Chapter IX: Part II: The Reading-Club (3)

_Par._ Use? They are beautiful; that is their use.
The sight of them makes glad the eye; their scent
Refreshes, cheers. There!
(_Fastens the half-finished garland round a cup and
presents it to him._)
Is not that, now, beautiful?

_Ing._ Ay—by the bright sun! That dark-green mixed
Up with the gay flowers! Thou must teach our women
To weave such garlands.

_Par._ That is soon done: thy wife
Herself shall soon weave wreaths as well as I.

_Ing._ (_Laughing heartily._) My wife! my wife! a woman
Dost thou say?
I thank the gods, not I. This is my wife—
[_Pointing to his accoutrements._
My spear, my shield, my sword; let him who will
Waste cattle, slaves, or gold, to buy a woman;
Not I—not I!

_Par._ To buy a woman?—how?

_Ing._ What is the matter? why dost look so strangely?

_Par._ How! did I hear aright? bargain for brides
As you would slaves—buy them like cattle?

_Ing._ Well, I think a woman fit only for a slave.
We follow our own customs, as you yours.
How do you in your city there?

_Par._ Consult our hearts.
Massilia’s freeborn daughters are not sold,
But bound by choice with bands as light and sweet
As these I hold. Love only buys us there.

_Ing._ Marry for love—what! do you love your husbands?

_Par._ Why marry else?

_Ing._ Marry for love; that’s strange!
I cannot comprehend. I love my horse,
My dogs, my brave companions—but no woman!
What dost thou mean by love—what is it, girl?

_Par._ What is it? ’Tis of all things the most sweet—
The heaven of life—or, so my mother says,
I never felt it.

_Ing._ Never?

_Par._ No, indeed. [_Looking at garland._
Now look how beautiful! Here would I weave
Red flowers if I had them.

_Ing._ Yonder there,
In that thick wood they grow.

_Par._ How sayest thou?
(_Looking off._) Oh, what a lovely red! Go, pluck me some.

_Ing._ (_Starting at the suggestion._)
I go for thee? the master serve the slave!
[_Gazing on her with increasing interest._
And yet, why not? I’ll go—the poor child’s tired.

_Par._ Dost thou hesitate?

_Ing._ No, thou shalt have the flowers
As fresh and dewy as the bush affords.
_[He goes off_, R.
_Par._ (_Holding out the wreath._)
I never yet succeeded half so well.
It will be charming! Charming? and for whom?
Here among savages! no mother here
Looks smiling on it—I am alone, forsaken!
But no, I’ll weep no more! No, none shall say I fear.

_Re-enter Ingomar, with a bunch of flowers, and slowly advancing
towards Parthenia._

_Ing._ (_Aside._)
The little Folko, when in his play he wanted
Flowers or fruit, would so cry “Bring them to me;
Quick! I will have them—these I will have or none;”
Till somehow he compelled me to obey him,
And she, with the same spirit, the same fire—Yes,
there is much of the bright child in her.
Well, she shall be a little brother to me!
There are the flowers. [_He hands her the flowers._

_Par._ Thanks, thanks! Oh, thou hast broken them
Too short off in the stem!
[_She throws some of them on the ground._
_Ing._ Shall I go and get thee more?

_Par._ No: these will do.

_Ing._ Tell me now about your home—I will sit here,
Near thee.

_Par._ Not there: thou art crushing all the flowers.

_Ing._ (_Seating himself at her feet._)
Well, well; I will sit here, then. And now tell me,
What is your name?

_Par._ Parthenia.

_Ing._ Parthenia!
A pretty name! and now, Parthenia, tell me
How that which you call love grows in the soul;
And what love is: ’tis strange, but in that word
There’s something seems like yonder ocean—fathomless.

_Par._ How shall I say? Love comes, my mother says,
Like flowers in the night—reach me those violets—It
is a flame a single look will kindle,
But not an ocean quench.
Fostered by dreams, excited by each thought,
Love is a star from heaven, that points the way
And leads us to its home—a little spot
In earth’s dry desert, where the soul may rest—
A grain of gold in the dull sand of life—
A foretaste of Elysium; but when
Weary of this world’s woes, the immortal gods
Flew to the skies, with all their richest gifts,
Love staid behind, self-exiled for man’s sake!

_Ing._ I never yet heard aught so beautiful!
But still I comprehend it not.

_Par._ Nor I.
For I have never felt it; yet I know
A song my mother sang, an ancient song,
That plainly speaks of love, at least to me.
How goes it? Stay— [_Slowly, as trying to recollect._

“What love is, if thou wouldst be taught,
Thy heart must teach alone,—
Two souls with but a single thought,
Two hearts that beat as one.

And whence comes love? like morning’s light,
It comes without thy call;
And how dies love?—A spirit bright,
Love never dies at all!”

And when—and when—
[_Hesitating as if unable to continue._

_Ing._ Go on.

_Par._ I know no more.

_Ing._ (_Impatiently._) Try—try!

_Par._ I cannot now; but at some other time
I may remember.

_Ing._ (_Somewhat authoritatively._) Now, go on, I say.

_Par._ (_Springing up in alarm._) Not now, I want more
roses for my wreath!
Yonder they grow, I will fetch them for myself.
Take care of all my flowers and the wreath!
[_Throws the flowers into Ingomar’s lap and runs off._

_Ing._ (_After a pause, without changing his position,
speaking to himself in deep abstraction._)

“Two souls with but a single thought,
Two hearts that beat as one.”

_Maria Lovell’s translation from the German._

[1] Parthenia’s father having been taken prisoner by Ingomar’s followers, Parthenia voluntarily offers herself as hostage, while her father returns to Massilia to raise his ransom. Her offer has been accepted, and her father released.

