biCE Selections 3 00 GEMS Class -JtlLkiUL- Copyiight^N? COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. CHOICE SELECTIONS OF POETRY FOR CHILDREN AND YOUTH EDUCATIONAL IN MORALS AND MANNERS INSTRUCTIVE AND ENTERTAINING Collected and Collated by JOHN W. BAIRD INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA. 1903. JMiuo ■ ftLASB clXX*. No. 11 7 1 Copyright, 1903, By John W. Baird. Preface J J jHILE engaged in collating a general book of poetry from a large AW* collection of selected gems, gathered by me during a period of nearly half a century, I found so much that I thought would be beneficial to children and youth, I concluded to make a smaller book especially for them, and here it is. In this I indulge the hope that it may aid in fixing in the minds of all readers, those right thoughts lessons and principles, that make children happier, and more surely tend to the formation of that character and purpose in life that leads up to good citizenship ; so that when they are grown up to manhood and womanhood they will naturally take their places as good and useful men and women in all the better walks of life. "As the twig is bent, so is the tree inclined." This collection is made up almost entirely of gems culled from the better class of newspapers and periodicals, and therefore gleans a different field than other books of this kind heretofore published. I regret that I cannot give proper credit to all the writers. The fault has been on the part of the papers and periodicals from which gathered, in their failure to give the authors' names. As to many of the older poems, the authorship has never been known. I have given due credit to authors as far as it was possiple for me to do so. Than these, I believe no richer poems and verses can be found in the whole field of poetic literature. J. W. B. JgreBttttrii to fag Table of Contents Babyhood. Little Folk. The Home and Mother. Christmas-tide. Right Conduct and Kind Words. Good Advice. Effort and Perseverence. Learn to Be Useful. Make Good Use of Time. Greatness in Little Things. Cheerfulness. Lessons and Examples. The Good and The Beautiful. Miscellaneous. Old Sayings and Oddities. Sense and Nonsense. "Youth is the time each child should try, In life's bright sunny morn? To lay rich stores of knowledge by,' The whole life to adorn, Babyhood THE SWEETEST OF LULLABIES. Sleep, baby, sleep ! Thy father is tending his sheep ; Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree, And down falls a little dream on thee. Sleep, baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! The large stars are the sheep; The little stars are the lambs, I guess, And the bright moon is the shepherdess. Sleep, baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! Our Savior loves His sheep; He is the Lamb of God on high, "Who for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, baby, sleep! —Caroline Southey. LULLABY. Sleep, my little one, sleep! Blossoms are bending o'er thee, Whitest petals from every tree, Tenderly fluttering down to see My baby boy and me. Sleep, my little one, sleep! Sweetest perfume on every breeze, Singing of birds among the trees, And drowsy murmur of happy bees, For my baby boy and me. Sleep, my little one, sleep! Sweet dreams are waiting thee now In swaying the hammock and bough, Sunshine and blossoms are watching, I trow, My baby boy and me. A LULLABY. Bock-a-bye, hush-a-bye, baby, my sweet, Pink little fingers and pink little feet, Soft is your pillow, your cradle is white — Eock-a-bye, hush-a-bye, baby, good night! Bock-a-bye, hush-a-bye, sleep and grow strong; Life is a journey, the pathway is long; Soon must the baby feet up and away — Best, little pilgrim, oh, rest while you may. Drop the white curtains with fringes of brown, This is the way into dim Slumbertown. Six misty bridges that melt as we pass, And street after street that is waving with grass. Bock-a-bye, hush-a-bye, baby is gone, Wandering far till the peep of the dawn. Soft every footstep that passes the sill! Smile and be dumb when the cradle hangs still. —Boston Pilot. LULLABY. I've found my bonny babe a nest On Slumber Tree. I '11 rock you there to rosy rest, Astore Machree! Oh, lulla lo ! sing all the leaves On Slumber Tree, Till everything that hurts or grieves Afar must flee. I'd put my pretty child to float Away from me, Within the new moon's silver boat On Slumber Sea. BABYHOOD And when your starry sail is o 'er, From Slumber Sea, My precious one, you'll step to shore On mother's knee. —Alfred P. Graves. EOCK-A-BTE. "Eock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green," Over thy slumbers the cool branches lean; Bees in thy bower are crooning their song, Leaves whisper round thee all the day long; Eock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, blue are the skies, Eock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, shut little eyes. "Eock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green," Tiny brown mothers their soft feathers preen, While the dear birdlings are hushed in the nest, And the light breezes blow out of the west; Eock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, blue are the skies, Eock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, shut little eyes. ' ' Eock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green, ' ' Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen; Sweet as the dews in the cups of the flow- ers Love sheds its balm on thee through the bright hours; Eock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, blue are the skies, Eock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, shut little eyes. —James B. Kenyon, in the Independent. CEADLE SONG. In the garden of Dreamland a flower ever grows, In form like a lily, in hue like a rose, With odor like jesamine sprinkled with dew, And its bourgeons and blossoms, my dar- ling, for you. Then travel, my baby, to Dreamland. Slowly rock, cradle, to carry the baby; Steadily, readily rock, and it may be, Ere she shall know it, the baby will go, Happily smiling, to Dreamland. In the garden of Dreamland in summer i3 heard, Thrilling there in the moonlight, a beau- tiful bird; And its music, my darling, is only for you. Then travel, my baby, to Dreamland. Slowly rock, cradle, to carry the baby; Steadily, readily rock, and it may be, Ere she shall know it, the baby Will go, Happily smiling, to Dreamland. To-morrow my darling, refreshed by her rest, With the bird in her hand and the flower on her breast, Shall return to her mother, and frolic and crow, But to-night on her journey to Dream- land must go. Then travel, dear baby, to Dreamland. Slowly rock, cradle, to carry the baby; Steadily, readily rock, and it may be, Ere she shall know it, the baby will go, Happily smiling, to Dreamland. —Thomas Dunn English, in Youth's Companion. EOCK-A-BYE, BABY. Baby is sleeping so cozy and fair, While mother sits near in her old oaken chair, Her foot on the rocker, the cradle she swings, And though baby slumbers, he hears what she sings. Eock-a-bye, baby, on the tree top; When the wind blows the cradle will rock, When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, And down will come baby, cradle and all. Oh — rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, mother is near ; Then rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, nothing to fear ; BABYHOOD 9 For angels of slumber are hovering near, So rock-a-bye, baby, mother is here. Ain't dot any hair? 'Es I have, too; Grandma sits knitting by the old fire- S'pos'n' I hadn't, Dess it tood drow. place, With snowy white hair and a smile -on her Not any teeth? face. Wouldn't have one; The years have passed by, yet it does not seem long Don't dit my dinner Gnawin' a bone. Since she rocked baby's papa to sleep with that song. What am I here for? Dear little baby, "their joy and their 'At's petty mean; Who's dot a better right pride; Long may he be "with them whatever 'be- 'T ever you've seen? tide. What am I dood for, The kitchen, «the cradle, that tender re- Did you say? frain In mem'ry will linger that lullaby strain. — E-ffie Channing . Eber so many sings Ebery day. Tourse I squall at times, Sometimes I bawl; Dey dassn't spant me, ONLY A BABY. (To a Little One Just a Week Old.) Only a baby, 'Thout any hair, 'Taus' I'm so small. Only a baby; 'Cept just a little Fuzz here and there. 'Es, sir, 'at's so; 'N' if you only tood You'd be one, too. Only a baby; Name you have none, Barefooted and dimpled, Sweet little one. 'At's all I've to say, You're mos' too old; Dess I '11 det into bed- Toes dettin' cold. Only a baby; Teeth none at all. What are you good for, Only to squall? Only a baby, EOCK-A-BYE, BABY. Eock-a-bye, baby! On the tree top, When the wind blows the cradle will Just a week old; What are you here for, Wher rock; the bough bends the cradle will You little scold? fall- Down tumbles baby, cradle and all. Eock-a-bye, baby! The meadow' bloom, BABY'S EEPLY. 3 in Only a baby! What sood I be? Laugh at the sunbeams that dance in the room, Lots o' big folks Echo the birds with their own baby ;une, Been little like me. Coo in the sunshine and flowers of June. 10 BABYHOOD Boek-a-bye, baby ! As softly it swings Over the cradle the mother love sings ; Brooding of cooing at even or dawn, "What will it do when the mother is gone? Eock-a-bye, baby ! So cloudless the skies, Blue as the depths of your own laughing eyes; Sweet is the lullaby over your nest That tenderly sings little baby to rest. Bock-a-bye, baby! The blue eyes will dream Sweetest when mamma's eyes over them beam; Never again will the world seem so fair; Sleep, little baby! There's no cloud in the air. Bock-a-bye, baby! The blue eyes will burn And ache with what your manhood will learn; Swiftly the years come with sorrow and care, With burdens the wee dimpled shoulders must bear. Boek-a-bye, baby! There's coming a day Whose sorrows a mother's lips can't kiss away — Days when its song will be changed to a Crosses that baby must bear all alone. Bock-a-bye, baby! The meadow's in bloom; May never the frosts pall the beauty in gloom ; Be thy world ever bright as to-day it is seen. Bock-a-bye, baby! Thy cradle is green. A CANADIAN LULLABY. Sleep, my darling one, sleep, Wildly the winter wind blows ; Wake not, my darling, to weep, Coldly and fierce it snows; Child, be thy slumber deep — The deeper the better— God knows. Dried are the tears on thy cheek, Close shut are thy tiny hands; Thy white lips so wistfully meek Are mute to thy hunger's demands; Gently, my darling one, seek Thy comfort in slumber's dreamlands. Child, be thy slumbers deep! Wildly the winter wind blows; Wake not, my darling, to weep; Thy mother's heart breaks for thy woes- Death, and her half brother, Sleep! And which is the better, who knows? — Algernon De V. Tassin. A LULLABY. The stars are twinkling in the skies, The earth is lost in slumbers deep; So hush, my sweet, and close thine eyes,. And let me lull thy soul to sleep. Compose thy dimpled hands to rest, And like a little birdling lie Secure within thy cozy nest Upon my loving mother breast, And slumber to my lullaby, So hushaby— O hushaby. The moon is singing to a star The little song I sing to you; The father sun has strayed afar, As baby 's sire is straying, too. And so the loving mother moon Sings to the little star on high; And as she sings, her gentle tune Is borne to me, and thus I croon ■ Bor thee, my sweet, that lullaby Of hushaby— O hushaby. There is a little one asleep That does not hear his mother's song;: But angel watchers — as I weep — Surround his grave the night-tide long.. And as I sing, my sweet, to you, Oh, would the lullaby I sing— The same sweet lullaby he knew — While slumb'ring on this bosom, too — Were borne to him on angel's wing! So hushaby— O hushaby. —Eugene Field* BABYHOOD 11 LULLABY. Fair is the castle up on the hill— Hushaby, sweet my own! The night is fair and the waves are still, And the wind is singing to you and to me In this lowly home beside the YORDS 53 DO NOT FOEGET. Do not forget as you go on your way Through this busy world, with its toil and strife, Often a kindly word to say To those you meet in the paths of life. Do not forget that a smile of cheer May comfort a heart that is sad and drear, And brighten a day that is hard and long. The burning words that forever live It may not be yours to speak or give — But there's heart and hope in a bit of song. Do not forget that wherever you go Kindly deeds may be found to do, No one so poor but can bestow The help that will courage and faith renew ! No one so weak who can not give The hand that may help a soul to live And rise again from the trodden clay! Splendid achievements may never be yours, But the deed that for love 's sake is done endures, And will blossom forever from day to day. — S. J. Montgomery. WHAT IS GOOD. "What is the real good," I ask in musing mood. "Order," said the law court; "Knowledge,' said the school; "Truth said the wise man; "Pleasure,' said the fool; "Love," said the maiden; "Beauty," said the page; "Freedom," said the dreamer; "Home," said the sage; "Fame," said the soldier; "Equity," said the seer; Spake my heart full sadly; "The answer is not here." Then within my bosom Softly this I heard: "Each heart holds the secret; " 'Kindness' is the word." — Jolm Boyle 'Beilly. HERE AND THERE. There, little girl, don't cry; They've broken your doll, I know, And your tea set blue And your toy house, too, Are things of the long ago; But childish troubles will soon pass by; There, little girl, don't cry. There, little girl, don't cry; They've broken your slate, I know, And the glad, wild ways Of your schoolgirl days Are things of the long ago; But life and love will soon come by; There, little girl, don't cry. There' little girl, don't cry; They've broken your heart, I know, And the rainbow gleams Of your youthful dreams Are things of the long ago; But heaven holds all for which you sigh; There, little girl, don't cry. —James WMtcomb Biley, in Commercial Advertiser. THE RIGHT WILL RIGHT ITSELF. When overcome with anxious fears, And moved with passion strong, Because the right seems losing ground And everything goes wrong, How oft does admonition say: "Put trouble on the shelf; Truth will outlive the bars' day. And Right will right itself ! ' ' By all the triumphs of the past, By all the victories won, The good achieved, the progress made Each day, from sun to sun; In spite of artful ways employed By perfidy or pelf, Of one thing we can rest assured, That Right will right itself! Unshaken in our faith and zeal, 'Tis ours to do and dare, To find the place we best can fill, And serve our Maker there; For he is only brave who thus Puts trouble on the shelf, And trusts in God, for by His aid The Right will right itself. —Josephine Pollard, in New YorTc Ledegr. 54 RIGHT CONDUCT AND KIND WORDS SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. The woman was old and ragged and gray, And bent with the chill of the winter's day, The street was wet with a recent snow, And the woman's feet were aged and slow. She stood at the crossing and waited long, Alone, uncared for, amid the throng Of human beings who passed her by, Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. Down the street with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of ' ' school let out, ' ' Came the boys, like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep. Past the woman so old and gray Hastened the children on their way, Nor offered a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stir Lest the carriage wheels or horses ' feet Should crowd her down in the slippery street. At last came one of the merry troop— The gayest laddie of all the group: He paused beside her, and whispered low, ' ' I '11 help you across, if you wish to go. ' ' Her aged hand on his strong arm She placed, and so, without hurt or harm, He guided the trembling feet along, Proud that his own were firm and strong. Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well content. "She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, For all she's aged and poor and slow, And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help my mother, you understand, If she 's poor and old and gray, When her own dear boy is far away." And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head In her home that night, nad the prayer she said Was, ' ' God, be kind to the noble boy, Who is somebody's son and pride and joy!" —Harper's Weekly. HAPPINESS. Not reverie for that we can not gain Nor wish for that we know we can not reach, But just to strive by tenderness of speech, And gift of gentleness to soften pain; To lift the fallen that they may regain Another opportunity. To teach The music of sweet sympathy to each — And happiness will not be sought in vain. To lend a hand of help, with pleasant smile Of hopefulness to meet the coming days — Will, like the sun dispelling gloomy haze, Transfigure sorrow, and the mind be- guile; For after all is said, if understood, True happiness is found in doing good. MY NEIGHBOE'S BOY. He seems to be several boys in one, So much is he constantly everywhere! And the mischevious things that boy has done No mind can remember nor mouth de- clare. He fills the whole of his share of space With his strong straight form and his merry face. He is very cowardly, very brave, He is kind and cruel, good and bad, A brute and a hero! Who will save The best from the worst of my neigh- bor's lad? The mean and the noble strive to-day— Which of the powers will have its way? BIGHT CONDUCT AND KIND WORDS 55 The world is needing his strength and skill. He will make hearts happy or make them ache. What power in him for good or ill? Which of life's paths will his swift feet take? Will he rise and draw others up with him, Or the light that is in him burn low and dim? But what is my neighbor's boy to me More than a nuisance? My neighbor's boy Though I have some fear for what he may be, Is a source of solicitude, hope and joy, And a constant pleasure. Because I pray That the best that is in him will rule some day. He passes me by with a smile and a nod, He knows I have hope of him — guesses, too, That I whisper his name when I ask of God That men may be righteous, His will to do. And I think that many would have more joy If they loved and prayed for a neighbor 's boy. — London Christain World. CHEEEING WOEDS. If any little word of mine Can make some life the brighter, If any little song of mine May make some heart the lighter, God help me speak that little word, And take the song I'm singing And bear it to some lonely dale To set the echoes ringing: Echoes that thrill in joyous tone, To some one comfort bringing. —New YorTc Press. Good Advice WATCH YOUR WOEDS. Keep watch on your words, my darling, For words are wonderful things: They are sweet, like the bee's sweet honey — Like the bees they have terrible stings ; They can bless like the warm, glad sun- shine, And brighten the lonely life; They can cut, in the strife of anger, Like an open, two-edged knife. Let them pass through your lips unchal- lenged, If their errand is true and kind, If they come to support the weary, To comfort and help the blind; If a bitter, revengeful spirit Prompt the words, let them be unsaid; They may flash through the brain like lightning, Or fall on the heart like lead. Keep them back, if they're cold and cruel, Under bar and lock and seal; The wounds they make my darling, Are always slow to heal. May peace guard your lips, and ever, From the time of your early youth; May the words you daily utter Be the words of beautiful truth. ADVICE TO A BOY. My boy, you're soon to be a man, Get ready for a man's work now, And learn to do the best you can When sweat is brought to arm and brow; Don't be afraid, my boy, to work, You 've got to, if you mean to win ! He is a coward who will shirk: Koll up your sleeves and then "go in. ' ' Don't wait for chances; look about! There's always something you can do; He who will manfully strike out Finds labor— plenty of it, too. But he who folds his hands nad waits For "something to turn up" will find The toiler passes Fortune's gates, While he, alas, is left behind! Be honest, as the day is long; Don't grind the poor man for his cent, In helping otters you grow strong, And kind deeds done are only lent; And this remember, if you're wise, To your own business be eonfined, He is a fool, and fails, who tries, His fellow-men's affairs to mind. Don't be discouraged and get blue If things don 't go to suit you qnite ; Work on! Perhaps it rests with you To set the wrong that worries right. Don 't lean on others ! Be a man ! Stand on a footing of your own! Be independent, if you can, And cultivate a sound backbone! SEVEN POINTS FOR BOYS. Be honest, my boy, be honest, I say; Be honest at work, be honest at play; The same in the dark as when in the light, Your deeds need not then be kept out of sight. The next thing you need is knowledge, my boy; These virtues, indeed, your time should employ ; Let knowledge display integrity, too, And you'll seldom say, "I've nothing to do. ' ' But work calls for action, muscle and will; Boys must "get up and get," their sta- tion to fill; 58 GOOD ADVICE And. boys should be active as ever they can— A dull, stupid boy grows to a dull, stupid man. But simple activity will not suffice; Some shrewd, active boys are shirks in disguise; They mark all the moves the industrious do, But don't care a fig to push business through. The next thing in order— avoiding dis- play- Is boys should be careful to hear and obey. Never even presuming to make a reply, Nor, muttering, say: "I'll go by and by," But promptly obey with a hearty good will, Attempting, at least, the whole order to fill. Again: Be not fitful, but stick to your work; Never let it be said that you're a shirk; But when any task is fairly begun, Keep ' ' pegging away ' ' until it is done. Be honest, be wise and industrious too; Be active, obedient, obliging and true; Be faithful in all things, be elean as you can, Polite in your manners, and you'll be a man. PADDLE TOUR OWN CANOE. Voyager upon life's sea, To yourself be true; And where 'er your lot may be, Paddle your own canoe. Never, though the winds may rave, Falter nor look back, But upon the darkest wave Leave a shining track. Nobly dare the wildest storm, Stem the hardest gale, Brave of heart and strong of arm, You will never fail. When the world is cold and dark Keep an end in view, And toward the beacon mark Paddle your own canoe. Every wave that bears you on To the silent shore From its sunny source has gone To return no more. Then let not an hour's delay Cheat you of your due; But while it is called to-day Paddle your own canoe. If your birth denied you wealth, Lofty state and power, Honest fame and hardy health Are a better dower; But if these will not suffice, Golden gain pursue, And to win the glittering prize Paddle your own canoe. Would you wrest the wreath of fame; From the hand of Fate, Would you write a deathless name With the good and great, Would you bless your fellow-men? Heart and soul imbue With the holy task, and then Paddle your own canoe. Would you crush the tyrant Wrong,, In the world's fierce fight? With a spirit brave and strong Battle for the Eight; And to break the chains that bind The many to the few — To enfranchise slavish mind, Paddle your own canoe. Nothing great is lightly won, Nothing won is lost — Every good deed nobly done Will repay the cost; Leave to Heaven, in humble trust All that you will do; But if you succeed, you must Paddle your own canoe. —Mrs. Sarah T. Bolton.. IN THE BATTLE. If a trouble binds you, break it ; Life is often what we make it, Good or ill — and so we take it; Let not disappointment fret you, If a seeming ill beset you, Cast it off, and hopeful get you On your way — As you make it, so you take it, In the battle every day* GOOD ADVICE 59 If your genius slumber, wake it ; Don't let them feel that you've no more For our life is what we make it ; need As -we shape it, 'so we take it; Of their love and counsel wise, If we hunt for care or sorrow, For the heart grows strangely sensitive We shall only always borrow When age has dimmed the eyes. Trouble from a better morrow It might be well to let them believe Every day— You never forget them quite — As we make it, so we take it — That you deem it a pleasure when far So the lif e will run away. away Long letters home to write. If the heart is thirsty, slake it; If a blessing offers, take it; Don't think that the young and giddy For our life is what we make it; friends Joy abounds in happy faces; Who make your pastime gay Pleasure lives in rosy places; Have half the anxious thoughts for you Let us court the goodly graces That the old folks have to-day. By the way; The duty of writing do not put off, And we '11 take it as we make it Let sleep or pleasure wait, In the battle every day. Lest the letter for which they look and long Dig the garden, smooth it, rake it ; Be a day or an hour too late, For the math is what you make it; As you work it, so you take it ; For the sad old folks at home, Sit not idly hoping, dreaming — With locks fast turning white, Wrapt in fancy's futile teeming; Are longing to hear of the absent one — Victory does not come by scheming — Write them a letter to-night. Strike and stay! — Cincinnati Saturday Night. As you make it, so you take it, If you faint not by the way. — M. V. Moore, in