_Mrs. M._ Ay, and the properest way, o' my conscience! Nothing is so

conciliating to young people as severity. (_Both rise._) Well, Sir

Anthony, I shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare Lydia to

receive your son's invocations; and I hope you will represent her to the

captain as an object not altogether illegible.

_Sir A._ Madam, I will handle the subject prudently. I must leave you.

Good morning, Mrs. Malaprop. (_Both bow profoundly; Sir Anthony steps

back as if to go out, then returns to say_:) And let me beg you, Mrs.

Malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to the girl--take my advice,

keep a tight hand. Good-morning, Mrs. Malaprop. If she rejects this

proposal, clap her under lock and key. Good-morning, Mrs. Malaprop. And

if you were just to let the servants forget to bring her dinner for

three or four days, you can't conceive how she'd come about.

Good-morning, Mrs. Malaprop.

SCENES FROM "RIP VAN WINKLE"

AS RECITED BY THE LATE A. P. BURBANK

CHARACTERS: _Rip Van Winkle; Derrick Von Beekman, the villain of the

play, who endeavors to get Rip drunk in order to have him sign away his

property to Von Beekman; Nick Vedder, the village innkeeper._

SCENE I: _The village inn. Von Beekman, alone. Enter Rip, laughing like

a child himself, and shaking off the children._

_Rip_ (_to the children outside_). Hey! You let my dog Schneider alone

dere; you hear dat, Sock der Jacob, der bist eine fordonner

spitspoo--yah----Why, hullo, Derrick! how you was? Did you hear dem

liddle fellers just now? Dey most plague me crazy. Ha, ha, ha! I like to

laugh my outsides in every time I tink about it. Just now, as we was

comin' through the willage--Schneider und me--Schneider's my dog; I

don't know whether you know him? Well, dem liddle fellers, dey took

Schneider und--ha, ha, ha!--dey--ha, ha!--_dey tied a tin-kettle mit

Schneider's tail!_ Ha, ha, ha! My, how he did run den, mit the kettle

banging about! My, how scared he was! Well, I didn't hi him comin'. He

run betwixt me und my legs und spilt me und all dem children in the

mud,--yah, dat's a fact. Ha, ha, ha!

_Derrick._ Ah, yes, that's all right, Rip, very funny, very funny; but

what do you say to a glass of liquor, Rip?

_Rip._ What do I generally say to a glass? I generally say it's a fine

thing--when dere's plenty in it--und I say more to what is _in_ it than

to the glass.

_Derrick._ Certainly, certainly. Say, hello there! Nick Vedder, bring

out a bottle of your best.

_Rip._ Dat's right--fill 'em up. You wouldn't believe it, Derrick, dat's

the first one I've had to-day. I guess, maybe, the reason is, I couldn't

got it before. Ah, Derrick, my score is too big! Well, here is your good

health und your family's, und may dey all live long und prosper! Ah, you

may well go "Ah" und smack your chops over dat. You don't give me such

schnapps when I come. Where you got dat?

_Nick._ That's high Dutch, Rip,--high Dutch, and ten years in bottle.

_Rip._ Well, come on, fill 'em up again. Git out mit dat vater, Nick

Vedder; I don't want no vater in my liquor. Good liquor und vater,

Derrick, is just like man und wife--_dey don't agree well togedder!_

Dat's me und _my_ wife, anyway. Well, come on again. Here is your good

health und your family's, und may dey all live long und prosper!

_Nick._ That's right, Rip; drink away, and "drown your sorrows in the

flowing bowl."

_Rip._ Drown my sorrows? Yah, but _she_ won't drown. My wife is my

sorrow und you cannick drown her. She tried it once, but she couldn't do

it. Didn't you know dat Gretchen like to get drown? No? Dat's the

funniest thing of the whole of it. It's the same day I got married; she

was comin' across dat Hudson River dere in the ferry-boat to get married

mit me.

_Derrick._ Yes.

_Rip._ Well, the boat she was comin' in got upsetted.

_Derrick._ Ah!

_Rip._ Well, but she wasn't in it.

_Nick._ Oh!

_Rip._ No, dat's what I say; if she had been in the boat what got

upsetted, maybe she might have got drowned. She got left behind somehow

or odder. Women is always behind dat way--always.

_Derrick._ But surely, Rip, you would have risked your life to save her.

_Rip_ (_incredulously_). You mean I would yump in und pull Gretchen out?

Oh, would I? Oh, you mean den--yes, I believe I would den. But it would

be a good deal more my duty now as it was den. When a feller gets

married a good many years mit his wife, he gets very much attached to

her. But if Mrs. Van Winkle was a-drownin' in the water now, und should

say to me, "Rip, come und save your wife!" I would say, "Mrs. Van

Winkle, I will yust go home und tink about it!" Oh, no, Derrick, if ever

Gretchen tumbles in the water now, she's got to swim; I told you

dat--ha, ha, ha, ha! Hullo! dat's her a-comin' now; I guess it's better

I go oud!

[_Exit Rip._

SCENE II: _Rip's home. Shortly after his conversation with Von Beekman,

Rip's wife found him carousing and dancing upon the village green with

the pretty girls. She drove him away in no very gentle fashion.

Returning home after nightfall in a decidedly muddled condition, he puts

his head through the open window at the rear, not observing his irate

wife, who stands in ambush behind the clothes-press, with her ever-ready

broomstick, to give him a warm reception; but seeing only his little

daughter Meenie, of whom he is very fond, Rip says_:

_Rip._ Meenie! Meenie, my darlin'!

_Meenie._ Hush-sh-h. (_Shakes finger to indicate the presence of her

mother._)

_Rip._ Eh! what's the matter? I don't see nothing, my darlin'. Meenie,

is the old wildcat home? Oh, say, is dot you, Gretchen? My darlin', my

angel, don't do dat,--let go my head, won't you? Well, den, hold on to

it so long what you like. For what you do dat, eh? You must want a

bald-headed husband, I reckon.

_Gretchen._ Who was that you called a wildcat?

_Rip._ Who was dat I call a wildcat? Well, now, let me see, who was dat

I called a wildcat? Dat must have been the time I came in the window

dere, wasn't it? Yes, I know, it was the same time. Well, now, let me

see. (_Suddenly._) It was de dog Schneider dat I call it.

_Gretchen._ The dog Schneider? That's a likely story.

_Rip._ Of course it is likely,--he's my dog. I'll call him a wildcat

much as I please. (_Gretchen begins to weep._) Oh, well; dere, now,

don't you cry, don't you cry, Gretchen; you hear what I said? Listen

now. If you don't cry, I nefer drink anoder drop of liquor in my life.

_Gretchen._ O Rip, you have said so so many, many times, and you never

kept your word yet.

_Rip._ Well, I say it dis time, und I mean it.

_Gretchen._ O Rip! if I could only trust you.

_Rip._ You mustn't _suspect_ me. Can't you see repentance in my eye?

_Gretchen._ Rip, if you will only keep your word, I shall be the

happiest woman in the world.

_Rip._ You can believe it. I nefer drink anoder drop so long what I

live, if you don't cry.

_Gretchen._ O Rip, how happy we shall be! And you'll get back all the

village, Rip, just as you used to have it; and you'll fix up our little

house so nicely; and you and I, and our darling little Meenie here--how

happy we shall be!

_Rip._ Dere, dere, now! you can be just so happy what you like. Go in de

odder room, go along mit you; I come in dere pooty quick. (_Exit

Gretchen and Meenie._) My! I swore off from drinking so many, many

times, und I never kept my word yet. (_Taking out bottle._) I don't

believe dere is more as one good drink in dat bottle, anyway. It's a

pity to waste it! You goin' to drink dat? Well, now, if you do, it is de

last one, remember dat, old feller. Well, here is your good health,

und----

(_Enter Gretchen, suddenly, who snatches the bottle from him._)

_Gretchen._ Oh, you paltry thief!

_Rip._ What you doin'? You'll spill the liquor.

_Gretchen._ Yes, I _will_ spill it. _That's the last drop you drink

under my roof!_

_Rip._ Eh! What?

_Gretchen._ Out, I say! you drink no more here.

_Rip._ Why, Gretchen, are you goin' to turn me oud like a dog? Well,

maybe you are right. I have got no home. I will go. But mind, Gretchen,

after what you say to me to-night, I can nefer darken your door

again--nefer; I will go.

_Meenie._ Not into the storm, father. Hark, how it thunders!

_Rip._ Yah, my child; but not as bad to me as the storm in my home. I

will go. God bless you, my child! Don't you nefer forget your father.

_Gretchen_ (_relenting_). No, Rip,--I----

_Rip._ No; you have driven me from your house. You have opened the door

for me to go. You may nefer open it for me to come back. I wipe the

disgrace from your door. Good-by, Gretchen, good-by!

[_Rip exits into the storm._

PART III

SERIOUS HITS

IF WE HAD THE TIME

BY RICHARD BURTON

If I had the time to find a place

And sit me down full face to face

With my better self, that can not show

In my daily life that rushes so:

It might be then I would see my soul

Was stumbling toward the shining goal,

I might be nerved by the thought sublime,--

If I had the time!

If I had the time to let my heart

Speak out and take in my life apart,

To look about and to stretch a hand

To a comrade quartered in no-luck land;

Ah, God! If I might but just sit still

And hear the note of the whippoorwill,

I think that my wish with God's would rhyme,--

If I had the time!

If I had the time to learn from you

How much comfort my word could do;

And I told you then of my sudden will

To kiss your feet when I did you ill;

If the tears aback of the coldness feigned

Could flow, and the wrong be quite explained,--

Brothers, the souls of us all would chime,

If we had the time!

By permission of the author and of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee &

Shepard Company, Boston.

THE FOOL'S PRAYER

BY EDWARD ROWLAND SILL

The royal feast was done; the king

Sought some new sport to banish care,

And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,

Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"

The jester doffed his cap and bells,

And stood the mocking court before:

They could not see the bitter smile

Behind the patient grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee

Upon the monarch's silken stool;

His pleading voice arose, "O Lord,

Be merciful to me, a fool!

"No pity, Lord, could change the heart

From red with wrong to white as wool;

The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord,

Be merciful to me, a fool!

"'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep

Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;

'Tis by our follies that so long

We hold the earth from heaven away.

"These clumsy feet still in the mire,

Go crushing blossoms without end;

These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust

Among the heartstrings of a friend.

"The ill-timed truth we might have kept,--

Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?

The word we had not sense to say,--

Who knows how grandly it had rung?

"Our faults no tenderness should ask,

The chastening stripe must cleanse them all;

But for our blunders,--oh, in shame

Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;

Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool

That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,

Be merciful to me, a fool!"

The room was hushed; in silence rose

The king, and sought his garden cool,

And walked apart, and murmured low:

"Be merciful to me, a fool!"

THE EVE OF WATERLOO

BY LORD BYRON

There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gathered then

Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage-bell;--

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind,

Or a car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet--

But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is--it is the cannon's opening roar!

* * * * *

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,

And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;

And there were sudden partings, such as press

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs

Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar,

And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come!"

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,

Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,--alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valor, rolling on the foe

And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,

The morn, the marshaling in arms,--the day,

Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,

The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,

Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.

THE WRECK OF THE JULIE PLANTE

BY WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND

On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,

De win' she blow, blow, blow,

An' de crew of de wood scow Julie Plante

Got scar't an' run below--

For de win' she blow lak hurricane;

Bimeby she blow some more,

An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre

Wan arpent from de shore.

