Chapter VII: Book TWO (5)

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But, oh, fell death's untimely frost,
That nipp'd my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft ha'e kiss'd, sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly;
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary!

_Robert Burns._

A Night with a Wolf

Little one, come to my knee!
Hark, how the rain is pouring
Over the roof, in the pitch-black night,
And the wind in the woods a-roaring!

Hush, my darling, and listen,
Then pay for the story with kisses;
Father was lost in the pitch-black night,
In just such a storm as this is!

High up on the lonely mountains,
Where the wild men watched and waited
Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush,
And I on my path belated.

The rain and the night together
Came down, and the wind came after,
Bending the props of the pine-tree roof,
And snapping many a rafter.

I crept along in the darkness,
Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,--
Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs,
And a sheltering rock behind it.

There, from the blowing and raining
Crouching, I sought to hide me:
Something rustled, two green eyes shone,
And a wolf lay down beside me.

Little one, be not frightened;
I and the wolf together,
Side by side, through the long, long night
Hid from the awful weather.

His wet fur pressed against me;
Each of us warmed the other;
Each of us felt, in the stormy dark,
That beast and man was brother.

And when the falling forest
No longer crashed in warning,
Each of us went from our hiding-place
Forth in the wild, wet morning.

Darling, kiss me in payment!
Hark, how the wind is roaring;
Father's house is a better place
When the stormy rain is pouring!

_Bayard Taylor._

She Was a Phantom of Delight

She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveler between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.

_William Wordsworth._

The Rhodora

(_On Being Asked Whence Is The Flower_)

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

_Ralph Waldo Emerson._

There Was a Boy

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander!--many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him,--And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call,--with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild Of jocund din! and, when there came a pause Of silence such as baffled his best skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received Into the bosom of the steady lake. This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village-school; And through that church-yard when my way has led On Summer-evenings, I believe, that there A long half-hour together I have stood Mute--looking at the grave in which he lies!

_William Wordsworth._

The Quangle Wangle's Hat

On the top of the Crumpetty Tree The Quangle Wangle sat, But his face you could not see, On account of his Beaver Hat. For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide, With ribbons and bibbons on every side, And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, So that nobody ever could see the face Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

The Quangle Wangle said To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, "Jam, and jelly, and bread Are the best of food for me! But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree The plainer than ever it seems to me That very few people come this way And that life on the whole is far from gay!" Said the Quangle Wangle Quee.

But there came to the Crumpetty Tree Mr. and Mrs. Canary; And they said, "Did ever you see Any spot so charmingly airy? May we build a nest on your lovely Hat? Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! Oh, please let us come and build a nest Of whatever material suits you best, Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!"

And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl; The Snail and the Bumblebee, The Frog and the Fimble Fowl (The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg); And all of them said, "We humbly beg We may build our homes on your lovely Hat,-- Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!"

And the Golden Grouse came there, And the Pobble who has no toes, And the small Olympian bear, And the Dong with a luminous nose. And the Blue Baboon who played the flute, And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat,-- All came and built on the lovely Hat Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

And the Quangle Wangle said To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, "When all these creatures move What a wonderful noise there'll be!" And at night by the light of the Mulberry Moon They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon, On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree, And all were as happy as happy could be, With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

_Edward Lear._

The Singing Leaves

I

"What fairings will ye that I bring?"
Said the King to his daughters three;
"For I to Vanity Fair am boun,
Now say what shall they be?"

Then up and spake the eldest daughter,
That lady tall and grand:
"Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great,
And gold rings for my hand."

Thereafter spake the second daughter,
That was both white and red:
"For me bring silks that will stand alone,
And a gold comb for my head."

Then came the turn of the least daughter,
That was whiter than thistle-down,
And among the gold of her blithesome hair
Dim shone the golden crown.

"There came a bird this morning,
And sang 'neath my bower eaves,
Till I dreamed, as his music made me,
'Ask thou for the Singing Leaves.'"

Then the brow of the King swelled crimson
With a flush of angry scorn:
"Well have ye spoken, my two eldest,
And chosen as ye were born,

"But she, like a thing of peasant race,
That is happy binding the sheaves";
Then he saw her dead mother in her face,
And said, "Thou shalt have thy leaves."

