Chapter III: Book TWO (1)

Home

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home, A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye left behind, An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind. It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be, How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury; It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped 'round everything.

Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it: Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men; And gradjerly, as time goes on ye find ye wouldn't part With anything they ever used--they've grown into yer heart; The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumbmarks on the door.

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit and sigh An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh; An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come, An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb. Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried, Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified; An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories O' her that was an' is no more--ye can't escape from these.

Ye've got t' sing and dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play, An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day; Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' run The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun; Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome: It takes a heap o' livin' in a house f' make it home.

_Edgar A. Guest._

The House with Nobody In It

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track I go by a poor old farm-house with its shingles broken and black; I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

I've never seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. I know that house isn't haunted and I wish it were, I do, For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. It needs new paint and shingles and vines should be trimmed and tied, But what it needs most of all is some people living inside.

If I had a bit of money and all my debts were paid, I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. I'd buy that place and fix it up the way that it used to be, And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.

Now a new home standing empty with staring window and door Looks idle perhaps and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store, But there's nothing mournful about it, it cannot be sad and lone For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life, That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and helped up his stumbling feet, Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

_Joyce Kilmer._

Color in the Wheat

Like liquid gold the wheat field lies,
A marvel of yellow and russet and green,
That ripples and runs, that floats and flies,
With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen,
That play in the golden hair of a girl,--
A ripple of amber--a flare
Of light sweeping after--a curl
In the hollows like swirling feet
Of fairy waltzers, the colors run
To the western sun
Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.

Broad as the fleckless, soaring sky,
Mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea,
The vast plain flames on the dazzled eye
Under the fierce sun's alchemy.
The slow hawk stoops
To his prey in the deeps;
The sunflower droops
To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps--
Then swirling in dazzling links and loops,
A riot of shadow and shine,
A glory of olive and amber and wine,
To the westering sun the colors run
Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.

O glorious land! My western land,
Outspread beneath the setting sun!
Once more amid your swells, I stand,
And cross your sod-lands dry and dun.
I hear the jocund calls of men
Who sweep amid the ripened grain
With swift, stern reapers; once again
The evening splendor floods the plain,
The crickets' chime
Makes pauseless rhyme,
And toward the sun,
The colors run
Before the wind's feet
In the wheat!

_Hamlin Garland._

The Broken Pinion

I walked through the woodland meadows,
Where sweet the thrushes sing;
And I found on a bed of mosses
A bird with a broken wing.
I healed its wound, and each morning
It sang its old sweet strain,
But the bird with a broken pinion
Never soared as high again.

I found a young life broken
By sin's seductive art;
And touched with a Christlike pity,
I took him to my heart.
He lived with a noble purpose
And struggled not in vain;
But the life that sin had stricken
Never soared as high again.

But the bird with a broken pinion
Kept another from the snare;
And the life that sin had stricken
Raised another from despair.
Each loss has its compensation,
There is healing for every pain;
But the bird with a broken pinion
Never soars as high again.

_Hezekiah Butterworth._

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 Tammons 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 up 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 woeful 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,
Oh! 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 wondrous 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.

The Ensign Bearer

Never mind me, Uncle Jared, never mind my bleeding breast! They are charging in the valley and you're needed with the rest. All the day long from its dawning till you saw your kinsman fall, You have answered fresh and fearless to our brave commander's call; And I would not rob my country of your gallant aid to-night, Though your presence and your pity stay my spirit in its flight.

All along that quivering column see the death steed trampling down Men whose deeds this day are worthy of a kingdom and a crown. Prithee hasten, Uncle Jared, what's the bullet in my breast To that murderous storm of fire raining tortures on the rest? See! the bayonets flash and falter--look! the foe begins to win; See! oh, see our falling comrades! God! the ranks are closing in.

Hark! there's quickening in the distance and a thundering in the air, Like the roaring of a lion just emerging from his lair. There's a cloud of something yonder fast unrolling like a scroll-- Quick! oh, quick! if it be succor that can save the cause a soul! Look! a thousand thirsty bayonets are flashing down the vale, And a thousand thirsty riders dashing onward like a gale!

