Chapter V: Part 5

He goes to walk with her and carries her muff And coat and umbrella, and that kind of stuff; She loads him with things that must weigh 'most a ton; And, honest, he _likes_ it,--as if it was fun! And, oh, say! When they go to a play, He'll sit in the parlor and fidget away, And she won't come down till it's quarter past eight, And then she'll scold _him_ 'cause they get there so late.

He spends heaps of money a-buyin' her things, Like candy, and flowers, and presents, and rings; And all he's got for 'em's a handkerchief case-- A fussed-up concern, made of ribbons and lace; But, my land! He thinks it's just grand, "'Cause she made it," he says, "with her own little hand"; He calls her "an angel"--I heard him--and "saint," And "beautif'lest bein' on earth"--but she ain't,

'Fore I go on an errand for her any time, I just make her coax me, and give me a dime; But that great big silly--why, honest and true-- He'd run forty miles if she wanted him to. Oh, gee whiz! I tell you what 'tis! I jest think it's _awful_--those actions of his. I won't fall in love, when I'm grown--no sir-ee! My sister's best feller's a warnin' to me!

_Joseph C. Lincoln._

Where the West Begins

Out where the handclasp's a little stronger, Out where a smile dwells a little longer, That's where the West begins. Out where the sun's a little brighter, Where the snow that falls is a trifle whiter, Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, That's where the West begins.

Out where the skies are a trifle bluer, Out where friendship's a little truer, That's where the West begins. Out where a fresher breeze is blowing, Where there is laughter in every streamlet flowing, Where there's more of reaping and less of sowing, That's where the West begins.

Out where the world is in the making, Where fewer hearts with despair are aching; That's where the West begins. Where there is more of singing and less of sighing, Where there is more of giving and less of buying, And a man makes friends without half trying-- That's where the West begins.

_Arthur Chapman._

The Tapestry Weavers

Let us take to our hearts a lesson--no lesson can braver be-- From the ways of the tapestry weavers on the other side of the sea. Above their heads the pattern hangs, they study it with care, The while their fingers deftly move, their eyes are fastened there.

They tell this curious thing, besides, of the patient, plodding weaver: He works on the wrong side evermore, but works for the right side ever. It is only when the weaving stops, and the web is loosed and turned, That he sees his real handiwork--that his marvelous skill is learned.

Ah, the sight of its delicate beauty, how it pays him for all his cost! No rarer, daintier work than his was ever done by the frost. Then the master bringeth him golden hire, and giveth him praise as well, And how happy the heart of the weaver is, no tongue but his can tell.

The years of man are the looms of God, let down from the place of the sun, Wherein we are weaving ever, till the mystic web is done. Weaving blindly but weaving surely each for himself his fate-- We may not see how the right side looks, we can only weave and wait.

But, looking above for the pattern, no weaver hath to fear; Only let him look clear into heaven, the Perfect Pattern is there. If he keeps the face of the Savior forever and always in sight His toil shall be sweeter than honey, his weaving sure to be right.

And when the work is ended, and the web is turned and shown, He shall hear the voice of the Master, it shall say unto him, "Well done!" And the white-winged Angels of Heaven, to bear him shall come down; And God shall give him gold for his hire--not a coin--but a glowing crown.

When the Teacher Gets Cross

When the teacher gets cross, and her blue eyes gets black, And the pencil comes down on the desk with a whack, We chillen all sit up straight in a line, As if we had rulers instead of a spine, And it's scary to cough, and it a'n't safe to grin, When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in.

When the teacher gets cross, the tables get mixed, The ones and the twos begins to play tricks. The pluses and minuses is just little smears, When the cry babies cry their slates full of tears, And the figgers won't add,--but just act up like sin, When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in.

When the teacher gets cross, the reading gets bad. The lines jingle round till the' chillen is sad. And Billy boy puffs and gets red in the face, As if he and the lesson were running a race, Until she hollers out, "Next!" as sharp as a pin, When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in.

