Strange rumors now are soundin' in our hard-of-hearin' ears.
Ere the sleep that knows no wakin' comes to waft us o'er the stream,
Some great power may be takin' all the self-conceit from steam.
Well do we remember, Betsey, when the post-man carried mails,
Ridin' horseback through the forest 'long the lonely Indian trails,
How impatiently we waited--we were earnest lovers then--
For our letters comin' slowly, many miles through wood and glen.
Many times, you know, we missed them--for the post-man never came--
Then, not knowin' what had happened, we did each the other blame;
Long those lover quarrels lasted, but the God who melts the proud
Brought our strayin' hearts together and let sunshine through the cloud.
Then at last the tidings reached us that the faithful post-man fell
Before the forest savage with his wild terrific yell,
And your letters lay and moldered, while the sweet birds sang above,
And I was savin' bitter things about a woman's love.
Long and tedious were the journeys--few and far between, the mails,
In the days when we were courtin'--when we thrashed with wooden flails;
Now the white winged cars are flyin' long the shores of inland seas.
And younger lovers read _their_ letters 'mid luxury and ease.
We have witnessed many changes in our three-score years and ten;
We no longer sit and wonder at the discoveries of men;
In the shadow of life's evenin' we rejoice that our dear boys
Are not called to meet the hardships that embittered half our joys.
Like the old mail through the forest, youthful years go slowly by;
Like the fast mail of the present, manhood's years how swift they fly;
We are sitting in the shadows; soon shall break life's brittle cord--
Soon shall come the welcome summons by the fast mail of the Lord.
STORY OF THE LITTLE RID HIN.
BY MRS. WHITNEY.
Well, thin, there was once't upon a time, away off in the ould country,
livin' all her lane in the woods, in a wee bit iv a house be herself, a
little rid hin. Nice an' quiet she was, and niver did no kind o' harrum in
her life. An' there lived out over the hill, in a din o' the rocks, a
crafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same ould villain iv a fox, he laid
awake o' nights, and he prowled around shly iv a day-time, thinkin' always
so busy how he'd git the little rid hin, an' carry her home an' bile her up
for his shupper. But the wise little rid hin niver went intil her bit iv a
house, but she locked the door afther her and pit the kay in her pocket. So
the ould rashkill iv a fox, he watched, an' he prowled, an' he laid awake
nights, till he came all to skin an' bone, an' sorra a ha'porth o' the
little rid hin could he git at. But at lasht there came a shcame intil his
wicked ould head, an' he tuk a big bag one mornin', over his shouldher, an'
he says till his mother, says he, "Mother, have the pot all bilin' agin' I
come home, for I'll bring the little rid hin to-night for our shupper." An'
away he wint, over the hill, an' came crapin' shly an' soft through the
woods to where the little rid hin lived in her shnug bit iv a house. An'
shure, jist at the very minute that he got along, out comes the little rid
hin out iv the door, to pick up shticks to bile her tay-kettle. "Begorra,
now, but I'll have yees," says the shly ould fox, an' in he shlips,
unbeknownst, intil the house, an' hides behind the door. An' in comes the
little rid hin, a minute afther, with her apron full of shticks, an' shuts
too the door an' locks it, an' pits the kay in her pocket. An' thin she
turns round,--an' there stands the baste iv a fox in the corner. Well,
thin, what did she do, but jist dhrop down her shticks, and fly up in a
great fright and flutter to the big bame acrass the inside o' the roof,
where the fox couldn't git at her!
"Ah, ha!" says the fox, "I'll soon bring you out o' that!" An' he began to
whirrul round, an' round, an' round, fashter, an' fashter, an' fashter, on
the floor, afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid hin got so dizzy
wid lookin', that she jist tumbled down aff the bame, and the fox whipped
her up and popped her intil his bag, and stharted off home in a minute. An'
he wint up the wood and down the wood, half the day long, with the little
rid hin shut up shmotherin' in the bag. Sorra a know she knowed where she
was at all, at all. She thought she was all biled an' ate up, an' finished
shure! But, by an' by, she remimbered herself, an' pit her hand in her
pocket, an' tuk out her little bright scissors, and shnipped a big hole in
the bag behind, an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone an' popped it
intil the bag, an' rin aff home, an' locked the door.
