Chapter XXV: Part II: Readings and Recitations From the Most Celebrated Authors (11)

She then called Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curle, who took off
her mantle, her veil, her chains, cross and scapulary. On their
touching her robe, the Queen told them to unloosen the corsage
and fold down the ermine collar, so as to leave her neck bare for
the axe. Her maidens weepingly yielded her these last services.
Melvil and the three other attendants wept and lamented, and
Mary placed her finger on her lips to signify that they should
be silent. She then arranged the handkerchief embroidered with
thistles of gold with which her eyes had been covered by Jane
Kennedy.

Thrice she kissed the crucifix, each time repeating, “Lord, into
Thy hands I commend my spirit.” She knelt anew and leant her
head on that block which was already scored with deep marks, and
in this solemn attitude she again recited some verses from the
Psalms. The executioner interrupted her at the third verse by a
blow of the axe, but its trembling stroke only grazed her neck;
she groaned slightly, and the second blow separated the head from
the body.

LAMARTINE.

OVER THE RANGE.

Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit,
I start and wake, it is so strange
To find myself alone, and Tom
Across the Range.

We brought him in with heavy feet
And eased him down; from eye to eye,
Though no one spoke, there passed a fear
That Tom must die.

He rallied when the sun was low,
And spoke; I thought the words were strange;
“It’s almost night, and I must go
Across the Range.”

“What, Tom?” He smiled and nodded: “Yes,
They’ve struck it rich there, Jim, you know,
The parson told us; you’ll come soon;
Now Tom must go.”

I brought his sweetheart’s pictured face:
Again that smile, so sad and strange,
“Tell her,” said he, “that Tom has gone
Across the Range.”

The last night lingered on the hill.
“There’s a pass, somewhere,” then he said,
And lip, and eye, and hand were still;
And Tom was dead.

Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit:
I start and wake, it is so strange
To find myself alone, and Tom
Across the Range.

J. HARRISON MILLS.

THE STORY OF CRAZY NELL.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard the voice and looked
Out on the road that passed my window wide,
And saw a woman and a fair-haired child
That knelt and picked the daisies at the side.

The child ran quickly with its gathered prize,
And, laughing, held it high above its head;
A light glowed bright within the woman’s eyes,
And in that light a mother’s love I read.

She took the little hand, and both passed on;
The prattle of the child I still could hear,
Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone,
That came in loving words upon my ear.

“Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone,
But yet had left the recollection of that scene—
The woman and the fair-haired child that knelt
And picked the daisies on the roadside green.

I looked. The old familiar road was there—
A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;
And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stare
That fixed itself back where the daisies grew.

“Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired child
Run from the daisies with its gathered prize;
“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laugh
To light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes.

“Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the road
The plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear;
Caressing tones—not mixed with prattle now,
But full of loving words—I still could hear.

I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door;
He told the story—all there was to tell:
A little mound the village churchyard bore;
And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell.

JOSEPH WHITTON.

LITTLE SALLIE’S WISH.

The following poem was written from _facts_, concerning a sweet little girl who lived in New York. When Summer came her parents took a cottage in the country, where the scene described was enacted.

I have seen the first robin of Spring, mother dear,
And have heard the brown darling sing;
You said, “Hear it and wish, and ’twill surely come true,”
So I’ve wished such a beautiful thing.

I thought I would like to ask something for you,
But couldn’t think what there could be
That you’d want, while you had all these beautiful things;
Besides you have papa and me.

So I wished for a ladder, so long that ’twould stand
One end by our own cottage door,
And the other go up past the moon and the stars,
And lean against heaven’s white floor.

Then I’d get you to put on my pretty white dress,
With my sash and my darling new shoes;
And I’d find some white roses to take up to God,
The most beautiful ones I could choose.

And you, dear papa, would sit on the ground,
And kiss me, and tell me “good-bye;”
Then I’d go up the ladder, far out of your sight,
Till I came to the door in the sky.

I wonder if God keeps the door fastened tight?
If but one little crack I could see,
I would whisper, “Please, God, let this little girl in,
She’s as weary and tired as can be.

“She came all alone from the earth to the sky,
For she’s always been wanting to see
The gardens of heaven, with their robins and flowers;
Please, God, is there room there for me?”

And then when the angels had opened the door,
God would say, “Bring the little child here.”
But He’d speak it so softly, I’d not be afraid,
And He’d smile just like you, mother dear.

He would put His kind arms round your dear little girl,
And I’d ask Him to send down for you,
And papa, and cousin, and all that I love—
Oh, dear, don’t you wish ’twould come true?

The next Spring time, when the robins came home,
They sang over grasses and flowers,
That grew where the foot of the long ladder stood,
Whose top reached the heavenly bowers.

And the parents had dressed the pale, still child
For her flight to the Summer land,
In a fair white robe, with one snow-white rose
Folded tight in her pulseless hand.

And now at the foot of the ladder they sit,
Looking upward with quiet tears,
Till the beckoning hand and the fluttering robe
Of the child at the top re-appears.

DROWNED AMONG THE LILIES.

How the reeds and rushes quiver
On the low banks of the river,
And the leaning willows shiver
In a strange and deep affright,
And the water moans and murmurs
As it eddies round the lilies,
Like a human soul in sorrow,
Over something hid from sight.

How the shadows haunt the edges
Of the river, where the sedges
To the lilies whisper ever
Of some strange and awful deed!
How the sunshine, timid, frightened,
Dares not touch the spot it brightened
Yesterday, among the shadows
Of the lily and the reed.

What is that that floats and shimmers
Where the water gleams and glimmers,
In and out among the rushes,
Growing thick, and tall, and green?
Something yellow, long and shining
Something wondrous fair and silken,
Like a woman’s golden tresses,
With a broken flower between.

