[In the recitation which follows, the effect can be heightened by an accompaniment of the piano and by the whistling of strains from Annie Laurie, adapting the style to the sentiment of the verses.The melody should be played very softly, except where the battle is alluded to, and the whistling should be so timed that the last strain of Annie Laurie may end with the words, "would lay me down and die." The beat of the drums can be introduced with good effect, but it is better to omit it unless it can be done skilfully. It is well to state before reciting, that the escape described is not entirely imaginary as many prisoners made their way through underground passages from rebel prisons, during the Civil War. An asterisk (*) at the end of a line denotes where the whistling should commence, and a dagger (†) where it should cease.]
[In the recitation which follows, the effect can be heightened by an accompaniment of the piano and by the whistling of strains from Annie Laurie, adapting the style to the sentiment of the verses.
The melody should be played very softly, except where the battle is alluded to, and the whistling should be so timed that the last strain of Annie Laurie may end with the words, "would lay me down and die." The beat of the drums can be introduced with good effect, but it is better to omit it unless it can be done skilfully. It is well to state before reciting, that the escape described is not entirely imaginary as many prisoners made their way through underground passages from rebel prisons, during the Civil War. An asterisk (*) at the end of a line denotes where the whistling should commence, and a dagger (†) where it should cease.]
When the North and South had parted, and the boom of the signal gunHad wakened the Northern heroes, for the great deeds to be done,When the nation's cry for soldiers had echoed o'er hill and dale,When hot youth flushed with courage, while the mother's cheeks turned pale,In the woods of old New England, as the day sank down the west,A loved one stood beside me, her brown head on my breast.From the earliest hours of childhood our paths had been as one,Her heart was in my keeping, though I knew not when 'twas won;We had learned to love each other, in a half unspoken way,But it ripened to full completeness when the parting came, that day;Not a tear in the eyes of azure, but a deep and fervent prayer,That seemed to say: "God bless you, and guard you, everywhere."At the call for volunteers, her face was like drifted snow,She read in my eyes a question and her loyal heart said, "Go."As the roll of the drums drew nearer, through the leaves of the rustling trees,*The strains of Annie Laurie were borne to us, on the breeze.Then I drew her pale face nearer and said: "Brave heart and true,Your tender love and prayers shall bring me back to you."And I called hermyAnnie Laurie and whispered to her that IFor her sweet sake was willing—to lay me down and die.And I said: "Through the days of danger, that little song shall beLike a pass word from this hillside, to bring your love to me."†Oh! many a time, at nightfall, in the very shades of death,When the picket lines were pacing their rounds with bated breath,*The lips of strong men trembled and brave breasts heaved a sigh,When some one whistled softly, "I'd lay me down and die."†The tender little ballad our watchword soon became,And in place of Annie Laurie, each had a loved one's name.In the very front of battle, where the bullets thickest fly,*The boys from old New England oftimes went rushing by,And the rebel lines before us gave way where'er we went,For the gray coats fled in terror from the "whistling regiment."Amidst the roar of the cannon, and the shriek of the shells on high,Yon could hear the brave boys whistling: "I'd lay me down and die."†But, Alas! Though truth is mighty and right will at last prevail,There are times when the best and bravest, by the wrong outnumbered, fail;And thus, one day, in a skirmish, but a half-hour's fight at most,A score of the whistling soldiers were caught by the rebel host.With hands fast tied behind us, we were dragged to a prison pen,Where, hollow-eyed and starving, lay a thousand loyal men.No roof but the vault of Heaven, no bed save the beaten sod,Shut in from the world around us, by a wall where the sentries trod.For a time our Annie Laurie brought cheer to that prison pen;A hope to the hearts of the living; a smile to the dying men.But the spark of Hope burned dimly, when each day's setting sunDropped the pall of night o'er a comrade, whose sands of life were run.One night, in a dismal corner, where the shadows darkest fell,We huddled close together to hear a soldier tellThe tales of dear New England and of loved ones waiting there,When, Hark! a soft, low whistle, pierced through the heavy air,*And the strain was Annie Laurie. Each caught the other's eye,And with trembling lips we answered, "I'd lay me down and die."From the earth, near the wall behind us, a hand came struggling through,With a crumpled bit of paper for the captive boys in blue.And the name! My God! 'Twas Annie, my Annie, true and brave,From the hills of old New England she had followed me to save.