An' the fox he tugged away up over the hill, with the big stone at his back
thumpin' his shouldhers, thinkin' to himself how heavy the little rid hin
was, an' what a fine shupper he'd have. An' whin he came in sight iv his
din in the rocks' and shpied his ould mother awatchin' for him at the door,
he says, "Mother! have ye the pot bilin'?" An' the ould mother says,
"Sure, an' it is; an' have ye the little rid hin?" "Yes, jist here in me
bag. Open the lid o' the pot till I pit her in," says he.
An' the ould mother fox she lifted the lid o' the pot, an' the rashkill
untied the bag, and hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' shuk in the
big, heavy shtone. An' the bilin' wather shplashed up all over the rogue iv
a fox, an' his mother, an' schalded them both to death. An' the little rid
hin lived safe in her house foriver afther.
ONLY A SONG.
It was only a simple ballad,
Sung to a careless throng;
There were none that knew the singer,
And few that heeded the song;
Yet the singer's voice was tender
And sweet as with love untold;
Surely those hearts were hardened
That it left so proud and cold.
She sang of the wondrous glory
That touches the woods in spring,
Of the strange, soul-stirring voices
When "the hills break forth and sing;"
Of the happy birds low warbling
The requiem of the day,
And the quiet hush of the valleys
In the dusk of the gloaming gray.
And one in a distant corner--
A woman worn with strife--
Heard in that song a message
From the spring-time of her life.
Fair forms rose up before her
From the mist of vanished years;
She sat in a happy blindness,
Her eyes were veiled in tears.
Then, when the song was ended,
And hushed the last sweet tone,
The listener rose up softly
And went on her way alone
Once more to her life of labor
She passed; but her heart was strong;
And she prayed, "God bless the singer!
And oh, thank God for the song!"
THE BICYCLE RIDE.
BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.
[Whether bicycle riding on Sunday be sinful or not,
depends entirely upon the spirit in which it is done
and the associations of the ride.]
You have read of the ride of Paul Revere,
And of Gilpin's ride, so fraught with fear;
Skipper Ireson's ride in a cart,
And the ride where Sheridan played a part;
Calendar's ride on a brazen hack,
And Islam's prophet on Al Borak;
The fateful ride to Aix from Ghent,
And a dozen others of like portent,
But you never have heard of a bicycle spin
Which was piously ended, though started in sin.
Tom was a country parson's son,
Fresh from college and full of fun,
Fond of flirting with bright-eyed girls,
Raving, in verse, over golden curls,
Sowing a wild oat, here and there,
In a way that made the parson stare
And chide him sternly, when face to face,
While, in private, he laughed at the young scape-grace.
But the wildest passion the boy could feel
Was the love he bore for his shining wheel.
He rode it by night and he rode it by day,
If he went two rods or ten miles away;
And Deacon Smith was heard to remark
That he met that "pesky thing in the dark
And it went right by with a glint and a gleam
And a wild 'hoot-toot' that made him scream;
In spite of the fact that he knew right well
That evil spirits were all in--well--
He wouldn't meet that thing again
For a corn-crib full of good, ripe grain."
One Sunday morning, the sun was bright,
The bird's throats bursting with glad delight,
The parson-mounted his plump old bay
And jogged to the church, two miles away,
While Tom wheeled round, ten miles or more
And hid his wheel by the chancel door,
And he thought, as he sat in the parson's pew,
"I wonder what makes dad look so blue,"
Till it came like a flash to his active mind,
He left his sermon and specs behind.
Now the parson was old and his eyes were dim
And he couldn't have read a line or a hymn,
Without his specs for a mint of gold,
And his head turned hot while his toes turned cold,
And right in the midst of his mental shock,
The parson deceived his trusting flock,
And gave them eternal life and a crown
From the book he was holding upside down.
Tom, the rascal, five minutes before,
Like an arrow had shot from the chancel door.
The horses he frightened I never can tell,
Nor how the old church folk were shocked, as well,
And they said they feared that the parson's lad
"Was a-gettin' wild" and would go to the bad,
For 'twas wicked enough to set folks in a craze
Without "ridin' sech races on Sabbath days,"
And they thought the length of the parson's prayer
Had something to do with his fatherly care.
While the truth of it was, which he afterwards dropped,
He didn't know what he could do when he stopped.
Of course you know how the story will end,
The prayer was finished and duly "Amen'd,"
When Tom, all dust, to the pulpit flew
And laid down the specs and the sermon too.
Then the parson preached in a timid way,
Of sinful pleasure on Sabbath-day,
And he added a postscript, not in the text.
Saying that, when they were sore perplexed,
Each must decide as he chanced to feel.
And Tom chuckled: "Sundays, I'll ride my wheel."
THE LAND OF OUR BIRTH.
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
O! where is the land that each mortal loves best,
The land that is dearest and fairest on earth?
It is North, it is South, it is East, it is West;
For this beautiful land is the land of our birth.
'Tis the home of our childhood; the fragrance and dew
Of our innocent days are all linked with the spot;
And its fields were so green, and its mountains so blue,
That our hearts must be cold ere that land is forgot.
We have wandered, perchance, far away from the place,
But how often we see it in thought and in dreams!
Feel its winds, as of old, blowing cool on our face,
Hear the songs of its birds, and the plash of its
streams.
We may build grander homes than the home of our youth,
On far loftier objects our eyes may be cast;
But we never forget all its love and its truth;
It has charms that will hallow it unto the last.
We may learn other tongues, but that language is best
That we lisped with our mothers in infancy's days--
The language she sung when she rocked us to rest,
And gave us good counsel and comfort and praise.
We may love other lands, but wherever we be
The land that is greenest and fairest on earth
Is the one that, perhaps, we may never more see--
The home of our fathers--the land of our birth.
May its daughters and sons grow in beauty and worth!
May the blessing of God give it freedom and rest!
Be it northward, or southward, or eastward, or west,
The land of our birth is of all lands the best.
THE TEACHER'S DIADEM.
Sitting 'mid the gathering shadows, weary with the Sabbath's care;
Weary with the Sabbath's burdens, that she dearly loves to bear;
For she sees a shining pathway, and she gladly presses on;
'Tis the first Great Teacher's footprints--it will lead where He has gone;
With a hand that's never faltered, with a love that's ne'er grown dim,
Long and faithfully she's labored, to His fold the lambs to bring.
But to-night her soul grows heavy; through the closed lids fall the tears,
As the children pass before her, that she's taught these many years;
And she cries in bitter anguish: "Shall not one to me be given,
To shine upon my coronet amid the hosts of heaven!
Hear my prayer to-night, my Saviour, in Thy glorious home above;
Give to me some little token--some approval of Thy love."
Ere the words were scarcely uttered, banishing the evening gloom,
Came a soft and shining radiance, bright'ning all within the room;
And an angel in white raiment, brighter than the morning sun,
Stood before her, pointing upward, while he softly whispered, "Come."
As he paused, she heard the rustle of his starry pinions bright,
And she quickly rose and followed, out into the stilly night;
Up above the dim blue ether; up above the silver stars;
On, beyond the golden portals; through the open pearly doors;
Far across the sea of crystal, to the shining sapphire Throne,
Where she heard amid the chorus, "Welcome, child; thy work's well done."
Surely 'tis her Saviour speaking; 'tis His hands, aye, 'tis His feet;
And she cries: "Enough! I've seen Him; all my joys are now complete."
All forgot earth's care and sorrow; all forgot the starry crown;
'Twas enough e'en to be near Him; to behold Him on His Throne.
"Not enough," the Saviour answered; "thou wouldst know through
all these years,
If in vain has been thy teaching, all thy labor and thy prayers;
That from thee the end was hidden, did thy faith in me grow less?
Thou hast asked some little token, I will grant thee thy request."
From out a golden casket, inlaid with many a gem,
He took--glist'ning with countless jewels--a regal diadem;
Bright a name shone in each jewel, names of many scholars dear,
Who she thought had passed unheeded all her earnest thought and care.
"But," she asked, "how came these names here--names I never saw before?"
And the Saviour smiling answered, "'Tis the fruit thy teachings bore;
"'Tis the seed thy love hath planted, tended by my faithful hand;
Though unseen by thee, it's budded, blossoming in many lands.
Here are names from darkened Egypt, names from Afric's desert sands;
Names from isles amid the ocean, names from India's sunny strands;
Some from Greenland's frozen mountains, some from burning tropic plains;
From where'er man's found a dwelling, here you'll find some chosen name.
When thine earthly mission's ended, that in love to thee was given,
This is the crown of thy rejoicing, that awaits thee here in heaven."
Suddenly the bright light faded; all was dark within the room;
And she sat amid the shadows of the Sabbath evening gloom;
But a peaceful, holy incense rested on her soul like dew;
Though the end from her was hidden, to her Master she'd be true;
Sowing seed at morn and even, pausing not to count the gain;
If her bread was on the waters, God would give it back again;
If the harvest she had toiled for other hands than hers should reap,
He'd repay her for her labor, who had bade her, "Feed my sheep."
TOBE'S MONUMENT.
BY ELIZABETH KILHAM.
It was "after taps," a sultry, Southern-summer night. On the extreme edge
of the encampment, on the side nearest the enemy, a sentinel paused in his
walk, and peered cautiously out into the darkness. "Pshaw!" he said; "it's
nothing but a dog." He was resuming his walk, when the supposed quadruped
rose suddenly, and walked along on two feet in a manner so unmistakably
human, that the sentinel lowered his musket once more, and shouted, "Halt!
Advance, and give the counter-sign!" A faint, childish voice said, "Ain't
got none, massa."
"Well, there now!" said the sentinel, "if it ain't just a little darkey,
and I guess I've frightened him half to death. Come here, snowball."
The child crept up, and said, tremblingly: "'Deed, massa, I ain't got
nuffin ter gib yer."
"Well, who asked you to give me anything?"
"Yer don ax me fer gib yer suffin jes' now; and I ain't got nuffin 'cep' my
close what I got on."
"Well, you needn't fret; I don't want 'em. Corporal of the guard! Post
two."
The corporal hastened to "post two," and found the sentinel with his hand
on the shoulder of a little black boy, who, between fear, fatigue, and
hunger, was unable to give any account of himself. "I'll take him to
Captain Leigh," the corporal said; "he's officer of the day. Maybe he'll be
able to get something out of him."
The captain stood in front of his tent, looking out into the night, when
the corporal and his charge approached.
"Captain," said he, "here's a boy just come into the lines."
"Very well; you can leave him here."
At the first sound of the captain's voice the boy drew nearer to him, as
knowing instinctively that he had found a friend.
"You can go into that tent and sleep till morning," said the captain.
"What is your name!" was Captain Leigh's first question the next morning.
"Name Tobe."
"Is that all?"
"Dat's all, Mass Cap'n."
"How old are you?"
"Dunno, Massa Cap'n. Nobody nebber done tole me dat ar."
"Where have you come from?"
"Come fum de back o' Richmon', Mass Cap'n."
"What did you come here for?"
"All de res' ob 'em runned away; an' ole mass he wor so mad, I wor jes'
feared o' my life. 'Sides, I t'ought I mought fin' my mammy ef I got 'mong
der Unions."
"Where is your mother?"
"Dunno, Mass Cap'n. Ole mass done sol' her down in Georgy las'
corn-shuckin', an' I ain't nebber heerd ob her sence. But I t'ought mebby
she mought ha' runned 'way too, an' I'd fin' her wid der Unions."
"Well, now, what are you going to do?"
"Dunno, Mass Cap'n. I'd like ter stay 'long wid you."
"What can you do?"
"Kin wait on yer, Mass Cap'n; kin shine up boots, an'"--brightening up as
his eyes, wandering round caught sight of the horses--"kin clean de hosses
right smart." * * *
"If I keep you with me you must be a good boy, and do as I tell you."
"'Deed I will, Mass Cap'n. I'se do ebery work yer say, sho's yer born."
So when the troops left Harrison's Landing, Tobe went too, in charge of the
captain's horse and baggage; and, when the steamer was fairly under way, he
brightened into a new creature as every revolution of the wheel placed a
greater distance between himself and "old massa." * * *
It proved that Tobe had told the truth about his skill in taking care of
horses. Captain Leigh's horse had never looked so well as now, and the
captain was delighted. Tobe turned out, moreover, to be a very good boy.
But the army is not a very good place for boys. So one day Captain Leigh
said:--
"Tobe, how would you like to go North?"
"Whar's it at, Mass Cap'n?"
"I mean my home at the North."
"When is yer gwine, Mass Cap'n?"
"I am not going at all now."
"Does yer mean ter sen' me away from yer, Mass Cap'n?"
Captain Leigh was touched, and answered him very gently,--
"Yes, I want to send you away from me now, because it will be better for
you. But, when the war is over, I shall go home, and then you can stay with
me always if you are a good boy."
"I allus does jes' de t'ings yer tell me, Mass Cap'n."
"I know you do. And, just because you do what I tell you so well I want to
send you to my home, to run errands for my wife, and do what work she will
give you in the house. And I have three little children--two little girls
and a baby boy. I want you to go with them when they go out to play and
take care of them. My home is in a very pleasant place in the country.
Don't you think you would like to go there?"
"Ef yer goes too, Mass Cap'n."
"But, my boy, I can't possibly go now."
"I'se do jes de t'ing yer say, Mass Cap'n. Ef yer tells me to go, I'se go.
An' I'se jest do ebery word the missus say, an' I look af'r de chillens de
bes' I knows, ontel yer comes dar. On'y please come right soon, Mass
Cap'n."
And, as the captain left the tent, Tobe laid his head upon his arm and
cried as if his heart would break.
Captain Leigh found a brother officer who was expecting to go home on a
furlough, and who readily agreed to take charge of the boy in whom his
friend was so deeply interested.
But that night came news that made everybody give up the idea of a
"furlough," or "going home." The Richmond government, being determined to
"make the North feel the war as she had not felt it," had organized the
"grand raid."
An order came for Captain Leigh's regiment to march at daylight.
"Tobe," said the captain, "you can go in one of the baggage-wagons. Strap
up my blanket and poncho, and take them along; and these boots, take
particular care of them, for it's not often I can get a pair of cavalry
boots to fit as they do."
"Yer needn't be feared, Mass Cap'n; I'se take care of 'em de bes' I knows."
The main body of the raiders were reported on the line of the South
Mountains, making for Gettysburg. Scouting expeditions were sent out from
the Northern army in all directions, and a body of troops, including
Captain Leigh's regiment, was ordered to proceed by the shortest route to
Gettysburg and head the rebels off. One of the baggage-wagons broke down.
The driver of another wagon stopped to help his comrade. The troops passed
on, and the two wagons were left alone on the mountain. In one of them was
Tobe with the captain's boots, over which he kept constant watch. The men
worked busily at the wagon and Tobe sat watching them. Suddenly a tramping
of horses' feet was heard, and a party of cavalry came round a turn in the
road.
