Chapter VIII: Book TWO (6)

I shouted a prayer to Heaven, then called to my wife, and she Tore with new strength at my fetters--God helped her, and I was free; Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one chance of life. Did they save us? Well, here I am, sir, and yonder's my dear old wife.

We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by Took us on board, and at Melbourne landed us by and by. We've played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip, But ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship!

_George B. Sims._

The Boy Who Didn't Pass

A sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace, There's a lump arising in his throat, tears streaming down his face; He wandered from his playmates, for he doesn't want to hear Their shouts of merry laughter, since the world has lost its cheer; He has sipped the cup of sorrow, he has drained the bitter glass, And his heart is fairly breaking; he's the boy who didn't pass.

In the apple tree the robin sings a cheery little song, But he doesn't seem to hear it, showing plainly something's wrong; Comes his faithful little spaniel for a romp and bit of play, But the troubled little fellow sternly bids him go away. All alone he sits in sorrow, with his hair a tangled mass, And his eyes are red with weeping; he's the boy who didn't pass.

How he hates himself for failing, he can hear his playmates jeer, For they've left him with the dullards--gone ahead a half a year, And he tried so hard to conquer, oh, he tried to do his best, But now he knows, he's weaker, yes, and duller than the rest. He's ashamed to tell his mother, for he thinks she'll hate him, too-- The little boy who didn't pass, who failed of getting through.

Oh, you who boast a laughing son, and speak of him as bright, And you who love a little girl who comes to you at night With smiling eyes, with dancing feet, with honors from her school, Turn to that lonely little boy who thinks he is a fool, And take him kindly by the hand, the dullest in his class, He is the one who most needs love, the boy who didn't pass.

The Station-Master's Story

Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough; I want a bit of the smooth now, for I've had my share o' rough. This berth that the company gave me, they gave as the work was light; I was never fit for the signals after one awful night, I'd been in the box from a younker, and I'd never felt the strain Of the lives at my right hand's mercy in every passing train. One day there was something happened, and it made my nerves go queer, And it's all through that as you find me the station-master here.

I was on at the box down yonder--that's where we turn the mails, And specials, and fast expresses, on to the center rails; The side's for the other traffic--the luggage and local slows. It was rare hard work at Christmas, when double the traffic grows. I've been in the box down yonder nigh sixteen hours a day, Till my eyes grew dim and heavy, and my thoughts went all astray; But I've worked the points half-sleeping--and once I slept outright, Till the roar of the Limited woke me, and I nearly died with fright.

Then I thought of the lives in peril, and what might have been their fate Had I sprung to the points that evening a tenth of a tick too late; And a cold and ghastly shiver ran icily through my frame As I fancied the public clamor, the trial, and bitter shame. I could see the bloody wreckage--I could see the mangled slain-- And the picture was seared for ever, blood-red, on my heated brain. That moment my nerve was shattered, for I couldn't shut out the thought Of the lives I held in my keeping, and the ruin that might be wrought.

That night in our little cottage, as I kissed our sleeping child, My wife looked up from her sewing, and told me, as she smiled, That Johnny had made his mind up--he'd be a pointsman, too. "He says when he's big, like daddy, he'll work in the box with you." I frowned, for my heart was heavy, and my wife she saw the look; Lord bless you! my little Alice could read me like a book. I'd to tell her of what had happened, and I said that I must leave, For a pointsman's arm ain't trusty when terror lurks in his sleeve.

But she cheered me up in a minute, and that night, ere we went to sleep, She made me give her a promise, which I swore that I'd always keep-- It was always to do my duty. "Do that, and then, come what will, You'll have no worry." said Alice, "if things go well or ill. There's something that always tells us the thing that we ought to do"-- My wife was a bit religious, and in with the chapel crew. But I knew she was talking reason, and I said to myself, says I, "I won't give in like a coward, it's a scare that'll soon go by."

Now, the very next day the missus had to go to the market town; She'd the Christmas things to see to, and she wanted to buy a gown. She'd be gone for a spell, for the Parley didn't come back till eight, And I knew, on a Christmas Eve, too, the trains would be extra late. So she settled to leave me Johnny, and then she could turn the key-- For she'd have some parcels to carry, and the boy would be safe with me. He was five, was our little Johnny, and quiet, and nice, and good-- He was mad to go with daddy, and I'd often promised he should.

