovely thing that grows; Let the summer breezes wave The calla lily and the rose; White and red—the cause, the price! Right, upheld by sacrifice. Let the summer’s perfumed breath, Fragrant with the sweetest flowers, Charm the sadness out of death, Glorify the mourners’ hours, Freighted with their prayers, arise Incense of their sacrifice. ’Tis not valor that we praise, Thirst for glory, love of strife; Gentle hearts from quiet ways, Turned to save a nation’s life, Lest in jealous fragments torn Freedom’s land should come to scorn. O’er the Gray, as o’er the Blue, Nature’s bursting tears will flow; Both were brave, and both were true And fought for all they loved below. Pity! nor forbid the tear Shed above so sad a bier. Cherish, then, the patriot fires, Honor loyalty, and trust In God that Freedom ne’er expires Where virtue guards the martyr’s dust, Who counted life as little worth, And saved the imperiled Hope of Earth.” Jno. W. Dunbar.

Revolutionary Pupil. I had heard the muskets’ rattle of the April running battle; Lord Percey’s hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still; But a deadly chill comes o’er me, as the day looms up before me, When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker Hill. Here are lilies for the valorous, and roses for the brave; And laurel for the victor’s crown, and rue for lowly grave. There’s crimson for the blood that flowed that Freedom might be free, And golden for the hearts of gold that died for you and me; Till love no more is loving, we lift our souls and say, For liberty find loyalty we bless their names to-day! Civil War Pupil. Strew the fair garlands where slumber the dead, Ring out the strains like the swell of the sea, Heartfelt the tribute we lay on each bed. Sound o’er the brave the refrain of the free. Sound the refrain of the loyal and free, Visit each sleeper and hallow each bed, Wave the starred banner from seacoast to sea Grateful the living, and honored the dead. Cuban War Pupil (carrying Cuban Flag.) New graves we crown with flowers to-day New homes shall saddened be; For loved ones sleeping far away, And some beneath the sea. ’Twas for humanity and right Our loved boys fought and died; To lift the islands into light And break the Spanish pride. We’ll wrap the Bible in the Flag And back them with our might, And bear them over sea and crag, In lofty eagle’s flight; And break the bands of heathen night, And set the islands free; Till Freedom sheds her glorious light O’er every land and sea. Liberty (in prayerful attitude, the boys standing in rear with hats lifted.) O God! look down upon the land which Thou hast loved so well, And grant that in unbroken truth her children still may dwell; Nor while the grass grows on the hill, and streams flow through the vale, May they forget their fathers’ faith, or in their covenant fail! God keep the fairest, noblest land that lies beneath the sky— Our country, our whole country, whose fame shall never die.

First Child—W— In the wailing winds my first Speaks in faintly murmuring tones. Second Child—A— While my second’s cry will burst In the martyr’s latest groans.— Third Child—S— How the noisome serpents scare. In them finds my third a place. Fourth Child—H— In the homes which mothers share, Rules my fourth with gentle grace. Fifth Child—I— Watch the Indian’s scalping knife, And my fifth shall greet your sight. Sixth Child—N— But my sixth is brought to life In the moonless ebon night. Seventh Child—G— See the gambler’s greed and note How my seventh rules supreme. Eighth Child—T— The latest presidential vote Holds secure my eighth, I deem. Ninth Child—O— From our sorrow, from our woe, None can drive my ninth away. Tenth Child—N— Mark the wailing infant—lo! There my tenth holds fullest sway. All in Concert. Join from first to tenth each part, And you’ll find a noble name, Written on each patriot’s heart, Glorious in our country’s fame.

Oh! how the world remembers! It is many and many a day Since the patriot, George Washington, Grew old and passed away. And yet to-day we are keeping In memory of his birth, And his deeds of truth and valor Are told at every hearth. How he fought for independence All little schoolboys know; And why he signed the declaration So many years ago. To be as great as Washington I could not if I would; But I’ve made up my mind that I Will try to be as good.

