Like flowers in the night—reach me those violets—It
is a flame a single look will kindle,
But not an ocean quench.
Fostered by dreams, excited by each thought,
Love is a star from heaven, that points the way
And leads us to its home—a little spot
In earth’s dry desert, where the soul may rest—
A grain of gold in the dull sand of life—
A foretaste of Elysium; but when
Weary of this world’s woes, the immortal gods
Flew to the skies, with all their richest gifts,
Love staid behind, self-exiled for man’s sake!
_Ing._ I never yet heard aught so beautiful!
But still I comprehend it not.
_Par._ Nor I.
For I have never felt it; yet I know
A song my mother sang, an ancient song,
That plainly speaks of love, at least to me.
How goes it? Stay— [_Slowly, as trying to recollect._
“What love is, if thou wouldst be taught,
Thy heart must teach alone,—
Two souls with but a single thought,
Two hearts that beat as one.
And whence comes love? like morning’s light,
It comes without thy call;
And how dies love?—A spirit bright,
Love never dies at all!”
And when—and when—
[_Hesitating as if unable to continue._
_Ing._ Go on.
_Par._ I know no more.
_Ing._ (_Impatiently._) Try—try!
_Par._ I cannot now; but at some other time
I may remember.
_Ing._ (_Somewhat authoritatively._) Now, go on, I say.
_Par._ (_Springing up in alarm._) Not now, I want more
roses for my wreath!
Yonder they grow, I will fetch them for myself.
Take care of all my flowers and the wreath!
[_Throws the flowers into Ingomar’s lap and runs off._
_Ing._ (_After a pause, without changing his position,
speaking to himself in deep abstraction._)
“Two souls with but a single thought,
Two hearts that beat as one.”
_Maria Lovell’s translation from the German._
[1] Parthenia’s father having been taken prisoner by Ingomar’s
followers, Parthenia voluntarily offers herself as hostage, while her
father returns to Massilia to raise his ransom. Her offer has been
accepted, and her father released.
CICELY AND THE BEARS.
I.
“Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! ding-dong!”
The bellman’s voice is loud and strong;
So is his bell: “Oh, yes! ding-dong!”
He wears a coat with golden lace;
See how the people of the place
Come running to hear what the bellman says!
“Oh, yes! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand
Has just returned from the Holy Land,
And freely offers his heart and hand—
Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! ding-dong!”
All the women hurry along,
Maids and widows, a clattering throng.
“Oh, sir, you are hard to understand!
To whom does he offer his heart and hand?
Explain your meaning, we do command!”
“Oh, yes! ding-dong! you shall understand!
Oh, yes! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand
Invites the ladies of this land
To feast with him, in his castle strong,
This very day at three. Ding-dong!
Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! ding-dong!”
Then all the women went off to dress,
Mary, Margaret, Bridget, Bess,
Patty, and more than I can guess.
They powdered their hair with golden dust,
And bought new ribbons—they said they must—
But none of them painted, we will trust.
Long before the time arrives,
All the women that could be wives
Are dressed within an inch of their lives.
Meanwhile Sir Nicholas Hildebrand
Had brought with him from the Holy Land
A couple of bears—Oh, that was grand!
He tamed the bears, and they loved him true:
Whatever he told them they would do—
Hark! ’tis the town-clock striking two!
II.
Among the maidens of low degree
The poorest of all was Cicely—
A shabbier girl could hardly be.
“Oh, I should like to see the feast,
But my frock is old, my shoes are pieced,
My hair is rough!”—(It never was greased.)
The clock struck three! She durst not go!
But she heard the band, and, to see the show,
Crept after the people that went in a row.
When Cicely came to the castle gate,
The porter exclaimed, “Miss Shaggypate,
The hall is full, and you come too late!”
Just then the music made a din,
Flute, and cymbal, and culverin,
And Cicely, with a squeeze, got in.
Oh, what a sight! Full fifty score
Of dames that Cicely knew, and more,
Filling the hall from dais to door!
The dresses were like a garden bed,
Green and gold, and blue and red—
Poor Cicely thought of her tossy head!
She heard the singing—she heard the clatter—
Clang of flagon and clink of platter—
But, oh, the feast was no such matter!
For she saw Sir Nicholas himself,
Raised on a dais just like a shelf,
And fell in love with him—shabby elf!
Her heart beat quick; aside she stepped:
Under the tapestry she crept,
Tousling her tossy hair, and wept!
Her cheeks were wet, her eyes were red.
“Who makes that noise?” the ladies said;
“Turn out that girl with the shaggy head!”
III.
Just then there was heard a double roar,
That shook the place, both wall and floor:
Everybody looked to the door.
It was a roar, it was a growl;
The ladies set up a little howl,
And flapped and clucked like frightened fowl.
Sir Hildebrand for silence begs—
In walked the bears on their hinder legs,
Wise as owls, and merry as grigs!
The dark girls tore their hair of sable;
The fair girls hid underneath the table;
Some fainted; to move they were not able.
But most of them could scream and screech—
Sir Nicholas Hildebrand made a speech—
“Order, ladies, I do beseech!”
The bears looked hard at Cicely,
Because her hair hung wild and free—
“Related to us, miss, you must be!”
Then Cicely, filling two plates of gold
As full of cherries as they could hold,
Walked up to the bears, and spoke out bold:
“Welcome to you! and to _you_ Mr. Bear!
Will you take a chair? will _you_ take a chair?
This is an honor, we do declare!”
Sir Hildebrand strode up to see,
Saying, “Who may this maiden be?
Ladies, this is the wife for me!”
Almost before they could understand,
He took up Cicely by the hand,
And danced with her a saraband.
Her hair was rough as a parlor broom;
It swung, it swirled all round the room—
Those ladies were vexed, we may presume.
Sir Nicholas kissed her on the face,
And set her beside him on the dais,
And made her the lady of the place.
The nuptials soon they did prepare,
With a silver comb for Cicely’s hair:
There were bands of music everywhere.
And in that beautiful bridal show
Both the bears were seen to go
Upon their hind legs to and fro!
Now every year on the wedding-day
The boys and girls come out to play,
And scramble for cherries as they may.
With a cheer for this and the other bear,
And a cheer for Sir Nicholas, free and fair,
And a cheer for Cis, of the tossy hair—
With one cheer more (if you will wait)
For every girl with a curly pate,
Who keeps her hair in a proper state.
Sing bear’s grease! curling-irons to sell!
Sing combs and brushes! sing tortoise-shell!
Oh, yes! ding-dong! the crier, the bell!
Isn’t this a pretty tale to tell?
_Lilliput Levee._
A HOWL IN ROME.
It had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with
victorious eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the
amphitheatre to an extent hitherto unknown, even in that luxurious
city. A large number of people from the rural districts had taken
advantage of half-rates on the railroad, and had been in town watching
the conflict in the arena, listening to the infirm, decrepit ring-joke,
and viewing the bogus sacred elephant.
The shouts of revelry had died away. The last loiterer had retired from
the free-lunch counter, and the lights in the palace of the victor were
extinguished. The restless hyena in the Roman menagerie had sunk to
rest, and the Numidian lion at the stock-yards had taken out his false
teeth for the night. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds,
tipped the dark waters of the Tiber with a wavy, tremulous light. The
dark-browed Roman soldier moved on his homeward way, the sidewalk
flipping up occasionally, and hitting him in the small of the back. No
sound was heard, save the low sob of some retiring wave as it told its
story to the smooth pebbles on the beach, or the unrelenting boot-jack
as it struck the high board fence in the back yard, just missing the
Roman tomcat in its mad flight; and then all was still as the breast
when the spirit has departed. Anon the half-stifled Roman snore would
steal in upon its deathly stillness, and then die away like a hot
biscuit in the hands of the hired man.
In the green room of the amphitheatre a little band of gladiators were
assembled. The foam of conflict yet lingered on their lips, the scowl
of battle yet hung upon their brows, and the large knobs on their
profiles indicated that it had been a busy day with them in the arena.
There was an embarrassing silence of about five minutes, when
Spartacus, gently laying his chew of tobacco on the banister, stepped
forth and addressed them:—
“Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen,—Ye call me chief, and ye do well
to call him chief who for twelve long years has met in the arena every
shape of man or beast that the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and
yet has never squealed. I do not say this egotistically, but simply to
show that I am the star thumper of the entire outfit.
“If there be one among you who can say that ever in public fight, or
private brawl, my actions did belie my words, let him stand forth and
say it, and I will spread him around over the arena till the coroner
will have to soak him out of the ground with benzine. If there be three
in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come,
and I will construct upon their physiognomy such cupolas and cornices
and dormer-windows and Corinthian capitals and entablatures, that
their own masters would pass them by in the broad light of high noon
unrecognized.
“And yet I was not always thus,—a hired butcher,—the savage chief of
still more savage men. My ancestors came from Sparta, Wisconsin, and
settled among the vine-clad hills and citron-groves of Syracuse. My
early life ran as quiet as the clear brook by which I sported. Aside
from the gentle patter of my angel mother’s slipper on the bustle of my
overalls, every thing moved along with the still and rhythmic flow of
goose-grease. My boyhood was one long, happy summer day. We stole the
Roman muskmelon, and put split sticks on the tail of the Roman dog, and
life was a picnic and a hallelujah.
“When, at noon, I led the sheep beneath the shade, and played ‘Little
Sallie Waters’ on my shepherd’s flute, there was another Spartan youth,
the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime; we led our flocks to
the same pasture, and together picked the large red ants out of our
doughnuts.
“One evening, after the sheep had been driven into the corral, and we
were all seated beneath the ‘Bammygilead’-tree that shaded our cottage,
my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and Dr.
Mary Walker, and other great men; and how a little band of Spartans at
Milwaukee had stood off the police, and how they fled away into the
mountains, and there successfully held an annual pass over the C. M. &
St. P. Railway. Held it for a year! I did not know then what war was;
but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and I thought what a glorious
thing it would be to leave the reservation, and go upon the war-path.
But my mother kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go and soak
my head, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. That
very night the Romans landed on our coasts. They pillaged the whole
country, burned the agency buildings, demolished the ranche, rode off
the stock, tore down the smoke-house, and ran their war horses over the
cucumber-vines.
