Chapter I: Part 1

POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR

Selected by READERS OF "NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS"

COMPRISING THE POEMS MOST FREQUENTLY REQUESTED FOR PUBLICATION IN THAT MAGAZINE ON THE PAGE "POEMS OUR READERS HAVE ASKED FOR"

INDEX

Abou Ben Adhem _Hunt_ 30 Abraham Lincoln _T. Taylor_ 16 All Things Bright and Beautiful _Alexander_ 41 American Flag, The _Drake_ 133 Answer to "Rock Me to Sleep" 103 Arrow and the Song, The _Longfellow_ 74 Asleep at the Switch _Hoey_ 56 At School-Close _Whittier_ 65 Aunt Tabitha 45 Autumn Woods _Bryant_ 48

Baby, The _Macdonald_ 22 Barbara Frietchie _Whittier_ 71 Barefoot Boy, The _Whittier_ 176 Bay Billy _Gassaway_ 104 Be Strong _Babcock_ 174 Better Than Gold _Smart_ 143 Bingen on the Rhine _Norton_ 121 Blue and the Gray, The _Finch_ 183 Bluebird's Song, The _E.H. Miller_ 73 Bobby Shaftoe 8 Boy and His Stomach, A 93 Boy's Song, A _Hogg_ 172 "Breathes There the Man" _Scott_ 185 Brier-Rose _Boyesen_ 144 Brook, The _Tennyson_ 162 Brown Thrush, The _Larcom_ 181 Bugle Song, The _Tennyson_ 183 Builders, The _Longfellow_ 181 Building of the Ship, The _Longfellow_ 63 Burial of Sir John Moore, The _Wolfe_ 190

Calf Path, The _Foss_ 110 Casey at the Bat _Thayer_ 100 Casey's Revenge _Wilson_ 101 Chambered Nautilus, The _Holmes_ 169 Character of the Happy Warrior _Wordsworth_ 165 Charge of the Light Brigade, The _Tennyson_ 166 Children's Hour, The _Longfellow_ 70 Children, The _Dickinson_ 53 Child's Thought of God, A _E.B. Browning_ 183 Christ in Flanders 18 Christmas Everywhere _Brooks_ 158 Cloud, The _Shelley_ 159 College Oil Cans _McGuire_ 122 Columbus _Joaquin Miller_ 83 Concord Hymn, The _Emerson_ 99 Corn Song, The _Whittier_ 171 Crossing the Bar _Tennyson_ 186 Curfew Must Not Ring To-night _Thorpe_ 24 Custer's Last Charge _Whittaker_ 91

Daffodils _Wordsworth_ 179 Darius Green and His Flying Machine _Trowbridge_ 153 Day Well Spent, A 38 Dead Pussy Cat, The _Short_ 64 Diffidence 23 Don't Give Up _P. Cary_ 182 Driving Home the Cows _Osgood_ 88 Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge 49

Each in His Own Tongue _Carruth_ 58 Echo _Saxe_ 20 Engineers Making Love _Burdette_ 21 Eternal Goodness, The _Whittier_ 87

Fable, A _Emerson_ 177 Face Upon the Floor, The _D'Arcy_ 108 Fairies, The _Allingham_ 173 Fence or an Ambulance, A _Malins_ 127 First Settler's Story, The _Carleton_ 197 First Snow-fall, The _Lowell_ 99 Flag Goes By, The _Bennett_ 45 Fountain, The _Lowell_ 186 Four-leaf Clover, The _Higginson_ 134 Frost, The _Gould_ 171

Give Us Men _Holland_ 33 God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop _Southey_ 124 Golden Keys 134 Good Night and Good Morning _Houghton_ 184 Gradatim _Holland_ 96 Green Mountain Justice, The _Reeves_ 74 Guilty or Not Guilty 22

Hand That Rules the World, The _Wallace_ 113 House by the Side of the Road, The _Foss_ 56 How Cyrus Laid the Cable _Saxe_ 58 How He Saved St. Michael's _Stansbury_ 119 Huskers, The _Whittier_ 152

If-- _Kipling_ 51 I Like Little Pussy _J. Taylor_ 178 Incident of the French Camp _R. Browning_ 182 In Flanders Fields _McCrae_ 195 In Flanders Fields: An Answer _Galbreath_ 195 In School-Days _Whittier_ 31 Inventor's Wife, An _Ewing_ 13 Invictus _Henley_ 29 Is It Worth While? _Joachim Miller_ 36 I Want to Go to Morrow 72

Jane Conquest _Milne_ 76 Jane Jones _King_ 59 Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson _Waterman_ 62 June _Lowell_ 163

