PART THREE

Melodious Reading

Conversational elements: Pitch, Inflection, Color, Stress, Pause, Movement, Time. Separate discussions and illustrations with number of exercises for the pupil to practice. Melody in verse and in prose.

EXPRESSIVE SPEECH[9]

BY ROBERT LLOYD

’Tis not enough the voice be sound and clear, ’Tis modulation that must charm the ear. When desperate heroines grieve with tedious moan, And whine their sorrows in a see-saw tone, The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes Can only make the yawning hearer doze.

_That_ voice all modes of passion can express Which marks the proper word with proper stress; But none emphatic can the reader call Who lays an equal emphasis on _all_. ... He who in earnest studies o’er his part Will find true nature cling about his heart. The modes of grief are not included all In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl. A single look more marks the internal woe Than all the windings of the lengthened O! Up to the face the quick sensation flies, And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes. Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair, And all the passions, all the soul is there.

## CHAPTER X

MELODIOUS READING

What charm and delight surround a sweet, melodious voice, whether of woman or man. Who is there that does not recall such a voice and its influence upon him? Who does not have clinging memories of the voice of the mother, crooning over her babe, or singing a sweet lullaby as it lay at her breast; of a father, softening its strong and resonant power to soothe the restlessness of his little one who was sick; of the blushing maiden, who consciously or unconsciously had learned the immeasurably greater power exercised over her fellows, whether of her own or the opposite sex, by a soft, pure, well-controlled voice, rather than the high-pitched, tense, loud and harsh chatter of her associates. The calm, quiet, soft and low-pitched, though firm, voice of the teacher, the parent, the employer, the salesman, the speaker, the statesman, is far more effective, far more likely to attain its end than the harsh, raucous, loud, too emphatic and high-pitched voice of the uncontrolled, untaught, or careless speaker. And to listen to a reader, be he preacher, lawyer, judge, or orator, reading in public to a large audience, or for the pleasure and instruction of his own loved ones, or a few chosen friends, whose voice is melodious in every cadence, whose every intonation is musical and in good taste, what joy such a reader is able to bestow. How memory thrills as we recall a few readers of this type. Why should they be so few? Why should there be so many harsh, nasal, raucous, high-pitched, unmelodious voices? The reason is found mainly in lack of training, lack of a little thought, indifference to the possession of the finer gifts of life. For every boy and girl has it in his or her power, by the exercise of a little care, a little thought, a little self-restraint, a little time spent in discipline to produce the sweet and charming voice, with clean-cut, distinct, pleasing enunciation and pronunciation that will afford joy during the whole of a long life.

One’s own ear will tell whether his voice is properly pitched, pleasing, melodious, or the opposite. A few minutes spent in speech daily before a looking-glass will forever fix the habit of making the face pleasing; and an hour a day for a month will fix perfect habits of pronunciation and enunciation that will remain through life. When these arts are fixed, then a few hours’ study of the thought of the author and the inflections and modulations of the voice necessary to represent, to convey to the ear of the listener, the full power of that thought, and the reader has equipped himself, herself, to give joy to countless thousands. Is it not worth while to spend a few hours to gain such power?

EXERCISES IN INFLECTION

By inflection is meant the glide of the voice within a word to a higher or a lower pitch. This glide may be quick and short, or long and slow. It may be a rising or a falling glide, or both. The value of inflection rests in its power to make what is said more emphatic, to aid in clear enunciation, to aid in overcoming monotony. On all emphasized words we have an intensified inflection. This is illustrated in Portia’s speech in “The Merchant of Venice.” In studying this excerpt we discover that all the emphasized words have a pronounced inflection. In the first group of words, “If to do were as easy as to _know_ what were good to do,” we find the most intensified inflection is upon the word “know” because this is the most emphatic word of the group. This reveals that inflection is one of the most vital means of emphasis.

In regard to inflection as an aid to clear enunciation, we find that inflection occurs upon the accented syllable of a long word, and if due attention is given to the syllable upon which the accent falls, the word will receive a more perfect utterance. For instance, we can readily see in the following words, which are often mispronounced, the important part that inflection plays in the proper pronunciation of them:

abdomen abject acclimate address admirable alias brigand caricature chastisement chauffeur combatant contumely demoniacal discourse exquisite finance grimace herculean horizon impious impotent incomparable indisputable industry inexplicable interpolate inquiry lyceum mausoleum mischievous obligatory research resource superfluous traverse vagary vehement vehicle virago verbose virtue virtually

(_For the correct pronunciations see Webster’s New International Dictionary._)

We readily see that the proper use of inflection cannot help but give variety and contrast to our speech, and this aids immeasurably in overcoming the persistent use of monotones.

We shall take up the different kinds of inflection and illustrate them with appropriate exercises. The student should consider the aim and value of each kind of inflection and then proceed to practice orally the exercises, listening intently to his voice to see that it responds.

_Kinds of Inflection_

Falling Glide in the voice indicates a complete and positive assertion. For example:

“The Prince’s banner wavered, staggered backward, hemmed by foes!”

A command, although punctuated with a question mark, is rendered with a falling glide in the voice. For example:

“Halt! who goes there?” “Speak, what trade art thou?”

Rising Glide in the voice indicates incompleteness and doubt. For example:

“How ‘the fellow by the name of Rowan’ took the letter, sealed it up in an oilskin pouch, strapped it over his heart, in four days landed by night off the coast of Cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the jungle, and in three weeks came out on the other side of the island, having traversed a hostile country on foot, and delivered his letter to Garcia, are things I have no special desire now to tell in detail.”

Circumflex Glide indicates a twist in the voice which reflects a like twist in the mind.

Well, I guess I’ll have to, since you say so.

Exercises for Inflectional Agility:

I find earth not gray but rosy, heaven not grim but fair of hue. Do I stoop? I pluck a posy. Do I stand and stare? All’s blue.

—BROWNING.

* * * * *

I must have left my book on this table last night. (Read two ways.)

* * * * *

There are three pleasures pure and lasting, and all derived from inanimate things—books, pictures, and the face of nature.

—HAZLITT.

* * * * *

We are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.

* * * * *

What right have you, O passer by the way, to call any flower a weed? Do you know its merits? Its virtues? Its healing qualities? Because a thing is common, shall you despise it? If so, you might despise the sunshine for the same reason.

* * * * *

Oh, yes, I begin to remember you now. Do you really think it true?

* * * * *

Yes, he’s a millionaire. (Read two ways.)

* * * * *

Breathes there a man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land? Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d, As home his footsteps he hath turn’d From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well.

—SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Now clear, pure, hard, bright, and one by one, like the hailstones, Short words fall from his lips fast as the first of a shower, Now in two-fold column: Spondæ, Iamb, Trochee, Unbroken, firm-set, advance, retreat, trampling along,— Now with a sprightlier springiness, bounding in triplicate syllables, Dance the elastic Dactylics in musical cadences on; Now their voluminous coil intertangling like huge anacondas, Roll overwhelmingly onward the sesquipedalian words.

—BROWNING.

Resolve! To keep my health! To do my work! To live! To see to it that I grow and gain and give! Never to look behind me for an hour! To wait in weakness and to walk in power; But always fronting onward to the light. Always and always facing toward the right. Robbed, starved, defeated, wide astray— On, with what strength I have! Back to the way!

A very interesting and helpful exercise in the study of inflection is the use of the one-word dialogue. The following scene, written by a pupil, is given as an illustration:

_Scene: Midnight; and the two are awakened by a noise._

_She._ Philipe!

_He._ What?

_She._ Burglar!

_He._ Where?

_She._ Bathroom!

_He._ Gun?

_She._ No!

_He._ Sh-h!

_She (fainting)._ Darling!

_He._ Huh! Cat! (_catching her_).

It is by use of tone and inflection that the following exercises are properly rendered.

How are you to-day? Ha. (inquiry, surprise). I say how are you to-day? Ha. (rising doubt). Have you suddenly become deaf? Ha. (indignation). I have been trying to find out how Ha. (satisfaction, laugh). you are to-day. I am glad you heard me. Ha. (short grunt). I am on my way to the store. Ha. (do not believe it). Will you go with me? Ha. (glad to).

A STUDY OF PITCH

Pitch is simply the modulation of the voice as high or low. In natural speech we seldom have more than one word on the same pitch. Note the constant change of pitch in a good conversationalist. In listening to such, we discover what?

_First_: If one idea is expressed on one pitch, its antithesis is instinctively expressed on another pitch. For example: “When our vices _leave us_, we flatter ourselves we _leave them_.” “The prodigal _robs his heir_, the miser _robs himself_.” “_Excess_ of ceremony shows _want_ of breeding.”

_Second_: A quick leap of the mind causes a leap in the voice, or, in other words, it causes a change of pitch. For example: “So you say you are going to—Well, hello, John! How did you get here?”

There can be no definite rules laid down governing Changes of Pitch. If we think progressively, giving ourselves completely to each successive idea, permitting our movement of tone to be the direct outcome of the _action of the mind_ we shall have no difficulty in modulating our pitch.

In reading the following selections, note carefully the natural tendency of the voice to change pitch as the mind leaps from one thought to another.

O larks, sing out to the thrushes, And thrushes, sing to the sky! Sing from your nests in the bushes, And sing wherever you fly.

* * * * *

Then sing, O bird in the tree, Then sing, skylark in the blue, Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear, And my soul shall sing with you.

* * * * *

I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under: And then again I dissolve in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.

* * * * *

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance.

* * * * *

Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,— Ere I own a usurper, I’ll couch with the fox; And tremble, false whigs, in the midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me.

* * * * *

If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions. I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood; but a hot temper leaps over a cold decree: such a hare is madness, the youth, to skip o’er the meshes of good counsel, the cripple.

—“Merchant of Venice.”

* * * * *

_Extremely high_: Half a league, half a league, half a league onward!

_Very high_: Hats off! along the street they come! The flag is passing by.

_High_: Sail on, sail on, O ship of state!

_Rather high_: Now’s the day and now’s the hour!

_Middle_: In spite of rock and tempest roar.

_Rather low_: No stir in the air, no stir in the sea.

_Low_:

Sunset and evening star And one clear call for me.

_Very low_: Quoth the raven, “Never more.”

_Low as possible_: O death, where is thy sting!

STUDY IN STRESS

If we read or speak aloud naturally and earnestly, there occurs in our voice a succession of beats or pulsations. If these pulsations occur at regular intervals, our speech will be “singsong” and monotonous. Thus:

a I wandered lonely cloud as and That floats on high o’er hills, vales

a When all at once I crowd saw

o A host of golden dills. daff

The fault is that we are responding to the rhythm of the line instead of the rhythm of the thought. There should be rhythmic action of the _voice_, but, at all times, it should be in perfect harmony with the rhythmic action of the _mind_. Therefore, we see again that correct _reading_ depends upon getting the correct _thought_.

It is very important that we have control of our voice in stress or force of utterance. If a teacher requires one pupil out of a class of twenty to go on an errand for him, there is but one way of clearly expressing that thought in the following sentence: Thus:

Will _you_ please return this book to the library?

If we make prominent any other word than “you,” we shall not be clear as to who shall return the book. Read the above sentence in as many ways as there are different meanings.

Practice reading aloud the following with especial attention to stress. Be sure that the action of the voice corresponds to the action of the mind. Stress is indicated by italics.

_Rouse_, ye Romans! _Rouse_, ye slaves!

* * * * *

_Worcester_, get thee _gone_, for I do see _Danger_ and _disobedience_ in thine eyes. You have good leave to _leave_ us; when we need _Your_ use and counsel, we shall _send_ for you.

—SHAKESPEARE.

Abraham Lincoln used _scripture_ quotations very _frequently_ and _powerfully_.

All _learning_ is _valuable_; all _history_ is _useful_. By knowing what _has_ been we can better _judge_ the _future_; by knowing how men have acted _heretofore_ we can _understand_ how they will act _again_ in _similar_ circumstances.

Place the stress in the following exercises:

It is a compliment to a public speaker that the audience should discuss what he says rather than his manner of saying it; more complimentary that they should remember his arguments, than that they should praise his rhetoric. The speaker should seek to conceal himself behind his subject.

Our country is in danger, but not to be despaired of. Our enemies are numerous and powerful; but we have many friends, determining to be free, and Heaven and earth will aid the resolution. On you depend the fortunes of America. You are to decide the important questions on which rest the happiness and liberty of millions yet unborn. Act worthy of yourselves. The faltering tongue of hoary age calls on you to support your country. The lisping infant raises its suppliant hands, imploring defense against the monster, slavery.

—JOSEPH WARREN, “Boston Massacre.”

Thou know’st, great son, The end of war’s uncertain, but this certain, That if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap in such a name Whose repetition will be dogg’d with curses; Whose chronicle thus writ: “The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wiped it out, Destroy’d his country, and his name remains To the ensuing age abhorred.”

—SHAKESPEARE, “Coriolanus.”

We say to you (our opponents) that you have made the definition of a business man too limited in its application. The man who is employed for wages is as much a business man as his employer; the attorney in a country town is as much a business man as the corporation counsel in a great metropolis; the merchant at the cross-roads store is as much a business man as the merchant of New York; the farmer who goes forth in the morning and toils all day, who begins in the spring and toils all summer, and who by application of brain and muscle to the natural resources of the country creates wealth, is as much a business man as the man who goes upon the Board of Trade and bets upon the price of grain; the miners who go down a thousand feet into the earth, or climb 2,000 feet upon the cliffs, and bring forth from their hiding-places the precious metals to be poured into the channels of trade, are as much business men as the few financial magnates who in a back room corner the money of the world. We come to speak for this broader class of business men.

Oh do not pray for easy lives. Pray to be stronger men. Do not pray for tasks equal to your powers, pray for power equal to your tasks; then the doing of your work shall be no miracle. But you shall be a miracle. Every day you shall wonder at yourself, at the richness of life, which has come to you by the grace of God.

—PHILLIPS BROOKS.

There is so much good in the worst of us, And so much bad in the best of us, That it hardly behooves any of us, To talk about the rest of us.

—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

If you would be known, and not know, vegetate in a village; if you would know and not be known, live in a city.

—COLTON.

No man is inspired by the occasion; I never was.

—WEBSTER.

(Does stress fall upon “I,” or upon “never”?)

In men whom men condemn as ill, I find so much of goodness still; In men whom men account divine, I find so much of sin and blot, I hesitate to draw the line between the two, Where God has not.

—JOAQUIN MILLER.

ALL IN THE EMPHASIS

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

Written expressly for _Delight and Power in Speech_

The crows flew over my field at morn, Shouting disdain: “_Such_ corn, SUCH corn!” Hearing this, I said, “My corn is safe; When crows deride, the corn is safe.”

But the next hour I looked indeed, And they were digging up the seed, And shouting still—not now in scorn But in delight—“Such _corn_, such CORN!”

A STUDY OF THE PAUSE

When we pause we suspend our speech, but continue our thought. It is a resting place for us better to conceive of the importance either of the thought just expressed or of the one that follows. The mind is busy re-creating a new idea for the one who is listening. Pausing gives time for the speaker to get the new idea and it also gives time for the auditor to hear the new idea. It often occurs that we are more impressive during the interval of pausing than during the interval of speech. The majority of people in ordinary conversation do not use the pause enough. One result is that they are uninteresting and monotonous in speech.

In the following excerpt, taken from an address by Henry Ward Beecher, indicate the frequency of pauses and then tell fully, in your own words, what the successive ideas are upon which the mind is concentrating:

Now, a living force that brings to itself all the resources of the imagination, all the inspirations of feeling, all that is influential in body, in voice, in eye, in gesture, in posture, in the whole animated man, is in strict analogy with the divine thought and the divine arrangement; and there is no misconception more utterly untrue and fatal than this: that oratory is an artificial thing, which deals with baubles and trifles, for the sake of making bubbles of pleasure for transient effect on mercurial audiences. So far from that, it is the consecration of the whole man to the noblest purposes to which one can address himself—the education and inspiration of his fellow-men by all that there is in learning, by all that there is in thought, by all that there is in feeling, by all that there is in all of them, sent home through the channels of taste and beauty. And so regarded, oratory should take its place among the highest departments of education.

In reading the following of what value is pause? Does it indicate distance? Make selections from your own reading which illustrate the importance of the pause.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going; O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

—TENNYSON.

* * * * *

What is our failure here but a triumph’s evidence For the fullness of the days? Have we withered or agonized? Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? Why rushed the discords in but that harmony should be prized? Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe; But God has a few of us whom He whispers in the ear; The rest may reason and welcome; ’tis we musicians know.

—BROWNING.

* * * * *

O well for the fisherman’s boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor-lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill: But oh! for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

—TENNYSON.

KIND OF PAUSES

Pauses may be long or short, frequent or seldom.

In the following exercises indicate where and what kind of pauses you would naturally have:

Woman without her man is a brute

Speech is a jewel silence must form its setting

Silas Marner decided to keep the child who was frozen one evening outside his house in the snow

We will hang together or we will hang separately

Pausing is to speaking what shading is to drawing

The perfection of art is to conceal art

Henry wrote the book

What do you think I’ll shave you for nothing and give you plenty to eat and something to drink

STUDY OF THE IMPORTANCE OF TONE

When we are speaking in ordinary conversation, or in public address, the tones we use have much to do in making our meaning clear. How often a person, merely by the tone of his voice, conveys an entirely different meaning than was intended. He is accused of being sarcastic when he had no intention that his remark should be so regarded.

Let us remember that in whatever state of mind we may be it is unconsciously reflected in our voice. If we feel timid, embarrassed or self-conscious it is registered in our tone when we speak. On the other hand, if we feel gay, optimistic, earnest and confident these moods are likewise revealed in our speech. Thus we find tone to be an index to character.

The function of tone-color is most important. It reveals the subtle changes of our thoughts and feelings. It can make the hearer see more clearly and feel more deeply what you say. Nothing so quickly reveals your sincerity of purpose as the tone of your voice. It is the source of the greatest pleasure to the hearer. It marks you as a cultured person. And best of all it cannot be regulated by rule. If you can express the tone admiration in colloquial language, there is no reason why you cannot express it in the language of a Browning or a Shakespeare.

It is not so much what you say, As the manner in which you say it; It is not so much the language you use, As the tones in which you convey it.

“Come here!” I sharply said, And the baby cowered and wept; “Come here!” I cooed and he looked and smiled, And straight to my lap he crept.

The words may be mild and fair, And the tones may pierce like a dart; The words may be soft as the summer air, And the tones may break the heart.

For _words_ but come from the mind, And grow by study and art; But the _tones_ leap forth from the inner self, And reveal the state of the heart.

Whether you know it or not— Whether you mean or care, Gentleness, kindness, love and hate, Envy and anger are there.

Then would you quarrels avoid, And in peace and love rejoice, Keep anger not only out of your words, But keep it out of your voice.

—SARAH EDWARDS HENSHAW.

* * * * *

In Part II instructions were given in word analysis and thought-grouping. Let the student analyze the words, outline the thought-groups and determine just where the pause naturally falls, and whether the interval of rest is long or short, in the following selections. He should also be able to explain just why certain groups are separated by a long, and others by a short, pause.

A MESSAGE TO GARCIA

BY ELBERT HUBBARD

(Extract from _The Philistine_ for March, 1899.)

When war broke out between Spain and the United States, it was necessary to communicate quickly with the leader of the Insurgents. Garcia was somewhere in the mountain fastnesses of Cuba—no one knew where. No mail or telegraph message could reach him. The President must secure his coöperation, and quickly.

What to do!

Some one said to the President, “There’s a fellow by the name of Rowan will find Garcia for you if anybody can.” Rowan was sent for and given a letter to be delivered to Garcia. How “the fellow by the name of Rowan” took the letter, sealed it up in an oilskin pouch, strapped it over his heart, in four days landed by night off the coast of Cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the jungle, and in three weeks came out on the other side of the island, having traversed a hostile country on foot, and delivered his letter to Garcia, are things I have no special desire now to tell in detail.

The point I wish to make is this: McKinley gave Rowan a letter to be delivered to Garcia; Rowan took the letter and did not ask “Where is he at?” By the Eternal! there is a man whose form should be cast in deathless bronze and the statue placed in every college of the land. It is not book-learning young men need, nor instructions about this and that, but a stiffening of the vertebræ which will cause them to be loyal to a trust, to act promptly, concentrate their energies; do the thing—“Carry a message to Garcia!”

The following is a one-minute composition by a student, illustrating the power of tone and also of mood suspense:

The lion crept stealthily onward, ever onward, with his eyes fixedly staring at the unfortunate boy who cowered before him. The boy, trembling from head to foot, backed slowly toward a yawning precipice. He was on the edge! The loose earth was slowly crumbling under his feet! He was falling! The earth was coming up to meet him at a terrific rate. Another second, and he would be dashed to death on those rocks below!

Then a sweet voice called to him: “Time to get up, Johnnie.”

A most striking example of the power of suspense is Mark Twain’s story of “The Golden Arm.”

Once ’pon a time dey wuz a monsus mean man, ’en he live ’way out in de prairie all ’lone by hisself, ’cep’n he had a wife. En bimeby she died, en he tuck en toted her way out dah in de prairie en buried her. Well, she had a golden arm—all solid gold, fum de shoulder down. He wuz pow’ful mean—pow’ful; en dat night he couldn’t sleep, caze he want dat golden arm so bad.

When it come midnight he couldn’t stan’ it no mo; so he git up, he did, en tuck his lantern en shoved out throo de storm en dug her up en got de golden arm; en he bent his head down ’gin de win’, en plowed, en plowed, en plowed throo de snow. Den all on a sudden he stop (make a considerable pause here, and look startled, and take a listening attitude) en say: “My _lan’_, what’s dat!”

En he listen—en listen—en de win’ say (set your teeth together and imitate the wailing and wheezing singsong of the wind), “Bzzz-z-zzz”—en den, way back yonder whah de grave is, he hear a _voice_!—he hear a voice all mix’ up in de win’—can’t hardly tell ’em ’part—“Bzzz-zzz—W-h-o—g-o-t—m-y—g-o-l-d-e-n _Arm_?—zzz-zzz—W-H-O G-O-T M-Y G-O-L-D-E-N _ARM_?” (You must begin to shiver violently now.)

En he begin to shiver en shake, en say, “Oh, my! Oh, my lan’! en de win’ blow de lantern out, en de snow en sleet blow in his face en ’mos’ choke him, en he start a-plowin’ knee-deep towards home mos’ dead, he so sk’yerd—en pooty soon he hear de voice agin, en (pause) it is comin’ _after_ him! Bzzz-zzz-zzz—W-h-o—G-o-t—M-y—G-o-l-d-e-n _arm_?”

When he git in de pasture he hear it agin—closter now, en a-comin’!—a-comin’ back dah in de dark en de storm—(repeat the wind and the voice). When he git to de house he rush upstairs en jump in de bed en kiver up, head and years, en lay dah shiverin’ en shakin’—en den way out dah he hear it _ag’in_!—en _a-comin’_! En bimeby he hear (pause—awed, listening attitude)—pat—pat—pat—hit’s _a-comin’ upstairs_! Den he hear de latch, en he know it’s in de room!

Den pooty soon he know it’s _a-standin’ by his bed_! (Pause.) Den—he know it’s _a-bendin’ down over him_—en he cain’t skasely git his breath! Den—den—he seem to feel somethin’ _c-o-l-d_, right down ’most agin his head! (Pause.)

Den de voice say, _right at his ear_—“W-h-o—g-o-t—m-y—g-o-l-d-e-n _arm_?” (You must wail it out plaintively and accusingly; then you stare steadily and impressively into the face of the farthest-gone auditor—a girl preferably—and let that awe-inspiring pause begin to build itself in the deep hush. When it has reached exactly the right length, jump suddenly at that girl and yell, “_You’ve got it!_” If you’ve got the _pause_ right, she’ll fetch a dear little yelp and spring right out of her shoes. But you must get the pause right; and you will find it the most troublesome and aggravating and uncertain thing you ever undertook.)

* * * * *

The student may give himself fine exercise by choosing any one of the following moods and writing a one-minute composition upon it. Then let him read it aloud with the appropriate tone:

Admiration, Appeal, Argument, Comparison, Challenge, Command, Excitement, Geniality, Solemnity, Reproof, Modesty, Contempt, Encouragement, Determination, Affection, Pity, Joy, Gloom, Hate, Friendliness, Aspiration, Warning, Meditation, Horror, Belittlement, Exultation, Despair, Confusion, Calmness, Indifference, Suspense, Fear, Awe, Haste.

A wonderful illustration of “Mood” is afforded in a marvelous poem written by Bartholomew Dowling, at one time the editor of _The Mirror_, in San Francisco, California. It depicts the “heroism of despair,” as, perhaps, it was never presented before or since in all literature. Without commending the sentiment expressed, the authors give this poem a place in their volume as an incomparable example, well worthy of prolonged study, of the power of words to express “mood.” One of the greatest dramatists the world has ever known used to read this poem aloud, daily, for years.

HURRAH FOR THE NEXT THAT DIES![10]

BY BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING

We meet ’neath the sounding rafter, And the walls around are bare: As they shout back our peals of laughter, It seems as the dead were there. Then stand to your glasses!—steady! We drink ’fore our comrades’ eyes; One cup to the dead already: Hurrah for the next that dies!

Not here are the goblets glowing, Not here is the vintage sweet; ’Tis cold as our hearts are growing, And dark as the doom we meet. But stand to your glasses!—steady! And soon shall our pulses rise. One cup to the dead already: Hurrah for the next that dies!

There’s many a hand that’s shaking, And many a cheek that’s sunk; But soon, though our hearts are breaking, They’ll burn with the wine we’ve drunk. Then stand to your glasses!—steady! ’Tis here the revival lies; Quaff a cup to the dead already: Hurrah for the next that dies!

Time was when we laughed at others; We thought we were wiser then. Ha! Ha! let them think of their mothers, Who hope to see them again. No! Stand to your glasses!—steady! The thoughtless is here the wise; One cup to the dead already: Hurrah for the next that dies!

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, Not a tear for the friends that sink; We’ll fall ’mid the wine-cup’s sparkles, As mute as the wine we drink. Come! Stand to your glasses!—steady! ’Tis this that the respite buys; One cup to the dead already: Hurrah for the next that dies!

Who dreads to the dust returning? Who shrinks from the sable shore, Where the high and haughty yearning Of the soul can sting no more? No! Stand to your glasses!—steady! This world is a world of lies; One cup to the dead already: Hurrah for the next that dies!

Cut off from the land that bore us, Betray’d by the land we find, When the brightest are gone before us, And the dullest are left behind. Stand!—stand to your glasses!—steady! ’Tis all we have left to prize; One cup to the dead already: Hurrah for the next that dies!

## CHAPTER XI

HOW TO READ POETRY

In order to avoid the “singsong” habit, common to so many while reading poetry, let us remember to make but a very delicate pause at the end of each line. Of course, if the sense requires a decided pause, one should not fail to make it. Browning’s “My Star” is a splendid example of where but a very slight swelling of the voice is necessary to indicate the end of each line.

All that I know Of a certain star Is, it can throw (Like the angled spar) Now a dart of red, Now a dart of blue; Till my friends have said They would fain see, too, My star that dartles the red and the blue! Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled: They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. What matter to me if their star is a world? Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.

To illustrate the contrary to this let us refer to a few lines from Riley’s “The South Wind and the Sun,” noting that the poise of the tone is considerably longer at the end of each line.

And the humming-bird that hung Like a jewel up among The tilted honeysuckle-horns, They mesmerized and swung In the palpitating air, Drowsed with odors strange and rare, And, with whispered laughter, slipped away And left him hanging there.

We can hardly overestimate the value of a careful study of the lyric to the student of expressive speech. It demands superior powers to render a lyric adequately. Bertha Kuntz Baker, the great American reader, thus suggestively writes on this subject:

To clarify the diction, go over the poem, word by word, conform each word carefully, repeatedly to your ideal of that word, giving the vowel its fullest possible value, tucking in the consonants as clear, light envelopes around and between the vowels.

PISGAH-SIGHT

BY ROBERT BROWNING

Good, to forgive: Best, to forget! Living, we fret; Dying, we live. Fretless and free, Soul, clap thy pinion! Earth have dominion, Body, o’er thee!

Wander at will, Day after day,— Wander away, Wandering still— Soul that canst soar! Body may slumber: Body shall cumber Soul-flight no more.

Waft of soul’s wing! What lies above? Sunshine and Love, Skyblue and Spring! Body hides—where? Ferns of all feather, Mosses and heather, Yours be the care!

DAWN

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

An angel, robed in spotless white, Bent down and kissed the sleeping night. Night woke to blush: the sprite was gone; Men saw the blush and called it Dawn.

FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL

BY LORD TENNYSON

Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower—but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is.

THE WORKER’S GUERDON

BY FRANK PRESTON SMART

Expect nor fame, nor gold, nor any praise— The world puts not its meed in every hand; Work on and still be thankful all thy days If even one shall see and understand!

MY HEART LEAPS UP

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

When we think of melody in speech, we immediately think of the lyric. In form and in spirit it approaches nearest towards music, for it is “emotion all compact.” When we have stimulated within us a noble emotion, we begin at once to respond in some rhythmic action, a beat of our foot, sway of the body, or humming in a tuneful way. There is melody in prose as well as in poetry, only it is not so pronounced. Lincoln’s “Gettysburg Address” is a splendid example of prose-poetry. We are under obligation to James Raymond Perry in the _North American Review_ for metrically dividing this oration:

Four score and seven years ago Our fathers brought forth upon this continent A new nation conceived in liberty And dedicated to the proposition That all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, Testing whether that nation, or any nation So conceived and so dedicated Can long endure. We are met On a great battle field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of That field as a final resting place For those who here gave their lives That this nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper That we should do this But in a larger sense We cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, We cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, Living and dead, who struggled here, Have consecrated it far above our power To add or detract. The world will little note Nor long remember what we say here, But it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here To the unfinished work which they who fought here Have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated To the great task remaining before us; That from these honored dead we take Increased devotion to that cause for which They gave the last full measure of devotion; That we here highly resolve that these dead Shall not have died in vain, that this nation, Under God, shall have a new birth of freedom; And that the government of the people, By the people, and for the people, Shall not perish from the earth.

Channing’s “Symphony” is another interesting illustration of musical prose:

To live content with small means, to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable; and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with open heart; to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never; in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common. This is to be my symphony.

The most striking example of all is the following excerpt taken from Ingersoll’s oration entitled “A Vision of War”:

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty—they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of Rest. Earth may run red with other wars: they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for soldiers living and dead: Cheers for the living; tears for the dead.

POETICAL SELECTIONS

Colloquial Humorous Humorous Dialect Pathetic Dramatic Sublime Lyric

Poetry is the highest, most beautiful and perfect verbal expression of thought allowed to man. The higher the poetry the more is it permeated with elevating human emotion.

COLLOQUIAL SELECTIONS IN POETRY

THE PESSIMIST

BY BEN KING

Nothing to do but work, Nothing to eat but food, Nothing to wear but clothes To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air; Quick as a flash ’tis gone; Nowhere to fall but off, Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair, Nowhere to sleep but in bed, Nothing to weep but tears, Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs, Ah, well, alas! alack! Nowhere to go but out, Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights, Nothing to quench but thirst, Nothing to have but what we’ve got; Thus through life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait; Everything moves that goes. Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes.

THE RIVALS

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

’Twas three an’ thirty year ago, When I was ruther young, you know, I had my last an’ only fight About a gal one summer night. ’Twas me an’ Zekel Johnson; Zeke ’N’ me ’d be’n spattin’ ’bout a week, Each of us tryin’ his best to show That he was Liza Jones’s beau. We couldn’t neither prove the thing, Fur she was fur too sharp to fling One over fur the other one An’ by so doin’ stop the fun That we chaps didn’t have the sense To see she got at our expense. But that’s the way a feller does, Fur boys is fools an’ allus was; An’ when they’s females in the game I reckon men’s about the same. Well, Zeke an’ me went on that way An’ fussed an’ quarreled day by day; While Liza, mindin’ not the fuss, Jest kep’ a-goin’ with both of us, Tell we pore chaps, that’s Zeke an’ me, Was jest plum mad with jealousy. Well, fur a time we kep’ our places, An’ only showed by frownin’ faces An’ looks ’at well our meanin’ boded How full o’ fight we both was loaded. At last it come, the thing broke out, An’ this is how it come about. One night (’twas fair, you’ll all agree) I got Eliza’s company, An’ leavin’ Zekel in the lurch, Went trottin’ off with her to church. An’ jest as we had took our seat, (Eliza lookin’ fair an’ sweet), Why, I jest couldn’t help but grin When Zekel come a-bouncin’ in As furious as the law allows. He’d jest be’n up to Liza’s house, To find her gone, then come to church To have this end put to his search. I guess I laffed that meetin’ through, An’ not a mortal word I knew Of what the preacher preached er read Er what the choir sung er said. Fur every time I’d turn my head I couldn’t skeercely help but see ’At Zekel had his eye on me. An’ he ’ud sort o’ turn an’ twist An’ grind his teeth an’ shake his fist. I laughed, fur la! the hull church seen us, An’ knowed that suthin’ was between us. Well, meetin’ out, we started hum, I sorter feelin’ what would come. We’d jest got out, when up stepped Zeke, An’ said, “Scuse me, I’d like to speak To you a minute.” “Cert,” said I— A-nudgin’ Liza on the sly An’ laughin’ in my sleeve with glee, I asked her, please, to pardon me. We walked away a step er two, Jest to git out o’ Liza’s view, An’ then Zeke said, “I want to know Ef you think you’re Eliza’s beau, An’ ’at I’m goin’ to let her go Hum with sich a chap as you?” An’ I said bold, “You bet I do.” Then Zekel, sneerin’, said ’at he Didn’t want to hender me, But then he ’lowed the gal was his An’ ’at he guessed he knowed his biz, An’ wasn’t feared o’ all my kin With all my friends an’ chums throwed in. Some other things he mentioned there That no born man could no ways bear Er think o’ ca’mly tryin’ to stan’ Ef Zeke had be’n the bigges’ man In town, an’ not the leanest runt ’At time an’ labor ever stunt. An’ so I let my fist go “bim.” I thought I’d mos’ nigh finished him. But Zekel didn’t take it so. He jest ducked down an’ dodged my blow An’ then come back at me so hard, I guess I must ’a’ hurt the yard, Er spilet the grass plot where I fell, An’ sakes alive it hurt me; well, It wouldn’t be’n so bad you see, But he jest kep’ a-hittin’ me. An’ I hit back an’ kicked an’ pawed, But ’t seemed ’twas mostly air I clawed, While Zekel used his science well A-makin’ every motion tell. He punched an’ hit, why, goodness lands, Seemed like he had a dozen hands. Well, afterwhile, they stopped the fuss, An’ some one kindly parted us. All beat an’ cuffed an’ clawed an’ scratched, An’ needin’ both our faces patched, Each started hum a different way; An’ what o’ Liza, do you say, Why, Liza—little humbug—darn her, Why, she’d gone home with Hiram Turner.

—Copyright by _Dodd, Mead & Co._, New York, and used by special arrangement.

THE FIRST FURROW

BY JAMES J. MONTAGUE

Don’t you ever feel a yearnin’, ’long about this time o’ year, For a robin’s song to tell you that the summer time is near? Don’t you ever sort o’ hanker for the blackbird’s whistlin’ call, Echoin’ through the hillside orchard, where the blossoms used to fall? Don’t you wish that you were out there, breathin’ in the April air, Full o’ glad an’ careless boyhood, an’ with strength an’ health to spare? Don’t it _hurt_ you to remember, when the springtime comes around, How the first, long, rollin’ furrow used to wake the sleepy ground?

How’d you like to take the children, born to dirty city streets, Out to where the brook goes pulsin’ when the heart o’ nature beats? How’d you like to watch ’em wonder at the boomin’ of the bees, Or to see ’em dodge the petals that are snowin’ from the trees? How’d you like to see their faces catch the color o’ the rose, As they raced across the meadow where the earliest crocus grows? Wouldn’t it be joy to watch ’em follow on behind the plow, As it cut the first brown furrow, like it’s doin’ out there now?

SUNSHINE

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

Some people have the sunshine, While others have the rain; But God don’t change the weather Because the folks complain. Don’t waste your time in grumbling, Nor wrinkle up your brow; Some other soul has trouble, Most likely has it now.

When nature lies in shadow, On damp and cloudy days, Don’t blame the sun, good people, But loan a few bright rays. The sun is always shining Above the misty shroud, And if your world be murky, The fault lies in the cloud.

Take sunshine to your neighbor, In all you do and say; Have sunshine in your labor, And sunshine in your play. Where’er the storm-cloud lowers, Take in the sunlight glow, And Heaven will show what flowers From seeds of kindness grow.

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

“CICELY”

ALKALI STATION

BY BRET HARTE

Cicely says you’re a poet: maybe; I ain’t much on rhyme: I reckon you’d give me a hundred, and beat me every time. Poetry!—that’s the way some chaps puts up an idee, But I takes mine “straight without sugar,” and that’s what’s the matter with me.

Poetry!—just look round you,—alkali, rock, and sage; Sage-brush, rock, and alkali; ain’t it a pretty page! Sun in the east at mornin’, sun in the west at night, And the shadow of this ’yer station the on’y thing moves in sight.

Poetry!—Well now—Polly! Polly run to your mam; Run right away, my pooty! By by! Ain’t she a lamb? Poetry!—that reminds me o’ suthin’ right in that suit: Jest shet that door thar, will yer?—for Cicely’s ears is cute.

Ye noticed Polly,—the baby? A month afore she was born, Cicely—my old woman—was moody-like and forlorn; Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and trees; Family man yourself, sir? Well, you know what a woman be’s.

Narvous she was, and restless,—said that she “couldn’t stay,” Stay,—and the nearest woman seventeen miles away. But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would be on hand, And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that bit o’ land.

One night,—the tenth of October,—I woke with a chill and fright, For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn’t in sight, But a note was pinned on the blanket, which said that she “couldn’t stay,” But had gone to visit her neighbor,—seventeen miles away.

When and how she stampeded, I didn’t wait for to see, For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she: Running first this way and that way, like a hound that is off the scent, For there warn’t no track in the darkness to tell me the way she went.

I’ve had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this spot,— Lost on the plains in ’50, drowned almost, and shot; But out on this alkali desert, a hunting a crazy wife, Was ra’ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life.

“Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!” I called, and I held my breath, And “Cicely!” came from the canyon,—and all was as still as death. And “Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!” came from the rocks below, And jest but a whisper of “Cicely!” down from them peaks of snow.

I ain’t what you call religious,—but I jest looked up to the sky, And—this ’yer’s to what I’m coming, and maybe ye think I lie: But up away to the east’ard, yaller and big and far, I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of star.

Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me: Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never see: Big and yaller and dancing,—I never saw such a star, And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I went for it then and thar.

Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead: Keeping the star afore me, I went wharever it led. It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and nigh, Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby’s cry.

Listen! thar’s the same music; but her lungs they are stronger now Than the day I packed her and her mother,—I’m derned if I jest know how. But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o’ the whole thing is That Cis. never knew what happened from that very night to this!

But Cicely says you’re a poet, and maybe you might, some day, Jest sling her a rhyme ’bout a baby that was born in a curious way, And see what she says; but, old fellow, when you speak of the star, don’t tell As how ’twas the doctor’s lantern,—for maybe ’twon’t sound so well.

—Copyright by _Houghton Mifflin & Co._, Boston, and used by their kind permission.

AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE

BY ALICE CARY

O good painter, tell me true, Has your hand the cunning to draw Shapes of things that you never saw? Ay? Well, here is an order for you.

Woods and cornfields, a little brown,— The picture must not be over-bright,— Yet all in the golden and gracious light Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.

Alway and alway, night and morn, Woods upon woods, with fields of corn Lying between them, not quite sere, And not in the full thick, leafy bloom, When the wind can hardly find breathing-room Under their tassels,—cattle near, Biting shorter the short green grass, And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, With bluebirds twittering all around,— (Ah, good painter, you can’t paint sound)— These and the house where I was born, Low and little, and black and old, With children, many as it can hold, All at the windows, open wide,— Heads and shoulders clear outside, And fair young faces all ablush: Perhaps you may have seen, some day, Roses crowding the selfsame way, Out of a wilding, wayside bush. Listen closer. When you have done With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, A lady, the loveliest ever the sun Looked down upon, you must paint for me; Oh, if I only could make you see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman’s soul, and the angel’s face That are beaming on me all the while!— I need not speak these foolish words: Yet one word tells you all I would say,— She is my mother: you will agree That all the rest may be thrown away.

Two little urchins at her knee You must paint, sir: one like me,— The other with a clearer brow, And the light of his adventurous eyes Flashing with boldest enterprise: At ten years old he went to sea,— God knoweth if he be living now,— He sailed in the good ship _Commodore_,— Nobody ever crossed her track To bring us news, and she never came back. Ah, ’tis twenty long years and more Since that old ship went out of the bay With my great-hearted brother on her deck; I watched him till he shrank to a speck, And his face was toward me all the way. Bright his hair was, a golden brown, The time we stood at our mother’s knee: That beauteous head, if it did go down, Carried sunshine into the sea.

Out in the fields one summer night We were together, half afraid Of the corn leaves rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so far and still,— Loitering till after the low little light Of the candle shone through the open door, And over the haystack’s pointed top, All of a tremble, and ready to drop, The first half-hour, the great yellow star That we with staring, ignorant eyes, Had often and often watched to see Propped and held in its place in the skies By the fork of a tall, red mulberry tree, Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,— Dead at the top—just one branch full Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, From which it tenderly shook the dew Over our heads, when we came to play In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day:— Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,— The other, a bird held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat: The berries we gave her she wouldn’t eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and shining, to keep her still.

ONE, TWO, THREE

BY HENRY C. BUNNER

It was an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy who was half-past three, And the way that they played together Was beautiful to see.

She couldn’t go running and jumping, And the boy, no more could he; For he was a thin little fellow, With a thin little twisted knee.

They sat in the yellow sunlight, Out under the maple tree; And the game that they played I’ll tell you, Just as it was told to me.

It was hide-and-go-seek they were playing, Though you’d never have known it to be— With an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy with a twisted knee.

The boy would bend his face down On his one little sound right knee, And he’d guess where she was hiding, In guesses One, Two, Three.

“You are in the china closet!” He would cry, and laugh with glee. It wasn’t the china closet; But he still had Two and Three.

“You are up in papa’s big bedroom, In the chest with the queer old key!” And she said: “You are warm and warmer; But you’re not quite right,” said she.

“It can’t be the little cupboard Where Mamma’s things used to be, So it must be the clothespress, Gran’ma!” And he found her with his Three.

Then she covered her face with her fingers, That were wrinkled and white and wee, And she guessed where the boy was hiding, With a One and a Two and a Three.

And they never had stirred from their places, Right under the maple tree— This old, old, old, old lady, And the boy with a lame little knee; This dear, dear, dear old lady, And the boy who was half-past three.

RECIPROCITY

BY H. BEDFORD-JONES

Would you have men play square with you, Play fair with you, and bear with you In all the little weaknesses so easy to condemn? Then simply try to do the same— Hold up your head and play the game, And when the others are to blame Be sure to bear with them! Would you have men, when new to you, Be true to you and do to you The things that faith and brother-love and nothing else impel? Then give them faith and brother-love And set sincerity above All other things—and it will prove That you have builded well!

THE YOUNG TRAMP

BY CHAS. F. ADAMS

Hello, thar, stranger! Whar yer frum? Come in and make yerself ter hum! We’re common folks, ain’t much on style; Come in and stop a little while; ’Twon’t do no harm ter rest yer some.

Youngster, yer pale, and don’t look well! What, way from Bosting? Naow, dew tell! Why, that’s a hundred mile or so; What started yer, I’d like ter know, On sich a tramp; got goods ter sell?

No home, no friends? Naow that’s too bad! Wall, cheer up, boy, and don’t be sad,— Wife, see what yer can find ter eat, And put the coffee on ter heat,— We’ll fix yer up all right, my lad.

Willing ter work, can’t git a job, And not a penny in yer fob? Wall, naow, that’s rough, I dew declare! What, tears? Come, youngster, I can’t bear Ter see yer take on so, and sob.

How came yer so bad off, my son? Father was killed? ’Sho’; whar? Bull Run? Why, I was in that scrimmage, lad, And got used up, too, pretty bad; I shan’t forgit old ’sixty-one!

So yer were left in Bosting, hey! A baby when he went away? Those Bosting boys were plucky, wife, Yer know one of ’em saved my life, Else I would not be here to-day.

’Twas when the “Black Horse Cavalcade” Swept down on our small brigade, I got the shot that made me lame, When down on me a trooper came, And this ’ere chap struck up his blade.

Poor feller! He was stricken dead; The trooper’s sabre cleaved his head. Joe Billings was my comrade’s name, He was a Bosting boy, and game! I almost wished I’d died, instead.

Why, lad! what makes yer tremble so? Your father! what, my comrade Joe? And you his son? Come ter my heart. My home is yours; I’ll try in part, Ter pay his boy the debt I owe.

HULLO!

BY SAM WALTER FOSS

When you see a man in woe, Walk straight up and say, “Hullo!” Say “Hullo!” and “How d’ye do? How’s the world been using you?” Slap the fellow on his back, Bring your hand down with a whack! Waltz straight up and don’t go slow, Shake his hand and say “Hullo!”

Is he clothed in rags? Oh, ho. Walk straight up and say “Hullo!” Rags are but a cotton roll Just for wrapping up a soul; And a soul is worth a true Hale and hearty “How d’ye do?” Don’t wait for the crowd to go. Walk straight up and say “Hullo!”

When big vessels meet, they say, They salute and sail away; Just the same as you and me, Lonely ships upon the sea, Each one sailing his own jog For a port beyond the fog; Let your speaking trumpet blow, Lift your horn and cry, “Hullo!”

Say “Hullo!” and “How d’ye do?” Other folks are good as you. When you leave your house of clay, Wandering in the far away, When you travel through the strange Country far beyond the range, Then the souls you’ve cheered will know Who you be, and say “Hullo!”

COLUMBUS

BY ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH

How in heaven’s name did Columbus get over, Is a pure wonder to me, I protest, Cabot, and Raleigh, too, that well-read rover, Frobisher, Dampier, Drake, and the rest; Bad enough all the same, For them that after came; But in great heaven’s name, How he should think That on the other brink Of this wild waste, terra firma should be, Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.

How a man should ever hope to get thither, E’en if he knew that there was another side; But to suppose he should come any whither, Sailing straight on into chaos untried, In spite of the motion, Across the whole ocean, To stick to the notion That in some nook or bend Of a sea without end, He should find North and South America, Was a pure madness, indeed, I must say.

What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy, Judged that the earth like an orange was round, None of them ever said, Come along, follow me, Sail to the West, and the East will be found. Many a day before Ever they’d come ashore Sadder and wiser men, They’d have turned back again; And that he did not, but did cross the sea, Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.

—Copyright by _Macmillan & Co._, New York, and used by arrangement.

THE USUAL WAY

ANONYMOUS

There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, For he said, “I’ll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook.” And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met—in the usual way.

Then he sat down beside her, and an hour or two went by, But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; “I thought,” she shyly whispered, “you’d be fishing all the day!” And he was—in the usual way.

So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about, But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out; And he said, “Sweetheart, I love you,” but she said she could not stay, But she did—in the usual way.

Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh As they watched the silver ripples like the moments running by; “We must say good-by,” she whispered by the alders old and gray. And they did—in the usual way.

And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro, And day by day the fishes swam securely down below, Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, Very much—in the usual way.