“To-day I killed a man in the arena; and when I broke his helmet
clasps, and looked upon him, behold! he was my friend. The same sweet
smile was on his face that I had known when in adventurous boyhood we
bathed in the glassy lake by our Spartan home, and he had tied my shirt
into 1,752 dangerous and difficult knots. He knew me, smiled faintly,
told me always to tell the truth, and to travel by the Milwaukee & St.
Paul road, and then ascended the golden stair. I begged of the Praetor
that I might be allowed to bear away the body, and have it packed in
ice, and shipped to his relatives in Sparta, Wisconsin; but he couldn’t
see it. As upon my bended knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena,
I begged this poor boon, and the Praetor answered, ‘Let the carrion
rot. There are no noblemen but Romans and Ohio men. Let the show go on.
Bring forth the bobtail lion from Abbyssinia.’ And the assembled maids
and matrons and the rabble shouted in derision, and told me to ‘brace
up;’ and they threw peanut-shells at me, and told me to ‘cheese it,’
with other Roman flings which I do not now recall.
“And so must you, fellow gladiators, and so must I, die like dogs.
To-morrow we are billed to appear at the Coliseum at Rome; and
reserved seats are even now being sold for our moral and instructive
performance, while I am speaking to you.
“Ye stand here like giants as ye are; but to-morrow some Roman dude
will pat your red brawn, and bet his shekels upon your blood.
“O Rome! Rome! Thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Thou hast given to
that gentle, timid, shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a
flute note, muscles of iron, and a heart of steel. Thou hast taught him
to drive his sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and
warm it in the stomach of his foe; to gaze into the glaring eyeballs
of a fierce Numidian lion, even as the smooth-cheeked senator looks
into the laughing eyes of the chambermaid. And he shall pay thee back
till the rushing Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze
thy life-blood lies curdled. Ye doubtless hear the gentle murmur of my
bazoo.
“Hark! Hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? ’Tis three days since he
tasted flesh, but to-morrow he will have gladiator on toast, and don’t
you forget it; and he will fling your vertebræ around his cage, and
wipe his nose on your clustering hair.
“If ye are brutes, then stand here like fat oxen waiting the butcher’s
knife. If ye are men, arise and follow me! Strike down the warden
and the turnkey, slide our baggage out the third story window of the
amphitheatre, overpower the public, and cut for the tall timber!
“O comrades! Warriors! Gladiators! If we be men, let us die like men,
beneath the blue sky, and by the still waters, and be buried according
to Hoyle, instead of having our shin-bones polished off by Numidian
lions, amid the groans and hisses of the populace here in Rome, New
York. Let us break loose, chaw the ear of the night watchman, buy our
tickets via the Chicago, Milwaukee, & St. Paul Railway, and go to
farming in Dakota! _Then_ if the fierce Roman don’t like our style, he
knows our post-office address.”
_Bill Nye._
JAMIE DOUGLAS.
It was in the days when Claverhouse
Was scouring moor and glen,
To change, with fire and bloody sword,
The faith of Scottish men.
They had made a covenant with the Lord
Firm in their faith to bide,
Nor break to him their plighted word,
Whatever might betide.
The sun was well-nigh setting,
When o’er the heather wild,
And up the narrow mountain path,
Alone there walked a child.
He was a bonny, blithesome lad,
Sturdy and strong of limb:
A father’s pride, a mother’s love,
Were fast bound up in him.
His bright blue eyes glanced fearless round,
His step was firm and light:
What was it underneath his plaid
His little hands grasped tight?
It was bannocks which, that very morn,
His mother made with care,
From out her scanty store of meal,
And now, with many a prayer,
Had sent by Jamie, her ane boy,
A trusty lad and brave,
To good old Pastor Tammus Roy,
Now hid in yonder cave,
And for whom the bloody Claverhouse
Had hunted long in vain,
And swore they would not leave that glen
Till old Tam Roy was slain.
So Jamie Douglas went his way
With heart that knew no fear:
He turned the great curve in the rock,
Nor dreamed that death was near.
And there were bloody Claverhouse men
Who laughed aloud with glee,
When, trembling now within their power,
The frightened child they see.
He turns to flee, but all in vain:
They drag him back apace
To where their cruel leader stands,
And set them face to face.
The cakes concealed beneath his plaid
Soon tell the story plain—
“It is old Tam Roy the cakes are for!”
Exclaimed the angry man.
“Now guide me to his hiding-place,
And I will let you go.”
But Jamie shook his yellow curls,
And stoutly answered, “No!”
“I’ll drop you down the mountain side,
And there upon the stones
The old gaunt wolf and carrion crow
Shall battle for your bones.”
And in his brawny, strong right hand
He lifted up the child,
And held him where the clefted rocks
Formed a chasm deep and wild.
So deep it was, the trees below
Like stunted bushes seemed.
Poor Jamie looked in frightened maze:
It seemed some horrid dream.
He looked at the blue sky above,
Then at the men near by:
Had _they_ no little boys at home,
That they could let him die?
But no one spoke, and no one stirred,
Or lifted hand to save
From such a fearful, frightful death,
The little lad so brave.
“It is woful deep!” he shuddering cried;
“But, oh! I canna tell!
So drop me down, then, if you will—
It is nae so deep as hell!”
A childish scream, a faint, dull sound—
O Jamie Douglas true!
Long, long within that lonely cave
Shall Tam Roy wait for you.
Long for your welcome coming
Waits the mother on the moor,
And watches and calls, “Come, Jamie, lad,”
Through the half-open door.
No more adown the rocky path
You come with fearless tread,
Or, on moor or mountain, take
The good man’s daily bread.
But up in heaven the shining ones
A wond’rous story tell,
Of a child snatched up from a rocky gulf
That is nae so deep as hell.
And there before the great white throne,
Forever blessed and glad,
His mother dear and old Tam Roy
Shall meet their bonny lad.
STORY OF A BEDSTEAD.
It was night.
The boarding-house was wrapt in tenebrous gloom, faintly tinted with an
odor of kerosene.
Suddenly there arose on the air a yell, followed by wild objurgations
and furious anathemas.
Then there was a clanking and rattling, as of an over-turned
picket-fence, and another yell with more anathemas. The fatted boarders
listened, and, ghostly clad, tip-toed along to Buffum’s room,—he of
Buffum & Bird, second-hand furniture dealers. As they stood there,
there was a whiz, a grinding, a rattling and a bang, and more yells.
They consulted, and knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
“Open it.”
“I can’t.”
Convinced that Buffum was in his last agony, they knocked in the door
with a bedpost.
The sight was ghastly. Clasped between two sturdy, though slender,
frames of walnut, Buffum, pale as a ghost, was six feet up in the air.
He couldn’t move. He was caught like a bear in a log-trap.
“What on earth is it?” they said.
“Bedstead—combination. New patent I was tellin’ you about,” gasped
Buffum.
His story was simple, though tearful. He had brought it home that day;
and, after using it for a writing-desk, had opened it out and made
his bed. He was going peacefully to dream-land, when he rolled over
and accidentally touched a spring. The faithful invention immediately
became a double crib, and turned Buffum into a squalling wafer. Then
he struggled, and was reaching around for the spring, when the patent
bedstead thought it would show off some more, and straightened out,
and shot up in the air, and was a clothes-horse. Buffum said he
didn’t like to be clothes, and he would give the thing to anybody
that would get him out. They said they would try. They didn’t want
any such fire-extinguisher as that for their trouble, but they would
try. They inspected it cautiously. They walked all around it. Then the
commission-merchant laid his little finger on the top end of it. The
thing snorted and reared as if it had been shot, slapped over with a
bang, and became an extension-table for ten people. When they recovered
from the panic, they came back. They found the commission-merchant in
the corner trying to get breath enough to swear, while he rubbed his
shins. Buffum had disappeared, but they knew he had not gone far. The
invention appeared to have taken a fancy to him, and incorporated him
into the firm, so to speak. He was down underneath, straddling one of
the legs, with his head jammed into the mattress. Nobody dared to touch
it. The landlady got a club and reached for its vital parts, but could
not find them. She hammered her breath away; and when she got through,
and dropped the club in despair, the thing spread out its arms with a
gasp and a rattle, turned over twice, and slapped itself into a bed
again, with Buffum peacefully among the sheets. He held his breath for
a minute; and then, watching his opportunity, made a flying-leap to the
floor, just in time to save himself from being a folding-screen.
A man with a black eye and cut lip told the “Wasp” editor about it
yesterday. He said he owned the patent, that Buffum had been explaining
to him how it worked.
_From the San Francisco “Wasp.”_
“MAGDALENA.”
Sat we ’neath the dark veranda,
Years and years ago;
And I softly pressed a hand a
Deal more white than snow;
And I cast aside my reina,
As I gazed upon her face,
And I read her “Magdalena,”
While she smoothed her Spanish lace—
Read her Waller’s “Magdalena”—
She had Magdalena’s grace,
Read her of the Spanish duel,
Of the brother, courtly, cruel,
Who between the British wooer
And the Seville lady came:
How her lover promptly slew her
Brother, and then fled in shame—
How he dreamed, in long years after,
Of the river’s rippling laughter—
Of the love he used to know,
In the myrtle-curtained villa,
Near the city of Sevilla,
Years and years ago.
Ah, how warmly was I reading,
As I gazed upon her face!
And my voice took tones of pleading,
For I sought to win her grace.
Surely, thought I, in her veins
Runs some drop of foreign strains—
There is something half Castilian
In that lip that shames vermilion;
In that mass of raven tresses,
Tossing like a falcon’s jesses;
In that eye with trailing lashes—
And its witching upward flashes—
Such, indeed, I know,
Shone where Guadalquivir plashes
Years and years ago.
Looking in her face I read it—
How the metre trips!—
And the god of lovers
On my happy lips—
All those words of mystic sweetness
Spoke I with an airy neatness,
As I never had before—
As I cannot speak them more—
Reja, plaza and mantilla.
“No palabras” and Sevilla,
Caballero and sombrero,
And duenna and Duero,
Spada, senor, sabe Dios—
Smooth as pipe of Melibœus—
Ah, how very well I read it,
Looking in her lovely eyes!