Kate Ketchem _P. Cary_ 81 Kate Shelly _Hall_ 25 Katie Lee and Willie Grey 30 Kentucky Belle _Woolson_ 10 Kentucky Philosophy _Robertson_ 32 Kid Has Gone to the Colors, The _Herschell_ 9 King Robert of Sicily _Longfellow_ 147

Lady Moon _Houghton_ 185 Landing of the Pilgrims, The _Hemans_ 8 Lasca _Desprez_ 129 Last Hymn, The _Faringham_ 126 Leak in the Dike, The _P. Cary_ 187 Leap for Life, A _Morris_ 74 Leap of Roushan Beg, The _Longfellow_ 60 Leedle Yawcob Strauss _Adams_ 35 Legend of Bregenz, A _Procter_ 141 Legend of the Organ-Builder, The _Dorr_ 106 L'Envoi _Kipling_ 67 Life's Mirror _Bridges_ 37 Lips That Touch Liquor, The _Young_ 79 Little Birdie _Tennyson_ 173 Little Black-Eyed Rebel, The _Carleton_ 37 Little Boy Blue _Field_ 195 Little Brown Hands _Krout_ 71 Little Plant, The _Brown_ 192 Lost Chord, The _Procter_ 69 Love of Country _Scott_ 185 ("Breathes There the Man")

Main Truck, The _Morris_ 74 Mandalay _Kipling_ 82 Man With the Hoe, The _Markham_ 115 Maud Muller _Whittier_ 205 Miller of the Dee, The _Mackay_ 39 Moo Cow Moo, The _Cooke_ 40 Mother's Fool 31 Mothers of Men _Joaquin Miller_ 43 Mount Vernon's Bells _Slade_ 95 Mr. Finney's Turnip 96 My Love Ship _Wilcox_ 114 My Mother 138

Nathan Hale _Finch_ 78 Never Trouble Trouble _Windsor_ 33 Nobility _A. Cary_ 169 "Not Understood" 136 November _A. Cary_ 173

O Captain! My Captain _Whitman_ 7 October's Bright Blue Weather _Jackson_ 144 Old Clock on the Stairs, The _Longfellow_ 17 Old Ironsides _Holmes_ 61 Old Red Cradle, The _Grannies_ 39 O Little Town of Bethlehem _Brooks_ 168 On His Blindness _Milton_ 172 On the Shores of Tennessee _Beers_ 93 Opportunity _Ingalls_ 175 Opportunity _Malone_ 175 Order for a Picture, An _A. Cary_ 41 Our Folks _Beers_ 107 Out in the Fields _E.B. Browning_ 73 Over the Hill to the Poorhouse _Carleton_ 131 Overworked Elocutionist, The 9 Owl and the Pussy-Cat, The _Lear_ 170 Owl Critic, The _Fields_ 64

Paul Revere's Ride _Longfellow_ 193 Penny Ye Mean to Gie, The 34 Perfect Day, A _Bond_ 80 Pippa's Song _R. Browning_ 185 Plain Bob and a Job _Foley_ 44 Planting of the Apple-Tree _Bryant_ 164 Poet's Prophecy, A _Tennyson_ 7 Polonius' Advice to Laertes _Shakespeare_ 177 Poorhouse Nan _Blinn_ 116 Psalm of Life, A _Longfellow_ 61

Quality of Mercy, The _Shakespeare_ 181

Raggedy Man, The _Riley_ 203 Recessional, The _Kipling_ 86 Ride of Jennie M'Neal, The _Carleton_ 111 Riding on the Rail _Saxe_ 62 Rivers of France, The 46 Robert of Lincoln _Bryant_ 189 Robert Reese (The Overworked Elocutionist) 9 Rock Me to Sleep _Allen_ 102

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth _Clough_ 39 Second Table _Waterman_ 52 Seein' Things _Field_ 203 Seven Times One _Ingelow_ 46 Seven Times Two _Ingelow_ 47 Seven Times Three _Ingelow_ 47 Seven Times Four _Ingelow_ 48 Sheridan's Ride _Read_ 167 She Walks in Beauty _Byron_ 180 Sister and I 207 Sister's Best Feller _Lincoln_ 84 Sleep, Baby, Sleep _Elizabeth Prentiss_ 69 Smack in School, The _Palmer_ 128 Somebody's Mother _Brine_ 136 Song of Our Flag, A _Nesbit_ 89 Song of the Camp, The _B. Taylor_ 180 Song of the Sea _Cornwall_ 23 Song of the Shirt _Hood_ 157 Song: The Owl _Tennyson_ 174 So Was I _Smiley_ 36 Suppose _P. Cary_ 178 Sweet and Low _Tennyson_ 175

