Chapter II: Part 2

"I've come--" and then he took her hands
And held them in his own,
"To ax--" and then he watched the buds
That on her cheeks had blown,--
"Me purty dear--" and then he heard
The throbbing of her heart,
That told how love had entered in
And claimed its every part.

"Och! don't be tazin' me," said she,
With just the faintest sigh,
"I've sinse enough to see you've come,
But what's the reason why?"
"To ax--" and once again the tongue
Forbore its sweets to tell,
"To ax--_if Mrs. Mulligan,
Has any pigs to sell_."

Curfew Must Not Ring To-night

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day, And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,-- He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny floating hair; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white, Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp and cold, "I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh; Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely white As she breathed the husky whisper: "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton--every word pierced her young heart Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart,-- "Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower; Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour; I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right; Now I'm old I will not falter,--curfew, it must ring to-night."

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow. As within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow. She had listened while the judges read without a tear or sigh: "At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright; In an undertone she murmured, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

With quick step she bounded forward, sprung within the old church door, Left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd trod before; Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro,-- As she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light, Up and up,--her white lips saying: "Curfew must not ring to-night."

She has reached the topmost ladder; o'er her hangs the great, dark bell; Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell. Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging--'tis the hour of curfew now, And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring? No, never! flash her eyes with sudden light, As she springs and grasps it firmly--"Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Out she swung--far out; the city seemed a speck of light below, There 'twixt heaven and earth suspended as the bell swung to and fro; And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, Sadly thought, "That twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell." Still the maiden clung more firmly, and with trembling lips so white, Said, to hush her heart's wild throbbing: "Curfew shall not ring to-night."

It was o'er; the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the dark old ladder where, for hundred years before Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done Should be told long ages after; as the rays of setting sun Crimson all the sky with beauty, aged sires with heads of white, Tell the eager, listening children, "Curfew did not ring that night."

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him, and her brow, Lately white with fear and anguish, has no anxious traces now. At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn; And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light: "Go! your lover lives," said Cromwell, "Curfew shall not ring to-night."

Wide they flung the massive portal; led the prisoner forth to die,-- All his bright young life before him. 'Neath the darkening English sky Bessie comes with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love-light sweet; Kneeling on the turf beside him, lays his pardon at his feet. In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white, Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me--curfew will not ring to-night."

_Rose Hartwick Thorpe._

Kate Shelly

Have you heard how a girl saved the lightning express-- Of Kate Shelly, whose father was killed on the road? Were he living to-day, he'd be proud to possess Such a daughter as Kate. Ah! 'twas grit that she showed On that terrible evening when Donahue's train Jumped the bridge and went down, in the darkness and rain.

She was only eighteen, but a woman in size, With a figure as graceful and lithe as a doe, With peach-blossom cheeks, and with violet eyes, And teeth and complexion like new-fallen snow; With a nature unspoiled and unblemished by art-- With a generous soul, and a warm, noble heart!

'Tis evening--the darkness is dense and profound; Men linger at home by their bright-blazing fires; The wind wildly howls with a horrible sound, And shrieks through the vibrating telegraph wires; The fierce lightning flashes along the dark sky; The rain falls in torrents; the river rolls by.

The scream of a whistle; the rush of a train! The sound of a bell! a mysterious light That flashes and flares through the fast falling rain! A rumble! a roar! shrieks of human affright! The falling of timbers! the space of a breath! A splash in the river; then darkness and death!

Kate Shelly recoils at the terrible crash; The sounds of destruction she happens to hear; She springs to the window--she throws up the sash, And listens and looks with a feeling of fear. The tall tree-tops groan, and she hears the faint cry Of a drowning man down in the river near by.

Her heart feebly flutters, her features grow wan, And then through her soul in a moment there flies A forethought that gives her the strength of a man-- She turns to her trembling old mother and cries: "I must save the express--'twill be here in an hour!" Then out through the door disappears in the shower.

She flies down the track through the pitiless rain; She reaches the river--the water below Whirls and seethes through the timbers. She shudders again; "The bridge! To Moingona, God help me to go!" Then closely about her she gathers her gown And on the wet ties with a shiver sinks down.

Then carefully over the timbers she creeps On her hands and knees, almost holding her breath. The loud thunder peals and the wind wildly sweeps, And struggles to hurry her downward to death; But the thought of the train to destruction so near Removes from her soul every feeling of fear.

