Chapter 20

The maid who binds her warrior’s sashWith smile that well her pain dissembles,The while beneath her drooping lashOne starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,Though heaven alone records the tear,And fame shall never know her story,Her heart has shed a drop as dearAs e’er bedewed the field of glory!The wife who girds her husband’s sword,Mid little ones who weep or wonder,And bravely speaks the cheering word,What though her heart be rent asunder,Doomed nightly in her dreams to hearThe bolts of death around him rattle,Hath shed as sacred blood as e’erWas poured upon the field of battle!The mother who conceals her griefWhile to her breast her son she presses,Then breathes a few brave words and brief,Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,With no one but her secret GodTo know the pain that weighs upon herSheds holy blood as e’er the sodReceived on Freedom’s field of honor!Thomas Buchanan Read.

The maid who binds her warrior’s sash

With smile that well her pain dissembles,

The while beneath her drooping lash

One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,

Though heaven alone records the tear,

And fame shall never know her story,

Her heart has shed a drop as dear

As e’er bedewed the field of glory!

The wife who girds her husband’s sword,Mid little ones who weep or wonder,And bravely speaks the cheering word,What though her heart be rent asunder,Doomed nightly in her dreams to hearThe bolts of death around him rattle,Hath shed as sacred blood as e’erWas poured upon the field of battle!

The wife who girds her husband’s sword,

Mid little ones who weep or wonder,

And bravely speaks the cheering word,

What though her heart be rent asunder,

Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear

The bolts of death around him rattle,

Hath shed as sacred blood as e’er

Was poured upon the field of battle!

The mother who conceals her griefWhile to her breast her son she presses,Then breathes a few brave words and brief,Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,With no one but her secret GodTo know the pain that weighs upon herSheds holy blood as e’er the sodReceived on Freedom’s field of honor!

The mother who conceals her grief

While to her breast her son she presses,

Then breathes a few brave words and brief,

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,

With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her

Sheds holy blood as e’er the sod

Received on Freedom’s field of honor!

Thomas Buchanan Read.

There is a strain of gladness, a tone of rejoicing in this selection, which requires a spirited delivery and full volume of voice. Patriotic emotions should always be expressed in an exultant, joyous manner by voice, attitude and gestures.

The clouds grew dark as the people paused,A people of peace and toil,And there came a cry from all the sky:“Come, children of mart and soil,Your mother needs you—hear her voice;Though she has not a son to spare,She has spoken the word that ye all have heard,Come, answer ye everywhere!”They need no urging to stir them on.They yearn for no battle cry;At the word that their country calls for menThey throw down hammer and scythe and pen,And are ready to serve and die!From the North, from the South, from East, from West,Hear the thrill of the rumbling drum!Under one flag they march along,With their voices swelling a single song,Here they come, they come, they come!List! the North men cheer the men from the SouthAnd the South returns the cheer;There is no question of East or West,For hearts are a-tune in every breast,’Tis a nation answering here.It is elbow to elbow and knee to knee,One land for each and for all,And the veterans’ eyes see their children riseTo answer their country’s call.They have not forgotten—God grant not so!(Ah, we know of the graves on the hill.)But these eager feet make the old hearts beat,And the old eyes dim and fill!The Past sweeps out, and the Present comes—A Present that all have wrought!And the sons of these sires, at the same campfires,Cheer one flag where their fathers fought!Yes, we know of the graves on the Southern hillsThat are filled with the Blue and the Gray.We know how they fought and how they died,We honor them both there side by side,And they’re brothers again to-day.Brothers again—thank God on high!(Here’s a hand-clasp all around.)The sons of one race now take their placeOn one common and holy ground.Richard Barry.

The clouds grew dark as the people paused,

A people of peace and toil,

And there came a cry from all the sky:

“Come, children of mart and soil,

Your mother needs you—hear her voice;

Though she has not a son to spare,

She has spoken the word that ye all have heard,

Come, answer ye everywhere!”

They need no urging to stir them on.They yearn for no battle cry;At the word that their country calls for menThey throw down hammer and scythe and pen,And are ready to serve and die!From the North, from the South, from East, from West,Hear the thrill of the rumbling drum!

They need no urging to stir them on.

They yearn for no battle cry;

At the word that their country calls for men

They throw down hammer and scythe and pen,

And are ready to serve and die!

From the North, from the South, from East, from West,

Hear the thrill of the rumbling drum!

Under one flag they march along,With their voices swelling a single song,Here they come, they come, they come!List! the North men cheer the men from the SouthAnd the South returns the cheer;There is no question of East or West,For hearts are a-tune in every breast,’Tis a nation answering here.

Under one flag they march along,

With their voices swelling a single song,

Here they come, they come, they come!

List! the North men cheer the men from the South

And the South returns the cheer;

There is no question of East or West,

For hearts are a-tune in every breast,

’Tis a nation answering here.

It is elbow to elbow and knee to knee,One land for each and for all,And the veterans’ eyes see their children riseTo answer their country’s call.They have not forgotten—God grant not so!(Ah, we know of the graves on the hill.)But these eager feet make the old hearts beat,And the old eyes dim and fill!

It is elbow to elbow and knee to knee,

One land for each and for all,

And the veterans’ eyes see their children rise

To answer their country’s call.

They have not forgotten—God grant not so!

(Ah, we know of the graves on the hill.)

But these eager feet make the old hearts beat,

And the old eyes dim and fill!

The Past sweeps out, and the Present comes—A Present that all have wrought!And the sons of these sires, at the same campfires,Cheer one flag where their fathers fought!Yes, we know of the graves on the Southern hillsThat are filled with the Blue and the Gray.

The Past sweeps out, and the Present comes—

A Present that all have wrought!

And the sons of these sires, at the same campfires,

Cheer one flag where their fathers fought!

Yes, we know of the graves on the Southern hills

That are filled with the Blue and the Gray.

We know how they fought and how they died,We honor them both there side by side,And they’re brothers again to-day.Brothers again—thank God on high!(Here’s a hand-clasp all around.)The sons of one race now take their placeOn one common and holy ground.

We know how they fought and how they died,

We honor them both there side by side,

And they’re brothers again to-day.

Brothers again—thank God on high!

(Here’s a hand-clasp all around.)

The sons of one race now take their place

On one common and holy ground.

