Descriptive and Dramatic Recitations

This selection demands great vivacity and intense dramatic expression. Each reference to the life-boat requires rapid utterance, elevated pitch and strong tones of command. Point to the life-boat; you are to see it, and make your audience see it. They will see it in imagination if you do; that is, if you speak and act as if you stood on the shore and actually saw the life-boat hurrying to the rescue.

Quick! man the life-boat! See yon barkThat drives before the blast?There’s a rock ahead, the fog is dark,And the storm comes thick and fast.Can human power, in such an hour,Avert the doom that’s o’er her?Her mainmast’s gone, but she still drives onTo the fatal reef before.The life-boat! Man the life-boat!Quick! man the life-boat! hark! the gunBooms through the vapory air;And see! the signal flags are on,And speak the ship’s despair.That forked flash, that pealing crash,Seemed from the wave to sweep her:She’s on the rock, with a terrible shock—And the wail comes louder and deeper,The life-boat! Man the life-boat!Quick! man the life-boat! See—the crewGaze on their watery grave:Already, some, a gallant few,Are battling with the wave;And one there stands, and wrings his handAs thoughts of home come o’er him;For his wife and child, through the tempest wild,He sees on the heights before him.The life-boat! Man the life-boat!Speed, speed the life-boat! Off she goes!And, as they pulled the oar,From shore and ship a cheer arose,That startled ship and shore.Life-saving ark! yon fated barkHas human lives within her;And dearer than gold is the wealth untold,Thou’lt save if thou canst win her.On, life-boat! Speed thee, life-boat!Hurrah! the life-boat dashes on,Though darkly the reef may frown;The rock is there—the ship is goneFull twenty fathoms down.But cheered by hope, the seamen copeWith the billows single-handed;They are all in the boat!—hurrah! they’re afloat;And now they are safely landedBy the life-boat! Cheer the life-boat!

Quick! man the life-boat! See yon bark

That drives before the blast?

There’s a rock ahead, the fog is dark,

And the storm comes thick and fast.

Can human power, in such an hour,

Avert the doom that’s o’er her?

Her mainmast’s gone, but she still drives on

To the fatal reef before.

The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Quick! man the life-boat! hark! the gunBooms through the vapory air;And see! the signal flags are on,And speak the ship’s despair.That forked flash, that pealing crash,Seemed from the wave to sweep her:She’s on the rock, with a terrible shock—And the wail comes louder and deeper,The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Quick! man the life-boat! hark! the gun

Booms through the vapory air;

And see! the signal flags are on,

And speak the ship’s despair.

That forked flash, that pealing crash,

Seemed from the wave to sweep her:

She’s on the rock, with a terrible shock—

And the wail comes louder and deeper,

The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Quick! man the life-boat! See—the crewGaze on their watery grave:Already, some, a gallant few,Are battling with the wave;And one there stands, and wrings his handAs thoughts of home come o’er him;For his wife and child, through the tempest wild,He sees on the heights before him.The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Quick! man the life-boat! See—the crew

Gaze on their watery grave:

Already, some, a gallant few,

Are battling with the wave;

And one there stands, and wrings his hand

As thoughts of home come o’er him;

For his wife and child, through the tempest wild,

He sees on the heights before him.

The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Speed, speed the life-boat! Off she goes!And, as they pulled the oar,From shore and ship a cheer arose,That startled ship and shore.Life-saving ark! yon fated barkHas human lives within her;And dearer than gold is the wealth untold,Thou’lt save if thou canst win her.On, life-boat! Speed thee, life-boat!

Speed, speed the life-boat! Off she goes!

And, as they pulled the oar,

From shore and ship a cheer arose,

That startled ship and shore.

Life-saving ark! yon fated bark

Has human lives within her;

And dearer than gold is the wealth untold,

Thou’lt save if thou canst win her.

On, life-boat! Speed thee, life-boat!

Hurrah! the life-boat dashes on,Though darkly the reef may frown;The rock is there—the ship is goneFull twenty fathoms down.But cheered by hope, the seamen copeWith the billows single-handed;They are all in the boat!—hurrah! they’re afloat;And now they are safely landedBy the life-boat! Cheer the life-boat!

Hurrah! the life-boat dashes on,

Though darkly the reef may frown;

The rock is there—the ship is gone

Full twenty fathoms down.

But cheered by hope, the seamen cope

With the billows single-handed;

They are all in the boat!—hurrah! they’re afloat;

And now they are safely landed

By the life-boat! Cheer the life-boat!

As I remember the first fair touchOf those beautiful hands that I love so much,I seem to thrill as I then was thrilledKissing the glove that I found unfilled—When I met your gaze and the queenly bowAs you said to me laughingly, “Keep it now!”And dazed and alone in a dream I standKissing the ghost of your beautiful hand.When first I loved in the long ago,And held your hand as I told you so—Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss,And said, “I could die for a hand like this!”Little I dreamed love’s fullness yetHad I to ripen when eyes were wet,And prayers were vain in their wild demandsFor one warm touch of your beautiful hands.Beautiful hands! O, beautiful hands!Could you reach out of the alien landsWhere you are lingering, and give me to-nightOnly a touch—were it ever so light—My heart were soothed, and my weary brainWould lull itself into rest again;For there is no solace the world commandsLike the caress of your beautiful hands.James Whitcomb Riley.

As I remember the first fair touch

Of those beautiful hands that I love so much,

I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled

Kissing the glove that I found unfilled—

When I met your gaze and the queenly bow

As you said to me laughingly, “Keep it now!”

And dazed and alone in a dream I stand

Kissing the ghost of your beautiful hand.

When first I loved in the long ago,And held your hand as I told you so—Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss,And said, “I could die for a hand like this!”Little I dreamed love’s fullness yetHad I to ripen when eyes were wet,And prayers were vain in their wild demandsFor one warm touch of your beautiful hands.

When first I loved in the long ago,

And held your hand as I told you so—

Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss,

And said, “I could die for a hand like this!”

Little I dreamed love’s fullness yet

Had I to ripen when eyes were wet,

And prayers were vain in their wild demands

For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.

Beautiful hands! O, beautiful hands!Could you reach out of the alien landsWhere you are lingering, and give me to-nightOnly a touch—were it ever so light—My heart were soothed, and my weary brainWould lull itself into rest again;For there is no solace the world commandsLike the caress of your beautiful hands.

Beautiful hands! O, beautiful hands!

Could you reach out of the alien lands

Where you are lingering, and give me to-night

Only a touch—were it ever so light—

My heart were soothed, and my weary brain

Would lull itself into rest again;

For there is no solace the world commands

Like the caress of your beautiful hands.

James Whitcomb Riley.

The general character of this selection is intensely dramatic. It is a most excellent piece for any one who has the ability and training to do it full justice. The emotions of agony, horror and exultation are here, and should be made prominent. Let the cry of “Fire!” ring out in startling tones, and let your whole manner correspond with the danger and the excitement of the scene. The rate throughout should be rapid.

The figures in the text refer you to the corresponding numbers of Typical Gestures, at the beginning of Part II of this volume. Insert other gestures of your own.

