MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS.

Again they muster from the far-off hillside, From country farm-house and from sea-girt shore; Their tramping feet resound along the highways, Their gleeful shouts ring on the air once more. A merry band, so full of youth’s elixir, How can their restless spirits e’er essay The tasks that wait their patient, steady labor After the long, bright, summer holiday? Not now, O children, in the sunny meadows Ye cull the flowers or by the brooklets stray, But in the fields of knowledge, thick with blossoms, To gather sweets for a far future day. Here, too, you roam a land of fairest promise, Watered by many a stream of limpid hue, Where weary travelers find a sweet refreshment And garner richest stores of old and new. We bid thee welcome to the homes that missed thee, To the deserted school-room’s open door. The nation’s hope is in thee, keep thy birthright; Thine heritage is more than golden store. The Kingdom of Home.

Not alone for the rich and great Are the beautiful works of God; The mountain’s slopes and the ocean’s beach By the people’s feet are trod, And the poor man’s children sing and dance On the green flower-covered sod. Not alone for the cultured eyes Do the sweet flowers spring and grow; There is scarcely living a man so poor But he may their sweetness know; And out of the town to the fresh fair fields The toilers all can go. Away from the factory shop and desk, Where the diligent work in throngs, They go sometimes to the well-earned rest That to faithful zeal belongs; And the shore and the forest welcome them, And the larks pour down their songs. “Man does not live by bread alone,” And well it needs must be That we all should look on our Father’s works By the river and lake and sea, And spend our souls in adoring praise, For He careth for you and me. And well may all with a stronger hand, And a braver, truer heart, Go back to the task that God has given, And faithfully do our part; And bear in our souls the peace of the fields, To the counter, the desk, and the mart.

The light of June that shines on tremulous leaves Of softest green, how fair a thing to see! When shafts of dawn touch birch and maple tree, Or sunset’s hour a mesh of magic weaves; The diamond light that flashes on the sea In August noons,—a dazzle of pure rays. With lovely ground of blue, whereon we gaze From cliff or sandy shore in ecstasy; The light that blazes on the mountain way, Or, strained to pallor, steals to lonely dells; None are forgotten on this autumn day, As with sweet memories the glad heart swells; But as the October sun drops down the west, We say with smiling lips, Home lights are best.

They took the little London girl from out the city street To where the grass was growing green, the birds were singing sweet; And everything along the road so filled her with surprise, The look of wonder fixed itself within her violet eyes. The breezes ran to welcome her; they kissed her on each cheek, And tried in every way they could their ecstasy to speak, Inviting her to romp with them, and tumbling up her curls, Expecting she would laugh or scold, like other little girls. But she did not; no, she could not; for this crippled little child Had lived within a dingy court where sunshine never smiled, And for weary, weary days and months the little one had lain Confined within a narrow room, and on a couch of pain. The out-door world was strange to her—the broad expanse of sky, The soft, green grass, the pretty flowers, the stream that trickled by; But all at once she saw a sight that made her hold her breath, And shake and tremble as if she were frightened near to death. Oh, like some horrid monster of which the child had dreamed, With nodding head and waving arms, the angry creature seemed; It threatened her, it mocked at her, with gestures and grimace That made her shrink with terror from its serpent-like embrace. They kissed the trembling little one, they held her in their arms, And tried in every way they could to quiet her alarms, And said, “Oh, what a foolish little goose you are to be So nervous and so terrified at nothing but a tree!” They made her go up close to it, and put her arms around The trunk and see how firmly it was fastened in the ground; They told her all about the roots that clung down deeper yet, And spoke of other curious things she never would forget. Oh, I have heard of many, very many girls and boys Who have to do without the sight of pretty books and toys, Who have never seen the ocean; but the saddest thought to me Is that anywhere there lives a child who never saw a tree.

The morning light falls gently on the eyes And wakes the sleeping men; And bids them rise and haste to meet the day, And find their work again. No one is asked to choose what he will do, Or take the task loved best, For God allots the places, and each one Obeys His high behest. One, loving silence, passes to the street And mingles with the crowd, And finds his daily work awaiting him, Where noise is long and loud. And one who hungers for the voice and touch Of others in the gloom Is ordered to withdraw from all, and work Alone within one room. Another, loving beauty, air, and light, Passes in sordid ways, And uncongenial sights, and jarring sounds, The hours of his best days. And yet another who could love all work, And do it thankfully, Has naught to do but suffer and be still In patience, perfectly. Are, then, the workers at their daily tasks Unhappy and unblest? Nay; He who chooses for them gives the wage Of happiness and rest. The feet pass swiftly to the place of toil, The lips break into song, And ready hands receive the allotted task, Nor find the hours too long. Because the loyal heart is true to God, And the deft hand obeys The Master, who decides what each shall do, Joy fills the working days. And so, if but the soul be leal, the task Itself becomes more dear, And every worker finds that work well done Is work that brings good cheer.

Little Bess, with laughing eyes, Brightly blue as summer skies, Came to me one morn in May, Asking in her eager way, “What’s the lesson for to-day?” And I told her, then and there, What I wished her to prepare. But new meaning (strange to say), In the childish query lay, “What’s the lesson for to-day?” And I pondered o’er and o’er What I scarce had thought before,— As I went my wonted way, Towards my duty, sad or gay, “What’s my lesson for the day?” Students in the school of life, ’Mid its struggles and its strife, Let us ask, in childlike way, Of the Teacher we obey, “What’s the lesson for to-day?” And the answer God will give, He will show us how to live, Teach us of His perfect way, Grant us wisdom that we may Learn the lesson of the day.

Ho! ye who at the anvil toil, And strike the sounding blow, Where from the burning iron’s breast The sparks fly to and fro, While answering to the hammer’s ring, And fire’s intenser glow— Oh, while ye feel ’tis hard to toil And sweat the long day through, Remember it is harder still To have no work to do. Ho! ye who till the stubborn soil, Whose hard hands guide the plow; Who bend beneath the summer sun With burning cheek and brow— Ye deem the curse still clings to earth From olden time till now; But while ye feel ’tis hard to toil And labor all day through, Remember it is harder still To have no work to do. Ho! ye who plow the sea’s blue field, Who ride the restless wave; Beneath whose gallant vessel’s keel There lies a yawning grave; Around whose bark the wintry winds Like fiends of fury rave— Oh, while ye feel ’tis hard to toil And labor long hours through, Remember it is harder still To have no work to do. Ho! all who labor, all who strive, Ye wield a mighty power; Do with your might, do with your strength, Fill every golden hour; The glorious privilege to do Is man’s most noble dower. Oh, to your birthright and yourselves, To your own souls be true! A weary, wretched life is theirs Who have no work to do.

I have been back to my home again, To the place where I was born; I have heard the wind from the stormy main Go rustling through the corn; I have seen the purple hills once more; I have stood on the rocky coast Where the waves storm inland to the shore; But the thing that touched me most Was a little leather strap that kept Some school-books, tattered and torn! I sighed, I smiled, I could have wept When I came on them one morn; For I thought of the merry little lad, In the mornings sweet and cool, If weather was good, or weather bad, Going whistling off to school. My fingers undid the strap again, And I thought how my hand had changed, And half in longing, and half in pain, Backward my memory ranged. There was the grammar I knew so well,— I didn’t remember a rule; And the old blue speller,—I used to spell Better than any in school; And the wonderful geography I’ve read on the green hill-side, When I’ve told myself I’d surely see All lands in the world so wide, From the Indian homes in the far, far West, To the mystical Cathay. I have seen them all. But Home is best When the evening shades fall gray. And there was the old arithmetic, All tattered and stained with tears; I and Jamie and little Dick Were together in by-gone years. Jamie has gone to the better land; And I get now and again, A letter in Dick’s bold, ready hand, From some great Western plain. There wasn’t a book, and scarce a page, That hadn’t some memory Of days that seemed like a golden age, Of friends I shall no more see. And so I picked up the books again And buckled the strap once more, And brought them over the tossing main; Come, children, and look them o’er. And there they lie on a little stand Not far from the Holy Book; And his boys and girls with loving care O’er grammar and speller look. He said, “They speak to me, children dear, Of a past without alloy; And the look of Books, in promise clear, Of a future full of joy.” Harper’s Weekly.

