Part I (continued 2)
Reading edition
Sadder and wiser, Deacon Brown led Peachblow home as the sun went down; And all the questioners got him to say was, that he might tell them some other day. But Peachblow was lamb-like enough that night,—was milked very meekly, and seemed all right. And the Deacon mused: “Wal, the heathen may have fust-rate cow cures, but I must say, They are tryin’ to old folks, anyway.” Mary C. Huntington.
THE SILVER BELL.
Once upon a time, an old legend says, in a splendid palace a king lay dying. By his couch knelt his only son, with tears streaming down his face; but only a few quiet words were now and then spoken.
“Father, you remember the beautiful silver bell hanging above the palace,—the one you had made years ago, of such pure tone that the maker stood entranced at its first note, but which has ever since been still? Why did you hang it there, if it was never to be rung?”
“My son, when I was young, and full of life and hope, I commanded the best workmen in my kingdom to make a perfect silver bell, and hang it above my palace, that its sweet tones might tell my people that their king was perfectly happy. But alas! though I expected so much happiness, the moment has never come when I could say, ‘Ring the bell!’ and now I am dying, and it is still silent. My son, if your happiness is ever complete,—if you are without an anxious thought or wish,—then let the silver bell proclaim the fact to all your people.”
“But, father, if you were not lying here I should be happy now, and the bell should ring every day of my life.”
The old king smiled sadly, and, turning his face away, soon slept to wake no more. With much mourning he was laid away in the royal tomb, and his son became king in his stead. He could not ring the bell then, for he grieved for his father; but he thought that after a time he should be happy again.
And the days went by, and the young king married a beautiful girl; and he said, “Now, for the first time, the bell shall ring.”
But as he and his bride came from the church, a woman, young in years, but haggard with grief, carrying a little child in her arms, threw herself at his feet, begging him to spare the life of her husband, who was condemned to die for plotting against the king. “He saw so much splendor and wealth, and we were starving. Oh, on this day, pardon him!”
The king raised the wretched woman, and gave her her husband’s freedom; but a swift shadow had come over his happiness.
And the months went by, and a beautiful babe was born to be king after him. And he said, “Now at length the bell shall ring.” But just then came word that a terrible sickness raged among the children of the kingdom, that many mothers were mourners, and their hearts could not be comforted.
And the years rolled by, and the king was a great and good man, kind to his people, sharing their sorrows, and, so far as he could, lifting their burdens. The days were so full of thought and work, that he did not think of the bell, or of his own happiness.
At last he too lay dying; and when he knew that the end was drawing near, he asked to be carried to the room of state, and to be placed once more upon his throne, that his people might come to see him. And they crowded in, rich and poor, high and low, kissing his hands, his feet, and even the hem of his garment. And when he saw them so grief-stricken and tearful, a great light came into his dim eyes; and, lifting his trembling arms, in a clear voice he cried, “Ring the silver bell! ring the bell! My people love me; at last I am happy!” And as, for the first time, the bell pealed forth its ringing notes, his spirit took its flight to the unseen land.
—Mrs. Julia D. Pratt, in The Dayspring.
COUNTING EGGS.
Old Moses, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has got the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself came out to the gate to make the purchases.
“Have you got any eggs this morning, Uncle Moses?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed I has. Jess got in ten dozen from de kentry.”
“Are they fresh?”
“Fresh? yas, indeed! I guantees ’em, an’—an’—de hen guantees ’em.”
“I’ll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this basket.”
“All right, mum;” he counts, “one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten.—You can rely on dem bein’ fresh. How’s your son comin’ on de school? He must be mos’ grown.”
“Yes, Uncle Moses: he is a clerk in a bank in Galveston.”
“Why, how ole am de boy?”
“He is eighteen.”
“You don’t tole me so! Eighteen, and getting a salary already.—Eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-foah, twenty-five.—And how’s your gal comin’ on? She was most growed up de last time I seed her.”
“She is married, and living in Dallas.”
“Wall, I declar’, how de time scoots away! And you say she has childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She must be jest about”—
“Thirty-three.”
“Am dat so?” (counting) “firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seven, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free.—Hit am singular dat you has sich ole childruns. You don’t look more den forty years old yerseff.”
