First on the list is Washington, Virginia's proudest name;John Adams next, the Federalist, from Massachusetts came;Three sons of old Virginia into the White House go—'Twas Jefferson, and Madison, and then came James Monroe.Massachusetts for one term sent Adams called John Q.,And Tennessee a Democrat, brave Jackson staunch and true.Martin Van Buren of New York, and Harrison we see,And Tyler of Virginia, and Polk of Tennessee.Louisiana Taylor sent; New York Millard Fillmore;New Hampshire gave us Franklin Pierce; when his term was o'erThe keystone state Buchanan sent. War thunders shook the realmAbe Lincoln wore a martyr's crown, and Johnson took the helm.Then U.S. Grant of Illinois who ruled with sword and pen;And Hayes, and Garfield who was shot, two noble Buckeye men.Chester Arthur from New York, and Grover Cleveland came;Ben Harrison served just four years, then Cleveland ruled again.McKinley—shot at Buffalo—the nation plunged in grief,And "Teddy" Roosevelt of New York served seven years as chief.Taft of Ohio followed him. Then Woodrow Wilson came—New Jersey's learned Democrat; war set the world aflame;And when the tide of strife and hate its baneful course had run,The country went Republican and Warren Harding won.No duty would he shirk,—he died while on a western trip;Coolidge of Massachusetts then assumed the leadership.Isabel Ambler Gilman.
'Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good night" had been said,And Annie and Willie had crept into bed;There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes,And each little bosom was heaving with sighs,For to-night their stern father's command had been givenThat they should retire precisely at sevenInstead of at eight; for they troubled him moreWith questions unheard of than ever before;He had told them he thought this delusion a sin,No such being as Santa Claus ever had been,And he hoped, after this, he should never more hearHow he scrambled down chimneys with presents, each year,And this was the reason that two little headsSo restlessly tossed on their soft downy beds.Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten;Not a word had been spoken by either till then;When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep,And whispered, "Dear Annie, is oo fast asleep?""Why, no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies,"I've tried it in vain, but I can't shut my eyes;For somehow, it makes me so sorry becauseDear papa has said there is no Santa Claus;Now we know there is, and it can't be denied,For he came every year before mamma died;But then I've been thinking that she used to pray,And God would hear everything mamma would say;And perhaps she asked him to send Santa Claus hereWith the sacks full of presents he brought every year.""Well, why tant we pray dest as mamma did then,And ask Him to send him with presents aden?""I've been thinking so, too," and, without a word more,Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor,And four little knees the soft carpet pressed,And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast."Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believeThat the presents we ask for we're sure to receive;You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen,'And by that you will know that your turn has come then.Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me.And grant as the favor we are asking of Thee!I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring,And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring.Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to seeThat Santa Claus loves us far better than he;Don't let him get fretful and angry againAt dear brother Willie, and Annie, Amen!""Peas Desus 'et Santa Taus tum down to-night,And bing us some pesents before it is 'ight;I want he should div me a nice ittle sed,With bight, shiny unners, and all painted yed;A box full of tandy, a book and a toy—Amen—and then Desus, I'll be a dood boy."Their prayers being ended they raised up their heads,And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds;They were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep,And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck tenEre the father had thought of his children again;He seems now to hear Annie's half suppressed sighs,And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes."I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said,"And should not have sent them so early to bed;But then I was troubled,—my feelings found vent,For bank-stock to-day has gone down ten per cent.But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this,And that I denied them the thrice asked-for kiss;But just to make sure I'll steal up to their door,For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before."So saying, he softly ascended the stairs,And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers.His Annie's "bless papa" draws forth the big tears,And Willie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears."Strange, strange I'd forgotten," said he with a sigh,"How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh.I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said,"By answering their prayers, ere I sleep in my bed."Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down,Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown;Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street,A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet,Nor stopped he until he had bought everything,From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring.Indeed he kept adding so much to his storeThat the various presents outnumbered a score;Then homeward he turned with his holiday loadAnd with Aunt Mary's aid in the nursery 'twas stowed.Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine-tree,By the side of a table spread out for a tea;A work-box well filled in the centre was laid,And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed;A soldier in uniform stood by a sledWith bright shining runners, and all painted red;There were balls, dogs and horses, books pleasing to see,And birds of all colors—were perched in the tree,While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top,As if getting ready more presents to drop.And as the fond father the picture surveyed,He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid;And he said to himself as he brushed off a tear,"I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year,I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before—What care I if bank-stocks fall ten per cent more.Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe,To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas eve."So thinking he gently extinguished the light,And tripped down the stairs to retire for the night.As soon as the beams of the bright morning sunPut the darkness to flight, and the stars, one by one,Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide,And at the same moment the presents espied;Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound,And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found;They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee,And shouted for papa to come quick and seeWhat presents old Santa Claus brought in the night(Just the things that they wanted) and left before light;"And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low,"You'll believe there's a Santa, Clans, papa, I know";While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee,Determined no secret between them should be,And told in soft whispers how Annie had saidThat their blessed mamma, so long ago dead,Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair,And that God, up in heaven, had answered her prayer!"Then we dot up, and payed dust as well as we tould,And Dod answered our payers; now wasn't he dood?""I should say that he was if he sent you all these,And knew just what presents my children would please.Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf,'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself."Blind father! who caused your proud heart to relent,And the hasty word spoken so soon to repent?'Twas the Being who made you steal softly upstairs,And made you His agent to answer their prayers.Sophia P. Snow.
