Chapter IV: Part 4

"Don't you see, Mister Brown," Cried the youth, with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is. How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is-- In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis! I make no apology; I've learned owleology. I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've _studied_ owls, And other night fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true: An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that attitude. He can't _do_ it, because 'Tis against all bird laws. Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches, An owl has a toe That _can't_ turn out so! I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears! Mister Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd! To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes. I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pass Off on you such poor glass; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff. Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark I could stuff in the dark An owl better than that. I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up here so stiff like a side of coarse leather. In fact, about _him _there's not one natural feather." Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic, And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "Your learning's at fault this time, anyway; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray. I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!" And the barber kept on shaving.

_James T. Fields._

At School-Close

The end has come, as come it must
To all things; in these sweet June days
The teacher and the scholar trust
Their parting feet to separate ways.

They part: but in the years to be
Shall pleasant memories cling to each,
As shells bear inland from the sea
The murmur of the rhythmic beach.

One knew the joys the sculptor knows
When, plastic to his lightest touch,
His clay-wrought model slowly grows
To that fine grace desired so much.

So daily grew before her eyes
The living shapes whereon she wrought,
Strong, tender, innocently wise,
The child's heart with the woman's thought.

And one shall never quite forget
The voice that called from dream and play,
The firm but kindly hand that set
Her feet in learning's pleasant way,--

The joy of Undine soul-possessed,
The wakening sense, the strange delight
That swelled the fabled statue's breast
And filled its clouded eyes with sight!

O Youth and Beauty, loved of all!
Ye pass from girlhood's gate of dreams;
In broader ways your footsteps fall,
Ye test the truth of all that seems.

Her little realm the teacher leaves,
She breaks her wand of power apart,
While, for your love and trust, she gives
The warm thanks of a grateful heart.

Hers is the sober summer noon
Contrasted with your morn of spring;
The waning with the waxing moon,
The folded with the outspread wing.

Across the distance of the years
She sends her God-speed back to you;
She has no thought of doubts or fears;
Be but yourselves, be pure, be true,

And prompt in duty; heed the deep,
Low voice of conscience; through the ill
And discord round about you, keep
Your faith in human nature still.

Be gentle: unto griefs and needs
Be pitiful as woman should,
And, spite of all the lies of creeds,
Hold fast the truth that God is good.

Give and receive; go forth and bless
The world that needs the hand and heart
Of Martha's helpful carefulness
No less than Mary's better part.

So shall the stream of time flow by
And leave each year a richer good,
And matron loveliness outvie
The nameless charm of maidenhood.

And, when the world shall link your names
With gracious lives and manners fine,
The teacher shall assert her claims,
And proudly whisper, "These were mine!"

_John G. Whittier._

The Wild White Rose

Oh, that I might have my request, and that God would grant me the thing that I long for.--_Job 6:8._

It was peeping through the brambles, that little wild white rose, Where the hawthorn hedge was planted, my garden to enclose. All beyond was fern and heather, on the breezy, open moor; All within was sun and shelter, and the wealth of beauty's store. But I did not heed the fragrance of flow'ret or of tree, For my eyes were on that rosebud, and it grew too high for me. In vain I strove to reach it through the tangled mass of green, It only smiled and nodded behind its thorny screen. Yet through that summer morning I lingered near the spot: Oh, why do things seem sweeter if we possess them not? My garden buds were blooming, but all that I could see Was that little mocking wild rose, hanging just too high for me.

So in life's wider garden there are buds of promise, too, Beyond our reach to gather, but not beyond our view; And like the little charmer that tempted me astray, They steal out half the brightness of many a summer's day. Oh, hearts that fail with longing for some forbidden tree, Look up and learn a lesson from my white rose and me. 'Tis wiser far to number the blessings at my feet, Than ever to be sighing for just one bud more sweet. My sunbeams and my shadows fall from a pierced Hand, I can surely trust His wisdom since His heart I understand; And maybe in the morning, when His blessed face I see, He will tell me why my white rose grew just too high for me.

_Ellen H. Willis._

L'Envoi

When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried, When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died, We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it--lie down for an aeon or two, Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew!

And those who were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair; They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair; They shall find real saints to draw from--Magdalene, Peter and Paul; They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all.

