Chapter VIII: Act II (4)

The parson gave us his blessing,[424] and I gave Nellie the ring,[425]
And swore that I’d love and cherish, and endow her with everything.
How we smiled at that part of the service when I said “I thee endow!”
But as to the “love and cherish,” friends, I meant to keep that[426]
vow.

We were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the show was
good,
When it wasn’t we went without[427] it, and we did the best we could.
We were happy and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts we
made,――
Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no shade.

Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit;
Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a
flit,――[428]
Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call;
But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet[429] to fall.

We got an offer for Melbourne,――got it that very week.
Those were the days when thousands went over their fortunes to seek,
The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot
Good for a “spec,” and took us as actors among his lot.

We hadn’t a friend in England――we’d only ourselves to please――
And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the
seas.[430]
We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough;
We hadn’t been out a fortnight before we had had enough.

But use is a second nature, and we’d got not to mind a storm,
When misery came upon us,――came in a hideous form.[431]
My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad
That the doctor said she was dying,――I thought ’twould have sent
me mad,[432]――

Dying where leagues[433] of billows seemed to shriek for their prey,
And the nearest land was hundreds[434]――ay, thousands――of miles away.
She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death,
So still I’d to bend and listen[435] for the faintest sign of breath.

She seemed in a sleep,[436] and sleeping, with a smile[437] on her
thin, wan face;
She passed away[438] one morning, while I prayed[439] to the throne
of grace.
I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said,
Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless――my wife was dead!

Dead! I wouldn’t believe it. They forced me away that night,
For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright.
I was shut in the farthest cabin,[440] and I beat my head on the side,
And all day long in my madness, “They’ve murdered her!”[441] I cried.

They locked me away from my fellows,――put me in cruel[442] chains,
It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon’s brains.
I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil[443] sent
To gloat o’er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent.

I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists,
And my wife lay dead quite near[444] me. I beat[445] with my fettered
fists,
Beat at my prison panels, and then――O God!――and then
I heard the shrieks of women[446] and the tramp of hurrying men.

I heard the cry, “Ship a-fire!” caught up by a hundred throats,
And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats;
Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood,
And the place[447] grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I
stood.

I beat[448] at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back,
And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning
crack[449]
I could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and sail,
Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling gale.

I dashed[450] at the door in fury, shrieking, “I will not die!
Die in this burning prison!”――but I caught no answering cry.
Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar,
And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door.

I was free[451]――with the heavy iron door dragging me down[452] to
death;
I fought my way to the cabin,[453] choked with the burning breath
Of the flames that danced around me[454] like man-mocking fiends at
play,
And then――O God! I can see it, and shall to my dying day.

There[455] lay my Nell as they’d left her, dead in her berth that
night;
The flames flung a smile[456] on her features,――a horrible,[456a]
lurid light,
God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found myself by her
side;
I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell had died.

In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain;[457]
I heard a sound as of breathing,[458] and then a low cry of pain;
Oh, was there mercy in heaven?[459] Was there a God in the skies?
The dead woman’s lips were moving,[460] the dead woman opened her
eyes.

I cursed[461] like a madman raving――I cried to her, “Nell! my
Nell!”[462]
They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell,
They had left us alone to perish――forgotten me living――and she
Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven,[463] instead of
the sea.[464]

I clutched at her,[465] roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her
still;
I seized her in spite of my fetters,――fear gave a giant’s will.
God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and
the wreck
Up――up[466] to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck.

We’d a moment of life together,――a moment of life, the time,
For one last word to each other,――’twas a moment supreme, sublime.
From the trance we’d for death mistaken, the heat had brought her to
life,
And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there,[467] husband and
wife!

It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away,
When a shout came over the water,[468] and I looked, and lo, there
lay,
Right away from the vessel,[469] a boat that was standing by;
They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky.

I shouted a prayer to Heaven,[470] then called to my wife,[471] and
she
Tore with new strength at my fetters――God helped her, and I was free;
Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped[472] for one chance of life.
Did they save us? Well, here I am,[473] sir, and yonder’s[474] my dear
old wife.

We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by
Took us on board, and at Melbourne[475] landed us by and by.
We’ve played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip,
But ne’er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship!

――_George R. Sims._

GESTURES.
[415] H. O.
[416] H. F.
[417] H. Sw.
[418] H. B.
[419] H. L.
[420] V. HO.
[421] Left H. L.
[422] H. Sw.
[423] H. F.
[424] B. P. H. F.
[425] H. O.
[426] H. F.
[427] H. L.
[428] Left H. L.
[429] B. D. F.
[430] Left H. L.
[431] V. H. O.
[432] Hand to head.
[433] B. H. O.
[434] H. L.
[435] Bend in listening attitude.
[436] D. O.
[437] Turn to P.
[438] A. O.
[439] Clasp hands.
[440] Left H. L.
[441] B. Cl.
[442] Sp.
[443] Cl. D.
[444] H. L.
[445] Sp.
[446] A. O.
[447] B. H. O.
[448] Sp.
[449] A. O.
[450] B. V. H. F.
[451] B. H. O.
[452] B. D. F.
[453] H. O.
[454] B. H. O.
[455] D. O.
[456] P. D. O.
[457] Hand to head.
[458] Listening.
[459] A. O.
[460] D. O.
[461] B. Cl. D.
[462] B. Par. D. O.
[463] A. O.
[464] D. O.
[465] Sp.
[466] A. O.
[467] B. D. O.
[468] Look to Left.
[469] Left H. O.
[470] A. O.
[471] H. O.
[472] B. Par. H. O. to left.
[473] Point to self.
[474] Ind. H. O.
[475] Left H. O.

