JESSICA (_points L_).――T. O. M.

MRS. PET.――T. O. M.? Tom who?

JESSICA.――No, no! The――old――man; my father, Moses Shylock, is creeping

up the gravel path. Hide me! Do not betray me!

MRS. PET.――

Though all the world should crack their duty,

And throw it from their soul; though perils did

Abound as thick as thought could make them, and

Appear in forms more horrid; yet would I

Be true; yea, true as truth itself,

And stand unshaken yours,――

Away to the kitchen and you are safe!

JESSICA.――I love my father, but I fear his righteous rage.

MRS. PET.――Stay, then; confess and ask his pardon.

JESSICA (_Shakes head sadly and exits R_).

MRS. PET.――

What! gone without a word?

Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak;

For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

[_Enter_ SHYLOCK, _door F_.]

MRS. PET.――How now, Shylock? What news among the merchants? What will

you loan upon my ulster?

SHYLOCK.――Take it to my brother Solomon, on the Rialto; he’ll give you

liberally and charge you naught for camphor.

MRS. PET.――Have you heard from your daughter, and your son-in-law,

Lorenzo, lately?

SHYLOCK.――No, no; not I. All hope to find her long hath fled. One-half

the jewels that she took no doubt Lorenzo pawned; and yet the

thankless knave sent me not e’en a ticket to redeem the goods!

MRS. PET.――’Tis said, for satisfaction’s sake, you now refuse to grant

renewal of your loans, e’en though the interest thereon be paid; ay,

that Antonio, the poor butcher, will lose the meats that now are

forfeit. Why take his venison? Wilt answer, Shylock?

SHYLOCK.――

I hate him, for he is a Christian;

But more, for that, in low simplicity,

He lends out money gratis, and brings down

The rate of usance here with us in Venice.

If I can catch him once upon the hip

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.

He hates our sacred nation; and he rails

Even there where merchants most do congregate,

On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,

Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe

If I forgive him.

MRS. PET.――If I were his wife you would not thus berate the man. If

Petruchio could speak, he’d say so too.

SHYLOCK.――I seek my truant child; I heard she lived, not long since,

hereabouts.

MRS. PET.――Excuse me, Mr. Shylock, call again.

SHYLOCK.――Have you any old garments to sell?

MRS. PET.――Leave, and call again; two neighbors now approach who may

mistake the object of your visit. Go! Leave by the side door.

SHYLOCK.――

O father Abraham, what these Christians are,

Whose own hard dealings teach them to suspect

The thoughts of others! Adieu! [_Exit L._]

MRS. PET (_looking L_).――O, you miserly old money-grabber, if you

think I will tell on poor Jessica, you know but little of Kate

Petruchio! Go! go! go! you old parent, you stingy father, and con over

your collaterals of watches, fiddles, bibles and pistols!

[_Enter_ MISS HELENA _and_ MRS. OTHELLO, _door F.;

they pause and observe_ MRS. PETRUCHIO.]

If I was your wife wouldn’t I take the kinks out of those grizzly

locks, though!

MRS. OTHELLO (_to_ HELENA).――What should this mean?

HELENA.――O what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!

MRS. PET.――Ah, ladies, kind, sweet neighbors, how glad I am to see you

here!

MRS. OTHELLO.――Do you have any pain here? (_Touches head_).

HELENA.――Is not the plumb-bob of your mental plumb-line out of plumb?

MRS. PET.――

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.

My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,

And makes as healthful music: It is not madness

That I have uttered: bring me to the test,

And I the matter will re-word, which madness

Would gambol from.

Saw you not that animated gaberdine descend my garden path?

MRS. OTHELLO.――You do not mean our mutual uncle, Moses Shylock; from

whom, however, I never borrow.

HELENA.――Nor I.

MRS. PETRUCHIO.――Do you mean to insinuate that I presume upon his

kinship to obtain loans?

MRS. OTHELLO.――What have I done that thou dar’st wag thy tongue in

noise so rude against me?

HELENA.――Hist! he comes!

MRS. PETRUCHIO.――Who comes?

HELENA.――My Romeo.

MRS. OTHELLO.――Your Romeo! Forsooth you have not spoken to him more

than twice.

ROMEO (_Without, singing_).――

“Oh, meet me by moonlight alone,

And then I will tell you a tale

Must be told in the moonlight alone,

In the grove――――”

HELENA.――

If music be the food of love, sing on,

Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken and so die.

MRS. PET.――

This music mads me; let it sound no more,

For though it have helped mad men to their wits,

In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.

ROMEO (_without, sings_).――

“Oh, meet me by moonlight a ―― ―― ―― ―― ―― lone!”

HELENA.――

That strain again; it had a dying fall;

Oh, it came o’er my ear like the sweet south,

That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing and giving odor.

ROMEO (_without, sings_).――

“Yes, meet――yes, meet――yes, meet me by moonlight a――lone.”

MRS. PET.――Horrible! monstrous! was ever sound so nerve-destroying

heard save from the larynx of a dying calf? I despise these daylight

serenades.

MRS. OTHELLO.――

The woman that hath no music in herself,

Nor is not woo’d with concord of sweet sounds,

Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;

The motions of her spirit are dull as night,

And her affections dark as Erebus:

Let no such dame be trusted!

MRS. PET.――Ha! this is more than I can brook; my tongue’s my own to

wag it as I will, therefore attempt not to criticise my criticisms――――I

repeat, the fellow sings like a Scandinavian bag-pipe.

HELENA.――Ladies, pray be still! He may hear your dreadful comments.

[_Knock heard at door._]

’Tis he!

MRS. OTHELLO.――Let him not in until I depart! If Mr. Othello should

happen to step in and find me in company with this gallant youth his

jealousy would know no bounds!

[_Knock repeated._]

MRS. PET.――Nonsense! I hope he does come, I’d like to give him my

opinion of jealous husbands――

Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine

To joyless dread, and mak’st the loving heart

With hateful thoughts to languish and to pine,

And feed itself with self-consuming smart;

Of all the passions in the mind thou vilest art!

ROMEO (_without_).――I suppose there’s no one home. (_Knocks_). Hello!

anybody in?

HELENA (_opens door_).――Mr. Romeo! how delightful this surprise.

ROMEO (_enters_).――To me this is a pleasure sweet, sweet beyond

comparison. (_Aside._) Her looks do argue her replete with modesty.

HELENA.――It gives me wonder, great as my content, to see you here

before me.

MRS. PET.――

Sir, you are very welcome to our house:

It must appear in other ways than words,

Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy.

MRS. OTHELLO.――

A hundred thousand welcomes; I could weep,

And I could laugh; I am light and heavy――welcome.

[_Looks about cautiously._]

Yea, I could laugh and weep (_aside_.) It entirely depends upon the

movements of Mr. Othello. He’s so jealous.

MRS. PET.――Be seated, friend Romeo; Miss Helena will entertain you

while Mrs. Othello and I see that the festive board is spread below.

Come, away to the pantry!

[_Exit followed by_ MRS. OTHELLO.]

ROMEO (_places a chair for Helena_).

(_Aside_) There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip,

Nay, her foot speaks. (_Aloud._) Be seated, miss.

HELENA.――Thank you, sir. (_Aside._) I know not why I love this youth.

ROMEO.――

Helena, I love thee; by my life I do;

I swear by that which I will lose for thee,

To prove him false that says I love thee not!

HELENA.――Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ay, and I will take

thy word.

ROMEO (_takes chair_).――

O happy fair!

Your eyes are load-stars, and your tongue’s sweet air,

More tunable than lark to shepherds’ ear,

When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.

HELENA.――You have bereft me of all words.

ROMEO (_aside_).――

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

O that I were a glove upon that hand,

That I might touch that cheek!

[_Knock at door._]

(_Aloud._) Ah, me! for aught that I could ever read;

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth.

[_Rises and opens door._]

[_Enter_ SHYLOCK _with old garments on his arm_.]

HELENA (_rising_).――

His horrid image doth unfix my hair,

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs.

ROMEO.――

Angels and ministers of grace, defend us!

Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned,

Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell;

Be thy intents wicked or charitable

Thou comest in such a questionable shape

That I will speak to thee!

SHYLOCK (_to_ HELENA).――

I do defy him, and I spit at him;

Call him a slanderous coward and a villain,

Which to maintain, I would allow him odds,

And meet him where I tried to run a-foot;

Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps.

[_Throws garments on floor._]

HELENA.――

What cracker is this same that deafs our ears

With this abundance of superfluous breath?

ROMEO.――

He gives the bastinado with his tongue;

Our ears are cudgel’d; not a word of his,

But buffets better than a fist of France:

Zounds, I was never so bethumped with words

Since I first called my brother’s father dad.

SHYLOCK.――Peace! one word: in yonder pile, for little more than half

the cost, a seal-skin wrap and overcoat may grace your youthful forms.

ROMEO (_to_ SHYLOCK _in undertone_).――I pray thee, gentle signor of

the Gilded Balls, say naught before this maid that will reveal the

fact that half my garments now repose upon your shelves.

HELENA (_to_ SHYLOCK).――To-night I’ll steal into thy place of trade,

and, under cover of the evening’s shades, examine well the seal-skin

sack whereof you speak. Say nothing now, sir; mum’s the word!

SHYLOCK.――’Tis in my memory locked, and you yourself shall keep the

key of it.

[_Enter_ JESSICA, MRS. PETRUCHIO _and_ MRS. OTHELLO.]

JESSICA.――Oh! Oh! (_jumps behind_ MRS. PETRUCHIO).

MRS. OTHELLO.――Hide me! Save me!

