Chapter VI: Part 6

And then once more, with banners gay,
Stretched out the long brigade.
Trimly upon the furrowed field
The troops stood on parade,
And bravely 'mid the ranks were closed
The gaps the fight had made.

Not half the Twenty-second's men
Were in their place that morn;
And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon
Stood six brave fellows on,
Now touched my elbow in the ranks,
For all between were gone.

Ah! who forgets that weary hour
When, as with misty eyes,
To call the old familiar roll
The solemn sergeant tries,--
One feels that thumping of the heart
As no prompt voice replies.

And as in faltering tone and slow
The last few names were said,
Across the field some missing horse
Toiled up with weary tread.
It caught the sergeant's eye, and quick
Bay Billy's name he read.

Yes! there the old bay hero stood,
All safe from battle's harms,
And ere an order could be heard,
Or the bugle's quick alarms,
Down all the front, from end to end,
The troops presented arms!

Not all the shoulder-straps on earth
Could still our mighty cheer;
And ever from that famous day,
When rang the roll-call clear,
Bay Billy's name was read, and then
The whole line answered, "Here!"

_Frank H. Gassaway._

The Legend of the Organ-Builder

Day by day the Organ-builder in his lonely chamber wrought; Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought; Till at last the work was ended; and no organ voice so grand Ever yet had soared responsive to the master's magic hand.

Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom and bride, Who, in God's sight were well-pleasing, in the church stood side by side, Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play, And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.

He was young, the Organ-builder, and o'er all the land his fame Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame. All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled, By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.

So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set Happy day--the brightest jewel in the glad year's coronet! But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride-- Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.

"Ah!" thought he, "how great a master am I! When the organ plays, How the vast cathedral-arches will re-echo with my praise!" Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar, With every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.

But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer, For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there. All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest's low monotone, And the bride's robe trailing softly o'er the floor of fretted stone.

Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him, Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim! Whose the fault then? Hers--the maiden standing meekly at his side! Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him--his bride.

Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth; On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth. Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name: For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.

Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray; Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good; Thought of his relentless anger, that had cursed her womanhood;

Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete, And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet. Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night, Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!

Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread; There he met a long procession--mourners following the dead. "Now why weep ye so, good people? And whom bury ye today? Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way?

"Has some saint gone up to heaven?" "Yes," they answered, weeping sore; "For the Organ-builder's saintly wife our eyes shall see no more; And because her days were given to the service of God's poor, From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door."

No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain; No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain. "'Tis someone she has comforted, who mourns with us," they said, As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin's head;

Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle, Let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while. When, oh, hark; the wondrous organ of itself began to play Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day!

All the vaulted arches rang with music sweet and clear; All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near; And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin's head, With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it--dead.

They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride; Down the aisle and o'er the threshold they were carried, side by side; While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before, And then softly sank to silence--silence kept forevermore.

_Julia C. R. Dorr._

Our Folks

"Hi! Harry Holly! Halt; and tell
A fellow just a thing or two;
You've had a furlough, been to see
How all the folks in Jersey do.
It's months ago since I was there--
I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks.
When you were home, old comrade, say,
Did you see any of our folks?

"You did? Shake hands--Oh, ain't I glad!
For if I do look grim and rough,
I've got some feelin'--
People think
A soldier's heart is mighty tough;
But, Harry, when the bullets fly,
And hot saltpetre flames and smokes,
While whole battalions lie afield,
One's apt to think about his folks.

"And so you saw them--when? and where?
The old man--is he hearty yet?
And mother--does she fade at all?
Or does she seem to pine and fret
For me? And Sis?--has she grown tall?
And did you see her friend--you know--
That Annie Moss--
(How this pipe chokes!)
Where did you see her?--Tell: me, Hal,
A lot of news about our folks,

"You saw them in the church--you say,
It's likely, for they're always there.
Not Sunday? No? A funeral? Who?
Who, Harry? how you shake and stare!
All well, you say, and all were out.
What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax?
Why don't you tell me like a man:
What is the matter with our folks?"

