there followed victory. At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis
of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemiss' Heights, must be
won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep--that death is
too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans
have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on
his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder! In this moment when
all is dismay and horror, here crashing on, comes the black horse and his
rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with
sweat and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's
shoulder, and, as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he
seized his rifle and started toward the rock. And now look! now hold your
breath, as that Black Steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed
quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still
on toward the fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men
of Quebec! come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are
on the rock. Now British cannon pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens
and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry if
you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears
away, stands the Black Horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced
by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts
up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent,
"Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg
shattered by a cannon-ball. Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you
not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you
shall see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received
in the storming of Quebec. That rider of the Black Horse was Benedict
Arnold.
SHE CUT HIS HAIR.
You can always tell a boy whose mother cuts his hair. Not because the edges
of it look as if it had been chewed off by an absent-minded horse; but you
can tell it by the way he stops on the streets and wriggles his shoulders.
When a fond mother has to cut her boy's hair she is careful to guard
against any annoyance and muss by laying a sheet on the carpet. It has
never yet occurred to her to set him over a bare floor and put the sheet
around his neck. Then she draws the front hair over his eyes, and leaves it
there while she cuts that which is at the back; the hair which lies over
his eyes appears to be surcharged with electric needles, and that which is
silently dropping down over his shirtband appears to be on fire. She has
unconsciously continued to push his head forward until his nose presses his
breast, and is too busily engaged to notice the snuffling sound that is
becoming alarmingly frequent. In the meantime he is seized with an
irresistible desire to blow his nose, but recollects that his handkerchief
is in the other room. Then a fly lights on his nose, and does it so
unexpectedly that he involuntarily dodges and catches the points of the
shears in his left ear. At this he commences to cry and wish he was a man.
But his mother doesn't notice him. She merely hits him on the other ear to
inspire him with confidence and goes on with the work. When she is through
she holds his jacket-collar back from his neck, and with her mouth blows
the short bits of hair from the top of his head down his back. He calls
her attention to this fact, but she looks for a new place on his head and
hits him there, and asks him why he didn't use a handkerchief. Then he
takes his awfully disfigured head to the mirror and looks at it, and, young
as he is, shudders as he thinks of what the boys on the street will say.
AN APPEAL FOR LIBERTY.
BY JOSEPH STORY.
I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors--by the dear
ashes which repose in this precious soil--by all you are, and all you hope
to be--resist every object of disunion, resist every encroachment upon your
liberties, resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, or smother your
public schools, or extinguish your system of public instruction.
I call upon you, mothers, by that which never fails in woman, the love of
your off-spring; teach them, as they climb your knees, or lean on your
bosoms, the blessings of liberty. Swear them at the altar, as with their
baptismal vows, to be true to their country, and never to forget or forsake
her.
I call upon you, young men, to remember whose sons you are; whose
inheritance you possess. Life can never be too short, which brings nothing
but disgrace and oppression. Death never comes too soon, if necessary in
defence of the liberties of your country.
I call upon you, old men, for your counsels, and your prayers, and your
benedictions. May not your gray hairs go down in sorrow to the grave, with
the recollection that you have lived in vain. May not your last sun sink in
the west upon a nation of slaves.
No; I read in the destiny of my country far better hopes, far brighter
visions. We, who are now assembled here, must soon be gathered to the
congregation of other days. The time of our departure is at hand, to make
way for our children upon the theatre of life. May God speed them and
theirs. May he who, at the distance of another century, shall stand here to
celebrate this day, still look round upon a free, happy, and virtuous
people. May he have reason to exult as we do. May he, with all the
enthusiasm of truth as well as of poetry, exclaim, that here is still his
country.
OLD UNCLE JAKE.
He was bowed by many a year of service; he was white-woolled, thick-lipped,
and a true son of Africa, yet a grand and knightly soul animated that dusky
breast--a soul that many a scion of the blood royal might envy.
The children loved him, the neighbors respected him, his own color looked
up to him as a superior being, and they whose goods and chattels he had
formerly been, were sure to heed his counsels in all important family
matters. Aye, he had an honorable record. If his skin was black, his soul
was white as the whitest and from lusty boyhood to the present there had
been no need of "stripes" for Uncle Jake.
He had been the playmate of "young marster," the boon companion in all
'possum hunts and fishing frolics, and when each had arrived at man's
estate the goodfellowship contracted in youth knew no surcease.
