Chapter IV: Part I: The Reading-Club (2)

His face bent down until her brow
Seemed touched by his mustache,
While she smiled on him—well, just how
A girl smiles on her mash.

He whispered something low and sweet,
And pointed down to where
Two little blue-silk-slippered feet
Were making people stare.

She blushed, and thrust one farther out,
As if for him to see;
A look of pain o’er came her pout:
What ever could it be?

“Sure, never did a girl with man
So brazenly coquette
In public,” said, behind her fan,
Each other girl you met.

I’ll own appearances, indeed,
Were much against the maid;
But, as in many things we heed,
Of harm there was no shade.

How this I know, I’ll tell to you:
I chanced to stand quite near
Upon the stairs, behind the two,
And then to overhear.

A long time passed, while neither spoke,
And then at last said he,—
“I’m sick of this: I’m sure you joke;
Your foot’s quite well, I see.

“You could, if you but cared to try,
With me come down and dance.”
Now, notice how her quick reply
Destroys the scene’s romance.

“Perhaps you think my foot’s all right;
But, sure as you are born,
I wish you wore my slippers tight,
And had—just there—that corn.”
_Andrew G. Tubbs._

THE CHRISTENING.

No, I won’t forgive our parson—not down to my dyin’ day.
He’d orter waited a minnit; that’s what I’ll allers say;
But to christen my boy, my baby, with such an orful name!
Why, where’s the use o’ talkin’? I tell you he was to blame.

You see, it happened in this way: There was father, an’ Uncle Si,
An’ mother, an’ each one wantin’ a finger in the pie,—
Each with a name for baby, as ef I hadn’t no voice;
But the more they talked an’ argied, the more I stuck to my choice.

“Semanthy”—this was father—“you’d best take pattern by mother,
For she named thirteen children, ’thout any such fuss or bother:
As soon as she diskivered that family names was too few,
Why, she just fell back on the Bible, as perfessers air bound to
do.”

“Semanthy”—this was Reuben—“most any one else could see,
That, bein’ as I’m his father, he orter be named for me.
You say my name’s old-fashioned; well, I’m old-fashioned too:
Yet ’twarn’t so long ago, nuther, that both of us suited you.”

Then there was Uncle Silas: “Semanthy, I tell ye what:
Just name him Silas. I’ll give him that hundred-acre lot.
I’ll make out the deed to-morrer; an’ then, when I’ve gone to my
rest,
There’ll be a trifle o’ money to help him feather his nest.”

But the worst of all was mother. She says, so meek an’ mild,—
“I’d love to call him Jotham, after my oldest child;
He died on his second birthday. The others are grown-up men,
But Jotham is still my baby: he has never grown since then.
His hair was soft and curlin’, eyes blue as blue could be,
An’ this boy of yours, Semanthy, jest brings him back to me.”

Well, it warn’t no easy matter to keep on saying _No_,
An’ disapp’intin’ every one. Poor Rube he fretted so,
When I told him the name I’d chosen, that he fairly made me cry.
For I’d planned to name the darlin’ Augustus Percival Guy.
Ah! that was a name worth hearin’, so ’ristocratic an’ grand!
He might ’a’ held up his head then with the proudest in the land.
But _now_—Well, ’tisn’t no wonder, when I look at that blessed
child,
An’ think of the name he’s come to, that I can’t be reconciled.

At last I coaxed up Reuben, an’ a Sabbath mornin’ came
When I took my boy to meetin’ to git his Christian name.
Jest as proud as a peacock I stood a-waitin’ there;
I couldn’t hardly listen to the readin’ nor the prayer,
For of half a dozen babies, mine was the finest of all;
An’ they had sech common names too! But pride must have a fall.

“What will ye call him?” says Parson Brown, bendin’ his head to
hear.
Then I handed a bit of paper up, with the names writ full an’ clear.
But Uncle Si, ’stead of passin’ it, jest reads it over slow,
With sech a wond’rin’, puzzled face, as ef he didn’t know.
The child was beginnin’ to fidget, an’ Rube was gittin’ red,
So I kinder scowled at Uncle Si, and then I shook my head.
“The name?” says Parson Brown agin; “I’m ’feared I haven’t caught
it.”
“_Jee—hoshaphat!_” says Uncle Si, out loud, before he thought
it.

The parson—he’s near-sighted—he couldn’t understand,
Though I p’inted to the paper in Uncle Silas’ hand.
But _that_ word did the business; an’ before I got my breath
That boy was named JEHOSHAPHAT. I felt a’ most like death.
I couldn’t keep from cryin’ as I hurried down the aisle,
An’ I fairly hated Widder Green when I see her kinder smile.
I’ve never, _never_ called him by that name, an’ never will,
An’ I _can’t_ forgive old Parson Brown, though I bear him no
ill-will.
_E. T. Corbett, in Harper’s._

THE VILLAGE CHOIR.

Half a bar, half a bar,
Half a bar onward!
Into an awful ditch,
Choir and precentor hitch,
Into a mess of pitch,
They led the Old Hundred.
Trebles to right of them,
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Oh, that precentor’s look,
When the sopranos took
Their own time and hook,
From the Old Hundred!

Screeched all the trebles here,
Boggled the tenors there,
Raising the parson’s hair,
While his mind wandered;
Theirs not to reason why
This psalm was pitched too high:
Theirs but to gasp and cry
Out the Old Hundred.
Trebles to right of them,
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Stormed they with shout and yell,
Not wise they sang, nor well,
Drowning the sexton’s bell,
While all the church wondered.

