Citation
Holidays at home and school

Material Information

Title:
Holidays at home and school a collection of charming recitations, dialogues and stories carefully selected from the best authors, designed for home amusements and school entertainments
Creator:
Imperial Publishing Co. (Chicago, Ill.) ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
Chicago ;
Philadelphia
Publisher:
Imperial Publishing Co.
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
220, [1] p. : ill. (some col.) ; 26 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile literature ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile literature ( lcsh )
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Children's poetry ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1890 ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1890 ( lcsh )
Dialogues -- 1890 ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1890
Genre:
Children's stories
Children's poetry
Dialogues ( rbgenr )
Spatial Coverage:
United States -- Illinois -- Chicago
United States -- Pennsylvania -- Philadelphia
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
Contains prose and verse.
General Note:
Frontispiece printed in green.
Statement of Responsibility:
illustrated.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026631088 ( ALEPH )
ALG4049 ( NOTIS )
181645696 ( OCLC )

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HOLIDAYS

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IRUQUO0 NN 2 SC SOKO.

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Charming Recitations, Dialogues and Stories

CAREFULLY SELECTED FRO M

LHe BESh AUTHORS

DESIGNED FOR

Home AMUSEMENTS anp SCHOOL ENTERTAINMENTS

_—_———

Mustrated, —

CHICAGO AND PHILADELPHIA G
IMPERIAL PUBLISHING CO.,
1890.

, IMPERIAL PUBLISHING Co







eee Mois AY) GOOD) OLD: SAVING. tic):











We're happy, happy all day long;
Each busy as a bee
' With study, exercise and song,
i As any one can see.














-++++ TABLE OF CONTENTS ©



§ PAGE, PAGE,
CouNTING THE STITCHES, - Frontispiece, | CHEEK, - - - - - - 54
Our Lives, - - : - - 13] Papa’s Lerrer, - - - - 55
REPROVE GENTLY, = - - 14.| THE OLD Man GoEs To Town, - - 56
Let Tuy GARMENTS BE ALWAYS WHITE, - 15 | SuMMER, - - - - - 58
My Cuoick, (Illustration) - : 17 | Summer, (Illustration) - - - 59
Goop-NicHT, Papa, - - - - 17 | I WonpER Way, - - - - 61
Tommy’s PRAYER, - - - 1g | A Stray CuILp, start ia - - 61
I Cannor TurN THE Kry anp My Boy CREEDS OF THE BELLS, - : - 62
OUTSIDE, - - - - : 21 | THE LitTLe HERO, - - - - 63
ASPIRATIONS, - - - : 22 | Love Licutrens Lazor, - : - 65
Tue Rainy Day, - - - - 22 | Tur OLD MAN IN THE PALACE Car, - 66
ARTEMUS WARD, - : - - 23 | Tue CHRISTMAS PRAYER, - : 67
Tus Dyinc STREET ARAB, - - - 23 | CuristMAS EVE, - - . - 69
Tur Two IDEALS, - - - : 24.| THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND, - -. 7o
Kiss Her anp TELL Her So, - - 24 |: TIRED MoTHERS, - - . - 72
Deacon Monroe’s Story, - - 25 | THe Leak IN THE DykgE, - - 73
“Rock or AGES,” — - - - - 27 | Tue AMERICAN Frac, - - a7 6
AGAIN, - - _- - - 27 | THE MORTGAGE ON THE Farm, : 76
Katiz Lee anp WILLIE GRAy,~ - : 28 | Ir WE Knew, - : : : - 97
SELLING THE BaBy, - : : 28 | James A. GARFIELD, - : - "7
My Moruer aT THE GATE, : - 30 } AuTuMmN, - - - - - 78
Tue Rosin’s CHRISTMAS EVE, - : 30 | Autumn, (Illustration) - : - 79
Rosin’s Nest, (Illustration) - - - 31 | THe Kiss DEFERRED, cs . UNWRITTEN POEMs, - - - 36 | Tur First Croup, a - - 82
Ture Worxp, - - - : - 37 | ON THE FENCE, - - - - 83
Ture BripGe-KEEPER’s STORY, - - 37 | CHRIST AND THE LirriE ONEs, ae 83
No Srects in HEAVEN, - - - 39 | BETTER WHISTLE THAN WHINE, - - 84
Gorn’ SoMEWHERE, - - - 41 | AN Otp Man’s Story, - - : 85
Tue LirtLeE BLACK-EYED REBEL, - - 43 | TEacHING PusLic ScHooL, - - - 87
REVERIES, - 2 - - Q 44.| THE CHRISTMAS TREE, - - - 87
GRADATIM, - - - : - 45 |.TH= Op Clock IN THE CORNER, - - 89
Sones UNSUNG, -. - - : 46 | OLD KitcHEN REVERIES, - - 89
Tur SprinG or Lire, - : - 46|)T~L GtvE You Aa CHancke—MAKE THE
Two PorTRAITS, - - - - 46 Most or ir. Go! - - - gt
SPRING, (Illustration) - - : 47 | We SuaL~t Know, - - - 92
Tue NicHT AFTER CHRISTMAS, : 49 | THE RuINED MERCHANT, : : 92
THE Otp ScHooL-Room, - - - 50 | WINTER, - : : : 94
Yawcos STRAUSS, : - : 51 | THe Partinec Hour, - - - 94.
A LirtLe Story, - : - : 52 | WinreER, (Illustration) - nr: ).)

K prnc His Worp, - - . 53 | My Wire anp I, - - ’ ” 97



TABLE OF CONTENTS.



Lanp Poor, - - - : -
CoLLEecE “Oin Cans,” - . -
THE OLD Ways AND THE NEw,
Tue Story of Deacon Brown, -
A FReeE Seat, - - - -
A Free Sear, (Illustration) - -

GRANDFATHER’s House, met, Sater te
Tue TaLe of A TADPoLE, = - +
CHEER Ur, - zahetone ve -
Onty PLAYING, - - - “
Waat Sue Dip, - - - -
“UNKNOWN,” - - - -
Wuy Tue Doc’s Nosz 1s ALways CoLp,
CLEAR THE Way, _¢ - oe
Wuen Santa Craus Comes, - -
THE NortH Wiyp, _- aaa

THE MouNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL, -
Jack Frost’s LitTie SIstTer, . - -
Wuen I Grow Up,. - - : :
Danpy Jim, Bee Rett 2 -
Succgss, ? - - - -
Wuen I Grow Up, (Iilustration) -
Crop oF AcorNs,-. - - - -
Tue OLD CLock AGAINST. THE WALL,
GREEN. APPLES, - - - :
Tue CLosinc ADDRESS, - : -
Be True, Boys, - - - :
FAULTS OF OTHERS, - - - -
ONLY AN APPLE, - * - - -
For a Very Litriz Boy, - 3 5

A ScHOLAR, - - 2 =
Give Us LittLe Boys a CHance, - -
One Littte Act, . our ae
Firry YEars Aparr, . s . S
DaReE To Do, -. - - a

Tue Rosin Ran Our, - ‘ s
Nursery SpPEEcH, ae e 3
Learn To CounT, 4 2 <
ADVICE FROM Five, TEN AND TWELVE,

Moruer Eartu, - : : os

Wuar BrecaMe oF A Liz, - Z
A PERFECT FaITH, - - = 5
To MorHeErs, - - - E

PAGE.
97
98

IOI

102
104
105

107
108
108
109
109
T10
TIT
LIL

112
L12
113

113
114

114
114
II5

117

117
118
119
119
II9
119
120
120
120
120
121

121
121
122
122
122
123
123
124,
124

Mousz-TRaes, - - : - -
SpEak GENTLY, - : . -
Do Your Best, - - - : -
Goop Nient, (Illustration) : -
In Santa Ciaus Lann, - : -
MotHer Goose's Parry, - -
THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN, - : -
TRUSTY AND TRUE, - : .
Poor LitrLe Cras, (Illustration) - :

_THE TEMPERANCE LESSON, - -

Visir or Santa CLaus, - : :
I’m a May, - - - :
VacaTIon Fun, - - - -
A CoLLoauy, - ae 2 we
SIGNING THE PLEDGE, - - -
THe MarrimoniaL ADVERTISEMENT,
TALKING FLOWERS, - - : :
TALKING FLowers, (Illustration)
UNDER AN UMBRELLA, - S :
AFTER TWENTY YEARS, - - -
Jounny’s TRIAL FOR A CHRISTMAS PRIZE,
MarcGeEry’s CHRISTMAS. DOLLAR, -
A Curistmas GuEsT, - - -
CHRISTMAS ON AN ISLAND, SSeietimca
A. CuristmMas DREAM, (Illustration) -
A WESTERN CHRISTMAS, - -
Tus CuristmMas Box, AND WHat CAME
or Ir, - - - - -
Roy’s CuRISTMAS PRIZE, - - -
SanTa CLaus’ REINDEER, aie +
PHysScHOLOGY AND MINERALOGY,
Tue Birp’s Last CHRISTMAS, - -
An INTERESTED LISTENER (Illustration)
Tue Story Wirnout a NAME, -
Littte Luici’s CHRISTMAS, - -
A Miscutevous Cat’s CHRISTMAS, -
THE CHRISTMAS GHOST, . - -
A Curistmas DREAM, - - -
THe Merry Curistmas HELPERS, -
THE INFLUENCE. OF CHRISTMAS STORIES
on A Dear AnD Dump Girt, - -
A Lucky CHRISTMAS, - - -
A CHRISTMAS WITH THE Fairigs, -

ROR OF

12

PAGE
125
125
126
127
129
136
139
150
151
156
157
159
160
161
162
168
172
173
176
181
19
192
195
198
199
202

203,
205
205
206
208
209
211
212
215
215
217
218

219
220
2a





OUR LIVES.

Our lives are songs; God writes the words, We must write the music,whatever the song,
And we set them to music at pleasure, Whatever its rhyme or metre,
And the song grows glad, or sweet, orsad, And if it is glad, we may make it sad,

As we choose to fashion the measure. Or if sweet, we may make it sweeter.

13





REPROVE GENTLY.

He who checks the child with terror,
Stops its play and stills its song,
Not alone commits an error,

But a grievous moral wrong.

Would you stop the flowing river,
Thinking it would cease to flow?
Onward must it flow forever—

Better teach it where to go.







E ALWAYS WHITE

SB

LET THY GARMENT

15









vere eer.

MY CHOICE.

HICH of the two do you love best?
Was the question that came to me,
As robed for the night in snowy white
My darlings knelt by me.

Which, if the Father’s hand
Were to beckon one away,

And the summons be “Thy best beloved,”
Which of them would you say?

And I drew my little ones closer,
As I sat in the twilight dim;
As I wondered, if He were to ask,
What I should answer Him.

Maude is gentle and loving,
With willing hands and feet,

With curious thoughts and questions wise,
With womanly ways and sweet.

And roguish hazel-eyed Minnie,
The willing baby yet,

Though over her head of golden brown
Three summers’ suns have set.

One so serious and thoughtful,

_ With wisdom beyond her years:

The other like April sunshine,
Ready with smiles and tears.

R)

Now, as they kneel before me
In the suddenly quiet room,

While the shadows deepen and darken
Into the evening gloom,

The childish voices petition,

As they fold their hands in prayer,
The heavenly hand to lead them

The heavenly love to care.

Then, as they throw around me
Their arms, and clasp me tight,
The sweet lips murmur “We love you,
Good-night, mamma, good-night.”

I cannot choose between them,
Father! oh spare the test;
Which of my darlings is dearer
Which one I love the best.

“GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA.”

HE words of a blue-eyed child as she

kissed her chubby hand and looked

down the stairs, “Good-night, papa; Jessie
see you in the morning.”

It came to be a settled thing, and every
evening, as the mother slipped the white
night-gown over the plump shoulders, the
little one stopped on the stairs and sang



18 - “GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA.”

out, “Good-night, papa,” and as the father
heard the silvery accents of the child, he
came, and taking the cherub in his arms,
kissed her tenderly, while the mother’s
eyes filled, and a swift prayer went up, for,
strange to say, this man, who loved. his
child with all the warmth of his great,
noble nature, had one fault to mar his man-
liness. From his youth he loved the wine
cup. Genial in spirit, and with a fascina-
tion of manner that won him friends, he
could not resist when surrounded by his
boon companions. Thus his home was
darkened, the heart of his wife bruised and
bleeding, the future of his child shadowed.

Three years had the winsome prattle of
the baby crept into the avenues of the
father’s heart, keeping him eloser to his
home, but still the fatal cup was in his hand.
* Alas for frail humanity, insensible to the
calls of love! With unutterable tender-
ness God saw there was no other way; this
father was dear to Him, the purchase of
His Son; He could not see him perish, and
calling a swift messenger, He said, “Speed
thee to earth and bring the babe.”

“Good-night, papa,” sounded from the
stairs. What was there in the voice? Was
it the echo of the mandate, “Bring me the
babe”— a silvery plaintive sound, a linger-
ing music that touched the father’s heart, as
when a cloud crosses the sun? “Good-
night, my darling;” but his lips quivered
and his broad brow grew pale. “Is Jessie
sick, mother? Her cheeks are flushed, and
her eyes have a strange light.”

“Not sick,” and the mother stooped to
kiss the flushed brow; “she may have
played too much. Pet is not sick?”

“ Jessie tired, mamma; good-night, papa ;
Jessie see you in the morning.”

“ That is all, she is only tired,” said the



mother, asshe took the small hand. Another
kiss, and the father turned away; but his
heart was not satisfied.

Sweet lullabies were sung; but Jessie
was restless and could not sleep. “ Tell
me a story, mamma;” and the mother told
of the blessed babe that Mary cradled, fol-
lowing along the story till the child has
grown to walk and play. The blue, wide-
open eyes filled with a strange light, as
though she saw and .comprehended more
than the mother knew.

That night the father did not visit the
saloon ; tossing on his bed, starting from a
feverish sleep and bending over the crib,
the long, weary hours passed. Morning
revealed the truth—Jessie was smitten
with the fever.

“Keep her quiet,” the doctor said; ‘a
few days of good nursing, and she will be
all right.” !

Words easily said; but the father saw a
look on the sweet face such as he had seen
before. He knew the message was at the
door.

Night came. “Jessie is sick, can’t say
good-night, papa;” and the little clasping
fingers clung to the father’s hand.

“O God, spare her! I cannot, cannot
bear it!” was wrung from his suffering
heart.

Days passed ; the mother was tireless in
her watching. With her babe cradled in
her arms her heart was slow to take in the
truth, doing her best to solace the father’s
heart: “A light case! the doctor says,
‘Pet will soon be well.’”

Calmly, as one who knows his doom, the
father laid his hand upon the hot brow,
looked into the eyes even then covered
with the film of death, and with all the
strength of his manhood cried, “Spare her,



O God! spare my chiid, and I will follow
thee.”

With a last painful effort the parched ~

lips opened: “Jessie’s too sick; can’t say
good night, papa—in the morning.”
‘There was a convulsive shudder, and the
clasping fingers relaxed their hold ; the mes-
senger had taken the child.

Months have passed. Jessie’s crib
stands by the side of her father’s couch,
her blue embroidered dress and white hat
hang in his closet; her boots with the
print of the feet just as she last wore them,
as sacred in his eyes as they are in the
mother’s. Nut dead, but merely risen toa
higher life , while, sounding down from the
upper stairs, “ Good night papa, Jessie see
you in the morning,” has been the means
of winning to a better way one who had
shown himself deat to every former call.

TOMMY’S PRAYER.

)N adark and dismal alley where the sun-
: shine never came,
Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly,
delicate and lame;
He had never yet been healthy, but had
lain since he was born,
Dragging out his weak existence well nigh
hopeless and forlorn.

He was six, was little Tommy; ‘twas just
five years ago

Since hig drunken mother dropped him,
and the babe was crippled so.

He had never known the comfort of a
mother’s tender care,

But her eruel blows and curses made his
pain still worse to bear.



TOMMY’S PRAYER. 19

There he lay within the cellar from the
; morning till the night,

Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated,
naught to make his dull life bright ;

Not a single friend to love him, not a liv-
ing thing to love—

For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven
up above.

*Twas a quiet, summer evening; and the
alley, too, was still;

Tommy’s little heart was sinking, and he

"felt: so lonely, till,

Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards
from the street,

Came the sound of some one singing, sound-
ing, oh ! so clear and sweet.

Eagerly did Tommy listen asthe singing
nearer came— :

Oh! that he conld see the singer! How
he wished he wasn’t lame.

Then he called and shouted loudly, till the
singer heard the sound,

And on noting whence it issued, soon the
little cripple found.

Twas a maiden rough and rugged, hair un-
kempt and naked feet,

All her garments torn and ragged, her ap-
pearance far from neat ;

“So yer called me,” said the maiden, “won-
der wot yer wants o’ me;

Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot
may your name chance to be?”

“ My name’s Tommy; I’ma cripple, and I
want to hear you sing,

For it makes me feel so happy—sing me
something, anything.”

Jessie laughed, and answered, smiling, “I
can’t stay here very long,

But I'll sing a hymn to please you, wot I
calls the ‘Glory song.’”



20 TOMMY’S PRAYER.

Then she sang to him of heaven, pearly
gates, and streets of gold,

Where the happy angel children are not
starved or nipped with cold;

But where happiness and gladness never
can decrease or end,

And where kind and loving Jesus is their
Sovereign and their Friend.

Oh! how Tommy’s eyes did glisten as he
drank in every word |

As it fell from “ Singing Jessie”—was it
true, what he had heard ?

And so anxiousiy he asked her:
really such a place?”

And 2 tear begar to trickle down his pallid
little face.

“Ts there

“Tommy, you're alittle heathen ; why, it’s
up beyond the sky,

And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall
go there when yer die.”

“Then,” said Tommy; “tell me, Jessie,
how can I the Saviour love,

When I’m down in this ’ere cellar, and he’s
up in heaven above?”

So the little ragged maiden who had heard
at Sunday school

All about the way to heaven, and the
Christian’s golden rule,

Taught the little cripple, Tommy, how to
love and how to pray,

Then she sang a “Song of Jesus,” kissed
his cheex and went away.

Tommy lay within the cellar which had
grown so dark and cold,

Thinking all about the children in the
streets of shining gold;

And he heeded not the darkness of that
damp and chilly room,

For the joy in Tommy’s bosom could dis-
perse the deepest gloom.









“Oh! if I could only see it,” thought the
cripple, as he lay,

’ Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think

Plltry and pray;”

So he put his hands together, and he closed
his little eyes,

And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this.
message to the skies :

“Gentle Jesus, please forgive me, as L
didn’t know afore,

That yer cared for little cripples who is.
weak and very poor,

And I never heard of heaven till that Jes-
sie came to-day

And told me all abont it, so L wants to try
and pray.

“You can see me, can’t yer Jesus? Jessie
told me that yer could,

And I somehow must believe it, for it:
seems so prime and good ;

And she told me if I loved you, I should
see yer when I die,

In the bright and happy heaven that is up.
beyond the sky.

“Lord, Pm only just a cripple, and ’'m no
use here below,

For I heard my mother whisper she’d be
glad if I could go;

And Pm cold and hungry sometimes ; and
I feel so lonely, too,

Can’t yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to heav-
en along o" you ?

“Oh! TP’d be so good and patient, and ’d
never cry or fret ;

And your kindness to me, Jesus, I would
surely not forget,

I would love you all I know of, and would
never make a noise—

Can’t you find me just a corner, where I'll
watch the other boys?



a Tn

“I CANNOT TURN THE KEY AND MY BOY OUTSIDE” 21



“Ob! I think yer’ll doit, Jesus, something
seems to tell me so,

For I feel so gladand happy, and I do so
want to g03

How T long to see yer, Jesus, and the chil-
dren all so bright!

Come and fetch me, won’t yer, Jesus ?
Come and fetch me home to-night !”

Tommy ceased his supplication, he had
told his soul’s desire,

And he waited for the answer till his head
began to tire;

‘Then he turned towards his corner, and lay
huddled in a heap,

Closed his little eyes so gently, and was
quickly fast asleep.

Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have
seen his little face

As he lay there in thecorner, in that damp
and uoisome place ;

For his countenance was shining like an
angel’s, fair and bright,

And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy,
heavenly light.

He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged
singing girl,

He might well have wondered, pondered,
till his brain began to whirl ;

But he took it as she told it, and believed
it then and there,

Simply trusting in the Saviour, and His
kind and tender care.

In the morning, when the mother came to
wake her crippled boy,

She discovered that hisfeatures wore a look
of sweetest joy,

And she shook him somewhat roughly, but
the cripple’s face was cold—

He had gone to join the children in the
streets of shining gold.

| « USPENSE is

Tommy’s prayer had soon been answered,
and the Angel, Death, had come

To remove him from his cellar to his
bright and heavenly home,

Where sweet comfort, joy and gladness
never can decrease or end,

And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sov-
ereign and his Friend.

“IT CANNOT TURN THE KEY AND MY
BOY OUTSIDE.”

worse than bitter
The lad will come no more; [grief,
Why should we longer watch and wait?
Turn the key in the door.
From weary days and lonely nights
The light of hope has fled;
I say the ship is lost, good wife,
And our boy is dead.”

“ Husband, the last words that I spoke,
Just as he left the shore,

Were, ‘Come thou early, come thou late,
Thow'lt find an open door;

Open thy mother’s heart and hand,
Whatever else betide,’

And so I cannot turn the key,
And my boy outside.

“Seven years is naught to mother love,
And seventy times the seven;

A mother is a mother still,
On earth or in God’s heaven.

Pll watch for him, I'll pray for him,—
Prayer as the world is wide;

But, oh! I cannot turn the key
And leave my boy outside.



22 ASPIRATIONS.—THE RAINY DAY.



“When winds were loud, and snow lay
And storm clouds drifted black, [white,
I’ve heard his step—tor hearts can hear;
I know he’s coming back.
What if he came this very night,
And he the house-door tried,
And found that we had turned the key,
And our boy outside !”

- The good man trimmed the candle light,
Threw on another log, :

Then, suddenly he said: “Good wife!
What ails,—what ails the dog ?

And what ails you? What doyou hear?”
She raised her.eyes and cried:

“Wide open fling the house-door now,
For my boy’s outside !”

Scarce said the words, when a glad hand
Flung wide the household door.

“ Dear mother! father! I am come!
I need not leave you more !””



That night, the first in seven long years,
The happy mother sighed:

“ Father, you now may turn the key,
For my boy’s inside !”

ASPIRATIONS.

UR aims are all too high; we try
To gain the summit at a bound,
When we should reach it step by step,
And climb the Jadder round by round.

He who would climb the heights sublime,
Or breathe the purer air of life,

Must not expect to rest in ease, i
But brace himself for toil or strife.

We should not in our blindness seek
To grasp alone for grand and great,
Disdaining every smaller good,—
For trifles make the aggregate.
And if a cloud should hover o’cr
Our weary pathway like a pall,
Remember, God permits it there,
And His good purpose reigns o’er all.

Life should be full of earnest work,
Our hearts undashed by fortune’s frown;
Let perseverance conquer fate,
And mervt seize the victor’s crown.
The battle is not to the strong,
The race not always to the fleet ;
And he who seeks to pluck the stars,
Will lose the jewels at his feet.

THE RAINY DAY.

HE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind. is never
weary ; :
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary,
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering
past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the
hlast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining ;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.



ARTEMUS WARD.
S Artemus was once traveling in the

cars, dreading to be bored, and feel- |

ing miserable, a man approached him, sat
down, and said,—

“Did you hear that last thing on Horace
Greeley?”

“Greeley? Greeley?” said Artemus.
“ Horace Greeley? Who is he?”

The man was quiet about five minutes.
Pretty soon he said,—

“George Francis Train is kicking up a
good deal of arow over in England. Do you
think they will put him in a bastile?”

“Train? Train ¢ George Francis Train? ”
said Artemus, solemnly, “I never heard of
him.”

This ignorance kept the man quiet about
fifteen minutes, then he said,—

“What do you think about General
Grant’s chances for the Presidency ¢ Do you
think they will run him?”

“Grant? Grant? hang it, man,” said
Artemus, “you appear to know more
strangers than any man I ever saw.”

The man was furious. He walked off,
but at last came back and said,—

“You confounded ignoramus, did you
ever hear of Adam?”

Artemus looked up and said,—

““ What was his other name?”



THE DYING STREET ARAB.

KNOW what you mean, I’m a dyin’;

Well, I ain’t no worse nor the rest

‘Taint them as does nothin’ but prayin’,
I reckon, is allus the best.

I ain’t had no father nor mother
A-tellin’? me wrong from the right ;



ARTEMUS WARD.—THE DYING STREET ARAB. 23

The streets ain’t the place—is it, parson ?—
For sayin’ your prayers of a night.

I never knowed who was my father,
And mother, she died long ago;
The folks here, they brought me up some-
how,
It ain’t much they have teached me, I
know.

Yet I think they'll be sorry, and miss me,
When took right away from this here,

For sometimes I catches them slyly ©
A-wipin’ away of a tear.

And they says as they hopes I’ll get better;
I can’t be no worse when I’m dead.

I ain’t had so jolly a time on’t,—
A-dyin’ by inches for bread.

T’ve stood in them streets precious often,
When the wet’s been a-pourin’ down,

And J ain’t had so much as a mouthful,
Nor never so much as a brown.

T’ve looked in them shops, with the winders
Chokeful of what’s tidy to eat,

And I’ve heerd gents a-larfin’ and talkin’
While I drops like a dorg at their feet.

But it’s kind on you, sir, to sit by me;
I ain’t now afeerd o’your face ;

And I hopes, if it’s true as you tells me
We’ll meet in that t’other place.

I hopes as you’ll come when it’s over,
And talk to them here in the court;
They'll mind what you says, you’re a parson,
There won’t be no larkin’ nor sport.

You'll tell them as how I died happy,
And hopin’ to see them again ;

That I’m gone to that land where the weary
Is freed of his trouble and pain,



24 THE TWO IDEALS.



Now open that book as you give me,—
I feels as it never tells lies,—
And read me them words—you know,
guy’nor,—
As is good for a chap when he dies.

There, give me your hand, sir, and thankee
For the good as you’ve done a poor lad;
Who knows, had they teached me some
better,
I mightn’t have growed up so bad.

THE TWO IDEALS.
PAINTER of Italian fame

Saw once a rosy child ;
Its loveliness entranced his soul,
His fancy strange beguiled.

His soul’s ideal he had found
Of innocence and grace ;

The subject of his visions hence
Became that cherub face.

He touched his canvas day by day,
His soul aglow and warm,

And lavished love and beauty till
It woke in life-like form.

The picture hung long years, and shed
Its love-light on his soul,

And cheered his toil and study there, :
And claimed his heart’s control.

The painter said: “Ife’er I find
A contrast to that face,

It shall receive my richest skill,
And by its side have place.”

He wandered long in lands remote,
And in a prison-cell

He found the object he had sought,
A visage grim and fell ;

A haggard form, forlorn and dark,
Upon whose frenzied face

He saw such imagery of hate
As crime alone can trace.

His genius flamed again and wrought
His ardent, deep desire;

Again the canvas spoke with life—
Of malice, fear, and ire.

He bore it to his study-wall,
And hung the picture there—

Beside his gem of innocence
His portrait of despair.

And there they hung, the two extremes
Of human life, the poles ;

The sunny verge of innocence,
The sea of crime that rolls.

The painter’s heart within him sank
When the sad tale was told;

The sweet boy of his early love
Became the outeast bold.

O sunny youth, of vice beware ;
Ere he, the demon, Crime,

Shall pencil on thy youthful brow
A wrecked, inglorious prime !

KISS HER AND TELL HER SO,

OU’VE a neat little wife at home, John,
As sweet as you wish to see;
As faithful and gentle-hearted,
As fond as wife can be;
A genuine, home-loving woman,
Not’caring for fuss and show;
She’s dearer to you than life, John ;
Then kiss her and tell her so.



*

DEACON MUNROE’S STORY. 25





Your dinners are promptly served, John,
As, likewise, your breakfast and tea ;
Your wardrobe is always in order,
With buttons where buttons should be.
Her house is a cozy home-nest, John,
A heaven of rest below;
_ You think she’s a rare little treasure ;
Then kiss her and tell her so.

She’s a good wife and true to you, John,
Let fortune be foul or fair ;
Of whatever comes to you, John,
She cheerfully bears her share ;
You feel she’s a brave, true helper,
And perhaps far more than you know
*T will lighten her end of the load, John,
Just to kiss her and tell her so.

There’s a crossroad somewhere in life, John,
Where a hand on a guiding stone

Will signal one “ over the river,”
And the other must go on alone.

Should she reach the last milestone first,

John,

*T will be comfort amid your wo

To know that while loving her here, John,
You kissed her and told her so.

‘

DEACON MUNROE’S STORY.

ES, surely the bells in the steeple

Were ringin’, I thought you knew
why.
Well, then, Ill tell you, though

mostly
It’s whispered about on the sly.

Some six' weeks ago, a church meetin’
‘Was held, for—nobody knew what ;

But we went, and the parson was present,
And I don’t know who, or who not.

No?

Some twenty odd members, I cale’late,
Which mostly was wimmin, of course ;

‘But I don’t mean to say aught ag’in ’em

TPve seen many gatherin’s look worse.
And, in the front row sat the deacons,
The eldest was old Deacon Pryor,
A man countin’ fourscore and seven,
And gin’rally full of his ire.

Beside him, his wife, aged fourscore,
A kind-hearted, motherly soul ;
And next to her, young Deacon Hartley,
A good Christian man, on the whole.
Miss Parsons, a spinster of fifty,
And long ago laid on the shelf,

Had wedged herself next; and beside her

Was Deacon Munroe—that’s nyself.

The meetin’ was soon called to order,
The parson looked glum as a text;
We silently stared at each other,

And every one wondered, “ What next !”
When straightway uprose Deacon Hartley ;
His voice seemed to tremble with fear
As he said: “Boy and man, you have

, known me,
My friends, for this nigh forty year

“ And you scarce may expect a confession
Of error from me; but—you know
My dearly loved wife died last Christmas,
It’s now over ten months ago.
The winter went by long and lonely,
But the springtime crep’ forward apace ;
The farm-work begun, and I needed
A woman about the old place.

“My children were wilder than rabbits,
And all growing worse every day ;

I could find no help in the village,
Although I was willin’ to pay.

I declare I was near "bout discouraged,
And everything looked so forlorn,



26





When good little Patience McAlpine
Skipped into our kitchen, one morn.

“She had only run in of an errand;
But she laughed at our woe-begone plight,
And set to work, just like a woman,
A putting the whole place to right.
And though her own folks was so busy,
And illy her helpin’ could spare,
She’d flit in and out like a sparrow,
And most every day she was there.

“So the summer went by sort o’ cheerful,
But one night my baby, my Joe,

Was restless and feverish, and woke me
As babies will often, you know.

I was tired with my day’s work and sleepy,
And couldn’t no way keep him still;

So at last I grew angry, and spanked him,
And then he screamed ont with a will.

“* Twas just then I heard a soft rapping,
Away at the half-open door;
And ther little Patience McAlpine
Stepped shyly across the white floor.
Says she, ‘I thought Josey was erying ;
I guess I’d best take him away.
I knew you'd be getting up early
To go to the marshes for hay.

“So I staid here to-night, to get breakfast ;
I guess he'll be quiet with me.
Come, baby, kiss papa, and tell him
What a nice little man he will be!’
She was bending low over the baby,
And saw the big tears on his cheek ;
But her face was so close to my whiskers,
I daresn’t move scarcely or speak ;

“ Her arms were both holding the baly,
Her eyes by his shoulder was hid;
But her mouth was so near and so rosy,
That I—kissed her.

did.”

DEACON MUNROE’ S STORY.





|

|

%



Then down sat the tremblin’ sinner,
The sisters they murmured, “For shame.’

And “She shouldn’t onghter a’ let him.
No doubt she was mostly to blame.”

>

When slowly uprose Deacon Pryor.
“ Now, brethren and sisters,” he said,
(We knowed then that suthin’ was comin’,
And we sot as still as the dead.)
“« We’ve heard brother Iartley’s confession,
And I speak fur myself when I say,
That if my wife was dead, and my children
Were all growin’ wuss every day ;

“And if my house needed attention,
And Patience McAlpine should come
And tidy the cluttered-up kitchen,
And make the place seem more like
home;
And if I was tired out and sleepy,
And my baby wouldn’t lie still,
But cried ont at midnight and woke me
As babies, we know, sometimes will;

“‘ And if Patience came in to hush him,
And ’twas all as our goed brother says,
I think, friends—I think I should kiss her,
And ’bide by the consequences.”
Then dowu sat the elderly deacon,
The younger one lifted his face,
And a smile rippled over the meetin’
Like light in a shadowy place.

Perhaps, then, the matronly sisters
Remembered their far-away youth,
Or the daughters at home by their firesides,
Shrined each in her shy, modest truth ;
For their judgments grew gentle and
kindly,
And—well ! as I siarted to say,
The solemn old bells in the steeple

That’s just what I | Were ringing a bridal to-day.



ROCK OF AGES.—AGAIN.



“ROCK OF AGES.”

“* 7) OCK of Ages, cleft for me,”
f\, Thoughtlessly the maiden sung.
Fell the words unconsciously,
From her girlish, gleeful tongue,
Sang as little children sing;
Sang as sing the birds in June,
Fell the words like light leaves down
On the current of the tune—
“ Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“Let me hide myself ia Thee,”
Felt her soul no need to hide.
Sweet the song as song could be—

And she had no thought beside ;
A‘l the words unheedingly

Fell from lips untouched by care,
Dreaming not they each might be

On some other lips a prayer—
“Nock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“ Rock of Ages, cleft for me ”—
"Twas a woman sang them now.

Rose the song as storm-tossed bird
Beats with weary wing the air,

Every note with sorrow stirred—
Every syllable a prayer—

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me”—

Lips grown aged sung the hymn
Trustingly and tenderly—

Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim
“Let me hide myself in Thee.”

Trembling though the voice and low
Ran the sweet strain peacefully,

Like a river in its flow,
Sung as only they can sing

Who life’s thorny paths have pressed ;

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me,”

27

Sung as only they can sing

Who behoid the promised rest-—
“Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Tet me hide myself in Thee.”

Sang above a coftin lid ;
Underneath, all restfully,

All life’s joys and sorrows hid.
Nevermore, O storm-iossed soul!

Nevermore from wind or tide,
Nevermore from billows’ roll,

Wilt thou necd to hide.
Would the sightless, sunken eyes,

Closed beneath the soft gray hair,
Could the mute and stiffened lips

Move again in pleading prayer,
Still, aye, still the words would be,
“Let me hide myself in Thee.”

AGAIN.

@) VER and over again,
No matter which way I turn,
I always see in. the book of life
Some lesson that I must learn.
I must take my turn at the mil).
IT must grind out the golden grain.
I must work at my task with resolute will—
Over and over again.

Over and over again,
The brook through the meadow runs ;
And over and over again 2
The ponderous mill wheel turns.
Once doing will not suftice—
Though doing be not in vain—
And a blessing failing us once or twice,
May come if we try again.



28 KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GREY.



KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GREY.

74) WO brown heads with tossing curls,

Red lips shutting over pearls,
Bare feet, white and wet with dew,
Two eyes black, and two eyes blue;
Little girl and boy were they,
Katie Lee and Willie Grey.

They were standing where a brook,
Bending like a shepherd’s crook,
Flashed its silver, and thick ranks
Of willow fringed its mossy banks;
Half in thought, and half in play,
Katie Lee and Willie Grey.

They had cheeks like cherries red ;
He was taller—’most a head ;

She, with arms like wreaths of snow,
Swung a basket to and fro

As she loitered, half in play,.
Chattering to Willie Grey.

“ Pretty Katie,” Willie said—

And there came a dash of red
Through the brownness of his cheek—
“ Boys are strong and girls are weak,
And Ill carry, so I will,

Katie’s basket up the hill.

Katie answered with a langh,
“You shall carry only half; ”

And then, tossing back her curls,—
“ Boys are weak as well as girls.”
Do ‘you think that Katie guessed
Half the wisdom she expressed 4

Men are only boys grown tall;
Hearts don’t change much, after all;
And when, long years from that day,
Katie Lee and Willie Grey

Stood again beside the brook,
Bending like a shepherd’s crook,—

=

Ts it strange that Willie said, ~
While again a dash of red

Crossed the brownness of his cheek,
“JT am strong and you are weak ;
Life is but a slippery steep,

Hung with shadows cold and deep.

“ Will you trust me, Katie dear,—
Walk beside me without fear?
May I carry, if I will,

All your burdens up the hill?”
And she answered, with a laugh,
“No, but you may carry half.”

Close beside the little brook,
Bending like a shepherd’s crook,
Washing with its silver hands
Late and early at the sands,

Is a cottage, where to-day

Katie lives with Willie Grey.

In a porch she sits, and lo!
Swings a basket to and fro—
Vastly different from the one
That she swung in years agone,
This is long and deep and wide,
And has—rockers at the side.

SELLING THE BABY.

Bee a shady elm tree
Two little brown-haired boys

Were complaining to each other
That they couldn’t make a noise,

“ And it’s all that horrid baby,”
Cried Johnny, looking gium ;

“She makes.an awful bother ;
I’most wish she hadn’t come.

“Tf a boy runs through the kitchen,
Still as any mouse can creep,



SELLING

THE BABY. 29



Norah says, ‘ Now do be aisy,
For the baby’s gone to sleep !’

And when, just now, I asked mamma
To fix my new straw cap,

She said she really couldn’t
Till the baby took her nap !

“Tve been thinking we might sell her—
Fred thrust back his curly hair ;
“ Mamma calls her ‘ Little Trouble!’
So I don’t believe she'd care.
We will take her down to Johnson’s ;
He keeps candy at his store;
And I wouldn’t wonder, truly,
If she’d bring a pound or more ;

“ For he asked me if I’d sell her
When, she first came, but, you see,

Then I didn’t know she’d bother,
So I told him, ‘ No, sir-ree!’

He may have her now, and welcome ;
I don’t want her any more.

Get the carriage round here, Johnny,
And Ill fetch her to the door,”

To the cool green-curtained bedroom
Freddy stole with noiseless feet,

Where mamma had left her baby
Fast asleep, serene and sweet.

Soft. he bore her to the carriage,
All unknowing, little bird !

While of these two young kidnappers
Not a sound had mamma heard.

Down the street the carriage trundled ;
Soundly still the baby slept ;
Over two sun-browned boy faces
Little sober shadows crept 5
They began to love the wee one.
“Say,” said Johnny, “don’t you think
He will give for such ababy _
Twenty pounds as quick as wink?”



SS say fifty,’ Fred responded,
With his brown eyes downward cast.

“« Here’s the store ; it doesn’t seem’s though

We had come so awful fast!” ‘
Through the door they pushed the carriage ;
“ Mister Johnson, we thought maybe
You would—wouldn’t—would you—would,
Would you like to buy a baby ?”

Merchant Johnson’s eyes were twinkling ;
“Well, I would; just set your price,
Will you take your pay in candy ?
I have some that’s very nice.
But before we bind the bargain,
I would like to see the child!”
Johnny lifted up the afghan ;
Baby woke and cooed, and smiled.

“Tt’s a trade!” cried Merchant Johnson ;
“How much candy for the prize?”
Fred and Johnny looked at baby,
Then into each other’s eyes.
All forgotten was the bother
In the light of baby’s smile,
And they wondered if mamma had
Missed her daughter all the while.

“ Candy’s sweet, but baby’s sweeter, ”
Spoke up sturdy little Fred.

“?Qause she is our own and onliest
Darling sister,” Johnny said ;

“So I guess we'd better keep her.
But if we should ask Him—maybe

When He knows you’d like to have one,
God will send you down a baby!”

Merchant Johnson laughed, and kindly
Ran their small hands o’er with sweet

Ere they wheel the baby homeward,
Back along the quiet street ;

And mamma(who had not missed them
Smiled to hear the little tale,

How they went to sell the baby,
How they didn’t make the sale.



30 MY MOTHER AT THE GATE.



MY MOTHER AT THE GATE.

e H, there’s many a lovely picture
On memory’s silent wall,

There’s many a cherished image
That I tenderly recall!

The sweet home of my childhood,
With its singing brooks and birds,
The friends who grew around me,
With their loving looks and words ;
The flowers that decked the wildwood,
The roses fresh and sweet,
The blue-bells and the daisies
That blossomed at my feet—
All, all are very precious,
And often come to me,
Like breezes from that country
That shines beyond death’s sea.
But the sweetest, dearest image
That fancy can create,
Is the image of my mother,
My mother at the gate.

There, there I sce her standing,
With her face so pure and fair,
With the sunlight and the shadows
On her snowy cap and hair;
I can feel the soft, warm pressure
Of the hand that clasped my own;
I can see the look of fondness
That in her blue eyes shone ;
I can hear her parting blessing
Through the lapse of weary years ;
I can see, through all my sorrow,
Her own sad, silent tears,—
Ah! amid the darkest trials
That have mingled with my fate,
I have turned to that dear image,
My mother at the gate.

But she has crossed the river,
She is with the angels now,

She has laid aside earth’s burdens,
And the crown is on her brow.
She is clothed in clean, white linen,

And she walks the streets of gold.
Oh! loved one, safe forever
Within the Saviour’s fold.
No sorrowing thought can reach thee,
No grief is thine to-day ;
God gives thee joy for mourning,
He wipes thy tears away!
Thou art waiting in that city
Where the holy angels wait,
And when I cross the river
I will see thee at the gate !

THI ROBIN’S CHRISTMAS EVE.

ABRIDGED.

GWAS Christmas time: a dreary night,
The snow fell thick and fast,
And o’er the country swept the wind,
A keen and wintry blast.

The little ones were all in bed,
Crouching beneath the clothes,

Half trembling at the angry wind,
Which wildly fell and rose. *

Old Jem the sexton rubbed his leg,
For he had got the gout;

He said he thought it wondrous hard
That he must sa'ly out.

Not far from Jem’s, another house,
Of different size and form,

Raised high its head, defying well
The fierce and pelting storm.

It was the Judge’s stately home—
A rare, upright Judge was he,

As brave and true a gentleman
As any one could ree













































ROBIN’S NEST.

31


























































































































































































































































































&

THE ROBINS CHRISTMAS EVE. 33



The Judge’s lady and himself
Sat cozily together,
When suddenly he roused himself
To see the kind of weather.

Lifting the shutters’ ponderous bar,
He threw them open wide,

And very dark and cold and drear
He thought it looked outside.

Ah, Judge! little do you think
A trembling beggar’s near,

Although his form you do not see,
His voice you do not hear,

Yes, there he stands—so very close,
He taps the window-pane,

And when he sees you turn away,
He feebly taps again.

But all in vain! the heavy bar
Was fastened as before ;

The Judge’s portly form retraced
His highly-polished floor.

Now, is there any one who thinks
It cannot be worth while

To write about a robin’s fate,
And treat it with a smile ?

Our robin’s history simple was,
There is not much to tell—

_A little happy singing-bird,
Born in a neighboring dell ;

And through the summer, in the wood,
Life went on merrily,

But winter came, and then he found
More full of care was he;

For food grew scarce ; so, having spied
Some holly-berries red

Within the rectory garden-grounds,
Thither our hero fled.





The robin early went to bed,
Puffed out just like a ball ;

He slept all night on one small leg,
Yet managed not to fall.

When morning came he left the tree,
But stared in great surprise

Upon the strange, unusual scene
That lay before his eyes.

It seemed as if a great white sheet
Were flung all o’er the lawn ;

The flower-beds, the paths, the trees,
And all the shrubs were gone.

His little feet grew sadly cold,
And felt all slippery too ;

He stumbled when he hopped along,
As folks on ice will do.

And yet he had not learnt the worst
Of this new state of things—

He’d still to feel the gnawing pangs
That cruel hunger brings.

No food to-day had touched his beak,
And not a chance had he

Of ever touching it again,
As far as he could see.

At length, by way of passing time,
He tried to take a nap,

But started up when on his head
He felt a gentle tap.

*T was but a snowflake, after all !
Yet, in his wretched plight,

The smallest thing could frighten him,
And make him take his flight.

But soon he found he must not hope
From these soft flakes to fly :

Down they came feathering on his head,
His back, his tail, his eye!



34 THE ROBINS CHRISTMAS EVE.



No gardeners appeared that day.
The Rector’s step came by,

And Robin fluttered o’er the snow
To try and catch his eye.

But being Christmas Eve, perhaps
His sermons filled his mind,

For on he walked, and never heard
The little chirp behind.

So on he went, and, as it chanced,
He passed into a lane,

And once again he saw a light
Inside a window-pane.

Chanced did we say !—let no such word
Upon our page appear:

Not chance, but watchful Providence,
Has led poor Robin here.

’T was Jem, the sexton’s house, from which:

Shone forth that cheering light,
For Jem had drawn the curtain back
To gaze upon the night.

And now, with lantern in his hand,
He hobbles down the lane,

Muttering and grumbling to himself,
Becanse his foot’s in pain.

He gains the church, then for the ae
Within his pocket feels,

And as he puts it in the door
Robin is at his heels.

Jem thought when entering the church,
That he was all alone,

Nor dreamed a little stranger bird
Had to its refuge flown.

The stove had not burnt very low,
But still was warm and bright,

And round the spot whereon it stood
Threw forth a cheerful light.



Jem lost no time: he flung on coals,
And raked the ashes out,

Then hurried off to go to bed,
Still grumbling at his gout.

Now Robin from a corner hopped
Within the fire’s light ;

Shivering and cold, it was to him
A most enchanting sight.

But he is almost starved, poor bird!
Food he must have, or die;

Useless it seems, alas! for that
Within these walls to try.

Yet, see! he makes a sudden dart :
His searching eye has found

The greatest treasure he could have—
Some bread-crumbs on the ground.

Perhaps ’tis thought by these who read
Too doubtful to be true,

That just when they were wanted so
Some hand should bread-crumbs strew.

But this is how it came to pass :
An ancient dame had said

Her legacy unto the poor
Should all be spent in bread ;

So every week twelve wheaten loaves
The sexton brought himself ;

And crumbs had doubtless fallen when
He placed them on the shelf.

Enough there were for quite a feast,
Robin was glad to find ;

The hungry fellow ate them all,
Nor left one crumb behind.

He soon was quite himself again,
And it must be confessed

His first thought, being warmed and fed,
Was all about his breast,



THE ROBINS CHRISTMAS EVE. 35



To smooth its scarlet feathers down
Our hero did not fail,

And when he’d nde it smart, he then
Attended to his tail!

Worn though he was with sheer fatigue
And being up so late,

He did not like to go to bed
Jn such a rumpled state.

His toilet done, he went to sleep,
And never once awoke

Till, coming in on Christmas morn,
Jem gave the stove a poke.

Now, very soon a little troop
Of children entered in:

They came to practise Christmas songs
Ere service should beyin.

The Rector followed them himself,
To help the young ones on,

And teach their voices how to sing
In tune their Christmas song.

And first he charged them all to try
And feel the words they sang ;
Then reading from his open book,

He thus the hymn began :

“Glory to God from all

To whom He’s given breath ;
Glory to God from all

Whom He has saved from death.”

Now, when the Rector’s voice had ceased,
The children, led by him,

Were just about, with earnest voice,
The verse of praise to sing,

When suddenly, from high above,
Another song they hear,

And all look up in hushed amaze,
At notes so sweet and clear.





Twas Robin, sitting on a spray
Of twisted holly bright ;

His light weight swayed it as he sang
His song with all his might.

His heart was full of happiness,
And this it was that drew

Praise to his Maker in the way—
The only way—he knew.

It seemed as though he understood
The words he just had heard,

As if he felt they suited him,
Though but a little bird.

The Rector’s finger, lifted up,
Kept all the children still,
Their eyes uplifted to the bird

Singing with open bill.

They scarcely breathed, lest they should
One note of that sweet strain ; [lose
And Robin scarcely paused before
He took it up again,

Now, when he ceased, the Rector thought
That he would say a word,

For Robin’s tale had in his breast
A strong emotion stirred.

“ Children,” said he, “that little voice
A lesson should have taught:

It seems to me the robin’s song
Is with instruction fraught.

“He was, no doupt, in great distress :
Deep snow was all around ;

Ile might have starved, but coming here
Both fvod and shelter found.

“Seek God, my children, and when times
Of storm and trouble come,

He'll guide you as He did the bird,
And safely lead you home.



36 UNWRITTEN POEMS.—‘VAS MARRIAGE A FAILURE.”



“ Another lesson we may learn
From those sweet notes we heard, —
That God has given voice of praise
To that unconscious bird ;

“ But unto us His love bestows
A far more glorious gift,

For we have reason, and our souls,
As well as voice, can lift.”

- The Rector paused, for now rang forth
The merry Christmas chime,

And warned them all that it was near
The usual service-time.

And we must close the robin’s tale:
*T will be a blessed thing

Should it have taught but one young voice
To praise as well as sing.

UNWRITTEN POEMS.

HERE are poems unwritten and songs
unsung,
Sweeter than any that ever was heard;
Poems that will wait for an angel tongue,
Songs that long fur a paradise bird ;

Poems that rippled through lowliest lives,
Poems unnoted, and hidden away

Down in souls, where the beautiful thrives
Sweetly as flowers in the airs of May;

Poems that only the angels above us,
Looking down deep in our hearts may
behold ;
Felt, though unseen by the beings who
love us;
Written on lives all in letters of gold.



“VAS MARRIAGE A FAILURE ?”

SJ AS marriage a failure? Vell, now, dot:
ff depends
Altogeddher on how you look at it, mine
friends.
Like dhose double-horse teams dot you see:
at der races,
It depends pooty mooch on der pair in der:
traces ,
Ef dhey don’t pool togeddher right off at.
der sthart,
Ten dimes oudt of nine dhey was beddher:
apart.

Vas marriage a failure ?
doubt ;

Dhose dot’s oudt vould be in, dhose dot’s.
in vould be ondt;

Der vote vas in:

Der man mit oxberience, good Jooks und

dash,

Gets a vife mit some fife hundord dousand
in cash;

Budt, after der honeymoon, vere vas de
honey @

She haf der oxberience— he haf der money..

Vas marriage a failure ? Ef dot vas der case,.
Vat vas to pecome off der whole human.
race ¢
Vot you dink dot der oldt “ Pilgrim
faders” vould say,

Dot came in der Sunflower to oldt Ply-
mouth bay,

To see der fine coundtry dis peoples haf’
got,

Und dhen hear dhem ask sooch conun-.
dhrums as dot ?

Vas marriage a failure ¢
tell,

To dot Bunker Mon Hillument, vhere Var-
ren fell;

Shust go, ere yor,



THE WORLD.—THE BRIDGE-KEEPER S STORY. - 87



Dink off Vashington, Franklin ae “ Ton-

est Old Abe ”—

Dhey vas all been aroundt since dot first
Plymouth babe.

I vas only a Deutscher, budt I dells you
vot!

Ipelief every dimein sooch “failures” as
dot.

‘Vas marriage a failure? I ask mine Ka-
trine,

Und she look off me so dot I feels pooty
inean.

Dhen she say: “Meester Strauss, shust come
here eef you blease,”

Und she dake me vhere Yaweob und little
Loweeze

By dhere shnug trundle-bed vas shust say-
ing der prayer,

Und she say, mit a smile, “ Veas dhere some
failures dhere ?”

THE WORLD.

IL: world is a queer old fellow,
As you journey along by his side
You had better conceal any trouble you
feel,
If you want to tickle his pride.
No matter how heavy your burden—
Don’t tell about it, pray,
He will only grow colder and shrug his
shoulder
And hurriedly walk away.

But carefully cover your sorrow,
And the world will be your friend.
If only yow’ll bury your woes and be
merr
He'll cling to you close to the end.



Don’t ask him to lift one finger
To lighten your burden because

He never will share it; but silently bear it
And he will be loud with applause.

The world is a vain old fellow,
You must laugh at his sallies of wit.
No matter how brutal, remonstrance is
futile,
And frowns will not change him one
whit.

And since you must journey together
Down paths where all mortal feet go,
Why, life holds more savor to keep in his

favor,
For he’s an unmerciful foe.

THE BRIDGE-KEEPER’S STORY.

O we have many accidents here, sir?

Well, no! but of one I could tell,
If you wouldn’t mind hearing the story,
I have cause to remember it well!

You see how the drawbridge swings open

When the vessels come in from the bay ;

When the lightning express comes along,
sir,

That bridge must be shut right away !

You see how it’s worked by the windlass,
A child, sir, could manage it well ;

My brave little chap used to do it,

But that’s part of the tale [ must tell.

It is two years ago come the autumn.

I shall never forget it, ’m sure ;

I was sitting at work in the house here,
And the boy played just outside the door.



38 THE BRIDGE-KEEPER’S STORY.



You must know thatthe wages I’n getting
For the work on the line are not great,

So I picked up a little shoemaking,

And I manage to live at that rate.

I was pounding away on my lapstone,
And singing as blithe as could be!
Keeping time with the tap of my hammer
On the work that I held at my knee.

And Willie, my golden-haired darling,
Was tying a tail on his kite ;

His cheeks all aglow with excitement,
And his blue eyes lit up with delight.

When the telegraph bell at the station
Rang out the express on its way ;

“All right, father !” shouted my Willie,
“ Remember, I’m pointsman to-day !”

I heard the wheel turn at the windlass,
I heard the bridge swing on its way,

And then came a cry from my darling
That filled my poor heart with dismay.

“ Help, father! oh, help me!” he shouted.

I sprang through the door with a scream.

His clothes had got ae in the windlass,

There he hung o’er the peak rushing
stream.

And there, like a speck in the distance,

I saw the fleet oncoming train ;

And the bridge that I thought safely fast-
ened,

Unclosed and swung backward again.

I rushed to my boy ; ere I reached him,
He fell in the river below.

I saw his bright curls on the water,
Borne away by the current’s swift flow.

I sprang to the edge of the river,
But there was the onrushing train ;



And hundreds of lives were in peril,
Till that bridge was refastened again.

I heard a loud shriek just behind me,
I turned, and his mother stood there,
Looking just like a statue of marble;
With her hands clasped in agonized prayer.

Should I leap in the swift flowing torrent
While the train went headlong to its fate,
Or stop to refasten the drawbridge,

And go to his rescue too late ?

I looked at my wife, and she whispered,
With choking sobs stopping her breath,
“Do your duty, and Heaven will help you
To save our own darling from death!”

Quick as thought, then, I flew to the wind-
lass,

And fastened the bridge with a crash;

Then, just as the train rushed across it,

I leaped in the stream with a splash.

How I fought with the swift-rushing water,
How I battled till hope almost fled,

But just as I thought I had lost him,

Up floated his bright, golden head.

How I eagerly seized on his girdle,

As a miser would clutch at his gold,

But the snap of his belt came unfastened,
And the swift stream unloosened my hold.

He sank once again, but I followed,

And caught at his bright, clustering hair,
And biting my lip till the blood came,

I swam with the strength of despair.

We had got to the bend of the river,

Where the water leaps down with a dash,
I held my boy tighter than ever,
And steeled all my nerves for the crash.



The foaming and thundering whirlpool
Engulfed us, I struggled for breath,
Then caught on a crag in the current,
Just saved, for a moment, from death.

And there, on: the bank, stood his mother,
And some sailors were flinging a rope;

It reached us at last, and I caught it,

_ For I knew ’twas our very last hope!

And right up the steep rock they dragged us,
I cannot forget, to this day,

How I clung to the rope while my darling
In my arms like a dead baby lay.

And down on the greensward I laid him
Till the color came back to his face,
And, oh, how my heart beat with rapture
As I felt his warm loving embrace !

There, sir, that’s my story, a true one.
Though it’s far more exciting than some,
It has taught me a lesson, and that is,
“Do your duty, whatever may come!”

NO SECTS IN HEAVEN.

ALKING of sects, quite late one eve,

What one another of saints believe,
That night I stood in a troubled dream
By the side of a darkly-flowing stream,

Anda “churchman down to the river came,
When I heard a strange voice call his name,
“ Good Father, stop; when you cross this tide
You must leave yourrobes on the other side.”

But the aged father did not mind,

And his long gown floated out behind
As down to the stream his way he took,
His hands firm hold of a gilt-edged book.





NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. 39



‘“‘T’m bound for Heaven, and when I’m there
I shall want my book of Common Prayer,

' And though I put on a starry crown,

I should feel quite lost without my gown.”

Then he fixed his eye on the shining track,

- But his gown was heavy and held him back,

And the poor old father tried in vain,
A single step in the flood to gain.

I saw him again on the other side,

But his silk gown floated on the tide,
And no one asked, in that blissful spot
If he belonged to “ the church” or not.

Then down the river a Quaker strayed ;
His dress of a sober hue was made,
“My hat and coat must be all of gray,
I cannot go any other way.”

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to
And staidly, solemnly, waded in, [his chin
And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down
Over his forehead,so cold and white. [tight

But a strong wind carried away his hat,
And he sighed a few moments over that,
And then, as he gazed to the farther shore
The coat slipped off and ‘was seen no more.

Poor, dying Quaker, thy suit of gray

Is quietly sailing—away—away,

But thou’lt go to heaven, as straight as an
arrow,

Whether thy brim be broad or narrow.

Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of

Tied nicely up in his aged arms. [psalms

And hymns as many, a very wise thing,

That the people in heaven, “ all round”
might sing.

But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh
Ashe saw that the river ran broad and high,



40 NO SECTS IN HEAVEN.





And looked rather surprised, as one by
one,

The psalms and hymns in the wave went
down.

And after him with his JZSS.

Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness ;

But he cried, “ Dear me, what shall I do ?

The water has soaked them through and
through.”

And there, on the river, far and wide,

Away they went on the swollen tide,

And the saint, astonished, passed through
alone,

Without his manuscripts, up to the throne.

Then gravely walking, two saints by name,
Down to the stream together came,

But as they stopped at the river’s brink,

I saw one saint from the other shrink.

“Sprinkled or plunged—may I ask you,
friend,
How you attained to life’s great end ?”
“ Thus, with a few drops on my brow;”
“But Thave been dipped as you'll see me
now.

“ And I really think it will hardly do,

As I’m ‘close communion,’ to cross with you.
You’re bound I know, to the realms of bliss,
But you must go that way, and I’ll go this.”

Aull straightway plunging with all his
might,

Away to the left—his friend at the right,

Apart they went from this world of sin;

But how did the brethren “ enter in?”

And now where the river wasrolling on,
A Presbyterian church went down ;





Of women there seemed an innumerable
throng,

But the men I could count as they passed
along.

And concerning the road they could never
agree,

The odd or the new way, which it could be;

Nor ever a moment paused to think

That both would Jead to the river’s brink.

And asound of murmuring long and loud
Came ever up from the moving crowd,

“ Youw’re in the old way, and I’m in the new,
That is the false, and this is the true.”

Or, “Tm in the old way, and you're in the
new, ;

That is the false, and this is the true.”

But the brethren only seemed to speak.

Modest the sisters walked, and meek,

And if ever one of them chanced to say
What troubles she met with on the way,
How she longed to pass to the other side,
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide,

A voice arose from the brethren then,
“Let no one speak but the ‘holy men,’
For have ye not heard the words of Paul?
‘Oh let the women keep silence, all”

I watched them long in my curious dream,

Till they stood by the border of* the
stream,

Then, just as I thought, the two ways met,

But all the brethren were talking yet,

And would talk on, till the heaving tide
Carried them over, side by side ;

Side by side, for the way was one,

The toilsome journey of life was done,



GOIN’ SOMEWHERE. 41



_And priest, and Quaker, and all who died,
Came ont alike on the other side;
No forms, or crosses, or books had they,
No gowns of silk, or suits of gray,
No creeds to guide them, or /SS.,
For all had put on “Christ’s righteous-
[ness.”

GOIN’? SOMEWHERE.

E had been to town-meeting, had once

voyaged a hundred miles on a steam-

boat, and had a brother who had made the
overland trip to California.

She had been to quiltings, funerals, and
a circus or two; and she knew a woman
who thought nothing of setting out on a
railroad journ+y where she had to wait fif-
teen minutes a. a junction, and change cars
at a depot.

So I found them,—a cosey-looking old
couple, sitting up very straight in their
seat, and trying to act like old railroad
travelers. A shadow of anxiety suddenly
crossed her face: she became uneasy, and
directly she asked,—

“Philetus, 1 act’lly b’leeve we’ve went
and taken the wrong train!”

“Tt can’t be, nohow,” he replied, seem-
ing a little startled. “Didn’t I ask the
conductor, and he said we was right?”

“Yaas, he did ; but look out the window,
and inake sure. He might have been lyin’
to us.”

The old man looked out the window at
the flitting fences, the galloping telegraph-
poles, and the unfamiliar fields, as if ex-
pecting to catch sight of some landmark,
and forgetting for a moment that he was
a thousand miles from home.

“T ouess we’re all right, Mary,” he said,
as he drew in his head.





“ Ask somebody—ask that man there,”
she whispered.

“This is the train for Chicago, hain’t
it?” inquired the old man, of the passenger
in the next seat behind.

‘This is the train,” replied the man.

“There! didn’t I say so?” clucked the
old gent.

“Tt may be—it may be!” she replied,
dubiously ; “ but if we are carried wrong, it
won't be my fault. I say that we are wrong,
and when we’ve been led into some pirate’s
cave, and butchered for our money, ye’ll
wish ye had heeded my words !”

He looked out of the window again,
opened his mouth as if to make some in-
quiry of a boy sitting on the fence, and
then leaned back on his seat, and sighed
heavily. She shut her teeth together, as if
saying that she could stand it if he could,
and the train sped along for several miles.
He finally said,—

* Looks like rain, over thar in the west.
Lhope the boys have got them oats in.”

“That makes me think of the umberel-
ler!” diving her hands among the parcels
at their feet.

She hunted around two or three minutes,
growing red in the face, and then straight-
ened up and hoarsely whispered,—

“Tt’s gone!”

«“ W—what?” he gasped.

“That umbereller!”

cCINIo 22

“Gone, hide and hair!” so she went on,
“ that sky-blue umbereller, which Pve had
ever since Martha died!”

He searched around, but it was not to be
found.

“Waal, that’s queer,’ he mused, as he
straightened up.

“Queer! not a bit. I’ve talked to ye



42 GOIN? SOMEWHERE.



and talked to ye, but it does no good. Ye
come from a heedless fam’ly ; and ye’d for-
get to put on yer boots, ’f I didn’t tell ye to.”

“ None of the Harrisons was ever in the
poorhouse !” he replied, in a cutting tone.

-Philetus! Philetus H. Harrison!”
she continued, laying her hand on his arm,
“don’t you dare twit me of that again! Pve
lived with ye nigh on to forty years, and
~ waited on ye when ye had biles and the
toothache and the colic, and when ye fell
and broke yer leg; but don’t push me up
to the wall!”

He looked out of the window, feeling
that she had the advantage of him, and she
wiped her eyes, settled her glasses on her
nose and used up the next fitteen minutes
in thinking of the past. Feeling thirsty,
she reached down among the bundles,
searched around, and her face was as pale
as death as she straightened back and whis-
pered,—

“ And that’s gone, too!”

“What now ?”’ he asked.

“It’s been stole!” she exclaimed, look-
ing around the car, as if expecting to see
some one with the bottle to his lips.

“ Fust the umbereller—then the bottle! ”
she gasped.

“T couldn’t have left it, could ce ¢”

“ Don’t ask me ! That bottle has been
in our fam’ly twenty years, ever since
mother died; and now it’s gone! Land
only knows what J’1l do for a camfire bottle
when we git home, if we ever do!”

“111 buy one.”

“Yes, I know ye are always ready to
buy ; and if it wasn’t for me to restrain ye,
the money’d fly like feathers in the wind.”

“Waal, I didn’t have to mortgage my
farm,” he replied, giving her a knowing
look.





ss es agin? It isn’t enough that
you’ve lost a good umbereller and a camfire
bottle ; but you must twit me o’ this pnd
that.”

Her nose grew eo and tears came to her
eyes; but as he was looking out of the
window, she said nothing further. Ten or
fifteen minutes passed; and growing rest-
less, he called out to a man across the
aisle,—

“ What's the sile around here?”

“Philetus! Philetus H. Harrison! Stop
your noise!” she whispered, poking him
with her elbow.

“JT just asked a question,” he replied,
resuming his old position.

“ What'd your brother Joab tell ye, the
last thing afore we left hum?” she asked.
“ Didn’t he say somebody'd swindle ye on
the string game, the confidence game, or
some other game? JDidn’t he warn ye
agin rascals?”

“J hain’t seen no rascals.”

“ Of course ye havn’t, ’cause yer blind!
I know that that man is a villun; and if
they don’t arrest him for murder afore we
leave this train, I'l miss my guess. I can
read human natur’ like a book.”

There was another period of silence,
broken by her saying,—

“TJ wish I knew that this was the train
for Chicago.”

“Course it is.”

“ How do you know?”

“*Cause it is.”

‘Waal, I know it hain’t; but if you are
contented to rush along to destruction, 1
sha’n’t say a word. Only when yer throat
is being cut, don’t call out that I didn’t
warn ye!”

The peanut boy came along, and the old
man reached down for his wallet.



THE LITTLE BLACK-EVED REBEL. 43

‘ Philetus, ye sha’n’t squander that money
after peanuts!” she exclaimed, using the
one hand to catch his arm, and the other
to-wave the boy on.

“Didn’t I earn it?”

‘““'Yaas, you sold two cows to get money
to go on this visit ; but it’s half gone now,
and the land only knows how we'll get
home!”

The boy passed on, and the flag of truce
was hung out for another brief time. She
recommenced hostilities by remarking,—

“T wish I hadn’t cum.” ;

He looked up, and then out of the
window.

“I know what you want to say,” she
hissed ; “but it’s a blessed good thing for
you that I did come! If ye’d come alone,
ye’d have been murdered and gashed and
sealped, and sunk into the river afore
now!”

“Pooh!”

“Yes, pooh, ’f ye want to, but I know!”

He leaned back; she settled herself
anew; and by and by—

He nodded—

She nodded—

And, in sleep, their gray heads touched ;
and his arm found its way along the back
of the seat, and his hand rested on her
shoulder.

It was only their way.

THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL.

BOY drove into the city, his wagon
loaded down
With food to feed the people of the British-
governed town;





And the little black-eyed rebel, so cunning
and so sly,

Was watching for his coming, from the cor-
ner of her eye.

His face was broad and honest, his hands
were brown and tough,

The clothes he wore upon him were home-
spun, coarse and rough;

But one there was who watched him, who
long time lingered nigh,

And cast at him sweet glances, from the
corner of her eye.

He drove up to the market, he waited in
the line;

His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair
and fine.

But long and long he waited, and no one
came to buy,

Save the black-eyed rebel watching from
the corner of her eye.

“Now, who will buy my apples?” he
shouted long and loud ;

And, “ Who wants my potatoes?” he re-
peated to the crowd ;

But from all the people round him came
no word of reply,

Save the black-eyed rebel answering from
the corner of her eye.

For she knew that ’neath the lining of the

coat he wore that day

Were long letters from the husbands and
the fathers far away,

Who were fighting for the freedom that
they meant to gain, or die ;

And a tear like silver glistened in the cor-
ner of her eye.

But the treasures—how to get them ? crept
the question through her mind,



i

Since keen enemies were watching for what
prizes they might find ;

And she paused awhile and pondered, with
a pretty little sigh ;

Then resolve crept through her features,
and a shrewdness fired her eye.

So she resolutely walked up to the wagon
old and red,

“May I have a dozen apples for a kiss ?”
she sweetly said ;

And the brown face flushed to scarlet, for
the boy was somewhat shy, ~

And he saw her Jaughing at him from the
corner of her eye.

“You may have them all for nothing, and
more, if you want,” quoth he.

“ T will have them, my good fellow, but can
pay for them,” said she.

And she clambered on the wagon, minding |

not those who were by,
With a laugh of reckless romping in the
corner of her eye.

Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped
her fingers white and small,

And then whispered, “Quick! the letters !
thrust them underneath my shawl!

Carry back again this package, and be sure
that you are spry ! ”

And she sweetly smiled upon him from the
corner of her eye.

Loud the motley crowd were laughing at
the strange, ungirlish freak;

And the boy was scared and panting, and
so dashed he could not speak.

And, “ Miss, I have good apples,” a bolder
lad did ery,

But she answered, “ No, I thank you,” from
the corner of her eye.



4 THE LITTLE BLACK-EVED REBEL.—REVERTES.

With the news of loved ones absent to the
dear friends they would greet,
Searching for those who hungered for them,

swift she glided through the street;
“There is nothing worth the doing that it
does not pay to try,”
Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a
twinkle in her eye.

REVERIES.

[2 ETWEEN the acts, while the orchestra
played
That sweet old waltz with the lilting
measure,
I drifted away to a dear dead day,
When the dance for mé was the sum of
all pleasure.
When my veins were rife with the fever
of life,
When hope ran high as an unswept ocean,
And my heart’s great gladness was almost
madness,
As I floated off to the music’s motion.

How little I cared for the world outside,
How little I cared for the dull day after.
The thought of trouble went up like a
bubble,
And burst in a sparkle of mirthfal iaugh-
ter.
Oh! and the beat of it, oh, and the sweet
of it,
Melody, motion and young blood melted.
The dancers swayed, the players played,
The air song deluged and music pelted.

I knew no weariness, no, not I;
My step was as light as the waving
grasses



GRADATIM.



That fintter with ease on the strong armed
breeze
As it waltzes over the wild morasses.
Life was all sound and swing, youth was a
perfect thing,
Night was the goddess of satisfaction.
Oh! how I tripped away, down to the edge
of day;
Joy lay in motion and rest in action.

I dance no more on the music’s wave,
I yield no more to its bewildering power.
That time has flown like a rose that is blown,
Yet life is a garden forever in flower.
Though storms of tears have watered the
years
Between to-day and that day departed,
Though trials have met me and griet’s waves
wet me,
And [have been tired and trouble hearted.

Though under the sod of a wee green grave
A great sweet hope in darkness perished,
Yet life, to my thinking, is a cup worth
drinking,
A gift to be glad of, and loved and cher-
ished.
There is deeper pleasure in the slower
measure
That Time’s grand orchestra now is
giving. =
Its mellowed minor is sadder but finer,
And lite grows daily more worth the

living.
GRADATIM.
EAVEN is not reached at a single
bound ;



But we build the ladder by which we rise, |
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to itssummit round byround. j

I count this thing to be grandly true;
That a noble deed is a step toward God—
Lifting the soul from the common clod

To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under our
feet ;
By what we have mastered of good and
gain ; :
By the pride deposed and the passion
slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,
When the morning calls us to life and
light ;
But our hearts grow weary, and ere the
night
Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,
And we think that we mount the air on
wings
Beyond the recall of sensual things,
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angels, but feet for men!
We may borrow the wings to find the
way,—
We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and
pray 5

But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown
‘From the weary earth to the sapphire
walls ;
Butthe dreams depart, and the vision falls,
And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of
stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound ;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,

Andwemount toitssummit round by round.



46 SONGS UNSUNG.—TWO PORTRAITS.

SONGS UNSUNG.

@Y WEET the song of the thrush at dawn-
2») ing,
When the grass lies wet with spangled
dew,
Sweet the sound of the brook’s low whisper
’Mid reeds and rushes wand’ring through;
Clear and pure is the west wind’s murmur
That croons in the branches all day long;

But the songs unsung are the sweetest
music

And the dreams that die are the soul of
song.

The fairest hope is the one which faded,
The brightest leaf is the leaf that fell ;
The song that leaped from the lips of sirens

Dies away in an old sea shell.
Far to the heights of viewless fancy
The soul’s swift flight like a swallow goes,
For the note unheard is the bird’s best carol
And the bud unblown is the reddest rose.

Deepest thoughts are the ones unspoken,
That only the heart sense, list’ning, hears,
Most great joys bring a touch of silence,
Greatest grief is in unshed tears.
What we hear is the fleeting echo,
A song dies out, but:a dream lives on;
The rose-red tints of the rarest morning
Are lingering yet ‘in a distant dawn.

Somewhere, dim in the days to follow,
And far away in the life to be,
Passing sweet, is a song of gladness—
The spirit-chant of the soul set free.
Chords untouched are the ones we wait
for—
That never rise from the harp unstrung;
We turn our steps to the years beyond us,
And listen sti!l for the songs unsung.





THE SPRING OF LIFE.

@{‘HEN the first snowdrop’s shyly open-

ing,
And violets on the sheltered bank are
seen ;
When trees put forth their tender shoots
of green ;
When birds awake from winter sleep and
sing, *
And choose their mates and fly with busy
wing ;
When streamlets babble mossy banks be-
tween,
And butterflies flash forth with sunny
sheen,—
Then the young year is in its joyous
Spring.

And when the air is full of baby cries,
And children’s laughter echoing down
the street,
And noisy patterings of little feet,
And babbling sounds of lessons old and
wise ;
When day by day brings strength to
think and do
Then Life is in its happy spring-tide, too.

TWO PORTRAITS.
i,

AINT me a picture, master !
And make it strict and true.

Put on the cheeks no brighter red,
In the eyes no deeper blue ;

Give to her form no softer grace ——
For to each rounded limb

The highest lines thine art can trace
Are shadowless and dim.













































































































SPRING.

a7

an















































































































































































THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS. 49



Color to life her matchless hair ;
And, if thon may’st, portray

The sweetness of those scarlet lips,
The smiles that round them play.

Canst thou produce the radiant light
That beams from out her eyes,

Or make more fair, or pure, or bright
The soul that in them lies?

Fashion my bride, good painter !
Loving, and kind, and true,
Fair as a wreath of lilies,
Sweet as its perfume, too.

TI.

Paint me another picture,
As in the years before.
Tracing with careful pencil
Herself and nothing more.
Leave not a single shadow
Out of that snowy brow—-
Every thread of silver:
Paint her as she is now.

Maybe the eye is duller
Far than it used to be;

Maybe the cheek is paler ;
Maybe the smile less free.

Care has altered them, doubtless,
But, oh! I tell to you,

The cloud that darkened one life
Shadowed the other, too.

Paint me my wife, O master!
Now that the years have fled,

And love has blossomed out of
The dust of passion dead.

Place the pictures together,
Side by side, on the wall.

Which is to me the fairest ?
Give me the last of all.

THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS.

*7OWAS the night after Christmas, when
all through the house

Every soul was abed, and as still as a mouse ;

Those stockings so lately St. Nicholas’ care

Were emptied of all that was eatable there.

The darlings had duly been tucked in their
beds,

With very full stomachs and pains in their
heads.

I was dozing away in my new cotton cap,

And Nancy was rather far gone in a nap,

When out in the nursery rose such a clatter,

I sprang from my sleep, crying, “ What is
the matter ?’

I flew to each bedside, still half ina doze,

Tore open the curtains and threw off the
clothes ;

While the light of the taper served clearly
to show

The piteous plight of those objects below.

For, what to the fond father’s eyes should
appear

But the pale little face of each sick little
dear ;

Each pet, having crammed itself full as a
tick, :

I knew in a moment, now felt like old Nick !

Their pulses were rapid, their breathings
the same;

What their stomachs rejected [ll mention
by name:

Now turkey, now stuffing, plum pudding,
of course,

And custards, and crullers, and cranberry
sauce— :

Before outraged Nature all went to the
wall,—

Yes, lollypops, flapdoodles, great things and
small;

Like pellets, which urchins from pop-guns
let fly,



50 THE OLD SCHOOL-LOOM.



Went figs, nuts and raisins, jam jelly and
pie,
Till each error of diet was brought to my
view, :
To the shame of mamma and of Santa Claus
too.
I turned from the sight, to my bedroom
stepped back,
And brought out a vial marked Pauly. Lpe-
cae,
When my Nancy exclaimed—for their suf-
ferings shocked her—
“ Don’t you think you had better, love, run
for the doctor?”
I ran—and was scarcely back under my roof,
When I heard the sharp clatter of old
Jalap’s hoof;
I might say that I hardly had turned my-
self round,
When the doctor came into the room with
a bound.
He was spattered with mud from his hat to
his boots,
And the clothes he had on seemed the
drollest of suits ;
In his haste he’d put all quite awry on his
back,
And he looked like John Falstaff half fnd-
dled with sack.
His eyes, how they twinkled! Had the
doctor got merry ?

His cheeks looked like Port and his breath:

smelt of Sherry:

He hadn’t been shaved for a fortnight or so,

And the beard on his chin wasn’t white as
the snow.

But, inspecting their tongues, in despite of
their teeth,

And drawing his watch from his waistcoat
beneath,

He felt of each pulse, saying, “each little
belly

Must get rid”—here he laughed—“ of the
rest of that jelly.”

I gazed on each plump, chubby, sick little
elf,

And groaned when he said so, in spite of

myself.

But a wink of his eye, as he physicked dear
Fred,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to
dread.

He didn’t prescribe—but went straight-

: way to work

And dosed all the rest—gave his trousers

a jerk,

And adding directions while blowing his
nose,

He buttoned his coat, from his chair he
arose,

Then jumped in his gig, gave old Jalap a
whistle,

And Jalap dashed off as if pricked by a
thistle.

But the doctor exclaimed, ere he drove out
of sight.

“They’ll be well by to-morrow—good night,
Jones, good night.”

THE OLD SCHOOL-ROOM.

®)Y spring-time of life has departed,
\ Its romance has ended at last ;
My dreamings were once of the future,
But now they are all of the past.
And memory oft in my trials
Goes back to my pastimes at school,
And pictures the children who loved me,
In the beautiful village of Yule.



The school-house still stands by the meadow,
And green is the spot where I played,



YAWCOB STRAUSS. 51





And decked with the sun is the shadow

Of the evergreen woods: where I strayed.
The thrush in the meadowy places

Still sings in the evergreens cool ;
But changed are the fun-loving faces

Of the children who met me at Yule.

I remember the day when, a teacher,
I met those dear faces anew ;
The warm-hearted greetings that told me
The friendships of childhood are true.
I remember the winters I struggled,
When eare-worn and sick, ia my school;
I remember the children who loved me,
In the beautiful village of Yule.

So true in the days of my sadness,
Did the hearts of my trusted ones prove,
My sorrow grew light in the gladness
Of having so many to love.
I gave my own heart to my scholars,
And banished severity’s rule ;
And happiness dwelt in my school-room,
In the beautiful village of Yule.

I taught them the goodness of loving
The beauty of nature and art;

They taught me the goodness of loving
The beauty that lies in the heart,

And I prize more than lessons of knowledge
The lessons I learned in my school—
The warm hearts that met me at morning,

And left me at evening, in Yule.

I remember the hour that we parted ;
I told them, while moistened my eye,
That the bell of the school-room of glory
Wonld ring for us each in the sky.
Their faces were turned to the sunset,
As they stood neath the evergreens cool ;
I shall see them no more as I saw them,
Tn the beautiful village of Yule.



