.-**. .liT. ^M^^ 1 V. Class_i:'ii 4-^0 \ Book ^7S GoKii^htM . copvRicHT DErostr. 5s ^ X ',-j -■!*^ I s IN MANILA BAY COMIN' THRO' THE RYE NEW CENTURY SPEAKER AND WRITER BEINQ A Standard Work on Composition and Oratory CONTAINING RULES FOR EXPRESSING WRITTEN THOUGHT IN A CORRECT AND ELEGANT MANNER ; MODEL SELECTIONS FROM THE MOST FAMOUS AUTHORS ; SUBJECTS FOR COMPOSITIONS AND HOW TO TREAT THEM ; USE OF ILLUSTRATIONS ; DESCRIPTIVE, PATHETIC AND HUMOROUS WRITINGS, ETC., ETC. TOGETHER WITH A PEERLESS Collection of Readings and Recitations, Including Programmes for Special Occasions FROM AUTHORS OF WORLD-WIDE RENOWN, FOR PUBLIC SCHOOLS, ACAD- EMIES, COLLEGES, LODGES, SUNDAY-SCHOOL AND SOCIAL ENTERTAINMENTS THE WHOLE FORMING AN UNRIVALED SELF-EDUCATOR FOR YOUNG PEOPLE BY Henry Davenport Northrop Author of" Delsarte Manual of Oratory," "Golden Gleanings of Poetry, Prose and Song," etc, etc. Embellished with a Galaxy of Charming Engravings NATIONAL PUBLISHING CO. 239, 241, 243 South American St. Philadelphia THE LIBRARY OF OONGRESS, Two C0H1E8 Receivcb DEC. 28 1901 COFVWIOHT ENTRY CLASS^ iJL.XXc NO. ooPY a y? ^^v\ ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1901, BY D. Z. HOWELL N THE OFFICE OF THE LIbRARIAN OF CONGRESS, \T WASHINGTON, D. C, v. Preface. MILLIONS of young people in America are being educated, and hence there is a very great demand for a Standard Work showing how to express written thought in the most elegant manner and how to read and recite in a way that insures the greatest success. To meet this enormous demand is the aim of this volume. Part I. — How to Write a Composition. — The treatment of this subject is masterly and thorough, and is so fascinating that the study becomes a delight. Rules and examples are furnished for the right choice of words, for constructing sentences, for punctuation, for acquiring an elegant style of composition, for writing essays and letters, what authors should be read, etc. The directions given are all right to the point and are easily put into practice. The work contains a complete list of synonyms, or words of similar meaning, and more than 500 choice subjects for compositions, which are admirably suited to persons of all ages. These are followed by a charming collection of Master- pieces of Composition by such world-renowned authors as Emerson, Hawthorne, George Eliot, Lord Macaulay, Washington Irving, C. H. Spurgeon, Sarah J. Lippincott, Mrs. Stowe and many others. These grand specimens of composition bear the stamp of the most brilliant genius. They are very suggestive and helpful. They inspire the reader to the noblest efforts, and teach the truth of Bulwer Lytton's well-known saying that **The pen is mightier than the sword." Part II. — Readings and Recitations. — The second part of this incompar- able work is no less valuable, and a candid perusal will convince you that it con- tains the largest and best collection of recitations ever brought together in one volume. These are of every variety and description. Be careful to notice that every one of these selections, which are from the writings of the world's best authors, is especially adapted for reading and reciting. This is something which cannot be said of any similar work. All the Typical Gestures used in Reciting are shown by choice engravings, and the reader has in reality the best kind of teacher right before him. The dif- ferent attitudes, facial expressions and gestures are both instructive and charm- ing. These are followed by Recitations with Lesson Talks. Full directions are given for reciting the various pieces, and this is done by taking each paragraph or verse of the selection and pointing out the gestures, tone of voice, emphasis, etc., required to render it most effectively. The Lesson Talks render most valu- able service to all who are studying the grand art of oratory. The next section of this masterly volume contain.s Recitations with Music. ,V PREFACE. This is a choice collection of readings which are rendered most eficictive by accompaniments of music, enabling the reader by the use of the voice or SG-Tie musical instrument to entrance his audience These charming selections are followed by a superb collection of Patriotic Recitations wliicli celebrate the grand victories of our army and navy in the Philippines and West Indies. These incomparable pieces are all aglow with patriotic fervor and are eagerly sought by all elocutionists. There is space here only to mention the different parts of this delightful volume, such as Descriptive and Dramatic Recitations; Orations by Famous Orators ; a peerless collection of Humorous and Pathetic Recitations, and Reci- tations for Children and Sunday Schools. Parents are charmed with this volume because it furnishes whav the little folks want and is a self-educator for the young. It marks a new era in book publishing. Par r III. — Programmes for Special Occasions.— These have been prepared with the greatest care in order to meet a very urgent demand. The work con- tains Programmes for Fourth of July ; Christmas Entertainments ; Washington's Birthday; Decoradon Day ; Thanksgiving Day ; Arbor Day ; Public School and Parlor Entertainments ; Harvest Home ; Flower Day, etc. Beautiful Selecdons for Special Occasions are contained in no other work, and these alone injure this very attractive volume an enormous sale. Dialogues, Tableaux, etc. — Added to the Rich Contents already described is a Charming Collection of Dialogues and Tableaux for public and private en- tertainments. These are humorous, pithy, teach important lessons and are thoroughly enjoyed by everybody. In many places the winter lyceum is an institution ; we find it not only in acadcmi(*s, and noi mal schools, but very frequently the people in a district or town organize a debating society and discuss the popular questions of the day. The benefit thus der ved cannot be estimated. In the last part of this volume will be found by-law^ for those who wish to conduct lyceums, together with a choice selection of subjects for debate. Tluis it is seen th.t this is a very comprehensive work. Not only is it care- fiilly prepared, not onl} does it set a very high standard of excellence in compo, sition and elocution, bui it is a work peculiarly fitted to the wants of millions oi young people throu^hoi t our country. The writer of this is free to say that such a work as this would ha e been of inestimable value to him while obtaining an (education. All wise pan nts who wish to make the best provision for educating thf-ir children should understand that they have in this volume such a teacher in composition and oratory as has never before been offered to the public, CONTENTS. PART I.— HOW TO WRITE A COMPOSITION. Treatment of the Subject . 18 Right Choice of Words 19 Obscure Sentences 19 Write Exactly what You Mean 20 What You Should Read 21 Our Great Writers 21 Learning to Think 22 How to Acquire a Captivating Style, 23 Make Your Composition Attractive 24 The Choice of Ivanguage 25 Faults in Writing 26 Putting Words into Sentences 27 Suit the Word to the Thought 28 ||An Amusing Kxercise 29 Jrrors to be Avoided 30 Exercises in Composition 32 )ubject and Predicate 32 [Practice in Simple Sentences w . . . 34 Sentences Combined 36 Punctuation ; 39 'The Full Stop 39 I The Note of Interrogation 40 ' The Comma 40 The Semicolon 42 Quotation Marks 43 The Note of Bxclamation , Bxercises in Easy Narratives Bhort Stories to be Written from Memory . . Outlines to be Turned into Narratives .... Stories in Verse to be Turned into Prose . . , . 43 . 46 . 47 . 50 . 61 three Fishers Went Sailing 51 PAGE The Sands of Dee 52 The Way to Win 52 Press On 52 The Dying Warrior 52 The Boy that Ivaughs 53 The Cat's Bath o . . . . . 53 The Beggar Man „ 53 The Shower Bath 54 Queen Mary's Return to Scotland 54 The Kagle and Serpent 54 Ask and Have 55 What Was His Creed.? 55 The Old Reaper 55 The Gallant Sailboat 55 Wooing 56 Miss Ivaugh and Miss Fret . . . . , 56 Monterey , 56 A Woman's Watch . . . . o 57 Love Lightens Labor . . . , , 57 Abou Ben Adhem 57 Essays to be Written from Outlines 58 Easy Subjects for Compositions 61 Use of Illustrations 62 Examples of Apt Illustrations 63 Examples of Faulty Illustrations 63 How to Compose and Write Letters . Examples of Letters Notes of Invitation Letters of Congratulation Love Letters . Outlines to be Expanded into Letters 64 65 65 66 SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. Getting the Right start . ... . J. G. Holland 67 Dinah, the Methodist ...... George Eliot 69 [Godfrey and Dunstan George Eliot 70 jRip Van Winkle Washhigton Irving 72 [Puritans of the Sixteenth Century Lord Macaulay 73 )n being in Time C.H. Spurgeon 75 John Ploughman's Talk oh Home C. H. Spurgeon Pearl and her Mother . Nathaniel Hawthorne Can dace's Opinions ..... Mrs. H. B. Stowe Midsummer in the Valley of the Rhine Geo. Meredith Power of Natural Beauty . . . R. W. Emerson 78 80 8t 82 SUBJECTS FOR COMPOSITIONS. Historical Subjects 84 Biographical Subjects 85 I Subjects for Narration and Description .... 86 y. Popular Proverbs 87 Subjects to be Expounded 87 Subjects for Argument . . , 89 Subjects for Comparison 89 Miscellaneous Subjects 90 Synonyms and Antonyms e 91 Noms de Plume of Authors 113 V CONTENTS. PART II.— READINGS AND RECITATIONS. PAGE How to Read and Recite 313 Cultivation of the Voice 113 Distinct Kuuuciatiou 113 ICmphasis 11^ Pauses 114 Gestures 114 The Magnetic Speaker 114 Self-Coumiand 114 Typical Gestures for Reading and Reciting . . 115 Malediction 115 Designating • • • 115 Silt 115 Repulsion 115 Declaring 116 .Announcing 116 Discerning 116 Invocation 117 Presenting or Receiving 117 Horror 117 Exaltation 117 Secrecy . 117 Wonderment 118 Indecision 118 Grief 118 Gladness 118 Signalling 119 Tender Rejection 119 Protecting— Soothing 119 Anguish 119 Awe— Appeal 120 Meditation 120 Defiance 120 Denying — Rejecting 120 Dispersion 121 Remorse 121 Accusation 121 Revealing « . . 121 Correct Positions of the Hands ........ 122 RECITATIONS WITH LESSON TALKS, Song of Our Soldiers at Santiago . . D.G. Adee. 123 Lesson Talk 123 The Victor of Marengo 124 Lesson Talk 125 The Wedding Fee 125 Lesson Talk - 126 The Statue in Clay 127 Lesson Talk ................. 127 The Puzzled Boy 128 Lesson Talk o o , . 128 RECITATIONS WITH MUSIC. Twickenham Ferry 129 Grandmother's Chair John Read 130 Put Your Shoulder to the Wheel . . H. Clifton 131 A Brighter Day is Coming . . Ellen Burnside 132 Katie's Love Letter Lady Dufferin 132 Dost Thou Love Me, Sister Ruth ? . John Parry 133 Two Little Rogues Mrs, A. M. Diaz 134 Arkansaw Pete's Adventure 135 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. The Beat of the Drum at Daybreak Michae The Cavalry Charge Great Naval Battle at Santiago Admiral IV. S.Schley Hobson's Daring Deed General Wheeler at Santiago . . ./, L. Gordon The Flag Goes By O'Connor 137 137 138 139 140 140 In Manila Hay Chas. Wadsworlh, Jr. 141 My Soldier IJoy 142 The Yankees in Battle . Captain R. D. Evans 142 The Banner Betsey Made . . , T. C. Harbaugh 143 Our Hag . . Chas. F. Aisop 144 That Starry Flag of Ours 144 The ?\'fgro Soldier B. 1\T. ChaJUi.ng 145 Deeds of Valor at Santiago . . Clinton Scollard 145 146 A Race for Dear Life Patriotism of American Women T. BHi:hanan Read 147 Our Country's Call RuJmrd Barry 147 The Story of Seventy-Six ... V^.C Bryant 148 The Roll Call 143 The Battle-Field W. C^ Bryant 149 The Sinking of the Meri'\ ac ....<.... 150 The Stars and Stripes 151 Rodney's Ride 152 A Spool of Thread .... Sophia E. Eastman 153 The Young Patriot, Abraham Lincoln ..... 154 Columbia Joel Barlow 15.5 Captain Molly at Monmouth William Collins 156 Douglas to the Populace of Stirling Sir Walter ScoU 157 CONTENTS. Vll Our Country IV. G. Peabodie 157 Mcllrath of Malate John J. Rooney 158 After the Battle 159 Great Naval Battle of Manila 160 Sinking of the Ships W. B. Collison 161 PAGB Perry's Celebrated Victory on Lake Erie . . . 163 Capture of Quebec James D. McCahe 164 Little Jean Lillie E. Barr 165 Defeat of General Braddock .James D. McCabe 166 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. Quick ! Man the Life Boat 167 Beautiful Hands /. Whitcomb Riley 167 The Burning Ship 168 The Unknown Speaker . 169 Child Lost 171 The Captain and the Fireman . . W. B. Collison 172 The Face on the Floor . . . H. Antoine D'Arcy- 173 The Engineer's Story Eugene J. Hall 174 Jim James Whitcomb Riley 175 Queen Vashti's Lament John Reade 176 The Skeleton's Story 177 The Lady and the Earl 179 My Vesper Song 180 The Volunteer Organist ... . . . S. W. Poss 180 Comin' thro' the Rye Robert Burns 181 Joan of Arc Clare S. McKi?i ley 181 The Vulture of the Alps 183 The Old-fashioned Girl Tom Hall 184 Nathan Hale, the Martyr Spy . . . I. H. Brown 184 The Future Rudyard Kipling 186 The Power of Habit John B. Cough 186 Died on Duty .187 My Friend the Cricket and I . , Lillie E. Barr 188 The Snowstorm , . . . . 188 Parrhasius and the Captive . . . . N. P. Willis 189 The Ninety-third off Cape Verde 190 A Felon's Cell 191 The Battle of Waterloo Victor Hugo 192 A Pin ... Ella Wheeler Wilcox 194 A Relenting Mob Lucy H. Hooper 195 The Black Horse and His Rider . Chas. Sheppard 196 The Unfinished Letter 198 Legend of the Organ Builder . Julius C. R. Dorr 198 Caught in the Quicksand . . , Victor Hugo 200 The Little Quaker Sinner . Lucy L. Mofttgornery 201 The Tell-tale Heart Edgar Allan Poe 202 The Little Match Girl Hans Andersen 203 The Monk's Vision .„ ... 205 The Boat Race . 205 Phillips of Pelhamville . . Alexander Anderson 207 Poor Little Jim 208 ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS, True Moral Courage Henry Clay 209 The Struggle for Liberty .... Josiah Quincy 210 Centennial Oration . . . Henry Armitt Brown 211 Speech of Shrewsbury before Queen Elizabeth F. Von Schiller 212 Prospects of the Republic . . . Edward Everett 212 The People Always Conquer , . Edward Everett 213 Survivors of Bunker Hill . . . Daniel Webster 214 South Carolina and Massachusetts Daniel Webster 215 Euiogium on South Carolina . Robert T. Hayne 216 Character of Washington . . . Wendell Phillips 217 National Monument to Washington Robert C. Winthrop 218 The JsTew Woman Frances E. Willard 219 An Appeal for Liberty ...... Joseph Story 220 True Source of Freedom . . Edwin H. Chapin 220 Appeal to Young Men .... Lyma?i Beecher 221 The Pilgrims Chauncey M. Depew 222 Patriotism a Reality .... Thomas Meagher 223 The Glory of Athens Lord Macaulay 224 The Irish Church . . . William E. Gladstone 225 Appeal to the Hungarians . . . Louis Kossuth 226 The Tyrant Verres Denounced ..... Cicero 227 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. Bill's in Trouble 229 "Spaciallyjim" 229 The Marriage Ceremony 230 Blasted Hopes 230 Tim Murphy Makes a Few Remarks 231 Passing of the Horse 231 A School-Pay W, F. McSparran 232 tiae Bicycle and the Pup 233 The Puzzled Census Taker 233 It Made a Difference 233 Bridget O'Flannagan on Christian Scieace and Cockroaches M. Bourchier 234 Conversational 235 Wanted, A Minister's Wife 235 How a Married Man Sews on a Button /. M. Bailey 236 viu CONTENTS. The Dutchman's Serenade . . . Biddj-'s Tronbles The Inventor's Wife .... Mrs. Miss Edith Helps Things Along . PAGE 236 237 E. T. Corbctt 238 . Bret Harte 239 The Man Who Has All Diseases at Once Dr. Valentine 240 The School-Ma'am's Courting . . Florence Pyatt 240 The Dutchman's Snake 241 No Kiss 243 The Lisping Lover 243 Larry O'Dee W. W. Fink 243 How Paderewski Plays the Piano 244 The Freckled-Faced Girl 244 When Girls W^ore Calico . . . Hattie Whitney 245 A Winning Company 246 The Bravest Sailor . . Ella Wheeler Wilcox 246 How She Was Consoled 247 That Hired Girl . 247 What Sambo Says 248 The Irish Sleigh Ride ....,., 248 Jane Jones . . . Ben King 249 De Ole Plantation Mule 249 Adam Never Was a Boy .... T. C. Harbaugh 250 A Remarkable Case of S'posin ........ 251 My Parrot Emma H. Webb 262 Bakin and Greens 252 Hunting a Mouse Joshua Jenkins 253 The Village Sewing Society , 254 Signs and Omens 255 The Ghost 255 A Big Mistake 256 The Duel Eugene Field 258 Playing Jokes on a Guide . . . Mark Twai7i 258 A Parody 268 Man's Devotion Parmenas Hill 261 Aunt Polly's " George Washington " 261 Mine Vamily Yawcob Strauss 263 At the Garden Gate 264 The Minister's Call 264 Led by a Calf 265 Tom Goldy's Little Joke ........... 266 How Hezekiah Stole the Spoons 266 Two Kinds of Polliwogs . . . Augusta Moore 268 The Best Sewing Machine 268 How They Said Good Night . 269 Josiar's Courting 270 PATHETIC RECITATIONS, Play Softly, Boys .... Teresa O' Hare Ti\ In the Baggage Coach Ahead 272 The Missing One S". ^. Riser 212 In Memoriam Thomas P. Gregory 273 The Dying Newsboy . . Mrs. Emily Thornton 273 Coals of Fire 274 Dirge of the Drums Palph Alton 275 The Old Dog's Death Postponed Chas. E. Baer 275 The Fallen Hero Minna Irving 276 The Soldier's Wife Elliott Flower 276 " Break the News Gently" 277 On the Other Train 277 Some Twenty Years Ago . . . Stephen Marsell 279 Only a Soldier 280 The Pilgrim Fathers 280 Master Johnny's Next-Door Neighbor Bret Harte 281 vStonewall Jackson's Death . . Paul M. Russell 282 The Story of Nell Robot Buchanan 284 Little Nan 285 One of the Little Ones G. L. Cailin 285 The Drunkard's Daughter . . Eugene J. Hall 286 The Beautiful 287 Trouble in the Amen Corner . C. T. Harbaugh 288 Little Mag's Victory Geo. L. Catlin 289 Life's Battle Wayne Parsons 290 The Lost Kiss /. Whitcomb Riley 290 Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots . Lamartine 291 Over the Range /. Harrison Mills 292 The Story of Crazy Nell .... Joseph Whitten 292 Little Sallie's Wish 293 Drowned Among the Lilies . E. E. Rexjord 294 The Fate of Charlotte Corday . . C.S. McKinley 294 The Little Voyager .... Mrs. M. L. Bay7ie 295 The Dream of Aldarin .... George Lippard 296 In the Mining Town Rose H. Thorpe 297 Tommy's Prayer I. F. Nichols 298 Robby and Ruth Louisa S. Upham 300 RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. Two Little Maidens Agnes Carr 301 The Way to Succeed . . When Pa Begins to Shave A Boy's View ... Mammy's Churning Song The Twenty Frogs . . . . 301 Harry D. Robins 301 302 . E. A. Oldham 302 303 Only a Bird Mary Morrison 305 The Way to Do It ... . Mary Mapes Dodge 303 We Must All Scratch 304 Kitty at School Kate Hulmer 304 A P'ellow's Mother . . . Ma garet E. Sangster 305 The Story Katie Told 305 CONTENTS. la PAGE A tittle Rogue ._ 306 Mattie's Waais and Wishes . . . Grace Gordon 806 Won't and Will 307 Willie's Breeches ..... Etta G. Saulsbury 307 Little Dora's Soliloquy 307 The Squirrel's Lesson 308 Little Kitty 308 Labor Song 309 What Baby Said 310 One Little Act 311 The Little Orator .... Thaddeics M. Harris 311 A Gentleman Margaret E. Sangster 312 Babies and Kittens L. M. Hadley 312 A Dissatisfied Chicken A. G. Waters 312 The Little Torment 313 The Reason Why . . . . 313 A Child's Reasoning 314 A Swell Dinner 314 Little Jack Eugene J. Hall 314 A Story of an Apple Sydney Dayre 315 Idle Ben 315 Baby Alice's Rain John Hay Furness 316 Give Us Little Boys a Chance 316 Puss in the Oven 316 What Was It ? Sydney Dayre 317 The Cobbler's Secret 317 A Sad Case Clara D. Bates 318 The Heir Apparent 318 An Egg a Chicken 319 One of God's Little Heroes Margaret J. Preston 320 What the Cows were Doing 320 Mamma's Help , 32o' How Two Birdies Kept House 321 Why He Wouldn't Die 321 The Sick Dolly 322 Days of the Week Mary Ely Page 322 Popping Corn 323 How the Farmer Works 323 The Birds' Picnic 324 A Very Smart Dog 324 Opportunity 325 The Little Leaves' Journey 325 The Broom Drill 325 RECITATIONS FOR SUNDAY=SCHOOLS, Little Servants 332 Willie and the Birds 332 A Child's Prayer 332 God Loves Me 332 The Unfinished Prayer 333 Seeds of Kindness 333 A Lot of Don'ts E. C. Rook 333 Little Willie and the Apple 334 The Child's Prayer . . . Mary A. P. Humphrey 334 "Mayn't I Be a Boy?" 335 Give Your Best . . . „ . Adelaide A. Proctor 335 The Birds Myra A. Shattuck 335 " Come Unto Me "... o c . = ,..... 336 There is a Teetotaler 337 An Appeal for Beneficence 337 Address of Welcome to a New Pastor 337 Address of Welcome to a New Superintendent . 338 Opening Address for a Sunday-school Exhibition 338 Closing Address for a Sunday-school Exhibition 338 Presentation Address to a Pastor ....... 339 Presentation Address to a Teacher .... 339 Presentation Address to a vSuperintendent . . . 339 Address of Welcome After Illness 340 Welcome to a Pastor May Hatheway 340 PART III.— PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. Programme No. i for Fourth of July 341 '* America" 341 The Fourth of July Chas, Sprague 341 The Vow of Washington . . . .J.G. Whittier 342 The Little Mayflower Edward Everett 343 O Land of a Million Brave Soldiers 343 To the Ladies 344 Programme No. 2 for Fourth of July 344 God Bless om Native Land 344 Our Natal Day Will Carleton 345 The Banner of the Sea ...... Homer Green 346 What America Has Done for the World G. C. Verplanck 346 Stand Up for Liberty . . . nobert Treat Paine 347 Off with Your Hat as the Flag Goes By H. C. Bunner 348 Programme for Christmas Entertainment . . . 349 Ring, O Bells, in Gladness . . . Alice J. Cleator 349 A Letter to Santa Clans 349 Christmas in All the Lands . . . . G. A. Brown 349 Santa Claus on the Train .... Henry C. Walsh 350 The Waifs Margaret Deland 351 Welcome Santa Claus 351 Santa Claus and the Mouse . . Emilie Poulsson 351 What Ted Found in His Stocking 352 Programme for Decoration Day » . . 353 The Meaning of the Day 353 Exercise for Fifteen Pupils 353 CONTENTS. Decoration Day /. Whitcomb Riley 354 Acrostic 355 Origiu of Memorial Day 355 Strew with Flowers the Soldier's Grave /. W. Dunbar 355 Our Nation's Patriots 356 Programme for Washington's Birthday .... 357 Washington Enigma 357 Washington's Day 357 A Little Boy's Hatchet Story 357 Maxims of Washington 358 Once More We Celebrate .... Alice J. Cleator 358 The Father of His Country 358 February Twenty-Second Joy Allison ^b^ A True Soldier Alice J. Clealor 359 Washington's Life 3(50 Birthday of Washington . . . George Howland 360 Programme for Arbor Day 36J We Have Come with Joyful Greeting 361 Arbor Day • . 361 Quotations . . . . ^ 361 What Do We Plant When We Plant a Tree ? Henry Abbey 362 Wedding of the Palm and Pine ........ 363 Origin of Arbor Day 363 Value of Our Forests 364 Up From the Smiling Karth . . Edna D. Proctor 364 The Trees 364 Programme for A Harvest Home » 365 Through the Golden Summertime 365 A Sermon in Rhyme 365 Farmer John J- T. Trowbridge 366 The Husbandman .... .... John Sterling 366 The Nobility of Labor ..... Orville Dewey 367 PAAH The Corn Song J. G. Whittier 'dts7 Great God ! Our Heartfelt Thanks W. D. Gallagher 367 Programme for Lyceum or Parlor Entertainment 368 Salutatory Address • 368 Mrs. Piper Mariaji Douglass 369 Colloquy— True Bravery 370 Reverie in Church George A, Baker 371 The Spanish-American War . President McKinley 372* A Cook of the Period 372 Song— Bee-Hive Town 373 Programme for Thanksgiving 373 Honor the Mayflower's Band 373 What am I Thankful For ? 374 The Pumpkin J. G. Whittier 374 What Matters the Cold Wind's Blast ? 374 Outside and In 37,^ The Laboring Classes Hugh Legare 375 A Thanksgiving . Lucy Lairom 376 Song— The Pilgrims 376 Programme for Flower Day .......... 377 Let Us With Nature Sing o . . 377 The Poppy and Mignonette » « . . 377 Flower Quotations 377 When Winter O'er the Hills Afar 378 Flowers Lydia M. Child 378 The Foolish Harebell . . . George MacDonald 378 Questions About Flowers 379 Pansies Mary A. McClelland 379 Plant Song Nellie M. Brown 380 We Wouid Hail Thee, Joyous Summer .... 380 Summer-Time ....... H. W. Longfellow 380 The Last Rose of Summer . . . Thomas Moore '6'^\ DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. In Want of a Servant Clara Augusta 382 The Unwelcome Guest ...//. Elliot McBride 386 Aunty Puzzled 388 The Poor Little Rich Boy . Mrs. Adrian Kraal 390 An Entirely Different Matter 391 The Gossips 392 Farmer Hanks Wants a Divorce 393 Taking the Census 397 Elder Sniffles' Courtship . . . . F. M. Whitcher 400 The Matrimonial Advertisement 403 Mrs. Malaprop and Captain Absolute R. B. Sheridan 407 Winning a Widow 410 MISCELLANEOUS DIALOGUES AND DRAMAS CONSTITUTION AND BY-LAWS FOR LYCEUMS SUP>JECTS FOR DEBATE BY LYCEUMS . TABLEjATTX for public ENTERTAINMENTS 411 443 446 447 -1i-l >' - It 11 ^?i! ^?^m REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES DICKENS 1. THE BIRTHPLACE OF CHARLES DICKENS, COMMERCIAL ROAD, PORTSEA. 2. THE "daRK COURT" IN FLEET STREET, (JOHNSON'S COURT) WHERE DICKENS POSTED HIS FIRST SKETCH. 3. THE HOUSE IN FURNIVAL'S INN WHERE "PICKWICK" WAS WRITTEN. 4. CHARLES DICKENS EDITING "HOUSEHOLD WORDS." 5. THE CHURCH IN WHICH DICKENS WAS MAR- RIED, ST. LUKE'S, CHELSEA. 6. GAD'S HILL PLACE, ROCHESTER, THE NOVELISTS' LAST HOME. 7. THE MOAT, ROCHESTER CASTLE, WHERE DICKENS DESIRED TO BE BURIED. FRANCIS WILSON "It was all about a--ha! ha! and a--ho! ho! ho!— well reallv ; It is--hc! he! he!-I never could begin to tell you." (A Fine Study of Mirth) PART I. How TO Write a Composition AND Express Written Thought in a Correct and Elegant Manner. eJ HE correct and pleasing expression of one's thoughts in writing is an ac- complishment of the highest ordero l"o have little or no ability in the art of composition is a great misfortune. Who is willing to incur the disgrace and mortification of being unable to write a graceful and interesting letter, or an essay worthy to be read by intelligent persons ? What an air of importance belongs to the young scholar, or older student, who can pen a production excellent in thought and beau- tiful in language ! Such a gifted individual becomes almost a hero or heroine. When I was a pupil in one of our public schools the day most dreaded by all of the scholars was '' composition day." What to write about, and how to do it, were the most vexatious of all questions. Probably nine- tenths of the pupils would rather have mas- tered the hardest lessons, or taken a sound whipping, than to attempt to write one para- graph of a composition on any subject. While some persons have a natural faculty for putting their thoughts into words, a much larger number of others are compelled to confess that it is a difficult undertaking, and they are never able to satisfy themselves with their written productions. Let it be some encouragement to you to reflect that many who are considered excel- lent writers labored in the beginning under serious difficulties, yet, being resolved to master them, they finally achieved the most gratifying success. When Napoleon was told it would be impossible for his army to cross the bridge at Lodi, he replied, " There is no such word as impossible," and over the bridge his army wer^t. Resolve that you will succeed, and carry out this good reso- lution by close application and diligent prac- tice. " Labor conquers all things*' WHAT TO DO, AND HOW TO DO IT. 'TUDY carefully the lessons con- tained in the following pages. They will be of great benefit, as they show you what to do and how to do it. These lessons are quite simple at first, and are followed by others that are more ad- vanced. All of them have been carefully pre- pared for the purpose of furnishing just such helps as you need. You can study them by •12— X) yourself; if you can obtain the assistance of a competent teacher, so much the better. I predict that you will be surprised at the rapid progress you are making. Perhaps you will become fascinated with your study; at least, it is to be hoped you will, and become en- thusiastic in your noble work. Be content to take one step at a time. Do not get the mistaken impression that you 17 18 HOW TO WRITE A COMPOSITION. will be able to write a good composition before you have learned how to do it. Many persons are too eager to achieve success immediately, without patient and earnest endeavor to overcome all difficulties. Choose a subject for your composition that is adapted to your capacity. You cannot write on a subject that you know nothing about. Having selected your theme, think upon it, and, if possible, read what others have written about it, not for the purpose of stea](ng their thoughts, but to stimulate your own, and store your mind with information. Then you will be able to express in writing what you know. The Treatment of the Subject. The principal reason why many persons make such hard work of the art of composi- tion is that they have so few thoughts, and consequently so little to say, upon the sub- jects they endeavor to treat. The same rule must be followed in writing a composition as in building a house — you must first get your materials. I said something about stealing the thoughts of others, but must qualify this by saying that while you are learning to write, you are quite at liberty in your practice to make use of the thoughts of others, writing them from memory after you have read a page or a paragraph from some standard author. It is better that you should remem- ber only a part of the language employed by the writer whose thoughts you are reproduc- ing, using as far as possible words of your own, yet in each instance wherein you remember his language you need not hesitate to use it. Such an exercise is a valuable aid to all who wish to perfect themselves in the delightful art of composition. Take any writer of good English — J. G. Holland, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Irving, Cooper, or the articles in our best magazines — and read half a page twice or thrice ; close the book, and write, in your own words, what you have read; borrowing, nevertheless, from the author so much as you can remem- ber. Compare what you have written with the original, sentence by sentence, and wore by word, and observe how far you have fallen short of the skilful author. A Frequent Change of Authors. You will thus not only find out your own faults, but you will discover where they lie, and how they may be mended. Repeat the lesson with the same passages twice or thrice, if your memory is not filled with the words of the author, and observe, at each trial, the progress you have made, not merely by comparison with the original, but by com- parison with the previous exercises. Do this day after day, changing your author for the purpose of varying the style, and continue to do so long after you have passed on to the second and more advanced stages of your training. Preserve all your exercises, and occasionally compare the latest with the earliest, and so ascertain what pro- gress you have made. Give especial attention to the words^ which, to my mind, are of greater importance than the sentences. Take your nouns first, and compare them with the nouns used by your author. You will probably find your words to be very much bigger than his, more sounding, more far-fetched, more classical, or more poetical. All young writers and speakers fancy that they cannot sufficiently revel in fine words. Comparison with the great mastery of English will rebuke this pomposity of inexperience, and chasten and improve your style. You will discover, to your surprise, that our best writers eschew big words and do not aim to dazzle their readers with fine words. Where there is a choice, they pre- HOW TO WRITE A COMPOSITION. 19 fer the pure, plain, simple English noun— the name by which the thing is known to everybody, and which, therefore, is instantly understood by all readers. These great authors call a spade "a spade;" only small scribblers term it " an implement of hus- bandry." If there is a choice of names, good writers prefer the one best known, \vhile an inexperienced writer is apt to select the most uncommon^ The example of the masters of the English tongue should teach you that commonness (if I may be allowed to coin a word to ex- press that for which I can find no precise equivalent) and vulgarity are not the same in substance. Vulgarity is shown in assump- tion and affectation of language quite as much as in dress and manners, and it is never vulgar to be natural. Your object is to be understood. To be successful, you must write and talk in a language that every- body can understand ; and such is the na- tural vigor, picturesqueness and music of our tongue, that you could not possess your- self of a more powerful or effective instru- ment for expression. Right Choice of Words. It is well for you to be assured that while, by this choice of plain English for the em- bodying of your thoughts, you secure the ears of ordinary people, you will at the same time please the most highly educated and refined. The words that have won the ap- plause of a political meeting are equally successful in securing a hearing in Congress, provided that the thoughts expressed and the manner of their expression be adapted to the changed audience. Then for the sentences. Look closely at their construction, comparing it with that of your author; I mean, note how you have put your words together. The placing of words is next in importance to the choice of them. The best writers preserve the natural order of thought. They sedulously shun obscurities and perplexities. They avoid long and involved sentences. Their rule is, that one sentence should express one thought, and they will not venture on the introduction of two or three thoughts, if they can help it. Obscure Sentences. Undoubtedly this is extremely difficult— sometimes impossible. If you want to qualify an assertion, you must do so on the instant; but the rule should never be for- gotten, that a long and involved sentence is to be avoided, wherever it is practicable to do so. Another lesson you will doubtless learn from the comparison of your composition with that of your model author. You will see a wonderful number oi adjectives in your own writing, and very few in his. It is the be- setting sin of young writers to indulge in ad- jectives, and precisely as a man gains ex- perience do his adjectives diminish in num- ber. It seems to be supposed by all un- practiced scribblers that the multiplication of epithets gives force. The nouns are never left to speak for themselves. It is curious to take up any newspaper and read the paragraphs of news, to open the books of nine-tenths of our authors of the third and downward ranks. You will rarely see a noun standing alone, without one or more adjectives prefixed. Be assured that this is a mistake. An adjective should never be used unless it is essential to correct description. As a general rule adjectives add little strength to the noun they are set to prop, and a multiplication of them is always enfeebling. The vast majority of nouns convey to the mind a much more ac- curate picture of the thing they signify than you can possibly paint by attaching epithets to them. 20 HOW TO WRITE A COMPOSITION. Yet ao not push to the extreme what has just been said. Adjectives are a very im- iportant part of language, and we could not well do without them. You do not need to say a " flowing river ; " every river flows, but you might wish to say a " swollen river," and you could not convey the idea you de- sire to express without using the adjective " swollen." What I wish to caution you against is the needless multiplication of ad- jectives, which only serve to overload and weaken the expression of your thought. Express Your Own Ideas. Vhen you have repeated your lesson tnany times, and find that you can write with some approach to the purity of your author, you should attempt an original com- position. In the beginning it would be pru- dent, perhaps, to borrow the ideas, but to put them into your own language. The difficulty ot this consists in the tendency of the min \ to mistake memory for invention, and thus, unconsciously to copy the language as well as the thoughts of the author. The best way to avoid this is to translate poetry into prose; to take, for instance, a page of narrative in verse and relate the same story in plain prose ; or to peruse a page o^" didactic poetry, and set down the argument in a plain, unpoetical fashion. This will make you familiar with the art of composition, only to be acquired by practice ; and the advan- tage, at this early stage of your education in the arts of writing and speaking, of putting into proper language the thoughts of others rather than your own is, that you are better able to discover your faults. Your fatherly love for your own ideas is such that you are really incompetent to form a judgment of their worth, or of the correctness of the lan- guage in which they are embodied. The critics witness this hallucination every day. Books continually come to ihcm, writ- ten by men who are not mad, who probably are sufiiciently sensible in the ordinary busi- ness of life, who see clearly enough the faults of other books, who would have laughed aloud over the same pages, if placed in their hands by another writer, but who, neverthe- less, are utterly unable to recognize the ab- surdP^ies of their own handiwork. The reader is surprised that any man of common intelli- gence could indite such a maze of nonsense^ where the right word is never to be found ia its right place, and this with such utter un- consciousness of incapacity on the part ol the author. Write Exactly What You Mean. Still more is he amazed that, even if a sen- sible man could so write, a sane man could read that composition in print, and not with shame throw it into the fire. But the expla- nation is, that the writer knew what he in- tcndcd to say ; his mind is full of that, and he reads from the manuscript or the type, not so much what is there set down, as what was already floating in his own mind. To criti- cise yourself you must, to some extent, for- get yourself This is impracticable to many persons, and, lest it may be so with you, I advise you to begin by putting the thoughts of others into your own language, before you attempt to give formal expression to your own thoughts. You must habitually place your thoughts upon paper — first, that you may do so rap- idly ; and, secondly, that you may do so cor- rectly. When you come to write your re- flections, you will be surprised to find how loose and inaccurate the most vivid of them have been, what terrible flaws there are in your best arguments. You are thus enabled to correct them, and to compare the matured sentence with the rude conception of it. You are thus trained to weigh your words and assure yourself HOW TO WRITE A COMPOSITION. 