Chapter II: Preface (1)

Recitations form one of the most attractive features of school entertainments, and give a pleasant variety to every-day work; yet few teachers have the time, even if they have the ability, to drill pupils in the long and difficult pieces which form the bulk of the countless Recitations offered to the public.

The selections included in this volume are _in harmony with the spirit of class-room work_, which demands brevity, simplicity, good sense, and sound morality. This is the only compilation of the kind in which these matters are considered as of equal importance with elocutionary effect. Very few of the pieces are to be found in any other book, and each one has been practically tested in the school-room. The style of rendering, wherever specified, can be changed, of course, to suit the taste of the teacher.

As it is desirable that the largest possible number of students should share in such exercises, many short selections, excellent for practice in correct emphasis and distinct articulation, are provided for the purpose.

The observance of our poets’ birthdays is becoming a pleasant and profitable custom in most schools, and provision has been made for these anniversaries as well as for all other holidays.

As it is not possible to make liberal provision for each poet, it is hoped that the Alphabets will be suggestive of their best poems, and the prose extracts concerning the writers will inspire in students a desire to become better acquainted with them and their works.

CONTENTS.

Miscellaneous Recitations.

TITLE. AUTHOR. PAGE

A Bird’s Ministry, Margaret J. Preston, 40

A Discourse of Buddha, Edwin Arnold, 30

After Vacation, _The Kingdom of Home_, 11

An Illumined Text, _Christian at Work_, 55

Are the Heroes Dead? Helen Lee Sargent, 26

A Song for the Conquered, William W. Story, 66

A Strange Experience, Josephine Pollard, 14

A Swedish Poem, Anon., 47

A True Story, _Baldwin’s Monthly_, 80

A Turkish tradition, _Interior_, 43

Beside the Railway Track, Anon., 65

Concerning Beginnings and Ends, Rev. A. K. H. Boyd, 13

Eyes that See Not, Ella Jewett, 44

Extract from a Letter, Wm. Wirt, 41

Failed, Phillips Thompson, 27

Forefathers’ Day, Helen Hunt Jackson, 79

Forward, Susan Coolidge, 24

Growth, Horace Mann, 39

Happiness, Maggie B. Peeke, 55

Her Angel, Anna F. Burnham, 25

Home Lights, _Sunday-school Times_, 13

Humility, Ernest W. Shurtleff, 35

Labor, Rev. Orville Dewey, 28

Lamentation of the Lungs, _Phrenological Journal_, 44

Little Christel, Mary E. Bradley, 82

Luther, Joaquin Miller, 74

Moral Courage, Rev. Sydney Smith, 17

My Portion, Carlotta Perry, 50

Noblesse Oblige, Carlotta Perry, 59

No Work the Hardest Work, C. F. Orne, 18

Only a Little, Dora Goodale, 49

Only a Little Thing, Mrs. M. P. Handy, 68

Original Maxims, James A. Garfield, 74

Original Maxims, George Washington, 71

Questions, Kate Lawrence, 77

Saxon Grit, Rev. Robert Collyer, 51

Sparrows, Adeline D. T. Whitney, 32

Some Old School-books, _Harper’s Weekly_, 19

The Amen of the Rocks, Christian Gellert, 67

The Angel of Dawn, J. S. Cutler, 76

The Barbarous Chief, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 38

The Blessing of the Poets, James T. Fields, 115

The Burial of the Old Flag, Mary A. Barr, 62

The Coast-guard, Emily H. Miller, 42

Their Cost, Ellen M. H. Gates, 21

The Daily Task, Marianne Farningham, 15

The Demon on the Roof, Josephine Pollard, 48

The Holy Place, Mary Frances Butts, 29

The King’s Bell, Eben E. Rexford, 57

The Landing of the Pilgrims, Felicia Hemans, 78

The Light-house, _Good Words_, 46

The Little Light, Anon., 53

The Little Messenger of Love, _Harper’s Young People_, 69

The Old Folks in the New School-house, Anon., 37

The Old Reading Class, Will Carleton, 22

The Old Stone Basin, Susan Coolidge, 64

The People’s Holidays, Marianne Farningham, 12

The Silver Bird’s Nest, Anon., 73

The Storming of Stony Point, Elaine Goodale, 34

The Twenty-first of February, Wm. Cullen Bryant, 78

The Value of Literature, Hamilton W. Mabie, 60

The Work of a Sunbeam, Nathan G. Shepherd, 72

True Heroism, Anon., 61

Uses of Adversity, _Watchman_, 60

“What’s the Lesson for To-day?” Anon., 16

What of That? Anon., 36

Wind and Sea, Bayard Taylor, 54

Concert Recitations.

Cavalry Song, Edmund C. Stedman, 107

Songs of the Seasons, Meta E. B. Thorne, 85

Song of the Steamer Engine, C. B. LeRow, 92

Summer Storm, James Russell Lowell, 91

The Cataract of Lodore, Robert Southey, 105

The Charge at Waterloo, Walter Scott, 90

The Child on the Judgment Seat, E. Charles, 95

The Coming of Spring, Wilhelm Müller, 87

The Death of Our Almanac, Henry Ward Beecher, 100

The Good Time Coming, Charles Mackay, 88

The Sorrow of the Sea, Anon., 98

The Two Glasses, Anon., 97

Two Epitaphs, From the German, 104

Selections for Musical Accompaniment.

A Winter Song, _St. Nicholas_, 110

Hope’s Song, Helen M. Winslow, 109

Rock of Ages, Ella Maud Moore, 113

The Angelus, Frances L. Mace, 108

The Concert Rehearsal, Wolstan Dixey, 111

The Sunrise Never Failed Us Yet, Celia Thaxter, 110

POETS’ BIRTHDAYS.

William Cullen Bryant.

