In the room below the young man sat,With an anxious face and a white cravat,A throbbing heart and a silken hat,And various other things like thatWhich he had accumulated.And the maid of his heart was up aboveSurrounded by hat and gown and glove,And a thousand things which women love,But no man knoweth the names thereof—And the young man sat and—waited.You will scarce believe the things I tell,But the truth thereof I know full well,Though how may not be stated;But I swear to you that the maiden tookA sort of half-breed, thin stove-hook,And heated it well in the gaslight there.And thrust it into her head, or hair.Then she took something off the bed,And hooked it onto her hair, or head,And piled it high, and piled it higher,And drove it home with staples of wire!And the young man anxiously—waited.Then she took a thing she called a "puff"And some very peculiar whitish stuff,And using about a half a peck,She spread it over her face and neck,(Deceit was a thing she hated!)And she looked as fair as a lilied bower,Or a pound of lard or a sack of flour;—And the young man wearily—waited.Then she took a garment of awful shapeAnd it wasn't a waist, nor yet a cape,But it looked like a piece of ancient mail,Or an instrument from a Russian jail,And then with a fearful groan and gasp,She squeezed herself in its deathly clasp—So fair and yet so fated!And then with a move like I don't know what,She tied it on with a double knot;—And the young man wofully—waited.Then she put on a dozen different things,A mixture of buttons and hooks and strings,Till she strongly resembled a notion store;Then, taking some seventeen pins or more,She thrust them into her ruby lips,Then stuck them around from waist to hips,And never once hesitated.And the maiden didn't know, perhaps,That the man below had had seven naps,And that now he sleepily—waited.And then she tried to put on her hat,Ah me, a trying ordeal was that!She tipped it high and she tried it low,But every way that the thing would goOnly made her more agitated.It wouldn't go straight and it caught her hair,And she wished she could hire a man to swear,But alas, the only man lingering thereWas the one who wildly—waited.And then before she could take her leave,She had to puff up her monstrous sleeve.Then a little dab here and a wee pat there.And a touch or two to her hindmost hair,Then around the room with the utmost careShe thoughtfully circulated.Then she seized her gloves and a chamoiskin,Some breath perfume and a long stickpin,A bonbon box and a cloak and someEau-de-cologne and chewing-gum,Her opera glass and sealskin muff,A fan and a heap of other stuff;Then she hurried down, but ere she spoke,Something about the maiden broke.So she scurried back to the winding stair,And the young man looked in wild despair,And then he—evaporated.Edmund Vance Cooke.
Out of the night that covers me,Black as the Pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud.Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbowed.Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the Horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds, and shall find, me unafraid.It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll,I am the master of my fate;I am the captain of my soul.William E. Henley.
Two brown heads with tossing curls,Red lips shutting over pearls,Bare feet, white and wet with dew,Two eyes black, and two eyes blue;Little girl and boy were they,Katie Lee and Willie Grey.They were standing where a brook,Bending like a shepherd's crook,Flashed its silver, and thick ranksOf willow fringed its mossy banks;Half in thought, and half in play,Katie Lee and Willie Grey.They had cheeks like cherries red;He was taller—'most a head;She, with arms like wreaths of snow,Swung a basket to and froAs she loitered, half in play,Chattering to Willie Grey."Pretty Katie," Willie said—And there came a dash of redThrough the brownness of his cheek—"Boys are strong and girls are weak,And I'll carry, so I will,Katie's basket up the hill."Katie answered with a laugh,"You shall carry only half";And then, tossing back her curls,"Boys are weak as well as girls."Do you think that Katie guessedHalf the wisdom she expressed?Men are only boys grown tall;Hearts don't change much, after all;And when, long years from that day,Katie Lee and Willie GreyStood again beside the brook,Bending like a shepherd's crook,—Is it strange that Willie said,While again a dash of redCrossed the brownness of his cheek,"I am strong and you are weak;Life is but a slippery steep,Hung with shadows cold and deep."Will you trust me, Katie dear,—Walk beside me without fear?May I carry, if I will,All your burdens up the hill?"And she answered, with a laugh,"No, but you may carry half."Close beside the little brook,Bending like a shepherd's crook,Washing with its silver handsLate and early at the sands,Is a cottage, where to-dayKatie lives with Willie Grey.In a porch she sits, and lo!Swings a basket to and fro—Vastly different from the oneThat she swung in years agone,Thisis long and deep and wide,And has—rockers at the side.
