When God had made a host of them,One little flower still lacked a stemTo hold its blossom blue;So into it He breathed a song,And suddenly, with petals strongAs wings, away it flew.—Father Tabb.
When God had made a host of them,One little flower still lacked a stemTo hold its blossom blue;So into it He breathed a song,And suddenly, with petals strongAs wings, away it flew.—Father Tabb.
When God had made a host of them,One little flower still lacked a stemTo hold its blossom blue;So into it He breathed a song,And suddenly, with petals strongAs wings, away it flew.
When God had made a host of them,
One little flower still lacked a stem
To hold its blossom blue;
So into it He breathed a song,
And suddenly, with petals strong
As wings, away it flew.
—Father Tabb.
—Father Tabb.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;In feelings, not in figures on a dial.We should count time by heart-throbs. He most livesWho thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.—Philip James Bailey.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;In feelings, not in figures on a dial.We should count time by heart-throbs. He most livesWho thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.—Philip James Bailey.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;In feelings, not in figures on a dial.We should count time by heart-throbs. He most livesWho thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
—Philip James Bailey.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fernTo bicker down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.Till last by Philip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow weed and mallow.I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling.And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel.And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeams danceAgainst my sandy shallows.I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.—Alfred Tennyson.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fernTo bicker down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.Till last by Philip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow weed and mallow.I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling.And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel.And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeams danceAgainst my sandy shallows.I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.—Alfred Tennyson.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fernTo bicker down a valley.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.
Till last by Philip’s farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow weed and mallow.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling.
And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel.
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel.
And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeams danceAgainst my sandy shallows.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
—Alfred Tennyson.
The Chevalier had found a lad who would be worthy of his care. To be sure he was but a peasant boy full of fun and laughter. The Chevalier himself had once been young and remembered how tempting the sunshine used to be and the fields and the ripe nuts of autumn. He had marked with pleasure this handsome lad, and watched with interest his changing face and dancing eye as he went on his merry way.
“I shall ask him to my house,” thought the Chevalier, “and see what he will say to my books.”
So Giochino went to the Chevalier’s house and listened eagerly while the Chevalier told him of the beautiful verses and stories which many of the books contained. Now and then the Chevalier would read a few lines from a poem.
The boy loved poetry. It was sweet in sound and had a movement like the gliding of boats on still water. It made him forget everything else,—even how he had teased his old music teacher, and that his mother was sometimes sad.
Perhaps he was a little lonesome, for his mother, whom he loved dearly, was often far off. She was working for her boy, saving every cent possible to give him the musical education for which she had longed. Here and there throughout Italy she went singing in one of the traveling opera companies so common in those days. In her younger years her voice had been full and strong, but now it was failing and she wondered what would happen to Giochino.
But the boy’s heart was too joyous to be cast down by poverty or trouble. The days were bright and sunny, why should he not be gay? His voice was clear, true, pure in tone, and almost of its own accord broke into song. Occasionally he, too, would earn a little money by singing at the theater.
After a time he was able to study music with a master and finally entered the conservatory at Bologna. Here he was taught some of the more difficult things about music.
It was not long before he discovered that he already knew enough to write operas. He was delighted. He would go to seek his fortune.
His teacher, realizing that he had extraordinary talent, wished him to continue his study further and even offered to instruct him in the stately music of the Church, if he would remain. But the youth did not heed his offer and started forth.
In his happy, aimless way he went from place to place. He sang, he accompanied, he directed and composed. He was always good-natured, always generous, and never without friends.
It was evening in Venice. The opera was just over. People were thronging from the door of the opera house. They were talking excitedly. Evidently they were much pleased. Giochino Rossini’s opera, “Tancred,” had been presented for the first time. It had been received with wild applause.
Rossini was surprised at this. “I fancied,” he said, “that, after hearing my opera, they would put me into the madhouse. But they are madder than I.”
When he was but twenty-four Rossini produced what has been, perhaps, the most popular of his operas, “The Barber of Seville.” But fame alone could not make him content. Beyond Italy the world was wide. The spirit of the man was as restless as that of the boy. He went to Vienna, and finally to Paris.
In Paris he felt he could work at his best. Here he composed his great masterpiece in opera, “William Tell.” It was the story in music and song of the great Swiss hero, of whom you have doubtless heard many tales. For years the hero had seen his country bound under the hand of a tyrant. His soul was on fire with indignation. His country must be freed. He would make it free.
Nothing but grand and noble music could tell such a story. Yet Rossini has told it wonderfully. The opera was brought out in Paris and has been played many times since.
Although as yet you may not have listened to any of the music which has been mentioned thus far, the most of you have probably heard many times Rossini’sfinest composition. When he wrote it, he was forty-five; and when it was done, he wrote no longer. This was his last message to the world. This was the “Stabat Mater,” sung for the first time on Good Friday.
In his house in Paris Rossini gathered about him many friends, among them young men who desired to become musicians, poets, or writers. His generous heart was full to the last of merriment and song, though as a composer he was silent. He was born at Pesaro, Italy, February 29, 1792, and died in Paris, November 13, 1868.