With the blood dripping down from each torn, bleeding limb, Slowly over the timbers her dark way she feels; Her fingers grow numb and her head seems to swim; Her strength is fast failing--she staggers! she reels! She falls--Ah! the danger is over at last, Her feet touch the earth, and the long bridge is passed!

In an instant new life seems to come to her form; She springs to her feet and forgets her despair. On, on to Moingona! she faces the storm, She reaches the station--the keeper is there, "Save the lightning express! No--hang out the red light! There's death on the bridge at the river to-night!"

Out flashes the signal-light, rosy and red; Then sounds the loud roar of the swift-coming train, The hissing of steam, and there, brightly ahead, The gleam of a headlight illumines the rain. "Down brakes!" shrieks the whistle, defiant and shrill; She heeds the red signal--she slackens, she's still!

Ah! noble Kate Shelly, your mission is done;
Your deed that dark night will not fade from our gaze;
An endless renown you have worthily won;
Let the nation be just, and accord you its praise,
Let your name, let your fame, and your courage declare
What a _woman_ can do, and a _woman_ can dare!

_Eugene J. Hall._

There's But One Pair of Stockings to Mend To-Night

An old wife sat by her bright fireside, Swaying thoughtfully to and fro In an easy chair, whose creaky craw Told a tale of long ago; While down by her side, on the kitchen floor, Stood a basket of worsted balls--a score.

The good man dozed o'er the latest news Till the light in his pipe went out; And, unheeded, the kitten with cunning paws Rolled and tangled the balls about; Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair, Swaying to and fro in the fire-light glare.

But anon, a misty teardrop came In her eyes of faded blue, Then trickled down in a furrow deep Like a single drop of dew; So deep was the channel--so silent the stream-- That the good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.

Yet marveled he much that the cheerful light Of her eye had heavy grown, And marveled he more at the tangled balls, So he said in a gentle tone: "I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow, Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."

Then she spoke of the time when the basket there Was filled to the very brim; And now, there remained of the goodly pile But a single pair--for him; "Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light, There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

"I cannot but think of the busy feet Whose wrappings were wont to lay In the basket, awaiting the needle's time-- Now wandering so far away; How the sprightly steps to a mother dear, Unheeded fell on the careless ear.

"For each empty nook in the basket old By the hearth there's a vacant seat; And I miss the shadows from off the wall, And the patter of many feet; 'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight, At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

"'Twas said that far through the forest wild, And over the mountains bold, Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves Were gemmed with the rarest gold; Then my first-born turned from the oaken door-- And I knew the shadows were only four.

"Another went forth on the foaming wave, And diminished the basket's store; But his feet grew cold--so weary and cold, They'll never be warm any more. And this nook, in its emptiness, seemeth to me To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea.

"Two others have gone toward the setting sun, And made them a home in its light, And fairy fingers have taken their share, To mend by the fireside bright; Some other baskets their garments will fill-- But mine, ah, mine is emptier still.

"Another--the dearest, the fairest, the best-- Was taken by angels away, And clad in a garment that waxeth not old, In a land of continual day; Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light, When I mend the one pair of stockings to-night."

The Young Man Waited

In the room below the young man sat, With an anxious face and a white cravat, A throbbing heart and a silken hat, And various other things like that Which he had accumulated. And the maid of his heart was up above Surrounded by hat and gown and glove, And a thousand things which women love, But no man knoweth the names thereof-- And the young man sat and--waited.

You will scarce believe the things I tell, But the truth thereof I know full well, Though how may not be stated; But I swear to you that the maiden took A sort of half-breed, thin stove-hook, And heated it well in the gaslight there. And thrust it into her head, or hair. Then she took something off the bed, And hooked it onto her hair, or head, And piled it high, and piled it higher, And drove it home with staples of wire! And the young man anxiously--waited.

Then she took a thing she called a "puff" And some very peculiar whitish stuff, And using about a half a peck, She spread it over her face and neck, (Deceit was a thing she hated!) And she looked as fair as a lilied bower, Or a pound of lard or a sack of flour;-- And the young man wearily--waited.

Then she took a garment of awful shape And it wasn't a waist, nor yet a cape, But it looked like a piece of ancient mail, Or an instrument from a Russian jail, And then with a fearful groan and gasp, She squeezed herself in its deathly clasp-- So fair and yet so fated! And then with a move like I don't know what, She tied it on with a double knot;-- And the young man wofully--waited.