Ben Hassan’s Dream.

I stood alone beside a mighty sea;
The waves in awful majesty swept in
And crashed upon the strand. Far out beyond
The snowy-crested line of breakers rode
A ship; and as she rose and fell her tall
Masts seemed to trace a message on the sky:
“O, ship! O, restless waste!” I cried, “Be true,
Be merciful, that they who watch on board,
And they that wait at home, may once more clasp
The hands and press the lips of those they love.”

The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent.
’Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sands
Stretched hot and gleaming till they touched the sky;
Upon my left lay leagues of sand; before,
Behind; which way I looked was burning sand:
The fierce sun overhead poured down a stream
Of heat intolerable. Silence reigned.
The caravan had gone. I leaned low down
To hearken, but in vain. Abandoned! Lost!
Would my siesta prove a sleep of death?

Another scene: The sun had set, and peace
Pervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfume
Of flowers filled the evening air. The sound
Of tinkling bells came faintly from a plain
Where camels browsed. The slender minarets,
And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a town,
That nestled ’mid the distant, waving palms.
A troop of horsemen slowly came in view;
Their banner bore the crescent and the star.
I knelt and cried: “Praise be to Allah’s name!”

And then, it seemed, I was within a grot
That opened on a placid lake. The moon
Was at the full and o’er the water threw
A track of silver sheen. Beside me stood
A child with upturned face. I placed my hand
Upon its head, when, lo! from out the lake
Arose a horrid, monster form. It glared
With baleful eyes and then advanced. “Keep off!
Keep off!” I shrieked, then seized the child and turned
To fly――when suddenly the vision changed:

Once more I dwelt beneath my parents’ roof,
A happy, careless child. The olden scenes
Were fresh again, and things forgot had life
And form. O home!――how blest are they that have
A home!――sweet haven sure when others fail!
“Oh, do not leave me, darling boy, my own!”
It was my mother’s voice. Ah, yes, her eyes
Were beaming love, as angel-like she smiled
And kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face,
I woke and wept to know ’twas but a dream.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Six o’Clock.

Down by the rugged coast of Maine
Breaks on the air the glad refrain
That welcomes old Time on his westward flight,
That makes the dull eye of the toiler bright,
And heralds the bliss of a single night;
Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek,
At six o’clock and six times a week.

Loveliest hour of all the day,
Blest is thy sweet and mystic sway:
Affection and hope in their might are rife
In each watching child; in the waiting wife;
The father that tramps from his daily strife;
The widow’s son and his fond embrace;
In the smile that beams on her pallid face.

Who hath not felt the wondrous spell,
Ushered by whistle and by bell?
A halo of peace round each home it flings;
To poor and to weary relief it brings;
And e’en the black tea-kettle gaily sings:
O moments calm! Ye foretell the rest
That soon must come to each human breast.

Westward speed on o’er hill and dell,
City and town and cot to tell;
On, on, like a courier, dash away,
Hard pressing the heels of departing day
Till stopped by the waters of “’Frisco” Bay!
Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek,
At six o’clock, and six times a week.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Charlie’s Story.

I was sitting in the twilight,
With my Charlie on my knees,
Little two-year old, forever
Teasing “Talk a tory to me pease.”
“_Now_,” I said, “talk _me_ a ’tory.”
“Well,” reflectively, “I’ll ’mence.
Mamma, I did see a kitty,
Great big kitty on the fence.”

Mamma smiles. Five little fingers
Cover up her laughing lips;
“Is oo laughing?” “Yes” I tell him,
But I kiss the finger tips;
And I say: “Now tell another.”
“Well” (all smiles) “now I will ’mence.
Mamma, I did see a doggie,
Great big doggie on the fence.”

“Rather similar, your stories,
Aren’t they, dear?” A sober look
Swept across the pretty forehead;
Then he sudden courage took.
“But I know a nice _new_ ’tory
’Plendid, Mamma! Hear me ’mence,
Mamma, I did see a――elfunt
Great big elfunt on the fence!”

The Months.

A PAGEANT.

PERSONIFICATIONS.

JANUARY. } FEBRUARY. }
MARCH. } APRIL. }
JULY. } Gentlemen. MAY. } Ladies.
AUGUST. } JUNE. }
OCTOBER. } SEPTEMBER.}
DECEMBER.} NOVEMBER. }

ROBIN REDBREASTS; LAMBS AND SHEEP; NIGHTINGALE AND NESTLINGS.

_Various Flowers, Fruits, etc._

SCENE:――A COTTAGE WITH ITS GROUNDS.

(_A room in a large, comfortable cottage; a fire burning on the hearth; a table on which the breakfast things have been left standing. January discovered seated at the fire._)

JANUARY.

Cold the day and cold the drifted snow,
Dim the day until the cold dark night.
[_Stirs the fire._]

Crackle, sparkle, fagot; embers, glow:
Some one may be plodding through the snow,
Longing for a light,
For the light that you and I can show.
If no one else should come,
Here Robin Redbreast’s welcome to a crumb,
And never troublesome:
Robin, why don’t you come and fetch your crumb?

Here’s butter for my bunch of bread,
And sugar for your crumb;
Here’s room upon the hearth-rug,
If you’ll only come.

In your scarlet waistcoat,
With your keen bright eye,
Where are you loitering?
Wings were made to fly!

Make haste to breakfast,
Come and fetch your crumb,
For I’m as glad to see you
As you are glad to come.

