Where children pressing cheek to cheek,
With mute caresses shall declare
The tenderness they cannot speak.
And some, who walk in calmness here,
Shall shudder as they reach the door
Where one who made their dwelling dear,
Its flower, its light, is seen no more.
Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,
And dreams of greatness in thine eye!
Go'st thou to build an early name,
Or early in the task to die?
Keen son of trade, with eager brow!
Who is now fluttering in thy snare?
Thy golden fortunes, tower they now,
Or melt the glittering spires in air?
Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
The dance till daylight gleam again?
Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead?
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?
Some, famine-struck, shall think how long
The cold, dark hours, how slow the light;
And some, who flaunt amid the throng,
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.
Each where his tasks or pleasures call,
They pass, and heed each other not.
There is who heeds, who holds them all
In His large love and boundless thought.
These struggling tides of life, that seem
In wayward, aimless course to tend,
Are eddies of the mighty stream
That rolls to its appointed end.
BESSIE KENDRICK'S JOURNEY.
BY MRS. ANNIE A. PRESTON.
"Cars stop twenty minutes!" called out Conductor Richardson at Allen's
Junction. Then, as the train came to a dead halt, he jumped down upon the
depot platform, ran along to the front of the long line of passenger cars,
to where the engine was standing, and, swinging himself up into the cab,
said to the engineer:
"Frank; I want you to come back to the first passenger coach, and see a
little girl that I don't know hardly what to make of."
Frank nodded, and, without speaking, deliberately wiped his oily hands in a
bunch of waste, took a look at his grim, dusty face in a narrow little
mirror that hung beside the steam gauge, pulled off his short frock, put on
a coat, changed his little black, greasy cap for a soft felt, taking these
"dress-up" articles from the tender-box, where an engineer has something
stowed away for all emergencies, and went back to the cars as requested.
He entered the car and made his way to the seat where the conductor sat
talking to a bright-looking little girl, about nine years old, oddly
dressed in a woman's shawl and bonnet.
Several of the passengers were grouped around the seat, evidently much
interested in the child, who wore a sad, prematurely old countenance, but
seemed to be neither timid nor confused.
"Here is the engineer," said the conductor, kindly, as Frank approached.
She held up her hand to him, with a winsome smile breaking over her pinched
little face, and said:
"My papa was an engineer before he became sick and went to live on a farm
in Montana. He is dead, and my mamma is dead. She died first, before Willie
and Susie. My papa used to tell me that after he should be dead there would
be no one to take care of me, and then I must get on the cars and go to
his old home in Vermont. And he said, 'cause I hadn't any ticket, I must
ask for the engineer and tell him I am James Kendrick's little girl, and
that he used to run on the M. & S. road."
The pleading blue eyes were now suffused with tears; but she did not cry
after the manner of childhood in general.
Engineer Frank stooped down and kissed her very tenderly; and then, as he
brushed the tears from his own eyes, said:
"Well, my dear, so you are little Bessie Kendrick. I rather think a
merciful Providence guided you on board this train."
Then, turning around to the group of passengers, he went on:
"I knew Jim Kendrick well. He was a man out of ten thousand. When I first
came to Indiana, before I got acclimated, I was sick a great part of the
time, so that I could not work, and I got homesick and discouraged. Could
not keep my board bill paid up, to say nothing of my doctor's bill, and I
didn't much care whether I lived or died.
"One day, when the pay car came along and the men were getting their
monthly pay, and there wasn't a cent coming to me, for I hadn't worked an
hour for the last month, I felt so 'blue' that I sat down on a pile of
railroad ties and leaned my elbows on my knees, with my head in my hands,
and cried like a boy, out of sheer homesickness and discouragement.
"Pretty soon one came along and said, in a voice that seemed like sweet
music in my ears, for I hadn't found much real sympathy, although the boys
were all good to me in their way: 'You've been having a rough time of it,
and you must let me help you out.'
"I looked up, and there stood Jim Kendrick, with his month's pay in his
hand. He took out from the roll of bills a twenty-dollar note and held it
out to me.