And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo? Do they never fret and quarrel, like other couples do? Does he cherish her and love her? Does she honor and obey? Well, they do—in the usual way.

HUMOROUS SELECTIONS IN POETRY

LITTLE MISS STUDY AND LITTLE MISS PLAY

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

Little Miss Study and little Miss Play, Each came to the school from an opposite way; While little Miss Study could always recite, This little Miss Play hardly ever was right; For little Miss Study found she could do more By learning her lessons the evening before; But, fond of a frolic, this little Miss Play Would put off her lessons until the next day. At the head of her class Miss Study was put, While little Miss Play had to stay at the foot! Thus little Miss Study and little Miss Play Went onward through life—in an opposite way.

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

A SIMILAR CASE

ANONYMOUS

Jack, I hear you’ve gone and done it,— Yes, I know; most fellows will; Went and tried it once myself, sir, Though you see I’m single still. And you met her—did you tell me— Down at Newport, last July, And resolved to ask the question At a soiree?—So did I.

I suppose you left the ball-room, With its music and its light; For they say Love’s flame is brightest In the darkness of the night. Well, you walked along together, Overhead, the starlit sky; And I’ll bet—old man, confess it— You were frightened.—So was I.

So you strolled along the terrace, Saw the summer moonlight pour, All its radiance on the waters, As they rippled on the shore, Till at length you gathered courage, When you saw that none was nigh— Did you draw her close and tell her, That you loved her?—So did I.

Well, I needn’t ask you further, And I’m sure I wish you joy, Think I’ll wander down and see you When you’re married,—eh, my boy? When the honeymoon is over And you’re settled down, we’ll try— What? The deuce you say! Rejected? You rejected?—So was I.

IRISH CASTLES

BY FITZ-JAMES O’BRIEN

“Sweet Norah, come here, and look into the fire; Maybe in its embers good luck we might see; But don’t come too near, or your glances so shining, Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, machree!

“Just look ’twixt the sods, where so brightly they’re burning, There’s a sweet little valley, with rivers and trees, And a house on the bank, quite as big as the squire’s— Who knows but some day we’ll have something like these?

“And now there’s a coach and four galloping horses, A coachman to drive, and a footman behind; That betokens some day we will keep a fine carriage, And dash through the streets with the speed of the wind.”

As Dermot was speaking, the rain down the chimney, Soon quenched the turf-fire on the hollowed hearth-stone: While mansion and carriage, in smoke-wreaths evanished, And left the poor dreamer dejected and lone.

Then Norah to Dermot, these words softly whispered: “’Tis better to strive than to vainly desire: And our little hut by the roadside is better Than palace, and servants, and coach—in the fire!”

’Tis years since poor Dermot his fortune was dreaming— Since Norah’s sweet counsel effected its cure; For, ever since then hath he toiled night and morning, And now his snug mansion looks down on the Suir.

THE DEACON’S DRIVE

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

Good Deacon Jones, although a pious man, Was not constructed on the meager plan; And he so loved the Sabbath day of rest, Of all the seven deemed it far the best; Could he have made the year’s allotment o’er, He would have put in many rest-days more. One Sunday morn, on sacred matters bent, With his good wife, to church the deacon went. And since there was no fear of being late, The horse slow jogged along his Sunday gait. This horse he got by trading with a Jew, And called him Moses,—nothing else would do. He’d been a race-horse in his palmy days, But now had settled down, to pious ways,— Save now and then backsliding from his creed, When overtempted to a burst of speed.

’Twas early, and the deacon’s wife was driving, While from the book the deacon hard was striving On sacred things to concentrate his mind— The sound of clattering hoofs is heard behind; Old Mose pricked up his ears and sniffed the air; The deacon mused: “Some racers, I declare! Fast horse, fast man, fast speeds the life away, While sluggish blood is slow to disobey!” He closed the book; he’d read enough of psalms— And, looking backward, spat upon his palms, Then grabbed the sagging reins: “Land sakes alive! It’s late, Jerushee, guess I’d better drive!”

The wife suspects there’s something on his mind; Adjusts her spectacles and looks behind: “Pull out, good Silas, let that sinner past Who breaks the Sabbath day by drivin’ fast! What pretty horses; he’s some city chap; My, how he drives; he’ll meet with some mishap! Be quick thar, Silas; further to the side; He’s comin’; thank the Lord the road is wide! Jes’ look at Mose; if he ain’t in fer war! Say, Silas, what on earth you bracin’ for? Old man, have you forgot what day it is?” “Git up thar, Mose! Jerushee, mind yer biz!” “Upon my soul, look how that nag’s a-pacin’; Why, Silas, dear, I do believe you’re racin’! Land sakes alive, what will the people say? Good Deacon Jones a-racin’, Sabbath day!”

“Jerushee, now you hold yer pious tongue, And save yer voice until the hymns are sung! ‘Make haste unto the Lord;’ that’s the command; We’re bound fer church—I trust you understand!” “But goin’ to church, good Silas, racin’ so, Will bring us into heaven mighty slow!” “Hush up, Jerushee, else you’ll make us late; Gelong thar, Moses—strike yer winnin’ gait! God gave him speed and now’s his time to show it; If that’s a sin, I never want to know it.”

A loving wife to acquiescence used, Jerusha soon begins to get enthused. Said she: “Don’t leave the church folk disappointed, Nor let the ungodly beat the Lord’s anointed!” “You’re right, Jerushee, thar yer head is level, In life’s long race the saint must beat the devil; Though on this Hebrew horse depend we must To keep the Christian from the sinner’s dust. That’s right, Jerushee, give old Mose the birch, Fer here’s a race: The world ag’in’ the church; Both Testaments are at it fer their lives— The Old one pacin’ while the New one drives; And Satan’s found at last all he can do To tackle both the Gentile and the Jew.”

The stranger’s horses come at such a pace They dash ahead as if to take the race. “The jig is up, Jerushee; guess he’ll beat; He’s in the lead, and Mose is off his feet.” “What talk is that? Now, Silas, don’t you scoff; How can he jig if all his feet are off? And now you say he’s struck his gait at last, I feared he’d strike on suthin’, goin’ so fast.” The stranger cries: “Come on, old Sanctimony, Old wife, old wagon, and old rack-a-bony!” Jerusha’s dander’s up; Jerusha’s mad; She grabs her bonnet and applies the gad. And Mose at last has struck his old-time speed; For once the Jew and Gentile are agreed.

Around the church the gathered country folk Observe: “The Sabbath day is bein’ broke.” With eager eye and half-averted face, Though some condemn, yet all observe the race. “Land sakes!” cries one, “I’ll bet ye ten t’ tew It’s Deacon Jones a-drivin’ that ar Jew.” “I can’t bet much, but here’s my life upon it— That thar’s Jerushee—I know her by the bonnet!” Along the dusty road the horses speed, And inch by inch old Moses takes the lead. Jerusha gets excited, now she’s winning, And all her former anger dies a-grinning. “Come on, old Disbelief, old Satan’s crony, Don’t lag behind on any ceremony! Take my advice: Before you give much sass Jes’ turn yer horses out on Sunday grass.”

Old Mose had forged ahead at such a rate The Deacon couldn’t stop him at the gate; The more he pulled the faster Mose would go; Jerusha grabbed one line and hollered: “Whoa!” Which swung him in; the buggy with a crash, Swinging against the horse-block, went to smash. The pastor said: “I hope you broke no bones, Although you broke the Sabbath, Deacon Jones.” “Don’t blame this onto Sile,” Jerusha said: “But on that hoss; you know he’s Jewish bred, An’ won’t do nothin’ Saturday but rest; On Sunday he breaks loose like all possessed. At least we’re here and safe, therefore rejoice, But I shall sing no more, I’ve strained my voice!” “I thought ’twould break,” they heard the pastor say, “It has been cracked for many, many a day.”

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE CHRISTMAS RING

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

May was pretty, plump and pretty, and with such a lovely soul That a smile lit up her features like a mental aureole. People gazed in admiration—always listened—when she talked Always made you think of roses, but she limped whene’er she walked. Nothing crippled, nothing shriveled, nothing of the withered sort; Just a perfect human being, save one leg a trifle short; As though nature had intended her the rarest of her kind But fell short of precious matter and no substitute could find. Fair as polished alabaster that had wakened from its dream; But so modest and retiring she held every one’s esteem. Though her imperfection grieved her more than anybody knew, Yet her life was like the heavens when the stars are peeping through. At first sight of her you’d fancy as you blinked your startled eyes You had chanced upon a seraph who had taken human guise: As a man will gaze in wonder at a jewel on the ground Ere he quite believes his senses that a treasure had been found. Enter handsome, kindly David: comes a stranger to the place, Searching for the soul of beauty hid behind a maiden face; Not among the belles of fashion, not among the aimless kind, Could he find the perfect woman he had pictured in his mind. Thought to find a truer sweetheart in some pretty village lass; Find his lily of the valley in the higher middle class; Out among the quiet people where his riches were unknown, Some fair maid whose homely virtues would appreciate his own. It was at a social function where he met the charming May And her sister, Belle, the elder, quite as handsome in her way. May was sunny, sweet and gentle—Belle was haughty and austere; While ambition strode beside her just a little bit too near. As a gentleman of leisure, David played the friendly rôle, As contented as a youngster when he’s at a sugar-bowl. David laid no special favor upon either Belle or May, But he whispered things to Cupid—told him all he had to say. Yet he played the gallant nobly, exercising all his art: Hid behind the cunning Cupid he deployed to hide his heart. May grew ever more unselfish, giving way to Sister Belle, Till Dan Cupid felt like starting in a raucous college yell. Belle had been the child of favor—May the daughter of regret; One the Mount of Delectation, one the Mount of Olivet. That a man preferred her sister was to Belle almost absurd: She took everything for granted—simply waiting David’s word. Custom bids one ask the parents—though he heed not what they say— If a lover love a lover love will get her anyway. So when David sought permission he was just a bit obscure— Which was laid to nervous tension such as lovers must endure. May I win your noblest daughter? Both fond parents gave consent; Thinking Belle the one intended—straight to her the father went. Belle, too vain to hold the secret, poured it in the ears of May: How the heart grows disappointed when a hope has gone astray. As a graduate from college, David had excuse for staying, But he gave the pair no inkling of the love-game he was playing. Through the summer and the autumn David studied well his art: Read up Cupid on devotion and the psychics of the heart. At the Church on Christmas evening David played the Santa Claus: Telling stories to the children; gaining laughter and applause; Handed out the many presents till the tree was stripped and bare; Gave to Belle a jewel-sunburst which she fastened in her hair. With no special gift from David, May was getting trouble-hearted, But by dint of constant smiling kept the tears from getting started. In the midst of the excitement David cast off his disguise; Gave a rousing speech of greeting, closing up with this surprise: “Friends, I have an extra present, ’tis the last one on the tree, For the Queen of Love and Beauty, choice of all the world to me: One with that angelic nature, Heaven only can bestow; But with just enough of human to detain her here below. I have read her secret often as the star man reads the skies, Till the horoscope got tangled in the flashlight of her eyes. With a love beyond endurance and a wealth beyond control, I have come to claim my sweetheart with the treasures of my soul. As a symbol of devotion I have brought this solitaire— For my heart is in the girdle and her name is graven there.” All are thrilled with expectation; every neck is craned to see Who possesses all these virtues; whom the wonder maid can be. Down the aisle our David hastened—passing Belle upon the way, Till he paused to place the jewel on the pretty hand of May. With her bosom over-flowing, May could utter not a word, But her eyes and lips gave answer in the silence David heard. And the tear that sorrow started changing quick to love’s employ, Trembled on her heavy lashes like a messenger of joy. While her cheek has turned to crimson, down the drop of rapture goes, Stopping there awhile to glisten like a dewdrop on a rose. Can you measure love’s emotion when a sorrow turns to bliss, When a maid whose heart is broken has it mended with a kiss? It is said the first known lovers—and I think they do it yet, As first aid in pressing cases, used their arms as tourniquet. David kissed her there in public, and he hugged her all he could; May had half-way hoped he wouldn’t, then she half-way hoped he would. Though they broke a social custom, none was there to make ado, And the pastor’s benediction, _just for once, was just for two_.

—Copyright by author and used by his kind permission.

CUPID SWALLOWED

BY LEIGH HUNT

T’other day, as I was twining Roses for a crown to dine in, What, of all things, midst the heap, Should I light on, fast asleep, But the little desperate elf,— The tiny traitor,—Love himself! By the wings I pinched him up Like a bee, and in a cup Of my wine I plunged and sank him, And d’ye think I did?—I drank him! Faith, I thought him dead. Not he! There he lives with ten-fold glee; And now this moment, with his wings, I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

THE VINEGAR MAN

BY RUTH COMFORT MITCHELL

The crazy old Vinegar Man is dead! He never had missed a day before! Somebody went to his tumble-down shed, by the Haunted House, and forced the door. There in the litter of his pungent pans, the murky mess of his mixing place,— Deep, sticky spiders and empty cans—with the same old frown on his sour old face.

“Vinegar-Vinegar-Vinegar Man! Face-us-and-chase-us-and-catch-if-you-can! Pepper for a tongue! Pickle for a nose! Stick a pin in him and vinegar flows! Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-if-you-can! Ketch-up-and-chow-chow-and-Vinegar-Man!”

Nothing but recipes and worthless junk; greasy old records of paid and due; But, down in the depths of a battered old trunk, a queer, quaint valentine torn in two— Red hearts and arrows, and silver lace, and a prim, dim, ladylike script that said— (Oh, Vinegar Man, with the sour old face!)—“With dearest love, from Ellen to Ned!”

“Steal-us-and-peel-us-and-drown-us-in-brine! He pickles his heart in”—a valentine! “Vinegar for blood! Pepper for tongue! Stick a pin in him and”—once he was young! “Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-if-you-can!” “With dearest love”—to the Vinegar Man!

Dingy little books of profit and loss (died about Saturday, so they say) And a queer, quaint valentine, torn across ... torn, but it never was thrown away! “With dearest love from Ellen to Ned”—“Old Pepper Tongue! Pickles his heart in brine!” The Vinegar Man is a long time dead: he died when he tore his valentine.

—Copyright by _The Century Co._, New York, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

HIS FAVORITE

She was a dainty little maid, And he was very tall; They gathered all the flowers That grew by the garden wall.

“My favorite is the rose,” said she, “Do you prefer the pink? Perhaps you’re fond of hollyhocks, You’re just like them, I think.

“You’re rather stiff and very tall And nod your head just so For all the world like hollyhocks When summer breezes blow.

“But won’t you tell me what Your favorites are? For if I only knew,” (The words were soft and low), “I’d try to raise a few.”

“My favorites,” he answered, “This moment I can see. I’m looking at your two lips,— Will you raise tulips for me?”

THE MOURNFUL TALE OF THE SNEE ZEE FAMILEE

BY A. J. WATERHOUSE

There was a little yellow man whose name it was Ah Cheu, And every time that Mongol sneezed he told his name to you. This funny little yellow man had wedded Tish Ah Chee, And they, when certain time had passed, had children one, two, three. There was little Ah Cheu And Tish Ah Tsu, And the baby was named Ker Chee, And their Uncle Ker Chawl And his wife were all Of the Snee Zee fam-i-lee, And when the mamma stood and called her children from the door, You would laugh and laugh for an hour and a half if never you laughed before. “Ah Cheu,” she’d say in her feminine way, “bring in little Ker Chee, And Tish Ah Tsu, bring him in, too, to the Snee Zee fam-i-lee.”

Alas and alack! but my voice will crack as the mournful tale I tell. To that sweet little band in the Mongol land a terrible fate befell. On a summer day in a sportive way they called one another all, And over and o’er the names they bore they would call and call and call. They called Ah Cheu And Tish Ah Tsu And the baby Ker Chee, Ker Chee, And their Uncle Ker Chawl, They called them all, Till they’re dead as dead can be. Ah Cheu was tough, and was used to snuff, so he lived at his fate to scoff, But the rest are dead, as I’ve heretofore said, for their heads they were all sneezed off. And this is the tale I have tried to wail of Ah Cheu and his little Ker Chee And Tish Ah Tsu and Ah Chee, too, of the Snee Zee fam-i-lee.

—From “Lays for Little Chaps.”

TO A USURPER

BY EUGENE FIELD

Aha! a traitor in the camp, A rebel strangely bold,— A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp, Not more than four years old!

To think that I, who’ve ruled alone So proudly in the past, Should be ejected from my throne By my own son at last!

He trots his treason to and fro, As only babies can, And says he’ll be his mamma’s beau When he’s a “Gweat, big man!”

You stingy boy! you’ve always had A share in mamma’s heart; Would you begrudge your poor old dad The tiniest little part?

That mamma, I regret to see, Inclines to take your part,— As if a dual monarchy Should rule her gentle heart!

But when the years of youth have sped, The bearded man, I trow, Will quite forget he ever said He’d be his mamma’s beau.

Renounce your treason, little son, Leave mamma’s heart to me; For there will come another one To claim your loyalty.

And when that other comes to you, God grant her love may shine Through all your life, as fair and true As mamma’s does through mine!

MY RIVAL

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

I go to concert, party, ball— What profit is in these? I sit alone against the wall And strive to look at ease. The incense that is mine by right They burn before her shrine; And that’s because I’m seventeen And she is forty-nine.

I cannot check my girlish blush, My color comes and goes; I redden to my finger-tips, And sometimes to my nose. And she is white where white should be, And red where red should shine. The blush that flies at seventeen Is fixed at forty-nine.

I wish _I_ had her constant cheek: I wish that I could sing All sorts of funny little songs, Not quite the proper thing. I’m very gauche and very shy, Her jokes aren’t in my line; And worst of all, I’m seventeen While she is forty-nine.

The young men come, the young men go, Each pink and white and neat, She’s older than their mothers, but They grovel at her feet. They walk beside her rickshaw wheels— None ever walk by mine; And that’s because I’m seventeen And she is forty-nine.

She rides with half a dozen men, (She calls them “boys” and “mashers”) I trot along the Mall alone; My prettiest frocks and sashes Don’t help to fill my programme-card, And vainly I repine From 10 to 2 A. M. Ah me! Would I were forty-nine!

She calls me “darling,” “pet,” and “dear,” And sweet “retiring maid.” I’m always at the back, I know, She puts me in the shade. She introduces me to men, “Cast” lovers I opine, For sixty takes to seventeen, Nineteen to forty-nine.

But even she must older grow, And end her dancing days, She can’t go on forever so At concerts, balls and plays. One ray of priceless hope I see Before my footsteps shine; Just think, that she’ll be eighty-one When I am forty-nine.

LUCKY JIM

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

A FORGOTTEN STORY REWRITTEN FOR REINE DAVIES

Two jolly, boyish chums were we For I loved Jim and Jim loved me, We played together—went to school, And learned the selfsame Golden Rule. Jim kissed the girls and so did I; But Jim got married on the sly. The sweetest girl I ever knew Her cheeks like roses wet with dew. I kept my secret through the years And tried to drown my love in tears. Though oft I thought of suicide The more I tried the less I died.

Refrain: But every night I watched the sky To see the moon and stars go by And wondered how the angels fly And thought of Jim—My lucky Jim— And what I’d give to have her mine That I might worship at her shrine, But she was his, I’d not repine— Oh, how I envied—envied him.

Some secret grief Jim sought to hide; Grew weak and weaker till he died And though I grieved that it was so, I could not weep to see him go, For joy, not sorrow, filled my bowl: ’Twas mine the widow to console. Though Jim was dead, I was alive To bring sweet honey to the hive. I married her, and in my glee Was happy as a honey-bee: I called her “kitten”—In nine days My eyes were opened to her ways.

Refrain: Now every night I watch the sky To see the moon and stars go by And wonder how the angels fly And think of Jim—my lucky Jim: Deep lines of sorrow mar my face As time goes on with lagging pace Oh, how I long to take his place Oh, how I envy—envy him.

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE WHISTLING BOY

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

What music like the whistle of a well-contented boy,— That rhythmic exhalation of an ever-present joy? Though the fragmentary cadence of a plain, untutored art, ’Tis the melody of childhood, ’tis a psalm from out the heart. You will never find a criminal behind an honest smile; And the boy ne’er grows a villain who keeps whistling all the while,— Though he whistle out of tune.

What cares he for fickle fortune,—what the fashion may bestow? In his little barefoot kingdom royalty in rags may go. With an apple in his pocket and another in his mouth, Cares not how the wind is blowing, whether north or whether south; For he has no crops a-growing, has no ships upon the sea; And he keeps right on a-whistling, whate’er the tune may be,— For he whistles out of tune.

’Tis the early smile of Summer creeping o’er the face of June, Even though this crude musician many times is off the tune, Till it bears the same resemblance to the melody that’s meant, That his garments do to trousers little matter how they’re rent. When he’s very patriotic then his tune is sure to be— Although a bit rebellious—“My Country, ’Tis of Thee!” Which he whistles out of tune: (America.)

Such a vision of good nature in his cheery, smiling face; Better clothes would check his freedom, rob him of his rustic grace; So he feels a trifle awkward in his brand-new Sunday clothes, While repeating to his teacher all the Scripture that he knows. Out of Sunday school he rushes, takes his shoes off on the sly; Says: “The angels all go barefoot in the sweeter by and by!” Which he whistles out of tune: (Sweet By and By.)

Sometimes whistling for his playmate; sometimes whistling for his dog, On the quiet, in the schoolhouse, to perplex the pedagogue; Sometimes whistling up his courage; often whistling just because. In the South he whistles “Dixie” o’er and o’er, without a pause, Till he’s out of breath completely, when it seems to be, perchance, But a knickerbocker whistle, since it comes in little pants,— For he whistles out of tune: (Dixie.)

Should he hail from old New England you may safely bet your life He can whittle out a whistle with his broken-bladed knife. He will play his cornstalk fiddle, and his dog will never fail To show appreciation, beating _tempo_ with his tail; Then he whistles “Yankee Doodle” like the tunes you often hear On the old farmhouse piano when the sister plays by ear,— For he whistles out of tune: (Yankee Doodle.)

There is many a weeping mother longing, morning, night, and noon, For her boy to come back whistling just the fragment of a tune; But he’s yonder entertaining all the angels unaware With a melody so human they’re bound to keep him there; For all that heavenly music nothing sounds to them so sweet As that cheery, boyish whistle and the patter of his feet,— For he whistles all in tune: (Nearer, My God, to Thee.)

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE LITTLE PEACH

BY EUGENE FIELD

A little peach in the orchard grew,— A little peach of emerald hue; Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, It grew.

One day, passing that orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue— Them two.

Up at that peach a club they threw— Down from the stem on which it grew Fell that peach of emerald hue. Mon Dieu!

John took a bite and Sue a chew, And then the trouble began to brew,— Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue. Too true!

Under the turf where the daisies grew They planted John and his sister Sue, And their little souls to the angels flew,— Boo hoo!

What of that peach of the emerald hue, Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew? Ah, well, its mission on earth is through. Adieu!

LITTLE BILLEE

BY W. M. THACKERAY

There were three sailors of Bristol city Who took a boat and went to sea. But first with beef and captain’s biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they got as far as the Equator They’d nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, “I am extremely hungaree.” To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, “We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.”

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, “With one another we shouldn’t agree! There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender, We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.

“Oh! Billy we’re going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie.” When Bill received this information He used his pocket-handkerchie.

“First let me say my catechism, Which my poor mammy taught me.” “Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled off his snickersnee.

So Billy went up to the main-top gallant mast, And down he fell, on his bended knee. He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment When up he jumps. “There’s land I see:

“Jerusalem and Madagascar, And North and South Amerikee; There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Admiral Napier, K. C. B.”

So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee; But as for little Bill he made him The Captain of a seventy-three.

A GALLANT THIRD PARTY

BY LITTELL MCCLUNG

A wooer, a maid and the moon, And a starry night, you’ll allow, Let’s say in August or June, Though it hardly matters just now.

The man in the moon peered down With a jealous eye on the pair, And his face was dark with a frown, For the girl was bewitchingly fair.

“Just one,” begged the lover. “Please, dear, Don’t you see I love only you? And nobody’s looking, don’t fear; And you know that I’ll ever be true.”

But the maid saw the man in the moon, And she hardly knew how to reply; Maybe she might pretty soon; Yet maybe she oughtn’t to try.

But the chap in the sky was a brick, And he saw that he shouldn’t be seen, So he gathered a cloud, black and thick, And set it up quick as a screen.

A TRAGIC STORY

There lived a sage in days of yore, And he a handsome pigtail wore; But wondered much and sorrowed more Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case, And swore he’d change the pigtail’s place, And have it hanging at his face, Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, “The mystery I’ve found, I’ll turn me round.” He turned him round; But still it hung behind him.

Then round and round, and out and in, All day the puzzled sage did spin; In vain it mattered not a pin, The pigtail hung behind him.

And right, and left, and round about, And up, and down, and in and out, He turned; but still the pigtail stout Hung steadily behind him.

And though his efforts never slack, And though he twist, and twirl, and tack, Alas! still faithful to his back The pigtail hangs behind him.

THE POOR LITTLE BIRDIES

BY A. J. WATERHOUSE

The poor little birdies that sleep in the trees, Going rockaby, rockaby, lulled by the breeze; The poor little birdies, they make me feel bad, Oh, terribly, dreadfully, dismally sad, For—think of it, little one; ponder and weep— The birdies must stand when they sleep, when they sleep; And their poor little legs— I am sure it is so— They ache, and they ache, For they’re weary, you know. And that is the reason that far in the night You may hear them say “Dear-r-r!” if you listen just right, For the poor little birdies must sleep on the bough, And they want to lie down, but they do not know how.

Just think of it, darling; suppose you must stand On those little brown legs, all so prettily planned; Suppose you must stand when you wanted to sleep, I am sure you would call for your mamma and weep, And your poor little legs, they would cramp, I have guessed, And your poor little knees, they would call for a rest; And you’d cry, I am sure, For so weary you’d be; And you’d want to lie down, But you couldn’t, you see. And that is the reason why we should feel bad For the poor little birdies, who ought to be glad; For they want to lie down as they sleep on the bough; They want to lie down, but they don’t know how.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission.

THE FUNERAL AT PARADISE BAR

BY PAUL SHOUP

About four o’clock in the morning, Uncle Hank Witherspoon would climb up on the box while the sun was tossing a few experimental shafts of light across the canyon, and, watching with pride and satisfaction the leaders dancing little dust clouds out of the stage road, would remark to bystanders who turned up their coat collars and talked politics to keep warm: “Some men are born hostlers; you see it by the way they lifts a hoss’s foot; some _sabes_ how to ride, and most gin’r’lly they overruns their boots’n their spurs is bright; and then there be others that are fine at hoofin’ it and lambastin’ a pack train with a rawhide an’ one hundred choice selections from two langidges; but as for me, my special speci-ality is just plain drivin’ of a stage; a stage with four hosses; just that and nothin’ more.” With that Uncle Hank would loosen his whip, the leaders would rear like chargers on a monument, the wheel horses would gather their feet under them—and down the road, pitching, swaying, leaving behind them a wall of dust, would go the famous Mokelumne stage, while half the population of Paradise Bar—they were early risers in the camp—would stand with hands in pockets, staring after in silent admiration. Uncle Hank was wiry and grizzled and storm-beaten; his pointed beard stood out at a strong angle to his determined nose; his eyes were of a mild and pleasant blue, but the fire in them awaited only the flint. His laugh was merry, but he had a voice that would make the most obstreperous horse remember that he was but as the dust of the earth before this master.

Uncle Hank was at the helm of the transportation system of Paradise Bar; he and his stage the connecting link between camp and civilization, the latter represented by the county seat, Meadow Lark.

Uncle Hank, recognizing his importance in both communities, and especially in Paradise Bar, was as gracious as an only hope—he was never forlorn. He was an absolute dictator, it was true; he even decided the locations of the passengers on the stage, and settled disputes as to outside and inside. But he was autocratic wisely, and there was really no reason why he should have been called upon to divide his sovereignty. Yet, one sad day the Alladin Bonanza Company built a lumber road down from Paradise Bar to Lone Pine. At Lone Pine the new road connected with the line of the Gray Eagle Stage Company, which, as Uncle Hank put it, flopped its way up from Meadow Lark. So, when the Gray Eagle extended its tri-weekly service from Lone Pine to Paradise Bar, trouble outcropped on Uncle Hank’s trail at once. George William Pike, of the Upper Basin, was the driver to whom Uncle Hank referred as the dry goods clerk who handled the ribbons for the opposition corporation.

George William surmised here and there and elsewhere, when he cornered an audience, that the new route was two miles the shorter, and the grade, calculating ups and downs, at least five per cent better. The report reached Uncle Hank by air line, of course. He was silent a little while, and then with elaborate courtesy thanked his informant, adding that he was greatly obliged, not for the news itself, but because he had for a long time been trying to recollect the name of the chap who left Placerville after trying circumstances without advising his bondsmen. It was indeed strange that a man caught stealing garments from a poor washerwoman’s clothes line should be directing horses; remarkably odd, when it was evident that he was cut out for a Chinaman and not a stage driver. So saying, Uncle Hank awoke an echo unusually far off, making it jump startled from the hillside at the crack of his whip, and drove on.

There was some difference of opinion in Paradise Bar concerning the merits of the two lines; so long as they ran on different days and at different hours, the question could not be satisfactorily settled, and the Bright Light kept open an hour later in the evening to permit a full discussion of the subject—thereby saving shutting up at all. The real trouble began when the Gray Eagle line, perceiving that Uncle Hank continued to carry the larger part of the business, borrowed his schedule and started to operate upon it with their new yellow coach with vermillion trimmings and four white horses, to say nothing of George William Pike with his curled mustache, red necktie and stand-up collar. He would have worn a silk hat too—the owners of the line were aristocrats, with ideas and winter residences in Lunnon—but Morosin’ Jones who squirmed his shoulders and clasped his hands like an awkward maid of fifteen when he talked, begged him to desist; he, Morosin’, had such an unconquerable inclination to perforate high hats with his forty-four wherever they might be. George William wisely desisted. Uncle Hank’s stage had nothing but a faint recollection of paint, and was written over with history recorded by bullet holes; the harness was apt to be patched, and Nebuchadnezzar, the off leader, was wall-eyed, and his partner, Moloch, sway-backed and short maned. Of the wheel horses, one was a gray with hoofs that needed constant paring; the other had the appearance of a whitewashed house at which mud had been flung with startling effect. Of the two, Rome and Athens, no god could have decided which was entitled to the palm of ugliness; but Uncle Hank, who loved them all with the love a man may have for a homely dog, declared that the wheel-horses were beauty spots in nature alongside the leaders.

It was a memorable morning on which the two stages left Paradise Bar together. The yellow stage, with its nickel-plated harness and white horses and tan-gloved driver, started three minutes first; and then, as if gathering up his horses and the stage and the reins altogether, Uncle Hank went down the line. It was a lively experience for the passengers; bends they went around on two wheels, creeks they took at a leap, bowlders and ruts only they avoided, and that because a scientist was using his science. The grade of the other line must have been at that time very good, for Uncle Hank had been only four minutes hitched in front of the Elysium Hotel when the other stage drew up. It was true that he picked his teeth as if he had been in to lunch, and casually enquired of a passenger, so that George William might hear, if they had stopped for dinner on the road, or did they expect to get it at the hotel; whereat the passenger, jolted and jarred beyond good manners, roared: “Stop for dinner! Great Scott! We stopped for nothing—bowlders, rivers, landslides and precipices; if his Satanic Majesty was after us, he found the worst trail he ever traveled—and I can’t imagine what other reason there could be for such driving.”

The passenger went into the hotel. George William said something below his breath, and Uncle Hank smiled. Alas for vanity! Ever it goes before a stumble, a broken spring or a sick horse. The stages had different schedules for the upward trip, but on the next journey downward disaster overtook Uncle Hank. Seven of the nine hours’ ride were accomplished, and the stage was at the mouth of the canyon. Here a point of rock thrusts itself forward, marking a sharp turn in the road. Around this turn galloped the horses, and twenty feet before him, sunning itself in the road, Moloch saw an eleven-button rattler. He knew what that meant, and sat down and slid with all four feet plowing the mountain road. They stopped short of the snake, that had coiled and awaited their coming, and then perceiving the enemy otherwise engaged, had wisely slipped into the manzanitas by the roadside. Fifteen precious minutes were used in repairing the disaster to the harness—and the race was lost. That night, for the first time in the ten years in which he had been the oracle of two communities, Uncle Hank, instead of telling stories and expounding wisdom for the benefit of the unenlightened below, went up to his room immediately after dinner and retired without lighting his candle. George William put on a new pink necktie and his beloved silk hat, and went about, stepping high like one of his white horses, but casting wary glances abroad for the appearance of one Morosin’ Jones, who was coy and fidgety and could perforate a dollar at one hundred feet.

In Paradise Bar every game was settled by the best two out of three. Life was too feverish and too short to await three out of five, and it was against the principles of the camp to leave any questions undecided. Therefore, it was tacitly understood that the winner of the next race would be the standard of comparison thereafter in matters pertaining to travel. Other stage lines would be second-class, ranking just above a mule train. There was another reason: Paradise Bar was exceedingly fond of excitement, but it had no mind to risk its neck in stage racing down the mountain-side forever and ever; precipices yawned too many invitations. The personal feeling and the betting both heavily favored Uncle Hank, both gratifying and troubling to him.

There is little doubt that in the third race, under fair conditions, Uncle Hank would have won; he would either have won or gone over a precipice. But Rome, who had never before been known to have anything the matter with him save an abnormal appetite for grain, fell slightly lame. All day before the race, Uncle Hank worried over this, all night he tossed in his blankets, and was only partly relieved the next day when Rome appeared again to be all right, and ate hay as if under the impression that the sun was shining and there was plenty more being made. The last two days had greatly changed Uncle Hank; he carried his head so that his beard touched his breast; his hat was slouched low over his eyes; he kept his hands in his pockets and spoke in monosyllables. He ate little and had a far-away look in his blue eyes. He saw his fame departing, his reputation collapsing, all that a man may build in this life, whether he creates empires or digs post-holes, crumbling—the reputation of “being onto his job.”

The next morning with the fear of that lameness in his heart, Uncle Hank hitched up and drove down the main street. He saw the yellow stage also ready. There was no evidence of lameness in Rome as he drove up to the door of the express office, nor when the stage stopped at the Record Nugget for the hotel passengers. Uncle Hank’s despondent face became more cheerful; he looked older and grayer and even bent a little that morning, but he climbed up on the box with his old-time energy. His courage and spirit were never to be doubted; only that lameness in Rome worried him. He gathered up the lines and loosened his whip; but the four did not go with their accustomed dashing display. Instead there was confusion and hesitation; in fifteen yards the slight lameness of the right wheel horse was apparent, and Uncle Hank drew up. He dropped the lines, and for a moment his face was in his hands.

The other stage had gone. Nothing could ever convince the public satisfactorily, he thought, that after starting he had not given up the race through fear. The limp was scarcely apparent. He perhaps would not have noticed it for some miles had it not been for his haunting dread and the false start. Yet he knew what it would mean before the level was reached—a steep down grade and he would have to go walking into Meadow Lark, a loser by an hour.

Uncle Hank, a broken old man, climbed down from the stage. “Take ’em, George,” he said to the hostler. “There won’t be no stage down to-day.” He said no more, but passed amid a dead silence along the road through the population of Paradise Bar which had turned out to see the beginning of the deciding race. Some guessed at the reason; and to all it became apparent when the horses were taken back to the stable and carefully examined. That day Uncle Hank did not appear, nor the next; So Bob Allen went up to his cabin in the evening and, receiving no response to his knocking, kicked open the door and went in. Uncle Hank lay in his bunk, his face to the wall. To Bob’s expressions of sympathy and encouraging remarks, he made no reply; they were to him as the expressions engraved on tombstones, and but added bitterness now. To his arguments, Uncle Hank vouchsafed single words in return, and never turned his face from the wall. From sympathy to argument, from argument he drifted into bulldozing; alluded to Uncle Hank as a man afraid of things, among which he specified a large number in language that I will not reproduce; and when three connected words was the most he could get out of Uncle Hank even by this, Bob knew the case was desperate, and retired, defeated.

The friends of Uncle Hank, the entire population of Paradise Bar, gravely discussed the situation. It was unanimously decided that the yellow stage should thereafter stop outside of the camp limits, and Morosin’ Jones publicly announced, his shoulders working up and down most nervously, that George William would immediately cease from wearing stand-up collars and red neckties; he would come into camp with a slouch hat, a flannel shirt and teamster’s warranted-to-wear gloves—or it was quite likely he would never go out again. This statement met with the silent approval of the entire assemblage; and George William, hearing of it, puzzled and bewildered, wisely refrained from coming into the camp limits at all, but remained by the stage. He explained in Meadow Lark that Paradise Bar had gone crazy; and a cheerful miner from that camp acquiesced, but added that some of the lunatics were not yet corralled, but still straying about; and said it looking so significantly at George William that the latter went home and hunted up a flannel shirt at once.

The next morning a committee waited on Uncle Hank, prepared with arguments that would show him the error of broken-heartedness—the easiest thing in the world to cure if its victims would but live to tell us of it. Uncle Hank still lay with his face to the wall, and in a little while the news was abroad in the camp that Uncle Hank, still with his face to the wall, had resolutely died. It was a gray day in Paradise Bar; the melodion in the Red Light was hushed; friends nodded instead of speaking as they passed by; the camp began to realize what it had lost. It was determined, as a last mark of the camp’s esteem for Uncle Hank, to make the journey to the place of the final tie-up simple but impressive. No formal meeting was held; the boys just gathered together and acted on a common idea. The whole camp would be in the procession, and they would go down to Meadow Lark over the old familiar road. Uncle Hank’s stage carrying the old stage-driver, would be at the head, of course; then there was an awkward pause. More than one felt that it would add to the dignity of the occasion to have two stages, but finally, when Major Wilkerson arose and suggested that the Gray Eagle stage, carrying leading citizens, be placed next, there was a murmur of dissent. Then Bob Allen arose in his place and made the only known speech of his life:

“Friends, you are on the wrong trail and will hit a blind canyon, certain. Of course we should have the other stage, and Pike to drive it. Uncle Hank wasn’t the kind of a man to carry jealousy with him into camp. ’Twasn’t being beat by Pike that broke Uncle Hank’s heart; it was

## partly p’haps being beat at all, and partly, to my way of thinkin’,

because Paradise Bar didn’t stand behind him. That was the main reason, gentlemen; he just died of pure lonesomeness. When this yaller ve-hicle comes into camp, does we say to it: ‘You’re purty and you’re new, and probably your springs is all right and maybe your road; but you might jest as well pass on. Do you observe this old stage with its paint wore off and its bullet holes? Do you see that it’s down a little on one side and some of the spokes is new and some are old? Do you know that these four old hosses have been whoopin’ her up for Paradise Bar and for nothin’ else these ten years—and a sunshiny day and one chuck full of snow and sleet was all the same to them? Be you aware that this is our Uncle Hank, and that he has been workin’ our lead for us these fifteen years, and never lost a dollar or a pound of stuff or spilled a passenger, or asked one of the boys to hoof it because he hadn’t no _dinero_? Those bullet holes—men behind masks made ’em, but Uncle Hank never tightened a ribbon for the whole caboodle. The paint’s been knocked off that stage in our service, and it’s ours. Therefore, though you be yaller and handsome, with consid’ble silver plate, we can’t back you against our own flesh and blood. And that settles it.’ Did we talk that way, boys? No, we jest stood off and gambled on the result as if Uncle Hank was a travelin’ stranger ’stead of the best friend we had. We stood off impartial like and invited the white hoss outfit to git in and win if it could. And now, gentlemen, have we got the nerve to dynamite this opposition stage line, when the whole gang of us ought to be blown sky high?

“Uncle Hank wouldn’t have had it so. He didn’t cherish any ill feeling pussonly against anybody; whatever he said was because they was takin’ away from him what he had worked all his life for. He wasn’t jealous of George William, but of him as a stage driver, because we made him so. Boys, he loved us and was mighty proud of our regard—and we didn’t show it in the time of trial. And he’s gone over the great divide with tears in his eyes, and we are to blame. Who among any of us poor fools has a right to say that the other stage shouldn’t follow?”

Bob sat down amid absolute silence, wiping his face vigorously. Major Wilkerson rose to his feet. “I renew my suggestion,” said he, “that we have the Gray Eagle stage. I think you’ll all agree that Bob’s right.”

Morosin’ Jones rose from his stump, suffused with emotion. “In course he’s right,” he said, huskily, “but the stage ou’t to be painted black.” A murmur of assent greeted this speech.

* * * * *

The day was beautiful. The procession went slowly down the old stage road, past Lime Point, through the Roaring River canyon, beyond up Reddy’s grade, over the First Summit and then through Little Forest to the watering-place at the head of the last canyon. Every stream, every tree, every rock along the road was known to Uncle Hank. He was going home over a familiar way. The pine trees, with their somber green, were silent; the little streams that went frolicking from one side of a canyon to another seemed subdued; it was spring, but the gray squirrels were not barking in the tree-tops, and the quail seemed to pipe but faintly through the underbrush. The lupines and the bluebells nodded along the way; the chipmunks stood in the sunlight and stared curiously.

All would have gone well had not George William Pike been a man without understanding—and such a man is beyond redemption. He did not appreciate the spirit of the invitation to join in this last simple ceremony in honor of Uncle Hank. He accepted it as an apology from Paradise Bar and growled to himself because of the absurd request to paint the coach black—which he would not have done except for an order from the superintendent, who was a man of policy. A year could have been wasted in explaining that the invitation was an expression of humility and of atonement for the camp’s treatment of its own. So he came and wore his silk hat and his red necktie, and Morosin’ Jones almost had a spasm in restraining himself.

Down the mountain-side they went, slowly and decorously. Nothing eventful happened until the mouth of the canyon was cleared, and then George William became impatient. He could not understand the spirit of the occasion. Meadow Lark and supper were a long way off, and the luncheon at Half-Way House had been light. So he began making remarks over his horses’ heads with the intention of hurrying up Gregg, who was driving the old stage. “Well fitted for this kind of work, those horses, ain’t they?” he said. “Seems curious they were ever put on the stage.” Gregg said nothing, but tightened rein a bit. “Where will we stop for the night?” asked George William presently, flicking the off leader’s ear with his whip.

Gregg turned around angrily. “If you don’t like the way this thing is bein’ done, you can cut and go on in town alone; but if you don’t keep your mouth closed there’ll be trouble.”

“I don’t want to go into town alone,” rejoined George William pleasantly, “but I reckon we’d go in better fashion if we was at the head of this percession.”

“Maybe you’d better try it,” said Gregg, reddening, and thereupon George William turned out his four white horses and his black stage, without saying anything to his two passengers, and proceeded to go around. Gregg gathered in the slack in his reins. “Go back!” he roared. But Pike, swinging wide to the right to avoid the far-reaching whip, went on. Nebuchadnezzar pricked up his ears. Rome looked inquiringly at Athens, and Moloch snorted indignantly. Athens’ expression said very plainly: “Are we at our time of life going to permit four drawing-room apologies for horses and a new-fangled rattletrap to pass us on our own road?” The negative response could be seen in the quiver that ran down each horse’s back. The leaders gently secured their bits between their teeth. So absorbed was Gregg in the strange actions of George William that he paid little attention to his own horses.

Up and down the line behind him men were waving and gesticulating and shouting. “Don’t let him pass you!” yelled Wilkerson. That instruction ran up and down the line, clothed in a variety of picturesque and forcible utterances. But no instruction was needed by the horses in front of Gregg. They understood, and scarcely had the other stage turned into the main road ahead when they at one jump broke from a walk into a gallop. George William saw and gave his four the rein and the whip. Glancing back, Gregg watched the whole procession change from a line of decorous dignity to one of active excitement. Dust began to rise, men on horseback passed men on mules; men in buckboards passed men on lumber wagons. George William held the road, and with it a great advantage. To pass him it would be necessary to go out among the rocks and the sage-brush, and the white four were racing swiftly, rolling out behind them a blinding cloud of dust. Gregg set his teeth, and spoke encouragingly to his horses. George William turned and shouted back an insult: “You needn’t hurry; we’ll tell them you’ll be there to-morrow. ’Tend to your new business; there is nothing in the other for you. We’re going into town first.”

“Maybe,” said Gregg grimly—and loosened his whip. The four lifted themselves together at its crack; in another half mile they were ready to turn out to go around. Gregg watched for a place anxiously. Brush and boulders seemed everywhere, but finally he chose a little sandy wash along which ran the road for a way.

Turning out he went into the sand and lost ten yards. He heard George William laugh sarcastically. But the old stage horses had been in sand before, and had but one passenger besides their driver. In a little while they were abreast the leaders, and here they stayed and could gain no farther. For George William laid on the lash, and the road was good. On they went, the one stage running smoothly on the hard road, the other swaying, bounding, rocking, among the rocks and gullies. A little while they ran thus, and then the road began to tell. Pike shouted triumphantly. Gregg, with despair in his heart, watched with grief the loss of inch after inch. “What can I do?” he groaned—and turning, he found himself face to face with Uncle Hank. The reins dropped from his nerveless hands, and his face went white.

“Give me a hand!” shouted Uncle Hank, and over the swinging door he crawled on the seat—and Gregg perceived he was flesh and blood. The old fire was in his eyes, he stood erect and loosened his whip with his left hand easily as of yore. And then something else happened. The line behind was scattered and strung out to perhaps a mile in length, but every eye was on the racing coaches. They saw the familiar figure of the old stage driver, saw him gather up the reins; saw and understood that he had come back to life again, and up and down that line went a cheer such as Paradise Bar will seldom hear again. Uncle Hank sent the whip waving over the backs of his beloved. “Nebuchadnezzar! Moloch! Rome! Athens! Come! No loafing now. This is our road, our stage—and our camp is shouting. Don’t you hear the boys! Ten years together, you’n me. Whose dust have we taken? Answer me! Good, Athens, good—steady, Rome, you blessed whirlwind. Reach out, Neb—that’s it—reach. Easy, Moloch, easy; never mind the rocks. Yo-ho! Yo-ho-o-o! In we go!”

At the first words of the master, the four lifted themselves as if inspired. Then they stretched lowly and ran; ran because they knew as only horses can know; ran as his voice ran, strong and straight. In three minutes they turned in ahead of the white horses and the funeral stage. The race was practically won. Uncle Hank with the hilarious Gregg alongside, drove into Meadow Lark ten minutes ahead of all others—and Meadow Lark in its astonishment almost stampeded. After a while the rest of Paradise Bar arrived, two of its leading citizens, who had started out in a certain black stage drawn by four horses, coming in on foot. They were quite non-committal in their remarks, but it was inferred from a few words dropped casually that, after the stage stopped, they lost some time in chasing the driver back into the foothills; and it was observed that they were quite gloomy over their failure to capture him.

“Oh, never mind,” said Morosin’ Jones, in an ecstasy of joy. “What’s the good of cherishin’ animosity? Why, for all I care he kin wear that red necktie now if he wants to”—then after a pause—“yes, and the silk hat, too, if he’s bound to be a cabby.”

Uncle Hank was smiling and shaking hands with everybody and explaining how the familiar motion of the stage had brought him out of his trance. “I’m awful glad to have you here, boys; mighty glad to see you. The hosses and me are proud. I’ll admit it. We oughter be. Ain’t Paradise Bar with us, and didn’t we win two out of three, after all?”—From _The Black Cat_, June, 1902, copyright by _Short Story Publishing Co._, and used by their kind permission.