De captinne walk on de fronte deck,

An' walk de hin' deck, too--

He call de crew from up de hole;

He call de cook also.

De cook she's name was Rosie,

She come from Montreal,

Was chambre maid on lumber barge,

On de Grande Lachine Canal.

De win' she blow from nor'--eas'--wes',

De sout' win' she blow, too,

W'en Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne,

Mon cher, w'at shall I do?"

Den de captinne t'row de big ankerre,

But still the scow she dreef,

De crew he can't pass on de shore,

Becos' he los' hees skeef.

De night was dark lak wan black cat,

De wave run high an' fas',

W'en de captinne tak de Rosie girl

An' tie her to de mas'.

Den he also tak de life preserve

An' jump off on de lak'

An' say, "Good-by, ma Rosie, dear,

I go drown for your sak."

Nex' morning very early

'Bout ha'f-pas' two--t'ree--four--

De captinne--scow--an' de poor Rosie

Was corpses on de shore.

For de win' she blow lak hurricane;

Bimeby she blow some more,

An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre

Wan arpent from de shore.

Now, all good wood scow sailor man

Tak' warning by dat storm

An' go an' marry some nice French girl

An' leev on wan beeg farm.

De win' can blow lak' hurricane

An s'pose she blow some more,

You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre

So long you stay on shore.

From "The Habitant," by permission of the publishers, G. P. Putnam's

Sons, New York and London.

FATHER'S WAY

BY EUGENE FIELD

My father was no pessimist; he loved the things of earth,--

Its cheerfulness and sunshine, its music and its mirth.

He never sighed or moped around whenever things went wrong,--

I warrant me he'd mocked at fate with some defiant song;

But, being he warn't much on tune, when times looked sort o' blue,

He'd whistle softly to himself this only tune he knew,--

[Music]

Now mother, when she heard that tune which father whistled so,

Would say, "There's something wrong to-day with Ephraim, I know;

He never tries to make believe he's happy that 'ere way

But that I'm certain as can be there's somethin' wrong to pay."

And so betimes, quite natural-like, to us observant youth

There seemed suggestion in that tune of deep, pathetic truth.

When Brother William joined the war, a lot of us went down

To see the gallant soldier boys right gayly out of town.

A-comin' home, poor mother cried as if her heart would break,

And all us children, too,--for _hers_, and _not_ for _William's_ sake!

But father, trudgin' on ahead, his hands behind him so,

Kept whistlin' to himself, so sort of solemn-like and low.

And when my oldest sister, Sue, was married and went West,

Seemed like it took the tuck right out of mother and the rest.

She was the sunlight in our home,--why, father used to say

It wouldn't seem like home at all if Sue should go away;

But when she went, a-leavin' us all sorrer and all tears,

Poor father whistled lonesome-like--and went to feed the steers.

When crops were bad, and other ills befell our homely lot,

He'd set of nights and try to act as if he minded not;

And when came death and bore away the one he worshiped so,

How vainly did his lips belie the heart benumbed with wo!

You see the telltale whistle told a mood he'd not admit,--

He'd always stopt his whistlin' when he thought we noticed it.

I'd like to see that stooping form and hoary head again,--

To see the honest, hearty smile that cheered his fellow men.

Oh, could I kiss the kindly lips that spake no creature wrong,

And share the rapture of the heart that overflowed with song!

Oh, could I hear the little tune he whistled long ago,

When he did battle with the griefs he would not have _us_ know!

I AM CONTENT

TRANSLATED BY CARMEN SYLVA

_A spindle of hazelwood had I;

Into the mill-stream it fell one day--

The water has brought it me back no more._

As he lay a-dying, the soldier spake:

"I am content!

Let my mother be told in the village there,

And my bride in the hut be told,

That they must pray with folded hands,

With folded hands for me."

The soldier is dead--and with folded hands,

His bride and his mother pray.

On the field of battle they dug his grave,

And red with his life-blood the earth was dyed,

The earth they laid him in.

The sun looked down on him there and spake:

"I am content."

And flowers bloomed thickly upon his grave,

And were glad they blossomed there.

And when the wind in the tree-tops roared,

The soldier asked from the deep, dark grave:

"Did the banner flutter then?"

"Not so, my hero," the wind replied,

"The fight is done, but the banner won,

Thy comrades of old have borne it hence,

Have borne it in triumph hence."

Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:

"I am content."

And again he hears the shepherds pass,

And the flocks go wand'ring by,

And the soldier asked: "Is the sound I hear,

The sound of the battle's roar?"

And they replied: "My hero, nay!

Thou art dead and the fight is o'er,

Our country joyful and free."

Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:

"I am content."

Then he heareth the lovers, laughing, pass,

And the soldier asks once more:

"Are these not the voices of them that love,

That love--and remember me?"

"Not so, my hero," the lovers say,

"We are those that remember not;

For the spring has come and the earth has smiled,

And the dead must be forgot."

Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:

"I am content."

_A spindle of hazelwood had I;

Into the mill-stream it fell one day--

The water has brought it me back no more._

THE EAGLE'S SONG

BY RICHARD MANSFIELD

The lioness whelped, and the sturdy cub

Was seized by an eagle and carried up

And homed for a while in an eagle's nest,

And slept for a while on an eagle's breast,

And the eagle taught it the eagle's song:

"To be staunch and valiant and free and strong!"

The lion whelp sprang from the eerie nest,

From the lofty crag where the queen birds rest;

He fought the king on the spreading plain,

And drove him back o'er the foaming main.

He held the land as a thrifty chief,

And reared his cattle and reaped his sheaf,

Nor sought the help of a foreign hand,

Yet welcomed all to his own free land!

Two were the sons that the country bore

To the Northern lakes and the Southern shore,

And Chivalry dwelt with the Southern son,

And Industry lived with the Northern one.

Tears for the time when they broke and fought!

Tears was the price of the union wrought!

And the land was red in a sea of blood,

Where brother for brother had swelled the flood!

And now that the two are one again,

Behold on their shield the word "Refrain!"

And the lion cubs twain sing the eagle's song,

"To be staunch and valiant and free and strong!"

For the eagle's beak and the lion's paw,

And the lion's fangs and the eagle's claw,

And the eagle's swoop and the lion's might,

And the lion's leap and the eagle's sight,

Shall guard the flag with the word "Refrain!"

Now that the two are one again!

Here's to a cheer for the Yankee ships!

And "Well done, Sam," from the mother's lips!

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!

O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

VIRGINIUS

BY MACAULAY

Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside,

To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide.

Hard by, a butcher on a block had laid his whittle down,--

"Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown.

And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell,

And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child,

farewell!

The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,--

The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls,

Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom,

And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb.

"The time is come. The tyrant points his eager hand this way;

See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey;

With all his wit he little deems that spurned, betrayed, bereft,

Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left:

He little deems that, in my hand, I clutch what still can save

Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave;

Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow,--

Foul outrage, which thou knowest not,--which thou shalt never

know.

Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more

kiss;

And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this!"

With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side,

And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died.

Then, for a little moment, all the people held their breath;

And through the crowded forum was stillness as of death;

And in another moment broke forth from one and all

A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall;

Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh,

And stood before the judgment seat, and held the knife on high:

"O dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain,

By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain;

And e'en as Appius Claudius has dealt by me and mine,

Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line!"

So spake the slayer of his child; then where the body lay,

Pausing, he cast one haggard glance, and turned and went his way.

Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him, alive or dead!

Ten pounds of copper to the man who brings his head!"

He looked upon his clients, but none would work his will;

He looked upon his lictors, but they trembled and stood still.

And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft,

Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left;

And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home,

And there ta'en horse, to tell the camp what deeds are done in

Rome.

THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD

BY CLEMENT SCOTT

Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen!

And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.

It's only a tale of a life-boat, of the dying and the dead,

Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head!

Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south;

Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oyster-mouth;

It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual

way,

And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.

Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands

alone,

In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone;

It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell

tolled, or when

There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a

desperate cry for men.

When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he!

Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea,

Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas

said,

Had saved some hundred lives apiece--at a shilling or so a head!

So the father launched the life-boat, in the teeth of the tempest's

roar,

And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at

the oar.

Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons!

Leaving the weeping women, and booming of signal guns;

Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors

love;

Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above!

Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in

bed,

For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles

Head?

It didn't go well with the life-boat! 'twas a terrible storm that

blew!

And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drowning

crew;

And then the anchor parted--'twas a tussle to keep afloat!

But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old

boat.

Then at last on the poor doomed life-boat a wave broke mountains

high!

"God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-by!"

Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves,

But the father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the

angry waves.

Up at the lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,

And saw in the boiling breakers a figure,--a fighting form;

It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath;

It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death;

It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips

Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in

ships.

They had seen the launch of the life-boat, they had seen the worst,

and more,

Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse,

straight to shore.

There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand,

Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land.

'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave,

But what are a couple of women with only a man to save?

What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men

Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir--

and then

Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent,

Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they

went!

"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls,

come back!"

As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce

attack.

"Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the

angry sea,

"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!"

"Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint

and pale,

"You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave

the gale!"

"_Come back?_" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the

town.

We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!"

"Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of

your hand!

Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to

land!

Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more,

And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the

shore."

Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,

They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the

rest--

Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed,

And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head!"

WILLIAM TELL AND HIS BOY

BY WILLIAM BAINE

"Place there the boy," the tyrant said;

"Fix me the apple on his head.

Ha! rebel, now!

There's a fair mark for your shaft;

To yonder shining apple waft

An arrow." And the tyrant laughed.

With quivering brow.

Bold Tell looked there; his cheek turned pale;

His proud lips throbbed as if would fail

Their quivering breath.

"Ha! doth he blanch?" fierce Gesler cried,

"I've conquered, slave, thy soul of pride."

No voice to that stern taunt replied,

All mute as death.

"And what the meed?" at length Tell asked.

"Bold fool, when slaves like thee are tasked,

It is my will.

But that thine eye may keener be,

And nerved to such nice archery,

If thou cleav'st yon, thou goest free.

What! pause you still?

Give him a bow and arrow there

One shaft--but one." Gleams of despair

Rush for a moment o'er the Switzer's face:

Then passed away each stormy trace,

And high resolve came in their place,

Unmoved, yet flushed,

"I take thy terms," he muttered low,

Grasped eagerly the proffered bow--

The quiver searched,

Sought out an arrow keen and long,

Fit for a sinewy arm, and strong,

And placed it on the sounding thong

The tough yew arched.

He drew the bow, whilst all around

That thronging crowd there was no sound,

No step, no word, no breath.

All gazed with an unerring eye,

To see the fearful arrow fly;

The light wind dies into a sigh,

And scarcely stirred.

Afar the boy stood, firm and mute;

He saw the strong bow curved to shoot,

But never moved.

He knew the daring coolness of that hand

He knew it was a father scanned

The boy he loved.

The Switzer gazed--the arrow hung

"My only boy!" sobbed on his tongue;

He could not shoot.

"Ha!" cried the tyrant, "doth he quail?

Mark how his haughty brow grows pale!"

But a deep voice rung on the gale--

"Shoot in God's name!"

Again the drooping shaft he took,

And turned to Heaven one burning look,

Of all doubts reft.

"Be firm, my boy!" was all he said.

The apple's left the stripling's head.

Ha! Ha! 'tis cleft!

And so it was, and Tell was free.

Quick the brave boy was at his knee

With rosy cheek.

His loving arms his boy embrace;

But again that tyrant cried in haste,

"An arrow in thy belt is placed;

What means it? Speak";

The Switzer raised his clenched hand high,

Whilst lightning flashed across his eye

Incessantly.

