Chapter XIII: Part III: Serious Hits (1)

IF WE HAD THE TIME

BY RICHARD BURTON

If I had the time to find a place
And sit me down full face to face
With my better self, that can not show
In my daily life that rushes so:
It might be then I would see my soul
Was stumbling toward the shining goal,
I might be nerved by the thought sublime,--
If I had the time!

If I had the time to let my heart
Speak out and take in my life apart,
To look about and to stretch a hand
To a comrade quartered in no-luck land;
Ah, God! If I might but just sit still
And hear the note of the whippoorwill,
I think that my wish with God's would rhyme,--
If I had the time!

If I had the time to learn from you
How much comfort my word could do;
And I told you then of my sudden will
To kiss your feet when I did you ill;
If the tears aback of the coldness feigned
Could flow, and the wrong be quite explained,--
Brothers, the souls of us all would chime,
If we had the time!

By permission of the author and of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company, Boston.

THE FOOL'S PRAYER

BY EDWARD ROWLAND SILL

The royal feast was done; the king
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before:
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the patient grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose, "O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

"No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

"'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
'Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.

"These clumsy feet still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heartstrings of a friend.

"The ill-timed truth we might have kept,--
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say,--
Who knows how grandly it had rung?

"Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripe must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders,--oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!"

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The king, and sought his garden cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low:
"Be merciful to me, a fool!"

THE EVE OF WATERLOO

BY LORD BYRON

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;--
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind,
Or a car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet--
But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is--it is the cannon's opening roar!

* * * * *

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar,
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come!"

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,--alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valor, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn, the marshaling in arms,--the day,
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.

THE WRECK OF THE JULIE PLANTE

BY WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND

On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,
De win' she blow, blow, blow,
An' de crew of de wood scow Julie Plante
Got scar't an' run below--
For de win' she blow lak hurricane;
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre
Wan arpent from de shore.

De captinne walk on de fronte deck,
An' walk de hin' deck, too--
He call de crew from up de hole;
He call de cook also.
De cook she's name was Rosie,
She come from Montreal,
Was chambre maid on lumber barge,
On de Grande Lachine Canal.

De win' she blow from nor'--eas'--wes',
De sout' win' she blow, too,
W'en Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne,
Mon cher, w'at shall I do?"
Den de captinne t'row de big ankerre,
But still the scow she dreef,
De crew he can't pass on de shore,
Becos' he los' hees skeef.

De night was dark lak wan black cat,
De wave run high an' fas',
W'en de captinne tak de Rosie girl
An' tie her to de mas'.
Den he also tak de life preserve
An' jump off on de lak'
An' say, "Good-by, ma Rosie, dear,
I go drown for your sak."

Nex' morning very early
'Bout ha'f-pas' two--t'ree--four--
De captinne--scow--an' de poor Rosie
Was corpses on de shore.
For de win' she blow lak hurricane;
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre
Wan arpent from de shore.

Now, all good wood scow sailor man
Tak' warning by dat storm
An' go an' marry some nice French girl
An' leev on wan beeg farm.
De win' can blow lak' hurricane
An s'pose she blow some more,
You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre
So long you stay on shore.

From "The Habitant," by permission of the publishers, G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York and London.

FATHER'S WAY

BY EUGENE FIELD

My father was no pessimist; he loved the things of earth,--
Its cheerfulness and sunshine, its music and its mirth.
He never sighed or moped around whenever things went wrong,--
I warrant me he'd mocked at fate with some defiant song;
But, being he warn't much on tune, when times looked sort o' blue,
He'd whistle softly to himself this only tune he knew,--

[Music]

Now mother, when she heard that tune which father whistled so,
Would say, "There's something wrong to-day with Ephraim, I know;
He never tries to make believe he's happy that 'ere way
But that I'm certain as can be there's somethin' wrong to pay."
And so betimes, quite natural-like, to us observant youth
There seemed suggestion in that tune of deep, pathetic truth.

When Brother William joined the war, a lot of us went down
To see the gallant soldier boys right gayly out of town.
A-comin' home, poor mother cried as if her heart would break,
And all us children, too,--for _hers_, and _not_ for _William's_ sake!
But father, trudgin' on ahead, his hands behind him so,
Kept whistlin' to himself, so sort of solemn-like and low.

