If I had a horse I would call him "Gay,"Feed and curry him well every day,Hitch him up in my cart and take a ride,With Baby Brother tucked in at my side.
Little brown thrushes at sunrise in summerAfter the May-flowers have faded away,Warble to show unto every new-comerHow to hush stars, yet to waken the Day:Singing first, lullabies, then, jubilates,Watching the blue sky where every bird's heart is;Then, as lamenting the day's fading light,Down through the twilight, when wearied with flight,Singing divinely, they breathe out, "good-night!"Little brown thrushes with birds yellow-breastedBright as the sunshine that June roses bring,Climb up and carol o'er hills silver-crestedJust as the bluebirds do in the spring,Seeing the bees and the butterflies ranging,Pointed-winged swallows their sharp shadows changing;But while some sunset is flooding the sky,Up through the glory the brown thrushes fly,Singing divinely, "good-night and good-by!"BY Mrs. WHITON-STONE.
This tall Giraffe,Measures ten feet and a half,And I wonder if his neckOf rubber is made.Out of the sunHe thinks he has runBut only his feetAre in the shade.
Here, sit ye down alongside of me; I'm getting old and gray;But something in the paper, boy, has riled my blood today.To steal a purse is mean enough, the most of men agree;But stealing reputation seems a meaner thing to me.A letter in the Herald says some generals allowThat there wa'n't no fight where Lookout rears aloft its shaggybrow;But this coat sleeve swinging empty here beside me, boy, to-day,Tells a mighty different story in a mighty different way.When sunbeams flashed o'er Mission Ridge that bright Novembermorn,The misty cap on Lookout's crest gave token of a storm;For grim King Death had draped the mount in grayish, smokyshrouds—Its craggy peaks were lost to sight above the fleecy clouds.Just at the mountain's rocky base we formed in serried lines,While lightning with its jagged edge played on us from the pines;The mission ours to storm the pits 'neath Lookout's crest thatlay;We stormed the very "gates of hell" with "Fighting Joe" that day.The mountain seemed to vomit flames; the boom of heavy gunsPlayed to Dixie's music, while a treble played the drums:The eagles waking from their sleep, looked down upon the starsSlow climbing up the mountain side, with morning's broken bars.We kept our eyes upon the flag that upward led the wayUntil we lost it in the smoke on Lookout side that day;And then like demons loosed from hell we clambered up the crag,"Excelsior," our motto, and our mission, "Save the flag."In answer to the rebel yell we gave a ringing cheer;We left the rifle-pits behind, the crest loomed upward near;A light wind playing 'long the peaks just lifted death's grayshroud;We caught the gleam of silver stars just breaking through thecloud.A shattered arm hung at my side that day on Lookout's crag,And yet I'd give the other now to save the dear old flag.The regimental roll when called on Lookout's crest that nightWas more than doubled by the roll Death called in realms oflight.Just as the sun sank slowly down behind the mountain's crest,When mountain peaks gave back the fire that flamed along thewest,Swift riding down along the ridge upon a charger white,Came "Fighting Joe," the hero now of Lookout's famous fight.He swung his cap as tears of joy slow trickled down his cheek,And as our cheering died away, the general tried to speak.He said, "Boys, I'll court-martial you, yes, every man that'shere;I said to take the rifle pits," we stopped him with a cheer,"I said to take the rifle pits upon the mountain's edge,And I'll court-martial you because—because you took the ridge"Then such a laugh as swept the ridge where late King Death hadstrode!And such a cheer as rent the skies, as down our lines he rode!I'm getting old and feeble, I've not long to live, I know,But there WAS A FIGHT AT LOOKOUT. I was there with "FightingJoe."So these generals in the Herald, they may reckon and allowThat there warn't no fight at Lookout on the mountain's shaggybrow,But this empty coat-sleeve swinging here beside me, boy, to-dayTells a mighty different tale in a mighty different way.R. L. CARY, JR.
A race! A race! Which will win,Thin little Harold or chubby Jim?Surely not Harold for there he goesDown so flathe bumps his nose,While Jimmy stops short.The fat little elf,Says he can't run a raceall by himself.
"Glad I am, mother, the holidays are over. It's quite different going back to school again when one goes to be captain—as I'm sure to be. Isn't it jolly?"
Mrs. Boyd's face as she smiled back at Donald was not exactly "jolly." Still, she did smile; and then there came out the strong likeness often seen between mother and son, even when, as in this case, the features were very dissimilar. Mrs. Boyd was a pretty, delicate little English woman: and Donald took after his father, a big, brawny Scotsman, certainly not pretty, and not always sweet. Poor man! he had of late years had only too much to make him sour.