Then she put on a dozen different things, A mixture of buttons and hooks and strings, Till she strongly resembled a notion store; Then, taking some seventeen pins or more, She thrust them into her ruby lips, Then stuck them around from waist to hips, And never once hesitated. And the maiden didn't know, perhaps, That the man below had had seven naps, And that now he sleepily--waited.

And then she tried to put on her hat, Ah me, a trying ordeal was that! She tipped it high and she tried it low, But every way that the thing would go Only made her more agitated. It wouldn't go straight and it caught her hair, And she wished she could hire a man to swear, But alas, the only man lingering there Was the one who wildly--waited.

And then before she could take her leave, She had to puff up her monstrous sleeve. Then a little dab here and a wee pat there. And a touch or two to her hindmost hair, Then around the room with the utmost care She thoughtfully circulated. Then she seized her gloves and a chamoiskin, Some breath perfume and a long stickpin, A bonbon box and a cloak and some Eau-de-cologne and chewing-gum, Her opera glass and sealskin muff, A fan and a heap of other stuff; Then she hurried down, but ere she spoke, Something about the maiden broke. So she scurried back to the winding stair, And the young man looked in wild despair, And then he--evaporated.

_Edmund Vance Cooke._

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

_William E. Henley._

Katie Lee and Willie Grey

Two brown heads with tossing curls, Red lips shutting over pearls, Bare feet, white and wet with dew, Two eyes black, and two eyes blue; Little girl and boy were they, Katie Lee and Willie Grey.

They were standing where a brook, Bending like a shepherd's crook, Flashed its silver, and thick ranks Of willow fringed its mossy banks; Half in thought, and half in play, Katie Lee and Willie Grey.

They had cheeks like cherries red; He was taller--'most a head; She, with arms like wreaths of snow, Swung a basket to and fro As she loitered, half in play, Chattering to Willie Grey.

"Pretty Katie," Willie said-- And there came a dash of red Through the brownness of his cheek-- "Boys are strong and girls are weak, And I'll carry, so I will, Katie's basket up the hill."

Katie answered with a laugh, "You shall carry only half"; And then, tossing back her curls, "Boys are weak as well as girls." Do you think that Katie guessed Half the wisdom she expressed?

Men are only boys grown tall; Hearts don't change much, after all; And when, long years from that day, Katie Lee and Willie Grey Stood again beside the brook, Bending like a shepherd's crook,--

Is it strange that Willie said, While again a dash of red Crossed the brownness of his cheek, "I am strong and you are weak; Life is but a slippery steep, Hung with shadows cold and deep.

"Will you trust me, Katie dear,-- Walk beside me without fear? May I carry, if I will, All your burdens up the hill?" And she answered, with a laugh, "No, but you may carry half."

Close beside the little brook, Bending like a shepherd's crook, Washing with its silver hands Late and early at the sands, Is a cottage, where to-day Katie lives with Willie Grey.

In a porch she sits, and lo! Swings a basket to and fro-- Vastly different from the one That she swung in years agone, _This_ is long and deep and wide, And has--_rockers at the side_.

Abou Ben Adhem

Abou Ben Adhem--may his tribe increase!-- Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold. Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the Presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, And, with a look made all of sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," Replied the angel.--Abou spoke more low, But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed: And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

_Leigh Hunt._

In School-Days

Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry vines are running.

Within, the master's desk is seen,
Deep scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife's carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled:
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered;--
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand's light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word:
I hate to go above you,
Because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,--
"Because, you see, I love you!"

Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl: the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn, in life's hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her,--because they love him.

_John Greenleaf Whittier._

Mother's Fool

"Tis plain to see," said a farmer's wife, "These boys will make their mark in life; They were never made to handle a hoe, And at once to a college ought to go; There's Fred, he's little better than a fool, But John and Henry must go to school."

"Well, really, wife," quoth Farmer Brown, As he set his mug of cider down, "Fred does more work in a day for me Than both his brothers do in three. Book larnin' will never plant one's corn, Nor hoe potatoes, sure's you're born; Nor mend a rod of broken fence-- For my part, give me common sense."

But his wife was bound the roost to rule, And John and Henry were sent to school, While Fred, of course, was left behind, Because his mother said he had no mind.