Dire the precentor’s glare,
Flashed his pitchfork in air,
Sounding the fresh keys to bear
Out the Old Hundred.
Swiftly he turned his back,
Reached he his hat from rack,
Then from the screaming pack
Himself he sundered.
Tenors to right of him,
Trebles to left of him,
Discords behind him
Bellowed and thundered.
Oh the wild howls they wrought!
Right to the end they fought!
Some tune they sang, but not,
Not the Old Hundred.
—_Audre’s Journal._

FILLING HIS PLACE.

Young Rip Van Winkle took into his head
To go on a cruise round the world, he said;

And in three years’ time he would come once more,
And all would go on as it had before.

What a blank he left, alack and alack!
But the years went round till they brought him back.

And one lazy day in the last of June
Stood a sunburnt sailor, humming a tune,

And watching them play on the cricket-ground.
He was champion once of the country round;

But that brawny lad with the laughing face,
It was plain to see, was filling his place;

And with half a sigh he turned him away,
Saying, “It matters not, it is naught but play.”

And he took the road to the old grist-mill,
Where his place, he knew, they could never fill;

For he’d miss him sore, the miller declared,
And his own right hand could be better spared.

The miller had found, on the day he sailed,
A good honest lad, who had never failed.

“Well, all men can work, but all cannot sing.
I’ll sit in the choir; and they’ll know the ring

“Of my voice again, for the girls did say
’Twould break up the choir when I went away.”

Has it lost the ring that it had of old?
For they look askance, and with glances cold;

And the girls declare, with a pretty pout,
That the stranger there, he has put them out.

What matters it, though, when trifles befall?
One sweet hope is left, that is better than all:

His neighbors and friends may all have forgot,
But sweet Mary Ann, he is sure, has not.

She gave him a rose when he sailed away:
He’ll show her that rose when he goes to-day.

How glad she will be, after waiting so long,
To see him again so hearty and strong!

Alas for the sailor! alas for the rose!
They’ve gone round the world, and this is the close:

“You have stayed too long, you have stayed too long,
Had you come before,”—this was all her song,—

“You had found my heart but an empty nest,
And ready to welcome its truant guest.

“Go, bring the dead rose to life if you can,
But your place is filled by a better man.”

And sadder and wiser he went his way,
But he kept that rose to his dying day.
_Maria L. Eve._

THE HERITAGE.

The rich man’s son inherits lands,
And piles of brick and stone and gold;
And he inherits soft, white hands,
And tender flesh that feels the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old,—
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man’s son inherits cares:
The bank may break, the factory burn;
A breath may burst his bubble shares;
And soft white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serve his turn,—
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man’s son inherits wants:
His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair,—
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art,—
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit?
Wishes o’erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings,—
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit?
A patience learned by being poor;
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it;
A fellow-feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door,—
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man’s son! there is a toil,
That with all others level stands:
Large charity doth never soil,
But only whiten, soft white hands;
This is the best crop from thy lands,—
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man’s son! scorn not thy state:
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great;
Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign,—
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record to a well-filled past,—
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.
_James Russell Lowell._

CASABIANCA (Colored).

One darky stood in the ’backer patch,
Whence all the rest had fled;
While the mule-heels, clods, and green worms flew
A-whizzing round his head.

Savory, stout, and black he stood,
As born to work a farm,
While gaping mouth and bulging eyes
Betokened his alarm.

That mule kicked hard: he wouldn’t leave
“Unless de boss said so.”
“De boss,” unconscious of his plight,
Had gone off to the show.

The darky yelled, “See here, boss, say!
Mus’ I lef dis mule go?”
Just then the boss was miles away,
And Cuffee called out “Whoa!”

Quite thick and fast a cloud of dust
Arose towards the sky,
And filled the darky’s eyes and nose
Like flour off hotel pie.

“Say, boss!” again poor Cuffee cried,
“Ef ’tain’t mos’ time I’se gone?”
Naught but the clattering hoofs replied,
As the agile mule kicked on.

At last there came a thunderous crash
That made the earth resound;
And when the dust and débris passed,
The mule could not be found.

That fateful last terrific kick
Had struck on Cuffee’s head;
And now the mule, a shattered wreck,
Lay far off, limp and dead.

MARY’S LAMB ON A NEW PRINCIPLE.

Mollie had a little ram as black as rubber shoe, and everywhere
that Mollie went he emigrated too.
He went with her to church one day; the folks hilarious grew,
to see him walk demurely into Deacon Allen’s pew.
The worthy deacon quickly let his angry passions rise,
and gave it an unchristian kick between the sad brown eyes.
This landed rammy in the aisle; the deacon followed fast,
and raised his foot again: alas! that first kick was his last.
For Mr. Sheep walked slowly back, about a rod ’tis said,
and ere the deacon could retreat he stood him on his head.
The congregation then arose, and went for that ’ere sheep:
several well-directed butts just piled them in a heap.
Then rushed they straightway for the door, with curses long and
loud;
while rammy struck the hindmost man, and shoved him through the
crowd.
The minister had often heard that kindness would subdue
the fiercest beast. “Aha!” he said, “I’ll try that game on you.”
And so he kindly, gently, called, “Come, rammy, rammy, ram;
to see the folks abuse you so, I grieved and sorry am.”
With kind and gentle words he came from that tall pulpit down,
saying, “Rammy, rammy, ram—best sheepy in the town.”
The ram quite dropped its humble air, and rose from off his feet;
and when the parson landed, he was behind the hindmost seat.
As he shot out the door, and closed it with a slam,
he named a California town—I think ’twas “Yuba Dam.”

