Sweep, sweep, sweep! Up all this dirt and dust,For Mamma is busy today and help her I surely must.Everything now is spick and span; away to my play I will run.It will be such a 'sprise to Mamma to find all this work is done.
There reigned a king in the land of Persia, mighty andgreat was he grown,On the necks of the kings of the conquered earth he builded uphis throne.There sate a king on the throne of Persia; and he was grown soproudThat all the life of the world was less to him than a passingcloud.He reigned in glory: joy and sorrow lying between his hands.If he sighed a nation shook, his smile ripened the harvest oflands.He was the saddest man beneath the everlasting sky,For all his glories had left him old, and the proudest king mustdie.He who was even as God to all the nations of men,Must die as the merest peasant dies, and turn into earth again.And his life with the fear of death was bitter and sick andaccursed,As brackish water to drink of which is to be forever athirst.The hateful years rolled on and on, but once it chanced at noonThe drowsy court was thrilled to gladness, it echoed so sweet atune.Low as the lapping of tile sea, as the song of the lark isclear, Wild as the moaning of pine branches; the king was fainto hear."What is the song, and who is the singer?" he said; "beforethe throneLet him come, for the songs of the world are mine, and all butthis are known."Seven mighty kings went out the minstrel man to find:And all they found was a dead cyprus soughing in the wind.And slower still, and sadder still the heavy winters rolled,And the burning summers waned away, and the king grew veryold;Dull, worn, feeble, bent; and once he thought, "to dieWere rest, at least." And as he thought the music wandered by.Into the presence of the king, singing, the singer came,And his face was like the spring in flower, his eyes were clearas flame."What is the song you play, and what the theme your praisessing?It is sweet; I knew not I owned a thing so sweet," said the wearyking."I sing my country," said the singer, "a land that is sweeterthan song.""Which of my kingdoms is your country? Thither would I along.""Great, O king, is thy power, and the earth a footstool for thyfeet;But my country is free, and my own country, and oh, my countryis sweet!"As he heard the eyes of the king grew young and alive with fire"Lo, is there left on the earth a thing to strive for, a thing todesire?"Where is thy country? tell me, O singer, speak thine innermostheart!Leave thy music! speak plainly! Speak-forget thine art!"The eyes of the singer shone as he sang, and his voice rang wildand freeAs the elemental wind or the uncontrollable sobs of the sea."O my distant home!" he sighed; "Oh, alas! away and afarI watch thee now as a lost sailor watches a shining star."Oh, that a wind would take me there! that a bird would set medownWhere the golden streets shine red at sunset in my father's town!"For only in dreams I see the faces of the women there,And fain would I hear them singing once, braiding their ropesof hair."Oh, I am thirsty, and long to drink of the river of Life, and IAm fain to find my own country, where no man shall die."Out of the light of the throne the king looked down: as in thespringThe green leaves burst from their dusky buds, so was hope in theeyes of the king."Lo," he said, "I will make thee great; I will make thee mightyin swayEven as I; but the name of thy country speak, and the place andthe way.""Oh, the way to my country is ever north till you pass the mouthof hell,Past the limbo of dreams and the desolate land where shadowsdwell."And when you have reached the fount of wonder, you ford thewaters wanTo the land of elves and the land of fairies, enchantedMasinderan."The singer ceased; and the lyre in his hand snapped, as a cord,in twain;And neither lyre nor singer was seen in the kingdom of Persiaagain.And all the nobles gazed astounded; no man spoke a wordTill the old king said: "Call out my armies; bring me hither asword!"As a little torrent swollen by snows is turned to a terriblestream,So the gathering voices of all his countries cried to the king inhis dream.Crying, "For thee, O our king, for thee we had freely andwillingly died,Warriors, martyrs, what thou wilt; not that our lives betide"The worth of a thought to the king, but rather because thy rodIs over our heads as over thine Is the changeless will of God."Rather for this we beseech thee, O master, for thine own sakerefrainFrom the blasphemous madness of pride, from the fever ofimpious gain.""You seek my death," the king thundered; "you cry, forbearto saveThe life of a king too old to frolic; let him sleep in the grave."But I will live for all your treason; and, by my own righthand!I will set out this day with you to conquer Fairyland."Then all the nations paled aghast, for the battle to beginWas a war with God, and a war with death, and they knewthe thing was sin.Sick at heart they gathered together, but none denounced thewrong,For the will of God was unseen, unsaid, and the will of the kingwas strong.So the air grew bright with spears, and the earth shook underthe treadOf the mighty horses harnessed for battle; the standards flauntedred.And the wind was loud with the blare of trumpets, and everyhouse was voidOf the strength and stay of the house, and the peace of the landdestroyed.And the growing corn was trodden under the weight of armedfeet,And every woman in Persia cursed the sound of a song too sweet,Cursed the insensate longing for life in the heart of a sick oldman;But the king of Persia with all his armies marched on Masinderan.Many a day they marched in the sun till their silver armour wasleadTo sink their bodies into the grave, and many a man fell dead.And they passed the mouth of hell, and the shadowy countrygray,Where the air is mist and the people mist and the rain morereal than they.And they came to the fount of wonder, and forded the waterswan,And the