When the teacher gets good, her smile is so bright, That the tables gets straight, and the reading gets right. The pluses and minuses comes trooping along, And the figgers add up and stop being wrong, And we chillen would like, but we dassent, to shout, When the teacher gets good, and the dimples comes out.

Recessional

God of our fathers, known of old, Lord of our far-flung battle line, Beneath whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies; The captains and the kings depart: Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard, All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding, calls not Thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Amen.

_Rudyard Kipling._

The Eternal Goodness

O Friends! with whom my feet have trod
The quiet aisles of prayer,
Glad witness to your zeal for God
And love of man I bear.

I trace your lines of argument;
Your logic linked and strong
I weigh as one who dreads dissent,
And fears a doubt as wrong.

But still my human hands are weak
To hold your iron creeds:
Against the words ye bid me speak
My heart within me pleads.

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought?
Who talks of scheme and plan?
The Lord is God! He needeth not
The poor device of man.

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground
Ye tread with boldness shod;
I dare not fix with mete and bound
The love and power of God.

Ye praise His justice; even such
His pitying love I deem;
Ye seek a king; I fain would touch
The robe that hath no seam.

Ye see the curse which overbroods
A world of pain and loss;
I hear our Lord's beatitudes
And prayer upon the cross.

More than your schoolmen teach, within
Myself, alas! I know;
Too dark ye cannot paint the sin,
Too small the merit show.

I bow my forehead to the dust,
I veil mine eyes for shame,
And urge, in trembling self-distrust,
A prayer without a claim.

I see the wrong that round me lies,
I feel the guilt within;
I hear, with groan and travail-cries,
The world confess its sin.

Yet, in the maddening maze of things,
And tossed by storm and flood,
To one fixed stake my spirit clings;
I know that God is good!

Not mine to look where cherubim
And seraphs may not see,
But nothing can be good in Him
Which evil is in me.

The wrong that pains my soul below
I dare not throne above;
I know not of His hate,--I know
His goodness and His love.

I dimly guess from blessings known
Of greater out of sight,
And, with the chastened Psalmist, own
His judgments too are right.

I long for household voices gone,
For vanished smiles I long,
But God hath led my dear ones on,
And he can do no wrong.

I know not what the future hath
Of marvel or surprise,
Assured alone that life and death
His mercy underlies.

And if my heart and flesh are weak
To bear an untried pain,
The bruised reed He will not break,
But strengthen and sustain.

No offering of my own I have,
Nor works my faith to prove;
I can but give the gifts He gave,
And plead His love for love.

And so beside the Silent Sea,
I wait the muffled oar;
No harm from Him can come to me
On ocean or on shore.

I know not where His islands lift
Their fronded palms in air;
I only know I cannot drift
Beyond His love and care.

O brothers! if my faith is vain,
If hopes like these betray,
Pray for me that my feet may gain
The sure and safer way.

And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen
Thy creatures as they be,
Forgive me if too close I lean
My human heart on Thee!

_John G. Whittier._

Driving Home the Cows

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass
He turned them into the river-lane;
One after another he let them pass.
Then fastened the meadow-bars again.

Under the willows and over the hill,
He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said
He never could let his youngest go;
Two already were lying dead
Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,
And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp,
Over his shoulder he slung his gun,
And stealthily followed the footpath damp,--

Across the clover and through the wheat.
With resolute heart and purpose grim,
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain;
And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cool and late;
He went for the cows when the work was done;
But down the lane, as he opened the gate,
He saw them coming, one by one,--

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,
Shaking their horns in the evening wind,
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass--
But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle air
The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew.

For southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead unto life again;
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes;
For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb,
And under the silent evening skies
Together they followed the cattle home.

_Kate P. Osgood._

A Song of Our Flag

Your Flag and my Flag!
And, oh, how much it holds--
Your land and my land--
Secure within its folds!
Your heart and my heart
Beat quicker at the sight;
Sun-kissed and wind-tossed,
Red and blue and white.
The one Flag--the great Flag--the Flag for me and you--
Glorified all else beside--the red and white and blue!