CUT, CUT BEHIND.

Vhen shnow und ice vas on der ground,
Und merry shleigh-bells shingle;
Vhen Shack Frost he vas peen around,
Und make mine oldt ears tingle—
I hear dhose roguish gamins say,
“Let shoy pe unconfined!”
Und dhen dhey go for efry shleigh,
Und yell, “Cut, cut pehind!”

It makes me shust feel young some more,
To hear dhose youngsters yell,
Und eef I don’d vas shtiff und sore,
Py shings! I shust vould—Vell,
Vhen some oldt pung was coomin’ py,
I dink I’d feel inclined
To shump right in upon der shly,
Und shout, “Cut, cut pehind!”

I mind me vot mine fader said
Vonce vhen I vas a poy,
Mit meeschief alvays in mine head,
Und fool of life und shoy.
“Now, Hans, keep off der shleighs,” says he,
“Or else shust bear in mind,
I dake you righdt across my knee,
Und cut, cut, cut pehind!”

Yell, dot vas years und years ago,
Und mine young Yawcob too,
Vas now shkydoodling droo der shnow,
Shust like I used to do;
Und ven der pungs coom py mine house,
I shust peeks droo der plind,
Und sings oudt, “Go id, Yawcob Strauss,
Cut, cut, cut, cut, pehind!”
_Charles Follen Adams, in Harper’s._

SCENE FROM ION.

CHARACTERS.
ADRASTUS. CRYTHES.

ADRASTUS _discovered_.—CRYTHES _introducing_ ION.

_Cry._ The king!

_Ad._ Stranger, I bid thee welcome:
We are about to tread the same dark passage,
Thou almost on the instant.—Is the sword
[TO _Crythes._
Of justice sharpened, and the headsman ready?

_Cry._ Thou mayst behold them plainly in the court;
Even now the solemn soldiers line the ground,
The steel gleams on the altar, and the slave
Disrobes himself for duty.

_Ad._ (_to_ ION) Dost thou see them?

_Ion._ I do.

_Ad._ By Heaven! he does not change.
If, even now, thou wilt depart, and leave
Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free.

_Ion._ I thank thee for thy offer; but I stand

Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich
In all that makes life precious to the brave;
Who perish not alone, but in their fall
Break the far-spreading tendrils that they feed,
And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear me
For them, I am content to speak no more.

_Ad._ Thou hast thy wish, then.—Crythes! till yon dial
Casts its thin shadow on the approaching hour,
I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant,
Come without word, and lead him to his doom.
Now leave us.

_Cry._ What, alone?

_Ad._ Yes, slave, alone:
He is no assassin! [_Exit_ CRYTHES.
Tell me who thou art.
What generous source owns that heroic blood,
Which holds its course thus bravely? What great wars
Have nursed the courage that can look on death—
Certain and speedy death—with placid eye?

_Ion._ I am a simple youth who never bore
The weight of armor; one who may not boast
Of noble birth, or valor of his own.
Deem not the powers which nerve me thus to speak
In thy great presence, and have made my heart,
Upon the verge of bloody death, as calm,
As equal in its beatings, as when sleep
Approached me nestling from the sportive toils
Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial forms
Began to glimmer through the deepening shadows
Of soft oblivion,—to belong to me!
These are the strengths of Heaven; to thee they speak,
Bid thee to hearken to thy people’s cry,
Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come!

_Ad._ I know it must; so mayst thou spare thy warnings.
The envious gods in me have doomed a race,
Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts
Whence their own dawn upon the infant world;
And I shall sit on my ancestral throne
To meet their vengeance; but till then I rule
As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feel.

_Ion._ I will not further urge thy safety to thee;
It may be, as thou sayest, too late; nor seek
To make thee tremble at the gathering curse
Which shall burst forth in mockery at thy fall;
But thou art gifted with a nobler sense,—
I know thou art my sovereign!—sense of pain
Endured by myriad Argives, in whose souls,
And in whose fathers’ souls, thou and thy fathers
Have kept their cherished state; whose heart-strings, still
The living fibres of thy rooted power,
Quiver with agonies thy crimes have drawn
From heavenly justice on them.

_Ad._ How! my crimes?

_Ion._ Yes; ’tis the eternal law, that where guilt is,
Sorrow shall answer it; and thou hast not
A poor man’s privilege to bear alone,
Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen,
The penalties of evil; for in thine,
A nation’s fate lies circled. King Adrastus!
Steeled as thy heart is with the usages
Of pomp and power, a few short summers since
Thou wert a child, and canst not be relentless.
Oh, if maternal love embraced thee then,
Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet
Glare o’er their perishing children; hast thou shared
The glow of a first friendship which is born
’Midst the rude sports of boyhood, think of youth
Smitten amidst its playthings; let the spirit
Of thy own innocent childhood whisper pity!

_Ad._ In every word thou dost but steel my soul.
My youth was blasted: parents, brother, kin—
All that should people infancy with joy—
Conspired to poison mine; despoiled my life
Of innocence and hope,—all but the sword
And sceptre. Dost thou wonder at me now?

_Ion._ I know that we should pity—

_Ad._ Pity! Dare
To speak that word again, and torture waits thee!
I am yet king of Argos. Well, go on;
The time is short, and I am pledged to hear.

_Ion._ If thou hast ever loved—

_Ad._ Beware! beware!