Tapestry Weavers, The _Chester_ 85 Teacher's Dream, The _Venable_ 140 Telling the Bees _Whittier_ 135 Thanatopsis _Bryant_ 196 Thanksgiving-Day _Child_ 178 There's But One Pair of Stockings 27 To a Butterfly _Wordsworth_ 179 To a Skylark _Shelley_ 160 To a Waterfowl _Bryant_ 137 To-day _Carlyle_ 191 To-day _Waterman_ 35 To the Fringed Gentian _Bryant_ 179 Tree, The _Bjornson_ 186 Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star _J. Taylor_ 185 Two Glasses, The _Wilcox_ 15

Village Blacksmith, The _Longfellow_ 97 Visit from St. Nicholas, A _Moore_ 54

Walrus and the Carpenter, The _Carroll_ 138 We Are Seven _Wordsworth_ 19 What I Live For _Banks_ 114 What is Good _O'Reilly_ 34 When the Cows Come Home _Mitchell_ 90 When the Minister Comes to Tea _Lincoln_ 89 When the Teacher Gets Cross 86 Where the West Begins _Chapman_ 85 Whistling in Heaven 67 White-Footed Deer, The _Bryant_ 94 Who Won the War? _Pulsifer_ 43 Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud! _Knox_ 118 Wild White Rose, The _Willis_ 66 Wind and the Moon, The _Macdonald_ 191 Wind, The _Rossetti_ 170 Wishing _Allingham_ 190 Woman's Question, A _Lathrop_ 129 Wonderful World, The _Rands_ 174 Woodman, Spare That Tree _Morris_ 70

You and You _Wharton_ 97 Young Man Waited, The _Cooke_ 28 Your Mission _Gates_ 55

PREFACE

Seldom does a book of poems appear that is definitely a response to demand and a reflection of readers' preferences. Of this collection that can properly be claimed. For a decade NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS has carried monthly a page entitled "Poems Our Readers Have Asked For." The interest in this page has been, and is, phenomenal. Occasionally space considerations or copyright restrictions have prevented compliance with requests, but so far as practicable poems asked for have been printed. Because it has become impossible to furnish many of the earlier issues of the magazine, the publishers decided to select the poems most often requested and, carefully revising these for possible errors, to include them in the present collection. In some cases the desired poems are old favorite dramatic recitations, but many of them are poems that are required or recommended for memorizing in state courses of study. This latter feature will of itself make the book extremely valuable to teachers throughout the country. We are glad to offer here certain poems, often requested, but too long for insertion on our magazine Poetry Page. We are pleased also to be able to include a number of popular copyright poems. Special permission to use these has been granted through arrangement with the authorized publishers, whose courtesy is acknowledged below in detail:

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY--_The Raggedy Man_, from "The Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley," copyright 1918.

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS--_Seein' Things_ and _Little Boy Blue_, by Eugene Field; _Gradatim_ and _Give Us Men_, from "The Poetical Works of J.G. Holland"; and _You and You_, by Edith Wharton, copyright 1919.

HARPER AND BROTHERS--_Over the Hill to the Poor-House_, _The Ride of Jennie M'Neal_, _The Little Black-Eyed Rebel_, and _The First Settler's Story_, by Will Carleton.

THE DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY--_The Moo Cow Moo_ and _The Young Man Waited_, by Edmund Vance Cooke.

LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY--_The House by the Side of the Road_ and _The Calf Path_, by Sam Walter Foss.

LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY--_October's Bright Blue Weather_, by Helen Hunt Jackson.

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY--Poems by John G. Whittier, Alice Cary, Phoebe Cary, James T. Fields, and Lucy Larcom.

THE PUBLISHERS.

POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR

* * * * *

O Captain! My Captain!

(_This poem was written in memory of Abraham Lincoln._)

O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But, O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen, cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse or will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen, cold and dead.

_Walt Whitman._

A Poet's Prophecy

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunderstorm; Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battleflags were furl'd In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.

_Tennyson, "Locksley Hall," 1842._

The Landing of the Pilgrims

The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came,--
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storms they sang;
And the stars heard, and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free.

The ocean eagle soared
From his nest by the white wave's foam;
And the rocking pines of the forest roared--
This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band:
Why had they come to wither there
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?--
They sought a faith's pure shrine.

Ay, call it holy ground,--
The soil where first they trod!
They have left unstained what there they found--
Freedom to worship God!

_Felicia Hemans._

Bobby Shaftoe

"Marie, will you marry me? For you know how I love thee! Tell me, darling, will you be The wife of Bobby Shaftoe?"

"Bobby, pray don't ask me more, For you've asked me twice before; Let us be good friends, no more, No more, Bobby Shaftoe."

"If you will not marry me, I will go away to sea; And you ne'er again shall be A friend of Bobby Shaftoe."