"I said all well, old comrade, true;
I say all well, for He knows best
Who takes the young ones in his arms,
Before the sun goes to the west.
The axe-man Death deals right and left,
And flowers fall as well as oaks;
And so--
Fair Annie blooms no more!
And that's the matter with your folks.

"See, this long curl was kept for you;
And this white blossom from her breast;
And here--your sister Bessie wrote
A letter telling all the rest.
Bear up, old friend."
Nobody speaks;
Only the old camp-raven croaks,
And soldiers whisper, "Boys, be still;
There's some bad news from Granger's folks."

He turns his back--the only foe
That ever saw it--on this grief,
And, as men will, keeps down the tears
Kind nature sends to woe's relief.
Then answers he: "Ah, Hal, I'll try;
But in my throat there's something chokes,
Because, you see, I've thought so long
To count her in among our folks.

"I s'pose she must be happy now,
But still I will keep thinking, too,
I could have kept all trouble off,
By being tender, kind and true.
But maybe not.
She's safe up there,
And when the Hand deals other strokes,
She'll stand by Heaven's gate, I know,
And wait to welcome in our folks."

_Ethel Lynn Beers._

The Face upon the Floor

'Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there, Which well-nigh filled Joe's bar-room on the corner of the square; And as songs and witty stories came through the open door, A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" someone said. "The wind has blown it in." "What does it want?" another cried. "Some whisky, rum or gin?" "Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work-- I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical, good grace; In fact, he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place. "Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd-- To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

"Give me a drink--that's what I want--I'm out of funds, you know; When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. What? You laugh as though you thought this pocket never held a sou; I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks; that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and all; Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call. _Give you a song?_ No, I can't do that, my singing days are past; My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast.

"Say! give me another whisky, and I'll tell you what I'll do-- I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too. That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think; But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame-- Such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame; Five fingers--there, that's the scheme--and corking whisky, too. Well, here's luck, boys; and landlord, my best regards to you.

"You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now. As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health, And but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

"I was a painter--not one that daubed on bricks and wood, But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good. I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise, For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of Fame.' It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name. And then I met a woman--now comes the funny part-- With eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart.

"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me; But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given, And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven.

"Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give, With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live; With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May, Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way; And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprise, Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

"It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown, My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone; And ere a year of misery had passed above my head, The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead.

"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile,-- I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while. Why, what's the mattter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye, Come, laugh, like me; 'tis only babes and women that should cry.

"Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad, And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score-- You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar-room floor."

Another drink, and, with chalk in hand, the vagabond began To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man. Then as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, With a fearful shriek, he leaped, and fell across the picture dead.

_H. Antoine D'Arcy._

The Calf Path

One day through the primeval wood, A calf walked home, as good calves should; But made a trail all bent askew, A crooked trail, as all calves do. Since then three hundred years have fled, And, I infer, the calf is dead.

But still he left behind his trail, And thereby hangs a moral tale. The trail was taken up next day By a lone dog that passed that way, And then the wise bell-wether sheep Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep, And drew the flock behind him, too, As good bell-wethers always do. And from that day, o'er hill and glade, Through those old woods a path was made.

And many men wound in and out, And turned and dodged and bent about, And uttered words of righteous wrath Because 'twas such a crooked path: But still they followed--do not laugh-- The first migrations of that calf, And through this winding woodway stalked Because he wabbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane, That bent and turned and turned again; This crooked path became a road. Where many a poor horse, with his load, Toiled on beneath the burning sun, And traveled some three miles in one. And thus a century and a half They trod the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet, The road became a village street; And this, before men were aware, A city's crowded thoroughfare. And soon the central street was this Of a renowned metropolis. And men two centuries and a half Trod in the footsteps of that calf!