(_Two Robin Redbreasts are seen tapping with their beaks at the lattice, which January opens. The birds flutter in, hop about the floor, and peck up the crumbs and sugar thrown to them. They have scarcely finished their meal, when a knock is heard at the door. January hangs a guard in front of the fire, and opens to February, who appears with a bunch of snowdrops in her hand._)

JANUARY.

Good-morrow, sister.

FEBRUARY.

Brother, joy to you!
I’ve brought some snowdrops; only just a few,
But quite enough to prove the world awake,
Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew,
And for the pale sun’s sake.

(_She hands a few of her snowdrops to January, who retires into the background. While February stands arranging the remaining snowdrops in a glass of water on the window-sill, a soft butting and bleating are heard outside. She opens the door, and sees one foremost lamb, with other sheep and lambs bleating and crowding towards her._)

FEBRUARY.

O you, you little wonder, come――come in,
You wonderful, you woolly, soft, white lamb:
You panting mother ewe, come too,
And lead that tottering twin
Safe in:
Bring all your bleating kith and kin,
Except the horny ram.

(_February opens a second door in the background, and the little flock files through into a warm and sheltered compartment out of sight._)

The lambkin tottering in its walk,
With just a fleece to wear;
The snowdrop drooping on its stalk
So slender,――
Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair,
Braving the cold for our delight,
Both white,
Both tender.

(_A rattling of door and windows; branches seen without, tossing violently to and fro._)

How the doors rattle, and the branches sway!
Here’s brother March comes whirling on his way,
With winds that eddy and sing.

(_She turns the handle of the door, which bursts open, and discloses March hastening up, both hands full of violets and anemones._)

FEBRUARY.

Come, show me what you bring;
For I have said my say, fulfilled my day,
And must away.

MARCH.

(_Stopping short on the threshold._)

I blow and arouse,
Through the world’s wide house,
To quicken the torpid earth:
Grappling I fling
Each feeble thing,
But bring strong life to the birth.
I wrestle and frown,
And topple down;
I wrench, I rend, I uproot;
Yet the violet
Is born where I set
The sole of my flying foot.

(_Hands violets and anemones to February, who retires into the background._)

And in my wake
Frail wind-flowers quake,
And the catkins promise fruit.
I drive ocean ashore
With rush and roar,
And he cannot say me nay:
My harpstrings all
Are the forests tall,
Making music when I play.
And as others perforce,
So I on my course
Run and needs must run,
With sap on the mount,
And buds past count,
And rivers and clouds and sun,
With seasons and breath
And time and death
And all that has yet begun.

(_Before March has done speaking, a voice is heard approaching accompanied by a twittering of birds. April comes along singing, and stands outside and out of sight to finish her song._)

APRIL.

(_Outside._)

Pretty little three
Sparrows in a tree,
Light upon the wing;
Though you cannot sing,
You can chirp of Spring:
Chirp of Spring to me,
Sparrows, from your tree.

Never mind the showers,
Chirp about the flowers,
While you build a nest:
Straws from east and west,
Feathers from your breast,
Make the snuggest bowers
In a world of flowers.

You must dart away
From the chosen spray,
You intrusive third
Extra little bird;
Join the unwedded herd!
These have done with play,
And must work to-day.

APRIL.

(_Appearing at the open door._)

Good-morrow and good-bye: if others fly,
Of all the flying months you’re the most flying.

MARCH.

You’re hope and sweetness, April.

APRIL.

Birth means dying,
As wings and wind mean flying;
So you and I and all things fly or die;
And sometimes I sit sighing to think of dying.
But meanwhile I’ve a rainbow in my showers,
And a lapful of flowers,
And these dear nestlings, aged three hours;
And here’s their mother sitting,
Their father merely flitting
To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers.

(_As she speaks April shows March her apron full of flowers and nest full of birds. March wanders away into the grounds. April, without entering the cottage, hangs over the hungry nestlings watching them._)

APRIL.

What beaks you have, you funny things,
What voices, shrill and weak;
Who’d think anything that sings
Could sing with such a beak?
Yet you’ll be nightingales some day
And charm the country-side,
When I’m away and far away,
And May is queen and bride.

(_May arrives unperceived by April, and gives her a kiss. April starts and looks round._)

APRIL.

Ah, May, good-morrow, May, and so good-bye.

MAY.

That’s just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh;
Your sorrows half in fun,
Begun and done
And turned to joy while twenty seconds run.
At every step a flower
Fed by your last bright shower,――

(_She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers with April, who strolls away through the garden._)

MAY.

And gathering flowers I listened to the song
Of every bird in bower.

The world and I are far too full of bliss,
To think or plan or toil or care;
The sun is waxing strong,
The days are waning long,
And all that is,
Is fair.

Here are May buds of lily and of rose,
And here’s my namesake-blossom, May;
And from a watery spot
See here, forget-me-not,
With all that blows
To-day.

Hark to my linnets from the hedges green,
Blackbird and lark and thrush and dove,
And every nightingale
And cuckoo tells its tale,
And all they mean
Is love.

(_June appears at the further end of the garden, coming slowly towards May, who seeing her, exclaims:_)

MAY.

Surely you’re come too early, sister June.

JUNE.

Indeed I feel as if I came too soon
To round your young May moon,
And set the world a-gasping at my noon,
Yet must I come. So here are strawberries,
Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please;
And there are full-blown roses by the score,
More roses and yet more.

(_May, eating strawberries, withdraws among the flower beds._)

JUNE.

The sun does all my long day’s work for me,
Raises and ripens everything;
I need but sit beneath a leafy tree
And watch and sing.

(_Seats herself in the shadow of a laburnum._)

Or if I’m lulled by note of bird and bee,
Or lulled by noontide’s silence deep,
I need but nestle down beneath my tree
And drop asleep.

