"I could get no more employment;The weather was bitter cold,The young ones cried and shivered—(Little Johnny's but four years old;)—So, what was I to do, sir?I am guilty, but do not condemn,Itook—oh, was itstealing?—The bread to give to them."
Every man in the court-room—Grey-beard and thoughtless youth—Knew, as he looked upon her,That the prisoner spoke the truth,Out from their pockets came kerchiefs.Out from their eyes sprung tears,And out from old faded walletsTreasures hoarded for years.
The judge's face was a study—The strangest you ever saw,As he cleared his throat and murmuredSomethingabout thelaw.For one so learned in such matters,So wise in dealing with men,He seemed, on a simple question,Sorely puzzled just then.
But no one blamed him or wonderedWhen at last these words they heard,"The sentence of this young prisonerIs, for the present, deferred."And no one blamed him or wonderedWhen he went to her and smiled,And tenderly led from the court-room,Himself the "guilty" child.
* * * * *
Among the beautiful picturesThat hang on Memory's wall,Is one of a dim old forest,That seemeth best of all;Not for its gnarled oaks olden,Dark with the mistletoe;Not for the violets goldenThat sprinkle the vale below;Not for the milk-white liliesThat lean from the fragrant ledge,Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,And stealing their golden edge;Not for the vines on the upland,Where the bright red berries rest;Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslips,It seemeth to me the best.
I once had a little brotherWith eyes that were dark and deep;In the lap of that old dim forestHe lieth in peace asleep;Light as the down of the thistle,Free as the winds that blow,We roved there the beautiful summers,The summers of long ago;But his feet on the hills grew weary,And one of the autumn evesI made for my little brotherA bed of the yellow leaves.Sweetly his pale arms foldedMy neck in a meek embrace,As the light of immortal beautySilently covered his face;And when the arrows of sunsetLodged in the tree-tops bright,He fell, in his saint-like beauty,Asleep, by the gates of light.Therefore, of all the picturesThat hang on Memory's wall,The one of the dim old forestSeemeth the best of all.
Alice Cary.
* * * * *
No little step do I hear in the hall,Only a sweet little laugh, that is all.No dimpled arms round my neck hold me tight,I've but a glimpse of two eyes very bright,Two little hands a wee face try to screen,Baby is hiding, that's plain to be seen."Where is my precious I've missed So all day'""Papa can't find me!" the pretty lips say.
"Dear me, I wonder where baby can be!"Then I go by, and pretend not to see."Not in the parlour, and not on the stairs'Then I must peep under sofas and chairs."The dear little rogue is now laughing outright,Two little arms round my neck clasp me tight.Home will indeed be sad, weary and lone,When papa can't find you, my darling, my own.
* * * * *
Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, was one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 1630:
'Twas morning in Seville; and brightly beamedThe early sunlight in one chamber there;Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed,Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study whereMurillo, the famed painter, came to shareWith young aspirants his long-cherished art,To prove how vain must be the teacher's care,Who strives his unbought knowledge to impartThe language of the soul, the feeling of the heart.
The pupils came and glancing round,Mendez upon his canvas found,Not his own work of yesterday,But glowing in the morning ray,A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright,It almost seemed that there were givenTo glow before his dazzled sight,Tints and expression warm from heaven.
'Twas but a sketch—the Virgin's head—Yet was unearthly beauty shedUpon the mildly beaming face;The lip, the eye, the flowing hair,Had separate, yet blended grace—A poet's brightest dream was there!!
Murillo entered, and amazed,On the mysterious painting gazed;"Whose work is this?—speak, tell me!—heWho to his aid such power can call,"Exclaimed the teacher eagerly,"Will yet be master of us all;Would I had done it!—Ferdinand!Isturitz! Mendez!—say, whose handAmong ye all?"—With half-breathed sigh,Each pupil answered,—"'Twas not I!"
"How came it then?" impatientlyMurillo cried; "but we shall see,Ere long into this mystery.Sebastian!"At the summons cameA bright-eyed slave,Who trembled at the stern rebukeHis master gave.For ordered in that room to sleep,And faithful guard o'er all to keep,Murillo bade him now declareWhat rash intruder had been there,And threatened—if he did not tellThe truth at once—the dungeon-cell."Thou answerest not," Murillo said;(The boy had stood in speechless fear.)"Speak on!"—At last he raised his headAnd murmured, "No one has been here.""'Tis false!" Sebastian bent his knee,And clasped his hands imploringly,And said. "I swear it, none but me!"
"List!" said his master. "I would knowWho enters here—there have been foundBefore, rough sketches strewn around,By whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show;Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep.If on to-morrow morn you failTo answer what I ask,The lash shall force you—do you hear?Hence! to your daily task."
* * * * *
'Twas midnight in Seville, and faintly shoneFrom one small lamp, a dim uncertain rayWithin Murillo's study—all were goneWho there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay,Passed cheerfully the morning hours away.'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save,That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey,One bright eyed boy was there—Murillo's little slave.
Almost a child—that boy had seenNot thrice five summers yet,But genius marked the lotty brow,O'er which his locks of jetProfusely curled; his cheek's dark hueProclaimed the warm blood flowing throughEach throbbing vein, a mingled tide,To Africa and Spain allied.
"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said"The lash, if I refuse to tellWho sketched those figures—if I do,Perhaps e'en more—the dungeon-cell!"He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid;It came—for soon in slumber laid,He slept, until the dawning dayShed on his humble couch its ray.
"I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and nowThree hours of freedom I may gain,Before my master comes, for thenI shall be but a slave again.Three blessed hours of freedom! howShall I employ them?—ah! e'en nowThe figure on that canvas tracedMust be—yes, it must be effaced."