The bells of the school-room of glory
Their summons have rung in the sky,

The moss and the fern of the valley
On some of the old pupils lie:

Some have gone from the wearisome studies
Of earth to the happier school;

Some faces are bright with the angels,
Who stood in the sunset at Yule.

YAVWCOB STRAUSS.

} LAF von funny leedle poy,

£ Vot gomes schust to mine knee,

Der queerest schap, der createst rogue,
As efer you dit see.

He runs, und schumps, und schmashes

dings

In all barts off der house ;

But vot off dot? he was mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs,
Und eferyding dot’s oudt ;

He sbills mine glass of Jager bier,
Poots schnuff indo mine kraut.

He fills mine pipe mit limburg cheese:
Dot vas der roughest chouse,

I’d dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und ents mine cane in dwo;

To make der schtiks to beat it mit,—
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!

I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
He kicks oup sooch a touse:

But nefer mind; der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.



52

A LITTLE STORY,



He asks me questions sooch as dese;
Who baints mine nose so red ?

Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace ondt
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?

Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene’er der glim I douse?

How gan I all dose dings egesblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ?

-I somedimes dink I schall go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,
Und vish vonce more J gould haf rest,
Und beacetul dimes enshoy ;
But ven he vas ashleep in ped,
So guiet as a mouse,
I prays der Lord, “dake anyding,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.”

A LITTLE STORY.

H, the book is a beauty, my darling,
The pictures are all very fine,
But it’s time you were soundly sleeping,
For the little hand points to nine ;
So, here’s a good-night—but give me
A dozen of kisses or more,
To make me forget what vexed me
To-day in the dull old store.

Can’t go till I tell you a story?
Well, a long, long time ago,
When I was a little wee fellow—
No bigger than you, you know—
When I hadn’t a nurse as you have,
And my papa was gone for goods,
I ran away from my mamma,
And got lost in the big pine woods.

Tl tell you just how it happened :
I was hunting for eggs, you see,



And all over the house and the garden

My mamma was hunting for me;
Hunting and calling, “Oh, Willie!

Ho! Willie! where are you, my son?”
And I heard her and hid in the bushes,

And thought it the jolliest of fun.

Naughty? Ah! Robin! I know it,
But I didn’t think of it then ;
I laughed and said, “ I’m a robber,
And this is my dear little den.
Td like to see any one take me,
I reckon—Oh ho! what’s that?”
And away I went after a squirrel
As round and as black as my hat.

No; I didn’t forget my dear mamma,
But “boys will be boys,” I said ;
And I kept a good eye on squirrel,
And followed wherever he led,
Over briers, and bogs, and bushes,
Till the night fell blackly about,
And I found I was far in the forest,
And didn’t know how to get out.

What became of the squirrel ? why, Robin!
To be thinking of him and not me!
‘When I hadn’t a thing for my pillow
That night, but the root of a tree—
With a bit of soft moss for its cover—
And never a star overhead;
Oh, oh, how I cried for my mother,
Till I slept, and dreamed J was dead.

I awoke in my own little chamber ;
My papa was holding my hand,
And my mamma was crying beside me ;
I couldn’t at first understand
Just what it all meant—when they told
me
I wasn’t to stir or to speak,
For I was half dead when they found me,
And had been very sick for a week.



a

KEEPING HIS WORD. 53



But I pretty soon thought of the squirrel,
And the bushes and briers; and then—
“ Oh, mamma, forgive me,” I whispered,
‘‘Wor hiding away in a den!”
“Hush, hush! my poor darling !’’ she an-
swered ;
And I turned my face to the wall,
Crying softly, because I was sorry.
Now kiss me good-night. That is all.

KEEPING HIS WORD.
66 eS) NLY a penny a box,” he said,

But the gentleman turned away his
head,

As if he shrank from the squalid sight

Of the boy who stood in the fading light.

“Oh, sir!” he stammered, “you cannot
know,”

And he brushed from his matches the
flakes of snow,

That the sudden tear might have chance
to fall;

“Or I think—I think you would take

~ them ail.

Hungry and cold at our garret pane,

Ruby will watch till I come again,

Bringing the loaf. The sun has set,

And he hasn’t a crumb of breakfast yet.

One penny, and then I can buy the bread!”

The gentleman stopped: “ And you?” he
said ;

“T@ I can put up with them—hunger and
cold,

But Ruby is only five years old.

I promised our mother before she went,—

She knew I would do it, and died con-
tent,—

I promised her, sir, through best, through
worst,



I always would think of Ruby first.”

The gentleman paused at his open door,

Such tales he had often heard before ;

But he fumbled his purse in the twilight
drear,

“JT have nothing less than a shilling here.”

“ Oh, sir, if you only take the pack,

Pll bring you the change in a moment
back,

Indeed you may trust me!”
you !—no—

But here is the shilling, take it and go.”

The gentleman lolled in his easy chair,

And watched bis cigar wreath melt in air,

And smiled on his children, and rose to
see

The baby asleep on its mother’s knee.

“ And now it is nine by the clock,” he
said,

“ Time that my darlings were all abed ;

Kiss me good-night, and each be sure,

When you’re saying your prayers, remem-
ber the poor.”

Just then came a message, “ A boy at the
door,”

But ere it was uttered he stood on the floor,

Half breathless, bewildered, and ragged
and strange;

“Pm Ruby, Mike’s brother; I’ve brought
you the change.

Mike’s hurt, sir; ’twas dark, and the snow
made him blind,

And he didn’t take notice the train was be-
hind,

Till he slipped on the track; and then it
whizzed by ;

He’s home in the garret;I think he will
die.

Yet nothing would do hin, sir, nothing
would do,

But out through the storm, I must hurry
to you.

“ Trust



54 CHEER.



Of his hurt he was certain you wouldn’t
have heard, ;

And so you might think he had broken his
word.”

When the garret they hastily entered and saw

Two arms, mangled, helpless, outstretched
from the straw}

“You did it,—dear Ruby!—God bless
you!” he said,

_And the boy, gladly smiling, sank back,

and was—dead.

CHEEK.

"VE known men rise through talent,
though such are exceptions rare ;
And some by perseverance, and industry,
and care;
There are men who build up fortunes by
saving a dollar a week ;

But the best thing to make your way in the

world is to travel upon your cheek,

Now here am I, in middle age, just able to
keep alive

By working away the livelong day as hard
as I can drive:

Tom Wentworth takes things easy, and
rolls in his carriage by ;

And cheek is the one sole reason why he is
richer than I.

Why, Tom and I were schoolmates about
thirty years ago ;

I was reckoned one of the smartest, while
at learning he was slow;

He didn’t care for study—played hookey
half the week,—

But somehow always dodged the cane by
the aid of consummate cheek,





“ Little boys,” they used to tell me, “should
always be seen, not heard; ”

When company came I hung my head, and
never could say a word;

But Tom was a saucy, forward boy, well
able to take his part:

So I got the name of being a fool, while
every one thought him smart.

I grew up nervous and timid—I never
could blow or boast—

So people took it for granted that Tom
must know the most.

Of what avail is learning—arithmetic, Latin,
or Greek —

If you haven’t the talent to show it off, for
lack of the requisite cheek ?

Tom and I, as it happened, in love with
the same girl tell,

I never could muster the courage my
heart’s desire to tell.

I think she liked me a little the best, but
before I dared to speak,

Tom pressed his suit and won her hand by
steady persistent cheek.

And then Tom struck for the city.
with ups and downs;

But always seemed to get ahead, in spite
of fortune’s frowns;

Like a cat, he’d always fall on his feet ; was
confident, bluff and bold;

And talked with the air of a millionaire in
possession of wealth untold.

He met

So Tom succeeded in business, and every-
thing he’d touch,—

For people always help the man who passes
as owing much,—

While I didn’t have the advantage of either
my brains or cash,

For want of self-assurance and courage to
raake a dash,



PAPAS LETTER. 55



If “ modesty is a quality,” as the ancient
saying rap,

‘““W hich highly adorns a woman,” it often

times ruins a man ;
And those who are shy and backward, and
those who are humble and weak,
Will be elbowed aside in the race of life, by
the men who travel on cheek.

So Tom, to-day, is the millionaire, the
flourishing merchant prince ;
While, as for my hopes of success in life,
Tve given them up long since:

But the richest blessings of Heaven are
promised the poor and meek,

And men can’t crowd through the pearly
gates by traveling on their cheek.

PAPA’S LETTER.

WAS sitting in my study,
Writing letters when I heard,
“ Please, dear mamma, Mary told me
Mamma mustn’t be’ isturbed ;

“ But I’s tired of the kitty,
Want some ozzer fing to do!

Witing letters is ou, mamma?
Tan’t I wite a letter, too?”

“Not now, darling, mamma’s busy ;
Run and play with kitty, now.”
“No, no, mamma, me wite letter—
Tan if ’ou will show me how.”

I would paint my darling’s portrait

As his sweet eyes searched my face—
Hair of gold and eyes of azure,

Form of childish, witching grace.

But the eager face was clouded,
As 1 slowly shook my head,

Till I said, “ Pll make a letter
Of you, darling boy, instead.”

So I parted back the tresses

From his forehead high and white.
And a stamp in sport I pasted

Mid its waves of golden light.

Then I said, “Now, little letter,
Go away and bear good news.”
And I smiled as down the staircase
Clattered loud the little shoes.

Leaving me, the darling hurried
Down to Mary in his glee:

“ Mamma’s witing lots of letters;
T’sa letter, Mary—see?”

No one heard the little prattler
As once more he climbed the stair,
Reached his little cap and tippet,
Standing on the entry chair.

No one heard the front door open,
No one saw the golden hair

As it floated o’er his shoulders
In the crisp October air.

Down the street the baby hastenea
Till he reached the office door.
“Ts a letter, Mr. Postman,
Is there room for any more?

“ Cause dis letter’s doin’ to papa:
Papa lives with God, ’ou know.

Mamma sent me for a letter ;
Does ’ou fink ’at I tan go?”

But the clerk in wonder answered
“Not to-day, my little man,”

“Den I'll find anuzzer office,
Cause I must go if] tan.”



56 THE OLD MAN GOES TO TOWN



Fain the clerk would have detained him,
But the pleading face was gone,

And the little feet were hastening—
By the busy crowd swept on.

Suddenly the crowd was parted,
People fled to left and right
As a pair of maddened horses
At the moment dashed in sight.

No one saw the baby figure—
No one saw the golden hair.
Till a voice of frightened sweetness
Rang out on the autumn air.

*T was too late—a moment only
Stood the beauteous vision there,

Then the little face lay liteless,
Covered o’er with golden hair.

Reverently they raised my darling,
Brushed away the curls of gold,

Saw the stamp upon the forehead,
Growing now so icy cold.

Not a mark the face disfigured,
Showing where a hoof had trod ;
But the little life was ended—
“ Papa’s letter” was with God.

THE OLD MAN GOES TO TOWN.

-2f ELL, wife, I’ve been to’ Frisco, an’ I

called to see the boys;

I’m tired, an’ more’n half deafened with the
travel and the noise ;

So T’ll set down by the chimbley and rest
my weary bones,

And tell how I was treated by our ’risto-
cratic sons.



As soon’s as I reached the city, I hunted
up our Dan—

Ye know he’s now a celebrated wholesale
business man.

I walked down from the depo’—but Dan
keepsa country seat—

An’ [ thought to go home with him an’
rest my weary feet.

All the way I kep’ a thinkin’ how famous
it ’ud be

To go’round the town together—my grown-
up boy and me,

An’ remember the old times, when my lit-
tle “curly head” «

Used to ery out, “Good-night, papa!”
from his little trundle-bed.

I never thought a minute that he wouldn’t
want to see

His gray an’ worn old father, or would be
ashamed of me;

So when I seen his office, with a sign writ
out in gold,

I walked in ’thout knockin’—but the old
man was too bold.

Dan was settin’ by a table, an’ writin’ in a
book ;

He knowed me in a second; but he gave
me such a look!

He never said a word o’ you, but asked
about the grain,

An’ ef I thought the valley didn’t need a
little rain.

I didn’t stay a great while, but inquired
after Rob ;

Dan said he lived upon the hill—I think
they call it Nob;

An’ when I left, Dan, in a tone that almost
broke me down,

Said, “ Call an’ see me, won’t ye, whenever
yow’re in town?”



THE OLD MAN GOES TO TOWN. 57

It was rather late that evenin’ when I found
our Robert’s house ;

There was music, lights, and dancin’ and a |

mighty big carouse.

At the door a nigger met me, an’ he
grinned from ear to ear,

Sayin’, “Keerds ob invitation, or you neb-
ber git in here.”

I said I was Rob’s father, an’ with another
grin

The nigger left me standin’ and disap-
peared within.

Rob came out on the porch—he didn’t
order me away,

But he said he hoped to see me at his office
the next day.

Then I started fur a tavern, fur I knowed
there any way

They wouldn’t turn me out solong’s I’d
money fur to pay.

An’ Rob an’ Dan had left me about the
streets to roam, hola

Aw’ neither of them axed me if ’d money

to git home,

It may be the way o’ rich folks—I don’t
say ’at it is not—

But we remember some things Dan and
Rob have quite forgot.

We didn’t quite expect this wife, when,
twenty years ago,

We mortgaged the old homestead to give
Rob and Dan a show.

I didn’t look fur Charley, but I happened
just to meet

Him with a lot o’ friends o’ his’n, a-comin’
down the street.

I thought I’d pass on by kim, for fear our
youngest son

Would show he was ashamed o’ me, as Rob
and Dan had done.

But as soon as Charley seen me, he, right
afore ’em all,

Said : “God bless me, there’s my father,”
as loud as he could bawl.

Then he introduced me to his frien’s, an’
sent ’em all away,

Tellin’ ’em he’d see ’em later, but was
busy for that day.

Then he took me out to dinner, an’ he
axed about the house,

About you an’ Sally’s baby, an’ the chick-
ens, pigs an’ Cows ;

He axed about his brothers, addin’ that
*twas ruther queer,

But he hadn’t seen one uv em fur mighty
nigh a year.

Then he took me to his lodgin’, in an attic
four stairs high—

He said he liked it better ’cause ’twas near-
er to the sky.

An’ he said: “Tveonly one room, but
my bed is pretty wide,”

An’ so we slept together, me an’ Charley,
side by side.

Next day we went together to the great
Mechanic’s Fair,

An’ some o’ Charley’s picters was on ex-
hibition there.

He said if he could sell ’em, which he
hoped to pretty soon,

He’d make us all a visit an’ be richer than

Muldoon.



58 SUMMER.



An’ so two days an’ nights we passed, an’
when I come away,

Poor Charley said the time was short an’
begged for me to stay.

Then he took me in a buggy an’ druv me
to the train,

An’ said in just a little while he’d see us
all again.

You know we never thought our Charley
would ever come to much;

He was always readin’ novels an’ poetry an’
such,

There was nothing on the farm he ever
seemed to want to do,

An’ when he took to paintin’ he disgusted
me clear through !

So we gave to Rob and Dan all we had to
eall our own,

An’ left poor Charley penniless to make his
way alone;

He’s only a poor painter; Rob and Dan are
rich as sin;

But Charley’s worth a pair of ’em with
all their gold thrown in.

Those two grand men, dear wife, were once
our prattling babes—an’ yet

It seems as if a mighty gulf’twixt them an’
us is set;

An’ they’ll never know the old folks till
life’s troubled journey’s past,

And rich and poor are equal underneath the
sod at last.

An’ maybe when we all meet on the resur-
rection morn,

With our earthly glories fallen, like: the
husks from the ripe corn,—

When the righteous Son of Man the awful
sentence shall have said,

The brightest crown that’s shining there
may be on Charley’s head.

SUMMER.

®)OW, dame, the morn doth promise fair,
el, Tis kind and genial weather,
So prithee quit that easy chair,
And let us forth together.
The merry month of June is here,
Adorning briar and bramble;
Come, slip your bonnet on, my dear,
And join me in a ramble.



I well recall the happy day
- When through the green lanes straying,
I met a little maiden gay
And went with her a-Maying,
She was but ten, and [ no more,
Her cheeks were round and rosy,
And in her white-bibbed pinafore
She wore a pretty posy.

She tripped so daintily along,
And prattled on go cheerily,
Theeded not the skylark’s song,

Although I loved that dearly.
There was a music in her voice,
So witehing, so entrancing,

It made my inmost heart rejoice
And set my pulses dancing.

Obedient to her commands,
I dared the thorniest hedges,

And scratched and tore my face and hands
In climbing banks and ledges

To win a spray of hawthorn bloom—
Nor deemed the task a labor,—

Or cull some flower whose sweet perfume
Endeared it to my neighbor.

At last we reached a quiet nook
(Beside a hazel cover

And watered by a babbling brook),
With blossoms sprinkled over

In such profusion and so rare,
Our souls were filled with pleasure ;

Departing Spring had emptied there

’ Her lap of half its treasure.



Hh

Vg Ai
NY
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59







Is . Lf WONDER WHY.—A STRAY CHILD. 61



And here we gathered at our will
The rarest flowers a-blowing,
And gold and silver heaped until
*T was time we should be going;
Then, as we bore our wealth away,
We chanted to the wild wood,
As I remember, many a lay
Dear to the heart of childhood.

Since then, dear dame—there, do not sigh—
We’ve lived and loved together

For threescore years, or very nigh,
Enjoying fairish weather;

Now traveling down the vale of life,
We’ve little cause for sorrow—

A happy husband, happy wife,
With trust in our to-morrow.

I WONDER WHY.

WONDER why this world's good things
Should fall in such unequal shares;

Why some should taste of all the joys,

And others only feel the cares!
I wonder why the sunshine bright

Should fall in paths some people tread,
While others shiver in the shade

Of clouds that gather overhead.

I wonder why the trees that hang
So full of luscious fruit should grow

Only where some may reach and eat,
While others faint and thirsty go!

Why should sweet flowers bloom for some,
For others only thorns be found;

And some grow rich on fruitful earth,
While others till but barren ground 2

I wonder why the hearts of some
Overflow with joy and happiness,

While others go their lonely way
Unblessed with aught of tenderness!

I wonder why the eyes ot some
Should ne’er be moistened with a tear,
Why others weep from morn till night,
Their hearts so crushed with sorrow here!

Ah well! we may not know indeed
The whys, the wherefores of each life !
But this we know,—there’s One who sees
And watches us through joy or strife.
Each life its mission here fulfills,
And only He may know the end,
And loving Him we may be strong,
Though storm or sunshine He may send.

A STRAY CHILD.

HE chill November day was done,
The working world home faring ;
The wind came roaring through the streets
And set the gas-lights flaring ;
And hopelessly and aimlessly
The scared old leaves were flying ;
When, mingled with the sighing wind,
I heard a small voice crying.

And shivering, on the corner stood
A child of four, or over ;
No cloak or hat her small, soft arms,
And wind-blown curls to cover.
Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
Her round blue eyes ran over;
She cherished in her wee, cold hand,
A bunch of faded clover.

And one hand round her treasure while
She slipped in mine the other;

Half scared, half confidential, said,
“Qh! please, I want my mother!”
“Tell me your street and number, pet:
Don’t ery, I’ll take you to it.”
Sobbing she answered, “I forget:

The organ made me do it,



62 CREEDS OF THE BELLS.

“He came and played at Milly’s steps,
The monkey took the money;
And so I followed down the street,
The monkey was so funny.
I’ve walked about a hundred hours,
From one street to another;
_ The monkey’s gone, I’ve spoiled my flowers,
Oh! please, I want my mother.”

“ But what’s your mother’s name? and what
The street ? Now, think a minute.”
‘My mother’s name is mamma dear—
The street—I can’t begin it.”
“ But what is strange about the house,
Or new—not like the others?”
“T guess you mean my trundle bed,
Mine and my little brother’s.

“Oh dear! I ought to be at home
To help him say his prayers—
He’s such a baby he forgets ;

And we are both such players—
And there’s a bar to keep us both
From pitching on each other,
For Harry rolls when he’s asleep ;
Oh dear! I want my mother.”

The sky grew stormy; people passed
All muftled, homeward faring :
“ You'll have to spend the night with me”
I said at last despairing.
I tied a kerchief round her neck—
“ What ribbon’s this, my blossom ?”
“Why, don’t you know ?” she smiling said,
And drew it from her bosom.

A card with number, street and name;
My eyes astonished met it;
“ For,” said the little one, “ you see
I might sometimes forget it:
And so I wear a little thing
That tells you all about it;
For mother says she’s very sure
T should get lost without it.”





CREEDS OF THE BELLS.

a]OW sweet the chime of the Sabbath
fal bells! ;

Each one its creed in music tells,

In tones that float upon the air,

As soft as song and pure as prayer 5

And I will put in simple rhyme

The language of the golden chime.

My happy heart with rapture swells
Responsive to the bells—sweet bells.

“Tn deeds of love excel—excel,”
Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ;

“ This is the church not built on sands,
Emblem of one not built with hands ;
Its forms and sacred rites revere,

Come worship here, come worship here !
In ritual and faith excel,”

Chimed out the Episcopalian bell.

“Oh, heed the ancient landmarks well,”
In solemn tones exclaimed a bell,

“No progress made by mortal man
Can change the just, eternal plan.

Do not invoke the avenging rod;
Come here, and learn the way to God.
Say to the world farewell ! farewell!”
Pealed out the Presbyterian bell.

“ Oh, swell, ye cleansing waters, swell,”
In mellow tones rang out a bell;

“ Though faith alone in Christ can save,
Man must be plunged beneath the wave,
To show the world unfaltering faith

In what the sacred Scripture saith ;

Oh, swell, ye rising waters, swell,”
Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell.

“Not faith alone, but works as well,
Must test the soul,” said a soft bell.
“ Come here, and cast aside your load,
And work your way along the road,
With faith in God, and faith in man,



Te

TVHER LITTLE HERO. 63

And hope in Christ, where hopes began ;
Do well—do well—do well—do well,”
Pealed forth the Unitarian bell.

“Tn after life there is no hell,”

In rapture rang a cheerful bell ;

“ Look up to heaven this holy day,
Where angels wait to lead the way.
There are no fires, no fiends to blight
The future life; be just and right.
No hell—no hell—no hell—no hell,”
Rang out the Universalist bell.

“To all, the truth we tell—we tell,”
Shouted, in ecstasies, a bell ;

“ Come, all ye weary wand’rers, see!
Our Lord has made salvation free.
Repent! believe! have faith! and then
Be saved, and praise the Lord. Amen.
Salvation’s free, we tell—we tell,”
Shouted the Methodistic bell.

THE LITTLE HERO.

OW, lads, a short yarn J’ll just spin you,
“4 As happened on our very last run,—
’ Bout a boy as a man’s soul had in him,

Or else ’'m a son of a gun.

From Liverpool port out three days, lads;
The good ship floating over the deep ;

The skies bright with sunshine above us ;
The waters beneath us, asleep.

Not a bad-tempered lubber among us.
A jollier crew never sailed,

’Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage,
But good seaman as ever was hailed.

Regulation, good order, his motto ;
Strong as iron, steady as quick 5

With a couple of bushy black eyebrows,
And eyes fierce as those of Old Nick.



One day he comes up from below,
A-graspin’ a lad by the arm,—

| A poor little ragged young urchin

As had ought to bin home to his marm,.

An’ the mate asks the boy, pretty roughly,
How he dared for to be stowed away,
A-cheatin’ the owners and captain,
Sailin,’ eatin,’ and all without pay

The lad had a face bright and sunny,
An’ a pair of blue eyes like a girl’s,

Aw’ looks up at the scowlin’ first mate, lads,
An’ shakes back his long, shining curls.

An’ says he, in a voice dear and pretty,
“ My step-father brought me aboard,
And hid me away down the stairs there ;

For to keep me he couldn’t afford.

“ And he told me the big ship would take
me
To Halifax town,—oh, so far!
And he said, ‘ Now the Lord is your father,
Who lives where the good angels are.’”

“Tis a lie”? says the mate: “Not your
father,
But some of these big skulkers aboard,
Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor.
Speak up, tell the truth, d’ye hear?”

‘oT warn’t us,” growled the tars as stood
round ’em—
“What’s your age?” says one of the
brine.
“And your name?” says another old salt fish.
Says the small chap, “I’m Frank, just
turned nine.”

“Oh, my eyes!” says another bronzed sea-
man
To the mate, who seemed staggered his-
self,
“Let him go free to old Novy Scoshy,
And T’ll work out his passage myself.”



64 THE LITTLE HERO.



“ Belay,” says the mate; “shut your mouth,
man !
I'll sail this ’ere craft, bet your life,
An’ [ll fit the lie on to you somehow,
As square as a fork fits a knife.”

Then a-knitting his black brows with anger
He tumbled the poor slip below;
An’ gays he, “P’r’aps to-morrow’ll change
you,
If it don’t, back to England you go.”

I took him some dinner, be sure, mates,—
Just think, only nine years of age!

Aw’ next day, just as six bells tolled,
The mate brings him up from his cage.

An’ he plants him before us amidships,
His eyes like two coals all alight;
Aw’ he says, through his teeth, mad with
passion,
An’ his hand lifted ready to smite :

“Tell the truth, lad, and then Ill forgive
you;
But the truth I will have. Speak it out.
It wasn’t your father as brought you,
But some of these men here about.”

Then that pair o’ blue eyes, bright and
winning,
Clear and shining with innocent youth,
Looks up at the mate’s bushy eyebrows,
-An’, says he, “Sir, I’ve told you the
truth.”

*Twarn’t no use; the mate didn’t believe
him,
Though every man else did aboard.
With rough hand, by the collar he seized
him,
And cried, “You shall hang, by the
Lord.”

Aw’ he snatched his watch out of his pocket,
Just as if he’d been drawin’ a knife.
“Tf in ten minutes more you don’t speak,
lad,
There’s the rope, and good-bye to your
life.”

There! you never see such a sight, mates,
As that boy with his bright, pretty face,—

Proud, though, and steady with courage,
Never thinking of asking for grace.

Eight minutes went by all in silence,
Says the mate then, “Speak, lad, say your
say.”
His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops,
‘He faltering says, “ May I pray?”

Pm a rough and hard old tarpa’lin
As any “ blue-jacket ” afloat ;

But the salt water springs to my eyes, lads,
And I felt my heart rise in my throat.

The mate kind o’ trembled an’ shivered,
And nodded his head in reply ;
And his cheek went all white, of a sudden,
And the hot light was quenched in his
eyes

Tho’ he stood like a figure of marble,
With his watch tightly grasped in his
hand,
An’ the passengers all still around him;
Ne’er the like was on sea or on land.
’

An’ the little chap kneels on the deck there,
An’ his hands he clasps over his breast,

As he must ha’ done often at home, lads,
At night-time, when going to rest.

And soft come the first words, “Our Father,”
Low and soft from the dear baby-lip ;

But, low as they were, heard like trumpet
By each true man aboard of that ship.



LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR. 65



Evry bit of that prayer, mates, he goes
through,
To, “Forever and ever. Amen.”
And for all the bright gold of the Indies, ’
I wouldn’t ha’ heard it again!

And, says he, when he finished, uprising
An’ lifting his blue eyes above,

“ Dear Lord Jesus, oh, take me to heaven,
Back again to my own mother’s love!”

For a minute or two, like a magic,
We stood every man like the dead.

‘Then back to the mate’s face comes running
The life-blood again, warm and red.

Off his feet was that lad sudden lifted,
And clasped to the mate’s rugged breast
And his husky voice muttered, “‘ God bless
you.”
As his lips to his forehead he pressed.

If the ship hadn’t been a good sailor,
And gone by herself right along,

All had gone to Old Davy; for all, lads,
Was gathered ’round in that throng.

Like a man, says the mate, “God forgive
me, .
That ever I used you so hard.
It’s myself as had ought to be strung up,
Taut and sure, to that ugly old yard.”

“You believe me, then ?” said the youngster,
“ Believe you!” He kissed him once

more.
“You'd have laid down your life for the
truth, lad.

Believe you! From now, evermore!”

An’ p’r’aps, mates, he wasn’t thought much
on,
All that day and the rest of the trip;
P’r’aps he paid after all for his passage ;
P’r’aps he wasn’t the pet of the ship.

An’ if that little chap ain’t a model,
For all, young or old, short or tall,

And if that ain’t the stuff to make men of,
Old Ben, he knows naught, after all.

LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR.

GOOD wife rose from her bed one
eS, morn,
And thought with a nervous dread
Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and
more
Than a dozen mouths to be fed.
There’s the meals to get for the men in the
field,
And the children to fix away
To school, and the milk to be skimmed
and churned ;
And all to be done this day.

It had rained in the night, and all the wood
Was wet asit could be;
There were puddings and pies to bake,
besides
A loaf of cake for tea.
And the day was hot, and her aching head
Throbbed wearily as she said,
“Tf maidens but knew what good wives
know,
They would not be in haste to wed/”

“Jennie, what do you think I told Ben
Brown?”
Called the farmer from the well ;
And a flush crept up to his bronzed brow,
And his eyes half bashfully fell;
“It was this,” he said, and coming near
He smiled, and stooping down,
Kissed her cheek—“ ’twas this, that you
were the best
And the dearest wife in town!”



66 THE OLD MAN IN THE PALACE CAR.



The farmer went back to the field, and the

wife
In a smiling, absent way
Sang snatches of tender little songs
She’d not sung for many a day.

And the pain in her head was gone, and

the clothes
Were white as the foam of the sea;

Her bread was light, and her butter was

sweet,
And as golden as it could be.

“Just think,’ the children all called in
a breath, ,
“Tom Wood has run off to sea!
He wouldn’t, I know, if he’d only had
As happy a home as we.”
The night came down, and the good wife
smiled
To herself, as she softly said :
“?Tis so sweet to labor for those we love,—
It’s not strange that maids will wed!”

THE OLD MAN IN THE PALACE CAR.

@f‘ELL, Betsy, this beats everything our

eyes have ever seen,

We are riding in a palace fit fora king or
queen.

We didn’t ride so fast as this, nor on such
cushions rest,

When we left New England, years ago, to
seek a home out West.

_ We rode through this same country, but

not as now we ride ;

You sat within a stage-coach, while I trudged

on by your side.

Instead of riding on a rail, I carried one,
you know,

To pry the old coach from the mire through
which we had to go.

Let’s see—’tis fifty years ago—just after we
were wed;

Your eyes were then like diamonds bright,
your cheeks like roses red.

Now, Betsy, people call us old, and push
us to one side,

Just as they did the slow old coach in
which we used to ride.

I wonder if young married folks to-day
would condescend,

To take a wedding tour like ours with a
log-house at the end.

Much of the sentimental love which sets
young cheeks aglow

Would die to meet the hardships of fifty
years ago.

Our love grew stronger as we toiled,
though food and clothes were coarse ;

None ever saw us in the courts a-hunting a
divorce. -

Love leveled down the mountains and made
low places high ;

Love sang a song that cheered us when
clouds and storms were nigh.

I’m glad to see the world move on—to hear
the engine’s roar,

“And all about the cable stretching from

shore to shore.

Our mission here’s accomplished ; ~vith toil
we both are through,

The Lord just lets us live awhile to see
how young folks do.

Whew! Betsy, how we’re flying; see the
farms and towns go by;

It makes my gray hair stand on end, and
dims my failing eye.

Soon we'll be throtigh our journey, and in
the house so good,

That stands within a twelve rod of where
the log one stood.

How slow, like old-time coaches, our youth-
ful days swept by,



THE CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 67





The years when we were living neath a| Out in the country, near a wood,

bright New England sky. ,

Swifter than palace cars now fly, our later
years have flown,

Until we’re journeying hand in hand down
to the grave alone ;

And I can hear the whistle blown on life’s
fast-flying train,—

Only a few more stations in the valley
now remain.

Soon we’ll reach the home eternal with its
glories rare—untold,

Stop at last in that blest city—walk its
streets of gold.

THE CHRISTMAS PRAYER.

ty WE winter day was growing old;

The evening’s breath came hard and

cold ;

Great flocks of clouds, with wings of gray,
Shed feathery snow-flakes on their way ;
And all the city streets among
A troupe of breezes danced and sung. |
But though the frost was keen and bold,
And though the air was biting cold,
A thousand gaily-stepping feet
Went up and down the lighted street.
A thousand hands with pressure tight
Were grasping presents rich and bright:
A thousand hearts were hasting home
To hearts that longed to see them come ;
For wondrous gladness filled the air,
And Christmas eve was everywhere.

But it has not so sweet a sound

In homes where children are not found:
And in one mansion rich and grand

A wife and husband, hand in hand,
Were sitting by the fire-light’s glow,
And gazing on the streets below,

And with sad hearts unreconciled,
Were thinking of a long-lost child.

The little old brown school-house stood,
Now school was closed

And with glad shouts the children strode
Along the white hard-beaten road,

To where farm-houses cheered the sight,
And lamps already glimmered bright.
With unassumed, unconscious grace,
And pleasure dancing on each face,
They brought the presents all to mind
Which they that eve were to receive

Or in the early morning find.

Old Santa Claus, that famous king

Of childish lore, was handled o’er,

And all the treasures h> might bring.

But look! with shouts and faces gay,
They passed a poor-house on their way,
And a sweet, care-worn looking child
From out a window gazed and smiled
To see the other children glad;

But her poor wistful heart was sad.
That night our little friendless one,
Bowed low in grief her childish head
Upon the ragged poor-house bed,

| And in a sweet and pleading tone

Made a short prayer, yes, all her own:
“O Jesus! you who loved so well

The little ones, of whom they tell

You would not have them sent away:
But said to all, those who believe

If they would ask they should receive.
O Jesus! please for me to find

Two good nice parents, sweet and kind,
And ask them if they will not spread
Some little presents by my bed,

That they my heart may cheerful make
To-morrow morning when I wake,

And I be made as ‘happy so

As other children that I know.”

She said “‘Amen ” with reverence deep,
Closed her blue eyes and sank asleep.



68 . THE CHRISTMAS PRAYER.



Still sat the childless couple where

The lights of luxury were fair,

And still, with thoughts all tempest-tossed,
Each silent mused, with sad heart bruised,
Upon the child that they had lost.

But listen! with a sudden clang

The loudly-speaking door-bell rang,

And a detective’s face they viewed,

With patient lines deep marked and shrewd,
And scarce the parent’s questioning eye
Was met before he made reply: °

“T come at last with tidings new.

The child I’ve sought so long for you,
The child you lost five years ago,

Has lived, and lives. Her place I know.
The beggar who, with Satan’s aid,

Stole her to help his piteons trade,

Died in a cozntry poor-house, where

He ieft the child and she is there.

Mistake or doubt cannot befall ;

Here are the proofs; I have them all.

She is not very far away,

And you, if bold to bear the cold,

May see her ere another day.”

“To bear the cold! What has she borne ?
She shall not longer friendless mourn.

The horses—quick!’. And soon, in spite
Of cold and sleet, the champing feet

Of swift steeds dashed into the night,
Until they halted just before

The great poor-house’s dingy door.

And soon the parents softly crept

Into the gloom of one small room,

- And watched their darling while she slept,
And, weeping, listened to the prayer
Which she that night had offered there,
(For the old matron overheard,

And told it to them, every word).

Her sleeping face appeared to them

As some fair flower at evening’s hour

Low drooping on its weary stem ;

But that soft prayer—in Heaven now—



Had left its touch upon her brow ;
Its grief and comfort they could trace
Upon the well remembered face.

The mother yearned the child to press
In all her piteous loveliness,
But would not yet her slumber break,
And said: “ My darling shall not wake
Until her prayer we answered see

As well and nearly as may be.” »

And soon the sleek swift horses flew
Back where proud presents rich and new

| Hung in the lamp-light’s brilliant rays,

The envy of all children’s gaze;
Which ere another hour, had fled,
Hands softly bore, and placed before
The little sleeper’s lowly bed.

She woke at last; and, wondering, threw
A swift glance keen upon the scene

That burst upon her startled view.

A vast amazement filled her face:

The room was like a fairy place.

No toy she wished but it was there;
Bright presents glittered everywhere.

No gift her thought had learned to prize
But it was spread before her eyes:

| And presents made her young heart glow

Whose very names she did not know.

But look! a man with step of pride —

And asweet lady by his side,

More beautiful and high of mien

Than any she had ever seen,

Came, and above her wept and smiled,
And called her their poor long-lost child!

The Christmas morn rose clear and bright 5 :

And through the flashing fields of light
A band of angels sweet and fair,

It seemed to me, came far to see

That answer to the Christmas prayer.



CHRISTMAS EVE. 69

CHRISTMAS EVE,

"HH REE little stockings—two blue, and
one red,
Hung up ’neath the mantel so neatly;
Two little boys rest in their low trundle-bed,
In her cradle the baby sleeps sweetly.

With foot on the rocker and love in her eye,
A mother is quietly sitting ;

She chants to slow measure an old lullaby—. |.

Her hands the while busily knitting.

She stops now and then to replace, with a
kiss,
Two dimpled arms under the cover,
She knows that commissioned from regions
of bliss,
. *Round her baby the bright angels hover.

But the moments glide on: her singing is
over;
With hands on her lap idly sinking,
And knitting-work fallen quite on to the
floor,
She is thinking—so busily thinking.

Thought wings her away to the sunshiny
past, :
Where sweetest of mem’ries ave hidden 5
But round the low cot sweeps the wild
wintry blast—
_ Sweeps away her fond visions, unbidden.

She looks round her room with dissatisfied
gaze—
That humble room furnished so plainly ;
“Alas for the hopes of my long ago days!
Why, still, do I cherish you vainly @

“And this for our home; poor, wretched at
best ;
Though John calls it tidy and cosy ;
A home for our children—had fortune but
blessed
Their infancy sparkling and rosy,

“ My husband could banish the care which
annoys ; x
I would dress in rich satins and laces;
We could look with such pride on our
bright, noble boys
And our daughter’s rare beauty and
graces.

“Instead of these three little stockings I
see,
Each waiting its poor, penny treasure,
We could plant in our parlor a vast Christ-

mas tree,

Which should bear costly fruits without
measure.”
* * * *

’Tis gone; the feverish longing is past—
Years of toil, hope, and love true and
tender ;
Exchanged is the low, humble cottage at
last
For a long envied dwelling of splendor.

Those years fill his coffers, but stay not
their flight,

For John and his wife have grown older ;
Her eye has lost much of its olden love-

light—
His heart become harder and colder.
* * * *

Christmas Eve. In the splendor of parlor
and hall
The mother sits, wearied and weeping ;
Through thin, jewelled fingers, her burn-
ing tears fall,

While her late lonely vigil she’s keeping.

She looks on the brilliant luxuriance there,
Fruition of Hope’s early dreaming,
The Christmas tree laden with fruitage so
rare,
Rich and ripe, ’midst its foliage gleam-
ing.



70



But the hands which should gather—where
are they to-night ?
Ah, gold! the false hearted, alluring,—
On the name of the daughter has fallen a
blight,
Than beauty and grace more enduring.

There are tears for the fair one whose com-
ing no more
-That desolate bosom will gladden ;
There’s an ache in the near that wealth
covers o’er, |
Which poverty could not so sadden.

There are tears for the wayward—the boys
are so changed—
Money opens the door to temptation,—
From mother and home, by the wine-cup
estranged,
They wander in wild dissipation.

Hark! is it the night-wind in fury un-
bound
Through leafless trees shrieking and
sighing?
She listens—her quick ear interprets the
sound—
Down, wild, through the passage she’s
flying.

Her white hands unlock and throw open
the door,
A terrible vision revealing!
Robbed—murdered—her husband lies coy-
ered with gore—
His heart’s blood still flowing, congeal-

ing.
With a shriek of deep anguish and utter
despair,
She falls, * * * “Why my dear,

what's the matter?
Dreaming, were’n’t you?
sleep well, I declare,
Amid such commotion and clatter.

The children

THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND.

“Tere, tuck in their stockings these can-
dies and toys—
Only trifles—but true love goes with
them !
God bless our sweet baby, and dear, cae
boys
With health to enjoy what we give
them !”
Mary smiles through her tears on that fond
beaming face !
“Oh, John we are blessed without
measure!
Our own humble home is a dear happy
place,
And love is its pure priceless treasure !

THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND.

LAS! what errors are sometimes com-

mitted,

What blunders are made, what duties
omitted,

What scandals arise, what mischief
wrought,

Through want of a moment’s reflection. and
thought!

How many a fair reputation has flown

Through a stab in the dark from some per-
son unknown ;

Or some tale spread abroad with assiduous

ig

- care,
‘When the story the strictest inspection
would bear!
How often rage, malice, and envy are
found ;

How often contention and hatred abound

‘Where true love should exist, and harmony
dwell,

Through a misunderstanding, alas! who
can tell ?



THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND. 71



Mr, Ferdinand Plum was a grocer by trade ;

By attention and tact he a fortune had
“made;

No tattler, nor maker of mischief was he,

But as honest a man as you'd e’er wish to
see.

Of a chapel, close by, he was deacon, they

BAY,
And his minister lived just over the way.

Mr. Plum was retiring to rest one night,
He had just undressed and put out the
light,
And pulled back the blind
As he peeped from behind
(Tis a custom with many to do so, you'll
find),
When, glancing his eye,
He happened to spy
On the blinds on the opposite side—oh, fie!
Two shadows; each movement of course he
could see,
And the people were quarreling evidently.
“Well I never,” said Plum, as he witnessed
the strife,
“T declare ’tis the minister beating his
wife !”
The minister held a thick stick in his hand,
And his wife ran away as he shook the
brand,
Whilst her shrieks and cries were quite
shocking to hear,
And the sounds came across most remark-
ably clear,
“Well, things are deceiving,
But—‘seeing’s believing,’ ”
Said Plum to himself, as he turned into
bed;
“ Now, who would have thought
That man would have fought
And beaten his wife on her shoulders and

head







With a great big stick,
At least three inches thick ?
I am sure her shrieks quite filled me with
dread.
Tve a great mind to bring
The whole of the thing
Before the church members, but no, I have
read
A proverb which says ‘ Least said soonest
mended.’ ”
And thus Mr. Plum’s mild soliloquy ended.

Bnt, alas! Mr. Plum’s eldest daughter,
Miss Jane,

Saw the whole of the scene, and could not
refrain

From telling Miss Spot, and Miss Spot told
again

(Though of course in strict confidence)
every one

Whom she happened to know, what the
parson had done;

So the news spread abroad, and soon
reached the ear

Of the parson himself, and he traced it,

I hear,

To the author, Miss Jane. Jane could not
deny,

But at the same time she begged leave to
defy

The parson to prove she had uttered a lie.

A church meeting was called: Mr. Plum
made a speech,

He said, “Friends, pray listen awhile, I
beseech.

What my daughter has said is most cer-
tainly true

For I saw the whole scene on the same
evening, too ;

But, not wishing to make an unpleasantness
rife,

I did not tell either my daughter or wife.



72 TIRED MOTHERS.





But of course as Miss Jane saw the whole
of the act,
I think it but right to attest to the fact.”

“Tis remarkably strange!” the parson
replied :

“Tt is plain Mr. Plum must something have
spied ;

Though the wife-beating story of course is
denied ;

And in that I can say I am grossly belied.”

While he ransacks his brain, and ponders,
and tries

To recall any scene that could ever give
rise

To so monstrous a charge,—just then his
wife cries,

“T have it, my love; you remember that
night

When I had such a horrible, terrible fright.

We both were retiring that evening to

rest,—

I was seated, my dear, and but partly un-
dressed,

When a nasty large rat jumped close to my

_ feet;

My shrieking was heard, I suppose, in the
street ;

You caught up the poker, and ran round
the room,

And at last knocked the rat, and so sealed
its doom,

“Our shadows, my love, must have played
on the blind;

And this is the mystery solved, you will
find.”

Mora.

Don’t believe every tale that is handed
about ;

We have all enough faults and real failings,
without

Being burdened with those of which there’s
a doubt.

| If you study this tale, I think, too, you

will find
That a light should be placed in the front,
not behind;
For often strange shadows are seen on the
blind,

TIRED MOTHERS.

LITTLE elbow leans upon your
knee,—
Your tired knee that has so much to
bear;
A child’s dear eyes are looking lovingly
From underneath a thatch of tangled
hair.
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so
tight ;
You do not prize this blessing overmuch,—
You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness! A year ago -
I did not see it as I do to-day—

We are so dull and thankless ; and tooslow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me,

That, while I wore the badge of mother-
hood,
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly
The little child that brought me only
good.

And, if some night when you sit down to
rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired
knee,—
This restless curling head from off your
breast,—
This lisping tongue that chatters con-
stantly;



THE LEAK IN THE DIKE. 73



If from your own the dimpled hands had

slipped,
And ne’er would nestle in your palm
again ;
If the white feet into their grave had
tripped,

I could not blame you for your heart-
ache then.

I wonder so that mothers ever fret
At little children clinging to their gown ;
Or that the footprints, when the days are
wet,
Are ever black enough to make them
frown. :
If I could find a little muddy boot,
Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor —
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,
And hear it patter in my house once
more,—

If I could mend a broken cart to-day,
To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky,
There is no woman in God’s world could
say
She was more blissfully content than I.
But ah! the dainty pillow next my own
Is never rumpled by a shining head ;
My singing birdling from its nest is flown,—
The little boy I used to kiss is dead !

THE LEAK IN THE DIKE.

ABRIDGED.

FAVE good dame looked from her cottage
At the close of the pleasant day,
And cheerily called to her little son
Outside the door at play:
“Come, Peter, come! I want you to go
While there is light to see,

To the hut of the blind old man who lives
Across the dike, for me;

And take these cakes I made for him,
They are hot and smoking yet;

You have time enough to go and come
Before the sun is set.”

Then the good-wife turned to her labor,
Humming a simple song,
And thought of her husband, working hard
At the sluices all day long;
And set the turf a-blazing,
And brought the coarse black bread ;
That he might find a fire at night,
And find the teble spread.

And Peter left the brother,
With whom all day he’d played,

And the sister who had watched their sports
In the willow’s tender shade.

For he was a brave, bright fellow,
With eye and conscience clear; |

And now, with his face all glowing,
And eyes as bright as the day

With the thoughts of his pleasant errand,:
He trudged along the way;

And soon his joyous prattle
Made glad a lonesome place—

Alas! if only the blind old man
Could have seen that happy face—

Yet he somehow caught the brightness
Which his voice and presence lent;

And he felt the sunshine come and go
As Peter came and went.

And now, as the day was sinking,
And the winds began to rise,

‘he mother looked from her door again,
Shading her anxious eyes ;

And saw the shadows deepen,
And birds to their homes come back,



74 THE LEAK IN THE DIKE.





But never a sign of Peter
Along the level track.

But she said: “ He will come-at morning,
So I need not fret or grieve—

Though it isn’t like my boy at all
To stay without my leave.”

But where was the child delaying ?
On the homeward way was he,

And across the dike while the sun was up
An hour above the sea.

He was stopping now to gather flowers,
Now listening to the sound,

As the angry waters dashed themselves
Against their narrow bound,

“ Ah! well for us,” said Peter,
“That the gates are good and strong

And my father tends them carefully,
Or they would not hold you long!”

But hark! Through the noise of waters
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound ;

And the child’s face pales with terror,
And his blossoms drop to the ground.

He is up the bank in a moment,
And, stealing through the sand,

He sees a stream not yet so large
As his slender, childish hand.

Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy,
Unused to fearful scenes ;

But, young as he is, he has learned to know

The dreadful thing that means.

A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart
Grows faint that cry to hear,

And the bravest man in all the land
Turns white with mortal fear.

And the boy! He has seen the danger,
And, shouting a wild alarm,

He forces back the weight of the sea |
With the strength of his single arm !

He listens for the joyful sound
Of a footstep passing nigh ;

And lays his ear to the ground to catch
The answer to his ery.

And he hears the rough winds blowing,
And the waters rise and fall,

But never an answer comes to him,
Save the echo of his call.

He sees no hope, no succor,
His feeble voice is lost ;

Yet what shall he do but watch and wait
Though he perish at his post.

He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their sate, warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother,
Of himself as dying—and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last;
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.

The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,

For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all night.

And now she watches the pathway,
As yester-eve she had done ;

But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?

Her neighbors are bearing between them
Something straight to her door;

Her child is coming home, but not
As he ever came before.

“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!”
And the startled father hears,

And comes and looks the way she looks
And fears the thing she fears ;

Till the glad shout from the bearers
Thrills the stricken man and wife—

“‘ Give thanks, for your son has saved our

Jand,

And God has saved his life !”



THE AMERICAN FLAG. f 15



So, there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy ;

And every head was bared and bent
In tearful, reverent joy.

*Tis many a year since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,

Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave and true and good.

For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,

And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.

They have many a valiant hero
Remembered through the years ;

But never one whose name so oft
Is named with loving tears.

And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told the child on the knee,

So long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

THOUGHTFUL mind, when it sees

a nation’s flag, sees not the flag only,

but the nation itself; and whatever may be

its symbols, its insignia, he reads chiefly in

the flag the government, the principles, the

truths, the history, which belong to the
nation that sets it forth.

When the French tricolor rolls out to the

wind, we see France. When the new-

found Italian flag is unfurled, we see resur-.

rected Italy. When the other three cor-
nered Hungarian flag shall be lifted to the
wind, we shall see in it the long-buried but
never dead principles of Hungarian liberty.
When the united crosses of St. Andrew
and 8t. George on a fiery ground set forth
the banner of Old England, we see not the





cloth merely; there rises up before the
mind the noble aspect of that monarchy
which, more than any other on the globe,
has advanced its banner for liberty, law and
national prosperity.

This nation has a banner too; and wher-
ever it streamed abroad, men saw daybreak
bursting on their eyes, for the American
flag has been the symbol of liberty, and
men rejoiced in it. Not another flag on
the globe had such an errand, or went
forth upon the sea, carrying everywhere,
the world around, such hope for the cap-
tive and such glorious tidings.

The stars upon it were to the pining na-
tions like the morning stars of God, and the
stripes upon it were beams of morning light.

As at early dawn the stars stand first,
and then it grows light, and then as the
sun advances, that light breaks into banks
and streaming lines of color, the glowing
red and intense white striving together and
ribbing the horizon with bars effulgent, so
on the American flag, stars and beams of
many colored light shine out together.
And wherever the flag comes, and men
behold it, they see in its sacred emblazonry
no rampant lion and fierce eagle, bet only
Lieut, and every fold significant of liberty.

The history of this banner is all on one
side. Under it rode Washington and his
armies; before it Burgoyne laid down his
arms; it waved on the highlands at West
Point; it floated over old Fort Montgomery.
When Arnold would have surrendered
these valuable fortresses and precious lega-
cies, his night was turned into day, and his
treachery was driven away, by the beams
of light from this starry banner.

It cheered our army, driven from New
York, in their solitary pilgrimage through
New Jersey. It streamed in light over



76 NO MORTGAGE ON THE FARM.



Valley Forge and Morristown. It crossed
the waters rolling with ice at Trenton; and
when its stars gleamed in the cold morning
with victory, a new day of hope dawned on
the despondency of the nation. And when
at length, the long years of war were draw-
ing to a close, underneath the folds of this
immortal banner sat Washington while
Yorktown surrendered its hosts and our
Revolutionary struggles ended with vic-
tory. :

Let us then twine each thread of the
glorious tissue of our country’s flag about
our heartstrings; and looking upon our
homes and catching the spirit that breathes
upon us from the battle-fields of our fathers,
let us resolve, come weal or woe, we will,
in life and in death, now and forever, stand
by the stars and stripes. They have been
unfurled from the snows of Canada to the
plains of New Orleans, in the halls of the
Montezumas, and amid the solitude ot
every sea; and everywhere, as the lumi-
nous symbol of resistless and beneficent
power, they have led the brave to victory
and to glory. They have floated over our
cradles ; let it be our prayer and our strug-
gle that they shall float over our graves.

NO MORTGAGE ON THE FARM.

ARY, let’s kill the fatted calf, and

celebrate this day,

For the last dreadful mortgage on the farm
is wiped away ;

I have got the papers with me, they are
right as right can be—

Let us laugh and sing together, for the dear
old farm is free.



Don’t all we Yankees celebrate the Fourth
day of July ?

Because ’twas then that freedom’s sun lit
up our nation’s sky ;

Why shouldn’t we then celebrate, and this
day ne’er forget ?

Where is there any freedom like being out
of debt? :

Pve riz up many mornin’s an hour before
the sun,

And night has overtaken me before the task
was done;

When weary with my labor, ’twas this
thought that nerved my arm:

Each day of toil will help to pay the mort-

’ gage on the farm.

And, Mary, you have done your part in
rowin’ to the shore,

By takin’ eggs and butter to the little vil-
lage store ;

.You did not spend the money in dressin’

up for show,
But sang from morn till evening in your
faded calico.

And Bessie, our sweet .daughter—God
bless her loving heart !

The lad that gets her for a wife must be
by nater smart,—

She’s gone without piano, her lonely hours
to charm,

To have a handin payin’ off the mortgage
on the farm.

Ill build a little cottage soon to make your
heart rejoice ;

I'll buy a good piano to go with Bessie’s
voice ;

You shall not make your butter with that
up and down concern,

For I’ll go this very day and buy the finest
patent churn.



IF WH KNEW.—JAMES A. GARFIELD.

717



Lay by your faded calico and go with me
to town,

How these little hands remind us,
As in snowy grace they lie,

And get yourself and Bessie a new and shin- | Not to scatter thorns, but roses,

ing gown;

Low prices for our produce need not give

us now alarm;
Spruce up a little Mary, there’s no mort-
gage on the farm!

While our hearts are now so joyful, let us,
Mary, not forget

To thank the God of heaven for being out
of debt ;

For he gave the rain and sunshine, and put
strength into my arm,

And lengthened out the days to see no
mortgage on the farm.

IF WE KNEW.

I we knew the woe and heartache
Waiting for us down the road,
If our lips could taste the wormwood,
If our backs could feel the load ;
Would we waste the day in wishing
Fora time that ne’er can be?
Would we wait with such impatience
For our ships to come from sea?

If we knew the baby fingers,
Pressed against the window pane,
Would be cold and stiff to-morrow,—

Never trouble us again ;
Would the bright eyes of our darling
Catch the frown upon our brow?
Would the print of rosy fingers
Vex us then as they do now ?

Ah, these little ice-cold fingers !
How they point our memories back
To the hasty words and actions
Strewn along our backward track!

For our reaping by and by.

Strange we never prize the music
Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown ;
Strange that we should slight the violets
Till the lovely flowers are gone ;
Strange that summer skies and sunshine ©
Never seem one-half so fair
As when winter’s snowy pinions
Shake their white down in the air.

Lips from which the seal of silence
None but God ean roll away,
Never blossomed in such beauty
As adorns the mouth to-day ;
And sweet words that freight our memory
With their beautiful perfume,
Come to us in sweeter accents
Through the portals of the tomb.

Let us gather up the sunbeams,

Lying all around our path ;
Let us keep the wheat and roses,
Casting out the thorns and chaff;
Let us find our sweetest comfort
In the blessings of to-day ;
With a patient hand removing
All the briars from our way.

JAMES A. GARFIELD.



A DECLAMATION.

HE boyhood friends of James A. Gar-
tield knew what a generous, earnest,
ambitious young student he was. His old
comrades in the army knew what asoldier he
was. His associates in Congress knew what
a brave, resolute, wise Jeader and debat-
er he was. We have measured him in the
struggle of life. We have weighed him in



78 AUTUMN.



the conflict of politics. We have watched

,each step and been glad that each step has
been upward since those student days
‘when he struggled for bread as well as
knowledge, until to-day he is the un-
crowned head of the Great Republic.

But we never fully knew, until now, as
he lies, great-hearted and gentle-tongued,
fighting for life, and looking death calmly
and resolutely in the face, determined to con-
quer death and compel life. When think-
ing of that struggle, my thoughts go, as
your thoughts go, to the wife who seems to
have come right out from the shadow of
death, that, with loving hand and tender
heart she might lead him away from
the shadow, back to beauty and health
and strength. I think of him as he stood
on Inauguration Day with the thousands
gathered around him, with martial music
and glad.acclaim on every hand. I think
of him after he had put his hand on the
Bible and sworn that he would obey and
maintain the Constitution, turning to his.
wife with a loving kiss; the wife who had
been his schoolmate in the days away back
in the old Ohio school house ; and then rev-
erently stooping and kissing the little old
mother, whose faith and love and good
sense had trained him up to be president of
these United States. God bless the Presi-
dent. God bless his loyal wife. God’s
richest blessing be on that little mother
and spare her aged eyes from seeing her
boy pass before her to the Better Land. It
is a great thing to be a great soldier, a
great thing to be a great orator, a grand
thing to be a great statesman and wise
scholar; but it is a far greater and nobler
and grander thing to bea true man who is
faithful to wife and obedient to mother, a
kind father and loving Christian.





AUTUMN.

OLD upon the hill-side, heaving like
the seas,
For the corn is yellow-ripe waving in the
breeze,
And in orchards, apples red are weighing
down the trees.

Emeralds on the lowlands where the river
flows,

In the pastures sweet and green, kine and
sheep repose, ,

And the glittering dragon-fly like an earth
star glows.

There is brightness in the heavens, fresh-.
ness in the air,

Ripeness in the teeming earth, richness
everywhere,

For the world to-day is filled with all things
good and fair.

Glorious Autumn! Well of thee poets sang
of old, i

Gathering round the luscious fruits, wealth
of grain untold,

Decking thee in regal robes of purple and
of gold.

The murmuring streams, the rustling trees,
the dulcet low of herds,
The song of winds, the hum of bees, the
_ melody of birds.
God’s poets they, that chant thy praise in
hymns more grand than words.

Spring-tide is the years gay youth, summer
is its prime;

In Faith we watch the growth of spring—
in Hope the summer time;

But mellow Autumn, like God’s love, show-
ers gifts on every clime.





















































































































































































































































































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THE KISS DEFERRED. 81



THE KISS DEFERRED.

WO) little cousins once there were,
Named Mary Ann and Jane.

’ The first one lived in Boston town,

The second down in Maine.

And Jane she wrote a little note,
“ Dear cousin,” thus wrote she,

“ Dear Cousin Ann, I’ve made a plan
That you should visit me;

For you are one, the Ann unknown
Dve always longed to see.

They say that you have eyes deep blue,
And a brow all lily fair,

While round your face with many a grace
Doth curl your golden hair.

Now I, they say, have eyes of gray,
And the puggiest little nose,

A small round chin with a dimple in,
And cheeks as red as a rose.

Let me tell you this, that ’m saving a kiss
And a dear good hugging too,

For the cousin so fair with the golden hair
And the eyes so brightly blue,

. So pray, dear Ann, come if you can,
And bring your dolly dear.

My dollies‘all, both great and small,
Will make her welcome here.”

Wrote Ann to Jane; “I’d come to Maine
And play with you, I’m sure;

It would be so good if I only could,
But my papa is too poor.

When his ship gets home he says I may

come;

For that will surely bring

All it can hold of silver and gold,
‘And clothes and everything.”

The years flew on; young maidens grown
Were Mary Ann and Jane;

Still dwelt the first in Boston town,
The second down in Maine.

Wrote Ann to Jane:

And now Jane wrote a perfumed note,
All in a perfumed cover,

And thus it ran: “Do come, dear Ann,
Do come, and bring your lover;

I’ve a lover, too, so tender and true,
A gallant youth is he ;

On a summer night. when the moon shines

* - bright,

How charming it will be

To pleasantly walk and pleasantly tall
’Way down by the sounding sea.’

“That visit to Maine
Must longer yet delay,

My cousin dear, for soon draws near
My happy wedding day.”

More years have flown, much older grown
Were Mary Ann and a ane,

Still dwelt the first in Boston town,
The second down in Maine.

And once again took Jane her pen;
“ Dear cousin,” now wrote she,

‘“‘Won’t you come down from Boston town,
And bring your family ?

Bring all your girls with their golden curls
And their eyes so heavenly blue;

Bring all your boys with all their noise,

And bring that husband, too.

‘ve a pretty band that round me stand,

Six girls, my heart’s delight;

They’re as lovely a set as ever you met,

And all remarkably bright.

_ There’s a kiss, you know, that since long ago,

Dve been keeping for you, my dear,
Or have you forgot the first little note
I scribbled and sent you from here?”

Thus Ann did reply: “ Alas, how can I

Set forth on my travels, dear Jane?

T’ve too many to take, yet none can forsake,
So sadly at home must remain.

If your kiss is there still, pray keep it until
You see me come jaunting that way.



82 VHE FIRST CLOUD.





T’ve a loving kiss, too, that’s been saving

for you,
This many and many a day.”

Time onward ran; now Jane and Ann
Were old and feeble grown,—

Life’s rapid years, mid smiles and tears,
Had swiftly o’er them flown.

Their locks of gray were stroked away *

. From the worn and wrinkled brow;
Their forms were bent, their years were
spent,

They were widowed women now.

Suddenly one day, one winter’s day,
‘Aunt Ann said, “I must go

And see Cousin Jane, who lives in Maine,
In spite of wind and snow.”

“ Why, grandma, dear, this time of the year ?
Oh, what a foolish thing;

You're far too old to go in the cold,
We pray you wait till spring.

When the skies are clear, and the flowers

appear,

And the birds begin to sing.”

“ Children,” said she, “ don’t hinder me;
When smiling spring comes on,

The flowers may bloom around my tomb,
And I be dead and gone.

I’m old, ’tis true, my days are few,
There lies a reason plain

Against delay, if short my stay,.
I must away to Maine,

And let these eyes, these mortal eyes
Behold my Cousin Jane.”

As Aunt Jane sits and quietly knits,
Thinking her childhood o’er,

The latch is stirred, and next is heard
A tapping at the door.

*€ Come in,” she said, and raised her head
To see who might appear;

An aged dame who walked quite lame,
Said, “ Cousin, I am here.

I’m here, dear Jane, I’ve come to Maine
To take that kiss you know,
The kiss, my dear, kept for me here
Since that long, long ago.”
In glad surprise, Aunt Jane replies,
“Why, cousin can this be you?
But where, oh, where, is the golden hair
And the eyes so brightly blue ?”
“And where,” Ann said, “are your roses
fled,
And your chubby cheeks, I pray?
This, I suppose, was the little pug nose,
But the dimples, where are they?
And the lover, too, so tender and true,
Who walked by the light of the moon,
And the little band that round did stand,
Are they gone, all gone, so soon?” —
They turned their eyes to the darkening
skies
And the desolate scene below,
As they spoke with tears of their childhood
years
And the hopes of long ago.

The smiles and tears of buried years
Were smiled and wept again.

Thus met at last, a lifetime past,
The cousins, Ann and Jane,—

One of whom lived in Boston town,
The other down in Maine.

THE FIRST CLOUD.

HEY stood at the altar one short year
ago;
He vowed from the troubles of life to de
fend her,
To have her and hold her for weal or for
woe—
She spoke the responses in accents most
tender.



ON THE FENCE 83



To-night, in the gloom they are sitting

apart 5
Oh! has all her wifely devotion been
: wasted ?
She mopes there in silence. a pain at her
hearin ae
The lamps are unlighted, his supper un-
tasted.
Their sky, erst all cloudless, is now over-
cast,
For joy there is sorrow, for gladness de-
jection ;

The serpent has entered their Eden at last,
And left its dark trail on the flowers of
affection.

Oh, well may there be in her bosom a pain,
A grief that she vainly endeavors to
smother ;
To-night he has told her in language quite
plain,
She can’t cook his meals half as well as
his mother.

ON THE FENCE.

7% WO women leaned over the backyard
fence,
(The same old fence) as the sun went
down,
' While each told the other, in confidence,
The scandals she’d gathered around the
town;
For women must gossip, or they can’t
sleep 5
Their idea is that secrets erent made
to keep ;
So they lean on the fence in the gloam-
ing.
Two women sat out on the front door stoop,
In the evening glow as the sun went
down.







They told how their children had skipped
the croup,
And they sneered at the minister’s wife’s
new gown.
For women delight in a friendly chat,
Without it their lives would be stale
and flat ;
So they sit on the stoop inthe gloam-

ing.

Two husbands came home from the base-
ball game
From the office, they said), as the sun
went down,
Both ready and eager to hear the same
Sweet scandals their wives had hunted
down.
For men, though they work, love gos-
sip too—
And that’s why their wives seek some-
thing new
As hay meet and talk in the sloantae

CHRIST AND THE LITTLE ONKS.

HE Master has come over Jordan,”
Said Hannah, the mother, one day;
“ He is healing the people who throng him,
With a touch of his finger, they say.

“ And now I shall carry the children,
Little Rachel, and Samuel, and John;
I shall carry the baby Esther
For the Lord to look upon.”

The father looked at her kindly,
But he shook his head and smiled ;
“ Now who but a doting mother ~
Would think of a thing so wild ?



84

“Tf the children were tortured by demons,
Or dying of fever, ’twere well;

Or had they the taint of the leper,
‘Like many in Israel.”

“Nay, do not hinder me, Nathan,
I feel such a burden of care ;

If I carry it to the Master,
Perhaps I shall leave it there.

“Tf he lay his hand on the children,
My heart will beat lighter, I know;
For a blessing for ever and ever
Will follow them as they go.”

So over the hills of Judah,
Along the vine-rows green,

With Esther asleep on her bosom,
And Rachel her brothers between—

*Mong the people who hang on his teaching,
Or waiting his touch or his word,
Through the row of proud Pharisees listen-
ing,

She pressed to the feet of her Lord.

* Now why should’st thou hinder the Mas-
ter,”
Said Peter, “ with children like these?
Seest not how from morning to evening
He teacheth, and healeth disease ?”

Then Christ said, “Forbid not the children!
Permit them to come unto me ;”

And he took in his arms little Esther,
And Rachel he sat on his knee.

And the heavy heart of the mother
Was lifted all earth-care above,

As he laid his hands on the brothers,
And blessed them with tenderest love:

As he said of the babes in his bosom,
“ Of such is the kingdom of heaven ;”
And strength for all duty and trial,
That hour to her spirit was given.



BETTER WHISTLE THAN WHINE.

BETTER WHISTLE THAN WHINE.

S I was taking a walk early in Septem-

ber, I noticed two little boys on their

way to school. The smaller one stumbled

and fell, and though he was not very much

hurt, he began to whine ina babyish way—

not a regular roaring boy ery, as though he
were half killed; but a little, cross whine.

The older boy took his hand in a kind of
a fatherly way, and said: “Oh! never
mind, Jimmy; don’t whine, it is a great
deal better to whistle.” And he began in
the merriest way a cheerful boy-whistle.

Jimmy tried to join in the whistle. “TI
can’t whistle as nice as you, Charlie,” said
he ; “my lips won’t pucker up good.”

“Oh! that is because you have not got.
all the whine out, yet,” said Charlie; “but
you try a minute and the whistle will drive
the whine away.”

So he did, and the last I saw or heard of
the little fellows they were whistling away
as earnestly as though that was the chief
end of life. I learned a lesson which I hope:
I shall not soon forget, and it called out

- these few lines, which may possibly cheer

another whiner of mature years, as this.
class is by no means confined to the chil-
dren. ‘

It is better to whistle than ‘whine ;
It is better to laugh than to ery,
For though it be cloudy, the sun will soon:
shine
Across the blue, beautiful sky.

It is better to whistle than whine,
O man with the sorrowful brow,
Let the words of the child scatter murmurs:
of thine,
And gather his cheerfulness now.



AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 85



It is better to whistle than whine,
Poor mother, so weary with care,
Thank God for the love and the peace that
are thine,
And the joy of thy little ones share.

It is better to whistle than whine.
Though troubles you find on your way,

Remember that wise little fellow of mine,
And whistle your whining away.

God bless the brave boy for the cheer
He brought to this sad heart of mine ;
When tempted to murmur that young voice
_ [ hear,
“Tt is better to whistle than whine!’

AN OLD MAN’S STORY.

’ TIS only an old man’s story,—a tale we

have oft heard told,

In athousand forms and -fancies, by the
young as well as old,

A tale of life- dragged hellward, bound
down by a demon’s chain,

Till the friendly hand of temp’rance had
rescued it back again!

Though only a child at the time, friends, I
well remember the night

Of our first great temp’rance meeting—it
came as an angel of lignt

Midst the darkness of vile intemp’rance, its
myriad crimes and sins;

A guiding light to the path of right. that
all might enter in!

A hymn, a prayer, an address; then the
chairman’s voice was heard

To call on any one present just to say but a
warning word.

Our pastor arose, midst cheering, but he
strongly denounced the new cause

As “a movement which none but fanatics
(hear, hear, and loud applause)
Would engage in, to injure the business of
such respectable men,

And break up the time honored usage of
the country,”—but just then

I saw whilst death-like silence reigned, an
old man slowly rise

On the platform and fix on the speaker the
glance of his piercing eyes!

That look held the audience spell-bound,
and I noticed my father’s cheek

Turn deadly pale as the stranger paused
before he began to speak.

At last, with an effort, the oid man said, in
accents low but clear:

“You’ve heard, friends, that I’m a fanatic,

' that I have no business here;

As men and Christians, listen to truth,
hear me and be just 5

My life-sands fast are running out, and
speak to-night I must! -

Over a beaconless sea I’ve journeyed, life’s
dearest hopes ’ve wrecked—

God knows how my heart is aching, as I
now o’er the past reflect.

I’m alone, without friends or kindred, but
it was not always 80 5

For I see away o’er that ocean wild, dear
forms pass to and fro.

I once knew a doting mother’s love but I
crushed her fond old heart ;

(He seemed to look at some vision, with
his quivering lips apart.)

I once loved an angel creature with her
laughing eyes so blue,

And the sweetest child that ever smiled,
and a boy so brave and true!
Perhaps, friends, you will be startled, but

these hands have dealt the blow,
That severed the ties of kindred love, and
laid those dear ones low.



86 AN OLD MAN’S STORY.

Ah! yes, J was once a fanatic: yea, more
—a fiend, for then
I sacrificed my home, my all, for the riots
of a drink fiend’s den.
One New Year’s night I entered the hut
that charity gave, and found
My starving wife all helpiess and shivering
on the ground;
-With a maddened ery I demanded food,
then struck her a terrible blow;
‘Food, food, I yelled, ‘quick, give me
food, or by heaven out you go!’
Just then our babe from its cradle sent up
a famished wail ;
- My wife caught up the little form, with its
face so thin and pale,
Saying, ‘James! my once kind husband,
you know we’ve had no food
For near a week. Oh, do not harm my
Willie that’s so good.’
With a wild ‘Ha! ha!’ I seized them, and
lifted the latch of the door;
The storm burst in, but I hurled them ont
in the tempest’s wildest roar ;
A terrible impulse bore me on, so I turned
to my little lad,
And snatched him from his slumbering rest
—the thought near drives me mad.
To the door I fiercely dragged him, grasp-
ing his slender throat,
I thrust him out, but his hand had caught in
the pocket of my coat.
Iecould not wrench his frenzied hold, so I
hit him with my fist,
Then shutting the door upon his arm, 7
severed at the wrist.
I awoke in the morn from a stupor and idly
opened the door ;
With a moan I started backward—two
forms fell flat to the floor.

The blood like burning arrows shot right
up to my dazed brain,

As I called my wite by the dearest words ;
but, alas ! I called in vain.

The thought of my boy flashed on me, I
imprinted one fervent kiss -

On those frozen lips; then searched around,
but from that black day to this

My injured boy I’ve never seen
paused awhile and wept,

And I saw the tears on my father’s cheek
as I closer to him crept.

Once more the old man faltering, “Ten
long, long years I served ;

With an aching heart, in a felon’s cell, the
sentence I deserved ;

But there’s yet a gleam of sunshine in my
life’s beclouded sky,

And I long to meet my loved ones in the
better land on high!”

The pledge book lay on the table, just
where the old man stood,

He asked the men to sign it, and several
said they would.

“ Aye, sign it—angels would sign it,” he
exclaimed with a look of joy;

“Td sign it a thousand times in blood, if
it would bring back my boy !’

My father wrote his name down whilst he
trembled in every limb ;

The old man scanned it o’er and o’er, then
strangely glanced at him.

My father raised his left arm up--a ery, a
convulsive start—

Then an old man and his injured boy were
sobbing heart to heart !

Ere the meeting closed that evening each
offered a fervent prayer,

And many that night who saw the sight,
rejoiced that they were there!

He





TEACHING PUBLIC SCHOOL 87



TEACHING PUBLIC SCHOOL.

ORTY little urchins
{© Coming through the door,
Pushing, crowding, making
A tremendous roar.
Why don’t you keep quiet ?
Can’t you keep the rule ?—
Bless me, this is pleasant,
Teaching public school !
Forty little pilgrims
On the road to fame ;
If they fail to reach it,
Who will be to blame?
High and lowly stations—
Birds of every feather—
On a common level
Here are brought together.

Dirty little faces,

Loving little hearts,
Eyes brimful of mischief,
Skilled in all its arts.
That’s a precious darling!
What are you about ?

“ May I pass the water? ”
“ Please:may I go out?”

Boots and shoes are shufiling,
Slates and books are rattling,
And in the corner yonder
Two pugilists are battling :
Others cutting didoes—
What a botheration !
No wonder we grow crusty
From such association !

Anxious parent drops in,
Merely to inquire
Why his olive branches
Do not shoot up higher ;
Says he wants his children
To mind their p’s and q’s,
And hopes their brilliant talents
Will not be abused.



Spelling, reading, writing,
Putting up the young ones ;
Fuming, scolding, fighting,
Spurring on the dumb ones;
Gymnasts, vocal music—
How the heart rejoices
When the singer comes to
Cultivate the voices !

Institute attending,
Making out reports,
Giving Object Lessons,
Class drills of all sorts ;
‘Reading dissertations,
Feeling like a fool—
Oh, the untold blessing,
Of the Public School.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

e) UR darling little Florence, our blessing
and our pride,

With dimpled cheeks, and golden hair, and
brown eyes opened wide,

To look at every pretty thing, came flying
in to me;

“‘O please,” she pleaded earnestly, “I want
a Christmas tree.”

“Who put that in your head, my dear?
. there’s one at Sunday-school,
And you will see its laden boughs with
lovely presents full.”
“ Yes,” said the child, “but I would like
one of my own.
And I will ask my company to come; imy-
self alone.

“J had a dream lastnight; I seemed out in
the woods to be,

And growing up right in the snow I saw a
splendid tree ;



88 THE CHRISTMAS TREE



Two little angels hovered near, and while I
watched they spread

Their fairy wings, and seemed to make a
curtain o’er my heads

“ The tree was shining like the stars, with
tapers burning bright,

AnJ happy faces seemed to glow around it
in the night ;

The little angels talked and talked; they
said: “ This is the tree

That we’ve been keeping beautiful for Flor-
ence dear to see.

“¢ We'll lift it clear, we'll bear it far, we’ll
take it to her door,

The prettiest, greenest Christmas tree, we’ll
set it on her floor,

And if she askg the guests she ought we'll
linger there and sing,

Our voices blending in with theirs, as
cheerily they ring.”

“A lovely dream, indeed,” I said; “but
whom will you invite?

We'll find a tree quite easily, and star its
boughs with light ;

But baby is not old enough to have her play-
mates come,

Anl yours are all engaged, ay love, ce
in her own bright home.”

“T thought Pd go to Bridget’s house, and
ask her little Kate,

And that barefooted boy who sells us matches
at the gate,

And we will dress them up with shoes and
stockings to begin, _

And give them presents; I will put all my
own money in.

“ You only ought to see the old doll Kate
thinks so superb,

Its dingy face is just as brown as some old

bunch of herb,



And all the sawdust’s pouring out its broken
arm, and yet

She loves it, and considers it a beauty and
a, pet.

“ Poor Johnny hasno mother. His feet are
bare and blue,

And his eyes have such a hungry look when
he dares to look at you,

I think it would be sweet to give a bit of
Christmas joy

And happiness—don’t you—to such a littie

lonely boy?”

Well, children have their way with me, and
Florence has a way

That is so free from selfishness, so gentle
and so gay,

We love to please her; that’s the truth. We
helped her all we could,

And half a dozen little guests around the
tree there stood.

Its branches hung with golden fruit, dolls
and dishes and drums,

Elephants, horses, and woolly dogs, and
boxes of sugar plums ;

A trumpet was given to Johnny that terribly
frightened the cat

And the top of his Christmas was crowned
when we gave him a soldier hat.

Our baby was charmed with a rattle, and for
Florence’s dainty self

Was a music-box that played sweet tunes
from its niche on a rosewood shelf;

And Katie brooded over her doll in a sort
of motherly rapture,

Holding it close, lest a ruthless hand its
form from her grasp should capture,

And Bridget’s jolly, half-moon face beamed
over the happy scene—

The tree was a tree to be glad about, and
Florence felt like a queen.



HE OLD CLOCK IN THE CORNER. 89



For sumehow, not only for Christmas, but
all the long year through,

The joy that you give to others is the joy
that comes back to you;

And the more you spend in blessing the
poor, the lonely, and sad,

The more to your heart’s possessing, returns
to make you glad.

THE QLD CLOCK IN THE CORNER.

y HE leafless trees are brown and bare,
The snow-flakes sweep through the
frosty air ;
With the wintry wind they sport and play,
As it wearily whistles the night away.

The time-worn clock in the corner stands,
With faded dial and rusty hands ;

With ceaseless motion its pendulum swings,
And this is the doleful song it sings:

“Tick, tick, tick. There are smiles and tears
In the mournful tale of a hundred years ;

“The voice of memory, soft and low
Whispers to-night of the long ago.

“ There are friends you loved, there are hopes

most dear,
That are dead and gone with the old, old
year.

“Spiders have woven a silken thread
In the dingy corner overhead,

“ Mid the endless dust of the busy day
That hands, now pulseless, have swept away.

“ The world will change and time will fly,
And we all grow old as the years go by.

“T have looked on a cheerful child at play,
And have heard his laughter loud and gay.



“T have seen a growing, bashful boy,
Ruddy with health and a look of joy,

“Tn rapture over a picture fair,

Or a tiny curl of golden hair.

“T have watched his smile when he looked
with pride

On the fair, sweet face of his new made bride. -

“T have heard the infant’s plaintive cry,
And a careworn mother’s weary sigh ;

“ And an aged father, old and gray,
Talking of years that had gone away.

“‘T have seen the shadowy pall and bier,
The lifeless form and the mourner’s tear,

“ And have heard those words so often said
Sadly over the dear ones dead :

“ ¢ Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,’
Life is fleeting and God is just.

“Tick, tick, tick. It is done, done, done,
The sands in the glass of the year have run:

“‘ The distant bells with a mournful chime

Sound another knell o’er the tomb of time.

“ Over the past let the curtain fall,
Heaven’s great mercy is over all.”

OLD KITCHEN REVERIES.

BAR back in my musings my thoughts
have been cast
To the cot where the hours of my childhood
were passed;
I loved all its rooms to the pantry and hall,
But that blessed old kitchen was dearer than
all.
Its chairs and its tables none brighter could

be,

For allitssurroundings were sacred to me—



90 OLD KITCHEN REVERIES.



To the nail in the ceiling, the latch on the
door—

And I loved every crack on the old kitchen
floor.