Richard Barry.

What heroes from the woodland sprung,When, through the fresh awakened land,The thrilling cry of freedom rung,And to the work of warfare strungThe yeoman’s iron hand!Hills flung the cry to hills around,And ocean-mart replied to mart,And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,Pealed far away the startling soundInto the forest’s heart.Then marched the brave from rocky steep,From mountain river swift and cold;The borders of the stormy deep,The vales where gathered waters sleep,Sent up the strong and bold—As if the very earth againGrew quick with God’s creating breath,And, from the sods of grove and glen,Rose ranks of lion-hearted menTo battle to the death.The wife, whose babe first smiled that day,The fair fond bride of yestereve,And aged sire and matron gray,Saw the loved warriors haste away,And deemed it sin to grieve.Already had the strife begun;Already blood on Concord’s plainAlong the springing grass had run,And blood had flowed at Lexington,Like brooks of April rain.That death-stain on the vernal swardHallowed to freedom all the shore;In fragments fell the yoke abhorred—The footstep of a foreign lordProfaned the soil no more.W. C. Bryant.

What heroes from the woodland sprung,When, through the fresh awakened land,The thrilling cry of freedom rung,And to the work of warfare strungThe yeoman’s iron hand!

What heroes from the woodland sprung,

When, through the fresh awakened land,

The thrilling cry of freedom rung,

And to the work of warfare strung

The yeoman’s iron hand!

Hills flung the cry to hills around,And ocean-mart replied to mart,And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,Pealed far away the startling soundInto the forest’s heart.

Hills flung the cry to hills around,

And ocean-mart replied to mart,

And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,

Pealed far away the startling sound

Into the forest’s heart.

Then marched the brave from rocky steep,From mountain river swift and cold;The borders of the stormy deep,The vales where gathered waters sleep,Sent up the strong and bold—

Then marched the brave from rocky steep,

From mountain river swift and cold;

The borders of the stormy deep,

The vales where gathered waters sleep,

Sent up the strong and bold—

As if the very earth againGrew quick with God’s creating breath,And, from the sods of grove and glen,Rose ranks of lion-hearted menTo battle to the death.

As if the very earth again

Grew quick with God’s creating breath,

And, from the sods of grove and glen,

Rose ranks of lion-hearted men

To battle to the death.

The wife, whose babe first smiled that day,The fair fond bride of yestereve,And aged sire and matron gray,Saw the loved warriors haste away,And deemed it sin to grieve.

The wife, whose babe first smiled that day,

The fair fond bride of yestereve,

And aged sire and matron gray,

Saw the loved warriors haste away,

And deemed it sin to grieve.

Already had the strife begun;Already blood on Concord’s plainAlong the springing grass had run,And blood had flowed at Lexington,Like brooks of April rain.

Already had the strife begun;

Already blood on Concord’s plain

Along the springing grass had run,

And blood had flowed at Lexington,

Like brooks of April rain.

That death-stain on the vernal swardHallowed to freedom all the shore;In fragments fell the yoke abhorred—The footstep of a foreign lordProfaned the soil no more.

That death-stain on the vernal sward

Hallowed to freedom all the shore;

In fragments fell the yoke abhorred—

The footstep of a foreign lord

Profaned the soil no more.

W. C. Bryant.

Speak the names of persons in this recitation, exactly as you would if you were the orderly calling the roll, or the private in the ranks who is answering. The general character of the selection is pathetic; recite it with subdued and tender force.

“Corporal Green!” the orderly cried;“Here!” was the answer, loud and clear,From the lips of a soldier who stood near,And “Here!” was the word the next replied.“Cyrus Drew!”—then a silence fell—This time no answer followed the call;Only his rear man had seen him fall,Killed or wounded he could not tell.There they stood in the falling light,These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,As plain to be read as open books,While slowly gathered the shades of night.The fern on the hill-side was splashed with blood,And down in the corn where the poppies grew,Were redder stains than the poppies knew;And crimson dyed was the river’s flood.For the foe had crossed from the other side,That day in the face of a murderous fire,That swept them down in its terrible ire;And their life-blood went to color the tide.“Herbert Kline!” At the call, there cameTwo stalwart soldiers into the line,Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,Wounded and bleeding to answer his name.“Ezra Kerr!”—and a voice answered “Here!”“Hiram Kerr!”—but no man replied.They were brothers, these two, the sad wind sighed,And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.“Ephraim Deane!”—then a soldier spoke;“Deane carried our Regiment’s colors,” he said;“Where our Ensign was shot, I left him dead,Just after the enemy wavered and broke.“Close to the roadside his body lies.I paused a moment and gave him a drink.He murmured his mother’s name I think,And death came with it and closed his eyes.”’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear—For that company’s roll, when called at night,Ofa hundredmen who went into the fightThe number was few that answered “Here!”

“Corporal Green!” the orderly cried;“Here!” was the answer, loud and clear,From the lips of a soldier who stood near,And “Here!” was the word the next replied.

“Corporal Green!” the orderly cried;

“Here!” was the answer, loud and clear,

From the lips of a soldier who stood near,

And “Here!” was the word the next replied.

“Cyrus Drew!”—then a silence fell—This time no answer followed the call;Only his rear man had seen him fall,Killed or wounded he could not tell.

“Cyrus Drew!”—then a silence fell—

This time no answer followed the call;

Only his rear man had seen him fall,

Killed or wounded he could not tell.

There they stood in the falling light,These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,As plain to be read as open books,While slowly gathered the shades of night.

There they stood in the falling light,

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,

As plain to be read as open books,

While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hill-side was splashed with blood,And down in the corn where the poppies grew,Were redder stains than the poppies knew;And crimson dyed was the river’s flood.

The fern on the hill-side was splashed with blood,

And down in the corn where the poppies grew,

Were redder stains than the poppies knew;

And crimson dyed was the river’s flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side,That day in the face of a murderous fire,That swept them down in its terrible ire;And their life-blood went to color the tide.

For the foe had crossed from the other side,

That day in the face of a murderous fire,

That swept them down in its terrible ire;

And their life-blood went to color the tide.

“Herbert Kline!” At the call, there cameTwo stalwart soldiers into the line,Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,Wounded and bleeding to answer his name.