†"Not a word or a sign, but follow, where'er you may be led,Bring four of your comrades with you," was all hat the writing said.Only eight were left of the twenty and lots were quickly thrown,Then our trembling fingers widened the space where the hand had shown.With a stealthy glance at the sentries, the prisoners gathered round,And the five whom fate had chosen stole silent underground,On, on, through the damp earth creeping, we followed our dusky guide,Till under a bank o'erhanging we came to the river side:"Straight over," a low voice whispered, "where you see yon beacon light,"And ere we could say, "God bless you," he vanished into the night.Through the fog and damp of the river, when the moon was hid from sight,With a fond, old, faithful negro, brave Annie had crossed each night;And the long, dark, narrow passage had grown till we heard close byThe notes of the dear old pass-word: "I'd lay me down and die."With oarlocks muffled and silent, we pushed out into the stream,When a shot rang out on the stillness. We could see by the musket gleam,A single sentry firing, but the balls passed harmless by,For the stars had hid their faces and clouds swept o'er the sky.O God! How that beacon burning, brought joy to my heart that night,*For I knew whose hand had kindled that fire to guide our flight.The new-born hope of freedom filled every arm with strength,And we pulled at the oars like giants till the shore was reached at length.We sprang from the skiff, half-fainting, once more in the land of the free,And the lips of my love were waiting to welcome and comfort me.In my wasted arms I held her, while the weary boys close byBreathed low, "For Annie Laurie, I'd lay me down and die."†
When the North and South had parted, and the boom of the signal gunHad wakened the Northern heroes, for the great deeds to be done,When the nation's cry for soldiers had echoed o'er hill and dale,When hot youth flushed with courage, while the mother's cheeks turned pale,In the woods of old New England, as the day sank down the west,A loved one stood beside me, her brown head on my breast.From the earliest hours of childhood our paths had been as one,Her heart was in my keeping, though I knew not when 'twas won;We had learned to love each other, in a half unspoken way,But it ripened to full completeness when the parting came, that day;Not a tear in the eyes of azure, but a deep and fervent prayer,That seemed to say: "God bless you, and guard you, everywhere."At the call for volunteers, her face was like drifted snow,She read in my eyes a question and her loyal heart said, "Go."As the roll of the drums drew nearer, through the leaves of the rustling trees,*The strains of Annie Laurie were borne to us, on the breeze.Then I drew her pale face nearer and said: "Brave heart and true,Your tender love and prayers shall bring me back to you."And I called hermyAnnie Laurie and whispered to her that IFor her sweet sake was willing—to lay me down and die.And I said: "Through the days of danger, that little song shall beLike a pass word from this hillside, to bring your love to me."†Oh! many a time, at nightfall, in the very shades of death,When the picket lines were pacing their rounds with bated breath,*
The lips of strong men trembled and brave breasts heaved a sigh,When some one whistled softly, "I'd lay me down and die."†The tender little ballad our watchword soon became,And in place of Annie Laurie, each had a loved one's name.In the very front of battle, where the bullets thickest fly,*The boys from old New England oftimes went rushing by,And the rebel lines before us gave way where'er we went,For the gray coats fled in terror from the "whistling regiment."Amidst the roar of the cannon, and the shriek of the shells on high,Yon could hear the brave boys whistling: "I'd lay me down and die."†But, Alas! Though truth is mighty and right will at last prevail,There are times when the best and bravest, by the wrong outnumbered, fail;And thus, one day, in a skirmish, but a half-hour's fight at most,A score of the whistling soldiers were caught by the rebel host.With hands fast tied behind us, we were dragged to a prison pen,Where, hollow-eyed and starving, lay a thousand loyal men.No roof but the vault of Heaven, no bed save the beaten sod,Shut in from the world around us, by a wall where the sentries trod.For a time our Annie Laurie brought cheer to that prison pen;A hope to the hearts of the living; a smile to the dying men.But the spark of Hope burned dimly, when each day's setting sunDropped the pall of night o'er a comrade, whose sands of life were run.One night, in a dismal corner, where the shadows darkest fell,We huddled close together to hear a soldier tellThe tales of dear New England and of loved ones waiting there,When, Hark! a soft, low whistle, pierced through the heavy air,*And the strain was Annie Laurie. Each caught the other's eye,And with trembling lips we answered, "I'd lay me down and die."From the earth, near the wall behind us, a hand came struggling through,With a crumpled bit of paper for the captive boys in blue.And the name! My God! 'Twas Annie, my Annie, true and brave,From the hills of old New England she had followed me to save.