CICELY AND THE BEARS.

I.

“Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! ding-dong!”
The bellman’s voice is loud and strong;
So is his bell: “Oh, yes! ding-dong!”
He wears a coat with golden lace;
See how the people of the place
Come running to hear what the bellman says!
“Oh, yes! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand
Has just returned from the Holy Land,
And freely offers his heart and hand—
Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! ding-dong!”
All the women hurry along,
Maids and widows, a clattering throng.
“Oh, sir, you are hard to understand!
To whom does he offer his heart and hand?
Explain your meaning, we do command!”
“Oh, yes! ding-dong! you shall understand!
Oh, yes! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand
Invites the ladies of this land
To feast with him, in his castle strong,
This very day at three. Ding-dong!
Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! ding-dong!”
Then all the women went off to dress,
Mary, Margaret, Bridget, Bess,
Patty, and more than I can guess.
They powdered their hair with golden dust,
And bought new ribbons—they said they must—
But none of them painted, we will trust.
Long before the time arrives,
All the women that could be wives
Are dressed within an inch of their lives.
Meanwhile Sir Nicholas Hildebrand
Had brought with him from the Holy Land
A couple of bears—Oh, that was grand!
He tamed the bears, and they loved him true:
Whatever he told them they would do—
Hark! ’tis the town-clock striking two!

II.

Among the maidens of low degree
The poorest of all was Cicely—
A shabbier girl could hardly be.
“Oh, I should like to see the feast,
But my frock is old, my shoes are pieced,
My hair is rough!”—(It never was greased.)
The clock struck three! She durst not go!
But she heard the band, and, to see the show,
Crept after the people that went in a row.
When Cicely came to the castle gate,
The porter exclaimed, “Miss Shaggypate,
The hall is full, and you come too late!”
Just then the music made a din,
Flute, and cymbal, and culverin,
And Cicely, with a squeeze, got in.
Oh, what a sight! Full fifty score
Of dames that Cicely knew, and more,
Filling the hall from dais to door!
The dresses were like a garden bed,
Green and gold, and blue and red—
Poor Cicely thought of her tossy head!
She heard the singing—she heard the clatter—
Clang of flagon and clink of platter—
But, oh, the feast was no such matter!
For she saw Sir Nicholas himself,
Raised on a dais just like a shelf,
And fell in love with him—shabby elf!
Her heart beat quick; aside she stepped:
Under the tapestry she crept,
Tousling her tossy hair, and wept!
Her cheeks were wet, her eyes were red.
“Who makes that noise?” the ladies said;
“Turn out that girl with the shaggy head!”

III.

Just then there was heard a double roar,
That shook the place, both wall and floor:
Everybody looked to the door.
It was a roar, it was a growl;
The ladies set up a little howl,
And flapped and clucked like frightened fowl.
Sir Hildebrand for silence begs—
In walked the bears on their hinder legs,
Wise as owls, and merry as grigs!
The dark girls tore their hair of sable;
The fair girls hid underneath the table;
Some fainted; to move they were not able.
But most of them could scream and screech—
Sir Nicholas Hildebrand made a speech—
“Order, ladies, I do beseech!”
The bears looked hard at Cicely,
Because her hair hung wild and free—
“Related to us, miss, you must be!”
Then Cicely, filling two plates of gold
As full of cherries as they could hold,
Walked up to the bears, and spoke out bold:
“Welcome to you! and to _you_ Mr. Bear!
Will you take a chair? will _you_ take a chair?
This is an honor, we do declare!”
Sir Hildebrand strode up to see,
Saying, “Who may this maiden be?
Ladies, this is the wife for me!”
Almost before they could understand,
He took up Cicely by the hand,
And danced with her a saraband.
Her hair was rough as a parlor broom;
It swung, it swirled all round the room—
Those ladies were vexed, we may presume.
Sir Nicholas kissed her on the face,
And set her beside him on the dais,
And made her the lady of the place.
The nuptials soon they did prepare,
With a silver comb for Cicely’s hair:
There were bands of music everywhere.
And in that beautiful bridal show
Both the bears were seen to go
Upon their hind legs to and fro!
Now every year on the wedding-day
The boys and girls come out to play,
And scramble for cherries as they may.
With a cheer for this and the other bear,
And a cheer for Sir Nicholas, free and fair,
And a cheer for Cis, of the tossy hair—
With one cheer more (if you will wait)
For every girl with a curly pate,
Who keeps her hair in a proper state.
Sing bear’s grease! curling-irons to sell!
Sing combs and brushes! sing tortoise-shell!
Oh, yes! ding-dong! the crier, the bell!
Isn’t this a pretty tale to tell?
_Lilliput Levee._

A HOWL IN ROME.

It had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the amphitheatre to an extent hitherto unknown, even in that luxurious city. A large number of people from the rural districts had taken advantage of half-rates on the railroad, and had been in town watching the conflict in the arena, listening to the infirm, decrepit ring-joke, and viewing the bogus sacred elephant.

The shouts of revelry had died away. The last loiterer had retired from the free-lunch counter, and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The restless hyena in the Roman menagerie had sunk to rest, and the Numidian lion at the stock-yards had taken out his false teeth for the night. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, tipped the dark waters of the Tiber with a wavy, tremulous light. The dark-browed Roman soldier moved on his homeward way, the sidewalk flipping up occasionally, and hitting him in the small of the back. No sound was heard, save the low sob of some retiring wave as it told its story to the smooth pebbles on the beach, or the unrelenting boot-jack as it struck the high board fence in the back yard, just missing the Roman tomcat in its mad flight; and then all was still as the breast when the spirit has departed. Anon the half-stifled Roman snore would steal in upon its deathly stillness, and then die away like a hot biscuit in the hands of the hired man.