When ’twas o’er, I looked for credit,
As she softly moved to rise.
* * * * *
Doting dream, ah, dream fallacious—
Years and years ago!
For she only said, “My gracious—
What a lot of French you know!”
_Puck._
RAKING THE MEADOW-LOT.
A HAY-TIME IDYL.
“We’ll mow,” quoth old farmer Jacobs, “the new corner medder
to-day—
Nell, you come an’ help with the rakin’—its right ketchin’ weather
for hay;
Neighbor Smith’s Jim, he’s bin to the city, an’ a new-fangled patent
he’s bought;
An’ he’s bound to come over this mornin’, an’ streak through that
air medder-lot.
He sez—an’ I tell him the kaounty ain’t able to beat him for
cheek—
The thing’ll do more execution than me an’ my boys in a week;
But he offered so kinder perlite-like (I’ve no faith in the
gimcrack—not I),
I couldn’t do other than ’low him to fetch the queer critter an’
try.”
Pretty Nell, skimming cream in the dairy, peeped out through the
vine-shaded pane,
As Jim, with “Old Roan” and “Black Billy” went clattering down
through the lane;
And was it the “new-fangled mower” her shy blue eyes followed? I
ween
From the blushes that deepened and flitted, it could not have been
the machine.
Prone under the lengthening shadows the feathery meadow-grass lay;
The daises uncrowned in their glory, sun-smitten, slow fading away;
The cardinal flower in the ditches, rose proudly, right royally
dressed,
And restlessly hither and hither moaned the bobolinks spoiled of
their nest.
Fair Nellie outrivalled the daises; and so, it was plain, thought
young Jim,
Or else that such dainty hay-making required much assistance from
him;
And if ever the lost joy of Eden came back to this earth long
forgot,
It came to these blissful young lovers, a raking the new meadow-lot.
“What’s this that you ax for—_my_ Nellie?—Wal, if I ain’t
beat—can it be
It wasn’t my _hay_ but my _darter_ made you mighty
obleegin’ to me?
You don’t desarve her, you rascal, but”—the shrewd gray eyes
twinkled—“I guess—
Considerin’ the help you’ll be hayin’—I s’pose—shall hev to
say—yes.”
_Ruth Revere._
AFTER “TAPS.”
Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!
As I lay with my blanket on,
By the dim firelight, in the moonlit night,
When the skirmishing fight was done.
The measured beat of the sentry’s feet,
With the jingling scabbard’s ring!
Tramp! tramp! in my meadow-camp
By the Shenandoah’s spring!
The moonlight seems to shed cold beams
On a row of pale grave-stones:
Give the bugle breath, and that image of Death
Will fly from the reveille’s tones.
By each tented roof, a charger’s hoof
Makes the frosty hillside ring:
Give the bugle breath, and a spirit of Death
To each horse’s girth will spring.
Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!
The sentry before my tent,
Guards in gloom his chief, for whom
Its shelter to-night is lent.
I am not there. On the hillside bare
I think of the ghost within;
Of the brave who died at my sword-hand side,
To-day, ’mid the horrible din
Of shot and shell, and the infantry yell,
As we charged with the sabre drawn.
To my heart I said, “Who shall be the dead
In _my_ tent at another dawn?”
I thought of a blossoming almond-tree,
The stateliest tree that I know;
Of a golden bowl; of a parted soul;
And a lamp that is burning low.
Oh, thoughts that kill! I thought of the hill
In the far-off Jura chain;
Of the two, the three, o’er the wide salt sea,
Whose hearts would break with pain;
Of my pride and joy—my eldest boy;
Of my darling, the second—in years;
Of _Willie_, whose face with its pure, mild grace,
Melts memory into tears;
Of their mother, my bride, by the Alpine lake’s side,
And the angels asleep in her arms;
Love, Beauty, and Truth, which she brought to my youth,
In that sweet April day of her charms.
“HALT! _Who comes there?_” The cold midnight air,
And the challenging word, chills me through:
The ghost of a fear whispers, close to my ear,
“Is peril, love, coming to you?”
The hoarse answer, “RELIEF,” makes the shade of a grief
Die away, with the step on the sod.
A kiss melts in air, while a tear and a prayer
Confide my beloved to God.
Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!
With a solemn pendulum-swing!
Though _I_ slumber all night, the fire burns bright,
And my sentinels’ scabbards ring.
* * * * *
“Boot and saddle!” is sounding. Our pulses are bounding.
“To horse!” and I touch with my heel
Black Gray in the flanks, and ride down the ranks,
With my heart, like my sabre, of steel.
_Horace Binney Sargent._
INDIAN NAMES.
Ye say they all have passed away—
That noble race and brave;
That their light canoes have vanished
From off the crested wave;
That, ’mid the forests where they roamed,
There rings no hunter’s shout;
But their name is on your waters—
Ye may not wash it out.
’Tis where Ontario’s billow,
Like ocean’s surge is curled;
Where strong Niagara’s thunders wake
The echo of the world;
Where red Missouri bringeth
Rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia’s breast.
Ye say their cone-like cabins,
That clustered o’er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves
Before the Autumn’s gale;
But their memory liveth on your hills.
Their baptism on your shore:
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.
Old Massachusetts wears it
Upon her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it
Amid his young renown;
Connecticut hath wreathed it
Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse
Through all her ancient caves.
Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart;
Monadnock on his forehead hoar
Doth seal the sacred trust;
Your mountains build their monument,
Though ye destroy their dust.
Ye call these red-browed brethren
The insects of an hour:
Crushed like the noteless worm amid
The regions of their power,
Ye drive them from their fathers’ lands,
Ye break of faith the seal;
But can ye from the Court of Heaven
Exclude their last appeal?
Ye see their unresisting tribes,
With toilsome steps and slow,
On through the trackless desert pass,
A caravan of woe:
Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf?
His sleepless vision dim?
Think ye the soul’s blood may not cry
From that far land to him?
_L. H. Sigourney._
HE NEVER TOLD A LIE.
I saw him standing in the crowd—
A comely youth and fair!
There was a brightness in his eye,
A glory in his hair!
I saw his comrades gaze on him—
His comrades standing by.
I heard them whisper each to each,
“He never told a lie!”
I looked in wonder on that boy,
As he stood there so young:
To think that never an untruth
Was uttered by his tongue.
I thought of all the boys I’d known,—
Myself among the fry,—
And knew of none that one could say,
“He never told a lie!”
I gazed upon that youth with awe
That did enchain me long:
I had not seen a boy before
So perfect and so strong.
And with something of regret
I wished that he was I,
So they might look at me and say,
“He never told a lie!”
I thought of questions very hard
For boys to answer right:
“How did you tear those pantaloons?”
“My son! what caused the fight?”
“Who left the gate ajar last night?”
“Who bit the pumpkin-pie?”
What boy could answer all of these,
And never tell a lie?
I proudly took him by the hand—
My words with praise were rife;
I blessed that boy who never told
A falsehood in his life;
I told him I was proud of him—
A fellow standing by,
Informed me that _that_ boy was dumb
Who never told a lie!
A LESSON TO LOVERS.
She, with a milk-pail on her arm,
Turns aside with her young cheeks glowing,
And sees down the lane, the slow, dull tread
Of the drove of cows that are homeward going.
“Bessie,” he said: at the sound she turned,
Her blue eyes full of childish wonder:
“My mother is feeble and lame and old—
I need a wife at my farmhouse yonder.
“My heart is lonely, my home is drear:
I need your presence ever near me.
Will you be my guardian angel, dear,
Queen of my household, to guide and cheer me?”
“It has a pleasant sound,” she said,—
“A household queen, a guiding spirit,
To warm your heart, and cheer your home,
And keep the sunshine ever near it:
But I am only a simple child,
So my mother says in her daily chiding;
And what must a guardian angel do
When she first begins her work of guiding?”
“Well, first, dear Bessie, a smiling face
Is dearer far than the rarest beauty;
And my mother, fretful, lame, and old,
Will require a daughter’s loving duty.
You will see to her flannels, drops, and tea,
And talk with her of lungs and liver:
Give her your cheerful service, dear—
The Lord he loveth a cheerful giver.
“You will see that my breakfast is piping hot,
And rub the clothes to a snowy whiteness;
Make golden butter and snowy rolls,
And polish things to a shining brightness;
Will darn my stockings, and mend my coats,
And see that the buttons are sewed on tightly:
You will keep things cheerful and neat and sweet,
That home’s altar-fires may still burn brightly.
“You will read me at evening the daily news,
The tedious winter nights beguiling,
And never forget that the sweetest face
Is a cheerful face that’s always smiling.
In short, you’ll arrange in a general way
For a sort of sublunary heaven;
For home, dear Bessie, say what we may,
Is the highest sphere to a woman given.”
The lark sang out to the bending sky,
The bobolink piped in the nodding rushes,
And out of the tossing clover-blooms
Came the sweet, clear song of the meadow-thrushes.
And Bessie, listening, paused a while,
Then said, with a sly glance at her neighbor,
“But John—do you mean—that is to say,
What shall I get for all this labor?
“To be nurse, companion, and servant girl,
To make home’s altar-fires burn brightly;
To wash and iron and scrub and cook,
And always be cheerful, neat, and sprightly;
To give up liberty, home, and friends,
Nay, even the name of a mother’s giving,—
To do all this for one’s board and clothes,
Why, the life of an angel isn’t worth living!”
And Bessie gayly went her way
Down through the fields of scented clover,
But never again since that summer day
Has she won a glance from her rustic lover.
The lark sings out to the bending sky,
The clouds sail on as white as ever;
The clovers toss in the summer wind,
But Bessie has lost that chance forever.
GRANT’S STRATEGY.
Who had thought, until Grant said it, that the crisis comes in battle
when both armies are nearly exhausted, and that usually the one wins
which attacks first? When did he ever fail to attack first? Who had
thought, until he suggested it, that the trouble with the Potomac
army, the pride of the nation, was, that it had not fought its battles
through? Who then living has forgotten the utter downfall of hope, the
absolute despair throughout the North, as the moan from the Wilderness
came rolling up on the southern breeze? Is the task hopeless? Is this
last mighty effort only more disastrous than that of McClellan, of
Pope, of Burnside, of Hooker? No! listen to the assurance, “I’ll fight
it out on this line if it takes all summer.” Every loyal heart in the
land is inspired. That telegram to the President was the death-knell of
rebellion.
