Chapter XXIX: Part III: Programmes for Special Occasions (2)

Yes, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no man can share with him. It was the daily beauty and towering and matchless glory of his life, which enabled him to create his country, and, at the same time, secure an undying love and regard from the whole American people. “The first in the hearts of his countrymen!” Yes, first! He has our first and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there were brave and wise and good men, before his day, in every colony. But the American Nation, as a Nation, I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. And the first love of that young America was Washington. The first word she lisped was his name. Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejaculation; and it will be the last gasp of her expiring life!

Yes, others of our great men have been appreciated—many admired by all. But him we love. Him we all love. About and around him we call up no dissentient and discordant and dissatisfied elements—no sectional prejudice nor bias,—no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes, when the storm of battle blows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Washington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. It shall relume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame of patriotism, that devoted love of country, which his words have commended, which his example has consecrated. Well did Lord Byron write:

“Where may the wearied eye repose
When gazing on the great,
Where neither guilty glory glows,
Nor despicable state?—
Yes—one—the first, the last, the best,
The Cincinnatus of the West,
Whom Envy dared not hate,
Bequeathed the name of Washington,
To make man blush, there was but one.”

RECITATION—February Twenty-second.

In seventeen hundred thirty-two,
This very month and day,
Winking and blinking at the light,
A little baby lay.

No doubt they thought the little man
A goodly child enough;
But time has proved that he was made
Of most uncommon stuff.

The little babe became a man
That everybody knew
Would finish well what he began,
And prove both firm and true.

So when the Revolution came,
That made our nation free,
They couldn’t find a better man
For general, you see.

As general, he never failed
Or faltered; so they though
He ought to be the President,
And so I’m sure he ought.

And then he did his part so well
As President—’twas plain
They couldn’t do a better thing
Than choose him yet again.

Through all his life they loved him well
And mourned him when he died;
And ever since his noble name
Has been our nation’s pride.

The lesson of his life is clear,
And easy quite to guess,
Be firm and true, if you would make
Your life a grand success.

JOY ALLISON.

SONG—A True Soldier. Tune: “Hold the Fort.”

Though we never may be soldiers
On the battle field,
Though we may not carry banner,
Bayonet or shield;
Each can be as true and valiant
Till life’s work is done,
Each can be as brave a soldier
As George Washington.

There are mighty hosts of evil,
Armies great and strong,
Each can be a little soldier
Fighting all day long.
Let us ever fight them bravely,
Let us valiant be;

Fight the host of falsehood, envy,
Pride and cruelty.
Oh, how valiant are the soldiers
Who to battle go,
Yet more brave are they who struggle
With an unseen foe.
When the battles all are ended
And the victory’s won,
Each will be as true a soldier
As George Washington.

ALICE JEAN CLEATOR.

RECITAL—Washington’s Life.

(Recitation for five boys; each holds in his right hand a card
with date, lifting it during his recitation.)

1732.

In seventeen hundred and thirty-two
George Washington was born;
Truth, goodness, skill, and glory high,
His whole life did adorn.

1775.

In seventeen hundred and seventy-five
The chief command he took
Of all the army in the State
Who ne’er his flag forsook.

1783.

In seventeen hundred and eighty-three,
Retired to private life;
He saw his much-loved country free
From battle and from strife.

1789.

In seventeen hundred and eighty-nine,
The country with one voice,
Proclaimed him president, to shine,
Blessed by the people’s choice.

1799.

In seventeen hundred and ninety-nine,
The nation’s tears were shed,
To see the patriot life resign,
And sleep among the dead.

ALL IN CONCERT.

As “first in war, first in peace,”
As patriot, father, friend—
He will be blessed till time shall cease,
And earthly life shall end.

SINGING—Birthday of Washington.

(May be sung to “America.”)

_First Pupil_:

Welcome, thou festal morn,
Never be passed in scorn
Thy rising sun.
Thou day forever bright
With Freedom’s holy light,
That gave the world the sight
Of Washington.

_Second Pupil_:

Unshaken ’mid the storm,
Behold that noble form—
That peerless one,
With his protecting hand,
Like Freedom’s angel, stand,
The guardian of our land,
Our Washington.

_Third Pupil_:

Traced there in lines of light,
Where all pure rays unite,
Obscured by none;
Brightest on history’s page,
Of any clime or age,
As chieftain, man or sage,
Stands Washington.

_Fourth Pupil_:

Name at which tyrants pale,
And their proud legions quail,
Their boasting done;
While Freedom lifts her head,
No longer filled with dread,
Her sons to victory led
By Washington.

_Class in Concert_:

Now the true patriot see,
The foremost of the free,
The victory won.
In Freedom’s presence bow,
While sweetly smiling now
She wreathes the spotless brow
Of Washington.

Then, with each coming year,
Whenever shall appear
That natal sun,
Will we attest the worth
Of one true man to earth
And celebrate the birth
Of Washington.

GEORGE HOWLAND.

MARCH.—Boys and Girls Carrying Flags.

PROGRAMME FOR ARBOR DAY.

The celebration of Arbor Day has become so common that there is a demand for a programme of public exercises for schools and academies. The following can be varied by omitting pieces or substituting others. Little flags on palm-leaf fans tacked on well, also tufts of pine, and wreaths of flowers, bouquets, etc., might aid in decoration. Let the pupils take an active part in preparation.