Your Flag and my Flag!
To every star and stripe
The drums beat as hearts beat
And fifers shrilly pipe!
Your Flag and my Flag--
A blessing in the sky;
Your hope and my hope--
It never hid a lie!
Home land and far land and half the world around,
Old Glory hears our glad salute and ripples to the sound!

_Wilbur D. Nesbit._

When the Minister Comes to Tea

Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair, And they've got the tidies hangin' jest exactly on the square; And the what-not's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat, And the pantry's brimmin' over with the bully things ter eat; Sis has got her Sunday dress on, and she's frizzin' up her bangs; Ma's got on her best alpacky, and she's askin' how it hangs; Pa has shaved as slick as can be, and I'm rigged way up in G,-- And it's all because we're goin' ter have the minister ter tea. Oh! the table's fixed up gaudy, with the gilt-edged chiny set, And we'll use the silver tea-pot and the comp'ny spoons, you bet; And we're goin' ter have some fruitcake and some thimbleberry jam, And "riz biscuits," and some doughnuts, and some chicken, and some ham. Ma, she'll 'polergize like fury and say everything is bad, And "Sich awful luck with cookin'," she is sure she never had; But, er course, she's only bluffin,' for it's as prime as it can be, And she's only talkin' that way 'cause the minister's ter tea. Everybody'll be a-smilin' and as good as ever was, Pa won't growl about the vittles, like he generally does. And he'll ask me would I like another piece er pie; but, sho! That, er course, is only manners, and I'm s'posed ter answer "No." Sis'll talk about the church-work and about the Sunday-school, Ma'll tell how she liked that sermon that was on the Golden Rule, And if I upset my tumbler they won't say a word ter me:-- Yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister ter tea! Say! a minister, you'd reckon, never'd say what wasn't true; But that isn't so with ours, and I jest can prove it, too; 'Cause when Sis plays on the organ so it makes yer want ter die, Why, he sets and says it's lovely; and that, seems ter me,'s a lie: But I like him all the samey, and I only wish he'd stay At our house fer good and always, and eat with us every day; Only think of havin' goodies _every_ evenin'! Jimmin_ee_! And I'd _never_ git a scoldin' with the minister ter tea!

_Joseph C. Lincoln._

When the Cows Come Home

When klingle, klangle, klingle,
Far down the dusty dingle,
The cows are coming home;

Now sweet and clear, now faint and low,
The airy tinklings come and go,
Like chimings from the far-off tower,
Or patterings of an April shower
That makes the daisies grow;
Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle
Far down the darkening dingle,
The cows come slowly home.

And old-time friends, and twilight plays,
And starry nights and sunny days,
Come trooping up the misty ways
When the cows come home,
With jingle, jangle, jingle,
Soft tones that sweetly mingle--
The cows are coming home;

Malvine, and Pearl, and Florimel,
DeKamp, Red Rose, and Gretchen Schell.
Queen Bess and Sylph, and Spangled Sue,
Across the fields I hear her "loo-oo"
And clang her silver bell;
Go-ling, go-lang, golingledingle,
With faint, far sounds that mingle,
The cows come slowly home.

And mother-songs of long-gone years,
And baby-joys and childish fears,
And youthful hopes and youthful tears,
When the cows come home.
With ringle, rangle, ringle,
By twos and threes and single,
The cows are coming home.

Through violet air we see the town,
And the summer sun a-sliding down,
And the maple in the hazel glade
Throws down the path a longer shade,
And the hills are growing brown;
To-ring, to-rang, toringleringle,
By threes and fours and single,
The cows come slowly home.

The same sweet sound of wordless psalm,
The same sweet June-day rest and calm,
The same sweet smell of buds and balm,
When the cows come home.
With tinkle, tankle, tinkle,
Through fern and periwinkle,
The cows are coming home.

A-loitering in the checkered stream,
Where the sun-rays glance and gleam,
Clarine, Peach-bloom and Phebe Phillis
Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies,
In a drowsy dream;
To-link, to-lank, tolinklelinkle,
O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle,
The cows come slowly home.