"Oh, you will not go away For you've said so twice to-day. Stop! He's gone! Dear Bobby, stay! Dearest Bobby Shaftoe!

"Bobby Shaftoe's gone to sea, Silver buckles on his knee, But he'll come back and marry me, Pretty Bobby Shaftoe.

"He will soon come back to me, And how happy I shall be, He'll come back and marry me, Dearest Bobby Shaftoe."

"Bobby Shaftoe's lost at sea, He cannot come back to thee. And you ne'er again will see Your dear Bobby Shaftoe.

"Oh, we sadly mourn for thee, And regret we ne'er shall see Our friend Bobby, true and free, Dearest Bobby Shaftoe."

"Bobby Shaftoe's lost at sea. And can ne'er come back to me, But I'll ever faithful be, True to Bobby Shaftoe."

"Darling, I've come home from sea, I've come back to marry thee, For I know you're true to me, True to Bobby Shaftoe."

"Yes, I always cared for thee, And now you've come back to me, And we will always happy be, Dearest Bobby Shaftoe."

"Bobby Shaftoe's come from sea, And we will united be, Heart and hand in unity, Mr. and Mrs. Shaftoe."

The Overworked Elocutionist

(Or "ROBERT REESE")

Once there was a little boy
Whose name was Robert Reese,
And every Friday afternoon
He had to speak a piece.

So many poems thus he learned
That soon he had a store
Of recitations in his head
And still kept learning more.

Now this it is what happened:
He was called upon one week
And totally forgot the piece
He was about to speak.

His brain he vainly cudgeled
But no word was in his head,
And so he spoke at random,
And this is what he said;

My beautiful, my beautiful,
Who standest proudly by,
It was the schooner Hesperus
The breaking waves dashed high.

Why is the Forum crowded?
What means this stir in Rome?
Under a spreading chestnut tree
There is no place like home.

When Freedom from her mountain height
Cried, "Twinkle, little star,"
Shoot if you must this old gray head,
King Henry of Navarre.

If you're waking, call me early
To be or not to be,
Curfew must not ring to-night,
Oh, woodman, spare that tree.

Charge, Chester, Charge! On, Stanley, on!
And let who will be clever,
The boy stood on the burning deck
But I go on for ever.

The Kid Has Gone to the Colors

The Kid has gone to the Colors
And we don't know what to say;
The Kid we have loved and cuddled
Stepped out for the Flag to-day.
We thought him a child, a baby
With never a care at all,
But his country called him man-size
And the Kid has heard the call.

He paused to watch the recruiting,
Where, fired by the fife and drum,
He bowed his head to Old Glory
And thought that it whispered: "Come!"
The Kid, not being a slacker,
Stood forth with patriot-joy
To add his name to the roster--
And God, we're proud of the boy!

The Kid has gone to the Colors;
It seems but a little while
Since he drilled a schoolboy army
In a truly martial style,
But now he's a man, a soldier,
And we lend him a listening ear,
For his heart is a heart all loyal,
Unscourged by the curse of fear.

His dad, when he told him, shuddered,
His mother--God bless her!--cried;
Yet, blest with a mother-nature,
She wept with a mother-pride,
But he whose old shoulders straightened
Was Granddad--for memory ran
To years when he, too, a youngster,
Was changed by the Flag to a man!

_W.M. Herschell._

Kentucky Belle

Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away-- Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay-- We lived in the log house yonder, poor as ever you've seen; Roschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.

Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle. How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell-- Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave her to me When I rode north with Conrad, away from the Tennessee.

Conrad lived in Ohio--a German he is, you know-- The house stood in broad cornfields, stretching on, row after row. The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be; But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of the Tennessee.

Oh, for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill! Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is still! But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky-- Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye!

From east to west, no river to shine out under the moon, Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon: Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn; Only the rustle, rustle, as I walked among the corn.

When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more, But moved away from the cornlands, out to this river shore-- The Tuscarawas it's called, sir--off there's a hill, you see-- And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee.

I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like mad Over the bridge and up the road--Farmer Rouf's little lad. Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say, "Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this way.

"I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind; He sweeps up all the horses--every horse that he can find. Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men, With bowie knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen!"

The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door; The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor; Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone. Nearer, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on!

Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture bar. "Kentuck!" I called--"Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far! I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right, And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.

As I ran back to the log house, at once there came a sound-- The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground-- Coming into the turnpike out from the White Woman Glen-- Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men.

As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm; But still I stood in the doorway with baby on my arm. They came, they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along-- Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong.

Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day; Pushing on east to the river, many long miles away, To the border strip where Virginia runs up into the West, And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest.

On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance; Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance. And I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain, When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein.

Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face, As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place. I gave him a cup, and he smiled--'twas only a boy, you see; Faint and worn, with dim blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the Tennessee.

