This book is all that's left me now!Tears will unbidden start,—With faltering lip and throbbing browI press it to my heart.For many generations past,Here is our family tree:My mother's hand this Bible clasped;She, dying, gave it me.Ah! well do I remember thoseWhose names these records bear,Who round the hearthstone used to closeAfter the evening prayer,And speak of what these pages said,In tones my heart would thrill!Though they are with the silent dead,Here are they living still!My father read this holy bookTo brothers, sisters, dear;How calm was my poor mother's look,Who leaned God's word to hear.Her angel-face—I see it yet!What thronging memories come!Again that little group is metWithin the halls of home!Thou truest friend man ever knew,Thy constancy I've tried;Where all were false I found thee true,My counsellor and guide.The mines of earth no treasure giveThat could this volume buy:In teaching me the way to live,It taught me how to die.
This book is all that's left me now!Tears will unbidden start,—With faltering lip and throbbing browI press it to my heart.For many generations past,Here is our family tree:My mother's hand this Bible clasped;She, dying, gave it me.
Ah! well do I remember thoseWhose names these records bear,Who round the hearthstone used to closeAfter the evening prayer,And speak of what these pages said,In tones my heart would thrill!Though they are with the silent dead,Here are they living still!
My father read this holy bookTo brothers, sisters, dear;How calm was my poor mother's look,Who leaned God's word to hear.Her angel-face—I see it yet!What thronging memories come!Again that little group is metWithin the halls of home!
Thou truest friend man ever knew,Thy constancy I've tried;Where all were false I found thee true,My counsellor and guide.The mines of earth no treasure giveThat could this volume buy:In teaching me the way to live,It taught me how to die.
"Milors and Gentlemans—You excellent chairman, M. le Baron de Mount-Stuart, he have say to me, 'Make de toast.' Den I say to him dat I have no toast to make; but he nudge my elbow ver soft, and say dat dere is von toast dat nobody but von Frenchman can make proper; and, derefore, wid your kind permission, I vill make de toast. 'De brevete is de sole of de feet,' as you great philosophere, Dr. Johnson, do say, in dat amusing little vork of his, de Pronouncing Dictionaire; and, derefore, I vill not say ver moch to de point.
"Ah! mes amis! ven I hear to myself de flowing speech, de oration magnifique of your Lor' Maire, Monsieur Gobbledown, I feel dat it is von great privilege for von étranger to sit at de same table, and to eat de same food, as dat grand, dat majestique man, who are de tereur of de voleurs and de brigands of de metropolis, and who is also, I for to suppose, a halterman and de chief of you common scoundrel. Milors and gentlemans, I feel that I can perspire to no greatare honueur dan to be von common scoundrelman myself; but, hélas! dat plaisir are not for me, as I are not freemanof your great cité, not von liveryman servant of von you compagnies joint-stock. But I must not forget de toast.
"Milors and Gentlemans! De immortal Shakispeare he have write, 'De ting of beauty are de joy for nevermore.' It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is more entrancing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, de vinking eye of de beautiful lady! It is de ladies who do sweeten the cares of life. It is de ladies who are de guiding stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do cheer but not inebriate, and, derefore, vid all homage to dere sex, de toast dat I have to propose is, 'De Ladies! Heaven bless dem all!'"
Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind!We rise in the morning only to findThat Monday's but Tuesday, and Wednesday's the same,And Thursday's a change in nothing but name;A Friday and Saturday wind up the week;On Sunday we rest, and attempt to look meek.So set a firm shoulderAnd push on the wheel!The mill that we're grindingWorks for our weal.And although the dull round is a kind of a grind,It has compensations that we may find.Famine and slaughter and sieges no moreAre likely to leave their cards at the door.Let others delight in adventurous lives—We read their sore trials at home to our wives.So set a firm shoulderAnd push on the wheel!The mill that we're grindingWorks for our weal.The regular round, though a kind of a grind,Brings thoughts of contentment to quiet the mind:The babies sleep soundly in snug little beds;There's a tight little roof o'er the ringletted heads;The wife's welcome comes with the set of the sun,And the worker may rest, for the day's work is done.So set a firm shoulderAnd push on the wheel!The mill that we're grindingWorks for our weal.Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind,But the world's scenes are shifted by workmen behind.The star who struts central may show no more artThan the sturdy "first citizen" filling his part.When the king to our plaudits has graciously bowed,The crowd sees the king, while the king sees the crowd.So set a firm shoulderAnd push on the wheel!The mill that we're grindingWorks for our weal.When the great mill has stopped, and the work is complete,And the workers receive the reward that is meet,Who can tell what the Master shall say is the best?We but know that the worker who's aided the rest,Who has kept his wheel turning from morning to night,Who has not wronged his fellow, is not far from right.So set a firm shoulderAnd push on the wheel!The mill that we're grindingShall work out our weal.
Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind!We rise in the morning only to findThat Monday's but Tuesday, and Wednesday's the same,And Thursday's a change in nothing but name;A Friday and Saturday wind up the week;On Sunday we rest, and attempt to look meek.So set a firm shoulderAnd push on the wheel!The mill that we're grindingWorks for our weal.
And although the dull round is a kind of a grind,It has compensations that we may find.Famine and slaughter and sieges no moreAre likely to leave their cards at the door.Let others delight in adventurous lives—We read their sore trials at home to our wives.So set a firm shoulderAnd push on the wheel!The mill that we're grindingWorks for our weal.
The regular round, though a kind of a grind,Brings thoughts of contentment to quiet the mind:The babies sleep soundly in snug little beds;There's a tight little roof o'er the ringletted heads;The wife's welcome comes with the set of the sun,And the worker may rest, for the day's work is done.So set a firm shoulderAnd push on the wheel!The mill that we're grindingWorks for our weal.
Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind,But the world's scenes are shifted by workmen behind.The star who struts central may show no more artThan the sturdy "first citizen" filling his part.When the king to our plaudits has graciously bowed,The crowd sees the king, while the king sees the crowd.So set a firm shoulderAnd push on the wheel!The mill that we're grindingWorks for our weal.
When the great mill has stopped, and the work is complete,And the workers receive the reward that is meet,Who can tell what the Master shall say is the best?We but know that the worker who's aided the rest,Who has kept his wheel turning from morning to night,Who has not wronged his fellow, is not far from right.So set a firm shoulderAnd push on the wheel!The mill that we're grindingShall work out our weal.
It was the seventh of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky was cloudless; the foliage of the wood scarce tinged with purple and gold; the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of legions shook the ground; from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel; on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet.
Gates was sad and thoughtful as he watched the evolutions of the two armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground, and a chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The playof death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart.
Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which they stood came a rider, upon a black horse, rushing toward the distant battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and his rider that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the sharp blade quivers through the air—he points to the distant battle, and, lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight is the thickest, there, through intervals of cannon smoke, you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a magnificent sight to see that strange soldier and that noble black horse, dashing like a meteor, down the long columns of battle? Let us look for a moment into those dense war clouds. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of Americanmilitiamen, their rude farmer coats stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee before that company of redcoat hirelings, who come rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. In this moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches right in the path of a broad-shouldered militiaman. "Now! cowards! advance another step and I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the unknown, extending a pistol in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you down." This appeal was not without its effect. The militiaman turns; his comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. "Now, upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer. They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider is heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. "Club your rifles andcharge them home!" shouts the unknown. That black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then a confused conflict—a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers.
Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemiss' Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep—that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and, as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he seized his rifle and started toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that Black Steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on toward the fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men of Quebec!come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. Now British cannon pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry if you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the Black Horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent, "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg shattered by a cannon-ball. Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you shall see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the storming of Quebec. That rider of the Black Horse was Benedict Arnold.
