Chapter IX: Book TWO (7)

Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen. Helped by Bridget's willing hands, Bustled Hannah, deftly mixing pies, for ready waiting pans. Little Flossie flitted round them, and her curling, floating hair Glinted gold-like, gleamed and glistened, in the sparkling sunlit air; Slouched a figure o'er the lawn; a man so wretched and forlore, Tattered, grim, so like a beggar, ne'er had trod that path before. His shirt was torn, his hat was gone, bare and begrimed his knees, Face with blood and dirt disfigured, elbows peeped from out his sleeves. Rat-tat-tat, upon the entrance, brought Aunt Hannah to the door; Parched lips humbly plead for water, as she scanned his misery o'er; Wrathful came the dame's quick answer; made him cower, shame, and start Out of sight, despairing, saddened, hurt and angry to the heart. "_Drink_! You've had enough, you rascal. Faugh! The smell now makes me sick, Move, you thief! Leave now these grounds, sir, or our dogs will help you quick." Then the man with dragging footsteps hopeless, wishing himself dead, Crept away from sight of plenty, starved in place of being fed, Wandered farther from the mansion, till he reached a purling brook, Babbling, trilling broken music by a green and shady nook, Here sweet Flossie found him fainting; in her hands were food and drink; Pale like death lay he before her, yet the child-heart did not shrink; Then the rags from off his forehead, she with dainty hands offstripped, In the brooklet's rippling waters, her own lace-trimmed 'kerchief dipped; Then with sweet and holy pity, which, within her, did not daunt, Bathed the blood and grime-stained visage of that sin-soiled son of want. Wrung she then the linen cleanly, bandaged up the wound again Ere the still eyes opened slowly; white lips murmuring, "Am I sane?" "Look, poor man, here's food and drink. Now thank our God before you take." Paused he mute and undecided, while deep sobs his form did shake With an avalanche of feeling, and great tears came rolling down O'er a face unused to showing aught except a sullen frown; That "our God" unsealed a fountain his whole life had never known, When that human angel near him spoke of her God as his own. "Is it 'cause my aunty grieved you?" Quickly did the wee one ask. "I'll tell you my little verse then, 'tis a holy Bible task, It may help you to forgive her: 'Love your enemies and those Who despitefully may use you; love them whether friends or foes!'"

Then she glided from his vision, left him prostrate on the ground Conning o'er and o'er that lesson--with a grace to him new found. Sunlight filtering through green branches as they wind-wave dance and dip, Finds a prayer his mother taught him, trembling on his crime-stained lip. Hist! a step, an angry mutter, and the owner of the place, Gentle Flossie's haughty father, and the tramp stood face to face! "Thieving rascal! you've my daughter's 'kerchief bound upon your brow; Off with it, and cast it down here. Come! be quick about it now." As the man did not obey him, Flossie's father lashed his cheek With a riding-whip he carried; struck him hard and cut him deep. Quick the tramp bore down upon him, felled him, o'er him where he lay Raised a knife to seek his life-blood. Then there came a thought to stay All his angry, murderous impulse, caused the knife to shuddering fall: "He's her father; love your en'mies; 'tis 'our God' reigns over all." At midnight, lambent, lurid flames light up the sky with fiercest beams, Wild cries, "Fire! fire!" ring through the air, and red like blood each flame now seems; They faster grow, they higher throw weird, direful arms which ever lean About the gray stone mansion old. Now roars the wind to aid the scene; The flames yet higher, wilder play. A shudder runs through all around-- Distinctly as in light of day, at topmost window from the ground Sweet Flossie stands, her golden hair enhaloed now by firelit air. Loud rang the father's cry: "O God! my child! my child! Will no one dare For her sweet sake the flaming stair?" Look, one steps forth with muffled face, Leaps through the flames with fleetest feet, on trembling ladder runs a race With life and death--the window gains. Deep silence falls on all around, Till bursts aloud a sobbing wail. The ladder falls with crashing sound-- A flaming, treacherous mass. O God! she was so young and he so brave! Look once again. See! see! on highest roof he stands--the fiery wave Fierce rolling round--his arms enclasp the child--God help him yet to save! "For life or for eternal sleep," He cries, then makes a vaulting leap, A tree branch catches, with sure aim, And by the act proclaims his name; The air was rent, the cheers rang loud, A rough voice cried from out the crowd, "Huzza, my boys, well we know him, None dares that leap but Flying Jim!" A jail-bird--outlaw--thief, indeed, Yet o'er them all takes kingly lead. "Do now your worst," his gasping cry, "Do all your worst, I'm doomed to die; I've breathed the flames, 'twill not be long"; Then hushed all murmurs through the throng. With reverent hands they bore him where The summer evening's cooling air Came softly sighing through the trees; The child's proud father on his knees Forgiveness sought of God and Jim, Which dying lips accorded him. A mark of whip on white face stirred To gleaming scarlet at his words. "Forgive them all who use you ill, She taught me that and I fulfill; I would her hand might touch my face, Though she's so pure and I so base." Low Flossie bent and kissed the brow, With smile of bliss transfigured now: Death, the angel, sealed it there, 'Twas sent to God with "mother's prayer."