What is that, so white and slender,
Hidden, almost, by the splendor
Of a great white water lily,
Floating on the river there?
’Tis a hand stretched up toward Heaven,
As, when we would be forgiven,
We reach out our hands, imploring,
In an agony of prayer.

Tremble, reeds, and moan and shiver,
At your feet, in the still river,
Lies a woman, done forever,
With life’s mockery and woe.
God alone can know the sorrow,
All the bitterness and heartache,
Ended in the moaning river
Where the water lilies blow.

EBEN E. REXFORD.

THE FATE OF CHARLOTTE CORDAY.

The sunny land of France with streams of noblest blood was dyed,
Nor could a monarch’s royal veins suffice the insatiate tide;
And youth and beauty knelt in vain, and mercy ceased to shine,
And Nature’s holiest ties were loosed beneath the guillotine.

Wild war and rapine, hate and blood, and terror ruled supreme,
Till all who loved its vine-clad vales had ceased of peace to dream;
But there was one whose lover’s blood wrote vengeance in her soul,
Whom zeal for France and blighted hopes had bound in fast control.

Dark “Discord’s demon,” fierce Marat, his country’s fellest foe,
Belzance’s executioner, the fount of war and woe;
Demon alike in mind and face, he dreamt not of his fall,
Yet him the noble maiden doomed to vengeance and to Gaul.

O! had an artist seen them there as face to face they stand;
The noblest and the meanest mind in all that bleeding land;
The loveliest and most hideous forms that pencil could portray—
A picture might on canvas live that would not pass away.

“Point out the foes of France,” he said, “and ere to-morrow shine,
The blood, now warm within their veins, shall stain the guillotine.”
“The guillotine!” the maid exclaimed, the steel a moment gleams,
A moment more ’tis in his heart; adieu to all his dreams!

Before her judges Charlotte stands, undaunted, undismayed,
While eyes that never wept are wet with pity for the maid,
Unstained as beautiful she stands before the judgment seat,
Resigned to fate, her heart is calm while others wildly beat!

Alas! too sure her doom is read in those stern faces, while
Fear from her looks affrighted fled, where shone Minerva’s smile;
Hope she had none, or, if perchance she had, that hope was gone,
Yet in its stead ’twas not despair but brightest triumph shone!

“What was the cause?” “His crimes,” she said, her bleeding country’s foe,
Inspired her hand, impelled the steel, and laid the tyrant low;
Though well she knew her blood would flow for him she caused to bleed,
Yet what was death?—The crowning wreath that graced the noble deed!

Her doom is passed, a lovely smile dawns slowly o’er her face,
And adds another beauty to her calm majestic grace;
She does not weep, she does not shrink, her features are not pale,
The firmness that inspired her hand forbids her heart to fail!

’Tis morn; before the Tuilleries the dawn is breaking gray,
And thousands through the busy streets in haste pursue their way;
What means the bustle and the throng, the scene is nothing new—
A fair young lady, doomed to die, each day the same they view.

Before that home of bygone kings a gloomy scaffold stands,
Upreared in Freedom’s injured name to manacle her hands;
Some crowd to worship, some insult, the martyr in her doom,
But over friends and foes a cloud is cast of sombre gloom.

She stands upon the fatal spot angelically fair,
The roses of her cheek concealed beneath her flowing hair;
“Greater than Brutus,” she displays no sign of fear or dread,
But in a moment will be still and silent with the dead.

Her neck is bared, the fatal knife descends, and all is o’er,
The martyred heroine of France—of freedom dreams no more;
The insults of the wretched throng she hears no longer now,
But Death, man’s universal friend, sits on her pallid brow!

In life, fear never blanched her cheek; but now ’tis calm and pale,
Love and her country asked revenge, and both her fate bewail;
She fell, more glorious in her fall than chief or crowned queen,
A martyr in a noble cause, without a fault to screen!

CLARE S. MCKINLEY.

THE LITTLE VOYAGER.

Three little children in a boat
On seas of opal splendor;
The willing waves their treasure float
To rhythm low and tender;
Over their heads the skies are blue—
Where are the darlings sailing to?

They do not know—we do not know,
Who watch their pretty motions;
Safe moored within the harbor, though
They sail untraveled oceans;
They rock and sway and shut their eyes;
“No land in sight!” the helmsman cries!

“Oh, little children have you heard
Of ships that sail for pleasure;
And never wind or wave hath word
Of all their vanished treasure?
They were as blithe and gay as you
And sailed away as fearless, too!”

Then from the pleasure-freighted crew
One spake—a little maiden,
With sunny hair, and eyes of blue,
And lashes fair, dew-laden,
Her wise head gave a thoughtful nod—!
“Perhaps—they sailed—away to God!”

MRS. M. L. BAYNE.

THE DREAM OF ALDARIN.

This selection won a gold medal at a Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution in Philadelphia. It is a remarkable embodiment of tragedy and pathos.

A chamber with a low, dark ceiling, supported by massive rafters
of oak; floors and walls of dark stone, unrelieved by wainscot or
plaster—bare, rugged, and destitute.

A dim, smoking light, burning in a vessel of iron, threw its red
and murky beams over the fearful contents of a table. It was
piled high with the unsightly forms of the dead. Prostrate among
these mangled bodies, his arms flung carelessly on either side,
slept and dreamed Aldarin—Aldarin, the Fratricide.

He hung on the verge of a rock, a rock of melting bitumen, that
burned his hands to masses of crisped and blackened flesh. The
rock projected over a gulf, to which the cataracts of earth might
compare as the rivulet to the vast ocean. It was the Cataract of
Hell. He looked below. God of Heaven, what a sight! Fiery waves,
convulsed and foaming, with innumerable whirlpools crimsoned by
bubbles of flame. Each whirlpool swallowing millions of the lost.
Each bubble bearing on its surface the face of a soul, lost and
lost forever.