In the green room of the amphitheatre a little band of gladiators were assembled. The foam of conflict yet lingered on their lips, the scowl of battle yet hung upon their brows, and the large knobs on their profiles indicated that it had been a busy day with them in the arena.

There was an embarrassing silence of about five minutes, when Spartacus, gently laying his chew of tobacco on the banister, stepped forth and addressed them:—

“Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen,—Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief who for twelve long years has met in the arena every shape of man or beast that the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and yet has never squealed. I do not say this egotistically, but simply to show that I am the star thumper of the entire outfit.

“If there be one among you who can say that ever in public fight, or private brawl, my actions did belie my words, let him stand forth and say it, and I will spread him around over the arena till the coroner will have to soak him out of the ground with benzine. If there be three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come, and I will construct upon their physiognomy such cupolas and cornices and dormer-windows and Corinthian capitals and entablatures, that their own masters would pass them by in the broad light of high noon unrecognized.

“And yet I was not always thus,—a hired butcher,—the savage chief of still more savage men. My ancestors came from Sparta, Wisconsin, and settled among the vine-clad hills and citron-groves of Syracuse. My early life ran as quiet as the clear brook by which I sported. Aside from the gentle patter of my angel mother’s slipper on the bustle of my overalls, every thing moved along with the still and rhythmic flow of goose-grease. My boyhood was one long, happy summer day. We stole the Roman muskmelon, and put split sticks on the tail of the Roman dog, and life was a picnic and a hallelujah.

“When, at noon, I led the sheep beneath the shade, and played ‘Little Sallie Waters’ on my shepherd’s flute, there was another Spartan youth, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime; we led our flocks to the same pasture, and together picked the large red ants out of our doughnuts.

“One evening, after the sheep had been driven into the corral, and we were all seated beneath the ‘Bammygilead’-tree that shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and Dr. Mary Walker, and other great men; and how a little band of Spartans at Milwaukee had stood off the police, and how they fled away into the mountains, and there successfully held an annual pass over the C. M. & St. P. Railway. Held it for a year! I did not know then what war was; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and I thought what a glorious thing it would be to leave the reservation, and go upon the war-path. But my mother kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go and soak my head, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. That very night the Romans landed on our coasts. They pillaged the whole country, burned the agency buildings, demolished the ranche, rode off the stock, tore down the smoke-house, and ran their war horses over the cucumber-vines.

“To-day I killed a man in the arena; and when I broke his helmet clasps, and looked upon him, behold! he was my friend. The same sweet smile was on his face that I had known when in adventurous boyhood we bathed in the glassy lake by our Spartan home, and he had tied my shirt into 1,752 dangerous and difficult knots. He knew me, smiled faintly, told me always to tell the truth, and to travel by the Milwaukee & St. Paul road, and then ascended the golden stair. I begged of the Praetor that I might be allowed to bear away the body, and have it packed in ice, and shipped to his relatives in Sparta, Wisconsin; but he couldn’t see it. As upon my bended knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged this poor boon, and the Praetor answered, ‘Let the carrion rot. There are no noblemen but Romans and Ohio men. Let the show go on. Bring forth the bobtail lion from Abbyssinia.’ And the assembled maids and matrons and the rabble shouted in derision, and told me to ‘brace up;’ and they threw peanut-shells at me, and told me to ‘cheese it,’ with other Roman flings which I do not now recall.

“And so must you, fellow gladiators, and so must I, die like dogs. To-morrow we are billed to appear at the Coliseum at Rome; and reserved seats are even now being sold for our moral and instructive performance, while I am speaking to you.

“Ye stand here like giants as ye are; but to-morrow some Roman dude will pat your red brawn, and bet his shekels upon your blood.

“O Rome! Rome! Thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Thou hast given to that gentle, timid, shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute note, muscles of iron, and a heart of steel. Thou hast taught him to drive his sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the stomach of his foe; to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of a fierce Numidian lion, even as the smooth-cheeked senator looks into the laughing eyes of the chambermaid. And he shall pay thee back till the rushing Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled. Ye doubtless hear the gentle murmur of my bazoo.

“Hark! Hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? ’Tis three days since he tasted flesh, but to-morrow he will have gladiator on toast, and don’t you forget it; and he will fling your vertebræ around his cage, and wipe his nose on your clustering hair.

“If ye are brutes, then stand here like fat oxen waiting the butcher’s knife. If ye are men, arise and follow me! Strike down the warden and the turnkey, slide our baggage out the third story window of the amphitheatre, overpower the public, and cut for the tall timber!

“O comrades! Warriors! Gladiators! If we be men, let us die like men, beneath the blue sky, and by the still waters, and be buried according to Hoyle, instead of having our shin-bones polished off by Numidian lions, amid the groans and hisses of the populace here in Rome, New York. Let us break loose, chaw the ear of the night watchman, buy our tickets via the Chicago, Milwaukee, & St. Paul Railway, and go to farming in Dakota! _Then_ if the fierce Roman don’t like our style, he knows our post-office address.”

_Bill Nye._

JAMIE DOUGLAS.

It was in the days when Claverhouse
Was scouring moor and glen,
To change, with fire and bloody sword,
The faith of Scottish men.

They had made a covenant with the Lord
Firm in their faith to bide,
Nor break to him their plighted word,
Whatever might betide.

The sun was well-nigh setting,
When o’er the heather wild,
And up the narrow mountain path,
Alone there walked a child.