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame; But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!

_Rudyard Kipling._

Whistling in Heaven

You're surprised that I ever should say so?
Just wait till the reason I've given
Why I say I sha'n't care for the music,
Unless there is whistling in heaven.
Then you'll think it no very great wonder,
Nor so strange, nor so bold a conceit,
That unless there's a boy there a-whistling,
Its music will not be complete.

It was late in the autumn of '40;
We had come from our far Eastern home
Just in season to build us a cabin,
Ere the cold of the winter should come;
And we lived all the while in our wagon
That husband was clearing the place
Where the house was to stand; and the clearing
And building it took many days.

So that our heads were scarce sheltered
In under its roof when our store
Of provisions was almost exhausted,
And husband must journey for more;
And the nearest place where he could get them
Was yet such a distance away,
That it forced him from home to be absent
At least a whole night and a day.

You see, we'd but two or three neighbors,
And the nearest was more than a mile;
And we hadn't found time yet to know them,
For we had been busy the while.
And the man who had helped at the raising
Just staid till the job was well done;
And as soon as his money was paid him
Had shouldered his axe and had gone.

Well, husband just kissed me and started--
I could scarcely suppress a deep groan
At the thought of remaining with baby
So long in the house alone;
For, my dear, I was childish and timid,
And braver ones might well have feared,
For the wild wolf was often heard howling.
And savages sometimes appeared.

But I smothered my grief and my terror
Till husband was off on his ride,
And then in my arms I took Josey,
And all the day long sat and cried,
As I thought of the long, dreary hours
When the darkness of night should fall,
And I was so utterly helpless,
With no one in reach of my call.

And when the night came with its terrors,
To hide ev'ry ray of light,
I hung up a quilt by the window,
And, almost dead with affright,
I kneeled by the side of the cradle,
Scarce daring to draw a full breath,
Lest the baby should wake, and its crying
Should bring us a horrible death.

There I knelt until late in the evening
And scarcely an inch had I stirred,
When suddenly, far in the distance,
A sound as of whistling I heard.
I started up dreadfully frightened,
For fear 'twas an Indian's call;
And then very soon I remembered
The red man ne'er whistles at all.

And when I was sure 'twas a white man,
I thought, were he coming for ill,
He'd surely approach with more caution--
Would come without warning, and still.
Then the sound, coming nearer and nearer,
Took the form of a tune light and gay,
And I knew I needn't fear evil
From one who could whistle that way.

Very soon I heard footsteps approaching,
Then came a peculiar dull thump,
As if some one was heavily striking
An ax in the top of a stump;
And then, in another brief moment,
There came a light tap on the door,
When quickly I undid the fast'ning,
And in stepped a boy, and before

There was either a question or answer
Or either had time to speak,
I just threw my glad arms around him,
And gave him a kiss on the cheek.
Then I started back, scared at my boldness.
But he only smiled at my fright,
As he said, "I'm your neighbor's boy, Ellick,
Come to tarry with you through the night.

"We saw your husband go eastward,
And made up our minds where he'd gone,
And I said to the rest of our people,
'That woman is there all alone,
And I venture she's awfully lonesome,
And though she may have no great fear,
I think she would feel a bit safer
If only a boy were but near.'

"So, taking my axe on my shoulder,
For fear that a savage might stray
Across my path and need scalping,
I started right down this way;
And coming in sight of the cabin,
And thinking to save you alarm,
I whistled a tune, just to show you
I didn't intend any harm.

"And so here I am, at your service;
But if you don't want me to stay,
Why, all you need do is to say so,
And should'ring my axe, I'll away."
I dropped in a chair and near fainted,
Just at thought of his leaving me then,
And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle
As he said, "I guess I'll remain."

And then I just sat there and told him
How terribly frightened I'd been,
How his face was to me the most welcome
Of any I ever had seen;
And then I lay down with the baby,
And slept all the blessed night through,
For I felt I was safe from all danger
Near so brave a young fellow, and true.

So now, my dear friend, do you wonder,
Since such a good reason I've given,
Why I say I sha'n't care for the music,
Unless there is whistling in heaven?
Yes, often I've said so in earnest,
And now what I've said I repeat,
That unless there's a boy there a-whistling,
Its music will not be complete.