A Bryant Alphabet, Compiler, 117

Extract concerning Bryant, Rev. Henry W. Bellows, 116

” ” ” John Bigelow, 115

” ” ” George William Curtis, 116

” ” ” Edwin P. Whipple, 116

Green River, William Cullen Bryant, 123

The Hurricane, ” ” ” 122

The Night Journey of a River, ” ” ” 121

The Third of November, ” ” ” 121

The Violet, ” ” ” 123

To William Cullen Bryant, Fitz-Greene Halleck, 115

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Art, Ralph Waldo Emerson, 131

An Emerson Alphabet, Compiler, 126

Emerson, Elizabeth C. Kinney, 124

Extract concerning Emerson, Rev. C. A. Bartol, 125

” ” ” George Willis Cooke, 125

” ” ” Oliver Wendell Holmes, 125

” ” ” Protap Chunder Mozoomdar, 126

” ” ” Horace E. Scudder, 124

” from “Compensation,” Ralph Waldo Emerson, 129

” ” “Works and Days,” ” ” ” 130

The Concord Fight, ” ” ” 130

The Rhodora, ” ” ” 131

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

A Holmes Alphabet, Compiler 135

Extract concerning Holmes, George William Curtis, 134

” ” ” Charles W. Eliot, 133

” ” ” Wm. Sloane Kennedy, 134

” ” ” Rev. Ray Palmer, 133

” ” ” Frances H. Underwood, 133

International Ode, Oliver Wendell Holmes, 140

James Russell Lowell’s Birthday Festival, ” ” ” 141

Our Autocrat, John G. Whittier, 132

The Two Streams, Oliver Wendell Holmes, 140

Under the Washington Elm, ” ” ” 139

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

A Longfellow Alphabet, Compiler, 144

Charles Sumner, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 150

Extract concerning Longfellow, George William Curtis, 143

” ” ” Rev. O. B. Frothingham, 143

” ” ” Rev. M. J. Savage, 144

” ” ” Richard H. Stoddard, 143

” ” ” John G. Whittier, 142

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, William W. Story, 142

Loss and Gain, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 149

Musings, ” ” ” 148

The City and the Sea, ” ” ” 149

James Russell Lowell.

Abraham Lincoln, James Russell Lowell, 159

A Lowell Alphabet, Compiler, 154

Extract concerning Lowell, David W. Bartlett, 153

” ” ” Rev. H. R. Haweis, 153

” ” ” _North British Review_, 152

” ” ” W. C. Wilkinson, 153

” ” ” Frances H. Underwood, 152

Freedom, James Russell Lowell, 160

The First Snow-fall, ” ” ” 157

To James Russell Lowell, Oliver Wendell Holmes, 151

Wendell Phillips, James Russell Lowell, 159

John Greenleaf Whittier.

A Whittier Alphabet, Compiler, 163

Extract concerning Whittier, John Bright, 163

” ” ” Horace E. Scudder, 162

” ” ” Richard H. Stoddard, 162

” ” ” Frances H. Underwood, 161

” ” ” Rev. David A. Wasson, 162

My Country, John Greenleaf Whittier, 168

The Light that is Felt, ” ” ” 170

The Moral Warfare, ” ” ” 167

To Children of Girard, Pa., ” ” ” 167

1827-1885, ” ” ” 168

John G. Whittier, James Russell Lowell, 161

Decoration Day.

Between the Graves, Harriet Prescott Spofford, 172

Decoration Day, Henry W. Longfellow, 171

Decoration Hymn, William H. Randall, 175

Flowers for the Brave, Celia Thaxter, 175

Memorial Day, Margaret Sidney, 176

Red, White, and Blue, Harriet McEwen Kimball, 173

The Heroes’ Day, _Harper’s Weekly_, 174

Thanksgiving.

Elsie’s Thanksgiving, Margaret E. Sangster, 186

How the Pilgrims Gave Thanks, Anon., 180

Thanksgiving, William D. Howells, 185

Thanksgiving Day, _The Advance_, 178

Thanksgiving among the Greeks, Anon., 178

Thanksgiving for His House, Robert Herrick, 184

Thanksgiving among the Jews, Anon., 179

Thanksgiving Ode, John G. Whittier, 185

Thanksgivings of Old, E. A. Smuller, 187

The First Boston Thanksgiving, Hezekiah Butterworth, 182

The First English Thanksgiving, Anon, 179

The First National Thanksgiving, Anon, 181

Washington’s Proclamation, 181

Christmas.

A Christmas Question, Rev. Minot J. Savage, 197

A Christmas Thought about Dickens, Bertha S. Scranton, 190

Christmas Bells, Henry W. Longfellow, 201

Christmas in Olden Time, Walter Scott, 189

Christmas Roses, May Riley Smith, 202

The Day of Days, Anon., 188

The Little Mud Sparrows, Eliz. Stuart Phelps, 195

The Nativity, Louisa Parsons Hopkins, 200

The Star in the West, Hezekiah Butterworth, 192

Wings, Dinah Mulock Craik, 199

New-Year’s.

Address to the New Year, Dinah Mulock Craik, 203

A New Year, Margaret E. Sangster, 203

Another Year, Nathaniel P. Willis, 205

A Wish, Margaret Veley, 205

The Child and the Year, Celia Thaxter, 206

The Seasons.

A Song of Waking, Katharine Lee Bates, 207

December, Louisa Parsons Hopkins, 215

Early Spring, Alfred Tennyson, 208

Faded Leaves, Alice Cary, 213

Frost Work, Mary E. Bradley, 217

Golden Rod, Lucy Larcom, 210

Indian Summer, John G. Whittier, 211

January, Rosaline E. Jones, 216

June, Travelers’ Record, 210

May, _Good Cheer_, 209

November, Hartley Coleridge, 214

October, William Cullen Bryant, 212

September, 1815, William Wordsworth, 212

Winter, Robert Southey, 214

Flowers.

A Bunch of Cowslips, Anon., 221

Chrysanthemums, Mary E. Dodge, 223

Daffodils, Robert Herrick, 222

Ferns, Anon., 219

No Flowers, Anon., 218

Ragged Sailors, Anon., 224

Roses, Anon., 223

Sweet Peas, _St. Nicholas_, 220

The Message of the Snowdrop, Anon., 224

The Trailing Arbutus, John G. Whittier, 221

Dialogues.

Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet, Charles Kingsley, 247

Diogenes and Plato on Pride, T. A. Bland, 238

Lorna Doone, R. D. Blackmore, 240

Metaphysics, Anon., 249

Mistress and Maid, Dinah Mulock Craik, 233

Ninety-Three, Victor Hugo, 254

Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan, 245

Put Yourself in His Place, Charles Reade, 243

Queen Isabella’s Resolve, Epes Sargent, 227

Ruth Hall, Fanny Fern, 237

The Hills of the Shatemuc, Elizabeth Wetherell, 231

The Mill on the Floss, George Eliot, 229

The Last Days of Pompeii, Edward Bulwer Lytton, 235

The Queen’s Necklace, Alexander Dumas, 225

The Musical Instrument, Anon., 242

Work: A Story of Experience, Louisa M. Alcott, 251

LIST OF AUTHORS.