He seized a brush—the morning lightGave to the head a softened glow;Gazing enraptured on the sight,He cried, "Shall I efface it?—No!That breathing lip! that beaming eyeEfface them?—I would rather die!"
The terror of the humble slaveGave place to the o'erpowering flowOf the high feelings Nature gave-Which only gifted spirits know.
He touched the brow—the lip—it seemedHis pencil had some magic power;The eye with deeper feeling beamed—Sebastian then forgot the hour!Forgot his master, and the threatOf punishment still hanging o'er him;For, with each touch, new beauties metAnd mingled in the face before him.
At length 'twas finished; rapturouslyHe gazed—could aught more beauteous be'Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood,Then started—horror chilled his blood!His master and the pupils allWere there e'en at his side!The terror-stricken slave was mute—Mercy would be denied,E'en could he ask it—so he deemed,And the poor boy half lifeless seemed.Speechless, bewildered—for a spaceThey gazed upon that perfect face,Each with an artist's joy;At length Murillo silence broke,And with affected sternness spoke—"Who is your master, boy?""You, Senor," said the trembling slave."Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave,Before that Virgin's head you drew?"Again he answered, "Only you.""I gave you none," Murillo cried!"But I have heard," the boy replied,"What you to others said.""And more than heard," in kinder tone,The painter said; "'tis plainly shownThat you have profited."
"What (to his pupils) is his meed?Reward or punishment?""Reward, reward!" they warmly cried,(Sebastian's ear was bentTo catch the sounds he scarce believed,But with imploring look received.)"What shall it be?" They spoke of goldAnd of a splendid dress;But still unmoved Sebastian stood,Silent and motionless."Speak!" said Murillo kindly; "chooseYour own reward—what shall it be?Name what you wish, I'll not refuse:Then speak at once and fearlessly.""Oh! if I dared!"—Sebastian kneltAnd feelings he could not control,(But feared to utter even then)With strong emotion, shook his soul.
"Courage!" his master said, and eachEssayed, in kind, half-whispered speech,To soothe his overpow'ring dread.He scarcely heard, till some one said,"Sebastian—ask—you have your choice,Ask for yourfreedom!"—At the word,The suppliant strove to raise his voice:At first but stifled sobs were heard,And then his prayer—breathed fervently—"Oh! master, make myfatherfree!""Him and thyself, my noble boy!"Warmly the painter cried;Raising Sebastian from his feet,He pressed him to his side."Thy talents rare, and filial love,E'en more have fairly won;Still be thou mine by other bonds—My pupil and my son."
Murillo knew, e'en when the wordsOf generous feeling passed his lips,Sebastian's talents soon must leadTo fame that would his own eclipse;And, constant to his purpose still,He joyed to see his pupil gain,As made his name the pride of Spain.
Susan Wilson.
* * * * *
Only sixteen, so the papers say,Yet there, on the cold, stony ground he lay;'Tis the same sad story, we hear every day—He came to his death in the public highway.Full of promise, talent and pride;Yet the rum fiend conquered him—so he died.Did not the angels weep over the scene?For he died a drunkard—and only sixteen,—Only sixteen.
Oh! it were sad he must die all alone;That of all his friends, not even oneWas there to list to his last faint moan,Or point the suffering soul to the throneOf grace. If, perchance, God's only SonWould say, "Whosoever will may come—"But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene,With his God we leave him—only sixteen,—Only sixteen.
Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought!!Witness the suffering and pain you have broughtTo the poor boy's friends. They loved him well,And yet you dared the vile beverage to sellThat beclouded his brain, did his reason dethrone,And left him to die out there all alone.What, if 'twereyourson, instead of another?What if your wife were that poor boy's mother,—And he only sixteen?
Ye freeholders, who signed the petition to grantThe license to sell, do you think you will wantThat record to meet in that last great day,When heaven and earth shall have passed away.When the elements, melting with fervent heat,Shall proclaim the triumph of RIGHT complete?Will you wish to have his blood on your hand.When before the great throne you each shall stand,—And he only sixteen?
Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right,To action and duty; into the lightCome with your banners, inscribed, "Death to rum!"Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come;Strike killing blows; hew to the line;Make it a felony even to signA petition to license, you would do it, I ween,If that were your son, and he only sixteen,Only sixteen.
* * * * *
Old Birch, who taught the village school,Wedded a maid of homespun habit;He was stubborn as a mule,And she was playful as a rabbit.Poor Kate had scarce become a wifeBefore her husband sought to make herThe pink of country polished life,And prim and formal—as a Quaker.
One day the tutor went abroad,And simple Katie sadly missed him;When he returned, behind her lordShe slyly stole, and fondly kissed him.The husband's anger rose, and redAnd white his face alternate grew:"Less freedom, ma'am!" Kate sighed and said"O, dear, I didn't know 'twas you."
* * * * *
I had told him, Christmas morning,As he sat upon my knee,Holding fast his little stockings,Stuffed as full as full can be,And attentive listening to meWith a face demure and mild,That old Santa Claus, who filled them,Did not love a naughty child.
"But we'll be good, won't we, moder,"And from off my lap he slid,Digging deep among the goodiesIn his crimson stockings hid.While I turned me to my table,Where a tempting goblet stoodBrimming high with dainty custardSent me by a neighbour good.
But the kitten, there before me,With his white paw, nothing both,Sat, by way of entertainment,Lapping off the shining froth;And, in not the gentlest humourAt the loss of such a treat,I confess, I rather rudelyThrust him out into the street.
Then, how Bennie's blue eyes kindled;Gathering up the precious storeHe had busily been pouringIn his tiny pinafore,With a generous look that shamed meSprang he from the carpet bright,Showing by his mien indignant,All a baby's sense of right.
"Come back, Harney," called he loudly,As he held his apron white,"You shall have my candy wabbit,"But the door was fastened tight,So he stood abashed and silent,In the centre of the floor,With defeated look alternateBent on me and on the door.