It was noon when the missus started,--her train went by my box; She could see, as she passed my window, her darling's curly locks, I lifted him up to mammy, and he kissed his little hand, Then sat, like a mouse, in the corner, and thought it was fairyland. But somehow I fell a-thinking of a scene that would not fade, Of how I had slept on duty, until I grew afraid; For the thought would weigh upon me, one day I might come to lie In a felon's cell for the slaughter of those I had doomed to die.

The fit that had come upon me, like a hideous nightmare seemed, Till I rubbed my eyes and started like a sleeper who has dreamed. For a time the box had vanished--I'd worked like a mere machine-- My mind had been on the wander, and I'd neither heard nor seen, With a start I thought of Johnny, and I turned the boy to seek, Then I uttered a groan of anguish, for my lips refused to speak; There had flashed such a scene of horror swift on my startled sight That it curdled my blood in terror and sent my red lips white.

It was all in one awful moment--I saw that the boy was lost: He had gone for a toy, I fancied, some child from a train had tossed; The local was easing slowly to stop at the station here, And the limited mail was coming, and I had the line to clear. I could hear the roar of the engine, I could almost feel its breath, And right on the center metals stood my boy in the jaws of death; On came the fierce fiend, tearing straight for the center line, And the hand that must wreck or save it, O merciful God, was mine!

'Twas a hundred lives or Johnny's. O Heaven! what could I do?-- Up to God's ear that moment a wild, fierce question flew-- "What shall I do, O Heaven?" and sudden and loud and clear On the wind came the words, "Your duty," borne to my listening ear. Then I set my teeth, and my breathing was fierce and short and quick. "My boy!" I cried, but he heard not; and then I went blind and sick; The hot black smoke of the engine came with a rush before, I turned the mail to the center, and by it flew with a roar.

Then I sank on my knees in horror, and hid my ashen face-- I had given my child to Heaven; his life was a hundred's grace. Had I held my hand a moment, I had hurled the flying mail To shatter the creeping local that stood on the other rail! Where is my boy, my darling? O God! let me hide my eyes. How can I look--his father--on that which there mangled lies? That voice!--O merciful Heaven!--'tis the child's, and he calls my name! I hear, but I cannot see him, for my eyes are filled with flame.

I knew no more that night, sir, for I fell, as I heard the boy; The place reeled round, and I fainted,--swooned with the sudden joy. But I heard on the Christmas morning, when I woke in my own warm bed With Alice's arms around me, and a strange wild dream in my head, That she'd come by the early local, being anxious about the lad, And had seen him there on the metals, and the sight nigh drove her mad-- She had seen him just as the engine of the Limited closed my view, And she leapt on the line and saved him just as the mail dashed through.

She was back in the train in a second, and both were safe and sound; The moment they stopped at the station she ran here, and I was found With my eyes like a madman's glaring, and my face a ghastly white: I heard the boy, and I fainted, and I hadn't my wits that night. Who told me to do my duty? What voice was that on the wind? Was it fancy that brought it to me? or were there God's lips behind? If I hadn't 'a' done my duty--had I ventured to disobey-- My bonny boy and his mother might have died by my hand that day.

_George R. Sims._

Hark, Hark! the Lark

_(From "Cymbeline")_

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise!
Arise, arise!

_William Shakespeare._

Tommy's Prayer

In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came, Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate, and lame; He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was born Dragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn.

He was six, was little Tommy, 'twas just five years ago Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so. He had never known the comfort of a mother's tender care, But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear.

There he lay within the cellar, from the morning till the night, Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, nought to make his dull life bright; Not a single friend to love him, not a loving thing to love-- For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above.

'Twas a quiet, summer evening, and the alley, too, was still; Tommy's little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till, Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street, Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and sweet.

Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing came-- Oh! that he could see the singer! How he wished he wasn't lame. Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound, And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found.

'Twas a maiden rough and rugged, hair unkempt, and naked feet, All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat; "So yer called me," said the maiden, "wonder wot yer wants o' me; Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?"

"My name's Tommy; I'm a cripple, and I want to hear you sing, For it makes me feel so happy--sing me something, anything," Jessie laughed, and answered smiling, "I can't stay here very long, But I'll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the 'Glory Song.'"

Then she sang to him of heaven, pearly gates, and streets of gold, Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold; But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end, And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their Friend.

Oh! how Tommy's eyes did glisten as he drank in every word As it fell from "Singing Jessie"--was it true, what he had heard? And so anxiously he asked her, "Is there really such a place?" And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face.