"To smite thee, tyrant, to the heart,

Had Heaven willed it that my dart

Had touched my boy."

"Rebellion! Treason! chain the slave!"

A hundred swords around him wave,

Whilst hate to Gesler's features gave

Infuriate joy.

But that one arrow found its goal

Hid with revenge in Gesler's soul;

And Lucerne's lake

Heard his dastard soul outmoan

When Freedom's call abroad was blown,

And Switzerland, a giant grown,

Her fetters brake.

From hill to hill the mandate flew,

From lake to lake the tempest grew,

With wakening swell,

Till proud oppression crouched for shame,

And Austria's haughtiness grew tame

And Freedom's watchword was the name of

William Tell.

LASCA

BY F. DESPREZ

I want free life and I want fresh air;

And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,

The crack of the whips like shots in battle,

The mellay of horns, and hoofs, and heads

That wars, and wrangles, and scatters, and spreads;

The green beneath and the blue above,

And dash and danger and life and love.

And Lasca! Lasca used to ride

On a mouse-gray mustang, close to my side,

With blue _serape_ and bright-belled spur;

I laughed with joy as I looked at her!

Little knew she of books or creeds;

An _Ave Maria_ sufficed her needs;

Little she cared, save to be by my side,

To ride with me, and ever to ride,

From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.

She was as bold as the billows that beat,

She was as wild as the breezes that blow;

From her little head to her little feet

She was swayed, in her suppleness, to and fro

By each gust of passion; a sapling pine,

That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff,

And wars with the wind when the weather is rough,

Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.

She would hunger that I might eat,

Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;

But once, when I made her jealous for fun,

At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,

One Sunday, in San Antonio,

To a glorious girl on the Alamo,

She drew from her garter a dear little dagger,

And--sting of a wasp!--it made me stagger!

An inch to the left or an inch to the right,

And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night;

But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound

Her torn _reboso_ about the wound

That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Her eye was brown,--a deep, deep brown;

Her hair was darker than her eye;

And something in her smile and frown,

Curled crimson lip, and instep high,

Showed that there ran in each blue vein,

Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,

The vigorous vintage of old Spain.

The air was heavy, the night was hot,

I sat by her side, and forgot--forgot;

Forgot the herd that were taking their rest;

Forgot that the air was close opprest,

That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,

In the dead of night or the blaze of noon;

That once let the herd at its breath take fright,

That nothing on earth can stop the flight;

And wo to the rider, and wo to the steed,

Who falls in front of their mad stampede!

Was that thunder? No, by the Lord!

I spring to my saddle without a word.

One foot on mine, and she clung behind.

Away! on a hot chase down the wind!

But never was fox-hunt half so hard,

And never was steed so little spared.

For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The mustang flew, and we urged him on;

There was one chance left, and you have but one--

Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse;

Crouch under his carcass, and take your chance;

And if the steers, in their frantic course,

Don't batter you both to pieces at once,

You may thank your star; if not, good-by

To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,

And the open air and the open sky,

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The cattle gained on just as I felt

For my old six-shooter, behind in my belt,

Down came the mustang, and down came we,

Clinging together, and--what was the rest?

A body that spread itself on my breast,

Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,

Two lips that hard on my lips were prest;

Then came thunder in my ears

As over us surged the sea of steers,

Blows that beat blood into my eyes,

And when I could rise

Lasca was dead!

I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,

And there in earth's arms I laid her to sleep;

And there she is lying, and no one knows,

And the summer shines and the winter snows;

For many a day the flowers have spread

A pall of petals over her head;

And the little gray hawk that hangs aloft in the air;

And the sly coyote trots here and there,

And the black snake glides, and glitters, and slides

Into the rift in a cotton-wood tree;

And the buzzard sails on,

And comes and is gone,

Stately and still like a ship at sea;

And I wonder why I do not care

For the things that are like the things that were.

Does half my heart lie buried there

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST

BY S. W. FOSS

The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' uv silk,

An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk;

Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys an' stovepipe hats were

there,

An' doods 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in

prayer.

The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz:

"Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz,

An' as we hev no substitoot, as Brother Moore aint here,

Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?"

An' then a red-nosed, drunken tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style,

Give an interductory hiccup, an' then staggered up the aisle.

Then through thet holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin,

An' through thet air of sanctity the odor uv old gin.

Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge:

"This man profanes the house of God! W'y this is sacrilege!"

The tramp didn't hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin'

feet,

An' sprawled an' staggered up the steps, an' gained the organ

seat.

He then went pawin' through the keys, an' soon there rose a strain

Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart an' 'lectrify the brain;

An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an'

knees,

He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys.

The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry;

It swelled into the rafters an' bulged out into the sky,

The ol' church shook an' staggered an' seemed to reel an' sway,

An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!"

An then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears,

Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith

tears;

An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens 'ith Tabby on the mat,

Uv home an' luv an' baby-days an' mother an' all that!

An' then he struck a streak uv hope--a song from souls forgiven--

Thet burst from prison-bars uv sin an' stormed the gates uv

heaven;

The morning stars they sung together--no soul wuz left alone--

We felt the universe wuz safe an' God wuz on His throne!

An' then a wail uv deep despair an' darkness come again,

An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men;

No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight,

An' then--the tramp, he staggered down an' reeled into the night!

But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho he never spoke a word,

An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard;

He hed tol' his own life history an' no eye was dry the day,

W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let us pray."

By permission of _The Blade_, Toledo, Ohio.

LIFE COMPARED TO A GAME OF CARDS

ANONYMOUS

Life is like a game of cards

Which each one has to learn.

Each shuffles, cuts and deals a pack,

And each a trump does turn.

Some turn a high card at the top,

While others turn a low.

Some hold a hand quite flushed with trumps,

While others none can show.

When hearts are trumps we play for love

And pleasure decks the hour.

No thought of danger ever comes

In roses' lovely bower.

When diamonds chance to turn the pack

'Tis then men play for gold,

And heavy sums are won and lost

By gamblers young and old.

When clubs are trumps beware of war

On ocean and on land,

For fearful things have come to pass

When clubs were in the hand.

But last of all is when the spade is turned by the hand of time,

And finishes up the game in every land and clime;

No matter how much a man may make or how much a man may

save,

You'll find the spade turns up at last to dig each player's

grave.

OLD DADDY TURNER

ANONYMOUS

This was the picture in front of "Old Daddy Turner's" cabin in the

Kaintuck quarter the other afternoon: Two colored men sitting on a

wash-bench, silent and sorrowful; an old dog, sleeping in the sun at

their feet, and a colored woman calling to a boy who was on the fence:

"Now, Jeems Henry, you git right down from dat! Doan you know day Daddy

Turner am jist on de p'int of dyin' and gwine up to hebben?"

Here was the picture inside: The poor old, white-headed man lying on his

dying bed, flesh wasted away and strength departed. Near him sat his

faithful old wife, rocking to and fro and moaning and grieving. Farther

away was a colored man and woman, solemn-faced and sad-hearted, shaking

their heads as they cast glances toward the bed. For a long time the old

man lay quiet and speechless, but at length he signed to be propped up.

A sun as warm as springtime poured into the room. He took notice of it,

and a change came to his face as his eyes rested upon his grieving wife.

"Ize bin gwine back in my mind!" he whispered, as he reached out his

thin hand for her to clasp. "Fur ober fo'ty y'ars we's trabbled 'long

the same path. We sung de same songs--we prayed de same prayers--we had

hold of han's when we 'listed in de Gospel ranks an' sot our faces

to'rds de golden gates of hebben. Ole woman, Ize gwine to part wid you!

Yes, Ize gwine ter leave yer all alone!"

"O Daddy! Daddy!" she wailed as she leaned over him.

"Doan't take on so, chile! It's de Lawd's doin's, not mine. To-morrow de

sun may be as bright an' warm, but de ole man won't be heah. All de

arternoon Ize had glimpses of a shady path leadin' down to de shor' of a

big broad ribber. Ize seen people gwine down dar to cross ober, an' in a

leetle time I'll be wid 'em."

She put her wrinkled face on the pillow beside his and sobbed, and he

placed his hand on her head and said:

"It's de Lawd, chile--de bressed Lawd! Chile, Ize tried to be good to

yer. You has been good to me. We am nuffin but ole cull'd folk, po' in

eberyting, but tryin' to do right by eberybody. "When dey tole me I'd

got to die, I wasn't sartin if de Lawd wanted a po' ole black man like

me up dar. Yes, chile, He will! Dis mawnin' I heard de harps playin', de

rustle of wings, an' a cloud sorter lifted up an' I got a cl'ar view

right frew de pearly gates. I saw ole slaves an' nayburs dar, an' dey

was jist as white as anybody, an' a hundred han's beckoned me to come

right up dar 'mong 'em."

"O Daddy! I'll be all alone--all alone!" she wailed.

"Hush, chile! Ize gwine to be lookin' down on ye! Ize gwine to put my

han' on yer head an' kiss ye when yer heart am big wid sorrow; an' when

night shuts down an' you pray to de Lawd, I'll be kneelin' long side of

ye. Ye won't see me, but I'll be wid ye. You's old an' gray. It won't be

long before ye'll git de summons. In a little time de cloud will lif'

fur ye, an' I'll be right dar by de pearly gates to take ye in my arms."

"But I can't let you go--I will hold you down heah wid me!"

"Chile! Ize sorry for ye, but Ize drawin' nigh dat shady path! Hark! I

kin h'ah de footsteps of de mighty parade of speerits marchin' down to

de 'broad ribber! Dey will dig a grave an' lay my ole bones dar, an' in

a week all de world but you will forgit me. But doan' grieve, chile. De

Lawd isn't gwine to shet de gates on me 'cause I'm ole an' po' an'

black. I kin see dem shinin' way up dar--see our boy at the gate--h'ah

de sweetest music dat angels kin play!--Light de lamp, chile, 'cause de

night has come!"

"Oh! he's gwine--he's gwine!" she wailed, as her tears fell upon his

face.

"Chile! hold my han'! Ober heah am de path! I kin see men an' women an'

chil'en marchin' 'long! Furder down am de sunlight. It shines on de

great ribber! Ober de ribber am--de--gates--of----"

Of heaven! On earth, old and poor and low--beyond the gates, an angel

with the rest.

THE TRAMP

ANONYMOUS

Now, is that any way for to treat a poor man?

I just asked for a penny or two;

Don't get your back up, and call me a "bum,"

Because I have nothing to do.

Once I was strong and handsome,

Had plenty of money and clothes:

That was afore I tippled,

And whisky had painted my nose.

Down in the Lehigh Valley

Me and my people grew.

Gentlemen, I was a farmer,

And a very good farmer, too.

Me and my wife, and Nellie,--

Nellie was just sixteen;

And she was the prettiest creature

That ever that valley had seen.

Beaux? Why, she had a dozen;

They come from near and fur:

But they was mostly farmers,

And that didn't quite suit her.

But one of 'em was a New Yorker,

Stylish and handsome and tall.

Hang him! If I had him I'd--

Well, just let me catch him, that's all.

Well, he was the fellow for Nellie,--

She didn't know no ill.

Her mother tried to prevent it;

But you know a young girl's will.

Well, it's the same old story,

Common enough, you'll say:

He was a smooth-tongued villain,

And he got her to run away.

About a month or so after,

We heard from the poor young thing:

He had gone away, and left her

Without any wedding-ring.