Sleep, Baby, Sleep

Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy father's watching the sheep, Thy mother's shaking the dreamland tree, And down drops a little dream for thee. Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep! The large stars are the sheep, The little stars are the lambs, I guess, The bright moon is the shepherdess. Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy Savior loves His sheep; He is the Lamb of God on high Who for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, baby, sleep!

_Elizabeth Prentiss._

The Lost Chord

Seated one day at the organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then;
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight,
Like the close of an angel's psalm;
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexing meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence
As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,
That came from the soul of the organ,
And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again;
It may be that only in Heaven
I shall hear that grand Amen.

_Adelaide A. Procter._

The Children's Hour

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

_Henry W. Longfellow._

Woodman, Spare That Tree!

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'T was my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand.
Thy ax shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea--
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand--
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,
Thy ax shall harm it not!

_George Pope Morris_.

Little Brown Hands

They drive home the cows from the pasture,
Up through the long shady lane,
Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields,
That are yellow with ripening grain.
They find, in the thick waving grasses,
Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.
They gather the earliest snowdrops,
And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the new hay in the meadow,
They gather the elder-bloom white,
They find where the dusky grapes purple
In the soft-tinted October light.
They know where the apples hang ripest,
And are sweeter than Italy's wines;
They know where the fruit hangs the thickest
On the long, thorny blackberry vines.

They gather the delicate sea-weeds,
And build tiny castles of sand;
They pick up the beautiful sea shells--
Fairy barks that have drifted to land.
They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops,
Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings,
And at night time are folded in slumber
By a song that a fond mother sings.

Those who toil bravely are strongest;
The humble and poor become great;
And so from these brown-handed children
Shall grow mighty rulers of state.
The pen of the author and statesman,--
The noble and wise of the land,--
The sword, and the chisel, and palette,
Shall be held in the little brown hand.

_Mary H. Krout._

Barbara Frietchie

Up from the meadows rich with corn Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,--

Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind; the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight.

"Halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.

"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word:

"Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog; march on!" he said.

All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet;

All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it a warm good night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er. And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of freedom and Union wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town.

_John G. Whittier._

I Want to Go to Morrow

I started on a journey just about a week ago, For the little town of Morrow, in the State of Ohio. I never was a traveler, and really didn't know That Morrow had been ridiculed a century or so. I went down to the depot for my ticket and applied For the tips regarding Morrow, not expecting to be guyed. Said I, "My friend, I want to go to Morrow and return Not later than to-morrow, for I haven't time to burn."

Said he to me, "Now let me see if I have heard you right, You want to go to Morrow and come back to-morrow night. You should have gone to Morrow yesterday and back to-day, For if you started yesterday to Morrow, don't you see, You could have got to Morrow and returned to-day at three. The train that started yesterday--now understand me right-- To-day it gets to Morrow, and returns to-morrow night."

Said I, "My boy, it seems to me you're talking through your hat, Is there a town named Morrow on your line? Now tell me that." "There is," said he, "and take from me a quiet little tip-- To go from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour trip. The train that goes to Morrow leaves to-day eight-thirty-five; Half after ten to-morrow is the time it should arrive. Now if from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour jump, Can you go to-day to Morrow and come back to-day, you chump?"

Said I, "I want to go to Morrow; can I go to-day And get to Morrow by to-night, if there is no delay?" "Well, well," said he, "explain to me and I've no more to say; Can you go anywhere to-morrow and come back from there to-day?" For if to-day you'd get to Morrow, surely you'll agree You should have started not to-day, but yesterday, you see. So if you start to Morrow, leaving here to-day, you're flat, You won't get to Morrow till the day that follows that.

"Now if you start to-day to Morrow, it's a cinch you'll land To-morrow into Morrow, not to-day, you understand. For the train to-day to Morrow, if the schedule is right, Will get you into Morrow by about to-morrow night." Said I, "I guess you know it all, but kindly let me say, How can I go to Morrow, if I leave the town to-day?" Said he, "You cannot go to Morrow any more to-day, For the train that goes to Morrow is a mile upon its way."

FINALE

I was so disappointed I was mad enough to swear; The train had gone to Morrow and had left me standing there. The man was right in telling me I was a howling jay; I didn't go to Morrow, so I guess I'll go to-day.