HUMOROUS DIALECT SELECTIONS IN POETRY

PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES

POPULARLY KNOWN AS THE HEATHEN CHINEE

TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870

BY BRET HARTE

Which I wish to remark— And my language is plain— That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name; And I shall not deny, In regard to the same, What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies; Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand: It was Euchre. The same He did not understand; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye’s sleeve: Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see— Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, “Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,”— And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand, But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In the game “he did not understand.”

In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs— Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers—that’s wax.

Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar— Which the same I am free to maintain.

—Copyright by _Houghton Mifflin & Co._, Boston, and used by their kind permission.

PARODY ON “THAT HEATHEN CHINEE”

[The following remarkable parody was written by the Reverend Father Wood, Professor of English Literature at St. Ignatius College, San Francisco. For the annual exercises of his class, a debate was to be held as to the respective abilities of the various authors and poets studied during the year. Each had his advocates and strenuous adherents. The final test adopted was that each adherent should write out Bret Harte’s _Heathen Chinee_ in the form his favorite author would have followed. These verses are after the style of Samuel Lover, the Irish poet.]

Did ye hear of the haythen Ah Sin, Maginn? The bouldest of bould Chaneymin, Maginn? Oh. He was the bye Who could play it on Nye And strip him as aisy as sin, To the skin. Oh. ’Twas he was the gossoon to win.

It was euchre we’d play, me and Nye, Me bye! An’ the stakes was uproariously high, Me bye! Nye’s sleeves they was stocked, An’ me feelin’s was shocked, But never a whisper said I— You know why! For Bill is outrageously sly!

The game to the haythen was new, Aboo! He didn’t quite know what to do, Aboo! With the cyards in his hand He smiled childlike and bland, And asked us of questions a few, Wirrastheu! Which we answered as bad as we knew.

We tuk it the game was our own, Ochone! We’d pick him as cleane as a bone, Ochone! But the hands that he played An’ the p’ints that he made, Made me feel like a babby ungrown, I must own! An’ dull as I’d shwallowed a stone!

Nye wud give him a three or a four, Asthore! But niver a better cyard more. Asthore! Yet he’d dhrop down a king Just the aisest thing, An’ jokers an’ bowers galore By the score! You may lay he’d been there before!

He was happy as haythen cud be, Machree! His manner surprisingly free, Machree! But William looked sour When he played the right bower Which William had dealt out to me, Do ye see! For to euchre the haythen Chinee.

Then William got up in a stew, Hurroo! An’ shlated Ah Sin black and blue, Hurroo! An’ shuk out of his sleeve, I’m not makin’ believe, Of picture cyards quite a good few! It is thrue— This shtory I’m tellin’ to you.

We had danced to the haythen’s own tune. Aroon! Oh! It’s lucky we got out so soon, Aroon! He had twenty-four packs, On his fingers was wax— An’ this in Tim Casey’s saloon! The ould coon! How he played us that warm afternoon, Aroon!

KENTUCKY PHILOSOPHY

BY HARRISON ROBERTSON

You Wi’yam, cum ’ere, suh, dis instunce. Wu’ dat you got under dat box? I do’ want no foolin’—you hear me? Wut you say? Ain’t nu’h’n but _rocks_? ’Peahs ter me you’s owdashus p’ticler. S’posin’ dey’s uv a new kine. I’ll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I’s bline?

_I_ calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it growed; It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel’, dah on ter side er de road. You stole it, you rascal—you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot. En time I gets th’ough wid you, nigger, you won’t eb’n be a grease spot!

_I’ll_ fix you. Mirandy! Mi_ran_dy! go cut me a hick’ry—make ’ase! En cut me de toughes’ en keenes’ you c’n fine anywhah on de place. I’ll larn you, Mr. Wi’yam Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young sinner, Disgracin’ yo’ ole Christian mammy, en makin’ her leave cookin’ dinner!

Now ain’t you ashamed er yo’se’f, sur? I is. I’s ’shamed you’s my son! En de holy accorjan angel he’s ’shamed er wut you has done; En he’s tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters— “One water-million stoled by Wi’yam Josephus Vetters.”

En wut you s’posen Brer Bascom, yo’ teacher at Sunday school, ’Ud say ef he knowed how you’s broke de good Lawd’s Gol’n Rule? Boy, whah’s de raisin’ I give you? Is you boun’ fuh ter be a black villiun? I’s s’prised dat a chile er yo’ mammy ’ud steal any man’s water-million.

En I’s now gwiner cut it right open, en you shain’t have nary bite, Fuh a boy who’ll steal water-millions—en dat in de day’s broad light— Ain’t—_Lawdy!_ its _green_! Mirandy! Mi-ran-dy! come on wi’ dat switch! _Well_, stealin’ a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever yeered tell er des sich?

Cain’t tell w’en dey’s ripe? W’y, you thump ’um, en we’n dey go pank dey is green; But w’en dey go _punk_, now you mine me, dey’s ripe—en dat’s des wut I mean. En nex’ time you hook water-millions—_you_ heered me, you ign’ant, you hunk, Ef you doan’ want a lickin’ all over, be sho dat dey allers go “punk!”

—_Harper’s Magazine._

OH, I DUNNO!

ANONYMOUS

Lindy’s hair’s all curly tangles, an’ her eyes es deep en’ gray, En’ they allus seems er-dreamin’ en’ er-gazin’ far away, When I ses, “Say, Lindy, darlin’, shall I stay, er shall I go?” En’ she looks at me er-smilin’, en’ she ses, “Oh, I dunno!”

Now, she knows es I’m er-lovin’ her for years an’ years an’ years But she keeps me hesitatin’ between my doubts an’ fears; En’ I’m gettin’ pale and peaked, en’ et’s jes from frettin’ so Ovur Lindy with her laughin’ an’ er-sayin’, “I dunno!”

T’other night we come frum meetin’ an’ I asks her fer a kiss, En’ I tells her she’s so many that er few she’ll never miss; En’ she looks up kinder shy-like, an’ she whispers sorter low, “Jim, I’d ruther that you wouldn’t, but—er well—Oh, I dunno!”

Then I ses, “Now see here, Lindy, I’m er-wantin’ yer ter state Ef yer thinks yer’ll ever love me, an’ if I had better wait, Fer I’m tired of this fulein’, an’ I wants ter be yer beau, An’ I’d like to hear yer sayin’ suthin’ else but I dunno!”

Then I puts my arm around her an’ I holds her close and tight, En’ the stars away up yander seems er-winkin’ et th’ sight, Es she murmurs sof’ an’ faintly, with the words er-comin’ slow, “Jim, I never loved no other!” Then I ses, “Oh, I dunno!”

RORY O’MORE

BY SAMUEL LOVER

Young Rory O’More courted Kathleen Bawn, He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn; He wish’d in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. “Now, Rory, be aisy,” sweet Kathleen would cry, (Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye), “With your tricks I don’t know, in troth, what I’m about; Faith, you’ve teased till I’ve put on my cloak inside out.” “Oh! Jewel,” says Rory, “that same is the way You’ve thrated my heart for this many a day; And ’tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? For ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More.

“Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, “don’t think of the like, For I half gave a promise to sootherin’ Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I’ll be bound—” “Faith,” says Rory, “I’d rather love you than the ground.” “Now, Rory, I’ll cry if you don’t let me go; Sure I drame ev’ry night that I’m hatin’ you so!” “Oh,” says Rory, “that same I’m delighted to hear, For drames always go by conthraries, my dear; Oh! jewel, keep dramin’ that same till you die, And bright mornin’ will give dirty night the black lie! And ’tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? Since ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More.

“Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you’ve tazed me enough, Sure I’ve thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I’ve made myself drinkin’ your health quite a baste, So I think after that, I may talk to the priest.”

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm ’round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips;—don’t you think he was right? “Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you’ll hug me no more. That’s eight times to-day you have kiss’d me before.” “Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure, For there’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O’More.

HOWDY SONG

BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

It’s howdy, honey, when you laugh, An’ howdy when you cry, An’ all day long it’s howdy— I never shall say good-by.

I’m monst’us peart myse’f, suh, An’ hopin’ the same fer you, An’ when I ketch my breff, suh, I’ll ax you howdy-do!

It’s howdy, honey, when you sleep, It’s howdy, when you cry; Keep up, keep up the howdyin’; Don’t never say good-by!

I’m middlin’ well myse’f, suh, Which the same I hope fer you; Ef you’ll let me ketch my breff, suh, I’ll ax you howdy-do!

“IMPH-M”

ANONYMOUS

When I was a laddie lang syne at the schule, The maister aye ca’d me a dunce an’ a fule; For somehoo his words I could ne’er understand’, Unless when he bawled, “Jamie, haud oot yer han’!” Then I gloom’d and say, “Imph-m,” I glunch’d, and say, “Imph-m,” I wasna owre proud, but owre dour to say—A-y-e!

Ae day a queer word, as lang-nebbits’ himsel’, He vow’d he would thrash me if I wadna spell, Quo I, “Maister Quill,” wi’ a kin’ o’ swither, “I’ll spell ye the word if ye’ll spell me anither; Let’s hear ye spell Imph-m, That common word Imph-m, That auld Scotch word Imph-m, ye ken it means A-Y-E!”

Had ye seen hoo he glour’d, hoo he scratched his big pate, An’ shouted, “Ye villain, get oot o’ my gate! Get aff to your seat! yer the plague o’ the schule! The de’il o’ me kens if yer maist rogue or fule!” But I only said, Imph-m, That pawkie word, Imph-m, He couldna spell Imph-m, that stands for an A-y-e!

An’ when a brisk wooer, I courted my Jean— O’ Avon’s braw lasses the pride an’ the queen— When ’neath my gray pladdie, wi’ heart beatin’ fain, I speired in a whisper if she’d be my ain, She blushed an’ said, Imph-m, That charming word, Imph-m, A thousan’ times better an’ sweeter than A-y-e!

Just ae thing I wanted my bliss to complete— Ae kiss frae her rosy mou’, couthie an’ sweet— But a shake o’ her head was her only reply— Of course, that said No, but I ken she meant A-y-e, For her twa een said Imph-m, Her red lips said, Imph-m, Her hale face said Imph-m, an’ Imph-m means A-y-e!

GRADING THE STREET

BY MISTUR MALOONEY

’Twas mesilf thin as bot me a swate little lot, Wid monies I digged for six years in the mines; An’ I builded an’ plastered a duck o’ a cot, Which Biddy soon kivird wid crapers and vines, Wid a backyard and garding convanyent and neat, Where the childer and pig could kape out o’ the street.

I warked wid the hod an’ had plinty to do, An’ a stitch in my back ne’er minded at all; Our childer was healthy and Biddy was true, And I sung ’neath the load as I mounted the wall. For I knew when at sundown my work was complete, My supper was ready, all smoking and sweet.

’Twas down in a valley secure from the wind, A sandhill a north and a sandhill a south; I thought that dame nature to me was so kind She opened her jaws an’ we lived in her mouth. Biddy oft at the sand would objection and grete, But I tould her ’twould stop whin they graded the street.

Bad luck to the day thin—one Saturday night I came back from working two month and a week; Och! sorry an inch o’ my cot was in sight, ’Twas kivered wid sand an’ all livil and sleek; I thought that an earthquake had made the hills meet, Till poor Biddy cried out, “They’ve graded the street!”

“Bad luck to their sowls, thin,” I cried in my hate; “I’ll sue them for spoiling my cottage an’ land,” Whin Biddy sobbed out, “Dear Pat, ye are late, ’Tis a bill agin us that I hould in my hand.” In trouble I looked at the figgers complete, And saw _four hundred dollars_ for grading the street!

Poor Biddy was faithful, an’ didn’t repine; Her cousin the childer an’ her had took in, ’Til I could wid our lavings another house find; Wid a few pots an’ kettles a new life begin; But exparience had taught me a lesson I weet, Ne’er to live in a valley beside o’ the street.

So I wint to the highest o’ hills I could find, An’ rinted a place that commanded a view, An’ got oursilves sittled so much to our mind, I soon earned the monies, an’ paid for it, too; ’Twas not so convanyent, but still it was neat, Tho’ my bones ached at night, as I toiled up the street.

The young uns grew healthy, the air was so good, An’ Biddy her clothes dried in half o’ the time; Fur to help me to pay for our vittals an’ food, The poor girl by washing earned many a dime, An’ she kept things so tidy, complaicint an’ sweet, I nivir drudgid climin’ that hill o’ a street.

Thin I wint to the mines for six months it may be, An’ wid goold in my pockit I hurried me back; Whin I got to the hill, nary hill could I see; ’Twas gone, an’ some lumber obstructed my track— I saw in an instant my ruin complete— Och! faith and Saint Peter, _They’d graded the street_!

DOT GOOD FOR NODINGS DOG

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

You vant to buy my dog? Ah, vell, Dere vasn’t much of him to sell. His eye vas broke, his leg vas out, Und ven you ask his pedigree, Dot make her laugh come out o’ me— It vas a madder, I be blamed, About der vich he vas ashamed. His breed vasn’t in der Catalogue, He vas a good for nodings dog.

It vas a day I don’t forgot, Mit rain und sleet und dings like dot, Dis homely dog he comed along Und sing me such a hungry song, I said: “Come in und take a seat Und have some scraps und tings to eat!” I smile mit him, he smile mit me, Und look like he vas glad to be, Although not in der Catalogue, But yust a good for nodings dog.

Each time I come around, you bet He vag dot tail already yet; Und show me plain from either end, He always vant to be my friend. No madder I say yes! or no! Where’er I gone he bound to go. Und ven he lost me, runs around Und smells me out upon der ground, Den yumps yust like he vas a frog— Und not a good for nodings dog.

My Meenie vas a leedle tot, Yust big enough to be like dot; Und run about und have some play Yust mit der dog, until von day I call her, und she vasn’t dere; I couldn’t find her anyvere;— “Dot dog gone off,” my vife, she say, “Und lead dot leedle girl avay:— He vas a good for nodings dog, Und vasn’t vorth der Catalogue!”

My leedle Meenie lost! Mine Got! I never tink I cry like dot! But ven I found dot leedle pet, I cry me more as effer yet:— Dot’s funny, ven a man feels glad He cries, yust like ven he feel bad; Der tears vas yust der same; oh, my, But vat a difference in der cry! Dere Meenie sat upon der log Und pet dot good for nodings dog.

Und ven my senses all got clear, I ask me: “Vot’s der matter here?” Und looking vere my Meenie said, Dere lay a great big vildcat dead! “Dot dog he killed him,” said my vife, “Und save dot leedle Meenie’s life!” I never saw her eyes more vet, Und vile I hug dot leedle pet She hug dot good for nodings dog, Vot vasn’t vorth der Catalogue!

You vant to buy dot dog? Ah, vell, Nobody’s here who vants to sell. My vife she say, “You couldn’t buy Von look of kindness oud his eye!” Und as for me—dere’s not for sale, Not e’en der vaggin’ of his tail! Und Meenie told you plendy quick, “In all dis vorld you got your pick Of dose vot’s in der Catalogue, But not dot good for nodings dog.”

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

SHE LIKED HIM RALE WEEL

ANONYMOUS

The Spring had brought out the green leaf on the trees, An’ the flowers were unfolding their sweets tae the bees, When Jock says tae Jenny, “Come, Jenny, agree, An’ say the bit word that ye’ll marry me.” She held doon her heid like a lily sae meek An’ the blush o’ the rose fled awa’ frae her cheek. But she said, “Gang awa’, man, your heid’s in a creel.” She didna let on that she liked him rale weel— Oh, she liked him rale weel, Aye, she liked him rale weel, But she didna let on that she liked him rale weel.

Then Jock says, “Oh, Jenny, for a twalmonth an’ mair, Ye ha’e kept me just hangin’ twixt hope an’ despair, But oh, Jenny, last night something whispered tae me That I’d better lie doon at the dyke-side and dee.” Tae keep Jock in life, she gave in tae be tied: An’ soon they were booked, and three times they were cried. Love danced in Jock’s heart, and hope joined the reel— He was sure that his Jenny did like him rale weel— Oh, she liked him rale weel, Aye, she liked him rale weel, But she never let on that she liked him rale weel.

When the wedding day cam’ tae the manse they did stap, An’ there they got welcome frae Mr. Dunlap, Wha chained them to love’s matrimonial stake, Syne they took a dram an’ a mouthfu’ o’ cake, Then the minister said, “Jock, be kind tae your Jenny, Nae langer she’s tiead to the string o’ her minnie; Noo, Jenny, will ye aye be couthie an’ leal?” And she vowed that she would, for she liked him rale weel— Aye, she liked him rale weel, Oh, she liked him rale weel, At last she owned up that she liked him rale weel.

S-H-H-H!

ANONYMOUS

My maw—she’s upstairs in bed, An IT’S there wif her. It’s all bundled up and red— Can’t nobody stir; Can’t nobody say a word Since _It_ came to us. Only thing ’at I have heard, ’Ceptin’ all _It’s_ fuss, Is S-h-h-h!

That there nurse she shakes her head When I come upstairs. “S-h-h-h!” she sez—’at’s all she’s said To me anywheres. Doctor—he’s th’ man ’at brung _It_ to us to stay— He makes me put out my tongue, ’Nen says “S-h-h-h!”—’at way; Just “S-h-h-h!”

I goed in to see my maw, ’Nen clumb on the bed. Was she glad to see me? Pshaw! “S-h-h-h!”—’at’s what she said.

’Nen _It_ blinked and tried to see— ’Nen I runned away Out to my old apple tree, Where no one could say “S-h-h-h!”

’Nen I layed down on the ground An’ say ’at I just wish I wuz big. An’ there’s a sound— ’At old tree says “S-h-h-h!” ’Nen I cry an’ cry an’ cry Till my paw he hears, An’ comed there an’ wiped my eye An’ mop the tears— ’Nen says “S-h-h-h!”

I’m goin’ to tell my maw ’at she Don’t suit me one bit— Why do they all say “S-h-h-h!” to me An’ not say “S-h-h-h!” to IT?

A FEW WORDS FROM WILHELM

BY WALLACE IRWIN

Man vants put leedle hier pelow Und vants dot leedle Dutch— Der vishes vich I vish, I know, Are nicht so fery much: Choost Europt, Asia, Africa, Der Vestern Hemishpere Und a coaling-station in Japan— Dot vill pe all dis year.

_Hi-lee, hi-lo, der winds dey plow_ _Choost like “Die Wacht am Rhein;”_ _Und vat iss mein pelongs to Me,_ _Und vat iss yours iss mein!_

Jah also, ven I vloat aroundt Mitin mein royal yacht I see so much vat iss nicht Dutch Dot—ach, du lieber Gott!— It gif me such a shtrange distress I gannot undershtand How volks gan lif in happiness Mitout no Vaderland!

_Hi-lee, hi-lo, der winds dey plow_ _As I sail around apout_ _To gif der Nations good advice_ _Und sausages und kraut._

Each hour I shange mein uniform, Put I never shange mein mindt, Und efery day I make ein spooch To penefit mankindt: Race Soosancide, der Nation’s Pride, Divorce and Public Sins— I talk so much like Rosenfeldt I dink ve must pe tvins!

_Hi-lee, hi-lo, der vinds dey plow_ _Der maxim Rule or Bust—_ _You gannot wreck our skyndicate_ _Ven Gott is in der Trust!_

Being ein kviet Noodral Power, I know mein chob, you bet— I pray for Beace, und hope for War Und keep mein powder wet; Put ven I’ve nodings else to do, Put shtandt around und chat, Den der Right Divine talks nonsense t’rough Mein military hat.

_Hi-lee, hi-lo, der vinds dey plow_ _Und softly visper dis:_ _“Der Kaiser he iss more as yet_ _Und all iss right vat Iss!”_

AT GRANDMA’S

ANONYMOUS

I went to visit Grandma One cold Thanksgiving day; I shookt and freezed and chattered All along the way. Grandma was knitting stockings, So I tried to knit; I pulled the string the wrong way, And unmade every bit.

Next day I tried to tackle A piggy for a horse, And tumbled in the pig-pen— And wasn’t Grandma cross! I’m sure it wasn’t my fault That my new dress was white, If mamma had made it pig-color It wouldn’t have shown a mite.

My Grandma has a brick room Filled up with pans of milk. One day I took in pussy, She’s just as soft as silk— She’s a drefful funny pussy— All along the shelf she ran, And with her little nosey Made blue holes in every pan. My grandma’s dreffully stingy, She drove us both away, And said she’d half a mind To send me home that day.

Sometimes this pussy’s naughty— One time she catched a mouse; She teased and scratched and bited it All up and down the house. I whipped her with the tater-masher Every time she made a turn, And got away poor mousey And hid him in the churn.

Who ever knew that milk would drown? I thought ’twas only rivers. But when Grandma churned, My mousey was drowned all to shivers. I saw a tub of milk onct, We have ours in a dish. I thought ’twas good for nothing So I’d try to fish.

I just got settled down there, My legs were nearly freezed, When Grandma came in screaming— “O that girl is in my cheese.” She jumped me out I tell you Right on the cold stone floor, And called my new boots dirty, And locked the dairy door.

She gave the butter to the pigs, And put me straight to bed. And whipped poor pussy dreffully Right on her little head. I’s been drefully good to Grandma, Not made a bit of muss. But I’s going home to-morrow Cause, cause Grandma says I must.

A CHILD’S ALMANAC

BY J. W. FOLEY

My mamma says ’at w’en it rains ’Eyre washin’ Heaven’s window-panes, An’ careless angels ’ist do fill ’Eir pails too full an’ ’atway spill Some water down on us. ’At’s w’y It rains some days w’en maybe I Would like to play. An’ ’en she says It’s ’ist ’em angels’ carelessness ’At makes ’em raindrops fall ’at way At picnics an’ on circus day.

My mamma says ’at w’en it snows ’Eyre angels pickin’ geese, she knows, An’ ’stead o’ usin’ ’em t’ stuff ’Eir pillow-cases, ’ey ’ist puff An’ blow an’ don’t clear up ’eir muss Till all ’em feathers fall on us. An’ she says ’ey ’ist pick ’atway Cuz ’ey want geese f’ Tristmas day. An’ ’at’s w’y ’eres e’ mostes’ snow Right close t’ Tristmas time, you know.

My mamma says w’en e’ wind ’ist roars An’ blows, ’at’s w’en e’ angel snores, But w’en it lightnings, she says, w’y ’Eyre scratchin’ matches on the sky, An’ w’en it rumbles ’bove our heads ’Ey’re movin’ furniture an’ beds Up ’ere, an’ cleanin’ house, an’ shakes ’Eir moth-balls out an’ ’at’s w’at makes It hail. An’ weather, she ’ist ’clares Is ’ist w’at angels does upstairs.

DOT LONG HANDLED DIPPER

BY C. F. ADAMS

Der poet may sing of “Der Oldt Oaken Pooket,” Und in schweetest langvich its virtues may tell, Und how, ven a poy, he mit eggsdasy dook it, Vhen dripping mit coolness it rose from der well: I don’t take some stock in dot manner of drinking, It vas too much like hosses and cattle, I dink, Dher vas more sadisfaction in my way of drinking Mit dot long-handled dipper that hangs py der sink.

“How schweet vrom der green mossy brim to receive it—” Dot would sound pooty good, eef it only vas true, Der water schbills ofer, you petter believe it, Und run down your schleeve und schlop indo your shoe: Den down on your nose comes dot oldt iron handle, Und make your eyes water so quick as a wink! I dells you dot bookit don’t hold by a candle To dot long-handled dipper dot hangs py der sink.

How nice it musd be in der cold vinter vedder, Vhen it settles right down to a cold, freezin’ rain, To haf dot rope coom oup so light as a feather Und find dat der bookit vas broke off der chain! Den down in der well you go off a-fishing, While into your back comes an oldt fashioned kink! I bet you mine life all der time you vas vishing For dot long-handled dipper dot hangs py der sink.

Dhen give oup der bookit at vonce to der horses, Off mikrobes und tadpoles schust give dem their fill, Gife me dat pure vater dot all der time courses Droo dose pipes dot run from der schpring on der hill: Und eef der goot dings of dis vorld I get rich in, Und friends all around me dheir glasses schuld clink, I still vill remember dot old country kitchen Und dot long-handled dipper dot hangs py der sink.

DE FUST BANJO

BY IRWIN RUSSELL

Go ’way, fiddle! folks is tired o’ hearin’ you a-squawkin’, Keep silence fur yo’ betters!—don’t you heah de banjo talkin’? About the ’Possum’s tail she’s qwine to lecter—ladies, listen!— About de ha’r whut isn’t dar, an’ why de ha’r is missin’:

“Dar’s gwine to be a’ oberflow,” said Noah, lookin’ solemn— Fur Noah tuk the “Harald,” an’ he read the ribber column— An’ so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl’arin’ timber-patches, An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah Natchez.

Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’ an’ a-chippin’ an’ a-sawin’; An’ all de wicked neighbors kep’ a-laughin’ an’ a-pshawin’; But Noah didn’t min’ ’em, knowin’ whut wuz gwine to happen: An’ forty days an’ forty nights de rain it kep’ a-drappin’.

Now Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o’ beas’es— Ob all de shows a-trabbelin’, it beat ’em all to pieces! He had a Morgan colt an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle— An’ druv ’em ’board de Ark as soon’s he heered de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain! it comes so awful hebby, De ribber riz immejitly, an’ busted troo de lebbee; De people all wuz drownded out—’cep’ Noah an’ de critters, An’ men he’d hired to work de boat—an’ one to mix de bitters.

De Ark she kep’ a-sailin’ an’ a-sailin’ an’ a-sailin’; De lion got his dander up, an’ like to bruk de palin’; De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; till whut wid all de fussin’, You c’u’dn’t hardly heah de mate a-bossin’ ’roun’ an’ cussin’.

Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin’ on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an’ c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket; An’ so, fur to amuse he-se’f, he steamed some wood an’ bent it, An’ soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented.

He wet der ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an’ screws an’ aprin; An’ fitted in a proper neck—’twuz berry long an’ tap’rin’; He tuk some tin, an’ twisted him a thimble fur to ring it; An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’s a-singin’; De ha’r so long an’ thick an’ strong,—des fit fur banjo-stringin’; Dat nigger shaved ’em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces; An’ sorted ob ’em by de size, f’om little E’s to basses.

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—’twas “Nebber min’ de wedder,” She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder; Some went to pattin’; some to dancin’; Noah called de figgers; An’ Ham he sot an’ knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!

Now, sence dat time—it’s mighty strange—dere’s not de slightes’ showin’ Ob any ha’r at all upon de ’possum’s tail a-growin’; An’ curious, too, dat nigger’s ways: his people nebber los’ ’em— Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar’s de banjo an’ de ’possum!

THE MOO-COW-MOO

BY EDMUND VANCE COOKE

My pa held me up to the moo-cow-moo So clost I could almost touch, En I fed him a couple of times, or two, En I wasn’t a ’fraid-cat—MUCH.

But if my papa goes into the house, En mamma she goes in, too, I just keep still, like a little mouse, Fer the moo-cow-moo might Moo!

The moo-cow-moo’s got a tail like a rope En it’s raveled down where it grows; En it’s just like feeling a piece of soap All over the moo-cow’s nose.

En the moo-cow-moo has lots of fun Just swinging his tail about; En he opens his mouth and then I run— ’Cause that’s where the moo comes out!

En the moo-cow-moo’s got deers on his head En his eyes sticks out of their place, En the nose of the moo-cow-moo is spread All over the end of his face.

En his feet is nothing but finger-nails En his mamma don’t keep ’em cut, En he gives folks milk in water-pails Ef he don’t keep his handles shut.

’Cause ef you er me pulls the handles, why The moo-cow-moo says it hurts, But the hired man he sits down clost by En squirts en squirts en squirts!

ENCOURAGEMENT

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

Who dat knockin’ at de do’? Why, Ike Johnson—yes, fu’ sho’! Come in, Ike. I’s mighty glad You come down. I t’ought you’s mad At me ’bout de othah night, An’ was stayin’ ’way fu’ spite. Say, now, was you mad fu’ true W’en I kin’ o’ laughed at you? Speak up, Ike, an’ ’spress yo’se’f.

’Tain’t no use a-lookin’ sad, An’ a-mekin’ out you’s mad; Ef you’s gwine to be so glum, Wondah why you evah come. I don’t lak nobidy ’roun’ Dat jes’ shet dey mouf an’ frown— Oh, now, man, don’t act a dunce! Cain’t you talk? I tol’ you once, Speak up, Ike, an’ ’spress yo’se’f.

Wha’d you come hyeah fu’ to-night? Body’d t’ink yo’ haid ain’t right. I’s done all dat I kin do— Dressed perticler, jes’ fu’ you; Reckon I’d a’ bettah wo’ My ol’ ragged calico. Aftah all de pains I’s took, Cain’t you tell me how I look? Speak up, Ike, an’ ’spress yo’se’f.

—Copyright by _Dodd, Mead & Co._, and used by arrangement.

WHEN DE CO’N PONE’S HOT

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

Dey is times in life when Nature Seems to slip a cog, an’ go Jes’ a-rattlin’ down creation, Lak an ocean’s overflow; When do worl’ jes’ stahts a-spinnin’ Lak a picaninny’s top, An’ yo’ cup o’ joy is brimmin’ ’Twell it seems about to slop, An’ you feel jes’ lak a racah, Dat is trainin’ fu’ to trot— When yo’ mammy says de blessin’ An’ de co’n pone’s hot.

When you set down at de table, Kin’ o’ weary lak an’ sad, An’ you’se jes’ a little tiahed An’ purhaps a little mad; How yo’ gloom tu’ns into gladness, How yo’ joy drives out de doubt When de oven do’ is opened, An’ de smell comes po’in out; Why de ’lectric light o’ Heaven Seems to settle on de spot, When yo’ mammy says de blessin’ An’ de co’n pone’s hot.

When de cabbage pot is steamin’ An’ de bacon’s good an’ fat, When de chittlins is a sputter’n’ So’s to show you whah dey’s at; Tek away yo’ sody biscuit, Tek away yo’ cake an’ pie, Fu’ de glory time is comin’, An’ it’s ’proachin’ mighty nigh, An’ you want to jump an’ hollah, Dough you know you’d bettah not, When yo’ mammy says de blessin’ An’ de co’n pone’s hot.

I have hyeahd o’ lots o’ sermons, An’ I’ve hyeahd o’ lots o’ prayers, An’ I’ve listened to some singin’ Dat has tuck me up de stairs Of de Glory-Lan’ an’ set me Jes’ below de Mastah’s tr’one, An’ have lef’ my hea’t a-singin’ In a happy aftah tone; But dem wu’ds so sweetly murmured Seem to tech de softes’ spot, When my mammy says de blessin’, An’ de co’n pone’s hot.

—Copyright by _Dodd, Mead & Co._, New York, and used by arrangement.

THE COURTIN’

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

God makes sech nights, all white an’ still Fur’z you can look or listen. Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill, All silence an’ all glisten.

Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown An’ peeked in thru’ the winder, An’ there sot Huldy all alone, ’Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room’s one side With a half a cord o’ wood in,— There warn’t no stoves (tel comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin’.

The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An’ leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An’ in amongst ’em rusted The ole queen’s arm thet Gran’ the Young Fetched back from Concord busted.

The very room, ’cause she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’, An’ she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin’.

’Twas kin’ o’ kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur, A dog-rose bloomin’ to a brook Ain’t modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o’ man, A-1, Clean grit an’ human natur’; None couldn’t quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He’d sparked it with full twenty gals, He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em, Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells,— All is, he couldn’t love ’em.

But long o’ her his veins ’ould run All crinky like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o’ sun Ez a south slope in Ap’il.

She thought no v’ice had such a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher.

An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin’-bonnet Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair O’ blue eyes sot upon it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some_! She seemed to’ve got a new soul, For she felt sartin’-sure he’s come, Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an’ knowed it tu, A-raspin’ on the scraper,— All ways to once her feelin’s flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o’ the sekle; His heart kept goin’ pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle.

An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An’ on her apples kep’ to work, Parin’ away like murder.

“You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?” “Wal ... no ... I come designin’”— “To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’es Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”

To say why gals act so or so, Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’; Mebby to mean _yes_ an’ say _no_ Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t’other, An’ on which one he felt the wust He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.

Says he, “I’d better call agin;” Says she, “Think likely, Mister”; Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An’ ... Wal, he up an’ kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips, Huldy sot pale as ashes, All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips An’ teary roun’ the lashes.

For she was jes’ the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun’ her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin’, Tell mother see how matters stood, An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.

Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o’ Fundy, An’ all I know is they was cried In meetin’ come next Sunday.

A RAINY DAY

BY ELLYE HOWELL GLOVER

I simply cannot understand Why grown-ups always say, “Don’t spend your money, little boy; Save for a rainy day.”

Once, when the circus was in town I asked Bob for a quarter; He said, “You’re so extravagant, For shame; I think you’d oughter—

“Save all your pennies; after while You’ll need them, silly baby; For if you spend them all, you’ll go Out to the poorhouse—maybe.”

And so I waited till next time When it rained cats and dogs; I took the big umbrella, and Put on my oldest togs.

And when they stopped me with the words I knew of course they’d say, I hollered, “I must spend my dime, Cause it’s a rainy day.”

SCHOOL’S COMMENCED

BY LEONARD G. NATTKEMPER

Well, I guess I’ll have to go— For school’s commenced again, you know; An’ now I’ll have to be polite, An’ watch my words wif all my might.

I wish the school ’ud blow away, Or teachers all were sick to-day; For nen I’d be just what I am, An’ play all day wif Jake an’ Sam.

I guess us boys ’ud ruther be The pirates on a stormy sea, That shoot wif guns an’ cut wif knives, Than spend in school most all our lives.

I can’t see why Ma thinks ’at school Is better place than swimmin’ pool; Or that I’ll learn more in a book Than from my pal, the flowin’ brook.

It may be so, but I don’t care, I’d ruther be a-dreamin’ there How fine it is to be like men, An’ never go to school again.

My Ma an’ Pa both said that they Would be so glad when I’m away; An’ so, I guess I’ll have to go— For school’s commenced again, you know.

UNDERSTAENDLICH

BY EDMUND VANCE COOKE

(ABRIDGED)

Dhe contrariest t’ing on dhe erd is men, Aber wimmens arr twice so contrary again, Andt I am twice so contrary as you, Andt you arr as worse as dhe worst one too; Now, ain’d dhat zo?

You like to haf hoonger by dinner, you say, Aber vhy do you eadt, so dat hoonger go ’vay? You like to be tired, so you schleep like a top, Andt you like to go schleep, so dhat tired feeling shtop; Now, ain’d dhat zo?

You like to haf sugar on sauer t’ings you eadt Andt you like to haf sauer mit dhe t’ings vhat arr sweet, You like to be cold when dhe vetter is hot; Andt it is cold, ach, how varm you vould got! Now, aindt dhat zo?

How you shdare at dhe man vhat can valk up dhe street On his hands, yet you valk twice so goodt on your feet, Vhat a long mind you haf, if I’m in your debt, Budt if you arr in mine, O, how quick you forget! Now, aindt dhat zo?

Are you single? You like to be married, of course. Are you married? Most likely you like a divorse! Andt if you vas get unmarried, why dhen You go righd avay and got married again. Now, ain’d dhat zo?

It is bedter to laugh; it is foolish to fight Yoost because I am wrong and because you ain’d right, It is better to laugh mit dhe vorld, up and down From dhe sole of our headt to the foot of our crown; Now, ain’d dhat zo?

Zo, dhen you laugh at me andt dhen I laugh at you, Andt dhe more dhat you laugh vhy dhe more I laugh, too, Andt ve laugh till ve cry! Vhen ve cry, aber dhen, Ve will bot’ feel zo goot ve go laughing again! Now, ain’d dhat zo?

A THURRU’ REST

ANONYMOUS

Examination’s over ’n’ I don’t care if I passed, An’ I don’t care if I didn’t fer vacation’s come at last! I thought ’twould never git here, fer the days dragged by as slow As Davy Jones’s ma, who calls ’n’ don’t know when to go. Pop says I ort to go to work, but ma says she knows best, ’N’ what a boy of my age needs is just a thurru’ rest.

So me an’ Dave’ll get up every mornin’ bright ’n’ soon, An’ pitch ’n’ ketch till breakfast, ’n’ bat up flies till noon. ’Cause after dinner every day the Hustlehards—his nine— Is goin’ to play a series fer the champeenship with mine: The one behind at dark has got to say the other’s best. Gee! ain’t I glad vacation’s here ’n’ I got time to rest.

Then I’m a-goin’ to learn the other fellers how to dive, An’ rassle Billy Potter, best thirteen in twenty-five! ’N’ after supper Dave ’n’ I are goin’ to have a race, Ten times around the block, ’n’ if I win he’ll bust my face. That’s what he says! But he’ll find out which one of us is best; I’m feeling pretty strong now since I’m havin’ such a rest.

There’s goin’ to be a picnic ’n’ you bet yer life I’m goin’; I’m entered in the swimmin’ race, ’n’ greasy pole, ’n’ rowin’, The sack race ’n’ potato race are mine, I bet a dime, ’N’ in “the mile” I simply got to win the prize fer time, ’Cause it’s a ticket to the Gym. I like that prize the best, Fer a feller needs some exercise as well as just a rest.

I’m goin’ to visit Uncle’s farm. He lets me do the chores ’N’ work just like the farm-hands do, right in the fields out-doors. I’m goin’ to git a bag to punch, so’s I won’t git too fat: We’re goin’ to have a six-day race—I got to train fer that. I want to do so many things, I don’t know which is best; I bet vacation’s over ’fore I get a thurru’ rest!

NO SHOOTIN’ OFF THIS YEAR

ANONYMOUS

There ain’t no Declaration. Naw There ain’t no Fourth-July. There ain’t no “free ’n’ equal” law, ’N’ Washin’ton could lie. They never dumped no Boston tea; It’s fakey, all you hear, Fer pop says there ain’t goin’ to be No shootin’ off this year.

They talk about pertectin’ us To keep the Fourth in peace; But we ain’t makin’ any fuss, Ner askin’ fer police. We ain’t afraid of smoke ’n’ noise, Er little lumps of lead; ’N’ why should they blame livin’ boys Because some boys is dead?

It ain’t my fault the fuse went out ’N’ Tom went up ’n’ blew; Besides he’s just as well without His extry ear er two. They cut off Oscar’s leg, but he Don’t seem to miss it much; He’d beat us hoppin’ yet, if we ’Ud let him use his crutch.

It ain’t my fault that Willie blew His hand off, like a chump; I told him what those big ones do; He needn’t ’a’ took the stump. It ain’t my fault a rocket flies ’N’ hits some him er her; Somebody’s got to wear glass eyes; That’s what glass eyes is fer!

It ain’t my fault the stuff was bad They made Jim’s pistol of; Besides the preacher said, “We’re glad He’s happier up above!” Bet I’d be happier, anyhow, Most any place but here, Where they ain’t goin’ to allow No shootin’ off this year!

HAUL AWAY, JOE

BY CHARLES KEELER

O Oi wuz a loafin’ lubber but bedad I learned to wurrk Whin Oi loighted out o’ County Corrk along wid Paddy Burrke. We stowed abarrd a coaster an’ her skipper wuz a brick; Begorrah if yez didn’t moind, he’d boost yez wid a kick! Away, haal away, haal away, Joe!

Th’ pigs wuz lane in County Corrk, th’ men all starrved on taties, But Oi shipped upon a Yankee barrk, and better, faith, me fate is! Och Oi hed an Irish darlint, but she ghrew so fat an’ lazy Thet Oi bounced her fur a Yankee gurrl, an’ surre but she’s a daisy! Away, haal away, haal away, Joe!

O since Oi lift auld Ireland Oi’ve poaked thro’ miny plaices, Oi’ve wurrked me way, Oi’ve arrned me pay at haalin’ shates an’ braces; On farrin’ shorres Oi’ve sot me eye on gurrls iv iv’ry nashin, Me Yankee gurrl hes ne’er a mate throughhout th’ woid creashin! Away, haal away, haal away, Joe!

—Copyright by the publisher, _A. M. Robertson_, San Francisco, and used by his kind permission.

BLACK SAILORS’ CHANTY

BY CHARLES KEELER

Yo ho, ma hahties, da’s a hurricane a-brewin’, Fo’ de cook he hasn’t nuffin fo’ de sailah-men a-stewin’,— He am skulkin’ in his bunk, am dat niggah of a cook, An’ his chaowdah ’m in de ocean while de pot am on de hook. You can chaw a chunk o’ hahd-tack mos’ as tendah as a brick, But d’ain’t no smokin’ ’possum when de cook am lyin’ sick.

Ah remembah in de cane-fiel’ we hed pone-cakes ebry day; Slack yo line a bit, ma hahties! pull away! pull away! An’ Ah ’low Ah’m feelin’ homesick, jes’ t’ mention ob ma honey,— She’s a libbin’ at de cabin an’ she’s out o’ cloes an’ money. While we chaw a chunk o’ hahd-tack mos’ as tendah as a brick, But d’ain’t no smokin’ ’possum while de cook am lyin’ sick.

O ma po’ neglected Liza an’ her piccaninny Jo, Ah’s ben roamin’ sence Ah left her case Ah wanted fo’ to go! Ah’s ben hustlin’ roun’ de islands, navigatin’ all de sea, While ma honey specs a hungry shark done stuff hisself wid me. While we chaw a chunk o’ hahd-tack mos’ as tendah as a brick, But d’ain’t no smokin’ ’possum while de cook am lyin’ sick.

—Copyright by the publisher, _A. M. Robertson_, San Francisco; and used by his kind permission.

JOSIAH AND SYMANTHY

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

Josiah loved Symanthy And Symanthy loved Josi’, Which you couldn’t fail to notice In the rollin’ of the eye; But they never told each other, On account o’ bein’ shy, ’Pears to me!

But they kept right on a-lovin’ Jes like any couple would. Weren’t no reason why they shouldn’t, Ner no reason why they should, ’Cause there wa’n’t no p’ints about ’em Cupid reckoned on as good, ’Pears to me!

Now this love disease is mortal, ’Cause it tackles mortals so, An’ the oftener you have it The worse it seems to grow; More you try to hide the symptoms, More the symptoms seem to show, ’Pears to me!

Josiah was uneasy When Symanthy wasn’t near, An’ he got still more uneasy Whenever she’d appear. But sittin’ down beside ’er Got his joints clean out o’ gear, ’Pears to me!

He put his arm behind ’er, An’ then he pulled it back Until Symanthy giggled: “Guess yer gittin’ on the track By the way yer flusticatin’; Kind a-lookin’ fer a smack, ’Pears to me!”

Then Josiah stopped a minute, Jes consid’rin’ how ’twould be An’ how best to go about it, ’Cause he hadn’t much idee; But he knew ’twas waitin’ fer him, By Symanthy’s shy _te-he_! ’Pears to me!

Then Symanthy got pretending, She was bitin’ off her thumb, But she wasn’t—she was waitin’ For whatever chose to come; While Josiah’s tongue kept rollin’ In his cheek, like chewin’-gum, ’Pears to me!

When Josiah was persuaded That Symanthy wouldn’t shout, Wa’n’t a-jokin’, ner a-foolin’, Ner a-fixin’ to back out,— Then he buckled up his courage: Kissed her cheek or thereabout, ’Pears to me!

Then he asked ’er if she’d have him, An’ she answered: “What d’ ye guess?” Said he wa’n’t no good at guessin’; So she smiled an’ snickered: “Yes! Since I git ye all fer nothin’ I couldn’t do no less, ’Pears to me!”

When the Squire asked ’em the questions— On the weddin’-day they set— Which some people answer quickly An’ about as soon forget,— Symanthy said: “I reckin!” An’ Josiah said: “You bet!” ’Pears to me!

When they took their weddin’ journey Up an’ down the city street, Josiah told Symanthy That he guessed they’d have a treat: So they went an’ got some oysters— What they never yet had eat, ’Pears to me!

Then Josiah, sort o’ thinkin’, Said: “I thought they had a shell; What the slipp’ry things resemble I’ll be switched if I can tell; An’ they look so pale an’ sickly Kind o’ reckon they ain’t well, ’Pears to me!”

“I wonder how they eat ’em?” Said Symanthy, “How’d I know? I’ve eat everythin’ that you have Ever since you’ve been my beau! But I’ll bet a cent ye dasn’t Put one in an’ let ’er go! ’Pears to me!”

While Symanthy eat the crackers Josiah let one slip; Said it didn’t taste like nothin’; Wasn’t ripe; then closed his lip; Vowed he wouldn’t eat another, Fear ’twould spile his weddin’ trip, ’Pears to me!

When the tip-expectin’ beggar Bowed, an’ smilin’ meekly, said: “Colonel hasn’t feed the waitah!” Then Josiah jerked his head— “You can feed on them ’ere oysters If the pesky things ain’t dead, ’Pears to me!”

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

CHARLIE JONES’S BAD LUCK

BY A. J. WATERHOUSE

(_As discussed by little Willie_)

I don’t care if Charlie Jones Is better ’an I be; An’ I don’t care if teacher says He’s smart ’long side er me; An’ I don’t care, w’en vis’tors come, If she on him does call; He ain’t got measles, like I have— He don’t have luck at all.

He never had the whoopin’ cough, Ner mos’ cut off his thumb, Ner ever fell an’ broke his leg An’ had a doctor come. He hardly ever stubs his toe, An’ if he does, he’ll bawl! There’s nothin’ special comes to him— He don’t have luck at all.

An’ I don’t care if he can say More tex’s an’ things ’an I; He never burnt both hands to once ’Long ’bout the Fo’th July. He never had the chicken-pox, Ner p’isen oak—las’ Fall! He can’t be proud o’ nothin’ much— He don’t have luck at all.

—From “Lays for Little Chaps.”

KISSING’S NO SIN

ANONYMOUS

Some say that kissing’s a sin; But I think it’s nane ava, For kissing has wonn’d in this warld Since ever that there was twa.

O, if it wasna lawfu’, Lawyers wadna allow it; If it wasna holy, Ministers wadna do it.

If it wasna modest, Maidens wadna take it; If it wasna plenty, Puir folks wadna get it.

IF I DARST

BY EUGENE FIELD

I’d like to be a cowboy, an’ ride a firey hoss Way out into the big and boundless West; I’d kill the bears an’ catamounts an’ wolves I come across, An’ I’d pluck the bal’ head eagle from his nest!

With my pistol at my side, I would roam the prarers wide, An’ to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride— If I darst; but I darsen’t.

I’d like to go to Afriky an’ hunt the lions there, An’ the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw! I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair, An’ beard the cannybull that eats folks raw.

I’d chase the pizen snakes An’ the pottimus that makes His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes— If I darst; but I darsen’t.

I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue, With a big black flag a-flyin’ overhead; I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew, An’ dye the sea a gouty, gory red.

With my cutlass in my hand On the quarterdeck I’d stand And to deeds of heroism I’d incite my pirut band— If I darst; but I darsen’t.

And, if I darst, I’d lick my pa for the times that he’s licked me, I’d lick my brother an’ my teacher, too, I’d lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea, An’ I’d keep on lickin’ folks till I got through.

You bet. I’d run away From my lessons to my play, An’ I’d shoo the hens, and tease the cat, an’ kiss the girls all day— If I darst; but I darsen’t.

DERNDEST GAL I EVER KNOWED

BY HERBERT BASHFORD

Derndest gal I ever knowed, Neatest gal I ever seen, Lived down in the Red Ravine Jest below the county road, Guess she wuz about sixteen— Sophy wuz her name, an’ she Wuz ez cute ez cute kin be.