You can always tell a boy whose mother cuts his hair. Not because the edges of it look as if it had been chewed off by an absent-minded horse; but you can tell it by the way he stops on the streets and wriggleshis shoulders. When a fond mother has to cut her boy's hair she is careful to guard against any annoyance and muss by laying a sheet on the carpet. It has never yet occurred to her to set him over a bare floor and put the sheet around his neck. Then she draws the front hair over his eyes, and leaves it there while she cuts that which is at the back; the hair which lies over his eyes appears to be surcharged with electric needles, and that which is silently dropping down over his shirtband appears to be on fire. She has unconsciously continued to push his head forward until his nose presses his breast, and is too busily engaged to notice the snuffling sound that is becoming alarmingly frequent. In the meantime he is seized with an irresistible desire to blow his nose, but recollects that his handkerchief is in the other room. Then a fly lights on his nose, and does it so unexpectedly that he involuntarily dodges and catches the points of the shears in his left ear. At this he commences to cry and wish he was a man. But his mother doesn't notice him. She merely hits him on the other ear to inspire him with confidence and goes on with the work. When she is through she holds his jacket-collar back from his neck, and with her mouth blows the short bits of hair from the top of his head down his back. He calls herattention to this fact, but she looks for a new place on his head and hits him there, and asks him why he didn't use a handkerchief. Then he takes his awfully disfigured head to the mirror and looks at it, and, young as he is, shudders as he thinks of what the boys on the street will say.
I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors—by the dear ashes which repose in this precious soil—by all you are, and all you hope to be—resist every object of disunion, resist every encroachment upon your liberties, resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, or smother your public schools, or extinguish your system of public instruction.
I call upon you, mothers, by that which never fails in woman, the love of your off-spring; teach them, as they climb your knees, or lean on your bosoms, the blessings of liberty. Swear them at the altar, as with their baptismal vows, to be true to their country, and never to forget or forsake her.
I call upon you, young men, to rememberwhose sons you are; whose inheritance you possess. Life can never be too short, which brings nothing but disgrace and oppression. Death never comes too soon, if necessary in defence of the liberties of your country.
I call upon you, old men, for your counsels, and your prayers, and your benedictions. May not your gray hairs go down in sorrow to the grave, with the recollection that you have lived in vain. May not your last sun sink in the west upon a nation of slaves.
No; I read in the destiny of my country far better hopes, far brighter visions. We, who are now assembled here, must soon be gathered to the congregation of other days. The time of our departure is at hand, to make way for our children upon the theatre of life. May God speed them and theirs. May he who, at the distance of another century, shall stand here to celebrate this day, still look round upon a free, happy, and virtuous people. May he have reason to exult as we do. May he, with all the enthusiasm of truth as well as of poetry, exclaim, that here is still his country.
He was bowed by many a year of service; he was white-woolled, thick-lipped, and a true son of Africa, yet a grand and knightly soul animated that dusky breast—a soul that many a scion of the blood royal might envy.
The children loved him, the neighbors respected him, his own color looked up to him as a superior being, and they whose goods and chattels he had formerly been, were sure to heed his counsels in all important family matters. Aye, he had an honorable record. If his skin was black, his soul was white as the whitest and from lusty boyhood to the present there had been no need of "stripes" for Uncle Jake.
He had been the playmate of "young marster," the boon companion in all 'possum hunts and fishing frolics, and when each had arrived at man's estate the goodfellowship contracted in youth knew no surcease.
When the tocsin of war resounded through the South, and the call for volunteers was made, "marster" was one of the first to buckle on his armor and hasten to the front—doing so with greater heart as Uncle Jake was left in charge of those dearer than life to him.
And royally did the poor unlettered Africanfulfil the trust committed to his keeping. He took upon himself the burden of all plantation matters and sooner than one hair on the heads of "missus or chillun" should be injured, he would have sacrificed his life freely any day. And when the war was over he positively refused to join in the hegira of his brethren, preferring rather to live on in the same old place that had witnessed his birth and the strength of his manhood's prime.
In grateful recognition of his long servitude a comfortable cottage was built for him in a secluded nook of the plantation, in which, with his faithful old wife, he lived a peaceful and contented life, tilling the few acres which had been granted him and doing all sorts of odd jobs out of the pure love he bore old marse.
But Uncle Jake was getting old now—more and more heavily the weight of years fell upon him—the whiter grew his locks until at last the time came when he could no longer pursue his accustomed duties, and all reluctant and unwilling he took to his bed never to rise again.
For weeks and months he lingered on the "Border Land," attended by loving hands, and his slightest wish was gratified; indeed, so long he hovered between life and death, that those who loved him best began to cherish a faint hope that he would be spared to them.
But the fiat had gone forth—Uncle Jake must die.
One evening, just as the setting sun was flooding the fair landscape with his golden beams, a tearful group were assembled at his bedside, who had been hastily summoned thither to bid farewell to one who had been so true a friend to them all.
There were marster and missus and their children and Jake's own wife and children, with a few of his fellow servants, all united in a democracy of grief that knew no distinction of caste in the supreme moment.
No sound was heard save a half-suppressed sob now and then—the tick-tick of the clock on the rude mantel and the labored breathing of the dying man.
For hours he had lain in a sort of stupor, broken only at intervals by delirious mutterings, when suddenly his eyes, in which was a preternatural brightness, opened and fixed themselves long and earnestly in turn upon each one of the faces bent so sorrowfully over him.
Then in a feeble, fluttering voice, like the last effort of an expiring taper, he addressed his master, who was tenderly wiping the moisture from his brow:
"Ole marse, I'se been a good and faithful servant to yer all dese years, has I not?"
"Yes, Jake."
"Ebber since we was boys togedder I'selubed yer, and stuck to yer through thick and thin, and now dat Jake is goin' home yer doan' treasure up nothin' agin me, do yer, marse?"
"No, no, Jake."
"Old missus, come nearer, honey, Jake's eyes is gettin' mighty dim now, and he kan't see yer. Yer'll nebber forgit how Jake tuk keer of yer an' de chilluns when ole marster gone to de war? An' yer'll be kind to my wife and chilluns for my sake, won't yer?"
"Yes, yes, Jake, I'll be kind to them, and I will never forget your fidelity, old friend."
"T'ank de Lawd! I kin die happy now, when I'se know dat yer an' master will 'member me an' be kind to dem I'se leaving behind. An' de chillun—whar's de chillun? I'se wants ter tell 'em all goodby an' say a las' few words to dem, too."
And in his eagerness, with a strength born of death, the old man half arose upon his elbow and laid a trembling hand upon the head of each of the awe-struck children.
"God bless yer, chillun, one an' all. I lubs my own little picaninnies, but I lubs old marster's just as well. I doan' want none o' yer to forgit how Uncle Jake has trotted yer on his knee an' toted yer on his back an' keep' a watchful eye on yer, les' yet git into mischief by yer pranks. Promiseme, chillun, dat you'll nebber forgit dese ting. It pleases Uncle Jake to think yer'll 'member him arter he's gone from yer sight for ebber."
As well as they were able for their tears, the little ones gave the required promise, and greatly pleased, the old man sank back exhausted upon his pillow.
After lying a few minutes with closed eyes, as if in sleep, he suddenly whispered:
"Dinah, whar is you? I wants yer to cum closer ter me, honey, an' put yer arms around my neck an' lay yer cheek ter mine like yer used ter do when we was courtin' down in de huckleberry patch. I wants ter die in yer arms, ole wife. Yer is black, an' de white folks mought not be able ter see any booty in yer, but Jake knows what a true an' lovin' wife you'se bin ter him, an' he can see de booty dat's hidden out o' sight. I'se gwine ter cross ober der great wide ribber dey call Death, into a kentry whar' dere'll nebber be any mo' black skins—whar' I'll wear de white robe and de golden crown, an' I'se got ter wait fur yer dere. Dinah, my lub! my lub! Hark, honey! doan' yer hear de bells ob heaven a-ringing? An' doan' yer see de pearly gates a-openin' to let ole black Jake go frew? I'se a comin', holy angels—I'se a comin', blessed Lawd! Glory hallelewger! Ole Jake's mos' got ober de ribber. His feet istouchin' de water—but it's gettin' so cold, Dinah, honey—I can't feel de clasp of yer arms any mo'. I'se—"
And with a last, long, fluttering sigh, as knightly and true a soul as ever dwelt in human breast took its light to a realm where there is indeed neither black nor white, nor bond nor free, but all are like unto the angels.