Out in the Fields

The little cares that fretted me,
I lost them yesterday
Among the fields above the seas,
Among the winds at play;
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.

The foolish fears of what might happen,--
I cast them all away
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay;
Among the husking of the corn,
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born,
Out in the fields with God.

_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._

The Bluebird's Song

I know the song that the bluebird is singing, Out in the apple tree where he is swinging. Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary-- Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.

Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat! Hark! was there ever so merry a note? Listen a while, and you'll hear what he's saying, Up in the apple tree swinging and swaying.

"Dear little blossoms down under the snow, You must be weary of winter I know. Listen, I'll sing you a message of cheer! Summer is coming! and springtime is here!

"Little white snowdrop! I pray you arise; Bright yellow crocus! please open your eyes; Sweet little violets, hid from the cold, Put on your mantles of purple and gold; Daffodils! Daffodils! say, do you hear?-- Summer is coming, and springtime is here!"

_Emily Huntington Miller._

The Main Truck, or a Leap for Life

Old Ironsides at anchor lay,
In the harbor of Mahon;
A dead calm rested on the bay,--
The waves to sleep had gone;
When little Hal, the Captain's son,
A lad both brave and good,
In sport, up shroud and rigging ran,
And on the main truck stood!

A shudder shot through every vein,--
All eyes were turned on high!
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,
Between the sea and sky;
No hold had he above, below;
Alone he stood in air:
To that far height none dared to go,--
No aid could reach him there.

We gazed, but not a man could speak,--
With horror all aghast,--
In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,--
We watched the quivering mast.
The atmosphere grew thick and hot,
And of a lurid hue;--
As riveted unto the spot,
Stood officers and crew.

The father came on deck:--he gasped,
"Oh, God; thy will be done!"
Then suddenly a rifle grasped,
And aimed it at his son.
"Jump, far out, boy, into the wave!
Jump, or I fire," he said;
"That only chance your life can save;
Jump, jump, boy!" He obeyed.

He sunk,--he rose,--he lived,--he moved,--
And for the ship struck out.
On board we hailed the lad beloved,
With many a manly shout.
His father drew, in silent joy,
Those wet arms round his neck,
And folded to his heart his boy,--
Then fainted on the deck.

_Morris._

The Arrow and the Song

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

_H.W. Longfellow._

The Green Mountain Justice

"The snow is deep," the Justice said; "There's mighty mischief overhead." "High talk, indeed!" his wife exclaimed; "What, sir! shall Providence be blamed?" The Justice, laughing, said, "Oh no! I only meant the loads of snow Upon the roofs. The barn is weak; I greatly fear the roof will break. So hand me up the spade, my dear, I'll mount the barn, the roof to clear." "No!" said the wife; "the barn is high, And if you slip, and fall, and die, How will my living be secured?-- Stephen, your life is not insured. But tie a rope your waist around, And it will hold you safe and sound." "I will," said he. "Now for the roof-- All snugly tied, and danger-proof! Excelsior! Excel--But no! The rope is not secured below!" Said Rachel, "Climb, the end to throw Across the top, and I will go And tie that end around my waist." "Well, every woman to her taste; You always would be tightly laced. Rachel, when you became my bride, I thought the knot securely tied; But lest the bond should break in twain, I'll have it fastened once again." Below the arm-pits tied around, She takes her station on the ground, While on the roof, beyond the ridge, He shovels clear the lower edge. But, sad mischance! the loosened snow Comes sliding down, to plunge below. And as he tumbles with the slide, Up Rachel goes on t'other side. Just half-way down the Justice hung; Just half-way up the woman swung. "Good land o' Goshen!" shouted she; "Why, do you see it?" answered he.

The couple, dangling in the breeze, Like turkeys hung outside to freeze, At their rope's end and wits' end, too, Shout back and forth what best to do. Cried Stephen, "Take it coolly, wife; All have their ups and downs in life." Quoth Rachel, "What a pity 'tis To joke at such a thing as this! A man whose wife is being hung Should know enough to hold his tongue." "Now, Rachel, as I look below, I see a tempting heap of snow. Suppose, my dear, I take my knife, And cut the rope to save my life?" She shouted, "Don't! 'twould be my death-- I see some pointed stones beneath. A better way would be to call, With all our might, for Phebe Hall." "Agreed!" he roared. First he, then she Gave tongue; "O Phebe! Phebe! _Phe-e-be_ Hall!" in tones both fine and coarse. Enough to make a drover hoarse.