And when my oldest sister, Sue, was married and went West,
Seemed like it took the tuck right out of mother and the rest.
She was the sunlight in our home,--why, father used to say
It wouldn't seem like home at all if Sue should go away;
But when she went, a-leavin' us all sorrer and all tears,
Poor father whistled lonesome-like--and went to feed the steers.

When crops were bad, and other ills befell our homely lot,
He'd set of nights and try to act as if he minded not;
And when came death and bore away the one he worshiped so,
How vainly did his lips belie the heart benumbed with wo!
You see the telltale whistle told a mood he'd not admit,--
He'd always stopt his whistlin' when he thought we noticed it.

I'd like to see that stooping form and hoary head again,--
To see the honest, hearty smile that cheered his fellow men.
Oh, could I kiss the kindly lips that spake no creature wrong,
And share the rapture of the heart that overflowed with song!
Oh, could I hear the little tune he whistled long ago,
When he did battle with the griefs he would not have _us_ know!

I AM CONTENT

TRANSLATED BY CARMEN SYLVA

_A spindle of hazelwood had I;
Into the mill-stream it fell one day--
The water has brought it me back no more._

As he lay a-dying, the soldier spake:
"I am content!
Let my mother be told in the village there,
And my bride in the hut be told,
That they must pray with folded hands,
With folded hands for me."
The soldier is dead--and with folded hands,
His bride and his mother pray.
On the field of battle they dug his grave,
And red with his life-blood the earth was dyed,
The earth they laid him in.
The sun looked down on him there and spake:
"I am content."

And flowers bloomed thickly upon his grave,
And were glad they blossomed there.
And when the wind in the tree-tops roared,
The soldier asked from the deep, dark grave:
"Did the banner flutter then?"
"Not so, my hero," the wind replied,
"The fight is done, but the banner won,
Thy comrades of old have borne it hence,
Have borne it in triumph hence."
Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:
"I am content."

And again he hears the shepherds pass,
And the flocks go wand'ring by,
And the soldier asked: "Is the sound I hear,
The sound of the battle's roar?"
And they replied: "My hero, nay!
Thou art dead and the fight is o'er,
Our country joyful and free."
Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:
"I am content."

Then he heareth the lovers, laughing, pass,
And the soldier asks once more:
"Are these not the voices of them that love,
That love--and remember me?"
"Not so, my hero," the lovers say,
"We are those that remember not;
For the spring has come and the earth has smiled,
And the dead must be forgot."
Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:
"I am content."

_A spindle of hazelwood had I;
Into the mill-stream it fell one day--
The water has brought it me back no more._

THE EAGLE'S SONG

BY RICHARD MANSFIELD

The lioness whelped, and the sturdy cub
Was seized by an eagle and carried up
And homed for a while in an eagle's nest,
And slept for a while on an eagle's breast,
And the eagle taught it the eagle's song:
"To be staunch and valiant and free and strong!"

The lion whelp sprang from the eerie nest,
From the lofty crag where the queen birds rest;
He fought the king on the spreading plain,
And drove him back o'er the foaming main.

He held the land as a thrifty chief,
And reared his cattle and reaped his sheaf,
Nor sought the help of a foreign hand,
Yet welcomed all to his own free land!

Two were the sons that the country bore
To the Northern lakes and the Southern shore,
And Chivalry dwelt with the Southern son,
And Industry lived with the Northern one.
Tears for the time when they broke and fought!
Tears was the price of the union wrought!
And the land was red in a sea of blood,
Where brother for brother had swelled the flood!

And now that the two are one again,
Behold on their shield the word "Refrain!"
And the lion cubs twain sing the eagle's song,
"To be staunch and valiant and free and strong!"
For the eagle's beak and the lion's paw,
And the lion's fangs and the eagle's claw,
And the eagle's swoop and the lion's might,
And the lion's leap and the eagle's sight,
Shall guard the flag with the word "Refrain!"
Now that the two are one again!
Here's to a cheer for the Yankee ships!
And "Well done, Sam," from the mother's lips!