I wandered lonely where the pine-trees madeAgainst the bitter East their barricade,And, guided by its sweetPerfume, I found, within a narrow dell,The trailing spring flower tinted like a shellAmid dry leaves and mosses at my feet.From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pinesMoaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vinesLifted their glad surprise,While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless treesHis feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze,And snow-drifts lingered under April skies.As, pausing, o'er the lonely flower I bent,I thought of lives thus lowly clogged and pent,Which yet find room,Through care and cumber, coldness and decay,To lend a sweetness to the ungenial dayAnd make the sad earth happier for their bloom.J.G. Whittier.
Tho' yer lamp o' life is burnin' with a clear and steady light,An' it never seems ter flicker, but it's allers shinin' bright;Tho' it sheds its rays unbroken for a thousand happy days—Father Time is ever turnin' down the wick that feeds yer blaze.So it clearly is yer duty ef you've got a thing to doTer put yer shoulder to ther wheel an' try to push her through;Ef yer upon a wayward track you better turn about—You've lost ther chance to do itWhen theLightGoesOut.Speak kindly to the woman who is working fer yer praise,Ther same way as you used ter in those happy courtin' days;She likes appreciation just the same ez me an' you,And it's only right and proper that yer give her what is due.Don't wait until her lamp o' life is burnin' dim an' low,Afore you tell her what you orter told her long ago—Now's ther time ter cheer her up an' put her blues to rout—You've lost ther chance to do itWhen theLightGoesOut.Don't keep a-puttin' matters off an' settin' dates ahead—To-morrow's sun'll find a hundred thousand of us dead;Don't think because yer feelin well you won't be sick no more—Sometimes the reddest pippin has a worm-hole to the core.Don't let a killin' habit grow upon you soft and stillBecause you think thet you ken throw it from you at your will—Now's ther time ter quit it when yer feelin' brave an' stout—You've lost ther chance to do itWhen theLightGoesOut.I'd rather die with nothin' then ter hev ther people sayThat I had got my money in a robbin', graspin' way;No words above my restin' place from any tongue or penWould hev a deeper meanin' than "He helped his fellow-men."So ef you hev a fortune and you want to help the poor,Don't keep a-stavin' off until yon get a little more;Ef yer upon a miser's track you better turn about—Yer record keeps on burnin'When theLightGoesOut.Harry S. Chester.