Now Phebe, over at the farm, Was sitting, sewing, snug and warm; But hearing, as she thought, her name, Sprang up, and to the rescue came; Beheld the scene, and thus she thought: "If now a kitchen chair were brought, And I could reach the lady's foot, I'd draw her downward by the boot, Then cut the rope, and let him go; He cannot miss the pile of snow." He sees her moving toward his wife. Armed with a chair and carving-knife, And, ere he is aware, perceives His head ascending to the eaves; And, guessing what the two are at, Screams from beneath the roof, "Stop that! You make me fall too far, by half!" But Phebe answers, with a laugh, "Please tell a body by what right You've brought your wife to such a plight!" And then, with well-directed blows, She cuts the rope and down he goes. The wife untied, they walk around When lo! no Stephen can be found. They call in vain, run to and fro; They look around, above, below; No trace or token can they see, And deeper grows the mystery. Then Rachel's heart within her sank; But, glancing at the snowy bank, She caught a little gleam of hope,-- A gentle movement of the rope. They scrape away a little snow; What's this? A hat! Ah! he's below; Then upward heaves the snowy pile, And forth he stalks in tragic style, Unhurt, and with a roguish smile; And Rachel sees, with glad surprise, The missing found, the fallen rise.

_Rev. Henry Reeves._

Jane Conquest

About the time of Christmas
(Not many months ago),
When the sky was black
With wrath and rack,
And the earth was white with snow,
When loudly rang the tumult
Of winds and waves of strife,
In her home by the sea,
With her babe on her knee,
Sat Harry Conquest's wife.

And he was on the ocean,
Although she knew not where,
For never a lip
Could tell of the ship,
To lighten her heart's despair.
And her babe was fading and dying;
The pulse in the tiny wrist
Was all but still,
And the brow was chill,
And pale as the white sea mist.

Jane Conquest's heart was hopeless;
She could only weep and pray
That the Shepherd mild
Would take her child
Without a pain away.
The night was dark and darker,
And the storm grew stronger still,
And buried in deep
And dreamless sleep
Lay the hamlet under the hill.

The fire was dead on the hearthstone
Within Jane Conquest's room,
And still sat she,
With her babe on her knee,
At prayer amid the gloom.
When, borne above the tempest,
A sound fell on her ear,
Thrilling her through,
For well she knew
'Twas the voice of mortal fear.

And a light leaped in at the lattice,
Sudden and swift and red;
Crimsoning all,
The whited wall,
And the floor, and the roof o'erhead.
For one brief moment, heedless
Of the babe upon her knee,
With the frenzied start
Of a frightened heart,
Upon her feet rose she.

And through the quaint old casement
She looks upon the sea;
Thank God that the sight
She saw that night
So rare a sight should be!
Hemmed in by many a billow
With mad and foaming lip,
A mile from shore,
Or hardly more,
She saw a gallant ship.

And to her horror she beheld it
Aflame from stem to stern;
For there seemed no speck
On all that wreck
Where the fierce fire did not burn;
Till the night was like a sunset,
And the sea like a sea of blood,
And the rocks and shore
Were bathed all o'er
And drenched with the gory flood.

She looked and looked, till the terror
Went creeping through every limb;
And her breath came quick,
And her heart grew sick,
And her sight grew dizzy and dim;
And her lips had lost their utterance,
For she tried but could not speak;
And her feelings found
No channel of sound
In prayer, or sob, or shriek.

Once more that cry of anguish
Thrilled through the tempest's strife,
And it stirred again
In heart and brain
The active thinking life;
And the light of an inspiration
Leaped to her brightened eye,
And on lip and brow
Was written now
A purpose pure and high.

Swiftly she turns, and softly
She crosses the chamber floor,
And faltering not,
In his tiny cot
She laid the babe she bore.
And then with a holy impulse,
She sank to her knees, and made
A lowly prayer,
In the silence there,
And this was the prayer she prayed:

"O Christ, who didst bear the scourging,
And who now dost wear the crown,
I at Thy feet,
O True and Sweet,
Would lay my burden down.
Thou bad'st me love and cherish
The babe Thou gavest me,
And I have kept
Thy word, nor stept
Aside from following Thee.