Only sixteen he was, sir--a fond mother's only son-- Off and away with Morgan before his life had begun! The damp drops stood on his temples; drawn was the boyish mouth; And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South.

Oh! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through; Boasted and bragged like a trooper; but the big words wouldn't do;-- The boy was dying, sir, dying as plain as plain could be, Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee.

But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South, Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth. "Do you know the Blue-Grass country?" he wistful began to say; Then swayed like a willow sapling, and fainted dead away.

I had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to; I fed him, and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do; And when the lad got better, and the noise in his head was gone, Morgan's men--were miles; away, galloping, galloping on.

"Oh, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away! Morgan--Morgan is waiting for me; Oh, what will Morgan say?" But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door-- The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before.

And on, on, came the soldiers--the Michigan cavalry-- And fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,-- They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night; But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight.

And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days; For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways-- Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west, Through river-valleys and cornland farms, sweeping away her best.

A bold ride and a long ride; but they were taken at last. They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast; But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford, And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.

Well, I kept the boy till evening--kept him against his will-- But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still. When it was cool and dusky--you'll wonder to hear me tell-- But I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle.

I kissed the star on her forehead--my pretty gentle lass-- But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Blue-Grass. A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had, And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad.

I guided him to the southward as well as I know how; The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow; And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell, As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!

When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high; Baby and I were both crying--I couldn't tell him why-- But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall, And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall.

Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me; He knew I couldn't help it--'twas all for the Tennessee, But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass-- A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue-Grass.

The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle; And Kentuck, she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well; He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur. Ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her!

_Constance F. Woolson._

An Inventor's Wife

I remember it all so very well, the first of my married life,
That I can't believe it was years ago--it doesn't seem true at all;
Why, I just can see the little church where they made us man and wife,
And the merry glow of the first wood-fire that danced on our cottage
wall.

_We were happy?_ Yes; and we prospered, too; the house belonged
to Joe,
And then, he worked in the planing mill, and drew the best of pay;
And our cup was full when Joey came,--our baby-boy, you know;
So, all went well till that mill burned down and the owner moved away.

It wasn't long till Joe found work, but 'twas never quite the same,--
Never steady, with smaller pay; so to make the two ends meet
He fell to inventin' some machine--I don't recall the name,
But he'd sit for hours in his little shop that opens toward the
street,--

Sit for hours, bent over his work, his tools all strewn about.
I used to want to go in there to dust and sweep the floor,
But 'twas just as if 'twas the parson there, writing his sermon out;
Even the baby--bless the child!--learned never to slam that door!

People called him a clever man, and folks from the city came
To look at his new invention and wish my Joe success;
And Joe would say, "Little woman,"--for that was my old pet-name,--
"If my plan succeeds, you shall have a coach and pair, and a fine silk
dress!"

I didn't want 'em, the grand new things, but it made the big tears start
To see my Joe with his restless eyes, his fingers worn away
To the skin and bone, for he wouldn't eat; and it almost broke my heart
When he tossed at night from side to side, till the dawning of the day.

Of course, with it all he lost his place. I couldn't blame the man,
The foreman there at the factory, for losing faith in Joe,
For his mind was never upon his work, but on some invention-plan,
As with folded arms and his head bent down he wandered to and fro.

Yet, he kept on workin' at various things, till our little money went
For wheels and screws and metal casts and things I had never seen;
And I ceased to ask, "Any pay, my dear?" with the answer, "Not a cent!"
When his lock and his patent-saw had failed, he clung to that great
machine.

I remember one special thing that year. He had bought some costly tool,
When we wanted our boy to learn to read--he was five years old, you
know;
He went to his class with cold, bare feet, till at last he came from
school
And gravely said, "Don't send me back; the children tease me so!"

I hadn't the heart to cross the child, so, while I sat and sewed
He would rock his little sister in the cradle at my side;
And when the struggle was hardest and I felt keen hunger's goad
Driving me almost to despair--the little baby died.

Her father came to the cradle-side, as she lay, so small and white;
"Maggie," he said, "I have killed this child, and now I am killing you!
I swear by heaven, I will give it up!" Yet, like a thief, that night
He stole to the shop and worked; his brow all wet with a clammy dew.

I cannot tell how I lived that week, my little boy and I,
Too proud to beg; too weak to work; and the weather cold and wild.
I can only think of one dark night when the rain poured from the sky,
And the wind went wailing round the house, like the ghost of my buried
child.

Joe still toiled in the little shop. Somebody clicked the gate;
A neighbor-lad brought in the mail and laid it on the floor,
But I sat half-stunned by my heavy grief crouched over the empty grate,
Till I heard--the crack of a pistol-shot; and I sprang to the workshop
door.

