Chapter XXIV: Part II: Readings and Recitations From the Most Celebrated Authors (10)

Dead! Dead! Dead!
To the solemn beat of the last retreat
That falls like lead,
Bear the hero now to his honored rest
With the badge of courage upon his breast,
While the sun sinks down in the gleaming West—
Dead! Dead! Dead!

Dead! Dead! Mourn the dead!
While the mournful notes of the bugles float
Across his bed,
And the guns shall toll on the vibrant air
The knell of the victor lying there—
’Tis a fitting sound for a soldier’s prayer—
Dead! Dead! Dead!

Dead! Dead! Dead!
To the muffled beat of the lone retreat
And speeding lead,
Lay the hero low to his well-earned rest,
In the land he loved, on her mother breast,
While the sunlight dies in the darkening West—
Dead! Dead! Dead!

RALPH ALTON.

THE OLD DOG’S DEATH POSTPONED.

Any one at all familiar with farm life knows that when the old dog becomes blind, toothless and helpless it is the sad but humane duty of the farmer to put an end to his sufferings; it is generally done by taking him off to the woods and shooting him. Although the new dog quickly wins his place in our affections, the old is not soon forgotten, and more than one story begins: “You remember how old Fide.” Give strong expression in the last verse to the old man’s sudden change of purpose.

Come along old chap, yer time’s ’bout up,
We got another brindle pup;
I ’lows it’s tough an’ mighty hard,
But a toothless dog’s no good on guard,
So trot along right after me,
An’ I’ll put yeh out o’ your misery.

Now, quit yer waggin’ that stumpy tail—
We ain’t a-goin’ fer rabbit er quail;
’Sides, you couldn’t pint a bird no more,
Yer old an’ blind an’ stiff an’ sore,
An’ that’s why I loaded the gun to-day
Yer a-gittin’ cross an’ in the way.

I been thinkin’ it over; ’taint no fun.
I don’t like to do it, but it’s got to be done;
Got sort of a notion, you know, too,
The kind of a job we’re goin’ to do,
Else why would yeh hang back that-a-way,
Yeh ain’t ez young ez yeh once wuz, hey!

Frisky dog in them days, I note,
When yeh nailed the sneakthief by the throat;
Can’t do that now, an’ there ain’t no need
A-keepin’ a dog that don’t earn his feed.
So yeh got to make way for the brindle pup;
Come along, old chap, yer time’s ’bout up.

We’ll travel along at an easy jog—
Course, you don’t know, bein’ only a dog;
But I can mind when you wuz sprier,
’Wakin’ us up when the barn caught fire—
It don’t seem possible, yet I know
That wuz close onto fifteen years ago.

My, but yer hair wuz long an’ thick
When yeh pulled little Sally out o’ the crick;
An’ it came in handy that night in the storm,
We coddled to keep each other warm.
Purty good dog, I’ll admit—but, say,
What’s the use o’ talkin’ yeh had yer day.

I’m hopin’ the children won’t hear the crack,
Er what’ll I say when I get back?
They’d be askin’ questions, I know their talk,
An’ I’d have to lie ’bout a chicken hawk;
But the sound won’t carry beyond this hill,
All done in a minute—don’t bark, stand still.

There, that’ll do; steady, quit lickin’ my hand,
What’s wrong with this gun, I can’t understand;
I’m jest ez shaky ez I can be—
Must be the agey’s the matter with me.
An’ that stitch in the back—what! gitten’ old too—
The—dinner—bell’s—ringin’—fer—me—an’ you.

CHARLES E. BAER.

THE FALLEN HERO.

He went to the war in the morning—
The roll of the drums could be heard.
But he paused at the gate with his mother
For a kiss and a comforting word.
He was full of the dreams and ambitions
That youth is so ready to weave,
And proud of the clank of his sabre
And the chevrons of gold on his sleeve.

He came from the war in the evening—
The meadows were sprinkled with snow,
The drums and the bugles were silent,
And the steps of the soldier were slow.
He was wrapped in the flag of his country
When they laid him away in the mould,
With the glittering stars of a captain
Replacing the chevrons of gold.

With the heroes who slept on the hillside
He lies with a flag at his head,
But, blind with the years of her weeping,
His mother yet mourns for her dead.
The soldiers who fall in the battle
May feel but a moment of pain,
But the women who wait in the homesteads
Must dwell with the ghosts of the slain.

MINNA IRVING.

THE SOLDIER’S WIFE.

He offered himself for the land he loved,
But what shall we say for her?
He gave to his country a soldier’s life;
’Twas dearer by far to the soldier’s wife,
All honor to-day to her!

He went to the war while his blood was hot,
But what shall we say of her?
He saw himself through the battle’s flame
A hero’s reward on the scroll of fame:
What honor is due to her?

He offered himself, but his wife did more,
All honor to-day to her!
For dearer than life was the gift she gave
In giving the life she would die to save;
What honor is due to her?

He gave up his life at his country’s call,
But what shall we say of her?
He offered himself as a sacrifice,
But she is the one who pays the price,
All honor we owe to her.

ELLIOTT FLOWER.

“BREAK THE NEWS GENTLY.”