Born on by the waves, they raised their hands and cast their
burning eyes to the skies, and shrieked the eternal death-wail of
the lost.

Over this scene, awful and vast, towered a figure of ebony
blackness, his darkened brow concealed in the clouds, his
extended arms grasping the infinitude of the cataract, his feet
resting upon islands of bitumen far in the gulf below. The eyes
of the figure were fixed upon Aldarin, as he clung with the
nervous clasp of despair to the rock, and their gaze curdled his
heated blood.

He was losing his grasp; sliding and sliding from the rock, his
feet hung over the gulf. There was no hope for him. He must
fall—fall—and fall forever. But lo! a stairway, built of white
marble, wide, roomy and secure, seemed to spring from the very
rock to which he clung, winding upward from the abyss, till it
was lost in the distance far, far above. He beheld two figures
slowly descending—the figure of a warrior and the form of a
dark-eyed woman.

He knew those figures; he knew them well. They were his victims!
Her face, his wife’s! beautiful as when he first wooed her in the
gardens of Palestine; but there was blood on her vestments, near
the heart, and his lip was spotted with one drop of that thick,
red blood. “This,” he muttered, “this, indeed, is hell, and yet I
must call for aid—call to them!” How the thought writhed like a
serpent round his very heart.

He drew himself along the rugged rock, clutching the red-hot ore
in the action. He wanted but a single inch, a little inch and he
might grasp the marble of the stairway. Another and a desperate
effort. His fingers clutched it, but his strength was gone. He
could not hold it in his grasp. With an eye of horrible intensity
he looked above. “Thou wilt save me, Ilmerine, my wife. Thou wilt
drag me up to thee.” She stooped. She clutched his blackened
fingers and placed them around the marble. His grasp was tight
and desperate. “Julian, O Julian! grasp this hand. Aid me, O
Julian! my brother!” The warrior stooped, laid hold on his hand
and drawing it toward the casement, wound it around another piece
of marble.

But again his strength fails. “Julian, my brother; Ilmerine,
my wife, seize me! Drag me from this rock of terror! Save me!
O save me!” She stooped. She unwound finger after finger. She
looked at his horror-stricken face and pointed to the red wound
in her heart. He looked toward the other face. “Thou, Julian,
reach me thy hand. Thy hand, or I perish!” The warrior slowly
reached forth his hand from beneath the folds of his cloak. He
held before the eyes of the doomed a goblet of gold. It shone and
glimmered through the foul air like the beacon fire of hell.

“Take it away! ’Tis the death bowl!” shrieked Aldarin’s livid
lips. “I murdered thee. Thou canst not save.” He drew back from
the maddening sight. He lost his hold, he slid from the rock, he
fell.

Above, beneath, around, all was fire, horror, death; and still he
fell. “Forever and forever,” rose the shrieks of the lost. All
hell groaned aloud, “Ever, ever. Forever and forever,” and his
own soul muttered back, “This—this—is—hell!”

GEORGE LIPPARD.

IN THE MINING TOWN.

“Tis the last time, darling,” he gently said,
As he kissed her lips like the cherries red,
While a fond look shone in his eyes of brown.
“My own is the prettiest girl in town!
To-morrow the bell from the tower will ring
A joyful peal. Was there ever a king
So truly blessed, on his royal throne,
As I shall be when I claim my own?”

’Twas a fond farewell, ’twas a sweet good-by,
But she watched him go with a troubled sigh.
So, into the basket that swayed and swung
O’er the yawning abyss, he lightly sprung.
And the joy of her heart seemed turned to woe
As they lowered him into the depths below.
Her sweet young face, with its tresses brown,
Was the fairest face in the mining town.

Lo! the morning came; but the marriage-bell,
High up in the tower, rang a mournful knell
For the true heart buried ’neath earth and stone,
Far down in the heart of the mine, alone.
A sorrowful peal on their wedding-day,
For the breaking heart and the heart of clay,
And the face that looked from the tresses brown,
Was the saddest face in the mining town.

Thus time rolled along on its weary way,
Until fifty years, with their shadows gray,
Had darkened the light of her sweet eyes’ glow,
And had turned the brown of her hair to snow.
Oh! never the kiss from a husband’s lips,
Or the clasp of a child’s sweet finger-tips,
Had lifted one moment the shadows brown
From the saddest heart in the mining town.

Far down in the depths of the mine, one day,
In the loosened earth they were digging away.
They discovered a face, so young, so fair;
From the smiling lip to the bright brown hair
Untouched by the finger of Time’s decay.
When they drew him up to the light of day,
The wondering people gathered ’round
To gaze at the man thus strangely found.

Then a woman came from among the crowd,
With her long white hair and her slight form bowed.
She silently knelt by the form of clay,
And kissed the lips that were cold and gray.
Then, the sad old face, with its snowy hair
On his youthful bosom lay pillowed there.
He had found her at last, his waiting bride,
And the people buried them side by side.

ROSE HARTWICK THORPE.

TOMMY’S PRAYER.

This beautiful poem is full of the pathos and suffering of poverty. It should be delivered with expression and feeling. Although lengthy the interest is sustained throughout.

In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came,
Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate and lame;
He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was born,
Dragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn.

He was six, was little Tommy, ’twas just five years ago
Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so.
He had never known the comfort of a mother’s tender care,
But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear.

There he lay within the cellar from the morning till the night,
Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, naught to make his dull life
bright;
Not a single friend to love him, not a living thing to love—
For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above.