The express train was flying from Cork to Queenstown; it was going like sixty—that is, about sixty miles an hour. No sight of Irish village to arrest our speed, no sign of a breakdown; and yet the train halted. We looked out of a window; saw a brakeman and a crowd of passengers gathering around the locomotive, and a dense smoke arising. What was the matter?A hot axle!
I thought then, as I think now, that is what is the matter with people everywhere. In this swift, "express" American life, we go too fast for our endurance. We think ourselves getting on splendidly, when, in the midst of our success, we come to a dead halt. What is the matter? The nerves ormuscles or our brain give out; we make too many revolutions in an hour.A hot axle!
Men make the mistake of working according to their opportunities, and not according to their capacity of endurance. Can I be a merchant, and president of a bank, and a director in a life insurance company, and a school commission, and help edit a paper, and supervise the politics of our ward, and run for Congress? "I can!" the man says to himself. The store drives him; the bank drives him; the school drives him; politics drive him. He takes all the scoldings and frets and exasperations of each position. Some day, at the height of the business season, he does not come to the store. From the most important meeting of the bank directors he is absent. In the excitement of the most important political canvass he fails to be at the place appointed. What is the matter? His health has broken down; the train halts long before it gets to the station.A hot axle!
Literary men have great opportunities opening in this day. If they take all that open, they are dead men, or worse—livingmen that ought to be dead. The pen runs so easy when you have good ink and smooth paper, and an easy desk to write on, and the consciousness of an audience of one, two, or three hundred thousand readers. So great is the invitation to literary work,that the professional men of the day are overdone. They sit, faint and fagged out, on the verge of newspapers and books; each one does the work of three. And these men sit up late nights and choke down chunks of meat without mastication, and scold their wives through irritability, and maul innocent authors, and run the physical machinery with a liver miserably given out. The driving shaft has gone fifty times a second. They stop at no station. The steam-chest is hot and swollen. The brain and digestion begins to smoke. Stop, ye flying quills! "Down brakes!"A hot axle!
Some of our young people have read—till they are crazed—of learned blacksmiths who at the forge conquered thirty languages; and shoemakers who, pounding sole-leather, got to be philosophers; and of milliners who, while their customers were at the glass trying on their spring hats, wrote a volume of first-rate poems. The fact is, no blacksmith ought to be troubled with more than five languages; and, instead of shoemakers becoming philosophers, we would like to turn our surplus supply of philosophers into shoemakers; and the supply of poetry is so much greater than the demand, that we wish milliners would stick to their business. Extraordinary examples of work and endurance may do us much good. Because Napoleon slept only four hours a night, hundredsof students have tried the experiment; but, instead of Austerlitz and Saragossa, there came of it only a sick headache and a botch of a recitation.
Let us not go beyond our endurance, cutting short our days and making a wreck of our life work, but labor earnestly, zealously, intelligently for success; and in the twilight of old age peace and happiness will be ours—not the shattered and praised remains of a career disastrously checked.
When the lessons and tasks are ended,And the school for the day is dismissed,And the little ones gather around meTo 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 weak as a woman's,And the fountain of feelings 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 as much 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 a sinner must pray for himself.The twig is so easily bended,I have banished the rule and 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 autumn,To traverse its 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 eve,Their songs in the school and the street,Shall miss the low hum of their voices,And the tramp of their delicate feet.When 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.
When the lessons and tasks are ended,And the school for the day is dismissed,And the little ones gather around meTo 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 weak as a woman's,And the fountain of feelings 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 as much 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 a sinner must pray for himself.
The twig is so easily bended,I have banished the rule and 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 autumn,To traverse its 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 eve,Their songs in the school and the street,Shall miss the low hum of their voices,And the tramp of their delicate feet.When 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.