(_June falls asleep; and is not awakened by the voice of July, who behind the scenes is heard half singing, half calling._)

JULY.

(_Behind the scenes._)

Blue flags, yellow flags, all freckled,
Which will you take? Yellow, blue, speckled!
Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow,
Each in its way has not a fellow.

(_Enter July, a basket of many-colored irises swung upon his shoulders, a bunch of ripe grass in one hand, and a plate piled full of peaches balanced upon the other. He steals up to June, and tickles her with the grass. She wakes._)

JUNE.

What, here already?

JULY.

Nay, my tryst is kept;
The longest day slipped by you while you slept.
I’ve brought you one curved pyramid of bloom,

(_Hands her the plate._)

Not flowers, but peaches, gathered where the bees,
As downy, bask and boom
In sunshine and in gloom of trees.
But get you in, a storm is at my heels;
The whirlwind whistles and wheels,
Lightning flashes and thunder peals,
Flying and following hard upon my heels.

(_June takes shelter in a thickly-woven arbor._)

JULY.

The roar of a storm sweeps up
From the east to the lurid west,
The darkening sky, like a cup,
Is filled with rain to the brink;

The sky is purple and fire,
Blackness and noise and unrest;
The earth, parched with desire,
Opens her mouth to drink.

Send forth thy thunder and fire,
Turn over thy brimming cup,
O sky, appease the desire
Of earth in her parched unrest;

Pour out drink to her thirst,
Her famishing life lift up;
Make thyself fair as at first,
With a rainbow for thy crest.

Have done with thunder and fire,
O sky with the rainbow crest;
O earth, have done with desire,
Drink, and drink deep, and rest.

(_Enter August, carrying a sheaf made up of different kinds of grain._)

JULY.

Hail, brother August, flushed and warm,
And scathless from my storm.
Your hands are full of corn, I see,
As full as hands can be:
And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm
In their recovered calm,
And that they owe to me.

(_July retires into the shrubbery._)

AUGUST.

Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy,
Barley bows a graceful head,
Short and small shoots up canary,
Each of these is some one’s bread;
Bread for man or bread for beast,
Or at very least
A bird’s savory feast.
Men are brethren of each other,
One in flesh and one in food;
And a sort of foster brother,
Is the litter, or the brood
Of that folk in fur and feather,
Who, with men together,
Breast the wind and weather.

(_August descries September toiling across the lawn._)

AUGUST.

My harvest home is ended; and I spy
September drawing nigh
With the first thought of Autumn in her eye,
And the first sigh
Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly.

(_September arrives, carrying upon her head a basket heaped high with fruit._)

SEPTEMBER.

Unload me, brother. I have brought a few
Plums and these pears for you,
A dozen kinds of apples, one or two
Melons, some figs all bursting through
Their skins; and pearled with dew
These damsons, violet-blue.

(_While September is speaking, August lifts the basket to the ground, selects various fruits, and withdraws slowly along the gravel walk, eating a pear as he goes._)

SEPTEMBER.

My song is half a sigh
Because my green leaves die;
Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are dying;
And well may Autumn sigh,
And well may I
Who watch the sere leaves flying.

My leaves that fade and fall,
I note you one and all;
I call you, and the autumn wind is calling,
Lamenting for your fall,
And for the pall
You spread on earth in falling.

And here’s a song of flowers to suit such hours:
A song of the last lilies, the last flowers,
Amid my withering bowers.

In the sunny garden bed
Lilies look so pale,
Lilies droop the head
In the shady, grassy vale;
If all alike they pine
In shade and in shine,
If everywhere they grieve,
Where will lilies live?

(_October enters briskly, some leafy twigs bearing different sorts of nuts in one hand, and a long, ripe hop-vine trailing after him from the other. A dahlia is stuck in his button-hole._)

OCTOBER.

Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite over,
Even if the year has done with corn and clover,
With flowers and leaves; besides, in fact, it’s true;
Some leaves remain, and some flowers too,
For me and you.
Now see my crops.

[_Offering his produce to September._]

I’ve brought you nuts and hops;
And when the leaf drops, why the walnut drops.

(_October wreathes the hop-vines about September’s neck, and gives her the nut twigs. They enter the cottage together, but without shutting the door. She steps into the background; he advances to the hearth, removes the guard, stirs up the smouldering fire, and arranges several chestnuts ready to roast._)

OCTOBER.

Crack your first nut, light your first fire,
Roast your chestnuts, crisp on the bar,
Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze higher;
Logs are as cheery as sun or as star,
Logs we can find wherever we are.

Spring, one soft day, will open the leaves,
Spring, one bright day, will lure back the flowers;
Never fancy my whistling wind grieves,
Never fancy I’ve tears in my showers;
Dance, nights and days! and dance on, my hours.

(_Sees November approaching._)

OCTOBER.

Here comes my youngest sister, looking dim
And grim,
With dismal ways.
What cheer, November?

NOVEMBER.

(_Entering and shutting the door._)

Nought have I to bring,
Tramping a-chill and shivering,
Except these pine cones for a blaze,――
Except a fog which follows,
And stuffs up all the hollows,――
Except a hoar frost here and there,――
Except some shooting stars,
Which dart their luminous cars,
Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air.

(_October, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws into the background, while November throws her pine cones on the fire and sits down listlessly._)

NOVEMBER.

The earth lies fast asleep, grown tired
Of all that’s high or deep;
There’s naught desired and naught required
Save a sleep.

I rock the cradle of the earth,
I lull her with a sigh;
And know that she will wake to mirth
By and bye.

(_Through the window December is seen running and leaping in the direction of the door. He knocks._)

NOVEMBER.

(_Calls out without rising._)

Ah, here’s my youngest brother come at last:
Come in, December.

(_He opens the door and enters, loaded with evergreens in berry, etc._)

Come in and shut the door,
For now it’s snowing fast;
It snows, and will snow more and more;
Don’t let it drift in on the floor.
But you, you’re all aglow; how can you be
Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold.

DECEMBER.

Nay, no closed doors for me,
But open doors and open hearts and glee
To welcome young and old.
Dimmest and brightest month am I;
My short days end, my lengthening days begin;
What matters more or less sun in the sky,
When all is sun within?

(_He begins making a wreath as he sings._)

Ivy and privet dark as night
I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show,
And holly for a beauty and delight,
And milky mistletoe.

While high above them all I set
Yew twigs and Christmas roses, pure and pale;
Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet
May keep, so sweet and frail;

May keep each merry singing bird,
Of all her happy birds that singing build:
For I’ve a carol which some shepherds heard
Once in a wintry field.

(_While December concludes his song, all the other months troop in from the garden, or advance out of the background. The twelve join hands in a circle, and begin dancing round to a stately measure as the Curtain falls._)

――_Christina G. Rossetti._

Illustration: “Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lockinvar?”

Uncle Ned’s Tale.

Well, lads, it was in summer time, and just at morning’s light
We heard the “Boot and Saddle” sound: the foe was then in sight,
Just winding round a distant hill[476] and opening on the plain.
Each trooper looked with careful eye to girth and curb and rein.
We snatched a hasty breakfast――we were old campaigners then:
That morn, of all our splendid corps, we’d scarce one hundred men;
But they were soldiers, tried and true, who’d rather die[477] than
yield;
The rest were scattered far and wide[478] o’er many a hard-fought
field.
Our trumpet now rang sharply out, and at a swinging-pace
We left the bivouac behind;[479] and soon the eye could trace[480]
The columns moving o’er the plain. Oh! ’twas a stirring sight
To see two mighty armies there preparing for the fight:
To watch the heavy masses, as, with practised, steady wheel,
They opened out in slender lines of brightly flashing steel.
Our place was on the farther flank,[481] behind some rising ground,
That hid the stirring scene from view; but soon a booming sound
Proclaimed the opening of the fight. Then war’s loud thunder rolled,
And hurtling shells and whistling balls their deadly message told.

We hoped to have a gallant day; our hearts were all aglow;
We longed for one wild, sweeping charge,[482] to chase the flying foe
Our troopers marked the hours glide by, but still no orders came:
They clutched their swords[483] and muttered words ’twere better not
to name.
For hours the loud artillery roared――the sun was at its height――
Still there we lay behind the hill,[484] shut out from all the fight!
We heard the maddened charging yells, the ringing British cheers,
And all the din of glorious war kept sounding in our ears.
Our hearts with fierce impatience throbbed, we cursed the very hill
That hid the sight: the evening fell, and we were idle still.
The horses, too, were almost wild, and told with angry snort
And blazing eye their fierce desire to join the savage sport.

When lower still the sun had sunk, and with it all our hope,
A horseman, soiled with smoke and sweat, came dashing down the
slope.[485]
He bore the wished-for orders. “At last!” our Colonel cried:
And as he read the brief dispatch, his glance was filled with pride.
Then he who bore the orders, in a low, emphatic tone,
The stern, expressive sentence spake “He _said it must be done_!”
“It _shall_ be done!” our Colonel cried. “Men, look to strap and
girth,
We’ve work to do this day, will prove what every man is worth;
Ay, work, my lads, will make amends for all our long delay――
The General says on us depends the fortune of the day!”

No order needed we to mount――each man was in his place,
And stern and dangerous was the look on every veteran face.
We trotted sharply up the hill,[486] and halted on the brow,
And then that glorious field appeared.[487] Oh! lad, I see it now!
But little time had we to spare for idle gazing then:
Beneath us in the valley,[488] stood a dark-clad mass of men:
It cut the British line in two. Our Colonel shouted, “There![489]
Behold your work! Our orders are _to charge and break that square_!”
Each trooper drew a heavy breath, then gathered up his reins,
And pressed the helmet o’er his brow, the horses tossed their manes
In protest fierce against the curb, and spurned[490] the springy
heath,
Impatient for the trumpet’s sound to bid them rush to death.

Well, boy, that moment seemed an hour: at last we heard the words――
“Dragoons! I know you’ll follow me. Ride steady, men! Draw swords!”
The trumpet sounded: off[491] we dashed, at first with steady pace,
But growing swifter as we went. Oh, ’twas a gallant race!
Three-fourths the ground was left behind: the loud and thrilling
“Charge!”
Rang out; but fairly frantic now, we needed not to urge
With voice or rein our gallant steeds, or touch their foaming flanks,
They seemed to fly. Now straight in front[492] appeared the kneeling
ranks.
Above them waved[493] a standard broad: we saw their rifles raised――
A moment more, with awful crash, the deadly volley blazed.

The bullets whistled through our ranks, and many a trooper fell;
But we were left. What cared we then? but onward rushing still!
Again the crash roared fiercely out; but on![494] still madly on!
We heard the shrieks of dying men, but recked not who was gone.
We gored the horses’ foaming flanks, and on through smoke and glare.
We wildly dashed, with clenched teeth. We had no thought, no care!
Then came a sudden, sweeping rush. Again with savage heel
I struck my horse: with awful bound he rose right o’er[495] their
steel!