ALCOTT, LOUISA M., 251

ARNOLD, EDWIN, 30

BARR, MARY A., 62

BARTLETT, DAVID W., 153

BARTOL, REV. C. A., 125

BATES, KATHARINE LEE, 207

BEECHER, REV. HENRY WARD, 100

BELLOWS, REV. HENRY W., 116

BIGELOW, JOHN, 115

BLACKMORE, R. D., 240

BLAND, T. A., 238

BOYD, REV. A. K. H., 13

BRADLEY, MARY E., 82, 217

BRIGHT, JOHN, 163

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN, 78, 121, 122, 123, 212

BUNYAN, JOHN, 245

BURNHAM, ANNA F., 25

BUTTERWORTH, HEZEKIAH, 182, 192

BUTTS, MARY FRANCES, 29

CARLETON, WILL, 22

CARY, ALICE, 213

CHARLES, E., 95

COLERIDGE, HARTLEY, 214

COLLYER, REV. ROBERT, 51

COOKE, GEORGE WILLIS, 125

COOLIDGE, SUSAN, 24, 64

CRAIK, DINAH MULOCK, 199, 203, 233

CURTIS, GEORGE WM., 116, 134, 143

CUTLER, J. S., 76

DEWEY, REV. ORVILLE, 28

DIXEY, WOLSTAN, 111

DODGE, MARY E., 223

DUMAS, ALEXANDER, 225

ELIOT, CHARLES W., 133

ELIOT, GEORGE, 229

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO, 129, 130, 131

FARNINGHAM, MARIANNE, 12, 15

FERN, FANNY, 237

FIELDS, JAMES T., 155

FROTHINGHAM, REV. O. B., 143

GARFIELD, JAMES A., 74

GATES, ELLEN M. H., 21

GELLERT, CHRISTIAN, 67

GOODALE, DORA, 49

GOODALE, ELAINE, 34

HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE, 115

HANDY, M. P., 68

HAWEIS, REV. H. R., 153

HEMANS, FELICIA, 78

HERRICK, ROBERT, 184, 222

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL, 125, 139, 140, 141, 151

HOPKINS, LOUISA PARSONS, 200, 215

HOWELLS, WILLIAM D., 185

HUGO, VICTOR, 254

JACKSON, HELEN HUNT, 79

JEWETT, ELLA, 44

JONES, ROSALINE E., 216

KENNEDY, WM. SLOANE, 134

KIMBALL, HARRIET MCEWEN, 173

KINGSLEY, CHARLES, 247

KINNEY, ELIZABETH C., 124

LARCOM, LUCY, 210

LAWRENCE, KATE, 77

LEROW, C. B., 92

LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH, 148, 149, 150, 171, 201

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL, 91, 157, 159, 160, 161

LYTTON, E. BULWER, 235

MABIE, HAMILTON W., 60

MACE, FRANCES L., 108

MACKAY, CHARLES, 188

MANN, HORACE, 39

MILLER, EMILY H., 42

MILLER, JOAQUIN, 74

MOORE, ELLA MAUD, 113

MOZOOMDAR, PROTAP CHUNDER, 126

MÜLLER, WILHELM, 87

ORNE, C. F., 18

PALMER, REV. RAY, 133

PEEKE, MAGGIE B., 55, 59

PERRY, CARLOTTA, 50

PHELPS, ELIZ. STUART, 195

POLLARD, JOSEPHINE, 14, 48

PRESTON, MARGARET J., 40

RANDALL, WM. H., 175

READE, CHARLES, 243

REXFORD, EBEN E., 57

SANGSTER, MARGARET E., 186, 203

SARGENT, EPES, 227

SARGENT, HELEN LEE, 26

SAVAGE, REV. MINOT J., 144, 197

SCOTT, WALTER, 90, 189

SCRANTON, BERTHA S., 190

SCUDDER, HORACE E., 124, 162

SHEPHERD, NATHAN G., 72

SHURTLEFF, ERNEST W., 35

SIDNEY, MARGARET, 176

SMITH, MAY RILEY, 202

SMITH, REV. SYDNEY, 17

SMULLER, E. A., 187

SOUTHEY, ROBERT, 105, 214

SPOFFORD, HARRIET PRESCOTT, 172

STEDMAN, EDMUND C., 107

STODDARD, RICHARD H., 143, 162

STORY, WILLIAM W., 66, 142

TAYLOR, BAYARD, 54

TENNYSON, ALFRED, 208

THAXTER, CELIA, 110, 175, 206

THOMPSON, PHILLIPS, 27

THORNE, META E. B., 85

UNDERWOOD, FRANCES H., 133, 152, 161

VELEY, MARGARET, 205

WASHINGTON, GEORGE, 71, 181

WASSON, REV. DAVID A., 162

WETHERELL, ELIZABETH, 231

WHIPPLE, EDWIN P., 116

WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF, 132, 142, 167, 168, 170, 185, 221

WHITNEY, ADELINE D. T., 32

WILCOX, ELLA WHEELER, 35

WILLIS, NATHANIEL P., 208

WINSLOW, HELEN M., 109

WORDSWORTH, WM., 41, 212

PRACTICAL RECITATIONS.

MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS.

AFTER VACATION.

Again they muster from the far-off hillside,
From country farm-house and from sea-girt shore;
Their tramping feet resound along the highways,
Their gleeful shouts ring on the air once more.

A merry band, so full of youth’s elixir,
How can their restless spirits e’er essay
The tasks that wait their patient, steady labor
After the long, bright, summer holiday?

Not now, O children, in the sunny meadows
Ye cull the flowers or by the brooklets stray,
But in the fields of knowledge, thick with blossoms,
To gather sweets for a far future day.

Here, too, you roam a land of fairest promise,
Watered by many a stream of limpid hue,
Where weary travelers find a sweet refreshment
And garner richest stores of old and new.

We bid thee welcome to the homes that missed thee,
To the deserted school-room’s open door.
The nation’s hope is in thee, keep thy birthright;
Thine heritage is more than golden store.

_The Kingdom of Home._

THE PEOPLE’S HOLIDAYS.

MARIANNE FARNINGHAM.