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

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

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

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

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

VIRGINIUS

BY MACAULAY

Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside,
To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide.
Hard by, a butcher on a block had laid his whittle down,--
"Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown.
And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell,
And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child,
farewell!
The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,--
The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls,
Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom,
And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb.
"The time is come. The tyrant points his eager hand this way;
See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey;
With all his wit he little deems that spurned, betrayed, bereft,
Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left:
He little deems that, in my hand, I clutch what still can save
Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave;
Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow,--
Foul outrage, which thou knowest not,--which thou shalt never
know.
Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more
kiss;
And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this!"
With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side,
And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died.
Then, for a little moment, all the people held their breath;
And through the crowded forum was stillness as of death;
And in another moment broke forth from one and all
A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall;
Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh,
And stood before the judgment seat, and held the knife on high:
"O dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain,
By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain;
And e'en as Appius Claudius has dealt by me and mine,
Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line!"
So spake the slayer of his child; then where the body lay,
Pausing, he cast one haggard glance, and turned and went his way.
Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him, alive or dead!
Ten pounds of copper to the man who brings his head!"
He looked upon his clients, but none would work his will;
He looked upon his lictors, but they trembled and stood still.
And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft,
Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left;
And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home,
And there ta'en horse, to tell the camp what deeds are done in
Rome.

THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD

BY CLEMENT SCOTT

Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen!
And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.
It's only a tale of a life-boat, of the dying and the dead,
Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head!
Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south;
Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oyster-mouth;
It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual
way,
And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.

Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands
alone,
In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone;
It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell
tolled, or when
There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a
desperate cry for men.
When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he!
Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea,
Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas
said,
Had saved some hundred lives apiece--at a shilling or so a head!

So the father launched the life-boat, in the teeth of the tempest's
roar,
And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at
the oar.
Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons!
Leaving the weeping women, and booming of signal guns;
Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors
love;
Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above!
Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in
bed,
For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles
Head?

It didn't go well with the life-boat! 'twas a terrible storm that
blew!
And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drowning
crew;
And then the anchor parted--'twas a tussle to keep afloat!
But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old
boat.
Then at last on the poor doomed life-boat a wave broke mountains
high!
"God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-by!"
Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves,
But the father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the
angry waves.

Up at the lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,
And saw in the boiling breakers a figure,--a fighting form;
It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath;
It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death;
It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips
Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in
ships.
They had seen the launch of the life-boat, they had seen the worst,
and more,
Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse,
straight to shore.

There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand,
Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land.
'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave,
But what are a couple of women with only a man to save?
What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men
Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir--
and then
Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent,
Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they
went!

"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls,
come back!"
As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce
attack.
"Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the
angry sea,
"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!"
"Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint
and pale,
"You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave
the gale!"
"_Come back?_" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the
town.
We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!"

"Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of
your hand!
Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to
land!
Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more,
And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the
shore."
Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,
They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the
rest--
Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed,
And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head!"

WILLIAM TELL AND HIS BOY

BY WILLIAM BAINE

"Place there the boy," the tyrant said;
"Fix me the apple on his head.
Ha! rebel, now!
There's a fair mark for your shaft;
To yonder shining apple waft
An arrow." And the tyrant laughed.
With quivering brow.
Bold Tell looked there; his cheek turned pale;
His proud lips throbbed as if would fail
Their quivering breath.
"Ha! doth he blanch?" fierce Gesler cried,
"I've conquered, slave, thy soul of pride."
No voice to that stern taunt replied,
All mute as death.

"And what the meed?" at length Tell asked.
"Bold fool, when slaves like thee are tasked,
It is my will.
But that thine eye may keener be,
And nerved to such nice archery,
If thou cleav'st yon, thou goest free.
What! pause you still?
Give him a bow and arrow there
One shaft--but one." Gleams of despair
Rush for a moment o'er the Switzer's face:
Then passed away each stormy trace,
And high resolve came in their place,
Unmoved, yet flushed,
"I take thy terms," he muttered low,
Grasped eagerly the proffered bow--
The quiver searched,
Sought out an arrow keen and long,
Fit for a sinewy arm, and strong,
And placed it on the sounding thong
The tough yew arched.

He drew the bow, whilst all around
That thronging crowd there was no sound,
No step, no word, no breath.
All gazed with an unerring eye,
To see the fearful arrow fly;
The light wind dies into a sigh,
And scarcely stirred.
Afar the boy stood, firm and mute;
He saw the strong bow curved to shoot,
But never moved.
He knew the daring coolness of that hand
He knew it was a father scanned
The boy he loved.