FOOTNOTES:[2]Found in the desk of Charles Dickens after his death.
[2]Found in the desk of Charles Dickens after his death.
[2]Found in the desk of Charles Dickens after his death.
When you meet with one suspectedOf some secret deed of shame,And for this by all rejectedAs a thing of evil fame,Guard thine every look and action,Speak no word of heartless blame,For the slanderer's vile detractionYet may soil thy goodly name.When you meet with one pursuingWays the lost have entered in,Working out his own undoingWith his recklessness and sin;Think, if placed in his condition,Would a kind word be in vain,Or a look of cold suspicionWin thee back to truth again?There are spots that bear no flowers,Not because the soil is bad,But the Summer's genial showersNever made their bosoms glad.Better have an act that's kindlyTreated sometimes with disdain,Than, in judging others blindly,Doom the innocent to pain.
When you meet with one suspectedOf some secret deed of shame,And for this by all rejectedAs a thing of evil fame,Guard thine every look and action,Speak no word of heartless blame,For the slanderer's vile detractionYet may soil thy goodly name.
When you meet with one pursuingWays the lost have entered in,Working out his own undoingWith his recklessness and sin;Think, if placed in his condition,Would a kind word be in vain,Or a look of cold suspicionWin thee back to truth again?
There are spots that bear no flowers,Not because the soil is bad,But the Summer's genial showersNever made their bosoms glad.Better have an act that's kindlyTreated sometimes with disdain,Than, in judging others blindly,Doom the innocent to pain.
It was a block of yellow-brown houses in South Boston, looking as much like a sheet of gingerbread as anything.
An express-wagon had just backed up to No. 21 in that block, and the driver, unloosing ropes here and there, proceeded to unpack the luggage.
"What have we here?" exclaimed Mrs. Bacon, the downstairs tenant. "A menagerie, I do believe. Come here, John."
There was, indeed, on the very top of the load a gray horse that in the twilight looked very real till one noticed the rockers on which it stood. But there was a kennel with a live terrier's head at the window, a bird-cage with its fluttering tenant, a crib and high chair besides, suggesting that the folks in the other part might, in the language of Mrs. Bacon, "make music."
Now, the downstairs tenants, Mr. and Mrs. Bacon, were precise, orderly people,living, like many other city people, in desert-island fashion, and only hoping that everybody else would mind their own business. It had been for weeks their great comfort that the other part was unoccupied, and now this load of household goods brimming over with pets and their belongings was an unwelcome sight.
There were no young Bacons—no, indeed! Plants did not flourish in their shaded windows nor canary birds splash water from their tiny baths upon the clear glass. No dog barked a noisy welcome when his master returned at night. No cat purred in her mistress's lap. The housekeeping of the Bacons was a fight against dirt, dust, sunshine and noise; and somehow pets bring all these.
"Well, John," said Mrs. Bacon as she turned from the window and pulled the shade over the sacred glass, "there's an end to peace and quiet. We must keep the entry doors locked; and don't you be whistling round to attract a child. Give them an inch and they'll take an ell. If folks must have rocking horses and what goes with them, they ought to move into the country, where they will not be pestering other people."
But, to the surprise of the Bacons, they were not pestered, only by the patter of little feet overhead, or a woman's voice singingcradle-songs or joining in her child's laughter. Crying there was, too, sometimes, but it was so soon hushed in motherly caresses that it seemed a sort of rainbow grievance only.
At night, when the father came home, there was quite a joyful noise upstairs, at which time John's face was a little wistful. But the new family did not intrude for ever so small a favor.
Mrs. Bacon took good care to keep out of sight whenever the new tenants were passing through the entry-way. One small pair of boots had considerable traveling to do up and down the stairs for a stroll on the sidewalk or to old Dorchester Heights, just beyond, for spoils of wild flowers.
One day Little Boots came back from this favorite resort, and instead of climbing the stairs, as usual, strayed hesitatingly toward Mrs. Bacon's kitchen door.