The storm o’er the ocean flew furious and fast,And the waves rose in foam at the voice of the blast,And heavily2labored the gale-beaten ship,Like a stout-hearted swimmer, the spray at his lip;And dark21was the sky o’er the mariner’s path,Save when the wild lightning illumined in wrath,A young mother knelt in the cabin below,And pressing her babe to her bosom of snow,She prayed to her God,20’mid the hurricane wild,“O Father, have mercy, look down on my child!”It passed—the fierce whirlwind careered on its way,And the ship like an arrow25divided the spray;Her sails glimmered white in the beams of the moon,And the wind up aloft seemed to whistle a tune—to whistle a tune.There was joy16in the ship as she furrowed the foam,For fond hearts within her were dreaming of home.The young mother pressed her fond babe to her breast,And the husband sat cheerily down by her side,And looked with delight on the face of his bride.“Oh,16happy,” said he, “when our roaming is o’er,We’ll dwell in our cottage that stands by the shore.Already in fancy its roof I descry,And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky;Its garden so green, and its vine-covered wall;The kind friends9awaiting to welcome us all,And the children that sport by the old oaken tree.”Ah gently the ship glided over the sea!Hark!13what was that? Hark! Hark to the shout!“Fire!”10Then a tramp and a rout, and a tumult of voices uprose on the air;—And the mother knelt8down, and the half-spoken prayer,That she offered to God in her agony wild,Was, “Father, have mercy, look down on my child!”She flew to her husband,1she clung to his side,Oh there was her refuge whate’er might betide.“Fire!”10“Fire!” It was raging above and below—And the cheeks of the sailors grew pale at the sight,And their eyes glistened wild in the glare of the light,’Twas vain o’er the ravage the waters to drip;The pitiless flame was the lord of the ship,And the smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher.“O God,20it is fearful to perish by fire.”Alone with destruction, alone on the sea,“Great Father of mercy, our hope is in thee.”Sad at heart and resigned, yet undaunted and brave,They lowered the boat,2a mere speck on the wave.First entered the mother, enfolding her child:It knew she caressed it, looked16upward and smiled.Cold, cold was the night as they drifted away,And mistily dawned o’er the pathway the day—And they prayed for the light, and at noontide about,The sun16o’er the waters shone joyously out.“Ho! a sail!7Ho! a sail!” cried the man at the lee,“Ho! a sail!”7and they turned their glad eyes o’er the sea.“They see us, they see us,21the signal is waved!They bear down upon us, they bear down upon us: Huzza! we are saved.”

The storm o’er the ocean flew furious and fast,

And the waves rose in foam at the voice of the blast,

And heavily2labored the gale-beaten ship,

Like a stout-hearted swimmer, the spray at his lip;

And dark21was the sky o’er the mariner’s path,

Save when the wild lightning illumined in wrath,

A young mother knelt in the cabin below,

And pressing her babe to her bosom of snow,

She prayed to her God,20’mid the hurricane wild,

“O Father, have mercy, look down on my child!”

It passed—the fierce whirlwind careered on its way,And the ship like an arrow25divided the spray;Her sails glimmered white in the beams of the moon,And the wind up aloft seemed to whistle a tune—to whistle a tune.

It passed—the fierce whirlwind careered on its way,

And the ship like an arrow25divided the spray;

Her sails glimmered white in the beams of the moon,

And the wind up aloft seemed to whistle a tune—to whistle a tune.

There was joy16in the ship as she furrowed the foam,For fond hearts within her were dreaming of home.The young mother pressed her fond babe to her breast,And the husband sat cheerily down by her side,And looked with delight on the face of his bride.

There was joy16in the ship as she furrowed the foam,

For fond hearts within her were dreaming of home.

The young mother pressed her fond babe to her breast,

And the husband sat cheerily down by her side,

And looked with delight on the face of his bride.

“Oh,16happy,” said he, “when our roaming is o’er,We’ll dwell in our cottage that stands by the shore.Already in fancy its roof I descry,And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky;Its garden so green, and its vine-covered wall;The kind friends9awaiting to welcome us all,And the children that sport by the old oaken tree.”

“Oh,16happy,” said he, “when our roaming is o’er,

We’ll dwell in our cottage that stands by the shore.

Already in fancy its roof I descry,

And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky;

Its garden so green, and its vine-covered wall;

The kind friends9awaiting to welcome us all,

And the children that sport by the old oaken tree.”

Ah gently the ship glided over the sea!Hark!13what was that? Hark! Hark to the shout!“Fire!”10Then a tramp and a rout, and a tumult of voices uprose on the air;—And the mother knelt8down, and the half-spoken prayer,That she offered to God in her agony wild,Was, “Father, have mercy, look down on my child!”She flew to her husband,1she clung to his side,Oh there was her refuge whate’er might betide.

Ah gently the ship glided over the sea!

Hark!13what was that? Hark! Hark to the shout!

“Fire!”10Then a tramp and a rout, and a tumult of voices uprose on the air;—

And the mother knelt8down, and the half-spoken prayer,

That she offered to God in her agony wild,

Was, “Father, have mercy, look down on my child!”

She flew to her husband,1she clung to his side,

Oh there was her refuge whate’er might betide.

“Fire!”10“Fire!” It was raging above and below—And the cheeks of the sailors grew pale at the sight,And their eyes glistened wild in the glare of the light,’Twas vain o’er the ravage the waters to drip;The pitiless flame was the lord of the ship,

“Fire!”10“Fire!” It was raging above and below—

And the cheeks of the sailors grew pale at the sight,

And their eyes glistened wild in the glare of the light,

’Twas vain o’er the ravage the waters to drip;

The pitiless flame was the lord of the ship,

And the smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher.“O God,20it is fearful to perish by fire.”Alone with destruction, alone on the sea,“Great Father of mercy, our hope is in thee.”

And the smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher.

“O God,20it is fearful to perish by fire.”

Alone with destruction, alone on the sea,

“Great Father of mercy, our hope is in thee.”

Sad at heart and resigned, yet undaunted and brave,They lowered the boat,2a mere speck on the wave.First entered the mother, enfolding her child:It knew she caressed it, looked16upward and smiled.

Sad at heart and resigned, yet undaunted and brave,

They lowered the boat,2a mere speck on the wave.

First entered the mother, enfolding her child:

It knew she caressed it, looked16upward and smiled.

Cold, cold was the night as they drifted away,And mistily dawned o’er the pathway the day—And they prayed for the light, and at noontide about,The sun16o’er the waters shone joyously out.

Cold, cold was the night as they drifted away,

And mistily dawned o’er the pathway the day—

And they prayed for the light, and at noontide about,

The sun16o’er the waters shone joyously out.

“Ho! a sail!7Ho! a sail!” cried the man at the lee,“Ho! a sail!”7and they turned their glad eyes o’er the sea.“They see us, they see us,21the signal is waved!They bear down upon us, they bear down upon us: Huzza! we are saved.”