An old lady sat in her old arm-chair,With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair,And pale and hunger-worn features;For days and for weeks her only fare,As she sat there in her old arm-chair,Had been potatoes.But now they were gone; of bad or good.Not one was left for the old lady's foodOf those potatoes;And she sighed and said, "What shall I do?Where shall I send, and to whom shall I goFor more potatoes?"And she thought of the deacon over the way,The deacon so ready to worship and pray,Whose cellar was full of potatoes;And she said: "I will send for the deacon to come;He'll not mind much to give me someOf such a store of potatoes."And the deacon came over as fast as he could,Thinking to do the old lady some good,But never thought of potatoes;He asked her at once what was her chief want,And she, simple soul, expecting a grant,Immediately answered, "Potatoes."But the deacon's religion didn't lie that way;He was more accustomed to preach and prayThan to give of his hoarded potatoes;So, not hearing, of course, what the old lady said,He rose to pray with uncovered head,Butsheonly thought of potatoes.He prayed for patience, and wisdom, and grace,But when he prayed, "Lord, give her peace,"She audibly sighed "Give potatoes";And at the end of each prayer which he said,He heard, or thought that he heard in its stead,The same request for potatoes.The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do;'Twas very embarrassing to have her act soAbout "those carnal potatoes."So, ending his prayer, he started for home;As the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan,"Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!"And that groan followed him all the way home;In the midst of the night it haunted his room—"Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!"He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed;From his well-filled cellar taking in hasteA bag of his best potatoes.Again he went to the widow's lone hut;Her sleepless eyes she had not shut;But there she sat in that old arm-chair,With the same wan features, the same sad air,And, entering in, he poured on the floorA bushel or more from his goodly storeOf choicest potatoes.The widow's cup was running o'er,Her face was haggard and wan no more."Now," said the deacon, "shall we pray?""Yes," said the widow, "nowyou may."And he kneeled him down on the sanded floor,Where he had poured his goodly store,And such a prayer the deacon prayedAs never before his lips essayed;No longer embarrassed, but free and full,He poured out the voice of a liberal soul,And the widow responded aloud "Amen!"But spake no more of potatoes.And would you, who hear this simple tale,Pray for the poor, and praying, "prevail"?Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds;Search out the poor, their wants and their needs;Pray for peace, and grace, and spiritual food,For wisdom and guidance,-for all these are good,—But don't forget the potatoes.J.T. Pettee.
Three little words you often seeAre articlesa,an, andthe.A noun's the name of anything,Ashouseorgarden,hooporswing.Instead of nouns the pronouns stand—Herhead,yourface,hisarm,myhand.Adjectives tell the kind of noun,Asgreat,small,pretty,whiteorbrown.Verbs tell something to be done—Toread,count,sing,laughorrun.How things are done the adverbs tell,Asslowly,quickly,illorwell.Conjunctions join the words together,As menandwomen, windorweather.The preposition stands beforeA noun, asinorthrougha door.The interjection shows surprise,Asoh!how pretty,ah!how wise.The whole are called nine parts of speech,Which reading, writing, speaking teach.
He came to my desk with, quivering lip—The lesson was done."Dear Teacher, I want a new leaf," he said,"I have spoiled this one."I took the old leaf, stained and blotted,And gave him a new one all unspotted,And into his sad eyes smiled,"Do better, now, my child."I went to the throne with a quivering soul—The old year was done."Dear Father, hast Thou a new leaf for me?I have spoiled this one."He took the old leaf, stained and blotted,And gave me a new one all unspotted,And into my sad heart smiled,"Do better, now, my child."Carrie Shaw Rice.
How are you hoeing your row, my boy?Say, how are you hoeing your row?Do you hoe it fair?Do you hoe it square?Do you hoe it the best that you know?Do you cut out the weeds as you ought to do?Do you plant what is beautiful there?For the harvest, you know,Will be just what you sow;Are you working it on the square?Say, are you killing the weeds, my boy?Are you hoeing your row neat and clean?Are you going straightAt a hustling gait?Are you cutting out all that is mean?Do you whistle and sing as you toil along?Are you finding your work a delight?If you do it this wayYou will gladden the day,And your row will be tended right.Hoeing your row with a will, my boy,And giving it thought and care,Will insure successAnd your efforts bless,As the crop to the garner you bear;For the world will look on as you hoe your row,And will judge you by that which you do;Therefore, try for first prize,Though your utmost it tries,For the harvest depends on you.T.B. Weaver.
Fling it from mast and steeple,Symbol o'er land and seaOf the life of a happy people,Gallant and strong and free.Proudly we view its colors,Flag of the brave and true,With the clustered stars and the steadfast bars,The red, the white, and the blue.Flag of the fearless-hearted,Flag of the broken chain,Flag in a day-dawn started,Never to pale or wane.Dearly we prize its colors,With the heaven light breaking through,The clustered stars and the steadfast bars,The red, the white, and the blue.Flag of the sturdy fathers,Flag of the loyal sons,Beneath its folds it gathersEarth's best and noblest ones.Boldly we wave its colors,Our veins are thrilled anewBy the steadfast bars, the clustered stars,The red, the white, and the blue.Margaret E. Sangster.