The Switzer gazed--the arrow hung
"My only boy!" sobbed on his tongue;
He could not shoot.
"Ha!" cried the tyrant, "doth he quail?
Mark how his haughty brow grows pale!"
But a deep voice rung on the gale--
"Shoot in God's name!"
Again the drooping shaft he took,
And turned to Heaven one burning look,
Of all doubts reft.
"Be firm, my boy!" was all he said.
The apple's left the stripling's head.
Ha! Ha! 'tis cleft!
And so it was, and Tell was free.
Quick the brave boy was at his knee
With rosy cheek.

His loving arms his boy embrace;
But again that tyrant cried in haste,
"An arrow in thy belt is placed;
What means it? Speak";
The Switzer raised his clenched hand high,
Whilst lightning flashed across his eye
Incessantly.
"To smite thee, tyrant, to the heart,
Had Heaven willed it that my dart
Had touched my boy."
"Rebellion! Treason! chain the slave!"
A hundred swords around him wave,
Whilst hate to Gesler's features gave
Infuriate joy.

But that one arrow found its goal
Hid with revenge in Gesler's soul;
And Lucerne's lake
Heard his dastard soul outmoan
When Freedom's call abroad was blown,
And Switzerland, a giant grown,
Her fetters brake.
From hill to hill the mandate flew,
From lake to lake the tempest grew,
With wakening swell,
Till proud oppression crouched for shame,
And Austria's haughtiness grew tame
And Freedom's watchword was the name of
William Tell.

LASCA

BY F. DESPREZ

I want free life and I want fresh air;
And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,
The crack of the whips like shots in battle,
The mellay of horns, and hoofs, and heads
That wars, and wrangles, and scatters, and spreads;
The green beneath and the blue above,
And dash and danger and life and love.
And Lasca! Lasca used to ride
On a mouse-gray mustang, close to my side,
With blue _serape_ and bright-belled spur;
I laughed with joy as I looked at her!
Little knew she of books or creeds;
An _Ave Maria_ sufficed her needs;
Little she cared, save to be by my side,
To ride with me, and ever to ride,
From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.
She was as bold as the billows that beat,
She was as wild as the breezes that blow;
From her little head to her little feet
She was swayed, in her suppleness, to and fro
By each gust of passion; a sapling pine,
That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff,
And wars with the wind when the weather is rough,
Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.
She would hunger that I might eat,
Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;
But once, when I made her jealous for fun,
At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,
One Sunday, in San Antonio,
To a glorious girl on the Alamo,
She drew from her garter a dear little dagger,
And--sting of a wasp!--it made me stagger!
An inch to the left or an inch to the right,
And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night;
But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound
Her torn _reboso_ about the wound
That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Her eye was brown,--a deep, deep brown;
Her hair was darker than her eye;
And something in her smile and frown,
Curled crimson lip, and instep high,
Showed that there ran in each blue vein,
Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,
The vigorous vintage of old Spain.
The air was heavy, the night was hot,
I sat by her side, and forgot--forgot;
Forgot the herd that were taking their rest;
Forgot that the air was close opprest,
That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,
In the dead of night or the blaze of noon;
That once let the herd at its breath take fright,
That nothing on earth can stop the flight;
And wo to the rider, and wo to the steed,
Who falls in front of their mad stampede!
Was that thunder? No, by the Lord!
I spring to my saddle without a word.
One foot on mine, and she clung behind.
Away! on a hot chase down the wind!
But never was fox-hunt half so hard,
And never was steed so little spared.
For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The mustang flew, and we urged him on;
There was one chance left, and you have but one--
Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse;
Crouch under his carcass, and take your chance;
And if the steers, in their frantic course,
Don't batter you both to pieces at once,
You may thank your star; if not, good-by
To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,
And the open air and the open sky,
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The cattle gained on just as I felt
For my old six-shooter, behind in my belt,
Down came the mustang, and down came we,
Clinging together, and--what was the rest?
A body that spread itself on my breast,
Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,
Two lips that hard on my lips were prest;
Then came thunder in my ears
As over us surged the sea of steers,
Blows that beat blood into my eyes,
And when I could rise
Lasca was dead!
I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,
And there in earth's arms I laid her to sleep;
And there she is lying, and no one knows,
And the summer shines and the winter snows;
For many a day the flowers have spread
A pall of petals over her head;
And the little gray hawk that hangs aloft in the air;
And the sly coyote trots here and there,
And the black snake glides, and glitters, and slides
Into the rift in a cotton-wood tree;
And the buzzard sails on,
And comes and is gone,
Stately and still like a ship at sea;
And I wonder why I do not care
For the things that are like the things that were.
Does half my heart lie buried there
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST

BY S. W. FOSS

The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' uv silk,
An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk;
Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys an' stovepipe hats were
there,
An' doods 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in
prayer.