21 that incy precisely embody the idea you de- sire to convey. You can trace uncouthness in the sentences, and dislocations of thought, of which you had not been conscious before. It is far better to learn your lesson thus upon paper, which you can throw into the fire un- known to any human being, than to be taught it by readers who are not always very lenient critics and are quick to detect any faults that appear in your production. READING AND THINKING. 'AVING accustomed yourself to ex- press, in plain words, and in clear, precise and straightforward sen- tences, the ideas of others, you should proceed to express your own thoughts in the same fashion. You will now see more distinctly the advantage of having* first studied composition by the process I have recommended, for you are in a condition to discover the deficiencies in the flow of your own ideas. You will be surprised to find, when you come to put them into words, how many of your thoughts were shapeless, hazy and dreamy, slipping from your grasp when you try to seize them, resolving themselves, like the witches in Macbeth, Into the air : and what seemed corporal melted As breath into the wind. What You Should Read. Thus, after you have learned kow to write, you will need a good deal of education before you will learn wkat to write. I cannot much assist you in this part of the business. Two words convey the whole iQsson—Read and Ikink, What should you read ? Everything. What think about ? All subjects that present themselves. The writer and orator must be a man of very varied knowledge. Indeed, for all the purposes of practical life, you can- not know too much. No learning is quite useless. But a speaker, especially if an ad- vocate, cannot anticipate the subjects on which he may be required to talk. Law is the least part of his discourse. For once that he is called upon to argue a point of law, he is compelled to treat matters of fact twenty times. And the range of topics is very wide ; it embraces science and art, history and philo- sophy ; above all, the knowledge of human nature that teaches how the mind he ad- dresses is to be convinced and persuaded, and how a willing ear is to be won to his dis- course. No limited range of reading will suffice for so large a requirement. The ele- ments of the sciences must be mastered ; the foundations of philosophy must be learned ; the principles of art must be acquired; the broad facts of history must be stamped upon the memory ; poetry and fiction must not be slighted or neglected. Our Great Writers You must cultivate frequent and intimate intercourse v/ith the genius of all ages and of all countries, not merely as standards by which to measure your own progress, or as fountains from which you may draw unlim- ited ideas for your own use, but because they are peculiarly suggestive. This is the char- acteristic of genius, that, conveying one thought to the reader's mind, it kindles in him many other thoughts. The value of this to speaker and writer will be obvious to you. Never, therefore, permit a day to pass without reading more or less — if it be but a single page — from some one of our great writers. Besides the service I have described in the multiplication of your ideas, it will render you the scarcely lesser service of pre- serving purity of style and language, and pre- 22 HOW TO WRITE A COMPOSITION. venting you from falling into the conventional affectations and slang of social dialogue. For the same reason, without reference to any higher motive, but simply to fill our mind with the purest English, read daily some portion of the Bible; for which exer- cise there is another reason also, that its phraseology is more familiar to all kinds of audiences than any other, is more readily un- derstood, and, therefore, is more sufficient in securing their attention. Three Kinds of Reading. Your reading will thus consist of three kinds : reading for knowledge, by which I mean the storing of your memory with facts; reading for thoughts, by which I mean the ideas and reflections that set your own mind thinking; and reading the words, by which I mean the best language in which the best authors have clothed their thoughts. And these three classes of reading should be pur- sued together daily, more or less as you can, for they are needful each to the others, and neither can be neglected without injury to the rest. So also you must make it a business to think. You will probably say that you are always thinking when you are not domg anything, and often when you are busiest. True, the mind is active, but wandering, vaguely from topic to topic. You are not in reality thinking 07it2.xvy\}[{\w^', indeed, you can- not be sure that your thoughts have a shape until you try to express them in words. Nevertheless you must think before you can write or speak, and you should cultivate a Jiabit of thinking at all appropriate seasons. But do not misunderstand this suggestion. I do not design advising you to set yourself a-thinking, as you would take up a book to read at the intervals of business, or as a part of a course of self-training ; for such attempts would probably begin with wandering fancies and end in a comfortable nap. It is a fact worth noting, that few persons can think continuously while the body is at perfect rest. The time for thinking is when you are kept awake by some slight and almost mechanical muscular exercise, and the mind is not busil v attracted by external subjects of attention. Thus walking, angling, gardening, and other rural pursuits are pre-eminently the seasons for thought, and you should culti- vate a habit of thinking during those exer- cises, so needful for health of body and for fruitfulness of mind. Then it is that you should submit whatever" subject you desire to treat to careful review, turning it on all sides, and inside out, marshalling the facts connected with it, trying what may be said for or against every view of it, recalling what you may have read about it, and finally thinking what you could say upon it that had not been said before, or how you could put old views of it into new shapes. Learning to Think. Perhaps the best way to accomplish this will be to imai^ine yourself (vriting upon it, or making a speech upon it, and to think what in such case you would say; I do not mean in what ivords you would express yourself, but what you would discourse about; what ideas you would put forth; to what thoughts you would give utterance. At the beginning of this exercise you will find your reflections extremely vague and disconnected ; you will range from theme to theme, and mere flights of fancy will be substituted for steady, continuous thought. But persevere day by day, and that which was in the beginning an effort will soo»^ g.ow into a habit, and you will pass fevp moments of your working life in which, when not oc- cupied from without, your mind will not be usefidly employed within itself Having attained this habit of thinking, let HOW TO WRITE A COMPOSITION. 23 it be a rule with you, before you write or speak on any subject, to employ your thoughts upon it in the manner I have de- scribed. Go a-fishing. Take a walk. Weed your garden, Sweep, dust, do any sewing that needs to be done. While so occupied, think. It will be hard if your own intelli- gence cannot suggest to you how the subject should be treated, in what order of argument, with what illustrations, and with what new aspects of it, the original product of your own genius. At all events this is certain, that without preliminary reflection you cannot hope to deal with any subject to your own satisfac- tion, or to the profit or pleasure of others. If you neglect these precautions, you can never be more than a wind-bag, uttering words that, however grandly they may roll, convey no thoughts. There is hope for ignorance ; there is none for emptiness. To sum up these rules and suggestions : To become a writer or an orator, you must fill your mind with knowledge by reading and observation, and educate it to the crea- tion of thoughts by cultivating a habit of reflection. There is no limit to the know- ledge that will be desirable and useful ; it should include something of natural science much of history, and still more of human nature. The latter must be your study, for it is with this that the writer and speaker has to deal. Remember, that no amount of antiquarian, or historical, or scientific, or literary lore will make a writer or orator, without inti- mate acquaintance with the ways of the world^about him, with the tastes, sentiments, passions, emotions, and modes of thought of the men and women of the age in which he lives, and whose minds it is his business tf instruct and sway. HOW TO ACQUIRE A CAPTIVATING STYLE. OU must think, that you may have thoughts to convey ; and read, that you may have words wherewith to ex- press your thoughts correctly and gracefully. But something more than this is required to qualify you to write or speak. You must have a style. I will endeavor to explain what I mean by that. As every man has a manner of his own, differing from the manner of every other man, so has every mind its own fashion of communicating with other minds. This manner of expressing thought is style^ and therefore may style be described as the fea- tures of the mind displayed in its communi- cations with other minds ; as manner is the external feature exhibited in personal com- munication. But though style is the gift of nature, it is nevertheless to be cultivated; only in a sense different from that commonly understood by the word cultivation. Many elaborate treatises have been written on style, and the subject usually occupies a prominent place in all books on composition and oratory. It is usual with teachers to urge emphatically the importance of culti- vating style, and to prescribe ingenious re- cipes for its production. All these proceed upon the assumption that style is something artificial, capable of being taught, and which may and should be learned by the student, like spelling or grammar. But, if the definition of style which I have submitted to you is right, these elaborate trainings are a needless labor; probably a positive mischief I do not design to say a style may not be taught to you ; but it will be the style of some other man, and not your own; and, not being your own, it will no 24 HOW TO WRITE A COMPOSITION. more fit your mind than a second hand suit of clothes, bought without measurement at a pawn-shop, would fit your body, and your appearance in it would be as ungainly. But you must not gather fi-om this that you are not to concern yourself about style, that it may be left to take care of itself, and that you will require only to write or speak as untrained nature prompts. I say that you must cultivate style ; but I say also that the style to be cultivated must be your own, and not the style of another. How to Cultivate Style. The majority of those who have written upon the subject recommend you to study the styles of the great writers of the English language, with a view to acquiring their ac- complishment. So I say — study them, by all means ; but not for the purpose of imita- tion, not with a view to acquire their manner, but to learn their language, to see how they have embodied their thoughts in words, to discover the manifold graces with which they have invested the expression of their thoughts, so as to surround the act of com- municating information, or kindling emotion, with the various attractions and charms of art. Cultivate style ; but instead of laboring to acquire the style of your model, it should be your most constant endeavor to avoid it. The greatest danger to which you are ex- posed is that of falhng into an imitation of the manner of some favorite author, whom you have studied for the sake of learning a style, which, if you did learn it, would be unbecoming to you, because it is not your own. That which in him was man- ner becomes in you mannerism ; you but dress yourself in his clothes, and imagine •that you are like him, while you are no more like than is the valet to his master whose cast-off coat he is wearing. There are some authors whose manner is so infectious that it is extremely difficult not to catch it. Hawthorne is one of these ; it requires an effort not to fall into his formula' of speech. But your protection against this danger must be an ever-present conviction that your own style will be the best for you, be it ever so bad or good. You must strive to be yourself, to think for yourself, to speak in your own manner; then, what you say and your style of saying it will be in perfect accord, and the pleasure to those who read or listen will not be disturbed by a sense of impropriety and unfitness. Nevertheless, I repeat, you should culti- vate your own style, not by changing it into some other person's style, but by striving to preserve its individuality, while decorating it with all the graces of art. Nature gives the style, for your style is yourself; but the dec- orations are slowly and laboriously acquired by diligent study, and, above all, by long and patient practice. There are but two methods of attaining to this accomplishment — con- templation of the best productions of art, and continuous toil in the exercise of it. Make Your Composition Attractive. I assume that, by the process I have al- ready described, you have acquired a toler- ably quick flow of ideas, a ready command of words, and ability to construct grammatical sentences ; all that now remains to you is to learn to use this knowledge that the result may be presented in the most attractive shape to those whom you address. I am unable to give you many practical hints towards this, because it is not a thing to be acquired by formal rules, in a few lessons and by a set course of study ; it is the product of very wide and long-continued gleanings from a countless variety of sources ; but, above all, it is taught by experience. If you compare your compositions at inter- vals of six months, you will see the progress HOW TO WRITE ^ COMPOSITION. 25 you have made. You began with a multi- tude of words, with big nouns and bigger adjectives, a perfect firework of epithets, a tendency to call everything by something else than its proper name, and the more you admired your own ingenuity the more you thought it must be admired by others. If you had a good idea, you were pretty sure to dilute it by expansion, supposing the v/hile that you were improving by amplify- ing it. You indulged in small flights of poetry (in prose), not always in appropriate places, and you were tolerably sure to go off into rhapsody, and to mistake fine words for eloquence. This is the juvenile style; and is not peculiar to yourself — it is the common fault of ^?// young writers. But the cure for it may be hastened by judicious self-treatment. In addition to the study of good authors, to cultivate your taste, you may mend your style by a pro- cess of pruning, after the following fashion. Having finished your composition, or a sec- tion of it, lay it aside, and do not look at it again for a week, during which interval other labors will have engaged your thoughts. You will then be in a condition to revise it with an approach to critical impartiality, and so you will begin to learn the whole= some art of blotting. Go through it slowly, pen in hand, weighing every word, and ask- ing yourself, "What did I intend to say? How can I say it in the briefest and plainest English?" Compare with the plain answer you return to this question the form in which you had tried to express the same meaning in the writing before you, and at each word further ask yourself, " Does this word precisely con- vey my thought ? Is it the aptest word ? Is it a necessary word? Would my mean- ing be fully expressed without it?" If it is not the best, change it for a better. If it is superfluous, ruthlessly strike it out. The work will be painful at first — you will sacrifice with a sigh so many flourishes ot fancy, so many figures of speech, of whose birth you were proud. Nay, at the begin- ning, and for a long time afterwards, your courage will fail you, and many a cherished phrase will be spared by your relenting pen. But be persistent, and you will triumph at last. Be not content with one act of erasure. Read the manuscript again, and, seeing how much it is improved, you will be inclined to blot a little more. Lay it aside for a month, and then read again, and blot again as be- fore. Be severe toward yourself. THE CHOICE OF LANGUAGE. IMPLICITY is the crowning achievement of judgment and good taste. It is of very slow growth in the greatest minds ; by the multitude it is never acquired. The gradual progress towards it can be curiously traced in the works of the great masters of English composition, wheresoever the inju- dicious zeal of admirers has given to the world the juvenile writings which their own better taste had suffered to pass into oblivion. Lord Macaulay was an instance of this. Compare his latest with his earliest cOinposi- tions, as collected in the posthumous volume of his " Remains," and the growth of im- provement will be manifest. Yet, at first thought, nothing appears to be easier to remember, and to act upon, than the rule, '' Say what you want to say in the fewest words that wall express your meaning clearly; and let those words be the plainest, the most common (not vulgar), and the most intelligible to the greatest number of per- sons." It is certain that a beginner will adopt 26 HOW TO WRITE A COMPOSITION. the very reverse of this. He will say what he has to say in the greatest number of words he can devise, and those words will be the most artificial and uncommon his memory can recall. As he advances, he will learn to drop these long phrases and big words ; he will gradually contract his language to the limit of his thoughts, and he will discover, after long experience, that he was never so feeble as when he flattered himself that he was most forcible. Faults in Writing. I have dwelt upon this subject with repeti- tions that may be deemed almost wearisome, because affectations and conceits are the beset- ting sin of modern composition, and the vice is growing and spreading. The literature of our periodicals teems with it; the magazines are infected by it almost as much as the newspapers, which have been always famous ff-r it. Instead of an endeavor to write plainly, the express purpose of the writers in the jjcriodicals is to write as obscurely as possi- ble ; they make it a rule never to call any- thing by its proper name, neve-r to say any- thing directly in plain English, never to express their true meaning. They delight to say something quite different in appear- ance from that which they purpose to say, requiring the reader to translate it, if he can, and, if he cannot, leaving him in a state of bewilderment, or wholly uninformed. Worse models you could not find than those presented to you by the newspapers and periodicals ; yet are you so beset by them that it is extremely difficult not to catch the infection. Reading day by day compositions teeming with bnd taste, and especially where the style floods you with its conceits and affectations, you unconsciously fall into the same vile habit, and incessant vigilance is required to restore you to sound, vigorous, manly, and wholesome English, I cannot recommend to you a better plan for counteracting the inevitable mischief than the daily reading of portions of some of our best writers of English, specimens of which you will find near the close of the First Part of this volume. We learn more by example than in any other way, and a careful perusal of these choice specimens of writing from the works of the most celebrated authors will greatly aid you. You will soon learn to appreciate the power and beauty of those simple sentences com^ pared with the forcible feebleness of some, and the spasmodic efforts and mountebank contortions of others, that meet your eye when you turn over the pages of magazine or newspaper. I do not say that you will al once become reconciled to plain English, after being accustomed to the tinsel and tin trumpets of too many modern writers; but you will gradually come to like it more and more; you will return to it with greater zest year by year; and, having thoroughly learned to love it, you will strive to follow the exam- ple of the authors who have written it. Read Great Authors. And this practice of daily reading the writings of one of the great masters of the English tongue should never be abandoned. So long as you have occasion to write or speak, let it be held by you almost as a duty. And here I would suggest that you should read them aloud; for there is no doubt that the words, entering at once by the eye and the ear, are more sharply impressed upon the mind than when perused silently. Moreover, when reading aloud you read more slowly ; the full meaning of each word must be understood, that you may give the right expression to it, and the ear catches the general structure of the sentences more per- fectly- Nor will this occupy much time. I HOW TO WRITE A COMPOSITION. 27 There is no need to devote to it more than a few minutes every day. Two or three pages thus read daily will suffice to preserve the purity of your taste. Your first care in composition will be, of course, to express yourself grammatically. This is partly habit, partly teaching. If those with whom a child is brought up talk grammatically, he will do likewise, from mere imitation; but he will learn quite as readily anything ungrammatical to which his ears may be accustomed ; and, as the most fortu- nate of us mingle in childhood with servants and other persons not always observant of number, gender, mood, and tense, and as even they who have enjoyed the best education lapse, in familiar talk, into occasional defiance of grammar, which could not be avoided without pedantry, you will find the study of grammar necessary to you under any circum- stances. Your ear will teach you a great deal, ^nd you may usually trust to it as a guide; but sometimes occasions arise Vv^hen you are puzzled to determine which is the correct form of expression, and in such cases there is safety only in reference to the rule. Fortunately our public schools and acade- mies give much attention to the study > i grammar. The very first evidence that a person is well educated is the ability to speak correctly. If you were to say, " I paid big prices for them pictures," or, " Her photo- graphs always flatters her," or, *' His fund of jokes and stories make him a pleasant com- panion," or, " He buys the paper for you and I " — if you were guilty of committing such gross errors against good grammar, or scores of others that might be mentioned, your chances for obtaining a standing in polite society would be very slim. Educated per- sons would at once rank you as an ignorant boor, and their treatment of you would be suggestive of weather below zero. Do not '* murder the King's English." PUTTING WORDS INTO SENTENCES. AVING pomted out the importance of correct grammar and the right choice of language, I wish now to furnish you with some practi- cal suggestions for the construction of sen- tences. Remember that a good thought often suffers from a weak and faulty expres- sion of it. Your sentences will certainly shape them- selves after the structure of your own mind. If your thoughts are vivid and definite, so will be your language ; if dreamy and hazy, so will your composition be obscure. Your speech, whether oral or written, can be but the expression of yourself; and what you are, that speech will be. Remember, then, that you cannot mate- rially change the substantial character of your writing; but you may much improve the form of it by the observance of two or three general rules. In the first place, de sure you have something to say. This may appear to you a very un- necessary precaution ; for who, you will ask, having nothing to say, desires to write or to speak ? I do not doubt that you have often felt as if your brain was teeming with thoughts too big for words ; but when you came to seize them, for the purpose of put- ting them into words, you have found them evading your grasp and melting into the air. They were not thoughts at all, but fancies — - shadows which you had mistaken for sub- stances, and whose vagueness you would never have detected, had you not sought to embody them in language. Hence you will need to be assured that you have thoughts to express, before you try to express them. 28 HOW TO WRITE A COMPOSITION. And how to do this ? By asking yourself, when you take up the pen, what it is you in- tend to say, and answering yourself as you best can, without caring for the form of ex- pression. If it is only a vague and mystical idea, conceived in cloudland, you will try in vain to put it into any form of words, how- ever rude. If, however, it is a definite thought, proceed at once to set it down in words and fix it upon paper. Vague and Hazy Ideas. The expression of a precise and definite thought is not difficult. Words will follow the thought; indeed, they usually accom- pany it, because it is almost impossible to think unless the thought is clothed in words. So closely are ideas and language linked by habit, that very few minds are capable of con- templating them apart, insomuch that it may be safely asserted of all intellects, save the highest, that if they are unable to express their ideas, it is because the ideas are incapa- ble of expression — because they are vague and hazy. For the present purpose it will suffice that you put upon paper the substance of what you desire to say, in terms as rude as you please, the object being simply to measure your thoughts. If you cannot express them, do not attribute your failure to the v/eakness of language, but to the dreaminess of your ideas, and therefore banish them without mercy, and direct your mind to some more definite object for its contemplations. If you succeed in putting your ideas into words, be they ever so rude, you will have learned the first, the most difficult, and the most import- ant lesson in the art of writing. The second is far easier. Having thoughts, and having embodied those thoughts in un- polished phrase, your next task will be to present them in the most attractive form. To «ecure the attention of those to whom you desire to communicate your thoughts, it is not enough that you utter them in any words that come uppermost; you must express them in the best words, and in the most graceful sentences, so that they may be read with pleasure, or at least without offending the taste. Your first care in the choice of words will be that they shall express precisely your meaning. Words are used so loosely in so- ciety that the same word will often be found to convey half a dozen different ideas to as many auditors. Even where there is not a conflict of meanings in the same word, there is usually a choice of words having meanings sufficiently alike to be used indiscriminately, without subjecting the user to a charge of positive error. But the cultivated taste is shown in the selection of such as express the most delicate shades of difference. Suit the Word to the Thought. Therefore, it is not enough to have abund- ance of words ; you must learn the precise meaning of each word, and in what it differs from other words supposed to be synony- mous ; and then you must select that which most exactly conveys the thought you are seeking to embody. There is but one way to fill your mind with words, and that is, to read the best authors, and to acquire an accurate knowledge of the precise meaning of their words — by parsing as you read. By the practice of parsing, I intend very nearly the process so called at schools, only limiting the exercise to the definitions of the principal words. As thus: take, for instance the sentence that immediately precedes this, — -ask yourself what is the meaning of ''prac- tice," of '' parsing," of " process," and such like. Write the answer to each, that you may be assured that your definition is dis- tinct. Compare it with the definitions of the same word in the dictionaries, and observe HOW TO WRITE A COMPOSITION. 29 the various senses in which it has been used. You will thus learn also the words that have the same, or nearly the same, meaning —-a large vocabulary of which is necessary to composition, for frequent repetition of the same word, especially in the same sentence, is an inelegance, if not a positive error. Compare your definition with that of the authorities, and your use of the word with the uses of it cited in the dictionary, and you will thus measure your own progress in the science of words. An Amusing Exercise. This useful exercise may be made ex- tremely amusing as well as instructive, if friends, having a like desire for self-improve- ment, will join you in the practice of it; and I can assure you that an evening will be thus spent pleasantly as well as profitably. You may make a merry game of it — a game of speculation. Given a word ; each one of the company in turn writes his definition of it; Webster's Dictionary, or some other, is then referred to, and that which comes nearest the authentic definition wins the honor or the prize; it may be a sweepstakes carried off by him whose definition hits the mark the most nearly. But, whether in company or alone, you should not omit the frequent practice of this exercise, for none will impart such a power of accurate expression and supply such an abundance of apt words wherein to embody the delicate hues and various shadings of thought. So with sentences, or the combination of words. Much skill is required for their con- struction. They must convey your meaning accurately, and as far as possible in the na- tural order of thought, and yet they must not be complex, involved, verbose, stiff, ungainly, or full of repetitions. They must be brief, but not curt; explicit, but not verbose. Here, again, good taste must be your guide, rather than rules which teachers propound, but which the pupil never follows. Not only does every style require its own construction of a sentence, but almost every combination of thought will demand a differ- ent shape in the sentence by which it is con- veyed. A standard sentence, like a standard style, is a pedantic absurdity ; and, if you would avoid it, you must not try to write by rule, though you may refer to rules in order to find out your faults after you have written. Lastly, inasmuch as your design is, not only to influence, but to please, it will be ne- cessary for you to cultivate what may be termed the graces of composition. It is not enough that you instruct the minds of your readers; you must gratify their taste, and win their attention, giving pleasure in the very process of imparting information. Hence you must make choice of words that convey no coarse meanings, and excite no disagree able associations. You are not to sacrifice expression to elegance ; but so, likewise, you are not to be content with a word or a sen- tence if it is offensive or unpleasing, merely because it best expresses your meaning. Graces of Oomposition. The precise boundary between refinement and rudeness cannot be defined; your own cultivated taste must tell you the point at which power or explicitness is to be pre- ferred to delicacy. One more caution I would impress upon you, that you pause and give careful consideration to it before you permit a coarse expression, on account of its correctness, to pass your critical review when you revise your manuscript, and again when you read the proof, if ever you rusi. into print. And much might be said also about the music of speech. Your words and sentences 30 HOW TO WRITE A COMPOSITION. must be musical. They must not come liarshly from tlie tongue, if uttered, or grate upon the ear, if heard. There is a rhythm in words which should be observed in all composition, written or oral. The percep- tion of it is a natural gift, but it may be much cultivated and improved by reading the works of the great masters of English, especially of the best poets — -the most excel- lent of all in this wonderful melody of words being Longfellow and Tennyson. Perusal of their works will show you what you should strive to attain in this respect, even though it may not enable you fully to ac- complish the object of your endeavor. Aiif at the sun and you wall shoot high. ERRORS TO BE AVOIDED. OJI HE faculty for writing varies in various 11 persons. Some write easily, some ^ " laboriously; words flow from some pens without effort, others produce them slow- ly ; composition seems to come naturally to a few, and a few never can learn it, toil after it as they may. But whatever the natural power, of this be certain, that good writing cannot be accomplished without study and painstaking practice. Facility is far from being a proof of excellence. Many of the finest works in our language were written slowly and painfully; the words changed again and again, and the structure of the sentences carefully cast and recast. There is a fatal facility that runs "in one weak, washy, everlasting flood," that is more hopeless than any slowness or slovenliness. If you find your pen galloping over the paper, take it as a warning of a fault to be shunned ; stay your hand, pause, reflect, read what you have written ; see what are the thoughts you have set down, and resolutely try to condense them. There is no more wearisome process than to write the same thing over again ; nevertheless it is a most efficient teaching. Your endeavor should be to say the same rhings, but to say them in a different form ; to condense your thoughts, and express them in fewer words. Compare this second effort with the first, and you will at once measure your improve- ment. You cannot now do better than re- peat this lesson twice; rewrite, still bearing steadily in mind your object, which is, to say what you desire to utter in words the most apt and in the briefest form consistent with intelligibility and grace. Having done | this, take your last copy and strike out piti- lessly every superfluous word, substitute a vigorous or expressive word for a weak one, sacrifice the adjectives without remorse, and, when this work is done, rewrite the whole, as amended. And, if you would see what you have gained by this laborious but effective pro- cess, compare the completed essay with the first draft of it, and you will recognize tlie superiority of careful composition over facile scribbling. You will be fortunate if you thus acquire a mastery of condensation, and can succeed in putting the reins upon that fatal facility of words, before it has grown into an unconquerable habit. Simplicity is the charm of writing, as of speech ; therefore, cultivate it with care. It is not the natural manner of expression, or, at least, there grows with great rapklity in all of us a tendency to an ornamental style of talking and writing. As soon as the child emerges from the imperfect phraseology of his first letters to papa, he sets himself earn- estly to the task of trying to disguise what he has to say in some other words than such as plainly express his meaning and nothing more. To him it seems an object of ambi- HOW TO WRITE A COjVTPOSITION. 