Though she tried to smile and succeeded, the tears were in Mrs. Boyd's eyes, and her mouth was quivering. But she set it tightly together, and then she looked more than ever like her son, or rather, her son looked like her.
He was too eager in his delight to notice her much. "It is jolly, isn't it, mother? I never thought I'd get to the top of the school at all, for I'm not near so clever as some of the fellows. But now I've got my place; and I like it, and I mean to keep it; you'll be pleased at that, mother?"
"I should have been if—if—" Mrs. Boyd tried to get the words out and failed, closed her eyes as tight as her mouth for a minute, then opened them and looked her boy in the face gravely and sadly.
"It goes to my heart to tell you—I have been waiting to say it all morning, but, Donald, my dear, you will never go back to school at all."
"Not go back; when I'm captain! why, you and father both said that if I got to be that, I should not stop till I was seventeen—and now I'm only fifteen and a half. O, mother, you don't mean it! Father couldn't break his word! I may go back!"
Mrs. Boyd shook her head sadly, and then explained as briefly and calmly as she could the heavy blow which had fallen upon the father, and, indeed, upon the whole family. Mr. Boyd had long been troubled with his eyes, about as serious a trouble as could have befallen a man in his profession—an accountant—as they call it in Scotland. Lately he had made some serious blunders in his arithmetic, and his eyesight was so weak that his wife persuaded him to consult a first-rate Edinburgh oculist, whose opinion, given only yesterday, after many days of anxious suspense, was that in a few months he would become incurably blind.
"Blind, poor father blind!" Donald put his hand before his own eyes. He was too big a boy to cry, or at any rate, to be seen crying, but it was with a choking voice that he spoke next: "I'll be his eyes; I'm old enough."
"Yes; in many ways you are, my son," said Mrs. Boyd, who had had a day and a night to face her sorrow, and knew she must do so calmly. "But you are not old enough to manage the business; your father will require to take a partner immediately, which will reduce our income one-half. Therefore we cannot possibly afford to send you to school again. The little ones must go, they are not nearly educated yet, but you are. You will have to face the world and earn your own living, as soon as ever you can. My poor boy!"
"Don't call me poor, mother. I've got you and father and the rest. And, as you say, I've had a good education so far. And I'm fifteen and a half, no, fifteen and three-quarters—almost a man. I'm not afraid."
"Nor I," said his mother, who had waited a full minute before Donald could find voice to say all this, and it was at last stammered out awkwardly and at random. "No; I am not afraid because my boy has to earn his bread; I had earned mine for years as a governess when father married me. I began work before I was sixteen. My son will have to do the same, that is all."
That day the mother and son spoke no more together. It was as much as they could do to bear their trouble, without talking about it, and besides, Donald was not a boy to "make a fuss" over things. He could meet sorrow when it came, that is, the little of it he had ever known, but he disliked speaking of it, and perhaps he was right.
So he just "made himself scarce" till bedtime, and never said a word to anybody until his mother came into the boys' room to bid them good-night. There were three of them, but all were asleep except Donald. As his mother bent down to kiss him, he put both arms round her neck.
"Mother, I'm going to begin to-morrow."
"Begin what, my son?"
"Facing the world, as you said I must. I can't go to school again, so I mean to try and earn my own living."
"How?"
"I don't quite know, but I'll try. There are several things I could be, a clerk—or even a message-boy. I shouldn't like it, but I'd do anything rather than do nothing."
Mrs. Boyd sat down on the side of the bed. If she felt inclined to cry she had too much sense to show it. She only took firm hold of her boy's hand, and waited for him to speak on.
"I've been thinking, mother, I was to have a new suit at Christmas; will you give it now? And let it be a coat, not a jacket. I'm tall enough—five feet seven last month, and growing still; I should look almost a man. Then I would go round to every office in Edinburgh and ask if they wanted a clerk. I wouldn't mind taking anything to begin with. And I can write a decent hand, and I'm not bad at figures; as for my Latin and Greek—"
Here Donald gulped down a sigh, for he was a capital classic, and it had been suggested that he should go to Glasgow University and try for "the Snell" which has sent so many clever young Scotsmen to Balliol College, Oxford, and thence on to fame and prosperity. But alas! no college career was now possible to Donald Boyd. The best he could hope for was to earn a few shillings a week as a common clerk. He knew this, and so did his mother. But they never complained. It was no fault of theirs, nor of anybody's. It was just as they devoutly called it, "The will of God."