“Nonsense, old man; I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old”—
“Fifty-free! I jess dun gwinter bleeve hit; fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six,—I want you to pay ’tenshun when I count de eggs, so dar’ll be no mistake,—fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah.—Whew! Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time ob year when I feels I’se gettin’ ole myself. I ain’t long for dis world. You comes from an ole family. When yore fodder died he was sebenty years ole.”
“Seventy-two.”
“Dat’s old, suah.—Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine.—And your mudder? She was one ob de noblest lookin’ ladies I ebber see. You remind me ob her so much! She libed to mos’ a hundred. I bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died.”
“No, Uncle Moses: she was only ninety-six when she died.”
“Den she wan’t no chicken when she died, I know dat.—Ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, five, six, seben, eight,—dar one hundred and eight nice fresh eggs,—jess nine dozen, and here am one moah egg in case I have discounted myse’f.”
Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Barton said to her husband,
“I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied that she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there, and heard old Moses count them myself, and there were nine dozen.”
—Texas Siftings.
THE FALL.
“Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep.”—Count Fathom.
Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls, Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls; Where down beneath, despair and death in liquid darkness grope, And upward on the foam there shines a rainbow without hope? While, hung with clouds of fear and doubt, the unreturning wave Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave; And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to vale or bliss; One—only one—hath ever lived to rise from that abyss! O heaven! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear extreme, To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream! In vain, with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and light, I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current’s might; On—on—still on—direct for doom, the river rushed in force, And fearfully the stream of time raced with it in its course. My eyes I closed: I dared not look the way towards the goal; But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul. Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore, And lofty trees, like wingèd things, flit by forevermore! Plainly—but with no prophet sense—I heard the sullen sound, The torrent’s voice—and felt the mist, like death-sweat, gathering round. O agony! O life! My home, and those that made it sweet! Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet. With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy edge; Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to ledge, From crag to crag—in speechless pain—from midnight deep to deep; I did not die, but anguish stunned my senses into sleep. How long entranced, or whither dived, no clew I have to find. At last the gradual light of life came dawning o’er my mind; And through my brain there thrilled a cry,—a cry as shrill as birds Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words:— “It’s Edgar Huntley in his cap and nightgown, I declares! He’s been a-walking in his sleep, and pitched all down the stairs!” Thomas Hood.
A CENTRE-BOARD YACHT-RACE.
“Mr. Bingham,” said the “city editor” of the “Royal Bugle” one morning, “the ‘sporting editor’ is away, and it will be necessary for you to go down to Swampscott to report a race between centre-board yachts.”
“But I don’t know any thing about yachts or yacht-racing.”
“It’s not necessary to know. See the head man, and get the time. That’s about all we want.”
About nine o’clock that night, a forlorn, tramp-like looking object entered the office of the “Royal Bugle,” with the crown of his white Derby knocked in, the rim bent, and his clothing generally hanging limp,—the suit, once light in color, now spotted and stained. As he advanced into a better light, he was recognized as the “fire reporter;” and a chorus of exclamations followed: “Where’s the fire?” or, “Did they put the hose on you?” as the unfortunate man sank, apparently exhausted, into a chair.
“It’s not a fire,” he growled. “It’s a yacht-race.”
“What did they do to you?”
“Do to me? They did every thing except drown me, and almost did that. This morning,” continued the dejected man, “our local editor sent me down to Swampscott to report a centre-board yacht race. He said if I could get aboard one of the racing yachts I’d have a delightful time,—a regular marine picnic. Well, I had it,—yes, indeedy; enough picnic of the kind to last the rest of life. I knew the yachtsmen were spruce sort of fellows, dressed well; and therefore I put on my best suit,—new rig just from the tailor’s,—and hurried away to the Swampscott sands. I found the fleet of centre-boards tied up to a wharf. In making inquiries of a captain, I hinted that it would be agreeable to me to be a passenger on his yacht.
“He smiled serenely, the villain! and said he’d be delighted to have me come aboard. Oh, the baseness of the man! Very soon the race began; and when fairly under way, and I had settled into a comfortable seat to enjoy it, the captain shouted, ‘All down, down below the’—the—what do you call the rail that runs around the top of the boat?—the gun—the gun”—
“Whale!”
“Yes, the gunwhale. Well, he said we must keep our heads below that, in order to offer less resistance to the wind. Therefore three of us were obliged to lie on our stomachs on the bottom of the boat. If we wanted to see the race, we looked through the skipper’s windows”—
“The what?”