How cheap are the things which are bought and sold, The beautiful things which the hands can hold, Whatever is purchased with silver and gold. The merchants are calling and filling their rooms With jewels and laces and rarest perfumes, And wonderful webs from the Indian looms. The price of the treasures is small, as they say; For dollars and cents, are exchanged every day The furs of the North-land, the silks of Cathay. But, oh! the rare things which can never be brought From the far-away countries, but still must be sought Through working and waiting and anguish of thought! The patience that comes to the heart, as it tries To hear, through all discord and turbulent cries, The songs of the armies that march to the skies; The courage that fails not, nor loses its breath In stress of the battle, but smilingly saith, “I’ll measure my strength with disaster and death;” The love that through doubting and pain will increase; The longing and restlessness, calmed into peace That is perfect and satisfied, never to cease— These, these are the dear things. No king on his throne Can buy them away from the poor and unknown Who make them, through labor or anguish, their own.

I. I cannot tell you, Genevieve, how oft it comes to me— That rather young old reading class in District Number Three, That row of elocutionists who stood so straight in line, And charged at standard literature with amiable design. We did not spare the energy in which our words were clad! We gave the meaning of the text by all the light we had; But still I fear the ones who wrote the lines we read so free Would scarce have recognized their work in District Number Three. II. Outside, the snow was smooth and clean—the winter’s thick-laid dust; The storm, it made the windows speak at every sudden gust; Bright sleigh-bells threw us pleasant words when travelers would pass; The maple-trees along the road stood shivering in their class; Beyond, the white-browed cottages were nestling cold and dumb, And far away the mighty world seemed beckoning us to come— The wondrous world, of which we conned what had been and might be, In that old-fashioned reading class of District Number Three. III. We took a hand at History—its altars, spires and flames— And uniformly mispronounced the most important names; We wandered through Biography, and gave our fancy play, And with some subjects fell in love—“good only for one day;” In Romance and Philosophy we settled many a point, And made what poems we assailed to creak at every joint; And many authors that we love, you with me will agree, Were first time introduced to us in District Number Three. IV. You recollect Susannah Smith, the teacher’s sore distress, Who never stopped at any pause—a sort of day express? And timid young Sylvester Jones, of inconsistent sight, Who stumbled on the easy words and read the hard ones right? And Jennie Green, whose doleful voice was always clothed in black? And Samuel Hicks, whose tones induced the plastering all to crack? And Andrew Tubbs, whose various mouths were quite a show to see? Alas! we cannot find them now in District Number Three. V. And Jasper Jenckes, whose tears would flow at each pathetic word (He’s in the prize-fight business now, and hits them hard, I’ve heard); And Benny Bayne, whose every tone he murmured as in fear (His tongue is not so timid now: he is an auctioneer); And Lanty Wood, whose voice was just endeavoring hard to change, And leaped from hoarse to fiercely shrill with most surprising range; Also his sister Mary Jane, so full of prudish glee. Alas! they’re both in higher schools than District Number Three. VI. So back these various voices come, though long the years have grown, And sound uncommonly distinct through Memory’s telephone; And some are full of melody, and bring a sense of cheer, And some can smite the rock of time, and summon forth a tear; But one sweet voice comes back to me, whenever sad I grieve! And sings a song, and that is yours, O peerless Genevieve! It brightens up the olden times, and throws a smile at me— A silver star amid the clouds of District Number Three.

Let me stand still upon the height of life; Much has been won, though much there is to win; I am a little weary of the strife. Let me stand still awhile, nor count it sin To cool my hot brow, ease the travel-pain, And then address me to the road again. Long was the way, and steep and hard the climb; Sore are my limbs, and fain I am to rest; Behind me lie long sandy tracks of time; Before me rises the steep mountain crest. Let me stand still; the journey is half done, And when less weary I will travel on. There is no standing still! Even as I pause The steep path shifts and I slip back apace; Movement was safety; by the journey laws No help is given, no safe abiding-place, No idling in the pathway hard and slow; I must go forward, or must backward go! I will go up then, though the limbs may tire, And though the path be doubtful and unseen; Better with the last effort to expire Than lose the toil and struggle that have been, And have the morning strength, the upward strain, The distance conquered, in the end made vain. Ah, blessed law! for rest is tempting sweet, And we would all lie down if so we might; And few would struggle on with bleeding feet; And few would ever gain the higher height Except for the stern law which bids us know We must go forward, or must backward go.

Margery cowered and crouched in the door of the beautiful porch. There were beautiful people in there, and they all belonged to the church. But Margery waited without; she did not belong anywhere Except in the dear Lord’s bosom, who taketh the children there. And through the open doorway came floating a lovely sound; She shut her eyes and imagined how the angels stood around With their harps like St. Cecilia’s in the picture on the wall— Ah, Margery did not doubt that so looked the singers all. “Suffer the little children!” sang a heavenly voice somewhere, Or the soul of a voice that was winging away in the upper air; “Let the children come to me!” sang the angel in her place, And Margery, listening, stood, with upturned eyes and face. “Let them come! let them come to me!” And up the aisle she sped With eyes that sought for the Voice, to follow where it led. She did not say to herself: “I’m coming! Wait for me!” But it shone in her face, and it leaped in her eyes, dear Margery! Up the stair to the singer she ran, she touched the hem of her dress. But the choir were bending their heads, the preacher had risen to bless The reverent throng, and alas! bewildered Margery, The Voice has ceased, and the singers have turned their eyes on thee. They look with surprise at her feet, and again at her ragged gown, And one by one they pass with a careless smile or a frown; But the sweetest face bent near, and—“I came,” said Margery, “For I thought ’twas an angel sang, ‘Let the children come to me!’” With a tender sigh the singer took the child upon her knee; “I sang the words for the dear Lord Christ, my Margery, And so, for the dear Lord Christ, I take thee home with me!” —“It was an angel sang!” sobs little Margery.

“We are low,—we are base!” sigh the singers, “The heroes have long been dead! The times have fallen,—the state is sick, And the glory of earth has fled! Sordid and selfish on every side Walk the men and the women we know. Downward we tend continually, And faster and faster go!” Shame to ye, shame to ye, singers! And have ye never known That the soul of man has been ever the same Since the sun of heaven shone? If ye listen and look for the heroes, Ye will find them everywhere; But if ye look for the knaves and scamps— It is true they are not rare. But whenever a ship is lost at sea, Or a building burns on land, Amid the terror and death and loss A hero is found at hand. And if ever a war should come again (From it long may we be freed!) Ye will find the heroes, as ever before, Responding to the need.