"Tommy, you're a little heathen; why, it's up beyond the sky, And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die." "Then," said Tommy, "tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love, When I'm down in this 'ere cellar, and He's up in heaven above?"

So the little ragged maiden who had heard at Sunday School All about the way to heaven, and the Christian's golden rule, Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love, and how to pray, Then she sang a "Song of Jesus," kissed his cheek and went away.

Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold, Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold; And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room, For the joy in Tommy's bosom could disperse the deepest gloom.

"Oh! if I could only see it," thought the cripple, as he lay, "Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think I'll try and pray"; So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes, And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies:--

"Gentle Jesus, please forgive me as I didn't know afore, That yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor, And I never heard of heaven till that Jessie came to-day And told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray.

"Yer can see me, can't yer, Jesus? Jessie told me that yer could, And I somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good; And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die, In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky.

"Lord, I'm only just a cripple, and I'm no use here below, For I heard my mother whisper, she'd be glad if I could go; And I'm cold and hungry sometimes; and I feel so lonely, too, Can't yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to heaven along o' you?

"Oh! I'd be so good and patient, and I'd never cry or fret, And your kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget; I would love you all I know of, and would never make a noise-- Can't you find me just a corner, where I'll watch the other boys?

"Oh! I think yer'll do it, Jesus, something seems to tell me so, For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go, How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright! Come and fetch me, won't yer, Jesus? Come and fetch me home tonight!"

Tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul's desire, And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire; Then he turned towards his corner and lay huddled in a heap, Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep.

Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have seen his little face As he lay there in the corner, in that damp, and noisome place; For his countenance was shining like an angel's, fair and bright, And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, heavenly light.

He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged singing girl, He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl; But he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there, Simply trusting in the Saviour, and his kind and tender care.

In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy, She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy, And she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple's face was cold-- He had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold.

Tommy's prayer had soon been answered, and the Angel Death had come To remove him from his cellar, to his bright and heavenly home Where sweet comfort, joy, and gladness never can decrease or end, And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sovereign and his Friend.

_John F. Nicholls._

The Two Pictures

It was a bright and lovely summer's morn, Fair bloomed the flowers, the birds sang softly sweet, The air was redolent with perfumed balm, And Nature scattered, with unsparing hand, Her loveliest graces over hill and dale. An artist, weary of his narrow room Within the city's pent and heated walls, Had wandered long amid the ripening fields, Until, remembering his neglected themes, He thought to turn his truant steps toward home. These led him through a rustic, winding lane, Lined with green hedge-rows spangled close with flowers, And overarched by trees of noblest growth. But when at last he reached the farther end Of this sweet labyrinth, he there beheld A vision of such pure, pathetic grace, That weariness and haste were both obscured, It was a child--a young and lovely child With eyes of heavenly hue, bright golden hair, And dimpled hands clasped in a morning prayer, Kneeling beside its youthful mother's knee. Upon that baby brow of spotless snow, No single trace of guilt, or pain, or woe, No line of bitter grief or dark despair, Of envy, hatred, malice, worldly care, Had ever yet been written. With bated breath, And hand uplifted as in warning, swift, The artist seized his pencil, and there traced In soft and tender lines that image fair: Then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word, A word of holiest import--Innocence.

Years fled and brought with them a subtle change, Scattering Time's snow upon the artist's brow, But leaving there the laurel wreath of fame, While all men spake in words of praise his name; For he had traced full many a noble work Upon the canvas that had touched men's souls, And drawn them from the baser things of earth, Toward the light and purity of heaven. One day, in tossing o'er his folio's leaves, He chanced upon the picture of the child, Which he had sketched that bright morn long before, And then forgotten. Now, as he paused to gaze, A ray of inspiration seemed to dart Straight from those eyes to his. He took the sketch, Placed it before his easel, and with care That seemed but pleasure, painted a fair theme, Touching and still re-touching each bright lineament, Until all seemed to glow with life divine-- 'Twas innocence personified. But still The artist could not pause. He needs must have A meet companion for his fairest theme; And so he sought the wretched haunts of sin, Through miry courts of misery and guilt, Seeking a face which at the last was found. Within a prison cell there crouched a man-- Nay, rather say a fiend--with countenance seamed And marred by all the horrid lines of sin; Each mark of degradation might be traced, And every scene of horror he had known, And every wicked deed that he had done, Were visibly written on his lineaments; Even the last, worst deed of all, that left him here, A parricide within a murderer's cell.