_Emma Dunning Banks._

Betty and the Bear

In a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say, A great big black grizzly trotted one day, And seated himself on the hearths and began To lap the contents of a two gallon pan Of milk and potatoes,--an excellent meal,-- And then looked, about to see what he could steal. The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep, And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there, And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear.

So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering frau, "Thar's a bar in the kitchen as big's a cow!" "A what?" "Why, a bar!" "Well murder him, then!" "Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in." So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized. While her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed, As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows. Now on his forehead, and now on his nose, Her man through the key-hole kept shouting within, "Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agin, Now poke with the poker, and' poke his eyes out." So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty alone At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone.

Now when the old man saw the bear was no more, He ventured to poke his nose out of the door, And there was the grizzly stretched on the floor, Then off to the neighbors he hastened, to tell All the wonderful things that that morning befell; And he published the marvellous story afar, How "me and my Betty jist slaughtered a bar! O yes, come and see, all the neighbors they seed it, Come and see what we did, me and Betty, we did it."

The Graves of a Household

They grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee;---
Their graves are severed, far and wide,
By mount, and stream and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight--
Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forest of the West,
By a dark stream is laid--
The Indian knows his place of rest
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one--
He lies where pearls lie deep;
_He_ was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain:
He wrapped his colors round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one--o'er _her_ the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers--
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around the parent knee.

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth!--
Alas! for love, if _thou_ wert all,
And naught beyond, O earth!

_Felicia Dorothea Hemans._

The Babie

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes,
Nae stockings on her feet;
Her supple ankles white as snow,
Or early blossoms sweet.
Her simple dress of sprinkled pink,
Her double, dimpled chin;
Her pucker'd lip and bonny mou',
With nae ane tooth between.
Her een sae like her mither's een,
Twa gentle, liquid things;
Her face is like an angel's face--
We're glad she has nae wings.

_Hugh Miller._

A Legend of the Northland

Away, away in the Northland,
Where the hours of the day are few,
And the nights are so long in winter,
They cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeer
To the sledges, when it snows;
And the children look like bears' cubs
In their funny, furry clothes:

They tell them a curious story--
I don't believe 't is true;
And yet you may learn a lesson
If I tell the tale to you

Once, when the good Saint Peter
Lived in the world below,
And walked about it, preaching,
Just as he did, you know;

He came to the door of a cottage,
In traveling round the earth,
Where a little woman was making cakes,
And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting,
For the day was almost done,
He asked her, from her store of cakes,
To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake,
But as it baking lay,
She looked at it, and thought it seemed
Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another,
And still a smaller one;
But it looked, when she turned it over,
As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough,
And rolled, and rolled it flat;
And baked it thin as a wafer--
But she couldn't part with that.

For she said, "My cakes that seem too small
When I eat of them myself,
Are yet too large to give away,"
So she put them on the shelf.

Then good Saint Peter grew angry,
For he was hungry and faint;
And surely such a woman
Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, "You are far too selfish
To dwell in a human form,
To have both food and shelter,
And fire to keep you warm.

"Now, you shall build as the birds do,
And shall get your scanty food
By boring, and boring, and boring,
All day in the hard dry wood,"

Then up she went through the chimney,
Never speaking a word,
And out of the top flew a woodpecker.
For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head,
And that was left the same,
Bat all the rest of her clothes were burned
Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country school boy
Has seen her in the wood;
Where she lives in the woods till this very day,
Boring and boring for food.

And this is the lesson she teaches:
Live not for yourself alone,
Lest the needs you will not pity
Shall one day be your own.

