And his voice, it quivered with pain,
While the tears kept slowly dropping
On his trembling hands like rain:
"For my Fred was so brave and loyal,
So true; but my eyes are dim,
And I cannot read the letter--
The last that I shall get from him.
Please read it, sir, while I listen--
In fancy I see him--dead:
My boy, shot down like a traitor,
My noble, my brave boy, Fred!"
"Dear Father," so ran the letter,
"To-morrow when twilight creeps
Along the hill to the old church-yard,
O'er the grave where mother sleeps,
When the dusky shadows gather,
They'll lay your boy in his grave,
For nearly betraying the country
He would give his life to save.
And, dear Father, I tell you truly,
With almost my latest breath,
That your boy is not a traitor,
Though he dies a traitor's death.
"You remember Bennie Wilson?
He's suffered a deal of pain,
He was only that day ordered
Back into the ranks again;
I carried all of his luggage
With mine, on the march that day;
And I gave my arm to lean on,
Else he had dropped by the way.
'Twas Bennie's turn to be sentry;
But I took his place, and I--
Father, I dropped asleep, and now
I must die as traitors die!
The Colonel is kind and thoughtful,
He has done the best that he can,
And they will not bind or blind me--
I shall meet death like a man.
Kiss little Blossom; but dear Father,
Need you tell her how I fall?"
A sob from the shadowed corner--
Yes, Blossom had heard it all,
And as she kissed the precious letter,
She said with faltering breath:
"Our Fred was never a traitor,
Though he dies a traitors death!"
And a little sun-browned maiden,
In a shabby, time-worn dress,
Took her seat a half-hour later
In the crowded night express.
The conductor heard her story
As he held her dimpled hand,
And sighed for the sad hearts breaking
All over the troubled land.
He tenderly wiped the tear-drops
From the blue eyes brimming o'er,
And guarded her footsteps safely
Till she reached the White House door.
The President sat at his writing;
But the eyes were kind and mild,
That turned with a look of wonder
On the sky-faced child,
And he read Fred's farewell letter
With a look of sad regret.
"'Tis a brave young life," he murmured,
"And his country needs him yet,
From an honored place in battle
He shall bid the world good-bye,
If that brave young life is needed,
He shall die as heroes die!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE MAID OF ORLEANS.
A sketch of the life of Joan of Arc.--Adapted from Guizot's History of
France.
There are few nations whose history presents so many examples of
bravery and love of country, as France. The romantic story of Joan of
Arc, commonly called the Maid of Orleans, has not a parallel in either
ancient or modern times.
This heroic maid was a farmers daughter, of good life and character.
She was occupied in sewing or spinning with her mother, or driving her
father's sheep afield, and tending them, a little shepherdess in fact.
In 1428, the English army had laid siege to Orleans, a city of France,
and in spite of all their efforts, the French troops found themselves
unable to hold the city.
Hearing of the great danger of the army of her country, Joan, though
but 16 years of age, demanded to be taken before the French king,
saying that the King of Heaven had sent her to help him.
The king was not sure that Joan was truthful, but after talking with
her and finding her sincere, he at last decided to send her to join his
army. The king gave her a fine black charger, a sword, a complete suit
of armor, and a large white banner covered with lilies. In order that
she might better fight, she was allowed to supply herself with men's
clothing.
When she and her attendants reached the army, great was the surprise
of the soldiers; some were ready to mock at the idea of a young maid
coming to be the leader of an army, but like good soldiers, they were
loyal to their king.
Placing herself at the head of the army, she marched out to meet the
English, and after a bloody struggle compelled them to raise the siege
and beat a hasty retreat.
Joan, in leading a charge against the enemy, the first day, was struck
by an arrow, which passed completely through her shoulder, but she
seized the arrow and drew it from the wound with her own hand and had
the surgeon dress the wound. Early the next day she was well enough to
lead forth the troops and complete the victory begun the day before.
During this year she was able to defeat the English in several other
battles. After these victories, the French generals and leaders became
jealous of her success, and persuaded the king to give up efforts till
the next spring.
This delay was fatal. Profiting by it, the English increased their army
and early in May, when Joan led forth her troops, it was to be defeated
and made a prisoner.
