Introductory material

THE CORNFLOWER. The day she came we were planting corn, The west eighty-acre field,— These prairie farms are great for size, And they're sometimes great for yield. "The new school-ma'am is up to the house," The chore-boy called out to me; I went in wishing anyone else Had been put in chief trustee. I was to question that girl, you see, Of the things she ought to know; As for these same things, I knew right well I'd forgot them long ago. I hadn't kept track of women's ways, 'Bout all I knew of the sex Was that they were mighty hard to please, And easy enough to vex. My sister Mary, who ruled my house— And me—with an iron hand, Was all the woman I knew real well— Her I didn't understand. But I'd no call to grumble at fate, Fifty, well off, and unwed; Young as a lad in spite of the dust Old Time had thrown on my head. I engaged the school-ma'am on the spot, And the reason, I surmise, Was this, she didn't giggle or blush, But looked me fair in the eyes. The planting over, why, every lad In a space of ten good mile Was off for the school with a sudden zeal That made all us old folks smile. How she took to our wide prairie After towns with narrow streets! To watch that west eighty-acre field Was one of her queer conceits. "You planted that corn the day I came," She said, "and I love to go And watch the sun-mother kiss and coax Each slim green stalk to grow." I called her "Cornflower" when she took To wearing 'em in her belt. The young chaps were all in love with her— And I knew just how they felt. Oh, I tell you that was a summer, Such sunshine, such dew, such rain; Never saw crops grow so in my life— Don't expect I will again. To watch that west eighty-acre field, When the fall came clear and cold, Was something like a sermon to me— Made me think of streets of gold. But about that time the new school-ma'am Had words with the first trustee; A scholar had taken the fever And she was for blaming me. That schoolhouse should be raised from the ground— Grave reason there for alarm; A new coat of plaster be put on That the children be kept warm. A well—a good one—should take the place Of the deathtrap that was there. "This should all be done at once," she said. Cost five hundred dollars clear! I told her I couldn't think of it, But, when all my work was through, If the taxes came in middling good, I would see what I could do. "Remember you're only the steward," She said, "of your acres broad, And that the cry of a little child Goes straight to the ears of God." I remarked that it wasn't her place To dictate to the trustee, And Cornflower lifted her eyes of blue And looked what she thought of me. That night as we came up from the fields, And talked of the threatened frost, The chore-boy called out, half pleased, half scared: "The school-ma'am's got herself lost." I turned me about and spoke no word; I'd find her and let her see I held no spite 'gainst a wayward girl For lecturing a trustee. For I knew before I found the knot Of ribbon that she had worn, That somehow Betty had lost her way In the forest of ripened corn. The sun went down and left the world Beautiful, happy and good; True, the girl and myself had quarrelled, But when I found her and stood With silver stars mistily shining Through the deep blue of the skies, Heard somebody sob like a baby, Saw tears in somebody's eyes. Why, I just whispered, "Betty, Betty," Then whispered "Betty" some more; Not another word did I utter— I'll stick to this o'er and o'er. You needn't ask me to explain, friends, I don't know how 'twas myself, That first "Betty" said I was ashamed Of my greedy love of pelf. The second one told her I'd be glad To raise the old schoolhouse up, And be in haste to put down a well, With a pump and drinking cup. The third "Betty" told her I would act A higher and nobler part; The fourth "Betty" told her I loved her— Loved her with all my heart. "Ah, well! there's no fool like an old fool," Was what sister Mary said; "No fool in the world like an old fool, You'll find that out, brother Ned." "Mary," I said, "there's a better thing Than land, or dollar, or dime; If being in love is being a fool Here's one till the end of time." I should think so, I'm a married man Four years come this Christmastide, And autumn now is flinging her gold O'er the fields on every side. My wife called out as I drove the cows To the pasture-field this morn, "Ned, please go look for your son and heir, He toddled off in the corn." And sister Mary must make a joke; "Go find him at once," said she, "You know to get lost in a field of corn Runs in that boy's family."

THE QUARREL. When Mary found fault with me that day the trouble was well begun. No man likes being found fault with, no man really thinks it fun To have a wisp of a woman, in a most obnoxious way, Allude to his temper as beastly, and remark that day by day He proves himself so careless, so lacking in love, so mean, Then add, with an air convincing, she wishes she'd never seen A person who thinks so little of breaking a woman's heart, And since he is—well, what he is—'tis better that they should part. Now, no man enjoys this performance—he has his faults, well and good, He doesn't want to hear them named—this ought to be understood. Mary was aggravating, and all because I'd forgot To bring some flowers I'd promised—as though it mattered a lot; But that's the way with a woman, your big sins she may forgive, But little things, not worth mention, you hear of as long as you live. A few sweet peas and carnations to start a tempest, forsooth! For Mary got in a temper—I did the same, of a truth. I said things that weren't gentle; she pretended not to mind— But answered back in a manner that left me away behind. It ended up in our saying good-bye for the rest of our days, Both vowing we'd be happier going our different ways. And I strode out in the garden where the trees were pink and white, Where bobolinks scolded sparrows, and robins, wild with delight, Chirped and called and fluttered in the blossoming trees above, Where Nature was busy teaching her lessons of joy and love. I made a bed of the soft, warm earth, stretched me out in the sun. Vext and weary, I fell asleep, and slept till the day was done. The voice of my brother waked me, crying, "Quickly arise and come; Bear up like a man, Heaven help you! Death has suddenly entered your home!" 'Twas Mary, my own sweet Mary! The eyelashes slept on her cheek, The lips had a half-smile on them, as though they were going to speak Some of the old-time tender words, witty rejoinder or jest, Or ask the question they'd asked so oft, "Jim, who do you love the best?" But the small hands gave no pressure when I took them in my own, And bending down to kiss her face, I found it cold as a stone. And it came to me I could never—never, since Mary was dead— Say, "Dear one, I didn't mean them, the bitter words that I said." Never see the tears go from her sweet, dark eyes, and the brightness take their place, Never watch the joy and gladness come back to my darling's face. Not a fault could I remember—she'd been perfect all her days, With her sweetness and her laughter, her tender womanly ways. Dead—dead in her fresh young beauty—oh, I had an anguished heart At thought of the quarrel ending in our agreeing to part! When two people love each other, I'll tell you the wisest way, 'Tis to think before speaking harshly, for there surely will come a day When one will sleep on so soundly that he or she will not wake, The other sit in the stillness and cry with a great heart-break. It is to ears all unheeding our tenderest words are said— The love that the living long for we waste it upon the dead. We say this life is so dreary, talk much of heaven, I know, But if we were good to each other we'd have our heaven below. "Mary," I whispered, "my Mary, no flowers to you I gave, But I'll heap them on your coffin and plant them over your grave." A bird sang sweetly and shrilly in the blossoms over-head, And I awoke, awoke, awoke—I'd dreamed that Mary was dead! I woke in the golden sunshine, the birds were singing aloud. There was no still form beside me, nor any coffin or shroud, But just a slip of a woman with her brown eyes full of tears— Oh, that blessed, blessed waking I've remembered through all the years. I told the story to Mary, who hasn't let me forget That dream in the blossoming orchard—I hear of it often yet. If I neglect to bring flowers, it's: "Oh, you're going to save Your roses to heap on my coffin, your pansies to plant on my grave?" And if I lose my temper—a common weakness of men— The sweetest voice in the world says: "You'll have to get dreaming again."