Back to our home we brought her,--

Back to her mother's side,

Filled with a raging fever;

And she fell at our feet, and died.

Frantic with grief and sorrow,

Her mother began to sink:

Dead! in less than a fortnight.

That's when I took to drink.

And all I want is a penny or two,

Just to help me on my way;

And I'll tramp till I find that hell-hound,

If it takes till the judgment-day.

THE DANDY FIFTH

BY F. H. GASSAWAY

'Twas the time of the workingmen's great strike, when all the land

stood still

At the sudden roar from the hungry mouths that labor could

not fill;

When the thunder of the railroad ceased, and startled towns

could spy

A hundred blazing factories painting each midnight sky;

Through Philadelphia's surging streets marched the brown ranks

of toil,

The grimy legions of the shops, the tillers of the soil.

White-faced militiamen looked on, while women shrank with

dread;

'Twas muscle against money then, 'twas riches against bread.

Once, as the mighty mob tramped on, a carriage stopt the way,

Upon the silken seat of which a young patrician lay;

And as, with haughty glance, he swept along the jeering crowd,

A white-haired blacksmith in the ranks took off his cap and bowed.

That night the Labor League was met, and soon the chairman said,

"There hides a Judas in our midst, one man who bows the head,

Who bends the coward's servile knee when capital rolls by."

"Down with him!" "Kill the traitor cur!" rang out the savage

cry.

Up rose the blacksmith, then, and held erect his head of gray:

"I am no traitor, tho I bowed to a rich man's son to-day;

And, tho you kill me as I stand, as like you mean to do,--

I want to tell you a story short, and I ask you'll hear me through.

I was one of those who enlisted first, the old flag to defend;

With Pope and Halleck, with 'Mac' and Grant, I followed to the

end.

'Twas somewhere down on the Rapidan, when the Union cause

looked drear,

That a regiment of rich young bloods came down to us from here.

Their uniforms were by tailors cut; they brought hampers of good

wine;

And every squad had a servant, too, to keep their boots in shine;

They'd naught to say to us dusty 'vets,' and, through the whole

brigade

We called them the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth, when we passed

them on parade.

Well, they were sent to hold a fort that Rebs tried hard to take,

'Twas the key of all our line, which naught while it held out

could break.

But a fearful fight we lost just then, the reserve came up too

late,

And on that fort, and the Dandy Fifth, hung the whole division's

fate.

Three times we tried to take them aid, and each time back we fell,

Tho once we could hear the fort's far guns boom like a funeral

knell;

Till at length Joe Hooker's corps came up, and then straight

through we broke;

How we cheered as we saw those dandy coats still back of the

drifting smoke!

With bands all front and our colors spread we swarmed up the

parapet,

But the sight that silenced our welcome shout I shall never in

life forget.

Four days before had their water gone,--they had dreaded that

the most,--

The next, their last scant ration went, and each man looked a

ghost

As he stood gaunt-eyed, behind his gun, like a crippled stag at

bay,

And watched starvation, not defeat, draw nearer every day.

Of all the Fifth, not fourscore men could in their places stand,

And their white lips told a fearful tale, as we grasped each

bloodless hand.

The rest in the stupor of famine lay, save here and there a few

In death sat rigid against the guns, grim sentinels in blue;

And their colonel could not speak or stir, but we saw his proud

eye thrill

As he simply glanced to the shot-scarred staff where the old flag

floated still!

Now, I hate the tyrants who grind us down, while the wolf snarls

at our door,

And the men who've risen from us, to laugh at the misery of the

poor;

But I tell you, mates, while this weak old hand I have left the

strength to lift,

I will touch my cap to the proudest swell who fought in the

Dandy Fifth!"

ON LINCOLN

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But, O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen, cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father! this arm beneath your head!

It is some dream, that on the deck you've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My Captain does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage is closed and done;

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! but I with mournful tread

Walk the deck my Captain lies, fallen, cold and dead.

THE LITTLE STOWAWAY

ANONYMOUS

"'Bout three years ago, afore I got this berth as I'm in now, I was

second engineer aboard a Liverpool steamer bound for New York. There'd

been a lot of extra cargo sent down just at the last minute, and we'd no

end of a job stowin' it away, and that ran us late o' startin'; so that,

altogether, you may think, the cap'n warn't in the sweetest temper in

the world, nor the mate neither. On the mornin' of the third day out

from Liverpool, the chief engineer cum down to me in a precious hurry,

and says he: 'Tom, what d'ye think? Blest if we ain't found a stowaway!'

"I didn't wait to hear no more, but up on deck like a sky-rocket; and

there I did see a sight, and no mistake. Every man-Jack o' the crew, and

what few passengers we had aboard, was all in a ring on the fo'c'stle,

and in the middle was the fust mate, lookin' as black as thunder. Right

in front of him, lookin' a reg'lar mite among them big fellers, was a

little bit o' a lad not ten year old--ragged as a scarecrow, but with

bright, curly hair, and a bonnie little face o' his own, if it hadn't

been so woful and pale. The mate was a great, hulkin', black-bearded

feller with a look that 'ud ha' frightened a horse, and a voice fit to

make one jump through a keyhole; but the young un warn't a bit

afeard--he stood straight up, and looked him full in the face with them

bright, clear eyes o' his'n, for all the world as if he was Prince

Halferd himself. You might ha' heerd a pin drop, as the mate spoke.

"'Well, you young whelp,' says he, 'what's brought you here?'

"'It was my stepfather as done it,' says the boy, in a weak little

voice, but as steady as he could be. 'Father's dead, and mother's

married again, and my new father says as how he won't have no brats

about eatin' up his wages; and he stowed me away when nobody warn't

lookin', and guv me some grub to keep me going' for a day or two till I

got to sea. He says I'm to go to Aunt Jane, at Halifax; and here's her

address.'

"We all believed every word on't, even without the paper he held out.

But the mate says: 'Look here, my lad; that's all very fine, but it

won't do here--some o' these men o' mine are in the secret, and I mean

to have it out of 'em. Now, you just point out the man as stowed you

away and fed you, this very minute; if you don't, it'll be worse for

you!'

"The boy looked up in his bright, fearless way (it did my heart good to

look at him, the brave little chap!) and says, quietly, 'I've told you

the truth; I ain't got no more to say.'

"The mate says nothin', but looks at him for a minute as if he'd see

clean through him; and then he sings out to the crew loud enough to

raise the dead: 'Reeve a rope to the yard; smart now!'

"'Now, my lad, you see that 'ere rope? Well, I'll give you ten minutes

to confess; and if you don't tell the truth afore the time's up, I'll

hang you like a dog!'

"The crew all stared at one another as if they couldn't believe their

ears (I didn't believe mine, I can tell ye), and then a low growl went

among 'em, like a wild beast awakin' out of a nap.

"'Silence there!' shouts the mate, in a voice like the roar of a

nor'easter. 'Stan' by to run for'ard!' as he held the noose ready to put

it round the boy's neck. The little fellow never flinched a bit; but

there was some among the sailors (big strong chaps as could ha' felled

an ox) as shook like leaves in the wind. I clutched hold o' a handspike,

and held it behind my back, all ready.

"'Tom,' whispers the chief engineer to me, 'd'ye think he really means

to do it?'

"'I don't know,' says I, through my teeth; 'but if he does, he shall go

first, if I swings for it!'

"I've been in many an ugly scrape in my time, but I never felt 'arf as

bad as I did then. Every minute seemed as long as a dozen; and the tick

o' the mate's watch, reg'lar, pricked my ears like a pin.

"'Eight minutes,' says the mate, his great, deep voice breakin' in upon

the silence like the toll o' a funeral bell. 'If you've got anything to

confess, my lad, you'd best out with it, for ye're time's nearly up.'

"'I've told you the truth,' answers the boy, very pale, but as firm as

ever. 'May I say my prayers, please?'

"The mate nodded; and down goes the poor little chap on his knees and

put up his poor little hands to pray. I couldn't make out what he said,

but I'll be bound God heard every word. Then he ups on his feet again,

and puts his hands behind him, and says to the mate quite quietly: 'I'm

ready.'

"And then, sir, the mate's hard, grim face broke up all to once, like

I've seed the ice in the Baltic. He snatched up the boy in his arms,

kissed him, and burst out a-cryin' like a child; and I think there

warn't one of us as didn't do the same. I know I did for one.

"'God bless you, my boy!' says he, smoothin' the child's hair with his

great hard hand. 'You're a true Englishman, every inch of you; you

wouldn't tell a lie to save yer life! Well, if so be as yer father's

cast yer off, I'll be yer father from this day forth; and if I ever

forget you, then may God forget me!'

"And he kep' his word, too. When we got to Halifax, he found out the

little un's aunt, and gev' her a lump o' money to make him comfortable;

and now he goes to see the youngster every voyage, as reg'lar as can be;

and to see the pair on 'em together--the little chap so fond of him, and

not bearin' him a bit o' grudge--it's 'bout as pretty a sight as ever I

seed. And now, sir, yer parding, it's time for me to be goin' below; so

I'll just wish yer good-night."

SAINT CRISPIAN'S DAY

BY SHAKESPEARE

_King Henry._ What's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland?--No, my fair cousin:

If we are marked to die, we are enough

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men the greater share of honor.

God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold;

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It years me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires;

But if it be a sin to covet honor

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:

God's peace! I would not lose so great an honor,

As one man more, methinks, would share from me,

For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more.

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart; his passport shall be made,

And crowns for convoy put into his purse:

We would not die in that man's company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is called--the feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tiptoe when this day is nam'd,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,

And say,--"_To-morrow is Saint Crispian_":

Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars,

And say, "_These wounds I had on Crispian's day_."

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he'll remember, with advantages,

What feats he did that day: then shall our names,

Familiar in their mouths as household words,--

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,--

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd:

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And _Crispin Crispian_ shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember'd:

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now a-bed,

Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here;

And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon SAINT CRISPIAN'S DAY.

THE C'RRECT CARD

BY GEORGE R. SIMS

"C'rrect card, sir? C'rrect card, sir? What! you've seen my face before?

Well I dare say as how you have, sir, and so have many more; but they

passes me by without a word--but perhaps it's just as well; a poor

crippled chap like me, sir, ain't fit company for a swell. But I've seen

the time when they all was proud with me to be talking seen--when I rode

for Lord Arthur Forester, and wore the black and green. How did it

happen ? I'll tell you, sir. You knew little Fanny Flight--old Farmer

Flight's one daughter--always so pretty and bright? You used to joke

with her sometimes, sir, and say as, if you she'd marry, you'd set up a

'pub' together, an' pitch your folks to Old Harry. You was just down for

the holidays, sir, from Oxford, where you were at school; but _you_ only

played at being in love, while I ... was a cursed fool! Well, there were

lots of 'm after her, sir, what with her ways and face; but I was in

earnest, you see, sir, and rode a waiting race. 'Twas one fine April

morning, when she came out to see us train, and just as she stood with

her little hand holding on by my horse's mane, I felt as how I could do

it, and came with a rush, you see, an' I said to her--all of a tremble,

sir,--'Fan, will you marry me?' And she blushed an' smiled, an'

whinnied, and after a bit she agreed that as soon as I found the money

to pay for our keep and feed, why we'd run in harness together. We'd ha'

made a tidyish pair; for I weren't a bad looking colt at the time, and

_she_--such a nice little mare! Such a mouth! such a forehead! such

action! Ah, well, let 'em say what they may, that's the sort to make

running with us, sir,--tho, hang it! they never can _stay_.