“Herbert Kline!” At the call, there came

Two stalwart soldiers into the line,

Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,

Wounded and bleeding to answer his name.

“Ezra Kerr!”—and a voice answered “Here!”“Hiram Kerr!”—but no man replied.They were brothers, these two, the sad wind sighed,And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

“Ezra Kerr!”—and a voice answered “Here!”

“Hiram Kerr!”—but no man replied.

They were brothers, these two, the sad wind sighed,

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

“Ephraim Deane!”—then a soldier spoke;“Deane carried our Regiment’s colors,” he said;“Where our Ensign was shot, I left him dead,Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

“Ephraim Deane!”—then a soldier spoke;

“Deane carried our Regiment’s colors,” he said;

“Where our Ensign was shot, I left him dead,

Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

“Close to the roadside his body lies.I paused a moment and gave him a drink.He murmured his mother’s name I think,And death came with it and closed his eyes.”

“Close to the roadside his body lies.

I paused a moment and gave him a drink.

He murmured his mother’s name I think,

And death came with it and closed his eyes.”

’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear—For that company’s roll, when called at night,Ofa hundredmen who went into the fightThe number was few that answered “Here!”

’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear—

For that company’s roll, when called at night,

Ofa hundredmen who went into the fight

The number was few that answered “Here!”

This striking poem is an American classic. Two lines alone, if there were no others, are enough to give it immortal fame:

“Truth crushed to earth, shall rise again;The eternal years of God are hers.”

“Truth crushed to earth, shall rise again;

The eternal years of God are hers.”

Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,And fiery hearts and armed handsEncountered in the battle cloud.Ah! never shall the land forgetHow gushed the life-blood of her brave,Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,Upon the soil they sought to save.Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,Alone the chirp of flitting bird,And talk of children on the hill,And bell of wandering kine are heard.Soon rested those who fought; but thouWho mightiest in the harder strifeFor truths which men receive not now,Thy warfare only ends with life.A friendless warfare! lingering longThrough weary day and weary year.A wild and many-weaponed throngHang on thy front, and flank, and rear.Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,And blench not at thy chosen lot.The timid good may stand aloof,The sage may front—yet faint thou not.Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;For with thy side shall dwell, at last,The victory of endurance born.Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;The eternal years of God are hers;But Error, wounded, writes with pain,And dies among his worshippers.Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,When they who helped thee flee in fear,Die full of hope and manly trust,Like those who fell in battle here.Another hand thy sword shall wield,Another hand the standard wave,Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealedThe blast of triumph o’er thy grave.W. C. Bryant.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,And fiery hearts and armed handsEncountered in the battle cloud.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,

Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,

And fiery hearts and armed hands

Encountered in the battle cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forgetHow gushed the life-blood of her brave,Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,Upon the soil they sought to save.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood of her brave,

Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,

Upon the soil they sought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,Alone the chirp of flitting bird,And talk of children on the hill,And bell of wandering kine are heard.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,

Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine are heard.

Soon rested those who fought; but thouWho mightiest in the harder strifeFor truths which men receive not now,Thy warfare only ends with life.

Soon rested those who fought; but thou

Who mightiest in the harder strife

For truths which men receive not now,

Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering longThrough weary day and weary year.A wild and many-weaponed throngHang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

A friendless warfare! lingering long

Through weary day and weary year.

A wild and many-weaponed throng

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,And blench not at thy chosen lot.The timid good may stand aloof,The sage may front—yet faint thou not.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot.

The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may front—yet faint thou not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;For with thy side shall dwell, at last,The victory of endurance born.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;

For with thy side shall dwell, at last,

The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;The eternal years of God are hers;But Error, wounded, writes with pain,And dies among his worshippers.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;

The eternal years of God are hers;

But Error, wounded, writes with pain,

And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,When they who helped thee flee in fear,Die full of hope and manly trust,Like those who fell in battle here.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When they who helped thee flee in fear,

Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,Another hand the standard wave,Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealedThe blast of triumph o’er thy grave.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave,

Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealed

The blast of triumph o’er thy grave.

W. C. Bryant.

The sinking of the ship Merrimac at the mouth of Santiago harbor, by Lieutenant Hobson, was one of the most daring exploits on record. It is here told in his own words. Although this selection is simple narrative, you should recite it in a spirited manner, with strong tones of voice, and show by your demeanor and expression that you are relating an event worthy of admiration.

The figures printed in the text refer you to the corresponding numbers in “Typical Gestures,” near the beginning of Part II. of this volume. Use other gestures that are appropriate, not in a stiff awkward way, but gracefully, making them appear, not forced, but natural.

I did not miss the entrance to the harbor, I turned east until I got my bearings and then made6for it, straight in. Then came the firing. It was grand,11flashing out first from one side of the harbor and then from the other, from those big guns2on the hills, the Spanish ship Vizcaya, lying inside the harbor, joining in.Troops from Santiago had rushed down when the news of the Merrimac’s coming was telegraphed and soon lined the foot of the cliff, firing wildly across and killing each other with the cross fire. The Merrimac’s steering gear broke as she got to Estrella Point. Only three of the torpedoes on her side exploded when I touched the button. A huge submarine mine caught her full amidships, hurling the water high in the air and tearing25a great rent in the Merrimac’s side.Her stern ran upon Estrella Point. Chiefly owing to the work done by the mine she began to sink slowly. At that time she was across the channel, but before she settled the tide drifted her around. We were all aft, lying on the deck. Shells13and bullets whistled around. Six-inch shells from the Vizcaya came tearing into the Merrimac, crashing into wood and iron and passing clear through while the plunging shots from the fort broke through her decks.“Not a man3must move,” I said, and it was only owing to the splendid discipline of the men that we all were not killed, as the shells rained over us and minutes became hours of suspense. The men’s mouths grew parched, but we must lie there till daylight, I told them. Now and again one or the other of the men lying with his face glued to the deck and wondering whether the next shell would not come our way would say: “Hadn’t3we better drop off now, sir?” but I said: “Wait12till daylight.”It would have been impossible to get the catamaran or raft anywhere but to the shore, where the soldiers stood shooting, and I hoped that by daylight we might be recognized and saved. The grand old Merrimac kept sinking. I wanted to go forward and see the damage done there, where nearly all the fire was directed, but one man said that if I rose it would draw all the fire on the rest. So I lay motionless. It was splendid11the way these men behaved. The fire6of the soldiers, the batteries and the Vizcaya was awful.When the water came up on the Merrimac’s decks the raft floated amid the wreckage, but she was still made fast to the boom, and we caught hold23of the edge and clung on, our heads only being above water. One man thought we were safer right6there; it was quite light; the firing had ceased, except that on the launch which followed to rescue us, and I feared20Ensign Powell and his men had been killed.A Spanish launch2came toward the Merrimac. We agreed to capture her and run. Just as she came close the Spaniards saw us, and a half-dozen marines jumped up and pointed2their rifles at our heads. “Is there any officer in that boat to receive a surrender of prisoners of war?” I shouted. An old man leaned out under the awning and held out6his hand. It was the Spanish Admiral Cervera.