Well, friend, I cannot tell you how that dreadful leap was made,
But there I rode, inside the square, and grasped[496] a reeking blade.
I cared not that I was alone, my eyes seemed filled with blood:
I never thought a man could feel in such a murderous mood.
I parried not, nor guarded thrusts; I felt not pain nor wound,
But madly spurred the frantic horse, and swept my sword around.[497]
I tried to reach the standard sheet; but there at last was foiled.
The gallant horse was jaded now, and from the steel recoiled.

They saw his fright, and pressed him then; his terror made him rear,
And falling back he crushed[498] their ranks and broke their guarded
square!
My comrades[499] saw the gap he made, and soon came dashing in:
They raised me up, I felt no hurt, but mingled in the din.
I’d seen some savage work before, but never was engaged
In such a wild and savage fight as now around me raged.
The foe had ceased their firing, and now plied the deadly steel:
Though all our men were wounded then, no pain they seemed to feel.
No groans escaped from those who fell, but horrid oaths instead,
And scowling looks of hate were on the features of the dead.
The fight was round the standard: though outnumbered ten to one,
We held our ground,――ay, more than that,――we still kept pushing
on.[500]

Our men now made a desperate rush to take the flag by storm.
I seized the pole,[501] a blow came down and crushed my outstretched
arm.
I felt a sudden thrill of pain, but that soon passed away;
And with a devilish thirst for blood, again I joined the fray.
At last we rallied all our strength, and charged o’er heaps of slain:
Some fought to death; some wavered――then fled[502] across the plain.

Well, boy, the rest is all confused: there was a fearful rout;
I saw our troopers chase the foe, and heard their maddened shout.
Then came a blank: my senses reeled, I know not how I fell;
I seemed to grapple with a foe, but that I cannot tell.
My mind was gone: when it came back I saw the moon[503] on high,
Around me all was still[504] as death. I gazed[505] up at the sky,
And watched the glimmering stars above,――so quiet did they seem,――
And all that dreadful field appeared like some wild, fearful[506]
dream.
But memory soon came back again, and cleared my wandering brain,
And then from every joint and limb shot fiery darts of pain.
My throat was parched, the burning thirst increased with every breath;
I made no effort to arise, but wished and prayed for death.

My bridle arm was broken, and lay throbbing on the sward,
But something still my right hand grasped: I thought it was my sword.
I raised[507] my hand to cast it off,――no reeking blade was there;
Then life and strength returned,――I beheld the Standard of the Square!
With bounding heart I gained my feet. Oh! then I wished to live,
’Twas strange the strength and love of life that standard seemed to
give!
I gazed around: far down the vale I saw a camp-fire’s glow.[508]
With wandering step I ran that way,――I recked not friend or foe.
Though stumbling now o’er heaps of dead, now o’er a stiffened horse,
I heeded not, but watched the light, and held my onward course.

But soon that flash of strength had failed, and checked my feverish
speed;
Again my throat was all ablaze, my wounds began to bleed.
I knew that if I fell again my chance of life was gone.
So, leaning on the standard pole, I still kept struggling on.
At length I neared the camp-fire: there were scarlet jackets round,
And swords and brazen helmets lay strewn upon the ground.
Some distance off, in order ranged, stood men,[509]――about a score:
O God! ’twas all that now remained of my old gallant corps!
The muster-roll was being called: to every well-known name
I heard the solemn answer――“Dead!” At length my own turn came.

I paused to hear,――a comrade answered, “Dead! I saw him fall!”
I could not move another step, I tried in vain to call.
My life was flowing fast, and all around was gathering haze,
And o’er the heather tops I watched my comrades’ cheerful blaze.
I thought such anguish as I felt was more than man could bear,
O God! it was an awful thing to die with help so near!
And death was stealing o’er me: with the strength of wild despair.
I raised the standard o’er my head, and waved it through the air.
Then all grew dim: the fire, the men, all vanished from my sight,
My senses reeled: I know no more of that eventful night.

’Twas weeks before my mind came back: I knew not where I lay,
But kindly hands were round me, and old comrades came each day.
They told me how the waving flag that night had caught their eye,
And how they found me bleeding there, and thought that I must die;
No wonder ’twas with all their care, I soon began to mend.
The General came to see me, too, with all his brilliant train,
But what he said, or how I felt, to tell you now ’twere vain.
Enough, I soon grew strong again; the wished-for route had come,
And all the gallant veteran troops set out with cheers for home.

We soon arrived; and then my lads, ’twould thrill your hearts to hear
How England welcomed home her sons with many a ringing cheer.
But tush! what boots it now to speak of what was said or done,
The victory was dearly bought, our bravest hearts were gone.
Ere long the King reviewed us. Ah! that memory is sweet.
They made me bear the foreign flag, and lay it at his feet.
I parted from my brave old corps: ’twere matter, friends, for tears,
To leave the kind old comrades I had ridden with for years.
I was no longer fit for war, my wanderings had to cease.
There, boys, I’ve told you all my tale, now let me smoke in peace.

――_James Boyle O’Reilly._

_Published by special permission._

GESTURES.
[476] H. F.
[477] D. F.
[478] B. H. O.
[479] H. B.
[480] H. Sw.
[481] H. L.
[482] B. H. F.
[483] Sp.
[484] H. L.
[485] Left H. O.
[486] A. F.
[487] B. D. O.
[488] D. F.
[489] Ind. D. F.
[490] V. D. L.
[491] H. F.
[492] H. F.
[493] Sp.
[494] B. H. F.
[495] Sp.
[496] Raised Fists.
[497] Sp.
[498] P. D. B.
[499] D. B.
[500] H. F.
[501] Grasp.
[502] Left H. L.
[503] A. O.
[504] B. P. H. O.
[505] Look up.
[506] V. H. O.
[507] Raise hand.
[508] D. F.
[509] H. F.