Here then the artist found him; and with hand Made skillful by its oft-repeated toil, Transferred unto his canvas that vile face, And also wrote beneath it just one word, A word of darkest import--it was Vice. Then with some inspiration not his own, Thinking, perchance, to touch that guilty heart, And wake it to repentance e'er too late, The artist told the tale of that bright morn, Placed the two pictured faces side by side, And brought the wretch before them. With a shriek That echoed through those vaulted corridors, Like to the cries that issue from the lips Of souls forever doomed to woe, Prostrate upon the stony floor he fell, And hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish. "I was that child once--I, yes, even I-- In the gracious years forever fled, That innocent and happy little child! These very hands were raised to God in prayer, That now are reddened with a mother's blood. Great Heaven! can such things be? Almighty power, Send forth Thy dart and strike me where I lie!"

He rose, laid hold upon the artist's arm And grasped it with demoniac power, The while he cried: "Go forth, I say, go forth And tell my history to the tempted youth. I looked upon the wine when it was red, I heeded not my mother's piteous prayers, I heeded not the warnings of my friends, But tasted of the wine when it was red, Until it left a demon in my heart That led me onward, step by step, to this, This horrible place from which my body goes Unto the gallows, and my soul to hell!" He ceased as last. The artist turned and fled; But even as he went, unto his ears Were borne the awful echoes of despair, Which the lost wretch flung on the empty air, Cursing the demon that had brought him there.

The Two Kinds of People

There are two kinds of people on earth to-day; Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.

Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood, The good are half bad and the bad are half good.

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth, You must first know the state of his conscience and health.

Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span, Who puts on vain airs is not counted a man.

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears.

No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean, Are the people who lift and the people who lean.

Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses Are always divided in just these two classes.

And, oddly enough, you will find, too, I ween, There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.

In which class are you? Are you easing the load Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?

Or are you a leaner, who lets others share Your portion of labor, and worry and care?

_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._

The Sin of Omission

It isn't the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone
That gives you a bit of a heartache
At the setting of the sun.
The tender word forgotten;
The letter you did not write;
The flowers you did not send, dear,
Are your haunting ghosts at night.

The stone you might have lifted
Out of a brother's way;
The bit of hearthstone counsel
You were hurried too much to say;
The loving touch of the hand, dear,
The gentle, winning tone
Which you had no time nor thought for
With troubles enough of your own.

Those little acts of kindness
So easily out of mind,
Those chances to be angels
Which we poor mortals find--
They come in night and silence,
Each sad, reproachful wraith,
When hope is faint and flagging
And a chill has fallen on faith.

For life is all too short, dear,
And sorrow is all too great,
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarries until too late;
And it isn't the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone
Which gives you a bit of a heartache
At the setting of the sun,

_Margaret E. Sangster._

The Bible My Mother Gave Me

Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love, Tho' the spirit that first taught me has winged its flight above. Yet, with no legacy but this, she has left me wealth untold, Yea, mightier than earth's riches, or the wealth of Ophir's gold.

When a child, I've kneeled beside her, in our dear old cottage home, And listened to her reading from that prized and cherished tome, As with low and gentle cadence, and a meek and reverent mien, God's word fell from her trembling lips, like a presence felt and seen.

Solemn and sweet the counsels that spring from its open page, Written with all the fervor and zeal of the prophet age; Full of the inspiration of the holy bards who trod, Caring not for the scoffer's scorn, if they gained a soul to God.

Men who in mind were godlike, and have left on its blazoned scroll Food for all coming ages in its manna of the soul; Who, through long days of anguish, and nights devoid of ease, Still wrote with the burning pen of faith its higher mysteries.

I can list that good man yonder, in the gray church by the brook, Take up that marvelous tale of love, of the story and the Book, How through the twilight glimmer, from the earliest dawn of time, It was handed down as an heirloom, in almost every clime.

How through strong persecution and the struggle of evil days The precious light of the truth ne'er died, but was fanned to a beacon blaze. How in far-off lands, where the cypress bends o'er the laurel bough, It was hid like some precious treasure, and they bled for its truth, as now.

He tells how there stood around it a phalanx none could break, Though steel and fire and lash swept on, and the cruel wave lapt the stake; How dungeon doors and prison bars had never damped the flame, But raised up converts to the creed whence Christian comfort came.

That housed in caves and caverns--how it stirs our Scottish blood!-- The Convenanters, sword in hand, poured forth the crimson flood; And eloquent grows the preacher, as the Sabbath sunshine falls, Thro' cobwebbed and checkered pane, a halo on the walls!