Each day a hundred thousand rout Followed the zigzag calf about; And o'er his crooked journey went The traffic of a continent. A hundred thousand men were led By a calf near three centuries dead. They followed still his crooked way And lost one hundred years a day; For thus such reverence is lent To well-established precedent.

A moral lesson this might teach Were I ordained and called to preach; For men are prone to go it blind, Along the calf-paths of the mind, And work away from sun to sun To do what other men have done. They follow in the beaten track, And out and in, and forth and back, And still their devious course pursue, To keep the path that others do. But how the wise wood-gods must laugh, Who saw the first primeval calf; Ah, many things this tale might teach-- But I am not ordained to preach.

_Sam Walter Foss._

The Ride of Jennie M'Neal

Paul Revere was a rider bold-- Well has his valorous deed been told; Sheridan's ride was a glorious one-- Often it has been dwelt upon; But why should men do all the deeds On which the love of a patriot feeds? Hearken to me, while I reveal The dashing ride of Jennie M'Neal.

On a spot as pretty as might be found In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground, In a cottage, cozy, and all their own, She and her mother lived alone. Safe were the two, with their frugal store, From all of the many who passed their door; For Jennie's mother was strange to fears, And Jennie was large for fifteen years; With vim her eyes were glistening, Her hair was the hue of a blackbird's wing; And while the friends who knew her well The sweetness of her heart could tell, A gun that hung on the kitchen wall Looked solemnly quick to heed her call; And they who were evil-minded knew Her nerve was strong and her aim was true. So all kind words and acts did deal To generous, black-eyed Jennie M'Neal.

One night, when the sun had crept to bed, And rain-clouds lingered overhead, And sent their surly drops for proof To drum a tune on the cottage roof, Close after a knock at the outer door There entered a dozen dragoons or more. Their red coats, stained by the muddy road, That they were British soldiers showed; The captain his hostess bent to greet, Saying, "Madam, please give us a bit to eat; We will pay you well, and, if may be, This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea; Then we must dash ten miles ahead, To catch a rebel colonel abed. He is visiting home, as doth appear; We will make his pleasure cost him dear." And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal, Close-watched the while by Jennie M'Neal.

For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near Had been her true friend, kind and dear; And oft, in her younger days, had he Right proudly perched her upon his knee, And told her stories many a one Concerning the French war lately done. And oft together the two friends were, And many the arts he had taught to her; She had hunted by his fatherly side, He had shown her how to fence and ride; And once had said, "The time may be, Your skill and courage may stand by me." So sorrow for him she could but feel, Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie M'Neal.

With never a thought or a moment more, Bare-headed she slipped from the cottage door, Ran out where the horses were left to feed, Unhitched and mounted the captain's steed, And down the hilly and rock-strewn way She urged the fiery horse of gray. Around her slender and cloakless form Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm; Secure and tight a gloveless hand Grasped the reins with stern command; And full and black her long hair streamed, Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed. And on she rushed for the colonel's weal, Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie M'Neal.

Hark! from the hills, a moment mute, Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit; And a cry from the foremost trooper said, "Halt! or your blood be on your head"; She heeded it not, and not in vain She lashed the horse with the bridle-rein.

So into the night the gray horse strode; His shoes hewed fire from the rocky road; And the high-born courage that never dies Flashed from his rider's coal-black eyes. The pebbles flew from the fearful race: The raindrops grasped at her glowing face. "On, on, brave beast!" with loud appeal, Cried eager, resolute Jennie M'Neal.

"Halt!" once more came the voice of dread; "Halt! or your blood be on your head!" Then, no one answering to the calls, Sped after her a volley of balls. They passed her in her rapid flight, They screamed to her left, they screamed to her right; But, rushing still o'er the slippery track, She sent no token of answer back, Except a silvery laughter-peal, Brave, merry-hearted Jennie M'Neal.