See the robins swinging’Mid the orchards’ snow;Feel the perfumed breezesWafted to and fro;Listen to the musicHeard from bird and spray;Lift your hearts, ye sad ones,’Tis the lovely May.Ah, our hearts were wearyWaiting for the light,For the frosts to vanishWith their bitter blight:See, the earth’s brown bosomHeaves, where zephyrs play;See, she thrills and answersTo the touch of May.May, all fresh and smiling,Sweet—from heaven above;May, our souls beguilingWith her dreams of love:Violet-eyed and fragrant—How our pulses play’Neath the virgin beautyOf the radiant May.Lift your hearts up: floatingThrough the gold and blueWhere the liquid sunlightStreams and filters through,There a Lady, smiling,Stands ’mid cloudless day—Snow-white Virgin-Mother,Dazzling Queen of May.—Mary Antonia, Sister of Mercy.
See the robins swinging’Mid the orchards’ snow;Feel the perfumed breezesWafted to and fro;Listen to the musicHeard from bird and spray;Lift your hearts, ye sad ones,’Tis the lovely May.Ah, our hearts were wearyWaiting for the light,For the frosts to vanishWith their bitter blight:See, the earth’s brown bosomHeaves, where zephyrs play;See, she thrills and answersTo the touch of May.May, all fresh and smiling,Sweet—from heaven above;May, our souls beguilingWith her dreams of love:Violet-eyed and fragrant—How our pulses play’Neath the virgin beautyOf the radiant May.Lift your hearts up: floatingThrough the gold and blueWhere the liquid sunlightStreams and filters through,There a Lady, smiling,Stands ’mid cloudless day—Snow-white Virgin-Mother,Dazzling Queen of May.—Mary Antonia, Sister of Mercy.
See the robins swinging’Mid the orchards’ snow;Feel the perfumed breezesWafted to and fro;Listen to the musicHeard from bird and spray;Lift your hearts, ye sad ones,’Tis the lovely May.
See the robins swinging
’Mid the orchards’ snow;
Feel the perfumed breezes
Wafted to and fro;
Listen to the music
Heard from bird and spray;
Lift your hearts, ye sad ones,
’Tis the lovely May.
Ah, our hearts were wearyWaiting for the light,For the frosts to vanishWith their bitter blight:See, the earth’s brown bosomHeaves, where zephyrs play;See, she thrills and answersTo the touch of May.
Ah, our hearts were weary
Waiting for the light,
For the frosts to vanish
With their bitter blight:
See, the earth’s brown bosom
Heaves, where zephyrs play;
See, she thrills and answers
To the touch of May.
May, all fresh and smiling,Sweet—from heaven above;May, our souls beguilingWith her dreams of love:Violet-eyed and fragrant—How our pulses play’Neath the virgin beautyOf the radiant May.
May, all fresh and smiling,
Sweet—from heaven above;
May, our souls beguiling
With her dreams of love:
Violet-eyed and fragrant—
How our pulses play
’Neath the virgin beauty
Of the radiant May.
Lift your hearts up: floatingThrough the gold and blueWhere the liquid sunlightStreams and filters through,There a Lady, smiling,Stands ’mid cloudless day—Snow-white Virgin-Mother,Dazzling Queen of May.
Lift your hearts up: floating
Through the gold and blue
Where the liquid sunlight
Streams and filters through,
There a Lady, smiling,
Stands ’mid cloudless day—
Snow-white Virgin-Mother,
Dazzling Queen of May.
—Mary Antonia, Sister of Mercy.
O Precious Blood of Jesus,Shed for me,Upon the cruel cross ofCalvary:Each drop of blood so precious,And the pain,A sacrifice was offeredNot in vain.O Precious Blood of Jesus,May I feelThe fire of love for Christ, andHoly zeal!O Precious Blood of Jesus,Cleansing, pure!Inflame my soul with ardorTo endure.—Henry Coyle.
O Precious Blood of Jesus,Shed for me,Upon the cruel cross ofCalvary:Each drop of blood so precious,And the pain,A sacrifice was offeredNot in vain.O Precious Blood of Jesus,May I feelThe fire of love for Christ, andHoly zeal!O Precious Blood of Jesus,Cleansing, pure!Inflame my soul with ardorTo endure.—Henry Coyle.
O Precious Blood of Jesus,Shed for me,Upon the cruel cross ofCalvary:
O Precious Blood of Jesus,
Shed for me,
Upon the cruel cross of
Calvary:
Each drop of blood so precious,And the pain,A sacrifice was offeredNot in vain.
Each drop of blood so precious,
And the pain,
A sacrifice was offered
Not in vain.
O Precious Blood of Jesus,May I feelThe fire of love for Christ, andHoly zeal!
O Precious Blood of Jesus,
May I feel
The fire of love for Christ, and
Holy zeal!
O Precious Blood of Jesus,Cleansing, pure!Inflame my soul with ardorTo endure.
O Precious Blood of Jesus,
Cleansing, pure!
Inflame my soul with ardor
To endure.
—Henry Coyle.
