Chapter XVI: Part II: Readings and Recitations From the Most Celebrated Authors (2)

Parallels of belching cannon marked the winding course she ran on,
And they flashed through morning darkness like a giant’s flaming teeth;
Waters steaming, boiling, churning; rows of muzzles at each turning;
Mines like geysers spouting after and before her and beneath.

Not a man was there who faltered; not a theory was altered
Of the detailed plan agreed on—not a doubt was there expressed;
This was not a time for changing, deviating, re-arranging;
Let the great God help the wounded, and their courage save the rest.

And they won. But greater glory than the winning is the story
Of the foeman’s friendly greeting of that valiant captive band;
Speech of his they understood not, talk to him in words they could not;
But their courage spoke a language that all men might understand.

GENERAL WHEELER AT SANTIAGO.

“Fighting Joe,” as he was familiarly called, was one of the most conspicuous and heroic figures in the battles fought around Santiago. Recite this tribute to the hero with feeling, and show by looks, tone and gestures that you appreciate the patriotism and valor of the famous commander of cavalry.

Into the thick of the fight he went, pallid and sick and wan,
Borne in an ambulance to the front, a ghostly wisp of a man;
But the fighting soul of a fighting man, approved in the long ago,
Went to the front in that ambulance, and the body of Fighting Joe.

Out from the front they were coming back, smitten of Spanish shells—
Wounded boys from the Vermont Hills and the Alabama dells;
“Put them into this ambulance; I’ll ride to the front,” he said,
And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old
ex-Confed.

From end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers,
And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears,
As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and hair and beard of snow,
Into the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe!

Sick with fever and racked with pain, he could not stay away,
For he heard the song of the yester-years in the deep-mouthed cannon’s
bay—
He heard in the calling song of the guns there was work for him to do,
Where his country’s best blood splashed and flowed ’round the old Red,
White and Blue.

Fevered body and hero heart! This Union’s heart to you
Beats out in love and reverence—and to each dear boy in blue
Who stood or fell ’mid the shot and shell, and cheered in the face of the
foe,
As, wan and white, to the heart of the fight rode little old Fighting
Joe!

JAMES LINDSAY GORDON.

THE FLAG GOES BY.

Hats off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,
A flash of color beneath the sky:
Hats off!
The flag is passing by!

Blue and crimson and white it shines
Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines,
Hats off!
The colors before us fly!
But more than the flag is passing by,

Sea-fights and land-fights grim and great
Fought to make and to save the state;
Cheers of victory on dying lips;
Weary marches and sinking ships;
Days of plenty and years of peace
March of a strong land’s swift increase;
Equal justice, right and law,
Stately honor and reverend awe;

Sign of a nation great and strong,
To ward her people from foreign wrong;
Pride and glory and honor, all
Live in the colors to stand or fall.
Hats off!

IN MANILA BAY.

A graphic description of the great naval battle of Manila and Admiral Dewey’s overwhelming victory. Unless this recital is delivered in an animated, exultant manner, and with great oratorical force, the grand power of the description will be weakened, if not entirely lost. Put your whole soul into it.

On the broad Manila Bay
The Spanish cruisers lay,
In the shelter of their forts upon the shore;
And they dared their foes to sail
Through the crashing iron hail
Which the guns from decks and battlements would pour.

All the harbor ways were missed,
And along the channel blind
Slept the wild torpedoes, dreaming dreams of wrath.
Yea! the fiery hates of hell
Lay beneath the ocean’s swell,
Like a thousand demons ambushed in the path.

Breasting fierce Pacific gales,
Lo! a little squadron sails,
And the Stars and Stripes are floating from its spars.
It is friendless and alone,
Aids and allies it has none,
But a dauntless chorus sings its dauntless tars:

“We’re ten thousand miles from home;
Ocean’s wastes and wave and foam
Shut us from the land we love so far away.
We have ne’er a friendly port
For retreat as last resort,
But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“They have mines beneath the sea,
They have forts upon their lee,
They have everything to aid them in the fray;
But we’ll brave their hidden mines,
And we’ll face their blazing lines;
Yes! We’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“If we’re worsted in the fight,
We shall perish in the right—
No hand will wipe the dews of death away.
The wounded none will tend,
For we’ve not a single friend;
But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“No ironclads we sail,
Only cruisers light and frail,
With no armor plates to turn the shells away.
All the battleships now steer
In another hemisphere,
But we’ll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay.

“Ho! Remember now the Maine!
Up! And smite the ships of Spain!
Let them not forget for years this first of May!
Though hell blaze up from beneath,
Forward through the cannon’s breath,
When Dewey leads into Manila Bay.”

There, half-way round the world,
Swift and straight the shots were hurled,
And a handful of bold sailors won the day.
Never since earth was begun
Has a braver deed been done
Than when Dewey sailed into Manila Bay.

God made for him a path
Through the mad torpedoes’ wrath,
From their slumbers never wakened into play.
When dawn smote the east with gold,
Spaniards started to behold
Dewey and his gallant fleet within their bay.

Then from forts and warships first
Iron maledictions burst,
And the guns with tongues of flame began to pray;
Like demons out of hell
The batteries roar and yell,
While Dewey answers back across the bay.