Give plenty of what is given to you,
Listen to pity's call;
Don't think the little you give is great,
And the much you get is small.

Now, my little boy, remember that,
And try to be kind and good,
When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress,
And see her scarlet hood.

You mayn't be changed to a bird, though you live
As selfishly as you can;
But you will be changed to a smaller thing--
A mean and selfish man.

_Phoebe Cary._

How Did You Die?

Did you tackle the trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide year face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face,
Its nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there--that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why, the higher the bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;
It's how did you fight--and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?

_Edmund Vance Cooke._

The Children

When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And the school for the day is dismissed,
And the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good-night and be kissed,--
Oh, the little white arms that encircle
My neck in a tender embrace!
Oh, the smiles that are halos of Heaven,
Shedding sunshine and love on my face!

And when they, are gone, I sit dreaming
Of my childhood, too lovely to last;
Of love that my heart will remember
When it wakes to the pulse of the past;
Ere the world and its wickedness made me
A partner of sorrow and sin;
When the glory of God was about me,
And the glory of gladness within.

Oh, my heart grows as weak as a woman's
And the fountains of feeling will flow,
When I think of the paths, steep and stony
Where the feet of the dear ones must go.
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,
Of the tempests of fate blowing wild--
Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households,
They are angels of God in disguise.
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
His glory still beams in their eyes:
Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven,
They have made me more manly and mild!
And I know how Jesus could liken
The Kingdom of God to a child.

Seek not a life for the dear ones
All radiant, as others have done.
But that life may have just enough shadow
To temper the glare of the sun;
I would pray God to guard them from evil,
But my prayer would bound back to myself.
Ah! A seraph may pray for a sinner,
But the sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended,
I have banished the rule of the rod;
I have taught them the goodness of Knowledge,
They have taught me the goodness of God.
My heart is a dungeon of darkness,
Where I shut them from breaking a rule;
My frown is sufficient correction,
My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the autumn
To traverse the threshold no more,
Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones
That meet me each morn at the door.
I shall miss the good-nights and the kisses,
And the gush of their innocent glee;
The group on the green and the flowers
That are brought every morning to me.

I shall miss them at morn and at evening.
Their song in the school and the street,
I shall miss the low hum of their voices
And the tramp of their delicate feet.
When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And death says the school is dismissed,
May the little ones gather around me
To bid me good-night and be kissed.

_Charles M. Dickinson._

The King and the Child

The sunlight shone on walls of stone,
And towers sublime and tall,
King Alfred sat upon his throne
Within his council hall.

And glancing o'er the splendid throng,
With grave and solemn face,
To where his noble vassals stood,
He saw a vacant place.

"Where is the Earl of Holderness?"
With anxious look, he said.
"Alas, O King!" a courtier cried,
"The noble Earl is dead!"

Before the monarch could express
The sorrow that he felt,
A soldier, with a war-worn face,
Approached the throne, and knelt.

"My sword," he said, "has ever been,
O King, at thy command,
And many a proud and haughty Dane
Has fallen by my hand.

"I've fought beside thee in the field,
And 'neath the greenwood tree;
It is but fair for thee to give
Yon vacant place to me."

"It is not just," a statesman cried,
"This soldier's prayer to hear,
My wisdom has done more for thee
Than either sword or spear.

"The victories of thy council hall
Have made thee more renown
Than all the triumphs of the field
Have given to thy crown.

"My name is known in every land,
My talents have been thine,
Bestow this Earldom, then, on me,
For it is justly mine."

Yet, while before the monarch's throne
These men contending stood,
A woman crossed the floor, who wore
The weeds of widowhood.

And slowly to King Alfred's feet
A fair-haired boy she led--
"O King, this is the rightful heir
Of Holderness," she said.

"Helpless, he comes to claim his own,
Let no man do him wrong,
For he is weak and fatherless,
And thou art just and strong."

"What strength or power," the statesman cried,
"Could such a judgement bring?
Can such a feeble child as this
Do aught for thee, O King?

"When thou hast need of brawny arms
To draw thy deadly bows,
When thou art wanting crafty men
To crush thy mortal foes."

With earnest voice the fair young boy
Replied: "I cannot fight,
But I can pray to God, O King,
And God can give thee might!"

The King bent down and kissed the child,
The courtiers turned away,
"The heritage is thine," he said,
"Let none thy right gainsay.