31 tion — a feat to be proud of — to go by the most indirect paths, instead of the straight way, and it is a triumph to give the person he addresses the task of interpreting his language, to find the true meaning lying 'under the apparent meaning. Come Right to the Point. Circumlocution is not the invention of re- finement and civilization, but the vice of the uncultivated; it prevails the most with the young in years and in minds that never attain maturity. It is a characteristic of the savage. You cannot too much school your- self to avoid this tendency, if it has not already seized you, as is most probable, or to banish it, if infected by it. If you have any doubt of your condition in this respect, your better course will be to consult some judicious friend, conscious of the evil and competent to criticism. Sub- mit to him some of your compositions, ask- ing him to tell you candidly what are their faults, and especially what are the circum- locutions in them, and how the same thought might have been better, because more simply and plainly, expressed. Having studied his corrections, rewrite the article, striving to avoid those faults. Submit this again to your friendly censor, and, if many faults are found still to linger, apply yourself to the labor of repetition once more. Repeat this process with new writ- ings, until you produce them in a shape that requires few blottings, and, having thus learned what to shun, you may venture on self-reliance. But, even when parted from your friendly critic, you should continue to be your own critic, revising every sentence, with resolute purpose to strike out all superfluous words and to substitute an expressive word for every fine word You will hesitate to blot many a pet phrase, of whose invention you felt proud at the moment of its birth; but, if it is circumlocution, pass the pen through it ruthlessly, and by degrees you will train yourself to the crowning victory of art- simplicity. When you are writing on any subject, address yourself to it directly. Come to the point as speedily as possible, and do not walk round about it, as if you were reluctant to grapple with it. There is so much to be read nowadays that it is the duty of all who write to condense their thoughts and words. This cannot always be done in speaking, where slow minds must follow your faster lips, but it is always practicable in writing, where the reader may move slowly, or re- peat what he has not understood on the first passing of the eye over the words. Arranging Your Words. In constructing your sentences, marshal your words in the order of thought — that is the natural, and therefore the most intelligible shape for language to assume. In conver- sation we do this instinctively, but in writing the rule is almost always set at defiance. The man who would tell you a story in a plain, straightforward way would not write it without falling into utter confusion and placing almost every word precisely where it ought not to be. lu learning to write, let this be your next care. Probably it will demand much toil at first in rewriting for the sake of redistributing your words ; acquired habit of long standing will unconsciously mould your sentences to the accustomed shape; but persevere and you will certainly succeed at last, and your words will express your thoughts precisely as you think them, and as you desire that they should be impressed upon the minds of those to whom they are addressed. So with the sentences. Let each be com- plete in itself, embodying one proposition. 4 32 EXERCISES IN COMPO^ilION. Shun that tangled skein in which some writers involve themselves, to the perplexity of their readers and their own manifest be- wilderment. When you find a sentence fall- ing into such a maze, halt and retrace your steps. Cancel what you have done, and re- flect what you design to say. Set clearly before your mind the ideas that you had be- gun to mingle; disentangle them, range them in orderly array, and express them in distinct sentences, where each will stand separate, but in its right relationship to all the rest. This exercise will improve, not only youf skill in the art of writing, but also in the art of thinking, for those involved sentences are almost always the result of confused thoughts; the resolve to write clearly will compel you to think clearly, and you will be surprised to discover how often thoughts, which had appeared to you definite in contemplation, are found, when you come to set them upon paper, to be most incomplete anci shadowy. Knowing the fault, you can then put your wits to work and furnish the remedy. Exercises in Composition. SIMPLE SENTENCES. SUBJECT AND PREDICATE. HE sentence 'John writes' consists of two parts :— (i) The name of the person of whom we are speak- ing, — Jolm and (2) What we say about John, — writes. Similarly the sentence * Fire burns ' con- sists of two parts: — (i) The name of the thing of which we are speak - mg,— _/frz the year 1066. /n the year 1066, at Senlac^ near Hastings, the Nonnans beat the English, et^.^ etc. Place. Enghsti Channel Westminster Yorktown Santiago Eve7it. Printing introduced into England Discovery of America ^^efeat of the Spanish Ar- mada Gunpowder Plot Conquest of England 'Surrender of British Destruction of Spanish fleet SENTENCES COMBINED. A number of simple sentences may some- times be combined so as to form one. Example: — The girl was little. She lost her doll. Tlie doll was pretty. It was new. She lost it yester- day. She lost it in the afternoon. These sentences maybe combined in one, thus: — The little girl lost her pretty new doll yesterday afternoon. The combined sentence tells us as much as the separate sentences, and tells it in a shorter, clearer, and more pleasing way. Date. Persv.,, 1476 William Caxton 1492 Christopher Columbus J 588 Howard, Drake and others 1605 Guy Fawkes and others 1066 William, Duke of Nor- mandy 1781 Lord Cornwallis 1898 Admiral Schley Exercise 20. Combine the following sets of sentences : — 1. The man is tall. He struck his head. He was entering a carriage. The carriage was low. 2. Tom had a slate. It was new. He broke it. He broke it this morning. 3. The cow is black. She is grazing in a meadow. The meadow is beside the river. 4. The apples are ripe. They grow in an orchard. The orchard is Mr. Brown's. 5. The corn is green. It is waving. The breeze causes it to wave. The breeze is gentle. 6. The father is kind. He bought some clothes. 1^ How olGlhoA/'^^inKy^lKil IKE A CRICKSTIN A nJLL I HOW PADEREWSKl PLAYS THE FIANO — ^ ,- ^.. .. ., :: ss,*^i/ r/t/S U/iJOfjb MZflf^T TO YOU 8£ATS our m LOVE ^^ GENERAL WHEELER AT SANTIAGO EXERCISES IN COMPOSITION. 37 The clothes were new. He bought them for the chil- dren. The children were good. 7. The } )y was careless. He made blots. The blots were oig. They were made on his book. The book was clean. 8. The bucket was old. Jt was made of oak. It fell. It fell into the well. The well was deep. 9. Polly Flinders was little. She sat. She sat among the cinders. She was warming her toes. Her toes were pretty. They were little. 10. Tom Tucker is little. He is singing. He is singing for his supper. 11. There were three wise men. They lived at Gotham. They went to sea. They went in a bowl. They had a rough trip. 12. The man came. He was the man in the moon. He came down soon. He came too soon. 13. I saw ships. There were three. They came sailing. They sailed by. I saw them on Christmas day. I saw them in the morning. 14. Cole was a king. He was old. He was a merry soul. 1 5. A great battle began. It was between the Eng- lish and the Scotch. It began next morning. It began at break of day. It was at Bannockburn. Sentences are often combined by means of Conjunctions or other connecting words. Sentences are combined, by means of the Conjunction and. Examples : — i. The boy is good. The boy is clever. 2. WilHam is going to school. John is going to school. 3. I admire my teacher. I love my teacher. These may be combined into single sen- tences, as follows: — 1. The boy is good and clever. 2. William and John are going to school. 3. I admire and love my teacher. Note the use of the comma when more than two words or sets of words are joined by and : — I met Fred, Will and George. Faith, Hope and Charity are sometimes called the Christian Graces. I bought a pound of tea, two pounds of coffee, ten pounds of sugar and a peck of flour. The comma is used in the same way with or. Exercise 21. Combine the following set of sentences by means of the Conjunction and : — 1. Jack went up the hill. Jill went up the hill. 2. The Hon beat the unicorn. The lion drove t) e unicorn out of town. 3. Edward is honest. Edward is truthful. 4. The child is tired. The child is sleepy. 5. Tom will pay us a visit. Ethel will pay us \ visit. Their parents will pay us a visit. 6. The grocer sells tea. He sells coffee. He sells sugar. 7. Maud deserves the prize. She will get it. 8. Coal is a mineral. Iron is a mineral. Copper is a mineral. Lead is a mineral. 9. The boy worked hard. He advanced rapidly. 10. Little drops of water, little grains of sand makf the mighty ocean. Little drops of water, little grains of sand make the pleasant land. Sentences are combined by means of the Conjunction or, thus: — 1. The boy is lazy. The boy is stupid. 2. I want a pen. I want a pencil. 3. The horse is lost. The horse is stolen. These sentences may be combined as fol lows : — 1. The boy is lazy or stupid. 2. I want a pen or a pencil. 3. The horse is lost or stolen. Remember to put in the commas when more than two words or sets of words are joined by ,-, -. ■'■"■'' '- -i.-^^-y '- « ..„„a,:.;g ORIENTAIv COSTUME I ;TO. ti f MORRISON, CHICAGO A FRENCH DANCER— SHOWING REVOIvVING SKIR: EXERCISES IN EASY NARRATIVES. 53 Into the foaming river, Which, ah, too quickly, bore That pledge of one no more ! With fond impatience burning, The chieftain's lady stood, To watch her love returning In triumph down the flood, From that day's field of blood. But, field, alas! ill-fated. The lady saw, instead Of the bark whose speed she waited. Her hero's scarf, all red With the t is kept as a pet only, and sometimes it is kept only 58 to catch mice, but most people keep one for ooth purposes. The cat is fitted by nature to be a beast of prey ; hence its claws and teeth are sharp a jd long, and under its feet are pads, which enable it to walk without making a noise. The cat is also fitted for prowling at night. Its thick fur keeps it from feeling cold, and its wonderful eyes enable it to see almost in the dark. Cats make good pets because they are pretty, clean and gentle. They like to lie on some- thing soft and warm. When stroked they purr. Kittens are very playful. 1 . Found nearly all over world ; friend to man. 2. Uses : — Hunting, guarding, minding sheep, etc. 3. Description : Teeth for tearing, legs for running, coat for warmth ; differences between cat and dog. 4. Habits. Kinds of Dogs, 1. Name various kinds. 2. Showing how structure of each kind fits it for its work ; as {a) Greyhound — shape, legs, chest for swiftness. {U) Bloodhound — broad head, large no&e for smell. ( IT ■'^ ^P^ illustration is always a help to a writer or speaker. The mind of the reader or hearer is interested in tracing the comparison, and re- ceives a stronger impression than it does when the thought is stated simply by itself. Many of the most famous orators have been very gifted in employing similes to ex- press their meaning. You should cultivate the habit of using illustrations. Although there is sometimes danger in employing them, yet where carefully and rightly used they not only ornament the composition, but render its thoughts and ideas more striking, more impressive and more easily remembered. A Simile is a comparison explicitly stated ; as, Now does he feel his title Hang loose upon him like a giant's robe Upon a dwarfish thief. How far that little candle throws his beams ! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a goodly apple rotten at the heart. The course (jf a great statesman resembles that of navigable rivers, avoiding immovable obstacles with noble bends of concession, seeking the broad levels of opinion on which men soonest settle and longest dwell, following and marking the most imperceptible slopes of national tendency, yet always aiming at direct advances, always recruited from sources nearer heaven, and sometimes bursting open paths of pro- gress and fruitful human commerce through what seem the eternal barriers of both. A Metaphor is a condensed Simile. The comparison is impHed, but not expressed at length ; thus : — But look, the morn in russet mantle clad Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill. The simile implied here is, " The morning like to a person clad in russet mantle walks," etc Stand, therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteous- ness . . . above all taking the shield of faith where- with ye may be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked. Similes and Metaphors ar,^ employed 1. To aid the understandirg. We comprehend the unknown best by comparison with the known. 2. To intensify thf. ^r^elings ; as Offence's gilded hand //lay shove by justice. What a piece of worJ. is man ; how noble in rea- son ! how infinite in ifa^i'ulty ! in form and moving how express and admirable ! in action how like an angel ! in apprehension how like a god ! the beauty of the world ! the paragon of animals I 3. To give point and force to what we wish to express. Our conduct towards the Indians has been that of a man who subscribes to hospitals, weeps at charity sermons, carries out broth and blankets to beggars, and then comes homo and beats his wife and chil- dren. USE OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 65 Howe'er it be, it seems to me 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. — Tennyson. Every one must admit the beauty and force of the great poet's comparison of kind hearts to coronets, and simple faith to Norman blood, implying that each object mentioned surpasses the one with which it is compared. The following rules should be observed in the conduct of Metaphors : — 1. Do not use metaphors, except when needed to make a sentence clearer or stronger. Needless meta- phors are a blemish instead of an ornament. 2. Do not pursue a simile or metaphor too far. The further it is pursued the less likely is the com- parison to hold. 3. Metaphors should avoid mean or disagreeable details. 14. Metaphors should not be forced. Some meta- •^hors are so far-fetched that (as Mr. Lowell says) one could wish their authors no worse fate than to be obliged to carry them back whence they came. 5. Do not mix literal and metaphorical language. In the sentence I was walking on the barren hills of sin and sorrow near Welshpool, " the barren hills of sin and sorrow '' is metaphori- cal, and "near Welshpool " is literal. Examples of Apt Illustrations. But I am constant as the northern star,' * Of whose true-fix' d and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament. — Shakespeare. I had rather be a dog and bay the moon, Than such a Roman. — Shakespeare. There is a tide in the affairs of men Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune ; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. — Shakespeare. Squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve. — Milton. Now morn, her rosy steps in eastern clime » Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl. —Milton. So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap. — Milton. Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks. — Milton. There is a reaper whose name is death. And with his sickle keen He reaps the bearded grain at a breath. And the flowers that grow between. — Longfellow. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. — Longfellow. But what am I ? An infant crying in the night : An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry. — Tennyson. But Memory blushes at the sneer, And Honor turns with frown defiant, And Freedom, leaning on her spear, Laughs louder than the laughing giant. — Holmes. There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one, Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on. — Lowell. In winter, when the dismal rain Came down in slanting lines. And wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder-harp of pines. — Mulock. Men not only want a competency, but they want a ten- story competency; then they want religion as a lightning rod to ward off the bolts of divine judg- ment. — Beecher. As the river is swollen by the melting snows of spring and runs with greater force and volume, so, when he is aroused, his thoughts and words pour forth impetuously, and he exhibits the strength and majesty of the most commanding eloquence. Examples of Faulty Illustrations. Peace has poured oil on the troubled waters, and they blossom like the rose. She has come down among us in her floating robes, bearing the olive-branch in her beak. The American eagle broods over his nest in the rocky fastnesses, and his young shall lie down with the lamb. We have gone through the floods, and have turned their hot ploughshares into pruning-hooks. May we be as lucky in the future, preserving for- ever our Goddess of Liberty one and inseparable. Corrections. — Peace may pour o^^ on troubled waters, but waters never blossom. 64 HOW TO COMPOSE AND WRITE LETTERS. Anything that wears floating robes is not furnished with a beak. The young of eagles are not in the habit of lying down with lambs. Floods do not have hot ploughshares. Why should anyone wish to preserve the Goddess of Liberty inseparable, as it would be an unheard-of experience for a Goddess to be divided .'' How TO Compose and Write Letters. ^\ I O be a good letter writer is an accom- jl plishment as desirable as it is rare. Few persons possess the faculty of writing an interesting letter, politely and gracefully expressed. Unless you are an ex- ception to the general rule you become stiff and formal when you attempt to express your thoughts to a friend, or make known your wants to a man of busmess. The epistle is labored, unnatural and lacking in that ease which is the charm of conversation. " I now take my pen in hand," etc. Do get rid of all old, set forms of expression. Imagine the person to whom you are writing as placed right before you, and talk to him with your pen as you would with your tongue. There can be but one opinion concerning the general value of correspondence. How often people complain that they do not get letters from their friends. Neglect can be shown in no way more effectively than by failing to answer a letter when it ought to be written. In writing a letter, care should be taken that the different parts are properly arranged. First comes the Address of the Writer. This is written at the top of the paper, towards the right side. If the address consists of several parts, each part is given a separate line ; thus — Livonia, Livingston Co., New York. After the address comes the Date of Writing. Next comes the Form of Address. this is always placed towards the left of the page, and varies according to the relations between the sender and the receiver of the letter. Writing to an intimate fritnd, one may say, " My dear Tom," or (a Httle less familiarly) " My dear Brown.'' Writing to a friend who is also a superior in age or position, one would say, "My dear Mr. Brown," "Dear Sir" is formal, but claims some small degree of acquaint- ance or regard. "Sir" is purely formal. Similarly we may have, "My dear Annie," " My dear Mrs. Brown," " Dear Madam," and " Madam." In writ- ing to Miss Jones, a stranger, you may not wish to say, " Dear Miss." It would be better in tliis in- stance to address her as " Miss Jones." After the form of address comes the Letter. A friendly letter should be easy and pleasant in style — it should be, in fact, a talk on paper. In a business letter, on the other hand, the style is brief and concise. The first aim of the writer is to make himself understood, the next to be brief. After the letter comes the Subscription, as. Or. Sincerely yours, Alexander Argyle. Respectfully yours, New England Coal Co. Or in more formal style, I am, dear sir, Your obedient servant, Thomas Lancaster, The subscription is arranged like the address, Due l:)egins further to the left. The form of sul^scription varies with the form of address. A business letter ends with the Address of the Person to whom it is Sent. This is written in the left corner. A friendly letter generally ends with the subscription. HOW TO COMPOSE AND WRITE LETTERS. 65 Sir Examples of Letters. Application for a Situation. 345 Lancaster Street, 15th February, 189-. Seeing by your advertisement in this morning's " Standard " that you are in need of an office boy, I beg leave to apply for the position. I have been for six years a pupil in the Commercial School, Old Bridge Street, My teacher permits me to refer you to him for an account of my conduct and abilities. I have therefore only to add that if I am fortunate enough to enter your employ, it shall be my aim to sejve you diligently and faithfully. I am, iir, Your obedient servant, Thomas Watson. J. W. Chambers, Esq., 97 Dearborn Street. Letters of Invitation. Newark, September 11. My Dear Joe : Myself, and a half dozen other good fellows, are going to devote a few hours on Tuesday evening to the enjoyment of j-efreshments, chit-chat, and so on. I hope you will make on*e, as we have not enjoyed the " feast of reason and flow of soul " in each other's company for some time past. Believe me. dear Joe, Yours ever, Harry. Madison Square, November 12. Dear Mr. Robinson : My old friend Richard Roy is coming to take a chop with me on Saturday, the 1 5th, and I hope you will come and join us at six o'clock. I know you are not partial to large parties, so trust you will ^hink us two sufficient company. Yours ever truly, Washington, July 3. Hon. J. B. Granger, My Dear Sir : We are endeavoring to get up a small excursion to visit Mount Vernon on the loth of this month. Will you do us the favor of making one of our number ? Mrs. and my family desire their compliments, and request me to mention that they have taken upon themselves the task of providing the " creature comforts " for that occasion, and trust that their ex- ertions will meet with unanimous approval. Should you have no previous engagement for that day, and feel disposed to join our party, a carriage will be at your door by 10 o'clock on Thursday mornmg; and believe me to be, My dear sir, yours most sincerely, Hon. J. B. Granger. P. S. — The favor of an early answer will oblige. Washington, Julv 3. Mr. E. B. Allen, My Dear Sir : Replying to your kind invitation of this morning, I beg leave to say it would aiford me great pleasure to join your excursion to Mount Vernon on the loth inst. I will await your carriage at 10 o'clock on Thursday morning. Thanking you for your wel- come invitation, I am, my dear sir, very truly yours, J. B. Granger. Mr. E. B. Allen. Notes of Invitation. Mr. and Mrs. Thompson request the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. James's company, on Wednesday evening next, at eight o'clock, to join a social party. An immediate answer will much oblige. Fifth Avenue, January 9th. Mr. and Mrs. James will be most happy to avail themselves of Mr. and Mrs. Thompson's kind invita- tion to join their social party as requested. West Street, January loth. Mr. and Mrs. James greatly regret their inability to accept Mr. and Mrs. Thompson's kind invitation to join their social party. Nothing would have af- forded them more pleasure than to be presen*- b"t family affliction prevents them. West Street, January loth. My Dear Bertha, — A few friends will be here oi< Wednesday evening next, to take a social cup ot tea, and chat about mankind in particular. Give us the pleasure of your company. S. BUCKMAN. Prince Street, Saturday morning. My Dear Sophie, — It affords me great pleasure to inform you that I shall join your party on Wed- nesday evening next. Bertha Merwin. Spring Street, Saturday afternoon. ee HOW TO COMPOSE AND WRITE LETTERS. Letters of Congratulatio7i. Louisville, Ky., February lo. My Dear Howard : The news of your good fortune gives me great satisfaction. No one can possess true friendship without rejoicing in the prosperity of a friend. To one who has always been manly, true and noble, and who has labored persistently toward a particular end, success must be extremely gratifying. it will ever be my delight to hear that you are prospering in your undertakings, and if in any way I can serve you, you can rely upon my best en- deavors. With every good wish for yourself and Mrs. Kerr, Ever faithfully yours, St. Louis, Mo., June 15, 189-. Dear Old Friend : The happy announcement that a son and heir has oeen born to you, gives me extreme satisfaction. I always thought you would distinguish yourself in some way, and would do something whereby your name might descend to posterity. And now, my worthy chum, it seems you have done it. Blessings on you .• Very sincerely yours. Love Letters. My Dearest Harriet : I cannot express the happiness I feel in finding that my letter to your respected parents has been crowned with success, and 1 flatter myself, notwith- standing your temxporizing with my feelings, in thus reserving your avowal of a reciprocal attachment, that you, my dear girl, will not be unsusceptible to its value, but condescend to acknowledge an equal happiness with myself at its contents. In token of the confidence with which your dear letter has inspired me, I beg leave to present you with a trifle, the acceptance of which will be highly flattering to him whose image it portrays ; and permit me the fond pleasure of in- dulging a behef that you will esteem the trifle, in affectionate remembrance of the original. In obedience to your father's command, I shall wait upon him at the appointed time ; till then, my beloved Harriet, adieu. Ever your devoted admirer. Dear Sir: I make no doubt of the truth of your assertions, relative to yourself, character, and connections ; but as I think I am too young to enter into such a seri- ous engagement, I request I may hear no more of your passion for the present ; in every other respect, I am. Sir, Yours very sincerely, Outlines to be Expanded into Letters. Lwiting a Frie?id to Tea. 1. Can you come to tea — day — hour. 2. My birthday — several friends coming. 3. Tea in orchard — then cricket in field 4. Hope mother will let you come — be home by nine. Accepting Invitation. 1. Thanks for invitation — happy to accept. 2. Glad to meet . 3. Look forward to pleasant evening. Declining Invitation. 1. Thanks for invitation — should have been glad to come. 2. Sorry to lose chance of meeting . 3. Father some time ago arranged to take me and my brother to . 4. Hope you will have pleasant evening and many happy returns. From a Town Child to a Country Child. 1. Town crowded — noisy — dirty — glad to get into country. 2. Shall never forget visit to the country last summer. 3. No streets — few houses — beautiful views — quiet —sweet air. 4. Fine weather — many enjovable walks. 5. Returned to town almost envying a country life. Answer from Country Child to Town Child. 1. You almost envying country life — I almost envying town life. 2. Country has the advantages you describe, but you saw it in summer. 3. Difficult to get about in bad weather — especially in winter when much bad weather. 4. Dull — no libraries, exhibitions, meetings, con- certs, etc. 5. Town may have all the disadvantages named, but always plenty to see, opportunities for study, friendly intercourse, entertainments. 6. Traveling easy. Specimens of Elegant Composition FROM World-Renowned Authors. O not consider yourself too ambi- tious when you make an earnest effort to express your thoughts so well that your productions will compare favorably with those of the best writers. You should have specimens of the best composition before you. The following pages contain such, and 3/ou will readily see how the most famous authors construct their sentences, what apt words they choose, and how easily, yet forcibly, they express their idea«- Do not be disheartened if you fail to come up to the standard here placed before you. It is related of the great painter, Correggio, that he was once almost ready to fling away his brush, exclaiming, ^^ I can never paint like Raphael." But he persevered, and at length the great painter whom he admired so much said, " If I were not Raphael, I would wish to be Correggio." You should take the best writers for your models and set your standard high. Be a severe critic of yourself, and do your very best. GETTING THE RIGHT START By J. G. Holland. In clear expression of thought and use of plain, forcible English, the works of Doctor Holland are superior to those of most authors. He does not employ large, overgrown words, but such as are easily understood. This is one secret of the popularity of his writings. Dr. Holland was born at Belchertown, Mass., in 1819, and died October 12, 1881. He was associate editor of the " Springfield Repubhcan,'' and in 1870 became editor of " Scribner's Magazine.'' Both as a writer of prose and poetry he is hekl in high esteem by all lovers of elevated thought and pure diction. articles for the North American Review — at least I hope everybody will not, for it is a publication which makes me a quarterly visit ; but everybody, who is somebody, can do something. There is a wide range of effort between holding a skein of silk for a lady and saving her from drowning — between col- lecting voters on election day and teaching a Sunday-school class. A man must enter society of his own free will, as an active element or a valuable com- ponent, before he can receive the recognition that every true man longs for. I take it that this is right. A man who is willing to enter society as a beneficiary is mean, and does not deserve recognition. There is no surer sign of an unmanly and 67 OCIETY demands that a young man shall be somebody, not only but that he shall prove his right to the title; and it has a right to demand this. Society will not take this matter upon trust — at least, not for a long time, for it has been cheated too frequently. Society is not very particular what a man does, so that it proves him to be a man : then it will bow to him, and make room for him. I know a young man who made a place for himself by writing an article for the North American Review : nobody read the article, so far as I know, but the fact that he wrote such an article, that it was very long, and that it was published, did the business for hini Everybody, however, cannot write 68 SPECLMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. cowardly spirit than a vague desire for help, a wish to depend, to lean upon somebody, and enjoy the fruits of the industry of others. There are multitudes of young men, I sup- pose, who indulge in dreams of help from some quarter, coming in at a convenient mo- ment, to enable them to secure the success in life which they covet. The vision haunts them of some benevo- lent old gentleman with a pocket full of money, a trunk full of mortgages and stocks, and a mind remarkably appreciative of merit and genius, who will, perhaps, give or lend them anywhere from ten to twenty thousand dollars, with which they will commence and go on swimmingly. Perhaps he will take a different turn, and educate them. Or, per- haps, with an eye to the sacred profession, they desire to become the beneficiaries of some benevolent society, or some gentle cir- cle of female devotees. To me, one of the most disgusting sights in the world is that of a young man with healthy blood, broad shoulders, presentable calves, and a hundred and "fifty pounds, more or less, of good bone and muscle, standing with his hands in his pockets, longing for help. I admit that there are positions in which the most independent spirit may ac- cept of assistance — may, in fact, as a choice of evils, desire it ; but for a man who is able to help himself, to desire the help of others in the accomplishment of his plans of life, is positive proof that he has received a most unfortunate training, or that there is a leaven of meanness in his composition that should make him shudder. Do not misunderstand me : I would not inculcate that pride of j)ersonal independence which repels in its sensitiveness the well- meant good offices and benefactions of friends, or that resorts to desperate shifts rather than incur an obligation. What I condemn in a young man is the love of dependence ; the willingness to be under obligation for that which his own efforts may win. Let this be understood, then, at starting ; that the patient conquest of difficulties which rise in the regular and legitimate channels of business and enterprise, is not only essential in securing the success which you seek, but it is essential to that preparation of your mine, which is requisite for the enjoyment of your successes, and for retaining them when gained. It is the general rule of Providence, the world over, and in all time, that unearned success is a curse. It is the rule of Provi- dence, that the process of earning success shall be the preparation for its conservation and enjoyment. So, day by day, and week by week; so, month after month, and year after year, work on, and in that process gain strength and symmetry, and nerve and knowledge, that when success, patiently and bravely worked for, shall come, it may find you prepared to receive it and keep it. The development which you will get in this brave and patient labor, will prove itself, in the end, the most valuable of your suc- cesses. It will help to make a man of you. It will give you power and self-reliance. It will give you not only self-respect, but the respect of your fellows and the public. Never allow yourself to be seduced from this course. You will hear of young men who have made fortunes in some wild specu- lations. Pity them; for they will almost certainly lose their easily won success. Do not be in a hurry for anything. Are you in love with some dear girl, whom you would make your wife ? Give Angelina Matilda to understand that she must wait; and if An- gelina Matilda is really the good girl you take her to be, she will be sensible enough to tell you to choose your time You cannot build well without first laying a good foundation; and for you to enter SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. 69 upon a business which you have not patiently and thoroughly learned, and to marry before you have won a character, or even the rea- sonable prospect of a competence, is ulti- mately to bring your house down about the ears of Angelina Matilda, and such pretty children as she may give you. If, at the age of thirty years, you find yourself established in a business which pays you with certainty a living income, you are to remember that God has blessed you beyond the majority of men. DINAH THE METHODIST. By George Eliot. The works of Marian Evans Cross created unusual interest when first published in England. Her "Adam Bede," "The Mill on the Floss" and 'Silas Marner," immediately placed her in the highest rank of the writers of fiction. For some time her identity was concealed, yet there were critics who suspected that " George Eliot " was the assumed name of a female author. Her writings are charac- terized by a keen insight into character, intellectual vigor and sympathy with the advanced thought of the day. She was born in 1819, and died in 1880. The selection from "Adam Bede," here given, is an excellent specimen from one of her well-known works. EVERAL of the men followed Ben's lead, and the traveler pushed his horse on to the Green, as Dinah walked rather quickly, and in advance of her companions, toward the cart under the maple tree. While she was near Seth's tall figure she looked short, but when she had mounted the cart, and was away from all comparison, she seemed above the middle height of woman, though in reality she did not exceed it — an effect which was due to the slimness of her figure, and the simple line of her black stuff dress. The stranger was struck with surprise as he saw her approach and mount the cart — surprise, not so much for the feminine deli- cacy of her appearance, as at the total ab- sence of self-consciousness in her demeanor. He had made up his mind to see her ad- vance with a measured step, and a demure solemnity of countenance; he had felt sure that her face would be mantled with a smile of conscious saintship, or else charged with denunciatory bitterness. He knew but two types of Methodist — the ecstatic and the bilious. But Dinah walked as simply as if she were going to market, and seemed as unconscious of her outward appearance as a little boy: there was no blush, no tremulousness, which said, " I know you think me a pretty woman, too young to preach;" no casting up or down of the eyelids, no compression of the lips, no attitude of the arms, that said, "But you must think of me as a saint." She held no book in her ungloved hands, but let them hang down lightly crossed be- fore her, as she stood and turned her grey eyes on the people. There was no keenness in her eyes ; they seemed rather to be shed- ding love than making observations ; they had the liquid look which tells that the mind is full of what it has to give out, rather than impressed by external objects. The eyebrows, of the same color as the hair, were perfectly horizontal and firmly pencilled ; the eyelashes, though no darker, were long and abundant; nothing was left blurred or unfinished. It was one of those faces that make one think of white flowers with light touches of color on their pure petals. The eyes had no peculiar beauty, beyond that of expression ; they looked so simple, so candid, so gravely loving, that no accusing scowl, no light sneer, o^uld help melting away before their glance. 