Troops from Santiago had rushed down when the news of the Merrimac’s coming was telegraphed and soon lined the foot of the cliff, firing wildly across and killing each other with the cross fire. The Merrimac’s steering gear broke as she got to Estrella Point. Only three of the torpedoes on her side exploded when I touched the button. A huge submarine mine caught her full amidships, hurling the water high in the air and tearing25a great rent in the Merrimac’s side.

Her stern ran upon Estrella Point. Chiefly owing to the work done by the mine she began to sink slowly. At that time she was across the channel, but before she settled the tide drifted her around. We were all aft, lying on the deck. Shells13and bullets whistled around. Six-inch shells from the Vizcaya came tearing into the Merrimac, crashing into wood and iron and passing clear through while the plunging shots from the fort broke through her decks.

“Not a man3must move,” I said, and it was only owing to the splendid discipline of the men that we all were not killed, as the shells rained over us and minutes became hours of suspense. The men’s mouths grew parched, but we must lie there till daylight, I told them. Now and again one or the other of the men lying with his face glued to the deck and wondering whether the next shell would not come our way would say: “Hadn’t3we better drop off now, sir?” but I said: “Wait12till daylight.”

It would have been impossible to get the catamaran or raft anywhere but to the shore, where the soldiers stood shooting, and I hoped that by daylight we might be recognized and saved. The grand old Merrimac kept sinking. I wanted to go forward and see the damage done there, where nearly all the fire was directed, but one man said that if I rose it would draw all the fire on the rest. So I lay motionless. It was splendid11the way these men behaved. The fire6of the soldiers, the batteries and the Vizcaya was awful.

When the water came up on the Merrimac’s decks the raft floated amid the wreckage, but she was still made fast to the boom, and we caught hold23of the edge and clung on, our heads only being above water. One man thought we were safer right6there; it was quite light; the firing had ceased, except that on the launch which followed to rescue us, and I feared20Ensign Powell and his men had been killed.

A Spanish launch2came toward the Merrimac. We agreed to capture her and run. Just as she came close the Spaniards saw us, and a half-dozen marines jumped up and pointed2their rifles at our heads. “Is there any officer in that boat to receive a surrender of prisoners of war?” I shouted. An old man leaned out under the awning and held out6his hand. It was the Spanish Admiral Cervera.

The following glowing tributes to our American Flag afford excellent selections for any patriotic occasion. They make suitable recitations for children at celebrations on the Fourth of July, Washington’s birthday, etc.

Nothing but flags! but simple flags!Tattered and torn, and hanging in rags;And we walk beneath them with careless tread,Nor think of the hosts of the mighty deadWho have marched beneath them in days gone byWith a burning cheek and a kindling eye,And have bathed their folds with their young life’s tide,And dying blessed them, and blessing died.

Nothing but flags! but simple flags!

Tattered and torn, and hanging in rags;

And we walk beneath them with careless tread,

Nor think of the hosts of the mighty dead

Who have marched beneath them in days gone by

With a burning cheek and a kindling eye,

And have bathed their folds with their young life’s tide,

And dying blessed them, and blessing died.

Hail to our banner braveAll o’er the land and waveTo-day unfurled.No folds to us so fairThrown on the summer air;None with thee compareIn all the world.W. P. Tilden.

Hail to our banner braveAll o’er the land and waveTo-day unfurled.No folds to us so fairThrown on the summer air;None with thee compareIn all the world.

Hail to our banner brave

All o’er the land and wave

To-day unfurled.

No folds to us so fair

Thrown on the summer air;

None with thee compare

In all the world.

W. P. Tilden.

Around the globe, through every clime,Where commerce wafts or man hath trod,It floats aloft, unstained with crime,But hallowed by heroic blood.

Around the globe, through every clime,

Where commerce wafts or man hath trod,

It floats aloft, unstained with crime,

But hallowed by heroic blood.

We seek not strife, but when our outraged lawsCry for protection in so just a cause,Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!Long has it waved on high,And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky.Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,And give her to the God of storms,The lightning and the gale!Oliver Wendell Holmes.

We seek not strife, but when our outraged laws

Cry for protection in so just a cause,

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky.

Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the God of storms,

The lightning and the gale!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

The union of lakes, the union of lands,The union of States none can sever;The union of hearts, the union of hands,And the flag of our Union forever.George P. Morris.

The union of lakes, the union of lands,The union of States none can sever;The union of hearts, the union of hands,And the flag of our Union forever.

The union of lakes, the union of lands,

The union of States none can sever;

The union of hearts, the union of hands,

And the flag of our Union forever.

George P. Morris.

When freedom from her mountain heightUnfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of nightAnd set the stars of glory there.She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure, celestial whiteWith streakings of the morning light.Flag of the free hearts’ hope and home!By angel hands to valor given!Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.Forever float that standard sheet,Where breathes the foe, but falls before us,With freedom’s soil beneath our feet,And freedom’s banner streaming o’er us.Joseph Rodman Drake.

When freedom from her mountain heightUnfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of nightAnd set the stars of glory there.

When freedom from her mountain height

Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night

And set the stars of glory there.

She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure, celestial whiteWith streakings of the morning light.

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes

The milky baldric of the skies,

And striped its pure, celestial white

With streakings of the morning light.

Flag of the free hearts’ hope and home!By angel hands to valor given!Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.

Flag of the free hearts’ hope and home!

By angel hands to valor given!

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.

Forever float that standard sheet,Where breathes the foe, but falls before us,With freedom’s soil beneath our feet,And freedom’s banner streaming o’er us.