When the great and good George Washington Was a little boy like me, He took his little hatchet And chopped down a cherry tree. And when his papa called him, He then began to cry, “I did it, oh, I did it; I cannot tell a lie!” His papa didn’t scold at all, But said, “You noble youth, I’d gladly lose ten cherry trees To have you tell the truth!” But I myself am not quite clear; For if I took my hatchet And chopped my papa’s cherry tree, Oh, wouldn’t I just catch it!

Once more we celebrate Birthday of him so great, So true and brave; Who struggled not in vain Liberty to attain, Breaking a tyrant’s chain His land to save. Bravely the patriot band Fought ’neath his sure command And freedom won; Honor those soldiers all, Who did for freedom fall, Who followed at the call Of Washington. While shines in heaven the sun, The name of Washington Shall glow with light; He feared no tyrant grand, But foremost in command, Did like a mountain stand For cause of right. Alice Jean Cleator.

“Where may the wearied eye repose When gazing on the great, Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state?— Yes—one—the first, the last, the best, The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom Envy dared not hate, Bequeathed the name of Washington, To make man blush, there was but one.”

In seventeen hundred thirty-two, This very month and day, Winking and blinking at the light, A little baby lay. No doubt they thought the little man A goodly child enough; But time has proved that he was made Of most uncommon stuff. The little babe became a man That everybody knew Would finish well what he began, And prove both firm and true. So when the Revolution came, That made our nation free, They couldn’t find a better man For general, you see. As general, he never failed Or faltered; so they though He ought to be the President, And so I’m sure he ought. And then he did his part so well As President—’twas plain They couldn’t do a better thing Than choose him yet again. Through all his life they loved him well And mourned him when he died; And ever since his noble name Has been our nation’s pride. The lesson of his life is clear, And easy quite to guess, Be firm and true, if you would make Your life a grand success. Joy Allison.

Though we never may be soldiers On the battle field, Though we may not carry banner, Bayonet or shield; Each can be as true and valiant Till life’s work is done, Each can be as brave a soldier As George Washington. There are mighty hosts of evil, Armies great and strong, Each can be a little soldier Fighting all day long. Let us ever fight them bravely, Let us valiant be; Fight the host of falsehood, envy, Pride and cruelty. Oh, how valiant are the soldiers Who to battle go, Yet more brave are they who struggle With an unseen foe. When the battles all are ended And the victory’s won, Each will be as true a soldier As George Washington. Alice Jean Cleator.

1732. In seventeen hundred and thirty-two George Washington was born; Truth, goodness, skill, and glory high, His whole life did adorn. 1775. In seventeen hundred and seventy-five The chief command he took Of all the army in the State Who ne’er his flag forsook. 1783. In seventeen hundred and eighty-three, Retired to private life; He saw his much-loved country free From battle and from strife. 1789. In seventeen hundred and eighty-nine, The country with one voice, Proclaimed him president, to shine, Blessed by the people’s choice. 1799. In seventeen hundred and ninety-nine, The nation’s tears were shed, To see the patriot life resign, And sleep among the dead. ALL IN CONCERT. As “first in war, first in peace,” As patriot, father, friend— He will be blessed till time shall cease, And earthly life shall end.

First Pupil: Welcome, thou festal morn, Never be passed in scorn Thy rising sun. Thou day forever bright With Freedom’s holy light, That gave the world the sight Of Washington. Second Pupil: Unshaken ’mid the storm, Behold that noble form— That peerless one, With his protecting hand, Like Freedom’s angel, stand, The guardian of our land, Our Washington. Third Pupil: Traced there in lines of light, Where all pure rays unite, Obscured by none; Brightest on history’s page, Of any clime or age, As chieftain, man or sage, Stands Washington. Fourth Pupil: Name at which tyrants pale, And their proud legions quail, Their boasting done; While Freedom lifts her head, No longer filled with dread, Her sons to victory led By Washington. Class in Concert: Now the true patriot see, The foremost of the free, The victory won. In Freedom’s presence bow, While sweetly smiling now She wreathes the spotless brow Of Washington. Then, with each coming year, Whenever shall appear That natal sun, Will we attest the worth Of one true man to earth And celebrate the birth Of Washington. George Howland.