†"Not a word or a sign, but follow, where'er you may be led,Bring four of your comrades with you," was all hat the writing said.Only eight were left of the twenty and lots were quickly thrown,Then our trembling fingers widened the space where the hand had shown.With a stealthy glance at the sentries, the prisoners gathered round,And the five whom fate had chosen stole silent underground,On, on, through the damp earth creeping, we followed our dusky guide,Till under a bank o'erhanging we came to the river side:"Straight over," a low voice whispered, "where you see yon beacon light,"And ere we could say, "God bless you," he vanished into the night.Through the fog and damp of the river, when the moon was hid from sight,With a fond, old, faithful negro, brave Annie had crossed each night;And the long, dark, narrow passage had grown till we heard close byThe notes of the dear old pass-word: "I'd lay me down and die."With oarlocks muffled and silent, we pushed out into the stream,When a shot rang out on the stillness. We could see by the musket gleam,A single sentry firing, but the balls passed harmless by,For the stars had hid their faces and clouds swept o'er the sky.O God! How that beacon burning, brought joy to my heart that night,*For I knew whose hand had kindled that fire to guide our flight.The new-born hope of freedom filled every arm with strength,And we pulled at the oars like giants till the shore was reached at length.We sprang from the skiff, half-fainting, once more in the land of the free,And the lips of my love were waiting to welcome and comfort me.In my wasted arms I held her, while the weary boys close byBreathed low, "For Annie Laurie, I'd lay me down and die."†
"Brethren," said the aged minister, as he stood up before the church meeting on New Year's Eve, "I am afraid we will have to part. I have labored among you now for fifteen years, and I feel that that is almost enough, under the peculiar circumstances in which I am placed. Not that I am exactly dissatisfied; but a clergyman who has been preaching to sinners for fifteen years for five hundred dollars a year, naturally feels that he is not doing a great work when Deacon Jones, acting as an officer of the church, pays his last quarter's salary in a promissory note at six months, and then, acting as an individual, offers to discount it for him at ten per cent if he will take it part out in clover seed and pumpkins.
"I feel somehow as if it would take about eighty-four years of severe preaching to prepare the deacon for existence in a felicitous hereafter. Let me say, also, that while I am deeply grateful to the congregation for the donation party they gave me on Christmas, I have calculated that it would be far more profitable for me to shut my house and take to the woods than endure another one. I will not refer to the impulsive generosity which persuaded SisterPotter to come with a present of eight clothes pins; I will not insinuate anything against Brother Ferguson, who brought with him a quarter of a peck of dried apples of the crop of 1872; I shall not allude to the benevolence of Sister Tynhirst, who came with a pen-wiper and a tin horse for the baby; I shall refrain from commenting upon the impression made by Brother Hill, who brought four phosphorescent mackerel, possibly with an idea that they might be useful in dissipating the gloom in my cellar. I omit reference to Deacon Jones' present of an elbow of stove-pipe and a bundle of tooth-picks, and I admit that when Sister Peabody brought me sweetened sausage-meat, and salted and peppered mince-meat for pies, she did right in not forcing her own family to suffer from her mistake in mixing the material. But I do think I may fairly remark respecting the case of Sister Walsingham, that after careful thought I am unable to perceive how she considered that a present of a box of hair-pins to my wife justified her in consuming half a pumpkin pie, six buttered muffins, two platefuls of oysters, and a large variety of miscellaneous food, previous to jamming herself full of preserves, and proceeding to the parlor to join in singing 'There is rest for the weary!' Such a destruction of the necessaries of life doubtless contributes admirablyto the stimulation of commerce, but it is far too large a commercial operation to rest solely upon the basis of a ten-cent box of hair-pins.
"As for matters in the church, I do not care to discuss them at length. I might say much about the manner in which the congregation were asked to contribute clothing to our mission in Senegambia; we received nothing but four neckties and a brass breast-pin, excepting a second-hand carriage-whip that Deacon Jones gave us. I might allude to the frivolous manner in which Brother Atkinson, our tenor, converses with Sister Priestly, our soprano, during my sermons, and last Sunday he kissed her when he thought I was not looking; I might allude to the absent-mindedness which has permitted Brother Brown twice lately to put half a dollar on the collection-plate and take off two quarters and a ten-cent piece in change; and I might dwell upon the circumstance that while Brother Toombs, the undertaker, sings 'I would not live alway' with professional enthusiasm that is pardonable, I do not see why he should throw such unction into the hymn 'I am unworthy though I give my all,' when he is in arrears for two years' pew-rent, and is always busy examining the carpet-pattern when the plate goes round. I also——"
But there Brother Toombs turned off thegas suddenly, and the meeting adjourned full of indignation at the good pastor. His resignation was accepted unanimously.