II

He mounted and rode three days and nights
Till he came to Vanity Fair,
And 'twas easy to buy the gems and the silk,
But no Singing Leaves were there.

Then deep in the greenwood rode he,
And asked of every tree,
"Oh, if you have, ever a Singing Leaf,
I pray you give it me!"

But the trees all kept their counsel,
And never a word said they,
Only there sighed from the pine-tops
A music of seas far away.

Only the pattering aspen
Made a sound of growing rain,
That fell ever faster and faster.
Then faltered to silence again.

"Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page
That would win both hose and shoon,
And will bring to me the Singing Leaves
If they grow under the moon?"

Then lightly turned him Walter the page,
By the stirrup as he ran:
"Now pledge you me the truesome word
Of a king and gentleman,

"That you will give me the first, first thing
You meet at your castle-gate,
And the Princess shall get the Singing Leaves,
Or mine be a traitor's fate."

The King's head dropt upon his breast
A moment, as it might be;
'Twill be my dog, he thought, and said,
"My faith I plight to thee."

Then Walter took from next his heart
A packet small and thin,
"Now give you this to the Princess Anne,
The Singing Leaves are therein."

III

As the King rode in at his castle-gate,
A maiden to meet him ran,
And "Welcome, father!" she laughed and cried
Together, the Princess Anne.

"Lo, here the Singing Leaves," quoth he,
"And woe, but they cost me dear!"
She took the packet, and the smile
Deepened down beneath the tear.

It deepened down till it reached her heart,
And then gushed up again,
And lighted her tears as the sudden sun
Transfigures the summer rain.

And the first Leaf, when it was opened,
Sang: "I am Walter the page,
And the songs I sing 'neath thy window
Are my only heritage."

And the second Leaf sang: "But in the land
That is neither on earth nor sea,
My lute and I are lords of more
Than thrice this kingdom's fee."

And the third Leaf sang, "Be mine! Be mine!"
And ever it sang, "Be mine!"
Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter,
And said, "I am thine, thine, thine!"

At the first Leaf she grew pale enough,
At the second she turned aside,
At the third,'twas as if a lily flushed
With a rose's red heart's tide.

"Good counsel gave the bird," said she,
"I have my hope thrice o'er,
For they sing to my very heart," she said,
"And it sings to them evermore."

She brought to him her beauty and truth,
But and broad earldoms three,
And he made her queen of the broader lands
He held of his lute in fee.

_James Russell Lowell._

Awakening

Never yet was a springtime,
Late though lingered the snow,
That the sap stirred not at the whisper
Of the south wind, sweet and low;
Never yet was a springtime
When the buds forgot to blow.

Ever the wings of the summer
Are folded under the mold;
Life that has known no dying
Is Love's to have and to hold,
Till sudden, the burgeoning Easter!
The song! the green and the gold!

_Margaret E. Sangster._

Wolsey's Farewell to His Greatness

_(From "King Henry VIII")_

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And,--when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening,--nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.

_William Shakespeare._

The Newsboy

Want any papers, Mister?
Wish you'd buy 'em of me--
Ten year old, an' a fam'ly,
An' bizness dull, you see.
Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby,
An' Dad, an' Mam, an' Mam's cat,
None on 'em earning money--
What do you think of that?

_Couldn't Dad work?_ Why yes, Boss,
He's workin' for Gov'ment now--
They give him his board for nothin',
All along of a drunken row,
_An' Mam?_ well, she's in the poor-house,
Been there a year or so,
So I'm taking care of the others,
Doing as well as I know.

_Tibby my sister?_ Not much, Boss,
She's a kitten, a real Maltee;
I picked her up last summer--
Some boys was a drownin' of she;
Throw'd her inter a hogshead;
But a p'liceman came along,
So I jest grabbed up the kitten
And put for home, right strong.