“Ho! a sail!7Ho! a sail!” cried the man at the lee,

“Ho! a sail!”7and they turned their glad eyes o’er the sea.

“They see us, they see us,21the signal is waved!

They bear down upon us, they bear down upon us: Huzza! we are saved.”

It is the Fourth day of July, 1776.In the old State House in the city of Philadelphia are gathered half a hundred men to strike from their limbs the shackles of British despotism. There is silence in the hall—every face is turned toward the door where the committee of three, who have been out all night penning a parchment, are soon to enter. The door opens, the committee appears. The tall man with the sharp features, the bold brow, and the sand-hued hair, holding the parchment in his hand, is a Virginia farmer, Thomas Jefferson. That stout-built man with stern look and flashing eye, is a Boston man, one John Adams. And that calm-faced man with hair drooping in thick curls to his shoulders, that is the Philadelphia printer, Benjamin Franklin.The three advance to the table.The parchment is laid there.Shall it be signed or not? A fierce debate ensues, Jefferson speaks a few bold words. Adams pours out his whole soul. The deep-toned voice of Lee is heard, swelling in syllables of thunder like music. But still there is doubt, and one pale-faced man whispers something about axes, scaffolds and a gibbet.“Gibbet?” echoed a fierce, bold voice through the hall. “Gibbet? They may stretch our necks on all the gibbets in the land; they may turn every rock into a scaffold; every tree into a gallows; every home into a grave, and yet the words of that parchment there can never die! They may pour our blood on a thousand scaffolds, and yet from every drop that dyes the axe a new champion of freedom will spring into birth. The British King may blot out the stars of God from the sky, but he cannot blot out His words written on that parchment there. The works of God may perish. His words never!“The words of this declaration will live in the world long after our bones are dust. To the mechanic in his workshop they will speak hope; to the slave in the mines, freedom; but to the coward-kings, these words will speak in tones of warning they cannot choose but hear.“They will be terrible as the flaming syllables on Belshazzar’s wall! They will speak in language startling as the trump of the Archangel, saying: ‘You have trampled on mankind long enough! At last the voice of human woe has pierced the ear of God, andcalled His judgment down! You have waded to thrones through rivers of blood; you have trampled on the necks of millions of fellow-beings. Now kings, now purple hangmen, foryoucome the days of axes and gibbets and scaffolds.’“Such is the message of that declaration to mankind, to the kings of earth. And shall we falter now? And shall we start back appalled when our feet touch the very threshold of Freedom?“Sign that parchment! Sign, if the next moment the gibbet’s rope is about your neck! Sign, if the next minute this hall rings with the clash of the falling axes! Sign by all your hopes in life or death as men, as husbands, as fathers, brothers, sign your names to the parchment, or be accursed forever!“Sign, and not only for yourselves, but for all ages, for that parchment will be the textbook of freedom—the Bible of the rights of men forever. Nay, do not start and whisper with surprise! It is truth, your own hearts witness it; God proclaims it. Look at this strange history of a band of exiles and outcasts, suddenly transformed into a people—a handful of men weak in arms—but mighty in God-like faith; nay, look at your recent achievements, your Bunker Hill, your Lexington, and then tell me, if you can, that God has not given America to be free!“It is not given to our poor human intellect to climb to the skies, and to pierce the councils of the Almighty One. But methinks I stand among the awful clouds which veil the brightness of Jehovah’s throne.“Methinks I see the recording angel come trembling up to that throne to speak his dread message. ‘Father, the old world is baptized in blood. Father, look with one glance of thine eternal eye, and behold evermore that terrible sight, man trodden beneath the oppressor’s feet, nations lost in blood, murder and superstition walking hand in hand over the graves of their victims, and not a single voice to whisper hope to man!’“He stands there, the angel, trembling with the record of human guilt. But hark! The voice of Jehovah speaks out from the awful cloud: ‘Let there be light again! Tell my people, the poor and oppressed, to go out from the old world, from oppression and blood, and build my altar in the new!’“As I live, my friends, I believe that to be His voice! Yes, were my soul trembling on the verge of eternity, were this hand freezing in death, were this voice choking in the last struggle, I would still with the last impulse of that soul, with the last wave of that hand, with the last gasp of that voice, implore you to remember this truth—God has given America to be free! Yes, as I sank into the gloomy shadows of the grave, with my last faint whisper I would beg you to sign that parchment for the sake of the millions whose very breath is now hushed in intense expectation as they look up to you for the awful words, ‘You are free!’”The unknown speaker fell exhausted in his seat; but the work was done.A wild murmur runs through the hall. “Sign!” There is no doubt now. Look how they rush forward! Stout-hearted John Hancock has scarcely time to sign his bold name before the pen is grasped by another—another and another. Look how the names blaze on the parchment! Adams and Lee, Jefferson and Carroll, Franklin and Sherman.And now the parchment is signed.Now, old man in the steeple, now bare your arm and let the bell speak! Hark to the music of that bell! Is there not a poetry in that sound, a poetry more sublime than that of Shakespeare and Milton? Is there not a music in that sound that reminds you of thosesublime tones which broke from angel lips when the news of the child Jesus burst on the hill-tops of Bethlehem? For the tones of that bell now come pealing, pealing, pealing, “Independence now and Independence forever.”

It is the Fourth day of July, 1776.

In the old State House in the city of Philadelphia are gathered half a hundred men to strike from their limbs the shackles of British despotism. There is silence in the hall—every face is turned toward the door where the committee of three, who have been out all night penning a parchment, are soon to enter. The door opens, the committee appears. The tall man with the sharp features, the bold brow, and the sand-hued hair, holding the parchment in his hand, is a Virginia farmer, Thomas Jefferson. That stout-built man with stern look and flashing eye, is a Boston man, one John Adams. And that calm-faced man with hair drooping in thick curls to his shoulders, that is the Philadelphia printer, Benjamin Franklin.

The three advance to the table.

The parchment is laid there.

Shall it be signed or not? A fierce debate ensues, Jefferson speaks a few bold words. Adams pours out his whole soul. The deep-toned voice of Lee is heard, swelling in syllables of thunder like music. But still there is doubt, and one pale-faced man whispers something about axes, scaffolds and a gibbet.

“Gibbet?” echoed a fierce, bold voice through the hall. “Gibbet? They may stretch our necks on all the gibbets in the land; they may turn every rock into a scaffold; every tree into a gallows; every home into a grave, and yet the words of that parchment there can never die! They may pour our blood on a thousand scaffolds, and yet from every drop that dyes the axe a new champion of freedom will spring into birth. The British King may blot out the stars of God from the sky, but he cannot blot out His words written on that parchment there. The works of God may perish. His words never!

“The words of this declaration will live in the world long after our bones are dust. To the mechanic in his workshop they will speak hope; to the slave in the mines, freedom; but to the coward-kings, these words will speak in tones of warning they cannot choose but hear.

“They will be terrible as the flaming syllables on Belshazzar’s wall! They will speak in language startling as the trump of the Archangel, saying: ‘You have trampled on mankind long enough! At last the voice of human woe has pierced the ear of God, andcalled His judgment down! You have waded to thrones through rivers of blood; you have trampled on the necks of millions of fellow-beings. Now kings, now purple hangmen, foryoucome the days of axes and gibbets and scaffolds.’