There on the ground he lay, a fireman so brave,
He’d risked his life, he’d fallen, a little child to save;
Life’s stream was ebbing fast away, his comrades all stood by,
And listened to his dying words, while tears bedimmed each eye:

“Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died,
Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried;
Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I’m dead and gone.
Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn.”

There in her home she rests, that mother old and gray,
She lost a son, but others—they took his place that day;
And nobly do they care for her and honor her gray head,
In mem’ry of their comrade and the last words that he said:

“Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died,
Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried;
Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I’m dead and gone.
Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn.”

There on the wall it hangs, within the engine-room,
The picture of the bravest lad that ever faced his doom;
And, as they point it out and speak the virtues of the dead,
They tell about that awful night and the last words that he said:

“Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died,
Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried;
Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I’m dead and gone.
Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn.”

ON THE OTHER TRAIN.

“There, Simmons, you blockhead! Why didn’t you trot that old
woman aboard her train? She’ll have to wait now until the 1.05
A.M.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“Yes, I did tell you. ’Twas only your confounded stupid
carelessness.”

“She——”

“_She!_ You fool! What else could you expect of her! Probably
she hasn’t any wit; besides, she isn’t bound on a very jolly
journey—got a pass up the road to the poor-house. I’ll go and
tell her, and if you forget her to-night, see if I don’t make
mince-meat of you!” and our worthy ticket-agent shook his fist
menacingly at his subordinate.

“You’ve missed your train, marm,” he remarked, coming forward to
a queer-looking bundle in the corner.

A trembling hand raised the faded black veil, and revealed the
sweetest old face I ever saw.

“Never mind,” said a quivering voice.

“’Tis only three o’clock now; you’ll have to wait until the night
train, which doesn’t go up until 1.05.”

“Very well, sir; I can wait.”

“Wouldn’t you like to go to some hotel? Simmons will show you the
way.”

“No, thank you, sir. One place is as good as another to me.
Besides, I haven’t any money.”

“Very well,” said the agent, turning away indifferently. “Simmons
will tell you when it’s time.”

All the afternoon she sat there so quiet that I thought sometimes
she must be asleep, but when I looked more closely I could see
every once in a while a great tear rolling down her cheek, which
she would wipe away hastily with her cotton handkerchief.

The depot was crowded and all was bustle and hurry until the 9.50
train going east came due; then every passenger left except the
old lady. It is very rare indeed that any one takes the night
express, and almost always, after I have struck ten, the depot
becomes silent and empty.

The ticket agent put on his great coat, and bidding Simmons keep
his wits about him for once in his life, departed for home.

But he had no sooner gone than that functionary stretched himself
out upon the table, as usual, and began to snore vociferously.
Then it was I witnessed such a sight as I never had before and
never expect to again.

The fire had gone down—it was a cold night, and the wind howled
dismally outside. The lamps grew dim and flared, casting weird
shadows upon the wall. By and by I heard a smothered sob from the
corner, then another. I looked in that direction. She had risen
from her seat, and oh! the look of agony on the poor, pinched
face.

“I can’t believe it,” she sobbed, wringing her thin, white hands.
“Oh! I can’t believe it! My babies! my babies! how often have I
held them in my arms and kissed them; and how often they used to
say back to me, ‘Ise love you, mamma;’ and now, O God! they’ve
turned against me. Where am I going? To the poor-house! No! no!
no! I cannot! I will not! Oh, the disgrace!”

And sinking upon her knees, she sobbed out in prayer: “O God!
spare me this and take me home! O God, spare me this disgrace;
spare me!”

The wind rose higher, and swept through the crevices icy cold.
How it moaned and seemed to sob like something human that is
hurt. I began to shake, but the kneeling figure never stirred.
The thin shawl had dropped from her shoulders unheeded. Simmons
turned over and drew his heavy blanket more closely around him.

Oh, how cold! Only one lamp remained, burning dimly; the other
two had gone out for want of oil. I could hardly see, it was so
dark.

At last she became quieter, and ceased to moan. Then I grew
drowsy, and kind of lost the run of things after I had struck
twelve, when some one entered the depot with a bright light. I
started up. It was the brightest light I ever saw, and seemed to
fill the room full of glory. I could see ’twas a man. He walked
to the kneeling figure and touched her upon the shoulder. She
started up and turned her face wildly around. I heard him say:

“’Tis train time, ma’am. Come!”

A look of joy came over her face.

“I’m ready,” she whispered.

“Then give me your pass, ma’am.”

She reached him a worn old book, which he took and from it read
aloud:

“Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will
give you rest.”

“That’s the pass over our road, ma’am. Are you ready?”

The light died away and darkness fell in its place. My hand
touched the stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start, and
snatched his lantern. The whistles sounded down brakes; the train
was due. He ran to the corner and shook the old woman.

“Wake up, marm; ’tis train time.”

But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white, set face,
and dropping his lantern, fled.

The up-train halted, the conductor shouted “All aboard,” but no
one made a move that way.

The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he found her frozen
to death. They whispered among themselves, and the coroner made
out the verdict “apoplexy,” and it was in some way hushed up.

They laid her out in the depot, and advertised for her friends,
but no one came. So, after the second day they buried her.

The last look on the sweet old face, lit up with a smile so
unearthly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurrence
of that night, I know that she went out on the other train, that
never stopped at the poor-house.