IN SUNFLOWER TIME. In the farmhouse kitchen were Nan and John, With only the sunflowers looking on. A farmhouse kitchen is scarce the place For knight or lady of courtly grace. But this is just an everyday pair That hold the kitchen this morning fair. A saucy, persistent thorn-tree limb Had sacrificed a part of the brim Of the youth's straw hat. His face was brown, And his well-shaped forehead wore a frown. His boots were splashed with mud and clay From marshland pasture over the way. Where alderbushes and spicewood grew, And frogs croaked noisily all night through. 'Neath muslin curtains, snowy and thin, The homely sunflowers nodded in. Nan was a picture. Her muslin gown Had maybe a bit old-fashioned grown. But fitted the slender shape so well. In its low-cut neck the soft lace fell. Sleeves, it had none from the elbows down; In length—well, you see, the maid had grown. A labor of love her homely task— To share it none need hope nor ask, For Nan was washing each trace of dirt From fluted bodice and ruffled skirt. Now, few that will, and fewer that can, Bend over a tub like pretty Nan. The frail soap bubbles sailed high in air As she drew each piece from frothy lair, And rubbed with cruel yet tender hand As only a woman could, understand. Then wrung with twist of the wrist so strong, Examined with care, shook well and long, Flung in clear water to lie in state— Each dainty piece met the same hard fate. "'Tis done!" with a look of conscious pride At the rinsing bucket deep and wide. Wiping the suds from each rounded arm, She turned to John with a smile so warm: "I've kept you waiting—excuse me, please, The soapsuds ruin such goods as these." "You're over fond of finery, Nan, Dresses and furbelows," he began. "Maybe I am, of a truth," she said. Each sunflower nodded its yellow head. "Ned Brown's growing rich"—John's words came slow— "That he loves you well you doubtless know. "My house and acres, I held them fast, Was stubborn over them to the last, "For when my father was carried forth, And men were asking 'What was he worth?' "I saw them look and nod and smile As they whispered together all the while, "'A fine old homestead, but mortgaged so, A foolish thing for a man to do!' "I said, 'My father's dead and gone, But he's left behind a strong-armed son.' "My heart was hot with a purpose set To clear that mortgage, to pay that debt. "I've worked, heaven knows, like any slave, I've learned the lesson of scrimp and save, "Kept a good horse, but dressed like a clown— And I've not a dollar to call my own. "I'm beaten—well beaten; yesterday Everything went to Ned Brown from me. "My woods, my meadows, my tasseled corn, The orchard planted when I was born, "The old rose garden my mother loved, My chestnut mare—can't help feeling moved, "For I'm a beggar, Nan, you see— Don't think me begging for sympathy. "The world is wide, I don't care—much. Thank God, health's a thing the law can't touch. "The happiest man I ever knew Was born a beggar, and died one, too." Each sunflower, nodding its yellow head, Listened to every word that was said, As Nan in her slow and easy way, In the farmhouse kitchen that summer day, Set a great and weighty problem forth, One that no scholar on this green earth Has been able to solve since things began With Adam—a lone and lonesome man. Yet very coolly she set it forth: "Tell me the truth, how much am I worth?" The sunbeams kissing her golden hair, Her cheeks, her round arms dimpled and bare, Seemed stamping value of mighty wealth On youth, and love, and the bloom of health. John looked and looked till his eyes grew dim, Then tilted the hat with worthless brim. To hide what he would not have her see— "You are worth the whole world, Nan," said he. "Then you're no beggar," said sweet, bold Nan, "You're the whole world richer than any man." A girl queen wearing a crown of gold Set a precedent, the tale is told, But no royal prince this world has seen Ever felt so proud as John, I ween, As he clasped her hands in new-born hope— And never noticed they smelt of soap. Only the sunflowers looking on, So he kissed the maid—oh, foolish John! As he went out through the garden gate Ned Brown was coming to learn his fate. He was riding John's own chestnut mare, But, somehow, John didn't seem to care. The two men met at top of the hill, And eyed each other as rivals will. Ned thought of the home he'd won from John, "Poor beggar!" he said, as he rode on. John thought of all he had won from Ned, "You poor, poor beggar!" was what he said. Why? Under the heavens clear and blue Only our John and the sunflowers knew.

THE WOOING O' KATIE. McLeod of Dare called his son to him. McLeod of Dare looked stern and grim, For he was sending on mission grave His son, and though he knew him brave The old man trembled lest he should make In heedless youth a grave mistake. 'Twas not for the country, nor for the king, Nay, 'twas a more important thing Than country, or clan, or feud, or strife, The young man went to woo a wife. He listened, did Neil, with scanty grace, Haughty gloom on his handsome face, While the old man told him where to go, And what to say, and what to do. "The morrow ye'll go for a lang, lang stay Wi' your rich uncle, Donald Gray. "He'll gie ye a welcome wairm and true, And mate his only child wi' you. "She's weel worth winning, for in her hand She hauds the deed o' a' his land. "She's far frae haun'some—a homely lass, As you will see—but let that pass." "Why should I wed a woman that's plain? You didn't yourself." McLeod was vain. He smiled and he smirked, "Ah, true, Neil, true, But I was haun'somer nor you. "Juist coort this cousin, and never mind Squint or freckle, since luve is blind— "Or ought tae be in sic case as this— 'Tis no a chance I'd hae ye miss. "Jane's na sae braw as her cousin Kate, But 'tis wi' Jane I'd hae ye mate; "For Kate, poor lassie, she hasna land— Her face is her fortune, understand. "Gie her guid day when ye chance tae meet, But Jane, remember, your fain tae greet "Wi' warmer words, and a gallant air. Go, win a wife—and a warld o' care!" Neil listened closest to what was said Of Kate, the poor but pretty maid. And when he reached his good uncle's place 'Twas Kate that in his eyes found grace, The while Jane simpered with conscious pride, As if to say: "Behold your bride!" In this home he dwelt for many a day, A favorite, he, of Donald Gray. They walked together over the hill, Or through the valleys solemn and still, And the old man showed him acres wide That would be Jane's dower as a bride, Then spoke of the cousin, poor but fair, Her eyes of blue and her golden hair. "She'll hae na flocks, and she'll hae na laund, She'll hae na fortune rich and graund, "But gin she stood in her scanty dress, Would man o' mettle luve her less? The lad's heart warmed to the logic old. What worth has land? What worth has gold? Compared with the light in Katie's eyes, What worth was aught beneath the skies? Jane courted briskly day by day, If he walked out she walked his way. Did he sit him down to rest awhile, She looked his way with tender smile. Did he try to get a word with Kate, Jane was there like the hand of fate. One day it chanced, as he rode to mill, He met with Kate just under the hill. Would she mount beside him, ride along? Yes, if he felt 'twould not be wrong. He helped her up with a trembling arm; Surely the day is close and warm. Whoa, mare! steady! there's no need for haste With two soft arms about his waist. Neil—shame on him!—pressed Kate's finger-tips, Then turned about and pressed her lips. All over the road the blossoms white Scattered themselves in sheer delight. A bird flew singing a tender rhyme Of meadow, mate, and nesting time. The world looked beautiful in the glow That heaven flung on the hills below. Ah me, if that ride could but last a week, Her gold hair blowing against his cheek! The road to the mill, says worldly wise— Nay, nay, the road to Paradise! Travel it once if you wish to know Something of heaven here below. Though your eyes grow dim, and locks grow white, You'll not forget this journey—quite. But Neil must go to the old home place, Meet his stern father face to face. Altho' his cheek was a trifle pale, Boldly enough he told his tale. He would marry Kate—and Kate alone— He could not love the other one. Her eyes were crooked, her hair was red, Freckles over her face were spread, And the whole world held no lass for him But Kate. Then laughed the old man grim. "Your mither, she was a stubborn lass, Self-willed, handsome—but let that pass. "In a' oor battles 'twas she who won, And Neil, you're juist your mither's son. "But I hae na lived these mony days Wi'oot walking in wisdom's ways. "I saw your Kate, and like't her weel— In luiks she's like your mither, Neil; "The same blue een, and the same gowd hair— But no sae fair, Neil, no sae fair. "I tou'd your uncle to let Kate be The lassie poor, o' low degree, "And gie ye at once to understand 'Twas Jane who owned baith flocks and land. "Why gie mysel' sic a senseless task? I wunner, lad, ye've hairt tae ask. "Gin ye was driven ye wouldna' move, Too stubborn to even fa' in luve! "Like a' the Campbells, ye'll hae your way— Your mither has hers every day. "'Tis prood ye should be, upon my word, Tak' time to yoursel' and thank the Lord For plans that gat ye a bonny bride— An' heaps o' wardly gear beside." Ah! thankful enough was Neil that day— Joy flashed in his eager eyes of gray. 'Twas not for the land, not for the gold, Not for the flocks that slept in fold, Not for the wealth—the worldly gear— But something wonderful, sweet and dear. "Thank heaven," he cried, with a glow and thrill, "Thank heaven for the day I rode to mill!"