Failed! Jim Miserton failed! You don’t mean to say it’s so? Had it from Smith at the Bank? Well, he’s a man that should know. Forty-two cents on the dollar? I cannot believe my ears. There’s no such thing as judging a man by the way he appears. Yes, you may well say “failed;” there’s more than the term implies, When all there is of a man in a hopeless ruin lies. To come after twenty years of a stubborn up-hill strife, It isn’t a business smash so much as a failure in life. Gold was always his god—he’d nothing else in his soul; Money, for money’s sake, was ever his ultimate goal. A “self-made man” they styled him, for low and poor he began; But now his money has vanished, and what is left of the man? He had no eye for beauty, for literature no taste; Buying pictures or books he counted a shameful waste. Nothing he cared for art or the poet’s elaborate rhymes; His soul was only attuned to the musical jingle of dimes. Selfish, exacting, and stern, a hand he would treat like a slave; Long were his hours of toil, and scanty the pay that he gave; Made of cast-iron himself, his zeal in the struggle for gold Left him no pity to spare for those of a different mold. Never a cent for the poor, for the naked never a stitch; ’Twas all their fault, he would say; they should save like him, and grow rich. Now and then to a church he’d forward a liberal amount, Duly set down in his books to the advertising account. So he succeeded, of course, and piled his coffers with wealth, Missing pleasure and culture, losing vigor and health; Now he’s down at the bottom, exactly where he began; Even his gold has vanished, and what is left of the man? A self-made man, indeed! then we owe no honor to such; The genuine self-made man you cannot honor too much; But be sure what you make is a man—with a heart, and a soul, and a mind, Not merely a pile of dollars, that goes, leaving nothing behind.

The people came to the priest, “Good father,” said they, “We love the holy altar Where we kneel to pray; We would ’broider a cloth Of fine silk and wool To cover the altar, For our hearts are full.” “My children,” said the priest, “When the heart is full, Spend not its treasure In fine silk and wool. Listen, my children, Do you hear a moan? ’Tis the poor man waiting, Sick and alone. “His darlings ask in vain For a piece of bread; And what thinks the Lord?” The good priest said. “The tender-hearted Christ Would be very wroth Should you leave his poor For an altar-cloth. “He blesses the holy altar Where we kneel to pray; But in the silence I hear him say: “Seek me, my children, In works of grace; Where you comfort a heart Is the holy place.”

Herewith a broken beam of Buddha’s lore, One raylet of his glorious gift of light, Rose-gleam which lingers when the sun is down Such space that men may find a path thereby. A priest questioned him: “‘Which is Life’s chief good, Master?’ And he spake: “‘Shadows are good, when the high sun is flaming, From whereso’er they fall; Some take their rest beneath the holy temple, Some by the prison wall. “‘The king’s gilt palace roof shuts off the sunlight, So doth the dyer’s shed! Which is the chiefest shade of all the shadows?’ ‘They are alike!’ one said. “‘So is it,’ quoth he, ‘with all shows or living; As shadows fall, they fall! Rest under, if ye must, but question not Which is the best of all. “‘Yet in the forest some trees wave with fragrance Of fruit and bloom o’erhead; And some are evil, bearing fruitless branches Whence poisonous air is spread. “‘Therefore, though all be shows, seek, if ye must, Right shelter from life’s heat; Lo! these do well who toil for wife and child Threading the burning street. “‘Good is it helping kindred! good to dwell Blameless and just to all; Good to give alms, with good-will in the heart, Albeit the store be small! “‘Good to speak sweet and gentle words, to be Merciful, patient, and mild; To hear the law and keep it, leading days Innocent, undefiled. “‘These the chief goods—for evil by its like Ends not, nor hate by hate; By love hate ceaseth, by well-doing ill, By knowledge life’s dark state. “‘Look! yonder soars an eagle! mark those wings Which cleave the blue, cool skies! What shadow needeth that proud Lord of Air To shield his fearless eyes? “‘Rise from this life! lift upon new-spread pinions Heart free and great as his! The eagle seeks no shadow, nor the wise Greater or lesser bliss!’”

Little birds sit on the telegraph wires, And chitter and flitter and fold their wings. Maybe they think that for them and their sires Stretched always on purpose, those wonderful strings; And perhaps the thought that the world inspires Did plan for the birds among other things. Little birds sit on the slender lines, And the news of the world runs under their feet: How value rises and now declines, How kings with their armies in battle meet; And all the while, ’mid the soundless signs, They chirp their small gossipings, foolish and sweet. Little things light on the lines of our lives— Hopes and joys and acts of to-day; And we think that for these the Lord contrives, Nor catch what the hidden lightnings say; Yet from end to end his meaning arrives, And his word runs underneath all the way. Is life only wires and lightning, then, Apart from that which about it clings? Are the thoughts and the works and the prayers of men Only sparrows that light on God’s telegraph strings— Holding a moment and gone again? Nay: he planned for the birds with the larger things!

The wonder of midnight, now pregnant with wars, Skies mellow and fruitful, all trembling with stars, The ripe, yellow planet, poised low in the west, The smooth-flowing river, with stars on its breast; These murmur of Wayne, Mad Anthony Wayne,— He has life-blood to lose, he has glory to gain! The low-lying marshes, where, silent and stern, Twelve hundred are creeping through bog-grass and fern, With fireflies for lanterns; while, black-throated still, The cannon are cold in the fort on the hill,— These whisper of Wayne, Mad Anthony Wayne, Every sense up in arms, every nerve on the strain. The noiseless approach, and the desperate close; The flash of the steel, and the blood as it flows; The hero, once wounded, who cries,—“I shall win! Let me die in the fort! Men, carry me in!” These tell us of Wayne, Mad Anthony Wayne, With nerves hard as iron, despising the pain! The red flag of morning, displayed in the skies, Brings a stern look of joy to the conqueror’s eyes,— Those eyes that flashed full on his chief (so they tell),— “What! storm Stony Point? You may bid me storm hell!” We’ll believe it of Wayne, Mad Anthony Wayne, The bravest of foes, and the peer of his slain!

Sweet are the roses in the pasture lane, Like flakes of sunset dropped from some rich cloud— Oh, sweet, indeed, but not with sweetness vain; Nor is the pasture of their presence proud. Not for themselves they blossom, bud and nod— They spring to breathe to man the peace of God. I never heard a songster’s lay that told Of aught but simple joy and grateful praise. The oriole, with throat aflame with gold, Dreams not he is a charm to mortal gaze; No bird to laud himself hath ever sung— His song is for the flowers he chirps among. The sun that fills the skies with summer calms, The stars that light unmeasured depths of space Like distant suns that flash reflected charms, When on the night Jehovah turns his face— All these in humbleness their glory wear, Grateful, not proud, because Heaven made them fair. O vaunting man, go ponder on these things! Think—what is glory in thy Makers view? Who wins the passing praise the cold world sings Not always earns the praise of Heaven too. Thou mayst through life thy name with gods enroll, Yet bear rebuke of angels in thy soul. Oh, to be simple in the lives we lead! To know that what we hold is not our own! The lily is as modest as the weed, The mountain humble as the broken stone. Since man is proud, how wise it is, how just, That death should come to teach us we are dust!

Tired? Well, what of that? Didst fancy life was spent on beds of ease, Fluttering the rose-leaves scattered by the breeze? Come, rouse thee! work while it is called day! Coward, arise! go forth upon thy way. Lonely? And what of that? Some must be lonely; ’tis not given to all To feel a heart responsive rise and fall, To blend another life into its own; Work may be done in loneliness. Work on! Dark? Well, and what of that? Didst fondly dream the sun would never set? Dost fear to lose thy way? Take courage yet. Learn thou to walk by faith, and not by sight; Thy steps will guided be, and guided right. Hard? Well, what of that? Didst fancy life one summer holiday, With lessons none to learn, and naught but play? Go, get thee to thy task! Conquer or die! It must be learned; learn it, then, patiently.

Things ain’t now as they used to be A hundred years ago, When schools were kept in private rooms Above stairs or below; When sturdy boys and rosy girls Romped through the drifted snow, And spelled their duty and their “abs,” A hundred years ago. Those old school-rooms were dark and cold When winter’s sun ran low; But darker was the master’s frown, A hundred years ago; And high hung up the birchen rod, That all the school might see, Which taught the boys obedience As well as Rule of Three. Though ’twas but little that they learned, A hundred years ago, Yet what they got they ne’er let slip,— ’Twas well whipped in, you know. But now the times are greatly changed, The rod has had its day, The boys are won by gentle words, And girls by love obey. The school-house now a palace is, And scholars, kings and queens; They master Algebra and Greek Before they reach their teens. Where once was crying, music sweet Her soothing influence sheds; Ferules are used for beating time, And not for beating heads. Yes, learning was a ragged boy, A hundred years ago; With six weeks schooling in a year, What could the urchin do? But now he is a full-grown man, And boasts attainments rare; He’s got his silver slippers on, And running everywhere.