So on she rushed, at her own good will, Through wood and valley, o'er plain and hill; The gray horse did his duty well, Till all at once he stumbled and fell, Himself escaping the nets of harm, But flinging the girl with a broken arm. Still undismayed by the numbing pain, She clung to the horse's bridle-rein And gently bidding him to stand, Petted him with her able hand; Then sprung again to the saddle bow, And shouted, "One more trial now!" As if ashamed of the heedless fall, He gathered his strength once more for all, And, galloping down a hillside steep, Gained on the troopers at every leap; No more the high-bred steed did reel, But ran his best for Jennie M'Neal.

They were a furlong behind, or more, When the girl burst through the colonel's door, Her poor arm helpless hanging with pain, And she all drabbled and drenched with rain, But her cheeks as red as fire-brands are, And her eyes as bright as a blazing star, And shouted, "Quick! be quick, I say! They come! they come! Away! away!" Then, sunk on the rude white floor of deal, Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie M'Neal.

The startled colonel sprung, and pressed The wife and children to his breast, And turned away from his fireside bright, And glided into the stormy night; Then soon and safely made his way To where the patriot army lay. But first he bent in the dim firelight, And kissed the forehead broad and white, And blessed the girl who had ridden so well To keep him out of a prison-cell. The girl roused up at the martial din, Just as the troopers came rushing in, And laughed, e'en in the midst of a moan, Saying, "Good sirs, your bird has flown. 'Tis I who have scared him from his nest; So deal with me now as you think best." But the grand young captain bowed, and said, "Never you hold a moment's dread. Of womankind I must crown you queen; So brave a girl I have never seen. Wear this gold ring as your valor's due; And when peace comes I will come for you." But Jennie's face an arch smile wore, As she said, "There's a lad in Putnam's corps, Who told me the same, long time ago; You two would never agree, I know. I promised my love to be as true as steel," Said good, sure-hearted Jennie M'Neal.

_Will Carleton._

The Hand That Rules the World

They say that man is mighty, he governs land and sea; He wields a mighty scepter o'er lesser powers that be; By a mightier power and stronger, man from his throne is hurled, And the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.

Blessings on the hand of woman! angels guard its strength and grace, In the palace, cottage, hovel, oh, no matter where the place! Would that never storms assailed it, rainbows ever gently curled; For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.

Infancy's the tender fountain, power may with beauty flow; Mother's first to guide the streamlets, from them souls unresting grow; Grow on for the good or evil, sunshine streamed or darkness hurled; For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.

Woman, how divine your mission here upon our natal sod! Keep, oh, keep the young heart open always to the breath of God! All true trophies of the ages are from mother-love impearled, For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.

Blessings on the hand of woman! fathers, sons and daughters cry, And the sacred song is mingled with the worship in the sky-- Mingles where no tempest darkens, rainbows evermore are curled; For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.

_William Ross Wallace._

What I Live For

I live for those who love me, Whose hearts are kind and true, For the heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit, too; For the human ties that bind me, For the task by God assigned me, For the bright hopes left behind me, And the good that I can do.

I live to learn their story Who've suffered for my sake, To emulate their glory, And to follow in their wake; Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, The noble of all ages, Whose deeds crowd history's pages, And Time's great volume make.

I live to hold communion With all that is divine, To feel there is a union 'Twixt Nature's heart and mine; To profit by affliction, Reap truths from fields of fiction, Grow wiser from conviction, And fulfill each grand design.

I live to hail that season, By gifted minds foretold, When men shall rule by reason, And not alone by gold; When man to man united, And every wrong thing righted, The whole world shall be lighted As Eden was of old.

I live for those who love me, For those who know me true, For the heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit, too; For the cause that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance, For the future in the distance, And the good that I can do.

_George Linnaeus Banks._

My Love Ship

If all the ships I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Weighed down with gems, and silk and gold, Ah! well, the harbor would not hold So many ships as there would be, If all my ships came home from sea.

If half my ships came home from sea, And brought their precious freight to me, Ah! well, I should have wealth as great As any king that sits in state, So rich the treasure there would be In half my ships now out at sea.