SONG. Tune: “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

We have come with joyful greeting,
Songs of gladness, voices gay,
Teachers, friends, and happy children,
All to welcome Arbor Day.
Here we plant the trees whose branches,
Warmed by breath of summer days,
Nourished by the dews and showers,
Soon shall wave in leafy sprays.

Let us plant throughout our borders,
O’er our lands so far and wide,
Treasures from the leafy forest,
Vale, and hill, and mountain side;
Rooted deep, oh let them flourish,
Sturdy giants may they be!
Emblems of the cause we cherish—
Education broad and free.

Gentle winds will murmur softly,
Zephyrs float on noiseless wing;
’Mid their bows shall thrush and robin,
Build their nests and sweetly sing.
’Neath their shady arms will childhood
Weary of the noontide heat,
In its cool inviting shadow,
Find a pleasant, safe retreat.

READING.

Proclamation of State Governor or of School Commissioner.

DECLAMATION.

Arbor Day is an anniversary that looks forward with bright hope. The trees which we plant to-day, will grow into groves and forests of the future, and in their silent beauty and voiceless green will honor the hands that so tenderly planted them. Beneath them the youth yet to be may meet in social banquet, and enjoy the fruitage of our labors.

“We are what wind and sun and water make us,
The mountains are our sponsors, and the rills
Fashion and win their nurslings with their smiles.”

This is not a holiday; but a day especially set apart for the purpose of tree-planting, of observing more closely and studying more carefully the trees, flowers and gifts of the forest; also of cultivating a greater reverence and finer sense of the beautiful and sublime.

What object can better inspire us to gain victory over trials than the grand old oak which in bold defiance to its foes while reeling in the wrath of the tempest is sending down to deeper hold its gnarled roots only to be better able to triumph in the next storm? Our poets have used their purest thought, their sweetest music in praise of the forest and the flowers. Arbor Day provides gracious means of a closer acquaintance with “God’s first temples,” and we hope that this day’s effort may result in much good.

QUOTATIONS.

(Pupils stand by desks and after naming authors recite the
quotations.)

_1st Pupil._—Whittier said:

“Give fools their gold, and knaves their power;
Let fortune’s bubbles rise and fall;
Who sows a field or trains a flower,
Or plants a tree, is more than all.”

_2nd Pupil._—Ben Johnson wrote:

“Not merely growing like a tree
In bulk doth make man better be,
Or standing long an oak three hundred years,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald and sear.
A lily of a day is fairer far in May;
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measure life may perfect be.”

_3rd Pupil._—Holmes said:

“In fact there’s nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.”

_4th Pupil._—Morris wrote:

“To me the world’s an open book
Of sweet and pleasant poetry;
I read it in the running book
That sings its way toward the sea.
It whispers in the leaves of trees,
The swelling grain, the waving grass,
And in the cool, fresh evening breeze,
That crisps the wavelets as they pass.

“The flowers below, the stars above,
In all their bloom and brightness given,
Are, like the attributes of love,
The poetry of earth and heaven;
Thus, nature’s volume, read aright,
Attunes the soul to minstrelsy,
Tingeing life’s cloud with rosy light
And all the world with poetry.”

_5th Pupil._—Longfellow said:

“If thou art worn and heart beset
With sorrows that thou wouldst forget,
If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,
Go to the woods and hills! No tears
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.”

_6th Pupil._—Bryan Waller Proctor wrote:

“Methinks I love all common things,
The common air, the common flower,
The dear, kind, common thought that springs
From hearts that have no other dower,
No other wealth, no other power,
Save love; and will not that repay
For all else fortune tears away?

“What good are fancies rare, that rack
With painful thought the poet’s brain?
Alas! they cannot bear us back
Unto happy years again!
But the white rose without a stain
Bringeth times and thoughts of flowers,
When youth was bounteous as the hours.”

_The School._

“He who plants a tree
Plants a hope.
Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope;
Leaves unfold into horizons free,
So man’s life must climb
From the clods of time
Unto heavens sublime.”

RECITATION—What do we Plant when we Plant a Tree?

What do we plant when we plant the tree
We plant the ships that will cross the sea
We plant the mast to carry the sails,
We plant the plank to withstand the gales,
The keel, the keelson, the beam and knee,
We plant the ship when we plant the tree.

What do we plant when we plant the tree?
We plant the houses for you and me;
We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors,
We plant the studding, the lath, the doors,
The beams, the siding, all parts that be,
We plant the house when we plant the tree.

What do we plant when we plant the tree?
A thousand things that we daily see.
We plant the spire that out-towers the crag,
We plant the staff for our country’s flag;
We plant the shade from the hot sun free,
We plant all these when we plant the tree.

HENRY ABBEY.

EXERCISE—Wedding of the Palm and Pine.

(CHARACTERS.—Uncle Sam, Miss Palm, Mr. Pine, and maids for Miss Palm, and servant for Mr. Pine. The maids carry tropical fruits, and one holds either a palm leaf or a peacock fan over Miss Palm, who wears a flowing dress made of some light cheesecloth or goods without starch; also over her head an ice-wool shawl. Her face powdered white, cheeks rosy, and she should be a girl having black hair and eyes. Approaches the stage very modestly, and is always very reserved. Her dress should wear flowers and blossoms. Mr. Pine should be stately, tall and reserved, and should wear tuft of pine for button-hole bouquet. His hair might be whitened with magnesia. His attendant should carry his fur coat and leggings, etc. Uncle Sam should be dressed in customary attire. Uncle Sam first enters stage, carrying a good-sized flag. Palm carries a palm-leaf fan on which is fastened on one side a small flag, and on the other side a wreath of leaves—myrtle or the like.)