I remember the fire place with a mouth
high and wide,

The old fashioned oven that stood by its
side,

Out of which, each Thanksgiving, came
puddings and pies

That fairly bewildered and dazzled my eyes,

And then, too, St. Nicholas, slyly and still,

Came down every Christmas our stockings

to fill.

But the dearest of memories I’ve laid up
in store,

Is the mother that trod on the old kitchen
floor.

Day in and day out, from morning till

night,

Her footsteps were busy her heart always
light,

For it seemed to me, then, that she knew
not a care,

The smile was so gentle her face used to
wear.

I remember with pleasure what joy filled
our eyes

When she told us the stories that children
so prize ;

They were new every night though we’d
heard them before

From her lips at the wheel on the old
kitchen floor.

Iremember the window, where mornings
Id run,

As soon as the daybreak, to watch for the
sun;

And I thought when my head scarcely
reached to the sill,

That it slept through the night in the trees

~ on the hill;

And the small tract of ground that my eyeg
there could view,

Was all of the world that my infancy knew;

Indeed, I cared not to know of it more,

For the world of itself was that old kitchen
floor.

To-night those old visions come back at their

will,

And the wheel and its musie forever are
still;

The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid
away,

And the fingers that turned it lie moulder-
ing to clay;

The hearthstone, so sacred, is just as ’twas
then

And the voices of children ring out there
again;

The sun through the windows looks in as of
yore,

But it sees stranger feet on the old kitchen
floor. ;

T ask not for honor but this I would erave,

That when the lips speaking are closed in
the grave,

My children would gather there round side
by side,

And tell of the mother who long ago died;

*T would be more enduring far dearer to me,

Than inscriptions on marble or granite
could be,

To have them tell often, as I did of yore,

Of the mother who trod on the old kitchen
floor.



“T’LL GIVE YOU A CHANCE—MAKE THE MOST OF IT. GO!” 91

“PLL GIVE YOU A CHANCE—MAKE
THE MOST OF IT. GO!”

STERN old judge in relentless mood,
Glanced at the two who before him
stood.

She was bowed and haggard and old,
He was young, defiant and bold.
Mother and son—and to gaze at the pair,
Their different attitudes, look and air,
One would believe, ere the truth was won,
The mother convicted and not the son.

Her husband had died in his shame and sin,

And she a widow, her living to win,

Had toiled and struggled from morn to
night,

Making with want a wearisome fight;

Bent over her work with resolute zeal,

Till she felt her whole frame totter and

reel;

Her weak limbs tremble, her eyes grow
dim,

But she loved her boy and she toiled for
him.

And he—he stood in the criminal dock;
His heart seemed hard as the flinty rock.
An impudent glance and reckless air,
Braving the scorn of the gazers there.
Stained with crime and encompassed ’ruund
With proof of his guilt by captors found.
Ready to stand, as he phrased it, “ game,”
Holding not crime, but penitence, shame.

Poured in a flood o’er the mother’s cheek

The moistening tears where the tongue was"

weak,

And she saw through the mist of those
burning tears,

Only the child in his innocent years.

She remembered him pure as a child might
be,

The guilt of the present she could not see;





And for mercy her wistful looks made
prayer

To the stern old judge in his high-backed
chair.

“Woman,” the old judge crabbedly said,
“Your boy is the neighborhood’s plague
and dread;

Of a gang of reprobates chosen chief,

An idler and rioter, ruffian and thief,

The jury did right, for the facts were plain,
Denial is idle, excuses are vain. é
The sentence the court imposes is one—”’
“ Mercy!” she plead; “he’s my only son.”

The tipsters grinned at the words she spoke,
And a ripple of fun through the courtroom
broke. _

But over the face of the culprit came

An angry look and a shadow of shame.

“ Don’t laugh at my mother!” aloud cried
he.

“ You got me fast and can deal with me,

But she’s too good for your cowardly jeers,

And T’ll—” then here his utterance choked
with tears.

The judge for a moment bent his head

And looked at him keenly. Then he said:

“We suspend the sentence; the boy can go;”

And the words were tremulous, forced and
low.

“ But stay!” and he raised his finger then,

“Don’t let them bring you hither again.

There is something good in you yet, I
know;

I'll give you a chance—make the most of
it Gol’

The twain went forth, and the old judge
said:

“JT meant to have given him one year
instead ;



92 WE SHALL KNOW.



And perhaps ’tis a difficult thing to tell
If clemency here be ill or well.”

But a rift was struck in that hardened heart, |

From which a fountain of good may start.
For one on the ocean of crime long tossed,
Who loves his mother, is not quite lost.

WE SHALL KNOW.

HEN the mists have rolled in splen-
dor
From the beauty of the hills,
And the sunshine, warm and tender,
Falls in kisses on the rills,
We may read Love’s shining letter
In the rainbow of the spray,
We shall know each other better
When the mists have cleared away,—
We shall know as we are known,
Nevermore to walk alone,
In the dawning of the morning,
When the mists have cleared away.

If we err in human blindness

And forget that we are dust,

If we miss the law of kindness
When we struggle to be just,

Snowy wings of peace shall cover
All the pain that hides away,

‘When the weary watch is over,

And the mists have cleared away,—
We shall know as we are known,
Nevermore to walk alone,

Inthe dawning of the morning,

When the mists have cleared away.

When the silvery mist has veiled us
From the faces of our own,

Oft we deem their love has failed us
And we tread our path alone;

We should see them near and truly,
We should trust them day by day,
Never love or blame unduly,
If the mists were cleared away.
We shall know as we are known,
Nevermore to walk alone,
In the dawning of the morning,
When the thists have cleared away.

When the mists have risen above us,
As our Father knows His own,
Face to face with those that love us,
We shall know as we are known;

Love, beyond the orient meadows,
Floats the golden fringe of day ;
Heart to heart we bide the shadows,
Till the mists have cleared away.

We shall know as we are known,
Nevermore to walk alone,
When the Day of Light is dawning,
And the mists have cleared away.

THE RUINED MERCHANT.

COTTAGE home with sloping lawn,

and trellised vines and flowers,

And little feet to chase away the rosy-fin-
gered hours;

A fair young face to part, at eve, the shad-
ows in the door ;—

I picture thus a home I knew in happy
days of yore.

Says one, a cherub thing of three, with
childish heart elate,

“Papa is tomin,’ let me do to meet im at
de date!”

Another takes the music up and flings it on
the air,

“Papa has come, but why so slow his foot-
step on the stair?”



THE RUINED MERCHANT. 93



“OQ father! did you bring the books I’ve
waited for so long,

The baby’s rocking-horse and drum, arid
mother’s ‘angel song ?’

And did you see”—but something holds
the questioning lips apart,

And something settles very still upon that
joyous heart.

The quick-discerning wife bends down,
with her white hand to stay

The clouds from tangling with the curls
that on his forehead lay ;

To ask, in gentle tones, “Beloved, by
what rude tempest tossed?”

And list the hollow, “ Beggared, lost—all
ruined, poor, and lost!”

‘‘ Nay, say not so, for I am here, to share
misfortune’s hour,

And prove how better far than gold is
love’s unfailing dower,

Let wealth take wings and fly away, as far
as wings can soar,

The bird of love will hover near, and only
sing the more.”

“All lost, papa? why here am I; and,
father, see, how tall ;

I measure fuliy three teet four, upon the
kitchen wall ;

[ll tend the flowers, feed the birds, and
have such lots of fun,

I’m big enough to work, papa, for ’m the

oldest son.”

'« And I, papa, am almost five,” says curly-

headed Rose,

“And I can learn to sew, papa, and make
all dolly’s clothes.

But what zs ‘poor,’—to stay at home, and
have no place to go?

Oh! then I’ll ask the Lord to-night, to
make us always so.”





“T’se here, papa; I isn’t lost!” and on his
father’s knee

He lays his sunny head to rest, that baby
boy of three.

‘“‘ And if we get too poor to live,” says lit-
tle Rose, “you know

There is a better place, papa, a heaven
where we can go,

“And God will come and take us there,
dear father, if we pray,

We needn’t fear the road, papa, he surely
knows the way.”

Then from the corner, staff in hand, the
grandma rises slow,

Her snowy cap-strings in the breeze soft
fluttering to and fro:

Totters across the parlor floor, by aid of
kindly hands,

Counting in every little face, her life’s
declining sands ;

Reaches his side, and whispers low, ‘“‘ God’s

promises are sure;

For every grievous wound, my son, he

sends a ready cure.”

The father clasps her hand in his, and
quickly turns aside,

The heaving chest, the rising sigh, the
coming tear to hide;

Folds to his heart those loving ones, and
kisses o’er and o’er

That noble wife whose faithful heart he
little knew before.

“May God forgive me! What is wealth
to these more precious things,
Whose rich affection round my heart a
ceaseless odor flings?

I think he knew my sordid soul was get-
ting proud and cold,

And thus to save me, gave me these, and
took away my gold.



94

WINTER.—THE PARTING HOUR.



“ Dear ones, forgive me; nevermore will I
forget the rod

That brought me safely unto you and led
me back to God.

Iam not poor while these bright links of
priceless love remain,

And, Heaven helping, never more shall
blindness hide the chain.”

WINTER.

HE cold winds from the northward
roar,
The quivering snowflakes thickly fall,
And cover with a velvet pall
The russet sward of mead and moor;
And standing at his cottage door
The laborer thinks of labor scant,
And sees the haggard hand of want
Throw shadows on his chamber floor.

The children shout for joy, and ery,
“A merry Christmas” as they see
The whitened cloak of bush and tree,
And soft feathers in the sky:
They know not why the father’s eye
Is sad and heavy through the storm,
They only know the fire is warm,
And that the skating time is nigh.

And he to whom they look for bread
Is filled with many doubts and fears,
For in the howling wind he hears
Of days that must be idly led.
And little ones must still be fed,
Though work be scarce and winter
long;
And though the willing hands be
strong,
They cannot thaw earth’s frozen bed.



O, Winter, Winter! bright and gay
To some, with what an iron grip
Thou holdest many a silent lip,
That cannot words of gladness say,
Then while we feel thy brightness, may
We feel for those whose hearts are full
Of bitterness that has no lull,
Till winter days are gone away.

THE PARTING HOUR.

SHERE’S something in “the parting
hour”

Will chill the warmest heart,—

Yet kindred, comrades, lovers, friends,
Are fated all to part;

But this I’ve seen,—-and many a pang
Has pressed it on my mind,—

The one who goes is happier
Than those he leaves behind.

No matter what the journey be,—
Adventurous, dangerous, far

To the wild ‘deep, or bleak frontier, |
To solitude, or war,—

Still something cheers the heart that dares,
In all of human kind;

And they who go are happier
Than those they leave behind.

The bride goes to the bridegroom’s home
With doubtings and with tears,

But does not Hope her rainbow spread
Across her cloudy fears ?

Alas! the mother who remains,
What comfort can she find

But this,—the gone is happier
Than the one she leaves behind.



Ll

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WINTER,







MY WIFE AND I-—LAND POOR. 97



Have you a trusty comrade dear,—
An old and valued friend ?

Be sure your term of sweet concourse
At length will have an end.

And when you part,—as part you will,—
Oh take it not unkind,

If he who goes is happier
Than you he leaves behind.

God wills it so, and so it is;
The pilgrims on their way,

Thor gh weak and worn, more cheerful are
Than all the rest who stay.

And when, at last, poor man, subdued,
Lies down, to death resigned,

May he not still be happier far
Than those he leaves behind ?

MY WIFE AND I,

E never fight, my wife and I,
As other couples do;

Our little matrimonial sky
Is of the brightest blue,

She never beards me in my den
(My study, I should say;)

She vows I am the best of men,
But then—she has her way!

Some wives are never pleased unless
They wring from you a cheque,
Wherewith to buy some costly dress
Or jewels for their neck.

My little witch ne’er asks from me
The value of a pin—

She is so good and true, you see,
But then—she keeps the tin!

‘Twas not!” “It was!” “It was!”
“?T was not!”
Thus ever scold and fight
Fill many a luckless pair, I wot,

{rom morning until night.
n





If e’er we have a word or two,
The skirmish soon is past,

The words are mild and very few,
But then—sux has the last!

LAND POOR.

“VE had another offer, wife—a twenty
acres more,
Of high and dry prairie land, as level as a
floor. ;
I thought I’d wait and see yor. first, as law-
yer Brady said,
To tell how things will turn out best, a wom-
an is ahead.

And when this lot is paid for, and we have
got the deed,

Pll say that I am satistied—it’s all the land
we need;

And next we’ll see about the yard, and fix
the house up some,

And manage in the course of time to havea
better home.

WIFE.

There is no use of talking, Charles—you
buy that twenty more, —

And we'll go scrimping all our lives, and
always be land poor.

For thirty years we’ve tugged and saved, de-
nying half our needs,

While all we have to show for it is taw re-
ceipts and deeds!

I’d sedd the land if it were mine, and have
a better home,

With broad, light rooms to front the street,
and take life as it come.

If we could live as others live, and have
what others do,

We’d live enough sight pleasanter, and
have a plenty too.



98 COLLEGE “ OIL CANS.”



While others have amusements and luxury
and books,

Just think how stingy we have lived, and
how this old place looks.

That other farm you bought of Wells, that
took so many years

Of clearing up and fencing in, has cost me
many tears.

- Yes, Charles, ’ve thought of it a hundred
times or more,
And wondered if it really patd to always
be land poor,—
That had we built a cozy house, took pleas-
ure as it come,
Our children, once so dear to us, had never
left our home.

I grieve to think of wasted weeks and years |-

and months and days,
While for it all we never yet have had one
_ word of praise.
Men call us rich, but we are poor—would
we not freely give
The land with all its fixtures for a better
way to live ?

Don’t think I’m blaming you, Charles—
" - you’re not a whit to blame,
Dve pitied you these many years, to see you
tired and lame.

It’s just the way we started out, our plans’

too tar ahead;
‘We’ve worn the cream of life away, to leave
too much when dead.

Tis putting off enjoyment long after we
enjoy. Ito

And after all too much of wealth seems
useless as a toy,—

Although we’ve learned, alas, too late!
what all must learn at last,

Our brightest earthly happiness is buried
in the past,

That life is short and full of care, the end
is always nigh,

We seldom half begin to live before we’re

' doomed to die.

Were I to start my life again, I’d mark each
separate day,

And never let a single one pass unenjoyed
away.

If there were things to envy, I’d have them
now and then,

And have a home that was a home, and not
a cage or pen.

I'd sell some land if it were mine, and fit
up well the rest,

I’ve always thought, and think so yet—
small farms well worked are best.

- COLLEGE “OIL CANS.”

@) N a board of bright mosaic wrought in
many a quaint design,

Gleam abrace of silver goblets wreathed
with flowers and filled with wine.

Round the board a group is seated ; here
and there are threads of white

Which their dark locks lately welcomed ~
but they are only boys to-night.

Some whose words have thrilled the senate,
some who win the critic’s praise —

All are “chums” to-night, with voices
redolent of college days.

“ Boys,” said one, “do you remember that
old joke about the wine,—

How we used to fill our oil cans and repair
to ‘No. 92’

But at last the old professor—never long
was he outdone— i

Opened up our shining oil cans and demol-
ished all our fun!”



Full Text







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Charming Recitations, Dialogues and Stories

CAREFULLY SELECTED FRO M

LHe BESh AUTHORS

DESIGNED FOR

Home AMUSEMENTS anp SCHOOL ENTERTAINMENTS

_—_———

Mustrated, —

CHICAGO AND PHILADELPHIA G
IMPERIAL PUBLISHING CO.,
1890.

, IMPERIAL PUBLISHING Co

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We're happy, happy all day long;
Each busy as a bee
' With study, exercise and song,
i As any one can see.


-++++ TABLE OF CONTENTS ©



§ PAGE, PAGE,
CouNTING THE STITCHES, - Frontispiece, | CHEEK, - - - - - - 54
Our Lives, - - : - - 13] Papa’s Lerrer, - - - - 55
REPROVE GENTLY, = - - 14.| THE OLD Man GoEs To Town, - - 56
Let Tuy GARMENTS BE ALWAYS WHITE, - 15 | SuMMER, - - - - - 58
My Cuoick, (Illustration) - : 17 | Summer, (Illustration) - - - 59
Goop-NicHT, Papa, - - - - 17 | I WonpER Way, - - - - 61
Tommy’s PRAYER, - - - 1g | A Stray CuILp, start ia - - 61
I Cannor TurN THE Kry anp My Boy CREEDS OF THE BELLS, - : - 62
OUTSIDE, - - - - : 21 | THE LitTLe HERO, - - - - 63
ASPIRATIONS, - - - : 22 | Love Licutrens Lazor, - : - 65
Tue Rainy Day, - - - - 22 | Tur OLD MAN IN THE PALACE Car, - 66
ARTEMUS WARD, - : - - 23 | Tue CHRISTMAS PRAYER, - : 67
Tus Dyinc STREET ARAB, - - - 23 | CuristMAS EVE, - - . - 69
Tur Two IDEALS, - - - : 24.| THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND, - -. 7o
Kiss Her anp TELL Her So, - - 24 |: TIRED MoTHERS, - - . - 72
Deacon Monroe’s Story, - - 25 | THe Leak IN THE DykgE, - - 73
“Rock or AGES,” — - - - - 27 | Tue AMERICAN Frac, - - a7 6
AGAIN, - - _- - - 27 | THE MORTGAGE ON THE Farm, : 76
Katiz Lee anp WILLIE GRAy,~ - : 28 | Ir WE Knew, - : : : - 97
SELLING THE BaBy, - : : 28 | James A. GARFIELD, - : - "7
My Moruer aT THE GATE, : - 30 } AuTuMmN, - - - - - 78
Tue Rosin’s CHRISTMAS EVE, - : 30 | Autumn, (Illustration) - : - 79
Rosin’s Nest, (Illustration) - - - 31 | THe Kiss DEFERRED, cs . UNWRITTEN POEMs, - - - 36 | Tur First Croup, a - - 82
Ture Worxp, - - - : - 37 | ON THE FENCE, - - - - 83
Ture BripGe-KEEPER’s STORY, - - 37 | CHRIST AND THE LirriE ONEs, ae 83
No Srects in HEAVEN, - - - 39 | BETTER WHISTLE THAN WHINE, - - 84
Gorn’ SoMEWHERE, - - - 41 | AN Otp Man’s Story, - - : 85
Tue LirtLeE BLACK-EYED REBEL, - - 43 | TEacHING PusLic ScHooL, - - - 87
REVERIES, - 2 - - Q 44.| THE CHRISTMAS TREE, - - - 87
GRADATIM, - - - : - 45 |.TH= Op Clock IN THE CORNER, - - 89
Sones UNSUNG, -. - - : 46 | OLD KitcHEN REVERIES, - - 89
Tur SprinG or Lire, - : - 46|)T~L GtvE You Aa CHancke—MAKE THE
Two PorTRAITS, - - - - 46 Most or ir. Go! - - - gt
SPRING, (Illustration) - - : 47 | We SuaL~t Know, - - - 92
Tue NicHT AFTER CHRISTMAS, : 49 | THE RuINED MERCHANT, : : 92
THE Otp ScHooL-Room, - - - 50 | WINTER, - : : : 94
Yawcos STRAUSS, : - : 51 | THe Partinec Hour, - - - 94.
A LirtLe Story, - : - : 52 | WinreER, (Illustration) - nr: ).)

K prnc His Worp, - - . 53 | My Wire anp I, - - ’ ” 97
TABLE OF CONTENTS.



Lanp Poor, - - - : -
CoLLEecE “Oin Cans,” - . -
THE OLD Ways AND THE NEw,
Tue Story of Deacon Brown, -
A FReeE Seat, - - - -
A Free Sear, (Illustration) - -

GRANDFATHER’s House, met, Sater te
Tue TaLe of A TADPoLE, = - +
CHEER Ur, - zahetone ve -
Onty PLAYING, - - - “
Waat Sue Dip, - - - -
“UNKNOWN,” - - - -
Wuy Tue Doc’s Nosz 1s ALways CoLp,
CLEAR THE Way, _¢ - oe
Wuen Santa Craus Comes, - -
THE NortH Wiyp, _- aaa

THE MouNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL, -
Jack Frost’s LitTie SIstTer, . - -
Wuen I Grow Up,. - - : :
Danpy Jim, Bee Rett 2 -
Succgss, ? - - - -
Wuen I Grow Up, (Iilustration) -
Crop oF AcorNs,-. - - - -
Tue OLD CLock AGAINST. THE WALL,
GREEN. APPLES, - - - :
Tue CLosinc ADDRESS, - : -
Be True, Boys, - - - :
FAULTS OF OTHERS, - - - -
ONLY AN APPLE, - * - - -
For a Very Litriz Boy, - 3 5

A ScHOLAR, - - 2 =
Give Us LittLe Boys a CHance, - -
One Littte Act, . our ae
Firry YEars Aparr, . s . S
DaReE To Do, -. - - a

Tue Rosin Ran Our, - ‘ s
Nursery SpPEEcH, ae e 3
Learn To CounT, 4 2 <
ADVICE FROM Five, TEN AND TWELVE,

Moruer Eartu, - : : os

Wuar BrecaMe oF A Liz, - Z
A PERFECT FaITH, - - = 5
To MorHeErs, - - - E

PAGE.
97
98

IOI

102
104
105

107
108
108
109
109
T10
TIT
LIL

112
L12
113

113
114

114
114
II5

117

117
118
119
119
II9
119
120
120
120
120
121

121
121
122
122
122
123
123
124,
124

Mousz-TRaes, - - : - -
SpEak GENTLY, - : . -
Do Your Best, - - - : -
Goop Nient, (Illustration) : -
In Santa Ciaus Lann, - : -
MotHer Goose's Parry, - -
THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN, - : -
TRUSTY AND TRUE, - : .
Poor LitrLe Cras, (Illustration) - :

_THE TEMPERANCE LESSON, - -

Visir or Santa CLaus, - : :
I’m a May, - - - :
VacaTIon Fun, - - - -
A CoLLoauy, - ae 2 we
SIGNING THE PLEDGE, - - -
THe MarrimoniaL ADVERTISEMENT,
TALKING FLOWERS, - - : :
TALKING FLowers, (Illustration)
UNDER AN UMBRELLA, - S :
AFTER TWENTY YEARS, - - -
Jounny’s TRIAL FOR A CHRISTMAS PRIZE,
MarcGeEry’s CHRISTMAS. DOLLAR, -
A Curistmas GuEsT, - - -
CHRISTMAS ON AN ISLAND, SSeietimca
A. CuristmMas DREAM, (Illustration) -
A WESTERN CHRISTMAS, - -
Tus CuristmMas Box, AND WHat CAME
or Ir, - - - - -
Roy’s CuRISTMAS PRIZE, - - -
SanTa CLaus’ REINDEER, aie +
PHysScHOLOGY AND MINERALOGY,
Tue Birp’s Last CHRISTMAS, - -
An INTERESTED LISTENER (Illustration)
Tue Story Wirnout a NAME, -
Littte Luici’s CHRISTMAS, - -
A Miscutevous Cat’s CHRISTMAS, -
THE CHRISTMAS GHOST, . - -
A Curistmas DREAM, - - -
THe Merry Curistmas HELPERS, -
THE INFLUENCE. OF CHRISTMAS STORIES
on A Dear AnD Dump Girt, - -
A Lucky CHRISTMAS, - - -
A CHRISTMAS WITH THE Fairigs, -

ROR OF

12

PAGE
125
125
126
127
129
136
139
150
151
156
157
159
160
161
162
168
172
173
176
181
19
192
195
198
199
202

203,
205
205
206
208
209
211
212
215
215
217
218

219
220
2a


OUR LIVES.

Our lives are songs; God writes the words, We must write the music,whatever the song,
And we set them to music at pleasure, Whatever its rhyme or metre,
And the song grows glad, or sweet, orsad, And if it is glad, we may make it sad,

As we choose to fashion the measure. Or if sweet, we may make it sweeter.

13


REPROVE GENTLY.

He who checks the child with terror,
Stops its play and stills its song,
Not alone commits an error,

But a grievous moral wrong.

Would you stop the flowing river,
Thinking it would cease to flow?
Onward must it flow forever—

Better teach it where to go.




E ALWAYS WHITE

SB

LET THY GARMENT

15



vere eer.

MY CHOICE.

HICH of the two do you love best?
Was the question that came to me,
As robed for the night in snowy white
My darlings knelt by me.

Which, if the Father’s hand
Were to beckon one away,

And the summons be “Thy best beloved,”
Which of them would you say?

And I drew my little ones closer,
As I sat in the twilight dim;
As I wondered, if He were to ask,
What I should answer Him.

Maude is gentle and loving,
With willing hands and feet,

With curious thoughts and questions wise,
With womanly ways and sweet.

And roguish hazel-eyed Minnie,
The willing baby yet,

Though over her head of golden brown
Three summers’ suns have set.

One so serious and thoughtful,

_ With wisdom beyond her years:

The other like April sunshine,
Ready with smiles and tears.

R)

Now, as they kneel before me
In the suddenly quiet room,

While the shadows deepen and darken
Into the evening gloom,

The childish voices petition,

As they fold their hands in prayer,
The heavenly hand to lead them

The heavenly love to care.

Then, as they throw around me
Their arms, and clasp me tight,
The sweet lips murmur “We love you,
Good-night, mamma, good-night.”

I cannot choose between them,
Father! oh spare the test;
Which of my darlings is dearer
Which one I love the best.

“GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA.”

HE words of a blue-eyed child as she

kissed her chubby hand and looked

down the stairs, “Good-night, papa; Jessie
see you in the morning.”

It came to be a settled thing, and every
evening, as the mother slipped the white
night-gown over the plump shoulders, the
little one stopped on the stairs and sang
18 - “GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA.”

out, “Good-night, papa,” and as the father
heard the silvery accents of the child, he
came, and taking the cherub in his arms,
kissed her tenderly, while the mother’s
eyes filled, and a swift prayer went up, for,
strange to say, this man, who loved. his
child with all the warmth of his great,
noble nature, had one fault to mar his man-
liness. From his youth he loved the wine
cup. Genial in spirit, and with a fascina-
tion of manner that won him friends, he
could not resist when surrounded by his
boon companions. Thus his home was
darkened, the heart of his wife bruised and
bleeding, the future of his child shadowed.

Three years had the winsome prattle of
the baby crept into the avenues of the
father’s heart, keeping him eloser to his
home, but still the fatal cup was in his hand.
* Alas for frail humanity, insensible to the
calls of love! With unutterable tender-
ness God saw there was no other way; this
father was dear to Him, the purchase of
His Son; He could not see him perish, and
calling a swift messenger, He said, “Speed
thee to earth and bring the babe.”

“Good-night, papa,” sounded from the
stairs. What was there in the voice? Was
it the echo of the mandate, “Bring me the
babe”— a silvery plaintive sound, a linger-
ing music that touched the father’s heart, as
when a cloud crosses the sun? “Good-
night, my darling;” but his lips quivered
and his broad brow grew pale. “Is Jessie
sick, mother? Her cheeks are flushed, and
her eyes have a strange light.”

“Not sick,” and the mother stooped to
kiss the flushed brow; “she may have
played too much. Pet is not sick?”

“ Jessie tired, mamma; good-night, papa ;
Jessie see you in the morning.”

“ That is all, she is only tired,” said the



mother, asshe took the small hand. Another
kiss, and the father turned away; but his
heart was not satisfied.

Sweet lullabies were sung; but Jessie
was restless and could not sleep. “ Tell
me a story, mamma;” and the mother told
of the blessed babe that Mary cradled, fol-
lowing along the story till the child has
grown to walk and play. The blue, wide-
open eyes filled with a strange light, as
though she saw and .comprehended more
than the mother knew.

That night the father did not visit the
saloon ; tossing on his bed, starting from a
feverish sleep and bending over the crib,
the long, weary hours passed. Morning
revealed the truth—Jessie was smitten
with the fever.

“Keep her quiet,” the doctor said; ‘a
few days of good nursing, and she will be
all right.” !

Words easily said; but the father saw a
look on the sweet face such as he had seen
before. He knew the message was at the
door.

Night came. “Jessie is sick, can’t say
good-night, papa;” and the little clasping
fingers clung to the father’s hand.

“O God, spare her! I cannot, cannot
bear it!” was wrung from his suffering
heart.

Days passed ; the mother was tireless in
her watching. With her babe cradled in
her arms her heart was slow to take in the
truth, doing her best to solace the father’s
heart: “A light case! the doctor says,
‘Pet will soon be well.’”

Calmly, as one who knows his doom, the
father laid his hand upon the hot brow,
looked into the eyes even then covered
with the film of death, and with all the
strength of his manhood cried, “Spare her,
O God! spare my chiid, and I will follow
thee.”

With a last painful effort the parched ~

lips opened: “Jessie’s too sick; can’t say
good night, papa—in the morning.”
‘There was a convulsive shudder, and the
clasping fingers relaxed their hold ; the mes-
senger had taken the child.

Months have passed. Jessie’s crib
stands by the side of her father’s couch,
her blue embroidered dress and white hat
hang in his closet; her boots with the
print of the feet just as she last wore them,
as sacred in his eyes as they are in the
mother’s. Nut dead, but merely risen toa
higher life , while, sounding down from the
upper stairs, “ Good night papa, Jessie see
you in the morning,” has been the means
of winning to a better way one who had
shown himself deat to every former call.

TOMMY’S PRAYER.

)N adark and dismal alley where the sun-
: shine never came,
Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly,
delicate and lame;
He had never yet been healthy, but had
lain since he was born,
Dragging out his weak existence well nigh
hopeless and forlorn.

He was six, was little Tommy; ‘twas just
five years ago

Since hig drunken mother dropped him,
and the babe was crippled so.

He had never known the comfort of a
mother’s tender care,

But her eruel blows and curses made his
pain still worse to bear.



TOMMY’S PRAYER. 19

There he lay within the cellar from the
; morning till the night,

Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated,
naught to make his dull life bright ;

Not a single friend to love him, not a liv-
ing thing to love—

For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven
up above.

*Twas a quiet, summer evening; and the
alley, too, was still;

Tommy’s little heart was sinking, and he

"felt: so lonely, till,

Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards
from the street,

Came the sound of some one singing, sound-
ing, oh ! so clear and sweet.

Eagerly did Tommy listen asthe singing
nearer came— :

Oh! that he conld see the singer! How
he wished he wasn’t lame.

Then he called and shouted loudly, till the
singer heard the sound,

And on noting whence it issued, soon the
little cripple found.

Twas a maiden rough and rugged, hair un-
kempt and naked feet,

All her garments torn and ragged, her ap-
pearance far from neat ;

“So yer called me,” said the maiden, “won-
der wot yer wants o’ me;

Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot
may your name chance to be?”

“ My name’s Tommy; I’ma cripple, and I
want to hear you sing,

For it makes me feel so happy—sing me
something, anything.”

Jessie laughed, and answered, smiling, “I
can’t stay here very long,

But I'll sing a hymn to please you, wot I
calls the ‘Glory song.’”
20 TOMMY’S PRAYER.

Then she sang to him of heaven, pearly
gates, and streets of gold,

Where the happy angel children are not
starved or nipped with cold;

But where happiness and gladness never
can decrease or end,

And where kind and loving Jesus is their
Sovereign and their Friend.

Oh! how Tommy’s eyes did glisten as he
drank in every word |

As it fell from “ Singing Jessie”—was it
true, what he had heard ?

And so anxiousiy he asked her:
really such a place?”

And 2 tear begar to trickle down his pallid
little face.

“Ts there

“Tommy, you're alittle heathen ; why, it’s
up beyond the sky,

And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall
go there when yer die.”

“Then,” said Tommy; “tell me, Jessie,
how can I the Saviour love,

When I’m down in this ’ere cellar, and he’s
up in heaven above?”

So the little ragged maiden who had heard
at Sunday school

All about the way to heaven, and the
Christian’s golden rule,

Taught the little cripple, Tommy, how to
love and how to pray,

Then she sang a “Song of Jesus,” kissed
his cheex and went away.

Tommy lay within the cellar which had
grown so dark and cold,

Thinking all about the children in the
streets of shining gold;

And he heeded not the darkness of that
damp and chilly room,

For the joy in Tommy’s bosom could dis-
perse the deepest gloom.









“Oh! if I could only see it,” thought the
cripple, as he lay,

’ Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think

Plltry and pray;”

So he put his hands together, and he closed
his little eyes,

And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this.
message to the skies :

“Gentle Jesus, please forgive me, as L
didn’t know afore,

That yer cared for little cripples who is.
weak and very poor,

And I never heard of heaven till that Jes-
sie came to-day

And told me all abont it, so L wants to try
and pray.

“You can see me, can’t yer Jesus? Jessie
told me that yer could,

And I somehow must believe it, for it:
seems so prime and good ;

And she told me if I loved you, I should
see yer when I die,

In the bright and happy heaven that is up.
beyond the sky.

“Lord, Pm only just a cripple, and ’'m no
use here below,

For I heard my mother whisper she’d be
glad if I could go;

And Pm cold and hungry sometimes ; and
I feel so lonely, too,

Can’t yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to heav-
en along o" you ?

“Oh! TP’d be so good and patient, and ’d
never cry or fret ;

And your kindness to me, Jesus, I would
surely not forget,

I would love you all I know of, and would
never make a noise—

Can’t you find me just a corner, where I'll
watch the other boys?
a Tn

“I CANNOT TURN THE KEY AND MY BOY OUTSIDE” 21



“Ob! I think yer’ll doit, Jesus, something
seems to tell me so,

For I feel so gladand happy, and I do so
want to g03

How T long to see yer, Jesus, and the chil-
dren all so bright!

Come and fetch me, won’t yer, Jesus ?
Come and fetch me home to-night !”

Tommy ceased his supplication, he had
told his soul’s desire,

And he waited for the answer till his head
began to tire;

‘Then he turned towards his corner, and lay
huddled in a heap,

Closed his little eyes so gently, and was
quickly fast asleep.

Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have
seen his little face

As he lay there in thecorner, in that damp
and uoisome place ;

For his countenance was shining like an
angel’s, fair and bright,

And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy,
heavenly light.

He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged
singing girl,

He might well have wondered, pondered,
till his brain began to whirl ;

But he took it as she told it, and believed
it then and there,

Simply trusting in the Saviour, and His
kind and tender care.

In the morning, when the mother came to
wake her crippled boy,

She discovered that hisfeatures wore a look
of sweetest joy,

And she shook him somewhat roughly, but
the cripple’s face was cold—

He had gone to join the children in the
streets of shining gold.

| « USPENSE is

Tommy’s prayer had soon been answered,
and the Angel, Death, had come

To remove him from his cellar to his
bright and heavenly home,

Where sweet comfort, joy and gladness
never can decrease or end,

And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sov-
ereign and his Friend.

“IT CANNOT TURN THE KEY AND MY
BOY OUTSIDE.”

worse than bitter
The lad will come no more; [grief,
Why should we longer watch and wait?
Turn the key in the door.
From weary days and lonely nights
The light of hope has fled;
I say the ship is lost, good wife,
And our boy is dead.”

“ Husband, the last words that I spoke,
Just as he left the shore,

Were, ‘Come thou early, come thou late,
Thow'lt find an open door;

Open thy mother’s heart and hand,
Whatever else betide,’

And so I cannot turn the key,
And my boy outside.

“Seven years is naught to mother love,
And seventy times the seven;

A mother is a mother still,
On earth or in God’s heaven.

Pll watch for him, I'll pray for him,—
Prayer as the world is wide;

But, oh! I cannot turn the key
And leave my boy outside.
22 ASPIRATIONS.—THE RAINY DAY.



“When winds were loud, and snow lay
And storm clouds drifted black, [white,
I’ve heard his step—tor hearts can hear;
I know he’s coming back.
What if he came this very night,
And he the house-door tried,
And found that we had turned the key,
And our boy outside !”

- The good man trimmed the candle light,
Threw on another log, :

Then, suddenly he said: “Good wife!
What ails,—what ails the dog ?

And what ails you? What doyou hear?”
She raised her.eyes and cried:

“Wide open fling the house-door now,
For my boy’s outside !”

Scarce said the words, when a glad hand
Flung wide the household door.

“ Dear mother! father! I am come!
I need not leave you more !””



That night, the first in seven long years,
The happy mother sighed:

“ Father, you now may turn the key,
For my boy’s inside !”

ASPIRATIONS.

UR aims are all too high; we try
To gain the summit at a bound,
When we should reach it step by step,
And climb the Jadder round by round.

He who would climb the heights sublime,
Or breathe the purer air of life,

Must not expect to rest in ease, i
But brace himself for toil or strife.

We should not in our blindness seek
To grasp alone for grand and great,
Disdaining every smaller good,—
For trifles make the aggregate.
And if a cloud should hover o’cr
Our weary pathway like a pall,
Remember, God permits it there,
And His good purpose reigns o’er all.

Life should be full of earnest work,
Our hearts undashed by fortune’s frown;
Let perseverance conquer fate,
And mervt seize the victor’s crown.
The battle is not to the strong,
The race not always to the fleet ;
And he who seeks to pluck the stars,
Will lose the jewels at his feet.

THE RAINY DAY.

HE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind. is never
weary ; :
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary,
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering
past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the
hlast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining ;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.
ARTEMUS WARD.
S Artemus was once traveling in the

cars, dreading to be bored, and feel- |

ing miserable, a man approached him, sat
down, and said,—

“Did you hear that last thing on Horace
Greeley?”

“Greeley? Greeley?” said Artemus.
“ Horace Greeley? Who is he?”

The man was quiet about five minutes.
Pretty soon he said,—

“George Francis Train is kicking up a
good deal of arow over in England. Do you
think they will put him in a bastile?”

“Train? Train ¢ George Francis Train? ”
said Artemus, solemnly, “I never heard of
him.”

This ignorance kept the man quiet about
fifteen minutes, then he said,—

“What do you think about General
Grant’s chances for the Presidency ¢ Do you
think they will run him?”

“Grant? Grant? hang it, man,” said
Artemus, “you appear to know more
strangers than any man I ever saw.”

The man was furious. He walked off,
but at last came back and said,—

“You confounded ignoramus, did you
ever hear of Adam?”

Artemus looked up and said,—

““ What was his other name?”



THE DYING STREET ARAB.

KNOW what you mean, I’m a dyin’;

Well, I ain’t no worse nor the rest

‘Taint them as does nothin’ but prayin’,
I reckon, is allus the best.

I ain’t had no father nor mother
A-tellin’? me wrong from the right ;



ARTEMUS WARD.—THE DYING STREET ARAB. 23

The streets ain’t the place—is it, parson ?—
For sayin’ your prayers of a night.

I never knowed who was my father,
And mother, she died long ago;
The folks here, they brought me up some-
how,
It ain’t much they have teached me, I
know.

Yet I think they'll be sorry, and miss me,
When took right away from this here,

For sometimes I catches them slyly ©
A-wipin’ away of a tear.

And they says as they hopes I’ll get better;
I can’t be no worse when I’m dead.

I ain’t had so jolly a time on’t,—
A-dyin’ by inches for bread.

T’ve stood in them streets precious often,
When the wet’s been a-pourin’ down,

And J ain’t had so much as a mouthful,
Nor never so much as a brown.

T’ve looked in them shops, with the winders
Chokeful of what’s tidy to eat,

And I’ve heerd gents a-larfin’ and talkin’
While I drops like a dorg at their feet.

But it’s kind on you, sir, to sit by me;
I ain’t now afeerd o’your face ;

And I hopes, if it’s true as you tells me
We’ll meet in that t’other place.

I hopes as you’ll come when it’s over,
And talk to them here in the court;
They'll mind what you says, you’re a parson,
There won’t be no larkin’ nor sport.

You'll tell them as how I died happy,
And hopin’ to see them again ;

That I’m gone to that land where the weary
Is freed of his trouble and pain,
24 THE TWO IDEALS.



Now open that book as you give me,—
I feels as it never tells lies,—
And read me them words—you know,
guy’nor,—
As is good for a chap when he dies.

There, give me your hand, sir, and thankee
For the good as you’ve done a poor lad;
Who knows, had they teached me some
better,
I mightn’t have growed up so bad.

THE TWO IDEALS.
PAINTER of Italian fame

Saw once a rosy child ;
Its loveliness entranced his soul,
His fancy strange beguiled.

His soul’s ideal he had found
Of innocence and grace ;

The subject of his visions hence
Became that cherub face.

He touched his canvas day by day,
His soul aglow and warm,

And lavished love and beauty till
It woke in life-like form.

The picture hung long years, and shed
Its love-light on his soul,

And cheered his toil and study there, :
And claimed his heart’s control.

The painter said: “Ife’er I find
A contrast to that face,

It shall receive my richest skill,
And by its side have place.”

He wandered long in lands remote,
And in a prison-cell

He found the object he had sought,
A visage grim and fell ;

A haggard form, forlorn and dark,
Upon whose frenzied face

He saw such imagery of hate
As crime alone can trace.

His genius flamed again and wrought
His ardent, deep desire;

Again the canvas spoke with life—
Of malice, fear, and ire.

He bore it to his study-wall,
And hung the picture there—

Beside his gem of innocence
His portrait of despair.

And there they hung, the two extremes
Of human life, the poles ;

The sunny verge of innocence,
The sea of crime that rolls.

The painter’s heart within him sank
When the sad tale was told;

The sweet boy of his early love
Became the outeast bold.

O sunny youth, of vice beware ;
Ere he, the demon, Crime,

Shall pencil on thy youthful brow
A wrecked, inglorious prime !

KISS HER AND TELL HER SO,

OU’VE a neat little wife at home, John,
As sweet as you wish to see;
As faithful and gentle-hearted,
As fond as wife can be;
A genuine, home-loving woman,
Not’caring for fuss and show;
She’s dearer to you than life, John ;
Then kiss her and tell her so.
*

DEACON MUNROE’S STORY. 25





Your dinners are promptly served, John,
As, likewise, your breakfast and tea ;
Your wardrobe is always in order,
With buttons where buttons should be.
Her house is a cozy home-nest, John,
A heaven of rest below;
_ You think she’s a rare little treasure ;
Then kiss her and tell her so.

She’s a good wife and true to you, John,
Let fortune be foul or fair ;
Of whatever comes to you, John,
She cheerfully bears her share ;
You feel she’s a brave, true helper,
And perhaps far more than you know
*T will lighten her end of the load, John,
Just to kiss her and tell her so.

There’s a crossroad somewhere in life, John,
Where a hand on a guiding stone

Will signal one “ over the river,”
And the other must go on alone.

Should she reach the last milestone first,

John,

*T will be comfort amid your wo

To know that while loving her here, John,
You kissed her and told her so.

‘

DEACON MUNROE’S STORY.

ES, surely the bells in the steeple

Were ringin’, I thought you knew
why.
Well, then, Ill tell you, though

mostly
It’s whispered about on the sly.

Some six' weeks ago, a church meetin’
‘Was held, for—nobody knew what ;

But we went, and the parson was present,
And I don’t know who, or who not.

No?

Some twenty odd members, I cale’late,
Which mostly was wimmin, of course ;

‘But I don’t mean to say aught ag’in ’em

TPve seen many gatherin’s look worse.
And, in the front row sat the deacons,
The eldest was old Deacon Pryor,
A man countin’ fourscore and seven,
And gin’rally full of his ire.

Beside him, his wife, aged fourscore,
A kind-hearted, motherly soul ;
And next to her, young Deacon Hartley,
A good Christian man, on the whole.
Miss Parsons, a spinster of fifty,
And long ago laid on the shelf,

Had wedged herself next; and beside her

Was Deacon Munroe—that’s nyself.

The meetin’ was soon called to order,
The parson looked glum as a text;
We silently stared at each other,

And every one wondered, “ What next !”
When straightway uprose Deacon Hartley ;
His voice seemed to tremble with fear
As he said: “Boy and man, you have

, known me,
My friends, for this nigh forty year

“ And you scarce may expect a confession
Of error from me; but—you know
My dearly loved wife died last Christmas,
It’s now over ten months ago.
The winter went by long and lonely,
But the springtime crep’ forward apace ;
The farm-work begun, and I needed
A woman about the old place.

“My children were wilder than rabbits,
And all growing worse every day ;

I could find no help in the village,
Although I was willin’ to pay.

I declare I was near "bout discouraged,
And everything looked so forlorn,
26





When good little Patience McAlpine
Skipped into our kitchen, one morn.

“She had only run in of an errand;
But she laughed at our woe-begone plight,
And set to work, just like a woman,
A putting the whole place to right.
And though her own folks was so busy,
And illy her helpin’ could spare,
She’d flit in and out like a sparrow,
And most every day she was there.

“So the summer went by sort o’ cheerful,
But one night my baby, my Joe,

Was restless and feverish, and woke me
As babies will often, you know.

I was tired with my day’s work and sleepy,
And couldn’t no way keep him still;

So at last I grew angry, and spanked him,
And then he screamed ont with a will.

“* Twas just then I heard a soft rapping,
Away at the half-open door;
And ther little Patience McAlpine
Stepped shyly across the white floor.
Says she, ‘I thought Josey was erying ;
I guess I’d best take him away.
I knew you'd be getting up early
To go to the marshes for hay.

“So I staid here to-night, to get breakfast ;
I guess he'll be quiet with me.
Come, baby, kiss papa, and tell him
What a nice little man he will be!’
She was bending low over the baby,
And saw the big tears on his cheek ;
But her face was so close to my whiskers,
I daresn’t move scarcely or speak ;

“ Her arms were both holding the baly,
Her eyes by his shoulder was hid;
But her mouth was so near and so rosy,
That I—kissed her.

did.”

DEACON MUNROE’ S STORY.





|

|

%



Then down sat the tremblin’ sinner,
The sisters they murmured, “For shame.’

And “She shouldn’t onghter a’ let him.
No doubt she was mostly to blame.”

>

When slowly uprose Deacon Pryor.
“ Now, brethren and sisters,” he said,
(We knowed then that suthin’ was comin’,
And we sot as still as the dead.)
“« We’ve heard brother Iartley’s confession,
And I speak fur myself when I say,
That if my wife was dead, and my children
Were all growin’ wuss every day ;

“And if my house needed attention,
And Patience McAlpine should come
And tidy the cluttered-up kitchen,
And make the place seem more like
home;
And if I was tired out and sleepy,
And my baby wouldn’t lie still,
But cried ont at midnight and woke me
As babies, we know, sometimes will;

“‘ And if Patience came in to hush him,
And ’twas all as our goed brother says,
I think, friends—I think I should kiss her,
And ’bide by the consequences.”
Then dowu sat the elderly deacon,
The younger one lifted his face,
And a smile rippled over the meetin’
Like light in a shadowy place.

Perhaps, then, the matronly sisters
Remembered their far-away youth,
Or the daughters at home by their firesides,
Shrined each in her shy, modest truth ;
For their judgments grew gentle and
kindly,
And—well ! as I siarted to say,
The solemn old bells in the steeple

That’s just what I | Were ringing a bridal to-day.
ROCK OF AGES.—AGAIN.



“ROCK OF AGES.”

“* 7) OCK of Ages, cleft for me,”
f\, Thoughtlessly the maiden sung.
Fell the words unconsciously,
From her girlish, gleeful tongue,
Sang as little children sing;
Sang as sing the birds in June,
Fell the words like light leaves down
On the current of the tune—
“ Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“Let me hide myself ia Thee,”
Felt her soul no need to hide.
Sweet the song as song could be—

And she had no thought beside ;
A‘l the words unheedingly

Fell from lips untouched by care,
Dreaming not they each might be

On some other lips a prayer—
“Nock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“ Rock of Ages, cleft for me ”—
"Twas a woman sang them now.

Rose the song as storm-tossed bird
Beats with weary wing the air,

Every note with sorrow stirred—
Every syllable a prayer—

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me”—

Lips grown aged sung the hymn
Trustingly and tenderly—

Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim
“Let me hide myself in Thee.”

Trembling though the voice and low
Ran the sweet strain peacefully,

Like a river in its flow,
Sung as only they can sing

Who life’s thorny paths have pressed ;

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me,”

27

Sung as only they can sing

Who behoid the promised rest-—
“Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Tet me hide myself in Thee.”

Sang above a coftin lid ;
Underneath, all restfully,

All life’s joys and sorrows hid.
Nevermore, O storm-iossed soul!

Nevermore from wind or tide,
Nevermore from billows’ roll,

Wilt thou necd to hide.
Would the sightless, sunken eyes,

Closed beneath the soft gray hair,
Could the mute and stiffened lips

Move again in pleading prayer,
Still, aye, still the words would be,
“Let me hide myself in Thee.”

AGAIN.

@) VER and over again,
No matter which way I turn,
I always see in. the book of life
Some lesson that I must learn.
I must take my turn at the mil).
IT must grind out the golden grain.
I must work at my task with resolute will—
Over and over again.

Over and over again,
The brook through the meadow runs ;
And over and over again 2
The ponderous mill wheel turns.
Once doing will not suftice—
Though doing be not in vain—
And a blessing failing us once or twice,
May come if we try again.
28 KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GREY.



KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GREY.

74) WO brown heads with tossing curls,

Red lips shutting over pearls,
Bare feet, white and wet with dew,
Two eyes black, and two eyes blue;
Little girl and boy were they,
Katie Lee and Willie Grey.

They were standing where a brook,
Bending like a shepherd’s crook,
Flashed its silver, and thick ranks
Of willow fringed its mossy banks;
Half in thought, and half in play,
Katie Lee and Willie Grey.

They had cheeks like cherries red ;
He was taller—’most a head ;

She, with arms like wreaths of snow,
Swung a basket to and fro

As she loitered, half in play,.
Chattering to Willie Grey.

“ Pretty Katie,” Willie said—

And there came a dash of red
Through the brownness of his cheek—
“ Boys are strong and girls are weak,
And Ill carry, so I will,

Katie’s basket up the hill.

Katie answered with a langh,
“You shall carry only half; ”

And then, tossing back her curls,—
“ Boys are weak as well as girls.”
Do ‘you think that Katie guessed
Half the wisdom she expressed 4

Men are only boys grown tall;
Hearts don’t change much, after all;
And when, long years from that day,
Katie Lee and Willie Grey

Stood again beside the brook,
Bending like a shepherd’s crook,—

=

Ts it strange that Willie said, ~
While again a dash of red

Crossed the brownness of his cheek,
“JT am strong and you are weak ;
Life is but a slippery steep,

Hung with shadows cold and deep.

“ Will you trust me, Katie dear,—
Walk beside me without fear?
May I carry, if I will,

All your burdens up the hill?”
And she answered, with a laugh,
“No, but you may carry half.”

Close beside the little brook,
Bending like a shepherd’s crook,
Washing with its silver hands
Late and early at the sands,

Is a cottage, where to-day

Katie lives with Willie Grey.

In a porch she sits, and lo!
Swings a basket to and fro—
Vastly different from the one
That she swung in years agone,
This is long and deep and wide,
And has—rockers at the side.

SELLING THE BABY.

Bee a shady elm tree
Two little brown-haired boys

Were complaining to each other
That they couldn’t make a noise,

“ And it’s all that horrid baby,”
Cried Johnny, looking gium ;

“She makes.an awful bother ;
I’most wish she hadn’t come.

“Tf a boy runs through the kitchen,
Still as any mouse can creep,
SELLING

THE BABY. 29



Norah says, ‘ Now do be aisy,
For the baby’s gone to sleep !’

And when, just now, I asked mamma
To fix my new straw cap,

She said she really couldn’t
Till the baby took her nap !

“Tve been thinking we might sell her—
Fred thrust back his curly hair ;
“ Mamma calls her ‘ Little Trouble!’
So I don’t believe she'd care.
We will take her down to Johnson’s ;
He keeps candy at his store;
And I wouldn’t wonder, truly,
If she’d bring a pound or more ;

“ For he asked me if I’d sell her
When, she first came, but, you see,

Then I didn’t know she’d bother,
So I told him, ‘ No, sir-ree!’

He may have her now, and welcome ;
I don’t want her any more.

Get the carriage round here, Johnny,
And Ill fetch her to the door,”

To the cool green-curtained bedroom
Freddy stole with noiseless feet,

Where mamma had left her baby
Fast asleep, serene and sweet.

Soft. he bore her to the carriage,
All unknowing, little bird !

While of these two young kidnappers
Not a sound had mamma heard.

Down the street the carriage trundled ;
Soundly still the baby slept ;
Over two sun-browned boy faces
Little sober shadows crept 5
They began to love the wee one.
“Say,” said Johnny, “don’t you think
He will give for such ababy _
Twenty pounds as quick as wink?”



SS say fifty,’ Fred responded,
With his brown eyes downward cast.

“« Here’s the store ; it doesn’t seem’s though

We had come so awful fast!” ‘
Through the door they pushed the carriage ;
“ Mister Johnson, we thought maybe
You would—wouldn’t—would you—would,
Would you like to buy a baby ?”

Merchant Johnson’s eyes were twinkling ;
“Well, I would; just set your price,
Will you take your pay in candy ?
I have some that’s very nice.
But before we bind the bargain,
I would like to see the child!”
Johnny lifted up the afghan ;
Baby woke and cooed, and smiled.

“Tt’s a trade!” cried Merchant Johnson ;
“How much candy for the prize?”
Fred and Johnny looked at baby,
Then into each other’s eyes.
All forgotten was the bother
In the light of baby’s smile,
And they wondered if mamma had
Missed her daughter all the while.

“ Candy’s sweet, but baby’s sweeter, ”
Spoke up sturdy little Fred.

“?Qause she is our own and onliest
Darling sister,” Johnny said ;

“So I guess we'd better keep her.
But if we should ask Him—maybe

When He knows you’d like to have one,
God will send you down a baby!”

Merchant Johnson laughed, and kindly
Ran their small hands o’er with sweet

Ere they wheel the baby homeward,
Back along the quiet street ;

And mamma(who had not missed them
Smiled to hear the little tale,

How they went to sell the baby,
How they didn’t make the sale.
30 MY MOTHER AT THE GATE.



MY MOTHER AT THE GATE.

e H, there’s many a lovely picture
On memory’s silent wall,

There’s many a cherished image
That I tenderly recall!

The sweet home of my childhood,
With its singing brooks and birds,
The friends who grew around me,
With their loving looks and words ;
The flowers that decked the wildwood,
The roses fresh and sweet,
The blue-bells and the daisies
That blossomed at my feet—
All, all are very precious,
And often come to me,
Like breezes from that country
That shines beyond death’s sea.
But the sweetest, dearest image
That fancy can create,
Is the image of my mother,
My mother at the gate.

There, there I sce her standing,
With her face so pure and fair,
With the sunlight and the shadows
On her snowy cap and hair;
I can feel the soft, warm pressure
Of the hand that clasped my own;
I can see the look of fondness
That in her blue eyes shone ;
I can hear her parting blessing
Through the lapse of weary years ;
I can see, through all my sorrow,
Her own sad, silent tears,—
Ah! amid the darkest trials
That have mingled with my fate,
I have turned to that dear image,
My mother at the gate.

But she has crossed the river,
She is with the angels now,

She has laid aside earth’s burdens,
And the crown is on her brow.
She is clothed in clean, white linen,

And she walks the streets of gold.
Oh! loved one, safe forever
Within the Saviour’s fold.
No sorrowing thought can reach thee,
No grief is thine to-day ;
God gives thee joy for mourning,
He wipes thy tears away!
Thou art waiting in that city
Where the holy angels wait,
And when I cross the river
I will see thee at the gate !

THI ROBIN’S CHRISTMAS EVE.

ABRIDGED.

GWAS Christmas time: a dreary night,
The snow fell thick and fast,
And o’er the country swept the wind,
A keen and wintry blast.

The little ones were all in bed,
Crouching beneath the clothes,

Half trembling at the angry wind,
Which wildly fell and rose. *

Old Jem the sexton rubbed his leg,
For he had got the gout;

He said he thought it wondrous hard
That he must sa'ly out.

Not far from Jem’s, another house,
Of different size and form,

Raised high its head, defying well
The fierce and pelting storm.

It was the Judge’s stately home—
A rare, upright Judge was he,

As brave and true a gentleman
As any one could ree










































ROBIN’S NEST.

31




















































































































































































































































































&

THE ROBINS CHRISTMAS EVE. 33



The Judge’s lady and himself
Sat cozily together,
When suddenly he roused himself
To see the kind of weather.

Lifting the shutters’ ponderous bar,
He threw them open wide,

And very dark and cold and drear
He thought it looked outside.

Ah, Judge! little do you think
A trembling beggar’s near,

Although his form you do not see,
His voice you do not hear,

Yes, there he stands—so very close,
He taps the window-pane,

And when he sees you turn away,
He feebly taps again.

But all in vain! the heavy bar
Was fastened as before ;

The Judge’s portly form retraced
His highly-polished floor.

Now, is there any one who thinks
It cannot be worth while

To write about a robin’s fate,
And treat it with a smile ?

Our robin’s history simple was,
There is not much to tell—

_A little happy singing-bird,
Born in a neighboring dell ;

And through the summer, in the wood,
Life went on merrily,

But winter came, and then he found
More full of care was he;

For food grew scarce ; so, having spied
Some holly-berries red

Within the rectory garden-grounds,
Thither our hero fled.





The robin early went to bed,
Puffed out just like a ball ;

He slept all night on one small leg,
Yet managed not to fall.

When morning came he left the tree,
But stared in great surprise

Upon the strange, unusual scene
That lay before his eyes.

It seemed as if a great white sheet
Were flung all o’er the lawn ;

The flower-beds, the paths, the trees,
And all the shrubs were gone.

His little feet grew sadly cold,
And felt all slippery too ;

He stumbled when he hopped along,
As folks on ice will do.

And yet he had not learnt the worst
Of this new state of things—

He’d still to feel the gnawing pangs
That cruel hunger brings.

No food to-day had touched his beak,
And not a chance had he

Of ever touching it again,
As far as he could see.

At length, by way of passing time,
He tried to take a nap,

But started up when on his head
He felt a gentle tap.

*T was but a snowflake, after all !
Yet, in his wretched plight,

The smallest thing could frighten him,
And make him take his flight.

But soon he found he must not hope
From these soft flakes to fly :

Down they came feathering on his head,
His back, his tail, his eye!
34 THE ROBINS CHRISTMAS EVE.



No gardeners appeared that day.
The Rector’s step came by,

And Robin fluttered o’er the snow
To try and catch his eye.

But being Christmas Eve, perhaps
His sermons filled his mind,

For on he walked, and never heard
The little chirp behind.

So on he went, and, as it chanced,
He passed into a lane,

And once again he saw a light
Inside a window-pane.

Chanced did we say !—let no such word
Upon our page appear:

Not chance, but watchful Providence,
Has led poor Robin here.

’T was Jem, the sexton’s house, from which:

Shone forth that cheering light,
For Jem had drawn the curtain back
To gaze upon the night.

And now, with lantern in his hand,
He hobbles down the lane,

Muttering and grumbling to himself,
Becanse his foot’s in pain.

He gains the church, then for the ae
Within his pocket feels,

And as he puts it in the door
Robin is at his heels.

Jem thought when entering the church,
That he was all alone,

Nor dreamed a little stranger bird
Had to its refuge flown.

The stove had not burnt very low,
But still was warm and bright,

And round the spot whereon it stood
Threw forth a cheerful light.



Jem lost no time: he flung on coals,
And raked the ashes out,

Then hurried off to go to bed,
Still grumbling at his gout.

Now Robin from a corner hopped
Within the fire’s light ;

Shivering and cold, it was to him
A most enchanting sight.

But he is almost starved, poor bird!
Food he must have, or die;

Useless it seems, alas! for that
Within these walls to try.

Yet, see! he makes a sudden dart :
His searching eye has found

The greatest treasure he could have—
Some bread-crumbs on the ground.

Perhaps ’tis thought by these who read
Too doubtful to be true,

That just when they were wanted so
Some hand should bread-crumbs strew.

But this is how it came to pass :
An ancient dame had said

Her legacy unto the poor
Should all be spent in bread ;

So every week twelve wheaten loaves
The sexton brought himself ;

And crumbs had doubtless fallen when
He placed them on the shelf.

Enough there were for quite a feast,
Robin was glad to find ;

The hungry fellow ate them all,
Nor left one crumb behind.

He soon was quite himself again,
And it must be confessed

His first thought, being warmed and fed,
Was all about his breast,
THE ROBINS CHRISTMAS EVE. 35



To smooth its scarlet feathers down
Our hero did not fail,

And when he’d nde it smart, he then
Attended to his tail!

Worn though he was with sheer fatigue
And being up so late,

He did not like to go to bed
Jn such a rumpled state.

His toilet done, he went to sleep,
And never once awoke

Till, coming in on Christmas morn,
Jem gave the stove a poke.

Now, very soon a little troop
Of children entered in:

They came to practise Christmas songs
Ere service should beyin.

The Rector followed them himself,
To help the young ones on,

And teach their voices how to sing
In tune their Christmas song.

And first he charged them all to try
And feel the words they sang ;
Then reading from his open book,

He thus the hymn began :

“Glory to God from all

To whom He’s given breath ;
Glory to God from all

Whom He has saved from death.”

Now, when the Rector’s voice had ceased,
The children, led by him,

Were just about, with earnest voice,
The verse of praise to sing,

When suddenly, from high above,
Another song they hear,

And all look up in hushed amaze,
At notes so sweet and clear.





Twas Robin, sitting on a spray
Of twisted holly bright ;

His light weight swayed it as he sang
His song with all his might.

His heart was full of happiness,
And this it was that drew

Praise to his Maker in the way—
The only way—he knew.

It seemed as though he understood
The words he just had heard,

As if he felt they suited him,
Though but a little bird.

The Rector’s finger, lifted up,
Kept all the children still,
Their eyes uplifted to the bird

Singing with open bill.

They scarcely breathed, lest they should
One note of that sweet strain ; [lose
And Robin scarcely paused before
He took it up again,

Now, when he ceased, the Rector thought
That he would say a word,

For Robin’s tale had in his breast
A strong emotion stirred.

“ Children,” said he, “that little voice
A lesson should have taught:

It seems to me the robin’s song
Is with instruction fraught.

“He was, no doupt, in great distress :
Deep snow was all around ;

Ile might have starved, but coming here
Both fvod and shelter found.

“Seek God, my children, and when times
Of storm and trouble come,

He'll guide you as He did the bird,
And safely lead you home.
36 UNWRITTEN POEMS.—‘VAS MARRIAGE A FAILURE.”



“ Another lesson we may learn
From those sweet notes we heard, —
That God has given voice of praise
To that unconscious bird ;

“ But unto us His love bestows
A far more glorious gift,

For we have reason, and our souls,
As well as voice, can lift.”

- The Rector paused, for now rang forth
The merry Christmas chime,

And warned them all that it was near
The usual service-time.

And we must close the robin’s tale:
*T will be a blessed thing

Should it have taught but one young voice
To praise as well as sing.

UNWRITTEN POEMS.

HERE are poems unwritten and songs
unsung,
Sweeter than any that ever was heard;
Poems that will wait for an angel tongue,
Songs that long fur a paradise bird ;

Poems that rippled through lowliest lives,
Poems unnoted, and hidden away

Down in souls, where the beautiful thrives
Sweetly as flowers in the airs of May;

Poems that only the angels above us,
Looking down deep in our hearts may
behold ;
Felt, though unseen by the beings who
love us;
Written on lives all in letters of gold.



“VAS MARRIAGE A FAILURE ?”

SJ AS marriage a failure? Vell, now, dot:
ff depends
Altogeddher on how you look at it, mine
friends.
Like dhose double-horse teams dot you see:
at der races,
It depends pooty mooch on der pair in der:
traces ,
Ef dhey don’t pool togeddher right off at.
der sthart,
Ten dimes oudt of nine dhey was beddher:
apart.

Vas marriage a failure ?
doubt ;

Dhose dot’s oudt vould be in, dhose dot’s.
in vould be ondt;

Der vote vas in:

Der man mit oxberience, good Jooks und

dash,

Gets a vife mit some fife hundord dousand
in cash;

Budt, after der honeymoon, vere vas de
honey @

She haf der oxberience— he haf der money..

Vas marriage a failure ? Ef dot vas der case,.
Vat vas to pecome off der whole human.
race ¢
Vot you dink dot der oldt “ Pilgrim
faders” vould say,

Dot came in der Sunflower to oldt Ply-
mouth bay,

To see der fine coundtry dis peoples haf’
got,

Und dhen hear dhem ask sooch conun-.
dhrums as dot ?

Vas marriage a failure ¢
tell,

To dot Bunker Mon Hillument, vhere Var-
ren fell;

Shust go, ere yor,
THE WORLD.—THE BRIDGE-KEEPER S STORY. - 87



Dink off Vashington, Franklin ae “ Ton-

est Old Abe ”—

Dhey vas all been aroundt since dot first
Plymouth babe.

I vas only a Deutscher, budt I dells you
vot!

Ipelief every dimein sooch “failures” as
dot.

‘Vas marriage a failure? I ask mine Ka-
trine,

Und she look off me so dot I feels pooty
inean.

Dhen she say: “Meester Strauss, shust come
here eef you blease,”

Und she dake me vhere Yaweob und little
Loweeze

By dhere shnug trundle-bed vas shust say-
ing der prayer,

Und she say, mit a smile, “ Veas dhere some
failures dhere ?”

THE WORLD.

IL: world is a queer old fellow,
As you journey along by his side
You had better conceal any trouble you
feel,
If you want to tickle his pride.
No matter how heavy your burden—
Don’t tell about it, pray,
He will only grow colder and shrug his
shoulder
And hurriedly walk away.

But carefully cover your sorrow,
And the world will be your friend.
If only yow’ll bury your woes and be
merr
He'll cling to you close to the end.



Don’t ask him to lift one finger
To lighten your burden because

He never will share it; but silently bear it
And he will be loud with applause.

The world is a vain old fellow,
You must laugh at his sallies of wit.
No matter how brutal, remonstrance is
futile,
And frowns will not change him one
whit.

And since you must journey together
Down paths where all mortal feet go,
Why, life holds more savor to keep in his

favor,
For he’s an unmerciful foe.

THE BRIDGE-KEEPER’S STORY.

O we have many accidents here, sir?

Well, no! but of one I could tell,
If you wouldn’t mind hearing the story,
I have cause to remember it well!

You see how the drawbridge swings open

When the vessels come in from the bay ;

When the lightning express comes along,
sir,

That bridge must be shut right away !

You see how it’s worked by the windlass,
A child, sir, could manage it well ;

My brave little chap used to do it,

But that’s part of the tale [ must tell.

It is two years ago come the autumn.

I shall never forget it, ’m sure ;

I was sitting at work in the house here,
And the boy played just outside the door.
38 THE BRIDGE-KEEPER’S STORY.



You must know thatthe wages I’n getting
For the work on the line are not great,

So I picked up a little shoemaking,

And I manage to live at that rate.

I was pounding away on my lapstone,
And singing as blithe as could be!
Keeping time with the tap of my hammer
On the work that I held at my knee.

And Willie, my golden-haired darling,
Was tying a tail on his kite ;

His cheeks all aglow with excitement,
And his blue eyes lit up with delight.

When the telegraph bell at the station
Rang out the express on its way ;

“All right, father !” shouted my Willie,
“ Remember, I’m pointsman to-day !”

I heard the wheel turn at the windlass,
I heard the bridge swing on its way,

And then came a cry from my darling
That filled my poor heart with dismay.

“ Help, father! oh, help me!” he shouted.

I sprang through the door with a scream.

His clothes had got ae in the windlass,

There he hung o’er the peak rushing
stream.

And there, like a speck in the distance,

I saw the fleet oncoming train ;

And the bridge that I thought safely fast-
ened,

Unclosed and swung backward again.

I rushed to my boy ; ere I reached him,
He fell in the river below.

I saw his bright curls on the water,
Borne away by the current’s swift flow.

I sprang to the edge of the river,
But there was the onrushing train ;



And hundreds of lives were in peril,
Till that bridge was refastened again.

I heard a loud shriek just behind me,
I turned, and his mother stood there,
Looking just like a statue of marble;
With her hands clasped in agonized prayer.

Should I leap in the swift flowing torrent
While the train went headlong to its fate,
Or stop to refasten the drawbridge,

And go to his rescue too late ?

I looked at my wife, and she whispered,
With choking sobs stopping her breath,
“Do your duty, and Heaven will help you
To save our own darling from death!”

Quick as thought, then, I flew to the wind-
lass,

And fastened the bridge with a crash;

Then, just as the train rushed across it,

I leaped in the stream with a splash.

How I fought with the swift-rushing water,
How I battled till hope almost fled,

But just as I thought I had lost him,

Up floated his bright, golden head.

How I eagerly seized on his girdle,

As a miser would clutch at his gold,

But the snap of his belt came unfastened,
And the swift stream unloosened my hold.

He sank once again, but I followed,

And caught at his bright, clustering hair,
And biting my lip till the blood came,

I swam with the strength of despair.

We had got to the bend of the river,

Where the water leaps down with a dash,
I held my boy tighter than ever,
And steeled all my nerves for the crash.
The foaming and thundering whirlpool
Engulfed us, I struggled for breath,
Then caught on a crag in the current,
Just saved, for a moment, from death.

And there, on: the bank, stood his mother,
And some sailors were flinging a rope;

It reached us at last, and I caught it,

_ For I knew ’twas our very last hope!

And right up the steep rock they dragged us,
I cannot forget, to this day,

How I clung to the rope while my darling
In my arms like a dead baby lay.

And down on the greensward I laid him
Till the color came back to his face,
And, oh, how my heart beat with rapture
As I felt his warm loving embrace !

There, sir, that’s my story, a true one.
Though it’s far more exciting than some,
It has taught me a lesson, and that is,
“Do your duty, whatever may come!”

NO SECTS IN HEAVEN.

ALKING of sects, quite late one eve,

What one another of saints believe,
That night I stood in a troubled dream
By the side of a darkly-flowing stream,

Anda “churchman down to the river came,
When I heard a strange voice call his name,
“ Good Father, stop; when you cross this tide
You must leave yourrobes on the other side.”

But the aged father did not mind,

And his long gown floated out behind
As down to the stream his way he took,
His hands firm hold of a gilt-edged book.





NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. 39



‘“‘T’m bound for Heaven, and when I’m there
I shall want my book of Common Prayer,

' And though I put on a starry crown,

I should feel quite lost without my gown.”

Then he fixed his eye on the shining track,

- But his gown was heavy and held him back,

And the poor old father tried in vain,
A single step in the flood to gain.

I saw him again on the other side,

But his silk gown floated on the tide,
And no one asked, in that blissful spot
If he belonged to “ the church” or not.

Then down the river a Quaker strayed ;
His dress of a sober hue was made,
“My hat and coat must be all of gray,
I cannot go any other way.”

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to
And staidly, solemnly, waded in, [his chin
And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down
Over his forehead,so cold and white. [tight

But a strong wind carried away his hat,
And he sighed a few moments over that,
And then, as he gazed to the farther shore
The coat slipped off and ‘was seen no more.

Poor, dying Quaker, thy suit of gray

Is quietly sailing—away—away,

But thou’lt go to heaven, as straight as an
arrow,

Whether thy brim be broad or narrow.

Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of

Tied nicely up in his aged arms. [psalms

And hymns as many, a very wise thing,

That the people in heaven, “ all round”
might sing.

But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh
Ashe saw that the river ran broad and high,
40 NO SECTS IN HEAVEN.





And looked rather surprised, as one by
one,

The psalms and hymns in the wave went
down.

And after him with his JZSS.

Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness ;

But he cried, “ Dear me, what shall I do ?

The water has soaked them through and
through.”

And there, on the river, far and wide,

Away they went on the swollen tide,

And the saint, astonished, passed through
alone,

Without his manuscripts, up to the throne.

Then gravely walking, two saints by name,
Down to the stream together came,

But as they stopped at the river’s brink,

I saw one saint from the other shrink.

“Sprinkled or plunged—may I ask you,
friend,
How you attained to life’s great end ?”
“ Thus, with a few drops on my brow;”
“But Thave been dipped as you'll see me
now.

“ And I really think it will hardly do,

As I’m ‘close communion,’ to cross with you.
You’re bound I know, to the realms of bliss,
But you must go that way, and I’ll go this.”

Aull straightway plunging with all his
might,

Away to the left—his friend at the right,

Apart they went from this world of sin;

But how did the brethren “ enter in?”

And now where the river wasrolling on,
A Presbyterian church went down ;





Of women there seemed an innumerable
throng,

But the men I could count as they passed
along.

And concerning the road they could never
agree,

The odd or the new way, which it could be;

Nor ever a moment paused to think

That both would Jead to the river’s brink.

And asound of murmuring long and loud
Came ever up from the moving crowd,

“ Youw’re in the old way, and I’m in the new,
That is the false, and this is the true.”

Or, “Tm in the old way, and you're in the
new, ;

That is the false, and this is the true.”

But the brethren only seemed to speak.

Modest the sisters walked, and meek,

And if ever one of them chanced to say
What troubles she met with on the way,
How she longed to pass to the other side,
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide,

A voice arose from the brethren then,
“Let no one speak but the ‘holy men,’
For have ye not heard the words of Paul?
‘Oh let the women keep silence, all”

I watched them long in my curious dream,

Till they stood by the border of* the
stream,

Then, just as I thought, the two ways met,

But all the brethren were talking yet,

And would talk on, till the heaving tide
Carried them over, side by side ;

Side by side, for the way was one,

The toilsome journey of life was done,
GOIN’ SOMEWHERE. 41



_And priest, and Quaker, and all who died,
Came ont alike on the other side;
No forms, or crosses, or books had they,
No gowns of silk, or suits of gray,
No creeds to guide them, or /SS.,
For all had put on “Christ’s righteous-
[ness.”

GOIN’? SOMEWHERE.

E had been to town-meeting, had once

voyaged a hundred miles on a steam-

boat, and had a brother who had made the
overland trip to California.

She had been to quiltings, funerals, and
a circus or two; and she knew a woman
who thought nothing of setting out on a
railroad journ+y where she had to wait fif-
teen minutes a. a junction, and change cars
at a depot.

So I found them,—a cosey-looking old
couple, sitting up very straight in their
seat, and trying to act like old railroad
travelers. A shadow of anxiety suddenly
crossed her face: she became uneasy, and
directly she asked,—

“Philetus, 1 act’lly b’leeve we’ve went
and taken the wrong train!”

“Tt can’t be, nohow,” he replied, seem-
ing a little startled. “Didn’t I ask the
conductor, and he said we was right?”

“Yaas, he did ; but look out the window,
and inake sure. He might have been lyin’
to us.”

The old man looked out the window at
the flitting fences, the galloping telegraph-
poles, and the unfamiliar fields, as if ex-
pecting to catch sight of some landmark,
and forgetting for a moment that he was
a thousand miles from home.

“T ouess we’re all right, Mary,” he said,
as he drew in his head.





“ Ask somebody—ask that man there,”
she whispered.

“This is the train for Chicago, hain’t
it?” inquired the old man, of the passenger
in the next seat behind.

‘This is the train,” replied the man.

“There! didn’t I say so?” clucked the
old gent.

“Tt may be—it may be!” she replied,
dubiously ; “ but if we are carried wrong, it
won't be my fault. I say that we are wrong,
and when we’ve been led into some pirate’s
cave, and butchered for our money, ye’ll
wish ye had heeded my words !”

He looked out of the window again,
opened his mouth as if to make some in-
quiry of a boy sitting on the fence, and
then leaned back on his seat, and sighed
heavily. She shut her teeth together, as if
saying that she could stand it if he could,
and the train sped along for several miles.
He finally said,—

* Looks like rain, over thar in the west.
Lhope the boys have got them oats in.”

“That makes me think of the umberel-
ler!” diving her hands among the parcels
at their feet.

She hunted around two or three minutes,
growing red in the face, and then straight-
ened up and hoarsely whispered,—

“Tt’s gone!”

«“ W—what?” he gasped.

“That umbereller!”

cCINIo 22

“Gone, hide and hair!” so she went on,
“ that sky-blue umbereller, which Pve had
ever since Martha died!”

He searched around, but it was not to be
found.

“Waal, that’s queer,’ he mused, as he
straightened up.

“Queer! not a bit. I’ve talked to ye
42 GOIN? SOMEWHERE.



and talked to ye, but it does no good. Ye
come from a heedless fam’ly ; and ye’d for-
get to put on yer boots, ’f I didn’t tell ye to.”

“ None of the Harrisons was ever in the
poorhouse !” he replied, in a cutting tone.

-Philetus! Philetus H. Harrison!”
she continued, laying her hand on his arm,
“don’t you dare twit me of that again! Pve
lived with ye nigh on to forty years, and
~ waited on ye when ye had biles and the
toothache and the colic, and when ye fell
and broke yer leg; but don’t push me up
to the wall!”

He looked out of the window, feeling
that she had the advantage of him, and she
wiped her eyes, settled her glasses on her
nose and used up the next fitteen minutes
in thinking of the past. Feeling thirsty,
she reached down among the bundles,
searched around, and her face was as pale
as death as she straightened back and whis-
pered,—

“ And that’s gone, too!”

“What now ?”’ he asked.

“It’s been stole!” she exclaimed, look-
ing around the car, as if expecting to see
some one with the bottle to his lips.

“ Fust the umbereller—then the bottle! ”
she gasped.

“T couldn’t have left it, could ce ¢”

“ Don’t ask me ! That bottle has been
in our fam’ly twenty years, ever since
mother died; and now it’s gone! Land
only knows what J’1l do for a camfire bottle
when we git home, if we ever do!”

“111 buy one.”

“Yes, I know ye are always ready to
buy ; and if it wasn’t for me to restrain ye,
the money’d fly like feathers in the wind.”

“Waal, I didn’t have to mortgage my
farm,” he replied, giving her a knowing
look.





ss es agin? It isn’t enough that
you’ve lost a good umbereller and a camfire
bottle ; but you must twit me o’ this pnd
that.”

Her nose grew eo and tears came to her
eyes; but as he was looking out of the
window, she said nothing further. Ten or
fifteen minutes passed; and growing rest-
less, he called out to a man across the
aisle,—

“ What's the sile around here?”

“Philetus! Philetus H. Harrison! Stop
your noise!” she whispered, poking him
with her elbow.

“JT just asked a question,” he replied,
resuming his old position.

“ What'd your brother Joab tell ye, the
last thing afore we left hum?” she asked.
“ Didn’t he say somebody'd swindle ye on
the string game, the confidence game, or
some other game? JDidn’t he warn ye
agin rascals?”

“J hain’t seen no rascals.”

“ Of course ye havn’t, ’cause yer blind!
I know that that man is a villun; and if
they don’t arrest him for murder afore we
leave this train, I'l miss my guess. I can
read human natur’ like a book.”