We have come with joyful greeting, Songs of gladness, voices gay, Teachers, friends, and happy children, All to welcome Arbor Day. Here we plant the trees whose branches, Warmed by breath of summer days, Nourished by the dews and showers, Soon shall wave in leafy sprays. Let us plant throughout our borders, O’er our lands so far and wide, Treasures from the leafy forest, Vale, and hill, and mountain side; Rooted deep, oh let them flourish, Sturdy giants may they be! Emblems of the cause we cherish— Education broad and free. Gentle winds will murmur softly, Zephyrs float on noiseless wing; ’Mid their bows shall thrush and robin, Build their nests and sweetly sing. ’Neath their shady arms will childhood Weary of the noontide heat, In its cool inviting shadow, Find a pleasant, safe retreat.

“We are what wind and sun and water make us, The mountains are our sponsors, and the rills Fashion and win their nurslings with their smiles.”

1st Pupil.—Whittier said: “Give fools their gold, and knaves their power; Let fortune’s bubbles rise and fall; Who sows a field or trains a flower, Or plants a tree, is more than all.” 2nd Pupil.—Ben Johnson wrote: “Not merely growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be, Or standing long an oak three hundred years, To fall a log at last, dry, bald and sear. A lily of a day is fairer far in May; Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measure life may perfect be.” 3rd Pupil.—Holmes said: “In fact there’s nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth.” 4th Pupil.—Morris wrote: “To me the world’s an open book Of sweet and pleasant poetry; I read it in the running book That sings its way toward the sea. It whispers in the leaves of trees, The swelling grain, the waving grass, And in the cool, fresh evening breeze, That crisps the wavelets as they pass. “The flowers below, the stars above, In all their bloom and brightness given, Are, like the attributes of love, The poetry of earth and heaven; Thus, nature’s volume, read aright, Attunes the soul to minstrelsy, Tingeing life’s cloud with rosy light And all the world with poetry.” 5th Pupil.—Longfellow said: “If thou art worn and heart beset With sorrows that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills! No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.” 6th Pupil.—Bryan Waller Proctor wrote: “Methinks I love all common things, The common air, the common flower, The dear, kind, common thought that springs From hearts that have no other dower, No other wealth, no other power, Save love; and will not that repay For all else fortune tears away? “What good are fancies rare, that rack With painful thought the poet’s brain? Alas! they cannot bear us back Unto happy years again! But the white rose without a stain Bringeth times and thoughts of flowers, When youth was bounteous as the hours.” The School. “He who plants a tree Plants a hope. Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope; Leaves unfold into horizons free, So man’s life must climb From the clods of time Unto heavens sublime.”

What do we plant when we plant the tree We plant the ships that will cross the sea We plant the mast to carry the sails, We plant the plank to withstand the gales, The keel, the keelson, the beam and knee, We plant the ship when we plant the tree. What do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the houses for you and me; We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors, We plant the studding, the lath, the doors, The beams, the siding, all parts that be, We plant the house when we plant the tree. What do we plant when we plant the tree? A thousand things that we daily see. We plant the spire that out-towers the crag, We plant the staff for our country’s flag; We plant the shade from the hot sun free, We plant all these when we plant the tree. Henry Abbey.