Pilar was a young peasant woman. I do not know from what village she came, somewhere in the neighborhood of Malaga. She was paid three dollars a month, and she “found” herself. A man cook in that happy land gets five dollars a month, but times were bad, and my friends had for three years to content themselves with a woman cook. She cooked well, though, and cheerfully, and she prepared more meals in the twenty-four hours than any other cook I ever heard of.
She seemed to have identified herself thoroughly with the family, and to work with a zealous love for them all. There was, however, one of the many children for whom she had a special affection, a very delicate little maiden of two and a half. During the autumn this child had been desperately ill. The doctors gave no hope. Pilar in anguish prayed for her recovery, and promised the Bestower of life that if He would spare little Anita, she would, before theend of Holy Week, carry to the shrine on the top of the “Calvary” outside the town, one pound of olive oil to be burned in His honor. She promised a great many prayers besides, which she managed to get said, in the intervals of her frying and stewing and boiling.
Well, the little girl, contrary to the doctors, began to mend, and finally was entirely restored to health. Pilar was most grateful, and said manyAvesin thanksgiving. The winter was a busy one, and then Lent came and seemed not less busy in that big household. Pilar did not forget the pound of oil, but there never seemed a moment when she could ask a half day to go and carry it to the shrine. Holy Week came, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,—what should she do! She could scarcely get away from her work even to go out to her parish church on Holy Thursday to say a little prayer before the Repository, where, throned in flowers and lighted with myriad candles, the Blessed Sacrament is kept till the morning of Good Friday.
As to going to seven churches and saying her prayers before each Repository as other people did, that, alas! was not “for the likes of her.” She had a dumb, deep-down feeling, however, that the good God knew, and that it would be all right. On her way back from her hurried prayer at the church, a processionpassed which she watched for a moment. But this only proved painful, for it had begun to rain, and her pious Southern soul was aflame with wrath that the image of the Blessed Redeemer should be exposed to the storm.
“They don’t care about wetting his dear curls,” she cried, “as long as they can have a good procession.”
She shook her fist at the crowd, and came away in tears. Her mistress, a devout Catholic, tried to console her by reminding her that, after all, it was only an image and not the dear Lord she loved. Oh, she knewthat; but “it was cruel, but it was shameful!”
She felt as a mother would feel if the dress of her dead baby, or its little half-worn shoe, were spoiled by the caprice or cold-heartedness of some one who had no feeling for it. All together Holy Thursday was not very consoling to Pilar, and the pound of oil grew heavier every hour.
The next day, Good Friday, she had only time to go to church through the silent streets, where no wheels were heard, and say her prayers and look at the black, black altars and the veiled statues. That night, after her work was done, and the last baby had been served with its last porridge, she put her kitchen in hurried order, and stole out silently. She had bought thepound of oil at a little shop in the next street and, hiding it under her shawl, turned her steps towards Barcenillas.
The night was black and tempestuous. A hot, dry wind blew; occasionally a gust brought a few drops of rain, but more often it was a gale which made the street lamps blink, and whirled the dust around her. It was a long way to the suburb; it was late; there were few abroad, but no matter, the good Lord knew why she was out, and He would take care of her.
There are no street cars running in the days of Holy Week. From Holy Thursday till after the cathedral bells ring for first vespers on Holy Saturday, no wheels move in the streets of Malaga.
It was nearly midnight when she got to Barcenillas. She crossed the silent plaza, passed through the gate, and began the ascent of the steep hill. There is a great broad road that winds up it, and at every “station” there is a lamp burning. She knelt at each as she reached it. But the place was very lonely; the eucalyptus trees shook and whispered to each other, and the lamps were dim and flickered in the rough wind.
The night before there had been processions all through the night, crowds upon crowds going up the hill; she would not have been lonely then. But shecould not get away, because of little Josef’s being ill and needing the water heated for his bath every hour. Yes, it would have been nicer last night, with all the priests, and all the chanting, and all the flaming torches. But the good God knew all about it,—why she did not come then, when she wanted to. She would not worry, but she said her prayers with chattering teeth, and many furtive looks behind her.
At last she reached the summit, where in a little chapel burned the light that could be seen for miles around Malaga. There a solitary brother knelt, saying his beads, and keeping watch. She said her last prayers at the altar, and left the votive oil with the friar, who commended her piety and was very kind. As she came out, the clouds broke and the Paschal moon shone through them, and the broad road led down with smooth ease towards the sleeping, silent city. Her steps made just as lonely echoes on the stones of the deserted streets, but she felt herself favored of heaven, as no doubt she was, and all her fears were gone.
It was after three o’clock when she let herself in at the kitchen door; and it was several weeks before her mistress learned, by accident, of the dolorous little pilgrimage.
—Miriam Coles Harris.