MRS. PET.――Thou shalt be punished for thus frightening me, thou man of

loans. Be quiet sweet Mrs. Othello, thy husband is not here.

MRS. OTHELLO.――Mr. Romeo, what brings this, our general kinsman, here

upon the scene?

ROMEO.――His business calls him here.

MRS. PET.――Romeo, put him out: mind not his glaring eyes, but put him

hence!

ROMEO.――

Prythee, peace!

I dare do all that may become a man;

Who dares do more is none!

MRS. PET.――

What seek’st thou?

Avaunt, and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!

Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;

Thou hast no speculation in thy eyes

Which thou dost glare with!

HELENA (_to_ SHYLOCK).――

Win her with gifts if she respect not words;

Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind,

More quick than words do move a woman’s mind.

MRS. PET.――See here, old man, just tell me what you want?

SHYLOCK.――

My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!

Fled with a Christian! O my, my Christian ducats!

Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter!

A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,

Stolen by my daughter! Justice! find the girl!

ROMEO.――Poor man!

HELENA.――Why not advertise her in the papers?

MRS. OTHELLO.――Or, like my husband, employ a private detective?

SHYLOCK (_to_ MRS. PETRUCHIO).――Woman, tell me where to find my child!

Lorenzo, he has been set free by the Venice court’s decree. If the

proof you wish to see, take the train for the city by the sea.

MRS. PET.――I know not where Jessica Shylock lives, nor care to hear

your family cares.

SHYLOCK.――

A serpent heart, hid with a flow’ring face,

Did ever dragon keep so fair a case?

Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical!

Just opposite to what thou seem’st――

I see my daughter’s head behind thy ear,

Ay, behind the wig that doth surmount thy head!

MRS. PET.――Me wear a wig? O wrinkled Jew, take back thy child, whom

only kindness taught me to conceal. No more courage now remains: away

with her! In saying that I wear a wig, you crush my heart, and now I

fain would be alone.

JESSICA (_embraces_ SHYLOCK).――Father, forgive me!

ROMEO.――See! the Jew relents!

HELENA.――O gentle Romeo!

MRS. OTHELLO.――I hope I shall get home before the Moor returns!

SHYLOCK (_takes_ MRS. PETRUCHIO’S _hand_.)

You are a widow, and I without a wife,

Seek, vainly seek, for joy in life――

Will you, in short, old Shylock wed?

MRS. PET.――Think you, sir, my reason’s fled. (_Withdrawing hand

indignantly._) Marry you? Never! Sooner would I see you hanged.

SHYLOCK.――But are you happy?

ROMEO.――

Happy in this, she is not yet so old

But she may learn; and happier than this,

She is not bred so dull but she can learn;

Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit

Would ne’er commit itself to yours.

SHYLOCK.――Go to, and why?

MRS. OTHELLO.――

Oh! sir, you are too old;

Nature, in you, stands on the very

Verge of her confine.

HELENA.――

Our hostess needs no fossil staff

On which to lean through life;

The dame in scorn does at you laugh,

Go, seek an older wife!

ALL.――Yes, go! (_pounding and pushing him_.) Go! go! go!

SHYLOCK (_runs to centre and kneels_).――Mercy! (_All take positions._)

[CURTAIN.]

――_George M. Vickers._

[372]The Proud Flag of Freedom.

The proud flag of freedom, unsullied, behold

How cluster about it the glories of years,

As skyward and westward, ’mid purple and gold,

In the land of the sunset, its home, it appears.

America’s token of faith never broken,

Sweet signal that flutters o’er mountain and sea;

That mutely repeats what our fathers have spoken,

That tells the oppressed they may come and be free!

O proud flag of freedom, how swells with delight

The breast of the wand’rer who meets thee afar;

What home-visions come with the gladdening sight,

And how fond dwells his eye on each stripe and each star!

Thus be it forever, while oceans may sever,

Or fate hold in exile, a man from our shore!

Tho’ fairer the clime, an American never

Forgets his own colors, but loves them the more.

Thou proud flag of freedom, so lovely in peace,

So awfully grand in the dread crash of war,

Be ever unfaded ’till nations shall cease,

While there’s room in the blue for another bright star:

From danger defending, still onward, ascending;

The hope of mankind and the envy of none:

_E Pluribus Unum_, our motto transcending,

Till earth’s constellations are blended in one!

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

[372] By permission of J. C. Beckel, Esq., owner of the

copyright.]

Lost in the Mountains.

See you that[373] yellow thread, that, snake-like, winds

High up the mountain side, now hid, now seen,

Now lost[374] to view amid the shelving crags

And stunted pines? That is a rugged pass,

Called, hereabouts, The Devil’s Trail. Just where

We stand,[375] I stood one Autumn day, and heard

The legend from an aged mountaineer,

And, as my mem’ry serves me, word for word,

Like this the story ran:

Mark Lysle, a rich,

Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child,

Long years agone, lived in that house[376] whose red

Roof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and though

You see a light, blue plume of smoke above

The chimney top, yet other hearts now sit

About the hearth and watch its glow, for that

Bright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, died out

One stormy night, never to burn again.

For miles and miles,[377] which way you went, the fame

Of Lysle would greet your ear; his courtesies,

His open house and hospitalities,

Were themes discussed no less than were his quick

Resentment of a fancied slight, his fierce,

Hot temper, when aroused, or swiftness to

Avenge a wrong. But those who knew his child,

Who saw her pure, white brow, her gold brown hair,

And read the truth within her hazel eyes,

Deemed her in ev’ry[378] trait of character

His antipode, his very opposite――

A lion him, and her a sweet gazelle.

Together lived they in that[379] red-roofed house,

He, father, brother, lord and slave by turns:

She, ever steadfast, mild, obedient,

So like her mother――an exotic frail,

A Northern lily ’neath a Southern sun.

One Victor Dale, whose acres joined, and stretched[380]

Far west from Lysle’s estate; whose negro huts

Gleamed white amid the evergreens; the man

Her father called his chosen friend, this man,

Her senior by a score of years, and ill

Of feature, sought the maiden’s hand, nay, claimed

It by a compact with her father made

Before her mother’s death. But Maud, sweet Maud,

Who knew not how to hate, whom duty bound,

Whose only statute was her father’s will,

Thus far had viewed her marriage in the light

Of something that she might escape, a thing

She might avoid, that would not come to pass;

As those condemned to death will hope when hope

Is dead, so hung she on the rosy thought,

And comfort took in hoping that it would

Not be; and though his would-be gallantries

Oft filled her with disgust,[381] and oft provoked

A loathing in her breast, she hated not.

Once, on a summer day, with book in hand,

Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch,

Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed:

A sudden cry aroused them both in time

To see a horse, with empty saddle, dash[382]

Across the road and leap the hedge. While yet

They stood amazed some field hands moving slow,

Came up the shaded walk[383] bearing between

Their swarthy forms the helpless body of

A man. With almost woman’s tenderness

Mark Lysle made haste to have the wounded youth

Borne to his choicest room, and summoned quick

A surgeon, nor would rest until assured

His uninvited guest was doing well,

As well as one with broken limb could do.

Thus Henri Clair, an artist, far from home,

Was thrust by fate upon a stranger’s care.

The leaves[384] have lost their summer hue of green;

The purple grapes in clusters thick hang low;

The grain is garnered, and a late bee wings

Its way across the porch. Young Clair and Maud

Stand side by side[385]; the setting sun shines full

Upon their faces[386]: pale is his and sad,

And hers all tenderness and sympathy:

His time to go has come; this night will be

His last beneath her father’s roof. In two

Short months, by merest chance, their youthful hearts

Have learned to beat as one, yet hopelessly.

Behind a tree[387] two other forms crouch low;

Her father, and her suitor, Victor Dale.

They glide away[388] unseen.

That night when all

Were gathered round the hearth, Mark Lysle,

In tones that fell like death upon the ears

Of those who heard him speak, announced

It as his will,[389] that on the coming day

His daughter Maud should wed his chosen friend;

“And, sir,” said he to Clair, “as you must deem

It time to go, I shall not press you to

Remain, but bid you speed upon your way,”

And then, with haughty bow, strode out.[390]

“Farewell,[391]

Until we meet again――” “No,[392] Maud, we must

Not say good-bye; to leave you now would be

To part forever,” then young Clair’s voice sank

Into a whisper; then, with one pure kiss

In haste imprinted on her brow, he left

The room, and then the house.

The tall, old clock

That in the hallway stood, was striking nine

As Maud stole out[393] into the night. Dark clouds

Were rising[394] in the west. The lightning flashed

From out the distant sky;[395] the thunder boomed

And rattled off in echoes ’mong the hills;[396]

The black mass rising soon obscured[397] the stars

O’erhead; then plashing rain drops told the storm

Had burst. “To wed the hand and not the heart

Is sin, far greater than to disobey.

May God forgive me if I err: my heart[398]

Must be my guide.” Thus murmured Maud, as all

Alone she sped across the fields to reach

Yon rugged pass[399] where Clair had gone to wait,

That when she came they both might mount his steed,

And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming they

Would choose that fearful path for flight.

The sun

Shone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though bedecked[400]

With gems. The storm had gone; the night had gone,

And she had gone, the star[401] of Mark Lysle’s home,

Gone――to return no more.

The dark night through,

Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliff

Had watched and listened for his promised bride;

Had bended to the rock his ear,[402] had called,

Loud as he dared, “Maud! I am waiting, Maud!”

But never came reply.

Again, “Here, Maud!”

Then sobbed and sighed the wind,[403] all else was still.