Uncle Sam: “She’s up there, Old Glory, where light wings are sped, She dazzles the nations with ripples of red; And she’ll wave for us living, or droop o’er us dead— The flag of our country forever! She’s up there, Old Glory, how bright the stars stream! And the stripes like red signals, of liberty gleam! And we dare for her living or dream the last dream, ’Neath the flag of our country forever! She’s up there, Old Glory, no tyrant-dealt scars— No blur on her brightness, no stain on her stars! The brave blood of heroes hath crimsoned her bars— She’s the flag of our country forever!” There comes from the south (Miss Palm enters) where the balmy breeze blows, There comes from the north (Mr. Pine enters) where the hardy pine grows, Warm hearts and true hearts, loyal and free, The Palm and the Pine now wedded to be. Come stand ’neath the flag, modest Palm, mighty Pine, (Both step to front before Uncle Sam and bow to each other, and then gracefully salute the flag.) The emblem so dear to brave fathers of thine, And under its bars, and its stars and its blue, Unite now and ever to dare and to do (join hands) What your hearts and your hands can our nation to save, And to keep the old flag o’er the free and the brave. (Uncle Sam, placing his right hand upon the joined hands of Palm and Pine, continues.) No north, no south, no east, no west, But one, united, free! The Palm and Pine, in Union blest, Now stand for liberty. From lakes to gulf, from sea to sea, May union stronger grow; Thus teach the world humanity, And might together go. (Retire, Palm leaning on arm of Pine.)

“The groves were God’s first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft and lay the architrave And spread the roof above them; ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication.”

Up from the smiling earth Comes there a voice of mirth Our hearts to cheer; Listen where the willows lean, Lovingly o’er the stream, Listen, where the pine trees dream, Springtime is here. Let us sing merrily, Blithely and cheerily, With the new year; Join in the chorus, Loudly swelling o’er us; Joy is before us, Springtime is here. Come, let us plant a tree Tenderly, lovingly, Some heart to cheer, Long may its branches sway, Over the dusty way With shade for sultry day, For years to be. Edna D. Proctor.

We are trees in tiny rows Growing straight and tall; Roots we have so when it(1) blows, None of us may fall. Bending gently (2)to and fro Then to (3)left and right, Makes us stronger as we grow, (4)Upward to the light. Tiny branches spreading wide,(5) Adding grace and form, Growing firmly from our side, (6)Hide us from the storm. On our branches, in the spring, (7)Leaves in green unfold; Till the frost with cruel sting, Turns them into gold. Then our brightly tinted leaves, From our branches fall; (8)Flutter in the autumn breeze, To October’s call. (9)Midst our branches squirrels run, Searching for our fruit; And the birds in summer’s sun, (10)Flit in hot pursuit And at night when all is still, (11)We have gone to sleep, Comes the owl, a mouse to kill, And (12)hoots in a voice so deep. As little trees of hope we stand And promises of good; Oh, may we grow up (13)tall and grand A deep and shady wood, Bear sweet and gladsome fruit of love, And shelter weary souls; And (14)lift our crests the storm above, Where endless sunlight rolls.

Through the golden summertime we’ve all been sowing seeds; Oh they’ve sprung to blossoms or to tall and ugly weeds; Children have we sown the seed of wrong or kindly deeds, All through the bright days of summer. Chorus. The seeds we planted along life’s onward way, Are swiftly growing, growing every day; What the harvest time shall be, it is for us to say— Let us be cheerful in sowing.

If you have a friend worth loving, Love him. Yes, and let him know That you love him, ere life’s evening Tinge his brow with sunset glow. Why should good words ne’er be said Of a friend till he is dead? If you hear a song that thrills you, Sung by any child of song, Praise it. Do not let the singer Wait deserved praises long. Why should one who thrills your heart Lack the joy you may impart? If a silvery laugh goes rippling Through the sunshine on his race, Share it. ’Tis the wise man’s saying For both joy and grief a place. There’s health and goodness in the mirth In which an honest laugh has birth. If your work is made more easy By a friendly helping hand, Say so. Speak out brave and truly Ere the darkness veil the land. Should a brother workman dear Falter for a word of cheer? Scatter thus your seeds of kindness, All enriching as you go— Leave them. Trust the Harvest Giver, He will make each seed to grow. So, until its happy end Your life shall never lack a friend.