Come, let us plant the apple tree.Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;Wide let its hollow bed be made;There gently lay the roots, and thereSift the dark mold with kindly care,And press it o’er them tenderly,As round the sleeping infant’s feetWe softly fold the cradle sheet;So plant we the apple tree.What plant we in this apple tree?Buds which the breath of summer daysShall lengthen into leafy sprays;Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest;We plant, upon the sunny lea,A shadow for the noontide hour,A shelter from the summer shower,When we plant the apple tree.What plant we in this apple tree?Sweets for a hundred flowery springs,To load the May wind’s restless wings,When, from the orchard row, he poursIts fragrance through our open doors;A world of blossoms for the bee,Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,We plant with the apple tree.What plant we in this apple tree?Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,And redden in the August noon,And drop, when gentle airs come by,That fan the blue September sky;While children come, with cries of glee,And seek them where the fragrant grassBetrays their bed to those who pass,At the foot of the apple tree.And when, above this apple tree,The winter stars are quivering bright,And winds go howling through the night,Girls, whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth,Shall peel its fruits by cottage hearth,And guests in prouder homes shall see,Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s vine,And golden orange of the line,The fruit of the apple tree.The fruitage of this apple tree,Winds and our flag of stripe and starShall bear to coasts that lie afar,Where men shall wonder at the view,And ask in what fair groves they grew;And sojourners beyond the seaShall think of childhood’s careless day,And long, long hours of summer play,In the shade of the apple tree.Each year shall give this apple treeA broader flush of roseate bloom,A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.The years shall come and pass, but weShall hear no longer, where we lie,The summer’s songs, the autumn’s sigh,In the boughs of the apple tree.And time shall waste this apple tree.Oh, when its aged branches throwThin shadows on the ground below,Shall fraud and force and iron willOppress the weak and helpless still?What shall the tasks of mercy be,Amid the toils, the strifes, the tearsOf those who live when length of yearsIs wasting this apple tree?“Who planted this old apple tree?”The children of that distant dayThus to some aged man shall say;And, gazing on its mossy stem,The gray-haired man shall answer them:“A poet of the land was he,Born in the rude but good old times;’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymesOn planting the apple tree.”—William Cullen Bryant.
Come, let us plant the apple tree.Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;Wide let its hollow bed be made;There gently lay the roots, and thereSift the dark mold with kindly care,And press it o’er them tenderly,As round the sleeping infant’s feetWe softly fold the cradle sheet;So plant we the apple tree.What plant we in this apple tree?Buds which the breath of summer daysShall lengthen into leafy sprays;Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest;We plant, upon the sunny lea,A shadow for the noontide hour,A shelter from the summer shower,When we plant the apple tree.What plant we in this apple tree?Sweets for a hundred flowery springs,To load the May wind’s restless wings,When, from the orchard row, he poursIts fragrance through our open doors;A world of blossoms for the bee,Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,We plant with the apple tree.What plant we in this apple tree?Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,And redden in the August noon,And drop, when gentle airs come by,That fan the blue September sky;While children come, with cries of glee,And seek them where the fragrant grassBetrays their bed to those who pass,At the foot of the apple tree.And when, above this apple tree,The winter stars are quivering bright,And winds go howling through the night,Girls, whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth,Shall peel its fruits by cottage hearth,And guests in prouder homes shall see,Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s vine,And golden orange of the line,The fruit of the apple tree.The fruitage of this apple tree,Winds and our flag of stripe and starShall bear to coasts that lie afar,Where men shall wonder at the view,And ask in what fair groves they grew;And sojourners beyond the seaShall think of childhood’s careless day,And long, long hours of summer play,In the shade of the apple tree.Each year shall give this apple treeA broader flush of roseate bloom,A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.The years shall come and pass, but weShall hear no longer, where we lie,The summer’s songs, the autumn’s sigh,In the boughs of the apple tree.And time shall waste this apple tree.Oh, when its aged branches throwThin shadows on the ground below,Shall fraud and force and iron willOppress the weak and helpless still?What shall the tasks of mercy be,Amid the toils, the strifes, the tearsOf those who live when length of yearsIs wasting this apple tree?“Who planted this old apple tree?”The children of that distant dayThus to some aged man shall say;And, gazing on its mossy stem,The gray-haired man shall answer them:“A poet of the land was he,Born in the rude but good old times;’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymesOn planting the apple tree.”—William Cullen Bryant.
Come, let us plant the apple tree.Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;Wide let its hollow bed be made;There gently lay the roots, and thereSift the dark mold with kindly care,And press it o’er them tenderly,As round the sleeping infant’s feetWe softly fold the cradle sheet;So plant we the apple tree.
Come, let us plant the apple tree.
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;
Wide let its hollow bed be made;
There gently lay the roots, and there
Sift the dark mold with kindly care,
And press it o’er them tenderly,
As round the sleeping infant’s feet
We softly fold the cradle sheet;
So plant we the apple tree.
What plant we in this apple tree?Buds which the breath of summer daysShall lengthen into leafy sprays;Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest;We plant, upon the sunny lea,A shadow for the noontide hour,A shelter from the summer shower,When we plant the apple tree.
What plant we in this apple tree?
Buds which the breath of summer days
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;
Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,
Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest;
We plant, upon the sunny lea,
A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower,
When we plant the apple tree.
What plant we in this apple tree?Sweets for a hundred flowery springs,To load the May wind’s restless wings,When, from the orchard row, he poursIts fragrance through our open doors;A world of blossoms for the bee,Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,We plant with the apple tree.
What plant we in this apple tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs,
To load the May wind’s restless wings,
When, from the orchard row, he pours
Its fragrance through our open doors;
A world of blossoms for the bee,
Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,
We plant with the apple tree.