At dawn of day, and fearing that she could

Not brave the storm, all wan and pale he rode

Swift down the steep descent to learn the worst.

He scarce had reached the narrow valley road

Ere Lysle and Dale each bade him halt[404] or die.

Then shouting loud they called the negroes, swore,

And charged him with the maiden’s death or worse.

“She’s lost! O God,[405] she’s lost! Come, follow me!”

Cried Clair; then, struck with cruel spur, his horse

In terror bore him up[406] the winding path.

“I come!” shrieked out his rival, Dale; “I come!”

And off he dashed,[407] his livid face drawn grim

With jealous rage. Then followed Lysle, and then

The throng of blacks, like hounds unleashed.

A cry!

Again a cry of mortal pain was heard!

The throng pressed up, and round[408] a jutting point,

Till came in view a level breadth[409] of rock

That shelved and overhung a sheer descent[410]

Of awful depth. There, like a sculptor’s work

On pedestal of stone, young Henri Clair

Sat rigid on his steed and pointed down[411]

The deep abyss. In horror peered they all

Below, where lay the object of his gaze――

The white, the lifeless form of Maud.

The spell

Was broke by one wild laugh from Henri’s lips.

With curb he drew[412] his horse erect; he threw

His mantel o’er its head, struck deep his spurs,

And with the shout, “My bride!” leaped down to death.[413]

And to this day the story still is told

Of trav’lers, who, belated on the pass,

Have heard, when, softly sobbed the wind, a voice

Call tenderly and low, “I’m waiting, Maud!――

Here, Maud!――Is that you, Maud?”

――_George M. Vickers._

GESTURES.

[373] Ind. A. O.

[374] Drop hand.

[375] D. O.

[376] Left H. O.

[377] B. H. O.

[378] H. O.

[379] Left H. O.

[380] H. Sw.

[381] V. H. O.

[382] H. Sw.

[383] H. F.

[384] A. O.

[385] H. F.

[386] B. H. F.

[387] Left H. O.

[388] Left H. Sw.

[389] D. F.

[390] H. Sw.

[391] Turn to Right.

[392] Turn to Left.

[393] H. F.

[394] Raise hand P. H. L.

[395] H. L.

[396] H. Sw.

[397] V. A. O.

[398] Hand on heart.

[399] A. O.

[400] P. D. O.

[401] Point up.

[402] Bend over.

[403] B. H. O. and turn them to P.

[404] P. Ind. H. F.

[405] Raise eyes.

[406] A. F.

[407] A. F.

[408] A. O.

[409] P. H. O.

[410] P. D. O.

[411] Point down.

[412] Draw rein with left hand.

[413] D. F.]

[Illustration: “Father, Thy will, not mine, be done.”]

Maiden Song.

Long ago and long ago, and long ago still,

There dwelt three merry maidens upon a distant hill.

One was tall Meggan, and one was dainty May,

But one was fair Margaret, more fair than I can say,

Long ago and long ago.

When Meggan plucked the thorny rose, and when May pulled the brier,

Half the birds would swoop to see, half the beasts draw nigher;

Half the fishes of the stream would dart up to admire:

But when Margaret plucked a flag-flower, or poppy, hot aflame,

All the beasts and all the birds and all the fishes came

To her hand more soft than snow.

Strawberry leaves and May-dew in brisk morning air,

Strawberry leaves and May-dew make maidens fair.

“I go for strawberry leaves,” Meggan said one day:

“Fair Margaret can bide at home, but you come with me, May;

Up the hill and down the hill, along the winding way,

You and I are used to go.”

So these two fair sisters went with innocent will

Up the hill and down again, and round the homestead hill:

While the fairest sat at home, Margaret like a queen,

Like a blush-rose, like the moon in her heavenly sheen,

Fragrant-breathed as milky cow or field of blossoming bean,

Graceful as an ivy bough, born to cling and lean,

Thus she sat to sew and sing.

When she raised her lustrous eyes a beast peeped at the door;

When she downward cast her eyes a fish gasped on the floor;

When she turned away her eyes a bird perched on the sill,

Warbling out its heart of love, warbling, warbling still

With pathetic pleadings low.

Light-foot May, with Meggan, sought the choicest spot,

Clothed with thyme, alternate grass; then, while day waxed hot,

Sat at ease to play and rest, a gracious rest and play;

The loveliest maidens near or far, when Margaret was away,

Who sat at home to sing and sew.

Sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks, wind-play tossed their hair,

Creeping things among the grass stroked them here and there;

Meggan piped a merry note, a fitful, wayward lay,

While shrill as bird on topmost twig piped merry May;

Honey-smooth the double flow.

Sped a herdsman from the vale, mounting like a flame,

All on fire to hear and see, with floating locks he came;

Looked neither north nor south, neither east nor west,

But sat him down at Meggan’s feet as love-bird on his nest,

And wooed her with a silent awe, with trouble not expressed;

She sang the tears into his eyes, the heart out of his breast;

So he loved her, listening so.

She sang the heart out of his breast, the words out of his tongue;

Hand and foot and pulse he paused till her song was sung.

Then he spoke up from his place simple words and true:

“Scanty goods have I to give, scanty skill to woo;

But I have a will to work and a heart for you:

Bid me stay or bid me go.”

Then Meggan mused within herself: “Better be first with him,

Than dwell where fairer Margaret sits, who shines my brightness dim,

Forever second where she sits, however fair I be:

I will be lady of his love, and he shall worship me;

I will be lady of his herds and stoop to his degree,

At home where kids and fatlings grow.”

Sped a shepherd from the height headlong down to look,

White lambs followed, lured by love of their shepherd’s crook:

He turned neither east nor west, neither north nor south,

But knelt right down to May, for love of her sweet-singing mouth;

Forgot his flocks, his panting flocks in parching hillside drought;

Forgot himself for weal or woe.

Trilled her song and swelled her song with maiden coy caprice

In a labyrinth of throbs, pauses, cadences:

Clear-noted as a dropping brook, soft-noted like the bees,

Wild-noted as the shivering wind forlorn through forest trees:

Love-noted like the wood-pigeon who hides herself for love,

Yet cannot keep her secret safe, but cooes and cooes thereof;

Thus the notes rang loud or low.

He hung breathless on her breath; speechless, who listened well;

Could not speak or think, or wish till silence broke the spell.

Then he spoke and spread his hands, pointing here and there:

“See my sheep, and see my lambs, twin lambs which they bare.

All myself I offer you, all my flocks and care,

Your sweet song hath moved me so.”

In her fluttered heart young May mused a dubious while:

“If he loves me as he says”――her lips curved with a smile:

“Where Margaret shines like the sun, I shine like the moon;

If sister Meggan makes her choice I can make mine as soon:

At cockcrow we were sister-maids, we may be brides at noon.

Said Meggan, “Yes;” May said not “No.”

Fair Margaret stayed alone at home, awhile she sang her song,

Awhile sat silent, then she thought: “My sisters loiter long.”

That sultry noon had waned away, shadows had waxed great:

“Surely,” she thought within herself, “My sisters loiter late.”

She rose, and peered out at the door, with patient heart to wait,

And heard a distant nightingale complaining of its mate;

Then down the garden slope she walked, down to the garden gate,

Leaned on the rail and waited so.

The slope was lightened by her eyes like summer lightning fair,

Like rising of the haloed moon lightened her glimmering hair,

While her face lightened like the sun whose dawn is rosy white.

Thus crowned with maiden majesty she peered into the night,

Looked up the hill and down the hill, to left hand and to right,

Flashing like fire-flies to and fro.

Waiting thus in weariness, she marked the nightingale,

Telling, if any one would heed, its old complaining tale.

Then lifted she her voice and sang, answering the bird:

Then lifted she her voice and sang, such notes were never heard.

From any bird when Spring’s in blow.

The king of all that country, coursing far, coursing near,

Curbed his amber-bitted steed, coursed amain to hear;

All his princes in his train, squire, and knight, and peer,

With his crown upon his head, his sceptre in his hand,

Down he fell at Margaret’s knees, Lord, King of all that land,

To her highness bending low.

Every beast and bird, and fish came mustering to the sound,

Every man and every maid from miles of country round:

Meggan on her herdsman’s arm, with her shepherd, May;

Flocks and herds trooped at their heels along the hillside way;

No foot too feeble for the ascent, not any head too gray,

Some were swift and none were slow.

So Margaret sang her sisters home in their marriage mirth;

Sang free birds out of the sky, beasts along the earth,

Sang up fishes of the deep――all breathing things that move,

Sang from far and sang from near to her lovely love;

Sang together friend and foe;

Sang a golden-bearded king straightway to her feet,

Sang him silent where he knelt in eager anguish sweet.

But when the clear voice died away, when longest echoes died,

He stood up like a royal man and claimed her for his bride.

So three maids were wooed and won in a brief May-tide,

Long ago and long ago.

――_Christina G. Rossetti._

Lecture by One of the Sex.

My antiquated hearers, male and female. Squenchin’ my native modesty

which is natural to the weaker vessels of whom I am which, I feel

impelled to speak to you this evenin’ on the subject of woman――her

origin, her mission, her destiny. A subject, bein’ as I am a woman

myself, I hev given much attention to.

Man, my hearers, claims to be the superior of woman! Is it so? and ef

so, in what, and how much?

Wuz he the fust creation? He wuz, my hearers, but what does that

prove?

Man wuz made fust, but the experience gained in makin’ man wuz applied

to the makin’ of a betterer and more finerer bein’ of whom I am a

sample.