THE OLD MAN'S VISIT. Joe lives on the farm, and Sam lives in the city, I haven't a daughter at all—more's the pity, For girls, to my mind, are much nicer and neater; Not such workers as boys, but cuter and sweeter. Sam has prospered in town, has riches a-plenty, Big house, fine library—books written by Henty, And Kipling, and Cooper, and all those big writers— Swell pictures and busts of great heroes and fighters. His home is a fine one from cellar to garret, But not to my notion—in fact, I can't bear it. I'm not hard to please, but of all things provoking Is a woman around who sniffs when you're smoking. Last springtime Sam said: "Now, Father, how is it I can't coax you oftener up on a visit?" I couldn't think up any plausible reason, So off I went with him to stop for a season. Sam said with a laugh as we stepped from the ferry, "You won't mind my wife; she's particular, very." It wasn't like home, that house in the city, Our Sam took his fun at the club—more's the pity. It is in his own house, when he has the leisure, A man should find comfort and freedom and pleasure. It wasn't so bad for me in the daytime, Sam took me all over and made it a playtime; But evenings were awful—we sat there so proper, While Sam's wife, if nobody came in to stop her, Read history to us, or, column by column, A housekeeping journal, or other dry volume. I used to wish someone would give me a prodding, My eyes would go shut and head fall a-nodding. She's an awful good housewife, nothing gets musty, Or littered about, or untidy, or dusty; But a little disorder never did fret me, And these perfect women they always upset me. I can stand her dusting, her shining, her poking, But wilt like a leaf when she sniffs when I'm smoking. I got so blamed homesick I couldn't be jolly; I wanted our Joe, and his little wife, Molly, My old corner at home, and all the old places; I wanted the youngsters—who cared if their faces Were smeared up a trifle? I didn't, a penny. Molly tends to 'em, though she has so many. I was tickled to death when I got a letter From Joe, which ran: "Dear Dad, I think you had better Get back to the farm in pretty short order. Molly's papered your room and put on a border; The baby, she says, has two new teeth to show you— If you don't hustle back the dear thing won't know you. She says to inform you that Bob, Sue, and Mary Are good as can be, but your namesake's contrary, Wants granddaddy's story, and granddaddy's ditty— And granddaddy off on a trot to the city." I packed my belongings. They tried to dissuade me— Sam's wife said so proper: "I'm really afraid we Have not succeeded in our entertaining." "Oh, yes!" said I—some things won't stand much explaining. She really meant well, but of all things provoking Is a woman so perfect she sniffs when you're smoking. I was glad to get home; it made me quite silly To hear the loud whinny of Starling and Billy; And here was the farm with its orchards and meadows, The big maple trees all throwing their shadows, The stubble-fields yellow, the tall stacks of clover, The wag of the stub of a tail on old Rover. And here came dear Mary, her hat on her shoulder, With Sue trying hard to catch her and hold her; Here came Tommy and Joe, always foot in their classes, And Bob, with his features all crumbs and molasses, Carrying a basin with fishworms and dirt in— Oh, that scalawag, Bob, I'm morally certain Is a chip of the old block—it just seemed to strike me They'd named the boy rightly, for he was so like me— All laughing and calling: "Here's grandpa to play with!" And Bob supplementing: "And sleep 'ith and stay 'ith!" And then such a hugging, with Molly behind me, The tears came so fast that they threatened to blind me. My heart overflowed with sorrow and pity For the boy I had left back there in the city. His lot is a hard one—indeed, I'm not joking— He lives with a woman who sniffs when he's smoking. The supper we had, sir, and when it was over The walk round the homestead close followed by Rover, Who's most like a human. You'd fancy him saying: "See those stacks? Oh, yes, we have finished the haying! That colt should be broken. Old friend, I'd just mention This farm stands in need of our closest attention." And when, the lamp lighted, with Mary's beside me, The boys at my feet, and Bob up astride me, I felt like a king—I really can't write it— Molly must take my pipe and fill it and light it, Then plump herself down in her own little rocker For a visit with me. Oh, she is a talker Worth the listening to. The threshing was over, Joe had got ten dollars a ton for the clover, Deacon Hope had had a sharp tiff with the preacher Over immersion, and the pretty school-teacher Intended to marry—resigned her position. Yes, most of the church folks had signed the petition Against granting a license to Baker's saloon, The Thanksgiving service would be coming on soon, The neighbors were hearty, had every one missed me— Right here Molly stood on her tip-toes and kissed me. Sho! Sam's wife is handsome and cultured and clever, But she's not the woman that Molly is—never. Molly's smile is so kind, and her hair is so glossy, Her brown eyes look at you so sweet and so saucy! Yes, Joe's richer than Sam, though Joe's but a farmer, For his home atmosphere is brighter and warmer. Sam has lots of money, there's no use denying; Has made himself wealthy, and that without trying; But what chance has a man—indeed, I'm not joking— Who lives with a woman who sniffs when he's smoking!

JACK. Jack's dead an' buried; it seems odd, A deep hole covered up with sod Lyin' out there on the hill, An' Jack, as never could keep still, A sleepin' in it. Jack could race, And do it at a good old pace, Could sing a song, an' laugh so hard That I could hear him in our yard When he was half a mile away. Why, not another boy could play Like him, or run, or jump so high, Or swim, no matter how he'd try; An' I can't get it through my head At all, at all, that Jack is dead. Jack's mother didn't use to be So awful good to him and me, For often when I'd go down there On Saturdays, when it was fair, To get him out to fish or skate, She'd catch me hangin' round the gate And look as cross as some old hen, An' tell me, "Go off home again. It's not the thing for boys," she'd say, "A hangin' round the creek all day; You go off home and do your task— No, Jack can't go, you needn't ask." And when he got in scrapes, why, she Would up and lay it on to me, An' wish I lived so far away Jack couldn't see me every day. But last night when I'd done the chores It seemed so queer-like out of doors, I kept a listenin' all the while, An' looking down the street a mile; I couldn't bear to go inside, The house is lonesome since he died. The robber book we read by turns Is lyin' there—an' no boy learns All by himself, 'cause he can't tell How many words he'll miss or spell, Unless there's some one lookin' on To laugh at him when he gets done. An' neighbor women's sure to come A visitin' a feller's home, An' talkin', when they look at me, 'Bout how thick us two used to be, A stealin' off from school, an' such, An' askin' do I miss him much, 'Till I sneak off out doors—you see, They just can't let a feller be! Well, I walked down the road a bit. Smith's dog came out. I throwed at it, An', do you know, it never howled Same as it always did, or growled; It seemed to say, "Why, Jim's alone! I wonder where's that other one?" Afore I knew it I was down 'Way at the other end of town, A hangin' round in the old way For someone to come out and play. There wasn't no one there to look, So I slipped into our old nook. I found his knife down in the grass Where we'd been Zulus at the pass. The can of bait, the hook and line Were lyin' with the ball of twine, An' "Jim," I seemed to hear him say, "The fish will suffer some to-day." 'Twas more than I could stand just then; I got up to go off home, when Someone kissed me on the cheek, An' hugged me so I couldn't speak. You wouldn't believe it, like as not, But 'twas Jack's mother, an' a lot Of great big tears came stealin' down Right on my face. She didn't frown A single bit—kept sayin' low, "My blue-eyed boy, I loved you so!" Of course, I knew just right away That she meant Jack. My eyes are gray, But Jack, he had the bluest eyes, Blue like you see up in the skies, An' shine that used to come and go— One misses eyes like his, you know. An' by-an'-by she up an' tried To tell me that she'd cried an' cried A thinkin' of the times that she Had scolded Jack an' scolded me, An' other things that I won't tell To anyone, because—Oh, well, Boys can't do much, but they can hold Tight on to secrets till they're old. She's Jack's relation, that's why she Feels kind of lovin' like to me. But when she called me her own lad, Oh, say, I felt just awful bad; My head it went round in a whirl— I up an' cried just like a girl. But say, if Jack could see us two He'd laugh a little, don't you know; For if I'd ever brag around That I'd lick some one safe an' sound, He'd laugh an' say, "Jim, hold your jaw! You know you're scared to death of maw." Oh, I'd give all this world away If I could hear him laugh to-day! I get so lonesome, it's so still, An' him out sleepin' on that hill; There's nothin' seems just worth the while A doin' up in the old style; 'Cause everything we used to do Seemed allus just to need us two. My throat aches till I think 'twill crack— I don't know why—it must be Jack. There ain't no fun, there ain't no stir. His mother—well, it's hard on her, But she can knit an' sew, an' such— Oh, she can't miss him half as much!

AT THE SICK CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. A little crippled figure, two big pathetic eyes, A face that looked unchildish, so wan it was and wise; I watched her as the homesick tears came chasing down each cheek. "I had to come," she whispered low, "I was so tired and weak. My spine, you know! I used to be so strong, and tall, and straight! I went to school and learned to read and write upon a slate, And add up figures—such a lot, and play with all my might, Until I hurt my back—since then I just ache day and night. 'Tis most a year since I could stand, or walk around at all; All I am good for now, you see, is just to cry and crawl." Poor, pale-faced thing! there came to us the laughter gay and sweet Of little ones let out from school, the sound of flying feet. She listened for a moment, then turned her to the wall To hide the tears. "Oh, me!" she cried, "I'm tired of it all. I feel so hurt and useless, why can't I run about As others do?" "Some day, please God, you will," I said, but doubt Was in the eyes she turned on mine, and doubt was in her tone. "Perhaps," she faltered, then the pain grew harsh; the plaintive moan Smote sharply on my heart. I knew she had but lately come From mother's care and father's love, and all the joys of home. "I wished I'd lived on earth," she sobbed, "a long, long time ago, When Jesus came at eventide, because He loved folks so, And just by stretching out His hand made all the sick folks well. If it were now, oh, wouldn't I creep close to Him, and tell All that I wanted Him to do. I'd kneel down low and say: 'It is my back, dear Jesus, please cure it right away. I'm tired of being weak and sick, I want to jump and run, And play at games, and laugh out loud, and have such heaps of fun! Be good to your poor crippled girl,' and He would touch me—so— And every atom of the pain and crookedness would go." I held her close, and kissed her, and soothed her off to rest, So frail she was, so homesick for the ones she loved the best! But yesterday I saw her, and would have passed her by Had I not caught the greeting smile, the glance so bright and shy. "Can this be you?" I questioned. She laughed, "O yes, I thought You'd hardly know me when you came, I've changed, oh, such a lot! For see how tall and straight I am! My back don't hurt at all, And I can stand and I can walk—I never have to crawl. I'll tell you, it's a secret, I raced with nurse last night. Just think of it! I raced and won," and then, in sheer delight, She laughed so loudly and so long the nurse looked in to say, "Is not this little girl of ours quite boisterous to-day?" "They are so good to me," she said, "I know I'll want to cry When I start off for home next week, and have to say good-bye. What if I hadn't come at all?"—the sweet blue eyes grew wet— "My back would ache and throb and hurt—I'd be a cripple yet. For folks as poor as my folks are, they haven't much to spare For nurse's bills, and doctor's bills, and all—but won't they stare When I go home, red-cheeked and straight, and fat as I can be? My daddy, he will never take his dear eyes off of me; My mamma, she will cry some tears, and bend her head and pray, While all the others kiss and hug; then I can hear her say: 'Give me my girlie, she's been gone so many long months—five,' And hold me close—oh, I will be the gladdest thing alive!"