There was another period of silence,
broken by her saying,—

“TJ wish I knew that this was the train
for Chicago.”

“Course it is.”

“ How do you know?”

“*Cause it is.”

‘Waal, I know it hain’t; but if you are
contented to rush along to destruction, 1
sha’n’t say a word. Only when yer throat
is being cut, don’t call out that I didn’t
warn ye!”

The peanut boy came along, and the old
man reached down for his wallet.
THE LITTLE BLACK-EVED REBEL. 43

‘ Philetus, ye sha’n’t squander that money
after peanuts!” she exclaimed, using the
one hand to catch his arm, and the other
to-wave the boy on.

“Didn’t I earn it?”

‘““'Yaas, you sold two cows to get money
to go on this visit ; but it’s half gone now,
and the land only knows how we'll get
home!”

The boy passed on, and the flag of truce
was hung out for another brief time. She
recommenced hostilities by remarking,—

“T wish I hadn’t cum.” ;

He looked up, and then out of the
window.

“I know what you want to say,” she
hissed ; “but it’s a blessed good thing for
you that I did come! If ye’d come alone,
ye’d have been murdered and gashed and
sealped, and sunk into the river afore
now!”

“Pooh!”

“Yes, pooh, ’f ye want to, but I know!”

He leaned back; she settled herself
anew; and by and by—

He nodded—

She nodded—

And, in sleep, their gray heads touched ;
and his arm found its way along the back
of the seat, and his hand rested on her
shoulder.

It was only their way.

THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL.

BOY drove into the city, his wagon
loaded down
With food to feed the people of the British-
governed town;





And the little black-eyed rebel, so cunning
and so sly,

Was watching for his coming, from the cor-
ner of her eye.

His face was broad and honest, his hands
were brown and tough,

The clothes he wore upon him were home-
spun, coarse and rough;

But one there was who watched him, who
long time lingered nigh,

And cast at him sweet glances, from the
corner of her eye.

He drove up to the market, he waited in
the line;

His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair
and fine.

But long and long he waited, and no one
came to buy,

Save the black-eyed rebel watching from
the corner of her eye.

“Now, who will buy my apples?” he
shouted long and loud ;

And, “ Who wants my potatoes?” he re-
peated to the crowd ;

But from all the people round him came
no word of reply,

Save the black-eyed rebel answering from
the corner of her eye.

For she knew that ’neath the lining of the

coat he wore that day

Were long letters from the husbands and
the fathers far away,

Who were fighting for the freedom that
they meant to gain, or die ;

And a tear like silver glistened in the cor-
ner of her eye.

But the treasures—how to get them ? crept
the question through her mind,
i

Since keen enemies were watching for what
prizes they might find ;

And she paused awhile and pondered, with
a pretty little sigh ;

Then resolve crept through her features,
and a shrewdness fired her eye.

So she resolutely walked up to the wagon
old and red,

“May I have a dozen apples for a kiss ?”
she sweetly said ;

And the brown face flushed to scarlet, for
the boy was somewhat shy, ~

And he saw her Jaughing at him from the
corner of her eye.

“You may have them all for nothing, and
more, if you want,” quoth he.

“ T will have them, my good fellow, but can
pay for them,” said she.

And she clambered on the wagon, minding |

not those who were by,
With a laugh of reckless romping in the
corner of her eye.

Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped
her fingers white and small,

And then whispered, “Quick! the letters !
thrust them underneath my shawl!

Carry back again this package, and be sure
that you are spry ! ”

And she sweetly smiled upon him from the
corner of her eye.

Loud the motley crowd were laughing at
the strange, ungirlish freak;

And the boy was scared and panting, and
so dashed he could not speak.

And, “ Miss, I have good apples,” a bolder
lad did ery,

But she answered, “ No, I thank you,” from
the corner of her eye.



4 THE LITTLE BLACK-EVED REBEL.—REVERTES.

With the news of loved ones absent to the
dear friends they would greet,
Searching for those who hungered for them,

swift she glided through the street;
“There is nothing worth the doing that it
does not pay to try,”
Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a
twinkle in her eye.

REVERIES.

[2 ETWEEN the acts, while the orchestra
played
That sweet old waltz with the lilting
measure,
I drifted away to a dear dead day,
When the dance for mé was the sum of
all pleasure.
When my veins were rife with the fever
of life,
When hope ran high as an unswept ocean,
And my heart’s great gladness was almost
madness,
As I floated off to the music’s motion.

How little I cared for the world outside,
How little I cared for the dull day after.
The thought of trouble went up like a
bubble,
And burst in a sparkle of mirthfal iaugh-
ter.
Oh! and the beat of it, oh, and the sweet
of it,
Melody, motion and young blood melted.
The dancers swayed, the players played,
The air song deluged and music pelted.

I knew no weariness, no, not I;
My step was as light as the waving
grasses
GRADATIM.



That fintter with ease on the strong armed
breeze
As it waltzes over the wild morasses.
Life was all sound and swing, youth was a
perfect thing,
Night was the goddess of satisfaction.
Oh! how I tripped away, down to the edge
of day;
Joy lay in motion and rest in action.

I dance no more on the music’s wave,
I yield no more to its bewildering power.
That time has flown like a rose that is blown,
Yet life is a garden forever in flower.
Though storms of tears have watered the
years
Between to-day and that day departed,
Though trials have met me and griet’s waves
wet me,
And [have been tired and trouble hearted.

Though under the sod of a wee green grave
A great sweet hope in darkness perished,
Yet life, to my thinking, is a cup worth
drinking,
A gift to be glad of, and loved and cher-
ished.
There is deeper pleasure in the slower
measure
That Time’s grand orchestra now is
giving. =
Its mellowed minor is sadder but finer,
And lite grows daily more worth the

living.
GRADATIM.
EAVEN is not reached at a single
bound ;



But we build the ladder by which we rise, |
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to itssummit round byround. j

I count this thing to be grandly true;
That a noble deed is a step toward God—
Lifting the soul from the common clod

To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under our
feet ;
By what we have mastered of good and
gain ; :
By the pride deposed and the passion
slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,
When the morning calls us to life and
light ;
But our hearts grow weary, and ere the
night
Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,
And we think that we mount the air on
wings
Beyond the recall of sensual things,
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angels, but feet for men!
We may borrow the wings to find the
way,—
We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and
pray 5

But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown
‘From the weary earth to the sapphire
walls ;
Butthe dreams depart, and the vision falls,
And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of
stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound ;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,

Andwemount toitssummit round by round.
46 SONGS UNSUNG.—TWO PORTRAITS.

SONGS UNSUNG.

@Y WEET the song of the thrush at dawn-
2») ing,
When the grass lies wet with spangled
dew,
Sweet the sound of the brook’s low whisper
’Mid reeds and rushes wand’ring through;
Clear and pure is the west wind’s murmur
That croons in the branches all day long;

But the songs unsung are the sweetest
music

And the dreams that die are the soul of
song.

The fairest hope is the one which faded,
The brightest leaf is the leaf that fell ;
The song that leaped from the lips of sirens

Dies away in an old sea shell.
Far to the heights of viewless fancy
The soul’s swift flight like a swallow goes,
For the note unheard is the bird’s best carol
And the bud unblown is the reddest rose.

Deepest thoughts are the ones unspoken,
That only the heart sense, list’ning, hears,
Most great joys bring a touch of silence,
Greatest grief is in unshed tears.
What we hear is the fleeting echo,
A song dies out, but:a dream lives on;
The rose-red tints of the rarest morning
Are lingering yet ‘in a distant dawn.

Somewhere, dim in the days to follow,
And far away in the life to be,
Passing sweet, is a song of gladness—
The spirit-chant of the soul set free.
Chords untouched are the ones we wait
for—
That never rise from the harp unstrung;
We turn our steps to the years beyond us,
And listen sti!l for the songs unsung.





THE SPRING OF LIFE.

@{‘HEN the first snowdrop’s shyly open-

ing,
And violets on the sheltered bank are
seen ;
When trees put forth their tender shoots
of green ;
When birds awake from winter sleep and
sing, *
And choose their mates and fly with busy
wing ;
When streamlets babble mossy banks be-
tween,
And butterflies flash forth with sunny
sheen,—
Then the young year is in its joyous
Spring.

And when the air is full of baby cries,
And children’s laughter echoing down
the street,
And noisy patterings of little feet,
And babbling sounds of lessons old and
wise ;
When day by day brings strength to
think and do
Then Life is in its happy spring-tide, too.

TWO PORTRAITS.
i,

AINT me a picture, master !
And make it strict and true.

Put on the cheeks no brighter red,
In the eyes no deeper blue ;

Give to her form no softer grace ——
For to each rounded limb

The highest lines thine art can trace
Are shadowless and dim.










































































































SPRING.

a7

an









































































































































































THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS. 49



Color to life her matchless hair ;
And, if thon may’st, portray

The sweetness of those scarlet lips,
The smiles that round them play.

Canst thou produce the radiant light
That beams from out her eyes,

Or make more fair, or pure, or bright
The soul that in them lies?

Fashion my bride, good painter !
Loving, and kind, and true,
Fair as a wreath of lilies,
Sweet as its perfume, too.

TI.

Paint me another picture,
As in the years before.
Tracing with careful pencil
Herself and nothing more.
Leave not a single shadow
Out of that snowy brow—-
Every thread of silver:
Paint her as she is now.

Maybe the eye is duller
Far than it used to be;

Maybe the cheek is paler ;
Maybe the smile less free.

Care has altered them, doubtless,
But, oh! I tell to you,

The cloud that darkened one life
Shadowed the other, too.

Paint me my wife, O master!
Now that the years have fled,

And love has blossomed out of
The dust of passion dead.

Place the pictures together,
Side by side, on the wall.

Which is to me the fairest ?
Give me the last of all.

THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS.

*7OWAS the night after Christmas, when
all through the house

Every soul was abed, and as still as a mouse ;

Those stockings so lately St. Nicholas’ care

Were emptied of all that was eatable there.

The darlings had duly been tucked in their
beds,

With very full stomachs and pains in their
heads.

I was dozing away in my new cotton cap,

And Nancy was rather far gone in a nap,

When out in the nursery rose such a clatter,

I sprang from my sleep, crying, “ What is
the matter ?’

I flew to each bedside, still half ina doze,

Tore open the curtains and threw off the
clothes ;

While the light of the taper served clearly
to show

The piteous plight of those objects below.

For, what to the fond father’s eyes should
appear

But the pale little face of each sick little
dear ;

Each pet, having crammed itself full as a
tick, :

I knew in a moment, now felt like old Nick !

Their pulses were rapid, their breathings
the same;

What their stomachs rejected [ll mention
by name:

Now turkey, now stuffing, plum pudding,
of course,

And custards, and crullers, and cranberry
sauce— :

Before outraged Nature all went to the
wall,—

Yes, lollypops, flapdoodles, great things and
small;

Like pellets, which urchins from pop-guns
let fly,
50 THE OLD SCHOOL-LOOM.



Went figs, nuts and raisins, jam jelly and
pie,
Till each error of diet was brought to my
view, :
To the shame of mamma and of Santa Claus
too.
I turned from the sight, to my bedroom
stepped back,
And brought out a vial marked Pauly. Lpe-
cae,
When my Nancy exclaimed—for their suf-
ferings shocked her—
“ Don’t you think you had better, love, run
for the doctor?”
I ran—and was scarcely back under my roof,
When I heard the sharp clatter of old
Jalap’s hoof;
I might say that I hardly had turned my-
self round,
When the doctor came into the room with
a bound.
He was spattered with mud from his hat to
his boots,
And the clothes he had on seemed the
drollest of suits ;
In his haste he’d put all quite awry on his
back,
And he looked like John Falstaff half fnd-
dled with sack.
His eyes, how they twinkled! Had the
doctor got merry ?

His cheeks looked like Port and his breath:

smelt of Sherry:

He hadn’t been shaved for a fortnight or so,

And the beard on his chin wasn’t white as
the snow.

But, inspecting their tongues, in despite of
their teeth,

And drawing his watch from his waistcoat
beneath,

He felt of each pulse, saying, “each little
belly

Must get rid”—here he laughed—“ of the
rest of that jelly.”

I gazed on each plump, chubby, sick little
elf,

And groaned when he said so, in spite of

myself.

But a wink of his eye, as he physicked dear
Fred,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to
dread.

He didn’t prescribe—but went straight-

: way to work

And dosed all the rest—gave his trousers

a jerk,

And adding directions while blowing his
nose,

He buttoned his coat, from his chair he
arose,

Then jumped in his gig, gave old Jalap a
whistle,

And Jalap dashed off as if pricked by a
thistle.

But the doctor exclaimed, ere he drove out
of sight.

“They’ll be well by to-morrow—good night,
Jones, good night.”

THE OLD SCHOOL-ROOM.

®)Y spring-time of life has departed,
\ Its romance has ended at last ;
My dreamings were once of the future,
But now they are all of the past.
And memory oft in my trials
Goes back to my pastimes at school,
And pictures the children who loved me,
In the beautiful village of Yule.



The school-house still stands by the meadow,
And green is the spot where I played,
YAWCOB STRAUSS. 51





And decked with the sun is the shadow

Of the evergreen woods: where I strayed.
The thrush in the meadowy places

Still sings in the evergreens cool ;
But changed are the fun-loving faces

Of the children who met me at Yule.

I remember the day when, a teacher,
I met those dear faces anew ;
The warm-hearted greetings that told me
The friendships of childhood are true.
I remember the winters I struggled,
When eare-worn and sick, ia my school;
I remember the children who loved me,
In the beautiful village of Yule.

So true in the days of my sadness,
Did the hearts of my trusted ones prove,
My sorrow grew light in the gladness
Of having so many to love.
I gave my own heart to my scholars,
And banished severity’s rule ;
And happiness dwelt in my school-room,
In the beautiful village of Yule.

I taught them the goodness of loving
The beauty of nature and art;

They taught me the goodness of loving
The beauty that lies in the heart,

And I prize more than lessons of knowledge
The lessons I learned in my school—
The warm hearts that met me at morning,

And left me at evening, in Yule.

I remember the hour that we parted ;
I told them, while moistened my eye,
That the bell of the school-room of glory
Wonld ring for us each in the sky.
Their faces were turned to the sunset,
As they stood neath the evergreens cool ;
I shall see them no more as I saw them,
Tn the beautiful village of Yule.



The bells of the school-room of glory
Their summons have rung in the sky,

The moss and the fern of the valley
On some of the old pupils lie:

Some have gone from the wearisome studies
Of earth to the happier school;

Some faces are bright with the angels,
Who stood in the sunset at Yule.

YAVWCOB STRAUSS.

} LAF von funny leedle poy,

£ Vot gomes schust to mine knee,

Der queerest schap, der createst rogue,
As efer you dit see.

He runs, und schumps, und schmashes

dings

In all barts off der house ;

But vot off dot? he was mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs,
Und eferyding dot’s oudt ;

He sbills mine glass of Jager bier,
Poots schnuff indo mine kraut.

He fills mine pipe mit limburg cheese:
Dot vas der roughest chouse,

I’d dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und ents mine cane in dwo;

To make der schtiks to beat it mit,—
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!

I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
He kicks oup sooch a touse:

But nefer mind; der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.
52

A LITTLE STORY,



He asks me questions sooch as dese;
Who baints mine nose so red ?

Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace ondt
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?

Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene’er der glim I douse?

How gan I all dose dings egesblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ?

-I somedimes dink I schall go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,
Und vish vonce more J gould haf rest,
Und beacetul dimes enshoy ;
But ven he vas ashleep in ped,
So guiet as a mouse,
I prays der Lord, “dake anyding,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.”

A LITTLE STORY.

H, the book is a beauty, my darling,
The pictures are all very fine,
But it’s time you were soundly sleeping,
For the little hand points to nine ;
So, here’s a good-night—but give me
A dozen of kisses or more,
To make me forget what vexed me
To-day in the dull old store.

Can’t go till I tell you a story?
Well, a long, long time ago,
When I was a little wee fellow—
No bigger than you, you know—
When I hadn’t a nurse as you have,
And my papa was gone for goods,
I ran away from my mamma,
And got lost in the big pine woods.

Tl tell you just how it happened :
I was hunting for eggs, you see,



And all over the house and the garden

My mamma was hunting for me;
Hunting and calling, “Oh, Willie!

Ho! Willie! where are you, my son?”
And I heard her and hid in the bushes,

And thought it the jolliest of fun.

Naughty? Ah! Robin! I know it,
But I didn’t think of it then ;
I laughed and said, “ I’m a robber,
And this is my dear little den.
Td like to see any one take me,
I reckon—Oh ho! what’s that?”
And away I went after a squirrel
As round and as black as my hat.

No; I didn’t forget my dear mamma,
But “boys will be boys,” I said ;
And I kept a good eye on squirrel,
And followed wherever he led,
Over briers, and bogs, and bushes,
Till the night fell blackly about,
And I found I was far in the forest,
And didn’t know how to get out.

What became of the squirrel ? why, Robin!
To be thinking of him and not me!
‘When I hadn’t a thing for my pillow
That night, but the root of a tree—
With a bit of soft moss for its cover—
And never a star overhead;
Oh, oh, how I cried for my mother,
Till I slept, and dreamed J was dead.

I awoke in my own little chamber ;
My papa was holding my hand,
And my mamma was crying beside me ;
I couldn’t at first understand
Just what it all meant—when they told
me
I wasn’t to stir or to speak,
For I was half dead when they found me,
And had been very sick for a week.
a

KEEPING HIS WORD. 53



But I pretty soon thought of the squirrel,
And the bushes and briers; and then—
“ Oh, mamma, forgive me,” I whispered,
‘‘Wor hiding away in a den!”
“Hush, hush! my poor darling !’’ she an-
swered ;
And I turned my face to the wall,
Crying softly, because I was sorry.
Now kiss me good-night. That is all.

KEEPING HIS WORD.
66 eS) NLY a penny a box,” he said,

But the gentleman turned away his
head,

As if he shrank from the squalid sight

Of the boy who stood in the fading light.

“Oh, sir!” he stammered, “you cannot
know,”

And he brushed from his matches the
flakes of snow,

That the sudden tear might have chance
to fall;

“Or I think—I think you would take

~ them ail.

Hungry and cold at our garret pane,

Ruby will watch till I come again,

Bringing the loaf. The sun has set,

And he hasn’t a crumb of breakfast yet.

One penny, and then I can buy the bread!”

The gentleman stopped: “ And you?” he
said ;

“T@ I can put up with them—hunger and
cold,

But Ruby is only five years old.

I promised our mother before she went,—

She knew I would do it, and died con-
tent,—

I promised her, sir, through best, through
worst,



I always would think of Ruby first.”

The gentleman paused at his open door,

Such tales he had often heard before ;

But he fumbled his purse in the twilight
drear,

“JT have nothing less than a shilling here.”

“ Oh, sir, if you only take the pack,

Pll bring you the change in a moment
back,

Indeed you may trust me!”
you !—no—

But here is the shilling, take it and go.”

The gentleman lolled in his easy chair,

And watched bis cigar wreath melt in air,

And smiled on his children, and rose to
see

The baby asleep on its mother’s knee.

“ And now it is nine by the clock,” he
said,

“ Time that my darlings were all abed ;

Kiss me good-night, and each be sure,

When you’re saying your prayers, remem-
ber the poor.”

Just then came a message, “ A boy at the
door,”

But ere it was uttered he stood on the floor,

Half breathless, bewildered, and ragged
and strange;

“Pm Ruby, Mike’s brother; I’ve brought
you the change.

Mike’s hurt, sir; ’twas dark, and the snow
made him blind,

And he didn’t take notice the train was be-
hind,

Till he slipped on the track; and then it
whizzed by ;

He’s home in the garret;I think he will
die.

Yet nothing would do hin, sir, nothing
would do,

But out through the storm, I must hurry
to you.

“ Trust
54 CHEER.



Of his hurt he was certain you wouldn’t
have heard, ;

And so you might think he had broken his
word.”

When the garret they hastily entered and saw

Two arms, mangled, helpless, outstretched
from the straw}

“You did it,—dear Ruby!—God bless
you!” he said,

_And the boy, gladly smiling, sank back,

and was—dead.

CHEEK.

"VE known men rise through talent,
though such are exceptions rare ;
And some by perseverance, and industry,
and care;
There are men who build up fortunes by
saving a dollar a week ;

But the best thing to make your way in the

world is to travel upon your cheek,

Now here am I, in middle age, just able to
keep alive

By working away the livelong day as hard
as I can drive:

Tom Wentworth takes things easy, and
rolls in his carriage by ;

And cheek is the one sole reason why he is
richer than I.

Why, Tom and I were schoolmates about
thirty years ago ;

I was reckoned one of the smartest, while
at learning he was slow;

He didn’t care for study—played hookey
half the week,—

But somehow always dodged the cane by
the aid of consummate cheek,





“ Little boys,” they used to tell me, “should
always be seen, not heard; ”

When company came I hung my head, and
never could say a word;

But Tom was a saucy, forward boy, well
able to take his part:

So I got the name of being a fool, while
every one thought him smart.

I grew up nervous and timid—I never
could blow or boast—

So people took it for granted that Tom
must know the most.

Of what avail is learning—arithmetic, Latin,
or Greek —

If you haven’t the talent to show it off, for
lack of the requisite cheek ?

Tom and I, as it happened, in love with
the same girl tell,

I never could muster the courage my
heart’s desire to tell.

I think she liked me a little the best, but
before I dared to speak,

Tom pressed his suit and won her hand by
steady persistent cheek.

And then Tom struck for the city.
with ups and downs;

But always seemed to get ahead, in spite
of fortune’s frowns;

Like a cat, he’d always fall on his feet ; was
confident, bluff and bold;

And talked with the air of a millionaire in
possession of wealth untold.

He met

So Tom succeeded in business, and every-
thing he’d touch,—

For people always help the man who passes
as owing much,—

While I didn’t have the advantage of either
my brains or cash,

For want of self-assurance and courage to
raake a dash,
PAPAS LETTER. 55



If “ modesty is a quality,” as the ancient
saying rap,

‘““W hich highly adorns a woman,” it often

times ruins a man ;
And those who are shy and backward, and
those who are humble and weak,
Will be elbowed aside in the race of life, by
the men who travel on cheek.

So Tom, to-day, is the millionaire, the
flourishing merchant prince ;
While, as for my hopes of success in life,
Tve given them up long since:

But the richest blessings of Heaven are
promised the poor and meek,

And men can’t crowd through the pearly
gates by traveling on their cheek.

PAPA’S LETTER.

WAS sitting in my study,
Writing letters when I heard,
“ Please, dear mamma, Mary told me
Mamma mustn’t be’ isturbed ;

“ But I’s tired of the kitty,
Want some ozzer fing to do!

Witing letters is ou, mamma?
Tan’t I wite a letter, too?”

“Not now, darling, mamma’s busy ;
Run and play with kitty, now.”
“No, no, mamma, me wite letter—
Tan if ’ou will show me how.”

I would paint my darling’s portrait

As his sweet eyes searched my face—
Hair of gold and eyes of azure,

Form of childish, witching grace.

But the eager face was clouded,
As 1 slowly shook my head,

Till I said, “ Pll make a letter
Of you, darling boy, instead.”

So I parted back the tresses

From his forehead high and white.
And a stamp in sport I pasted

Mid its waves of golden light.

Then I said, “Now, little letter,
Go away and bear good news.”
And I smiled as down the staircase
Clattered loud the little shoes.

Leaving me, the darling hurried
Down to Mary in his glee:

“ Mamma’s witing lots of letters;
T’sa letter, Mary—see?”

No one heard the little prattler
As once more he climbed the stair,
Reached his little cap and tippet,
Standing on the entry chair.

No one heard the front door open,
No one saw the golden hair

As it floated o’er his shoulders
In the crisp October air.

Down the street the baby hastenea
Till he reached the office door.
“Ts a letter, Mr. Postman,
Is there room for any more?

“ Cause dis letter’s doin’ to papa:
Papa lives with God, ’ou know.

Mamma sent me for a letter ;
Does ’ou fink ’at I tan go?”

But the clerk in wonder answered
“Not to-day, my little man,”

“Den I'll find anuzzer office,
Cause I must go if] tan.”
56 THE OLD MAN GOES TO TOWN



Fain the clerk would have detained him,
But the pleading face was gone,

And the little feet were hastening—
By the busy crowd swept on.

Suddenly the crowd was parted,
People fled to left and right
As a pair of maddened horses
At the moment dashed in sight.

No one saw the baby figure—
No one saw the golden hair.
Till a voice of frightened sweetness
Rang out on the autumn air.

*T was too late—a moment only
Stood the beauteous vision there,

Then the little face lay liteless,
Covered o’er with golden hair.

Reverently they raised my darling,
Brushed away the curls of gold,

Saw the stamp upon the forehead,
Growing now so icy cold.

Not a mark the face disfigured,
Showing where a hoof had trod ;
But the little life was ended—
“ Papa’s letter” was with God.

THE OLD MAN GOES TO TOWN.

-2f ELL, wife, I’ve been to’ Frisco, an’ I

called to see the boys;

I’m tired, an’ more’n half deafened with the
travel and the noise ;

So T’ll set down by the chimbley and rest
my weary bones,

And tell how I was treated by our ’risto-
cratic sons.



As soon’s as I reached the city, I hunted
up our Dan—

Ye know he’s now a celebrated wholesale
business man.

I walked down from the depo’—but Dan
keepsa country seat—

An’ [ thought to go home with him an’
rest my weary feet.

All the way I kep’ a thinkin’ how famous
it ’ud be

To go’round the town together—my grown-
up boy and me,

An’ remember the old times, when my lit-
tle “curly head” «

Used to ery out, “Good-night, papa!”
from his little trundle-bed.

I never thought a minute that he wouldn’t
want to see

His gray an’ worn old father, or would be
ashamed of me;

So when I seen his office, with a sign writ
out in gold,

I walked in ’thout knockin’—but the old
man was too bold.

Dan was settin’ by a table, an’ writin’ in a
book ;

He knowed me in a second; but he gave
me such a look!

He never said a word o’ you, but asked
about the grain,

An’ ef I thought the valley didn’t need a
little rain.

I didn’t stay a great while, but inquired
after Rob ;

Dan said he lived upon the hill—I think
they call it Nob;

An’ when I left, Dan, in a tone that almost
broke me down,

Said, “ Call an’ see me, won’t ye, whenever
yow’re in town?”
THE OLD MAN GOES TO TOWN. 57

It was rather late that evenin’ when I found
our Robert’s house ;

There was music, lights, and dancin’ and a |

mighty big carouse.

At the door a nigger met me, an’ he
grinned from ear to ear,

Sayin’, “Keerds ob invitation, or you neb-
ber git in here.”

I said I was Rob’s father, an’ with another
grin

The nigger left me standin’ and disap-
peared within.

Rob came out on the porch—he didn’t
order me away,

But he said he hoped to see me at his office
the next day.

Then I started fur a tavern, fur I knowed
there any way

They wouldn’t turn me out solong’s I’d
money fur to pay.

An’ Rob an’ Dan had left me about the
streets to roam, hola

Aw’ neither of them axed me if ’d money

to git home,

It may be the way o’ rich folks—I don’t
say ’at it is not—

But we remember some things Dan and
Rob have quite forgot.

We didn’t quite expect this wife, when,
twenty years ago,

We mortgaged the old homestead to give
Rob and Dan a show.

I didn’t look fur Charley, but I happened
just to meet

Him with a lot o’ friends o’ his’n, a-comin’
down the street.

I thought I’d pass on by kim, for fear our
youngest son

Would show he was ashamed o’ me, as Rob
and Dan had done.

But as soon as Charley seen me, he, right
afore ’em all,

Said : “God bless me, there’s my father,”
as loud as he could bawl.

Then he introduced me to his frien’s, an’
sent ’em all away,

Tellin’ ’em he’d see ’em later, but was
busy for that day.

Then he took me out to dinner, an’ he
axed about the house,

About you an’ Sally’s baby, an’ the chick-
ens, pigs an’ Cows ;

He axed about his brothers, addin’ that
*twas ruther queer,

But he hadn’t seen one uv em fur mighty
nigh a year.

Then he took me to his lodgin’, in an attic
four stairs high—

He said he liked it better ’cause ’twas near-
er to the sky.

An’ he said: “Tveonly one room, but
my bed is pretty wide,”

An’ so we slept together, me an’ Charley,
side by side.

Next day we went together to the great
Mechanic’s Fair,

An’ some o’ Charley’s picters was on ex-
hibition there.

He said if he could sell ’em, which he
hoped to pretty soon,

He’d make us all a visit an’ be richer than

Muldoon.
58 SUMMER.



An’ so two days an’ nights we passed, an’
when I come away,

Poor Charley said the time was short an’
begged for me to stay.

Then he took me in a buggy an’ druv me
to the train,

An’ said in just a little while he’d see us
all again.

You know we never thought our Charley
would ever come to much;

He was always readin’ novels an’ poetry an’
such,

There was nothing on the farm he ever
seemed to want to do,

An’ when he took to paintin’ he disgusted
me clear through !

So we gave to Rob and Dan all we had to
eall our own,

An’ left poor Charley penniless to make his
way alone;

He’s only a poor painter; Rob and Dan are
rich as sin;

But Charley’s worth a pair of ’em with
all their gold thrown in.

Those two grand men, dear wife, were once
our prattling babes—an’ yet

It seems as if a mighty gulf’twixt them an’
us is set;

An’ they’ll never know the old folks till
life’s troubled journey’s past,

And rich and poor are equal underneath the
sod at last.

An’ maybe when we all meet on the resur-
rection morn,

With our earthly glories fallen, like: the
husks from the ripe corn,—

When the righteous Son of Man the awful
sentence shall have said,

The brightest crown that’s shining there
may be on Charley’s head.

SUMMER.

®)OW, dame, the morn doth promise fair,
el, Tis kind and genial weather,
So prithee quit that easy chair,
And let us forth together.
The merry month of June is here,
Adorning briar and bramble;
Come, slip your bonnet on, my dear,
And join me in a ramble.



I well recall the happy day
- When through the green lanes straying,
I met a little maiden gay
And went with her a-Maying,
She was but ten, and [ no more,
Her cheeks were round and rosy,
And in her white-bibbed pinafore
She wore a pretty posy.

She tripped so daintily along,
And prattled on go cheerily,
Theeded not the skylark’s song,

Although I loved that dearly.
There was a music in her voice,
So witehing, so entrancing,

It made my inmost heart rejoice
And set my pulses dancing.

Obedient to her commands,
I dared the thorniest hedges,

And scratched and tore my face and hands
In climbing banks and ledges

To win a spray of hawthorn bloom—
Nor deemed the task a labor,—

Or cull some flower whose sweet perfume
Endeared it to my neighbor.

At last we reached a quiet nook
(Beside a hazel cover

And watered by a babbling brook),
With blossoms sprinkled over

In such profusion and so rare,
Our souls were filled with pleasure ;

Departing Spring had emptied there

’ Her lap of half its treasure.
Hh

Vg Ai
NY
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ih
) i

59

Is . Lf WONDER WHY.—A STRAY CHILD. 61



And here we gathered at our will
The rarest flowers a-blowing,
And gold and silver heaped until
*T was time we should be going;
Then, as we bore our wealth away,
We chanted to the wild wood,
As I remember, many a lay
Dear to the heart of childhood.

Since then, dear dame—there, do not sigh—
We’ve lived and loved together

For threescore years, or very nigh,
Enjoying fairish weather;

Now traveling down the vale of life,
We’ve little cause for sorrow—

A happy husband, happy wife,
With trust in our to-morrow.

I WONDER WHY.

WONDER why this world's good things
Should fall in such unequal shares;

Why some should taste of all the joys,

And others only feel the cares!
I wonder why the sunshine bright

Should fall in paths some people tread,
While others shiver in the shade

Of clouds that gather overhead.

I wonder why the trees that hang
So full of luscious fruit should grow

Only where some may reach and eat,
While others faint and thirsty go!

Why should sweet flowers bloom for some,
For others only thorns be found;

And some grow rich on fruitful earth,
While others till but barren ground 2

I wonder why the hearts of some
Overflow with joy and happiness,

While others go their lonely way
Unblessed with aught of tenderness!

I wonder why the eyes ot some
Should ne’er be moistened with a tear,
Why others weep from morn till night,
Their hearts so crushed with sorrow here!

Ah well! we may not know indeed
The whys, the wherefores of each life !
But this we know,—there’s One who sees
And watches us through joy or strife.
Each life its mission here fulfills,
And only He may know the end,
And loving Him we may be strong,
Though storm or sunshine He may send.

A STRAY CHILD.

HE chill November day was done,
The working world home faring ;
The wind came roaring through the streets
And set the gas-lights flaring ;
And hopelessly and aimlessly
The scared old leaves were flying ;
When, mingled with the sighing wind,
I heard a small voice crying.

And shivering, on the corner stood
A child of four, or over ;
No cloak or hat her small, soft arms,
And wind-blown curls to cover.
Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
Her round blue eyes ran over;
She cherished in her wee, cold hand,
A bunch of faded clover.

And one hand round her treasure while
She slipped in mine the other;

Half scared, half confidential, said,
“Qh! please, I want my mother!”
“Tell me your street and number, pet:
Don’t ery, I’ll take you to it.”
Sobbing she answered, “I forget:

The organ made me do it,
62 CREEDS OF THE BELLS.

“He came and played at Milly’s steps,
The monkey took the money;
And so I followed down the street,
The monkey was so funny.
I’ve walked about a hundred hours,
From one street to another;
_ The monkey’s gone, I’ve spoiled my flowers,
Oh! please, I want my mother.”

“ But what’s your mother’s name? and what
The street ? Now, think a minute.”
‘My mother’s name is mamma dear—
The street—I can’t begin it.”
“ But what is strange about the house,
Or new—not like the others?”
“T guess you mean my trundle bed,
Mine and my little brother’s.

“Oh dear! I ought to be at home
To help him say his prayers—
He’s such a baby he forgets ;

And we are both such players—
And there’s a bar to keep us both
From pitching on each other,
For Harry rolls when he’s asleep ;
Oh dear! I want my mother.”

The sky grew stormy; people passed
All muftled, homeward faring :
“ You'll have to spend the night with me”
I said at last despairing.
I tied a kerchief round her neck—
“ What ribbon’s this, my blossom ?”
“Why, don’t you know ?” she smiling said,
And drew it from her bosom.

A card with number, street and name;
My eyes astonished met it;
“ For,” said the little one, “ you see
I might sometimes forget it:
And so I wear a little thing
That tells you all about it;
For mother says she’s very sure
T should get lost without it.”





CREEDS OF THE BELLS.

a]OW sweet the chime of the Sabbath
fal bells! ;

Each one its creed in music tells,

In tones that float upon the air,

As soft as song and pure as prayer 5

And I will put in simple rhyme

The language of the golden chime.

My happy heart with rapture swells
Responsive to the bells—sweet bells.

“Tn deeds of love excel—excel,”
Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ;

“ This is the church not built on sands,
Emblem of one not built with hands ;
Its forms and sacred rites revere,

Come worship here, come worship here !
In ritual and faith excel,”

Chimed out the Episcopalian bell.

“Oh, heed the ancient landmarks well,”
In solemn tones exclaimed a bell,

“No progress made by mortal man
Can change the just, eternal plan.

Do not invoke the avenging rod;
Come here, and learn the way to God.
Say to the world farewell ! farewell!”
Pealed out the Presbyterian bell.

“ Oh, swell, ye cleansing waters, swell,”
In mellow tones rang out a bell;

“ Though faith alone in Christ can save,
Man must be plunged beneath the wave,
To show the world unfaltering faith

In what the sacred Scripture saith ;

Oh, swell, ye rising waters, swell,”
Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell.

“Not faith alone, but works as well,
Must test the soul,” said a soft bell.
“ Come here, and cast aside your load,
And work your way along the road,
With faith in God, and faith in man,
Te

TVHER LITTLE HERO. 63

And hope in Christ, where hopes began ;
Do well—do well—do well—do well,”
Pealed forth the Unitarian bell.

“Tn after life there is no hell,”

In rapture rang a cheerful bell ;

“ Look up to heaven this holy day,
Where angels wait to lead the way.
There are no fires, no fiends to blight
The future life; be just and right.
No hell—no hell—no hell—no hell,”
Rang out the Universalist bell.

“To all, the truth we tell—we tell,”
Shouted, in ecstasies, a bell ;

“ Come, all ye weary wand’rers, see!
Our Lord has made salvation free.
Repent! believe! have faith! and then
Be saved, and praise the Lord. Amen.
Salvation’s free, we tell—we tell,”
Shouted the Methodistic bell.

THE LITTLE HERO.

OW, lads, a short yarn J’ll just spin you,
“4 As happened on our very last run,—
’ Bout a boy as a man’s soul had in him,

Or else ’'m a son of a gun.

From Liverpool port out three days, lads;
The good ship floating over the deep ;

The skies bright with sunshine above us ;
The waters beneath us, asleep.

Not a bad-tempered lubber among us.
A jollier crew never sailed,

’Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage,
But good seaman as ever was hailed.

Regulation, good order, his motto ;
Strong as iron, steady as quick 5

With a couple of bushy black eyebrows,
And eyes fierce as those of Old Nick.



One day he comes up from below,
A-graspin’ a lad by the arm,—

| A poor little ragged young urchin

As had ought to bin home to his marm,.

An’ the mate asks the boy, pretty roughly,
How he dared for to be stowed away,
A-cheatin’ the owners and captain,
Sailin,’ eatin,’ and all without pay

The lad had a face bright and sunny,
An’ a pair of blue eyes like a girl’s,

Aw’ looks up at the scowlin’ first mate, lads,
An’ shakes back his long, shining curls.

An’ says he, in a voice dear and pretty,
“ My step-father brought me aboard,
And hid me away down the stairs there ;

For to keep me he couldn’t afford.

“ And he told me the big ship would take
me
To Halifax town,—oh, so far!
And he said, ‘ Now the Lord is your father,
Who lives where the good angels are.’”

“Tis a lie”? says the mate: “Not your
father,
But some of these big skulkers aboard,
Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor.
Speak up, tell the truth, d’ye hear?”

‘oT warn’t us,” growled the tars as stood
round ’em—
“What’s your age?” says one of the
brine.
“And your name?” says another old salt fish.
Says the small chap, “I’m Frank, just
turned nine.”

“Oh, my eyes!” says another bronzed sea-
man
To the mate, who seemed staggered his-
self,
“Let him go free to old Novy Scoshy,
And T’ll work out his passage myself.”
64 THE LITTLE HERO.



“ Belay,” says the mate; “shut your mouth,
man !
I'll sail this ’ere craft, bet your life,
An’ [ll fit the lie on to you somehow,
As square as a fork fits a knife.”

Then a-knitting his black brows with anger
He tumbled the poor slip below;
An’ gays he, “P’r’aps to-morrow’ll change
you,
If it don’t, back to England you go.”

I took him some dinner, be sure, mates,—
Just think, only nine years of age!

Aw’ next day, just as six bells tolled,
The mate brings him up from his cage.

An’ he plants him before us amidships,
His eyes like two coals all alight;
Aw’ he says, through his teeth, mad with
passion,
An’ his hand lifted ready to smite :

“Tell the truth, lad, and then Ill forgive
you;
But the truth I will have. Speak it out.
It wasn’t your father as brought you,
But some of these men here about.”

Then that pair o’ blue eyes, bright and
winning,
Clear and shining with innocent youth,
Looks up at the mate’s bushy eyebrows,
-An’, says he, “Sir, I’ve told you the
truth.”

*Twarn’t no use; the mate didn’t believe
him,
Though every man else did aboard.
With rough hand, by the collar he seized
him,
And cried, “You shall hang, by the
Lord.”

Aw’ he snatched his watch out of his pocket,
Just as if he’d been drawin’ a knife.
“Tf in ten minutes more you don’t speak,
lad,
There’s the rope, and good-bye to your
life.”

There! you never see such a sight, mates,
As that boy with his bright, pretty face,—

Proud, though, and steady with courage,
Never thinking of asking for grace.

Eight minutes went by all in silence,
Says the mate then, “Speak, lad, say your
say.”
His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops,
‘He faltering says, “ May I pray?”

Pm a rough and hard old tarpa’lin
As any “ blue-jacket ” afloat ;

But the salt water springs to my eyes, lads,
And I felt my heart rise in my throat.

The mate kind o’ trembled an’ shivered,
And nodded his head in reply ;
And his cheek went all white, of a sudden,
And the hot light was quenched in his
eyes

Tho’ he stood like a figure of marble,
With his watch tightly grasped in his
hand,
An’ the passengers all still around him;
Ne’er the like was on sea or on land.
’

An’ the little chap kneels on the deck there,
An’ his hands he clasps over his breast,

As he must ha’ done often at home, lads,
At night-time, when going to rest.

And soft come the first words, “Our Father,”
Low and soft from the dear baby-lip ;

But, low as they were, heard like trumpet
By each true man aboard of that ship.
LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR. 65



Evry bit of that prayer, mates, he goes
through,
To, “Forever and ever. Amen.”
And for all the bright gold of the Indies, ’
I wouldn’t ha’ heard it again!

And, says he, when he finished, uprising
An’ lifting his blue eyes above,

“ Dear Lord Jesus, oh, take me to heaven,
Back again to my own mother’s love!”

For a minute or two, like a magic,
We stood every man like the dead.

‘Then back to the mate’s face comes running
The life-blood again, warm and red.

Off his feet was that lad sudden lifted,
And clasped to the mate’s rugged breast
And his husky voice muttered, “‘ God bless
you.”
As his lips to his forehead he pressed.

If the ship hadn’t been a good sailor,
And gone by herself right along,

All had gone to Old Davy; for all, lads,
Was gathered ’round in that throng.

Like a man, says the mate, “God forgive
me, .
That ever I used you so hard.
It’s myself as had ought to be strung up,
Taut and sure, to that ugly old yard.”

“You believe me, then ?” said the youngster,
“ Believe you!” He kissed him once

more.
“You'd have laid down your life for the
truth, lad.

Believe you! From now, evermore!”

An’ p’r’aps, mates, he wasn’t thought much
on,
All that day and the rest of the trip;
P’r’aps he paid after all for his passage ;
P’r’aps he wasn’t the pet of the ship.

An’ if that little chap ain’t a model,
For all, young or old, short or tall,

And if that ain’t the stuff to make men of,
Old Ben, he knows naught, after all.

LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR.

GOOD wife rose from her bed one
eS, morn,
And thought with a nervous dread
Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and
more
Than a dozen mouths to be fed.
There’s the meals to get for the men in the
field,
And the children to fix away
To school, and the milk to be skimmed
and churned ;
And all to be done this day.

It had rained in the night, and all the wood
Was wet asit could be;
There were puddings and pies to bake,
besides
A loaf of cake for tea.
And the day was hot, and her aching head
Throbbed wearily as she said,
“Tf maidens but knew what good wives
know,
They would not be in haste to wed/”

“Jennie, what do you think I told Ben
Brown?”
Called the farmer from the well ;
And a flush crept up to his bronzed brow,
And his eyes half bashfully fell;
“It was this,” he said, and coming near
He smiled, and stooping down,
Kissed her cheek—“ ’twas this, that you
were the best
And the dearest wife in town!”
66 THE OLD MAN IN THE PALACE CAR.



The farmer went back to the field, and the

wife
In a smiling, absent way
Sang snatches of tender little songs
She’d not sung for many a day.

And the pain in her head was gone, and

the clothes
Were white as the foam of the sea;

Her bread was light, and her butter was

sweet,
And as golden as it could be.

“Just think,’ the children all called in
a breath, ,
“Tom Wood has run off to sea!
He wouldn’t, I know, if he’d only had
As happy a home as we.”
The night came down, and the good wife
smiled
To herself, as she softly said :
“?Tis so sweet to labor for those we love,—
It’s not strange that maids will wed!”

THE OLD MAN IN THE PALACE CAR.

@f‘ELL, Betsy, this beats everything our

eyes have ever seen,

We are riding in a palace fit fora king or
queen.

We didn’t ride so fast as this, nor on such
cushions rest,

When we left New England, years ago, to
seek a home out West.

_ We rode through this same country, but

not as now we ride ;

You sat within a stage-coach, while I trudged

on by your side.

Instead of riding on a rail, I carried one,
you know,

To pry the old coach from the mire through
which we had to go.

Let’s see—’tis fifty years ago—just after we
were wed;

Your eyes were then like diamonds bright,
your cheeks like roses red.

Now, Betsy, people call us old, and push
us to one side,

Just as they did the slow old coach in
which we used to ride.

I wonder if young married folks to-day
would condescend,

To take a wedding tour like ours with a
log-house at the end.

Much of the sentimental love which sets
young cheeks aglow

Would die to meet the hardships of fifty
years ago.

Our love grew stronger as we toiled,
though food and clothes were coarse ;

None ever saw us in the courts a-hunting a
divorce. -

Love leveled down the mountains and made
low places high ;

Love sang a song that cheered us when
clouds and storms were nigh.

I’m glad to see the world move on—to hear
the engine’s roar,

“And all about the cable stretching from

shore to shore.

Our mission here’s accomplished ; ~vith toil
we both are through,

The Lord just lets us live awhile to see
how young folks do.

Whew! Betsy, how we’re flying; see the
farms and towns go by;

It makes my gray hair stand on end, and
dims my failing eye.

Soon we'll be throtigh our journey, and in
the house so good,

That stands within a twelve rod of where
the log one stood.

How slow, like old-time coaches, our youth-
ful days swept by,
THE CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 67





The years when we were living neath a| Out in the country, near a wood,

bright New England sky. ,

Swifter than palace cars now fly, our later
years have flown,

Until we’re journeying hand in hand down
to the grave alone ;

And I can hear the whistle blown on life’s
fast-flying train,—

Only a few more stations in the valley
now remain.

Soon we’ll reach the home eternal with its
glories rare—untold,

Stop at last in that blest city—walk its
streets of gold.

THE CHRISTMAS PRAYER.

ty WE winter day was growing old;

The evening’s breath came hard and

cold ;

Great flocks of clouds, with wings of gray,
Shed feathery snow-flakes on their way ;
And all the city streets among
A troupe of breezes danced and sung. |
But though the frost was keen and bold,
And though the air was biting cold,
A thousand gaily-stepping feet
Went up and down the lighted street.
A thousand hands with pressure tight
Were grasping presents rich and bright:
A thousand hearts were hasting home
To hearts that longed to see them come ;
For wondrous gladness filled the air,
And Christmas eve was everywhere.

But it has not so sweet a sound

In homes where children are not found:
And in one mansion rich and grand

A wife and husband, hand in hand,
Were sitting by the fire-light’s glow,
And gazing on the streets below,

And with sad hearts unreconciled,
Were thinking of a long-lost child.

The little old brown school-house stood,
Now school was closed

And with glad shouts the children strode
Along the white hard-beaten road,

To where farm-houses cheered the sight,
And lamps already glimmered bright.
With unassumed, unconscious grace,
And pleasure dancing on each face,
They brought the presents all to mind
Which they that eve were to receive

Or in the early morning find.

Old Santa Claus, that famous king

Of childish lore, was handled o’er,

And all the treasures h> might bring.

But look! with shouts and faces gay,
They passed a poor-house on their way,
And a sweet, care-worn looking child
From out a window gazed and smiled
To see the other children glad;

But her poor wistful heart was sad.
That night our little friendless one,
Bowed low in grief her childish head
Upon the ragged poor-house bed,

| And in a sweet and pleading tone

Made a short prayer, yes, all her own:
“O Jesus! you who loved so well

The little ones, of whom they tell

You would not have them sent away:
But said to all, those who believe

If they would ask they should receive.
O Jesus! please for me to find

Two good nice parents, sweet and kind,
And ask them if they will not spread
Some little presents by my bed,

That they my heart may cheerful make
To-morrow morning when I wake,

And I be made as ‘happy so

As other children that I know.”

She said “‘Amen ” with reverence deep,
Closed her blue eyes and sank asleep.
68 . THE CHRISTMAS PRAYER.



Still sat the childless couple where

The lights of luxury were fair,

And still, with thoughts all tempest-tossed,
Each silent mused, with sad heart bruised,
Upon the child that they had lost.

But listen! with a sudden clang

The loudly-speaking door-bell rang,

And a detective’s face they viewed,

With patient lines deep marked and shrewd,
And scarce the parent’s questioning eye
Was met before he made reply: °

“T come at last with tidings new.

The child I’ve sought so long for you,
The child you lost five years ago,

Has lived, and lives. Her place I know.
The beggar who, with Satan’s aid,

Stole her to help his piteons trade,

Died in a cozntry poor-house, where

He ieft the child and she is there.

Mistake or doubt cannot befall ;

Here are the proofs; I have them all.

She is not very far away,

And you, if bold to bear the cold,

May see her ere another day.”

“To bear the cold! What has she borne ?
She shall not longer friendless mourn.

The horses—quick!’. And soon, in spite
Of cold and sleet, the champing feet

Of swift steeds dashed into the night,
Until they halted just before

The great poor-house’s dingy door.

And soon the parents softly crept

Into the gloom of one small room,

- And watched their darling while she slept,
And, weeping, listened to the prayer
Which she that night had offered there,
(For the old matron overheard,

And told it to them, every word).

Her sleeping face appeared to them

As some fair flower at evening’s hour

Low drooping on its weary stem ;

But that soft prayer—in Heaven now—



Had left its touch upon her brow ;
Its grief and comfort they could trace
Upon the well remembered face.

The mother yearned the child to press
In all her piteous loveliness,
But would not yet her slumber break,
And said: “ My darling shall not wake
Until her prayer we answered see

As well and nearly as may be.” »

And soon the sleek swift horses flew
Back where proud presents rich and new

| Hung in the lamp-light’s brilliant rays,

The envy of all children’s gaze;
Which ere another hour, had fled,
Hands softly bore, and placed before
The little sleeper’s lowly bed.

She woke at last; and, wondering, threw
A swift glance keen upon the scene

That burst upon her startled view.

A vast amazement filled her face:

The room was like a fairy place.

No toy she wished but it was there;
Bright presents glittered everywhere.

No gift her thought had learned to prize
But it was spread before her eyes:

| And presents made her young heart glow

Whose very names she did not know.

But look! a man with step of pride —

And asweet lady by his side,

More beautiful and high of mien

Than any she had ever seen,

Came, and above her wept and smiled,
And called her their poor long-lost child!

The Christmas morn rose clear and bright 5 :

And through the flashing fields of light
A band of angels sweet and fair,

It seemed to me, came far to see

That answer to the Christmas prayer.
CHRISTMAS EVE. 69

CHRISTMAS EVE,

"HH REE little stockings—two blue, and
one red,
Hung up ’neath the mantel so neatly;
Two little boys rest in their low trundle-bed,
In her cradle the baby sleeps sweetly.

With foot on the rocker and love in her eye,
A mother is quietly sitting ;

She chants to slow measure an old lullaby—. |.

Her hands the while busily knitting.

She stops now and then to replace, with a
kiss,
Two dimpled arms under the cover,
She knows that commissioned from regions
of bliss,
. *Round her baby the bright angels hover.

But the moments glide on: her singing is
over;
With hands on her lap idly sinking,
And knitting-work fallen quite on to the
floor,
She is thinking—so busily thinking.

Thought wings her away to the sunshiny
past, :
Where sweetest of mem’ries ave hidden 5
But round the low cot sweeps the wild
wintry blast—
_ Sweeps away her fond visions, unbidden.

She looks round her room with dissatisfied
gaze—
That humble room furnished so plainly ;
“Alas for the hopes of my long ago days!
Why, still, do I cherish you vainly @

“And this for our home; poor, wretched at
best ;
Though John calls it tidy and cosy ;
A home for our children—had fortune but
blessed
Their infancy sparkling and rosy,

“ My husband could banish the care which
annoys ; x
I would dress in rich satins and laces;
We could look with such pride on our
bright, noble boys
And our daughter’s rare beauty and
graces.

“Instead of these three little stockings I
see,
Each waiting its poor, penny treasure,
We could plant in our parlor a vast Christ-

mas tree,

Which should bear costly fruits without
measure.”
* * * *

’Tis gone; the feverish longing is past—
Years of toil, hope, and love true and
tender ;
Exchanged is the low, humble cottage at
last
For a long envied dwelling of splendor.

Those years fill his coffers, but stay not
their flight,

For John and his wife have grown older ;
Her eye has lost much of its olden love-

light—
His heart become harder and colder.
* * * *

Christmas Eve. In the splendor of parlor
and hall
The mother sits, wearied and weeping ;
Through thin, jewelled fingers, her burn-
ing tears fall,

While her late lonely vigil she’s keeping.

She looks on the brilliant luxuriance there,
Fruition of Hope’s early dreaming,
The Christmas tree laden with fruitage so
rare,
Rich and ripe, ’midst its foliage gleam-
ing.
70



But the hands which should gather—where
are they to-night ?
Ah, gold! the false hearted, alluring,—
On the name of the daughter has fallen a
blight,
Than beauty and grace more enduring.

There are tears for the fair one whose com-
ing no more
-That desolate bosom will gladden ;
There’s an ache in the near that wealth
covers o’er, |
Which poverty could not so sadden.

There are tears for the wayward—the boys
are so changed—
Money opens the door to temptation,—
From mother and home, by the wine-cup
estranged,
They wander in wild dissipation.

Hark! is it the night-wind in fury un-
bound
Through leafless trees shrieking and
sighing?
She listens—her quick ear interprets the
sound—
Down, wild, through the passage she’s
flying.

Her white hands unlock and throw open
the door,
A terrible vision revealing!
Robbed—murdered—her husband lies coy-
ered with gore—
His heart’s blood still flowing, congeal-

ing.
With a shriek of deep anguish and utter
despair,
She falls, * * * “Why my dear,

what's the matter?
Dreaming, were’n’t you?
sleep well, I declare,
Amid such commotion and clatter.

The children

THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND.

“Tere, tuck in their stockings these can-
dies and toys—
Only trifles—but true love goes with
them !
God bless our sweet baby, and dear, cae
boys
With health to enjoy what we give
them !”
Mary smiles through her tears on that fond
beaming face !
“Oh, John we are blessed without
measure!
Our own humble home is a dear happy
place,
And love is its pure priceless treasure !

THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND.

LAS! what errors are sometimes com-

mitted,

What blunders are made, what duties
omitted,

What scandals arise, what mischief
wrought,

Through want of a moment’s reflection. and
thought!

How many a fair reputation has flown

Through a stab in the dark from some per-
son unknown ;

Or some tale spread abroad with assiduous

ig

- care,
‘When the story the strictest inspection
would bear!
How often rage, malice, and envy are
found ;

How often contention and hatred abound

‘Where true love should exist, and harmony
dwell,

Through a misunderstanding, alas! who
can tell ?
THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND. 71



Mr, Ferdinand Plum was a grocer by trade ;

By attention and tact he a fortune had
“made;

No tattler, nor maker of mischief was he,

But as honest a man as you'd e’er wish to
see.

Of a chapel, close by, he was deacon, they

BAY,
And his minister lived just over the way.

Mr. Plum was retiring to rest one night,
He had just undressed and put out the
light,
And pulled back the blind
As he peeped from behind
(Tis a custom with many to do so, you'll
find),
When, glancing his eye,
He happened to spy
On the blinds on the opposite side—oh, fie!
Two shadows; each movement of course he
could see,
And the people were quarreling evidently.
“Well I never,” said Plum, as he witnessed
the strife,
“T declare ’tis the minister beating his
wife !”
The minister held a thick stick in his hand,
And his wife ran away as he shook the
brand,
Whilst her shrieks and cries were quite
shocking to hear,
And the sounds came across most remark-
ably clear,
“Well, things are deceiving,
But—‘seeing’s believing,’ ”
Said Plum to himself, as he turned into
bed;
“ Now, who would have thought
That man would have fought
And beaten his wife on her shoulders and

head







With a great big stick,
At least three inches thick ?
I am sure her shrieks quite filled me with
dread.
Tve a great mind to bring
The whole of the thing
Before the church members, but no, I have
read
A proverb which says ‘ Least said soonest
mended.’ ”
And thus Mr. Plum’s mild soliloquy ended.

Bnt, alas! Mr. Plum’s eldest daughter,
Miss Jane,

Saw the whole of the scene, and could not
refrain

From telling Miss Spot, and Miss Spot told
again

(Though of course in strict confidence)
every one

Whom she happened to know, what the
parson had done;

So the news spread abroad, and soon
reached the ear

Of the parson himself, and he traced it,

I hear,

To the author, Miss Jane. Jane could not
deny,

But at the same time she begged leave to
defy

The parson to prove she had uttered a lie.

A church meeting was called: Mr. Plum
made a speech,

He said, “Friends, pray listen awhile, I
beseech.

What my daughter has said is most cer-
tainly true

For I saw the whole scene on the same
evening, too ;

But, not wishing to make an unpleasantness
rife,

I did not tell either my daughter or wife.
72 TIRED MOTHERS.





But of course as Miss Jane saw the whole
of the act,
I think it but right to attest to the fact.”

“Tis remarkably strange!” the parson
replied :

“Tt is plain Mr. Plum must something have
spied ;

Though the wife-beating story of course is
denied ;

And in that I can say I am grossly belied.”

While he ransacks his brain, and ponders,
and tries

To recall any scene that could ever give
rise

To so monstrous a charge,—just then his
wife cries,

“T have it, my love; you remember that
night

When I had such a horrible, terrible fright.

We both were retiring that evening to

rest,—

I was seated, my dear, and but partly un-
dressed,

When a nasty large rat jumped close to my

_ feet;

My shrieking was heard, I suppose, in the
street ;

You caught up the poker, and ran round
the room,

And at last knocked the rat, and so sealed
its doom,

“Our shadows, my love, must have played
on the blind;

And this is the mystery solved, you will
find.”

Mora.

Don’t believe every tale that is handed
about ;

We have all enough faults and real failings,
without

Being burdened with those of which there’s
a doubt.

| If you study this tale, I think, too, you

will find
That a light should be placed in the front,
not behind;
For often strange shadows are seen on the
blind,

TIRED MOTHERS.

LITTLE elbow leans upon your
knee,—
Your tired knee that has so much to
bear;
A child’s dear eyes are looking lovingly
From underneath a thatch of tangled
hair.
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so
tight ;
You do not prize this blessing overmuch,—
You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness! A year ago -
I did not see it as I do to-day—

We are so dull and thankless ; and tooslow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me,

That, while I wore the badge of mother-
hood,
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly
The little child that brought me only
good.

And, if some night when you sit down to
rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired
knee,—
This restless curling head from off your
breast,—
This lisping tongue that chatters con-
stantly;
THE LEAK IN THE DIKE. 73



If from your own the dimpled hands had

slipped,
And ne’er would nestle in your palm
again ;
If the white feet into their grave had
tripped,

I could not blame you for your heart-
ache then.

I wonder so that mothers ever fret
At little children clinging to their gown ;
Or that the footprints, when the days are
wet,
Are ever black enough to make them
frown. :
If I could find a little muddy boot,
Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor —
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,
And hear it patter in my house once
more,—

If I could mend a broken cart to-day,
To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky,
There is no woman in God’s world could
say
She was more blissfully content than I.
But ah! the dainty pillow next my own
Is never rumpled by a shining head ;
My singing birdling from its nest is flown,—
The little boy I used to kiss is dead !

THE LEAK IN THE DIKE.

ABRIDGED.

FAVE good dame looked from her cottage
At the close of the pleasant day,
And cheerily called to her little son
Outside the door at play:
“Come, Peter, come! I want you to go
While there is light to see,

To the hut of the blind old man who lives
Across the dike, for me;

And take these cakes I made for him,
They are hot and smoking yet;

You have time enough to go and come
Before the sun is set.”

Then the good-wife turned to her labor,
Humming a simple song,
And thought of her husband, working hard
At the sluices all day long;
And set the turf a-blazing,
And brought the coarse black bread ;
That he might find a fire at night,
And find the teble spread.

And Peter left the brother,
With whom all day he’d played,

And the sister who had watched their sports
In the willow’s tender shade.

For he was a brave, bright fellow,
With eye and conscience clear; |

And now, with his face all glowing,
And eyes as bright as the day

With the thoughts of his pleasant errand,:
He trudged along the way;

And soon his joyous prattle
Made glad a lonesome place—

Alas! if only the blind old man
Could have seen that happy face—

Yet he somehow caught the brightness
Which his voice and presence lent;

And he felt the sunshine come and go
As Peter came and went.

And now, as the day was sinking,
And the winds began to rise,

‘he mother looked from her door again,
Shading her anxious eyes ;

And saw the shadows deepen,
And birds to their homes come back,
74 THE LEAK IN THE DIKE.





But never a sign of Peter
Along the level track.

But she said: “ He will come-at morning,
So I need not fret or grieve—

Though it isn’t like my boy at all
To stay without my leave.”

But where was the child delaying ?
On the homeward way was he,

And across the dike while the sun was up
An hour above the sea.

He was stopping now to gather flowers,
Now listening to the sound,

As the angry waters dashed themselves
Against their narrow bound,

“ Ah! well for us,” said Peter,
“That the gates are good and strong

And my father tends them carefully,
Or they would not hold you long!”

But hark! Through the noise of waters
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound ;

And the child’s face pales with terror,
And his blossoms drop to the ground.

He is up the bank in a moment,
And, stealing through the sand,

He sees a stream not yet so large
As his slender, childish hand.

Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy,
Unused to fearful scenes ;

But, young as he is, he has learned to know

The dreadful thing that means.

A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart
Grows faint that cry to hear,

And the bravest man in all the land
Turns white with mortal fear.

And the boy! He has seen the danger,
And, shouting a wild alarm,

He forces back the weight of the sea |
With the strength of his single arm !

He listens for the joyful sound
Of a footstep passing nigh ;

And lays his ear to the ground to catch
The answer to his ery.

And he hears the rough winds blowing,
And the waters rise and fall,

But never an answer comes to him,
Save the echo of his call.

He sees no hope, no succor,
His feeble voice is lost ;

Yet what shall he do but watch and wait
Though he perish at his post.

He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their sate, warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother,
Of himself as dying—and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last;
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.

The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,

For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all night.

And now she watches the pathway,
As yester-eve she had done ;

But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?

Her neighbors are bearing between them
Something straight to her door;

Her child is coming home, but not
As he ever came before.

“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!”
And the startled father hears,

And comes and looks the way she looks
And fears the thing she fears ;

Till the glad shout from the bearers
Thrills the stricken man and wife—

“‘ Give thanks, for your son has saved our

Jand,

And God has saved his life !”
THE AMERICAN FLAG. f 15



So, there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy ;

And every head was bared and bent
In tearful, reverent joy.

*Tis many a year since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,

Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave and true and good.

For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,

And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.

They have many a valiant hero
Remembered through the years ;

But never one whose name so oft
Is named with loving tears.

And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told the child on the knee,

So long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

THOUGHTFUL mind, when it sees

a nation’s flag, sees not the flag only,

but the nation itself; and whatever may be

its symbols, its insignia, he reads chiefly in

the flag the government, the principles, the

truths, the history, which belong to the
nation that sets it forth.

When the French tricolor rolls out to the

wind, we see France. When the new-

found Italian flag is unfurled, we see resur-.

rected Italy. When the other three cor-
nered Hungarian flag shall be lifted to the
wind, we shall see in it the long-buried but
never dead principles of Hungarian liberty.
When the united crosses of St. Andrew
and 8t. George on a fiery ground set forth
the banner of Old England, we see not the





cloth merely; there rises up before the
mind the noble aspect of that monarchy
which, more than any other on the globe,
has advanced its banner for liberty, law and
national prosperity.

This nation has a banner too; and wher-
ever it streamed abroad, men saw daybreak
bursting on their eyes, for the American
flag has been the symbol of liberty, and
men rejoiced in it. Not another flag on
the globe had such an errand, or went
forth upon the sea, carrying everywhere,
the world around, such hope for the cap-
tive and such glorious tidings.

The stars upon it were to the pining na-
tions like the morning stars of God, and the
stripes upon it were beams of morning light.

As at early dawn the stars stand first,
and then it grows light, and then as the
sun advances, that light breaks into banks
and streaming lines of color, the glowing
red and intense white striving together and
ribbing the horizon with bars effulgent, so
on the American flag, stars and beams of
many colored light shine out together.
And wherever the flag comes, and men
behold it, they see in its sacred emblazonry
no rampant lion and fierce eagle, bet only
Lieut, and every fold significant of liberty.

The history of this banner is all on one
side. Under it rode Washington and his
armies; before it Burgoyne laid down his
arms; it waved on the highlands at West
Point; it floated over old Fort Montgomery.
When Arnold would have surrendered
these valuable fortresses and precious lega-
cies, his night was turned into day, and his
treachery was driven away, by the beams
of light from this starry banner.

It cheered our army, driven from New
York, in their solitary pilgrimage through
New Jersey. It streamed in light over
76 NO MORTGAGE ON THE FARM.



Valley Forge and Morristown. It crossed
the waters rolling with ice at Trenton; and
when its stars gleamed in the cold morning
with victory, a new day of hope dawned on
the despondency of the nation. And when
at length, the long years of war were draw-
ing to a close, underneath the folds of this
immortal banner sat Washington while
Yorktown surrendered its hosts and our
Revolutionary struggles ended with vic-
tory. :

Let us then twine each thread of the
glorious tissue of our country’s flag about
our heartstrings; and looking upon our
homes and catching the spirit that breathes
upon us from the battle-fields of our fathers,
let us resolve, come weal or woe, we will,
in life and in death, now and forever, stand
by the stars and stripes. They have been
unfurled from the snows of Canada to the
plains of New Orleans, in the halls of the
Montezumas, and amid the solitude ot
every sea; and everywhere, as the lumi-
nous symbol of resistless and beneficent
power, they have led the brave to victory
and to glory. They have floated over our
cradles ; let it be our prayer and our strug-
gle that they shall float over our graves.

NO MORTGAGE ON THE FARM.

ARY, let’s kill the fatted calf, and

celebrate this day,

For the last dreadful mortgage on the farm
is wiped away ;

I have got the papers with me, they are
right as right can be—

Let us laugh and sing together, for the dear
old farm is free.



Don’t all we Yankees celebrate the Fourth
day of July ?

Because ’twas then that freedom’s sun lit
up our nation’s sky ;

Why shouldn’t we then celebrate, and this
day ne’er forget ?

Where is there any freedom like being out
of debt? :

Pve riz up many mornin’s an hour before
the sun,

And night has overtaken me before the task
was done;

When weary with my labor, ’twas this
thought that nerved my arm:

Each day of toil will help to pay the mort-

’ gage on the farm.

And, Mary, you have done your part in
rowin’ to the shore,

By takin’ eggs and butter to the little vil-
lage store ;

.You did not spend the money in dressin’

up for show,
But sang from morn till evening in your
faded calico.

And Bessie, our sweet .daughter—God
bless her loving heart !

The lad that gets her for a wife must be
by nater smart,—

She’s gone without piano, her lonely hours
to charm,

To have a handin payin’ off the mortgage
on the farm.

Ill build a little cottage soon to make your
heart rejoice ;

I'll buy a good piano to go with Bessie’s
voice ;

You shall not make your butter with that
up and down concern,

For I’ll go this very day and buy the finest
patent churn.
IF WH KNEW.—JAMES A. GARFIELD.

717



Lay by your faded calico and go with me
to town,

How these little hands remind us,
As in snowy grace they lie,

And get yourself and Bessie a new and shin- | Not to scatter thorns, but roses,

ing gown;

Low prices for our produce need not give

us now alarm;
Spruce up a little Mary, there’s no mort-
gage on the farm!

While our hearts are now so joyful, let us,
Mary, not forget

To thank the God of heaven for being out
of debt ;

For he gave the rain and sunshine, and put
strength into my arm,

And lengthened out the days to see no
mortgage on the farm.

IF WE KNEW.

I we knew the woe and heartache
Waiting for us down the road,
If our lips could taste the wormwood,
If our backs could feel the load ;
Would we waste the day in wishing
Fora time that ne’er can be?
Would we wait with such impatience
For our ships to come from sea?

If we knew the baby fingers,
Pressed against the window pane,
Would be cold and stiff to-morrow,—

Never trouble us again ;
Would the bright eyes of our darling
Catch the frown upon our brow?
Would the print of rosy fingers
Vex us then as they do now ?

Ah, these little ice-cold fingers !
How they point our memories back
To the hasty words and actions
Strewn along our backward track!

For our reaping by and by.

Strange we never prize the music
Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown ;
Strange that we should slight the violets
Till the lovely flowers are gone ;
Strange that summer skies and sunshine ©
Never seem one-half so fair
As when winter’s snowy pinions
Shake their white down in the air.

Lips from which the seal of silence
None but God ean roll away,
Never blossomed in such beauty
As adorns the mouth to-day ;
And sweet words that freight our memory
With their beautiful perfume,
Come to us in sweeter accents
Through the portals of the tomb.

Let us gather up the sunbeams,

Lying all around our path ;
Let us keep the wheat and roses,
Casting out the thorns and chaff;
Let us find our sweetest comfort
In the blessings of to-day ;
With a patient hand removing
All the briars from our way.

JAMES A. GARFIELD.



A DECLAMATION.

HE boyhood friends of James A. Gar-
tield knew what a generous, earnest,
ambitious young student he was. His old
comrades in the army knew what asoldier he
was. His associates in Congress knew what
a brave, resolute, wise Jeader and debat-
er he was. We have measured him in the
struggle of life. We have weighed him in
78 AUTUMN.



the conflict of politics. We have watched

,each step and been glad that each step has
been upward since those student days
‘when he struggled for bread as well as
knowledge, until to-day he is the un-
crowned head of the Great Republic.

But we never fully knew, until now, as
he lies, great-hearted and gentle-tongued,
fighting for life, and looking death calmly
and resolutely in the face, determined to con-
quer death and compel life. When think-
ing of that struggle, my thoughts go, as
your thoughts go, to the wife who seems to
have come right out from the shadow of
death, that, with loving hand and tender
heart she might lead him away from
the shadow, back to beauty and health
and strength. I think of him as he stood
on Inauguration Day with the thousands
gathered around him, with martial music
and glad.acclaim on every hand. I think
of him after he had put his hand on the
Bible and sworn that he would obey and
maintain the Constitution, turning to his.
wife with a loving kiss; the wife who had
been his schoolmate in the days away back
in the old Ohio school house ; and then rev-
erently stooping and kissing the little old
mother, whose faith and love and good
sense had trained him up to be president of
these United States. God bless the Presi-
dent. God bless his loyal wife. God’s
richest blessing be on that little mother
and spare her aged eyes from seeing her
boy pass before her to the Better Land. It
is a great thing to be a great soldier, a
great thing to be a great orator, a grand
thing to be a great statesman and wise
scholar; but it is a far greater and nobler
and grander thing to bea true man who is
faithful to wife and obedient to mother, a
kind father and loving Christian.





AUTUMN.

OLD upon the hill-side, heaving like
the seas,
For the corn is yellow-ripe waving in the
breeze,
And in orchards, apples red are weighing
down the trees.

Emeralds on the lowlands where the river
flows,

In the pastures sweet and green, kine and
sheep repose, ,

And the glittering dragon-fly like an earth
star glows.

There is brightness in the heavens, fresh-.
ness in the air,

Ripeness in the teeming earth, richness
everywhere,

For the world to-day is filled with all things
good and fair.

Glorious Autumn! Well of thee poets sang
of old, i

Gathering round the luscious fruits, wealth
of grain untold,

Decking thee in regal robes of purple and
of gold.

The murmuring streams, the rustling trees,
the dulcet low of herds,
The song of winds, the hum of bees, the
_ melody of birds.
God’s poets they, that chant thy praise in
hymns more grand than words.

Spring-tide is the years gay youth, summer
is its prime;

In Faith we watch the growth of spring—
in Hope the summer time;

But mellow Autumn, like God’s love, show-
ers gifts on every clime.


















































































































































































































































































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AUTUMN

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THE KISS DEFERRED. 81



THE KISS DEFERRED.

WO) little cousins once there were,
Named Mary Ann and Jane.

’ The first one lived in Boston town,

The second down in Maine.

And Jane she wrote a little note,
“ Dear cousin,” thus wrote she,

“ Dear Cousin Ann, I’ve made a plan
That you should visit me;

For you are one, the Ann unknown
Dve always longed to see.

They say that you have eyes deep blue,
And a brow all lily fair,

While round your face with many a grace
Doth curl your golden hair.

Now I, they say, have eyes of gray,
And the puggiest little nose,

A small round chin with a dimple in,
And cheeks as red as a rose.

Let me tell you this, that ’m saving a kiss
And a dear good hugging too,

For the cousin so fair with the golden hair
And the eyes so brightly blue,

. So pray, dear Ann, come if you can,
And bring your dolly dear.

My dollies‘all, both great and small,
Will make her welcome here.”

Wrote Ann to Jane; “I’d come to Maine
And play with you, I’m sure;

It would be so good if I only could,
But my papa is too poor.

When his ship gets home he says I may

come;

For that will surely bring

All it can hold of silver and gold,
‘And clothes and everything.”

The years flew on; young maidens grown
Were Mary Ann and Jane;

Still dwelt the first in Boston town,
The second down in Maine.

Wrote Ann to Jane:

And now Jane wrote a perfumed note,
All in a perfumed cover,

And thus it ran: “Do come, dear Ann,
Do come, and bring your lover;

I’ve a lover, too, so tender and true,
A gallant youth is he ;

On a summer night. when the moon shines

* - bright,

How charming it will be

To pleasantly walk and pleasantly tall
’Way down by the sounding sea.’

“That visit to Maine
Must longer yet delay,

My cousin dear, for soon draws near
My happy wedding day.”

More years have flown, much older grown
Were Mary Ann and a ane,

Still dwelt the first in Boston town,
The second down in Maine.

And once again took Jane her pen;
“ Dear cousin,” now wrote she,

‘“‘Won’t you come down from Boston town,
And bring your family ?

Bring all your girls with their golden curls
And their eyes so heavenly blue;

Bring all your boys with all their noise,

And bring that husband, too.

‘ve a pretty band that round me stand,

Six girls, my heart’s delight;

They’re as lovely a set as ever you met,

And all remarkably bright.

_ There’s a kiss, you know, that since long ago,

Dve been keeping for you, my dear,
Or have you forgot the first little note
I scribbled and sent you from here?”

Thus Ann did reply: “ Alas, how can I

Set forth on my travels, dear Jane?

T’ve too many to take, yet none can forsake,
So sadly at home must remain.

If your kiss is there still, pray keep it until
You see me come jaunting that way.
82 VHE FIRST CLOUD.





T’ve a loving kiss, too, that’s been saving

for you,
This many and many a day.”

Time onward ran; now Jane and Ann
Were old and feeble grown,—

Life’s rapid years, mid smiles and tears,
Had swiftly o’er them flown.

Their locks of gray were stroked away *

. From the worn and wrinkled brow;
Their forms were bent, their years were
spent,

They were widowed women now.

Suddenly one day, one winter’s day,
‘Aunt Ann said, “I must go

And see Cousin Jane, who lives in Maine,
In spite of wind and snow.”

“ Why, grandma, dear, this time of the year ?
Oh, what a foolish thing;

You're far too old to go in the cold,
We pray you wait till spring.

When the skies are clear, and the flowers

appear,

And the birds begin to sing.”

“ Children,” said she, “ don’t hinder me;
When smiling spring comes on,

The flowers may bloom around my tomb,
And I be dead and gone.

I’m old, ’tis true, my days are few,
There lies a reason plain

Against delay, if short my stay,.
I must away to Maine,

And let these eyes, these mortal eyes
Behold my Cousin Jane.”

As Aunt Jane sits and quietly knits,
Thinking her childhood o’er,

The latch is stirred, and next is heard
A tapping at the door.

*€ Come in,” she said, and raised her head
To see who might appear;

An aged dame who walked quite lame,
Said, “ Cousin, I am here.

I’m here, dear Jane, I’ve come to Maine
To take that kiss you know,
The kiss, my dear, kept for me here
Since that long, long ago.”
In glad surprise, Aunt Jane replies,
“Why, cousin can this be you?
But where, oh, where, is the golden hair
And the eyes so brightly blue ?”
“And where,” Ann said, “are your roses
fled,
And your chubby cheeks, I pray?
This, I suppose, was the little pug nose,
But the dimples, where are they?
And the lover, too, so tender and true,
Who walked by the light of the moon,
And the little band that round did stand,
Are they gone, all gone, so soon?” —
They turned their eyes to the darkening
skies
And the desolate scene below,
As they spoke with tears of their childhood
years
And the hopes of long ago.

The smiles and tears of buried years
Were smiled and wept again.

Thus met at last, a lifetime past,
The cousins, Ann and Jane,—

One of whom lived in Boston town,
The other down in Maine.

THE FIRST CLOUD.

HEY stood at the altar one short year
ago;
He vowed from the troubles of life to de
fend her,
To have her and hold her for weal or for
woe—
She spoke the responses in accents most
tender.
ON THE FENCE 83



To-night, in the gloom they are sitting

apart 5
Oh! has all her wifely devotion been
: wasted ?
She mopes there in silence. a pain at her
hearin ae
The lamps are unlighted, his supper un-
tasted.
Their sky, erst all cloudless, is now over-
cast,
For joy there is sorrow, for gladness de-
jection ;

The serpent has entered their Eden at last,
And left its dark trail on the flowers of
affection.

Oh, well may there be in her bosom a pain,
A grief that she vainly endeavors to
smother ;
To-night he has told her in language quite
plain,
She can’t cook his meals half as well as
his mother.

ON THE FENCE.

7% WO women leaned over the backyard
fence,
(The same old fence) as the sun went
down,
' While each told the other, in confidence,
The scandals she’d gathered around the
town;
For women must gossip, or they can’t
sleep 5
Their idea is that secrets erent made
to keep ;
So they lean on the fence in the gloam-
ing.
Two women sat out on the front door stoop,
In the evening glow as the sun went
down.







They told how their children had skipped
the croup,
And they sneered at the minister’s wife’s
new gown.
For women delight in a friendly chat,
Without it their lives would be stale
and flat ;
So they sit on the stoop inthe gloam-

ing.

Two husbands came home from the base-
ball game
From the office, they said), as the sun
went down,
Both ready and eager to hear the same
Sweet scandals their wives had hunted
down.
For men, though they work, love gos-
sip too—
And that’s why their wives seek some-
thing new
As hay meet and talk in the sloantae

CHRIST AND THE LITTLE ONKS.

HE Master has come over Jordan,”
Said Hannah, the mother, one day;
“ He is healing the people who throng him,
With a touch of his finger, they say.

“ And now I shall carry the children,
Little Rachel, and Samuel, and John;
I shall carry the baby Esther
For the Lord to look upon.”