"Your Latin and Greek may come in some day, my boy," said Mrs. Boyd cheerfully. "Good work is never lost. In the meantime, your plan is a good one, and you shall have your new clothes at once. Then, do as you think best."
"All right; good-night, mother," said Donald, and in five minutes more was fast asleep.
But, though he was much given to sleeping of nights—indeed, he never remembered lying awake for a single hour in his life—during daytime there never was a more "wide awake" boy than Donald Boyd. He kept his eyes open to everything, and never let the "golden minute" slip by him. He never idled about—play he didn't consider idling (nor do I). And I am bound to confess that every day until the new clothes came home was scrupulously spent in cricket, football, and all the other amusements which he was as good at as he was at his lessons. He wanted "to make the best of his holidays," he said, knowing well that for him holiday time as well as school time was now done, and the work of the world had begun in earnest.
The clothes came home on Saturday night, and he went to church in them on Sunday, to his little sister's great admiration. Still greater was their wonder when, on Monday morning, he appeared in the same suit, looking quite a man, as they unanimously agreed, and almost before breakfast was done, started off, not saying a word of where he was going.
He did not come back till the younger ones were all away to bed, so there was no one to question him, which was fortunate, for they might not have got very smooth answers. His mother saw this, and she also forbore. She was not surprised that the bright, brave face of the morning looked dull and tired, and that evidently Donald had no good news of the day to tell her.
"I think I'll go to bed," was all he said. "Mother, will you give me a 'piece' in my pocket to-morrow? One can walk better when one isn't so desperately hungry."
"Yes, my boy." She kissed him, saw that he was warmed and fed—he had evidently been on his legs the whole day—then sent him off to his bed, where she soon heard him delightfully snoring, oblivious of all his cares.
The same thing went on day after day, for seven days. Sometimes he told his mother what had happened to him and where he had been, sometimes not; what was the good of telling? It was always the same story. Nobody wanted a boy or a man, for Donald, trusting to his inches and his coat, had applied for man's work also, but in vain. Mrs. Boyd was not astonished. She knew how hard it is to get one's foot into ever so small a corner in this busy world, where ten are always struggling for the place of one. Still, she also knew that it never does to give in; that one must leave no stone unturned if one wishes to get work at all. Also she believed firmly in an axiom of her youth—"Nothing is denied to well-directed labor." But it must be real hard "labor," and it must also be "well directed." So, though her heart ached sorely, as only a mother's can, she never betrayed it, but each morning sent her boy away with a cheerful face, and each evening received him with one, which, if less cheerful, was not less sympathetic, but she never said a word.
At the week's end, in fact, on Sunday morning, as they were walking to church, Donald said to her: "Mother, my new clothes haven't been of the slightest good. I've been all over Edinburgh, to every place I could think of—writers' offices, merchants' offices, wharves, railway-stations—but it's no use. Everybody wants to know where I've been before, and I've been nowhere except to school. I said I was willing to learn, but nobody will teach me; they say they can't afford it. It is like keeping a dog, and barking yourself. Which is only too true," added Donald, with a heavy sigh.
"May be," said Mrs. Boyd. Yet as she looked up at her son—she really did look up at him, he was so tall—she felt that if his honest, intelligent face and manly bearing did not win something at last, what was the world coming to? "My boy," she said, "things are very hard for you, but not harder than for others. I remember once, when I was only a few years older than you, finding myself with only half a crown in my pocket. To be sure it was a whole half-crown, for I had paid every half-penny I owed that morning, but I had no idea where the next half-crown would come from. However, it did come. I earned two pounds ten, the very day after that day."
"Did you really, mother?" said Donald, his eyes brightening. "Then I'll go on. I'll not 'gang awa back to my mither,' as that old gentleman advised me, who objected to bark himself; a queer, crabbed old fellow he was too, but he was the only one who asked my name and address. The rest of them—well, mother, I've stood a good deal these seven days," Donald added, gulping down something between a "fuff" of wrath and a sob.
"I am sure you have, my boy."
"But I'll hold on; only you'll have to get my boots mended, and meantime, I should like to try a new dodge. My bicycle, it lies in the washing-house; you remember I broke it and you didn't wish it mended, lest I should break something worse than a wheel, perhaps. It wasn't worth while risking my life for mere pleasure, but I want my bicycle now for use. If you let me have it mended, I can go up and down the country for fifty miles in search of work—to Falkirk, Linlithgow, or even Glasgow, and I'll cost you nothing for traveling expenses. Isn't that a bright idea, mother?"
She had not the heart to say no, or to suggest that a boy on a bicycle applying for work was a thing too novel to be eminently successful. But to get work was at once so essential and so hopeless, that she would not throw any cold water on Donald's eagerness and pluck. She hoped too, that, spite of the eccentricity of the notion, some shrewd, kind-hearted gentleman might have sense enough to see the honest purpose of the poor lad who had only himself to depend upon. For his father had now fallen into a state of depression which made all application to him for either advice or help worse than useless. And as both he and Mrs. Boyd had been solitary orphans when they were married, there were no near relatives of any kind to come to the rescue. Donald knew, and his mother knew too, that he must shift for himself, to sink or swim.
So, after two days' rest, which he much needed, the boy went off again "on his own hook," and his bicycle, which was a degree better than his legs, he said, as it saves shoe-leather. Also, he was able to come home pretty regularly at the same hour, which was a great relief to his mother. But he came home nearly as tired as ever, and with a despondent look which deepened every day. Evidently it was just the same story; no work to be had; or if there was work, it was struggled for by a score of fellows, with age, character, and experience to back them, and Donald had none of the three. But he had one quality, the root of all success in the end, dogged perseverance.
There is a saying, that we British gain our victories, not because we are never beaten, but because we never will see that we are beaten, and so go on fighting till we win. "Never say die," was Donald's word to his mother night after night. But she knew that those who never SAY die, sometimes DO die, quite quietly, and she watched with a sore heart her boy growing thinner and more worn, even though brown as a berry with constant exposure all day long to wind and weather, for it was now less autumn than winter.
After a fortnight, Mrs. Boyd made up her mind that this could not go on any longer, and said so. "Very well," Donald answered, accepting her decision as he had been in the habit of doing all his life.—Mrs. Boyd's children knew very well that whatever her will was, it was sure to be a just and wise will, herself being the last person she ever thought of.—"Yes, I'll give in, if you think I ought, for it's only wearing out myself and my clothes to no good. Only let me have one day more and I'll go as far as ever I can, perhaps to Dunfermline, or even Glasgow."
She would not forbid, and once more she started him off with a cheerful face in the twilight of the wet October morning, and sat all day long in the empty house—for the younger ones were now all going to school again—thinking sorrowfully of her eldest, whose merry school days were done forever.
In the dusk of the afternoon a card was brought up to her, with the message that an old gentleman was waiting below, wishing to see her.
A shudder ran through the poor mother, who, like many another mother, hated bicycles, and never had an easy mind when Donald was away on his. The stranger's first word was anything but reassuring.
"Beg pardon ma'am, but is your name Boyd, and have you a son called Donald, who went out on a bicycle this morning?"
"Yes, yes! Has anything happened? Tell me quick!"
"I'm not aware, ma'am, that anything has happened," said the old gentleman. "I saw the lad at light this morning. He seemed to be managing his machine uncommonly well. I met him at the foot of a hill near Edinburgh Castle. He had got off and was walking; so he saw me, and took off his cap. I like respect, especially in a young fellow towards an old one."
"Did he know you, for I have not that pleasure?" said Mrs. Boyd, polite, though puzzled. For the old man did not look quite like a gentleman, and spoke with the strong accent of an uneducated person, yet he had a kindly expression, and seemed honest and well-meaning, though decidedly "canny."
"I cannot say he knew me, but he remembered me, which was civil of him. And then I minded the lad as the one that had come to me for work a week or two ago, and I took his name and address. That's your son's writing?" he jumbled out and showed a scrap of paper. "It's bona fide, isn't it?
"And he really is in search of work? He hasn't run away from home, or been turned out by his father for misconduct, or anything of that sort? He isn't a scamp, or a ne'er-do-weel?"
"I hope he doesn't look like it," said Mrs. Boyd, proudly.
"No, ma'am; you're right, he doesn't. He carries his character in his face which, maybe, is better than in his pocket. It was that which made me ask his name and address, though I could do nothing for him."
"Then you were the gentleman who told him you couldn't keep a dog and bark yourself?" said Mrs. Boyd, amused, and just a shade hopeful.
"Precisely. Nor can I. It would have been cool impudence in a lad to come and ask to be taught his work first and then paid for it, if he hadn't been so very much in earnest that I was rather sorry for him. I'm inclined to believe, from the talk I had with him at the foot of the brae to-day, that he is a young dog that would bark with uncommon little teaching. Material, ma'am, is what we want. I don't care for its being raw material, if it's only of the right sort. I've made up my mind to try your boy."
"Thank God!"
"What did you say, ma'am? But—I beg your pardon."
For he saw that Mrs. Boyd had quite broken down. In truth, the strain had been so long and so great that this sudden relief was quite too much for her. She sobbed heartily.
"I ought to beg your pardon," she said at last, "for being so foolish, but we have had hard times of late."
And then, in a few simple words, she told Donald's whole story.
The old man listened to it in silence. Sometimes he nodded his head, or beat his chin on his stout stick as he sat; but he made no comment whatever, except a brief "Thank you, ma'am."
"Now to business," continued he, taking out his watch; "for I'm due at dinner: and I always keep my appointments, even with myself. I hope your Donald is a punctual lad?"
"Yes. He promised to be back by dark, and I am sure he will be. Could you not wait?"
"No. I never wait for anybody; but keep nobody waiting for me. I'm Bethune & Co., Leith Merchants—practically, old John Bethune, who began life as a message-boy, and has done pretty well, considering."
He had, as Mrs. Boyd was well aware. Bethune & Co. was a name so well known that she could hardly believe in her boy's good luck in getting into that house in any capacity whatever.
"So all is settled," said Mr. Bethune, rising. "Let him come to me on Monday morning, and I'll see what he is fit for. He'll have to start at the very bottom—sweep the office, perhaps—I did it myself once—and I'll give him—let me see—ten shillings a week to begin with."
"'To begin with,'" repeated Mrs. Boyd, gently but firmly; "but he will soon be worth more. I am sure of that."
"Very well. When I see what stuff he is made of, he shall have a rise. But I never do things at haphazard; and it's easier going up than coming down. I'm not a benevolent man, Mrs. Boyd, and you need not think it. But I've fought the world pretty hard myself, and I like to help those that are fighting it. Good evening. Isn't that your son coming round the corner? Well, he's back exact to his time, at any rate. Tell him I hope he will be as punctual on Monday morning. Good evening, ma'am."
Now, if this were an imaginary story, I might wind it up by a delightful denoument of Mr. Bethune's turning out an old friend of the family, or developing into a new one, and taking such a fancy to Donald that he immediately gave him a clerkship with a large salary, and the promise of a partnership on coming of age, or this worthy gentleman should be an eccentric old bachelor who immediately adopted that wonderful boy and befriended the whole Boyd family.
But neither of these things, nor anything else remarkable, happened in the real story, which, as it is literally true, though told with certain necessary disguises, I prefer to keep to as closely as I can. Such astonishing bits of "luck" do not happen in real life, or happen so rarely that one inclines, at least, to believe very little in either good or ill fortune, as a matter of chance. There is always something at the back of it which furnishes a key to the whole. Practically, a man's lot is of his own making. He may fail, for a while undeservedly, or he may succeed undeservedly, but, in the long run, time brings its revenges and its rewards.
As it did to Donald Boyd. He has not been taken into the house of Bethune & Co., as a partner; and it was long before he became even a clerk—at least with anything like a high salary. For Mr. Bethune, so far from being an old bachelor, had a large family to provide for, and was bringing up several of his sons to his own business, so there was little room for a stranger. But a young man who deserves to find room generally does find it, or make it. And though Donald started at the lowest rung of the ladder, he may climb to the top yet.
He had "a fair field, and no favor." Indeed, he neither wished nor asked favor. He determined to stand on his own feet from the first. He had hard work and few holidays, made mistakes, found them out and corrected them, got sharp words and bore them, learnt his own weak points and—not so easily—his strong ones. Still he did learn them; for, unless you can trust yourself, be sure nobody else will trust you.
This was Donald's great point. HE WAS TRUSTED. People soon found out that they might trust him; that he always told the truth, and never pretended to do more than he could do; but that which he could do, they might depend upon his doing, punctually, accurately, carefully, and never leaving off till it was done. Therefore, though others might be quicker, sharper, more "up to things" than he, there was no one so reliable, and it soon got to be a proverb in the office of Bethune & Co.—and other offices, too—"If you wish a thing done, go to Boyd."
I am bound to say this, for I am painting no imaginary portrait, but describing an individual who really exists, and who may be met any day walking about Edinburgh, though his name is not Donald Boyd, and there is no such firm as Bethune & Co. But the house he does belong to values the young fellow so highly that there is little doubt he will rise in it, and rise in every way, probably to the very top of the tree, and tell his children and grandchildren the story which, in its main features, I have recorded here, of how he first began facing the world.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN."
We went to the Zoo the Leopard to see,But found him an unsociable fellow.He would not look at us or say where he boughtHis polka-dot suit of yellow.
Merrily swinging on briar and weed,Near to the nest of his little dame,Over the mountain-side or mead,Robert of Lincoln is telling his name;Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Snug and safe in that nest of ours,Hidden among the summer flowers.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed.Wearing a bright black wedding-coat;White are his shoulders and white his crest,Hear him calling his merry note:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Look, what a nice new coat is mine,Sure there was never a bird so fine.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,Passing at home a quiet life,Broods in the grass while her husband sings:Bob-o'-l ink, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Brood, kind creatures; you need not fearThieves and robbers while I am here.Chee, chee, chee.Modest and shy as a nun is she,One weak chirp is her only note,Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,Pouring boasts from his little throat:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Never was I afraid of man;Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.Chee, chee, chee.Six white eggs on a bed of hay,Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!There as the mother sits all day,Robert is singing with all his might:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nice good wife, that never goes out,Keeping house while I frolic about.Chee, chee, chee.Soon as the-little ones chip the shellSix wide mouths are open for food;Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,Gathering seed for the hungry brood.Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;This new life is likely to beHard for a gay young fellow like me.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln at length is madeSober with work, and silent with care;Off is his holiday garment laid,Half forgotten that merry air,Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nobody knows but my mate and IWhere our nest and our nestlings lie.Chee, chee, chee.Summer wanes; the children are grown;Fun and frolic no more he knows;Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;When you can pipe that merry old strain,Robert of Lincoln, come back again.Chee, chee, chee.WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Riggity-rig,Dance a jig,Dance a Highland Fling;Dance a Cake-walk,Give us o Clog,Or cut a Pigeon's Wing.
U. S. SPELLS US.
My papa's all dressed up to-day;He never looked so fine;I thought when I first looked at himMy papa wasn't mine.He's got a beautiful new suitThe old one was so old—It's blue, with buttons, oh, so bright, I guess they must be gold.And papa's sort o' glad and sortO' sad—I wonder why;And ev'ry time she looks at himIt makes my mamma cry.Who's Uncle Sam? My papa saysThat he belongs to him;But papa's joking, 'cause he knowsMy uncle's name is Jim.My papa just belongs to meAnd mamma. And I guessThe folks are blind who cannot seeHis buttons marked U. S.U. S. spells Us. He's ours—and yetMy mamma can't help cry,And papa tries to smile at meAnd can't—I wonder why.ANON.
A dancing Bear came down the street;The children all ran to see the treat;Said the keeper: "Now, boys, come pay for your fun;Give me a penny to buy Bruin a bun."
I was born 'way down in "Dixie,"Reared beneath the Southern skies,And they didn't have to teach meEvery "Yankee" to despise.I was but a country youngsterWhen I donned a suit of gray,When I shouldered my old musket,And marched forth the "Yanks" to slay.Four long years I fought and suffered,"Dixie" was my battle cry;"Dixie" always and forever,Down in "Dixie" let me die.And to-night I'm down in "Dixie,""Dixie" still so grand and true;But to-night I am appareledIn a uniform of blue.And to-night the band is playing;'Tis not "Dixie's" strains I hear,But the strains of "Yankee Doodle"Ring out strong and clear.Long I listen to the music;By my side a comrade stands;He's a "Yank" and I'm a "Rebel,"But we grasp each other's hands.Here together we united'Way down South in "Dixie" stand,And my comrade whispers softly,"There's no land like 'Dixie's land.'"But my eyes are filled with teardrops,Tears that make my heart feel glad;And I whisper to my comrade:"'Yankee Doodle' ain't so bad."LAWRENCE PORCHER HEXT.
A game of marblesWe were having one day,When Baby chancedto come along that way.Too little he wasto join our game,But he pocketed our marblesjust the same.