When the tocsin of war resounded through the South, and the call for
volunteers was made, "marster" was one of the first to buckle on his armor
and hasten to the front--doing so with greater heart as Uncle Jake was left
in charge of those dearer than life to him.
And royally did the poor unlettered African fulfil the trust committed to
his keeping. He took upon himself the burden of all plantation matters and
sooner than one hair on the heads of "missus or chillun" should be injured,
he would have sacrificed his life freely any day. And when the war was over
he positively refused to join in the hegira of his brethren, preferring
rather to live on in the same old place that had witnessed his birth and
the strength of his manhood's prime.
In grateful recognition of his long servitude a comfortable cottage was
built for him in a secluded nook of the plantation, in which, with his
faithful old wife, he lived a peaceful and contented life, tilling the few
acres which had been granted him and doing all sorts of odd jobs out of the
pure love he bore old marse.
But Uncle Jake was getting old now--more and more heavily the weight of
years fell upon him--the whiter grew his locks until at last the time came
when he could no longer pursue his accustomed duties, and all reluctant and
unwilling he took to his bed never to rise again.
For weeks and months he lingered on the "Border Land," attended by loving
hands, and his slightest wish was gratified; indeed, so long he hovered
between life and death, that those who loved him best began to cherish a
faint hope that he would be spared to them.
But the fiat had gone forth--Uncle Jake must die.
One evening, just as the setting sun was flooding the fair landscape with
his golden beams, a tearful group were assembled at his bedside, who had
been hastily summoned thither to bid farewell to one who had been so true a
friend to them all.
There were marster and missus and their children and Jake's own wife and
children, with a few of his fellow servants, all united in a democracy of
grief that knew no distinction of caste in the supreme moment.
No sound was heard save a half-suppressed sob now and then--the tick-tick
of the clock on the rude mantel and the labored breathing of the dying man.
For hours he had lain in a sort of stupor, broken only at intervals by
delirious mutterings, when suddenly his eyes, in which was a preternatural
brightness, opened and fixed themselves long and earnestly in turn upon
each one of the faces bent so sorrowfully over him.
Then in a feeble, fluttering voice, like the last effort of an expiring
taper, he addressed his master, who was tenderly wiping the moisture from
his brow:
"Ole marse, I'se been a good and faithful servant to yer all dese years,
has I not?"
"Yes, Jake."
"Ebber since we was boys togedder I'se lubed yer, and stuck to yer through
thick and thin, and now dat Jake is goin' home yer doan' treasure up
nothin' agin me, do yer, marse?"
"No, no, Jake."
"Old missus, come nearer, honey, Jake's eyes is gettin' mighty dim now, and
he kan't see yer. Yer'll nebber forgit how Jake tuk keer of yer an' de
chilluns when ole marster gone to de war? An' yer'll be kind to my wife and
chilluns for my sake, won't yer?"
"Yes, yes, Jake, I'll be kind to them, and I will never forget your
fidelity, old friend."
"T'ank de Lawd! I kin die happy now, when I'se know dat yer an' master will
'member me an' be kind to dem I'se leaving behind. An' de chillun--whar's
de chillun? I'se wants ter tell 'em all goodby an' say a las' few words to
dem, too."
And in his eagerness, with a strength born of death, the old man half arose
upon his elbow and laid a trembling hand upon the head of each of the
awe-struck children.
"God bless yer, chillun, one an' all. I lubs my own little picaninnies, but
I lubs old marster's just as well. I doan' want none o' yer to forgit how
Uncle Jake has trotted yer on his knee an' toted yer on his back an' keep'
a watchful eye on yer, les' yet git into mischief by yer pranks. Promise
me, chillun, dat you'll nebber forgit dese ting. It pleases Uncle Jake to
think yer'll 'member him arter he's gone from yer sight for ebber."
As well as they were able for their tears, the little ones gave the
required promise, and greatly pleased, the old man sank back exhausted upon
his pillow.