Five years at school the students spent; Then into business each one went. John learned to play the flute and fiddle, And parted his hair, of course, in the middle; While his brother looked rather higher than he, And hung out a sign, "H. Brown, M.D."

Meanwhile, at home, their brother Fred Had taken a notion into his head; But he quietly trimmed his apple trees, And weeded onions and planted peas, While somehow or other, by hook or crook, He managed to read full many a book; Until at last his father said He was getting "book larnin'" into his head; "But for all that," added Farmer Brown, "He's the smartest boy there is in town."

The war broke out, and Captain Fred A hundred men to battle led, And when the rebel flag came down, Went marching home as General Brown. But he went to work on the farm again, And planted corn and sowed his grain; He shingled the barn and mended the fence, Till people declared he had common sense.

Now common sense was very rare, And the State House needed a portion there; So the "family dunce" moved into town-- The people called him Governor Brown; And the brothers who went to the city school Came home to live with "mother's fool."

Kentucky Philosophy

You Wi'yam, cum 'ere, suh, dis instunce. Wu' dat you got under dat box? I do' want no foolin'--you hear me? Wut you say? Ain't nu'h'n but _rocks_? 'Peah ter me you's owdashus p'ticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new kine. I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I's bline?

_I_ calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it growed; It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road. You stole it, you rascal--you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot. En time I gets th'ough wid you, nigger, you won't eb'n be a grease spot!

I'll fix you. Mirandy! Mir_an_dy! go cut me a hick'ry--make 'ase! En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place. I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yam Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young sinner, Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner!

Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'lf sur? I is, I's 'shamed you's my son! En de holy accorjan angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done; En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters-- "One water-million stoled by Wi'yam Josephus Vetters."

En wut you s'posen Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday school, 'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Rule? Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black villiun? I's s'prised dat a chile er yo mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million.

En I's now gwinter cut it right open, en you shain't have nary bite, Fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions--en dat in de day's broad light-- Ain't--_Lawdy!_ it's _green!_ Mirandy! Mi-ran-dy! come on wi' dat switch! Well, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever yeered tell er des sich?

Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey is green; But w'en dey go _punk_, now you mine me, dey's ripe--en dat's des wut I mean. En nex' time you hook water-millions--_you_ heered me, you ign'ant, you hunk, Ef you do' want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk"!

_Harrison Robertson._

Give Us Men

God give us men; a time like this demands Strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands. Men whom the lust of office cannot kill; Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy; Men who possess opinions and a will; Men who have honor; men who will not lie; Men who can stand before a demagogue, And brave his treacherous flatteries without winking; Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog, In public duty and in private thinking; For while the rabble, with its thumb-worn creeds, Its large professions, and its little deeds, Mingle in selfish strife--lo! Freedom weeps, Wrong rules the land, and waiting Justice sleeps.

_J.G. Holland._

Never Trouble Trouble

My good man is a clever man, which no one will gainsay; He lies awake to plot and plan 'gainst lions in the way, While I, without a thought of ill, sleep sound enough for three, For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.

A holiday we never fix but he is sure 'twill rain; And when the sky is clear at six he knows it won't remain. He is always prophesying ill to which I won't agree, For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.

The wheat will never show a top--but soon how green the field! We will not harvest half a crop--yet have a famous yield! It will not sell, it never will! but I will wait and see, For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.

We have a good share of worldly gear, and fortune seems secure, Yet my good man is full of fear--misfortune's coming sure! He points me out the almshouse hill, but cannot make me see, For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.

He has a sort of second sights and when the fit is strong, He sees beyond the good and right the evil and the wrong. Heaven's cop of joy he'll surely spill unless I with him be, For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.

_Fannie Windsor._

What is Good

"What is the real good?" I asked in musing mood. Order, said the law court; Knowledge, said the school; Truth, said the wise man; Pleasure, said the fool; Love, said the maiden; Beauty, said the page; Freedom, said the dreamer; Home, said the sage; Fame, said the soldier; Equity, the seer. Spake my heart full sadly: "The answer is not here." Then within my bosom Softly this I heard: "Each heart holds the secret: Kindness is the word."

_John Boyle O'Reilly._

The Penny Ye Mean to Gie

There's a funny tale 'of a stingy man,
Who was none too good but might have been worse,
Who went to his church, on a Sunday night
And carried along his well-filled purse.