Abou Ben Adhem—may his tribe increase!—Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,And saw, within the moonlight in his room,Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,An angel, writing in a book of gold.Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,And to the Presence in the room he said,"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,And, with a look made all of sweet accord,Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord.""And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"Replied the angel.—Abou spoke more low,But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."The angel wrote, and vanished. The next nightIt came again, with a great wakening light,And showed the names whom love of God had blessed:And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.Leigh Hunt.
Still sits the school-house by the road,A ragged beggar sunning;Around it still the sumachs grow,And blackberry vines are running.Within, the master's desk is seen,Deep scarred by raps official;The warping floor, the battered seats,The jack-knife's carved initial;The charcoal frescoes on its wall;Its door's worn sill, betrayingThe feet that, creeping slow to school,Went storming out to playing!Long years ago a winter sunShone over it at setting;Lit up its western window-panes,And low eaves' icy fretting.It touched the tangled golden curls,And brown eyes full of grieving,Of one who still her steps delayedWhen all the school were leaving.For near her stood the little boyHer childish favor singled:His cap pulled low upon a faceWhere pride and shame were mingled.Pushing with restless feet the snowTo right and left, he lingered;—As restlessly her tiny handsThe blue-checked apron fingered.He saw her lift her eyes; he feltThe soft hand's light caressing,And heard the tremble of her voice,As if a fault confessing."I'm sorry that I spelt the word:I hate to go above you,Because,"—the brown eyes lower fell,—"Because, you see, I love you!"Still memory to a gray-haired manThat sweet child-face is showing.Dear girl: the grasses on her graveHave forty years been growing!He lives to learn, in life's hard school,How few who pass above himLament their triumph and his loss,Like her,—because they love him.John Greenleaf Whittier.
"Tis plain to see," said a farmer's wife,"These boys will make their mark in life;They were never made to handle a hoe,And at once to a college ought to go;There's Fred, he's little better than a fool,But John and Henry must go to school.""Well, really, wife," quoth Farmer Brown,As he set his mug of cider down,"Fred does more work in a day for meThan both his brothers do in three.Book larnin' will never plant one's corn,Nor hoe potatoes, sure's you're born;Nor mend a rod of broken fence—For my part, give me common sense."But his wife was bound the roost to rule,And John and Henry were sent to school,While Fred, of course, was left behind,Because his mother said he had no mind.Five years at school the students spent;Then into business each one went.John learned to play the flute and fiddle,And parted his hair, of course, in the middle;While his brother looked rather higher than he,And hung out a sign, "H. Brown, M.D."Meanwhile, at home, their brother FredHad taken a notion into his head;But he quietly trimmed his apple trees,And weeded onions and planted peas,While somehow or other, by hook or crook,He managed to read full many a book;Until at last his father saidHe was getting "book larnin'" into his head;"But for all that," added Farmer Brown,"He's the smartest boy there is in town."The war broke out, and Captain FredA hundred men to battle led,And when the rebel flag came down,Went marching home as General Brown.But he went to work on the farm again,And planted corn and sowed his grain;He shingled the barn and mended the fence,Till people declared he had common sense.Now common sense was very rare,And the State House needed a portion there;So the "family dunce" moved into town—The people called him Governor Brown;And the brothers who went to the city schoolCame home to live with "mother's fool."
You Wi'yam, cum 'ere, suh, dis instunce.Wu' dat you got under dat box?I do' want no foolin'—you hear me?Wut you say? Ain't nu'h'n butrocks?'Peah ter me you's owdashus p'ticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new kine.I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I's bline?Icalls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it growed;It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road.You stole it, you rascal—you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot.En time I gets th'ough wid you, nigger, you won't eb'n be a grease spot!I'll fix you. Mirandy! Mirandy! go cut me a hick'ry—make 'ase!En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place.I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yam Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young sinner,Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner!Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'lf sur? I is, I's 'shamed you's my son!En de holy accorjan angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done;En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters—"One water-million stoled by Wi'yam Josephus Vetters."En wut you s'posen Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday school,'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Rule?Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black villiun?I's s'prised dat a chile er yo mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million.En I's now gwinter cut it right open, en you shain't have nary bite,Fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions—en dat in de day's broad light—Ain't—Lawdy!it'sgreen!Mirandy!Mi-ran-dy! come on wi' dat switch!Well, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever yeered tell er des sich?Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey is green;But w'en dey gopunk, now you mine me, dey's ripe—en dat's des wut I mean.En nex' time you hook water-millions—youheered me, you ign'ant, you hunk,Ef you do' want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk"!Harrison Robertson.