The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz:
"Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz,
An' as we hev no substitoot, as Brother Moore aint here,
Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?"

An' then a red-nosed, drunken tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style,
Give an interductory hiccup, an' then staggered up the aisle.
Then through thet holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin,
An' through thet air of sanctity the odor uv old gin.

Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge:
"This man profanes the house of God! W'y this is sacrilege!"
The tramp didn't hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin'
feet,
An' sprawled an' staggered up the steps, an' gained the organ
seat.

He then went pawin' through the keys, an' soon there rose a strain
Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart an' 'lectrify the brain;
An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an'
knees,
He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys.

The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry;
It swelled into the rafters an' bulged out into the sky,
The ol' church shook an' staggered an' seemed to reel an' sway,
An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!"

An then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears,
Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith
tears;
An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens 'ith Tabby on the mat,
Uv home an' luv an' baby-days an' mother an' all that!

An' then he struck a streak uv hope--a song from souls forgiven--
Thet burst from prison-bars uv sin an' stormed the gates uv
heaven;
The morning stars they sung together--no soul wuz left alone--
We felt the universe wuz safe an' God wuz on His throne!

An' then a wail uv deep despair an' darkness come again,
An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men;
No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight,
An' then--the tramp, he staggered down an' reeled into the night!

But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho he never spoke a word,
An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard;
He hed tol' his own life history an' no eye was dry the day,
W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let us pray."

By permission of _The Blade_, Toledo, Ohio.

LIFE COMPARED TO A GAME OF CARDS

ANONYMOUS

Life is like a game of cards
Which each one has to learn.
Each shuffles, cuts and deals a pack,
And each a trump does turn.

Some turn a high card at the top,
While others turn a low.
Some hold a hand quite flushed with trumps,
While others none can show.

When hearts are trumps we play for love
And pleasure decks the hour.
No thought of danger ever comes
In roses' lovely bower.

When diamonds chance to turn the pack
'Tis then men play for gold,
And heavy sums are won and lost
By gamblers young and old.

When clubs are trumps beware of war
On ocean and on land,
For fearful things have come to pass
When clubs were in the hand.

But last of all is when the spade is turned by the hand of time,
And finishes up the game in every land and clime;
No matter how much a man may make or how much a man may
save,
You'll find the spade turns up at last to dig each player's
grave.

OLD DADDY TURNER

ANONYMOUS

This was the picture in front of "Old Daddy Turner's" cabin in the Kaintuck quarter the other afternoon: Two colored men sitting on a wash-bench, silent and sorrowful; an old dog, sleeping in the sun at their feet, and a colored woman calling to a boy who was on the fence: "Now, Jeems Henry, you git right down from dat! Doan you know day Daddy Turner am jist on de p'int of dyin' and gwine up to hebben?"

Here was the picture inside: The poor old, white-headed man lying on his dying bed, flesh wasted away and strength departed. Near him sat his faithful old wife, rocking to and fro and moaning and grieving. Farther away was a colored man and woman, solemn-faced and sad-hearted, shaking their heads as they cast glances toward the bed. For a long time the old man lay quiet and speechless, but at length he signed to be propped up. A sun as warm as springtime poured into the room. He took notice of it, and a change came to his face as his eyes rested upon his grieving wife.

"Ize bin gwine back in my mind!" he whispered, as he reached out his thin hand for her to clasp. "Fur ober fo'ty y'ars we's trabbled 'long the same path. We sung de same songs--we prayed de same prayers--we had hold of han's when we 'listed in de Gospel ranks an' sot our faces to'rds de golden gates of hebben. Ole woman, Ize gwine to part wid you! Yes, Ize gwine ter leave yer all alone!"

"O Daddy! Daddy!" she wailed as she leaned over him.