There was a kingdom known as the Mind, A kingdom vast, as fair, And the brave King Brain had the right to reign In royal splendor there. Oh! that was a beautiful, beautiful land Which unto this king was given; It was filled with everything good and grand, And it reached from earth to heaven. But a savage monster came one day, From over a distant border; He made war on the king and usurped his sway, And set everything in disorder. He mounted the throne, which he made his own, And the kingdom was sunk in grief, There was sorrow and shame from the hour he came— Ill Temper, the barbarous chief. He threw down the castles of Love and Peace, He burned up the altars of prayers; He trod down the grain that was sowed by Brain, And planted thistles and tares. He wasted the storehouse of knowledge, and drove Queen Wisdom away in fright, And a terrible gloom like the cloud of doom Shadowed that land with night. Then, bent on more havoc, away he rushed To the neighboring kingdom Heart, And the blossoms of kindness and hope he crushed, And patience was made to depart. And he even went on to the isthmus Soul, That unites the Mind with God, And its beautiful bowers and fragrant flowers With a reckless heel he trod. Oh! to you is given this beautiful land Where the lordly Brain has sway— But the border ruffian is near at hand— And be on your guard, I pray. Beware of Ill Temper, the barbarous chief, He is cruel as Vice or Sin; He will certainly bring your kingdom grief, If once you let him in.

From his home in an eastern bungalow, In sight of the everlasting snow Of the grand Himalayas, row on row, Thus wrote my friend: “I had traveled far From the Afghan towers of Candahar, Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar; “And once, when the daily march was o’er, As tired I sat in my tented door, Hope failed me, as never it failed before. “In swarming city, at wayside fane, By the Indus’ bank, on the scorching plain, I had taught,—and my teaching all seemed vain. “‘No glimmer of light [I sighed] appears; The Moslem’s fate and the Buddhist’s fears Have gloomed their worship this thousand years. “‘For Christ and His truth I stand alone In the midst of millions; a sand-grain blown Against yon temple of ancient stone. “‘As soon may level it!’ Faith forsook My soul, as I turned on the pile to look; Then rising, my saddened way I took “To its lofty roof, for the cooler air; I gazed, and marveled;—how crumbled were The walls I had deemed so firm and fair! “For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone, Most plainly rent by its roots alone, A beautiful peepul-tree had grown; “Whose gradual stress would still expand The crevice, and topple upon the sand The temple, while o’er its work would stand “The tree in its living verdure!—Who Could compass the thought?—The bird that flew Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew, “Did more to shiver this ancient wall Than earthquake,—war,—simoon,—or all The centuries, in their lapse and fall! “Then I knelt by the riven granite there, And my soul shook off its weight of care, As my voice rose clear on the tropic air: “‘The living seeds I have dropped remain In the cleft; Lord, quicken with dew and rain, Then temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!’”

Do you wonder what I am seeing, In the heart of the fire, aglow Like cliffs in a golden sunset, With a summer sea below? I see, away to the eastward, The line of a storm-beat coast, And I hear the tread of the hurrying waves Like the tramp of the mailèd host. And up and down in the darkness, And over the frozen sand, I hear the men of the coast-guard Pacing along the strand, Beaten by storm and tempest, And drenched by the pelting rain, From the shores of Carolina To the wind-swept bays of Maine. No matter what storms are raging, No matter how wild the night, The gleam of their swinging lanterns Shines out with a friendly light. And many a shipwrecked sailor Thanks God, with his gasping breath, For the sturdy arms of the surfmen That drew him away from death. And so, when the wind is wailing, And the air grows dim with sleet, I think of the fearless watchers Pacing along their beat. I think of a wreck, fast breaking In the surf of a rocky shore, And the life-boat leaping onward To the stroke of the bending oar. I hear the shouts of the sailors, The boom of the frozen sail, And the creak of the icy halyards Straining against the gale. “Courage!” the captain trumpets, “They are sending help from land!” God bless the men of the coast-guard, And hold their lives in His hand!

’Tis said the Turk, when passing down An Eastern street, If any scrap of paper chance His eyes to greet, Will never look away, like us, Unheedingly, Or pass the little fragment thus Regardless by, But stop to pick it up because, Oh, lovely thought! The name of God may thereupon Perchance be wrought. In every human soul remains, However dim, Some image of the Deity, Some trace of Him. And how can we, then, any scorn As foul and dark, That bear, though frail and lowly, still That holy mark? And since His impress is upon All nature seen, How can we aught disdain as common Or unclean? Interior.

They tell us in the land of song, Where stately tower and palace rise, Though marbles breathe and canvas glows, Though tall cathedrals kiss the skies, The peasant, without thought or care, Walks on, nor heeds the beauty rare. We murmur, “Oh, how blind is he! How destitute of mind and heart! ’Twere worth a fortune once to view Italia’s treasured gems of art!” Behold the landscape at our feet! Was ever painting more complete? No need to search for noble souls, Boccaccio’s tale, or Petrarch’s song; A hundred heroes in our midst Have learned to suffer and be strong,— Martyrs whose names will ne’er be known, Princes without a crown and throne. Ah, blind and dull! Let us not chide The dwellers in far Italy, But rather draw the veil aside From our own eyes, that we may see, Lo! all that seemed but commonplace, Adorned with beauty and with grace!

Alas! has winter come again? Oh, how we dread the day! The sufferings we undergo the bravest might dismay. It is not that we fear the cold: had we a good supply Of proper nourishment, the blasts of Greenland we’d defy; But these poor bodies where we dwell have so impatient grown That, heedless of the common good, they’ve learned to slight their own. Not thinking that with fuel we our office would perform, And take in oxygen to keep the blood and all the body warm. So down the window-sashes go and up the stoves, until We starving lungs must labor hard our duty to fulfill. Perhaps our tabernacle moves to pitch its roving tent Within some crowded hall or church—no doubt with good intent; But little good the sweetest songs or best of sermons do To those who vainly strive to keep awake within their pew. For in that place of peace a deadly conflict we must wage, And friends sit calmly while their lungs in fiercest war engage. We struggle for a little air, while clamoring for more The surging flood each moment rolls like waves upon the shore. Clogged by impurities, in vain to us for help it cries, And then the brain and nerves grow dull, and dim the drooping eyes. But should a sufferer chance to rise and from the topmost raft Let in a little air, forthwith somebody feels a draught. And so we’re forced to get along the very best we can; Nor do the good that we might do for blundering, headstrong man. Phrenological Journal.

High o’er the black-backed Skerries, and far To the westward hills and the eastward sea, I shift my light like a twinkling star, With ever a star’s sweet constancy. They wait for me when the night comes down, And the slow sun falls in his death divine, Then braving the black night’s gathering frown, With ruby and diamond blaze—I shine! There is war at my feet where the black rocks break, The thunderous snows of the rising sea; There is peace above when the stars are awake, Keeping their night-long watch with me. I care not a jot for the roar of the surge, The wrath is the sea’s—the victory mine! As over its breadth to the furthest verge, Unwavering and untired—I shine! First on my brow comes the pearly light, Dimming my lamp in the new-born day, One long, last look to left and right, And I rest from my toil—for the broad sea-way Grows bright with the smile and blush of the sky, All incandescent and opaline. I rest—but the loveliest day will die— Again in its last wan shadows—I shine! When the night is black, and the wind is loud, And danger is hidden, and peril abroad, The seaman leaps on the swaying shroud; His eye is on me, and his hope in God! Alone, in the darkness, my blood-red eye Meets his, and he hauls his groping line. “A point to nor’ard!” I hear him cry; He goes with a blessing, and still—I shine! While standing alone in the summer sun Sometimes I have visions and dreams of my own, Of long-life voyages just begun, And rocks unnoticed, and shoals unknown; And I would that men and women would mark The duty done by this lamp of mine; For many a life is lost in the dark, And few on earth are the lights that shine! Good Words.