Not alone for the rich and great
Are the beautiful works of God;
The mountain’s slopes and the ocean’s beach
By the people’s feet are trod,
And the poor man’s children sing and dance
On the green flower-covered sod.

Not alone for the cultured eyes
Do the sweet flowers spring and grow;
There is scarcely living a man so poor
But he may their sweetness know;
And out of the town to the fresh fair fields
The toilers all can go.

Away from the factory shop and desk,
Where the diligent work in throngs,
They go sometimes to the well-earned rest
That to faithful zeal belongs;
And the shore and the forest welcome them,
And the larks pour down their songs.

“Man does not live by bread alone,”
And well it needs must be
That we all should look on our Father’s works
By the river and lake and sea,
And spend our souls in adoring praise,
For He careth for you and me.

And well may all with a stronger hand,
And a braver, truer heart,
Go back to the task that God has given,
And faithfully do our part;
And bear in our souls the peace of the fields,
To the counter, the desk, and the mart.

HOME LIGHTS.

The light of June that shines on tremulous leaves
Of softest green, how fair a thing to see!
When shafts of dawn touch birch and maple tree,
Or sunset’s hour a mesh of magic weaves;
The diamond light that flashes on the sea
In August noons,—a dazzle of pure rays.
With lovely ground of blue, whereon we gaze
From cliff or sandy shore in ecstasy;
The light that blazes on the mountain way,
Or, strained to pallor, steals to lonely dells;
None are forgotten on this autumn day,
As with sweet memories the glad heart swells;
But as the October sun drops down the west,
We say with smiling lips, Home lights are best.

CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.

REV. A. K. H. BOYD.

We cannot bear a very long, uniform look-out. It is an unspeakable blessing that we can stop and start again in everything. The journey that crushes us down when we contemplate it as one long weary thing can be borne when we divide it into stages. And one great lesson of practical wisdom is to train ourselves to mentally divide everything into stages. It would crush down any man’s resolution if he saw in one glance the whole enormous bulk of labor which he will get through in a lifetime. And yet you know, and the little child knows just as well, that after he has conquered that tremendous alphabet, he must begin again with something else, he must mount from his first little book onwards and upwards into the fields of knowledge and learning. Let us, if we are wise men, hold by the grand principle of step by step.

A STRANGE EXPERIENCE.

JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

They took the little London girl from out the city street
To where the grass was growing green, the birds were singing sweet;
And everything along the road so filled her with surprise,
The look of wonder fixed itself within her violet eyes.

The breezes ran to welcome her; they kissed her on each cheek,
And tried in every way they could their ecstasy to speak,
Inviting her to romp with them, and tumbling up her curls,
Expecting she would laugh or scold, like other little girls.

But she did not; no, she could not; for this crippled little child
Had lived within a dingy court where sunshine never smiled,
And for weary, weary days and months the little one had lain
Confined within a narrow room, and on a couch of pain.

The out-door world was strange to her—the broad expanse of sky,
The soft, green grass, the pretty flowers, the stream that trickled by;
But all at once she saw a sight that made her hold her breath,
And shake and tremble as if she were frightened near to death.

Oh, like some horrid monster of which the child had dreamed,
With nodding head and waving arms, the angry creature seemed;
It threatened her, it mocked at her, with gestures and grimace
That made her shrink with terror from its serpent-like embrace.

They kissed the trembling little one, they held her in their arms,
And tried in every way they could to quiet her alarms,
And said, “Oh, what a foolish little goose you are to be
So nervous and so terrified at nothing but a tree!”

They made her go up close to it, and put her arms around
The trunk and see how firmly it was fastened in the ground;
They told her all about the roots that clung down deeper yet,
And spoke of other curious things she never would forget.

Oh, I have heard of many, very many girls and boys
Who have to do without the sight of pretty books and toys,
Who have never seen the ocean; but the saddest thought to me
Is that anywhere there lives a child who never saw a tree.

THE DAILY TASK.

MARIANNE FARNINGHAM.

The morning light falls gently on the eyes
And wakes the sleeping men;
And bids them rise and haste to meet the day,
And find their work again.

No one is asked to choose what he will do,
Or take the task loved best,
For God allots the places, and each one
Obeys His high behest.

One, loving silence, passes to the street
And mingles with the crowd,
And finds his daily work awaiting him,
Where noise is long and loud.

And one who hungers for the voice and touch
Of others in the gloom
Is ordered to withdraw from all, and work
Alone within one room.

Another, loving beauty, air, and light,
Passes in sordid ways,
And uncongenial sights, and jarring sounds,
The hours of his best days.

And yet another who could love all work,
And do it thankfully,
Has naught to do but suffer and be still
In patience, perfectly.

Are, then, the workers at their daily tasks
Unhappy and unblest?
Nay; He who chooses for them gives the wage
Of happiness and rest.

The feet pass swiftly to the place of toil,
The lips break into song,
And ready hands receive the allotted task,
Nor find the hours too long.

Because the loyal heart is true to God,
And the deft hand obeys
The Master, who decides what each shall do,
Joy fills the working days.

And so, if but the soul be leal, the task
Itself becomes more dear,
And every worker finds that work well done
Is work that brings good cheer.

“WHAT’S THE LESSON FOR TO-DAY?”

Little Bess, with laughing eyes,
Brightly blue as summer skies,
Came to me one morn in May,
Asking in her eager way,
“What’s the lesson for to-day?”

And I told her, then and there,
What I wished her to prepare.
But new meaning (strange to say),
In the childish query lay,
“What’s the lesson for to-day?”

And I pondered o’er and o’er
What I scarce had thought before,—
As I went my wonted way,
Towards my duty, sad or gay,
“What’s _my_ lesson for the day?”

Students in the school of life,
’Mid its struggles and its strife,
Let _us_ ask, in childlike way,
Of the Teacher we obey,
“What’s the lesson for to-day?”

And the answer God will give,
He will show us how to live,
Teach us of His perfect way,
Grant us wisdom that we may
Learn the lesson of the day.

MORAL COURAGE.

REV. SYDNEY SMITH.