And Tom's my dog; he an' Tibby
Hain't never quarreled yet--
They sleep in my bed in winter
An' keeps me warm--you bet!
Mam's cat sleeps in the corner,
With a piller made of her paw--
Can't she growl like a tiger
If anyone comes to our straw!

_Oughtn't to live so?_ Why, Mister,
What's a feller to do?
Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry,
Seems as if each on 'em knew--
They'll all three cuddle around me,
Till I get cheery, and say:
Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers,
An' money an' clothes, too, some day.

But if I do git rich, Boss,
(An' a lecturin' chap one night
Said newsboys could be Presidents
If only they acted right);
So, if I was President, Mister,
The very first thing I'd do,
I'd buy poor Tom an' Tibby
A dinner--an' Mam's cat, too!

None o' your scraps an' leavin's, But a good square meal for all three; If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss, That shows you don't know _me_. So 'ere's your papers--come take one, Gimme a lift if you can-- For now you've heard my story, You see I'm a fam'ly man!

_E.T. Corbett._

Parting of Marmion and Douglas

Not far advanced was morning day, When Marmion did his troop array To Surrey's camp to ride; He had safe conduct for his band, Beneath the royal seal and hand, And Douglas gave a guide: The ancient Earl, with stately grace, Would Clara on her palfrey place, And whispered in an undertone, "Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopped to bid adieu.-- "Though something I might plain," he said, "Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your king's behest, While in Tantallon's towers I stayed, Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble Earl, receive my hand."-- But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:-- "My manors, halls, and bowers shall still Be open, at my sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my king's alone, From turret to foundation-stone,-- The hand of Douglas is his own; And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp."

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And--"This to me!" he said,-- "An't were not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head! And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, He who does England's message here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee thou'rt defied! And if thou said'st I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"-- On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age: Fierce he broke forth,--"And dar'st thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall? And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go? No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms,--what, warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall."-- Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need!-- And dashed the rowels in his steed; Like arrow through the archway sprung; The ponderous grate behind him rung; To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies. Just as it trembled on the rise; Not lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim; And when Lord Marmion reached his band, He halts, and turns with clenched hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers, "Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!" But soon he reined his fury's pace: "A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name.

* * * * *

St. Mary, mend my fiery mood! Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. 'Tis pity of him too," he cried; "Bold can he speak, and fairly ride: I warrant him a warrior tried." With this his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle halls.

_Sir Walter Scott._

The Engineer's Story

Han'som, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart ez she kin be. Clever? W'y! she ain't no chicken, but she's good enough for me. What's her name? 'Tis kind o' common, yit I ain't ashamed to tell, She's ole "Fiddler" Filkin's daughter, an' her dad he calls her "Nell."

I wuz drivin' on the "Central" jist about a year ago On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe. There's no end o' skeery places. 'Taint a road fur one who dreams, With its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' mountain streams.

'Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hour, An' wuz tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower, Round the bends an' by the ledges, 'bout ez fast ez we could go, With the mountain peaks above us an' the river down below.

Ez we come nigh to a tres'le 'crost a holler, deep an' wild, Suddenly I saw a baby, 'twuz the station-keeper's child, Toddlin' right along the timbers with a bold an' fearless tread, Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead.

I jist jumped an' grabbed the throttle an' I fa'rly held my breath, Fur I felt I couldn't stop her till the child wuz crushed to death, When a woman sprang afore me, like a sudden streak o' light. Caught the boy, an' 'twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight.

I jist whis'l'd all the brakes on. An' we worked with might an' main, Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn't stop the train, An' it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by, An' the river roared below us--I shall hear her till I die!

Then we stopt; the sun wuz shinin'; I ran back along the ridge An' I found her--dead? No! livin'! She wuz hangin' to the bridge Where she dropt down thro' the crossties, with one arm about a sill, An' the other round the baby, who wuz yellin' fur to kill!

So we saved 'em. She wuz gritty. She's ez peart ez she kin be-- Now we're married--she's no chicken, but she's good enough for me. An' ef eny ask who owns her, w'y, I ain't ashamed to tell-- She's my wife. Ther' ain't none better than ole Filkin's daughter "Nell."