SOME TWENTY YEARS AGO.

It were well worth while to insert this wonderfully beautiful and pathetic selection here to preserve it in enduring type, but it has the additional merit of being a most excellent piece for recitation. The author’s assumed name was “James Pipes, of Pipesville.” His real name you may see below the lines.

I’ve wandered to the village, Tom; I’ve sat beneath the tree
Upon the school house playground that sheltered you and me;
But none were there to greet me, Tom; and few were left to know,
Who played with us upon the green, some twenty years ago.

The grass is just as green, Tom; bare-footed boys at play
Were sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay.
But the “master” sleeps upon the hill, which coated o’er with snow,
Afforded us a sliding place, some twenty years ago.

The old school house is altered now, the benches are replaced
By new ones, very like the same our penknives once defaced;
But the same old bricks are in the wall; the bell swings to and fro;
It’s music just the same, dear Tom, ’twas twenty years ago.

The boys were playing some old game beneath that same old tree;
I have forgot the name just now—you’ve played the same with me
On that same spot; ’twas played with knives, by throwing so and so;
The loser had a task to do—these twenty years ago.

The river’s running just as still; the willows on its side
Are larger than they were, Tom; the stream appears less wide;
But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau,
And swung our sweethearts—pretty girls—just twenty years ago.

The spring that bubbled ’neath the hill close by the spreading beach
Is very low—’twas then so high that we could scarcely reach;
And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so,
To see how sadly I am changed, since twenty years ago.

Near by that spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name;
Your sweetheart’s just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same;
Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark; ’twas dying sure but slow,
Just as she died, whose name you cut, some twenty years ago.

My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes;
I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties;
I visited the old church yard, and took some flowers to strow
Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago.

Some are in the church-yard laid, some sleep beneath the sea;
But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me;
And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go,
I hope they’ll lay us where we played, just twenty years ago.

STEPHEN MARSELL.

ONLY A SOLDIER.

Unarmed and unattended walks the Czar,
Through Moscow’s busy street one winter’s day.
The crowd uncover as his face they see—
“God greet the Czar!” they say.

Along his path there moved a funeral,
Gray spectacle of poverty and woe,
A wretched sledge, dragged by one weary man,
Slowly across the snow.

And on the sledge, blown by the winter wind,
Lay a poor coffin, very rude and bare,
And he who drew it bent before his load,
With dull and sullen air.

The Emperor stopped and beckoned on the man;
“Who is’t thou bearest to the grave?” he said.
“Only a soldier, sire!” the short reply,
“Only a soldier, dead.”

“Only a soldier!” musing, said the Czar;
“Only a Russian, who was poor and brave.
Move on. I follow. Such a one goes not
Unhonored to his grave.”

He bent his head, and silent raised his cap;
The Czar of all the Russias, pacing slow,
Following the coffin, as again it went
Slowly across the snow.

The passers of the street, all wondering,
Looked on that sight, then followed silently;
Peasant and prince, the artisan and clerk,
All in one company.

Still, at they went the crowd grew ever more,
Till thousands stood around the friendless grave,
Led by that princely heart, who royal, true,
Honored the poor and brave.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

The pilgrim fathers—where are they?
The waves that brought them o’er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray,
As they break along the shore;
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day
When the Mayflower moored below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The pilgrim fathers are at rest:
When summer’s throned on high,
And the world’s warm breast is in verdure dressed.
Go stand on the hill where they lie:
The earliest ray of the golden day
On that hallowed spot is cast,
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kindly on that spot last.

The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;
For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well,
Then glory to that valiant band,
The honored saviours of the land!
Oh! few and weak their numbers were—
A handful of brave men;
But to their God they gave their prayer,
And rushed to battle then.
The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn half garnered on the plain,
And mustered, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress;
To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe
To perish, or o’ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men,
And where are ye to-day?
I call: the hills reply again,
That ye have passed away;
That on old Bunker’s lonely height,
In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright,
Above each soldier’s mound.

The bugle’s wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,
And they not heed its roar.
The starry flag, ’neath which they fought
In many a bloody fray,
From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have passed away.

MASTER JOHNNY’S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR.

It was Spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa and mamma
moved in
Next door just as skating was over and marbles about to begin,
For the fence in our back-yard was broken, and I saw, as I peeped
through the slat,
There were ‘Johnny Jump-ups’ all around her, and I knew it was Spring
just by that.

“I never knew whether she saw me—for she didn’t say nothing to me,
But ‘Ma! here’s a slat in the fence broke, and the boy that is next
door can see.’
But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know Mamma says
I’ve a right,
And she calls out, ‘Well, peekin is manners!’ and I answered her,
‘Sass is perlite!’

“But I wasn’t a bit mad; no, Papa; and to prove it, the very next day,
When she ran past our fence, in the morning I happened to get in her way,
For you know I am ‘chunked’ and clumsy, as she says are all boys of my
size,
And she nearly upset me, she did, Pa, and laughed till tears came in
her eyes.

“And then we were friends, from that moment, for I knew that she told
Kitty Sage—
And she wasn’t a girl that would flatter—‘that she thought I was tall
for my age,’
And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to ride on my sled,
And—‘What am I telling you this for?’ Why, Papa, my neighbor is _dead_!