’Twas a quiet summer evening; and the alley, too, was still;
Tommy’s little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till,
Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street,
Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and sweet.

Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing nearer came—
Oh! that he could see the singer! How he wished he wasn’t lame.
Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound,
And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found.

’Twas a maiden, rough and rugged, hair unkempt and naked feet,
All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat;
“So yer called me,” said the maiden, “wonder wot yer wants o’ me;
Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?”

“My name’s Tommy; I’m a cripple, and I want to hear you sing,
For it makes me feel so happy—sing me something, anything.”
Jessie laughed, and answered, smiling, “I can’t stay here very long,
But I’ll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the ‘Glory song’”

Then she sang to him of Heaven, pearly gates and streets of gold,
Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold;
But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end,
And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their Friend.

Oh! how Tommy’s eyes did glisten as he drank in every word
As it fell from “Singing Jessie”—was it true, what he had heard?
And so anxiously he asked her: “Is there really such a place?”
And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face.

“Tommy, you’re a little heathen; why, it’s up beyond the sky,
And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die.”
“Then,” said Tommy; “tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love,
When I’m down in this ’ere cellar, and he’s up in Heaven above?”

So the little ragged maiden who had heard at Sunday-school
All about the way to Heaven, and the Christian’s golden rule,
Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love and how to pray,
Then she sang a “Song of Jesus,” kissed his cheek and went away.

Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold,
Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold;
And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room,
For the joy in Tommy’s bosom could disperse the deepest gloom.

“Oh! if I could only see it,” thought the cripple, as he lay.
“Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think I’ll try and pray;”
So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes,
And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies:

“Gentle Jesus, please forgive me, as I didn’t know afore,
That yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor,
And I never heard of Heaven till that Jessie came to-day
And told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray.

“You can see me, can’t yer, Jesus? Jessie told me that yer could,
And I somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good;
And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die,
In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky.

“Lord, I’m only just a cripple, and I’m no use here below,
For I heard my mother whisper she’d be glad if I could go;
And I’m cold and hungry sometimes; and I feel so lonely, too,
Can’t yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to Heaven along o’ you?

“Oh! I’d be so good and patient, and I’d never cry or fret;
And yer kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget;
I would love you all I know of, and would never make a noise—
Can’t you find me just a corner, where I’ll watch the other boys?

“Oh! I think yer’ll do it, Jesus, something seems to tell me so,
For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go;
How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright!
Come and fetch me, won’t yer, Jesus? Come and fetch me home to-night!”

Tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul’s desire,
And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire;
Then he turned towards his corner, and lay huddled in a heap,
Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep.

Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have seen his little face
As he lay there in the corner, in that damp and noisome place;
For his countenance was shining like an angel’s, fair and bright,
And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, heavenly light.

He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged singing girl,
He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl;
But he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there,
Simply trusting in the Saviour, and His kind and tender care.

In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy,
She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy,
And she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple’s face was cold—
He had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold.

Tommy’s prayer had soon been answered, and the Angel Death had come
To remove him from his cellar, to His bright and heavenly home
Where sweet comfort, joy and gladness never can decrease or end,
And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sovereign and his Friend.

I. F. NICHOLS.

ROBBY AND RUTH.

Robby and Ruth strolled out one day,
Over the meadows, beyond the town;
The robins sang, and the fields looked gay,
And the orchards dropped their blossoms down:
But they took no thought of song or flower,
For this, to them, was love’s sweet hour;
And love’s hour is fleet,
And swift love’s feet,
When a lad and a winsome lassie meet!

Robby and Ruth in the church were wed,
Ere the orchard apples began to fall;
“Till death shall part,” were the words they said,
And love’s pure sunlight hallowed all.
Ah! never a bride more sweet and fair
Wore orange-blooms in her sunny hair!
The maiden sung,
And the joy-bells rung
And echoed the orchards and groves among.

Robby and Ruth kept house together,
Till both were old and bent and gray,
And little they cared for outside weather,
For home’s sweet light gilded all their way;
And many a precious nestling came
To be called by the dear old household name;
And the love that blessed
When first confessed
Remained in their hearts a constant guest.

Robby and Ruth grew weary at last—
Bobby went first the shining way;
And when the earth on _his_ grave was cast,
The faithful Ruth could no longer stay;
And daisy ne’er blossomed or wild-rose grew
O’er hearts more tender, leal and true!
Love’s vows were sweet
When they sat at Love’s feet,
And Heaven makes love itself complete.

LOUISA S. UPHAM.

RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN.

The perplexing question of obtaining something suitable for the “little tots” to recite, is solved by the choice collection of pieces here presented. The pathetic, the humorous, the beautiful, in short, every variety of recitation for the young people, may be found in the following pages, including drills and motion recitals, and selections for special occasions, all of which are entertaining and admirably suited to the little folks.

TWO LITTLE MAIDENS

A sorry little maiden
Is Miss Fuss-and-Feather,
Crying for the golden moon,
Grumbling at the weather;
The sun will fade her gown,
The rain will spoil her bonnet,
If she ventures out,
And lets it fall upon it.

A merry little maiden
Is Miss Rags-and-Tatters,
Chatting of the twinkling stars
And many other matters;
Dancing in the sunshine,
Pattering through the rain,
Her clothes never cause her
A single thought or pain.

AGNES CARR.

THE WAY TO SUCCEED.

Drive the nail aright, boys,
Hit it on the head;
Strike with all your might, boys,
While the iron’s red.

When you’ve work to do, boys,
Do it with a will;
They who reach the top, boys,
First must climb the hill.

Standing at the foot, boys,
Gazing at the sky,
How can you ever get up, boys,
If you never try?

Though you stumble oft, boys,
Never be downcast;
Try, and try again, boys—
You’ll succeed at last.