When the sexton came with the begging plate,
The church was but dim with the candle's light;
The stingy man fumbled all thro' his purse,
And chose a coin by touch and not by sight.

It's an odd thing now that guineas should be
So like unto pennies in shape and size.
"I'll gie a penny," the stingy man said:
"The poor must not gifts of pennies despise."

The penny fell down with a clatter and ring!
And back in his seat leaned the stingy man.
"The world is full of the poor," he thought,
"I can't help them all--I give what I can."

Ha! ha! how the sexton smiled, to be sure,
To see the gold guinea fall in the plate;
Ha! ha! how the stingy man's heart was wrung,
Perceiving his blunder--but just too late!

"No matter," he said; "in the Lord's account
That guinea of gold is set down to me--
They lend to him who give to the poor;
It will not so bad an investment be."

"Na, na, mon," the chuckling sexton cried out,
"The Lord is na cheated--he kens thee well;
He knew it was only by accident
That out o' thy fingers the guinea fell!

"He keeps an account, na doubt, for the puir;
But in that account He'll set down to thee
Na mair o' that golden guinea, my mon,
Than the one bare penny ye mean to gie!"

There's comfort, too, in the little tale--
A serious side as well as a joke--
A comfort for all the generous poor
In the comical words the sexton spoke;

A comfort to think that the good Lord knows
How generous we really desire to be,
And will give us credit in his account,
For all the pennies we long "to gie."

Leedle Yawcob Strauss

I haf von funny leedle poy
Vot gomes shust to my knee,--
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue
As efer you dit see.
He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings
In all barts off der house.
But vot off dot? He vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He gets der measels und der mumbs,
Und eferyding dot's oudt;
He sbills mine glass off lager bier,
Poots schnuff indo mine kraut;
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese--
Dot vas der roughest chouse;
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milkban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo
To make der schticks to beat it mit--
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart
He kicks oup sooch a touse;
But nefer mind der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese:
Who baints mine nose so red?
Who vos it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?
Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene'er der glim I douse?
How gan I all dese dings eggsblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?

I somedimes dink I schall go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest
Und beaceful dimes enshoy.
But ven he vas asleep in ped,
So quiet as a mouse,
I prays der Lord, "Dake any dings,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."

_Charles F. Adams._

To-day

We shall do so much in the years to come, But what have we done to-day? We shall give out gold in princely sum, But what did we give to-day? We shall lift the heart and dry the tear, We shall plant a hope in the place of fear, We shall speak with words of love and cheer, But what have we done to-day? We shall be so kind in the after while, But what have we been to-day? We shall bring to each lonely life a smile, But what have we brought to-day? We shall give to truth a grander birth, And to steadfast faith a deeper worth, We shall feed the hungering souls of earth, But whom have we fed to-day?

_Nixon Waterman._

So Was I

My name is Tommy, an' I hates That feller of my sister Kate's, He's bigger'n I am an' you see He's sorter lookin' down on me, An' I resents it with a vim; I think I am just as good as him. He's older, an' he's mighty fly, But's he's a kid, an' so am I.

One time he came,--down by the gate, I guess it must have been awful late,-- An' Katie, she was there, an' they Was feelin' very nice and gay, An' he was talkin' all the while About her sweet an' lovin' smile, An' everythin' was as nice as pie, An' they was there, an' so was I.

They didn't see me, 'cause I slid Down underneath a bush, an' hid, An' he was sayin' that his love Was greater'n all the stars above Up in the glorious heavens placed; An' then His arms got 'round her waist, An' clouds were floatin' in the sky, And they was there, an' so was I.

I didn't hear just all they said, But by an' by my sister's head Was droopin' on his shoulder, an' I seen him holdin' Katie's hand, An' then he hugged her closer, some, An' then I heerd a kiss--yum, yum; An' Katie blushed an' drew a sigh, An' sorter coughed,--an' so did I.

An' then that feller looked around An' seed me there, down on the ground, An'--was he mad? well, betcher boots I gets right out of there an' scoots. An' he just left my sister Kate A-standin' right there by the gate; An' I seen blood was in his eye, An' he runned fast--an' so did I.