He was a bonny, blithesome lad,
Sturdy and strong of limb:
A father’s pride, a mother’s love,
Were fast bound up in him.

His bright blue eyes glanced fearless round,
His step was firm and light:
What was it underneath his plaid
His little hands grasped tight?

It was bannocks which, that very morn,
His mother made with care,
From out her scanty store of meal,
And now, with many a prayer,

Had sent by Jamie, her ane boy,
A trusty lad and brave,
To good old Pastor Tammus Roy,
Now hid in yonder cave,

And for whom the bloody Claverhouse
Had hunted long in vain,
And swore they would not leave that glen
Till old Tam Roy was slain.

So Jamie Douglas went his way
With heart that knew no fear:
He turned the great curve in the rock,
Nor dreamed that death was near.

And there were bloody Claverhouse men
Who laughed aloud with glee,
When, trembling now within their power,
The frightened child they see.

He turns to flee, but all in vain:
They drag him back apace
To where their cruel leader stands,
And set them face to face.

The cakes concealed beneath his plaid
Soon tell the story plain—
“It is old Tam Roy the cakes are for!”
Exclaimed the angry man.

“Now guide me to his hiding-place,
And I will let you go.”
But Jamie shook his yellow curls,
And stoutly answered, “No!”

“I’ll drop you down the mountain side,
And there upon the stones
The old gaunt wolf and carrion crow
Shall battle for your bones.”

And in his brawny, strong right hand
He lifted up the child,
And held him where the clefted rocks
Formed a chasm deep and wild.

So deep it was, the trees below
Like stunted bushes seemed.
Poor Jamie looked in frightened maze:
It seemed some horrid dream.

He looked at the blue sky above,
Then at the men near by:
Had _they_ no little boys at home,
That they could let him die?

But no one spoke, and no one stirred,
Or lifted hand to save
From such a fearful, frightful death,
The little lad so brave.

“It is woful deep!” he shuddering cried;
“But, oh! I canna tell!
So drop me down, then, if you will—
It is nae so deep as hell!”

A childish scream, a faint, dull sound—
O Jamie Douglas true!
Long, long within that lonely cave
Shall Tam Roy wait for you.

Long for your welcome coming
Waits the mother on the moor,
And watches and calls, “Come, Jamie, lad,”
Through the half-open door.

No more adown the rocky path
You come with fearless tread,
Or, on moor or mountain, take
The good man’s daily bread.

But up in heaven the shining ones
A wond’rous story tell,
Of a child snatched up from a rocky gulf
That is nae so deep as hell.

And there before the great white throne,
Forever blessed and glad,
His mother dear and old Tam Roy
Shall meet their bonny lad.

STORY OF A BEDSTEAD.

It was night.

The boarding-house was wrapt in tenebrous gloom, faintly tinted with an odor of kerosene.

Suddenly there arose on the air a yell, followed by wild objurgations and furious anathemas.

Then there was a clanking and rattling, as of an over-turned picket-fence, and another yell with more anathemas. The fatted boarders listened, and, ghostly clad, tip-toed along to Buffum’s room,—he of Buffum & Bird, second-hand furniture dealers. As they stood there, there was a whiz, a grinding, a rattling and a bang, and more yells. They consulted, and knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

“Open it.”

“I can’t.”

Convinced that Buffum was in his last agony, they knocked in the door with a bedpost.

The sight was ghastly. Clasped between two sturdy, though slender, frames of walnut, Buffum, pale as a ghost, was six feet up in the air. He couldn’t move. He was caught like a bear in a log-trap.

“What on earth is it?” they said.

“Bedstead—combination. New patent I was tellin’ you about,” gasped Buffum.

His story was simple, though tearful. He had brought it home that day; and, after using it for a writing-desk, had opened it out and made his bed. He was going peacefully to dream-land, when he rolled over and accidentally touched a spring. The faithful invention immediately became a double crib, and turned Buffum into a squalling wafer. Then he struggled, and was reaching around for the spring, when the patent bedstead thought it would show off some more, and straightened out, and shot up in the air, and was a clothes-horse. Buffum said he didn’t like to be clothes, and he would give the thing to anybody that would get him out. They said they would try. They didn’t want any such fire-extinguisher as that for their trouble, but they would try. They inspected it cautiously. They walked all around it. Then the commission-merchant laid his little finger on the top end of it. The thing snorted and reared as if it had been shot, slapped over with a bang, and became an extension-table for ten people. When they recovered from the panic, they came back. They found the commission-merchant in the corner trying to get breath enough to swear, while he rubbed his shins. Buffum had disappeared, but they knew he had not gone far. The invention appeared to have taken a fancy to him, and incorporated him into the firm, so to speak. He was down underneath, straddling one of the legs, with his head jammed into the mattress. Nobody dared to touch it. The landlady got a club and reached for its vital parts, but could not find them. She hammered her breath away; and when she got through, and dropped the club in despair, the thing spread out its arms with a gasp and a rattle, turned over twice, and slapped itself into a bed again, with Buffum peacefully among the sheets. He held his breath for a minute; and then, watching his opportunity, made a flying-leap to the floor, just in time to save himself from being a folding-screen.

A man with a black eye and cut lip told the “Wasp” editor about it yesterday. He said he owned the patent, that Buffum had been explaining to him how it worked.

_From the San Francisco “Wasp.”_

“MAGDALENA.”