When I’d go t’ town I brung Her the biggest lot o’ stuff, Pop-corn, likrish, ’n’ enough Candy fer t’ fill a room. Once she hit me with a broom Cuz I kissed her on the cheek, An’ the midget wouldn’t speak T’ me fer, perhaps, a week.

When I’d raise my eyes to hern Jeminny! my cheeks ’ud burn An’ git redder ’n’ a beet. Oh, she looked jest powerful sweet! When I’d try to call her dear, Why, I’d feel so doggoned queer That I’d lean ag’in’ th’ fence ’Zif I didn’ hev no sense, Twist th’ buttons on my vest, Ast her who she liked th’ best, Ast her if it wuzn’t Bill, Er old Jones thet run th’ mill, Keep a-hintin’ ’round, yuh see, Till she’d up an’ say ’twuz me.

I wuz jellus o’ Jim Pike, Jellus ez th’ very deuce Though there didn’t seem much use, Fer his freckles wuz so thick, An’ his hair wuz so like brick Thet a feller one day said Yuh could toast a hunk o’ bread Ef yuh’d hold it nigh his head. He wuz awkarder’n sin, Never fished along the crick But he’d hev t’ tumble in.

Sophy ’peared t’ pity Jim, While I thought if I wuz him I’d go off ’n’ hide somewhere, Else put plaster on my hair. But this homely, lantern-jawed Lookin’ cuss stood ’round ’n’ chawed On a plug o’ terbacker Half his time ’n’ talked t’ her Of his love, till I jest told Him t’ mosey, an’ he rolled Up his sleeves ’n’ landed me Plumb betwixt th’ eyes, then he Went to Sophy, an’, sir, she Married him! The pesky mule! Wuzn’t she a reg’ler fool? I wuz jest tetotally blowed— Derndest gal I ever knowed!

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

ON NEWBRASKY’S FERTILE SHORE

BY HERBERT BASHFORD

Oh, I am so orful humsick! An’ I feel so wretched queer! Ephrum, he has gone a-ridin’ on a wild eclectric keer, Rhody—that’s my only darter—she has gone an’ left me, tew, Both a trapesin’ ’round like ijits—wonder what’s th’ next they’ll do? They don’t seem to think they’re darin’ Providence right in th’ face, Ridin’ without hoss er engine ’n’ goin’ at a break-neck pace: Course I needn’t stand here waitin’, both insisted I should come, But I vow I’ll not be reckless when I am so fer from hum: Clear out here by th’ Pacific, jist as fur as we kin git, An’ if we stay here much longer I declare I’ll hev a fit. It’s th’ most deceivin’ kentry as ever’ one’ll say Ever’ drap o’ water salty in th’ hull o’ Frisco bay. Oh, I’ve tramped these pesky sidewalks till my feet is lame an’ sore, An’ a-yearnin’ ever’ minute fur Newbrasky’s fertile shore!

Then they brag about their scenery! Californy! Humph! O dear! Scenery! Well, jest speaking plainly, I don’t see no scenery here: Nothin’ but the mount’in ranges rarin’ up so ’tarnal high Thet a buddy kint look nowheres ’cept the middle o’ th’ sky. Mount’ins, everlastin’ mount’ins, hills ’n’ woods ’n’ rocks ’n’ snow, Where th’ scenery is they’re braggin’ on I’m th’ one as wants t’ know. Let ’em stand in Lincoln county jest aback our cowyard fence, An’ if they don’t say there’s scenery they hain’t got a mite o’ sense; Why yuh kin look fur miles around yuh an’ see nothin’ but th’ flat Level prairie in th’ sunshine kivered in its grassy mat. That is scenery—yuh kin look there jest as fur as yuh kin see With no hills a-interposin’, er no rocks, er airy tree. Oh, I’ve told my husband, Ephrum, that I’d gallavant no more When ag’in I’d sot my foot on old Newbrasky’s fertile shore.

Then I’m worried so ’bout Rhody, fur she’s missin’ ever’ day All her lessons on th’ melojun that paw bought fur her last May, An’ she could perform amazin’; she could play “Old Hundred” nice An’ another song beginnin’ “Happy Day that Fixed My Ch’ice.” Yes, th’ singin’ teacher told me as we parted at th’ keers, He was shore she’d play th’ organ in th’ church ’fore many years. Now her notion’s highkerflutin’, a pianner she wants now, An’ her paw sez he will get it soon as he kin sell a cow, Sez he kin dispose o’ Muly—I jest told him no sir-e-e Not fur no new-fangled nonsense—Muly’s my cow, an’ you see He’s jest got a spite ag’in her ’cause she’s got a lengthy tail An’ in fightin’ skeeters sometimes whicks it in th’ milkin’ pail. Oh, I’ll be the gladdest mortal when I reach th’ kitchen door Of that dear old farmhouse standin’ on Newbrasky’s fertile shore!

No, I don’t enjoy th’ city where the wimmen folks is dressed Monday an’ clean through till Saturday all in their Sunday best. I jest like to ketch my wrapper up ’n’ pin it ’round my waist, Carin’ not a single copper if my shoe-string comes unlaced, Then go out an’ milk old Muly an’ turn out th’ spotted calf While th’ chickens giggle ’round me an’ the speckled roosters laff, Then go in th’ summer kitchen, set me down an’ churn a spell, Till time comes t’ put th’ victuals on an’ ring th’ dinner bell. Yes, I love th’ peaceful quiet o’ th’ farm where it’s so still, Nothin’ but th’ ducks a-quackin’ ’n’ pigs a-squealin’ fur their swill, Nothin’ but th’ geese a-clackin’ ’n’ the bawlin’ o’ th’ cows, An’ th’ nickerin’ o’ th’ hosses as they’re comin’ t’ th’ house; Oh, I want t’ leave th’ city with its racket an’ its roar An’ git back there t’ the silence o’ Newbrasky’s fertile shore!

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

“FUZZY-WUZZY”

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

We’ve fought with many men acrost the seas, An’ some of ’em was brave an’ some was not: The paythan an’ the Zulu an’ Burmese; But the Fuzzy was the finest o’ the lot. We never got a ha’porth’s change of ’im: ’E squatted in the scrub an’ ’ocked our ’orses, ’E cut our sentries up at Suakim, An’ ’e played the cat an’ banjo with our forces. So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Sowdan; You’re a poor benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man; We give you your certifikit, and if you want it signed We’ll come an’ have a romp with you whenever you’re inclined.

We took our chanst among the Kyber hills, The Boers knocked us silly at a mile, The Burman guv us Irriwaddy chills, An’ a Zulu impi dished us up in style; But all we ever got from such as they Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller; We ’eld our bloomin’ own, the papers say, But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us ’oller. Then ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ the missis and the kid; Our orders was to break you, an’ of course we went and did. We sloshed you with Martinis, an’ it wasn’t ’ardly fair; But for all the odds agin you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you bruk the square.

’E ’asn’t got no papers of ’is own, ’E ’asn’t got no medals nor rewards So we must certify the skill ’e’s shown In usin’ of ’is long two-handled swords; When ’e’s ’oppin’ in an’ out among the bush With ’is coffin-’eaded shield an’ shovel-spear, A ’appy day with Fuzzy on the rush Will last a ’ealthy Tommy for a year. So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ your friends which is no more, If we ’adn’t lost some mess-mates we would help you to deplore; But give an’ take’s the gospel, an’ we’ll call the bargain fair, For if you ’ave lost more than us, you crumbled up the square!

’E rushes at the smoke when we let drive, An’, before we know, ’e’s ’ackin’ at our ’ead; ’E’s all ’ot sand an’ ginger when alive, An’ ’e’s generally shammin’ when ’e’s dead. ’E’s a daisy, ’e’s a duck, ’e’s a lamb! ’E’s a injia-rubber idiot on the spree, ’E’s the on’y thing that doesn’t care a damn For the Regiment o’ British Infantree. So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Sowdan; You’re a pore benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man; An’ ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your ’ayrick ’ead of ’air— You big black boundin’ beggar—for you bruk a British square.

THOUGHTS FROM BUB

BY LEONARD G. NATTKEMPER

My name is Bub, ’cuz papa sed He’d ruther call me so than Ned. But mamma calls me ’ist her beau— W’en I am good, I mean, you know.

So, I ’ist hardly knows my name I guess—I bet ’ist all the same, I’m papa’s boy an’ mamma’s dear, An’ I be glad ’ist ’cuz I’m here.

It’s hard to make a name, I s’pose, W’en they have used ’bout all o’ those That they have heard or that they’ve read— O’ course, there’s more w’en people’s dead.

An’ now I wonder if that I Will leave my name w’en I must die. I guess it’s so, ’cuz we ’ist call Angel’s last name for them all.

I’m glad I’m not an angel yet, Whose names are less than mine, I bet, Still it must be nice to see All the folks that used to be.

Oh, my, I don’t know what to say About my names, ’cuz every day My mamma finds a new one, too— I’m ’fraid she’s left no names for you.

The bestest thing in all this worl’ Is, I’m a boy an’ not a girl, Girls are good as they can be, But boys are best you must agree.

I guess I’ve tol’ you all I know From where names come to where they go; But ’member now ’ist what I sed, My name is Bub instead o’ Ned.

THE VEGETABLE MAN

BY LEONARD G. NATTKEMPER

A Chinaman comes to our house each day Wif horses that’s colored both red an’ gray, An’ wagon ’ist full of things to eat— An’ up I climbs on his big high seat.

This Chinaman’s name I cannot tell— But “veg’table man” will do as well; For corn an’ beans and cabbage, too, He grows in the fields for me an’ you.

An’ w’en it’s time to drive to town He brings his wagon ’ist loaded down With veg’t’ble things an’ peaches too— He’ll peel _you_ one if I ask him to.

Gee, but I love this Chinaman; He stops an’ plays, an’ one day ran Aroun’ his wagon clear out of sight— But I found him there an’ held on tight.

Then up he lifts me way up high, An’ laughs again wif his funny eye— I forgot to tell that he can see ’Ist half so well as you an’ me.

’Cause one day w’en he’s ’ist a boy An’ playin’ wif a home-made toy, It flew aroun’ an’ hit his face, An’ left that funny open place.

But I don’t care if he is queer, He sees enough to know I’m here, An’ finds the time to stop an’ play W’en I am lonesome through the day.

But ma an’ dad are not so kind As veg’t’ble man whose eye is blind. I guess I love them all I can, But most I love my Chinaman.

IMMIGRATION

BY WALLACE IRWIN

Ezekiel, the Puritan, Thus lifts his protestation: “By ginger, I’m American, And don’t like immigration. Naow I jest guess I got here fust And know what I’m abaout, When I declar’ we’ll all go bust Or keep them aliens out.”

Max Heidelburg, the German, says: “Jah also. Right, mein frendt. If ve dot foreign trash admit Our woes will nefer endt. I am Americans as you Und villing to ge-shout ‘Hurray mit red und vite und plue, Und kiip dose aliens oudt!’”

Ike Diamondstein, the Jew, exclaims: “Ah, Izzy, ain’t dat grandt! Ve Yangees haf such nople aims Und vill togeder standt, Ve’ve got der goods, ve’re nach’ralized— Vat hinters us from shouten ‘Americavich is civilzized, So keep dose aliens outen!’”

Pietro Garibaldi says: “Here ever-r-ry man is king. I catch-a da fun, I mak-a da mon, I like-a da ever-r-yt’ing. American he gent-a-man— Watch-a da Dago shout, ‘Sell-a da fruit, shin-a da boot, Keep-a da alien out!’”

The Irishman vociferates: “Sure, Mike, it’s sahft as jelly. I’ll take the shtick and crack the pates Of ivery foreign Kelly. If it’s the call o’ polyticks, Then I’m the la’ad to shout, ‘Down wid th’ Da-agos an’ th’ Micks, An’ keep th’ aliens out!’”

But covered with ancestral tan, Beside his wigwam door, The only real American Counts idle talk a bore. “Ugh! Pale-face man he mighty thief. Much medicine talk about— It heap too late for Injun chief To keep-um alien out.”

PATHETIC SELECTIONS IN POETRY

PASSIN’ BY[11]

BY BOMBARDIER B. BUMPAS

Well, I went an’ joined the army, an’ I done my little bit— ’Ere’s the bloke wot put my pot on; yes, I keeps ’im in my kit— No, ’e ain’t no proper soft-nose; just the end off on the sly; ’E’s the only one wot got me—but I’ve ’eard ’em passin’ by, God A’mighty! Yes, I’ve ’eard ’em passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; with a little whistlin’ sigh, “Nearly got you that time, Sonny, just a little bit too high,” Or a crack like, “Jack, look out there: Keep yer ’ead down, mind yer eye!” But they’re gone an’ far behind yer ’fore you’ll ’ear ’em passin’ by.

Yes, I lay from Toosday mornin’ till the Wensday afternoon; ’En the Black Watch took their trenches ’en it woke me from a swoon. I was flamin’, nearly mad wi’ thirst an’ pain, an’ fit to cry, But I cheered ’em as they trampled on me carcus, passin’ by. God A’mighty! Yes, I cheered ’em as I ’eard ’em passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; trippin’, failin’, gettin’ nigh. Gettin’ nearer to the trenches, ’en you ’eard a Tommy cry: “Don’t forget the Belgian wimmen, nor the little bairns forbye.” God! I wouldn’t be a German when them men was passin’ by.

Then they gathered us together an’ they sorted out the worst— Wot they called the “stretcher cases”—and they ’tended to us first, They was overworked an’ crowded, an’ the Doc ’ud give a sigh— “Hopeless, that case”—“that one, also”—speakin’ softly, passin’ by. God! They watched ’im, silent, suff’rin’, watchin’, hopin’—passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; curt command an’ stifled sigh, For it ain’t no place for drama, an’ a man ’as got ter die; ’En I thought I ’eard a whimper an’ a little soft reply— “Greater love than this hath no man”—some one speakin’ passin’ by.

So they ships me off to “Blighty,” ’en they sticks me in a ward, I was short a leg an’ peeper, but they treats me like a lord. I’d allus bin a lonely bloke, an’ so I used ter lie An’ watch the fren’s of other men continual passin’ by, Sisters, children, wives, an’ mothers, everlastin’ passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; with a smile or with a sigh; With their cigarettes an’ matches, flowers or shirt or pipe or tie; An’ one ’ud sometimes talk an’ speak—I used ter wonder why— Cos I ain’t no blame Adonis, not ter notice, passin’ by.

I’m thinkin’ if the angels ’ave a Union Jack around, An’ sticks it somewhere prominent when Gabriel starts to sound, The people round that flag will be ’most half the hosts on high— The men who’ve passed, or waits to pass, or now are passin’ by, Big ’earted men an’ wimmen, white an’ black, a-passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; just to keep that flag on high, An’ all that flag ’as stood for in the days that’s now gone by; An’ when they pass before, I’m sure ’E’ll listen to their cry, An’ ’E’ll treat ’em very gentle, an’ forgive ’em, passin’ by.

JEANIE MORRISON

BY WILLIAM MOTHERWELL

I’ve wandered east, I’ve wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The luve o’ life’s young day! The fire that’s blawn on Beltanes e’en May weel be black ’gin Yule; But blacker fa’ awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o’ bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi’ tears: They blind my een wi’ saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o’ langsyne.

’Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, ’Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time,—sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! ’Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin’ cheek, loof locked in loof, What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Wi’ ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee.

O, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi’ shame, Whene’er the scule-weans, laughin’, said We cleeked thegither hame? And mind ye o’ the Saturdays, (The scule then skail’t at noon,) When we ran off the speel the braes,— The broomy braes o’ June?

My head rins round and round about,— My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thochts rush back O’ scule-time and o’ thee. O mornin’ life! O mornin’ luve! O lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like summer blossoms sprang!

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin’ dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon? The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin’ o’ the wood The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees,— And we, with Nature’s heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn For hours thegither sat In the silentness o’ joy, till baith Wi’ very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled,—unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae bin to thee As closely twined wi’ earliest thocts As ye hae been to me? O, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine! O, say gin e’er your heart grows grit Wi’ dreamings o’ langsyne?

I’ve wandered east, I’ve wandered west, I’ve borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way; And channels deeper, as it rins, The luv o’ life’s young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young I’ve never seen your face, nor heard The music o’ your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O’ bygone days and me!

CUDDLE DOON

BY ALEXANDER ANDERSON

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi’ muckle faught an’ din; “Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrief rogues, Your faither’s comin’ in.” They never heed a word I speak; I try to gie a froon, But aye I hap them up an’ cry, “Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”

Wee Jamie wi’ the curly heid— He aye sleeps next the wa’— Bangs up an’ cries, “I want a piece;” The rascal starts them a’. I rin an’ fetch them pieces, drinks, They stop awee the soun’, Then draw the blankets up an’ cry, “Noo, weanies, cuddle doon.”

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab Cries out, frae neath the claes, “Mither, mak’ Tam gie ower at once, He’s kittlin’ wi’ his taes.” The mischief’s in that Tam for tricks, He’d bother half the toon, But aye I hap them up and cry, “Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”

At length they hear their faither’s fit, An’ as he steeks the door, They turn their faces to the wa’, While Tam pretends to snore. “Hae a’ the weans been gude?” he asks, As he pits off his shoon; “The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An’ lang since cuddled doon.”

And just afore we bed oorsels, We look at our wee lambs; Tam has his airm roun’ wee Rab’s neck, And Rab his airm round Tam’s. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, An’ as I straik each croon, I whisper, till my heart fills up, “Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi’ mirth that’s dear to me; But soon the big warl’s cark an’ care Will quaten doon their glee. Yet, come what will to ilka ane, May He who rules aboon Aye whisper, though their pows be beld “Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”

THE PATRIOT

BY ROBERT BROWNING

(_An Old Story_)

It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels— But give me your sun from yonder skies!” They had answered “And afterward, what else?”

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep! Naught man could do, have I left undone: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run.

There’s nobody on the house-tops now Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles’ Gate—or, better yet, By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow.

I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. “Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me?” God might question; now instead, ’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

ANNABEL LEE

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee, So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me; Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

THE LOVER OF ANNABEL LEE

BY EDWIN D. CASTERLINE

Often I think of the beautiful soul, The soul of Annabel Lee, And the man who loved, in the years gone by, The soul of Annabel Lee— His beautiful bride, who sleeps by his side, By the shores of the sounding sea.

They say he was mad, but the world was mad, More mad and more wrong than he, For the soul was true that loved the soul Of the wondrous Annabel Lee, And the touch of that love was the love that made The soul of her lover free.

In the days gone by, in the wreck of things, From the wave of Life’s wide sea, They were carried beyond by their kinsmen high, He and his Annabel Lee; Her heart was pure, too pure for the world That chills the heart of the free— And his was a life that chilled with the life That passed from Annabel Lee.

But the angels are good; in heaven above They gather the wrecks of the sea, They gather the gold from the wrecks of love, And the soul in its purity free— So this is what they’ve done with the love Of Poe and his Annabel Lee.

I’ve stood in the room where they lived and loved, And my soul touched the Life to be, And I felt the spell of the hidden light That lived in Annabel Lee; And I felt the hand of the man she loved, (That she loved far better than we,) And down in my soul the double soul Awoke the God in me.

So down in my dreams I follow the beams Of Poe and his Annabel Lee, And deep in the night I see the pure light That flashes and quivers to me. Away in the years where the Future stands, In the world that is to be, I know that my hands will clasp the hands Of Poe and his Annabel Lee.

THE BURIED HEART

BY DENNAR STEWART

“I sleep, but my heart waketh.”

Tread lightly, love, when over my head, Beneath the daisies lying, And tenderly press the grassy bed Where the fallen rose lies dying.

Dreamless I sleep in the quiet ground, Save when, your foot-fall hearing, My heart awakes to the old-loved sound And beats to the step that’s nearing.

Bright shone the moon, last eve, when you came— Still, dust for dust hath feeling— The willow-roots whispered low the name Of him who weeps while kneeling.

The lily-cup holds the falling tears, The tears you shed above me; And I know through all these silent years There’s some one still to love me.

Oh, softly sigh; for I hear the sound And grieve me o’er your sorrow; But leave a kiss in the myrtle mound— I’ll give it back to-morrow.

Whisper me, love, as in moments fled, While I dream your hand mine taketh; For the stone speaks false that says, “She’s dead;” I sleep, but my heart awaketh.

BREAK! BREAK! BREAK!

BY ALFRED TENNYSON

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman’s boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor-lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But, O, for the touch of a vanish’d hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

BESIDE THE DEAD

BY INA COOLBRITH

(_One of the finest sonnets in the English language_)

It must be sweet, O thou, my dead, to lie With hands that folded are from every task; Sealed with the seal of the great mystery, The lips that nothing answer, nothing ask. The life-long struggle ended; ended quite The weariness of patience, and of pain, And the eyes closed to open not again On desolate dawn or dreariness of night. It must be sweet to slumber and forget; To have the poor tired heart so still at last: Done with all yearning, done with all regret, Doubt, fear, hope, sorrow, all forever past: Past all the hours, or slow of wing or fleet— It must be sweet, it must be very sweet!

—From “Songs of the Golden Gate,” copyright by _Houghton, Mifflin & Co._, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

ROCKING THE BABY

BY MADGE MORRIS WAGNER

I hear her rocking the baby— Her room is just next to mine— And I fancy I feel the dimpled arms That round her neck entwine, As she rocks, and rocks the baby, In the room just next to mine. I hear her rocking the baby Each day when the twilight comes, And I know there’s a world of blessing and love In the “baby bye” she hums. I see the restless fingers Playing with “mamma’s rings,” And the sweet little smiling, pouting mouth, That to hers in kissing clings, As she rocks and sings to the baby, And dreams as she rocks and sings.

I hear her rocking the baby, Slower and slower now, And I know she is leaving her good-night kiss On its eyes, and cheek, and brow. From her rocking, rocking, rocking, I wonder would she start, Could she know, through the wall between us, She is rocking on a heart, While my empty arms are aching For a form they may not press, And my emptier heart is breaking In its desolate loneliness? I list to the rocking, rocking, In the room just next to mine, And breathe a prayer in silence, At a mother’s broken shrine, For the woman who rocks the baby In the room just next to mine.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

PUT FLOWERS ON MY GRAVE

BY MADGE MORRIS WAGNER

When dead, no imposing funeral rite, Nor line of praise I crave; But drop your tears upon my face— Put flowers on my grave.

Close not in narrow wall the place In which my heart finds rest, Nor mark with tow’ring monument The sod above my breast.

Nor carve on gleaming, marble slab A burning thought or deed. Or word of love, or praise, or blame, For stranger eyes to read.

But deep, deep in your heart of hearts, A tender mem’ry save; Upon my dead face drop your tears— Put flowers on my grave.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

BY CHARLES LAMB

I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father’s dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces—

How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I FEEL I’M GROWING AULD, GUDE-WIFE

BY JAMES LINEN

I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife— I feel I’m growing auld; My steps are frail, my een are bleared, My pow is unco bauld. I’ve seen the snaws o’ fourscore years O’er hill and meadow fa’, And hinnie! were it no’ for you, I’d gladly slip awa’.

I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife— I feel I’m growing auld; Frae youth to age I’ve keepit warm The love that ne’er turned cauld. I canna bear the dreary thocht That we maun sindered be; There’s naething binds my poor auld heart To earth, gude-wife, but thee.

I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife— I feel I’m growing auld; Life seems to me a wintry waste, The very sun feels cauld. Of worldly frien’s ye’ve been to me, Amang them a’ the best; Now, I’ll lay down my weary head, Gude-wife, and be at rest.

DA THIEF[12]

BY T. A. DALY

Eef poor man goes An’ steals a rose Een Juna-time— Wan leetla rose— You gon’ su’pose Dat dat’s a crime?

Eh! w’at? Den taka look at me, For here bayfore your eyes you see Wan thief, dat ees so glad an’ proud He gona brag of eet out loud! So moocha good I do, an’ feel, From dat wan leetle rose I steal, Dat eef I gon’ to jail to-day Dey no could tak’ my joy away. So, leesen! here ees how eet come: Las’ night w’en I am walkin’ home From work een hotta ceety street

Ees sudden com’ a smal so sweet Eet maka heaven een my nose— I look an’ dere I see da rose! Not wan, but manny, fine an’ tall, Dat peep at me above da wall. So, then, I close my eyes an’ find Anudder peecture een my mind; I see a house dat’s small an’ hot Where many pretta theengs ees not, Where leetla woman, good an’ true, Ees work so hard da whole day through, She’s too wore out, w’en com’s da night, For smile an’ mak’ da housa bright.

But presto! now I’m home, an’ she Ees seetin’ on da step weeth me. Bambino, sleepin’ on her breast, Ees nevva know more sweeta rest, An’ nevva was sooch glad su’prise Like now ees shina from her eyes; An’ all baycause to-night she wear Wan leetla rose stuck een her hair. She ees so please’! Eet mak’ me feel I shoulda sooner learned to steal!

Eef “thief’s” my name I feel no shame; Eet ees no crime— Dat rose I got. Eh! w’at? O! not Een Juna-time!

—Copyright 1912, by _David McKay_, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE SAND STORM

BY LOWELL OTUS REESE

We are thirsty, Pedro mio! and the heat waves leap and beat Where the Spanish daggers quiver in the mighty desert heat, And the aching eye looks longing from Old Baldy to the east, Where the Panamint is crouching like some ugly, hidden beast; ’Tis a hell-wind, Pedro mio! and it beats the sandy hail; And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail.

Oh, the loneliness of nature when she turns on you her frown! When you feel no eye upon you, save the fierce sun glaring down, Searing death into your body and despair into your soul, As you reel across the desert with the sky-line for your goal; When the breath begins to falter and the step begins to fail, And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

Oh, the awfulness of Nature when she turns on you her frown! When an unseen hand above you is forever pressing down! When across the hungry desert flames the scorching sword of Death, And the eyes and lips are blackened in the Spirit’s blighting breath! Oh, the agony of dying, when the step begins to fail, And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

Oh, the dry and flying sand that stings to fever cheek and brow! Rain of Hell, O, Pedro mio! and the flame is on us now! Spiral Phantoms on the desert writhe and wriggle slowly by, Reaching earthward from the bosom from the black and yellow sky; Oh, the spiral specters writhing where the yuccas beat and flail, And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

I have seen it, Pedro mio!—seen it dimly through the wrack!— Over there beyond the basin where the cloud is whirling black! Streams of water, peaceful meadows and the shade of bending trees, Stirring gently—ah, so gently! in the coolest summer breeze. Let us turn aside and rest there from the fury of the gale; For the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

Faster—faster, Pedro mio!—for the blood is in my eyes! I would reach the blessed water ere it o’er my vision dries! For it thunders in my temples the tumultuous refrain Of a mountain torrent singing to the first November rain! Stumble—stumble—onward—farther from the desiccating hail Where the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

We have fallen, Pedro mio! and the vision fair is gone; But above us and around us yet the tempest hurtles on; Hark! a swirling raven settles with a flap of twisted wings; And I seem to feel about us many crawling, creeping things! We have fallen, Pedro mio! Hark the raging of the gale! And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

I am dying, Pedro mio! and I fain would go to sleep. Faugh! the raven ’lights upon me! and the frightened lizards creep With a rush of tiny claws across my swollen lips! and swift O’er my breast, a burning blanket, rushing sand-waves eager drift; We are dying, Pedro mio! in the awful desert gale! And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

NATHAN HALE

BY FRANCIS M. FINCH

To drum-beat and heart-beat, A soldier marches by: There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye, Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat In a moment he must die.

By starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Briton’s camp; He hears the rustling flag, And the arm’d sentry’s tramp; And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp.

With slow tread and still tread He scans the tented line; And he counts the battery guns By the gaunt and shadowy pine; And his slow tread and still tread Gives no warning sign.

The dark wave, the plumed wave, It meets his eager glance; And it sparkles ’neath the stars, Like the glimmer of a lance;— A dark wave, a plumed wave; On an emerald expanse.

A sharp clang, a steel clang, And terror in the sound! For the sentry, falcon-eyed, In the camp a spy hath found; With a sharp clang, a steel clang, The patriot is bound.

With calm brow, steady brow, He listens to his doom; In his look there is no fear, Nor a shadow-trace of gloom; But with calm brow and steady brow He robes him for the tomb.

In the long night, the still night, He kneels upon the sod; And the brutal guards withhold E’en the solemn Word of God! In the long night, the still night, He walks where Christ hath trod.

’Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree; And he mourns that he can lose But one life for Liberty; And in the blue morn, the sunny morn, His spirit-wings are free.

But his last words, his message-words, They burn, lest friendly eye Should read how proud and calm A patriot could die, With his last words, his dying words, A soldier’s battle-cry.

From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, From monument and urn, The sad of earth, the glad of heaven, His tragic fate shall learn; And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf The name of Hale shall burn!

MOTHER AND POET

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

(_Turin, after news from Gaeta, 1861_)

Dead! One of them shot in the sea by the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea! Dead! both my boys! when you sit at the feast, And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me!

Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said; But this woman, this, who is agonized here,— The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head Forever instead.

What art can a woman be good at? O, vain! What art _is_ she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud, by that test.

What art’s for a woman? to hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees And ’broider the long-clothes and neat little coat! To dream and to doat!

To teach them.... It stings there! I made them, indeed, Speak plain the word _country_. I taught them, no doubt, That a country’s a thing men should die for at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant cast out.

And when their eyes flashed.... O my beautiful eyes!... I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not.—But then the surprise When one sits quite alone!—Then one weeps, then one kneels! God, how the house feels!

At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses,—of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me, and, soon coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough.

Then was triumph at Turin: “Ancona was free!” And some one came out of the cheers in the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me,— My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street.

I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained.

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand: “I was not to faint,— One loved me for two—would be with me ere long: And ‘Viva l’Italia!’ he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint!”

My Nanni would add, “He was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls,—was impressed It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, And how ’twas impossible, quite dispossessed, To live on for the rest.”

On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta!—_Shot._ _Tell His Mother._ Ah, ah, “his,” “their” mother,—not “mine,” No voice says “my mother” again to me. What! You think Guido forgot?

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven, They drop earth’s affections, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so The above and below.

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look’dst through the dark To the face of Thy mother! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say!

Both boys dead? but that’s out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. ’Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall; And, when Italy’s made, for what end is it done, If we have not a son?

Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta’s taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When the guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short;

When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy’s crown on his head (And _I_ have my dead),—

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, And burn your lights faintly! _My_ country is _there_, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow: My Italy’s THERE,—with my brave civic pair, To disfranchise despair!

Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn; But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into wail such as this,—and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born.

Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea! Both! both my boys! If in keeping the feast, You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me!

DORA

With farmer Allan, at the farm, abode William and Dora. William was his son, and she his niece. He often looked at them and thought, “I’ll make them man and wife.” Now Dora felt her uncle’s will in all, and yearned towards William; but the youth, because he had always been with her in the house, thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day when Allan called his son, and said, “My son, I married late, but I wish to see my grandchild on my knees before I die: and I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora; she is well to look at, thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother’s daughter: he and I had once hard words, and parted, and he died in foreign lands; but for his sake I cared for his daughter Dora: take her for your wife; for I have wished this marriage, night and day, for many years.”

But William answered short: “I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora.”

Then the old man was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: “You will not, boy! You dare to answer thus? But in my time a father’s word was law, and so it shall be now for you. Look to it; consider, William: take a month to think, and let me have an answer to my wish, or by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, and never more darken my doors again.”

But William answered madly; bit his lips, and broke away. The more he looked at her the less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; but Dora bore them meekly. Then, before the month was out he left his father’s house, and hired himself to work within the fields; and, half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed a laborer’s daughter, Mary Morrison.

When the wedding bells were ringing, Allan called his niece and said: “My girl, I love you well; but if you speak with him who was my son, or change a word with her he calls his wife, my home is none of yours. My will is law.” And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, “It cannot be: my uncle’s mind will change!” And days went on, and there was born a boy to William; then distresses came on him, and day by day he passed his father’s gate, heart-broken, and his father helped him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, and sent it them by stealth, nor did they know who sent it; till at last a fever seized on William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat and looked with tears upon her boy, and thought hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: “I have obeyed my uncle until now, and I have sinned, for it was all through me this evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that’s gone, and for your sake, the woman that he chose, and for this orphan, I am come to you. You know there has not been for these five years so full a harvest: let me take the boy, and I will set him in my uncle’s eye among the wheat; that when his heart is glad of the full harvest, he may see the boy, and bless him for the sake of him that’s gone.” And Dora took the child and went her way across the wheat, and sat upon a mound that was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field and spied her not; for none of all his men dare tell him Dora waited with the child. And Dora would have risen and gone to him, but her heart failed her; and the reapers reaped, and the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took the child once more, and sat upon the mound; and made a little wreath of all the flowers that grew about, and tied it round his hat to make him pleasing in her uncle’s eye. Then when the farmer passed into the field he spied her, and he left his men at work, and came and said: “Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?”

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, and answered softly, “This is William’s child!”

“And did I not,” said Allan, “did I not forbid you, Dora?”

Dora said again: “Do with me as you will, but take the child, and bless him for the sake of him that’s gone!”

And Allan said, “I see it is a trick got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared to slight it. Well!—for I will take the boy; but go you hence, and never see me more.”

So saying he took the boy that cried aloud and struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell at Dora’s feet. She bowed over her hands, and the boy’s cry came to her from the field, more and more distant. She bowed down her head, remembering the day when first she came, and all the things that had been. She bowed down and wept in secret; and the reapers reaped, and the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary’s house, and stood upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy was not with Dora. She broke out in praise to God, that helped her in her widowhood. And Dora said, “My uncle took the boy; but, Mary, let me live and work with you; he says that he will never see me more.”

Then answered Mary, “This shall never be, that thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: and, now I think, he shall not have the boy, for he will teach him hardness, and to slight his mother; therefore thou and I will go, and I will have my boy, and bring him home; and I will beg of him to take thee back: but if he will not take thee back again, then thou and I will live within one house, and work for William’s child, until he grows of age to help us.”

So the women kissed each other, and set out, and reached the farm. The door was off the latch: they peeped and saw the boy set up betwixt his grandsire’s knees, who thrust him in the hollows of his arms, and clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, like one that loved him: and the lad stretched out and babbled for the golden seal that hung from Allan’s watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in: but when the boy beheld his mother, he cried out to come to her: and Allan set him down, and Mary said: “O Father!—if you let me call you so—I never came a-begging for myself, or William, or this child; but now I come for Dora: take her back, she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace with all men; for I asked him, and he said he could not ever rue his marrying me—I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said that he was wrong to cross his father thus: ‘God bless him!’ he said, ‘and may he never know the troubles I have gone through!’ Then he turned his face and passed—unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you will make him hard, and he will learn to slight his father’s memory; and take Dora back, and let all be as it was before.”

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face by Mary. There was silence in the room; and all at once the old man burst in sobs: “I have been to blame—to blame. I have killed my son. I have killed him—but I loved him—my dear son. May God forgive me! I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children.”

Then they clung about the old man’s neck, and they kissed him many times. And Allan was broken with remorse; and all his love came back a hundred-fold; and for three hours he sobbed o’er William’s child thinking of William. So those four abode in one house together; and as years went forward, Mary took another mate; but Dora lived unmarried until her death.

THE FAMINE[13]

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

O the long and dreary Winter! O the cold and cruel Winter! Ever thicker, thicker, thicker, Froze the ice on lake and river, Ever deeper, deeper, deeper Fell the snow o’er all the landscape, Fell the covering snow, and drifted Through the forest, round the village. Hardly from his buried wigwam Could the hunter force a passage; With his mittens and his snow-shoes Vainly walked he through the forest, Sought for bird or beast and found none, Saw no track of deer or rabbit, In the snow beheld no footprints, In the ghastly, gleaming forest Fell, and could not rise from weakness, Perished there from cold and hunger. O the famine and the fever! O the wasting of the famine! O the blasting of the fever! O the wailing of the children! O the anguish of the women! All the earth was sick and famished; Hungry was the air around them, Hungry was the sky above them, And the hungry stars in heaven Like the eyes of wolves glared at them! Into Hiawatha’s wigwam Came two other guests, as silent As the ghosts were, and as gloomy; Waited not to be invited, Did not parley at the doorway, Sat there without word of welcome In the seat of Laughing Water; Looked with haggard eyes and hollow At the face of Laughing Water. And the foremost said: “Behold me! I am Famine, Bukadawin!” And the other said: “Behold me! I am Fever, Ahkosewin!” And the lovely Minnehaha Shuddered as they looked upon her, Shuddered at the words they uttered, Lay down on her bed in silence, Hid her face, but made no answer; Lay there trembling, freezing, burning At the looks they cast upon her, At the fearful words they uttered. Forth into the empty forest Rushed the maddened Hiawatha; In his heart was deadly sorrow, In his face a stony firmness; On his brow the sweat of anguish Started, but it froze and fell not. Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting, With his mighty bow of ash-tree, With his quiver full of arrows, With his mittens, Minjekahwun, Into the vast and vacant forest On his snow-shoes strode he forward. “Gitche Manito, the Mighty!” Cried he with his face uplifted In that bitter hour of anguish, “Give your children food, O Father! Give us food, or we must perish! Give me food for Minnehaha, For my dying Minnehaha!” Through the far-resounding forest, Through the forest vast and vacant Rang that cry of desolation, But there came no other answer Than the echo of his crying, Than the echo of the woodlands, “Minnehaha! Minnehaha!” All day long roved Hiawatha In that melancholy forest, Through the shadow of whose thickets, In the pleasant days of Summer, Of that ne’er forgotten Summer, He had brought his young wife homeward From the land of the Dacotahs; When the birds sang in the thickets, And the streamlets laughed and glistened, And the air was full of fragrance, And the lovely Laughing Water Said with voice that did not tremble, “I will follow you, my husband!” In the wigwam with Nokomis, With those gloomy guests, that watched her, With the Famine and the Fever, She was lying, the Beloved, She, the dying Minnehaha. “Hark!” she said; “I hear a rushing, Hear a roaring and a rushing, Hear the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to me from a distance!” “No, my child!” said old Nokomis, “’Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!” “Look!” she said; “I see my father Standing lonely at his doorway, Beckoning to me from his wigwam In the land of the Dacotahs!” “No, my child!” said old Nokomis, “’Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!” “Ah!” said she, “the eyes of Pauguk Glare upon me in the darkness, I can feel his icy fingers Clasping mine amid the darkness! Hiawatha! Hiawatha!” And the desolate Hiawatha, Far away amid the forest, Miles away among the mountains, Heard that sudden cry of anguish, Heard the voice of Minnehaha Calling to him in the darkness, “Hiawatha! Hiawatha!” Over snow-fields waste and pathless, Under snow-encumbered branches, Homeward hurried Hiawatha, Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing: “Wahonowin! Wahonowin! Would that I had perished for you, Would that I were dead as you are! Wahonowin! Wahonowin!” And he rushed into the wigwam, Saw the old Nokomis slowly Rocking to and fro and moaning, Saw his lovely Minnehaha Lying dead and cold before him, And his bursting heart within him Uttered such a cry of anguish, That the forest moaned and shuddered, That the very stars in heaven Shook and trembled with his anguish. Then he sat down, still and speechless, On the bed of Minnehaha, At the feet of Laughing Water, At those willing feet, that never More would lightly run to meet him, Never more would lightly follow. With both hands his face he covered, Seven long days and nights he sat there, As if in a swoon he sat there, Speechless, motionless, unconscious Of the daylight or the darkness. Then they buried Minnehaha; In the snow a grave they made her, In the forest deep and darksome, Underneath the moaning hemlocks; Clothed her in her richest garments, Wrapped her in her robes of ermine; Covered her with snow, like ermine; Thus they buried Minnehaha. And at night a fire was lighted, On her grave four times was kindled, For her soul upon its journey To the Islands of the Blessed. From his doorway Hiawatha Saw it burning in the forest, Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; From his sleepless bed uprising, From the bed of Minnehaha, Stood and watched it at the doorway, That it might not be extinguished, Might not leave her in the darkness. “Farewell,” said he, “Minnehaha! Farewell, O my Laughing Water! All my heart is buried with you, All my thoughts go onward with you! Come not back again to labor, Come not back again to suffer, Where the Famine and the Fever Wear the heart and waste the body. Soon my task will be completed, Soon your footsteps I shall follow To the Islands of the Blessed, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the Land of the Hereafter!”

THE CHILDREN OF THE BATTLE-FIELD

BY JAMES GOWDY CLARK

Upon the field of Gettysburg The summer sun was high, When Freedom met her haughty foe Beneath a northern sky. Among the heroes of the North That swelled her grand array, And rushed like mountain eagles forth From happy homes away, There stood a man of humble fame,— A sire of children three,— And gazed within a little frame His pictured ones to see: And blame him not if, in the strife, He breathed a soldier’s prayer,— “O Father! shield the soldier’s wife, And for his children care.”

Upon the field of Gettysburg, When morning shone again, The crimson cloud of battle burst In streams of fiery rain: Our legions quelled the awful flood Of shot and steel and shell, While banners, marked with ball and blood, Around them rose and fell: And none more nobly won the name Of Champion of the Free Than he who pressed the little frame That held his children three; And none were braver in the strife Than he who breathed the prayer,— “O Father! shield the soldier’s wife, And for his children care.”

Upon the field of Gettysburg The full moon slowly rose,— She looked, and saw ten thousand brows All pale in death’s repose; And down beside a silver stream, From other forms away, Calm as a warrior in a dream, Our fallen comrade lay; His limbs were cold, his sightless eyes Were fixed upon the three Sweet stars that rose in memory’s skies To light him o’er death’s sea. Then honored be the soldier’s life, And hallowed be his prayer,— “O Father! shield the soldier’s wife, And for his children care.”

PRESIDENT LINCOLN’S FUNERAL

BY SARAH E. CARMICHAEL

Toll! Toll! Toll! Toll! All rivers seaward wend. Toll! Toll! Toll! Toll! Weep for the nation’s friend.

Every home and hall was shrouded, Every thoroughfare was still; Every brow was darkly clouded, Every heart was faint and chill. Oh! the inky drop of poison In our bitter draught of grief! Oh! the sorrow of a nation Mourning for its murdered chief!

Toll! Toll! Toll! Toll! Bound in the reaper’s sheaf— Toll! Toll! Toll! Toll! All mortal life is brief. Toll! Toll! Toll! Toll! Weep for the nation’s chief!

Bands of mourning draped the homestead, And the sacred house of prayer; Mourning folds lay black and heavy On true bosoms everywhere: Yet there were no tear-drops streaming From the deep and solemn eye Of the hour that mutely waited Till the funeral train went by. Oh! there is a woe that crushes All expression with its weight! There is pain that numbs and hushes Feeling’s sense, it is so great.

Strongest arms were closely folded, Most impassioned lips at rest; Scarcely seemed a heaving motion In the nation’s wounded breast; Tears were frozen in their sources, Blushes burned themselves away; Language bled through broken heart-threads, Lips had nothing left to say. Yet there was a marble sorrow In each still face, chiseled deep; Something more than words could utter, Something more than tears could weep.

Selfishly the nation mourned him, Mourned its chieftain and its friend; Eye no traitor mist could darken, Arm no traitor power could bend; Heart that gathered the true pulses Of the land’s indignant veins, And, with their tempestuous spurning, Broke the slave’s tear-rusted chains: Heart that tied its iron fibers Round the Union’s starry band; Martyr’s heart, that upward beating, Broke on hate’s assassin hand! Oh! the land he loved will miss him, Miss him in its hour of need! Mourns the nation for the nation Till its tear-drops inward bleed.

There is one whose life will mourn him, With a deep, unselfish woe; One who owned him chief and master Ere the nation named him so. That the land he loved will miss him Does she either think or care? No! the chieftain’s heart is shrouded, And her woman’s world was there. No! the nation was her rival; Let its glory shine or dim, He hath perished on its altar— What were many such to him?

Toll! Toll! Toll! Toll! Never again—no more— Comes back to earth the life that goes Hence to the Eden shore!

Let him rest!—it is not often That his soul hath known repose; Let him rest!—they rest but seldom Whose successes challenge foes. He was weary—worn with watching; His life-crown of power hath pressed Oft on temples sadly aching— He was weary, let him rest.

Toll, bells at the Capital! Bells of the land, toll! Sob out your grief with brazen lungs— Toll! Toll! Toll!

THE FISHERMAN’S STORY

BY HERBERT BASHFORD

I knew he was morose that day Because he did not speak to me, But now I know he was away Upon the hills of Italy.

He showed me once long months before The picture of a dark-eyed girl Within a locket that he wore— A little keepsake wrought of pearl.

His life had known no counter gale, He had the aid of wind and tide, And dreamed that soon a snowy sail Should bear him to his future bride.

’Twas but a letter—nothing much— A scrap of paper sent to him, Yet something he did clutch and clutch The while his dusky eyes grew dim.

And oh, how eagerly he scanned Each syllable that formed her name! He crushed the letter in his hand And fed it to the driftwood flame.

As in a dream he sat and stared At night’s black pall around us hung; I would have spoken if I’d dared, But silence had a gentler tongue.

He did not curse as men will do, Of grief he gave no outward sign; That bitter draught of myrrh and rue He drank as though it had been wine.

With joyless heart he crooned a song Of love and hope, as day by day We hauled our heavy seine along The pebbled beaches of the bay.

At last—ah, Christ, I’ll not forget! I never saw the like before! An empty boat—we, chilled and wet, And ten leagues from our cabin door!

Ten leagues—a stormy row! But fishermen know naught of fear; Had we ere this not faced the snow When winter nights were dark and drear?

Had we not braved the Storm-king’s glee When winds were shrill and waves were high, Been battered by a raging sea And swung below a ragged sky?

“Oho! Cheer up!” I cried, “We’ve dared the seas before, my mate, What matter if ill luck betide?— Why, we were born to laugh at fate!”

He grasped his oar with one long sigh, Nor spoke he any word to me; And so together, he and I, Put out upon the angry sea.

And side by side, with steady stroke; We fought against the veering flaw; In flakes of froth the billows broke— The wildest wolves I ever saw!

Ah, how the cutting north wind blew, And in our faces dashed the spray! The sullen twilight round us grew, The green shore faded into gray.

“Cheer up! Cheer up! A merry row We’ll have ere dawn of day!” laughed I; “And what care we how winds may blow?” The Sea’s voice only made reply.

A silent man he left the shore, Nor yet a single word had said; A silent man he dipped his oar As though it were a thing of lead.

The night came down and still we toiled, The tumult fiercer grew, and now The swirling tide-rip foamed and boiled, And ghostly seas swept o’er the prow.

The air was filled with flying spume, Cloud-galleons sailed down the sky, Strange forms groped toward us in the gloom, Pale phantoms glided swiftly by.

Afar, at times, a lonely loon Sent quavering laughter through the night, While from a filmy sheath the moon Drew forth a sabre, keen and bright.

Oh, it was weird!—the seabird’s screech, The distant buoy’s warning bell, The white palms lifting high to reach A loosened star that downward fell!

Within my breast each moment grew A fear of more than wind-blown sea; And lo! that mute man, laughing, threw Aside his oar and leered at me.

That moonlit face! It haunts me still! The eyes that spoke the maddened brain! That moonlit face! it sent a thrill Of terror through my every vein!

“Aha! You thought me dead, you cur!”— His breath blew hot against my cheek; “Aha! You coward, you lied to her!”— I felt my limbs grow strangely weak.

“Lorenzo! Look! The boat! The boat!”— But how can mad men understand? My God! He leaped to clutch my throat, A wicked dagger in his hand!

That lifted knife! Ah, yet I feel A horror of the deadly thing! The long, keen blade of polished steel Against the white stars quivering.