“Why, the skipper’s holes, as they call them,—a nautical term for windows, I sup”—
“Scupper-holes!”
“Well, yes, that sounds more like. The man who lay next to me kept himself busy and contented by eating peanuts. But that was nothing, comparatively. Soon we ran into a big wave. If the skipper’d had any sense of honor or regard for his passengers, he would have turned one side to let the wave pass; but he didn’t. He ran slap into it, and the crest of it came on board, caromed on the skipper himself, who stood at the helm, and then circulated among the shifting ballast. Owing to the peanut-eater, the skipper-win—no, the scupper-holes—were clogged; and the remnant of the wave, unable to escape from the boat, was absorbed by our clothing, and my new suit began to take additional shades and wrinkles.
“Suddenly that graceless captain shouted something about ‘hard lee,’ and then the boat lurched and tipped the other way; and we, lying prostrate, were ordered to creep carefully around the centre-board, and lie on the other side. That was the most fiendish! If my memory be good, we crawled back and forth around that centre-board a dozen times. If we were going to win the race, why didn’t we keep straight on, and not turn to the right or left every twenty minutes?
“But the climax came. The skipper decided to turn the boat around when she was going at full speed, and to drive her in the opposite direction. Well, when she turned around”—
“Jibed, you mean.”
“Yes, that sounds like it. When she jibed she turned over on her side, and a part of the shifting ballast, another man, and myself, went overboard; but we caught on the gunwhale, and, the boat coming down flat again, we crawled in. When I, forlorn and dripping, asked if they turned around usually in that way, they laughed.
“Well, about an hour afterward, after mopping the bottom of the boat some more with our clothing, we reached the landing from which we had departed.”
“We did not win.
“In response to an inquiry in regard to our defeat, the captain, ungrateful, said that he had too much ballast. Wasn’t that the refinement of cruelty? Wasn’t it a dastardly insult? After I’d spoiled a suit of clothes by exerting myself in his behalf in climbing around that centre-board, and nearly lost my life,—of course, if I had not caught the side of the boat when I went overboard, they would not stop to take me in, because the race was very important, and the prize was a three-cornered blue flag,—after all that, I say, ’twas rascally to hint that I’d lost the race for him.
“When the boat was a safe distance from the shore, after leaving me on the wharf, the captain cried, ‘Had a good time?’ Gentlemen, to reply would have been an indignity to myself; but I indulged in a little pantomime to show the pirate skipper that, if I’d had him there, I’d injure the wharf with him. ‘Why didn’t I come home sooner?’ Because I waited the coming of night to shield me from the gaze of the village constable, who has a personal enmity against tramps,—makes them saw wood. I knew that my tattered and begrimed appearance would bring me under the ban of the law. I walked home by way of the beach.”
George A. Stockwell.
THE MISSISSIPPI MIRACLE.
I’s let up on preachin’. I’s truly De Rev’rind Dick Wilkins, D. D.; I know I heerd Gabr’el a-callin’, An’ thought he was callin’ on me: “You Wilkins, go preach me de gospel!” Dat, sah, was de way dat he went; But now, sah, I’s mightily jubous ’Twas some oder Wilkins he meant. Yes, sah, dat ar matter you knows of Has cleaned me plumb out of my grace. What! ain’t nebber heard of it? Nebbah? Seed nobody in from de place? Den set down an’ listen; and when, sah, I’s tol’ you de mizable tale, You’ll ’low dat religion, out ou’ way, Is mighty low down in de scale. I started to work wid good prospects: My field, you mought call it, was good; I tried fur to keep up de fences, An’ worked it de best ’at I could; De site wuzn’t much fur to brag on; ’Twas mos’ly clay gullies an’ sand; But de craps, in de way ob collections, Wuz good fur dat ’scription ob land. Well, sah, we got up a revival, To last a consid’able while, An’ ’greed, as we’s gwine fur to hab it, ’Twas best fur to hab it in style. We started her goin’ at sun-up, An’ kep’ her a-bilin’ till night, When forty-odd mo’nahs wuz shoutin’, An’ forty more comin’ in sight. Des den it come into my min’, sah, To gib dem ar niggahs a trile; An’ so I riz up, an’ I says, sah,— I says, with a beautiful smile: “My frien’s, I’m a-gwine to propose you A small, onsignificant test, To proobe—out ob all ob de virtues— Which ob you has charity best.” “Now, hush up a minnit! I’ll