I runned the very best I could, But he cotched up--I's 'fraid he would-- An' then he said he'd teach me how To know my manners, he'd allow; An' then he shaked me awful. Gee! He jest--he frashed the ground with me. An' then he stopped it by and by, 'Cause he was tired--an' so was I,

An' then he went back to the gate An' couldn't find my sister Kate 'Cause she went in to bed, while he Was runnin' 'round an' thumpin' me. I got round in a shadder dim, An' made a face, an' guffed at him; An' then the moon larfed, in the sky, 'Cause he was there, an' so was I.

_Joseph Bert Smiley._

Is It Worth While?

Is it worth while that we jostle a brother.
Bearing his load on the rough road of life?
Is it worth while that we jeer at each other
In blackness of heart that we war to the knife?
God pity us all in our pitiful strife.

God pity as all as we jostle each other;
God pardon us all for the triumph we feel
When a fellow goes down 'neath his load on the heather,
Pierced to the heart: Words are keener than steel,
And mightier far for woe than for weal,

Were it not well, in this brief little journey
On over the isthmus, down into the tide,
We give him a fish instead of a serpent,
Ere folding the hands to be and abide
Forever and aye in dust at his side?

Look at the roses saluting each other;
Look at the herds all at peace on the plain;
Man, and man only, makes war on his brother,
And laughs in his heart at his peril and pain,
Shamed by the beasts that go down on the plain.

Is it worth while that we battle to humble
Some poor fellow down into the dust?
God pity us all! Time too soon will tumble
All of us together, like leaves in a gust,
Humbled, indeed, down into the dust.

_Joaquin Miller._

Life's Mirror

There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave,
There are souls that are pure and true;
Then give to the world the best you have,
And the best will come back to you.

Give love, and love to your life will flow,
A strength in your utmost need;
Have faith, and a score of hearts will show
Their faith in your work and deed.

Give truth, and your gift will be paid in kind;
And honor will honor meet,
And the smile which is sweet will surely find
A smile that is just as sweet.

Give pity and sorrow to those who mourn;
You will gather in flowers again
The scattered seeds from your thought outborne,
Though the sowing seemed in vain.

For life is the mirror of king and slave;
'Tis just what we are and do;
Then give to the world the best you have,
And the best will come back to you.

_Madeline S. Bridges._

The Little Black-Eyed Rebel

A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down With food to feed the people of the British-governed town; And the little black-eyed rebel, so cunning and so sly, Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye.

His face was broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough, The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough; But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh, And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye.

He drove up to the market, he waited in the line-- His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine. But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy, Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye.

"Now, who will buy my apples?" he shouted, long and loud; And, "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd. But from all the people round him came no word of reply, Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.

For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away, Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain, or die; And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye.

But the treasures--how to get them? crept the question through her mind, Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find; And she paused a while and pondered, with a pretty little sigh, Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye.

So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red-- "May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said; And the brown face flushed to scarlet, for the boy was somewhat shy, And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye.

"You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he. "I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she. And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by, With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye.

Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small, And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl! Carry back again _this_ package, and be sure that you are spry!" And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye.

Loud the motley crowd was laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak; And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak. And "Miss, I have good apples," a bolder lad did cry; But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye.

With the news from loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet, Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street. "There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try," Thought the little black-eyed rebel with a twinkle in her eye.

_Will Carleton._

A Day Well Spent

If you sit down at set of sun And count the deeds that you have done, And, counting, find One self-denying act, one word that eased the heart of him that heard; One glance most kind, which felt like sunshine where it went, Then you may count that day well spent.

But if through, all the livelong day You've eased no heart by yea or nay, If through it all you've nothing done that you can trace That brought the sunshine to one face, No act most small that helped some soul and nothing cost, Then count that day as worse than lost.

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth

Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labor and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main,

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.

_A.H. Clough._

The Miller of the Dee

There dwelt a miller, hale and bold,
Beside the river Dee;
He worked and sang from morn till night--
No lark more blithe than he;
And this the burden of his song
Forever used to be:
"I envy nobody--no, not I--
And nobody envies me!"

"Thou'rt wrong, my friend," said good King Hal,
"As wrong as wrong can be;
For could my heart be light as thine,
I'd gladly change with thee.
And tell me now, what makes thee sing,
With voice so loud and free,
While I am sad, though I'm a king,
Beside the river Dee?"