WHEN PA BEGINS TO SHAVE.

When Sunday mornin’ comes around
My pa hangs up his strop,
An’ takes his razor out an’ makes
It go c’flop! c’flop!
An’ then he gits his mug an’ brush
An’ yells t’ me, “Behave!”
I tell y’u, things is mighty still—
When pa begins t’ shave.

Then pa he stirs his brush around
An’ makes th’ soapsuds fly;
An’ sometimes, when he stirs too hard,
He gits some in his eye.
I tell y’u, but it’s funny then
To see pa stamp and rave;
But y’u mustn’t git ketched laffin’—
When pa begins t’ shave.

Th’ hired hand he dassent talk,
An’ even ma’s afeard,
An’ y’u can hear th’ razor click
A-cuttin’ through pa’s beard!
An’ then my Uncle Bill he laffs
An’ says: “Gosh! John, you’re brave,”
An’ pa he swears, an’ ma jest smiles—
When pa begins t’ shave.

When pa gits done a-shavin’ of
His face, he turns around,
And Uncle Bill says: “Why, John,
Yu’r chin looks like plowed ground!”
An’ then he laffs—jest laffs an’ laffs,
But I got t’ behave,
Cos things’s apt to happen quick—
When pa begins t’ shave.

HARRY DOUGLASS ROBBINS.

A BOY’S VIEW.

Girl is very nice! Everybody who has not the misfortune to be
girl will allow this. Nice girl will allow it also as far as
itself is concerned. Strange girl is objectionable in the eyes of
girl generally.

Powder improves girl sometimes, but it seldom finds this out
until it is suggested to it by one of experience.

Healthy girl costs its parents less money for doctors’ bills, but
persons who write romantic tales for circulating libraries choose
unhealthy and pasty faced girl to write about—the swooning kind
preferred.

If I were not boy I think I should like to be girl. It’s best fun
to be boy when there’s plenty of girl about.

MAMMY’S CHURNING SONG.

Set still, honey, let ole Mammy tell yer ’bout de churn,
Wid de cream en clabber dashin’,
En de buttermilk er-splashin’.
Dis de chune hit am er-singin’ ’fore hit ’gin ter turn:
Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum,
Bum-bum-bum,
But-ter-come,
Massa give old nigger some.

Jump down, honey, en fotch me dat rag fum de table, fer ter wipe
off dis hyah led. Tole yer so, dat milk gwine ter splatter up
hyah ’reckly! Dar now, dat’s er good chile, git back in mer lap.

Now de cream, en milk, en clabber’s churnin’ up so fas’,
Hyah hit splatterin’ en er-splutterin’,
En er-mixin’, en er-mutterin’,
In de churn en roun’ de dasher, singin’ ter de las’;
Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum,
Bum-bum-bum,
But-ter-come,
Massa gib old nigger some.

Uh-er! Teck kyah, honey, keep dem fingers way fum dar! Butter
mos’ come now: set still jis’ er leetle w’ile longer.

Sooen de lumps ob butter ’ll be er-floatin’ on de top—
Now de ole churn’s fa’rly hummin’,
Tell yer wot, de butter comin’—
Done come! Mammy’s arm so ti-yerd, now she’s gwine ter stop.
Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum,
Bum-bum-bum,
But-ter-come,
Mammy ’ll gib de baby some.

Dar now! [_removing the top and giving the dasher a circular
motion_] jis’ peep in dar en see de lumps ob yaller butter
er-huddlin’ tergedder. Now run fotch yer leetle blue mug, en
Mammy ’ll gib yer some nice sweet buttermilk right outen dis hyah
churn.

EDWARD A. OLDHAM.

THE TWENTY FROGS!

Twenty froggies went to school,
Down beside a rushy pool;
Twenty little coats of green,
Twenty vests all white and clean.
“We must be in time,” said they;
“First we study, then we play;
That is how we keep the rule
When we froggies go to school.”

Master Bullfrog, grave and stern,
Called the classes in their turn;
Taught them how to nobly strive,
Likewise how to leap and dive.
From his seat upon the log,
Taught them how to say “Ker-chug,”
Also how to dodge a blow
From the sticks which bad boys throw.

Twenty froggies grew up fast;
Bullfrogs they became at last;
Not one dunce among the lot,
Not one lesson they forgot;
Polished in a high degree,
As each froggie ought to be;
Now they sit on other logs,
Teaching other little frogs.

ONLY A BIRD.

Only a bird! and a vagrant boy
Fits a pebble with a boyish skill
Into the fold of a supple sling.
“Watch me hit him. I can an’ I will.”
Whirr! and a silence chill and sad
Falls like a pall on the vibrant air,
From a birchen tree, whence a shower of song
Has fallen in ripples everywhere.

Only a bird! and the tiny throat
With quaver and trill and whistle of flute,
Bruised and bleeding and silent lies
There at his feet. Its chords are mute.
And the boy, with a loud and boisterous laugh,
Proud of his prowess and brutal skill,
Throws it aside with a careless toss—
“Only a bird! it was made to kill.”

Only a bird! yet far away
Little ones clamor and cry for food—
Clamor and cry, and the chill of night
Settles over the orphan brood.
Weaker and fainter the moaning call
For a brooding breast that shall never come.
Morning breaks o’er a lonely nest,
Songless and lifeless; mute and dumb.

MARY MORRISON.

THE WAY TO DO IT.

Teach the child to make all the gestures and facial expressions. This is a captivating recital for any “little tot” who can do it well, and this will require patient practice.

I’ll tell you how I speak a piece:
First, I make my bow;
Then I bring my words out clear
And plain as I know how.

Next, I throw my hands up—so!
Then I lift my eyes:
That’s to let my hearers know
Something doth surprise.