king of Persia and all his armies marched on Masinderan.And they turned the rivers to blood, and the fields to a ravagedcamp,And they neared the golden faery town, that burned in the duskas a lamp.And they stood and shouted for joy to see it stand so nigh,Given into their hands for spoil; and their hearts beat proudand high.And the armies longed for the morrow, to conquer the shiningtown,For there was no death in the land, neither any to strike themdown.The hosts were many in numbers, mighty, and skilled in thestrife,And they lusted for gold and conquest as the old king lusted forlife.And, gazing on the golden place, night took them unaware,And black and windy grew the skies, and black the eddying airSo long the night and black the night that fell upon their eyes,They quaked with fear, those mighty hosts; the sun would neverrise.Darkness and deafening sounds confused the black, tempestuousair,And no man saw his neighbor's face, nor heard his neighbor'sprayer.And wild with terror the raging armies fell on each other infight,The ground was strewn with wounded men, mad in the horrible nightMad with eternal pain, with darkness and stabbing blowsRained on all sides from invisible hands till the ground was redas a rose.And, though he was longing for rest, none ventured to pause fromthe strife,Lest haply another wound be his to poison his hateful lifeAnd the king entreated death; and for peace the armies prayed;But the gifts of God are everlasting, his word is not gainsaid;Gold and battle are given the hosts, their boon is turned to aban,And the curse of the king is to reign forever in conqueredMasinderan.A. MARY F. ROBINSON.
Handy Spandy, Jack-a-Dandy,Loved plum cake and sugar candy;He bought some at a grocer's shopAnd out he come with a hop.hop,hop.
Jocko is a monkey,Dressed just like a clown;With the grinding-organ manHe travels round the town.Jocko, Jocko, climb a pole,Jocko climb a tree,Jocko, Jocko, tip your cap,And make a bow to me.
Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away—Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay—We lived in the log-house yonder, poor as ever you've seen;Roschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle;How much we thought of Kentucky, I couldn't begin to tell—Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave her to meWhen I rode north with Conrad, away from Tennessee.Conrad lived in Ohio—a German he is, you know—The house stood in broad corn-fields, stretching on, row afterrow;The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could beBut I kept longing, longing, for the hills of Tennessee.O, for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill!Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that is never stillBut the level land went stretching away to meet the sky—Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye!From east to west, no river to shine out under the moon,Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon;Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn;Only the "rustle, rustle," as I walked among the corn.When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more,But moved away from the corn-lands out to this river shore—The Tuscarawas it's called, sir—off there's a hill, you see—And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee.I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like madOver the bridge and up the road—Farmer Rouf's little lad;Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say;"Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this way;"I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind;He sweeps up all the horses—every horse that he can find;Morgan, Morgan, the raider, and Morgan's terrible men,With bowie-knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen."The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door;The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor;Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone;Nearer, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on!Sudden I picked up the baby, and ran to the pasture-bar;"Kentuck!" I called; "Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far!I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right,And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.As I ran back to the log-house, at once there came a sound—The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground—Coming into the turnpike out from the White Woman Glen—Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men.As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm!But still I stood in the doorway, with baby on my arm.They came; they passed; with spur and whip in haste they spedalong—Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band six hundred strong.Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and throughday;Pushing on east to the river, many long miles away,To the border-strip where Virginia runs up into the West,To ford the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest.On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance;Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sidewaysglance;And I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain,When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein.Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face,As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place:I gave him a cup, and he smiled—'twas only a boy, you see;Faint and worn; with dim blue eyes, and he'd sailed on theTennessee.Only sixteen he was, sir—a fond mother's only son—Off and away with Morgan before his life had begun!The damp drops stood on his temples; drawn was the boyishmouth;And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South!O, pluck was he to the backbone; and clear grit through andthrough;Boasted and bragged like a trooper; but the big words wouldn'tdo;The boy was dying sir, dying, as plain as plain could be,Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee.But, when I told the laddie that I too was from the South,Water came into his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth;"Do you know the Blue-Grass country?" he wistfully began to say;Then swayed like a willow sapling, and fainted dead away.I had him into the log-house, and worked and brought him to;I fed him, and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do;And, when the lad got better, and the noise in his head was gone,Morgan's men were miles away, galloping, galloping on."O, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away!Morgan, Morgan is waiting for me! O, what will Morgan say?"But I heard the sound of tramping, and kept him back from thedoor—The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before.And on, on came the soldiers—the Michigan cavalry—And fast they rode, and back they looked, galloping rapidly;They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed dayand night;But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight.And rich Ohio sat startled through all these summer days;For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways;Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east,now west,Through river-valleys and corn-land farms, sweeping away herbest.A bold ride and a long ride! But they were taken at last;They had almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast;But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained theford,And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.Well, I kept the boy till evening—kept him against his will—But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still;When it was cool and dusky—you'll wonder to hear me tell—But I stole down to the gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle.I kissed the star on her forehead—my pretty, gentle lass—But I knew that she'd be happy, back in the old Blue-Grass:A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had,And Kentucky, pretty Kentucky, I gave to the worn-out lad.I guided him to the southward, as well as I knew how:The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow;And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell;And down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high,Baby and I were both crying—I couldn't tell him why—But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall,And a thin old horse with drooping head stood in Kentucky'sstall.Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me,He knew I couldn't help it—'twas all for the Tennessee;But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass—A letter, sir, and the two were safe back in the old Blue-Grass.The lad got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle;And Kentuck she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well;He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip orspur;Ah! we've had many horses, but never a horse like her!CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.
Moses was a camel that traveled o'er the sand.Of the desert, fiercely hot, way down in Egypt-land;But they brought him to the Fair,Now upon his hump,Every child can take a ride,Who can stand the bumpity-bump.
Little blue egg, in the nest snug and warm,Covered so close from the wind and the storm,Guarded so carefully day after day,What is your use in this world now, pray?"Bend your head closer; my secret I'll tell:There's a baby-bird hid in my tiny blue shell."Little green bud, all covered with dew,Answer my question and answer it true;What were you made for, and why do you stayClinging so close to the twig all the day?"Hid in my green sheath, some day to unclose,Nestles the warm, glowing heart of a rose."Dear, little baby-girl, dainty and fair,Sweetest of flowers, of jewels most rare,Surely there's no other use for you hereThan just to be petted and played with, you dear!"Oh, a wonderful secret I'm coming to know,Just a baby like me, to a woman shall grow."Ah, swiftly the bird from the nest flies away,And the bud to a blossom unfolds day by day,While the woman looks forth in my baby-girl's eyes,Through her joys and her sorrows, her tears and surprise—Too soon shall the years bring this gift to her cup,God keep her, my woman who's now growing up!BY KATHRINE LENTE STEVENSON.
Who said that I was a naughty dog,And could not behave if I tried?I only chewed up Katrina's French doll,And shook her rag one until it cried.
He was seven years old, lived in Cheyenne, and his name was Tommy. Moreover he was going to school for the first time in his life. Out here little people are not allowed to attend school when they are five or six, for the Law says: "Children under seven must not go to school."
But now Tommy was seven and had been to school two weeks, and such delightful weeks! Every day mamma listened to long accounts of how "me and Dick Ray played marbles," and "us fellers cracked the whip." There was another thing that he used to tell mamma about, something that in those first days he always spoke of in the most subdued tones, and that—I am sorry to record it of any school, much more a Cheyenne school—was the numerous whippings that were administered to various little boys and girls. There was something painfully fascinating about those whippings to restless, mischievous little Tommy who had never learned the art of sitting still. He knew his turn might come at any moment and one night he cried out in his sleep: "Oh, dear, what will become of me if I get whipped!" But as the days passed on and this possible retribution overtook him not, his fears gradually forsook him, and instead of speaking pitifully of "those poor little children who were whipped," he mentioned them in a causal off-hand manner as, "those cry-babies, you know?" One afternoon mamma saw him sitting on the porch, slapping his little fat hand with a strap. "Tommy, child, what in the world are you doing?" she asked.