Forever float that standard sheet,

Where breathes the foe, but falls before us,

With freedom’s soil beneath our feet,

And freedom’s banner streaming o’er us.

Joseph Rodman Drake.

Stand by the flag! on land and ocean billow;By it your fathers stood, unmoved and true;Living, defended; dying, from their pillow,With their last blessing, passed it on to you.The lines that divide us are written in water,The love that unite us is cut deep as rock.Thus by friendship’s ties united,We will change the bloody pastInto golden links of union,Blending all in love at last.Thus beneath the one broad banner,Flag of the true, the brave, the free,We will build anew the Union,Fortress of our Liberty.

Stand by the flag! on land and ocean billow;

By it your fathers stood, unmoved and true;

Living, defended; dying, from their pillow,

With their last blessing, passed it on to you.

The lines that divide us are written in water,

The love that unite us is cut deep as rock.

Thus by friendship’s ties united,We will change the bloody pastInto golden links of union,Blending all in love at last.Thus beneath the one broad banner,Flag of the true, the brave, the free,We will build anew the Union,Fortress of our Liberty.

Thus by friendship’s ties united,

We will change the bloody past

Into golden links of union,

Blending all in love at last.

Thus beneath the one broad banner,

Flag of the true, the brave, the free,

We will build anew the Union,

Fortress of our Liberty.

God bless our star-gemmed banner;Shake its folds out to the breeze;From church, from fort, from house-top,Over the city, on the seas;The die is cast, the storm at lastHas broken in its might;Unfurl the starry banner,And may God defend the right.Then bless our banner, God of hosts!Watch o’er each starry fold;’Tis Freedom’s standard, tried and provedOn many a field of old;And Thou, who long has blessed us,Now bless us yet again,And crown our cause with victory,And keep our flag from stain.

God bless our star-gemmed banner;Shake its folds out to the breeze;From church, from fort, from house-top,Over the city, on the seas;

God bless our star-gemmed banner;

Shake its folds out to the breeze;

From church, from fort, from house-top,

Over the city, on the seas;

The die is cast, the storm at lastHas broken in its might;Unfurl the starry banner,And may God defend the right.

The die is cast, the storm at last

Has broken in its might;

Unfurl the starry banner,

And may God defend the right.

Then bless our banner, God of hosts!Watch o’er each starry fold;’Tis Freedom’s standard, tried and provedOn many a field of old;

Then bless our banner, God of hosts!

Watch o’er each starry fold;

’Tis Freedom’s standard, tried and proved

On many a field of old;

And Thou, who long has blessed us,Now bless us yet again,And crown our cause with victory,And keep our flag from stain.

And Thou, who long has blessed us,

Now bless us yet again,

And crown our cause with victory,

And keep our flag from stain.

On the third day of July, 1776, Cæsar Rodney rode on horseback from St. James’s Neck, below Dover, Delaware, to Philadelphia, in a driving rain storm, for the purpose of voting for the Declaration of Independence.

This is an excellent reading for quick changes of voice and manner. To render it well will prove that you have genuine dramatic ability. You should study this selection carefully and practice it until you are the complete master of it. It requires a great deal of life and spirit, with changes of voice from the low tone to the loud call. For the most part your utterance should be rapid, yet distinct.

In that soft mid-land where the breezes bearThe North and South on the genial air,Through the county of Kent, on affairs of State,Rode Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.Burly and big, and bold and bluff,In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,A foe to King George and the English State,Was Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.Into Dover village he rode apace,And his kinsfolk knew from his anxious face,It was matter grave that brought him there,To the counties three upon the Delaware.“Money and men we must have,” he said,“Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead,Give us both and the King shall not work his will,We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill.”Comes a rider swift on a panting bay;“Ho, Rodney, ho! you must save the day,For the Congress halts at a deed so great,And your vote alone may decide its fate.”Answered Rodney then: “I will ride with speed;It is Liberty’s stress; it is Freedom’s need.”“When stands it?” “To-night.” “Not a moment to spare,But ride like the wind from the Delaware.”“Ho, saddle the black! I’ve but half a day,And the Congress sits eighty miles away—But I’ll be in time, if God grants me grace,To shake my fist in King George’s face.”He is up; he is off! and the black horse fliesOn the northward road ere the “God-speed” dies,It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs flingThe Fieldsboro’ dust with a clang and a cling,It is three; and he gallops with slack rein whereThe road winds down to the Delaware.Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,From his panting steed he gets him down—“A fresh one quick! and not a moment’s wait!”And off speeds Rodney, the delegate.It is five; and the beams of the western sunTinge the spires of Wilmington, gold and dun;Six; and the dust of Chester streetFlies back in a cloud from his courser’s feet.It is seven; the horse-boat, broad of beam,At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream—And at seven fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,He flings his rein to the tavern jock.The Congress is met; the debate’s begun,And Liberty lags for the vote of one—When into the hall, not a moment late,Walks Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.Not a moment late! and that half day’s rideForwards the world with a mighty stride;For the act was passed; ere the midnight strokeO’er the Quaker City its echoes woke.At Tyranny’s feet was the gauntlet flung;“We are free!” all the bells through the colonies rung,And the sons of the free may recall with pride,The day of Delegate Rodney’s ride.

In that soft mid-land where the breezes bearThe North and South on the genial air,Through the county of Kent, on affairs of State,Rode Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

In that soft mid-land where the breezes bear

The North and South on the genial air,

Through the county of Kent, on affairs of State,

Rode Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Burly and big, and bold and bluff,In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,A foe to King George and the English State,Was Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Burly and big, and bold and bluff,

In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,

A foe to King George and the English State,

Was Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Into Dover village he rode apace,And his kinsfolk knew from his anxious face,It was matter grave that brought him there,To the counties three upon the Delaware.

Into Dover village he rode apace,

And his kinsfolk knew from his anxious face,

It was matter grave that brought him there,

To the counties three upon the Delaware.

“Money and men we must have,” he said,“Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead,Give us both and the King shall not work his will,We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill.”

“Money and men we must have,” he said,

“Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead,

Give us both and the King shall not work his will,

We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill.”

Comes a rider swift on a panting bay;“Ho, Rodney, ho! you must save the day,For the Congress halts at a deed so great,And your vote alone may decide its fate.”