Then, as by some sudden impulse,Quickly ran he to the fire,And while eagerly his bright eyesWatched the flames grow higher and higher,In a brave, clear key, he shouted,Like some lordly little elf,"Santa Kaus, come down the chimney,Make my Mudder 'have herself."
"I will be a good girl, Bennie,"Said I, feeling the reproof;And straightway recalled poor Harney,Mewing on the gallery roof.Soon the anger was forgotten,Laughter chased away the frown,And they gamboled round the fireside,Till the dusky night came down.
In my dim, fire-lighted chamber,Harney purred beneath my chair,And my playworn boy beside meKnelt to say his evening prayer;"God bess Fader, God bess Moder,God bess Sister," then a pause,And the sweet young lips devoutlyMurmured, "God bess Santa Kaus."
He is sleeping; brown and silkenLie the lashes, long and meek,Like caressing, clinging shadows,On his plump and peachy cheek,And I bend above him, weepingThankful tears, O defiled!For a woman's crown of glory,For the blessing of a child.
Annie C. Ketchum.
* * * * *
'Twas but a breath—And yet a woman's fair fame wilted,And friends once fond, grew cold and stilted;And life was worse than death.
One venomed word,That struck its coward, poisoned blow,In craven whispers, hushed and low,—And yet the wide world heard.
Twas but one whisper—one—That muttered low, for very shame,That thing the slanderer dare not name,—And yet its work was done.
A hint so slight,And yet so mighty in its power,—A human soul in one short hour,Lies crushed beneath its blight.
* * * * *
Good morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been; but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache last night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I have had the worst kind of a narvous head- ache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever lived.
Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin.(Coughs.)Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will relieve this desprit pain I have in my side?
Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can't turn my head without turning the hull of my body.(Coughs.)
Oh, dear! What shall I do! I have consulted almost every doctor in the country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I have tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that does me the leastest good.(Coughs.)
Oh, this cough—it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my right hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; its getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion.
What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out ploughing last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept backing and backing on, till she back'd me right up agin the coulter, and knocked a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big.(Coughs.)
But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day—and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood—you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to everything about the house herself.
I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out—as it was a raining at the time—but I thought I'd risk it any how. So I went out, pick'd up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knocked out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by—the women folks.(Coughs.)Oh, dear! but that aint all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes—and I'm feared I'm going to have the "yallar janders."(Coughs.)
* * * * *
If you cannot on the oceanSail among the swiftest fleet,Rocking on the highest billows,Laughing at the storms you meet.You can stand among the sailors,Anchor'd yet within the bay,You can lend a hand to help them,As they launch their boats away
If you are too weak to journey,Up the mountain steep and high,You can stand within the valley,While the multitudes go byYou can chant in happy measure,As they slowly pass along;Though they may forget the singer,They will not forget the song.
If you have not gold and silverEver ready to command,If you cannot towards the needyReach an ever open hand,You can visit the afflicted,O'er the erring you can weep,You can be a true disciple,Sitting at the Saviour's feet
If you cannot in the conflict,Prove yourself a soldier trueIf where fire and smoke are thickestThere's no work for you to do,When the battle-field is silent,You can go with careful tread.You can bear away the wounded,You can cover up the dead.
Do not, then, stand idly waitingFor some greater work to do,Fortune is a lazy goddess,She will never come to you.Go and toil in any vineyard,Do not fear to do or dare,If you want a field of labour,You can find it anywhere.
* * * * *
They sent him round the circle fair,To bow before the prettiest there;I'm bound to say the choice he madeA creditable taste displayed;Although I can't see what it meant,The little maid looked ill-content.
His task was then anew begun,To kneel before the wittiest one.Once more the little maid sought heAnd bent him down upon his knee;She turned her eyes upon the floor;I think she thought the game a bore
He circled then his sweet behestTo kiss the one he loved the best;For all she frowned, for all she chid,He kissed that little maid—he did.And then—though why I can't decide—The little maid looked satisfied.
* * * * *
As I rummaged through the attic,List'ning to the falling rain,As it pattered on the shinglesAnd against the window pane,Peeping over chests and boxes,Which with dust were thickly spread,Saw I in the farthest cornerWhat was once my trundle bed.
So I drew it from the recess,Where it had remained so long,Hearing all the while the musicOf my mother's voice in song,As she sung in sweetest accents,What I since have often read—"Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber,Holy angels guard thy bed"
As I listened, recollections,That I thought had been forgot,Came with all the gush of memory,Rushing, thronging to the spot;And I wandered back to childhood,To those merry days of yore,When I knelt beside my mother,By this bed upon the floor.
Then it was with hands so gentlyPlaced upon my infant head,That she taught my lips to utterCarefully the words she said;Never can they be forgotten,Deep are they in mem'ry riven—"Hallowed be thy name, O Father!Father! thou who art in heaven."
Years have passed, and that dear motherLong has mouldered 'neath the sod,And I trust her sainted spiritRests within the home of God:But that scene at summer twilightNever has from memory fled,And it comes in all its freshnessWhen I see my trundle bed.
This she taught me, then she told meOf its import great and deep—After which I learned to utter"Now I lay me down to sleep."Then it was with hands uplifted,And in accents soft and mild,That my mother asked—"Our Father!Father! do thou bless my child!"
* * * * *
In the rift of the rock He has covered my head,When the tempest was wild in the desolate landThrough a pathway uncertain my steps He has led,And I felt in the darkness the touch of His handLeading on, leading over the slippery steep,Where came but the echoing sound of the shock,And, clear through the sorrowful moan of the deep,The singing of birds in the rift of the rock.