_Uncle Sam_:

“She’s up there, Old Glory, where light wings are sped,
She dazzles the nations with ripples of red;
And she’ll wave for us living, or droop o’er us dead—
The flag of our country forever!

She’s up there, Old Glory, how bright the stars stream!
And the stripes like red signals, of liberty gleam!
And we dare for her living or dream the last dream,
’Neath the flag of our country forever!

She’s up there, Old Glory, no tyrant-dealt scars—
No blur on her brightness, no stain on her stars!
The brave blood of heroes hath crimsoned her bars—
She’s the flag of our country forever!”

There comes from the south (_Miss Palm enters_) where the balmy breeze
blows,
There comes from the north (_Mr. Pine enters_) where the hardy pine
grows,
Warm hearts and true hearts, loyal and free,
The Palm and the Pine now wedded to be.
Come stand ’neath the flag, modest Palm, mighty Pine,

(_Both step to front before Uncle Sam and bow to each other, and then
gracefully salute the flag._)

The emblem so dear to brave fathers of thine,
And under its bars, and its stars and its blue,
Unite now and ever to dare and to do (_join hands_)
What your hearts and your hands can our nation to save,
And to keep the old flag o’er the free and the brave.

(_Uncle Sam, placing his right hand upon the joined hands of Palm and
Pine, continues._)

No north, no south, no east, no west,
But one, united, free!
The Palm and Pine, in Union blest,
Now stand for liberty.
From lakes to gulf, from sea to sea,
May union stronger grow;
Thus teach the world humanity,
And might together go.

(_Retire, Palm leaning on arm of Pine._)

PAPER—Origin of Arbor Day.

At an annual meeting of the Nebraska State Board of Agriculture, held in the city of Lincoln, January 4, 1872, Hon. J. Sterling Morton introduced the following resolution which was unanimously adopted after a short debate as to the name; some desired to call the day “Sylvan” instead of “Arbor:”

RESOLVED, “That Wednesday, the 10th day of April, 1872, be, and the same is hereby especially set apart and consecrated for tree planting in the State of Nebraska, and the State Board of Agriculture hereby name it _Arbor Day_, and urge upon the people of the State the vital importance of tree planting, and hereby offer a special premium of one hundred dollars to the agricultural society of that county in Nebraska which shall upon that day plant properly the largest number of trees; and a farm library of twenty-five dollars’ worth of books to that person, who, on that day, shall plant properly in Nebraska the greatest number of trees.”

The result was that over a million trees were planted in Nebraska on that first Arbor Day. A few years later, April 22, the birthday of Mr. Morton was set apart by the Governor as Arbor Day in that State, and now nearly all States observe Arbor Day.

RECITATION—Value of Our Forests.

(The pupils come on the stage, one at a time, and recite, showing
the article about which they speak and give motions.)

_1st Pupil_ (carrying a bunch of toothpicks).

A Toothpick is a little thing, yet it is reported that one factory uses 10,000 cords of wood annually in the production of these splints of wood.

_2d Pupil_ (carrying a box of pegs).

Shoe pegs are small affairs; yet a single factory sends to Europe annually 40,000 bushels of pegs, besides what it sells in this country.

_3d Pupil._

A spool is of small account when the thread is wound off; yet several factories use each from 1800 to 3500 cords of wood every year in making these articles. Thousands of acres of birch trees have been bought at one time by thread manufacturers, for the sole purpose of securing a supply of spools.

_4th Pupil._

Who thinks much of the little friction match, as he uses it to light the lamp or fire, and then throws it away? But one factory, it is said, makes 60,000,000 of these little articles every day, and uses for this purpose 12,000 square feet of best pine lumber.

_5th Pupil._

Forests affect the climate of the country; influence the rain of a country; build up a wall and protect the crops; they keep the air pure. The leaf-mold in forests holds back the rains. We draw $700,000,000 worth of products every year from the trees. No other crop equals this in value.

_All in Concert._

“The groves were God’s first temples.
Ere man learned
To hew the shaft and lay the architrave
And spread the roof above them; ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication.”

SONG—Tune: “America.”

Up from the smiling earth
Comes there a voice of mirth
Our hearts to cheer;
Listen where the willows lean,
Lovingly o’er the stream,
Listen, where the pine trees dream,
Springtime is here.

Let us sing merrily,
Blithely and cheerily,
With the new year;
Join in the chorus,
Loudly swelling o’er us;
Joy is before us,
Springtime is here.

Come, let us plant a tree
Tenderly, lovingly,
Some heart to cheer,
Long may its branches sway,
Over the dusty way
With shade for sultry day,
For years to be.

EDNA D. PROCTOR.

CONCERT RECITATION—The Trees.

(By small pupils standing in aisles and in imitation of trees,
gestures as indicated.)

We are trees in tiny rows
Growing straight and tall;
Roots we have so when it(1) blows,
None of us may fall.

Bending gently (2)to and fro
Then to (3)left and right,
Makes us stronger as we grow,
(4)Upward to the light.

Tiny branches spreading wide,(5)
Adding grace and form,
Growing firmly from our side,
(6)Hide us from the storm.

On our branches, in the spring,
(7)Leaves in green unfold;
Till the frost with cruel sting,
Turns them into gold.