“You don’t hear one half I am saying—I really do think it’s too bad!
Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and noticed to-day
I’ve been sad;
And they’ve got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they have
dressed her in white,
And I’ve never once looked through the fence, Pa, since she died—at
eleven last night.

“And Ma says its decent and proper, as I was her neighbor and friend,
That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that _you_ ought
to attend;
But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the way,
And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I wouldn’t know just what
to say.

“So I think I will get up quite early, I know I sleep late, but I know
I’ll be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that I’ll tie
to my toe,
And I’ll crawl through the fence and I’ll gather the ‘Johnny Jump-ups’
as they grew
Round her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I’ll give them
to you.

“For you’re a big man, and you know, Pa, can come and go just where
you choose,
And you’ll take the flowers into her and surely they’ll never refuse;
But, Papa, don’t _say_ they’re from Johnny; _they_ won’t understand,
don’t you see;
But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, _she’ll_ know they’re
from me.”

BRET HARTE.

STONEWALL JACKSON’S DEATH.

Gen. Joseph Hooker, in command of the Army of the Potomac lying opposite Fredericksburg, Md., crossed the Rappahannock River early in May, 1863, and fought the severe battle of Chancellorsville, in which was killed the famous Southern general, Thomas J. Jackson, commonly known as Stonewall Jackson. He received this name at the first battle of Bull Run. Defeat seemed imminent, and one of the Confederate generals exclaimed: “Here stands Jackson like a stone wall, and here let us conquer or die!” Gen. Jackson’s last words were: “Let us cross over the river, and lie down under the trees.”

The lightning flashed across the heaven, the distant thunder rolled,
And, swayed by gusts of angry winds, the far-off church bell tolled,
The billows crashed against the rocks that kiss the ocean’s foam,
And eager pilots trimmed their sails and turned their skiffs for home.

As darkness fell upon the earth, and we were gathered round
Our blazing hearth, and listening to the storm’s terrific sound,
We all looked up to Uncle Tom, who sat beside the fire,
A-dreaming of the bygone days, and of disaster dire.

For memory brought us back again to times of darkest woe,
When, strong in hand and light in heart, he fought the Northern foe.
He often spoke of ’46—the fight on Mexic’s plain—
How Buena Vista heights were reached while bullets fell like rain.

How Shields had gained Chapultepec, how Santa Anna fled,
And how the Sisters labored even where the bullets sped;
And oft he spoke of later times, but always with a sigh,
When South and North rose up to fight _en masse_ for cause or die.

And as beside the fire he sat and piped his meerschaum well,
We asked, to pass the time away, that he a tale should tell.
He paused a moment, then he laid his good old pipe aside,
And said, “I’ll tell you boys, to-night, how Stonewall Jackson died.

“We were retreating from the foe, for Fredericksburg was lost,
And on our flank, still threatening, appeared the Union host;
Down by the Rappahannock, in our dismal tents we lay,
And the lightest heart was heavy with our grave defeat that day.

“For ’tis better for a soldier like Montgomery to die,
Than live to see his comrades from a hated foeman fly;
But reverses often come upon defenders of the right,
And justice seldom conquers, boys, when nations go to fight.

“With heavy hearts we laid us down, but, mind you, not to sleep,
Nor did we turn aside to sing, or turn aside to weep,
But as we pondered o’er our griefs, a sudden moan was heard,
Far louder than the willow’s moan, when by the wind ’tis stirred.

“It woke the camp from reverie, it woke the camp to fear;
And louder, louder grew the wail, most dreadful then to hear.
And nearer came the weeping crowd, and something stiff and still
Was borne, we knew not what it was, but followed with a will.

“At last within our Gen’ral’s tent the precious load was laid,
And then a pallid soldier turned unto us all, and said:
‘We thought it hard, my comrades brave, to lose the field to-day;
But harder will our struggle be, to labor in the fray;
For he is gone, our gallant chief, who could our hopes restore,
And rout and ruin is our fate, since Stonewall is no more.’

“I cannot tell you how we felt, or how we acted then,
For words are weak to tell a tale when grief has mastered men;
But this I know, I pulled the cloth from off brave Jackson’s face,
And almost jumped with joy to see him gaze around the place.

“But, boys, it was a fleeting dream, a vacant stare he cast;
He did not see the canvas shaken by the sudden blast;
He did not see us weeping as we staunched the flowing blood,
But again in battle fighting, he was where the foemen stood.

“‘Order Gen’ral Hill to action!’ loud he cried, as he was wont;
And then he quickly added: ‘Bring the infantry to front!’
As he saw the corps pass by him—as it were—in duty’s call,
Suddenly he shouted: ‘Drive them! charge upon them, one and all!’

“Then he turned aside, and, smiling, said with voice of one in ease:
‘Let us cross the foaming river; let us rest beneath the trees.’
Then we waited, boys, and watched him, but no other word he said;
For adown the foaming river had our leader’s spirit sped.”

PAUL M. RUSSELL.

THE STORY OF NELL.