It matters little where I was born, If my parents were rich or poor; Whether they shrank at the cold world’s scorn, Or walked in the pride of wealth secure; But whether I live an honest man, And hold my integrity firm in my clutch, I tell you, my brother, as plain as I am, It matters much! It matters little how long I stay In a world of sorrow and care; Whether in youth I’m called away, Or live till my bones and pate are bare; But whether I do the best I can To soften the weight of adversity’s touch On the faded cheek of my fellow-man, It matters much! It matters little where is my grave, On the land or on the sea; By purling brook or ’neath stormy wave, It matters little or naught to me; But whether the angel Death comes down, And marks my brow with his loving touch As one that shall wear the victor’s crown, It matters much!

’Twas an ancient legend they used to tell Within the glow of the kitchen hearth, When a sudden silence upon them fell, And quenched the laughter and noisy mirth: That whenever a dwelling was building new, There were demons ready to curse or bless The noble structure, that daily grew Perfect in shape and comeliness. And when the sound of the tools had ceased, Hammer and nails, and plane and saw, Ere yet the dwelling could be released From the evil spirits,—there was a law No master-mechanic could be found Able or willing to disobey— That a ladder be left upon the ground For their enjoyment, a night and a day. And when the chimneys begin to roar, And voices harsh as the wintry wind Howl and mock at the outer door, The ancient legend is brought to mind, And we think, perhaps, that a careless loon, Not fearing the master’s stern reproof, Has taken the ladder away too soon And left a demon upon the roof. And in every dwelling where joy comes not, And the buds of promise forget to bloom, Be it a palace or be it a cot, Amply splendid or scant of room, We may be sure that a demon elf, Fiendishly cruel and full of spite, Is sitting and grinning away to himself Up on the ridge-pole, out of sight. But let it ever be borne in mind By those who often this legend quote, That with every evil some good we find, For every ill there’s an antidote. And if we use but the magic spell, And hearts draw near that were kept aloof, Good angels then in our homes will dwell, Despite the demon upon the roof.

A bird has little—only a feather Plucked, it may be, from a tender breast, Only a thread to bind together The delicate fabric of his nest; Yet he sings, “The wide, free air is mine, The dews of earth, the clouds of heaven!” He sits and swings with the swinging vine, And all he looks on to him is given. A child has little—only a blossom Caught at random from fields of bloom. Only the love in a tender bosom, Freed from the shadow of care and gloom; Yet he laughs all day from the deeps of lightness, And feels his joy in the joy of heaven, He loses himself in a world of brightness, And all he asks for to him is given. A man has little—only a longing Higher than labors of sword or pen, Only a vision whose lights are thronging Over the tumult and toil of men. Yet wealth is his from the wealth of being, His are the glories of Earth and Heaven, He feels a beauty too deep for seeing, And all he dreams of to him is given.

Very little good have I, Wealth and station have passed me by; But something sweet in my life I hold That I would not exchange for place or gold. Beneath my feet the green earth lies, Above my head are the tender skies; I look between two heavens; my eyes Look out to where, serene and sweet, At the worlds fair rim the two heavens meet. I hear the whispering of the breeze, The sweet, small tumults amid the trees; And many a message comes to me On the wing of bird, in the hum of bee, From the mountain peak and the surging sea. E’en the silence speaks a voice so clear, I lean my very heart to hear, And all above me and all around Light and darkness and sight and sound, To soul and sense such meanings bring, I thrill with a rapturous wondering. And I know by many a subtle sign That the very best of life is mine; And yet, as I spell each message o’er, I look and long for a deeper lore; I long to see and I long to hear, With a clearer vision, a truer ear; And I pray with keenest of all desire For lips that are touched by the altar fire. Patience, O soul! From a little field There cometh often a gracious yield; Who touches His garment’s hem is healed.

Worn by the battle, by Stamford town, Fighting the Norman by Hastings bay; Harold, the Saxon’s sun, went down When the acorns were falling one autumn day. Then the Norman said: “I am lord of the land, By tenure of conquest here I sit; I will rule you now with the iron hand;” But he had not thought of the Saxon grit. He took the land, and he took the men, And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne; Made the freemen serfs by a stroke of the pen; Ate up the corn and drank the wine. From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar, Our life shall not be by the king’s permit,— We will fight for the right; we want no more. Then the Norman found out the Saxon grit. For slow and sure as the oaks had grown From the acorns falling that autumn day, So the Saxon manhood in thorpe and town To a nobler nature grew alway. Winning by inches, holding by clinches, Standing by law and the human right; Many times failing, never once quailing, So the new day came out of the night. Then rising afar in the western sea A new world stood in the morn of the day, Ready to welcome the brave and free, Who would wrench out the heart, and march away From the narrow, contracted, dear old land, Where the poor are held by a cruel bit, To ampler spaces for heart and hand; And here was a chance for the Saxon grit. Steadily steering, eagerly peering, Trusting in God, your fathers came, Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers, Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame, Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter, And hiding their freedom in holy writ, They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy, And made a new Moses of Saxon grit, They whittled and waded through forest and fen, Fearless as ever of what might befall, Pouring out life for the nurture of men In the faith that by manhood the world views all. Inventing baked beans and no end of machines, Great with the rifle, and great with the ax, Sending their notions over the oceans To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs; Swift to take chances that end in the dollar, Yet open of hand when the dollar is made; Maintaining the meeting, exalting the scholar, But a little too anxious about a good trade. This is young Jonathan, son of old John, Positive, peaceable, firm in the right. Saxon men all of us, may we be one, Steady for freedom and strong in her might. Then slow and sure, as the oaks have grown From the acorns that fell on the dim old day, So this new manhood, in city and town, To a nobler stature will grow alway. Winning by inches, holding by clinches, Slow to contention and slower to quit, Now and then failing, but never once quailing, Let us thank God for the Saxon grit.

The light shone dim on the headland, For the storm was raging high; I shaded my eyes from the inner glare, And gazed on the wet, gray sky. It was dark and lowering; on the sea The waves were booming loud, And the snow and the piercing winter sleet Wove over all a shroud. “God pity the men on the sea to-night!” I said to my little ones, And we shuddered as we heard afar The sound of the minute-guns. My good man came in, in his fishing-coat (He was wet and cold that night), And he said, “There’ll lots of ships go down On the headland rocks to-night.” “Let the lamp burn all night, mother,” Cried little Mary then; “’Tis but a little light, but still It might save drowning men.” “Oh, nonsense!” cried her father (He was tired and cross that night), “The Highland light-house is enough,” And he put out the light. That night, on the rocks below us, A noble ship went down; But one was saved from the ghastly wreck, The rest were left to drown. “We steered by a little light,” he said, “’Till we saw it sink from view: If they’d only left that light all night, My mates might be here, too!” Then little Mary sobbed aloud, Her father blushed for shame, “’Twas our light that you saw,” he said, “And I’m the one to blame.” ’Twas a little light—how small a thing! And trifling was its cost; Yet, for want of it a ship went down, And a hundred souls were lost.