And up through memory's deep ravine
Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen,
And the crescent of the silver queen,
When the cows come home.
With klingle, klangle, klingle,
With loo-oo, and moo-oo and jingle,
The cows are coming home.

And over there on Merlin Hill
Sounds the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will,
And the dew-drops lie on the tangled vines,
And over the poplars Venus shines,
And over the silent mill.
Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle,
With ting-a-ling and jingle,
The cows come slowly home.

Let down the bars; let in the train Of long-gone songs, and flowers, and rain; For dear old times come back again, When the cows come home.

_Agnes E. Mitchell._

Custer's Last Charge

Dead! Is it possible? He, the bold rider,
Custer, our hero, the first in the fight,
Charming the bullets of yore to fly wider,
Shunning our battle-king's ringlets of light!
Dead! our young chieftain, and dead all forsaken!
No one to tell us the way of his fall!
Slain in the desert, and never to waken,
Never, not even to victory's call!

Comrades, he's gone! but ye need not be grieving;
No, may my death be like his when I die!
No regrets wasted on words I am leaving,
Falling with brave men, and face to the sky.
Death's but a journey, the greatest must take it:
Fame is eternal, and better than all;
Gold though the bowl be, 'tis fate that must break it,
Glory can hallow the fragments that fall.

Proud for his fame that last day that he met them!
All the night long he had been on their track,
Scorning their traps and the men that had set them,
Wild for a charge that should never give back.
There, on the hilltop he halted and saw them--
Lodges all loosened and ready to fly;
Hurrying scouts with the tidings to awe them,
Told of his coming before he was nigh.

All the wide valley was full of their forces,
Gathered to cover the lodges' retreat,--
Warriors running in haste to their horses,
Thousands of enemies close to his feet!
Down in the valleys the ages had hollowed,
There lay the Sitting Bull's camp for a prey!
Numbers! What recked he? What recked those who followed?
Men who had fought ten to one ere that day?

Out swept the squadrons, the fated three hundred,
Into the battle-line steady and full;
Then down the hillside exultingly thundered
Into the hordes of the Old Sitting Bull!
Wild Ogalallah, Arapahoe, Cheyenne,
Wild Horse's braves, and the rest of their crew,
Shrank from that charge like a herd from a lion.
Then closed around the great hell of wild Sioux.

Right to their center he charged, and then, facing--
Hark to those yells and around them, Oh, see!
Over the hilltops the devils come racing,
Coming as fast as the waves of the sea!
Red was the circle of fire about them,
No hope of victory, no ray of light,
Shot through that terrible black cloud about them,
Brooding in death over Custer's last fight.

THEN DID HE BLENCH? Did he die like a craven,
Begging those torturing fiends for his life?
Was there a soldier who carried the Seven
Flinched like a coward or fled from the strife?
No, by the blood of our Custer, no quailing!
There in the midst of the devils they close,
Hemmed in by thousands, but ever assailing,
Fighting like tigers, all bayed amid foes!

Thicker and thicker the bullets came singing;
Down go the horses and riders and all;
Swiftly the warriors round them were ringing,
Circling like buzzards awaiting their fall.
See the wild steeds of the mountain and prairie,
Savage eyes gleaming from forests of mane;
Quivering lances with pennons so airy;
War-painted warriors charging amain.

Backward again and again they were driven,
Shrinking to close with the lost little band;
Never a cap that had worn the bright Seven
Bowed till its wearer was dead on the strand.
Closer and closer the death-circle growing,
Even the leader's voice, clarion clear,
Rang out his words of encouragement glowing,
"We can but die once, boys, but SELL YOUR LIVES DEAR!"

Dearly they sold them, like Berserkers raging,
Facing the death that encircled them round;
Death's bitter pangs by their vengeance assuaging,
Marking their tracks by their dead on the ground.
Comrades, our children shall yet tell their story,--
Custer's last charge on the Old Sitting Bull;
And ages shall swear that the cup of his glory
Needed but that death to render it full.