"Our swords may cleave the casques of men,
Our blood may stain the sod,
But what are human strength and power
Without the help of God?"

_Eugene J. Hall._

Try, Try Again

'Tis a lesson you should heed, Try, try again; If at first you don't succeed, Try, try again; Then your courage shall appear, For if you will persevere, You will conquer, never fear, Try, try again.

Once or twice though you should fail, Try, try again; If at last you would prevail, Try, try again; If we strive 'tis no disgrace Tho' we may not win the race, What should you do in that case? Try, try again.

If you find your task is hard, Try, try again; Time will bring you your reward, Try, try again; All that other folks can do, Why, with patience, may not you? Only keep this rule in view, Try, try again.

Indian Names

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

'Tis where Ontario's billow like ocean's surge is curled, Where strong Niagara's thunders wake the echo of the world; Where red Missouri bringeth rich tribute from the west, And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps on green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their cone-like cabins, that clustered o'er the vale, Have fled away like withered leaves, before the autumn's gale; But their memory liveth on your hills, their baptism on your shore, Your everlasting rivers speak their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it upon her lordly crown, And broad Ohio bears it amid his young renown; Connecticut hath wreathed it where her quiet foliage waves, And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse through all her ancient caves.

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

Ye call those red-browed brethren the insects of an hour, Crushed like the noteless worm amid the regions of their power; Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, ye break of faith the seal, But can ye from the court of heaven exclude their last appeal?

Ye see their unresisting tribes, with toilsome steps and slow, On through the trackless desert pass, a caravan of woe. Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim? Think ye the soul's blood may not cry from that far land to Him?

_Lydia H. Sigourney._

More Cruel Than War

(During the Civil War, a Southern prisoner at Camp Chase in Ohio lay sick in the hospital. He confided to a friend, Colonel Hawkins of Tennessee, that he was grieving because his fiancee, a Nashville girl, had not written to him. The soldier died soon afterward, Colonel Hawkins having promised to open and answer any mail that came for him. This poem is in reply to a letter from his friend's fiancee, in which she curtly broke the engagement.)

Your letter, lady, came too late,
For heaven had claimed its own;
Ah, sudden change--from prison bars
Unto the great white throne;
And yet I think he would have stayed,
To live for his disdain,
Could he have read the careless words
Which you have sent in vain.

So full of patience did he wait,
Through many a weary hour,
That o'er his simple soldier-faith
Not even death had power;
And you--did others whisper low
Their homage in your ear,
As though among their shallow throng
His spirit had a peer?

I would that you were by me now,
To draw the sheet aside
And see how pure the look he wore
The moment when he died.
The sorrow that you gave to him
Had left its weary trace,
As 'twere the shadow of the cross
Upon his pallid face.

"Her love," he said, "could change for me
The winter's cold to spring."
Ah, trust of fickle maiden's love,
Thou art a bitter thing!
For when these valleys, bright in May,
Once more with blossoms wave,
The northern violets shall blow
Above his humble grave.

Your dole of scanty words had been
But one more pang to bear
For him who kissed unto the last
Your tress of golden hair;
I did not put it where he said,
For when the angels come,
I would not have them find the sign
Of falsehood in the tomb.

I've read your letter, and I know
The wiles that you have wrought
To win that trusting heart of his,
And gained it--cruel thought!
What lavish wealth men sometimes give
For what is worthless all!
What manly bosoms beat for them
In folly's falsest thrall!

You shall not pity him, for now
His sorrow has an end;
Yet would that you could stand with me
Beside my fallen friend!
And I forgive you for his sake,
As he--if he be forgiven--
May e'en be pleading grace for you
Before the court of Heaven.

To-night the cold winds whistle by,
As I my vigil keep
Within the prison dead-house, where
Few mourners come to weep.
A rude plank coffin holds his form;
Yet death exalts his face,
And I would rather see him thus
Than clasped in your embrace.

To-night your home may shine with light
And ring with merry song,
And you be smiling as your soul
Had done no deadly wrong;
Your hand so fair that none would think
It penned these words of pain;
Your skin so white--would God your heart
Were half as free from stain.

I'd rather be my comrade dead
Than you in life supreme;
For yours the sinner's waking dread,
And his the martyr's dream!
Whom serve we in this life we serve
In that which is to come;
He chose his way, you--yours; let God
Pronounce the fitting doom.