"I knew he had a sickly wife and two or three children, and that he had a
hard time of it himself to pull through from month to month, so I said,
half-ashamed of the tears that were still streaming down my face, 'Indeed,
I cannot take the money; you must need it yourself.'
"'Indeed, you will take it, man,' said Jim. 'You will be all right in a few
days, and then you can pay it back. Now come home with me to supper and see
the babies. It will do you good.'
"I took the note and accepted the invitation, and after that went to his
house frequently, until he moved away, and I gradually lost sight of him.
"I had returned the loan, but it was impossible to repay the good that
little act of kindness did me, and I guess Jim Kendrick's little girl here
won't want for anything if I can prevent it."
Then turning to the child, whose bright eyes were wide open now, the
engineer said to her:
"I'll take you home with me when we get up to Wayne. My wife will fix you
up, and we'll find out whether these Vermont folks want you or not. If they
do, Mary or I shall go with you. But, if they don't care much about having
you, you shall stay with us and be our girl, for we have none of our own.
You look very much like your father, God bless him."
Just then the eastern train whistled, Engineer Frank vanished out of the
car door and went forward to the engine, wiping the tears with his coat
sleeve, while the conductor and passengers could not suppress the tears
this little episode evoked during the twenty minutes' stop at Allen's
Junction.
THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF.
There is a tongue in every leaf,
A voice in every rill--
A voice that speaketh everywhere,
In flood, and fire, through earth and air!
A tongue that's never still!
'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused
Through everything we see,
That with our spirits communeth
Of things mysterious--life and death,
Time and eternity!
I see Him in the blazing sun,
And in the thunder-cloud;
I hear Him in the mighty roar
That rusheth through the forest hoar
When winds are raging loud.
I feel Him in the silent dews,
By grateful earth betray'd;
I feel Him in the gentle showers,
The soft south wind, the breath of flowers,
The sunshine and the shade.
I see Him, hear Him, everywhere,
In all things--darkness, light,
Silence and sound; but, most of all,
When slumber's dusty curtains fall,
I' the silent hour of night.
LET US GIVE THANKS.
BY ELLEN ISABELLA TUPPER.
For all that God in mercy sends:
For health and children, home and friends,
For comfort in the time of need,
For every kindly word and deed,
For happy thoughts and holy talk,
For guidance in our daily walk--
For everything give thanks!
For beauty in this world of ours,
For verdant grass and lovely flowers,
For song of birds, for hum of bees,
For the refreshing summer breeze,
For hill and plain, for streams and wood,
For the great ocean's mighty flood--
In everything give thanks!
For the sweet sleep which comes with night,
For the returning morning's light,
For the bright sun that shines on high,
For the stars glittering in the sky;
For these and everything we see,
O Lord! our hearts we lift to Thee
For everything give thanks!
LITTLE FEET.
Up from all the city's by-ways,
From the breathless, sickening heat,
To the wide-swung gate of heaven,
Eager throng the little feet.
Not a challenge has the warder
For these souls so sinless white;
Round each brow the Saviour's blessing
Circles like a crown of light.
See, the Lord Himself stands waiting,
Wide His loving arms are spread;
On his heart of hearts is pillowed
Every weary baby's head.
But below, with tear-wet faces,
And with hearts all empty grown,
Stand the mourning men and women,
Vainly calling back their own.
Upward floats the voice of mourning--
"Jesus, Master, dost thou care?"
Aye, He feels each drop of anguish--
"He doth all our sorrows bear."
Wipe thine eyes, O heavy laden;
Look beyond the clouds and see,
With your dear one on His bosom,
Jesus stands and calls to thee.
Waits with yearning, all unfathomed--
Love you cannot understand,
Lures you upward with the beckoning
Of your buried baby's hand.
A RAINY DAY.
Patter, patter, patter,
On the window-pane;
Drip, drip, drip,
Comes the heavy rain.
Now the little birdies
Fly away to bed,
And each tender blossom
Droops its pretty head.
But the little rootlets,
In the earth below,
Open wide their tiny mouths
Where the rain-drops flow;
And the thirsty grasses
Soon grow fresh and green,
With the pretty daisies
Springing up between.
FASHIONABLE.