Next, I grin and show my teeth,
Nearly every one,
Shake my shoulders, hold my sides:
That’s the sign of fun.

Next, I start, and knit my brows,
Hold my head erect:
Something’s wrong, you see, and I
Decidedly object.

Then I wabble at my knees,
Clutch at shadows near,
Tremble well from top to toe:
That’s the sign of fear.

Now I start, and with a leap,
Seize an airy dagger.
“Wretch!” I cry: that’s tragedy
Every soul to stagger.

Then I let my voice grow faint,
Gasp, and hold my breath,
Tumble down and plunge about:
That’s a villain’s death.

Quickly then I come to life,
Perfectly restored;
With a bow my speech is done.
Now you’ll please applaud.

MARY MAPES DODGE.

WE MUST ALL SCRATCH.

For five little children and one older, a girl, who takes the part of the mother. They stand in a row and each steps forward and recites the verse.

Said the first little chicken,
With a queer little squirm,
“I wish I could find
A fat little worm.”

Said the next little chicken,
With an odd little shrug,
“I wish I could find
A fat little bug,”

Said the third little chicken,
With a sharp little squeal,
“I wish I could find
Some nice yellow meal.”

Said the fourth little chicken,
With a small sigh of grief,
“I wish I could find
A green little leaf.”

Said the fifth little chicken,
With a faint little moan,
“I wish I could find
A wee gravel stone.”

“Now, see here,” said the mother,
From the green garden patch,
“If you want any breakfast,
Just come here and scratch.”

KITTY AT SCHOOL.

Come, Kitty dear, I’ll tell you what
We’ll do this rainy day;
Just you and I, all by ourselves,
At keeping _school_, will play.

The teacher, Kitty, I will be;
And _you_ shall be the class;
And you must close attention give,
If you expect to pass.

Now, Kitty, “C-A-T” spells _cat_.
Stop playing with your tail!
You are so heedless, I am sure
In spelling you will fail.

“C-A” oh, Kitty! _do_ sit still!
You must not chase that fly!
You’ll never learn a single word,
You do not even try.

I’ll tell you what my teacher says
To me most ev’ry day—
She says that girls can never learn
While they are full of play.

So try again—another word;
“L-A-C-E” spells “_lace_.”
Why, Kitty, it is not polite
In school to wash your face!

You are a naughty, naughty puss,
And keep you in I should;
But then, I love you, dear, so much
I don’t see how I could!

O, see! the sun shines bright again!
We’ll run out doors and play;
We’ll leave our school and lessons for
Another rainy day.

KATE ULMER.

A FELLOW’S MOTHER.

“A fellow’s mother,” said Fred the wise,
With his rosy cheeks and his merry eyes,
“Knows what to do if a fellow gets hurt
By a thump, or a bruise, or a fall in the dirt.

“A fellow’s mother has bags and strings,
Rags and buttons, and lots of things;
No matter how busy she is, she’ll stop
To see how well you can spin your top.

“She does not care—not much, I mean—
If a fellow’s face is not always clean;
And if your trousers are torn at the knee
She can put in a patch that you’d never see.

“A fellow’s mother is never mad,
But only sorry if you are bad,
And I’ll tell you this, if you’re only true,
She’ll always forgive whate’er you do.

“I’m sure of this,” said Fred the wise,
With a manly look in his laughing eyes,
“I’ll mind my mother, quick, every day,
A fellow’s a baby that don’t obey.”

M. E. SANGSTER.

THE STORY KATIE TOLD.

Now, stay right still and listen, kitty-cat, and I’ll tell you a
story.

Once there was a girl.

She was a pretty good little girl, and minded her papa ’n’ mamma
everything they said, only sometimes she didn’t, and then she was
naughty; but she was always sorry, and said she wouldn’t do so
any more, and her mamma’d forgive her.

She was going to hang up her stocking.

“You’ll have to be pretty good, ’lest ’twon’t be filled,” said
her mamma.

“’Less maybe there’ll be a big bunch of sticks in it,” said her
papa.

Do you think that’s a nice way to talk, kitty-cat? I don’t.

So the little girl was good as she could be, ’less she was
bigger, and didn’t cry and slap her little sister hardly any at
all, and always minded her mamma when she came where the chimney
was, ’specially much.

So she hung up her stocking.

And in the night she got awake, and wanted it to come morning;
but in the morning she didn’t get awake till ’twas all sunshiny
out doors.

Then she ran quick as she could to look at her stocking where
she’d hung it; and true’s you live, kitty-cat, there wasn’t the
leastest thing in it—not the leastest bit of a scrimp!

Oh, the little girl felt dreadfully! How’d you feel, s’pose it
had been you, kitty-cat?

She ’menced to cry, the little girl did, and she kept going
harder ’n harder, till by’mby she screeched orfly, and her mamma
came running to see what the matter was.

“Mercy me!” said her mamma. “Look over by the window ’fore you do
that any more, Kathie.”

That little girl’s name was Kathie too, kitty-cat, just the
same’s mine.

So she looked over by the window, the way her mamma said, and—oh!
there was the loveliest dolly’s house you ever saw in all your
born life.

It had curtains to pull to the sides when you wanted to play, and
pull in front when you didn’t.

There was a bed-room, kitty-cat, and a dinner-room, and a
kitchen, and a parlor, and they all had carpets on.

And there was the sweetest dolly in the parlor, all dressed up in
blue silk! Oh, dear! And a penano, to play real little tunes on,
and a rocking-chair, and—O kitty-cat! I can’t begin to tell you
half about it.

I can’t about the bed-room, either, and the dinner-room.