_Eugene J. Hall._

Small Beginnings

A traveler on the dusty road
Strewed acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up,
And grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade, at evening time,
To breathe his early vows;
And age was pleased, in heats of noon,
To bask beneath its boughs;
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,
The birds sweet music bore;
It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern,
A passing stranger scooped a well
Where weary men might turn;
He walled it in, and hung with care
A ladle at the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did,
But judged that all might drink.
He paused again, and lo! the well,
By summer never dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues
And saved a life beside.

A dreamer dropped a random thought;
'Twas old, and yet 'twas new;
A simple fancy of the brain,
But strong in being true.
It shone upon a genial mind,
And, lo! its light became
A lamp of life, a beacon ray,
A monitory flame;
The thought was small, its issue great;
A watch-fire on the hill;
It shed its radiance far adown,
And cheers the valley still.

A nameless man, amid a crowd
That thronged the daily mart,
Let fall a word of Hope and Love,
Unstudied from the heart;
A whisper on the tumult thrown,
A transitory breath--
It raised a brother from the dust,
It saved a soul from death.
O germ! O fount! O word of love!
O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first,
But mighty at the last.

_Charles Mackay._

Rain on the Roof

When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, 'Tis a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed, And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead.

Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart, And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start; And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof, As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof.

There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone, To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn. I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair, And her bright-eyed, cherub brother--a serene, angelic pair-- Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue, I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue, I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again, And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.

There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell, In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions swell, As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain, Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain!

_Coates Kinney._

Gunga Din

The "bhisti," or water-carriers attached to regiments in India, is often one of the most devoted subjects of the British crown, and he is much appreciated by the men.

You may talk o' gin an' beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; But if it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them black-faced crew The finest man I knew Was our regimental _bhisti_, Gunga Din. He was "Din! Din! Din! You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! _Slippy hitherao!_ Water, get it! _Panee lao!_ You squidgy-nosed, old idol, Gunga Din!"

The uniform 'e wore Was nothin' much before, An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, For a twisty piece o' rag An' a goatskin water bag Was all the field-equipment 'e could find, When the sweatin' troop-train lay In a sidin' through the day, Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, We shouted "Harry By!" Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all, It was "Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? You put some _juldee_ in it, Or I'll _marrow_ you this minute If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one Till the longest day was done, An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin' nut, 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. With 'is _mussick_ on 'is back, 'E would skip with our attack, An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire." An' for all 'is dirty 'ide 'E was white, clear white, inside When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was "Din! Din! Din!" With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, You could 'ear the front-files shout: "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I sha'n't forgit the night When I dropped be'ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. I was chokin' mad with thirst, An' the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. 'E lifted up my 'ead, An' 'e plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me arf-a-pint o' water--green: It was crawlin' and it stunk, But of all the drinks I've drunk, I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. It was "Din! Din! Din! 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around: For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away To where a _dooli_ lay, An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 'E put me safe inside, An', just before 'e died: "I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din. So I'll meet 'im later on In the place where 'e is gone-- Where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals Givin' drink to pore damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din! Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

_Rudyard Kipling._

"Panee lao"--Bring water swiftly.

"Harry Ry"-The British soldier's equivalent of "O Brother!"

"Put some juldee in it"--Be quick.

"Marrow you"--Hit you.

"Mussick"--Water-skin.

Warren's Address to the American Soldiers

(_Bunker Hill, June 17, 1775_)

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it--ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you! They're afire! And, before you, see Who have done it! From the vale On they come! and will ye quail? Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust! Die we may--and die we must; But, O where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell!

_John Pierpont._

Mad River

IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS

_Traveler_

Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, Mad River, O Mad River? Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er This rocky shelf forever?

What secret trouble stirs thy breast? Why all this fret and flurry? Dost thou not know that what is best In this too restless world is rest From overwork and worry?

_The River_

What wouldst thou in these mountains seek, O stranger from the city? Is it perhaps some foolish freak Of thine, to put the words I speak Into a plaintive ditty?

_Traveler_

Yes; I would learn of thee thy song, With all its flowing numbers, And in a voice as fresh and strong As thine is, sing it all day long, And hear it in my slumbers.