That door was locked and the bolt shut fast. I could not cry, nor speak,
But I snatched my boy from the corner there, sick with a sudden dread,
And carried him out through the garden plot, forgetting my arms were weak,
Forgetting the rainy torrent that beat on my bare young head;

The front door yielded to my touch. I staggered faintly in,
Fearing--_what_? He stood unharmed, though the wall showed a
jagged hole.
In his trembling hand, his aim had failed, and the great and deadly sin
Of his own life's blood was not yet laid on the poor man's tortured soul.

But the pistol held another charge, I knew; and like something mad
I shook my fist in my poor man's face, and shrieked at him, fierce and
wild,
"How can you dare to rob us so?"--and I seized the little lad;
"How can you dare to rob your wife and your little helpless child?"

All of a sudden, he bowed his head, while from his nerveless hand
That hung so limp, I almost feared to see the pistol fall.
"Maggie," he said in a low, low voice, "you see me as I stand
A hopeless man. My plan has failed. That letter tells you all."

Then for a moment the house was still as ever the house of death;
Only the drip of the rain outside, for the storm was almost o'er;
But no;--there followed another sound, and I started, caught my breath;
As a stalwart man with a heavy step came in at the open door.

I shall always think him an angel sent from heaven in a human guise;
He must have guessed our awful state; he couldn't help but see
There was something wrong; but never a word, never a look in his eyes
Told what he thought, as in kindly way he talked to Joe and me.

He was come from a thriving city firm, and they'd sent him here to say
That _one_ of Joe's inventions was a great, successful thing;
And which do you think? His window-catch that he'd tinkered up one day;
And we were to have a good per cent on the sum that each would bring.

And then the pleasant stranger went, and we wakened as from a dream.
My man bent down his head and said, "Little woman, you've saved my life!"
The worn look gone from his dear gray eyes, and in its place, a gleam
From the sun that has shone so brightly since, on Joe and his happy
wife!

_Jeannie Pendleton Ewing._

The Two Glasses

There sat two glasses filled to the brim On a rich man's table, rim to rim, One was ruddy and red as blood, And one was clear as the crystal flood.

Said the Glass of Wine to his paler brother: "Let us tell tales of the past to each other; I can tell of banquet and revel and mirth, Where I was king, for I ruled in might; For the proudest and grandest souls of earth Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight. From the heads of kings I have torn the crown; From the heights of fame I have hurled men down. I have blasted many an honored name; I have taken virtue and given shame; I have tempted youth with a sip, a taste, That has made his future a barren waste. Far greater than any king am I, Or than any army beneath the sky. I have made the arm of the driver fail, And sent the train from the iron rail. I have made good ships go down at sea. And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me. Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall; And my might and power are over all! Ho, ho, pale brother," said the Wine, "Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"

Said the Water Glass: "I cannot boast Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host; But I can tell of hearts that were sad, By my crystal drops made bright and glad; Of thirsts I have quenched and brows I have laved, Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved. I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain, Slipped from the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain, I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky, And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye; I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain. I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, That ground out the flour, and turned at my will. I can tell of manhood debased by you That I have uplifted and crowned anew; I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid, I gladden the heart of man and maid; I set the wine-chained captive free, And all are better for knowing me."

These are the tales they told each other, The Glass of Wine, and its paler brother, As they sat together, filled to the brim, On a rich man's table, rim to rim.

_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._

Abraham Lincoln

(_Written after Lincoln's death by Tom Taylor, famous cartoonist of the London "Punch."_)

_You_ lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier!
_You_, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for the self-complacent British sneer,
His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,
His lack of all we prize as debonair,
Of power or will to shine, of art to please!

_You_, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step, as though the way were plain;
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,
Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain!

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew,
Between the mourners at his head and feet--
Say, scurril jester, is there room for you?

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer--
To lame my pencil and confute my pen--
To make me own this hind, of princes peer,
This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men.

My shallow judgment I had learned to rue,
Noting how to occasion's height he rose;
How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true,
How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows;

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be;
How in good fortune and in ill the same;
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,
Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work--such work as few
Ever had laid on head, and heart, and hand--
As one who knows where there's a task to do,
Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,
That God makes instruments to work His will,
If but that will we can arrive to know,
Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.

So he went forth to battle, on the side
That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's,
As in his peasant boyhood he had plied
His warfare with rude nature's thwarting mights;--

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,
The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe,
The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil,
The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,

The ambushed Indian and the prowling bear--
Such were the needs that helped his youth to train:
Rough culture--but such trees large fruit may bear,
If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

So he grew up, a destined work to do,
And lived to do it: four long, suffering years
Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through,
And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,
And took both with the same unwavering mood;
Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,
And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him,
Beached from behind his back, a trigger prest--
And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,
Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!