If but one ship I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah! well, the storm clouds then might frown, For, if the others all went down, Still rich and glad and proud I'd be If that one ship came home to me.

If that one ship went down at sea And all the others came to me Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, With honor, riches, glory, gold, The poorest soul on earth I'd be If that one ship came not to me.

O skies, be calm; O winds, blow free! Blow all my ships safe home to me, But if thou sendest some awrack, To nevermore come sailing back, Send any, all that skim the sea, But send my love ship home to me.

_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._

The Man With the Hoe

_(Written after seeing Millet's famous painting.)_

God made man in His own image; in the image of God made he him.--GENESIS.

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world. Who made him dead to rapture and despair, A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? Is this the Thing, the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over sea and land; To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of Eternity? Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And pillared the blue firmament with light? Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this-- More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed-- More filled with signs and portents for the soul-- More fraught with menace to the universe.

What gulfs between him and the seraphim! Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? What the long reaches of the peaks of song, The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, Plundered, profaned and disinherited, Cries protest to the judges of the world, A protest that is also prophecy.

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, Is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? How will you ever straighten up this shape; Touch it again with immortality; Give back the upward looking and the light, Rebuild it in the music and the dream; Make right the immemorial infamies, perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, How will the Future reckon with this man? How answer his brute question in that hour When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? How will it be with kingdom and with kings-- With those who shaped him to the thing he is-- When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, After the silence of the centuries?

_Edwin Markham._

Poorhouse Nan

Did you say you wished to see me, sir? Step in; 'tis a cheerless place, But you're heartily welcome all the same; to be poor is no disgrace. Have I been here long? Oh, yes, sir! 'tis thirty winters gone Since poor Jim took to crooked ways and left me all alone! Jim was my son, and a likelier lad you'd never wish to see, Till evil counsels won his heart and led him away from me.

'Tis the old, sad, pitiful story, sir, of the devil's winding stair, And men go down--and down--and down--to blackness and despair; Tossing about like wrecks at sea, with helm and anchor lost, On and on, through the surging waves, nor caring to count the cost; I doubt sometimes if the Savior sees, He seems so far away, How the souls He loved and died for, are drifting--drifting astray!

Indeed,'tis little wonder, sir, if woman shrinks and cries When the life-blood on Rum's altar spilled is calling to the skies; Small wonder if her own heart feels each sacrificial blow, For isn't each life a part of hers? each pain her hurt and woe? Read all the records of crime and shame--'tis bitterly, sadly true; Where manliness and honor die, there some woman's heart dies, too.

I often think, when I hear folks talk so prettily and so fine Of "alcohol as needful food"; of the "moderate use of wine"; How "the world couldn't do without it, there was clearly no other way But for a man to drink, or let it alone, as his own strong will might say"; That "to use it, but not abuse it, was the proper thing to do," How I wish they'd let old Poorhouse Nan preach her little sermon, too!

I would give them scenes in a woman's life that would make their pulses stir, For I was a drunkard's child and wife--aye, a drunkard's mother, sir! I would tell of childish terrors, of childish tears and pain. Of cruel blows from a father's hand when rum had crazed his brain; He always said he could drink his fill, or let it alone as well; Perhaps he might, he was killed one night in a brawl--in a grog-shop hell!

I would tell of years of loveless toil the drunkard's child had passed, With just one gleam of sunshine, too beautiful to last. When I married Tom I thought for sure I had nothing more to fear, That life would come all right at last; the world seemed full of cheer. But he took to moderate drinking--he allowed 'twas a harmless thing, So the arrow sped, and my bird of Hope came down with a broken wing.

Tom was only a moderate drinker; ah, sir, do you bear in mind How the plodding tortoise in the race left the leaping hare behind? 'Twas because he held right on and on, steady and true, if slow, And that's the way, I'm thinking, that the moderate drinkers go! Step over step--day after day--with sleepless, tireless pace, While the toper sometimes looks behind and tarries in the race!