That still 'mid sore disaster, in the heat and strife of doubt, Some bear the Gospel oriflamme, and one by one march out, Till forth from heathen kingdoms, and isles beyond the sea, The glorious tidings of the Book spread Christ's salvation free.

So I cling to my mother's Bible, in its torn and tattered boards, As one of the greatest gems of art, and the king of all other hoards, As in life the true consoler, and in death ere the Judgment call, The guide that will lead to the shining shore, where the Father waits for all.

Lincoln, the Man of the People

This poem was read by Edwin Markham at the dedication of the Lincoln Memorial at Washington, D.C., May 30, 1922. Before reading, he said: "No oration, no poem, can rise to the high level of this historic hour. Nevertheless, I venture to inscribe this revised version of my Lincoln poem to this stupendous Lincoln Memorial, to this far-shining monument of remembrance, erected in immortal marble to the honor of our deathless martyr--the consecrated statesman, the ideal American, the ever-beloved friend of humanity."

When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need, She took the tried clay of the common road-- Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dasht through it all a strain of prophecy; Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; Then mixt a laughter with the serious stuff. Into the shape she breathed a flame to light That tender, tragic, ever-changing face; And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers, Moving--all husht--behind the mortal veil. Here was a man to hold against the world, A man to match the mountains and the sea.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The smack and tang of elemental things; The rectitude and patience of the cliff; The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves; The friendly welcome of the wayside well; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The secrecy of streams that make their way Under the mountain to the rifted rock; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking flower As to the great oak flaring to the wind-- To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West, He drank the valorous youth of a new world. The strength of virgin forests braced his mind, The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. His words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughts Were roots that firmly gript the granite truth.

Up from log cabin to the Capitol, One fire was on his spirit, one resolve-- To send the keen ax to the root of wrong, Clearing a free way for the feet of God, The eyes of conscience testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man. He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow; The grip that swung the ax in Illinois Was on the pen that set a people free.

So came the Captain with the mighty heart; And when the judgment thunders split the house, Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest, He held the ridgepole up, and spikt again The rafters of the Home. He held his place-- Held the long purpose like a growing tree-- Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

_Edwin Markham._

Our Own

If I had known in the morning
How wearily all the day
The words unkind
Would trouble my mind
I said when you went away,
I had been more careful, darling,
Nor given you needless pain;
But we vex "our own"
With look and tone
We may never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening
You may give me the kiss of peace,
Yet it might be
That never for me,
The pain of the heart should cease.
How many go forth in the morning,
That never come home at night!
And hearts have broken
For harsh words spoken
That sorrow can ne'er set right.

We have careful thoughts for the stranger,
And smiles for the sometime guest,
But oft for "our own"
The bitter tone,
Though we love "our own" the best.
Ah, lips with the curve impatient!
Ah, brow with that look of scorn!
'Twere a cruel fate,
Were the night too late
To undo the work of morn.

_Margaret E. Sangster._

How Salvator Won

The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone, More proud than a monarch, who sits on a throne. I am but a jockey, but shout upon shout Went up from the people who watched me ride out. And the cheers that rang forth from that warm-hearted crowd Were as earnest as those to which monarch e'er bowed. My heart thrilled with pleasure so keen it was pain, As I patted my Salvator's soft, silken mane; And a sweet shiver shot from his hide to my hand As we passed by the multitude down to the stand. The great wave of cheering came billowing back As the hoofs of brave Tenny ran swift down the track, And he stood there beside us, all bone and all muscle, Our noble opponent, well trained for the tussle That waited us there on the smooth, shining course. My Salvator, fair to the lovers of horse As a beautiful woman is fair to man's sight-- Pure type of the thoroughbred, clean-limbed and bright-- Stood taking the plaudits as only his due And nothing at all unexpected or new.

And then there before us as the bright flag is spread, There's a roar from the grand stand, and Tenny's ahead; At the sound of the voices that shouted, "A go!" He sprang like an arrow shot straight from the bow. I tighten the reins on Prince Charlie's great son; He is off like a rocket, the race is begun. Half-way down the furlong their heads are together, Scarce room 'twixt their noses to wedge in a feather; Past grand stand, and judges, in neck-to-neck strife, Ah, Salvator, boy, 'tis the race of your life! I press my knees closer, I coax him, I urge, I feel him go out with a leap and a surge; I see him creep on, inch by inch, stride by stride, While backward, still backward, falls Tenny beside. We are nearing the turn, the first quarter is passed-- 'Twixt leader and chaser the daylight is cast; The distance elongates; still Tenny sweeps on, As graceful and free-limbed and swift as a fawn, His awkwardness vanished, his muscles all strained-- A noble opponent well born and well trained.