Then our brightly tinted leaves,
From our branches fall;
(8)Flutter in the autumn breeze,
To October’s call.

(9)Midst our branches squirrels run,
Searching for our fruit;
And the birds in summer’s sun,
(10)Flit in hot pursuit

And at night when all is still,
(11)We have gone to sleep,
Comes the owl, a mouse to kill,
And (12)hoots in a voice so deep.

As little trees of hope we stand
And promises of good;
Oh, may we grow up (13)tall and grand
A deep and shady wood,

Bear sweet and gladsome fruit of love,
And shelter weary souls;
And (14)lift our crests the storm above,
Where endless sunlight rolls.

_Gestures for “The Trees.”_

1. Half of the number imitate the swaying of trees by the blowing of wind, done by bending head and body to right and left. 2. Hands on hips, body bending forward and backward. 3. Body bending left and right. 4. Point upward with right hands. 5. Slowly extend arms. 6. Crouch as in hiding. 7. Arms extended, open hands slowly. 8. Arms extended, move fingers like fluttering leaves. 9. First imitate leaping squirrel with right hand; then with left; then with both hands. 10. Move hands to and fro with fast moving fingers. 11. Arms extended direct above head, fingers closed and eyes shut. 12. Half the number imitate the _hoots_ while others recite. 13. Move arm full length obliquely from right side, and direct eyes upward in same direction. 14. Lift both hands slowly to full length above head in front of body, and look up.

MUSIC—To be Selected.

PROGRAMME FOR A HARVEST HOME.

TUNE.—“Marching Through Georgia.”

Through the golden summertime we’ve all been sowing seeds;
Oh they’ve sprung to blossoms or to tall and ugly weeds;
Children have we sown the seed of wrong or kindly deeds,
All through the bright days of summer.

CHORUS.

The seeds we planted along life’s onward way,
Are swiftly growing, growing every day;
What the harvest time shall be, it is for us to say—
Let us be cheerful in sowing.

RECITATION.—A Sermon in Rhyme

If you have a friend worth loving,
Love him. Yes, and let him know
That you love him, ere life’s evening
Tinge his brow with sunset glow.
Why should good words ne’er be said
Of a friend till he is dead?

If you hear a song that thrills you,
Sung by any child of song,
Praise it. Do not let the singer
Wait deserved praises long.
Why should one who thrills your heart
Lack the joy you may impart?

If a silvery laugh goes rippling
Through the sunshine on his race,
Share it. ’Tis the wise man’s saying
For both joy and grief a place.
There’s health and goodness in the mirth
In which an honest laugh has birth.

If your work is made more easy
By a friendly helping hand,
Say so. Speak out brave and truly
Ere the darkness veil the land.
Should a brother workman dear
Falter for a word of cheer?

Scatter thus your seeds of kindness,
All enriching as you go—
Leave them. Trust the Harvest Giver,
He will make each seed to grow.
So, until its happy end
Your life shall never lack a friend.

FARMER JOHN.

(For a man dressed in farmer’s costume.)

Home from his journey Farmer John
Arrived this morning safe and sound;
His black off and his old clothes on;
“Now I’m myself,” says Farmer John;
And he thinks, “I’ll look round.”

Up leaps the dog: “Get down, you pup!
Are you so glad you would eat me up?”
The old cow lows at the gate to greet him,
The horses prick up their ears to meet him:
“Well, well, old Bay!
Ha, ha, old Gray!
Do you get good food when I’m away?
You haven’t a rib,” says Farmer John;
“The cattle are looking round and sleek;
The colt is going to be a roan,
And a beauty, too; how he has grown!
We’ll wean the calf next week.”

“I’ve found this out,” says Farmer John,
“That happiness is not bought and sold,
And clutched in a life of waste and hurry,
In nights of pleasure and days of worry;
And wealth isn’t all in gold,
Mortgages, stocks, and ten per cent.,
But in simple ways and sweet content;
Few wants, pure hope, and noble ends,
Some land to till, and a few good friends
Like you, old Bay,
And you, old Gray:
That’s what I learned by going away.”

J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

RECITAL—The Husbandman.

(For boys and girls.)

_First_:

Earth, of man the bounteous mother,
Feeds him still with golden grain;
He who best would aid a brother
Shares with him his loaded wain.

_Second_:

Many a power within her bosom,
Noiseless hidden, works beneath;
Hence are seed and leaf and blossom,
Golden ear, and clustered wreath.

_Third_:

These to swell with strength and beauty
Is the royal task of man;
Man’s a king; his throne is duty,
Since his work on earth began.

_Fourth_:

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage—
These, like men, are fruits of earth;
Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage.
All from dust receive their birth.

_Fifth_:

What the dream but vain rebelling,
If from earth we sought to flee?
’Tis our stored and ample dwelling;
’Tis from it the skies we see.

_Sixth_:

Wind and frost, and hour and season,
Land and water, sun and shade—
Work with these, as bids thy reason,
For they work thy toil to aid.

_All in concert_:

Sow thy seed and reap in gladness!
Man himself is all a seed;
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness—
Slow the plant to ripeness lead.

JOHN STERLING.

ORATION—The Nobility of Labor.