John Mann had a wife who was kind and true,—A wife who loved him well;She cared for the house and their only child;But if I the truth must tell,She fretted and pined because John was poorAnd his business was slow to pay;But he only said, when she talked of change,"We'll stick to the good old way!"She saw her neighbors were growing richAnd dwelling in houses grand;That she was living in poverty,With wealth upon every hand;And she urged her husband to speculate,To risk his earnings at play;But he only said, "My dearest wife,We'll stick to the good old way."For he knew that the money that's quickly gotIs the money that's quickly lost;And the money that stays is the money earnedAt honest endeavor's cost.So he plodded along in his honest style,And he bettered himself each day,And he only said to his fretful wife,"We'll stick to the good old way."And at last there came a terrible crash,When beggary, want, and shameCame down on the homes of their wealthy friends,While John's remained the same;For he had no debts and he gave no trust,"My motto is this," he'd say,—"It's a charm against panics of every kind,—'Tis stick to the good old way!"And his wife looked round on the little houseThat was every nail their own,And she asked forgiveness of honest JohnFor the peevish mistrust she had shown;But he only said, as her tearful faceUpon his shoulder lay,"The good old way is the best way, wife;We'll stick to the good old way."
John Mann had a wife who was kind and true,—A wife who loved him well;She cared for the house and their only child;But if I the truth must tell,She fretted and pined because John was poorAnd his business was slow to pay;But he only said, when she talked of change,"We'll stick to the good old way!"
She saw her neighbors were growing richAnd dwelling in houses grand;That she was living in poverty,With wealth upon every hand;And she urged her husband to speculate,To risk his earnings at play;But he only said, "My dearest wife,We'll stick to the good old way."
For he knew that the money that's quickly gotIs the money that's quickly lost;And the money that stays is the money earnedAt honest endeavor's cost.So he plodded along in his honest style,And he bettered himself each day,And he only said to his fretful wife,"We'll stick to the good old way."
And at last there came a terrible crash,When beggary, want, and shameCame down on the homes of their wealthy friends,While John's remained the same;For he had no debts and he gave no trust,"My motto is this," he'd say,—"It's a charm against panics of every kind,—'Tis stick to the good old way!"
And his wife looked round on the little houseThat was every nail their own,And she asked forgiveness of honest JohnFor the peevish mistrust she had shown;But he only said, as her tearful faceUpon his shoulder lay,"The good old way is the best way, wife;We'll stick to the good old way."
[Delivered in the City of Washington, Monday, February 27, 1882.]
[Delivered in the City of Washington, Monday, February 27, 1882.]
On the morning of Saturday, July 2, the President was a contented and happy man—not in an ordinary degree, but joyfully, almost boyishly happy. On his way to the railroad station, to which he drove slowly, in conscious enjoyment of the beautiful morning, with an unwonted sense of leisure and keen anticipation of pleasure, his talk was all in the grateful and congratulatory vein. He felt that after four months of trial his administration was strong in itsgrasp of affairs, strong in popular favor and destined to grow stronger; that grave difficulties confronting him at his inauguration had been safely passed; that trouble lay behind him and not before him; that he was soon to meet the wife whom he loved, now recovering from an illness which had but lately disquieted and at times almost unnerved him; that he was going to his Alma Mater to renew the most cheerful associations of his young manhood and to exchange greetings with those whose deepening interest had followed every step of his upward progress from the day he entered upon his college course until he had attained the loftiest elevation in the gift of his countrymen.
Surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, on that quiet July morning James A. Garfield may well have been a happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him; no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully out before him. The next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence and the grave.
Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the redhand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death—and he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, he could give up life hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony, that was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage he looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes whose lips may tell—what brilliant, broken plans, what baffled, high ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, what bitter rending of sweet household ties! Behind him a proud expectant nation; a great host of sustaining friends; a cherished and happy mother, wearing the full, rich honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the little boys not yet emerged from childhood's days of frolic; the fair young daughter; the sturdy sons just springing into closest companionship, claiming every day and every day rewarding a father's love and care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all demands. Before him, desolation and great darkness! And his soul was not shaken. His countrymen were thrilled with instant, profound and universal sympathy. Masterful in hismortal weakness, he became the centre of a nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a world. But all the love and all the sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He trod the winepress alone. With unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the Divine decree.