God give us men; a time like this demandsStrong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands.Men whom the lust of office cannot kill;Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy;Men who possess opinions and a will;Men who have honor; men who will not lie;Men who can stand before a demagogue,And brave his treacherous flatteries without winking;Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog,In public duty and in private thinking;For while the rabble, with its thumb-worn creeds,Its large professions, and its little deeds,Mingle in selfish strife—lo! Freedom weeps,Wrong rules the land, and waiting Justice sleeps.J.G. Holland.
My good man is a clever man, which no one will gainsay;He lies awake to plot and plan 'gainst lions in the way,While I, without a thought of ill, sleep sound enough for three,For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.A holiday we never fix but he is sure 'twill rain;And when the sky is clear at six he knows it won't remain.He is always prophesying ill to which I won't agree,For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.The wheat will never show a top—but soon how green the field!We will not harvest half a crop—yet have a famous yield!It will not sell, it never will! but I will wait and see,For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.We have a good share of worldly gear, and fortune seems secure,Yet my good man is full of fear—misfortune's coming sure!He points me out the almshouse hill, but cannot make me see,For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.He has a sort of second sights and when the fit is strong,He sees beyond the good and right the evil and the wrong.Heaven's cop of joy he'll surely spill unless I with him be,For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.Fannie Windsor.
"What is the real good?" I asked in musing mood.Order, said the law court;Knowledge, said the school;Truth, said the wise man;Pleasure, said the fool;Love, said the maiden;Beauty, said the page;Freedom, said the dreamer;Home, said the sage;Fame, said the soldier;Equity, the seer.Spake my heart full sadly:"The answer is not here."Then within my bosomSoftly this I heard:"Each heart holds the secret:Kindness is the word."John Boyle O'Reilly.
There's a funny tale 'of a stingy man,Who was none too good but might have been worse,Who went to his church, on a Sunday nightAnd carried along his well-filled purse.When the sexton came with the begging plate,The church was but dim with the candle's light;The stingy man fumbled all thro' his purse,And chose a coin by touch and not by sight.It's an odd thing now that guineas should beSo like unto pennies in shape and size."I'll gie a penny," the stingy man said:"The poor must not gifts of pennies despise."The penny fell down with a clatter and ring!And back in his seat leaned the stingy man."The world is full of the poor," he thought,"I can't help them all—I give what I can."Ha! ha! how the sexton smiled, to be sure,To see the gold guinea fall in the plate;Ha! ha! how the stingy man's heart was wrung,Perceiving his blunder—but just too late!"No matter," he said; "in the Lord's accountThat guinea of gold is set down to me—They lend to him who give to the poor;It will not so bad an investment be.""Na, na, mon," the chuckling sexton cried out,"The Lord is na cheated—he kens thee well;He knew it was only by accidentThat out o' thy fingers the guinea fell!"He keeps an account, na doubt, for the puir;But in that account He'll set down to theeNa mair o' that golden guinea, my mon,Than the one bare penny ye mean to gie!"There's comfort, too, in the little tale—A serious side as well as a joke—A comfort for all the generous poorIn the comical words the sexton spoke;A comfort to think that the good Lord knowsHow generous we really desire to be,And will give us credit in his account,For all the pennies we long "to gie."
I haf von funny leedle poyVot gomes shust to my knee,—Der queerest schap, der createst rogueAs efer you dit see.He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dingsIn all barts off der house.But vot off dot? He vas mine son,Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.He gets der measels und der mumbs,Und eferyding dot's oudt;He sbills mine glass off lager bier,Poots schnuff indo mine kraut;He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese—Dot vas der roughest chouse;I'd dake dot vrom no oder poyBut leedle Yawcob Strauss.He dakes der milkban for a dhrum,Und cuts mine cane in dwoTo make der schticks to beat it mit—Mine cracious, dot vas drue!I dinks mine hed vas schplit abartHe kicks oup sooch a touse;But nefer mind der poys vas fewLike dot young Yawcob Strauss.He asks me questions sooch as dese:Who baints mine nose so red?Who vos it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudtVrom der hair ubon mine hed?Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lampVene'er der glim I douse?How gan I all dese dings eggsblainTo dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?I somedimes dink I schall go vildMit sooch a grazy poy,Und vish vonce more I gould haf restUnd beaceful dimes enshoy.But ven he vas asleep in ped,So quiet as a mouse,I prays der Lord, "Dake any dings,But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."Charles F. Adams.
We shall do so much in the years to come,But what have we done to-day?We shall give out gold in princely sum,But what did we give to-day?We shall lift the heart and dry the tear,We shall plant a hope in the place of fear,We shall speak with words of love and cheer,But what have we done to-day?We shall be so kind in the after while,But what have we been to-day?We shall bring to each lonely life a smile,But what have we brought to-day?We shall give to truth a grander birth,And to steadfast faith a deeper worth,We shall feed the hungering souls of earth,But whom have we fed to-day?Nixon Waterman.