Detroit Free Press. BE POLITE. Hearts, like doors, will ope with ease WRITE THEM A LETTER TO-NIGHT. To two very little keys; But don't forget the two are these: Don't go to the theater, lecture or ball, "I thank you, sir," and "If you But stay in your room to-night; please. ' ' Deny yourself to the friends that call, Be polite, boys; don't forget it And a good long letter write— In your wandering day by day, Write to the sad old folks at home, When you work and when you study, Who sit when the day is done In your home and at your play. With folded hands and downcast eyes And think of the absent one. Be polite, boys, to each other; Do not quickly take offense; Don't selfishly scribble: "Excuse my Curb your temper; you'll be thankful haste ; For this habit seasons hence. I've scarcely the time to write." Be respectful to the aged, Lest their brooding thoughts go wander- And this one thing bear in mind: ing back Never taunt the wretched outcast, To many a bygone night, Be he helpless, lame or blind. When they lost their needed sleep and rest, Be polite, boys, to your parents; And every breath was a prayer Never let them fail to hear That God would leave their delicate babe From their sons the best language To their tender love and care. In the home you should love dear. 60 GOOD ADVICE To your brothers and your sisters Speak in accents kind and true. Be polite ; 'twill serve you better Than a princely gift can do. — New York Ledger. EEMEMBEB, BOYS MAKE MEN. When you see a ragged urchin Standing wistful in the street, With torn hat and kneeless trousers, Dirty face and bare red feet, Pass not by the child unheeding; Smile upon him. Mark me, when He's grown he'll not forget it; For remember, boys make men. When the buoyant youthful spirits Overflow in boyish freak, Chide your child in gentle accents; Do not in your anger speak. You must sow in youthful bosoms Seeds of tender mercies; then Plants will grow and bear good fruitage, When the erring boys are men. Have you never seen a grandsire, With his eyes aglow with joy, Bring to mind some act of kindness — Something said to him a boy? Or relate some slight or coldness, With a brow all clouded, when He said they were too thoughtless To remember boys make men? Let us try to add some pleasures To the life of every boy ; For each child needs tender interest In its sorrows and its joy; Call your boys home by its brightness; They'll avoid a gloomy den, And seek for comfort elsewhere — And remember, boys make men. THE BOY WHO MINDS HIS MOTHEE Boys, just listen for a moment To a word I have to say : Manhood's gates are just before you, Drawing nearer every day; Bear in mind while you are passing O'er the intervening span That the boy who minds his mother Seldom makes a wicked man. There are many slips and failures In this world we're living in; Those who start with prospects fairest Oft are overcome by sin; But I'm certain that you'll notice, If the facts you'll closely scan, That the boy who minds his mother Seldom makes a wicked roan. Then be guided by her counsel; It will never lead astray. Best assured she has your welfare In her thoughts by night and day. Don't forget that she has loved you Since the day your life began. Ah, the boy who minds his mother Seldom makes a wicked man. —Yankee Blade. "IF I WEEE YOU." If I were you and had a friend Who called a pleasant hour to spend, I 'd be polite enough to say, ' ' Ned, you may choose what games we '11 play." That's what I'd do If I were you. If I were you and went to school, I'd never break the smallest rule, And it should be my teacher's joy To say she had no better boy, And 'twould be true If I were you. If I were you, I'd always tell The truth, no matter what befell, For two things only I despise— A coward heart and telling lies — And you would, too, If I were you. If I were you, I 'd try my best To do the things I here suggest, Though since I am no one but me, I cannot very well, you see, Know what I'd do If I were you. — New York Independent. WHATNOT TO LOSE. Don't lose courage; spirit brave Carry with you to the grave. GOOD ADVICE 61 Don't lose time in vain distress; Work, not worry, brings success. Don 't lose hope ; who lets her stray Goes forlornly all the way. Don't lose patience, come what will; Patience ofttimes outruns skill. Don't lose gladness; every hour Blooms for you some happy flower. Though be foiled your dearest plan, Don't lose faith in God and man. KEEP IN THE GOLDEN WAT. There are paths that lead to gladness, there are paths that lead to gloom, Keep in the golden way, And beautify the journey in the land be- yond' the tomb ; Keep in the golden way. A loving word upon the lip, a warmth within the eye, Can send a shaft of kindly light athwart the darkest sky; A smile may lift the heart that would be stifled with a sigh. Keep in the golden way. He serves life's purpose best who glads the souls of weary men; Keep in the golden way; Make bright the Now and leave with God the great eternal Then; Keep in the golden way. The world is full of sorrow; passion sows the seeds of pain, But love can rob a heart of sin and hide away the stain; Not ours to sift the worldly chaff from his immortal grain; Keep in the golden way. —Nixon Waterman. THY DUTY. Let all the good thou doest to man A gift be, not a debt; And he will more remember thee The more thou doest forget. Do it as one who knows it not, But rather like a vine That year by year brings forth its grapes And cares not for the wine. A horse when he has run his race, A dog when tracked the game, A bee when it has honey made — Do not their deeds proclaim. Be silent, then, and like the vine, Bring forth what is in thee; It is thy duty to be good, And man's to honor thee. —Morals of Marcus Aurelius, by B. E. Stoddard. THKEE LESSONS. There are three lessons I would write, Three words as with a golden pen, In tracings of eternal light Upon the hearts of men. Have hope ! Though clouds environ round And Gladness hides her face in scorn, Put thou the shadow from thy brow — No night but has its morn. Have faith! Where'er thy bark is driven — The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth- Know this: God rules the hosts of heaven, The inhabitants of earth. Have love I Not love alone for one, But man as man thy brother call, And scatter, like the circling sun, Thy charities on all. Thus grave these words upon thy soul — Hope, faith and love— and thou shalt find Strength when life 's surges maddest roll, Light when thou else wert blind. — Schiller. Effort and Perseverance OUR HEROES. Here 's to the boy who has courage To do what he knows to be right; When he falls in the way of temptation, He has a hard battle to fight. "Who strives against self and his com- rades "Will find a most powerful foe; All honor to him if he conquers — A cheer for the boy who says "No." There 's many a battle fought daily The world knows nothing about; There's many a brave little soldier Whose strength puts a legion to rout. And he who fights sin single-handed Is more of a hero, I say, Than he who leads soldiers to battle And conquers by arms in the fray. Be steadfast, my boy, when you're tempted To do what you know to be right; Stand firm by the colors of manhood And you will o'ercome in the fight. "The Eight" be your battle-cry ever In waging the warfare of life, And God, who knows who are the heroes, Will give you the strength for the strife. —Phoebe Cary. THE RUDDER. Of what are you thinking, my little lad, with the honest eyes of blue, As you watch the vessels that slowly glide o'er the level ocean floor? Beautiful, graceful, silent as dreams, they pass away from our view, And down the slope of the world they go, to seek some far-off shore. They seem to be scattered abroad by chance, to move at the breeze's will. Aimlessly wandering hither and yon, and melting in distance gray; But each one moves to a purpose firm, and the winds their sails that fill Like faithful servants speed them all on their appointed way. For each one has a rudder, my dear little lad, with a stanch man at the wheel, And the rudder is never left to itself, but the will of the man is there ; There is never a moment, day or night, that the vessel does not feel The force of the purpose that shapes her course and the helmman's watchful care. Some day you will launch your ship, my boy, on life's wide, treacherous seas— - Be sure your rudder is wrought of strength to stand the stress of the gale; And your hand on the wheel, don't let it flinch, whatever the tumult be, For the will of the man, with the help of God, shall conquer and prevail. —Celia Thaxter. ALWAYS A RIVER TO CROSS. There's always a river to cross, Always an effort to make, If there's anything good to win, Any rich prize to take. Yonder 's the fruit we crave, Yonder 's the charming scene; But deep and wide, with a troubled tide, Is the river that lies between. For the treasures of precious worth We must patiently dig and dive; For the places we long to fill We must push and struggle and strive. 64 EFFORT AND PERSEVERANCE And always and everywhere If your eyes you do not shut, We'll find in our outward course Just as surely Thorns for the feet and trials to meet, And securely And a difficult river to cross. As a kernel in a nut! The rougher the way we take, If you think a word will please, The stouter the heart and nerve, Say it if it is but true; The stones in our path we break, Words may give delight with ease Nor e'er from our impulse swerve, When no act is asked from you. For the glory we hope to win Words may often Our labors we count no loss ; Soothe and soften, 'Tis folly to pause and murmur because Gild a joy or heal a pain; Of the river we have to cross. They are treasures, Yielding pleasures So, ready to do and to dare, It is wicked to retain! Should we in our places stand, Fulfilling the Master's will, Whatsoe'er you find to do, Fulfilling the soul's demand; Do it, then, with all your might ; For though as the mountain high Let your prayers be strong and true. The billows may rear and toss, Prayer, my lads, will keep you right. They'll not overwhelm if the Lord's at Pray in all things, the helm Great and small things, When the difficult river we cross. Like a Christian gentleman; — Josephine Pollard, in Christian at And for ever, Work. Now or never, Be as thorough as you can. —Children's Museum. THE VICAE'S SERMON. Whatsoe'er you find to do, Do it, boys, with all your might; PATHS. Ever be a little true, Or a little in the right. The path that leads to a Loaf of Bread Trifles even Winds through the Swamps of Toil, Lead to heaven, And the path that leads to a Suit of" Trifles make the life of man; Clothes So in all things Goes through a flowerless soil, Great and small things, And the paths that lead to the Loaf of Be as thorough as you can. Bread And the Suit of Clothes are hard to tread. Let no speck their surface dim- And the path that leads to a House of' Your Own Spotless truth and honor bright! I'd not give a fig for him Climbs over the bowldered hills, Who says any lie is white! He who falters, And the path that leads to a Bank Ac- count Is swept by the blast that kills ; But the men who start, in the paths any- day In the Lazy Hills may go astray. Twists or alters Little atoms when we speak, May deceive me, But believe me To himself he is a sneak! In the Lazy Hills are trees of shade Help the weak if you are strong ; By the dreamy Brooks of Sleep, Love the old if you are young; And the rolicking Eiver of Pleasure- Own a fault if you are wrong ; laughs If you're angry hold your tongue. And gambols down the steep; In each duty But when the blasts of winter come, : Lies a beauty, The brooks and the river are frozen dumb.. EFFORT AND PERSEVERANCE 65 Then •woe to those in the Lazy Hills When the blasts of winter moan, Who strayed from the path to a Bank Account And the path to a House of Their Own ; These paths are hard in the summer heat, But in winter they lead to a snug retreat. — S. TV. Foss, in Yankee Blade. LIFE. Chisel in hand/ stood a sculptor-boy, With his marble block before him, And his face lit up with a smile of joy As an angel-dream passed o'er him; He carved the dream on that shapeless stone With many a sharp incision; With heaven's own light that sculpture shone; He had caught that angel vision. Sculptors of life are we, as we stand With our souls unearved before us, Waiting the hour when, at God's com- mand, Our life dream shall pass o'er us. If we carve it, then, on the yielding stone, With many a sharp incision, Its heavenly beauty shall be our own, Our lives that angel-vision. —Bishop Doane. YOUTH AND LIFE. What would the world be if by chance Youth held it futile to advance — Futile to dream of loftier days Than those it sees, of sweeter ways Beyond its common paths, of flights Beyond the measure of its nights? Ah, then the heart of youth would beat With little of its passionate heat, And hope would move in weary wise, With listless soul and unlit eyes. But youth is mighty with desire, Untiring in its faith and fire, And enters where the seasoned mind Falters and darkly looks behind; Where tottering age bends low and weeps, Finding no profit where it reaps. If youth were not as youth must be — Strong with the strength of earth and Strong with the glory of the stars, Defiant of any will that bars The long road winding to its goal- Then life would be a cruel whole. But look— there's promise in the bow That arches with prismatic glow The heaven of youth, that heaven which lies Wide as the world-begetting skies. There's promise in the spring-time flood Of youth's tumultuous, thrilling blood, And there is burning, brightening life Amid the clashing steel of strife. Ah, days of youth, they speed too fast- But they are matchless while they last. —George Edgar Montgomery, in Har- per's Weekly. WHEEE THERE 'S A WILL THEEE 'S A WAY. 1 * Aut viam inveniam, aut f aciam. ' ' It was a noble Boman, In Rome 's imperial day, Who heard a coward croaker, Before the castle, say: "They're safe in such a fortress; There is no way to shake it ! " "On — on!" exclaimed the hero; "I'll find a way, or make it ! " Is Fame your aspiration? Her path is steep and high; In vain he seeks her temple, Content to gaze and sigh. The shining throne is waiting, But he alone can take it Who says, with Roman firmness, " I '11 find a way, or make it ! ' ' Is Learning your ambition? There is no royal road; Alike the peer and peasant Must climb to her abode. Who feels the thirst of knowledge, In Helicon may slake it, If he has still the Roman will ' ' To find a way, or make it ! ' ' Are Riches worth the getting? They must be bravely sought; With wishing and with fretting The boon can not be bought. 66 EFFORT AND PERSEVERANCE To all the prize is open, But only he can take it Who says, with Eoman courage, "I'll find a way, or make it! " In Love 's impassioned warfare The tale has ever been That victory crowns the valiant— The brave are they who win. Though strong is Beauty's castle, A lover still may take it Who says with Eoman daring, " I '11 find a way, or make it ! " —John G. Saxe. BOYS WANTED. Boys of spirit, boys of will, Boys of muscle, brain and power. Fit to cope with anything— These are wanted every hour. Not the weak and whining drones, That all trouble magnify; Not the watchword of ' ' I can 't ! ' ' But the noble one, " I '11 try. ' ' Do whate'er you have to do With a true and earnest zeal; Bend your sinews to the task, Put your shoulder to the wheel. Though your duty may be hard, Look not on it as an ill; If it be an honest task, Do it with an honest will. At the anvil, on the farm, Wheresoever you may be, Prom your future efforts, boys, Come a Nation's destiny. —Sunday Young Folks. TO GET THE GOOD OF LIVING. To get the good of living You can't go mincing round Pirst at this and then at that, In nothing earnest found. Love well, hate well, when you've fixed your mind; Work well, play well, just as you're in- clined. But do a thing as if it was the only thing on earth, For a life that's worth the living should be lived for all it's worth! To get the good of living You've got to live outright; Half way this and half way that Make your life a blight. Stand well, fight well, for the creed you hold; Win well, lose well, as your fate is told, For this is manful doctrine, sound from creation's birth, That a life that's worth the living should be lived for all it 's worth ! —Ripley D. Saunders, in St. Louis Re- public. A QUEER BOY. He doesn't like study, "it weakens his eyes, ' ' But the ' ' right sort ' ' of book will insure a surprise. Let it be about Indians, pirates or bears, And he's lost for the day to all mundane affairs ; By sunlight or gaslight his vision is clear. Now, isn't that queer? At thought of an errand he 's " tired as a hound, ' ' Very weary of life, and of "tramping around. ' ' But if there 's a band or a circus in sight, He will follow it gladly from morning till night. The showman will capture him some day, I fear, For he is so queer. If there's work in the garden, his head "aches to split," And his back is so lame that he "can't dig a bit, ' ' But mention base ball and he's cured very soon, And he'll dig for a woodchuck the whole afternoon. Do you think he "plays possum?" He seems quite sincere; But — isn't he queer? — W. H. S., in St. Nicholas. EFFORT AND PERSEVERANCE 67 TO THE BOYS. You '11 never discover new lands, my boys, If you always follow the beaten track. You'll never stand firm on the mountain height If you're always halting and gazing back. Strike out for yourself, but be sure the path Is not girt with the noxious weeds of sin, That no sharp-edged rocks of some deadly vice Or pitfalls of folly be found therein. Choose the path of honor and virtue, boys, And let no one tempt you to swerve Its guide-boards — temperance, purity, truth — Who follows their guidance few dan- gers betide. There may not be wealth and fame at the end, But wealth and fame do not constitute bliss. A pure, perfect manhood and noble life— There's nothing worth striving for, boys, but this. ROOM AT THE TOP. Never you mind the crowd, lad, Or fancy your life won't tell; The work is the work for a' that To him that doeth it well. Fancy the world a hill, lad; Look where the millions stop; You'll find the crowd at the base, lad; There's always room at the top. Courage and faith and patience, There's space in the old world yet; The better the chance you stand, lad, The further along you get. Keep your eye on the goal, lad; Never despair or drop; Be sure that your path lies upward; There's always room at the top. THE FARMEE BOY. A welcome to the farmer boy, Whose heart is in his toil, Who wins his muscle and his pence From Nature's teeming soil, Whose heart goes out like happy birds In gladsome songs of joy; Of such our Nation's power and pride, The honest farmer boy. Hurrah! hurrah! for the farmer boy! Of motives pure and great; Hurrah for the stalwart arm, To guide the ship of state. The dappered youth who fears the frost That changes green to sere, Can never claim the mind or might Columbia's ship to steer. The gilded sins of camp and court Such hot-house plants destroy, But health, and truth, and industry Protect the farmer boy. —Western Sural. I WILL BE WORTHY OF IT. I may not reach the heights I seek; My untried strength may fail me ; Or, half way up the mountain peak, Fierce tempests may assail me. But though that place I never gain, Herein lies comfort for my pain — I will be worthy of it. I may not triumph in success, Despite my earnest labor; I may not grasp results that bless The efforts of my neighbor. But though my goal I never see, This thought shall always dwell with me — I will be worthy of it. The golden glory of love's light May never fall on my way; My path may always lead through night, Like some deserted by-way. But though life's dearest joy I miss, There lies a nameless joy in this — I will be worthy of it. —Ella Wheeler Wilcox. THE PLODDER'S PETITION. Lord, let me not be too content With life in trifling service spent- Make me aspire! When days with petty cares are filled, Let me with fleeting thoughts be thrilled Of something higher! 68 EFFORT AND PERSEVERANCE Help me to long for mental grace To struggle with the commonplace I daily find. May little deeds not bring to fruit A crop of little thoughts to suit A shriveled mind. I do not ask for place among Great thinkers who have taught and sung, And scorned to bend Under the trifles of the hour — I only would not lose the power To comprehend. —Helen Gilbert, in the Independent. AN AIM. Give me a man who says, "I will do something well, And make the fleeting days A story of labor tell." Though the aim he has be small, It is better than none at all; With something to do the whole year through, He will not stumble at all. Better to strive and climb And never reach the goal Than to glide along with time — An aimless, worthless soul. Aye, better to climb and fall, And sow, though the yield be small, Than to throw away, day after day, And never strive at all. DON'T TAKE IT TO HEART. There's many a trouble Would break like a bubble, And into the waters of Lethe depart, Did we not rehearse it, And tenderly nurse it, And give it permanent place in the heart. There's many a sorrow Would vanish tomorrow Were we but willing to furnish the wings; So sadly intruding, And quietly brooding, It hatches out all sorts of horrible things. How welcome the seeming Of looks that are beaming, Whether one's wealthy or whether one's poor; Eyes bright as a berry, Cheeks red as a cherry, The groan, the curse and the heartache can cure. Eesolved to be merry, All worry to ferry Across the famed waters that bid us for- get, And no longer fearful, But happy and cheerful, We feel life has much that's worth liv- ing for yet. —Tinsley's Magazine. PEESEVEEENCE. The zeal that springs up suddenly Soon runs its brief career, While patient labor brings reward If we but persevere. 'Twere vain to seek for precious ore By lightning's blinding glare, But miners using tiny lamps Find many treasures rare. WHO BIDES HIS TIME. Who bides his time and day by day Faces defeat full patiently, And lifts a mirthful roundelay, However poor his fortunes be — He will not fail in any qualm Of poverty. The paltry dime, It will grow golden in his palm Who bides his time. Who bides his time — he tastes the sweet Of honey in the saltest tear, And, though he fares with slowest feet, Joy runs to meet him drawing near. The birds are heralds of his cause, And, like a never-ending rhyme, The roadside blooms in his applause Who bides his time. Who bides his time, and fevers not In the hot race that none achieves, Shall wear cool wreathen laurel wrought With crimson berries in the leaves: EFFORT AND PERSEVERANCE 69 And he shall reign a goodly king, Do not sigh; And sway his hand on every clime, Do not cry; With peace writ on his signet ring, All will come right by and by. Who bides his time. I have seen the high brought low, Seen the seasons come and go; Fields of bloom and waste of snow, WHAT THE CLOCK SAYS. Sunny skies and winds that blow — Hold fast, dreamer, do not fret! And I mark out all the hours, Everything will come right yet. Whether there are frosts or flowers — Life holds nothing worth regret- Night and day, and day and night, Let the sun rise— let it set. Feeling sorrow nor delight. I have seen the young grow old; Do not cry; Seen the fond turn stern and cold; Do not sigh; Seen the selfish, vain and proud All will come right by and by. Feed the worm and crease the shroud. Do not cry; Nothing matters! Nothing can Do not sigh; In the destiny of man. All will come right by and by. Vain, alas! all tears and sighs; Vain reproaches — vain replies. Pearls, and gems, and jewels fine, Silence and decay must fall Fished from sea or dug from mine, Like a shadow on you all; Silken raiment, filmy lace, And He who made your life a span Vanish all and leave no trace. Will judge as never judges man. Those who walk and those who ride Do not sigh; Yet must lie down, side by side, Do not cry; When their cruel master, Death, All will come right by and by. Seals the eyes and takes the breath. —Nelly Marshall McAfee, in Century. Learn to be Useful WHICH LOVED BEST. ' ' I love you, mother, ' ' said little John, Then, forgetting his work, his cap went on, And he was off to the garden swing And left her wood and water to bring. "I love you, mother," said rosy Nell; ' ' I love you better than tongue can tell. ' ' Then she teased and pouted full half the day, Till her mother rejoiced when she went to play. 1 ' I love you, mother, ' ' said little Fan ; "To-day I'll help you all I can. How glad I am that school doesn't keep!" So she rocked the baby till it fell asleep. Then, stepping softly, she brought the broom And swept the floor and tidied the room; Busy and happy all day was she— Helpful and happy as child could be. "I love you, mother," again they said — Three little children going to bed. How do you think that mother guessed "Which of them really loved her best? A YOUNG LADY'S SOLILOQUY. [The following was published in Cham- bers' Journal more than twenty years ago, yet many are still hopelessly wait- ing an answer to the question without making an effort to solve it in a practical way:] Uselessly, aimlessly drifting through life. "What was I born for? For somebody's wife, I'm told by my mother. Well, that be- ing true, Somebody keeps himself strangely from view, And if naught but marriage will settle my fate, I believe I shall die in my unsettled state ; For though I'm not ugly — pray, what woman is? You might easily find a more beautiful phiz. And then, as for temper and manners, 'tis plain He who seeks for perfection will seek here in vain. Nay, in spite of these drawbacks, my head is perverse, And I should not feel grateful "for bet- ter or worse" To take the first booby who gracefully came And offered those treasures, his home and his name; I think, then, my chances of marriage are small. But why should I think of such chances at all? My brothers are all of them younger than I, Yet they thrive in the world, and why not let me try? I know that in business I 'm not an adept, Because from such matters most strictly I'm kept; But this is the question that troubles my mind: Why am I not trained up to work of some kind? Uselessly, aimlessly drifting through life. Why should I wait to be somebody's wife? GEOWN-UP LAND. Good morrow, fair maid, with lashes brown, Can you tell me the way to Womanhood Town? .