Nachur made man but saw in a brief space of time that he couldn’t take

keer of himself alone, and so he made a woman to take keer uv him, and

that’s why we wuz created; tho’ seein’ all the trouble we hev, I don’t

doubt that it would hev been money in our pockets if we hedn’t been

made at all.

Imagine, my beloved hearers, Adam afore Eve wuz created! Who sewed on

his shirt buttons? Who cooked his beefsteak? Who made his coffee in

the mornin’ and did his washin’?

He wuz mizzable, he wuz,――he must have boarded out and eat hash!

But when Eve come, the scene changed. Her gentle hand soothed his

achin’ brow when he come in from a hard day’s work. She hed his house

in order; she hed his slippers and dressin’ gown ready, and after tea

he smoked his meerschaum in peace.

Men, cruel, hard-hearted men, assert that Eve wuz the cause of his

expulsion from Eden――that she plucked the apple and give him half; oh,

my sisters, it’s true, it’s too true, but what uv it?

It proves fustly, her goodness. Had _Adam_ plucked the apple, if it

had been a good one, he’d never a thought of his wife at home, but

would have gobbled it down himself, and perhaps have taken her the

core.

Eve, angel that we all are, thought of him and went halvers with him.

_Secondly_, it wuz the means of good anyhow. It introduced death into

the world, which separated ’em while they still hed love for each

other.

I appeal to the sterner sex present to-night. S’posin’ all of you had

been fortunate enough to win such virgin souls as me, could you endure

charms like mine for an eternity. If I had a husband, I know he’d

bless Eve for introducin’ death into the world.

Woman is man’s equal, but is she occupyin’ her true speer? Alas, not!

We are deprived of the ballot, we ain’t allowed to make stump

speeches, or take part in politics. Is it right? How many men vote who

know what they are votin’ for?

I demand the ballot. I want to take part in torchlight processions! I

want to demonstrate my fitness for governing by coming home elevated

on election nights. I demand the right of going to Congress. I want to

assume that speer which nachur fitted me for equally with man, but

from which masculine jealousy has thus far excluded me.

There hev been women in the world who have done something. There was

the Queen of Sheba, who was excelled only by Solomon, and all that

surpassed her in him wuz that he could support 3,000 women.

Bless Solomon’s heart! I’d like to see him do it now. Where could he

find a house big enough to hold ’em with their dozen Saratoga trunks

apiece?

How shall we gain our lost rights and assume that position in the

world to which we are entitled to?

Oh, my sisters, these is a question upon which I have cogitated long

and vigorously.

We might do it by pisonin’ all the men, but we would be robbed of

one-half of our triumph, for they wouldn’t be alive to see how well we

did things without ’em.

We might resolve to do no more of the degradin’ work they have imposed

onto us. But if we didn’t, who would?

One week’s eatin’ what they would cook, would sicken any

well-regulated woman, and besides, they might not let us eat at all.

Matrimony, thus far in the world’s history, has been our only destiny.

I am glad I had always strength of mind enough to resist all

propositions leadin’ to my enslavement.

I had too much respect for myself to make myself the slave of a man.

Wunst, indeed, I might have done so, but the merest accident in the

world saved me. A young man in my younger days, when the bloom wuz on

the peach, ere sleepless nights spent in meditatin’ on the wrongs of

my sex had worn furrows into these wunst blushing cheeks, a young man

come to our house, and conversed sweetly with me.

It wuz my fust beau, and oh, my sisters, had he that night asked me to

be his’n, I should have been weak enough to have said Yes, and I would

have been a washer of dishes and a mender of stockin’s for life.

But fate saved me! He did’nt ask me.

――_Revised by F. Lizzie Peirce._

Enguerrande’s Child.

La Comtesse Marie holds festival

In the fairest nook of her fair demesne,

For courtly gallants and smiling dames

To mimic the sports of the village green,

In hats à la paysanne looped up with gems,

And rustic kirtles of satin sheen.

But Comtesse Marie, though crowned with May,

Scarce smiles on the lovers who round her press,

And sits on her floral throne _distrait_,

Nor heeds who, watching her, strives to guess

What troubles this heiress, free to choose

From the proudest peers of the _haute noblesse_.

She sighs--and a suitor the sigh repeats;

Again--and another bends over her chair,

For every mood of a lady charms

When la dame is so wealthy, so young, and fair;

She speaks--and the murmur of talk is hushed,

And they throng around with expectant air:

“Too sad to sing, and too tired to dance--

Shall our sport take sober cast to-night?

And gathering under the fragrant limes,

Shall we tell old stories of maidens bright,

Of crusader bold, and the Soldan grim,

Of dreary legend of ghost and sprite?”

Then gay De Norville, for wild, weird tale

To please the layde, has racked his brain;

While Saint Leu, with twirls of his huge mustache,

His last duello fights o’er again,

And fancies that Marie’s cheek grows pale

As he lightly dwells on his wounds and pain.

But on one tall figure, that stands aloof,

The eye of la Comtesse is seen to fall:

And hast _thou_ nothing to tell?” she asks,

“Canst thou from the past no deed recall,

That might quicken awhile our sluggish blood?

Bethink thee, I pray, good Capitaine Paul.”

Le Capitaine Paul, whom no one knows,

A soldier of fortune, scarred and browned,

A man more prized in the camp than court,

Steps into the circle and glances round;

And scornful eyes on his boldness frown,

But Marie has smiled, and he holds his ground.

What boots the rest if _she_ bids him speak?

What matter who lists if he gains _her_ ear?

The shaft of malice is launched in vain,

That aims at the stranger a barbèd sneer,

And the sauciest suitors of belle Marie

Unchecked may flout him while she is near.

He turns from the guests, with their covert smiles,

Begins with a stammer, and speaks by rote

Till treasured mem’ries awake--and then

His full lip quivers, and swells his throat,

And his sinewy hand is clenched, as oft

It hath clenched at the ring of the bugle’s note.

And thus _le capitaine_ tells his tale:

“Revolt and faction had cursed our land--

Tonnerre! that Frenchmen should be such curs!

Our city walls was were but poorly manned;

I--sous lieutenant--a boy in years;

Our brave commander, Jacques Enguerrande.

“We had one treasure, we soldiers, then--

Enguerrande’s daughter, a happy child;

She had no mother, but fifty slaves,

By her winning looks and ways beguiled--

Great bearded fellows--were at her call,

And felt themselves paid if their mistress smiled.

“One night--sharp--sudden--resistless broke

The storm upon us: from every den

The lawless rabble came howling forth,

And we--ah, blind! not to learn till then,

That in all that city we loved so well,

There was but one handful of loyal men!

“For life, for honor we fought, and still

Our foes increased as the tumult spread,

Yet side by side with Jacques Enguerrande

I stood till we fell together--he, dead;

I, wounded--how badly, these scars reveal;

And then our last man, in his terror, fled.

“Over our bodies the crowd tramped on,

Nor recked if ’twere brothers their feet defiled;

The city was all their own, and the greed

Of plunder had made them mad or wild;

And I heard one voice, with a drunken laugh,

Call out for the child, Jacques Enguerrande’s child.

“At that sound the blood to my heart returns,

And fiercely I struggle on to my knees!

Never must Enguerrande’s orphaned one

Fall into such miscreant hands as these!

To my feet and away, ere the roaring mob

Can hunt back the wounded wretch who flees!

“Doubling upon them, and first to gain

The little chamber wherein she slept,

Where, roused from repose by the horrid din,

In the darkest corner she cowered and wept,

I bore her down by a winding stair,

And into the streets with my burden crept.

“Hushing her sobs I staggered on,

Faint, dizzy with pain, and perhaps despair;

For sadly we needed some refuge safe,

And who would offer it?--nay, who dare?

Till an aged crone peeped fearfully out

Of her wretched hovel, and hid us there.

“But, alas! though almost too old to live,

She feared the mob, and she feared to die,

And in selfish dread, when again night fell,

From her door she thrust us, and bade us fly;

Yet she flung me a blouse, and _bonnet rouge_,

That none should my soldier’s dress descry.

“Bribed with the little one’s rosary--

Le voici, I have it here on my breast;

I brought it back for its weight in gold--

A fellow I drew aside from the rest,

Let us slip by while he kept the guard,

And like hunted deer for the woods we pressed.

“Scarce half a league from the city walls,

Lo! swooping down like a fiery blast--

Armed to the teeth, and hot with wrath--

Rank after rank spurring quickly past--

The avengers came of Jacques Enguerrande,

And I felt that his child was safe at last!

“She knew their leader--she shrieked his name--

He halted--I told you what garb I wore,

They thought me a rebel; the little one

With oaths and blows from my arms they tore,

And left me for dead on the cold hard earth;

But the child was safe--and my tale is o’er.”

“But your payment?” a dozen voices ask,

And le Capitaine smiles in his deep disdain;

“Pardon, mesdames! for a deed of love

No soldier his palm with gold would stain;

Only this boon did I ever crave--

One look at her angel face again!

“Qu’importe? she is rich and happy, and I----”

He pauses--la Comtesse has left her throne;

Once more on his breast a fair head lies,

Once more round his neck are white arms thrown,

And sweet lips murmur, “Mon brave! mon brave!

Let my poor love for the past atone!”

The play is ended--the guests depart--

La Comtesse was none so fair after all!

But many an eye looks back with regret

On the broad domain, and the princely hall,

That Enguerrande’s child with her hand bestows

On the scarred and sun-burned Capitaine Paul.

――_Tid Bits._

The King’s Kiss.[414]

A king rode forth one summer morn, his vast domain to see;

Through fields of wheat and fields of corn, rode on his majesty:

Quoth he, “A mighty king am I; whate’er I say must be,

For none there lives that dare deny a favor asked by me.”