Hey! little evergreens,Sturdy and strong,Summer and autumn-timeHasten along.Harvest the sunbeams, then,Bind them in sheaves,Range them and change themTo tufts of green leaves.Delve in the mellow-mold,Far, far below.And so,Little evergreens, grow!Grow! Grow!Grow, little evergreens, grow!Up, up so airily,To the blue sky,Lift up your leafy tipsStately and high;Clasp tight your tiny cones,Tawny and brown,By and by buffetingRains will pelt down.By and by bitterlyChill winds will blow,And so,Little evergreens, grow!Grow! Grow!Grow, little evergreens, grow!Gather all uttermostBeauty, because,—Hark, till I tell it now!How Santa Claus,Out of the northern land,Over the seas,Soon shall come seeking you,Evergreen trees!Seek you with reindeer soon,Over the snow:And so,Little evergreens, grow!Grow! Grow!Grow, little evergreens, grow!What if the maple flareFlaunting and red,You shall wear waxen whiteTaper instead.What if now, otherwhere,Birds are beguiled,You shall yet nestleThe little Christ-Child.Ah! the strange splendorThe fir-trees shall know!And so,Little evergreens, grow!Grow! Grow!Grow, little evergreens, grow!Evaleen Stein.
The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more—And he worried about it.It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before—And he worried about it.It will surely give out, so the scientists saidIn all scientifical books he had read,And the whole boundless universe then will be dead—And he worried about it.And some day the earth will fall into the sun—And he worried about it—Just as sure and as straight as if shot from a gun—And he worried about it.When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps,"Just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse!It will come in a few million ages, perhaps"—And he worried about it.And the earth will become much too small for the race—And he worried about it—When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure space—And he worried about it.The earth will be crowded so much, without doubt,That there won't be room for one's tongue to stick out,Nor room for one's thought to wander about—And he worried about it.And the Gulf Stream will curve, and New England grow torrider—And he worried about it—Than was ever the climate of southernmost Florida—And he worried about it.Our ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens,And crocodiles block up our mowing-machines,And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans—And he worried about it.And in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt—And he worried about it—Our supply of lumber and coal will give out—And he worried about it.Just then the ice-age will return cold and raw,Frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched in awe,As if vainly beseeching a general thaw—And he worried about it.His wife took in washing—half a dollar a day—He didn't worry about it—His daughter sewed shirts the rude grocer to pay—He didn't worry about it.While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dubOn the washboard drum of her old wooden tub,He sat by the stoves and he just let her rub—He didn't worry about it.Sam Walter Foss.
No gilt or tinsel taints the dressOf him who holds the natal power,No weighty helmet's fastenings pressOn brow that shares Columbia's dower,No blaring trumpets mark the stepOf him with mind on peace intent,And so—HATS OFF! Here comes the State,A modest King:THE PRESIDENT.No cavalcade with galloping squadsSurrounds this man, whose mind controlsThe actions of the million mindsWhose hearts the starry banner folds;Instead, in simple garb he rides,The King to whom grim Fate has lentHer dower of righteousness and faithTo guide his will:THE PRESIDENT.The ancient lands are struck with awe,Here stands a power at which they scoffed,Kings, rulers, scribes of pristine states.Are dazed,—at Columbia they mocked;Yet human wills have forged new states,Their wills on justice full intent,And fashioned here a lowly King,The People's choice:THE PRESIDENT.War-ravaged, spent, and torn—old worldsWith hatred rent, turn to the West,"Give help!" they cry—"our souls are wracked,On every side our kingdom's pressed."And see! Columbia hastens forth,Her healing hand to peace is lent,Her sword unsheathed has forged the calm,Her sons sent byTHE PRESIDENT.Full many a storm has tossed the barqueSince first it had its maiden trip,Full many a conflagration's sparkHas scorched and seared the laboring ship;And yet it ploughs a straightway course,Through wrack of billows; wind-tossed, spent,On sails the troubled Ship of State,Steered forward byTHE PRESIDENT.STAND UP! HATS OFF! He's coming by,No roll of drums peals at his course,NOW GIVE A CHEER! He's part of you,Your will with his: the nation's force.And—as he passes—breathe a prayer,May justice to his mind be lent,And may the grace of Heaven be withThe man who rules:OUR PRESIDENT.Charles H.L. Johnston.