"Doan't take on so, chile! It's de Lawd's doin's, not mine. To-morrow de sun may be as bright an' warm, but de ole man won't be heah. All de arternoon Ize had glimpses of a shady path leadin' down to de shor' of a big broad ribber. Ize seen people gwine down dar to cross ober, an' in a leetle time I'll be wid 'em."

She put her wrinkled face on the pillow beside his and sobbed, and he placed his hand on her head and said:

"It's de Lawd, chile--de bressed Lawd! Chile, Ize tried to be good to yer. You has been good to me. We am nuffin but ole cull'd folk, po' in eberyting, but tryin' to do right by eberybody. "When dey tole me I'd got to die, I wasn't sartin if de Lawd wanted a po' ole black man like me up dar. Yes, chile, He will! Dis mawnin' I heard de harps playin', de rustle of wings, an' a cloud sorter lifted up an' I got a cl'ar view right frew de pearly gates. I saw ole slaves an' nayburs dar, an' dey was jist as white as anybody, an' a hundred han's beckoned me to come right up dar 'mong 'em."

"O Daddy! I'll be all alone--all alone!" she wailed.

"Hush, chile! Ize gwine to be lookin' down on ye! Ize gwine to put my han' on yer head an' kiss ye when yer heart am big wid sorrow; an' when night shuts down an' you pray to de Lawd, I'll be kneelin' long side of ye. Ye won't see me, but I'll be wid ye. You's old an' gray. It won't be long before ye'll git de summons. In a little time de cloud will lif' fur ye, an' I'll be right dar by de pearly gates to take ye in my arms."

"But I can't let you go--I will hold you down heah wid me!"

"Chile! Ize sorry for ye, but Ize drawin' nigh dat shady path! Hark! I kin h'ah de footsteps of de mighty parade of speerits marchin' down to de 'broad ribber! Dey will dig a grave an' lay my ole bones dar, an' in a week all de world but you will forgit me. But doan' grieve, chile. De Lawd isn't gwine to shet de gates on me 'cause I'm ole an' po' an' black. I kin see dem shinin' way up dar--see our boy at the gate--h'ah de sweetest music dat angels kin play!--Light de lamp, chile, 'cause de night has come!"

"Oh! he's gwine--he's gwine!" she wailed, as her tears fell upon his face.

"Chile! hold my han'! Ober heah am de path! I kin see men an' women an' chil'en marchin' 'long! Furder down am de sunlight. It shines on de great ribber! Ober de ribber am--de--gates--of----"

Of heaven! On earth, old and poor and low--beyond the gates, an angel with the rest.

THE TRAMP

ANONYMOUS

Now, is that any way for to treat a poor man?
I just asked for a penny or two;
Don't get your back up, and call me a "bum,"
Because I have nothing to do.

Once I was strong and handsome,
Had plenty of money and clothes:
That was afore I tippled,
And whisky had painted my nose.

Down in the Lehigh Valley
Me and my people grew.
Gentlemen, I was a farmer,
And a very good farmer, too.

Me and my wife, and Nellie,--
Nellie was just sixteen;
And she was the prettiest creature
That ever that valley had seen.

Beaux? Why, she had a dozen;
They come from near and fur:
But they was mostly farmers,
And that didn't quite suit her.

But one of 'em was a New Yorker,
Stylish and handsome and tall.
Hang him! If I had him I'd--
Well, just let me catch him, that's all.

Well, he was the fellow for Nellie,--
She didn't know no ill.
Her mother tried to prevent it;
But you know a young girl's will.

Well, it's the same old story,
Common enough, you'll say:
He was a smooth-tongued villain,
And he got her to run away.

About a month or so after,
We heard from the poor young thing:
He had gone away, and left her
Without any wedding-ring.

Back to our home we brought her,--
Back to her mother's side,
Filled with a raging fever;
And she fell at our feet, and died.

Frantic with grief and sorrow,
Her mother began to sink:
Dead! in less than a fortnight.
That's when I took to drink.

And all I want is a penny or two,
Just to help me on my way;
And I'll tramp till I find that hell-hound,
If it takes till the judgment-day.