_The River_

A brooklet nameless and unknown Was I at first, resembling A little child, that all alone Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, Irresolute and trembling.

Later, by wayward fancies led, For the wide world I panted; Out of the forest dark and dread Across the open fields I fled, Like one pursued and haunted.

I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, My voice exultant blending With thunder from the passing cloud, The wind, the forest bent and bowed, The rush of rain descending.

I heard the distant ocean call, Imploring and entreating; Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall I plunged, and the loud waterfall Made answer to the greeting.

And now, beset with many ills, A toilsome life I follow; Compelled to carry from the hills These logs to the impatient mills Below there in the hollow.

Yet something ever cheers and charms The rudeness of my labors; Daily I water with these arms The cattle of a hundred farms, And have the birds for neighbors.

Men call me Mad, and well they may, When, full of rage and trouble, I burst my banks of sand and clay, And sweep their wooden bridge away, Like withered reeds or stubble.

Now go and write thy little rhyme, As of thine own creating. Thou seest the day is past its prime; I can no longer waste my time; The mills are tired of waiting.

_Henry W. Longfellow._

When Papa Was a Boy

When papa was a little boy you really couldn't find In all the country round about a child so quick to mind. His mother never called but once, and he was always there; He never made the baby cry or pulled his sister's hair. He never slid down banisters or made the slightest noise, And never in his life was known to fight with other boys. He always rose at six o'clock and went to bed at eight, And never lay abed till noon; and never sat up late.

He finished Latin, French and Greek when he was ten year old, And knew the Spanish alphabet as soon as he was told. He never, never thought of play until his work was done, He labored hard from break of day until the set of sun. He never scraped his muddy shoes upon the parlor floor, And never answered, back his ma, and never banged the door. "But, truly, I could never see," said little Dick Molloy, "How he could never do these things and really be a boy."

_E.A. Brininstool._

Which Shall It Be?

"Which shall it be? which shall it be?" I looked at John,--John looked at me, (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks were jet.) And when I found that I must speak, My voice seemed strangely low and weak; "Tell me again what Robert said"; And then I listening bent my head. "This is his letter: 'I will give A house and land while you shall live, If, in return, from out your seven, One child to me for aye is given.'"

I looked at John's old garments worn, I thought of all that John had borne Of poverty, and work, and care, Which I, though willing, could not share; Of seven hungry mouths to feed, Of seven little children's need, And then of this. "Come John," said I, "We'll choose among them as they lie Asleep"; so walking hand in hand, Dear John and I surveyed our band.

First to the cradle lightly stepped, Where Lilian, the baby, slept; Her damp curls lay, like gold alight, A glory 'gainst the pillow white; Softly her father stooped to lay His rough hand down in loving way, When dream or whisper made her stir, And huskily he said, "Not _her_." We stooped beside the trundle-bed, And one long ray of lamp-light shed Athwart the boyish faces there, In sleep so pitiful and fair. I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek A tear undried; ere John could speak, "He's but a baby too," said I, And kissed him as we hurried by. Pale, patient Robby's angel face Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace; "No, for a thousand crowns not him," He whispered, while our eyes were dim. Poor Dick! sad Dick! our wayward son, Turbulent, reckless, idle one,-- Could _he_ be spared? "Nay, He who gave Bids us befriend him to the grave; Only a mother's heart can be Patient enough for such as he; And so," said John, "I would not dare To send him from her bedside prayer." Then stole we softly up above, And knelt by Mary, child of love; "Perhaps for _her_ 'twould better be," I said to John. Quite silently He lifted up a curl, that lay Across her cheek in wilful way, And shook his head; "Nay, love, not thee"; The while my heart beat audibly. Only one more, our eldest lad, Trusty and truthful, good and glad,-- So like his father: "No, John, no; I cannot, will not, let him go!"

And so we wrote, in courteous way, We could not give one child away; And afterward toil lighter seemed, Thinking of that of which we dreamed; Happy, in truth, that not one face We missed from its accustomed place; Thankful to work for all the seven, Trusting then to One in heaven.