CHRISTY AND THE PIPERS. 'Twas a score of years since I'd heard the pipes, But the other night I heard them; There are sweet old memories in my heart, And the music woke and stirred them. In the armories, at the big parade The highland regiment was giving, A half-dozen pipers piping away— Ah! 'twas music, as sure as your living. Donald's lowland, he shook his head at me, And glowered with every feature, And a pretty young lassie just behind Said: "Oh, what a funny old creature!" But the skirl o' the pipes got in my ears, In my eyes, and made them misty; I laughed and I cried, and Donald said low: "Dinna act so daft, noo, Christy!" "Do ye no see the elder sitting there? Dinna act sae daft, my wooman. Can ye no hear the airs o' auld lang syne Wi'oot fashin' yersel' sae, wooman?" But the skirl o' the pipes got in my heart, It got in my throat and choked me, It got in my feet, and tapped my toes, And my shame-faced Donald poked me. "But isn't it grand? O, isn't it grand?" "Ay, a fine auld player is Mylands, But the pipes' wild sound disna stir my bluid"— He was not born in the highlands. Do you know what I saw as I sat there? I saw the hills and the heather, The green, and the lads and the lassies there All dancing the reels together. I saw our glen, half hid, and the rocks Standing guard like grim old watchmen. Oh, the land o' heather and hill and loch Must e'en be dear to a Scotchman. And I saw, too, the soldiers blithe and brave Their flag to the breeze unfurling, As they marched away on a morning fair To the bagpipes' merry skirling. My brother was one. As he kissed my cheek, I could hear him proudly saying: "Ho! you'll know when we come marching home, For you'll hear our pipers playing." Oh, the bonniest lads in kilt and hose— Braver men, you cannot find them— And few, so few, came marching home To the loved ones left behind them. 'Twas a loyal heart, and a strong right arm, With a stubborn foe before them; A soldier's grave in a far off land, And God's blue sky bending o'er them. As I hearkened to sweet old martial airs I could hear my brother saying: "Ho! you'll know when we come marching home, For you'll hear our pipers playing." There are only harps in heaven, I'm told, And maybe I shouldn't say it, For a harp of gold's a wondrous thing In a hand that's skilled to play it. But those highland lads, 'twas the pibroch's call They heard morning, noon, and even, And the pibroch's call, I believe in my heart, They will hear in the streets of heaven. They marched to the old belovèd airs 'Mid the bullets' hail and rattle; 'Twas the last sweet sound that fell on their ears 'Mid the clamor and clang of battle. O a harp when an angel strikes the strings Is softer and sweeter, but try As I will, I cannot fancy a harp In the hands of, say, Peter MacKay. And were an angel to proffer him one, Methinks I can hear him saying: "'Twas not on an instrument like the same That Pete MacKay will be playing, "For she neffer set eyes on it before, Isn't quick to learn, or cleffer; She'd break the strings if she took it in hand, She couldn't do it, whateffer. "So please be excusing old Pete MacKay— But hark! bring the chanter to me, I'll play the 'March o' the Cameron Men,' And afterward 'Bonnie Dundee.'" I told this to Donald late that night; He said, as he sipped his toddy, "Do ye ken ye shocked the elder the night? Yersel' is the doited body. "And are ye speaking o' bagpipes in Heaven? Ah, Christy, I'm that astoonded I'll hae the guid meenister speak tae ye, For, Christy, ye're no weel groonded." Well, if it is heresy to believe In the promise of the Father, "Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard," I am heretical, rather. I believe when the last loud trump shall sound, The old flag again unfurling, My highland lads will come marching home To the bagpipes grandly skirling.

THE STABLE-BOY'S GUEST. The Wise Men came to the inn that night, "Now open to us," they cried, "We have journeyed far that we might kneel To One who doth here abide." The door was opened with eager haste. "Of whom do ye come in quest? Can it be that a lord of high degree Is with us this night as guest?" The Wise Men answered: "The eastern sky Is luminous still, and clear, With the radiance of a golden star That hath led our footsteps here. "Blessed, O keeper, this inn of thine, Both thatch and foundation stone, For the open door and hearth-fire warm When the King came to His own!" "The King! the King!" loud the keeper's cry, "The King in this house of mine! Lights ho! lights ho! set the place aglow, Bring forth the meat and the wine! "The King! let the guest-room be prepared— Honor and homage we pay To royal son of a royal line Who tarries with us to-day!" From room to room of the inn they went, The Wise Men and keeper proud, But not a trace of the One they sought Found they in that motley crowd. "You have other guests?" the Wise Men asked, And the keeper's face flamed red; "But a straggling pair who came so late They found neither room nor bed." "My masters," a lad said timidly, "As I gave the cattle feed, Came creeping down to the stable door A woman in sorest need. "I made her a bed in the manger low, At head of the oxen mild, And, masters, I heard a moan of pain, Then the cry of a new-born child." "A prince shalt thou be!" the Wise Men cried, "For hearkening to that moan, A prince shalt thou be for succor given When the King came to His own!" "Nay, I'm but a stable-boy," he smiled, With his eager eyes aglow; "No King, but a little naked child, Sleeps out in my manger low." Hast come to these homes of ours, O Christ, In quest of a meal or bed, And found no welcoming cheer set forth, Nor place to pillow thine head? Give us a heart aflame with love, Filled with a pity divine, Then come Thou as beggar, or babe, or king, The best that we have is Thine.

SOLDIERS ALL. They're praying for the soldier lads in grim old London town; Last night I went, myself, and heard a bishop in his gown Confiding to the Lord of Hosts his views of this affair. "We do petition Thee," he said, "to have a watchful care Of all the stalwart men and strong who at their country's call Went sailing off to Africa to fight, perchance to fall!" "Amen!" a thousand voices cried. I whispered low: "Dear Lord, A host is praying for the men, I want to say a word For those who stay at home and wait—the mothers and the wives. Keep close to them and help them bear their cheerless, empty lives!" The Bishop prayed: "Our cause is good, our quarrel right and just; The God of battles is our God, and in His arm we trust." He never got that prayer of his in any printed book, It came straight from the heart of him, his deep voice, how it shook! And something glistened in his eye and down his flushed cheek ran. I like a Bishop best of all when he is just a man. "Amen!" they cried out louder still, but I bent low my head; "Dear Christ, be kind to hearts that break for loved ones dying—dead; Keep close to women folk who wait beset with anxious fears, The wan-faced watchers whose dim eyes are filled with bitter tears! I know, dear Christ, how hard it is," I whispered as I kneeled, "For long ago my bonnie boy fell on the battlefield. Find comfort for the broken hearts of those weighed down to-day With love and longing for the ones in danger far away." "They will not shrink," the Bishop prayed, "nor fear a soldier's grave; Nay, each man will acquit himself like Briton true and brave. God of battles, march with them, keep guard by day and night, And arm them with a trust in Thee when they go up to fight!" "Amen!" a sound of muffled sobs. The deep voice trembled some, But I, with hot tears on my face, prayed hard for those at home: "Keep watch and ward of all that wait in fever of unrest, Who said good-bye and let them go, the ones they loved the best! O comfort, Christ! Above the din of martial clamor, hark! The saddest sound in all God's world—a crying in the dark."

AS GOOD AS A GIRL. Oh, a big broad-shouldered fellow was Ben, And homely as you would see, Such an awkward walker and stammering talker, And as bashful as he could be. The son of a lone, widowed mother was he, And right well did he act his part, A giant at sowing and reaping and mowing— His farm was the pride of his heart. His mother depended on his strong arm; In the cottage so neat and trim He kept the fires burning, did sweeping and churning— Oh, the odd jobs saved up for him! "My Ben's a comfort," she said every day, With pride that made his head whirl, "As handy at sweeping as he is at reaping— Ben is just as good as a girl!" "A six-foot fellow to work round the house! We'll call him 'Miss Ben,'" said the girls; But Ben, heaven bless him, never let this distress him Till there came a day when the curls And blue eyes of Gladys, the prettiest girl, And the proudest in all the place, His young heart set beating at every chance meeting— Though she only laughed in his face. "I'll have none but a gay and a gallant man"— Her lips took a scornful curl— "Your pride is in hearing your mother declaring, 'Ben is just as good as a girl!'" But sweet little Marjory laughed not at Ben; He was homely, awkward, shy, But she liked the fellow whose voice was so mellow, And she smiled as she passed him by. He went to the front when the war broke out, And filled his post like a man; The good-natured giant was bold and defiant As soon as the battle began. You'd never have thought of the broom and the churn, Nor of the nickname "Miss Ben," Had you heard his voice cheering, seen his arm clearing A path for his own gallant men. Capt. Benjamin Brooks he came riding home When the war was over and done, As homely and backward, as shy and as awkward, As tender and loyal a son. Now Gladys gave him her sunniest smile— On heroes she ever did dote— And the proud little beauty felt it her duty To be kind to this young man of note. But Ben, wise fellow, liked Marjory best; He knew her lips did not curl When mother said sweetly, "Ben does work so neatly— He is just as good as a girl!" So he wooed and won this Marjory true, And made her his loving bride, While Gladys she fretted, bemoaned and regretted The goal she had missed by her pride. To-day Ben is filling a prominent place, A statesman, honest and bold; He frees the opprest, and he helps the distrest, Wins love, which is better than gold. For the very grandest men you can find In this great world's busy whirl Are men like my farmer—no praise need be warmer Than "he's just as good as a girl."