I call upon those whom I address to stand up for the nobility of labor. It is Heaven’s great ordinance for human improvement. Let not that great ordinance be broken down. What do I say? It is broken down; and it has been broken down for ages. Let it, then, be built up again; here, if anywhere, on these shores of a new world—of a new civilization. But how, I may be asked, is it broken down? Do not men toil? it may be said. They do, indeed, toil; but they, too, generally do it because they must. Many submit to it as, in some sort, a degrading necessity; and they desire nothing so much on earth as escape from it. They fulfill the great law of labor in the letter, but break it in the spirit; fulfill it with the muscle, but break it with the mind.

To some field of labor, mental or manual, every idler should fasten, as a chosen and coveted theatre of improvement. But so is he not impelled to do, under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in his idleness. This way of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system, under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away with.

Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy workshop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hands, scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which Mother Nature has embroidered, ’midst sun and rain, ’midst fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to nature—it is impiety to Heaven—it is breaking Heaven’s great ordinance. TOIL, I repeat—TOIL, either of the brain, or of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true nobility!

ORVILLE DEWEY.

RECITATION—The Corn Song.

(For a lad who holds a tall stalk of corn in left hand.)

Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard;
Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has autumn poured
From her most lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,
To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest-fields with snow.

Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth,
And bless our farmer girls?

Then shame on all the proud and vain,
Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,
Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the rye,
Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit,
The wheat-field to the fly.

But let the good old crop adorn
The hills our fathers trod;
Still let us, for his golden corn,
Send up our thanks to God!

J. G. WHITTIER.

SINGING—Tune: “Rockingham.”

Great God! our heart-felt thanks to Thee!
We feel Thy presence everywhere;
And pray that we may ever be
The objects of Thy guardian care.

We sowed!—by Thee our work was seen,
And blessed; and instantly went forth
Thy mandate; and in living green
Soon smiled the fair and fruitful earth.

We toiled!—and Thou didst note our toil;
And gav’st the sunshine and the rain,
Till ripened on the teeming soil
The fragrant grass, and golden grain.

And now, we reap!—and oh, our God!
From this, the earth’s unbounded floor,
We send our song of thanks abroad,
And pray Thee, bless our hoarded store!

W. D. GALLAGHER.

PROGRAMME FOR LYCEUM OR PARLOR ENTERTAINMENT.

MUSIC—Piano Solo.

SONG—Selected by Quartette.

SALUTATORY ADDRESS.

(The following speech should be delivered by a droll boy who can
keep his face straight while others do the laughing. He should
act out the spirit of the piece with appropriate gestures.)

I am requested to open our performances by a salutatory address. It needs but one honest Saxon word for that—one homely pertinent word; but before I utter a pertinent word, allow me, like other great speakers, to indulge in a few _im_pertinent words.

And first, let me ask if there is a critic among us; for this is a sort of family gathering. We allow no critics! No reporters! No interviewers! (Do I see a boy taking notes? Put him out. No! It’s a false alarm, I believe.)

Pardon me if, with the help of my mother’s eye-glass (_lifts eye-glasses_), I look round on your phys—phys—physiognomies. (That’s the word, I’m very certain, for I practiced on it a good half hour.) Without flattery I say it, I like your countenances—with one exception.

A critic! If there is anything I detest it is a critic. One who cannot bear a little nonsense, and who shakes his head at a little salutary (not salutatory) fun. Salutary fun? Did anybody hiss? Point him out. (_Speaker folds his arms, advances, fixes his eyes on some one in the audience, and shakes his fist at him._) Yes, sir, I said salutary fun. Salutary! You needn’t put on such a grave look. Salutary! You needn’t sneer at that ep—ep—epithet. (Yes, I’m quite positive that’s the word I was drilled on. Epi—_thet_! That’s it.)

But I was speaking of critics. If there is any one of that tribe in this assembly—any dear friend of Cæsar—I mean any stupid friend of Pompey, no, of pomposity—to him I say—no, to you I say—Go mark him well; for him no minstrel raptures swell; despite his titles, power and pelf, the wretch (rather rough on him, that!)—the wretch, concentred all in self, living shall forfeit fair renown, and, doubly dying, shall go down to the vile dust from whence he sprung, unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

There! If any member of Congress could do it better, bring him on. Excuse me if I sop my brow. (_Wiping it with handkerchief._)

But enough! Let us now put by the cap and bells. Enough of nonsense! As a great philosopher, who had been frolicking, once said: “Hush! Let us be grave! Here comes a fool.” Nothing personal, sir, in that! Let us be grave.

And so friends, relatives, ladies, and gentlemen, I shall conclude by uttering from an overflowing heart that one word to which I alluded at the beginning—that one pertinent Saxon word; that is—(_flourishes his hand as if about to utter it; then suddenly puts his hand to his forehead as if trying to remember_.)

Forgotten? Confusion! Not a big word either! Not half as big as some I have spoken! What—where—when—whence—what has become of it? Must I break down, after all? Must I retire in disgrace from public life? Never! I have it. Here it is! Here it is in big capitals: WELCOME!

RECITATION—Mrs. Piper.

(Suited for a young lady. She should appear very innocent at the
beginning, and speak in a droll, unsuspecting voice and manner.
Toward the end she should exhibit an uncontrollable delight, at
the same time manifest a disposition to conceal it.)