“Such is the message of that declaration to mankind, to the kings of earth. And shall we falter now? And shall we start back appalled when our feet touch the very threshold of Freedom?

“Sign that parchment! Sign, if the next moment the gibbet’s rope is about your neck! Sign, if the next minute this hall rings with the clash of the falling axes! Sign by all your hopes in life or death as men, as husbands, as fathers, brothers, sign your names to the parchment, or be accursed forever!

“Sign, and not only for yourselves, but for all ages, for that parchment will be the textbook of freedom—the Bible of the rights of men forever. Nay, do not start and whisper with surprise! It is truth, your own hearts witness it; God proclaims it. Look at this strange history of a band of exiles and outcasts, suddenly transformed into a people—a handful of men weak in arms—but mighty in God-like faith; nay, look at your recent achievements, your Bunker Hill, your Lexington, and then tell me, if you can, that God has not given America to be free!

“It is not given to our poor human intellect to climb to the skies, and to pierce the councils of the Almighty One. But methinks I stand among the awful clouds which veil the brightness of Jehovah’s throne.

“Methinks I see the recording angel come trembling up to that throne to speak his dread message. ‘Father, the old world is baptized in blood. Father, look with one glance of thine eternal eye, and behold evermore that terrible sight, man trodden beneath the oppressor’s feet, nations lost in blood, murder and superstition walking hand in hand over the graves of their victims, and not a single voice to whisper hope to man!’

“He stands there, the angel, trembling with the record of human guilt. But hark! The voice of Jehovah speaks out from the awful cloud: ‘Let there be light again! Tell my people, the poor and oppressed, to go out from the old world, from oppression and blood, and build my altar in the new!’

“As I live, my friends, I believe that to be His voice! Yes, were my soul trembling on the verge of eternity, were this hand freezing in death, were this voice choking in the last struggle, I would still with the last impulse of that soul, with the last wave of that hand, with the last gasp of that voice, implore you to remember this truth—God has given America to be free! Yes, as I sank into the gloomy shadows of the grave, with my last faint whisper I would beg you to sign that parchment for the sake of the millions whose very breath is now hushed in intense expectation as they look up to you for the awful words, ‘You are free!’”

The unknown speaker fell exhausted in his seat; but the work was done.

A wild murmur runs through the hall. “Sign!” There is no doubt now. Look how they rush forward! Stout-hearted John Hancock has scarcely time to sign his bold name before the pen is grasped by another—another and another. Look how the names blaze on the parchment! Adams and Lee, Jefferson and Carroll, Franklin and Sherman.

And now the parchment is signed.

Now, old man in the steeple, now bare your arm and let the bell speak! Hark to the music of that bell! Is there not a poetry in that sound, a poetry more sublime than that of Shakespeare and Milton? Is there not a music in that sound that reminds you of thosesublime tones which broke from angel lips when the news of the child Jesus burst on the hill-tops of Bethlehem? For the tones of that bell now come pealing, pealing, pealing, “Independence now and Independence forever.”

It used to be a custom to have a man go through the town ringing a bell and “crying” any thing was lost. You should imitate the crier, at the same time swinging your hand as if ringing a bell. This selection requires a great variety in the manner, pitch of the voice and gestures of the reader.

“Nine,” by the Cathedral clock!Chill the air with rising damps;Drearily from block to blockIn the gloom the bellman tramps—“Child lost! Child lost!Blue eyes, curly hair,Pink dress—child lost!”Something in the doleful strainMakes the dullest listener start;And a sympathetic painShoot to every feeling heart.Anxious fathers homeward haste,Musing with paternal prideOf their daughters, happy-faced,Silken-haired and sparkling-eyed.Many a tender mother seesYounglings playing round her chair,Thinking, “If ’twere one of these,How could I the anguish bear?”“Ten,” the old Cathedral sounds;Dark and gloomy are the streets;Still the bellman goes his rounds,Still his doleful cry repeats—“Oh, yes! oh, yes!Child lost! Blue eyes,Curly hair, pink dress—Child lost! Child lost!”“Can’t my little one be found?Are there any tidings, friend?”Cries the mother, “Is she drowned?Is she stolen? God forfend!Search the commons, search the parks,Search the doorway and the halls,Search the alleys, foul and dark,Search the empty market stalls.Here is gold and silver—see!Take it all and welcome, man;Only bring my child to me,Let me have my child again.”Hark! the old Cathedral bellPeals “eleven,” and it soundsTo the mother like a knell;Still the bellman goes his rounds.“Child lost! Child lost!Blue eyes, curly hair,Pink dress—child lost!”Half aroused from dreams of peace,Many hear the lonesome call,Then into their beds of easeInto deeper slumber fall;But the anxious mother cries,“Oh, my darling’s curly hair!Oh, her sweetly-smiling eyes!Have you sought her everywhere?Long and agonizing dreadChills my heart and drives me wild—What if Minnie should be dead?God, in mercy, find my child!”“Twelve” by the Cathedral clock;Dimly shine the midnight lamps;Drearily from block to block,In the rain the bellman tramps.“Child lost! Child lost!Blue eyes, curly hair,Pink dress—child lost!”

“Nine,” by the Cathedral clock!

Chill the air with rising damps;

Drearily from block to block

In the gloom the bellman tramps—

“Child lost! Child lost!

Blue eyes, curly hair,

Pink dress—child lost!”

Something in the doleful strainMakes the dullest listener start;And a sympathetic painShoot to every feeling heart.Anxious fathers homeward haste,Musing with paternal prideOf their daughters, happy-faced,Silken-haired and sparkling-eyed.Many a tender mother seesYounglings playing round her chair,Thinking, “If ’twere one of these,How could I the anguish bear?”

Something in the doleful strain

Makes the dullest listener start;

And a sympathetic pain

Shoot to every feeling heart.

Anxious fathers homeward haste,

Musing with paternal pride

Of their daughters, happy-faced,

Silken-haired and sparkling-eyed.

Many a tender mother sees

Younglings playing round her chair,

Thinking, “If ’twere one of these,

How could I the anguish bear?”

“Ten,” the old Cathedral sounds;Dark and gloomy are the streets;Still the bellman goes his rounds,Still his doleful cry repeats—“Oh, yes! oh, yes!Child lost! Blue eyes,Curly hair, pink dress—Child lost! Child lost!”

“Ten,” the old Cathedral sounds;

Dark and gloomy are the streets;

Still the bellman goes his rounds,

Still his doleful cry repeats—

“Oh, yes! oh, yes!

Child lost! Blue eyes,

Curly hair, pink dress—

Child lost! Child lost!”

“Can’t my little one be found?Are there any tidings, friend?”Cries the mother, “Is she drowned?Is she stolen? God forfend!Search the commons, search the parks,Search the doorway and the halls,Search the alleys, foul and dark,Search the empty market stalls.Here is gold and silver—see!Take it all and welcome, man;Only bring my child to me,Let me have my child again.”