"Smells the gingerbread," soliloquized Mrs. Bacon, grimly. "Glad the door is locked." She glanced toward it to be sure; yes, it was locked, though the key had been transferred to another door. But shining through the keyhole was a very bright and sweet-looking star of an eye. Only a moment it twinkled, and then there was thrust in very gently the stem of a dandelion, and the small boots scampered away up the stairs.
"Little mischief!" exclaimed Mrs. Bacon, and she would have pushed the intruding stem outside, but her hands were in the dough. "If he wanted a piece of gingerbread, why didn't he say so? Mebbe he was afraid of me; cats run like all possessed when they see me. I can't have my key-holes choked up with dandelion stems—that's so. Soon's I get my hands out of this it will walk into the stove, that dandelion will." But the dandelion was too fresh and perfect, and brought back the old childhood days to Mrs. Bacon so clearly that she changed her mind. There was an old horseradish bottle on the pantry-shelf which, filled with water, received the dandelion. There, resting in the kitchen window, it smiled all day.
There was quite a commotion upstairs that night, and John and his wife, drowsily hearing it, thanked their stars that they were not routed by children's ails. The next day Mrs. Bacon's watchful ear caught the sound of "Little Boots" on the stairs, and again the blue eyes twinkled at the keyhole. This time the door opened in response:
"Well, child, what is it? Want some gingerbread?"
"Oh no, thank you, dear," said the little voice—a very hoarse little voice it was, and the throat was all wrapped in flannel.
"I wanted to know if you liked my f'ower?"
"See?" Mrs. Bacon pointed to the glorified horseradish bottle.
"Is your name Mrs. Bacon, dear?"
"Bacon—no 'dear' about it."
"I like to call you 'dear.' Don't your little boy call you so?"
"No."
"Ally! Ally, child!" called the mother anxiously; "come back, darling; you'll get cold."
"I'll take him up," responded Mrs. Bacon; and taking with unwonted tenderness the three-years-old darling, she landed him safely upstairs.
"It's the croup," explained the mother. "He got cold yesterday, out for dandelions—his favorite flower, ma'am. Calls 'em preserved sunshine; saw me put up fruit last fall—there's where he got the idea; though, as to telling where he gets all his ideas, that beats me. The doctor says he's that kind of a child the croup is likely to go hard with. Scares me to death to hear him cough."
"Goose oil is good for croup," remarked Mrs. Bacon.
"Did you ever try it?" asked the new neighbor, innocently.
"Me? No use for it. Got a bottle, though. Have it if you like."
Alas! the doctor's prophecy was true. The fatal disease developed that very night.
Little boots are still and starry eyes shine afar off now. As he lay in his beautiful last sleep, a flower amid the white flowers, a woman's brown hand slipped a few dandelions tenderly—oh, so tenderly!—into the dainty cold fingers.
"That is right, Mrs. Bacon, dear," said the poor mother. "'Preserved sunshine!' That's what he is to us."
The new tenants have moved into the country, and No. 21, upper tenement, is again to let.
Mrs. Bacon hopes the landlord will add to his advertisement, "No objection to children."
"Another Daring Burglary!" read Mrs. Banford, as she picked up the morning: paper. "Lucullus," she said, turning to her husband, "this is the fourth outrage of the kind in this town within a week, and if you don't procure a burglar-alarm, or adopt some other means of security, I shall not remain in this house another night. Some morning we'll get up and find ourselvesmurdered and the house robbed if we have to depend on the police for protection."
Banford assured his wife that he would have the matter attended to at once. Then he left the house and didn't return until evening. When Mrs. B. asked him if he had given a second thought to the subject which she had broached in the morning, he drew a newspaper from his pocket, and said: "See here, Mirandy! There's no use o' foolin' away money on one o' those new-fangled burglar-alarms. Economy is wealth. Here's a capital idea suggested in this paper—cheap, simple and effective."
And then he read the suggestion about hanging a tin pan on the chamber-door.