As the end drew near his early craving for the sea returned. The stately mansion of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of pain, and he begged to be taken from its prison walls, from its oppressive, stifling air, from its homelessness and its hopelessness. Gently, silently, the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to die, as God should will, within sight of its heaving billows, within sound of its manifold voices. With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders; on its far sails, whitening in the morning light; on its restless waves, rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening, arching low to the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the stars. Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only the rapt and partingsoul may know. Let us believe that in the silence of the receding world he heard the great waves breaking on a farther shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal morning.
How shall I love you? I dream all dayDear, of a tenderer, sweeter way;Songs that I sing to you, words that I say,Prayers that are voiceless on lips that would pray;These may not tell of the love of my life;How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?How shall I love you? Love is the breadOf life to a woman—the white and the redOf all the world's roses, the light that is shedOn all the world's pathways, till life shall be dead!The star in the storm and the strength in the strife;How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?Is there a burden your heart must bear?I shall kneel lowly and lift it, dear!Is there a thorn in the crown that you wear?Let it hide in my heart till a rose blossom there!For grief or for glory—for death or for life,So shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife.
How shall I love you? I dream all dayDear, of a tenderer, sweeter way;Songs that I sing to you, words that I say,Prayers that are voiceless on lips that would pray;These may not tell of the love of my life;How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?
How shall I love you? Love is the breadOf life to a woman—the white and the redOf all the world's roses, the light that is shedOn all the world's pathways, till life shall be dead!The star in the storm and the strength in the strife;How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?
Is there a burden your heart must bear?I shall kneel lowly and lift it, dear!Is there a thorn in the crown that you wear?Let it hide in my heart till a rose blossom there!For grief or for glory—for death or for life,So shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife.
A quaint old box with a lid of blue,All faded and worn with age;A soft little curl of a brownish hue,A yellow and half-written page.The letters, with never a pause nor dot,In a school-boy's hand are cast;The lines and the curl I may hold to-day,But the love of the boy is past.It faded away with our childish dreams,Died out like the morning mist,And I look with a smile on the silken curlThat once I had tenderly kissed.One night in the summer—so long ago—We played by the parlor door,And the moonlight fell, like a silver veil,Spreading itself on the floor.And the children ran on the graveled walkAt play in their noisy glee;But the maddest, merriest fun just thenWas nothing to John and me.For he was a stately boy of twelve,And I was not quite eleven—We thought as we sat by the parlor doorWe had found the gate to heaven.That night when I lay on my snowy bed,Like many a foolish girl,I kissed and held to my little heartThis letter and silken curl.I slept and dreamed of the time when IShould wake to a fairy life;And sleeping, blushed, when I thought that JohnHad called me his little wife.I have loved since then with a woman's heart,Have known all a woman's bliss,But never a dream of the after lifeWas ever so sweet as this.The years went by with their silver feet,And often I laughed with JohnAt the vows we made by the parlor doorWhen the moon and stars looked on.Ah? boyish vows were broken and lost,And a girl's first dream will end,But I dearly loved his beautiful wife,While he was my husband's friend.When at last I went to my childhood's homeFar over the bounding wave,I missed my friend, for the violets grewAnd blossomed over his grave.To-day as I opened the old blue box,And looked on this soft brown curl,And read of the love John left for meWhen I was a little girl,There came to my heart a throb of pain,And my eyes grew moist with tears,For the childish love and the dear, dear friend,And the long-lost buried years.
A quaint old box with a lid of blue,All faded and worn with age;A soft little curl of a brownish hue,A yellow and half-written page.
The letters, with never a pause nor dot,In a school-boy's hand are cast;The lines and the curl I may hold to-day,But the love of the boy is past.
It faded away with our childish dreams,Died out like the morning mist,And I look with a smile on the silken curlThat once I had tenderly kissed.
One night in the summer—so long ago—We played by the parlor door,And the moonlight fell, like a silver veil,Spreading itself on the floor.
And the children ran on the graveled walkAt play in their noisy glee;But the maddest, merriest fun just thenWas nothing to John and me.
For he was a stately boy of twelve,And I was not quite eleven—We thought as we sat by the parlor doorWe had found the gate to heaven.
That night when I lay on my snowy bed,Like many a foolish girl,I kissed and held to my little heartThis letter and silken curl.
I slept and dreamed of the time when IShould wake to a fairy life;And sleeping, blushed, when I thought that JohnHad called me his little wife.