I upward sprang—I grasped somehow The hand that held the hilt of bone; With panther strength he struggled now, A demon I must fight—alone!

He strove to slay, and I to save His life and mine if such might be, And in the trough and on the wave Like beasts we grappled savagely.

To plead were vain; I could not hear My voice above the tempest’s breath, I only knew my feet were near The awful, icy edge of Death.

We fought until the dark became A glare of crimson to my eyes, Until the stars were snakes of flame That writhed along the lurid skies.

We fought I know not how—to me All things of that mad night appear As vague as when in dreams you see The ghouls that haunt the coast of Fear.

We fought—we fought and then—and then— A leap—a cry—and he was gone! And I alone pulled shoreward when The East had grown the flower of dawn.

...

I knew he was morose that day Because he did not speak to me, But now I know he was away Upon the hills of Italy.

—Copyright by the _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

WHY SANTA CLAUS FORGOT

BY HERBERT BASHFORD

A wind from the south swept down the bay, And pale with anger the waters turned As the ranchman’s wife looked far away To where the lights of the city burned.

Like feeble stars on that Christmas eve Were the pulsing lights beyond the tide; “Now play with your dolly and do not grieve,” Said she to the wee one at her side.

“Good Santa Claus will come to you This very night if you do not cry,” And she wiped a tear like a drop of dew From the rosy cheek and the anxious eye.

“No sail! No sail!” and the sad wife pressed A wan face close to the window-pane, But naught she saw but the sea’s white breast And the long gray lash of the hissing rain.

The night fell black and the wild gale played In the chimney’s throat a shrill, weird tune, While into a cloud as if afraid Stole the ghostly form of the groping moon.

Then the steeds of the sea all landward came, Each panting courser thundered o’er The rocks of the reef and died in flame Along the utmost reach of shore.

Ah, heavy the heart of the ranchman’s wife! And long she listened, yet only heard The voice of breakers in awful strife And the plaintive cry of a frightened bird.

So long she waited and prayed for day As the firelight flickered upon the floor, While the prowling wind like a beast of prey Did growl and growl at the cabin door.

The gray dawn crept through the weeping wood, The clouds set sail and all was still; With a breast of gold the fair morn stood Above the firs of the eastern hill.

The waters slept and the raindrops clung Like shimmering pearls to the maple tree; The sky was clear and the brown birds flung Sweet showers of crystal melody.

A splintered mast and a tattered sail Lay out in the sun on the hard brown sands And plainer than words they told a tale To the woman who wept and wrung her hands.

And the little girl with the gold-crowned head Looked up with her tear-wet eyes of blue; “Oh, please don’t cry, mamma,” she said, “Old Santa Claus forgot me, too.”

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

DICKENS IN CAMP

BY BRET HARTE

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow:

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew.

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of “Little Nell.”

Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy—for the reader Was youngest of them all— But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall;

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows Wandered and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes—o’ertaken As by some spell divine— Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire; And he who wrought that spell?— Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak, and holly And laurel wreaths entwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly— This spray of Western pine!

—Copyright by _Houghton, Mifflin & Co._, Boston, Mass., and used by their kind permission.

WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED

BY A. J. WATERHOUSE

Sometimes ’long after supper my grandsire used to sit Where the sunbeams through the window things of beauty liked to knit, And he’d light his pipe and sit there in a sort of waking dream, While to bathe his form in glory seemed the sunlight’s pretty scheme; And then, whatever happened, he didn’t seem to see, And a smile lit up his features that used to puzzle me, And I would often wonder what pleasant inner theme Had caused that strange and tranquil smile when grandpa used to dream.

Sometimes, though, when I’d listen I’d hear the good man sigh, And once I’m almost sure I saw the moisture in his eye, But whether he would smile or sigh, he didn’t seem to see The things that happened ’round him, and that’s what puzzled me. With the wreaths of smoke ascending as the twilight gathered there, The shadows crept about him in the old arm chair, And through the evening darkness I could see the fitful gleam From the embers in his lighted pipe when grandpa used to dream.

I used to wonder in those days. I wonder now no more, For now I understand the thing that puzzled me of yore, And I know that through the twilight and the shadows gathering fast Came unto my grandsire, dreaming, the visions of the past. The boys who played with him were there within that little room; His mother’s smile no doubt lit up the darkness and the gloom; Again he ran and leaped and played beside an Eastern stream; The ones he loved were there, I know, when grandpa used to dream.

And so he smiled—and then she stood, his dearest, at his side, With the glow of youth upon her, red-lipped and laughing eyed, And he told the old, sweet story, and she listened, nothing loth, And dreams of hope were written in the happy hearts of both; And then, by strange transition, he saw her pulseless lie— And ’twas then I viewed the moisture in the corner of his eye. Old friends were gathered round him, though they’d crossed death’s mystic stream, In that hour of smiles and sighing when my grandsire used to dream.

Oh, glad, sad gift of memory to call our dear ones back And win them from their narrow homes to Time’s still beaten track! Yours was the power my grandsire held while twilight turned to night; Through you his loved returned again and blessed his longing sight; And I no longer wonder, when his dreaming I recall, At smiles and sighs succeeding while the shadows hid us all, For, while my pencil’s trailing and I’ve half forgot my theme, I, too, am seeing visions, as my grandsire used to dream.

WHEN LITTLE SISTER CAME[14]

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

We dwelt in the woods of the Tippe-canoe, In a lone lost cabin, with never a view Of the full day’s sun for a whole year through. With strange half hints through the russet corn We children were hurried one night. Next morn There was frost on the trees, and a sprinkle of snow, And tracks on the ground. Three boys below The low eave listened. We burst through the door, And a girl baby cried,—and then we were four.

We were not sturdy, and we were not wise In the things of the world, and the ways men dare. A pale-browed mother with a prophet’s eyes, A father that dreamed and looked anywhere.

Three brothers—wild blossoms, tall-fashioned as men And we mingled with none, but we lived as when The pair first lived ere they knew the fall; And, loving all things, we believed in all.

Ah! girding yourself and throwing your strength On the front of the forest that stands in mail, Sounds gallant, indeed, in a pioneer’s tale, But, God in heaven! the weariness Of a sweet soul banished to a life like this!

This reaching of weary-worn arms full length; This stooping all day to the cold stubborn soil— This holding the heart! it is more than toil! What loneness of heart! what wishing to die In that soul in the earth, that was born for the sky!

We parted wood-curtains, pushed westward and we, Why, we wandered and wandered a half year through, We tented with herds as the Arabs do, And at last lay down by the sundown sea. Then there in that sun did my soul take fire! It burned in its fervor, thou Venice, for thee! My glad heart glowed with the one desire To stride to the front, to live, to be! To strow great thoughts through the world as I went, As God sows stars through the firmament.

_Venice, 1874._

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

WHEN THE OLD MAN SMOKES

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

In the forenoon’s restful quiet, When the boys are off at school, When the window lights are shaded And the chimney corner cool, Then the old man seeks his arm-chair, Lights his pipe and settles back; Falls a-dreaming as he draws it Till the smoke wreaths gather black.

And the tear-drops come a-trickling Down his cheeks, a silver flow— Smoke or memories you wonder, But you never ask him, no; For there’s something almost sacred To the other family folks In those moods of silent dreaming When the old man smokes.

Ah, perhaps he sits there dreaming Of the love of other days And how he used to lead her Through the merry dances maze; How he called her “little princess.” And, to please her, used to twine Tender wreaths to crown her tresses, From the “matrimony vine.”

Then before his mental vision Comes, perhaps, a sadder day, When they left his little princess Sleeping with her fellow clay. How his young heart throbbed, and pained him! Why the memory of it chokes! Is it of these things he’s thinking When the old man smokes?

But some brighter thoughts possess him, For the tears are dried the while. And the old worn face is wrinkled In a reminiscent smile, From the middle of the forehead To the feebly trembling lip, At some ancient prank remembered Or some unheard of quip.

Then the lips relax their tension And the pipe begins to slide, Till in little clouds of ashes, It falls gently at his side; And his head bends lower and lower Till his chin lies on his breast, And he sits in peaceful slumber Like a little child at rest.

Dear old man, there’s something sad’ning, In these dreamy moods of yours, Since the present proves so fleeting, All the past for you endures; Weeping at forgotten sorrows, Smiling at forgotten jokes; Life epitomized in minutes, When the old man smokes.

—Copyright by _Dodd Mead & Co._, New York, and used by arrangement.

DRAMATIC SELECTIONS IN POETRY

EACH IN HIS OWN TONGUE

BY W. H. CARRUTH

A fire mist and a planet, A crystal and a cell, A jelly-fish and a saurian, And caves where the cavemen dwell; Then a sense of law and beauty, And a face turned from the clod; Some call it Evolution, And others call it God.

A haze on the far horizon, The infinite tender sky; The ripe, rich tints of the cornfields, And the wild geese sailing high; And all over upland and lowland The charm of the golden-rod; Some of us call it Autumn, And others call it God.

Like the tide on the crescent sea beach, When the moon is new and thin, In our hearts high yearnings Come welling and surging in. Come from the mystic ocean, Whose rim no foot has trod; Some of us call it Longing, And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty, A mother starved for her brood; Socrates drinking the hemlock, And Jesus on the road; The millions who, humble and nameless, The straight, hard pathway trod; Some call it Consecration, And others call it God.

—Copyright, and used by kind permission of the author.

THE MAN WITH THE HOE

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

(_Written after seeing Millet’s World-Famous Painting_)

God made man In His own image, in the image of God made He him.—Genesis.

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world. Who made him dead to rapture and despair, A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over sea and land; To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of Eternity? Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And pillared the blue firmament with light? Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this— More tongued with censure of the world’s blind greed— More filled with signs and portents for the soul— More fraught with menace to the universe. What gulfs between him and the seraphim! Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? What the long reaches of the peaks of song, The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; Time’s tragedy is in the aching stoop; Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, Plundered, profaned and disinherited, Cries protest to the Judges of the World, A protest that is also prophecy.

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, Is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? How will you ever straighten up this shape; Touch it again with immortality; Give back the upward looking and the light; Rebuild in it the music and the dream; Make right the immemorial infamies, Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, How will the Future reckon with this Man? How answer his brute questions in that hour When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? How will it be with kingdoms and with kings— With those who shaped him to the thing he is— When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, After the silence of the centuries?

—Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

TOMMY

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

I went to a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer, The publican ’e up an’ sez, “We serve no redcoats here.” The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die, I out into the street again, an’ to myself sez I: O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”; But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins,” when the band begins to play, The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins,” when the band begins to play.

I went into a theater as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but ’adn’t none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls, But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls! For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”; But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide, The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide, O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.

Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap; An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit. Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ’ow’s yer soul?” But it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll, The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll.

We aren’t no thin red ’eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too, But single men in barracks, most remarkably like you; An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barracks don’t grow into plaster saints; While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind,” But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind, There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind, O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind.

You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all: We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don’t mess about the cook-room shops, but prove it to our face The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace. For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!” But it’s “Saviour of ’is country” when the guns begin to shoot; An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please; An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool—you bet that Tommy sees!

THE CAVALIER’S SONG

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, My true love has mounted his steed, and away Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down— Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!

He has doff’d the silk doublet the breastplate to bear, He has placed the steel cap o’er his long-flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down— Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!

For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws; Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause; His watchword is honor, his pay is renown— God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!

They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall; But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town, That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.

There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There’s Erin’s high Ormond, and Scotland’s Montrose! Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?

Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier! Be his banner unconquer’d, resistless his spear, Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown, In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown.

WAR

ANONYMOUS

Ivor never heard of Rudolph, Rudolph never heard of Ivor, Yet each of them flies at the other—and dies; For some one, somewhere, has said “War!”

Twelve million men to be marshaled And murdered and mangled and maimed; Twelve million men, by the stroke of the pen, To be slaughtered—and no one ashamed.

Mountains of wealth to be wasted, Oceans of tears to be shed, Valleys of light to be turned into night, Rivers of blood to run red.

Thousands of wives to be widowed, Millions of mothers to mourn, Thousands in sorrow to wait the to-morrow, Millions of hearts to be torn.

Thousands of fathers to perish, Millions of children to moan, Ages of time to prepare for a crime That eons can never atone.

Thousands of homes to be shattered, Millions of prayers to be vain. Thousands of ways to the glory that pays In poverty, panic and pain.

Twelve million men in God’s image Sentenced to shoot and be shot, Kill and be killed, as ruler has willed, For what—For what—_For what_?

Ivor never heard of Rudolph, And Rudolph knows naught of Ivor, Yet each of them flies at the other—and dies, For some one, somewhere, has said “War!”

LOVE OF COUNTRY

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell High tho’ his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.

SIR GALAHAD

BY ALFRED TENNYSON

My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter’d spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.

—From “Sir Galahad.”

OPPORTUNITY

BY EDWARD ROWLAND SILL

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:— There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle’s edge, And thought, “Had I a sword of keener steel— That blue blade that the king’s son bears—but this Blunt thing—!” he snapped and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field.

Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day.

THE FIRING LINE

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

For glory? For good? For fortune or fame? Why, he for the front when the battle is on! Leave the rear to the dolt, the lazy, the lame, Go forward as ever the valiant have gone; Whether city or field, whether mountain or mine, Go forward, right on to the Firing Line.

Whether newsboy or plowboy, cowboy or clerk, Fight forward, be ready, be steady, be first; Be fairest, be bravest, be best at your work; Exalt and be glad; dare to hunger, to thirst, As David, as Alfred—let dogs skulk and whine— There is room but for men on the Firing Line. Aye, the place to fight and the place to fall— As fall we must, all in God’s good time— It is where the manliest man is the wall, Where boys are as men in their pride and prime, Where glory gleams brightest, where brightest eyes shine, Far out on the roaring red Firing Line.

HOW OSWALD DINED WITH GOD

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

Over Northumbria’s lone, gray lands, Over the frozen marl, Went flying the fogs from the fens and sands, And the wind with a wolfish snarl.

Frosty and stiff by the York wall Stood the rusty grass and the yarrow: Gone wings and songs to the southland, all— Robin and starling and sparrow.

Weary with weaving the battle-woof, Came the king and his thanes to the Hall: Feast-fires reddened the beams of the roof, Torch flames waved from the wall.

Bright was the gold that the table bore, Where platters and beakers shone: Whining hounds on the sanded floor Looked hungrily up for a bone.

Laughing, the king took his seat at the board, With his gold-haired queen at his right: War-men sitting around them roared Like a crash of the shields in fight.

Loud rose laughter and lusty cheer, And gleemen sang loud in their throats, Telling of swords and the whistling spear, Till their red beards shook with the notes.

Varlets were bringing the smoking boar, Ladies were pouring the ale, When the watchman called from the great hall door: “O King, on the wind is a wail.

“Feebly the host of the hungry poor Lift hands at the gate with a cry: Grizzled and gaunt they come over the moor, Blasted by earth and sky.”

“Ho!” cried the king to the thanes, “make speed— Carry this food to the gates— Off with the boar and the cask of mead— Leave but a loaf on the plates.”

Still came a cry from the hollow night: “King, this is one day’s feast; But days are coming with famine-blight; Wolf winds howl from the east!”

Hot from the king’s heart leaped a deed, High as his iron crown: (Noble souls have a deathless need To stoop to the lowest down.)

“Thanes, I swear by Godde’s Bride This is a cursèd thing— Hunger for the folk outside, Gold inside for the king!”

Whirling his war-ax over his head, He cleft each plate into four. “Gather them up, O thanes,” he said, “For the workfolk at the door.

“Give them this for the morrow’s meat, Then shall we feast in accord: Our half of a loaf will then be sweet— Sweet as the bread of the Lord!”

—From “The Shoes of Happiness and Other Poems.” Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

HOW THE GREAT GUEST CAME

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

I

Before the Cathedral in grandeur rose, At Ingelburg where the Danube goes; Before its forest of silver spires Went airily up to the clouds and fires; Before the oak had ready a beam, While yet the arch was stone and dream— There where the altar was later laid, Conrad the cobbler plied his trade.

II

Doubled all day on his busy bench, Hard at his cobbling for master and hench, He pounded away at a brisk rat-tat, Shearing and shaping with pull and pat, Hide well hammered and pegs sent home, Till the shoe was fit for the Prince of Rome. And he sang as the threads went to and fro: “Whether ’tis hidden or whether it show, Let the work be sound, for the Lord will know.”

III

Tall was the cobbler, and gray and thin, And a full moon shone where the hair had been. His eyes peered out, intent and afar, As looking beyond the things that are. He walked as one who is done with fear, Knowing at last that God is near. Only the half of him cobbled the shoes; The rest was away for the heavenly news. Indeed, so thin was the mystic screen That parted the Unseen from the Seen, You could not tell, from the cobbler’s theme If his dream were truth or his truth were dream.

IV

It happened one day at the year’s white end, Two neighbors called on their old-time friend; And they found the shop, so meager and mean, Made gay with a hundred boughs of green. Conrad was stitching with face ashine, But suddenly stooped as he twitched a twine: “Old friends, good news! At dawn to-day, As the cocks were scaring the night away, The Lord appeared in a dream to me, And said, ‘I am coming your Guest to be!’ So I’ve been busy with feet astir, Strewing the floor with branches of fir. The wall is washed and the shelf is shined, And over the rafter the holly twined. He comes to-day, and the table is spread, With milk and honey and wheaten bread.”

V

His friends went home; and his face grew still As he watched for the shadow across the sill. He lived all the moments o’er and o’er, When the Lord should enter the lowly door— The knock, the call, the latch pulled up, The lighted face, the offered cup. He would wash the feet where the spikes had been; He would kiss the hands where the nails went in; And then at the last would sit with Him And break the bread as the day grew dim.

VI

While the cobbler mused, there passed his pane A beggar drenched by the driving rain. He called him in from the stony street And gave him shoes for his bruisèd feet. The beggar went and there came a crone, Her face with wrinkles of sorrow sown. A bundle of fagots bowed her back, And she was spent with the wrench and rack. He gave her his loaf and steadied her load As she took her way on the weary road. Then to his door came a little child, Lost and afraid in the world so wild, In the big, dark world. Catching it up, He gave it the milk in the waiting cup, And led it home to its mother’s arms, Out of the reach of the world’s alarms.

VII

The day went down in the crimson west And with it the hope of the blessed Guest, And Conrad sighed as the world turned gray: “Why is it, Lord, that your feet delay? Did You forget that this was the day?” Then soft in the silence a Voice he heard: “Lift up your heart, for I kept my word. Three times I came to your friendly door; Three times my shadow was on your floor. I was the beggar with bruisèd feet; I was the woman you gave to eat; I was the child on the homeless street!”

—From “The Shoes of Happiness and Other Poems.” Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

PICKETT’S CHARGE

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

When Pickett charged at Gettysburg, For three long days, with carnage fraught, Two hundred thousand men had fought; And courage could not gain the field, Where stubborn valor would not yield. With Meade on Cemetery Hill, And mighty Lee thundering still Upon the ridge a mile away; Four hundred guns in counterplay Their deadly thunderbolts had hurled— The cannon duel of the world! When Pickett charged at Gettysburg.

When Pickett charged at Gettysburg, Dread war had never known such need Of some o’ermastering, valiant deed; And never yet had cause so large Hung on the fate of one brief charge. To break the center, but a chance; With Pickett waiting to advance; It seemed a crime to bid him go, And Longstreet said not “Yes” nor “No,” But silently he bowed his head. “I shall go forward!” Pickett said. Then Pickett charged at Gettysburg.

Then Pickett charged at Gettysburg; Down from the little wooded slope, A-step with doubt, a-step with hope, And nothing but the tapping drum To time their tread, still on they come. Four hundred cannon hush their thunder, While cannoneers gaze on in wonder! Two armies watch, with stifled breath, Full eighteen thousand march to death, At elbow-touch, with banners furled, And courage to defy the world, In Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.

’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg: None but tried veterans can know How fearful ’tis to charge the foe; But these are soldiers will not quail, Though Death and Hell stand in their trail! Flower of the South and Longstreet’s pride, There’s valor in their very stride! Virginian blood runs in their veins, And each his ardor scarce restrains; Proud of the part they’re chosen for: The mighty cyclone of the war, In Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.

’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg: How mortals their opinions prize When armies march to sacrifice, And souls by thousands in the fight On Battle’s smoky wing take flight. Firm-paced they come, in solid form The dreadful calm before the storm. Those silent batteries seem to say: “We’re waiting for you, men in gray!” Each anxious gunner knows full well Why every shot of his must tell On Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.

’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg: What grander tableau can there be Than rhythmic swing of infantry At shouldered arms, with flashing steel? As Pickett swings to left, half-wheel, Those monsters instantly outpour Their flame and smoke of death! and roar Their fury on the silent air— Starting a scene of wild despair: Lee’s batteries roaring: “Room! Make room!!” With Meade’s replying: “Doom! ’Tis doom To Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg!”

’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg: Now Hancock’s riflemen begin To pour their deadly missiles in. Can standing grain defy the hail? Will Pickett stop? Will Pickett fail? His left is all uncovered through That fateful halt of Pettigrew! And Wilcox from the right is cleft By Pickett’s half-wheel to the left! Brave Stannard rushes ’tween the walls, No more disastrous thing befalls Brave Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.

’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg: How terrible it is to see Great armies making history: Long lines of muskets belching flame! No need of gunners taking aim When from that thunder-cloud of smoke The lightning kills at every stroke! If there’s a place resembling hell, ’Tis where, ’mid shot and bursting shell, Stalks Carnage, arm in arm with Death, A furnace blast in every breath, On Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.

’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg: Brave leaders fall on every hand! Unheard, unheeded all command! Battered in front and torn in flank; A frenzied mob in broken rank! They come like demons with a yell, And fight like demons all pell-mell! The wounded stop not till they fall; The living never stop at all— Their blood-bespattered faces say: “’Tis death alone stops men in gray, With Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg!”

Stopped Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg Where his last officer fell dead, The dauntless, peerless, Armistead! Where ebbed the tide and left the slain Like wreckage from the hurricane— That awful spot which soldiers call “The bloody angle of the wall,” There Pickett stopped, turned back again Alone, with just a thousand men! And not another shot was fired— So much is bravery admired! Pickett had charged at Gettysburg.

Brave Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg! The charge of England’s Light Brigade Was nothing to what Pickett made To capture Cemetery Hill— To-day a cemetery still, With flowers in the rifle-pit, But no one cares to capture it. The field belongs to those who fell; They hold it without shot or shell! While cattle yonder in the vale Are grazing on the very trail Where Pickett charged at Gettysburg.

Where Pickett charged at Gettysburg, In after-years survivors came To tramp once more that field of fame; And Mrs. Pickett led the Gray, Just where her husband did that day. The Blue were waiting at the wall, The Gray leaped over, heart and all! Where man had failed with sword and gun, A woman’s tender smile had won: The Gray had captured now the Blue, What mortal valor could not do When Pickett charged at Gettysburg.

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

“INASMUCH....”

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

Wild tempest swirled on Moscow’s castled height; Wild sleet shot slanting down the wind of night; Quick snarling mouths from out of the darkness sprang To strike you in the face with tooth and fang. Javelins of ice hung on the roofs of all; The very stones were aching in the wall, Where Ivan stood a watchman on his hour, Guarding the Kremlin by the northern tower, When, lo! a half-bare beggar tottered past, Shrunk up and stiffened in the bitter blast. A heap of misery he drifted by, And from the heap came out a broken cry.

At this the watchman straightened with a start; A tender grief was tugging at his heart, The thought of his dead father, bent and old And lying lonesome in the ground so cold. Then cried the watchman starting from his post: “Little father, this is yours; you need it most!” And tearing off his hairy coat, he ran And wrapt it warm around the beggar man.

That night the piling snows began to fall, And the good watchman died beside the wall. But waking in the Better Land that lies Beyond the reaches of these cooping skies, Behold, the Lord came out to greet him home, Wearing the hairy heavy coat he gave By Moscow’s tower before he felt the grave!

And Ivan, by the old Earth-memory stirred, Cried softly with a wonder in his word: “And where, dear Lord, found you this coat of mine, A thing unfit for glory such as Thine?” Then the Lord answered with a look of light: “This coat, My son, you gave to Me last night.”

—Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE MAN UNDER THE STONE

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

When I see a workingman with mouths to feed, Up, day after day, in the dark before the dawn, And coming home, night after night, through the dusk, Swinging forward like some fierce silent animal, I see a man doomed to roll a huge stone up an endless steep. He strains it onward inch by stubborn inch, Crouched always in the shadow of the rock.... See where he crouches, twisted, cramped, misshapen: He lifts for their life; The veins knot and darken— Blood surges into his face.... Now he loses—now he wins— Now he loses—loses—(God of my soul!) He digs his feet into some earth— There’s a moment of terrified effort.... Will the huge stone break his hold, And crush him as it plunges to the gulf? The silent struggle goes on and on, Like two contending in a dream.

—Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

TO GERMANY

BY GEORGE STERLING

I

Beat back thy forfeit plow-shares into swords: It is not yet, the far, seraphic dream Of peace made beautiful and love supreme. Now let the strong, unweariable chords Of battle shake to thunder, and the hordes Advance, where now the famished vultures scream. The standards gather and the trumpets gleam; Down the long hill-side stare the mounted lords.

Now far beyond the tumult and the hate, The white-clad nurses and the surgeons wait The backward currents of tormented life, When on the waiting silences shall come The screams of men, and, ere those lips are dumb, The searching probe, the ligature and knife.

II

Was it for such, the brutehood and the pain, Civilization gave her holy fire Unto thy wardship, and the snowy spire Of her august and most exalted fane? Are these the harvests of her ancient rain Men reap at evening in the scarlet mire, Or where the mountain smokes, a dreadful pyre, Or where the warship drags a bloody stain?

Are these thy votive lilies and their dews, That now the outraged stars look down to see? Behold them, where the cold prophetic damps Congeal on youthful brows so soon to lose Their dream of sacrifice to thee—to thee, Harlot to Murder in a thousand camps!

III

Was it for this that loving men and true Have labored in the darkness and the light To rear the solemn temple of the Right, On Reason’s deep foundations, bared anew Long after the Cæsarian eagles flew And Rome’s last thunder died upon the Night? Cuirassed, the cannon menace from the height; Armored, the new-born eagles take the blue.

Wait not thy lords the avenging, certain knell— One with the captains and abhorrent fames The echoes of whose conquests died in Hell?— They that have loosened the ensanguined flood, And whose malign and execrable names The Seraph of the Record writes in blood.

IV

From gravid trench and sullen parapet, Profane the wounded lands with mine or shell! Turn thou upon the world thy cannons’ Hell, Till many million women’s eyes are wet! Ravage and slay! Pile up the eternal debt! But when the fanes of France and Belgium fell Another ruin was on earth as well, And ashes that the race shall not forget.

Not by the devastation of the guns, Nor tempest-shock, nor steel’s subverting edge, Nor yet the slow erasure of the suns Thy downfall came, betrayer of thy trust! But at the dissolution of a pledge The temple of thine honor sank to dust.

V

Make not thy prayer to Heaven, lest perchance, O troubler of the world, the heavens hear! But trust in Uhlan and in cannoneer, And, ere the Russian hough thee, set thy lance Against the dear and blameless breast of France! Put on thy mail tremendous and austere, And let the squadrons of thy wrath appear, And bid the standards and the guns advance!

Those as an evil mist shall pass away, As once the Assyrian before the Lord: Thou standest between mortals and the day, Ere God, grown weary of thine armored reign, Lift from the world the shadow of thy sword And bid the stars of morning sing again.

—Copyright by _A. M. Robertson_, publisher, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

TO THE WAR-LORDS

BY GEORGE STERLING

I

Be yours the doom Isaiah’s voice foretold, Lifted on Babylon, O ye whose hands Cast the sword’s shadow upon weaker lands, And for whose pride a million hearths grow cold! Ye reap but with the cannon, and do hold Your plowing to the murder-god’s commands; And at your altars Desolation stands, And in your hearts is conquest, as of old.

The legions perish and the warships drown; The fish and vulture batten on the slain; And it is ye whose word hath shaken down The dykes that hold the chartless sea of pain. Your prayers deceive not men, nor shall a crown Hide on the brow the murder-mark of Cain.

II

Now glut yourselves with conflict, nor refrain, But let your famished provinces be fed From bursting granaries of steel and lead! Decree the sowing of that deadly grain Where the great war-horse, maddened with his pain, Stamps on the mangled living and the dead, And from the entreated heavens overhead Falls from a brother’s hand a fiery rain.

Lift not your voices to the gentle Christ: Your god is of the shambles! Let the moan Of nations be your psalter, and their youth To Moloch and to Bel be sacrificed! A world to which ye proffered lies alone Learns now from Death the horror of your truth.

III

How have you fed your people upon lies, And cried “Peace! peace!” and knew it would not be! For now the iron dragons take the sea, And in the new-found fortress of the skies, Alert and fierce a deadly eagle flies. Ten thousand cannon echo your decree, To whose profound refrain ye bend the knee. And lift into the Lord of Love your eyes.

This is Hell’s work: why raise your hands to Him, And those hands mailed, and holding up the sword? There stands another altar, stained with red, At whose basalt the infernal seraphim Uplift to Satan, your conspirant lord, The blood of nations, at your mandate shed.

—Copyright by _A. M. Robertson_, publisher, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

PAULINE PAVLOVNA

BY T. B. ALDRICH

(_Scene: Petrograd. Period: The present time. A ballroom in the winter palace of the prince. The ladies in character costumes and masks. The gentlemen in official dress and unmasked, with the exception of six tall figures in scarlet kaftans, who are treated with marked distinction as they move here and there among the promenaders._

_Quadrille music throughout the dialogue. Count Sergius Pavlovich Panshine, who has just arrived, is standing anxiously in the doorway of an antechamber with his eyes fixed upon a lady in the costume of a maid of honor in the time of Catherine II. The lady presently disengages herself from the crowd, and passes near Count Panshine, who impulsively takes her by the hand and leads her across the threshold of the inner apartment, which is unoccupied._)

_He._ Pauline!

_She._ You knew me?

_He._ How could I have failed? A mask may hide your features, not your soul. There’s an air about you like the air that folds a star. A blind man knows the night, and feels the constellations. No coarse sense of eye or ear had made you plain to me. Through these I had not found you; for your eyes, as blue as violets of our Novgorod, look black behind your mask there, and your voice—I had not known that either. My heart said, “Pauline Pavlovna.”

_She._ Ah, your heart said that? You trust your heart then! ’Tis a serious risk! How is it you and others wear no mask?

_He._ The Emperor’s orders.

_She._ Is the Emperor here? I have not seen him.

_He._ He is one of the six in scarlet kaftans and all masked alike. Watch—you will note how every one bows down Before those figures; thinking each by chance May be the Tsar; yet none know which is he. Even his counterparts are left in doubt. Unhappy Russia! No serf ever wore such chains As gall our Emperor these sad days. He dare trust no man.

_She._ All men are so false.

_He._ Spare one, Pauline Pavlovna.

_She._ No! all, all! I think there is no truth left in the world, In man or woman. Once were noble souls.— Count Sergius, is Nastasia here to-night?

_He._ Ah! then you know! I thought to tell you first. Not here, beneath these hundred curious eyes, In all this glare of light; but in some place Where I could throw me at your feet and weep. In what shape came the story to your ears? Decked in the teller’s colors, I’ll be sworn; The truth, but in the livery of a lie, And so must wrong me. Only this is true:— The Tsar, because I risked my wretched life To shield a life as wretched as my own, Bestows upon me, as supreme reward— O irony!—the hand of this poor girl. Says, “Here I have the pearl of pearls for you, Such as was never plucked from out the deep By Indian diver, for a Sultan’s crown. Your joy’s decreed,” and stabs me with a smile.

_She._ And she—she loves you.

_He._ I know not, indeed. Likes me perhaps. What matters it?—her love? Sidor Yurievich, the guardian, consents, and she consents. No love in it at all, a mere caprice, A young girl’s spring-tide dream. Sick of her ear-rings, weary of her mare, She’ll have a lover—something ready made, Or improvised between two cups of tea— A lover by imperial ukase! Fate said the word—I chanced to be the man! If that grenade the crazy student threw Had not spared me, as well as spared the Tsar, All this would not have happened. I’d have been a hero, But quite safe from her romance. She takes me for a hero—think of that! Now by our holy Lady of Kazan, When I have finished pitying myself, I’ll pity her.

_She._ Oh, no;—begin with her; she needs it most.

_He._ At her door lies the blame, whatever falls. She, with a single word, with half a tear, Had stopt it at the first, This cruel juggling with poor human hearts.

_She._ The Tsar commanded it—you said the Tsar.

_He._ The Tsar does what she wills—God fathoms why. Were she his mistress, now! but there’s no snow Whiter within the bosom of a cloud, No colder either. She is very haughty, For all her fragile air of gentleness; With something vital in her, like those flowers That on our desolate steppes outlast the year. Resembles you in some things. It was that First made us friends. I do her justice, see! For we were friends in that smooth surface way We Russians have imported out of France. Alas! from what a blue and tranquil heaven This bolt fell on me! After these two years, My suit with Ossip Leminoff at end, The old wrong righted, the estates restored, And my promotion, with the ink not dry! For those fairies which neglected me at birth Seemed now to lavish all good gifts on me— Gold roubles, office, sudden dearest friends. The whole world smiled; then, as I stooped to taste The sweetest cup, freak dashed it from my lips. This very night—just think, this very night— I planned to come and beg of you the alms I dared not ask for in my poverty. I thought me poor then. How stript am I now! There’s not a ragged mendicant one meets Along the Nevski Prospekt but has leave to tell his love, And I have not that right! Pauline Pavlovna, why do you stand there Stark as a statue, with no word to say?

_She._ Because this thing has frozen up my heart. I think that there is something killed in me, A dream that would have mocked all other bliss. What shall I say? What would you have me say?

_He._ If it be possible, the word of words!

_She_ (_very slowly_). Well, then—I love you. I may tell you so This once, ... and then forever hold my peace. We cannot stay here longer unobserved. No—do not touch me! but stand further off, and Seem to laugh, as if we jested—eyes, Eyes, everywhere! Now turn your face away.... I love you.

_He._ With such music in my ears I would death found me. It were sweet to die listening! you love me—prove it.

_She._ Prove it—how? I prove it saying it. How else?

_He._ Pauline, I have three things to choose from; you shall choose. This marriage, or Siberia, or France. The first means hell; the second, purgatory; The third—with you—were nothing less than heaven!

_She_ (_starting_). How dared you even dream it!

_He._ I was mad. This business has touched me in the brain. Have patience! the calamity’s so new. (_Pauses._) There is a fourth way, but the gate is shut To brave men who hold life a thing of God.

_She._ Yourself spake there; the rest was not of you.

_He._ Oh, lift me to your level! So I’m safe. What’s to be done?

_She._ There must be some path out. Perhaps the Emperor—

_He._ Not a ray of hope! His mind is set on this with that insistence Which seems to seize on all match-making folk— The fancy bites them, and they straight go mad.

_She._ Your father’s friend, the metropolitan— A word from him....

_He._ Alas, he too is bitten! Gray-haired, gray-hearted, worldly-wise, he sees This marriage makes me the Tsar’s protégé And opens every door to preference.

_She._ Think while I think. There surely is some key Unlocks the labyrinth, could we but find it. Nastasia!

_He._ What, beg life of her? Not I.

_She._ Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhaps Untouched as yet of this too poisonous air. Were she told all, would she not pity us? For if she love you, as I think she must, Would not some generous impulse stir in her, Some latent, unsuspected spark illume? How love thrills even commonest girl-clay, Ennobling it an instant if no more! You said that she is proud; then touch her pride, And turn her into marble with the touch. But yet the gentler passion is the stronger. Go to her, tell her in some tenderest phrase That will not hurt too much—ah, but ’twill hurt! Just how your happiness lies in her hand To make or mar for all time; hint, not say, Your heart is gone from you, and you may find—

_He._ A casement in St. Peter and St. Paul For, say, a month; then some Siberian town. Not this way lies escape. At my first word That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to fire In every vein.

_She._ How blindly you read her, Or any woman! Yes, I know, I grant How small we often seem to our small world Of trivial cares and narrow precedents— Lacking that wide horizon stretched for men— Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse; But when it comes to suffering mortal pangs, The weakest of us measures pulse with you.

_He._ Yes, you, not she. If she were at your height! But there’s no martyr wrapt in her rose flesh. There should have been; for Nature gave you both The self-same purple for your eyes and hair, The self-same Southern music to your lips, Fashioned you both, as ’twere, in the same mold, Yet failed to put the soul in one of you! I know her willful—her light head quite turned In this court atmosphere of flatteries; A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there, And since, spoiled here; as soft as swan’s down, now, With words like honey melting from the comb, But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold. I fancy her between two rosy smiles, Saying, “Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk mines!”

_She._ You know her not. Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask Could hide the soul, yet how you have mistaken The soul these two months—and the face to-night. (_She removes mask._)

_He._ You!—it was you.

_She._ Count Sergius Pavlovich, go find Pauline Pavlovna—she is here— And tell her that the Tsar has set you free. (_Goes out hurriedly._)

GUNGA DIN

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

You may talk o’ gin and beer When you’re quartered safe out ’ere, An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot; But when it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it. Now in Injia’s sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them blackfaced crew The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din! It was “Din! Din! Din! You limping lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! slippery hitherao! Water, get it! Pannee lao! You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”

The uniform ’e wore Was nothin’ much before, An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind, For a piece o’ twisty rag An’ a goatskin water-bag Was all the field equipment ’e could find. When the sweatin’ troop-train lay In a sidin’ through the day, Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl, We shouted “Harry By!” Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped ’im cause ’e couldn’t serve us all. It was “Din! Din! Din! You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been? You put some juldee in it Or I’ll marrow you this minute; If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”

’E would dot an’ carry one Till the longest day was done; An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear. If we charged or if we cut, You could bet your bloomin’ nut, ’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear. With ’is mussick on ’is back, ’E would skip with our attack, An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire,” An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide ’E was white, clear white, inside When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was “Din! Din! Din!” With the bullets kickin’ dust spots on the green, When the cartridges ran out, You could hear the front lines shout, “Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!”

I sha’n’t forgit the night When I dropped be’ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been. I was chokin’ mad with thirst, An’ the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din. ’E lifted up my head, An’ ’e plugged me where I bled, An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green: It was crawlin’ and it stunk, But of all the drinks I’ve drunk, I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. It was “Din! Din! Din! ’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through his spleen; ’E’s chawin’ up the ground, An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around: For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!”

’E carried me away To where a dooli lay, An’ a bullet came and drilled the beggar clean. ’E put me safe inside, An’ just before ’e died: “I ’ope you like your drink,” sez Gunga Din. So I’ll meet ’im later on At the place where ’e is gone— Where it’s always double drill and no canteen; ’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals, Givin’ drink to poor damned souls, An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din! Yes, Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leathern Gunga Din! Though I’ve belted you and flayed you, By the livin’ God that made you, You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

THE TRUE BALLAD OF THE KING’S SINGER

BY HELEN HUNT JACKSON

The king rode fast, the king rode well, The royal hunt went loud and gay, A thousand bleeding chamois fell For royal sport that day.

When sunset turned the hill all red, The royal hunt went still and slow; The king’s great horse with weary tread Plunged ankle-deep in snow.

Sudden a strain of music sweet, Unearthly sweet, came through the wood; Up sprang the king, and on both feet Straight in his saddle stood.

“Now, by our lady, be it bird, Or be it man or elf that plays, Never before my ears have heard A music fit for praise!”

Sullen and tired, the royal hunt Followed the king, who tracked the song, Unthinking, as is royal wont, How hard the way and long.

Stretched on a rock the shepherd lay And dreamed and piped, and dreamed and sang, And careless heard the shout and bay With which the echoes rang.

“Up, man! the king!” the hunters cried. He slowly stood, and, wondering, Turned honest eyes from side to side: To him, each looked like king.

Strange shyness seized the king’s bold tongue; He saw how easy to displease This savage man who stood among His courtiers, so at ease.

But kings have silver speech to use When on their pleasure they are bent; The simple shepherd could not choose; Like one in dream he went.

O hear! O hear! The ringing sound Of twenty trumpets swept the street, The king a minstrel now has found, For royal music meet.

With cloth of gold, and cloth of red, And woman’s eyes the place is bright. “Now, shepherd, sing,” the king has said, “The song you sang last night!”

One faint sound stirs the perfumed air, The courtiers scornfully look down; The shepherd kneels in dumb despair, Seeing the king’s dark frown.

The king is just; the king will wait. “Ho, guards! let him be gently led, Let him grow used to royal state,— To being housed and fed.”

All night the king unquiet lay, Racked by his dream’s presentiment; Then rose in haste at break of day, And for the shepherd sent.

“Ho, now, thou beast, thou savage man, How sound thou sleepest, not to hear!” They jeering laughed, but soon began To louder call in fear.

They wrenched the bolts; unrumpled stood The princely bed all silken fine, Untouched the plates of royal food, The flask of royal wine!

The costly robes strewn on the floor, The chamber empty, ghastly still; The guards stood trembling at the door, And dared not cross the sill.

All night the sentinels their round Had kept. No man could pass that way. The window dizzy high from ground; Below, the deep moat lay.

They crossed themselves. “The foul fiend lurks In this,” they said. They did not know The miracles sweet Freedom works, To let her children go.

It was the fiend himself who took That shepherd’s shape to pipe and sing; And every man with terror shook, For who would tell the king!

The heads of men all innocent Rolled in the dust that day; And east and west the bloodhounds went, Baying their dreadful bay;

Safe on a snow too far, too high, For scent of dogs or feet of men, The shepherd watched the clouds sail by, And dreamed and sang again;

And crossed himself, and knelt and cried, And kissed the holy Edelweiss, Believing that the fiends had tried To buy him with a price.

The king rides fast, the king rides well; The summer hunts go loud and gay; The courtiers, who this tale can tell, Are getting old and gray.

But still they say it was a fiend That took a shepherd’s shape to sing, For still the king’s heart is not weaned To care for other thing.

Great minstrels come from far and near, He will not let them sing or play, But waits and listens still to hear The song he heard that day.

—Copyright by _Little, Brown & Co._, Boston, and used by kind permission.

THE DREAM OF CLARENCE

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

O, I have passed a miserable night, So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such night, Though ’twere to buy a world of happy days, So full of dismal terror was the time!

Methought that I had broken from the tower, And was embark’d to cross to Burgundy; And, in my company, my brother Gloucester; Who from my cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches: thence we looked toward England, And cited up a thousand fearful times, During the wars of York and Lancaster, That had befallen us.

As we paced along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, Methought the Gloucester stumbled; and, in falling, Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard, Into the tumbling billows of the main. Lord! Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown! What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears! What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!

Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks; Ten thousand men that fishes gnawed upon; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scattered in the bottom of the sea: Some lay in dead men’s skulls; and in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, As ’twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, Which woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock’d the dead bones that lay scattered by.

Methought I had, and often did I strive To yield the ghost: but the envious flood Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth To seek the empty, vast and wandering air; But smothered it within my panting bulk, Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

My dream was lengthened after life; O, then began the tempest of my soul, Who pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferry-man which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that did greet my stranger soul, Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick; Who cried aloud, “What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?”

And so he vanished: then came wandering by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood; and he squeaked aloud, “Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, That stabb’d me in the field by Tewksbury: Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!” With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends Environ’d me about, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, that with the very noise I trembling waked, and for a season after Could not believe but that I was in hell, Such terrible impression made the dream.

THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK

BY ROBERT DWYER JOYCE

He grasped the ponderous hammer, he could not stand it more, To hear the bomb-shells bursting, and thundering battle’s roar; He said, “The breach they’re mounting, the Dutchman’s murdering crew— I’ll try my hammer on their heads, and see what that can do!

“Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well; ’Tis Sarsfield’s horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot or shell;” “Ah, sure,” cried both, “the horse can wait, for Sarsfield’s on the wall And where you go we’ll follow, with you to stand or fall!”

The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street, His ’prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet;— High on the breach of Limerick with dauntless hearts they stood, Where bomb-shells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the blood.

“Now look you, brown-haired Moran; and mark you, swarthy Ned, This day we’ll prove the thickness of many a Dutchman’s head! Hurrah! upon their bloody path, they’re mounting gallantly; And now the first that tops the breach, leave him to this and me.”

The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave,— A captain of the grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk and glaive; He pointed and he parried, but it was all in vain! For fast through skull and helmet the hammer found his brain!

The next that topped the rampart, he was a colonel bold; Bright, through the dust of battle, his helmet flashed with gold— “Gold is no match for iron,” the doughty blacksmith said, And with that ponderous hammer he cracked his foeman’s head.

“Hurrah for gallant Limerick!” black Ned and Moran cried, As on the Dutchmen’s leaden heads their hammers well they plied; A bomb-shell burst between them—one fell without a groan, One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach was thrown.

“Brave smith! brave smith!” cried Sarsfield, “beware the treacherous mine! Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or surely death is thine!” The smith sprang up the rampart and leaped the blood-stained wall, As high into the shuddering air went foeman, breach and all!

Up, like a red volcano, they thundered wild and high,— Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foeman through the sky; And dark and bloody was the shower that round the blacksmith fell;— He thought upon his ’prentice boys,—they were avengèd well.

On foeman and defenders a silence gathered down; ’Twas broken by a triumph shout that shook the ancient town, As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew, And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts could do.

Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river’s side, He hammered on the foe’s pontoon, to sink it in the tide; The timber, it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain; “Mavrone! t’won’t break!” the blacksmith roared; “I’ll try their heads again!”

He rushed upon the flying ranks; his hammer ne’er was slack, For in thro’ blood and bone it crashed, thro’ helmet and thro’ jack; He’s ta’en a Holland captain beside the red pontoon, And “Wait you here,” he boldly cries; “I’ll send you back full soon!

“Dost see this gory hammer? It cracked some skulls to-day, And yours ’twill crack, if you don’t stand and list to what I say;— Here! take it to your cursèd King, and tell him, softly, too, ’Twould be acquainted with his skull if he were here, not you!”

The blacksmith sought his smithy and blew his bellows strong; He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o’er it sang no song; “Ochone! my boys are dead!” he cried; “their loss I’ll long deplore, But comfort’s in my heart, their graves are red with foreign gore.”

HYMN OF THE IMPERIAL GUARD

BY BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING

Up, comrades, up, the bugle peals the note of war’s alarms, And the cry is ringing sternly round, that calls the land to arms; Adieu, adieu, fair land of France, where the vine of Brennus reigns; We go where the blooming laurels grow, on the bright Italian plains. Advance! advance! brave sons of France, before the startled world; For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

Our eagles shall fly ’neath many a sky, with a halo round their way Where History flings, on their flashing wings, the light of Glory’s ray; And we shall bear them proudly on, through many a mighty fray, That shall win old nations back to life, in the glorious coming day. Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world, For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

The glowing heart of the land of Art, throbbing for Liberty, Our swords invoke, to erase the yoke from beauteous Italy. And the Magyar waits, with kindling hope, the aid of the Gallic hand, To drive the hated Austrians forth, from the old Hungarian land. Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world, For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

See the Briton, pale, as he dons his mail, for the coming conflict shock, And before his eyes, see the phantom rise, of the Chief on Helena’s rock; In foreboding fears, already he hears through palace and mart anew, Our avenging shout, o’er the battle rout—remember Waterloo! Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world, For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. And, hark, a wail from our kindred Gael, comes floating from the West— That gallant race, whose chosen place was ever our battle’s crest; Now is the day we can repay the generous debt we owe To Irish blood, that freely flowed to conquer France’s foe. Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world, For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

Old Tricolor, as in days of yore, you shall wave o’er vanquished kings, And your folds shall fly ’neath an English sky, on Victory’s crimson wings; And Europe’s shout shall in joy ring out, hailing freedom in thy track, When our task is done, and we bear thee on, to France with glory back. Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world, For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

THE DEATH-SONG OF THE VIKING[15]

BY BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING

My race is run, my errand done, the pulse of life beats low; My heart is chill, and the conquering will has lost its fiery glow: Launch once again on the northern main my battleship of old: I would die on the deck, ’mid storm and wreck, as befits a Viking bold.