_Ethel Lynn Beers._

The Battle of Bunker's Hill

It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still, When the "minute-men" from Cambridge came, and gathered on the hill; Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the fleet, But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms beat; And every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said, "We will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the dead!"

"Bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward!" The trench is marked, the tools are brought, we utter not a word, But stack our guns, then fall to work with mattock and with spade, A thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound is made; So still were we, the stars beneath, that scarce a whisper fell; We heard the red-coat's musket click, and heard him cry, "All's well!"

See how the morn, is breaking; the red is in the sky! The mist is creeping from the stream that floats in silence by; The "Lively's" hall looms through the fog, and they our works have spied, For the ruddy flash and round-shot part in thunder from her side; And the "Falcon" and the "Cerberus" make every bosom thrill, With gun and shell, and drum and bell, and boatswain's whistle shrill; But deep and wider grows the trench, as spade and mattock ply, For we have to cope with fearful odds, and the time is drawing nigh!

Up with the pine-tree banner! Our gallant Prescott stands Amid the plunging shells and shot, and plants it with his hands; Up with the shout! for Putnam comes upon his reeking bay, With bloody spur and foaming bit, in haste to join the fray. But thou whose soul is glowing in the summer of thy years, Unvanquishable Warren, thou, the youngest of thy peers, Wert born and bred, and shaped and made, to act a patriot's part, And dear to us thy presence is as heart's blood to the heart!

Hark! from the town a trumpet! The barges at the wharf Are crowded with the living freight; and now they're pushing off; With clash and glitter, trump and drum, in all its bright array, Behold the splendid sacrifice move slowly o'er the bay! And still and still the barges fill, and still across the deep, Like thunder clouds along the sky, the hostile transports sweep.

And now they're forming at the Point; and now the lines advance: We see beneath the sultry sun their polished bayonets glance; We hear anear the throbbing drum, the bugle-challenge ring; Quick bursts and loud the flashing cloud, and rolls from wing to wing; But on the height our bulwark stands, tremendous in its gloom,-- As sullen as a tropic sky, and silent as a tomb.

And so we waited till we saw, at scarce ten rifles' length, The old vindictive Saxon spite, in all its stubborn strength; When sudden, flash on flash, around the jagged rampart burst From every gun the livid light upon the foe accursed. Then quailed a monarch's might before a free-born people's ire; Then drank the sward the veteran's life, where swept the yeoman's fire.

Then, staggered by the shot, he saw their serried columns reel, And fall, as falls the bearded rye beneath the reaper's steel; And then arose a mighty shout that might have waked the dead,-- "Hurrah! they run! the field is won! Hurrah! the foe is fled!" And every man hath dropped his gun to clutch a neighbor's hand, As his heart kept praying all the while for home and native land.

Thrice on that day we stood the shock of thrice a thousand foes, And thrice that day within our lines the shout of victory rose; And though our swift fire slackened then, and, reddening in the skies, We saw from Charlestown's roofs and walls the flamy columns rise, Yet while we had a cartridge left, we still maintained the fight, Nor gained the foe one foot of ground upon that blood-stained height.

What though for us no laurels bloom, and o'er the nameless brave No sculptured trophy, scroll, nor hatch records a warrior grave! What though the day to us was lost!--upon that deathless page The everlasting charter stands for every land and age!

For man hath broke his felon bonds, and cast them in the dust, And claimed his heritage divine, and justified the trust; While through his rifted prison-bars the hues of freedom pour, O'er every nation, race and clime, on every sea and shore, Such glories as the patriarch viewed, when, mid the darkest skies, He saw above a ruined world the Bow of Promise rise.

_F.S. Cozzens._

Health and Wealth

We squander health in search of wealth; We scheme and toil and save; Then squander wealth in search of health, But only find a grave. We live, and boast of what we own; We die, and only get a stone.

The Heartening

It may be that the words I spoke
To cheer him on his way,
To him were vain, but I myself
Was braver all that day.