But the test-hour of Grant had not yet come. Meade was glorious,
Sherman magnificent; but Sigel is routed, Butler has not succeeded,
Banks utterly failed. Shall Grant unloose his grip? Never! Was it,
then, less than the inspiration of genius? Sheridan, take the Sixth
Corps, and clean out the valley so a “crow must take his rations when
he flies over it.” Meade, absorb the army of the James, and never let
Lee escape. Sherman, march to the sea as a cyclone of devastation.
Thomas, play with Hood until you draw him to destruction. Stoneman,
take your bold riders across the mountains, into Virginia and the
Carolinas, right across every line of supply to the enemy. Wilson, push
your twelve thousand mounted men into the heart of Alabama. Canby,
capture Mobile.
Such was the new combination, audacious in strategy beyond precedent;
but, if faulty in any respect, military critics have not discovered
it. Its perfection, and the result of the execution, stamp it forever
with the insignia of genius. Masterly tactics, brilliant manœuvring,
bold fighting, though essential to success after the combinations have
produced the strategical situation, yet rarely cure material defect in
the latter. If cured at all, it is generally by blunders of the enemy.
Lee and Johnston, as defensive generals, were not blunderers. I pity
the man who, in the face of the record, attacks General Grant as a
master of grand strategy. I need not speak of his tactics. I believe
mankind are agreed, that the history of war discloses no display of
tactical skill and vigor superior to Grant’s about Vicksburg, and from
the 3d to the 9th of April, 1865, being directed to prevent General
Lee’s attempted escape from Petersburg and junction with Johnston in
North Carolina. The annals of other wars seem tame when read by the
side of the story of that week’s work. It resulted in the despatch
to Secretary Stanton, so simple and modest in language, yet the most
momentous of all history: “General Lee surrendered the army of Northern
Virginia this afternoon on terms proposed by myself.” The work was
done, and how completely done,—done precisely as planned; not an
element, not a vestige, of luck in it. Every army was at the precise
place designed, with the exact work accomplished that was marked out
for it. Method, plan, design, exclude the idea of luck. Let us in
humble reverence say, as the truth was, the God of nations blessed
General Grant in his awful undertaking.
_Judge Veazey._
A “LOVE” GAME.
Shall we take a stroll together,
You and I,
And discuss the charming weather,
This July,
Or the picnics and the dances,
And those sweet but short romances,
Which, like other idle fancies,
Pass and die?
Yes, ’tis true that things have happened
Since we met,—
Since I saw you first with cap and
Gay rosette,
Standing like some well-drilled soldier,
Only calmer and—well—bolder,
With a racket on your shoulder,
At the net;
And your face lit up with laughter
Through it all,
Little feet went tripping after
Every ball,
While the look of bright reliance
Which bespoke a pert defiance
Of all manly wiles and science,
I recall.
’Twas a glance that struck dire terror
To my heart,
And proved source of many an error
In my art;
Yet in truth I felt not humbled,
Though my partner growled and grumbled,
As I slid and slipped and stumbled
Through my part.
You still remember, though so trifling.
What I said
As we left the lawn, too stifling,
For the shade;
And as, moved by glance magnetic
Of your eyes, I waxed prophetic,
While you smiled back sympathetic,
Calm and staid?
Is it wise, then, to remember
Golden hours,—
Recall June in December
Such as ours?
All the hopes that have miscarried—
What! too long, you say, you’ve tarried,
And your husband—_Then you’re married!_
Gracious powers!
_T. Malcolm Watson_
AN OLD MAN’S PRAYER.
In the loftiest room, of princely state,
Of a modern palace grand and great,
Whose marble front is a symbol true
Of the inner splendors hid from view,
On an autumn night, when wild without
The bold winds held their revel rout,
Rudely assailing the passing throng,
Through churchyards creeping with mournful song,
A group was gathered around a board
Heaped with all that wealth could afford,
Or taste could suggest: dishes costly and rare,
Fruits of all climes and all seasons, were there.
The pendent lights in brilliance danced
On the gleaming plate their rays enhanced;
The massive mirrors thrice displayed
The stately banquet there arrayed.
Furniture carved by an artist hand,
Carpets which only great wealth could command,
Curtains of damask, of lace, and of gold,
Spoke of the splendors wealth could unfold,
And filled with a joy and a pleasure rare
The youthful hearts that were gathered there.
Slender each form, and fair each face,
Of the twelve gay lads which that table grace,
As with genial talk and pleasant jest
They banter each other, and cheer their guest.
For one guest is there, as youthful as they,
With a heart as light, and a voice as gay,
Who laughs at their jests with ready glee,
And whose quick returns speak a spirit free,—
An honored guest; for, on the morrow,
They must part with him in pain and sorrow.
The glittering emblems his shoulders bear
Bid him for strife and for peril prepare;
Bid him go forth at his Country’s call,
With her banner to triumph, or on it to fall.
A moment’s pause, as with ready hand
The waiter hurries, at command,
To clear the table, and, instead
Of the rich, choice viands thickly spread,
Ranges dark bottles and cruses, which show
Marks of long years in damp vaults below.
The richest juices age can display
Are quickly spread in tempting array.
Wines of Bordeaux and Seville are there,
With liquors and cordials sparkling and rare;
And bottles are opened, and glasses are filled.
When all in a moment the tumult is stilled,
As he who presides with dignified grace
High raises his goblet, and stands in his place:—
“I give you, friends, no warrior’s name
Your hearts to thrill, your blood to flame;
No toast to beauty shall my lips repeat,
Where we to-night in sacred friendship meet
To part with one, who, in our boyhood’s days,
Earnest and true, won all our love and praise;
Who, on the morrow, plays the hero’s part,
And seeks the battle with a loyal heart.
His health I give with an earnest prayer,
That, while on his mission of peril and care,
Success may be his, and, by deeds renowned,
He may meet us again with laurels crowned.”
All glasses are raised, when a gentle hand
Is heard at the door—all silent stand
As it slowly opens, and into the light
An old man steps, his features bright:
The long white hairs o’er his shoulders stream,
Like silver threads in the warm rays beam.
Wrinkled his brow, and pale his face,
Wasted his form, and tottering his pace,
Shrunken his cheek; but the eye above
Tells of gentleness, kindliness, love.
And silent stand all as he slowly seeks
A place near the table, and gently speaks:—
“Young men, but a moment I check your mirth,
And bring you back to the common earth.
Unbidden I come with an old man’s prayer:
May it seek your hearts, and gain entrance there!
Look on my face, seamed, not with crime,
But with marks of age before their time:
These long white hairs should not have shown
Till ten more years had by me flown.
Age is upon me; not age by years,
But age by sorrow and care and tears;
Not age that cheers as it draweth near
Yon heaven which seemeth more bright and clear,
But age which causes the heart to lag
In its onward course, and the spirit to flag;
That prays for death as but a release
From earthly care, and finds no peace
In that sweet belief that at last I hail,—
‘There is rest for the weary beyond the vale.’
For to me has come a spirit of light,
Bringing the morning, and chasing the night;
Causing my heart with joy to swell
To my Maker, ‘who doeth all things well.’
You shall hear my story: ’twill not be long,
And may guard you all from sin and from wrong.
I had wealth and plenty in goodly lands,
In houses and cattle; and from my hands
Many were fed; and many were they
Who partook of my charity day by day.
My house was open to stranger and friend;
And my gold did I lavishly, freely spend.
But one bitter curse did my wealth uprear
To poison my life,—the tempter here,
The sparkling demon, which now I see
From all your glasses glaring on me,—
A monster who steals on its prey so slow,
That it has your life before you know
Or dream of its power: this was the curse
That sat at my fireside, robbed my purse,
Poisoned my life, and left me to be
A drifting log on the world’s wide sea,
Ruined and bankrupt, lost and bereft;
No kindred, no fortune, no treasure, left.
Treasure!—yes; for I had three sons,
The hope of my life,—three noble ones.
You shall hear their fate, and then I’ll away,
Nor longer your hour of pleasure delay.
“One sought as a merchant hopeful to clear
Our tarnished name, to again uprear
Our shattered house; but, sad to say,
The curse of the wine-cup was in his way.
He seized on it madly, drank deep and fast,
And sank to the drunkard’s grave at last.
I stood by his side as with frenzy wild
He cursed himself and his wife and child;
He cursed me too, as the one who had led
His feet in the path that drunkards tread;
And then—it was worse than all beside—
He cursed his Maker; and then—he died!
“Another, with spirit that loved to brave,
Sought a bold, free life on the ocean-wave.
He left my side full of life and health,
In a good stanch ship, in search of wealth.
A twelvemonth passed, and day by day
I scanned for his sail the distant bay.
At last I saw it, and eagerly flew
To welcome my boy so manly and true.
But, alas! he was gone: no son to greet
My waiting heart came with eager feet.
But they told me there,—one stormy night,
When the heavens were filled with angry light,
The waves rolled high, and the winds beat wild,
That out on a frail yard went my child;
He had drunk deep, and ’twas fearful to sweep
On that slender spar o’er the seething deep;
That one heavy sea tossed the ship like a toy,
And hurled from his hold my darling boy.
Then I sank me down in agony wild,
And glared on the waves that rolled over my child:
I gazed until in the waters blue
I saw reflected the brilliant hue
Of one lone star, which, high above,
Seemed to speak to my heart of faith and love;
And I thought, as I turned my eyes to its light,
It beckoned me on to the heavens so bright,
Where I know, whenever this life shall cease,
I shall meet my boy in eternal peace.
“I had but one left; and him I taught
To shun each sinful word and thought;
To beware of the wine-cup’s demon lure,
That would steel his heart, and his soul obscure.
He took the way of life that leads
To the sacred desk where the preacher pleads,
And placed his foot on the pulpit stair,
The gospel—banner of life—to bear.