In the rift of the rock He has sheltered my soulWhen at noonday the toilers grew faint in the heat,Where the desert rolled far like a limitless scrollCool waters leaped up at the touch of His feetAnd the flowers that lay with pale lips to the sodBloom softly and fair from a holier stock;Winged home by the winds to the mountains of God,They bloom evermore in the rift of the rock.
In the rift of the rock Thou wilt cover me still,When the glow of the sunset is low in the sky,When the forms of the reapers are dim on the hill,And the song dies away, and the end draweth nigh;It will be but a dream of the ladder of light,And heaven drawing near without terror or shock,For the angels, descending by day and by night,Will open a door through the rift of the rock.
Annie Herbert.
* * * * *
Two gray hawks ride the rising blast;Dark cloven clouds drive to and froBy peaks pre-eminent in snow;A sounding river rushes past,So wild, so vortex-like, and vast.
A lone lodge tops the windy hill;A tawny maiden, mute and still,Stands waiting at the river's brink,As weird and wild as you can think.
A mighty chief is at her feet;She does not heed him wooing so—She hears the dark, wild waters flow;She waits her lover, tall and fleet,From far gold fields of Idaho,Beyond the beaming hills of snow.
He comes! The grim chief springs in air—His brawny arm, his blade is bare.She turns; she lifts her round, dark hand;She looks him fairly in the face;She moves her foot a little paceAnd says, with coldness and command,"There's blood enough in this lorn land.But see! a test of strength and skill,Of courage and fierce fortitude,To breast and wrestle with the rudeAnd storm-born waters, now I willBestow you both…. Stand either side!Take you my left, tall Idaho;And you, my burly chief, I knowWould choose my right. Now peer you lowAcross the waters wild and wide.See! leaning so this morn, I spiedRed berries dip yon farther side.See, dipping, dripping in the stream,Twin boughs of autumn berries gleam!
"Now this, brave men, shall be the test.Plunge in the stream, bear knife in teethTo cut yon bough for bridal wreath.Plunge in! and he who bears him best,And brings yon ruddy fruit to landThe first, shall have both heart and hand."
Then one threw robes with sullen air,And wound red fox tails in his hair.But one with face of proud delightEntwined a crest of snowy white.
She sudden gaveThe sign, and each impatient braveShot sudden in the sounding wave;The startled waters gurgled round,Their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound.
O then awoke the love that slept!O then her heart beat loud and strong!O then the proud love pent up longBroke forth in wail upon the air;And leaning there she sobbed and wept,With dark face mantled in her hair.
Now side by side the rivals plied,Yet no man wasted word or breath;All was as still as stream of death.Now side by side their strength was tried,And now they breathless paused and layLike brawny wrestlers well at bay.
And now they dived, dived long, and nowThe black heads lifted from the foam,And shook aback the dripping brow,Then shouldered sudden glances home.And then with burly front the browAnd bull-like neck shot sharp and blind,And left a track of foam behind….They near the shore at last; and nowThe foam flies spouting from a faceThat laughing lifts from out the race.
The race is won, the work is done!She sees the climbing crest of snow;She knows her tall, brown Idaho.
She cries aloud, she laughing cries,And tears are streaming from her eyes:"O splendid, kingly Idaho,I kiss his lifted crest of snow;I see him clutch the bended bough!'Tis cleft—he turns! is coming now!
"My tall and tawny king, come back!Come swift, O sweet; why falter so?Come! Come! What thing has crossed your trackI kneel to all the gods I know.O come, my manly Idaho!Great Spirit, what is this I dread?Why there is blood! the wave is red!That wrinkled Chief, outstripped in race,Dives down, and hiding from my face,Strikes underneath!… He rises now!Now plucks my hero's berry bough,And lifts aloft his red fox head,And signals he has won for me….Hist softly! Let him come and see.
"O come! my white-crowned hero, come!O come! and I will be your bride,Despite yon chieftain's craft and might.Come back to me! my lips are dumb,My hands are helpless with despair;The hair you kissed, my long, strong hair,Is reaching to the ruddy tide,That you may clutch it when you come.
"How slow he buffets back the wave!O God, he sinks! O heaven! saveMy brave, brave boy. He rises! See!Hold fast, my boy! Strike! strike for me.Strike straight this way! Strike firm and strong!Hold fast your strength. It is not long—O God, he sinks! He sinks! Is gone!His face has perished from my sight.
"And did I dream, and do I wake?Or did I wake and now but dream?And what is this crawls from the stream?O here is some mad, mad, mistake!What you! The red fox at my feet?You first and failing from a race?What! you have brought me berries red?What! You have brought your bride a wreath?You sly red fox with wrinkled face—That blade has blood, between your teeth!
"Lie still! lie still! till I lean o'erAnd clutch your red blade to the shore….Ha! Ha! Take that! and that! and that!Ha! Ha! So through your coward throatThe full day shines!… Two fox tails floatAnd drift and drive adown the stream.
"But what is this? What snowy crestClimbs out the willows of the west,All weary, wounded, bent, and slow,And dripping from his streaming hair?It is! it is my Idaho!His feet are on the land, and fairHis face is lifting to my face,For who shall now dispute the race?
"The gray hawks pass, O love! two dovesO'er yonder lodge shall coo their loves.My love shall heal your wounded breast,And in yon tall lodge two shall rest."
Joaquin Miller.
* * * * *
'Twas in the flow'ry month of June,The sun was in the west,When a merry, blithesome companyMet at a public feast.
Around the room rich banners spread,And garlands fresh and gay;Friend greeted friend right joyouslyUpon that festal day.
The board was filled with choicest fare;The guests sat down to dine;Some called for "bitter," some for "stout,"And some for rosy wine.
Among this joyful company,A modest youth appeared;Scarce sixteen summers had he seen,No specious snare he feared.