Comes a rider swift on a panting bay;

“Ho, Rodney, ho! you must save the day,

For the Congress halts at a deed so great,

And your vote alone may decide its fate.”

Answered Rodney then: “I will ride with speed;It is Liberty’s stress; it is Freedom’s need.”“When stands it?” “To-night.” “Not a moment to spare,But ride like the wind from the Delaware.”

Answered Rodney then: “I will ride with speed;

It is Liberty’s stress; it is Freedom’s need.”

“When stands it?” “To-night.” “Not a moment to spare,

But ride like the wind from the Delaware.”

“Ho, saddle the black! I’ve but half a day,And the Congress sits eighty miles away—But I’ll be in time, if God grants me grace,To shake my fist in King George’s face.”

“Ho, saddle the black! I’ve but half a day,

And the Congress sits eighty miles away—

But I’ll be in time, if God grants me grace,

To shake my fist in King George’s face.”

He is up; he is off! and the black horse fliesOn the northward road ere the “God-speed” dies,It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.

He is up; he is off! and the black horse flies

On the northward road ere the “God-speed” dies,

It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,

And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.

It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs flingThe Fieldsboro’ dust with a clang and a cling,It is three; and he gallops with slack rein whereThe road winds down to the Delaware.

It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs fling

The Fieldsboro’ dust with a clang and a cling,

It is three; and he gallops with slack rein where

The road winds down to the Delaware.

Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,From his panting steed he gets him down—“A fresh one quick! and not a moment’s wait!”And off speeds Rodney, the delegate.

Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,

From his panting steed he gets him down—

“A fresh one quick! and not a moment’s wait!”

And off speeds Rodney, the delegate.

It is five; and the beams of the western sunTinge the spires of Wilmington, gold and dun;Six; and the dust of Chester streetFlies back in a cloud from his courser’s feet.

It is five; and the beams of the western sun

Tinge the spires of Wilmington, gold and dun;

Six; and the dust of Chester street

Flies back in a cloud from his courser’s feet.

It is seven; the horse-boat, broad of beam,At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream—And at seven fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,He flings his rein to the tavern jock.

It is seven; the horse-boat, broad of beam,

At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream—

And at seven fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,

He flings his rein to the tavern jock.

The Congress is met; the debate’s begun,And Liberty lags for the vote of one—When into the hall, not a moment late,Walks Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

The Congress is met; the debate’s begun,

And Liberty lags for the vote of one—

When into the hall, not a moment late,

Walks Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Not a moment late! and that half day’s rideForwards the world with a mighty stride;For the act was passed; ere the midnight strokeO’er the Quaker City its echoes woke.

Not a moment late! and that half day’s ride

Forwards the world with a mighty stride;

For the act was passed; ere the midnight stroke

O’er the Quaker City its echoes woke.

At Tyranny’s feet was the gauntlet flung;“We are free!” all the bells through the colonies rung,And the sons of the free may recall with pride,The day of Delegate Rodney’s ride.

At Tyranny’s feet was the gauntlet flung;

“We are free!” all the bells through the colonies rung,

And the sons of the free may recall with pride,

The day of Delegate Rodney’s ride.

The last battle of the Civil War was at Brazos, Texas, May 13, 1865, resulting in the surrender of the Texan army. Recite this in a conversational tone, as you would tell any story.

Well, yes, I’ve lived in Texas, since the spring of ’61;And I’ll relate the story, though I fear, sir, when ’tis done,’Twill be little worth your hearing, it was such a simple thing,Unheralded in verses that the grander poets sing.There had come a guest unbidden, at the opening of the year,To find a lodgment in our hearts, and the tenant’s name was fear;For secession’s drawing mandate was a call for men and arms,And each recurring eventide but brought us fresh alarms.They had notified the General that he must yield to fate,And all the muniments of war surrender to the State,But he sent from San Antonio an order to the seaTo convey on board the steamer all the fort’s artillery.Right royal was his purpose, but the foe divined his plan,And the wily Texans set a guard to intercept the manDetailed to bear the message; they placed their watch with careThat neither scout nor citizen should pass it unaware.Well, this was rather awkward, sir, as doubtless you will say,But the Major who was chief of staff resolved to have his way,Despite the watchful provost guard; so he asked his wife to send,With a little box of knick-knacks, a letter to her friend;And the missive held one sentence I remember to this day:“The thread is for your neighbor, Mr. French, across the way.”He dispatched a youthful courier. Of course, as you will know,The Texans searched him thoroughly and ordered him to showThe contents of the letter. They read it o’er and o’er,But failed to find the message they had hindered once before.So it reached the English lady, and she wondered at the word,But gave the thread to Major French, explaining that she heardHe wished a spool of cotton. And great was his surpriseAt such a trifle sent, unasked, through leagues of hostile spies.“There’s some hidden purpose, doubtless, in the curious gift,” he said.Then he tore away the label, and inside the spool of threadWas Major Nichols’ order, bidding him convey to seaAll the arms and ammunition from Fort Duncan’s battery.“Down to Brazon speed your horses,” thus the Major’s letter ran,“Shift equipments and munitions, and embark them if you can.”Yes, the transfer was effected, for the ships lay close at hand,Ere the Texans guessed their purpose they had vanished from the land.Do I know it for a fact, sir? ’Tis no story that I’ve read—I was but a boy in war time, and I carried him the thread.Sophie E. Eastman.

Well, yes, I’ve lived in Texas, since the spring of ’61;

And I’ll relate the story, though I fear, sir, when ’tis done,

’Twill be little worth your hearing, it was such a simple thing,

Unheralded in verses that the grander poets sing.

There had come a guest unbidden, at the opening of the year,To find a lodgment in our hearts, and the tenant’s name was fear;For secession’s drawing mandate was a call for men and arms,And each recurring eventide but brought us fresh alarms.

There had come a guest unbidden, at the opening of the year,

To find a lodgment in our hearts, and the tenant’s name was fear;

For secession’s drawing mandate was a call for men and arms,

And each recurring eventide but brought us fresh alarms.

They had notified the General that he must yield to fate,And all the muniments of war surrender to the State,But he sent from San Antonio an order to the seaTo convey on board the steamer all the fort’s artillery.

They had notified the General that he must yield to fate,

And all the muniments of war surrender to the State,

But he sent from San Antonio an order to the sea

To convey on board the steamer all the fort’s artillery.