_W.S. Hawkins._

Columbus

A harbor in a sunny, southern city; Ships at their anchor, riding in the lee; A little lad, with steadfast eyes, and dreamy, Who ever watched the waters lovingly.

A group of sailors, quaintly garbed and bearded; Strange tales, that snared the fancy of the child: Of far-off lands, strange beasts, and birds, and people, Of storm and sea-fight, danger-filled and wild.

And ever in the boyish soul was ringing The urging, surging challenge of the sea, To dare,--as these men dared, its wrath and danger, To learn,--as they, its charm and mystery.

Columbus, by the sunny, southern harbor, You dreamed the dreams that manhood years made true; Thank God for men--their deeds have crowned the ages-- Who once were little dreamy lads like you.

_Helen L. Smith._

The September Gale

I'm not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
The day before, my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;--
For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married folks get clashing;
There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was flashing,--
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder,--
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.

Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled,
And how the shingles rattled!
And oaks were scattered on the ground,
As if the Titans battled;
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,--
The earth was like a frying-pan.
Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying:
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a-flying;
I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,--
I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air, Alas! too late to win them; I saw them chase the clouds, as if The devil had been in them; They were my darlings and my pride, My boyhood's only riches,-- "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,-- "My breeches! O my breeches!"

That night I saw them in my dreams,
How changed from what I knew them!
The dews had steeped their faded threads,
The winds had whistled through them!
I saw the wide and ghastly rents
Where demon claws had torn them;
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years
And tailors kind and clever,
But those young pantaloons have gone
Forever and forever!
And not till fate has cut the last
Of all my earthly stitches,
This aching heart shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long-lost breeches!

_O.W. Holmes_

When My Ship Comes In

Somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing, Where the winds dance and spin; Beyond the reach of my eager hailing, Over the breakers' din; Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting, Out where the blinding fog is drifting, Out where the treacherous sand is shifting, My ship is coming in.

O, I have watched till my eyes were aching, Day after weary day; O, I have hoped till my heart was breaking While the long nights ebbed away; Could I but know where the waves had tossed her, Could I but know what storms had crossed her, Could I but know where the winds had lost her, Out in the twilight gray!

But though the storms her course have altered, Surely the port she'll win, Never my faith in my ship has faltered, I know she is coming in. For through the restless ways of her roaming, Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming, Through the white crest of the billows combing, My ship is coming in.

Beating the tides where the gulls are flying, Swiftly she's coming in: Shallows and deeps and rocks defying, Bravely she's coming in. Precious the love she will bring to bless me, Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me, In the proud purple of kings she will dress me-- My ship that is coming in.

White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming, See, where my ship comes in; At masthead and peak her colors streaming, Proudly she's sailing in; Love, hope and joy on her decks are cheering, Music will welcome her glad appearing, And my heart will sing at her stately nearing, When my ship comes in.

_Robert Jones Burdette._

Solitude

Laugh, and the world laughs with you,
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer,
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shirk from voicing care.

Rejoice and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,
There are none to decline your nectar'd wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by;
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisle of pain.

_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._

Sin of the Coppenter Man

The coppenter man said a wicked word,
When he hitted his thumb one day,
En I know what it was, because I heard,
En it's somethin' I dassent say.

He growed us a house with rooms inside it,
En the rooms is full of floors
It's my papa's house, en when he buyed it,
It was nothin' but just outdoors.

En they planted stones in a hole for seeds,
En that's how the house began,
But I guess the stones would have just growed weeds,
Except for the coppenter man.

En the coppenter man took a board and said
He'd skin it and make some curls,
En I hung 'em onto my ears en head,
En they make me look like girls.

En he squinted along one side, he did,
En he squinted the other side twice,
En then he told me, "You squint it, kid,"
'Cause the coppenter man's reel nice.

But the coppenter man said a wicked word,
When he hitted 'his thumb that day;
He said it out loud, too, 'cause I heard,
En it's something I dassent say.

En the coppenter man said it wasn't bad,
When you hitted your thumb, kerspat!
En there'd be no coppenter men to be had,
If it wasn't for words like that.

_Edmund Vance Cooke_.