An empty glass before the youthSoon drew the waiter near;"What will you take, sir?" he inquired,"Stout, bitter, mild, or clear?
"We've rich supplies of foreign port,We've first-class wine and cakes."The youth with guileless look replied,"I'll take what father takes."
Swift as an arrow went the wordsInto his father's ears,And soon a conflict deep and strongAwoke terrific fears.
The father looked upon his son,Then gazed upon the wine,Oh, God! he thought, were he to taste,Who could the end divine?
Have I not seen the strongest fall,The fairest led astray?And shall I on my only sonBestow a curse this day?
No; heaven forbid! "Here, waiter, bringBright water unto me;My son will take what father takes,My drink shall water be."
W. Hoyle.
* * * * *
From Liverpool 'cross the Atlantic,The good ship floating o'er the deep,The skies bright with sunshine above us,The waters beneath us asleep;Not a bad-temper'd mariner 'mongst us,A jollier crew never sail'd,'Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage,But good seaman as ever was hail'd.One day he comes up from below deck,A-graspin' a lad by the arm,A poor little ragged young urchin,As ought to bin home with his marm.An' the mate asks the boy pretty roughlyHow he dared for to be stow'd away?A-cheating the owners and captain,Sailin', eatin', and all without pay.
The lad had a face bright and sunny,An' a pair of blue eyes like a girl's,An' looks up at the scowling first mate, boys,An' shakes back his long shining curls.An' says he in a voice clear and pretty,"My stepfather brought me a-board,And hid me away down the stairs there,For to keep me he could not afford.And he told me the big ship would take meTo Halifax town, oh, so far;An' he said, 'Now the Lord is your Father,Who lives where the good angels are!'""It's a lie," says the mate,—"Not your father,But some o' these big skulkers here,Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor,Speak up! tell the truth! d'ye hear?"
Then that pair o' blue eyes bright and winn'n',Clear and shining with innocent youth,Looks up at the mate's bushy eyebrows,An' says he, "Sir, I've told you the truth!"Then the mate pull'd his watch from his pocket,Just as if he'd bin drawing his knife,"If in ten minutes more you don't tell, lad,There's the rope! and good-bye to dear life!"Eight minutes went by all in silence,Says the mate then, "Speak, lad, say your say!"His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops,He falteringly says, "May I pray?"An' the little chap kneels on the deck there,An' his hands he clasps o'er his breast,As he must ha' done often at home, lads,At night time when going to rest.
And soft came the first words, "Our Father,"Low and clear from that dear baby-lip,But low as they were, heard like trumpetBy each true man aboard o' the ship.Every bit o' that pray'r then he goes through,To "for ever and ever. A-men!"An' for all the bright gold in the Indies,I wouldn't ha' heard him agen!Off his feet was the lad sudden lifted,And clasp'd to the mate's rugged breast,An' his husky voice muttered, "God bless you,"As his lips to his forehead he press'd."You believe me now?" then said the youngster,"Believe you!" he kissed him once more,"You'd have laid down your life for the truth, lad;I believe you! from now, ever-more."
* * * * *
The world wants men—light-hearted, manly men—Men who shall join its chorus and prolongThe psalm of labour and the song of love.
The times wants scholars—scholars who shall shapeThe doubtful destinies of dubious years,And land the ark that bears our country's good,Safe on some peaceful Ararat at last.
The age wants heroes—heroes who shall dareTo struggle in the solid ranks of truth;To clutch the monster error by the throat;To bear opinion to a loftier seat;To blot the era of oppression out,And lead a universal freedom in.
And heaven wants souls—fresh and capacious souls,To taste its raptures, and expand like flowersBeneath the glory of its central sun.It wants fresh souls—not lean and shrivelled ones;It wants fresh souls, my brother—give it thine!
If thou, indeed, wilt act as man should act;If thou, indeed, wilt be what scholars should;If thou wilt be a hero, and wilt striveTo help thy fellow and exalt thyself,Thy feet at last shall stand on jasper floors,Thy heart at last shall seem a thousand hearts,Each single heart with myriad raptures filled—While thou shalt sit with princes and with kings,Rich in the jewel of a ransomed soul.
* * * * *
O Thou, who driest the mourner's tear,How dark the world would be,If, when deceived and wounded here,We could not fly to Thee!The friends who in our sunshine live,When winter comes, are flown;And he who has but tears to give,Must weep those tears alone.But Thou wilt heal the broken heart,Which, like the plants that throwTheir fragrance from the wounded part,Breathes sweetness out of woe.
When joy no longer soothes or cheers,And e'en the hope that threwA moment's sparkle o'er our tears,Is dimmed and vanished, too!Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,Did not Thy wing of loveCome brightly wafting through the gloomOur peace-branch from above!Then, sorrow, touched by Thee, grows brightWith more than rapture's ray,As darkness shews us worlds of light,We never saw by day.
Moore.
* * * * *
In a small cabin in a Californian mining town, away up amid the snow-clad, rock-bound peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, sat a woman, in widow's weeds, holding upon her knee a bright-eyed, sunny-faced little girl, about five years old, while a little cherub of a boy lay upon a bear-skin before the open fireplace. It was Christmas Eve, and the woman sat gazing abstractedly into the fireplace. She was yet young, and as the glowing flames lit up her sad face they invested it with a wierd beauty.
Mary Stewart was the widow of Aleck Stewart, and but two years before they had lived comfortably and happy, in a camp on the American River. Aleck was a brawny miner; but the premature explosion of a blast in an exploring tunnel had blotted out his life in an instant, leaving his family without a protector, and in straitened circumstances. His daily wages had been their sole support, and now that he was gone, what could they do?