I know no fears, but the mist of years that has gathered round my track For a moment clears, and my youth’s compeers again to my side come back; And the tall ships reel o’er their iron keel, as we sweep down on the foe, Like a giant’s form amid the storm, where the mighty tempests blow.

Again I gaze on the leaping blaze o’er a conquered city rise, As in those days, when the Skald’s wild lays, sang the fame of our high emprise; When our ships went forth from the stormy North with the Scandinavian bands Who backward bore to the Baltic’s shore the spoil of the Western lands. But my race is run, my errand done; so bear me to my ship. Place my battle-brand in this dying hand, and the wine-cup to my lip; Then loose each sail to the rising gale and lash the helm a-lee. Alone, alone, on my drifting throne, I would view my realm, the sea.

My realm and grave the northern wave, where the tempest’s voice will sing My death-song loud, where flame shall shroud the ocean’s warrior-king, Whilst heroes wait at Valhalla’s gate to proudly welcome me. For my race is run, my errand done. Receive thy Chief, O Sea!

THE RIDE OF JENNIE McNEAL

BY WILL CARLETON

Paul Revere was a rider bold— Well has his valorous deed been told; Sheridan’s ride was a glorious one— Often it has been dwelt upon. But why should men do all the deeds On which the love of a patriot feeds? Hearken to me, while I reveal The dashing ride of Jennie McNeal.

On a spot as pretty as might be found In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground, In a cottage cosy, and all their own, She and her mother lived alone. Safe were the two, with their frugal store, From all of the many who passed their door; For Jennie’s mother was strange to fears, And Jennie was large for fifteen years.

One night, when the sun had crept to bed, And rain-clouds lingered overhead, And sent their surly drops for proof To drum a tune on the cottage roof, Close after a knock at the outer door, There entered a dozen dragoons or more. Their red coats, stained by the muddy road, That they were British soldiers showed;

The captain his hostess bent to greet, Saying, “Madam, please give us a bit to eat; We will pay you well, and, if may be, This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea; Then we must dash ten miles ahead, To catch a rebel colonel abed. He is visiting home, as doth appear; We will make his pleasure cost him dear.” And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal, Close-watched the while by Jennie McNeal. For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near, Had been her true friend, kind and dear; So sorrow for him she could but feel, Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie McNeal.

With never a thought or a moment more, Bare-headed she slipped from the cottage door, Ran out where the horses were left to feed, Unhitched and mounted the captain’s steed, And down the hilly and rock-strewn way She urged the fiery horse of gray. Around her slender and cloakless form Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm; Secure and tight, a gloveless hand Grasped the reins with stern command; And full and black her long hair streamed, Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed; And on she rushed for the colonel’s weal, Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie McNeal.

Hark! from the hills, a moment mute, Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit; And a cry from the foremost trooper said, “Halt! or your blood be on your head!” She heeded it not, and not in vain She lashed the horse with the bridle-rein. So into the night the gray horse strode; His shoes hewed fire from the rocky road; And the high-born courage that never dies Flashed from his rider’s coal-black eyes. The pebbles flew from the fearful race; The rain-drops grasped at her glowing face. “On, on, brave beast!” with loud appeal, Cried eager, resolute Jennie McNeal.

“Halt!” once more came the voice of dread; “Halt! or your blood be on your head!” Then, no one answering to the calls, Sped after her a volley of balls. They passed her in her rapid flight, They screamed to her left, they screamed to her right; But, rushing still o’er the slippery track, She sent no token of answer back, Except a silvery laughter-peal, Brave, merry-hearted Jennie McNeal.

So on she rushed, at her own good will, Through wood and valley, o’er plain and hill; The gray horse did his duty well, Till all at once he stumbled and fell, Himself escaping the nets of harm, But flinging the girl with a broken arm. Still undismayed by the numbing pain, She clung to the horse’s bridle-rein, And gently bidding him to stand, Petted him with her able hand; Then sprang again to the saddle-bow, And shouted, “One more trial now!” As if ashamed of the heedless fall, He gathered his strength once more for all, And, galloping down a hillside steep, Gained on the troopers at every leap. No more the high-bred steed did reel, But ran his best for Jennie McNeal. They were a furlong behind, or more, When the girl burst through the colonel’s door, Her poor arm helpless, hanging with pain, And she all drabbled and drenched with rain, But her cheeks as red as fire-brands are, And her eyes as bright as a blazing star, And shouted, “Quick! be quick, I say! They come! they come! Away! away!” Then sank on the rude white floor of deal, Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie McNeal.

The startled colonel sprang, and pressed His wife and children to his breast, And turned away from his fireside bright; And glided into the stormy night; Then soon and safely made his way To where the patriot army lay. But first he bent, in the dim firelight, And kissed the forehead broad and white, And blessed the girl who had ridden so well To keep him out of a prison-cell. The girl roused up at the martial din, Just as the troopers came rushing in, And laughed, e’en in the midst of a moan, Saying, “Good sirs, your bird has flown. ’Tis I who have scared him from his nest; So deal with me now as you think best.” But the grand captain bowed, and said, “Never you hold a moment’s dread. Of womankind I must crown you queen; So brave a girl I have never seen. Wear this gold ring as your valor’s due; And when peace comes I will come for you.” But Jennie’s face an arch smile wore, As she said, “There’s a lad in Putnam’s Corps, Who told me the same, long time ago; You two would never agree, I know. I promised my love to be true as steel,” Said good, sure-hearted Jennie McNeal.

—From “Centennial Rhymes.”

CHRISTMAS AT SEA

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand; The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand; The wind was a nor’wester, blowing squally off the sea; And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day; But ’twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay. We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout, And we gave her the maintops’l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North; All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth; All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread, For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared; But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard: So’s we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high, And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam; The good red fires were burning bright in every ’longshore home; The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out; And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer; For it’s just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year) This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn, And the house above the coastguard’s was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, My mother’s silver spectacles, my father’s silver hair; And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves, Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me, Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea; And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way, To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall. “All hands to loose topgallant sails,” I heard the captain call. “By the Lord, she’ll never stand it,” our first mate, Jackson, cried, ... “It’s the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson,” he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good, And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood. As the winter’s day was ending, in the entry of the night, We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me, As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea; But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold, Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

THE _REVENGE_

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a flutter’d bird, came flying from far away: “Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!” Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: “’Fore God I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?”

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: “I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I’ve ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.”

So Lord Howard pass’d away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumb-screw and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sailed away from Flores ’til the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. “Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die! There’ll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.” And Sir Richard said again: “We be all good Englishmen. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turn’d my back upon Don or devil yet.”

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh’d and we roar’d a hurrah, and so The little _Revenge_ ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little _Revenge_ ran on through the long sea-lane between.

Thousands of their soldiers look’d down from their decks and laugh’d. Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay’d By their mountain-like _San Philip_ that, of fifteen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stay’d.

And while now the great _San Philip_ hung above us like a cloud, Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

But anon the great _San Philip_, she bethought herself and went, Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, And a dozen times we shook ’em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land.

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and shame. For some were sunk and many were shatter’d, and so could fight us no more— God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

For he said, “Fight on! fight on!” Tho’ his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said, “Fight on! fight on!”

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they fear’d that we still could sting, So they watch’d what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight we were, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And the half of the rest of us maim’d for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride: “We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men! And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die—does it matter when? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!”

And the gunner said, “Ay, ay,” but the seamen made reply: “We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives, We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow.” And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: “I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do. With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!” And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, And they mann’d the _Revenge_ with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sailed with her loss and long’d for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruin’d awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter’d navy of Spain, And the little _Revenge_ herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main.

THE BALLAD OF THE EAST AND WEST

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth.

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side, And he has lifted the Colonel’s mare that is the Colonel’s pride. He has lifted her out of the stable door between the dawn and the day, And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. Then up and spoke the Colonel’s son that led a troop of the Guides: “Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?”

Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar: “If ye know the track of the morning mist, ye know where his pickets are. At dusk he harries the Abazai—at dawn he is into Bonair; But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare. So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, By the favor of God, ye may cut him off ere he win the tongue of Jagai. But if he be passed the tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then— For the length and breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal’s men. There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.”

The Colonel’s son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, With the mouth of a bell, and the heart of hell, and the head of a gallows-tree. The Colonel’s son to the Fort has won; they bid him stay to eat— Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. He’s up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, Till he was aware of his father’s mare, with Kamal upon her back, And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. “Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said. “Show now if ye can ride.”

It’s up and over the tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go— The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. The dun he leaned against the bit, and slugged his head above, But the red mare played with the snaffle bars like a maiden plays with her love. There was rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick, though never a man was seen.

They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn— The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new roused fawn. The dun he fell at a water-course—in a woeful heap fell he, And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.

He has knocked the pistol out of his hand—small room was there to strive— “’Twas only by favor of mine,” quoth he, “ye rode so long alive: There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. If I had raised my bridle-hand as I have carried it low, The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row: If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.”

Lightly answered the Colonel’s son: “Do good to bird and beast, But count who comes for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, Belike the price of a jackal’s meal were more than a thief could pay. They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain; The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. But if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, Give me my father’s mare again, and I’ll fight my own way back!” Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. “No talk shall be of dogs,” said he, “when wolf and gray wolf meet. May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?”

Lightly answered the Colonel’s son: “I hold by the blood of my clan: Take up the mare for my father’s gift—by God she has carried a man!” The red mare ran to the Colonel’s son, and nuzzled against his breast. “We be two strong men,” said Kamal then, “but she loveth the younger best. So shall she go with a lifter’s dower, my turquoise-studded rein, My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.” The Colonel’s son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end. “Ye have taken the one from a foe,” said he; “will ye take the mate from a friend?” “A gift for a gift,” said Kamal straight; “a limb for the risk of a limb. Thy father hath sent his son to me—I’ll send my son to him!” With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain crest— He trod the links like a buck in Spring, and he looked a lance in rest.

“Now here is thy master,” Kamal said, “who leads a troop of the Guides, And thou must ride at his left side, as shield on shoulder rides. Till death or I cut loose the tie at camp, and board and bed, Thy life is his—thy fate to guard him with thy head. So thou must eat the White Queen’s meat, and all her foes are thine, And thou must harry thy father’s hold for the peace at the Borderline; And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power— Belike they will raise thee to Rassaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.”

They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault; They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod. On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the wond’rous Names of God. The Colonel’s son he rides the mare, and Kamal’s boy the dun, And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. And when they drew to the quarter-guard, full twenty swords flew clear— There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. “Ha’ done! ha’ done!” said the Colonel’s son. “Put up the steel at your sides! Last night ye had struck at a Border thief—to-night ’tis a man of the Guides.”

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the Earth.

THE BRAVEST BATTLE

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

The bravest battle that ever was fought; Shall I tell you where and when? On the maps of the world you will find it not; It was fought by the mothers of men.

Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, With sword or nobler pen; Nay, not with eloquent word or thought, From mouths of wonderful men,

But deep in a walled-up woman’s heart— Of woman that would not yield, But patiently, silently bore her part— Lo! there in that battlefield.

No marshaling troop, no bivouac song; No banner to gleam and wave; And oh! these battles they last so long— From babyhood to the grave!

Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars, She fights in her walled-up town— Fights on and on in the endless wars, Then silent, unseen—goes down.

O ye with banners and battle shot And soldiers to shout and praise, I tell you the kingliest victories fought Are fought in these silent ways.

O spotless woman in a world of shame! With splendid and silent scorn, Go back to God as white as you came, The kingliest warrior born.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT

[IN SPRINGFIELD, ILL.]

BY NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY

It is portentous, and a thing of state That here at midnight, in our little town A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, Near the old courthouse pacing up and down.

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play, Or through the market, on the well-worn stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high-top hat and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie lawyer, master of us all.

He can not sleep upon his hillside now, He is among us—as in times before! And we who toss and lie awake for long Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings, Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? Too many peasants fight, they know not why, Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart, He sees the dreadnoughts scouring every main. He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He can not rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come—the shining hope of Europe free; The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth, Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, That all his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace That he may sleep upon his hill again?

CORONATION

BY HELEN HUNT JACKSON

At the king’s gate the subtle noon Wove filmy yellow nets of sun; Into the drowsy snare too soon The guards fell one by one.

Through the king’s gate unquestioned then, A beggar went, and laughed, “This brings Me chance, at last, to see if men Fare better, being kings.”

The king sat bowed beneath his crown, Propping his face with listless hand; Watching the hour glass sifting down Too slow its shining sand.

“Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?” The beggar turned, and pitying, Replied, like one in dream, “Of thee, Nothing. I want the king.”

Up rose the king, and from his head Shook off the crown, and threw it by. “O man, thou must have known,” he said, “A greater king than I.”

Through all the gates, unquestioned then, Went king and beggar hand in hand. Whispered the king, “Shall I know when Before his throne I stand?”

The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste Were wiping from the king’s hot brow The crimson lines the crown had traced. “This is his presence now.”

At the king’s gate, the crafty noon Unwove its yellow nets of sun; Out of their sleep in terror soon The guards waked one by one.

“Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen The king?” The cry ran to and fro; Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, The laugh that free men know.

On the king’s gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They called him dead; And made his eldest son one day Slave in his father’s stead.

—Copyright by _Little, Brown & Co._, Boston, Mass., and used by kind permission.

A PRAYER IN KHAKI

BY ROBERT GARLAND

O Lord, my God, accept my prayer of thanks That Thou hast placed me humbly in the ranks Where I can do my part, all unafraid— A simple soldier in Thy great crusade.

I pray thee, Lord, let others take command; Enough for me, a rifle in my hand; Thy blood-red banner ever leading me Where I can fight for liberty and Thee.

Give others, God, the glory; mine the right To stand beside my comrades in the fight, To die, if need be, in some foreign land— Absolved and solaced by a soldier’s hand.

O Lord, my God, pray harken to my prayer And keep me ever humble, keep me where The fight is thickest, where, ’midst steel and flame Thy sons give battle, calling on Thy name.

—From the _Outlook_.

THE YANKEE MAN OF WAR

ANONYMOUS

’Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars, And the whistling wind from the west-nor’-west blew through the pitch-pine spars; With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale; On an autumn night we raised the light on the old Head of Kinsale.

It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew, steady and strong, As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along; With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread, And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.

There was no talk of short’ning sail by him who walked the poop, And under the press of her pond’ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop! And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack, But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silvery track.

The mid-tide meets in the Channel waves that flow from shore to shore, And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore, And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each hour, And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench’d on Waterford Tower.

What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze? ’Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees, For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.

Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past— “Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your topsail to the mast!” Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark.

“Out booms! out booms!” our skipper cried, “out booms and give her sheet,” And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British fleet, And amidst a thundering shower of shot, with stun’sails hoisting away, Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day.

WARREN’S ADDRESS

BY JOHN PIERPONT

Stand! The ground’s your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What’s the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it—ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you!—they’re afire! And, before you, see Who have done it! From the vale On they come!—and will ye quail? Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust! Die we may—and die we must; But, oh, where can dust to dust Be consign’d so well As where heaven its dews shall shed On the martyr’d patriot’s bed, And the rocks shall raise their head Of his deeds to tell?

THE FLAG GOES BY

BY HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT

Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, A flash of color beneath the sky: Hats off! The flag is passing by!

Blue and crimson and white it shines, Over the steel-tipped ordered lines. Hats off! The colors before us fly; But more than the flag is passing by:

Sea fights and land fights, grim and great, Fought to make and to save the state; Weary marches and sinking ships; Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Days of plenty and years of peace; March of a strong land’s swift increase; Equal justice, right and law, Stately honor and reverend awe;

Sign of a nation, great and strong, To ward her people from foreign wrong; Pride and glory and honor—all Live in the colors to stand or fall.

Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; And loyal hearts are beating high: Hats off! The flag is passing by!

“HE LIFTETH THEM ALL TO HIS LAP”

BY ROBERT MCINTYRE

Dago and Sheeny and Chink, Greaser and Nigger and Jap. The Devil invented these terms, I think, To hurl at each hopeful chap Who comes so far o’er the foam To this land of his heart’s desire, To rear his brood, to build his home, And to kindle his hearthstone fire. While the eyes with joy are blurred, Lo! we make the strong man shrink And stab the soul with the hateful word— Dago and Sheeny and Chink.

Dago and Sheeny and Chink, These are the vipers that swarm Up from the edge of Perdition’s brink To hurt, and dishearten, and harm. O shame! when their Roman forbears walked Where the first of the Cæsars trod. O shame; where their Hebrew fathers talked With Moses and he with God. These swarthy sons of Life’s sweet drink To the thirsty world, which now gives them Dago and Sheeny and Chink.

Dago and Sheeny and Chink, Greaser and Nigger and Jap. From none of them doth Jehovah shrink; He lifteth them all to His lap; And the Christ, in His kingly grace, When their sad, low sob he hears Puts His tender embrace around our race As He kisses away its tears, Saying, “O least of these, I link Thee to Me for whatever mayhap:” Dago and Sheeny and Chink, Greaser and Nigger and Jap.

UNDER THE TAN

BY LEWIS WORTHINGTON SMITH

Italians, Magyars, aliens all— Human under the tan— Eyes that can smile when their fellows call, A spike-driver each, but a man. Rumble and roar! On the tracks they lay, We ride in our parlor car. Spades on their shoulders, they give us way, Lords of the near and the far.

Polack and Slav and dark-browed Greek— Human under the tan— Up go their hands, and their faces speak, Saluting us, man and man. Cushioned seats and our souls at ease, Dainty in food and fare, We are the masters their toil must please, Or face gaunt-cheeked despair.

Russian and Irishman, Croat and Swede— Human under the tan— Giving us homage while making us speed, As only the generous can. Riding and riding, hats in our hands, Something warm in the eye. Fellows, in spite of your skins and lands, We greet you, rushing by.

—In the _New York Evening Post_.

MY LOST YOUTH

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thundered o’er the tide! And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil bay, Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering’s Woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighborhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the school-boy’s brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

SUBLIME SELECTIONS IN POETRY

SONG OF THE MYSTIC

BY ABRAM J. RYAN

I walk down the Valley of Silence— Down the dim, voiceless valley—alone! And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me, save God’s and my own; And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels have flown!

Long ago was I weary of voices Whose music my heart could not win; Long ago was I weary of noises That fretted my soul with their din; Long ago was I weary of places Where I met but the human—and sin.

I walked in the world with the worldly; I craved what the world never gave; And I said: “In the world each Ideal, That shines like a star on life’s wave, Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, And sleeps like a dream in a grave.”

And still did I pine for the Perfect, And still found the False with the True; I sought ’mid the Human for Heaven, But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue: And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal Veiled even that glimpse from my view.

And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human, And I moaned ’mid the mazes of men, Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar And I heard a voice call me. Since then I walk down the Valley of Silence That lies far beyond mortal ken.

Do you ask what I found in the Valley? ’Tis my Trysting-Place with the Divine. And I fell at the feet of the Holy, And above me a voice said: “Be mine.” And there rose from the depths of my spirit An echo—“My heart shall be thine.”

Do you ask how I live in the Valley? I weep—and I dream—and I pray. But my tears are as sweet as the dew-drops That fall on the roses in May; And my prayer, like a perfume from Censers, Ascendeth to God night and day.

In the hush of the Valley of Silence I dream all the songs that I sing; And the music floats down the dim Valley, Till each finds a word for a wing, That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, A message of Peace they may bring.

But far on the deep there are billows That never shall break on the beach; And I have heard songs in the Silence That never shall float into speech; And I have had dreams in the Valley Too lofty for language to reach.

And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley— Ah me! how my spirit was stirred! And they wear holy veils on their faces, Their footsteps can scarcely be heard; They pass through the Valley like Virgins, Too pure for the touch of a word!

Do you ask me the place of the Valley, Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care? It lieth afar between mountains, And God and His angels are there: And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, And one the bright mountain of Prayer.

THE SEA

BY BARRY CORNWALL

The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth’s wide regions round; It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, Or like a cradled creature lies.

I’m on the sea, I’m on the sea, I am where I would ever be, With the blue above and the blue below, And silence wheresoe’er I go. If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh! how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, Where every mad wave drowns the moon, And whistles aloft its tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the southwest wind doth blow!

I never was on the dull, tame shore But I loved the great sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh her mother’s nest,— And a mother she was and is to me, For I was born on the open sea.

The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born; The whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild, As welcomed to life the ocean child.

I have lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a rover’s life, With wealth to spend, and a power to range, But never have sought or sighed for change, And death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wide, unbounded sea!

THE GREAT ADVANCE

BY THOMAS WALSH

In my heart is the sound of drums And the sweep of the bugles calling; The day of the Great Adventure comes, And the tramp of feet is falling, falling, Ominous falling, everywhere, By street and lane, by field and square— To answer the Voice appealing!

One by one they have put down The tool, the pen, and the racquet; One by one they have donned the brown And the blue, the knapsack and jacket; With a smile for the friend of a happier day, With a kiss for the love that would bid them stay— They are off by the train and packet.

What fate, what star, what sun, what field, What sea shall know their daring? Shall the battle reek or the dead calm yield Their wreaths that are preparing? Shall they merely stand and wait the call? Shall they hear it, rush and slay and fall?— What matter?—their swords are baring!

We stand in the crowds that see them go— We who are old and weak, unready; We see the red blood destined to flow Flushing their cheeks, as with footstep steady With a tramp and a tramp, they file along, Our brave, our true, our young, our strong— And the fever burns us fierce and heady.

With God, then forth, by sea and land, To your Adventure beyond story, No Argonaut, no Crusader band Ere passed with such exceeding glory! Though ye seek fields both strange and far, Ye are at home where heroes are! Such is the prayer we send your star— We who are weak and old and hoary.

WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME

BY INA COOLBRITH

When the grass shall cover me, Head to foot where I am lying,— When not any wind that blows, Summer-blooms nor winter-snows, Shall awake me to your sighing: Close above me as you pass, You will say, “How kind she was,” You will say, “How true she was,” When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me, Holden close to earth’s warm bosom,— While I laugh, or weep, or sing, Nevermore for anything, You will find in blade and blossom, Sweet small voices, odorous, Tender pleaders in my cause, That shall speak me as I was— When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me! Ah, beloved, in my sorrow Very patient, I can wait, Knowing that, or soon or late, There will dawn a clearer morrow: When your heart will moan: “Alas! Now I know how true she was; Now I know how dear she was”— When the grass grows over me!

—Copyright by _Houghton, Mifflin & Co._, Boston, Mass., and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

RIGHTEOUS WRATH

BY HENRY VAN DYKE

There are many kinds of hate, as many kinds of fire; And some are fierce and fatal with murderous desire; And some are mean and craven, revengeful, selfish, slow, They hurt the man that holds them more than they hurt his foe.

And yet there is a hatred that purifies the heart. The anger of the better against the baser part, Against the false and wicked, against the tyrant’s sword, Against the enemies of love, and all that hate the Lord.

O cleansing indignation, O flame of righteous wrath, Give me a soul to see thee and follow in thy path! Save me from selfish virtue, arm me for fearless fight, And give me strength to carry on, a soldier of the Right!

—_Outlook._

APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN

BY LORD BYRON

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin,—his control Stops with the shore: upon the watery plain, The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin’d, and unknown.

TO THE SIERRAS

BY J. J. OWEN

Ye snow-capped mountains, basking in the sun, Like fleecy clouds that deck the summer skies, On you I gaze, when day’s dull task is done, Till night shuts out your glories from my eyes.

For stormy turmoil, and ambition’s strife, I find in you a solace and a balm,— Derive a higher purpose, truer life, From your pale splendor, passionless and calm.

Mellowed by distance, all your rugged cliffs, And deep ravines, in graceful outlines lie; Each giant form in silent grandeur lifts Its hoary summit to the evening sky.

I reck not of the wealth untold, concealed Beneath your glorious coronal of snows, Whose budding treasure yet but scarce revealed, Shall blossom into trade—a golden rose.

A mighty realm is waking at your feet To life and beauty, from the lap of Time, With cities vast, where millions yet shall meet, And Peace shall reign in majesty sublime.

Rock-ribbed Sierras, with your crests of snow, A type of manhood, ever strong and true, Whose heart with golden wealth should ever glow, Whose thoughts in purity should symbol you.

SUNSET

BY INA COOLBRITH

Along yon purple rim of hills, How bright the sunset glory lies! Its radiance spans the western skies, And all the slumbrous valley fills:

Broad shafts of lurid crimson, blent With lustrous pearl in massed white; And one great spear of amber light That flames o’er half the firmament!

Vague, murmurous sounds the breezes bear; A thousand subtle breaths of balm, From some far isle of tropic calm, Are borne upon the tranced air.

And, muffling all its giant-roar, The restless waste of waters, rolled To one broad sea of liquid gold, Goes singing up the shining shore!

SOMETHING TO LOVE

BY WILLIAM BANSMAN

There are beautiful thoughts in the day-dreams of life, When youth and ambition join hands for the strife; There are joys for the gay, which come crowding apace, And hang out the rainbow of hope for the race; There are prizes to gain, which ascend as we climb, But the struggle to win them makes effort sublime. Each cloud that arises has fingers of gold, Inviting the timid and nerving the bold; Each sorrow is tempered with something of sweet, And the crag, while it frowns, shows a niche for the feet. There are charms in the verdure which nature has spread, And the sky shows a glory of stars overhead, And the zephyrs of summer have voices to woo, As well as to bear the perfumes from the dew; There are gushes of transport in dreams of the night, When memory garners its thoughts of delight, And the soul seeks its kindred, and noiselessly speaks, In the smiles and the blushes of health-blooming cheeks. There are rapturous melodies filling the heart, With emotions which nothing beside could impart; And yet, though this cumulous picture may show The brightest of joys which ambition would know— Though the heaven it opens is one of surprise, All gorgeous with hope, and prismatic with dyes, Satiety follows these transports of bliss, And the heart asks a lodgment more real than this; Like the dove, it will wander, and still, like the dove, Come back, till it rests upon something to love.

OUT IN THE FIELDS WITH GOD

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play, Among the lowing of the herds, The rustling of the trees, Among the singing of the birds, The humming of the bees. The foolish fears of what may happen, I cast them all away Among the clover-scented grass, Among the new-mown hay, Among the husking of the corn Where drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born, Out in the fields with God.

BROTHERHOOD

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

The crest and crowning of all good, Life’s final star, is Brotherhood; For it will bring again to Earth Her long-lost Poesy and Mirth; Will send new light on every face, A kingly power upon the race. And till it come, we men are slaves, And travel downward to the dust of graves.

Come, clear the way, then, clear the way: Blind creeds and kings have had their day. Break the dead branches from the path: Our hope is in the aftermath— Our hope is in heroic men, Star-led to build the world again. To this Event the ages ran: Make way for Brotherhood—make way for Man.

—Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

MORNING

BY EDWARD ROWLAND SILL

I entered once, at break of day, A chapel, lichen-stained and gray, Where a congregation dozed and heard An old monk read from a written Word. No light through the window-panes could pass, For shutters were closed on the rich stained glass, And in a gloom like the nether night, The monk read on by a taper’s light, Ghostly with shadows that shrunk and grew As the dim light flared on aisle and pew; And the congregation that dozed around Listened without a stir or sound— Save one, who rose with wistful face, And shifted a shutter from its place. Then light flashed in like a flashing gem— For dawn had come unknown to them— And a slender beam, like a lance of gold, Shot to the crimson curtain-fold, Over the bended head of him Who pored and pored by the taper dim; And I wondered that, under the morning ray, When night and shadow were scattered away, The monk should bow his locks of white By a taper’s feebly flickering light— Should pore and pore, and never seem To notice the golden morning beam.

THE PETRIFIED FERN

ANONYMOUS

In a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender, Veining delicate and fibers tender; Waving when the wind crept down so low. Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew ’round it, Playful sunbeams darted in and found it, Drops of dew stole in by night, and crown’d it; But no foot of man e’er trod that way; Earth was young and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main, Stately forests waved their giant branches, Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches, Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain; Nature reveled in grand mysteries: But the little fern was not of these, Did not number with the hills and trees; Only grew and waved its wild sweet way, None ever came to note it day by day.

Earth one time put on a frolic mood, Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean, Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood, Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay,— Covered it, and hid it safe away. Oh, the long, long centuries since that day! Oh, the agony! Oh, life’s bitter cost, Since that useless little fern was lost!

Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man, Searching Nature’s secrets, far and deep; From a fissure in a rocky steep He withdrew a stone, o’er which there ran Fairy pencilings, a quaint design, Veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine! So, I think God hides some souls away, Sweetly to surprise us, the last day.

SLEEP

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Among the Psalmist’s music deep, Now tell me if that any is For gift or grace surpassing this,— “He giveth his beloved sleep”?

What would we give to our beloved? The hero’s heart, to be unmoved,— The poet’s star-tuned harp, to sweep,— The patriot’s voice, to teach and rouse,— The monarch’s crown, to light the brows? “He giveth his beloved sleep.”

What do we give to our beloved? A little faith, all undisproved,— A little dust to over weep,— And bitter memories, to make The whole earth blasted for our sake, “He giveth his beloved sleep.”

“Sleep soft, beloved!” we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep; But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when “He giveth his beloved sleep.”

O earth so full of dreary noises! O men with wailing in your voices! O delved gold the wailers heap! O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall! God strikes a silence through you all, And “giveth his beloved sleep.”

His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap; More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated over head, “He giveth his beloved sleep.”

For me, my heart, that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would child-like on His love repose Who “giveth his beloved sleep.”

LABOR

BY FRANK SOULE

Despise not labor! God did not despise The handicraft which wrought this gorgeous globe, That crowned its glories with yon jeweled skies, And clad the earth in nature’s queenly robe. He dug the first canal—the river’s bed, Built the first fountain in the gushing spring, Wove the first carpet for man’s haughty tread, The warp and woof of his first covering. He made the pictures painters imitate, The statuary’s first grand model made, Taught human intellect to re-create, And human ingenuity its trade. Ere great Daguerre had harnessed up the sun, Apprenticeship at his new art to serve, A greater artist greater things had done, The wondrous pictures of the optic nerve. There is no deed of honest labor born That is not Godlike; in the toiling limbs Howe’er the lazy scoff, the brainless scorn, God labored first; toil likens us to Him. Ashamed of work! mechanic, with thy tools, The tree thy ax cut from its native sod, And turns to useful things—go tell to fools, Was fashioned in the factory of God. Go build your ships, go build your lofty dome, Your granite temple, that through time endures, Your humble cot, or that proud pile of Rome, His arm has toiled there in advance of yours. He made the flowers your learned florists scan, And crystallized the atoms of each gem, Ennobled labor in great nature’s plan, And made it virtue’s brightest diadem. Whatever thing is worthy to be had, Is worthy of the toil by which ’tis won, Just as the grain by which the field is clad Pays back the warming labor of the sun. ’Tis not profession that ennobles men, ’Tis not the calling that can e’er degrade, The trowel is as worthy as the pen, The pen more mighty than the hero’s blade. The merchant, with his ledger and his wares, The lawyer with his cases and his books, The toiling farmer, with his wheat and tares, The poet by the shaded streams and nooks, The man, whate’er his work, wherever done, If intellect and honor guide his hand, Is peer to him who greatest state has won, And rich as any Rothschild of the land. All mere distinctions based upon pretense, Are merely laughing themes for manly hearts. The miner’s cradle claims from men of sense More honor than the youngling Bonaparte’s. Let fops and fools the sons of toil deride, On false pretensions brainless dunces live; Let carpet heroes strut with parlor pride, Supreme in all that indolence can give, But be not like them, and pray envy not These fancy tom-tit burlesques of mankind, The witless snobs in idleness who rot, Hermaphrodite ’twixt vanity and mind. O son of toil, be proud, look up, arise, And disregard opinion’s hollow test, A false society’s decrees despise, He is most worthy who has labored best. The scepter is less royal than the hoe, The sword, beneath whose rule whole nations writhe, And curse the wearer, while they fear the blow, Is far less noble than the plow and scythe. There’s more true honor on one tan-browned hand, Rough with the honest work of busy men, Than all the soft-skinned punies of the land, The nice, white-kiddery of upper ten. Blow bright the forge—the sturdy anvil ring, It sings the anthem of king Labor’s courts, And sweeter sounds the clattering hammers bring, Than half a thousand thumped piano-fortes. Fair are the ribbons from the rabbet-plane, As those which grace my lady’s hat or cape, Nor does the joiner’s honor blush or wane Beside the lawyer, with his brief and tape. Pride thee, mechanic, on thine honest trade, ’Tis nobler than the snob’s much vaunted pelf. Man’s soulless pride his test of worth has made, But thine is based on that of God himself.

LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour, Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She bent the strenuous Heavens and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need. She took the tried clay of the common road— Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. It was a stuff to wear for centuries, A man that matched the mountains, and compelled The stars to look our way and honor us.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The tang and odor of the primal things— The rectitude and patience of the rocks; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The loving-kindness of the wayside well; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking weed As to the great oak flaring to the wind— To the grave’s low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky.

And so he came. From prairie cabin up to Capitol, One fair Ideal led our chieftain on. Forevermore he burned to do his deed With the fine stroke and gesture of a king. He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, The conscience of him testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man. So came the Captain with the mighty heart: And when the step of Earthquake shook the house, Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold, He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again The rafters of the Home. He held his place— Held the long purpose like a growing tree— Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a kingly cedar green with boughs Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

—Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

HONEST POVERTY

BY ROBERT BURNS

Is there for honest poverty That hings his head, an’ a’ that? The coward slave, we pass him by— We dare be poor for a’ that, The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowd for a’ that.

What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoodin’ gray, an’ a’ that? Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine— A man’s a man for a’ that. For a’ that, an’ a’ that, Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that, The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor, Is king o’ men for a’ that.

Ye see yon birkie ca’d a lord, Wha’ struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that? Tho’ hundreds worship at his word, He’s but a cuif for a’ that. For a’ that, an’ a’ that, His riband, star an’ a’ that, The man of independent mind, He looks an’ laughs at a’ that.

A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that! But an honest man’s aboon his might— Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that, Their dignities, an’ a’ that, The pith o’ sense an’ pride o’ worth Are higher rank than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may (As come it will for a’ that) That sense and worth o’er a’ the earth Shall bear the gree an’ a’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that, It’s comin’ yet for a’ that, That man to man the world o’er Shall brithers be for a’ that.

AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

BY ROBERT BROWNING

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck outthrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow, Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, “My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,”— Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse’s mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect— (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two.

“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s grace We’ve got you Ratisbon! The marshal’s in the market-place, And you’ll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart’s desire, Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.

The chief’s eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle’s eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; “You’re wounded!” “Nay,” his soldier’s pride Touched to the quick, he said: “I’m killed, sire!” And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.

THE FOOL’S PRAYER

BY EDWARD ROLAND SILL

The royal feast was done. The King Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”

He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch’s silken stool; His pleading voice arose: “O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!

“No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool; The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!

“’Tis not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; ’Tis by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away.

“These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands are thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend.

“The ill-timed truth we might have kept— Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say— Who knows how grandly it had rung?

“Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders—oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!”

The room was hushed; in silence rose The King, and sought his gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, “Be merciful to me, a fool!”

IKE WALTON’S PRAYER

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

I crave, dear Lord, No boundless hoard Of gold and gear, Nor jewels fine, No lands, nor kine, Nor treasure-heaps of anything.— Let but a little hut be mine Where at the hearthstone I may hear The cricket sing, And have the shine Of one glad woman’s eyes to make, For my poor sake, Our simple home a place divine;— Just the wee cot—the cricket’s chirr— Love, and the smiling face of her.

I pray not for Great riches, nor For vast estates, and castle-halls,— Give me to hear the bare foot-falls Of children o’er An oaken floor, New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread With but the tiny coverlet And pillow for the baby’s head; And pray Thou, may The door stand open and the day Send ever in a gentle breeze, With fragrance from the locust-trees, And drowsy moan of doves, and blur Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees, With after hushes of the stir Of intermingling sounds, and then The good-wife and the smile of her Filling the silences again— The cricket’s call, And the wee cot, Dear Lord of all, Deny me not!

I pray not that Men tremble at My power of place, And lordly sway,— I only pray for simple grace To look my neighbor in the face Full honestly from day to day— Yield me his horny palm to hold, And I’ll not pray For gold;— The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, It hath the kingliest smile on earth— The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, Hath never need of coronet. And so I reach, Dear Lord, to Thee, And do beseech Thou givest me The wee cot, and the cricket’s chirr, Love, and the glad sweet face of her.

THE LAST TATTOO

(DEDICATED TO THE REMAINING MEMBERS OF THE G. A. R.)

BY JOHN MILTON SCOTT

Blow soft and low, O fife, to-day, For thinner grow our ranks of blue; The years our priceless heroes slay Until the fewer grow more few And dear familiar voices still As patriot graves with patriots fill.

Beat soft and low, O drum, to-day As tho’ you were a trembling sigh; Dear, paling lips their last prayer say While more and more dear comrades die, Their feet across the dark door’s sill As patriot graves with patriots fill.

Float gently, flag, and droop to-day As droop the grasses o’er the brook; They few and fewer grow each May; For those we love we vainly look, So many sunny smiles grow chill As patriot graves with patriots fill.

O hush, exultant sounds, to-day! For they are gone, these ranks on ranks Who loved to hear the shrill fife play And with their comrades render thanks,— O Time, how many brave you kill And patriot graves with patriots fill!

O, silken every sound to-day And soften every bugle brave! We can not bid our vision stay From seeing our last comrade’s grave,— O dear, last-billowed comrade hill! Lone, last of graves our patriots fill!

O angel choir, wing low that day And silken sing a Bethlehem strain And all your pipes of welcome play! Altho’ their brothers they have slain, In brother love their hands grow white, For what they did they thought was right.

Not into graves, but into skies, Where love and life eternal are! God’s reveille has bid them rise Beyond earth’s sun and morning star Where all men just love-brothers be As One once said in Galilee.

LYRIC SELECTIONS IN POETRY

L’ENVOI

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

When Earth’s last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dry, When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died, We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an æon or two, Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew!

And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair; They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet’s hair; They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene, Peter, and Paul; They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame, But each for the joy of working, and each, in his separate star, Shall draw the thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are!

OUR FLAG

BY JOHN MILTON SCOTT

(_Written expressly for this work_)

’Tis homes make a country and children make homes Where the heart is held true and the truth never roams, Where joy is abounding and life overflows, And love is the rapture which every one knows, Where the pride of all hearts is the boy at his play, His eyes like the sun overshining the day, His cheeks like the roses his grandmother grew, Shot through with a dimple the size of a dew Which gives to his smile irresistible grace As his sister looks down in his uplifted face; In such bright-shining faces our true eyes may see The love which shall honor our Flag of the Free.

Whatever they say, however they brag, ’Tis these put the red in our flag, Not our patriot deaths, Not our gold nor our lands, Not our fifes nor our drums, Not our captains’ commands; But the homes and the children, Our country’s true worth, The grace and the greatness, The glory of earth,— The children, the children, Light-hearted and free Who play in the sunshine And pray at our knee,— O ’tis homes and the children Where joys never lag,— ’Tis these keep the red in our flag, Our flag of the red, white and blue To which home-hearts and child-hearts are true.

’Tis the mothers of men who give us our lives, Who give us our children, who give us our wives,— O ’tis woman’s great heart which hallows and trues And makes the straight line to which our ax hews; ’Tis our wives and our daughters who keep our feet straight In the paths where God’s honor and man’s honor mate; Where woman is honored as mother and wife The war drum throbs never nor screams the shrill fife; There freedom and justice with honor and truth Keep our nation alive in the vigor of youth,— There smile the bright heavens which never wax old, And there a free flag will forever unfold.

Whatever they say, however they brag, ’Tis these put the white in our flag. Not our patriot deaths, Not our gold nor our lands, Not our fifes nor our drums, Not our captains’ commands; But the women, the women, Our country’s true worth, The grace and the greatness, The glory of earth,— The women, the women With hands free to do Will build a great state As tender, as true,— O the free hearts of women, Unchoked by hate’s slag, ’Tis these keep the white in our flag, Our flag of the red, white and blue To which our love-honor is true.

’Tis city and country where good neighbors live And their love and their labors so joyously give, That bodies be clothed and hungers be fed, That with love in our heart and truth in our head, Great thoughts and great dreams together we share As we meet at the market or kneel at our prayer; When our feet at one fireside make mellow our speech As together we plan our ideals to reach, What visions together we wisely may find To make our earth friendlier, truer, more kind, That our flag tell the beauty of man to the world Wherever in freedom and justice unfurled.

Whatever they say, however they brag, ’Tis these put the blue in our flag,— Not our patriot deaths, Not our gold nor our lands, Not our fifes nor our drums, Not our captains’ commands; But our neighbors, good neighbors, Our country’s true worth, The grace and the greatness, The glory of earth,— Our neighbors, good neighbors, Without hurt or hate, Whose love and whose labors Have builded our state,— O, ’tis neighbors, good neighbors Whose hearts never sag,— ’Tis these keep the blue in our flag, Our flag of the red, white and blue Which good neighbors ever renew.

“Where the vision is not the people will die,” Said the word of truth sounding God’s voice from the sky; As trees draw their vigor from the sun-quickened air, That they grow globing fruits which make the year fair, So the dreams and the visions of young men and maids Show heavens of glory through which our flag wades Where dreams come awake and visions fulfill In a world that’s so human no hatreds can kill,— There the noble ideal forever leads on; There are stars for our nights and suns for our dawn, The dreamers and lovers by God justified In a love-world Christ visioned and for which He died.

Whatever they say, however they brag, ’Tis these put the stars in our flag; Not our patriot deaths, Not our gold nor our lands, Not our fifes nor our drums, Not our captains’ commands; But our visions and dreams, Our country’s true worth, The grace and the greatness, The glory of earth,— The dreamers, the dreamers, Love-visioned by God, Bring the stars to our earth, To the stars lift our sod; ’Tis the visions and dreams, Scaling mountain and crag,— ’Tis these keep the stars in our flag, Our flag of the red, white and blue Which from dream hearts unfolded and flew.

Without a free earth there’s no sky for our flag, And vainly of rights and of freedom we brag; There Tyranny still is exploiting its slaves, And we buy rights to live, and, then, buy our graves; Such flag of the free our poverty mocks As the ways of progression the privileged Greed blocks; But free land and free men make our flag’s holy sky, And our winds never weary with Poverty’s cry. Here man to his fellow is never for sale, And free men to free men give good neighbor hail, In whose cheery words we ever shall hear The flap of our flag and our patriots’ cheer.

Whatever they say, however they brag, ’Tis these make a sky for our flag. Not our patriot deaths, Not our gold nor our lands, Not our fifes nor our drums, Not our captains’ commands; But free land and free men, Our country’s true worth, The grace and the greatness, The glory of earth,— The freemen, the freemen With brothering palms Who love one another And praise God in psalms,— O ’tis free land and free men, And no poverty’s rag,— ’Tis these make a sky for our flag, Our flag of the red, white and blue To which freemen forever are true.

THANKS FOR AMERICA AND ITS FLAG!

BY JOHN MILTON SCOTT

Dear God, whose Heart is Freedom’s home, Whose joy is that Thine earth be free, We thank Thee for our native land And for its growing liberty; We praise Thee for its holy Flag By precious blood so consecrate, A banner born of patriot love And weaving in its folds no hate.

Its glory shines anear, afar On murk and midnight tyranny, A streak of Freedom’s blessed dawn Which tyrant-hating eyes do see, And, taking heart, they braver toil Their country’s liberties to gain, Till some bright day no land is found But sings great Freedom’s glad refrain.

Our banner’s red speaks patriots’ blood, Its white a noble faithfulness, Its blue of truth, and all its stars Are hopes for grander days to bless; For it, for all who made it great, The living ones or sacred dead, We thank Thee through our smiles and tears Who love its white and blue and red.

We’ll take it as their sacred trust, And, as they, keep it true and tried, To pass it stainless when we die, That all its love and truth abide. O may it deeper meanings gain Through all the changing, growing years, Fulfilling every liberty, The rainbow of each captive’s tears.

And may it brother other flags, Behold in each some human worth, Till peace divine whites each and all, A fellowship that fills our earth; O then no enemy is found Upon the wide world’s mother-breast, In every heart Christ-gentleness, And every flag with Christ-love blest.

THERE WAS A MAN

BY DAVID STARR JORDAN

There was a man who saw God face to face; His countenance and vestments evermore Glowed with a light that never shone before, Saving from him who saw God face to face. And men, anear him for a little space, Were sorely vexed at the unwonted light. Those whom the light did blind rose angrily; They bore his body to a mountain height And nailed it to a tree; then went their way, And he resisted not nor said them nay, Because that he had seen God face to face.

There was a man who saw Life face to face; And ever as he walked from day to day, The deathless mystery of being lay Plain as the path he trod in loneliness; And each deep-hid inscription could he trace; How men have fought and loved and fought again; How in lone darkness souls cried out for pain; How each green foot of sod from sea to sea Was red with blood of men slain wantonly; How tears of pity warm as summer rain Again and ever washed the stains away, Leaving to Love, at last, the victory. Above the strife and hate and fever pain, The squalid talk and walk of sordid men, He saw the vision changeless as the stars That shone through temple gates or prison bars, Or to the body nailed upon the tree, Through each mean action of the life that is, The marvel of the Life that yet shall be.

TO A MOCKING-BIRD IN CALIFORNIA

BY JOHN MILTON SCOTT

(_Written expressly for this Reader_)

“Gertie! Gertie! Gertie!” “Peter! Peter! Peter!” In the morn when wings are fleeter, In the noon when skies are bright You call these names in wild delight.

Who is this “Gertie,” who this “Peter” Who go rapturing through your meter?

Did you hear beneath your tree These names called in ecstasy, When your heart caught fire, and flames In love—calling these dear names?

Did Gertie’s heart go twitter, tweeter When she heard the call of Peter? Did Peter’s heart beat wild and hurty When he heard the call of Gertie? And who this “Gertie,” who this “Peter” Teaching you such silk-toned meter?

Mocking-birds have thuswise sang Since Time’s song of joy upsprang, And to each your lyric brought Something that his spirit sought; Some perfect which the heart still dreams, Though Sorrow’s sands fill all the streams, No waters in their olden place, Nor in your eyes the olden face; Nor in your ears that olden voice; Yet something makes us still rejoice And rapture dreams with mating birds As if our hearts filled with their words. “Gertie! Gertie! Gertie!” “Peter! Peter! Peter!” Who set the mock-bird’s throat to meter?

Maybe Eve called Adam so In dark days when shadowed woe; Thus called Adam in the dark When Eve’s heart in fear called “Hark!”

Or might it be in Abram’s time Love taught you this sweetheart rhyme,— Some trembling tones in Haran’s tongue Ere the world-famed march begun?

Or when Ruth gleaned th’ alien corn, Maybe, then, your song was born, ’Neath the whisp’ring palms one hour Where you refuged from a shower?

Or some youth in David’s band Taught your throat in Israel’s land,— Maybe David’s self, before His song-heart the king-cares wore, When his boy-heart whistled true As wildly free as now are you? His psalm of joy you often heard Which now you sing without his word? With his maiden, were you there When his first kiss was like a prayer?