I have loved since then with a woman's heart,Have known all a woman's bliss,But never a dream of the after lifeWas ever so sweet as this.
The years went by with their silver feet,And often I laughed with JohnAt the vows we made by the parlor doorWhen the moon and stars looked on.
Ah? boyish vows were broken and lost,And a girl's first dream will end,But I dearly loved his beautiful wife,While he was my husband's friend.
When at last I went to my childhood's homeFar over the bounding wave,I missed my friend, for the violets grewAnd blossomed over his grave.
To-day as I opened the old blue box,And looked on this soft brown curl,And read of the love John left for meWhen I was a little girl,
There came to my heart a throb of pain,And my eyes grew moist with tears,For the childish love and the dear, dear friend,And the long-lost buried years.
Upon the hurricane deck of one of our gunboats, an elderly looking darkey, with a very philosophical and retrospective cast of countenance, squatted on his bundle, toasting his shins against the chimney, and apparently plunged into a state of profound meditation. Finding, upon inquiry, that he belonged to the Ninth Illinois, one of the most gallantly behaved and heavy losing regiments at the Fort Donelson battle, I began to interrogate him upon the subject.
"Were you in the fight?"
"Had a little taste of it, sa."
"Stood your ground, did you?"
"No, sa, I runs."
"Run at the first fire, did you?"
"Yes, sa; and would hab run soona, had I know'd it was comin'."
"Why, that wasn't very creditable to your courage."
"Massa, dat isn't my line, sa; cookin's my profeshun."
"Well, but have you no regard for your reputation?"
"Yah, yah! reputation's nuffin to me by de side ob life."
"Do you consideryourlife worth more than other people's?"
"It is worth more to me, sa."
"Then you must value it very highly?"
"Yes, sa, I does; more dan all dis world, more dan a million ob dollars, sa; for what would dat be wuth to a man wid the bref out ob him? Self-preserbation am de fust law wid me."
"But why should you act upon a different rule from other men?"
"Because different men set different values upon deir lives; mine is not in the market."
"But if you lost it, you would have the satisfaction of knowing that you died for your country."
"What satisfaction would dat be to me when de power ob feelin' was gone?"
"Then patriotism and honor are nothing to you?"
"Nuffin whatever, sa; I regard them as among the vanities."
"If our soldiers were like you, traitors might have broken up the government without resistance."
"Yes, sa; dar would hab been no help for it."
"Do you think any of your company would have missed you, if you had been killed?"
"Maybe not, sa; a dead white man ain't much to dese sogers, let alone a dead nigga; but I'd a missed myself, and dat was de pint wid me."
"'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," quote Farmer Brown,As he sat 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 your born,Nor mend a rod of broken fence—For my part give me common sense."But his wife was bound the roast to rule,And John and Henry were sent to school,While Fred, of course, was left behindBecause 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 his brothers, who went to the city school,Came home to live with "mother's fool."
"'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," quote Farmer Brown,As he sat 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 your born,Nor mend a rod of broken fence—For my part give me common sense."
But his wife was bound the roast to rule,And John and Henry were sent to school,While Fred, of course, was left behindBecause 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 his brothers, who went to the city school,Came home to live with "mother's fool."
It was close upon the hour of midnight.
A man sat alone in an upper room in a tumble-down tenement—a man whose face showed by his furrowed brow, glaring eyes and pallid lips the effects of a terrible mental struggle going on within him.
Before him were several pages of manuscript, and his nervous hand convulsively clutching a pen, was rapidly adding to them.
Close to his right hand and frequently touched by it as he plied his pen, was a gleaming, glittering object—ivory, silver and steel—a loaded revolver.
The window beside him was open, and through it the cool breeze entered and fanned his fevered brow. The night without was calm and placid. Nature was lovely, bathed in the light of the summer moon; but the man was oblivious of the beauties of the night. He glanced at the clock now and then, and observing the long hand climbing up the incline toward the figure twelve, he redoubled his labor at his manuscript.
Anon he glanced at the revolver on the desk beside him. He touched its ivory handle as if faltering in his resolution; and then went on with his writing.
Hark!
What sound is that that is borne upon the breeze of the summer night? A long, low wail, like the cry of a woman in mortal anguish.
The man started like a guilty soul, dashed the dews of perspiration from his clammy brow, and uttered an incoherent exclamation.
Again! again, that moaning, uncanny cry!