The father looked at her kindly,
But he shook his head and smiled ;
“ Now who but a doting mother ~
Would think of a thing so wild ?
84

“Tf the children were tortured by demons,
Or dying of fever, ’twere well;

Or had they the taint of the leper,
‘Like many in Israel.”

“Nay, do not hinder me, Nathan,
I feel such a burden of care ;

If I carry it to the Master,
Perhaps I shall leave it there.

“Tf he lay his hand on the children,
My heart will beat lighter, I know;
For a blessing for ever and ever
Will follow them as they go.”

So over the hills of Judah,
Along the vine-rows green,

With Esther asleep on her bosom,
And Rachel her brothers between—

*Mong the people who hang on his teaching,
Or waiting his touch or his word,
Through the row of proud Pharisees listen-
ing,

She pressed to the feet of her Lord.

* Now why should’st thou hinder the Mas-
ter,”
Said Peter, “ with children like these?
Seest not how from morning to evening
He teacheth, and healeth disease ?”

Then Christ said, “Forbid not the children!
Permit them to come unto me ;”

And he took in his arms little Esther,
And Rachel he sat on his knee.

And the heavy heart of the mother
Was lifted all earth-care above,

As he laid his hands on the brothers,
And blessed them with tenderest love:

As he said of the babes in his bosom,
“ Of such is the kingdom of heaven ;”
And strength for all duty and trial,
That hour to her spirit was given.



BETTER WHISTLE THAN WHINE.

BETTER WHISTLE THAN WHINE.

S I was taking a walk early in Septem-

ber, I noticed two little boys on their

way to school. The smaller one stumbled

and fell, and though he was not very much

hurt, he began to whine ina babyish way—

not a regular roaring boy ery, as though he
were half killed; but a little, cross whine.

The older boy took his hand in a kind of
a fatherly way, and said: “Oh! never
mind, Jimmy; don’t whine, it is a great
deal better to whistle.” And he began in
the merriest way a cheerful boy-whistle.

Jimmy tried to join in the whistle. “TI
can’t whistle as nice as you, Charlie,” said
he ; “my lips won’t pucker up good.”

“Oh! that is because you have not got.
all the whine out, yet,” said Charlie; “but
you try a minute and the whistle will drive
the whine away.”

So he did, and the last I saw or heard of
the little fellows they were whistling away
as earnestly as though that was the chief
end of life. I learned a lesson which I hope:
I shall not soon forget, and it called out

- these few lines, which may possibly cheer

another whiner of mature years, as this.
class is by no means confined to the chil-
dren. ‘

It is better to whistle than ‘whine ;
It is better to laugh than to ery,
For though it be cloudy, the sun will soon:
shine
Across the blue, beautiful sky.

It is better to whistle than whine,
O man with the sorrowful brow,
Let the words of the child scatter murmurs:
of thine,
And gather his cheerfulness now.
AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 85



It is better to whistle than whine,
Poor mother, so weary with care,
Thank God for the love and the peace that
are thine,
And the joy of thy little ones share.

It is better to whistle than whine.
Though troubles you find on your way,

Remember that wise little fellow of mine,
And whistle your whining away.

God bless the brave boy for the cheer
He brought to this sad heart of mine ;
When tempted to murmur that young voice
_ [ hear,
“Tt is better to whistle than whine!’

AN OLD MAN’S STORY.

’ TIS only an old man’s story,—a tale we

have oft heard told,

In athousand forms and -fancies, by the
young as well as old,

A tale of life- dragged hellward, bound
down by a demon’s chain,

Till the friendly hand of temp’rance had
rescued it back again!

Though only a child at the time, friends, I
well remember the night

Of our first great temp’rance meeting—it
came as an angel of lignt

Midst the darkness of vile intemp’rance, its
myriad crimes and sins;

A guiding light to the path of right. that
all might enter in!

A hymn, a prayer, an address; then the
chairman’s voice was heard

To call on any one present just to say but a
warning word.

Our pastor arose, midst cheering, but he
strongly denounced the new cause

As “a movement which none but fanatics
(hear, hear, and loud applause)
Would engage in, to injure the business of
such respectable men,

And break up the time honored usage of
the country,”—but just then

I saw whilst death-like silence reigned, an
old man slowly rise

On the platform and fix on the speaker the
glance of his piercing eyes!

That look held the audience spell-bound,
and I noticed my father’s cheek

Turn deadly pale as the stranger paused
before he began to speak.

At last, with an effort, the oid man said, in
accents low but clear:

“You’ve heard, friends, that I’m a fanatic,

' that I have no business here;

As men and Christians, listen to truth,
hear me and be just 5

My life-sands fast are running out, and
speak to-night I must! -

Over a beaconless sea I’ve journeyed, life’s
dearest hopes ’ve wrecked—

God knows how my heart is aching, as I
now o’er the past reflect.

I’m alone, without friends or kindred, but
it was not always 80 5

For I see away o’er that ocean wild, dear
forms pass to and fro.

I once knew a doting mother’s love but I
crushed her fond old heart ;

(He seemed to look at some vision, with
his quivering lips apart.)

I once loved an angel creature with her
laughing eyes so blue,

And the sweetest child that ever smiled,
and a boy so brave and true!
Perhaps, friends, you will be startled, but

these hands have dealt the blow,
That severed the ties of kindred love, and
laid those dear ones low.
86 AN OLD MAN’S STORY.

Ah! yes, J was once a fanatic: yea, more
—a fiend, for then
I sacrificed my home, my all, for the riots
of a drink fiend’s den.
One New Year’s night I entered the hut
that charity gave, and found
My starving wife all helpiess and shivering
on the ground;
-With a maddened ery I demanded food,
then struck her a terrible blow;
‘Food, food, I yelled, ‘quick, give me
food, or by heaven out you go!’
Just then our babe from its cradle sent up
a famished wail ;
- My wife caught up the little form, with its
face so thin and pale,
Saying, ‘James! my once kind husband,
you know we’ve had no food
For near a week. Oh, do not harm my
Willie that’s so good.’
With a wild ‘Ha! ha!’ I seized them, and
lifted the latch of the door;
The storm burst in, but I hurled them ont
in the tempest’s wildest roar ;
A terrible impulse bore me on, so I turned
to my little lad,
And snatched him from his slumbering rest
—the thought near drives me mad.
To the door I fiercely dragged him, grasp-
ing his slender throat,
I thrust him out, but his hand had caught in
the pocket of my coat.
Iecould not wrench his frenzied hold, so I
hit him with my fist,
Then shutting the door upon his arm, 7
severed at the wrist.
I awoke in the morn from a stupor and idly
opened the door ;
With a moan I started backward—two
forms fell flat to the floor.

The blood like burning arrows shot right
up to my dazed brain,

As I called my wite by the dearest words ;
but, alas ! I called in vain.

The thought of my boy flashed on me, I
imprinted one fervent kiss -

On those frozen lips; then searched around,
but from that black day to this

My injured boy I’ve never seen
paused awhile and wept,

And I saw the tears on my father’s cheek
as I closer to him crept.

Once more the old man faltering, “Ten
long, long years I served ;

With an aching heart, in a felon’s cell, the
sentence I deserved ;

But there’s yet a gleam of sunshine in my
life’s beclouded sky,

And I long to meet my loved ones in the
better land on high!”

The pledge book lay on the table, just
where the old man stood,

He asked the men to sign it, and several
said they would.

“ Aye, sign it—angels would sign it,” he
exclaimed with a look of joy;

“Td sign it a thousand times in blood, if
it would bring back my boy !’

My father wrote his name down whilst he
trembled in every limb ;

The old man scanned it o’er and o’er, then
strangely glanced at him.

My father raised his left arm up--a ery, a
convulsive start—

Then an old man and his injured boy were
sobbing heart to heart !

Ere the meeting closed that evening each
offered a fervent prayer,

And many that night who saw the sight,
rejoiced that they were there!

He


TEACHING PUBLIC SCHOOL 87



TEACHING PUBLIC SCHOOL.

ORTY little urchins
{© Coming through the door,
Pushing, crowding, making
A tremendous roar.
Why don’t you keep quiet ?
Can’t you keep the rule ?—
Bless me, this is pleasant,
Teaching public school !
Forty little pilgrims
On the road to fame ;
If they fail to reach it,
Who will be to blame?
High and lowly stations—
Birds of every feather—
On a common level
Here are brought together.

Dirty little faces,

Loving little hearts,
Eyes brimful of mischief,
Skilled in all its arts.
That’s a precious darling!
What are you about ?

“ May I pass the water? ”
“ Please:may I go out?”

Boots and shoes are shufiling,
Slates and books are rattling,
And in the corner yonder
Two pugilists are battling :
Others cutting didoes—
What a botheration !
No wonder we grow crusty
From such association !

Anxious parent drops in,
Merely to inquire
Why his olive branches
Do not shoot up higher ;
Says he wants his children
To mind their p’s and q’s,
And hopes their brilliant talents
Will not be abused.



Spelling, reading, writing,
Putting up the young ones ;
Fuming, scolding, fighting,
Spurring on the dumb ones;
Gymnasts, vocal music—
How the heart rejoices
When the singer comes to
Cultivate the voices !

Institute attending,
Making out reports,
Giving Object Lessons,
Class drills of all sorts ;
‘Reading dissertations,
Feeling like a fool—
Oh, the untold blessing,
Of the Public School.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

e) UR darling little Florence, our blessing
and our pride,

With dimpled cheeks, and golden hair, and
brown eyes opened wide,

To look at every pretty thing, came flying
in to me;

“‘O please,” she pleaded earnestly, “I want
a Christmas tree.”

“Who put that in your head, my dear?
. there’s one at Sunday-school,
And you will see its laden boughs with
lovely presents full.”
“ Yes,” said the child, “but I would like
one of my own.
And I will ask my company to come; imy-
self alone.

“J had a dream lastnight; I seemed out in
the woods to be,

And growing up right in the snow I saw a
splendid tree ;
88 THE CHRISTMAS TREE



Two little angels hovered near, and while I
watched they spread

Their fairy wings, and seemed to make a
curtain o’er my heads

“ The tree was shining like the stars, with
tapers burning bright,

AnJ happy faces seemed to glow around it
in the night ;

The little angels talked and talked; they
said: “ This is the tree

That we’ve been keeping beautiful for Flor-
ence dear to see.

“¢ We'll lift it clear, we'll bear it far, we’ll
take it to her door,

The prettiest, greenest Christmas tree, we’ll
set it on her floor,

And if she askg the guests she ought we'll
linger there and sing,

Our voices blending in with theirs, as
cheerily they ring.”

“A lovely dream, indeed,” I said; “but
whom will you invite?

We'll find a tree quite easily, and star its
boughs with light ;

But baby is not old enough to have her play-
mates come,

Anl yours are all engaged, ay love, ce
in her own bright home.”

“T thought Pd go to Bridget’s house, and
ask her little Kate,

And that barefooted boy who sells us matches
at the gate,

And we will dress them up with shoes and
stockings to begin, _

And give them presents; I will put all my
own money in.

“ You only ought to see the old doll Kate
thinks so superb,

Its dingy face is just as brown as some old

bunch of herb,



And all the sawdust’s pouring out its broken
arm, and yet

She loves it, and considers it a beauty and
a, pet.

“ Poor Johnny hasno mother. His feet are
bare and blue,

And his eyes have such a hungry look when
he dares to look at you,

I think it would be sweet to give a bit of
Christmas joy

And happiness—don’t you—to such a littie

lonely boy?”

Well, children have their way with me, and
Florence has a way

That is so free from selfishness, so gentle
and so gay,

We love to please her; that’s the truth. We
helped her all we could,

And half a dozen little guests around the
tree there stood.

Its branches hung with golden fruit, dolls
and dishes and drums,

Elephants, horses, and woolly dogs, and
boxes of sugar plums ;

A trumpet was given to Johnny that terribly
frightened the cat

And the top of his Christmas was crowned
when we gave him a soldier hat.

Our baby was charmed with a rattle, and for
Florence’s dainty self

Was a music-box that played sweet tunes
from its niche on a rosewood shelf;

And Katie brooded over her doll in a sort
of motherly rapture,

Holding it close, lest a ruthless hand its
form from her grasp should capture,

And Bridget’s jolly, half-moon face beamed
over the happy scene—

The tree was a tree to be glad about, and
Florence felt like a queen.
HE OLD CLOCK IN THE CORNER. 89



For sumehow, not only for Christmas, but
all the long year through,

The joy that you give to others is the joy
that comes back to you;

And the more you spend in blessing the
poor, the lonely, and sad,

The more to your heart’s possessing, returns
to make you glad.

THE QLD CLOCK IN THE CORNER.

y HE leafless trees are brown and bare,
The snow-flakes sweep through the
frosty air ;
With the wintry wind they sport and play,
As it wearily whistles the night away.

The time-worn clock in the corner stands,
With faded dial and rusty hands ;

With ceaseless motion its pendulum swings,
And this is the doleful song it sings:

“Tick, tick, tick. There are smiles and tears
In the mournful tale of a hundred years ;

“The voice of memory, soft and low
Whispers to-night of the long ago.

“ There are friends you loved, there are hopes

most dear,
That are dead and gone with the old, old
year.

“Spiders have woven a silken thread
In the dingy corner overhead,

“ Mid the endless dust of the busy day
That hands, now pulseless, have swept away.

“ The world will change and time will fly,
And we all grow old as the years go by.

“T have looked on a cheerful child at play,
And have heard his laughter loud and gay.



“T have seen a growing, bashful boy,
Ruddy with health and a look of joy,

“Tn rapture over a picture fair,

Or a tiny curl of golden hair.

“T have watched his smile when he looked
with pride

On the fair, sweet face of his new made bride. -

“T have heard the infant’s plaintive cry,
And a careworn mother’s weary sigh ;

“ And an aged father, old and gray,
Talking of years that had gone away.

“‘T have seen the shadowy pall and bier,
The lifeless form and the mourner’s tear,

“ And have heard those words so often said
Sadly over the dear ones dead :

“ ¢ Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,’
Life is fleeting and God is just.

“Tick, tick, tick. It is done, done, done,
The sands in the glass of the year have run:

“‘ The distant bells with a mournful chime

Sound another knell o’er the tomb of time.

“ Over the past let the curtain fall,
Heaven’s great mercy is over all.”

OLD KITCHEN REVERIES.

BAR back in my musings my thoughts
have been cast
To the cot where the hours of my childhood
were passed;
I loved all its rooms to the pantry and hall,
But that blessed old kitchen was dearer than
all.
Its chairs and its tables none brighter could

be,

For allitssurroundings were sacred to me—
90 OLD KITCHEN REVERIES.



To the nail in the ceiling, the latch on the
door—

And I loved every crack on the old kitchen
floor.

I remember the fire place with a mouth
high and wide,

The old fashioned oven that stood by its
side,

Out of which, each Thanksgiving, came
puddings and pies

That fairly bewildered and dazzled my eyes,

And then, too, St. Nicholas, slyly and still,

Came down every Christmas our stockings

to fill.

But the dearest of memories I’ve laid up
in store,

Is the mother that trod on the old kitchen
floor.

Day in and day out, from morning till

night,

Her footsteps were busy her heart always
light,

For it seemed to me, then, that she knew
not a care,

The smile was so gentle her face used to
wear.

I remember with pleasure what joy filled
our eyes

When she told us the stories that children
so prize ;

They were new every night though we’d
heard them before

From her lips at the wheel on the old
kitchen floor.

Iremember the window, where mornings
Id run,

As soon as the daybreak, to watch for the
sun;

And I thought when my head scarcely
reached to the sill,

That it slept through the night in the trees

~ on the hill;

And the small tract of ground that my eyeg
there could view,

Was all of the world that my infancy knew;

Indeed, I cared not to know of it more,

For the world of itself was that old kitchen
floor.

To-night those old visions come back at their

will,

And the wheel and its musie forever are
still;

The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid
away,

And the fingers that turned it lie moulder-
ing to clay;

The hearthstone, so sacred, is just as ’twas
then

And the voices of children ring out there
again;

The sun through the windows looks in as of
yore,

But it sees stranger feet on the old kitchen
floor. ;

T ask not for honor but this I would erave,

That when the lips speaking are closed in
the grave,

My children would gather there round side
by side,

And tell of the mother who long ago died;

*T would be more enduring far dearer to me,

Than inscriptions on marble or granite
could be,

To have them tell often, as I did of yore,

Of the mother who trod on the old kitchen
floor.
“T’LL GIVE YOU A CHANCE—MAKE THE MOST OF IT. GO!” 91

“PLL GIVE YOU A CHANCE—MAKE
THE MOST OF IT. GO!”

STERN old judge in relentless mood,
Glanced at the two who before him
stood.

She was bowed and haggard and old,
He was young, defiant and bold.
Mother and son—and to gaze at the pair,
Their different attitudes, look and air,
One would believe, ere the truth was won,
The mother convicted and not the son.

Her husband had died in his shame and sin,

And she a widow, her living to win,

Had toiled and struggled from morn to
night,

Making with want a wearisome fight;

Bent over her work with resolute zeal,

Till she felt her whole frame totter and

reel;

Her weak limbs tremble, her eyes grow
dim,

But she loved her boy and she toiled for
him.

And he—he stood in the criminal dock;
His heart seemed hard as the flinty rock.
An impudent glance and reckless air,
Braving the scorn of the gazers there.
Stained with crime and encompassed ’ruund
With proof of his guilt by captors found.
Ready to stand, as he phrased it, “ game,”
Holding not crime, but penitence, shame.

Poured in a flood o’er the mother’s cheek

The moistening tears where the tongue was"

weak,

And she saw through the mist of those
burning tears,

Only the child in his innocent years.

She remembered him pure as a child might
be,

The guilt of the present she could not see;





And for mercy her wistful looks made
prayer

To the stern old judge in his high-backed
chair.

“Woman,” the old judge crabbedly said,
“Your boy is the neighborhood’s plague
and dread;

Of a gang of reprobates chosen chief,

An idler and rioter, ruffian and thief,

The jury did right, for the facts were plain,
Denial is idle, excuses are vain. é
The sentence the court imposes is one—”’
“ Mercy!” she plead; “he’s my only son.”

The tipsters grinned at the words she spoke,
And a ripple of fun through the courtroom
broke. _

But over the face of the culprit came

An angry look and a shadow of shame.

“ Don’t laugh at my mother!” aloud cried
he.

“ You got me fast and can deal with me,

But she’s too good for your cowardly jeers,

And T’ll—” then here his utterance choked
with tears.

The judge for a moment bent his head

And looked at him keenly. Then he said:

“We suspend the sentence; the boy can go;”

And the words were tremulous, forced and
low.

“ But stay!” and he raised his finger then,

“Don’t let them bring you hither again.

There is something good in you yet, I
know;

I'll give you a chance—make the most of
it Gol’

The twain went forth, and the old judge
said:

“JT meant to have given him one year
instead ;
92 WE SHALL KNOW.



And perhaps ’tis a difficult thing to tell
If clemency here be ill or well.”

But a rift was struck in that hardened heart, |

From which a fountain of good may start.
For one on the ocean of crime long tossed,
Who loves his mother, is not quite lost.

WE SHALL KNOW.

HEN the mists have rolled in splen-
dor
From the beauty of the hills,
And the sunshine, warm and tender,
Falls in kisses on the rills,
We may read Love’s shining letter
In the rainbow of the spray,
We shall know each other better
When the mists have cleared away,—
We shall know as we are known,
Nevermore to walk alone,
In the dawning of the morning,
When the mists have cleared away.

If we err in human blindness

And forget that we are dust,

If we miss the law of kindness
When we struggle to be just,

Snowy wings of peace shall cover
All the pain that hides away,

‘When the weary watch is over,

And the mists have cleared away,—
We shall know as we are known,
Nevermore to walk alone,

Inthe dawning of the morning,

When the mists have cleared away.

When the silvery mist has veiled us
From the faces of our own,

Oft we deem their love has failed us
And we tread our path alone;

We should see them near and truly,
We should trust them day by day,
Never love or blame unduly,
If the mists were cleared away.
We shall know as we are known,
Nevermore to walk alone,
In the dawning of the morning,
When the thists have cleared away.

When the mists have risen above us,
As our Father knows His own,
Face to face with those that love us,
We shall know as we are known;

Love, beyond the orient meadows,
Floats the golden fringe of day ;
Heart to heart we bide the shadows,
Till the mists have cleared away.

We shall know as we are known,
Nevermore to walk alone,
When the Day of Light is dawning,
And the mists have cleared away.

THE RUINED MERCHANT.

COTTAGE home with sloping lawn,

and trellised vines and flowers,

And little feet to chase away the rosy-fin-
gered hours;

A fair young face to part, at eve, the shad-
ows in the door ;—

I picture thus a home I knew in happy
days of yore.

Says one, a cherub thing of three, with
childish heart elate,

“Papa is tomin,’ let me do to meet im at
de date!”

Another takes the music up and flings it on
the air,

“Papa has come, but why so slow his foot-
step on the stair?”
THE RUINED MERCHANT. 93



“OQ father! did you bring the books I’ve
waited for so long,

The baby’s rocking-horse and drum, arid
mother’s ‘angel song ?’

And did you see”—but something holds
the questioning lips apart,

And something settles very still upon that
joyous heart.

The quick-discerning wife bends down,
with her white hand to stay

The clouds from tangling with the curls
that on his forehead lay ;

To ask, in gentle tones, “Beloved, by
what rude tempest tossed?”

And list the hollow, “ Beggared, lost—all
ruined, poor, and lost!”

‘‘ Nay, say not so, for I am here, to share
misfortune’s hour,

And prove how better far than gold is
love’s unfailing dower,

Let wealth take wings and fly away, as far
as wings can soar,

The bird of love will hover near, and only
sing the more.”

“All lost, papa? why here am I; and,
father, see, how tall ;

I measure fuliy three teet four, upon the
kitchen wall ;

[ll tend the flowers, feed the birds, and
have such lots of fun,

I’m big enough to work, papa, for ’m the

oldest son.”

'« And I, papa, am almost five,” says curly-

headed Rose,

“And I can learn to sew, papa, and make
all dolly’s clothes.

But what zs ‘poor,’—to stay at home, and
have no place to go?

Oh! then I’ll ask the Lord to-night, to
make us always so.”





“T’se here, papa; I isn’t lost!” and on his
father’s knee

He lays his sunny head to rest, that baby
boy of three.

‘“‘ And if we get too poor to live,” says lit-
tle Rose, “you know

There is a better place, papa, a heaven
where we can go,

“And God will come and take us there,
dear father, if we pray,

We needn’t fear the road, papa, he surely
knows the way.”

Then from the corner, staff in hand, the
grandma rises slow,

Her snowy cap-strings in the breeze soft
fluttering to and fro:

Totters across the parlor floor, by aid of
kindly hands,

Counting in every little face, her life’s
declining sands ;

Reaches his side, and whispers low, ‘“‘ God’s

promises are sure;

For every grievous wound, my son, he

sends a ready cure.”

The father clasps her hand in his, and
quickly turns aside,

The heaving chest, the rising sigh, the
coming tear to hide;

Folds to his heart those loving ones, and
kisses o’er and o’er

That noble wife whose faithful heart he
little knew before.

“May God forgive me! What is wealth
to these more precious things,
Whose rich affection round my heart a
ceaseless odor flings?

I think he knew my sordid soul was get-
ting proud and cold,

And thus to save me, gave me these, and
took away my gold.
94

WINTER.—THE PARTING HOUR.



“ Dear ones, forgive me; nevermore will I
forget the rod

That brought me safely unto you and led
me back to God.

Iam not poor while these bright links of
priceless love remain,

And, Heaven helping, never more shall
blindness hide the chain.”

WINTER.

HE cold winds from the northward
roar,
The quivering snowflakes thickly fall,
And cover with a velvet pall
The russet sward of mead and moor;
And standing at his cottage door
The laborer thinks of labor scant,
And sees the haggard hand of want
Throw shadows on his chamber floor.

The children shout for joy, and ery,
“A merry Christmas” as they see
The whitened cloak of bush and tree,
And soft feathers in the sky:
They know not why the father’s eye
Is sad and heavy through the storm,
They only know the fire is warm,
And that the skating time is nigh.

And he to whom they look for bread
Is filled with many doubts and fears,
For in the howling wind he hears
Of days that must be idly led.
And little ones must still be fed,
Though work be scarce and winter
long;
And though the willing hands be
strong,
They cannot thaw earth’s frozen bed.



O, Winter, Winter! bright and gay
To some, with what an iron grip
Thou holdest many a silent lip,
That cannot words of gladness say,
Then while we feel thy brightness, may
We feel for those whose hearts are full
Of bitterness that has no lull,
Till winter days are gone away.

THE PARTING HOUR.

SHERE’S something in “the parting
hour”

Will chill the warmest heart,—

Yet kindred, comrades, lovers, friends,
Are fated all to part;

But this I’ve seen,—-and many a pang
Has pressed it on my mind,—

The one who goes is happier
Than those he leaves behind.

No matter what the journey be,—
Adventurous, dangerous, far

To the wild ‘deep, or bleak frontier, |
To solitude, or war,—

Still something cheers the heart that dares,
In all of human kind;

And they who go are happier
Than those they leave behind.

The bride goes to the bridegroom’s home
With doubtings and with tears,

But does not Hope her rainbow spread
Across her cloudy fears ?

Alas! the mother who remains,
What comfort can she find

But this,—the gone is happier
Than the one she leaves behind.
Ll

) vel

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WINTER,

MY WIFE AND I-—LAND POOR. 97



Have you a trusty comrade dear,—
An old and valued friend ?

Be sure your term of sweet concourse
At length will have an end.

And when you part,—as part you will,—
Oh take it not unkind,

If he who goes is happier
Than you he leaves behind.

God wills it so, and so it is;
The pilgrims on their way,

Thor gh weak and worn, more cheerful are
Than all the rest who stay.

And when, at last, poor man, subdued,
Lies down, to death resigned,

May he not still be happier far
Than those he leaves behind ?

MY WIFE AND I,

E never fight, my wife and I,
As other couples do;

Our little matrimonial sky
Is of the brightest blue,

She never beards me in my den
(My study, I should say;)

She vows I am the best of men,
But then—she has her way!

Some wives are never pleased unless
They wring from you a cheque,
Wherewith to buy some costly dress
Or jewels for their neck.

My little witch ne’er asks from me
The value of a pin—

She is so good and true, you see,
But then—she keeps the tin!

‘Twas not!” “It was!” “It was!”
“?T was not!”
Thus ever scold and fight
Fill many a luckless pair, I wot,

{rom morning until night.
n





If e’er we have a word or two,
The skirmish soon is past,

The words are mild and very few,
But then—sux has the last!

LAND POOR.

“VE had another offer, wife—a twenty
acres more,
Of high and dry prairie land, as level as a
floor. ;
I thought I’d wait and see yor. first, as law-
yer Brady said,
To tell how things will turn out best, a wom-
an is ahead.

And when this lot is paid for, and we have
got the deed,

Pll say that I am satistied—it’s all the land
we need;

And next we’ll see about the yard, and fix
the house up some,

And manage in the course of time to havea
better home.

WIFE.

There is no use of talking, Charles—you
buy that twenty more, —

And we'll go scrimping all our lives, and
always be land poor.

For thirty years we’ve tugged and saved, de-
nying half our needs,

While all we have to show for it is taw re-
ceipts and deeds!

I’d sedd the land if it were mine, and have
a better home,

With broad, light rooms to front the street,
and take life as it come.

If we could live as others live, and have
what others do,

We’d live enough sight pleasanter, and
have a plenty too.
98 COLLEGE “ OIL CANS.”



While others have amusements and luxury
and books,

Just think how stingy we have lived, and
how this old place looks.

That other farm you bought of Wells, that
took so many years

Of clearing up and fencing in, has cost me
many tears.

- Yes, Charles, ’ve thought of it a hundred
times or more,
And wondered if it really patd to always
be land poor,—
That had we built a cozy house, took pleas-
ure as it come,
Our children, once so dear to us, had never
left our home.

I grieve to think of wasted weeks and years |-

and months and days,
While for it all we never yet have had one
_ word of praise.
Men call us rich, but we are poor—would
we not freely give
The land with all its fixtures for a better
way to live ?

Don’t think I’m blaming you, Charles—
" - you’re not a whit to blame,
Dve pitied you these many years, to see you
tired and lame.

It’s just the way we started out, our plans’

too tar ahead;
‘We’ve worn the cream of life away, to leave
too much when dead.

Tis putting off enjoyment long after we
enjoy. Ito

And after all too much of wealth seems
useless as a toy,—

Although we’ve learned, alas, too late!
what all must learn at last,

Our brightest earthly happiness is buried
in the past,

That life is short and full of care, the end
is always nigh,

We seldom half begin to live before we’re

' doomed to die.

Were I to start my life again, I’d mark each
separate day,

And never let a single one pass unenjoyed
away.

If there were things to envy, I’d have them
now and then,

And have a home that was a home, and not
a cage or pen.

I'd sell some land if it were mine, and fit
up well the rest,

I’ve always thought, and think so yet—
small farms well worked are best.

- COLLEGE “OIL CANS.”

@) N a board of bright mosaic wrought in
many a quaint design,

Gleam abrace of silver goblets wreathed
with flowers and filled with wine.

Round the board a group is seated ; here
and there are threads of white

Which their dark locks lately welcomed ~
but they are only boys to-night.

Some whose words have thrilled the senate,
some who win the critic’s praise —

All are “chums” to-night, with voices
redolent of college days.

“ Boys,” said one, “do you remember that
old joke about the wine,—

How we used to fill our oil cans and repair
to ‘No. 92’

But at last the old professor—never long
was he outdone— i

Opened up our shining oil cans and demol-
ished all our fun!”
COLLEGE “ OIL CANS.”



In the laugh that rings so gaily through the
richly curtained room,

Join they all, save one; why is it ?
he see the waxen bloom

Tremble in its vase of silver ?
see the ruddy wine

Shiver in its crystal goblet, or do those
grave eyes divine

Something sadder yet? He _ pauses till
their mirth has died away,

Then in measured tones speaks gravely:
“ Boys, a story, if I may,

I will tell you, though it may not merit
worthily your praise,

It is bitter fruitage ripened from our pranks
of college days.”

Does

Does he

Eagerly they claimed the story, for they
know the L. L. D.,

With his flexile voice would garnish any
tale, whate’er it be.

“Just a year ago to-night, boys, I was in
my room alone,

At the San Francisco L House, when I
heard a plaintive moan

Sounding from the room adjoining. Hop-
ing to give some relief

To the suffering one, I entered; but it
thrilled my heart with grief

Just to sce that wreck of manhood —bloat-
ed face, disheveled hair,—

Wildly tossing, ever moaning, while his
thin hands beat the air.

Broken prayers, vile oaths and curses,
filled the air as I drew near;

Then in faint and piteous accents these
words I could plainly hear:

‘Give me one more chance—one only—let
me see my little Bell—

Then I’ll follow where they lead me, be it
to the depths of hell !’





99

“When he saw me he grew calmer, started
strangely—looked me o’er—

Oh, the glory of expression! I had seen
those eyes before !

Yes, I knew him ; it was Horace, he who
won the college prize ;

Naught remained of his proud beauty but
the splendor of his eyes,

Tie whom we were all so proud of, lay
there in the fading light—

If my years should number fotrscore, I
shall ne’er forget that sight.

And he knew me, called me ‘ Albert,’ ere a
single word I'd said—

We were comrades in the old days; I sat
down beside the bed.

_“TIorace seemed to grow more quiet, but

he would not go to sleep ;

He kept talking of our boyhood, while my
hand he still would keep

In his own so white and wasted, and with
burning eyes would gaze

On my face, still talking feebly of the dear
old college days.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘life held such promise ; but,
alas ! J am to-day

A poor degraded outcast,—hopes, ambition
swept away.

And it dates back to those oil cans that we
filled in greatest glee,

Little did I think in those days what the
harvest now would be!’

“For a moment he was silent, then a cry
whose anguish yet
Wrings my heart, burst from his white
lips, though his teeth were tightly
set,
And with sudden strength he started—-
sprang from my detaining arm,
100

COLLEGE “OIL CANS.”



Shrieking wildly: ‘Curse the demons! do
they think to do me harm?

Back! I say, ye fork-tongued serpents, reek -
ing with the filth of hell!

Don’t ye see I have her with me,—my
poor, sainted little Bell ?’

“ When I’d soothed him into quiet, with a
trembling arm he drew

My head down, ‘O Al.” he whispered, ‘such
remorse you never knew.’

And again I tried to soothe him, but my
eyes o’erbrimmed with tears ;

His were dry and clear, as brilliant as they
were in college years.

All the flush had left his features, he lay
white as marble now;

Tenderly I soothed his pillow, wiped the
moisture from his brow.

Though I begged him to be quiet, he would
talk of those old days,

Brokenly at times, but always of ‘the boys’
with loving praise.

Once I asked him of Lorena,—the sweet
girl whom he had wed—

You remember ’Rena Barstow. When I
asked if she were dead,

‘No,’ he said, his poor voice faltering, ‘ she
is far beyond the Rhine,

But I wish, to God, it were so, and I still
might call her mine.

She’s divorced—she’s mine no longer;’ here
his voice grew weak and hoarse,

‘ But although I am a drunkard, / have one
they can’t divorce.

T’ve a little girl in heaven, playing round
the Savior’s knee,

Always patient and so faithful, that at last
she died for me.

“¢T had drank so much, so often, that my

brain was going wild ;
Every one had lost hope in me but my
faithful little child,



She would say, ‘ Now stop, dear papa, for I
know you can stop now.’

I would promise, kiss my darling, and the
next day break my vow.

So it went until one Christmas, dark and
stormy, cold and drear; ,

Out 1 started just as usual, for the cursed
rum shop near,

And my darling followed after, in the storm
of rain and sleet,

With no covering wrapped about her,
naught but slippers on her feet.

No one knew it, no one missed her, till
there came with soleinn tread,
Stern-faced men unto our dwelling, bring-
ing back our darling,—dead/

They had found her eold and lifeless, like,

they said, an angel fair,
Leaning ’gainst the grog shop window—-oh,
she thought that Z was there!’

“Then he raised his arms toward heaven,
called aloud unto the dead,

For his mind again was wandering: ‘ Bell,
iy precious Bell !’ he said,

‘ Papa’s treasure-—papa's darling!.oh, my
baby—did—you—come

All the way—alone—my darling—just—to
lead—poor—papa—home ?’

And he surely had an answer, for a silence
o’er him fell,

And I sat alone and lonely—death had
come with little Bell.” i

Silence in that princely parlor—head of
every guest is bowed.

They still see the red wine sparkle, but ’tis.
through a misty cloud.

Said the host, at last, arising, “I have
scorned the pledge to sign,

Laughed at temperance all my life long.
Never more shall drop of wine
Touch my lips. The fruit was bitter, boys;

*twas I proposed it first,—
THE OLD WAYS AND THE NEW.

101



That foul joke from which poor Horace
ever bore a life accurst !

Let us pledge ourselves to-night, boys,
never more by word or deed,

In our fair homes, or elsewhere, help to
plant the poison seed.”

Silence once again, but only fora moment’s
space, and then,

In one voice they all responded with a low
and firm “Amen.”

THE OLD WAYS AND THE NEW.

| ee just come in from the meadow, wife,
where the grass is tall and green ;

I hobbled out upon my cane to see John’s
new machine ;

It made my old eyes snap again to see that
mower mow,

And I heaved asigh for the scythe I swung
some twenty years ago.

Many and many’s the day I’ve mowed ’neath
the rays of a scorching sun,

Till I thought that my poor old back would
break ere my task for the day was
done :

I often think of the days of toil in the
fields all over the farm,

Till I feel the sweat on my wrinkled brow,
and the old pain come in my arm.

It was hard work, it was slow work,
a-swinging the old scythe then ;

Unlike the mower that went through the
grass like death through the ranks of
men :

I stood and looked till my old eyes ached,
amazed at its speed and power ;

The work that it took me a day to do, it
done in one short hour.





John said that I hadn’t seen the half:
when he puts it into his wheat,

I shall see it reap and rake it, and put it in
bundles neat ;

Then soon a Yankee will come along, and
set to work and larn

To reap it, and thresh it, and bag it up, and
send it into the barn.

John kinder laughed when he said it; but
I said to the hired men,

“T have seen so much on my pilgrimage
through my threescore years and ten,

That I wouldn’t be surprised to see a rail-
road in the air,

Or a Yankee in a flyin’ ship a-goin’ most
anywhere.”

There’s a difference in the work I done,
and the work my boys now do;

Steady and slow inthe good old way, worry
and fret in the new;

But somehow I think there was happiness
crowded into those toiling days,

That the fast young men of the present will
not see till they change their ways.

To think that I ever should live to see
work done in this wonderful way !

Old tools are of little service now, and
farmin’ is almost play:

The women have got their sewin’ machines,
their wringers, and every sich thing,

And now play croquet in the dooryard, or
sit in the parlor and sing.

> Twasn’t you that hadit so easy, wife, in
the days so long gone by; .

You riz up early, and sat up late, a-toilin’

' for you and I:
There were cows to milk; there was butter
to make; and many-a day did you

stand

A-washin’ my toil-stained garments, and
wringin’ ’em out by hand.
102

THE STORY OF DEACON BROWN.



Ah! wife, our children will never see the
hard work we have seen,

For the heavy task and long task is now
done with a machine;

No longer the noise of the scythe I hear,
the mower—there ! hear it afar ?

A-rattlin’ along through the tall, stout grass
with the noise of a railroad car.

Well! the old tools now are shoved away ;
they stand a-gatherin’ rust,

Like many an old man I have seen put
aside with only a crust ;

‘When the eyes grow dim, when the step is
weak, when the strength goes out of
his arm,

The best thing a poor old man can do is to
hold the deed of the farm

There is one old way they can’t improve,

although it has been tried

By men who have studied and studied, and
worried till they died ;

It has shown undimmed for ee like gold
refined of its dross;

Its the way to the kingdom of heaven, by
the simple way of the cross.

THE STORY OF DEACON BROWN.

fyA VE you heard the story of Deacon
Brown—

How he came near losing his eae crown.

By uttering language so profane?

But it wasn’t his fault, as I maintain ;

Listen, Maria, and you will see

How it might have happened to you or me.

i)

A worthy man was Deacon Brown

As ever lived in Clovertown ;

Bland of manner and soft of speech,
With a smile for all and a word for each.



“'There’s odds in deacons,” as I’ve heard
tell;

But one who has known him for quite a

spell

Has often told me that Brown stood well,

Not only in church but among his neigh-
bors,

Esteemed and loved for his life and labors.

Not a man in the town at Brown would
frown,

There wasn’t a stain on his fair renown;

His soul was white ae his name was
Brown.

One morning the deacon started down

To purchase some goods at the store in
town—

Sugar and salt, and a calico gown,

And a pair of shoes for the youngest Brown,

And other things which he noted down,—

| A good provider was Deacon Brown.

His guileless heart was light as a feather,
As he rode along in the sweet May weather,

| Till he came at length at the garden gate
| Of the widow Simpson, and there did wait

For a moment’s chat with the pious dame
Who years agone, was the deacon’s flame.

The widow Simpson was meek and mild,

With a heart as pure as an innocent child.

She dwelt in a cottage, small and neat,

A little way back from the village street ;

And now, in sun-bonnet, with trowel in
hand,

She was Pouine the soil of her garden land.

The widow looked up and said, “ Du tell !

Is that you, Deacon? I hope you’re well.”

And the deacon replied to the gentle dame:

“Quite well, I ele you; I hope you’re
the same.’

Then they talked of the crops and the late
spring storm

Of the sparrowgrass and the currant worms;
THE STORY OF DEACON BROWN.

103



And she asked the deacon what she should do
For the varmints that riddled her bushes
through.

The deacon scratching his head, ‘‘ Well,

It I were you I would give them hel—”

He bore too hard on the fence as he spoke,

When suddenly, swiftly, down it broke ;

And prostrate there at the widow’s feet,

Lay the fence, and the deacon pale as a
sheet !

The deacon’s pride was sadly humbled ;

His teeth dropped out and he wildly mum-
bled,

As blindly there in the dirt he fumbled ;

And the widow’s faith as suddenly crumbled

When she found how her good friend Brown
had stumbled,

And her beautiful fence to the ground had
tumbled ;

While it seemed to her that an earthquake

rumbled ;

In fact, as you see, things were generally
jumbled.

The widow turned pale, and well she might,

As she looked at the ruin with womanly
fright ;

But her pious soul was shocked still more,

As she thought ’twas an oath the deacon
swore.

The deacon, too, in his grief intense,

Was afraid he had given the widow offense.

He looked around in a vague surprise,

While he tried to dam the tears that would
rise

(Of pain and shame) in his dust-filled eyes.

But when he recovered his teeth and sense
He borrowed a hammer and fixed the fence,
And endeavored with meekness to explain
His late remark, which cut in twain

By the fall of the fence and his sad refrain ;



No man could say he ever swore !

He was only speaking of hedlebore,

A drug she could buy at what’s-his-name’s
store,

To kill the bugs which her bushes bore.

I cannot tell all that the deacon said,

But he started for home with an aching
head,

And a heavy heart that could not rest;

For a guilty feeling was in his breast,

Which he eouldn’t get out, though he tried
his best.

And the widow she was ill at ease,

In spite of the deacon’s apologies.

She left the garden, went up the stair,

Threw herself into her rocking chair,

And rocked and rocked till the soothing
balm

Of the breeze and the sunshine made her
calm.

Then she searched the Scriptures to find a
text

That would somewhat ease her mind per-
plext ;

For her righteous soul was sorely vext,

And she wondered, “ Whatever will happen
next!”

And she thinks to this day, as I’ve heard
her say,

Brown shouldn’t have spoken in just that
way.

But as for myself, I question whether,

If he’d just put his syllables nearer together,

There had been the least trouble or scandal
—but then,

Such mistakes will occur with the wisest of
men,

In viewing such things with our moral eyes,

There’s a tendency, always, to moralize ;

And this is the moral I offer for all:

When you think you are stand'ng take heed
lest you fall!
104

A FREE SEAT.





A FREE SEAT.

p* was old and poor, and a stranger
Yo, In the great metropolis,
As he bent his steps thitherward
To a stately edifice.
Outside he inquires: “‘ What church is this?”
“ Church of Christ,” he hears them say ;
“ Ah! just the place I’m looking for,
Itrust He is here to-day.”

He passed through the spacious columned
door
And up the carpeted aisle,
And as he passed, on many a face —
- He saw surprise and smile.
From pew to pew, up one entire side,
Then across the broad front space ;
From pew to pew down the other side
He walked with the same slow pace.

_Not a friendly voice had bid him sit
To listen to gospel truth ;
Not a sign of deference had been paid
To the aged one by youth.

No door was opened by generous hand,
The pews were paid for—rented,
And he was a stranger, old and poor,

Not a heart to him relented.

As he paused outside a moment to think,
Then again passed into the street,

Up to his shoulder he lifted a stone
That lay in the dust at his feet,



And bore it up the broad, grand aisle
In front of the ranks of pews;
Choosing a place to see and hear,
He made a seat for his use.

Calmly sitting upon the huge stone,
Folding his hands on his knees,

Slowly reviewing the worshipers,
A great confusion he sees.

Many a cheek is crimsoned with shame,
Some whisper together sore,

And wish they had been more courteous
To the stranger old and poor.

As if by magic some fifty doors
Open instantaneously,

And as many seats, and books, and hands,
Are proffered hastily.

Changing his stone for a crimsoned pew,
And wiping a tear away,

He thinks it was a mistake, after all,
And that Christ came late that day.

The preacher’s discourse was eloquent,
The organ in finest tone,

But the most impressive sermon heard
Was preached by a humble stone.

>T was a lesson of lowliness and worth
That lodged in many a heart,

And the church preserves that sacred stone,
That the truth may not depart.

“Oo
In SAN RAFAEL,
As I’vE HEARD TELL,

FROM EARLY UNTIL LATE,
THREE MAIDS ARE THERE,
WHO, SWEET AND FAIR,

WILL YET NOT SIT UP STRAIGHT.

*TWOULD MAKE YOU WEEP,
AYE, LOSE YOUR SLEEP,

To wATCH THOSE CHILDREN THREE
E’EN STRANGERS SIGH,
IN PASSING BY,

SucH SHOULDERS ROUND TO SEE.

105



TEACHERS SEVERE
Go WILD, MY DEAR,

To MAKE THEM SIT UPRIGHT,
IN VAIN THEY STORM,
FoR EACH SMALL FORM

REMAINS A PERFECT FRIGHT,

THIS IS THE WAY,
SOME FUTURE DAY,
THESE CHILDREN WILL APPEAR}
CROOKED AND OLD,
AND EACH A SCOLD—
THUS THEY WILL LOOK, MY DEAR,



FOR JUVENILES.

GRANDFATHER’S HOUSE.

RANDFATHER’S house was a gray
old building
Ever and ever so long ago;
The fields around it were deep with clover,
The birds sang over it soft and low;
Round Grandfather’s house the turf—green
velvet—
Was sprinkled with daisies white as
snow.

A clump of lilacs bloomed in May time
Over the path by Grandfather’s door—
Ah, me! the charm of those purple blos-

soms,
Their graceful plumes just nodding o’er
The reaching, childish hands below them—
Their dewy fragrance Ill know no more.

Grandfather’s barn with its whistling cran-

nies,
Its frowning beams and rafters gray,
Its clover smell, the twitter of swallows,
And great, high, billowy mows of hay—
I have found no joy that could be measured
With Grandfather’s barn on a rainy day

Grandfather’s woods were—“ miles” it may:

be,
They reached much farther than one
could see ;

107

They were deep and dark and full of
shadow—
Often explored, and as often we
Found new treasures; the leaves in Autumn
Were rustled by small feet noisily

Grandfather’s room: when the day was over
We rested full in its soothing calm,
And heard from the Book with the leather
covers,
The ever new—old-fashioned psalm.
We knew not why, we asked not wherefore;
But peace settled over our hearts like
balm. |

Oh! for a glimpse of the dear old home-
stead,
The meadow green where the sweet flag
grew,
For one long breath from the fragrant
orchard, :
A touch of the cooi leaves bright with
dew—

For even a sight of the “rocky pasture,”

Or the swamp where at nightfall the
cows came through.

The days were long and the sunshine —
golden ;
At Grandfather’s house in the long ago ;
108

|THE TALE OF A TADPOLE





The moon was larger, the stars were
brighter
And fun was plenty in rain or snow ;
Now life at the best is dull and prosy—
Strange that the world should alter so!

THE TALE OF A TADPOLE.

TADPOLE sat on a cold gray stone,
©1 And sadly thought of his life.
“ Alas! must I live all alone?” said he,
“ Or shall I espouse me a wife ?”

A wise old frog on the brink of the stream,

Leaned over, and said with a sigh:
“ Oh, wait till you’re older, my dear young
friend,
You'll have better taste, by-and-by.

“Girls change, you know, and the pollywog
slim,
That takes your fancy to-day,
May not be the Polly at all you’d choose
When the summer has passed away.”

But the tadpole rash thought he better
knew,
And married a pollywog fair ;
And before the summer was over, he sat
On the brink of that stream in despair.

For would you believe it? his fair young
bride
Proved to be but a stupid frog,
With never a trace of the beauty and grace
Of young Miss Pollywog.

And although the tadpole himself had
grown
Quite stout and stupid, too.
He only sees the faults of his wife
(As others sometimes do).



To all young tadpoles my moral is this:
Before you settle in life,

Be sure you know, without any doubt,
What you want in the way of a wife.

CHEER UP.

®\HEER up and bear up! life should be
Bay,
Not 1arred by trouble and sorrow,
Think not of the misery clouding to-day,
But think of a brighter to-morrow.
Cheer up, and remember for one who is
brave,
And cheerful and honest and true,
Earth has no sorrow this side of the grave;
She may crush, but she cannot subdue!

Cheer up and bear up! friends may deceive
you,
Poverty, even, may knock at your door:
Heaven, perhaps, in her wisdom bereave
you,
As mortal was never afflicted before ;
Your future may seem to you dreary and
wild
As a bark on a tempest-tossed ocean ;
But bravely bear up, and Heaven her child
Will guard with a mother’s devotion!

Then cheer up and bear up, and laugh at
old Fate ;
Let her wreak on your head what she
will;
With noble and fearless forbearance await
Every blow, every loss, every ill.
Hope on, and remember the dreariest way
Has nothing of sadness or sorrow
For the brave heart that smiles at the ills of
to-day,
- And hopes for a brighter to-morrow!
ONLY PLAYING.—



ONLY PLAYING.

LITTLE old woman before me,
Went slowly down the street,
Walking as if a-weary
Were her feeble, tottering feet.

From under her old poke-bonnet
I caught a gleam of snow.

And her waving cap strings floated,
Like a pennon, to and fro.

In the folds of her rusty mantle
Sudden her footstep caught,

And I sprang to keep her from falling,
With a touch as quick as thought.

‘When under the old poke-bonnet,
I saw a winsome face,

Framed with the flaxen ringlets
Of my wee daughter Grace.

Mantle and cap together
Dropped off at my very feet ;

And there stood the little fairy,
Beautiful, flushing, sweet !



Will it be like this, I wonder,
When at last we come to stand

On the golden ringing pavement
Of the blessed heavenly land ?

Losing the rusty garments
We wore in the years of time,

Will our better selves spring backward,
Serene in a youth sublime ?

Instead of the shape that hid us,

, And made us old and gray,

Shall we get our child hearts back again,
With a brightness that shall stay ?

T thought—but my little daughter
Slipped her dimpled hand in mine,

“T was only playing,” she whispered,
“Pact J war aiucty-nine.”



WHAT SHE SATD. 109

WHAT SHE SAID.

@Y HE told me sumfin’ defful !
2) It almost made me cry!
I never will believe it,
It mus’ be all a lie!

I mean she mus’ be ’staken.

I know she b’oke my heart;
I never can forgive her!
That horrid Maggie Start.

Tuesdays, she does her bakin’s!
An’ so I fought, you see,

I'd make some fimble cookies
For Arabella’s tea.

An’ so I took my dollies
An’ set ’em in a row,

Where they could oversee me

When I mixed up my dough.

An’ when I’d wolled and mixed it
Free minutes, or an hour,
Somehow I dwopped my woller,
An’ spilt a lot of flour.
An’ I was defful firsty,
An’ fought I’d help myself
To jes’ a little dwop of milk
Off from the pantry shelf.

So I weached up on tip toe,
But, quicker than a flash,

The horrid pan turned over,
An’ down it came ker-splash !

O then you should have seen her
Rush frough that pantry door!

“ An’ this is where you be!” she said,
Oh what a lookin’ floor!

“You, an’ your dolls—I’ll shake you all.
Tl shake you black ’n blue!”

“You shall not touch us, Miss,” I cried,
We’re jes as good as you!

An’ IJ will tell my mofer,
The minute she gets home,

An’ I will tell ole Santa Claus,
An’ T’ll tell every one.”
110



O then you should have heard her langh !

“ Tell Santa Claus, indeed!
Td like to have you find him first,

The humbug never lived ! ”

“What do you mean, you Maggie Start,
Is dear old Santa dead?”

“Old Santa never lived,” she cried,
And that is what she said.

“UNKNOWN.”

HE child was young and beauteous, the
grandsire old and gray,

And hand-in-hand they marched along
that Decoration Day ;

The maiden bore a chaplet of lily and of
rose

To place above the silent lips that never
should unclose.

They paused beside a hillock upon whose
simple stone

Was graved in fading characters, that
mournful word “Unknown!” |

They sat them down upon the mound and
thus the grandsire spoke,—

“My child,” said he, with quivering lip,
as thrilling memories woke,—

“ We'll place our humble offering upon
this lonely grave, _

For here may lie the sacred dust of some
forgotten brave ;

Perchance on picket guard he fell, or from
the gory plain

His comrades bore a shattered form thro’
ranks of trampled slaia.

“°>Twas thus, methinks,” the old man said,
“thus fell my noble son,—

Thy father, child, my soldier boy—my hope,
my only one;



“UNKNOWN.”



He sprang to action swift and strong—he
heard his country’s call—

‘No star shall from our flag be torn, as
God is over all!’

“That starry banner blazed afar, the en-
sign of the free,

The beacon-light of millions past and mil-
lions yet to be;

Thy father loved its shining folds, he fol-
lowed where they waved,

Thro’ tangled wood, on frowning height,
as battle’s storm he braved.

‘“‘ And once he wrote, ‘ Your soldier son to-
morrow at the dawn

Will meet the foe, and should he fall be-
fore the night comes on, -

Remember, as our cause is just, that so
my heart is brave,

And glory shines beyond the gloom of e’en
an unmarked grave.’

“No other tidings ever came, the months
and years sped on,

And martial heroes proudly wore the lau-
rels they had won, :

And freedom unto every soul within our
land was given,

And glory veiled the nameless ones up-
borne from strife to heaven.”

The grandsire and the maiden knelt -—
upon the vernal air

Made odorous by the scented bloom he
murmured forth a prayer,—

It breathed of charity to all—of malice
unto none—

That North and South and East and West
might henceforth dwell as one.
“ WHY THE DOGS NOSE IS ALWAYS COLD.”

“WHY THE DOG’S NOSE IS ALWAYS
COLD.”

ri HAT makes the dog’s nose always
cold?”

Pll try to tell you, curls of gold,

If you will good and quiet be,

And come and stand by mamma’s knee.

Well, years, and years, and years ago—

How many I don’t really know—

There came a rain on sea and shore;

Its like was never seen before

Or since. It fell unceasing down,

Till all the world began to drown.

But just before it began to pour,

An old, old man—his name was Noah—

Built him an ark, that he might save

His fam’ly from a wat’ry grave -

And in it also he designed

To shelter two of every kind

Of beast. Well, dear, when it was done,

And heavy clouds obscured the sun,

The Noah folks to it quickly ran,

And then the animals began

To gravely march along in pairs ;

The leopards, tigers, wolves and bears,

The deer, the hippopotamuses,

The rabbits, squirrels, elks, walruses,

The camels, goats, cats and donkeys,

The tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys,

The rats, the big rhinoceroses,

The dromedaries and the horses,

The sheep, and mice, the kangaroos,

Hyenas, elephants, koodoos, sah

And hundreds more—’twould take all day,

My dear, so many names to say,

And at the very, very end

Of the procession, by his friend

And master, faithful dog was seen ;

The livelong time he’d helping been

To drive the crowd of creatures in,

And now, with loud, exultant bark,

He gaily sprang aboard the Ark.



111

Alas! so crowded was the space

He could not in it find a place;

So, patiently he turned about—
Stood half way in and half way out.
And those extremely heavy show’rs
Descended through nine hundred hours
And more; and, darling, at the close,
Most frozen was his honest nose;

And never could it lose again

The dampness of that dreadful rain,
And that is what, my curls of gold,
Made all the doggies’ noses cold !

Se

CLEAR THE WAY.

NS\)EN of thought, be up and stirring
night and day:
Sow the seed—withdraw the curtain—clear
the way!
Men of action, aid and cheer them, as ye
may!
There’s a fount about to stream,
There’s a light about to beam,
There’s a warmth about to glow,
There’s a flower about to blow;
There’s a midnight blackness changing into
gray.
Men of thought and men of action, cLEaR
THE way!

Once the welcome light has broken, who
shall say
What the unimagined glories of the day ?
What the evil that shall perish in its ray?
Aid the dawning, tongue and pen;
Aid it, hopes of honest men ;
Aid it, paper; aid it, type;
Aid it, for the hour is ripe,
And our earnest must not slacken into
play. ul
Men of thought and men of action, crear
THE way!
112 WHEN SANTA

CLAUS COMES.



Lo! a cloud’s about to vanish from the day;
And a brazen wrong to crumble into clay.
Lo! the right’s about to conquer: clear
the way !
With the right shall many more
Enter smiling at the door ;
With the giant wrong shall fall
Many others, great and small,
That for ages long have held us for their
prey.
Men of thought and men of action, cLzar
THE war!

WHEN SANTA CLAUS COMES.

GOOD time is coming, I wish it were
here;
The very best time in the whole of the year.
I’m counting each day on my fingers and
thumbs .
The hours that must pass before Santa Claus
comes.

Good-bye for a while, then, to lessons and
school ;

We can talk, laugh, andsing, without break-
ing the rule.

No troublesome spellers, no writing, nor
sums,

There’s nothing but playtime when Santa
Clans comes.

I suppose I shall have a new dolly, of course,

My last one was. killed by a fall from her
horse 5

While for Harry and Jack, there'll be
trumpets and drums,

To deafen us with when Santa Claus comes.

Tll hang up my stockings to hold what he
brings ;

I hope he will fill it with lots of good
things;





He must know how dearly I love sugar
plums,

I'd like a big box full, when Santa Claus
comes.

And now that the snowflakes begin to come
down

And the wind whistles sharp, and the
branches are brown,

I don’t mind the cold, though my fingers it
numbs,

*Cause it brings the time nearer when Santa
Claus comes.

THE NORTH WIND.

HE north wind doth blow, and we shall
have snow;
And what will the Robin do then, poor
thing?
He'll sit in a barn, and keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing, poor
thing!

The north wind doth blow, and we shall
have snow;
And what will the Swallow do then, poor
thing?
Oh! do you not know that he’s gone long
ago
To a country much warmer than ours{—
poor thing!

The north wind doth blow, and we shall
have snow ;

And what will the Honey-bee do, poor
thing?

In his hive he will stay till the cold’s gone
away,

And then he’ll come out in the spring,

poor thing!
THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL.

113



The north wind doth blow, and we shall
have snow ;
‘And what will the Dormouse do then,
poor thing?
Rolled up like a ball, in his nest snug and
small,
He’ll sleep till warm weather comes back,
poor thing!

The north wind doth blow, and we shall
have snow;
And what will the Children do then, poor
things?
When lessons are done, they’ll jump, skip,
and run,
And play till they make themselves
warm, poor things!

THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL.

HE mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter “Little
Paige
Bun replied:
‘You are doubtless very big ;
But all sorts of wind and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year,
And a sphere;
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I’m not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry;
Pll not deny you make —

A very pretty squirrel track.
Talents differ; allis well and wisely put ;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,

Neither can you crack a nut.”

JACK FROST’S LITTLE SISTER.

HIS morning when all the rest had
gone down,
I stood at the window to see
The beautiful pictures which there in the
night
Jack Frost had been making for me.

There were mountains, and wind-mills, and
brides, and boats,
Some queer looking houses and trees,
A hammock that swung by itself’ in the air,
And a giant cut off at the knees.

Then there was a steeple so crooked and
high,
I was thinking it surely would fall,
When right down below it I happened to
enue
The loveliest thing of them all,—

The cutest and cunningest dear little girl,
T looked at her hard as I could;
And she stood there as dainty and looked
back at me,
In a little white ulster and hood.

“Good morning,” I whispered, for all in a
flash
I knew ’twas Jack Frost’s little sister ;
I was so glad to have her come visiting me,
I reached up quite softly and kissed her.

There !—can you believe it?—the darling
was gone—
Killed dead in that one little minute!
I never once dreamed that a kiss would do
that,
Nor could there be any harm in it.
But I am so sorry! for though I have
looked
Fifty times at that window since then,
Half hoping to see her once more, yet I
know
She can never come back again.
114 WHEN I GROW UP.





And it may be foolish, but all through the
day,
I have telt—and I knew that I shonld—
Just as if I had killed her, that dear baby-
girl,
In alittle white ulster and hood.

WHEN I GROW UP.

BOY.

) MEAN to be a president,

d And rule each rising state,

And hold my levees once a week
For all the gay and great;

Pll be a king except a crown—
For that they won’t allow—

And ’ll find out what the tariff is
That puzzles me so now.

|. GIRL.

I will be gay and courtly,
And dance away the hours;

Music and sport and joy shall dwell
Beneath my fairy bowers ;

No heart shall ache with sadness
Within my laughing hall,

But the note of love and gladness
Re-echo to my call.

DANDY JIM.

HERE was once a little kitten
Whose name was Dandy Jim,
And his mother, let me tell you,
Was very proud of him.

His tail was long and graceful,
And his eyes a pretty brown ;

His coat was black and silky,
And soft as eider down.

But Dandy had a habit,

‘When his mother washed his face,
Of struggling and of kicking,

With a very ugly grace.

At first she tried to coax him,
And called him darling kit;

But naughty little Dandy _
Was unwilling to submit.

Once'a week he thought sufficient
To wash a pussy cat;

But his mother, it is certain,
Thought differently from that.

“T shall keep you clean and tidy,”
The wise old pussy said,

“ Or, if you quite prefer it,
You can stay out in the shed. -

“ Not until you’re some weeks older,
And know how to catch a rat,
Will you, my dear, be able
To decide,” said Pussy Cat.

SUCCESS.

O gain a name that long
Shall linger in the land,
To win such wealth our ships
Rest white on every strand -

To stand amid the wise
Who throng the council halls
To hold a warder’s place
Upon the nation’s walls;

To write the word the world
Is waiting for and knows;
To paint with matchless art
The soul of what it shows
A i
l

HA

i

























































































































































































































































































































































































































































I GROW UP.

115



CROP OF ACORNS.

This the world counts success,
To this its peeans rise,

To this its wild acclaim
Floats to the bending skies.

They count not so above ;

In God’s white books they write
The tragic word defeat,

O’er many lives thus bright.

But to some humble soul

Who wrought a helpful deed,
That ministered unto

The great world’s living need,

Whether by act or word,
Or only living thought,

God gives the crown success,
Unasked, wunhoped, unsought,

CROP OF ACORNS.

ERE came a man, in days of old,
To hire a piece of land for gold,
And urged his suit in accents meek:
“One crop alone is all I seek;
That harvest o’er, my claim I’ll yield,
And back again resign the field.”

The owner some misgivings felt,

And coldly with the stranger dealt,
But found his last objection fail,
And honeyed eloquence prevailed ;
So took the offered price in hand,
And for one crop leased out the land.

The cunning tenant sneered with pride,
And sowed the spot with acorns wide.

At first, like tiny shoots they grew,

Then. broad and wide their branches threw;
But long before those oaks sublime,

117

Aspiring, reached their forest prime,
The cheated landlord moldering lay
Forgotten with his kindred clay.

Oh ye, whose years, unfolding fair,

Are fresh with youth, and free from care,
Should Vice or Indolence desire

The garden of your soul to hire,

No parley hold, reject their suit,

Nor let one seed the soil pollute.

THE OLD CLOCK AGAINST THE
WALL.

@” the old, old clock of the household
stock,

Was the brightest thing, and neatest ;
Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold,
And its chime rang still the sweetest ;
*T'was a monitor too, though its words were

few,
Yet they lived though nations altered ;
And its voice, still strong, warned old and
young,
When the voice of friendship faltered :
“Tick! tick!” it said—“ quick, quick to
bed,
For ten I’ve given warning ;
Up! up! and go, or else you know,
You’ll never rise soon in the morning!”

A friendly voice was that old, old clock,
As it stood in the corner smiling,
And blessed the time with a merry chime,
The wintry hours beguiling ;
But a cross old .voice was that tiresome
clock,
As it called at day-break boldly ;
When the dawn looked gray o’er the misty
way,
11S



And the early air blew coldly:
“Tick! tick!” it said, ‘ quick out of bed,
For five Pve given warning ;
Yow’ll never have health, you’ll never have
wealth,
Unless you’re up soon in the morning!”
Still hourly the sound goes round and round,
With a tone that ceases never ;
While tears are shed for bright days fled,
And the old friends lost forever ;
Its heart beats on—though hearts are gone,
Its hands still move—though hands we love
Are clasped on earth no longer!
“Tick! tick!” it said—“to the church-
yard bed,
The grave hath given warning :
Up! up! and rise, and look at the skies,
And prepare for a heavenly morning!”

GREEN APPLES.
)ULL down the bough, Bob! Isn’t this

l fun!
Now give it a shake, and—there goes one!
Now put your thumb up to the other, and see
If it isn’t as mellow as mellow can be!
I know by the stripe
lt must be ripe!
That’s one apiece for you and me.

Green, are they? Well, no matter for that;
Sit down on the grass and we’ll have a chat;
And I'll tell you what old Parson Bute
Said last Sunday of unripe fruit:

“ Life,” says he,

“Ts a bountiful tree,
Heavily laden with beautiful fruit. |
“For the youth there’s love, just streaked

with red,





GREEN APPLES.

And great joys hanging just over his head;
Happiness, honor and great estate,
For those who patiently work and wait ;
Blessings,” said he,
“Of every degree,
Ripening early, and ripening late.

“Take them in season, pluck and eat,
And the fruit is wholesome, and the fruit is
sweet ;
But, oh, my friends!” Here he gave a rap
On his desk, like a regular thunder-clap,
And made such a bang,
Old Deacon Lang
Woke up out of his Sunday nap;

“Green fruit,” he said, “ God would not
bless;
But half life’s sorrow and bitterness,
Half the evil, and ache, and crime,
Came from tasting before their time
The fruits Heaven sent,”
Then. on he went
To his fourthly and fifthly—wasn’t it prime?

But I say, Bob! we fellows don’t care
So much for a mouthful of apple or pear ;
But what we like is the fun of the thing,
When the fresh winds blow, and the hang-
birds bring

Home grubs, and sing

To their young ones, a-swing
In their basket-nest, tied up by its string.

I like apples in various ways ;
They’re first-rate roasted before the blaze
Of a winter fire; and, oh, my eyes!
Aren’t they nice, though, made into pies?
I scarce ever saw
One cooked or raw,
That wasn’t good for a boy of my size!
A CLOSING ADDRESS.



But shake your fruit from the orchard-tree,
And the tune of the brook, and the hum of

the bee,
-And the chipmunks chippering every
minute,
And the clear, sweet note of the gay little
linnet,

And the grass and the flowers,
And the long summer hours,
And the flavor of sun and breeze are in it.

But this is a hard one! Why didn’t we
Leave them another week on the tree?
Is yours as bitter? Give us a bite!
And the taste of it puckers
My mouth like a sucker’s!
I vow, I believe the old Parson was right.

A CLOSING ADDRESS.

NDULGENT friends, you now have
heard us thro,’

In kindness we can bid you all adieu;

The closing hour of school has come at last;

How quickly have the moments flitted past;

It seems, I know, a dream of sportive plays;

Yet, parents dear, well spent have been our
days.

Teacher and friends, and pleasant class-
mates, too, ;

We kindly bid you, one and all, adieu.

BE TRUE, BOYS.

UT whatever you are, be true, boys !
Be visible through and through, boys;
Leave to others the shamming,
The cheating and palming,
In fun and in earnest, be true, boys.

119



FAULTS OF OTHERS.

HAT are others’ faults to me?
g I’ve not a vulture’s bill.
To peck at every flaw I see,
And make it wider still.

It is enough for me to know
I’ve follies of my own ;

And on. my heart the care bestow
And let my friends alone.

ONLY AN APPLE.

ITTLE Tommy and Peter and Archy
and Bob
Were walking one day when they found
An apple; ’twas mellow and rosy and red,
And lying alone on the ground.

Said Tommy: “ll have it.” Said Peter:
«Tis mine.”
Said Archy: “I’ve got it; so there!”
Said Bobby: “ Now let us divide in four
parts,

And each of us boys have a share.”

“No, no!” shouted Tommy, “ I'll have it
myselt ;”
Said Peter:
Said Archy:
all;
I won’t give a morsel away.”

“T want it, I say.”
“Pve got it, and TI] have it

Then Tommy he snatched it, and Peter
he fought,
(Tis sad and distressing to tell !)
And Archy held on with his might and his
main,

Till out of his fingers it fell.
120

Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flew,
And then down a green little hill

The apple it rolled, and it rolled, and it

rolled

As if it would never be still.

A lazy old brindle was nipping the grass
And switching her tail at the flies,

When all of a sudden the apple rolled down
.And stopped just in front of her eyes;

She gave but a bite and a swallow or two—
That apple was seen nevermore !
“T wish,” whimpered Archy and Peter and
Tom,
“We'd kept it and cut it in four.”

FOR A VERY LITTLE BOY.

ae very hard, kind friends, for me
To stand up here, with trembling knee,
And see so many people’s eyes
Cast on a boy of my small size ;
But then I thought I'd take my place,
And, soldier-like, the music face.
I’ve tried my hardest to please you.
You may believe me, this is true ;
Your kind attention (ere we part)
I thank you for with all my heart!

(Places hand on heart, bows to audience.)

A SCHOLAR.

§6\O/ES, I am five years old to-day !
Last week I put my dolls away;
For it was time, I’m sure you'll say,
For one so old to go
To school, and learn to read and spell ;
For I am doing very well ;
Perhaps you’d like to hear me tell
How many things I know.

FOR A VERY LITTLE BOY.

“ Well, if you'll only take a look—
Yes, this is it—the last I took,
Here in my pretty picture book,

Just near the purple cover ;
Now listen—here are one, two, three
Wee little letters, don’t you see ?
Their names are D and O and G;
They spell—now guess !—Old Rover !”’



GIVE US LITTLE BOYS A CHANCE.
(To be recited by a nusnber of wee boys.)

ERE we are, don’t leave us out, -
Just because we’re little boys,

Though we’re not so bold and stout,

In the world we’ll make a noise.
You are many a year ahead,

But we’ll step by step advance,
All the world’s before you spread.

Give us little boys a chance.

(Bow and go off)

ONE LITTLE ACT.

SAW a man, with tottering steps,
Come down a graveled walk one day ;

The honored frost of many years

Upon his scattered thin locks lay.
With trembling hands he strove to raise

The latch that held the little gate,
When rosy lips looked up and smiled,—

A silvery child-voice said, “‘ Please wait.”

A little girl oped wide the gate,

And held it till he passed quite through,
Then closed it, raising to his face

Her modest eyes of winsome blue.
“* May Heaven bless you, little one,”

The old man said, with tear-wet eyes ;
‘Such deeds of kindness to the old

Will be rewarded in the skies.”
LIFTY YEARS APART. 721



*T was such a little thing to do—
A moment’s time it took—no more,
And then the dancing, graceful feet

Had vanished through the school-room

door.
And yet I’m sure the angels smiled,
And penned it down in words of gold ;
*Tis such a blessed thing to see
The young so thoughtful of the old.

FIFTY YHARS APART.

HEY sit in the winter gloaming,
And the fire burns bright between ;
One has passed seventy summers,
The other just seventeen.

They rest in a happy silence,
As the shadows deepen fast;
One lives in the coming future,
And one in the long, long past.

Each dreams of a rush of music,
And a question whispered low;

One will hear it this evening
One heard it long ago.

Each dreams of a loving husband,
Whose brave heart is hers alone ;
For one the joy is coming,
For one the joy has flown.

Each dreams of a life of gladness
Spent under the sunny skies,

And both the hope and memory
Shining in the happy eyes.

Who knows which dream is the brightest
And who knows which is the best ?
The sorrow and joy are mingled,
But only the end is rest.

DARE TO DO.

NWARD go, forward go,
Like a soldier true!
Manfully perform the work
That is yours to do.

Nobly think, nobly act,
In life’s endeavor ;
* Show a will to dare and do—
_ Be a coward never!

Onward go, forward go; -
Be master of your plan;

Let your golden watchword read:
“Tl be a working man!”

THE BOBBIN RAN OUT.

T the sewing-machine a mother sat
down,
And there, as she wrought on the seam of
a gown,
The needle obediently followed its route
Long after, unnoticed, the bobbin ran out.

We bare writers whose books are a terrible
bore, _

For they write the same things they have
written before;

The thread of their thought was once flow-
ing and atout ;

They neglected to spin, and the bobbin ran
out.

The party at work on. the garments of state,

Refusing to spin a live question, its fate

That moment is sealed; though the wheel
turns about -

With motion defiant, the bobbin runs ovx.
122



There are skeptics who once in the Bible
believed,

But now they declare they were sadly de-
ceived ;

They followed the fashion to quibble and
doubt,

And every one knows how the bobbin ran
out.

There are leaders in prayer who are oft led

astray,

And they preach at the people for whom
they should pray ;

You can tell as they stumble and wander
about,

Their thread is exhausted, their bobbin run
out.

When the preacher descends in the flow of
discourse

From the pure and sublime to the vulgar
and coarse ;

When he pounds on the Bible and raises a

shout,

You may know at that moment his bobbin

ran out.

NURSERY SPEECH.

pat and mamma are gone out to-day,
I should like to have gone, but they
said I must stay; .
So I will not be naughty, or fretful, or
pout, |
For when I am older, then I shall go out.

But now I’m a child, scarcely yet five years
old,

So I must be good, and do as I’m told;

I think ’twill be naughty indeed if I ery,

For what little child is so happy as I?



NURSERY SPEECH.



DPve a nice pleasant home, a dear kind papa,

Two sweet little brothers, and a loving
mamma ;

It will please my kind parents if Nursey
can say

I have been a good child, and not cried all
the day.

LEARN TO COUNT.

#4] OW many thumbs has baby, pray ?

®{ How many hands for work or play ?
How many toes, and how many feet ?
How many fingers? Count them, sweet!

Eight little fingers as pink as a rose,
Two little thumbs, and ten little toes,
Two little hands, and two little feet ;
That is the way to count, my sweet!

ADVICE FROM FIVE, TEN, AND
TWELVE.

Five.
OU say, ‘ Me tell you what to do?”
Such a wee child as I?
All that your mamma wants you to,
And never fret and ery.



*Tis pretty hard, as I can tell ;
But then, if you obey,
Your mamma’ll say: “ Dear, you’ve done
well,”
And love you every day

Ten.
Shall I now tell you what I’ve found
By living ten years long ?
That quarrels very badly sound—
Not half so sweet as song.
MOTHH)R FARTH.

123



That tempers ought to be controlled ;
Does any one of you,

No matter, if you’re very old,
Find.this fact to be true?

Twelve.

I hear by day, I hear by night,
Mamma and teacher say:

* Be good, my child, in all things right,
And thorough be, alway.”

These words oft on my ear do fall,
And these words I must tell :

“Whatever should be done at all
Is worth the doing well.”

MOTHER EARTH.

LD Mother Earth woke up from sleep,
And found she was cold and bare;
The winter was over, the spring was near,
And she had not a dress to wear !
-“ Alas,” she sighed with great dismay,
“Oh, where shall I get my clothes;
There’s not a place to buy a suit,
Anda dressmaker no one knows.”

“‘T’}] make you a dress,” said the springing
grass,
Just looking above the ground,
“ A dress of green of the loveliest sheen,
To cover you all around.”
“ And we,” said the dandelions gay,
“ Will dot it with yellow bright ;”
“Tl make it a fringe,” said Forget-me-not,
“‘Of blue, very soft and light ;”
“ We'll embroider the front,” said the vio-
lets,
“With a lovely purple hue; ”
“ And we,” said the roses, “will make you
a crown
Of red, jeweled over with dew.”



«And we'll be your gems,” said a voice
from the shade,
Where the ladies’ ear-drops live—
“ Orange is a color for any queen,
And the best that we have to give.”

Old Mother Earth was thankful and glad,
As she put on her dress 80 gay ;

And that is the reason, my little ones,
She is looking so lovely to-day.

WHAT BECAME OF A LIE.

IRST, somebody told it,
Then the room wouldn’t hold it,

So the busy tongues rolled it

Till they got it outside;
When the crowd came across it,
And never once lost it,
But tossed it and tossed it

Till it grew long and wide.

From a very small lie, sir,

It grew deep and high, sir,

Till it reached to the sky, sir,
And frightened the moon ;

For she hid her sweet face, sir,

In a veil of cloud-lace, sir,

At the dreadful disgrace, sir,
That happened at noon.

This lie brought forth others,
Dark sisters and brothers,
And fathers and mothers—

A terrible crew;
And while headlong they hurried,
The people they flurried,
And troubled and worried .

As lies always do.

And so, evil-bodied,
This monstrous lie goaded,
Till at last it exploded

In smoke and in shame;
When from mud and from mire
The pieces flew higher,
And hit the sad liar,

And killed his good name!

A PERFECT FAITH.

Y darling kneeled down for her even-
ing prayer
And out from her gown peeped her little
feet bare,
And a halo of light touched her golden
hair,
And I thought of the dear Christ-Child.
The moonbeams fell soft on the wee, little
girl,
And lovingly lingered on dimple and curl,
And peace mocked the presence of tumult
and whirl,
And a holiness seemed to pervade.

Then arose the sweet words, “ Dear God,
every where,

Please listen to-night to a little girl’s prayer:

Bless papa and mamma, and keep in thy
care

All the folks that I love and I know;

And make them all happy, dear Father, I
pray,

And help me to be a good girl every day ;

And one thing more, God, I'd like awful to

Bays
But it may not be right if I do.

“T wish, Mr. God, that to-morrow you'd let
The blue, thirsty sky, with clouds covered
get,
And you'd ask them to rain a little mite
wet,
For one who’d be.glad if they would.
My papa, he brought me just only to-night,

A PERFECT FAITH.

A gossamer cloak and it fits me all right,
And I want to see quick if it’s leaky or
tight,
From the hem clean up to the hood.

“And now, God, Amen; don’t forget what
I said;”
And with heart full of faith, she slipped
into her bed
And soon into dreamland her
thoughts sped,
And anon, came a splash on the pane;
And all through the night and far into the
day,
The hot, burning earth drank its fever
away, |
And be-cloaked and be-hooded, I heard my
girl say:
“T knew God would let the clouds rain.”

happy

TO MOTHERS.

as HEN a little child is weak
From fever passing by,
Or wearied out with restlessness,
Don’t scold him if he cry.

Tell him some pretty story—
Don’t read it from a book;

He likes to watch you while you speak,
And take in every look.

Or sometimes singing gently—
A little song may please,

With quiet and amusing words,
And tune that flows with ease.

Or if he is impatient,
Perhaps from time to time

A simple hymn may suit the best,
In short and easy rhyme.
MOUSE TRAPS.

125



The measured verses flowing
In accents clear and mild,

May blend into his troubled thought,
And soothe the little child.

But let the words be simple,
And suited to his mind,

And loving, that his weary heart
A resting-place may find.

MOUSE-TRAPS.,

AY, did you ever a mouse-trap behold,
Framed to entrap all the silly young
mice ;
Tempting them, luring them on to be
bold ;—
Sweetest of morsels within to entice?
Did not you think, if a mousie were you,
You would know better than nibbling to
go?
if yowre tempted some wrong
thing to do,
Just think of the mouse-trap, and wisely
say Vo!

Then,

Say, did you ever a mouse-trap behold,
When it had snapped on some poor, little
mouse,—
‘Holding him, keeping him there in the cold,
Shutting him up in a dark prison-house ?
Did not you think. though the morsels were
nice,
Better with crusts and with freedom to
go?
Then, if the wicked try you to entice,
Just think of the mouse-trap, and wisely
say Vo!

Say, did you ever a mouse-trap behold;
Little brown mouse lying dead on the
floor ?