_Frederick Whitttaker._

A Boy and His Stomach

What's the matter, stummick? Ain't I always been your friend? Ain't I always been a pardner to you? All my pennies don't I spend In getting nice things for you? Don't I give you lots of cake? Say, stummick, what's the matter, You had to go an' ache?

Why, I loaded you with good things yesterday; I gave you more corn an' chicken than you'd ever had before; I gave you fruit an' candy, apple pie an' chocolate cake, An' last night when I got to bed you had to go an' ache.

Say, what's the matter with you? Ain't you satisfied at all? I gave you all you wanted; you was hard jes' like a ball, An' you couldn't hold another bit of puddin'; yet last night You ached most awful, stummick! That ain't treatin' me jest right.

I've been a friend to you, I have! Why ain't you a friend o' mine? They gave me castor oil becoz you made me whine. I'm feelin' fine this mornin'; yes it's true; But I tell you, stummick, you better appreciate things I do for you.

On the Shores of Tennessee

"Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey,
In the sunshine bright and strong,
For this world is fading, Pompey--
Massa won't be with you long;
And I fain would hear the south wind
Bring once more the sound to me,
Of the wavelets softly breaking
On the shores of Tennessee.

"Mournful though the ripples murmur
As they still the story tell,
How no vessels float the banner
That I've loved so long and well,
I shall listen to their music,
Dreaming that again I see
Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop
Sailing up the Tennessee;

"And Pompey, while old Massa's waiting
For Death's last dispatch to come,
If that exiled starry banner
Should come proudly sailing home,
You shall greet it, slave no longer--
Voice and hand shall both be free
That shout and point to Union colors
On the waves of Tennessee."

"Massa's berry kind to Pompey;
But old darkey's happy here,
Where he's tended corn and cotton
For dese many a long-gone year.
Ober yonder, Missis' sleeping--
No one tends her grave like me;
Mebbe she would miss the flowers
She used to love in Tennessee.

"'Pears like, she was watching Massa--
If Pompey should beside him stay,
Mebbe she'd remember better
How for him she used to pray;
Telling him that way up yonder
White as snow his soul would be,
If he served the Lord of Heaven
While he lived in Tennessee."

Silently the tears were rolling
Down the poor old dusky face,
As he stepped behind his master,
In his long-accustomed place.
Then a silence fell around them,
As they gazed on rock and tree
Pictured in the placid waters
Of the rolling Tennessee;--

Master, dreaming of the battle
Where he fought by Marion's side,
Where he bid the haughty Tarleton
Stoop his lordly crest of pride:--
Man, remembering how yon sleeper
Once he held upon his knee.
Ere she loved the gallant soldier,
Ralph Vervair of Tennessee.

Still the south wind fondly lingers
'Mid the veteran's silver hair;
Still the bondman, close beside him
Stands behind the old arm-chair.
With his dark-hued hand uplifted,
Shading eyes, he bends to see
Where the woodland, boldly jutting,
Turns aside the Tennessee.

Thus he watches cloud-born shadows
Glide from tree to mountain-crest,
Softly creeping, aye and ever
To the river's yielding breast.
Ha! above the foliage yonder
Something flutters wild and free!
"Massa! Massa! Hallelujah!
The flag's come back to Tennessee!"

"Pompey, hold me on your shoulder,
Help me stand on foot once more,
That I may salute the colors
As they pass my cabin door.
Here's the paper signed that frees you,
Give a freeman's shout with me--
'God and Union!' be our watchword
Evermore in Tennessee!"

Then the trembling voice grew fainter,
And the limbs refused to stand;
One prayer to Jesus--and the soldier
Glided to the better land.
When the flag went down the river
Man and master both were free;
While the ring-dove's note was mingled
With the rippling Tennessee.

_Ethel Lynn Beers._

The White-Footed Deer

It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveler saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.

Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'er-browed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.

She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.

White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.

And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.

But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er the grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.

The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
"It were a sin," she said, "to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.

"This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door,

"The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war whoop here,
And never twang the bow.

"I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell."

The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.

But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.

The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.

He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.

Away, into the neighboring wood,
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.

Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.

But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.

Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.

_W.C. Bryant._

Mount Vernon's Bells

Where Potomac's stream is flowing
Virginia's border through,
Where the white-sailed ships are going
Sailing to the ocean blue;

Hushed the sound of mirth and singing,
Silent every one!
While the solemn bells are ringing
By the tomb of Washington.

Tolling and knelling,
With a sad, sweet sound,
O'er the waves the tones are swelling
By Mount Vernon's sacred ground.

Long ago the warrior slumbered--
Our country's father slept;
Long among the angels numbered
They the hero soul have kept.

But the children's children love him,
And his name revere,
So where willows wave above him,
Sweetly still his knell you hear.

Sail, oh ships, across the billows,
And bear the story far;
How he sleeps beneath the willows,--
"First in peace and first in war,"

Tell while sweet adieus are swelling,
Till you come again,
He within the hearts is dwelling,
Of his loving countrymen.

_M.B.C. Slade._

Gradatim

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to the summit round by round,

I count this thing to be grandly true:
That a noble deed is a step toward God,
Lifting a soul from the common sod
To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by things that are under our feet;
By what we have mastered of good and gain,
By the pride deposed and the passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,
When the morning calls us to life and light;
But our hearts grow weary, and ere he night
Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,
And we think that we mount the air on wings,
Beyond the recall of sensual things,
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown
From the weary earth to the sapphire walls;
But the dreams depart, and the vision falls,
And the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to the summit round by round.

_J.G. Holland._

Mr. Finney's Turnip

Mr. Finney had a turnip
And it grew behind the barn;
It grew there, and it grew there,
And the turnip did no harm,

It grew and it grew,
Till it could get no taller;
Mr. Finney pulled it up
And put it in his cellar.

It lay there and it lay there,
Till it began to rot;
His daughter Sallie took it up,
And put it in the pot.

She boiled it, and she boiled it,
As long as she was able;
His daughter Peggy fished it out.
And put it on the table.

Mr. Finney and his wife.
They sat down to sup,
And they ate, and they ate,
Until they ate the turnip up.

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

_H. W. Longfellow._

You and You

_To the American Private in the Great War_

Every one of you won the war-- You and you and you-- Each one knowing what it was for, And what was his job to do.

Every one of you won the war, Obedient, unwearied, unknown, Dung in the trenches, drift on the shore, Dust to the world's end blown; Every one of you, steady and true, You and you and you-- Down in the pit or up in the blue, Whether you crawled or sailed or flew, Whether your closest comrade knew Or you bore the brunt alone--

All of you, all of you, name after name, Jones and Robinson, Smith and Brown, You from the piping prairie town, You from the Fundy fogs that came, You from the city's roaring blocks, You from the bleak New England rocks With the shingled roof in the apple boughs, You from the brown adobe house-- You from the Rockies, you from the Coast, You from the burning frontier-post And you from the Klondyke's frozen flanks, You from the cedar-swamps, you from the pine, You from the cotton and you from the vine, You from the rice and the sugar-brakes, You from the Rivers and you from the Lakes, You from the Creeks and you from the Licks And you from the brown bayou-- You and you and you-- You from the pulpit, you from the mine, You from the factories, you from the banks, Closer and closer, ranks on ranks, Airplanes and cannon, and rifles and tanks, Smith and Robinson, Brown and Jones, Ruddy faces or bleaching bones, After the turmoil and blood and pain Swinging home to the folks again Or sleeping alone in the fine French rain-- Every one of you won the war.

Every one of you won the war-- You and you and you-- Pressing and pouring forth, more and more, Toiling and straining from shore to shore To reach the flaming edge of the dark Where man in his millions went up like a spark, You, in your thousands and millions coming, All the sea ploughed with you, all the air humming, All the land loud with you, All our hearts proud with you, All our souls bowed with the awe of your coming!

Where's the Arch high enough, Lads, to receive you, Where's the eye dry enough, Dears, to perceive you, When at last and at last in your glory you come, Tramping home?