“Can’t my little one be found?

Are there any tidings, friend?”

Cries the mother, “Is she drowned?

Is she stolen? God forfend!

Search the commons, search the parks,

Search the doorway and the halls,

Search the alleys, foul and dark,

Search the empty market stalls.

Here is gold and silver—see!

Take it all and welcome, man;

Only bring my child to me,

Let me have my child again.”

Hark! the old Cathedral bellPeals “eleven,” and it soundsTo the mother like a knell;Still the bellman goes his rounds.“Child lost! Child lost!Blue eyes, curly hair,Pink dress—child lost!”

Hark! the old Cathedral bell

Peals “eleven,” and it sounds

To the mother like a knell;

Still the bellman goes his rounds.

“Child lost! Child lost!

Blue eyes, curly hair,

Pink dress—child lost!”

Half aroused from dreams of peace,Many hear the lonesome call,Then into their beds of easeInto deeper slumber fall;But the anxious mother cries,“Oh, my darling’s curly hair!Oh, her sweetly-smiling eyes!Have you sought her everywhere?Long and agonizing dreadChills my heart and drives me wild—What if Minnie should be dead?God, in mercy, find my child!”

Half aroused from dreams of peace,

Many hear the lonesome call,

Then into their beds of ease

Into deeper slumber fall;

But the anxious mother cries,

“Oh, my darling’s curly hair!

Oh, her sweetly-smiling eyes!

Have you sought her everywhere?

Long and agonizing dread

Chills my heart and drives me wild—

What if Minnie should be dead?

God, in mercy, find my child!”

“Twelve” by the Cathedral clock;Dimly shine the midnight lamps;Drearily from block to block,In the rain the bellman tramps.“Child lost! Child lost!Blue eyes, curly hair,Pink dress—child lost!”

“Twelve” by the Cathedral clock;

Dimly shine the midnight lamps;

Drearily from block to block,

In the rain the bellman tramps.

“Child lost! Child lost!

Blue eyes, curly hair,

Pink dress—child lost!”

Spin us a yarn of the sea, old man,About some captain bold,Who steered his ship and made her slipWhen the sea and the thunder rolled;Some tale that will stir the blood, you know,Like the pirate tales of old.“It was the old ‘tramp’ Malabar,With coal for Singapore;‘The captain stood upon the bridge’And loud the wind did roar,And far upon the starboard bowWe saw the stormy shore.“The night came down as black as pitch;More loud the wind did blow;The waves made wreck around the deckAnd washed us to and fro;But half the crew, though wild it blew,Were sleeping down below.“‘The captain stood upon the bridge,’And I was at the wheel;The waves were piling all around,Which made the old ‘tank’ reel,When—smash! there came an awful crashThat shook the ribs of steel.“‘We’ve struck a wreck!’ ‘Stand by the pumps!’Her plates were gaping wide;And out her blood streamed in the flood,The wreck had bruised her side;Her coal poured out—her inky blood—And stained the foaming tide.“‘The captain stood upon the bridge,’The firemen down below;He saw and knew what he could do,While they but heard the blow.The bravest man is he that standsAgainst an unseen foe.“‘All hands on deck!’ was now the cry,‘For we are sinking fast;Our boats were stove by that last wave—This night will be our last;There’s not a plank on board the tank,She’s steel, from keel to mast.’“‘The captain stood upon the bridge;’All hands were now on deck;The waves went down, the sun came up,We saw the drifting wreck,And there, upon the starboard bow,The land—a distant speck.“‘Who’ll go below and fire her up?”The captain loud did roar.‘We’re dumping coal with every roll,But, see! the storm is o’er;And I will stand upon the bridge,And guide her to the shore.’“‘I’ll go for one,’ said old ‘Tramp Jim,’‘And shovel in the coal.I’ll go,’ said Jim, all black and grim,‘Though death be down that hole;I’ve heard a man who dies for menIs sure to save his soul.“‘So turn the steam into that mill,And let it spin around,And I will feed the old thing coalTill you be hard aground;I’ll go alone, there’s none to moan,If old ‘Tramp Jim’ be drowned!’“He went below and fired her up,The steam began to roar;‘The captain stood upon the bridge’And steered her for the shore;The ship was sinking by the bow,Her race was nearly o’er.“The water rose around poor Jim,Down in the fire-room there.‘I’ll shovel in the coal,’ he gasped,‘’Till the water wets me hair—The Lord must take me as I am,I have no time for prayer.’“‘The captain stood upon the bridge.’(Oh, hang that phrase, I say!‘The firemen bravely stood below,’Suits more this time of day,)Old Jim kept shovelling in the coal,Though it was time to pray.“And every soul was saved, my lads,Why do I speak it low?The Lord took Jim, all black and grim,And made him white as snow.Some say, ‘the captain on the bridge,’But I say, ‘Jim below!’”W. B. Collison.

Spin us a yarn of the sea, old man,

About some captain bold,

Who steered his ship and made her slip

When the sea and the thunder rolled;

Some tale that will stir the blood, you know,

Like the pirate tales of old.

“It was the old ‘tramp’ Malabar,With coal for Singapore;‘The captain stood upon the bridge’And loud the wind did roar,And far upon the starboard bowWe saw the stormy shore.

“It was the old ‘tramp’ Malabar,

With coal for Singapore;

‘The captain stood upon the bridge’

And loud the wind did roar,

And far upon the starboard bow

We saw the stormy shore.

“The night came down as black as pitch;More loud the wind did blow;The waves made wreck around the deckAnd washed us to and fro;But half the crew, though wild it blew,Were sleeping down below.

“The night came down as black as pitch;

More loud the wind did blow;

The waves made wreck around the deck

And washed us to and fro;

But half the crew, though wild it blew,

Were sleeping down below.

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge,’And I was at the wheel;The waves were piling all around,Which made the old ‘tank’ reel,When—smash! there came an awful crashThat shook the ribs of steel.

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge,’

And I was at the wheel;

The waves were piling all around,

Which made the old ‘tank’ reel,

When—smash! there came an awful crash

That shook the ribs of steel.

“‘We’ve struck a wreck!’ ‘Stand by the pumps!’Her plates were gaping wide;And out her blood streamed in the flood,The wreck had bruised her side;Her coal poured out—her inky blood—And stained the foaming tide.

“‘We’ve struck a wreck!’ ‘Stand by the pumps!’

Her plates were gaping wide;

And out her blood streamed in the flood,

The wreck had bruised her side;

Her coal poured out—her inky blood—

And stained the foaming tide.

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge,’The firemen down below;He saw and knew what he could do,While they but heard the blow.The bravest man is he that standsAgainst an unseen foe.

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge,’

The firemen down below;

He saw and knew what he could do,

While they but heard the blow.

The bravest man is he that stands

Against an unseen foe.

“‘All hands on deck!’ was now the cry,‘For we are sinking fast;Our boats were stove by that last wave—This night will be our last;There’s not a plank on board the tank,She’s steel, from keel to mast.’

