W'en you see a man in woe,Walk right up and say "Hullo!"Say "Hullo" and "How d'ye do?How's the world a-usin' you?"Slap the fellow on the back;Bring your hand down with a whack;Walk right up, and don't go slow;Grin an' shake, an' say "Hullo!"Is he clothed in rags? Oh! sho;Walk right up an' say "Hullo!"Rags is but a cotton rollJest for wrappin' up a soul;An' a soul is worth a trueHale and hearty "How d'ye do?"Don't wait for the crowd to go,Walk right up and say "Hullo!"When big vessels meet, they sayThey saloot an' sail away.Jest the same are you an' meLonesome ships upon a sea;Each one sailin' his own log,For a port behind the fog;Let your speakin' trumpet blow;Lift your horn an' cry "Hullo!"Say "Hullo!" an' "How d'ye do?"Other folks are good as you.W'en you leave your house of clayWanderin' in the far away,W'en you travel through the strangeCountry t'other side the range,Then the souls you've cheered will knowWho ye be, an' say "Hullo."Sam Walter Foss.
Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen!And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead,Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head!Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south;Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth;It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way,And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone,In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone;It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled,or whenThere was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men.When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he!Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea,Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said,Had saved some hundred lives apiece—at a shilling or so a head!So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar,And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar,Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons!Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns;Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love;Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above!Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed,For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew!And it snapped the' rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew;And then the anchor parted—'twas a tussle to keep afloat!But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat.Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high!"God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye"!Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves,But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,And saw in the boiling breakers a figure—a fighting form;It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath;It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death;It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lipsOf the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships.They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and more,Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore.There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand,Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land,'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave,But what are a couple of women with only a man to save?What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven menWho stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir—and thenOff went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent,Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls, come back!"As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack."Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea,"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!""Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale,"You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!""Come back!" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town,We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!""Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand!Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land!Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more,And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore."Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest—Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed,And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head!"Clement Scott.
"'A frightful face'? Wal, yes, yer correct;That man on the enjine tharDon't pack the han'somest countenance—Every inch of it sportin' a scar;But I tell you, pard, thar ain't money enoughPiled up in the National BanksTo buy that face, nor a single scar—(No, I never indulges. Thanks.)"Yes, Jim is an old-time engineer,An' a better one never war knowed!Bin a runnin' yar since the fust machineWar put on the Quincy Road;An' thar ain't a galoot that pulls a plugFrom Maine to the jumpin' off placeThat knows more about the big iron hossThan him with the battered-up face."'Got hurt in a smash-up'? No,'twar doneIn a sort o' legitimate way;He got it a-trying to save a galUp yar on the road last May.I heven't much time for to spin you the yarn,For we pull out at two-twenty-five—Just wait till I climb up an' toss