After lying a few minutes with closed eyes, as if in sleep, he suddenly
whispered:
"Dinah, whar is you? I wants yer to cum closer ter me, honey, an' put yer
arms around my neck an' lay yer cheek ter mine like yer used ter do when we
was courtin' down in de huckleberry patch. I wants ter die in yer arms, ole
wife. Yer is black, an' de white folks mought not be able ter see any booty
in yer, but Jake knows what a true an' lovin' wife you'se bin ter him, an'
he can see de booty dat's hidden out o' sight. I'se gwine ter cross ober
der great wide ribber dey call Death, into a kentry whar' dere'll nebber be
any mo' black skins--whar' I'll wear de white robe and de golden crown, an'
I'se got ter wait fur yer dere. Dinah, my lub! my lub! Hark, honey! doan'
yer hear de bells ob heaven a-ringing? An' doan' yer see de pearly gates
a-openin' to let ole black Jake go frew? I'se a comin', holy angels--I'se a
comin', blessed Lawd! Glory hallelewger! Ole Jake's mos' got ober de
ribber. His feet is touchin' de water--but it's gettin' so cold, Dinah,
honey--I can't feel de clasp of yer arms any mo'. I'se--"
And with a last, long, fluttering sigh, as knightly and true a soul as ever
dwelt in human breast took its light to a realm where there is indeed
neither black nor white, nor bond nor free, but all are like unto the
angels.
THE HOT AXLE.
BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE.
The express train was flying from Cork to Queenstown; it was going like
sixty--that is, about sixty miles an hour. No sight of Irish village to
arrest our speed, no sign of a breakdown; and yet the train halted. We
looked out of a window; saw a brakeman and a crowd of passengers gathering
around the locomotive, and a dense smoke arising. What was the matter? _A
hot axle!_
I thought then, as I think now, that is what is the matter with people
everywhere. In this swift, "express" American life, we go too fast for our
endurance. We think ourselves getting on splendidly, when, in the midst of
our success, we come to a dead halt. What is the matter? The nerves or
muscles or our brain give out; we make too many revolutions in an hour. _A
hot axle!_
Men make the mistake of working according to their opportunities, and not
according to their capacity of endurance. Can I be a merchant, and
president of a bank, and a director in a life insurance company, and a
school commission, and help edit a paper, and supervise the politics of our
ward, and run for Congress? "I can!" the man says to himself. The store
drives him; the bank drives him; the school drives him; politics drive him.
He takes all the scoldings and frets and exasperations of each position.
Some day, at the height of the business season, he does not come to the
store. From the most important meeting of the bank directors he is absent.
In the excitement of the most important political canvass he fails to be at
the place appointed. What is the matter? His health has broken down; the
train halts long before it gets to the station. _A hot axle!_
Literary men have great opportunities opening in this day. If they take all
that open, they are dead men, or worse--_living_ men that ought to be dead.
The pen runs so easy when you have good ink and smooth paper, and an easy
desk to write on, and the consciousness of an audience of one, two, or
three hundred thousand readers. So great is the invitation to literary
work, that the professional men of the day are overdone. They sit, faint
and fagged out, on the verge of newspapers and books; each one does the
work of three. And these men sit up late nights and choke down chunks of
meat without mastication, and scold their wives through irritability, and
maul innocent authors, and run the physical machinery with a liver
miserably given out. The driving shaft has gone fifty times a second. They
stop at no station. The steam-chest is hot and swollen. The brain and
digestion begins to smoke. Stop, ye flying quills! "Down brakes!" _A hot
axle!_
Some of our young people have read--till they are crazed--of learned
blacksmiths who at the forge conquered thirty languages; and shoemakers
who, pounding sole-leather, got to be philosophers; and of milliners who,
while their customers were at the glass trying on their spring hats, wrote
a volume of first-rate poems. The fact is, no blacksmith ought to be
troubled with more than five languages; and, instead of shoemakers becoming
philosophers, we would like to turn our surplus supply of philosophers into
shoemakers; and the supply of poetry is so much greater than the demand,
that we wish milliners would stick to their business. Extraordinary
examples of work and endurance may do us much good. Because Napoleon slept
only four hours a night, hundreds of students have tried the experiment;
but, instead of Austerlitz and Saragossa, there came of it only a sick
headache and a botch of a recitation.
Let us not go beyond our endurance, cutting short our days and making a
wreck of our life work, but labor earnestly, zealously, intelligently for
success; and in the twilight of old age peace and happiness will be
ours--not the shattered and praised remains of a career disastrously
checked.
THE CHILDREN.[2]
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
When the lessons and tasks are ended,
And the school for the day is dismissed,
And the little ones gather around me
To bid me "good-night" and be kissed;
Oh, the little white arms that encircle
My neck in a tender embrace!