Home from his journey Farmer John Arrived this morning safe and sound; His black off and his old clothes on; “Now I’m myself,” says Farmer John; And he thinks, “I’ll look round.” Up leaps the dog: “Get down, you pup! Are you so glad you would eat me up?” The old cow lows at the gate to greet him, The horses prick up their ears to meet him: “Well, well, old Bay! Ha, ha, old Gray! Do you get good food when I’m away? You haven’t a rib,” says Farmer John; “The cattle are looking round and sleek; The colt is going to be a roan, And a beauty, too; how he has grown! We’ll wean the calf next week.” “I’ve found this out,” says Farmer John, “That happiness is not bought and sold, And clutched in a life of waste and hurry, In nights of pleasure and days of worry; And wealth isn’t all in gold, Mortgages, stocks, and ten per cent., But in simple ways and sweet content; Few wants, pure hope, and noble ends, Some land to till, and a few good friends Like you, old Bay, And you, old Gray: That’s what I learned by going away.” J. T. Trowbridge.

First: Earth, of man the bounteous mother, Feeds him still with golden grain; He who best would aid a brother Shares with him his loaded wain. Second: Many a power within her bosom, Noiseless hidden, works beneath; Hence are seed and leaf and blossom, Golden ear, and clustered wreath. Third: These to swell with strength and beauty Is the royal task of man; Man’s a king; his throne is duty, Since his work on earth began. Fourth: Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage— These, like men, are fruits of earth; Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage. All from dust receive their birth. Fifth: What the dream but vain rebelling, If from earth we sought to flee? ’Tis our stored and ample dwelling; ’Tis from it the skies we see. Sixth: Wind and frost, and hour and season, Land and water, sun and shade— Work with these, as bids thy reason, For they work thy toil to aid. All in concert: Sow thy seed and reap in gladness! Man himself is all a seed; Hope and hardship, joy and sadness— Slow the plant to ripeness lead. John Sterling.

Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard; Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has autumn poured From her most lavish horn! Let other lands, exulting, glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green, The cluster from the vine; We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow. Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth Sends up its smoky curls, Who will not thank the kindly earth, And bless our farmer girls? Then shame on all the proud and vain, Whose folly laughs to scorn The blessing of our hardy grain, Our wealth of golden corn! Let earth withhold her goodly root, Let mildew blight the rye, Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit, The wheat-field to the fly. But let the good old crop adorn The hills our fathers trod; Still let us, for his golden corn, Send up our thanks to God! J. G. Whittier.

Great God! our heart-felt thanks to Thee! We feel Thy presence everywhere; And pray that we may ever be The objects of Thy guardian care. We sowed!—by Thee our work was seen, And blessed; and instantly went forth Thy mandate; and in living green Soon smiled the fair and fruitful earth. We toiled!—and Thou didst note our toil; And gav’st the sunshine and the rain, Till ripened on the teeming soil The fragrant grass, and golden grain. And now, we reap!—and oh, our God! From this, the earth’s unbounded floor, We send our song of thanks abroad, And pray Thee, bless our hoarded store! W. D. Gallagher.