The English tried her as a witch, or heretic, and she was finally
sentenced and burned at the stake on May 30, 1431, three years after
she first appeared among the troops.
Years after, as if to undo the terrible crime of burning a sweet,
virtuous and heroic girl, another trial was had, the evidence against
Joan was all reviewed, and be it said to the everlasting honor of
her judges, they decided that she had not been guilty and that her
execution was a grave and terrible mistake.
Whether she really was assisted by God or not, no one knows, but
history does not record the name of a woman whose efforts seemed more
inspired, and whose life was so entirely pure and patriotic.
* * * * *
Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
'Tis only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.
TENNYSON: "LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A BIRD'S STORY.
M. E. B.
It's strange how little boys' mothers,
Can find it all out as they do,
If a fellow does anything naughty,
Or says anything that's not true!
They'll look at you just a moment,
Till your heart in your bosom swells,
And then they know all about it--
For a little bird tells!
Now, where the little bird comes from,
Or where the little bird goes,
If he's covered with beautiful plumage,
Or black as the king of the crows.
If his voice is as hoarse as a raven,
Or clear as the ringing of bells,
I know not--but this I am sure of--
A little bird tells!
The moment you think a thing wicked,
The moment you do a thing bad,
Are angry, or sullen, or hateful,
Get ugly, or stupid, or mad,
Or tease a dear brother or sister--
That instant your sentence he knells,
And the whole to mamma in a minute
That little bird tells!
You may be in the depths of a closet,
Where nobody sees but a mouse,
You may be all alone in the cellar,
You may be on the top of the house,
You may be in the dark and the silence,
Or out in the woods and the dells--
No matter! wherever it happens
The little bird tells!
And the only contrivance to stop him,
Is just to be sure what you say--
Sure of your facts and your fancies,
Sure of your work and your play;
Be honest, be brave and be kindly,
Be gentle and loving as well,
And then--you can laugh at the stories
The little bird tells!
[Illustration]
THE WOLF AND THE SEVEN KIDS.
There was once an old goat, who had seven kids, whom she loved as
dearly as any mother could. One day she wished to go into the wood, to
fetch some provision; so she called them all together, and said, "My
dear children, I am going into the wood; but while I am gone, pray take
care of the wolf; if he comes in here he will devour you, skin and all.
He often disguises himself; but you will always be able to know him
by his gruff voice and black feet." The little kids replied, "Mother,
dear, you may go without any fear, for we will take all possible care
of ourselves." So the old goat bleated, to express her satisfaction,
and went away without mistrust.
Before long, a knock was heard at the door, and a voice said, "Open the
door, dear children; your mother is here, and has brought something for
each of you." But the little kids discovered very easily by the gruff
voice who it was, and cried out, "No, no; we shall not open the door,
you are not our mother; she has a gentle, loving voice, but yours is
harsh; for you are the wolf."
When he heard this, he went away and got a great lump of chalk, which
he swallowed to make his voice more delicate; then returning to the
cottage, he knocked at the door, saying, "Open the door, dear children;
your affectionate mother is here, and has brought something for each of
you." But, as he spoke the wolf laid his black foot on the window-sill;
so the children saw it and cried, "No, no, we shall not open the door;
our mother has not black feet like you; you are the wolf!"
Then the wolf ran to the baker, and said, "I have hurt my foot, spread
some dough over it." The baker did as he requested; and the wolf
hastened to the miller, whom he asked to strew some of his white flour
over his foot. The miller thought to himself that the wolf wished to
deceive somebody, so he refused to do it. But the wolf said, fiercely,
"Do it instantly, or I will eat you up." The man, therefore, being
dreadfully afraid, made his paw white as he desired. The rogue now went
for the third time to the cottage, knocked at the door, and cried,
"Children, your affectionate mother has returned home, and brought
each of you something out of the wood." The kids exclaimed, "Show us
first your foot, that we may know truly if you are our dear mother."
The wolf had his paw on the window; and when they saw that it was
white, they believed all that he said, and opened the door. But it was
their enemy, the wolf, who, to their great terror, came in. They tried
in vain to hide themselves: one went under the table, another into bed,
the third into the oven, the fourth into the kitchen, the fifth into
the closet, the sixth under the washing-tub, and the seventh into the
clock-case. But the wolf found them all but one, and made no bones of
them, for he swallowed them all except the youngest, who was hidden in
the clock-case, and whom he did not find. When he had satisfied his
appetite, he rolled out of the cottage, and feeling rather drowsy, laid
himself down under a tree in a green meadow, and fell fast asleep.