What plant we in this apple tree?Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,And redden in the August noon,And drop, when gentle airs come by,That fan the blue September sky;While children come, with cries of glee,And seek them where the fragrant grassBetrays their bed to those who pass,At the foot of the apple tree.
What plant we in this apple tree?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon,
And drop, when gentle airs come by,
That fan the blue September sky;
While children come, with cries of glee,
And seek them where the fragrant grass
Betrays their bed to those who pass,
At the foot of the apple tree.
And when, above this apple tree,The winter stars are quivering bright,And winds go howling through the night,Girls, whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth,Shall peel its fruits by cottage hearth,And guests in prouder homes shall see,Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s vine,And golden orange of the line,The fruit of the apple tree.
And when, above this apple tree,
The winter stars are quivering bright,
And winds go howling through the night,
Girls, whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth,
Shall peel its fruits by cottage hearth,
And guests in prouder homes shall see,
Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s vine,
And golden orange of the line,
The fruit of the apple tree.
The fruitage of this apple tree,Winds and our flag of stripe and starShall bear to coasts that lie afar,Where men shall wonder at the view,And ask in what fair groves they grew;And sojourners beyond the seaShall think of childhood’s careless day,And long, long hours of summer play,In the shade of the apple tree.
The fruitage of this apple tree,
Winds and our flag of stripe and star
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,
Where men shall wonder at the view,
And ask in what fair groves they grew;
And sojourners beyond the sea
Shall think of childhood’s careless day,
And long, long hours of summer play,
In the shade of the apple tree.
Each year shall give this apple treeA broader flush of roseate bloom,A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.The years shall come and pass, but weShall hear no longer, where we lie,The summer’s songs, the autumn’s sigh,In the boughs of the apple tree.
Each year shall give this apple tree
A broader flush of roseate bloom,
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.
The years shall come and pass, but we
Shall hear no longer, where we lie,
The summer’s songs, the autumn’s sigh,
In the boughs of the apple tree.
And time shall waste this apple tree.Oh, when its aged branches throwThin shadows on the ground below,Shall fraud and force and iron willOppress the weak and helpless still?What shall the tasks of mercy be,Amid the toils, the strifes, the tearsOf those who live when length of yearsIs wasting this apple tree?
And time shall waste this apple tree.
Oh, when its aged branches throw
Thin shadows on the ground below,
Shall fraud and force and iron will
Oppress the weak and helpless still?
What shall the tasks of mercy be,
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears
Of those who live when length of years
Is wasting this apple tree?
“Who planted this old apple tree?”The children of that distant dayThus to some aged man shall say;And, gazing on its mossy stem,The gray-haired man shall answer them:“A poet of the land was he,Born in the rude but good old times;’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymesOn planting the apple tree.”
“Who planted this old apple tree?”
The children of that distant day
Thus to some aged man shall say;
And, gazing on its mossy stem,
The gray-haired man shall answer them:
“A poet of the land was he,
Born in the rude but good old times;
’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes
On planting the apple tree.”
—William Cullen Bryant.
St. Wulfram and his monks had much work for a time. The Frisians came in crowds for Christian instructions and baptism. It was a great and hard task to teach human beings in the lowest stage of development. Moreover, the teachings of the missionaries were opposed in all things to the traditional customs of the people. Many wrongs, such as slavery, for instance, could not be set aside at once. Moreover, if the people were to be made peaceful and weaned from their wildness, they had to be taught other ways of support than plundering and hunting.
So the Benedictines taught the converts not only Christian doctrine, but how to plow and to plant. They built dunes to hold out the devastating sea, and sent to their abbey home for seeds and implements. In a few years the face of Frisia was greatly changed.
Ratbodo had given Wulfram land and a dwelling near his own residence. In this way he could best keep track of everything that happened at the mission.
The king himself remained obdurate in his paganism. Once he said, tauntingly, to the entreating Wulfram, that if the Christian God would work a miracle for him especially, he would be converted. Wulfram reminded him of the miracles he had seen and had not been converted. Then Ratbodo said that if the table in front of him were changed into gold, he would yield; but Wulfram, in righteous indignation, told him how childish was such a request.
All the while the chieftains were urging the king to send away the bishop. But he laughed at them, saying that what Wulfram had built up he himself would destroy in ten days when the time came, just as had been done in the case of many others. Even the king’s little son, Clodio, was baptized and died a Christian, but the king only smiled. His day was coming, he held.
Then Wulfram went back to Fontinella to get more monks, laborers, and lay brothers for his work in Frisia. The converted Frisians were beginning to realize the blessings of regular and well-ordered work. There were more and more laborers and fewer sea robbers and warriors. Nevertheless, the great mass of the Frisian people remained obstinate, following the example of the king and the great chiefs.
Among the gods whose wrath the Frisians mostfeared was the god of the sea. The lowness of the land made frequent inundations inevitable. Besides, Frisians, when not robbing, were fishing, or living on the water in some way. Thus they were always anxious to pacify the mighty god of the floods.