THE DANDY FIFTH

BY F. H. GASSAWAY

'Twas the time of the workingmen's great strike, when all the land
stood still
At the sudden roar from the hungry mouths that labor could
not fill;
When the thunder of the railroad ceased, and startled towns
could spy
A hundred blazing factories painting each midnight sky;
Through Philadelphia's surging streets marched the brown ranks
of toil,
The grimy legions of the shops, the tillers of the soil.
White-faced militiamen looked on, while women shrank with
dread;
'Twas muscle against money then, 'twas riches against bread.
Once, as the mighty mob tramped on, a carriage stopt the way,
Upon the silken seat of which a young patrician lay;
And as, with haughty glance, he swept along the jeering crowd,
A white-haired blacksmith in the ranks took off his cap and bowed.
That night the Labor League was met, and soon the chairman said,
"There hides a Judas in our midst, one man who bows the head,
Who bends the coward's servile knee when capital rolls by."
"Down with him!" "Kill the traitor cur!" rang out the savage
cry.
Up rose the blacksmith, then, and held erect his head of gray:
"I am no traitor, tho I bowed to a rich man's son to-day;
And, tho you kill me as I stand, as like you mean to do,--
I want to tell you a story short, and I ask you'll hear me through.
I was one of those who enlisted first, the old flag to defend;
With Pope and Halleck, with 'Mac' and Grant, I followed to the
end.
'Twas somewhere down on the Rapidan, when the Union cause
looked drear,
That a regiment of rich young bloods came down to us from here.
Their uniforms were by tailors cut; they brought hampers of good
wine;
And every squad had a servant, too, to keep their boots in shine;
They'd naught to say to us dusty 'vets,' and, through the whole
brigade
We called them the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth, when we passed
them on parade.
Well, they were sent to hold a fort that Rebs tried hard to take,
'Twas the key of all our line, which naught while it held out
could break.
But a fearful fight we lost just then, the reserve came up too
late,
And on that fort, and the Dandy Fifth, hung the whole division's
fate.
Three times we tried to take them aid, and each time back we fell,
Tho once we could hear the fort's far guns boom like a funeral
knell;
Till at length Joe Hooker's corps came up, and then straight
through we broke;
How we cheered as we saw those dandy coats still back of the
drifting smoke!
With bands all front and our colors spread we swarmed up the
parapet,
But the sight that silenced our welcome shout I shall never in
life forget.
Four days before had their water gone,--they had dreaded that
the most,--
The next, their last scant ration went, and each man looked a
ghost
As he stood gaunt-eyed, behind his gun, like a crippled stag at
bay,
And watched starvation, not defeat, draw nearer every day.
Of all the Fifth, not fourscore men could in their places stand,
And their white lips told a fearful tale, as we grasped each
bloodless hand.
The rest in the stupor of famine lay, save here and there a few
In death sat rigid against the guns, grim sentinels in blue;
And their colonel could not speak or stir, but we saw his proud
eye thrill
As he simply glanced to the shot-scarred staff where the old flag
floated still!
Now, I hate the tyrants who grind us down, while the wolf snarls
at our door,
And the men who've risen from us, to laugh at the misery of the
poor;
But I tell you, mates, while this weak old hand I have left the
strength to lift,
I will touch my cap to the proudest swell who fought in the
Dandy Fifth!"

ON LINCOLN

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But, O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen, cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father! this arm beneath your head!
It is some dream, that on the deck you've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My Captain does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage is closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! but I with mournful tread
Walk the deck my Captain lies, fallen, cold and dead.

THE LITTLE STOWAWAY

ANONYMOUS

"'Bout three years ago, afore I got this berth as I'm in now, I was second engineer aboard a Liverpool steamer bound for New York. There'd been a lot of extra cargo sent down just at the last minute, and we'd no end of a job stowin' it away, and that ran us late o' startin'; so that, altogether, you may think, the cap'n warn't in the sweetest temper in the world, nor the mate neither. On the mornin' of the third day out from Liverpool, the chief engineer cum down to me in a precious hurry, and says he: 'Tom, what d'ye think? Blest if we ain't found a stowaway!'