Mrs. Piper was a widow—
“Oh, dear me!
This world is not at all,” she said, “the place it used to be!
Now my good husband, he was such a good man to provide—
I never had the leastest care of anything outside!
But now,
Why, there’s the cow,
A constant care, and Brindle’s calf I used to feed when small,
And those two Ayrshire heifers that we purchased in the fall—
Oh, dear,
My husband sleeping in the grave, it’s gloomy being here!
The oxen Mr. Piper broke, and four steers two years old,
The blind mare and the little colt, they all wait to be sold!
For how am I to keep ’em now? and yet how shall I sell?
And what’s the price they ought to bring, how can a woman tell?
Now, Jacob Smith, he called last night, and stayed till nine o’clock,
And talked and talked, and talked and talked, and tried to buy my stock;
He said he’d pay a higher price than any man in town;
He’d give his note, or, if I chose, he’d pay the money down.
But, there!
To let him take those creeturs off, I really do not dare!
For ’tis a lying world, and men are slippery things at best;
My poor, dear husband in the ground, he wasn’t like the rest!
But Jacob Smith’s a different case; if I would let him, now,
Perhaps he’d wrong me on the horse, or cheat me on a cow;
And so
I do not dare to trust him, and I mean to answer ‘No.’”

Mrs. Piper was a widow—
“Oh, dear me!
A single woman with a farm must fight her way,” said she.
“Of everything about the land my husband always knew;
I never felt, when he was here, I’d anything to do;
But now, what fields to plow,
And how much hay I ought to cut, and just what crops to sow,
And what to tell the hired men, how can a woman know?
Oh, dear!
With no strong arm to lean upon, it’s lonesome being here!
Now Jacob Smith, the other night, he called on me again,
And talked and talked, and talked and talked, and stayed till after ten;
He said he’d like to take my farm, to buy it or to lease—
I do declare, I wish that man would give me any peace!
For there!
To trust him with my real estate I truly did not dare;
For, if he buys it, on the price he’ll cheat me underhand;
And, if he leases it, I know he will run out the land;
And, if he takes it at the halves, both halves he’ll strike for then;
It’s risky work when women folk have dealings with the men!
And so,
I do not dare to trust him, and I mean to answer ‘No.’”

Mrs. Piper was a widow—
“Oh, dear me!
Yet I have still some mercies left; I won’t complain,” said she.
“My poor, dear husband knows, I trust, a better world than this;
’Twere sinful selfishness in me to grudge him Heaven’s bliss!
So now,
I ought to bow
Submissively to what is sent—not murmur and repine;
The hand that sends our trials has, in all, some good design.
Oh, dear!
If we knew all, we might not want our buried lost ones here!
And Jacob Smith, he called last night, but it was not to see
About the cattle or the farm, but this time it was me!
He said he prized me very high, and wished I’d be his wife,
And if I did not he should lead a most unhappy life.
He did not have a selfish thought, but gladly, for my sake,
The care of all my stock and farm he would consent to take—
And, there!
To slight so plain a Providence I really do not dare!
He’ll take the cattle off my mind, he’ll carry on the farm—
I haven’t since my husband died had such a sense of calm!
I think the man was sent to me—a poor, lone woman must,
In such a world as this, I feel, have some one she can trust;
And so,
I do not feel it would be right for me to answer ‘No.’”

MARIAN DOUGLAS.

MUSIC—To be Selected.

COLLOQUY—True Bravery.

(Suited to a boy and girl of twelve years.)

_Ralph._ Good morning, Cousin Laura! I have a word to say to you.

_Laura._ Only a word! It is yet half an hour to school-time, and I can listen.

_R._ I saw you yesterday speaking to that fellow Sterling—Frank Sterling.

_L._ Of course I spoke to Frank. What then? Is he too good to be spoken to?

_R._ Far from it. You must give up his acquaintance.

_L._ Indeed, Cousin Ralph! I must give up his acquaintance? On what compulsion _must_ I?

_R._ If you do not wish to be cut by all the boys of the academy, you must cut Frank.

_L._ Cut! What do you mean by _cut_?

_R._ By cutting, I mean not recognizing an individual. When a boy who knows you passes you without speaking or bowing, he cuts you.

_L._ I thank you for the explanation. And I am to understand that I must either give up the acquaintance of my friend Frank, or submit to the terrible mortification of being “cut” by Mr. Ralph Burton and his companions!

_R._ Certainly. Frank is a boy of no spirit—in short, a coward.

_L._ How has he shown it?

_R._ Why, a dozen boys have dared him to fight, and he refuses to do it.

_L._ And is your test of courage a willingness to fight? If so, a bull-dog is the most courageous of gentlemen.

_R._ I am serious, Laura; you must give him up. Why, the other day Tom Harding put a chip on a fellow’s hat, and dared Frank Sterling to knock it off. But Sterling folded his arms and walked off, while we all groaned and hissed.

_L._ You did? You groaned and hissed? Oh, Ralph, I did not believe you had so little of the true gentleman about you!

_R._ What do you mean? Come, now, I do not like that.

_L._ Were you at the great fire last night?

_R._ Yes; Tom Harding and I helped work one of the engines.

_L._ Did you see that boy go up the ladder?

_R._ Yes; wouldn’t I like to be in his shoes! They say the Humane Society are going to give him a medal; for he saved a baby’s life and no mistake—at the risk of his own, too; everybody said so; for the ladder he went up was all charred and weakened, and it broke short off before he got to the ground.

_L._ What boy was it!

_R._ Nobody could find out, but I suppose the morning paper will tell us all about it.

_L._ I have a copy. Here’s the account; “Great fire; house tenanted by poor families; baby left in one of the upper rooms; ladder much charred; firemen too heavy to go up; boy came forward, ran up; seized an infant; descended safely; gave it into arms of frantic mother.”