Did not you wish that somebody had told
Mousie to seek other quarters before ?
Surely, the way of transgressors is hard:
Always remember, my boys, @¢ zs so/
All of the wiles of the tempter discard ;
Just think of the mouse-trap, and wisely
say Vo! -

DO YOUR BEST.

O your best—your very best
And do it every day;
Little boys and little girls,
That is the wisest way.

- Whatever work comes to your hand,

At home or at your school,
Do your best with right good will,
It is a golden rule.

What if your lessons should be hard,
You need not yield to sorrow;

For him who bravely works to-day,
His task grows light to-morrow.

SPRAK GENTLY.

ey PEAK gently! it is better far
To rule by love than fear.
Speak gently—let no harsh words mar
The good we might do here.

Speak gently! Love doth whisper low
The vows that true hearts bind!

And gently friendship’s accents flow ;
Affection’s voice is kind.

Speak gently to the little child ;
Its love be sure to gain ;

Teach it in accents soft and mild—
It may not long remain.
126 SPEAK GENTLY.



Speak gently to the young, for they Speak gently to the erring—know
‘Will have enough to bear ; How frail are all! how vain!

Pass through this life as best they may Perchance unkindness made them so,
*Tis full of anxious care ! Oh! win them back again.

Speak gently to the aged one, Speak gently—He who gave His life,
Grieve not the care-worn heart, To bend man’s stubborn will,

The sands of life are nearly run, When elements were in fierce strife,
Let such in peace depart. Said to them—* Peace, be still.”

Speak gently, kindly, to the poor; Speak gently! ’tis a little thing
Let no harsh tone be heard ; Dropped into the heart’s deep well;

They have enough they must endure The good, the joy, which it may bring,

Without an unkind word! Eternity shall tell.














































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































GOOD NIGHT.

x

- PART TL «5

DRAMAS AND DIALOGUES.

IN SANTA-CLAUS-LAND.

A DRAMA IN ONE ACT.

CHARACTERS.

Santa Cavs.

Trent—Steward and general overseer to Santa
Claus.

Mrs. TRENT.

Dr. Snurnurr—A peripatetic physician.

Curp—A boy. Servant to Snufnuff.

Ona—A fairy.

COSTUMES.

Santa Cuaus.—F lowing white wig and beard, dressing gown and slippers. On entrance in Scene III,
a large fur-trimmed cloak, fur cap, Arctic overshoes, and red leggings.

Trenr.—Short, red, pleated blouse, belted at the waist (one can be cheaply made of cambric,) trimmed
with large buttons; knee trousers of gray cloth, gray hose, and low shoes ; cap of black velvet with
long gray or white plume.

Mrs. Trent.—Any tasteful home costume.

Doctor Snurnurr.—Black coat, vest, and knee Sisere, white hose, low shoes. Cap of black velvet
without visor; hair and beard long, waving, and iron gray. Carries a physician’s medicine case.

Cuip.—Plain, dark suit.

Owa.—Short dress of pink or white tarlatan. Pasteboard wings covered with gilt paper. Long white
wand.

Screne.—Interior of Trent’s house until Scene ITI, when it changes to the interior of Santa Claus’
house. An ordinary sitting-room or parlor will do, but when the scene shifts to Santa Claus’ house
some changes should be made in the furniture, etc., and, if possible, touches given BugE oS tye of its

owner,
(9) 129


SCENE I.

Curtain rising reveals Mrs. Trent rocking a cradle
with her foot, and engaged with any light needle
work.

Mrs. Trent (singing.)

Sleep, baby, sleep,

Gone the sun to other skies,
Thou must close thy tired eyes,
Sleep, baby, sleep!

O’er the land of Santa Claus

Night her sable curtain draws,
Sleep, baby, sleep !

Put, whate’er the skies may be,

Baby rests from danger free,
Sleep, baby, sleep !

Now the waxen eyelids close,

Held at last in sweet repose,

Lies the tender, helpless form,

Sheltered safe from harm or storm,
Yes, the baby sleeps.

This “cradle song” may be sung to the familiar
tune known usually as “ Put Me in My Little Bed.”
Omit the first “Sleep,baby, sleep,” if preferred, and
sing the others softly in four descending notes.

(ises and comes forward.) I cannot
imagine what keeps Trent so late. But,
then, this is a busy time of the year.
The dear children little know what Christ-
mas means to us. It means hard work for
every dweller in Santa-Claus-land. Ah! I
hear voices and footsteps. Perhaps my
husband brings a guest. That is his great-
est fault—he will bring home visitors with-
out giving me warning. Yes, here they
come. (Lnter Trent and Dr. Snufnuff.
Trent introduces the Doctor to his wife.
Both acknowledge introduction in usual
manner.)

Dr. Snufnuff—I am, as you are doubt-
less aware, Mrs. Trent, a stranger in Santa-
Claus-land, and am overcome with delight
and amazement at the many wonderful
things shown me by your courteous husband.



IN SANTA-CLAUS-LAND.

Trent.—But, Minnie, we are famishing.
Ts tea nearly ready ?

Mrs. Trent.—With your permission I
will be excused and attend to it. (Hat
Mrs. Trent.)

Trent ( following on tip-toe.)—I must see
that the doorisclosed. (eturning.) Yes,
all is safe. We want no eavesdropping.
Now, this is what I want of you, Doctor.
Old Santa, as you well know has had the
full control of this Christmas business for
many hundred years without giving a mo-
ment’s place to any one else. I have been
with him long and have learned all his
tricks and charms. The words to be said
when he drops his gifts into his magic box,
causing them to dwindle away in size, the
words that reduce him to a pigmy so tiny
that he can enter the narrowest chimney,
the charm by which his reindeer can travel
whole leagues in a minute, and also the
magic words by which he passes unharmed
over the network of wires in large cities,
are all familiar to me. Moreover, I have
supervised in one way or another the mak-
ing of all the gifts, and now why shouldn’t
I distribute them this year instead of old
Canta himself ?

Doctor Snufnuff.—Why not, indeed? I
should think the old fellow would be glad
to rest. ;

Trent.—Not he. He loves not only the
work but its honors as well. Once I bare.
ly hinted the matter to him, and he flew
into a terrible rage and wouldn’t speak to
me fora week. So, yousee (goes close tothe
Doctor, and laying his hand upon his arm,
speaks low,) what I’ cannot accomplish by
fair means I must by foul.

Doctor Snufnuff, (starting from him).—
You don’t mean to kill the old fellow?

Trent (shocked).—Kill him? No, in-
IN SANTA-CLAUS-LAND.



deed ; I wouldn’t if I could, and I couldn’t
if I would; he is immortal. Neither edge
of steel nor force of ball can harm him. « I
simply want to use a little stratagem and
want your connivance.

Doctor Snufnuf? (walking away and
shaking his head vigorously). — No, sir;
no, sir. I put the whole thing from me.
Do you suppose I would stoop to deed so
dark while I am a guest of the jolly old
Saint? Sir, you mistake me.

Trent (going up to him again).—Come,
come; we don’t want any tragedy. Iam
not going to harm old Santa. Let me ex-
plain. You have your medicines there.
(Pointing to medicine case.)

Doctor Snufnuff.—Y es.

Trent.—And, of course, you possess
some pills, powders, or potions that will
produce a heavy sleep ?

Doctor Snufnufi—Ah! I see your plan.
While the Saint sleeps you will steal his
vocation? But even this I am averse to
engaging in. Suppose we are discovered ¢

Trent.—That is impossible, since we are
both anxious for secrecy. But, come, what
is your price? We have no money in
Santa-Claus-land, but we have silver, gold,
diamonds.

Doctor Snaufnuff (walking away indig-
nantly). — Young man,I am not to be
bought—I will not become a partner in
your treachery.

Trent.—Oh! well, then I must give up
visiting the world again until my term is
out.

Doctor Snufnuf—Y our term ?

Trent.—Yes. You must know that every
one who comes to Santa-Claus-land, whether
from choice, as I did, or by accident, as you
did, is really a prisoner— ;

“Doctor Snufnuf? (starting).—Ah !



131



Trent.—And cannot escape until a cer-
tain fairy has given him leave—

Doctor Snufnuff (eagerly).—Her name ?

Trent.—To go. When I came, however,
I agreed to stay a certain number of years,
therefore even the fairy cannot release me,
and, as I felt a little homesick, I thought
I would like to see the gay world once
more, but since you decline to help me—

Doctor Snufnuff—But the name of this
fairy you neglected to mention. Come, I
have money (taking out a full purse and
opening %t). How much do you want to
tell me who and where she is?

Trent (imitating the Doctors former
manner).—Old man, I am not to be bought.

Doctor Snufnuff (aside).—I am a first-
class idiot. I lost a chance to win a potful
of gold. (Zo Trent:) That was all rho-
domontade. Let us understand each other.
You want an opiate; I want to escape from
this place, for, like ail human beings, the
spot where I am forced to stay immediately
becomes intolerable to me.

(Enter Mrs. Trent.)
Mrs. Trent.— Gentlemen, your tea is
served.
(Hveunt, Mrs. Trent leading, Doctor
Snufnuff and Trent following arm-in-arm
and whispering together.)

(Curraw. )

SCENE II.—Tue Same.

(Before the curtain rises the loud cries
of a baby are heard. Curtain rising, shows
Mrs. Trent taking baby from the cradle.
A large doll dressed like an infant is used.)

Mrs. Trent (in a low, coaxing tone).—
Poor little sing, did he sink his mamma
had dawn and left him? (Sits in rocker
and rocks, gently patting and soothing the
132



baby while talking to it.) Well, so she
hadn’t, but mamma was so busy and papa’s
dawn off wiz the naughty old Doctor wiz a
funny name, and dess left baby all lonie-
lonie. There, there, baby s’ant be ’bused
any more, so he s’ant. (Sings, “Bye, baby,
bye,” over and over.)
(Enter Clip, stealthily, looking cautiously
about.)
Mrs. Trent.—Well, my little man, who
may you be? You seem to be looking for

some one,
Clip.—O ma’am! T’m only Clip, Doctor
Snufnuff’s errand-boy.

Mrs. Trent.—So that is who you are.
But what is the matter? Didn’t Jane give
you supper enough ?

(Clip excitedly staring and
about).—Oh! yes, ma’am; yes,
But-is there any one here ?

Mrs. Trent.—Why, no, you funny boy—
nobody but the baby and myself. Of what
are you atraid 4

Clip.—O ma’am! something awful’s go-
ing to happen. You won’t tell on me, will
you ?

Mrs. Trent.—Something awful ?
do you mean?

Clip.—But you won’t tell?

Mrs. Trent.—No, no; there baby, hush
dear. (Sings softly, “ Bye, baby, bee
during all of Clip’s part.)

Clip.—O ma’am! my master—you know
him ?

Mrs. Trent.—Yes, of course, our guest,
Doctor Snufnuff.

Cie: —And—and — and your husband,
ma’am—

Mrs. Trent (leaning forward eagerly).—
Is anything the matter with my husband ?

Clip.—No, ma’am, I guess not, but he
and my master are going to do something

looking
ma’am.

What

IN SANTA-CLAUS-LAND.





to harm Santa Olaus, and I thought maybe
you could stop it if you knew about it. I
like old Santa Claus better than ever, now
that I haveseen him. What would we boys
do without him? I don’t know just what they
are going to do, ’cause I couldn't hear it all.
O ma’am! (falling on his knees) don’t let
dear, dear old Santa Claus be hurt. If he
should die what would become of the
world?

Mrs. Trent.—Never fear, Clip. He can
not die, no matter what they may do to
him. But I will learn what their plot is,
if I can, and perhaps I can prevent its.
success.

Clip.—Oh! thank you, ma’am. Now I
must go before my master misses me.
(Hat Clip, running.)

Mrs. Trent.—I am glad the baby is asleep.
again. (Ldises and lays it in the cradle,
softly singing, “Bye, baby, bye” as she lays
it down, then walks away from the cradle
and claps her hands three times softly.)

(Enter Ona.)

Ona bowing low.—Sweet lady, what is
your will?

Mrs. Trent.—O dear Ona! do you know
there is harm threatening Santa Claus?
Can you not prevent it?

(Ona shades her eyes with her hand
and looks away. Mrs. Trent returns to
the cradle and rocks it gently while watch-
ing Ona; both continue thus for a minute.)

Ona (lowering her hand and turning
toward Mrs. Trent)—Yes; it’s a well-laid
scheme, but you, Mrs. Trent, shall foil it.

Urs. Trent (leaving the cradle and com-
ang forward).—I, Ona? What can I do?

Ona.—Everything. First you must go:
over to Santa Claus’ house, where your

| husband now is.

Mrs. Trent.—l cannot leave the baby.
IN SANTA-CLAUS-LAND.



Ona.—I will attend to the baby. And
now hasten. I will see that you have a rea-
son for calling your husband out of the
house. The rest must depend on your wom-
an’s wit, for you must change the pipes.

Urs. Trent.—Change the pipes ?

Ona.—Yes. Ask no questions, but obey
me, and remember this is your mission—to
change the pipes. (Zvit Mrs. Trent.) Trent
has grown discontented lately and some-
thing must be done to show him his folly
and wickedness. How strange he cannot
see that there are worse places to live in
than Santa-Claus-land. Since “blessings
brighten as they take their flight,” I will
deprive him of his wife and baby for a few

months. ( Waves her wand slowly over the
cradle.)

(Sings.)

Come, O fairest of fairies!

Bear on your pinions bright

This burden so precious and light,
Softly bear, touch with care.

(Curtain falls here, but singing continues.)

Blow, O softest breezes,
Let no touch of pain,
Aught that e’er displeases,

Reach this baby brain. ©

Let him sleep, fairies keep

All his dreaming free from stain.
Softly bear, fairies, where

Tender love and joy remain.

(This song of Ona’s in calling to the
Jairies should be given in a@ slow, tender
chant. If possible, let it be in a minor key,
which will add to the effect greatly, although
of course, any other key will answer.)

1338





SCENE JII.

Room in Santa Claus’ house. Curtain rising
showing Santa Claus seated in an easy chair, a
small stand at his right hand. A chair and
small stand several feet at the right and some-
what behind Santa are reserved for Trent, who
is now standing in front of Santa on the right.
Dr. Snufnuff also stands before Santa on the
left.

Santa Claus.—Now that everything is
ready, Trent, the sleigh packed and the
reindeer hitched, I believe we will take our
“ good-luck” smoke. Fill a pipe for all of
us. We will have the good Doctor join us.

Trent.—Y our pipe is filled and lies there
beside you, good Santa. Mine is also ready,
but our learned friend, the Doctor, does not
smoke.

Santa Claus.—Not smoke! Why, how
does that happen ? (Takes up his pipe and
presses the contents with his fingers. Dried
mullen-leaves or other weeds should be used.)

Doctor Snufnuf—Science teaches me,
good Santa, that nicotine is poisonous.

Santa Claus (laying down the pipe.\—
Nicotine? What has that to do with our
tobacco, Trent ?

Trent (shaking his jist aside at the Doc-
tor.)—Oh.! it’s some new-fangled thing they
claim exists in tobacco. But you and I have
never seen it in our pipes, have we?

Santa Claus.—No}; not a bit of it. Well,
I cannot keep track of all the modern in-
ventions. If I live another fourteen hun-
dred years I believe I shall begin to think
Taman oldman. (Anter Mrs. Trent, a
light shawl thrown about her head and
shoulders. She breathes as tf exhausted
Srom running.) Why, Mrs. Trent, what
is the matter ?

Mrs. Trent (throwing off the shawl.)—
Gvod-evening, gentlemen. I thought I
should find you here. (Zo Trent.) One
134

of the reindeer is loose. I met some men
hunting for you. (Aside.) I may thank
Ona for that accident. (Zrent catches up
his cap and runs out.)

Santa Claus.—What a bother.
he was going to light my pipe, too.

Mrs. Trent (going up to the stand and
taking the pipe.)—I can light your pipe.

Doctor Snufnuff—I thought, good Santa,

_ that your deer were very tame.

Santa Claus (chuckling.)—Tame enough
when you know the charm, and wild enough
when you don’t. There are three magic
words that quiet them instantly.

Doctor Snufnuf—Wonderful! They
are hard to pronounce, I suppose ?

Just as

Santa Claus——Oh! no, very simple.

(Aside.) Does he think he can fool old
Santa that way, and learn the charm? Not
yet.

(During these parts, after Mrs. Trent
says she can light the pipe, she goes toward
the other stand, where are some matches.
Her back must be toward the others. While
taking a@ match and lighting it with one
hand sne adroitly changes the pipes with
the other, then turns about and comes
toward Santa Claus, holding the lighted
match close over the bowl of the pipe. She
comes near him just as he finishes his
(“aside.”)

Why, bless your beautiful eyes, Mrs.
Trent, you can never light a pipe in that
way. You must take the stem in your
mouth and draw on it.

Mrs. Trent.—How stupid Iam! But I
hear my husband’s step. (Lays down the
pipe.) I will leave the task to him.

(Enter Trent.)

(Aside.) I know not what I have done.
I can only trust in Ona. (Zo Trent:) Is
all well again, my husband ?

IN SANTA-CLAUS-LAND.

Trent.—Yes, thanks to your prompt sum- ~
mons, no harm was done.

Mrs. Trent.—Then, good Santa and Doc-
tor Snufnuff, good-night. (Hat Mrs.
Trent.)

Trent (aside.\—She might as well have
said good-night to me also.

Santa Claus.—So, now, if everything is
all ready again, Trent, we will have our
smoke. Itis time I was on my way.

Trent.—Yes, all is ready, and as soon as
your pipe is empty you can be off. (Aside.)
Off to slumber. (Hands him a match.)
Will you light your pipe yourself, or shall I?

Santa Claus.—No, Vl do it myself this
time. (Lights his pipe and leans back in
his chair, smoking rapidly. Trent. sits
down and does the same. Doctor Snuf-
nuff walks up and down the floor carefully
watching Santa Claus, but not looking at
all at Trent.)

Doctor Snufnuff (speaking slowly.)—As
you were saying a few moments ago, good
Santa Claus, I should think you would be-
gin to feel old. And yet, as it is impossi-
ble for you to suffer as ordinary beings do,
of course the infirmities of age can have no
power over you... (Aside.) I do believe
the old fellow is proof against medicine,
too. (Zo Santa Claus:) Were all the
world like you, how soon my calling would
cease, (Aside.) Yes, indeed, that powder
might as well have been given to a stump.
(To Santa Claus) And for us who thrive
on others’ weaknesses a person like your-
self is most unprofitable. (Aside.) Think
of it! All that drug inhaled and not the
slightest shadow of effect.
sional soul !

O my profes-
How it is grieved over so sad
a waste of good medicine. A dose like
that and no results! (@roans.)

Santa Claus.—There, my pipe is smok-
IN SANTA-CLAUS-LAND.

ed out, and I mustaway. (/¢zses and turns
toward Trent. The Doctor also turns
that way at the same time. Trent is lean-
ing back in his easy chair sound asleep.)

Doctor Snuf nuff (excitedly).—W hat mad
mistake is this ?

Santa Claus (laughing).—Poor Trent;
he has gone to sleep and dropped his pipe.
Well, I dare say I have worked the poor
fellow pretty hard lately. But now he can
rest. (Hut Santa Claus.)

Dr. Snufnuff? (going close to Trent and
scanning him closely.) Yes, it .is the
opiate. That careless wife must have
changed the pipes. Well, it will have
passed away by morning, and meanwhile,
as I have learned the Fairy’s name, I will—

(Enter Ona.)

Ona (sternly.)\—So here thou art, thou
worker of ill. What shall be done to thee ?

Doctor Snufnuff (falling on his knees.)
—Spare me, good Fairy, spare me.

Ona (to Trent)—Awake now from this
spell and receive thy punishment. (Slowly
waves her wand over Trent, who awakens
very gradually. His going to sleep should
be quicker, although at first he should make
a slight effort to. shake-off the drowsy feel-
ing. The falling asleep and awakening
can be made avery effective part if well
carried out. Not until he is fully awake
does Ona continue her address to him.)
Upon thyself, traitor, has the ill descended
which thou didst mean for Santa’s head.

Trent (falling on his knees beside the
Doctor.)—Sweet Fairy, oh pardon, pardon.

Ona.—Nay ; there is pardon for neither.

(Enter Santa Claus.)

Santa Claus.—W hat is all this ?
Ona.——Good Santa, here kneel two schem-
ers. Together they plotted against thee.

135

A powerful drug was put into thy pipe,
but the pipes were adroitly changed and
the spell fell upon the chief plotter. I have
but just awakened him, that the twoschem-
ers might receive their doom together. -
Thou (¢urning to the Doctor) art selfish

and grasping, therefore for one year thou
art deprived of books, instruments, pills,
powders and potions, and all thy skill and

‘knowledge. (The Doctor buries his face

in his hands and moans.) Thou (turning
to Trent) art discontented and complain-
ing, therefore for one year thy wife and
child are removed fromthee. (Trent drops
his chin upon his breast.)

Santa Claus.—Stay thy hand, sweet Ona,
Behold these trembling culprits. Temper
thy scorn and indignation with pity. For-
give them and let them go.

Ona.—No, dear Santa Claus, these are
lessons which they both must learn.

Trent.—Give me back my wife and child,
and no murmur shall ever again pass my
lips.

Doctor Snufnuf—Restore my gifts and
treasures, and I will devote my life to my
fellow creatures.

Santa Claus.—Come, come, sweet Ona,
Hast thou forgotton it is the glad Christmas
tide, the time for forgiveness and love? Re-
verse thy sentence that I may depart on
my mission of peace and joy, leaving peace
and joy behind me.

Ona.—Since it is thy wish, so be it.
Rise. (Zouches each with her wand.
These lines, which may be sung to any two-
Jive hymn time, are now softly sung behind
the scenes)

Let sweet forgiveness hold her happy
sway,
For coming now is Christmas Day, glad

Christmas Day ;
136

MOTHER GOOSE’S 7

PARTY.



From those we’ve wronged we’ll sweet for-
giveness ask,

And freely give it, too. O happy task!

No clouds of anger shall deface our joy,

Let love her wondrous power to-day em-

ploy ;

Yes, everywhere let sweet forgiveness
reign,

Nor make the Christ-child’s coming all in
vain,

Yes, let forgiveness hold her happy sway .

For coming now is Christmas Day, glad
Christmas Day.

* (During the singing of these verses Ona
waves her wand toward the right of the stage,
when enter Mrs. Trent carrying the babe.
Ona then waves her wand towards theleft;
enter Clip. The characters then arrange
themselves about Santa Claus in the follow
ing manner’)

Sana Ciaus,

TRENT, Docror Snurnurr.
Mrs. Trent, Cup,
Ona.
(Tasieav.)
(Curran.

MOTHER GOOSE’S PARTY.

Moruer Goose.
Miss Mopper.
Jack Horner.

Jack and Gru.
Tom Tucker.
Brown Berry.

The children should be very small, and dressed in old-fashioned dress, breeches, looped skirts

buckled shoes, cocked hats.

Mother Goose had better be taken by an older child than the others, '

and wear a dress of the last century. Mother Goose alone upon the stage.

Mother Goose.—
Well, well! It is my birthday once again,
And I the good old custom must retain
Of calling all my little folks, to come
And have a party in their mother’s home.
But once a year they answer to my call,
For they are scattered widely, one and all;
In every nursery they find a corner,
Miss Moppet, Jack and Gill, and Jacky

Horner,

My cousin, the old woman in 2 shoe,
The little piper’s son; and his pig, too.

Hark! ‘Some one comes! I will sit here
in state,

While all my little guests shall on me wait.

(Enter Jack Horner, with a big pie. A very
small boy and a very big pie.)

Jack Horner.—Good day, dear grandma.

Mother Goose.—How dy’e do, my dear?

Jack Horner.—See what a a pie
I have got here!

Mother Goose.—
Oh, Jacky, Jacky! What is that I spy?
I’m ‘sure I see a hole in your big pie ;
Iam afraid your naughty little thumbs
Have been at work again to find the plums.

Jack Horner.—Only just one, dear
grandma! In this pie I'll touch no more.
So say how good am I.

Mother Goose.—I'll trust you this time.
MOTHER GOOSE’S PARTY.

Sit there in the corner,’ And keep your
fingers idle, Jacky Horner.

(Jack Horner sits in a corner, with the pie
before him. Enter Tommy Tucker.)

Tommy Tucker.—Good morning, Mother
Goose !
Mother Goose.—
So you are here!
I hope your voice is very sweet and clear,
To sing for us when all my guests appear,
And make the time pass quickly, Tommy
dear.
Tommy Tucker.—
Oh, dear! that’s just the way where’er I go!
I never dare my face or form to show,
At any party, feast, or even supper,
Because the first request is—sing, Tom
Tucker,
And always I must do without a knife,
And. single live, for want of a fair wife!
Mother Goose.—
There! there! You always want to scold
and fret,
Although the very best of fare you always
get;
Go sit beside Jack Horner, and don’t cry,
And mind, you keep your fingers from my
pie.
No supper, sir, for you, unless your song
Is pretty, nicely sung, and not too long.

(Tommy Tucker sits beside Jack Horner,
and they appear to talk. Enter
Miss Moppet.)

Miss Moppet—Good day, dear Mother
Goose ; I’ve come, you see,
‘To help you keep your birthday.

Mother Goose.—
Fiddle de dee!
You’re always glad to come to me, my dear,
Because you know there are no spiders

here !

137

But you are welcome! I have curds and
whey,

That are for you, dear, later in the day.

Come, now, and sit upon this footstool tine,

- And when the others come we all will dine.

(Miss Moppet sits upon footstool. Enter
Jack and Gill, carrying a pail of water.)

_ Jack.—Goo” day, dear Mother Goose,
how are you, \-cay ?

Gill.—We’ve come down hill, you see;
good day, good day !

Mother Goose-—Good day, my little
dears! I hope you’re well.

Gill—Oh, yes! Tis quite a long time
since we fell;

We’ve learned to climb a hill without a
fear,
And fetch a pail of water sweet and clear,

Jack.—Such. as we have brought you for
your feast to-day.

Mother Goose—Thank you, my little
dears ; put it away, a
And find a place to rest you! You must be
Quite tired with bringing that great pail

to me. ;

(Jack and Gill sit down, after putting the
palin a corner. Enter Brown
Betty, with abasket of eggs.)

Brown Betty.—
Here I am, grandma!
hen,
Who lays such splendid eggs for gentlemen,
Has sent you these in honor of your feast;
There are a dozen and a half, at least.
Mother Goose—Thank you, dear Betty !
Brown Betty—And as I came here,
I met a great troop of your friends.! I fear

And my dear old

. The house will hardly hold-all those I saw.

Mother Goose.—Oh, there is lots of room
for many more!
138

Jack Horner (coming forward.) Oh,
tell me, Betty, did you see dog Buff?

Brown Betty.—Yes, he was coming with
a box of snuff.

Tommy Tucker.—And did you see the
old man in the moon ?

Brown Betty.—Yes, he will be here, too,
I'm sure, quite soon;

He’d lost his way of course, but Margery
Daw
Offered to guide him.

Mother Goose.—She’s been here before.

Juck.—There was a friend of mine was
coming too.

Brown Betty.—W hat’s that, pray ?

Jack.—One, two, buckle my shoe!

Brown Betty.—He’s on his way!

Tom.—The damsel in the lane, the one,
you know, who never could speak plain;
will she be here ?

Brown Betty.—Oh, yes, indeed ! she hob-
bles
Beside the man who always gobble, gob-

bles.

Mother Goose.—A funny pair.

Miss Moppet.—And will my husband
come ?

Mother Goose.—

That monster who’s no bigger than my
thumb ?

You should have brought himin your pock-
et, dear,

And then you would have been quite sure
that. he’d be here.

Brown Betty.—But Lam sure I met him
in the town, upon the horse that galloped
up and down !

Jack.—Will Bobby Shaftoe come?

Brown Betty —He’s gone to sea,

With his new silver buckles on his knee!



MOTHER GOOSE’S PARTY.

Mother Goose.—And tell me if our good
friend, Doctor Foster, has come back from
his yearly trip to Gloster ?

Brown Betty.—Oh, he’s coming, for he’s
on his way; all our old friends will come
and spend the day.

Mother Goose.—

Then you who came so early, now must
share

My labors for the feasting to prepare,

For all these guests must find their fare is
hearty,

When they arrive at Mother Goose’s party.

Jack Horner.—Give us your orders!
We are ready all, to answer Mother
Goose’s beck or call. So to the table first
Tl take this pie!

(Goes out with pie.)

Tommy Tucker.—IVll go and lay the
cloth, and then I’1l try
Every new song I know, till I find one
Will help to give the party all good fun!

(Goes out.)

Mother Goose.-—Miss Moppet—

Miss Moppet.—I am here!

Mother Goose.—Suppose you find some
cream and make the curds to suit your
mind.

Miss Moppet.—Thank you! Tl make
the dish without delay. (Goes out.)

Brown Betty—And I will go and put
these eggs away, ready for custard, pudding,
pie or cake.

Mother Goose—Be sure you put them
where they will not break! (Brown Betty
goes out.)

Jack.—Oome, Gill! We'll go and fill
the goblets high, that none of grandma’s
guests may go home dry.
THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN. : 139



Gil.—And if they call for drink, we will | I should be sorry, even if the least
not fail to give them bumpers of good | Did not fare well at Mother Goose’s feast.

Adam’s ale. ‘ Pll give them plenty of the best of fare,
(Jack and Gill carry out pail.) | 8° er aa year’s work they can pre-
. Mother Goose.— Then to the nurseries they all must run,
And I must go to overlook the rest, Before the babies miss a single one !
That there may be a share for every guest!) (Goes out.)

Dae UGLINST OF SEVEN.

CHARACTERS.

Ernest Hevuwa.p, heir to the late Countess of Falkenbrun.
JEREMIAH AMBROSE, steward of the late Countess.
ERNESTINE, }
Rosa,
Hiutsz,
GABRIELLE, + Daughters of Ambrose.
AMELIA,
Dora,
ADELAIDE. 3

Mapame Moorritrz,
Mavamt KUNKEL, © Formerly friends of the Countess.
Mapame MovsetootsH,

PEASANTS.

The first scene is a room in a hotel; afterward, it is in the vicinity of Castle Falkenbrun, or
a room in the Castle itself.

COSTUMES.

Exrnest.—Knee-breeches, short coat, cape;—as a German student.

AMBROSE.—Dressing-gown, skull-cap, slippers, spectacles.

Amprose’s Daucutrers.—Velvet bodices, bright skirts, braided hair, light-colored waists, slippers.

Mapams Moorprurz.—Riding-habit, with large hat, whip, gloves.

Mapaue KunKet.—Rich silk dress, shaw!, bonnet.

Mapams Movsrroors.—Light silk dress, much trimmed with lace, ribbon, etc., bonnet very gay
with many bows and feathers.



*From one hundred choice selections, No. 2.
140

THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN.



ACT I.

Scene I —Ernest alone, sitting at table covered
with documents, writing material, etc.

Ernest.—Alas! Iam the unhappiest of
men! The sole heir of my dear great-aunt
Falkenbrun, who leaves me all her wealth—
there is certainly no cause for unhappiness in
that fact—but why need she put in that one
frightful clause which spoils it all? Here
is my copy of the will; let me read over
again the details of my good fortune—no,
misfortune, I mean. (feads.) “Half a
million dollars, clear, and two estates on
the Elbe, near Dresden, for an eternal pos-
session, to my nephew, Ernest Hellwald—”
good old great-aunt! She loved me after
all, though I so often broke her windows
and slammed her doors when I was a boy,

_and only went to see her at Christmas,
when she gave me cakes and money. But
where is that fatal paragraph? Ah, here;
‘Paragraph Seven: But my great-nephew
shall forfeit the whole unless he marry one
of the seven daughters of my old friend
Ambrose, the one he chooses for his wife
to be”— this is too much !— the ugliest !”
But here is Paragraph Hight: “In order
that there may be no misunderstanding I
name the noble ladies, Madame Moorpiltz,
Madame Mousetooth, and Madame Kunkel,
as a committee to decide which is the ug-
liest of my friend’s seven daughters.”
Three old women! It makes me think of
“Paris and the apple; but no, Paris never
had to choose from seven, nor did three old
witches make him take the ugliest! (Z2ises
and paces the floor.) Itis not the want of
beauty that appalls me,—she might not be
so bad after all but that a gilding of half a
million would make her tolerable,—but
then my heart is no longer my own; I have
no longer any love to give. It is all in the



keeping of that dark-eyed beauty whom
I met at Naples, on the last day of the Car-
nival. Oh, to give her up, and marry the
ugliest of seven,—and all, doubtless, frights!
Never! Let me go on reading this hated
will! “Paragraph Nine: In case my nephew
does not comply with these conditions, the
estate shall go to found a hospital for idiots,
of which, however, he shall always be a
welcome inmate, free of expense, and shall
feceive from the hospital fund an allow-
ance of thirty-seven and a half cents per
month.” Was ever kindness mixed with
cruelty with such diabolical cunning? I
will try it, however,—try to swallow this
gilded pill, and if it be too much for me,
then 1 may think once more of my first
love in Naples, whom I have seen but once,
for one short moment at a window as I
passed below in the crowd of masqueraders
in the Carnival, but whose lovely image
can never be erased from my heart by the
combined ugliness of all the hated seven !

Scent II.—Road-side; Ernest Hellwald lying on
the ground with a wound in his forehead; be-
side him kneels Ernestine; peasants stand
around.

_ Srnestine—His heart beats feebly,—he

is not dead, but dreadfully hurt. Tell me,

how did it happen ?

Peasant.—My lady, I cannot tell you,
but as I came from the vineyard, we found
him lying here, and this empty purse near
by. No doubt he has been set upon by
thieves, and left for dead.

Lirnestine.—BSee, his forehead is bleeding
still!

Peasant.—lt would be strange if it didn’t
bleed, with that great hole in it. If you
will watch here with him, I'll be off to fetch
a surgeon from the village; and you, chil-
dren, go to Master Ambrose’s and tell him
THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN.



we will bring a wounded man there in half
an hour, and to be ready for him. Will
that do, miss? Your father’s is the nearest
place, and I dare not—

Ernestine.—Yes, yes, good Fritz,—but
don’t be long! He may die while you are
talking here. Make haste! (Hit Fritz
and other peasants.) Poor fellow! He
looks like a traveling student, yet’ his face
is strangely familiar. Ha! he moves! He
is opening his eyes! What a wonderful
resemblance !

Ernest (rising on his elbow and looking
around). Where am 1?

Hrnestine.—Are you better ?

Ernest (looking at her fixedly and then
falling back). Itis she!

Lrnestine.—Don’t speak,—you are hurt ;
you have been attacked by thieves, and
wounded, and now I have sent for help to
carry you to my father’s house.

Ernest.—Thank Heaven for a most for-
tunate accident. I thank my seven stars,—
seven—(wzldly) oh, wretched number! I
see them now,—all seven of them !———

Ernestine (aside).—Seven stars in broad
daylight! Poor fellow! it has affected his
reason. (Alowd.) Here, let me bind’ this
handkerchief around your forehead,—there,
that will make it better.

Ernest.—Oh, thanks! A little tighter—
no, a little looser,—still more loose. There,
I think I can rise now; let me try to stand.
(Takes her hand and rises.) There, now,—
with your aid, I think I can go on to Castle
Falkenbrun,—oh, wretched place !

Lrnestine.—Is there anything so horri-
ble in the name of Falkenbrun, that you
should speak so wildly ?

Ernest.—Oh, the seven! the seven!

Ernestine (aside).— A strange man!

141



What if he were crazy? But no, that is
impossible,—he is too charming!

Lrnest.—First, kindest of maidens, I
must ask your name.

Ernestine.—It is Ernestine.

Ernest—And mine is Ernest,—it can’t
be possible! Fate has surely meant us for
each other. Since I saw you in Naples, I
have never ceased to think of you.

Ernestine (aside.)-1 have certainly lately
come from Naples, but surely I never saw
him there. His poor head! (Aloud.) Come,
sir, and let us hasten to the castle.

Ernest.—W hat castle ?

Ernestine.—Why, Falkenbrun, of course,
—that is where Ilive! Come, it grows late.

Ernest.—But is the castle yours ?

Ernestine—Oh, no; it belongs to a
young man named Hellwald, who is wan-
dering about the world now,—a lazy, good-
for-nothing sort of fellow, I fear, to let
such a fine old place go to ruin for want of
care. It was left to him by his old great-
aunt, and we are hoping that he will soon
come back and bring a wife and make the
old place bright and merry again.

LErnest.—Tell me, sweet Ernestine, has the
keeper of this castle any daughters ?

Ernestine.—Yes, indeed,—seven !

Ernest.—Seven girls! But probably—
perhaps some of them are pretty, and some
are not. Is it not so?

Ernestine (laughing; aside).—How he
interests himself in the young ladies.
(Aloud.) Yes, six of them are right pretty,
but the seventh——

Ernest (anaiously).—The seventh ?

Ernestine.—She is truly frightful!

Ernest.—Is she cross-eyed ?

Ernestine (laughing).— Why not?

Ernest.—Oh, do go on, nice, sweet, pret-
ty little Ernestine!
142

THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN.



Ernestine.—Well, if you must know, /
am the old gentleman’s seventh daughter!

Ernest— You the seventh? (Despair-
ingly). You the seventh? (With a gleam
of hope). And are you truly the ugliest ?

Ernestine. Modesty is becoming to a
young maiden!

Ernest (beside himself’).—1 have it! She
is the loveliest! Oh, I am the most
wretched man on earth!

Ernestine (aside).—His head seems to be
getting light again. (Aloud). Come, you
must let me bring you home with me.

Ernest.—To your sisters? _

Ernestine.—Y es, you shall yourself judge
if I have spoken the truth. I’ll tie the
handkerchief over your eyes, and then you
shall see us on parade before you, when I
ery, “One, two, three,” and you tear the
bandage off.

Frnest.—And be blinded by the dazzle of
so much beauty ?

Epnestine.—That would be a pity, for
such handsome eyes!

Ernest (eagerly).— Have I handsome
eyes?

Ernestine —V ain creature! come! (She
leads him away).

Scene III.— Ambrose alone in his library, in
dressing-gown and slippe s. Enter Rosa.

fosa.—Father, the poor man has come
again to see about the gardener’s place. He
is out of work, and has eleven children, and
his wife is dead, and
Ambrose.—Rosa, it is no use! When he
came yesterday I told him I could not em-
ploy a man with red hair. When Nature
has set such a mark of distrust upon a man,
what are we, to run against her warning ?



“Of red hair
Let all beware !”

He would bring misfortune into the house!
I am sorry, but I cannot think of it. Why
did I send awayrthe other gardener?
Rosa.—Because he had a cast in his eye.
Ambrose.— Very true! You know my
principle, now go !
fosa.—But, father, he might wear a
black wig, and color his eyebrows.
Ambrose—Ah! that’s quite another
thing,—I’ll take him if he wears a wig, but
it must be very black. Tell him to come
to-morrow,—no, that will be Friday.

“Who on Friday bargains makes
All his former luck forsakes.”

Tell him to come on Saturday. Where is
my snufi-box? Don’t disturb it. (Zakes
at from Rosa.)

“Who the prize for health will take,
Three times will his snuff-box shake ”

(Shakes it three times, takes snuff and
sneezes violently).

All the girls (rushing
father !

Ambrose.—Not all at once! Only six,
however.—(Counts.) Yes, an even num-
ber,—much better luck.

Elise.—Father, Ernestine is coming with
a strange man !

Ambrose.—I knew it. Did I not prophesy
it at breakfast time? A knife fell down
and struck my foot. Where is the stranger?
Who is he ?

Gabrielle.—He is blind! »

Adelaide:—At least he has a bandage
over his eyes.

in).—Father !

(Ernestine enters, leading Ernest.)
Lrnestine.—Father, here is a gentleman
who has met with thieves on the river-bank,
and has been robbed and wounded. I have
brought him home with me, to see what
THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN.

143



can be done to help him. (Lifts the band-
age from his eyes.)

Ernest (starting back).—Ah!

Ambrose (taking his hand cordially).—1
knew it! What did I say at dinner?
A black cat jumped out at me when I
opened my study-door this morning,—a

sure sign of misfortune.

“A black cat in the morning,
Of an accident gives warning.”

You are heartily welcome, sir. These are
my daughters,—you know Ernestine; Rosa,
Elise, Gabrielle, Amelia, Dora, Adelaide.
(Each bows as she is named.)

Ernest (staring at them, bewildered).—A.
real galaxy of beauty! Excuse me for so
rudely penetrating into your family circle;
circumstances compel this informal call.
(Aside.) But Ernestine is the loveliest!

Ernestine (to Ernest).—Now, sir, was I
not right? Am I not the ugliest?

Ernest.—Ah, would that you were!

Ernestine (anziously)— How is your
head feeling now ?

Ambrose.— I know a remarkable balsam
which will cure your wound immediately,
but you must apply it before nine o’clock,
or it loses its healing power. Will you not
join us at our evening meal? Come, chil-
dren, one plate more.

All the girls —Yes, dear father. (They
rush out and return, bringing a plate,
knife, fork, etc.)

Ernest.—W hat a lovely family! So hand-
some! So obedient!

Ambrose.—Yes, if only there were not
seven of them. It is an unlucky number.

Ernest.—Ah, how well I know that!

Ambrose (eagerly). — Do you believe,
then, in evil combinations of numbers?

Ernest.—Most fully!

Ambrose.-~You are a man after my own

heart! And what do you think about mes-
merism ?

Lrnest.—_I—1I

Ambrose (excitedly)—Exactly as I do!
Yes, my soul

All the girls (who have been arranging
the table, interrupting him).—Father, every-
thing is ready!

Ambrose——Take your places, my chil-
dren. Ernestine, lead your friend to a seat.

Rosa (to Adelaide).—A right nice-look-
ing fellow.

Adelaide.—Yes, indeed.

Hlise.—Very polite to Tina.

Gabrielle.—He hardly looked at me.

Amelia.—There are too many of us.

Dora.—Perhaps he is already engaged.

Ambrose.—Now sit down,—are you all
here? One, two, three, four, five, six,
seven, eight, nine,—yes. Potatoes, meat,
rolls, fresh butter, fruit,—a frugal meal,
but you are welcome.

Frnest.—A true feast of the gods! In
mythology we ——

All the girls.—Have a potato?

Ernest.—Y ou are too kind,—a little water
and a roll are all I wish. (Ernestine rises
and pours water.) I have often heard of
the hospitality of Castle Falkenbrun, and
now I know its reputation is well founded.
I traveled for several months with the heir,
a year or two ago.

Amelia.—Oh, how charming!
us about him !

Rosa.—Yes,—what is he like?

Llise.—Good-looking ?

Adelaide.—Tall ?

Amelia.—Short ?

Dora.—Dark ?

Gabrielle—Or fair, perhaps?

Adelaide—Is he pleasant ?

Amelia.—Good natured ?





Do tell
144



Dora.—Musical ?

Gabrielle—Benevolent ?

Ernest.—No, he is little, has a large nose,
his eyes are a pale green, he hates senti-
ment, is very lazy, and does not care much
for the ladies.

All the girls——Oh, what a horrid man!

Ernest.—And now, ladies, my head is
feeling so badly, I shall have to ask you to
excuse me.

Ambrose.—Ernestine, give your friend a
candle. Your room, sir, is the first one at
the head of the stairs. Forgive me for not
escorting you, but my rheumatism forbids
much walking.

(The girls rise and stand in a semi-circle,
Ambrose in the midst. Ernestine gives
Ernest a lighted candle.)

Ernest.—Good night, ladies !
All (one after another).—Good-night !

(Ernest goes out, leaving door open. All
the girls except Ernestine go out at an-
other door; she and her father remain-
ing behind. Ernest reappears at the
door.)

Ernest.—My candle was blown out by the
wind.

(Ernestine relights it, and as Ernest takes
tt, he kisses her hand. Ambrose, in the
meantime, has gone to sleep in his chair.
Tableau.)

ACT II.

Scene 1.—A garden; Ernest alone.

Eynest.—I could not sleep any longer,
but am not sure yet whether I am awake
or dreaming. What an angel Ernestine is!
What a good old father! What charming
girls her sisters are! As far as I can see,
all the landscape is mine, but I forfeit it all

THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN.



ata word! The idiot asylum, thirty-seven
and a half cents a month, or give up all
hopes of Ernestine. Ah, here she comes,—
I dare not see her now. I will hide behind
these bushes. ( Hides.)

(Ernestine enters, carrying a watering pot.)

Ernestine—My poor flowers are all
drooping. I must sprinkle them before
the sun is too hot. Ah! (Sees Hrnest’s
hat.) He is hiding here to give me a sur-
prise! Now wait! (Shakes the watering
pot in his direction.) Caught in the act!
You are my prisoner!

Lrnest (springing out.)—It is my first
fault,—be merciful! But I would willingly
be your prisoner all my life long!

LErnestine.—Oh, that’s too long. Will
you promise to do better?

Ernest.—I promise! But, Ernestine,
give up joking. Can you not see how my
heart is glowing—

Ernestine (sprinkling him.)—Oh, then I
must cool you off! How have you slept?
How is your head this morning ?

Ernest.—Better, but let my stupid head
go; it is my heart thatis wrong. Ernestine,
what do you think of your sister Dora ?

Ernestine (astonished.)—Of Dora ?

Ernest.—Yes, and of Rosa, and all the
rest of them? They areall pretty girls, are
they not?

Lynestine.—They are to me.

Ernest.—All prettier than you? You
are the ugliest of all? Could you give me
that declaration in writing, with your seal
attached ?

Ernestine (aside.)\—Poor fellow! Papa
must have that balsam ready by this time,
and [’l]—

Ernest.— Happy father of seven ! seven!
seven !
THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN,

145



Ernestine.—Yes, Rosa, Elise, Gabrielle,
Amelia, Dora, Adelaide, and Ernestine.
But if the number seven is so disagreeable
to you, we expect three more ladies to-day,
—Madame Moorpiltz, Madame Mousetooth,
and Madame Kunkel. I must go now to
make ready for them.

Lrnest.—So soon? My judgment day is
coming! But before you go, answer me one
question,—the peace and happiness of my
whole life depends upon your answer,
Ernestine. Do you not know that my heart

‘is yours, that I love you devotedly ?

Ernestine (casting down her eyes.) You—

Lrnest.—Do not be hasty. I love you.
From the moment I saw you standing in
the balcony at Naples I adored you, and
when I opened my eyes yesterday, after be-
ing wounded, you were like a saving angel
bending over me. Now tell me,—can you
not love me a little ?

Ernestine (turning her head.)—I like
you right well already.

Ernest.—Oh, this is even more than I
dared to hope! May I not speak to your
father this very day ?

Ernestine.—I shall not prevent.

Lirnest—And will you give me your
lovely hand?

Ernestine (holding out her hand.)—Do
you mean—so ?

Ernest.—Ernestine you make me the
happiest of men! (Embraces her.)

Scrnz II.—Room in Ambrose’s house. Rosa alone.

Rosa.—What can all this mean,—this
everlasting talk about the ugliest? One
' can’t help overhearing a little, when peo-
ple will talk so loud. Its plain that this
stranger has the bad taste to prefer ugliness
to beauty. I think [Pll have a little fun
myself. With blackened eyebrows and a

scar on my cheek,—a red paint .scar,—I
(10)



may be able to make myself hideous enough
to please even him. Who knows but I
may rival Tina herself, if I’m very, very
ugly ; Pll try it, at all events. (Eixit.)

(Enter Madame Kunkel and Elise.)

Mme. Kunkel.—The first thing that I
request young woman, is, that you treat my
precious Molly with the most delicate con-
sideration.

Elise.—Y our Molly ?
ter? -

Mme. Kunkel.—No, Molly is my cat, my
dear, true pussy. Any injury done to her
is done to me.

Hlise—Very well, Madame; she shall
have her own room, if you desire it.

Mme. Kunkel.—With a-sofa in it ;—she
is accustomed to a sofa; and three times
daily she is brought to me. And here is
my precious Polly, who seldom leaves my
side. She, too, must have a separate room,
and be fed on cream toast. Can you tell
me child, why the master of this place has
invited me here ?

Elise—I cannot tell, but we expect
Madame Moorpiltz here also.

Mme. Kunkel.—Moorpiltz! That rough,
noisy creature, who carries on her late hus-
band’s business exactly like a man, and
spends all her time in riding to the hunt
and leaping fences ?

Ltise.—We expect her, and also Madame
Mousetooth.

Mme. Runkel.—Mousetooth! The silly,
sentimental goose, who, in her fiftieth year,
still wanders about in the moonlight, and
cries over a fly drowning in her milk pitch-
er! What can they want here ?

Llise.—I don’t know. There they come
however.

(Enter Madame Mousetooth and Gabrielle.)

Is she your daugh-
146

THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN.



Mme. Kunkel. — affectionately.) Ah,
you are heartily welcome, my dearest Mad-
ame Mousetooth! What good luck brings
you here ?

Mme. MousetoothSweet, dear Madame
Kunkel! What adelight to seeyou! (Zo
Gabrielle.) Be careful of my toilet box,
and my lavender, cologne, and millefieurs!
Let them be unpacked in the most gentle
manner, and left in my room.

Gabrielle.—I will see to it myself.

Mme. Mousetooth—Thanks, you darling!
And my portfolio, put it away most care-
fuily, the contents are so delicate!

Gabrielle.—I will do so right away.

Mme. Mousetooth.—You little angel!
Give me a kiss! There, now, run away,
both of you. (Hat Elise and Gabrielle.)
May Ienquire what brings you here just
now, my dear old friend ?

Mine. Kunkel (aside.)—Jealous old thing!
(Aloud.) I was just going to ask you, my
dear creature, what brought you ?

Mme. Mousetooth.—But are we all the
company, or do they expect others ?

Mme. Kunkel.—Madame Moorpiltz will
be here soon.

Mme. Mousetooth—Moorpiltz! That
horrid thing, who outrages every principle
of ladylike behavior and gentleness! But
listen! I hear steps!

(Enter Madame Moorpiltz and Adelaide.)

Mme. Moorpiltz (loudly.)—I tell you,
girl, ifmy brown pony can’t have a teed of
oats without any mixture of bran, let him be
saddled again at once, and I'll be off in a
twinkling |

Adelaide.—I will tell the groom.

Mme. Moorpitiz—That’s right! And
let him feed my two setters, and loosen the
collar on the brown pointer. I want to

have the black horse clipped, but T’ll see to
that myself.

Adelaide.—I will leave your order at
once.

Mme. Moorpiltz (patting her on the
head.)—That’s a good fellow! Now go!—
stay,—have a pinch? (Offers her snuffbow,
which Adelaide refuses as she goes out.)
Why, who’s all this? How d'ye do, old
girls? I almost overlooked you!

Mme. Kunkel—You were so absorbed
in your horses and hounds that—

Mme. Mousetooth (gushingly).—Oh, but
you are so fresh—so natural!

Mme. Moorpiliz.—I am not curious, but
I should like to know why we are here. It
certainly can’t be for the pleasure of one
another’s company. (Lnter Ambrose.)
Well, old boy!

Ambrose (bows profoundly to each of the
ladies in turn.)—Ladies, you behold in me
the steward of the late lamented Countess
Falkenbrun, For many years I managed
her estates, and she honored me in her will
by leaving them still in my charge till they
should be given into the hands of the chosen
heir. By the instructionsleft with her will
I have summoned you, her three oldest
friends, to attend to a matter of business
for her. She left this sealed letter, which
you are requested to read alone. (Lays let-
ter on table; exit.)

Mme. Moorpiltz (picking up letter.) —
Well, as I am the youngest and have the
best eyes, I will read this mysterious com-
munication from our old friend. (Zhe

others glare at her. She reads aloud.)

“Dearest friends: I call upon you to decide
which of the seven daughters of my friend
and steward Ambrose isthe ugliest. Ihave
no reason for this request, but ask you to
settle this simple point and to announce the
THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN.

147



decision to my great-nephew and heir,
Ernest Hellwald. For this service I leave
to each of you as a souvenir of me, a thou-
sand pounds. Estella, Countess of Falken-
brun.”

All three ladies.—Noble old lady!

Mme, Kunkel.—How generous!

Mme. Mousetooth.— How charmingly
original!

Mme. Moorpiltz.—W ell, we may as well
call the girls in, and put them through their
paces. (Goes to the door and calls.) Hi!
Ambrose! Old fellow, where are you?
Send us your seven daughters!

(The girls come in, and are ranged in a
row. They stand still while the ladies
examine them and comment upon their
appearance. While the examination goes
on, Ernest appears at the open door and
anxiously watches the group. The ladies
delay the longest over Dosa, who has dis-
fiyured herself as much as possible. The
three then resume thetr seats.)

All three ladies.—Now you may go!

(The girls go out at another door. Ernest
unobserved, listens with the greatest anx-
zety.)

Mme. Moorpiltz—Well, what do you
say? In my mind there is not a doubt
about it.

Ume. Mousetooth.—It’s also clear to my
impartial mind.

Mme. Kunkel—She has not a good

shape.

Mme. Mousetooth—Her eyes are not
bright.

Mme. Moorpiliz.—Her eyebrows are like
ox-yokes.

Mme. Kunkel.—And that great scar on
her cheek.
Mme. Mousetooth—Such sharp elbows.





Mme. Moorpiltz—Such a silly expres-
sion.

Mme. Mousetooth.—We are united !

All (Madame Moorpiltz holding up her
hand as they rise and say, solemnly.) The
ugliest is Rosa, the loveliest is Ernestine !

(Ernest falls back in despair.)
ACT III.

Scene I—The garden. Ernest and Ernestine

discovered.

Ernestine (sadly.\—Dear Ernest, since
you have told me all the story of that hate-
ful will, and I know what a sorrowful gift
my love would be to you, I cannot consent
to such a sacrifice,—you must give me up!

Ernest.—Never! Rather would I become
your father’s poorest workman, yes, serve
him for nothing, with the hope of an occa-
sional word from you, rather than do with-
out you, now that you have just begun to
love me!

Ernestine.—N ot so lately as you imagine,
perhaps. But is there no hope? Did you
hear the decision yourself?

Ernest.—Yes, alas! I heard it only too
well. A plague on their old heads, stuffed
with dogs and parrots and lavender-water.
(Lrnestine starts.) But I should have hated
them still more if they had wronged your
beauty by any other decision.

Ernestine (springing up.)—Ernest! I
have an idea! I think I see a way out of
all this trouble! Don’t ask me to tell you
just yet,—only wait, and don’t be surprised
at any thing strange that I may do. You
know I thought that yow were crazy when
I first met you; it’s my turn now!

Scene II.—A room in the house. The old ladies
sitting in a row, whispering together; all the
girls excepting Ernestine in a group at one end
of the room, Enter Ambrose and Ernest.


148

THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN.



Ambrose.—Ladies, while you have been
in consultation, I have just made the as-
tonishing discovery that we have been en-
tertaining as an unknown guest, no other
than our dear Countess Falkenbrun’s great-
nephew and heir. It gives me great pleas-
ure to present him to you. (All rise and
bow profoundly. The girls show signs of
great astonishment.) But where is Ern-

-estine ? It is unlucky for her to be up-stairs
when all the rest are down. (Goes to the
door and calls.) Ernestine! Ernestine !

Ernestine (rushing in.)—Oh, don’t be
angry, my dear old ladies, that I have kept

you waiting a little while, but something so:

funny has just happened! Iam in such a
hurry to tell you; it was zoo ridiculous !—
but do have patience! Rome was not
built ina day! The tree never falls at the
first stroke! It,

Ume. Moorpiltz —That’s a fact, old girl!

Ernestine (pertly.\—Who asked you to
interrupt? But where was 1? Oh, yes!
It wasn’t my fault that my father sent me
to the red chamber to bring him a sofa
cushion; the red chamber is next the blue
one, where dear old Madame Falkenbrun
used to drink her tea, except in the wi.ter
time, when she liked the yellow breakfast-
room best, because——-

Mme. Kunkel.—But, my child, do we
need to hear all this? Proceed with your
story !

Ernestine.—Excuse me, my dear old
lady,—don’t interrupt ! Good manners are
as lovely in the aged as in the young! Obe-
dience is the first duty of a child, so I went
for the cushion, and there, lying on the
damask sofa, was a great, fat, hideous,
abominable, gray cat!

UUme. Kunkel—My Molly! My sweet
creature !







Ernestine.—W hen I saw the horrid thing
there, I took the large fly-brush and beat
her off the sofa!

Mme. Kunkel (shrieking..\—Do I hear
aright? Alas! my heart’s darling !

Ernestine—She turned and tried to
scratch me, but I caught up a cord from the
floor and tied it around her neck!

Mme. Kunkel.—Wretch! Have you
slain her?

‘Hrnestine—Well, cats, like men, must
bite the dust, and she’s happier there than
here. But no, she is not dead! She
sprang to the open window and was out
before—

Mme. Kunkel—My Molly! Ont in the
cold, cold world! (faints away. Two of
the girls support her.)

Ernestine.—But that is not all! © When
she sprang on the table I heard something
go smash! and I found that she had upset
dozens of little bottles and glasses !

Mme. Mousetooth—Oh, my cologne!
My orange-water! Even my beauty-water
gone!

Lrnestine—Beauty-water! What good
is that to you at your age? Yes, perhaps it
was yours, for suddenly there was astrong, —
unpleasant smell inthe room (snatches her
handkerchief and smelis it,) just like this,
and then the cat and I together upset alittle
box full of ribbons and caps and curls and
feathers, andin my haste I crammed them
all back again, and as they would not go
into the box, I had to put my foot down
and press them,—so,--and—

Mme. Mousetooth.—Oh, my caps! My
feathers! (Haints away. Two others of
the girls support her.)

Mme. Moorpiltz—Never mind her, my
dear! Goon with your interesting tale!
Have a pinch? (offering her snuffbow.)
THE UGLIEST OF SEVEN.

149



Lrnestine (looking intensely disgusted.)
Bah! who takes snuff? Its not a fit habit
foralady! (Upsets the bow.)

Mme. Moorpiltz—Saucy creature !
best snuff, too! (Zries to bow her ears.)

Ernestine.—Much better to be saucy than
to fly around the country looking like a
scarecrow, at the head of a pack of skeleton
dogs !

Mme. Moorpiliz (furiously.)\—Impetrti-
nent creature! You shall suffer for this !
(Shakes the two old ladies, who come back
to consciousness.) Come, wake up, old
girls! Revenge!

My

(They feebly rise and glare at Ernestine, then
all three join in the cry, “Revenge, re-
venge.”)

Scene IJI—Same room asbefore. All the old
ladies; Ambrose; Ernest; all the girls.
Ambrose.—W ell, dear ladies, I hope .ou

have finished your deliberations satisfactor-

ily.
“A person of taste
Does nothing in haste.” :

And surely three persons of such excellent

taste require a very lengthy time for con-

sideration.

Mme. Moorpiltz (grimly.)— Yes, my
friend, and we have called your household
together in order to give them a specimen
of our excellent taste, You do not know,
perhaps, that we have been called here by
the will of the late Countess to decide
which of your seven daughters is the ugliest.

All the girls (astonished.)\—The ugliest !

Mme. Kunkel.—Y es,—a charming fancy!

Mme. Mousetooth—Dear, departed Coun-
tess! How refreshing! How original !

Mme. Moorpiltz—And we all agree in
declaring (all rise and speak together with
great emphasis) that the loveliest is Rosa ;
the ugliest, Ernestine !







Ernest (with the greatest delight.\—The
ugliest, Ernestine! Oh, say it again!

Mme. Kunkel.—In face and character !

Ernest (embraces the old ladies in turn.)
Angels of heaven! Dearest friends! Ac-
cept my warmest thanks! I bless you a
thousand times! I am the happiest man
in the world!

Ambrose (regretfully ; aside.)\—The bal-
sam did no good! His poor head is quite
light! I always thought he was a little
unsound on the subject of animal mag-
netism !

Ernest (to Hrnestine.\—Come forward,
chosen of my heart! You are mine,—you,
as well as the castle, lands, forests, woods
and waters! Father, will yougive me your
daughter ? ‘

Amébrose.—How? What? (Aside) If
I only felt sure that his head was quite
right.

Ernest.—Read that paragraph! (He
reads:) “ All this property to be his for-
ever, in case he marries the ugliest of the
seven daughters of my friend Ambrose.”
And Ernestine is the ugliest !

Mme. Moorpiltz (impressively.)-—W e ve
been fooled, old girls!

Ernestine (émploringly.)\—Forgive me,
dear ladies, for having been so rude! Love
tanght me deceit, but now I wish to atone
for it. (Zo Madame Kunkel:) Your
Molly’s adventures were quite fictitious,—
she sleeps sweetly on the white pillow in
my room!

Mme. Kunkel joyfully.—My Molly! Is
it possible ?

Ernestine (to Madame Mousetooth:)—
Your bottles are quite safe, dear lady, and
the beauty water—which indeed you do
not need—is unharmed. ‘To-morrow a
flask of Persian oil of roses will be sent you
150

TRUSTY AND TRUE.



asa peace offering. (Zo Madame Moor-
piltz:) Forgive the rudeness I offered you
and accept from Ernest a snuff-box with
your monogram in diamonds. And now,
can you forgive me ?

All three ladies (blandly.)—We forgive!

Ernestine-—Now father, dear father,
your consent, your blessing !

Ambrose (wiping his eyes.\—My dear, I

knew something of this kind was going to
happen, such a singular twitching in my left
eye,—always a sign of weeping! (Joins
their hands.) But after this I will put-no
more faith in unlucky numbers, for I have
gained a most charming and desirable son-
in-law, because my little Tina was—
All.—The ugliest of seven !
(Curtain falls.)

6 <4 8, > 2 =
: v

EPRUSELY AND. TRUE.

CHARACTERS.

Mr. Soutn, a Mercuant.

Scene J.—Counting-room. Russell seated at a

desk, busy with a day-book and ledg. r.

(Enter Drew and Grey unperceived by him.)

Fussell (speaking to himself.)—There
you are! I’ve conquered you at last. All
those long columns of figures are right, sir!
Now, John Russell, I think a page of
algebra will get the cobwebs out of your
brain. So here’s at it, my boy !

Drew (slapping him on the shoulder.)—
So, here’s your den, where you hide your-
self, old fellow. What a fool you are, to
work two hours atter the rest are out !

Grey.—And now he talks. about algebra!
I'd go sailing up Salt River, with asign
over me, before /’d touch an algebra. Sure
enough, what do you stay here for so late
o’nights 4

Russell.—W ell, to-night I stayed to do a
little work for Mr. Soule—a few figures

Joun RussELy,
Frank Grey,

Clerks.
Amasa Drew,

that somehow wouldn’t add up right. But
[ve balanced everything all straight; and
I’m glad of it; they were in a snarl some-
what, but its all right.

Drew.—And the algebra ?

Lussell—Oh, you know Mr. Soule told
us the other day he must do with less help
soon. And as I’m the youngest clerk, I
expect to be the one to be turned off. So
I’m brushing up a little. Just to prepare
for a winter campaign of teaching. That’s
all,

Grey (putting his hands in his pockets,
and looking solemnly at Russell.) —Russell,
how old are you?

Russell (smaling.\—Oh, I’m almost eight-
een. Rather young, I know; but I taught
last winter with pretty good success. Ill
do better this year.

Grey.—Well, ’m glad you aren’t quite a
























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































POOR LITTLE CRAB.

151

TRUSTY AND TRUE.

hundred. A fellow’d think, though, to
hear you talk, that you came out of the ark.

Drew.—Looks arkish, doesn’t he, Frank?
Well, one thing J know. Yov’re a fool to
work over your hours for old Soule. He
doesn’t pay you extra.

Lussell.—I don’t ask anything for a little
kindness like that. Mr. Soule is a kind,
considerate employer, and does a great deal
for us, you know. Im glad to do him any
little favor, I’m sure.

Grey.—Well, old fellow, don’t stay here
moping all the evening. Its a splendid
night! Come with us and have some fun.

Lussell.—W hat kind of fun?

Grey.—Oh, most anything. A hand at
euchre, perhaps.

Russell.—My dear fellow, I don’t know
one card from another. In the ark, where
I was brought up, cards are non est.

Drew.—Of course. Well, say a game of
billiards, for variety.

Rugsell.—I am not going to the billiard-
room again. I confess to a fondness for the
game, but they make it a regular gambling
operation ; and such a set of profane, half-
drunken rowdies as they get in. Vo, sir!
I beg to be excused. I wish you wouldn’t
go, boys.

Drew.—Lve no conscientious scruples,
and I’m not afraid. J wasn’t brought up
in the ark, thank fortune.

Lussell.—Mine was a blessed, restful,
Eafe old ark, thank Heaven! The memory
of it has been a safeguard in many a temp-
tation.

Grey.—Yes, yes, no doubt! You make
me homesick; for your words bring to
mind my dear old home in the country.

Drew.—There, boys, don’t be spoonies!
We'll just go it while we’re young, and
have a good time. See here, Russell, we

153

came in to ask you to take a sail with us
to-morrow. There’s a party of us going
over to the island—its going to be a splen- |
did day.

fussell— You don’t mean to-morrow !
To-morrow’s Sunday! You've forgotten.

Drew.—Forgotten! Just as if it could
be any harm for us poor fellows, who are
shut up within brick walls six days out of
seven, to take a sail on Sunday !

Grey.—Y ou can go to church twice and
attend your Sunday-school, and then go.
That wouldn’t be breaking the Sabbath.

Drew.—Come, Russell, do go just for
once! I tell you Diamond Island is just
splendid now. Come.

Lussell.Stop a moment. Let me think.
I tell you, boys, ’d like to go! Ive been
in the city ten months, and all the country
Dve seen is that pitiful little Common, and
the bit of green in front of my boarding
house. I’d like to go, if it was right,
but—

Grey.—Hurra! “The man that delib-
erates is lost.” He’ll go, Drew; we only
want him to complete our number. We’ll
have a gay old time.

fussell.—See here, boys, don’t be too
fast. Just let me read you a part of my
mother’s last letter. (Zakes a letter from
his breast pocket, and opens it.) You see,
I carry it next my heart. (Meads:) “I
hope, my child, you will never be tempted
to spend any portion of the Sabbath in a
way that your mother would not approve.
I know you must be lonely on that day, and
that you must miss us all. But do not for-
get that day belongs to God. You cannot
expect His blessing, if you do not ‘remem-
ber the Sabbath.’” Now, boys, you see, I
sat right down and wrote to mother that I
wouldn’t be tempted to do anything on the
154

TRUSTY AND TRUE.



Sabbath that she wouldn’t like me to do.
So you see I can’t go.

Grey.—Well, you needn’t preach any
more. We’ll get enough of that to-morrow.

fiussell—_l beg your pardon, boys. I
think I never intruded my opinions upon
you before. But, honest, I don’t think it
right to go sailing on Sunday.

Grey-—And, honest, I don’t—so there !
- Fussell.—Oh, then, be true to your con-
science, and don’t go.

Grey—lve promised, and I must this
once. Butit shall be the very last time.

Drew.—Hold your tongue, Grey, and
don’t be a fool. Russell, you’ve always
been a clever fellow, never poking your
nose into other folks’ business, and you’ve
never “let on” about us fellows who don’t
think as you do. I respect you forit. And
now I want you to do us a favor, will you?

Russell.Certainly, if I can.

Drew.—Well, you can. Tellus where
old Soule keeps the key to his boat-house.

Grey.—You are not supposed to mistrust
what we want to know for.

Drew—Oh, we want to know just for
information. We have inquiring minds
yousee. A little curiosity—that’s all.

Russell—But I do suspect your inten-
tions. You want to get Mr. Soule’s “Fa-
vorite” to go sailing with to-morrow.

Drew.—Granted. He’s a stingy old
scamp. He won’t let his boat, and there
isn’t another to be had, for love or money.
All you’ve got to do about it is to say acci-
dentally, where he keeps the key. We
know you have charge of it.

Leussell (Walking about as if thinking,
and then speaking.)—Can you keep a secret
boys?

Drew.—Mum’s the word. Nobody shall





ever know. The rack couldn’t wring it
from us.

Grey—Oh, yes; we can keep a secret,
and we will. Let us have it.

Lussell.So can I; and so I will! Mr.
Soule gave me the care of the boat-house
key. I promised him I would neither let
it go out of my possession, nor tell where I
keep it. I know you'll both be offended,
but I can’t helpit. My motto is “trusty
and true,” and I'll stick to it as long as I
live.

Drew.— You're a booby, spooney, and
coward! I cut your acquaintance forever.
(Goes out.)

Grey (following Drew, takes Russells
hand, and speaks in @ low voice.)—I re-
spect you, Russell. I don’t blame you!
Don’t forget me.

Russell—W ell, they’ve gone. Heigho!
Tve made a lifetime enemy; but I can’t
help it ! ’m a booby and a spooney, maybe,
but I’m not a coward. I know I’d rather
march up to the cannon’s mouth than to
face such music as this. Oh, dear!

wouldn’t I like to have somebody tell me ~

I'm not a booby. I wish somebody cared
about us poor stranger-boys. When I'ma
man, I’ll hunt up all the young fellows, and
just let them see that somebody has an in-
terest in them.
and Sabbath-school and—ah! well! that’s
another of my foolish notions. I suppose I
must be a little unfinished in the upper
story. Ill off to bed and to sleep. (iit.)
(Curtain.)

Scenz IT.—Place same as before. Time, Monday
morning. Mr. Soule sitting by a desk.

(Enter Russell.)

Russell.—Y ou wished to see me, sir ?
Soule—Ah, Russell! (iutending his
hand.) Gilad to see youso prompt! Sit

Vl ask them to church®

*
TRUSTY AND TRUE.

down here. I want to have a little talk
with you.

Leusselt (Taking a seat.)}—Thank you, sir;
TPve been expecting this for a week. I
suppose you are about to make the change
you spoke of. I’m sorry to go, sir, but as
Iam the youngest clerk, 1 expected to be
the first one turned off.

Soule.—Y es, I am making some changes
in my business, and some two or three must
be discharged. You found the snarl here,
(laying his hand on the ledger,) and
unraveled it, I see.

Lussell.—Y es, sir ; I think it is all right.

Soule.—All right, Russell, and very well
done. Have you seen Drew this morning ?

Russelil._No, sir; neither Drew nor
Grey. I wonder where they are to-day.
I noticed neither of their desks were filled.

Soule—Then you haven’t heard the
news ¢

Russell.—No, sir! What news ?

Soule.—Frank Grey had his eye put out
last night, in a billiard saloon, in a drunken
quarrel.

Russell.—F rank Grey! Poor fellow!
You don’t mean to say Ae had been drink-
ing, Mr. Soule ?

Soule.—No, Ithink not. He got mixed
up in the quarrel somehow. It is a great
pity he was ever tempted to go there at all.
Grey isnot very wicked yet, only a little
weak,

Fussell.—Perhaps this may save him. I
hope so. He’s good-hearted. Poor Frank!
Lost aneye! How terrible! .

Soule.—Yes, but it might have been
worse. If the loss of an eye will reform his
character and make his life useful, it will
be a mercy, after all. There’s another bad
piece of news which I presume you haven’t
heard. Drew is in the lockup.





155

— Russell (astonished.\—In the where ?

Soule—In “durance vile,’ Russell, on
the charge of breaking and entering.

Russell._Whose store? Can this be
true, Mr. Soule?

Soule.—Captain Nelson’s boat-house. He
stole Nelson’s yacht, he and some other fel-
lows, and went pleasuring. Nelson’s angry,
of course, and had them arrested this morn-
ing.

Fussell.—It is asad thing! Iam very
sorry. Was Grey one of the party ?

Soule.—No, he wasn’t. He had a sick
headache all day, and it is a great pity it
hadn’t lasted all the evening as well.

Fussell—Somebody coaxed him off.
The poor fellow could never say “no.”

Soule.—Its a great pity. The fact is, he
isn’t “trusty and true.” Very few young
menare. When I find one that is, I con-
sider him worth his weight in diamonds—
eh, John ?

Leussell,—Y es, sir; I suppose so, sir.
That is, my parents always taught me so.

Soule.—Don’t blush so, Russell, my dear
fellow. I didn’t mean to play eaves-drop-
per last Saturday night, but I heard your
conversation with Drew and Grey. You
have been well taught, and you do your
parents honor, You shall not suffer for
your defence of me and my property, I
assure you.

Russell.—l only did my duty, sir. When
do you want me to leave—to-day ?

Soule.—I don’t want you to leave at all.

Russell.—I thought you said—

Soule-—You mustn’t jump at conclu-
sions. I said I was about making some
change, and Iam. I sent for you to offer
you the clerkship made vacant by Drew.
That gives you a jump over four years, and
will more than double your salary.
156



Russell.—Oh, Mr. Soule, how can I thank
you? Do you think I am competent to do
his work ?

Soule.—I think so. That was his work
you righted up on Saturday night.

Lussell.—Myr. Soule, you never can know
what you have done for us all—mother and
sister and me. I hope you will never have
cause to regret your kindness.

Soule.—I never shall, if you continue
trusty and true. That is all I ask of you.

THE TEMPERANCE LESSON.

For no man can be that to the full, without
being more—a true Christian.

(He shakes Russell’s hand, and ewits.)

Lussell (pinching himself.)—It isn’t me.
I must be dreaming. John Russell, the
booby, spooney, coward! O mother, it all
comes of your teaching! And earnestly
will I pray that I be not led into tempta-
tion, but ever be trusty and true.

(Curtain.)

a a a mr aT

THE TEMPERANCE LESSON.

Scene.—The aunt sits at a table, writing; across
the room two boys and girls are reading from
her account-book.

Aunt (speaking crossly.)—
Be still, you children over there!
You bother me, I do declare !
With all this long report to write,
To read at Temperance Club to-night ;
I cannot stand your dreadful noise ;
Be quiet there, you girls and boys!

( Writing.)

( Aside.) I joined the club a week ago,
Not that Z needed it—oh, no!
But just to work for those who do,
Our city streets and lanes all through.

Sam (looking up from account-book.)
See, Nell! I find, to my surprise,
Put down here, “ Brandy for mince-pies! ”
Do you suppose Aunt Ann can think
Tis right to eat what we can’t drink ?

Aunt (vexed).—
Sam, put that book down, right away!
Dear me! I shan’t get through to-day!

(Aside.) I never thought of that, ’tis true ;
But what else for the pies will do?

Nell (reading).—
Say, Joe, can this be a mistake ?
I find here written, “ Wine for cake.”
If wine is what makes cake so good,
I’m not surprised men drink ;—I would!

Aunt (angry).—
Nell, noisy Nell! what have you there ?
You trouble me too much to bear!
(Astde.) Can I be giving them a taste
For that which ruin brings, and waste ?

© Joe—

And I see here a charge for “ Wine
For jelly.” So this aunt of mine
Is not consistent, though she be
Most eloquent in Temperance plea!

Aunt.—
Bring me that book! When I was young,
This was the word of every tongue :
“ Children are better seen than heard.”
And I believe it—every word!
VISIT OF SANTA CLAUS. 15

Alice.—
Well, auntie, don’t be cross, but see
If you will not with us agree ;
Since “actions louder talk than speech,”
You'd better practice first, then—preach !

N



Aunt (rising, laughing). —
You saucy children, though you're right,
And though you put me in a plight,
I do declare to now prepare,
And practice what I preach.

Ae Ruinens

VISIT OF SANTA CLAUS.

Santa Craus, Maria, FRANKY,
Mary, WILLIE, Maun,
Boz, Sustz, RosBert,
Sam, PETER, CHARLEY,
JOHN, MInnIE, Maceieg,
Tom, SALLIE, Basy.

(The smallest child who runs alone.)

Sornn.—aA. sitting-room in avery dim light. Center
of back-ground, a fire-place with a dark curtain
hanging across it. A line, stretched across the
top of curtain, is hung with seventeen empty
stockings varying in size, baby’s shorié sock in
the center.

Curtain rises to soft music. After a moment,
sleigh-bells are heard very faintly, as if at a dis-
tance: the jingle comes nearer and louder till
it falls with a crash behind the chimney curtain.

The curtain parts in the center, and Santa Claus
bounds into the room with a pack of toys and
sweets upon his back.

Santa Claus.—

Well, here lam! Expected too, I see!

Those empty stockings surely gape for me!

To fill them all, I must not long delay,

For I have much to do ere peep of day.

I’ve many pretty things to greet the sight

Of little folks who soundly sleep to-night,

Dreaming of Santa Claus, his reindeer

sleigh,

And of the gifts he brings on Christmas

Daye

Now let me see!

(Takes off his pack, and begins to jill
stockings.)

There’s blue-eyed little Mary !

To her Pll give this beautiful canary.

It will not sing, but it will squeak instead,

And it does not require to be fed!

Charley a long-tailed chestnut horse will
find ;

And Bob an organ, that a tune will grind.

Dear little Maggie must have a new doll;

And Sam will surely like this pretty Poll.

Halloo! What is John’s stocking doing
here ?

John! John! You'll disappointed be, I
fear!

There’s nothing for a bad boy in my pack,
Except this rod, to lay across your back !

(Puts a long rod in John’s stocking.)

My little bird who flies around each year,
To gather news about the children dear,
Down on my shoulder did this morning fly,
To tell me naughty John had told a lie!
158



For such a fault my anger is severe,

So John must have no toys nor sweets this
year.

Sallie’s too big for toys and cakes to look;

What shall I leave for Sallie? Oh, a book;

A book of Fairy Stories, bound in blue,

And I will leave one for Maria, too.

Why, bless my heart! What tiny sock is

_ here?

This surely must belong to baby dear!

Baby must have a rattle and a ball,

And this white dog to baby’s share must
fall,

An orange and a bon-bon too go here—

Baby must always have the best, that’s
clear.

Willie a trumpet wants, and Tom a kite;

In this nice work-box, Susie will delight !

Franky a horn, Peter a drum will prize,

And pretty Mand a blue-eyed doll that
cries.

A top and whistle fall to Robert’s share,

And Minnie shall have this great sugar
pear.

Tut! tut! my pack is emptying fast ; I fear

I must go home again when I leave here,

And fill it up once more. No child to-
morrow

Must o’er an empty stocking weep in sor-
row.

Here still are nuts and things for all to eat,

Bon-bons and grapes the little ones to treat!

But not too many, or I have a fear

Dr. Physic-them-all will come in here.

Are all these stockings filled? Yes, every
one!

My task in this room for to-night is done!

Soft eyelids closed in sleep will soon awake!

A Christmas stocking every child will take.

Good wishes go with all! Each girl and
boy

Their Christmas Day begin and end in joy!

VISIT OF SANTA CLAUS.

Good night! good night! Sleep, little chil-
dren, sleep!

Before the dawn of Christmas Day shall
peep,

Or merry voices rise in gladsome play,

Santa Claus must be many miles away.

Next year I’ll make them all another call.

Good night! good night! A merry Christ-
mas all!

(Straps on his pack again, and goes behind
chimney curtain. The sleigh beils are heard
again, loud at first, but growing fainter,
until they seem to die away in the distance.
Soft music again, during the continuance of
which the light in the room grows gradually
brighter, as if at the approach of daylight.
When the room ts brightly lighted, the music
ceases, and children’s voices are heard, shout-
ing, “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!”

Enter Mary, Bob, Sam, John, Tom,
Franky, Maud, Robert, Charley, Maggie, Sal-
lie, Maria, Willie, Peter, Minnie, and Susie
leading the baby. They all run to the fire-
place, each child taking a stocking. Every
child is dressed ina long white night-gown
and little white night-cap.)

Mary.—Oh, my!

Bob.—Do see!

Sam.—W hat lovely things are here!

Tom.—How pretty !

Franky.—Isn’t Santa Claus a dear!

Maud.—lI never saw so many charming
toys!

Lobert.—We surely should be happy girls
and boys!

Charley—Oh! Oh!

Maggie.—Ah! Ah!

Sallie.—l’ve got a pretty book!

Maria.—lve got another!

Willte.—Mine’s a trumpet!

Peter.—Look!

Minnie.—Oh, what a splendid Christ
mas! See!
PM A

Susie-—What a fine work-box has been
left for me!

John.—Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I haven’t
got a toy; only a rod is left for a bad boy!

(John goes in a corner and sits down, dig-
ging his knuckles into his eyes, as if crying.
The others form a ring around the baby, who
sits on the floor with its toys.)

Children (waving stockings and toys, and
senging.-)
Air—“ We'll be gay and happy still.”

Santa Claus has been to see us,

Toys he’s left for one and all!

Every heart is full of pleasure, -

After Santa makes a call!
So we'll sing and dance and cheer’
Christmas comes but once a year!

MAN. 158

We will sing and dance and cheer!
Christmas comes but once a year!

(Chorus of drums, horns, trumpets and
whistles.)

John (singing dolefully in the corner.)
Santa Claus has been to see us,
But he’s left no toy for me!

If a little boy is naughty,
Santa Claus will angry be !

All.—

So all bad boys, heed and fear!
Christmas comes but once a year!
So all bad boys, heed and fear,
Christmas comes but once a year!

( Chorus as before. Curtain fails.)

Or ae

Â¥

PM A

WILLy,

Bobby and Jenny read ata table. Enter Willy, a
very small boy, with a man’s hat, coat, boots
and scarf on, and a very big cane in his hand.
He must take long steps like a man.

Willy.—ow do you do?
Jenny.—Oh, look at Willy!
Bobby.—How funny you look, Willy.

- Willy.—P'm not Willy—Pm a man!
Jenny.—Oh, you are a man, are you?
Willy.—_l'm Mr. Jones, come to call on

you, like the big folks do.

Bobby.—I!’m very glad to see you.
Willy.—How do you do?
Jenny.—Very well. How do you do?



Boppy,

MAN.

JENNY.

Willy.—Mis-sa-ble, thank you.
the foo-en-za. i

Jenny.— What a pity.

Welly.— Y ou must ask me to take a chair.

Bobby.—To be sure! Do take a chair,
Mr. Jones.

Welly.—Thank you. (Sits down.) Now
say, “ How are all the folks?”

Jenny.—How are all the folks, Mr. Jones ?

Willy—Very well. Only Tom.

Bobby.—ls Tom sick ?

Willy._—He’s got colly-wobly fits !

Jenny.—Oh, dear!

Bobby.—How is Sally ?

DPve got
160

Willy._Sally’s died by this time oe:

Jenny.—Was she so sick ?

Willy.—She was sick with roo-mon-nia-
fever. Very bad.

Bobby.—Poor Sally!

Willy.—Why don’t you ask me to taxe
off my hat?

Jenny.—Do take off your hat, Mr. e ones.

Willy (puts hat on table.)—I can’t stay
long. DPve got an ee-gage-ment on biz-zi-
ness.

Bobby.—Oh, do stay to tea.

Willy.—Very sorry I can’t.
some other time.

JSenny.—Oh, you funny ae

Willy —Tm a man.

Bobby.—What makes you a man, Willy ?

Willy.—Papa’s coat, papa’s hat, papa’s
cane.

Jenny.—So a coat, hat and cane make a
man ?

Willy.—Yes; ’'m a man now. I must
go. (Puts on his hat.)

Bobby.—T’m sorry you are in such a
hurry. Call again.

Tll come

VACATION FUN.

Willy.—Yes sir. (Trips on his coat and
falls.) Oh! oh! (Cries.) I hurt my head.

Jenny.—Poor boy!

Bobby.—A man don’t cry when he is
hurt.

Willy.—But it aches.

Jenny.—Never mind.

Willy.—I won’t cry any more. I’m Mr.
Jones. Will you come and see me some
day, Mrs. Smith?

Jenny.—Very happy, sir.

Willy.—Give my love to all the folks.

Bobby.—We will.

Willy.—I would stay to tea, only I must
see a gem-ple-man down town about some
very im-port-in biz-zi-ness to-day. Good
bye!

Jenny.—Good bye.
Tom will soon be well.

Willy.—Thank you, ma’am. We will
give them some lin-de-ment and har-ness
oil, to cure them.

Bokby.—Good bye.

Willy.—Good bye.

(Goes out.)

(Sobs.)

I hope Sally and

Sen Se
AE AIO ING AWN

Some boys and girls are talking together. Little
Grandmother sits off at one side, knitting, and
commenting in an aside as they speak, but not
interrupting them.

Archie.—

Boys and girls, vacation is coming,
And now let’s all of us say
Where we would go and what we would see,
If things could be as they ought to be,
And boys and girls had their own Ne

Grandmother.—

“ Had their own way!” Tis my beliet

In avery short time they’d come to grief.
Shelton.—
Oh, Archie!
cide :
Pd build a beautiful boat ;

To the Northern Polar Sea I'd sail,

And catch the walrus, and seal, and whale,
And that would be fun afloat!
Grandmother.—

In his beautiful boat he’d have a mess

With walrus, and seal, and whale, I guess.
Eithel—

I wouldn’t take long to de-
A COLLOQUY.

161





Now, Shelton, I’d choose something better
than that:
Up the Amazon I'd run,
Where parrots chatter and monkeys swing,
And bright little humming-birds flit and
sing,—
And oh, wouldn’t that be fun !

Grandmother.—
Now hear the child talk!
smile.
Nice dinner she’d make for a crocodile !

It makes me

Gerty.—

Oh, Ethel! see how you like my plan :—
I'd have aseal-skin dress,

Then up to the Hudson’s Bay I’ll go

To the queer snow-huts of the Esquimaux,
And that will be fun, I guess!

Grandmother.—

Has that girl forgotten, do you suppose,
It is cold enough there to freeze her nose ?

Lulu—
I can tell you a trip worth two of that,
Nor half so cold and rough ;
Fora girl of my studious disposition,
A trip to the Paris exposition
Of fun there would be enough.

! Grandmother.—
Poor thing! half frightened to death she’d be
Before she was half way over the sea!

Robbie.-
Now, Lulu, to China, the land of tea,
T’d make up my mind to go;
Where they have such queer little slanting
eyes,
And sell young rats and puppies for pies,—
And that must be fun, you know!

Grandmother (turning to them:\—
Well! well! it seems you would each forsake
The land I jolliest call.
Better sail your boats in the Yankee rills;
Better chase your sport over Yankee hills;
That will be the best fun of all.

All.—

Little grandmother's right !
for you!

Your way is the wisest one.
Wherever we go, she shall lead the van,
She shall march this way—now see our

plan,—
And isn’t this jolly fan !
Yes, isn’t this jolly fun!

(Two boys take Litile Grandmother be-
tween them, in her litile arm chair, and carry
her off the stage, the rest following.)

Three cheers

IX (SOIL GIGNOING,

FOR TWO LITTLE BITS OF GIRLS AND THEIR DOLLIES,
TWO MAMMAS.

Mamma Kate, (with her doltie lying on
the floor: )—
“Now stop that yelling this minute, I say!
What do you mean by lying there ?
I won’t let you go out doors to-day,—
You naughty baby to pull my hair!”
11

Mamma Nellie, (to her baby in he

arms; )—
“ Hush, my darling, don’t you ery,—

Shut your eyes and go to sleep;

You shall ride out, by-and-by :

There ! there ! baby, don’t you peep! ”
162

SIGNING THE PLEDGE.



Mamma Kate, (in a loud, cross voice:)—
“ Now stop that kicking this minute, I say!

There never was such a naughty child !
Just because you can’t run, and play,

You make a fuss, and drive me wild.”

Mamma Nellie, (in a sweet low tone:)—
“ Hush, my darling! mamma’s here ;

Snug your head down on my arm!
I won’t leave you, never fear,—

Mamma’s baby safe from harm.”

Mamma Kate, (in a VERY cross voice:\—

“Now stop that pulling! Ill slap your
hand !

You need a whipping, I know right well;

Such work as this, I cannot stand:
I'll shut you up and let you yell!”

Mamma Nellie, (to Mamma Kate: )\—
“ There! my darling’s fast asleep,

Now [ll lay him softly down ;
May will stay by him, and keep

Watch, while we go into town.”

Mamma Kate, (to Mamma Nellie:)—
“T look like going! he’ll yell all day!
Such times as I have, make me sick!:
Babies are all alike, they say,—
That’s stuff and nonsense; yours don’t
kick!”

ano TE a
SIGNING THE PLEDGE.

CHARACTERS.

Mr. Henry Ciayton, Mr. Buaxe, a saloonkeeper.

Mrs. Minniz Crayton. Mrs. Buake.

EDWARD.

WanrEn, eee Blake’s daughters.
One Clayton’s children. Hetmy. |
Mary. Bripeet, the maid.

SCENE I. Mr. Clayton —That is my business.

Room in the Clayton home. Mr. C. reading
paper; Mrs. C.sewing; the children doing vari-
ous things.

ELdward.—W ell, mother, how about your
temperance work ; I heard you women were
going to crusade. Is it so?

Mrs. Clayton.—If they do, I think I
shall be one of them. Wouldn’t Ibe in the
path of duty ?

Hdward.—Maybe. But I think a better
plan would be to get intoxicating drinks
out of your own house first. Everybody
knows father keeps a sideboard well filled
with choice wines.

Mrs. C—And everybody knows, too,
that it is contrary to my wishes. Had I
my way, there would be nothing of that
kind about the house, and each member of
the family would be the possessor of a
pledge-card.

Clara.—Why, mamma, some of us have
cards. Give us credit. You have only
father and Eddie to sign it now.

Edward.—When father signs one, I will
do likewise.

Mr. C—You cannot get around it that
way, my boy. If you want to become a
SIGNING THE PLEDGE.

163



temperance man, don’t wait upon me. If
there is any danger of your becoming a sot,
you had better join the cold-water army,

Mrs. C—I do love the cause of temper-
ance, and would like to work for it, but it
has thrown quite a damper upon my ardor,
when I think that husband and son are on
the opposite side, and we are a divided
house. And I think, father, you had bet-
ter take a step forward now, as Edward has
said he would follow. Won’t you do so?
Come, I have some ecards.

Mr, C.—Never will I sign away my free-
dom in such a way as that. I am all right;
whenever I see that there is any danger of
my becoming a drunkard, I will quit. But
because a man holds that he has the privi-
lege of taking a social glass when he wishes,
Ido not see the use of the women, and a
few reformed men, constantly interfering ;
- and in plain words, I don’t think its any of
their business.

Mary.—Mamma, may I get my card?

Mrs.C.—Yes, child; showitto your father.

Edward.—I agree with you, father.
Some of themare always around where they
lave no business, for no other purpose than
to watch others.

Mary (who has crossed the room to a
table, got card, and is returning).—Here it
is. Oh, papa, put your name under mine,
and it will be yours and mine. Please do,
won't you? One day, at Sabbath-school, our
lesson was about wine, and the minister said
it meant ale and beer, too. There was a
picture of a glass that men drink wine out
of ; it wasn’t like ours, for there was a snake
in the bottom of it, and they said sume-
thing about not looking at the wine when
it is red. Is that the kind you drink, papa?
Will the snake bite you?

Mr, C.—Nonsense, child! you had bet-
ter be at home, playing, than at such a place





as that. (Laking a bottle from sideboard.)
Here, you taste it, and see whether there is
anything that will hurt you about it; see, I
am going to take some.

Mary.—Please don’t papa. I wouldn’t
take it forthe world. They say at Sunday-
school that it kills and murders and makes
papas hurt little children. Will it make
you hurt me?

Mr. C. (replacing bottle.\—I wouldn’t
hurt you for the world, Mary.

Mary.—Then you won’t drink any more
wine. Mamma,if papa puts his name here,
willit keep the snake from biting him ?

Mrs. C.—Yes, yes, dear child; get him to
write his name, and Edward, too.

Edward.—I am going down street.

Walter.—Stay, Ed, and sign Mary’s card.

Clara.—Do, Eddie.

Hdward.—Vll sign after father does.

(Exit Edward.)
Mary.—Will you write your name, papa?
Mr. C—Not now. I must go. I have
an engagement down town. I can’t write
my name there, Mary; never ask me again.
Mrs. Clayton, I hope you will see that this
scene is not repeated ; keep her home from
Sunday-school. The idea of such stuff as
that in a child’s head! A pretty place it
must be, where they teach a child to de-
epise its father !

Clara.—Not the father ; only the sin.

Mr. C.—Well, she will not go any more. |

Mrs. C.—I couldn’t deprive her of such
excellent instruction. I’m only sorry that
the work of instilling temperance into chil-
dren in such a way that it becomes a part of
their nature, was not commenced years
ago. This scene would not then have oc-
curred.

Mr. C—I do not think your course a
very wise one. You are teaching my child
164

SIGNING THE PLEDGE.





to disobey me,—some more of those princi-
ples. From such religion deliverme. ‘Train
them on, and when they utterly despise me,
I suppose you will be pleased! Get away!
I am going where things are more pleasant!
(Zxit Mr. C)
Clara.—Oh, mamma; what will we do!
Every time we talk to papa about temper-
ance he gets angry.
: Walter.—Oh, dear! 1 wish he would
sign and let drink alone. I heard some
men talking,—they didn’t know me,—and
they said it was a great pity of Henry Clay-
ton. He was going down as fast as he
could. He wasneglecting his business, and
it would soon pass into other hands. Is it
true, mamma ?
Mrs. C—Never mind now. You chil-

dren must improve every opportunity. God.

only knows what there isin store for us.
Clara.—Well, if Eddie would only sign !
Mrs. C—We will hope for the best.
“ How long, O Lord, how long!”

Mary.—Wil. God hear a little girl pray?

Mrs. C—Always. (Hxit Mary.) My
dear child, she is going to pray for her
father. Children, you must all do likewise.

SCENE II.

Room in the Clayton home after a few years.
poorly clad. Mrs. Clayton discovered.

Mrs. C.—Oh, how things have changed!
Our home gone; clothes worn out, and no
way of getting others. It takes all the
children make to buy food. Father gets
money from them whenever he can, and
sometimes takes what Lhave. How he has
changed! He used to be so kind, and
Mary was his idol; now we hear nothing
but cross words, and this from him who
promised to love and cherish! Sometimes
I think such thoughts will drive me mad ;
but I must bear up for the sake of my chil-

All



dren. I have no fear for any but Edward,
for the rest are Christians; but poor, way-
ward Edward,—going just like his father.
Every day I expect to hear of his discharge.
Clara is with a very nice family, and what
little the dear girl can earn she gives to me.
She always looks tired; sewing is hard on
her. Poor, sensitive Walter! he feels his
condition so much. Well, children, you
will have your reward for your “ patience:
in tribulation.” But some one is coming.
(Enter Mary.)

Mary —I am so tired and hungry; will
supper soon be ready? I wish we had lots
to eat, as we used to have, and clothes to
wear that were not in so many pieces. If
papa would only take the pledge, and sign

my card.
(Enter Hdward.)

Mrs. C—How does it come that you are -
home from work so soon, Edward?

Edward.—1 left.

Mrs. U-—-Why ?

Hdward.—They gave me. permission,—
said they didn’t want me any more.

Mrs. C.—Has it come to this? What
will we do! Oh, Edward, had you listened
to me, what a comfort you might have been
to me now!

Edward.—Don’t go to preaching, mother.
I don’t want to listen; I ain’t in a humor:
for it! .

(Lixit Mrs, Clayton weeping. Enter Clara.).

Clara.—How does it come you are home,
Eddie ; are you sick ?

EHdward.—No. I am home, that is all,,
and nobody’s business either!

Clara.—I did not intend to make you
angry.

Mary.—He has quit working for Mr.
Cole ; that’s what he told mamma, and she
feels so badly.
SIGNING THE PLEDGE.

Edward.—She needn’t worry herself.

Clara.—Don’t talk so about mother.

Hdward.—Now, Miss Clara, just keep
your advice to yourself, will you? when I
want it I will ask for it !

(Enter Walter.)

Walter.—Clara, what’s the matter ?
Mary.—Eddie hasn’t any place to work ;
where will mamma get bread now, Walter ?
Walter.—We will try and take care of
mother. What’s the matter, Ed ?
Edward.—W hat do you see the matter ?

(Enter Mr. Clayton.)

Mr. C.—How did you get home so early,
Edward ?

Ldward.—l'm like you, loafing. Mother
and the children can take care of me, as
they do of you.

Mr. C.—Well, you'll have slim fare. I
suppose you have been drinking. Nothing
more than I expected though.

Edward.—Look here, father, don’t you
say anything! Ifyou had done your duty,
I would not have been what I am to-day!
Who taught me to drink? Who told me it
wouldn’t hurt me, and by his actions taught
me to condemn the temperance movement ?
You did! and now blame me! This drink
has made a demon of me! All natural af-
fections are completely burnt out (ender
Mrs. C.) ; and now see what I am, and you,
too! You can look as fierce as you please,
but you had better not touchme! (Mr. C.
starts towards him.) Hands off, sir! Dll
leave when Iam ready! Youare respon-
sible for my ruin, and now want to turn me
off! You laughed at mother’s religion, but
she loves me yet! (Exit Edward.)

Mrs. C.—Oh, my child! have I not
drank the bitter cup to the dregs! What
will be the end of this! Husband, do

165

see your folly, and reform before we are all
crushed with sorrow!
Mr. B.—No preaching; get some supper!
Hurry up!
SCENE III.

Mr. Blake’s saloon. Mr. Blake and Mr. Clayton
discovered.

Mr. B.—Hen. Clayton, your wife is com-
ing; get out as soon as youcan. I don’,
want her to find you here; come, hurry !

Mr. B.—1] used to be Yr. Clayton, when

I had money.
Mr. B—Get out by the back door
quickly !

(Ur. B. goes out, back. Enter Mrs. C.)
Mrs. C—Mr. Blake, is my husband here?
Mr. B—What do I know about your

husband ?

Mrs. C.—I know he frequents this place,
and I would like to find him; I want him
to spend the evening with me; it is the
anniversary of our marriage.

Mr. B.—I should think you would have
amore pleasant evening without him,

' Mrs. C.—He is my husband.

Mr. B.—And a fine specimen of human-
ity he is, too. You will not find him here.
We keep a respectable place. We would
not allow him to loaf here

Mrs. C.—He does come here sometimes,
—ah, very often, does he not ?

Mr. B.—HUe used to come, but now he
goes to places where they sell to those of
known intemperate habits. We are law-
abiding, and do not give to them already
drunk.

Mrs. C.—Then the business of your estab-
lishment is to make drunkards, and turn
them over to others, is it ?

Mr. B.—I won’t allow such talk here,
ma am, and the sooner you leave, the better
it will be for you! I shall be happy to say
good evening, Mrs. Clayton.
166

SIGNING THE PLED GE.





Mrs. C.—Stay a moment. You admit
that my husband formerly came here, but
now he cannot come because he is so low.
Pray, what is the cause of the change?

Mr. B—I do not know. It does not
concern me, I’m sure.

Mrs. C—Yes, it does concern you,
You have helped to bring on this great cal-
amity. A few years ago we were a happy
family,—a good home, plenty to eat and
wear; what are we today! My children
scattered ; my husband and myself outcasts;
my eldest boy a wanderer. I know not
where he is, and the cause I lay at your
door. You allured and tempted,—it is
your business to tempt; and they fell. I
will not curse you. There will be a day of
reckoning. ‘Vengeance is mine, I will
repay, saith the Lord.” May He forgive ;
I almost fear Z cannot.

SCENE IV.
Room in the Blakehome. Mrs. Blake, Lizzie and
Helen doing fancy work. Enter Bridget.

Bridget.—A lady, mum. Shall Ishow
her up ?

Mrs, Biake-—Who is it, Bridget ?

Bridget.—Sure I don’t know. Maybe
she hain’t got no name. She’s just dressed
in acaliker not so good as my own, mum;
she said she would like for to see the ladies.

Mrs. Biake—Well, show herin. (Hxit
Bridget.)

Lizezie.—How foolish, ma; you don’t
know who itis. Maybe she’s a gipsy.

felen.—Somebody begging I should
think from the description.

(Enter Mrs. Clayton.)

Mrs. C-—Good afternoon, ladies; I
think you do not know me. I used to
know you Mrs. Blake; my name was Min-
nie Wayne.





Mrs. B.—Minnie Wayne! It can’t be
possible! she was such a bright, joyous,
happy creature, so unlike you. No such
look of distress could ever be made upon
Minnie’s face. ;

Mrs, C—Time makes great changes. I
am now Mrs. Clayton. I have talked with
your husband, and now want a few words
with you. I see you are pleasantly situ-
ated, have everything that you could de-
sire, but your comforts have cost me dearly.

Mrs. B—What do you mean, woman ?
We have nothing of yours.

Mrs. C—I mean that the business your
husband is in, together with the temptation
of his place, has taken everything from us,
—home, reputation, everything ; and while
you have plenty, weare in great nucd

Mrs. B.—I presume that you mean that
you want some provision and clothes from
me. Well, if that is all, I will have Bridget
fill a basket for you, and give you some
clothes. I guess we have some we do not
need. Lizzie, ring for Bridget.

Mrs. C.—Don’t, Mrs. Blake; I am not
begging,—that is, not for bread or clothes ;
but I am begging, oh, so earnestly begging,
that you will try and have your husband
stop his dreadful business before he ruins
any more families, or kills my loved ones
body and soul. If you will not do that, at
least persuade him to keep it from my hus-
band. You were kind and good at school ;
won’t you do something now for fallen
humanity? Your daughters will help you,
thousands will bless you, and God will re-
ward you. Oh, may I hope that your influ-
ence will be for good ?

Lizzie.—Well, ma, I think I would send
her away. I think pa can attend to his
own business.

Mrs. B—I make no rash promises,
madam. As my daughter has said, Mr.
SIGNING THE PLEDGE.

167



Blake is capable of attending to his own
affairs. Iwill have Bridget show you the
door. .

Helen—Don’t call Bridget ; I will show

this lady out, and promise to do what I can.

for her family. (Hait Helen and Mrs.
Clayton.)

Lizzie.—Just like Helen,—she is so very
pious. If pa would do what she wishes
him to, I am sorry for all the clothes we

would have.
(Enter Helen.)

Helen.—Mother, is it not as this woman
says? Are we not living at our ease, while
' the business which furnishes the money is
breaking hearts, destroying homes, and fill-
ing drunkards’ graves? Iwill not be a
party to such work any longer. Hence-
forth I am with the temperance people.
(Hxit Helen.)

Lizzie-—What foolishness ! She’s crazy !

Mrs. B.—Yes, but I fear she will do as

she says!
SCENE V.

Room in the Clayton home. Mrs. Clayton reclin-
ing in chair, Clara in attendance.

Mrs. C. (feebly).—Clara, when was your
father home last ?

Clara.—N ot since day before yesterday.
He was so much as he used to be, mamma;
so careful and attentive to you while you
were unconscious, and watched carefully
until one of those terrible spells came on;
then he left, and I have not seen him since.
I am so uneasy. Mamma, through all these
long and weary years, hasn’t your faith in
God ever wavered ?

Mrs. C.—Never ; my prayers will be an-
swered. It may not be while I am in the
body, but I think you will live to see them
answered. , :

Clara.—I hope so, but sometimes I am
tempted to doubt it.



Mrs. C—~Where is Mary ?

Clara.—She is at the temperance mect-
ing, but will soon be home now.

Mrs. C_—When did you hear from Wal-
ter ?

Clara.—Not since before you became
sick. I presume he has not had time to
answer. There comes Mary. What a noise
she is making.

(Enter Mary.)

Mary.—O mamma! Clara! look at my
card,—mine and papa’s! mine and papa’s!
See the name! papa’s name is under mine!
I couldn’t wait until they were ready. I
hurried on to tell you.

Mrs. C. (taking card)—Thank God!

(Enter Mr. Clayton.)

Mary.—Here’s your dear papa—sober—
our own papa! O mamma, aren’t we glad ?
Clara, you ought to have been at the tem-
perance meeting. - Helen Blake brought
papa to the desk. (Hnter Helen Blake.)
Here she is; come and see mamma, Helen.
Ah, but you area good girl! I wouldn’t
let papa sign any other card until he signed
mine. I have kept it for a long, long
while. Mine and papa’s! mine and papa’s!

Clara.—Be quiet, Mary; there is some
one coming. (Enter Walter.) Walter!
but we are glad to see you; papa has signed
the pledge! he— Who is that? (Enter
Edward.) Edward! Mamma, here is Ed-
ward!

Edward.—Yes, I have my card, too,
mother. Father, forgive your prodigal !

Mrs. C-—Once more a united family;
and may these pledges, with all that have
been signed in our city, be faithfully kept,
“ God helping us!”

(All unite in singing a temperance song. 28
curtain falls.)
“Rearnae wa Schurel «
Lp

it 2b,



168

“THE MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENT.



AO he.





THE MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENT.

Cee o pes

Mary Cone. ha tw [3 VY GranpMoraEr Cea ie is very deaf, bd Lu
Gag OFS tcc

Cinus GorpDon.

Jack Coz.

SCENE I.

«The sitting-room of the Cole family. Mary read-
ing a newspaper; Grandmother Cole knitting;
Aunt Martha crocheting; Jack playing with
the balls in Aunt Martha’s work-basket.

Mary Cole—Oh, Aunt Martha! only
hear this! it’s in the Chronicle. What a

splendid chance! JI declare, I’ve a great |.

mind to answer it myself!

' Aunt U.—What have you got hold of
now? You're al’ays a-makin’ some power-
ful diskivery somewheres. What now?
Something to turn gray eyes black, and blue
eyes gray ?

Mary—No ; it’s a matrimonial adver-
tisement. What a splendid fellow this “C
G.” must be!

Aunt M.—Oh, pshaw! A body must be
dreadfally put to it, to advertise for a part-
ner in the newspapers. Thank goodness!
I never got in such a strait as that ere.
The Lord hez mareyfully kept me thus fur
from havin’ any dealin’s with the male sect,

and I trust I will be presarved to the end.

_ Jack.—Didn’t you ever have an offer,
Aunt Mattie?

Aunt M. (indignantly.)— Why, Jack
Cole! What an idee! I’ve had more
chances to change my condition than you’ve
got fingers and toes. But I refused ’em all.
A single life is the only way to be happy.
But it did kinder hurt my feelin’s to send

Aunt Martua Gonpon.

Ne JVs

some of my sparks adrift,—they took it so
hard. There was Colonel Turner, he lost
his wife in June, and the last of August he
came over to our ’ouse, and I give him to
understand that he needn’t trouble hisself,
and he felt‘so mad that he went rite off and
matried the Widder Hopkins.

Jach.—Poor fellow! How he must have
felt! And Aunt Mattie, I noticed that
Deacon Goodrich looks at you a good deal
in meeting, since you’ve got that pink
feather. What if he should want you tobe
a mother to his ten little ones?

Aunt M. (simpering. )—Law, Jack Cole!
What a dreadful boy you be! (Pinches
his ear.) The deacon never thought of.
suchathing! Butifitshould please Provi-
dence to appoint to me such a fate, I should |
try and be resigned. ie

Granny C.—Resigned ! Who's re-
signed? Not the President, hashe? Well,
Idon’t blame him. I’d reien, too, if I
was into his place. Nothin’ spiles a man’s
character so quick. as bein’ President or
Congress. Yer gran’father got in justice of
the peace once, and he resigned afore he
was elected. Sed he didn’t want his repe-
tition spiled.

Jack.—Three cheers for
Cole!

Granny C—Cheers? What’s the mat-
ter with the cheers now? Yer father had

Gran’ father


Nes THE MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENT

them bottomed last year, and this year they
were new painted. What's to pay with
’em how?

Mary (tmpatiently.)\—Do listen to this
advertisement !

Aunt YU. —Mary Oole, I’m sorry your
head is soturned with the vanities of this
world. Advertisin’ for a pardner in that
way is wicked. [ hadn’t orter listen to it.

Mary.—Oh, it won’t hurt you a bit,
auntie. (/reads;) “A gentleman of about
forty, very fine looking; tall, slender, and
fair-haired, with very expressive eyes, and
side whiskers, and some property, wishes
to make the acquaintance of a young lady
with similar qualifications ——”



Jack.—A lady with expressive eyes and .

side whiskers—— \

Mary.—Do keep quiet, Jack Cole!
(Reads.) “With similar qualifications as
to good looks and amiable temper, with a
view to matrimony. Address, with stamp
to pay return postage, C. G., Scrubtown;
stating when and where an interview may
be -had.”
that ?

Jack.—Deacon Goodrich to a T.
G.” stands for Calvin Goodrich.

Aunt M.—The land of goodness! Dea-
con Goodrich, indeed! a pillar of the
church! advertisin’ for a wife! no, no,
Jack 5 it ns be him! He’d never stoop
so low!”

Jack.—But if all the women are as hard-
hearted as you are, and the poor man needs
a wife. Think of his ten little olive plants!

Granny C.—Plants?
*Taint time to set’em out yet. Fust of
Angust is plenty airly enuff for winter.
Cabbages never begin to head till the nights
come cold.

Jack.—Poor Mr. C. G.!. Why don’t you

s3 Cc.

There! what do you think of |

Cabbage plants?

169



answer it, Aunt Mattie; and tell him you'll
darn his stockings for him, and comb that
fair hair of his?”

Aunt M.—Jack Cole! if you don’t hold
your tongue, I'll comb your hair for you in
a way you won’t like. Me answerin’ one
of them low advertisements! Me, indeed!
Thaint so eager to get married as some folks
Iknow. Brother Cyrus and I-have lived
all our lives in maiden meditation, fancy
free,—the only sensible ones of the family
of twelve children; and it’s my idee we
will continner on in that way.

Mary.—Why, don’t you believe that
Uncle Cyrus would get married if he could?

Aunt M—Your Uncle Cyrus! I tell
you, Mary Cole, he wouldn’t marry the best
woman that evertrod! I’ve heern him say
so a hundred times.

Mary.—W on’t you answer this adver-
tisement, auntie? I’ll give you a sheet of
my gilt-edged note-paper if you will.

Aunt MM. (furiously.)—If you weren’t so
big, Mary Jane Cole, ’'d spank yon sound-
ly! I. vow I would! Me answer it, in-
deed! (Leaves the room in great indigna-
tion.)

Mary.—tLook here, Jack; what’ll you
bet she won’t answer that notice?

Jack.—Nonsense! Wouldn’t she blaze
if she heard you ?

Mary.—Vll wager my new curled water-
fall against your ruby pin that Aunt Mattie
replies to Mr. “C. G.” to-night.

Jack.—Done! Tl wear a curled water-
fall to-morrow.

Mary.—No, sir! But I shall wear a
ruby pin. Jack, who do youthink “C. G.”
is @

Jack.—Really, I do not know; do you?
Ah! I know you do, by that look in your
eyes. ‘Tell me, that’s a darling.

a
170

THH MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENT.



Mary.—Not I. 1 don’t expose secrets
to a fellow who tells them all over town.
Besides, it would spoil the fun.

Jack.—Mary, you are the dearest little
sister inthe world! Tell me, please, (taking
her hand.)

Mary.—Y ou don’t get them out of me.
Take care, now. Let go my hands. Pm
going up stairs to keep an eye on Aunt
Mattie. She’s gone up now to write an an-
swer to “C. G.” And if there’s any fun
by-and-by, Jack, if you’re a good boy you
shall be there to see.

Granny C—To sea? Going to sea?
Why Jack Cole! you haint twenty-one yet
and the sea’s a dreadful place! There’s a
sarpint lives in it as big as the Scrubtown
meetin’-us’, and whales that swallow folks
alive, clothes and all! JI read about one in
a book a great while ago that swallered a
man of the name of Jonah, and he didn’t
set well on the critter’s stummuck, and up
he come, lively as ever.

(Curtain falls.)

SCENE II.

The garden of a deserted house in the vicinity of

Mr. Cole’s. Mary leading Jack cautiously along

a shaded path.

Mary.—There ; we'll squat down behind
this lilac bush. It’s nearly the appointed
hour. I heard Aunt Mattie soliloquizing
in her room this morning, after this man-
ner: “ At eight o’clock this night I go to
meet my destiny! In the deserted garden,
under the old pear-tree. How very roman-
tic!” Hark! there she comes!

Jack.—Well, of all the absurd things
that ever [heard tell of! Who would have
believed that our staid old maid aunt would
have answered a matrimonial advertise-
ment ?

Mary.—Hush! Jack, if you make a
noise and spoil the fun T’ll never forgive
you. Keep still and don’t fidget so.

Aunt M. (slowly walking down the path,
soliloquizing.)—Hight o’clock! I¢ struck’
just as I started out. He ought to be here.
Why does he tarry? If he ain’t punctual
Pll give him the mitten; I swow I will!
Dear gracious! what a sitivation to be in!
Me, at my time of life! though, to be sure,
Thaint so old as—as I might be. The
dew’s a-fallin’, andI shall get the rheuma-
tiz in these thin shoes, if he don’t come
quick. What if Jack and Mary should get
hold of this? Inever should hear the
last of it! never! I wouldn’t have ’em
know it for a thousand dollars! Goodness
me! What if it should be the deacon ?
Them children of his’n is dreadful young-
sters , but, the Lord helpin’ me, I’d try to
train ’em up in the way they should go.
Hark! is that him a-comin’? No; it’s a
toad hoppin’ through the carrot bed. My

| soul and body if he should want to kiss me!
\| Pu chew-a-clove for fear he should. I
‘wonder if itwould be properous to let him?

LAID a LA “heen

But then, I s’pose if it’s the deacon I
couldn’t help myself. He’s an awful dee-
tarmined man; and if I couldn’t help it I
shouldn’t be to blame. Deary me; howI
trimble! There he comes; I hear his step!
What a tall man! ’Taint the deacon!
He’s gota shawl on! Must be the new
school-master ; he wearsa shawl! (A man
approaches. Miss Mattie goes up to him
cautiously). Isthis Mr. C. G.?

C. G.—Yes, itis. Is this Miss M. G.? ©

Aunt M.—It is. Dear sir, I hope you
won’t think me bold and unmaidenly in
coming out here all alone in the dark to
meet you ?

C. G—Never! Ah, the happiness of
i «ckered man!

THE MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENT. 171



this moment! For forty years I have been
looking for thee! (Puts his arm around
her.)

Aunt M—Oh, dear me; don’t, don’t!
my dear sir! Laint used to it! and it aint
exactly proper out here in this old garden!
lt’sa dreadful lonely spot, and if people
should see us they might talk!

C. G.—Let ’em talk! They’ll talk still
more when youand [are married, I reckon.
Lift your veil and let me see your sweet
face.

Aunt If.—Yes, if you will remove that

hat and let me behold your countenance.

C. G.—Oh, certainly. Now, then ; both
together.

(Miss Mattie throws back her veil. C. G.
removes his hat. They gaze at each other a
moment in utter silence.)

Aunt M.—Good gracious airth! ’tis
Brother Cyrus!

C. G.—Jupiter
Martha !

Aunt M.—Oh, my soul and body, Cyrus
Gordon! Who'd ever a-thought of you, at
your time of life, cuttin’ up such a caper as
this? You old, bald-headed, gray-whis-
Forty years old /* My gra-
cious! You were fifty-nine last July

O. G.—Well, if I am, you're two year
older.

Aunt M—Why.1 thought sure it was
Deacon, Brown? that ~ advertised. CO. G.
stands for Calvin Goodrich.

C. G—Yes; and it stands for Cyrus

Ammon! tis Sister

Gordon, too. And Deacon Goodrich was
married last night to Peggy Jones.

Aunt M.—That snub-nosed, red-haired
Peggy Jones! He’d ort to be flayed alive!
Married agin! and his wife not hardly cold!
Oh, the deceitfulness of men! Thank
providence!: I haint tied to one of the
abominable sect !

C. G.—Well, Martha, we’re both in the
same boat. If you won’t tell of me, I
won’t of you. Butit’s aterrible disappoint-
ment to me, for I sarting thought M. G.
meant Marion Giles the pretty milliner.

Aunt M.—Humph! What an old goose!
She wouldn’t look at you! I heerd her
a-laflin’ at your swaller-tailed coat, when
you come out of meetin’ last Sunday. But
I’m ready to keep silence if you will.
Graciéus ! if Jack and Mary should get
wind of this, shouldn’t we have to take it ?

0. G.—Hark ! what’s that ?

( Voice behind the lilac bush sings:)

** Oh, there’s many a bud the cold frost will nip,
And there’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.”

Aunt M.—That’s Jack’s voice! Good-
ness me! Let us scoot for home! (They
start off.)

Jack (laughing.)—Did he kiss you, Aunt
Mattie ?

Mary.—Did you see her sweet face,
Uncle Cyrus?

C. G.—Confound you both!
hold of ye I’d let ye know—

(Curtain falls.)

IfI had

a
TALKING FLOWERS.



TALKING FLOWERS.

Prrsons.—Twelve little girls personating the flowers; a very small child and a larger girl as mother
and daughter; and a group of very little boys and girls as Mosses and Ferns.

ARRANGEMENT.—Place the children ina semi-circle, having the group for Mosses and Ferns at one end.
Let the two tallest personate Sunflower and Dahlia; let Convolvulus stand by Dahlia with her

arms twined around her.

Arrange the remainde. according to height.

Decoration.—If in the season of flowers, let each have a wreath and boquet, if possible, of the flower

she represents.

Child (singing:—tune, “Nellie Bly’’).—

Mother dear, mother dear, see the flowers
smile !

I wish I could their voices hear—come lis-
ten now, a-while.

Sweet blossoms, dear blossoms, sing, oh,
sing to me!

T’ll hark to you, Pll list to you, to hear
your melody.

Mother (singing).—

Hush, my love! hush, my love! listen, dar-
ling, now!

‘When the winds the blossoms move, they
murmur soft and low.

Sweet blossoms, dear blossoms, sing, oh,
sing to me!

Pll hark to you, Pll list to you, to hear
your melody.

Flowers ( singing). —
Gentle child, meek and mild, listening she
stands ; ;
Parted are her rosy lips, and clasped her
lily hands.
“Sweet blossoms, dear blossoms, sing,” she
says, “to me!”
Now hark to us, now list to us, to hear cur
melody.
Tulip (recites or sings), —
I am a Tulip ; my dress is bright,
It glitters like gold in the morning light.
I know J am brilliant, and rare, and gay.

At first I was proud, until, one day
I learned that I was not halfso sweet
As plain, little Mignonette, down by my
feet.
Mignonette (replies). —
Beautiful Tulip, the hand Divine
Made me for sweetness, and you to shine.
Dahlia.—
Tama Dahlia, with heart of gold ;
The radiant hue of each purple feld
Of my dress is like velvet to deck a queen.
I’m the happiest Dahlia that ever was seen!
But more than my beauty, or pride, or
power, :
Love I this gentle Convoivulus flower
That trustfully grasps my strong, high stem,
And decks my brow like a diadem.
Convoloulus, —
And I love you, for when I was young,
With feeble tendrils I faintly clung
Toa Sunflower bold, but she shook me aside;
Then you, kind Dahlia, support supplied.
Sunflower, —
I did not mearf to be rude that day ;
I turned to the sun, and you stood in my
way.
Sensitive Plant,
child).—
I am the little Sensitive-Plant.
I would like to say more, but—indeed, I
can’t.

(The very

smaitest


































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































TALKING FLOWERS.



Blue-Eye.—

Tam the little Blue-Eye grass;

There are few who see me, as on they pass;

But I-can look up with my little blue eye

To the warm, kind sun in the beautiful sky ;

And I never am chilled when the cold
winds blow,

Because my dear home is so sheltered and
low.

Blue-Eye will teach you, in accents mild:

Learn to be humble and lowly, my child.

Violet.—
Iam the Violet, and I dwell
Under the shade of the sweet Heath-Bell.
Early, at dawning, it rings and it rings,
To waken me, ere the redbreast sings.
Iam happy, so happy the livelong day,
For I love in my lowly home to stay,
And I know that the sunny days of spring
The love of the children to me will bring.

Gentian ——
Tam the Gentian, with fringe of blue,
Upward I gaze all the long day through.
I do not know whence the flowers all
come,
But it seems to me the blue sky is my
home.
When I bloom, the winter draws nigh,
And Asters and Golden-rod wither ard
die 5
And leaves are falling from vine and tree ;—
Does it make you sad? It is sad to me.

Columbine. —
I am the Columbine, and I keep
Sweet honey-drops in my nectaries deep.
The humming-bird and the busy bee
Know what they find when’ they fly to me.
I teach this lesson: That free from sin
You keep the cells of the soul within,
That love’s sweet honey you may bestow
On all who about you come and go.



Buttercup.—

Im little Buttercup, shining like gold,

With a smile for the young, and a smile for
the old.

I grow in the sunshine, and grow in the
shade,

I’m the cheeriest flower that ever was made.

When the little ones find me they dance
with delight,

As they fill up their aprons with buttereups
bright.

“Now, who loves butter?” they shouting
begin,

As they hold me up under each lily-white
chin.

Sweetbrier-—

I am the Sweetbrier, and I grow

By the wayside hedge where the children
go.

They search about in my fragrant home,

And they say, “It is time, for the buds
have come.”

But I keep quite still till some gentle child

Parts the leaves with her fingers mild ;

Then Isend my breath of fragrance out,

And laugh as I hear the joyous shout:

“The roses have come! the roses are here!

I will carry this home to my mother dear !”

Mosses and Ferns (in concert.)\—

Little Mosses and Ferns are we.

We dwell in the forest, glad and free ;

We joyfully drink the gentle rain ;

We smile when the bright sun shines again;

Our fragrant thanks to the setting sun

We breathe, when each happy day is done,
Flowers, Mosses, and Ferns (singing.)--

Little child, an offering

Of our fragrant love we bring.

God has made us fair and bright,

For your pleasure and delight.

From the garden, field, and woou,

Sing, oh, sing, the Lord is good !
176

UNDER AN UMBRELLA.



ee. child, a flower a art thou,

cn the dear Lord’s garden, now ;
Gentle dews of heavenly love

“Fall upon you from above.

ae with flowers of field and wood,
Sing, oh, sing, the Lord is good!

Child, Mother, and Flowers (singing).—
Father dear, who sends the flowers
In the field, the wood, the bowers,
Joyous notes of sweetest praise
Unto Thee onr voices raise.
Sing as loving spirits should,—
Sing, oh, sing, the Lord is good

ee ae

UNDER AN UMBRELLA.*

CHARACTERS.

Miss Crucinia Truman, a lady of a certain age.
Mr. AuGrRvon Sma, a middle-aged gentleman.

SCENE.

Mr. Small enters at side, his trousers rolled up, his
coat-collar standing; he carries a raised um-
brella well down over his face. Miss Truman
enters at opposite side, her gown gathered in
one hand, her other hand carrying a raised par-
asol which she holds in front of her.

Miss Truman.—This tantalizing sudden
shower !
Mr, Smail.--This beastly rain !

(They advance toward each other until
the umbrella collides with the parasol, and
sends it flying out of Miss Truman’s
hand).

Miss T.—Mercy !

Mr. S—The fellow who does not carry
a protector from the rain without jabbing it
into his brother-mortals should be sent to
the antipodes, where he might take lessons
in umbrella guidance.

Miss T.—So think I. In the meantime
here I am becoming positively drenched,
and my parasol a hopeless wreck. I shall

* From One Hundred Choice Selections.

assume the aspect of a Naiad in a very few
minutes—the drops are already trickling
over the bridge of my nose.

Mr. S. (hearing her voice throws his um-
brella back on his shoulder and sees her).

A lady!

Miss T. (haughtily)—I1 am usually so
called. .Though your treatment of me
might argue that I am a transparent vapor
which impedes no atom.

Mr. S—Madam

Miss T’.—Sir, J am a spinster; you will
address me as plain Miss.

Mr, S—Ah—ah—plain Miss, I see that
I have put you out by my awkwardness; I
have, I fear, been the means of destroying
your equilibrium.

Miss T.—My equilibrium Sir, do not
presume to insult me. Ihave yet to find
the man who can destroy my equilibrium.
You had better call it my parasol.

Mr, S—Pardon me once more, madam—
that is, I mean to say plain Miss.


UNDER AN UMBRELLA.



177



Miss T. (aide)—Plain Miss! He is
very literal.

Mr. S—I sincerely regret having
wrenched away your parasol. I see it lying

there in the mud like a wilted tulip. It
must have been very inadequate as a pre-
server from the e!ements, at any rate. If
I could only make amends—if I might offer
you a share of my umbrella.

Miss T—I would die first! I would
stand in this rain and melt by degrees,
rather than accept such a situation.

Mr. S—Who asked you to accept a sit-
uation? I hope my umbrella has no sug-
gestions of an intelligence office about it ?

Miss T.—If you will permit the rude-
ness, I should say not, while it has its pres-
ent means of support.

Mr, S—Meaning me. (Aside.) She is
deprecating the strength of my intellect.
And yet despite her manner—nay, because
of it, there is something quite fascinating
about her. [admire that dignified move-
ment of the eyebrows, like arcs of an
eclipsing moon seen through smoked glass.
(Aloud.) Perhaps I have been not quite
au fait in the expression of my desire to be
of service to you—allow me to offer you all
my umbrella, I shall not mind the rain.
And there are two well-defined rills mean-
dering down your cheeks. ;

Miss T.—Rills !—they may become oceans
before I would accept the protection of the
personal property of any man -—oceans, sir,
oceans!

irs: ene to facts, if you
please, as we are already sticking here in
the mud. Oceans, indeed! Those rills
may become rivers, but oceans, never !—
unless you shall prove to be Lot’s wife
after her retrograde glance.

Miss T. (aside).—Lot’s wife !—do I look



so old as that? (Alowd.) I beseech y,
not to add to your speech any further, eri
dences of innate brutality.

Mr. S—Brutality! You employ stroug
terms. Iam but endeavoring to be eee

Miss T.—If your idea of pelencs: con-
sists in calling unprotected females Lot’s
wives, I should say it is high time some one
had written a new book of etiquette and
given me the privilege to subscribe for the
first number.

Mr. S. (aside)—How piquant! This
woman is that rare article, a feminine wit.
(Aloud.) My dear lady, I merely meant to
offer an umbrella and not an insult—unless
the one is so shabby that the offer of it par-
takes of the nature of the other. I have
irrecoverably spoiled the little silken awn-
ing with which you canopied your head,
and I would repair the damages—not of the
parasol, that is past mending, is irrecover-
able, wncoverable—but of my feelings for
causing the accident; and. I would offer
what amends I may.

Miss T. (considerably softened).— You
are certainly generous; and I must decline
the proffered loan. I accept no favors ex- ,
cept from my own sex—I know what men
are.

Mr, 8. (aside).—How sage her education
must be. (Aldoud.) But you are standing
in the rain, dear lady.

Miss T. (aside).—He calls me “ dear
lady.” How oddly it sounds. No one has
called me “dear” since Algy’s time.
(Aldoud.) Iam standing in the rain, sir—
dear sir—because you will not step aside
and allow me to pass by. You are in my
path.

Mr. S. (moving aside): —A thousand par-
dons! (Miss Truman prepares to go on.)
Must I see you go through the rain ?





178 UNDER AN

UMBRELLA.



Miss T.—Certainly not, close your eyes,
and the hardship will be overcome.

Mr. S. (aside).—What sparkling repar-
tee! (Aloud.) Besides, your bonnet will
be spoiled.

Miss T. (shrieking, and running under
the umbrella).--My bonnet! It came from
the milliner’s only this morning, and I felt
that I must go out for a promenade as soon
as I tried it on. And to think that this
‘shower should spitefully come up! I shall
accept of the protection afforded by your
umbrella only so long as it takes me

Mr. §.—To reach your home?

Miss T-—Only so long as it takes me to
tie my handkerchief over my bonnet (tak-
ing out her handkerchief and proceeding
to shroud her head-gear).

Mr. &. (aside).——\ have not seen a woman
do that since Cissy used thus to protect her
finery fromthe elements. (Aloud.) Lady,
fam really and truly going your way.

Miss T. (her bonnet covered with her
handkerchief ).—But I am not so sure of
that; you don’t know which way I am go-
ing to take.

Mr. &. (aside).—P ositively an acute mind,
(Aloud.) You are going the right way.
(Aside.) That’s a guess; she may take the
left.

Miss T. (aside, tremulously)—I have
been abrupt; such deference has not been
shown me since Algy’s time. (Aloud, sad-
ly.) I trust, sir, that 1am going the right
way. I am a harmless enough creature,
who has few in the world to care for, and
(heatedly) who firmly believes in the perfidy
of your sex, having good reason to so be-
lieve.

Mr. S—What a striking coincidence! I,
too, am a lonely sort of fellow who has few
in the world to care for him and: who—





ah-—has a concentrated faith in the unrelia-
bility of women, and has every reason for
exalting that faith into a mania. There is
now one other good reason why you sliould
allow me the honor of escorting you to the
end of your destination.

Miss T. (aside).--Algy could not have’
been more persistent. (Adoud.) And may
Task what may that other good reason be,
sir?

Mr. S.—That misery loves company.

Miss T. (running from under the um-
brella).—Sir ?

Mr. &. (shocked).--Forgive me; I meant
nothing—upon my honor, I did not.

Miss Z.—A man’s honor! You likened
me unto misery, sir—misery !

Mr. S.--Never! Your disbelief of men
and mine of women caused me to see the
compatibility of your remaining in my com-
pany until I should place you in some per-
manent place of shelter.

Miss T-—Oh! (Comes under the um-
brella; aside.) His mind is peculiarly like
Algy’s, and so masterful. (She takes the
handkerchief from her bonnet,.and turn-
ing her face away, wipes her eyes).

Mr. S. (aside)——Am I brutal enough to
cause a woman’s tears? It is like Cissy—
the way she dabs those briny drops away.

Miss T. (recovering).—Pardon this emo-
tion, sir;’I know not why I should be so
foolish, and in the presence of a stranger,
too. But memory has its authority with us
women.

Mr. S—And with us men.

Miss T. (smiling scornfully).—Men have
memory ? ‘

Mr. S. (sententiously).— As Ing, mem-
ories as women.

Miss T. (excitedly).—Prove it! prove it!
I know not why I speak thus familiarly, as
UNDER AN UMBRELLA.

I despise men individually and collectively.
Bat you have made an assertion which I
have ever combated, and [ am constrained
to beg you to prove to me that memory
has any meaning to aman. 1 can streugth-
en my argument by still further throwing
aside reserve and imparting to you a cause
for my distaste for the society of gentle-
men, by saying that my memory of the
perfidy of one man has well nigh made me
loathe your sex, That is memory for you!

Mr. S—I will be equally unconven-
tional and tell you that remembrance of the
unreliability of one woman has given me a
doubt of every other.

Miss T. (aside).—Whata grasp he has
on his subject. (Adoud.) But does your
memory take you back past the slight you
may have received ?

Mr, S—It does. I see in all the glory
of our first acquaintance the one who
injured me, maidenly, sweet and lovable.
Can you prove so much, and after many
years ?

Miss T.—More—and perhaps as many
years have passed since the event as in
your case. I see the man who ruined my
belief in the world, and yet the memory of
whom has kept my heart young while pass-
ing years have flung their shadows on my
face—I see him as I loved him.

Mr S. (Aside).—She is as innocent as
‘Cissy used tobe. (Alowd.) I see not only
the time when I adored one woman, but I
also look into the present when my love for
her is as earnest asis my hatred for her sex
because of her unreliability. There’s mem-
ory for you!

Miss T. (aside).— What strength of de-
votion in 2 man; I would never have be-
lieved it. If Algy had only possessed a
tithe of it. (Aloud.) I will be equally



179



candid and unsophisticated, sir, and declare
to you that not only do I think kindly of
him who rnined my faith in humanity, but
also that I—I—

Mr. S—You hesitate; you would say
that you still love him ?

Miss T. (weeping)—I shall love him
until my heart has grown cold in death. I
may seem a weak woman in owning so
much—and he was not true to me, he was
not true!

Mr. S—Nor was the woman of my
choice true to me. For her sake I have
remained a bachelor all my life.

Miss T. (wiping her eyes and frown-
ing).—Do you suppose that for any one’s
but his sake I am aspinster? A man can
be so cruel and accuse a woman so un-
worthily.

Mr, S.—As unworthily as a woman can
deceivea man. Suppose a lady engaged to
a gentleman; and suppose a lady at a ball
dancing nearly the whole evening with a
stranger with whom her fiance is not ac-
quainted ?

_ Miss T. (her hand over her heart;

aside)—Heaven! It is what I did, and
what made Algy so angry. (Alowd.)
And suppose a lady should meet her sis:
ter’s husband just come from abroad, and
not discover his identity to her fiance, sim-
ply for the sake of a little jesting? That!
for-a man’s belief in her he professes to
love!

Mr. &. (aside).—Merciful powers! it was
what Cissy did, and which I did not find
out until it was too late to rectify anything.
(Aloud, savagely.) I should say that such
a man must be a long-eared brute.

Miss T.—No, only a man—

Mr, §.—A brute, I tell you; I ought to
know. *
10

Miss T.—J insist that he was only aman;
a man who was not gentle to her he loved,
and who did not believe in her against sus-
picious appearances. As for the lady, she
was as silly as itis possible for a woman to
be—and I ought to know how silly that is.

Mr. S.—I cannot call her silly; she may
have lacked discretion, but silly—no! a
cheerful, loving creature whose own purity
of intention blinded her to the miserable

- suspicion of others.

(Miss Truman picks up her handkerchief. A
piano plays “The Girl I Left Behind Me.)

Mr. S—Somebody in one of these
houses is playing a tune peculiarly applic-
able to our present conversation.

Miss T. (listening).—“The Girl I Left
Behind Me.” (They both listen to the
muste).

Mr, S.—Ah, if for one moment I might
see the girl I loved and left behind me!

Miss T. (aside)—Algy used to have
these qualms of conscience. (Aloud.) In
the case of his meeting the lady what
would such aman as you have been de-
scribing do? That must decide if a man’s.
memory be as lasting as a woman’s. What
would he say, sir ? :

Mr S.—He would say— (Aside.) I can’t
get the words out; this lady is exerting
a marvelous influence over me.

Miss T.—Well, what would he say ?

Mr. &. (aside).—And yet I must see if
there is any chance for a man’s gaining a
share of the friendship of such a strong
creature. (Alowd.) What would such a
lady as you have been speaking of say
should she meet the man who—

Miss T.—Who twenty-five years ago
doubted her? She would say—( Aside.)
] cannot say it; the idea of this stranger
causing me to act so outrageously!



UNDER AN UMBRELLA.

(The piano keeps on playing “The Girl I
Left Behind Me.)

Mr. S.—The lady would say ?

Miss T.—Oh, listen to the music! (Zis-
tens.)
Mr. S—Never mind the music. What

would the lady say 2

Miss T. (aside)—How masterful. (Aloud.
She would say—nay, what would your gen-
tleman say if he met the unreliable lady ?
J insist upon your answer first; it is but
fair.

Mr. 8. (musing).— He would say, “When
I went four hundred miles apart from you,
and staid away until this morning, when I
entered again my native town and wandered
near your old abode, wondering if I should
know youif I met you after all these years,.
and—and—”

Miss T. (aside).—It Algy should come to
me thus! (Aloud). Yes—yes; but why
hesitate? Finish it, finish it. Tle would
say ?

Mr. S—The man would say, “I have
been a fool, and I have come to ask forgive-
ness for the sake of the dear old days. And
though I am unworthy—”

Miss T. (interrupting).—No, no; if she
is a woman who can appreciate the power
of memory—and I acknowledge that you
have proven that a man can have as vigor-
ous a Memory as a woman—she would say,
“ Not your fault but mine; I alone am to:
blame for my silly act ; I alone am to blame,
and bitterly have I paid for it—bitterly,
bitterly!” (She puts her hand before her
Jace).

Mr. &. (aside).—Surely she speaks about
herself. She will have no friendly feeling
even for any man but the scoundrel who.
treated her badly and whom she still idol-
izes. What an old fool I have been!
AFTER TWENTY YEARS.

181



(Aloud). Well, do not hesitate.
I will end all this; it is trying to you.

And yet
The

past is past; it has gone into the sunset-

land of Nevermore.

Miss T.—Well, I think I shall proceed
on my way. (Z%es her handkerchief over
her bonnet and moves off, when Mr. Smalt
catches her by the wrist).

Mr. S—And yet I fain would know
what the lady would say to the scoundre:
should she meet him.

Miss T. (trying to free her hand;
aside).—What a grasp he has on his sub-
ject ; and as persistent as Algy used to be.
Are all men so? (Aloud). The lady
would say, “If there is one super-prepos-
teruus person on earth,. her name is—”

Mr, S —VWold—!

ulliss T.—Pray take your hand from my

arm ; this is all very nonsensical. I must go.

Mr, S—Hold! make your humanity in
the plural by saying, “If there are two
super-preposterous persons in this world,
they are—”

Miss T. (freeing herself ).—Cecilia Tru-
man!

Mr. 8. (velling).— Algernon Small !

Miss T. (thrillingly). Algy, zs it you?

Mr, S.—Cissy ! Cissy !

Miss T.—You horrid—

Mr. S.—Y ou perfidious—

(Mr. Smalt drops his umbrella, and they
run into each other's arms—the piano playing
“The Girl I Left Behind Me.”)

(Curtain falls.)

Norse —To render this dialogue more effective, the stage
should be hung in gray paper muslin, to give a twilight ef-
fec’, and also add to the illusion of producing rain by
whatever mechanical means may be employed.

AFTER TWENTY YEARS*

CHARACTERS.

Miss AcatHA TRELAWNEY, aged 40.
Krrry Anaus, aged 19.
Captain Ricuarp May, aged 45.

SCENE.

Miss Trelawney’s drawing-room; folding-doors
back; piano; a screen (right) so arranged that
the person hidden by it can face the audience.
Miss Trelawney discovered, in plain morning
costume and cap, seated, a letter in her hand.
Miss Trelawney.—To think that over

twenty years have gone by since he was

last in this house. And he is coming to-
day! In all those years I have never seen

* From One Hundred Choice Selections, No. 14.

him ; nay, have not so muchas looked upon
his handwriting until this letter reached me
an hour ago. Dare I remember twenty
years back ?—dare a woman at my age view
an old sentiment with partial eyes without
becoming ridiculous to herself in her soberer
moments? A sentiment! No, no, it was
more than that, it was more than that! I
was nineteen, he a few years more; we met,
we—did he love me when so trifling a
182

AFTER TWHNTY YEARS.



thing as a foolish hasty word could separate
us? But now he is in America again, and
he comes to me—for what? Oh, foolish
woman-heart, you force me into forget-
fulness of everything, but that you once
throbbed rapturously when you knew that
he came nigh. YetI am not old,—mem-
ory has kept me young. Affection—ah, af-
fection may be eternal, untouched by time
and loss of youthful bloom.
(Enter Kitty Angus).

Kitty Angus.—Heigho, aunty, still com-
muning with your letter? (Seating herself
and dangling her hat by the strings). Tam
awfully glad that Captain May is coming; it
will relieve the monotony of a morning
which two interesting females feared was
to be spent in futile efforts to keep from
gaping in each other’s faces.

Miss T—My dear

Kitty.—My deur, I am positive we should
have gaped. I don’t know but I should
have sneezed. Why, you have been brood-
ing over that letter for an hour. Dear me!
I wonder if I shall-ever be so complimen-
tary to aletter. The writer of it was com-
plimentary to you, too; when I met the
Captain in the winter, just before I left
London for America, the first thing he said
to me was—(Clock strikes). There! it’s
nearly time for him to be here, his train is
due in a little while. How do I look?

Miss T—Dear, you were saying that
when you met Captain May——



Kitty —His nephew was with him, you |

know; his deceased brother’s son. The
Captain has been second father to him; as
you have, since mamma’s death, been a
second mother tome. Is my hair all right ?

Miss T—Yes. But you were saying
that Captain May’s first words to you
were——



Kitty —Tobesure. He said, “ Ah, Miss
Angus,”—he often says “ah,” being eld-
erly,— Ah, Miss Angus, how is your Aunt
Agatha?”

Miss T.—Did he, indeed ?

Kitty—He could do no less; you were
the only familiar subject we could broach.
But after that first meeting we became wor-
derfully intimate; I met him everywhere.

Miss T.—He went out a great deal ?

Kitty—Everywhere. All the girls were
dying for him—the undertakers offered him
untold wealth if he would only establish
himself in the vicinity of a young ladies’
school.

Miss T.—Kitty !

| Kitty —Aunt Aggy, now you're cross.
(Embracing her) Well, the men liked
him equally well. But men don’t die for
men—except some doctor’s patient. Jack
Miss T—Jack! Is that the nephew ?

Kitty —Y ou know it is. Jack just dotes
on him. He calls him “nunky.”

Miss 7—Do young ladies make so free
with young gentlemen’s names now a-days?

Aitty—You refer to my calling Jack,
Jack? Oh, I always call him Jack. He
likes it. So do I.

Miss T. (im horror).—But to call him
thus, and to his face!

Kutty—There is just the point where
your generation and mine differ. Yours
was a slyer age, aunty; you used to call
men Jack behind their backs, and Mr. so-
and-so to their faces. We don’t; we say
Jack all the time—when we know them
well enough. (Hdging closer to Miss T.)
Now I don’t believe you ever called Cap-
tain May “ Richard,” did you?

Miss T. (confused).——Kitty, have you
practiced this morning 2
AFTER TWENTY YEARS.

183



Vitty._-Oh, I am too nervous to do any-
thing, except wait. I—(humming, rises
and goes to piano; plays softly “ Yourlt
Leemember Me;” sings quietly): “When
other lips and other hearts their tales of
love shall tell—” (Stops the song and plays

the air).
Miss T.—(Kitty keeps on playing the
air). Kitty!

Kitty (playing).—Did you eall, aunty?

Miss T—We were speaking of Captain
May, you will remember. Was he looking
very old when you met him?

Kitty (playing).—No, indeed; quite ju-
venile; he always wore a rosebud in his
coat.

- Miss T.—He was not wrinkled ?
Kitty —Wrinkled? Merey, no!
(Miss T. cautiously reaches a hand-glass

from the table, regards herself in it, wd

shakes her head, Kitty playing the one air
at the piano).

Miss T. (replacing glass).——lWitty, was
he-—ah—very—ah—happy ?

Kitty (playing)—I should say so. A
regular giggler.

Miss T. (shocked).—What !

(itty.—Oh, but he was. I used to say
to him severely, “ You're a terror for laugh-
ing, Jack.”

Miss T.—Jack! ob!

Kitty—The nephew, you know. Per-
haps yow’re referring to the uncle? No, he
never giggled very much; he had a rather
sad face when he was not animated—all
elderly people have sad faces at times. I
adore sad faces, don’t you? (Crashes on
the piano, and comes forward). Aunty,

No?

aunty, tempus is fugiting. Do dress to re- |

ceive the Captain.

Miss T.— Dress !

Iam an old woman,



out of society; why should I dress to re-
ceive an elderly man?

Kitty—Suppose the elderly man knew
you in your early days, has not seen you in
many years, and has carried around the
world with him some remembrance of your
youthful appearance ?

Miss T. (rising and gathering up her
letter).—But——

Kitty — But me no outs. You are about
to accuse yourself of age again. Old!
Why, dearie, you are still young ; positively
in a proper toilette you are newer than I
am. Do put on that lovely robe in which
you look so well; there’s a dear goud aunty.
I want Captain May to see you sweet and
young.

Miss T.—W herefore ?

Aitty— Because le knew you when you
were so. ,

Miss T.—I! Young anu sweet «

Kitty.—Do, do!

Miss T.—To please you I would do many
foolish things.

Kitty — Yes, yes, then to please me.
Mercy! didn’t you hear the music I have
just played ?—it was “ You'll Remember
Me;”—I played it for you.

Miss T.—For me?

Kitty.—For the old time’s sake, your old
time. There! do go and put on the lovely
robe; be foolish to please me.

Miss T. (in reverie).—It it should be! If
the old times are to him what they are to
me!

‘itty.—W hat are you saying, aunty ?

Miss T.—Yes, yes, I will go and dress
(going), I will go

Kitty —The pretty robe, remember.

Miss T—Yes, yes, the youthful robe.
But I put it on to please you, ae culeput
it on to please you.


184

AFTER TWENTY YVHARS.



(Zeit Miss T.)

Kitty (looking after her).—Y ou couldn’t
be foolish for your own sake, could you?
O aunty, aunty, just as though I did not
know your story. His nephew Jack told
me all about it, silly old Jack! But Ican-
not stay here alone; I’m too nervous. Tl
run about the garden till the Captain comes.
Dear ! how I dread, yet welcome, this visit !
I know the business that brings him. And
how will Aunt Agatha takeit? She thinks,
like all people of her age, that nineteen is
too young to marry, but it isn’t, and—and—

(Exit, singing “ When other lips and other
hearts,” ec).

(Enter at folding-doors, Captain May.
His hair is slightly grizzled; a rosebud is
in his button-hole.)

Captain May.—No one here? Surely I
am expected?—Agatha has received my
note? Does she forget her old friends?
(Looking about him.) Ah, this old room!
I have not been in itfor twenty years, and
yet, despite the new appointments, how
familiar it is. Here, day after day, I used
to come. How we watched the moon arise
over the trees in the garden! The old
trees are the same that 1 knew twenty years
ago,—trees are life-long friends of men.
And then of winter evenings how we loved
the firelight and the soft sigh of the wind
in the chimney. And how sweet Agatha
was. It was the fancied likeness to her
cant that first attracted me to little Kitty.
Dear little Kitty! Ah me! how senti-
mental we old stagers grow when we get
the chance. I feelalmost shaky about meet-
ing Agatha. An order to go into immedi-
ate battle is not so terrible as the going to
meet a friend after tweuty years of absence.
Feeling his pulse.) Why, it’s ninety! pshaw!

(Walks about, goes to piano and turns over
the music on the rack.) ‘ When other lips
and other hearts their tales of love shall
tell.” Kitty’s been singing, I suppose.
What sentimental trash young people ad-
mire. ( Whistles the tune, coughs, dashes a
tear from his eye.) There! (gruffy.) I'm
an old fool—no fool is like an old one.
Maybe they’re in the garden; let me go
and see. I was never floored by a con-
founded tune before. (Angrily throws
open the folding-doors and rushes out, jam-
ming his hat on his head, whistling the
tune.)

(Enter Miss T. in an elegant robe, with-
out cap, and looking young).

Miss T.—To think that I should act so
unwomanly. Whyam I dressed out in this
peacock raiment? Let me acknowledge
the truth, that I do it to make myself at-
tractive in the eyes of a man. Horror!
how indelicate! «And yet I have known
him so long, I knew him when I was young ;
and shall he note the ravages of time if I
can veil them? But why does he.come ?—
could he not let me rest in peace? His
letter merely says that he has something of
importance to say to me, to impart which
he travels three thousand miles. Some-
thing of importance! (Takes letter from
her bosom and reads it.) Twenty years
ago such a letter would have made my heart
flutter, possibly. (eeling above her heart.)
Not more than it flutters now. (Puts let-
ter in her bosomagain.) AndIold enough
to be sensible! Kitty says he looks young,
has no wrinkles, and—(snatches hand-glass
JSrom table and regards herself in. it.) I
am not so old, not so very old; without my
cap my hair is not ugly. (Kitty laughs
outside. -Miss T. throws down the glass
agitatedly.) Oh, he is here, he is in the
AFTER TWENTY YEARS.

garden with Kitty! I cannot meet him
yet; I require more preparation than I

thought I should. (Kitty and Captain:

May both laugh.) Theyaremerry! Kitty
and he together—and he comes to see me—
something of importance to communicate
—and all the girls were in love with him—
Kitty is a girl! she played a silly love-song
while she talked about him; she considers
him young looking, even noticed that
he always wore a rosebud; he has a sad
face, and she adores sad faces; he went
everywhere, she often met him ; she became
intimate with him; she,—oh, what a fool
does memory make of a woman! I refused
to see the truth,—he comes to America to
ask for Kitty’s hand! I—I—I cannot
meet him thus. (Atty laughs.) They are
here! (Looks about for hiding place.
Goes behind screen, where she faces the
audience.)

(Enter at folding-doors Captain May
and Kitty, laughing.)

Kitty —It is a most amusing story, Cap-
tain. And so the lady, after all those years,
still clung to the man and would not heara
word in his disfavor, although his flirtations
were public comment.

Capt. M.—Such is woman’s devotion. I
was not laughing at her devotion, but at the
man’s perpetual youth. Ah, yes,a woman’s
devotion. .Now, a man’s devotion——

Kitty.—That is an entirely different mat-
ter. We all know what man’s devotion
is—true to one woman all day, in the eve-
ning true to another; Anna Maria in May,
Susan Jane in June; by October all the
names in the American category of feminine
loveliness exhausted, and then hey! for
Europe and Victorias and Maries.

Capt. M.—You speak as one who has

185

been coached according to the morbidity of
some female Byron. Has your aunt——

Kitty.—My aunt never coaches any one ;
she is younger than I am—quite a baby.
I continually shock her with my superior
knowledge of the world. She is

Capt. M.—But let us not speak of her.
(Placing seat for Kitty.) She willbe here
presently to speak for herself.

Kutty.—I don’t know why she stays away
so long. I—I-~-(seating herself) am grow-
ing nervous again

Capt. M. (sitting down).—Over what I
am about to say to you?

Kitty—That depends upon what you
are going to say.

Capt. M—You know why I am here?

Kutty.—l1 cannot say that I donot. I
have not told aunty though; I dared not.
She has old-fashioned notions about youth-
ful brides,

Capt. M.—Once more permit me to sug-
gest that your aunt be left out of the ques-
tion. You know why I come to America?

Kitty—Oh, Jam so nervous. Yes!

Capt. M.—You know that I come to tell -
your aunt that a man offers you his heart
and fortune ?

Kitty (lowering her head.)\—Y es.

Capt. M.—I come for more than that; I
come to beg you to consider what you are
doing. You are plighting yourself for life
to oné man.

Kitty—How horribly serious you are;
just like Aunt Agatha.

Capt. M.—TI see you will not leave your
aunt out. :

Kitty.—She is leaving herself out at
present, I wish she’d come: she'd take it
serious enough.

Capt. M.—True, your aunt and I belong
to a generation thet regards youth witb


186



AFTER TWENTY YEARS.



more careful eyes than we did twenty years
ago. But as I say, I would, dear Kitty,
have you view this avowal of love with all
due reverence. It is a holy thing

Kitty (erying).—And not to be lightly
entered into. I know, I know it all; I’ve
read the marriage service ever since I was
sixteen. And I know all about the solemn-
ity and “J, M, take thee, N,” and all the
_rest of it. Oh! oh! ob!

Capt. M—What have I done! Made
you miserable? Forgive me! I came on
the most blissful of errands,—to speak. to
you of love and marriage; and see how
clumsily I have gone about it. There!
there! (trying to pacify her!)

Miss T. (behind the screen, takes the letter
from her bosom and tears tt to preces, speak-
ing sadly);—I am old—an old, old woman.
Let me take off this frivolous garb. How
thankful I am that I have heard him before
I met him.



(The Captain still pacifying Kitiy; Miss
T. unperceived slips pust the screen, crosses
the stage and esits.),

Capt, M—Ah!
and I am forgiven ?

Kitty (knotting her handkerchief ).—
There isn’t anything to forgive, but I for-
give you all the same.

Capt. M.—I dare say I made a sad
bungle of it.

Kitty—So many elderly people make
pungles. They seem to think that we young
people haven’t a grain of sense, because we
don’t use it as we use pepper and salt to
season everything we are regaled upon.

Capt. M.—I dare say I am elderly.

Kitty.—Oh, frightfully.

Capt. M—While your aunt

Kitty —You said my aunt should not be

Now you smile again,





brought in.
though.

Capt. M.—I merely remarked——

Kitty—Pardon me! You meant to re-
mark

Capt. M.—That while I

Kitty —That while you are horribly
old

Capt. M—Old!

Kitty.— Quite a relic. That while you
are a second Methusaleh, aunty is in the en-
joyment of incessant youthfulness. I will
not deceive you, Captain May; my Aunt
Agatha has discovered the philosopher’s
stone and has turned everything into gold,
and herself into a being who will never
arrive at maturity—I just now told you
that she was a baby.

Capt. I. (in reverie)—She used tu be
very sweet.

Kitty.—She’s a great deal sweeter now.
All the men for miles around rave about
her.

Capt. M.—They used to rave about her
twenty years ago.

Kitty.—It’s worse now. An undertaker
wants her.

Capt. M. (in horrer).—An undertaker
wants her! Why—why—

Kitty—Oh, merely to take a house near
a college. .

Capt. M.—Near a college ?

Kitty—So that he may have a brisk
trade in the families of the sophomores.

Capt. M. (laughing)—You ridiculous

(Aside.) li bring her in,







Kitty.

Kitty —Then why did you make me cry 2

Capt. M.—Seriously, Kitty,—

Kitty. — Seriously, Captain May,—

Capt. M—Your aunt is very young in
appearance, I presume ?

Kitty.—I have told you twice that she is
AFTER TWENTY YEARS.

a baby. She could not be younger than
that.
Capt. M—Younger! Ah—younger
looking than—than me, of course ?
Kitty.— Of course.

(Capt. M. slyly gets possession of the hand-
glass and looks into it.)

Capt. M—And—and—

Kitty—I only wish she would hurry.
Younger looking than you! My goodness!
wait till you see her!

Capt M.—She goes outa good deal, eh ?

Avitty.— Indeed she does.

Capt. M.—She always went out a good
deal. i

Kitty—She goes once a week to the rec-
tory to make up flannel for the dear little
Indians ; two days to church; a half day
to read to people who never learned the
art. The other three days and a half she
is occupied in keeping me from saying any-
thing about her to quizzing elderly gentle-
nien.

Capt. M.—Elderly gentlemen!
elderly gentlemen come here ?

Kitty.—There was one here to-day.

Capt. M. (putting down glass and ris-
ing).—Yes, Kitty, I am old,—far too old
for nonsense, and far too old for you to sit
there and laugh at me.

Kitty (rising and going to him).—Obh,
Captain, pray forgive me; you are too dear
to me for me to make a jest of—

Do

(Enter Miss T. in first dress, and with cap.)

Miss T. (going to Captain I. and smil-
ingly giving him her hand).—I am very
glad to see you, Captain May.

Capt. M.--Agatha—Miss
after all these years of absence !

Kitty—Why, aunty, you promised me

Trelawney,



187

you'd put on your lovely young robe. You
look almost elderly in that thing.

Miss T.—I am honored by this visit
Captain May; a visit of business presum-
ably.

Capt. M.—My old friend !

Miss T—You compliment me by eall-
ing me such. Time has dealt kindly with
you, Captain May.

* Capt. M.—l should have known you
anywhere, Agatha.

Miss T. (laughing)—You flatter me.
(Soberly.) But this matter of importance
which you have to communicate? You will
pardon me, but I am expected at the rec-
tory—

Capt. M. (stiffty)— Yes, to sew flannel
for Indian babies. This welcome quite
overpowers me; it is scarcely what one
would have looked for after twenty years
of separation.

Miss T.—\ am sorry; but then age
makes one practical. The matter of im-
portance ?

Capt. M—Upon my word, madame!

Kitty (rubbing her hands).—It’s coming !
it’s coming !

Capt. U—The matter, madam, is this—

Kitty—Oh! (goes to piano and runs
her hand over the keys).

Miss T.—I await your pleasure, Captain
May.

Capt. M@—I—ah—ahem !
—ah—ahem !

Miss T. (cheerfully)—My niece—

Capt. M.—Has become the object of—a
man’s devotion.

Miss T--I know it. —

Kitty—O aunty, don’t fib! Who told
you?

Capt. M.—You are apprised of this?

’ Miss T.—Let me not act as though I am

Your niece
188

ALTER TWENTY YEARS.



in ignorance of anything you may say to
me. Besides I am anxious to get to the
rectory. I know all that you would tell
me. When you first entered this room
with my niece, I was behind that screen,
and before I had a chance to escape, heard
something of what you told her. Allow
me to congratulate you on the manner in
which you have fulfilled your office.

- Capt. M—Then you consent to this
marriage ? ;

Miss T.--I do, most heartily.

Kitty (running to her)—Oh, you deli-
cious aunty !

Miss T. (repulsing her).—Go away, Kit-
ty ! go away, I say!

Kitty— Why, Aunt Agatha—

Capt. M.—And I may tell him so ?

Miss T.—Tellhim! Tell whom?

Capt. M —Jack, my nephew.

Miss T. (feebly).—Jack, your nephew!
What has Jack, your nephew to do with it?

Capt. M.—Then you do not know the
gist of the matter?

Kitty—I knew you were fibbing; you
dowt know it. But you've said that I
might accept,—Captain May has your word
forit. I never told you, but it’s Jack May,
the Captain’s brother’s son, my dear Jack!

Miss T.—His nephew! Jack! (putting
her hand to her head.)

Capt. M—Agatha! what is it? Is it
possible— ;

Miss T—I thought—1 thought-—

Capt. M.—Agatha, tell me—after all
these years—my old affection for you—
which has never failed—

itty Oh, that’s coming, too. (uns
to piano and plays softly, “When other
lips and other hearts,” etc.)

Capt. M.—Speak, speak, Agatha.
thought that Kitty’s suitor—

Miss T.—Kitty! Kitty !

Kitty—Don’t appeal to me; I refuse to
have anything todo with you. Only let
me tell you that I know your story from
beginning to end, Agatha Trelawney ; Jack
told me. Besides (playing), yowre in a
hurry to get to the rectory.

Capt. M. (excitedly). —Agatha, Agatha,
tell me—tell me—you ee.

Miss T.—From what i overheard I
thought--I feared—oh Richard, that you
were Kitty’s suitor.

Capt. M—When I reinember eee
years back, Agatha?