Ah, heavily in the well-worn path poor Tom walked day by day, For my heart-strings clung about his feet and tangled up the way; The days were dark, and friends were gone, and life dragged on full slow, And children came, like reapers, and to a harvest of want and woe! Two of them died, and I was glad when they lay before me dead; I had grown so weary of their cries--their pitiful cries for bread.

There came a time when my heart was stone; I could neither hope nor pray; Poor Tom lay out in the Potter's Field, and my boy had gone astray; My boy who'd been my idol, while, like hound athirst for blood, Between my breaking heart and him the liquor seller stood, And lured him on with pleasant words, his pleasures and his wine; Ah, God have pity on other hearts as bruised and hurt as mine.

There were whispers of evil-doing, of dishonor, and of shame, That I cannot bear to think of now, and would not dare to name! There was hiding away from the light of day, there was creeping about at night, A hurried word of parting--then a criminal's stealthy flight! His lips were white with remorse and fright when he gave me a good-by kiss; And I've never seen my poor lost boy from that black day to this.

Ah, none but a mother can tell you, sir, how a mother's heart will ache, With the sorrow that comes of a sinning child, with grief for a lost one's sake, When she knows the feet she trained to walk have gone so far astray, And the lips grown bold with curses that she taught to sing and pray; A child may fear--a wife may weep, but of all sad things, none other Seems half so sorrowful to me as being a drunkard's mother.

They tell me that down in the vilest dens of the city's crime and murk, There are men with the hearts of angels, doing the angels' work; That they win back the lost and the straying, that they help the weak to stand, By the wonderful power of loving words--and the help of God's right hand! And often and often, the dear Lord knows, I've knelt and prayed to Him, That somewhere, somehow, 'twould happen that they'd find and save my Jim!

You'll say 'tis a poor old woman's whim; but when I prayed last night, Right over yon eastern window there shone a wonderful light! (Leastways it looked that way to me) and out of the light there fell The softest voice I had ever heard: it rung like a silver bell; And these were the words, "The prodigal turns, so tired by want and sin, He seeks his father's open door--he weeps--and enters in."

Why, sir, you're crying as hard as I; what--is it really done? Have the loving voice and the Helping Hand brought back my wandering son? Did you kiss me and call me "Mother"--and hold me to your breast, Or is it one of the taunting dreams that come to mock my rest? No--no! thank God, 'tis a dream come true! I can die, for He's saved my boy! And the poor old heart that had lived on grief was broken at last by joy!

_Lucy M. Blinn._

Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud!

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud! Like a swift fleeting meteor, a fast flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade, Be scattered around, and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high Shall moulder to dust, and together shall die.

The child whom a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection who proved, The husband that mother and infant who blessed, Each--all are away to their dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye Shone beauty and pleasure--her triumphs are by; And the memory of those who loved her and praised Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king who the scepter hath borne, The brow of the priest who the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar who wandered in search of his bread Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes--like the flower and the weed That wither away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes--even those we behold, To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same things that our fathers have been, We see the same sights that our fathers have seen; We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, And we run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think, From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink, To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling, But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

They loved--but their story we cannot enfold, They scorned--but the heart of the haughty is cold, They grieved--but no wail from their slumbers may come, They joy'd--but the voice of their gladness--is dumb.

They died, ay, they died! and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwellings a transient abode Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, Are mingled together in sunshine and rain; And the smile, and the tear, and the song and the dirge Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath From the blossoms of health to the paleness of death; From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud-- Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud!

_William Knox._

How He Saved St. Michael's

'Twas long ago--ere ever the signal gun That blazed before Fort Sumter had wakened the North as one; Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to their heart's desire. On roofs and glittering turrets, that night, as the sun went down, The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jeweled crown, And, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their eyes, They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael's rise High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall; First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor round, And last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound. The gently gathering shadows shut out the waning light; The children prayed at their bedsides as they were wont each night; The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone, And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on.