A great deal of talent is lost in the world for the want of a little courage. The fact is, that to do anything in this world worth doing, we must not stand back shivering, and thinking of the cold and the danger, but jump in and scramble through as well as we can. It will not do to be perpetually calculating tasks, and adjusting nice chances; it did very well before the flood, where a man could consult his friends upon an intended publication for an hundred and fifty years, and then live to see its success afterwards: but at present, a man waits and doubts and hesitates, and consults his brother and his uncle and particular friends, till one fine day he finds that he is sixty years of age; that he has lost so much time in consulting his first cousin and particular friends, that he has no more time to follow their advice.

NO WORK THE HARDEST WORK.

CHARLES F. ORNE.

Ho! ye who at the anvil toil,
And strike the sounding blow,
Where from the burning iron’s breast
The sparks fly to and fro,
While answering to the hammer’s ring,
And fire’s intenser glow—
Oh, while ye feel ’tis hard to toil
And sweat the long day through,
Remember it is harder still
To have no work to do.

Ho! ye who till the stubborn soil,
Whose hard hands guide the plow;
Who bend beneath the summer sun
With burning cheek and brow—
Ye deem the curse still clings to earth
From olden time till now;
But while ye feel ’tis hard to toil
And labor all day through,
Remember it is harder still
To have no work to do.

Ho! ye who plow the sea’s blue field,
Who ride the restless wave;
Beneath whose gallant vessel’s keel
There lies a yawning grave;
Around whose bark the wintry winds
Like fiends of fury rave—
Oh, while ye feel ’tis hard to toil
And labor long hours through,
Remember it is harder still
To have no work to do.

Ho! all who labor, all who strive,
Ye wield a mighty power;
Do with your might, do with your strength,
Fill every golden hour;
The glorious privilege to do
Is man’s most noble dower.
Oh, to your birthright and yourselves,
To your own souls be true!
A weary, wretched life is theirs
Who have no work to do.

SOME OLD SCHOOL-BOOKS.

I have been back to my home again,
To the place where I was born;
I have heard the wind from the stormy main
Go rustling through the corn;
I have seen the purple hills once more;
I have stood on the rocky coast
Where the waves storm inland to the shore;
But the thing that touched me most

Was a little leather strap that kept
Some school-books, tattered and torn!
I sighed, I smiled, I could have wept
When I came on them one morn;
For I thought of the merry little lad,
In the mornings sweet and cool,
If weather was good, or weather bad,
Going whistling off to school.

My fingers undid the strap again,
And I thought how my hand had changed,
And half in longing, and half in pain,
Backward my memory ranged.
There was the grammar I knew so well,—
I didn’t remember a rule;
And the old blue speller,—I used to spell
Better than any in school;

And the wonderful geography
I’ve read on the green hill-side,
When I’ve told myself I’d surely see
All lands in the world so wide,
From the Indian homes in the far, far West,
To the mystical Cathay.
I have seen them all. But Home is best
When the evening shades fall gray.

And there was the old arithmetic,
All tattered and stained with tears;
I and Jamie and little Dick
Were together in by-gone years.
Jamie has gone to the better land;
And I get now and again,
A letter in Dick’s bold, ready hand,
From some great Western plain.

There wasn’t a book, and scarce a page,
That hadn’t some memory
Of days that seemed like a golden age,
Of friends I shall no more see.
And so I picked up the books again
And buckled the strap once more,
And brought them over the tossing main;
Come, children, and look them o’er.

And there they lie on a little stand
Not far from the Holy Book;
And his boys and girls with loving care
O’er grammar and speller look.
He said, “They speak to me, children dear,
Of a past without alloy;
And the look of Books, in promise clear,
Of a future full of joy.”

_Harper’s Weekly._

THEIR COST.

ELLEN M. H. GATES.

How cheap are the things which are bought and sold,
The beautiful things which the hands can hold,
Whatever is purchased with silver and gold.

The merchants are calling and filling their rooms
With jewels and laces and rarest perfumes,
And wonderful webs from the Indian looms.

The price of the treasures is small, as they say;
For dollars and cents, are exchanged every day
The furs of the North-land, the silks of Cathay.

But, oh! the rare things which can never be brought
From the far-away countries, but still must be sought
Through working and waiting and anguish of thought!

The patience that comes to the heart, as it tries
To hear, through all discord and turbulent cries,
The songs of the armies that march to the skies;

The courage that fails not, nor loses its breath
In stress of the battle, but smilingly saith,
“I’ll measure my strength with disaster and death;”

The love that through doubting and pain will increase;
The longing and restlessness, calmed into peace
That is perfect and satisfied, never to cease—

These, these are the dear things. No king on his throne
Can buy them away from the poor and unknown
Who make them, through labor or anguish, their own.

* * * * *

A TRUE life must be simple in all its elements.—HORACE GREELEY.

THE OLD READING CLASS.

WILL CARLETON.

I.

I cannot tell you, Genevieve, how oft it comes to me—
That rather young old reading class in District Number Three,
That row of elocutionists who stood so straight in line,
And charged at standard literature with amiable design.
We did not spare the energy in which our words were clad!
We gave the meaning of the text by all the light we had;
But still I fear the ones who wrote the lines we read so free
Would scarce have recognized their work in District Number Three.

II.

Outside, the snow was smooth and clean—the winter’s thick-laid dust;
The storm, it made the windows speak at every sudden gust;
Bright sleigh-bells threw us pleasant words when travelers would pass;
The maple-trees along the road stood shivering in their class;
Beyond, the white-browed cottages were nestling cold and dumb,
And far away the mighty world seemed beckoning us to come—
The wondrous world, of which we conned what had been and might be,
In that old-fashioned reading class of District Number Three.

III.

We took a hand at History—its altars, spires and flames—
And uniformly mispronounced the most important names;
We wandered through Biography, and gave our fancy play,
And with some subjects fell in love—“good only for one day;”
In Romance and Philosophy we settled many a point,
And made what poems we assailed to creak at every joint;
And many authors that we love, you with me will agree,
Were first time introduced to us in District Number Three.

IV.

You recollect Susannah Smith, the teacher’s sore distress,
Who never stopped at any pause—a sort of day express?
And timid young Sylvester Jones, of inconsistent sight,
Who stumbled on the easy words and read the hard ones right?
And Jennie Green, whose doleful voice was always clothed in black?
And Samuel Hicks, whose tones induced the plastering all to crack?
And Andrew Tubbs, whose various mouths were quite a show to see?
Alas! we cannot find them now in District Number Three.

V.