The man heard it and groaned aloud. He dashed aside the last page of his manuscript, and glanced again at the clock. The hands marked the hour of midnight. He grasped the revolver with a resolute air and exclaimed through his clenched teeth:
"It must be done!"
And, going to the window, he fired twice. * * * There was a scattering sound in the backyard, and the next day a gray cat was found dead close to the woodshed. The story and the deed were done.
I don'd lofe you now von schmall little bit,My dream vas blayed oudt, so blease git up und git;Your false-heardted vays I can't got along mit—Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!Vas all der young vomans so false-heardted like you,Mit a face nice und bright, but a heart black und plue,Und all der vhile schworing you lofed me so drue—Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!Vy, vonce I t'ought you vas a shtar vay up high;I liked you so better as gogonut bie:But oh, Becky Miller, you hafe profed von big lie—Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!You dook all de bresents vat I did bresent,Yes, gobbled up efery virst thing vot I sent;All der vhile mit anoder young rooster you vent—Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!Vhen first I found oudt you vas such a big lie,I didn't know vedder to schmudder or die;Bud now, by der chingo, I don't efen cry—Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!Don'd dry make belief you vas sorry aboudt,I don'd belief a dings vot coomes oudt by your moudt;Und besides I don'd care, for you vas blayed oudt—Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!
I don'd lofe you now von schmall little bit,My dream vas blayed oudt, so blease git up und git;Your false-heardted vays I can't got along mit—Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!
Vas all der young vomans so false-heardted like you,Mit a face nice und bright, but a heart black und plue,Und all der vhile schworing you lofed me so drue—Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!
Vy, vonce I t'ought you vas a shtar vay up high;I liked you so better as gogonut bie:But oh, Becky Miller, you hafe profed von big lie—Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!
You dook all de bresents vat I did bresent,Yes, gobbled up efery virst thing vot I sent;All der vhile mit anoder young rooster you vent—Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!
Vhen first I found oudt you vas such a big lie,I didn't know vedder to schmudder or die;Bud now, by der chingo, I don't efen cry—Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!
Don'd dry make belief you vas sorry aboudt,I don'd belief a dings vot coomes oudt by your moudt;Und besides I don'd care, for you vas blayed oudt—Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!
It is a winter night,And the stilly earth is white,With the blowing of the lilies of the snow;Once it was as red,With the roses summer shed;But the roses fled with summer, long ago.We sang a merry tune,In the jolly days of June,As we danced adown the garden in the light,But now December's come,And our hearts are dark and dumb,As we huddle o'er the embers here to-night.
It is a winter night,And the stilly earth is white,With the blowing of the lilies of the snow;Once it was as red,With the roses summer shed;But the roses fled with summer, long ago.
We sang a merry tune,In the jolly days of June,As we danced adown the garden in the light,But now December's come,And our hearts are dark and dumb,As we huddle o'er the embers here to-night.
"Ma's upstairs changing her dress," said the freckle-faced little girl, tying her doll's bonnet strings and casting her eye about for a tidy large enough to serve as a shawl for that double-jointed young person.
"Oh, your mother needn't dress up for me," replied the female agent of the missionary society, taking a self-satisfied viewof herself in the mirror. "Run up and tell her to come down just as she is in her every-day clothes, and not stand on ceremony."
"Oh, but she hasn't got on her every-day clothes. Ma was all dressed up in her new brown silk dress, 'cause she expected Miss Dimmond to-day. Miss Dimmond always comes over here to show off her nice things, and ma doesn't mean to get left. When ma saw you coming she said, 'the dickens!' and I guess she was mad about something. Ma said if you saw her new dress, she'd have to hear all about the poor heathen, who don't have silk, and you'd ask her for money to buy hymn books to send 'em. Say, do the nigger ladies use hymn-book leaves to do their hair up on and make it frizzy? Ma says she guesses that's all the good the books do 'em, if they ever get any books. I wish my doll was a heathen."
"Why, you wicked little girl! what do you want of a heathen doll?" inquired the missionary lady, taking a mental inventory of the new things in the parlor to get material for a homily on worldly extravagance.