FOOL'S LUCK. The Allans o' Airlie they set muckle store On ancestry, acres, and siller, Nor cared to remember the good days of yore, Nor grandfather Allan, the miller— The honest old miller. "We're wealthy fowk now, tak' oor place wi' the best," Said the heid o' the Allans, one Dougal, A man whom Dame Fortune had royally blest, Of sensible habits, and frugal— Uncommonly frugal. "We're honored by great fowk and wise fowk, now min', O' the kirk each Allan's a pillar— What more could we spier o' a providence kin', Unless 'twere a little more siller— A little more siller. "For it's get what ye can, and keep what ye get; Ye'll fin' this an unco' guid motto, We chose it lang syne, and we stick to it yet, Altho' not sae close as we ought to— Not nearly sae close as we ought to. "There is ane o' the name is a spendthrift, an ass; The reason tae ye I'll discover: Oor gran'faither marrit an Inverness lass, Juist because he happened to luve her— Foolish mon, he happened to luve her! "And the wild Highland strain is still i' the bluid— 'Tis i' Colin, as sure's you're leeving; Ye ken how it is wi' the whole Highland brood— 'Tis a' for spending and geeving. "Gin ye're freen' o' the clan, why, ask what ye may, Ye'll get o' the best, ay, get double; Gin ye're foe o' the clan, weel, juist gang your way If so be ye're no hunting trouble. "Brither Colin was daft when a lad at the school, Wi' ways and wi' morals improper, Had high flowing notions—poor family fool, His notions ha' made him a pauper. "What owns he? Bare acres a few, and a house, Yet when we, last year, were expecting Twa relatives, ane puir as ony church mouse, Ane freighted wi' wealth, unreflecting, "He spat oot graun' like, 'Sin' ye're ower fond o' pelf 'Ye can hae,' said he, 'the rich pairty, But I'll tak' the mon that is puir as mysel' And gie him a welcome right hearty'— A welcome right hearty. "Gosh! I had tae lauch at the feckless auld mon As he stood there, his bonnet-strings twirling; Ye'd think he was chief o' a whole Highland clan That marched to the pibroch's mad skirling. "Ah! hot-headed, high-handed, go as you please, These Highlanders no worth a copper, Wi' their kilt and hose, and their uncovered knees— A bold dress, and highly improper! "Oor Colin's the same; hark ye, Davy and Jock, Go no to the hills for your mating; Twa weel dowered lassies o' guid lowland stock, 'Tis for such I'd hae ye both waiting. "Ho! it's get what ye can, and keep what ye get,— What is it ye whisper amang ye? What! oor rich uncle's deid—weel, weel, dinna fret, Ah'm certain that he wouldna wrang me. "He promised to leave everything he possest— Before witness promised it fairly— To the most deserving, the noblest and best O' a' the Allans o' Airlie. "Ye ken I'm the mon. Here's the lawyer at hand, (I'm richer a'ready and prooder) Hark ye! 'Give and bequeath my gowd and my land'— Mr. Grant, I pray ye, speak looder. "I'll buy me the laird's castle doon by the park— Oh, me! but I'll step aboot rarely. 'To my nephew, Colin'—it canna' be—hark! 'To the grandest Allan o' Airlie.' "To Colin! I'd ficht, but I've no got the pluck, I'm auld, and I'm broken, I tell ye; I ca'd him a fool—he has had a fool's luck, And noo he can buy me and sell me. "Now hearken ye, lads, frae the morn till the nicht It pays best tae act quite sincerely; Get what ye can—aweel, the motto's a'richt, But some things are gotten too dearly. Ay, some things are gotten too dearly. "I'm thinkin' o' gran'faither's Inverness wife, Nor cattle nor siller she brought him, Juist a hairt fu' o' luve—some queer views o' life— How runs that auld ballad she taught him? "I've a lowly cot and a wide open door, Neither old nor young need pass by, sir; A piece of red gold for the brother that's poor— Ho, a rich, happy man am I, sir!" "Aweel! there be lessons ye'll no learn in school, It tak's my breath away fairly— The ne'er-do-weel Colin, the family fool, And the graundest Allan o' Airlie!"

THE HARBOR LIGHTS OF HOME. J. Thomas Gordon left home one day, Left home for good and all— A boy has a right to have his own way When he's nearly six foot tall; At least, this is what J. Thomas thought, And in his own young eyes There were very few people quite so good, And fewer still quite so wise. What! tie as clever a lad as he Down to commonplace toil? Make J. Thomas Gordon a farmer lad, A simple son of the soil? Not if he knew it—'twould be a sin; He wished to rise and soar. For men like himself who would do and dare Dame Fortune had much in store. The world was in need of brains and brawn, J. Thomas said modestly, The clever young man was in great demand— They would see what they would see. He would make his mark in the busy world, Some day the daily press Would herald the glad news forth to the throng, J. Thomas is a SUCCESS. Then would the doubters and sceptics all Say, with regret sincere, "To think that we gave his hopes and his aims But an unbelieving sneer!" As for him, he would kiss his mother, And give her wealth galore, Shake the hand of his father—maybe— Then back to the world once more. With big ambition and high conceit Was young J. Thomas filled; The warning of friends and their arguments His eloquence quickly stilled. "You may go," said the irate father, "I'll not urge you to stay; You will learn your lesson, you headstrong fool, Be glad to come back some day." So J. Thomas Gordon left the farm, As boys have done before, And his mother began to count the hours Till he would be home once more. The father wearied as time went on— Missed the boy from his side; But all through the years the fond mother kept Her love, her hope, and her pride. With a mother's beautiful faith, she said: "I know my boy will come So wealthy, so honored, noble and great, Proudly come marching home." And ever she looked at eventide Into the glowing west For the dust of the carriage bringing her The one that she loved the best. Ah! how she longed to look on his face, Her stalwart lad and true, With his sunburned cheek, and his ruddy hair, And his eyes so bright and blue. To those who said 'twas cruel of him Never a line to send, She had but one answer, with eyes ashine: "It will all come right in the end; He's busy making a name and place, And I must patient be Till this clever, ambitious lad of mine Finds time to come back to me." Important and wealthy and famous, Honored and wise and great! But look you, who can that ragged tramp be, Down there by the garden gate, Pale as if hunger had pressed him sore, Trembling because so weak, Pushed on by his longing, held back by shame— A tear on his poor pale cheek? 'Tis he! Had he come back rich and great She'd have met him at the door, But she's down the path with her arms outspread, Because he has come back poor. Gone, gone are her day-dreams sweet and fair— Gone in the swift glad shock Of folding a ragged tramp in her arms, But love stands firm as a rock. She rang the dinner bell long and loud, The father came with speed; The welcome he gave the prodigal Was a tender one indeed. "The young fool has learned his lesson," J. Thomas whispered low. "So he has—God bless him!" the father cried, "He'll make a good man, I know. "Honest, unselfish, and true as steel, Our boy will stand the test; Kindly of thought and word and deed— The homely virtues are best. I knew when you went, and you know it now, That all this pride and style, This yearnin' to fill up the public eye, Isn't really worth the while." Oh, the happy face of the mother That night as, kneeling low, Tom said the prayer that he used to say At her knee so long ago. A new J. Thomas had this to add— With his bonnie blue eyes wet— "Thank God for the home, for the faithful hearts That never change or forget." Though far and wide on the world's rough sea The children, reckless, roam, The boldest thanks God in some stress of storm For the harbor lights of home.