On this day, too, a great multitude, together with the king and the chieftains, were gathered at the sea-coast, waiting to soothe the water deity by human sacrifice. The lot had fallen on two little boys this time, the only children of a widow. At the time of low tide the little ones were laid on a projecting point of land, so that the rising waters would cover them. Their feet were tied so cunningly that the childish hands could not undo the knots. Thus they sat on the beach, waiting the waters that were to be their death.
Several hundred feet back, the crowds were gathered to watch the unhappy spectacle. In the foreground sat a young woman, the mother of the children, weeping and moaning in her grief, without, however, waking the faintest sympathy in the hearts of the by-standers.
The waters were even then advancing on the point of land, and a strong wind was driving up the flood in great waves. The little ones began to scream interror as the spray struck them, and the mother sprang to her feet. If she had not been held fast, she would have flung herself into the water with her children. Gradually the land disappeared; nothing was left but the raised point to which the children clung. One could see how the older boy was trying to hold up his little brother.
“King!” said a voice, ringing with a holy anger, “why this abomination before the eyes of almighty God?”
Ratbodo started and the chieftains stared in silent astonishment.
“We are offering sacrifice to the god of the waters,” said the king, after a moment. “Go take the victims away from him if you can; they may be your slaves and the slaves of your God for the rest of time,” he added with a sneer.
“So be it,” answered Wulfram. Turning, he made the sign of the cross over the rising tide and walked out as if on solid land. The Christians present in the crowd cried aloud for joy, but the pagans stood in wonder bordering on fear. The king himself was most moved by the miraculous sight. His eyes were fixed, his face pale as death. He was convinced that in the saint walking thus unharmed over the watershe saw an unmistakable manifestation of the power of the Christian God.
“That is even more than a golden table,” he whispered tremblingly.
Wulfram lifted the children out of the water and carried them to the land. At once the Frisians crowded about him, asking to be made Christians. Ratbodo himself said:—
“It is but right that a man should keep his word. I said to you years ago that if your God would make a golden table before my eyes, I would become a Christian. But He did more. He made a solid floor of the moving sea. Come to me every day and instruct me.”
—Conrad von Bolanden.
If our faith had given us nothing moreThan this example of all womanhood,So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good,So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure,This were enough to prove it higher and truerThan all creeds the world had known before.—H. W. Longfellow.
If our faith had given us nothing moreThan this example of all womanhood,So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good,So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure,This were enough to prove it higher and truerThan all creeds the world had known before.—H. W. Longfellow.
If our faith had given us nothing moreThan this example of all womanhood,So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good,So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure,This were enough to prove it higher and truerThan all creeds the world had known before.
If our faith had given us nothing more
Than this example of all womanhood,
So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good,
So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure,
This were enough to prove it higher and truer
Than all creeds the world had known before.
—H. W. Longfellow.
FromThe Golden Legend.
Jesus in crown of thorns
Souls of men! why will ye scatterLike a crowd of frightened sheep?Foolish hearts! why will ye wanderFrom a love so true and deep?Was there ever kindest shepherdHalf so gentle, half so sweetAs the Saviour who would have usCome and gather round His feet?It is God: His love looks mighty,But is mightier than it seems:’Tis our Father: and His fondnessGoes far out beyond our dreams.There’s a wideness in God’s mercy,Like the wideness of the sea:There’s a kindness in His justice,Which is more than liberty.There is no place where earthly sorrowsAre more felt than up in heaven;There is no place where earthly failingsHave such kindly judgment given.There is welcome for the sinner,And more graces for the good;There is mercy with the Saviour;There is healing in His Blood.There is grace enough for thousandsOf new worlds as great as this;There is room for fresh creationsIn that upper home of bliss.For the love of God is broaderThan the treasures of man’s mind;And the heart of the EternalIs most wonderfully kind.There is plentiful redemptionIn the Blood that has been shed;There is joy for all the membersIn the sorrows of the Head.If our love were but more simple,We should take Him at His word;And our lives would be all sunshineIn the sweetness of our Lord.—Father Faber.
Souls of men! why will ye scatterLike a crowd of frightened sheep?Foolish hearts! why will ye wanderFrom a love so true and deep?Was there ever kindest shepherdHalf so gentle, half so sweetAs the Saviour who would have usCome and gather round His feet?It is God: His love looks mighty,But is mightier than it seems:’Tis our Father: and His fondnessGoes far out beyond our dreams.There’s a wideness in God’s mercy,Like the wideness of the sea:There’s a kindness in His justice,Which is more than liberty.There is no place where earthly sorrowsAre more felt than up in heaven;There is no place where earthly failingsHave such kindly judgment given.There is welcome for the sinner,And more graces for the good;There is mercy with the Saviour;There is healing in His Blood.There is grace enough for thousandsOf new worlds as great as this;There is room for fresh creationsIn that upper home of bliss.For the love of God is broaderThan the treasures of man’s mind;And the heart of the EternalIs most wonderfully kind.There is plentiful redemptionIn the Blood that has been shed;There is joy for all the membersIn the sorrows of the Head.If our love were but more simple,We should take Him at His word;And our lives would be all sunshineIn the sweetness of our Lord.—Father Faber.