The sea is a jovial comrade, He laughs wherever he goes; His merriment shines in the dimpling lines That wrinkle his hale repose; He lays himself down at the feet of the sun, And shakes all over with glee; And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore In the mirth of the mighty sea. But the wind is sad and restless, And cursed with an inward pain; You may hark as you will by valley or hill, But you hear him still complain. He wails on the barren mountains, And shrieks on the watery sea; He sobs in the cedar and moans in the pine, And quakes through the aspen tree. Welcome are both their voices; And I know not which is best, The laughter that slips from ocean’s lips, Or the comfortless wind’s unrest. There’s a pang in all rejoicing, A joy in the heart of pain; And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens, Are singing the self-same strain.

I followed a bird to the north and south, I followed it east and west, With the longing to call it at last my own, And hide it within my breast: But the bird flew on, and I sought in vain, Through sunshine and wind, through the storm and rain. I went to the city, to find it, where The restless crowd surged by; But the bird I sought, with its snowy wings Had flown to the upper sky,— And the crowds surged on, with their ceaseless din, Their waves of sorrow and folly and sin. I went to the forest, where all day long A hush that was sweet fell down, And I watched for my bird with its magical song, But the shadows gave only a frown; So I knew that I never should find it there, And I gave up the chase in sullen despair. I entered the lists of the busy world: I took up its burden of care, Its wrongs to be righted, its sorrows to lift, Its mountains of trouble to bear; And wearied, I laid me at last to rest. I awoke,—and the bird was within my breast.

The gray monk, rising, with a loving pride Laid the long task of patient months aside, The simple story of the gospels told In lettering of crimson and of gold; On its rich pages streamed the setting sun, And now his life waned and his work was done. He pushed away the heavy oaken door, And stood within the sunset calm once more. Above the narrowing round of life he knew A sense of beauty and of wonder grew. The text his art had copied, “God is Love,” Came to him like the home-returning dove. As the wind whistled in the bearded grain; The tender words made music in his brain; The green leaves whispered of it, everywhere He read it on the blue scroll of the air, As if more clearly and in fairer guise The Lord Himself inscribed it for men’s eyes! Christian at Work.

“No perfect day has ever come to me,” An old man said; “A perfect day for us can never be Till we are dead.” The young king heard him, and he turned away In earnest thought. Did men ne’er find on earth the perfect day For which they sought? A day all free from care?—so running o’er With life’s delight That there seemed room or wish for nothing more From dawn to night? “It must be that such days have come to man,” The young king said. “Go search—find one who found them—if you can!” Ah, wise gray head! “I trust that some time such a day will come To even me,” The king said. But the old man’s lips were dumb— A doubter he. “That you, and those about you all may know My perfect day, A bell shall ring out when the sun is low, And men shall say— “‘Behold! this day has been unto the king A day replete With happiness. It lacked not anything— A day most sweet!’” In a high tower, ere night, the passers saw A mighty bell, The tidings of a day without a flaw Some time to tell. The bell hung silent in its lofty tower, Days came and went; Each summer brought its sunshine and its flower, Its old content; But not the happy day he hoped to see. “But soon or late The day of days,” he said, “will come to me. I trust—and wait.” The years, like leaves upon a restless stream, Were swept away, And in the king’s dark hair began to gleam Bright threads of gray. Men, passing by, looked upward to the bell, And smiling said, “Delay not of the happy time to tell Till we are dead.” But they grew old and died. And silent still The great bell hung; And the good king, bowed down with age, fell ill His cares among. At dusk, one day, with dazed brain, from his room He slowly crept Up rattling tower-steps, in dust and gloom, While watchers slept. Above the city broke the great bell’s voice, Silent so long. “Behold the king’s most happy day! Rejoice!” It told the throng. Filled with strange awe, the long night passed away. At morn men said, “At last the king has found his happy day— The king is dead!”

If I am weak and you are strong, Why then, why then, To you the braver deeds belong; And so, again, If you have gifts and I have none, If I have shade and you have sun, ’Tis yours with freer hand to give, ’Tis yours with truer grace to live, Than I, who giftless, sunless, stand, With barren life and hand. We do not ask the little brook To turn the wheel; Unto the larger stream we look. The strength of steel We do not ask from silken bands, Nor heart of oak in willow wands; We do not ask the wren to go Up to the heights the eagles know; Nor yet expect the lark’s clear note From out the dove’s dumb throat. ’Tis wisdom’s law, the perfect code, By love inspired; Of him on whom much is bestowed Is much required. The tuneful throat is bid to sing, The oak must reign the forest’s king; The rushing stream the wheel must move, The beaten steel its strength must prove. ’Tis given unto the eagle’s eyes To face the midday skies.

If none were sick and none were sad, What service could we render? I think if we were always glad, We scarcely could be tender. Did our beloved never need Our patient ministration, Earth would grow cold, and miss, indeed, Its sweetest consolation. If sorrow never claimed our heart, And every wish were granted, Patience would die and hope depart, Life would be disenchanted.

Let others write of battles fought On bloody, ghastly fields, Where honors greet the man who wins, And death the man who yields; But I will write of him who fights And vanquishes his sins, Who struggles on through weary years Against himself and wins. He is a hero, stanch and brave, Who fights an unseen foe, And puts at last beneath his feet His passions base and low; Who stands erect in manhood’s might Undaunted, undismayed— The bravest man that drew a sword In foray or in raid. It calls for something more than brawn Or muscle, to overcome An enemy who marcheth not With banner, plume, and drum— A foe, forever lurking nigh, With silent, stealthy tread, Forever near your board by day, And night beside your bed. All honor, then, to that brave heart, Though poor or rich he be, Who struggles with his baser part— Who conquers and is free! He may not wear a hero’s crown, Nor fill a hero’s grave; But truth will place his name among The bravest of the brave.

There is not in all the north countrie, Nor yet on the Humber line, A town with a prouder record than Newcastle-upon-the-Tyne. Roman eagles have kept its walls; Saxon, and Dane, and Scot Have left the glamour of noble deeds, With their names, on this fair spot. From the reign of William Rufus, The monarchs of every line Had a grace for loyal Newcastle, The city upon the Tyne. By the Nuns’ Gate, and up Pilgrim Street, What pageants have held their way! But in seventeen hundred and sixty-three, One lovely morn in May, There was a sight in bonnie Newcastle! Oh, that I had been there! To hear the call of the trumpeters Thrilling the clear spring air, To hear the roar of the cannon, And the drummer’s gathering beat, And the eager hum of the multitudes Waiting upon the street. Just at noon was a tender hush, And a funeral march was heard; With arms reversed and colors tied Came the men of the Twenty-third. And Lennox, their noble leader, bore The shreds of a faded flag, The battle-flag of the regiment, Shot to a glorious rag; Shot into shreds upon its staff, Torn in a hundred fights, From the torrid plains of India To the cold Canadian heights. There was not an inch of bunting left; How could it float again Over the faithful regiment It never had led in vain? And oh, the hands that had carried it! It was not cloth and wood: It stood for a century’s heroes, And was crimson with their blood; It stood for a century’s comrades. They could not cast it away, And so with a soldier’s honors They were burying it that day. In the famous old North Humber fort, Where the Roman legions trod, With the roar of cannon and roll of drums They laid it under the sod. But it wasn’t a tattered flag alone They buried with tender pride; It was every faithful companion That under the flag had died. It was honor, courage, and loyalty That thrilled that mighty throng Standing bare-headed and silent as The old flag passed along. So when the grasses had covered it There was a joyful strain; And the soldiers, stirred to a noble thought, Marched proudly home again. The citizens went to their shops once more, The collier went to his mine; The shepherd went to the broomy hills, And the sailor to the Tyne; But men and women and children felt That it had been well to be Just for an hour or two face to face With honor and loyalty.