Every one of you won the war, You and you and you-- You that carry an unscathed head, You that halt with a broken tread, And oh, most of all, you Dead, you Dead! Lift up the Gates for these that are last, That are last in the great Procession. Let the living pour in, take possession, Flood back to the city, the ranch, the farm, The church and the college and mill, Back to the office, the store, the exchange, Back to the wife with the babe on her arm, Back to the mother that waits on the sill, And the supper that's hot on the range.

And now, when the last of them all are by, Be the Gates lifted up on high To let those Others in, Those Others, their brothers, that softly tread, That come so thick, yet take no ground, That are so many, yet make no sound, Our Dead, our Dead, our Dead!

O silent and secretly-moving throng, In your fifty thousand strong, Coming at dusk when the wreaths have dropt, And streets are empty, and music stopt, Silently coming to hearts that wait Dumb in the door and dumb at the gate, And hear your step and fly to your call-- Every one of you won the war, But you, you Dead, most of all!

_Edith Wharton (Copyright 1919 by Charles Scrihner's, Sons)._

The First Snow-fall

The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm tree
Was ridged inch-deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered,
"The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall!"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That _my_ kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.

_James Russell Lowell._

The Concord Hymn

_Sung at the completion of the Concord Monument, April 19, 1836_.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone,
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made these heroes dare
To die, to leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

_Ralph Waldo Emerson._

Casey at the Bat

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood two to four with but an inning left to play; So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast, For they thought: "If only Casey could get a whack at that," They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake; So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat. For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat,

But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all, And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball"; And when the dust had lifted and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third.

Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell; It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face. And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-- "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of great storm waves on a stern and distant shore. "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand. And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised a hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He signaled to Sir Timothy, once more the spheroid flew; But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud," cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate; He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout: But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.

_Phineas Thayer._

Casey's Revenge

_(Being a reply to "Casey at the Bat.")_

There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more; There were muttered oaths and curses--every fan in town was sore. "Just think," said one, "how soft it looked with Casey at the bat! And then to think he'd go and spring a bush league trick like that."

All his past fame was forgotten; he was now a hopeless "shine." They called him "Strike-out Casey" from the mayor down the line. And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh, While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey's eye.

The lane is long, someone has said, that never turns again, And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men. And Casey smiled--his rugged face no longer wore a frown; The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.

All Mudville has assembled; ten thousand fans had come To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum; And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild. He doffed his cap in proud disdain--but Casey only smiled.

"Play ball!" the umpire's voice rang out, and then the game began; But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan Who thought that Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sun Their hopes sank low--the rival team was leading "four to one."

The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score; But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar. The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard When the pitcher hit the second and gave "four balls" to the third.

Three men on base--nobody out--three runs to tie the game! A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville's hall of fame. But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night When the fourth one "fouled to catcher," and the fifth "flew out to right."

A dismal groan in chorus came--a scowl was on each face-- When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place; His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hate; He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.

But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away; There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day. They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored, "Strike him out!" But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard the shout.

The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it spread; Another hiss, another groan--"Strike one!" the umpire said. Zip! Like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee-- "Strike two!" the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.

No roasting for the umpire now--his was an easy lot. But here the pitcher twirled again--was that a rifle shot? A whack; a crack; and out through space the leather pellet flew-- A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.

Above the fence in center field, in rapid whirling flight The sphere sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight. Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit; But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit!

Oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun, And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun; And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall, But Mudville hearts are happy now--for Casey hit the ball!

_James Wilson._

Rock Me to Sleep

Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for tonight! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears,-- Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,-- Take them, and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay,-- Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; Weary of sowing for others to reap;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between; Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain Long I to-night for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone; No other worship abides and endures-- Faithful, unselfish and patient, like yours; None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened your lullaby song; Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasped to your breast in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

_Elizabeth Akers Allen._

An Answer to "Rock Me to Sleep"

My child, ah, my child; thou art weary to-night, Thy spirit is sad, and dim is the light; Thou wouldst call me back from the echoless shore To the trials of life, to thy heart as of yore; Thou longest again for my fond loving care, For my kiss on thy cheek, for my hand on thy hair; But angels around thee their loving watch keep, And angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep.