in some coal,So's to keep old '90' alive."Jim war pullin' the Burlin'ton passenger then,Left Quincy a half an hour late,An' war skimmin' along purty lively, so's notTo lay out No. 21 freight.The '90' war more than whoopin' 'em upAn' a-quiverin' in every nerve!When all to once Jim yelled 'Merciful God!'As she shoved her sharp nose 'round a curve."I jumped to his side o' the cab, an' ahead'Bout two hundred paces or soStood a gal on the track, her hands raised aloft,An' her face jist as white as the snow;It seems she war so paralyzed with the frightThat she couldn't move for'ard or back,An' when Jim pulled the whistle she fainted an' fellRight down in a heap on the track!"I'll never forgit till the day o' my deathThe look that cum over Jim's face;He throw'd the old lever cl'r back like a shotSo's to slacken the '90's' wild pace,Then let on the air brakes as quick as a flash,An' out through the window he fled,An' skinned 'long the runnin' board cla'r in front,An' lay on the pilot ahead."Then just as we reached whar the poor creetur lay,He grabbed a tight hold, of her arm,An' raised her right up so's to throw her one sideOut o' reach of danger an' harm.But somehow he slipped an' fell with his headOn the rail as he throw'd the young lass,An' the pilot in strikin' him, ground up his faceIn a frightful and horrible mass!"As soon as we stopped I backed up the trainTo that spot where the poor fellow lay,An' there sot the gal with his head in her lapAn' wipin' the warm blood away.The tears rolled in torrents right down from her eyes,While she sobbed like her heart war all broke—I tell you, my friend, such a sight as that 'arWould move the tough heart of an oak!"We put Jim aboard an' ran back to town,What for week arter week the boy layA-hoverin' right in the shadder o' death,An' that gal by his bed every day.But nursin' an' doctorin' brought him around—Kinder snatched him right outer the grave—His face ain't so han'some as 'twar, but his heartRemains just as noble an' brave."Of course thar's a sequel—as story books say—He fell dead in love, did this Jim;But hadn't the heart to ax her to haveSich a batter'd-up rooster as him.She know'd how he felt, and last New Year's dayWar the fust o' leap year as you know,So she jist cornered Jim an' proposed on the spot,An' you bet he didn't say no."He's building a house up thar on the hill,An' has laid up a snug pile o' cash,The weddin's to be on the first o' next May—Jist a year from the day o' the smash—The gal says he risked his dear life to save hers,An' she'll just turn the tables about,An' give him the life that he saved—thar's the bell.Good day, sir, we're goin' to pull out."
Sometimes w'en I am playin' with some fellers 'at I knows,My ma she comes to call me, 'cause she wants me, I surpose:An' then she calls in this way: "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!"An' you'd be surprised to notice how dretful deef I be;An' the fellers 'at are playin' they keeps mos' orful still,W'ile they tell me, jus' in whispers: "Your ma is callin', Bill."But my hearin' don't git better, so fur as I can see,W'ile my ma stan's there a-callin': "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!"An' soon my ma she gives it up, an' says: "Well, I'll allowIt's mighty cur'us w'ere that boy has got to, anyhow";An' then I keep on playin' jus' the way I did before—I know if she was wantin' much she'd call to me some more.An' purty soon she comes agin an' says: "Willie! Willee-e-ee!"But my hearin's jus' as hard as w'at it useter be.If a feller has good judgment, an' uses it that way,He can almos' allers manage to git consid'ble play.But jus' w'ile I am playin', an' prob'ly I am "it,"They's somethin' diff'rent happens, an' I have to up, an' git,Fer my pa comes to the doorway, an' he interrup's our glee;He jus' says, "William Henry!" but that's enough fer me.You'd be surprised to notice how quickly I can hearW'en my pa says, "William Henry!" but never "Willie, dear!"Fer though my hearin's middlin' bad to hear the voice of ma,It's apt to show improvement w'en the callin' comes from pa.
Dear little flag in the window there,Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer,Child of Old Glory, born with a star—Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!Blue is your star in its field of white,Dipped in the red that was born of fight;Born of the blood that our forebears shedTo raise your mother, The Flag, o'er-head.And now you've come, in this frenzied day,To speak from a window—to speak and say:"I am the voice of a soldier son,Gone, to be gone till the victory's won."I am the flag of The Service, sir:The flag of his mother—I speak for herWho stands by my window and waits and fears,But hides from the others her unwept tears."I am the flag of the wives who waitFor the safe return of a martial mate—A mate gone forth where the war god thrives,To save from sacrifice other men's wives."I am the flag of the sweethearts true;The often unthought of—the sisters, too.I am the flag of a mother's son,Who won't come home till the victory's won!"Dear little flag in the window there,Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer,Child of Old Glory, born with a star—Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!William Herschell.
Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen. Helped by Bridget's willing hands,Bustled Hannah, deftly mixing pies, for ready waiting pans.Little Flossie flitted round them, and her curling, floating hairGlinted gold-like, gleamed and glistened, in the sparkling sunlit air;Slouched a figure o'er the lawn; a man so wretched and forlore,Tattered, grim, so like a beggar, ne'er had trod that path before.His shirt was torn, his hat was gone, bare and begrimed his knees,Face with blood and dirt disfigured, elbows peeped from out his sleeves.Rat-tat-tat, upon the entrance, brought Aunt Hannah to the door;Parched lips humbly plead for water, as she scanned his misery o'er;Wrathful came the dame's quick answer; made him cower, shame, and startOut of sight, despairing, saddened, hurt and angry to the heart."Drink! You've had enough, you rascal. Faugh! The smell now makes me sick,Move, you thief! Leave now these grounds, sir, or our dogs will help you quick."Then the man with dragging footsteps hopeless, wishing himself dead,Crept away from sight of plenty, starved in place of being fed,Wandered farther from the mansion, till he reached a purling brook,Babbling, trilling broken music by a green and shady nook,Here sweet Flossie found him fainting; in her hands were food and drink;Pale like death lay he before her, yet the child-heart did not shrink;Then the rags from off his forehead, she with dainty hands offstripped,In the brooklet's rippling waters, her own lace-trimmed 'kerchief dipped;Then with sweet and holy pity, which, within her, did not daunt,Bathed the blood and grime-stained visage of that sin-soiled son of want.Wrung she then the linen cleanly, bandaged up the wound againEre the still eyes opened slowly; white lips murmuring, "Am I sane?""Look, poor man, here's food and drink. Now thank our God before you take."Paused he mute and undecided, while deep sobs his form did shakeWith an avalanche of feeling, and great tears came rolling downO'er a face unused to showing aught except a sullen frown;That "our God" unsealed a fountain his whole life had never known,When that human angel near him spoke of her God as his own."Is it 'cause my aunty grieved you?" Quickly did the wee one ask."I'll tell you my little verse then, 'tis a holy Bible task,It may help you to forgive her: 'Love your enemies and thoseWho despitefully may use you; love them whether friends or foes!'"Then she glided from his vision, left him prostrate on the groundConning o'er and o'er that lesson—with a grace to him new found.Sunlight filtering through green branches as they wind-wave dance and dip,Finds a prayer his mother taught him, trembling on his crime-stained lip.Hist! a step, an angry mutter, and the owner of the place,Gentle Flossie's haughty father, and the tramp stood face to face!"Thieving rascal! you've my daughter's 'kerchief bound upon your brow;Off with it, and cast it down here. Come! be quick about it now."As the man did not obey him, Flossie's father lashed his cheekWith a riding-whip he carried; struck him hard and cut him deep.Quick the tramp bore down upon him, felled him, o'er him where he layRaised a knife to seek his life-blood. Then there came a thought to stayAll his angry, murderous impulse, caused the knife to shuddering fall:"He's her father; love your en'mies; 'tis 'our God' reigns over all."At midnight, lambent, lurid flames light up the sky with fiercest beams,Wild cries, "Fire! fire!" ring through the air, and red like blood each flame now seems;They faster grow, they higher throw weird, direful arms which ever leanAbout the gray stone mansion old. Now roars the wind to aid the scene;The flames yet higher, wilder play. A shudder runs through all around—Distinctly as in light of day, at topmost window from the groundSweet Flossie stands, her golden hair enhaloed now by firelit air.Loud rang the father's cry: "O God! my child! my child! Will no one dareFor her sweet sake the flaming stair?" Look, one steps forth with muffled face,Leaps through the flames with fleetest feet, on trembling ladder runs a raceWith life and death—the window gains. Deep silence falls on all around,Till bursts aloud a sobbing wail. The ladder falls with crashing sound—A flaming, treacherous mass. O God! she was so young and he so brave!Look once again. See! see! on highest roof he stands—the fiery waveFierce rolling round—his arms enclasp the child—God help him yet to save!"For life or for eternal sleep,"He cries, then makes a vaulting leap,A tree branch catches, with sure aim,And by the act proclaims his name;The air was rent, the cheers rang loud,A rough voice cried from out the crowd,"Huzza, my boys, well we know him,None dares that leap but Flying Jim!"A jail-bird—outlaw—thief, indeed,Yet o'er them all takes kingly lead."Do now your worst," his gasping cry,"Do all your worst, I'm doomed to die;I've breathed the flames, 'twill not be long";Then hushed all murmurs through the throng.With reverent hands they bore him whereThe summer evening's cooling airCame softly sighing through the trees;The child's proud father on his kneesForgiveness sought of God and Jim,Which dying lips accorded him.A mark of whip on white face stirredTo gleaming scarlet at his words."Forgive them all who use you ill,She taught me that and I fulfill;I would her hand might touch my face,Though she's so pure and I so base."Low Flossie bent and kissed the brow,With smile of bliss transfigured now:Death, the angel, sealed it there,'Twas sent to God with "mother's prayer."Emma Dunning Banks.