You heard his son, the song-wise king, In heart-beat, song-beat rapturing So fine, his songs are scriptures now In which true lover hearts may bow, Learning how to rapture speech, That heart to heart through words may reach?

Maybe Greek, when Helen’s charm Made old Homer’s heroes arm? Or some dark-eyed odalisque When Egyptian lips were kist? Or did some Roman maiden sigh When Cæsar’s soldier said Good-by?

Spake some shepherd on that night Just before the Christmas light Burst upon the flocks so still, And the winds with angels fill,— Spake some shepherd in a tryst Just before he saw Babe-Christ?

Maybe she, the Magdalene, Ere the ways of shame were seen, Heard and said ’neath purpling vine These sweet, holy words of thine? Did she find, Christ-cleansed and pure, Him whose words were thy throat’s lure, And did they both together then Tell the Christ’s love for all men?

Or some Christian’s true heart-call Ere the martyr’s cup of gall Pressed the lips by love caressed Which unto death the Christ confessed?

Or later, with the centuries gone, Your song, in a Castilian dawn, Raptures to a red, red rose, And Columbus stronger grows For his journey far away Within his heart your brave, bright lay?

Wept black eyes in sun-bright Spain When dared his crew the unknown main? Those sorrow-tones you’re calling now, Your rippling wave-sounds from his prow; We almost hear the whistling sails In your wild song which never fails Of courage which can travel far To bring a joy back from a star, Or bring the moon’s remotest beam To build in joy a Jacob’s dream

O’er which the song-glad angels go To bring the smiles of heaven below, That hearts which pillow on hard stone May have a song for every moan.

Did they hear you in that breeze Blowing o’er uncharted seas, Remembering, then, the night-eyed maid In whose smile all fears were laid?

Perhaps your lure was on the wave, The first call that the New World gave, As Fate urged him on and on, Into that splendid glory drawn Wherein a New World was his gift In which our starry flag can lift, Proclaiming all men equal, free, A world of brothers,—yet to be?

O ’twere fine, if we but knew ’Twas your song hailed that brave crew,— Columbus’ ears enraptured by Your song-flights in this new sky, By your welcome to this shore Which welcomes exiles ever more,— All song-tongues your singings span, You a true American With welcome for all alien feet Who with Freedom here would meet.

Did doe-eyes in joyous France To such words in rapture dance, Giving that charmèd land its grace Where each face, a lover’s face, Sets the heart to music’s notes As they thrill from bird-sweet throats?

Did Lafayette from your free wings Catch the song which Freedom sings; As he hearkened to your cheer, Growing dearer and more dear, Till upon our country’s soil He nobly wrought in battle-toil, That our flag might float as free As your song-flights in his tree?

But my questions lose their way,— You sing what tender lovers say,— Not of wars and wars’ alarms, Yours the songs of woman’s charms, Your tones silk-fitting rosy lips From which the kissing lyric slips.

When he limped along the trail That his wild men might not fail Of the sacrament which saves And lights the shadowed way of graves Did the halt monk, thinking how His Saint Francis on the bough Gathered all the gracious birds, Preached to them the gospel’s words, Still his earnest heart to hear Your lover-calls sing out their cheer, And for one heart-beat clean forgot The Christ-fervor of his thought, Hearing words that thrilled his soul Ere he wore the hallowed stole, Among red roses there in Spain Where he’ll never walk again?

But these tongues you cannot speak, Hebrew, Latin, Spanish, Greek; ’Tis in Anglo-Saxon tongue Your name-calls are sweetly sung.

If from Saxon land you hail, Not the Mayflower was your sail; But some daring Cavalier Loved your song and brought you here,— Fervid, knightly, militant, Still his heart your raptures chant; And from his sorrows maybe came Your minors, wavering like flame Which marked the ashes that remain When wild men have burned and slain; In your tones the Southern tongue, Chivalry forever young, Love the only noble theme When we’re waking, when we dream?

But your secret still allures, Whence came those sweetheart names of yours?

You, the American of birds, You are singing English words; So where Shakespeare’s tongue we speak There your secret we must seek.

But your name? that tells it all; Changes to your tongue befall, And you can speak each language new Or sing the last light wind that blew; You hearken, and new gossipings Are music-scattered by your wings; You overhear and feel no shames; And call out loud the lovers’ names.

In some dear later days you heard This you sing in true love’s word.

I think that in our war’s some year Your throat was taught these words so dear; When Grant’s and Lee’s were names of dread, Where billowed fields with sweetheart dead.

Your “Peter! Peter,” there you learned As “Gertie! Gertie” to him yearned. It was a time when sorrow rent Full many a heart of sweet content.

’Twas beneath sweet Southern pines; They walked softly on the spines, While you, silent, on your nest Heard these names, and all the rest Which passioned from their lips that time You caught their name-calls in your rhyme; E’en that night ’neath star-bright skies Your joy-song sang their sweet Good-bys.

You’re an emigrant, as we; Other states our birth-states be, And we bring out memories here, Bright with smile, or darked with tear; So in California’s sun Sings your song, back there begun.

But do you know, O song-heart brave, That Peter’s in an unknown grave, Where the Rappahannock flows; No more fearing war’s dread blows? And not a mound to mark the place Where went out his sweetheart face; And not a bough where some song-mate Might his hero deeds relate, And recall in bird-sweet lay How called he Gertie’s name that day?

And Gertie grieved where the lagoons Sluggish gulfward with their tunes, And with breaking heart grew old Waiting for her soldier bold,— Dying lonely, lonely past, Calling “Peter” to the last.

Where she’s resting no one notes, Save your song-mates with sweet throats.

Do you know? Is that the note Which sometimes saddens from your throat, And makes my heart slow down a throb, And my words hush in a sob?

That’s the Gertie, that’s the Peter Who go rapturing through your meter! Since within your song they live Where skies such sunny brightness give, Maybe in the Sky of skies Love calls, hearing love’s replies; Through some angel-mocking bird All the earth-old sweetness heard,— Gertie! Peter! still as dear As when called their love-names here?

So our thoughts, as your fleet wings Above the dark earth lightly springs, Think that skies of brightness say, “Love is love for aye and aye!” And this Gertie and this Peter Gentles love through angel-meter, Which the grace of God outrhymes, Calling, calling endless times!

When “Gertie,” “Peter” you so lift As if the very stars you’d sift, Down to their souls to voice their bliss, O mocking-birds, do you know this?

A JOLLY GOOD FRIENDSHIP IS BETTER THAN ALL

(A BALLADE)

BY HENRY MEADE BLAND

You may travel in China, Luzon, or Japan; Or lodge on the plains of the Ultimate West; You may lounge at your ease on a rich divan; And drink of red wine at a king’s behest, Then lie by the hour in slumberous rest, And be of deep joy a subservient thrall, Yet awake with a feel that is clearly confessed, That a jolly good friendship is better than all!

You may sail from your home-port a half-a-world span, And touch the Sweet Isle with joy in your breast; You may sing as you sail, and shout as you scan The white airy foam-flakes that ride the fair crest Of orient wave: but, truly the test Of laughters and pleasures that come at a call Is fellowship rising in full easy zest— A jolly good friendship is better than all!

You may listen to Melba or Sembrich and plan With a five-dollar note to corner the best Of Caruso’s high-piping; and be in the van Of those who would fain with great Patti be blest: But you’ll learn when you come to the end of your quest, And find that the sweetest in cabin or hall, No matter what note or what harmony stressed, The lilt of good friendship is better than all!

ENVOI

Aye, rarer than any rare vintage e’er pressed For banqueter merry or bold bacchanal; Aye, better than nectar e’er dream of or guessed— A jolly good fellowship is better than all.

THE TRAILMAN

(_Lines written in 1909 in honor of John Muir_)

BY HENRY MEADE BLAND

A spirit that pulses forever like the fiery heart of a boy; A forehead that lifts to the sunlight and is wreathed forever in joy; A muscle that holds like the iron that binds in the prisoner steam; Yea, these are the Trailman’s glory; Yea, these are the Trailman’s dream!

An eye that catches the splendor as it shines from mountain and sky; And an ear that awakes to the song of the storm as it surges on high; A sense that garners the beauty of sun, moon, or starry gleam; Lo, these are the Trailman’s glory; Lo, these are the Trailman’s dream!

The wild, high climb o’er the mountain, the lodge by the river’s brim; The glance at the great cloud-horses, as they plunge o’er the range’s rim; The juniper’s balm for the nostril, the dash in the cool trout stream; Yea, these are the Trailman’s glory; Yea, these are the Trailman’s dream!

The ride up the wild river-canyon where the wild oats grow breast high; The shout of the quail on the hillside; the turtle dove flashing by; An eve round the fragrant fire, and the tales of heroic theme; Lo, these are the Trailman’s glory; Lo, these are the Trailman’s dream!

THE HYMN OF THE WIND

BY HOWARD V. SUTHERLAND

I am the Wind, whom none can ever conquer; I am the Wind, whom none may ever bind. The One who fashion’d ye, He, too, has fashion’d me— He gave to me dominion o’er the air. Go where ye will, and ye shall ever find Me singing, ever free, Over land and over sea, From the fire-belted Tropics to the Poles.

I am the Wind. I sing the glad Spring’s coming; I bid the leaves burst forth and greet the sun. I lure the modest bloom From out the soil-sweet gloom; I bid the wild-bird leave the drowsy South. My loves are violets. By my pure kisses won, They spring from earth, and smile, All-innocent, the while I woo them in the aisles of pensive woods.

I am the Wind. From dew-pearl’d heights of wonder I fall like music on the listening wheat. My hands disturb its calm Till, like a joyous psalm, Its swaying benediction greets the sky. I kiss the pines that brood where seldom falls The solace of the light, And the hush’d voice of Night Soothes the awed mountains in their somber dreams.

I am the Wind. I see enorme creations Starring the vault above ye, and below. Where bide the Seraphim In silent places dim I pass, and tell your coming in the end. Omniscient I, eternal; and I know The gleaming destiny That waits ye, being free, When ye have pass’d the border-line of Death.

I am the Wind—the Lord God’s faithful servant; ’Twixt earth and sky I wander, and I know His Sign is ever found The blue-veil’d earth around, As on the furthest spheres that whirl in space, All things are His; and all things slowly go Through manifold degrees Of marvelous mysteries, From life to highest life, from highest life to Him.

I am the Wind. I know that all is tending To that bright end; and ye, through years of toil Shall reach at last the height Where Freedom is, and Light; And ye shall find new paths that still lead up. Be free as I; be patient and have faith; And when your scroll is writ And God shall pass on it, Ye need not fear to face Him—He is Love.

DRIFTING

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ

My soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My wingèd boat, A bird afloat, Swims round the purple peaks remote:—

Round purple peaks It sails and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague and dim The mountains swim; While on Vesuvius’ misty brim, With outstretched hands, The gray smoke stands O’erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles O’er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;— With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls Where swells and falls The Bay’s deep breast at intervals At peace I lie, Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild, Is Heaven’s own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled;— The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail, A joy intense, The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies,— O’erveiled with vines, She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines.

Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher’s child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes Where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows;— This happier one, Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun.

O happy ship, To rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip! O happy crew, My heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more The worldly shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise!

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO

BY ROBERT BURNS

John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessing on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill together; And monie a canty day, John, We’ve had wi’ ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we’ll go; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

RECESSIONAL

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

God of our fathers, known of old— Lord of our far-flung battle-line, Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies— The captains and the kings depart, Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away— On dune and headland sinks the fire; Lo! all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe— Such boastings as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds, without the law— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts its trust In reeking tube, and iron shard— All valiant dust, that builds on dust, And guarding call not Thee to guard— For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!

MY COUNTRY

BY ROBERT WHITAKER

My country is the world; I count No son of man my foe, Whether the warm life-currents mount And mantle brows like snow Or red or yellow, brown or black, The face that into mine looks back.

My native land is Mother Earth, And all men are my kin, Whether of rude or gentle birth, However steeped in sin; Or rich, or poor, or great, or small, I count them brothers, one and all.

My birthplace is no spot apart, I claim no town nor State; Love hath a shrine in every heart, And wheresoe’er men mate To do the right and say the truth, Love evermore renews her youth.

My flag is the star-spangled sky, Woven without a seam, Where dawn and sunset colors lie, Fair as an angel’s dream; The flag that still, unstained, untorn, Floats over all of mortal born.

My party is all human-kind, My platform brotherhood; I count all men of honest mind Who work for human good, And for the hope that gleams afar, My comrades in this holy war.

My heroes are the great and good Of every age and clime, Too often mocked, misunderstood, And murdered in their time; But spite of ignorance and hate Known and exalted soon or late.

My country is the world; I scorn No lesser love than mine, But calmly wait that happy morn When all shall own this sign, And love of country as of clan, Shall yield to world-wide love of man.

SOMEWHERE ADOWN THE YEARS

BY ROBERT WHITAKER

Somewhere adown the years there waits a man Who shall give wings to what my soul has said: Shall speak for me when I am mute and dead; And shall perfect the work I but began.

What matter, therefore, if my word to-day Falls on unwilling ears, finds few to praise? Since some mere child, in his incipient days, That word may win to walk a prophet’s way?

And he, of greater gift, more favored state, Shall speak to thousands where I speak to one: Shall do the work that I would fain have done; Helped to that fortune at my lonely gate.

Perchance some Saul of Tarsus, hating me, And hating mine while yet misunderstood, Stung by my word shall some day find it good, And bear it broadcast over land and sea.

Or some Saint Augustine, of careless mien, Giving himself to sensuous pleasures now, Shall catch the glory from his mother’s brow That in some word of mine her soul hath seen.

Nay, but I claim no honor as my own That is not equally the goal for all Who run with truth, and care not though it fall That they must sometimes run with her alone.

God will not suffer any word to fail That is not uttered for the hour’s success: No word that has in it the power to bless Shall lack the means to make it of avail.

Who speaks the people’s weal shall some day find Voices to bear it to the people’s will. However potent be the present ill They who assail it are to-morrow’s kind.

And that to-morrow shall uphold their cause Who fell not for the plaudits of to-day: Those who are reckoned rebels in their day Are always makers of to-morrow’s laws.

Our present skeptics voice to-morrow’s faith; To-day’s disturbers bring to-morrow’s peace: ’Tis they who dare to die who win release For all their fellows from the fear of death.

SERENADE

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Stars of the summer night! Far in your azure deeps, Hide, hide your golden light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Moon of the summer night! Far down yon western steeps, Sink, sink in silver light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Wind of the summer night! Where yonder woodbine creeps, Fold, fold thy pinions light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Dreams of the summer night! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch, while in slumbers light She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

THE BROOKSIDE

BY RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES

I wandered by the brookside, I wandered by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow,— The noisy wheel was still. There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree: I watched the long, long shade, And, as it grew longer, I did not feel afraid; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word,— But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,—no, he came not,— The night came on alone,— The little stars sat one by one, Each on his golden throne; The evening wind passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred,— But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

Fast, silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind: A hand was on my shoulder,— I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer—nearer— We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.

THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG

BY JOHN FRANCIS WALLER

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning; Close by the window young Eileen is spinning; Bent o’er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting, Is groaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting,— “Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping.” “’Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping.” “Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing.” “’Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying.” Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot’s stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

“What’s that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?” “’Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under.” “What makes you be shoving and moving your stool in, And singing all wrong that old song of ‘The Coolin’?’” There’s a form at the casement,—the form of her true love,— And he whispers, with face bent, “I’m waiting for you, love; Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly, We’ll rove in the grove while the moon’s shining brightly.” Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot’s stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers, Steals up from her seat,—longs to go, and yet lingers; A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother, Puts one foot on the stool, and spins the wheel with the other. Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round; Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel’s sound; Noiseless and light to the lattice above her The maid steps,—then leaps to the arms of her lover. Slower—and slower—and slower the wheel swings; Lower—and lower—and lower the reel rings; Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving, Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.

DOWN THE LANE

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD

Down the lane, as I went humming, humming, Who should I see coming But May Marjory! “What was that I heard you humming, humming, As you saw me coming? Prithee, tell!” said she.

“Oh,” I smiled, “I was just humming, humming, As I saw you coming Where boughs met above,— And the crickets kept on thrumming, thrumming, As I saw you coming,— Something about love!” Ah, her blush it was becoming—coming, As I kept on humming While we walked along, And the crickets still were strumming, strumming, As I kept on humming That low strain of song.

Drooped her eyes as I continued humming; Ah, ’twas so becoming To May Marjory! Then she raised them, and my heart went thrumming, Though I kept on humming; “You’re a dear!” said she.

—From _Judge_.

THE MOUNTAIN MIST

BY HESPER LE GALLIENNE

I am the mist and the lover of mountains, I, like a scarf, waft and wave in the breeze; I am the sister of streams and of fountains, Born ’neath the roots of the flowers and the trees. Wayward and free Listen to me— I am the Now and the Never-to-Be!

Slowly I rise in the cool of the gloaming, Softly I creep through the grass and the leaves, Over the river, on past the men homing, Men living lives midst the fruit and the sheaves, Airy and light, Filmy and white, I come when Daytime is kissing the Night.

I am the Question, so luring, so cunning, Yet, when you answer, the Answer is—none! For, when you watch me skipping and running Yet, when you catch me, you find I am—gone! Catch if you can! Never there ran Any so fast, be they maiden or man.

THE LOOM OF LIFE

ANONYMOUS

All day, all night, I can hear the jar Of the loom of life; and near and far It thrills with its deep and muffled sound, As the tireless wheels go always round. Busily, ceaselessly goes the loom In the light of day and the midnight’s gloom. The wheels are turning early and late, And the woof is wound in the warp of fate. Click! Clack! there’s a thread of love wove in! Click! Clack! and another of wrong and sin!

What a checkered thing this life will be, When we see it unrolled in eternity! Time, with a face like a mystery, And hands as busy as hands can be, Sits at the loom with its warp outspread, To catch in its meshes each glancing thread. When shall this wonderful web be done? In a thousand years, perhaps, or one, Or to-morrow, who knoweth? Not you nor I, But the wheels turn on, and the shuttles fly.

Ah, sad-eyed weaver, the years are slow, But each one is nearer the end, I know. And some day the last thread shall be wove in, God grant it be love instead of sin. Are we spinners of woof for this life web, say? Do we furnish the weavers a thread each day? It were better then, O my friend, to spin A beautiful thread, than a thread of sin.

THE FORTUNATE ISLES

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles, The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird’s song? Then steer straight on through the watery miles, Straight on, straight on and you can’t go wrong. Nay not to the left, nay not to the right, But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight, The Fortunate Isles where the yellow birds sing And life lies girt with a golden ring.

These Fortunate Isles they are not so far, They lie within reach of the lowliest door; You can see them gleam by the twilight star; You can hear them sing by the moon’s white shore— Nay, never look back! Those leveled grave stones They were landing steps; they were steps unto thrones Of glory for souls that have sailed before, And have set white feet on the fortunate shore.

And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles? Why, Duty and Love and a large Content. Lo! these are the Isles of the watery miles, That God let down from the firmament. Lo! Duty, and Love, and a true man’s Trust; Your forehead to God though your feet in the dust; Lo! Duty, and Love, and a sweet Babe’s Smiles, And these, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

YOSEMITE

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

Sound! sound! sound! O colossal walls and crown’d In one eternal thunder! Sound! sound! sound! O ye oceans overhead, While we walk, subdued in wonder, In the ferns and grasses, under And beside the swift Merced!

Fret! fret! fret! Streaming, sounding banners, set On the giant granite castles In the clouds and in the snow! But the foe he comes not yet,— We are loyal, valiant vassals, And we touch the trailing tassels Of the banners far below.

Surge! surge! surge! From the white Sierra’s verge, To the very valley blossom. Surge! surge! surge! Yet the song-bird builds a home, And the mossy branches cross them, And the tasseled tree-tops toss them, In the clouds of falling foam.

Sweep! sweep! sweep! O ye heaven-born and deep, In one dread, unbroken chorus! We may wonder or may weep,— We may wait on God before us; We may shout or lift a hand,— We may bow down and deplore us, But may never understand.

Beat! beat! beat! We advance, but would retreat From this restless, broken breast Of the earth in a convulsion. We would rest, but dare not rest, For the angel of expulsion From this Paradise below Waves us onward and ... we go.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE DEAD MILLIONAIRE

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

The gold that with the sunlight lies In bursting heaps at dawn, The silver spilling from the skies At night to walk upon, The diamonds gleaming in the dew He never saw, he never knew.

He got some gold, dug from the mud, Some silver, crushed from stones. The gold was red with dead man’s blood, The silver black with groans; And when he died he moaned aloud, “There’ll be no pocket in my shroud.”

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

PETER COOPER

(_Died 1883_)

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

Give honor and love forevermore To this great man gone to rest; Peace on the dim Plutonian shore, Rest in the land of the blest.

I reckon him greater than any man That ever drew sword in war; I reckon him nobler than king or khan, Braver and better by far.

And wisest he in this whole wide land Of hoarding till bent and gray; For all you can hold in your cold dead hand Is what you have given away.

So whether to wander the stars or to rest Forever hushed and dumb, He gave with a zest and he gave his best— Give him the best to come.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE VOICE OF THE DOVE

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

Come, listen, O Love, to the voice of the dove, Come, hearken and hear him say: “There are many To-morrows, my Love, my Love, There is only one To-day.”

And all day long you can hear him say This day in purple is rolled And the baby stars of the milky-way They are cradled in cradles of gold.

Now what is thy secret serene, gray dove, Of singing so sweetly alway? “There are many To-morrows, my Love, my Love, There is only one To-day.”

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

WHERE THE WEST BEGINS

BY ARTHUR CHAPMAN

Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger, Out where a smile dwells a little longer, That’s where the West begins. Out where the sun’s a little brighter, Where the snow that falls is a trifle whiter, Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, That’s where the West begins.

Out where the skies are a trifle bluer, Out where friendship’s a little truer, That’s where the West begins. Out where a fresher breeze is blowing, Where there is laughter in each streamlet flowing, Where there’s more of reaping and less of sowing, That’s where the West begins.

Out where the world is in the making, Where fewer hearts with despair are aching, That’s where the West begins. Where there is more of singing and less of sighing, Where there is more of giving and less of buying, And a man makes friends without half trying— That’s where the West begins.

AS I CAME DOWN FROM LEBANON

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD

As I came down from Lebanon, Came winding, wandering slowly down Through mountain passes bleak and brown, The cloudless day was well nigh done. The city like an opal set In emerald, showed each minaret Afire with radiant beams of sun, And glistened orange, fig, and lime, Where song-birds made melodious chime, As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon, Like lava in the dying glow, Through olive orchards far below I saw the murmuring river run; And ’neath the wall upon the sand Swart sheiks from distant Samarcand, With precious spices they had won, Lay long and languidly in wait Till they might pass the guarded gate, As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon, I saw strange men from lands afar, In mosque and square and gay bazar, The magi that the Moslem shun, And grave effendi from Stamboul, Who sherbet sipped in corners cool; And, from the balconies o’errun With roses, gleamed the eyes of those Who dwell in still seraglios, As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon, The flaming flower of daytime died, And Night, arrayed as is a bride Of some great king, in garment spun Of purple and the finest gold, Outbloomed in glories manifold, Until the moon, above the dun And darkening desert, void of shade, Shone like a keen Damascus blade, As I came down from Lebanon.

APPLE BLOSSOMS

BY WILLIAM WESLEY MARTIN

Have you seen an apple orchard in the spring? in the spring? An English apple orchard in the spring? When the spreading trees are hoary With their wealth of promised glory, And the mavis pipes his story In the spring?

Have you plucked the apple blossoms in the spring? in the spring? And caught their subtle odors in the spring? Pink buds bursting at the light, Crumpled petals baby-white, Just to touch them a delight! In the spring!

Have you walked beneath the blossoms in the spring? in the spring? Beneath the apple blossoms in the spring? When the pink cascades were falling, And the silver brooklets brawling, And the cuckoo-bird is calling In the spring?

Have you seen a merry bridal in the spring? in the spring? In an English apple country in the spring? When the brides and maidens wear Apple blossoms in their hair: Apple blossoms everywhere, In the spring!

If you have not, then you know not, in the spring, in the spring, Half the color, beauty, wonder of the spring. No sight can I remember, Half so precious, half so tender, As the apple blossoms render In the spring!

A MATCH

BY A. C. SWINBURNE

If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pastures or gray grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf.

If you were queen of Pleasure, And I were king of Pain, We’d hunt down Love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of Pleasure; And I were king of Pain.

THE BROOK AND THE WAVE

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

The brooklet came from the mountain, As sang the bard of old, Running with feet of silver Over the sands of gold!

Far away in the briny ocean There rolled a turbulent wave Now singing along the sea-beach, Now howling along the cave.

And the brooklet has found the billow Though they flowed so far apart, And has filled with its freshness and sweetness That turbulent bitter heart!

INDIRECTION

BY RICHARD REALF

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer; Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer; Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is sweeter; And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning out-mastered the meter.

Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing; Never a river that flows, but a majesty scepters the flowing; Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he did enfold him, Nor ever a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer hath foretold him.

Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted and hidden; Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor is bidden; Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feeling; Crowning the glory revealed is the glory that crowns the revealing.

Great are the symbols of being, but that which is symboled is greater; Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator; Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift stands the giving; Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of receiving.

Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the doing; The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of the wooing; And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the heights where those shine, Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence of life is divine.

—Copyright by _Funk & Wagnalls Co_., New York, and used by kind permission.

LIFE AND LOVE

BY RICHARD REALF

There is something to live for and something to love Wherever we linger, wherever we rove, There are thousands of sad ones to cheer and sustain Till hopes that were hidden beam o’er them again.

There is something to live for and something to love, For the spirit of Man is like garden or grove, It will yield a sweet fragrance, but still you must toil, And cherish the blossoms, and culture the soil.

There is something to live for and something to love, ’Tis a truth which the misanthrope ne’er can disprove, For tho’ thorns and thistles may choke up the flower, Some beauty will grace the most desolate bower.

Then think on, brother, wherever thou art, Let the life be for men and the love for the heart, For know that the pathway which leads us above Is something to live for and something to love.

—Copyright by _Funk & Wagnalls Co._, New York, and used by kind permission.

SONG OF SPRING

BY RICHARD REALF

My heart goes forth to meet the Spring With the step of a bounding roe, For it seems like the touch of a seraph’s wing When the pleasant south winds blow.

O, I love the loveliness that lies In the smiling heart of May, The beauty throbbing in violet eyes, The breath of the fragrant hay.

There’s a great calm joy in the song of birds, And in the voice of the streams, In the lowly peace of flocks and herds, And our own soul’s quiet dreams.

So my heart goes forth to meet the Spring As a lover to his bride; And over us both there broods the wing Of the angel at her side.

—Copyright by _Funk & Wagnalls Co._, New York, and used by kind permission.

SONG OF THE SEAMSTRESS

BY RICHARD REALF

It is twelve o’clock by the city’s chime, And my task is not yet done; Through two more weary hours of time Must my heavy eyes ache on. I may not suffer my tears to come, And I dare not stop to feel; For each idle moment steals a crumb From my sad to-morrow’s meal.

It is very cold in this cheerless room, And my limbs are strangely chill; My pulses beat with a sense of doom, And my very heart seems still; But I shall not care for this so much, If my fingers hold their power, And the hand of sleep forbears to touch My eyes for another hour.

I wish I could earn a little more, And live in another street, Where I need not tremble to pass the door, And shudder at all I meet. ’Tis a fearful thing that a friendless girl Forever alone should dwell In the midst of scenes enough to hurl A universe to hell.

God knows that I do not wish to sink In the pit that yawns around; But I cannot stand on its very brink, As I could on purer ground; I do not think that my strength is gone, Nor fear for my shortening breath; But the terrible winter is coming on, And I must not starve to death.

I wish I had died with sister Rose, Ere hunger and I were mates; Ere I felt the grip of the thought that grows The hotter the more it waits. I am sure that He whom they curse to me, The Father of all our race, Did not mean the world He made to be Such a dark and dreary place.

I would not mind if they’d only give A little less meager pay, And spare me a moment’s time to grieve, With a little while to pray. But until these far-off blessings come, I may neither weep nor kneel; For, alas! ’twould cost me a precious crumb Of my sad to-morrow’s meal.

—Copyright by _Funk & Wagnalls Co._, New York, and used by kind permission.

SONG OF THE INDIAN MOTHER

BY JAMES GOWDY CLARK

Gently dream, my darling child, Sleeping in the lonely wild; Would thy dreams might never know Clouds that darken mine with woe; Oh! to smile as thou art smiling, All my hopeless hours beguiling With the hope that thou mightst see Blessings that are hid from me.

CHORUS Lullaby, my gentle boy, Sleeping in the wilderness, Dreaming in thy childish joy Of a mother’s fond caress,— Lullaby, lullaby.

Sleep, while gleams the council fire, Kindled by thy hunted sire: Guarded by thy God above, Sleep and dream of peace and love: Dream not of the band that perished From the sacred soil they cherished, Nor the ruthless race that roams O’er our ancient shrines and homes.

Sleep, while autumn glories fly, ’Neath the melancholy sky, From the trees before the storm, Chased by winter’s tyrant form: Oh! ’tis thus our warriors, wasted, From their altars torn and blasted, Followed by the storm of death, Fly before Oppression’s breath.

Sleep, while night hides home and grave, Rest, while mourn the suff’ring brave, Mourning as thou, too, wilt mourn, Through the future, wild and worn; Bruised in heart, in spirit shaken, Scourged by man, by God forsaken, Wandering on in war and strife, Living still, yet cursing life.

Could thy tender fancy feel All that manhood will reveal, Couldst thou dream thy breast would share All the ills thy fathers bear, Thou wouldst weep as I am weeping, Tearful watches wildly keeping, By the silver-beaming light Of the long and lonely night.

(_Repeat Chorus_)

OLD TIMES

BY GERALD GRIFFIN

Old times! old times! the gay old times! When I was young and free, And heard the merry Easter chimes Under the sally tree. My Sunday palm beside me placed, My cross upon my hand; A heart at rest within my breast, And sunshine on the land! Old times! old times!

It is not that my fortunes flee, Nor that my cheek is pale; I mourn whene’er I think of thee, My darling native vale! A wiser head I have, I know, Than when I loitered there; But in my wisdom there is woe, And in my knowledge care. Old times! old times!

I’ve lived to know my share of joy, To feel my share of pain; To learn that friendship’s self can cloy, To love and love in vain; To feel a pang and wear a smile, To tire of other climes; To love my own unhappy Isle, And sing the gay old times! Old times! old times!

And sure the land is nothing changed; The birds are singing still, The flowers are springing where we ranged, There’s sunshine on the hill. The sally waving o’er my head Still sweetly shades my frame; But oh! those happy days are fled, And I am not the same. Old times! old times!

Oh, come again, ye merry times! Sweet, sunny, fresh and calm; And let me hear those Easter chimes, And wear my Sunday palm. If I could cry away mine eyes, My tears would flow in vain; If I could waste my heart in sighs, They’ll never come again! Old times! old times!

TWILIGHT FANCIES

BY ELIZA A. PITTSINGER

Softly flit the fairy fancies Through the sunlight of my brain, Weaving webs of weird romances In a laughing, joyous strain— Gently creeping, Gaily leaping, Twilight revels strangely keeping In my brain.

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, While my soul is wrapt in thought, Wait they not to be invited, Quite unwelcome and unsought— Never sitting, Ever flitting, All the earnestness outwitting Of my thought.

Thus to have my being haunted By these fairies, all astray, By these elfin-sprites enchanted, Is a spell upon my way, That shall borrow For the morrow, All the pleasure and the sorrow Of to-day.

In my hours of quiet musing, By these phantoms thus caressed, I have lost the right of choosing As I ought, my favored guest— Uninvited, Often slighted, Come they when the lamps are lighted For a guest.

Thus they come, the fairy fancies, Laughing, flitting through my brain, Weaving webs of weird romances, In a wayward, joyous strain— Gaily creeping, Madly leaping, Even now their revels keeping In my brain.

THE SONG OF THE FLUME[16]

BY ANNA M. FITCH

Awake, awake! for my track is red, With the glow of the coming day; And with tinkling tread, from my dusky bed, I haste o’er hill away, Up from the valley, up from the plain, Up from the river’s side; For I come with a gush, and a torrent’s rush, And there’s wealth in my swelling tide.

I am fed by the melting rills that start Where the sparkling snow-peaks gleam, My voice is free, and with fiercest glee I leap in the sun’s broad beam; Tho’ torn from the channels deep and old, I have worn through the craggy hill, Yet I flow in pride, as my waters glide, And there’s mirth in my music still.

I sought the shore of the sounding sea, From the far Sierra’s height, With a starry breast, and a snow-capped crest I foamed in a path of light; But they bore me thence in a winding way, They’ve fettered me like a slave, And as scarfs of old were exchanged for gold, So they barter my soil-stained wave.

Thro’ the deep tunnel, down the dark shaft, I search for the shining ore; Hoist it away to the light of day, Which it never has seen before. Spade and shovel, mattock and pick, Ply them with eager haste; For my golden shower is sold by the hour, And the drops are too dear to waste.

Lift me aloft to the mountain’s brow, Fathom the deep “blue vein,” And I’ll sift the soil for the shining spoil, As I sink to the valley again. The swell of my swarthy breast shall bear Pebble and rock away, Though they brave my strength, they shall yield at length, But the glittering gold shall stay.

Mine is no stern and warrior march, No stormy trump and drum; No banners gleam in my darkened stream, As with conquering step I come; But I touch the tributary earth Till it owns a monarch’s sway, And with eager hand, from a conquered land, I bear its wealth away.

Awake, awake! there are loving hearts In the lands you’ve left afar; There are tearful eyes in the homes you prize As they gaze on the western star; Then up from the valley, up from the hill, Up from the river’s side; For I come with a gush, and a torrent’s rush, And there’s wealth in my swelling tide.

THE WEST

BY ANNIE ELIZABETH CHENEY

Wings that are glancing, wings of my soul, That speeding like arrows fly to their goal; Wings that have cut the keen ethers above, O carry me on to the West of my love!

The West it is magic, perspective and fire, Its peaks are like daggers thrust up by desire; It is Tyre, it is Sidon and Ophir in one, This land by the waters, this land of the sun.

—From “Dreams of Hellas.”

THE MOON-CRADLE

BY KATE WISNER M’CLUSKEY

The little, the yellow moon-cradle Is swaying, is swinging slow; And the tiny white star-tapers burning Have flickered their lights down low; The night has the cloud-curtains ready, She is holding them draped on her breast, For the dear little, queer little babe in the moon Will have sunk to rest in the west. Hush, baby, hush! Mother’s heart aches for the joy that she takes In holding you close to her breast!

Perhaps in the yellow moon-cradle A little cold baby may be; And the tiny white star-tapers burning May be sad for some mother to see;— O night-angel! drop the cloud-curtain While the gleaming bed’s caught in that tree, For not even to the rest in the beautiful west Will I let my babe go from me! Sleep, sleep, my sweet! Are you warm, little feet? Close to my heart you will be!

GREEN THINGS GROWING

BY DINAH MARIA MULOCK

Oh, the green things growing, the green things growing, The faint sweet smell of the green things growing! I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve, Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing.

Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing. How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight Or the dim, dreary dawn when the cocks are crowing.

I love, I love them so,—my green things growing; And I think that they love me, without false showing; For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much, With the soft, mute comfort of green things growing.

DAFFODILS

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

MAMMY’S LULLABY

BY STRICKLAND W. GILLILAN

Sleep, mah li’l pigeon, don’ yo’ heah yo’ mammy coo? Sunset still a-shinin’ in de wes’; Sky am full o’ windehs an’ de stahs am peepin’ froo— Eb’ryt’ing but mammy’s lamb at res’. Swing ’im to’ds de Eas’lan’, Swing ’im to’ds de Souf— See dat dove a-comin’ wif a olive in ’is mouf! Angel hahps a-hummin’, Angel banjos strummin’— Sleep, mah li’l pigeon, don’ yo’ heah yo’ mammy coo?

Cricket fiddleh scrapin’ off de rozzum f’um ’is bow, Whippo’will a-mo’nin’ on a lawg; Moon ez pale ez hit kin be a-risin’ mighty slow— Stahtled at de bahkin’ ob de dawg; Swing de baby Eas’way, Swing de baby Wes’, Swing ’im to’ds de Souflan’ whah de melon grow de bes’! Angel singers singin’, Angel bells a-ringin’, Sleep, mah li’l pigeon, don’ yo’ heah yo’ mammy coo?

Eyelids des a-droopin’ li’l loweh all de w’ile, Undeh lip a-saggin’ des a mite; Li’l baby toofies showin’ so’t o’ lak a smile, Whiteh dan de snow, or des ez white. Swing ’im to’ds de No’flan’, Swing ’im to’ds de Eas’— Woolly cloud a-comin’ fo’ t’ wrap ’im in ’is fleece! Angel ban’ a-playin’— Whut dat music sayin’? “Sleep, mah li’l pigeon, don’ yo’ heah yo’ mammy coo?”

SONG OF THE BROOK

BY ALFRED TENNYSON

I come from haunts of coot and hern: I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down the valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Phillip’s farm I flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I wind about and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling.

And here and there a foamy flake Upon me as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel.

I draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots; I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers.

I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeams dance Against my sandy shallows.

And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

MEADOW-LARKS

BY INA COOLBRITH

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy that I am! (Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!) Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm, O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the spring!

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O skies, serene and blue, That shut the velvet pastures in, that fold the mountain’s crest! Sweet, sweet, sweet! What of the clouds ye knew? The vessels ride a golden tide, upon a sea at rest.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain? Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet! Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain, The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is! Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call. Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss,— For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!

—Copyright by _Houghton, Mifflin & Co._, Boston, Mass., and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

OWNERSHIP

BY INA COOLBRITH

In a garden that I know, Only palest blossoms blow.

There the lily, purest nun, Hides her white face from the sun,

And the maiden rose-bud stirs In a garment fair as hers.

One shy bird, with folded wings Sits within the leaves and sings:

Sits and sings the daylight long, Just a patient, plaintive song.

Other gardens greet the spring With a blaze of blossoming;

Other song-birds, piping clear, Chorus from the branches near;

But my blossoms, palest known, Bloom for me and me alone,

And my bird, though sad and lonely, Sings for me, and for me only.

—Copyright by _Houghton, Mifflin & Co._, Boston, Mass., and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

CALIFORNIA

BY ANNIE ELIZABETH CHENEY

There are lands where the poppies are golden, Where the skies are a rapture in blue, Where the breezes on roses are stealing, But land of my love, what of you?

There are lands where the birds warble ever, Where the air is a-thrill in the sun, Where the singer and song sever never, And beauty and passion are one.

There are lands where the pine and the palm-tree, The rose and the lily are fair, Where color is married to music, But magic—thy magic—O where?

There are lands where the hills silver-crested Flash far on a foam-glitt’ring sea, Where Winter weds amorous Summer, But land of my love, what of thee?

Thy heart like thy poppy is golden, Thy story is writ in a gleam, Thy magic like wine it is olden, And hid in the web of a dream.

When the padre and poet had found thee, Thy bells with a prophecy tolled, For duty loved beauty, and round thee The fabric of romance was rolled.

The vale with the snow-peak above her Through ages in sunlight has lain, Here art fondles nature, a lover Forever in shine or rain.

There is fire where the poppy is dreaming, And romance in woman’s large eyes, There is splendor where sunbeams are streaming From the far, lucid vault of thy skies.

And the stars and the moon look in wonder On thy mountains and ocean and vale, From azures too tender for thunder, Too clear for the lightning of gale.

There are lands drunk with summer and beauty, But none, magic country, like thee! Where the palm and the pine—love and duty— Are friends from the hills to the sea.

—From “Dreams of Hellas.”

IN BLOSSOM TIME

BY INA COOLBRITH

It’s O my heart, my heart, To be out in the sun and sing— To sing and shout in the fields about, In the balm and the blossoming!

Sing loud, O bird in the tree; O bird, sing loud in the sky, And honey-bees, blacken the clover beds— There is none of you glad as I.

The leaves laugh low in the wind, Laugh low, with the wind at play; And the odorous call of the flowers all Entices my soul away!

For O but the world is fair, is fair— And O but the world is sweet! I will out in the gold of the blossoming mould, And sit at the Master’s feet.

And the love my heart would speak, I will fold in the lily’s rim, That th’ lips of the blossom, more pure and meek, May offer it up to Him.

Then sing in the hedgerow green, O thrush, O skylark, sing in the blue; Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear, And my soul shall sing with you!

—From “Songs from the Golden Gate.”

—Copyright by _Houghton, Mifflin & Co._, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

WHY?

BY MADGE MORRIS WAGNER

Why is it we grasp at the shadow That flits from us swift as thought, While the real that maketh the shadow Stands in our way unsought? And why do we wonder, and wonder, What’s beyond the hill-tops of thought?

Why is it the things that we sigh for Are the things that we never can reach? Why, only the sternest experience A lesson of patience can teach? And why hold we so careless and lightly The treasures that are in our reach?

Why is it we wait for the future, Or dwell on the scenes of the past, Rather than live in the present Hastening from us so fast?

Why is it the prizes we toil for, So tempting in fancy’s mould cast, Prove, when to our lips we have pressed them, Only apples of Sodom at last? And why are the crowns, and the crosses, So wondrous unequally classed?

Ask it, ye, over and over, Let the winds waft your question on high, Till memory wanes with the ages, Till the stars in eternity die. And out from the bloom and the sunshine, From the rainbow o’er-arching the sky, From the night and the gloom and the tempest, Echo will answer you, “Why?”

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

PICTURES OF MEMORY

BY ALICE CARY

Among the beautiful pictures That hang on memory’s wall Is one of a dim old forest, That seemeth best of all; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden, That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland, Where the bright red-berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best. I once had a little brother, With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that dim old forest He lieth in peace asleep: Light as the down of the thistle, Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago; But his feet on the hills grew weary, And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty, Silently covered his face; And when the arrows of sunset Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty, Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures That hang on memory’s wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all.

THE JOY OF THE HILLS

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

I ride on the mountain tops, I ride; I have found my life and am satisfied. Onward I ride in the blowing oats, Checking the field-lark’s rippling notes— Lightly I sweep From steep to steep: Over my head through the branches high Come glimpses of a rushing sky; The tall oats brush my horse’s flanks; Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks; A bee booms out of the scented grass; A jay laughs with me as I pass.

I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget Life’s hoard of regret— All the terror and pain Of the chafing chain. Grind on, O cities, grind: I leave you a blur behind. I am lifted elate—the skies expand: Here the world’s heaped gold is a pile of sand. Let them worry and work in their narrow walls: I ride with the voices of waterfalls!

I swing on as one in a dream—I swing Down the airy hollows, I shout, I sing! The world is gone like an empty word: My body’s a bough in the wind, my heart a bird!

—Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

TREES

BY JOYCE KILMER

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree who looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon her bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

THE DERELICT

BY HERBERT BASHFORD

I am rolled and swung, I am rocked and flung, I am hammered and heaved and hurled, I am tossed and wheeled, I am blown and reeled And battered about the world.

On the pushing tide I ride and ride Or loiter and loaf at ease. With never a care, through foul or fair, I follow the foaming seas.

Men come not nigh when they pass me by For they fear me, every one, As I cleave the gray of the dawning day Or drowse in the summer sun.

Past unknown isles, for miles and miles I wander away to where The iceberg lifts and the salt spray drifts In the freezing arctic air.

I steal by the bars when the flame-winged stars Have swarmed in the upper blue And the glow and shine of the drenching brine Like white fire burns me through.

I haunt as a ghost the rock-girt coast Where the bell-buoy loudly rings And the breakers leap to the mighty sweep Of the night-wind’s sable wings.

I shake and moan, I creak and groan, In the wrathful tempest when The old sea raves and digs deep graves For the jolly sailor men.

What matters time or what the clime To a vagrant of the sea? To live or die, oh, naught care I, There is no port for me!

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

CHILD OF MY HEART

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

Child-heart! Wild heart! What can I bring you, What can I sing you, You who have come from a glory afar, Called into Time from a secret star?

Fleet one! Sweet one! Whose was the wild hand Shaped you in child-land, Framing the flesh with a flash of desire, Pouring the soul as a fearful fire?

Strong child! Song child! Who can unravel All your long travel Out of the Mystery, birth after birth— Out of the dim worlds deeper than Earth?

Mad thing! Glad thing! How will Life time you? How will God name you? All that I know is that you are to me Wind over water, star on the sea.

Dear heart! Near heart! Long is the journey, Hard is the tourney: Would I could be by your side when you fall— Would that my own heart could suffer it all!

—Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

MANDALAY

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ eastward to the sea, There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, an’ I know she thinks o’ me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, an’ the temple bells they say, “Come you back, you British soldier, come you back to Mandalay!” Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay; Can’t you hear the paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon to Mandalay? O the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin’ fishes play, An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ’crost the Bay!

’Er petticut was yaller an’ ’er little cap was green, An’ ’er name was Supi-yaw-lat—jest the same as Theebaw’s Queen, An’ I seed ’er fust a-smokin’ of a whackin’ white cheroot, An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses on an ’eathen idol’s foot: Bloomin’ idol made o’ mud— Wot they called the great Gawd Budd— Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed ’er where she stood! On the road to Mandalay—

When the mist was on the rice-fields an’ the sun was droppin’ slow, She’d git ’er little banjo an’ she’d sing “kulla-lo-lo!” With ’er arm upon my shoulder an’ ’er cheek ag’in my cheek We uster watch the steamers an’ the Hathis pilin’ teak. Elephints a-pilin’ teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence ’ung that ’eavy you was ’arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay—

But that all shove behind me—long ago an’ fur away, An’ there ain’t no busses runnin’ from the Benk to Mandalay; An’ I’m learnin’ ’ere in London what the ten-year sodger tells: “If you’ve ’eard the East a-callin’, why, you won’t ’eed nothin’ else.” No! you won’t ’eed nothin’ else But them spicy garlic smells An’ the sunshine and the palm-trees an’ the tinkly temple-bells! On the road to Mandalay—

I am sick o’ wastin’ leather on these gutty pavin’ stones, An’ the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes a fever in my bones; Tho’ I walk with fifty ’ouse-maids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An’ they talk a lot o’ lovin’, but what do they understand? Beefy face an’ grubby hand— Law! wot do they understand? I’ve a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! On the road to Mandalay—

Ship me somewhere east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments, an’ a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would be— By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ lazy at the sea— On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! Oh, the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin’ fishes play, An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ’crost the Bay.

GOLD

BY ARTHUR GUITERMAN

“Meed of the Toiler,” “Flame of the Sea”— Such were the names of your poets for me. “Metal of Mammon,” “Curse of the world”— These are the libels your preachers have hurled, Dug from the mountain-side, washed in the glen, Servant am I or the master of men. Steal me, I curse you; earn me, I bless you; Grasp me and hoard me, a fiend shall possess you. Lie for me, die for me, covet me, take me— Angel or Devil, I am what you make me.

Falsely alluring, I shimmer and shine Over the millions that hold me divine. Trampling each other, they rush to adore me, Heaping the dearest of treasure before me— Love and its blessedness, Youth and its wealth, Honor, Tranquillity, Innocence, Health— Buying my favor with evil and pain; Huge is the sacrifice, poor is the gain, Naught but my effigy, passionless, cold, God of a frenzied idolatry—Gold!