The Bells of Ostend

No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end, Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend! The day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud, And rung as it passed through each murmuring shroud. My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray, My heart sighed in secret for those far away; When slowly the morning advanced from the east, The toil and the noise of the tempest had ceased; The peal from a land I ne'er saw, seemed to say, "Let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!" Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain, I thought of those eyes I should ne'er see again; I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave, And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave; I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned, Of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land. But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled to the air, Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful to bear, And I never, till life and its shadows shall end, Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!

_W.L. Bowles._

You Put No Flowers on My Papa's Grave

With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread, The flower laden ranks pass the gates of the dead; And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom, on his breast. Ended at last is the labor of love; Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move-- A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief; Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child Besought him in accents with grief rendered wild:

"Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave-- Why, why, did you pass by my dear papa's grave? I know he was poor, but as kind and as true As ever marched into the battle with you; His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot, You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not! For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there, And thought him too lowly your offerings to share. He didn't die lowly--he poured his heart's blood In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight-- And died shouting, 'Onward! for God and the right!' O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave, But you haven't put _one_ on _my_ papa's grave. If mamma were here--but she lies by his side, Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died!"

"Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief, "This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief." Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street, He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate The long line repasses, and many an eye Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh. "This way, it is--here, sir, right under this tree; They lie close together, with just room for me." "Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green mound; A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground."

"Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day; But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, 'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. I shall see papa soon and dear mamma, too-- I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true; And they will both bless you, I know, when I say How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day; How you cheered her sad heart and soothed it to rest, And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast; And when the kind angels shall call _you_ to come We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home Where death never comes his black banners to wave, And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave."

_C.E.L. Holmes._

The Two Little Stockings

Two little stockings hung side by side, Close to the fireside broad and wide. "Two?" said Saint Nick, as down he came, Loaded with toys and many a game. "Ho, ho!" said he, with a laugh of fun, "I'll have no cheating, my pretty one.

"I know who dwells in this house, my dear, There's only one little girl lives here." So he crept up close to the chimney place, And measured a sock with a sober face; Just then a wee little note fell out And fluttered low, like a bird, about.

"Aha! What's this?" said he, in surprise, As he pushed his specs up close to his eyes, And read the address in a child's rough plan. "Dear Saint Nicholas," so it began, "The other stocking you see on the wall I have hung up for a child named Clara Hall.

"She's a poor little girl, but very good, So I thought, perhaps, you kindly would Fill up her stocking, too, to-night, And help to make her Christmas bright. If you've not enough for both stockings there, Please put all in Clara's, I shall not care."

Saint Nicholas brushed a tear from his eye, And, "God bless you, darling," he said with a sigh; Then softly he blew through the chimney high A note like a bird's, as it soars on high, When down came two of the funniest mortals That ever were seen this side earth's portals.

"Hurry up," said Saint Nick, "and nicely prepare All a little girl wants where money is rare." Then, oh, what a scene there was in that room! Away went the elves, but down from the gloom Of the sooty old chimney came tumbling low A child's whole wardrobe, from head to toe.

How Santa Clans laughed, as he gathered them in, And fastened each one to the sock with a pin; Right to the toe he hung a blue dress,-- "She'll think it came from the sky, I guess," Said Saint Nicholas, smoothing the folds of blue, And tying the hood to the stocking, too.

When all the warm clothes were fastened on, And both little socks were filled and done, Then Santa Claus tucked a toy here and there, And hurried away to the frosty air, Saying, "God pity the poor, and bless the dear child Who pities them, too, on this night so wild."

The wind caught the words and bore them on high Till they died away in the midnight sky; While Saint Nicholas flew through the icy air, Bringing "peace and good will" with him everywhere.

_Sara Keables Hunt._

I Have a Rendezvous with Death

I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air-- I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath-- It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows't were better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath-- Where hushed awakenings are dear.... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.

_Alan Seeger._

Let Us Be Kind

Let us be kind; The way is long and lonely, And human hearts are asking for this blessing only-- That we be kind. We cannot know the grief that men may borrow, We cannot see the souls storm-swept by sorrow, But love can shine upon the way to-day, to-morrow-- Let us be kind.

Let us be kind; This is a wealth that has no measure, This is of Heaven and earth the highest treasure-- Let us be kind. A tender word, a smile of love in meeting, A song of hope and victory to those retreating, A glimpse of God and brotherhood while life is fleeting-- Let us be kind.

Let us be kind; Around the world the tears of time are falling, And for the loved and lost these human hearts are calling-- Let us be kind. To age and youth let gracious words be spoken; Upon the wheel of pain so many lives are broken, We live in vain who give no tender token-- Let us be kind.

