LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Shelf..i.275" UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. I & ■ ■ " ;**■.->.■■ ■ lt§ f ■ ■ » - ^M ■ ■ £4 ■ I K Word Pictures, AND HOWTOPAIHTTHEM. >J BY , J.Watson Eusk, Copyright, 1881, by J.Watson Rusk. &.

>> Into the yard the farmer goes, With grateful heart, at the close of day : Harness and chain are hung away ; In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow ; The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow ; The cooling dews are falling : The friendly sheep his welcome bleat The pigs come grunting to his feet, The whinnying mare her master knows, When into the yard the farmer goes, His cattle calling — " Co, boss! co, boss! cot co! co." While still the cow-boy, far away, Goes seeking those that have gone astray — Co, boss! co, boss! co! co." AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 17 Now to her task the milk maid goes; The cattle come crowding through the gate, Lowing, pushing, little and great; About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, "While the pleasant dews are falling: The new milch heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye; And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothingly saying — " So, boss! so, boss! so, so, so." The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, " so, so, boss! so, so." To supper at last the farmer goes: The apples are pared, the paper read, The stories are told, then all to bed: Without, the cricket's ceaseless song Makes shrill the silence all night long; The heavy dews are falling: The housewife's hand has turned the lock; Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; The household sinks to deep repose, But still in sleep the farm-boy goes Snoring — " Co, boss! co, boss! co, co, co." And oft the milkmaid in her dreams, Drums in the pail with the flashing stream, Murmuring " So, boss! so! so." J. T. Trowbridge, 18 WORD PICTURES BUGLE ECHO. The splendor falls on castle walls, And snowy summits old in story ; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow ! set the wild echoes flying: Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying ! O hark O hear ! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going ! O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing ! Blow '• let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying ! O love, they die in yon rich sky ; They faint on hill, or field, or river : Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow ! set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer — dying, dying, dying ! Tennyson. KIT CAKSON'S WIFE. On winter eve, when cabins bright With the crimson flash of the log-fire's light, And the soft snow sleeps on the prairie's breast, They gather — the frontier scouts of the West- And, speaking sometimes with bated breath, Of wars of the border, and deeds of death, They crown their stories of reckless strife With the famous ride of Kit Carson's wife. AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 19 For into a Sioux village, one day, From Dixon, a hundred miles away, A Norseman reached the chieftain's tent, Dismounted, staggered and gasped. 'Tm sent With sorrowful new T s from the pale-face town. Kit Carson, the scout ; is stricken down, And before he bids farewell to life He would see the face of his Indian wife. She heard that story — the chieftain's child — Her bronze face whitened, her glance grew wild; She grasped her deerskin cloak, and felt The pistols were safe in her wampum belt, She uttered only a smothered moan, And the scout and the chieftain stood alone. Her pony snorted; she grasped his mane, And the fleetest mustang that pressed the plain, Turning away from the sunset light, Sped like an arrow into the night, And the flanks flung backward a glistening foam As she headed her horse to her husband's home. Oh, sing not to me of Lochinvar, Or of reckless rides in glorious war ! But, oh ! if ever perchance you hear Of Sheridan, Graves, or Paul Revere — Of all who galloped to deathless life, Just speak the name of Kit Carson's wife. The stars leaped out in the boundless sky, And the girl looked up as the moon flashed by — The terrified moon, in a terrible race, Keeping time to her pony's pace! She heard the hoot of the lonely owl, And afar from the forest, a distant howl Louder and louder, piercing the air, 20 WORD PICTURES Till her throbbing heart moaned a pitiful prayer; For, grasping her pistol and looking back, The Indian girl saw wolves on her track. The foremost fell with a shot in his heart, And his comrades tearing him part from part, While the horse flashed faster over the plain, With the girl's dark face in his tangled mane, Over the trackless