Raise me higher, Uncle Jared, place the ensign in my hand! I am strong enough to float it while you cheer that flying band; Louder! louder! shout for Freedom with prolonged and vigorous breath-- Shout for Liberty and Union, and the victory over death!-- See! they catch the stirring numbers and they swell them to the breeze-- Cap and plume and starry banner waving proudly through the trees.

Mark our fainting comrades rally, see that drooping column rise! I can almost see the fire newly kindled in their eyes. Fresh for conflict, nerved to conquer, see them charging on the foe-- Face to face with deadly meaning--shot and shell and trusty blow. See the thinned ranks wildly breaking--see them scatter to the sun-- I can die, Uncle Jared, for the glorious day is won!

But there's something, something pressing with a numbness on my heart, And my lips with mortal dumbness fail the burden to impart. Oh I tell you, Uncle Jared, there is something back of all That a soldier cannot part with when he heeds his country's call! Ask the mother what, in dying, sends her yearning spirit back Over life's rough, broken marches, where she's pointed out the track.

Ask the dear ones gathered nightly round the shining household hearth, What to them is dearer, better, than the brightest things of earth, Ask that dearer one whose loving, like a ceaseless vestal flame, Sets my very soul a-glowing at the mention of her name; Ask her why the loved in dying feels her spirit linked with his In a union death but strengthens, she will tell you what it is.

And there's something, Uncle Jared, you may tell her if you will-- That the precious flag she gave me, I have kept unsullied still. And--this touch of pride forgive me--where death sought our gallant host-- Where our stricken lines were weakest, there it ever waved the most. Bear it back and tell her fondly, brighter, purer, steadier far, 'Mid the crimson tide of battle, shone my life's fast setting star.

But forbear, dear Uncle Jared, when there's something more to tell, When her lips with rapid blanching bid you answer how I fell; Teach your tongue the trick of slighting, though 'tis faithful to the rest, Lest it say her brother's bullet is the bullet in my breast; But if it must be that she learn it despite your tenderest care, 'Twill soothe her bleeding heart to know my bayonet pricked the air.

Life is ebbing, Uncle Jared, my enlistment endeth here; Death, the Conqueror, has drafted--I can no more volunteer,-- But I hear the roll call yonder and I go with willing feet-- Through the shadows of the valley where victorious armies meet, Raise the ensign, Uncle Jared, let its dear folds o'er me fall-- Strength and Union for my country--and God's banner over all.

The Real Riches

Every coin of earthly treasure
We have lavished upon earth
For our simple worldly pleasure
May be reckoned something worth;
For the spending was not losing,
Tho' the purchase were but small;
It has perished with the using.
We have had it,--that is all!

All the gold we leave behind us,
When we turn to dust again,
Tho' our avarice may blind us,
We have gathered quite in vain;
Since we neither can direct it,
By the winds of fortune tost,
Nor in other worlds expect it;
What we hoarded we have lost.

But each merciful oblation--
Seed of pity wisely sown,
What we gave in self-negation,
We may safely call our own;
For the treasure freely given
Is the treasure that we hoard,
Since the angels keep in heaven,
What is lent unto the Lord.

_John G. Saxe._

The Polish Boy

Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill,
That cut, like blades of steel, the air,
Causing the creeping blood to chill
With the sharp cadence of despair?

Again they come, as if a heart
Were cleft in twain by one quick blow,
And every string had voice apart
To utter its peculiar woe.

Whence came they? From yon temple, where An altar, raised for private prayer, Now forms the warrior's marble bed Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.

The dim funereal tapers throw A holy luster o'er his brow, And burnish with their rays of light The mass of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that's kneeling by.

What hand is that, whose icy press
Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,
But meets no answering caress?
No thrilling fingers seek its clasp.
It is the hand of her whose cry
Rang wildly, late, upon the air,
When the dead warrior met her eye
Outstretched upon the altar there.

With pallid lip and stony brow She murmurs forth her anguish now. But hark! the tramp of heavy feet Is heard along the bloody street; Nearer and nearer yet they come, With clanking arms and noiseless drum. Now whispered curses, low and deep, Around the holy temple creep; The gate is burst; a ruffian band Rush in, and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain.

The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom clasped her child; Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, Shouted with fearful energy, "Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead; Nor touch the living boy; I stand Between him and your lawless band. Take _me_, and bind these arms--these hands,-- With Russia's heaviest iron bands, And drag me to Siberia's wild To perish, if 'twill save my child!"

"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from her side, And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door. "One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one! Will land or gold redeem my son? Take heritage, take name, take all, But leave him free from Russian thrall! Take these!" and her white arms and hands She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gems that gleamed like starlight there; Her cross of blazing rubies, last, Down at the Russian's feet she cast. He stooped to seize the glittering store;-- Up springing from the marble floor, The mother, with a cry of joy, Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. But no! the Russian's iron grasp Again undid the mother's clasp. Forward she fell, with one long cry Of more than mortal agony.

But the brave child is roused at length,
And, breaking from the Russian's hold,
He stands, a giant in the strength
Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.
Proudly he towers; his flashing eye,
So blue, and yet so bright,
Seems kindled from the eternal sky,
So brilliant is its light.

His curling lips and crimson cheeks Foretell the thought before he speaks; With a full voice of proud command He turned upon the wondering band.

"Ye hold me not! no! no, nor can; This hour has made the boy a man. I knelt before my slaughtered sire, Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. I wept upon his marble brow, Yes, wept! I was a child; but now My noble mother, on her knee, Hath done the work of years for me!"

He drew aside his broidered vest, And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, The jeweled haft of poniard bright Glittered a moment on the sight. "Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! Think ye my noble father's glaive Would drink the life-blood of a slave? The pearls that on the handle flame Would blush to rubies in their shame; The blade would quiver in thy breast Ashamed of such ignoble rest. No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, And fling him back a boy's disdain!"

A moment, and the funeral light Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright; Another, and his young heart's blood Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. Quick to his mother's side he sprang, And on the air his clear voice rang: "Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free! The choice was death or slavery. Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! His freedom is forever won; And now he waits one holy kiss To bear his father home in bliss; One last embrace, one blessing,--one! To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son. What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head! What! silent still? Then art thou dead: --Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I Rejoice with thee,--and thus--to die." One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom,--dead.

_Ann S. Stephens._

The Height of the Ridiculous

I wrote some lines once on a time
In wondrous merry mood,
And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die;
Albeit, in the general way,
A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;
How kind it was of him
To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed,
And, in my humorous way,
I added (as a trifling jest),
"There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad,
And shot from ear to ear;
He read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;
The fifth; his waistband split;
The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

Excelsior

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

His brow was sad his eye beneath Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior!

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud the clarion voice replied, Excelsior!

"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!" A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!" This was the peasant's last Good-night, A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior!

_Henry W. Longfellow._

The Bivouac of the Dead

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust;
Their plumèd heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud;
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow;
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are passed.
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore shall feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like a fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe,
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or Death!"

Full many a mother's breath hath swept
O'er Angostura's plain,
And long the pitying sky hath wept
Above its moulder'd slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone now wake each solemn height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the "dark and bloody ground,"
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air!
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war its richest spoil,--
The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield.
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes' sepulcher.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footsteps here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While fame her record keeps,
Or honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanished year hath flown,
The story how ye fell.
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor time's remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of holy light
That gilds your glorious tomb.

_Theodore O'Hara._

Children

Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,--

That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.

Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.

_Henry W. Longfellow._

The Eve of Waterloo

(The battle of Waterloo occurred June 18, 1815)

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell.

Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-- But, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is--it is the cannon's opening roar.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come! they come!"

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, The morn the marshaling in arms,--the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent.

_Lord Byron._

The Land Where Hate Should Die

This is the land where hate should die--
No feuds of faith, no spleen of race,
No darkly brooding fear should try
Beneath our flag to find a place.
Lo! every people here has sent
Its sons to answer freedom's call,
Their lifeblood is the strong cement
That builds and binds the nation's wall.

This is the land where hate should die--
Though dear to me my faith and shrine,
I serve my country when I
Respect the creeds that are not mine.
He little loves his land who'd cast
Upon his neighbor's word a doubt,
Or cite the wrongs of ages past
From present rights to bar him out.

This is the land where hate should die--
This is the land where strife should cease,
Where foul, suspicious fear should fly
Before the light of love and peace.
Then let us purge from poisoned thought
That service to the state we give,
And so be worthy as we ought
Of this great land in which we live.

_Denis A. McCarthy._

Trouble In the "Amen Corner"

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

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

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

The chorus stormed and blustered, Brother Eyer sang too slow, And then he used the tunes in vogue a hundred years ago; At last the storm-cloud burst, and the church was told, in fine, That the brother must stop singing, or the choir would resign.

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

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

Said he: "In that 'ere organ I've invested quite a pile, And we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the latest style; Our Philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hardest thing Fer to make God understand him when the brother tries to sing.

"We've got the biggest organ, the best-dressed choir in town, We pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor, Brother Brown; But if we must humor ignorance because it's blind and old-- If the choir's to be pestered, I will seek another fold."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I've sung the psalms of David nearly eighty years," said he; "They've been my staff and comfort all along life's dreary way; I'm sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm doing wrong; But when my heart is filled with praise, I can't keep back a song.

"I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking at my feet, In the far-off heav'nly temple, where the Master I shall greet-- Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of God up high'r, If the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven's choir."

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

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

_T.C. Harbaugh._

Duty

The sweetest lives are those to duty wed, Whose deeds, both great and small, Are close knit strands of an unbroken thread, Whose love ennobles all. The world may sound no trumpet, ring no bells; The book of life, the shining record tells. Thy love shall chant its own beatitudes, After its own life-working. A child's kiss Set on thy singing lips shall make thee glad; A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich; A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong; Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense Of service thou renderest.

_Robert Browning._

The Last Leaf

I saw him once before, As he passed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane.

They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town.

But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said "They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said,-- Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago,-- That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow.

But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin. Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh.

I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer!

And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

Old Flag Forever

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

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

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

_Frank L. Stanton._

The Death of the Flowers

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side, In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

_W.C. Bryant._

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 fears 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-won 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 of 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 of a well-filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

_James Russell Lowell._

The Ballad of East and West

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth!

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side, And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride: He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides: "Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?" Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar, "If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. At dust he harries the Abazai--at dawn he is into Bonair, But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, By the favor of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai, But if he be passed the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men. There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen." The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell, and the head of the gallows-tree. The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat-- Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai, Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back, And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. "Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show now if ye can ride." It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go, The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove. There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen. They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. The dun he fell at a water-course--in a woful heap fell he, And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. He has knocked the pistol out of his hand--small room was there to strive, "'Twas only by favor of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive: There was not a rock of twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, The little jackals that flee so fast, were feasting all in a row: If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly." Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast, But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay. They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain, The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. But if thou thinkest the price be fair,--thy brethren wait to sup. The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, howl, dog, and call them up! And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!" Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. "No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and gray wolf meet. May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?" Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my clan: Take up the mare of my father's gift--by God, she has carried a man!" The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast, "We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best. So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein, My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain." The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, "Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he; "will ye take the mate from a friend?" "A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb. Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!" With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest-- He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. "Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides, And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, Thy life is his--thy fate is to guard him with thy head. So thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine, And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line, And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power-- Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur." They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault, They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt: They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the wondrous Names of God. The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun, And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear-- There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. "Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son. "Put up the steel at your sides! Last night ye had struck at a Border thief--to-night 'tis a man of the Guides!"

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the two shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth.

_Rudyard Kipling._

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child, and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
And so all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

_Edgar Allan Poe._

April Showers

There fell an April shower, one night:
Next morning, in the garden-bed,
The crocuses stood straight and gold:
"And they have come," the children said.

There fell an April shower, one night:
Next morning, thro' the woodland spread
The Mayflowers, pink and sweet as youth:
"And they are come," the children said.

There fell an April shower, one night:
Next morning, sweetly, overhead,
The blue-birds sung, the blue-birds sung:
"And they have come," the children said.

_Mary E. Wilkins._

The Voice of Spring

I come, I come! ye have called me long; I come o'er the mountains, with light and song; Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers By thousands have burst from the forest bowers, And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes Are veiled with wreaths as Italian plains; But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth; The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, And the pine has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright, where my step has been.