_Ion._ Thou hast! I see thou hast! Thou art not marble,
And thou shalt hear me! Think upon the time
When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul
Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy,
As if some unseen visitant from heaven
Touched the calm lake, and wreathed its images
In sparkling waves; recall the dallying hope
That on the margin of assurance trembled,
As loath to lose in certainty too blest
Its happy being; taste in thought again
Of the stolen sweetness of those evening walks,
When pansied turf was air to wingèd feet,
And circling forests, by ethereal touch
Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky,
As if about to melt in golden light,
Shapes of one heavenly vision; and thy heart,
Enlarged by its new sympathy with one,
Grew bountiful to all!

_Ad._ That tone! that tone!
Whence came it? from thy lips? It cannot be
The long-hushed music of the only voice
That ever spake unbought affection to me,
And waked my soul to blessing. O sweet hours
Of golden joy, ye come! your glories break
Through my pavilion’d spirit’s sable folds.
Roll on! roll on!—Stranger, thou dost enforce me
To speak of things unbreathed by lip of mine
To human ear: wilt listen?

_Ion._ As a child.

_Ad._ Again! that voice again! Thou hast seen me moved
As never mortal saw me, by a tone
Which some light breeze, enamoured of the sound,
Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice
Caught it to rive and melt me. At my birth
This city, which, expectant of its prince,
Lay hushed, broke out in clamorous ecstasies;
Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups
Foamed with the choicest product of the sun,
And welcome thundered from a thousand throats,
My doom was sealed. From the hearth’s vacant space,
In the dark chamber where my mother lay,
Faint with the sense of pain-bought happiness,
Came forth in heart-appalling tone, these words
Of me, the nursling: “Woe unto the babe!
Against the life which now begins shall life,
Lighted from thence, be armed, and, both soon quenched,
End this great line in sorrow!” Ere I grew
Of years to know myself a thing accursed,
A second son was born, to steal the love
Which fate had else scarce rifled: he became
My parents’ hope, the darling of the crew
Who lived upon their smiles, and thought it flattery
To trace in every foible of my youth—
A prince’s youth—the workings of the curse.
My very mother—Jove! I cannot bear
To speak it now—looked freezingly upon me.

_Ion._ But thy brother—

_Ad._ Died. Thou hast heard the lie,
The common lie that every peasant tells
Of me, his master,—that I slew the boy.
’Tis false! One summer’s eve, below a crag
Which, in his wilful mood, he strove to climb,
He lay a mangled corpse: the very slaves,
Whose cruelty had shut him from my heart,
Now coined their own injustice into proofs
To brand me as his murderer.

_Ion._ Did they dare
Accuse thee?

_Ad._ Not in open speech: they felt
I should have seized the miscreant by the throat,
And crushed the lie half-spoken with the life
Of the base speaker: but the tale looked out
From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrank
When mine have met them; murmured through the crowd
That at the sacrifice, or feast, or game,
Stood distant from me; burnt into my soul,
When I beheld it in my father’s shudder!

_Ion._ Didst not declare thy innocence?

_Ad._ To whom?
To parents who could doubt me? To the ring
Of grave impostors, or their shallow sons,
Who should have studied to prevent my wish
Before it grew to language; hailed my choice
To service as a prize to wrestle for;
And whose reluctant courtesy I bore,
Pale with proud anger, till from lips compressed
The blood has started? To the common herd,
The vassals of our ancient house, the mass
Of bones and muscles framed to till the soil
A few brief years, then rot unnamed beneath it;
Or, decked for slaughter at their master’s call,
To smite, and to be smitten, and lie crushed
In heaps to swell his glory or his shame?
Answer to them? No! though my heart had burst,
As it was nigh to bursting! To the mountains
I fled, and on their pinnacles of snow
Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool
My spirit’s fever; struggled with the oak
In search of weariness, and learned to rive
Its stubborn boughs, till limbs once lightly strung
Might mate in cordage with its infant stems;
Or on the sea-beat rock tore off the vest
Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air
Headlong committed, clove the water’s depth
Which plummet never sounded,—but in vain.

_Ion._ Yet succor came to thee?

_Ad._ A blessed one!
Which the strange magic of thy voice revives,
And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps
Were in a wood-encircled valley stayed
By the bright vision of a maid, whose face
Most lovely, more than loveliness revealed
In touch of patient grief, which dearer seemed
Than happiness to spirit seared like mine.
With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth
The body of her aged sire, whose death
Left her alone. I aided her sad work;
And soon two lonely ones by holy rites
Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months,
In streamlike unity flowed silent by us
In our delightful nest. My father’s spies—
Slaves, whom my nod should have consigned to stripes
Or the swift falchion—tracked our sylvan home,
Just as my bosom knew its second joy,
And, spite of fortune, I embraced a son.

_Ion._ Urged by thy trembling parents to avert
That dreadful prophecy.

_Ad._ Fools! did they deem
Its worst accomplishment could match the ill
Which they wrought on me? It had left unharmed
A thousand ecstasies of passioned years,
Which, tasted once, live ever, and disdain
Fate’s iron grapple! Could I now behold
That son with knife uplifted at my heart,
A moment ere my life-blood followed it,
I would embrace him with my dying eyes,
And pardon destiny! While jocund smiles
Wreathed on the infant’s face, as if sweet spirits
Suggested pleasant fancies to its soul,
The ruffians broke upon us—seized the child—
Dashed through the thicket to the beetling rock
’Neath which the deep sea eddies; I stood still,
As stricken into stone: I heard him cry,
Pressed by the rudeness of the murderer’s grip,
Severer ill unfearing—then the splash
Of waters that shall cover him forever;
And could not stir to save him!

_Ion._ And the mother?

