The trump had sounded, and on pinions white
Ascended they who in the grave had lain;
And seraph bands in floods of golden light
Guided before the pure and heavenly train.
And on, past comet and past lurid star
They winged their way unto the throne of grace;
The burning world behind them glowed far,
As low in worship, bowed each angel face.
There was among the chosen of the earth
A woman beautiful and young and fair;
So sweet and chaste, and breathing love and worth,
She stood the loveliest of the angels there.
And then from out the band about the throne,
With eager eyes and outstretched hands, there came
The forms of two. Each once had been her own,
And she on earth of each had borne the name.
(Oh, heaven being love, why should not love be thine,
And heart to heart strayed souls again unite,
And wife to husband there for aye entwine
Their spirit tendrils where is no blight?)
And each had been her husband; and each spoke
Her name and claimed her with fond eyes
And beckoning hands, till from her dream she woke
And gazed. Then spake a Voice kind-toned and wise:
"Choose you between them who your mate shall be;
For heaven were not heaven if it were to lose
The other half of self, the ecstasy
Of loving and of being loved--so choose."
The woman raised her down-cast eyes, and o'er
The gathered host of spirits swept her gaze.
Twice had her heart gone out in love before;
Twice had she felt its warm, eternal rays.
Wild, sweet and tender to her memory came
Her first love's recollections, like the start
Of mighty breakers. Then the steady flame
Uprising from her second smote her heart.
With pleading eyes, the two stayed on her choice,
Each thinking one must win and one must lose.
And then she spake, uplifting her sweet voice,
And said in tender tones: "And must I choose?"
"Yea, verily," the Voice replied. "Be free
To follow where your heart points out the way.
For love, once kindled, fills eternity;
'Tis heaven, not earth, that lights his brightest ray."
And then the woman, with fond beaming eye,
Spake up and said: "These two are both N. G.
They made me tired. I think I'll try
That nice blond angel by that apple tree."
--W. S. P.
(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, January 12, 1896.)
"Little Things, but Ain't They Whizzers?"
The following song was written for the benefit of any theatrical or
musical entertainment that desires to use it in Houston. Any company
rendering it outside the city is liable to a fine of $1,000,000, as it
has been composed solely for the pleasure of Houston audiences, which
it is sure to please. The person singing the song, if a gent, will
dress in loud check trousers, tan shoes, and high white hat, advancing
to the footlights, smiling, and carrying a large cane. If sung by a
lady, the costume is the same, with smaller checks, and parasol
instead of cane. The following lines are to be spoken: "Ladies and
Gentlemen: You must excuse my hoarseness tonight, as I was up late
last night rocking the baby to sleep. (_Laughter._) I love babies.
(_Great laughter._) When they get molasses on their fingers and use your
shirt front for a piano, it makes a man think marriage is a success,
now doesn't it? (_Howls of laughter from the family circle._) Last night
I came home late from the lodge (_applause_); and after I took off my
shoes and slipped into the room and commenced rocking the cradle, my
wife woke up and said, 'What are you doing, Charlie?' 'I'm getting the
baby quiet,' said I. 'Come to bed, you fool,' says she, 'the baby has
been in bed here with me for two hours.' (_Prolonged yells of
laughter._) Babies are little things, but are very important
institutions. That reminds me of a song." (_Looks at orchestra, which
strikes up at once._)
(_Sings_):
As we wander down life's pathway
Plucking roses as we go,
Often do we prick our finger
With the little thorns that grow,
Little drops make up the ocean,
Little chips fill up the pot;
Little drinks make great big jaglets,
Little wives can make home hot.
Little things--but ain't they whizzers!
Little bees have biggest stings;
Little girls are sometimes Tartars--
Look out for the little things.
(_Bass horn--"Ta-ra-rum."_)
(_Spoken_)--"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is not always the biggest
things that are the most valuable. I remember a few nights ago I was
in a poker game. It was not in this city, of course, for since Charlie
Helm was elected marshal there is no gambling in Hooston (_can also be
pronounced Howston_). (_Vociferous cheering in gallery._) I will tell
you about it:
(_Sings_):
Once while I was playing poker,
I hid four kings in my shoe;
And I said, when someone raised me,
"I won't do a thing to you."
Then I shoved in all my money,
And I reached out for the pot--
But a fellow shouted, "Drop it!
I've four aces, what you got?"
Little things--but ain't they whizzers!
Little one spots downed the kings,
And my hand it was not in it
When he showed the little things.
(_Deafening applause from the audience; two men fall out of private
boxes overcome with laughter, and every man in the audience claps his
hands for fear it will be thought he does not understand the game. The
singer will please smile indulgently, and when the noise has subsided,
continue_)--
I engaged board once in Hooston (_or Howston_),
At a house not far from here;
They were fashionable people,
And the grub was scarce and dear.
I turned into bed quite early,
But I jumped out with a roar,
And I scratched myself two hours
Then slept upon the floor.
Little things--but ain't they whizzers!
Never felt such bites and stings!
When you go to bed in Howston,
Look out for the little things.
(_Plaster falls from the opera-house ceiling, and the audience stand
up in their chairs and wave their handkerchiefs. The singer will here
do a few steps of a clog dance, and exit r. Whistles, yells, and calls
and screams from dress circle. Gallery totters. Enter singer, smiling
and bowing, wearing another coat and hat--Sings:_)
I have got a girl in Hooston,
And she rides upon a bike;
You should see her when she spins to
Harrisburg upon the pike.
She wears bloomers, though she don't weigh
More than eighty pounds or so;
Now, I wonder how she does it,
When I see her move 'em so.
Little things--but ain't they whizzers!
Pair of bloomers hung on strings;
Wonder they don't break to pieces,
Such hard work for little things.
(_The audience goes wild with delight, gentlemen throw their hats at
the ceiling, ladies shriek with delight, and the gallery resolves
itself into a Republican convention, while the police pound with their
clubs on the wall and cry "Encore!"_)
_Curtain_.
(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)