Chapter IV: Preface (3)

“Dere’s a ’ittle dirl in the ’ater;
She’s dust as big as me,
Mamma; I want to help her out,
And take her home to tea.
But Rover, he won’t let me,
And I don’t love him. Go
Away, you naughty Rover!
Oh! why are you crying so?”

The mother kissed her, saying:
“My darling, understand,
Good Rover saved your life, my dear—
And, see, he licks your hand!
Kiss Rover?” Baby struck him,
But grandma understood;
She said: “It’s hard to thank the friend
Who thwarts us for our good.”

_Baldwin’s Monthly._

LITTLE CHRISTEL.

MRS. MARY E. BRADLEY.

Fräulein, the young schoolmistress, to her pupils said one day,
“Next week, at Pfingster holiday, King Ludwig rides this way;
And you will be wise, my little ones, to work with a will at your tasks,
That so you may answer fearlessly whatever question he asks.
It would be a shame too dreadful if the king should have it to tell
That Hansel missed in his figures, and Peterkin could not spell.”

“Oho! that never shall happen,” cried Hansel and Peterkin too;
“We’ll show King Ludwig, when he comes, what the boys in this school
can do.”
“And we,” said Gretchen and Bertha, and all the fair little maids
Who stood in a row before her, with their hair in flaxen braids,
“We will pay such good attention to every word you say,
That you shall not be ashamed of us when King Ludwig rides this way.”

She smiled, the young schoolmistress, to see that they loved her so,
And with patient care she taught them the things it was good to know.
Day after day she drilled them till the great day came at last,
When the heralds going before him blew out their sounding blast;
And with music, and flying banners, and the clatter of horses’ feet,
The king and his troops of soldiers rode down the village street.

Oh the hearts of the eager children beat fast with joy and fear,
And Fräulein trembled and grew pale as the cavalcade drew near;
But she blushed with pride and pleasure when the lessons came to be
heard,
For in all the flock of the boys and girls not one of them missed a
word.
And King Ludwig turned to the teacher with a smile and a gracious look;
“It is plain,” said he, “that your scholars have carefully conned their
book.

“But now let us ask some questions to see if they understand;”
And he showed to one of the little maids an orange in his hand.
It was Christel, the youngest sister of the mistress fair and kind—
A child with a face like a lily, and as lovely and pure a mind.
“What kingdom does this belong to?” as he called her to his knee;
And at once—“The vegetable,” she answered quietly.

“Good,” said the monarch kindly, and showed her a piece of gold;
“Now tell me what this belongs to—the pretty coin that I hold?”
She touched it with careful finger, for gold was a metal rare,
And then—“The mineral kingdom!” she answered with confident air.
“Well done for the little mädchen!” And good King Ludwig smiled
At Fräulein and her sister, the teacher and the child.

“Now answer me one more question,”—with a twinkle of fun in his eye:
“What kingdom do I belong to?” For he thought she would make reply,
“The animal;” and he meant to ask with a frown if that was the thing
For a little child like her to say to her lord and master, the king?
He knew not the artless wisdom that would set his wit at naught,
And the little Christel guessed nothing at all of what was in his
thought.

But her glance shot up at the question, and the brightness in her face,
Like a sunbeam on a lily, seemed to shine all over the place.
“What kingdom do _you_ belong to?” her innocent lips repeat;
“Why, surely, the kingdom of Heaven!” rings out the answer sweet.
And then for a breathless moment a sudden silence fell,
And you might have heard the fall of a leaf as they looked at little
Christel.

But it only lasted a moment, then rose as sudden a shout—
“Well done, well done for little Christel!” and the bravos rang about.
For the king in his arms had caught her, to her wondering, shy surprise,
And over and over he kissed her, with a mist of tears in his eyes.
“May the blessing of God,” he murmured, “forever rest on thy head!
Henceforth, by His grace, my life shall prove the truth of what thou
hast said.”

He gave her the yellow orange, and the golden coin for her own,
And the school had a royal feast that day whose like they had never
known.
To Fräulein, the gentle mistress, he spoke such words of cheer
That they lightened her anxious labor for many and many a year.
And because in his heart was hidden the memory of this thing,
The Lord had a better servant, the Lord had a wiser king!

CONCERT RECITATIONS.

SONGS OF THE SEASONS.

META E. B. THORNE.

[_For Four Students._]

SPRING.

The king of the day is exerting his power,
And night and cold at his bidding depart;
All nature in this resurrection hour
Will welcome my advent with joyous heart.
Then hasten, my children! Ho, March winds wild,
O’er mountain and valley, blow, madly blow!
Proclaim the glad coming of springtime mild,
And speed the departure of frost and snow!
Ye clouds of April, drop down your showers,
And fill to the brim the rivers and rills
With liquid laughter; May’s delicate flowers
Await your dripping ’mong valleys and hills.

SUMMER.

Spring scattered the seed with a lavish hand,
Her whispering breezes and magic showers
Awoke into life; see the serried ranks stand
Of fervid July’s lush grasses and flowers.
Then August comes with her sultry noons
Whose hot breath gildeth the ripening grain,
And the glorious light of her harvest moons;
Now the reaper sings as he sweeps the plain:
“My gleaming scythe I swing to and fro;
Before it is falling the golden wheat—
A precious store for the time of the snow;
All praise to the Giver of mercies so sweet!”

AUTUMN.

The plentiful harvest is garnered in;
But I bring September’s bounteous store
Of glowing fruitage, all hearts to win;
Now the summer’s brilliant reign is o’er.
Now, royal October the scepter wields,
In whose wealth of rosy and mellow light
Seem glorified even the bare brown fields,
With their delicate veil of haze bedight.
And e’en when November, dark and chill,
In her cloud-robe somber broods o’er the earth,
When the birds are hushed ’mid woodland and hill,
And the flowers are asleep till the spring’s glad birth,
There are blossoms still for the trustful heart,
Sweet hopes for what life may yet unfold,
And memories precious that will not depart
When fades from the hill-tops the autumn’s gold.

WINTER.

I bring to the waiting fields the snow,
December’s mantle so soft and pure,
That covers the sleeping seeds below,
To remain, till the spring’s return, secure.
Ye think my touch unkind and rude
When the bracing frost and cold I bring,
Ye chant in a pining, reproachful mood
The praises of summer and dewy spring;
Yet oft at my touch the baleful seeds
Of pestilence powerless fall in death;
New vigor to youth and prime proceeds
From my clear, keen, purifying breath.
But richer delights to you I bring;
For mine is the anniversary time,
When “Good-will to men!” the angels sing,
“Good-will!” the echoing joy-bells chime.

THE COMING OF SPRING.

WILHELM MÜLLER.

_Solo._ Up with windows, up with hearts!
_Concert._ Swiftly, swiftly!
_Solo._ Graybeard Winter seeks to go,
He wanders troubled to and fro,
He beats his breast full fearfully
And packs his duds right hastily,
_Concert._ With speed, with speed.

_Solo._ Up with windows, up with hearts!
_Concert._ Swiftly, swiftly!
_Solo._ The Springtime knocks and stamps without—
And listen to his joyous shout!—
Before the door he takes his stand,
With beauteous flower-buds in his hand,
_Concert._ With speed, with speed.

_Solo._ Open windows, open hearts!
_Concert._ Swiftly, swiftly!
_Solo._ The brave young South-wind stands below,
With round red cheeks and eyes aglow,
And blows that doors and windows rattle,
Till Winter yields him in the battle—
_Concert._ With speed, with speed.

_Concert._ Open windows, open hearts!
With speed, with speed!
Wild birds sound the battle-song—
And hark, and hark! an echo long,
An echo from my inmost heart—
The joys of Spring bid Winter part
With speed, with speed.

THE GOOD TIME COMING.

CHARLES MACKAY.

_Concert._ There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
_Solo._ We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,
But thought’s a weapon stronger;
We’ll win our battle by its aid—
Wait a little longer.

_Concert._ There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
_Solo._ The pen shall supersede the sword,
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord
In the good time coming.
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,
And be acknowledged stronger;
The proper impulse has been given—
Wait a little longer.