The words of mercy were upon his lips,
Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,
When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse
To thoughts of peace on earth, goodwill to men.

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high;
Sad life, cut short as its triumph came!

The Old Clock on the Stairs

Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; And, from its station in the hall, An ancient timepiece says to all, "Forever--never! Never--forever!"

Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands, From its case of massive oak, Like a monk who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, "Forever--never! Never--forever!"

By day its voice is low and light; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor, And seems to say at each chamber door, "Forever--never! Never--forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe, "Forever--never! Never--forever!"

In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality; His great fires up the chimney roared; The stranger feasted at his board; But, like the skeleton at the feast, That warning timepiece never ceased,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!"

There groups of merry children played; There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; Oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime And affluence of love and time! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night; There, in that silent room below, The dead lay, in his shroud of snow; And, in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!"

All are scattered, now, and fled,-- Some are married, some are dead; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, "Ah! when shall they all meet again?" As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply,-- "Forever--never! Never-forever!"

Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, And death, and time, shall disappear,-- Forever there, but never here! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!"

_H.W. Longfellow._

Christ in Flanders

We had forgotten You, or very nearly-- You did not seem to touch us very nearly-- Of course we thought about You now and then; Especially in any time of trouble-- We knew that you were good in time of trouble-- But we were very ordinary men.

And there were always other things to think of-- There's lots of things a man has got to think of-- His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife; And so we only thought of You on Sunday-- Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday-- Because there's always lots to fill one's life.

And, all the while, in street or lane or byway-- In country lane, in city street, or byway-- You walked among us, and we did not see. Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements-- How did we miss Your footprints on our pavements?-- Can there be other folk as blind as we?

Now we remember; over here in Flanders-- (It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders)-- This hideous warfare seems to make things clear. We never thought about You much in England-- But now that we are far away from England-- We have no doubts, we know that You are here.

You helped us pass the jest along the trenches-- Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches-- You touched its ribaldry and made it fine. You stood beside us in our pain and weakness-- We're glad to think You understand our weakness-- Somehow it seems to help us not to whine.

We think about You kneeling in the Garden-- Ah, God, the agony of that dread Garden-- We know You prayed for us upon the cross. If anything could make us glad to bear it-- 'Twould be the knowledge that You willed to bear it-- Pain--death--the uttermost of human loss.

Though we forgot You--You will not forget us-- We feel so sure that You will not forget us-- But stay with us until this dream is past. And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon-- Especially, I think, we ask for pardon-- And that You'll stand beside us to the last.

_L.W. in London "Spectator."_

We Are Seven

--A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; --Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little Maid's reply, "O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'T was throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

_William Wordsworth._

Echo

"I asked of Echo, t'other day
(Whose words are often few and funny),
What to a novice she could say
Of courtship, love and matrimony.
Quoth Echo plainly,--'Matter-o'-money!'

"Whom should I marry? Should it be
A dashing damsel, gay and pert,
A pattern of inconstancy;
Or selfish, mercenary flirt?
Quoth Echo, sharply,--'Nary flirt!'

"What if, aweary of the strife
That long has lured the dear deceiver,
She promise to amend her life,
And sin no more; can I believe her?
Quoth Echo, very promptly,--'Leave her!'

"But if some maiden with a heart
On me should venture to bestow it,
Pray should I act the wiser part
To take the treasure or forego it?
Quoth Echo, with decision,--'Go it!'

"But what if, seemingly afraid
To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,
She vow she means to die a maid,
In answer to my loving letter?
Quoth Echo, rather coolly,-'Let her!'

"What if, in spite of her disdain,
I find my heart entwined about
With Cupid's dear, delicious chain
So closely that I can't get out?
Quoth Echo, laughingly,--'Get out!'

"But if some maid with beauty blest,
As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,
Will share my labor and my rest
Till envious Death shall overtake her?
Quoth Echo (sotto voce),--'Take her!'"

_John G. Saxe._

Engineers Making Love

It's noon when Thirty-five is due, An' she comes on time like a flash of light, An' you hear her whistle "Too-tee-too!" Long 'fore the pilot swings in sight. Bill Madden's drivin' her in to-day, An' he's calling his sweetheart far away-- Gertrude Hurd lives down by the mill; You might see her blushin'; she knows it's Bill. "Tudie, tudie! Toot-ee! Tudie, tudie! Tu!"

Six-five, A.M. there's a local comes, Makes up at Bristol, runnin' east; An' the way her whistle sings and hums Is a livin' caution to man and beast. Every one knows who Jack White calls,-- Little Lou Woodbury, down by the falls; Summer or Winter, always the same, She hears her lover callin' her name-- "Lou-ie! Lou-ie! Lou-iee!"