In a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say,A great big black grizzly trotted one day,And seated himself on the hearths and beganTo lap the contents of a two gallon panOf milk and potatoes,—an excellent meal,—And then looked, about to see what he could steal.The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep,And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peepJust out in the kitchen, to see what was there,And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear.So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering frau,"Thar's a bar in the kitchen as big's a cow!""A what?" "Why, a bar!" "Well murder him, then!""Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in."So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized.While her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed,As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows.Now on his forehead, and now on his nose,Her man through the key-hole kept shouting within,"Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agin,Now poke with the poker, and' poke his eyes out."So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty aloneAt last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone.Now when the old man saw the bear was no more,He ventured to poke his nose out of the door,And there was the grizzly stretched on the floor,Then off to the neighbors he hastened, to tellAll the wonderful things that that morning befell;And he published the marvellous story afar,How "me and my Betty jist slaughtered a bar!O yes, come and see, all the neighbors they seed it,Come and see what we did, me and Betty, we did it."
They grew in beauty, side by side,They filled one home with glee;—-Their graves are severed, far and wide,By mount, and stream and sea.The same fond mother bent at nightO'er each fair sleeping brow;She had each folded flower in sight—Where are those dreamers now?One, 'midst the forest of the West,By a dark stream is laid—The Indian knows his place of restFar in the cedar shade.The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one—He lies where pearls lie deep;Hewas the loved of all, yet noneO'er his low bed may weep.One sleeps where southern vines are drestAbove the noble slain:He wrapped his colors round his breastOn a blood-red field of Spain.And one—o'erherthe myrtle showersIts leaves, by soft winds fanned;She faded 'midst Italian flowers—The last of that bright band.And parted thus they rest, who play'dBeneath the same green tree;Whose voices mingled as they pray'dAround the parent knee.They that with smiles lit up the hall,And cheer'd with song the hearth!—Alas! for love, ifthouwert all,And naught beyond, O earth!Felicia Dorothea Hemans.
Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes,Nae stockings on her feet;Her supple ankles white as snow,Or early blossoms sweet.Her simple dress of sprinkled pink,Her double, dimpled chin;Her pucker'd lip and bonny mou',With nae ane tooth between.Her een sae like her mither's een,Twa gentle, liquid things;Her face is like an angel's face—We're glad she has nae wings.Hugh Miller.