70 SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION.. Joshua Rami gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throat in order to come to a new understanding with himself; Chad Cranage lifted up his leather skull-cap and scratched his head; and Wiry Ben won- dered how Seth had the pluck to tn.xxK of courting her. " A sweet woman," the stranger said to himself, '* but surely Nature never meant her for a preacher." GODFREY AND DUNSTAN, By George Eliot. An excellent example of dialogue in fiction. 'OME one opened the door at the other end of the room, and Nancy felt that it was her husband. She turned from the window with glad- ness in her eyes, for the wife's chief dread was stilled. '' Dear, Vm so thankful you're come,'' she said, going towards him. " I began to get " — She paused abruptly, for Godfrey was lay- ing down his hat with trembling hands, and turned towards her with a pale face and a strange, unanswering glance, as if he saw her indeed, but saw her as part of a scene invis- ible to herself. She laid her hand on his arm, not daring to speak again ; but he left the touch unnoticed, and threw himself into his chair. Jane was already at the door with the his- sing urn. " Tell her to keep away, will you ? " said Godfrey ; and when the door was closed again he exerted himself to speak more dis- tinctly. " Sit down, Nancy — there," he said, point- ing to a chair opposite him. " I came back as soon as I could to hinder anybody's tell- ing you but me. I've had a great shock — but I care mo.st about the shock it'll be to you." " It isn't father and Priscilla ? " said Nancy, with quivering lips, clasping her hands to- gether tightly on her lap. " No, it's nobody living," said Godfrey, un- equal to the considerate skill with which he would have wished to make his revelation. " It's Dunstan — my brother Dunstan, that we lost sight of sixteen years ago. We've found him, — found his body — his skeleton." The deep dread Godfrey's look had created in Nancy made her feel these words a relief. She sat in comparative calmness to hear what else he had to tell. He went on : ** The stone pit has gone dry suddenly, — from the draining, I suppose ; and there he lies — has lain for sixteen years, wedged be- tween two great stones. There's his watch and seals, and there's my gold-handled hunt- ing whip, with my name on. He took it away, without my knowing, the day he went hunting on Wildfire, the last time he was seen." Godfrey paused ! it was not so easy to say what came next. ** Do you think he drowned himself? " said Nancy, almost wondering that her husband should be so deeply shaken by what had happened all those years ago to an unloved brother, of whom worse things had been augured. " No, he fell in," said Godfrey, in a low but distinct voice, as if he felt some deep mean- ing in the fact. Presently he added : " Dun- stan was the man that robbed Silas Marner." The blood rushed to Nancy's face and neck at this surprise and shame, for she had been bred up to regard even a distant kinship with crime as a dishonor. " O Godfrey ! " she said, with compassioD SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. 71 in her tone, for she had immediately reflected that the dishonor must be felt more keenly by her husband. " There was money in the pit/' he continued, " all the weaver's money. Everything's been gathered up, and they have taken the skeleton to the Rainbow. But I came back to tell you. There was no hindering it; you must know." He was silent, looking on the ground for two long minutes. Nancy would have said some words of comfort under this disgrace, but she refrained, from an instinctive sense that there was something behind, — that God- frey had something else to tell her. Pre- sently he lifted his eyes to her face, and kept them fixed on her, as he said : ** Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner or later. When God Almighty wills it, our secrets are found out. I've lived with a secret on my mind, but I'll keep it from you no longer. I wouldn't have you know it by somebody else, and not by me — I wouldn't have you find it out after I'm dead. Fll tell you now. It's been ^ I will ^ and ^ I won't ' with me all my life ; I'll make sure of myself now." Nancy's utmost dread had returned. The eyes of the husband and wife met with an awe in them, as at a crisis which suspended affection. " Nancy," said Godfrey slowly, '' when I married you, I hid something from you, — something I ought to have told you. That woman Marner found dead in the snow — Eppie's mother — that wretched woman — was my wife ; Eppie is my child." He paused, dreading the effects of his con- fession. But Nancy sat quite still, only that her eyes dropped and ceased to meet his. She was pale and quiet as a meditative statue, clasping her hands on her lap. " You'll never think the same of me again," said Godfrey after a little while, with some tremor in his voice. She was silent. *' I oughtn't to have left the child un- owned; I oughtn't to have kept it from you. But I couldn't bear to give you up, Nancy. I was led away into marrying her; I suffered for it." Still Nancy was silent, looking down ; ani he almost expected that she would presently get up and say she would go to her father's. How could she have any mercy for faults that seemed so black to her, with her simple, severe notions ? But at last she lifted up her eyes to his again and spoke. There was no indignation in her voice ; only deep regret, " Godfrey, if you had told me this six years ago, we could have done some of our duty by the child. Do you think I'd have refused to take her in, if I'd known she was yours ? " At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitter- ness of an error that was not simply futile, but had defeated its own end. He had not measured this wife with whom he had lived so long. But she spoke again, with more agitation. "And — oh, Godfrey — if we'd had her from the first, if youM taken to her as you ought, sheM have loved me for her mother — and you'd been happier with me ; I could better have bore my little baby dying, and our life might have been more like what we used to think it 'ud be." The tears fell, and Nancy ceased to speak. " But you wouldn't have married me then, Nancy, if I'd told you," said Godfrey, urged, in the bitterness of his self-reproach, to prove to himself that his conduct had not been utter folly. '' You may think you would now, but you wouldn't then. With your pride and your father's, you'd have hated having anything to do with me after the talk there'd been." "I can't say what I should have done about that, Godfrey. I should never have 72 SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. married anybody else. But I wasn't worth doing wrong for; nothing is in this world. Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand ; not even our marrying wasn't, you see." There was a faint, sad smile on Nancy's face as she said the last words. " I'm a worse man than you thought I was, Nancy," said Godfrey rather tremulously. " Can you forgive me ever ? " " The wrong to me is but little, Godfrey. You've made it up to me ; you've been good to me for fifteen years. It's another you did the wrong to ; and I doubt it can never be all made up for." " But we can take Eppie now," said God- frey. " I won't mind the world knowing at last. I'll be plain and open for the rest o' my life." " It'll be different coming to us, now she's grown up," said Nancy, shaking her head sadly. " But it's your duty to acknowledge her and provide for her ; and I'll do my part by her, and pray to God Almighty to make her love me." " Then we'll go together to Silas Marner's this very night, as soon as everything's quiet at the Stone Pits." RIP VAN WINKLE. By Washington Irving. This charming author, who is a master of pure style, beautiful sentiment and pleasing humor, has been called the father of American Hterature. If this be not strictly true, it is a matter of record that no American authors before his time achieved any remarkable success. Mr. Irving was born in 1783, and died in 1859. H^ ^^^^ particularly happy in portraying the quaint character and customs of the old Dutch settlers in our country. He published a number of volumes, including " The Sketch Book," " Tales of a Traveler," " Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus,'' etc. One of Irving's best known and most delightful short productions is " Rip Van Winkle,'' from which the following extract is taken. The easy- going, inoffensive character of Rip is delightfully pictured. fHE great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perse- verance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone fences. The women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands^ and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging hus- bands would not do for them ; — in a word. Rip was ready to attend to anybody's busi- ness but his own ; but as to doing family duty and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country ; everything about it went wrong, a.id would go wrong in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces ; his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some out- door work to do ; so that, though his patri- monial estate had dwindled away under his management^ acre by acre^ until there was SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. 73 little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn, and potatoes, yet it was the worst con- ditioned farm in the neighborhood. His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own like- ness, promised to inherit the habits, with the jold clothes, of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off trousers, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. Rip Van Winkle, nowever, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon and night her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of house- hold eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that by frequent use had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, how- ever, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so that he was fain to draw off his forces and take to the outside of the house — the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband. Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair, and his only alternative to escape from the labor of the farm, and the clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with his dog Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. *' Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee." Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. THE PURITANS OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. By Lord Macaulay. Distinguished as a descriptive poet by his fine " Lays of Ancient Rome,'' and yet more distinguished as a master of Enghsh prose by his "Essays" and his noble ''History of England/' Thomas Babington Macaulay stands prominent as the most learned and eloquent of the essayists and critics of the nineteenth century. He was the son of Zachary Macaulay, known as the warm friend and co-laborer of Wilberforce and Clarkson, and was born at Rothley Temple, Leicestershire, October 25, 1800, and died in 1859. ^^ 1818 he entered Trinity College, Cambridge, where he took his degree in 1822. Here he gave proof of his great intellectual powers, obtaining a scholarship, and twice gaining the Chancellor's medal for a poem called "Pompeii." To crown his triumphs, he secured a " Craven Scholarship," — the highest distinction in classics which the university confers. Lord Macaulay's glowing description of the Puritans has been pronounced the finest writing of its kind to be found in our language. It is the product of pre-eminent literary ability, and the highest genius. E would first speak of the Puritans of the sixteenth century, the most remarkable body of men, perhaps, >yhic]i the world has evei produged. Those who roused the people to resist- ance — who directed their measures through a long series of eventful years — who formed, put of the most unpromising materials, the 74 SPFXIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. finest army that Europe had ever seen — who trampled down king, church, and aristocracy — who, in the short intervals of domestic sedition and rebellion, made the name of England terrible to every nation on the face of the earth — were no vulgar fanatics. Most of their absurdities were mere exter- nal badges, like the signs of freemasonry or the dresses of friars. We regret that these badges were not more attractive ; we regret that a body, to whose courage and talents mankind has owed inestimable obligations, had not the lofty elegance which distin- guished some of the adherents of Charles L, or the easy good breeding for which the court of Charles II. was celebrated. But, if we must make our choice, we shall, like Bassanio in the play, turn from the specious caskets which contain only the Death's head and the Fool's head, and fix our choice on the plain leaden chest which conceals the treasure. The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character from the daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, in general terms, an overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every event to the will of the Great Being, for whose power nothing was too minute. To know him, to serve him, to enjoy him, was with them the great end of existence. They rejected with contempt the cere- monious homage which other sects substi- tuted for the pure worship of the soul. In- stead of catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through an obscuring vail, they aspired to gaze full on the intolerable brightness, and to commune with him face to face. Hence originated their contempt for terrestrial dis- tinctions. The difference between the greatest and meanest of mankind seemed to vanish when compared with the boundless inter- val which separated the whole race from Him on whom their own eyes were con- stantly fixed. They recognized no title to superiority but his favor ; and, confident of that favor, they despised all the accomplishments and all the dignities of the world. If they were unac- quainted with the works of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in the ora- cles of God ; if their names were not found in the registers of heralds, they felt assured that they were recorded in the Book of Life ; if their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train of menials, legions of minister- ing angels had charge over them. Their palaces were houses not made with hands ; their diadems, crowns of glory which should never fade away. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles ' and priests, they looked down with con- tempt ; for they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language — nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the im- position of a mightier hand. The very mean- est of them was a being to whose fate a mys- terious and terrible importance belonged — on whose slightest actions the .spirits of light and darkness looked with anxious interest— who had been destined, before heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which should continue when heaven and earth should have passed away. Events which short-sighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes had been ordained on his account. For his sake empires had risen and flourished and decayed; for his sake the Almighty had proclaimed his will by the pen of the evangelist and the harp of the prophet. He had been rescued by no common deliverer from the grasp of no com- mon foe ; he had been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the sun SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. 75 had been darkened, that the rocks had beenh ad shuddered at the sufferings of her expir- rent, that the dead had arisen, that all nature ing God ! ON BEING IN TIME. By C. H. Spurgeon. When we examine Mr. Spurgeon's writings we are able to discover one great secret of his power. As no preacher of modern times was more successful, in like manner no other had such a vigorous command of plain English in the pulpit. The great majority of his words are short and simple, reminding one of the terse writings of the old Puritan authors. Mr. Spurgeon was born in 1834 and died in 1893. No other writer has published so many sermons and volumes of miscellaneous writings, and no other author of similar works has been so widely read. He was the marvel of his generation. E who begins a little late in the morn- ing will have to drive fast, will be constantly in a fever, and will scarcely overtake his business at night ; whereas he who rises in proper time can enjoy the luxury of pursuing his calling with regularity, ending his work in fit season, and gaining a little portion of leisure. Late in the morning may mean puffing and blowing all the day long, whereas an early hour will make the pace an easy one. This is worth a man's considering. Much evil comes of hurry, and hurry is the child of un- punctuality. We once knew a brother whom we named *' the late Mr. S ," because he never came in time. A certain tart gentleman, who had been irritated by this brother's un- punctuality, said that the sooner that name was literally true the better for the temper of those who had to wait for him. Many a man would much rather be fined than be kept waiting. If a man must injure me, let him rather plunder me of my cash than of my time. To keep a busy man waiting is an act of impudent robbery, and is also a constructive insult. It may not be so intended, but cer- tainly if a man has proper respect for his friend, he will know the value of his time, and will not cause him to waste it. There s a cool contempt in unpunctuality, for it as good as says : " Let the fellow wait ; who is he that I should keep my appointment with him?" In this world, matters are so linked together that you cannot disarrange one without throwing others out of gear ; if one business is put out of time, another is delayed by the same means. The other day we were travel- ing to the Riviera, and the train after leav- ing Paris was detained for an hour and a half This was bad enough, but the result was worse^ for. when we reached Marseilles the connecting train had gone, and we were not only detained for a considerable time, but were forced to proceed by a slow train, and so reached our destination six hours later than we ought to have done. All the subsequent delay was caused through the first stoppage. A merchant once said to us: ''A. B. is a good fellow in many respects, but he is so frightfully slow that we cannot retain him in our office, because, as all the clerks work into each other's hands, his delays are mul- tiplied enormously, and cause intolerable in- convenience. He is a hindrance to the whole system, and he had better go where he can work alone." The worst of it is that we cannot send un- punctual people where they can work alone. To whom or whither should they go ? We cannot rig out a hermitage for each one, or 76 SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION, that would be a great deliverance. If they prepared their own dinners, it would not matter that they dropped in after every dish had become cold. If they preached ser- mons to themselves, and had no other audi- ence, it would not signify that they began consistently seven minutes behind the pub- lished hour. If they were their own scholars, and taught themselves, it would be of no consequence if the pupil sat waiting for his teacher for twenty minutes. As it is, we in this world cannot get away from the unpunctual, nor get them away from us, and therefore we are obliged to put up with them ; but we should like them to know that they are a gross nuisance, and a frequent cause of sin, through irritating the tempers of those who cannot afford to squander time as they do. If this should meet the eye of any gen- tleman who has almost forgotten the mean- ing of the word *' punctuality," we earnestly advise him to try and be henceforth five minutes too soon for every appointment, and then perhaps he will gradually subside into the little great virtue which we here recommend. Could not some good genius get up a Punctuality Association, every member to wear a chronometer set to correct time, and to keep appointments by the minute-hand? Pledges should be issued, to be signed by all sluggish persons who can summon up sufficient resolution totally to abstain from being behind time in church or chapel, or on committee, or at dinner, or in coming home from the office in the evening. Ladies eligi- ble as members upon signing a special pledge to keep nobody waiting while they run upstairs to pop on their bonnets. How much of sinful temper would be spared, and how much of time saved, we cannot venture to guess. Try it. JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S TALK ON HOME. By C. H. Spurgeon. The famous London minister wrote a book entitled, "John Ploughman's Talk." His object was to express plain and homely truths in a quaint, humorous way, and thus gain the attention of common p-eople whose reading is confined mostly to murder and divorce cases in newspapers. The enjoyment of the public in reading Mr. Spurgeon's pithy sayings was evinced by the enormous sale of the book. The extract here given is a fair specimen of its unique style. HAT word home always sounds like poetry to me. It rings like a peal of bells at a wedding, only more soft and sweet, and it chimes deeper into the ears of my heart. It does not matter whether it means thatched cottage or manor-house, fiome is home, be it ever so homely, and there's no place on earth like it. Green grow the houseleek on the roof forever, and let the moss flourish on the thatch. Sweetly the sparrows chirrup and the swallows twitter around the chosen spot which is my joy and my rest. Every bird loves its own nest ; the owl thinks the old ruins the fairest soot under the moon, and the fox is of opinion that his hole in the hill is remarkably cozy. When my master's nag knows that his head is towards home he wants no whip, but thinks it best to put on all steam ; and I am always of the same mind, for the way home, to me, is the best bit ol road in the country. I like to see the smoke out of my own chimney better than the fire on another man's hearth ; there's something so beautiful in the way in which it curls up among the trees. Cold potatoes on my own table taste better than roast meat at my neighbor's, and the SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. 77 honeysuckle at my own door is the sweetest i ever smell. When you are out, friends do ^heir best, but still it is not home. " Make yourself at home," they say, because every- body knows that to feel at home is to feel at ease. " East and west, Home is best." Why, at home you are at home, anc^ what more do you want? Nobody grudges you, whatever your appetite may be ; and you don't get put into a damp bed. Safe in his own castle, like a king in his palace, a man feels himself somebody, and is not afraid of being thought proud for thinking so. Every cock may crow on his own dunghill ; and a log is a lion when he is at home. No need to guard every word because some enemy is on the watch, no keeping the heart under lock and key; but as soon as the door is shut it is liberty hall, and none to peep and pry. It is a singular fact, and perhaps some of you will doubt it — but that is your unbeliev- ing nature — our little ones are real beauties, always a pound or two plumper than others of their age; and yet it don't tire you half so much to nurse them as it does other people's babies. Why, bless you, my wife would be tired out in half the time, if her neighbor had asked her to see to a strange youngster, but her own children don't seem to tire her at all. Now my belief is that it all comes of their having been born at home. Just so it is with everything else : our lane is the most beautiful for twenty miles round, because our home is in it; and my garden is a perfect paradise, for no other particular reason than this very good one, that it be- longs to the old house at home. Husbands should try to make home happy and holy. It is an ill bird that fouls its own nest,abadmanwho makes his home wretched. Our house ought to be a little church, with holiness to the Lord over the door; but it ought never to be a prison, where there is plenty of rule and order, but little love and no pleasure. Married life is not all sugar, but grace in the heart will keep away most of the sours. Godliness and love can make a man, like c\ bird in a hedge, sing among thorns and briars, and set others a-singing too. It should b^ the husband's pleasure to please his wife, and the wife's care to care for he^ husband. He is kind to himsell who is kind to his wife. I am afraid some men live by the rule of self, and when that is the case home hap- piness is a mere sham. When husbands and wives are well yoked, how light their load becomes ! It is not every couple that is a pair, and the more 's the pity. In a true home all the strife is which can do the most to make the family happy. A home should be a Bethel, not a Babel. The husband should be the house-band, binding all together like a cor- ner-stone, but not crushing everything like a millstone. Nothing is improved by anger, unless it be the arch of a cat's back. A man with his back up is spoiling his figure. People look none the handsomer for being red in the face. It takes a great deal out of a man to get into a towering rage ; it is almost as unhealthy as having a fit, and time has been when men have actually choked themselves with pas- sion, and died on the spot. Whatever wrong I suffer, it cannot do me half so much hurt as being angry about it ; for passion shortens life and poisons peace. When once we give way to temper, tem- per will get right of way, and come in easier every time. He that will be in a pet for any little thing, will soon be out at elbows about nothing at all. A thunder-storm curdles the milk, and so does a passion sour the heart and spoil the character. 78 SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. LITTLE PEARL AND HER MOTHER. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hawthorne is justly regarded as one of the masters of Enghsh prose, although the shadowed side o) his life predominated and often gave a somewhat gloomy tinge to his writings. Yet through the morbid drapery by which he surrounds himself the light of his superb genius shines brilliantly. His style is a mode). of clearness, choice words and elevated sentiment. The extract given below is from " The Scarlet Letter/ sone of his best works of fiction, and, in fact, one of the best that enriches our American literature. He /possessed great originality, a rare power of analyzing character, a delicate and exquisite humor and marvel- ous felicity in the use of language. Mr. Hawthorne was born at Salem, Massachusetts, in 1804, and died in 1864, O the mother and little Pearl were admitted into the hall of entrance. With many variations, suggested by the nature of his building-mate- rials, diversity of climate, and a different mode of social life, Governor Bellingham had planned his new habitation after the resi- dences of gentlemen of fair estate in his native land. Here, then, was a wide and reasonably lofty hall, extending through the whole depth of the house, and forming a medium of gen- eral communication, more or less directly> with all the other apartments. At one ex- tremity, this spacious room was lighted by the windows of the two towers, which formed a small recess on either side of the portal. At the other end, though partly muffled by a curtain, it was mere powerfully illuminated by one of those embowed hall-windows which we read of in old books, and which was pro- vided with a deep and cushioned seat. Here, on the cushion, lay a folio tome, probably of the Chronicles of England, or other such substantial literature; even as, in our own days, we scatter gilded volumes on the centre-table, to be turned over by the casual guest. The furniture of the hall con- sisted of some ponderous chairs, the backs of which were elaborately carved with wreaths of oaken flowers; and likewise a table in the same taste; the whole being of Elizabethan age, or perhaps earlier, and heirlooms, trans- ferred hither from the governor's paternal home. On the table — in token that the sentiment of old English hospitality had not been left behind — stood a large pewter tankard, at the bottom of which, had Hester or Pearl peeped into it, they might have seen the frothy rem- nant of a recent draught of ale. On the wall hung a row of portraits, rep- resenting the forefathers of the Bellingham lineage, some with armor on their breasts, and others with stately ruffs and robes of peace. All were characterized by the stern- ness and severity which old portraits so in- variably put on ; as if they were the ghosts, rather than the pictures, of departed worthies, and were gazing with harsh and intolerant criticism at the pursuits and enjoyments of living men. At about the center of the oaken panels that lined the hall was suspended a suit of mail, not, like the pictures, an ancestral relic, but of the most modern date; for it had been manufactured by a skillful armorer in Lon- don the same year in which Governor Bel- lingham came over to New England, There was a steel headpiece, a cuirass, a gorget and greaves, with a pair of gauntlets and a sword hanging beneath; all, and especially the helmet and breastplate, so highly burnished as to glow with white radiance and scatter an illumination everywhere about upon the floor. This bright panoply was not meant for SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. 79 mere idle show, but had been worn by the governor on many a solemn muster and training field, and had glittered, moreover, at the head of a regiment in the Pequod war. For, though bred a lawyer, and accustomed to speak of Bacon, Coke, Noye and Finch as his professional associates, the exigencies of this new country had transformed Gov- ernor Bellingham into a soldier, as well as a statesman and ruler. Little Pearl — who was as greatly pleased with the gleaming armor as she had been with the glittering frontispiece of the house — spent some time looking into the polished mirror of the breastplate. " Mother,'^ cried she, " I see you here. Look ! Look !" Hester looked, by way of humoring the child ; and she saw that, owing to the pecu- liar effect of this convex mirror, the scarlet letter was represented in exaggerated and gigantic proportions, so as to be greatly the most prominent feature of her appearance. In truth, she seemed absolutely hidden be- hind it. Pearl pointed upward, also, at a similar picture in the headpiece, smiling at her mo- ther with the elfish intelligence that was so familiar an expression on her small physiog- nomy. That look of naughty merriment was likewise reflected in the mirror, with so much breadth and intensity of effect, that it made Hester Prynne feel as if it could not be the image of her own child, but of an imp who was seeking to mold itself into Pearl's shape. THE BABY IN THE BATH-TUB. By Grace Greenwood. The foHowing selection is an exceUent example of sprightly and vivacious writing, a kind of com- position that is always entertaining to the reader. Under the assumed name of Grace Greenwood, Mrs. Sarah J. Lippincott was for many years a well-known and popular contributor to various periodicals. She also published several volumes, including works of fiction and stories of travel. She wrote poems that possessed much merit, thus exhibiting a wide range of talent. Her fine thoughts were expressed in a style of great ease, simplicity and beauty. Mrs. Lippincott was born in Onondaga County, New York, in 1825, and died in 1898. tNNIE! and s ^^ ^ cri( Sophie ! come up quick, see baby in her bath-tub ! '^ cries a charming little maiden, running down the wide stairway of an old country house, and half-way up the long hall, all in a fluttering cloud of pink lawn, her 5oft dimpled cheeks tinged with the same lovely morning hue. In an instant there is a stir and gush of light laughter in the drawing-room, and presently, with a movement a little more majestic and elder-sisterly, Annie and Sophie float noiselessly through the hall and up the soft-carpeted ascent, as though borne on their respective clouds of blue and white drapery. and take their way to the nursery, where a novel entertainment awaits them. It is the first morning of the eldest married sister's first visit home, with her first baby ; and the first baby, having slept late after its journey, is about to take its first bath in the old house. " Well, I declare, if here isn't mother, for- getting her dairy, and Cousin Nellie, too, who must have left poor Ned all to himself in the garden, lonely and disconsolate, and I am torn from my books, and Sophie from her flowers, and all for the sake of seeing a nine-months-old baby kicking about in a bath-tub ! What simpletons we are ! " 80 SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. Thus Miss Annie, the proiide ladye of the family; handsome, haughty, with perilous procHvities toward grand socialistic theories, transcendentalism, and general strong-mind- edness ; pledged by many a saucy vow to a life of single dignity and freedom, given to studies artistic, aesthetic, philosophic, and ethical; a student of Plato, an absorber of Emerson, an exalter of her sex, a contemner of its natural enemies. " Simpletons, are we ? " cries pretty Elinor Lee, aunt of the baby on the other side, and " Cousin Nellie " by love's courtesy, now kneeling close by the bath-tub, and receiv- ing on her sunny braids a liberal baptism from the pure, plashing hands of babyhood, — " simpletons, indeed ! Did I not once see thee, O Pallas-Athene, standing rapt before a copy of the * Crouching Venus ? ' " And this is a sight a thousand times more beautiful ; for here we have color, action, life, and such grace as the divinest sculptors of Greece were never able to en- trance in marble. Just look at these white, dimpled shoulders, every dimple holding a tiny, sparkling drop, — these rosy, plashing feet and hands, — this laughing, roguish face, — these eyes, bright and blue and deep as lakes of fairy- land, — these ears, like dainty sea shells, — these locks of gold, dripping dia- monds, — and tell me what cherub of Titian, what Cupid of Greuze, was ever half so lovely ? I say, too, that Raphael himself would have jumped at the chance of painting Louise, as she sits there, towel in hand, in all the serene pride and chastened dignity of young maternity — of painting her as Ma- donna'' CANDACE'S OPINIONS. By Harriet Beecher Stowe. Mrs. Stowe is particularly happy in portraying negro character. It requires for this a great appre- ciation of humor, and her writings abound in this, while her imagination and fine command of language make many of her writings brilliant and even poetical. Mrs. Stowe is the most celebrated American authoress. Her " Uncle Tom's Cabin " has been more widely read than any other work of fiction ever published. While in this work her conspicuous genius appears to fine advantage, she has nevertheless written other works, some of them describing New England life and character, which are masterpieces. She was born at Litchfield, Conn., on the 14th of June, 18 1 2, and died at Hartford July ist, 1896. Ji b INTEND," said Mr. Marvyn, "to make the same offer to your hus- band, when he returns from work to-night." " Laus, Mass'r — why, Cato, he'll do jes' as I do — dere a'n't no kind o' need o' askin' him. Course he will." A smile passed round the circle, because between Candace and her husband there existed one of those whimsical contrasts which one sometimes sees in married life. Cato was a small-built, thin, softly-spoken negro, addicted to a gentle chronic cough ; and, though a faithful and skillful servant, seemed, in relation to his better half, much like a hill of potatoes under a spreading apple-tree. Candace held to him with a vehement and patronizing fondness, so devoid of conjugal reverence as to excite the com- ments of her friends. " You must remember, Candace," said a good deacon to her one day, when she was ordering him about at a catechizing, "you ought to give honor to your husband ; the wife is the weaker vessel." " / de weaker vessel ? '' said Candace, looking down from the tower of her ample corpulence on the small, quiet man whom SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. 