"Well, the time went on, and I rode my best, an' they called me a

'cuteish' chap, and Lord Arthur put me up to ride for the Leicestershire

Handicap. Lord Arthur, he was a _gentleman_--never was stingy or

mean--an' he said, 'I'll give you five hundred, my man, if you win with

the black and green.' Well, the horse I rode was Rasper; perhaps you

remember him?--Black all but one white foot, sir; _and_ a temper!--he'd

pull like sin. But jump like a bird if he had a mind--plenty of power

and pace--and I knew he had it in him, and I swore I'd win the race. The

night before the race came off I went down to Farmer Flight's--they'd

got to expect me regular now on Tuesday and Friday nights--and I told

her what Lord Arthur said, and how, if I chanced to win, we'd go into

double harness on the strength of his lordship's tin. An' she put my

colors in her hair, and her arms around my neck, and I felt ... but,

hang it! a chap's a fool as can't keep his feelings in check. But then,

you sees, sir, I _was_ a fool--a big one as ever was seen--but then I

was only twenty when I rode in the black and green. I got up early next

morning, an' felt as light as a feather, and I went to start for the

stables; and mother she asked me whether I'd not take my flask in my

pocket, in case it might come in handy; but 'Mother,' I says, 'when a

chap's in love, he don't feel to want any brandy.' And I thought, as I

put on a new pair o' spurs, and a jacket bran new and clean, that I'd

give long odds that I'd pull it off--ten to one on the black and green.

Well, Lord Arthur gave me my orders, and a leg up on to my horse, and I

just had taken my canter an' was coming back up the course, when who

should I spy but Fanny, in a stylish sort of a trap, talking away like

blazes to a dark, long-whiskered chap; but I hadn't time to think of

more, for we got the word to start, and Rasper gave a thundering tear

that nearly pulled out my heart; an' then I pulled him together, for

mine was a waiting race, and I knew that what was to win it was Rasper's

pluck not pace. Well, I got round all right the first time; the fences

were easy enough--at least to a couple like _we_ were; the only one that

was tough was a biggish hedge, with a post and rails; but the taking-off

was fair, and I shouldn't call it a dangerous jump, as long as you took

it with care. And Rasper! that very morning I said to Lord Arthur, I

said, 'I think as that horse there could jump a _church_, if he took the

thing into his head'; an' that morning he went like a lady and looked as

bright as a bean, and I knew, if it only lasted, I'd win with the black

and green. I was riding Rasper easy, when, just as we passed the stand,

it struck me the carriage that Fanny was in was somewhere upon my right

hand; and I took a pull at Rasper, and a glance toward that side, and I

saw what made me forget the race and forget the way to ride--only a

kiss! An' what's a kiss to the like of him and her? But I could not help

letting Rasper feel that I wore a long-necked spur; an' tho I set my

teeth to be cool and steadied him with the rein, I knew that the devil

in Rasper was up, and couldn't be laid again; an' the very next fence,

tho I kept him straight, and he went at it after the rest, I could feel

that he meant to do his worst, and I couldn't ride my best. For, you

know, when a man feels desperate-like, he's no more head than a child,

and it's all _up_ with a jock, you see, if he goes at his fences wild.

Over the next fence--over the next--till I thought, as my teeth I set,

if I only could keep my head to my work, I might pull through with it

yet; and I took a pull at Rasper, an' fell back a bit to the tail, for

I'd never forget the one difficult spot--the hedge with the post and

rail. How it all comes back! We're in the field--now for a rattling

burst; for the race is half won by the horse and man that crosses that

fence first. I run up to my horses and pass them--I've given Rasper his

head; I can hear, some lengths behind me, the trampling and the tread;

and now I send him at it firmly but not too fast--he stops--lays his

ears back--REFUSES! _The devil's come out at last!_ And I dig in the

steel and let him feel the sting of stout whalebone, and I say, 'You

shall do it, you devil! if I break your neck and my own.' And the brute

gives a squeal, and rushes at the post and rail like mad--no time to

rise him at it--not much use if I had; and then ... well, I feel a crash

and a blow, and hear a woman scream, and I seem to be dying by inches in

a horrid sort of a dream.

"No, thank ye--I'd rather not, sir. You see they ain't all like you;

these gents as has plenty of money don't care who they gives it to; but

as for stopping an' saying a word, an' hearing a fellow's tale, they'd

rather give him a crown, sir, or stand him a quart of ale. But it brings

back old times to be talking to you. Ah! the jolly old times as I've

seen, when I rode for Lord Arthur (c'rrect card, sir?) and wore the

black and green!"

THE ENGINEER'S STORY

BY ROSA H. THORPE

No, children, my trips are over,

The engineer needs rest;

My hand is shaky; I'm feeling

A tugging pain i' my breast;

But here, as the twilight gathers,

I'll tell you a tale of the road,

That'll ring in my head forever,

Till it rests beneath the sod.

We were lumbering along in the twilight,

The night was drooping her shade,

And the "Gladiator" labored,--

Climbing the top of the grade;

The train was heavily laden,

So I let my engine rest,

Climbing the grading slowly,

Till we reached the upland's crest.

I held my watch to the lamplight,--

Ten minutes behind the time!

Lost in the slackened motion

Of the up-grade's heavy climb;

But I knew the miles of the prairie

That stretched a level track,

So I touched the gauge of the boiler,

And pulled the lever back.

Over the rails a-gleaming,

Thirty an hour, or so,

The engine leaped like a demon,

Breathing a fiery glow;

But to me--a-hold of the lever--

It seemed a child alway,

Trustful and always ready

My lightest touch to obey.

I was proud, you know, of my engine,

Holding it steady that night,

And my eye on the track before us,

Ablaze with the Drummond light.

We neared a well-known cabin,

Where a child of three or four,

As the up train passed, oft called me,

A-playing around the door.

My hand was firm on the throttle

As we swept around the curve,

When something afar in the shadow

Struck fire through every nerve.

I sounded the brakes, and crashing

The reverse-lever down in dismay,

Groaning to heaven,--eighty paces

Ahead was the child at its play!

One instant,--one, awful and only,

The world flew round in my brain,

And I smote my hand hard on my forehead

To keep back the terrible pain;

The train I thought flying forever,

With mad, irresistible roll,

While the cries of the dying, the night-wind

Swept into my shuddering soul.

Then I stood on the front of the engine--

How I got there I never could tell--

My feet planted down on the crossbar,

Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail,

One hand firmly locked on the coupler,

And one held out in the night,

While my eye gauged the distance, and measured

The speed of our slackening flight.

My mind, thank the Lord! it was steady;

I saw the curls of her hair,

And the face that, turning in wonder,

Was lit by the deadly glare.

I know little more--but I heard it--

The groan of the anguished wheels,

And remember thinking--the engine

In agony trembles and reels.

One rod! To the day of my dying

I shall think the old engine reared back,

And as it recoiled, with a shudder

I swept my hand over the track;

Then darkness fell over my eyelids,

But I heard the surge of the train,

And the poor old engine creaking,

As racked by a deadly pain.

They found us, they said, on the gravel,

My fingers enmeshed in her hair,

And she on my bosom a-climbing,

To nestle securely there.

We are not much given to crying--

We men that run on the road--

But that night, they said, there were faces

With tears on them, lifted to God.

For years in the eve and the morning,

As I neared the cabin again,

My hand on the lever prest downward

And slackened the speed of the train.

When my engine had blown her a greeting,

She always would come to the door;

And her look with a fulness of heaven

Blesses me evermore.

THE FACE UPON THE FLOOR

BY H. ANTOINE D'ARCY

'Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there,

Which well-nigh filled Joe's barroom on the corner of the square;

And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,

A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" some one said. "The wind has blown it in."

"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whisky, rum or gin?"

"Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work--

I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;

In fact, he smiled as tho he thought he'd struck the proper place.

"Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd--

To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

"Give me a drink--that's what I want--I'm out of funds, you know,

When I had the cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow.

What? You laugh as tho you thought this pocket never held a sou,

I once was fixt as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks; that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and all;

Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call.

_Give you a song?_ No, I can't do that, my singing days are past;

My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going

fast.

"Say! give me another whisky, and I'll tell you what I'll do--

I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.

That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think;

But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame--

Such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame;

Five fingers--there, that's the scheme--and corking whisky, too.

Well, here's luck, boys; and landlord, my best regards to you.

"You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how

I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.

As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health,

And but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

"I was a painter--not one that daubed on bricks and wood,

But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good.

I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise,

For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of

Fame,'

It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name.

And then I met a woman--now comes the funny part--

With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see

Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me;

But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given,

And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven.

"Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give,

With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;

With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-nor, and a wealth of chestnut

hair?

If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,

Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way;

And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprize,

Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

"It didn't take long to know him, and before a month had flown,

My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone;

And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,

The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead.

"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why I never saw you smile,

I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while.

Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a tear-drop in your eye,

Come, laugh like me; 'tis only babes and women that cry.

"Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad,

And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad.

Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score--

You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor."

Another drink, and, with chalk in hand, the vagabond began

To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.

Then as he placed another look upon the shapely head,

With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture dead.

THE FUNERAL OF THE FLOWERS

BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE

The summer is ended, and we have all been invited to attend the Funeral

of the Flowers. It occurred on a long slope which at one side dipt into

the warm valleys, and on the other side arose very high into the frosty

air, so that on one boundary line lived cactus and orange-blossom and

camellia, and on the other resided balsam-pine and Alpine strawberry,

and all kinds of growths between.

Living midway that steep slope of land there was a rose, that in common

parlance we called "Giant of Battle." It was red and fiery, looking as

if it had stood on fields of carnage where the blood dashed to the lip.

It was a hero among flowers. Many of the grasses of the field worshiped

it as a god, the mignonette burning incense beneath it, the marigold

throwing glittering rays of beauty before it, the mistletoe crawling at

its feet. The fame of this Giant of Battle was world-wide, and some

said that its ancestors on the father's side had stood on the plains of

Waterloo, and on its mother's side at Magneta, and drank themselves

drunk on human gore. But children are not to blame for what their

ancestors do, and this rose, called Giant of Battle, was universally

adored.

But the Giant got sick. Whether it was from the poisonous breath of the

Nightshade that had insolently kissed him, or from grief at the loss of

a Damask-rose that had first won his heart by her blushes, and then

died, we know not; but the Giant of Battle was passing rapidly away.

There was great excitement up and down the slopes. A consultation of

botanical physicians was called, and Doctor Eglantine came and thrust a

thorn for a lancet into the Giant's veins, on the principle that he had

too much blood and was apoplectic, and Doctor Balm of Gilead attempted

to heal the pain by poultices; but still the Giant grew worse and worse.

The Primrose called in the evening to see how the dying hero was, and

the Morning-glory stopt before breakfast to see if it could do any good.

Every flower or grass that called had a prescription for him that would

surely cure. Neighbor Horse-sorrel suggested acids, and Honeysuckle

proposed sugars, and Myrrh suggested bitters, and Ladies'-slipper,

having taken off her shoes, said all the patient wanted was more quiet

about the room.

But too much changing of medicine only made the Giant more and more

sick, and one afternoon, while sitting up in bed with a cup of

honeysuckle to his lips, and with the fan of the south wind fluttering

in his face, his head dropt and he died. As the breath went out of him a

Clematis that had been overlooking the sad scene, said: "What time is

it?" and a cluster of Four-o'clocks answered, "A little past the middle

of the afternoon."