The king in search of rest and shade, dismounted in a dell,

Where, drawing water, stood a maid beside a mossy well;

With courtly bow the thirsty king, the proffered draught received,

And as he drank, a gallant thing his royal mind conceived.

“Fair girl,” said he, “those lips of thine were surely made to kiss,

And fain I’d press them close to mine, refuse me not that bliss.”

“No, no,” the blushing lass replied, “no kiss you’ll get from me,

For I’m a true and promised bride, to one who’s far at sea.”

“I am the King,” the monarch said, “must I be disobeyed?”

The maiden slowly dropped her head, and trembled, sore afraid:

Then looking up with marble face, and wet but brave blue eye,

Said she, “Ere thus my troth debase, within the well I die!”

“Enough,” the conquered sovereign cried, “this ring in honor wear,

For truly have I found a bride, as pure as she is fair.”

The king rode off a wiser man than oft is monarch’s lot,

And deemed that naught was sweeter than the kiss he never got.

――_George M. Vickers._

[414] By permission of W. F. Shaw, owner of Copyright.]

Contrasts in Shakespeare.

Oration delivered at the Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of

Elocution and Languages, June, 1886.

Through the whole of Shakespeare’s plays, we find every prominent

character stamped with a separate individuality, which is preserved in

every detail and characteristic, whether in the insane jealousy of

Othello, the impetuosity of Harry Hotspur, the constancy of Portia,

the vindictiveness of Shylock, the wickedness of Don John, or the

benign, forgiving spirit of Prospero.

There is a silvery vein of wit threading his plays, gleaming and

flashing like a sparkling brook in the sunshine.

It runs smoothly in the calmly-uttered and thoughtful sentences of

Hamlet; it bubbles and laughs in the saucy badinage of Beatrice and

Celia; seeks the shadow in the melancholy of Jacques; enters the realm

of the pun in the wordy self-assertion of Polonius, and descends to

the comic and sometimes the vulgar in Falstaff and Dogberry.

In the character of Hamlet we find a keen sense of humor, overcast by

the ever-present suspicion of his father’s foul end, and a vague

distrust of those around him. A certain sarcasm lurks in the depths,

and imparts an incisiveness to every well-turned sentence. He says to

Guildenstern:

HAMLET.――Will you play upon this pipe?

Guildenstern replies:

GUILD.――My lord, I cannot.

HAM.――I pray you.

GUILD.――Believe me, I cannot.

HAM.――I do beseech you.

GUILD.――I know no touch of it, my lord.

HAM.――’Tis as easy as lying: Govern these ventages with your finger

and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse

most excellent music. Look you, these are the stops.

GUILD.――But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony; I

have not the skill.

HAM.――Why, look you, now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You

would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck

out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note

to the top of my compass: and there is much music, excellent voice

in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak! ’Sblood, do you

think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what

instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon

me.

Hamlet deals largely in simile and metaphor; no finer instance

occurring than in the passage where he is called upon to account for

the body of Polonius. Rosencranz, repelling his insinuations, asks:

ROS.――Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

HAM.――Ay, sir, that soaks up the king’s countenance, his rewards,

his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the

end: he keeps them like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first

mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned,

it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.

With a feeling of relief we turn to merry, heart-whole Beatrice, and

we glory in the ease with which she puts to rout the valiant soldier

Benedick. With what exquisite nonchalance she remarks:

BEAT.――I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor Benedick,

nobody marks you.

She throws down the gauntlet of defiance to Cupid in the words:

BEAT.――I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he

loves me.

And she retains her woman’s right to the last word in her parting

shot:

BEAT.――You always end with a jade’s trick. I know you of old.

Her merry derision of Don Pedro is shown in her reply to his gallant

offer:

DON P.――Will you have me, my lady?

BEAT.――No, my lord, unless I could have another for working days.

Your grace is too costly to wear every day.

Of the same bright, refreshing character is Celia, but Beatrice is

more brusque, while Celia has a tender vein of womanliness which tones

her raillery, while her sprightliness is more strongly thrown out in

the early scenes of the play by its contrast with the constantly

recurring melancholy of Rosalind. This antithesis is clearly

observable in the following:

CEL.――Why cousin! why Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! not a word?

ROS.――Not one to throw at a dog.

CEL.――No, thy words are too precious to cast away upon curs; throw

some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

ROS.――Then were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed

with reasons and the other mad without any.

CEL.――But is this all for your father?

ROS.――No, some of it is for my child’s father. Oh, how full of

briers is this working-day world.

CEL.――They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday

foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats

will catch them.

ROS.――I could shake them off my coat; these burs are in my heart.

CEL.――Hem them away.

ROS.――I would try if I could cry “hem” and have him.

CEL.――Come, come; wrestle with thy affections.

ROS.――O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself!

CEL.――O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time in despite of a

fall.

After Rosalind and her cousin leave the court for the Forest of Arden,

Rosalind’s spirits rise, and then it is she who becomes the prominent

sprightly character in the play. She receives Orlando after a short

absence with the reproach:

ROS.――Why how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You

a lover! And you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight

more.

ORL.――My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

ROS.――Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will divide a minute

into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part

of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid

hath clapped him on the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heartwhole.

ORL.――Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

ROS.――Nay, and you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I had as

lief be wooed of a snail.

ORL.――Of a snail!

ROS.――Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his

house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you make a

woman.

In Polonius we meet with a character in direct contrast to those we

have mentioned. The old gentleman, like many of the present day, loves

to hear himself talk, and, owing to his high political position, has

probably become so accustomed to receiving the applause of fawning

courtiers, that the habit of punning has become a second nature to

him; even after receiving the gentle reprimand of his Queen, it still

is impossible for him to abstain from them, as is instanced in the

conversation on the cause of Hamlet’s peculiarities.

POL.――My liege and madam, to expostulate

What majesty should be, what duty is,

Why day is day, night night, and time is time,

Were nothing but to waste night, day and time.

Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,

And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,

I will be brief. Your noble son is mad:

Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,

What is’t but to be nothing else but mad?

But let that go.

QUEEN.―― More matter, with less art.

POL.――Madam, I swear I use no art at all,

That he is mad, ’tis true; ’tis true ’tis pity,

And pity ’tis ’tis true; a foolish figure;

But farewell it, for I will use no art.

Mad let us grant him, then; and now remains

That we find out the cause of this effect,

Or rather say, the cause of this defect,

For this effect, defective, comes by cause:

Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.

Let us now turn to Portia, happy, witty Portia, with a soul far above

the fickle spendthrift, Bassanio, but with all a woman’s devotion,

adoring him in spite of his faults. Her gentle dignity in accepting

the hoped-for result of his choice of the caskets is sweetly evinced

in the following:

POR.――You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,

Such as I am; though for myself alone

I would not be ambitious in my wish,

To wish myself much better; yet, for you

I would be trebled twenty times myself;

A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times

More rich;

That only to stand high in your account,

I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,

Exceed account; but the full sum of me

Is sum of nothing, which, to term in gross,

Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d;

Happy in this, she is not yet so old

But she may learn; happier than this,

She is not bred so dull but she can learn;

Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit

Commits itself to yours to be directed,

As from her lord, her governor, her king.

In the Trial Scene we discover the contrasting side of Portia’s

character, and we will close with a quotation from her speech to

Shylock.

POR.――The quality of mercy is not strained,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:

’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes

The thronèd monarch better than his crown;

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this sceptred sway;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God’s

When mercy seasons justice.

_F. Lizzie Peirce._

[Illustration: “Let me think!”]

Merry Mike.

Merry Mike from the door bounded off to his play,

With his head in his hat on a blustery day;

When the wind of a sudden came frolicking down

And lifted Mike’s hat from his round little crown.

Don’t you call that funny, I’d like to know?

Then he made up his mind to return to the house,

But the merry wind pushed itself under his blouse.

And it roared and it roared, and he puffed as he ran,

Till it just knocked over this queer little man.

“Ho! ho! ho!” said Mike, and he said “ha! ha! ha!

I’ll get up again, old wind, you see.”

Then the wind with a flurry of bluster and racket

Went crowding and crowding under his jacket,

And it lifted him off of his two little feet,

And carried him bodily over the street.

Mike laughed ha! ha! ha! and he laughed ho! ho! ho!

But the wind, with its antics, was plainly not through,

For fiercer and fiercer, and fiercer it blew,

Till making one effort of fury intense

It carried Mike bodily over the fence.

He met there a somewhat discouraged old cow,

That had blown thither too, though he failed to see how,

Then he smiled and said, “Make yourself easy, my friend,

Only keep your mind quiet and things will soon mend,”

Mike laughed ha! ha! ha! and he laughed ho! ho! ho!

“For the wind is just playing, old cow, you know.”

As he scampered off home, what above should he see

But the roof of a shed that had lodged in a tree;

And he laughed and he laughed till his sides fairly ached,

For, he said, this is better than wedding or wake.

And he roared, ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!

“That boy,” say the terrified folks of the town,

“He would laugh just the same if the sky tumbled down.”

“Indeed, and I would,” answered Mike, with a grin,

“For I might get a piece with a lot of stars in.”

And he chuckled, he! he! he! and he chuckled, ho! ho! ho!

The very idea delighted him so.

His father complained to the priest, “Now, I say,

Mike never stops laughing by night or by day.”

“Let him laugh,” spoke the priest, “he will change by and by;

’Tis better to laugh than to grumble and cry;

It’s the _way_ with the lad; let him laugh if he like,

And be glad you’ve a son that’s as merry as Mike.”