Right royal was his purpose, but the foe divined his plan,And the wily Texans set a guard to intercept the manDetailed to bear the message; they placed their watch with careThat neither scout nor citizen should pass it unaware.

Right royal was his purpose, but the foe divined his plan,

And the wily Texans set a guard to intercept the man

Detailed to bear the message; they placed their watch with care

That neither scout nor citizen should pass it unaware.

Well, this was rather awkward, sir, as doubtless you will say,But the Major who was chief of staff resolved to have his way,Despite the watchful provost guard; so he asked his wife to send,With a little box of knick-knacks, a letter to her friend;And the missive held one sentence I remember to this day:“The thread is for your neighbor, Mr. French, across the way.”

Well, this was rather awkward, sir, as doubtless you will say,

But the Major who was chief of staff resolved to have his way,

Despite the watchful provost guard; so he asked his wife to send,

With a little box of knick-knacks, a letter to her friend;

And the missive held one sentence I remember to this day:

“The thread is for your neighbor, Mr. French, across the way.”

He dispatched a youthful courier. Of course, as you will know,The Texans searched him thoroughly and ordered him to showThe contents of the letter. They read it o’er and o’er,But failed to find the message they had hindered once before.

He dispatched a youthful courier. Of course, as you will know,

The Texans searched him thoroughly and ordered him to show

The contents of the letter. They read it o’er and o’er,

But failed to find the message they had hindered once before.

So it reached the English lady, and she wondered at the word,But gave the thread to Major French, explaining that she heardHe wished a spool of cotton. And great was his surpriseAt such a trifle sent, unasked, through leagues of hostile spies.

So it reached the English lady, and she wondered at the word,

But gave the thread to Major French, explaining that she heard

He wished a spool of cotton. And great was his surprise

At such a trifle sent, unasked, through leagues of hostile spies.

“There’s some hidden purpose, doubtless, in the curious gift,” he said.Then he tore away the label, and inside the spool of threadWas Major Nichols’ order, bidding him convey to seaAll the arms and ammunition from Fort Duncan’s battery.“Down to Brazon speed your horses,” thus the Major’s letter ran,“Shift equipments and munitions, and embark them if you can.”

“There’s some hidden purpose, doubtless, in the curious gift,” he said.

Then he tore away the label, and inside the spool of thread

Was Major Nichols’ order, bidding him convey to sea

All the arms and ammunition from Fort Duncan’s battery.

“Down to Brazon speed your horses,” thus the Major’s letter ran,

“Shift equipments and munitions, and embark them if you can.”

Yes, the transfer was effected, for the ships lay close at hand,Ere the Texans guessed their purpose they had vanished from the land.Do I know it for a fact, sir? ’Tis no story that I’ve read—I was but a boy in war time, and I carried him the thread.

Yes, the transfer was effected, for the ships lay close at hand,

Ere the Texans guessed their purpose they had vanished from the land.

Do I know it for a fact, sir? ’Tis no story that I’ve read—

I was but a boy in war time, and I carried him the thread.

Sophie E. Eastman.

One Fourth of July, when Abraham Lincoln was a boy, he heard an oration by old ’Squire Godfrey. As in the olden days, the ’Squire’s oration was full of Washington; inspiring in the heart of young Lincoln an enthusiasm that sent him home burning with a desire to know more of the great man who heretofore had seemed more of a dream than a reality. Learning that a man some six miles up the creek owned a copy of Washington’s life, Abraham did not rest that night until he had footed the whole distance and begged the loan of the book.“Sartin, sartin,” said the owner. “The book is fairly well worn, but no leaves are missin’, and a lad keen enough to read as to walk six miles to get a book, ought to be encouraged.”It was a much-worn copy of Weem’s “Life of Washington,” and Abe, thanking the stranger for his kindness, walked back under the stars, stopping every little while to catch a glimpse of the features of the “Father of his Country” as shown in the frontispiece.After reaching home, tired as he was, he could not close his eyes until, by the light of a pine knot, he had found out all that was recorded regarding the boyhood of the man who had so suddenly sprung into prominence in his mind. In that busy harvest season he had no time to read or study during the day, but every night, long after the other members of the family were sleeping peacefully, Abe lay, stretched upon the floor with his book on the hearth, reading, reading, reading, the pine knot in the fireplace furnishing all the light he needed, the fire within burning with such intense heat as to kindle a blaze that grew and increased until it placed him in the highest seat of his countrymen.What a marvelous insight into the human heart did Abraham Lincoln get between the covers of that wonderful book. The little cabin grew to be a paradise as he learned from the printed pages the story of one great man’s life. The barefooted boy in buckskin breeches, so shrunken that they reached only halfway between the knee and ankle, actually asked himself whether there might not be some place—great and honorable, awaiting him in the future.Before this treasured “Life of Washington” was returned to its owner, it met with such a mishap as almost to ruin it. Thebook, which was lying on a board upheld by two pegs, was soaked by the rain that dashed between the logs one night, when a storm beat with unusual force against the north end of the cabin. Abraham was heartbroken over the catastrophe, and sadly carried the book back to its owner, offering to work to pay for the damage done. The man consented, and the borrower worked for three days at seventy-five cents a day, and thus himself became the possessor of the old, faded, stained book—a book that had more to do with shaping his life, perhaps, than any one other thing.Abe had not expected to take the book back with him, but merely to pay for the damage done, and was surprised when the man handed it to him when starting. He was very grateful, however, and when he gave expression to his feelings the old man said, patting him on the shoulder: “You have earned it, my boy, and are welcome to it. It’s a mighty fine thing to have a head for books, just as fine to have a heart for honesty, and if you keep agoin’ as you have started, maybe some day you’ll git to be President yourself. President Abraham Lincoln! That would sound fust rate, fust rate, now, wouldn’t it, sonny?”“It’s not a very handsome name, to be sure,” Abe replied, looking as though he thought such an event possible, away off, in the future. “No, it’s not a very very handsome name, but I guess it’s about as handsome as its owner,” he added, glancing at the reflection of his homely features in the little old-fashioned, cracked mirror hanging opposite where he sat.“Handsome is that handsome does,” said the old farmer, nodding his gray head in an approving style. “Yes, indeedy; handsome deeds make handsome men. We hain’t a nation of royal idiots, with one generation of kings passin’ away to make room for another. No, sir-ee. In this free country of ourn, the rich and poor stand equal chances, and a boy without money is just as likely to work up to the Presidential chair as the one who inherits from his parents lands and stocks and money and influence. It’s brains that counts in this land of liberty, and Abraham Lincoln has just as much right to sit in the highest seat in the land as Washington’s son himself, if he had had a son, which he hadn’t.”Who knows but the future War President of this great Republic received his first aspirations from this kindly neighbor’s words?