The next morning the funeral bells all rang: the Blue-bells and the

Canterbury-bells and the Fox-glove-bells and Hare-bells and all the

flowerdom came to the obsequies of the Giant of Battle. He was laid out

on a trellis, and on a catafalque, such as dead monarchs never had, of

dahlia and phlox and magnolia and geranium and gladiola. There was a

great audience of flowers. Solemnity came down upon them. Even the

Cock's-comb stopt strutting, and Larkspur ceased her fickleness, and

Snapdragon looked gentle, and Snowdrop seemed to melt, and

Bachelor's-button wished it had some one to express its grief to. The

Passion-flower came in and threw herself on the pale cheek of the Giant

with most ardent demonstration of affection. Amaranth and Hydrangea and

Daffodil and Spiderwort and Spiræa having come far from the night and

dew, stood around with their eyes full of tears.

The funeral services began. Rose of Sharon and Lily of the Valley took

part in them. The Star of Bethlehem sang a hymn to the tune of Bonny

Doon. Forget-me-not said a few words of commemoration. Then Heartsease

arose for the work of comfort, and read the lesson of the day: "As a

flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it,

and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more." And all

the bells, Fox-glove-bells and Blue-bells and Canterbury-bells and

Hare-bells, prolonged the strain through all that day, tolling, tolling

out, "No more! no more!"

CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON IMMORTALITY

BY JOSEPH ADDISON

It must be so: Plato, thou reasonest well!

Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality?

Or, whence this secret dread and inward horror

Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul

Back on herself and startles at destruction?

'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;

'Tis Heaven itself, that points out an hereafter

And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!

Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!

The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;

But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.

OPPORTUNITY

BY JOHN J. INGALLS

Master of human destinies am I

Fame, love and fortune, on my footsteps wait.

Cities and fields I walk, I penetrate

Deserts and seas remote--and passing by

Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late,

I knock unbidden once at every gate--

If sleeping, wake, if feasting, rise, before

I turn away. It is the hour of fate

And they who follow me, reach every state

Mortals desire, and conquer every foe

Save death: but those who doubt or hesitate

Condemned to failure, penury and wo,

Seek me in vain and uselessly implore;

I answer not and I return no more.

OPPORTUNITY'S REPLY

BY WALTER MALONE

They do me wrong who say I come no more,

When once I knock and fail to find you in:

For every day I stand outside your door,

And bid you wake and rise to fight and win.

Wail not for precious changes passed away;

Weep not for golden ages on the wane;

Each night I burn the records of the day;

At sunrise every soul is born again.

Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped;

To vanished joys be blind, and deaf and dumb;

My judgments seat the dead past with its dead,

But never bind a moment yet to come.

THE ERL-KING

BY JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

(_Translated by Sir Walter Scott_)

Oh, who rides by night thro' the woodland so wild?

It is the fond father embracing his child,

And close the boy nestles within his loved arm,

To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm.

"O father, see yonder! see yonder!" he says;

"My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze?"

"Oh, 'tis the Erl-king with his crown and his shroud."

"No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud."

"Oh, come and go with me, thou loveliest child;

By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled;

My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy,

And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy."

"O father, my father, and did you not hear

The Erl-king whisper so low in my ear?"

"Be still, my heart's darling--my child, be at ease;

It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees."

"Oh, wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy?

My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy;

She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and thro' wild,

And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child."

"O father, my father, and saw you not plain,

The Erl-king's pale daughter glide past thro' the rain?"

"Oh, yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon;

It was the gray willow that danced to the moon."

"Oh, come and go with me, no longer delay,

Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away."

"O father! O father! now, now keep your hold,

The Erl-king has seized me--his grasp is so cold!"

Sore trembled the father; he spurr'd thro' the wild,

Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child.

He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread,

But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was dead!

CARCASSONNE

BY M. E. W. SHERWOOD

How old I am! I'm eighty years. I've worked both hard and long,

Yet patient as my life has been, one dearest sight I have not seen,

It almost seems a wrong. A dream I had when life was young.

Alas! our dreams, they come not true.

I thought to see fair Carcassonne,

That lovely city, Carcassonne.

One sees it dimly from the height beyond the mountain blue.

Fain would I walk five weary leagues, I do not mind the road's

fatigues,

Thro' morn and evening's dew.

But bitter frosts would fall at night, and on the grapes that

withered blight,

I could not go to Carcassonne,

I never went to Carcassonne.

They say it is as gay all times as holidays at home.

The gentles ride in gay attire, and in the sun each gilded spire

Shoots up like those at Rome.

The bishop the procession leads, the generals curb their prancing

steeds.

Alas! I saw not Carcassonne.

Alas! I know not Carcassonne.

Our vicar's right. He preaches loud and bids us to beware.

He says, "Oh, guard the weakest part and most the traitor in the

heart

Against ambition's snare."

Perhaps in autumn I can find two sunny days with gentle wind,

I then could go to Carcassonne,

I still could go to Carcassonne.

My God and Father, pardon me, if this my wish offends.

One sees some hope more high than he in age, as in his infancy

To which his heart ascends.

My wife, my son have seen Narbonne, my grandson went to

Perpignan,

But I have not seen Carcassonne,

But I have not seen Carcassonne.

Thus sighed a peasant bent with age, half dreaming in his chair.

I said, "My friend, come, go with me to-morrow; thine eyes shall see

those streets

That seem so fair."

That night there came for passing soul the church-bell's low and

solemn toll.

He never saw gay Carcassonne.

Who has not known a Carcassonne?

THE MUSICIANS

ANONYMOUS

The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure,

And I laughed when the music fell on my ear,

For he and Mirth played a joyful measure,

And they played so loud that I could not hear

The wailing and mourning of souls a-weary,

The strains of sorrow that sighed around;

The notes of my heart sang blithe and cheery,

And I heard no other sound.

Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,

But sometimes a discord was heard by others

Tho only the rhythm was heard by me.

Louder and louder and faster and faster,

The hands of those brothers played strain on strain,

Till, all of a sudden a mighty master

Swept them aside, and Pain,

Pain, the Musician, the soul refiner,

Resting the strings of my quivering heart;

And the air that he played was a plaintive minor,

So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start.

Each note was an echo of awful anguish,

As shrill, as solemn, as sad as slow,

And my soul for a season seemed to languish

And faint with its weight of wo.

With skilful hands that were never weary,

This master of music played strain on strain;

And between the bars of the Miserere

He drew up the strings of my heart again.

And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder

To see that they did not break in two;

They are drawn so tight they will snap asunder

I thought, but instead they grew

In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger,

And I could hear on the stilly air;

Now my ears were deafened by mirth no longer,

The sounds of sorrow, and grief and despair.

And my soul grew tender and kind to others;

My nature grew sweeter and my mind grew broad

And I held all men to be my brothers,

Linked by the chastening rod,

My soul was lifted to God and heaven,

And when on my heart-strings fell again

The hands of Mirth and Pleasure, even,

There was no _discord_ to mar the strain,

For Pain, the Musician, the soul refiner,

Attuned the strings with a master hand,

And whether the music be major or minor,

It is always _sweet_ and grand.

ON THE RAPPAHANNOCK

ANONYMOUS

The sun had set, and in the distant west

The last red streaks had faded; night and rest

Fell on the earth; stilled was the cannon's roar;

And many a soldier slept to wake no more.

'Twas early spring--a calm and lovely night--

The moon had flooded all the earth with light.

On either side the Rappahannock lay

The armies; resting till the break of day

Should call them to renew the fight. So near

Together were the camps that each could hear

The other's sentry call. And now appear

The blazing bivouac fires on every hill,

And save the tramp of pickets all is still.

Between those silent hills in beauty flows

The Rappahannock. How its bosom glows!

How all its sparkling waves reflect the light

And add new glories to the starlit night!

But hark! From Northern hill there steal along

The strains of martial music mixed with song:

"Star Spangled Banner, may'st thou ever wave,

Over the land we shed our blood to save!"

And still they sing those words: "Our cause is just.

We'll triumph in the end; in God we trust;

Star Spangled Banner, wave, forever wave,

Over a land united, free and brave!"

Scarce had this died away when along

The river rose another glorious song:

A thousand lusty throats the chorus sing:

With "Rally Round the Flag," the hilltops ring.

And well they sang. Each heart was filled with joy.

From first in rank to little drummer-boy.

The loud huzzas and wildest cheers were given,

That seemed to cleave the air and reach to heaven.

The Union songs, the loud and heartfelt cheers

Fall in the Southern camp on listening ears.

While talking at their scanty evening meal

They pause and grasp their trusty blades of steel.

Fearless they stand and ready for the fray;

Such sounds can startle them, but not dismay.

Alas! Those strains of music which of yore

Could rouse their hearts are felt by them no more.

When the last echo of the song had died

And all was silent on the Northern side,

There came from Southern hill, with gentle swell,

The air of "Dixe," which was loved so well

By every man that wore the coat of gray,

And is revered and cherished to this day.

"In Dixie's Land" they swore to live and die,

That was their watchword, that their battle-cry.

Then rose on high the wild Confederate yell,

Resounding over every hill and dell.

Cheer after cheer went up that starry night

From men as brave as ever saw the light.

Now all is still. Each side has played its part.

How simple songs will fire a soldier's heart!

But hark! O'er Rappahannock's stream there floats

Another tune; but ah! how sweet the notes.

Not such as lash men's passions into foam,

But--richest gem of song--'tis "Home, Sweet Home!"

Played by the band, it reached the very soul,

And down the veteran's cheeks the tear-drops stole.

On either side the stream, from North and South,

Men who would march up to the cannon's mouth

Wept now like children. Tender hearts and true

Were beating 'neath those coats of gray and blue.

The sentry stopt and rested on his gun,

While back to home his thoughts unhindered run.

He thought of loving wife and children there

Deprived of husband's and of father's care.

And stripling lads, scarce strong enough to bear

The weight of saber or of knapsack, tried

To stop their tears with foolish, boyish pride.

They might as well have sought to stop the tide!

Through both those hostile camps the music stole

And stirred each soldier to his inmost soul.

From North and South, in sympathy, there rose

A shout tremendous; forgetting they were foes,

Both armies joined and shouted with one voice

That seemed to make the very heavens rejoice.

Sweet music's power! One chord doth make us wild.

But change the strain, we weep as little child.

Touch yet another, men charge the battery-gun,

And by those martial strains a victory's won!

But there's one strain that friends and foes will win,

One magic touch that makes the whole world kin:

No heart so cold, but will, tho far it roam,

Respond with tender thrill to "Home, Sweet Home!"

COMO

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

The red-clad fishers row and creep

Below the craigs, as half asleep,

Nor even make a single sound.

The walls are steep,

The waves are deep;

And if the dead man should be found

By these same fishers in their round,

Why, who shall say but he was drowned?

The lake lay bright, as bits of broken moon

Just newly set within the cloven earth;

The ripened fields drew round a golden girth

Far up the steppes, and glittered in the noon.

And when the sun fell down, from leafy shore

Fond lovers stole in pairs to ply the oar.

The stars, as large as lilies, flecked the blue;

From out the Alps the moon came wheeling through

The rocky pass the great Napoleon knew.

A gala night it was--the season's prime;

We rode from castled lake to festal town,

To fair Milan--my friend and I; rode down

By night, where grasses waved in rippled rhyme;

And so what theme but love in such a time?

His proud lip curved the while in silent scorn

At thought of love; and then, as one forlorn,

He sighed, then bared his temples, dashed with gray,

Then mocked, as one outworn and well blasé.