Not long afterwards, the goat came home out of the wood. Ah! a sight
met her view! The house-door stood wide open, tables, stools, and
chairs were overturned, the washing-tub in pieces, counterpanes and
pillows strewed about in terrible confusion. She sought her children,
but they were nowhere to be found; she called them by name, but no
reply came.
At length, as she was passing near the place where the youngest was
concealed, she heard a weak voice say, "Dear mother, I'm in the
clock-case." She instantly opened it, and there was the kid, who
related the misfortune that had befallen them through the wolf, and the
dreadful fate of her brothers and sisters. The anger and sorrow of the
old goat can scarcely be described; but at length she became calmer,
and taking her kid with her, resolved to seek her enemy. When she
arrived at the meadow, she discovered him under the tree, snoring so
loudly that the twigs trembled. She examined him on all sides, and saw
that something was moving and jumping inside him. "Can it be possible,"
said she, "that my poor children whom the monster has swallowed for his
supper, are still alive?" Full of hope, she sent her kid quickly home
for scissors, needle and thread, and upon her return ripped the wolf
up; scarcely had she commenced, than a kid's head appeared, and when
she had finished, all six sprang joyfully out, without having suffered
the least harm, for the wolf had swallowed them whole. The mother
caressed them and jumped for joy, then said, "Now go and fetch me some
large paving stones, that I may fill up the wicked creature while he is
yet asleep." The kids obeyed and dragged plenty of large stones to the
place, which the mother put inside the wolf; she then sewed him up, so
quickly, that he neither stirred nor found out what she had done.
At length the wolf awoke, raised himself on his legs, and as the stones
made him feel thirsty, he went towards the spring to quench it. But
when he began to move, the stones moved likewise, and rattled loudly.
Then he said, "What can it be that rattles about inside me, and feels
so heavy? I thought I had eaten kids, but I feel as if they were
paving-stones." He then came to the spring, and stooped down to drink,
but the weight of the stones carried him in, for the bank was sloping,
and he sank to the bottom and perished miserably. When the kids saw
this, they danced and sprang about in great joy, crying out, "The wolf
is drowned! The wolf is dead! We have nothing more to fear--the wolf is
dead!"
* * * * *
There is a day of sunny rest
For every dark and troubled night;
And grief may bide an evening guest,
But joy shall come with early light.--
BRYANT.
[Illustration]
BIRDIE AND BABY.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother let me fly away.
Birdie rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby, too, shall fly away.
THE INFLUENCE OF BOOKS.
From the hour of the invention of printing, books, and not kings, were
to rule in the world. Weapons forged in the mind, keen-edged, and
brighter than a sunbeam, were to supplant the sword and the battle-axe.
Books! light-houses built on the sea of time! Books! by whose sorcery
the whole pageantry of the world's history moves in solemn procession
before our eyes. From their pages great souls look down in all their
grandeur, undimmed by the faults and follies of earthly existence,
consecrated by time.
EDWIN P. WHIPPLE.
[Illustration]
ROCK ME TO SLEEP.
ELIZABETH AKERS.
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echo-less shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;--
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,--
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,--
Take them and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,--
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap--
Rock me to sleep, mother--rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O Mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between;
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep,
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Over my heart in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shown;
No other worship abides and endures,--
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;--
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened to your lullaby song;
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep,--
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep.
HEROISM.
So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
So near is God to man,
When duty whispers low, "_Thou must_,"
The youth replies, "_I can_."
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
* * * * *
Politeness is _to do_ and say
The kindest thing in the kindest way.
[Illustration]
MEASURING THE BABY.
EMMA ALICE BROWN.
We measured the riotous baby
Against the cottage wall--
A lily grew on the threshold,
And the boy was just as tall;
A royal tiger-lily,
With spots of purple and gold,
And a heart like a jeweled chalice,
The fragrant dew to hold.
Without, the bluebirds whistled
High up in the old roof-trees,
And to and fro at the window
The red rose rocked her bees;
And the wee pink fists of the baby
Were never a moment still,
Snatching at shine and shadow
That danced on the lattice-sill.