THE PREACHER DOWN AT COLES. He was not especially handsome, he was not especially smart, A great big lumbering fellow with a soft and tender heart. His eyes were gray and honest, his smile a friendly one, He wore his parson's suit of black on days of state alone; At other times he went around in clothes the worse of wear, A blue cloth cap set jauntily upon his thick gray hair. He cared so little how he looked, so little how he drest, That he tired the patience sorely of the ones he loved the best. For a preacher, so they argued, should be dressed like one, of course, But in the winter it was tweeds, in summer it was worse; Ducks and flannels would be grimy, if the sad truth must be told, For he spaded up the gardens of the people who were old, And he ran down dusty highways at unministerial rate, Going errands for the people who really could not wait. His coat-sleeves would be short an inch, his trousers just the same, For the washerwoman had them every week that ever came. He cared so little how he looked, and never paused to think That linen, duck, and flannel were such awful things to shrink. His wife, she was the primmest thing, as neat as any doll, And looked like one when walking by her husband big and tall. It almost broke her heart that he refused to give a thought To how he looked, or do the thing, or say the thing he ought. Sometimes, though well she loved him, quite high her temper ran, For 'tis hard on any woman to have such a careless man. Think! when the conference president came visiting the place, The preacher down at Coles he had a badly battered face— One eye was black as black could be; he looked, so we've been told, More like a fierce prize-fighter than a shepherd of the fold. "How did it happen?" questioned him the visitor so wise, With hint of laughter on his lips, and in his twinkling eyes. "Old Betty Brown," the preacher said—his wife broke in just here, "A cross-grained spinster of the place who hates him, that is clear; And never did a woman have a meaner tongue than hers— The slighting things she says of him, the mischief that she stirs!" "Fields have we," said the president, "in country and in town; Believe me, Madam, most of them can boast a Betty Brown." The preacher stroked his blackened eye, and laughed good-naturedly. "She doesn't like me very well, but what of that?" said he. "The other night I found the poor old creature sick in bed, She 'didn't want no prayin' done,' she very quickly said, So, seeing that she was so ill and worn she could not stir, I thought with care and patience I could milk the cow for her. I stroked old Spot caressingly, and placed my little can, But Spot she knew, and I came home a sadder, wiser man." The preacher down at Coles he was no orator at all, But sick, and sad, and sinful were glad to have him call. Not that he ever found a host of happy things to say; In fact, as far as talking went, he might have stayed away. But oh, the welcome that he got! I think his big right hand Gave such a grip that all the rest they seemed to understand. Some of the congregation would have liked a different man, He couldn't hope to please them all—few ministers that can. Once, at the district meeting, the good old farmer Bowles Stood up and spoke his mind about the preacher down at Coles. "There's not," he said, "you know it, too, a better man than he; An' you fault-findin', carpin' folk—I say this reverently— If the Lord 'd take an angel and gently turn him loose To preach down here, do you suppose he'd please the hull caboose? Not much! It's human nature to quarrel with what we've got, An' this man is a better man than we deserve, a lot." But he did preach curious sermons, just as dry as they could be, And the old folks slumbered through them every Sabbath, peacefully; But they all woke up the moment the singing would begin, And not an ear was found too dull to drink the music in. For though the preacher could not boast an orator's smooth tongue, He could reach the people's heart-strings when he stood up there and sung. O the wondrous power and sweetness of the voice that filled the place! Everyone that heard it swelling grew the purer for a space. And men could not choose but listen to the singer standing there, Till their worldliness slipped from them, and their selfishness and care. Mourners turned their eyes all misty from the crosses tall and white Where their loved ones slumbered softly all the day and all the night; Listening, faith rose triumphant over sorrow, loss, and pain, Heaven was not a far-off country, they would meet their own again. And the white-haired men and women wished the singing need not cease, For they seemed to see the beauty of the longed for Land of Peace. Upward soared that voice, and upward, with a sweetness naught could stem, Till each dim eye caught the glory of the new Jerusalem. He was such a curious fellow, the preacher down at Coles! One winter day the word was brought to town by Farmer Bowles That in a little shanty, in the hollow by the mill, Were children gaunt with hunger, a mother sad and ill, The father just a drunkard, a vagabond who left His family for long, long weeks of love and care bereft. The squire talked of taking a big subscription up, And talked, and talked, while in that house was neither bite nor sup. O, these talking folks! these talking folks! the poor would starve and freeze If the succoring and caring were done by such as these. The preacher down at Coles he had not very much to say; He harnessed up the old roan horse and hitched it to the sleigh, And piled in so much provisions that his wife said, tearfully, She didn't have a cake or pie left in the house for tea. He filled the sleigh with baskets, and with bundles—such a pile! Heaps of wood, and clothes, and victuals—everybody had to smile As they watched the old roan canter down the crossroad, o'er the hill, To the little cheerless shanty in the hollow by the mill. The preacher built a fire and bade the children warm their toes While he heard the worn-out mother's tale of miseries and woes. He brought in a bag of flour, and a turkey big and fat— His dainty wife had meant to dine the Ladies' Aid on that. He brought in ham and butter, and potatoes in a sack, A pie or two, a loaf of cake, and doughnuts, such a stack! Ah! his wife and her good handmaid had been baking many a day, For the Ladies' Aid would dine there—he had lugged it all away. He brought in a pair of blankets, and a heavy woollen quilt; Betty Brown, who happened in there, said she thought that she would wilt, For these things the active members of the Missionary Band Had gathered for the heathen in a far-off foreign land. "These belong unto the Lord, sir," Betty said, "I think you'll find." But he answered her quite gently, "Very well, He will not mind." "To see him making tea for the woman in the bed Made me wish I had been kinder to the preacher," Betty said. Though he was so big and clumsy he could step around so light, And to see him getting dinner to the children's huge delight! It was not till he had warmed them, and had fed them there, that day, That he whispered very softly: "Little children, let us pray." Then he gave them to the keeping of a Father kind and wise In a way that brought the tear-drops into hard old Betty's eyes. She felt an aching in her throat, and when she cried, "Amen!" Other folks might flout the preacher, Betty never would again. He took up the fresh air movement, but the people down at Coles Shook their head—a preacher's work, they said, was saving precious souls, Not worrying lest the waifs and strays that throng the city street Should pine for want of country air, and country food to eat. Lawyer Angus, at the meeting, spoke against new-fangled things; "Seems to me our preacher's bow, friends, has a muckle lot of strings." Merchant Jones said trade was failing, rent was high and clerks to pay; Not a dollar could he give them, he was very grieved to say. Old Squire Hays was buying timber, needed every cent and more; Doctor Blake sat coldly smiling—then the farmer took the floor. "Wish," he said, "our hearts were bigger, an' our speeches not so long; I would move right here the preacher tunes us up a little song." Sing? I wish you could have heard him—simple songs of long ago, Old familiar things that held us—warm that golden voice and low— Songs of summer in the woodlands, cowslips yellow in the vale; Songs of summer in the city, and the children wan and pale, Till we saw the blist'ring pavement pressed by tired little feet, Heard the baby voices crying for the meadows wide and sweet. "Now we'll take up the collection," said the wily farmer Bowles, And they showered in their money, did the people down at Coles. "Here's a cheque," said lawyer Angus, "'tis the best that I can do; Man, you'd have us in the poorhouse if you sang your sermons through!" The very careless fellow still goes his cheery way Unmindful of what people think or of what people say. Some still are finding fault with him—he doesn't mind it much— Laughs when they make remarks about his clothes and shoes and such, Declare his sermons have no point, and quarrel with his text, As people will, but oh, it makes his pretty wife so vext! "I think," she says, "as much of him as any woman can, But 'tis most aggravating to have such a careless man." There are those who think him perfect, shout his praises with a will. He has labored for the Master, he is laboring for Him still; And the grumbling does not move him, nor the praises sung abroad— Things like these seem only trifles to the man who works for God. Farmer Bowles summed up the total in his own original way When he spoke at the Convention that was held the other day. "Never knew a better worker, never knew a kinder man; Lots of preachers are more stylish, keep themselves so spic-and-span You could spot 'em out for preachers if you met 'em walkin' round Over on the Fejee Islands, silk hat, long coat, I'll be bound. Our man's different, but, I tell you, when it comes to doing good There's not one can beat him at it, an' I want this understood. Ask the sad folks and the sinful, ask the fallen ones he's raised, Ask the sick folks and the poor folks, if you want to hear him praised. Orator? Well, maybe not, friends, but in caring for men's souls There stand few men half so faithful as the preacher down at Coles."

CHORE TIME. When I'm at gran'dad's on the farm, I hear along 'bout six o'clock, Just when I'm feelin' snug an' warm, "Ho, Bobby, come and feed your stock." I jump an' get into my clothes; It's dark as pitch, an' shivers run All up my back. Now, I suppose Not many boys would think this fun. But when we get out to the barn The greedy pigs begin to squeal, An' I throw in the yellow corn, A bushel basket to the meal. Then I begin to warm right up, I whistle "Yankee Doodle" through, An' wrastle with the collie pup— And sometimes gran'dad whistles too. The cow-shed door, it makes a din Each time we swing it open wide; I run an' flash the lantern in, There stand the shorthorns side by side. Their breathin' makes a sort of cloud Above their heads—there's no frost here. "My beauties," gran'dad says out loud, "You'll get your breakfasts, never fear." When up I climb into the loft To fill their racks with clover hay, Their eyes, all sleepy like and soft, A heap of nice things seem to say. The red ox shakes his curly head, An' turns on me a solemn face; I know he's awful glad his shed Is such a warm and smelly place. An' last of all the stable big, With harness hanging on each door, I always want to dance a jig On that old musty, dusty floor. It seems so good to be alive, An' tendin' to the sturdy grays, The sorrels, and old Prince, that's five— An' Lightfoot with her coaxing ways. My gran'dad tells me she is mine, An' I'm that proud! I braid her mane, An' smooth her sides until they shine, An' do my best to make her vain. When we have measured oats for all, Have slapped the grays upon the flanks, An' tried to pat the sorrels tall, An' heard them whinny out their thanks, We know it's breakfast time, and go Out past the yellow stacks of straw, Across the creek that used to flow, But won't flow now until a thaw. Behind the trees the sky is pink, The snow drifts by in fat white flakes, My gran'dad says: "Well, Bob, I think There comes a smell of buckwheat cakes."

A BOY'S TRIALS. When I was but a little lad One thing I could not bear, It was to stand at mother's knee And have her comb my hair. They didn't keep boys' hair as short As it's kept now-a-days, And mine was always tangled up In twenty different ways. I'd twist my mouth and grit my teeth, And say it wasn't fair— It was a trial, and no mistake, When mother combed my hair. She'd brush and brush each stubborn curl That grew upon my pate, And with her scissors nip and clip To make the edges straight. Then smooth it down until it shone, While I would grin and bear, And feel a martyr through and through, When mother combed my hair. She'd take my round chin in her hand And hold it there the while She made the parting carefully, Then tell me with a smile: "Don't push your cap down on your curls And spoil my work and care; He is a pretty little lad When mother combs his hair." I'd hurry out and rumple up That mop of hair so thick— A vandal, I, for she had worked So hard to make it slick— And wish I were a grown-up man So nobody would dare To put a washrag in my ears, Or comb my tangled hair. Heigho! now that I'm bald and gray, Methinks I would be glad To have her smooth my brow and cheeks, And whisper, "Mother's lad!" A longing for the care-free days Doth take me unaware; To stand, a boy, at mother's knee And have her comb my hair.