"I tell you, Mirandy! the man who conceived that brilliant notion is a heaven-born genius—a boon to mankind; and his name should go ringing down the corridors of time with those of such brilliant intellect as Watt, Morse, Edison, and other successful scientific investigators. You see, the least jar of the door will dislodge the pan, and the noise occasioned thereby will not only awaken the occupants of the room, but will also scare the burglar half to death, and perhaps the pan will strike him on the head and fracture his skull. It is a glorious scheme, and the fact that it was not utilized years ago is the most remarkable thing about it."
"Well," assented Mrs. B. in less sanguine tones, "it may be better than nothing, and it won't cost anything; and as Susan has gone out to spend the night with her sick sister, and we'll be all alone, I'll hunt up the pans now."
Accordingly, each inside door was crowned with a tin pan and left slightly ajar. Banford also thoughtfully placed a six-shooter under his pillow and stood a base-ball bat within easy reach.
"Now, Mirandy," he courageously observed, as they were preparing to retire, "if you are awakened by a noise during the night, don't scream and jump out of bed. Just lie still, or some o' the bullets I fire at the burglar may go through you and kill you. Let me wrestle with the intruder, and I'll soon make him regret that he had not postponed being born for a few centuries!"
Then they turned down the gas with a feeling of increased security, and were soon asleep. About half-past midnight they were awakened by a noise that sounded like a sharp clap of thunder, followed by a wail that almost chilled the marrow in their bones.
"Goodness!" screamed Mrs. B., in a voice swollen with terror, as she dived under the bed-clothes. "We'll be murdered in a minute. Shoot him, Lucullus! Quick—shoot him!"
Banford, after considerable nervous fumbling under the pillow, grasped his revolver with an unsteady hand and discharged its six barrels in rapid succession, but not with very gratifying results. One bullet shattered the mirror in the bureau; another plowed a furrow along the ceiling; another splintered the bed-post; a fourth perforated a portrait of his wife's mother; and the other two left their imprint on the walls.
"D-d-don't be fuf-fuf-frightened, M-mirandy," said Banford, encouragingly, his articulation sounding as if it had "collided" with an Arctic wave: "I gug-guess I've kik-kik-killed him. He'll not kik-kik-come here—"
At this juncture there was a noise in an adjoining room, as if a two-ton meteorite had crashed through a boiler-foundry, and Mrs. B. uttered a series of ear-piercing shrieks that would have scared the life out of any burglar.
"M-mirandy," stammered the frightened and demoralized Banford, grasping the base-ball bat and swinging it around with such reckless promiscuousness that he struck his terror-stricken wife on the head, "Mum-mirandy, the house is fuf-full of midnight mum-marauders, and we'll be bub-bub-butchered in cold bub-bub-blood! Save yourself and don't mum-mind about me!" And leaping out of bed, he sprang througha window on to the roof of a back building, and accidentally rolled off into the yard, fifteen feet below, just as another burglar-alarm went off with a clamor almost as deafening and harrowing as an amateur orchestra. Mrs. B., thinking she had been hit by the burglar, emitted a fresh outburst of shrieks, while her husband lay groaning in the back yard, with a sprained ankle and a frightful gash in his head.
A policeman had now been awakened by the uproar, and boldly mounting the front stoop, he pulled the door-bell out by the roots without evoking a response. Then he hesitated.
"If a foul murder has been committed," he mused, "the assassin has already made good his escape."
This thought gave him courage, and he forced an entrance. In the entry he collided with a hat-rack, which he mistook for the outlaw, and almost demolished it with several whacks of his club. Then he made a careful reconnaissance, and dislodged one of the burglar-alarms.
"Spare my life," he yelled to his imaginary assailant, "and I'll let you escape!"
He thought he had been stabbed with a frying-pan. He rushed out of the house and secured the assistance of four of his fellow-officers, and a search of the building was resumed. Mrs. Banford was found in bedunconscious. Her husband was found in the yard in nearly a similar condition; and the burglar was found under the sofa, shivering with fear, and with his tail clasped tightly between his legs.
The cause of the panic was soon explained. Mrs. Banford had overlooked the presence of her pet dog in the house, and this innocent animal, in running from one room to another, had dislodged the "cheap and effective" burglar-alarms.