Into his pocket he thrust the strap, and the pink cheeks grew pinker still as their owner answered:
"I—I—was just seeing—how hard I could hit my hand—without crying;" and he disappeared around the side of the house before mamma could ask any more questions.
The next day Tommy's seatmate, Dicky Ray, was naughty in school, and Miss Linnet called him up, opened her desk, took out a little riding whip—it was a bright blue one—and then and there administered punishment. And because he cried, when recess came, Tommy said: "Isn't Dick Ray just a reg'lar girl cry-baby?" (He had learned that word from some of the big boys, but, mind you! he never dared to say it before his mother.)
Dick's face flushed with anger. "Never you mind, Tommy Brown," said he, "Just wait till you get whipped and we'll see a truly girl-cry-baby then, won't we, Daisy?"
And blue-eyed Daisy, who was the idol of their hearts, nodded her curly little head in the most emphatic manner, and said she "wouldn't be one bit s'prised if he'd holler so loud that hey would hear him way down in Colorado."
Tommy stood aghast! for, really and truly, he wasn't quite so stony-hearted a little mortal as he appeared to be; he had been secretly rather sorry for Dick, but—he wanted Daisy to think that he himself was big and manly, and he had the opinion that this was just the way to win her admiration. But all this time HE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT DAISY DID—that Dick's pockets were full of sugar-plums; tiptop ones too, for Daisy had tasted them, and knew that little packets of them would from time to time find their way into her chubby hand.
All the rest of the morning Tommy kept thinking, thinking, thinking. One thing was certain: the present situation was not to be endured one moment longer than was absolutely necessary. But what could he do? Should he fight Dicky? This plan was rejected at once, on high, moral grounds. Well, then, supposing some dark night he should see Daisy on the street, just grab her, hold on tight and say: "Now, Daisy Rivers, I won't let you go till you promise you'll like me a great deal betterer than you do Dick Ray." There seemed something nice about this plan, very nice; the more Tommy thought of it, the better he liked it; only there were two objections to it. Firstly: Daisy never by any chance ventured out doors after dark. Secondly: Neither did Tom.
Both objections being insurmountable, this delightful scheme was reluctantly abandoned, and the thinking process went on harder than ever, till at last—oh, oh! if he only dared! What a triumph it would be! But then he couldn't—yes, he could too. Didn't she say that she "wouldn't be one bit s'prised if he hollered so loud that they would hear him way down in Colorado?" Colorado, indeed! He'd show her there was one boy in the school who wasn't a girl-cry-baby!
Yes, actually, foolish Tommy had decided to prove his manhood by being whipped, and that that interesting little event should take place that very afternoon!
What did he do? He whispered six times!
Had it been any other child, he would surely have been punished; but Miss Linnet knew both Tommy and his mamma quite well, and therefore she knew also, quite well, that only a few days ago the one horror of Tommy's life had been the thought that he might possibly be whipped. Then too, it was his first term at school, and hitherto he had been very good. So she decided to keep him after school and talk to him of the sinfulness of bad conduct in general, and of whispering in particular. This plan she faithfully carried out, and the little culprit's heart so melted within him that he climbed up on his teacher's lap, put his arms around her neck and kissed her, crying he would never be so naughty again. He was just going to tell her all about Daisy, when in walked a friend of Miss Linnet's, so he went home instead. The next morning he started for school with the firm determination to be a good child, and I really believe he would have been had not that provoking little witch of a Daisy marched past him in a very independent manner, her saucy nose away up in the air, and a scornful look in the pretty blue eyes. It was more than flesh and blood could stand. All Tom's good resolutions flew sky-high.
When twelve o'clock came Miss Linnet's list of delinquents begun in this wise:
WHISPER MARKS. Thomas Brown.....  15Melinda Jones..... 11
There was great excitement among the little people. How dared any one be so dreadfully bad! Tommy's heart sank, sank, sank, when Miss Linnet said: "When school begins this afternoon I shall punish Tommy and Melinda."