_Winifred Webb._

Billy's Rose

Billy's dead, and gone to glory--so is Billy's sister Nell: There's a tale I know about them, were I poet I would tell; Soft it comes, with perfume laden, like a breath of country air Wafted down the filthy alley, bringing fragrant odors there.

In that vile and filthy alley, long ago one winter's day, Dying quick of want and fever, hapless, patient Billy lay, While beside him sat his sister, in the garret's dismal gloom, Cheering with her gentle presence Billy's pathway to the tomb.

Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child, Till his eyes lost half their anguish, and his worn, wan features smiled; Tales herself had heard haphazard, caught amid the Babel roar, Lisped about by tiny gossips playing round their mothers' door.

Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told How beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold, Where, when all the pain was over,--where, when all the tears were shed,-- He would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head.

Then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed Saviour's love, How He'd built for little children great big playgrounds up above, Where they sang and played at hopscotch and at horses all the day, And where beadles and policemen never frightened them away.

This was Nell's idea of heaven,--just a bit of what she'd heard, With a little bit invented, and a little bit inferred. But her brother lay and listened, and he seemed to understand, For he closed his eyes and murmured he could see the promised land.

"Yes," he whispered, "I can see it, I can see it, sister Nell, Oh, the children look so happy and they're all so strong and well; I can see them there with Jesus--He is playing with them, too! Let as run away and join them, if there's room for me and you."

She was eight, this little maiden, and her life had all been spent In the garret and the alley, where they starved to pay the rent; Where a drunken father's curses and a drunken mother's blows Drove her forth into the gutter from the day's dawn to its close.

But she knew enough, this outcast, just to tell this sinking boy, "You must die before you're able all the blessings to enjoy. You must die," she whispered, "Billy, and I am not even ill; But I'll come to you, dear brother,--yes, I promise that I will.

"You are dying, little brother, you are dying, oh, so fast; I heard father say to mother that he knew you couldn't last. They will put you in a coffin, then you'll wake and be up there, While I'm left alone to suffer in this garret bleak and bare."

"Yes, I know it," answered Billy. "Ah, but, sister, I don't mind, Gentle Jesus will not beat me; He's not cruel or unkind. But I can't help thinking, Nelly, I should like to take away Something, sister, that you gave me, I might look at every day.

"In the summer you remember how the mission took us out To a great green lovely meadow, where we played and ran about, And the van that took us halted by a sweet bright patch of land, Where the fine red blossoms grew, dear, half as big as mother's hand.

"Nell, I asked the good kind teacher what they called such flowers as those, And he told me, I remember, that the pretty name was rose. I have never seen them since, dear--how I wish that I had one! Just to keep and think of you, Nell, when I'm up beyond the sun."

Not a word said little Nelly; but at night, when Billy slept, On she flung her scanty garments and then down the stairs she crept. Through the silent streets of London she ran nimbly as a fawn, Running on and running ever till the night had changed to dawn.

When the foggy sun had risen, and the mist had cleared away, All around her, wrapped in snowdrift, there the open country lay. She was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her feet, But there came no flowery gardens her poor tearful eyes to greet.

She had traced the road by asking, she had learnt the way to go; She had found the famous meadow--it was wrapped in cruel snow; Not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant blade Showed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down and prayed;

With her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground, And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be found. Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim; And a sudden, awful tremor seemed to seize her every limb.

"Oh, a rose!" she moaned, "good Jesus,--just a rose to take to Bill!" And as she prayed a chariot came thundering down the hill; And a lady sat there, toying with a red rose, rare and sweet; As she passed she flung it from her, and it fell at Nelly's feet.

Just a word her lord had spoken caused her ladyship to fret, And the rose had been his present, so she flung it in a pet; But the poor, half-blinded Nelly thought it fallen from the skies, And she murmured, "Thank you, Jesus!" as she clasped the dainty prize.

Lo! that night from but the alley did a child's soul pass away, From dirt and sin and misery up to where God's children play. Lo! that night a wild, fierce snowstorm burst in fury o'er the land, And at morn they found Nell frozen, with the red rose in her hand.