_Ad._ She spake no word; but clasped me in her arms,
And laid her down to die! A lingering gaze
Of love she fixed on me,—none other loved,—
And so passed from hence. By Jupiter! her look,
Her dying patience glimmers in thy face!
She lives again! She looks upon me now!
There’s magic in’t. Bear with me—I am childish.

_Enter_ CRYTHES _and_ GUARDS.

Why art thou here?

_Cry._ The dial points the hour.

_Ad._ Dost thou not see that horrid purpose passed?
Hast thou no heart—no sense?

_Cry._ Scarce half an hour
Hath flown since the command on which I wait.

_Ad._ Scarce half an hour! Years, years have rolled since then.
Begone! Remove that pageantry of death;
It blasts my sight. And hearken! Touch a hair
Of this brave youth, or look on him as now,
With thy cold headsman’s eye, and yonder band
Shall not expect a fearful show in vain.
Hence! without a word. [_Exit_ CRYTHES.
What wouldst thou have me do?

_Ion._ Let thy awakened heart speak its own language:
Convene thy sages; frankly, nobly meet them;
Explore with them the pleasure of the gods,
And whatsoe’er the sacrifice, perform it.

_Ad._ Well, I will seek their presence in an hour:
Go summon them, young hero! Hold! no word
Of the strange passion thou hast witnessed here.

_Ion._ Distrust me not.—Benignant powers! I thank ye!
[_Exit._
_Ad._ Yet stay!—He’s gone—his spell is on me yet;
What have I promised him? To meet the men
Who from my living head would strip the crown,
And sit in judgment on me? I must do it.
Yet shall my band be ready to o’erawe
The cause of liberal speech, and if it rise
So as too loudly to offend my ear,
Strike the rash brawler dead! What idle dream
Of long-past days had melted me? It fades—
It vanishes—I am again a king.
_Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd._

MISSING.

In the cool, sweet hush of a wooded nook,
Where the May-buds sprinkle the green old sward,
And the winds and the birds and the limpid brook
Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound,
Who lies so still in the plushy moss,
With his pale cheek pressed on a breezy pillow,
Couched where the light and shadows cross,
Through the flickering fringe of the willow,—
Who lies, alas!
So still, so chill, in the whispering grass?

A soldier, clad in a Zouave dress,
A bright-haired man, with his lips apart;
One hand thrown over his frank, dead face,
And the other clutching his pulseless heart,
Lies here in the shadows cool and dim,
His musket swept by a trailing bough;
With a careless grace in his quiet limbs,
And a wound on his manly brow,—
A wound, alas!
Whence the warm blood drips on the quiet grass.

The violets peer from their dusky beds,
With a tearful dew in their great, pure eyes;
The lilies quiver their shining heads,
Their pale lips full of sad surprise;
And the lizard glides through the glistening fern,
And the squirrel rustles the branches hoary;
Strange birds fly out with a cry, to bathe
Their wings in the sunset glory,
While the shadows pass
O’er the quiet face and the dewy grass.

God pity the bride who waits at home,
With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes,
Dreaming the sweet old dream of love,
While her lover is walking in paradise!
God strengthen her heart as the days go by,
And the long, drear nights of her vigil follow,
Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind,
May breathe the tale of the hollow;
Alas! alas!
The secret’s safe with the woodland grass.

DECORATION DAY.

Down by the clear river’s side they wandered,
Hand in hand, on that perfect day;
He was young, handsome, brave, and tender,
She more sweet than the flowers of May.

He looked on her with brown eyes adoring,
Watching her blushes grow soft and deep;
“Darling,” he said, with tones imploring,
“Shall we not ever the memory keep

“Of this bright day, so happy, so holy;
This sweetest hour my life has e’er known,
When you, dear, speaking gently and slowly,
Answered me ‘Yes,’ when I called you my own?”

Fair was the sky, the sunset, the river,
Wind in the trees, the water’s low psalm,
Bird-song, scent of wild roses. Oh, never
Was there an hour more blissful and calm!

Close in his arms he held her: the morrow
Would bring to their fond hearts parting and pain,—
After love’s rapture, bitterest sorrow;
After May sunshine, gloom and the rain.

The country her sons to save her was calling:
He answered her summons, fearless and brave;
On to the front, where heroes were falling,
Love and all of life’s promise he gave.

She by the hearth, through long hours slow measure,
Watched and yearned, and suffered and prayed;
Read o’er his letters, lovingly treasured,
Hoped his return,—to hope, half afraid.

“God is good,” she said. “His love will infold him,
Protect him, and bring him safe to me again;
I shall hear him once more, in rapture behold him,—
Oh, blessed reward, for my waiting and pain!”

In camp, on the field, on marches long, weary,
Her face and her voice in his heart’s inner shrine
He kept; they brightened his way when most dreary,
Lifted his life to the Life all divine.

He fell in the ranks, at awful Stone River,
Blood of our heroes made sacred that sod;
On battle’s red tide his soul went out ever
Forward and upward, to meet with his God.

* * * * *

Worn, grown old, yet tenderly keeping,
Every May month, sad tryst with her dead,
She knows not where her darling is sleeping,
She lays no garlands on his low bed.

All soldiers’ graves claim her love and her blessing:
She decks them with flowers made sacred by tears;
Love of her heart for her soldier expressing,
“Love that is stronger than death,” through the years.

Soon in the land of unfading beauty,
He, faithful knight of valor and truth,
She, living martyr to country and duty,
Shall find the sweetness and love of their youth.