"And lo! my boy is dying!
And vain is all my care;
And my burden's weight
Is very great,
Yea, greater than I can bear!
O Lord, Thou know'st what peril
Doth threat these poor men's lives,
And I, a woman,
Most weak and human,
Do plead for their waiting wives.

"Thou canst not let them perish;
Up, Lord, in Thy strength, and save
From the scorching breath
Of this terrible death
On this cruel winter wave.
Take Thou my babe and watch it,
No care is like to Thine;
And let Thy power
In this perilous hour
Supply what lack is mine."

And so her prayer she ended,
And rising to her feet,
Gave one long look
At the cradle nook
Where the child's faint pulses beat;
And then with softest footsteps
Retrod the chamber floor,
And noiselessly groped
For the latch, and oped,
And crossed the cottage door.

And through the tempest bravely
Jane Conquest fought her way,
By snowy deep
And slippery steep
To where her duty lay.
And she journeyed onward, breathless,
And weary and sore and faint,
Yet forward pressed
With the strength, and the zest,
And the ardor of a saint.

Solemn, and weird, and lonely
Amid its countless graves,
Stood the old gray church
On its tall rock perch,
Secure from the sea and its waves;
And beneath its sacred shadow
Lay the hamlet safe and still;
For however the sea
And the wind might be,
There was quiet under the hill.

Jane Conquest reached the churchyard,
And stood by the old church door,
But the oak was tough
And had bolts enough,
And her strength was frail and poor;
So she crept through a narrow window,
And climbed the belfry stair,
And grasped the rope,
Sole cord of hope,
For the mariners in despair.

And the wild wind helped her bravely,
And she wrought with an earnest will,
And the clamorous bell
Spoke out right well
To the hamlet under the hill.
And it roused the slumbering fishers,
Nor its warning task gave o'er
Till a hundred fleet
And eager feet
Were hurrying to the shore.

And then it ceased its ringing,
For the woman's work was done,
And many a boat
That was now afloat
Showed man's work had begun.
But the ringer in the belfry
Lay motionless and cold,
With the cord of hope.
The church-bell rope,
Still in her frozen hold.

How long she lay it boots not,
But she woke from her swoon at last
In her own bright room.
To find the gloom,
And the grief, and the peril past,
With the sense of joy within her,
And the Christ's sweet presence near;
And friends around,
And the cooing sound
Of her babe's voice in her ear.

And they told her all the story,
How a brave and gallant few
O'ercame each check,
And reached the wreck,
And saved the hopeless crew.
And how the curious sexton
Had climbed the belfry stair,
And of his fright
When, cold and white,
He found her lying there;

And how, when they had borne her
Back to her home again,
The child she left
With a heart bereft
Of hope, and weary with pain,
Was found within his cradle
In a quiet slumber laid;
With a peaceful smile
On his lips the while,
And the wasting sickness stayed.

And she said "Twas the Christ who watched it,
And brought it safely through";
And she praised His truth
And His tender ruth
Who had saved her darling too.

Nathan Hale

To drum beat and heart beat,
A soldier marches by,
There is color in his cheek,
There is courage in his eye;
Yet to drum beat and heart beat,
In a moment he must die.

By starlight and moonlight,
He seeks the Britons' camp;
He hears the rustling flag,
And the armed sentry's tramp;
And the starlight and moonlight
His silent wanderings lamp.

With a slow tread and still tread,
He scans the tented line,
And he counts the battery guns
By the gaunt and shadowy pine,
And his slow tread and still tread
Gives no warning sign.

The dark wave, the plumed wave,
It meets his eager glance;
And it sparkles 'neath the stars,
Like the glimmer of a lance--
A dark wave, a plumed wave,
On an emerald expanse.

A sharp clang, a steel clang,
And terror in the sound!
For the sentry, falcon-eyed,
In the camp a spy has found;
With a sharp clang, a steel clang,
The patriot is bound.

With calm brow, steady brow,
He listens to his doom.
In his look there is no fear,
Nor a shadow trace of gloom,
But with calm brow, steady brow,
He robes him for the tomb.