"So folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, and feel sorry to have her going about naked. Then she'd have hair to frizz, and I want a doll with truly hair and eyes that roll up like Deacon Silderback'swhen he says amen on Sunday. I ain't a wicked girl, either, 'cause Uncle Dick—you know Uncle Dick, he's been out West and swears awful and smokes in the house—he says I'm a holy terror, and he hopes I'll be an angel pretty soon. Ma'll be down in a minute, so you needn't take your cloak off. She said she'd box my ears if I asked you to. Ma's putting on that old dress she had last year, 'cause she didn't want you to think she was able to give much this time, and she needed a muff worse than the queen of the cannon-ball islands needed religion. Uncle Dick says you oughter get to the islands, 'cause you'd be safe there, and the natives would be sorry they was such sinners anybody would send you to 'em. He says he never seen a heathen hungry enough to eat you, 'less 'twas a blind one, an' you'd set a blind pagan's teeth on edge so he'd never hanker after any more missionary. Uncle Dick's awful funny, and makes ma and pa die laughing sometimes."
"Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved wretch, and ought to have remained out West, where his style is appreciated. He sets a horrid example for little girls like you."
"Oh, I think he's nice. He showed me how to slide down the banisters, and he's teaching me to whistle when ma ain't around. That's a pretty cloak you've got,ain't it? Do you buy all your clothes with missionary money? Ma says you do."
Just then the freckle-faced girl's ma came into the parlor and kissed the missionary lady on the cheek and said she was delighted to see her, and they proceeded to have a real sociable chat. The little girl's ma cannot understand why a person who professes to be so charitable as the missionary agent does should go right over to Miss Dimmond's and say such ill-natured things as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a double-faced gossip.
[During the Freethinkers' Convention, at Watkins, N. Y., in response to statements that the churches throughout the land were losing all aggressive power, a message was received from Chaplain McCabe, of the Methodist Episcopal Church Extension Board saying in substance and speaking only of his own denomination, "All hail the power of Jesus' name; we're building two a day!"]
[During the Freethinkers' Convention, at Watkins, N. Y., in response to statements that the churches throughout the land were losing all aggressive power, a message was received from Chaplain McCabe, of the Methodist Episcopal Church Extension Board saying in substance and speaking only of his own denomination, "All hail the power of Jesus' name; we're building two a day!"]
The infidels, a motley band,In council, met and said:"The churches die all through the land,The last will soon be dead."When suddenly a message came,It filled them with dismay:"All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're building two a day.""We're building two a day," and still,In stately forests stored,Are shingle, rafter, beam, and sill,For churches of the Lord;And underpinning for the same,In quarries piled away;"All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're building two a day."The miners rend the hills apart,Earth's bosom is explored,And streams from her metallic heartIn graceful molds are poured,For bells to sound our Saviour's fameFrom towers,—and, swinging, say,"All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're building two a day."The King of saints to war has gone,And matchless are His deeds;His sacramental hosts move on,And follow where He leads;While infidels His church defame,Her corner-stones we lay;"All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're laying two a day."The Christless few the cross would hide,The light of life shut out,And leave the world to wander wideThrough sunless realms of doubt.The pulpits lose their ancient fame,Grown obsolete, they say;"All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're building two a day.""Extend," along the line is heard,"Thy walls, O Zion, fair!"And Methodism heeds the word,And answers everywhere.A new church greets the morning's flame,Another evening's gray."All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're building two a day."When infidels in council meetNext year, with boastings vain,To chronicle the Lord's defeat,And count His churches slain,Oh then may we with joy proclaim,If we His call obey:"All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're building THREE a day."
The infidels, a motley band,In council, met and said:"The churches die all through the land,The last will soon be dead."When suddenly a message came,It filled them with dismay:"All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're building two a day."
"We're building two a day," and still,In stately forests stored,Are shingle, rafter, beam, and sill,For churches of the Lord;And underpinning for the same,In quarries piled away;"All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're building two a day."
The miners rend the hills apart,Earth's bosom is explored,And streams from her metallic heartIn graceful molds are poured,For bells to sound our Saviour's fameFrom towers,—and, swinging, say,"All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're building two a day."
The King of saints to war has gone,And matchless are His deeds;His sacramental hosts move on,And follow where He leads;While infidels His church defame,Her corner-stones we lay;"All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're laying two a day."
The Christless few the cross would hide,The light of life shut out,And leave the world to wander wideThrough sunless realms of doubt.The pulpits lose their ancient fame,Grown obsolete, they say;"All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're building two a day."
"Extend," along the line is heard,"Thy walls, O Zion, fair!"And Methodism heeds the word,And answers everywhere.
A new church greets the morning's flame,Another evening's gray."All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're building two a day."
When infidels in council meetNext year, with boastings vain,To chronicle the Lord's defeat,And count His churches slain,Oh then may we with joy proclaim,If we His call obey:"All hail the power of Jesus' name!We're building THREE a day."