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,
Shedding sunshine and love on my face!
And when they are gone I sit dreaming
Of my childhood too lovely to last;
Of love, that my heart will remember
When it wakes to the pulse of the past.
Ere the world and its wickedness made me
A partner of sorrow and sin,
When the glory of God was about me,
And the glory of gladness within.
Oh, my heart grows weak as a woman's,
And the fountain of feelings will flow,
When I think of the paths steep and stony
Where the feet of the dear ones must go;
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,
Of the tempests of fate blowing wild;
Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child.
They are idols of hearts and of households,
They are angels of God in disguise,
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
His glory still beams in their eyes;
Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven,
They have made me more manly and mild,
And I know how Jesus could liken
The kingdom of God to a child.
Seek not a life for the dear ones
All radiant, as others have done,
But that life may have just as much shadow
To temper the glare of the sun;
I would pray God to guard them from evil,
But my prayer would bound back to myself;
Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner,
But a sinner must pray for himself.
The twig is so easily bended,
I have banished the rule and the rod;
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge,
They have taught me the goodness of God.
My heart is a dungeon of darkness,
Where I shut them from breaking a rule;
My frown is sufficient correction,
My love is the law of the school.
I shall leave the old house in the autumn,
To traverse its threshold no more--
Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones
That meet me each morn at the door.
I shall miss the good-nights and the kisses,
And the gush of their innocent glee,
The group on the green and the flowers
That are brought every morning to me.
I shall miss them at morn and eve,
Their songs in the school and the street,
Shall miss the low hum of their voices,
And the tramp of their delicate feet.
When lessons and tasks are all ended,
And death says the school is dismissed,
May the little ones gather around me
To bid me "good-night" and be kissed.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] Found in the desk of Charles Dickens after his death.
CHARITY.
When you meet with one suspected
Of some secret deed of shame,
And for this by all rejected
As a thing of evil fame,
Guard thine every look and action,
Speak no word of heartless blame,
For the slanderer's vile detraction
Yet may soil thy goodly name.
When you meet with one pursuing
Ways the lost have entered in,
Working out his own undoing
With his recklessness and sin;
Think, if placed in his condition,
Would a kind word be in vain,
Or a look of cold suspicion
Win thee back to truth again?
There are spots that bear no flowers,
Not because the soil is bad,
But the Summer's genial showers
Never made their bosoms glad.
Better have an act that's kindly
Treated sometimes with disdain,
Than, in judging others blindly,
Doom the innocent to pain.
NO OBJECTION TO CHILDREN.
It was a block of yellow-brown houses in South Boston, looking as much like
a sheet of gingerbread as anything.
An express-wagon had just backed up to No. 21 in that block, and the
driver, unloosing ropes here and there, proceeded to unpack the luggage.
"What have we here?" exclaimed Mrs. Bacon, the downstairs tenant. "A
menagerie, I do believe. Come here, John."
There was, indeed, on the very top of the load a gray horse that in the
twilight looked very real till one noticed the rockers on which it stood.
But there was a kennel with a live terrier's head at the window, a
bird-cage with its fluttering tenant, a crib and high chair besides,
suggesting that the folks in the other part might, in the language of Mrs.
Bacon, "make music."
Now, the downstairs tenants, Mr. and Mrs. Bacon, were precise, orderly
people, living, like many other city people, in desert-island fashion, and
only hoping that everybody else would mind their own business. It had been
for weeks their great comfort that the other part was unoccupied, and now
this load of household goods brimming over with pets and their belongings
was an unwelcome sight.
There were no young Bacons--no, indeed! Plants did not flourish in their
shaded windows nor canary birds splash water from their tiny baths upon the
clear glass. No dog barked a noisy welcome when his master returned at
night. No cat purred in her mistress's lap. The housekeeping of the Bacons
was a fight against dirt, dust, sunshine and noise; and somehow pets bring
all these.
"Well, John," said Mrs. Bacon as she turned from the window and pulled the
shade over the sacred glass, "there's an end to peace and quiet. We must
keep the entry doors locked; and don't you be whistling round to attract a
child. Give them an inch and they'll take an ell. If folks must have
rocking horses and what goes with them, they ought to move into the
country, where they will not be pestering other people."