Souls of men! why will ye scatterLike a crowd of frightened sheep?Foolish hearts! why will ye wanderFrom a love so true and deep?
Souls of men! why will ye scatter
Like a crowd of frightened sheep?
Foolish hearts! why will ye wander
From a love so true and deep?
Was there ever kindest shepherdHalf so gentle, half so sweetAs the Saviour who would have usCome and gather round His feet?
Was there ever kindest shepherd
Half so gentle, half so sweet
As the Saviour who would have us
Come and gather round His feet?
It is God: His love looks mighty,But is mightier than it seems:’Tis our Father: and His fondnessGoes far out beyond our dreams.
It is God: His love looks mighty,
But is mightier than it seems:
’Tis our Father: and His fondness
Goes far out beyond our dreams.
There’s a wideness in God’s mercy,Like the wideness of the sea:There’s a kindness in His justice,Which is more than liberty.
There’s a wideness in God’s mercy,
Like the wideness of the sea:
There’s a kindness in His justice,
Which is more than liberty.
There is no place where earthly sorrowsAre more felt than up in heaven;There is no place where earthly failingsHave such kindly judgment given.
There is no place where earthly sorrows
Are more felt than up in heaven;
There is no place where earthly failings
Have such kindly judgment given.
There is welcome for the sinner,And more graces for the good;There is mercy with the Saviour;There is healing in His Blood.
There is welcome for the sinner,
And more graces for the good;
There is mercy with the Saviour;
There is healing in His Blood.
There is grace enough for thousandsOf new worlds as great as this;There is room for fresh creationsIn that upper home of bliss.
There is grace enough for thousands
Of new worlds as great as this;
There is room for fresh creations
In that upper home of bliss.
For the love of God is broaderThan the treasures of man’s mind;And the heart of the EternalIs most wonderfully kind.
For the love of God is broader
Than the treasures of man’s mind;
And the heart of the Eternal
Is most wonderfully kind.
There is plentiful redemptionIn the Blood that has been shed;There is joy for all the membersIn the sorrows of the Head.
There is plentiful redemption
In the Blood that has been shed;
There is joy for all the members
In the sorrows of the Head.
If our love were but more simple,We should take Him at His word;And our lives would be all sunshineIn the sweetness of our Lord.
If our love were but more simple,
We should take Him at His word;
And our lives would be all sunshine
In the sweetness of our Lord.
—Father Faber.
Be comforted; and blessèd beThe meek, the merciful, the pureOf heart; for they shall see, shall hearGod’s mercy. So shall peace endure.—Joaquin Miller.
Be comforted; and blessèd beThe meek, the merciful, the pureOf heart; for they shall see, shall hearGod’s mercy. So shall peace endure.—Joaquin Miller.
Be comforted; and blessèd beThe meek, the merciful, the pureOf heart; for they shall see, shall hearGod’s mercy. So shall peace endure.
Be comforted; and blessèd be
The meek, the merciful, the pure
Of heart; for they shall see, shall hear
God’s mercy. So shall peace endure.
—Joaquin Miller.
In 1672, letters from Quebec informed Marquette that the government had taken up the project of exploring the Mississippi, and that he was the missionary selected to accompany the expedition. His heart exulted at the prospect. The hope of a glorious martyrdom while opening the way to future heralds of the Cross buoyed him up, though in his humility he never spoke of martyrdom. To him it was but a death, “to cease to offend God.”
The winter was spent by the two explorers in studying all that had yet been learned of the great river, in gathering around them every Indian wanderer, and amid the tawny group drawing their first rude map of the Mississippi, and the water courses that led to it. And on this first map, traced doubtless kneeling on the ground, they set down the name of each tribe they were to pass, each important point to be met. The undertaking was dangerous, but it was not to be rash: all was the result of calm, cool investigation. In thespring they embarked at Mackinaw in two frail bark canoes; each with his paddle in hand, and full of hope, they soon plied them merrily over the crystal waters of the lake.
“They happily glided into the great river.”
“They happily glided into the great river.”
All was new to Marquette. He had now attained the limit of former discoveries, the new world was before them; they looked back a last adieu to the waters, which, great as the distance was, connected them with Quebec and their countrymen; they knelt on the shore to offer, by a new devotion, their lives, their honor,and their undertaking to their beloved mother the Virgin Mary Immaculate; then, launching on the broad Wisconsin, they sailed slowly down its current, amid its vine-clad isles and its countless sand bars.
No sound broke the stillness, no human form appeared, and at last, after sailing seven days, on the 17th of June they happily glided into the great river. Joy that could find no utterance in words filled the grateful heart of Marquette. The broad river of the Conception, as he named it, now lay before them, stretching away hundreds of miles to an unknown sea.
“The Mississippi River,” he writes, “has its source in several lakes in the country of the nations at the north; it is narrow at the mouth of the Wisconsin; its current, which runs south, is slow and gentle. On the right is a considerable chain of very high mountains, and on the left fine lands; it is in many places studded with islands. On sounding we found ten fathoms of water. Its breadth varies greatly; sometimes it is three quarters of a league broad, and then narrows in to less than two hundred yards. We followed its course quietly, as it bears south and southeast to the forty-second degree.