Away, away in the Northland,Where the hours of the day are few,And the nights are so long in winter,They cannot sleep them through;Where they harness the swift reindeerTo the sledges, when it snows;And the children look like bears' cubsIn their funny, furry clothes:They tell them a curious story—I don't believe 't is true;And yet you may learn a lessonIf I tell the tale to youOnce, when the good Saint PeterLived in the world below,And walked about it, preaching,Just as he did, you know;He came to the door of a cottage,In traveling round the earth,Where a little woman was making cakes,And baking them on the hearth;And being faint with fasting,For the day was almost done,He asked her, from her store of cakes,To give him a single one.So she made a very little cake,But as it baking lay,She looked at it, and thought it seemedToo large to give away.Therefore she kneaded another,And still a smaller one;But it looked, when she turned it over,As large as the first had done.Then she took a tiny scrap of dough,And rolled, and rolled it flat;And baked it thin as a wafer—But she couldn't part with that.For she said, "My cakes that seem too smallWhen I eat of them myself,Are yet too large to give away,"So she put them on the shelf.Then good Saint Peter grew angry,For he was hungry and faint;And surely such a womanWas enough to provoke a saint.And he said, "You are far too selfishTo dwell in a human form,To have both food and shelter,And fire to keep you warm."Now, you shall build as the birds do,And shall get your scanty foodBy boring, and boring, and boring,All day in the hard dry wood,"Then up she went through the chimney,Never speaking a word,And out of the top flew a woodpecker.For she was changed to a bird.She had a scarlet cap on her head,And that was left the same,Bat all the rest of her clothes were burnedBlack as a coal in the flame.And every country school boyHas seen her in the wood;Where she lives in the woods till this very day,Boring and boring for food.And this is the lesson she teaches:Live not for yourself alone,Lest the needs you will not pityShall one day be your own.Give plenty of what is given to you,Listen to pity's call;Don't think the little you give is great,And the much you get is small.Now, my little boy, remember that,And try to be kind and good,When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress,And see her scarlet hood.You mayn't be changed to a bird, though you liveAs selfishly as you can;But you will be changed to a smaller thing—A mean and selfish man.Phoebe Cary.
Did you tackle the trouble that came your wayWith a resolute heart and cheerful?Or hide year face from the light of dayWith a craven soul and fearful?Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,Or a trouble is what you make it,And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,But only how did you take it?You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?Come up with a smiling face,Its nothing against you to fall down flat,But to lie there—that's disgrace.The harder you're thrown, why, the higher the bounce;Be proud of your blackened eye!It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;It's how did you fight—and why?And though you be done to the death, what then?If you battled the best you could,If you played your part in the world of men,Why, the Critic will call it good.Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,And whether he's slow or spry,It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,But only how did you die?Edmund Vance Cooke.
When the lessons and tasks are all ended,And the school for the day is dismissed,And the little ones gather around me,To bid me good-night and be kissed,—Oh, the little white arms that encircleMy neck in a tender embrace!Oh, the smiles that are halos of Heaven,Shedding sunshine and love on my face!And when they, are gone, I sit dreamingOf my childhood, too lovely to last;Of love that my heart will rememberWhen it wakes to the pulse of the past;Ere the world and its wickedness made meA partner of sorrow and sin;When the glory of God was about me,And the glory of gladness within.Oh, my heart grows as weak as a woman'sAnd the fountains of feeling will flow,When I think of the paths, steep and stonyWhere the feet of the dear ones must go.Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,Of the tempests of fate blowing wild—Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holyAs the innocent heart of a child!They are idols of hearts and of households,They are angels of God in disguise.His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,His glory still beams in their eyes:Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven,They have made me more manly and mild!And I know how Jesus could likenThe Kingdom of God to a child.Seek not a life for the dear onesAll radiant, as others have done.But that life may have just enough shadowTo temper the glare of the sun;I would pray God to guard them from evil,But my prayer would bound back to myself.Ah! A seraph may pray for a sinner,But the sinner must pray for himself.The twig is so easily bended,I have banished the rule of the rod;I have taught them the goodness of Knowledge,They have taught me the goodness of God.My heart is a dungeon of darkness,Where I shut them from breaking a rule;My frown is sufficient correction,My love is the law of the school.I shall leave the old house in the autumnTo traverse the threshold no more,Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear onesThat meet me each morn at the door.I shall miss the good-nights and the kisses,And the gush of their innocent glee;The group on the green and the flowersThat are brought every morning to me.I shall miss them at morn and at evening.Their song in the school and the street,I shall miss the low hum of their voicesAnd the tramp of their delicate feet.When the lessons and tasks are all ended,And death says the school is dismissed,May the little ones gather around meTo bid me good-night and be kissed.Charles M. Dickinson.