Blessings on thee, little man,Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan;With thy turned-up pantaloons,And thy merry whistled tunes;With thy red lip, redder stillKissed by strawberries on the hill;With the sunshine on thy face,Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace!From my heart I give thee joy;I was once a barefoot boy.Prince thou art—the grown-up manOnly is republican.Let the million-dollared ride!Barefoot, trudging at his side,Thou hast more than he can buy,In the reach of ear and eye:Outward sunshine, inward joy.Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!O! for boyhood's painless play,Sleep that wakes in laughing day,Health that mocks the doctor's rules,Knowledge never learned of schools:Of the wild bee's morning chase,Of the wild flower's time and place,Flight of fowl, and habitudeOf the tenants of the wood;How the tortoise bears his shell,How the woodchuck digs his cell,And the ground-mole sinks his well;How the robin feeds her young,How the oriole's nest is hung;Where the whitest lilies blow,Where the freshest berries grow,Where the ground-nut trails its vine,Where the wood grape's clusters shine;Of the black wasp's cunning way,Mason of his walls of clay,And the architectural plansOf gray hornet artisans!For, eschewing books and tasks,Nature answers all he asks;Hand in hand with her he walks,Face to face with her he talksPart and parcel of her joy.Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!O for boyhood's time of June,Crowding years in one brief moon,When all things I heard or saw,Me, their master, waited for!I was rich in flowers and trees,Humming-birds and honey-bees;For my sport the squirrel played,Plied the snouted mole his spade;For my taste the blackberry conePurpled over hedge and stone;Laughed the brook for my delight,Through the day and through the night;Whispering at the garden wall,Talked with me from fall to fall;Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,Mine the walnut slopes beyond,Mine, on bending orchard trees,Apples of Hesperides!Still, as my horizon grew,Larger grew my riches too,All the world I saw or knewSeemed a complex Chinese toy,Fashioned for a barefoot boy!O! for festal dainties spread,Like my bowl of milk and bread,Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,On the door-stone, gray and rude!O'er me, like a regal tent,Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent:Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,Looped in many a wind-swung fold;While, for music, came the playOf the pied frogs' orchestra;And, to light the noisy choir,Lit the fly his lamp of fire.I was monarch; pomp and joyWaited on the barefoot boy.Cheerily then, my little man!Live and laugh as boyhood can;Though the flinty slopes be hard,Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,Every morn shall lead thee throughFresh baptisms of the dew;Every evening from thy feetShall the cool wind kiss the heat;All too soon those feet must hideIn the prison-cells of pride,Lose the freedom of the sod,Like a colt's for work be shod,Made to tread the mills of toil,Up and down in ceaseless moil:Happy if their track be foundNever on forbidden ground;Happy if they sink not inQuick and treacherous sands of sin.Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,Ere it passes, barefoot boy!JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
Gallop, gallop! far away.Pony and I are going today.Please get out of our way,Don't ask us to stay;We'll both come backSome sunshiny day.
If you were a Russian child you would not watch to see Santa Klaus come down the chimney; but you would stand by the windows to catch a peep at poor Babouscka as she hurries by.
Who is Babouscka? Is she Santa Klaus' wife?
No, indeed. She is only a poor little crooked wrinkled old woman, who comes at Christmas time into everybody's house, who peeps into every cradle, turns back every coverlid, drops a tear on the baby's white pillow, and goes away very, very sorrowful.
And not only at Christmas time, but through all the cold winter, and especially in March, when the wind blows loud, and whistles and howls and dies away like a sigh, the Russian children hear the rustling step of the Babouscka. She is always in a hurry. One hears her running fast along the crowded streets and over the quiet country fields. She seems to be out of breath and tired, yet she hurries on.
Whom is she trying to overtake?
She scarcely looks at the little children as they press their rosy faces against the window pane and whisper to each other, "Is the Babouscka looking for us?"
No, she will not stop; only on Christmas eve will she come up-stairs into the nursery and give each little one a present. You must not think she leaves handsome gifts such as Santa Klaus brings for you. She does not bring bicycles to the boys or French dolls to the girls. She does not come in a gay little sleigh drawn by reindeer, but hobbling along on foot, and she leans on a crutch. She has her old apron filled with candy and cheap toys, and the children all love her dearly. They watch to see her come, and when one hears a rustling, he cries, "Lo! the Babouscka!" then all others look, but one must turn one's head very quickly or she vanishes. I never saw her myself.
Best of all, she loves little babies, and often, when the tired mothers sleep, she bends over their cradles, puts her brown, wrinkled face close down to the pillow and looks very sharply.
What is she looking for?
Ah, that you can't guess unless you know her sad story.
Long, long ago, a great many yesterdays ago, the Babouscka, who was even then an old woman, was busy sweeping her little hut. She lived in the coldest corner of cold Russia, and she lived alone in a lonely place where four wide roads met. These roads were at this time white with snow, for it was winter time. In the summer, when the fields were full of flowers and the air full of sunshine and singing birds, Babouscka's home did not seem so very quiet; but in the winter, with only the snowflakes and the shy snow-birds and the loud wind for company, the little old woman felt very cheerless. But she was a busy old woman, and as it was already twilight, and her home but half swept, she felt in a great hurry to finish her work before bedtime. You must know the Babouscka was poor and could not afford to do her work by candle-light.