I glanced o'er my shoulder; ha! Tenny! the cost Of that one second's flagging will be--the race lost; One second's yielding of courage and strength, And the daylight between us has doubled its length. The first mile is covered, the race is mine--no! For the blue blood of Tenny responds to a blow; He shoots through the air like a ball from a gun, And the two lengths between us are shortened to one. My heart is contracted, my throat feels a lump, For Tenny's long neck is at Salvator's rump; And now with new courage grown bolder and bolder, I see him once more running shoulder to shoulder. With knees, hands and body I press my grand steed; I urge him, I coax him, I pray him to heed! O Salvator! Salvator! List to my calls, For the blow of my whip will hurt both if it falls. There's a roar from the crowd like the ocean in storm, As close to the saddle leaps Tenny's great form; One mighty plunge, and with knee, limb and hand, I lift my horse first by a nose past the stand. We are under the string now--the great race is done-- And Salvator, Salvator, Salvator won!

Cheer, hoary-headed patriarchs; cheer loud, I say; 'Tis the race of a century witnessed to-day! Though ye live twice the space that's allotted to men Ye never will see such a grand race again. Let the shouts of the populace roar like the surf, For Salvator, Salvator, king of the turf, He has rivaled the record of thirteen long years; He has won the first place in the vast line of peers. 'Twas a neck-to-neck contest, a grand, honest race, And even his enemies grant him his place. Down into the dust let old records be hurled, And hang out 2:05 to the gaze of the world!

_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._

I Got to Go to School

I'd like to hunt the Injuns 't roam the boundless plain! I'd like to be a pirate an' plow the ragin' main! An' capture some big island, in lordly pomp to rule; But I just can't be nothin' cause I got to go to school.

'Most all great men, so I have read, has been the ones 'at got The least amount o' learnin' by a flickerin' pitch pine knot; An' many a darin' boy like me grows up to be a fool, An' never 'mounts to nothin' 'cause he's got to go to school.

I'd like to be a cowboy an' rope the Texas steer! I'd like to be a sleuth-houn' or a bloody buccaneer! An' leave the foe to welter where their blood had made a pool; But how can I git famous? 'cause I got to go to school.

I don't see how my parents kin make the big mistake. O' keepin' down a boy like me 'at's got a name to make! It ain't no wonder boys is bad, an' balky as a mule; Life ain't worth livin' if you've got to waste your time in school.

I'd like to be regarded as "The Terror of the Plains"! I'd like to hear my victims shriek an' clank their prison chains! I'd like to face the enemy with gaze serene an' cool, An' wipe 'em off the earth, but pshaw! I got to go to school.

What good is 'rithmetic an' things, exceptin' jest for girls, Er them there Fauntleroys 'at wears their hair in pretty curls? An' if my name is never seen on hist'ry's page, why, you'll Remember 'at it's all because I got to go to school.

_Nixon Waterman._

With Little Boy Blue

(_Written after the death of Eugene Field._)

Silent he watched them--the soldiers and dog--
Tin toys on the little armchair,
Keeping their tryst through the slow going years
For the hand that had stationed them there;
And he said that perchance the dust and the rust
Hid the griefs that the toy friends knew,
And his heart watched with them all the dark years,
Yearning ever for Little Boy Blue.

Three mourners they were for Little Boy Blue,
Three ere the cold winds had begun;
Now two are left watching--the soldier and dog;
But for him the vigil is done.
For him too, the angel has chanted a song
A song that is lulling and true.
He has seen the white gates of the mansions of rest,
Thrown wide by his Little Boy Blue.

God sent not the Angel of Death for his soul--
Not the Reaper who cometh for all--
But out of the shadows that curtained the day
He heard his lost little one call,
Heard the voice that he loved, and following fast,
Passed on to the far-away strand;
And he walks the streets of the City of Peace,
With Little Boy Blue by the hand.

_Sarah Beaumont Kennedy._

The Charge of Pickett's Brigade

In Gettysburg at break of day
The hosts of war are held in leash
To gird them for the coming fray,
E'er brazen-throated monsters flame,
Mad hounds of death that tear and maim.
Ho, boys in blue,
And gray so true,
Fate calls to-day the roll of fame.