Billy's dead, and gone to glory--so is Billy's sister Nell; Am I bold to say this happened in the land where angels dwell,-- That the children met in heaven, after all their earthly woes, And that Nelly kissed her brother, and said, "Billy, here's your rose"?

_George R. Sims._

The Old Actor's Story

Mine is a wild, strange story,--the strangest you ever heard; There are many who won't believe it, but it's gospel, every word; It's the biggest drama of any in a long, adventurous life; The scene was a ship, and the actors--were myself and my new-wed wife.

You musn't mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then; I'm old, you know, and I wander--it's a way with old women and men, For their lives lie all behind them, and their thoughts go far away, And are tempted afield, like children lost on a summer day.

The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful night, But I see it again this evening, I can never shut out the sight. We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know, When we had an offer for Melbourne, and made up our minds to go.

We'd acted together in England, traveling up and down With a strolling band of players, going from town to town; We played the lovers together--we were leading lady and gent-- And at last we played in earnest, and straight to the church we went.

The parson gave us his blessing, and I gave Nellie the ring, And swore that I'd love and cherish, and endow her with everything. How we smiled at that part of the service when I said "I thee endow"! But as to the "love and cherish," I meant to keep that vow.

We were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the show was good, When it wasn't we went without it, and we did the best we could. We were happy, and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts we made,-- Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no shade.

Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit; Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a flit,-- Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call; But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet to fall.

We got an offer for Melbourne,--got it that very week. Those were the days when thousands went over to fortune seek, The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot Good for a "spec," and took us as actors among his lot.

We hadn't a friend in England--we'd only ourselves to please-- And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the seas. We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough; We hadn't been out a fortnight before we had had enough.

But use is a second nature, and we'd got not to mind a storm, When misery came upon us,--came in a hideous form. My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad That the doctor said she was dying,--I thought 'twould have sent me mad,--

Dying where leagues of billows seemed to shriek for their prey, And the nearest land was hundreds--aye, thousands--of miles away. She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death, So still I'd to bend and listen for the faintest sign of breath.

She seemed in a sleep, and sleeping, with a smile on her thin, wan face,-- She passed away one morning, while I prayed to the throne of grace. I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said, Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless--my wife was dead!

Dead! I wouldn't believe it. They forced me away that night, For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright. I was shut in the farthest cabin, and I beat my head on the side, And all day long in my madness, "They've murdered her!" I cried.

They locked me away from my fellows,--put me in cruel chains, It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon's brains. I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil sent To gloat o'er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent.

I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists, And my wife lay dead quite near me. I beat with my fettered fists, Beat at my prison panels, and then--O God!--and then I heard the shrieks of women and the tramp of hurrying men.

I heard the cry, "Ship afire!" caught up by a hundred throats, And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats; Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood, And the place grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I stood.

I beat at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back, And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning crack I could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and sail, Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling gale.

I dashed at the door in fury, shrieking, "I will not die! Die in this burning prison!"--but I caught no answering cry. Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar, And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door.

I was free--with the heavy iron door dragging me down to death; I fought my way to the cabin, choked with the burning breath Of the flames that danced around me like man-mocking fiends at play, And then--O God! I can see it, and shall to my dying day.

There lay my Nell as they'd left her, dead in her berth that night; The flames flung a smile on her features,--a horrible, lurid light. God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found myself by her side; I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell had died.

In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain; I heard a sound as of breathing, and then a low cry of pain; Oh, was there mercy in heaven? Was there a God in the skies? The dead woman's lips were moving, the dead woman opened her eyes.

I cursed like a madman raving--I cried to her, "Nell! my Nell!" They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell; They had left us alone to perish--forgotten me living--and she Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven, instead of the sea.

I clutched at her, roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her still; I seized her in spite of my fetters,--fear gave a giant's will. God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and the wreck Up--up to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck.

We'd a moment of life together,--a moment of life, the time For one last word to each other,--'twas a moment supreme, sublime. From the trance we'd for death mistaken, the heat had brought her to life, And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there, husband and wife!

It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away, When a shout came over the water, and I looked, and lo, there lay, Right away from the vessel, a boat that was standing by; They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky.