Ofall the rhymes of all the climesOf where and when and how,We best and most can boost and boastThe Golden Age of NOW!
Ofall the rhymes of all the climesOf where and when and how,We best and most can boost and boastThe Golden Age of NOW!
Ofall the rhymes of all the climesOf where and when and how,We best and most can boost and boastThe Golden Age of NOW!
Themother-hands no further toil may know;The mother-eyes smile not on you and me;The mother-heart is stilled, alas!—But OThe mother-love abides eternally.
Themother-hands no further toil may know;The mother-eyes smile not on you and me;The mother-heart is stilled, alas!—But OThe mother-love abides eternally.
Themother-hands no further toil may know;The mother-eyes smile not on you and me;The mother-heart is stilled, alas!—But OThe mother-love abides eternally.
Thesebooks you find three weeks behindYour honored anniversaryMake me, I fear, to here appearMayhap a trifle cursory.—Yet while the Muse must thus refuseThe chords that fall caressfully,She seems to stir the publisherAnd dealer quite successfully.As to ourbirthdays—let 'em runUntil they whir and whiz!Read Robert Louis Stevenson,And hum these lines of his:—"The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt,Shall break on hill and plainAnd put all stars and candles outEre we be young again."
Thesebooks you find three weeks behindYour honored anniversaryMake me, I fear, to here appearMayhap a trifle cursory.—Yet while the Muse must thus refuseThe chords that fall caressfully,She seems to stir the publisherAnd dealer quite successfully.As to ourbirthdays—let 'em runUntil they whir and whiz!Read Robert Louis Stevenson,And hum these lines of his:—"The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt,Shall break on hill and plainAnd put all stars and candles outEre we be young again."
Thesebooks you find three weeks behindYour honored anniversaryMake me, I fear, to here appearMayhap a trifle cursory.—Yet while the Muse must thus refuseThe chords that fall caressfully,She seems to stir the publisherAnd dealer quite successfully.
As to ourbirthdays—let 'em runUntil they whir and whiz!Read Robert Louis Stevenson,And hum these lines of his:—"The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt,Shall break on hill and plainAnd put all stars and candles outEre we be young again."
TheBrightestStar's themodestest,And more'n likely writesHis motto like the lightnin'-bug's—Accordin' To His Lights.
TheBrightestStar's themodestest,And more'n likely writesHis motto like the lightnin'-bug's—Accordin' To His Lights.
TheBrightestStar's themodestest,And more'n likely writesHis motto like the lightnin'-bug's—Accordin' To His Lights.
Everand ever, on and on,From winter dusk to April dawn,This old enchanted world we rangeFrom night to light—from change to change—Or path of burs or lily-bells,We walk a world of miracles.The morning evermore must beA newer, purer mystery—The dewy grasses, or the bloomOf orchards, or the wood's perfumeOf wild sweet-williams, or the wetBlent scent of loam and violet.How wondrous all the ways we fare—What marvels wait us, unaware!...But yesterday, with eyes ablurAnd heart that held no hope of Her,You paced the lone path, but the trueThat led to where she waited you.
Everand ever, on and on,From winter dusk to April dawn,This old enchanted world we rangeFrom night to light—from change to change—Or path of burs or lily-bells,We walk a world of miracles.The morning evermore must beA newer, purer mystery—The dewy grasses, or the bloomOf orchards, or the wood's perfumeOf wild sweet-williams, or the wetBlent scent of loam and violet.How wondrous all the ways we fare—What marvels wait us, unaware!...But yesterday, with eyes ablurAnd heart that held no hope of Her,You paced the lone path, but the trueThat led to where she waited you.
Everand ever, on and on,From winter dusk to April dawn,This old enchanted world we rangeFrom night to light—from change to change—Or path of burs or lily-bells,We walk a world of miracles.
The morning evermore must beA newer, purer mystery—The dewy grasses, or the bloomOf orchards, or the wood's perfumeOf wild sweet-williams, or the wetBlent scent of loam and violet.
How wondrous all the ways we fare—What marvels wait us, unaware!...But yesterday, with eyes ablurAnd heart that held no hope of Her,You paced the lone path, but the trueThat led to where she waited you.
"Wess," he says, and sort o' grins,"Art and Poetry is twins.'F I could draw as you have drew,Like to jes' swap pens with you."
"Wess," he says, and sort o' grins,"Art and Poetry is twins.'F I could draw as you have drew,Like to jes' swap pens with you."
"Wess," he says, and sort o' grins,"Art and Poetry is twins.'F I could draw as you have drew,Like to jes' swap pens with you."
Springfails, in all its bravery of brilliant gold and green,—The sun, the grass, the leafing tree, and all the dazzling sceneOf dewy morning—orchard blooms,And woodland blossoms and perfumesWith bird-songs sown between.Yea, sinceshesmiles not any more, so every flowery thingFades, and the birds seem brooding o'er her silence as they sing—Her smile of cheer and voice of songSeemed so divinely to belongTo ever-joyous Spring!Nay, still she smiles.—Our eyes are blurred and see not through our tears:And still her rapturous voice is heard, though not of mortal ears:—Now ever doth she smile and singWhere Heaven's unending clime of SpringReclaims those gifts of hers.
Springfails, in all its bravery of brilliant gold and green,—The sun, the grass, the leafing tree, and all the dazzling sceneOf dewy morning—orchard blooms,And woodland blossoms and perfumesWith bird-songs sown between.Yea, sinceshesmiles not any more, so every flowery thingFades, and the birds seem brooding o'er her silence as they sing—Her smile of cheer and voice of songSeemed so divinely to belongTo ever-joyous Spring!Nay, still she smiles.—Our eyes are blurred and see not through our tears:And still her rapturous voice is heard, though not of mortal ears:—Now ever doth she smile and singWhere Heaven's unending clime of SpringReclaims those gifts of hers.
Springfails, in all its bravery of brilliant gold and green,—The sun, the grass, the leafing tree, and all the dazzling sceneOf dewy morning—orchard blooms,And woodland blossoms and perfumesWith bird-songs sown between.
Yea, sinceshesmiles not any more, so every flowery thingFades, and the birds seem brooding o'er her silence as they sing—Her smile of cheer and voice of songSeemed so divinely to belongTo ever-joyous Spring!
Nay, still she smiles.—Our eyes are blurred and see not through our tears:And still her rapturous voice is heard, though not of mortal ears:—Now ever doth she smile and singWhere Heaven's unending clime of SpringReclaims those gifts of hers.
OldIndiany, 'course we knowIs first, and best, andmost, also,Ofallthe States' whole forty-four:—She's first in ever'thing, that's shore!—Andbestin ever'way as yetMade known to man; and you kin betShe'smost, because she won't confessShe ever was, or will be,less!And yet, fer all her proud arrayOf sons, how many gits away!—No doubt about her bein'greatBut, fellers, she's a leaky State!And them that boasts the most aboutHer, them's the ones that's dribbled out.Law! jes' to think of all you boys'Way over here in IllinoiseA-celebratin', like ye air,Old Indiany, 'way back thereIn the dark ages, so to speak,A-prayin' for ye once a weekAnd wonderin' what's a-keepin' youFrom comin', like you ort to do.You're all a-lookin' well, and likeYou wasn't "sidin' up the pike,"As the tramp-shoemaker saidWhen "he sacked the boss and shedThe blame town, to hunt fer oneWhere they didn't work fer fun!"Lookin'extrywell, I'd say,Your old home so fur away.—Maybe, though, like the old jour.,Fun hain't all yer workin' fer.So you've found a job that paysBetter than in them old daysYou was onThe Weekly Press,Heppin' run things, more er less;Er a-learnin' telegraphOperatin', with a halfNotion of the tinner's trade,Er the dusty man's that laidOut designs on marble andHacked out little lambs by hand,And chewed fine-cut as he wrought,"Shapin' from his bitter thought"Some squshed mutterings to say,—"Yes, hard work, and porer pay!"Er you'd kind o' thought the far-Gazin' kuss that owned a carAnd took pictures in it, hadJes' the snap you wanted—bad!And you even wondered whyHe kep' foolin' with his sky-Light the same on shiny daysAs when rainin'. ('T leaked always.)Wondered what strange things was hidIn there when he shet the doorAnd smelt like a burnt drug storeNext some orchard-trees, i swan!With whole roasted apples on!That's why Ade is, here of late,Buyin' in the dear old State,—So's to cut it up in plotsOf both town and country lots.
OldIndiany, 'course we knowIs first, and best, andmost, also,Ofallthe States' whole forty-four:—She's first in ever'thing, that's shore!—Andbestin ever'way as yetMade known to man; and you kin betShe'smost, because she won't confessShe ever was, or will be,less!And yet, fer all her proud arrayOf sons, how many gits away!—No doubt about her bein'greatBut, fellers, she's a leaky State!And them that boasts the most aboutHer, them's the ones that's dribbled out.Law! jes' to think of all you boys'Way over here in IllinoiseA-celebratin', like ye air,Old Indiany, 'way back thereIn the dark ages, so to speak,A-prayin' for ye once a weekAnd wonderin' what's a-keepin' youFrom comin', like you ort to do.You're all a-lookin' well, and likeYou wasn't "sidin' up the pike,"As the tramp-shoemaker saidWhen "he sacked the boss and shedThe blame town, to hunt fer oneWhere they didn't work fer fun!"Lookin'extrywell, I'd say,Your old home so fur away.—Maybe, though, like the old jour.,Fun hain't all yer workin' fer.So you've found a job that paysBetter than in them old daysYou was onThe Weekly Press,Heppin' run things, more er less;Er a-learnin' telegraphOperatin', with a halfNotion of the tinner's trade,Er the dusty man's that laidOut designs on marble andHacked out little lambs by hand,And chewed fine-cut as he wrought,"Shapin' from his bitter thought"Some squshed mutterings to say,—"Yes, hard work, and porer pay!"Er you'd kind o' thought the far-Gazin' kuss that owned a carAnd took pictures in it, hadJes' the snap you wanted—bad!And you even wondered whyHe kep' foolin' with his sky-Light the same on shiny daysAs when rainin'. ('T leaked always.)Wondered what strange things was hidIn there when he shet the doorAnd smelt like a burnt drug storeNext some orchard-trees, i swan!With whole roasted apples on!That's why Ade is, here of late,Buyin' in the dear old State,—So's to cut it up in plotsOf both town and country lots.
OldIndiany, 'course we knowIs first, and best, andmost, also,Ofallthe States' whole forty-four:—She's first in ever'thing, that's shore!—Andbestin ever'way as yetMade known to man; and you kin betShe'smost, because she won't confessShe ever was, or will be,less!And yet, fer all her proud arrayOf sons, how many gits away!—No doubt about her bein'greatBut, fellers, she's a leaky State!And them that boasts the most aboutHer, them's the ones that's dribbled out.Law! jes' to think of all you boys'Way over here in IllinoiseA-celebratin', like ye air,Old Indiany, 'way back thereIn the dark ages, so to speak,A-prayin' for ye once a weekAnd wonderin' what's a-keepin' youFrom comin', like you ort to do.You're all a-lookin' well, and likeYou wasn't "sidin' up the pike,"As the tramp-shoemaker saidWhen "he sacked the boss and shedThe blame town, to hunt fer oneWhere they didn't work fer fun!"Lookin'extrywell, I'd say,Your old home so fur away.—Maybe, though, like the old jour.,Fun hain't all yer workin' fer.So you've found a job that paysBetter than in them old daysYou was onThe Weekly Press,Heppin' run things, more er less;Er a-learnin' telegraphOperatin', with a halfNotion of the tinner's trade,Er the dusty man's that laidOut designs on marble andHacked out little lambs by hand,And chewed fine-cut as he wrought,"Shapin' from his bitter thought"Some squshed mutterings to say,—"Yes, hard work, and porer pay!"Er you'd kind o' thought the far-Gazin' kuss that owned a carAnd took pictures in it, hadJes' the snap you wanted—bad!And you even wondered whyHe kep' foolin' with his sky-Light the same on shiny daysAs when rainin'. ('T leaked always.)Wondered what strange things was hidIn there when he shet the doorAnd smelt like a burnt drug storeNext some orchard-trees, i swan!With whole roasted apples on!That's why Ade is, here of late,Buyin' in the dear old State,—So's to cut it up in plotsOf both town and country lots.
Abe Martin!—dad-burn his old picture!P'tends he's a Brown County fixture—A kind of a comical mixtureOf hoss-sense and no sense at all!His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus goin',And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin',And what he don't know ain't wuth knowin'—From Genesis clean to baseball!The artist, Kin Hubbard, 's so keerlessHe draws Abe most eyeless and earless,But he's never yet pictured him cheerlessEr with fun 'at he tries to conceal,—Whuther onto the fence er clean overA-rootin' up ragweed er clover,Skeert stiff at some "Rambler" er "Rover"Er newfangled automobeel!It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in;And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns inThe old man hisse'f wades his rounds inAs ca'm and serene, mighty nighAs the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottledMilch cow, er the old rooster wattledLike the mumps had him 'most so well throttledThat it was a pleasure to die.But best of 'em all's the fool-breaks 'atAbe don't see at all, and yit makes 'atBoth me and you lays back and shakes atHis comic, miraculous cracksWhich makes him—clean back of the powerOf genius itse'f in its flower—This Notable Man of the Hour,Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts.
Abe Martin!—dad-burn his old picture!P'tends he's a Brown County fixture—A kind of a comical mixtureOf hoss-sense and no sense at all!His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus goin',And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin',And what he don't know ain't wuth knowin'—From Genesis clean to baseball!The artist, Kin Hubbard, 's so keerlessHe draws Abe most eyeless and earless,But he's never yet pictured him cheerlessEr with fun 'at he tries to conceal,—Whuther onto the fence er clean overA-rootin' up ragweed er clover,Skeert stiff at some "Rambler" er "Rover"Er newfangled automobeel!It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in;And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns inThe old man hisse'f wades his rounds inAs ca'm and serene, mighty nighAs the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottledMilch cow, er the old rooster wattledLike the mumps had him 'most so well throttledThat it was a pleasure to die.But best of 'em all's the fool-breaks 'atAbe don't see at all, and yit makes 'atBoth me and you lays back and shakes atHis comic, miraculous cracksWhich makes him—clean back of the powerOf genius itse'f in its flower—This Notable Man of the Hour,Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts.
Abe Martin!—dad-burn his old picture!P'tends he's a Brown County fixture—A kind of a comical mixtureOf hoss-sense and no sense at all!His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus goin',And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin',And what he don't know ain't wuth knowin'—From Genesis clean to baseball!
The artist, Kin Hubbard, 's so keerlessHe draws Abe most eyeless and earless,But he's never yet pictured him cheerlessEr with fun 'at he tries to conceal,—Whuther onto the fence er clean overA-rootin' up ragweed er clover,Skeert stiff at some "Rambler" er "Rover"Er newfangled automobeel!
It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in;And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns inThe old man hisse'f wades his rounds inAs ca'm and serene, mighty nighAs the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottledMilch cow, er the old rooster wattledLike the mumps had him 'most so well throttledThat it was a pleasure to die.
But best of 'em all's the fool-breaks 'atAbe don't see at all, and yit makes 'atBoth me and you lays back and shakes atHis comic, miraculous cracksWhich makes him—clean back of the powerOf genius itse'f in its flower—This Notable Man of the Hour,Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts.
O. Henry, Afrite-chef of all delight!—Of all delectables conglomerateThat stay the starved brain and rejuvenateThe mental man. Th' esthetic appetite—So long anhungered that its "in'ards" fightAnd growl gutwise,—its pangs thou dost abateAnd all so amiably alleviate,Joy pats its belly as a hobo mightWho haply hath attained a cherry pieWith no burnt bottom in it, ner no seeds—Nothin' but crispest crust, and thickness fit,And squshin'-juicy, and jes' mighty nighToo dratted drippin'-sweet fer human needs,But fer the sosh of milk that goes with it.
O. Henry, Afrite-chef of all delight!—Of all delectables conglomerateThat stay the starved brain and rejuvenateThe mental man. Th' esthetic appetite—So long anhungered that its "in'ards" fightAnd growl gutwise,—its pangs thou dost abateAnd all so amiably alleviate,Joy pats its belly as a hobo mightWho haply hath attained a cherry pieWith no burnt bottom in it, ner no seeds—Nothin' but crispest crust, and thickness fit,And squshin'-juicy, and jes' mighty nighToo dratted drippin'-sweet fer human needs,But fer the sosh of milk that goes with it.
O. Henry, Afrite-chef of all delight!—Of all delectables conglomerateThat stay the starved brain and rejuvenateThe mental man. Th' esthetic appetite—So long anhungered that its "in'ards" fightAnd growl gutwise,—its pangs thou dost abateAnd all so amiably alleviate,Joy pats its belly as a hobo mightWho haply hath attained a cherry pieWith no burnt bottom in it, ner no seeds—Nothin' but crispest crust, and thickness fit,And squshin'-juicy, and jes' mighty nighToo dratted drippin'-sweet fer human needs,But fer the sosh of milk that goes with it.
"Mona Machree, I'm the wanderin' cr'ature now,Over the sea;Slave of no lass, but a lover of Nature nowCareless and free."—T. A. Daly.
"Mona Machree, I'm the wanderin' cr'ature now,Over the sea;Slave of no lass, but a lover of Nature nowCareless and free."—T. A. Daly.
"Mona Machree, I'm the wanderin' cr'ature now,Over the sea;Slave of no lass, but a lover of Nature nowCareless and free."—T. A. Daly.
Mona Machree!och, the sootherin' flow of it,Soft as the sea,Yet, in-under the mild, moves the wild undertow of itTuggin' at me,Until both the head and the heart o' me's fightin'For breath, nigh a death all so grandly invitin'That—barrin' your own livin' yet—I'd delight in,Drowned in the deeps of this billowy song to youSung by a lover your beauty has banned,Not alone from your love but his dear native land,Whilst the kiss of his lips, and touch of his hand,And his song—all belong to you,Mona Machree!
Mona Machree!och, the sootherin' flow of it,Soft as the sea,Yet, in-under the mild, moves the wild undertow of itTuggin' at me,Until both the head and the heart o' me's fightin'For breath, nigh a death all so grandly invitin'That—barrin' your own livin' yet—I'd delight in,Drowned in the deeps of this billowy song to youSung by a lover your beauty has banned,Not alone from your love but his dear native land,Whilst the kiss of his lips, and touch of his hand,And his song—all belong to you,Mona Machree!
Mona Machree!och, the sootherin' flow of it,Soft as the sea,Yet, in-under the mild, moves the wild undertow of itTuggin' at me,Until both the head and the heart o' me's fightin'For breath, nigh a death all so grandly invitin'That—barrin' your own livin' yet—I'd delight in,Drowned in the deeps of this billowy song to youSung by a lover your beauty has banned,Not alone from your love but his dear native land,Whilst the kiss of his lips, and touch of his hand,And his song—all belong to you,Mona Machree!
Hesaid: "It is God's way:His will, not ours be done."And o'er our land a shadow layThat darkened all the sun.The voice of jubileeThat gladdened all the air,Fell sudden to a quavering keyOf suppliance and prayer.He was our chief—our guide—Sprung of our common Earth,From youth's long struggle proved and triedTo manhood's highest worth:Through toil, he knew all needsOf all his toiling kind—The favored striver who succeeds—The one who falls behind.The boy's young faith he stillRetained through years mature—The faith to labor, hand and will,Nor doubt the harvest sure—The harvest of man's love—A nation's joy that swellsTo heights of Song, or deeps whereofBut sacred silence tells.To him his Country seemedEven as a Mother, whereHe rested—slept; and once he dreamed—As on her bosom there—And thrilled to hear, withinThat dream of her, the callOf bugles and the clang and dinOf war.... And o'er it allHis rapt eyes caught the brightOld Banner, winging wildAnd beck'ning him, as to the fight ...When—even as a child—He wakened—And the dreamWas real! And he leaptAs led the proud Flag through a gleamOf tears the Mother wept.His was a tender hand—Even as a woman's is—And yet as fixed, in Right's command,As this bronze hand of his:This was the Soldier brave—This was the Victor fair—This is the Hero Heaven gaveTo glory here—and There.
Hesaid: "It is God's way:His will, not ours be done."And o'er our land a shadow layThat darkened all the sun.The voice of jubileeThat gladdened all the air,Fell sudden to a quavering keyOf suppliance and prayer.He was our chief—our guide—Sprung of our common Earth,From youth's long struggle proved and triedTo manhood's highest worth:Through toil, he knew all needsOf all his toiling kind—The favored striver who succeeds—The one who falls behind.The boy's young faith he stillRetained through years mature—The faith to labor, hand and will,Nor doubt the harvest sure—The harvest of man's love—A nation's joy that swellsTo heights of Song, or deeps whereofBut sacred silence tells.To him his Country seemedEven as a Mother, whereHe rested—slept; and once he dreamed—As on her bosom there—And thrilled to hear, withinThat dream of her, the callOf bugles and the clang and dinOf war.... And o'er it allHis rapt eyes caught the brightOld Banner, winging wildAnd beck'ning him, as to the fight ...When—even as a child—He wakened—And the dreamWas real! And he leaptAs led the proud Flag through a gleamOf tears the Mother wept.His was a tender hand—Even as a woman's is—And yet as fixed, in Right's command,As this bronze hand of his:This was the Soldier brave—This was the Victor fair—This is the Hero Heaven gaveTo glory here—and There.
Hesaid: "It is God's way:His will, not ours be done."And o'er our land a shadow layThat darkened all the sun.The voice of jubileeThat gladdened all the air,Fell sudden to a quavering keyOf suppliance and prayer.
He was our chief—our guide—Sprung of our common Earth,From youth's long struggle proved and triedTo manhood's highest worth:Through toil, he knew all needsOf all his toiling kind—The favored striver who succeeds—The one who falls behind.
The boy's young faith he stillRetained through years mature—The faith to labor, hand and will,Nor doubt the harvest sure—The harvest of man's love—A nation's joy that swellsTo heights of Song, or deeps whereofBut sacred silence tells.
To him his Country seemedEven as a Mother, whereHe rested—slept; and once he dreamed—As on her bosom there—And thrilled to hear, withinThat dream of her, the callOf bugles and the clang and dinOf war.... And o'er it all
His rapt eyes caught the brightOld Banner, winging wildAnd beck'ning him, as to the fight ...When—even as a child—He wakened—And the dreamWas real! And he leaptAs led the proud Flag through a gleamOf tears the Mother wept.
His was a tender hand—Even as a woman's is—And yet as fixed, in Right's command,As this bronze hand of his:This was the Soldier brave—This was the Victor fair—This is the Hero Heaven gaveTo glory here—and There.
Astangible a form in HistoryThe Spirit of this man stands forth as hereHe towers in deathless sculpture, high and clearAgainst the bright sky of his destiny.Sprung of our oldest, noblest ancestry,His pride of birth, as lofty as sincere,Held kith and kin, as Country, ever dear—Such was his sacred faith in you and me.Thus, natively, from youth his work was oneUnselfish service in behalf of all—Home, friends, and sharers of his toil and stress;Ay, loving all men and despising none,And swift to answer every righteous call,His life was one long deed of worthiness.The voice of Duty's faintest whisper foundHim as alert as at her battle-cry—When awful War's battalions thundered by,High o'er the havoc still he heard the soundOf mothers' prayers and pleadings all around;And ever the despairing sob and sighOf stricken wives and orphan children's cryMade all our Land thrice consecrated ground.So rang his "Forward!" and so swept his sword—On!—on!—till from the fire-and-cloud once moreOur proud Flag lifted in the glad sunlightAs though the very Ensign of the LordUnfurled in token that the strife was o'er,And victory—as ever—with the right.
Astangible a form in HistoryThe Spirit of this man stands forth as hereHe towers in deathless sculpture, high and clearAgainst the bright sky of his destiny.Sprung of our oldest, noblest ancestry,His pride of birth, as lofty as sincere,Held kith and kin, as Country, ever dear—Such was his sacred faith in you and me.Thus, natively, from youth his work was oneUnselfish service in behalf of all—Home, friends, and sharers of his toil and stress;Ay, loving all men and despising none,And swift to answer every righteous call,His life was one long deed of worthiness.The voice of Duty's faintest whisper foundHim as alert as at her battle-cry—When awful War's battalions thundered by,High o'er the havoc still he heard the soundOf mothers' prayers and pleadings all around;And ever the despairing sob and sighOf stricken wives and orphan children's cryMade all our Land thrice consecrated ground.So rang his "Forward!" and so swept his sword—On!—on!—till from the fire-and-cloud once moreOur proud Flag lifted in the glad sunlightAs though the very Ensign of the LordUnfurled in token that the strife was o'er,And victory—as ever—with the right.
Astangible a form in HistoryThe Spirit of this man stands forth as hereHe towers in deathless sculpture, high and clearAgainst the bright sky of his destiny.Sprung of our oldest, noblest ancestry,His pride of birth, as lofty as sincere,Held kith and kin, as Country, ever dear—Such was his sacred faith in you and me.Thus, natively, from youth his work was oneUnselfish service in behalf of all—Home, friends, and sharers of his toil and stress;Ay, loving all men and despising none,And swift to answer every righteous call,His life was one long deed of worthiness.
The voice of Duty's faintest whisper foundHim as alert as at her battle-cry—When awful War's battalions thundered by,High o'er the havoc still he heard the soundOf mothers' prayers and pleadings all around;And ever the despairing sob and sighOf stricken wives and orphan children's cryMade all our Land thrice consecrated ground.So rang his "Forward!" and so swept his sword—On!—on!—till from the fire-and-cloud once moreOur proud Flag lifted in the glad sunlightAs though the very Ensign of the LordUnfurled in token that the strife was o'er,And victory—as ever—with the right.
O saynot he is dead,The friend we honored so;Lift up a grateful voice insteadAnd say: He lives, we know—We know it by the lightOf his enduring loveOf honor, valor, truth, and right,And man, and God above.Remember how he drewThe child-heart to his own,And taught the parable anew,And reaped as he had sown;Remember with what cheerHe filled the little lives,And stayed the sob and dried the tearWith mirth that still survives.All duties to his kindIt was his joy to fill;With nature gentle and refined,Yet dauntless soul and will,He met the trying needOf every troublous call,Yet high and clear and glad indeedHe sung above it all.Ay, listen! Still we hearThe patriot song, the layOf love, the woodland note so dear—These will not die away.Then say not he is dead,The friend we honor so,But lift a grateful voice insteadAnd say: He lives, we know.
O saynot he is dead,The friend we honored so;Lift up a grateful voice insteadAnd say: He lives, we know—We know it by the lightOf his enduring loveOf honor, valor, truth, and right,And man, and God above.Remember how he drewThe child-heart to his own,And taught the parable anew,And reaped as he had sown;Remember with what cheerHe filled the little lives,And stayed the sob and dried the tearWith mirth that still survives.All duties to his kindIt was his joy to fill;With nature gentle and refined,Yet dauntless soul and will,He met the trying needOf every troublous call,Yet high and clear and glad indeedHe sung above it all.Ay, listen! Still we hearThe patriot song, the layOf love, the woodland note so dear—These will not die away.Then say not he is dead,The friend we honor so,But lift a grateful voice insteadAnd say: He lives, we know.
O saynot he is dead,The friend we honored so;Lift up a grateful voice insteadAnd say: He lives, we know—We know it by the lightOf his enduring loveOf honor, valor, truth, and right,And man, and God above.
Remember how he drewThe child-heart to his own,And taught the parable anew,And reaped as he had sown;Remember with what cheerHe filled the little lives,And stayed the sob and dried the tearWith mirth that still survives.
All duties to his kindIt was his joy to fill;With nature gentle and refined,Yet dauntless soul and will,He met the trying needOf every troublous call,Yet high and clear and glad indeedHe sung above it all.
Ay, listen! Still we hearThe patriot song, the layOf love, the woodland note so dear—These will not die away.Then say not he is dead,The friend we honor so,But lift a grateful voice insteadAnd say: He lives, we know.
Toattain the highest goodOf true man and womanhood,Simply do your honest best—God with joy will do the rest.
Toattain the highest goodOf true man and womanhood,Simply do your honest best—God with joy will do the rest.
Toattain the highest goodOf true man and womanhood,Simply do your honest best—God with joy will do the rest.
Sometimesmy Conscience says, says he,"Don't you know me?"And I, says I, skeered through and through,"Of course I do.You air a nice chap ever' way,I'm here to say!You make me cry—you make me pray,And all them good things thataway—That is, atnight. Where do you stayDurin' the day?"And then my Conscience says, onc't more,"You know me—shore?""Oh, yes," says I, a-trimblin' faint,"You're jes' a saint!Your ways is all so holy-right,I love you better ever' nightYou come around,—tel' plum daylight,When you air out o' sight!"And then my Conscience sort o' gritsHis teeth, and spitsOn his two hands and grabs, of course,Some old remorse,And beats me with the big butt-endO'thatthing—tel my clostest friend'Ud hardly know me. "Now," says he,"Be keerful as you'd orto beAndallusthink o' me!"
Sometimesmy Conscience says, says he,"Don't you know me?"And I, says I, skeered through and through,"Of course I do.You air a nice chap ever' way,I'm here to say!You make me cry—you make me pray,And all them good things thataway—That is, atnight. Where do you stayDurin' the day?"And then my Conscience says, onc't more,"You know me—shore?""Oh, yes," says I, a-trimblin' faint,"You're jes' a saint!Your ways is all so holy-right,I love you better ever' nightYou come around,—tel' plum daylight,When you air out o' sight!"And then my Conscience sort o' gritsHis teeth, and spitsOn his two hands and grabs, of course,Some old remorse,And beats me with the big butt-endO'thatthing—tel my clostest friend'Ud hardly know me. "Now," says he,"Be keerful as you'd orto beAndallusthink o' me!"
Sometimesmy Conscience says, says he,"Don't you know me?"And I, says I, skeered through and through,"Of course I do.You air a nice chap ever' way,I'm here to say!You make me cry—you make me pray,And all them good things thataway—That is, atnight. Where do you stayDurin' the day?"
And then my Conscience says, onc't more,"You know me—shore?""Oh, yes," says I, a-trimblin' faint,"You're jes' a saint!Your ways is all so holy-right,I love you better ever' nightYou come around,—tel' plum daylight,When you air out o' sight!"
And then my Conscience sort o' gritsHis teeth, and spitsOn his two hands and grabs, of course,Some old remorse,And beats me with the big butt-endO'thatthing—tel my clostest friend'Ud hardly know me. "Now," says he,"Be keerful as you'd orto beAndallusthink o' me!"
Yousmile and you smoke your cigar, my boy;You walk with a languid swing;You tinkle and tune your guitar, my boy,And you lift up your voice and sing;The midnight moon is a friend of yours,And a serenade your joy—And it's only an age like mine that curesA trouble like yours, my boy!
Yousmile and you smoke your cigar, my boy;You walk with a languid swing;You tinkle and tune your guitar, my boy,And you lift up your voice and sing;The midnight moon is a friend of yours,And a serenade your joy—And it's only an age like mine that curesA trouble like yours, my boy!
Yousmile and you smoke your cigar, my boy;You walk with a languid swing;You tinkle and tune your guitar, my boy,And you lift up your voice and sing;The midnight moon is a friend of yours,And a serenade your joy—And it's only an age like mine that curesA trouble like yours, my boy!
Barelya year ago I attended the Friday afternoon exercises of a country school. My mission there, as I remember, was to refresh my mind with such material as might be gathered, for a "valedictory," which, I regret to say, was to be handed down to posterity under another signature than my own.