81 she had been fledging with the ample folds of a worsted comforter, out of which his lit- tle head and shining bead-eyes looked, much like a blackbird in a nest — " / de weaker vassel ! Umph ! " A whole woman's rights convention could not have expressed more in a day than was given in that single look and word. Can- dace considered a husband as a thing to be taken care of — a rather inconsequent and somewhat troublesome species of pet, to be humored, nursed, fed, clothed, and guided in the way that he was to go — an animal that was always losing off buttons, catching colds, wearing his best coat every day, and getting on his Sunday hat in a surreptitious manner for week-day occasions ; but she often condescended to express it as her opinion that he was a blessing, and that she didn't know what she'd do if it wasn't for Cato. She sometimes was heard expressing her- self very energetically in disapprobation of the conduct of one of her sable friends, named Jinny Stiles, who, after being presented with Iw own freedom, worked several years to buy that of her husband, but became after- wards so disgusted with her acquisition, that she declared she would *^ neber buy anoder nigger." " Now, Jinny don't know what she's talkin' about," she would say. " S'pose he does cough and keep her awake nights, and take a little too much sometimes, a'n't he better'n no husband at all ? A body wouldn't seem to hab nuffin to lib for, ef dey hadn't an old man to look arter. Men is nate'lly foolish about some tings — but dey's good deal bet- ter'n nuffin." And Candace, after this condescending re- mark, would lift with one hand a brass ket- tle in which poor Cato might have been drowned, and fly across the kitchen with it as if it were a feather. MIDSUMMER IN THE VALLEY OF THE RHINE. By George Meredith. An example of beautiful description. <^>*|^N oppressive slumber hung about the fcjbl forest-branches. In the dells and yJLV^ on the heights was the same dead heat. Here where the brook tinkled it was no cool-lipped sound, but metallic, and without the spirit of water. Yonder in a space of moonlight on lush grass, the beams were as white fire to sight and feeling. No haze spread around. The valleys were clear, defined to the shadows of their verges ; the distances sharply distinct, and with the colors of day but slightly softened. . Richard beheld a roe moving across a slope of sward far out of rifle-mark. The breathless silence was significant, yet the moon shone in a broad blue heaven. Tongue out of mouth trotted the little dog after him ; couched panting when he stopped an instant ; rose weariedly when he started afresh. Now and then a large white night-moth flitted through the dusk of the forest. On a barren corner of the wooded highland looking inland stood gray topless ruins set in nettles and rank grass-blades. Richard mechanically sat down on the crumbling flints to rest, and listened to the panting of the dog. Sprinkled at his feet were emerald lights : hundreds of glow-worms studded the dark dry ground. He sat and eyed them, thinlcing not at all. His energies were expended in action. He 82 SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. sat as a part of the ruins, and the moon turned his shadow westward from the south. Overhead, as she declined, long ripples of silver cloud were imperceptibly stealing to- ward her. They were the van of a tempest. He did not observe them, or the leaves be- ginning to chatter. When he again pursued his course with his face to the Rhine, a huge mountain appeared to rise sheer over him, and he had it in his mind to scale it. He got no nearer to the base of it for all his vigorous outstepping. The ground began to dip; he lost sight of the sky. Then heavy thunder-drops struck his cheek, the leaves were singing, the earth breathed, it was black before him and behind. All at once the thunder spoke. The mountain he had marked was bursting over him. Up started the whole forest in violent fire. He saw the country at the foot of the hills to the bounding Rhine gleam, quiver, extin- guished. Then there were pauses ; and the lightning seemed as the eye of heaven, and the thunder as the tongue of heaven, each alternately addressing him ; filling him with awful rapture. THE POWER OF NATURAL BEAUTY. By Ralph Waldo Emerson. "The Sage of Concord,'' as Mr. Emerson was called, expresses the estimate the American public placed upon his writings. His profound thought and originality are unquestioned. To these grand qualities he added a poetic imagination which diffused a fine glow over all his productions. Mr. Emerson was born in Boston in 1803, graduated from Harvard College in 1821, and entered the ministry of the Unitarian Church, from which, however, he shortly resigned, and soon devoted himself to Hterary pursuits. His works have a high reputation among scholars and speculative thinkers. His style is singularly terse and at times almost abrupt, but his thoughts are masterly and striking. He died in 1882. EAUTY is the mark God sets upon virtue. Every natural action is graceful. Every heroic act is also decent, and causes the place and the bystanders to shine. We are taught by great actions that the universe is the property of every individual in it. Every rational creature has all nature for his dowry and estate. It is his if he will. He may divest himself of it ; he may creep into a corner, and abdicate his kingdom, as most men do ; but he is entitled to the world by his constitution. In proportion to the energy of his thought and will, he takes up the world into himself " All those things for which men plough, build, or sail, obey virtue ; '' said an ancient historian. "The winds and waves," said Gibbon, "are always on the side of the ablest navigators." So are the sun and moon and all the stars of heaven. When a noble act is done — perchance in a scene of great natural beauty; when Leon- ides and his three hundred martyrs consume one day in dying, and the sun and moon come each and look at them once in the steep defile of Thermopylae; when Arnold Winkelreid, in the high Alps, under the shadow of the avalanche, gathers in his side a sheaf of Austrian spears to break the line for his comrades ; are not these heroes en- titled to add the beauty of the scene to the beauty of the deed? When the bark ol Columbus nears the shore of America; — before it the beach lined with savages, fleeing out of all their huts of cane ; the sea behind ; and the purple mountains of the Indian Archipelago around, can we separate the SPECIMENS OF ELEGANT COMPOSITION. 83 I man from the living picture ? Does not the New World clothe his form with her palm groves and savannahs as fit drapery ? Ever does natural beauty steal in like air, and envelop great actions. When Sir Harry Vane was dragged up the Tower-hill sitting on a sled, to suffer death, as the champion of the English laws, one of the multitude cried 7>at to him, " You never sate on so glorious A seat." Charles II., to intimidate the citi- zens of London, caused the patriot Lord Russel to be drawn in an open coach through the principal streets of the city, on his way to the scaffold. " But," to use the simple nar- rative of his biographer, " the multitude im- agined they saw liberty and virtue sitting by his side." In private places, among sordid objects, an act of truth or heroism seems at once to draw to itself the sky as its temple, the sun as its candle. Nature stretcheth out her arms to embrace man, only let his thoughts be of equal greatness. Willingly does she follow his steps with the rose and the violet, and bend her lines of grandeur and grace to the decoration of her darling child. Only let his thoughts be of equal scope, and the frame will suit the picture. A virtuous man is in unison with her works, and makes the cen- tral figure of the visible sphere. The noonday darkness of the American forest, the deep, echoing, aboriginal woods, where the living columns of the oak and fir tower up from the ruins of the trees of the last millennium ; where, from year to year, the eagle and the crow see no intruder ; the pines, bearded with savage moss, yet touched with grace by the violets at their feet ; the broad, cold lowland, which forms its coat of vapor with the stillness of subterranean crys- tallization ; and where the traveler, amid the repulsive plants that are native in the swamp, thinks with pleasing terror of the distant town ; this beauty — haggard and desert beauty, which the sun and the moon, the snow and the rain repaint and vary, has never been recorded by art, yet is not indifferent to any passenger. All men are poets at heart. They serve nature for bread, but her loveliness over- comes them sometimes. What mean these journeys to Niagara; these pilgrims to the White Hills ? Men believe in the adapta- tions of utility always. In the mountains they may believe in the adaptations of the eye. Undoubtedly the changes of geology have a relation to the prosperous sprouting of the corn and peas in my kitchen garden; but not less is there a relation of beauty between my soul and the dim crags of Agiocochook up there in the clouds. Every man, when this is told, hearkens with joy, and yet his own conversation witii! nature is still un- sung. Subjects for Compositions. @ I O aid you in writing compositions a lengthy list of subjects is here furnished. These, ^ I you will see, are adapted to persons of various ages and capacities. Many of them are comparatively simple and require no profound thought, while others are deep enough to tax all your powers ot reason. Do not choose a subject that is too abstruse and difficult. Plain narration and description should go before profound argument. Yet do not be satisfied with a simple theme if 3^ou are capable of writing upon one that demands more study and thought. When you have chosen your subject, you should be guided by the practical hints and directions contained in the first pages of this volume, which you should faithfully study. Many of the subjects here presented will require a good deal of reading and research before you can write upon them intelligently. This is true especially of the historical and biographical subjects. If you find history to be a fascinating study, as it is to most persons, you will become so filled and enamored with your theme, that you can write upon it easily. Never consider it too much trouble to prepare yourself thoroughly to write your compositions. If you would have nuggets of gold you must dig for them. Success i.^; worth all it costs, however much that may be. Remember Bulwer Lytton's sayings ' The pen is mightier than the sword." HISTORICAL SUBJECTS. The Landing of the Pilgrims. Captain John Smith and Pocahontas The French and Indian War. The Siege of Quebec. King Philip's War. Washington at Valley Forge. The Surrender of Lord Cornwallis. The Discovery of the Mississippi River. Sir Walter Raleigh in Virginia. The Pequod War. Witchcraft at Salem, Massachusetts. The Old Charter Oak at Hartford. Destruction of Tea in Boston Harbor. The Battles of Lexington and Concord. The Famous Ride of Paul Revere. The Siege of Boston The Battle of Long Island. The Battle of the Brandywine. The Murder of Miss McCrea. The Battle of Mon month. The Surrender of Burgoync's Army. 84 The Siege of Savannah. Washington Crossing the Delaware. The Massacre of Wyoming. The Treason of Benedict Arnold. The Execution of Major x\ndre. The Duel Between Hamilton and Burr. The Battle of Monterey. The Battle of Chapultepec. The Siege of Vicksburg. General Sherman's March to the Sea. Jackson's Victories in Virginia. The Death of *^ Stonewall Jackson." The Story of Cuban Insurrections. The Great Naval Battle at Manila. The Great Naval Battle at Santiago. The Exploits of the " Rough Riders " San Juan. The Execution of John Brown. The Massacre at Fort Dearborn. The Discovery of Gold in California. The Opening of the Pacific Railroad. The Discovery of Gold in Alaska. The Massacre of General Custer, at SUBJECTS FOR COMPOSITIONS. 85 The Indian Wars in the Northwest. The World's Fair at Chicago. The Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia. The Story of the Old Liberty Bell at Philadelphia. The Great Flood at Johnstown, Pa. The Destruction of the Battleship Maine. The Invention of Printing. Magna Charta, the Charter of Rights. Constantinople Taken by the French. The Moors Driven Out of Spain. The Reformation in England. The Invasion of Peru by Pizarro. The Battle of Trafalgar. The Spanish Armada. The Battle of Balaklava. The Gunpowder Plot (1605). The Atrocities of the Paris Commune. The Execution of Charles I. The Bursting of the South Sea Bubble. The Battle of Waterloo. The Dismemberment of Poland. The Great Mutiny in India. The French Revolution. The Martyrdom of Joan of Arc. The Crusades. The Siege of Troy. The Great Plague in London. The Battle of the Boyne. The Imprisonment of James I. of Scotland. The Story of Mary, Queen of Scots. BIOGRAPHICAL SUBJECTS. Miles Standish. Cotton Mather. Benjamin Franklin. John Jay. Samuel Adams. Fisher Ames. George Washington. William Penn. Marquis de Lafayette. Count Pulaski. General Israel Putnam. General Anthony Wayne. General Ethan Allen. Thomas Jefferson. Andrew Jackson. Martha Washington. Commodore Perry. Commodore Decatur. Daniel Webster. Henry Clay. Patrick Henry. John Hancock. General Winfield Scott. Zachary Taylor. The Indian Chief Tecumseh. William Henry Harrison. John C. Fremont. Abraham Lincoln. Robert E. Lee. Ulysses S. Grant. James A. Garfield. General William T. Sherman, Mary Lyon. Frances E. Willard. Susan B. Anthony. Clara Barton. Henry W. Longfellow. William Cullen Bryant. The Cary Sisters. Washington Irving. James Fenimore Cooper. Francis Scott Key. John Howard Payne. Daniel Boone. David Crockett. General Sam Houston. Lord Nelson. The Duke of Wellington. Napoleon Bonaparte. The Duke of Marlborough. Robert Bruce. Robert Burns. John Bright. William E. Gladstone. Alfred Tennyson. 86 SUBJECTS FOR COMPOSITIONS. Daniel O'Connell. Robert Emmet. Florence Nightingale. John Knox. Julius Caesar. Demosthenes. Cicero. Hannibal. Alexander the Great. Socrates. Xantippe. Queen Elizabeth. Oliver Cromwell. William Pitt. Frederick the Great. Captain Kidd. Ferdinand de Soto. Hernando Cortez. Sir John Franklin. Elisha Kent Kane. Cyrus W. Field. Professor Samuel B. F. Morse. Alexander T. Stewart. Peter Cooper. John Jacob Astor. William H. Vanderbilt. SUBJECTS FOR NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. A New England Thanksgiving. The Puritan Sabbath. The Deserted Farm. The Dangers of Frontier Life. Natural Resources of the United States. Social Customs of the Last Century. A Spanish Bull Fight. The Falls of Niagara. The Hudson River. Mount Washington. A Western Prairie. The Cotton Fields of the South. The Orange Groves of Florida. "The Father of Waters." The Rapid Growth of Western Cities. { A Ranch in the South- West. The Cov/boys of the Plains. The Great Trees of California. The Geysers of the Yellowstone Park. The Instinct in Animals. Some Recent Invention. Some Public Institutions. The Physical Characteristics of your State A Country Farm. Your Home Enjoyments. Fresh Air and its Uses, Town and Country Schools. Some Out Door School Games. The Beauties of Summer. The Remarkable Instinct of Birds. An Arctic Expedition. A Railway Station. A Picture Gallery. Electric Lights. Winds and Clouds. The Pastime of Fishing. The Pastime of Skating. Agricultural Implements. Habits of Domestic Animals. A Flower Garden. Singing Birds. Migration of Birds. The American Eagle. The Uses of Cats and Dogs. The Game of Foot Ball. The Game of Base Ball. Your Favorite Book. The County in which your School is Situ- ated. School Life : its Joys and Difficulties. Castles in the Air. The Pleasures of Christmas. Leaning Tower of Pisa. The Vatican at Rome. St. Paul's Cathedral in London. The Capitol at Washington. The White House at Washington. The Suspension Bridge between New York and Brooklyn. SUBJECTS FOR COMPOSITIONS. 87 Bunker Hill Monument. Mammoth Cave in Kentucky. Independence Hall in Philadelphia. An Ocean Steamship. An American Battleship. Coal Mines of Pennsylvania. A Seaside Watering Place. A Country Picnic. A Clam Bake by the Sea-shore. A Sleigh Ride. A Century Run on Bicycles. Your Favorite Walk. The Value of Sunshine. A Thunder Storm. A Summer Vacation. POPULAR PROVERBS. More Haste, Less Speed. Necessity is the Mother of Invention. What Can't be Cured must be Endured. Well Begun is Half Done. All that Glitters is not Gold. Evil Communications Corrupt Good Man- ners. Honesty is the Best Policy. A Stitch in Time Saves Nine. Prevention is Better than Cure. A Rolling Stone Gathers no Moss. Make Hay while the Sun Shines. Birds of a Feather. Flock Together. Knowledge is Power. Take Care of the Pennies and the Dollars will take Care of Themselves. A Bird in the Hand is Worth Two in the Bush. The Longest Way Around is the Shortest Way Home. The Proof of the Pudding is in the Eating. If you would Shoot High you must Aim High. Marry in Haste and Repent at Leisure. People who Live in Glass Houses should not Throw Stones, Be Sure you are Right, then Go Ahead. It is an 111 Wind that Blows Good to no One. Every Crow Thinks her own Little Crows the Blackest. You Cannot Make a Silk Purse out of a. Sow's Ear. The Least Said, the Soonest Mended. Speech is Silver, Silence is Golden. Manners Make the Man. SUBJECTS TO BE EXPOUNDED. Benefits of Industry. Evils of Idleness. Summer Sports in the Country. Winter Amusements in Cities. Shop Windows at Christmas Time. Habits of Economy. Advantages of Travel. Temptations of Riches. Dangers of Trades Unions. Benefits of Application. Advantages of Muscular Exercise. Physical and Moral Perils of Muscular Ex- ercise. Effects of Machinery upon Manual Labor. Pleasures of Literature. Sources of National Wealth. Benefits of Self-Control. Modern Methods of Benevolence. Responsibilities of Scholars. Causes of Commercial Decline. Advantages of a National Bankrupt Law. Peculiarities of the New England Poets. The Character of Wilkins Micawber. Claims of the Indians to Government Pro- tection. Evils of Immigration. Characteristics of the English Novel. Incentives to Literary Exertion. Reforms Suggested in " Oliver Twist." American Tendencies to Extravagance Uses of Gold. Uses of Public Libraries, 88 SUBJECTS FOR COMPOSITIONS. Infirmities of Genius. Excellencies of the Puritan Character. Miseries of Authorship. Blessings of Liberty. Pleasures in Contemplating Nature. Dangers that Threaten our Republic. Advantages of Method. Distinctions in Society. Rewards of Literary Labor. Struggles for Civil Freedom. Advantages of Competition. Uses of Adversity. Advantages of Self-Reliance. Evils of Prejudice. The Colonial Period of Our History. Uses of Art. Self-Made Men. Dickens' Caricatures of English Schools. Irving's Portraitures of the Dutch Settlers. Injuries of Stimulants. Evils of Centralization. Advantages of Modern Inventions. Uses of Coal. Sources of Corruption in Civil Offices. Elements of Success in Life. Dangers of the French Republic. Changes of Fashion. Social Dangers from Anarchists. Longfellow's " Hiawatha." Longfellow's " Evangeline." Oliver Wendell Holmes's Humor. Character of Eugene Field's Poetry. Characteristics of American Humor. Hardships of the New England Settlers. Persecution of the Jews. Causes of Nihilism in Russia. English Ideas of America. Methods of Reform in the Civil Service. Benefits of Mechanical Exhibitions. Strikes and Arbitrations. Time : its Use and Abuse. Employers and Men : their Rights and Relations. The Study of Modern Languages. The Study of Ancient Languages. Industry and Energy. The Duty of Cleanliness. Punctuality. Courage. Fortitude. Cruelty to Animals. The Law of Supply and Demand. " Right before Might." The Telescope and Microscope. Manhood Suffrage. '' The New Woman." Uses and Abuses of Money. The Cultivation of Music. Amusements for Young People. The Great Discoverers of Queen Eliza- beth's Reign. Pleasures of the Imagination. Natural History as a Study. Your Favorite Female Character. The Cultivation of Memory. Mental Discipline from the Study of Math- ematics. Knowledge the Best Kind of Wealth. The Position and Prospects of the United States. The Influence of Scenery on Character. Sketch of the Plot of Any One of Shake- speare's Plays. How to Best Help the Poor. Influence of Works of Fiction. Description of Any One of Sir Waltef Scott's Poems and Novels. Changes Caused by the Invention of the Typewriter, The Saloon in Modern Politics. The Evils of Great Trusts. Utility of Shorthand. Great Poets of England. Dante's Inferno. The Alhambra. The Catacombs of Rome. The Style of John Bunyan. The Consolations of Age. SUBJECTS FOR COMPOSITIONS. 89 The Dangers Arising from Great Trusts. The Coast Guard Service. The Wrongs of Ireland. Plot of any one of Bret Harte s Novels. The Lives of the Poor in Large Cities. On Making Music a Profession. The Novel Entitled *' Lorna Doone." The Duty of Cheerfulness, Cervantes, the Soldier and the Writer. Our American Humorists. Martin Luther's Moral Courage. Truth the Standard of Excellence. The Evils of Prejudice. The Power of Ridicule. The Power of Early Impressions. The Exiles of Siberia. Politics as a Profession. SUBJECTS FOR ARGUMENT. Should a Polygamist be Admitted to Con- gress ? Should Eight Hours Constitute a Day's Labor ? Should Political Spoils Belong to the Victors ? Is a National Debt a Benefit ? Is Poverty an Incentive to Crime ? Should the United States Maintain a Large Standing Army ? Should Office Holders be Assessed for Party Expenses ? Is Drunkenness any Excuse for Murder ? Would Harmony in Human Beliefs be Desirable ? Should There be a Uniform Divorce Law in All Our States ? Can a Country be Free Without Free Trade ? Should Church Property be Exempt from Taxation ? Should Capital Punishment be Abolished? Do Luxuries Become Necessities ? Should a Man Vote Who Cannot Read? Was Thackeray a Cynic ? Should Public School Money be Given to Religious Sects ? Should Writers Adopt Phonetic Spelling? Is a Man of Business Benefited by a Clas- sical Education ? Is Literature Indicative of National Pro- gress ? Is Electricit}^ Destined to Become the Greatest Motive Power? Should the Inventor Monopolize His In- vention? Should Cremation Supersede Burial ? Was the Execution of Andre Unjust ? Is Crime in Our Country on the Increase ? Does the Press in Our Country have too much Freedom ? SUBJECTS FOR COMPARISON. Falsehood and Truth. Practice and Habit. Wit and Humor. Extravagance and Thrift. Confusion and Order. The Democrats and Whigs. Natural and Acquired Ability. The Comparative Value of Iron acu Gold. Foreign and Domestic Commerce. The Cavalier and the Puritan. Waterloo and Sedan. The Stage Coach and the Locomotive. The Uses and Abuses of Fashion. Capital and Labor. Genius and Talent. Romance and Reality. " The Pen is Mightier than the Sword." Notoriety and Reputation. Resolution and Action. Working and Dreaming. Leo X and Martin Luther. The Statesmanship of Hamilton and Jeffer son. War and Arbitration. Helen and Andromache. 90 SUBJECTS FOR COMPOSITIONS. "When the Law Ends, Tyranny Begins." ** Deep Versed in Books, and Shallow in Himself." The Victories of Peace and of War. Hypocrisy and Sincerity. Solitude and Society. Affection and Naturalness. Brusque People and Fawning People. MISCELLANEOUS SUBJECTS FOR COMPOSITIONS. Looking on the Bright Side. The Character of Busybodies. Benevolence and Greed. Character of the Pilgrims. Painting and Sculpture. The Head and the Heart. Party Spirit and Good Government. The Responsibility of Our Country to Mankind. The Obligation of Treaties. Great Men the Glory of their Country. Ancient and Modern Eloquence. Conscience and the Will. The Heroism of the Indian. Religion and Pleasure. Spiritual Freedom. The Present Age. The Humorousness of Love Matches. The Influence of Woman. The Mission of Reformers. The True Aristocracy. The Expansion of the Republic. The Bible and the Iliad. The Huguenots in Carolina. Puritan Intolerance. The Compensations of Calamity. Stateliness and Courtesy. Truth and Tenderness. Loungers in Corner Groceries. A Defense of Enthusiasm. The Ancient Mound Builders. The Power of Words. The Advantages of Playing Golf. College Athletics. The Physique of Americans. The Influence of Climate on Physical Characteristics. ** Home is Where the Heart is." Coral Treasures of the Sea. Subhmity of the Ocean. The Beauty of Sea Waves. The Power of Maternal Love. The Beauty of Heroic Deeds. The Ravages of War. Children and Flowers. Earning Capital. The Sacredness of Work. " The Boy is the Father of the Man." The Last Hours of Socrates. The Discoveries of Astronomy. Luck and Labor. The Achievements of Earnestness. The Ideal Citizen. Synonyms and Antonyms E use words to express ideas and thoughts. The best words are those which best express the thought or idea. All writers are frequently at a loss for the exact word or phrase that will express their meaning the most forcibly, and are compelled to ransack and search their vocabulary in order to get out of the difficulty. The number of words used by the majority of persons is very small, and they are there- fore in constant danger of the fault of repetition. We do not like to hear a speaker use the same word too frequently. To do so detracts seriously from the force and beauty of his address. While there are instances in which a repetition of a word is called for, and to make use of another would weaken the sentence and fail to fully give the meaning of the writer or speaker, it i-s nevertheless true that constant repetitions are not only a blemish, but a fault that should be corrected. For the purpose of avoiding too much repetition in writing and speaking it is necessary to have a Dictionary of v/ords of similar meaning. A Synonym is one of two or more words of similar significance which rhay often be used interchangeably. An Antonym is a word of opposite meaning. In the following list the Synonyms are first given ; then follow, in parenthesis, the Antonyms, or words of opposite meaning. All persons who would acquire an elegant style in literary composition, correspondence or ordinary conversation, will find this comprehensive Dictionary of Synonyms and Anto- nyms of great value. Jewels of thought should be set in appropriate language. In this table the letter a means adjective ; v means verb ; n means noun or substantive. ABANDON — forsake, desert, renounce, relinquish. (Keep, cherish. ) ABANDONED — deserted, forsaken, profligate, wicked, reprobate, dissolute, flagitious, corrupt, depraved, vicious. (Respected, esteemed, cher- ished, virtuous.) ABASEMENT — degradation, fall, degeneracy, hu- miliation, abjectn ess, debasement, servility. (Ele- vation, promotion, honor.) ABASH — disconcert, discompose, confound, confuse, shame, bewilder. (Embolden.) ABBREVIATE— shorten, curtail, contract, abridge, condense, reduce, compress. (Lengthen, extend, enlarge, expand.) ABDICATE — renounce, resign, relinquish. (Usurp.) ABET — incite, stimulate, whet, encourage, back up, second, countenance, assist. (Dampen, discour- age, dispirit, depress, repress, oppose.) I^BETTOR — instigator, prompter, assistant, coad- jutor, accomplice, accessory, particeps criminis. (Extinguisher.) ABHOR — ^loathe, abominate, (Love, admire.) ABILITY— power, skill, gumption, efl&ciency, mas- tery, qualification, faculty, expertness. (Incom- petence, inefficiency, inability.) xlBjECT — despised, despicable, vile, grovelling, mean, base, worthless, servile. (Supreme, august, commanding, noble.) ABJURE — forswear, disclaim, unsay, r'^'cant, revoke, deny, disown. (Attest, affirm. ) ABLE — competent, qualified, skilled, efficient, capa- ble, clever, adroit, adept, strong, telling, masterly. (Incompetent, weak, unskilful, unqualified.) ABODE — dwelling, residence, domicile, home, quar- ters, habitation, lodging, settlement. (Transition, shifting, wandering, pilgrimage, peregrination.) ABOLISH — efface, extinguish, annihilate, nullify, destroy, undo, quash, annul, cancel, abrogate, quench, suppress, vitiate, revoke. (Introduce, establish, enforce, restore. ) ABOMINABLE— detestable, hateful, odious, exe- crable. (Choice, excellent, attractive, select.) ABORTIVE — ineflfectual, futile, inoperative, defee- tive, inadequate. (Efficient, productive, complete. ) ABOUT — around, near to, nearly, approximately , contiguous. (Remote from, distant.) ABSCOND — take oneself off, " vamoose," disappear, decamp, run away. (Thrust oneself into notice.) ABSENT — not present, wanting, absentminded, abstracted, inattentive, listless, dreamy, visionary, (Present, collected, composed, vigilant, observant. | ABSOLUTE — certain, unconditioned, unconditional, unlimited, unrestricted, transcendent, authorita- tive, paramount, imperative, arbitrary, despotic, (Conditional, limited, hampered, fettered.) ABSORB — SHck up, imbibe, engross, drain away, consume. (Reserve, save, spare, husband, econ- omize, hoard up.) ABSURD — unreasonable, nonsensical, foolish, vain, impracticable. (Reasonable, prudent, veracious.) 91 92 SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. ABUSE, V. — pervert, deprave, traduce, debase, dis- parage, slander, calumniate, rail at, reproach, depreciate. ( Improve, develop, cultivate, promote, bless, magnify, appreciate.) ABUSE, n. — perversion, ill-usage, depravation, de- basement, slander, reproach. (Cultivation, use, promotion, development, appreciation, praise.) ACCEDE^'oin, as.scnt, acquiesce in, comply, agree, concur, coincide, approve. (Dissent, object, decline, refuse. ) ACCELERATE— hasten, hurry, speed, expedite, quicken, precipitate, facilitate. (Retard, delay, procrastinate, arrest, stop, impede, suspend.) ACCEPT — take, receive, assume, acknowledge, en- dorse. (Refuse, repudiate, protest, disown.) ACCEPTABLE— pleasant, grateful, welcome. (Re- pugnant, displeasing. ) ACCIDENT— casualty, contingency, hap, mishap, chance, mischance, misadventure. (Law, order.) ACCOMMODATE— adjust, adapt, fit, conform, rec- oncile, suit, oblige, furnish, convenience. (Cross, thwart, counteract, plot against, checkmate, de- feat, inconvenience.) ACCOMPLICE— confederate, ally, associate, acces- sory, particcps criminis. (Adversary, rival, spy, opponent, enemy. ) ACCOMPLISH — complete, perform, finish, fulfil, execute, perfect, consummate, achieve, effect, carry out. (Fail, miscarry, undo, wreck, frustrate.) ACCOMPLISHMENT— success, fulfilment, comple- tion, performance, execution, achievement, con- summation, attainment. (Failure, miscarriage, wreck, ruin. ) ACCORD — harmonize, agree, allow, grant, concede. (Jar, clash with, deny, disallow.) ACCOST — address, confront, speak to, greet, salute. ( Evade, fight shy of. ) ACCOUNT, V. — compute, estimate, reckon up, take stock of. (Leave unexplained, unsolved. ) ACCOUNT, n. — reckoning, relation, charge, bill. (Riddle, mj'stery, puzzle, unknown quantity.) ACCOUNTABLE — answerable, responsible, amen- able. (Exempt, free, irresponsible.) ACCUMULATE— heap up, save, collect. (Scatter, dissipate, diffuse, spend, squander.) ACCUMULATION— heap, amount, glut, (Dissi- pation, dissemination, distribution, diminution.) ACCURATE — definite, precise, correct, exact. (In- accurate, wrong, erroneous, blundering, careless.) ACHIEVE — complete, gain, win. ACHIEVEMENT— feat, exploit, distinguished per- formance, acquirement. (Abortion, frustration, failure, shortcoming, defect.) ACKNOWLEDGE — avow, confess, own, recognize, admit, grant, concede. (Repudiate, disclaim, disallow, disown, deny. ACQUAINT — make known, apprise, inform, com- municate, intimate, notify. (Leave ignorant, keep secret, conceal.) ACQUAINTANCE— knowledge, familiarity, fellow- ship, companionship. (Ignorance, stranger.) ACQUIESCE — yield, concur, agree, assent. (Protest, object, dissent, secede, oppose.) ACQUIT — set free, release, discharge, clear, absolve, exculpate, exonerate, liberate, deliver. (Accuse, impeach, charge, blame, convict.) ACT, V. — do, perform, commit, operate, work, prac- tice, behave, personate, play, enact. (Neglect, cease, desist, rest, wait, lie idle, refrain.) gesture, engagement, fight, deed, battle, feat. (Inaction, repose, rest, idleness, ease, indolence, inertia, passiveness, quiescence, dormancy.) ACTIVE — energetic, busy, stirring, alive, brisk, operative, lively, agile, nimble, diligent, sprightly, alert, quick, supple, prompt, industrious. (Passive^ inert, dead, extinct, dull, torpid, sluggish, indo- lent, lazy, dormant, quiescent, asleep.) ACTUAL — real, positive, existing, certain. (False, imaginary, theoretical, illusive, fictitious.) ACUTE — sharp, pointed, penetrating, piercing, keen, • poignant, pungent, intense, violent, shrill, sensitive, sharp-witted, shrewd, discriminating, clever, cunning. (Obtuse, blunc, bluff, dull, flat, callous, stupid, apathetic.) ADAPT— fit, suit, adjust, conform, regulate. (Misfit, discommode, dislocate. ) ADDICTED — committed to, devoted, prone, given up to, inclined, habituated. (Uncommitted, free, uncompromised, neutral. ) ADDITION — annexation, accession, supplement, adjunct, affix, appendage, accessory, increment, increase, complement, ^/z^.?, more. (Subtraction, deduction, retrenchment, curtailment, deprivation, minus, less, loss, impoverishment.) ADDRESS — speech, salutation, accost, appeal ; also skill, dexterity, adroitness ; also direction, name ; also residence. (Response, answer, reply, rejoin- der ; also awkwardness, maladroitness, clumsiness, slovenliness. ) ADHESION — sticking, adherence, adoption, attach- ment, espousal. (Repulsion, revulsion, antipathy, aversion, hostility, incompatibility, dislike.) ADJACENT — next, near, nigh, at hand, alongside, close by, adjoining, contiguous, bordering, neigh- boring, proximate. (Remote, foreign, distant, aloof, far, apart, asunder.) ADJOURN — put off, postpone, defer, delay, keep in abeyance, prorogue, suspend, procrastinate, retard, waive, remand, reserve. (Conclude, clinch, ac- celerate, precipitate. ) ADJUNCT — appendage, affix, annex, annexation, appendix, adhesion, appurtenance. (Curtailment, retrenchment, lop, mutilation, reduction, clipping, docking, filching.) ADJUST — make exact, set right, fit, adapt, dovetail, arrange, harmonize, settle, regulate. (Confound, confuse muddle, disorder, perplex, embarrass, entangle, clash, jar, jumble, disarrange, unsettle.) ADMIRABLE — wonderful, excellent, choice, noble, grand, estimable, lovely, ideal, surpassing, extra- ordinary, eminent. (Detestable, vile, mean, con- temptible, despicable, worthless, wretched, villain- ous, pitiful. ) ADMIT — allow, permit, suffer, receive, usher, grant, acknowledge, confess, concede, accept. (Deny, refuse, shut out, forbid, diso.wn, disclaim.) SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. &S ADVANTAGEOUS— profitable, serviceable, useful, beneficial, helpful, of value. (Disadvantageous, detrimental, prejudicial, injurious, hurtful, harm- ful, deleterious, obnoxious, pernicious.) AFFKCTION — bent, inclination, partiality, attrac- tion, impulse, love, desire, passion, fascination ; also suffering, disease, morbidness. (Repulsion, revulsion, antipathy, dislike, recoil, aversion, estrangement, indifference, coldness, alienation ; also wholeness, soundness, healthiness.) AFFECTIONATE— loving, kind, fond, doting, ten- der, amiable, cordial, hearty, good-hearted. (Cold, unloving, unkind, heartless, selfish, crabbed, sour, malign, malicious, malevolent, misanthropic, cyn- ical, ill-natured, cruel, hating. ) AGREEABLE — pleasant, acceptable, grateful, re- freshing, genial, pleasing, palatable, sweet, charm- ing, delectable. (Disagreeable, displeasing, un- pleasant, ungrateful, harsh, repellent, painful, noxious, plaguy, irritating, annoying, mortifying.) ALTERNATING — reciprocal, correlative, inter- changeable, by turns, vice versa. (Monotonous, unchanging, continual.) AMBASSADOR — ^messenger, envoy, emissary, le- gate, nuncio, diplomatist, diplomate, representa- tive, vicegerent, plenipotentiary, minister, agent. (Principal, government, sovereign, power.) AMEND — improve, correct, better, meliorate, rec- tify, prune, repair, revise, remedy, reform. (Injure, impair, damage, harm, hurt, mar, mangle, blemish, deteriorate, ruin, spoil.) ANGER — resentment, animosity, wrath, indignation, pique, umbrage, huff, displeasure, dungeon, irrita- tion, irascibility, choler, ire, hate. (Kindness, benignity, bonhomie^ good nature.) APPROPRIATE — assimilate, assume, possess one- self of, take, grab, clutch, collar, snap up, capture, steal. (Relinquish, give up, surrender, yield, re- sign, forego, renounce, abandon, discard, dismiss. ) ARGUE — reason, discuss, debate, dispute, contend. (Obscure, darken, mystify, mislead, misrepresent, evade, sophisticate.) ARISE — ^rise, ascend, mount, climb, soar, spring, emanate, proceed, issue. (Descend, fall, gravitate, drop, slide, settle, decline, sink, dismount, alight.) ARTFUL — cunning, crafty, skilful, wily, designing, politic, astute, knowing, tricky. (Artless, naive, natural, simple, plain, ingenuous, frank, sincere, open, candid, guileless, straightforward, direct.) ARTIFICE — contrivance, stratagem, trick, design, plot, machination, chicanery, knavery, jugglery, guile, jobbery. (Artlessness, candor, openness, simplicity, innocence, ingenuousness.) ASSOCIATION— partnership, fellowship, solidarity, league, alliance, combination, coalition, federa- tion, junto, cabal. (Opposition, antagonism, con- flict, counteraction, resistance, hinderance, count- erplot, detachment, individualism.) ATTACK — assault, charge, onset, onslaught, incur- sion, inroad, bombardment, cannonade. (Defence, protection, guard, ward, resistance, stand, repulse, rebuff, retreat.) • AUDACITY — boldness, defiance, prowess, intre- pidity, mettle, game, pluck, fortitude, rashness, temerity, presumption, foolhaiainess, courage, hardihood. (Cowardice, pusillanimity, timidity, meekness, poltroonery, fear, caution, calculation, discretion, prudence.) AUSTERE — severe, harsh, rigid, stern, rigorous, uncompromising, inflexible, obdurate, exacting, straight-laced, unrelenting. (Lax, loose, slack, remiss, weak, pliant, lenient, mild, indulgent easy-going, forbearing, forgiving.) AVARICIOUS— tight-fistcf! , griping, churlisk, par- simonious, stingy, penurious, miserly niggardly, close, illiberal, ungenerous, covetous, greedy, rapacious. (Prodigal, thriftless, improvident, ex- travagant, lavish, dissipated, freehanded.) AVERSION — antipathy, revulsion, repulsion, dis- like, recoil, estrangement, alienation, repugnance, disgust, nausea. (Predilection, fancy, fascination, allurement, attraction, magnet. ) AWE — dread, fear, reverence, prostration, admira- tion, bewilderment. (Familiarty, indifference, heedlessness, unconcern, contempt, mockery.) AXIOM — maxim, aphorism, apophthegm, adage, motto, dictum^ theorem, truism, proverb, saw. (Absurdity, paradox.) BABBLE — splash, gurgle, bubble, purl, ripple, prat- tle, clack, gabble, clash, jabber, twaddle, prate, chatter, blab. (Silence, hush.) BAD — depraved, defiled, distorted, corrupt, evil, wicked, wrong, sinful, morbid, foul, peccant, nox- ious, pernicious, diseased, imperfect, tainted, touched. (Good, whole, sound, healthy, benefi- cial, salutary, prime, perfect, entire, untouched, unblemished, intact, choice, worthy.) BAFFLE — thwart, checkmate, defeat, disconcert, confound, block, outwit, traverse, contravene, frustrate, balk, foil. (Aid, assist, succor, further, forward, expedite, sustain, second, reinforce.) BASE — crude, undeveloped, iow, villainous, mean, deteriorated, misbegotten, ill-contrived, ill-consti- tuted. (Noble, exalted, lofty, sublime, excellent, elect, choice, aristocratic, exquisite, capital. ) BEAR — carry, hold, sustain, support, suffer, endure, beget, generate, produce, breed, hatch. (Lean, depend, hang, yield, sterile, unproductive.) BEASTLY — bestial, animal, brutal, sensual, gross, carnal, lewd. (Human, humane, virtuous, moral, ethical, intellectual, thoughtful, spiritual. ) BEAT — strike, smite, thrash, thwack, thump, pum- mel, drub, leather, baste, belabor, birch, scourge, defeat, surpass, rout, overthrow. (Protect, de- fend, soothe. ) BEAUTIFUL — fair, complete, symmetrical, hand- some. (Ugly, repulsive, foul.) BECOMING — suiting, accordant, fit, seemly. (Dis crepant, improper, in bad form.) BEG— beseech, crave, entreat. (Offer, proffer.) BEHAVIOR — carriage, deportment, conduct. BENEFICENT— bountiful, generous, liberal. (Sor- did, mercenary.) BENEFIT — good, advantage, service. (Loss, detri- ment, injury.) BENEVOLENCE— well-wishing, charity. (Male- volence, malice, hate.) BLAME — censure, reproach. (Approve, honor. \, 94 SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. BLEMISH— flaw, stain, spot, imperfectiou, defect. (Ornament, decoration, embellishment, adorn- ment, finery, gilding.) BLIND — dimsighted, ignorant, uninformed. (Sharp- sighted, enlightened.) BLOT — efiface, cancel, expunge, erase. (Record.) BOLD — brave, daring, fearless, intrepid, courageous. (Cowardly, timid, shy, chicken-hearted.) BORDER — margin, boundary, frontier, confine, fringe, hem, selvedge, valance. (Inclosure, in- terior, inside.) BOL^ND — circumscribe, limit, restrict, confine, en- close ; also leap, jump, hop, spring, vault, skip. (Enlarge, clear, deliver; also plunge, dip, sink.) BRAVE — dare, defy. (Cave in, show the white feather. ) BREAK — bruise, crush, pound, squeeze, crack, snap, splinter. (Bind, hold together, knit, rivet.) BREEZE— blow, zephyr. (Stillness, hush, calm.) BRIGHT— shining, lustrous, radiant. (Dull, dim.) BRITTLE— frangible, fragile, frail. (Tough.) BURIAL — interment, sepulture, obsequies. (Exhu- mation, disinterment, ) BUSINESS — occupation, employment, pursuit, voca- tion, calling, profession, craft, trade. (Leisure, vacation, plaj'.) BUSTLE— stir, fuss, ado, flurry. (Quiet, stillness.) CALAMITY — misfortune, disaster, catastrophe. (Good luck, prosperity.) CALM — still, motionless, placid, serene, composed. (Stormy, unsettled, restless, agitated, distracted.) CAPABLE — competent, able, eiEcient. (Unqualified. ) CAPTIOUS — censorious, cantankerous. (Concilia- tory, bland.) CARE — solicitude, concern. (Negligence, careless- ness, nonchalance.) CARESS— fondle, love, pet. (Spurn, disdain.) CARNAGE — butchery, gore, massacre, slaughter. CAUSE — origin, source, ground, reason, motive CENSURE — reprehend, chide. (Approve.) CERTAIN— sure, infallible. (Doubtful, dubious.) CESSATION — discontinuance, stoppage, rest, halt. (Perseverance, persistence, continuance.) CHANCE — accident, luck. (Intention, purpose.) 'CHANGE — exchange, bourse^ mart, emporium. CHANGEABLE— mutable, variable, fickle. (Stead- fast, firm.) CHARACTER — constitution, nature, disposition. CHARM — fascination, enchantment, witchery, at- traction. (Nuisance, mortification, bore, plague.) CHASTITY — purity, virtue. (Concupiscence.) CHE.A-P — inexpensive, worthless. (Dear, costly.) CHEERFUL — blithe, lightsome, brisk, sprightly. (IMelancholy, sombre, morose, gloomy, vsad. ) CHIEF — sachem, head, ruler. (Vassal, henchman.) CIRCUMvSTANCE— situation, predicament. CLASS — division, category, departaient, order, kind, sort, genus, species, variety. CLEVER — adroit, dexterous, expert, deft, readyf smart. (Awkward, dull, shiftless, clumsy.) CLOTHED — dressed, arrayed, apparelled. (Dis- robed, stripped.) COARSE — crude, unrefined. (Refined, cultivated.'*' COAX — cajole, wheedle, fawn, lure, induce, entice. (Dissuade, indispose, warn, admonish.) COLD — frigid, chill, inclement. (Hot, glowing.) COLOR — hue, tint, tinge, tincture, dye, shade, stain. (Pallor, paleness, wanness, blankness, achroma tism, discoloration. ) COMBINATION — coalescence, fusion, faction, coali- tion, league. (Dissolution, rupture, schism.) COMMAND — empire, rule. (Anarchy, license.) COMMODITY — goods, efiects, merchandise, stock. COMMON — general, ordinary, mean, base. (Rare, exceptional, unique. COMPASSION — pity, commiseration, sympathy. (Cruelty, severity.) COMPEL — force, coerce, oblige, necessitate, make, constrain.' (Let alone, tolerate.) COMPENSATION— amends, atonement, requital. (Withholding.) COMPENDIUM— abstract, epitome, digest. (Am- plification, expansion.) COMPLAIN — ^lament, murmur, regret, repine, de- plore. (Rejoice, exult, boast, brag, chuckle. ) COMPLY — consent, yield, acquiesce. (Refuse, deny, decline.) COMPOUND, a. — composite, complex, blended. (Simple, elementary.) COMPREHEND — comprise, contain, embrace, in- clude, enclose, grasp. (Exclude, reject, mistake, eliminate, loss. ) CONCEAL — hide, secrete, cover, screen, shroud, veil, disguise. (Publish, report, divulge.) CONCEIVE — grasp, apprehend, devise, invent. (Ignorant of.) CONCLUSION— result, finding. (Undetermined.) CONDEMN — convict, find guilty, sentence, doom. (Acquit.) CONDUCT, V. — direct, mmage, govern. (Follow, obey, submit. ) CONFIRM — corroborate, ratify, endorse, support, uphold. (Weaken, enfeeble, reduce.) CONFLICT — contend, contest, wrestle, tussle, clash, wrangle. (Harmonize, agree, fraternize, concur.) CONFUTE— refute, disprove. (Demonstrate.) CONQUER — defeat, vanquish, overcome. (Fail, be beaten, lose.) CONSEQUENCE— effect, derivation, result, event, issue. (Cause, origin, source, antecedent.) CONSIDER— reflect, deliberate. (Forget, ignore.) CONSISTENT— accordant, concordant, compatible, consonant, congruous, reconcilable, harmonious. (Discordant, discrepant.) CONSOLE — relieve, soothe, comfort. (Embitter.) CONSTANCY— continuance, tenacity, stability. (Irresolution, fickleness.) CONTAMINATF:— Pollute, stain, taint, tarnish, blur, smudge, defile. (Cleanse, purify, purge.) SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. 95 CONTEMN — despise, disdain, scorn. (Esteem, ap- precite, admire.) CONTEMPLATE— survej^ scan, observe, intend. (Disregard.) CONTEMPTIBLE— despicable, paltry, shabby, beg- garly, worthless, vile, cheap, trashy. (Estimable.) CONTEND — fight, wrangle, vie. (Be at peace. ) CONTINUAL — ^perpetual, endless, ceaseless, (Mo- mentary, transient. ) CONTINUE — remain, persist, endure. (Desist, stay. ) CONTRADICT— deny, gainsay, oppose. (Affirm, assert, declare.) CORRECT— mend, rectify. (Impair, muddle.) COST — expense, charge, price, value. oOVETOUSNESS — avarice, cupidity, extortion. (Generosity, liberality.) COWARDICE — poltroonery, faint - heartedness. (Courage, boldness, intrepidity.) CRIME — offence, trespass, misdemeanor, felony, transgression. (Innocence, guiltlessness.) CRIMINAL — culprit, felon, convict. (Paragon.) CROOKED — twisted, distorted, bent, awry, wry, askew, deformed. (Straight, upright.) CRUEL — ^brutal, ferocious, barbarous, blood-thirsty, fiendish. (Kind, benignant, benevolent.) CULTIVATION— tillage, culture. (Waste.) CURSORY — fugitive, hurried, perfunctory. (Per- manent, thorough. ) CUSTOM — habit, wont, usage, fashion, practice. DANGER— peril, hazard, jeopardy. (Safety. ) DARK — obscure, sombrous, opaque, unintelligible. (Light, luminous, shining, clear, lucid.) DEADLY — mortal, fatal, destructive, lethal. DEAR — costly, precious, high-priced, beloved, dar- ling, pet, favorite. (Cheap, disliked, despised.) DEATH — decease, demise, dissolution. (Birth, life. ) DECAY, n. — decline, consumption, atrophy. (De- velopment, growth.) DECEIVE — cheat, defraud, cozen, overreach, gull, dupe, swindle, victimize. (Truthfulness. ) DECEIT, n. — imposition, fraud, deception. (Vera- city, honesty. ) DECIDE — determine, resolve, conclude, settle, ad- judicate, arbitrate, terminate. (Hesitate, dilly- dally, shuffle.) DECIPHER — interpret, explain, construe, unravel. (Mistake, confound.) DECISION — determination, conclusion, firmness. (Wavering, hesitancy.) DECLAMATION— harangue, oration, recitation, tirade, speech. DECLARATION — affirmation, assertion. (Denial.) DECREASE — diminish, lessen, reduce, wane, de- cline. (Increase, grow, enlarge.) DEDICATE— consecrate, devote, offer, apportion. DEED— act, transaction, exploit, document. DEEM— judge, estimate, consider, esteem, suppose. DEEP— profound, abtruse, hidden, extraordin?-ily wise. (Shallow, superficial.} DEFACE — mar, spoil, injure, disfigure. (Beautify.) DEFAULT — shortcoming, deficiency, defect, im- ' perfection. (Sufficiency, satisfaction.) DEFENCE — fortification, bulwark, vindication, jus- tification, apology. DEFEND — shield, vindicate. (Assault, accuse.) DEFICIENT— incomplete, lacking. (Entire, per- fect, whole.) DEFILE — soil, smutch, besmear, begrime. DEFINE — limit, bound. (Enlarge, expand.) DEFRAY — pay, settle, liquidate, satisfy, clear. DEGREE — grade, extent, measure, ratio, standard. DELIBERATE, a. — circumspect, wary, cautious. (Heedless, thoughtless.) DELICACY— nicety, dainty, tit-bit, taste, refine- ment, modesty. (Grossness, coarseness, vulgarity. indecorum. ) DELICATE— dainty, refined. (Coarse, beastly.) DELICIOUS — savor}^, palatable, luscious, charm- ing, delightful. (Offensive, nasty, odious, shock- ing, nauseous.) DELIGHT— gratification, felicity. (Mortification, vexation. ) DELIVER — transfer, consign, utter, liberate, de- clare. (Keep, retain, restrain, check, bridle.) DEMONSTRATE— prove, show, manife.st. (Mystify, obscure. ) DEPART — quit, vacate, retire, withdraw, remove. DEPRIVE — strip, bereave, despoil. (Invest, equip.) DEPUTE — commission, delegate, accredit, entrust. DERISION — ridicule, scoffing, mockery, raillery, chaff, badinage. (Awe, dread, reverence.) DERIVATION — origin, source, spring, emanation, etymology. DESCRIBE — delineate, portray, style, specify, characterize. DESECRATE— profane, blaspheme, revile. (Con- secrate, sanctify.) DESERVE — merit, be entitled to, earn, justify. DESIGN, n. — delineation, illustration, sketch, plan, drawing, portraiture, draught, projection, scheme, proposal, outline. DESIRABLE — eligible, suitable, acceptable. (Unfit, objectionable. ) DESIRE, n. — wish, longing, hankering, appetite. DESOLATE, «.— lonely, solitar}^, bereaved, forlorn, forsaken, deserted, bleak, dreary. (Befriended, social, festive. ) DESPERATE— frenzied, frantic, furious. (Calm, composed, moderate.) DESTINY — fatality, doom, predestination, decree, fate. (Casualty, accident, contingency, chance.) DESTRUCTIVE— mischievous, disastrous, deleteri- ( Creative, beneficial.) DESUETUDE— disuse, discontinuance. (Use, habit, practice.) DESULTORY— immethodical, disconnected, ramb- ling, discontinuous, interrupted, fitful, inter- mittent. (Continuous, consecutive, constant.) DETAIL, /?.— particulai. item, count, specialty, individuality. 96 SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. DETAIL, V. — particularize, enumerate, specify. ( Generalize. ) DETER — discourage, dissuade. (Encourage, incite. ) DETRI:MENT — damage, loss. (Benefit, improve- ment, betterment.) DEVELOP— unfold, expand, increase. (Extirpate.) DEVOID — wanting, destitute, bereft, denuded, bare, emptied, void. (Provided, supplied, furnished. ) DEVOTED — destined, consecrated, sworn to. [dictate — enjoin, order, prescribe, mark out. 'DICTATORIAL — authoritative, imperative, over- j bearing, imperious, arbitrary, domineering. DIE — expire, perish, depart this life, cease. DIET — food, victuals, nourishment, aliment, board, sustenance, fare, viands, meal, repast, menu. DIFFER — vary, diverge, disagree, bicker, nag, split. (Accord, harmonize.) DIFFERENT — various, diverse, unlike. (Identical.) DIFFICULT — hard, tough, laborious, arduous, for- midable. ( Easy, facile, manageable, pliant. ) DIFFUSE — discursive, digressive, diluted. (Con- densed, concise, terse.) DIGNIFY — elevate, exalt, ennoble, honor, advance, promote. (Degrade, disgrace, demean, vulgarize.) DILATE — widen, extend, enlarge, expand, descant, expatiate. (Contract, narrow, compress, reduce.) DILATORY — slow, tardy, slow-paced, procrastina- ting, lagging, dawdling. (Prompt, peremptory, quick, instant.) DILIGENCE — aeal, ardor, assiduity, (Indolence.) DIMINISH — lessen, reduce, curtail, retrench, bate, abate, shorten, contract. (Increase, augment, aggrandize, enlarge.) DISABILITY— incapacity, unfitness. (Power. ) DISCERN — descry, perceive, distinguish, espy, scan, recognize, understand, discriminate. (Ignore.) DISCIPLINE — order, training, drill, schooling.) (Laxity, disorder, confusion, anarchy.) DISCOVER — detect, find, unveil, reveal, open, ex- pose, publish, disclose. (Cover, conceal, hide.) DISCREDITABLE — disreputable, reprehensible, blameworthy, shameful, scandalous, flagrant. (Exemplary, laudable, commendable.) DISCREET — prudent, politic, cautious, wary, guarded, judicious. (Reckless, heedless, rash, unadvised, foolhardy, precipitate.) DISCREPANCY — disagreement, discordance, incon- gruity, disparity, unfitness, clash, jar. (Concord, unison, harmony, congruity. ) DISCRIMINATION — distinction, differentiation, discernment, appreciation, acuteness, judgment, tact, nicety. (Confusion.) DISEASE — illness, sickness, ailment, indisposition, complaint, malady, disorder. (Health, sanity, soundness, robustness. ) DISGRACE, n. — stigma, reproach, brand, dishonor, shame, scandal, odium, infamy. (Honor.) DISGUST — distate, loathing, nausea, aversion, re- vulsion, al)horrence. (Predilection, partiaJiLy, iu- cliaatioaj bius.J DISHONEST— fraudulent, unfaii, tricky, unjust, (Straightforward, open, sincere, honest, fair, right, j ust impartial. ) DISMAY, V. — alarm, startle, scare, frighten, affright, terrify, astound, appal, daunt. (Assure, cheer.) DISMAY, n. — terror, dread, fear, fright. (Courage.) DISMISS — send off, discharge, disband. (Instal, retain, keep. ) DISPEL — scatter, disperse, dissipate, drive off, chase. (Collect, rally, summon, gather.) DISPLAY, V. — exhibit, show, parade. (Conceal.) DISPOSE — arrange, place, order, marshal, rank, group, assort, distribute, co-ordinate, collocate. (Derange, embroil, jumble, muddle, huddle.) DISPUTE, V, — discuss, debate, wrangle, controvert, contend. (Homologate, acquiesce in, assent to.) DISPUTE, n. — argument, controversy, contention, polemic. (Homologation, acquiesence. ) DISTINCT — separ?.te, detached. (Joined, involved. ) DISTINGUISH— perceive, separate. (Confound.) DISTINGUISHED— famous, noted, marked, emi- nent, celebrated, illustrious. (Obscure, mean.) DISTRACT — divert, disconcert, perplex, bewilder, fluster, dazzle. (Observe, study, note, mark.) DISTRIBUTE — disperse, disseminate, dispense, re- tail, apportion, consign, dole out. (Accumulate.) DISTURB — derange, displace, unsettle, trouble, vex, worry, annoy. (Compose, pacify, quiet, soothe.) DIVIDE — disjoin, part, separate, sunder, sever, cleave, split, rend, partition, distribute. (Con- stitute, unite.) DIVINE, fi.— God-like, holy, heavenly. (Devilish.) DIVINE, n. — clergyman, churchman, priest, pastor, shepherd, parson, minister. (Layman.) DO — effect, make, accomplish, transact, act. DOCILE— teachable, willing. (Refractory, stub- born, obstinate. ) DOCTRINE — teaching, lore, tenet, dogma, articles of faith, creed. (Ignorance, superstition.) DOLEFUL — woeful, dismal. (Joyous, merry.) DOOM, «, — sentence, fate, lot, destiny, decree. DOUBT — uncertainty, skepticism, hesitation. (Cer- tainty, faith.) DRAW — pull, attract, inhale, sketch, delineate. DREAD, 71. — fear, horror, alarm, terror, dismay, apprehension. (Confidence, fearlessness.) DREADFUL — fearful, alarming, formidable, por- tentous, direful, terrible, horrid, awful. (Mild, winsome, gentle. ) DRESS, n. — clothing, raiment, attire, apparel, clothes, trousseau. , (Nudity, nakedness.) DRIFT — tendency, direction, course, bearing, tenoi. DROLL — funny, laughable, grotesque, farcical, odd. (Dull, serious, solemn, grave.) DRY, a. — arid, parched, bald, flat, dull. (Aqueous, green, fresh, juicy, interesting. ) DUE — owing, indebted, just, fair, proper. DULL — heavy, sad, commonplace, gloomy, stupid, (Bright, gay, brilliant.) SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. 9? DUNCK — blockhead, igtiommus, simpleton, donkey, ninny, dolt, booby, goose, dullard, numskull, dun- derpate, clodhopper. (Sage, genius, man of talent, wit.) DURABIyE) — abiding, lasting. (Evanescent.) DWEIvIv — stay, abide, sojourn, remain, tarry, stop. (Shift, wander, remove, tramp.) DWINDLE — pine, waste, shrink, shrivel, diminish. EAGER — keen, desirous, craving, ardent, impatient, intent, impetuous. (Loth, reluctant.) EARN — gain, win, acquire. (Lose, miss, forfeit.) EARNEST, «.— serious, resolved. (Trifling, giddy, irresolute, fickle.) EARNEST, n. — pledge, gage, deposit, caution. EASE, n. — content, rest, satisfaction, comfort, re- pose. (Worry, bother, friction, agitation, turmoil.) EASE, V. — calm, console, appease, assuage, alia}', mitigate. (Worry, fret, alarm, gall, harass.) EASY — ^light, comfortable, unconstrained. (Hard, difficult, embarrassed, constrained.) ECCENTRIC — wandering, irregular, peculiar, odd, unwonted, extraordinary, queer, nondescript. (Orderly, customary.) ECONOMICAL— frugal, thrifty, provident. (Squan- dering, wastefuL ) EDGE — verge, brink, brim, rim, skirt, hem. EFFECT, V. — produce, bring about, execute. EFFECTIVE— efficient, operative, powerful, effi- cacious, competent. (Impotent, incapable, in- competent, inefficient.) EFFICACY — efficiency, virtue, competence, agency, instrumentality. ELIMINATE — expel, weed, thin, decimate, exclude, bar, reject, repudiate, winnow, eject, cast out. (Include, comprehend, incorporate, embrace.) ELOQUENCE — oratory, rhetoric, declamation, fa- cundity, grandiloquence, fluency. (Mumbling, stammering. ) ELUCIDATE — clear up, unfold, simplify, explain, decipher, unravel, disentangle. (Darken, obscure. ) ELUDE — escape, avoid, shun, slip, disappear, shirk. EMBARRASS — perplex, entangle, involve, impede. (Relieve, unravel.) EMBELLISH— adorn, decorate, beautify. (Tar- nish, disfigure.) EMBOLDEN — animate, encourage, cheer, instigate, impel, urge, stimulate. (Discourage, dispirit, dampen, depress.) EMINENT — exalted, lofty, prominent, renowned, distinguished, famous, glorious, illustrious. (Base, obscure, low, unknown. ) EMIT — send out, despatch, spirt, publish, promul- gate, edit. (Reserve, conceal, hide.) EMOTION — feeling, sensation, pathos, nerve, ardor, agitation, excitement. (Apathy, frigidity, phlegm, nonchalance. ) EMPLOY — occupy, engage, utilize, exercise, turn to account, exploit, make use of. ENCOMPASS — encircle, surround, gird, beset. ENCOUNTER, z'.— meet, run against, clash. - C7-X) ENCOUNTER, «.— attack, conflict, assault, onset, engagement. END, n. — object, aim, result, purpose, conclusion, upshot, termination. (Beginning, motive.) ENDEAVOR, z/.— attempt, try, essay, strive. ENDURANCE— stay, stability, stamina, fortitude. ENDURE — sustain, bear, brook, undergo. ENEMY — foe, antagonist, adversary, opponent.\ (Friend, ally.) ENERGETIC — active, vigorous, sinewy, nervous, forcible. (Lazy, languid, inert, flabby, flaccid, slack, eflete. ) ENGAGE — occupy, busy, entice, captivate. ENGROSS— monopolize, absorb, take up. ENGULF — swallow up, drown, submerge, bury. ENJOIN — order, command, decree, ordain, direct, appoint, prescribe, bind, impose, stipulate. ENJOYMENT— pleasure, relish, zest. (Privation, grief, misery.) ENLARGE — expand, widen, augment, broaden, in- crease, extend. (Diminish, narrow, straighten.) ENLIGHTEN— illumine, instruct. (Darken, be- fog, mystify.) ENLIVEN — cheer, animate, exhilarate, brighten, incite, inspire. (Sadden, deaden, mortify.) ENMITY — hostility, hatred, antipathy, aversion, detestation. (Love, fondness, predilection.) ENORMOUS — huge, immense, vast, stupendous, monstrous, gigantic, colossal, elephantine. (Tiny, little, minute, puny, petty, diminutive, infinites- imal, dwarfish.) ENOUGH — sufficient, adequate. (Short, scrimp, insufficient. ) ENRAGED — infuriated, wrathful, wroth, rabid, mad, raging. (Pacified, calmed, lulled, assuaged. ) ENRAPTURE— captivate, fascinate, enchant, be- witch, ravish, transport, entrance. (Irritate, gall, shock, repel.) ENROLL — enlist, register, enter, record. ENTERPRISE— undertaking, endeavor, adven- ture, pursuit. ENTHUSIASM — ardor, zeal, glow, unction, fervor. (Coolness, indifference, apathy, nonchalance.) ENTHUSIAST — visionary, fanatic, devotee, zealot. EQUAL — even, level, co-ordinate, balanced, alike, equable, equitable. (Unequal, disproportionate.) ERADICATE— root out, extirpate. (Cherish. ) ERRONEOUS — fallacious, inaccurate, incorrect, untrue, false, inexact. (Accurate, just, right. ) ERROR — mistake, blunder, slip, delusion, fallacy, deception. (Truth, fact, verity, gospel, veracity.) ESPECIALLY — chiefly, particularly, peculiarly. ESSAY — endeavor, experiment, trial, attempt, ven- ture, dissertation, treatise, disquisition, tract. ESTABLISH— settle, fix, set, plant, pitch, lay down, confirm, authenticate, substantiate, verify. ESTEEM, ?2.— value, appreciation, honor, regard. (Contempt, depreciation, disparagement.) ESTIMATE, z^.- value, assess, rate, appiaise, gauge. ETERNAL— everlasting, perpetual, endless, immor- tal, infinite. (Finite, transitory, temporary.) I DS SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. F.VADK— avoid, shun, elude, dodge, parry. EVEN— plain, flat, level, smootii. (Uneven, rough, indented, protuberant. ) EVENT— occurrence, incident, affair, transaction, contingency. EVIL — ill, harm, mischief, disaster, bane, calamity, catastrophe. (Good, benefit, advantage, boon.) EXACT, a. — precise, literal, particular, correct. EXAMINATION— investigation, inquiry, search, research, scrutiny, exploration, test, sitting, trial. EXCEED — excel, outdo, transcend, surpass. EXCEPTIONAL — uncommon, unusual, rare, extra- ordinary. (General, ordinary, regular, normal. ) EXCITE — urge, rouse, stir, awaken. (Assuage, calm, still, tranquilize. ) EXCURSION— tour, trip, expedition, ramble. EXEMPT — free, absolved, cleared, discharged. (Implicated, included, bound, obliged.) EXERCISE, n. — operation, practice, office, action, performance. (Stagnation, rest, stoppage.) EXHAUSTIVE— complete, thorough, out-and-out. EXIGENCY — predicament, emergency, crisis, push, pass, turning point, conjecture. EXPRESS, z/.— utter, tell, declare, signify. EXTRAVAGANT — excessive, prodigal, profuse, wasteful, lavish, thriftless. (Penurious, stingy.) FABLE — parf.ble, tale, myth, romance^ 'Truth, fact, history, event, deed. ) FACE — aspect, visage, countenance. FACETIOUS— pleasant, jocular. (Serious.) FACTOR — manager, agent, officer. FAIL — fall short, be deficient. (Accomplish..; FAINT— feeble, languid. (Forcible.) FAIR— clear. (Stormy.) FAIR — equitable, honest, reasonable. (Unfair.) FAITH— creed. (Unbelief, infidelity.) FAITHFUL— true, loyal, constant. (Faithless.) FAITHLESS— pei-fidious, treacherous. ( Faithful. ) FALL — drop, droop, sink, tumble. (Rise.) FAME — renown, reputation. FAMOUS — celebrated, renowned. (Obscure.) FANCIFUL — capricious, fantastical, whimsical. FANCY — imagination. FAST — rapid, quick, fleet, expeditious. (vSlow. ) FATIGUE — weariness, lassitude. (Vigor.) FEAR — timidity, timorousness. (Bravery.) FEELING — .sensation, sense. FEELING— sensibility. (Insensibility. ) FEROCIOUS— fierce, savage, wild. (Mild.) FERTILE — fruitful, prolific, plenteous. (Sterile.) FICTION— falsehood, fabrication, ( Fact. ) FIGURE — allegory, emblem, metaphor, symbol, picture, type. FIND — descry, discover, espy. (Lose, overlook.) FINIv, a. — Iclicatc, nice. (Coar.se.) FINE, n. — forfeit, forfeiture, mulct, penalty. FiiUi — ^glow, heat, warmth, FIRM — constant, solid, steadfast, fixed. (Weak,) FIRST— foremost, chief, earliest. (Last.) FIT — accommodate, adapt, adjust, suit. FIX — determine, establish, settle, limit. FLAME— blaze, flare, flash, glare. FLAT— level, even. FLEXIBLE— pliant, pliable, ductile. (Inflexible.) FLOURISH— prosper, thrive. (Decay.) FLUCTUATING — wavering, hesitating, oscillating, vacillating, change. (Firm, steadfast, decided.) FLUENT — flowing, glib, voluble, unembarrassed, ready. (Hesitating.) FOLKS — persons, people, individuals. FOLLOW — succeed, ensue, imitate, copy, pursue. FOLLOWER — partisan, disciple, adherent, retainer, pursuer, successor. FOLLY — silliness, foolishness, imbecility, weak- ness. (Wisdom.) FOND — enamored, attached, affectionate. (Distant.) FONDNESS — affection, attachment, kindness, love.. (Aversion.) FOOLHARDY — venturesome, incautious, hasty, ad- venturous, rash. (Cautious.) FOOLISH — simple, silly, irrational, brainless, im- becile, crazy, absurd, preposterous, ridiculous, nonsensical. (Wise, discreet. ) FOP — dandy, dude, beau, coxcomb, puppy, jacka- napes. (Gentlemen.) FORBEAR— abstain, refrain, withhold. FORCE, n. — strength, vigor, dint, might, energy, power, violence, army, host. FORCE, V. — compel. (Persuade.) FORECAST— forethought, foresight, premeditation, prognostication. FOREGO — quit, relinquish, let go, waive. FOREGOING — antecedent, anterior, preceding, pre- vious, prior, former. FORERUNNER— herald, harbinger, precursor. FORESIGHT—forethought, forecast, premeditation. FORGE— coin, invent, frame, feign, fabricate. F'ORGIVE — pardon, remit, absolve, acquit, excuse. FORLORN — forsaken, abandoned, deserted, deso^ late, lone, lonesome. FORM, n. — ceremony, solemnity, observance, rite, figure, shape, conformation, fashion, appearance, representation, semblance. FORM, V. — make, create, produce^ constitute, ar- range, fashion, mould, shape. FORMAL — ceremonious, precise, exact, stiff, mts thodical, affected. (Informal, natural.) FORMER — antecedent, anterior, previous, prior., preceding, foregoing. FORSAKEN — abandoned, forlorn, icserted, deso- late, lone, lonesome. FORTHWITH— immediately, directly, instantly, instantaneously. (Anon.) FORTITUDE — endurance, resolution, fearlessness, dauntlessness. (Weakness.) FORTUNATE— lucky, happy, auspicious, successful, prosperous. (Unfortunate.} SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. 99 FORTUNE — chance, fate, luck, doom, possession, destiny, property, riches. FOSTER — cherish, nurse, tend, harbor. (Neglect.) FOUL — impure, nasty, filthy, dirty, unclean, defiled. (Pure, clean.) FRACTIOUS — cross, captious, petulent, splenetic, touchy, testy, peevish, fretful. (Tractable.) FRAGIIvB— brittle, frail, delicate, feeble. (Strong.) FRAGMENTS — pieces, scraps, leavings, remnants, chips, remains. FRAILTY — weakness, failing, foible, imperfection, fault, blemish. (Strength.) FRAME, V. — construct, invent, coin, fabricate, feign, forge, mold, make, compose. FRANCHISE — right, exemption, immunity, privi- lege, freedom, suffi-age. FRANK — artless, candid, sincere, free, easy, open, familiar, ingenious, plain. (Tricky, insincere. ) FRANTIC — distracted, furious, raving, frenzied, mad. (Quiet, subdued. ) FRAUD — deceit, deception, duplicity, guile, cheat, imposition. ( Honesty. ) Freak — fancy, humor, vagary, whim, caprice, crochet. (Purpose, resolution. ) FREE, a. — ^liberal, generous, bountiful, bounteous, munificent, frank, artless, candid, familiar, open, independent, unconfined, unreserved, unrestricted, exempt, clear, loose, easy, careless. (Slavish, stingy, artful, costly.) FREE, V. — release, set free, deliver, rescue, liberate, enfranchise, affranchise, emancipate, exempt. (Enslave, bind.) FREEDOM — liberty, independence, unrestraint, familiarity, franchise, exemption. (Slavery.) FREQUENT — often, common, general. (Rare.) FRET — ^gall, chafe, agitate, irritate, vex. FRIENDLY — amicable, social, sociable. (Distant, reserved, cool. ) FRIGHTFUL— fearful, dreadful, dire, direful, awful, terrific, horrible, horrid. FRIVOLOUS— trifling, trivial, petty. ( Serious. ) FRUGAL — provident, economical, saving. (Waste- ful, extravagant.) FRUITFUL — fertile, prolific, productive, abundant, plentiful, plenteous. (Barren, sterile.) FRUITLESS — vain, useless, idle, bootless, unavail- ing, without avail. I RUSTR ATE— defeat, foil, balk, disappoint. FULFILL — accomplish, effect, complete. FULLY — completely, abundantly, perfectly. FULSOME — coarse, gross, sickening, offensive, rank. (Moderate.) FURIOUS — violent, boisterous, vehement, dashing, sweeping, rolling, impetuous, frai 4c, distracted, stormy, angry, raging, fierce. (Calm.) FUTILE— trifling, trivial, frivolus. (Effective.) GAIN, n — profit, emolument, advantage, benefit, winnings, earnings. (Loss.) GAIN, V. — get, acquire, obtain, attain, procure, earn, win, achieve, reap, realize, reach. (Lose.) LofC. GALLANT — brave, bold, courageous, gay, showy, fine, intrepid, fearless, heroic. GALLING — chafing, irritating. (Soothing.) GAME — play, pastime, diversion, amusement. GANG — band, horde, company, troop, crew. GAP — breach, chasm, hollow, cavity, cleft, device, rift, chink. GARNISH — embellish, adorn, beautify, decorate. GATHER — pick, cull, assemble, muster, infer, col- lect. (Scatter.) GAUDY — showy, flashy, tawdry, gay, glittering, be- spangled. (Sombre.) GAUNT — emaciated, scraggy, skinny, meagre, lank, attenuated, spare, lean, thin. (Well-fed.) GAY — cheerful, merry, lively, jolly, sprightly, blithe. (Solemn.) GENERATE— form, make, beget, produce. GENERATION— formation, race, breed, stock, kind, age, era. GENEROUS— beneficent, noble, honorable, bounti- ful, li' eral, free. (Niggardly.) GENIAL — cordial, hearty, festive. (Distant, cold.) GE1"'IUS — intellect, invention, talent, taste, nature, character, adept. GENTEEL — refined, polished, fashionable, polite, well-bred. ( Boorish. ) GENTLE — placid, mild, bland, meek, tame, docile, (Rougn, uncouth,) GENUINE— real, true, unaffected. (False.) GESTURE— attitude, action, posture. GET — obtain, earn, gain, attain, procure, achieve. GHASTLY — pallid, wan, hideous, grim, shocking. GHOST — spectre, sprite, apparition, phantom. GIBE — scoff, sneer, flout, jeer, mock, taunt, deride. GIDDY — unsteady, thoughtless. (Steady.) GIFT — donation, benefaction, grant, alms, gratuity, boon, present, faculty, talent. (Purchase.) GIGANTIC — colossal, huge, enormous, prodigious, vast, immense. (Diminutive.) GIVE — ^grant, bestow, confer, yield, impart. GLAD — pleased, cheerful, joyful, gladsome, cheer- ing, gratified. (Sad.) GLEAM — glimmer, glance, glitter, shine, flash. GLEE — gayety, merriment, mirth, joviality, joy» hilarity. (Sorrow.) GLIDE — slip, slide, run, roll on. GLIMMER, z/.