O Gods! it was a sight,
Till the smoke, as black as night,
Hid the fire-belching ships from light of day.
When it lifted from the tide,
Smitten low was Spanish pride,
And Dewey was the master of their bay.

Where the awful conflict roared,
And red blood in torrents poured,
There the Stars and Stripes are waving high to-day.
Dewey! Hero strong and grand!
Shout his name through every land!
For he sunk the ships of Spain in their own bay.

CHARLES WADSWORTH, JR.

MY SOLDIER BOY.

When night comes on, when morning breaks, they rise,
Those earnest prayers by faithful lips oft said,
And pierce the blue which shrouds the inner skies:
“God guard my boy; God grant he is not dead!”
“My soldier boy—where is he camped to-night?”
“God guard him waking, sleeping or in fight!”

Far, far away where tropic suns cast down
Their scorching rays, where sultry damp airs rise
And haunting breath of sickness holds its own,
A homesick boy, sore wounded, suffering lies.
“Mother! Mother!” is his ceaseless cry.
“Come, mother, come, and see me ere I die!”

Where is war’s glory? Ask the trumpet’s blare,
The marching columns run to bitter strife;
Ask of the raw recruit who knows as yet
Naught of its horrors, naught of its loss of life;
Ask not the mother; weeping for her son,
She knows the heart-aches following victories won.

THE YANKEES IN BATTLE.

For courage and dash there is no parallel in history to this
action of the Spanish Admiral. He came, as he knew, to absolute
destruction. There was one single hope. That was that the Spanish
ship Cristobal Colon would steam faster than the American ship
Brooklyn. The spectacle of two torpedo-boat destroyers, paper
shells at best, deliberately steaming out in broad daylight in
the face of the fire of battleships can only be described in one
way. It was Spanish, and it was ordered by the Spanish General
Blanco. The same may be said of the entire movement.

In contrast to the Spanish fashion was the cool, deliberate
Yankee work. The American squadron was without sentiment
apparently. The ships went at their Spanish opponents and
literally tore them to pieces. Admiral Cervera was taken aboard
the Iowa from the Gloucester, which had rescued him, and he
was received with a full Admiral’s guard. The crew of the Iowa
crowded aft over the turrets, half naked and black with powder,
as Cervera stepped over the side bareheaded. The crew cheered
vociferously. The Admiral submitted to the fortunes of war with a
grace that proclaimed him a thoroughbred.

The officers of the Spanish ship Vizcaya said they simply could
not hold their crews at the guns on account of the rapid fire
poured upon them. The decks were flooded with water from the
fire hose, and the blood from the wounded made this a dark red.
Fragments of bodies floated in this along the gun deck. Every
instant the crack of exploding shells told of new havoc.

The torpedo boat Ericsson was sent by the flagship to the help
of the Iowa in the rescue of the Vizcaya’s crew. Her men saw a
terrible sight. The flames, leaping out from the huge shot holes
in the Vizcaya’s sides, licked up the decks, sizzling the flesh
of the wounded who were lying there shrieking for help. Between
the frequent explosions there came awful cries and groans from
the men pinned in below. This carnage was chiefly due to the
rapidity of the American fire.

From two 6-pounders 400 shells were fired in fifty minutes. Up in
the tops the marines banged away with 1-pounders, too excited to
step back to duck as the shells whistled over them. One gunner
of a secondary battery under a 12-inch gun was blinded by smoke
and saltpetre from the turret, and his crew were driven off, but
sticking a wet handkerchief over his face, with holes cut for his
eyes, he stuck to his gun.

Finally, as the 6-pounders were so close to the 8-inch turret as
to make it impossible to stay there with safety, the men were
ordered away before the big gun was fired, but they refused to
leave. When the 3-inch gun was fired, the concussion blew two
men of the smaller gun’s crew ten feet from their guns and threw
them to the deck as deaf as posts. Back they went again, however,
and were again blown away, and finally had to be dragged away
from their stations. Such bravery and such dogged determination
under the heavy fire were of frequent occurrence on all the ships
engaged.

CAPTAIN R. D. EVANS.

THE BANNER BETSEY MADE.

The first American flag, including the thirteen stars and stripes, was made by Mrs. Betsey Ross, a Quaker lady of Philadelphia. Recite these lines in an easy, conversational manner, yet with animation. In this and similar recitations never let your voice sink down into your throat, as if you were just ready to faint away. Your delivery should never be dull, least of all in patriotic pieces.

We have nicknamed it “Old Glory”
As it floats upon the breeze,
Rich in legend, song and story
On the land and on the seas;
Far above the shining river,
Over mountain, glen and glade
With a fame that lives forever
Streams the banner Betsey made.

Once it went from her, its maker,
To the glory of the wars,
Once the modest little Quaker
Deftly studded it with stars;
And her fingers, swiftly flying
Through the sunshine and the shade,
Welded colors bright, undying,
In the banner Betsey made.

When at last her needle rested
And her cherished work was done
Went the banner, love invested,
To the camps of Washington;
And the glorious continentals
In the morning light arrayed
Stood in ragged regimentals
’Neath the banner Betsey made.

How they cheered it and its maker,
They the gallant sons of Mars,
How they blessed the little Quaker
And her flag of stripes and stars;
’Neath its folds, the foemen scorning,
Glinted bayonets and blade,
And the breezes of the morning
Kissed the banner Betsey made.

Years have passed, but still in glory
With a pride we love to see,
Laureled with a nation’s glory
Waves the emblem of the free;
From the rugged pines of Northland
To the deep’ning everglade,
In the sunny heart of Southland
Floats the banner Betsey made.

A protector all have found it
And beneath it stands no slave,
Freemen brave have died around it
On the land and on the wave;
In the foremost front of battle
Borne by heroes not afraid,
’Mid the musket’s rapid rattle,
Soared the banner Betsey made.

Now she sleeps whose fingers flying
With a heart to freedom true
Mingled colors bright, undying—
Fashioned stars and field of blue;
It will lack for no defenders
When the nation’s foes invade,
For our country rose to splendor
’Neath the banner Betsey made.

T. C. HARBAUGH.

OUR FLAG.

Now can the world once more the glory see
Of this our flag, emblem of liberty.
Now can the tyrant quake with direst fear
As o’er his land our banners shall appear.

No selfish aim shall lead our flag astray,
No base desire shall point our banner’s way;
Each star has told a tale of noble deed,
Each stripe shall mean from strife a nation free.

Our glorious past when first with thirteen stars
On field of blue with white and bright red bars,
Our flag led on in battle’s fierce array,
And freed the land from mighty Britain’s sway.

And since this time when first it was unfurled,
Our flag has proved the noblest in the world.
From Cuba’s shore out to Manila Bay
Its mighty folds protecting fly to-day.

Beneath this flag with patriotic pride
For freedom’s cause great men have gladly died
Our noblest sons beneath its folds so free
In conflict died for Cuba’s liberty.

Float on, dear flag, our nation’s greatest joy,
Thy starry folds no despot shall destroy;
Stretch out thy arms till war forever cease,
And all the world is universal peace.

CHAS. F. ALSOP.

THAT STARRY FLAG OF OURS.

Unfurl the starry banner,
Till with loving eyes we view
The stars and stripes we honor
And the folds of azure blue

’Tis the pride of all our nation
And the emblem of its powers—
The gem of all creation
Is that starry flag of ours.

Then raise aloft “Old Glory,”
And its colors bright surround,
In battle fierce and gory,
Or in peace with honor bound.

Let it float from spire and steeple,
And from house-tops, masts and towers,
For the banner of the people
Is that starry flag of ours.

Now, behold it, bright and peerless,
In the light of freedom’s sky;
See its colors floating, fearless
As the eagle soaring high.

And amid the cannon’s rattle
And the bullets’ deadly showers,
Ten million men will battle
For that starry flag of ours.

THE NEGRO SOLDIER.

In reciting this piece give stress and emphasis to the words, “the Tenth at La Quasina.” You are praising the valor of this regiment, and should not do it in a doubtful or hesitating manner.

We used to think the negro didn’t count for very much—
Light-fingered in the melon patch, and chicken yard, and such;
Much mixed in point of morals and absurd in point of dress,
The butt of droll cartoonists and the target of the press;
But we’ve got to reconstruct our views on color, more or less,
Now we know about the Tenth at La Quasina!

When a rain of shot was falling, with a song upon his lips,
In the horror where such gallant lives went out in death’s eclipse,
Face to face with Spanish bullets, on the slope of San Juan,
The negro soldier showed himself another type of man;
Read the story of his courage, coldly, carelessly, who can—
The story of the Tenth at La Quasina!

We have heaped the Cuban soil above their bodies, black and white—
The strangely sorted comrades of that grand and glorious fight—
And many a fair-skinned volunteer goes whole and sound to-day
For the succor of the colored troops, the battle records say,
And the feud is done forever, of the blue coat and the gray—
All honor to the Tenth at La Quasina!

B. M. CHANNING.

DEEDS OF VALOR AT SANTIAGO.

To be delivered with full, ringing tones. You are an exultant patriot, picturing the glorious deeds of our American army. This selection affords opportunity for very effective gestures.

Who cries that the days of daring are those that are faded far,
That never a light burns planet-bright to be hailed as the hero’s star?
Let the deeds of the dead be laureled, the brave of the elder years,
But a song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves
their peers!

High in the vault of the tropic sky is the garish eye of the sun,
And down with its crown of guns a-frown looks the hill-top to be won;
There is the trench where the Spaniard lurks, his hold and his
hiding-place,
And he who would cross the space between must meet death face to face.

The black mouths belch and thunder, and the shrapnel shrieks and flies;
Where are the fain and the fearless, the lads with the dauntless eyes?
Will the moment find them wanting! Nay, but with valor stirred!
Like the leashed hound on the coursing-ground they wait but the
warning word.

“Charge!” and the line moves forward, moves with a shout and a swing,
While sharper far than the cactus-thorn is the spiteful bullet’s sting.
Now they are out in the open, and now they are breasting the slope,
While into the eyes of death they gaze as into the eyes of hope.

Never they wait nor waver, but on they clamber and on,
With “Up with the flag of the stripes and stars, and down with the flag
of the Don!”
What should they bear through the shot-rent air but rout to the ranks
of Spain,
For the blood that throbs in their hearts is the blood of the boys of
Anthony Wayne!

See, they have taken the trenches! Where are the foemen? Gone!
And now “Old Glory” waves in the breeze from the heights of San Juan!
And so, while the dead are laureled, the brave of the elder years,
A song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their
peers!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

A RACE FOR DEAR LIFE.

The battleships Brooklyn, Oregon and Texas pushed ahead after the
Spanish ships Colon and Almirante Oquendo, which were now running
the race of their lives along the coast. When Admiral Cervera’s
flagship, the Almirante Oquendo, suddenly headed in shore, she
had the Brooklyn and Oregon abeam and the Texas astern. The
Brooklyn and Oregon pushed on after the Cristobal Colon, which
was making fine time, and which looked as if she might escape,
leaving the Texas to finish the Almirante Oquendo. This work did
not take long. The Spanish ship was already burning. Just as
the Texas got abeam of her she was shaken by a loud and mighty
explosion.

The crew of the Texas started to cheer. “Don’t cheer, because the
poor devils are dying!” called Captain Philip, and the Texas left
the Almirante Oquendo to her fate to join in the chase of the
Cristobal Colon.

That ship, in desperation, was ploughing the waters at a rate
that caused the fast Brooklyn trouble. The Oregon made great
speed for a battleship, and the Texas made the effort of her
life. Never since her trial trip had she made such time. The
Brooklyn might have proved a match to the Cristobal Colon in
speed, but was not supposed to be her match in strength.

It would never do to allow even one of the Spanish ships to get
away. Straight into the west the strongest chase of modern times
took place. The Brooklyn headed the pursuers. She stood well out
from the shore in order to try to cut off the Cristobal Colon at
a point jutting out into the sea far ahead. The Oregon kept a
middle course about a mile from the cruiser. The Desperate Don
ran close along the shore, and now and then he threw a shell of
defiance. The old Texas kept well up in the chase under forced
draught for over two hours.

The fleet Spaniard led the Americans a merry chase, but she had
no chance. The Brooklyn gradually forged ahead, so that the
escape of the Cristobal Colon was cut off. The Oregon was abeam
of the Colon then, and the gallant Don gave it up. He headed for
the shore, and five minutes later down came the Spanish flag.
None of our ships were then within a mile of her, but her escape
was cut off. The Texas, Oregon and Brooklyn closed in on her, and
stopped their engines a few hundred yards away.

With the capture of the Cristobal Colon the battle was ended,
and there was great rejoicing on all our ships. Meantime the New
York, with Admiral Sampson on board, and the Vixen were coming up
on the run. Commodore Schley signalled to Admiral Sampson: “We
have won a great victory.”

PATRIOTISM OF AMERICAN WOMEN.

The maid who binds her warrior’s sash
With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash
One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,
Though heaven alone records the tear,
And fame shall never know her story,
Her heart has shed a drop as dear
As e’er bedewed the field of glory!

The wife who girds her husband’s sword,
Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word,
What though her heart be rent asunder,
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of death around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e’er
Was poured upon the field of battle!

The mother who conceals her grief
While to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief,
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,
With no one but her secret God
To know the pain that weighs upon her
Sheds holy blood as e’er the sod
Received on Freedom’s field of honor!

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

OUR COUNTRY’S CALL.

There is a strain of gladness, a tone of rejoicing in this selection, which requires a spirited delivery and full volume of voice. Patriotic emotions should always be expressed in an exultant, joyous manner by voice, attitude and gestures.

The clouds grew dark as the people paused,
A people of peace and toil,
And there came a cry from all the sky:
“Come, children of mart and soil,
Your mother needs you—hear her voice;
Though she has not a son to spare,
She has spoken the word that ye all have heard,
Come, answer ye everywhere!”

They need no urging to stir them on.
They yearn for no battle cry;
At the word that their country calls for men
They throw down hammer and scythe and pen,
And are ready to serve and die!
From the North, from the South, from East, from West,
Hear the thrill of the rumbling drum!

Under one flag they march along,
With their voices swelling a single song,
Here they come, they come, they come!
List! the North men cheer the men from the South
And the South returns the cheer;
There is no question of East or West,
For hearts are a-tune in every breast,
’Tis a nation answering here.

It is elbow to elbow and knee to knee,
One land for each and for all,
And the veterans’ eyes see their children rise
To answer their country’s call.
They have not forgotten—God grant not so!
(Ah, we know of the graves on the hill.)
But these eager feet make the old hearts beat,
And the old eyes dim and fill!

The Past sweeps out, and the Present comes—
A Present that all have wrought!
And the sons of these sires, at the same campfires,
Cheer one flag where their fathers fought!
Yes, we know of the graves on the Southern hills
That are filled with the Blue and the Gray.

We know how they fought and how they died,
We honor them both there side by side,
And they’re brothers again to-day.
Brothers again—thank God on high!
(Here’s a hand-clasp all around.)
The sons of one race now take their place
On one common and holy ground.

RICHARD BARRY.

THE STORY OF SEVENTY-SIX.

What heroes from the woodland sprung,
When, through the fresh awakened land,
The thrilling cry of freedom rung,
And to the work of warfare strung
The yeoman’s iron hand!

Hills flung the cry to hills around,
And ocean-mart replied to mart,
And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,
Pealed far away the startling sound
Into the forest’s heart.

Then marched the brave from rocky steep,
From mountain river swift and cold;
The borders of the stormy deep,
The vales where gathered waters sleep,
Sent up the strong and bold—

As if the very earth again
Grew quick with God’s creating breath,
And, from the sods of grove and glen,
Rose ranks of lion-hearted men
To battle to the death.

The wife, whose babe first smiled that day,
The fair fond bride of yestereve,
And aged sire and matron gray,
Saw the loved warriors haste away,
And deemed it sin to grieve.

Already had the strife begun;
Already blood on Concord’s plain
Along the springing grass had run,
And blood had flowed at Lexington,
Like brooks of April rain.

That death-stain on the vernal sward
Hallowed to freedom all the shore;
In fragments fell the yoke abhorred—
The footstep of a foreign lord
Profaned the soil no more.

W. C. BRYANT.

THE ROLL CALL.

Speak the names of persons in this recitation, exactly as you would if you were the orderly calling the roll, or the private in the ranks who is answering. The general character of the selection is pathetic; recite it with subdued and tender force.

“Corporal Green!” the orderly cried;
“Here!” was the answer, loud and clear,
From the lips of a soldier who stood near,
And “Here!” was the word the next replied.

“Cyrus Drew!”—then a silence fell—
This time no answer followed the call;
Only his rear man had seen him fall,
Killed or wounded he could not tell.

There they stood in the falling light,
These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books,
While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hill-side was splashed with blood,
And down in the corn where the poppies grew,
Were redder stains than the poppies knew;
And crimson dyed was the river’s flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side,
That day in the face of a murderous fire,
That swept them down in its terrible ire;
And their life-blood went to color the tide.

“Herbert Kline!” At the call, there came
Two stalwart soldiers into the line,
Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,
Wounded and bleeding to answer his name.

“Ezra Kerr!”—and a voice answered “Here!”
“Hiram Kerr!”—but no man replied.
They were brothers, these two, the sad wind sighed,
And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

“Ephraim Deane!”—then a soldier spoke;
“Deane carried our Regiment’s colors,” he said;
“Where our Ensign was shot, I left him dead,
Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

“Close to the roadside his body lies.
I paused a moment and gave him a drink.
He murmured his mother’s name I think,
And death came with it and closed his eyes.”

’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear—
For that company’s roll, when called at night,
Of A HUNDRED men who went into the fight
The number was few that answered “Here!”

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

This striking poem is an American classic. Two lines alone, if there were no others, are enough to give it immortal fame:

“Truth crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers.”

Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave,
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they sought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine are heard.

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who mightiest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year.
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot.
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may front—yet faint thou not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o’er thy grave.

W. C. BRYANT.

THE SINKING OF THE MERRIMAC.

The sinking of the ship Merrimac at the mouth of Santiago harbor, by Lieutenant Hobson, was one of the most daring exploits on record. It is here told in his own words. Although this selection is simple narrative, you should recite it in a spirited manner, with strong tones of voice, and show by your demeanor and expression that you are relating an event worthy of admiration.

The figures printed in the text refer you to the corresponding numbers in “Typical Gestures,” near the beginning of Part II. of this volume. Use other gestures that are appropriate, not in a stiff awkward way, but gracefully, making them appear, not forced, but natural.

I did not miss the entrance to the harbor, I turned east until I
got my bearings and then made[6] for it, straight in. Then came
the firing. It was grand,[11] flashing out first from one side of
the harbor and then from the other, from those big guns[2] on the
hills, the Spanish ship Vizcaya, lying inside the harbor, joining
in.

Troops from Santiago had rushed down when the news of the
Merrimac’s coming was telegraphed and soon lined the foot of
the cliff, firing wildly across and killing each other with the
cross fire. The Merrimac’s steering gear broke as she got to
Estrella Point. Only three of the torpedoes on her side exploded
when I touched the button. A huge submarine mine caught her full
amidships, hurling the water high in the air and tearing[25] a
great rent in the Merrimac’s side.

Her stern ran upon Estrella Point. Chiefly owing to the work done
by the mine she began to sink slowly. At that time she was across
the channel, but before she settled the tide drifted her around.
We were all aft, lying on the deck. Shells[13] and bullets
whistled around. Six-inch shells from the Vizcaya came tearing
into the Merrimac, crashing into wood and iron and passing clear
through while the plunging shots from the fort broke through her
decks.

“Not a man[3] must move,” I said, and it was only owing to the
splendid discipline of the men that we all were not killed, as
the shells rained over us and minutes became hours of suspense.
The men’s mouths grew parched, but we must lie there till
daylight, I told them. Now and again one or the other of the men
lying with his face glued to the deck and wondering whether the
next shell would not come our way would say: “Hadn’t[3] we better
drop off now, sir?” but I said: “Wait[12] till daylight.”

It would have been impossible to get the catamaran or raft
anywhere but to the shore, where the soldiers stood shooting, and
I hoped that by daylight we might be recognized and saved. The
grand old Merrimac kept sinking. I wanted to go forward and see
the damage done there, where nearly all the fire was directed,
but one man said that if I rose it would draw all the fire on
the rest. So I lay motionless. It was splendid[11] the way these
men behaved. The fire[6] of the soldiers, the batteries and the
Vizcaya was awful.

When the water came up on the Merrimac’s decks the raft floated
amid the wreckage, but she was still made fast to the boom, and
we caught hold[23] of the edge and clung on, our heads only being
above water. One man thought we were safer right[6] there; it was
quite light; the firing had ceased, except that on the launch
which followed to rescue us, and I feared[20] Ensign Powell and
his men had been killed.

A Spanish launch[2] came toward the Merrimac. We agreed to
capture her and run. Just as she came close the Spaniards saw us,
and a half-dozen marines jumped up and pointed[2] their rifles
at our heads. “Is there any officer in that boat to receive a
surrender of prisoners of war?” I shouted. An old man leaned out
under the awning and held out[6] his hand. It was the Spanish
Admiral Cervera.

THE STARS AND STRIPES.

The following glowing tributes to our American Flag afford excellent selections for any patriotic occasion. They make suitable recitations for children at celebrations on the Fourth of July, Washington’s birthday, etc.

NOTHING BUT FLAGS.

Nothing but flags! but simple flags!
Tattered and torn, and hanging in rags;
And we walk beneath them with careless tread,
Nor think of the hosts of the mighty dead
Who have marched beneath them in days gone by
With a burning cheek and a kindling eye,
And have bathed their folds with their young life’s tide,
And dying blessed them, and blessing died.

OUR BANNER.

Hail to our banner brave
All o’er the land and wave
To-day unfurled.
No folds to us so fair
Thrown on the summer air;
None with thee compare
In all the world.

W. P. TILDEN.

STAINED BY THE BLOOD OF HEROES.

Around the globe, through every clime,
Where commerce wafts or man hath trod,
It floats aloft, unstained with crime,
But hallowed by heroic blood.

THE TATTERED ENSIGN.

We seek not strife, but when our outraged laws
Cry for protection in so just a cause,
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky.
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the God of storms,
The lightning and the gale!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE FLAG OF OUR UNION.

The union of lakes, the union of lands,
The union of States none can sever;
The union of hearts, the union of hands,
And the flag of our Union forever.

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

FLAG OF THE FREE.

When freedom from her mountain height
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night
And set the stars of glory there.

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light.

Flag of the free hearts’ hope and home!
By angel hands to valor given!
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven.

Forever float that standard sheet,
Where breathes the foe, but falls before us,
With freedom’s soil beneath our feet,
And freedom’s banner streaming o’er us.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

STAND BY THE FLAG.

Stand by the flag! on land and ocean billow;
By it your fathers stood, unmoved and true;
Living, defended; dying, from their pillow,
With their last blessing, passed it on to you.
The lines that divide us are written in water,
The love that unite us is cut deep as rock.

Thus by friendship’s ties united,
We will change the bloody past
Into golden links of union,
Blending all in love at last.
Thus beneath the one broad banner,
Flag of the true, the brave, the free,
We will build anew the Union,
Fortress of our Liberty.

FREEDOM’S STANDARD.

God bless our star-gemmed banner;
Shake its folds out to the breeze;
From church, from fort, from house-top,
Over the city, on the seas;

The die is cast, the storm at last
Has broken in its might;
Unfurl the starry banner,
And may God defend the right.

Then bless our banner, God of hosts!
Watch o’er each starry fold;
’Tis Freedom’s standard, tried and proved
On many a field of old;

And Thou, who long has blessed us,
Now bless us yet again,
And crown our cause with victory,
And keep our flag from stain.

RODNEY’S RIDE.

On the third day of July, 1776, Cæsar Rodney rode on horseback from St. James’s Neck, below Dover, Delaware, to Philadelphia, in a driving rain storm, for the purpose of voting for the Declaration of Independence.

This is an excellent reading for quick changes of voice and manner. To render it well will prove that you have genuine dramatic ability. You should study this selection carefully and practice it until you are the complete master of it. It requires a great deal of life and spirit, with changes of voice from the low tone to the loud call. For the most part your utterance should be rapid, yet distinct.

In that soft mid-land where the breezes bear
The North and South on the genial air,
Through the county of Kent, on affairs of State,
Rode Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Burly and big, and bold and bluff,
In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,
A foe to King George and the English State,
Was Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Into Dover village he rode apace,
And his kinsfolk knew from his anxious face,
It was matter grave that brought him there,
To the counties three upon the Delaware.

“Money and men we must have,” he said,
“Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead,
Give us both and the King shall not work his will,
We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill.”

Comes a rider swift on a panting bay;
“Ho, Rodney, ho! you must save the day,
For the Congress halts at a deed so great,
And your vote alone may decide its fate.”

Answered Rodney then: “I will ride with speed;
It is Liberty’s stress; it is Freedom’s need.”
“When stands it?” “To-night.” “Not a moment to spare,
But ride like the wind from the Delaware.”

“Ho, saddle the black! I’ve but half a day,
And the Congress sits eighty miles away—
But I’ll be in time, if God grants me grace,
To shake my fist in King George’s face.”

He is up; he is off! and the black horse flies
On the northward road ere the “God-speed” dies,
It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,
And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.

It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs fling
The Fieldsboro’ dust with a clang and a cling,
It is three; and he gallops with slack rein where
The road winds down to the Delaware.

Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,
From his panting steed he gets him down—
“A fresh one quick! and not a moment’s wait!”
And off speeds Rodney, the delegate.

It is five; and the beams of the western sun
Tinge the spires of Wilmington, gold and dun;
Six; and the dust of Chester street
Flies back in a cloud from his courser’s feet.

It is seven; the horse-boat, broad of beam,
At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream—
And at seven fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,
He flings his rein to the tavern jock.

The Congress is met; the debate’s begun,
And Liberty lags for the vote of one—
When into the hall, not a moment late,
Walks Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Not a moment late! and that half day’s ride
Forwards the world with a mighty stride;
For the act was passed; ere the midnight stroke
O’er the Quaker City its echoes woke.

At Tyranny’s feet was the gauntlet flung;
“We are free!” all the bells through the colonies rung,
And the sons of the free may recall with pride,
The day of Delegate Rodney’s ride.

A SPOOL OF THREAD.

The last battle of the Civil War was at Brazos, Texas, May 13, 1865, resulting in the surrender of the Texan army. Recite this in a conversational tone, as you would tell any story.

Well, yes, I’ve lived in Texas, since the spring of ’61;
And I’ll relate the story, though I fear, sir, when ’tis done,
’Twill be little worth your hearing, it was such a simple thing,
Unheralded in verses that the grander poets sing.

There had come a guest unbidden, at the opening of the year,
To find a lodgment in our hearts, and the tenant’s name was fear;
For secession’s drawing mandate was a call for men and arms,
And each recurring eventide but brought us fresh alarms.

They had notified the General that he must yield to fate,
And all the muniments of war surrender to the State,
But he sent from San Antonio an order to the sea
To convey on board the steamer all the fort’s artillery.

Right royal was his purpose, but the foe divined his plan,
And the wily Texans set a guard to intercept the man
Detailed to bear the message; they placed their watch with care
That neither scout nor citizen should pass it unaware.

Well, this was rather awkward, sir, as doubtless you will say,
But the Major who was chief of staff resolved to have his way,
Despite the watchful provost guard; so he asked his wife to send,
With a little box of knick-knacks, a letter to her friend;
And the missive held one sentence I remember to this day:
“The thread is for your neighbor, Mr. French, across the way.”

He dispatched a youthful courier. Of course, as you will know,
The Texans searched him thoroughly and ordered him to show
The contents of the letter. They read it o’er and o’er,
But failed to find the message they had hindered once before.

So it reached the English lady, and she wondered at the word,
But gave the thread to Major French, explaining that she heard
He wished a spool of cotton. And great was his surprise
At such a trifle sent, unasked, through leagues of hostile spies.

“There’s some hidden purpose, doubtless, in the curious gift,” he said.
Then he tore away the label, and inside the spool of thread
Was Major Nichols’ order, bidding him convey to sea
All the arms and ammunition from Fort Duncan’s battery.
“Down to Brazon speed your horses,” thus the Major’s letter ran,
“Shift equipments and munitions, and embark them if you can.”

Yes, the transfer was effected, for the ships lay close at hand,
Ere the Texans guessed their purpose they had vanished from the land.
Do I know it for a fact, sir? ’Tis no story that I’ve read—
I was but a boy in war time, and I carried him the thread.

SOPHIE E. EASTMAN.

THE YOUNG PATRIOT, ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

One Fourth of July, when Abraham Lincoln was a boy, he heard
an oration by old ’Squire Godfrey. As in the olden days, the
’Squire’s oration was full of Washington; inspiring in the heart
of young Lincoln an enthusiasm that sent him home burning with a
desire to know more of the great man who heretofore had seemed
more of a dream than a reality. Learning that a man some six
miles up the creek owned a copy of Washington’s life, Abraham did
not rest that night until he had footed the whole distance and
begged the loan of the book.

“Sartin, sartin,” said the owner. “The book is fairly well worn,
but no leaves are missin’, and a lad keen enough to read as to
walk six miles to get a book, ought to be encouraged.”

It was a much-worn copy of Weem’s “Life of Washington,” and
Abe, thanking the stranger for his kindness, walked back under
the stars, stopping every little while to catch a glimpse of
the features of the “Father of his Country” as shown in the
frontispiece.

After reaching home, tired as he was, he could not close his
eyes until, by the light of a pine knot, he had found out all
that was recorded regarding the boyhood of the man who had so
suddenly sprung into prominence in his mind. In that busy harvest
season he had no time to read or study during the day, but every
night, long after the other members of the family were sleeping
peacefully, Abe lay, stretched upon the floor with his book on
the hearth, reading, reading, reading, the pine knot in the
fireplace furnishing all the light he needed, the fire within
burning with such intense heat as to kindle a blaze that grew
and increased until it placed him in the highest seat of his
countrymen.

What a marvelous insight into the human heart did Abraham Lincoln
get between the covers of that wonderful book. The little cabin
grew to be a paradise as he learned from the printed pages the
story of one great man’s life. The barefooted boy in buckskin
breeches, so shrunken that they reached only halfway between the
knee and ankle, actually asked himself whether there might not be
some place—great and honorable, awaiting him in the future.

Before this treasured “Life of Washington” was returned to its
owner, it met with such a mishap as almost to ruin it. The book,
which was lying on a board upheld by two pegs, was soaked by the
rain that dashed between the logs one night, when a storm beat
with unusual force against the north end of the cabin. Abraham
was heartbroken over the catastrophe, and sadly carried the book
back to its owner, offering to work to pay for the damage done.
The man consented, and the borrower worked for three days at
seventy-five cents a day, and thus himself became the possessor
of the old, faded, stained book—a book that had more to do with
shaping his life, perhaps, than any one other thing.

Abe had not expected to take the book back with him, but merely
to pay for the damage done, and was surprised when the man handed
it to him when starting. He was very grateful, however, and when
he gave expression to his feelings the old man said, patting him
on the shoulder: “You have earned it, my boy, and are welcome to
it. It’s a mighty fine thing to have a head for books, just as
fine to have a heart for honesty, and if you keep agoin’ as you
have started, maybe some day you’ll git to be President yourself.
President Abraham Lincoln! That would sound fust rate, fust rate,
now, wouldn’t it, sonny?”

“It’s not a very handsome name, to be sure,” Abe replied, looking
as though he thought such an event possible, away off, in the
future. “No, it’s not a very very handsome name, but I guess
it’s about as handsome as its owner,” he added, glancing at the
reflection of his homely features in the little old-fashioned,
cracked mirror hanging opposite where he sat.

“Handsome is that handsome does,” said the old farmer, nodding
his gray head in an approving style. “Yes, indeedy; handsome
deeds make handsome men. We hain’t a nation of royal idiots, with
one generation of kings passin’ away to make room for another.
No, sir-ee. In this free country of ourn, the rich and poor
stand equal chances, and a boy without money is just as likely
to work up to the Presidential chair as the one who inherits
from his parents lands and stocks and money and influence. It’s
brains that counts in this land of liberty, and Abraham Lincoln
has just as much right to sit in the highest seat in the land as
Washington’s son himself, if he had had a son, which he hadn’t.”

Who knows but the future War President of this great Republic
received his first aspirations from this kindly neighbor’s words?

COLUMBIA.

Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise;
The queen of the world, and the child of the skies;
Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold,
While ages on ages thy splendors unfold.
Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time,
Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime;
Let the crimes of the east ne’er encrimson thy name,
Be freedom, and science, and virtue, thy fame.

To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire,
Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire;
Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,
And triumph pursue them, and glory attend.
A world is thy realm—for a world be thy laws—
Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause;
On freedom’s broad basis thy empire shall rise,
Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.

Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display,
The nations admire, and the ocean obey;
Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold,
And the east and the south yield their spices and gold.
As the day-spring, unbounded, thy splendor shall flow,
And earth’s little kingdoms before thee shall bow,
While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled,
Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world.

Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o’erspread,
From war’s dread confusion, I pensively strayed,
The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired;
The winds ceased to murmur; the thunder expired;
Perfumes, as of Eden, flowed sweetly along,
And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung,
“Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise;
The queen of the world, and the child of the skies.”

JOEL BARLOW.

CAPTAIN MOLLY AT MONMOUTH.

One of the famous battles of the Revolution was that of Monmouth, New Jersey, which was fought on the 28th of June, 1778. General Washington was in command on the American side, and General Sir Henry Clinton was commander-in-chief of the British forces. The British troops met with a decisive defeat. The wife of an Irish gunner on the American side who went by the name of Molly had followed her husband to the battle. During the engagement he was shot down. With the most undaunted heroism Molly rushed forward and took his place at the gun and remained there throughout the thickest of the fight. In reciting this graphic account of her courageous deed you should show great spirit and animation, pointing her out as she takes her husband’s place, and in glowing manner describe her patriotism.

On the bloody field of Monmouth flashed the guns of Greene and Wayne;
Fiercely roared the tide of battle; thick the sward was heaped with
slain.
Foremost, facing death and danger, Hessian horse and grenadier,
In the vanguard, fiercely fighting, stood an Irish cannoneer.

Loudly roared his iron cannon, mingling ever in the strife,
And beside him, firm and daring, stood his faithful Irish wife;
Of her bold contempt of danger, Greene and Lee’s brigade could tell,
Every one knew “Captain Molly,” and the army loved her well.

Surged the roar of battle round them; swiftly flew the iron hail;
Forward dashed a thousand bayonets that lone battery to assail;
From the foeman’s foremost columns swept a furious fusilade,
Mowing down the massed battalions in the ranks of Greene’s brigade.

Faster and faster worked the gunner, soiled with powder, blood and dust;
English bayonets shone before him, shot and shell around him burst;
Still he fought with reckless daring, stood and manned her long and well,
Till at last the gallant fellow dead beside his cannon fell.

With a bitter cry of sorrow, and a dark and angry frown,
Looked that band of gallant patriots at their gunner stricken down.
“Fall back, comrades! It is folly thus to strive against the foe.”
“Not so!” cried Irish Molly, “we can strike another blow!”

Quickly leaped she to the cannon in her fallen husband’s place,
Sponged and rammed it fast and steady, fired it in the foeman’s face.
Flashed another ringing volley, roared another from the gun;
“Boys, hurrah!” cried gallant Molly, “for the flag of Washington!”

Greene’s brigade, though shorn and shattered, slain and bleeding half
their men,
When they heard that Irish slogan, turned and charged the foe again;
Knox and Wayne and Morgan rally, to the front they forward wheel,
And before their rushing onset Clinton’s English columns reel.