But, to the surprise of the Bacons, they were not pestered, only by the
patter of little feet overhead, or a woman's voice singing cradle-songs or
joining in her child's laughter. Crying there was, too, sometimes, but it
was so soon hushed in motherly caresses that it seemed a sort of rainbow
grievance only.
At night, when the father came home, there was quite a joyful noise
upstairs, at which time John's face was a little wistful. But the new
family did not intrude for ever so small a favor.
Mrs. Bacon took good care to keep out of sight whenever the new tenants
were passing through the entry-way. One small pair of boots had
considerable traveling to do up and down the stairs for a stroll on the
sidewalk or to old Dorchester Heights, just beyond, for spoils of wild
flowers.
One day Little Boots came back from this favorite resort, and instead of
climbing the stairs, as usual, strayed hesitatingly toward Mrs. Bacon's
kitchen door.
"Smells the gingerbread," soliloquized Mrs. Bacon, grimly. "Glad the door
is locked." She glanced toward it to be sure; yes, it was locked, though
the key had been transferred to another door. But shining through the
keyhole was a very bright and sweet-looking star of an eye. Only a moment
it twinkled, and then there was thrust in very gently the stem of a
dandelion, and the small boots scampered away up the stairs.
"Little mischief!" exclaimed Mrs. Bacon, and she would have pushed the
intruding stem outside, but her hands were in the dough. "If he wanted a
piece of gingerbread, why didn't he say so? Mebbe he was afraid of me; cats
run like all possessed when they see me. I can't have my key-holes choked
up with dandelion stems--that's so. Soon's I get my hands out of this it
will walk into the stove, that dandelion will." But the dandelion was too
fresh and perfect, and brought back the old childhood days to Mrs. Bacon so
clearly that she changed her mind. There was an old horseradish bottle on
the pantry-shelf which, filled with water, received the dandelion. There,
resting in the kitchen window, it smiled all day.
There was quite a commotion upstairs that night, and John and his wife,
drowsily hearing it, thanked their stars that they were not routed by
children's ails. The next day Mrs. Bacon's watchful ear caught the sound of
"Little Boots" on the stairs, and again the blue eyes twinkled at the
keyhole. This time the door opened in response:
"Well, child, what is it? Want some gingerbread?"
"Oh no, thank you, dear," said the little voice--a very hoarse little voice
it was, and the throat was all wrapped in flannel.
"I wanted to know if you liked my f'ower?"
"See?" Mrs. Bacon pointed to the glorified horseradish bottle.
"Is your name Mrs. Bacon, dear?"
"Bacon--no 'dear' about it."
"I like to call you 'dear.' Don't your little boy call you so?"
"No."
"Ally! Ally, child!" called the mother anxiously; "come back, darling;
you'll get cold."
"I'll take him up," responded Mrs. Bacon; and taking with unwonted
tenderness the three-years-old darling, she landed him safely upstairs.
"It's the croup," explained the mother. "He got cold yesterday, out for
dandelions--his favorite flower, ma'am. Calls 'em preserved sunshine; saw
me put up fruit last fall--there's where he got the idea; though, as to
telling where he gets all his ideas, that beats me. The doctor says he's
that kind of a child the croup is likely to go hard with. Scares me to
death to hear him cough."
"Goose oil is good for croup," remarked Mrs. Bacon.
"Did you ever try it?" asked the new neighbor, innocently.
"Me? No use for it. Got a bottle, though. Have it if you like."
Alas! the doctor's prophecy was true. The fatal disease developed that very
night.
* * * * *
Little boots are still and starry eyes shine afar off now. As he lay in his
beautiful last sleep, a flower amid the white flowers, a woman's brown hand
slipped a few dandelions tenderly--oh, so tenderly!--into the dainty cold
fingers.
"That is right, Mrs. Bacon, dear," said the poor mother. "'Preserved
sunshine!' That's what he is to us."
The new tenants have moved into the country, and No. 21, upper tenement, is
again to let.
Mrs. Bacon hopes the landlord will add to his advertisement, "No objection
to children."
BANFORD'S BURGLAR-ALARM.
"Another Daring Burglary!" read Mrs. Banford, as she picked up the morning:
paper. "Lucullus," she said, turning to her husband, "this is the fourth
outrage of the kind in this town within a week, and if you don't procure a
burglar-alarm, or adopt some other means of security, I shall not remain in
this house another night. Some morning we'll get up and find ourselves
murdered and the house robbed if we have to depend on the police for
protection."