Sat we ’neath the dark veranda,
Years and years ago;
And I softly pressed a hand a
Deal more white than snow;
And I cast aside my reina,
As I gazed upon her face,
And I read her “Magdalena,”
While she smoothed her Spanish lace—
Read her Waller’s “Magdalena”—
She had Magdalena’s grace,
Read her of the Spanish duel,
Of the brother, courtly, cruel,
Who between the British wooer
And the Seville lady came:
How her lover promptly slew her
Brother, and then fled in shame—
How he dreamed, in long years after,
Of the river’s rippling laughter—
Of the love he used to know,
In the myrtle-curtained villa,
Near the city of Sevilla,
Years and years ago.

Ah, how warmly was I reading,
As I gazed upon her face!
And my voice took tones of pleading,
For I sought to win her grace.
Surely, thought I, in her veins
Runs some drop of foreign strains—
There is something half Castilian
In that lip that shames vermilion;
In that mass of raven tresses,
Tossing like a falcon’s jesses;
In that eye with trailing lashes—
And its witching upward flashes—
Such, indeed, I know,
Shone where Guadalquivir plashes
Years and years ago.

Looking in her face I read it—
How the metre trips!—
And the god of lovers
On my happy lips—
All those words of mystic sweetness
Spoke I with an airy neatness,
As I never had before—
As I cannot speak them more—
Reja, plaza and mantilla.
“No palabras” and Sevilla,
Caballero and sombrero,
And duenna and Duero,
Spada, senor, sabe Dios—
Smooth as pipe of Melibœus—
Ah, how very well I read it,
Looking in her lovely eyes!
When ’twas o’er, I looked for credit,
As she softly moved to rise.

* * * * *

Doting dream, ah, dream fallacious—
Years and years ago!
For she only said, “My gracious—
What a lot of French you know!”
_Puck._

RAKING THE MEADOW-LOT.

A HAY-TIME IDYL.

“We’ll mow,” quoth old farmer Jacobs, “the new corner medder
to-day—
Nell, you come an’ help with the rakin’—its right ketchin’ weather
for hay;
Neighbor Smith’s Jim, he’s bin to the city, an’ a new-fangled patent
he’s bought;
An’ he’s bound to come over this mornin’, an’ streak through that
air medder-lot.

He sez—an’ I tell him the kaounty ain’t able to beat him for
cheek—
The thing’ll do more execution than me an’ my boys in a week;
But he offered so kinder perlite-like (I’ve no faith in the
gimcrack—not I),
I couldn’t do other than ’low him to fetch the queer critter an’
try.”

Pretty Nell, skimming cream in the dairy, peeped out through the
vine-shaded pane,
As Jim, with “Old Roan” and “Black Billy” went clattering down
through the lane;
And was it the “new-fangled mower” her shy blue eyes followed? I
ween
From the blushes that deepened and flitted, it could not have been
the machine.

Prone under the lengthening shadows the feathery meadow-grass lay;
The daises uncrowned in their glory, sun-smitten, slow fading away;
The cardinal flower in the ditches, rose proudly, right royally
dressed,
And restlessly hither and hither moaned the bobolinks spoiled of
their nest.

Fair Nellie outrivalled the daises; and so, it was plain, thought
young Jim,
Or else that such dainty hay-making required much assistance from
him;
And if ever the lost joy of Eden came back to this earth long
forgot,
It came to these blissful young lovers, a raking the new meadow-lot.

“What’s this that you ax for—_my_ Nellie?—Wal, if I ain’t
beat—can it be
It wasn’t my _hay_ but my _darter_ made you mighty
obleegin’ to me?
You don’t desarve her, you rascal, but”—the shrewd gray eyes
twinkled—“I guess—
Considerin’ the help you’ll be hayin’—I s’pose—shall hev to
say—yes.”
_Ruth Revere._

AFTER “TAPS.”

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!
As I lay with my blanket on,
By the dim firelight, in the moonlit night,
When the skirmishing fight was done.

The measured beat of the sentry’s feet,
With the jingling scabbard’s ring!
Tramp! tramp! in my meadow-camp
By the Shenandoah’s spring!

The moonlight seems to shed cold beams
On a row of pale grave-stones:
Give the bugle breath, and that image of Death
Will fly from the reveille’s tones.

By each tented roof, a charger’s hoof
Makes the frosty hillside ring:
Give the bugle breath, and a spirit of Death
To each horse’s girth will spring.

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!
The sentry before my tent,
Guards in gloom his chief, for whom
Its shelter to-night is lent.

I am not there. On the hillside bare
I think of the ghost within;
Of the brave who died at my sword-hand side,
To-day, ’mid the horrible din

Of shot and shell, and the infantry yell,
As we charged with the sabre drawn.
To my heart I said, “Who shall be the dead
In _my_ tent at another dawn?”

I thought of a blossoming almond-tree,
The stateliest tree that I know;
Of a golden bowl; of a parted soul;
And a lamp that is burning low.

Oh, thoughts that kill! I thought of the hill
In the far-off Jura chain;
Of the two, the three, o’er the wide salt sea,
Whose hearts would break with pain;

Of my pride and joy—my eldest boy;
Of my darling, the second—in years;
Of _Willie_, whose face with its pure, mild grace,
Melts memory into tears;

Of their mother, my bride, by the Alpine lake’s side,
And the angels asleep in her arms;
Love, Beauty, and Truth, which she brought to my youth,
In that sweet April day of her charms.

“HALT! _Who comes there?_” The cold midnight air,
And the challenging word, chills me through:
The ghost of a fear whispers, close to my ear,
“Is peril, love, coming to you?”

The hoarse answer, “RELIEF,” makes the shade of a grief
Die away, with the step on the sod.
A kiss melts in air, while a tear and a prayer
Confide my beloved to God.