In the long night, the still night,
He kneels upon the sod;
And the brutal guards withhold
E'en the solemn word of God!
In the long night, the still night,
He walks where Christ hath trod.

'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,
He dies upon the tree;
And he mourns that he can give
But one life for liberty;
And in the blue morn, the sunny morn
His spent wings are free.

But his last words, his message words,
They burn, lest friendly eye
Should read how proud and calm
A patriot could die.
With his last words, his dying words,
A soldier's battle cry.

From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,
From monument and urn,
The sad of earth, the glad of Heaven,
His tragic fate shall learn;
And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,
The name of Hale shall burn.

_Francis M. Finch._

The Lips That Touch Liquor Must Never Touch Mine

You are coming to woo me, but not as of yore, When I hastened to welcome your ring at the door; For I trusted that he who stood waiting me then, Was the brightest, the truest, the noblest of men. Your lips on my own when they printed "Farewell," Had never been soiled by "the beverage of hell"; But they come to me now with the bacchanal sign, And the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

I think of that night in the garden alone, When in whispers you told me your heart was my own, That your love in the future should faithfully be Unshared by another, kept only for me. Oh, sweet to my soul is the memory still Of the lips which met mine, when they murmured "I will"; But now to their pressure no more they incline, For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine!

O John! how it crushed me, when first in your face The pen of the "Rum Fiend" had written "disgrace"; And turned me in silence and tears from that breath All poisoned and foul from the chalice of death. It scattered the hopes I had treasured to last; It darkened the future and clouded the past; It shattered my idol, and ruined the shrine, For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

I loved you--Oh, dearer than language can tell, And you saw it, you proved it, you knew it too well! But the man of my love was far other than he Who now from the "Tap-room" comes reeling to me; In manhood and honor so noble and right-- His heart was so true, and his genius so bright-- And his soul was unstained, unpolluted by wine; But the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

You promised reform, but I trusted in vain; Your pledge was but made to be broken again: And the lover so false to his promises now, Will not, as a husband, be true to his vow. The word must be spoken that bids you depart-- Though the effort to speak it should shatter my heart-- Though in silence, with blighted affection, I pine, Yet the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine!

If one spark in your bosom of virtue remain, Go fan it with prayer till it kindle again; Resolved, with "God helping," in future to be From wine and its follies unshackled and free! And when you have conquered this foe of your soul,-- In manhood and honor beyond his control-- This heart will again beat responsive to thine, And the lips free from liquor be welcome to mine.

_George W. Young._

A Perfect Day

When you come to the end of a perfect day
And you sit alone with your thought
While the chimes ring out with a carol gay
For the joy that the day has brought,
Do you think what the end of a perfect day
Can mean to a tired heart?
When the sun goes down with a flaming ray
And the dear friends have to part?

Well, this is the end of a perfect day,
Near the end of a journey, too;
But it leaves a thought that is big and strong,
With a wish that is kind and true;
For mem'ry has painted this perfect day
With colors that never fade,
And we find, at the end of a perfect day,
The soul of a friend we've made.

_Carrie Jacobs Bond._

_Kate Ketchem_

Kate Ketchem on a winter's night Went to a party dressed in white. Her chignon in a net of gold, Was about as large as they ever sold. Gayly she went, because her "pap" Was supposed to be a rich old chap.

But when by chance her glances fell On a friend who had lately married well, Her spirits sunk, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast-- A wish she wouldn't have had made known, To have an establishment of her own.

Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng, With chestnut hair, worn pretty long. He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd, And knowing her slightly, stopped and bowed; Then asked her to give him a single flower, Saying he'd think it a priceless dower.

Out from those with which she was decked, She took the poorest she could select. And blushed as she gave it, looking down To call attention to her gown. "Thanks," said Fudge, and he thought how dear Flowers must be at that time of year.

Then several charming remarks he made, Asked if she sang, or danced, or played; And being exhausted, inquired whether She thought it was going to be pleasant weather. And Kate displayed her "jewelry," And dropped her lashes becomingly; And listened, with no attempt to disguise The admiration in her eyes. At last, like one who has nothing to say, He turned around and walked away.