In the heart of the busy city, In the scorching noontide heat, A sound of bubbling water Falls on the din of the street. It falls in a gray stone basin, And over the cool wet brink The heads of thirsty horses Each moment are stretched to drink. And peeping between the crowding heads As the horses come and go, “The Gift of Three Little Sisters” Is read on the stone below. Ah, beasts are not taught letters, They know no alphabet; And never a horse in all these years Has read the words; and yet I think that each toil-worn creature Who stops to drink by the way, His thanks in his own dumb fashion To the sisters small must pay. Years have gone by since busy hands Wrought at the basin’s stone; The kindly little sisters Are all to women grown. I do not know their home or fates, Or the name they bear to men, But this sweetness of their gracious deed Is just as fresh as then. And all life long, and after life, They must the happier be, For the cup of water given by them When they were children three.

On its straight iron pathway the long train was rushing, With its noise, and its smoke, and its great human load; And I saw a wild rose that in beauty was blushing, Fresh and sweet, by the side of the hot, dusty road. Untrained were its branches, untended it flourished, No eye watched its opening or mourned its decay; But its leaves by the soft dews of heaven were nourished, And it opened its buds in the warm light of day. I asked why it grew there where none prized its beauty, For of thousands who passed none had leisure to stay. And the answer came sweetly, “I do but my duty; I was told to grow here by the side of the way.” There are those on life’s pathway whose spirits are willing To dwell where the busy crowd passes them by; But the dew from above on their leaves is distilling, And they bloom ’neath the smile of the All-seeing Eye. They are loved by the few—like the rose, they remind us, When tempted from duty’s safe pathway to stray; We, too, have a place and a mission assign’d us, Though it be but to grow by the side of the way.

I sing the Hymn of the Conquered, who fell in the battle of life; The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife. Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame. But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart, Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part; Whose youth bore no flower in its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away; From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at; who stood at the dying of day With the work of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone, With death swooping down o’er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown. While the voice of the world shouts its chorus,—its pæan for those who have won,— While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun Gay banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat, In the shadow ’mongst those who are fallen, and wounded and dying, and there Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer, Hold the hand that is hapless, and whisper, “They only the victory win Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within; Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high; Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight—if need be to die.” Speak, History! Who are life’s victors? Unroll thy long annals, and say— Are they those whom the world called the victors who won the success of the day? The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans who fell at Thermopylæ’s tryst, Or the Persians of Xerxes? His judges, or Socrates? Pilate, or Christ?

The Venerable Bede, with age grown blind, till went abroad to preach the new evangel. From town to town, village to village, journeyed The saintly elder, with a lad for guide, And preached the word with youthful zeal and fervor; And once the lad led him along a vale, All scattered o’er with mighty moss-grown bowlders. More thoughtless than malicious quoth the urchin, “Here, reverend father, many men have come, And all the multitude await thy sermon.” The blind old man stood upright at his speech, And spake his text, explained it, thence digressed, Exhorted, warned, reproved, and comforted, So earnestly that tears of love and joy Ran down his cheeks, and on his long gray beard; Then, as was meet, he ended with “Our Father, Thine is the kingdom, Thine the power, and Thine The glory is forever and forever.” Then came a thousand, thousand answering voices— “Yea, reverend father, amen and amen.” Then, terrified, the boy fell down repentant, Confessing to the saint his ill behavior. “Son,” said the holy man, “didst thou read never That stones themselves shall cry if man is silent? Play thou no more, my son, with things divine. God’s word is powerful, and cuts more sharp Than any two-edged sword. And if it be That man toward the Lord is stony-hearted, A human heart shall wake in stones, and witness.”

It was only a tiny seed, Carelessly brushed aside; But it grew in time to a noxious weed, And spread its poison wide. It was only a little leak, So small you might hardly see; But the rising waters found the break, And wrecked the great levee. It was only a single spark, Dropped by a passing train; But the dead leaves caught, and swift and dark Was its work on wood and plain. It was only an unsound nail That the workman used—ah me! But the ship that else had weathered the gale Went down in the deep, dark sea. It was only a thoughtless word, Scarce meant to be unkind; But it pierced as a dart to the heart that heard, And left its sting behind. It may seem a trifle at most, The thing that we do or say; And yet it may be that at fearful cost We may wish it undone some day.

’Twas a little sermon preached to me By a sweet, unconscious child— A baby girl, scarce four years old, With blue eyes soft and mild. It happened on a rainy day; I, seated in a car, Was thinking, as I neared my home, Of the continual jar And discord that pervade the air Of busy city life, Each caring but for “number one,” Self-gain provoking strife. The gloomy weather seemed to cast On every face a shade, But on one countenance were lines By sorrow deeply laid. With low bowed head and hands clasped close, She sat, so poor and old, Nor seemed to heed the scornful glance From eyes unkind and cold. I looked again. Oh, sweet indeed The sight that met my eyes! Sitting upon her mothers lap, With baby face so wise, Was a wee child with sunny curls, Blue eyes, and dimpled chin, And a young, pure, loving heart Unstained as yet by sin. Upon the woman poor and sad Her eyes in wonder fell, Till wonder changed to pitying love; Her thoughts, oh, who could tell? Her tiny hands four roses held; She looked them o’er and o’er, Then choosing out the largest one, She struggled to the floor. Across the swaying car she went Straight to the woman’s side, And putting in the wrinkled hand The rose, she ran to hide Her little face in mother’s lap, Fearing she had done wrong, Not knowing, baby as she was, That she had helped along The up-hill road of life a soul Cast down, discouraged quite, As on the woman’s face there broke A flood of joyous light. Dear little child! she was indeed A messenger of love Sent to that woman’s lonely heart From the great Heart above. This world would be a different place Were each to give to those Whose hearts are sad as much of love As went with baby’s rose. Harper’s Young People.

I have read in old tales of the buried past, Of two armies which met on the battle-plain; Roman and Cymbric, in numbers vast, How they fought till the field was heaped with slain; And how through all day the crimson tide Of battle favored the Cymbric side, Though their dead bestrewed the plain, Till at length, from out of the clouded skies, A sunbeam darted across the world, Blinding the Cymbrian warrior’s eyes; And backward their conquering hosts were hurled. And thus in the record of years is told How a sunbeam, back in the days of old, Decided the fate of the world.

A stranded soldier’s epaulet The waters cast ashore, A little wingèd rover met, And eyed it o’er and o’er; The silver bright so charmed her sight, On that lone idle vest, She knew not why she should deny Herself a silver nest. The shining wire she pecked and twirled, Then bore it to her bough, Where on a flowery twig ’twas curled, The bird can show you how; But when enough of that bright stuff The cunning builder bore, Her house to make, she would not take, Nor did she covet, more. And when the little artisan— While neither pride nor guilt Had entered in her pretty plan— Her resting-place had built, With here and there a plume to spare, About her own light form, Of these, inlaid with skill, she made A lining soft and warm. But do you think the tender brood She fondled there, and fed, Were prouder when they understood The sheen about their bed? Do you suppose they ever rose, Of higher powers possessed, Because they knew they peeped and grew Within a silver nest?

Valiant, defiant, and free, Majestic, impressive, and lone, He looms like that isle of the sea That rose to an emperor’s throne. Honor where manhood is found, Glory where valor has led, To priest or not priest, the world round; To white man, or black man, or red. Honor to manhood and worth, Glory to action and deed, To manhood, not priesthood, on earth; For man is the master of creed.