Let us be kind; The sunset tints will soon be in the west, Too late the flowers are laid then on the quiet breast-- Let us be kind. And when the angel guides have sought and found us, Their hands shall link the broken ties of earth that bound us, And Heaven and home shall brighten all around us-- Let us be kind.

_W. Lomax Childress._

The Water Mill

Oh! listen to the water mill, through all the livelong day, As the clicking of the wheels wears hour by hour away; How languidly the autumn wind does stir the withered leaves As in the fields the reapers sing, while binding up their sheaves! A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast, "The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main, The sickle nevermore will reap the yellow garnered grain; The rippling stream flows on--aye, tranquil, deep and still, But never glideth back again to busy water mill; The solemn proverb speaks to all with meaning deep and vast, "The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Ah! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true, For golden years are fleeting by and youth is passing too; Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day, For time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown away; Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broadcast-- "The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by, Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh; Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word, Thoughts conceived, but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, unheard. Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast-- "The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and will, The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water mill; Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way, For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase "to-day." Possession, power and blooming health must all be lost at last-- "The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Oh! love thy God and fellowman, thyself consider last, For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past; Soon will this fight of life be o'er and earth recede from view, And heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and true. Ah! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast, "The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

_Sarah Doudney._

Why the Dog's Nose Is Always Cold

What makes the dog's nose always cold? I'll try to tell you, Curls of Gold, If you will good and quiet be, And come and stand by mamma's knee. Well, years and years and years ago-- How many I don't really know-- There came a rain on sea and shore, Its like was never seen before Or since. It fell unceasing down, Till all the world began to drown; But just before it began to pour, An old, old man--his name was Noah-- Built him an Ark, that he might save His family from a wat'ry grave; And in it also he designed To shelter two of every kind Of beast. Well, dear, when it was done, And heavy clouds obscured the sun, The Noah folks to it quickly ran, And then the animals began To gravely march along in pairs; The leopards, tigers, wolves and bears, The deer, the hippopotamuses, The rabbits, squirrels, elks, walruses, The camels, goats, cats and donkeys, The tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys, The rats, the big rhinoceroses, The dromedaries and the horses, The sheep, and mice and kangaroos, Hyenas, elephants, koodoos, And hundreds more-'twould take all day, My dear, so many names to say-- And at the very, very end Of the procession, by his friend And master, faithful dog was seen; The livelong time he'd helping been, To drive the crowd of creatures in; And now, with loud, exultant bark, He gaily sprang abroad the Ark. Alas! so crowded was the space He could not in it find a place; So, patiently, he turned about, Stood half way in, half way out, And those extremely heavy showers Descended through nine hundred hours And more; and, darling, at the close, 'Most frozen was his honest nose; And never could it lose again The dampness of that dreadful rain. And that is what, my Curls of Gold, Made all the doggies' noses cold.

The African Chief

Chained in the market-place he stood,
A man of giant frame,
Amid the gathering multitude
That shrunk to hear his name--
All stern of look and strong of limb,
His dark eye on the ground:--
And silently they gazed on him,
As on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought,
He was a captive now,
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not,
Was written on his brow.
The scars his dark broad bosom wore
Showed warrior true and brave;
A prince among his tribe before,
He could not be a slave.

Then to his conqueror he spake:
"My brother is a king;
Undo this necklace from my neck,
And take this bracelet ring,
And send me where my brother reigns,
And I will fill thy hands
With store of ivory from the plains,
And gold-dust from the sands."

"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold
Will I unbind thy chain;
That bloody hand shall never hold
The battle-spear again.
A price thy nation never gave
Shall yet be paid for thee;
For thou shalt be the Christian's slave,
In lands beyond the sea."

Then wept the warrior chief and bade
To shred his locks away;
And one by one, each heavy braid
Before the victor lay.
Thick were the platted locks, and long,
And deftly hidden there
Shone many a wedge of gold among
The dark and crispèd hair.

"Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold
Long kept for sorest need:
Take it--thou askest sums untold,
And say that I am freed.
Take it--my wife, the long, long day
Weeps by the cocoa-tree,
And my young children leave their play,
And ask in vain for me."

"I take thy gold--but I have made
Thy fetters fast and strong,
And ween that by the cocoa shade
Thy wife will wait thee long,"
Strong was the agony that shook
The captive's frame to hear,
And the proud meaning of his look
Was changed to mortal fear.