And she did! She called them both up on the platform, made them clasp hands and stand with their backs against the blackboard, then wrote just above their heads:
Thomas Brown and             Partners in disgrace.Melinda Jones                15 plus 11 = 26.
Oh, how mortified and ashamed Tommy was! If only she had whipped him, or if it had been some other girl. But MELINDA JONES!!! At the end of ten minutes Miss Linnet let them take their seats; but Tommy's heart burned within him. DAISY HAD LAUGHED WHEN HE STOOD THERE HOLDING MELINDA'S HAND! There were deep crimson spots on Tommy's cheeks all that afternoon and a resolute, determined look in his bright brown eyes, but he was very still and quiet.
Later in the day the children were startled by a sudden commotion on the other side of the room. Daisy was writing on her slate and Melinda Jones, in passing to her seat, accidentally knocked it out of her hands; without a moment's hesitation, Daisy, by way of expressing her feelings, snatched her slate and promptly administered such a sounding "whack!" on Melinda's back and shoulders as brought a shriek of anguish from that poor, little unfortunate who began to think that if all the days of her life were to be like unto this day, existence would certainly prove a burden.
Just about two minutes later Miss Linnet was standing by her desk, a ruler in one hand and Daisy's open palm in the other, while Daisy herself, miserable little culprit, stood white and trembling before her. As she raised the ruler to give the first blow, Tommy sprang forward, placing himself at Daisy's side, put his open palm over hers, and with tears in his eyes, pleaded in this wise:
"Please, Miss Linnet, whip me instead! She is only just a little girl and I KNOW she'll cry, it will hurt her so! I'd rather it would be me every time than Daisy—truly I won't cry. Oh, please whip me!"
And Miss Linnet did whip him, while Daisy, filled with remorse, clung to him sobbing as if her heart would break. To be sure, somebody who ought to know, told me it was the lightest "feruling" ever child received; but Daisy and Tommy both assured their mothers that it was the "dreadfulest, cruelest, hardest whipping ever was."
"And did my little man cry?" asked mamma.
"No, indeed! I stood up big as I could, looked at Daisy and smiled, 'cause I was so glad it wasn't her."
Then that proud and happy mamma took him in her arms and kissed him; and right in the midst of the kissing in walked Daisy.
"Would Tommy please come and take supper with her?"
Of course he would, and they walked off hand in hand. When they passed Dicky's house Tommy suggested. "S'posing they forgive Dick and let him go 'long too." And Daisy agreeing, they called that young gentleman out and magnanimously informed him that he was forgiven and might come and have supper with them.
What in the world they had to forgive, nobody knows; but then, so long as forgiveness proved such an eminently satisfactory arrangement, all round—why, nobody need care.
The children waited outside the gate while Dick coaxed his mother to let him go, and standing there, hand in hand, Daisy plucked up heart of grace and with very rosy cheeks and an air about her of general penitence, said something very sweet in a very small voice:
"I'm sorry you were whipped, and oh, Tommy, I wish I hadn't said you'd holler!"
Mrs. AMY TERESE POWELSON.
Baby thinks it fine,In the summer-time,To wade in the brook clear and bright.But a big green frogJumped off of a log,And gaveBaby Charlottequite a fright.
THE THREE FISHERS.
Three fishers went sailing away to the West—Away to the West as the sun went down;Each thought on the woman who loved him best,And the children stood watching them out of the town;For men must work, and women must weep,And there's little to earn and many to keep,Though the harbor-bar be moaning.Three wives sat up in the light-house towerAnd trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,And the night-wrack came rolling up, ragged and brown.But men must work and women must weep,Though storms be sudden and waters deep,And the harbor-bar be moaning.Three corpses lay out on the shining sandsIn the morning gleam as the tide went down,And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,For those who will never come back to the town;For men must work, and women must weep—And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep—And good-by to the bar and its moaning.CHARLES KINGSLEY.
Lion with your shaggy mane,Tell me, are you wild or tame?On little boys do you like to sup,If I come near, will you eat me up?
