Jane Jones keeps talkin' to me all the time,An' says you must make it a ruleTo study your lessons 'nd work hard 'nd learn,An' never be absent from school.Remember the story of Elihu Burritt,An' how he clum up to the top,Got all the knowledge 'at he ever hadDown in a blacksmithing shop?Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!Mebbe he did—I dunno!O' course what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top,Is not never havin' no blacksmithing shop.She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor,But full of ambition an' brains;An' studied philosophy all his hull life,An' see what he got for his pains!He brought electricity out of the sky,With a kite an' a bottle an' key,An' we're owing him more'n any one elseFor all the bright lights 'at we see.Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!Mebbe he did—I dunno!O' course what's allers been hinderin' meIs not havin' any kite, lightning er key.Jane Jones said Abe Lincoln had no books at all,An' used to split rails when a boy;An' General Grant was a tanner by tradeAn' lived 'way out in Illinois.So when the great war in the South first broke outHe stood on the side o' the right,An' when Lincoln called him to take charge o' things,He won nearly every blamed fight.Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!Mebbe he did—I dunno!Still I ain't to blame, not by a big sight,For I ain't never had any battles to fight.She said 'at Columbus was out at the kneesWhen he first thought up his big scheme,An' told all the Spaniards 'nd Italians, too,An' all of 'em said 'twas a dream.But Queen Isabella jest listened to him,'Nd pawned all her jewels o' worth,'Nd bought him the Santa Maria 'nd said,"Go hunt up the rest o' the earth!"Mebbe he did—I dunno!O' course that may be, but then you must allowThey ain't no land to discover jest now!Ben King.
Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet,His chestnut steed with four white feet,Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,Son of the road and bandit chief,Seeking refuge and relief,Up the mountain pathway flew.Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed,Never yet could any steedReach the dust-cloud in his course.More than maiden, more than wife,More than gold and next to lifeRoushan the Robber loved his horse.In the land that lies beyondErzeroum and Trebizond,Garden-girt his fortress stood;Plundered khan, or caravanJourneying north from Koordistan,Gave him wealth and wine and food.Seven hundred and fourscoreMen at arms his livery wore,Did his bidding night and day,Now, through regions all unknown,He was wandering, lost, alone,Seeking without guide his way.Suddenly the pathway ends,Sheer the precipice descends,Loud the torrent roars unseen;Thirty feet from side to sideYawns the chasm; on air must rideHe who crosses this ravine,Following close in his pursuit,At the precipice's footReyhan the Arab of OrfahHalted with his hundred men,Shouting upward from the glen,"La Illah illa Allah!"Gently Roushan Beg caressedKyrat's forehead, neck, and breast,Kissed him upon both his eyes;Sang to him in his wild way,As upon the topmost spraySings a bird before it flies."O my Kyrat, O my steed,Round and slender as a reed,Carry me this peril through!Satin housings shall be thine,Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine,O thou soul of Kurroglou!"Soft thy skin as silken skein,Soft as woman's hair thy mane,Tender are thine eyes and true;All thy hoofs like ivory shine,Polished bright; O life of mine,Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!"Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet,Drew together his four white feet,Paused a moment on the verge,Measured with his eye the space,And into the air's embraceLeaped, as leaps the ocean surge.As the ocean surge o'er sandBears a swimmer safe to land,Kyrat safe his rider bore;Rattling down the deep abyss,Fragments of the precipiceRolled like pebbles on a shore.Roushan's tasseled cap of redTrembled not upon his head,Careless sat he and upright;Neither hand nor bridle shook,Nor his head he turned to look,As he galloped out of sight.Flash of harness in the air,Seen a moment like the glareOf a sword drawn from its sheath;Thus the phantom horseman passed,And the shadow that he castLeaped the cataract underneath.Reyhan the Arab held his breathWhile this vision of life and deathPassed above him. "Allahu!"Cried he. "In all KoordistanLives there not so brave a manAs this Robber Kurroglou!"Henry W. Longfellow.
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!Long has it waved on high,And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky;Beneath it rung the battle shout,And burst the cannon's roar;—The meteor of the ocean airShall sweep the clouds no more!Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,Where knelt the vanquished foe,When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,And waves were white below,No more shall feel the victor's tread,Or know the conquered knee;—The harpies of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!Oh, better that her shattered hulkShould sink beneath the wave!Her thunders shook the mighty deep,And there should be her grave;Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,And give her to the god of storms,The lightning and the gale!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,"Life is but an empty dream!"For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem.Life is real! Life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"Was not spoken of the soul.Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act that each to-morrowFinds us farther than to-day.Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.In the world's broad field of battle,In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife!Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act, act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o'erhead!Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o'er life's solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuing,Learn to labor and to wait.Henry W. Longfellow.
I think, of all the things at schoolA boy has got to do,That studyin' hist'ry, as a rule,Is worst of all, don't you?Of dates there are an awful sight,An' though I study day an' night,There's only one I've got just right—That's fourteen ninety-two.Columbus crossed the DelawareIn fourteen ninety-two;We whipped the British, fair an' square,In fourteen ninety-two.At Concord an' at Lexington.We kept the redcoats on the run,While the band played Johnny Get Your Gun,In fourteen ninety-two.Pat Henry, with his dyin' breath—In fourteen ninety-two—Said, "Gimme liberty or death!"In fourteen ninety-two.An' Barbara Frietchie, so 'tis said,Cried, "Shoot if you must this old, gray head,But I'd rather 'twould be your own instead!"In fourteen ninety-two.The Pilgrims came to Plymouth RockIn fourteen ninety-two,An' the Indians standin' on the dockAsked, "What are you goin' to do?"An' they said, "We seek your harbor drearThat our children's children's children dearMay boast that their forefathers landed hereIn fourteen ninety-two."Miss Pocahontas saved the life—In fourteen ninety-two—Of John Smith, an' became his wifeIn fourteen ninety-two.An' the Smith tribe started then an' there,An' now there are John Smiths ev'rywhere,But they didn't have any Smiths to spareIn fourteen ninety-two.Kentucky was settled by Daniel BooneIn fourteen ninety-two,An' I think the cow jumped over the moonIn fourteen ninety-two.Ben Franklin flew his kite so highHe drew the lightnin' from the sky,An' Washington couldn't tell a lie,In fourteen ninety-two.Nixon Waterman.
Singing through the forests, rattling over ridges,Shooting under arches, rumbling over bridges,Whizzing through the mountains, buzzing o'er the vale,—Bless me! this is pleasant, riding on the rail!Men of different stations in the eye of Fame,Here are very quickly coming to the same;High and lowly people, birds of every feather,On a common level, traveling together!Gentlemen in shorts, blooming very tall;Gentlemen at large, talking very small;Gentlemen in tights, with a loosish mien;Gentlemen in gray, looking very green!Gentlemen quite old, asking for the news;Gentlemen in black, with a fit of blues;Gentlemen in claret, sober as a vicar;Gentlemen in tweed, dreadfully in liquor!Stranger on the right looking very sunny,Obviously reading something very funny.Now the smiles are thicker—wonder what they mean?Faith, he's got the Knickerbocker Magazine!Stranger on the left, closing up his peepers;Now he snores again, like the Seven Sleepers;At his feet a volume gives the explanation,How the man grew stupid from "association"!Ancient maiden lady anxiously remarksThat there must be peril 'mong so many sparks;Roguish-looking fellow, turning to the stranger,Says 'tis his opinionsheis out of danger!Woman with her baby, sittingvis a vis;Baby keeps a-squalling, woman looks at me;Asks about the distance—says 'tis tiresome talking,Noises of the cars are so very shocking!Market woman, careful of the precious casket,Knowing eggs are eggs, tightly holds her basket;Feeling that a smash, if it came, would surelySend her eggs to pot rather prematurely.Singing through the forests, rattling over ridges,Shooting under arches, rumbling over bridges,Whizzing through the mountains, buzzing o'er the vale,—Bless me! this is pleasant, riding on the rail!J.G. Saxe.
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!Sail on, O Union, strong and great!Humanity with all its fears,With all the hopes of future years,Is hanging breathless on thy fate!We know what Master laid thy keel,What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,What anvils rang, what hammers beat,In what a forge and what a heatWere shaped the anchors of thy hope!Fear not each sudden sound and shock,'Tis of the wave and not the rock;'Tis but the flapping of the sail,And not a rent made by the gale!In spite of rock and tempest's roar,In spite of false lights on the shore,Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,Our faith truiumphant o'er our fears,Are all with thee,—are all with thee!H.W. Longfellow.
You's as stiff an' as cold as a stone,Little cat!Dey's done frowed you out an' left you alone,Little cat!I's a-strokin' you's fur,But you don't never purrNor hump up anywhere,Little cat.W'y is dat?Is you's purrin' an' humpin'-up done?An' w'y fer is you's little foot tied,Little cat?Did dey pisen you's tummick inside,Little cat?Did dey pound you wif bricks,Or wif big nasty sticks,Or abuse you wif kicks,Little cat?Tell me dat,Did dey holler at all when you cwied?Did it hurt werry bad w'en you died,Little cat?Oh, w'y didn't yo wun off and hide,Little cat?I is wet in my eyes,'Cause I most always cwiesW'en a pussy cat dies,Little cat,Tink of dat,An' I's awfully solly besides!Dest lay still dere in de sof gwown',Little cat,W'ile I tucks de gween gwass all awoun',Little cat.Dey can't hurt you no moreW'en you's tired an' so sore,Dest sleep twiet, you poreLittle cat,Wif a pat,An' fordet all de kicks of de town.Marion Short.
"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop;The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;The customers, waiting their turns, were all readingTheDaily, theHerald, thePost, little heedingThe young man who blurted out such a blunt question;Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;And the barber kept on shaving."Don't you see, Mister Brown,"Cried the youth, with a frown,"How wrong the whole thing is,How preposterous each wing is.How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is—In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis!I make no apology; I've learned owleology.I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,And cannot be blinded to any deflectionsArising from unskilful fingers that failTo stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down,Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"And the barber kept on shaving."I'vestudiedowls,And other night fowls,And I tell youWhat I know to be true:An owl cannot roostWith his limbs so unloosed;No owl in this worldEver had his claws curled,Ever had his legs slanted,Ever had his bill canted,Ever had his neck screwedInto that attitude.He can'tdoit, because'Tis against all bird laws.Anatomy teaches,Ornithology preaches,An owl has a toeThatcan'tturn out so!I've made the white owl my study for years,And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!Mister Brown, I'm amazedYou should be so gone crazedAs to put up a birdIn that posture absurd!Tolookat that owl really brings on a dizziness;The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"And the barber kept on shaving."Examine those eyes.I'm filled with surpriseTaxidermists should passOff on you such poor glass;So unnatural they seemThey'd make Audubon scream,And John Burroughs laughTo encounter such chaff.Do take that bird down;Have him stuffed again, Brown!"And the barber kept on shaving."With some sawdust and barkI could stuff in the darkAn owl better than that.I could make an old hatLook more like an owlThan that horrid fowl,Stuck up here so stiff like a side of coarse leather.In fact, abouthimthere's not one natural feather."Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:"Your learning's at fault this time, anyway;Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!"And the barber kept on shaving.James T. Fields.
The end has come, as come it mustTo all things; in these sweet June daysThe teacher and the scholar trustTheir parting feet to separate ways.They part: but in the years to beShall pleasant memories cling to each,As shells bear inland from the seaThe murmur of the rhythmic beach.One knew the joys the sculptor knowsWhen, plastic to his lightest touch,His clay-wrought model slowly growsTo that fine grace desired so much.So daily grew before her eyesThe living shapes whereon she wrought,Strong, tender, innocently wise,The child's heart with the woman's thought.And one shall never quite forgetThe voice that called from dream and play,The firm but kindly hand that setHer feet in learning's pleasant way,—The joy of Undine soul-possessed,The wakening sense, the strange delightThat swelled the fabled statue's breastAnd filled its clouded eyes with sight!O Youth and Beauty, loved of all!Ye pass from girlhood's gate of dreams;In broader ways your footsteps fall,Ye test the truth of all that seems.Her little realm the teacher leaves,She breaks her wand of power apart,While, for your love and trust, she givesThe warm thanks of a grateful heart.Hers is the sober summer noonContrasted with your morn of spring;The waning with the waxing moon,The folded with the outspread wing.Across the distance of the yearsShe sends her God-speed back to you;She has no thought of doubts or fears;Be but yourselves, be pure, be true,And prompt in duty; heed the deep,Low voice of conscience; through the illAnd discord round about you, keepYour faith in human nature still.Be gentle: unto griefs and needsBe pitiful as woman should,And, spite of all the lies of creeds,Hold fast the truth that God is good.Give and receive; go forth and blessThe world that needs the hand and heartOf Martha's helpful carefulnessNo less than Mary's better part.So shall the stream of time flow byAnd leave each year a richer good,And matron loveliness outvieThe nameless charm of maidenhood.And, when the world shall link your namesWith gracious lives and manners fine,The teacher shall assert her claims,And proudly whisper, "These were mine!"John G. Whittier.
It was peeping through the brambles, that little wild white rose,Where the hawthorn hedge was planted, my garden to enclose.All beyond was fern and heather, on the breezy, open moor;All within was sun and shelter, and the wealth of beauty's store.But I did not heed the fragrance of flow'ret or of tree,For my eyes were on that rosebud, and it grew too high for me.In vain I strove to reach it through the tangled mass of green,It only smiled and nodded behind its thorny screen.Yet through that summer morning I lingered near the spot:Oh, why do things seem sweeter if we possess them not?My garden buds were blooming, but all that I could seeWas that little mocking wild rose, hanging just too high for me.So in life's wider garden there are buds of promise, too,Beyond our reach to gather, but not beyond our view;And like the little charmer that tempted me astray,They steal out half the brightness of many a summer's day.Oh, hearts that fail with longing for some forbidden tree,Look up and learn a lesson from my white rose and me.'Tis wiser far to number the blessings at my feet,Than ever to be sighing for just one bud more sweet.My sunbeams and my shadows fall from a pierced Hand,I can surely trust His wisdom since His heart I understand;And maybe in the morning, when His blessed face I see,He will tell me why my white rose grew just too high for me.Ellen H. Willis.
When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried,When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died,We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an aeon or two,Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew!And those who were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair;They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair;They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene, Peter and Paul;They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all.And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!Rudyard Kipling.
You're surprised that I ever should say so?Just wait till the reason I've givenWhy I say I sha'n't care for the music,Unless there is whistling in heaven.Then you'll think it no very great wonder,Nor so strange, nor so bold a conceit,That unless there's a boy there a-whistling,Its music will not be complete.It was late in the autumn of '40;We had come from our far Eastern homeJust in season to build us a cabin,Ere the cold of the winter should come;And we lived all the while in our wagonThat husband was clearing the placeWhere the house was to stand; and the clearingAnd building it took many days.So that our heads were scarce shelteredIn under its roof when our storeOf provisions was almost exhausted,And husband must journey for more;And the nearest place where he could get themWas yet such a distance away,That it forced him from home to be absentAt least a whole night and a day.You see, we'd but two or three neighbors,And the nearest was more than a mile;And we hadn't found time yet to know them,For we had been busy the while.And the man who had helped at the raisingJust staid till the job was well done;And as soon as his money was paid himHad shouldered his axe and had gone.Well, husband just kissed me and started—I could scarcely suppress a deep groanAt the thought of remaining with babySo long in the house alone;For, my dear, I was childish and timid,And braver ones might well have feared,For the wild wolf was often heard howling.And savages sometimes appeared.But I smothered my grief and my terrorTill husband was off on his ride,And then in my arms I took Josey,And all the day long sat and cried,As I thought of the long, dreary hoursWhen the darkness of night should fall,And I was so utterly helpless,With no one in reach of my call.And when the night came with its terrors,To hide ev'ry ray of light,I hung up a quilt by the window,And, almost dead with affright,I kneeled by the side of the cradle,Scarce daring to draw a full breath,Lest the baby should wake, and its cryingShould bring us a horrible death.There I knelt until late in the eveningAnd scarcely an inch had I stirred,When suddenly, far in the distance,A sound as of whistling I heard.I started up dreadfully frightened,For fear 'twas an Indian's call;And then very soon I rememberedThe red man ne'er whistles at all.And when I was sure 'twas a white man,I thought, were he coming for ill,He'd surely approach with more caution—Would come without warning, and still.Then the sound, coming nearer and nearer,Took the form of a tune light and gay,And I knew I needn't fear evilFrom one who could whistle that way.Very soon I heard footsteps approaching,Then came a peculiar dull thump,As if some one was heavily strikingAn ax in the top of a stump;And then, in another brief moment,There came a light tap on the door,When quickly I undid the fast'ning,And in stepped a boy, and beforeThere was either a question or answerOr either had time to speak,I just threw my glad arms around him,And gave him a kiss on the cheek.Then I started back, scared at my boldness.But he only smiled at my fright,As he said, "I'm your neighbor's boy, Ellick,Come to tarry with you through the night."We saw your husband go eastward,And made up our minds where he'd gone,And I said to the rest of our people,'That woman is there all alone,And I venture she's awfully lonesome,And though she may have no great fear,I think she would feel a bit saferIf only a boy were but near.'"So, taking my axe on my shoulder,For fear that a savage might strayAcross my path and need scalping,I started right down this way;And coming in sight of the cabin,And thinking to save you alarm,I whistled a tune, just to show youI didn't intend any harm."And so here I am, at your service;But if you don't want me to stay,Why, all you need do is to say so,And should'ring my axe, I'll away."I dropped in a chair and near fainted,Just at thought of his leaving me then,And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkleAs he said, "I guess I'll remain."And then I just sat there and told himHow terribly frightened I'd been,How his face was to me the most welcomeOf any I ever had seen;And then I lay down with the baby,And slept all the blessed night through,For I felt I was safe from all dangerNear so brave a young fellow, and true.So now, my dear friend, do you wonder,Since such a good reason I've given,Why I say I sha'n't care for the music,Unless there is whistling in heaven?Yes, often I've said so in earnest,And now what I've said I repeat,That unless there's a boy there a-whistling,Its music will not be complete.