"That's good," said one of the men; "there's some of the boys. If they'll
wait a few minutes we can go along with 'em."
"'Tain't none of our boys," said the other, after a keen glance; "them's
rebs."
At the word, Tobe slid down in the bottom of the wagon under some blankets,
and lay silent and motionless with the boots clasped in his arms.
As the soldiers advanced the officer said, apparently in reply to a
question, "No, let the men go; we can't do anything with prisoners here.
But we'll look through the wagon, and, if the Yanks have anything we want,
'all's fair in war.'"
They reined their horses by the wagon, and, after a few short, sharp
questions, proceeded to break open trunks and bags, and appropriate their
contents.
The soldiers were about finishing their examination, when one of them said,
"What's that under the seat of that wagon?"
"Oh! nothing but a torn blanket," said another. "'Tain't worth taking. We
have got all we want."
"There may be something under it, though."
He pushed aside the blanket with his sabre, and there lay Tobe endeavoring,
but unsuccessfully, to hide the boots under him.
"Ah!" said the officer, "this is worth while. Here's just what I wanted.
Come, boy, hand over those boots, quick."
"'Deed, massa," said Tobe, "I can't gib 'em ter yer. Dey 'longs ter Mass
Cap'n, an' he tole me take keer ob 'em mos' partic'lar."
"Can't help that. I've got to have them, so pass them along."
"Please, Massa," began Tobe; but the rebel cut him short.
"Will you give me those boots? If you don't do it, and in double-quick
time, too, I'll put a ball through your black skin. I won't ask you again.
Now, will you give them up?" and he pulled out his pistol.
"'Deed, massa, I can't, case Massa Cap'n"--
There was a sharp click, a flash, a long, sobbing moan, and Tobe lay
motionless, the boots still clasped in his arms, and great drops of blood
slowly gathering upon them.
"Enemy in sight," shouted a picket riding up.
The officer hastily gave an order, and the rebels dashed off at a furious
speed a few moments before a party of Union cavalry, with Captain Leigh at
their head, appeared, riding from the opposite direction.
A few words sufficed for explanation. Captain Leigh laid his hand on Tobe's
shoulder, and spoke his name. At the sound of the voice he loved so well,
his eyes opened, and he said faintly, "Mass Cap'n, I done de bes' I knowed.
I keep de boots.'"
"O Tobe!" groaned the captain, "I wish you had given them up. I would have
lost everything rather than have had this."
"Mass Cap'n."
"Yes, Tobe, what is it?"
"De little chillens, Mass Cap'n; I meaned ter wait on 'em right smart. Tell
'em"--His voice grew fainter, and his eyes closed.
"Yes, my boy: what shall I tell them?"
"Tell 'em I didn't lose de boots; I kep 'em de bes'--I knowed."
There was a faint sigh, a flutter of the eyelids, and the little life that
had been so truly "de bes' he knowed" (ah! if we could all say that!) was
ended.
Very reverently Captain Leigh lifted the boots, all wet and stained with
blood. "I will never wear those boots again," he said; "but I will never
part with them. They shall be Tobe's monument."
In the hall of Captain Leigh's house is a deep niche, and in it, on a
marble slab covered with a glass case, stands a pair of cavalry boots with
dark stains upon them, and on the edge of the slab, in golden letters, is
the inscription:
"In memory of Tobe,
Faithful unto death."
THE CROWDED STREET.
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Let me move slowly through the street,
Filled with an ever-shifting train,
Amid the sound of steps that beat
The murmuring walks like autumn rain.
How fast the flitting figures come!
The mild, the fierce, the stony face--
Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some
Where secret tears have left their trace.
They pass to toil, to strife, to rest--
To halls in which the feast is spread--
To chambers where the funeral guest
In silence sits beside the dead.