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!
With a solemn pendulum-swing!
Though _I_ slumber all night, the fire burns bright,
And my sentinels’ scabbards ring.

* * * * *

“Boot and saddle!” is sounding. Our pulses are bounding.
“To horse!” and I touch with my heel
Black Gray in the flanks, and ride down the ranks,
With my heart, like my sabre, of steel.
_Horace Binney Sargent._

INDIAN NAMES.

Ye say they all have passed away—
That noble race and brave;
That their light canoes have vanished
From off the crested wave;
That, ’mid the forests where they roamed,
There rings no hunter’s shout;
But their name is on your waters—
Ye may not wash it out.

’Tis where Ontario’s billow,
Like ocean’s surge is curled;
Where strong Niagara’s thunders wake
The echo of the world;
Where red Missouri bringeth
Rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia’s breast.

Ye say their cone-like cabins,
That clustered o’er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves
Before the Autumn’s gale;
But their memory liveth on your hills.
Their baptism on your shore:
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it
Upon her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it
Amid his young renown;
Connecticut hath wreathed it
Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse
Through all her ancient caves.

Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart;
Monadnock on his forehead hoar
Doth seal the sacred trust;
Your mountains build their monument,
Though ye destroy their dust.

Ye call these red-browed brethren
The insects of an hour:
Crushed like the noteless worm amid
The regions of their power,
Ye drive them from their fathers’ lands,
Ye break of faith the seal;
But can ye from the Court of Heaven
Exclude their last appeal?

Ye see their unresisting tribes,
With toilsome steps and slow,
On through the trackless desert pass,
A caravan of woe:
Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf?
His sleepless vision dim?
Think ye the soul’s blood may not cry
From that far land to him?
_L. H. Sigourney._

HE NEVER TOLD A LIE.

I saw him standing in the crowd—
A comely youth and fair!
There was a brightness in his eye,
A glory in his hair!
I saw his comrades gaze on him—
His comrades standing by.
I heard them whisper each to each,
“He never told a lie!”

I looked in wonder on that boy,
As he stood there so young:
To think that never an untruth
Was uttered by his tongue.
I thought of all the boys I’d known,—
Myself among the fry,—
And knew of none that one could say,
“He never told a lie!”

I gazed upon that youth with awe
That did enchain me long:
I had not seen a boy before
So perfect and so strong.
And with something of regret
I wished that he was I,
So they might look at me and say,
“He never told a lie!”

I thought of questions very hard
For boys to answer right:
“How did you tear those pantaloons?”
“My son! what caused the fight?”
“Who left the gate ajar last night?”
“Who bit the pumpkin-pie?”
What boy could answer all of these,
And never tell a lie?

I proudly took him by the hand—
My words with praise were rife;
I blessed that boy who never told
A falsehood in his life;
I told him I was proud of him—
A fellow standing by,
Informed me that _that_ boy was dumb
Who never told a lie!

A LESSON TO LOVERS.

She, with a milk-pail on her arm,
Turns aside with her young cheeks glowing,
And sees down the lane, the slow, dull tread
Of the drove of cows that are homeward going.
“Bessie,” he said: at the sound she turned,
Her blue eyes full of childish wonder:
“My mother is feeble and lame and old—
I need a wife at my farmhouse yonder.

“My heart is lonely, my home is drear:
I need your presence ever near me.
Will you be my guardian angel, dear,
Queen of my household, to guide and cheer me?”

“It has a pleasant sound,” she said,—
“A household queen, a guiding spirit,
To warm your heart, and cheer your home,
And keep the sunshine ever near it:
But I am only a simple child,
So my mother says in her daily chiding;
And what must a guardian angel do
When she first begins her work of guiding?”

“Well, first, dear Bessie, a smiling face
Is dearer far than the rarest beauty;
And my mother, fretful, lame, and old,
Will require a daughter’s loving duty.
You will see to her flannels, drops, and tea,
And talk with her of lungs and liver:
Give her your cheerful service, dear—
The Lord he loveth a cheerful giver.

“You will see that my breakfast is piping hot,
And rub the clothes to a snowy whiteness;
Make golden butter and snowy rolls,
And polish things to a shining brightness;
Will darn my stockings, and mend my coats,
And see that the buttons are sewed on tightly:
You will keep things cheerful and neat and sweet,
That home’s altar-fires may still burn brightly.

“You will read me at evening the daily news,
The tedious winter nights beguiling,
And never forget that the sweetest face
Is a cheerful face that’s always smiling.
In short, you’ll arrange in a general way
For a sort of sublunary heaven;
For home, dear Bessie, say what we may,
Is the highest sphere to a woman given.”

The lark sang out to the bending sky,
The bobolink piped in the nodding rushes,
And out of the tossing clover-blooms
Came the sweet, clear song of the meadow-thrushes.
And Bessie, listening, paused a while,
Then said, with a sly glance at her neighbor,
“But John—do you mean—that is to say,
What shall I get for all this labor?

“To be nurse, companion, and servant girl,
To make home’s altar-fires burn brightly;
To wash and iron and scrub and cook,
And always be cheerful, neat, and sprightly;
To give up liberty, home, and friends,
Nay, even the name of a mother’s giving,—
To do all this for one’s board and clothes,
Why, the life of an angel isn’t worth living!”

And Bessie gayly went her way
Down through the fields of scented clover,
But never again since that summer day
Has she won a glance from her rustic lover.
The lark sings out to the bending sky,
The clouds sail on as white as ever;
The clovers toss in the summer wind,
But Bessie has lost that chance forever.

GRANT’S STRATEGY.