On Cemetery Hill was done
The clangor of four hundred guns;
Through drifting smoke the morning sun
Shone down a line of battled gray
Where Pickett's waiting soldiers lay.
Virginians all,
Heed glory's call,
You die at Gettysburg to-day,

'Twas Pickett's veteran brigade,
Great Lee had named; he knew them well;
Oft had their steel the battle stayed.
O warriors of the eagle plume,
Fate points for you the hour of doom.
Ring rebel yell,
War cry and knell!
The stars, to-night, will set in gloom.

O Pickett's men, ye sons of fate,
Awe-stricken nations bide your deeds.
For you the centuries did wait,
While wrong had writ her lengthening scroll
And God had set the judgment roll.
A thousand years
Shall wait in tears,
And one swift hour bring to goal.

The charge is done, a cause is lost;
But Pickett's men heed not the din
Of ragged columns battle tost;
For fame enshrouds them on the field,
And pierced, Virginia, is thy shield.
But stars and bars
Shall drape thy scars;
No cause is lost till honor yield.

Hullo

W'en you see a man in woe, Walk right up and say "Hullo!" Say "Hullo" and "How d'ye do? How's the world a-usin' you?" Slap the fellow on the back; Bring your hand down with a whack; Walk right up, and don't go slow; Grin an' shake, an' say "Hullo!"

Is he clothed in rags? Oh! sho; Walk right up an' say "Hullo!" Rags is but a cotton roll Jest for wrappin' up a soul; An' a soul is worth a true Hale and hearty "How d'ye do?" Don't wait for the crowd to go, Walk right up and say "Hullo!"

When big vessels meet, they say They saloot an' sail away. Jest the same are you an' me Lonesome ships upon a sea; Each one sailin' his own log, For a port behind the fog; Let your speakin' trumpet blow; Lift your horn an' cry "Hullo!"

Say "Hullo!" an' "How d'ye do?" Other folks are good as you. W'en you leave your house of clay Wanderin' in the far away, W'en you travel through the strange Country t'other side the range, Then the souls you've cheered will know Who ye be, an' say "Hullo."

_Sam Walter Foss._

The Women of Mumbles Head

Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men. It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead, Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head! Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south; Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth; It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way, And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.

Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone, In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone; It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, or when There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men. When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he! Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said, Had saved some hundred lives apiece--at a shilling or so a head!

So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar, Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons! Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns; Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love; Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above! Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed, For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head? It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew! And it snapped the' rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew;

And then the anchor parted--'twas a tussle to keep afloat! But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat. Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high! "God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye"! Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves, But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.

Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, And saw in the boiling breakers a figure--a fighting form; It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath; It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death; It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships. They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and more, Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore.

There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land, 'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, But what are a couple of women with only a man to save? What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir--and then Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent, Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!

"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls, come back!" As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack. "Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea, "If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!"

"Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale, "You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!" "_Come back_!" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town, We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!"

"Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand! Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land! Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more, And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore." Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest-- Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head!"

_Clement Scott._

The Fireman's Story

"'A frightful face'? Wal, yes, yer correct;
That man on the enjine thar
Don't pack the han'somest countenance--
Every inch of it sportin' a scar;
But I tell you, pard, thar ain't money enough
Piled up in the National Banks
To buy that face, nor a single scar--
(No, I never indulges. Thanks.)

"Yes, Jim is an old-time engineer,
An' a better one never war knowed!
Bin a runnin' yar since the fust machine
War put on the Quincy Road;
An' thar ain't a galoot that pulls a plug
From Maine to the jumpin' off place
That knows more about the big iron hoss
Than him with the battered-up face.

"'Got hurt in a smash-up'? No,'twar done
In a sort o' legitimate way;
He got it a-trying to save a gal
Up yar on the road last May.
I heven't much time for to spin you the yarn,
For we pull out at two-twenty-five--
Just wait till I climb up an' toss in some coal,
So's to keep old '90' alive.

"Jim war pullin' the Burlin'ton passenger then,
Left Quincy a half an hour late,
An' war skimmin' along purty lively, so's not
To lay out No. 21 freight.
The '90' war more than whoopin' 'em up
An' a-quiverin' in every nerve!
When all to once Jim yelled 'Merciful God!'
As she shoved her sharp nose 'round a curve.

"I jumped to his side o' the cab, an' ahead
'Bout two hundred paces or so
Stood a gal on the track, her hands raised aloft,
An' her face jist as white as the snow;
It seems she war so paralyzed with the fright
That she couldn't move for'ard or back,
An' when Jim pulled the whistle she fainted an' fell
Right down in a heap on the track!