_R._ Is the boy’s name mentioned?

_L._ Ay! Here it is! Here it is! And who do you think he is?

_R._ Do not keep me in suspense.

_L._ Well, then, he’s the boy who was so afraid of knocking a chip off your hat—Frank Sterling—the coward, as _you_ called him.

_R._ No! Let me see the paper for myself. There’s the name, sure enough, printed in capital letters.

_L._ But, cousin, how much more illustrious an achievement it would have been for him to have knocked a chip off your hat! Risking his life to save a chip of a baby was a small matter compared with that. Can the gratitude of a mother for saving her baby make amends for the ignominy of being cut by Mr. Tom Harding and Mr. Ralph Burton?

_R._ Don’t laugh at me any more, Cousin Laura. I see I have been stupidly in the wrong. Frank Sterling is no coward. I’ll ask his pardon this very day.

_L._ Will you? My dear Ralph, you will in that case show that you are not without courage.

RECITATION—Reverie in Church.

Too early of course! How provoking!
I told ma just how it would be.
I might as well have on a wrapper,
For there’s not a soul here yet to see.
There! Sue Delaplaine’s pew is empty—
I declare if it isn’t too bad!
I knew my suit cost more than her’s did,
And I wanted to see her look mad.

I do think that sexton’s too stupid—
He’s put some one else in our pew—
And the girl’s dress just kills mine completely;
Now what am I going to do?
The psalter, and Sue isn’t here yet!
I don’t care, I think it’s a sin
For people to get late to service,
Just to make a great show coming in.

Oh, you’ve got here at last, my dear, have you?
Well, I don’t think you need be so proud
Of that bonnet if Virot did make it,
It’s horrid fast-looking and loud.
What a dress!—for a girl in her senses
To go on the street in light blue!
And those coat-sleeves—they wore them last summer—
Don’t doubt, though, that she thinks they’re new.

Mrs. Gray’s polonaise was imported—
So dreadful!—a minister’s wife,
And thinking so much about fashion!—
A pretty example of life!
The altar’s dressed sweetly—I wonder
Who sent those white flowers for the font!—
Some girl who’s gone on the assistant—
Don’t doubt it was Bessie Lamont.

Just look at her now, little humbug!—
So devout—I suppose she don’t know
That she’s bending her head too far over
And the end of her switches all show.
What a sight Mrs. Ward is this morning!
That woman will kill me some day,
With her horrible lilacs and crimsons,
Why will these old things dress so gay?

And there’s Jenny Wells with Fred Tracy—
She’s engaged to him now—horrid thing!
Dear me! I’d keep on my glory sometimes,
If I did have a solitaire ring!
How can this girl next to me act so—
The way that she turns round and stares,
And then makes remarks about people:—
She’d better be saying her prayers.

Oh, dear, what a dreadful long sermon!
He must love to hear himself talk!
And it’s after twelve now—how provoking!
I wanted to have a nice walk.
Through at last. Well, it isn’t so dreadful
After all, for we won’t dine till one:
How can people say church is poky!—
So wicked!—I think it’s real fun.

GEORGE A. BAKER.

ORATION—The Spanish-American War.

It is gratifying to all of us to know that this has never ceased to be a war of humanity. The last ship that went out of the harbor of Havana before war was declared was an American ship that had taken to the suffering people of Cuba the supplies furnished by American charity, and the first ship to sail into the harbor of Santiago was an American ship bearing food supplies to the suffering Cubans, and I am sure it is the universal prayer of American citizens that justice and humanity and civilization shall characterize the final settlement of peace, as they have distinguished the progress of the war.

My countrymen, the currents of destiny flow through the hearts of our people. Who will check them, who will divert them, who will stop them? And the movements of men, planned and designed by the Master of Men, will never be interrupted by the American people.

I witness with pride and satisfaction the cheers of the multitudes as the veterans of the civil war on both sides of the contest are reviewed. I witness with increasing pride the wild acclaim of the people as you watch the volunteers and the regulars and our naval reserves (the guardians of the people on land and sea) pass before your eyes, for I read in the faces and hearts of my countrymen the purpose to see to it that this government, with its free institutions, shall never perish from the face of the earth.

My heart is filled with gratitude to the God of battles, who has so favored us, and to the soldiers and sailors who have won such victories on land and sea and have given such a new meaning to American valor. No braver soldiers or sailors ever assembled under any flag.

Gentlemen, the American people are ready. If the Merrimac is to be sunk in the mouth of the Santiago harbor to prevent the escape of the Spanish fleet, a brave young hero is ready to do it and to succeed in what his foes have never been able to do—sink an American ship. All honor to the army and navy, without whose sacrifices we could not celebrate the victory. The flag of our country is safe in the hands of our patriots and heroes.

PRESIDENT MCKINLEY.

MUSIC—To be Selected.

RECITATION—A Cook of the Period.

(For a young lady who can give the Irish brogue.)

The looks of yer, ma’am, rather suits me—
The wages ye offer ’ill do;
But thin I can’t inter yer sarvice
Without a condition or two.
And now, to begin, is the kitchen,
Commodgeous, with plenty of light,
And fit, ye know, fur entertainin’
Sech fri’nds as I’m like to invite?

And nixt, are yous regular at male-times?
Because ’taint convainyent, ye see,
To wait, and if I behaves punkshul,
It’s no more than yous ought to be.
And thin is your gurrels good-natured?
The rayson I lift my last place,
The French nuss was sich a high lady,
I sint a dish-cloth at her face.