Mrs. Piper was a widow— “Oh, dear me! This world is not at all,” she said, “the place it used to be! Now my good husband, he was such a good man to provide— I never had the leastest care of anything outside! But now, Why, there’s the cow, A constant care, and Brindle’s calf I used to feed when small, And those two Ayrshire heifers that we purchased in the fall— Oh, dear, My husband sleeping in the grave, it’s gloomy being here! The oxen Mr. Piper broke, and four steers two years old, The blind mare and the little colt, they all wait to be sold! For how am I to keep ’em now? and yet how shall I sell? And what’s the price they ought to bring, how can a woman tell? Now, Jacob Smith, he called last night, and stayed till nine o’clock, And talked and talked, and talked and talked, and tried to buy my stock; He said he’d pay a higher price than any man in town; He’d give his note, or, if I chose, he’d pay the money down. But, there! To let him take those creeturs off, I really do not dare! For ’tis a lying world, and men are slippery things at best; My poor, dear husband in the ground, he wasn’t like the rest! But Jacob Smith’s a different case; if I would let him, now, Perhaps he’d wrong me on the horse, or cheat me on a cow; And so I do not dare to trust him, and I mean to answer ‘No.’” Mrs. Piper was a widow— “Oh, dear me! A single woman with a farm must fight her way,” said she. “Of everything about the land my husband always knew; I never felt, when he was here, I’d anything to do; But now, what fields to plow, And how much hay I ought to cut, and just what crops to sow, And what to tell the hired men, how can a woman know? Oh, dear! With no strong arm to lean upon, it’s lonesome being here! Now Jacob Smith, the other night, he called on me again, And talked and talked, and talked and talked, and stayed till after ten; He said he’d like to take my farm, to buy it or to lease— I do declare, I wish that man would give me any peace! For there! To trust him with my real estate I truly did not dare; For, if he buys it, on the price he’ll cheat me underhand; And, if he leases it, I know he will run out the land; And, if he takes it at the halves, both halves he’ll strike for then; It’s risky work when women folk have dealings with the men! And so, I do not dare to trust him, and I mean to answer ‘No.’” Mrs. Piper was a widow— “Oh, dear me! Yet I have still some mercies left; I won’t complain,” said she. “My poor, dear husband knows, I trust, a better world than this; ’Twere sinful selfishness in me to grudge him Heaven’s bliss! So now, I ought to bow Submissively to what is sent—not murmur and repine; The hand that sends our trials has, in all, some good design. Oh, dear! If we knew all, we might not want our buried lost ones here! And Jacob Smith, he called last night, but it was not to see About the cattle or the farm, but this time it was me! He said he prized me very high, and wished I’d be his wife, And if I did not he should lead a most unhappy life. He did not have a selfish thought, but gladly, for my sake, The care of all my stock and farm he would consent to take— And, there! To slight so plain a Providence I really do not dare! He’ll take the cattle off my mind, he’ll carry on the farm— I haven’t since my husband died had such a sense of calm! I think the man was sent to me—a poor, lone woman must, In such a world as this, I feel, have some one she can trust; And so, I do not feel it would be right for me to answer ‘No.’” Marian Douglas.

Too early of course! How provoking! I told ma just how it would be. I might as well have on a wrapper, For there’s not a soul here yet to see. There! Sue Delaplaine’s pew is empty— I declare if it isn’t too bad! I knew my suit cost more than her’s did, And I wanted to see her look mad. I do think that sexton’s too stupid— He’s put some one else in our pew— And the girl’s dress just kills mine completely; Now what am I going to do? The psalter, and Sue isn’t here yet! I don’t care, I think it’s a sin For people to get late to service, Just to make a great show coming in. Oh, you’ve got here at last, my dear, have you? Well, I don’t think you need be so proud Of that bonnet if Virot did make it, It’s horrid fast-looking and loud. What a dress!—for a girl in her senses To go on the street in light blue! And those coat-sleeves—they wore them last summer— Don’t doubt, though, that she thinks they’re new. Mrs. Gray’s polonaise was imported— So dreadful!—a minister’s wife, And thinking so much about fashion!— A pretty example of life! The altar’s dressed sweetly—I wonder Who sent those white flowers for the font!— Some girl who’s gone on the assistant— Don’t doubt it was Bessie Lamont. Just look at her now, little humbug!— So devout—I suppose she don’t know That she’s bending her head too far over And the end of her switches all show. What a sight Mrs. Ward is this morning! That woman will kill me some day, With her horrible lilacs and crimsons, Why will these old things dress so gay? And there’s Jenny Wells with Fred Tracy— She’s engaged to him now—horrid thing! Dear me! I’d keep on my glory sometimes, If I did have a solitaire ring! How can this girl next to me act so— The way that she turns round and stares, And then makes remarks about people:— She’d better be saying her prayers. Oh, dear, what a dreadful long sermon! He must love to hear himself talk! And it’s after twelve now—how provoking! I wanted to have a nice walk. Through at last. Well, it isn’t so dreadful After all, for we won’t dine till one: How can people say church is poky!— So wicked!—I think it’s real fun. George A. Baker.