You’re a kind woman, Nan! Ay, kind and true!
God will be good to faithful folk like you!
You knew my Ned?
A better, kinder lad never drew breath.
We loved each other true, and we were wed
In church, like some who took him to his death;
A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost
His senses when he took a drop too much.

Drink did it all—drink made him mad when crossed—
He was a poor man, and they’re hard on such
O Nan! that night! that night!
When I was sitting in this very chair,
Watching and waiting in the candle-light,
And heard his foot come creaking up the stair,
And turned and saw him standing yonder, white
And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair!
And when I caught his arm and called in fright,
He pushed me, swore, and to the door he passed
To lock and bar it fast.

Then down he drops just like a lump of lead,
Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter,
And—Nan—just then the light seemed growing brighter,
And I could see the hands that held his head,
All red! all bloody red!
What could I do but scream? He groaned to hear,
Jumped to his feet, and gripped me by the wrist;
“Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell!” he hissed.

And I was still for fear.
“They’re after me—I’ve knifed a man!” he said,
“Be still!—the drink—drink did it!—he is dead!”
Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn’t weep;
All I could do was cling to Ned and hark,
And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep,
But breathing hard and deep.

The candle flickered out—the room grew dark
And—Nan!—although my heart was true and tried—
When all grew cold and dim,
I shuddered—not for fear of them outside,
But just afraid to be alone with him.
“Ned! Ned!” I whispered—and he moaned and shook,
But did not heed or look!
“Ned! Ned! speak, lad! tell me it is not true!”
At that he raised his head and looked so wild;
Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw
His arms around me, crying like a child,
And held me close—and not a word was spoken,
While I clung tighter to his heart and pressed him,
And did not fear him, though my heart was broken,
But kissed his poor stained hands, and cried, and blessed him!

Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold
With sound of falling rain—
When I could see his face, and it looked old,
Like the pinched face of one that dies in pain;
Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun,
We never thought to hide away or run,
Until we heard those voices in the street,
That hurrying of feet,
And Ned leaped up, and knew that they had come.

“Run, Ned!” I cried, but he was deaf and dumb;
“Hide, Ned!” I screamed, and held him; “Hide thee, man!”
He stared with blood-shot eyes and hearkened, Nan!
And all the rest is like a dream—the sound
Of knocking at the door—
A rush of men—a struggle on the ground—
A mist—a tramp—a roar;
For when I got my senses back again,
The room was empty, and my head went round!
God help him? God _will_ help him! Ay, no fear!
It was the drink, not Ned—he meant no wrong
So kind! So good!—and I am useless here,
Now he is lost that loved me true and long.

That night before he died,
I didn’t cry—my heart was hard and dried;
But when the clocks went “one,” I took my shawl
To cover up my face, and stole away,
And walked along the silent streets, where all
Looked cold and still and gray.
Some men and lads went by,
And turning round, I gazed, and watched ’em go,
Then felt that they were going to see him die,
And drew my shawl more tight, and followed slow.
More people passed me, a country cart with hay
Stopped close beside me, and two or three
Talked about _it_! I moaned, and crept away!

Next came a hollow sound I knew full well,
For something gripped me round the heart—and then
There came the solemn tolling of a bell!
O God! O God! how could I sit close by,
And neither scream nor cry?
As if I had been stone, all hard and cold,
I listened, listened, listened, still and dumb,
While the folk murmured, and the death-bell tolled,
And the day brightened, and his time had come.
All else was silent but the knell
Of the slow bell!
And I could only wait, and wait, and wait,
And what I waited for I couldn’t tell—
At last there came a groaning deep and great—
St. Paul’s struck “eight”—
I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire and fell!

God bless him, alive or dead!
He never meant no wrong, was kind and true.
They’re wrought their fill of spite upon his head
Why didn’t they be kind, and take me too?
And there’s the dear old things he used to wear,
And there’s a lock of hair.
And Ned, my Ned! is fast asleep, and cannot hear me call.
God bless you, Nan, for all you’ve done and said!
But don’t mind me, my heart is broke, that’s all!

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

LITTLE NAN.

The wide gates swung open,
The music softly sounded,
And loving hands were heaping the soldiers’ graves with flowers;
With pansies, pinks, and roses,
And pure, gold-hearted lilies,
The fairest, sweetest blossoms that grace the spring-time bowers.

When down the walk came tripping
A wee, bare-headed girlie,
Her eyes were filled with wonder, her face was grave and sweet;
Her small brown hands were crowded
With dandelions yellow—
The gallant, merry blossoms that children love to greet.

O, many smiled to see her,
That dimple-cheeked wee baby,
Pass by with quaint intentness, as on a mission bound;
And, pausing oft an instant,
Let fall from out her treasures
A yellow dandelion upon each flower-strewn mound.

The music died in silence,
A robin ceased its singing;
And in the fragrant stillness a bird-like whisper grew,
So sweet, so clear and solemn,
That smiles gave place to tear-drops;
“Nan loves ’oo darlin’ soldier; an’ here’s a f’ower for ’oo.”

ONE OF THE LITTLE ONES.

’Twas a crowded street, and a cry of joy
Came from a ragged, barefoot boy—
A cry of eager and glad surprise,
And he opened wide his great black eyes
As he held before him a coin of gold
He had found in a heap of rubbish old
By the curb stone there.