Presently, down the widest and the lonesomest of the white roads, there appeared a long train of people coming. They were walking slowly, and seemed to be asking each other questions as to which way they should take. As the procession came nearer, and finally stopped outside the little hut, Babouscka was frightened at the splendor. There were Three Kings, with crowns on their heads, and the jewels on the Kings' breastplates sparkled like sunlight. Their heavy fur cloaks were white with the falling snow-flakes, and the queer humpy camels on which they rode looked white as milk in the snow-storm. The harness on the camels was decorated with gold, and plates of silver adorned the saddles. The saddle-cloths were of the richest Eastern stuffs, and all the servants had the dark eyes and hair of an Eastern people.
The slaves carried heavy loads on their backs, and each of the Three Kings carried a present. One carried a beautiful transparent jar, and in the fading light Babouscka could see in it a golden liquid which she knew from its color must be myrrh. Another had in his hand a richly woven bag, and it seemed to be heavy, as indeed it was, for it was full of gold. The third had a stone vase in his hand, and from the rich perfume which filled the snowy air, one could guess the vase to have been filled with incense.
Babouscka was terribly frightened, so she hid herself in her hut, and let the servants knock a long time at her door before she dared open it and answer their questions as to the road they should take to a far-away town. You know she had never studied a geography lesson in her life, was old and stupid and scared. She knew the way across the fields to the nearest village, but she know nothing else of all the wide world full of cities. The servants scolded, but the Three Kings spoke kindly to her, and asked her to accompany them on their journey that she might show them the way as far as she knew it. They told her, in words so simple that she could not fail to understand, that they had seen a Star in the sky and were following it to a little town where a young Child lay. The snow was in the sky now, and the Star was lost out of sight.
"Who is the Child?" asked the old woman.
"He is a King, and we go to worship him," they answered. "These presents of gold, frankincense and myrrh are for Him. When we find Him we will take the crowns off our heads and lay them at His feet. Come with us, Babouscka!"
What do you suppose? Shouldn't you have thought the poor little woman would have been glad to leave her desolate home on the plains to accompany these Kings on their journey?
But the foolish woman shook her head. No, the night was dark and cheerless, and her little home was warm and cosy. She looked up into the sky, and the Star was nowhere to be seen. Besides, she wanted to put her hut in order—perhaps she would be ready to go to-morrow. But the Three Kings could not wait; so when to-morrow's sun rose they were far ahead on their journey. It seemed like a dream to poor Babouscka, for even the tracks of the camels' feet were covered by the deep white snow. Everything was the same as usual; and to make sure that the night's visitors had not been a fancy, she found her old broom hanging on a peg behind the door, where she had put it when the servants knocked.
Now that the sun was shining, and she remembered the glitter of the gold and the smell of the sweet gums and myrrh, she wished she had gone with the travelers.
And she thought a great deal about the dear Baby the Three Kings had gone to worship. She had no children of her own—nobody loved her—ah, if she had only gone! The more she brooded on the thought, the more miserable she grew, till the very sight of her home became hateful to her.
It is a dreadful feeling to realize that one has lost a chance of happiness. There is a feeling called remorse that can gnaw like a sharp little tooth. Babouscka felt this little tooth cut into her heart every time she remembered the visit of the Three Kings.
After a while the thought of the Little Child became her first thought at waking and her last at night. One day she shut the door of her house forever, and set out on a long journey. She had no hope of overtaking the Three Kings, but she longed to find the Child, that she too might love and worship Him. She asked every one she met, and some people thought her crazy, but others gave her kind answers. Have you perhaps guessed that the young Child whom the Three Kings sought was our Lord himself?
People told Babouscka how He was born in a manger, and many other things which you children have learned long ago. These answers puzzled the old dame mightily. She had but one idea in her ignorant head. The Three Kings had gone to seek a Baby. She would, if not too late, seek Him too.
She forgot, I am sure, how many long years had gone by. She looked in vain for the Christ-child in His manger-cradle. She spent all her little savings in toys and candy so as to make friends with little children, that they might not run away when she came hobbling into their nurseries.
Now you know for whom she is sadly seeking when she pushes back the bed-curtains and bends down over each baby's pillow. Sometimes, when the old grandmother sits nodding by the fire, and the bigger children sleep in their beds, old Babouscka comes hobbling into the room, and whispers softly, "Is the young Child here?"
Ah, no; she has come too late, too late. But the little children know her and love her. Two thousand years ago she lost the chance of finding Him. Crooked, wrinkled, old, sick and sorry, she yet lives on, looking into each baby's face—always disappointed, always seeking. Will she find Him at last?