Who had thought, until Grant said it, that the crisis comes in battle when both armies are nearly exhausted, and that usually the one wins which attacks first? When did he ever fail to attack first? Who had thought, until he suggested it, that the trouble with the Potomac army, the pride of the nation, was, that it had not fought its battles through? Who then living has forgotten the utter downfall of hope, the absolute despair throughout the North, as the moan from the Wilderness came rolling up on the southern breeze? Is the task hopeless? Is this last mighty effort only more disastrous than that of McClellan, of Pope, of Burnside, of Hooker? No! listen to the assurance, “I’ll fight it out on this line if it takes all summer.” Every loyal heart in the land is inspired. That telegram to the President was the death-knell of rebellion.

But the test-hour of Grant had not yet come. Meade was glorious, Sherman magnificent; but Sigel is routed, Butler has not succeeded, Banks utterly failed. Shall Grant unloose his grip? Never! Was it, then, less than the inspiration of genius? Sheridan, take the Sixth Corps, and clean out the valley so a “crow must take his rations when he flies over it.” Meade, absorb the army of the James, and never let Lee escape. Sherman, march to the sea as a cyclone of devastation. Thomas, play with Hood until you draw him to destruction. Stoneman, take your bold riders across the mountains, into Virginia and the Carolinas, right across every line of supply to the enemy. Wilson, push your twelve thousand mounted men into the heart of Alabama. Canby, capture Mobile.

Such was the new combination, audacious in strategy beyond precedent; but, if faulty in any respect, military critics have not discovered it. Its perfection, and the result of the execution, stamp it forever with the insignia of genius. Masterly tactics, brilliant manœuvring, bold fighting, though essential to success after the combinations have produced the strategical situation, yet rarely cure material defect in the latter. If cured at all, it is generally by blunders of the enemy. Lee and Johnston, as defensive generals, were not blunderers. I pity the man who, in the face of the record, attacks General Grant as a master of grand strategy. I need not speak of his tactics. I believe mankind are agreed, that the history of war discloses no display of tactical skill and vigor superior to Grant’s about Vicksburg, and from the 3d to the 9th of April, 1865, being directed to prevent General Lee’s attempted escape from Petersburg and junction with Johnston in North Carolina. The annals of other wars seem tame when read by the side of the story of that week’s work. It resulted in the despatch to Secretary Stanton, so simple and modest in language, yet the most momentous of all history: “General Lee surrendered the army of Northern Virginia this afternoon on terms proposed by myself.” The work was done, and how completely done,—done precisely as planned; not an element, not a vestige, of luck in it. Every army was at the precise place designed, with the exact work accomplished that was marked out for it. Method, plan, design, exclude the idea of luck. Let us in humble reverence say, as the truth was, the God of nations blessed General Grant in his awful undertaking.

_Judge Veazey._

A “LOVE” GAME.

Shall we take a stroll together,
You and I,
And discuss the charming weather,
This July,
Or the picnics and the dances,
And those sweet but short romances,
Which, like other idle fancies,
Pass and die?

Yes, ’tis true that things have happened
Since we met,—
Since I saw you first with cap and
Gay rosette,
Standing like some well-drilled soldier,
Only calmer and—well—bolder,
With a racket on your shoulder,
At the net;

And your face lit up with laughter
Through it all,
Little feet went tripping after
Every ball,
While the look of bright reliance
Which bespoke a pert defiance
Of all manly wiles and science,
I recall.

’Twas a glance that struck dire terror
To my heart,
And proved source of many an error
In my art;
Yet in truth I felt not humbled,
Though my partner growled and grumbled,
As I slid and slipped and stumbled
Through my part.

You still remember, though so trifling.
What I said
As we left the lawn, too stifling,
For the shade;
And as, moved by glance magnetic
Of your eyes, I waxed prophetic,
While you smiled back sympathetic,
Calm and staid?

Is it wise, then, to remember
Golden hours,—
Recall June in December
Such as ours?
All the hopes that have miscarried—
What! too long, you say, you’ve tarried,
And your husband—_Then you’re married!_
Gracious powers!
_T. Malcolm Watson_

AN OLD MAN’S PRAYER.

In the loftiest room, of princely state,
Of a modern palace grand and great,
Whose marble front is a symbol true
Of the inner splendors hid from view,
On an autumn night, when wild without
The bold winds held their revel rout,
Rudely assailing the passing throng,
Through churchyards creeping with mournful song,
A group was gathered around a board
Heaped with all that wealth could afford,
Or taste could suggest: dishes costly and rare,
Fruits of all climes and all seasons, were there.
The pendent lights in brilliance danced
On the gleaming plate their rays enhanced;
The massive mirrors thrice displayed
The stately banquet there arrayed.
Furniture carved by an artist hand,
Carpets which only great wealth could command,
Curtains of damask, of lace, and of gold,
Spoke of the splendors wealth could unfold,
And filled with a joy and a pleasure rare
The youthful hearts that were gathered there.
Slender each form, and fair each face,
Of the twelve gay lads which that table grace,
As with genial talk and pleasant jest
They banter each other, and cheer their guest.
For one guest is there, as youthful as they,
With a heart as light, and a voice as gay,
Who laughs at their jests with ready glee,
And whose quick returns speak a spirit free,—
An honored guest; for, on the morrow,
They must part with him in pain and sorrow.
The glittering emblems his shoulders bear
Bid him for strife and for peril prepare;
Bid him go forth at his Country’s call,
With her banner to triumph, or on it to fall.
A moment’s pause, as with ready hand
The waiter hurries, at command,
To clear the table, and, instead
Of the rich, choice viands thickly spread,
Ranges dark bottles and cruses, which show
Marks of long years in damp vaults below.
The richest juices age can display
Are quickly spread in tempting array.
Wines of Bordeaux and Seville are there,
With liquors and cordials sparkling and rare;
And bottles are opened, and glasses are filled.
When all in a moment the tumult is stilled,
As he who presides with dignified grace
High raises his goblet, and stands in his place:—
“I give you, friends, no warrior’s name
Your hearts to thrill, your blood to flame;
No toast to beauty shall my lips repeat,
Where we to-night in sacred friendship meet
To part with one, who, in our boyhood’s days,
Earnest and true, won all our love and praise;
Who, on the morrow, plays the hero’s part,
And seeks the battle with a loyal heart.
His health I give with an earnest prayer,
That, while on his mission of peril and care,
Success may be his, and, by deeds renowned,
He may meet us again with laurels crowned.”
All glasses are raised, when a gentle hand
Is heard at the door—all silent stand
As it slowly opens, and into the light
An old man steps, his features bright:
The long white hairs o’er his shoulders stream,
Like silver threads in the warm rays beam.
Wrinkled his brow, and pale his face,
Wasted his form, and tottering his pace,
Shrunken his cheek; but the eye above
Tells of gentleness, kindliness, love.
And silent stand all as he slowly seeks
A place near the table, and gently speaks:—