-72 LEARN TO BE USEFUL Oh, this way and that way— never a stop ; 'Tis picking up stitches grandma will drop, 'Tis kissing the baby's troubles away, 'Tis learning that cross words never will pay, 'Tis helping mother, 'tis sewing up rents, 'Tis reading and playing, 'tis saving the cents, 'Tis loving and smiling, forgetting to frown, Oh, that is the way to Womanhood Town. Just wait, my brave lad— one moment, I pray; Manhood Town lies where — can you tell me the way? Oh, by toiling and trying we reach that land, A bit with the head, a bit with the hand— 'Tis by climbing up the steep hill Work, 'Tis by keeping out the wide street Shirk, 'Tis by always taking the weak ones' part, 'Tis by giving the mother a happy heart, 'Tis by keeping bad thoughts and actions down, Oh, that is the way to Manhood Town. And the lad and the maid ran hand in hand To their fair estates in the Grown-up Land. HELP ONE ANOTHER. ' ' Help one another, ' ' the snowflakes said, As they cuddled down in their fleecy bed; "One of us here would not be felt; One of us here would quickly melt; But I'll help you, and you help me, And then what a big white drift we'll see ! " "Help one another," the maple spray Said to its fellow-leaves one day; "The sun would wither here alone, Long enough ere the day is gone; But I'll help you, and you help me, And then what a splendid shade there'll be!" "Help one another," the dewdrop cried, Seeing another drop close to its side; "This warm south breeze would dry me away, And I should be gone ere noon to-day; But I'll help you, and you help me, And we'll make a brook and run to the "Help one another," a grain of sand Said to another grain just at hand; ' ' The wind may carry me over the sea, And then, O! what will become of me? But come, my brother, give me your hand; We'll build a mountain, and there we'll And so the snowflakes grew to drifts, The grains of sand to mountains, The leaves became a pleasant shade, And dewdrops fed the fountains. — Rev. George F. Hunting. SOWING AND REAPING. Surely, one man soweth While another reaps, And the mother waketh While the baby sleeps. Each one finds a harvest Which he never sowed; Each one bearing burdens Lifts another load. Every one is reaper From some distant seedj Every one is a sower For another's need. This is law and gospel. Sweet it is to find When the sowers perish, Reapers come behind. Praise the God of harvest, What is wrought in tears Bringeth some one blessings In the mystic years. Praise the God of harvest That another reaps, So the labor fails not When the sower sleeps. —Rev. B. R. Bulkeley. LEARN TO BE USEFUL 73 LITTLE BBOWN HANDS. They drive home the 'cows from the pas- ture Up through the long shady lane, Where the quail whistle loud in the wheat field, All yellow with ripening grain. They find in the thick, waving grasses, Where the scarlet dipped strawberry grows ; They gather the earliest snowdrops And the first crimson buds of the rose. They toss the hay in the meadow, They gather the alder blooms white. They find where the dusky grapes purple, In the soft tinted autumn light. They know where the apples hang ripest And are sweeter than Italy's wines; They know where the fruit is the thickest On the long, thorny blackberry vines. They gather the delicate seaweeds And build tiny castles of sand, They pick up the beautiful seashells— Fairy barks that have drifted to land. They wave from the tall rocky treetops, Where the oriole's hammock nest swings, And at night time are folded in slumber By a song that a fond mother sings. Those who toil bravely are strongest; The humble and poor become great; And from those brown-handed children Shall grow mighty rulers of state. The pen of the author and statesman, The noble and wise of our land; The sword and the chisel and palette Shall be held in the little brown hand. —Mary H. Erout (written at the age of fourteen.) WHAT CAN YOU DO? What can you do, what can you do? That 's what the world is asking you ; Not who you are, Not what you are, But this one thing the world demands, What can you do with your brains or hands? What can you do? That is the test The world requires; as for the rest, . It matters not; Or who or what You may have been, or high or low, The world cares not one whit to know. What can you do? What can you do? That's what the world keeps asking you With trumpet tone, And that alone! Ah, soul, if you would win, then you Must show the world what you can do! Once show the world what you can do, And it will quickly honor you And call you great; Or soon, or late, Before success can come to you, The world must know what you can do. Up, then, O soul, and do your best ! Meet like a man the world 's great test, What can you do? Gentile or Jew, No matter what you are, or who, Be brave and show what you can do! — Melville W. Miller. Make Good Use of Time SO MUCH TO LEAEN. So much to learn ! Old Nature 's ways Of glee and gloom with rapt amaze To study, probe, and plant, — brown earth, Salt sea, blue heavens, their tilth and dearth, Birds, grasses, trees — the natural things That throb or grope or poise on wings. So much to learn about the world Of men and women 1 We are hurled Through interstellar space a while Together, then the sob, the smile Is silenced, and the solemn spheres Whirl lonesomely along the years. So much to learn from wisdom's store Of early art and ancient lore. So many stories treasured long On temples, tombs and columns strong. The legend of old eld, so large And eloquent from marge to marge. So much to learn about one's self; The fickle soul, the nimble elf That masks as me; the shifty will, The sudden valor and the thrill; The shattered shaft, the broken force That seems supernal in its source. And yet the days are brief. The sky Shuts down before the waking eye Has bid good-morrow to the sun; The light drops low, and Life is done. Good-bye, good-night, the star-lamps burn; So brief the time, so much to learn! —Richard Burton. NEW EVEEY MOENING. Every day is a fresh beginning, Every morn is a world made new, You who are weary of sorrow and sin- ning, Here is a beautiful hope for you. A hope for me, and a hope for you. All the past things are past and over, The tasks are done and the tears are shed: Yesterday's errors let yesterday cover; Yesterday's wounds which smarted and bled, Are healed with the healing which night has shed. Yesterday now is a part of forever, Bound up in sheaf, which God holds tight, With glad days, and sad days, and bad days which never Shall visit us more with their bloom and their blight, Their fullness of sunshine or sorrowful night. Let them go, since we can not recall them, Can not undo and can not atone, God in His mercy, receive, forgive them! Only the new days are our own. To-day is ours, and to-day alone. Here are the skies all burnished brightly ; Here is the spent earth all reborn; Here are the tired limbs springing lightly To face the sun and to share with the morn In the chrisni of dew and the cool of dawn. Every day is a fresh beginning, Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain, And, spite of old sorrow, and older sin- ning, And puzzles forecasted and possible pain, Take heart with the day and begin again ! ■Susan Coolidge. OPPOETUNITY. In harvest time when fields and woods Outdazzle sunset's glow, And scythes clang music through the land, 76 MAKE GOOD USE OF TIME It is too late to sow, Too late; too. late! It is too late to sow. In wintry days, when weary earth Lies cold in pulseless sleep, With not a blossom on her shrowd, It is too late to reap, Too late! too late! It is too late to reap! When blue-eyed violets are astir, And new-born grasses creep, • And young birds chirp, then sow betimes, And thou betimes shall reap, Then sow! then sow! And thou betimes shall reap. —Baldwin's Monthly. IF WE COULD KNOW. Whither do our footsteps tend? More and more we yearn to know, As life's shadows longer grow, And the evening hours descend And before us lies the end. When the door shall open wide, And behind us softly close, What to our expectant eyes Will the future life disclose? Shall we see a morning break, Fair and fragrant and serene, Seeming like the blessed dream Of some unforgotten eve? Shall we walk in gladness on, Under smiling skies of blue, Through an ever deepening dawn, Into wide fields, fresh and new, Meeting those who came before, Knowing each familiar look, And each well remembered tone, Though so many years had flown Since each other's hands we took, Saying farewells o'er and o'er? Shall we talk of earthly days, Speaking low, with bated breath, Of the awful mystery Of our human life, and death? Shall we wonder to recall How our hearts were prone to fear, How we scarcely dared to hope, In any heaven, so fair, so near? Ah! if we could only know, As the shadoys deeper grow, Whither our swift footsteps tend, As they surely near the end! — Katherine S. Mason, in Boston Courier. STEENGTH FOE TO-DAY. Strength for to-day is all that we need, As there never will be a to-morrow ; For to-morrow will prove but another to-day With its measures of joy and sorrow. Then why forecast the trials of life With such sad and grave persistence, And wait and watch for a crowd of ills That as yet have no existence? Strength for to-day; what a precious boon For earnest souls who labor, For the willing hands that minister To the needy friend or neighbor. Strength for to-day, that the weary hearts In the battle for right may quail not, And the eyes bedimmed by bitter tears In their search for light may fail not. Strength for to-day on the down-hill track For the travelers near the valley, That up, far up on the other side, Ere long they may safely rally. Strength for to-day, that our precious youth May happily shun temptation, And build from the rise to the set of the sun On a strong and sure foundation. Strength for to-day in house and home, To practice forbearance sweetly; To scatter kind words and loving deeds, Still trusting in God completely. THE AIM OF LIFE. We live in deeds, not years, in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best. MAKE GOOD USE OF TIME 77 And he whose heart beats quickest, lives Come words of comfort, words of cheer, the longest; , Sweet messages from those most dear, Lives in one hour more than in years do Still, Nature's vesper chimes are rung, some And songs by unseen spirits sung, Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along Float round my head, that on a stone their veins. Finds rest, I sleep, yet not alone. Life is but a means unto an end, that end, Beginning, mean, and end to all things — God, The dead have all the glory of the world. —Forest and Stream. DAY BY DAY. —Philip James Bailey. Day by day, Time flies away! Time with his shining minutes melting into hours, ALONE. Measuring your deeds and mine from Alone. How can I be alone, morn till eve; When earth and air and babbling brook Cutting, with cruel scythe, both weeds and Are pages in that wondrous book flowers ; Dear mother Nature wrote for me? Hastening on the day when each his Each bird and bud lifts up its voice, work must leave. And bids my heart awake, rejoice. Time does not stay! Even the winds, that gay and free, If you, my friend, would joy in deeds, Go tripping over hill and lea, nor grieve, Give greeting with a gladsome tone, Do while you may, And all I see I call my own. Day by day; Alone. How can I be alone? Day by day, Each morn Aurora's ruddy fire Years glide away! Calls forth a sweet celestial choir, Long years, which to the happy child, un- That wooed me from refreshing sleep. grown, The roses lift their heads and say : Stretch seemingly forever for the use "All hail, kind mate, to thee good of man; day!" How quickly, ere a few decades have And from the grassy, fern-clad heap, flown, Where smilax and clematis creep; Their far prospective shortens to a From blackened pine, by moss o'er- span! grown, Years do not stay ! Cries welcome, as from friends well- Would you an honor be to God's great known. plan? Be while you may, Alone. How can I be alone? Day by day ! High in mid-heaven an orb of gold Pillars of amethyst uphold. Day by day, It gleams with love, what 'er betide. Life slips away! The roe with opal-onyx eye life! thou vital fact and mystery, Pears from the copse as I pass by. Thou only hope and cheer, thou all iD The rubies in the shy trout's side aU! Their silver setting almost hide. How dear thou art! And wilt thou from Sure, fairer jewels never shone, us flee? And every radiant gem my own. Ah, well! To mortals on this earthly ball Life does not stay! Alone. How can I be alone? Though fellow-man doth seem more So, fill the chalice ere the final call; far Live while you may, Eemoved than yonder twinkling star, Day by day! Though not in our familiar tongue —F. Clifton Hayes, in Boston Transcript. 78 MAKE GOOD USE OF TIME LIFE IS TOO SHOET. Life is too short for any vain endeavor, For useless sighing over vanished days; No time for scorn, no time for needless praise — Life is too short. Life is too short for envy to be nourished, For sin to cumber up the path we tread- Think of the suffering! hear the cry for bread ! — Life is too short. Life is too short for avarice to devour And rob men's souls to seek its evil end. No time for bitter thought, you know, my friends — Life is too short. Life is too short to waste in tears and grieving Over the love that came but did not stay. 'Tis sweet to dream, but dreams, too, pass away — Life is too short. Life is too short— forgive and be for- given, "While yet we linger; everything is brief, There is no time for idleness or grief— Life is too short. — M. G. Shirley, in Yankee Blade. NEVER AGAIN. Listen to the water-mill, All the livelong day— How the creaking of the wheels Wears the hours away! Languidly the water glides, Useless on, and still, Never coming back again To that water-mill; And a proverb haunts my mind, As the spell is cast— The mill will never grind again With the water that has passed. Take the lesson to yourself, Loving heart and true; Golden years are passing by Youth is passing, too; Try to make the best of life, Lose no honest way: All that you can call your own Lies in this To-day. Power, intellect, and strength May not, can not last — The mill will never grind again With the water that has passed. BE EAENEST. The rank weed grows in a single night, While the rarer plant takes years; And evil name will leap to fame While a good name scarce appears. But the rank weed dies in a single night, While the rarer plant still blooms on, And the evil name will sink to shame While the good name's in its dawn. The way that is won without any work Is not worth winning at all — A sudden light — a meteor flight — A sparkle— a trail and a fall. Fear not, brave heart, where 'er thy lot, Like a coral, build deep in the sea, And a beautiful land with a glittering strand Shall owe its existence to thee. And if failure be thy part, O heart! What compensation shalt thou find For thy weary years and bitter tears, And thy mission, half divined? But this can comfort bring to thee, That like a sounding bell, Men shall say on the judgment day: ' ' This little work is done well ! ' ' —Ella S. Cummins, in San Francisco Town Talk. THE RIVER. River! River! little river! Bright you sparkle on your way O'er the yellow pebbles dancing, Through the flowers and foliage glancing, Like a child at play. River ! River ! swelling river ! On you rush o 'er rough and smooth- Louder, faster, brawling, leaping, Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping, Like impetuous youth. MAKE GOOD USE OF TIME 79 Eiver ! Eiver ! brimming river ! Broad, and deep, and still as Time, Seeming still — yet still in motion, Tending onward to the ocean, Just like Mortal Prime. Eiver! Eiver! rapid river! Swifter how you slip away; Swift and silent as an arrow, Through a channel dark and narrow, Like life's Closing Day. Eiver! Eiver! headlong river! Down you dash into the sea; Sea, that line hath never sounded, Sea, that voyage hath never rounded, Like Eternity! I'LL PUT IT OFF. Some little folks are apt to say, When asked their task to touch, "I'll put it off at least to-day; It can not matter much." Time is always on the wing— You can not stop its flight, Then do at once your little tasks, You'll happier be at night. But little duties still put off Will end in ' ' Never done ; ' ' And "By-and-by is time enough" Has ruined many a one. THE WATEE THAT'S PASSED Listen to the water-mill Through the live-long day, How the clanking of the wheels Wears the hours away! Lanquidly the autumn wind Stirs the greenwood leaves; From the fields the reapers sing, Binding up the sheaves; And a proverb haunts my mind, As a spell is cast; "The mill will never grind With the water that has passed. ' ' Take the lesson to thyself, Loving heart and true; Golden years are fleeting by, Youth is passing, too; Learn to make the most of life, Lose no happy day, Time will never bring thee back Chances swept away. Leave no tender word unsaid, Love while life shall last — ' ' The mill will never grind With the water that has passed." Work while the daylight shines Man of strength and will; Never does the streamlet glide Useless by the mill. Wait not till to-morrow's sun Beams up on the way; All that thou cans't call thy own Lies in thy to-day. Power, intellect and health May not, can not last; "The mill will never grind With the water that has passed." Oh, the wasted hours of life That have drifted by! Oh, the good we might have done, Lost without a sigh; Love that we might once have saved By a single word; Thoughts conceived, but never penned, Perishing unheard. Take the proverb to thine heart — Take! oh, hold it fast! ' ' The mill will never grind With the water that has passed. ' ' D. C. McCallum. BETTEE LATE THAN NEVEE. Life is a race where some succeed, While others are beginning; 'Tis luck at times, at others speed, That gives an early winning. But if you chance to fall behind, Ne 'er slacken your endeavor, But keep this wholesome truth in mind, 'Tis better late than never. If you can keep ahead, 'tis well, But never trip your neighbor; 'Tis noble when you can excel By honest, patient labor; But if you are outstripped at last, Press on as bold as ever; Eemember, though you are surpassed, 'Tis better late than never. 80 .MAKE GOOD USE OF TIME Ne 'er labor for an idle boast Choose well the path in which you run, Of victory o'er another; Succeed by noble daring; But while you strive your uttermost, Then, though the last, when once 'tis won, Deal fairly with a brother. Your crown is worth the wearing. What'er your station, do your best, Then never fret if left behind, And hold your purpose ever, Nor slacken your endeavor, And if you fail to beat the rest, But ever keep this truth in mind — 'Tis better late than never. 'Tis beter late than never. Greatness in Little Things WONDEKFUL. Isn't it wonderful, when you think How the creeping grasses grow, High on the mountain's rocky brink, In the valleys down bellow? A common thing is a grass blade small, Crushed by the feet that pass — But all the dwarfs and giants tall, Working till doomsday shadows fall, Can't make a blade of grass. Isn't it wonderful when you think How a litttle seed, asleep, Out of the earth new life will drink, And carefully upward creep? A seed, we say, is a simplle thing, The germ of a flower or weed — But all earth 's workmen laboring, With all the help that wealth could bring, Never could make a seed. Isn't it wonderful when you think How the wild bird sings his song, Weaving melodies, link by link, The whole sweet Summer long? Commonplace is a bird alway, Everywhere seen and heard — But all the engines of earth, I say, Working on till the judgment day, Never could make a bird. Isn't it wonderfid, when you think How a little baby grows, From the big, round eyes that wink and blink, Down to his tiny toes? Common thing is a baby, though, All play the baby's part— But all the whirring wheels that go Flying rouna while the ages flow Can't make a baby's heart. — Julian S. Cutler, in Jewish Comment. DO ALL THAT YOU CAN. "I can not do much," said a little star, "To make this dark world Dright; My silvery beams can not pierce far Into the gloom of night; Yet I am a part of God's great plan, And so I will do the best that I can. ' ' "What can be the use," said a fleecy cloud, "Of these few drops that I hold? They will hardly bend the lily proud, If caught in her chalice of gold; But I, too, am a part of God's great plan, So my treasures I'll give as well as I A child went merrily forth to play, But thought, like a silver thread, Kept winding in and out all day Through the happy golden head — "Mother said: 'Darling, do all that you can, For you are a part of God's great plan.' " She knew no more than the twinkling star, Or the cloud with its raincup full, How, why, or for what all strange things are- She was only a child at school, But she thought, " 'Tis a part of God's great plan, That even I should do all that I can." So she helped another child along When the way was rough to his feet, And she sang from her heart a little song That we all thought wondrous sweet; And her father — a weary, toil-worn man — Said, "I, too, will do the best that I can. ' ' —Margaret E. Sangster. LITTLE THINGS. I threw a pebble out into the lake; , The pebble was small The lake was wide, 82 GREATNESS IN LITTLE THINGS But the circling waves, by that pebble Pictured a lesson that will not fade While men on this earth abide I gave of my love to a sorrowing world; The word was feeble, The world was wide, But the love wave met with the sinking bark Of one who was dying alone in the dark, And a psean rolled in with the tide. I reached to heaven for a sinning soul; My prayer was weak, But God was strong, And sins like scarlet were washed and white, For the soul that groveled sprang up to the light, And the weeping became a song. —E. H. Chase. TINY TOKENS. The murmur of a waterfall A mile away, The rustle when a robin lights Upon a spray. The lapping of a lowland stream On dipping boughs, The sound of grazing from a herd Of gentle cows, The echo from a wooded hill Of cuckoo's call. The quiver through the meadow grass At evening fall — Too subtle are these harmonies For pen and rule. Such music is not understood By any school; And when the brain is overwrought, It hath a spell, Beyond all human skill and power, To make it well. The memory of a kindly word For long gone by, The fragrance of a fading flower Sent lovingly, The gleaming of a sudden smile Or sudden tear, The warmer pressure of the hand, The tone of cheer, The hush that means ' ' I can not speak But I have heard ! ' ' The note that only bears a verse From God's own word — Such tiny things we hardly count As ministry; That givers deeming they have shown. Scant sympathy; But when the heart is overwrought, Oh, who can tell The power of such tiny things To make it well. ONE AT A TIME. One step at a time, and that well placed, "We reach the grandest hight; One stroke at a time, earth's hidden stores Will slowly come to the light; One seed at a time, and the forest grows; One drop at a time, and the river flows Into the boundless sea. One word at a time, and the greatest book Is written and is read; One stone at a time, a palace rears Aloft its stately head; One blow at a time, and the tree's cleft through, And a city will stand where tht forest grew A few short years ago. One foe at a time, and he subdued, And the conflict will be won; One grain at a time, and the sands of life Will slowly all be run. One minute, another, the hours, fly; One day at a time, and our lives speed by Into eternity. One grain of knowledge, and that well stored, Another, and more on them; And as time rolls on your mind will shine With many a garnered gem Of thought and wisdom. And time will tell, "One thing at a time, and that done well, ' ' Is wisdom's proven rule. — Golden Davs. GREATNESS IN LITTLE THINGS 83 INFLUENCE. "We scatter seeds with' careless hand, And dream we ne'er shall see them more; But for a thousand years Their fruit appears In weeds that mar the land Or healthful store. The deeds we do, the words we say, Into still air they seem to fleet ; We count them ever past, But they shall last— In the dread judgment they And we shall meet. I charge thee by the years gone by, For the love of brethren dear, Keep, then, the one true way In work and play, Lest in the world their cry Of woe thou hear. ONE DAT AT A TIME. One day at a time ! That 's all it can be ; No faster than that is the hardest fate; And days have their limits, however we Begin them too early and stretch them too late. One day at a time! It's a wholesome rhyme! A good one to live by, A day at a time. One day at a time! Every heart that aches, Knowing only too well how long they can seem; But it's never to-day which the spirit breaks — It's the darkened future, without a gleam. One day at a time! When joy is at height — Such joy as the heart can never for- get— And pulses are throbbing with wild de- light, How hard to remember that suns must One day at a time! But a single day, Whatever its load, whatever its length; And there's a bit of precious Scripture to say That, according to each, shall be our strength. One day at a time! 'Tis the whole of life; All sorrow, all joy, are measured therein ; The bound of our purpose, our noblest strife, The one only countersign sure to win! One day at a time! It's a wholesome rhyme! A good one to live by, A day at a time. — Helen Hunt Jackson. HYMN FOE A CHILD. God gave me a little light To carry as I go; Bade me keep it clear and bright, Shining high and low. Bear it steadfast, without fear, Shed its radiance far and near, Make the path before me clear, With its friendly glow. God gave me a little song To sing upon my way; Bough may be the road, and long, Dark may be the day. Yet a little bird can wing, Yet a little flower can spring, Yet a little child can sing, Make the whole world gay. God gave me a little heart To love whate'er He made; Gave me strength to bear my part, Glad and unafraid. Through Thy world so fair, so bright, Father, guide my steps aright; Thou my song and Thou my light, So my trust is stayed.' —Laura E. Richard's. LEAEN A LITTLE EVEEY DAY. Little rills make wider streamlets, Streamlets swell the river's flow, Eivers join the ocean billows, Onward, onward, as they go. 84 GREATNESS IN LITTLE THINGS Life is made of smallest fragments, Shade and sunshine, work and play; So may we, with greatest profit, Learn a little every day. THE TONGUE. "The boneless tongue, so small and weak, Can crush and kill," declared the Greek. "The tongue destroys a greater horde," The Turk asserts, "than does the sword. ' ' The Persian proverb wisely saith, "A lengthy tongue — an early death." Or sometimes take this form instead, "Don't let your tongue cut off your head. ' ' "The tongue can speak a word whose speed, ' ' Says the Chinese, "outstrips the steed." While Arab sages this impart, "The tongue's great storehouse is the heart. ' ' From Hebrew wit the maxim sprung, "Though feet should slip, ne'er let the tongue. ' ' The sacred writer crowns the whole, "Who keeps his tongue doth keep his soul. ' ' —New York Mail and Express. LITTLE THINGS. Erom the rising to the setting of the sun, How many little things we leave undone. With selfish aims or aspirations high, We 're apt to pass the humbler service by. A little care, a little thought, A little deed in friendship wrought, A little word, if gently spoken, May ease a heart with pain nigh broken A little earnest, cheerful work, To brighten gloom where shadows lurk; A little tender, pleading prayer, To help a soul from dark despair. A little heartfelt comfort given, When all seems lost for which we've striven, May cure the smart and heal the wound, Make life with new-born hope abound. Father, make us mindful of the little things. The small, sweet service that slowly, surely brings Thy erring children kneeling humbly at Thy feet, For' tis the little thoughtful things that make our life complete. —C. E. Crispin. LITTLE THINGS. Little masteries achieved, Little wants with care relieved, Little words in love expressed, Little wrongs at once confessed, Little graces meekly worn, Little slights with patience borne; These are treasures that shall rise Par above the shining skies. A SEED. A wonderful thing is a seed — The one thing deathless forever; The One thing changeless, utterly true, Eorever old and forever new, And fickle and faithless never. Plant blessings, and blessings will bloom ; Plant hate, and hate will grow; You can sow to-day; to-morrow shall bring The blossom that proves what sort of thing Is the seed, the seed you sow. — Wirt Sikes. DEIPTING. Drifting away, drifting away, Farther and farther off each day. Drifting away from the path of truth, Old age, manhood, childhood and youth. Drifting away from the Holy Book, Millions care not in it to look. GREATNESS IN LITTLE THINGS 85 Drifting away from the sacred page In this proud, boasting, reckless age. Drifting away from the pure, sweet light Into the gloom of the utmost night. Drifting, drifting down to the grave, Far from the Arm that alone can save. —Norman Taylor. KINDNESS. A little word in kindness spoken, A motion, or a tear, Has often healed the heart that's broken And made a friend sincere. FEOM THE GEBMAN. Sits the little human Thing On the shore of Time's wide sea, Gathers in its little hand Drops from out Eternity. Sits the little human Thing, Gathers rumors full of Mystery, Writes them down into a Book, Names it " Universal History. ' ' A SINGLE STITCH. One stitch dropped as the weaver drove His nimble shuttle to and fro, In and out, beneath, above, Till the pattern seemed to bud and grow As if the fairies had helping been; One small stitch which could scarce be seen, But the one stitch dropped pulled the next stitch out And a weak place grew in the fabric stout ; And the perfect pattern was marred for aye By the one small stitch that was dropped that day. One small life in God's great plan, How futile it seems as the ages roll, Do what it may or strive how it can To alter the sweep of the infinite whole. A single stitch in an endless web, A drop in the ocean's flow and ebb! But the pattern is rent where the stitch is lost, Or marred where the tangled threads have crossed; And each life that fails of its true intent Mars the perfect plan that its Master -Susan Coolidge. LITTLE DEOPS OF WATEE. Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean And the pleasant land. And the little minutes, Humble though they be, Make the mighty ages Of eternity. So our little errors Lead the soul away From the path of virtue, Oft in sin to stray. Little deeds of kindness, Little words of love, Make our earth an Eden Like the heaven above. —Brewer. GEEAT EXPECTATIONS. Every little grape, dear, that clings unto the vine Expects some day to ripen its little drops of wine. Every little girl, I think, expects in time to be Exactly like her own mamma — as sweet and good as she. Every little boy who has a pocket of his own Expects to be the biggest man the world has ever known. Every little piggy-wig that makes his lit- tle wail Expects to be a great big pig with a very curly tail. 86 GREATNESS IN LITTLE THINGS Every little lambkin, too, that frisks He is a dolt who groans with woe upon the green Expects to be the finest sheep that ever When all the earth is jolly. 'Tis vain o'er next year's drought to- yet was seen. pine— The wise will never borrow; Every little baby colt expects to be a horse ; The gold now hidden in the mine May be a crown to-morrow. Every little pup expects to be a dog, of course. It matters not what man has been, Every little kitten pet, so tender and so It proves not what he may be; The future lies beyond our ken nice, Expects to be a grown-up cat and live on rats and mice. Whatever may to-day be. Do every task as best you can, And laugh at idle sorrow; The stranded ship that now we scan Every little fluffy chick, in downy yellow drest, May proudly float to-morrow. Expects some day to crow and strut or cackle at its best. With honest purpose onward press While fortune's wheel is spinning; We see it turn, but none can guess Every little baby bird that peeps from out its nest The prize that he is winning. Let this day's task be done to-day, Expects some day to cross the sky from glowing east to west. With sword or pen or harrow; The sun that beams with grateful ray May be obscured to-morrow. Now, every hope I 've mentioned here will bring its sure event, Provided nothing happens, dear, to hin- der or prevent. — Christian at WorJc. Life's battle rages fierce and strong, But manhood will defend you; Be staunch and true through right and wrong And honor will attend you. Sing merrily along your way, Though it be rough and narrow; The sweating toiler of to-day OUE DAY IS TO-DAY. To-day is all that we may know, May live at ease to-morrow. To forecast fate were folly; —Francis C. Long. Cheerfulness SMILES. Smiles! what are they for? I will tell you— All hatred they melt into love; They chase away sorrow and trouble, With a gleam from the heaven above. They make us all cheerful and happy, Ah! whether we will or no; Can a sunbeam be ever resisted "When it falls on a bank of snow? We should wearily grope through the shadows That compass this earthly life Were it not for these flashes of bright- ness That fall on us through the strife, To reveal the fond spirits around us, The blossoms that spring in our way; For the world is not all so dreary As some people choose to say. The innocent laughter of childhood Makes the heart of the aged to thrill; At the sweet, merry song of the maiden The mourner looks up and is still. O the bright, sunny smiles of content- ment That flecker with light our dull way! They will change every hardship to pleas- ure And the darkest night turn into day. —Little Corporal. FOE THE SCHOOL BOYS. Never look unhappy, boys; Be merry while you can; Youth is but a Mayday morn, Life is but a span; If you meet them with a smile, Troubles soon will fly, So only mark the sunshine, boys, And let the clouds go by. Don't neglect your lessons, boys; Wisdom is a prize Greater than earth's riches are; Grasp it ere time flies. School boy days will soon be o'er, Be merry while you can; A happy childhood seldom fails To make an honest man. IT PAYS. It pays to wear a smiling face And laugh our troubles down, For all our little troubles wait Our laughter or our frown. Beneath the magic of a smile Our doubts will fade away, As melts the frost in early spring Beneath the sunny ray. It pays to make a worthy cause, By helping it, our own; To give the current of our lives A true and noble tone. It pays to comfort heavy hearts, Oppressed with dull despair, And leave in sorrow-darkened lives One gleam of brightness there. It pays to give a helping hand To eager, earnest youth; To note, with all their waywardness, Their courage and their truth; To strive, with sympathy and love, Their confidence to win. It pays to open wide the heart And "let the sunshine in." WHY DON'T YOU LAUGH? Why don't you laugh, young man, when troubles come, Instead of sitting 'round so sour and glum? 88 CHEERFULNESS You can not have all play, And sunshine every day; When troubles come, I say, why don't you laugh? Why don't you laugh? 'Twill ever help to soothe The aches and pains. No road in life is smooth ; There's many an unseen bump, And many a hidden stump O'er which you'll have to jump. Why don't you laugh? Why don't you laugh? Don't let your spirits wilt; Don't sit and cry because the milk you've spilt ; If you would mend it now, Pray let me tell you how: Just milk another cow ! Why don 't you laugh? Why don't you laugh and make us all laugh, too, And keep us mortals all from getting blue? A laugh will always win; If you can't laugh, just grin- Come on, let's all join in! Why don't you laugh? — James Courtney Chellis, in the Inde- pendent. IF I KNEW. If I knew the box where the smiles are kept, No matter how large the key Or strong the bolt, I would try so hard — 'Twould open, I know, for me. Then over the land and the sea, broad- cast, I'd scatter the smiles to play, That the children's faces might hold them fast For many and many a day. If I knew a box that was large enough To hold all the frowns I meet, I would like to gather them, every one, From nursery, school and street; Then, folding and holding, I'd pack them in, And, turning the monster key, I'd hire a giant to drop the box To the depths of the deep, deep sea. — Boston Transcript. IF. Oh, if summer would last forever! Oh, if youth would leave us never! Oh, if the joy we have in the spring Forever its happy song would sing, And love and friendship never take wing, But stay with us forever! Then— ah, then! if such gifts were given, Who of us mortals would ask for heaven? — W. W. Story. NEIGHBOB JIM. Everything pleased our neighbor Jim. When it rained He never complained, But said wet weather suited him. ' ' There is never too much rain for me, And this is something like," said he. A cyclone whirled along its track And did him harm — It broke his arm And stripped the coat from off his back — "And I would give another limb To see such a blow again," said Jim. And when at length his years were told, And his body bent, And his strength all spent, And Jim was very weak and old— "I long have wanted to know," he said, "How it feels to die"— and Jim was dead. The angel of death had summoned him To Heaven, or — well, I cannot tell. But I knew that the climate suited Jim; And cold or hot, it mattered not — It was to him the long-sought spot. —Atlanta Constitution. THE CHEEBFUL HEAET. "The world is ever as we take it, And life, dear child, is what we make . it." Thus spoke a grandma, bent with care, To little Mabel, flushed and fair. CHEERFULNESS 89 But Mabel took no heed that day Of what she heard her grandma say. Years after, when no more a child, Her path in life seemed dark and wild. Back to her heart the memory came Of a quaint utterance of the dame: "The world, dear child, is as we take it, And life, be sure, is what we make it." She cleared her brow and, smiling, thought : " 'Tis even as the good soul taught; "And half my woes thus quickly cured, The other half may be endured." No more her heart its shadows wore; She grew a little child once more. A little child in lore and trust, She took the world (as we, too, must) In happy mood; and lo! it grew Brighter and brighter to her view. She made of life (as we, too, should) A joy; and lo! all things were good And fair to her as in God's sight When first He said, ' ' Let there be light. ' ' Lessons and Examples LITTLE FEET. Two little feet so small that both may- nestle In one caressing hand; Two tender feet upon the untried border Of life's mysterious land; Those rose-white feet along the doubtful future Must bear a woman's load; Alas! Since woman has the heaviest bur- den And walks the hardest road. Love, for a while, will make the path be- fore them All dainty, smooth and fair; Will cut away the brambles, letting only The roses blossom there; But when the mother's watchful eyes are shrouded Away from the sight of men, And these dear feet are left without her guiding, Who shall direct them then? Will they go stumbling blindly into the darkness Of sorrow's tearful shades? Or find the upland slopes of peace and beauty, Whose sunlight never fades? Oh, who may read the future? For this sweetheart small We want all blessings sweet, And pray that He who feeds the crying ravens Will guide the baby's feet. —Philadelphia Times. DUTY'S PATH. Out from the harbor of youth's bay There leads the path of pleasure; With eager steps we walk that way To brim joy's largest measure. But when with morn's departing beam Goes youth's last precious minute, We sigh, ' ' 'Twas but a fevered dream - There's nothing in it." Then on our vision dawns afar The goal of glory, gleaming Like some great radiant solar star, . And sets us longing, dreaming. Forgetting all things left behind, We strain each nerve to win it, But when 'tis ours — alas! we find There's nothing in it. We turn our sad, reluctant gaze Upon the path of duty; Its barren, uninviting ways Are void of bloom and beauty. Yet in that road, though dark and cold It seems as we begin it, As we press on— lo! we behold There's heaven in it. — Ella Wheeler Wilcox, in Ladies' Romt Journal. TWO LIVES. Two youths from a village set out to- gether To seek their fortune the wide world through. One cried: "Hurrah for autumn weather ! ' ' The other sighed: "Winter is almost due ! ' ' One failed, they said, for he never was thrifty, Beturned to the village, and laughed and loved. The other succeeded, and when he was fifty Had millions and fame, and the world approved. But the failure was happy, his smile was a blessing, The dogs and the children romped at his feet; 92 L'ESSONS AND EXAMPLES While from him who succeeded, though much possessing,- The little ones shrank when they chanced to meet. One purchased respect by his lordly giv- ing, The other won love by his loving ways ; And, if either had doubts of his way of living, It wasn't the one with humble days. They never knew it, but both were teach- ers Of deep life secrets, these village youths— The one at a school where Facts are preachers, The other of a world that worship Truths. — John Boyle O'Eeilly. THE LAND OF "MAKE BELIEVE." It lies in the distance dim and sweet, On the borders of Long Ago, And the road is worn by the little feet That have journeyed there to and fro; And though you may seek it by night or day, The task you will never achieve, For only the little ones know the way To the land of "Make Believe." Clad in their armor of Faith they ride On the wings of their fancy fleet, And we hear, as we listen and wait out- side, The echo of laughter sweet; It lightens the burdens of toil we bear, It brightens the hearts that grieve, Till we wish we could follow and enter there In the land of "Make Believe." And, oh, the wonderful tales that are told Of the marvelous sights they see! For the weak grow strong and the young grow old, And are each what they wish to be. Oh, the deeds of valor, the mighty things — Too bold for mind to conceive! But these are everyday happenings In the land of "Make Believe." Would you follow the print of the tiny feet? You must walk as they, undefiled. Would you join in their fancies pure and sweet? You must be as a little child. But in vain should we seek it by night or day, The task we should never achieve; For only the little ones know the way To the land of "Make Believe." — Ida Goldsmith Morris, in Youth's Companion. THE MAGIC LETTEB. . There was a little maiden once, In fairy days gone by, Whose every thought and every word Always began with " I. " "I think," "I know," "I wish," "I say," "Hike," "I want," "I will," From morn to night, from day to day, "I" was her burden still. Her schoolmates would not play with her; Her parents tried in vain To teach her better, and one day Poor "1" cried out in pain. "Help me, O fairies!" he besought; " I 'm worn to just a thread. Do save me from this dreadful child, Or I shall soon be dead ! ' ' The fairies heard, and heeded, too. They caught poor "I" away And nursed him into health again Through many an anxious day; And in his place they deftly slipped A broader, stronger letter. "The more she uses that," they said, With roguish smiles, ' ' the better ! ' ' The little maiden wept and sulked At first, and would not speak; But she grew tired of being dumb, And so, within a week, She used the substitute: and lo! Her playmates crowded round, Her parents smiled, and all were pleased To hear this novel sound. She grew to use it steadily And liked it more and more; It came to fill a larger place Than "I" had done before; LESSONS AND EXAMPLES 93 And each year found the little maid More kind and s-freet and true. What was the magic letter's name? Why, can't you guess? 'Twas "U! —Boston Beacon. FATE. The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, The spray of the tempest is white in air; The winds are out with the waves at play, And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, The panther clings to the arching limb; And the lion 's whelps are abroad at play, And I shall not join in the chase to-day. And the ship sailed safely over the sea, And the hunters came from the chase in glee; And the town that was builded upon the rock Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock. — Bret Harte. JANE JONES. Jane Jones keeps a-whisperin' to me all the time, An' says: "Why don't you make it a rule To study your lessons, an' work hard an' learn, An' never be absent from school? Eemember the story of Elihu Burritt, How he dumb up to the top; Got all the knowledge 'at he ever had Down in the blacksmithing shop." Jane Jones she honestly said it was so; Mebbe he did — I dunno; 'Course, what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top Is not never havin' no blacksmithing shop. She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, But full of ambition and brain, An' studied philosophy all 'is hull life — An' see what he got for his pains. He brought electricity out of the sky With a kite an' the lightnin' an' key, So we're owin' him more'n anyone else Fer all the bright lights 'at we see. Jane Jones she actually said it was so; Mebbe he did— I dunno; 'Course, what's allers been hinderin' me Is not havin' any kite, lightnin' or key. Jane Jones said Columbus was out at the knees When he first thought up his big scheme ; An' all of the Spaniards an' Italians, too, They laughed an' just said 'twas a dream ; But Queen Isabella she listen 'd to him, An' pawned all her jewels o' worth, An' bought 'im the Santa Marier 'n said: ' ' Go hunt up the rest of the earth. ' ' Jane Jones she honestly said it was so; Mebbe he did— I dunno; 'Course, that may all be, but you must allow They ain't any land to discover just now. — Ben King, in Southern Magazine. I MEANT TO. "I did not rise at the breakfast bell, But was so sleepy— I can't tell — I meant to. "The wood's not carried in, I know, But there's the school bell — I must go — I meant to. ' ' My lesson I forgot to write, But nuts and apples were so nice; I meant to. ' ' I forgot to walk in on tiptoe ; O how the baby cries — oh, oh! I meant to. "There, I forgot to shut the gate, And put away my book and slate. I meant to. "The cattle trampled down the corn, My slate is broken, book is torn—" I meant to. Thus drawls poor, idle Jimmie Hite From morn till noon, from noon till night. I meant to. 94 LESSONS AND EXAMPLES And when he grows to be a man He'll heedlessly mar every plan "With that poor plea : " I meant to. ' ' —Emma Cosand Stout. A LISTENING BIRD. A little bird sat on an apple tree, And he was as hoarse as hoarse could be ; He pruned and he prinked and he ruffled his throat, But from it there floated no silvery note. "Not a song can I sing," sighed he, sighed he; ' ' Not a song can I sing, ' ' sighed he. In tremulous showers the apple tree shed Its pink and white blossoms on his head; The gay sun shone, and, bike jubilant words, He heard the gay song of a thousand birds. "All the others can sing," he dolefully said; "All the others can sing," he said So he sat, and he drooped. But as far and wide The music was borne on the air's warm tide, A sudden thought came to the sad little bird, And he lifted his head as within him it stirred. "If I cannot sing I can listen," he cried ; ' ' Ho ! ho ! I can listen ! " he cried. —Julia C. B. Dorr. WHEN JIM DIED. When Jim died, all th' neighbors came from fur and near. 