AN APRIL FOOL OF LONG AGO. In powdered wig and buckled shoe, Knee-breeches, coat and waistcoat gay, The wealthy squire rode forth to woo Upon a first of April day. He would forget his lofty birth, His spreading acres, and his pride, And Betty, fairest maid on earth, Should be his own—his grateful bride. The maid was young, and he was old; The maid was good to look upon. Naught cared she for his land or gold, Her love was for the good squire's son. He found her as the noonday hush Lay on the world, and called her name. She looked up, conscious, and her blush A tender interest did proclaim. For he was Hubert's sire, and she To keep a secret tryst did go. He said: "Methinks she cares for me"— That April fool of long ago. The flattered squire his suit did press Without delay. "Say, wilt thou come," He said, with pompous tenderness, "And share my wealth and grace my home?" "Kind sir," the lovely Betty cried, "I'm but a lass of low degree." "The love that is controlled by pride Is not true love at all," quoth he. "I hold a man should woo and wed Where'er he wills—should please himself." "There is the barrier strong," she said, "Of pedigree, and place, and pelf. "Could one so lowly hope to grace Your home?" Right proud his air and tone: "You're pure of heart and fair of face; Dear Betty, you would grace a throne!" "Since you so highly think of me"— Her tears and laughter were at strife— "You will not mind so much, maybe, That I am Hubert's promised wife." Pale went the good squire's florid cheek, His wrath flamed out—but Betty stood, Brown-haired, red-lipped, blue-eyed and meek, A sight to make a bad man good. She won on him. "But why this guile— This secrecy?" His voice was rough. "We feared," she whispered, with a smile, "You would not think me good enough." "An April fool am I. Come, come— My offer stands. As Hubert's wife," He laughed, "you'll share my wealth and home And brighten up a lonely life." He kissed her cheek and rode away. Unbroken was his heart, I wist, For he was thinking of a day— A day back in youth's rosy mist— And of a form and of a face. "My dear, dead love," he whispered low, The while he rode at sober pace, That April fool of long ago.

FOR HE WAS SCOTCH, AND SO WAS SHE. They were a couple well content With what they earned and what they spent, Cared not a whit for style's decree— For he was Scotch, and so was she. And oh, they loved to talk of Burns— Dear blithesome, tender Bobby Burns! They never wearied of his song, He never sang a note too strong. One little fault could neither see— For he was Scotch, and so was she. They loved to read of men who stood And gave for country life and blood, Who held their faith so grand a thing They scorned to yield it to a king. Ah, proud of such they well might be— For he was Scotch, and so was she. From neighbors' broils they kept away; No liking for such things had they, And oh, each had a canny mind, And could be deaf, and dumb, and blind. With words or pence was neither free— For he was Scotch, and so was she. I would not have you think this pair Went on in weather always fair, For well you know in married life Will come, sometimes, the jar and strife; They couldn't always just agree— For he was Scotch, and so was she. But near of heart they ever kept, Until at close of life they slept; Just this to say when all was past, They loved each other to the last! They're loving yet, in heaven, maybe— For he was Scotch, and so was she.

THE PLOUGHMAN. Friend, mark these muscles; mine's a frame Born, grown, and fitted for the toil. My father, tiller of the soil, Bequeathed them to me with my name. Fear work? Nay, many times and oft Upon my brow the sweat-bead stands, And these two brown and sinewy hands, Methinks, were never white or soft. I earn my bread and know its worth, Through days that chill and days that warm, I wrest it with my strong right arm From out the bosom of the earth. The moneyed man may boast his wealth, The high-born boast his pedigree, But greater far, it seems to me, My heritage of brawn and health. My sinews strong, my sturdy frame, My independence free and bold— Mine is the richest dower, I hold, And ploughman is a noble name. Nor think me all uncouth and rough, For, as I turn the furrows o'er, Far clearer than the threshing-floor I see the tender growing stuff. A lab'rer, I, the long day through; The lonely stretch of field and wood Seem pleasant things to me, and good; The river sings, the heaven's blue Bends down so near the sun-crowned hill— Thank God, I have the eyes to see The beauty and the majesty Of Nature, and the heart to thrill At crimson sunset, dawn's soft flush, The fields of gold that stretch afar, The glimmer of the first pale star That heralds in the evening's hush. They lie who say that labor makes A brute thing, an insensate clod, Of man, the masterpiece of God; They lie who say that labor takes All from us save the lust of pelf, Dulls eye, and ear, and soul, and mind, For no man need be deaf or blind Unless he wills it so himself. This life I live's a goodly thing— My soul keeps tune to one glad song The while I turn the furrows long— A ploughman happy as a king.

TWO MONUMENTS. Two men were born the self-same hour: The one was heir to untold wealth, To pride of birth and love of power; The other's heritage was health. A sturdy frame, an honest heart, Of human sympathy a store, A strength and will to do his part, A nature wholesome to the core. The two grew up to man's estate, And took their places in the strife: One found a sphere both wide and great, One found the toil and stress of life. Fate is a partial jade, I trow; She threw the rich man gold and frame, The laurel wreath to deck his brow, High place, the multitude's acclaim. The common things the other had— The common hopes to thrill him deep, The common joys to make him glad, The common griefs to make him weep. No high ambitions fired his breast; The peace of God, the love of friend, Of wife and child, these seemed the best, These held and swayed him to the end. The two grew old, and death's clear call Came to them both the self-same day: To him whose name was known to all, To him who walked his lowly way. Down to his grave the rich man went, With cortege long, with pomp and pride, O'er him was reared a monument That told his virtues far and wide; Told of his wealth, his lineage high, His statesmanship, his trophies won, How he had filled the public eye— But empty praise when all was done. The other found a narrow bed Within God's acre, peaceful, lone; The throng cared not that he was dead, A man uncultured and unknown. But in the house that he had left A woman whispered through her tears: "Christ, comfort me, who am bereft Of love that failed not through the years." And oft his stalwart sons and tall Would murmur as their eyes grew dim: "A useful life is best of all; God grant we pattern after him!" A sick man sighed: "I'll miss his smile;" A shrivelled crone did shake her head And mutter to herself the while How oft his hand had given bread. A maimed child sobbed: "He carried me To gather blossoms in the wood," And more than one said, brokenly: "A man who always did me good." One came at twilight to the grave, And knelt and kissed the fresh-turned sod. "Oh, faithful soul," she cried, "and brave, 'Twas you that led me back to God! "Back from the sin, the shame, the snare— Forget your trust and faith?—not I; Each helpful word, each tender prayer, I will remember till I die!" Two men that sleep: above the one The monument an artist's hand Has fashioned from the block of stone, A thing of beauty, tall and grand; Above the other naught—what then? Ere he did fold his hands for rest, He builded in the hearts of men The fairest monument and best.

THE LONESOMEST HOUSE. It's the lonesomest house you ever saw, This big gray house where I stay. I don't call it living at all, at all, Since my mother's gone away. Only four weeks now—it seems a year— Gone to heaven, the preacher said, And my heart is just broke awaiting her, And my eyes are always red. I stay out of doors till I'm almost froze, 'Cause every identical room Seems empty enough to scare a boy, And packed to the door with gloom. Oh, but I hate to come in to my meals, And her not there in her place, Pouring the tea, and passing the things, With that lovin' shine on her face! But night-time is worse. I creep up the stair And to bed as still 's a mouse, And cry in my pillow, it seems so hard To stay in this old gray house! And nobody giving me good-night hugs, Or smoothing my hair back—so; Things a boy makes fun of before his chums, But things that he likes, you know. There's no one to go to when things go wrong— Oh, she was so safe and sure! There wasn't a thing could tackle a boy That she couldn't up and cure. There's lots of women, it seems to me, That wouldn't be missed so much, The women whose boys are 'most growed up, And old maid aunties, and such. I can't understand it at all, at all, Why on earth she should have to go, And leave me here in this old gray house, Needin' an' wantin' her so! Oh, the very lonesomest thing of all In the wide, wide world to-day Is a big boy of twelve whose heart's just broke 'Cause his mother's gone away!

DADDY'S BOY. It is time for bed, so the nurse declares, But I slip off to the nook, The cozy nook at the head of the stairs, Where daddy's reading his book. "I want to sit here awhile on your knee," I say, as I toast my feet, "And I want you to pop some corn for me, And give me an apple sweet." I tickle him under the chin—just so— And I say, "Please can't I, dad?" Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no To his own little black-eyed lad. "You can't have a pony this year at all," Says my stingy Uncle Joe, After promising it—and there's the stall Fixed ready for it, you know. One can't depend on his uncle, I see, It's daddies that are the best, And I find mine and climb up on his knee As he takes his smoke and rest. I tickle him under the chin—just so— And I say, "Please can't I, dad?" Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no To his own little black-eyed lad. I want to skate, and oh, what a fuss For fear I'll break through the ice! This woman that keeps our house for us, She isn't what I call nice. She wants a boy to be just like a girl, To play in the house all day, Keep his face all clean and his hair in curl, But dad doesn't think that way. I tickle him under the chin—just so— And I say, "Please can't I, dad?" Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no To his own little black-eyed lad. "You're growing so big," says my dad to me. "Soon be a man, I suppose, Too big to climb on your old dad's knee And toast your ten little toes." Then his voice it gets the funniest shake, And oh, but he hugs me tight! I say, when I can't keep my eyes awake, "Let me sleep with you to-night." I tickle him under the chin—just so— And I say, "Please can't I, dad?" Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no To his own little black-eyed lad.