My name is Tommy, an' I hatesThat feller of my sister Kate's,He's bigger'n I am an' you seeHe's sorter lookin' down on me,An' I resents it with a vim;I think I am just as good as him.He's older, an' he's mighty fly,But's he's a kid, an' so am I.One time he came,—down by the gate,I guess it must have been awful late,—An' Katie, she was there, an' theyWas feelin' very nice and gay,An' he was talkin' all the whileAbout her sweet an' lovin' smile,An' everythin' was as nice as pie,An' they was there, an' so was I.They didn't see me, 'cause I slidDown underneath a bush, an' hid,An' he was sayin' that his loveWas greater'n all the stars aboveUp in the glorious heavens placed;An' then His arms got 'round her waist,An' clouds were floatin' in the sky,And they was there, an' so was I.I didn't hear just all they said,But by an' by my sister's headWas droopin' on his shoulder, an'I seen him holdin' Katie's hand,An' then he hugged her closer, some,An' then I heerd a kiss—yum, yum;An' Katie blushed an' drew a sigh,An' sorter coughed,—an' so did I.An' then that feller looked aroundAn' seed me there, down on the ground,An'—was he mad? well, betcher bootsI gets right out of there an' scoots.An' he just left my sister KateA-standin' right there by the gate;An' I seen blood was in his eye,An' he runned fast—an' so did I.I runned the very best I could,But he cotched up—I's 'fraid he would—An' then he said he'd teach me howTo know my manners, he'd allow;An' then he shaked me awful. Gee!He jest—he frashed the ground with me.An' then he stopped it by and by,'Cause he was tired—an' so was I,An' then he went back to the gateAn' couldn't find my sister Kate'Cause she went in to bed, while heWas runnin' 'round an' thumpin' me.I got round in a shadder dim,An' made a face, an' guffed at him;An' then the moon larfed, in the sky,'Cause he was there, an' so was I.Joseph Bert Smiley.
Is it worth while that we jostle a brother.Bearing his load on the rough road of life?Is it worth while that we jeer at each otherIn blackness of heart that we war to the knife?God pity us all in our pitiful strife.God pity as all as we jostle each other;God pardon us all for the triumph we feelWhen a fellow goes down 'neath his load on the heather,Pierced to the heart: Words are keener than steel,And mightier far for woe than for weal,Were it not well, in this brief little journeyOn over the isthmus, down into the tide,We give him a fish instead of a serpent,Ere folding the hands to be and abideForever and aye in dust at his side?Look at the roses saluting each other;Look at the herds all at peace on the plain;Man, and man only, makes war on his brother,And laughs in his heart at his peril and pain,Shamed by the beasts that go down on the plain.Is it worth while that we battle to humbleSome poor fellow down into the dust?God pity us all! Time too soon will tumbleAll of us together, like leaves in a gust,Humbled, indeed, down into the dust.Joaquin Miller.
There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave,There are souls that are pure and true;Then give to the world the best you have,And the best will come back to you.Give love, and love to your life will flow,A strength in your utmost need;Have faith, and a score of hearts will showTheir faith in your work and deed.Give truth, and your gift will be paid in kind;And honor will honor meet,And the smile which is sweet will surely findA smile that is just as sweet.Give pity and sorrow to those who mourn;You will gather in flowers againThe scattered seeds from your thought outborne,Though the sowing seemed in vain.For life is the mirror of king and slave;'Tis just what we are and do;Then give to the world the best you have,And the best will come back to you.Madeline S. Bridges.
A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded downWith food to feed the people of the British-governed town;And the little black-eyed rebel, so cunning and so sly,Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye.His face was broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough,The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough;But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh,And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye.He drove up to the market, he waited in the line—His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine.But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy,Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye."Now, who will buy my apples?" he shouted, long and loud;And, "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd.But from all the people round him came no word of reply,Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that dayWere long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away,Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain, or die;And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye.But the treasures—how to get them? crept the question through her mind,Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find;And she paused a while and pondered, with a pretty little sigh,Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye.So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red—"May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said;And the brown face flushed to scarlet, for the boy was somewhat shy,And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye."You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he."I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she.And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by,With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye.Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small,And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl!Carry back againthispackage, and be sure that you are spry!"And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye.Loud the motley crowd was laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak;And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak.And "Miss, I have good apples," a bolder lad did cry;But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye.With the news from loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet,Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street."There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try,"Thought the little black-eyed rebel with a twinkle in her eye.Will Carleton.