With her little family Mrs. Stewart had emigrated to the camp in which we find them, and there she earned a precarious livelihood by washing clothes for the miners. Hers was a hard lot; but the brave little woman toiled on, cheered by the thought that her daily labours stood between her darling little ones and the gaunt wolf of starvation.
Jack Dawson, a strong, honest miner, was passing the cabin this Christmas Eve, when the voice of the little girl within attracted his attention. Jack possessed an inordinate love for children, and although his manly spirit would abhor the sneaking practice of eavesdropping, he could not resist the temptation to steal up to the window just a moment to listen to the sweet, prattling voice. The first words he caught were:
"Before papa died we always had Christmas, didn't we, mamma?"
"Yes, Totty, darling; but papa earned money enough to afford to make his little pets happy at least once a year. You must remember, Totty, that we are very poor, and although mamma works very, very hard, she can scarcely earn enough to supply us with food and clothes."
Jack Dawson still lingered upon the outside. He could not leave, although he felt ashamed of himself for listening.
"We hung up our stockings last Christmas, didn't we, mamma?" continued the little girl.
"Yes, Totty; but we were poor then, and Santa Claus never notices real poor people. He gave you a little candy then, just because you were such good children."
"Is we any poorer now, mamma?"
"Oh! yes, much poorer. He would never notice us at all now."
Jack Dawson detected a tremor of sadness in the widow's voice as she uttered the last words, and he wiped a suspicious dampness from his eyes.
"Where's our clean stockings, mamma? I'm going to hang mine up anyhow; maybe he will come like he did before, just because we try to be good children," said Totty.
"It will be no use, my darling, I am sure he will not come," and tears gathered in the mother's eyes as she thought of her empty purse.
"I don't care, I'm going to try, anyhow. Please get one of my stockings, mamma."
Jack Dawson's generous heart swelled until it seemed bursting from his bosom. He heard the patter of little bare feet upon the cabin floor as Totty ran about hunting hers and Benny's stockings, and after she had hung them up, heard her sweet voice again as she wondered over and over if Santa really would forget them. He heard the mother, in a choking voice; tell her treasures to get ready for bed; heard them lisp their childish prayers, the little girl concluding: "And, O, Lord! please tell good Santa Claus that we are very poor; but that we love him as much as rich children do, for dear Jesus' sake—Amen!"
After they were in bed, through a small rent in the plain white curtain he saw the widow sitting before the fire, her face buried in her hands, and weeping bitterly.
On a peg, just over the fire-place, hung two little patched and faded stockings, and then he could stand it no longer. He softly moved away from the window to the rear of the cabin, where some objects fluttering in the wind met his eye. Among these he searched until he found a little blue stocking which he removed from the line, folded tenderly, and placed in his overcoat pocket, and then set out for the main street of the camp. He entered Harry Hawk's gambling hall, the largest in the place, where a host of miners and gamblers were at play. Jack was well known in the camp, and when he got up on a chair and called for attention, the hum of voices and clicking of ivory checks suddenly ceased. Then in an earnest voice he told what he had seen and heard, repeating every word of the conversation between the mother and her children. In conclusion he said:
"Boys, I think I know you, every one of you, an' I know jist what kind o' metal yer made of. I've an idee that Santy Claus knows jist whar thet cabin's sitiwated, an' I've an idee he'll find it afore mornin'. Hyar's one of the little gal's stock'n's thet I hooked off'n the line. The daddy o' them little ones was a good, hard-working miner, an' he crossed the range in the line o' duty, jist as any one of us is liable to do in our dangerous business. Hyar goes a twenty-dollar piece right down in the toe, and hyar I lay the stockin' on this card table—now chip in much or little, as ye kin afford."
Brocky Clark, a gambler, left the table, picked the little stocking up carefully, looked at it tenderly, and when he laid it down another twenty had gone into the toe to keep company with the one placed there by Dawson.
Another and another came up until the foot of the stocking was well filled, and then came the cry from the gambling table:
"Pass her around, Jack."
At the word he lifted it from the table and started around the hall. Before he had circulated it at half a dozen tables it showed signs of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver coin, and a strong coin bag, such as is used for sending treasure by express, was procured, and the stocking placed inside of it. The round of the large hall was made, and in the meantime the story had spread all over the camp. From the various saloons came messages saying:
"Send the stockin' 'round the camp; boys are a-waitin' for it!"
With a party at his heels, Jack went from saloon to saloon. Games ceased and tipplers left the bars as they entered each place, and miners, gamblers, speculators, everybody, crowded up to tender their Christmas gift to the miner's widow and orphans. Any one who has lived in the far Western camps and is acquainted with the generosity of Western men, will feel no surprise or doubt my truthfulness, when I say that after the round had been made, the little blue stocking and the heavy canvas bag contained over eight thousand dollars in gold and silver coin.
Horses were procured, and a party despatched to the larger town down on the Consumnes, from which they returned near daybreak with toys, clothing, provisions, etc., in almost endless variety. Arranging their gifts in proper shape, and securely tying the mouth of the bag of coin, the party noiselessly repaired to the widow's humble cabin. The bag was first laid on the steps, and other articles piled up in a heap over it. On the top was laid the lid of a large pasteboard box, on which was written with a piece of charcoal:
"Santy Clause doesn't allways Giv poor Folks The Cold Shoulder in This camp."
Christmas day dawned bright and beautiful.
Mrs. Stewart arose, and a shade of pain crossed her handsome face as the empty little stockings caught her maternal eye. She cast a hurried glance toward the bed where her darlings lay sleeping, and whispered:
"O God! how dreadful is poverty!"
She built a glowing fire, set about preparing the frugal breakfast, and when it was almost ready she approached the bed, kissed the little ones until they were wide awake, and lifted them to the floor. With eager haste Totty ran to the stockings, only to turn away sobbing as though her heart would break. Tears blinded the mother, and clasping her little girl to her heart, she said in a choking voice:
"Never mind, my darling; next Christmas I am sure mamma will be richer, and then Santa Claus will bring us lots of nice things."