A fashionable woman
In a fashionable pew;
A fashionable bonnet
Of a fashionable hue;
A fashionable mantle
And a fashionable gown;
A fashionable Christian
In a fashionable town;
A fashionable prayer-book.
And a fashionable choir;
A fashionable chapel
With a fashionable spire;
A fashionable preacher
With a fashionable speech;
A fashionable sermon
With a fashionable reach;
A fashionable welcome
At the fashionable door;
A fashionable penny
For the fashionable poor;
A fashionable heaven
And a fashionable hell;
A fashionable Bible
For this fashionable belle;
A fashionable kneeling
And a fashionable nod;
A fashionable everything,
But no fashionable God.
RESURGAM.
BY EBEN E. REXFORD.
"There is no God," he said, and turned away
From those who sought to lead him to the light;
"Here is a violet, growing for a day,
When winter comes, and all the world is white,
It will be dead. And I am like the flower,
To-day, here am I, and to-morrow, dust.
Is life worth living for its little hour
Of empty pleasure, if decay we must?"
The autumn came, and under fallen leaves
The little violet was hid away.
"Dead! dead!" cried he. "Alas, all nature grieves
For what she loves is destined to decay.
Soon like the violet, in soft, damp earth
I shall be hidden, and above my head
A stone will tell the record of my birth
And of my nothingness when I am dead."
Spring came, and from the mold the little flower
He had thought dead, sprung up to sweetest bloom.
He saw it, and his heart was touched that hour,
And grasped the earth-old mystery of the tomb.
"God of the flower," he said, with reverent voice,
"The violet lives again, and why not I?
At last my blind eyes see, and I rejoice.
The soul within me was not born to die!"
THE FAULT OF THE AGE.
BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
The fault of the age is a mad endeavor
To leap to heights that were made to climb;
By a burst of strength or a thought that is clever
We plan to outwit and forestall Time.
We scorn to wait for the thing worth having;
We want high noon at the day's dim dawn,
We find no pleasure in toiling and saving
As our forefathers did in the good times gone.
We force our roses before their season
To bloom and blossom that we may wear;
And then we wonder and ask the reason
Why perfect buds are so few and rare.
We crave the gain, but despise the getting;
We want wealth, not as reward, but dower;
And the strength that is wasted in useless fretting
Would fell a forest or build a tower.
To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning;
To thirst for glory, yet fear the fight--
Why, what can it lead to at last but sinning,
To mental languor and moral blight?
Better the old slow way of striving
And counting small gains when the year is done,
Than to use our forces all in contriving
And to grasp for pleasures we have not won.
THE BOOK CANVASSER.
BY MAX ADELER.
He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the
table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged
handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was positively
gloomy, he said: "Mr. ----, I'm canvassing for the National Portrait
Gallery; splendid work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains
pictures of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to
the present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can't
take your name.
"Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his book and
pointing to an engraving, "That's--lemme see--yes, that's Columbus, perhaps
you've heard sumfin' about him? The publisher was telling me to-day before
I started out that he discovered--No; was it Columbus that dis--Oh! yes.
Columbus, he discovered America--was the first man here. He came over in a
ship, the publisher said, and it took fire, and he stayed on deck because
his father told him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted
to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain't it? Taken from a
photograph, all of 'em are; done especially for this work. His clothes are
kinder odd but they say that's the way they dressed in them days. Look at
this one. Now isn't that splendid? William Penn, one of the early settlers.
I was reading t'other day about him. When he first arrived he got a lot of
Indians up a tree, and when they shook some apples down, he set one on top
of his son's head, and shot an arrow plump through it and never fazed him.
They say it struck them Indians cold; he was such a terrific shooter. Fine
countenance, hasn't he? Face shaved clean; he didn't wear a mustache, I
believe, but he seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is,
that every man ought to have a picture of that Patriarch so's to see how
the fust settlers looked and what kind of weskets they yoused to wear. See
his legs; too! Trousers a little short maybe, as if he was going to wade in
a creek; but he's all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see.
Subscription list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you? There's
something nice. That I think, is--is--that's a--a--yes, to be sure,
Washington--you recollect him, of course? Some people call him Father of
his Country, George--Washington. He had no middle name, I believe. He lived
about two hundred years ago and he was a fighter. I heard the publisher
telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yer at Trenton, and
seems to me, if I recollect right, I've read about it myself. He was
courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights
to see her when the old man was asleep. The girl's family were down on him,
I reckon. He looks like a man to do that, don't he? He's got it in his eye.
If it'd been me I'd gone over on a bridge, but he probably wanted to show
off afore her; some men are so reckless, you know. Now, if you'll conclude
to take this I'll get the publisher to write out some more stories about
him, and bring 'em round to you, so's you can study up on him. I know he
did ever so many other things, but I've forgot 'em; my memory's so awful
poor.
"Less see! Who have we next? Ah! Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He was one of
the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what he is
celebrated for, but I think it was a flying a--oh! yes, flying a kite,
that's it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying a kite,
you know, like boys do now-a-days, and while she was a flickering up in the
sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a tree and hit
him on the head;--then he discovered the attraction of gravitation, I think
they call it. Smart, wasn't it? Now, if you or me'd a been hit, it'd just a
made us mad like as not and set us a ravin'. But men are so different. One
man's meat's another man's pison. See what a double chin he's got. No beard
on him, either, though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round
face. He hasn't got on a sword and I reckon he was no soldier;--fit some
when he was a boy, maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not a
regular warrior. I ain't one, myself, and I think all the better of him for
it. Ah, here we are! Look at that! Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith! Isn't
that gorgeous? See, how she kneels over him, and sticks out her hands while
he lays on the ground, and that big fellow with a club tries to hammer him
up. Talk about woman's love! There it is for you. Modocs, I believe, Anyway
some Indians out West there, somewheres; and the publisher tells me that
Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his name is there, was going to bang old
Smith over the head with a log of wood, and this here girl she was sweet on
Smith, it appears, and she broke loose, and jumped forward and says to the
man with the stick, 'Why don't you let John alone? Me and him are going to
marry, and if you kill him I'll never speak to you as long as I live,' or
words like them, and so the man he give it up, and both of them hunted up a
preacher and were married and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful story,
isn't it? A good wife she made him, too, I'll bet, if she was a little
copper-colored. And don't she look just lovely in that picture? But Smith
appears kinder sick, evidently thinks his goose is cooked, and I don't
wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a discouraging club.
And now we come to--to ah--to--Putnam--General Putnam:--he fought in the
war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off his guard,
and they tied him flat on his back on a horse and then licked the horse
like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go pitching down
about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with General Putnam
lying there nearly skeered to death. Leastways the publisher said somehow
that way, and I oncet read about it myself. But he came out safe, and I
reckon sold the horse and made a pretty good thing of it. What surprises me
is he didn't break his neck, but maybe it was a mule, for they're pretty
sure footed, you know. Surprising what some of these men have gone through,
ain't it? Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father
shook hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New
Orleans. Broke up the rebel Legislature, and then when the Ku Kluxes got
after him he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'em 'til they
couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad. Hit straight
from the shoulder and fetched his man every time. Andrew, his fust name
was; and look how his hair stands up. And then, here's John Adams and
Daniel Boone and two or three pirates, and a whole lot more pictures, so
you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme have your name, won't you?"
THE MISNOMER.
BY JOSIE C. MALOTT.
It sounds rather queer, I must freely confess,
To hear a man ask kind heaven to bless
Himself and his neighbor, when over the way
His drinking saloon stands open all day.
_You_ may call it a "drug store," but doesn't God know?
Can you hide from _His_ eye the sorrow and woe--
The pain and the anguish, the grief and the shame
That comes from the house with a high-sounding name?
Such ill gotten wealth will surely take wing
And leave naught behind but the deadliest sting;
And oh, the account must be settled some day,
For the drug store saloon kept over the way.
Can you face the just Judge and the souls you have wrecked?
Oh, pause ere too late and note the effect.
Do you know you're destroying both body and soul
Of the men whose honor and manhood you've stole?
Does the hard accusation arouse you to fright?
Have you never looked at yourself in the light
Of a thief, nay, worse, a murderer, too?