When the cannon’s boom o’er Sumter broke,
And the air was filled with traitorous smoke;
When brave men sprang with willing hearts
To their Country’s flag to repel the darts
Which treason had hurled with malice wild
At the life of the mother, so good and mild,—
My boy stepped down from the preacher’s stand,
And started forth, with life in hand,
To sell it dear, but to battle strong
With the loyal North against fearful wrong.
I know that he carries a magic spell
’Gainst the curse of our race to guard him well;
And I know, should he fall, his death will be
In the foremost ranks of loyalty.
And now, young men, an old man’s prayer:—
Leave the bright wine in your glasses there;
Shun its allurements; for in its deep red
Is the blood of its victims dying and dead.
Fill up your glasses, and pledge your friend
In the crystal stream that Heaven doth send.”
With a lowly bow, and the same meek air,
He has passed the door, and adown the stair;
While those he has left to their leader turn
With downcast eyes, and cheeks that burn.
Silent he stands as his glass he takes,
When the guest of the evening the silence breaks.
“Friends of my boyhood, the old man’s prayer
Shall meet a response in the heart I wear.
I come to-night from a mother’s side:
She watches my life with a parent’s pride;
And I know ’tis the dearest wish of her heart,
In camp and in battle to keep me apart
From sin and temptation; unceasing will pray
Heaven’s blessing to guard on my perilous way.
And this pledge will I leave her,—never again
The wine-cup’s deadly poison to drain.
So, friends, let’s drink to our meeting again:
My drink is the water, free from all stain.”
He stood with his upraised glass, and the light
Full on his fair young brow beamed bright,—
That brow which an anxious mother would kiss
With a pure, deep feeling of heartfelt bliss;
And along the line of his comrades young,
To honor his toast, each hand upsprung:
In not one glass did the red wine gleam;
But all were filled from the crystal stream.
On the morrow, adown the street,
With trumpet’s blast and war-drum’s beat,
Firm and erect, with martial tread,
The flag of their Country overhead,
With brave, stout hearts, and patriot-song,
The Nation’s heroes go marching along.
And our soldier is there, marching forth
To join the bands of the loyal North;
To strike a blow for his Country dear,
And her trailing flag to again uprear.
Light is his heart; his faith is strong;
Bright gleams his sword as he moves along:
But the armor he wears that shall serve him best
Is the pledge to his mother guarding his breast.
_George M. Baker._
THE LEAK IN THE DIKE.
A STORY OF HOLLAND.
The good dame looked from her cottage
At the close of the pleasant day,
And cheerily called to her little son
Outside the door at play,—
“Come, Peter, come! I want you to go,
While there is light to see,
To the hut of the blind old man who lives
Across the dike, for me;
And take these cakes I made for him—
They are hot and smoking yet:
You have time enough to go and come
Before the sun is set.”
Then the good-wife turned to her labor,
Humming a simple song,
And thought of her husband, working hard
At the sluices all day long;
And set the turf a-blazing,
And brought the coarse black bread,
That he might find a fire at night,
And find the table spread.
And Peter left the brother,
With whom all day he had played,
And the sister who had watched their sports
In the willow’s tender shade,
And told them they’d see him back before
They saw a star in sight,
Though he wouldn’t be afraid to go
In the very darkest night!
For he was a brave, bright fellow,
With eye and conscience clear;
He could do whatever a boy might do,
And he had not learned to fear.
Why, he wouldn’t have robbed a bird’s nest,
Nor brought a stork to harm,
Though never a law in Holland
Had stood to stay his arm!
And now, with his face all glowing,
And eyes as bright as the day
With the thoughts of his pleasant errand,
He trudged along the way;
And soon his joyous prattle
Made glad a lonesome place—
Alas! if only the blind old man
Could have seen that happy face!
Yet he somehow caught the brightness
Which his voice and presence lent,
And he felt the sunshine come and go
As Peter came and went.
And now, as the day was sinking,
And the winds began to rise,
The mother looked from her door again.
Shading her anxious eyes,
And saw the shadows deepen,
And birds to their homes come back,
But never a sign of Peter
Along the level track.
But she said, “He will come at morning,
So I need not fret or grieve;
Though it isn’t like my boy at all
To stay without my leave.”
But where was the child delaying?
On the homeward way was he,
And across the dike, while the sun was up
An hour above the sea.
He was stopping, now to gather flowers,
Now listening to the sound,
As the angry waters dashed themselves
Against their narrow bound.
“Ah! well for us,” said Peter;
“That the gates are good and strong,
And my father tends them carefully,
Or they would not hold you long!
You’re a wicked sea,” said Peter:
“I know why you fret and chafe;
You would like to spoil our lands and homes
But our sluices keep you safe!”
But hark! Through the noise of waters
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound;
And the child’s face pales with terror,
And his blossoms drop to the ground.
He is up the bank in a moment,
And, stealing through the sand,
He sees a stream not yet so large
As his slender, childish hand.
’Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy,
Unused to fearful scenes;
But, young as he is, he has learned to know
The dreadful thing that means.
A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart
Grows faint that cry to hear,
And the bravest man in all the land
Turns white with mortal fear.
For he knows the smallest leak may grow
To a flood in a single night,
And he knows the strength of the cruel sea
When loosed in its angry might.
And the boy! He has seen the danger,
And, shouting a wild alarm,
He forces back the weight of the sea
With the strength of his single arm.
He listens for the joyful sound
Of a footstep passing nigh,
And lays his ear to the ground, to catch
The answer to his cry.
And he hears the rough winds blowing,
And the waters rise and fall,
But never an answer comes to him,
Save the echo of his call.
He sees no hope, no succor;
His feeble voice is lost;
Yet what shall he do but watch and wait,
Though he perish at his post!
So, faintly calling and crying
Till the sun is under the sea,
Crying and moaning till the stars
Come out for company,
He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their safe warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother,
Of himself as dying—and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last:
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.
The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,
For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all night.
And now she watches the pathway,
As yestereve she had done;
But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?
Her neighbors are bearing between them
Something straight to her door:
Her child is coming home, but not
As he ever came before!
“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!”
And the startled father hears,
And comes and looks the way she looks,
And fears the thing she fears:
Till a glad shout from the bearers
Thrills the stricken man and wife—
“Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,
And God has saved his life!”
So, there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy;
And every head was bared and bent
In tearful, reverent joy.
’Tis many a year since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,
Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave and true and good.
For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,
And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.
They have many a valiant hero
Remembered through the years,
But never one whose name so oft
Is named with loving tears.
And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told the child on the knee,
So long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea!
_Phœbe Cary._
THE “COURSE OF LOVE” TOO “SMOOTH.”
She came tripping from the church-door, her face flushed by emotions
awakened by the just uttered discourse, and eyes bright with loving
expectation. He shivered on the curbstone, where for an hour he had
waited impatiently, with a burning heart fairly palpitating in his
throat, and frozen fingers in his pockets. They linked arms, and
started for the residence of her parents. After a few moments’
hesitating, silence, he said, “Jane, we have known each other long. You
must know just how I feel. You must have seen that clear down at the
bottom—O Moses!”
He had slipped down on the ice with so much force that his spine was
driven up into his hat, and his hat was tipped over his nose; but she
was a tender-hearted girl; she did not laugh, but she carefully helped
him to his feet, and said,—
“You were saying, John, when you slipped, that the foundation—Oh,
goodness!”
She slipped herself that time, and saw little stars come down to dance
before her eyes; but he pulled her up in haste, and went on,—
“Yes; just as I said, clean down at the bottom of my heart is a fervent
love, on which I build my hopes. That love has helped me stand and
face—Thunder!”
He was down again, but scrambled up before she could stoop to help him;
and she said, breathlessly,—
“Yes, yes, John. You remember you just said a love which helped you
stand and face thunder. And that you founded your hopes on—This pesky
ice!”
There she sat. John grasped the loose part of her sack, between the
shoulders, with one hand, and raised her to her feet, as one would lift
a kitten from a pail of water by the back of the neck. Then he said,
with increased earnestness,—
“Of course, darling; and I have longed for a opportunity to tell my
love, and to hear those sweet lips whisper—Whoop!”
Somehow John’s feet had slipped from under him, and he had come down
like a capital V with his head and feet pointing skyward. She twined
her taper fingers in his curling locks, and raised him to the stature
of a man, set his hat firmly over his eyes with both hands, and cried,
in breathless haste,—
“I understand! and let me assure you John, that if it is in my power
to lighten your cares, and make lighter your journey through life
to—Jerusalem!”
John stood alone, and said with breathless vehemence,—“O my precious!
and thus shall it be my lifelong pleasure to lift you from the rude
assaults of earth, and surround you with the loving atmosphere
of—Texas!”
And there they both sat together. They had nearly reached the gate,
and, hand in hand, and with hearts overflowing with the bliss of young
love’s first confession, they crept along on their knees up to the
front steps, and were soon forgetful of their bumps on the softest
cushion of the parlor sofa.
DYIN’ VORDS OF ISAAC.
Vhen Shicago vas a leedle villages, dher lifed dherein py dot Clark
Sdhreet out, a shentlemans who got some names like Isaacs; he geeb a
cloting store, mit goots dot vit you yoost der same like dhey vas made.
Isaacs vas a goot fellers, und makes goot pishness on his hause. Vell,
thrade got besser as der time he vas come, und dose leetle shtore vas
not so pig enuff like anudder shtore, und pooty gwick he locks out und
leaves der pblace.
Now Yacob Schloffenheimer vas a shmard feller; und he dinks of he dook
der olt shtore, he got good pishness, und dose olt coostomers von
Isaac out. Von tay dhere comes a shentlemans on his store, und Yacob
quick say of der mans, “How you vas, mein freund? you like to look of
mine goots, aind it?”—“Nein,” der mans say. “Vell, mein freund, it
makes me notting troubles to show dot goots.”—“Nein; I don’d vood buy
sometings to-tay”—“Yoost come mit me vonce, mein freund, und I show
you sometings, und so hellup me gracious, I don’d ask you to buy dot
goods.”—“Vell, I told you vat it vas. I don’d vood look at some tings
yoost now; I keebs a livery shtable; und I likes to see mein old freund
Mister Isaacs, und I came von Kaintucky out to see him once.”—“Mister
Isaacs? Vell, dot ish pad; I vas sorry von dot. I dells you, mein
freund, Mister Isaacs he vas died. He vas mein brudder, und he vas not
mit us eny more. Yoost vhen he vas on his deat-ped, und vas dyin’, he
says of me, ‘Yacob,’ (dot ish mine names), und I goes me ofer mit his
petside, und he poods his hands of mine, und he says of me, ‘Yacob’
ofer a man he shall come von Kaintucky out, mit ret hair, und mit plue
eyes, Yacob, sell him dings cheab;’ und he lay ofer und died his last.”