tell you, An’ den you kin go on an’ shout. De short ob de mattah is: Friday My barrel ob whiskey gub out; It happens, too, des at dis moment, I hasn’t de money to buy: An’ so I proposes to you all, Dat you shill make up de supply.” “To-morrow I’ll hab me a barrel A-settin’ out dar on the bluff, An’ eb’ry good Christian’s expected To fotch ’long a pint o’ good stuff. So I’ll git my barrel ob whiskey, An you’ll git the feeling dat you Is got charity down till you’re ekal To gibbin’ de debbil his due.” Nex’ mohnin’, sah, dar wuz de barrel; An’ eb’ry man fotched up a flask, An’ put de neck down in de bunghole, An’ emptied it into de cask. I thought ‘at I’d try how it swallowed, An’ held a gourd under the spout, An’ den gib a turn on de fossit— When nuffin but water come out! “A miracle!” shouted de sistahs. “A miracle nuffin!” says I; “I see froo de mattah.—it’s easy To tell you des how it come by: Each man fotched a bottle ob water, An’ thought, when de cask wuz complete, By eb’ry one else bringin’ whiskey, Nobody would notice de cheat.” Dat sort o’ broke up the revival— An’ raly I think it wuz time, Wid all de head brudders convicted Ob such a contemptible crime. Dey isn’t no good in purfeshins; Dat’s one thing I hope ’at you sees— But, sah, it’s so late I mus’ leab you To pick out what moral you please. Irwin Russell.
WENDELL PHILLIPS.
What shall we mourn? For the prostrate tree that sheltered the young green wood? For the fallen cliff that fronted the sea, and guarded the fields from the flood? For the eagle that died in the tempest, afar from its eyry’s brood? Nay, not for these shall we weep; for the silver cord must be worn, And the golden fillet shrink back at last, and the dust to its earth return; And tears are never for those who die with their face to the duty done: But we mourn for the fledglings left on the waste, and the fields where the wild waves run. From the midst of the flock he defended, the brave one has gone to his rest; And the tears of the poor he befriended their wealth of affection attest. From the midst of the people is stricken a symbol they daily saw, Set over against the law-book, of a higher than human law; For his life was a ceaseless protest, and his voice was a prophet’s cry To be true to the truth, and faithful, though the world were arrayed for the lie. From the hearing of those who hated, a threatening voice has passed; But the lives of those who believe and die are not blown like a leaf on the blast. A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman that hewed to the light, Who dared to be traitor to Union when Union was traitor to right. “Fanatic!” the insects hissed, till he taught them to understand That the highest crime may be written in the highest law of the land. “Disturber,” and “dreamer,” the Philistines cried, when he preached an ideal creed, Till they learned that the men who have changed the world with the world have disagreed; That the remnant is right, when the masses are led like sheep to the pen; For the instinct of equity slumbers till roused by instinctive men. It is not enough to win rights from a king, and write them down in a book: New men, new lights; and the fathers’ code the sons may never brook. What is liberty now were license then; their freedom our yoke would be; And each new decade must have new men to determine its liberty. Mankind is a marching army, with a broadening front the while. Shall it crowd its bulk on the farm-paths, or clear to the outward file? Its pioneers are the dreamers who heed neither tongue nor pen Of the human spiders whose silk is wove from the lives of toiling men. Come, brothers, here to the burial! But weep not, rather rejoice For his fearless life and his fearless death; for his true, unequalled voice, Like a silver trumpet sounding the note of human right; For his brave heart always ready to enter the weak ones’ fight, For his soul unmoved by the mob’s wild shout or the social sneer’s disgrace, For his freeborn spirit, that drew no line between class or creed or race. Come, workers! here was a teacher, and the lesson he taught was good: There are no classes or races, but one human brotherhood; There are no creeds to be outlawed, no colors of skin debarred; Mankind is one in its rights and wrongs,—one right, one hope, one guard. By his life he taught, by his death we learn the great reformer’s creed: The right to be free, and the hope to be just, and the guard against selfish greed. And richest of all are the unseen wreaths on his coffin-lid laid down By the toil-stained hands of workmen,—their sobs, their kiss, and their crown. John Boyle O’Reilly.