The miller smiled and doffed his cap,
"I earn my bread," quoth he;
"I love my wife, I love my friend,
I love my children three;
I owe no penny I cannot pay,
I thank the river Dee
That turns the mill that grinds the corn
That feeds my babes and me."

"Good friend," said Hal, and sighed the while,
"Farewell, and happy be;
But say no more, if thou'dst be true
That no one envies thee;
Thy mealy cap is worth my crown,
Thy mill my kingdom's fee;
Such men as thou art England's boast,
O miller of the Dee!"

_Charles Mackay._

The Old Red Cradle

Take me back to the days when the old red cradle rocked,
In the sunshine of the years that are gone;
To the good old trusty days, when the door was never locked,
And we slumbered unmolested till the dawn.

I remember of my years I had numbered almost seven,
And the old cradle stood against the wall--
I was youngest of the five, and two were gone to heaven,
But the old red cradle rocked us all.

And if ever came a day when my cheeks were flushed and hot,
When I did not mind my porridge or my play,
I would clamber up its side and the pain would be forgot,
When the old red cradle rocked away.

It has been a hallowed spot where I've turned through all the years,
Which have brought me the evil with the good,
And I turn again to-night, aye, and see it through my tears,
The place where the dear old cradle stood.

By its side my father paused with a little time to spare.
And the care-lines would soften on his brow,
Ah! 't was but a little while that I knew a father's care,
But I fancy in my dreams I see him now.

By my mother it was rocked when the evening meal was laid,
And again I seem to see her as she smiled;
When the rest were all in bed, 'twas there she knelt and prayed,
By the old red cradle and her child.

Aye, it cradled one and all, brothers, sisters in it lay,
And it gave me the sweetest rest I've known;
But to-night the tears will flow, and I let them have their way,
For the passing years are leaving me alone.

And it seems of those to come, I would gladly give them all
For a slumber as free from care as then,
Just to wake to-morrow morn where the rising sun would fall
Round the old red cradle once again.

But the cradle long has gone and the burdens that it bore,
One by one, have been gathered to the fold;
Still the flock is incomplete, for it numbers only four,
With one left out straying in the cold.

Heaven grant again we may in each other's arms be locked,
Where no sad tears of parting ever fall;
God forbid that one be lost that the old red cradle rocked;
And the dear old cradle rocked us all.

_Annie J. Granniss._

The Moo Cow Moo

My papa held me up to the Moo Cow Moo
So close I could almost touch,
And I fed him a couple of times or so,
And I wasn't a fraid-cat, much.

But if my papa goes in the house,
And my mamma she goes in too,
I keep still like a little mouse
For the Moo Cow Moo might Moo.

The Moo Cow's tail is a piece of rope
All raveled out where it grows;
And it's just like feeling a piece of soap
All over the Moo Cow's nose.

And the Moo Cow Moo has lots of fun
Just switching his tail about,
But if he opens his mouth, why then I run,
For that's where the Moo comes out.

The Moo Cow Moo has deers on his head,
And his eyes stick out of their place,
And the nose of the Moo Cow Moo is spread
All over the Moo Cow's face.

And his feet are nothing but fingernails,
And his mamma don't keep them cut,
And he gives folks milk in water pails,
When he don't keep his handles shut.

But if you or I pull his handles, why
The Moo Cow Moo says it hurts,
But the hired man sits down close by
And squirts, and squirts, and squirts.

_Edmund Vance Cooke._

All Things Bright and Beautiful

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,--
The Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,--
He made their glowing colors,
He made their tiny wings.

The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
God made them, high or lowly,
And ordered their estate.

The purple-headed mountain,
The river running by,
The morning, and the sunset
That lighteth up the sky,

The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden,--
He made them, every one.

The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water
We gather every day,--

He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell
How great is God Almighty,
Who hath made all things well.

_Cecil Frances Alexander._

An Order for a Picture

Oh, good painter, tell me true,
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw?
Aye? Well, here is an order for you.

Woods and cornfields, a little brown,-- The picture must not be over-bright,-- Yet all in the golden and gracious light Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. Alway and alway, night and morn, Woods upon woods, with fields of corn Lying between them, not quite sere, And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, When the wind can hardly find breathing-room, Under their tassels,--cattle near, Biting shorter the short green grass, And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, With bluebirds twittering all around,-- (Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)-- These, and the little house where I was born, Low and little, and black and old, With children, many as it can hold, All at the windows, open wide,-- Heads and shoulders clear outside, And fair young faces all ablush: Perhaps you have seen, some day, Roses crowding the self-same way, Out of a wilding, wayside bush.