prairies, away, Galloping into the new-born day. The first faint rays of the daybreak dim, Showed her upon the horizon's rim, An armed band of her people's foes, Riding as fast as the north wind blows, With the flash of the sun on the leader's plume, A signal that sealed the maiden's doom. But the daring blood of a noble race, Like flames in a gloomy forest place, Flushed redly into her Indian face, And she caught the tomahawk at her side, A toy in the blood of berries dyed — Swung it aloft, and, with panting breath, Galloped full in the front of death. Over each mustang every foe Swerved like lightning, bending low; Thro* the band, that parted to right and left, A clear wide path the maiden cleft, And an instant more she had passed them by, And was riding alone into the eastern sky. The terrified braves looked back on her there, While the sunlight's glory over her hair, Shone like a halo, wonderful, grand! Had she fled from the far-off-spirit-land? AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 21 Had she brought them blessings, or a blight? They shuddered and broke into sudden flight. Into the streets of a cabin town — Into the village riding down, With fevered brain, and with glazing eyes, And breath that fluttered in gasping sighs, She still urged on the faltering steed, That had served her well in her hour of need. And the pony leaped as it felt the rein, Galloped, staggered, and reeled again, And just as it reached Kit Carson's door, With work well done, and with anguish o'er, Fell to the earth and stirred no more ! An hour later the great scout died, His faithful Indian wife at his side. She only lingered a little while, And followed him then with a happy smile, Together they sleep in the self-same grave, Where widely the winds of winter rave, And in summer the prairie flowers wave ! CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST. Storm — on the heaving waters! The vast sky Is stooping with its thunder. Cloud on cloud Rolls heavily in the darkness, like a shroud Shaken by midnight's Angel from on high; Through the thick sea-mist, faintly and afar Chorazin's watch-light glimmers, like a star, And, momently, the ghastly cloud-fires play On the dark sea-wall of Capernaum's bay; And tower and turret into light spring forth Like spectres starting from the storm swept earth And vast and awful Tabor's mountain form, ZZ WORD PICTURES Its Titan forehead, naked to the storm, Towers for one instant full and clear, and then Blends with the blackness and the cloud again. And it is very terrible ! The, roar Ascendeth unto heaven, and thunders back, Like the response of demons, from the black Rifts of the hanging tempests, yawning o'er The wild waves in their torment. Hark! the cry Of the strong man in his peril, piercing through The uproar of the waters and the sky, As the rent bark, one moment, rides to view On the tall billows, with the thunder-cloud Closing around, above her, like a shroud. He stood upon the reeling deck. His form Made visible by the lightning, and his brow Pale and uncovered to the rushing storm, Told of a triumph man may never know, Power underived and mighty. ' 'Peace, be still." The great waves heard him, and the storm's Loud tone went moaning into silence at his will; And the thick clouds, where yet the lightning shone And slept the latent thunder, rolled away Until no trace of tempest lurked behind, Changing upon fhe pinions of the wind, To stormless wanderers, beautiful and gay. Dread Ruler of the tempest! Thou before Whose presence boweth the uprisen storm, To whom the waves do homage round the shore Of many an Island's empire! If the form Of frail dust beneath thine eye may claim Thy Infinite regard, oh, breathe upon The storm and darkness of man's soul the same Quiet and peace and humbleness which came O'er the roused waters, where thy voice had gone, A minister of power, to conquer in thy name. Whittier. AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 23 LAUNCHING THE SHIP. Then the master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand. And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, Knocking away the shores and spurs. And see! — she stirs! She starts! she moves! she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel! And, spurning w T ith her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms! And lo! from the assembled crowd, There rose a shout, prolonged and loud. That to the ocean seemed to say, "Take her, O Bridegroom, old and gray, Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms!" How beautiful she is! How fair She lies within those arms, that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care \ Sail forth into the sea, O ship \ Through wind and wave, right onward steer; The moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear. Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! Sail on, O Union, strong and great, Humanity, with all its fears, 24 WORD PICTURES With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate. We know what Master laid thy keel — What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel Who made each mast and sail and rope; What anvils rang, what hammers beat; In what a forge, and what a heat, Were shaped the anchors of thy hope. Fear not each sudden sound and shock — 'Tis of the wave, and not the rock; 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale. In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea. Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee; Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee — are all with thee. H. W.Longfellow. THE BAYONET CHARGE. Not a sound, not a breath! And as still as death, As we stand on the steep in our bayonets' shine: All is tumult below, Surging friend, surging foe; But not a hair's breadth moves our adamant line, Waiting so grimly. The battle smoke lifts From the valley, and drifts [world ; Round the hill where we 'stand, like a pall for the And a gleam now and then AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 25 Shows the billows of men, [hurled, In whose black, boiling surge, we are soon to be Redly and dimly. There's the word! "Ready all!" See the serried points fall — The grim horizontal so bright and so bare* Then the other word — Ha ! We snuff the burnt powder, we plunge in the glare, Rushing to glory ! Down the hill, up the glen, O'er the bodies of men; Then on with a cheer, to the roaring redoubt! Why stumble so, Ned? No answer: he's dead! There's Dutch Peter down, with his life leaping out, Crimson and gory. On! on! Do not think Of the falling; but drink Of the mad, living cataract torrent of war. On! on! let them feel The cold vengeance of steel. Catch the Captain — he's hit ! 'Tis a scratch- nothing More. Forward forever! Huzza ! Here's a trench, In and out of it. Wrench From the jaws of the cannon the guerdon of fame. Charge, charge ! with a yell Like the shriek of a shell, O'er the abatis, on through the curtain of flame. Back again, Never. The rampart, 'Tis crossed. It is ours, It is lost. No, another dash now and the glacis is won. Huzza ! What a dust. Hew them down. Cut and thrust. A T-i-g-e-r ! brave lads, for the red work is done. Victory, Victory ! [ N.J). TTrner, \ 26 WORD PICTURES MACLAINE'S CHILD. "Maclaine, you've scourged me like a hound; You should have struck me to the ground; You should have played a chieftain's part You should have stabbed me to the heart. You should have crushed me unto death;- But here I swear with living breath, That for this wrong which you have done, I'll wreak my vengeance on your son, — "On him, and you, and all your race !" He said, and bounding from his place, He seized the child with sudden hold- A smiling infant three years old- And starting like a hunted stag, He scaled the rock, he clomb the crag, And reached, o'er many a wide abyss, The beetling seaward precipice; And leaning o'er its topmost ledge, He held the infant o'er the edge:- " In vain thy wrath, thy sorrow vain; No hand shall save it, proud Maclaine ! " With flashing eye and burning brow, The mother followed, heedless how, O'er crags with mosses overgrown, And stair-like juts of slippery stone. But midway up the rugged steep, She found a chasm she could not leap, And kneeling on its brink, she raised Her supplicating hands, and gazed. . " 0,spare my child, my joy, my pride! O, give me back my child, ! ' she cried. 1 ' My child ! my child ! ' with sobs and tears, She shrieked upon his callous ears. AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 27 " Come, Evan, ' said the trembling chief; His bosom wrung with pride and grief. " Restore the boy, give back my son, And I'll forgive the .vrong you've done. ' " I scorn forgiveness haughty man ! You've injured me before the clan; And nought but blood shall wipe away The shame I have endured to-day.' And as he spoke, he raised the child, To dash it 'mid the breakers wild, But, at the mother's piercing cry, Drew back a step, and made reply :- " Fair lady, if your lord will strip, And let a clansman wield the whip, Till skin shall flay, and blood shall run, I'll give you back your little son.' The lady's cheek grew pale with ire, The chieftain's eye flashed sudden fire; He drew a pistol from his breast, Took aim, -then dropped it, sore distressed. " I might have slain my babe instead, Come, Evan, come,' the father said; And through his heart a tremor ran. " We'll fight our quarrel, man to man.' " Wrong unavenged, I've never borne,' Said Evan, speaking loud in scorn: " You've heard my answer, proud Maclaine: I will not fight you - think again.' The lady stood in mute despair, With freezing blood and stiffening hair ; She moved no limb, she spoke no word: She could not look upon her lord. He saw the quivering of her eye, Pale lips and speechless agony. 28 WORD PICTURES And, doing battle with his pride, ' Give back the boy, - 1 yield. ' he cried. A storm of passion shook his mind — Anger and shame and love combined; But love prevailed, and bending low, % He bared his shoulders to the blow. ' I smite you' said the clansman true: ' Forgive me, chief, the deed I do ! For by yon Heaven that hears me speak, My dirk in Evan's heart shall reek ! ' But Evan's face beamed hate and joy: Close to his breast he hugged the boy. "Revenge is just, revenge is sweet, And mine, Lochbuy, shall be complete.'' Ere hand could stir, with sudden shock, He threw the infant o'er the rock, Then followed with a desperate leap, Down fifty fathoms to the deep. They found their bodies in the tide ; And never till the day she died "Was that sad mother known to smile — The Niobe of Mulla's isle They dragged false Evan from the sea, And hanged him on a gallows tree; And ravens fattened on his brain, To sate the vengeance of Maclaine. Charles Mackay. WASHINGTON'S SWORD AND FRANKLIN'S STAFF. J.Q.Adams. The sword of Washington ! The staff of Frank- lin ! O, Sir, what associations are linked in adamant with these names ! Washington, whose sword was never drawn but in the cause of his country, and nev- AND MOW TO PAINT THEM. 29 er sheathed when wielded in his country's cause ! Franklin, the philosopher of the thunderbolt, the printing press, and the plowshare ! — What names are these in the scanty catalogue of the benefactors of human kind ! Washington and Franklin I What other two men, whose lives belong to the eighteenth century of Christendom, have left a deep- er impression of themselves upon the age in which they lived, and upon all after time ? Washington, the warrior and the legislator I In war, contending, by the wager of battle, for the independence of his country, and for the freedom of the human race, -ever manifesting, amid its horrors, by precept and by example his reverence for the laws of peace, and for the tenderest sympathies of human- ity: in peace, soothing the ferocious spirit of discord, among his own countrymen, into harmony and un- ion, and giving to that very sword, now presented to his country, a charm more potent than that at- tributed, in ancient times, to the lyre of Orpheus. Franklin ! — The mechanic of his own fortune; teaching in early youth, under the shackels of indi- gence, the way to wealth, and, in the shade of ob- scurity, the path to greatness ; in the maturity of manhood, disarming the thunder of its terrors, the lightning of its fatal blast; and wresting from the tyrant's hand the still more afflictive sceptre of op- pression: while descending into the vale of years, traversing the Atlantic Ocean, braving, in the dead of winter, the battle and the breeze, bearing in his hand the charter of Independence, which he had con- tributed to form, and tendering, from the self-crea- ted Nation, to the mightiest monarchs of Europe, the olive-branch of peace, the mercurial wand of com- merce, and the amulet of protection and safety to 30 WORD PICTURES the man of peace, on the pathless ocean, from the inexorable cruelty and merciless rapacity of war. And, finally, in the last stage of life, with four- score winters upon his head, under the torture of an incurable disease, returning to his native land, closing his days as the chief magistrate of his adop- ted commonwealth, after contributing by his coun- sels, under the Presidency of Washington, and re- cording his name, under the sanction of devout pray- er, invoked by him to God, to that Constitution under authority of which we are here assembled, as the Representatives of the North American People, to receive, in their name and for them, these vener- able relics of the wise, the valiant, and the good foun- ders of our great confederated Republic, these sacred symbols of our golden age. May they be deposited among the archives of our Government ! And may every American, who shall hereafter behold them, ejaculate a mingled offering of praise to that Supreme Ruler of the Universe, by whose tender mercies, our Union has been hitherto preserved, through all the vicissitudes and revolutions of this turbulent world; and of prayer for the continuance of these blessings, by the dispensation of Providence to our beloved country from age to age, till time shall be no more ! THE PIPES AT LUCENOW. Pipes of the misty moorland,, Voice of the glen and hill, The drone of highland torrent, The song of lowland rill , Not the braes of bloom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 31 Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, Have heard your sweetest strain ! Dear to the lowland reaper, And plaid ed mountaineer, To the cottage and the castle, The Scottish pipes are dear. Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch O'er mountain, loch, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes of Lucknow played. Day by day the Indian tiger Louder yelled and nearer crept; Round and round the jungle serpent Near and nearer circles swept. " Pray for rescue, wives and mothers- Pray to-day ! " the soldiers said, " To-morrow, death's between us, And the wrong and shame we dread. " Oh ! they listened, looked and waited, Till their hope became despair, And the sobs of low bewailing. Filled the pauses of their prayer. Then up spake a Scottish maiden, With her ear upon the ground: " Dinna ye hear it ?-dinna ye hear it ? The pipes o' Havelock sound ? " Hushed the wounded man his groaning; Hushed the wife her little ones; Alone they heard the drum roll, And the roar of Sepoy guns. But to sounds of home and childhood The highland ear was true. " Dinna ye hear it ?-'tis the slogan ! Will ye no believe it noo ? " 32 WORD PICTURES Like the march of soundless music Through the vision of the seer, More of feeling than of hearing, Of the heart than of the ear. She knew the droning pibroch, She knew the Campbell's call. " Hark ! hear ye no MacGregor's, The grandest o' them all ? " Oh ! they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee Rose and fell the piper's blast ! Then a burst of wild thanksgiving Mingled woman's voice and man's " God be praised ! — the march of Havelock! The piping of the clans !" Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust-cloud To plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithsomely The pipes of rescue blew. Round the silver domes of Lucknow, Round red Dowlah's golden shrine, Breathed the air to Britons dearest, The air of " Auld Lang Syne." O'er the cruel roll of war-drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain, And the tartan clove the turban. As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. Dear to the cornland reaper And the plaided mountaineer, AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 33 To the cottage and the castle, The piper's song is dear. Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch O'er mountain, glen and glade, But the sweetest of all music The Pipes of Lucknow played. Whittle?*. THE SIOUX CHIEF'S DAUGHTER Two gray hawks ride the rising blast; Dark cloven clouds drive to and fro By peaks pre-eminent in snow; A sounding river rushes past, So wild, so vortex-like, and vast. A lone lodge tops the windy hill; A tawny maiden, mute and still, Stands waiting at the river's brink. As weird and wild as you can think. A mighty chief is at her feet; She does not heed him wooing so- She hears the dark, wild waters flow: She waits her lover, tall and fleet, From far gold fields of Idaho, Beyond the beaming peaks of snow. He comes ! The grim chief springs in air - His brawny arm, his blade is bare. She turns; she lifts her round, brown hand: She looks him fairly in the face: She moves her foot a little pace And says, with coldness and command, " There's blood enough in this lorn land. " But see ! a test of strength and skill, Of courage and fierce fortitude, To breast and wrestle with the rude 34 WORD PICTURES And storm-born waters, now I will Bestow you both Stand either side. Take you my left, tall Idaho; And you, my burly chief, I know Would choose my right. Now peer you low Across the waters wild and wide. See ! leaning so this morn I spied Bed berries dip yon farther side. See, dipping, dripping in the stream, Twin boughs of autumn berries gleam ! Now this, brave men, shall be the test: Plunge in the stream, bear knife in teeth To cut yon bough for bridal wreath. Plunge in ! and he who bears him best, And brings yon ruddy fruit to land The first, shall have my heart and hand." Two tawny men, tall, brown, and thewed like antique bronzes rarely seen, Shot up like flame. She stood between Like fixed, impassive fortitude. Then one threw robes with sullen air, And wound red fox-tails in his hair; But one, with face of proud delight, Entwined a crest of snowy white. She stood between. She sudden gave The sign, and each impatient brave Shot sudden in the sounding wave; The startled waters gurgled round; Their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound. Oh then awoke the love that slept ! Oh then her heart beat loud and strong ! Oh then the proud love pent up long Broke forth in wail upon the air ! AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 35 And leaning there she sobbed and wept, With dark face mantled in her hair. Now side by side the rivals plied, Yet no man wasted word or breath; And all was still as stream of death. Now side by side their strength was tried; And now they breathless paused and lay Like brawny wrestlers well at bay. And now they dived, dived long, and now Two black heads lifted from the foam, And shook aback the dripping brow, Then shouldered sudden glances home. They near the shore at last; and now The foam flies spouting from a face That laughing lifts from out the race. The race is won, the work is done ! She sees the climbing crest of snow; She knows her tall, brown Idaho. She cries aloud, she laughing cries, While tears are streaming from her eyes : " O splendid, kingly Idaho ! I kiss his lifted crest of snow; I see him clutch the bended bough ! 'Tis cleft - he turns ! is coming now ! " My tall and tawny king, come back ! Come swift, O sweet ! w r hy falter so ? Come ! come ! What thing has crossed your track? I kneel to all the gods I know. Oh come, my manly Idaho ! Great Spirit, what is this I dread ? Why there is blood ! the wave is red ! That wrinkled chief, outstripped in race, 36 WORD PICTURES "Dives down, and, hiding from my face, Strikes underneath ! . . . . He rises now ! Now plucks my hero's berry bough, And lifts aloft his red fox head, And signals he has won for me. Hist, softly ! Let him come and see. Oh come, my white-crowned hero, come ! Oh come, and I will be your bride, Despite yon chieftain's craft and might. Come back to me ! my lips are dumb, My hands are helpless with despair ; The hair you kissed, my long strong hair, Is reaching to the ruddy tide, That you may clutch it when you come. " How slow he buffets back the wave \ O God, he sinks \ O Heaven ! save My brave, brave boy ! He rises, See ! Hold fast, my boy. Strike, strike for me. Strike straight this way ! Strike firm and strong. Hold fast your strength. It is not long.- O God, he sinks \ He sinks ! Is gone ! His face has perished from my sight. " And did I dream, and do I wake ? Or did I wake and now but dream ? And what is this crawls from the stream ? Oh, here is some mad, mad mistake. What, you, the red fox at my feet ? You first, and failing from the race ? "What, You have brought me berries red ? What, You have brought your bride a wreath ? You sly old fox with wrinkled face - That blade has blood between your teeth. Lie still, lie still ! till I lean o'er And clutch your red blade to the shore. AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 37 Ha, ha ! Take that, and that, and that ! Ha ! ha ! So, through your coward throat The full day shines ! " Two fox-tails float And drift and drive adown the stream. " But what is this ? What snowy crest Climbs out the willows of the west, All weary, wounded, bent, and slow, And dripping from his streaming hair ? It is ! it is my Idaho ! His feet are on the land, and fair His face is lifting to my face, For who shall now dispute the race ? " Joaquin Miller. WOODCHUCKS. (By a School Boy.) Woodchucks is a very curious animal. It is made of hair and eyes and has two front teeth, and can see a man with a gun when the eyes are shut and bolt- ed. I have seen a dog shake a woodchuck till both were black in the face. A woodchuck can snivel up his nose, show his teetfc,and look as homely as I can without trying. They sit on one end and eat with the other. A woodchuck can get home faster than a gun can shoot. He is round all over, except his feet which are black. When eat they retain the flavor of their nests and seem to have been cooked with- out being pared. A fat woodchuck, when properly eat, is no laughin' matter. They come under the head of " domestic animals, " and think there ain't no place like home when a dog goes for one of them. 38 WORD PICTUBES EOCK OF AGES. " Rock of ages, cleft for me, " Thoughtlessly the maiden sung; Fell the words unconsciously From her girlish, gleeful tongue; Sang as little children sing ; Sang as sing the birds in June; Fell the words like light leaves down On the current of the tune- " Rock of ages cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee. " " Let me hide myself in thee, "- Felt her soul no need to hide- Sweet the song as song could be; And she had no thought beside; All the words unheedingly Fell from lips nntouched by care; Dreaming not that they might be On some other lips a prayer- "Rock of ages cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee. " " Rock of ages cleft" for me, "- 'Twas a woman sung them now, Pleadingly and prayerfully. Every word her heart did know. Rose the song as storm-tossed bird Beats with weary wing the air. Every note with sorrow stirred; Every syllable a prayer- " Rock of ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee. " " Rock of ages, cleft for me, "- Lips grown aged sung the hymn AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 39 Trustingly and tenderly. Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim — " Let me hide myself in thee, " Trembling though the voice and low, Ran the sweet strain peacefully, Like a river in its flow; Sang as only they can sing Who life's thorny path have prest; Sang as only they can sing "Who behold the promised rest — " Rock of ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee. " " Rock of ages, cleft for me, Sung above a coffin lid;— Underneath, all restfully, All life's joys and sorrows hid; Nevermore O storm-tossed soul, Nevermore from wind or tide, Nevermore from billow's roll Wilt thou need thyself to hide. Could the sightless, sunken eyes, Closed beneath the soft gray hair, Could the mute and stiffened lips Move again in pleading prayer, Still, aye, still, the words wxrnld be, — " Let me hide myself in thee. " THE BALDHEADED MAN. The other day a lady, accompanied hy her son, a very small boy, boarded a train at Little Rock. The woman had a care-worn expression hanging o- ver her face like a tattered veil, and many of the rapid questions asked by the boy were answered by unconscious sighs. 40 WORD PICTURES * Ma, ' said the boy, * that man's like a baby, aint he ? ' pointing to a bald-headed man sitting just in front of them. 'Hush!' 'Why must I hush?' After a few moments' silence : ' Ma, what is the matter with that man's head ? ' 'Hush, I tell you. He's bald. ' 'What's bald?' 'His head hasn't any hair on it.' 'Did it come off?' ' I guess so. ' ' Will mine come off? ' ' Some time, may be. ' 'Then 111 be bald, wont I V 1 Yes. ' ' Will you care ? ' * O don't ask so many questions. ' After another silence, the boy exclaimed : ' Ma, look at that fly on that man's head. ' ' If you don't hush, I'll whip you when we get home. ' Look ! There's another fly. Look at 'em fight; look at 'em ! ' ' Madam, ' said the man, putting aside a news- paper and looking around, ' what is the matter with that young hyena ? ' The woman blushed, stam- mered out something, and attempted to smooth back the boy's hair. ' One fly, two flies, three flies, ' said the boy, in- nocently, following with his eyes a basket of oran- ges carried by a newsboy. ' Here, you young hedgehog, ' said the bald-head- ed man, ' if you do not hush, I will have the con- ductor put you off the train. ' AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 41 The poor woman, not knowing what else to do, boxed the boy's ears, and then gave him an orange to keep him from crying. 1 Ma, have I got any red marks on my head ? ' ' I'll whip you again, if you don't hush. ' 1 Mister, ' said the boy, after a short silence, ' does it hurt to be bald-headed ? ' 1 Youngster, ' said the man, ' if you'll keep quiet, I'll give you a quarter. ' The boy promised, and the money was paid over. The man took up his paper and resumed his read- ing. * This is my bald-headed money, ' said the boy. 1 When I get bald-headed, I'm goin' to give boys money. Mister, have all bald-headed men got mon- ey ? ' The annoyed man threw dow T n his paper, arose, and exclaimed : ' Madam, hereafter when you travel, leave that young gorilla at home. Hitherto, I always thought the old prophet was very cruel for calling the bears to kill the children for making sport of his head, but now I am forced to believe that he did a Christian act. If your boy had been in the crowd, he would have died first. If I can't find another seat on this train, 111 ride on the cow-catcher rather than remain here. ' ' The bald-headed man is gone, ' said the boy; and as the woman leaned back a tired sigh escaped from her lips. THE PALM AND THE PINE. When Peter led the First Crusade, A Norseman w T ooed an Arab maid. He loved her lithe and palmy grace, And the dark beauty of her face : She loved his cheeks, so ruddy fair, His sunny eyes and yellow hair. 42 WORD PICTURES He called : she left her father's tent ; She followed wheresoe'er he went. She left the Palms of Palestine To sit beneath the Norland pine. She sang the musky Orient strains Where Winter swept the snowy plains. Their natures met like Night and Morn What time the morning-star is born. The child that from their meeting grew Hang, like that star, between the two. The glossy night his mother shed From her long hair was on his head : But in its shade they saw arise The morning of his father's eyes. Beneath the Orient's tawny stain Wandered the Norseman's crimson vein : Beneath the Northern force was seen The Arab sense, alert and keen. His were the Viking's sinewy hands, The arching foot of Eastern lands. And in his soul, conflicting, strove Northern indifference, Southern love : The chastity of temperate blood, Impetuous passion's fiery flood ; The settled faith that nothing shakes, The jealousy a breath awakes ; The planning Reason's sober gaze, And fancy's meteoric blaze. And stronger, as he grew to man, The contradicting natures ran, — As mingled streams from Etna flow, One born of fire, and one of snow. And one impelled, and one withheld, AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 43 And one obeyed, and one rebelled. One gave him force, the other fire ; This self-control, and that desire. One filled his heart with fierce unrest ; With peace serene the other blessed. He knew the depth and knew the height, The bounds of darkness and of light ; And who these far extremes has seen, Must needs know all that lies between. So, with untaught, instinctive art, He read the myriad-natured heart. He met the men of many a land ; They gave their souls into his hand ; And none of them was long unknown ; The hardest lesson was his own. But how he lived, and where, and when, It matters not to other men ; For, as a fountain disappears, To gush again in later years, So hidden blood may find the day, When centuries have rolled away ; And fresher lives betray at last The lineage of a far-off Past. That nature, mixed of sun and snow, Repeats its ancient ebb flow : The children of the Palm and Pine Renew their blended lives — in mine. Bayard Taylor, HOW SOCKERY SET A HEN. Meester Verbis : I see dot mosd efferpody w r rides somedings for de shicken pabers nowtays, and I tought praps meppe I can do dot. too, so I wrides all apout vot dook blace mit me lasht summer. 4ci WORD PICTURES You know — oder ofe you dond know, den I dells you — dot Katrina (dot is mine vrow) und me, ve keep some shickens for a long dime ago, und von tay she sait to me, ' Sockery, ' ( dot is mein name ) ' vy dond you put some aigs under dot olt plue hen shickens ? I dinks she vants to sate. ' * Veil ' I sait meppe, I guess I vill. ' So I bicked oud some uf de best aigs, und dook um oud to de parn wher de olt hen make her nesht in de side of de haymow, poud fife, six veet up. Now you see I nefer vas ferry pig up and down, but I vas pooty pig all de vay round in de mittle, so I koodn't reach up till I vent und got a par el to stand on. Veil, I klimb me on de parel und ven my hed rise up py de nesht, de olc hen gif me such a bick dot my nose runs all ofer my face rait plood, und ven I todge pack dot plasted olt par- rel it preak, und I vent down kerslam. Py cholly, I didn't tink I kood go insite a parrel pef ore, but dere I vas, und I fit so dite dot I kood not git me oud efferway, — my fest vas bushed vay up undher my arm-holes. Ven I found I vas dite sthuck, I holler ''Katrina ! Katrina ! " Und ven she cum und see me s htuck in de parrel up to my arm- holes, mit my face all plood und aigs, py cholly, she shust lay down on de hay und laft, und laft till I got so mad I sait, " Vot you lay dere und laf like an olt vool eh ? Vy dond you cum pull me oud?' Und she set up und sait, '0,vipe off your chin, und pull down your fest ; ' den she lait back und laft as if she vood split herself more as ever. Mad as I vas I toiight to myself, Katrina, she sbeak English pooty good ; but I only sait, mit my great- est dignitade, 'Katrina, vill you pull me oud of dis AND HOW TO PAINT THEM. 45 parrel ? ' Und she see dot I look pooty red, so she sait ' Of course I vill, Sockery.' Den she lait me un der parrel down on our site, und I dook holt of der door sill, und Katrina she pull on der parrel, but de first pull she mate I yellt, ' Donner und blitzen, stop dot, py golly; dere is nails in de parrel!' You see de nails pent town ven I vent in, but ven Ikoom oud dey schticks in me all de vay rount. Veil, to make a shord story long, I told Katrina to go an dell naypor Hansman to pring a saw und saw me dis parrel off. Veil, he coom and he like to shplit himself mit laf, too, but he roll me ofer und saw de parrel all de vay around off, und I git up mit half a parrel around my vaist. Den Katrina she say, ' Sockery, vait a leetle vile till I get a pattern of dot new oferskirt you haf on. ' But I didn't sait a vord, I shust got a nife oud und vittle de hoops off und shling dot confounted olt parrel in de vood- pile. Pimeby ven I cum in de house, Katrina she say, so soft like, ' Sockery, hadn't you better put some aigs undher dot olt blue hen shickens ? ' den I sait, in my deepest voice : ' Katrina, ofe you effer say dot to me agin I'll git a pill from you, so help me chiminy cracious ! ' Und I dells you she didn't say dot any more. Veil, ven I step on a par- rel now, I dond step on it, I git a pox. >v.V ra ■ ... •. *