“‘All hands on deck!’ was now the cry,

‘For we are sinking fast;

Our boats were stove by that last wave—

This night will be our last;

There’s not a plank on board the tank,

She’s steel, from keel to mast.’

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge;’All hands were now on deck;The waves went down, the sun came up,We saw the drifting wreck,And there, upon the starboard bow,The land—a distant speck.

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge;’

All hands were now on deck;

The waves went down, the sun came up,

We saw the drifting wreck,

And there, upon the starboard bow,

The land—a distant speck.

“‘Who’ll go below and fire her up?”The captain loud did roar.‘We’re dumping coal with every roll,But, see! the storm is o’er;And I will stand upon the bridge,And guide her to the shore.’

“‘Who’ll go below and fire her up?”

The captain loud did roar.

‘We’re dumping coal with every roll,

But, see! the storm is o’er;

And I will stand upon the bridge,

And guide her to the shore.’

“‘I’ll go for one,’ said old ‘Tramp Jim,’‘And shovel in the coal.I’ll go,’ said Jim, all black and grim,‘Though death be down that hole;I’ve heard a man who dies for menIs sure to save his soul.

“‘I’ll go for one,’ said old ‘Tramp Jim,’

‘And shovel in the coal.

I’ll go,’ said Jim, all black and grim,

‘Though death be down that hole;

I’ve heard a man who dies for men

Is sure to save his soul.

“‘So turn the steam into that mill,And let it spin around,And I will feed the old thing coalTill you be hard aground;I’ll go alone, there’s none to moan,If old ‘Tramp Jim’ be drowned!’

“‘So turn the steam into that mill,

And let it spin around,

And I will feed the old thing coal

Till you be hard aground;

I’ll go alone, there’s none to moan,

If old ‘Tramp Jim’ be drowned!’

“He went below and fired her up,The steam began to roar;‘The captain stood upon the bridge’And steered her for the shore;The ship was sinking by the bow,Her race was nearly o’er.

“He went below and fired her up,

The steam began to roar;

‘The captain stood upon the bridge’

And steered her for the shore;

The ship was sinking by the bow,

Her race was nearly o’er.

“The water rose around poor Jim,Down in the fire-room there.‘I’ll shovel in the coal,’ he gasped,‘’Till the water wets me hair—The Lord must take me as I am,I have no time for prayer.’

“The water rose around poor Jim,

Down in the fire-room there.

‘I’ll shovel in the coal,’ he gasped,

‘’Till the water wets me hair—

The Lord must take me as I am,

I have no time for prayer.’

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge.’(Oh, hang that phrase, I say!‘The firemen bravely stood below,’Suits more this time of day,)Old Jim kept shovelling in the coal,Though it was time to pray.

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge.’

(Oh, hang that phrase, I say!

‘The firemen bravely stood below,’

Suits more this time of day,)

Old Jim kept shovelling in the coal,

Though it was time to pray.

“And every soul was saved, my lads,Why do I speak it low?The Lord took Jim, all black and grim,And made him white as snow.Some say, ‘the captain on the bridge,’But I say, ‘Jim below!’”

“And every soul was saved, my lads,

Why do I speak it low?

The Lord took Jim, all black and grim,

And made him white as snow.

Some say, ‘the captain on the bridge,’

But I say, ‘Jim below!’”

W. B. Collison.

This is one of many recitations in this volume that have proved their popularity by actual test. “The Face on the Floor,” when well recited, holds the hearers spell-bound.

’Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was thereThat well nigh filled Joe’s barroom on the corner of the square,And as songs and witty stories came through the open door;A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.“Where did it come from?” some one said;“The wind has blown it in.”“What does it want?” another cried, “Some whiskey, beer or gin?”“Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach’s equal to the work,I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s as filthy as a Turk.”This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace,In fact, he smiled as if he thought he’d struck the proper place;“Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd;To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.“Give me a drink! That’s what I want, I’m out of funds, you know,When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow;What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou;I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.“There, thanks, that braced me nicely, God bless you, one and all,Next time I pass this good saloon I’ll make another call;Give you a song? No, I can’t do that, my singing days are past,My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out and my lungs are going fast.“Say, give me another whiskey and I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too;That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think,But I was, some four or five years back, say, give us another drink.“Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame—Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;Five fingers—there, that’s the scheme—and corking whiskey, too,Well, boys, here’s luck, and landlord, my best regards to you.“You’ve treated me pretty kindly and I’d like to tell you howI came to be the dirty sot you see before you now;As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health,And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.“I was a painter—not one that daubed on bricks and wood.But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good;I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise;For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.“I made a picture, perhaps you’ve seen, ’tis called the Chase of Fame;It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name;And then, I met a woman—now comes the funny part—With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.“Why don’t you laugh? ’Tis funny that the vagabond you seeCould ever love a woman and expect her love for me;But ’twas so, and for a month or two her smile was freely given;And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven.“Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you’d give,With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live,With eyes that would beat the Kohinoor and a wealth of chestnut hair?If so, ’twas she, for there never was another half so fair.“I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May,Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine who lived across the way,And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise,Said that she’d like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.“It didn’t take long to know him, and before the month had flown;My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone;And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead.“That’s why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile,I thought you’d be amused and laughing all the while;Why, what’s the matter, friend? There’s a teardrop in your eye,Come, laugh like me, ’tis only babes and women that should cry.“Say, boys, if you’ll give me another whiskey, I’ll be glad,And I’ll draw right here, the picture of the face that drove me mad;Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the base-ball score—And you shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar-room floor.”Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond beganTo sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man,Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture—dead.H. Antoine D’Arcy.

’Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there

That well nigh filled Joe’s barroom on the corner of the square,

And as songs and witty stories came through the open door;

A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

“Where did it come from?” some one said;“The wind has blown it in.”“What does it want?” another cried, “Some whiskey, beer or gin?”“Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach’s equal to the work,I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s as filthy as a Turk.”

“Where did it come from?” some one said;

“The wind has blown it in.”

“What does it want?” another cried, “Some whiskey, beer or gin?”

“Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach’s equal to the work,

I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s as filthy as a Turk.”

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace,In fact, he smiled as if he thought he’d struck the proper place;“Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd;To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace,

In fact, he smiled as if he thought he’d struck the proper place;

“Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd;

To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

“Give me a drink! That’s what I want, I’m out of funds, you know,When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow;What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou;I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

“Give me a drink! That’s what I want, I’m out of funds, you know,

When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow;

What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou;

I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

“There, thanks, that braced me nicely, God bless you, one and all,Next time I pass this good saloon I’ll make another call;Give you a song? No, I can’t do that, my singing days are past,My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out and my lungs are going fast.

“There, thanks, that braced me nicely, God bless you, one and all,

Next time I pass this good saloon I’ll make another call;

Give you a song? No, I can’t do that, my singing days are past,

My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out and my lungs are going fast.

“Say, give me another whiskey and I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too;That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think,But I was, some four or five years back, say, give us another drink.

“Say, give me another whiskey and I’ll tell you what I’ll do—

I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too;

That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think,

But I was, some four or five years back, say, give us another drink.

“Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame—Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;Five fingers—there, that’s the scheme—and corking whiskey, too,Well, boys, here’s luck, and landlord, my best regards to you.

“Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame—

Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;

Five fingers—there, that’s the scheme—and corking whiskey, too,

Well, boys, here’s luck, and landlord, my best regards to you.

“You’ve treated me pretty kindly and I’d like to tell you howI came to be the dirty sot you see before you now;As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health,And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

“You’ve treated me pretty kindly and I’d like to tell you how

I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now;

As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health,

And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

“I was a painter—not one that daubed on bricks and wood.But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good;I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise;For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

“I was a painter—not one that daubed on bricks and wood.

But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good;

I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise;

For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

“I made a picture, perhaps you’ve seen, ’tis called the Chase of Fame;It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name;And then, I met a woman—now comes the funny part—With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

“I made a picture, perhaps you’ve seen, ’tis called the Chase of Fame;

It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name;

And then, I met a woman—now comes the funny part—

With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

“Why don’t you laugh? ’Tis funny that the vagabond you seeCould ever love a woman and expect her love for me;But ’twas so, and for a month or two her smile was freely given;And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven.

“Why don’t you laugh? ’Tis funny that the vagabond you see

Could ever love a woman and expect her love for me;

But ’twas so, and for a month or two her smile was freely given;

And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven.

“Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you’d give,With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live,With eyes that would beat the Kohinoor and a wealth of chestnut hair?If so, ’twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

“Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you’d give,

With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live,

With eyes that would beat the Kohinoor and a wealth of chestnut hair?

If so, ’twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

“I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May,Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine who lived across the way,And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise,Said that she’d like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

“I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May,

Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine who lived across the way,

And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise,

Said that she’d like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

“It didn’t take long to know him, and before the month had flown;My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone;And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead.

“It didn’t take long to know him, and before the month had flown;

My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone;

And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,

The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead.

“That’s why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile,I thought you’d be amused and laughing all the while;Why, what’s the matter, friend? There’s a teardrop in your eye,Come, laugh like me, ’tis only babes and women that should cry.

“That’s why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile,

I thought you’d be amused and laughing all the while;

Why, what’s the matter, friend? There’s a teardrop in your eye,

Come, laugh like me, ’tis only babes and women that should cry.

“Say, boys, if you’ll give me another whiskey, I’ll be glad,And I’ll draw right here, the picture of the face that drove me mad;Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the base-ball score—And you shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar-room floor.”

“Say, boys, if you’ll give me another whiskey, I’ll be glad,

And I’ll draw right here, the picture of the face that drove me mad;

Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the base-ball score—

And you shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar-room floor.”

Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond beganTo sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man,Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture—dead.

Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began

To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man,

Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,

With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture—dead.

H. Antoine D’Arcy.

Han’som, stranger? Yes, she’s purty an’ ez peart ez she can be.Clever? Wy! she ain’t no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me.What’s her name? ’Tis kind o’ common, yit I ain’t ashamed to tell,She’s ole “Fiddler” Filkin’s daughter, an’ her dad he calls her “Nell.”I wuz drivin’ on the “Central” jist about a year agoOn the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe.There’s no end o’ skeery places. ’Taint a road fur one who dreams,With its curves an’ awful tres’les over rocks an’ mountain streams.’Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hourAn’ wuz tearin’ up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower,Round the bends an’ by the hedges ’bout ez fast ez we could go,With the mountain-peaks above us an’ the river down below.Ez we come nigh to a tres’le ’cros’t a holler, deep an’ wild,Suddenly I saw a baby, ’twuz the stationkeeper’s child,Toddlin’ right along the timbers with a bold and fearless treadRight afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead.I jist jumped an’ grabbed the throttle an’ I fa’rly held my breath,Fur I felt I couldn’t stop her till the child wuz crushed to death,When a woman sprang afore me like a sudden streak o’ light,Caught the boy and twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight.I jist whis’l’d all the brakes on. An’ we worked with might an’ mainTill the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn’t stop the train,An’ it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled byAn’ the river roared below us—I shall hear her till I die!Then we stop’t; the sun was shinin’; I ran back along the ridgeAn’ I found her—dead? No! livin’! She wuz hangin’ to the bridgeWher she drop’t down thro’ the cross-ties with one arm about a sillAn’ the other round the baby, who wuz yellin’ fur to kill!So we saved ’em. She wuz gritty. She’s ez peart ez she kin be—Now we’re married; she’s no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me,An’ ef eny ask who owns her, wy! I ain’t ashamed to tell—She’s my wife. Ther’ ain’t none better than ole Filkin’s daughter “Nell.”Eugene J. Hall.

Han’som, stranger? Yes, she’s purty an’ ez peart ez she can be.

Clever? Wy! she ain’t no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me.

What’s her name? ’Tis kind o’ common, yit I ain’t ashamed to tell,

She’s ole “Fiddler” Filkin’s daughter, an’ her dad he calls her “Nell.”

I wuz drivin’ on the “Central” jist about a year agoOn the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe.There’s no end o’ skeery places. ’Taint a road fur one who dreams,With its curves an’ awful tres’les over rocks an’ mountain streams.

I wuz drivin’ on the “Central” jist about a year ago

On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe.

There’s no end o’ skeery places. ’Taint a road fur one who dreams,

With its curves an’ awful tres’les over rocks an’ mountain streams.

’Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hourAn’ wuz tearin’ up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower,Round the bends an’ by the hedges ’bout ez fast ez we could go,With the mountain-peaks above us an’ the river down below.

’Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hour

An’ wuz tearin’ up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower,

Round the bends an’ by the hedges ’bout ez fast ez we could go,

With the mountain-peaks above us an’ the river down below.

Ez we come nigh to a tres’le ’cros’t a holler, deep an’ wild,Suddenly I saw a baby, ’twuz the stationkeeper’s child,Toddlin’ right along the timbers with a bold and fearless treadRight afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead.

Ez we come nigh to a tres’le ’cros’t a holler, deep an’ wild,

Suddenly I saw a baby, ’twuz the stationkeeper’s child,

Toddlin’ right along the timbers with a bold and fearless tread

Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead.

I jist jumped an’ grabbed the throttle an’ I fa’rly held my breath,Fur I felt I couldn’t stop her till the child wuz crushed to death,When a woman sprang afore me like a sudden streak o’ light,Caught the boy and twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight.

I jist jumped an’ grabbed the throttle an’ I fa’rly held my breath,

Fur I felt I couldn’t stop her till the child wuz crushed to death,

When a woman sprang afore me like a sudden streak o’ light,

Caught the boy and twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight.

I jist whis’l’d all the brakes on. An’ we worked with might an’ mainTill the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn’t stop the train,An’ it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled byAn’ the river roared below us—I shall hear her till I die!

I jist whis’l’d all the brakes on. An’ we worked with might an’ main

Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn’t stop the train,

An’ it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by

An’ the river roared below us—I shall hear her till I die!