'Pears bike to me they held him just as dear As mother did an' me; fer they all came in to gaze Once more on his calm, pale face, an' a sort o' haze Seemed to settle on their eyes, fer I seen th' tears A-tricklin' down their cheeks — maybe th' fust fer years — When Jim died. When Jim died, th' birds stopped singin' in th' trees, Eer they missed him, you know; an' th* golden belted bees, Ebttin' o'er th' meadows, whispered to th' clover It would kiss his bare, brown feet no more; an' th' plover An' the kildee in th' rushes an' th' fen Seemed ever to be callin' that he'd never come again— When Jim died. Jim was a curious chap — not like other boys; He had his own way o' takin' Ufe with its joys An' sorrows; he loved birds an' flowers, an' I'll bet He never as much as trod on a timid violet That peeped shyly thro' th' grass. Like music of a flute The birds sang to him, but their voices now are mute — Since Jim died. Since Jim died, 'pears like to me mother ain't so spry As she used to be; there's a sadness in her eye An' voice that sort o' cuts me to th' heart; for Jim Had alius ben her pet sence he was born; she loved him Better than the rest; he was her boy. She don't complain, Mother don't, but then she's never been th' same Since Jim died. — 'Rochester Post Express. BILL WAS THEEE ! Bill was just a common sort, Never dreamed of wealth nor fame; Plodded on and didn 't try Schemes to set the world aflame; Kept a-going all the time, Busy here and everywhere; When a task turned up to do, Bill was there! Never heard him whine around 'Cause things didn't go just so; In the joy he whistled loud, In the pain he whistled low; LESSONS AND EXAMPLES 95 Took things always as they came— Never faltered — when things came, Bill was there! So he didn't make no stir; Lived a quiet, busy life; Lived a life that didn 't have Boom for petty thoughts and strife. He had simple work to do — Wa 'n 't no call to do nor dare ; Just a constant watch, you know — Bill was there! Such a man as Bill drops out And the world goes just the same; Doesn't hear Death speak the word When he calls him by the name. Just the common, plodding sort — Bill has certain gone to where They'll remember how and when Bill was there! THBEE THINGS. Bemember, three things come not back; The arrow sent upon its track — It will not swerve, it will not stay Its speed; it flies to wound or slay. The spoken word so soon forgot By thee, but it has perished not; In other hearts 'tis living still, And doing work for good or ill; And the lost opportunity That cometh back no more to thee. In vain thou weep 'st, in vain dost yearn ; Those three will nevermore return. —From the Arabic. TELLING FORTUNES. I'll tell you two fortunes, my fine little lad, For you to accept or refuse, The one of them good and the other one bad, Now hear them and say which you choose. I see, by my gift, within reach of my hand, A fortune right fair to behold, A house and a hundred good acres of land, "With harvest fields yellow as gold. I see a great orchard, the boughs hang- ing down With apples of russet and red; I see droves of cattle, some white and some brown, But all of them sleek and well fed. I see doves and swallows about the barn door, See the fanning-mill whirling so fast, See the men who are threshing the wheat on the floors, And now the bright picture is past. And I see, rising dismally up in the place Of the beautiful house and the land, A man with a fiery red nose on his face And a little brown jug in his hand. Oh! if you beheld him, my lad, you would wish That he were less wretched to see; For his boot toes they gape like the mouth of a fish, And his trousers are out at the knee. In walking he staggers, now this way and that, And his eyes they stand out like a bug 's, And he wears an old coat and a battered- in hat, And I think that the fault is the jug 's. Now, which will you choose — to be thrifty and snug, And to be right side up with your dish, Or to go with your eyes like the eyes of a bug, And your shoes like the mouth of a I. DUNNO AND I. KNOWIT. I. Dunno started out on a memorable trip, With a valiant companion, I. Knowit; ' ' Let us feel our way slowly, ' ' says slow I. Dunno. I. Knowit says, ' • Let us just go it ! " And one would go fast and one would go slow, In this trip I. Knowit and slow I. Dunno. I. Dunno picked his way, felt about with his cane, And carefully tested the bridges; 96 LESSONS AND EXAMPLES I. Knowit rushed on like a late express train, Over mountains and rivers and ridges; He looked back and cried, "Get a move on, old slow ! ' ' "Oh, I'll go my own jog," said old slow I. Dunno. 1. Knowit got tangled and lost in the swamp And well-nigh submerged in the mire; I. Dunno he found out, in his leisurely romp, That the ground was too soft and went higher; "I'll poke with my cane wherever I go, And stub along easy," said slow I. Dunno. I. Knowit crawled out all covered with mud, And banged and battered with bruises ; Says he, "A fellow with fire in his blood Can duff in just wherever he chooses. ' ' " "lis better to go kinder mod 'rate and slow, And not get banged and battered," said slow I. Dunno I. Dunno traveled slow, but he got far ahead Of the rapid onrusher, I. Knowit. I. Dunno still said, "Let us carefully tread, ' ' I. Knowit still said, "Let us go it." I. Knowit brought up in the swamp of Dontcare ; I. Dunno reached the beautiful land of Getthere. —8. W. Foss, in Yankee Blade. A BUTTEEFLY IN THE CITY. Fair creature of a few short sunny hours, Sweet guileless fay, Whence fittest thou, from what bright world of flowers, This summer day? "What quiet Eden of melodious song, What wild retreat, Desertest thou for this impatient throng, This crowded street? Why didst thou quit thy comrades of the grove And meadows green? What Fate untoward urges thee to rove. Through this strange scene? Have nectared roses lost their power to gain Thy fond caress? Do woodbine blooms, with lofty scorn, disdain Thy loveliness? Oh, hie thee to the fragrant country air And liberty ! The city is the home of toil and care — No place for thee! — Chambers' Journal. CONSCIENCE AND EEMOESE. "Good-by," I said to my conscience — ' ' Good-by for aye and aye. ' ' And I put her hands off harshly, And turned my face away; And conscience, smitten sorely, Eeturned not from that day. But a time came when my spirit Grew weary of its pace; And I cried : ' ' Come back, my conscience, And I long to see thy face." But conscience cried: "I can not, Eemorse sits in my place. ' ' — Paul Laurence Dunbar. LAD AND LASS. Oh, lad and lass, the old earth spins away! To-day is sweet, and sweet was yester- day; To-morrow's dawn may rise up cirill and gray— Ah, lad and lass. Ah. lad and lass, some day you will awake, Stand hand to hand and feel the heart- strings break, ' Drink sorrow from love's cup for old time's sake — Ah, lad and lass. LESSONS AND EXAMPLES 97 Ah, lad and lass, the world is hard to read, And none may tell what fruit shall crown the seed, But hold forever to the old, old creed— Ah, lad and lass. —New Budget. THE PEAYEK. I was in heaven one day when all the prayers Came in, and angels bore them up the stairs Unto the place where he Who was ordained such ministry Should sort them so that in that palace bright The presence chamber might be duly light; For they were like to flowers of various bloom, And a divinest fragrance filled the room. Then did I see how the great sorter chose One flower that seemed to me a hedgling rose, And from the tangled press Of that irregular loveliness Set it apart — and "This," I heard him say, "Is for the Master"; so upon his way He would have passed; then I to him: ' ' Whence is this rose, O thou of cheru- bim The chiefest?"— "Know'st thou not?" he said, and smiled, "This is the first prayer of a little child," — The Collected poems of T. E. Brown. THE TAPESTRY WEAVERS. Let us take to our hearts a lesson— no les- son can braver be— From the ways of the tapestry weavers ou the other side of the sea. Above their heads the pattern hangs; they study it with care. The while their fingers deftly work, their eyes are fastened there. They tell this curious thing, besides, of the patient, plodding weaver: He works on the wrong side evermore, but works for the right side ever. It is only when weaving stops, and the web is loosed and turned, That he sees his real haDdiwork— that his marvelous skill is learned. Ah! the sight of its delicate beauty, how it pays him for all his cost! No rarer, daintier work than his was ever done by the frost. Then the master bringeth him golden hire, and giveth him praise as well And how happy the heart of the weaver is no tongue but his own can tell. The years of man are the looms of God, let down from the place of the sun, Wherein we are weaving alway, till the mystic web is done. Weaving blindly, but surely, each for himself his fate, We may not see how the right side looks ; we can only weave and wait. But, looking above for the pattern, no weaver need have fear, Only let him look clear into heaven — the Perfect Pattern is there. If he only keeps the face of our Savior forever and always in sight, His toil shall be sweeter than honey, his. weaving is sure to be right. And when his task is ended, and the web is turned and shown, He shall hear the voice of the Master. It shall say to him, ' ' Well done. ' ' And the white-winged angels of heaven to bear him thence, shall come down; And God for his wage shall give him, not coin, but a golden crown. —From a Tract Disseminated by the Bo- man Catholic Church. IF MOTHER KNEW. If mother knew, how gladly would she ease the heartache and the pain, How gently smooth the brow till this tired brain Would feel a rest, and balmy sleep Would come while still she'd keep Her vigil, tireless, far into the night, Though others passed me by with cut and slight. 98 ■LESSONS AND EXAMPLES If mother knew how much I long for her, How day by day I find my judgment err, And need her hourly more and more To guide my steps and aid me, for I feel I know so little of this life Where selfishness and cruelty are rife. If mother knew how much I 'd give To once more have my life to live And ask forgiveness for the many tears I made her shed in bygone years— The many hours of sorow, too— How gladly I'd her pardon sue For all, and by my life I 'd prove Appreciation of a mother's love. The Good and the Beautiful NOBILITY. True worth is in being, not seeming; In doing each day that goes by, Some little good— not in the dreaming Of great things to do by and by. For whatever men say in blindness, And spite of the fancies of youth, There is nothing so kindly as kindness, And nothing so royal as truth. We get back our price as we measure; We can not do wrong and feel right; Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure, For justice avenges each slight. The air for the wing of the sparrow, The bush for the robin and wren, But always the path that is narrow And straight for the children of men. We can not make bargains for blisses, Nor catch them like fishes in nets, And sometimes the things our life misses, Help more than the things which it gets, For good lieth not in pursuing, Nor gaining of great nor of small; But just in the doing— and doing As we would be done by, is all. Through envy, through malice, through hating, Against the world early and late, No jot of our courage abating, Our part is to work and to wait. And slight is the sting of his trouble Whose winnings are less than his worth ; For he who is honest is noble, Whatever his fortunes or bith. — Alice Cary. HE IS A HEEO. He is a hero who, when sorely tried, Hath yet a firm control O 'er all his passions, as they strongly rise To battle with his soul. The silent battle which the spirit fights, Warring against desires Unholy and impure, if right shall win, To higher good inspires. The soul that crucifies an evil thought; That keeps a guarded gate Of Christian love and brotherly good will Between his soul and hate Shall stand, in all his manliness and worth As mightier than he Who takes a city in his strength and pride, Or boasteth vauntingly. The shield of purity when nobly worn, Where faith has been confessed, Is stronger than the cunning coat of mail Upon a warrior's breast. He is a hero who to truth is true, Though lowly and obscure, Long after earthly honors fade away His triumphs shall endure. — Annie Wall. WHAT DOES IT MATTEE? It matters little where I was born, Or if my parents were rich or poor; Whether they shrank at the cold world's scorn, Or walked in the pride of wealth secure, But whether I live an honest man, And hold my integrity firm in my clutch, I tell you, brother, plain as I am, It matters much ! It matters little how long I stay In a world of sorrow, sin and care; Whether in youth I am called away, Or live till my bones and pate are bare, 100 TEE GOOD AND TEE BEAUTIFUL But whether I do the best I can FATHEE TAKE MY HAND. To soften the weight of adversity's touch The way is dark, my Father! Cloud on cloud On the faded cheek of my fellow man It matters much! Is gathering quickly o'er my head and loud The thunders roar above me. See, I It matters little where be my grave, stand Or on land or on the sea, Like one bewildered! Father, take my By purling brook or 'neath stormy wave; hand It matters little or naught to me, And through the gloom But whether the angel of death comes Lead safely home down Thy child! And marks my brow with his loving touch The day goes fast, my Father! and the As one that shall wear the victor's night crown. Is drawing darkly down. My faithless It matters much! sight —From the Swedish. Sees ghostly visions. Fears, a spectral Encompass me. 0, Father, take my hand And from the night Lead up to light THEEE THINGS. Thy child! Three things to admire: The way is long, my Father ! and .my soul Intellectual Power, Dignity, and Grace- Longs for the rest and quiet of the goal; fulness. While yet I journey through this weary land Three things to love: Keep me from wandering. Father, take Courage, Gentleness, and Affection. my hand; Quickly and straight Three things to hate: Lead to heaven's gate Cruelty, Arrogance, and Ingratitude. Thy child! The path is rough, my Father! Many a Three things to delight in: thorn Frankness, Freedom, and Beauty. Has pierced me, and my weary feet, all torn And bleeding, mark the way. Yet Thy Three things to wish for: Health, Friends, and a Cheerful Spirit. command Bids me press forward. Father, take my Three things to avoid: hand, Idleness, Loquacity, and Flippant Jest- Then safe and blest ing. Lead up to rest, Thy child! Three things to pray for: Faith, Peace, and Purity of Heart. BEAUTIFUL THINGS. Three things to contend for: Honor, Country, and Friends. Beautiful faces are those that wear — It matters little if dark or fair— Three things to govern: Whole souled honesty printed there. Temper, Tongue, and Conduct. Beautiful eyes are those that show, Like crystal panes where hearth fires- Three things to think about: glow, Life, Death and Eternity. Beautiful thoughts that burn below. THE GOOD AND TEE BEAUTIFUL 101 Beautiful lips are those whose words Leap from the heart like song of birds, Yet whose utterance prudence girds. Beautiful hands are those that do Work that is earnest and brave and true, Moment by moment, the long day- through. Beautiful feet are those that go On kindly ministries to and fro. Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so. Beautiful shoulders are those that bear Ceaseless burdens of homely care "With patient grace and daily prayer. Beautiful lives are those that bless — Silent rivers and happiness "Whose hidden fountains but few may guess. Beautiful twilight at set of sun; Beautiful goal, with race well won; Beautiful rest, with work well done. Beautiful graves, where grasses creep, "Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep Over wornout hands— oh, beautiful sleep ! —Ellen P. Allerton. WHEN" GOD MADE YOU. When God made you, His touch was one of love; His molds were flawless and His clay was fine And pure and white as His own throne above; He filled your veins with blood like rich, red wine- When God made you. When God made you, He put into your eyes A witching, winsome love-light just as deep And blue and sweet as that in His own skies; Ah, pity 'tis to veil such eyes in sleep— When God made you. When God made you He plucked the pinkest rose That He could find in heaven's para- dise, And to your cheeks, before pure white- like snow, The petals gave their blush in sacri- fice — When God made you. When God made you He took the magic brush, And to those matchless lips He gave a touch Of fadeless carmine, warmed by blood's red rush, Whose pressured caress could I feel too much — When God made you. When God made you He took a sun- beam's shaft, And, crushing it into a dust of gold, He threw it to the gentler winds to waft It thro' the meshes of your hair's soft fold- When God made you. When God made you an angel, Cupid shot A golden arrow swift across the skies; It scarcely grazed your cheek, but there was wrought A dimple far too sweet for mortal eyes— When God made you. When God made you He made you, sweet, for me, Did not God know the future at your birth? Unworthy as I am, my love for thee Is deep and true, for well I know thy worth — When God made you. When God made you and made you, love, for me, Think you that He will keep us long apart? Ah, no ! Our loves will ever greater be Than they are now, when we have but one heart — When God made you. — Newt NewMrJc, in Ohio State Journal. 102 TEE GOOD AND TEE BEAUTIFUL MAEY. The sweetest name I've ever known Is Mary. The dearest girl, the one I own, Is Mary. When storms are threatening fierce and low, When all is dark and mad winds blow, My only refuge here below Is Mary. Who's always near me— tho' I'm wrong? My Mary. Who cheers me on with love and song? Sweet Mary. Who thinks I 'm just as pure as gold, And prays I '11 soon be "in the fold, ' ' Who never thinks I'm growing old! My Mary. If a blessing's due to one on earth, It's Mary's. If a crown awaits e 'en the lowliest birth, It's Mary's. Through all her life, tried and true. Through all the years, she's been true blue, And a fellow is blest, I think— don't you? With a sister like Mary. — John W. Kinsella, in the Observer. THE MANLIEST AEE THE TENDEEEST. Do you deem it weak That adown your cheek The tears of affection fall? Nay, the manliest heart In the world's wide mart Is the tenderest heart of all. —Kate M. Frayne. EOEEVEE. Every golden beam of light Leaves a shadow to the sight; Every dewdrop on the rose To the ocean's bosom goes. Every star that ever shone Somewhere has a gladness thrown. All that lives goes on forever, Forever and forever. Every link in friendship's chain Forged another link again; Every throb that love has cost Made a heaven and was not lost. Every look and every tone Has a seed in memory sown. All that lives goes on forever, Forever and forever. Never yet a spoken word But in echo it was heard; Never was a living thought But some magic it has wrought, And no deed was ever done That has died from under sun. All that lives goes on forever, Forever and forever. So, O soul, there's no farewell Where souls once together dwell; Have no fears, O beating heart, There is no such word as part. Hands that meet and closely clasp Shall forever feel the grasp. All that lives goes on forever, Forever and forever. —Annette Kohn, in the Independent. Miscellaneous BE A WOMAN. Oft I have heard a gentle mother, As the twilight hours began, Pleading with a son on duty, Urging him to be a man. But unto the blue-eyed daughter, Though with love's words quite as ready, Points she out the other duty, — ' ' Strive, my dear, to be a lady. ' ' What's a lady? Is it something Made of hoops, and silks, and airs, Used to decorate the parlor, Like the fancy rings and chairs? Is it one that wastes on novels Every feeling that is human? If 'tis this to be a lady, 'Tis not this to be a woman. Mother, then, unto your daughter Speak of something higher far Than to be mere fashion's lady — "Woman" is the brightest star. If you in your strong affection, Urge your son to be a true man, Urge your daughter no less strongly To arise and be a woman. Yes, a woman! brightest model Of that high and perfect beauty, Where the mind and soul and body Blend to work out life's great duty. Be a woman! naught is higher On the gilded crest of fame ; On the catalogue of virtue There's no brighter, holier name. Be a woman! on to duty! Eaise the world from all that's low, Place high in the social heaven Virtue's fair and raidant bow. Lend thy influence to each effort That shall raise our nature human, Be not fashion's gilded lady- Be a brave, whole-souled true woman. THAR' WAS JIM. Wildest boy in all the village, Up to every wicked lark, Happy at a chance to pillage Melon patches in the dark. Seemed a tarnal mischief breeder, For in every wicked whim Put your hand upon the leader— Thar' was Jim. He was eighteen when the summons Come for Union volunteers, And the fifn's and the drammin's An the patriotic cheers Made us with excitement dance, sir, Even old men, staid and primj And among the fust to answer— Thar' was Jim. One day when the giner'l wanted Volunteers to charge a place Where the rebel banners flaunted Impudently in our face, Seemed as though the cannon's bellers Hod no skeerishness for him, For among the foremost fellers — Thar' was Jim. How we cheered 'em at the startin' On that fearful charge they made, For it seemed that death was sartin In that fearful ambuscade. Once the smoke riz up a-showin Them as up the hill they dim', An ahead and still a-goin Thar' was Jim. Git thar? Wal, yer just a-shoutin, Nothing could have stopped them men; Each one seemed a howlin demon Chargin on a fiery pen. Purty tough when next I found him , For his face was black and grim, Dead, with dead men all around him — Thar' was Jim. — Captain Jack Crawford. 104 ISCELLANEOUS THE COUNTKY BOY. You'd think, to hear the poets talk About the country boy, That his life was just made up of all Earth's best and sweetest joy; They talk about the buttercups, The fragrant new-mown hay; Well, I guess that I 've been there myself, And know as well as they. 'Tis easy sitting in the shade Of "the grand old apple tree," To blow about the romance of The farmer's life, you see; But would they, like, those city chaps, Who have so much to say, In the burning heat and scorching sun To load this fragrant hay? And chores, upon the average farm, They seem to never end; The cows to milk, the wood to get, The sheep and pigs to tend; And jobs that are too mean for men, Fall also to our share, And yet they say the country boys Are free from strife and care. While they 're riding in their coaches fine, Or lounging on soft rugs, The country boys are pulling weeds, Or smashing tater bugs; But of all mean jobs upon a farm, And I can't mention half, The meanest thing is trying to wean A well-developed calf. Of one thing more I wish to speak, Which every boy knows well; If a farmer chance to have a call From a stylish city swell, The best preserves the house affords Are piled upon his plate, While the boy who picked the fruit is left To pout, and cuss, and— wait. The time is passing quickly by, The boys will soon be men, And take revenge by using boys As others have used them; But I wish those chaps who write that stuff, Misrepresenting boys, Would tell the truth about the thing, Or else shut up their noise. —Country Boy, in Ohio Farmer. CASTLE BUILDING. "What are you building, darling?" I asked my girlie fair, As she quietly sat on the hearth-rug, Piling her blocks with care, While the ruddy glow of the firelight Danced in her golden hair. "I am building a castle, mother," My little maid replied. "These are the walls around it, And here is a gateway wide, And this is the winding stair To climb up by the side." So the busy, flitting fingers Went on with her pretty play, And the castle walls were rising In the fading winter day, When — a sudden, luckless motion, And all in ruins lay! Ah, merry little builder, The years with stealthy feet May bring full many a vision Of castles rare and sweet, That end like your baby pastime — In ruin said and fleet. Yes, laugh o'er the toy walls fallen, For sunshine follows rain, And we may smile, looking backward At ruined shrine and fane, While the heart has shattered temples It may not build aagin. — Our Continent. THE CHILDBEN, THE GIRL. My mamma can make me a dress for my doll! She can make me a tidy to hang on the wall! She helps me set dinner with my tea set, En she puts in my apron a pocket, you bet! Oh, she makes me bouquets to put in my hair, En she can fix ribbons on dresses I wear; She dances with me and can play and sing, Oh, my mamma can do nearly everything. MISCELLANEOUS 105 But my papa can 't tie a bow knot for me, He says it 's a bother, an ' he can 't make it gee! My mamma can make a little red hood, En do lots o' things 'at my pa never could ; She can go in the stores and see every- thing, En seldom or never bring home anything; She can quiet the baby by just saying "boo!" The wonderful things 'at my mamma can do. THE BOY. Oh the wonderful things my papa can do, He can make me a house en a hobby- horse, too; He can make me a kite en box en balloon, En throw a base ball up as high as the moon; En he can shoot marbles, oh awfully straight, En draw funy pictures for me on my slate ; Oh en he can play clown an' dance all around, En stand on his head right out on the ground. Oh my ma can bake pies, oh awfully nice, But never wants me to go skating on ice, Eor she says it might break en then I'd fall in, En get soppin' wet clean through to the skin; She likes to have me sit around an' hold yarn, En help her with baby when she's got to darn ; En oh she's so nice, but I just can tell you, She can't do the things 'at my papa can do. — W. M. Fogarty. Indianapolis, Nov. 17. INVENTOEY OF A DEUNKAED. A hut of logs without a door, Minus a roof and ditto floor; A clapboard cupboard without crocks, Nine children without shoes or frocks, A wife that has not any bonnet With ribbon bows and strings upon it, Scolding and wishing to be dead, Because she has not any bread. A tea-kettle without a spout, A meat-cask with the bottom out. A "comfort" with the cotton gone, And not a bed to put it on; A handle without any axe, A hackle without wool or flax; A pot-lid and a wagon hub, And two ears of a washing tub. Three broken plates of different kinds, Some mackerel tails and bacon rinds; A table without leaves or legs — One chair and half a dozen pegs; One oaken keg with hoops of brass, One tumbler of dark-green glass; A fiddle without any strings, A gunstock and two turkey wings. O readers of this inventory, Take warning by its graphic story; For little any man expects, Who wears good shirts with buttoms on 'em, Ever to put on cotton checks, And only have brass pins to pin 'em! 'Tis, remember, little stitches Keep the rent from growing great, When you can't tell beds from ditches, Warning words will be too late. — Alice Carey. POETICAL ANATOMY. How many bones in the human face? Fourteen, when they're all in place. How many bones in the human head? Eight, my child, as I've often said. How many bones in the human ear? Three in each, and they help to hear. How many bones in the human spine? Twenty-six, like a climbing vine. How many bones of the human chest? Twenty-four ribs, and two of the rest. How many bones the shoulders bind? Two in each — one before, one behind. How many bones in the human arm? In each arm two; two in each fore-arm. How many bones in the human wrist ? Eight in each, if none are missed. 106 MISCELLANEOUS How many bones in the palm of the hand? Five in each, with many a band. How many bones in the fingers ten Twenty-eight, and by joints they bend. How many bones in the human hip ? One in each; like a dish they dip. How many bones in the human thigh? One in each, and deep they lie. How many bones in the human knees? One in each; the knee-pan, please. How many bones in the leg from the knee? Two in each, we can plainly see. How many bones in the ankle strong? Seven in each, but none are long. How many bones in the ball of the foot? Five in each as in palms were put. How many bones in the toes half -a-score ? Twenty-eight, and there are no more. And now, all together, these many bones fix, And they count in the body, two hundred and six. And then we have, in the human mouth, Of upper and under, thirty-two teeth. And now and then have a bone, I should think, That forms on a joint, or to fill up a chink. A Sesamond bone, or a Wormian, we call And now we must rest, for we've told them all. THEEE AGES. BOYHOOD. Without a doubt or question I believe The story of the Book from God re- ceived; And when I learned upon my mother's knee How Christ gave up His life on Calvary, It seemed to me that every infidel Deserved at least an everlasting hell. YOUTH. I knew it all. I called myself a muff For having faith in that silly stuff; I looked with pity on the ignorance That could not see through humbug at a, glance, With pride I called myself an infidel, And thought it funny to make joke on heU. MANHOOD. Without a doubt or question I believe The story of the Book I now receive. With feelings just the same as when I heard My mother read with reverence God's Word. A little thinking killed my faith, and then Deep study brought me back to God again. — W. L. Riordan. THE ENGLISH SOVEEEIGNS. [Those who wish to fix in memory the succession of the sovereigns of England can easily do so by committing the following lines. It has been said of the first part, that it is not new, but useful; and it is thought the second part, though new and never having been printed be- fore, may be useful also:] First William., the Norman, Then William, his son; Henry, Stephen and Henry, Then Eichard and John; Next Henry the Third; Edwards, one, two and three, And again after Eichard, Three Henrys we see. Two Edwards, third Eichard — If rightly I guess — Two Henrys, sixth Edward, Queen Mary, Queen Bess; Then Jamie the Scotsman; Then Charles, whom they slew, Yet received after Cromwell Another Charles, too. James Second, the exile, Then Mary, his daughter, And Willliam, her husband, From over the water; MISCELLANEOUS 107 Next Anne, best woman and Queen, Best ruler and wife That England had seen. George First, from Hanover, First King of his line; George Second, the next Of this house from the Rhine ; The third of these Georges, For his tax and oppressions Was whipped by George Washington, Though helped by the Hessians; And left to George Fourth His curtailed possessions. Then William the Fourth, of Hanover, too, Who, false to his wife, To his country was true, Who married poor Caroline To beat her and kick her, And dying at last, while his people Sang " Gloria,' ' Left the throne to his niece, The Princess Victoria; Since the Norman, fifth Queen (Of the Kings they were peers), Who ruled over England In eight hundred years. OUR PRESIDENTS. First Washington, the truly great, For eight years sailed the ship of state; John Adams next; then Jefferson, The latter for two terms came on. Then Madison and then Munroe, Each two terms served, I'd have you know. Then J. Q. Adams served four years; Then Jackson for two terms appears. Van Buren next, called "Matty Van"; Then Harrison, one month's brief span. John Tyler next; then Polk, James K.; Then Taylor sixteen months bore sway. Fillmore, the vice, succeeded him; Then Franklin Pierce one term came in. Then James Buchanan, until sixty-one Saw civil war but just begun. Then martyred Lincoln, elected twice, Set free the slave — his life the price. Then Andy Johnson the reins assumed; Then Grant, two terms, the hero plumed. Next Hayes; then Garfield, whose short life Soon fell before the assassin's knife. Then Arthur, his successor, came Followed by Cleveland, of recent fame. Ben Harrison the next we find ; Then Cleveland for the second time. McKinley last of all we see, The herald of prosperity. — ILineapolis Tribune. JOHNNY. When Johnny spends the day with us, you never seen the beat O' all the things a-happenin' in this ole house an' street. Ma she begins by lockin' up the pantry door an' cellar, An* ev'ry place that's like as not to in- terest a feller. An' all her chiny ornyments, a-stiekin' 'round the wall, She sets as high as she kin reach, for fear they'll git a fall. An ' then she gits the arnicky an ' stickin ' plaster out, An* says, "When Johnny's visitin' they're good to have about." I tell you what, there 's plenty fuss When Johnny spends the day with us! When Johnny spends the day with us, pa puts his books away An ' says, ' ' How long, in thunder, is that noosance goin' to stay?" He brings the new lawn mower up an' locks it in the shed, An' hides his strop an' razor 'tween the covers on the bed. He says, "Keep out that liberry, what- ever else you do, Er I shall have a settlement with you an' Johnny, too ! ' ' Says he, "It makes a lot o' fuss To have him spend the day with us ! " When Johnny spends the day with us, the man acrost the street Runs out an' swears like anything, an' stamps with both his feet, 108 MISCELLANEOUS An' says he'll have us 'rested 'cause his winder glass- is broke, An' if he ever ketches us it won't be any joke! He never knows who done it, 'cause there's no one ever 'round, An' Johnny, in particular, ain't likely to be found. I tell you what, there's plenty fuss When Johnny spends the day with us! When Johnny spends the day with us, the cat gits up an ' goes A-scootin ' 'crost a dozen lots to some ole place she knows. The next-door children climb the fence an' hang around for hours, An' bust the hinges off the gate an' trample down the flowers, An' break the line with Bridget's wash and muddy up the cloze, An' Bridget she gives warnin' then— an' that's the way it goes — A plenty noise an' plenty fuss When Johnny spends the day with us! —Elisabeth Sylvester, in the Century Magazine. BETTER THINGS. Better to smell the violet cool than sip the glowing wine; Better to hark a hidden brook than watch a diamond shine. Better the love of gentle heart than beau- ty 's favors proud; Better the rose's living seed than roses in a crowd. Better to love in loneliness than to bask in love all day; Better the fountain in the heart than the fountain by the way. Better be fed by mother's hand than eat alone at will; Better to trust in good than say, "My goods my storehouse fill. ' ' Better to be a little wise than in knowl- edge to abound; Better to teach a child than toil to fill perfection's round. Better to sit at a master 's feet than thrill a listening state; Better to suspect that thou art proud than be sure that thou art great. Better to walk the real unseen than watch the hour's event; Better the "Well done!" at the last than the air with shouting rent. Better to have a quiet grief than a hur- rying delight; Better the twilight of the dawn than the noonday burning bright. Better a death when work is done than earth's most favored birth; Better a child in God's great house than the king of all the earth. —George MacDonald. THE MINUET. Grandma told me all about it— Told me, so I couldn't doubt it — How she danced — my grandma danced! Long ago. How she held her pretty head, How her dainty skirt she spread, Turning out her little toes; How she slowly leaned and rose — Long ago. Grandma's hair was bright and. sunny; Dimpled cheeks, too — ah, how funny! — Really quite a pretty girl, Long ago — Bless her! Why, she wears a cap, Grandma does, and takes a nap Every single day; and yet Grandma danced the minuet Long ago. Now she sits there, rocking, rocking, Always knitting grandpa's stocking— Every girl was taught to knit Long ago — Yet her figure is so neat, And her way so staid and sweet, I can almost see her now Bending to her partner's bow- Long ago. Modern ways are quite alarming, Grandma says, but boys were charming— MISCELLANEOUS 109 Girls and boys I mean, of course - Long ago. • Bravely modest, grandly shy— What if all of us should try Just to feel like those who met In the graceful minuet Long ago? Grandma says our modern jumping, Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping, Would have shocked the gentle folk Long ago; No, they moved with stately grace, Everything in proper place, Gliding slowly forward, then Slowly courtesying back again, Long ago. With the minuet in fashion, Who could fly into a passion? All would wear the calm they wore Long ago. In time to come, if I, perchance, Should tell my grandchild of our dance, I should really like to say, "We did it, dear, in stately way Long ago." — Mary Mapes Dodge. OUE ARGUMENTS FOE TEMPEE- ANCE. THE TWO GLASSES. There sat two glasses, filled to the brim, At the rich man's table, rim to rim. One was ruddy and red as blood, And one was pure as the crystal flood. Said the glass of wine to his paler brother, Let us tell the tales of the past to each other. I can talk of banquet and revel and mirth, Where the proudest and grandest sons on earth Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight; Where I was king, for I ruled in might, From the heads of kings I have torn the crown ; From the height of fame I have hurled men down. I have blasted many an honored name ; I have taken virtue and given shame; I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste, That has made his future a barren waste. Far greater than king am I, Or than any army beneath the sky. I have made the arm of the driver fail, And have sent the train from the iron rail; I have made good ships go down at sea, And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me, For they said, Behold ! how great you be ; Wealth, fame, strength, genius before you fall, And your might and power are over all. Oh, oh, pale brother, laughed the wine, Can you boast of deeds as great as mine ? Said the water glass: I cannot boast of a king dethroned or a murdered host, But I can tell of a heart, once sad, By my crystal drops made light and glad ; Of thirsts I've quenched and brows I've laved ; Of hands I've cooled and souls I've I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain, Flowed in the river and played in the fountain, Slept in the sunshine and dropped from the sky, And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye. I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain; I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain. I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill That ground out the flour and turned at my will. I can tell of manhood, debased by you, That I have lifted and crowned anew. I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid; I gladden the heart of man and maid; I set the chained wine-captive free, And all are better for knowing me. These are the tales they told each other, The glass of wine and paler brother, As they sat together, filled to the brim, At the rich man's table, rim to rim. — Selected. 110 MISCELLANEOUS IN GRANDMAMMA'S TIME. Back in the Golden Olden days, When very stiff brocade, Stays, patches, powder, paint and hoops Bedight each blooming maid, My grandmamma, upon a time, A bright Thanksgiving day, All in her best, with winsome zest, Thanksgiving games did play. 'Twas "Roll the Plate," 'twas "Blindman's Buff," 'Twas merry "Hunt the Slipper," And if the sport was something rough, The belles and beaux were chipper. In each she played with grandpapa — A gay young sprig of fashion— Tet his rich waistcoat hid a heart Brimful of tender passion. Of tender passion all unspoke Until they heard the fiddle — "Roger de Coverley" it played— They started down the middle; Right! Left! Bow! Swing!— and ever swing, Then back to place with "setting." Perhaps their fingers did not cling, Dame Gossip's eye forgetting. 'Twas as they clung he found his tongue — The fiddle still played cheerly — While soft he said, ' ' Sweet maid ! Sweet maid! You know I love you dearly. ' ' Still— in a frame— she blooms and smiles — I think she still hears clearly, When fiddles play, Thanksgiving Day, "Sweet maid, I love you dearly." —Martha McCulloch-Williams, in Col- lier's Weekly. THE LITTLE BIRDIE TELLS. It's strange how little boys' mothers Can find it all out as they do, If a feller does anything naughty, Or says anything that's not true! They'll look at you just for a moment, Till your heart in your bosom swells, And then they know all about it— For a little bird tells! Now, where the little bird comes from, Or where the little bird goes, If he's covered with beautiful plumage, Or black as the king of the crows; If his voice is as hoarse as the raven's, Or clear as the ringing bells, I know not; but this I am sure of — A little bird tells! The moment you think a thing wicked, The moment you do a thing bad, Or angry, or sullen, or hateful, Get ugly, or stupid, or mad, Or tease a dear brother or sister— That instant your sentence he knells, And the whole to mamma in a minute That little bird tells! You may be in the depths of the closet, Where nobody sees but a mouse; You may be all alone in the cellar, You may be on the top of the house ; You may be in the dark and the silence, Or out in the woods and the dells- No matter! Wherever it happens, The little bird tells! And the only contrivance to stop him Is just to be sure what to say- Sure of your facts and your fancies, Sure of your work and your play; Be honest, be brave, and be kindly, Be gentle and loving as well, And then you can laugh at the stories The little bird tells! — Atlanta Constitution. LIFE IN SIX ACTS. BABY. Sighing, crying night and day; Winking, blinking, full of play. Fooling, schooling, getting tall; Growing, rowing, playing ball. Fussing, mussing over a tie; Larking, sparking on the sly. Cooing, wooing future wife; Gushing, blushing, tired of life. MISCELLANEOUS 111 MIDDLE AGE. Slaving, craving, hoarding wealth; Driving, striving, broken health. OLD AGE. Ailing, failing day by day; The undertaker ends the play. —National Educator. GBOWING OLD. At six — I well remember when — I fancied all folks old at ten. But, when I'd turned my first decade, Fifteen appeared more truly staid. But, when the fifteenth round I'd run, I thought none old till twenty-one. Then, oddly, when I'd reached that age, I held that thirty made folks sage. But when my thirtieth year was told, I said, ' ' At two-score men grow old ! ' ' Yet two-score came and found me thrifty, And so I drew the line at fifty. But when I reached that age, I swore None could be old until three-score! And here I am at sixty now, As young as when at six, I trow! 'Tis true, these rogues about my knee Say ' ' Grandpa ' ' when they speak to me ; But, bless your soul, I'm young as when I thought all people old at ten! Perhaps a little wiser grown — Perhaps some old illusions flown; But wond'ring still, when years have rolled, When is it that a man grows old? STOBT-BOOK BOYS. Fellows in stories do wonderful things, Circumvent robbers and hobnob with Then when they're needed they happen around To save youthful millionaires, pretty near drowned. Fellows in stories, as sure as you're born, Look upon danger with withering scorn, Slay stalwart pirates with small pocket- knives, Do everything "at the risk of their lives. ' ' Fellows in stories find rocks on the track, Save huge express trains from ruin and wrack, Always wear shirts of a bright scarlet hue— No other shade for a signal would do. Fellows in stories stop runaway steeds, Do any number of marvelous deeds; Often discover a dynamite plot, Go and explode it as likely as not. Fellows in stories make villains to quail, Know how to follow an Indian's trail, Find gold and diamonds hid in the rocks, Then "strike it rich" with a very few knocks. Fellows in stories that clerk in a store Save their employers a million or more, Get to be partners while still in their teens, Put in the savings bank most of their means. Fellows in stories are kidnaped for gold, Make their escape through a strategy bold, Leap from one danger right into another, Find in a dungeon a runaway brother. Fellows in stories run often to sea; Never get seasick — now, how can that be? Soon become captains and strut on the decks, Bescue their hundreds from opportune wrecks. I am a fellow who never was brave, Never saw one that I needed to save, Pirates and robbers don't travel my way, Might hunt for gold mines until I was gray. Once, through vacation, I worked in a store, Earned forty dollars, just that and no more; Yes, I was watchful, but so was the boss; Never could save him a cent's worth of Nothing heroic in chopping up wood, Nothing heroic in just being good. It pleases mother, that's worth while to me; I'm not a story-book fellow, you see. 112 MISCELLANEOUS THE WAY OF IT. The wind is awake, little leaves, little leaves, Heed not what he says — he deceives, he deceives ; Over and over To the lowly clover He has lisped the same love and pledged himself true, As he'll soon be lisping and pledging to you. The boy is abroad, dainty maid, dainty maid. Beware his soft words— I'm afraid, I'm afraid He's said them before Times many a score, Ay, he died for a dozen ere his beard pricked through, As he'll soon be dying, my pretty, for you. The way of the boy is the way of the wind, As light as the leaves is dainty maid- kind; One to deceive And one to believe — That is the way of it, year by year; But I know you will learn it too late, my dear. — Century. JOLLY WINTER WEATHER. Blow, blow; snow, snow, Everything is white. Sift, sift; drift, drift, All the day and night. Squealing pig, paths to dig, Hurry out of bed; Rub your nose, warm your toes, Fetch along the sled. Red-cheek girls, wavy curls, School house down the lane; Fingers tingle, sleigh-bells jingle, Jack Frost come again. Hurrah ! hurrah ! now for war ; Build the white fort high; Steady aim wins the game; See the snowballs fly. Setting sun, day is done, Round the fire together; Apples rosy, this is cozy, Jolly winter weather. VEGETABLE POETRY. Potatoes came from far Virginia; Parsley was sent us from Sardinia; French beans, low growing on the earth, To distant India trace their birth; But scarlet runners, gay and tall, That climb upon your garden wall — A cheerful sight to all around — In South America were found. The onion traveled here from Spain; The leek from Switzerland we gain; Garlic from Sicily obtain; Spinach in far Syria grows; Two hundred years ago or more Brazil the artichokes sent o'er, And southern Europe's sea coast shore Beet root on us bestows. When 'Lizabeth was reigning here Peas came from Holland and were dear. The South of Europe lays its claim To beans, but some from Egypt came. The radishes, both thin and stout, Natives of China are, no doubt; But turnips, carrots and sea kale, With celery so crisp and pale, Are products of our own fair land; And cabbages — a goodly tribe, Which abler pens might well describe— Are also ours, I understand. — Goldthwaite's Geographical Maga- zine. MY CHOICE. - Genteel in personage, Conduct and equipage, Noble by heritage, Generous and free. Brave, not romantic; Learned, not pedantic; Frolicsome, not frantic; This must be he. Honor maintaining, Meanness disdaining, Still entertaining, Engaging and new. MISCELLANEOUS 113 Neat, but not finical; Sage, but not* cynical ; Never tyrannical, But ever true. HEALTH ALPHABET. The following curious piece of sanitary poetry was printed with the menu of the dinner of the sanitary convention at Phil- adelphia : As soon as you are up shake blanket and sheet ; Better be without shoes than sit with wet feet; Children, if healthy, are active, not still; Damp beds and damp clothes will both make you ill; Eat slowly and chew your food well; Freshen the air in the house where you dwell; Garments should never be made too tight; Homes should be healthy, airy and light; If you wish to be well, as you do, I 've no doubt, Just open the windows before you go out ; Keep the rooms always tidy and clean; Let dust on the furniture never be seen; Much illness is caused by the want of pure air; Now, to open the windows be ever your care; Old rags and old rubbish should never be kept; People should see that their floors are well swept; Quick movements in children are healthy and right; Remember, the young can not thrive without light; See that the cistern is clean to the brim; Take care that your dress is all tidy and clean; Use your nose to find if there is a bad drain; A^ery sad are the fevers that come in its train ; "Walk as much as you can without f eeliug fatigue ; Xerxes could walk full many a league; . Your health is your wealth, which your wisdom must keep; Zeal will help a good cause, and the good you will reap. WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME? What is Glory? What is Fame? The echo of a long lost name; A breath, an idle hour's brief talk; The shadow of an arrant naught; A flower that blossoms for a day, Dying next morrow; A stream that hurries on its way, Singing of sorrow — The last drop of a bootless shower, Shed on a sere and leafless bower; A rose stuck in a dead man 's breast — This is the World's fame at the best! What is Fame? and what is Glory? A dream— a jester's lying story To tickle fools withal, or be A theme for second infancy; A joke scrawled on an epitaph; A grin at Death's own ghastly laugh; A visioning that tempts the eye, But mocks the touch — nonentity; A rainbow, substanceless as bright, Flitting forever O'er hilltop to more distant height, Nearing us never; A bubble blown by foul conceit, In very sooth itself a cheat; The witch-fire of a frenzied brain; A fortune that to lose were gain; A word of praise, perchance of blame ; The wreck of a time-bandied name— Aye, this is Glory! — this is Fame! — William JKotlierivell. THE NEW GIRLS. I grow old, and my hair graws gray; The wrinkles keep coming in, day by day ; I grow gray, and I grow old, And the years they mark me with wrinkle and fold; The seasons come and the seasons go, With the turn of the sun and the chill of the snow; The years slip away and the back grows bent, And friends to the World of Friends are sent, And life grows grizzled. But, thank the ' Lord!- Abundant in mercies is spread His board ! — Whatever may fail as the years run through, The crop of the girls is always new. 114 MISCELLANEOUS Every day of every year That crop is certain and sure to appear. The world never gets to such a pass That some of them aren't coming in to grass ; And there's nothing sweeter, I'll give my guess, Than a girl just into her first long dress, With her pigtails turned into done-up hair— And the blushing smile that she has to wear "When her first real beau takes off his hat— What's in the garden to match with that? Be glad, O World, that whatever you do, The crop of girls is always new! Nina, Bettina, Sally and Fan, Barbara, Jenny, Bertha and Ann, Nancy, Harriet, Millicent, Prue, Clara, Alice, Margaret, Lou, Elinor, Mary, Euth and Sue— All the old names of my days of dew, And just as pretty and sweet and fair As in the days when I used to be there- No ! — not exactly ! — not quite ! — not quite ! — My lot could beat them clear out of sight — But there's nothing to grumble at, though, for you While the crop of girls is always new! — H. C. Bunner. BLINDFOLDED AND ALONE I STAND. Blindfolded and alone I stand, With unknown thresholds on each hand; The darkness deepens as I grope, Afraid to fear, afraid to hope; Yet this one thing I learn to know Each day more surely as I go, That doors are opened, ways are made, Burdens are lifted or are laid By some great law unseen and still, Unfathomed purpose to fulfill, ' ' Not as I will. ' ' Blindfolded and alone I wait; Loss seems too bitter, gain too late; Too heavy burdens in the load And too few helpers on the road; And joy is weak and grief is strong, And years and days so long, so long; Yet this one thing I learn to know Each day more surely as I go, That I am glad the good and ill By changeless laws are ordered still, "Not as I will." "Not as I will; " the sound grows sweet Each time my lips the words repeat. ' ' Not as I will ; ' ' the darkness feels More safe than light when this thought steals Like whispered voice to calm and bless All unrest and all loneliness. "Not as I will," because the One Who loved us first and best is gone Before us on the road, and still For us must all His love fulfill, Not as we will." —Helen Hunt Jackson. ON VALENTINE'S DAY. Lock your hearts up well to-day, There's a rascal thief about; Throw the precious key away If you'd keep him out. He 's a master of deceit, He's a flatterer, and so He will call you all that's sweet — Which you are, I know. All his tricks and wiles he '11 try, Tempting you as best he can; He is such a shrewd and sly, Clever little man. Hidden in his burglar 's kit, Well he knows that safe in there Is the very key to fit — Sweetheart, have a care! . Yet I may as well confess; Love is what he calls this key, And his name is Cupid — yes, And he comes from me. -Frank Dempster Sherman, in Smart Set. YEARS AND YEAES AGO. Years and years and years agone, When you were seven and I was five, We used to sit on the garden wall, Clinging together lest we should fall, Wondering how to get down alive! MISCELLANEOUS 115 Years and years and years gone by, When you were little and I was small, We played together, you and I, And sobbed and kissed as we said ' ' good- bye," There at the gate in the garden wall. Years and years and years have past, And you are pretty and I am tall, And we meet once more by the garden gate; But we don't kiss now, we're grand and great ; We bow and curtsey with lots of state — It isn't so pleasant after all. SHORTEM SHY AND HERBERT SPENCER. Shortem Shy plays 'round my knee While I read Herbert Spencer; But still the more I read and read My ignorance grows denser; Eor Shortem Shy decries my taste And tells me every minute, "Say, papa, I don't like that book; There ain 't no lions in it. ' ' Now, Herbert Spencer is a great, A world-compelling thinker; No heavy plummet line of truth Goes deeper than his sinker. But one man reads his work way through For thousands that begin it. They leave one-half the leaves uncut — ' ' There ain 't no lions in it. ' ' The age-old errors in their den Does Herbert Spencer throttle, And ranks with Newton, Bacon, Kant And ancient Aristotle. The mighty homage of the few — These towering giants win it; The millions shun their hunting ground — ''There ain't no lions in it." I leave this metaphysie swamp, Thick grown with sturdy scions, And roam the Meadows of Romance With Shortem and his lions. He brings his gaudy Noah's Ark book And begs me to begin it; "Better than Hubbut Peneer book, That ain 't no lions in it. ' ' Now wead about the ef alunt So big he scares the people; An' wead about the kangerwoo Who jumps up on the 'teeple." So I take up the Noah's Ark book And sturdily begin it, And read about the "efalunts" And lions that are in it. Shortem will grow in soberness, His life become intenser; Some day he'll drop his "efalunts" And take up Herbert Spencer. But lif e can have no happier years Than glad years that begin it, And life sometimes grows dull and tame That has no lions in it. —S. W. Foss. THE UNDERLAND. When I was, oh, so much smaller, And so much nearer the ground, The dear, queer things I could hear and see! The wonderful things I found! I mined on the mole-hill mountains, I toiled in the valleys of sand, And the gems untold and the pebble-gold I shut away in my hand! When I was, oh, so much smaller, Wherever I chanced to pass I saw the ants and the little brown bugs Climb up on the blades of grass ! I traveled, I and the little brown bugs, Through a forest vast and sweet, Whose shadowy glades I know no more, Because it is under my feet! When I was, oh, so much smaller, And so much nearer the floor, The leagues of its carpet prairie! The flowers that scattered it o'er! The house — what a boundless kingdom! What mysteries came and went! Each chair was a wayside boulder, Each table a spreading tent! The lamps were moons hung in heaven, And the big folks giant-high; Away up on father's shoulder I could reach clear into the sky! I'm glad I am coming up taller! We can't stay close to the ground! Yet I think, oh, often and often, Of the wonderful things I found! 116 MISCELLANEOUS Of the hills, and the -wonderful valleys, Of the byways, memory-sweet, The land that I left behind me When I grew away from my feet! —Catharine Young Glen, in the Youth' & Companion. THE CHILDREN'S MUSIC. We ask where the magie came from That made her so wondrous fair, As she stood with the sunlight touching Her gloss of golden hair. And her blue eyes looked toward heaven, As though they could see God there. "Hush," said the child; "can't you hear it, The music that's everywhere?" God help us, we could not hear it; Our hearts were heavy with pain; We heard men toiling and wrangling, We heard the whole world complain; And the sound of a mocking laughter We heard again and again, But we lost all faith in the music — We had listened so long in vain. "Can't you hear it?" the young child whispered, And sadly we answered, "No. We might have fancied we heard it In the days of long ago; But the music is all a delusion; Our reason has told us so, And you will forget that you heard it When you know the sound of woe." Then one spoke out from among us Who had nothing left to fear; Who had given his life for others, And been repaid with a sneer. And his face was lit with a glory, And his voice was calm and clear, And he said, ' ' I can hear the music Which the little children hear." — F. M. Owen. TRIBULATIONS. She was the prettiest girl, I ween, That mortal eye had ever seen; Her name was Annabel Christine, Her cheeks were smoothed with vaseline, Her bangs were curled with bandoline, Her teeth were brushed with fine dentine, Her face was touched with coaline, Her gloves were cleaned with gasoline, She wore a dress of grenadine Looped o 'er a skirt of brilliantine ; Her petticoat was bombazine, Her foot was shod with a kid bootine, Her wounds were healed with cosmoline; She sailed away from Muscatine In a ship they called a brigantine ; She flirted with a gay marine Till they reached the republic Argentine, Where they were married by a dean And lived on oleomargarine; Also the mild tin clad sardine, And did disturb the Boston bean When boiled and served in a soup tureen. Salt pork they ate, both fat and lean, When garnished round with parsley green ; And likewise lobster coraline, With lemons sliced its form to screen. In short, they lived a king and queen, " In manhood's pride and beauty's sheen, For on them there was nothing mean. His looks and language were serene, He wore a coat of velvetine. She kept her parlor neat and clean, Her favorite dye was aniline; She rocked the cradle by machine, And named the baby Josephine, Yet never was a brighter scene Than when that girl, at sweet sixteen, Entered the room with haughty mien. — Hartford Times. THE MEREIE PLOWBOT. Now the merrie plowboy hiketh Down the back stairs on a jump, To the bar of soap alluring In the basin by the pump. Then he springeth to the stable Where he cutteth up the feed, For the patient cattle waiting And the old rheumatic steed. Then he chocketh down his fodder - Pork in fat and overdone ; Snatched up the soggy biscuit Which he eateth on the run. How he humpeth on the harness In a momentary jiff On the framework of the horses That are standing sore and stiff. MISCELLANEOUS 117 He surmounteth lady fashion On the off nag very prim — Ah, to sitteth there a-straddle Meaneth splitting limb from limb. Where the suckers waiteth eager In the mill dam there below, Casteth he with wistful longing Glances full of tears and woe. Then he turneth up the furrow — And the angle wormlet, he, Squirmeth there in all his glory In abandon gay and free. And the plowboy's perturbation Aireth words a-full of woe — "It's dern tough to be a plowin' When the fish are bitin' so! " DOLLARS AND CENTS. I'll write you a ballad on dollars and cents, Every tine shall be perfectly true; And I 'm writing these verses on purpose, my friend, To present a few home truths to you. A quarter looks small when you're out with ' ' the boys, ' ' Fifty cents or a dollar soon goes, And a ride on a car or a beer is but five, Which is "nothing — as every one knows. ' ' If you squander a quarter each day of your life, Though it may seem remarkably queer, If you'd put it away in the bank you would have $91.25 In a year. But a quarter a day isn't half what you waste, If you count your occasional sprees; What you waste will well pay for your board and your clothes. And the rest you can save if you please. So shut off your treating and walk when you can, And give up the excitements you've craved, And you'll be quite surprised at the end of the year At the tidy amount you have saved. THE DYING BOY. It must be sweet, in childhood, to give back The spirit to its Maker; ere the heart Has grown familiar with the paths of sin, And sown, to garner up its bitter fruits. I knew a boy whose infant feet had trod Upon the blossoms of some seven springs, And when the eighth came round, and called him out To revel in its light, he turned away, And sought his chamber to lie down and die. 'Twas night; he summoned his accus- tomed friends, And on this wise bestowed his last be- quest. "Mother, I'm dying now! There's a deep suffocation in my breast, As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed ; And on my brow I feel the cold sweat stand; My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath Comes feebly on. Oh! tell me, is this death? "Mother, your hand; Here, lay it on my wrist, And place the other thus beneath my head, And say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead, Shall I be missed? Never beside your knee Shall I kneel down again at night to pray; Nor with the morning wake and sing the lay You taught me! "Oh, at the time of prayer, When you look round, and see a vacant seat, You will not wait then for my coming feet; You'll miss me there. Father, I am going home! To the good home you spoke of, that blest land, Where it is one bright summer always, and Storms do never come. "I must be happy then From pain and death you say I shall be free, 118 MISCELLANEOUS That sickness never enters there, and we Shall meet again. Brother, the little spot I used to call my garden, where long hours We've stayed to watch the budding things and flowers, Forget it not! ' ' Plant there some box or pine, Something that lives in winter, and will be A verdant offering to my memory, And call it mine! "Sister, my young rose tree, That all the spring has been my pleasant care, Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair, I give to thee; And when its roses bloom, I shall be far away, my short life done; But will you not bestow a single one Upon my tomb? ' ' Now, mother, sing the tune You sang last night. I 'm weary, and must sleep, Who was it called my name? Nay, do not weep, You'll all come soon?" Morning spread over earth her rosy wings, And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale, Lay on his couch asleep. The gentle air Came through the open window, freighted with The savory odors of the early spring; He breathed it not; the laugh of pass- ers-by Jarred like a discord in some mournful tune, But wakened not his slumber. He was dead. Lo! He was dead. WHAT'S IN A SMILE? What's in a smile? — ah, much I find, A smile can soothe, or pain the mind; A smile's an index of the soul; Try then thy muscles to control. The smile of scorn— I've felt its power; What is there harder to endure? I've read it in the maiden's face, The scornful smile my eye can trace. The smile of hate — that I can bear; For smiles of foes, I do not care; The smile of pride, my spirit grieves, The smile of love, my heart relieves. There 's meaning always in a smile ; The trusting heart it may beguile ; Love, hate, contempt, or pride, I trace, "Fair lady" in thy smiling face. BEAUTIFUL EXTEACT. Oh, if there is one law above the rest Written in wisdom — if there is a word- That I would trace with a pen of fire Upon the unsullied temper of a child — If there is anything that keeps the mind Open to angel visits, and repels The ministry of ill— 'tis human love ! God has made nothing worthy of con- tempt. The smallest pebble in the well of truth Has its peculiar meanings, and will stand When man's best monuments wear fast away. The law of Heaven is love — and though its name Has been usurped by passion, and prof an 'd To its unholy vises through all time, Still, the eternal principle is pure; And in these deep affections that we feel Omnipotent within us, can we see The lavish measure in which love is giv'n. And in the yearning tenderness of a child, For every bird that sings above its head ; And every creature feeding on the hills, And every tree and flower, and running brook, We see how everything was made to love, And how they err, who in a world like this, Find anything to hate but human pride. Old Sayings and Oddities OLD SAWS IN EHYME. Actions speak louder than words ever do; You can 't eat your cake and hold on to it, too. "When the cat is away, then the little mice play; Where there is a will there is always a way. There is no use of crying o'er milk that is spilt; No accuser is needed by conscience of guilt. There must be some fire wherever is smoke ; The pitcher goes oft to the well till it's broke. By rogues falling out honest men get their due; Whoever it fits, he must put on the shoe. All work and no play will make Jack a dull boy; A thing of much beauty is ever a joy. A half a loaf is better than no bread at all; And pride always goeth before a sad fall. Fast bind and fast find, have two strings to your bow; Contentment is better than riches, we know. The devil finds work for hands idle to do ; A miss is as good as a mile is to you. You speak of the devil he's sure to ap- pear; You can't make a silk purse from out a sow's ear. A man by his company always is known; Who lives in a glass house should not throw a stone. Speech may be silver, but silence is gold; There's never a fool like the fool who is old. —Detroit Free Press. AN ALPHABETICAL EHYME. There is a farmer who is Y's Enough to take his E's, And study Nature with his I 'a And think as what he C's. He hears the clatter of the J's As they each other T's, And Z's that when a tree DK's It makes a home for B's. A pair of oxen he will U's With many haws and G's, And their mistakes he will XQ's While plowing for his P's. In raising crops, he all XL's, And therefore little O's, And when he hoes his soil by spells He also soils his hose. —Whitehall Times. IDIOSYNCRASIES. The idiosyncrasies of the English lan- guage are no better illustrated than in the following doggerel which is sailing around the newspapers: Eemember, though box in the plural makes boxes, The plural of ox should be oxen, not oxes; And remember, though fleece in the plural is fleeces, The plural of goose is not gooses nor geeses ; 120 OLD SAYINGS AND ODDITIES And remember, though house in the plural is houses, The plural of mouse should be mice, and not mouses. Mouse, it is true, in the plural is mice, But the plural of house should be houses, not hic.e; And foot, it is true, is the plural of feet, But the plural of root should be roots and not reet. OLD SAWS IN EHYME. The wrong pig by the ear; still waters run deep; There is in each flock a very black No fool like an old fool; a hard row to hoe; A straw shows the way the wind chanceth to blow. Where smoke is there's fire; no news is good news; 111 news travels fast and a beggar can't choose. Whatever 's worth doing is worth doing well; If you give him an inch he'll take surely an ell. 'Tis the last straw that breaks camel's back; hit or miss; Wisdom is folly when ignorance is bliss; Save at the spigot and lose at the bung; A man can not drown who is born to be hung. Little pitchers have big ears; as thin as a rail; In the dark are all cats black; as slow as a snail. As proud as a peacock; as meek as a lamb; As pretty as a picture; as old as a clam. Set a thief to catch thief; barking dogs never bite; Easy come, easy go, and two wrongs make no right. Same old two-and-sixpence ; both tarred by same stick; Fine feathers make fine birds; a hint beats a kick. Butter won't melt in his mouth; give and take; The devil his own loves ; hard lines ; make or break. Actions speak louder than words; kill or cure; Good intentions pave hell; to the pure all is pure. When in doubt take the trick; look first e'er you leap; Take time by the forelock ; catch a weasel Every man for himself, and the devil for us all. When the blind lead the blind in the ditch tumble all. He eats humble pie; drowning men at straws clutch; Too big for his buttons; it just beats the Dutch; Making mountains of mole, hills ; still pig get3 most swill; Blood's thicker than water; each Jack has his Jill. Slow and sure; fast and loose; hail fel- low well met; All things are fish that come into his net. Soft answer turns wrath; every dog has his day; Where there is a will there is always a way. — E. C. Dodge, in Goodall's Sun. THE SPELLING MATCH. Ten little children standing in a line, ' ' F-u-l-y, fully, ' ' then there were nine. . Nine puzzled faces, fearful of their fate, "C-i-1-l-y, silly," then there were eight. Eight pairs of blue eyes, bright as stars of heaven, ' ' B-u-s-s-y, busy, ' ' then there were seven. Seven grave heads, shaking in an awful fix, "L-a-i-d-y, lady," then there were six. Six eager darlings, determined each to strive, "D-u-t-i-e, duty," then there were five. Five hearts so anxious, beating more and more, " S-c-o-M-a-r, scholar," then there were four. OLD SAYINGS AND ODDITIES 121 Four mouths like rosebuds on a red rose tree, ' ' M-e-r-y, merry, ' ' then there were three. Three pairs of pink ears, listening keen and true, ' ' O-n-1-e-y, only, ' ' then there were two. Two sturdy laddies, ready both to run, ' ' T-u-r-k-y, turkey, ' ' then there was one. One head of yellow hair, bright in the sun, "H-e-r-o, hero," the spelling match was won. —New Orleans Picayune. OLD SAYINGS. As poor as a church mouse, As thin as a rail; As fat as a porpoise, As rough as a gale; As brave as a lion, As spry as a cat; As bright as a sixpence, As weak as a rat. As proud as a peacock, As sly as a fox; As mad as a March hare, As strong as an ox; As fair as a lily, As empty as air; As rich as Croesus, As cross as a bear. As pure as an angel, As neat as a pin; As smart as a steel trap, As ugly as sin; As dead as a door-nail, As white as a sheet; As flat as a pancake, As red as a beet. As round as an apple, As black as your hat; As brown as a berry, As blind as a bat; As mean as a miser, As full as a tick; As plump as a partridge, As sharp as a stick. As clean as a penny, As dark as a pall; As hard as a millstone, As bitter as gall; As fine as a fiddle, As clear as a bell; As dry as a herring, As deep as a well. As light as a feather, As firm as a rock; As stiff as a poker, As calm as a clock; As green as a gosbng, As brisk as a bee; And now let me stop, Lest you weary of me. AN UNILITEBAL POEM. In a volume of poems, "Songs of Singularity," by the Landon Hermit, re- cently published in England, is the fol- lowing specimen of alliteration. It is supposed to be a serenade in M flat, sung by Maj. Marmaduke Muttonhead to Mademoiselle Madeline Mendazo Mar- riot: My Madeline ! My Madeline ! Mark my melodious midnight moans, Much may my melting music mean, My modulated monotones. My mandolin's mild minstrelsy, My mental music magazine, My mouth, my mind, my memory, Must mingling murmur "Madeline." Muster 'mid midnight masquerade, Mark Moorish maidens, matrons mien, 'Mongst Murcia's most majestic maids, Match me my matchless Madeline. Mankind's malevolence may make Much melancholy music mine; Many my motives may mistake, My modest merits much, malign. My Madeline 's most mirthful mood Much mollifies my mind's machine; My mournf ulness 's magnitude Melts — makes me merry, Madeline! Match-making ma's machinate, Maneuvering misses me misween; Mere money may make many mate My magic motto's— "Madeline. " 122 OLD SAYINGS AND ODDITIES Melt, most mellifluous meloldy 'Midst Murcia's misty mounts marine, Meet me by moonlight — marry me, Madonna mia! — Madeline. —New York Tribune. THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. A pretty deer is dear to me, A hare with downy hair; I love a hart with all my heart, But barely bear a bear, "lis plain that no one takes a plane To pare a pair of pears ; A rake, though, often takes a rake To tear away the tares. All rays raise thyme, time razes all; And through the whole, hole wears. A writ, in writing ' ' right ' ' may write It " wright" and still be wrong— For "wright" and "rite" are neither ' ' right, ' ' And don't to write belong. Beer often brings a bier to man, Coughing a coffin brings, And too much ale will make us ail, As well as other things. The person lies who says he lies When he is but reclining; And when consumptive folks recline, They all decline declining. A quail don't quail before a storm, A bough don't bow before it, We can not reign the rain at all, No earthly power reigns o'er it. A dyer dies a while, then dies; To dye he's always trying Until, upon his dying bed, He thinks no more of dyeing. The son of Mars mars many a son; All deys must have their days, 'Tis meet that man should mete out meat To feed misfortune's son; The fair should fare on love alone, Else one can not >e won. The spring springs forth in Spring, and shoots, Shoots forward one and all; Though Summer kills the flowers, it leaves The leaves to fall in Fall. I would a story here commence, But you might find it stale; So let's suppose that we have reached The tail end of our tale. WANTED. A hat for the head of a fountain, A glove for the hand of fate, A shoe for the foot of a mountain, A link from the chain of debate. A spoke from the wheel of fortune, A chip from the "pole" of the South, A drink from the fountain of knowledge, A word from the river's mouth. A drop from the cup of sorrow, A look from the face of the storm, A stroke from the arm of justice, A ring for the finger of scorn. A knock at the door of repentance, A throb from the ocean's heart. A glance from the eye of a needle, From Cupid's bow a dart. A piece of the Eock of Ages. A plume from the wing of Time, Some milk of human kindness, And I have done my rhyme. —Mien M. Nave. CHESTNUTS SET TO EHYME. Oh, what makes the chimney sweep? And why did the codfish ball? And why, oh, why did the peanut stand? And what makes the evening call? Oh, why should the baby farm? And why does the mutton chop ? Can you tell me what makes the elder- blow? Or what makes the ginger pop? Say why does the terrible bed spring? And why does the saddle-horse fly? Or what makes the pillow slip? And why do the soap boilers lye? What made the monkey wrench? Or why should the old mill dam? And who did the shoemaker strike? Or why did the raspberry jam? Or why should a tree bark? And what makes the wind howl? Can you tell me what makes the snow ball? Or what makes the chimney foul? — Atlanta Constitution. OLD SAYINGS AND ODDITIES 123 OLD SAYINGS. As blunt as 'a beetle, As sharp as a lauce, As grave as a preacher, As gay as a dance, As late as the gloamin', As like as two peas, As crook 'd as a ram's horn, As round as a cheese. As flat as a flounder, As sticky as gum, As wide as a common, As tight as a drum. As white as a miller, As black as a crow, As lean as a greyhound, As bent as a bow. As frail as a bandbox, As stout as an oak, As queer as a quaker, As game as a cock, As cute as a lawyer, As square as a die, As keen as a razor, As warm as a pie. As drunk as a piper, As sober as a judge, As clean as a shaving, As filthy as smudge, As swift as an arrow, As slow as a snail, As blithe as a linnet, As right as the mail. — Glasgow Herald. A LITERARY ODDITY. The Brewers should to Malta go, The Boobies all to Sicily, The Quakers to the Friendly Isles, The Furriers to Chili. The little snarling, carroling That break our nightly rest, Should be packed off to Baby-Ion, To Lapland, or to Brest. From Spit-head Cooks go o'er to Greece, And while the Miser waits His passage to the Guinea coast, Spendthrifts are in the Straits. Spinsters should to the Needles go, "Wine bibblers to Burgundy, Gourmands should lunch at Sandwich Isles, "Wags at the Bay of Fun-dy. Batchelors to the United States, Maids to the Isle of Man; Let Gardeners go to Botany Bay, And Shoeblacks to Japan. Thus emigrate — and misplaced men "Will here no longer vex us; And all who aint provided for Had better go to Texas. THE TRAIN. Hark! It comes? It humbs ! With ear to the ground I catch the sound, The warning courier-roar That runs long before, The pulsing struggling now is clearer! The hillside echo. ''Nearer, nearer." Till like a drove of rushing, frightened cattle, With dust and wind and clang and shriek and rattle, Passes the Cyclops of the train ! I see a fair face at a pane — Like a piano-string The rails unburdened sing The white smoke flies Up to the skies; The Sound Is Drowned — Hark! COURTSHIP BY NOTE. A Major loved a maiden so, His warlike heart was soft as Do. He oft would kneel to her and say: "Thou art of life my only Re. "Ah! if but kinder thou would 'st be, And sometimes sweetly smile on Mi! "Thou art my life, my guiding star, I love thee near, I love thee Fa. "My passion I can not control, Thou art the idol of my Sol." The maiden said : ' ' Oh, fie ! ask pa ; How can you go on thus ? Oh, La ! " The Major rose from bended knee, And went her father for to Si. 124 OLD SAYINGS AND ODDITIES A POEM FBOM BIBLE TEXTS. Cling to the Mighty One, Cling in thy grief, Cling to the Holy One, He gives relief; Cling to the Gracious One, Cling in thy pain; Cling to the Faithful One, He will sustain. Ps. lxxxix; 19. Heb. xii; 11. Heb. vii ; 11. Ps. cxvi ; 6. Ps. cxvi ; 5. Ps. iv ; 4. 1 Thess. v; 23. Ps. iv; 24. Cling to the Living One, Cling to thy woe, Cling to the Living One, Through all below, Cling to the Pardoning One, He speaketh peace, Cling to the Healing One, Anguish shall cease. Heb. vii; 25. Ps. Ixxxvi ; 7. 