Read This if You Can.

Geoffrey, surnamed Winthrop, sat in the depot at Chicago waiting for his train and reading the _Tribune_, when a squadron of street Arabs (incomparable for squalor), thronged from a neighboring alley, uttering hideous cries, accompanied by inimitable GESTURES of heinous exultation, as they tortured an humble black and tan dog.

“You little blackguards!” cried Winthrop, stepping outside and confronting them, adding the inquiry, “Whose dog is that?”

“That audacious Caucasian has the bravado to interfere with our clique,” tauntingly shrieked the indisputable little ruffian, exhibiting combativeness.

“What will you take for him?” asked the lenient Geoffrey, ignoring the venial tirade.

“Twenty-seven cents,” piquantly answered the ribald urchin, grabbing the crouching dog by the nape.

“You can buy licorice and share with the indicorous coadjutors of your condemnable cruelty,” said Winthrop, paying the price and taking the dog from the boy. Then catching up his valise and umbrella, he hastened to his train. Winthrop, satisfied himself that his sleek protégé was not wounded, and then cleared the cement from the pretty collar, and read these words:

“Leicester. Licensed, No. 1770.”

Hearing the pronunciation of his name, the docile canine expressed gratitude and pleasure, and then sank exhausted at his new patron’s feet and slept.

Among the other passengers was a magazine contributor, writing vagaries of Indian literature, also two physicians, a somber, irrevocable, irrefragable allopathist, and a genial homeopathist, who made a specialty of bronchitis. Two peremptory attorneys from the legislature of Iowa were discussing the politics of the epoch, and the details of national finance, while a wan, dolorous person, wearing concave glasses, alternately ate troches and almonds for a sedative, and sought condolence in a high lamentable treble from a lethargic and somewhat deaf and enervate comrade not yet acclimated.

Near three exemplary brethren (probably sinecurists) sat a group of humorous youths; and a jocose sailor (from Asia) in a blouse waist and tarpaulin hat, was amusing his patriotic juvenile listeners by relating a series of the most extraordinary legends extant, suggested by the contents of a knapsack, which he was calmly and leisurely arranging in a pyramidal form on a three-legged stool. Above swung figured placards, with museum and lyceum advertisements too verbose to be misconstrued.

A mature matron of medium height and her comely daughter soon entered the car, and took seats in front of Winthrop (who recalled having seen them one Tuesday in February in the parquet of a theatre). The young lady had recently made her debut into society at a musical soiree at her aunt’s. She had an exquisite bouquet of flowers that exhaled sweet perfume. She said to her parent, “Mamma, shall we ever find our lost Leicester?”

Geoffrey immediately addressed her, saying, as he presented his card――

“Pardon my apparent intrusiveness; but prithee, have you lost a pet dog?”

The explanation that he had been stolen was scarcely necessary, for Leicester, just awakening, vehemently expressed his inexplicable joy by buoyantly vibrating between the two like the sounding lever used in telegraphy (for to neither of them would he show partiality) till, succumbing to ennui, he purported to take a recess, and sat on his haunches, complacently contemplating his friends. It was truly an interesting picture.

They reached their destination ere the sun was beneath the horizon. Often during the summer Winthrop gallantly rowed from the quay with the naive and blithe Beatrice, in her jaunty yachting suit, but no coquetry shone from the depths of her azure eyes. Little Less, their jocund confidante and courier (and who was as sagacious as a spaniel) always attended them on these occasions, and whene’er they rambled through the woodland paths. While the band played Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Bach, and others, they promenaded the long corridors of the hotel. And one evening, as Beatrice lighted the gas by the etagere in her charming boudoir in their suite of rooms, there glistened brilliantly a valuable solitaire diamond on her finger.

Let us look into the future for the sequel to perfect this romance, and around a cheerful hearth we see again Geoffrey and Beatrice, who are paying due homage to their tiny friend Leicester.

――_Quarterly Elocutionist._

The Ivy-Clad Ruin.[510]

’Tis the old, old church that for years I’ve known,
And with ivy green are its walls o’ergrown;
All its ancient splendor has passed away,
And there’s naught remaining but grim decay;
The pale moonbeams glimmer the windows through,
And the roofless floor is all damp with dew;
Both the pious priest and his flock are gone,
And the gravestones watch o’er their dead alone.

Oh, how oft I’ve passed thro’ the spacious aisle
And have met the throng with a friendly smile;
In the bygone days when I saw them kneel,
When I felt the thrill of the organ’s peal;
But the forms I knew enter here no more,
And no footsteps fall on the mouldy floor;
There’s but one thing left that with life I’ve seen――
’Tis the faithful vine of the ivy green.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

[510] By permission of W. F. Shaw, owner of the copyright.

“Yes, I’m Guilty.”