"I'll never forgit till the day o' my death
The look that cum over Jim's face;
He throw'd the old lever cl'r back like a shot
So's to slacken the '90's' wild pace,
Then let on the air brakes as quick as a flash,
An' out through the window he fled,
An' skinned 'long the runnin' board cla'r in front,
An' lay on the pilot ahead.

"Then just as we reached whar the poor creetur lay,
He grabbed a tight hold, of her arm,
An' raised her right up so's to throw her one side
Out o' reach of danger an' harm.
But somehow he slipped an' fell with his head
On the rail as he throw'd the young lass,
An' the pilot in strikin' him, ground up his face
In a frightful and horrible mass!

"As soon as we stopped I backed up the train
To that spot where the poor fellow lay,
An' there sot the gal with his head in her lap
An' wipin' the warm blood away.
The tears rolled in torrents right down from her eyes,
While she sobbed like her heart war all broke--
I tell you, my friend, such a sight as that 'ar
Would move the tough heart of an oak!

"We put Jim aboard an' ran back to town,
What for week arter week the boy lay
A-hoverin' right in the shadder o' death,
An' that gal by his bed every day.
But nursin' an' doctorin' brought him around--
Kinder snatched him right outer the grave--
His face ain't so han'some as 'twar, but his heart
Remains just as noble an' brave.

* * * * *

"Of course thar's a sequel--as story books say--
He fell dead in love, did this Jim;
But hadn't the heart to ax her to have
Sich a batter'd-up rooster as him.
She know'd how he felt, and last New Year's day
War the fust o' leap year as you know,
So she jist cornered Jim an' proposed on the spot,
An' you bet he didn't say no.

"He's building a house up thar on the hill,
An' has laid up a snug pile o' cash,
The weddin's to be on the first o' next May--
Jist a year from the day o' the smash--
The gal says he risked his dear life to save hers,
An' she'll just turn the tables about,
An' give him the life that he saved--thar's the bell.
Good day, sir, we're goin' to pull out."

Little Willie's Hearing

Sometimes w'en I am playin' with some fellers 'at I knows, My ma she comes to call me, 'cause she wants me, I surpose: An' then she calls in this way: "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!" An' you'd be surprised to notice how dretful deef I be; An' the fellers 'at are playin' they keeps mos' orful still, W'ile they tell me, jus' in whispers: "Your ma is callin', Bill." But my hearin' don't git better, so fur as I can see, W'ile my ma stan's there a-callin': "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!"

An' soon my ma she gives it up, an' says: "Well, I'll allow It's mighty cur'us w'ere that boy has got to, anyhow"; An' then I keep on playin' jus' the way I did before-- I know if she was wantin' much she'd call to me some more. An' purty soon she comes agin an' says: "Willie! Willee-e-ee!" But my hearin's jus' as hard as w'at it useter be. If a feller has good judgment, an' uses it that way, He can almos' allers manage to git consid'ble play.

But jus' w'ile I am playin', an' prob'ly I am "it," They's somethin' diff'rent happens, an' I have to up, an' git, Fer my pa comes to the doorway, an' he interrup's our glee; He jus' says, "William Henry!" but that's enough fer me. You'd be surprised to notice how quickly I can hear W'en my pa says, "William Henry!" but never "Willie, dear!" Fer though my hearin's middlin' bad to hear the voice of ma, It's apt to show improvement w'en the callin' comes from pa.

The Service Flag

Dear little flag in the window there, Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer, Child of Old Glory, born with a star-- Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!

Blue is your star in its field of white, Dipped in the red that was born of fight; Born of the blood that our forebears shed To raise your mother, The Flag, o'er-head.

And now you've come, in this frenzied day, To speak from a window--to speak and say: "I am the voice of a soldier son, Gone, to be gone till the victory's won.

"I am the flag of The Service, sir: The flag of his mother--I speak for her Who stands by my window and waits and fears, But hides from the others her unwept tears.

"I am the flag of the wives who wait For the safe return of a martial mate-- A mate gone forth where the war god thrives, To save from sacrifice other men's wives.

"I am the flag of the sweethearts true; The often unthought of--the sisters, too. I am the flag of a mother's son, Who won't come home till the victory's won!"

Dear little flag in the window there, Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer, Child of Old Glory, born with a star-- Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!

_William Herschell._

Flying Jim's Last Leap

(_The hero of this tale had once been a famous trapeze performer._)