You

(He holds his arms out, and Miss T. with a
glad ery runs to him, placing her hands
before her eyes and resting her head upon
his shoulder, Kitty singing “When other
lips,” ete. as curtain falls)

“eo














































































































































































































































































































































































































































189
THE SONG.

ae AKE UP! wake up! Old Santy has come
With oceans of goodies and toys!
Wake up! wake up! the chiming bells
Proclaim our festive joys.”

From cellar to attic the riot begins;
Up and down, up and down, their voices ring,
Their bright eyes glance, their sweet lips meet,
And over and over the song they sing:

“Ah! jolly Old Santy, you’ve come once again
With gifts for your girls and your boys!
We greet you, we love you, we speed you away,
For millions are waiting your joys!”

Shout on, happy hearts, hearts pure as the snow;
Shout on, for the years their measures will bring,—

For the bright eyes tears, for the sweet lips sighs,—
But now, O merrily, joyfully sing:

“Santy has come, Santy has come,
The silvery bells are ringing;
We'll crown him with holly and mistletoe,
And give him a joyous greeting!”





NOTE.—The Christmas Stories in Part IV. were written by the school children of Chicago and vicinity in
response to an invitation from The Daily News, and prizes aggregating $300.00 offered for the best productions,
These prizes were divided into three classes: Five of $20.00 for stories by children over 15 years; ten of $10.00 for
those between 12 and 15, and twenty of $5.00 for those under 12 years. Over four thousand stories were submitted,
from which the following have been selected. It may be said that they speak for themselves, and speak well.
They are alike imbued with the same spirit of youthful impulse and freedom. yet they are of all sorts so far as
Christmas subjects go and the manner in whichthey are treated. They all make, however, good reading. Hoping
it will be an inspiration to young people all over the land, we place them here for their perusal, trusting they
will find much pleasure in reading stories written by children whose hearts and souls are in the work.

190
cree Na

Peo



(AWARDED FIvE-DOLLAR PRIZE.)

JOHNNY’S TRIAL FOR A CHRISTMAS PRIZE.

By WILLOUGHBY HEGLER, Age 11 years and 8 months.

@(s)R. Eprror: This is a true story. In
the great city of Chicago a good man

‘lived, who offered prizes for the best Christ-
mas stories—$20 for stories by children over
15 years of age, $10 for stories by children

b
Z
2,

s
Z
ae
Z

between 12 and 15, and $5 for stories by
children under 12.

Now, I know alittle boy named Johnny,
and he said he would take the prize, or
know the reason why.

First he got a pencil, and then spent half
an hour in sharpening it. Next he got a

191



sheet of paper about big enough to hold 500
words. Then he spent another half-hour
thinking about what to write. Then he
cried because he couldn’t take a $10 prize,
and then he cried louder because he wasn’t
old enough to take a $20 prize.

Then he went back to his subject. First,
he thought he would write about fairies, but
he thought that was too girly. Next he
tried to write about a mouse’s Christmas,
but he got in too many “cheeses” and “ands”
and he had heard Miss Blank, his teacher,
say that one should not use one word too
many times in writing stories.

Then he asked his mamma how much
nuts were a pound ; before he got that set-
tled his foot was asleep. Then he thought
he would write about Washington crossing
the Delaware, but mamma said that was .
too old a subject.

Thinking about the ice in the Delaware,
made him remember that he wanted to go
skating the next day, and he had to rush to
the window to see if the snow was still fall-
ing. i

Then he tried to write a story called
“ Kosciusko’s Dream.” He knew all about
192

MARGERY’S CHRISTMAS DOLLAR.



Valley Forge, but when he went to have
Kosciusko go to sleep and dream about Po-
land he found out he knew nothing about
Poland.

Next he tried to write a story about a lit-
tle newsboy, who one Christmas eve went
to sell a man a paper, and he had the man
find out that he was the man’s little boy,
who had fallen in the riverand was drown-
_ed along time ago; but his big sister said
that was what all the other little boys
would write about.

This made Johnny mad, and he flung the
paper in one corner and the pencil in the
other, and said he wouldn’t have all the
prizes in Chicago.

P. 8.—My name is Johnny.

(AWARDED TWENTY DoLLAR PRIZE.)

MARGERY’S CHRISTMAS DOLLAR.



FRANCES WALLACE.
Age, 14 years and 9 months.

ARGERY’S Christmas box was empty.

21 Pennies had not been so plentiful in
the little family this year as in the previous
years of her short life, and the thought
that she could have no part in the custom-
ary Christmas offerings was making her a
very sad lirtle girl; but grandpa had come
many miles to visit his children, and as he
kissed his “little woman,” as he called her,
good-by, he slipped a bright silver dollar
into her hand.

It was the first time she had ever had so
much money all her own. To be sure she
had been intrusted with the housekeeping
money many a time, for she was mamma’s
trusted little errand girl, and could buy the
roast for dinner or order the vegetables

from the market as well as anybody, but -



she always counted out faithfully the change
that was left, into her mamma’s hand, and
it was only once in a while that she was
permitted to keep a few pennies all for her
very own.

“Tt takes all the money your papa makes,
my dear,” her mamma had said to her one
day, “to keep us and send you to school.
We are not rich, Margery.”

Since then she had never teased for the
pennies that were left, though the candy
store on the corner was so tempting and
there were so many school-girl playthings
that she wanted so badly.

“Oh, you dear old grandpa,” she cried,
“is it really all mine?”

“Yes, deary, all yours to spend as you
please ; only I hope you won’t be cruel to’
it. Some people treat their dollars so very
badly. If this one could only speak to you,
what a story it could tell, of its treatment
since it became a dollar and was started on
its travels. Just think how many pockets
it has been in.”

Just then the school-bell rang, and away
ran Margery. The busy day with its round
of lessons kept the dollar as much in the
background of her thoughts as it was possi-
ble to keep such an important factor in a
little girl’s happiness, and it was not until
she was going to bed that night that she
stopped to reflect over her grandpa’s words.
“T wonder what grandpa meant by mis-
treating the dollar,” she said to herself, as
she turned down the bed-clothes. “Oh, I
know; by spending it unwisely, of course.
Dollars do lots of good in the world; that’s
what they are made for, and perhaps when
people waste them it makes them feel bad.
Suppose I bought a whole basketful of
chewing gum with this one, I suppose it
would care a great deal. I can fancy the
MARGERY’S CHRISTMAS DOLLAR.



goddess of liberty will emile or frown,
according as I spend my dollar wisely or
foolishly. I wonder ifanybody ever thought
to notice? I am going to watch her when
I spend this. I wonder how she looked
when grandpa gave it to me this morning?
You smiled, didn’t you, goddess? [’m
sure I hope you did.”

She held the dollar between her thumb
and finger as she lay in bed, with the moon-
light coming in through the parted curtains
and falling in a broad gleam across the white
spread. She could read every word that
was on it. She could see by the date that
it was just five years old. “Why, I am
more than twice as old as that,” thought
she, “but I don’t suppose I know half as
much about the world as it does. I wonder
if a little girl ever owned it before, and
I wonder how many things it has paid for ?
Don’t I wish it could turn into a fairy and
tell me its story! If my cot were only like
the lame prince’s wonderful cloak, I would
say ‘Abracadabra, abracadabra,’ as he did,
and away we would go to fairyland.”

“No need for me to go to fairyland to
talk,” said a silvery voice that Margery was
sure came from the dollar. Sure enough!
when she looked closely at the face of the
goddess she saw that she was smiling at
her, and that her lips were moving, but she
was not a bit frightened.

“Oh, please tell me something, tell
me everything you know, tell me every-
where you have been, won’t you ?” she asked,
eagerly.

“My dear child, I cannot; it would take
too long, but I will tell you some of my
history.”

“Oh, do, please, go back to the very begin-
ning,” urged Margery. “I want to know
so much, and, and—I’ll give you plenty of

(18)

193

time.. I won’t spend you for ever so long
if you’ll only talk to me.”

‘*T will tell you my story only on consid-
eration that you are not to interrupt me till
I get through. You see, I know how chil-
dren ask questions. You must let me tell
it in my way.”

“Yes, yes, I promise,” Margery hastened
to reply, fearful to importune further lest
the goddess should refuse altogether.

“Well, the first I remember is lying in
the mint with many others. We had been
having quite a chat about the world one
morning, but none of us knew much about
it or what we were for. We knew we were
dollars. We couldn’t help knowing that,
for it was plainly stamped on each of us.
Presently some one laid an old, dull-look-
ing dollar down near me, and knowing it
must have been out in the world, I ventured
to ask it what we were for.

«That would be hard to answer,’ replied
the old dollar. ‘You are going out in the
world along with these thousands of others,
who are waiting just as you are to see what
will happen next. I have been out a very
long time, as you can see from my date, if
indeed I am not worn too smooth for it to
be discerned.’

“¢Tell me something about the world,.
won’t you? I .asked. ‘ You'll learn soon
enough,’ replied my new friend. ‘I will
tell you this much: you are going to be
several things,—a missionary, a curse, a bless-
ing, the promoter of joy, sorrow, happiness,
and woe, but you have no control over your
own destiny. You might as well lie stillin
the pocket you happen to be in, for your
desires will never be consulted. You will
be entirely at the mercy of a tyrant, for
whom you have been created. Your sense
of justice and propriety may be outraged a
194

MARGERY’S CHRISTMAS DOLLAR.



thousand times, but you may as well keep
still, for your own power—you have pow-
er—is not under your own control. I used
to ring out indignant protests sometimes
when I was new, but nobody ever listened
to me, and I learned to keep still.’

“ replied. ‘Perhaps we may meet again some
time, and exchange stories. You, doubt-

less, have had many interesting experiences
_ in your travels ?’

“¢You will find, replied my silver
friend, ‘that your own experience wiil be
varied and interesting enongh to quite fill
one existence; besides, it is doubtful if we
ever meet again, for I am going to be made
into aspoon. I was given last week with
eleven others to a young married couple
and accompanied by a card which read:
“To be made into teaspoons.” Iam here
to be weighed now.’

«Shall you like your new’

“My question was unfinished, for just
then I was abruptly started on my travels.

“That was five years ago. Iam an old
dollar now, and full of experience. I have
been much sought after by old and young.
I have been permitted to bring smiles of joy
to many faces, and forced to bring tears of
sorrow to many others. I have wonderful
power, but can only use it at the will of my
possessor. I am yours just now, and it is
for you to decide whether my next act will
be a good one ora bad one. I have done
much harm as well as much good. I have
been in thousands of pockets; in the per-
fumed pockets of silken robes and in the
dirty pockets of street gamins ; in the pock-
ets of millionaires and in the pockets 6f
poor washerwomen. I have been pressed
in the palms of lazy luxury and of stern
poverty. I have lain lazily in the company





of others in the possession of the wealthy,
and I have been the last dollar of the poor.
Ihave paid for a single meal for the rich
man and for a sack of flour for the poor |
family. I have paid for shoes for the baby
and for drinks for the drunken father. I
Ihave lain in the church collection and
the bar-room till. I have been given in
charity and stolen by the pickpocket. I
have stopped a moment with the spend-
thrift, and been imprisoned in the miser’s
box. I have helped pay the minister’s sal-
ary and the gambler’s debt, the workman’s
wages and the perjurer’s hire, the honest
debt and the usurer’s demand.

“J have bought cigarettes for the bad
boy one day and a school-book for the
rosy-cheeked school-girl the next; flowers
for the dead baby’s coffin one day and the
hangman’s halter the next; perfume for
dainty handkerchiefs one day and bread for
the starving the next.

“For me, men, women, and children
scramble from morning till night; for me,
the hands grow horny, the brows furrowed,
and the hearts weary; but I cannot stay
with my captors long.

“T am no sooner captured than away I go
again. No pocket is deep enough, no purse
strong enough, no clasp strong enough, to
keep me long. For me, men lie, steal,
fight, and murder. In the headlong pur-
suit for me, man runs against brother and
heeds it not; tramples over friends, and
knows it not, and at last catches me, only
to lose me and take up the chase again. In
all this wide, wide, world there is no
hiding place, no rest for the rolling dollar.

“What are you going to do with me,
little mistress? What is your behest, my
rosy-cheeked queen? Oommand, and I
obey.”
A CHRISTMAS GUEST.



“ Please let me think,” said Margery, who
had been all ears and attention during the
story, “ have you ever before belonged to a
little girl?”

“‘ Many and many a time,” answered the
dollar. “I rarely stop with any one long,
but with children shortest of all. I have

‘bought dolls, ribbons, candies, tops, balls,
and, oh, ever so many things for boys and
girls.”

Margery wanted to ask it if this was a
pleasant part of its mission, but she was
so overcome by the vast and varied ex-
perience she had just listened to that she
hesitated. She did wish she knew whether
the goddess smiled or frowned when grand-
pa gave her the dollar.

“Tam afraid you will think me foolish,”
ventured Margery, timidly, “but would you
mind so very much if I should shut you up
ina tin box and keep you for my Christ-
mas money ?”

The face of the goddess smiled and smiled
until it shown with the silvery light of a
brand new dollar, as it replied:

“T should likeit above all things. Noth.
ing gives me so much happiness as to bring
joy and sunshine to the hearts of the chil-
dren. By all means let me stay with you
till Christmas.”

Margery kissed the face whose lips ceas-
ing to move, indicated that the story was
done, and taking her tin box from the
bureau beside the bed she laid it in and
shut the lid.

* * * * * *

“‘ Margie, Margie,”’ called her mother,
and the sleepy little girl opened her eyes ;
“Come, Margery, breakfast is ready, and I
want you to go onan errand for me before
school-time.”

“ Yes, mamma,” replied Margery, sitting



195

up and rubbing her eyes ; then as the mem-
ory of the dollar’s story came to her she
exclaimed: “Oh, mamma, such a strange
thing happened to me last night. The dol-
lar grandpa gave me talked to me, and told
me its history.”

“ Why, child, what do you mean?” asked
her mother, looking to see if she were
really awake. “Where is your money?”

“T put it in my tin box with the lock and
key, and I’m going to keep it for Christ-
mas. It said I might.”

“T guess you are dreaming yet,” answer-
ed her mother; “come, jump up now, or
you'll be late for breakfast.”

“ Indeed, mamma, it could not have been
a dream,” said Margery, as she sprung out
of bed, but as she stepped on the floor the
dollar fell out of the folds of her night dress
and rolled across the floor. That wakened
her completely and she understood it all.
Her mamma laughed, and so did she.

“J don’t care; it was a good dream any-
way, and I’m going to save the money for
Christmas, just the same. I’m sure it is
here this time,” she said, as she turned the
key in the tin box and shut the bureau
drawer.

(AWARDED TWENTY DOLLAR PRIZE.)

A CHRISTMAS GUEST.



RICHARD Y. CARPENTER.
Age 18 years.

OHNNY Harney stood by the gate in
front of the little white farm house
where he lived, and watched the twilight
darken into Christmas eve.
There were trees about the house, but a
little ways beyond, the road ran down to a
great stretch of lowland that was covered
196

in the summer by tall, wiry marsh grass
and by the flowers that love damp places,
and where countless little green frogs hop-
ped about among the hummocks.

Beyond this was the lake,—one great field
of wild rice, with here and there asilver net-
work, where the twilight lingered on some
open water.

Way down at the foot of the lake the
- lights at the club house gleamed brightly,
for to-morrow was Christmas, and all the
sportsmen were up from the city for a
‘Christmas dinner on ducks of their own
shooting.

John Harney was a good boy, and seldom
discontented or out of sorts, but when he
thought of all the nice guns that stood
along the racks in the sitting room, and the
great bunches of ducks and squirrels that
lay in the kitchen of the club house he did
feel just a little bit covetous.

For that was John’s greatest sorrow. He
didn’t have a gun.

Often when his chores were done, he
would take the shabby little square-ended
boat, and row down into the river to watch
the hunters.

He would hear the guns sound way off
across the lake, and a flock of ducks would
come flying over, growing less at every
place where some canvas-coated sportsman
waited among the grass.

It was a sad sort of pleasure John got
from this. But, then, a gun costs a great
deal of money for a farmer’s boy, and the
price of Tommy’s spotted wooden horse
and Jimmy’s trumpet and all the other
presents wouldn’t nearly have bought one.

It was growing colder all the time, and
even through his thick new mittens John’s
hands were beginning to feel numb; so he
started to go in to the warm kitchen fire.

A CHRISTMAS GUEST.

But then—a long drawn ery came faintly
across the lake:

¢9 Help ! ”

Itsends such a thrill of excitement a-ting- '
ling down one’s nerves—that call for aid.

He knew in an instant why the Dereon
had called.

“Somebody’s got lost in the grass!” he’
thought, ashe hurried down to the lake 3
“he’d better not try to stay out all through
this kind of a night!”

It took along while to reach the place
from where the shouts had come and to get
the hunter to the shore, for the poorfellow,
numbed and exhausted and lost among the
great fields of grass, had dropped the oars,
and sat huddled in the stern, yielding to
that drowsiness which is so often a fatal
one,

But he soon came to when John had
got him to the house, and what a jolly
Christmas guest he was then—almost as
good as if Santa Claus himself had tied his.
deer to the fence and staid with them all
the evening !

With the little Harneys clustered about.
the stranger’s knee, listening open-mouthed
to his wondrous stories, the father leaning
against the wall smoking his pipe, and the
mother softly rocking baby’s cradle—all
lighted by the glow of the firelight, it was.
a pretty scene to see—one that the sprites
of Christmas love to look upon.

And when the Christmas guest was done,
the mother told of that strange star of won-
drous beauty that shone another Christmas
night, above the manger where the infant
King lay sleeping—so long ago, and so far
away—in Bethlehem of Judea.

And the father, looking backward to his
earlier years, bethought him of a story
altogether new—one that had slipped his
A CHRISTMAS GUEST.

memory until now (as things ofsuch slight
import will) about a fierce, gaunt wolf of
monstrous size that he, Putnam-like, had
slain in a cave by the light of its own eyes.

But John, ofall these tales, heard not a
word. What were these childish stories of
bears and wolves and Indians to the sight of
the beautiful gun, with its smooth, round
barrels and shapely stock, that belonged to
the Christmas guest, and that stood in the
corner by the door ?

The stranger, as he gazed around at his
little audience, might have noticed where
the boy’s eyes were wandering, but if he
did he said nothing, and kept right on with
his stories.

Santa Claus must have been very nearly
through with his gift-giving when the lit-
tle Harneys went to bed, each with a bright
new silver dollar clasped in his little fat
hand; and the guest turned to John.

“TY won’t forget, my boy, what you have
done for me,” he said solemnly. ‘ They
would have found me there, all cold and
still among the grass, like they did poor
Phillips last winter, and my Christmas day

_ would have been at the home of Him whose
birth it celebrates. I thank you now, and
perhaps before long I may be able to show
my gratitude in a better way.” And any
one could see that he meant what he said.

Then the lamps were: put out, and the
dream-folk came to take the place of the
Christmas sprites, while the wind whistled
around the corners and old Jack Frost
peered in through the green shutters; and
all the fields and roads, and the woods and
lowlands, took on a covering of snowy
whiteness.

Long before the first happy city toddler
had rushed to his stocking to find what
Santa Claus had left, even before that



197



merry old gentleman and his fleet-footed
reindeer had reached their icy northern
home, the Harneys were awake and break-
fast was on the table.

It was a bounteous breakfast, too, for that
family ; because, although the stranger did
not know it, or at least did not show that
he knew it, all the good things that were to
have been for the Christmas dinner were
brought forth (to the great joy of the little
Harneys, who could hardly have existed
till noon without them,) and were placed
before the Christmas guest.

Soon after, when thanks and merry
Christmas wishes had been given time and
again, the hunter was obliged to depart ; for,
as he told them, his friends at the club
house would be frightened at his absence ;
so he and John walked down to the land-
ing together.

“You must visit me at the house,” he

said, as he took the boy’s hand in parting,
and then, stepping into his canoe, he was
soon rapidly getting out of sight,
- “Oh, mister, wait, wait; you forgot some-
thing!” called a childish voice from behind,
and one of the little Harneys came running
down the road as fast as his short legs
could carry him, with the stranger’s gun.

“Come back sir; you have left your
gun!” shouted John, taking the precious
weapon in his hands and waving it above
his head.

But the Christmas guest came back not
astroke. He only rose to his feet, and,
placing his hands so as to form a trumpet,
he shouted something back—something that
made John’s face radiant with delight, and
his heart almost burst with gratitude.

“TJ didn’t forget it,” came faintly to the
shore. ‘It’s yours. Merry Christmas!”
And the little canoe and the Christmas
guest were lost to sight among the grass.
198

CHRISTMAS ON AN ISLAND.



(AWAEDRD FIvE DoLLaR PRIZE.)

CHRISTMAS ON AN ISLAND.



MABEL BLACKWELL.

_ Agell years and 5 months.

AST winter a family were traveling to
India to spend Christmas with their
brother. When they started the weather
- was so delightful that the children amused
themselves, by playing on the deck and
looking at their faces in the water, which
was perfectly calm and smooth as a mirror.
Not even a ripple could be seen. Sudden-
ly, after they had been sailing several days,
one night the little girl noticed confusion.
She looked up and saw the captain ordering
the sailors to make everything secure, for
he could see a storm approaching. Sure
enough, at midnight they were alarmed by
aterrible gale, which was blowing and
rocking the ship like a cradle. The storm
continued many hours, until at last the ves-
sel was thrown against a rock and wrecked.
All the crew perished. The family suc-
ceeded in getting on a piece of the broken
vessel, and, after drifting on the water until
they were exhausted and nearly dead, the
wind fortunately blew them upon an island,
where they all knelt down and thanked
God for their deliverance from death. The
father provided a shelter as best he could
with the leaves and trees which he found
growing on the island. They supported
themselves by birds and fruit which they
found there.

‘ They gave up all hope of the happy
Christmas they had looked forward to, Of
course they could not expect to celebrate
Christmas at all,

One evening when the family were talk-
ing about their misfortunes, little Maud ex-



claimed: “Oh, mamma, we are like the
children before there was any Christmas.
I wonder if they had any Santa Claus?
But we feel worse because we expected. to
have such a lovely Christmas this year, and
now we won’t have such a good one as we
had last year.”

The father was bound they should have
some kind of a Christmas, so he went all
over the island until he succeeded in get-
ting a large bird and gathering the best
fruits.

Now the brother in India thought he
would like to eat a Christmas dinner
with his relations in America again, and so
he started out. But his vessel was badly
injured by the same storm which they had
encountered, and had to be repaired. So
the captain stopped at the same island. The
brother went ashore, and there saw the rude
honse and went up to it. Imagine his
surprise at seeing his relatives, and their
astonishment and thankfulness at seeing
him.

The family told him. how they had started
to spend Christmas with him in India,
and he told them that he had intended
to go to America an” spend Christmas with
them.

You see both intended to have a family
gathering, but not on an unknown island.
However, they made the best of it. The
brother fetched provisions from the vessel
and boxes full of presents which he had
brought for them.

Mand’s mother cooked a bountiful Christ-
mas dinner after all, which they enjoyed
much more because they had given up all
hope of having one,

They soon went back to America, but
they never forgot the Christmas on the
island.
*T was Christmas eve—I fell asleep,
A-nodding in my chair,

And elfin folk and fairy sprites
Came in and found me there.

(AWARDED TEN DOLLAR PRIZE.)

A CHRISTMAS DREAM.
IVA CLARK.
Age 13 years.
HE tale is but a truthful dream
I essay now to tell;
Oh, that the gift of song were mine,

That I might tell it well.

If I were skilled in fairy lore
I'd bring some magic art,

And o’er my hearers weave a spell—
A charm o’er each heart.



One drove a team of lightning bugs,
One sailed on thistle-down,

A milk-weed wand was in her hand,
On her head a sea-foam crown.

199

A CHRISTMAS DREAM.

201



_ Her dress was made of roses red,
The fairest ever seen,

All sparkling o’er with pearly dew,
She was the witches’ queen.

They danced in circles ’round the room,
And mocked me in my chair—
Pelted me with flakes of snow,
Threw butterflies on my hair.

The hour grew late. From fairy cups
They sipped bright cowslip wine,
And all made fun of the sleeping guest

Who would not wake to dine.

“Kris Kringle comes! Kris Kringle comes!
Let’s lead him to the chair

Where the weary child has taken rest

* With butterflies in her hair.”

Twas thus spoke up a midget wight,
Who took a holly-leaf,

And passing o’er my forehead, cried:
“All woe depart and grief!”

And then the fairies’ gracious queen
_ With the crown of pure sea-foam
Touched me with her magic wand—
Welcomed me to her home:

“Welcome, welcome, child of earth!
To you one boon is given;

Seek what you want, it matters not—
Anything under heaven.

“Kris Kringle comes in one short hour,
Think well; one gift is thine ;
Beauty, power, or magic art, .
Or wealth from golden mine.

* We'll leave you now our king to meet;
- His chariot’s on the road,—
Come, dragon-flies and lightning-bugs,
And help him with his load.”

Away they flew—and now to think
What shall my prayer be ?

Shall I seek for power to move the earth,
Or to ride or walk the sea?

Beauty, wealth—what shall I ask?
Talent, pomp or grace?

Shall my boon be golden mine?
Shall they call me fair of face ?

Ah! beauty does not last—let mine
Be gift of greater power.

Shall my wish be peace and joy
To fill each passing hour ?

Or shall I seek the power to heal,
To cure both pain and grief?

Shall I find a balm for every ill,
For every wound relief?

Oh! it would be a heaven indeed
To have no fights nor wars,
And keep all troubles bottled up,

Labeled “ Family Jars.”

With untold wealth, I’'d feed the poor,
Build churches, schools; and then

“We'd have no need of scaffolds high—

No pale and doomed men.

But D’ve heard it said if trees were gold
That some would ery for bread.
What shall I ask? The time is up.
‘‘ Back in an hour,” they said.

Tramp, tramp, they come, the witches all—
Kris Kringle’s chariot green,
Bumble-bees and dragon-flies,
And the airy, fairy queen.

They lead the king to mossy throne,
While merry blue-bells ring ;

Then one and all join in and shout—
Gaily, mervily sing:
202

A WESTERN CHRISTMAS.



“ Ring out, ring out, ye blue-bells!
Kris Kringle’s here ; come all
And join the merry chorus;
This is the fairies’ ball! _

“Sing out, sing out, ye witches!
And ring, ye blue-bells, ring!
Come, fairies from the woodlands,

And greet the Christmas king!”

They sing, but never weary;
- The night is nigh the day,
The east is growing golden
And fairies must away.

But ere they go they whisper:
* Child of earth, make known
Thy wish to great Kris Kringle
-And greet him on his throne.”

“ Anything under heaven,”
The little witches said.

My mind is weary thinking,
And puzzled is my head.

“ Whence do you come, my little maid?”
Pleasant is his voice,

And now heyday! a thought is here;
Rejoice, my friends, rejoice!

“Whence do you come, my little maid,
Butterflies in your hair?’

“ From Chicago, sir, and, please,
I want the world’s fair.”

(AWARDED TEN DoLuLAR PRIZE.)

A WESTERN CHRISTMAS.



GEORGE WHITEFORT.
Aged 13 years.
N the western part of Montana, about
two miles and a half north of Boulder
valley, on the Little river, there lived a

.the way of presents.

woman named Hayes. She had two boys
and a girl. The girl was named Lucy, and
the oldest boy was named Frank, and the
youngest boy wasnamed John. Frank was
fifteen years old, John six, and Lucy was
eleven. Their father had come from New
York because he had the consumption, and
his doctors had advised him to go out west.
He did so, but he only grew worse, and he
soon died. The family had only a. little
money, and they made their living by farm-
ing. Frank did most of the work, and
raised a few sheep, a horse, and a cow. The
plentiful natural grass supplied them with
enough hay for winter. Jt was nearing
Christmas, and the two smaller children
looked to what they were going to get in
Johnny wanted asled,
so Frank made him one and hid it under
some hay in the barn. Lucy wanted a
dress, of course ; all girls want something
like that. Frank wanted a turkey, and he
meant to have one. He remembered hav-
ing seen some beaver-dams the last time he
was at the river, and when he went again
he took some traps to catch some of them.
In the course of a:-week he caught two beay-
ers and a muskrat, and he shota good many
squirrels. He sold the beaver and muskrat
skins at the town, and bought enough cloth
to make a dress for his mother and Lucy,
and a few things needed at home.

The next day being the day before Christ-
mas, Frank took his gun and started to kill
wild turkeys. He hunted all the morning,
killing two squirrels. About noon he saw
some fresh turkey tracks and followed them
cautiously over the hills and dales, looking
ahead for fear they might see him first, and
escape. He had traveled about an hour,
when he heard, “ Gobble! Gobble!” and
he saw seven turkeys sitting on a limb of an,
THE CHRISTMAS BOX AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

oak tree. He stole nearer and took aim
and fired the right-hand barrel, and then,
as they rose, he fired the left-hand barrel,
and then he looked to see how many he had
killed. He had killed one and'broken the
wing of another. Now, Frank had been a
member of a juvenile humane society in
his old home, so he hastened to put the
turkey to death by cutting off its head with
~ his pocket knife, but the turkey, not appre-
ciating his humane treatment, fought sav-
agely, and gave him some bad scratches and
bruises before he killed it. He then gath-
ered up his game, and threw the turkeys
over his shoulder, and started for home,
arriving safely, and had his mother dress
them.

That evening he went out into the woods
and cut down a small cedar tree that he had
seen while hunting. This he brought into
the house and stood up in the corner of the
sitting-room. He then sat down to supper,
and as soon as he had finished eating he
had Johnny and Lucy string popcorn on
\ strings, and these his mother hung on the
tree; she also made some molasses candy
and put nuts in it, the nuts Johnny and
Lucy had gathered in the fall. As it was
getting late, Johnny and Lucy went to bed,
then Frank retired, and as soon as his
mother had gone to bed he got the dresses
and put them on a chair near the Christmas
tree. He then went to bed, and was fast
asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

When Frank woke up the next morning
he found a mufiler, a cap, and a pair of mit-
tens for himself, and Johnny found the
same things for himself, only he had asled,
too. As soon as breakfast was over Lucy
helped her mother wash the dishes. Then
Frank took Johnny and Lucy on the sled
‘and drew them to the coasting hill, where

203

they coasted as well as if they were on a
toboggan slide. Then they made a snow
man, and knocked him down again with
snow-balls.

Dinner was now ready, and they went
into the house to eat it. They had the
largest turkey of the pair Frank had shot. —
It, with cranberry sauce and mince pies,
composed their dinner. It was a merry
Christmas. They had the other turkey on
New Year’s day.

The moral of this story is that if you
want a merry Christmas and a happy New
Year, work for it,

(AWARDED TEN DoLiaR PRIZE.)

THE CHRISTMAS BOX AND WHAT
CAME OF IT.



SADIE PAUL.
Age 18 years.

§* 7SYIRLS, I’m going to have a Christmas

2} box in my room to-night, even if it
is against the rules.” The speaker was a
young girl of about fifteen years of age,
and her audience were others of ages rang-
ing from thirteen to seventeen years.

They were gathered around a bright fire
in one of the class-rooms of a young ladies’
boarding school in a suburb of one of our
largest cities.

This speech was hailed with smothered
applause, for the rules forbade any such
loud noises as would be caused by this oc-
casion.

“ How are we going to manage to get it
there?” whispered Dora Richardson to
Cora Dean, the one who had proposed the
frolic.

“Oh! [ll meet you all in the east cor-
ridor over the register and then we will go
204

THE CHRISTMAS BOX AND WHAT CAME OF IT.



on to my room ; the bed will be our table,
and as I’ve nothing better to offer, you will
-have to be satisfied with that.”

This occurred the day before Christmas,
and they had arranged to meet that night
instead of Christmas night, for their own
reasons.

The principal, Miss Evans, while sitting
in her room that day, was startled by a
loud ring at the door-bell and, rising, stood
waiting for her visitor, whoever it might be.

Lizzie, the servant, came giggling into
the room a few moments later, and told her
mistress that a beggar girl stood at the door
and wished to see the lady of the house.

Miss Evans, thinking it rather strange
that a beggar should be so polite, hastened
to the door, and instead of seeing a bold
girl, nearly fell over the bundle of rags in
the doorway.

“ Couldn’t I have something for the chil-
dren at home to eat, and for mamma, who
is sick?” sobbed the child, and Miss Evans,
who had a kind heart, for all her strict
rules, brought her in and placed her by the
fire.

The girls, who were nearly all in their
rooms at the time, had not been told of this,
and Miss Evans, knowing there were no
spare beds in the house, concluded to have
the little girl sleep in Cora’s bed, and tell
her of the fact at the supper hour. But
somehow she must have forgotten it, for
Cora remained ignorant.

There was a great deal of whispering
going on all evening, and when all the girls
assembled over the register in the east cor-
ridor it was not a very quiet group that
trooped down the hall to Cora’s room, and
it is quite a wonder that Miss Evans didn’t
awake.

They were all safely in the room at last,



a cloth pinned ever the window and tran-
som, when, imagine their surprise, upon
lighting a match, to finda strange child
sleeping upon the bed.

It would have taken a less nervous child
to sleep through the noise which followed
this discovery, and she of course awakened,
more surprised than they, to find herself
surrounded by a bevy of girls asking all
sorts of questions; receiving no answer
from the bewildered child, they stopped’
their talking till she had time to remember
where she was and how she came there.

When she was a little over the perplex-
ity her sudden awakening had caused, they
asked her who she was, where she came
from, how she came in Cora’s bed, and to
all these she answered hesitatingly: “My
name is Ella Williams, and my mother and
the rest of the children live on street,”
here she burst into tears,as she remem-
bered what she had asked for—eatables for
the children and her poor sick mother.

When she told the girls the cause of her
distress, a bright look came over Cora’s
face as she said:

“Girls, I’ve got the idea! I’m going to give ©
Ella and the rest of her family my Christ-
mas box instead of our eating it ourselves
and breaking one of the rules, and here’s a
dollar to begin with, and I know all you
girls will give something,” and around went
Cora with a hat, and down into it tell all
the change the girls had with them.

“Now, Pm going to hunt in my closet
for some of my best old clothes for Ella her-
self;” and suiting the action to the word,
she dived down into the old closet and
brought out enough clothes to last Ella for
a year, anyway.

The girls then scattered to their various
rooms and Ella staid with Cora that night;


ROXY’S CHRISTMAS PRIZE.

but the next day, bright and early, they
went down to Miss Evans’ room and told
all that had happened; of how they were
going to disobey one of the rules, and of the
contributions, and the old clothes, and all.
Miss Evans was well pleased with her
pupils and added largely to both the clothes
and to the contribution in money.

During the morning the girls sent for the
largest sleigh in the stable and all flocked
into it, carrying bundles, and rode to Ella’s
poor room in the tenement house.

Her mother had been very much worried
about her, but when she saw the girls com-
ing in with the bundles, boxes and baskets,
she felt very thankful for the return of Ella
and the happy Christmas given her by the
young ladies of the “ boarding-school.”

(Fivm DoLLAR PRIZE.)

ROY’S CHRISTMAS PRIZE.



EDDIE ROCHFORD.
Age 8 years.

66 [a] OW is this, Roy?” Mr. Smith asked,
A as his boy came whistling into his
office on the eve of Christmas. “Here isa
note from Miss Brown. She says that for
the last four weeks you have had very poor
lessons, and that on two occasions she found
you fast asleep when you should have been
-studying your spelling.”

“Well, father, I think Miss Brown is
unreasonable; yes, I think she is unkind.
Does she think a boy can waste his time in
studying spelling when, by giving a little
of my time to a Christmas story, I may win
a prize from the Daily News ?

“ Just imagine your son with $5 in his
pocket—$3 that he can call his very own?
Let me see what I will buy. Now, father,





205
you need not tell the story of the milkmaid
with the pail of milk on her head. I have
heard that story so often that it seems old.
Maids don’t carry pails of milk on their
heads any more ; perhaps that is the rea-
son they don’t print that story in the spell-
ing-book any more. !

“T was going to tell you what I shall buy
if I win a prize; but I see by your smiles
that I am building castles in the air. Well,
Iam not the only boy in Chicago who is.
building a castle with the same $5.

“Tt is a good thing that I will not get
my money until after Christmas. You see
if I did I would be expected to buy candy
and nuts for the other children.

“The first thing I willdo when I get my
prize will be to get it changed into silver,
so that I can rattle it in my pocket.”

(Fivm DoLtnaR PRIZE.)

SANTA CLAUS’ REINDEER.

LOUIS P. CONWAY.
Age 11 years and 7 months.

S7ERY many years ago, dear little read-

ff ers, long before your papas and mam-
mas—ay, your great-grandparents—came
upon this earth, the great, good Lord looked
down one winter’s day on the anniversary
of His birthday, and saw the little children
repeating their morning devotions. “Ah,”
thought He, “my little ones must be re-
warded for their love for me.” He then
called the jolly old saint, perhaps you have
heard his name, and said to him: “ You
shall from now on dwell upon the earth,
and reward the little children on my birth-
day. You shall live in the northern palace,
and I shall give you a sleigh, but you must
select the animals you wish to draw you.”
206

PSYCHOLOGY AND MINERALOGY.





Then he was led to a great apartment in
which were kept all the animals that have
existed since the days of Adam. But Saint
Nicholas (that was the saint’s name) was
sadly puzzled. He must select only those
animals who would ever faithfully serve his
Master—the Lord. So he said: “Dear
Lord, give me three days in which to make
my decision.” “ Well said,” the Lord an-
swered, “the time shall be granted.”

That night there appeared to Saint Nich-
olas an angel, who said: “‘Takest thou a
child from earth. His selection shall be
thine.”

Then Saint Nicholas took from earth a
little child and flew up to the apartment of
the Lord.

“ Dearest Lord,” said he, “ I have come
to make my selection.” When they en-
tered the animals’ apartment the lion
growled, and the elephant swung his pon-
derous trunk, and all of the animals seemed
displeased. Did I say all? Oh, no; for
suddenly from out the group sprung six
lovely little reindeer, and, laying their
heads near the child, looked up lovingly at
him.

my choice.”

And, dear little readers, you may, if you
listen, hear the jingle of their little bells on
any Christmas eve.

(AWARDED TWENTY DoLuaR PR: ZE.))

PSYCHOLOGY AND MINERALOGY.



ALIDA ©. WOOLSEY.
Age 17 years and 11 months.
T was Christmas night. Outside the
snow lay white and still. Nature was
at rest, as befitted this day of days—the

“ These,” said Saint Nicholas, “shall be



birthday of our Lord. Many things were
passing through my mind. I thought of the
elequent sermon heard at church in the
morning, “ lifting my nature up to a higher,
a more ethereal level;” the beautiful service,
in which the voices of the white-robed men
and boys filled the church with glad anthem
and Te Deum; the seven bells of shining
holly and evergreen, with their red clap-
pers, suspended beside the chancel; the star
of Bethlehem over the altar, recalling the
wise men of the east.

After launch I had attended a spectacular
drama; one of those delightful plays, well
suited to Christmas time, with fairies and
demons, where poetic justice causes the cur-
tain to fall just as the wicked are circum-
vented and the good are permitted to “live
happy ever afterward.”

Then came the substantial dinner, pre-
pared by old black Aunt Em, who had
“come up from old Kaintucky jest ter see
how de colonel and all de rest were comin’
on, and ter hab one Christmas wid de home-
folks. Dey’s g’wan to hab coon and sweet-
’taters for dinner to-day down home; but
bress de Lawd, I’se glad to be here, ’cause
Joshua and de pickanninies said I might
come.”

At last I sat down in my room before a
blazing fire, my mind almost in a state of
“ innocuous desuetude.” Memories of bells,
anthems, fairies, stars, and music flitted
through my exhausted brain, and then I
thought of chemistry, that science which
strikes terror into the heart of every youth
or maiden who takes a high-school course,
and I thought with regret of my last low
mark, obtained for not knowing which of
the metals were positive and which nega-
tive, when, without any previous warning,
there appeared in the grate half a hundred
PSYCHOLOGY AND MINERALOGY.

207



or more of the quaintest little beings I had
ever seen. They seemed to be arguing a
point with as much zeal as do the United
States Senate or our Irving Society. At
last a little yellow-haired boy said: “ Let
us leave it to that mortal sitting there look-
ing at us.” I had been nodding for some
time before this appeal, and he, supposing
that I had consented, proceeded to plead
his cause thus:

“JT am Gold. Modern men sometimes
call my brethren and I ‘yellow boys.’
Prehistoric man, as he left his record in the
stone, bronze, and iron ages, valued me
above all others. The Old Testament men-
tions six metals—gold, silver, copper, iron,
tin, and lead, placing me first on the list.
Lam called ‘noble’ because water does not
affect me. I am never common, always
bright, capable of the highest polish, and
whether I come to man’s assistance in the
form of the finest wire, the thinnest leaf, or
the daintiest ornament, I am always highly
prized. This is truly the golden age. Men
love me so dearly that they part with honor,
their families, and their lives for me, and
now Miss Silver, here, thinks she equals
me in rank.”

“ Oh,” said overgrown Miss Silver, “Gold
is well enough what there is of him, but he
is insignificant in size compared with me.
However, everything he has said for him-
self applies equally to me. The silver altars
of Italy, the shining dinner service all over
Christendom to-day, owe their existence to
me. I am of such importance that bimetal-
lists are holding a convention about me
now. I have even now the favor of the
lover of the ‘star-eyed goddess of reform.’
I hope you will remember how useful I
have been as a mirror in ages past, and
decide that I am the most important metal.”



Then out stepped a copper-colored youth,
with quite a gallant air, clad in an ancient
costume, and bowing low, said: “I do not
plead for myself alone, but 2200 B.C. my
eldest sweetheart, Tin, and I were bound
in the firmest union, and as bronze were
made into statues in Assyria. My little
friend, Tin, is too weak to be useful alone,
but with me, can withstand the storms of
ages. My newer aflinity, Zine, and I pro-
duce brass, a metal much used and valued
by fashionable people, while I alone, was
much used in medieval times for ecclesi-
astical purposes. So, now, in the name of
these two fair maidens, the Misses Tin and
Zine, I ask you to give a favorable verdict
for me.”

Following this youth came a young man
who impressed me with his size and
strength. ‘I am called Iron,” said he.
“TI do not claim to be of such ancient line-
age as those who preceded me, but I do
claim to, be of more use to mankind.
Where would be your railroads, your steam
engines, or your gunboats, without me?
None of my companions are so necessary
to man’s progress in this century. Although
I do not rely on ‘daddyism’ as much as
my predecessors, yet I am not wholly ple-
beian, as the Greeks used to hammer me
into very great forms of beauty, and Homer
sung of me. I must be made ‘red-hot’ to
show my true metal, and the ancients had
not discovered the method of melting my
not-too-soft heart. Now you, being a Chi-
cagoan, must admire a youth who travels
on his merits, so I feel sure of a favorable
decision for me.”

“Listen to my tale,” said a fine-looking
boy of very tenacious frame of mind (as I
found out later). ‘“ With all due respect,
these fossils, my predecessors, have, like
208

THE BIRD’S LAST CHRISTMAS.



Edward Bellamy, been ‘looking backward,’
while I propose to look forward. My name
is Aluminum. I am a little untractable as
yet, and it is expensive to catch me, but I
will soon sow my wild oats, and be as bid-
able as any of them. Bridges, a great part
of buildings, almost all of human conyen-
iences, will be made by my assistance. I
compose about one-twelfth of the earth, and
when I am once in the traces I will revolu-
- tionize your entire civilization as rapidly as
Brazil changed its government. I have
always been an enigma to scientists, but I
improve on acquaintance, and soon will be
king of metals, perhaps in time for the
world’s fair, which will be held in Chicago,

even if house-maids do open the front doors, .

rather than in a city where ‘Buttons’ opens
the door for the peddler’s great-grandson.”

As he was speaking these words his voice
grew fainter, and he became dimmer and
dimmer, having a peculiar rosy light, and as I
looked again, there were nothing but red
coals to mark the place where these inter-
esting fairy representatives from the min-
eral kingdom had stood. _

(FIVE DoLEAR PRIZE.)

THE BIRD’S LAST CHRISTMAS.



L. PREISSMANN.
Age 11 years.

NE Christmas morning, as I. looked
out of a window, I saw a dozen or so

of the little snow-birds holding counsel in
their own language, as the reader may sup-
pose. All at once the talking and noise
stopped, and the birds all flew away, but
pretty soon came back. Then there was a
little more discussing done and all the
birds flew away except two or three.

As I was looking on I saw a bird all alone
sitting in the corner; its eyes hada dull
film over them, and it was very cramped
up indeed. Pretty soon some more snow
birds came with a small twig in their
mouths. So they made the sick bird take
hold of it, and they attempted to fly away
with it, but after many trials, in which they
did not succeed, they at last got him on a
neighboring tree. The birds, proud of their
success, chirped around the sick bird and .
hopped to and fro in front and on all sides
of the bird. Every day the birds would
come to feed it; sometimes one bird, and
then another the next day; but one day
the birds were not there as usual, andI was
wondering where they went. I went out
to find out what had become of my old
friends. As I was passing by the tree in
which the bird used to be I saw that the
tree was bare; but pretty soon I heard a lot
of birds talking high up in one of the old
oak trees.

AsI looked up I sawa whole flock of
birds talking in their own language about
something, andI think it was about the
sick bird; and so it was, for in a few mo-
ments the whole flock was flying to a dead
tree, and I, following them, found them
looking around, but as I turned to go into
the house I saw a bird’s head peek out of
an old’ woodpecker’s nest, and the others
ready to carry the sick bird off, as it proved
to be, to asafer place.

They did as before, putting a twig in the
poor bird’s mouth, and then they all flew
off once more.

Next morning, as I got up, I saw a lot of
birds in the same tree where the birds had
been in the woodpecker’s nest. In a little
while the sun came out and it proved to be
a nice morning, and the people were all


































































































































































AN INTERESTED LISTENER.

(14) 209

THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME.

211





hurrying by to market. I noticed my
familiar friend sitting out under the shed
eaves, its head down, and one bird feeding
it.

the birds flew over to where the bird was,
and all the day long they sat there, just as
people stay at the bedside of adying friend
who is getting worse. But at night I saw
all fly away and some more come to act as
servants of the bird at night. One morn-
ing, as I got up, I saw a black object on the
snow outside, and as I looked at it 1 recog-
nized it as my old friend, the sick bird.



(TEN DoLuAR PRIZE.)

THE STORY WITHOUT A NAME.



CHARLEY GREY.

Age 18 years.

‘Oe day before Christmas our pompous

’ old turkey was strutting about the barn-
yard. “You had better strut while you
can,” said Tom, “for to-morrow by this
time you won’t be in strutting trim, for we
are going to have you for our dinner.”

This turkey, the king of the barnyard,
never went into the hen-house with the
chickens, but always flew to the eo
branch of a large oak tree.

This turkey, the king of the barnyard, in
the morning. When we went to bed Tom
looked out of the window, and.said the mud
and snow did not drive that old fool turkey
off his perch. But when we got up the
next morning no turkey was to be found.
We looked high and low; under the barn,
in the cow-shed, and everywhere we could
think. Tom went to the tree and looked
around. There was a rail fence under the
tree. He jumped over this, and here he

After the noise was done in the old tree



found tracks and feathers. He followed
these tracks, which sometimes led under
trees, where they were plainly seen, as the
snow could not cover them. These tracks
led to a neighbor called Rolins, where he
found Mrs. Rolins picking turkey for their
dinner.

He came home and told father what he
had seen, expecting that he would go over
and demand our turkey, but he said: “It
may not be our turkey.” “ Yes, it is,” said
Tom; “I would know him if there wasn’t a
feather on him. Yes, ] would know him if
he were cooked.”

“Oh, never mind,” said mother, “we
will have chicken for dinner.” Who wants
chicken when a fellow has lain awake half
the night thinking how good turkey would
taste? But we had chicken for dinner.

That afternoon Mr. Rolins came over to
see if he could borrow enough coffee, tea,
and sugar till he could get some. Father
said “ Yes,” and while mother was getting
it he said: “‘ Yesterday I went over and sat
up with my sick brother until 3 o’clock
this morning, and then he made me take
home one of his big, fat turkeys for our din-
ner. When I got along here it was awful
cold, so I just cut across through your barn-
yard and the grove.”

The next day father, Tom and I were go-
ing to the city, so we went to bed early. It
was hardly daylight when Tom jumped out
of bed and said: “I wonder what kind of
a day it is going to be?”

So he went to the window and looked
out. ‘Suddenly, he said: ‘Bert, come
here.” I looked out, and the first thing
that I saw was the turkey sitting on his
usual perch. We hurriedly dressed our-
selves, and went down and told father, and
he said: “Yes, after you boys had gone
212

LITTLE LUIGI?S CHRISTMAS.



to bed, I took the lamp and went up into
the attic to get the buffalo robes for our
trip, and the first thing that I saw was the
turkey sitting on an empty barrel. It
stormed hard during the night, and he, like
a wise old turkey, thought it was the best
place to go to get out of the storm.”

There was a barrel of oats and a barrel of
seed-corn there ; thus he had escaped Christ-
mas.

But he erent into the oven on New
Year’s Day.

Christmas is the most glorious time of the
year, and we celebrate it” because it is the
day on which Christ was born, and the eve
on which Santa Claus comes down the
chimney with his pack of toys and fills our
stockings with candy, nuts, and fruits, and
lays on the floor or chair near our stockings,
books, sleds, games, pictures, foot-balls, to-
boggans, skates, and other things to make
us happy.

And when we get up Christmas morn-

ing and find all these things, how happy we
are, and what sport we have trying our new
skates, sleds, games, and reading our books.

We are glad when dinner is ready to have
papa heap up our plates with turkey, pota-
toes, and other good things. How fast we
eat then and pass up our plates for more,
after which comes puddings, nuts, a con-
fectionery.

In the evening we sometimes have parties
and play games,—“blind-man’s buff,” “pus-
sie wants a corner,” till we get tired play-
ing games. Then we tell stories;—how the
star guided the three wise men to where
Christ was; about their giving him presents
of money; how he went about preaching
the gospel; how he went away in the night
to a mountain to pray; how he cured the



sick and raised the dead; how he was cruci-
fied, buried, and rose again.

Then in comes mamma, and says: “It is
time for little folks to go to bed,” so off we
go and dream till mamma thinks we are
surely sick, and sends for the doctor, all
because we ate too much plum pudding.

(Twenty DonziarR Prize.)

LITTLE LUIGIS CHRISTMAS.



ANNE LOUISE WANGEMEN.
Aged 16 years,

OWARD 4 o’clock in the afternoon on
the day before Christmas, when that
dreaded, sharp north wind, called by the
inhabitants “la bise,” was blowing fast,
the hero of our story, little Luigi, entered

‘the beautiful city of Geneva, in Switzer-

land.

He was a little Savoyard, about 10 years
of age, who had secretly left his mountain
home in Savoy. Indeed, it was quite a

“disconsolate looking place, and the people

so poor that they emigrate to the large
cities of France, or to other countries, as
soon as they have the necessary means to
do so.

Luigi’s parents had both died while he
was still an infant, and the only one left to
love and take care of him was an aged and
infirm grandmother, of whom he in turn
thought a good deal. But Luigi was one

of the hasty, impulsive kind of boys, who
act upon first thought.

He used to like to ingot about the
neighboring peasants’ houses, and listen to
what the old men related about former
rebellions and wars, and how in the olden
times their fathers had gone under the
leadership of the duke of Savoy to besiege
LITTLE LUGI?S CHRISTMAS.

Geneva, and how disastrously they were de-
feated. Little Luigi’s eyes would then begin
to sparkle, his whole countenance grow
radiant with wondsr, and with every night
that they gathered around the hearth-fire
the desire to go to Geneva and see where
those wonderful exploits were performed
grew more and more intense in him. He
would come home and tell his old grand-
mother about what he had heard, and many
a night did he lie restless on his scanty
couch, not able to go to sleep, fancying all
sorts of pictures by the aid of his lively
imagination.

In one of these nights he firmly resolved
to get to Geneva, a few miles off, in some
way oranother. At oncea brilliant thought
struck him! He remembered that old
Pierre had said that on the following day
he would drive down to a place about mid-
way between his native village and Geneva,
to haul up some lumber for the peasants,
and with him Luigi determined to go. He
knew that Pierre would not refuse him the
ride, and nothing else could hinder him
from going, not even his attachment for his
grandmother.

Thus he started out with Pierre, having
revealed his plan to no one, and when they
had arrived at their destination Pierre
made halt, while Luigi said he would take
a stroll about the village.

But instead, he stole out to the country
road, and had walked for about two hours
when he met a countryman driving his cart
in the direction of the city. He accosted
him, begging to be taken along, which the
kind-hearted man did readily.

At length they arrived on the outskirts
of the city of Geneva, late in the afternoon,
as was stated above. Luigi thanked the
peasant, alighted, and, almost worn out

213

with fatigue and hunger, but heeding it
not, clad in scanty clothes, while the “bise”
was blowing violently, set forth into the
city, with eager eyes, to see his dream real-
ized. He fancied everybody he met dressed
in the old costumes of the “ times of yore.”
After he had walked along the borders of
the beautiful blue Lake Leman,where mostly .
modern buildings, hotels, and the like had
been erected, having passed back and forth
over one of the many bridges which cross
the Rhine at its entrance into the city, he
approached the old part of the town and
went into one of its narrow, winding streets,
bordered on both sides by high, old-fash-
ioned, quaint-looking houses, and a gutter
running through the middle of it. He con-
tinued ascending the street, until at the top
of the hill he came to the renowned, vener-
able cathedral of St. Pierre, where the fam.
ous Calvin, in that great period of reforma-
tion, upheld and stood by the teachings of
the Protestant religion. Luigi was aston-
ished at the imposing sight of this cath-
edral, for never before had he seen so
immense a structure. The “bise” had —
brought a light snow, thus making the
cathedral and its high square towers look
all the more beautiful and picturesque in its
white garment.

On the large square surrounding the cath-
edral, the windows of the houses betrayed
their occupants busily putting the finishing

‘touches to their preparations for the glori-

ous Christmas day, and reflected pretty
Christmas trees, adorned with tapers and
sweet-meats, as well as joyful children’s
faces.

But Luigi’s attention was wholly fixed
on the awe-inspiring structure before him,
and he was bound to investigate it all, even
climb to the top of the belfry-tower. He
214

LITTLE LUGGLI?S CHRISTMAS.



approached the main entrance, but, to his
dismay, it was locked; tears started into
his eyes at this first disappointment—should
all his hopes be dashed to pieces ?

No! he would not give up. He walked
around to the other side, and found a little
door open; ard, lo! when he opened it,
- there sat an old man fast asleep!

With trembling limbs, Luigi went by
him as softly as possible, so that he might
not awaken him, and glided through the
narrow passage to another door; and, on
opening it, what a sight met his eyes!
Innumerable, enormous granite pillars, im-
posing statues on tombs of old saints, the
enormous organ at one end, and numerous
altars and sacred pictures on all sides.
Luigi hardly dared move, lest he might dis-
turb the awful silence, which reigned
throughout. But he finally yielded to that
restless something which seemed to drive
him on and on. He crept slowly along the
side of the wall, and arrived at a little
apartment, which, to his great joy, proved
a winding staircase, leading up to the belfry
in the great square tower.

Meanwhile it had grown dark, and feel-
ing his way, he at length reached the top.
What a view hehad here! It almost over-
whelmed him, who, only a child in body,
was intellectua:ly much farther advanced.

For a moment he stood still, not know-
ing where to Jook first ; then he crouched
down in one corner, for it was bitterly cold.

At the foot of the hill he could see clear,
placid Leman ; over yonder the new part of
the city, and right behind the cathedral the
remains of high city walls, the very ones
on which the Savoyards, his countrymen,
were defeated. He fancied them running
about, struggling for life, falling down that
great height; in his imagination he heard

the ery of the victors, and crouched down
lower and lower into his corner, as if he
were one of the vanquished.

Oh, that Christmas night! Poor Luigi
thought of his grandmother, and what
agony she was suffering at not seeing him
come back.

But how could he return now? It was
impossible! He was almost dead with
fatigue, nearly frozen and starved. And
oh! how lovely it was to sit there, high
above the abodes of men, viewing those
wonderfully picturesque sights all around
“with calm delight!”

But hark! what was that? Luigi sunk
back stunned, stupefied, almost deaf; the
great bell right near him was ringing out
the merry Christmas chimes, for it had
just struck twelve and the glorious day had
begun !

It seemed to Luigi as if he were being
borne n,. to the sky, and all the while the
chimes were announcing his arrival to the
angels, that they might open to him the
gates of heaven. Yes poor Luigi, frozen
and starved, had breathed his last! To
many a person in the city may the chimes —
have seemed more melodious than ever be-
fore, and they may have awakened many a
soul to pensive reverie and to gratitude
for the Savior, whose birthday the bells
heralded.

But to none may it have oecurred that
those same Christmas chimes were also the
death-knell to a pure little soul, which had
passed away beside the very bell, after only
a day of great nervous strain and excite-
ment, and many hours of fatigue and hun-
ger and cold, having at last only reached
his aim and. goal, to find for a moment his
dreams realized, and then to pass away
forever at the very spot!
THE CHRISTMAS GHOST.

(FrveE Dorzar PrRizz,)

A MISCHIEVOUS CAT’S CHRISTMAS.



JOHNNIE RAYBOURN.

Age 9 years.

E have a little cat ; its name is Kittie

White. She is a very mischievous
cat, and always has her nose into every-
thing. I told her yesterday that Santa
Claus would come down the chimney to-
night and bring us all something nice. I
believe she understood me for she looked
very intelligent. This morning, when I
awoke, I heard Kittie mewing as though in
trouble. J jumped out of bed and went to
her assistance. Where do you think I
found her? In the storeroom ina can of
paint! Kitty had got up before me and
thought she would play smart. So she
went prowling around to see what Santa
Claus had left. I suppose she thought
if there was anything nice she would get
her share first. She thought she had found
a nice can of cream, neatly covered. Kit-
tie thought it foolish to wait for some one
to help her, when she could just as well
help herself. So, pushing the cover aside,
Kittie climbed up on the top of the can and
stuck her nose down to enjoy her feast, but
it was toofar down toreach. So she over-
balanced, andaway went poor Kittie into
the can of paint. She tried in vain to get
out, and I don’t know what would have
become of her if I had not heard her
“meow.” Poor Kittie, her nice coat was
completely covered with the nasty paint.
So Kittie had to go to the barn, and spend
Christmas in the barn, trying to get the
paint out of her fur. If she had only wait-

ed until we got up she would have been |

treated to a breakfast of rich milk, and
could have spent Christmas around a warm

215

stove. I think little children might take a
lesson from Kittie’s misfortune, and not
poke their noses into what doesn’t concern
them, or they may sometimes find paint
where they expect to find cream.

(Len Dotuar PRIzz.)

THE CHRISTMAS GHOST. ~

STELLA SHERFY.
Age 13 years.

T was a week before Christmas, and at

the Gadsden academy a few boys were

gathered about the study fire, discussing
something eagerly.

“For my part,” said sturdy Tom Bailey,
“T don’t believe a word of it; and I’ll vol-
unteerto head a procession of investigation
some night, and stay in the house all night.”

A murmur of applause ran through the
company, and Jack Farland spoke up:
“ All right, Tom, ’m with you!”

The house Tom alluded to was the talk
of the village. Some years before it had
been the home of Jack Farland. After his
parents died, Jack entered the academy,
working his way through, for he was poor.

At Christmas time, ever since, various
persons had claimed to have seen weird
lights in the empty house, and some averred
they had seen a white figure roaming
through the rooms. And now just at
Christmas time, the figure was again seen.

No one believed it was a real ghost—oh,
no! but no one seemed anxious to investi-
gate.

The boys planned to hide in the bushes
around the house, until the lights should
appear. °

Any one watching the haunted house
very closely might have wondered why
216

THE CHRISTMAS GHOST.



some of the academy boys carefully exam-
ined every place in which a boy could se-
crete himself.

About 9 o’clock “on the night before
Christmas, when all through the house”’—
the haunted house— “not a creature was
stirring,” nine boys crept stealthily from
Gadsden academy down toward the haunted
house.

Benton was asmall town, and boasted no
street lamps; so the shutters of private res-
idences were thrown open on dark nights
to cheer and guide any travelers along the
road.

Very bright and cheerful the houses
looked. Groups of happy faces were gath-
ered about every fireside. In some houses
the younger members had retired, but they
left a sure sign of their expectancy—a row
of stockings by the chimney.

The air was keen and frosty and the snow
erunched under their feet. Dreary and
bleak the haunted house now loomed up
before them. It was a large, ancient build-
ing, whose gables afforded ample shelter
for bats and owls.

Around the house it was gloomy and
dark enough to dampen the ardor of any
one not quite so interested as our boys.
But they crouched down under the bushes,
and waited. The clockstruck eleven. A
footstep was heard on the path. Nearer,
nearer it came. It was only a tired laborer
returning home.

All was still. The village clock struck
twelve. Clear and loud it sounded on the
frosty air. Still no light!

Very still, so stealthily that the boys did
not hear it until it was half-way up the
pathway, a dark form glided to the door-
way. Very, v-e-r-y quietly the boys fol-

lowed it. In the large hall they huddled
together.

In a few moments a white form is seen
gliding down the entry. The boys shud-
der. Man or spirit, it would be unpleasant
to encounter it.

It glides into a room and waves a blue
light about. Tom whispered: “Four of
you follow me, and if I whistle, the rest
come.”

The specter moves slowly down the long
hall. Still as mice, led by Tom, four boys
follow it through corridor after corridor.
At last it vanishes behind a curtain. The
boys push aside the curtain, and behold the
“ghost.” ,

At a signal from Tom, they spring upon
it. Flesh and blood. No ghost about it.

Tom gives a clear, loud whistle, and in a
moment the boys are all there. The
“ghost” struggles madly, but nine boys are
a match for him. They push him into a
closet and, with a shout of triumph, slip
the bolt across the door.

In the struggle Tom noticed a small
piece of paper fall to the floor. He now
picked it up and thrust it into his pocket.

About 1:30, Tom shouted. “Why it’s
Christmas, boys !”

“Merry Christmas, your ghostship!”
shouted Ned through the keyhole.

A growl was the only reply deigned.

The boys remained in the room all night,
but at daybreak the constable of Benton
was aroused from his peaceful slumbers by
a sharp peal of the door-bell.

Mr. Rogers was very sleepy and cross
when he went down stairs, but he was wide
awake indeed two minutes after, when he
heard that the ghost of the haunted house
was captured.
A CHRISTMAS DREAM.

He thought it best to arouse some of the
gentlemen to accompany him to the house.

The early risers of Benton were consid-
erably surprised that morning to see a
company of the most respectable citizens
walking the streets at that early hour with
the constable.

The prisoner gave himself up without
any resistance, and it was not until an hour
later, when his “ghostship” was safely
lodged in the lock-up, that Tom remem-
bered the scrap of paper he had found.

He now examined it carefully. He made
out “under cellar, Farland, notes, box,
this,” and “ Jack.”

This tells the story. My reader will
have ‘magined that this led to an investi-
gation of the cellar. You are right.

The rest is easily told. A small box con-
taining bank notes and bonds was found in
the cellar. Not a fortune, by any means,
but enough to keep Jack very comfortably.
It certainly was a precious Christmas pres.
ent to Jack. .

And the ghost? Oh! when he found
himself safely lodged in jail he confessed
- that he had been trying to find the money,
and had adopted the ruse to accomplish his
plans. :

Every one rejoiced over Jack’s good for-
tune, and joined with him in pronouncing
the prisoner a very accommodating “ Christ-
mas ghost.”

(Ten DonnaR PRIZE.)

A CHRISTMAS DREAM.



IDA FISCHER.
Aged 13 years and 8 months.
LL alone by the kitchen fireside sat
- little Becky, for every one else had
gone away to enjoy Christmas, and left her

217

to take care of the house. Nobody had
thought to give her any presents, or some
little token, even though she be rich or
poor. She was only twelve years old, and
was bound to work for the farmer’s wife.
She had no father or mother or friends or
home but this, and asshe sat there her little
heart ached to know if anybody ever cared
for her.

Becky was a quiet child, with a thin face
and wise-looking eyes. She worked day
after day so patiently and silently that no
one ever thought what queer things filled
her mind.

To-night she was wishing that there were
fairies in the world, who would come down
the chimney and give her quantities of
pretty things as they did in the beautiful
fairy stories she had read.

“T am sure I am as poor and lonely as
Cinderella, and need somebody kind to
help me,” said Becky to herself, as she sat
on the little stool staring at the fire, which
didn’t burn very well, for she felt too much
out of sorts to care whether things looked
cheerful o1 not.

Some people believe that all dumb things
can speak for one hour on Christmas eve.
This little girl knew nothing of this story,
and nobody knows whether she fell asleep
and dreamed it. But this is really true,
when she compared herself with Cinderella
she heard a small voice say that if she
wanted some experience she could give her
some, for she had had much experience in
this trying world.

“Was it you that spoke?” said Becky at
last. “Of course I did. If you wish a
godmother, here Iam.” “Well, ma’am,
I'm ready to listen,” said Becky. ‘“ What
do you want first?” said the godmother.
“To beloved by everybody,” replied Becky.
218

THE MERRY CHRISTMAS HELPERS.



“ Hixcellent,” said the cat. “I am much
pleased with that answer ; it’s very sensi-
ble; to make people love you by loving
them.” “T don’t know how,” sighed Becky.
“ Neither did I in the beginning,” returned
puss. “When I first came here, a shy
young kitten, I thought only of keeping out
of everybody’s way, for I was afraid of
every one. I hid under the barn, and only
came out when no one was near. I wasn’t
happy at all.”

“ Do you think if I try not to be afraid,

but to show that I want to be affectionate,
the people will let me, and will like it?”
“Very sure ; I heard the mistress say you
were a good, handy little thing. Do as I
did, and you will find there is plenty of love
in the world.” “Iwill. Thank you, dear
old puss, for your advice.”

Puss came to rub her soft cheek against
Becky’s hand, and then settled herself in a
cozy bunch in Becky’s lap. The fire was
now blazing brightly in the room, and
Becky was still dreaming. ‘ How cheer-
ful that is; if I could only have a second
wish I’d wish to be as cheerful as the fire.”
“Have your wish if you choose, but you
must work for it as [ do,” and the kettle
sung this following song :

“T’m an old black kettle,
With a very crooked nose,
But I can’t help being gay
When the merry fire glows.”

At 1 o’elock, as the family went jingling
home in the big sleigh from the Christmas
party, the farmer’s wife remarked that she
hadn’t a decent dress for her. “Ive got
some popcorn and a bouncing big apple for

her,” said Billy, the red-faced lad perched’

up by his father playing driver.
“ And I'll give her one of my dolls. She

said she never had one, and Aunt Sally
offered to give the mittens she had knit.”

When they came home they found poor
Becky lying on the bare floor, her head
pillowed on the stool, and Tabby in her
arms. And each one laid a present beside
Becky, but the mother gave the best gift of
ail, for she stooped and kissed her. This
wakened the child at once, and looking
about her with astonished eyes, she clapped
her hands and cried: “My dream’s come
true! Oh, my dream’s come true!”

You see, kindness is always rewarded,
and this poor little girl won the hearts of
her friends by loving them.

(Fivz Dotnar Priz3.)

THE MERRY CHRISTMAS HELPERS.



FANNIE LEDERER.
' Age 10 years and 8 months.
T was the day before Christmas when
three little boys made up their minds to
do something for Christmas.
Then one said, “ Let us fix the Christmas
tree,” and the other said, “No, we will go

| down the hill and have some fun.” “ No,”

said the third, “ we will be three little Santa
Clauses going from one house to another.
Won’t that do?”

“Oh, yes,” they all cried.

“ Well, then, we will get ready.”

“T have 25 cents,” said the first.

“T have 28,” said the second.

“ And I have $1,” said the last.

“Now, letus see how much will that be—
25 cents, 28 cents, and $1 equals $1.53.
Oh, that will do, I hope.”

“Where will we go all, and how will we
dress ?”

“We must make a list out first,” said-one
of them.
THE INFLUENCE OF CHRISTMAS STORIES

“ We will dress up like Santa Claus with
a long beard and a sack full of toys. And
we will go in all the houses around our
street.”

Christmas eve came at last. They bought
all they wished, and very much too.

But they wished they could have got it
themselves.

They came into the houses at midnight,
and filled children’s stockings with toys,
candy and nuts.

And some mothers were surprised, them-
selves, and believed that there was a Santa
Claus at last.

Then they peeped into their own mother’s
room, and fixed the Christmas tree up 80
nice that when their mothers awoke they
asked their little boys who had fixed the
Christmas tree so beautifully.

But they gave no answers and went out
to play.

When next evening came they invited
all their friends to see ier beautiful Christ-
mas tree. They all came and had a very
nice time. .

Now Christmas was over, and they kept
their Christmas tree very long.

Then next Christmas came, and the little
boys told their mothers that they were the
little Christmas helpers. —

And their mothers were much surprised
indeed. This Christmas they had a very
nice time also.

It happened one day while one of the
boys was walking along the streets he saw
the king talking with aman, and in a beau-
tiful buggy sat a princess.

No sooner had he come up to the buggy,
when the horse gave a jump, and away he
ran at full speed. Then the boy ran around
the corner to catch the horse.

He saw it running toward him, and

219

caught the horse, and brought it to the king,
whose mind it was to have the youth marry
the princess.

He was about 28 years old, and she was
about 24 years old.

They were soon married, and when the
king died, he, whose name is Arthur, was
soon the iene

His dear mother was so glad that she
kissed him again and again.

He grew up toa very kind, honest man.

Every one loved him and respected him.
He died at the age of 93 years.

All the country mourned for him. And
they had a grand stone placed on his grave.

(Five DoLiaR PRIZE.)

THE INFLUENCE OF CHRISTMAS STO-
RIES ON A DEAF AND DUMB GIRL.



AGGIE WEGENER.
Age 9 years and 3 months.

HRISTMAS gift! Christmas gift!
This was the general ery of all
children on Christmas day. I am not an
exception, and wish as much as other chil-
dren that Santa Claus willremember me. I
like also dolls, candy, cake, and other nice
things, but above all I would like to be a
fine writer, able to write some nice Christ-
mas stories. Ihad not the courage to do
so before, but now I will try.

A little deaf and dumb girl after reading
one of Esop’s fables, which was about the
dinner of tongues, at first when she had read
only a part, was very unhappy when she
found out that the tongue was the best of
all things, but when she came to the end
and learned that it was also the worst she
did not lose her courage so quickly.

She thought to herself: I have yet the
220

CONFOUND THAT BOY.



use of my eyes, hands and brain ; I will try
to improve my writing. Then she began
to write Christmas stories. The people, on
account of: her unfortunate condition,
patronized her more than other writers.
This encouraged her very much. Now, she
‘wrote many little books containing Christ-
mas stories. From the sale of these books
she became quite wealthy, and she put it to
a good use. She perfected her education
in a deaf and dumb asylum, and succeeded
to obtain a teacher’s certificate for the
instruction of deaf and dumb. In her new
situation she took great interest in her
pupils, and as her good success had origi-
nated from the reading of the Christmas sto-
ries she presented each Christmas to her
pupils a collection of stories.

Having a double object in view, she de-
sired to reward her pupils for good conduct
and scholarship; secondly to become able
composers, as this is mostly needed for deaf
and dumb children, for they need more than
other people to express their wishes’ in
writing.

She succeeded in her undertaking beyond
her hopes.

Her pupils learned to write and compose
well, Her school was considered the best
in the country, and her scholars made better
progress than in many other older schools.

Next Christmas they all wrote some sto-
ries for their brothers and sisters at home,
who also liked them very much. Indeed
. the stories created quite an exvitement.
Old folks and children read them so often
_ that they knew them by heart. Every child
desired to write similar stories, and the
parents complying with their wishes, pro-
vided the means fora better education than
had ever been offered before.

In several towns enough money was col-

lected to build new school-houses. These
new schools in the course of time became
perfection in every respect, and all were

-connected with a class for the deaf and dumb.

They are called Christmas schools, and
the pupils of them spend their happiest
time on Christmas eve, and their joyful
voices mingle with the songs of angels pro-
claiming the birth of -Christ.

(FrvE DoLuaR PRIZE.)

A LUCKY CHRISTMAS.



ALICE E. MacKay,
Age 10 years and 8 months.
Y name ig Tom. I was born in an old
@l broken market basket two or three
years ago this Christmas. I had two or
three brothers and sisters, but they all died.

‘My mother was a pretty black and yellow

cat, and was much petted by her mistress.
My coat is so black that they sometimes
callme Black Tom. My mother was a good
eat, for she used to catch lots of mice, and
then gave them tome. J was very naughty
when I was a kitten, for I didn’t like to
hunt them, but I did like birds. My mis-
tress had a pretty bird, and one day I caught
it and killed it. They didn’t like me any
after that until last Christmas. My mis-
tress made a big pudding for the boys and
girls to eat on Christmas day. She put it
in astoreroom, where she had lots of other
goodies. In the night time Mrs. Mouse
came and nibbled a great hole in the side of
it. Next day my mistress went for the
pudding to set it on the table. When she
saw the big hole in the pudding she was very
angry, and went and called my mother.
But my mother had gone away and left me
home alone, so my mistress caught me up
A CHRISTMAS WITH THE FAIRIES. 221



and put me into the storeroom. My mis-
tress pulled the boxes away from the corner
where she thought Mrs. Mouse had her
home. Isat down by the door watching
her. Just as she pulled the last box away
the mouse ran out. I sprang after her, and
caught her just as she was going in her
hole. My mistress said I was a good cat
and petted me. If it hadn’t been for that
Christmas pudding and the mouse I
wouldn’t have had the nice home that I
have now.

(FivE DoLuar PRIZE.)

A CHRISTMAS WITH THE FAIRIES.



’ BLENOR DOYLE.
Age 10 years.

** ITTLE Genie was standing out in the

2 snow upon a cold Christmas eve.
She had nowhere to go, as her bad father had
put her out of the house and told her to go
and find a home for herself.

When her mother was living her father
~ could not treat her bad, and they had been
in comfortable means. But after her
mother’s death her father had taken to
-drinking, and used to send her out to sell
flowers in summer and matches in winter.

If she did not sell enough to buy hima
pitcher of beer, he would whip her very
hard.

During the last week she had not sold
over two boxes a day which brought her
only 8 cents. He had used her terribly,
- ‘but as she could sell none on Christmas eve
he turned her out of the house.

She wandered away, having nowhere to
go. At last she came toaplain. She still
wandered on: At the other side of the
plain she could see many hills.

When she reached them she saw one that

was very low. Asshe was tired, she sat
down upon it to rest, although the snow was.
deep.

It was growing dark, and she knew not
where to sleep. She had never known such
poverty and loneliness before.

She concluded to stay there, as she could
see nothing but hills for miles around.

She was just going to lie down when
she saw another hill about the same size
open, and a beautiful little lady come out. —

She wore a diamond crown, silk dress
and golden wings. “That must be the.
queen of the fairies,” she said to herself.

The fairy did not notice her at first, but.
when Genie stirred she turned around.

“Why, my little maiden,” she said,.
“what has brought you here?”

“Where am I?” said Genie.

“Tn fairyland,’ answered the queen.
“All these hills are fairy houses, and you
are on the king’s.”

“WasI? What will he say?”

“Nothing, nothing. But you have not
answered my first question yet.”

“JT will,”, said Genie, and she told the
queen how, because she could earn no
money, her father had turned her out of
the house, and she had wandered away.

“Poor child!” said the queen, “But.
where are you going?”

“JT was just lying down to sleep here
when I saw you. I knownot where else to.
sleep.”

They then had a long conversation, dur-
ing which Genie mentioned Christmas.

‘What is that?” said the queen.

“Don’t you know?” said Genie, in a sur-
prised way. “ Why, it is a feastthat is cel-
ebrated every 25th of December.”

“Then it comes to-morrow?”

“Yes, and this is Christmas eve. It is
222

A CHRISTMAS WITH THE FAIRIES.





customary to give presents in honor of the
birth of Christ. Ah, how different this
Christmas will be from my last one!
Mamma was living, and I received many
presents. Now mamma is dead; I am far
away from home, and shall not receive
many presents.”

“That is something new to us fairies.
We never heard of it before,” said the
queen, not noticing Genie’s last words. “It
is a nice custom to give presents. But it is
cold and dark Come into our house and
stay until tomorrow. You can’t remain
out here.”

Genie thanked the queen over and over
again. She entered-the house rather timid-
ly, as she had been taught not to believe in
fairies.

She thought she had never before seen
such beautiful things as were in the fairy
houses. She was taken through each one,
shown the ornaments and curiosities and
treated with much respect.

She slept in the queen’s dwelling, which
was the grandest of all. The walls and
even floors were of gold and silver.

When she awoke in the morning she
found many presents, among which there
was a magnificent doll—tiner than any
that she had ever seen.

She got many other presents that she
wanted very badly. “Oh!” said she, “TI
must be dreaming!” But she was not
dreaming.

She had a lovely breakfast, and spent a
very pleasant day.

Christmas evening, after being laden with
gold, silver, and présents, she started
home. :
Meanwhile her father had regretted send-
ing his little girlaway. He was afraid that
she had been starved or frozen. He also
thought of the kindnesses she had done him.
How he wished her back !

When seven o’clock Christmas night came
and his daughter did not return he was very
sad. He gave up all hope at eight o’clock,
and was just getting ready for bed when
there was a knock at the door. Springing
up, he opened it. He stood back.

There was his daughter, with her arms
laden with bundles.

She was trembling all over for she was
afraid that she would get a whipping for
coming back. But what was her surprise
when her father threw his arms around her
and kissed her.

She then told him of her experience, and
counting her money, found she had $1,000
in gold and silver.

She had discovered a way from the fairies
to get her father to give up drink. She
told him of it and he said that he would try
to do it and he guessed he would succeed
with her help.

The next day he found work, and with
Genie’s thousand dollars and his earnings
they got along very well.

Although Genie is now forty years old
and has three children, she will never for.
get the Christmas spent with the fairies.


RAISE THE CURTAIN.

@ AISE the curtain —let the brightness
Of your cheerful light shine forth ;-
To the passers in the darkness
It may be of vital worth;
Give a glimpse to lonely wand’rers
Of your household full of joy.
It may rouse to new ambition
Some poor friendless, tempted boy.



Raise the curtain — we are kindred —
Each to all is bound by ties
Which forbid a selfish shutting
Of ourselves from others’ eyes ;
Share your light and share your blessings;
God hath made the whole world kin,
And His love so universal,
Takes the weakest sinner in.

Raise the curtain of your window ;
Raise the curtain of your mind;
Do not let possession make you
To the wants of others blind.
Helping others we are strengthen’d,
Giving, we are richer made;
And no one so strong or patient,
But some time hath need of aid.

THE END,