— gleam, flicker, glitter. GLIMPSE— glance, look, glint. GLITTER— gleam, shine, glisten, glister, radiate. GLOOM— cloud, darkness, dimness, blackness, dull, ness, sadness. (Light, brightness, joy.) GLOOMY— lowering, lurid, dim, dusky, sad, gium. (Bright, clear.) GLORIFY— magnify, celebrate, adore, exalt GLORIOUS— famous, renowned, distinguished, ti^ alted, noble. (Infamous.) GLORY— honor, fame, renown, splendor, grandeur. ( Infamy. ) GLUT— gorge, stuff, cram, cloy, satiate, block up. 100 SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. GO — depart, proceed, move, budge, stir. GOD — Creator, Lord, Almighty, Jehovah, Omnipo- tence, Providence. GODLY — righteous, devout, holy, pious, religious. GOOD — benefit, weal, advantage, profit. (Evil.) GOOD, a. — virtuous, righteous, upright, just, true. (Wicked, bad.) GORGE, glut, fill, cram, stuff, satiate. GORGEOUS — superb, grand, magnificent, splendid. (Plain, simple.) GOVERN — rule, direct, manage, command. GOVERNMENT— rule, state, control, sway. GRACEFUL — becoming, comely, elegant, beautiful. (Awkward.) GRACIOUS— merciful, kindly, beneficent. GRADUAL — slow, progressive. (Sudden.) GRAND — majestic, stately, dignified, lofty, elevated, exalted, splendid, gorgeous, superb, magnificent, sublime, pompous. (Shabby.) GRANT — bestow, impart, give, yield, cede, allow, confer, invest. GRANT — gift, boon, donation. GRAPHIC — forcible, telling, picturesque, pictorial. GRASP — catch, seize, gripe, clasp, grapple. GRATEFUL — agreeable, pleasing, welcome, thank- ful. (Harsh.) GRATIFICATION— enjoyment, pleasure, delight, reward. (Disappointment.) GRAVE, a. — serious, sedate, solemn, sober, pressing, heavy. ( Giddy. ) GRAVE, n. — tomb, sepulchre, vault. GREAT — big, huge, large, majestic, vast, grand, noble, august. (Small.) GREEDINESS — avidity, eagerness. (Generosity.) GRIEF — affliction, sorrow, trial, tribulation. (Joy.) GRIEVE — mourn, lament, sorrow, pain, wound, hurt, bewail. (Rejoice.) GRIEVOUS — painful, afflicting, heavy, unhappy. GRIND — crush, oppress, grate, harass, afflict. GRISLY— terrible, hideous, grim, ghastly, dreadful. ( Pleasing. ) GROvSS — coarse, outrageous, unseemly, shameful, indelicate. (Delicate.) GROUP — assembly, cluster, collection, clump, order. GROVEL — crawl, cringe, fawn, sneak. GROW— increase, vegetate, expand, advance. (De- cay, diminution,) GROWL — grumble, snarl, murmur, complain. GRUDGE — malice, rancor, spite, pique, hatred. GRUFF — rough, rugged, blunt, rude, harsh, surly, bearish. (Pleasant.) GUILE— deceit, fraud. (Candor.) GUILTLESS— harmless, innocent. GUILTY — culpable, sinful, criminal. HABIT — custom, practice. HAIL — accost, address, greet, salute, welcome. HAPPINESS— beatitude, blessedness, bliss, felicity. (Unhappiness.) HARBOR— haven, port. HARD— firm, solid. (Soft.) HARD— arduous, difficult. (Easy.) HARM — injury, hurt, wrong, infliction. (Benefit.) HARMLESS — safe, innocuous, innocent. (Hurtful.) HARSH — rough, rigorous, severe, gruflf. (Gentle.) HASTEN — accelerate, dispatch, expedite. (Delay.) HASTY— hurried, ill-advised. (Deliberate.) HATEFUI^-odious, detestable. (Lovable. ) HATRED— enmity, ill-will, rancor. (Friendship.) HAUGHTINESS— arrogance, pride. (Modesty.) HAUGHTY — arrogant, disdainful, supercilious. HAZARD— risk, venture. HEALTHY— salubrious, salutary. (Unhealthy.) HEAP — accumulate, amass, pile. HEARTY — cordial, sincere, warm. (Insincere.) HEAVY — burdensome, ponderous. (Light.) HEED— care, attention. HEIGHTEN — enhance, exalt, elevate, raise. HEINOUS— atrocious, flagrant. (Venial.) HELP — aid, assist, relieve, succor. (Hinder.) HERETIC — sectary, sectarian, schismatic, dissentei^ non-conformist. HESITATE— falter, stammer, stutter. HIDEOUS— grim, ghastly, grisly. (Beautiful.) HIGH— lofty, tall, elevated. (Deep.) HINDER — impede, obstruct, prevent, (Help.) HINT — allude, refer, suggest, intimate, insinuate. HOLD — detain, keep, retain. HOLINESS — sanctity, piety, sacredness. HOLY — devout, pious, religious. HOMELY — plain, ugly, coarse. (Beautiful.) HONESTY— integrity, probity, uprightness. (Dis- honesty. ) HONOR, V. — respect, reverence. (Dishonor.) HOPE — confidence, expectation, trust. HOPELESS— desperate. HOT— ardent, burning, fiery. ( Cold. ) HOWEVER — nevertheless, notwithstanding, yet. HUMBLE — modest, submissive, plain, unostenta- tious, simple. (Haughty.) HUMBLE — degrade, humiliate, mortify. (Exalt.) HUMOR — mood, temper. HUNT— seek, chase. HURTFUL — noxious, pernicious. (Beneficial.) HUSBANDRY— cultivation, tillage. HYPOCRITE— dissembler, imposter, canter. 4 HYPOTHESIS— theory, supposition. ,• IDEA — thought, imagination. IDEAL — imaginary, fancied. (Actual.) IDLE — indolent, lazy. (Industrious.) IGNOMINIOUS — shameful, scandalous, infamous. (Honorable.) IGNOMINY — shame, disgrace, obloquy, reproach. IGNORANT — unlearned, illiterate, uninformed. uneducated. (Knowing. ) PLEASING ENTRANCE IN A SPIRITED DIAI.OGUE . C^ ICAOO SONG OF THE FLOWER GIRL, I SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. 101 miscliief, (Well.) acrimonious, IIvIv, n. — evil, wickedness, misfortune^ harm. (Good.) IIvL, a. — sick, indisposed, diseased. IIvIy-TBMFBRBD— crabbed, sou surly. ( Good-natured. ) IlyL-WILIv — enmity, antipathy. (Good-will.) Il/LEGAL — unlawful, illicit, contraband, illegiti- ^ J mate. (I^egal.) IIvLIMITABIvB— boundless, immeasurable, infinite. ILIvlTBRATB— unlettered, unlearned, untaught, uninstructed. (L/earned, educated.) ILLUSION — fallacy, deception, phantasm. ILLUSORY — imaginary, chimerical. (Real.) ILLUSTRATB— explain, elucidate, clear. ILLUSTRIOUS — celebrated, noble, eminent, famous, renowned. (Obscure.) IMAGB — likeness, picture, representation, effigy. IMAGINARY— ideal, fanciful, illusory. (Real.) IMAGINB — conceive, fancy, apprehend, think. IMBBCILITY— silliness, senility, dotage. IMITATB — copy, ape, mimic, mock, counterfeit. IMMACULATE — unspotted, spotless, unsullied, stainless. (Soiled.) IMMEDIATE — pressing, instant, next, proximate. IMMEDIATELY— instantly, forthwith, directly. IMMENSE — vast, enormous, huge, prodigious. IMMUNITY — privilege, prerogative, exemption. IMPAIR — injure, diminish, decrease. IMPART — reveal, divulge, disclose, discover, afford. IMPARTIAL— just, equitable, unbiased. (Partial.) IMPASSIONED— glowing, burning, fiery, intense. IMPEACH — accuse, charge, arraign, censure. IMPEDE— hinder, retard, obstruct. (Help.) IMPEDIMENT— obstruction, hindrance, obstacle, barrier. (Aid. ) IMPEL — animate, induce, incite, instigate, em- bolden. (Retard.) IMPENDING— imminent, threatening. IMPERATIVE— commanding, authoritative. IMPERFECTION— fault, blemish, defect, vice. IMPERIL — endanger, hazard, jeopardize. IMPERIOUS — commanding, dictatorial, imperative, authoritative, lordly, overbearing, domineering. IMPERTINENT— intrusive, meddling, officious, rude, saucy, impudent, insolent. IMPETUOUS— violent, boisterous, furious, vehe- ment. (Calm.) IMPIOUS — profane, irreligious. (Reverent.) IMPLICATE — involve, entangle, embarrass. IMPLY — involve, comprise, infold, import, denote. ^IMPORTANCE — signification, significance, avail, i consequence, weight, gravity, moment. IMPOSING — impressive, striking, majestic, august, noble, grand. (Insignificant.) IMPOTENCE — weakness, incapacity, infirmity, fraility, feebleness. (Power.) IMPOTENT — weak, feeble, helpless, enfeebled, tierveless, infirm. (Strong.) IMPRESSIVE— stirring, forcible, exciting, moving. IMPRISON — incarcerated, shut up, immure, con- fine. (Liberate.) IMPRISONMENT— captivity, durance. IMPROVE — amend, better, mend, reform, rectify, ameliorate, apply, use, employ. (Deteriorate.) IMPROVIDENT— careless, incautious, imprudent, prodigal, wasteful, reckless, rash. (Thrifty.) IMPUDENCE— assurance, impertinence, confidence, insolence, rudeness. IMPUDENT— saucy, brazen, bold, impertinent, forward, rude, insolent, immodest, shameless. IMPULSE — incentive, incitement, instigation. IMPULSIVE— rash, hasty, forcible. (Deliberate.) IMPUTATION — blame, censure, reproach, charge. INADVERTENCY— error, oversight, blunder, in- attention, carelessness, negligence. INCENTIVE— motive, inducement, impulse. INCITE — instigate, excite, provoke, stimulate, urge, encourage, impel. INCLINATION— leaning, slope, disposition, bent, tendency, bias, affection, attachment, wish, liking, desire. (Aversion.) INCLINE, z/. —slope, lean, slant, tend, bend, turn, bias, dispose. INCLOSE — surround, shut in, fence in, cover, wrap. INCLUDE — comprehend, comprise, contain, take in, embrace. INCOMMODE— annoy, plague, molest, disturb, inconvenience, trouble. (Accommodate.) INCOMPETENT— incapable, unable, inadequate. INCREASE, V. — extend, enlarge, augment, dilate, expand, amplify, raise, enhance, aggravate, mag- nify, grow. (Diminish.) INCREASE, n. — augmentation, accession, addition, enlargement, extension. (Decrease.) INCUMBENT— obHgatory. INDEFINITE — vague, uncertain, unsettled, loose, lax. (Definite.) INDICATE— point out, show, mark. INDIFFERENCE — apathy, carelessness, listless- ness, insensibility. (Application, assiduity.) INDIGENCE — want, neediness, penury, poverty, destitution, privation. (Affluence.) INDIGNATION — anger, wrath, ire, resentment. INDIGNITY — insult, affiront, outrage, opprobrium, obloquy, reproach, ignominy. (Honor.) INDISCRIMINATE — promiscuous, chance, indis- tinct, confused. (Select, chosen.) INDISPENSABLE — essential, necessary, requisite, expedient. (Unnecessary, supernumerary.) INDISPUTABLE — undeniable, undoubted, incon- testable, indubitable, unquestionable, infallible. INDORSE— ratify, confirm, superscribe. INDULGE— foster, cherish, fondle. (Deny.) INEFFECTUAL — vain, useless, unavailing, fruit* less, abortive, inoperative. (Effective.) INEQUALITY— disparity, disproportion, dissimi* larity, unevenness. (Equality.) INBVITABIyE— unavoidable, not to be avoidedr 102 SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. INFAMOUS— scandalous, shameful, ignominious, opprobrious, disgraceful. (Honorable.) INFERENCE— deduction, corollary, conclusion. INFERNAL — diabolical, fiendish, devilish, hellish. INFEST— annoy, plague, harass, disturb. INFIRM— week, feeble, enfeebled. (Robust.) INFLAME— anger, irritate, enrage, chafe, incense, nettle, aggravate, embitter, exasperate. (Allay.) INFLUENCE, z/.- bias, sway, prejudice, preposess. INFLUENCE, «.— credit, favor, reputation, weight, character, authority, sway, ascendency. INFRINGE — invade, intrude, contravene, break, transgress, violate. INGENUOUS — artless, candid, generous, sincere, open, frank, plain. (Crafty.) INHUMAN — cruel, brutal, savage, barbarous, ruth- less, merciless, ferocious. (Humane.) INIQUITY— injustice, wrong, grievance. INJURE — damage, hurt, deteriorate, wrong, spoil, aggrieve, harm, mar, sully. (Benefit.) INJURIOUS — hurtful, baneful, pernicious, deleteri- ous, noxious, prejudicial, wrongful. (Beneficial.) INJUSTICE— wrong, iniquity, grievance. (Right. ) INNOCENT— guiltless, sinless, harmless, inoffen- sive, innoxious. (Guilty.) INNOCUOUS— harmless, safe, innocent. (Hurtful.) INORDINATE — intemperate, irregular, disorderly, excessive, immoderate. (Moderate.) INQUIRY — investigation, examination, research, scrutin}^, disquisition, question, interrogation. INQUISITIVE — prying, peeping, curious, peering. INSANE — deranged, delirous, demented. (Sane.) INSANITY — madness, mental aberration, lunacy, delirium. (Sanity. ) INSINUATE — hint, intimate, suggest, infuse, intro- duce, ingratiate. INSIPID — dull, flat, mawkish, tasteless, inanimate, vapid, lifeless. (Bright, sparkling.) INSOLENT — rude, saucy, impertinent, abusive, pert, scurrilous, opprobrious, insulting, offensive. INSPIRE — animate, exhilarate, enliven, breathe, cheer, inhale. INvSTABILlTY— mutability, fickleness, mutableness, wavering. (Stability, firmness.) INvSTlGATE — stir up, persuade, animate, stimulate, incite, urge, encourage. INSTIL— implant, inculcate, infuse, insinuate. INSTRUCT— inform, teach, educate, enlighten. INSTRUMENTAL — conducive, assistant, helping. INSUFFICIENCY — incompetency, incapability, inadequacy, deficiency, lack. INSULT — affront, outrage, indignity. (Honor.) INSULTING — insolent, impertinent, abusive, rude. INTEGRITY — uprightness, honesty, completeness, probity, entirety, entireness, purity. (Dishonesty.) INTELLECT — understanding, sense, brains, mind, intelligence, ability, talent, genius. (Body.) INTELLECTUAL -mental, metaphysical. ( Brutal. ) INTELLIGIBI,^— clear, obvious, plain. (Abstruse.) INTEMPERATE — immoderate, excessive, drunken, nimious, inordinate. (Temperate.) INTENSE — ardent, earnest, glowing, fervid, burn- ing, vehement. INTENT — design, purpose, intention, drift, view, aim, purport, meaning. INTERCOURSE — commerce, connection, intimacy. INTERDICT— forbid, prohibit, inhibit, proscribe debar, restrain from. (Allow.) INTERFERE— meddle, intermeddle, interpose. INTERMINABLE— endless, interminate, infinite, unlimited, illimitable, boundless. (Brief.) INTERPOSE— intercede, arbitrate, mediate, inter- fere, meddle. IMTERPRET— explain, expound, elucidate, unfold. INTIMATE — hint, suggest, insinuate, express, tell, signify, impart. INTIMIDATE — dishearten, alarm, frighten, scare, appal, daunt, cow, browbeat. (Encourage.) INTOLERABLE— insufferable, unbearable, insup- portable, unendurable. INTREPID— bold, brave, daring, fearless, daunt- less, undaunted, courageous, valorous, valiant, heroic, gallant, chivalrous, doughty. (Cowardly, faint-hearted.) INTRIGUE — plot, cabal, conspiracy, combination, artifice, ruse, amour. INTRINSIC — real, true, genuine, sterling, native, natural. ( Extrinsic. ) INVALIDATE — quash, cancel, overthrow, vacate, nullify, annul. INVASION — incursion, irruption, inroad, aggres- sion, raid, fray. INVECTIVE — abuse, reproach, railing, censure, sarcasm, satire. INVENT — devise, contrive, frame, find out, discover. INVESTIGATION — examination, search, inquiry, research, scrutiny. INVETERATE — confirmed, chronic, malignant. (Inchoate.) INVIDIOUS — envious, hateful, odious, malignant. INVIGORATE— brace, harden, nerve, strengthen, fortify. ( Enervate. ) INVINCIBLE — unconquerable, impregnable, insur- mountable. INVISIBLE — unseen, imperceptible, impalpable. INVITE — ask, call, bid, request, allure, attract. INVOKE — invocate, call upon, appeal, refer, im- plore, beseech. INVOLVE — implicate, entangle, compromise. IRKSOME — wearisome, tiresome, tedious, annoy- ing. (Pleasant.) IRONY — sarcasm, satire, ridicule, raillery. IRRATIONAL— foolish, silly, imbecile, brutish, absurd, ridiculous. (Rational.) IRREGULAR — eccentric, anomalous, inordinate, intemperate. (Regular.) IRRELIGIOUS — profane, godless, impious, sacri' legions, desecrating. IRREPROACHABLE— blameless, spotless. IRRESISTIBLE- resisUess, irrepressible SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. 103 IRRESOLUTE — wavering, undetermined, unde- cided, vacillating ( Determined. ) IRRITABIvE — excitable, irascible, susceptible, sensi- tive. (Calm.) IRRITATE — aggravate, worry, embitter, madden. ISSUE, V. — emerge, rise, proceed, flow, spring. ISSUE, n. — end, upshot, effect, result, offspring. JADE — harass, weary, tire, worry. JANGIvE — wrangle, conflict, disagree. JARRING — conflicting, discordant, inconsonant. JAUNT — ramble, excursion, trip. JEALOUSY — suspicion, envy. JEOPARD — hazard, peril, endanger. JEST — joke, sport, divert, make game of. JOURNEY — travel, tour, passage. JOY — gladness, mirth, delight. ( Grief ) JUDGE — justice, referee, arbitrator. JOYFUL — glad, rejoicing, exultant. (Mournful.) JUDGMENT — discernment, discrimination. JUSTICE — equity, right. Justice is right as estab- lished by law ; equity according to the circum- stances of each particular case. (Injustice.) JUSTNESS — accuracy, correctness, precision. KEEP — preserve, save. (Abandon.) KILL — assassinate, murder, slay. KINDRED — affinity, consanguinity, relationship. KNOWLEDGE — erudition, learning. (Ignorance.) LABOR — toil, work, effort, drudgery. (Idleness.) LACK — need, deficiency, scarcity, insufSciencv. (Plenty.) LAMENT — mourn, grieve, weep. (Rejoice.) LANGUAGE — dialect, idiom, speech, tongue. LASCIVIOUS— loose, • unchaste, lu-^tful, lewd, lech- erous. (Chaste.) LAST— final, latest, ultimate. (First.) LAUDABLE— commendable. (Blamable.) LAUGHABLE — comical, droll, ludicrous, (Serious.) LAWFUL—legal, legitimate, licit. (Illegal.) LEAD — conduct, guide. (Follow.) LEAN— meager. (Fat. ) LEARNED— erudite, scholarly. ( Ignorant. ) LEAVE, V. — quit, relinquish. LEAVE, n. — ^libert)', permission. (Prohibition.) LIFE — existence, animation, spirit. (Death.) LIFELESS— dead, inanimate. LIFT — erect, elevate, exalt, raise. (Lower.) LIGHT— clear, bright. (Dark.) LIGHTNESS— flightiness, giddiness, levity, volatil- ity. ( Seriousness. ) LIKENESS — resemblance, similarity. (Unlikeness. ) LINGER — lag, loiter, tarry, saunter. (Hasten.) LITTLE— diminutive, small. (Great.) LIVELIHOOD — living, maintenance, subsistence. LIVELY — ^jocund, merry, sportive, sprightly, viva- cious. (Slow, languid, sluggish.) XfONG — extended, extensive. (Short.) LOOK — appear, seem, asped:, glance, peep. LOSE— miss, forfeit. ( Gain . ) LOSS — detriment, damage, deprivation. (Gain.) LOUD — clamorous, high-sounding, noisy. (Low. quiet. ) LOVE— affection. ( Hatred. ) LOW — abject, mean. (Noble.) ( LUNACY— derangement, insanity, mania, madnesi (Sanity.) LUSTER — brightness, brilliancy, splendor. LUXURIANT— exuberant. (Sparse.) MACHINATION— plot, intrigue, cabal, conspiracy. (Artlessness. ) MAD — crazy, delirious, insane, rabid, violent, frantic. (Sane, rational, quiet.) MADNESS — insanity, fury, rage, frenzy. MAGISTERIAL— august, dignified, majestic, pomp- ous, stately. MAKE — form, create, produce. (Destroy.) IJ^ALEDICTION — anathema, curse, imprecation. MALEVOLENT — malicious, virulent, malignant. (Benevolent. ) MALICE — spite, rancor, ill-feeling, grudge, ani- mosity, ill-will. (Benignity.) MALICIOUS— see malevolent. MANACLE, z/.— shackle, fetter, chain. (Free. ) MANAGE — contrive, concert, direct. MANAGEMENT — direction, superintendence, care. MANGLE — tear, lacerate, mutilate, cripple, maim. MANIA — madness, insanity, lunacy. MANIFEST, V. — reveal, prove, evince, exhibit, dis- play, show. MANIFEST, a. — clear, plain, evident, open, appar- ent, visible. (Hidden, occult.) MANIFOLD — several, sundry, various, divers. MANLY — masculine, vigorous, courageous, brave, heroic. (Effeminate.) MANNER — habit, custom, way, air, look. MANNERS — morals, habits, behavior, carriage. MAR — spoil, ruin, disfigure. (Improve.) MARCH — tramp, tread, walk, step, space. MARGIN — edge, rim, border, brink, verge. MARK, n. — sign, note, symptom, token, indication, trace, vestige, track, badge, brand. MARK, V. — impress, print, stamp, engrave, note. MARRIAGE — wedding, nuptials, matrimony. MARTIAL — military, warlike, soldierlike, MARVEL — wonderful, miracle, prodigy. MARVELOUS — wondrous, wonderful, miraculous.' MASSIVE — bulky, heavy, weighty, ponderous, solid, substantial. (Flimsy.) MASTERY — dominion, rule, sway, ascendancy. MATCHLESS— unrivaled, unequal ed, unparalleled, peerless, incomparable, inimitable, surpassing. (Common, ordinary.) MATERIAL, «.— corporeal, bodily, physical, tem- poral, momentous, (Spiritual, immaterial.) 104 SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. MAXIM— adage, apothegm, proverb, saying, by- word, saw. MEAGER — poor, lank, emaciated, barren, dry, un- interesting. (Rich.) MEAN, a. — stingy, niggardly, low, abject, vile, ignoble, degraded, contemptible, vulgar, despic- able. (Generous.) MEAN, V. — design, purpose, intend, contemplate, signify, denote, indicate. MEANING — signification, import, acceptation, sense, purport. MEDIUM — organ, channel, instrument, means, MEDLEY — mixture, variety, diversity, miscellany. MEEK — unassuming, mild, gentle. ( Proud. ) MELANCHOLY — low-spirited, dispirited, dreamy, sad. (Jolly, buoyant.) ' MELLOW — ripe, mature, soft. (Immature.) MELODIOUS— tuneful, musical, silver, dulcet, sweet. ( Discordant. ) MEMORABLE — signal, distinguished, marked. MEMORIAL — monument, memento. MEMORY — remembrance, recollection. ^ MENACE, «.— threat. MEND — repair, amend, correct, better, ameliorate, improve, rectify. MENTION — tell, name, communicate, impart, di- vulge, reveal, disclose, inform, acquaint. MERCIFUL — compassionate, lenient, clement, tender, gracious, kind. (Cruel. ) MERCILESS — hard-hearted, cruel, unmerciful, piti- less, remorseless, unrelenting. (Kind. ) MERRIMENT— mirth, joviality, jollity. (Sorrow.) MERRY — cheerful, mirthful, joyous, gay, lively, sprightly, hilarious, blithe, blithesome, jovial, sportive, jolly. (Sad.) METAPHORICAL — figurative, allegorical. METHOD — way, manner, mode, process, order, rule, regularity, system. MIEN — air, look, manner, aspect, appearence. MIGRATORY — roving, strolling, wandering, va- grant. (Settled, sedate, permanent.) MIMIC — imitate, ape, mock. MINDFUL — observant, attentive. (Heedless.) MISCELLANEOUS — promicuous, indiscriminate. MISCHIEF — injury, harm, damage, hurt. (Benefit.) MISCREANT— caitiff, villain, ruffian. MISERABLE— unhappy, wretched, distressed, af- flicted. (Happy.) MISERLY — stingy, niggardly, avaricious, griping. MISERY — wretchedness, woe, destitution, penury, privation, beggary. (Happiness. ) MISFORTUNE — calamity, disaster, mishap, catas- trophe. (Good luck.) MISS— omit, lose, fall, miscarry. MITIGATE — alleviate, relieve, abate. (Aggravate. ) MODERATE — temperate, abstemious, sober, absti- nent. (Immoderate.) MODEST — chaste, virtuous, bashful. (Immodest.) MOIST— wet, damp, dank, humid. (Dry.) MONOTONOUS— unvaried, tiresome. (Varied.) MONSTROUS— shocking, dreadful, horrible, huge. MONUMENT — memorial, record, remembrancer. MOOD — humor, disposition, vein, temper. MORBID — sick, ailing, sickly, diseased, corrupted. (Normal, sound.) MOROSE— gloomy, sullen, surly, fretful, crabbed. crusty. (Joyous. ) MORTAL— deadly, fatal, human. MOTION — proposition, proposal, movement. MOTIONLESS— still, stationary, torpid, stagnant (Active, moving.) MOUNT — arise, rise, ascend, soar, tower, climb. MOURNFUL — sad, sorrowful, lugubrious, grievous, doleful, heavy, (Happy.) MOVE — actuate, impel, induce, prompt, instigate, persuade, stir, agitate, propel, push. MULTITUDE — crowd, throng, host, mob, swarm. MURDER, z>. — ^kill, assassinate, slay, massacre. MUSE, z'. — meditate, contemplate, think, reflect, cogitate, ponder. MUSIC — harmony, melody, symphony. MUSICAL — tuneful, melodious, harmonious, sweet. MUSTY— stale, sour, fetid. (Fresh, sweet.) MUTE— dumb, silent, speechless. MUTILATE — maim, cripple, disable, disfigure, MUTINOUS — insurgent, seditious, tumultuous, tur' bulent, riotous. (Obedient, orderly.) MUTUAL — reciprocal, interchanged, correlative. (Sole, solitary.) MYSTERIOUS— dark, obscure, hidden, secret, dim, mystic, enigmatical, unaccountable. (Open, clear, i MYSTIFY — confuse, perplex. (Clear, explain.) NAKED — nude, bare, uncovered, unclothed, rough, rude, simple. (Covered, clad.) NAME, V. — denominate, entitle, style, designate, term, call, christen. NAME, n. — appellation, designation, denomination, title, cognomen, reputation, character, fame, credit, repute. NARRATE — tell, relate, detail, recount, describe, enumerate, rehearse, recite. NASTY — filthy, foul, dirty, unclean, impure, gross, indecent, vile. NATION — people, community, realm, state. NATIVE — indigenous, inborn, vernacular. NATURAL — original, regular, normal, bastard. (Unnatural, forced.) NEAR — nigh, neighboring, close, adjacent, contig- uous, intimate. (Distant.) NECESSARY — needful, expedient, essential, indis- pensable, requisite. (Useless.) NECESSITATE— compel, force, oblige. NECESSITY — need, occasion, exigency, emergency, urgency, requisite. NEED, n. — necessity, distress, poverty, indigence, want, penury. NEED, V. — require, want, lack. NEGLECT, z/.— disregard, slight, omit, overlook. SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. 105 NBGI/ECT, «.— omission, failure, default, slight, negligence, remisness, carelessness. NEIGHBORHOOD — environs, vicinity, nearness, adjacency, proximity. NERVOUS— timid, timorous, shaky. NEW— fresh, recent, novel. (Old.) NEWS — tidings, intelligence, information. 'lNICE — exact, accurate, good, particular, precise, I fine, delicate. (Careless, coarse, unpleasant. ) NIMBLE — active, brisk, lively, alert, quick, agile, prompt. (Awkward.) NOBIIvlTY — aristocracy, greatness, grandeur. NOBLE — exalted, elevated, illustrious, great, grand, lofty. (Low. ) NOISE — cry, outcry, clamor, row, din, uproar, tumult. (Silence. ) NONSENSICAL— irrational, absurd, silly, foolish. (Sensible.) NOTABLE — plain, evident, remarkable, striking, signal, rare. (Obscure.) NOTE, n. — token, symbol, mark, sign, indication, remark, comment. NOTED — distinguished, remarkable, eminent, re- nowned. (Obscure.) NOTICE, n. — advice, notification, intelligence. NOTICE, V. — mark, note, observe, attend to, heed. NOTIFY, V. — ^publish, acquaint, apprise, inform. NOTION — conception, idea, belief, opinion. NOTORIOUS — conspicuous, open, obvious, ill- famed. (Unknown.) NOURISH — nurture, cherish, foster, supply. (Starve, famish.) NOURISHMENT— food, diet, sustenance, nutrition. NOVEL — modern, new, fresh, recent, unused, rare, strange. (Old.) NOXIOUS — hurtful, deadly poisonous, deleterious, baneful. (Beneficial. ) NULLIFY — annul, vacate, invalidate, quash, can- cel, repeal. (Affirm.) NUTRITION — food, diet, nutriment, nourishment. OBDURATE— hard, callous, hardened, unfeeling, insensible. (Yielding, tractable. ) OBEDIENT — compliant, submissive, dutiful, re- spectful. (Obstinate.) OBESE — corpulent, fat, adipose. (Attenuated.) OBEY, V. — conform, comply, submit. (Rebel.) OBJECT, n. — aim, end, purpose, design, mark. OBJECT, V. — oppose, except to, contravene, im- peach, deprecate. (Assent. ) OBNOXIOUS— offensive. (Agreeble.) OBSCURE— undistinguished, unknown. (Distin- guished. ) OBSTINATE — contumacious, headstroiig, stubborn, obdurate. (Yielding.) OCCASION— opportunity. OFFENCE — affront, misdeed, misdemeanor, trans- gression, trespass. OFFENSIVE — insolent, abusive. (Inoffensive.) OFFICE — charge, function, place. OFFSPRING — issue, progeny, children, posterity. OLD — aged, superanuated, ancient, antique, anti- quated, obsolete, old-fashioned. (Young, new.) OMEN — presage, prognostic. OPAQUE— dark. (Bright, transparent.) OPEN— candid, unreserved, clear, fair. (Hidden.) OPINION — notion, view, judgment, sentiment. OPINIONATED— conceited, egotistical. (Modest.) OPPOSE— resist, withstand, thwart. (Give way.) OPTION— choice. ORDER — method, system, regularity. (Disorder.) ORIGIN — cause, occasion, beginning. (End.) OUTLIVE— survive. OUTWARD — external, outside, exterior. (Inner.) OVER— above. (Under.) OVERBALANCE— outweigh, preponderate. OVERBEAR — bear down, overwhelm, overpower. OVERBEARING— haughty, arrogant. (Gentle.) OVERFLOW— inundation, deluge. OVERRULE — supersede, suppress. OVERSPREAD— overrun, ravage. OVERTURN — invert, overthrow, reverse, subvert. (Establish, fortify.) OVERWHELM— crush, defeat, vanquish. PAIN — suffering, qualm, pang, agony, anquish. (Pleasure.) PALLID— pale, wan . ( Florid. ) PART — division, portion, share, fraction. (Whole.) PARTICULAR — exact, distinct, singular, strange, odd. (General.) PATIENT — passive, submissive. (Obdurate.) PEACE — calm, quiet, tranquility. (War, trouble, riot, turbulence. ) PEACEABLE— pacific, peaceful, quiet. (Trouble- some, riotous. ) PENETRATE— bore, pierce, perforate. PENETRATION— acuteness, sagacity. (Dullness.) PEOPLE — nation, persons, folks. PERCEIVE — note, observe, discern, distinguish. PERCEPTION— conception, notion, idea. PERIL — danger, pitfall, snare. (Safety.) PERMIT— allow, tolerate. ( Forbid. ) PERSUADE — allure, entice, prevail upon. PHYSICAL — corporeal, bodily, material. (Mental.) PICTURE — engraving, print, representation, illus- tration, image. PITEOUS— doleful, woeful, rueful. (Joyful.) PITILESS— see merciless. PITY — compassion, sympathy. (Cruelty.) PLACE, n. — spot, site, position, post, situation. PLACE, V. — order, dispose. PLAIN — open, manifest, evident. (Secret.) PLAY — game, sport, amusement. (Work.) PLEASE — gratify, pacify. (Displease.) PLEASURE— charm, delight, j oy. ( Pain. ) PLENTIFUL — abundani-- ample, copious, plenteous* (Scarce.) lOG SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. POISE — balance, equilibriam, evenness. POSITIVE— absolute, peremptory, decided, certain. (Negative, undecided.) POSSESSOR— owner, proprietor. POSSIBLE— practical, practicable. (Impossible.) POVERTY— penury, indigence, need. (Wealth.) POWER— authority, force, strength, dominion. POWERFUL— mighty, potent. (Weak.) PRAISE — commend, extol, laud. (Blame.) PRAYER — entreaty, petition, request, suit. PRETENCE, w.— pretext, subterfuge. PREVAILING— predominant, prevalent, general. ( Isolated, sporadic. ) PREVENT — obviate, preclude. PREVIOUS— antecedent, introductory, preparatory, preliminary. (Subsequent. ) PRIDE— vanity, conceit. ( Humility. ) PRINCIPALLY— chiefly, essentially, mainly. PRINCIPLE — ground, reason, motive, impulse, maxim, rule, rectitude, integrity. PRIVILEGE — immunity, advantage, favor, claim, prerogative, exemption, right. PROBITY — rectitude, uprightness, honesty, integ- rity, sincerity, soundness. (Dishonesty. ) PROBLEMATICAL — uncertain, doubtful, dubious, questionable, disputable, suspicious. (Certain.) PRODIGIOUS — huge, enormous, vast, amazing, astonishing, astounding, surprising, remarkable, wonderful. (Insignificant.) PROFESSION — business, trade, occupation, office, vocation, employment, engagement, avowal. PROFFER — volunteer, oflfer, propose, tender. PROFLIGATE — abandoned, dissolute, depraved, vicious, degenerate, corrupt. (Virtuous.) PROFOUND — deep, fathomless, penetrating, recon- dite, solemn, abstruse. (Shallow.) PROFUSE — extravagant, prodigal, lavish, copious, improvident, excessive, plentiful. (Succinct.) PROLIFIC — productive, generative, fertile, fruitful, teeming. (Barren.) PROLIX — diffuse, long, prolonged, tedious, wordy, tiresome, verbose, prosaic. (Concise, brief.) PROMINENT — eminent, conspicuous, marked, im- portant, leading. (Obscure.) PROMISCUOUS — mixed, unarranged, mingled, in- discriminate. (Select.) PROMPT— See punctual. PROP, V. — maintain, sustain, support, stay. PROPAGATE — spread, circulate, diffuse, dissemin- ate, extend, breed, increase. (Suppress.) PROPER — legitimate, right, just, fair, equitable, honest, suitable, fit, adapted, meet, becoming, befitting, decent, pertinent. (Wrong.) PROSPER — flourish, succeed, grow rich, thrive, advance. (Fail.) PROSPERITY — well-being, weal, welfare, happi- ness, good luck. ( Poverty. ) PROXY — agent, representative, substitute, deputy. PRUDENCE — carefulness, judgment, discretion, wisdom. (Indiscretion.) PRURIENT — itching, craving, hankering, longing. PUERILE — youthful, juvenile, boyish, childish, infantile, trifling, weak, silly. (Mature.) PUNCTILIOUS— nice, particular, formal, precise. (Negligent.) PUNCTUAL — exact, precise, nice, particulai prompt, timely. (Dilatory.) PUTREFY — rot, decompose, corrupt, decay. PUZZLE, V. — preplex, confound, embarrass, pose,> bewilder, confuse, mystify. (Enlighten.) QUACK — imposter, pretender, charlatan, empiric, mountebank. (Savant.) QUAINT — artful, curious, far-fetched, fanciful, odd* QUALIFIED— competent, fitted. (Incompetent.) QUALITY— attribute, rank, distinction. QUERULOUS — doubting, complaining, fretting, repining. (Patient.) QUESTION — query, inquiry, interrogatory. QUIBBLE — cavil, evade, equivocate, shuffle. QUICK — lively, ready, prompt, alert, nimble, agile, active, brisk, expeditious, adroit, fleet, rapid, im- petuous, swift, sweeping, dashing, clever. (Slow.) QUOTE — note, repeat, cite, adduce. RABID — mad, furious, raging, frantic. (Rational.) RACE — course, match, pursuit, career, family, clan, house, ancestry, lineage, pedigree. RACK — agonize, wring, torture, excruciate, harass, distress. (Soothe.) RACY — spicy, pungent, smart, spirited, vivacious, lively. (Dull, insipid.) RADIANCE — splendor, brightness, brilliance, bril- liancy, lustre, glare. (Dullness.) RADICAL — organic, innate, fundamental, original, constitutional, inherent, complete, entire. (Super- ficial. In a political sense, uncompromising; antonym, moderate.) RANCID — fetid, rank, stinking, sour, tainted, foul. (Fresh, sweet. ) RANCOR — malignity, hatred, hostility, antipathy, animosity, enmity, ill-will, spite. (Forgiveness.) RANK — order, degree, dignity, consideration. RANSACK — rummage, pillage, overhaul, explore. RANSOM — emancipate, free, unfetter. RANT — bombast, fustian, cant. RAPACIOUS — ravenous, voracious, greedy, grasp* ing. (Generous.) RAPT — ecstatic, transported, ravished, entranced, charmed. (Distracted.) RAPTURE— ecstacy, transport, bliss. (Dejection.) RARE — scarce, singular, uncommon, unique. RASCAL — scoundrel, rogue, knave, vagabond. RASH — hasty, precipitate, foolhardy, adventurous.^ heedless, reckless, careless. (Deliberate. ) RATE — value, compute, appraise, estimate, abuse. RATIFY — confirm, establish, substantiate, sanction (Protest, oppose.) RATIONAL — reasonable, sagacious, judicious, wise, sensible, sound. (Unreasonable. ) RAVAGE — overrun, overspread, desolate, despoil. SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. 107 RAVISH — enrapture, enchant, charm, delight. RAZE — demolish, destroy, overthrow, dismantle, ruin. (Buildup.) REACH— touch, stretch, attain, gain, arrive at. READY — prepared, ripe, apt, prompt, adroit, handy. (Slow, dilatory.) REAI/ — actual, literal, practical, positive, certain, genuine, true. (Unreal.) REALIZE — accomplish, achieve, effect, gain, get, acquire, comprehend. REAP— gain, get, acquire, obtain. REASON, n. — motive, design, end, proof, cause, ground, purpose. REASON, V. — deduce, draw from, trace, conclude. REASONABLE — rational, wise, honest, fair, right, just. (Unreasonable. ) REBELLION — insurrection, revolt. RECANT — recall, abjure, retract, revoke. RECEDE — retire, retreat, withdraw, ebb. RECEIVE — accept, take, admit, entertain. RECEPTION — receiving, levee, receipt, admission. RECESS — retreat, depth, niche, vacation. RECREATION — sport, pastime, play, amusement, game, fun. REDEEM — ransom, lecover, rescue, deliver, save. REDRESS — remedy, repair, remission, abatement. REDUCE — abate, lessen, decrease, lower, shorten. REFINED — polite, courtly, polished, cultured, puri- fied, genteel. (Boorish.) REFLECT — consider, cogitate, think, muse, censure. REFORM — amend, correct, better, restore, im- prove. (Corrupt.) REFORMATION — ^improvement, reform, amend- ment. (Corruption.) REFUGE — asylum, protection, harbor, shelter. REFUSE, V. — deny, reject, repudiate, decline, with- hold. (Accept. ) REFUSE, n. — dregs, dross, scum, rubbish, leavings. REFUTE— disprove, falsify, negative. (Affirm.) REGARD, V. — mind, heed, notice, behold, respect, view, consider. REGRET, n. — grief, sorrow, lamentation, remorse. REGULAR — orderly, uniform, customary, ordinary, stated. (Irregular.) REGULATE — methodize, arrange, adjust, organize, govern, rule. (Disorder.) REIMBURSE — refund, repay, satisfy, indemnify. RELEVANT— fit, proper, suitable, appropriate, apt, pertinent. (Irrelevant.) RELIANCE — trust, hope, dependence, confidence. (Suspicion. ) RELIEF — succor, aid, help, redress, alleviation. RELINQUISH — give up, forsake, resign, surrender, quit, leave, forego. (Retain.) VvEMEDY — help, relief, redress, cure, specific. xKMORSELESS — ^pitiless, relentless, cruel, ruth- less, merciless, barbarous. (Merciful, humane. ) REMOTE — distant, far, secluded, indirect. (Near. ) BJ^PRODUCE— propagate, imitate, represent, copy. REPUDIATE- couth. (Pretty.) UNHAPPY — miserable, wretched, distressed, pain- ful, afflicted, disastrous, drear, dismal. (Happy.) UNIFORM — regular, symmetrical, equal, even, alike, unvaried. ( Irregular. ) UNINTERRUPTED — continuous, perpetual, un- ceasing, incessant, endless. (Intermittent.) UNION — junction, combination, alliance, confeder- acy, league, coalition, agreement. (Disunion. ) UNIQUE — unequal, uncommon, rare, choice, match- less. (Common, ordinary.) UNITE— join, conjoin, combine, concert, add, attac' (Separate, disrupt, sunder. ) UNIVERSAL — general, all, entire, total, catholic. (Sectional.) UNLIMITED — absolute, undefined, boundless, infi- nite. (Limited.) UNREASONABLE— foolish, silly, absurd, prepos- terous, ridiculous. UNRIVALED — unequaled, unique, unexampled, incomparable, matchless. (Mediocre.) UNRULY — ungovernable, unmanageable- refrac- tory. (Tractable, docile.) UNUSUAL — rare, unwonted, singular, uncommon, remarkable, strange. (Common. ) UPHOLD— maintain, defend, sustain, support "in- dicate. (Desert, abandon.) 110 SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. UPRIGHT — vertical, perpendicular, erect, just, equitable, fair, pure, honorable. (Prone.) UPRIGHTNESS— honesty, integrity, fairness, good- ness, probity, virtue, honor. ( Dishonest}^ ) URGE — incite, impel, push, drive, instigate, stimu- late, press, induce, solicit, URGENT — pressing, imperative, immediate, serious, wanted. (Unimportant. ) USAGE — custom, fashion, practice, prescription. USE, n. — usage, practice, habit, custom, avail, advantage, utility, benefit, application, (Disuse.) •USUAL — ordinary, common, accustomed, habitual, wonted, customary, general. (Unusual.) UTMOST^ 'farthest, remotest, uttermost, greatest. UTTER, a. — extreme, excessive, sheer, mere, pure. UTTER, V. — speak, articulate, pronounce, express. UTTERLY — totally, completely, wholly, altogether. VACANT — empty, unfilled, unoccupied, thought- less, unthinking. (Occupied.) VAGRANT, n. — wanderer, beggar, tramp, rogue. VAGUE — unsettled, undetermined, pointless, un- certain, indefinite. (Definite.) VAIN — useless, fruitless, empty, worthless, inflated, proud, conceited, unreal. (Effectual, humble.) VALIANT — brave, bold, valorous, courageous, gal- lant. (Cowardly.) VALID — v/eighty, strong, powerful, sound, binding, efi&cient. (Invalid.) VALOR — courage, gallantry, boldness, bravery, heroism. (Cowardice.) VALUE, V. — appraise, assess, reckon, appreciate, estimate, prize, esteem, treasure. (Despise,) VARIABLE — changeable, unsteady, inconstant, shifiing, wavering, fickle, restless. (Constant.) VARIETY — difference, diversity, change, diversi- fication, mixture, me'^^ey, miscellany. (Same- ness, monotony.) VAvST — spacious, boundless, mighty, enormous, im- mense, colossal, gigantic, prodigious. (Confined.) VAUNT — boast, brag, puff, hawk, advertise, parade. VENERABLE — grave, sage, wise, old, reverend. VENIAL — pardonable, excusable, justifiable. (Se- rious, grave.) VENOM — poison, virus, spite, malice, malignity. VENTURE, n. — speculation, chance, peril, stake. VERACITY— truth, truthfulness, credibility, accu- racy. ( Falsehood. ) VERBAL — oral, spoken, literal, parole, unwritten. VERDICT— judgment, finding, decision, answer. VEXATION— chagrin, mortification. (Pleasure.) Vibrate —oscillate, swing, sway, wave, thrill. Vice — vileness, corruption, depravity, pollution, immorality, wickedness, guilt, iniquity, (Virtue.) VICIOUS — corrupt, depraved, debased, bad, unruly, contrary, demoralized, profligate, faulty. (Gentle, virtuous.) VICTIM — sacrifice, food, prey, sufferer, dupe, gull. VICTUALS— viands, bread, meat niov'sions, fare, food, repast. VIOLENT — boisterous, furious, impetuous, vehe- ment. (Gentle.) VIRTUOUS— upright, honest, moral. (Profligate." VISION — apparition, ghost, phantom, specter. VOLUPTUARY— epicure, sensualist. VOUCH — affirm, asserverate, assure, aver. WAIT — await, expect, look for, wait for. WAKEFUI^vigilant, watchful. (Sleepy.) WANDER — range, ramble, roam, rove, stroll. WANT— lack, need, ( Abundance. ) WARY — circumspect, cautious, (Foolhardy.) WASH — clean, rinse, wet, moisten, stain, tint. WASTE, V. — squander, dissipate, lavish, destroy, decay, dwindle, wither. WAY — method, plan, system, means, manner, mode, form, fashion, course, process, road, route, track,, path, habit, practice. WEAKEN — debilitate, enfeeble, enervate, invali' date. (Strengthen.) WEARY — harass, jade, tire, fatigue. (Refresh.) WEIGHT — gravity, heaviness, burden, load. ( Lightness. ) WELL-BEING — happiness, prosperity, welfare. WHOLE — entire, complete, total, integral. (Part) WICKED — iniquitous, nefarious. (Virtuous.) WILL — wish, desire. WILLINGLY — spontaneously, voluntarily. (Un- willingly, ) WIN — get, obtain, gain, procure, effect, realize, accomplish, achieve. (Lose.) WINNING — attractive, charming, fascinating, be- witching, enchanting, dazzling. (Repulsive.) WISDOM — prudence, foresight, far-sightedness, sagacity. (Foolishness.) WONDER, V. — admire, 2xsi2a.