“Young men, but a moment I check your mirth,
And bring you back to the common earth.
Unbidden I come with an old man’s prayer:
May it seek your hearts, and gain entrance there!
Look on my face, seamed, not with crime,
But with marks of age before their time:
These long white hairs should not have shown
Till ten more years had by me flown.
Age is upon me; not age by years,
But age by sorrow and care and tears;
Not age that cheers as it draweth near
Yon heaven which seemeth more bright and clear,
But age which causes the heart to lag
In its onward course, and the spirit to flag;
That prays for death as but a release
From earthly care, and finds no peace
In that sweet belief that at last I hail,—
‘There is rest for the weary beyond the vale.’
For to me has come a spirit of light,
Bringing the morning, and chasing the night;
Causing my heart with joy to swell
To my Maker, ‘who doeth all things well.’
You shall hear my story: ’twill not be long,
And may guard you all from sin and from wrong.
I had wealth and plenty in goodly lands,
In houses and cattle; and from my hands
Many were fed; and many were they
Who partook of my charity day by day.
My house was open to stranger and friend;
And my gold did I lavishly, freely spend.
But one bitter curse did my wealth uprear
To poison my life,—the tempter here,
The sparkling demon, which now I see
From all your glasses glaring on me,—
A monster who steals on its prey so slow,
That it has your life before you know
Or dream of its power: this was the curse
That sat at my fireside, robbed my purse,
Poisoned my life, and left me to be
A drifting log on the world’s wide sea,
Ruined and bankrupt, lost and bereft;
No kindred, no fortune, no treasure, left.
Treasure!—yes; for I had three sons,
The hope of my life,—three noble ones.
You shall hear their fate, and then I’ll away,
Nor longer your hour of pleasure delay.

“One sought as a merchant hopeful to clear
Our tarnished name, to again uprear
Our shattered house; but, sad to say,
The curse of the wine-cup was in his way.
He seized on it madly, drank deep and fast,
And sank to the drunkard’s grave at last.
I stood by his side as with frenzy wild
He cursed himself and his wife and child;
He cursed me too, as the one who had led
His feet in the path that drunkards tread;
And then—it was worse than all beside—
He cursed his Maker; and then—he died!

“Another, with spirit that loved to brave,
Sought a bold, free life on the ocean-wave.
He left my side full of life and health,
In a good stanch ship, in search of wealth.
A twelvemonth passed, and day by day
I scanned for his sail the distant bay.
At last I saw it, and eagerly flew
To welcome my boy so manly and true.
But, alas! he was gone: no son to greet
My waiting heart came with eager feet.
But they told me there,—one stormy night,
When the heavens were filled with angry light,
The waves rolled high, and the winds beat wild,
That out on a frail yard went my child;
He had drunk deep, and ’twas fearful to sweep
On that slender spar o’er the seething deep;
That one heavy sea tossed the ship like a toy,
And hurled from his hold my darling boy.
Then I sank me down in agony wild,
And glared on the waves that rolled over my child:
I gazed until in the waters blue
I saw reflected the brilliant hue
Of one lone star, which, high above,
Seemed to speak to my heart of faith and love;
And I thought, as I turned my eyes to its light,
It beckoned me on to the heavens so bright,
Where I know, whenever this life shall cease,
I shall meet my boy in eternal peace.

“I had but one left; and him I taught
To shun each sinful word and thought;
To beware of the wine-cup’s demon lure,
That would steel his heart, and his soul obscure.
He took the way of life that leads
To the sacred desk where the preacher pleads,
And placed his foot on the pulpit stair,
The gospel—banner of life—to bear.
When the cannon’s boom o’er Sumter broke,
And the air was filled with traitorous smoke;
When brave men sprang with willing hearts
To their Country’s flag to repel the darts
Which treason had hurled with malice wild
At the life of the mother, so good and mild,—
My boy stepped down from the preacher’s stand,
And started forth, with life in hand,
To sell it dear, but to battle strong
With the loyal North against fearful wrong.
I know that he carries a magic spell
’Gainst the curse of our race to guard him well;
And I know, should he fall, his death will be
In the foremost ranks of loyalty.
And now, young men, an old man’s prayer:—
Leave the bright wine in your glasses there;
Shun its allurements; for in its deep red
Is the blood of its victims dying and dead.
Fill up your glasses, and pledge your friend
In the crystal stream that Heaven doth send.”