God brands you as such, and you know it is true!
They're the deadliest poisons you have for sale--
The liquors you keep--yet you always fail
To mark them as such, and the men who drink
Can have what they want if they bring you the "chink."
_Don't_ call such a place a _drug store_, pray;
But "drinking saloon," and you'd better say
On the sign o'er the door in letters clear,
"Ye abandon all hope who enter here!"
THE DOORSTEP.
BY E. C. STEDMAN.
The conference-meeting through at last,
We boys around the vestry waited
To see the girls come tripping past
Like snowbirds willing to be mated.
Not braver he that leaps the wall
By level musket-flashes litten,
Than I, who stepped before them all,
Who longed to see me get the mitten.
But no; she blushed and took my arm!
We let the old folks have the highway,
And started toward the Maple Farm
Along a kind of lover's by-way.
I can't remember what we said,
'Twas nothing worth a song or story;
Yet that rude path by which we sped
Seemed all transformed and in a glory.
The snow was crisp beneath our feet,
The moon was full, the fields were gleaming;
By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,
Her face with youth and health was beaming.
The little hand outside her muff--
O sculptor, if you could but mould it!
So lightly touched my jacket-cuff,
To keep it warm I had to hold it.
To have her with me there alone,--
'Twas love and fear and triumph blended.
At last we reached the foot-worn stone
Where that delicious journey ended.
The old folks, too, were almost home;
Her dimpled hand the latches fingered,
We heard the voices nearer come,
Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.
She took her ringlets from her hood,
And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled;
But yet I knew she understood
With what a daring wish I trembled.
A cloud past kindly overhead,
The moon was slyly peeping through it,
Yet hid its face, as if it said,
"Come, now or never! do it! _do it_!"
My lips till then had only known
The kiss of mother and of sister,
But somehow full upon her own
Sweet, rosy, darling mouth--I kissed her!
Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still,
O, listless woman! weary lover!
To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill
I'd give--but who can live youth over?
HOW "OLD MOSE" COUNTED EGGS.
Old Mose, who sold eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living,
is as honest an old negro as ever lived, but he has got the habit of
chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes
in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small
cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of
Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself came out to the gate to make the
purchases.
"Have you any eggs this morning, Uncle Mose?" she asked.
"Yes, indeed I has. Jest got in ten dozen from the kentry."
"Are they fresh?"
"I gua'ntee 'em. I knows dey am fresh jest the same as ef I had led 'em
myself."
"I'll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this basket."
"All right, mum." He counts, "One, two, free, foah, five, six, seben,
eight, nine, ten. You kin rely on dem bein fresh. How's your son coming on
at de school? He mus' be mos' grown."
"Yes, Uncle Mose, he is a clerk in a bank at Galveston."
"Why, how ole am de boy?"
"He is eighteen."
"You don't tole me so. Eighteen and getting a salary already, eighteen
(counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free,
twenty-foah, twenty-five, and how's yore gal comin' on? She was mos' growed
up de las' time I seed her."
"She is married and living in Dallas."
"Wall, I declar'. How de time scoots away! An' yo' say she has childruns?
Why, how ole am de gal? She mus' be jess about--"
"Thirty-three."
"Am dat so?" (counting), "firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six,
firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two,
forty-free. Hit am so singular dat you has sich old childruns. I can't
b'leeve you has granchildruns. You don't look more den forty yeahs ole
yerseff."
"Nonsense, old man, I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be
fifty-three years old----"
"Fifty-free? I jess dun gwinter beleeve hit, fifty-free, fifty-foah,
fifty-five, fifty-six--I want you to pay tenshun when I counts de eggs, so
dar'll be no mistake--fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-tree,
sixty-foah--Whew. Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time ob yeah when I feels
I'se gettin' old myself. I ain't long fer dis world. You comes from an old
family. When your fodder died he was sebenty years ole."
"Seventy-two."
"Dat's old, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five,
sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine--and your mudder?
She was one ob the noblest looking ladies I ebber see. You reminds me ob
her so much. She libbed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she was done pass a
centurion when she died."
"No, Uncle Mose, she was only ninety-six when she died."