JANET. Janet, she was trim and small, Swift her feet could go; Sandy, he was great and tall, Sandy, he was slow. Dark the curls on Janet's heid, Dark her een, and true; Sandy's hair was straicht an' reid, Sandy's een were blue. Sandy had been coortin' lang, Sandy wasna bold, Blushed when Janet trilled the sang, Sweet as it is old: "Gin a body meet a body Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?" Janet's lips were reid and ripe, Full o' sic delichts; Longing for them spoiled the pipe Sandy smoked o' nichts. Janet laughed when he would sigh, Janet wasna kin'. Spite o' a' as days went by Janet filled his min'. When in kirk he sat and heard Sermons deep and lang, Every fluttering bird ootside Seemed piping Janet's sang. Through the psalm, and through the prayer, Thought went wanderin' wide— O what were toil, what were care, Wi' Janet by his side? Janet, wi' the waist sae sma', Janet, dear indeed; Sermon, psalm, and prayer, and a', Sandy didna heed— Going hame at sober pace Made confession—sae: "Hearken, Lord! hide no Thy face Though I go astray. "Help me juist tae do my pairt— Win her if I can— Sae I plead wi' a' my hairt, Help a sinfu' mon!" Surely faith was in that prayer. Ere an hour went by Janet cam' wi' lichtsome air Through the fields o' rye. Sandy, tak' ye hairt o' grace— Surely 'tisna wrang— Here's the lass wi' saucy face, How runs Janet's sang? "Gin a body meet a body Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body Need a body cry?"

THE LAD FROM INVERNESS. He would go, they could not keep him, for he came of fighting stock; Though his widowed mother pleaded, he was firm as any rock. Well he loved the patient woman who had nursed him on her breast, Been quite blind to all his follies,—but he loved his country best. "I'll come home again," he told her; " I'll come home again some day," Laid his face to her's and kissed her, said good-bye and marched away. Stronger than the voice that pleaded, "Laddie, laddie, bide at home," Was the shrill voice of the bugle and the deep voice of the drum, Calling to him all the day, calling to him in his dreams: "Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!" His face was like a maiden's face, so smooth it was, and fair; The laughter in his eyes of gray, the sunshine in his hair; But a man's heart, true and gallant, beat beneath the tartan plaid, And a strong right arm he boasted, did this bonnie Highland lad. Oh, the battlefield is gruesome, with its dying and its dead, But 'twas to the field of battle that the drum and bugle led— Magersfontein—and the bullets biting fiercely left and right, And the lad in kilt and hose there in the thickest of the fight. Fearful odds, and none to help them, fight they boldly, undismayed, Gallant clansmen of the north land! Brave old Highlander brigade! Someone blundered, this we know, When you met the ambushed foe, But you fought as heroes fight, and died as heroes die; This we know, this we know. Where the fighting had been fiercest, as the sun sank in the west, Did they find the widow's laddie, with a bullet in his breast, And his smiling face turned upward. Did he dream at last—who knows— Of the far-off hills of Scotland? Lying there in kilt and hose, With the gold hair gleaming brightly underneath the bonnet blue, And the tartan plaid laid gently o'er the heart so brave and true. Stilled forever! With death's coming did there fall upon his ear Music that he loved to list to, bugle call so high and clear, Thrilling, stirring, sweeter, shriller, and the deep voice of the drum, Calling to him through the shadows, calling softly through the shadows, "Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!"

ALL ON AN APRIL MORNING. The teacher was wise and learned, I wis, All nonsense she held in scorning, But you never can tell what the primmest miss Will do of a bright spring morning. What this one did was to spread a snare For feet of a youth unheeding, As March, with a meek and lamb-like air, To its very last hour was speeding. Oh, he was the dullard of his class, For how can a youth get learning With his eyes aye fixed on a pretty lass And his heart aye filled with yearning? "Who finds 'mong the rushes which fringe a pool," She told him, "the first wind blossom, May wish what he will"—poor April fool, With but one wish in his bosom. Her gray eyes danced—on a wild-goose chase He'd sally forth on the morrow, And, later, she'd laugh in his sombre face, And jest at his words of sorrow. But penitence and a troubled mind Were fruits of the night's reflection; After all, he was simple, and strong, and kind— 'Twas wrong to flout his affection. They met on the hill as she walked to school; He said, unheeding her blushes, "Here's the early flower your April fool Found growing among the rushes. "Take it or leave it as you will"— His voice ringing out so clearly Awoke in her heart a happy thrill— "You know that I love you dearly." Day-dreams indulged as she taught the school Held lovers kneeling and suing; "Take it or leave it"—her April fool Was masterful in his wooing. He gave her the flower—she gave him a kiss— His suit she had long been scorning; But you never can tell what the primmest miss Will do of a bright spring morning.

BILLY. O! He was the boy of the house, you know, A jolly and rollicking lad; He never was sick, he never was tired, And nothing could make him sad. If he started to play at sunrise, Not a rest would he take at noon; No day was so long from beginning to end, But his bed-time came too soon. Did someone urge that he make less noise, He would say, with a saucy grin: "Why, one boy alone doesn't make much stir— O sakes! I wish I was a twin. "There's two of twins, and it must be fun To go double at everything; To holler by twos, and whistle by twos, To stamp by twos, and to sing!" His laugh was something to make you glad, So brimful was it of joy; A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast, But it never troubled the boy. You met him out on the garden path, The terrier at his heels, And knew by the shout he hailed you with How happy a youngster feels. The maiden auntie was half distraught With his tricks as the days went by; "The most mischievous child in all the world!" She said with a shrug and a sigh. His father owned that her words were true, His mother declared each day He was putting wrinkles into her face, And turning her brown hair gray. His grown-up sister referred to him As "a trouble," "a trial," "a grief"; The way he ignored all rules, she said, Was something beyond belief! It never troubled the boy of the house, He revelled in racket and din, Had only one regret in the world— He hadn't been born a twin! ***** There's nobody making a noise to-day, There's nobody stamping the floor, 'Tis strangely silent upstairs and down— White ribbons upon the door. The terrier's whining out in the sun: "Where's my comrade?" he seems to say. Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog, There's no frolic for you to-day. The freckle-faced girl from the house next door Is sobbing her young heart out. Don't cry, little girl, you'll soon forget The laugh and the merry shout. The grown-up sister is kissing his face, And calling him "angel" and "sweet," And the maiden aunt is nursing the boots He wore on his restless feet. So big, so solemn the old house seems— No uproar, no racket, no din, No shrill peal of laughter, no voice shrieking out, "O sakes! I wish I was a twin!" A man and a woman white with grief Watch the wearisome moments creep— Oh! the loneliness touches everything, The boy of the house is asleep!

SLY BOY. I was the slyest boy at home, The slyest boy at school, I wanted all the world to know That I was no one's fool. I kept my childish hopes and schemes Locked closely in my breast, No single secret shared with Bob, The chum I liked the best. I never showed my squirrel's nest, Nor beaver dam, nor cave, Nor fortress where I used to go To be a soldier brave. Oh, I was sly, just awful sly, In winter, summer, spring, While Bob would tell me all he knew, I never told a thing. And yet Bob always got ahead; I'd find the careless knave Asleep within my fortress walls, And fishing in my cave. "What, yours!" he said, in great surprise, "You should have told me so. You never said a word, old chum, And how was I to know?" My slyness hurt more than it helped; If Bob had known, you see, He was too kind to do his best To get ahead of me. I still was sly when I grew up. I fell in love with Nan, But scorned to own it to myself Or any other man. So sly was I, Nan never guessed— No more did handsome Bob— That every time she looked my way My heart, it stirred and throbbed. The same old story! Ere I knew, My chum had loved and won. When I explained I'd picked her out To be my very own, "What, yours!" he said in great surprise, "You should have told me so. You never said a word, old chum, And how was I to know?" I've learned my lesson, lost my girl; You'll own 'tis rather rough. Henceforward I'll not be too sly— I'll be just sly enough.

QUEEN VICTORIA. 1837. The sunshine streaming through the stainèd glass Touched her with rosy colors as she stood, The maiden Queen of all the British realm, In the old Abbey on that soft June day. Youth shone within her eyes, where God had set All steadfastness, and high resolve, and truth; Youth flushed her cheek, dwelt on the smooth white brow Whereon the heavy golden circlet lay. The ashes of dead kings, the history of A nation's growth, of strife, and victory, The mighty past called soft through aisle and nave: "Be strong, O Queen; be strong as thou art fair!" A virgin, white of soul and unafraid, Since back of her was God, and at her feet A people loyal to the core, and strong, And loving well her sweetness and her youth.