1 John iv ; 16. Rom. vii ; 38-3£ John xiv; 27. John xiv ; 23. Bxod. xv ; 25. Ps. cxvii; 27. Cling to the Bleeding One, Cling to His side, Cling to the Bisen One, In Him abide ; Cling to the Coming One, Hope shall arise, Cling to the Beigning One, Joy lights thine eyes. 1 John ii; 27. John xx ; 27. Rom. vi ; 9. John xv ; 4. Rev. xxii ; 20. Titus ii ; 20. Ps. xcvii ; 1. Ps. xvi ; 11. HUMOES OF LITEEAEY NAMES. Pray, what did T. Buchanan Bead? At what end E. A. Poe? What volumes did Elizur Wright? And where did E. P. Eoe? Is Thomas Hardy nowadays? Is Eider Haggard pale? Is Minot Savage? Oscar Wilde? And Edward Everett Hale? Was Lawrence Sterne? Was Hermaan Grimm? Was Edward Young? John Gay? Jonathan Swift? and old John Bright? And why was Thomas Gray? Was John Brown? and is J. E. Green? Chief Justice Taney quite? Is William Black? E. D. Blackmore? Mark Lemon? H. K. White? Was Francis Bacon lean in streaks? John Suckling vealy? Pray, Was Hogg much given to the pen? Are Lamb's Tales sold to-day? Did Mary Mapes Dodge just in time? Did C. D. Warner? How? At what did Andrew marvel so? Does Edward Whymper now? What goodies did Bose Terry Cooke? Or Eichard Boyle beside? What gave the wicked Thomas Paine? And made Mark Akenside? Was Thomas Tickell-ish at all? Did Eichard Steele I ask? Tell me, has George A. Sala suit? Did William Ware a mask? Does Henry Cabot Lodge at Home? John Home Tooke what and when? Is Gorden Cumming? Has G. W. Cabled his friends again? —Mary Packard Bollins. EIGHT-WOED POEMS. A novel competition was recently got- ten up by a London journal, called An- swers, in which prizes were offered for OLD SAYINGS AND ODDITIES 125 the best eight-word poems. The editor SAD FATE. desired 1,500, and received 15,000. Here Forest glen, are some of the best: Lion's den. HIS REMEDY. Savage tones, Eags, bones. Noble earl, Lost bets; 'Murriean girl FALSE/ Title gets. Lovely girl, Golden hair: "Windy whirl, we've spared it. Tresses— where? Little poem, Lacks fire; Sent back — Kitchen fire. CEISS CEOSS. — If you stick a stick across a stick JILTED. Or stick a cross across a stick Brain whirl; Or cross a stick across a stick Madly jealous; My girl Or stick a cross across a cross Or cross a cross across a stick Or cross a cross across a cross Other fellow's. Or stick a cross stick across a stick — Or stick a crossed stick across a crossed THE COLOR WAS NOT FAST. stick Lady bold; Or cross a crossed stick across a cross Hair gold; Or cross a crossed stick across a stick Eain — alack! Or cross a crossed stick across a crossed Hair black. stick, Would that be an acrostic? — Christian Union. HOW IT WAS DONE. Angler firm, Little worm; Silly fish, YOU. Dainty dish. The Chinaman praiseth his T's, The mandarin praiseth his Q. HIS DESTINATION. The gardener praiseth his turnips and P's, Hunter, bear, But I praise U. Struggling pair. Man inferior; The mariner loveth the C's, Gone interior. The billiardist loveth his Q, The husbandman loveth his cattle — and B's, NATURAL. But I love U. Boating excursion, The foolish have need- of the T's, Sudden immersion. The actor needeth his Q, Kescue effected; The pilot hath need of two excellent I's, Wedding expected! But I need U. — The hunter seeketh the J's, HAPPY THOUGHT. The shepherd seeketh his U, Stony broke, The college boys seek their final Meager fare: "B-AV Patent soap, But ICQ. Millionaire ! — April St. Nicholas. 126 OLD SAYINGS AND ODDITIES IS IT POSSIBLE? Ten weary, foot-sore travelers, All in a woful plight, Sought shelter at a wayside inn One dark and stormy night. ' ' Nine beds, no more, ' ' the landlord said, "Have I to offer you; To each of eight a single room, But the ninth must serve for two. ' ' A din arose. The troubled host Could only scratch his head; For of those tired men no two Could occupy one bed. The puzzled host was soon at ease — He was a clever man — And to place all his guests devised This most ingenious plan : A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I In room marked A two men were placed ; . The third he lodged in B; The fourth to C was then assigned; The fifth retired to D; In E the sixth he tucked away, In E the seventh man; The eighth and ninth in G and H, And then to A he ran, "Wherein the host, as I have said, Had laid two travelers by, Then taking one— the tenth and last- He lodged him safe in I. Nine single rooms — a room for each — Were made to serve for ten, And this it is that puzzles me, j And many wiser men. >ense an dN onsense LITTLE LIZETTE. As little Lizette was out walking one day, Attired with great splendor in festal array, She met little Gretchen, in sober hued gown, With a basket of eggs trudging off to the town. "Good morning! Good morning!" cried little Lizette, "You haven't been over to visit me yet. Come over and live with me always, pray do, For I have no sisters; how many have you?" "Nein," answered wee Gretchen. Lizette cried, "Ah, me! I have to pretend I have sisters, you see. But try as I will, I can't make it seem true. And I have no brothers. How many have you?" "Neiii," answered wee Gretchen. ' ' Nine ! ' ' echoed Lizette, ""Why, you are the luckiest girl I have met! And have you a baby at home; tell me now?" "Nein," answered wee Gretchen, and made a droll bow. Then lingered Lizette by the roadside that day, To watch the wee maiden go trudging away. "Nine brothers, nine sisters, nine babies to pet, Oh, I wish I was Gretchen! " sighed lit- tle Lizette. —Katherine S. Alcorn. THE WAY IT STRUCK HER. A little ragged orphan girl, who ne 'er Had had a home, nor known a parent's care, And who, with shoeless feet and hatless head, Newspapers sold to earn her scanty bread, Was taken from the city far away, With others of her kind, one summer day, To look upon the ocean. At the sight Her thin, sharp face was filled with grave delight. And some one said, "I wonder what can be Her thoughts, poor child, about this mighty sea?" She heard the words and quickly turned her head, And in low tones, " I 's thinkin ' ma 'am, ' ' she said, " I 's glad I corned, because I never sor Enough of anything at wunst before." — Margaret Eytinge. THE CAKE THAT WAS BURNT. There was a little cook, and she made a little cake, She put it in the oven just to bake, bake, bake; It was fidl of plums and spice And of everything that's nice, And she said, "An hour, I reckon, it will take, take, take ! ' ' And then that little cook went to have a Little play, With a very charming cat across the way, way, way; She forgot the cake, alack! It was burnt, well, almost black, And I wondered what the cook's mamma would say, say say! 128 SENSE AND NONSENSE The little cook ran off, and confessed her tale of woe, For to find her cake a cinder was a blow, blow, blow! ' ' Cheer up, ' ' her mother said, As she stroked the golden head. ' ' For accidents will happen, we all know, know, know ! ' ' —Cassell's Little Folks. ADAM NEVER WAS 'A BOY. Of all the men the world has seen Since Time his rounds began, There's one I pity every day — Earth's first and foremost man. And then I think what fun he missed By failing to enjoy The wild delights of youthtime, for He never was a boy. He never stubbed his naked toe Against a root or stone; He never with a pin hook fished Along the brook alone; He never sought the bumblebee Among the daisies coy, Nor felt its business end, because He never was a boy. He never hooky played, nor tied The ever ready pail Down in the alley all alone To trusting Fido's tail. And when he home from swimmin' came His happiness to cloy No slipper interfered, because He never was a boy. He never cut a kite string, no ! Nor hid an Easter egg; He never ruined his pantaloons A-playing mumble peg; He never from the attic stole A coon hunt to enjoy, To find the "old man" watching, for He never was a boy. I pity him. Why should I not? I even drop a tear; He did not know how much he missed; He never will, I fear. And when the scenes of "other days" My growing mind employ I think of him — earth's only man Who never was a boy. — T. C. Haroaugh. WHEN MOTHER FEEDS THE CHICKENS. A while before the sun has rose, 'N' father builds the kitchen fire, Our big black rooster crows 'n' crows, 'Z if his neck would never tire; 'N'en we get up 'n' feed the stock 'N' water Fannie 'n' milk the cows, 'N fix a gate er broken lock; 'N'en after breakfas' father plows 'N' mother feeds the chickens. The pancakes Wallie wouldn't eat 'N ' cornbread left on Mar jorie 's plate, A scrap of toast, a bit of meat, 'N' all the stuff what no' one ate, She puts it in that worn-out tin, Throws out some grain, 'n' pretty quick She hollers nearly 's loud 's she kin, "Come chick! chick! chick! chick! chick! chick! " — So— when she feeds the chickens. You'd ought to see old Top-Knot run, 'N' Banty hop— he's hurt one leg— 'N' Plymouth Rock (the bigges' one — She lays a 'nomous monstrus egg) — 'N'en Speckle, with her new-hatched brood, A-cluckin' to 'em 's hard's she kin, 'N' showin' 'em the nices' food — She gets it for 'em out the tin, 'N' peeks the other chickens. Old Gray, our cat, comes snoopin' roun' 'N ' slyly peeks from hind the stoop ; 'F any meat's tnere he is boun' 'T shant go to the chicken coop. Now filled with all an owner's pride, Wee Willie comes with wondrous eyes, That look so brown 'n' bright 'n' wide; He loves to watch 'em, 'n' he cries — ' ' Des see my baby tickens ! ' ' I love to ride the colt a lot 'N go fer berries to the patch 5 I love to see our dog 'n' Spot Get in a turble scrappin' match; 'N' tho' it's kind o' quiet fun, I like it nearly best of all; That's why I alius cut 'n' run To see 'em 'f I hear the call — "Come chick! chick! chick! chick chick! chick! chick!"— When mother feeds the chickens. — Will L. Davis, in Chicago Becord. SENSE AND NONSENSE 129 LET HIM PERSEVERE. He had spent long years in college, and acquired all kinds of knowledge, From smoking cigarettes to reading Greek, And it was said by many that in Hebrew, Eskimo and Latin With the accent of a native he could speak. He knew every modern science, and for every new appliance He was able some new improvement to suggest; And from bending on a hawser up to criticising Chaucer, Of all the greatest minds he was abreast. He was charmed with hydrostatics, and in higher mathematics Not a thing to stump him could he find; And to prove a line's direction or bisect a conic section Was but as relaxation to his mind. But he saw a little maiden, after all this store he 'dy laid in, The most . inviting problem he had met, And he fellt it in his mission to employ his erudition To solve this most perplexing question yet. So without a bit of shirking he has ever since been working On the problem, with an ardor that ne'er tires; Yet with all his application, to his great and deep vexation, He can not get the answer he desires. —J. G. Thacker, in New York Sun. BLISS. He was a little negro And sat upon a fence, He hadn't any father Nor any mother, hence He was a little orphan And hadn't any sense. He thought the earth a circle But flat as any floor; Was sure it scarce extended Beyond the river shore; And thought the stream the Jordan Which Israel passed o'er. He knew the sun at twilight Just put himself to bed Underneath a coverlet Of purple, blue and red; Except on stormy evenings When it used black instead. He b'lieved the stars in heaven Were blessed angels' eyes "A-peepin froo de openin's Ter see who steals de pies"— At least so said his auntie, And she was very wise . And then he thought his conscience, The throbbing 'neath his ribs That beat so fast and loudly Whenever he told fibs, Which was often, each one prefaced By "True as eber yer libs! " And he was sure Elijah Would come for him some night, And take him in a chariot, All glorious with light, To a sweet and happy country Where every one was white. He was a little negro And sunned him on the fence, He hadn't any knowledge Nor any money, hence He was supremely happy — Each has his recompense! — Independent. BABY BROTHER. Yes, I've got a little brother Never asked to have him, nuther, But he's here. They just went away and bought him, And last week the doctor brought him, Weren't that queer? When I heard the news from Molly, Why I thought at first 'twas jolly, 'Cause you see, I s 'posed I could go and get him And then manna, course, would let him Play with me. But when I had once looked at him, '"Why," I says, "Great snakes, is that him? Just that mite! 130 SENSE AND NONSENSE They said "Yes," and "Ain't he eun- nin'?" And I thought they must be funnin' — He's a sight! He's so small, it's just amazin, And you'd think that he was blazin', He's so red. And his nose is like a berry, And he's bald as Uncle Jerry On bis head. Why, he isn't worth a brick, All he does is cry and kick, He can't stop; Won't sit up, you can't arrange him — I don't see why pa don't change him, At the shop. Now we've got to dress and feed him, And we really didn't need him More'n a frog; Why'd they buy a baby brother When they know I 'd good deal ruther Have a dog? —Kansas Farmer. "QUEEE SPELLS." A gentleman took a long cruise To cure an attack of the bluise, He went on a yacht He lately had bacht, And now the wide ocean he vuise. —Boston Courier. A youth far out on the ocean, Grew ill from the ship 's rocking mocean. With a sigh and a crigh, And a tear in his igh, Of living he gave up the noeean. —Truth. A small dude bought a seat on the aisle, And dressed himself up in great staisle; But when a large hat Down in front of him sat Then people all wanted to smaisle. There was a young girl in Eau Claire, Who was witty, and good, and seau f aire ; All the other girls found, That when she was around, They were just counted out as neau whaire. —Hawkeye. A poor little fellow called Vaughan Was playing one day on the laughan, When a whirlwind came nigh, Took him up to the skigh And none could tell where he had gaughan. —Truth. The shoemaker sharpended his knife, Tor he and his wife were at kstrif e, And said, "Now at klast All bounds you have kpassed! Say your prayers and bid farewell to klif e ! ' ' —New YorTc Herald. The bride was led up the broad aisle, Got up in the most killing staisle, When asked if she'd be A true wife to he She promptly replied: "I should —Puck. A timid young man in Macomb Took a beautiful maid to her homb; The bulldog was loose Kind words were no use, So up the an oak tree he did roamb. An old yellow dog in Cologne Ean away with an an old woman 's bogne ; But the wrathful old crogne Hit him twice with a stogne, And 'twas dreadful to hear the dog grogne. —Burlington Hawkeye. HEE FIEST CAKE. She measured out the butter with a very solemn air; The milk and sugar also; and she took the greatest care To count the eggs correctly and to add a little bit Of baking powder, which you know, be- ginners oft omit. Then she stirred it all together and she baked it full an hour — But she never quite forgave herself for leaving out the flour! —E. L. Sylvester. SENSE 'AND NONSENSE 131 ONE OF HIS NAMES. Never a boy had so many names; They called him Jimmy and Jim and Jeems and Jamie; and well he knew Who it was that wanted him too. The boys in the street ran after him, Shouting out loudly, "Jim! Hey J-i-m-m I " Until the echoes, little and big, Seemed to be dancing a Jim Crow jig. And little Mabel, out in the hall, ' ' Jimmy ! Jimmy ! ' ' would sweetly call, Until he answered, and let her know Where she might find him, she loved him so. Grandpa, who was dignified, And held his head up with an air of pride, Didn't believe in abridging names, And made the most he could of ' ' J-a-m-e-s. ' ' But if papa ever wanted him, Crisp and curt was the summons ' ' Jim ! ' ' That would make the boy on his errands run Much faster than if he had said "My Son." DELSAKTEANISM. She bendeth low — She kicketh high; She swayeth gently to and fro— She treadeth only on her toe; And, when I ask the reason why, The lissome lady doth reply: ' ' Dear Edmund Eussel doeth so. ' ' "And who may Edmund Eussell be?" 'Tis thus I catechize her. She looketh in amaze on me; She saith, "In truth, I pity thee!" She cried, "Shame unto thee! Why sir, The high priest of Delsarte is he— A type of wan flaccidity — Our dear devitalizer ! ' ' She fluttereth her wrists Just like that matchless man; She battereth her fists; She doeth wondrous twists, Though I don't see how she can. She whirls and spins; insists She likes it, till vague mists Swim 'round her and she's wan — Just like that prince of priests, The pale Delsartean. —Buffalo Courier. TOO BAD. Nothing to do but work; Nothing to eat but food; Nothing to wear but clothes To keep one from being nude. Nothing to breathe but air- Quick as a flash 'tis gone — Nowhere to fall but off Nowhere to stand but on. Nothing to comb but hair, Nowhere to sleep but bed, Nothing to weep but tears; No one to bury but dead. Nothing to sing but songs; Ah, well, alas and alack! Nowhere to go but out; Nowhere to come but back. Nothing to see but sights; Nothing to quench but thirst; Nothing to have but what we've got, Thus through our lives we're cursed. Nothing to strike but a gait— Everything moves that goes; Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes. SNAKES. You have heard of "the snake in the grass," my boy, Of the terrible snake in the grass; But now you must know Man's deadliest foe Is a snake of a different class. Alas! 'Tis the venemous snake in the glass ! —J. G. Saxe. 132 SENSE- AND NONSENSE DISCOVERED. As snowdrifts melt one may perceive Much buried history; Somebody's sad neglect betrayed, A rake a hoe, a garden spade, A missing ax, a much sought pail, A scrubbing brush, a card, "For Sale,' A wilted doll, its color gone, That "baby" left out on the lawn, The kitchen broom, old Bowser's chain; Ah! yes, the melting drifts explain The awful mystery And treasures sadly mourned retrieve. PERSEVEEE. S'pose the fish don't bite at fust; What be you goin' to do? Chuck down your pole, throw out your bait, An' say your fishin's through? Uv course you hain't; you're goin' to fish, An' fish, an' fish, an' wait Until you've ketched your basket full, An' used up all your bait. S'pose success don't come at fust; What be you goin' to dew? Throw up the sponge and kick yourself, An' go to feelin' blue? Uv course you hain't; you've got to fish, An' bait, an' bait ag'in. Bimeby success will bite your hook, An' you will pull him in. —Houston Post. LIFE. Life's a lesson all must git, Never was a feller yit Shirked the task and got along — Got to study, hard and strong! 'Bout sixteen we think we know 'Nough to last where'er we go; Then we're sure, at twenty-one, We know all beneath the sun, Thirty comes, an' then we feel We 've of wisdom quite a deal, But at forty we cry, "Darn! Now, I guess I'll start and 1 'am!" Fifty comes, an' then, behold! We conclude we're gettin' old, Look back at the wasted past— On the years that went so fast — An' we think, "By gosh, it's queer I know less from year to year! If I don't get up an' try, I '11 know nothin ' when I die ! ' ' Then we delve, an' work, an' grind, Study everything we find; Try to find out why we 're here, Why we 're spared from year to year ; Study every single page Of the book; but, at this age, Learnin's hard. We sadly sigh. Then comes seventy. Time to die! Shut the book of life up tight ; School is over an' it's night, Then we say, an' feel so small— "Ain't learned nothin' after all!" —Boston Traveler. Index of Titl es Page Adam Never Was a Boy 128 Advice to a Boy 57 A Hint 22 Aim of Life, The 76 A Life Story 34 A Listening Bird 94 Alone 77 A Lullaby 10 Always a Biver to Cross 63 An Aim 68 An Alphabetical Bhyme 119 An Angel Here 51 A Poem from Bible Tests 124 A Queer Boy 66 A Seed 84 A Single Stitch 85 A Sister 's Love 32 At His Mother 's Knee 31 Baby Brother 129 Baby Choir, The 19 Baby Louise 13 Baby May 11 Baby 's Evening Song 16 Baby 's Eeply 9 Baby 's Stratagem 17 Beautiful Extract 118 Beautiful Things 100 Be a Woman 103 Be Earnest 78 Bed Time Fancies 13 Be Polite 59 Better Late Than Never 79 Better Things 108 Bill Was There! 94 Blindfolded and Alone I stand .... 114 Bliss 129 Boys Wanted 66 Butterfly in the City, A 96 Page Canadian Lullaby, A 10 Castle Building 104 Cheerful Heart, The 88 Cheering Words 55 Chestnuts Set to Ehyme . 122 Children's Music, The 116 Choosing a Name 19 Child and Mother 35 Christmas Bells 42 Christmas Day 43 Christmas Carol, A 46 Conscience and Bemorse 96 Consolation 50 Country Boy, The 104 Courtship By Note 123 Cradle Song 8 Criss Cross 125 Dance of the Months 45 Day By Day 77 Dear Mother-Heart 34 Delsarteanism 131 Diplomacy 23 Discovered 132 Do All that You Can 81 Dollars and Cents 117 Do Not Forget 53 Don't Take it to Heart 68 Drifting 84 Duty's Path 91 Eight-Word Poems 124 English Sovereigns, The 106 Epigrammatic 51 Farmer Boy, The 67 Fate 93 Father Take My Hand 100 Forever 102 For the School Boys 87 Fred Englehardt's Baby 12 134 INDEX OF TITLES Page From the German 85 Golden Hair 15 Golden Keys 24 Good-Night and Good-Morning. ... 15 Good Temper . , 49 Grandma 's Boy 39 Grandma 's Wedding Gown 31 Grandpa's Pet 24 Great Expectations 85 Growing Old Ill Grown-Up Land 71 Happiness 54 Health Alphabet 113 He is a Hero 99 Help One Another 72 Here and There 53 Her First Cake 130 Her Name 21 Her Little Boy 35 Her Papa 20 His Birthday 46 Home 31 How to Be Happy 52 Humors of Literary Names 124 Hymn for a Child 83 Idiosyncrasies 119 I. Dunno and I. Knowit 95 If 50 88 If I Knew 88 If I Were Santa Claus 43 If I Were You 60 If Mother Knew 97 If We Could Know 76 If We Knew 49 If You 're Good 43 I Meant To 93 Intry-Mintry 18 I'll Put it Off 79 Influence 83 In Grandmama 's Time 110 In the Battle 58 Inventory of a Drunkard 105 I Saw Three Ships 42 Is It Possible? 126 Island of Dreams, The 27 It Pays 87 I Will Be Worthy of It Jane Jones Jimmie Boy's Letter to Santa Claus Johnny Jolly Winter Weather Keep in the Golden Way Kindness Kissed His Mother Lad and Lass Land of Little People, The Land of "Make Believe," The.... Learn a Little Every Day Leedle Yacob Strauss Left Alone Let Him Persevere Life 52, 65, Life in Six Acts Life is Too Short Literary Oddity, A Little Boy's Pocket, A Little Boy Who Ean Away, The Little Brown Hands Little Children Little Drops of Water Little Feet Little Jim Little Lizette Little Millionaire, The Little Things 81, Love Bridge, The Lullaby 7, Magic Letter, The Mama ? s Good-Night Mary Mattie 's Wants and Wishes Mother Mother 's Little Lad Mother 's Eoom My Choice My Mother 36, My Neighbor 's Boy Neighbor Jim Never Again New Every Morning Nobility Noble Deeds Page 67 93 44 107 112 61 83 12 30 129 132 110 78 123 22 24 73 26 85 91 44 127 21 84 20 11 92 18 102 16 33 28 36 112 38 54 88 78 75 99 INDEX OF TITLES 135 Page Nobody Knows But Mother 29 Nothing is Lost 50 Old Saws in Ehyme 119, 120 Old Sayings 121, 123 One at a Time 82 One Day at a Time 83 One of His Names 131 Only a Baby 9 Only One Mother 27 Opportunity 75 Our Arguments for Temperance .... 109 Our Day is Today 86 Our Fireside 28 Our Heroes 63 Our Presidents 107 Paddle Your Own Canoe 58 Paths 64 Perseverance 68 Persevere 132 Pitty Pat and Tippy Toe 30 Plodder's Petition, The 67 Poetical Anatomy 105 Prayer, The Unfinished 25 "Queer Spells" 130 Eemember, Boys Make Men 60 Eoek-a-Bye 8 Eock-a-Bye Baby 8, 9 Eoom at the Top 67 St. Nicholas, A Visit Prom 41 Seven Points for Boys 57 Shortem Shy and Herbert Spencer. . 115 Slumber Song 11 87 131 Somebody's Mother 54 Some Day 28 So Much to Learn 75 Sonny, Never Mind 33 Sowing and Eeaping 72 Spelling Match, The 120 Story-Book Boys Ill Strength for Today 76 Sweetest of Lullabys, The 7 Tapestry "Weavers, The 97 Telling Fortunes '. 95 Thar' Was Jim 103 The Boy Who Minds His Mother 60 The Cake That Was Burnt 127 The Children 104 The Dying Boy 117 The English Language 122 The Goodest Mother 35 The Little Birdie Tells 110 The Manliest are the Tenderest. . . . 102 The Merrie Plowboy 116 The Minuet 108 The New Girls 113 The Old Polks' Longing 37 The Prayer 97 The Eight WiU Eight Itself : . . 53 The Eiver 78 The Eudder 63 The Tone of Voice 51 The Tongue 84 The Train 123 The Underland 115 The Vicar 's Sermon 64 The Water That's Passed 79 The Way It Struck Her 127 The Way of It 112 Three Ages 106 Three Lessons 61 Three Things 95, 100 Thy Duty 61 Time to Come Home 33 Tiny Tokens 82 Tired of Play 52 To a Child Embracing His Mother. . 37 To Get the Good of Living 66 To My Mother 37 Too Bad 131 To the Boys 67 Tribulations 116 Two Lives 91 Uniliteral Poem, An 121 Valentine 's Day, On 114 Vegetable Poetry 112 "Wait Des a Minit" 22 Wanted 49, 122 Watching for Papa 23 Watch Your Words 57 Way to Sleeptown, The 17 136 INDEX OF TITLES Welcome, Little Stranger What Are They Doing at Home? What Can You Do? What Does It Matter? Page 20 29 73 99 113 53 60 22 118 69 101 32 94 When Mother Feeds the Chickens . . . Where 's Mother? Where There's a Will There's a Way Which Loved Best? Page 128 27 65 71 What is Glory? What is Fame? What is Good? What Not to Lose Who Bides His Time 68 Who's Afraid in the Dark? Why Don't You Laugh? 18 87 81 What's in a Smile? What the Clock Says When God Made You When Grandma Shuts Her Eyes .... Write Them a Letter Tonight Years and Years Ago You Young Lady's Soliloquy, A 59 114 125 71 6*> To the Public All persons buying this initial volume, or into whose hands it may come, are requested to send name and address (by postal card) to the undersigned, that I may send you prospectus of another book of like nature (larger and more advanced) now under way. In case there is no book-seller or agent handling this book in your vicinity, remit one dollar, by postal order, to me and I will mail it to you, postage paid. 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