But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street, For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling feet; Men stared in each other's faces, thro' mingled fire and smoke, While the frantic bells went clashing clamorous, stroke on stroke. By the glare of her blazing roof-tree the houseless mother fled, With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in nameless dread; While the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and cap-stone high, And painted their glaring banners against an inky sky. From the death that raged behind them, and the crush of ruin loud, To the great square of the city, were driven the surging crowd, Where yet firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood, With its heavenward pointing finger the church of St. Michael's stood.

But e'en as they gazed upon it there rose a sudden wail, A cry of horror blended with the roaring of the gale, On whose scorching wings updriven, a single flaming brand, Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand, "Will it fade?" the whisper trembled from a thousand whitening lips; Far out on the lurid harbor they watched it from the ships. A baleful gleam, that brighter and ever brighter shone, Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-the-wisp to a steady beacon grown. "Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand, For the love of the periled city, plucks down yon burning brand!" So cried the Mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard, But they looked each one at his fellow, and no man spoke a word, Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to the sky-- Clings to a column and measures the dizzy spire with his eye? Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible, sickening height, Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the sight? But see! he has stepped on the railing, he climbs with his feet and his hands, And firm on a narrow projection, with the belfry beneath him, he stands! Now once, and once only, they cheer him--a single tempestuous breath, And there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like the stillness of death.

Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of the fire, Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of the spire: He stops! Will he fall? Lo! for answer, a gleam like a meteor's track, And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies shattered and black! Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering air; At the church door mayor and council wait with their feet on the stair, And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his hand-- The unknown savior whose daring could compass a deed so grand.

But why does a sudden tremor seize on them as they gaze? And what meaneth that stifled murmur of wonder and amaze? He stood in the gate of the temple he had periled his life to save, And the face of the unknown hero was the sable face of a slave! With folded arms he was speaking in tones that were clear, not loud, And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes of the crowd. "Ye may keep your gold, I scorn it! but answer me, ye who can, If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a _man?_"

He stepped but a short space backward, and from all the women and men There were only sobs for answer, and the mayor called for a pen, And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran, And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out from its door a man.

_Mary A.P. Stansbury._

Bingen on the Rhine

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen--at Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And 'midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts the last of many scars: But some were young--and suddenly beheld life's morn decline; And one had come from Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen--calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen--dear Bingen on the Rhine!

"There's another--not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry--too fond for idle scorning-- Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning; Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen My body will be out of pain--my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along--I heard, or seemed to hear. The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk, And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine: But we'll meet no more at Bingen--loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoarser,--his grasp was childish weak,-- His eyes put on a dying look,--he sighed and ceased to speak; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-- The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land--was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine As it shone on distant Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

_Caroline Norton._

College Oil Cans

On a board of bright mosaic wrought in many a quaint design, Gleam a brace of silver goblets wreathed with flowers and filled with wine. Round the board a group is seated; here and there are threads of white Which their dark locks lately welcomed; but they're only boys tonight. Some whose words have thrilled the senate, some who win the critic's praise-- All are "chums" to-night, with voices redolent of college days.

"Boys," said one, "do you remember that old joke--about the wine-- How we used to fill our oil cans and repair to 'No. 9'? But at last the old professor--never long was he outdone-- Opened up our shining oil cans and demolished all our fun!" In the laugh that rings so gayly through the richly curtained room, Join they all, save one; Why is it? Does he see the waxen bloom Tremble in its vase of silver? Does he see the ruddy wine Shiver in its crystal goblet, or do those grave eyes divine Something sadder yet? He pauses till their mirth has died away, Then in measured tones speaks gravely: "Boys, a story, if I may, I will tell you, though it may not merit worthily your praise, It is bitter fruitage ripened from our pranks of college days,"

Eagerly they claim the story, for they know the LL.D. With his flexible voice would garnish any tale, whate'er it be.