"I didn't wait to hear no more, but up on deck like a sky-rocket; and there I did see a sight, and no mistake. Every man-Jack o' the crew, and what few passengers we had aboard, was all in a ring on the fo'c'stle, and in the middle was the fust mate, lookin' as black as thunder. Right in front of him, lookin' a reg'lar mite among them big fellers, was a little bit o' a lad not ten year old--ragged as a scarecrow, but with bright, curly hair, and a bonnie little face o' his own, if it hadn't been so woful and pale. The mate was a great, hulkin', black-bearded feller with a look that 'ud ha' frightened a horse, and a voice fit to make one jump through a keyhole; but the young un warn't a bit afeard--he stood straight up, and looked him full in the face with them bright, clear eyes o' his'n, for all the world as if he was Prince Halferd himself. You might ha' heerd a pin drop, as the mate spoke.

"'Well, you young whelp,' says he, 'what's brought you here?'

"'It was my stepfather as done it,' says the boy, in a weak little voice, but as steady as he could be. 'Father's dead, and mother's married again, and my new father says as how he won't have no brats about eatin' up his wages; and he stowed me away when nobody warn't lookin', and guv me some grub to keep me going' for a day or two till I got to sea. He says I'm to go to Aunt Jane, at Halifax; and here's her address.'

"We all believed every word on't, even without the paper he held out. But the mate says: 'Look here, my lad; that's all very fine, but it won't do here--some o' these men o' mine are in the secret, and I mean to have it out of 'em. Now, you just point out the man as stowed you away and fed you, this very minute; if you don't, it'll be worse for you!'

"The boy looked up in his bright, fearless way (it did my heart good to look at him, the brave little chap!) and says, quietly, 'I've told you the truth; I ain't got no more to say.'

"The mate says nothin', but looks at him for a minute as if he'd see clean through him; and then he sings out to the crew loud enough to raise the dead: 'Reeve a rope to the yard; smart now!'

"'Now, my lad, you see that 'ere rope? Well, I'll give you ten minutes to confess; and if you don't tell the truth afore the time's up, I'll hang you like a dog!'

"The crew all stared at one another as if they couldn't believe their ears (I didn't believe mine, I can tell ye), and then a low growl went among 'em, like a wild beast awakin' out of a nap.

"'Silence there!' shouts the mate, in a voice like the roar of a nor'easter. 'Stan' by to run for'ard!' as he held the noose ready to put it round the boy's neck. The little fellow never flinched a bit; but there was some among the sailors (big strong chaps as could ha' felled an ox) as shook like leaves in the wind. I clutched hold o' a handspike, and held it behind my back, all ready.

"'Tom,' whispers the chief engineer to me, 'd'ye think he really means to do it?'

"'I don't know,' says I, through my teeth; 'but if he does, he shall go first, if I swings for it!'

"I've been in many an ugly scrape in my time, but I never felt 'arf as bad as I did then. Every minute seemed as long as a dozen; and the tick o' the mate's watch, reg'lar, pricked my ears like a pin.

"'Eight minutes,' says the mate, his great, deep voice breakin' in upon the silence like the toll o' a funeral bell. 'If you've got anything to confess, my lad, you'd best out with it, for ye're time's nearly up.'

"'I've told you the truth,' answers the boy, very pale, but as firm as ever. 'May I say my prayers, please?'

"The mate nodded; and down goes the poor little chap on his knees and put up his poor little hands to pray. I couldn't make out what he said, but I'll be bound God heard every word. Then he ups on his feet again, and puts his hands behind him, and says to the mate quite quietly: 'I'm ready.'

"And then, sir, the mate's hard, grim face broke up all to once, like I've seed the ice in the Baltic. He snatched up the boy in his arms, kissed him, and burst out a-cryin' like a child; and I think there warn't one of us as didn't do the same. I know I did for one.

"'God bless you, my boy!' says he, smoothin' the child's hair with his great hard hand. 'You're a true Englishman, every inch of you; you wouldn't tell a lie to save yer life! Well, if so be as yer father's cast yer off, I'll be yer father from this day forth; and if I ever forget you, then may God forget me!'

"And he kep' his word, too. When we got to Halifax, he found out the little un's aunt, and gev' her a lump o' money to make him comfortable; and now he goes to see the youngster every voyage, as reg'lar as can be; and to see the pair on 'em together--the little chap so fond of him, and not bearin' him a bit o' grudge--it's 'bout as pretty a sight as ever I seed. And now, sir, yer parding, it's time for me to be goin' below; so I'll just wish yer good-night."

SAINT CRISPIAN'S DAY

BY SHAKESPEARE