“Sartin, sartin,” said the owner. “The book is fairly well worn, but no leaves are missin’, and a lad keen enough to read as to walk six miles to get a book, ought to be encouraged.”

It was a much-worn copy of Weem’s “Life of Washington,” and Abe, thanking the stranger for his kindness, walked back under the stars, stopping every little while to catch a glimpse of the features of the “Father of his Country” as shown in the frontispiece.

After reaching home, tired as he was, he could not close his eyes until, by the light of a pine knot, he had found out all that was recorded regarding the boyhood of the man who had so suddenly sprung into prominence in his mind. In that busy harvest season he had no time to read or study during the day, but every night, long after the other members of the family were sleeping peacefully, Abe lay, stretched upon the floor with his book on the hearth, reading, reading, reading, the pine knot in the fireplace furnishing all the light he needed, the fire within burning with such intense heat as to kindle a blaze that grew and increased until it placed him in the highest seat of his countrymen.

What a marvelous insight into the human heart did Abraham Lincoln get between the covers of that wonderful book. The little cabin grew to be a paradise as he learned from the printed pages the story of one great man’s life. The barefooted boy in buckskin breeches, so shrunken that they reached only halfway between the knee and ankle, actually asked himself whether there might not be some place—great and honorable, awaiting him in the future.

Before this treasured “Life of Washington” was returned to its owner, it met with such a mishap as almost to ruin it. Thebook, which was lying on a board upheld by two pegs, was soaked by the rain that dashed between the logs one night, when a storm beat with unusual force against the north end of the cabin. Abraham was heartbroken over the catastrophe, and sadly carried the book back to its owner, offering to work to pay for the damage done. The man consented, and the borrower worked for three days at seventy-five cents a day, and thus himself became the possessor of the old, faded, stained book—a book that had more to do with shaping his life, perhaps, than any one other thing.

Abe had not expected to take the book back with him, but merely to pay for the damage done, and was surprised when the man handed it to him when starting. He was very grateful, however, and when he gave expression to his feelings the old man said, patting him on the shoulder: “You have earned it, my boy, and are welcome to it. It’s a mighty fine thing to have a head for books, just as fine to have a heart for honesty, and if you keep agoin’ as you have started, maybe some day you’ll git to be President yourself. President Abraham Lincoln! That would sound fust rate, fust rate, now, wouldn’t it, sonny?”

“It’s not a very handsome name, to be sure,” Abe replied, looking as though he thought such an event possible, away off, in the future. “No, it’s not a very very handsome name, but I guess it’s about as handsome as its owner,” he added, glancing at the reflection of his homely features in the little old-fashioned, cracked mirror hanging opposite where he sat.

“Handsome is that handsome does,” said the old farmer, nodding his gray head in an approving style. “Yes, indeedy; handsome deeds make handsome men. We hain’t a nation of royal idiots, with one generation of kings passin’ away to make room for another. No, sir-ee. In this free country of ourn, the rich and poor stand equal chances, and a boy without money is just as likely to work up to the Presidential chair as the one who inherits from his parents lands and stocks and money and influence. It’s brains that counts in this land of liberty, and Abraham Lincoln has just as much right to sit in the highest seat in the land as Washington’s son himself, if he had had a son, which he hadn’t.”

Who knows but the future War President of this great Republic received his first aspirations from this kindly neighbor’s words?

Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise;The queen of the world, and the child of the skies;Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold,While ages on ages thy splendors unfold.Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time,Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime;Let the crimes of the east ne’er encrimson thy name,Be freedom, and science, and virtue, thy fame.To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire,Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire;Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,And triumph pursue them, and glory attend.A world is thy realm—for a world be thy laws—Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause;On freedom’s broad basis thy empire shall rise,Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display,The nations admire, and the ocean obey;Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold,And the east and the south yield their spices and gold.As the day-spring, unbounded, thy splendor shall flow,And earth’s little kingdoms before thee shall bow,While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled,Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world.Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o’erspread,From war’s dread confusion, I pensively strayed,The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired;The winds ceased to murmur; the thunder expired;Perfumes, as of Eden, flowed sweetly along,And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung,“Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise;The queen of the world, and the child of the skies.”Joel Barlow.

Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise;

The queen of the world, and the child of the skies;

Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold,

While ages on ages thy splendors unfold.

Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time,

Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime;

Let the crimes of the east ne’er encrimson thy name,

Be freedom, and science, and virtue, thy fame.

To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire,Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire;Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,And triumph pursue them, and glory attend.A world is thy realm—for a world be thy laws—Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause;On freedom’s broad basis thy empire shall rise,Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.

To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire,

Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire;

Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,

And triumph pursue them, and glory attend.

A world is thy realm—for a world be thy laws—

Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause;

On freedom’s broad basis thy empire shall rise,

Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.

Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display,The nations admire, and the ocean obey;Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold,And the east and the south yield their spices and gold.As the day-spring, unbounded, thy splendor shall flow,And earth’s little kingdoms before thee shall bow,While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled,Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world.

Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display,

The nations admire, and the ocean obey;

Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold,

And the east and the south yield their spices and gold.

As the day-spring, unbounded, thy splendor shall flow,

And earth’s little kingdoms before thee shall bow,

While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled,

Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world.

Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o’erspread,From war’s dread confusion, I pensively strayed,The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired;The winds ceased to murmur; the thunder expired;Perfumes, as of Eden, flowed sweetly along,And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung,“Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise;The queen of the world, and the child of the skies.”

Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o’erspread,

From war’s dread confusion, I pensively strayed,

The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired;

The winds ceased to murmur; the thunder expired;

Perfumes, as of Eden, flowed sweetly along,

And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung,

“Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise;

The queen of the world, and the child of the skies.”

Joel Barlow.

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