There was present, among a host of visitors, a pale young man of perhaps thirty years, with a tall head and bulging brow and a highly intellectual pair of eyes and spectacles. He wore his hair without roach or "part" and the smile he beamed about him was "a joy forever." He was an educator—from the East, I think I heard it rumoured—anyway he was introduced to the school at last, and he bowed, and smiled, and beamed upon us all, and entertained us after the most delightfully edifying manner imaginable. And although I may fail to reproduce the exact substance of his remarks upon that highly important occasion, I think I can at least present his theme in all its coherency of detail. Addressing more particularly the primary department of the school, he said:—
"As the little exercise I am about to introduce is of recent origin, and the bright, intelligent faces of the pupils before me seem rife with eager and expectant interest, it will be well for me, perhaps, to offer by way of preparatory preface, a few terse words of explanation.
"The Object Lesson is designed to fill a long-felt want, and is destined, as I think, to revolutionize, in a great degree, the educational systems of our land.—In my belief, the Object Lesson will supply a want which I may safely say has heretofore left the most egregious and palpable traces of mental confusion and intellectual inadequacies stamped, as it were, upon the gleaming reasons of the most learned—the highest cultured, and the most eminently gifted and promising of our professors and scientists both at home and abroad.
"Now this deficiency—if it may be so termed—plainly has a beginning; and probing deeply with the bright, clean scalpel of experience we discover that—'As the twig is bent the tree's inclined.' To remedy, then, a deeply seated error which for so long has rankled at the very root of educational progress throughout the land, many plausible, and we must admit, many helpful theories have been introduced to allay the painful errors resulting from the discrepancy of which we speak: but until now, nothing that seemed wholly to eradicate the defect has been discovered, and that, too, strange as it may seem, is, at last, emanating, like the mighty river, from the simplest source, but broadening and gathering in force and power as it flows along, until, at last, its grand and mighty current sweeps on in majesty to the vast illimitable ocean of—of—of—Success! Ahem!
"And, now, little boys and girls, that we have had by implication, a clear and comprehensive explanation of the Object Lesson and its mission, I trust you will give me your undivided attention while I endeavor—in my humble way—to direct your newly acquired knowledge through the proper channel. For instance:—
"This little object I hold in my hand—who will designate it by its proper name? Come, now, let us see who will be the first to answer. 'A peanut,' says the little boy here at my right. Very good—very good! I hold, then, in my hand, a peanut. And now who will tell me, what is the peanut? A very simple question—who will answer? 'Something good to eat,' says the little girl. Yes, 'something good to eat,' but would it not be better to say simply that the peanut is an edible? I think so, yes. The peanut, then, is—an edible—now, all together, an edible!
"To what kingdom does the peanut belong? The animal, vegetable, or mineral kingdom? A very easy question. Come, let us have prompt answers. 'The animal kingdom,' does the little boy say? Oh, no! The peanut does not belong to the animal kingdom! Surely the little boy must be thinking of a larger object than the peanut—the elephant, perhaps. To what kingdom, then, does the peanut belong? The v-v-veg—'The vegetable kingdom,' says the bright-faced little girl on the back seat. Ah! that is better. We find then that the peanut belongs to the—what kingdom? The 'vegetable kingdom.' Very good, very good!
"And now who will tell us of what the peanut is composed. Let us have quick responses now. Time is fleeting! Of what is the peanut composed? 'The hull and the goody,' some one answers. Yes, 'the hull and the goody' in vulgar parlance, but how much better it would be to say simply, the shell and the kernel. Would not that sound better? Yes, I thought you would agree with me there!
"And now who will tell me the color of the peanut! And be careful now! for I shouldn't like to hear you make the very stupid blunder I once heard a little boy make in reply to the same question. Would you like to hear what color the stupid little boy said the peanut was? You would, eh? Well, now, how many of you would like to hear what color the stupid little boy said the peanut was? Come now, let's have an expression. All who would like to hear what color the stupid little boy said the peanut was, may hold up their right hands. Very good, very good—there, that will do.
"Well, it was during a professional visit I was once called upon to make to a neighboring city, where I was invited to address the children of a free school—Hands down, now, little boy—founded for the exclusive benefit of the little newsboys and bootblacks, who, it seems, had not the means to defray the expenses of the commonest educational accessories, and during an object lessen—identical with the one before us now—for it is a favorite one of mine—I propounded the question, what is the color of the peanut? Many answers were given in response, but none as sufficiently succinct and apropos as I deemed the facts demanded; and so at last I personally addressed a ragged, but, as I then thought, a bright-eyed little fellow, when judge of my surprise, in reply to my question what is the color of the peanut, the little fellow, without the slightest gleam of intelligence lighting up his face, answered, that 'if not scorched in roasting, the peanut was a blond.' Why, I was almost tempted to join in the general merriment his inapposite reply elicited. But I occupy your attention with trivial things; and as I notice the time allotted to me has slipped away, we will drop the peanut for the present. Trusting the few facts gleaned from a topic so homely and unpromising will sink deep in your minds, in time to bloom and blossom in the fields of future usefulness—I—I——I thank you."