A gorgeous tiger-lily, flaming red,

So full of battle, of the trumpets blare,

Of old-time passion, upreared its head.

I galloped past, I leaned, I clutched it there.

From out the long, strong grass I held it high,

And cried, "Lo! this to-night shall deck her hair

Through all the dance. And mark! the man shall die

Who dares assault, for good or ill design,

The citadel where I shall set this sign."

He spoke no spare word all the after while.

That scornful, cold, contemptuous smile of his!

Why, better men have died for less than this.

Then in the hall the same old hateful smile!

Then marvel not that when she graced the floor,

With all the beauties gathered from the four

Far quarters of the world, and she, my fair,

The fairest, wore within her midnight hair

My tiger-lily--marvel not, I say,

That he glared like some wild beast well at bay!

Oh, she shone fairer than the summer star,

Or curled sweet moon in middle destiny.

More fair than sunrise climbing up the sea,

Where all the loves of Ariadne are.

Who loves, who truly loves, will stand aloof,

The noisy tongue makes most unholy proof

Of shallow waters--all the while afar

From out the dance I stood, and watched my star,

My tiger-lily, borne an oriflamme of war.

A thousand beauties flashed at love's advance,

Like bright white mice at moonlight in their play,

Or sunfish shooting in the shining bay,

The swift feet shot and glittered in the dance.

Oh, have you loved, and truly loved, and seen

Aught else the while than your own stately queen?

Her presence, it was majesty--so tall;

Her proud development encompassed--all.

She filled all space. I sought, I saw but her.

I followed as some fervid worshiper.

Adown the dance she moved with matchless pace.

The world--my world--moved with her. Suddenly

I questioned whom her cavalier might be.

'Twas he! His face was leaning to her face!

I clutched my blade; I sprang; I caught my breath,

And so stood leaning still as death.

And they stood still. She blushed, then reached and tore

The lily as she passed, and down the floor

She strewed its _heart_ like bits of gushing gore.

'Twas he said heads, not hearts, were made to break.

He taught me this that night in splendid scorn.

I learned too well. The dance was done. Ere morn

We mounted--he and I--but no more spake.

And this for woman's love! My lily worn

In her dark hair in pride to be thus torn

And trampled on for this bold stranger's sake!

_Two_ men rode silent back toward the lake.

_Two_ men rode silent down, but only _one_

Rode _up_ at _morn_ to greet the _rising sun_.

The walls are steep,

The waves are deep;

And if the dead man should be found

By red-clad fishers in their round,

Why, who shall say but he was--drowned?

AUX ITALIENS

BY OWEN MEREDITH

At Paris it was, at the Opera there;

And she looked like a queen in a book, that night,

With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,

And the brooch on her breast, so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore;

And Mario can soothe with a tenor note

The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;

And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,

As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,

"_Non ti scordar di me?_"

The emperor there, in his box of state,

Looked grave, as if he had just then seen

The red flag wave from the city-gate,

Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye.

You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,

For one moment, under the old blue sky,

To the old glad life in Spain.

Well! there in our front-row box we sat

Together, my bride-betrothed and I;

My gaze was fixt on my opera-hat,

And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad.

Like a queen, she leaned on her full white arm,

With that regal, indolent air she had;

So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then

Of her former lord, good soul that he was!

Who died the richest and roundest of men,

The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,

Through a needle's eye he had not yet to pass;

I wish him well for the jointure given

To my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love,

As I had not been thinking of aught for years,

Till over my eyes there began to move

Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time,

When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees, together,

In that lost land, in that soft clime,

In the crimson evening weather;

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot),

And her warm, white neck in its golden chain.

And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot,

And falling loose again;

And the jasmine-flower in her fair, young breast;

Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower,

And the one bird singing alone to his nest,

And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife,

And the letter that brought me back my ring,

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life,

Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill,

Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over.

And I thought ... "were she only living still,

How I could forgive her and love her."

And I swear, as I thought thus, in that hour,

And of how, after all, old things were best,

That I smelt the smell of that jasmine-flower,

Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,

It made me creep, and it made me cold!

Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet

When a mummy is half unrolled.

And I turned and looked. She was sitting there

In a dim box, over the stage; and drest

In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,

And that jasmine in her breast!

I was here, and she was there,

And the glittering horseshoe curved between--

From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair,

And her sumptuous, scornful mien.

To my early love, with her eyes downcast,

And over her primrose face the shade

(In short, from the Future back to the Past),

There was but one step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride

One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door,

I traversed the passage; and down at her side

I was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her, or the music's strain,

Or something which never will be exprest,

Had brought her back from the grave again,

With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!

But she loves me now, and she loved me then!

And the very first word that her sweet lips said,

My heart grew youthful again.

The marchioness there, of Carabas,

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still,

And but for her ... well, we'll let that pass--

She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love,

With her primrose face; for old things are best,

And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above

The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin,

And Love must cling where it can, I say;

For Beauty is easy enough to win,

But one isn't loved every day.

And I think, in the lives of most women and men,

There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,

If only the dead could find out when

To come back and be forgiven.

But oh, the smell of that jasmine-flower!