Then we stop’t; the sun was shinin’; I ran back along the ridgeAn’ I found her—dead? No! livin’! She wuz hangin’ to the bridgeWher she drop’t down thro’ the cross-ties with one arm about a sillAn’ the other round the baby, who wuz yellin’ fur to kill!

Then we stop’t; the sun was shinin’; I ran back along the ridge

An’ I found her—dead? No! livin’! She wuz hangin’ to the bridge

Wher she drop’t down thro’ the cross-ties with one arm about a sill

An’ the other round the baby, who wuz yellin’ fur to kill!

So we saved ’em. She wuz gritty. She’s ez peart ez she kin be—Now we’re married; she’s no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me,An’ ef eny ask who owns her, wy! I ain’t ashamed to tell—She’s my wife. Ther’ ain’t none better than ole Filkin’s daughter “Nell.”

So we saved ’em. She wuz gritty. She’s ez peart ez she kin be—

Now we’re married; she’s no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me,

An’ ef eny ask who owns her, wy! I ain’t ashamed to tell—

She’s my wife. Ther’ ain’t none better than ole Filkin’s daughter “Nell.”

Eugene J. Hall.

He was jes’ a plain, ever’-day, all-round kind of a jour.,Consumpted lookin’—but la!The jokeyest, wittyest, story-tellin’, song-singin’, laughin’est, jolliestFeller you ever saw!Worked at jes’ coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his talk,And his feelin’s, too!Lordy! ef he was on’y back on his bench again to-day, a carryin’ onLike he ust to do!Any shop-mate’ll tell you they never was on top o’dirtA better feller’n Jim!You want a favor, and couldn’t git it anywheres else—You could git it o’ him!Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess!Give ever’ nickel he’s worth—And, ef you’d a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his,He’d a-give you the earth!Allus a-reachin’ out, Jim was and a-helpin’ somePoor feller onto his feet—He’d a-never a-keered how hungry he was his se’f.So’s the feller got somepin to eat!Didn’t make no difference at all to him how he was dressed,He used to say to me:“You tog out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time,And he’ll git along!” says he.Jim didn’t have, nor never could git ahead, so overly muchO’ this world’s goods at a time—’Fore now I’ve saw him, more’n onc’t lend a dollar and ha’f toTurn ’round and borry a dime!Mebby laugh and joke about hisse’f fer awhile—then jerk his coat,And kind o’ square his chin,Tie his apern, and squat hisse’f on his old shoe benchAnd go peggin’ agin.Patientest feller, too, I reckon, at every jes’ naturallyCoughed hisse’f to death!Long enough after his voice was lost he’d laugh and say,He could git ever’thing but his breath—“You fellers,” he’d sort o’ twinkle his eyes and say,“Is pilin’ onto meA mighty big debt for that air little weak-chested ghost o’ mine to packThrough all eternity!”Now there was a man ’at jes’ ’peared like to me,’At ortn’t a-never died!“But death hain’t a-showin’ no favors,” the old boss said,“On’y to Jim,” and cried:And Wigger, ’at put up the best sewed work in the shop,Er the whole blamed neighborhood,He says, “When God made Jim, I bet you He didn’t do anything else that day,But jes’ set around and feel good.”James Whitcomb Riley.

He was jes’ a plain, ever’-day, all-round kind of a jour.,

Consumpted lookin’—but la!

The jokeyest, wittyest, story-tellin’, song-singin’, laughin’est, jolliest

Feller you ever saw!

Worked at jes’ coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his talk,

And his feelin’s, too!

Lordy! ef he was on’y back on his bench again to-day, a carryin’ on

Like he ust to do!

Any shop-mate’ll tell you they never was on top o’dirtA better feller’n Jim!You want a favor, and couldn’t git it anywheres else—You could git it o’ him!Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess!Give ever’ nickel he’s worth—And, ef you’d a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his,He’d a-give you the earth!

Any shop-mate’ll tell you they never was on top o’dirt

A better feller’n Jim!

You want a favor, and couldn’t git it anywheres else—

You could git it o’ him!

Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess!

Give ever’ nickel he’s worth—

And, ef you’d a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his,

He’d a-give you the earth!

Allus a-reachin’ out, Jim was and a-helpin’ somePoor feller onto his feet—He’d a-never a-keered how hungry he was his se’f.So’s the feller got somepin to eat!Didn’t make no difference at all to him how he was dressed,He used to say to me:“You tog out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time,And he’ll git along!” says he.

Allus a-reachin’ out, Jim was and a-helpin’ some

Poor feller onto his feet—

He’d a-never a-keered how hungry he was his se’f.

So’s the feller got somepin to eat!

Didn’t make no difference at all to him how he was dressed,

He used to say to me:

“You tog out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time,

And he’ll git along!” says he.

Jim didn’t have, nor never could git ahead, so overly muchO’ this world’s goods at a time—’Fore now I’ve saw him, more’n onc’t lend a dollar and ha’f toTurn ’round and borry a dime!Mebby laugh and joke about hisse’f fer awhile—then jerk his coat,And kind o’ square his chin,Tie his apern, and squat hisse’f on his old shoe benchAnd go peggin’ agin.

Jim didn’t have, nor never could git ahead, so overly much

O’ this world’s goods at a time—

’Fore now I’ve saw him, more’n onc’t lend a dollar and ha’f to

Turn ’round and borry a dime!

Mebby laugh and joke about hisse’f fer awhile—then jerk his coat,

And kind o’ square his chin,

Tie his apern, and squat hisse’f on his old shoe bench

And go peggin’ agin.

Patientest feller, too, I reckon, at every jes’ naturallyCoughed hisse’f to death!Long enough after his voice was lost he’d laugh and say,He could git ever’thing but his breath—“You fellers,” he’d sort o’ twinkle his eyes and say,“Is pilin’ onto meA mighty big debt for that air little weak-chested ghost o’ mine to packThrough all eternity!”

Patientest feller, too, I reckon, at every jes’ naturally

Coughed hisse’f to death!

Long enough after his voice was lost he’d laugh and say,

He could git ever’thing but his breath—

“You fellers,” he’d sort o’ twinkle his eyes and say,

“Is pilin’ onto me

A mighty big debt for that air little weak-chested ghost o’ mine to pack

Through all eternity!”

Now there was a man ’at jes’ ’peared like to me,’At ortn’t a-never died!“But death hain’t a-showin’ no favors,” the old boss said,“On’y to Jim,” and cried:And Wigger, ’at put up the best sewed work in the shop,Er the whole blamed neighborhood,He says, “When God made Jim, I bet you He didn’t do anything else that day,But jes’ set around and feel good.”

Now there was a man ’at jes’ ’peared like to me,

’At ortn’t a-never died!

“But death hain’t a-showin’ no favors,” the old boss said,

“On’y to Jim,” and cried:

And Wigger, ’at put up the best sewed work in the shop,

Er the whole blamed neighborhood,

He says, “When God made Jim, I bet you He didn’t do anything else that day,

But jes’ set around and feel good.”

James Whitcomb Riley.

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