“Yes, I’m guilty,” the prisoner said,
As he wiped his eyes and bowed his head.
“Guilty of all the crimes you name;
But this yere lad is not to blame.
’Twas I alone who raised the row,
And, Judge, if you please, I’ll tell yer how.
You see, this boy is pale and slim;
We calls him saint.――His name is Tim.――
He’s like a preacher in his ways:――
He never drinks, or swears, or plays,
But kinder sighs and weeps all day;
’Twould break yer heart to hear him pray.
Why, sir, many and many a night,
When grub was scarce and I was tight,
No food, no fire, no light to see,
When home was hell, if hell there be,
I’ve seen that boy in darkness kneel,
And pray such words as cut like steel;
Which somehow warmed and lit the room,
And sorter chased away the gloom.
Smile if you must, but facts are facts,
And deeds are deeds, and acts are acts;
And though I’m black as sin can be
His prayers have done a heap for me,
And make me think that God, perhaps,
Sent him on earth to save us chaps.
This man what squealed and pulled us in,
He keeps a place called Fiddlers’ Inn,
Where faiks, and snides, and lawless scamps
Connive and plot with thieves and tramps.
Well, Tim and me, we didn’t know
Just what to do or where to go,
And so we stayed with him last night.
And this is how we had the fight:
They wanted Tim to take a drink,
But he refused, as you may think,
And told them how the flowing bowl
Contained the fire that kills the soul.
‘Drink! Drink!’ they cried, ‘this foaming beer;
’Twill make you strong and give you cheer.
Let preachers groan and prate of sin,
But give to us the flowing gin!’
Then Tim knelt down beside his chair,
And offered up this little prayer:
‘Help me, dear Lord,’ the child began,
As down his cheeks the big tears ran,
‘To keep the pledge I gave to you,
And make me strong, and good, and true.
I’ve done my best to do what’s right,
But, Lord, I’m sad and weak to-night.
Father, mother, oh, plead for me――
Tell Christ I long with you to be!’
‘Get up, you brat, don’t pray ’round here,’
The landlord yelled with rage and fear,
Then, like a brute, he hit the lad,
Which made my blood just b’iling mad.
I guess I must uv hurt his head,
For I struck hard for the man that’s dead.
No, he hain’t no folks or friends but me:
His dad was killed in ’sixty-three.
Shot at the front, where bursting shell
And cannon sang their song of hell,
And muskets hissed with fiery breath,
As brave men fell to their tune of death.
I promised his father before he died,
As the life blood rushed from his wounded side,
I promised him, sir, and it gave him joy,
That I’d protect his darling boy.
I simply did what his father would,
And helped the weak, as all men should.
Yes, I knocked him down and blacked his eye,
And used him rough I’ll not deny;
But think of it, Judge, a chap like him
Striking the likes of little Tim.
If I did wrong, send me below,
But spare the son of comrade Joe.――
You forgive him; and me? Oh, no!
A fact? God bless you! Come, Tim, let’s go.”

――_J. M. Munyon._

The Enchanted Shirt.

The King was sick. His cheek was red,
And his eye was clear and bright;
He ate and drank with a kingly zest,
And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick, and a king should know,
And the doctors came by the score.
They did not cure him. He cut off their heads,
And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came,
And one was as poor as a rat,――
He had passed his life in studious toil,
And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book;
His patients gave him no trouble;
If they recovered, they paid him well;
If they died, their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue,
As the King on his couch reclined;
In succession they thumped his august chest,
But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, “You’re as sound as a nut.”
“Hang him up,” roared the King in a gale――
In a ten-knot gale of royal rage;
The other leech grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,
And thus his prescription ran――
_The King will be well if he sleeps one night
In the shirt of a happy man._

* * * * *

Wide o’er the realm the couriers rode,
And fast their horses ran,
And many they saw, and to many they spoke,
But they found no Happy Man....

They saw two men by the roadside sit,
And both bemoaned their lot;
For one had buried his wife, he said,
And the other one had not.

At last they came to a village gate,
A beggar lay whistling there!
He whistled, and sang, and laughed, and rolled
On the grass in the soft June air.

The weary couriers paused and looked
At the scamp so blithe and gay;
And one of them said, “Heaven save you friend!
You seem to be happy to-day.”

“O yes, fair sirs,” the rascal laughed,
And his voice rang free and glad;
“An idle man has so much to do
That he never has time to be sad.”

“This is our man,” the courier said;
“Our luck has led us aright.
I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,
For the loan of your shirt to-night.”

The merry blackguard lay back on the grass,
And laughed till his face was black;
“I would do it,” said he, and he roared with the fun,
“But I haven’t a shirt to my back.”

* * * * *

Each day to the King the reports came in
Of his unsuccessful spies,
And the sad panorama of human woes
Passed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life,
And his maladies hatched in gloom;
He opened his windows and let the air
Of the free heaven into his room.

And out he went in the world, and toiled
In his own appointed way;
And the people blessed him, the land was glad,
And the King was well and gay.

――_Col. John Hay._

Fra Giacomo.

Alas, Fra Giacomo,
Too late!――but follow me;[511]
Hush![512] draw the curtain[513]――so!――
She is dead,[514] quite dead, you see.
Poor little lady! she lies
With the light gone out of her eyes,
But her features still wear[515] that soft
Gray, meditative expression,
Which you[516] must have noticed oft,
And admired, too, at confession.

How saintly she looks[517] and how meek!
Though this[518] be the chamber of death,
I fancy I feel her breath[519]
As I kiss her on the cheek.
With that pensive, religious face,
She has gone to a holier place![520]
And I hardly appreciated her――
Her praying, fasting, confessing,
Poorly,[521] I own, I mated her;
I thought her too cold, and rated[522] her
For her endless image-caressing.
Too saintly for me by far,
As pure and as cold as a star,[523]
Not fashioned for kissing and pressing――
But made for a heavenly crown.
Ay, father, let us go down――
But first, if you please, your blessing![524]

Wine?[525] _No?_ Come, come, you must!
You’ll bless it with your prayers,
And quaff a cup, I trust,
To the health of the saint[526] up stairs!
My heart[527] is aching so!
And I feel so weary and sad
Through the blow that I have had――
You’ll sit,[528] Fra Giacomo?
My friend! (and a friend I rank you)
For the sake of that saint[529],――nay, nay![530]
Here’s the wine[531]――as you love me, stay!
’Tis Montepulciano!――Thank you.[532]