_Concert._ There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
_Solo._ War in all men’s eyes shall be
A monster of iniquity
In the good time coming;
Nations shall not quarrel then,
To prove which is the stronger;
Nor slaughter men for glory’s sake—
Wait a little longer.

_Concert._ There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
_Solo._ Hateful rivalries of creed
Shall not make their martyrs bleed
In the good time coming.
Religion shall be shorn of pride,
And flourish all the stronger;
And Charity shall trim her lamp—
Wait a little longer.

_Concert._ There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
_Solo._ Little children shall not toil,
Under or above the soil,
In the good time coming;
But shall play in healthful fields
Till limb and mind grow stronger;
And every one shall read and write—
Wait a little longer.

_Concert._ There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
_Solo._ The people shall be temperate,
And shall love instead of hate
In the good time coming.
They shall use, and not abuse,
And make all virtue stronger;
The reformation has begun—
Wait a little longer.

_Concert._ There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
Let us aid it all we can,
Every woman, every man,
The good time coming.
Smallest helps, if rightly given,
Make the impulse stronger;
’Twill be strong enough one day—
Wait a little longer.

THE CHARGE AT WATERLOO.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

[_For Boy’s Recitation._]

On came the whirlwind—like the last
But fiercest sweep of tempest blast;
On came the whirlwind—steel-gleams broke
Like lightning through the rolling smoke:
The war was waked anew.
Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,
And from their throats with flash and cloud
Their showers of iron threw.
In one dark torrent, broad and strong,
The advancing onset rolled along.
But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that viewed
Changed its proud glance of fortitude;
Nor was one forward footstep stayed
As dropped the dying and the dead.
Down were the eagle-banners sent,
Down reeling steeds and riders went;
Corselets were pierced and pennons rent,
And, to augment the fray,
Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,
The English horsemen’s foaming ranks
Forced their resistless way.
Then to the musket-knell succeeds
The clash of swords, the neigh of steeds;
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade;
And while amid their scattered band
Raged the fierce rider’s bloody brand,
Recoiled in common rout and fear
Lancer and guard and cuirassier,
Horsemen and foot—a mingled host—
Their leaders fallen, their standards lost.

SUMMER STORM.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

[_Abbreviated for Concert Recitation._]

[The following selection is peculiarly effective for concert recitation on account of the great number and variety of vocal changes. The italicized words should be given with abrupt, explosive sounds; the italicized final consonants with extreme distinctness of articulation; the pauses indicated by dashes should be exaggerated, and the time most accurately marked.]

_Suddenly_—all the sky is hid
As with the _shutting_ of a _lid_.
One—by—one—great—drops—are falling,
Doubtful—and—slow.
Down the pane they are crookedly crawling,
And the win_d_—breathes low.

Now—on the hills—I hear the thunder-mutter,
The win_d_—is gathering in the wes_t_.
The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter
Then droo_p_—to a fitful res_t_.
Now _leaps_ the _wind_ on the sleepy marsh,
And _tramples_ the _grass_ with _terrified feet_.
The _startled river_ turns leaden and harsh,
You can _hear_ the _quick heart_ of the tempest _beat_.

_Look, look!_ that _livid flash_!
And instantly follows the rattling thunder
As if some cloud-crag—split asunder—
Fell—splintering with a ruinous _crash_.
Against the windows, the storm comes _dashing_;
Through tattered foliage, the hail—tears crashing;
The blue _lightning_—_flashes_,
The _rapid hail clashes_,

The white waves are tumbling,
And in one baffled roar,
The thunder—is rumbling—
And crashing and crumbling.

(_Whisper_) Hush! Still as death
The tempes_t_—holds his breath—
As from a sudden will.
The rain—stops—short—but from the eaves
You see it dro_p_ and hear it—on the leaves,
(_Half-whisper_) All—is—so—still.

Gone—gone—so soon!
The pale and quiet moon
Makes her calm forehead bare.
No more my half-crazed fancy there.
Can sha_p_e—a gian_t_—in the air,
And the last fragments of the storm,
Like shattered rigging from a figh_t_ at sea,
Silen_t_ and few—are drifting over me.

SONG OF THE STEAMER ENGINE.