“How it sparkles!” the youngster cried,
As the golden piece he eagerly eyed:
“Oh, see it shine!” and he laughed aloud;
Little heeding the curious crowd
That gathered around, “Hurrah!” said he,
“How glad my poor mother will be!
I’ll buy her a brand-new Sunday hat,
And a pair of shoes for Nell, at that,
And baby sister shall have a dress—
There’ll be enough for all, I guess;
And then I’ll——”

“Here,” said a surly voice
“That money’s mine. You can take your choice
Of giving it up or going to jail.”
The youngster trembled, and then turned pale
As he looked and saw before him stand
A burly drayman with outstretched hand;

Rough and uncouth was the fellow’s face,
And without a single line or trace
Of the goodness that makes the world akin.
“Come, be quick! or I’ll take you in,”
Said he.
“For shame!” said the listening crowd.
The ruffian seemed for the moment cowed.
“The money’s mine,” he blurted out;
“I lost it yesterday hereabout.
I don’t want nothin’ but what’s my own
And I am going to have it.”

The lad alone
Was silent. A tear stood in his eye,
And he brushed it away; he would not cry.
“Here, mister,” he answered, “take it then;
If it’s yours, it’s yours; if it hadn’t been——”
A sob told all he would have said,
Of the hope so suddenly raised, now dead.

And then with a sigh, which volumes told,
He dropped the glittering piece of gold
Into the other’s hand. Once more
He sighed—and his dream of wealth was o’er.
But no! Humanity hath a heart
Always ready to take the part
Of childish sorrow, wherever found.

“Let’s make up a purse”—the word went round
Through the kindly crowd, and the hat was passed
And the coins came falling thick and fast.

“Here, sonny, take this,” said they. Behold,
Full twice as much as the piece of gold
He had given up was in the hand
Of the urchin. He could not understand
It all. The tears came thick and fast,
And his grateful heart found voice at last.

But, lo! when he spoke, the crowd had gone—
Left him, in gratitude, there alone.
Who’ll say there is not some sweet, good-will
And kindness left in this cold world still?

G. L. CATLIN.

THE DRUNKARD’S DAUGHTER.

She was a bright and beautiful child, one who seemed born for a
better career, yet one on whom the blight of intemperance had
left its impress early.

Her father was a drunkard, a worthless, miserable sot, whose only
aim and ambition in life seemed to be to contrive ways and means
of satisfying the devouring fire that constantly burned within
him.

Her mother had died when she was a mere child, leaving her to
grow up a wild flower in the forest, uncultured and uncared for.

Yet she was very beautiful; her form and face were of wondrous
perfection and loveliness; her disposition was happy and
cheerful, notwithstanding the abuse to which she was continually
subjected.

The years went by; she grew to be almost a woman. She could not
go to school or church, because she had nothing respectable to
wear; and had she gone her wicked father would have reviled her
for her disposition to make something better of herself and for
her simple piety. He sank lower and lower in the miserable slough
of intemperance, and yet, when urged by well-meaning friends, to
leave him she clung to him with an affection as unaccountable as
it was earnest and sincere.

“If I should leave him he would die,” she said. “If I stay and
suffer with him here, some time I may save him and make him a
worthy man.”

Many would have given her a home, food and comfortable clothes,
but she preferred to share her father’s misery rather than
selfishly forsake him in his unhappy infirmity.

The summer passed, the berries ripened and disappeared from the
bushes. The leaves turned to crimson and yellow, and fell from
the trees. The cold November winds howled through the desolate
hollows, while, scantily clad, she crouched in a corner of her
inhospitable, unhappy home.

She was very ill; bad treatment, poor food, and exposure had
brought on a fatal sickness. Her brow burned with fever. Even her
wretched father, selfish and inebriated as he was, became alarmed
at her condition as he staggered about the room upon his return
at a late hour from the village tavern, where he had spent the
evening with a company of dissolute companions.

“Father,” she said, “I am very sick; the doctor has been to see
me; he left a prescription. Will you not go to the village and
get it filled?”

“They won’t trust me, child,” he said, gruffly.

“But I will trust you,” she said sweetly. “There is a little
money hidden in the old clock there, which I saved from picking
and selling berries. You can take it; there is enough.”

His eyes sparkled with a dangerous glitter.

“Money!” he exclaimed almost fiercely. “I didn’t know you had
money. Why didn’t you tell me before? Didn’t you know it belonged
by right to me?”

She sighed pitifully.

He staggered to the clock, fumbled about for a few moments, and
soon found what he was seeking.

“Yes, I’ll go,” he said, excitedly. “Give me the prescription.”

He snatched it from her extended hand, opened the door and
disappeared.

The night grew colder. The sick girl crept into bed and tossed
and turned restlessly. The oil in the old lamp burned out. The
windows rattled, a storm came, and rain and hail beat upon the
window panes. The old clock struck the hour of midnight. The
drunkard did not return.

Poor girl, her soul became filled with apprehension and fear for
him.

“I must go for him,” she said. “He will perish, and it will be my
fault.” She crawled out of bed, drew on her scanty apparel and
worn shoes, threw a ragged shawl over her head and shoulders, and
went forth into the darkness, heroically facing the driving storm.