MALARIA.
Our baby lay in its mother’s arms, All sweet with its tiny dimpled charms; But little mouth and tongue were sore, And of its food ’twould take no more. The doctor hemmed, and shook his head. And looking wise, he gravely said, “Malaria—’tis plainly seen— Three times a day give him quinine.” Said grandmamma, “Dear me! that’s new; When I was young we called it ‘sprue.’” Our urchin Tom, ne’er off his feet, One day his dinner could not eat; His head ached so, he was so ill, Poor mother’s heart with fear did fill. The doctor felt his hands and head, And looking wise, he gravely said, “Malaria—’tis plainly seen— Three times a day give him quinine.” Said grandmamma, “That can’t be so! He has been smoking, sir, I know.” Our lady Maud, at seventeen— As bright a girl as e’er was seen— One day turned languid, white, and frail, And roses red did strangely pale. The doctor felt her pulse, and said, While wisely he did shake his head, “Malaria—it’s plainly seen— Three times a day give her quinine.” Said grandmamma, “That can’t be right! Why, my good sir, she danced all night.” Our pride, our eldest, Harry dear, One night did act so strange and queer, That mother, frightened, panting, said, “Run for the doctor! he’ll be dead!” The doctor came, and shook his head, And, looking at him, grandly said, “Malaria—’tis plainly seen— Three times a day give him quinine.” “What stuff!” said grandmamma, “I’m thinking That good-for-nothing boy’s been drinking!” The head of the house, forever well, One day fell ill, and, sad to tell, Could not arise, but loud did cry, “If this keeps on, I’d rather die!” The doctor came, stood by the bed, And, looking solemn, gravely said, “Malaria—’tis plainly seen— Three times a day give him quinine.” Growled grandmamma, “Oh! fiddle-dee-dee! He’s only bilious—seems to me.” One day our grandpa—eighty-four— Complained that he could see no more; That, at his age, it worried him That his good eyesight should grow dim. “I’ve often seen it act that way,” The doctor solemnly did say: “Malaria—’tis plainly seen— Three times a day give him quinine.” But grandma said, “I never see! Old man, you’re growing old, like me!”
PUZZLED.
You ask me whether I’m High Church, You ask me whether I’m Low: I wish you’d tell the difference, For I’m sure that I don’t know. I’m just a plain old body, And my brain works pretty slow; So I don’t know whether I’m High Church, And I don’t know whether I’m Low. I’m trying to be a Christian, In the plain, old-fashioned way, Laid down in my mother’s Bible, And I read it every day,— Our blessed Lord’s life in the Gospels, Or a comforting Psalm of old, Or a bit from the Revelation Of the city whose streets are gold. Then I pray,—why, I’m generally praying, Though I don’t always kneel or speak out, But I ask the dear Lord, and keep asking, Till I fear he is all tired out; A piece of the Litany sometimes, The Collect, perhaps, for the day, Or a scrap of a prayer that my mother So long ago learned me to say. But now my poor memory’s failing, And often and often I find That never a prayer from the Prayer-book Will seem to come into my mind. But I know what I want, and I ask it, And I make up the words as I go: Do you think that shows I ain’t High Church? Do you think that it means I am Low? My blessed old husband has left me, ’Tis years since God took him away: I know he is safe, well, and happy, And yet, when I kneel down to pray, Perhaps it is wrong, but I never Leave the old man’s name out of my prayer, But I ask the dear Lord to do for him What I would do if I was there. Of course he can do it much better; But he knows, and he surely won’t mind The worry about her old husband, Of the old woman left here behind. So I pray and I pray for the old man, And I’m sure that I shall till I die; So maybe that proves I ain’t Low Church, And maybe it shows I am High. My old father was never a Churchman, But a Scotch Presbyterian saint: Still his white head is shining in heaven, I don’t care who says that it ain’t; To one of our blessed Lord’s mansions That old man was certain to go: And now do you think I am High Church? Are you sure that I ain’t pretty Low? I tell you, it’s all just a muddle, Too much for a body like me; I’ll wait till I join my old husband, And then we shall see what we’ll see. Don’t ask me again, if you please, sir, For really it worries me so; And I don’t know whether I’m High Church, And I don’t know whether I’m Low.