GOLD

BY THOMAS HOOD

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold, Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled; Heavy to get, and light to hold; Hoarded, bartered, bought, and sold, Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled; Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old To the very verge of the churchyard mold; Price of many a crime untold— Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!

—From “Miss Kilmansegg.”

AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS

BY PADRAIC COLUM

Oh, to have a little house! To own the hearth and stool and all! The heaped-up sods upon the fire, The pile of turf against the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chains, And pendulum swinging up and down! A dresser filled with shining delf, Speckled and white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the day Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, And fixing on their shelf again My white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at night, Beside the fire and by myself, Sure of a bed, and loath to leave The ticking clock and the shining delf!

Och! but I’m weary of mist and dark, And roads where there’s never a house or bush, And tired I am of bog and road, And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high, And I am praying Him night and day, For a little house—a house of my own— Out of the wind’s and the rain’s way.

MY LOVE’S LIKE A RED ROSE

BY ROBERT BURNS

Oh, my love’s like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June; Oh, my love’s like the melodie That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I: And I will love thee still, my dear, Till all the seas gang dry;

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt with the sun; I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love! And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my love, Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

Oh, my love’s like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June; Oh, my love’s like the melodie That’s sweetly played in tune.

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor’s sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was so bright Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been, must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills and groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished on delight, To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the brooks, which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they: The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality! Another race hath been, and other palms are won, Thanks to the human heart by which we live. Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

L’ALLEGRO

BY JOHN MILTON

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathèd smiles Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, And love to live in dimples sleek,— Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it, as ye go, On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty: And, if I give thee honor due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free.

FROM IL PENSEROSO

BY JOHN MILTON

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide watered shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar; Or, if the air will not permit, Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom.

THE LOTOS-EATERS

BY ALFRED TENNYSON

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Through every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotus-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Rolled to starboard, rolled to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotus-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world; Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps, and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centered in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning, though the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine, and oil; Till they perish and they suffer—some, ’tis whispered—down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

HOME, WOUNDED

BY SYDNEY DOBELL

Blare the trumpet, and boom the gun, But, O, to sit here thus in the sun, To sit here, feeling my work is done, While the sands of life so golden run, And I watch the children’s posies, And my idle heart is whispering, “Bring whatever the years may bring, The flowers will blossom, the birds will sing, And there’ll always be primroses.”

THE MINARET BELLS

BY WILLIAM M. THACKERAY

Tink a tink, tink a tink, By the light of the star, On the blue river’s brink, I heard a guitar.

I heard a guitar On the blue waters clear, And knew by its music That Selim was near!

Tink a tink, tink a tink, How the soft music swells, And I hear the soft clink Of the minaret bells!

SPRINGTIME

BY LEONARD G. NATTKEMPER

May-time’s Spring-time, O let us steal away. Spring-time’s love-time, So let us go to-day.

Oh! the dawn, while dew is on, Awakes a fragrant breeze; It fills my room with rich perfume From snow-white locust trees.

Across the grain there floats a strain Of ancient witchery; A robin’s throat hath freed a note Of rarest ecstasy.

And while he sings, within me springs An echo to his lay— But how can words e’er match this bird’s Sweet song of Spring, I pray!

Such noon-day dreams by babbling streams, There’s nothing to compare; Soft zephyrs blow where waters flow, Entangling my hair.

In shady nooks, fond lover looks In eyes as blue as skies; And her reply, though quaint and shy, Is what true love implies.

So May-time’s Spring-time, Now let us steal away; Spring-time’s love-time, And let us go to-day.

A SINGING LESSON

BY JEAN INGELOW

A nightingale made a mistake— She sang a few notes out of tune— Her heart was ready to break, And she hid away from the moon. She wrung her claws, poor thing, But was far too proud to weep; She tucked her head under her wing, And pretended to be asleep.

A lark, arm-in-arm with a thrush, Came sauntering up to the place; The nightingale felt herself blush, Though feathers hid her face. She knew they had heard her song, She felt them snicker and sneer; She thought this life was too long, And wished she could skip a year.

“Oh, nightingale,” cooed a dove, “Oh, nightingale, what’s the use? You bird of beauty and love, Why behave like a goose? Don’t skulk away from our sight Like a common contemptible fowl; You bird of joy and delight, Why behave like an owl?

“Only think of all you have done— Only think of all you can do; A false note is really fun From such a bird as you! Lift up your proud little crest; Open your musical beak; Other birds have to do their best, But you need only speak.”

The nightingale shyly took Her head from under her wing, And giving the dove a look Straightway began to sing. There was never a bird could pass— The night was divinely calm— And the people stood on the grass To hear that wonderful psalm.

The nightingale did not care— She only sang to the skies; Her song ascended there, And there she fixed her eyes. The people who listened below She knew but little about— And this tale has a moral, I know, If you’ll try to find it out.

MORAL

Never give up, always look up.

Cheer the discouraged.

Strive for heavenly applause.

Care not for the praise of men, but for the praise of God.

THE WOLVES OF THE SEA

BY HERBERT BASHFORD

From dusk until dawn they are hurrying on, Unfettered and fearless they flee; From morn until eve they plunder and thieve— The hungry, white wolves of the Sea!

With never a rest, they race to the west, To the Orient’s rim do they run; By the berg and the floe of the northland they go And away to the isles of the sun.

They wail at the moon from the desolate dune Till the air has grown dank with their breath; They snarl at the stars from the treacherous bars Of the coasts that are haunted by Death.

They grapple and bite in a keen, mad delight As they feed on the bosom of Grief; And one steals away to a cave with his prey, And one to the rocks of the reef.

With the froth on their lips they follow the ships, Each striving to lead in the chase; Since loosed by the hand of the King of their band They have known but the rush of the race.

They are shaggy and old, yet as mighty and bold As when God’s freshest gale set them free; Not a sail is unfurled in a part of the world But is prey for the wolves of the Sea!

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

OLD IRONSIDES

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon’s roar;— The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with hero’s blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o’er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor’s tread, Or know the conquered knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale!

COLUMBUS

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores; Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: “Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone. Brave Adm’r’l, speak; what shall I say?” “Why, say: ‘Sail on! sail on! and on!’”

“My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan and weak.” The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. “What shall I say, brave Adm’r’l, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?” “Why, you shall say at break of day: ‘Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!’”

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: “Why, now, not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way; For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Adm’r’l; speak and say—” He said: “Sail on! sail on! and on!”

They sailed: they sailed. Then spake the mate: “This mad sea shows his teeth to-night, He curls his lip, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brave Adm’r’l, say but one good word: What shall we do when hope is gone?” The words leapt like a leaping sword: “Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!”

Then pale and worn, he kept his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck— A light! A light? A light! A light! It grew; a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson: “On! sail on!”

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

DAYBREAK

BY ROBERT BROWNING

Day! Faster and more fast, O’er night’s brim, day boils at last: Boils pure gold, o’er the cloud-cup’s brim Where spurting and suppressed it lay, For not a froth-flake touched the rim Of yonder gap in the solid gray Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.

Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee, A mite of my twelve hours’ treasure, The least of thy gazes or glances, (Be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure) One of thy choices or one of thy chances, (Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure) —My Day, if I squander such labor or leisure, Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me!

Thy long, blue, solemn hours serenely flowing, Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good— Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going, As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood— All shall be mine! But thou must treat me not As prosperous ones are treated, those who live At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot, In readiness to take what thou wilt give, And free to let alone what thou refusest; For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest Me, who am only Pippa,—old-year’s sorrow, Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow: Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow. Sufficient strength of thee for new-year’s sorrow. All other men and women that this earth Belongs to, who all days alike possess, Make general plenty cure particular dearth, Get more joy one way, if another, less: Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.

—From “Pippa Passes.”

MY SWORD SONG

BY RICHARD REALF

Day in, day out, through the long campaign, I march in my place in the ranks; And whether it shine or whether it rain, My good sword cheerily clanks; It clanks and clanks in a knightly way Like the ring of an armored heel; And this is the song which day by day, It sings with its lips of steel:

“O friend, from whom a hundred times, I have felt the strenuous grip Of the all-renouncing love that climbs To the heights of fellowship; Are you tired of all the weary miles? Are you faint with your swooning limbs? Do you hunger back for the olden smiles, And the lilt of olden hymns?

“Has your heart grown weak since that rapt hour When you leapt, with a single bound, From dreaming ease to sovereign power Of a living soul world-crowned? Behold! the aloes of sacrifice Are better than radiant wine, And the bloody sweat of a cause like this Is an agony divine.

“Under the wail of the shuddering world Amoan for its fallen sons; Over the volleying thunders hurled From the throats of the wrathful guns; Above the roar of the plunging line That rocks with the fury of hell, Runs the absolute voice: O Earth of mine, Be patient, for all is well!”

Thus sings my sword to my soul, and I, Albeit the way is long, As soiled clouds darken athwart the sky— Still keep my spirit strong: Whether I live, or whether I lie On the stained ground, ghastly and stark, Beyond the carnage I shall descry God’s love shines across the dark.

—Copyright by _Funk & Wagnalls Co._, New York, and used by their kind permission.

LABOR

ANONYMOUS

Toil swings the ax, and forests bow; The seeds break out in radiant bloom, Rich harvests smile behind the plow, And cities cluster round the loom; Where towering domes and tapering spires Adorn the vale and crown the hill, Stout labor lights its beacon-fires, And plumes with smoke the forge and mill.

The monarch oak, the woodland’s pride, Whose trunk is seamed with lightning scars, Toil launches on the restless tide, And there unrolls the flag of stars; The engine with its lungs of flame, And ribs of brass and joints of steel, From Labor’s plastic fingers came, With sobbing valve and whirling wheel.

’Tis Labor works the magic press, And turns the crank in hives of toil, And beckons angels down to bless Industrious hands on sea and soil. Here sun-brown Toil, with shining spade, Links lake to lake with silver ties Strung thick with palaces of trade, And temples towering to the skies.

THE ARROW AND THE SONG[17]

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

THE BELLS OF SAN GABRIEL

BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD

[Particularly note the possibility of onomatopoesy in the following refrain. What answer do the bells give to the questions of the poet? There is no other answer than their steady, monotonous toll. The answer must be found in your own heart, viz., that no good work, done with high zeal and enthusiasm, with self-sacrifice, ever can be in vain. Then read the refrain as a bell would sound, if it were struck at the end of each line, prolonging the sound to correspond with the continued resonance of the bell.]

Thine was the corn and the wine, The blood of the grape that nourished; The blossom and fruit of the vine That was heralded far away. These were thy gifts; and thine, When the vine and the fig-tree flourished, The promise of peace and of glad increase Forever and ever and aye. What then wert thou, and what art now? Answer me, O, I pray!

And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

Oil of the olive was thine; Flood of the wine-press flowing; Blood o’ the Christ was the wine— Blood o’ the Lamb that was slain. Thy gifts were fat o’ the kine Forever coming and going Over the hills, the thousand hills, Their lowing a soft refrain. What then wert thou, and what art now? Answer me, once again!

And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

Seed o’ the corn was thine— Body of Him thus broken And mingled with blood o’ the vine— The bread and the wine of life; Out of the good sunshine They were given to thee as a token— The body of Him, and the blood of Him, When the gifts of God were rife. What then wert thou, and what art now, After the weary strife?

And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

Where are they now, O bells? Where are the fruits o’ the Mission? Garnered, where no one dwells. Shepherd and flock are fled. O’er the Lord’s vineyard swells The tide that with fell perdition Sounded their doom and fashioned their tomb And buried them with the dead. What then wert thou, and what art now?— The answer is still unsaid.

And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

Where are they now, O tower! The locusts and wild honey? Where is the sacred dower That the bride of Christ was given? Gone to the builders of power, The misers and minters of money; Gone for the greed that is their creed— And these in the land have thriven. What then wert thou, and what art now, And wherefore hast thou striven?

And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

—Copyright by _John Lane_, New York, and used by kind permission.

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA

MARCH 7, 1863

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

Sea-kings’ daughter from over the sea, Alexandra! Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, Alexandra! Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet! Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street! Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet, Scatter the blossoms under her feet! Break, happy land, into earlier flowers! Make music, O bird, in the new-budded bowers! Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer! Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours! Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare! Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers! Flames, on the windy headland flare! Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire! Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air! Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire! Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher Melt into stars for the land’s desire! Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, Roll as a ground-swell dash’d on the strand, Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land, And welcome her, welcome the land’s desire. The sea-kings’ daughter is happy as fair, Blissful bride of a blissful heir, Bride of the sire of the kings of the sea— O joy to the people and joy to the throne, Come to us, love us and make us your own; For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee, Alexandra!

CHRISTMAS IN INDIA

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

Dim dusk behind the tamarisks—the sky is saffron yellow— As the women in the village grind the corn, And the parrots seek the river-side, each calling to his fellow That the Day, the staring Eastern Day is born. Oh, the white on the highway! Oh, the stenches in the byway! Oh, the clammy fog that hovers over earth! And at home they’re making merry ’neath the white and scarlet berry— What part have India’s exiles in their mirth?

Full day behind the tamarisks—the sky is blue and staring— As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, And they bear one o’er the field path, who is past all hope or caring, To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke. Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother slowly— Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice! With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars, And to-day we bid good Christian men rejoice!

High noon behind the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us— As at home the Christmas Day is breaking wan, They will drink our healths at dinner—those who tell us how they love us, And forget us till another year be gone! Oh, the toil that knows no breaking! Oh, the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching! Oh, the black dividing sea and alien plain. Youth was cheap, wherefore we sold it. Gold was good—we hoped to hold it, And to-day we know the fullness of our gain.

Gray dusk behind the tamarisks—the parrots fly together— As the sun is sinking slowly over Home; And the last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether That drags us back howe’er so far we roam. Hard her service, poor her payment—she in ancient, tattered raiment— India, she the grim stepmother of our kind. If a year of life be lent her, if her temple’s shrine we enter, The door is shut—we may not look behind.

Black night behind the tamarisks—the owls begin their chorus— As the conches from the temple scream and bray. With fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us, Let us honor, O my brothers, Christmas Day! Call a truce, then, to our labors—let us feast with friends and neighbors, And be merry as the custom of our caste; For if “faint and forced the laughter,” and if sadness follow after, We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.

THE BELLS OF SHANDON

BY FRANCIS MAHONY

With deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sound so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells.

On this I ponder Where’er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee— With thy bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee.

I’ve heard bells chiming Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine; While at a glib rate Brass tongues would vibrate; But all their music Spoke naught like thine.

For memory, dwelling On each proud swelling Of thy belfry, knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand, on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee.

I’ve heard bells tolling Old Adrian’s Mole in Their thunder rolling From the Vatican; And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o’er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly. O, the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand, on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee.

There’s a bell in Moscow Where on tower and kiosko In Saint Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer, From the tapering summits Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom I freely grant them; But there’s an anthem More dear to me; ’Tis the bells of Shandon That sounds so grand, on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee.

THE DAY AND THE WORK

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

To each man is given a day and his work for the day; And once, and no more, he is given to travel this way. And woe if he flies from the task, whatever the odds; For the task is appointed to him on the scroll of the gods.

There is waiting a work where only your hands can avail; And so if you falter, a chord in the music will fail. We may laugh to the sky, we may lie for an hour in the sun; But we dare not go hence till the labor appointed is done.

To each man is given a marble to carve for the wall, A stone that is needed to heighten the beauty of all; And only his soul has the magic to give it a grace, And only his hands have the cunning to put it in place.

We are given one hour to parley and struggle with Fate, Our wild hearts filled with the dream, our brains with the high debate. It is given to look on life once, and once only to die: One testing, and then at a sign we go out of this sky.

And the task that is given to each man no other can do; So the work is awaiting: it has waited through ages for you. And now you appear; and the Hushed Ones are turning their gaze To see what you do with your chance in the chamber of days.

THE LAND OF HEART’S REGRET

W. T. P.

[This exquisite threnody was written by the “gardener poet” of California, Samuel J. Alexander, of San Mateo. The local geographical references will be understood only by those familiar with the country, but the cry of the bereaved heart and life will find immediate response from the universal heart. As a poem of deep, tender emotion, its study and rendition orally will be more than well repaid.]

Dawn on the hill tops flushes red In the Day’s embrace, and her blush is spread A benediction above the dead. Dawn, and I stand again with Dawn On the jeweled turf of Cypress Lawn. Grief led my feet, by Reverence shod, Into the presence of the God, The gentle God, Who, compassionate, Welcome’s Life’s Beggars within His gate. So I went soft shod, with eyes grown dim, Through His House Beautiful with Him. And with hushed heart I sought and found A Grave more dear than the graves around.

Did I think to find thee shut in and hid In a man-made box, ’neath a man-made lid? Thou, from the sunlight hidden away, Who wert dew of the dawn and flame of day! Thou fettered by Silence? Why, thy voice Called up the Dawn and bade Day rejoice. Thou circled by shadows? Why, thine eyes Were forest pools beneath starry skies. And Day might have claimed, to illume his crown, Their starlight tangled in deeps of brown. With what reluctance, and with what dread, I, who loved thee living, have sought thee dead. And all unwilling, my feet were drawn By a will compelling that led them on. I have come to seek thee; the way was long, For the years between us rose high and strong. I have come to seek thee, who held thee dear, But I may not find thee, who art not here.

Life was a song; and sun and moon Wove all color into the tune. Life was a jewel; we laughed and pressed The glowing ruby against our breast. Life was a bubble; we tossed it high, Up to the rainbow that spanned our sky. Life was a magic mantle, wove By fairy hands, in a charmèd grove, Wherewith we wrapped ourselves around In wide, free spaces, where God is found. Life was a torrent, that overflowed San Bruno’s mountains and Mission Road; Canyons, gashed in a mountain wall, With the wound healed over by chapparal; Mist-clad hollows, and gusty plains, Curbed by the wind with galling reins. Colma, cradled green hills between; Belmont, tossed upon waves of green; Woodside mountains and Alma’s woods, La Honda’s Altar of Solitudes; World’s Edge hills, where the road goes down In a tangle of curves to Spanishtown; Ocean View and San Pedro beach, These are the heart’s red throbs of speech. These are the holy names that stand Guide Posts of God into Holy Land. And these are the Calvary Stations, set On my way through The Land of Heart’s Regret.

Life no longer imperious calls With a silver trumpet from golden walls. My ears grow dull and my eyes grow dim, He wearies of me, as I of him. I will rise; I will go my ways and pass From that I am unto that I was. I will drug my senses and drown my soul Where the incense clouds from the altar roll, In the golden shrine, with the golden key, Where dwells our Lady of Memory. Though new grief grow with the old heart hurt, Here shall I see thee as thou wert. Still companion on lonely hill, In forest solitude, comrade still.

And Memory led me by the hand From God’s Field, back into Holy Land, Lit by the wonderful afterglow Of a day that withered long ago. And the gum trees moved their lips and spoke In the alien language of the oak. And there grew up tall before my eyes Pillared redwoods, that prop the skies. And we stood again where the lilies stand, Torches, lighting a twilight land; Lamps of the forest, flashing red, While the darkness gathered overhead. For, robed in her purple, the Night came down, Weaving the starlight into her gown; And the moon arose, like a bubble, blown By the children playing about Christ’s Throne; And the iridescent gem was set As an opal in her coronet. And our souls flashed up above the night, And clung together and made one light. And the brook swept by, and as it went Sang us the song of heart’s content. And our campfire set its smoke unfurled A flag on the roof of the fair, green world. Now, La Honda’s sacred solitudes Vainly call me from hills and woods; These for me shall remain untrod, Sacred to Memory and to God. But these and thee I shall not forget Till Grief wed Joy and divorce Regret. And by all that was and by all that is, And for all that we were, I ask thee this, Friend of my Past, grow not too high, That I may reach unto thee, even I, When, with eyes grown clearer, I see thine eyes As the Dawn of Remembered Days arise, Or as Stars of Home, in the alien skies.

VENGEANCE IS THINE

BY S. J. ALEXANDER

Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord; But there cometh the Hour and the Man, And the tangled red knots of His Plan Cry out for the Hand on His Sword.

And these are the Words that He saith, And the Will of the Words of His Mouth, To the men of His Lands of the South In the Halls of His City of Death:

“I am slow to repay,” saith the Lord: “My Patience and Mercy endure; But the day of My Vengeance is sure, And This is My Will and My Word:

“Ye shall draw My Sword out from its sheath; Ye shall strike at the bosom of Guilt; Ye shall stab the red blade to its hilt In the black heart that lieth beneath.

“With My Name on your lips ye shall draw; And the Name which your lips may not speak Ye shall bear in your soul, as ye wreak The ultimate end of My Law.

“My Anger encompassed them still When they took the Black Vow, nothing loath; My Oath rose up over their oath, And broke it and bent to My Will.

“I have waited, withheld and withstood, But I weary of all,” saith the Lord, “And the Cup of My Anger, long stored, Ye shall spill on the Spillers of Blood.”

TO A FEBRUARY BUTTERFLY

BY S. J. ALEXANDER

Rainbow that flasheth by, Flower that flieth, Sunshine from summer sky, Jewel that dieth;

Winter still lingers near, Ruthlessly cruel, Why hast thou entered here, Flower and jewel?

Out of what tropic sky, Camest thou, gleaming, Thrilled with a purpose high, Psyche-like dreaming?

Now, in thy poverty Dost thou inherit Orchids of memory, Palms of the spirit.

Wings of the butterfly, Soul of the Poet, Drenched from a dripping sky, Scorned from below it;

Broke on Fate’s torture wheel, Shattered asunder, We, who are wingèd, feel God’s lightest thunder.

Soul of the butterfly, Bravely wayfaring, Teach me, that even I Reach to thy daring.

Now with our wings unfurled Go we together Out of this sodden world, Into fair weather.

THE GOD’S CUP

BY S. J. ALEXANDER

The Sun God gave his radiant Gift In a clay cup, whose flaw and rift With many a blur and many a stain Cried out to him, and cried in vain, For a fair vase of porcelain. Men looked at it before they quaffed The God’s wine in its depths, and laughed. “The thing’s old-fashioned, quite antique,” —The cup, in truth, was Attic Greek— “A cup, one could not say a vase, Made for base uses of the base.” But if they pressed their lips to drink, All heaven trembled on the brink Like molten jewels, welling up From the deep measure of the cup; And in the glamor of the spell God’s Silence became audible; The soundless music of the spheres Rang through the ringing in their ears. They heard the hum of Attic bees Upon Hymettus; and the seas Rose up, white lipped, with dripping hair To teach the secret of Despair; Yet more. Their ravished vision saw All Glory flash above the flaw That men esteem as Nature’s law; While Fancy, wiser, sees the Fates Sit spinning at the Ivory Gates, From whence Divine Illusion gives The evanescent gift that lives. So, swept on swelling waves of sound, In seas of rapturous music drowned, So, tossed from height to upper height Of the God’s mountain peaks of light, With trembling lip and gasping breath They drank His Radiant Life and Death; And deemed a jewel half divine The cup that held the Sacred Wine. The wine, in its too potent strength, Ate through the fragile clay at length; The cup fell broken to the ground; The God laughed at the ruin ’round; His wine was spilt on every side, And men, men said, “The Poet Died.”

THE SONG OF THE BULLETS

BY JOHN MILTON SCOTT

I

I cut the air and it sang to me Like a serpent’s hiss with its fangèd kiss, And the leaping leagues upsprang to me; But I passed them all with the battle’s call, As with maddening joy I scream, I screamed The death which the wrathful warrior dreamed. The mad red death which the warrior dreamed.

_I sing! sing! sing! the wrathful warrior’s song._ _Then ping! ping! ping! ’tis the wrathful warrior’s wrong._

I red in the heart of the foe, Fulfilling the warrior’s woe. But this I see before I go— A beauty blackening battle’s show; Pictures of home in heart and brain That blot and blank in my war’s refrain.

Home among vines and green fields, Cattle and horses and sheep, Husband and wife in the joy of their life, Children that play, children that pray, On the bosom a babe and its lullabied sleep.

Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep! Christ is the shepherd of His sheep And lambs like you to His heart he folds, And safely holds, all safely holds. Till the dark night dies in the arms of day, When He kisses my lamb awake to play. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep.

’Neath a Belgian sky sang this lullaby.

_But why; why do the children cry,_ _As the husband true bids a brave good-by?_ _O why do the children and women weep_ _As the war-woes over their gladness creep?_

_O this red! red! red!_ _O this blood I have shed_ _When from rifles of warriors I leap;_ _And the pictures grow dim, and the pictures grow blank,_ _But the weeds on this field will grow poison and rank._ _Siep! siep! siep!_ _The blood runs apace, and gone is the face_ _Of baby and wife,_ _Of love and of life_ _Siep! siep! siep!_ _When from rifles of warriors I leap._

_This, this is why sweet children cry_ _And wives and mothers vainly weep._

II

I tear the air, and its fine silk rips As my kill-song sings from the rifle’s lips, I destroy air-joy which the glad birds sing When in love and life the winds they wing; Theirs is a song of love and life! Mine is a snarl of hate and strife! The mad red snarl of hate and strife.

_I sing! sing! sing! the wrathful warrior’s song._ _Then ping! ping! ping! ’tis the wrathful warrior’s wrong._

I red in the heart of the foe, Fulfilling the warrior’s woe. But this I see before I go— A beauty blackening battle’s show; Pictures of home in heart and brain That blot and blank in my war’s refrain.

A school, a teacher and pupils bright, Lessons and laughter and play, Girls and boys in their school-day joys, Maid and youth in their search for truth; Then home in the shades of the rounded day.

Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep! Christ is the shepherd of His sheep, And lambs like you to His heart he folds, And safely holds, all safely holds, Till the dark night dies in the arms of day, When He kisses my lamb awake to play. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep.

In the German tongue this sleep-song sung.

_But why; why do the children cry,_ _As the husband true bids a brave good-by?_ _O why do the women and children weep_ _As the war-woes over their gladness creep?_

_O this red! red! red!_ _O this blood I have shed_ _When from rifles of warriors I leap;_ _And the pictures grow dim, and the pictures grow blank,_ _But the weeds on this field will grow poison and rank._ _Siep! siep! siep!_ _The blood runs apace, and gone is the face_ _Of baby and wife,_ _Of love and of life._ _Siep! siep! siep!_ _When from rifles of warriors I leap._

_This, this is why sweet children cry_ _And wives and mothers vainly weep._

III

I murder the peace of summer winds; I startle the kine and make dogs whine; I’m the fury of fight, I’m hell’s delight; I’m the black of death with its stiffening breath; I’m insanity’s shriek as I try to speak; I am agony’s glare and its wild despair; I’m the hiss elate of the warrior’s hate, The mad, red hiss of the warrior’s hate.

_I sing! sing! sing! the wrathful warrior’s song._ _Then ping! ping! ping! ’tis the wrathful warrior’s wrong._

I red in the heart of the foe, Fulfilling the warrior’s woe. But this I see before I go— A beauty blackening battle’s show; Pictures of home in heart and brain That blot and blank in my war’s refrain.

A hammer and anvil and lowly cot, Blossoms ashine and the fruitful vine, The flying of sparks, the singing of larks And the rapturing stir of the voice of her, Outsinging the larks in her joys divine.

Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep! Christ is the shepherd of His sheep, And lambs like you to His heart he folds, And safely holds, all safely holds, Till the dark night dies in the arms of day, When He kisses my lamb awake to play. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep.

In joy-hearted France sings this love’s romance.

_But why; why do the children cry,_ _As the husband true bids a brave good-by?_ _O why do the children and women weep_ _As the war-woes over their gladness creep?_

_O this red! red! red!_ _O this blood I have shed_ _When from rifles of warriors I leap;_ _And the pictures grow dim, and the pictures grow blank,_ _But the weeds on this field will grow poison and rank._ _Siep! siep! siep!_ _The blood runs apace, and gone is the face_ _Of baby and wife,_ _Of love and of life._ _Siep! siep! siep!_ _When from rifles of warriors I leap._

_This, this is why sweet children cry._ _And wives and mothers vainly weep._

IV

I am rifle-sent, and the air is rent In tatters and rags and stains; I burn my path of the warrior’s wrath Too hot to be cooled by rains; I murder the song of the rapturing thrush As I chant war’s wrath with its ripping rush. The mad red wrath with its ripping rush. His is a song of love and life, Mine is a screech of hate and strife.

_I sing! sing! sing! the wrathful warrior’s song._ _Then ping! ping! ping! ’tis the wrathful warrior’s wrong._

I red in the heart of the foe, Fulfilling the warrior’s woe. But this I see before I go— A beauty blackening battle’s show; Pictures of home in heart and brain That blot and blank in my war’s refrain.

A meadow alined by English lanes; And Shelley’s lark is in the sky, And Shakespeare’s sheep, in clover deep; A house by the spring and a grapevine swing, A mother’s song and a babe’s reply.

Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep! Christ is the shepherd of His sheep, And lambs like you to His heart he folds, And safely holds, all safely holds, Till the dark night dies in the arms of day, When He kisses my lamb awake to play. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep.

Child hearts rejoice in this English voice.

_But why; why do the children cry,_ _As the husband true bids a brave good-by?_ _O why do the children and women weep_ _As the war-woes over their gladness creep?_

_O this red! red! red!_ _O this blood I have shed_ _When from rifles of warriors I leap;_ _And the pictures grow dim, and the pictures grow blank,_ _But the weeds on this field will grow poison and rank._ _Siep! siep! siep!_ _The blood runs apace, and gone is the face_ _Of baby and wife,_ _Of love and of life._ _Siep! siep! siep!_ _When from rifles of warriors I leap._

_This, this is why sweet children cry_ _And wives and mothers vainly weep._

V

I’m a blighting swift, outflying storms, I ruin and run as I shriek my fun; With a screech of fear in the startled ear, I crush the hope and distill the tear, The tear of love, the hope of hearts; I blight and blast with Destruction’s arts. With the mad, red blight of Destruction’s arts.

_I sing! sing! sing! the wrathful warrior’s song._ _Then ping! ping! ping! ’tis the wrathful warrior’s wrong._

I red in the heart of the foe, Fulfilling the warrior’s woe. But this I see before I go— A beauty blackening battle’s show; Pictures of home in the heart and brain That blot and blank in my war’s refrain.

The Danube blue, the Alsatian heights, And a lover who sings to his maiden true, The song and the kiss, the troth and its bliss, Two hearts abeat in the love complete, And the brown eyes marry the eyes of blue.

Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep! Christ is the shepherd of His sheep, And lambs like you to His heart he folds, And safely holds, all safely holds, Till the dark night dies in the arms of day, When He kisses my lamb awake to play. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep.

An Austrian sings these rapturings.

_But why; why do the children cry,_ _As the husband true bids a brave good-by?_ _O why do the children and women weep_ _As the war-woes over their gladness creep?_

_O this red! red! red!_ _O this blood I have shed_ _When from rifles of warriors I leap;_ _And the pictures grow dim, and the pictures grow blank,_ _But the weeds on this field will grow poison and rank._ _Siep! siep! siep!_ _The blood runs apace, and gone is the face_ _Of baby and wife,_ _Of love and of life._ _Siep! siep! siep!_ _When from rifles of warriors I leap._

_This, this is why sweet children cry_ _And wives and mothers vainly weep._

VI

I cut the air with growls of wrath; I am black woe’s bite as I bark and fight, I’m the mad dog’s fang, and I lead the gang As we wolf together on war’s red path; We rend the flesh, and we wreck the mind; We’re the war-wrath’s lust, and we’re wild and blind,— The red wrath’s lust that is wild and blind.

_I sing! sing! sing! the wrathful warrior’s song._ _Then ping! ping! ping! ’tis the wrathful warrior’s wrong._

I red in the heart of the foe, Fulfilling the warrior’s woe. But this I see before I go— A beauty blackening battle’s show; Pictures of home in heart and brain That blot and blank in my war’s refrain.

A bearded peasant and Tolstoy’s book, Fulfilling the Christ’s great way of peace, His neighbors, dear as the ripened year; ’Twas a neighbor’s girl with laugh and curl Who mothered his flock of the sweet increase.

Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep! Christ is the shepherd of His sheep, And lambs like you to His heart he folds, And safely holds, all safely holds, Till the dark night dies in the arms of day, When He kisses my lamb awake to play. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep.

Like a Russian dove croons this song of love.

_But why; why do the children cry,_ _As the husband true bids a brave good-by?_ _O why do the children and women weep_ _As the war-woes over their gladness creep?_

_O this red! red! red!_ _O this blood I have shed_ _When from rifles of warriors I leap;_ _And the pictures grow dim, and the pictures grow blank,_ _But the weeds on this field will grow poison and rank._ _Siep! siep! siep!_ _The blood runs apace, and gone is the face_ _Of baby and wife._ _Of love and of life._ _Siep! siep! siep!_ _When from rifles of warriors I leap._

_This, this is why sweet children cry_ _And wives and mothers vainly weep._

VII

’Twas wild wrath-riot, ’twas riot of death, This bacchanal black making war’s red wrack, This blood debauch and delirium, Love’s hand palsied, truth’s tongue dumb,— Blotting brave brains of mothers’ refrains, Voices of children, enchantments of home, The-Cathedral-of-man’s earth-rounding dome Which visioning together might well have wrought, Out of the heart of brothering thought.

And now that our screaming wrath is done, And our place in the sky is filled with birds Whose songs seem the voice of the gracious sun, Behind us the wrath and the ruin left, We are bruised and broken in fields bereft Of their gentle flocks and peaceful herds; We know, we know in our black war-woe, There’s not a grace of gain for it all, There’s not a spear of grain from it all.

O woe are we in this rusted red, And woe the hearts which we’ve pierced and bled; No honor is here, no glory bright, But shame that is deeper than speech can tell, But shame that is blacker than pits of hell, The shame of a night unblessed by light, The shame of a brain with its murder stain, And a heart in the grime of war’s red crime.

Woe! woe! woe, is the end of the path That blackens and blights from war’s red wrath. _This, this is why sweet children cry_ _And wives and mothers vainly weep—_ _As the war-woes over their gladness creep._

—Copyright, 1914, by John Milton Scott, and used by the author’s kind permission.

## CHAPTER XII

IMPERSONATION

By “impersonation” we mean the art of assuming for the time being the rôle of some character in a story or a play. We “play the part,” we assume the carriage, the gestures, the quality of voice belonging to the character.

How do we acquire this art? _First_: We study the part carefully till we are sure we understand it. _Second_: We visualize the scenes, and live them over again in our own imagination. _Third_: We begin to speak the lines. We try different inflections, different gestures which suggest themselves to us through our own experiences and our observation of characters in real life which are similar to those of the character we are depicting. This careful observation of the mannerisms and eccentricities of real people aids very materially in interpretation. _Finally_: We decide on the gestures and inflections which seem to us to most nearly interpret the part, and these we practice over and over again until they become a part of our very being, _then we are ready to “play the part.”_

PRACTICE SELECTION

_Merchant of Venice_

_Enter old Gobbo, with a basket._

_Gobbo._—Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew’s?

_Launcelot_ (_Aside_).—O heavens, this my true-begotten father! who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel-blind, knows me not: I will try confusions with him.

_Gobbo._—Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew’s?

_Launcelot._—Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew’s house.

_Gobbo._—By God’s sonties, ’twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?

_Launcelot._—Talk you of young Master Launcelot? (_Aside._) Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelot?

_Gobbo._—No Master, sir, but a poor man’s son: his father, though I say’t, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thank’d, well to live.

_Launcelot._—Well, let his father be what a will, we talk of young Master Launcelot.

_Gobbo._—Your worship’s friend, and Launcelot, sir.

_Launcelot._—But, I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot?

_Gobbo._—Of Launcelot, an’t please your mastership.

_Launcelot._—Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman—according to Fates, and Destinies, and such odd saying, the Sisters Three, and such branches of learning—is, indeed, deceas’d; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.

_Gobbo._—Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop.

_Launcelot_ (_Aside_).—Do I look like a cudgel or a hovelpost, a staff or a prop?—Do you know me, father?

_Gobbo._—Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman: but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy—God rest his soul!—alive or dead?

_Launcelot._—Do you not know me, father?

_Gobbo._—Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.

_Launcelot._—Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son: give me your blessing. Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long,—a man’s son may; but, in the end, truth will out.

_Gobbo._—Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy.

_Launcelot._—Pray you, let’s have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing: I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.

_Gobbo._—I cannot think you are my son.

_Launcelot._—I know not what I shall think of that: but I am Launcelot, the Jew’s man; and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother.

_Gobbo._—Her name is Margery, indeed: I’ll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord, worship’d might he be! What a beard hast thou got! thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin, my fill-horse, has on his tail.

_Launcelot._—It should seem, then, that Dobbin’s tail grows backward: I am sure he had more hair of his tail than I have on my face, when I last saw him.

_Gobbo._—Lord, how art thou chang’d! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How ’gree you now?

_Launcelot._—Well, well; but, for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master’s a very Jew: give him a present! give him a halter: I am famish’d in his service; you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come: give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who, indeed, gives rare new liveries: if I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground.—O rare fortune! here comes the man:—to him, father, for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.

—Act II, Scene II, Lines 29-104.

HAMLET’S DECLARATION OF FRIENDSHIP

_Hamlet._ What ho! Horatio!

_Horatio._ Here, sweet lord, at your service.

_Hamlet._ Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man As e’er my conversation coped withal.

_Horatio._ O, my dear lord,—

_Hamlet._ Nay, do not think I flatter; For what advancement may I hope from thee That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits, To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d? No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish, her election Hath sealed thee for herself; for thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, A man that fortune’s buffets and rewards Hast ta’en with equal thanks: and blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger To sound what stop she pleases. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of hearts, As I do thee.

—From Act III, Scene 2.

OTHELLO’S APOLOGY

[The speech calls for great dignity, ease, and power, in both speech and manner.]

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approved good masters, That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her: The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace; For since these arms of mine had seven years’ pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field, And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle, And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic,— For such proceeding I am charg’d withal,— I won his daughter. ... Her father loved me; oft invited me; Still question’d me the story of my life, From year to year,—the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass’d. I ran it through, even from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it: Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth scapes i’ the imminent deadly breach, Of being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence And portance in my travels’ history: ...

This to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline: But still the house-affairs would draw her thence; Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She’d come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse: which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively: I did consent, And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer’d. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs: She swore, in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange, ’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful: She wish’d she had not heard it, yet she wish’d That heaven had made her such a man: she thank’d me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake: She loved me for the dangers I had pass’d; And I lov’d her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used.

THE SEVEN AGES

[This is a succession of purely imaginative ideas which the voice should touch lightly. In this speech one meets always the question of impersonation: shall the mewling infant, the whining schoolboy, the sighing lover and the rest be imitated by the reader? It is in better taste not to impersonate these seven characters beyond certain almost imperceptible hints which the gayety of Jaques’s mind might naturally throw off.]

All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms: And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

—“As You Like it,” Act II, Scene 7.

SOLITUDE PREFERRED TO COURT LIFE

_Duke S._ Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam. The season’s difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, Which, when it bite and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say ’Tis no flattery; these are counselors That feelingly persuade me what I am. Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. I would not change it.

_Amiens._ Happy is your grace, That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

...

_Duke S._ Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should in their own confines with forked heads Have their round haunches gor’d.

—“As You Like It,” Act II.

THE POTION SCENE

SCENE: JULIET’S CHAMBER

(_Enter Juliet and Nurse, who bears wedding garments._)

_Juliet_ (_looking at garments_).

Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle nurse, I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou knowest, is cross and full of sin.

(_Enter Lady Capulet._)

_Lady Capulet._

What are you busy, ho? need you my help?

_Juliet._

No, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries As are behoveful for our state to-morrow: So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night sit up with you; For, I am sure, you have your hands full all, In this so sudden business.

_Lady Capulet_ (_crossing and kissing Juliet on the forehead_).

Good night; Get thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need.

(_Exit Lady Capulet with nurse._)

_Juliet_ (_looking after them_).

Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, That almost freezes up the heat of life: I’ll call them back again to comfort me. (_Runs to R._) Nurse! What should she do there? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial. (_Takes vial from bosom._) What if this mixture do not work at all? Shall I be married then to-morrow morning? No, no! (_draws dagger_) this shall forbid it.

(_Lays dagger on table._)

Lie you there. (_To vial._) What if it be a poison, which the friar Subtly hath ministered to have me dead, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonored Because he married me before to Romeo? I fear it is; and yet, methinks, it should not, For he hath still been tried a holy man.

(_Puts vial in bosom._)

How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo Come to redeem me? there’s a fearful point! Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or, if I live, is it not very like, The horrible conceit of death and night, Together with the terror of the place,— As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, Where, for these many hundred years, the bones Of all my buried ancestors are packed; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies festering in his shroud; where as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort; ... O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed with all these hideous fears? And madly play with my forefathers’ joints? And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud? And, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone, As with a club, dash out my desperate brains? O, look! methinks I see my cousin’s ghost Seeking out Romeo, ... Stay, Tybalt, stay!— Romeo, I come! (_Drawing out vial—then cork._) This do I drink to thee.

(_Throws away vial. She is overcome and sinks to the floor._)

—From “Romeo and Juliet,” Act IV, Scene 3.

BANISHMENT SCENE

## SCENE III, A ROOM IN THE PALACE

(_Enter Celia and Rosalind._)

_Cel._ Why, cousin; why Rosalind;—Cupid have mercy;—Not a word?

_Ros._ Not one to throw to a dog.

_Cel._ No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs, throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

_Ros._ Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed with reasons, and the other mad without any.

_Cel._ But is all this for your father?

_Ros._ No, some of it for my father’s child: O, how full of briars is this working-day world!

_Cel._ They are but burrs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very coats will catch them.

_Ros._ I could shake them off my coat; these burrs are in my heart.

_Cel._ Hem them away.

_Ros._ I would try; if I could cry hem, and have him.

_Cel._ Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.

_Ros._ O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.

_Cel._ Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?

_Ros._ The duke my father lov’d his father dearly.

_Cel._ Doth it therefore ensue, that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.

_Ros._ No ’faith, hate him not, for my sake.

_Cel._ Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well?

_Ros._ Let me love him for that; and do you love him, because I do: Look, here comes the duke.

_Cel._ With his eyes full of anger.

(_Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords._)

_Duke F._ Mistress, despatch you with your safest haste, and get you from our Court.

_Ros._ Me, uncle?

_Duke F._ You, cousin, within these ten days if thou be’st found so near our public court as twenty miles, thou diest for it.

_Ros._ I do beseech your grace, let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me: if with myself I hold intelligence, or have acquaintance with mine own desires; if that I do not dream, or be not frantic (as I do trust I am not), then, dear uncle, never so much as in a thought unborn, did I offend your highness.

_Duke F._ Thus do all traitors, if their purgation did consist in words, they are as innocent as grace itself: let it suffice thee, that I trust thee not.

_Ros._ Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor: tell me, whereon the likelihood depends.

_Duke F._ Thou art thy father’s daughter, there’s enough.

_Ros._ So was I, when your highness took his dukedom; so was I, when your highness banish’d him: treason is not inherited, my lord: or, if we did derive it from our friends, what’s that to me? my father was no traitor: then, good my liege, mistake me not so much, to think my poverty is treacherous.

_Cel._ Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

_Duke F._ Aye, Celia; we stay’d here for your sake. Else had she with her father rang’d along.

_Cel._ I did not then entreat to have her stay, it was your pleasure, and your own remorse; I was too young that time to value her, but now I know her; if she be a traitor, so am I: we still have slept together; rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together;

And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans, Still we went coupled, and inseparable.

_Duke F._ She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness, Her very silence, and her patience, Speak to the people and they pity her. Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name; And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous, When she is gone: then open not thy lips; Firm and irrevocable is my doom Which I have pass’d upon her; she is banish’d.

_Cel._ Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege; I cannot live out of her company.

_Duke F._ You are a fool:—You, niece, provide yourself; If you outstay the time, upon my honor, And in the greatness of my word, you die.

(_Exeunt Duke Frederick and Lords._)

_Cel._ O my poor Rosalind: whither wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. I charge thee, be not thou more griev’d than I am.

_Ros._ I have more cause.

_Cel._ Thou hast not, cousin, Pr’ythee, be cheerful: know’st thou not, the duke Hath banish’d me his daughter?

_Ros._ That he hath not.

_Cel._ No? hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love Which teaches thee that thou and I art one: Shall we be sunder’d? shall we part, sweet girl? No; let my father seek another heir. Therefore devise with me, how we may fly, Whither to go, and what to bear with us: And do not seek to take your charge upon you, To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out; For by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, Say what thou can’st, I’ll go along with thee.

_Ros._ Why, whither shall we go?

_Cel._ To seek my uncle.

_Ros._ Alas, what danger will it be to us, Maids as we are, to travel so far? Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

_Cel._ I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire, And with a kind of umber smirch my face; The like do you; so shall we pass along, And never stir assailants.

_Ros._ Were it not better, Because that I am more than common tall, That I did suit me in all points like a man? A boar-spear in my hand; and in my heart Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will, We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside; As many other mannish cowards have, That do outface it with their semblances.

_Cel._ What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

_Ros._ I’ll have no other worse than Jove’s own page, And therefore, look you, call me Ganymede. But what will you be call’d?

_Cel._ Something that hath a reference to my state: No longer Celia, but Aliena.

_Ros._ But, cousin, what if we assayed to steal The clownish fool out of your father’s court? Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

_Cel._ He’ll go along o’er the wide world with me; Leave me alone to woo him: Let’s away And get our jewels and our wealth together; Devise the fittest time, and safest way To hide us from pursuit that will be made After my flight: Now go we in content, To liberty, and not to banishment.

—From “As You Like It,” Act I.

CORYDON

BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

SCENE, A ROAD-SIDE IN ARCADY

_Shepherd._ Good sir, have you seen pass this way A mischief straight from market-day? You’d know her at a glance, I think; Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink; She has a way of looking back Over her shoulder, and alack! Who gets that look one time, good sir, Has naught to do but follow.

_Pilgrim._ I have not seen this maid methinks, Though she that passed had lips like pinks.

_Shepherd._ Or like two strawberries made one By some sly trick of dew and sun.

_Pilgrim._ A poet.

_Shepherd._ Nay, a simple swain That tends his flocks on yonder plain Naught else I swear by book and bell. But she that passed you marked her well Was she not smooth as any be That dwells here—in Arcady?

_Pilgrim._ Her skin was the satin bark of birches.

_Shepherd._ Light or dark?

_Pilgrim._ Quite dark.

_Shepherd._ Then ’twas not she.

_Pilgrim._ The peaches side That next the sun is not so dyed As was her cheek. Her hair hung down Like summer twilight falling brown; And when the breeze swept by, I wist Her face was in a somber twist.

_Shepherd._ No that is not the maid I seek; Her hair lies gold against her cheek, Her yellow tresses take the morn, Like silken tassels of the corn, And yet brown-locks are far from bad.

_Pilgrim._ Now I bethink me this one had A figure like the willow tree Which, slight and supple, wondrously Inclines to droop with pensive grace, And still retain its proper place. A foot so arched and very small The marvel was she walked at all; Her hand in sooth, I lack for words— Her hand, five slender snow-white birds, Her voice, tho’ she but said “God Speed”— Was melody blown through a reed; The girl Pan changed into a pipe Had not a note so full and rife. And then her eye—my lad, her eye! Discreet, inviting, candid, shy, An outward ice, an inward fire, And lashes to the heart’s desire. Soft fringes blacker than the sloe—

_Shepherd._ Good sir, which way did this one go?

_Pilgrim._ So he is off! The silly youth Knoweth not love in sober sooth, He loves—thus lads at first are blind— No woman, only womankind. I needs must laugh, for by the mass No maid at all did this way pass.