"O mamma!"
The exclamation came from little Benny, who had opened the door and was standing gazing in amazement upon the wealth of gifts there displayed.
Mrs. Stewart sprang to his side and looked in speechless astonishment. She read the card, and then, causing her little ones to kneel down with her in the open doorway, she poured out her soul in a torrent of praise and thanksgiving to God.
Jack Dawson's burly form moved from behind a tree a short distance away, and sneaked off up the gulch, great crystal tears chasing each other down his face.
The family arose from their knees, and began to move the stores into the room. There were several sacks of flour, hams, canned fruit, pounds and pounds of coffee, tea and sugar, new dress goods, and a handsome, warm woollen shawl for the widow, shoes, stockings, hats, mittens, and clothing for the children, a great big wax doll that could cry and move its eyes for Totty, and a beautiful red sled for Benny. All were carried inside amidst alternate laughs and tears.
"Bring in the sack of salt, Totty, and that is all," said the mother. "Is not God good to us?"
"I can't lift it, mamma, it's frozen to the step!"
The mother stooped and took hold of it, and lifted harder and harder, until she raised it from the step. Her cheek blanched as she noted its great weight, and breathlessly she carried it in and laid it upon the breakfast table. With trembling fingers she loosened the string and emptied the contents upon the table. Gold and silver—more than she had ever thought of in her wildest dreams of comfort, and almost buried in the pile of treasure lay Totty's little blue stocking.
We will not intrude longer upon such happiness; but leave the joyful family sounding praises to Heaven and Santa Claus.
Anon.
* * * * *
Girt round with rugged mountainsThe fair Lake Constance lies;In her blue heart reflectedShine back the starry skies;And, watching each white cloudletFloat silently and slow,You think a piece of HeavenLies on our earth below!
Midnight is there: and Silence,Enthroned in Heaven, looks downUpon her own calm mirror,Upon a sleeping town:For Bregenz, that quaint cityUpon the Tyrol shore,Has stood above Lake ConstanceA thousand years and more.
Her battlements and towers,From off their rocky steep,Have cast their trembling shadowFor ages on the deep:Mountain, and lake, and valley,A sacred legend know,Of how the town was saved, one night,Three hundred years ago.
Far from her home and kindred,A Tyrol maid had fled,To serve in the Swiss valleys,And toil for daily bread;And every year that fleetedSo silently and fast,Seemed to bear farther from herThe memory of the Past.
She served kind, gentle masters,Nor asked for rest or change;Her friends seemed no more new ones,Their speech seemed no more strangeAnd when she led her cattleTo pasture every day,She ceased to look and wonderOn which side Bregenz lay.
She spoke no more of Bregenz,While longing and with tears;Her Tyrol home seemed fadedIn a deep mist of years;She heeded not the rumoursOf Austrian war and strife;Each day she rose, contented,To the calm toils of life.
Yet, when her master's childrenWould clustering round her stand,She sang them ancient balladsOf her own native land;And when at morn and eveningShe knelt before God's throne,The accents of her childhoodRose to her lips alone.
And so she dwelt: the valleyMore peaceful year by year;When suddenly strange portentsOf some great deed seemed near.The golden corn was bendingUpon its fragile stalk,While farmers, heedless of their fields,Paced up and down in talk.
The men seemed stern and altered—With looks cast on the ground;With anxious faces, one by one,The women gathered round;All talk of flax, or spinning,Or work, was put away;The very children seemed afraidTo go alone to play.
One day, out in the meadowWith strangers from the town,Some secret plan discussing,The men walked up and down.Yet now and then seemed watchingA strange uncertain gleam,That looked like lances 'mid the treesThat stood below the stream.
At eve they all assembled,Then care and doubt were fled;With jovial laugh they feasted;The board was nobly spread.The elder of the villageRose up, his glass in hand,And cried, "We drink the downfallOf an accursed land!
"The night is growing darker,Ere one more day is flown,Bregenz, our foemens' stronghold,Bregenz shall be our own!"The women shrank in terror(Yet Pride, too, had her part),But one poor Tyrol maidenFelt death within her heart.
Before her stood fair Bregenz;Once more her towers arose;What were the friends beside her?Only her country's foes!The faces of her kinsfolk,The days of childhood flown,The echoes of her mountains,Reclaimed her as their own.
Nothing she heard around her(Though shouts rang forth again),Gone were the green Swiss valleys,The pasture, and the plain;Before her eyes one vision,And in her heart one cry,That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz,And then, if need be, die!"
With trembling haste, and breathless,With noiseless step, she sped;Horses and weary cattleWere standing in the shed;She loosed the strong, white charger,That fed from out her hand,She mounted, and she turned his headToward her native land.
Out—out into the darkness—Faster, and still more fast;The smooth grass flies behind her,The chestnut wood is past;She looks up; clouds are heavy;Why is her steed so slow?Scarcely the wind beside themCan pass them as they go.
"Faster!" she cries, "O faster!"Eleven the church-bells chime:"O God," she cries, "help Bregenz,And bring me there in time!"But louder than bells' ringing,Or lowing of the kine,Grows nearer in the midnightThe rushing of the Rhine.
Shall not the roaring watersTheir headlong gallop check?The steed draws back in terror—She leans upon his neckTo watch the flowing darkness;The bank is high and steep;One pause—he staggers forward,And plunges in the deep.
She strives to pierce the blackness,And looser throws the rein;Her steed must breast the watersThat dash above his mane.How gallantly, how nobly,He struggles through the foam,And see—in the far distanceShine out the lights of home!