But the kitchen was the very bestest of all. There was a
stove—a teeny tonty mite of a one, kitty-cat,—with dishes just
zactly like mamma’s, only littler, of course, and fry-pans and
everything; and spoons to stir with, and a rolling-pin, and two
little cutters-out, and the darlingest baker-sheet ever you saw!

And the first thing that little girl did was to make some teenty
mites of cookies, ’cause her mamma let her; and if you’ll come
right down stairs, kitty-cat, I’ll give you one.

’Cause I was that little girl, kitty-cat, all the time.

A LITTLE ROGUE.

Grandma was nodding, I rather think;
Harry was sly and quick as a wink;
He climbed in the back of her great arm-chair,
And nestled himself very snugly there;
Grandma’s dark locks were mingled with white,
And quick this fact came to his sight;
A sharp twinge soon she felt at her hair,
And woke with a start, to find Harry there.
“Why, what are you doing, my child?” she said;
He answered, “I’se pulling a basting fread?”

MATTIE’S WANTS AND WISHES.

I wants a piece of cal’co
To make my doll a dess;
I doesn’t want a big piece;
A yard’ll do, I guess.
I wish you’d fred my needle,
And find my fimble, too—
I has such heaps o’ sewin’
I don’t know what to do.

I wants my Maud a bonnet;
She hasn’t none at all;
And Fred must have a jacket;
His ozzer one’s too small.
I wants to go to grandma’s;
You promised me I might.
I know she’d like to see me;
I wants to go to-night.

She lets me wipe the dishes,
And see in grandpa’s watch—
I wish I’d free, four pennies
To buy some butter-scotch.
My Hepsy tored her apron
A tum’lin’ down the stair,
And Cæsar’s lost his pantloons.
And needs anozzer pair.

I wants some newer mittens—
I wish you’d knit me some,
’Cause most my fingers freezes,
They leaks so in the fum.
I wored ’em out last summer,
A pullin’ George’s sled;
I wish you wouldn’t laugh so—
It hurts me in my head.

I wish I had a cookie;
I’m hungry’s I can be.
If you hasn’t pretty large ones,
You’d better bring me free.
I wish I had a p’ano—
Won’t you buy me one to keep?
O, dear! I feels so tired,
I wants to go to sleep.

GRACE GORDON.

WON’T AND WILL.

Sha’n’t and Won’t were two little brothers,
Angry, and sullen, and gruff;
Try and Will are dear little sisters,
One can scarcely love them enough.

Sha’n’t and Won’t looked down on their noses,
Their faces were dismal to see;
Try and Will are brighter than roses
In June, and as blithe as a bee.

Sha’n’t and Won’t are backward and stupid,
Little, indeed, did they know;
Try and Will learn something new daily,
And seldom are heedless or slow.

Sha’n’t and Won’t loved nothing, no, nothing,
So much as to have their own way;
Try and Will give up to their elders,
And try to please others at play.

Sha’n’t and Won’t came to terrible trouble:
Their story is awful to tell;
Try and Will are in the schoolroom,
Learning to read and spell.

WILLIE’S BREECHES.

The boy’s garments should suit the description contained in the piece. In reciting the last two lines he should point to his head, stretch out his hands to show them, look down at his feet, and then catch hold of his pants and spread them out on the sides, putting on at the same time a look of pride.

I’m just a little boy, you know,
And hardly can remember,
When people ask how old I am,
To tell ’em four last ’vember.
And yet for all I am so small,
I made so many stitches
For mamma’s fingers, that she put
Her little boy in breeches.

You may be sure that I was glad;
I marched right up and kissed her,
Then gave my bibs and petticoats,
And all, to baby sister.
I never whine, now I’m so fine,
And don’t get into messes;
For mamma says, if I am bad,
She’ll put me back in dresses!

There’s buttons up and down my legs,
And buttons on my jacket;
I’d count ’em all, but baby makes
Just now, an awful racket.
She’s sitting there, behind the chair,
With blocks, and dolls, and kitty,
A playing “go to gran’ma’s house,”
Alone, ’n that’s a pity.

I think I’ll go and help her some,
I’m sure it would amuse me;
So I won’t bother any more
To talk—if you’ll excuse me.
But first I’ll stand before the glass,
From top to toe it reaches;
Now look! there’s head, and hands, and feet,
But all the rest is breeches!

ETTA G. SALSBURY.

LITTLE DORA’S SOLILOQUY.

I tan’t see what our baby boy is dood for anyway:
He don’t know how to walk or talk, he don’t know how to play;
He tears up ev’ry single zing he posser-bil-ly tan,
An’ even tried to break, one day, my mamma’s bestest fan.
He’s al’ays tumblin’ ’bout ze floor, an’ gives us awful scares,
An’ when he goes to bed at night, he never says his prayers.
On Sunday, too, he musses up my go-to-meetin’ clothes,
An’ once I foun’ him hard at work a-pinc’in’ Dolly’s nose;
An’ ze uzzer day zat naughty boy (now what you s’pose you zink?)
Upset a dreat big bottle of my papa’s writin’ ink;
An’, ’stead of kyin’ dood an’ hard, as course he ought to done,
He laughed and kicked his head ’most off, as zough he zought ’twas fun.

He even tries to reach up high, an’ pull zings off ze shelf,
An’ he’s al’ays wantin’ you, of course, jus’ when you wants you’self.
I rather dess, I really do, from how he pulls my turls,
Zey all was made a-purpose for to ’noy us little dirls;
An’ I wish zere wasn’t no such zing as naughty baby boys
Why—why, zat’s him a-kyin’ now; he makes a drefful noise,
I dess I better run and see, for if he has—boo-hoo!—
Felled down ze stairs and killed his-self, whatever s-s-s’all I do!

THE SQUIRREL’S LESSON.