But at one fifty-one, old Sixty-four-- Boston express, runs east, clear through-- Drowns her rattle and rumble and roar With the softest whistle that ever blew. An' away on the furthest edge of town Sweet Sue Winthrop's eyes of brown Shine like the starlight, bright and clear, When she hears the whistle of Abel Gear, "You-oo! Su-u-u-u-u-e!"

Along at midnight a freight comes in, Leaves Berlin sometime--I don't know when; But it rumbles along with a fearful din Till it reaches the Y-switch there and then The clearest notes of the softest bell That out of a brazen goblet fell Wake Nellie Minton out of her dreams; To her like a wedding-bell it seems-- "Nell, Nell, Nell! Nell, Nell, Nell!"

Tom Willson rides on the right-hand side, Givin' her steam at every stride; An' he touches the whistle, low an' clear, For Lulu Gray on the hill, to hear-- "Lu-Lu! Loo-Loo! Loo-oo!"

So it goes all day an' all night Till the old folks have voted the thing a bore; Old maids and bachelors say it ain't right For folks to do courtin' with such a roar. But the engineers their kisses will blow From a whistle valve to the girls they know, An' stokers the name of their sweethearts tell; With the "Too-too-too" and the swinging bell.

_R.J. Burdette._

Guilty or Not Guilty

She stood at the bar of justice,
A creature wan and wild,
In form too small for a woman,
In features too old for a child;
For a look so worn and pathetic
Was stamped on her pale young face,
It seemed long years of suffering
Must have left that silent trace.

"Your name?" said the judge, as he eyed her
With kindly look yet keen,--
"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir."
And your age?"--"I am turned fifteen."
"Well, Mary," and then from a paper
He slowly and gravely read,
"You are charged here--I'm sorry to say it--
With stealing three loaves of bread.

"You look not like an offender,
And I hope that you can show
The charge to be false. Now, tell me,
Are you guilty of this, or no?"
A passionate burst of weeping
Was at first her sole reply.
But she dried her eyes in a moment,
And looked in the judge's eye.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir:
My father and mother are dead,
And my little brothers and sisters
Were hungry and asked me for bread.
At first I earned it for them
By working hard all day,
But somehow, times were bad, sir,
And the work all fell away.

"I could get no more employment.
The weather was bitter cold,
The young ones cried and shivered--
(Little Johnny's but four years old)--
So what was I to do, sir?
I am guilty, but do not condemn.
I _took_--oh, was it _stealing?_--
The bread to give to them."

Every man in the court-room--
Gray-beard and thoughtless youth--
Knew, as he looked upon her,
That the prisoner spake the truth;
Out from their pockets came kerchiefs,
Out from their eyes sprung tears,
And out from their old faded wallets
Treasures hoarded for years.

The judge's face was a study,
The strangest you ever saw,
As he cleared his throat and murmured
_Something_ about the _law_;
For one so learned in such matters,
So wise in dealing with men,
He seemed, on a simple question,
Sorely puzzled, just then.

But no one blamed him or wondered,
When at last these words he heard,
"The sentence of this young prisoner
Is, for the present, deferred."
And no one blamed him or wondered
When he went to her and smiled
And tenderly led from the court-room,
Himself, the "guilty" child.

The Baby

Where did you come from, baby dear? _Out of the everywhere into the here._

Where did you get your eyes so blue? _Out of the sky as I came through._

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? _Some of the starry spikes left in._

Where did you get that little tear? _I found it waiting when I got here._

What makes your forehead so smooth and high? _A soft hand stroked it as I went by._

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? _Something better than anyone knows._

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? _Three angels gave me at once a kiss._

Where did you get that pearly ear? _God spoke, and it came out to hear._

Where did you get those arms and hands? _Love made itself into hooks and bands._

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? _From the same box as the cherubs' wings._

How did they all just come to be you? _God thought about me, and so I grew._

But how did you come to us, you dear? _God thought of you, and so I am here._

_George Macdonald._

Song of the Sea

The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies, Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go. If a storm should come and awake the deep What matter? _I_ shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh, how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloud his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the southwest blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more, And back I flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she _was_, and _is_, to me, For I was born on the open sea!

I've lived, since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea.

_Barry Cornwall._

Diffidence

"I'm after axin', Biddy dear--"
And here he paused a while
To fringe his words the merest mite
With something of a smile--
A smile that found its image
In a face of beauteous mold,
Whose liquid eyes were peeping
From a broidery of gold.

"I've come to ax ye, Biddy dear,
If--" then he stopped again,
As if his heart had bubbled o'er
And overflowed his brain.
His lips were twitching nervously
O'er what they had to tell,
And timed the quavers with the eyes
That gently rose and fell.