And Jasper Jenckes, whose tears would flow at each pathetic word
(He’s in the prize-fight business now, and hits them hard, I’ve heard);
And Benny Bayne, whose every tone he murmured as in fear
(His tongue is not so timid now: he is an auctioneer);
And Lanty Wood, whose voice was just endeavoring hard to change,
And leaped from hoarse to fiercely shrill with most surprising range;
Also his sister Mary Jane, so full of prudish glee.
Alas! they’re both in higher schools than District Number Three.

VI.

So back these various voices come, though long the years have grown,
And sound uncommonly distinct through Memory’s telephone;
And some are full of melody, and bring a sense of cheer,
And some can smite the rock of time, and summon forth a tear;
But one sweet voice comes back to me, whenever sad I grieve!
And sings a song, and that is yours, O peerless Genevieve!
It brightens up the olden times, and throws a smile at me—
A silver star amid the clouds of District Number Three.

FORWARD.

SUSAN COOLIDGE.

Let me stand still upon the height of life;
Much has been won, though much there is to win;
I am a little weary of the strife.
Let me stand still awhile, nor count it sin
To cool my hot brow, ease the travel-pain,
And then address me to the road again.

Long was the way, and steep and hard the climb;
Sore are my limbs, and fain I am to rest;
Behind me lie long sandy tracks of time;
Before me rises the steep mountain crest.
Let me stand still; the journey is half done,
And when less weary I will travel on.

There is no standing still! Even as I pause
The steep path shifts and I slip back apace;
Movement was safety; by the journey laws
No help is given, no safe abiding-place,
No idling in the pathway hard and slow;
I must go forward, or must backward go!

I will go up then, though the limbs may tire,
And though the path be doubtful and unseen;
Better with the last effort to expire
Than lose the toil and struggle that have been,
And have the morning strength, the upward strain,
The distance conquered, in the end made vain.

Ah, blessed law! for rest is tempting sweet,
And we would all lie down if so we might;
And few would struggle on with bleeding feet;
And few would ever gain the higher height
Except for the stern law which bids us know
We must go forward, or must backward go.

HER ANGEL.

ANNA F. BURNHAM.

Margery cowered and crouched in the door of the beautiful porch.
There were beautiful people in there, and they all belonged to the
church.
But Margery waited without; she did not belong anywhere
Except in the dear Lord’s bosom, who taketh the children there.

And through the open doorway came floating a lovely sound;
She shut her eyes and imagined how the angels stood around
With their harps like St. Cecilia’s in the picture on the wall—
Ah, Margery did not doubt that so looked the singers all.

“Suffer the little children!” sang a heavenly voice somewhere,
Or the soul of a voice that was winging away in the upper air;
“Let the children come to me!” sang the angel in her place,
And Margery, listening, stood, with upturned eyes and face.

“Let them come! let them come to me!” And up the aisle she sped
With eyes that sought for the Voice, to follow where it led.
She did not say to herself: “I’m coming! Wait for me!”
But it shone in her face, and it leaped in her eyes, dear Margery!

Up the stair to the singer she ran, she touched the hem of her dress.
But the choir were bending their heads, the preacher had risen to bless
The reverent throng, and alas! bewildered Margery,
The Voice has ceased, and the singers have turned their eyes on thee.

They look with surprise at her feet, and again at her ragged gown,
And one by one they pass with a careless smile or a frown;
But the sweetest face bent near, and—“I came,” said Margery,
“For I thought ’twas an angel sang, ‘Let the children come to me!’”

With a tender sigh the singer took the child upon her knee;
“I sang the words for the dear Lord Christ, my Margery,
And so, for the dear Lord Christ, I take thee home with me!”
—“It was an angel sang!” sobs little Margery.

ARE THE HEROES DEAD?

HELEN LEE SARGENT.

“We are low,—we are base!” sigh the singers,
“The heroes have long been dead!
The times have fallen,—the state is sick,
And the glory of earth has fled!
Sordid and selfish on every side
Walk the men and the women we know.
Downward we tend continually,
And faster and faster go!”

Shame to ye, shame to ye, singers!
And have ye never known
That the soul of man has been ever the same
Since the sun of heaven shone?
If ye listen and look for the heroes,
Ye will find them everywhere;
But if ye look for the knaves and scamps—
It is true they are not rare.

But whenever a ship is lost at sea,
Or a building burns on land,
Amid the terror and death and loss
A hero is found at hand.
And if ever a war should come again
(From it long may we be freed!)
Ye will find the heroes, as ever before,
Responding to the need.

FAILED!

A POEM OF HARD TIMES.

PHILLIPS THOMPSON.

Failed! Jim Miserton failed! You don’t mean to say it’s so?
Had it from Smith at the Bank? Well, he’s a man that should know.
Forty-two cents on the dollar? I cannot believe my ears.
There’s no such thing as judging a man by the way he appears.

Yes, you may well say “failed;” there’s more than the term implies,
When all there is of a man in a hopeless ruin lies.
To come after twenty years of a stubborn up-hill strife,
It isn’t a business smash so much as a failure in life.

Gold was always his god—he’d nothing else in his soul;
Money, for money’s sake, was ever his ultimate goal.
A “self-made man” they styled him, for low and poor he began;
But now his money has vanished, and what is left of the man?

He had no eye for beauty, for literature no taste;
Buying pictures or books he counted a shameful waste.
Nothing he cared for art or the poet’s elaborate rhymes;
His soul was only attuned to the musical jingle of dimes.

Selfish, exacting, and stern, a hand he would treat like a slave;
Long were his hours of toil, and scanty the pay that he gave;
Made of cast-iron himself, his zeal in the struggle for gold
Left him no pity to spare for those of a different mold.

Never a cent for the poor, for the naked never a stitch;
’Twas all their fault, he would say; they should save like him, and
grow rich.
Now and then to a church he’d forward a liberal amount,
Duly set down in his books to the advertising account.

So he succeeded, of course, and piled his coffers with wealth,
Missing pleasure and culture, losing vigor and health;
Now he’s down at the bottom, exactly where he began;
Even his gold has vanished, and what is left of the man?

A self-made man, indeed! then we owe no honor to such;
The genuine self-made man you cannot honor too much;
But be sure what you make _is_ a man—with a heart, and a soul, and a
mind,
Not merely a pile of dollars, that goes, leaving nothing behind.

LABOR.

REV. ORVILLE DEWEY.