Honor the dead with the richest oblation,—
Cover their graves with laurel and palm!
Honor the living for life’s consecration,—
Give to their pierced hearts love’s healing balm.
_Mary Bassett Hussey._

WHEN GREEK MET GREEK.

Stranger here? Yes, come from Varmount,
Rutland County. You’ve hearn tell,
Mebbe, of the town of Granville?
You born there? No! Sho! Well, well!
You was born at Granville, was you?
Then you know Elisha Brown,
Him as runs the old meat-market
At the lower end of town?
Well, well, well! Born down in Granville,
And out here, so far away!
Stranger, I’m homesick already,
Though it’s but a week to-day
Since I left my good wife standin’
Out there at the kitchen-door,
Sayin’ she’d ask God to keep me,
And her eyes were runnin’ o’er.
You must know old Albert Withers,
Henry Bull, and Ambrose Cole?
Know them all! And born in Granville?
Well, well, well! God bless my soul!
Sho! You’re not old Isaac’s nephew,
Isaac Green, down on the flat,
Isaac’s oldest nephew,—Henry?
Well, I’d never thought of that!
Have I got a hundred dollars
I could loan you for a minute,
Till you buy a horse at Marcy’s?
There’s my wallet,—just that in it.
Hold on, though! You have ten, mebbe,
You could let me keep; you see,
I might chance to need a little
Betwixt now and half-past three.
Ten. That’s it; you’ll owe me ninety;
Bring it round to the hotel.
So you’re old friend Isaac’s nephew?
Born in Granville! Sho! Well, well!
—What! Policeman! Did you call me?
That a rascal going there?
Well, sir, do you know, I thought so,
And I played him pretty fair;
Hundred-dollar bill I gave him,—
Counterfeit,—and got his ten!
Ten ahead! No! You don’t tell me!
This bad too? Sho! Sold again!

THE RAJAH’S CLOCK.

Rajah Balpoora, Prince of Jullinder,
Reigned in the land where the Five Rivers ran;
A lordly tyrant, with none to hinder
His wildest pleasure or maddest plan.
His hall was beauty, his throne was splendor,
His meat was dainties of every zone;
Nor ever a joy that wealth can render,
His whimsical fancy left unknown.
For afar, in sight of his palace windows,
His realm was gardens on every hand;
And the feet of a hundred thousand Hindoos
Came and went at his least command.
But one thing, worthy his pride to show it,
Among his treasures, eclipsed them all;
’Twas the marvel of sage and the praise of poet,—
The wonderful clock in his palace hall.
Brain and fingers of matchless cunning
Patiently planned the strange machine,—
Framed, and balanced, and set it running,
With a living heart in its wheels unseen.
Behind the dial, the iron pallet
Counted the seconds; and just below
Hung a silver gong, and a brazen mallet
For every hour had a brazen blow;
And near, like windrowed leaves in the weather,
Or battle-wrecks at a charnel door,
Lay mock men’s limbs all huddled together
In a shapeless heap on a marble floor.

And when the dial-hands, creeping, pointed
The smallest hour on the disk of day,
Click! from the piecemeal pile, rejointed,
A new-made manikin jumped away.
Nimble-handed, a small, trim figure,
Briskly he stooped where his work begun,
Seized a mallet with nervous vigor,
And loud on the echoing gong struck _one_.
Clang! and the hammer that made the clamor
Dropped, and lay where it lay before,
And the arms of the holder fell off at the shoulder,
And his head went rolling down to the floor,
And the little man tumbled, and cracked, and crumbled,
Till the human shape that he lately bore,
With a shiver and start all rattled apart,
And vanished—as if to rise no more.

Dead! ere the great bell’s musical thunder
In the listening chambers throbbed away,—
No eye discovered the hidden wonder
(That dreaming under the ruins lay),—
Dead as the bones in the prophet’s valley,
Waiting with never a stir or sound,
While the pendulum’s tick, tick, tick, kept tally,
And the busy wheels of the clock went round,—
Till another hour, to its limit creeping,
Its sign those bodiless limbs shot through,
And a pair of manikins, swift up-leaping,
Loud on the echoing gong struck _two_.
Clang! clang! and the brazen hammers
Dropped, and lay where they lay before,
And the arms of the holders fell off their shoulders,
And their heads went rolling down to the floor,
And the little men tumbled, and cracked, and crumbled,
And vanished—as if to rise no more.

Still as the shells of the sea-floor, sleeping
Countless fathoms the waves below;
Still as the stones of a city heaping
The path of an earthquake ages ago,
Lay the sundered forms; but steadily swinging,
Beat the slow pendulum,—tick, tick, tick,—
Till lo! at the third hour, suddenly springing,
Rose three men’s limbs with a click, click, click.
And, joined together, by magic gifted,
In stature perfect and motion free,
The trio, each with his mallet lifted,
Loud on the echoing gong struck _three_.
Clang! clang! clang! and the brazen hammers
Dropped, and lay where they lay before,
And the arms of the holders fell off their shoulders,
And their heads went rolling down to the floor,
And the little men tumbled, and cracked, and crumbled,
And vanished—as if to rise no more.

And as many as each hour’s figure numbered,
So many men of that small brigade,
Whose members the marble floor encumbered,
Made themselves, and as soon unmade;
Till at noon rose all, and, each one swinging
His brazen sledge by its brazen helve,
Set all the rooms of the palace ringing
As their strokes on the silver gong told _twelve_.