One morn an angel stopped beside my door, Clad in the shining garments of the dawn; Upon his brow a starry crown he wore; In his right hand a flaming sword was drawn. With terror filled, I prayed with piteous cry The angel-presence then to pass me by. “I am not death,” the angel said, and smiled; “Thy soul shall have the answer to thy prayer. Drive from thy breast this fearful anguish wild; I am the Angel of the Dawn—beware! I place a priceless jewel in thy hands; The day is thine, waste not its running sands. “Therefore mark well—thy duty waiteth thee, Beside the morning’s swiftly opening gate; The new day dawns—its hours will quickly flee; Stamp them with honor ere it be too late; Thy deed may lift thee higher than thy prayer. The day is thine, remember and beware!” And then the angel took his shining way, On silent wings, out to the shadowy west; And swiftly onward came the new-born day, The priceless jewel of my angel-guest. The birds awoke and filled the world with song, And made my burden light the whole day long. And now, when morning throws its early beams In golden rays across the ocean’s floor, And I awake from slumbering and dreams, I know an angel waiteth at the door; I hear again that kindly voice declare— “Thy deed may lift thee higher than thy prayer.”

Can you put the spider’s web back in its place that once has been swept away? Can you put the apple again on the bough which fell at our feet to-day? Can you put the lily-cup back on the stem, and cause it to live and grow? Can you mend the butterfly’s broken wing that you crushed with a hasty blow? Can you put the bloom again on the grape, or the grape again on the vine? Can you put the dew-drops back on the flowers and make them sparkle and shine? Can you put the petals back on the rose? If you could, would it smell as sweet? Can you put the flour again in the husk, and show me the ripened wheat? Can you put the kernel back in the nut, or the broken egg in its shell? Can you put the honey back in the comb, and cover with wax each cell? Can you put the perfume back in the vase, when once it has sped away? Can you put the corn-silk back on the corn, or the down on catkins—say? You think that my questions are trifling, then? Let me ask you another one: Can a hasty word ever be unsaid, or a deed unkind undone?

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed; And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o’er, When a band of exiles moored their bark, On the wild New England shore. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?— They sought a faith’s pure shrine! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod; They have left unstained what there they found— Freedom to worship God.

Pale is the February sky, And brief the mid-day’s sunny hours; The wind-swept forest seems to sigh For the sweet time of leaves and flowers. Yet has no month a prouder day, Not even when the summer broods O’er meadows in their fresh array, Or autumn tints the glowing woods. For this chill season now again Brings, in its annual round, the morn When, greatest of the sons of men, Our glorious Washington was born. Lo, where, beneath an icy shield, Calmly the mighty Hudson flows! By snow-clad fell and frozen field, Broadening, the lordly river goes. The wildest storm that sweeps through space, And rends the oak with sudden force, Can raise no ripple on his face, Or slacken his majestic course. Thus, ’mid the wreck of thrones, shall live Unmarred, undimmed, our hero’s fame, And years succeeding years shall give Increase of honors to his name.

Find me the men on earth who care Enough for faith or creed to-day To seek a barren wilderness For simple liberty to pray. Despise their narrow creed who will; Pity their poverty who dare: Their lives knew joys, their lives wore crowns, We do not know, we cannot wear. And if so be that it is saved, Our poor Republic, stained and bruised, ’Twill be because we lay again Their corner-stones which we refused.

“Where is the baby, grandmamma?” The sweet young mother calls From her work in the cosy kitchen, With its dainty whitewashed walls. And grandma leaves her knitting, And looks for her all around; But not a trace of baby dear Can anywhere be found. No sound of its merry prattle, No gleam of its sunny hair, No patter of tiny footsteps, No sign of it anywhere. All through house and garden, Far out into the field, They search each nook and corner; But nothing is revealed. And the mother’s face grew pallid; Grandmamma’s eyes grew dim; The fathers gone to the village; No use to look for him. And the baby lost! “Where’s Rover!” The mother chanced to think Of the old well in the orchard Where the cattle used to drink. “Where’s Rover? I know he’d find her? Rover!” In vain they call, Then hurry away to the orchard; And there by the moss-grown wall, Close to the well, lies Rover, Holding to baby’s dress; She was leaning over the wall’s edge In perfect fearlessness! She stretched her little arms down; But Rover held her fast, And never seemed to mind the kicks The tiny bare feet cast So spitefully upon him, But wagged his tail instead, To greet the frightened searchers, While naughty baby said: “Dere’s a ’ittle dirl in the ’ater; She’s dust as big as me, Mamma; I want to help her out, And take her home to tea. But Rover, he won’t let me, And I don’t love him. Go Away, you naughty Rover! Oh! why are you crying so?” The mother kissed her, saying: “My darling, understand, Good Rover saved your life, my dear— And, see, he licks your hand! Kiss Rover?” Baby struck him, But grandma understood; She said: “It’s hard to thank the friend Who thwarts us for our good.” Baldwin’s Monthly.

Fräulein, the young schoolmistress, to her pupils said one day, “Next week, at Pfingster holiday, King Ludwig rides this way; And you will be wise, my little ones, to work with a will at your tasks, That so you may answer fearlessly whatever question he asks. It would be a shame too dreadful if the king should have it to tell That Hansel missed in his figures, and Peterkin could not spell.” “Oho! that never shall happen,” cried Hansel and Peterkin too; “We’ll show King Ludwig, when he comes, what the boys in this school can do.” “And we,” said Gretchen and Bertha, and all the fair little maids Who stood in a row before her, with their hair in flaxen braids, “We will pay such good attention to every word you say, That you shall not be ashamed of us when King Ludwig rides this way.” She smiled, the young schoolmistress, to see that they loved her so, And with patient care she taught them the things it was good to know. Day after day she drilled them till the great day came at last, When the heralds going before him blew out their sounding blast; And with music, and flying banners, and the clatter of horses’ feet, The king and his troops of soldiers rode down the village street. Oh the hearts of the eager children beat fast with joy and fear, And Fräulein trembled and grew pale as the cavalcade drew near; But she blushed with pride and pleasure when the lessons came to be heard, For in all the flock of the boys and girls not one of them missed a word. And King Ludwig turned to the teacher with a smile and a gracious look; “It is plain,” said he, “that your scholars have carefully conned their book. “But now let us ask some questions to see if they understand;” And he showed to one of the little maids an orange in his hand. It was Christel, the youngest sister of the mistress fair and kind— A child with a face like a lily, and as lovely and pure a mind. “What kingdom does this belong to?” as he called her to his knee; And at once—“The vegetable,” she answered quietly. “Good,” said the monarch kindly, and showed her a piece of gold; “Now tell me what this belongs to—the pretty coin that I hold?” She touched it with careful finger, for gold was a metal rare, And then—“The mineral kingdom!” she answered with confident air. “Well done for the little mädchen!” And good King Ludwig smiled At Fräulein and her sister, the teacher and the child. “Now answer me one more question,”—with a twinkle of fun in his eye: “What kingdom do I belong to?” For he thought she would make reply, “The animal;” and he meant to ask with a frown if that was the thing For a little child like her to say to her lord and master, the king? He knew not the artless wisdom that would set his wit at naught, And the little Christel guessed nothing at all of what was in his thought. But her glance shot up at the question, and the brightness in her face, Like a sunbeam on a lily, seemed to shine all over the place. “What kingdom do you belong to?” her innocent lips repeat; “Why, surely, the kingdom of Heaven!” rings out the answer sweet. And then for a breathless moment a sudden silence fell, And you might have heard the fall of a leaf as they looked at little Christel. But it only lasted a moment, then rose as sudden a shout— “Well done, well done for little Christel!” and the bravos rang about. For the king in his arms had caught her, to her wondering, shy surprise, And over and over he kissed her, with a mist of tears in his eyes. “May the blessing of God,” he murmured, “forever rest on thy head! Henceforth, by His grace, my life shall prove the truth of what thou hast said.” He gave her the yellow orange, and the golden coin for her own, And the school had a royal feast that day whose like they had never known. To Fräulein, the gentle mistress, he spoke such words of cheer That they lightened her anxious labor for many and many a year. And because in his heart was hidden the memory of this thing, The Lord had a better servant, the Lord had a wiser king!