To _some_ field of labor, mental or manual, every idler should fasten, as a chosen and coveted theater of improvement. But so he is not impelled to do, under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in his idleness. This way of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away. Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy work-shop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hand scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which Mother Nature has embroidered, midst sun and rain, midst fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to nature; it is impiety to Heaven; it is breaking Heaven’s great ordinance. TOIL, I repeat—_toil_, either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true nobility.

THE HOLY PLACE.

MARY FRANCES BUTTS.

The people came to the priest,
“Good father,” said they,
“We love the holy altar
Where we kneel to pray;
We would ’broider a cloth
Of fine silk and wool
To cover the altar,
For our hearts are full.”

“My children,” said the priest,
“When the heart is full,
Spend not its treasure
In fine silk and wool.
Listen, my children,
Do you hear a moan?
’Tis the poor man waiting,
Sick and alone.

“His darlings ask in vain
For a piece of bread;
And what thinks the Lord?”
The good priest said.
“The tender-hearted Christ
Would be very wroth
Should you leave his poor
For an altar-cloth.

“He blesses the holy altar
Where we kneel to pray;
But in the silence
I hear him say:
“Seek me, my children,
In works of grace;
Where you comfort a heart
Is the holy place.”

A DISCOURSE OF BUDDHA.

EDWIN ARNOLD.

Herewith a broken beam of Buddha’s lore,
One raylet of his glorious gift of light,
Rose-gleam which lingers when the sun is down
Such space that men may find a path thereby.
A priest questioned him:
“‘Which is Life’s chief good, Master?’ And he spake:

“‘Shadows are good, when the high sun is flaming,
From whereso’er they fall;
Some take their rest beneath the holy temple,
Some by the prison wall.

“‘The king’s gilt palace roof shuts off the sunlight,
So doth the dyer’s shed!
Which is the chiefest shade of all the shadows?’
‘They are alike!’ one said.

“‘So is it,’ quoth he, ‘with all shows or living;
As shadows fall, they fall!
Rest under, if ye must, but question not
Which is the best of all.

“‘Yet in the forest some trees wave with fragrance
Of fruit and bloom o’erhead;
And some are evil, bearing fruitless branches
Whence poisonous air is spread.

“‘Therefore, though all be shows, seek, if ye must,
Right shelter from life’s heat;
Lo! these do well who toil for wife and child
Threading the burning street.

“‘Good is it helping kindred! good to dwell
Blameless and just to all;
Good to give alms, with good-will in the heart,
Albeit the store be small!

“‘Good to speak sweet and gentle words, to be
Merciful, patient, and mild;
To hear the law and keep it, leading days
Innocent, undefiled.

“‘These the chief goods—for evil by its like
Ends not, nor hate by hate;
By love hate ceaseth, by well-doing ill,
By knowledge life’s dark state.

“‘Look! yonder soars an eagle! mark those wings
Which cleave the blue, cool skies!
What shadow needeth that proud Lord of Air
To shield his fearless eyes?

“‘Rise from this life! lift upon new-spread pinions
Heart free and great as his!
The eagle seeks no shadow, nor the wise
Greater or lesser bliss!’”

* * * * *

We are unwilling walkers. We are not innocent and simple-hearted enough to enjoy a walk. We have fallen from that state of grace which capacity to enjoy a walk implies. It cannot be said that as a people we are so positively sad or morose as that we are vacant of that sportiveness of animal spirits that characterized our ancestors, and that springs from full and harmonious life,—a sound heart in accord with a sound body. A man must invest himself near at hand, and in common things, and be content with a steady and moderate return, if he would know the blessedness of a cheerful heart, and the sweetness of a walk over the round earth. This is a lesson the American has yet to learn,—capability of amusement on a low key.—JOHN BURROUGHS.

* * * * *

To fill the youthful mind with lofty and noble ideas, to stock the memory with the richest vocabulary, and to acquire a wide command of our grand English language, we have nothing better, except the Bible, than the plays of Shakespeare.

Extracts from Shakespeare once thoroughly committed to memory are never forgotten. Many of the world’s great orators and statesmen were wont to commit and recite passages from Shakespeare. Edmund Burke made Shakespeare his daily study, while Erskine, it is said, could have held conversation on every subject in the phrases of the great dramatist. Rufus Choate was familiar with every line of Shakespeare. Daniel Webster never tired of repeating passages from the same author. The genial Dr. Holmes tells us that Wendell Phillips, Motley the historian, and himself, when boys, used to declaim Antony’s oration on holiday afternoons over the prostrate form of some younger playmate.

SPARROWS.

ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY.

Little birds sit on the telegraph wires,
And chitter and flitter and fold their wings.
Maybe they think that for them and their sires
Stretched always on purpose, those wonderful strings;
And perhaps the thought that the world inspires
_Did_ plan for the birds among other things.

Little birds sit on the slender lines,
And the news of the world runs under their feet:
How value rises and now declines,
How kings with their armies in battle meet;
And all the while, ’mid the soundless signs,
They chirp their small gossipings, foolish and sweet.

Little things light on the lines of our lives—
Hopes and joys and acts of to-day;
And we think that for these the Lord contrives,
Nor catch what the hidden lightnings say;
Yet from end to end his meaning arrives,
And his word runs underneath all the way.

Is life only wires and lightning, then,
Apart from that which about it clings?
Are the thoughts and the works and the prayers of men
Only sparrows that light on God’s telegraph strings—
Holding a moment and gone again?
Nay: he planned for the birds with the larger things!

* * * * *

But, above all, where thou findest ignorance, stupidity, brute-mindedness—attack it, I say; smite it wisely, unweariedly, and rest not while thou livest and it lives; but smite, smite in the name of God! The highest God, as I understand it, does audibly so command thee: still audibly, if thou have ears to hear. He, even He, with his unspoken voice, is fuller than any Sinai thunders, or syllabled speech of whirlwinds; for the SILENCE of deep eternities, of worlds beyond the morning stars, does it not speak to thee? The unborn ages; the old graves, with their long moldering dust, the very tears that wetted it, now all dry—do not these speak to thee what ear hath not heard? The deep death-kingdoms, the stars in their never-resting courses, all space and all time, proclaim it to thee in continual silent admonition. Thou, too, if ever man should, shalt work while it is called to-day; for the night cometh, wherein no man can work.—THOMAS CARLYLE.

THE STORMING OF STONY POINT.