"Apples Finkey!" Many a nameHas a grander sound in the roll of fame;Many a more resplendent deedHas burst to light in the hour of need;But never a one from a truer heart,Striving to know and to do its part.Striving, under his skin of tan,With the years of a lad to act like a man.And who was "Apples?" I hear you ask.To trace his descent were indeed a task.Winding and vague was the family road—And, perhaps, like Topsy, "he only growed."But into the camp he lolled one noon,Barefoot, and whistling a darky tune,Into the camp of his dusky peers—The gallant negro cavaliers—The Tenth, preparing, at break o' day,To move to the transport down in the bay.Boom! roared the gun—the ship swung free,With her good prow turned to the Carib Sea."Pity it was, for the little cuss,We couldn't take 'Apples' along with us,"The trooper said, as he walked the deck,And Tampa became a vanishing speck.What's that?  A stir and a creak down thereIn the piled-up freight—then a tuft of hair,Crinkled and woolly and unshorn—And out popped "Apples" "ez shore's yer born!"Of course he wasn't provided forIn the colonel's roll or the rules of war;But somehow or other the troop was gladTo welcome the little darky lad.You know how our brave men, white and black,Landed and followed the Spaniard's track;And the Tenth was there in the very front,Seeking and finding the battle's brunt.Onward they moved through the living hellWhere the enemy's bullets like raindrops fell,Down through the brush, and onward stillTill they came to the foot of San Juan hill—Then up they went, with never a fear,And the heights were won with a mad, wild cheer!And where was "the mascot Finkey" then?In the surging ranks of the fighting men!Wherever a trooper was seen to fall,In the open field or the chaparral;Wherever was found a wounded man;"Apples" was there with his water and can.About him the shrapnel burst in vain—He was up and on with his work again.The sharpshooters rattled a sharp tattoo,The singing mausers around him flew.But "Apples" was busy—too busy to careFor the instant death and the danger there.Many a parched throat burning hot,Many a victim of Spanish shot,Was blessed that day; ere the fight was wonUnder the tropical, deadly sun,By the cool drops poured from the water-canOf the dusky lad who was all a man.In the forward trenches, at close of day,Burning with fever, "Finkey" lay.He seemed to think through the long, wet night,He still was out in the raging fight,For once he spoke in his troubled sleep;"I'se comin', Cap., ef my legs'll keep!"Next day—and the next—and the next—he stayedIn the trenches dug by the Spaniard's spade,For the sick and wounded could not get backOver the mountainous, muddy track.But the troopers gave what they had to giveThat the little mascot might stick and live.Over him many a dark face bent,And through it all he was well content—Well content as a soldier shouldWho had fought his fight and the foe withstood.Slowly these stern beleaguered menNursed him back to his strength again,Till one fair day his glad eyes sawA sight that filled him with pride and awe,For there, as he looked on the stronghold down,The flag was hoisted over the town,And none in that host felt a sweeter joyThan "Apples Finkey," the water-boy.—JOHN JEROME ROONEY, in New York Sun.Down at the pond in zero weather,To have a fine skatethe girls and boys gather.Even the Baby thinks it a treat,But somehow cannot stay upon his feet.
Tom, Tom, the piper's son,Stole a pig and away he run!The pig was eat,And Tom was beat,And Tom went roaring down the street.
"I thought, Mr. Allen, when I gave my Bennie to his country, that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift—no, not one. The dear boy only slept a minute, just one little minute at his post; I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt and reliable he was! I know he only fell asleep one little second—he was so young and not strong, that boy of mine. Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen! And now they shoot him because he was found asleep when doing sentinel duty. "Twenty-four hours," the telegram said, only twenty-fours hours. Where is Bennie now?"
"We will hope with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allen soothingly.
"Yes, yes; let us hope; God is very merciful! 'I should be ashamed, father,' Bennie said, 'when I am a man to think I never used this great right arm'—and he held it out proudly before me—'for my country when it needed it. Palsy it, rather than keep it at the plow.' 'Go, then, my boy, and God keep you!' I said. God has kept him, I think, Mr. Allen!" And the farmer repeated these last words slowly, as if in spite of his reason his heart doubted them.
"Like the apple of the eye, Mr. Owen; doubt it not."
Blossom sat near them listening with blanched cheek. She had not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one had noticed it. She had occupied herself mechanically in the household cares. Now, she answered a gentle tap at the door, opening it to receive from a neighbor's hand a letter. "It is from him," was all she said.