Listen closer. When you have done With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, A lady, the loveliest ever the sun Looked down upon you must paint for me: Oh, if I could only make you see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman's soul, and the angel's face That are beaming on me all the while, I need not speak these foolish words: Yet one word tells you all I would say,-- She is my mother: you will agree That all the rest may be thrown away.

Two little urchins at her knee
You must paint, sir: one like me,--
The other with a clearer brow,
And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise:
At ten years old he went to sea,--
God knoweth if he be living now;
He sailed in the good ship "Commodore,"--
Nobody ever crossed her track
To bring us news, and she never came back.
Ah, it is twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay
With my great-hearted brother on her deck:
I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
And his face was toward me all the way.
Bright his hair was, a golden brown,
The time we stood at our mother's knee:
That beauteous head, if it did go down,
Carried sunshine into the sea!

Out in the fields one summer night We were together, half afraid Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,-- Loitering till after the low little light Of the candle shone through the open door, And over the hay-stack's pointed top, All of a tremble and ready to drop, The first half-hoar, the great yellow star, That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, Had often and often watched to see Propped and held in its place in the skies By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree, Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,-- Dead at the top, just one branch full Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, From which it tenderly shook the dew Over our heads, when we came to play In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day. Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,-- The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat: The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and shining, to keep her still.

At last we stood at our mother's knee. Do you think, sir, if you try, You can paint the look of a lie? If you can, pray have the grace To put it solely in the face Of the urchin that is likest me: I think 'twas solely mine, indeed: But that's no matter,--paint it so; The eyes of our mother--(take good heed)-- Looking not on the nestful of eggs, Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, But straight through our faces down to our lies, And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise! I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though A sharp blade struck through it.

You, sir, know That you on the canvas are to repeat Things that are fairest, things most sweet,-- Woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree,-- The mother,--the lads, with their bird at her knee: But, oh, that look of reproachful woe! High as the heavens your name I'll shout, If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.

_Alice Cary._

Who Won the War?

Who won the war? 'T was little Belgium stemmed the tide Of ruthless hordes who thought to ride Her borders through and prostrate France Ere yet she'd time to raise her lance. 'T was plucky Belgium.

Who won the war? Italia broke the galling chain Which bound her to the guilty twain; Then fought 'gainst odds till one of these Lay prone and shattered at her knees. 'T was gallant Italy.

Who won the war? Old England's watch dogs of the main Their vigil kept, and not in vain; For not a ship their wrath dared brave Save those which skulked beneath the wave. 'T was mighty England.

Who won the war? 'T was France who wrote in noble rage The grandest words on history's page, "They shall not pass"--the devilish Hun; And he could never pass Verdun. 'T was sturdy France.

Who won the war? In darkest hour there rose a cry, "Liberty, sweet Liberty, thou shalt not die!" Thank God! they came across the sea, Two million men and victory! 'T was glorious America.

Who won the war? No one of these; not one, but all Who answered Freedom's clarion call. Each humble man who did his bit In God's own book of fame is writ. These won the war.

_Woodbury Pulsifer._

Mothers of Men

The bravest battle that ever was fought!
Shall I tell you where and when?
On the map of the world you will find it not,
'Twas fought by the mothers of men.

Nay, not with cannon or battle shot,
With sword or nobler pen,
Nay, not with eloquent words or thought
From mouths of wonderful men;

But deep in the walled-up woman's heart--
Of woman that would not yield,
But bravely, silently, bore her part--
Lo, there is the battle field!

No marshaling troup, no bivouac song,
No banner to gleam or wave,
But oh, these battles, they last so long--
From babyhood to the grave.

Yet, faithful as a bridge of stars,
She fights in her walled-up town--
Fights on and on in the endless wars,
Then, silent, unseen, goes down.

Oh, ye with banner and battle shot,
And soldiers to shout and praises
I tell you the kingliest victories fought
Were fought in those silent ways.

Oh, spotless in a world of shame,
With splendid and silent scorn,
Go back to God as white as you came--
The kingliest warrior born!

_Joaquin Miller._

Plain Bob and a Job