His heart was broken--crazed his brain;
At once his eye grew wild;
He struggled fiercely with his chain,
Whispered, and wept, and smiled;
Yet wore not long those fatal bands,
And once, at shut of day,
They drew him forth upon the sands,
The foul hyena's prey.

_William Cullen Bryant._

He Who Has Vision

_Where there is no vision the people perish.--Prov. 29:17._

He who has the vision sees more than you or I; He who lives the golden dream lives fourfold thereby; Time may scoff and worlds may laugh, hosts assail his thought, But the visionary came ere the builders wrought; Ere the tower bestrode the dome, ere the dome the arch, He, the dreamer of the dream, saw the vision march!

He who has the vision hears more than you may hear, Unseen lips from unseen worlds are bent unto his ear; From the hills beyond the clouds messages are borne, Drifting on the dews of dream to his heart of morn; Time awaits and ages stay till he wakes and shows Glimpses of the larger life that his vision knows!

He who has the vision feels more than you may feel, Joy beyond the narrow joy in whose realm we reel-- For he knows the stars are glad, dawn and middleday, In the jocund tide that sweeps dark and dusk away, He who has the vision lives round and all complete, And through him alone we draw dews from combs of sweet.

_Folger McKinsey._

The Children We Keep

The children kept coming one by one,
Till the boys were five and the girls were three.
And the big brown house was alive with fun,
From the basement floor to the old roof-tree,
Like garden flowers the little ones grew,
Nurtured and trained with tenderest care;
Warmed by love's sunshine, bathed in dew,
They blossomed into beauty rare.

But one of the boys grew weary one day,
And leaning his head on his mother's breast,
He said, "I am tired and cannot play;
Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest."
She cradled him close to her fond embrace,
She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song,
And rapturous love still lightened his face
When his spirit had joined the heavenly throng.

Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes,
Who stood where the "brook and the river meet,"
Stole softly away into Paradise
E'er "the river" had reached her slender feet.
While the father's eyes on the graves were bent,
The mother looked upward beyond the skies:
"Our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent;
Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise."

The years flew by, and the children began
With longings to think of the world outside,
And as each in turn became a man,
The boys proudly went from the father's side.
The girls were women so gentle and fair,
That lovers were speedy to woo and to win;
And with orange-blooms in their braided hair,
Their old home they left, new homes to begin.

So, one by one the children have gone--
The boys were five, the girls were three;
And the big brown house is gloomy and alone,
With but two old folks for its company.
They talk to each other about the past,
As they sit together at eventide,
And say, "All the children we keep at last
Are the boy and girl who in childhood died."

_Mrs. E.V. Wilson._

The Stranger on the Sill

Between broad fields of wheat and corn Is the lowly home where I was born; The peach-tree leans against the wall, And the woodbine wanders over all; There is the shaded doorway still,-- But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill.

There is the barn--and, as of yore, I can smell the hay from the open door, And see the busy swallows throng, And hear the pewee's mournful song; But the stranger comes--oh! painful proof-- His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.

There is the orchard--the very trees Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, And watched the shadowy moments run Till my life imbibed more shade than sun: The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,-- But the stranger's children are swinging there.

There bubbles the shady spring below, With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow; 'Twas there I found the calamus root, And watched the minnows poise and shoot, And heard the robin lave his wing:-- But the stranger's bucket is at the spring.

Oh, ye who daily cross the sill, Step lightly, for I love it still! And when you crowd the old barn eaves, Then think what countless harvest sheaves Have passed within' that scented door To gladden eyes that are no more.

Deal kindly with these orchard trees; And when your children crowd your knees, Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, As if old memories stirred their heart: To youthful sport still leave the swing, And in sweet reverence hold the spring.

_Thomas Buchanan Read._

The Old Man In the Model Church

Well, wife, I've found the _model_ church! I worshiped there to-day! It made me think of good old times before my hair was gray; The meetin'-house was fixed up more than they were years ago. But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show.

The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door; He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through The long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew.

I wish you'd heard that singin'; it had the old-time ring; The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!" The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled, Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold.

My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire; I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall, Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all."

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; I almost wanted to lay down this weatherbeaten form, And anchor in that blessed port forever from the storm.

_The preachin'_? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read; He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye Went flashin' long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by.