Kate Ketchem smiled, and said, "You bet. I'll catch that Fudge and his money yet. He's rich enough to keep me in clothes, And I think I could manage him as I chose. He could aid my father as well as not, And buy my brother a splendid yacht. My mother for money should never fret, And all it cried for the baby should get; And after that, with what he could spare, I'd make a show at a charity fair."

Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed the sill, And saw Kate Ketchem standing still. "A girl more suited to my mind It isn't an easy thing to find; And every thing that she has to wear Proves her as rich as she is fair. Would she were mine, and I to-day Had the old man's cash my debts to pay! No creditors with a long account, No tradesmen wanting 'that little amount'; But all my scores paid up when due By a father-in-law as rich as a Jew!"

But he thought of her brother, not worth a straw, And her mother, that would be his, in law; So, undecided, he walked along, And Kate was left alone in the throng. But a lawyer smiled, whom he sought by stealth, To ascertain old Ketchem's wealth; And as for Kate, she schemed and planned Till one of the dancers claimed her hand.

He married her for her father's cash; She married him to cut a dash, But as to paying his debts, do you know, The father couldn't see it so; And at hints for help, Kate's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. And when Tom thought of the way he had wed He longed for a single life instead, And closed his eyes in a sulky mood, Regretting the days of his bachelorhood; And said, in a sort of reckless vein, "I'd like to see her catch me again, If I were free, as on that night When I saw Kate Ketchem dressed in white!"

She wedded him to be rich and gay; But husband and children didn't pay, He wasn't the prize she hoped to draw, And wouldn't live with his mother-in-law. And oft when she had to coax and pout In order to get him to take her out, She thought how very attentive and bright He seemed at the party that winter's night; Of his laugh, as soft as a breeze of the south, ('Twas now on the other side of his mouth); How he praised her dress and gems in his talk, As he took a careful account of stock.

Sometimes she hated the very walls-- Hated her friends, her dinners, and calls; Till her weak affection, to hatred turned, Like a dying tallow-candle burned. And for him who sat there, her peace to mar, Smoking his everlasting cigar-- He wasn't the man she thought she saw, And grief was duty, and hate was law. So she took up her burden with a groan, Saying only, "I might have known!"

Alas for Kate! and alas for Fudge! Though I do not owe them any grudge; And alas for any who find to their shame That two can play at their little game! For of all hard things to bear and grin, The hardest is knowing you're taken in. Ah, well! as a general thing, we fret About the one we didn't get; But I think we needn't make a fuss, If the one we don't want didn't get us.

_Phoebe Cary._

Mandalay

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', an' I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, an' the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier: come you back to Mandalay!"
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

'Er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her fust a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot;
Bloomin' idol made o' mud--
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay--

When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' low,
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "_Kul-la-lo-lo_!"
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' her cheek agin my cheek
We useter watch the steamers and the _hathis_ pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay--

But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away,
An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Benk to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year sodger tells:
"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', why, you won't 'eed nothin' else."
No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
But them spicy garlic smells
An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells!
On the road to Mandalay--

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gutty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talk a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an' grubby 'and--
Law! wot _do_ they understand?
I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay--

Ship me somewheres east of Suez where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments, an' a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be--
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea--
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
On the road to Mandalay!
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

_Rudyard Kipling._

Columbus

Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind the Gates of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of shores,
Before him only shoreless seas.
The good mate said: "Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone.
Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?"
"Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly wan and weak."
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek,
"What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
"Why, you shall say at break of day:
'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanched mate said:
"Why, now not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.
These very winds forget their way,
For God from these dread seas is gone.
Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say--"
He said: "Sail on! Sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:
"This mad sea shows his teeth tonight.
He curls his lips, he lies in wait
With lifted teeth, as if to bite!
Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?
The words leapt like a leaping sword;
"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night
Of all dark nights! And then a speck--
A light! a light! a light! a light!
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!
It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.
He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson; "On! sail on!"

_Joaquin Miller._

"Sister's Best Feller"

My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three, And handsome and strong as a feller can be; And Sis, she's so little, and slender, and small, You never would think she could boss him at all; But, my jing! She don't do a thing But make him jump 'round, like he worked with a string! It jest made me 'shamed of him sometimes, you know, To think that he'll let a girl bully him so.