(July 16, 1779.)

ELAINE GOODALE.

The wonder of midnight, now pregnant with wars,
Skies mellow and fruitful, all trembling with stars,
The ripe, yellow planet, poised low in the west,
The smooth-flowing river, with stars on its breast;
These murmur of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,—
He has life-blood to lose, he has glory to gain!

The low-lying marshes, where, silent and stern,
Twelve hundred are creeping through bog-grass and fern,
With fireflies for lanterns; while, black-throated still,
The cannon are cold in the fort on the hill,—
These whisper of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,
Every sense up in arms, every nerve on the strain.

The noiseless approach, and the desperate close;
The flash of the steel, and the blood as it flows;
The hero, once wounded, who cries,—“I shall win!
Let me die in the fort! Men, carry me in!”
These tell us of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,
With nerves hard as iron, despising the pain!

The red flag of morning, displayed in the skies,
Brings a stern look of joy to the conqueror’s eyes,—
Those eyes that flashed full on his chief (so they tell),—
“What! storm Stony Point? You may bid me storm hell!”
We’ll believe it of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,
The bravest of foes, and the peer of his slain!

HUMILITY.

ERNEST W. SHURTLEFF.

Sweet are the roses in the pasture lane,
Like flakes of sunset dropped from some rich cloud—
Oh, sweet, indeed, but not with sweetness vain;
Nor is the pasture of their presence proud.
Not for themselves they blossom, bud and nod—
They spring to breathe to man the peace of God.

I never heard a songster’s lay that told
Of aught but simple joy and grateful praise.
The oriole, with throat aflame with gold,
Dreams not he is a charm to mortal gaze;
No bird to laud himself hath ever sung—
His song is for the flowers he chirps among.

The sun that fills the skies with summer calms,
The stars that light unmeasured depths of space
Like distant suns that flash reflected charms,
When on the night Jehovah turns his face—
All these in humbleness their glory wear,
Grateful, not proud, because Heaven made them fair.

O vaunting man, go ponder on these things!
Think—what is glory in thy Makers view?
Who wins the passing praise the cold world sings
Not always earns the praise of Heaven too.
Thou mayst through life thy name with gods enroll,
Yet bear rebuke of angels in thy soul.

Oh, to be simple in the lives we lead!
To know that what we hold is not our own!
The lily is as modest as the weed,
The mountain humble as the broken stone.
Since man is proud, how wise it is, how just,
That death should come to teach us we are dust!

WHAT OF THAT?

Tired? Well, what of that?
Didst fancy life was spent on beds of ease,
Fluttering the rose-leaves scattered by the breeze?
Come, rouse thee! work while it is called day!
Coward, arise! go forth upon thy way.

Lonely? And what of that?
Some must be lonely; ’tis not given to all
To feel a heart responsive rise and fall,
To blend another life into its own;
Work may be done in loneliness. Work on!

Dark? Well, and what of that?
Didst fondly dream the sun would never set?
Dost fear to lose thy way? Take courage yet.
Learn thou to walk by faith, and not by sight;
Thy steps will guided be, and guided right.

Hard? Well, what of that?
Didst fancy life one summer holiday,
With lessons none to learn, and naught but play?
Go, get thee to thy task! Conquer or die!
It must be learned; learn it, then, patiently.

* * * * *

Knowledge has in our time triumphed, and is still triumphing, over prejudice and over bigotry. The civilized and Christian world is fast learning the great lesson that difference of nation does not imply necessary hostility, and that all contact need not be war. The whole world is becoming a common field for intellect to act in. Energy of mind, genius, power, wheresoever it exists, may speak out in any tongue, and the world will hear it.—DANIEL WEBSTER.

THE OLD FOLKS IN THE NEW SCHOOL-HOUSE.

Things ain’t now as they used to be
A hundred years ago,
When schools were kept in private rooms
Above stairs or below;
When sturdy boys and rosy girls
Romped through the drifted snow,
And spelled their duty and their “abs,”
A hundred years ago.

Those old school-rooms were dark and cold
When winter’s sun ran low;
But darker was the master’s frown,
A hundred years ago;
And high hung up the birchen rod,
That all the school might see,
Which taught the boys obedience
As well as Rule of Three.

Though ’twas but little that they learned,
A hundred years ago,
Yet what they got they ne’er let slip,—
’Twas well whipped in, you know.
But now the times are greatly changed,
The rod has had its day,
The boys are won by gentle words,
And girls by love obey.

The school-house now a palace is,
And scholars, kings and queens;
They master Algebra and Greek
Before they reach their teens.
Where once was crying, music sweet
Her soothing influence sheds;
Ferules are used for beating time,
And not for beating heads.

Yes, learning was a ragged boy,
A hundred years ago;
With six weeks schooling in a year,
What could the urchin do?
But now he is a full-grown man,
And boasts attainments rare;
He’s got his silver slippers on,
And running everywhere.

THE BARBAROUS CHIEF.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

There was a kingdom known as the Mind,
A kingdom vast, as fair,
And the brave King Brain had the right to reign
In royal splendor there.
Oh! that was a beautiful, beautiful land
Which unto this king was given;
It was filled with everything good and grand,
And it reached from earth to heaven.

But a savage monster came one day,
From over a distant border;
He made war on the king and usurped his sway,
And set everything in disorder.
He mounted the throne, which he made his own,
And the kingdom was sunk in grief,
There was sorrow and shame from the hour he came—
_Ill Temper_, the barbarous chief.

He threw down the castles of Love and Peace,
He burned up the altars of prayers;
He trod down the grain that was sowed by Brain,
And planted thistles and tares.
He wasted the storehouse of knowledge, and drove
Queen Wisdom away in fright,
And a terrible gloom like the cloud of doom
Shadowed that land with night.

Then, bent on more havoc, away he rushed
To the neighboring kingdom Heart,
And the blossoms of kindness and hope he crushed,
And patience was made to depart.
And he even went on to the isthmus Soul,
That unites the Mind with God,
And its beautiful bowers and fragrant flowers
With a reckless heel he trod.

Oh! to you is given this beautiful land
Where the lordly Brain has sway—
But the border ruffian is near at hand—
And be on your guard, I pray.
Beware of _Ill Temper_, the barbarous chief,
He is cruel as Vice or Sin;
He will certainly bring your kingdom grief,
If once you let him in.

GROWTH.

HORACE MANN.