"Just a year ago to-night, boys, I was in my room alone, At the San Francisco L---- House, when I heard a plaintive moan Sounding from the room adjoining. Hoping to give some relief To the suffering one, I entered; but it thrilled my heart with grief Just to see that wreck of manhood--bloated face, disheveled hair-- Wildly tossing, ever moaning, while his thin hands beat the air. Broken prayers, vile oaths and curses filled the air as I drew near; Then in faint and piteous accents, these words I could plainly hear: 'Give me one more chance--one only--let me see my little Belle-- Then I'll follow where they lead me, be it to the depths of hell!' When he saw me he grew calmer, started strangely--looked me o'er-- Oh, the glory of expression! I had seen those eyes before! Yes, I knew him; it was Horace, he who won the college prize; Naught remained of his proud beauty but the splendor of his eyes. He whom we were all so proud of, lay there in the fading light. If my years should number fourscore, I shall ne'er forget that sight. And he knew me--called me 'Albert,' ere a single word I'd said-- We were comrades in the old days; I sat down beside the bed.

"Horace seemed to grow more quiet, but he would not go to sleep; He kept talking of our boyhood while my hand he still would keep In his own so white and wasted, and with burning eyes would gaze On my face, still talking feebly of the dear old college days. 'Ah,' he said, 'life held such promise; but, alas! I am to-day But a poor degraded outcast--hopes, ambition swept away, And it dates back to those oil cans that we filled in greatest glee. Little did I think in those days what the harvest now would be!'

"For a moment he was silent, then a cry whose anguish yet Wrings my heart, burst from his white lips, though his teeth were tightly set, And with sudden strength he started--sprang from my detaining arm, Shrieking wildly, 'Curse the demons; do they think to do me harm? Back! I say, ye forked-tongued serpents reeking with the filth of hell! Don't ye see I have her with me--my poor sainted little Belle?'

"When I'd soothed him into quiet, with a trembling arm he drew My head down, 'Oh, Al,' he whispered, 'such remorse you never knew.' And again I tried to soothe him, but my eyes o'erbrimmed with tears; His were dry and clear, as brilliant as they were in college years. All the flush had left his features, he lay white as marble now; Tenderly I smoothed his pillow, wiped the moisture from his brow. Though I begged him to be quiet, he would talk of those old days, Brokenly at times, but always of 'the boys' with loving praise.

"Once I asked him of Lorena--the sweet girl whom he had wed-- You remember Rena Barstow. When I asked if she were dead, 'No,' he said, his poor voice faltering, 'she is far beyond the Rhine, But I wish, to God, it were so, and I still might call her mine. She's divorced--she's mine no longer,' here his voice grew weak and hoarse 'But although I am a drunkard, _I have one they can't divorce_. I've a little girl in heaven, playing round the Savior's knee, Always patient and so faithful that at last she died for me.

"'I had drank so much, so often, that my brain was going wild; Every one had lost hope in me but my faithful little child. She would say, "Now stop, dear papa, for I know you can stop _now_." I would promise, kiss my darling, and the next day break my vow. So it went until one Christmas, dark and stormy, cold and drear; Out I started, just as usual, for the cursed rum shop near, And my darling followed after, in the storm of rain and sleet, With no covering wrapped about her, naught but slippers on her feet; No one knew it, no one missed her, till there came with solemn tread, Stern-faced men unto our dwelling, bringing back our darling--_dead!_ They had found her cold and lifeless, like, they said, an angel fair, Leaning 'gainst the grog shop window--oh, she thought that _I was there!_ Then he raised his arms toward heaven, called aloud unto the dead, For his mind again was wandering: 'Belle, my precious Belle!' he said, 'Papa's treasure--papa's darling! oh, my baby--did--you--come All the way--alone--my darling--just to lead--poor--papa--home?' And he surely had an answer, for a silence o'er him fell. And I sat alone and lonely--death had come with little Belle."