"Backward?" Nay, onward, ye swift rolling years! Gird on thy armor, keep back thy tears; Count not thy trials nor efforts in vain, They'll bring thee the light of thy childhood again. Thou shouldst not weary, my child, by the way, But watch for the light of that brighter day; Not tired of "Sowing for others to reap," For angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep.

Tired, my child, of the "base, the untrue!" I have tasted the cup they have given to you; I've felt the deep sorrow in the living green Of a low mossy grave by the silvery stream. But the dear mother I then sought for in vain Is an angel presence and with me again; And in the still night, from the silence deep, Come the bright angels to rock me to sleep.

Nearer thee now than in days that are flown, Purer the love-light encircling thy home; Far more enduring the watch for tonight Than ever earth worship away from the light; Soon the dark shadows will linger no more. Nor come to thy call from the opening door; But know thou, my child, that the angels watch keep, And soon, very soon, they'll rock thee to sleep.

They'll sing thee to sleep with a soothing song; And, waking, thou'lt be with a heavenly throng; And thy life, with its toil and its tears and pain, Thou wilt then see has not been in vain. Thou wilt meet those in bliss whom on earth thou didst love, And whom thou hast taught of the "Mansions above." "Never hereafter to suffer or weep," The angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep.

Bay Billy

(_December 15, 1862_)

'Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg,--
Perhaps the day you reck,
Our boys, the Twenty-second Maine,
Kept Early's men in check.
Just where Wade Hampton boomed away
The fight went neck and neck.

All day the weaker wing we held,
And held it with a will.
Five several stubborn times we charged
The battery on the hill,
And five times beaten back, re-formed,
And kept our column still.

At last from out the center fight
Spurred up a general's aide,
"That battery must silenced be!"
He cried, as past he sped.
Our colonel simply touched his cap,
And then, with measured tread,

To lead the crouching line once more,
The grand old fellow came.
No wounded man but raised his head
And strove to gasp his name,
And those who could not speak nor stir,
"God blessed him" just the same.

For he was all the world to us,
That hero gray and grim;
Right well we knew that fearful slope
We'd climb with none but him,
Though while his white head led the way
We'd charge hell's portals in.

This time we were not half way up
When, midst the storm of shell,
Our leader, with his sword upraised,
Beneath our bayonets fell,
And as we bore him back, the foe
Set up a joyous yell.

Our hearts went with him. Back we swept,
And when the bugle said,
"Up, charge again!" no man was there
But hung his dogged head.
"We've no one left to lead us now,"
The sullen soldiers said.

Just then before the laggard line
The colonel's horse we spied--
Bay Billy, with his trappings on,
His nostrils swelling wide,
As though still on his gallant back
The master sat astride.

Right royally he took the place
That was of old his wont,
And with a neigh that seemed to say,
Above the battle's brunt,
"How can the Twenty-second charge
If I am not in front?"

Like statues rooted there we stood,
And gazed a little space;
Above that floating mane we missed
The dear familiar face,
But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire,
And it gave us heart of grace.

No bugle-call could rouse us all
As that brave sight had done.
Down all the battered line we felt
A lightning impulse run.
Up, up the hill we followed Bill,--
And we captured every gun!

And when upon the conquered height
Died out the battle's hum,
Vainly 'mid living and the dead
We sought our leader dumb.
It seemed as if a spectre steed
To win that day had come.

And then the dusk and dew of night
Fell softly o'er the plain,
As though o'er man's dread work of death
The angels wept again,
And drew night's curtain gently round
A thousand beds of pain.

All night the surgeons' torches went
The ghastly rows between,--
All night with solemn step I paced
The torn and bloody green.
But who that fought in the big war
Such dread sights have not seen?

At last the morning broke. The lark
Sang in the merry skies,
As if to e'en the sleepers there
It said "Awake, arise!"
Though naught but that last trump of all
Could ope their heavy eyes.