The Village Choir.

Half a bar, half a bar,

Half a bar onward!

Into an awful ditch,

Choir and Precentor hitch,

Into a mess of pitch,

They led the Old Hundred.

Trebles to right of them,

Tenors to left of them,

Basses in front of them,

Bellowed and thundered.

Oh! that Precentor’s look,

When the sopranos took

Their own time and hook,

From the Old Hundred.

Screeched all the trebles here,

Boggled the tenors there,

Raising the parson’s hair,

While his mind wandered;

Theirs not to reason why

This psalm was pitched too high;

Theirs but to gasp and cry

Out the Old Hundred.

Trebles to right of them,

Tenors to left of them,

Basses in front of them,

Bellowed and thundered.

Stormed they with shout and yell;

Not wise they sang, nor well,

Drowning the sexton’s bell,

While all the church wondered.

Dire the Precentor’s glare,

Flashed his pitchfork in air,

Sounding the fresh key to bear

Out the Old Hundred.

Swiftly he turned his back,

Reached he his hat from rack,

Then from the screaming pack

Himself he sundered.

Tenors to right of him,

Trebles to left of him,

Discords behind him,

Bellowed and thundered.

Oh, the wild howls they wrought;

Right to the end they fought!

Some tune they sang, but not――

Not the Old Hundred.

The Book Agent Beats the Bandit.

Brown, Jones and Robinson, three of as good fellows as ever melted the

heart of a country trader to the merry music of the pliant chin, sat

one evening of last week in the smoking compartment of a chair car on

the R. and T. H. Western Railroad. With them was a tall, thin,

dyspeptic man with sandy hair, dressed in a rusty suit of black.

Nature had endowed him with long legs, and his tailor with short

pants. His coat collar was rich enough in accumulated grease to keep a

soap factory going for a month. His mouth was of brass, and his cheek

as hard as last year’s cider. He was a book agent. Already had he

gobbled up the drummers for a Life of Christ and Pocket Encyclopedia

of 215 numbers, when suddenly a real Jesse-James-like train bandit

opened the door and stood, pistol in hand, before the quartet.

Brown’s soul sank down into the heels of his boots. Beads of

perspiration big as snow balls stood on Jones’ classic brow, while his

hair lifted his hat two solid inches from the crown of his head.

Robinson murmured the first verse of “Ever of Thee I’m Fondly

Dreaming,” and thought he was praying. But the book agent bounded from

his seat with a “How do, stranger? Delighted to see you. Do let me

show you my superb ‘History of Boone County,’ a perfect bonanza of

domestic peace and happiness to every householder who is fortunate

enough to possess one. Three hundred pages of elegant letter press,

printed on toned paper and embellished with fine steel engravings and

an official map of the State. A carefully compiled, correct

topographical and historical――――”

“Shut up!” roared the bandit.

“Shut up? You bet it will, and fastens itself with a double-action

brass clasp――my own invention――and from its simplicity of design and

beauty of construction worth half the price of the book. Given away,

sir; literally given away, for $3 in boards or $4.50 in morocco with

beveled edges.”

“If yer say――――”

“I do say it, sir. Look at this exquisite title page with a vignette

portrait of the gifted author. Here you see a genealogical abstract

chart in which you can write the names of your illustrious ancestors

and beloved family――births, marriages, deaths and――――”

“Stop!” shrieked the bandit, as the agent grasped him by the

buttonhole.

“You may well say ‘stop,’ sir; I’ve said enough to make you ache to

possess this beautiful volume, but I haven’t begun to――――”

“Sit down!” the robber roared in a voice that made the puffs of the

engine sound like the sighs of a sick zephyr, and loosened all the

joints of Jones’s limbs.

“Biographical sketches of eminent men, glowing obituary, with an

original poem on death, agricultural statistics, tables of mortality,

valuable notes on immigration, trade reports, all the geological――――”

“Lemme go, or I’ll blow the roof of yer head off,” shrieked the

robber, as he wrested himself from the agent’s grasp and dropped off

the rear car into the gathering gloom of the coming night.

Then Robinson drew from his pocket his faithful revolver and looked

big. Jones rolled his sleeves up and asked where the villain was gone

to. Brown fished from under the spittoon a roll of bills and hoped

they didn’t think he had been scared. But the agent sank wearily to

his seat, and for the first time in all that long journey was silent

for nearly four consecutive minutes.

――_Evansville Argus._

Not in the Ranks.

The old army overcoat that used to be such a familiar sight on our

streets is one of the rarest now; indeed, it is so seldom seen that we

involuntarily turn and gaze after it, as something that brings sad and

often cruel memories. The other day an old man wearing a coat of this

kind, which reached to his heels, stopped at a cottage a little way

out of town and asked leave to rest awhile on the porch.

“I’m a bit tired,” he said to the woman who opened the door, “an’ if

you don’t mind I’ll sit here and rest myself for a spell.”

“You’re welcome,” said the woman kindly, with a glance at the martial

blue. Then she left him alone, but after a little while returned with

a bowl of coffee and a plate of white biscuit.

“Eat,” she said, gently; “I had a boy who was a soldier.”

“But I’m not a soldier,” answered the old man. “I never was a soldier;

my boy went to war and was killed. He was all I had, too. This coat

was his; seems like he’s near me when I have it on. I gave him to his

country; the handsomest and bravest boy he was, too, in the whole

regiment. God bless him. He did his duty, died on the field, and this

coat was all that came back to his poor old dad. No; I never was a

soldier.”

The woman went in and brought out some cake and the whitest honey, and

added it to the coffee and biscuit.

“Are you alone in the world?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” answered the old man, cheerfully; “I’ve got a sister, but

she’s old and lame, and she has a daughter that is sickly and ailing.

You see I have them to work for, and they are a sight of comfort to

me. Many’s the time I’d have broken down since Mary died but for them

poor critters. Mary was my wife, ma’am; she was a master hand to nuss

sick folks, and she thought after Tim died as it were her duty to go

into the hospital service and nuss the soldiers, and she died these

sixteen years ago; but she did a heap of good work first. Many a

soldier has kissed her shadow on the wall! Mary, darlin’, God wanted

ye in the ranks up there; I’ve often wished that I had been a soldier,

if only to be fit for the little mother and Tim; but I never was.”

He drank the coffee, ate the good food thankfully, and offered to pay

for it with some hoarded pieces of old worn silver; but the woman

shook her head.

“Put back your money. My son was a soldier,” she said.

“But I am not a soldier. Well, well,” (as he looked into her face,) “I

thank you, and I take it for his sake.”

He wished good-night to his kind entertainer and turned away. As he

walked off, slow and limping, bent by infirmity, the long skirt of his

army overcoat struck bright and blue against the splendor of the

sunset; he shaded his eyes with one trembling hand and looked

wistfully at the rose and amethyst door that seemed to open in the

west. What saw he there? A little, round-shouldered woman with a

small, homely face; a lank, overgrown boy, with sparse, red hair. Ay,

and of such as these are angels made. So, watching, he passed down

into the shadows and disappeared.

The woman at the gate looked after him.

“No soldier!” she said gently, “but I wonder if the boy who died on

his first battle-field ever fought as he has, or sacrificed as much to

his country? All the soldiers didn’t go into the war with flying flags

and rolling drums. Some of them stayed at home and fought harder

battles. I’m glad I gave him a bite and a sup. He is a soldier, and a

brave one, too, and one day he will know it!”

And I think she was right.

――_Detroit Free Press._

The Old Actor’s Story.

First Honor at the Third Annual Commencement of the Mt. Vernon

Institute of Elocution and Languages, 1886.

Mine is a wild, strange story,――the strangest you ever heard;

There are many[415] who won’t believe it, but it’s gospel[416] every

word;

It’s the biggest drama of any in a long,[417] adventurous life;

The scene was a ship, and the actors――were myself and my new-wed wife.

You musn’t mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then;

I’m old, you know, and I wander――it’s a way with old women and men,

For their lives lie all behind[418] them, and their thoughts go far

away,[419]

And are tempted afield, like children, lost on a summer day.

The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful

night,

But I see it again this evening, I can never shut[420] out the sight.

We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know,

When we had an offer for Melbourne,[421] and made up our minds to go.

We’d acted together in England, traveling up and down[422]

With a strolling band of players, going from town to town;

We played the lovers together――we were leading lady and gent――

And at last we played in earnest, and straight[423] to the church

we went.

The parson gave us his blessing,[424] and I gave Nellie the ring,[425]

And swore that I’d love and cherish, and endow her with everything.

How we smiled at that part of the service when I said “I thee endow!”

But as to the “love and cherish,” friends, I meant to keep that[426]

vow.

We were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the show was

good,

When it wasn’t we went without[427] it, and we did the best we could.

We were happy and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts we

made,――

Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no shade.

Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit;

Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a

flit,――[428]

Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call;

But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet[429] to fall.

We got an offer for Melbourne,――got it that very week.

Those were the days when thousands went over their fortunes to seek,

The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot

Good for a “spec,” and took us as actors among his lot.

We hadn’t a friend in England――we’d only ourselves to please――

And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the

seas.[430]

We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough;

We hadn’t been out a fortnight before we had had enough.

But use is a second nature, and we’d got not to mind a storm,

When misery came upon us,――came in a hideous form.[431]

My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad

That the doctor said she was dying,――I thought ’twould have sent

me mad,[432]――

Dying where leagues[433] of billows seemed to shriek for their prey,

And the nearest land was hundreds[434]――ay, thousands――of miles away.

She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death,

So still I’d to bend and listen[435] for the faintest sign of breath.