His eyes were wide as bluebells--
His mouth like a flower unblown--
Two little bare feet like funny white mice,
Peeped out from his snowy gown;
And we thought, with a thrill of rapture
That yet had a touch of pain,
When June rolls around with her roses,
We'll measure the boy again.
Ah me! in a darkened chamber,
With the sunshine shut away,
Through tears that fell like a bitter rain,
We measured the boy to-day;
And the little bare feet, that were dimpled
And sweet as a budding rose,
Lay side by side together,
In a hush of a long repose!
Up from the dainty pillow,
White as the risen dawn,
The fair little face lay smiling,
With the light of Heaven thereon;
And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves
Dropped from a rose, lay still,
Never to snatch at the sunshine
That crept to the shrouded sill.
We measured the sleeping baby
With ribbons white as snow,
For the shining rosewood casket
That waited him below;
And out of the darkened chamber
We went with a childless moan--
To the height of the sinless angels
Our little one had grown.
* * * * *
Every man stamps his value on himself.
The price we challenge for ourselves is given us.
Man is made great or little _by his own will_.
SCHILLER
* * * * *
It was a noble Roman,
In Rome's imperial day,
Who heard a coward croaker,
Before the Castle say:
"They're safe in such a fortress;
There is no way to shake it!"
"On--on," exclaimed the hero,
"_I'll find a way, or make it!_"
JOHN G. SAXE.
[Illustration]
THE ENGINEER'S STORY.
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 will ring in my head forever,
Until it rests beneath the sod.
We were lumbering along in the twilight,
The night was dropping 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--ahold 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 a child at its play!
One instant--one awful and only,
The world flew around 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 cross-bar
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 pressed 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 fullness of Heaven,
Blessed me evermore.
* * * * *
I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem
to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting
myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble, or a prettier shell
than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered
before me.
SIR ISAAC NEWTON.
* * * * *
Oh, many a shaft, at random sent,
Finds mark, the archer little meant!
And many a word, at random spoken,
May soothe, or wound, a heart that's broken.
WALTER SCOTT.
[Illustration]
TWO BRAVE BOYS.
FROM PRITT'S BORDER LIFE.
During the early pioneer days of Ohio, there lived on the Ohio river,
not far from Cincinnati, a family named Johnson.
The two sons, John and Henry, aged respectively thirteen and eleven
years, were one day seated on an old log some distance from the house.
Presently they saw two men coming toward them, whom they supposed to be
white men from the nearest settlement. To the great dismay of the boys,
they discovered when too late for escape, that two Indians were beside
them.
They were made prisoners and taken about four miles into the deep
forests, when, after eating some roasted meat and parched corn, given
them by their captors, they arranged for the night, by being placed
between the two Indians and each encircled in the arms of the one next
him.
Henry, the younger, had grieved much at the idea of being carried off
by the Indians. John had in vain tried to comfort him with the hope
that they should escape and return to their parents; but he refused to
be comforted. The ugly red man, with his tomahawk and scalping-knife,
which had often been called in to quiet his cries in infancy, was now
actually before him; and every scene of torture and cruelty of which
early settlers knew so much, rose up to terrify his mind.
But when the fire was kindled in the forest, that night, the supper
prepared and offered to him, all idea of his future fate was forgotten,
and Henry soon sank to peaceful sleep, though he was enclosed in the
arms of a red savage.
It was different with John. He felt the reality of their situation; he
was alive to the fears which he knew would possess his dear mother when
night came and her boys did not return. His thoughts of how to restore
his brother and himself to their friends drove sleep from his eyes.
Finding all others locked in deep repose, he gently slipped from the
arms of his captor and walked to the fire. To test the soundness of
their sleep, he rekindled the dying fire and moved freely about it.
All remained sound asleep--now was the time to escape. He gently awoke
Henry and told him to get up; he obeyed and both stood by the fire.
"I think," said John, "we had better go home now."
"Oh!" replied Henry, "they will follow and catch us."
"Never fear that," replied John, "we'll kill them before we go."
The idea was for some time opposed by Henry, but when he beheld the
savages so soundly asleep, and listened to his brother's plan of
executing his wish, he finally consented to act the part prescribed him.