_Anonymous._
NO!
No sun—no moon—
No morn—no noon—
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day—
No sky—no earthly view—
No distance looking blue—
No road—no street—no “t’other side the way”—
No end to any Row—
No indications where the crescents go—
No top to any steeple—
No recognition of familiar people—
No courtesies for showing ’em—
No knowing ’em—
No travelling at all—no locomotion—
No inkling of the way—no notion—
No go, by land or ocean!
No mail—no post—
No news from any foreign coast—
No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility—
No company—no nobility—
No warmth—no cheerfulness, no healthful ease—
No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!
_Hood._
THE MENAGERIE.
Did you ever? No, I never!
Mercy on us, what a smell!
Don’t be frightened, Johnny dear!
Gracious! how the jackalls yell.
Mother, tell me what’s the man
Doing with that pole of his?
Bless your little precious heart,
He’s stirring up the beastesses!
Children, don’t you go so near!
Heving’s! there’s the Afric cowses
What’s the matter with the child?
Why, the monkey’s, tore his trousers!
Here’s the monstrous elephant—
I’m all a-tremble at the sight;
See his monstrous toothpick, boys!
Wonder if he’s fastened tight?
There’s the lion! see his tail!
How he drags it on the floor!
Sakes alive! I’m awful scared
To hear the horrid creatures roar!
Here’s the monkeys in their cage,
Wide awake you are to see ’em;
Funny, ain’t it? How would you
Like to have a tail and be ’em?
Johnny, darling, that’s the bear
That tore the naughty boys to pieces!
Horned cattle! only hear
How the dreadful camel wheezes!
That’s the tall giraffe, my boy,
Who stoops to hear the morning lark;
’Twas him who waded Noah’s flood,
And scorned the refuge of the ark.
Here’s the crane—the awkward bird!
Strong his neck is as a whaler’s;
And his bill is full as long
As ever met one from the tailor’s.
Look! just see the zebra there,
Standing safe behind the bars;
Goodness me! how like a flag,
All except the corner stars!
There’s the bell! the birds and beasts
Now are going to be fed;
So, my little darlings, come,
It’s time for you to be abed.
“Mother, ’tisn’t nine o’clock!
You said we needn’t go before;
Let us stay a little while—
Want to see the monkeys more!”
Cries the showman, “Turn ’em out!
Dim the lights! there, that will do;
Come again to-morrow, boys;
Bring your little sister, too.”
Exit mother, half distraught,
Exit father, muttering “Bore!”
Exit children blubbering still,
“Want to see the monkeys more!”
_J. Honeywell._
BIDDY’S PHILOSOPHY.
What would I do if you was dead?
And when do you think of dying?
I’d stand by your bed, and hold your head,
And cry, or pretind to be crying!
There’s many a worser man nor you—
If one knew where to find him—
And mebbe many a better, too,
With money to leave behind him!
But you, if I was dying to-day,
(I saw you now when you kissed her!)
I tell you, Pat, what you’d be at—
You’d marry your widdy’s sister!
You’d make an illigant corpse, indade,
Sleeping so sound and stiddy;
If you could see yourself as you laid,
You’d want to come back to Biddy!
You would be dressed in your Sunday best,
As tidy as I could make you,
With a sprig of something on your breast,
And the boys would come to wake you.
But you, if I was dead in your stead,
(Do you think I never missed her?)
I tell you, Pat, what you’d be at—
You’d marry your widdy’s sister!
The undertaker would drive the hearse
That has the big black feather;
If there was no money left in your purse,
Your friends would club together.
They’d look at your cold remains before
They followed you down to the ferry,
And the coaches standing at the door
Would go to the cemetery.
But you, if I was once in the box,
(I wonder her lips don’t blister!)
I tell you, Pat, what you’d be at—
You’d marry your widdy’s sister!
When you was under the sod I’d sigh,
And—if I could do without you—
Mebbe I’ve a strapping lad in my eye
Would come here and talk about you.
A little courtin’ would be divertin’,
A kind voice whispering “_Biddy_!”
And a kiss on the sly—for what’s the hurt in
A man consoling a widdy?
But you, before I was dead at all,
(Now don’t deny that you kissed her!)
I tell you, Pat, what you’d be at—
You’d marry your widdy’s sister!
_R. H. Stoddard._
ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.
“Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey,
In the sunshine bright and strong,
For this world is fading, Pompey—
Massa won’t be with you long;
And I fain would hear the south wind
Bring once more the sound to me,
Of the wavelets softly breaking
On the shores of Tennessee.
“Mournful though the ripples murmur,
As they still the story tell,
How no vessels float the banner
That I’ve loved so long and well,
I shall listen to their music,
Dreaming that again I see
Stars and strips on sloop and shallop
Sailing up the Tennessee;
“And, Pompey, while old Massa’s waiting
For Death’s last despatch to come,
If that exiled starry banner
Should come proudly sailing home,
You shall greet it, slave no longer—
Voice and hand shall both be free
That shout and point to Union colors
On the waves of Tennessee.”
“Massa’s berry kind to Pompey;
But old darkey’s happy here,
Where he’s tended corn and cotton
For dese many a long gone year.
Over yonder Missis’ sleeping—
No one tends her grave like me:
Mebbe she would miss the flowers
She used to love in Tennessee.”
“’Pears like, she was watching Massa—
If Pompey should beside him stay,
Mebbe she’d remember better
How for him she used to pray;
Telling him that way up yonder
White as snow his soul would be,
If he served the Lord of heaven
While he lived in Tennessee.”
Silently the tears were rolling
Down the poor old dusky face,
As he stepped behind his master,
In his long accustomed place.
Then a silence fell around them,
As they gazed on rock and tree
Pictured in the placid waters
Of the rolling Tennessee,—
Master, dreaming of the battle
Where he fought by Marion’s side,
When he bid the haughty Tarleton
Stoop his lordly crest of pride,—
Man, remembering how yon sleeper
Once he held upon his knee,
Ere she loved the gallant soldier,
Ralph Vervair of Tennessee.
Still the south wind fondly lingers
’Mid the veteran’s silver hair;
Still the bondman close beside him
Stands behind the old arm-chair,
With his dark-hued hand uplifted,
Shading eyes, he bends to see
Where the woodland, boldly jutting,
Turns aside the Tennessee.
Thus he watches cloud-born shadows
Glide from tree to mountain crest,
Softly creeping, aye and ever
To the river’s yielding breast.
Ha! above the foliage yonder
Something flutters wild and free!
“Massa! Massa! Hallelujah!
The flag’s come back to Tennessee!”
“Pompey, hold me on your shoulder;
Help me stand on foot once more,
That I may salute the colors
As they pass my cabin door.
Here’s the paper signed that frees you;
Give a freeman’s shout with me—
‘God and Union’ be our watchword
Evermore in Tennessee!”
Then the trembling voice grew fainter,
And the limbs refused to stand;
One prayer to Jesus—and the soldier
Glided to the better land.
When the flag went down the river,
Man and master both were free;
While the ring-dove’s note was mingled
With the rippling Tennessee.
_E. L. Beers._
PADDY’S DREAM.
I have often laughed at the way an Irish help we had at Barnstable once
fished me for a glass of whiskey. One morning he says to me, “Oh, yer
honor,” says he, “I had a great drame last night intirely! I dramed I
was in Rome, tho’ how I got there is more than I can tell: but there
I was, sure enough; and as in duty bound, what does I do but go and
see the Pope. Well, it was a long journey, and it was late when I got
there—too late for the likes of me; and when I got to the palace I
saw priests and bishops and cardinals, and all the great dignitaries
of the Church, a-coming out; and sais one of them to me, ‘How are ye,
Pat Moloney?’ sais he; ‘and that spalpeen yer father, bad luck to him!
how is he?’ It startled me to hear me own name so suddent, that it
came mighty nigh waking me up, it did. Sais I, ‘Your riverence, how in
the world did ye know that Pat Moloney was me name, let alone that of
me father?’—‘Why, ye blackguard!’ sais he, ‘I knew ye since ye was
knee-high to a goose, and I knew yer mother afore ye was born.’—‘It’s
good right yer honor has then to know me,’ sais I.—‘Bad manners
to ye!’ sais he; ‘what is it ye are afther doing here at this time
o’night?’—‘To see his Holiness, the Pope,’ sais I. ‘That’s right,’
sais he; ‘pass on, but leave yer impudence with yer hat and shoes at
the door.’ Well, I was shown into a mighty fine room where his Holiness
was, and down I went on me knees. ‘Rise up, Pat Moloney,’ sais his
Holiness; ‘ye’re a broth of a boy to come all the way from Ireland to
do yer duty to me; and it’s dutiful children ye are, every mother’s son
of ye. What will ye have to drink, Pat?’ (The greater a man is, the
more of a rael gintleman he is, yer honor, and the more condescending.)
‘What will ye have to drink, Pat?’ sais he. ‘A glass of whiskey, yer
Holiness,’ sais I, ‘if it’s all the same to ye.’—‘Shall it be hot, or
cold?’ sais he. ‘Hot,’ sais I, ‘if it’s all the same, and gives ye no
trouble.’—‘Hot it shall be,’ sais he; ‘but as I have dismissed all me
servants for the night, I’ll just step down below for the tay-kettle;’
and wid that he left the room, and was gone for a long time; and jist
as he came to the door again he knocked so loud the noise woke me up,
and, be jabers! I missed me whiskey entirely! Bedad, if I had only
had the sense to say ‘Nate, yer Holiness,’ I’d a had me whiskey sure
enough, and never known it warn’t all true, instead of a drame.” I knew
what he wanted, so I poured him out a glass. “Won’t it do as well now,
Pat?” said I. “Indeed it will, yer honor,” says he, “and me drame will
come true, after all. I thought it would; for it was mighty nateral at
the time, all but the whiskey.”