The morning came, clear, cloudless and beautiful. The earth was
cold and frosty. A neighbor, going early to the village, found
two lifeless forms lying by the roadway. Beside the dead man lay
an empty black bottle. The girl’s white arms were clasped about
his neck. Her soul had gone to intercede for him before the Mercy
Seat on high.

EUGENE J. HALL.

THE BEAUTIFUL.

Beautiful faces are those that wear—
It matters little if dark or fair—
Whole-souled honesty printed there.

Beautiful eyes are those that show,
Like crystal panes, where earth fires glow,
Beautiful thoughts that burn below.

Beautiful lips are those whose words
Leap from the heart like song of birds,
Yet whose utterance prudence girds.

Beautiful hands are those that do
Work that is earnest and brave and true,
Moment by moment the long day through.

Beautiful feet are those that go
On kindly ministry to and fro,
Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so.

Beautiful shoulders are those that bear
Heavy burdens of homely cart
With patience, grace and daily prayer.

Beautiful lives are those that bless—
Silent rivers of happiness,
Whose hidden fountains but few may guess.

Beautiful twilight at set of sun,
Beautiful goal with race well run,
Beautiful rest with work well done.

Beautiful grave where grasses creep,
Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep,
Over worn-out hands—oh, beautiful sleep.

TROUBLE IN THE AMEN CORNER.

’Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown,
And its organ was the finest and the biggest in the town,
And the chorus, all the papers favorably commented on it,
For ’twas said each female member had a forty—dollar bonnet.

Now in the “amen corner” of the church sat Brother Eyer,
Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir;
He was poor, but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white,
And his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might.

His voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords,
And nearly every Sunday he would mispronounce the words
Of the hymns, and ’twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind,
And the choir rattling onward always left him far behind.

Then the pastor called together in the lecture-room one day
Seven influential members who subscribe more than they pay,
And having asked God’s guidance in a printed prayer or two,
They put their heads together to determine what to do.

They debated, thought, suggested, till at last “dear Brother York,”
Who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork,
Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Eyer,
And proceed to rake him lively for “disturbin’ of the choir.”

Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four,
With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer’s door;
And the sleek, well-dressed committee, Brothers Sharkey, York, and Lamb,
As they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jam.

They found the choir’s great trouble sitting in his old arm-chair,
And the summer’s golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair;
He was singing “Rock of Ages” in a voice both cracked and low,
But the angels understood him, ’twas all he cared to know.

Said York: “We’re here, dear brother, with the vestry’s approbation,
To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation;”
“And the choir, too,” said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge,
“And the choir, too!” he echoed with the graveness of a judge.

“It was the understanding when we bargained for the chorus
That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us;
If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother,
It will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another.

“We don’t want any singing except that what we’ve bought!
The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught;
And so we have decided—are you listening, Brother Eyer?—
That you’ll have to stop your singin’, for it flurrytates the choir.”

The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear,
And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear;
His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky snow,
As he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and low;

“I’ve sung the psalms of David for nearly eighty years,
They’ve been my staff and comfort and calmed life’s many fears;
I’m sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I’m doing wrong;
But when my heart is filled with praise, I can’t keep back a song.

“I wonder if beyond the tide that’s breaking at my feet,
In the far-off heavenly temple, where the Master I shall greet,—
Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of God up higher.
If the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven’s choir.”

A silence filled the little room; the old man bowed his head;
The carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead!
Yes, dead! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us,
And the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus.

The choir missed him for awhile, but he was soon forgot,
A few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered not.
Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sings his heart’s desires,
Where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs.

C. T. HARBAUGH.

LITTLE MAG’S VICTORY.

’Twas a hovel all wretched, forlorn and poor,
With crumbling eves and a hingeless door,
And windows where pitiless midnight rains
Beat fiercely in through the broken panes,
And tottering chimneys, and moss-grown roof,
From the heart of the city far aloof,
Where Nanny, a hideous, wrinkled hag,
Dwelt with her grandchild, “Little Mag.”

The neighbors called old Nanny a witch.
The story went that she’d once been rich—
Aye, rich as any lady in town—
But trouble had come and dragged her down
And down; then sickness, and want, and age
Had filled the rest of her life’s sad page,
And driven her into the slums to hide
Her shame and misery till she died.

The boys, as she hobbled along the street,
Her coming with yells and hoots would greet;
E’en grown folks dreaded old Nan so much
That they’d shun, in passing, her very touch,
And a mocking word or glance would send.

Poor little Mag was her only friend:
Faithful and true was the child, indeed.
What did she ever care or heed
For those cruel words, and those looks of scorn
In patient silence they all were borne;
But she prayed that God would hasten the day
That would take her sorrow and care away.

Alas! that day—that longed-for boon,
That ending of sorrow—came all too soon.
For there came a day when a ruffian crowd,
With stones, and bludgeons, and hootings loud,
Surrounded old Nanny’s hovel door,
Led on by a drunken brute, who swore,
In blasphemous oaths, and in language wild,
She had stolen a necklace from off his child.