Two little squirrels, out in the sun,
One gathered nuts, and the other had none;
“Time enough yet,” his constant refrain;
“Summer is still just on the wane.”

Listen, my child, while I tell you his fate:
He roused him at last, but he roused him too late;
Down fell the snow from a pitiless cloud,
And gave little squirrel a spotless white shroud.

Two little boys in a school-room were placed,
One always perfect, the other disgraced;
“Time though yet for my learning,” he said;
“I will climb, by and by, from the foot to the head.”

Listen, my darling; their locks are turned gray;
One as a Governor sitteth to-day;
The other, a pauper, looks out at the door
Of the almshouse, and idles his days as of yore.

Two kinds of people we meet every day;
One is at work, the other at play,
Living uncared for, dying unknown—
The busiest hive hath ever a drone.

LITTLE KITTY.

Once there was a little kitty,
Whiter than snow;
In the barn she used to frolic,
Long time ago;
In the barn a little mousie
Ran to and fro;
For she heard the kitty coming,
Long time ago.

Two black eyes had little kitty,
Black as a sloe;
And they spied the little mousie,
Long time ago.
Nine pearl teeth had little kitty,
All in a row;
And they bit the little mousie,
Long time ago.

When the teeth bit little mousie,
Little mousie cried, “Oh!”
But she got away from kitty,
Long time ago.
Kitty White so shyly comes,
To catch the mousie Gray;
But mousie hears her softly step
And quickly runs away.

LABOR SONG.

This is a charming exercise for boys and girls. Each should be dressed in the costume of the character to be represented, and, as far as possible, should go through the motions called for by the part. The properties can all be placed on the stage before the performance begins. Each character comes in alone, those who have already entered remaining until the close. All unite in singing the chorus, after each performer has spoken or sung (according to choice) the part he or she is to act. Music suitable for this selection is herewith furnished. Come in promptly and avoid long pauses.

[Music]

THE FARMER (_with scythe and dressed like a farmer_.)

I’m glad I am a husbandman,
My acres broad to till,
And in the Autumn of the year
My many barns to fill.
How happy is the farmer’s life,
’Tis one of peace and joy,
To reap and sow, and plow and mow,
And thus the time employ.

CHORUS.

How happy is the laborer,
For when the day is o’er,
The evening shadows gather round,
That he may work no more;
How happy is the laborer,
His heart is light and gay,
And merrily his song rings out,
Throughout the livelong day.

THE FARMER’S WIFE (_kneading bread_).

I’m glad I am a farmer’s wife,
The wheaten bread to knead,
And when the men come home from work
Their hungry mouths to feed.
I keep my house in perfect trim,
I sweep and dust and bake,
And when the busy day is done,
Sweet is the rest I take.—CHORUS.

THE FARMER’S GIRL (_with broom and milk pail_)

I’m glad I am a farmer’s girl,
I love the farmer’s life,
And if I ever wed at all,
I’ll be a farmer’s wife.
My milking pails make music sweet,
I’m happy all the day,
Work gives my cheek the glow of health,
And drives dull care away.—CHORUS.

THE FARMER’S BOY (_with rake_).

I’m glad I am a farmer’s boy,
To plant and rake and hoe—
I get upon old Dobbin’s back,
And don’t I make him go?
I shout and make the welkin ring,
I sing my merry song,
And, roaming through the fields and woods,
I’m jolly all day long. [_Boy whistles Chorus._

DAIRY MAID (_with churn_.)

I’m glad I am a dairy maid,
My butter is so yellow;
I know the lad that catches me
Will be a lucky fellow.
I’m glad I am a dairy maid,
My heart is light and gay,
And with my milk and cream and churn,
I’m happy all the day.—CHORUS.

WASHERWOMAN (_with tub and washboard_).

I’m glad I am a washerwoman,
Ye know me by my look,
I’ll wash and starch your snowy clothes,
And fold them like a book;
Then sind me in your orders quick
For I’ve no time for fooling;

(_Spoken_).

I’ll do thim to the best of my ability,
Ontirely sure.—CHORUS.

THE SHOEMAKER (_shoe, last and hammer_).

I’m glad I am a shoemaker,
With hammer, last and shoe;
Without the slippers that I make,
What would the ladies do?
I cut the leather, fit the last—
To me, my work is play—
From morn to night, with heart so light,
I sing and peg away.—CHORUS.

THE BLACKSMITH (_with anvil and hammer_).

I’m glad I am a blacksmith,
A noble horse to shoe,
I hold within my lap his hoof,
And whack the shoe-nail through;
I swing the hammer and I know
Just how to make a hit,
And indigestion, if you please,
Don’t trouble me a bit.—CHORUS.

THE SCHOOL-TEACHER (_with slate, hook and rule; three or four children
to take part of scholars_).

I’m glad I am a school-teacher,
With slate and book and rule,
To teach the young idea to shoot,
And extirpate the fool.
The heights of knowledge I point out,
And upward lead the way,
And with my pupils pressing on,
I’m happy every day.—CHORUS.

WHAT BABY SAID.

I am here. And if this is what they call the world, I don’t think
much of it. It’s a very flannelly world and smells of paregoric
awfully. It’s a dreadful light world, too, and makes me blink, I
tell you. And I don’t know what to do with my hands; I think I’ll
dig my fists in my eyes. No, I won’t. I’ll scratch at the corner
of my blanket and chew it up, and then I’ll holler; whatever
happens, I’ll holler. And the more paregoric they give me, the
louder I’ll yell. That old nurse puts the spoon in the corner of
my mouth, sidewise like, and keeps tasting my milk herself all
the while. She spilt snuff in it last night, and when I hollered
she trotted me. That comes of being a two-days-old baby. Never
mind; when I’m a man, I’ll pay her back good.