_Anonymous._
LESSONS IN COOKERY.
Miss Cicely Jones is just home from boarding-school, and engaged to be
married; and, as she knows nothing about cooking or housework, is going
to take a few lessons in culinary art to fit her for the new station
in life which she is expected to adorn with housewifely grace. She
certainly makes a charming picture as she stands in the kitchen-door,
draped in a chintz apron prettily trimmed with bows of ribbon, her
bangs hidden under a Dolly-Varden cap, old kid gloves, while she
sways to and fro on her dainty French-kid heels, like some graceful
wind-blown flower.
“Mamma,” she lisped prettily, “please introduce me to your assistant.”
Whereupon, mamma says, “Bridget, this is your young lady, Miss Cicely,
who wants to learn the name and use of every thing in the kitchen,
and how to make cocoanut rusks and angels’ food, before she goes to
housekeeping for herself.”
Bridget gives a snort of disfavor; but, as she looks at the young lady,
relents, and says, “I’ll throy.”
“And now, Bridget dear,” says Miss Cicely, when they were alone, “tell
me every thing. You see, I don’t know any thing, except what they did
at school; and isn’t this old kitchen lovely? What makes this ceiling
such a beautiful bronze color, Bridget?”
“Shmoke,” answers Bridget shortly; “and me ould eyes are put out with
that same.”
“Shmoke—I must remember that; and, Bridget, what are those shiny
things on the wall?”
“Kivers?—tin kivers for pots and kittles.”
“Kivers?—oh, yes; I must look for the derivation of that word.
Bridget, what are those round things in the basket?”
“Praties! (For the Lord’s sake where hez ye lived niver to hear of
praties?) Why, them’s the principal mate of Ireland, where I kim from.”
“Oh! but we have corrupted the name into potatoes; such a shame not
to keep the idiom of a language! Bridget—do you mind if I call
you Biddie? It is more euphonious, and modernizes the old classic
appellation. What is this liquid in the pan here?”
“Och, murder! Where wuz ye raised? That’s millick, fresh from the cow.”
“Millick? That is the vernacular, I suppose, of milk; and that thick,
yellow coating?”
“Is crame. (Lord, such ignorance!)”
“Crame! Now, Biddie, dear, I must get to work. I’m going to make a cake
all out of my own head for Henry—he’s my lover, Biddie—to eat when he
comes to-night.”
Bridget [_aside_]: “It’s dead he is, sure, if he ates it!”
“I’ve got it all down here, Biddie, on my tablet: A pound of butter,
twenty eggs, two pounds of sugar, salt to your taste. No, that’s a
mistake. Oh, here it is! Now, Biddie, the eggs first. It says to beat
them well; but won’t that break the shells?”
“Well, I’d break thim this time if I were you, Miss Cicely; they might
not set well on Mister Henry’s stummack if ye didn’t,” said Bridget
pleasantly.
“Oh! I suppose the shells are used separately. There! I’ve broken all
the eggs into the flour. I don’t think I’ll use the shells, Biddie;
give them to some poor people. Now, what next? Oh, I’m so tired! Isn’t
housework dreadful hard? But I’m glad I’ve learned to make cake. Now,
what shall I do next, Biddie?”
“Excuse me, Miss Cicely, but you might give it to the pigs. It’s meself
can’t see any other use for it,” said Bridget, very crustily.
“Pigs! O Biddie! you don’t mean to say that you have some dear, cunning
little white pigs! Oh, do bring the little darlings in and let me feed
them! I’m just dying to have one for a pet! I saw some canton-flannel
ones once at a fair, and they were too awfully sweet for any thing.”
Just then the bell rang, and Bridget returned to announce Mr. Henry;
and Cicely told Bridget she would take another lesson the next day: and
then she went up-stairs in her chintz apron and mob-cap, with a little
dab of flour on her tip-lifted nose, and told Henry she was learning to
cook; and he told her she must not be overheated, or worried out, for
he didn’t care whether she could cook or not: he should never want to
eat when he could talk to her, and it was only sordid souls that cared
for cooking.
And, meanwhile, poor Bridget was just slamming things in the kitchen,
and talking to herself in her own sweet idiom about “idgits turning
things upside down for her inconvaniencing.”
_Detroit Free Press._
PAT’S REASON.
One day, in a crowded Market-street car,
A lady was standing. She had ridden quite far,
And seemed much disposed to indulge in a frown,
As nobody offered to let her sit down.
And many there sat, who, to judge by their dress,
Might a gentleman’s natural instincts possess;
But who, judged by their acts, make as firmly believe
That appearances often will sadly deceive.
There were some most intently devouring the news,
And some, through the windows, enjoying the views;
And others indulged in a make-believe nap,
While the lady stood holding on by the strap.
At last a young Irishman, fresh from the “sod,”
Arose with a smile and most comical nod,
Which said quite as plain as in words could be stated,
That the lady should sit in the place he’d vacated.
“Excuse me,” said Pat, “that I caused you to wait
So long before offerin’ to give you a sate;
But in truth I was only just waitin’ to see
If there wasn’t more gintlemin here beside me.”
AN ORIGINAL IDEA.
A DUOLOGUE FOR A LADY AND GENTLEMAN IN TWO PARTS.
CHARACTERS.
FESTUS, a rejected suitor.
STELLA, the cruel rejecter.
SCENE.—_A handsomely furnished apartment in the house of_ STELLA.
_Table,_ C., _with rich cover, books, flowers, etc.
Tête-à-tête,_ R. C., _arm-chairs_, R. _and_ L. _of
table,_ C. _Entrances,_ R., L., _and_ C.
_Enter_ FESTUS, L., _in evening costume._
_Festus._ “Thus far into the bowels of the land have we marched on
without impediment.” Here am I once more in the place from which, but
one short week ago, I made an unceremonious exit as the rejected suitor
of a young, lovely, and talented lady. Rejected suitor!—those words
slip very smoothly from the lips, as pleasantly as though they were
associated with some high-sounding title of nobility. There is nothing
in the sound of them to conjure up the miserable, mean, contemptible,
kicked-out feeling which a man experiences who has received at the
hands of lovely woman that specimen of feminine handicraft—the mitten.
All my own fault, too! I’m a bashful man. Modesty, the virtue which
is said to have been “the ruination of Ireland,” is the rock against
which my soaring ambition has dashed itself. I have sat in this room,
evening after evening, upon the edge of a chair, twirling my thumbs,
and saying—nothing. I couldn’t help it. I have brought scores of
compliments to the door, and left them in the hall with my hat. I
wanted to speak; I kept up “a deuce of a thinking;” but somehow, when I
had an agreeable speech ready to pop out of my mouth, it seemed to be
frightened at the sight of the fair object against whom it was to be
launched, and tumbled back again. It’s no use: when a man is in love,
the more he loves, the more silent he becomes; at least it was so in
my case. And when I did manage, after much stammering and blushing, to
“pop the question,” the first word from the lady set me shivering; and
the conclusion of her remarks set me running from the house utterly
demoralized,—“I shall always be happy to see you as a _friend_, your
conversation is so agreeable.” Here was a damper, after six weeks of
unremitting though _silent_ attention. But she likes me, I’m sure of
that. It is my silence which has frightened her. I only need a little
more variety in my style of conversation to make myself agreeable to
her. I have an original idea; and I advise all bashful men to take
warning from my past experience, and profit by my future. I will
_borrow_ language in which to speak my passion. There’s nothing very
original in borrowing, financially speaking; but to borrow another
man’s ideas by which to make love, I call original. And, as luck would
have it, I have an excellent opportunity to test my new idea. Lounging
in the sanctum of my friend Quill, the editor of “The Postscript,” a
few days ago, he called my attention to an advertisement which had
just been presented for insertion. It ran thus: “Wanted, a reader,—a
gentleman who has studied poetic and dramatic compositions with a
view to delivery, who has a good voice, and who would be willing to
give one evening a week to the entertaining of an invalid. Address,
with references, ‘Stella,’ Postscript Office.” I recognized the
handwriting as that of the lady to whom I had been paying attentions,
the signature as the _nom de plume_ under which she had written several
poetic contributions for the press; and I had no trouble in guessing
the meaning of the advertisement, knowing she has an invalid uncle.
“There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood,
leads on to fortune.” I felt that it was high tide with me, and boldly
launched my canoe; answered the advertisement under the assumed name
of “Festus,” and waited for a reply. It came: “Stella is satisfied
with the references of Festus, and will give him an opportunity to
test his ability as a reader Tuesday evening next,”[2] etc. You will
naturally conclude that my heart bounded with rapture on receiving this
favorable answer. It did nothing of the sort: on the contrary, the
rebound almost took away my breath. I began to shiver and shake, and
felt inclined to retreat. But “love conquers all things.” I determined
to persevere; and here I am, by appointment, to test the practicability
of my original idea. The lady is a fine reader. I am well acquainted
with her favorite authors; and, if I can but interest her in this novel
suit, may at least pass a pleasant evening if I am _not_ unspeakably
happy. I was told to wait for Stella. (_Takes a book from table, and
sits_ L. _of table, with his back to_ R.) Shakspeare, ah! Let me draw
a little courage from the perusal of this. (_Enter_ STELLA, R., _in
evening costume, with flowers in her hair._)
_Stella._ My maid said Festus was in this room. Ah! there he is, deep
in a book: that’s so like these literary gentry! No sooner are their
roving eyes fastened on a book than it is seized with the avidity with
which a starving man grasps a loaf of bread. He seems happy: I will
not disturb him. (_Sits on tête-à-tête._) What a strange idea! Here
am I to pass the evening listening to the voice of one whom I never
saw before. This is one of my uncle’s whims: he fears I am working too
hard to entertain him with readings from his favorite authors, and so
determines to employ a reader to relieve me. Dear uncle, with all his
pain and suffering he has a sharp eye: he notices my want of spirit,
and thinks it is caused by weariness. He little knows that the true
cause is that stupid lover of mine, who sat here evening after evening
as dumb as an oyster, until, out of spite, I started him off. What
could have ailed the man? Nothing could he say but “Yes, ma’am,” “No,
ma’am,” “Fine evening,” “Good-night.” I never was so plagued in all my
life, for I should have liked the fellow if he had only tried to make
himself agreeable; but he was as silent and stupid as—Festus here.