She seemed in a sleep,[436] and sleeping, with a smile[437] on her

thin, wan face;

She passed away[438] one morning, while I prayed[439] to the throne

of grace.

I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said,

Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless――my wife was dead!

Dead! I wouldn’t believe it. They forced me away that night,

For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright.

I was shut in the farthest cabin,[440] and I beat my head on the side,

And all day long in my madness, “They’ve murdered her!”[441] I cried.

They locked me away from my fellows,――put me in cruel[442] chains,

It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon’s brains.

I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil[443] sent

To gloat o’er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent.

I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists,

And my wife lay dead quite near[444] me. I beat[445] with my fettered

fists,

Beat at my prison panels, and then――O God!――and then

I heard the shrieks of women[446] and the tramp of hurrying men.

I heard the cry, “Ship a-fire!” caught up by a hundred throats,

And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats;

Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood,

And the place[447] grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I

stood.

I beat[448] at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back,

And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning

crack[449]

I could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and sail,

Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling gale.

I dashed[450] at the door in fury, shrieking, “I will not die!

Die in this burning prison!”――but I caught no answering cry.

Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar,

And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door.

I was free[451]――with the heavy iron door dragging me down[452] to

death;

I fought my way to the cabin,[453] choked with the burning breath

Of the flames that danced around me[454] like man-mocking fiends at

play,

And then――O God! I can see it, and shall to my dying day.

There[455] lay my Nell as they’d left her, dead in her berth that

night;

The flames flung a smile[456] on her features,――a horrible,[456a]

lurid light,

God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found myself by her

side;

I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell had died.

In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain;[457]

I heard a sound as of breathing,[458] and then a low cry of pain;

Oh, was there mercy in heaven?[459] Was there a God in the skies?

The dead woman’s lips were moving,[460] the dead woman opened her

eyes.

I cursed[461] like a madman raving――I cried to her, “Nell! my

Nell!”[462]

They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell,

They had left us alone to perish――forgotten me living――and she

Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven,[463] instead of

the sea.[464]

I clutched at her,[465] roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her

still;

I seized her in spite of my fetters,――fear gave a giant’s will.

God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and

the wreck

Up――up[466] to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck.

We’d a moment of life together,――a moment of life, the time,

For one last word to each other,――’twas a moment supreme, sublime.

From the trance we’d for death mistaken, the heat had brought her to

life,

And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there,[467] husband and

wife!

It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away,

When a shout came over the water,[468] and I looked, and lo, there

lay,

Right away from the vessel,[469] a boat that was standing by;

They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky.

I shouted a prayer to Heaven,[470] then called to my wife,[471] and

she

Tore with new strength at my fetters――God helped her, and I was free;

Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped[472] for one chance of life.

Did they save us? Well, here I am,[473] sir, and yonder’s[474] my dear

old wife.

We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by

Took us on board, and at Melbourne[475] landed us by and by.

We’ve played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip,

But ne’er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship!

――_George R. Sims._

GESTURES.

[415] H. O.

[416] H. F.

[417] H. Sw.

[418] H. B.

[419] H. L.

[420] V. HO.

[421] Left H. L.

[422] H. Sw.

[423] H. F.

[424] B. P. H. F.

[425] H. O.

[426] H. F.

[427] H. L.

[428] Left H. L.

[429] B. D. F.

[430] Left H. L.

[431] V. H. O.

[432] Hand to head.

[433] B. H. O.

[434] H. L.

[435] Bend in listening attitude.

[436] D. O.

[437] Turn to P.

[438] A. O.

[439] Clasp hands.

[440] Left H. L.

[441] B. Cl.

[442] Sp.

[443] Cl. D.

[444] H. L.

[445] Sp.

[446] A. O.

[447] B. H. O.

[448] Sp.

[449] A. O.

[450] B. V. H. F.

[451] B. H. O.

[452] B. D. F.

[453] H. O.

[454] B. H. O.

[455] D. O.

[456] P. D. O.

[457] Hand to head.

[458] Listening.

[459] A. O.

[460] D. O.

[461] B. Cl. D.

[462] B. Par. D. O.

[463] A. O.

[464] D. O.

[465] Sp.

[466] A. O.

[467] B. D. O.

[468] Look to Left.

[469] Left H. O.

[470] A. O.

[471] H. O.

[472] B. Par. H. O. to left.

[473] Point to self.

[474] Ind. H. O.

[475] Left H. O.

[Illustration: “Merciful heavens! is that true?”]

Ben Hassan’s Dream.

I stood alone beside a mighty sea;

The waves in awful majesty swept in

And crashed upon the strand. Far out beyond

The snowy-crested line of breakers rode

A ship; and as she rose and fell her tall

Masts seemed to trace a message on the sky:

“O, ship! O, restless waste!” I cried, “Be true,

Be merciful, that they who watch on board,

And they that wait at home, may once more clasp

The hands and press the lips of those they love.”

The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent.

’Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sands

Stretched hot and gleaming till they touched the sky;

Upon my left lay leagues of sand; before,

Behind; which way I looked was burning sand:

The fierce sun overhead poured down a stream

Of heat intolerable. Silence reigned.

The caravan had gone. I leaned low down

To hearken, but in vain. Abandoned! Lost!

Would my siesta prove a sleep of death?

Another scene: The sun had set, and peace

Pervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfume

Of flowers filled the evening air. The sound

Of tinkling bells came faintly from a plain

Where camels browsed. The slender minarets,

And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a town,

That nestled ’mid the distant, waving palms.

A troop of horsemen slowly came in view;

Their banner bore the crescent and the star.

I knelt and cried: “Praise be to Allah’s name!”

And then, it seemed, I was within a grot

That opened on a placid lake. The moon

Was at the full and o’er the water threw

A track of silver sheen. Beside me stood

A child with upturned face. I placed my hand

Upon its head, when, lo! from out the lake

Arose a horrid, monster form. It glared

With baleful eyes and then advanced. “Keep off!

Keep off!” I shrieked, then seized the child and turned

To fly――when suddenly the vision changed:

Once more I dwelt beneath my parents’ roof,

A happy, careless child. The olden scenes

Were fresh again, and things forgot had life

And form. O home!――how blest are they that have

A home!――sweet haven sure when others fail!

“Oh, do not leave me, darling boy, my own!”

It was my mother’s voice. Ah, yes, her eyes

Were beaming love, as angel-like she smiled

And kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face,

I woke and wept to know ’twas but a dream.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Six o’Clock.

Down by the rugged coast of Maine

Breaks on the air the glad refrain

That welcomes old Time on his westward flight,

That makes the dull eye of the toiler bright,

And heralds the bliss of a single night;

Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek,

At six o’clock and six times a week.

Loveliest hour of all the day,

Blest is thy sweet and mystic sway:

Affection and hope in their might are rife

In each watching child; in the waiting wife;

The father that tramps from his daily strife;

The widow’s son and his fond embrace;

In the smile that beams on her pallid face.

Who hath not felt the wondrous spell,

Ushered by whistle and by bell?

A halo of peace round each home it flings;

To poor and to weary relief it brings;

And e’en the black tea-kettle gaily sings:

O moments calm! Ye foretell the rest

That soon must come to each human breast.

Westward speed on o’er hill and dell,

City and town and cot to tell;

On, on, like a courier, dash away,

Hard pressing the heels of departing day

Till stopped by the waters of “’Frisco” Bay!

Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek,

At six o’clock, and six times a week.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Charlie’s Story.

I was sitting in the twilight,

With my Charlie on my knees,

Little two-year old, forever

Teasing “Talk a tory to me pease.”

“_Now_,” I said, “talk _me_ a ’tory.”

“Well,” reflectively, “I’ll ’mence.

Mamma, I did see a kitty,

Great big kitty on the fence.”

Mamma smiles. Five little fingers

Cover up her laughing lips;

“Is oo laughing?” “Yes” I tell him,

But I kiss the finger tips;

And I say: “Now tell another.”

“Well” (all smiles) “now I will ’mence.

Mamma, I did see a doggie,

Great big doggie on the fence.”

“Rather similar, your stories,

Aren’t they, dear?” A sober look

Swept across the pretty forehead;

Then he sudden courage took.

“But I know a nice _new_ ’tory

’Plendid, Mamma! Hear me ’mence,

Mamma, I did see a――elfunt

Great big elfunt on the fence!”

The Months.

A PAGEANT.

PERSONIFICATIONS.

JANUARY. } FEBRUARY. }

MARCH. } APRIL. }

JULY. } Gentlemen. MAY. } Ladies.

AUGUST. } JUNE. }

OCTOBER. } SEPTEMBER.}

DECEMBER.} NOVEMBER. }

ROBIN REDBREASTS; LAMBS AND SHEEP; NIGHTINGALE AND NESTLINGS.

_Various Flowers, Fruits, etc._

SCENE:――A COTTAGE WITH ITS GROUNDS.

(_A room in a large, comfortable cottage; a fire burning on the

hearth; a table on which the breakfast things have been left standing.

January discovered seated at the fire._)

JANUARY.

Cold the day and cold the drifted snow,

Dim the day until the cold dark night.

[_Stirs the fire._]

Crackle, sparkle, fagot; embers, glow:

Some one may be plodding through the snow,

Longing for a light,

For the light that you and I can show.

If no one else should come,

Here Robin Redbreast’s welcome to a crumb,

And never troublesome:

Robin, why don’t you come and fetch your crumb?

Here’s butter for my bunch of bread,

And sugar for your crumb;

Here’s room upon the hearth-rug,

If you’ll only come.