And oh, that music! and oh, the way

That voice rang out from the donjon tower,

_Non ti scordar di me, non ti scordar di me!_

INDEX

A

Adams, Charles Fallen, 185

Adeler, Max, 141

A-feared of a Gal, 237

Afternoon, One, 196

Agnes, I Lore Thee!, 81

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 47

Almost Beyond Endurance, 89

Amateur Night, 98

Amsbary, Wallace Bruce, 107

And She Cried, 68

Anstey, F., 210

At Five-o'clock Tea, 143

At the Restaurant, 235

Aux Italiens, 322

B

Bachelor Sews on a Button, How a, 154

Bailey, James M., 57

Baine, William, 282

Banging a Sensational Novelist, 83

Barbara Frietchie, Parody on, 137

Bary Jade, Lides to, 168

Becky Miller, 115

Before and After, 139

Belagcholly Days, 93

Bengaugh, J. W., 110

Beyond Endurance, Almost, 89

Big Mistake, A, 129

Big Words, Don't Use, 163

Billy of Nebraska, 110

Blackstonian Circumlocution, His, 233

Blossom, Henry M., Jr., 152

Book Agent, The Merchant and the, 134

Boss, John C., 247

Bounding the United States, 101

Boy, Dot Leetle, 69

Boy, Papa and the, 208

Bradley, Mary E., 154

Break, Break, Break, 277

Bridegroom's Toast, The, 203

Brooks, Fred Emerson, 40

Burbank, 261

Burdette, Robert J., 199

Burton, Richard, 267

Byron, 269

C

Candidate, The, 193

Carcassonne, 314

Card, The C'rrect, 300

Cards, Life Compared to a Game of, 289

Carlotta Mia, 228

Casey at the Bat, 147

Casuistry, Cupid's, 39

Cato's Soliloquy on Immortality, 311

Chance, They Met by, 203

"Charlie Must Not Ring To-night", 169

Checkers, A Friendly Game of, 150

Christopher Columbus, 155

Circumlocution, His Blackstonian, 233

Coles, Cynthia, 146

Como, 319

Content, I Am, 274

Coon's Lullaby, The, 136

Corydon, 47

Counting Eggs, 86

Counting One Hundred, 57

Crooked Mouth Family, The, 122

C'rrect Card, The, 300

Cupid's Casuistry, 39

Curfew, The Elocutionist's, 24

Cyclopeedy, The, 239

D

Daly, T. A., 114, 228

Dandy Fifth, The, 293

Da 'Mericana Girl, 114

D'Arcy, H. Antoine, 306

Davis, Daniel Webster, 49

Dead Kitten, The, 33

Desprez, F., 284

Dialectic Sketch, A Lancashire, 232

Dickens, Charles, 216

Difficulty of Riming, The, 179

Doctor Marigold, 216

Dog und der Lobster, Der, 102

Don't Use Big Words, 163

Dot lambs Vot Mary Haf Got, 112

Dot Leedle Boy, 69

Double, and How He Undid Me, My, 171

Drummond, W. H., 271

Dunbar, Paul Laurence, 35, 153

Dundreary's Letter, Lord, 131

Dunne, Finlay Peter, 73

Dutchman's Serenade, The, 220

E

Eagle's Song, The, 275

Earl King, The, 313

Echo, 244

Edwards, H. S., 44

Ehrmann, Max, 98

Eggs, Counting, 86

Elocutionist's Curfew, The, 24

Enchanted Shirt, The, 183

Endurance, Almost Beyond, 89

Engineer's Story, The, 303

Eve of Waterloo, The, 269

F

Face Upon the Floor, The, 306

Faith, The Ship of, 187

Fairies' Tea, The, 85

Familiar Lines, 149

Fan, A Lesson with the, 50

Feller, A little, 126

Father's Way, 272

Field, Eugene, 239, 272

Fiend, The Weather, 34

Fifteen Minutes, Her, 28

Finnigan to Flannigan, 175

Fiske, John, 101

Five-o'clock Tea, At, 143

Flannigan, Finnigan to, 175

Flowers, The Funeral of the, 309

Foss, S. W., 213, 287

Fly, The, 156

Foolin', Quit Your, 250

Fool's Prayer, The, 268

Foxes' Tails, The, 29

Freckled-face Girl, The, 96

Funeral of the Flowers, The, 309

G

Gal, A-feared of a, 237

Gassaway, F. H., 293

Georga Washingdone, 113

Gib Him One ub Mine, 49

Gilbert, W. S., 157

Gillinan, S. W., 175

Girl, The Freckled-face, 96

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 313

Gorilla, The, 82

Grape-seed, 190

Grilley, Charles T., 39, 139

Greek Meets Greek, When, 140

H

Hale, Edward Everett, 171

Hammock, Romance of a, 173

Harbour, J. L., 208

Harp of a Thousand Strings, The, 177

Hat in the Pit, The Obstructive, 210

Hatton, Henry, 104

Hay, John, 183

He Laughed Last, 103

Heaton, John L., 160

Henry the Fifth's Wooing, 254

Hens, Lavery's, 201

He Wanted to Know, 188

Her Fifteen Minutes, 28

His Blackstonian Circumlocution, 233

His Leg Shot Off, 224

Hood, Thomas, 78

Hopkins' Last Moments, 84

How a Bachelor Sews on a Button, 154

Hullo, 213

Huntley, Stanley, 204

I

I Am Content, 274

Idyl on "Grass," A Spring, 52

Idyl, A Twilight, 199

If I Can Be By Her, 65

If We Had the Time, 267

I Knew He Would Come if I Waited, 76

"Imph-M", 124

Ingalls, John J., 312

Introducin' the Speecher, 54

Introduction, An, 177

Irish Philosopher, The, 91

Irving, Minna, 68

Irwin, Wallace, 229

Italiens, Aux, 322

I Tol' Yer So, 160

J

Joke, Leaving Out the, 238

Julie Plante, The Wreck of the, 271

K

Khan, The, 225

Katie's Answer, 79

Katrina Likes Me Poody Vell, 234

Keep A'goin'!, 145

Kerr, Joe, 161

King, Byron W., 42

King, Benjamin Franklin, 65

Kiser, S. E., 95

Kitten, The Dead, 33

Kleiser, Grenville, 60

L

Lamb, The Original, 95

Lambs Vot Mary Haf Got, Dot, 112

Lampton, W. J., 39

Lancashire Dialectic Sketch, A, 232

Lariat Bill, 192

Lasca, 284

Last Moments, Hopkins', 84

Laughed Last, He, 103

Laughton, James L., 251

Lavery's Hens, 201

Leacock, Stephen, 25

Leaving Out the Joke, 238

Leg Shot Off, His, 224

Lesson with the Fan, A, 50

Letter, Lord Dundreary's, 131

Lever, Charles, 222

Life Compared to a Game of Cards, 289

Lides to Bary Jade, 168

Lincoln, On, 296

Lisp, 202

Little Stowaway, The, 296

Loomis, Charles Battell, 167

Lord Dundreary's Letter, 131

Lover's Quarrel, A, 146

Love's Moods and Senses, 77

"L," Song of the, 60

Lullaby, 153

Lullaby, The Coon's, 136

M

Macaulay, 277

MacDonald, George, 118

Malone, Walter, 312

Malone, Widow, 222

Mammy's Li'l Boy, 44

Man Who Will Make a Speech, The, 227

Mansfield, Richard, 275

Marketing, 52

Married Life, Ups and Downs of, 121

Mason, She Would be a, 251

Masson, Tom, 28

Mayor, Pat and the, 116

McCarthy and McManus, 66

Melpomenus Jones, 25

Merchant and the Book Agent, The, 134

Meredith, Owen, 322

'Mericana Girl, Da, 114

Miller, Joaquin, 319

Mistake, A Big, 129

Mr. Dooley on the Grip, 73

Mr. Potts' Story, 141

Modern Romance, 152

Morgan, Carrie Blake, 51

Morris, Joshua S., 177

Mule Stood on der Steamboat Deck, Der, 164

Mumbles Head, The Women of, 279

Musicians, The, 315

My Double, and How He Undid Me, 171

N

"Nancy Bell," The Yarn of the, 157

Nesbit, W. D., 24

New School Reader, The, 165

Nocturnal Sketch, A, 78

Norah Murphy and the Spirits, 104

Nothing Suited Him, 126

Not In It, 198

Nye, Bill, 193

O

Oak und der Vine, Der, 185

Oatmobile, The, 87

Obstructive Hat in the Pit, The, 210

Old Daddy Turner, 290

One Afternoon, 196

On Lincoln, 296

On the Rappahannock, 317

Opie Read, 107

Opportunity, 312

Opportunity, An, 190

Opportunity's Reply, 312

Oracle, The Village, 62

Organist, The Volunteer, 287

Original Lamb, The, 95

Our Railroads, 245

P

Papa and the Boy, 208

Parody on Barbara Frietchie, 137

Passion, The Ruling, 219

Pat and the Mayor, 116

Pat's Reason, 249

Philosopher, The Irish, 91

Phrases, Slang, 133

Poor Was Mad, The, 167

Prayer, The Fool's, 268

Presentation of the Trumpet, 162

Proof Positive, 90

Q

Quarrel, A Lover's, 146

Quarreled, They Never, 58

Quit Your Foolin', 250

R

Race Question, The, 35

Railroads, Our, 245

Rainy Day Episode, A, 75

Rappahannock, On the, 317

Reader, The New School, 165

Reason, Pat's, 249

Reason Why, The, 154

Rehearsing for Private Theatricals, 204

Reply, Opportunity's, 312

Restaurant, At the, 235

Riley, James Whitcomb, 23, 69, 89

Riming, The Difficulty of, 179

Ring To-night, Charlie Must Not, 169

"Rip Van Winkle," Scenes from, 261

Rivals, Scenes from the, 258

Robin Tamson's Smiddy, 127

Roche, James Jeffrey, 206

Rodger, Alexander, 127

Romance, Modern, 152

Romance of a Hammock, 173

Ruling Passion, The, 219

S

Saint Crispian's Day, 299

Saxe, John G., 244

Scott, Clement, 279

Sensational Novelist, Banging a, 83

Serenade, The Dutchman's, 220

Sermon, A Short, 231

Shakespeare, 254, 299

She Would Be a Mason, 251

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 258

Sherwood, M. E. W., 314

Ship of Faith, The, 187

Shirt, The Enchanted, 183

Short Encore, A, 170

Short Sermon, A, 231

Sill, Edward Rowland, 268

Sims, George R., 300

Siviter, William H., 219

Slang Phrases, 133

Smiddy, Robin Tamson's, 127

Smiley, Joseph Bert, 181

Song, The Eagle's, 275

Song of the "L.", 60

So Was I, 181

"'Späcially Jim", 80

Speecher, Introducin' the, 54

Speech, The Man Who Will Make a, 227

Spirits, Norah Murphy and the, 104

Spring Idyl on "Grass," A, 52

Stanton, Frank L., 145

Story, The Engineer's, 303

Stowaway, The Little, 296

Stuttering Umpire, The, 225

Sylva, Carmen, 274

T

Talmadge, T. De Witt, 309

Telephone, The Dutchman's, 214

Tell and His Boy, William, 282

Tennyson, Alfred, 277

Thayer, Phineas, 147

Theatricals, Rehearsing for Private, 204

They Never Quarreled, 58

Thorpe, Rosa H., 303

Time, If We Had the, 267

Toast, The Bridegroom's, 203

Total Annihilation, 120

Train, Misses the, 23

Tramp, The, 292

Trumpet, Presentation of the, 162

Turner, Old Daddy, 290

Twain, Mark, 177

Twilight Idyl, A, 199

U

Undertow, The, 51

United States, Bounding the, 101

Umpire, The Stuttering, 225

Ups and Downs of Married Life, The, 121

Usual Way, The, 125

V

V-a-s-e, The, 206

Vassar Girl, The, 229

Village Choir, The, 108

Village Oracle, The, 62

Virginius, 277

Volunteer Organist, The, 287

W

Wade, Morris, 143

Wakin' the Young 'Uns, 247

Watchin' the Sparkin', 40

Waterloo, The Eve of, 269

Waterman, Nixon, 52

Way, Father's, 272

Way, The Usual, 125

Way of a Woman, The, 42

Weather Fiend, The, 34

When Greek Meets Greek, 140

When Ma Lady Yawns, 39

When Pa Was a Boy, 95

When the Woodbine Turns Red, 38

Whitman, Walt, 296

Widow Malone, 222

William Tell and His Boy, 282

Williamson, H. G., 76

Willie, 98

Wind and the Moon, The, 118

Woman, The Ways of a, 42

Women of Mumbles Head, The, 279

Woodbine Turns Red, When the, 38

Wreck of the Julie Plante, The, 271

Y

Yacht Club Speech, The, 43

Yarn of the "Nancy Bell," The, 157

Yawns, When Ma Lady, 39

"You Git Up!", 161

HOW TO DEVELOP

Power _and_ Personality

IN SPEAKING

By GRENVILLE KLEISER

Author of "How to Speak in Public." Introduction by Lewis O. Brastow,

D.D., _Professor Emeritus, Yale Divinity School_

This new book gives practical suggestions and exercises for Developing

Power and Personality in Speaking. It has many selections for practise.

$POWER.$--Power of Voice--Power of Gesture--Power of Vocabulary-Power of

Imagination--Power of English Style--Power of Illustration--Power of

Memory--Power of Extempore Speech--Power of Conversation--Power of

Silence--Power of a Whisper--Power of the Eye.

$PERSONALITY.$--More Personality for the Lawyer--The Salesman--The

Preacher--The Politician--The Physician--The Congressman--The Alert

Citizen.

"I give it my hearty commendation. It should take its place upon the

library shelves of every public speaker; be read carefully, consulted

frequently, and held as worthy of faithful obedience. For lack of the

useful hints that here abound, many men murder the truth by their method

of presenting it."--S. PARKES CADMAN, D.D., Brooklyn, N. Y.

_12mo, Cloth, 443 Pages. $1.60, Net; by mail, $1.74_

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers

NEW YORK AND LONDON

* * * * *

HOW TO SPEAK IN PUBLIC

_A Most Suggestive and Practical Self-Instructor_

By GRENVILLE KLEISER

Author of "Power and Personality in Speaking," etc.

This new book is a complete elocutionary manual comprizing numerous

exercises for developing the speaking voice, deep breathing,

pronunciation, vocal expression, and gesture; also selections for

practise from masterpieces of ancient and modern eloquence. It is

intended for students, teachers, business men, lawyers, clergymen,

politicians, clubs, debating societies, and, in fact, every one

interested in the art of public speaking.

_OUTLINE OF CONTENTS_

Mechanics of Elocution

Mental Aspects

Public Speaking

Selections for Practise

Previous Preparation

Physical Preparation

Mental Preparation

Moral Preparation

Preparation of Speech

"It is admirable and practical instruction in the technic of speaking,

and I congratulate you upon your thorough work."--_Hon. Albert J.

Beveridge._

"The work has been very carefully and well compiled from a large number

of our best works on the subject of elocution. It contains many

admirable suggestions for those who are interested in becoming better

speakers. As a general text for use in teaching public speaking, it may

be used with great success."--_John W. Wetzel_, formerly Instructor in

Public Speaking, Yale University, New Haven, Conn.

_12mo, Cloth. $1.60, net; post-paid, $1.74_

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers

NEW YORK AND LONDON

* * * * *

_HERE'S A MERRY BOOK BY A MERRY MAN_

THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE STREET

By MARSHALL P. WILDER

_Author of "Smiling 'Round the World"_

"His book--like American conversation--is made up of anecdotes. He talks

intimately of Richard Croker, President McKinley, President Harrison,

Joseph Jefferson, Senator Depew, Henry Watterson, Gen. Horace Porter,

Augustin Daly, Henry Irving, Buffalo Bill, King Edward VII., Mrs.

Langtry, and a host of other personages, large and small, and

medium-sized. He tells many good stories. We can recommend his book as

cheerful reading."--_New York Times._

"What the editor thinks of it may be summed up in the statement that he

uses it instead of calling the doctor."--_Burlington Hawk-Eye._

"Reading the book is like listening to a humorous lecture by Marshall P.

Wilder, full of wit and brightness, and it will cheer and comfort the

most morose man or woman just to read it."--_Baltimore American._

_12mo, Cloth. Humorous Pen-and-Ink Sketches by Bart Haley. Frontispiece

Portrait of Mr. Wilder._

_Price $1.50, Net; Post-Paid, $1.64_

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers

NEW YORK AND LONDON

* * * * *

_ANOTHER ROARING FUN BOOK!_

SMILING 'ROUND THE WORLD

By MARSHALL P. WILDER

_Author of "The Sunny Side of the Street"_

"_Laugh and the world laughs with you_" can be truly said of Marshall P.

Wilder, the captivating entertainer of Presidents, Kings, Princes, and

the great public. As the Hon. Chauncey M. Depew says, "His mirth is

contagious," and as the Right Hon. Henry Labouchere remarked, "He makes

melancholy fly apace." You'll find laughs bubbling all through this new

book.

_SOME OPINIONS FROM THE NEWSPAPERS_

"There are many cheerful, amusing incidents of travel. It is a very

readable and entertaining book."--_Democrat and Chronicle_, Rochester,

N. Y.

"A marvelous lot of 'sunny stuff' is to be found in Mr. Wilder's latest

book. He merrily prattles of a thousand different things and of as many

different people."--_Record_, Philadelphia, Pa.

"Written in that bright, breezy manner, with its mingled touches of

humor and pathos and keen scrutiny of human nature so characteristic of

Mr. Wilder."--_Post_, Boston, Mass.

_12mo, Cloth, Profusely Illustrated. Price, $1.50, Net; Post-paid,

$1.64_

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers

NEW YORK AND LONDON