“Then we perceive that the whole face of the country changes. Scarcely a forest or mountain is now insight. The islands increase in beauty and are covered with finer trees; we see nothing but deer and elk, wild geese and swans unable to fly, as they are here moulting. From time to time we encounter monstrous fish, one of which struck our canoe with such violence that I took it for a large tree that would knock our frail craft to pieces. Another time we perceived on the water a bearded monster with a tiger’s head, a pointed muzzle like a wild cat; ears erect, a gray head but a jet-black neck. It was the only one we beheld.
“When we cast our nets we took sturgeon, and a very strange fish resembling a trout, but with larger mouth and smaller eyes and snout. From the last projects a large bone, three fingers wide, and a cubit long; the end is round and as wide as a hand. When the fish leaps out of water, the weight of this bone often throws it back.
“Having descended the river to 41° 2´, still keeping the same direction, we found that turkeys took the place of other wild birds, and wild cattle replaced other animals. We call them wild cattle, because they resemble our domestic ones. They are not longer, but almost as bulky again, and more corpulent. Our man killed one, and the three of us could move it only with great difficulty. The head is very large, theforehead flat and a half yard broad between the horns, which resemble exactly those of our oxen, but are black and longer. A large crop hangs down from the neck, and there is a high hump on the back. The whole head, neck, and part of the shoulders are covered with a great mane like a horse’s; it is a foot long and gives them a hideous appearance, and as it falls over the eyes prevents their seeing straight ahead.
“The rest of the body is covered with a coarse curly hair like the wool of our sheep, but much stronger and thicker. This is shed every summer, and then the skin is as soft as velvet. At this time the Indians employ the skins to make beautiful robes, which they paint with various colors. The flesh and fat are excellent, and furnish the best dish at banquets. They are very fierce, and not a year passes without their killing some Indian. When attacked, they take a man with their horns, if they can, lift him up, and then dash him on the ground, and trample him to death.
“When you fire at them from a distance with gun or bow, you must throw yourself on the ground as soon as you fire, and hide in the grass, for if they perceive the person who fired, they rush on him and attack him. As their feet are large and rather short,they do not generally move fast, unless they are provoked. They are scattered over the prairies like herds of cattle. I have seen four hundred of them in a band.”
At last, on the 25th of June, they descried footprints on the shore. They now took heart again, and Joliet and the missionary, leaving their five men in the canoes, followed a little beaten path to discover who the tribe might be. They traveled on in silence almost to the cabin doors, when they halted, and with a loud halloo proclaimed their coming. Three villages lay before them; the first, roused by the cry, poured forth its motley group, which halted at the sight of the newcomers and the well-known dress of the missionary.
“They deputed four old men to come and speak with us,” says Marquette. “Two carried tobacco pipes richly adorned and trimmed with feathers of many kinds. They walked slowly, lifting their pipes toward the sun, as if offering them to him to smoke, but yet without uttering a single word. They were a long time coming the short distance between us and the village. Having at last reached us, they stopped to examine us carefully.
“On seeing these ceremonies which are used only with friends, I took courage, more especially as I sawthey wore European goods, which made me judge them to be allies of the French. I therefore spoke to them first, and asked them who they were. They answered: ‘We are Illinois,’ and in token of peace they offered us their pipes to smoke. They then invited us to their village, where the whole tribe impatiently awaited us.
“At the door of the cabin in which we were to be received was an old man awaiting us in a very remarkable attitude. It is their usual ceremony in receiving strangers. This man stood perfectly naked, with his hands stretched out and raised toward the sun, as if he wished to screen himself from its rays, which nevertheless passed through his fingers to his face. When we came near him, he addressed this compliment to us: ‘How beautiful is the sun, O Frenchman, when thou comest to visit us! All our town awaits thee, and thou shalt enter all our cabins in peace,’ He then took us into his, where there was a crowd of people, who devoured us with their eyes, but maintained the deepest silence. We heard, however, these words occasionally addressed to us: ‘Well done, brothers, to visit us!’”
Then the great peace calumet was brought and solemnly smoked, and the two Frenchmen were conducted to the village of the great sachem. Here, too,they were received with pomp, and the calumet was again smoked. Marquette explained the object of their voyage to visit the nations living on the great river, and announce to them the word of God their Creator. They told the Illinois that they were sent by the great chief of the French, and asked information as to the nations between them and the sea.
The sachem presented them an Indian slave, saying: “I thank thee, Blackgown, and thee, Frenchman, for taking so much pains to come and visit us; never has the earth been so beautiful, nor the sun so bright as to-day; never has our river been so calm, nor so free from rocks, which your canoes have removed as they passed; never has our tobacco had so fine a flavor, nor our corn appeared so beautiful as we behold it to-day. Here is my son, whom I give thee, that thou mayst know my heart. I pray thee to take pity on me and all my nation. Thou knowest the Great Spirit who has made us all; thou speakest to Him and hearest His word. Ask Him to give me life and health, and come and dwell with us that we may know Him.”
They feasted the two Frenchmen, and gave them a calumet of peace as a safeguard against hostile tribes, but tried to persuade them to go no farther.
—John Gilmary Shea.