Crouched in a corner, dumb with fear,
The old hag sat, with her grandchild near,
As the furious mob of boys and men,
Yelling, entered her dingy den.
“Kill her!” shouted the brutal pack.
“Cowards!” screamed Little Mag. “Stand back!”
As she placed her fragile form before
Her poor old grandmother, on the floor,
And clasped her about the neck, and pressed
The thin gray hairs to her childish breast.
“Cowards!” she said. “Now, do your worst.
If either must die, let _me_ die first!”

Cowed and abashed, the crowd stood still,
Awed by that child’s unaided will;
One by one, in silence and shame,
They all stole out by the way they came,
Till the fair young child and the withered crone
Were left once more in that room—alone.

But stop! What is it the child alarms?
_Old Nan lies dead in her grandchild’s arms!_

GEORGE L. CATLIN.

LIFE’S BATTLE.

Alas! I’m growing old, my hair, once thick and brown,
Is now quite white and silky, and sparse about the crown;
A year, that once seemed endless, now, passes like a dream,
Yet my boat still rides the billows, as it floats along the stream.

My eye, once like the eagle’s, is now much dimmed by age,
And art alone enables me to read the printed page,
Yet still it rests with quickened glance upon each lovely scene.
As years roll by with silent pace and changes come between.

Life is full of gladness if we but make it so,
There’s not a wave of sorrow but has an undertow.
A stout heart and a simple faith gives victory o’er the grave,
And God awaits all patiently, all powerful to save.

’Tis not a cross to live, nor is it hard to die,
If we but view the future with steadfast, fearless eye,
Looking ever on the bright side, where falls the sun’s warm beam,
Our boats will ride the billows as they float along the stream.

WAYNE HOWE PARSONS.

THE LOST KISS.

I put by the half-written poem,
While the pen, idly trailed in my hand,
Writes on, “Had I words to complete it,
Who’d read it, or who’d understand?”
But the little bare feet on the stairway,
And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall,
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence,
Cry up to me over it all.

So I gather it up—where was broken
The tear—faded thread of my theme,
Telling how, as one night I sat writing,
A fairy broke in on my dream.
A little inquisitive fairy
My own little girl, with the gold
Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy
Blue eyes of the fairies of old.

’Twas the dear little girl that I scolded—
“For was it a moment like this,”
I said, when she knew I was busy,
“To come romping in for a kiss?
Come rowdying up from her mother
And clamoring there at my knee
For ‘One ’ittle kiss for my dolly
And one ’ittle uzzer for me?’”

God pity the heart that repelled her
And the cold hand that turned her away!
And take from the lips that denied her
This answerless prayer of to-day!
Take, Lord, from my mem’ry forever
That pitiful sob of despair,
And the patter and trip of the little bare feet
And the one piercing cry on the stair!

I put by the half-written poem,
While the pen, idly trailed in my hand,
Writes on, “Had I words to complete it,
Who’d read it, or who’d understand?”
But the little bare feet on the stairway,
And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall,
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence,
Cry up to me over all.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

EXECUTION OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

The Queen arrived in the hall of death. Pale but unflinching
she contemplated the dismal preparations. There lay the block
and the axe. There stood the executioner and his assistant. All
were clothed in mourning. On the floor was scattered the sawdust
which was to soak her blood, and in a dark corner lay the bier.
It was nine o’clock when the Queen appeared in the funereal hall.
Fletcher, Dean of Peterborough, and certain privileged persons,
to the number of more than two hundred, were assembled. The hall
was hung with black cloth; the scaffold, which was elevated about
two feet and a half above the ground, was covered with black
frieze of Lancaster; the arm-chair in which Mary was to sit, the
footstool on which she was to kneel, the block on which her head
was to be laid, were covered with black velvet.

The Queen was clothed in mourning like the hall and as the ensign
of punishment. Her black velvet robe, with its high collar and
hanging sleeves, was bordered with ermine. Her mantle, lined
with marten sable, was of satin, with pearl buttons and a long
train. A chain of sweet-smelling beads, to which was attached a
scapulary, and beneath that a golden cross, fell upon her bosom.
Two rosaries were suspended to her girdle, and a long veil of
white lace, which in some measure softened this costume of a
widow and of a condemned criminal, was thrown around her.

Arrived on the scaffold, Mary seated herself in the chair
provided for her, with her face toward the spectators. The Dean
of Peterborough, in ecclesiastical costume, sat on the right of
the Queen, with a black velvet footstool before him. The Earls
of Kent and Shrewsbury were seated, like him, on the right, but
upon larger chairs. On the other side of the Queen stood the
Sheriff, Andrews, with white wand. In front of Mary were seen the
executioner and his assistant, distinguishable by their vestments
of black velvet with red crape round the left arm. Behind the
Queen’s chair, ranged by the wall, wept her attendants and
maidens.

In the body of the hall, the nobles and citizens from the
neighboring counties were guarded by musketeers. Beyond the
balustrade was the bar of the tribunal. The sentence was read;
the Queen protested against it in the name of royalty and of
innocence, but accepted death for the sake of the faith. She then
knelt before the block and the executioner proceeded to remove
her veil. She repelled him by a gesture, and turning toward the
Earls with a blush on her forehead, “I am not accustomed,” she
said, “to be undressed before so numerous a company, and by the
hands of such grooms of the chamber.”