It was like a message from the dead! Mr. Owen took the letter, but could not break the envelope on account of his trembling fingers, and held it toward Mr. Allen, with the helplessness of a child. The minister opened it and read as follows:
"Dear Father:—When this reaches you I shall be in eternity. At first it seemed awful to me, but I have thought so much about it that now it has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me, but that I may meet death like a man. I thought, father, that it might have been on the battle field, for my country, and that when I fell, it would be fighting gloriously; but to be shot down like a dog for nearly betraying it—to die for neglect of duty! O, father! I wonder the very thought does not kill me! But I shall not disgrace you; I am going to write you all about it, and when I am gone you may tell my comrades. I cannot, now.
"You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother I would look after her boy; and when he fell sick I did all I could for him. He was not strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that night, I carried all his luggage besides my own on our march. Towards night we went in on double quick, and though the luggage began to feel very heavy, everybody else was tired, too; and as for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and then he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to be sentry. I would take his place; but I was too tired, father. I could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head; but I did not know it until—well, until it was too late."
"God be thanked" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently, "I knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post."
"They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve, 'time to write to you,' the good Colonel says. Forgive him, Father, he only does his duty; he would gladly save me if he could; and do not lay my death against Jemmie. The poor boy is heart-broken, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die in my place.
"I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them, Father! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help me! It is very hard to bear! Good-bye, father, God seems near and dear to me; not at all as if he wished me to perish forever, but as if he felt sorry for his poor sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be with him and my Savior in a better life."
A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. "Amen," he said, solemnly, "amen."
"To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home from the pasture, and precious little Blossom standing on the back stoop, waiting for me! But I shall never, never come! God bless you all! Forgive your poor Bennie!"
Late that night the door of the "back stoop" opened softly and a little figure glided out and down the footpath that led to the road by the mill. She seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head neither to the right nor left, looking only now and then to heaven, and folding her hands is if in prayer. Two hours later the same young girl stood at the mill depot, watching the coming of the night train; and the conductor, as he reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the tear-stained face that was upturned toward the dim lantern he held in his hand. A few questions and ready answers told him all; and no father could have cared more tenderly for his only child than he for our little Blossom. She was on her way to Washington to ask President Lincoln for her brother's life. She had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell them where and why she had gone.
She had brought Bennie's letter with her; no good, kind heart like the President's could refuse to be melted by it. The next morning they reached New York, and the conductor hurried her on to Washington. Every minute, now, might be the means of saving her brother's life. And so, in an incredibly short time, Blossom reached the Capitol and hastened to the White House.
The president had just seated himself to his morning task of overlooking and signing important papers, when without one word of announcement the door softly opened, and Blossom, with down-cast eyes and folded hands, stood before him.
"Well, my child," he said in his pleasant, cheerful tones, "what do you want so bright and early this morning?"
"Bennie's life, sir," faltered Blossom.
"Who is Bennie?"
"My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at his post."
"O, yes," and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him. "I remember. It was a fatal sleep. You see, my child, it was a time of special danger. Thousands of lives might have been lost by his culpable negligence."
"So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely. "But poor Bennie was so tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it was Jemmie's night, not his; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never thought about himself that he was tired too."
"What is this you say, child? Come here, I do not understand," and the kind man caught eagerly as ever at what seemed to be a justification of the offense.
Blossom went to him; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder and turned up the pale face toward his. How tall he seemed! And he was the President of the United States, too! A dim thought of this kind passed for a minute through Blossom's mind, but she told her simple, straightforward story and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to read.
He read it carefully; then taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty lines, and rang his bell.
Blossom heard this order: "Send this dispatch at once!"
The President then turned to the girl and said: "Go home, my child, and tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's sentence even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln thinks the life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or—wait until tomorrow. Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely faced death; he shall go with you."
"God bless you, sir!" said Blossom; and who shall doubt that God heard and registered the request?
Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the White House with his little sister. He was called into the President's private room and a strap fastened upon his shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said: "The soldier that could carry a sick comrade's baggage and die for the act so uncomplainingly deserves well of his country." Then Bennie and Blossom took their way to their Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered at the mill depot to welcome them back; and as Farmer Owen's hand grasped that of the boy, tears flowed down his cheeks, and he was heard to say fervently:
"The Lord be praised!"
—From the New York Observer