Rajah Balpoora, Prince of Jullinder,
Died. But the great clock’s tireless heart
Beat on; and still, in that hall of splendor,
The twelve little sextons played their part.
And the wise who entered the palace portal
Read in the wonder the lesson plain:—
Every human hour is a thing immortal,
And days but perish to rise again.
From the grave of every life we saddened,
Comes back the clamor of olden wrongs;
And our deeds that other souls have gladdened,
Ring from the past like angel songs.
_Theron Brown._

THE DEACON’S RIDE.

On his cool back porch sat Deacon Brown, the richest and fattest man
in town.
Before, behind, to left and right, showed meadows dotted with gold
and white,
And grazing there in the pastures green, fifteen fine Jerseys as
ever seen;
The regular herd-book stock were they, and how much butter they made
each day,
I hardly would dare attempt to say.

No greater joy had Deacon Brown, than to sit on the porch, as the
sun went down,
And view his acres so broad and fine, and feast his eyes on his
Jersey kine;
But now his face wore a look much vexed, and he drummed his knees in
a way perplexed,
As, sitting snug in his tilted chair, he gazed at the goodly show
and fair,
Of bovine beauties grazing there.

Well might the Deacon muse and frown, and vaguely scratch his
smooth, bald crown;
For a Jersey heifer, his pride and boast, the one of all that he
valued most,
Had taken it into her head that she not like her meeker sisters
would be,
And so, at sight of the milking-pail, would lower her horns and
thrash her tail,
And kick till her kicking power would fail.

All sorts of cures had the Deacon tried; but, alas for a good old
churchman’s pride!
“The finest heifer in this ’ere town” would never a drop of milk
give down
For one whole day, though coaxed and fed with the “cream of the
place,” so the Deacon said;
And when thrice she’d knocked the good man over, as if barnyard mud
were a field of clover,
He vowed in his wrath, as a deacon may, that he’d sell the creetur
the very next day,
To the village butcher, and risk his pay.

Yet now, as he sat and thought it o’er, it seemed that his cross was
indeed most sore;
He could not do it: ’twould break his heart, from his goodly heifer
this way to part!
Just then strolled toward him his elder son, who never a bit of work
had done,
But fished in the brook through the livelong day, instead of helping
get in the hay,
Or “lift” at the work in any way.

So the Deacon frowned a frown most stern: “’Twas time that a lazy
youth should learn
To earn his salt; ’twas different when he was his age,—the men
_was_ men,
Not idle care-naughts; and going to school made something besides a
college fool.”
Then, growing milder, “Wal, ’bout Peachblow—I reckoned a cure you’d
hap to know,
In that heathen gabble you chatter so.”

Quoth the idle scapegrace, with twinkling eye, “I’ve heard of a cure
which you might try.”
Then some Latin words he gravely said. “If on to her back a weight
is laid,
She’ll give milk straightway, and quiet be.” Said the doubting
Deacon, “I’ll try and see.”

Out in the stable Peachblow stood, calm chewing her cud as a heifer
should.
Spoke the Deacon: “William, you’re young and spry; you can climb on
her back, now, quicker’n I.
You’ll do for the weight. I’ll fetch the stool, and milk the
critter: you just keep cool.”
But scarce had the hopeful gained his seat, when out flew the placid
Peachblow’s feet.
And milker and milking-stool upset, in a way too hurried for
etiquette.

And the Deacon roared in his wrath, “Get down! I’ll try
myself,—that’ll bring her roun’.”
And, puffing and grumbling, with Will to boost, he found himself on
his novel roost.
But, alas! with what little certainty can we plume our minds on
things to be!
For, just as the Deacon, with voice elate, cried, “Go to milkin’; you
needn’t wait!”
The stanchion was loosed by some luckless Fate,—

And wildly out through the open door dashed—as she never had dashed
before—
The frightened heifer, with snorts and bounds, and her load of a
hundred and ninety pounds.
The roaring scapegrace behind was left; while, like a creature of
sense bereft,
Young Peachblow flew with her frantic feet, a-bellowing down the
village street,—
To the district school-boys what a treat!

The Deacon’s neckerchief flapped in the wind; his hat blew off, and
was left behind;
His eyes bulged out, his face grew white, his fringe of hair stood
up with fright;
The children scampered with laugh and hoot, the dogs all started in
mad pursuit;
The geese they squawked, and the chickens flew; the wives ran,
startled by such ado;
Out ran the husbands, to cry, “Halloo!”

And the good old parson, with face aghast, flew to the gate as the
deacon passed.
What a dreadful scandal throughout the town might rise from this
frolic of Deacon Brown!
Was he drunk, or crazy, that thus he’d ride? And, loud as he could,
the parson cried,
“Stop, stop, Brother Brown! Oh! where will you go?” and back from
the dust came these words of woe:
“The Lord and this cow, sir, only know!”

But she stopped at last, this steed so gay; she stopped quite short
in a sudden way,
Struck out her heels with a graceful poise, and the hundred and
ninety avoirdupois
Shot over her head and into the dirt, with buttonless breeches and
tattered shirt.

* * * * *

Sadder and wiser, Deacon Brown led Peachblow home as the sun went
down;
And all the questioners got him to say was, that he might tell them
some other day.
But Peachblow was lamb-like enough that night,—was milked very
meekly, and seemed all right.
And the Deacon mused: “Wal, the heathen may have fust-rate cow
cures, but I must say,
They are _tryin’_ to old folks, anyway.”
_Mary C. Huntington._

THE SILVER BELL.

Once upon a time, an old legend says, in a splendid palace a king lay dying. By his couch knelt his only son, with tears streaming down his face; but only a few quiet words were now and then spoken.