And have yer the laste objection
To min droppin’ in when they choose?
I’ve got some enlivinin’ fust cousins
That frayquently brings me the news.
I must have thim trayted powlitely;
I give yer fair warnin’ ma’am, now,
If the airy gate be closed agin thim,
You’ll find me commincin’ a row.

These matters agrayed on between us,
I’d try yer a wake, so I would.
(She looks like the kind I can manage,
A thin thing without any blood!)
But mind, if I comes for a wake, ma’am,
I comes for that time, and no liss;
And so, thin, purvidin’ ye’d want me,
Just give me your name and addriss.

SONG—Bee-hive Town. TUNE—“Marching Through Georgia.”

Have you ever been to see the busy Bee-Hive Town,
With its funny little wooden houses square and brown?
Hear the bees from clover-fields come flying swiftly down
All enter one little doorway.

CHORUS.

Hurrah, hurrah, for busy Bee-Hive Town,
With funny little houses square and brown;
Here the bees from clover fields come flying swiftly down
Bringing the sweet golden honey.

Oh, there are so many rooms with thin and waxen wall,
Packed so close together that you could not count them all,
Here the small bee babies sleep until they learn to crawl,
And fly to find the golden honey.

Mother bee is called the queen, her children love her well,
And she lives within a warm and cosy little cell;
While her children search in garden, meadow-land and dell,
Helpful and happy in working.

All the merry sister bees do many a helpful thing—
Tend their little sisters and the golden honey bring:
But the lazy brother bees do naught but hum and sing,
All through the long golden summer.

PROGRAMME FOR THANKSGIVING.

(The room should be decorated with fruits and grains of the season, among them a large pumpkin, which will be appropriate to one of the recitations.)

SONG—Tune: “My Country.”

Honor the Mayflower’s band,
Who left their native land
And home so bright;
Honor the bravery
That crossed the winter sea,
For worship, fearless, free,
In cause of right.

Oh, they had much to fear,
Sickness and death was near
To many a one;
Foes did them cruel wrong,
Winter was dark and long,
Ere came the Springtime’s song
And burst of sun.

Honor those valiant sons,
Honor those fearless ones,
The Mayflower’s band.
Honor the bravery
That scorned all tyranny,
And crossed the stormy sea
To this fair land!

RELIGIOUS EXERCISES—Selected.

RECITATION—What I’m Thankful For.

I’m thankful that I’m six years old,
And that I’ve left off dresses;
And that I’ve had my curls cut off,—
Some people call them tresses.
Such things were never meant for boys;—
Horrid dangling, tangling curls—
They go quite well with dress and sash;
They are just the thing for girls.

I’m thankful I have pockets four,
Tho’ they’re almost too small,
To hold the things I want to keep;—
Some strings, knife, top and ball.
I’m thankful that we’re going to have,
All my folks and I,
Just a jolly dinner to-day,
With turkey and mince pie.

O, one thing more, my mamma says,
And what she says is true;
’Tis God who gives us everything,
And keeps and loves us too.
And so I thank Him very much
For all that I enjoy;
And promise that next New Year’s day
Will find a better boy.

RECITATION—The Pumpkin.

Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,
When the grey-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,
What moistens the lip, and what brightens the eye?
What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?

O, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling;
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces were carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!

Then thanks for thy present!—none sweeter or better
E’er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Gold-tinted and fair as thine own pumpkin-pie!

J. G. WHITTIER.

SONG—Tune: “Yankee Doodle.”

What matters it the cold wind’s blast,
What matters though ’tis snowing,
Thanksgiving Day has come at last;
To grandmamma’s we’re going.
Wrapped in furs as warm as toast,
O’er the hills we’re fleeting;
To welcome friends, a merry host
And grandma’s smile of greeting.

The sleigh bells jingle merrily,
And though the flakes are flying,
At last beyond the hills we see
A little mansion lying.
I’m sure we’ll find sweet cakes and fruit
And pumpkin pies so yellow;
For grandma knows just how to suit
Each hungry little fellow.

RECITAL—Outside and In.

(May be recited by three girls; No. 1 remaining on the platform
while No. 2 recites the second part, and both standing while No.
3 steps between and repeats the closing verse.)

1. Just outside the window,
Through the cold night air,
Snowflakes falling softly,
Dropping here and there,
Covering like a blanket
All the ground below,
Where the flowers are sleeping,
Tucked in by the snow.
They are dreaming sweetly,
Through the winter’s night,
Of the summer’s morning
Coming sure and bright.

2. Just inside the window
Firelight ruddy gleams;
On the walls and ceiling
Dance its merry beams.
White as outside snowflakes
Is the little bed;
On the downy pillow
Rests a curly head.
Like the flowers the child is dreaming
Of the long, bright hours of play
Coming as the darkness melteth
Into sunny day.

3. And above the sleepers,—
Be they child or flower,—
Our loving Father bendeth
Watching hour by hour.
’Tis his love which giveth
Blessings great or small;
’Tis his sun which shineth,
Making day for all.

ORATION—The Laboring Classes.

Sir, it is an insult to our laboring classes to compare them to the debased poor of Europe. Why, sir, we of this country do not know what poverty is. We have no poor in this country, in the sense in which that word is used abroad. Every laborer, even the most humble, in the United States, soon becomes a capitalist, and even, if he choose, a proprietor of land; for the West, with all its boundless fertility, is open to him.