In your scarlet waistcoat,

With your keen bright eye,

Where are you loitering?

Wings were made to fly!

Make haste to breakfast,

Come and fetch your crumb,

For I’m as glad to see you

As you are glad to come.

(_Two Robin Redbreasts are seen tapping with their beaks at the

lattice, which January opens. The birds flutter in, hop about the

floor, and peck up the crumbs and sugar thrown to them. They have

scarcely finished their meal, when a knock is heard at the door.

January hangs a guard in front of the fire, and opens to February, who

appears with a bunch of snowdrops in her hand._)

JANUARY.

Good-morrow, sister.

FEBRUARY.

Brother, joy to you!

I’ve brought some snowdrops; only just a few,

But quite enough to prove the world awake,

Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew,

And for the pale sun’s sake.

(_She hands a few of her snowdrops to January, who retires into the

background. While February stands arranging the remaining snowdrops in

a glass of water on the window-sill, a soft butting and bleating are

heard outside. She opens the door, and sees one foremost lamb, with

other sheep and lambs bleating and crowding towards her._)

FEBRUARY.

O you, you little wonder, come――come in,

You wonderful, you woolly, soft, white lamb:

You panting mother ewe, come too,

And lead that tottering twin

Safe in:

Bring all your bleating kith and kin,

Except the horny ram.

(_February opens a second door in the background, and the little flock

files through into a warm and sheltered compartment out of sight._)

The lambkin tottering in its walk,

With just a fleece to wear;

The snowdrop drooping on its stalk

So slender,――

Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair,

Braving the cold for our delight,

Both white,

Both tender.

(_A rattling of door and windows; branches seen without, tossing

violently to and fro._)

How the doors rattle, and the branches sway!

Here’s brother March comes whirling on his way,

With winds that eddy and sing.

(_She turns the handle of the door, which bursts open, and discloses

March hastening up, both hands full of violets and anemones._)

FEBRUARY.

Come, show me what you bring;

For I have said my say, fulfilled my day,

And must away.

MARCH.

(_Stopping short on the threshold._)

I blow and arouse,

Through the world’s wide house,

To quicken the torpid earth:

Grappling I fling

Each feeble thing,

But bring strong life to the birth.

I wrestle and frown,

And topple down;

I wrench, I rend, I uproot;

Yet the violet

Is born where I set

The sole of my flying foot.

(_Hands violets and anemones to February, who retires into the

background._)

And in my wake

Frail wind-flowers quake,

And the catkins promise fruit.

I drive ocean ashore

With rush and roar,

And he cannot say me nay:

My harpstrings all

Are the forests tall,

Making music when I play.

And as others perforce,

So I on my course

Run and needs must run,

With sap on the mount,

And buds past count,

And rivers and clouds and sun,

With seasons and breath

And time and death

And all that has yet begun.

(_Before March has done speaking, a voice is heard approaching

accompanied by a twittering of birds. April comes along singing, and

stands outside and out of sight to finish her song._)

APRIL.

(_Outside._)

Pretty little three

Sparrows in a tree,

Light upon the wing;

Though you cannot sing,

You can chirp of Spring:

Chirp of Spring to me,

Sparrows, from your tree.

Never mind the showers,

Chirp about the flowers,

While you build a nest:

Straws from east and west,

Feathers from your breast,

Make the snuggest bowers

In a world of flowers.

You must dart away

From the chosen spray,

You intrusive third

Extra little bird;

Join the unwedded herd!

These have done with play,

And must work to-day.

APRIL.

(_Appearing at the open door._)

Good-morrow and good-bye: if others fly,

Of all the flying months you’re the most flying.

MARCH.

You’re hope and sweetness, April.

APRIL.

Birth means dying,

As wings and wind mean flying;

So you and I and all things fly or die;

And sometimes I sit sighing to think of dying.

But meanwhile I’ve a rainbow in my showers,

And a lapful of flowers,

And these dear nestlings, aged three hours;

And here’s their mother sitting,

Their father merely flitting

To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers.

(_As she speaks April shows March her apron full of flowers and nest

full of birds. March wanders away into the grounds. April, without

entering the cottage, hangs over the hungry nestlings watching them._)

APRIL.

What beaks you have, you funny things,

What voices, shrill and weak;

Who’d think anything that sings

Could sing with such a beak?

Yet you’ll be nightingales some day

And charm the country-side,

When I’m away and far away,

And May is queen and bride.

(_May arrives unperceived by April, and gives her a kiss. April starts

and looks round._)

APRIL.

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

MAY.

That’s just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh;

Your sorrows half in fun,

Begun and done

And turned to joy while twenty seconds run.

At every step a flower

Fed by your last bright shower,――

(_She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers with April, who

strolls away through the garden._)

MAY.

And gathering flowers I listened to the song

Of every bird in bower.

The world and I are far too full of bliss,

To think or plan or toil or care;

The sun is waxing strong,

The days are waning long,

And all that is,

Is fair.

Here are May buds of lily and of rose,

And here’s my namesake-blossom, May;

And from a watery spot

See here, forget-me-not,

With all that blows

To-day.

Hark to my linnets from the hedges green,

Blackbird and lark and thrush and dove,

And every nightingale

And cuckoo tells its tale,

And all they mean

Is love.

(_June appears at the further end of the garden, coming slowly towards

May, who seeing her, exclaims:_)

MAY.

Surely you’re come too early, sister June.

JUNE.

Indeed I feel as if I came too soon

To round your young May moon,

And set the world a-gasping at my noon,

Yet must I come. So here are strawberries,

Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please;

And there are full-blown roses by the score,

More roses and yet more.

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

JUNE.

The sun does all my long day’s work for me,

Raises and ripens everything;

I need but sit beneath a leafy tree

And watch and sing.

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

Or if I’m lulled by note of bird and bee,

Or lulled by noontide’s silence deep,

I need but nestle down beneath my tree

And drop asleep.

(_June falls asleep; and is not awakened by the voice of July, who

behind the scenes is heard half singing, half calling._)

JULY.

(_Behind the scenes._)

Blue flags, yellow flags, all freckled,

Which will you take? Yellow, blue, speckled!

Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow,

Each in its way has not a fellow.

(_Enter July, a basket of many-colored irises swung upon his

shoulders, a bunch of ripe grass in one hand, and a plate piled full

of peaches balanced upon the other. He steals up to June, and tickles

her with the grass. She wakes._)

JUNE.

What, here already?

JULY.

Nay, my tryst is kept;

The longest day slipped by you while you slept.

I’ve brought you one curved pyramid of bloom,

(_Hands her the plate._)

Not flowers, but peaches, gathered where the bees,

As downy, bask and boom

In sunshine and in gloom of trees.

But get you in, a storm is at my heels;

The whirlwind whistles and wheels,

Lightning flashes and thunder peals,

Flying and following hard upon my heels.

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

JULY.

The roar of a storm sweeps up

From the east to the lurid west,

The darkening sky, like a cup,

Is filled with rain to the brink;

The sky is purple and fire,

Blackness and noise and unrest;

The earth, parched with desire,

Opens her mouth to drink.

Send forth thy thunder and fire,

Turn over thy brimming cup,

O sky, appease the desire

Of earth in her parched unrest;

Pour out drink to her thirst,

Her famishing life lift up;

Make thyself fair as at first,

With a rainbow for thy crest.

Have done with thunder and fire,

O sky with the rainbow crest;

O earth, have done with desire,

Drink, and drink deep, and rest.

(_Enter August, carrying a sheaf made up of different kinds of

grain._)

JULY.

Hail, brother August, flushed and warm,

And scathless from my storm.

Your hands are full of corn, I see,

As full as hands can be:

And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm

In their recovered calm,

And that they owe to me.

(_July retires into the shrubbery._)

AUGUST.

Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy,

Barley bows a graceful head,

Short and small shoots up canary,

Each of these is some one’s bread;

Bread for man or bread for beast,

Or at very least

A bird’s savory feast.

Men are brethren of each other,

One in flesh and one in food;

And a sort of foster brother,

Is the litter, or the brood

Of that folk in fur and feather,

Who, with men together,

Breast the wind and weather.

(_August descries September toiling across the lawn._)

AUGUST.

My harvest home is ended; and I spy

September drawing nigh

With the first thought of Autumn in her eye,

And the first sigh

Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly.

(_September arrives, carrying upon her head a basket heaped high with

fruit._)

SEPTEMBER.

Unload me, brother. I have brought a few

Plums and these pears for you,

A dozen kinds of apples, one or two

Melons, some figs all bursting through

Their skins; and pearled with dew

These damsons, violet-blue.

(_While September is speaking, August lifts the basket to the ground,

selects various fruits, and withdraws slowly along the gravel walk,

eating a pear as he goes._)

SEPTEMBER.

My song is half a sigh

Because my green leaves die;

Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are dying;

And well may Autumn sigh,

And well may I

Who watch the sere leaves flying.

My leaves that fade and fall,

I note you one and all;

I call you, and the autumn wind is calling,

Lamenting for your fall,

And for the pall

You spread on earth in falling.

And here’s a song of flowers to suit such hours:

A song of the last lilies, the last flowers,

Amid my withering bowers.

In the sunny garden bed

Lilies look so pale,

Lilies droop the head

In the shady, grassy vale;

If all alike they pine

In shade and in shine,

If everywhere they grieve,

Where will lilies live?

(_October enters briskly, some leafy twigs bearing different sorts of

nuts in one hand, and a long, ripe hop-vine trailing after him from

the other. A dahlia is stuck in his button-hole._)

OCTOBER.