(FESTUS _rises, gesticulating with his hand, his eyes fastened
on the book_.) What can the man be about?
_Festus._ (_Reading._) “Is this a dagger which I see before me? the
handle towards my hand? Come, let me clutch thee! I have thee not, and
yet I see”—(_Turns and sees_ STELLA. _Drops book, and runs behind chair
very confused._)
_Stella._ Good gracious! you here again?
_Festus._ I beg your pardon. You are—I am—
Stella. I thought, sir, I was to have no more of your _agreeable_
society.
_Festus._ I beg your pardon, madam: you seem to be in error. I am
Festus,—Festus.
_Stella._ You Festus?
_Festus._ Oh, yes: I’m Festus! I came here by appointment.
_Stella._ What do you mean, sir? I expected a gentleman here to read.
_Festus._ Exactly! Pray, are you the invalid?
_Stella._ Sir, you are insulting! You will be kind enough to leave this
room at once. I thought the last time you were here—
_Festus._ Excuse me for interrupting; but you evidently mistake me for
some other person. I never was in this house before.
_Stella._ Is the man crazy? Do you mean to say you did not make a
proposal of marriage to me in this very room a week ago?
_Festus._ Madam, you surprise me. To the best of my knowledge and
belief, I never saw you before.
_Stella._ Was there ever such assurance? Is not your name—
_Festus._ Festus; and yours Stella. Am I not right?
_Stella._ Sir, this is very provoking; but, if you are Festus, what is
your object in calling here?
_Festus._ To entertain you.
_Stella._ To entertain me! With what, pray? Sitting on the edge of a
chair, and twirling your thumbs?
_Festus._ (_Aside._) That’s a hard hit. (_Aloud._) With readings, if
you please.
_Stella._ Readings! Pray, what do you read? Ovid’s “Art of Love”?
_Festus._ Madam, I answered your advertisement, being desirous of
securing the situation of reader to an invalid.
_Stella._ You won’t suit.
_Festus._ You haven’t heard me.
_Stella._ No, but I’ve seen you; and your silence cannot be excelled by
your reading.
_Festus._ Will you hear me read?
_Stella._ No: you will not suit.
_Festus._ Very well: then I _claim_ the trial. Remember your
promise,—“Stella is satisfied with the references of ‘Festus,’ and will
give him an opportunity to test his ability as a reader Tuesday
evening,” etc.
_Stella._ Oh, very well! If you insist upon making yourself ridiculous,
proceed. (_Sits in chair,_ R. _of table, and turns her back on_ FESTUS.)
_Festus._ But will you not listen to me? I cannot read to you while you
sit in that position.
_Stella._ I told you I did not wish to hear you read: you insist.
Proceed: I am not interested.
_Festus._ Oh, very well! My first selection shall be from the writings
of one well known to fame,—a lady whose compositions have electrified
the world; whose poetic effusions have lulled to sleep the cross and
peevish infant, stilled the noisy nursery, and exerted an influence
upon mankind of great and lasting power; one whose works are memorable
for their antiquity,—the gift of genius to the budding greatness of the
nineteenth century. (_Producing a book from his pocket._) I will read
from Mother Goose.
_Stella._ (_Starting up._) Mother Goose!
_Festus._ Yes: are you acquainted with the lady?
_Stella._ (_Sarcastically._) I have heard of her.
_Festus._ (_Reads in very melodramatic style._)
“‘We are three brethren out of Spain,
Come to court your daughter Jane.’
‘My daughter Jane she is too young:
She is not skilled in flattering tongue.’
‘Be she young, or be she old,
’Tis for her gold she must be sold.
So fare you well, my lady gay;
We will return another day.’”
How do you like that?
_Stella._ (_Fiercely._) I don’t like it.
_Festus._ No? Perhaps you prefer some other style of delivery.
(_Reads with a drawl._)
“‘We awe thwe bwethwen-aw out of Spain,
Come to court-aw your dawtaw Jane-aw.’”
_Stella._ Oh, do read something else!
_Festus._ Certainly.
“Hi diddle diddle! the cat and the fiddle!
The cow jumped over the moon”—
_Stella._ (_Jumps up._) Pray, sir, do you intend to read that nonsense
the whole evening?
_Festus._ Oh, no! I think I can get through the book in about an hour.
_Stella._ Sir, you have forced yourself here, an unwelcome visitor: you
insist upon my hearing such nonsense as Mother-Goose melodies for an
hour. Do you call that gentlemanly?
_Festus._ Madam, you advertised for a reader. I have applied, with your
permission, for the situation. Under the circumstances, I naturally
expected to have your attention during the reading of such selections
as I should offer; instead of which, you turn your back upon me, and
very coolly bid me proceed. Do _you_ call that ladylike?
_Stella._ Frankly, no. You have asked the trial: you shall have it. For
an hour I will hear you; and, though I strongly suspect the situation
of reader is not the object of your visit, you shall have no reason to
complain of my inattention. Is that satisfactory?
_Festus._ Pray go a step farther. You are said to have fine
elocutionary powers. May I not hope to have the pleasure of hearing
your voice? Grant me your assistance, and my hour’s trial may perhaps
be made agreeable to both.
_Stella._ Oh! not quite certain of your ability, Mr. Festus?
_Festus._ Not in the presence of so fine a reader.
_Stella._ A compliment! Well, I agree.
_Festus._ Let me hear you read: that will give me courage to make the
attempt myself.
_Stella._ Oh, very well! Remembering your partiality for juvenile
literature, you will pardon me if I read a very short but sweet poem.
(_Produces a printed handkerchief from her pocket._)
_Festus._ Ah, a pocket edition!
_Stella._ (_Reads from the handkerchief._)
“Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle-bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My mother.
When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sang sweet lullaby,
And rocked me that I should not cry?
My mother.
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My mother.”
There, sir! what do you say to that?
_Festus._ It’s very sweet. But that child had too many mothers. Now, I
prefer Tom Hood’s parody. (_Reads “A Lay of Real Life” by Thomas Hood._)
A LAY OF REAL LIFE.
Who ruined me ere I was born,
Sold every acre, grass or corn,
And left the next heir all forlorn?
My Grandfather.
Who said my mother was no nurse,
And physicked me, and made me worse,
Till infancy became a curse?
My Grandmother.
Who left me in my seventh year,
A comfort to my mother dear,
And Mr. Pope the overseer?
My Father.
Who let me starve to buy her gin,
Till all my bones came through my skin,
Then called me “ugly little sin”?
My Mother.
Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home, and made me work,
But managed half my meals to shirk?
My Aunt.
Who “of all earthly things” would boast,
“He hated others’ brats the most,”
And therefore made me feel my post?
My Uncle.
Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,
Till many a bitter bang I bore?
My Cousin.
Who took me home when mother died,
Again with father to reside,
Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?
My Stepmother.
Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,
And, when I played, cried “What a noise!”—
Girls always hector over boys?—
My Sister.
Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,
’Cause I was eight, and he was nine?
My Brother.
Who stroked my head, and said, “Good lad,”
And gave me sixpence, “all he had;”
But at the stall the coin was bad?
My Godfather.
Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But, when misfortune came to pass,
Referred me to the pump? Alas!
My Friend.
Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathized with grief,
Or shared my joy, my sole relief?
Myself.
_Stella._ That is very amusing; but, Mr. Festus, if this is the extent
of your elocutionary acquirements—
_Festus._ Oh, I beg your pardon! By no means! With your permission, I
will read something a little more sombre,—Edgar Poe’s “Raven.”
_Stella._ That is certainly more sombre. Proceed.
_Reading. “The Raven,” by Edgar A. Poe._ FESTUS.
_Stella._ Excellent! Mr. Festus, you are certainly a good reader. But
this seems to affect you.
_Festus._ It does, it does; for I, too, have lost one—
_Stella._ A raven?
_Festus._ Pshaw! Come, madam, I believe you are to read now, and I to
listen.
_Stella._ Certainly. I will read, with your permission, Whittier’s
“Maud Muller.”
_Festus._ I should be delighted to hear it.
_Reading. “Maud Muller.”_ STELLA.
_Festus._ Beautiful, beautiful! Madam, this, too, affects me.
_Stella._ How?
_Festus._ When I think “it might have been.”
_Stella._ Then I wouldn’t think of it, if I were you. What shall we
have now?
_Festus._ Suppose we read together.
_Stella._ Together?
_Festus._ Yes, a scene from some play. There’s “The Marble Heart.”
_Stella._ Oh, there’s nothing in that but love-scenes!
_Festus._ It’s a favorite play with me; and I have been thinking, while
you were reading, that the character of “Marco” is one in which you
might excel.
_Stella._ Indeed! I have studied the character.
_Festus._ (_Aside._) I should think so. (_Aloud._) Let us attempt a
scene. Come, you shall have your choice.
_Stella._ Thank you. Then I will choose “the rejection scene.”
_Festus._ (_Aside._) Of course you would! (_Aloud._) Very well.
_Stella._ Do you know, Mr. Festus, I think there is something very odd
in your attempting a love-scene?
_Festus._ Do you? I have attempted them, and with success too.
_Stella._ Ah! I remember there was one attempted here.
_Festus._ Indeed!
_Stella._ Yes; but the gentleman’s name was not Festus.
_Festus._ Shall we try the scene?
_Stella._ You must prompt me if I fail.
_Festus._ Fail! “In the bright lexicon of youth, there’s no such word as
fail.”
_Stella._ Ah! but, in attempts at acting, there are many failures.
_Festus._ True; but yours will not be one of them.
_Stella._ (_Aside._) Another compliment! I begin to like the fellow.
_Festus._ Now, then, the scene! (STELLA _takes a bouquet from the table,
sits on tête-à-tête_, R.)
_Scene from “The Marble Heart.” Arranged for this piece. Published in
No. 15 Reading-Club._