“Father, you remember the beautiful silver bell hanging above the palace,—the one you had made years ago, of such pure tone that the maker stood entranced at its first note, but which has ever since been still? Why did you hang it there, if it was never to be rung?”

“My son, when I was young, and full of life and hope, I commanded the best workmen in my kingdom to make a perfect silver bell, and hang it above my palace, that its sweet tones might tell my people that their king was perfectly happy. But alas! though I expected so much happiness, the moment has never come when I could say, ‘Ring the bell!’ and now I am dying, and it is still silent. My son, if your happiness is ever complete,—if you are without an anxious thought or wish,—then let the silver bell proclaim the fact to all your people.”

“But, father, if you were not lying here I should be happy now, and the bell should ring every day of my life.”

The old king smiled sadly, and, turning his face away, soon slept to wake no more. With much mourning he was laid away in the royal tomb, and his son became king in his stead. He could not ring the bell then, for he grieved for his father; but he thought that after a time he should be happy again.

And the days went by, and the young king married a beautiful girl; and he said, “Now, for the first time, the bell shall ring.”

But as he and his bride came from the church, a woman, young in years, but haggard with grief, carrying a little child in her arms, threw herself at his feet, begging him to spare the life of her husband, who was condemned to die for plotting against the king. “He saw so much splendor and wealth, and we were starving. Oh, on this day, pardon him!”

The king raised the wretched woman, and gave her her husband’s freedom; but a swift shadow had come over his happiness.

And the months went by, and a beautiful babe was born to be king after him. And he said, “Now at length the bell shall ring.” But just then came word that a terrible sickness raged among the children of the kingdom, that many mothers were mourners, and their hearts could not be comforted.

And the years rolled by, and the king was a great and good man, kind to his people, sharing their sorrows, and, so far as he could, lifting their burdens. The days were so full of thought and work, that he did not think of the bell, or of his own happiness.

At last he too lay dying; and when he knew that the end was drawing near, he asked to be carried to the room of state, and to be placed once more upon his throne, that his people might come to see him. And they crowded in, rich and poor, high and low, kissing his hands, his feet, and even the hem of his garment. And when he saw them so grief-stricken and tearful, a great light came into his dim eyes; and, lifting his trembling arms, in a clear voice he cried, “Ring the silver bell! ring the bell! My people love me; at last I am happy!” And as, for the first time, the bell pealed forth its ringing notes, his spirit took its flight to the unseen land.

—_Mrs. Julia D. Pratt, in The Dayspring._

COUNTING EGGS.

Old Moses, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has got the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself came out to the gate to make the purchases.

“Have you got any eggs this morning, Uncle Moses?” she asked.

“Yes, indeed I has. Jess got in ten dozen from de kentry.”

“Are they fresh?”

“Fresh? yas, indeed! I guantees ’em, an’—an’—de hen guantees ’em.”

“I’ll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this basket.”

“All right, mum;” he counts, “one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten.—You can rely on dem bein’ fresh. How’s your son comin’ on de school? He must be mos’ grown.”

“Yes, Uncle Moses: he is a clerk in a bank in Galveston.”

“Why, how ole am de boy?”

“He is eighteen.”

“You don’t tole me so! Eighteen, and getting a salary already.—Eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-foah, twenty-five.—And how’s your gal comin’ on? She was most growed up de last time I seed her.”

“She is married, and living in Dallas.”

“Wall, I declar’, how de time scoots away! And you say she has childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She must be jest about”—

“Thirty-three.”

“Am dat so?” (counting) “firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seven, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free.—Hit am singular dat you has sich ole childruns. You don’t look more den forty years old yerseff.”

“Nonsense, old man; I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old”—

“Fifty-free! I jess dun gwinter bleeve hit; fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six,—I want you to pay ’tenshun when I count de eggs, so dar’ll be no mistake,—fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah.—Whew! Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time ob year when I feels I’se gettin’ ole myself. I ain’t long for dis world. You comes from an ole family. When yore fodder died he was sebenty years ole.”

“Seventy-two.”

“Dat’s old, suah.—Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine.—And your mudder? She was one ob de noblest lookin’ ladies I ebber see. You remind me ob her so much! She libed to mos’ a hundred. I bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died.”

“No, Uncle Moses: she was only ninety-six when she died.”

“Den she wan’t no chicken when she died, I know dat.—Ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, five, six, seben, eight,—dar one hundred and eight nice fresh eggs,—jess nine dozen, and here am one moah egg in case I have discounted myse’f.”

Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Barton said to her husband,

“I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied that she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there, and heard old Moses count them myself, and there were nine dozen.”—_Texas Siftings._

THE FALL.

“Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep.”—_Count Fathom._

Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls,
Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls;
Where down beneath, despair and death in liquid darkness grope,
And upward on the foam there shines a rainbow without hope?
While, hung with clouds of fear and doubt, the unreturning wave
Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave;
And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to vale or bliss;
One—only one—hath ever lived to rise from that abyss!

O heaven! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear extreme,
To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream!
In vain, with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and light,
I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current’s might;
On—on—still on—direct for doom, the river rushed in force,
And fearfully the stream of time raced with it in its course.
My eyes I closed: I dared not look the way towards the goal;
But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul.
Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore,
And lofty trees, like wingèd things, flit by forevermore!

Plainly—but with no prophet sense—I heard the sullen sound,
The torrent’s voice—and felt the mist, like death-sweat, gathering
round.
O agony! O life! My home, and those that made it sweet!
Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet.
With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy
edge;
Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to
ledge,
From crag to crag—in speechless pain—from midnight deep to deep;
I did not die, but anguish stunned my senses into sleep.