Up the steep bank he bears her,And now, they rush againTowards the heights of Bregenz,That tower above the plain.They reach the gate of BregenzJust as the midnight rings,And out come serf and soldierTo meet the news she brings.
Bregenz is saved! Ere daylightHer battlements are manned;Defiance greets the armyThat marches on the land.And if to deeds heroicShould endless fame be paid,Bregenz does well to honourThat noble Tyrol maid.
Three hundred years are vanished,And yet upon the hillAn old stone gateway rises.To do her honour still.And there, when Bregenz womenSit spinning in the shade,They see in quaint old carvingThe Charger and the Maid.
And when, to guard old Bregenz,By gateway, street, and tower,The warder paces all night longAnd calls each passing hour:"Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud,And then (O crown of Fame!)When midnight pauses in the skies,He calls the maiden's name!
Adelaide A. Procter.
* * * * *
'Twas in ye pleasant olden time,Oh! many years ago,When husking bees and singing-schoolsWere all the fun, you know.
The singing-school in Tarrytown,A quaint old town in Maine—Was wisely taught and grandly ledBy a young man named Paine.
A gallant gentleman was Paine,Who liked the lasses well;But best he liked Miss Patience White,As all his school could tell.
One night the singing-school had met;Young Paine, all carelessly,Had turned the leaves and said: "We'll singOn page one-seventy."
"'See gentle patience smile on pain.'"On Paine they all then smiled,But not so gently as they might;And he, confused and wild.
Searched quickly for another place,As quickly gave it out;The merriment, suppressed before,Rose now into a shout.
These were the words that met his eyes(He sank down with a groan);"Oh! give me grief for others' woes,And patience for my own!"
Good Cheer.
* * * * *
Tell you about it? Of course, I will!I thought 'twould be dreadful to have him come,For Mamma said I must be quiet and still,And she put away my whistle and drum—
And made me unharness the parlour chairs,And packed my cannon and all the restOf my noisiest playthings off up stairs,On account of this very distinguished guest.
Then every room was turned upside down,And all the carpets hung out to blow;For when the Bishop is coming to town,The house must be in order you know.
So out in the kitchen I made my lair,And started a game of hide-and-seek;But Bridget refused to have me there,For the Bishop was coming—to stay a week—
And she must make cookies and cakes and pies,And fill every closet and platter and pan,Till I thought this Bishop so great and wise,Must be an awfully hungry man.
Well, at last he came; and I do declare,Dear grandpapa, he looked just like you,With his gentle voice and his silvery hair,And eyes with a smile a-shining through.
And whenever he read, or talked, or prayed,I understood every single word;And I wasn't the leastest bit afraid,Though I never once spoke or stirred;
Till, all of a sudden, he laughed right outTo see me sit quietly listening so;And began to tell us stories aboutSome queer little fellows in Mexico.
All about Egypt and Spain—and thenHe wasn't disturbed by a little noise,But said that the greatest and best of menOnce were rollicking, healthy boys.
And he thinks it no great matter at allIf a little boy runs and jumps and climbs;And Mamma should be willing to let me crawlThrough the bannister-rails, in the hall, sometimes.
And Bridget, she made a great mistake,In stirring up such a bother, you see,For the Bishop—he didn't care for cake,And really liked to play games with me.
But though he's so honoured in words and act—(Stoop down, for this is a secret now)—He couldn't spell Boston! That's a fact!But whispered to me to tell him how.
Emily Huntington Miller.
* * * * *
Poor lone Hannah,Sitting at the window, binding shoes!Faded, wrinkled,Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse.Bright-eyed beauty once was she,When the bloom was on the tree;—Spring and winter,Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Not a neighbourPassing, nod or answer will refuseTo her whisper,"Is there from the fishers any news?"Oh, her heart's adrift with oneOn an endless voyage gone;—Night and morning,Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Fair young Hannah,Ben the sunburnt fisher, gaily woos;Hale and clever,For a willing heart and hand he suesMay-day skies are all aglow,And the waves are laughing so!For her weddingHannah leaves her window and her shoes.
May is passing;'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos;Hannah shudders,For the wild south-wester mischief brews.Round the rocks of Marblehead,Outward bound a schooner sped;Silent, lonesome,Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
'Tis November:Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews,From NewfoundlandNot a sail returning will she lose,Whispering hoarsely: "Fishermen,Have you, have you heard of Ben?"Old with watching,Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Twenty wintersBleak and drear the ragged shore she views,Twenty seasons!Never one has brought her any news.Still her dim eyes silentlyChase the white sails o'er the sea;—Hopeless, faithful,Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Lucy Larcom.
* * * * *
O Christmas, merry Christmas!Is it really come again?With its memories and greetings,With its joy and with its painThere's a minor in the carol,And a shadow in the light,And a spray of cypress twiningWith the holly wreath to-night.And the hush is never broken,By the laughter light and low,As we listen in the starlightTo the bells across the snow!
O Christmas, merry Christmas!'Tis not so very longSince other voices blendedWith the carol and the song!If we could but hear them singing,As they are singing now,If we could but see the radianceOf the crown on each dear brow;There would be no sigh to smother,No hidden tear to flow,As we listen in the starlightTo the bells across the snow!
O Christmas, merry Christmas!This never more can be;We cannot bring again the daysOf our unshadowed glee.But Christmas, happy Christmas!Sweet herald of good-will,With holy songs of gloryBrings holy gladness still.For peace and hope may brighten,And patient love may glow,As we listen in the starlightTo the bells across the snow!
Frances Ridley Havergal.
* * * * *
A supercilious nabob of the East—Haughty, being great—purse-proud, being rich—A governor, or general, at the least,I have forgotten which—Had in his family a humble youth,Who went from England in his patron's suite,An unassuming boy, and in truthA lad of decent parts, and good repute.