^, astonish, surprise. WONDER, n. — marvel, miracle, prodigy. WRONG— injustice, injury. (Right.) YAWN — gape, open wide. YEARN — hanker after, long for, desire, crave. YELL — bellow, cry out, scream. YELLOW— golden, saffron-like. YELP — ^bark, sharp cry, howl. YET — besides, nevertheless, notwithstanding, how- ever, still, ultimately, at last, so far, thus far. YIELD — bear, give, afford, impart, communicate, confer, bestow, abdicate, resign, cede, surrender. YIELDING — supple, pliant, bending, compliant submissive, unresisting. (Obstinate.) YOKE, V. — couple, link, connect. YORE — long ago, long since. YOUTH — boy, lad, minority, adolescence. YOUTHFUL— juvenile, puerile. (Old.) ^EAL — energy, fervor, ardor, earnestness, enthu- siam, eagerness. (Indifference.) ZEALOUS — warm, ardent, fervent, enthusiastic^ anxious, (Indifferent, careless.) ZEST— relish, gusto, flavor. (Disgust.) NoMS De Plume of Authors ASSUMED NAMli REAI, NAME A Country Parson . . , Archbishop Whately Agate Whitelaw Reid A. K. H. B . Rev. A. K. H. Boyd A. I/. O. K. Miss Charlotte Tucker Alfred Crowquill A. H. Forrester Americus Dr. Francis Lieber Amy IvOthrop Miss Anna B. Warner American Girl Abroad . Miss Trafton Artemus Ward .... Charles F. Browne Asa Trenchard .... Henry Watterson Aunt Kitty Maria J. Macintosh Aunt Mary Mary A. Lathbury Barnacle . „ A. C. Barnes Barry Cornwall .... Bryan Waller Proctor ^ , ( Benjamin, ' Austin, and ^^"^"ly i Lymau Abbott Besieged Resident . . . Henry Ivabouchere Bibliophile Samuel Austin Allibone Bill Arp Charles H. Smith Blythe White, Jr. . . . Solon Robinson Bookworm . .... Thomas F. Donnelly Boston Bard Robert S. Coffin Boz Charles Dickens Brick Pomeroy .... Mark M. Pomeroy Burleigh Rev. Matthew Hale Smith Burlington ..,.„. Robert Saunders Carl Benson Charles A. Bristed Chartist Parson .... Rev. Charles Kingsley ChinCvSe Philosopher . . Oliver Goldsmith Christopher Crowfield . Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe Chrystal Croftangry . . Sir Walter Scott Claribel Mrs. Caroline Barnard Country Parson . . . . A. K. H. Boyd Cousin Alice Mrs. Alice B. Haven Cousin Kate Catherine D. Bell ^ „ f Charlotte Bronte (Mrs. ^"■•"^■■^'1 \ Nichols) Danbury Newsman . , J. M. Bailey Diedrich Knickerbocker Washington Irving Dolores Miss Dickson Dow, Jr Flbridge G. Page Dr. Syntax William Combe Dunii Browue Rev. Samuel Fiske 111 ASSUMED NAME REAT^ NAME F D E N I ^^^* -^"^"^^ ^- ^" ^ ^ Southworth Edmund Kirke .... James Roberts Gilmor^ Eleanor Kirke Mrs. Nolly Ames Elia Charles Lamb Eli Perkins Matthew D. Landon Elizabeth Wetherell , . Susan Warner Ella Rodman Mrs. Eliza Rodman Ellis Bell Emily J. Bronte English Opium-Eater . Thomas DeQuincy Ettrick Shepherd . . . James Hogg Eugene Pomeroy . . . Thomas F. Donnelly Falconbridge Jonathan F. Kelly Fanny Ferr \ ^^^^ ^f James Parton and ^ 1 sister of N. P. Willis Fanny Fielding .... Mary J. S. Upsher Fanny Forester .... Emily C. Judson Fat Contributor . . . . A. M. Griswold Father Prout Fraucis-Mahoney Florence Percy .... Mrs. Elizabeth Akers Allen Frank For'^ester .... Henry W. Herbert _ „ ^^ ., f Miss Mary Abigail Dodge Gail Hamilton . . . . i . ^^ ..^ "^ ^ •^ of Hamilton Gath, also Laertes . . . George Alfred Townsend Geofi' Crayon .... Washington Irving George Eliot Mrs. Marian Lewes Cross George Fitz Boodle . . William M. Thackeray George Forest Rev. J. G. Wood ^ ^ - f Mme. Amantine Lucill*? George Sand i . ^ , '^ y. Aurore Dudevant Grace Greenv/ood . . . Mrs. Sara J. Lippincott Grace Wharton . . . . A. T. Thompson Hans Breitmann . . . Charles Godfrey Leland Hans Yokel A. Oakey Hall Harriet Myrtle .... Mrs. Lydia F. F. Milla Harry Hazell .... Justin Jones Harry Lorrequer . . , Charles Lever Hesba Stretton .... Miss Hannah Smith Hibernicus De Witt Clinton Historicus Wm. G: Vernon Harcouft Ho"^a Bigelow .... James Russell Lowell Howadji George WilHam Curtia Howard Mordecai Manuel iSoa»» 112 NOMS DE PLUME OF AUTHORS, ASSUMED NAMR REAI, NAME Howard Glyndon . , . Laura C. Redden Hyperion Josiah Quiucy lanthe Emma C. Embury Ik Marvel ...... Donald G. Mitchell Irenaeus Rev. S. Irenaeus Prime, D.D. Isabel William Gilmore Simms Janus Dr. DoUinger Jaques J. Hain Frisv^^ell Jay Charlton J. C. Goldsmith Jedediah Cleishbotham Sir Walter Scott Jennie June Mrs. Jennie C. Croly John Chalkhill .... Izaak Walton John Darby J. C. Garretson John Paul C. H. Webb John Phoenix, Gentleman George H. Derby Josh Billings ..... Henry W. Shaw Joshua Coffin H. W. Longfellow Kate Campbell .... Jane Elizabeth Lincoln Kirwan Rev. Nicholas Murray K. N. Pepper ... Jame« M Morris Laicus Rev. Lyman Abbott Launcelot WagstafiFe, Jr. Charles Mackay Lemuel Gulliver . . . Jonathan Swift Louise Muhlbach . . . Clara Mundt Major Jack Downing . . Seba Smith Marion Harland .... Mary V. Terhune Mark Twain Samuel L. Clemens Max Adler ....... Charles H. Clark Minnie Myrtle .... Miss Anna C. Johnson Mintwood Miss Mary A. E. Wager M. Quad Charles B. Lewis Mrs. Partington . . . . B. P. Shillaber M. T. Jug Joseph Howard Ned Buntline Edward Z. C. Judson Nym Crinkle A. C. Wheeler Old Bachelor George William Curtis Old Cabinet R, Watson Gilder Old Humphrey .... George Mogridge Old'Un Francis Alexander Durivage Oliver Optic William Taylor Adams Olivia Emily Edson Grigg Ollapod Willis G. Clark Orpheus C. Kerr . . . Robert H. Newell Ouida Louisa De La Rame Owen Meredith .... Lord Lytton Parson Brownlow . . . Wm. Gunnaway Brownlow Patty Lee Alice Cary Paul Creyton J- T. Trowbridge Pen Holder Rev. Edward Egglestan Pequot Charles W. March Perdita Mrs. Mary Robinson Perley Benj. Perley Poore Peter Parley S. G. Goodrich Peter Pindar Dr. John Wolcot ASSUMED NAME REAI, NAME Petroleum V. Nasby . . D. R. Locke Phoenix Sir Henry Martin Poor Richard Benjamin Franklin Porte Crayon David H. Strother Private Miles O'Reilly . Charles G. Halpine Robinson Crusoe . . . Daniel Defoe Runnymede Lord Beaconsfield Rustic Bard Robert Dinsmore Sam Slick Thomas C. Halliburton Saxe Holm Miss Rush Ellis Shirley Dare Mrs. Susan D. Waters Sophie May Mrs. Eckerson Sophie Sparkle .... Jennie E. Hicks Sparrowgrass F. S. Cozzens Straws, Jr , Kate Field Susan Coolidge .... Miss Woolsey Teufelsdroeckh .... Thomas Carlyle Teutha William Jerdan The Black Dwarf . . . Thomas J. Wooler The Celt Thomas Davis The Druid Henry H. Dixon The Governor Henry Morford The Traveller Isaac Stary Theodore Taylor . . . J. C. Plotteu Thomas Ingoldsby . . . Rev. R. H. Barham Thomas Little Thomas Moore Thomas Rowley .... Thomas Chatterton Timon Fieldmouse . . William B. Rands Timothy Tickler . . . Robert Syme Timothy Titcomb . . . Dr. J. G. Holland Tom Brown Thomas Hughes Tom Folio Joseph E. Babson Tom Hawkins Theodore W. A. Buckley Trinculo John A. Cockerill Tristram Merton = . . Thomas B. Macaulay Two Brothers A. and C. Tennyson Ubique Parker Gilmore Una Mary A. Ford Uncle Hardy William Senior Uncle John Elisha Noyce Uncle Philip Rev. Dr. F. L. Hawks Uncle Toby ..... . Re v. Tobias H . Miller Veteran Observer . . . E. D. Mansfield Vigilant John Corlett Vivian George H. Lewes Vivian Joyeux .... W. M. Praed Walter Maynard .... William Beale Warhawk William Palmer Warrington W. P. Robinson Warwick F. O. Otterson Waters William H. RusselJ V^^at's His Name . . . E. C. Massey Wilibald, Alexis .... William PIsering Wizard John Corlett PART 11. READINGS AND RECITATIONS FROM THE Most Celebrated Authors COMPRISING THRILLING BATTLE SCENES AND VICTORIES; BEAUTIFUL DESCRIPTIONS; SOUL-STIR- RING DEEDS OF HEROISM ; WITTY AND HUMOROUS SELECTIONS ; PATHETIC PIECES; FAMOUS ORATIONS; RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN; READ- INGS WITH ACCOMPANIMENTS OF MUSIC; DRILLS; LESSON TALKS. ETC. HOW TO READ AND RECITE, / I fell down cellar yesterday, And gave my head an awful bump (If you had only seen the lump !) And Mamma called me when I cried, And hugged me close up to her side, And said : 'I'll kiss and make it well. Mamma's own boy; how hard he fell. "When Papa took me out to play Where all the men were making hay, He put me on old Dobbin's back; And when they gave the whip a crack, And off he threw me, Papa said, (When I got up and rubbed my head, And shut my lips, and winked my eyes) * Papa's brave boy. He never cries ! ' 3. ' ' And when I go to Grandma s — welU You'd be surprised if I could tell Of all the pies and ginger-cakes And doughnuts that she always mak^s, And all the jam and tarls and such, And never says, * Don' t take too much ; * Because,' she says, ' he must enjoy His visit, for he's Grandma's boy ! ' 4. ''And Grandpa says: 'I'll give him soon A little pony for his own, He'll learn to ride it well, i know, Because he's Grandpa's boy. Ho ! ho 1 ' And plenty other people say: 'Well, how are you, my boy, to-day?* Now, can you tell me, if you try, How many little boys am I? " I.ESSON TALK. This selection is in a lighter vein than the others that have gone before. It is adapted to a boy eight or ten years old. While the humor is not of a bois- terous character, the piece is very pleasing when re- cited by a boy who knows how to take in the situa- tion and can put on a look of natural surprise. Recitations by little people are always interesting to older persons. The young should be taught to re- cite in public. While this need not make them bold, it does give them confidence, which is very desirable for them to have. Moreover, it helps them to become graceful in man- ner if they are properly trained, and takes away the awkwardness which makes many young persons ap- pear to a disadvantage. Added to all this the cultiva- tion of the memory derived from learning recitations, and learning them so thoroughly that they cannot be forgotten through any temporary embarrassment, and you will readily see that the noble art of elocution is an essential part of every young person's education. The selection before us is not 1 difficult one to re- cite. In the first verse emphasis should be placed on the word "am,"' and the question should be asked in a tone of surprise. Put your hand to your head in speaking of that " awful bump." In the next verse lift your right hand with a sud- den motion and use any gesture with which you can best indicate the cracking of the whip. When you come to the words " off he threw me,'' use the ges- ture in Figure 24 of Typical Gestures. Emphasize the word " he " in the last line. In verse three open your eyes in half wonder and put on an expressive smile as you speak of grandma's pies, cakes, doughnuts, tarts, etc. Make it plain that you enjoy your visit to grandma's. With elevated voice and accents of delight refer to the gift of the httle pony in the last verse. Speais. the first "hoi'' rather quickly; then prolong the sound on the second "ho!" In the last line the words " am I ? '' are emphatic. You are puzzled to know how many little boys you are. Pause a niAmer* and look as if expecting an answer. Recitations with Music Nothing renders a recitation more ac- ceptable to any audience than snatches of music, some of the words being sung, if the reader has a voice for singing. The change from reciting to singing should be made easily, and you should be fully confident that yott can carry through the part to be expressed by the notes ol music, and sing the words effectively. This will require practice, but will repar you for the time spent in preparation. Selec tions for song and recital combined are hen presented, which cannot fail to captivate your audience if they are skillfully rendered. TWICKENHAM FERRY. The words to be sung, or that should receive the prolonged sound indicated by the notes, are printed in italics. Remember you are caUing to some one in the distance. d2 i ^-=fi S^ mE&^ =tt- 1. o • • hoi ye - . ho. Ho - ye - ho, Who's for the fer - ry? 2. hoi ye - ho, Ho . ye - ho, I'm for the fer - ry. 3. O ■ • hoi ye . . ho, Ho, you're too late for the fer ■ ly- HOI ye-hOy Ho-ye-ho^ Who's for the ferry ? The briars in bud, the sun is going down, And I'll row ye so quick and I'll row ye so steady, And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town." The ferryman's slim and the ferryman's young, And he's just a soft twang in the turn of his tongue. And he's fresh as a pippin and brown as a berry, And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town. 0-hoiye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho. i -irr^^ ^==ii=^- eS hoi - ye - ho, Ho ye - ho. Ho - ye ho, Ho. 2. ''0-hoi ye-hoy Ho-ye-ho, Pmfor the ferry , The briars in bud, the sun going down, And it's late as it is, and I haven't a penny, And how shall I get me to Twickenham Town?" She'd a rose in her bonnet, and oh! she look'd sweet As the little pink flower that grows in the wheat, With her cheeks like a rose and her lips like a cherry, "And sure and you're welcome to Twick- enham Town." O'hoiye-ko, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho. 129 130 RECITATIONS WITH iviUSIC. \ 3. 0-/ioi ye-ho^ Ho, youWe too late for the ferry, The briars in bud, the sun going down, And he's not rowing quick and he's not rowing steady, You'd think 'twas a journey to Twick- enham Town. " hoi, and ho,'' you may call as you will, The moon is a rising on Peterham Hill, And with love like a rose in the stern of the wherry, There's danger in crossing to Twickenham Town. 0-hoi ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho, GRANDMOTHER'S CHAIR. The words to be sung are printed in italics. |Y grandmother she, at the age of eighty-three. One day in May was taken ill and died ; And after she was dead, the will of course was read. By a lawyer as we all stood by his side. Five hundred dollars to my brother did she leave, When you settle down in life, find some girl to be your wife, You'll find it very handy, I declare ; On a cold and frosty night, when the fire is burning bright, You can then sit in your old arm chair. What my brother said was true, for in a year or two. :=1: :g=Mt :p=r: :t: ^=1- And how they tit - ter'd, how they chaff 'd, How my broth -er and sis - ter laugh'd, ^^ ■:J-=--^-- i r-^ ■"s—^- ^=?=ii= ^:q: 1 — r^- -j^ — *t- When they heard the law - yer de-clare, Gran-ny had on - ly left to me her old arm chair. The same unto my sister, I declare ; But when it came to me, the lawyer said, * I see She has left to you her old arm chair." And how they tittered, how they chaffed, How my brother and sister laughed, When they heard the lawyer declare Granny had only left to me her old arm chair. I thought it hardly fair, still I said I did not care. And in the evening took the chair away ; The neighbors they me chaffed, my brother at me laughed. And said it will be useful, John, some day: Strange to say, I settled down in married life; I first a girl did court, and then the ring I bought, Took her to the church, and when she was my wife. The girl and I were just as happy as could be. For when my work was over, I declare, I ne'er abroad would roam, but each night would stay at home, And be seated in my old arm chair. One night the chair fell down; when I picked it up I found RECITATIONS WITH MUSIC. 131 The seat had fallen out upon the floor ; And there to my surprise I saw before my eyes, Ten thousand dollars tucked away, or more. When my brother heard of this, the fellow, I confess, Went nearly mad with rage, and tore his hair; But I only laughed at him, then said unto him, ''Jem, Don't you wish you had the old arm chair?" John Read. \R.epeat words with music^ PUT YOUR SHOULDER TO THE WHEEL. OME people you've met in your time, no doubt, Who never look happy or gay ; I'll tell you the way to get jolly and stout. If you'll listen awhile to my lay. I've come here to tell you a bit of my mind. And please with the same, if I can ; The words to be sung are in italics. For there's room in this world for us all. " Credit refuse," if you've money to pay. You'll find it the wiser plan ; And " a dollar laid by for a rainy day," Is a motto for every man. A coward gives in at the first repulse ; A brave man struggles again, i ii:: ^s::^: ^i^^=^ ^ :iit=*t3^:zi:^: -^te- t=.-:^n^s. itzzst. So we will sing, and ban - ish mel - an - chol - y, Trou - ble may come, we'll iJ: -^ -.■=K=t- :Ji^ m^ -:i=-^-=i^ can To drive care a - way for griev-ing is do the best we i g^-4 s^ #=itz H^i: t=^ fol - ly, Put your shoul-der to thewheelis a mot -to for ev - 'ry man. Advice is my song, you will certainly find. And a motto for every man. So we will sing, and banish melancholy ; Trouble may come, we'll do the best we can To drive care away, for grieving is a folly ; Put your shoulder to the wheel is a motto for evWy man. We cannot all fight in this battle of life, The weak must go to the wall ; So do to each other the thing that is right. With a resolute eye and a bounding pulse, To battle his way amongst men ; For he knows he has only one chance in his time To better himself, if he can ; " So make your hay while the sun doth shine," That's a motto for every man. Harry Clifton. [Repeat the part to be sungj] 132 RECITATIONS WITH MUSIC. fIRED," ah, yes, so tired, dear, the day- has been very long, But shadowy gloaming draweth near, 'tis time for the even song. I'm ready to go to rest at last, ready to say, " Good night ; " The sunset glory darkens fast, to-morrow will bring me light. A BRIGHTER DAY IS COMING. The words in italics are to be sung. " Tired j' ah, yes, so tired, dear, I shall soundly sleep to-night. With never a dream, and never a fear, to wake in the morning's light. It has seemed so long since morning tide, and I have been left so lone. Young, smiling faces thronged my side when the early sunlight shone, i t=\- :^=z=z^: t=^- iS: -^-=1H- :=iz^: 1^1^--=:^ tT — 1^--'— — — ——^—^—^. Slug once a-gain, "A-bide with me, " That sweet-est ev-'ning hymn, And now "Good-night, "I PP languidamente. 33: ^ 3=pata --^y=ii- lS-2^ '-0=ti: :i^::i± can -not see, The light has grown so dim. *'Tir-ed! "ah, yes, so tir - ed, dear! I shall 3^z=SJ: :=1=q: ^tz^ibs:^: :]=^:^: ^rtstim i N=^ ^uMz --W-W-fi :^t^ :p!z:pL-p:!iE=^: -r-- ■m t sound-ly sleep to-night, With nev - er a dream, and nev-er a fear, To wake in the morning's light. Sing once again, ^^ Abide with me,'' that sweetest evening hymn. And now ''Good night, ^' I cannot see^ the light has grown so dim. But they grew tire long ago, and I saw them sink to s-est, With folded hands and brows of snow, on the green earth's mother breast. Helen Burnside. \Repeat the words with music^ KATY'S LOVE LETTER. Sing the words printed in italics. CH, girls dear, did you ever hear, I wrote my love a letter. And although he cannot read, sure I thought 'twas all the better; For why should he be puzzled with hard spelling in the matter, :i: P g^^^ ^rf^ When the meaning was so plain that I love him faithfully? I love him faithfully , And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me. litzit: :^— R— h-— F- :=Li=^ ^2^^^a^^ I love him faith-ful - ly, And he knows it, oh, he knows it, with-out one word from me. now A PiJHfiy'ii fw. iiia^ f'3 MP r^pp£. (^ THE BOY THAT LAUGHS ^ T[}lRa C0RP5£5 LAYOUT on fOR MEN NU5T WORK /^flD W0H£/1 MU5T VVe£R if M ^ Z) THREE FISHERS WENT SAILING RECITATIONS WITH MUSIC. 133 I wrote it, and I folded it, and put a seal upon it ; 'Twas a seal almost as big as the crown of my best bonnet ; For I would not have the Postmaster make his remarks upon it, As I said inside the letter that I loved him faithfully, / love him faithfully , And he knozvs it, oh, he knows it/ without one word from me. My heart was full, but when I wrote, I dared not put the half in, The neighbors know I love him, and they're mighty fond of chaffing ; And I dared not write his name outside, for fear they would be laughing, So I wrote, " From little Kate to one whom she loves faithfully." I love him faithfully , And he htows it, oh, he k?iows it ! without one word from me. Now, girls, would you believe it, that Post- man, so consaited, No answer will he bring me, so long as 1 have waited; But maybe there isn't one for the raison that I stated. That my love can neither read nor write, but he loves me faithfully. He loves me faithfully , And I know wherever my love is, that he is true to me. Lady Dufferin. I DOST THOU LOVE ME, SISTER RUTH? A COMIC DUET. The persons who present this recital should appear in Quaker costume and stand near each other, face to face. It can be made very amusing. The change from reciting to singing adds greatly to the effect. Sing the words in italics, and make appropriate gestures. I. Simon. — Dost thou love me. Sister Ruth? Say, say, say! Ruth.— As I fain would speak the truth. Yea, yea, yea. Simon. 2. SlMON.- -Wilt thou promise to be mine, Maiden fair? Ruth. — Take my hand, my heart is thine, There, there, there. [^Salutes her.] ^^^-=^^=^-^-~ ^ -f5 -> «, V m -> -N 1- ^ N» l-fe^^— ^ — ^ — ^ — ^— - ^ ^ ^ Eg ^ * 3 r^ _ i Long my heart hath yearn'd for thee, Let us thus the bar - gain seal, O, how, blest we both should be, EUTH. . . ^ Pret - ty Sis - ter Euth; O, dear me, heigh - ho! Hey down, ho down tey ! ^EE^ -g-_^ - ^ — |flg- =^ That has been the case with me, Lauk ! how ver - y odd I feel ! I could al - most dance with glee, Simon. — Loitg my heart hath yearned for thee, Pretty Sister Ruth ; ^xiTn.-^That has been the case with me. Dear engaging youth. Dear en - gag - ing youth ! O, dear me, heigh - ho! Hey down, ho down hey! Simon. — Let us thus the bargain seal. O, dear me, heigh-ho / Ruth. — -Lauk ! how very odd I feel ! Of dear mey heigh-ho ! 134 RECITATIONS WITH MUSIC. 3. Simon. — Love like ours can never cloy, Humph ! humph ! humph ! Ruth. — While no jealous fears annoy, Humph! humph! humph! Simon. — (9, how blessed we both should be ^ Hey down, ho down, hey ! Ruth. — / could almost dance with gleCy Hey down, ho down, hey ! John Parry. i TWO LITTLE ROGUES. AYS Sammy to Dick, " Come, hurry ! come quick ! And we'll do, and we'll do, and we'll do ! Our mammy's away, She's gone for to stay. And we'll make a great hullabaloo I Ri too I ri loo ! loo I loo / loo I loo / We'll make a great hullabaloo ! Slide down the front stairs ! Tip over the chairs ! Now into the pantry break through ! Pull down all the tin-ware, And pretty things in there 1 All aboard for a hullabaloo ! Ri too ! ri loo ! loo ! loo / loo ! loo ! All aboard for a hullabaloo ! fei; p^ «#^ *=S: iffrp: ifetrts Ri too! ri - loo! loo! loo! loo! loo! We'll make a great hul-la-ba-loo.... 1^ ^^ is-t-^ ^ P^iilS ■^-■A-^- F51: Says Dick to Sam, All weddy I am To do, and to do, and to do, But how doesth it go ? I so 'ittle to know. That, what be a hullabawoo ? Ri too ! ri loo ! woo I woo ! woo I woo ! Thay, what be a hullabawoo ? " Oh, slammings and hangings, And whingings and whangings ; And very bad mischief we'll do I We'll clatter and shout. And knock things about, And that's what's a hullabaloo I Ri too ! ri loo I loo ! loo I loo ! loo f And that's what's a hullabaloo / " Now roll up the table, Far up as you are able. Chairs, sofa, big easy-chair too ! Put the lamps and the vases In funny old places. How's this for a hullabaloo ? Ri too / ri loo ! loo I loo I loo / loo / How's this for a hullabaloo ? " Let the dishes and pans Be the womans and mans ; Everybody keep still in their pew ; Mammy's gown I'll get next. And preach you a text. Dick ! hush with your hullabaloo ! Ri too ! ri loo ! loo I loo ! loo ! loo / Dicky! hush with your hullabaloo f* RECITATIONS WITH MUSIC. 13D As the preacher in gown Climbed up and looked down, His queer congregation to view, Said Dicky to Sammy, Oh, dere comes our mammy ! She'll 'pank for dis hullubawoo ! Ri too ! ri loo / woo ! woo / woo / woo ! She'll 'pank for dis hullabawoo / " O mammy ! O mammy ! '* Cried Dicky and Sammy, "■ We'll never again, certain true ! " But with firm step she trod To take down the rod — Oh, then came a hullabaloo ! Bo hoo I bo hoo I woo ! woo / woo ! woo } Ohj then came a hullabaloo I Mrs. a. M. Diaz. ARKANSAW PETE'S ADVENTURE ; Arkansaw Pete, a frontier-backwoodsman, who sings the solo. Chorus, three lively city gentlemen. Introduction. Moderato. I r- -r m. != F ^ 1— I — I — I — t- ■fn Hfc -m^-m-im- S= ^f^ iffiEt - r—r =i=t ■}— r / ^$E1 :^=S :t=: i $ Voice. Moderato, P Solo. 1^=^ f Chorus. "p Solo. i^iii^i: ■Mr-wt-M- ■^zzj: Stuit w^-iir-^- ■ftr-JT^r I. NoAV ladies and gents, who here I see, Snap- poo! I pray you list - en ^ y ~^ ' :3 f ■s — w. f ^s :pi=zir=FP: fet= ^ SI / Chorus. Solo. 'i r=fr. W=W—W- 1^:^ ifcn :f=f?z=:pzr=i: m. ■'^n^ t=t==t V-t^ ■I 1 -i^v- un - to me. Snap -poo ! And I'll re - late what came to pass when I lived down in 11 III .11 i/^s "I 1 U I m ' iffii' "'m J J ^ N* u^ ^ m mm -^^ M M ^ N» mi M 'itt ^ ' (S^ — it^ — *_« — ^_ -m-Jf-^ 5^ — -•i •! « •^ -aJ 7^ 3il •^^^— -S s a -^ : mf il^•+t ^ (• ^ • m w ' ' >-' • r-^ • c ^.-ff -I '■* f^ g "^ r N» s* >* ^ •S 1 €\-" 1 "V •^ 1 — d^+ L r 1 L^_ L _L 1==l=l: / Full Chorus. {Snapping fingers.') Play tJie Chorus twice over for dajtce rotcnd. -^^S^- :]^=K E^S it^iiijii^ t^— p^- :^=^=i: Ar- lean- sas. Snap- poo - Snap Pe- ter Fi Ian- thi Go Sheeter Snap- "ooo! 136 RECITATIONS WITH MUSIC. -a^ -^- -^ •2. While riding home one Saturday night, Snap-poo ! I passed Miss Smith's and thought I'd light, Snap-poo ! So I hitch'd my hoss and in did go. Just for to spend an hour or so. Chorus {inarching up and down, and snap- ping fingers at Pete). Snap-poo ! Snap -Peter ! Fi-lan-thi-go-shee-ter ! Snap-poo ! (Repeat chorus^ 3. When to the door I had safely got, Snap-poo ! She came and pok'd her sweet head out, Snap-poo ! Said she right out, " Why, Mister Pete! Oh, do walk in and have a seat ! " (Chorus.) 4. With easy step and a jolly heart, Snap-poo ! I bounded in just like a dart. Snap-poo ! And, oh, you may bet, I felt all hunk When into a chair by her I sunk. (Chorus. ) 5. Our chairs got closer as we two rock'd, Snap-poo ! My throat swell'd up till I most chok'd. Snap-poo ! At length they struck, and came to a stop — Now, now, thinks I, 's the time to "pop ! " (Chorus.) 6. I tried to look in her love-lit eyes, Snap-poo ! They were clear and blue as summer skies, Snap-poo ! Not a word could I speak — alas ! poor Pete ! Though she lookM good enough to eat. . (Chorus.) 7. I look'd at her, and she look'd at me, Snap-poo ! I heard my heart say pee-dee-dee. Snap-poo ! I twisted my chair, and cross'd my feet— I'd never seen anything half so sweet. (Chorus.) 8. My tongue grew thick, and my eyes stuck out, Snap-poo ! My hands flew nervously about. Snap-poo ! And, before I could their motion check. They grabb'd that gal right 'round the neck! (Chorus.) 9. She haul'd away with her pretty fist, Snap-poo ! She gave my jaw an awful twist. Snap-poo ! It seem'd an hour before I spoke— I thought by gum, my head was broke i (Chorus.) 10. The racket we made brought her ma~ma, Snap-poo ! Who straightway call'd her great pa-pa, Snap-poo ! He kicked me out — and, you bet, I fled That gal won't do, thinks I, to wed ! (ChOKU:5.) I Patriotic Recitations. THE BEAT OF THE DRUM AT DAYBREAK. opeak the words in italics with full, earnest tones of command. Then change easily to a manner suited to animated description. An excellent selection for one who can make these changes effectively. HE morning is cheery, my boys, arouse ! The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs, And the sleepy mist on the river lies, Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes. Awake ! awake / awake / O'er field and wood and brake, With glories newly born, Comes on the blushing morn. Awake / awake / You homes and your have dreamed of your friends all night ; You have basked in your sweethearts' smiles so bright : Come, part with them all for a while again — Be lovers in dreams ; when awake, be men. Turn out / ticrn out ! turn out ! You have dreamed full long I know, Turn out I tur7i out ! turn out f The east is all aglow. Turn out / turn out I From every valley and hill there come The clamoring voices of fife and drum ; And out on the fresh, cool morning air The soldiers are swarming everywhere. Fall in ! fall in / fall in / Every man in his place. Fall in / fall in / fall in f Each with a cheerful face. Fall in ! fall in I Michael O'Connor. THE CAVALRY CHARGE. Admirably suited to rapid utterance, vivid description and full tones on an elevated key. the last lines as you would if you saw the enemy routed on the field of battle. Hurrah ia ITH bray of the trumpet And roll of the drum, And keen ring of bugles, The cavalry come, Sharp clank the steel scabbards, The bridle-chains ring, And foam from red nostrils The wild chargers fling. Tramp ! tramp ! o'er the green sward That quivers below, Scarce held by the curb-bit, The fierce horses go ! And the grim-visaged colonel, With ear-rending shout, Peals forth to the squadrons, The order—" Trot out." One hand on the sabre, And one on the rein, The troopers move forward In line on the plain. As rings the word *' Gallop ! ** The steel scabbards clank, And each rowel is pressed To a horse's hot flank : And swift is their rush As the wild torrent's flow, When it pours from the crag On the valley below. 137 138 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. " Charge ! ' ' thunders the leader. Like shaft from the bow Each mad horse is hurled On the wavering foe. A thousand bright sabres Are gleaming in a")r ; A thousand dark horses Are dashed on the square. Resistless and reckless Of aught may betide, Like demons, not mortals, The wild troopers ride. Cut right ! and cut left ! For the parry who needs? The bayonets shiver Like wind-shattered reeds ! Vain — vain the red volley That bursts from the square- The random-shot bullets Are wasted in air. Triumphant, remorseless, Unerring as death, — No sabre that's stainless Returns to its sheath. The wounds that are dealt By that murderous steel Will never yield case For the surgeons to heal Hurrah I they are broken- Hurrah ! boys, they fly — None linger save those Who but linger to die. THE GREAT NAVAL BATTLE OF SANTIAGO. Hold your body erect, but not awkwardly stiff, let every nerve be tense, your voice full and round, and let your manner indicate that you have a grand story to relate, as you recite Admiral Schley's thrilling description of the great naval battle at Santiago. You are depicting the scene as though you were there and yourself won the brilliant victory. NE hour before the Spaniards ap- peared my quartermaster on the Brooklyn reported to me that Cer- vera's fleet was coaling up. This v^as just what I expected, and we prepared everything for a hot reception. Away over the hills great clouds of smoke could be faintly seen rising up to the sky. A little later and the smoke began to move towards the mouth of the harbor. The black cloud wound in and out along the narrow channel, and every eye on board the vessels in our fleet strained with expectation. The sailor boys were silent for a full hour and the grim old vessels lay back like tigers waiting to pounce upon their prey. Sud- denly the whole Spanish fleet shot out of the mouth of the channel. It was the grandest spectacle I ever witnessed. The flames were pouring out of the funnels, and as it left the channel the fleet opened fire w'th every gun on board. Their guns were worked as rap- idly as possible, and shells were raining around like hail. It was a grand charge. My first impres- sion was that of a lot of maddened bulls, goaded to desperation, dashing at their tor- mentors. The storm of projectiles and shells was the hottest imaginable. I wondered where they all came from. Just as the ves- sels swung around the Brooklyn opened up with three shells, and almost simultaneously the rest of the fleet fired. Our volley was a terrible shock to the Spaniards, and so sur-= prised them that they must have been badly rattled. When our fleet swung around and gave chase, we not only had to face the fire from the vessels, but were bothered by a cross- fire from the forts on either side, which opened on our fleet as soon as the Span- iards shot out of the harbor. The engage- PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. 139 I ment lasted three hours, but i hardly knew what time was. I remember crashing holes through the Spanish Admiral's flagship, the Maria Teresa, and giving chase to the Colon. I was on the bridge of the Brooklyn during the whole engagement, and at times the smoke was so dense that I could not see three yards ahead of me. The shells from the enemy's fleet were whistling around and bursting everywhere, except where they could do some damage. I seemed to be the only thing on the vessel not protected by heavy armor, and oh ! how I would have liked to get behind some of that armor ! I don't know how I kept my head, but I do know that I surprised myself by seeing and knowing all that was going on, and I could hear my voice giving orders to do just what my head thought was right, while my heart was trying to get beneath the shelter of the armored deck. How do I account for such a victory with so little loss? That would mean how do I account for the rain of Spanish shell not doing more execution ? They fought nobly and desperately, but they were not a match for our Yankee officers and sailors. I was proud of the boys in our fleet during that engagement. They knew just what, their guns could do, and not one shot was wasted. Their conduct was wonderful. It was inspiring. It was magnificent. Men who can stand behind big guns and face a black storm of shells and projectiles as coolly as though nothing was occurring ; men who could laugh because a shell had missed hit- ting them ; men who could bet one another on shots and lay odds in the midst of the horrible crashing ; men who could not realize that they were in danger — such men are wonders, and we have a whole navy of wonders. Admiral W. S. Schley. HOBSON'S DARING DEED, Let your tones of voice be strong and bold, not boisterous, and give to the most spirited lines full force. You are depicting a daring deed, and it must not be done in a weak, timid, hesitating way, but with strong utterance and emphasis. The sinking of the steam coUier Merrimac was a famous exploit. fHUNDER peal and roar and rattle of the ships in line of battle, Rumbling noise of steel volcanoes hurl- ing metal from the shore, Drowned the sound of quiet speaking and the creaking, creaking, creaking Of the steering-gear that turned her toward the narrow harbor door. On the hulk was calm and quiet, deeper for the shoreward riot; Dumb they watched the fountain streaming; mute they heard the waters hiss, Till one laughed and murmured, ^' Surely it was worth while rising early For a fireworks exhibition of such character as this." Down the channel the propeller drove her as they tried to shell her From the drizzy heights of Morro and Socapa parapet ; She was torn and she was battered, and her upper works were shattered By the bursting of the missiles that in air above her met. Parallels of belching cannon marked the winding course she ran on. And they flashed through morning darknesd like a giant's flaming teeth ; Waters steaming, boiling, churning; rows of muzzles at each turning ; Mines like geysers spouting after and before her and beneath. 140 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. Not a man was there who faltered; not a theory | And they won. But greater giory tuan the wK was altered Of the detailed plan agreed on — not a doubt was there expressed ; This was not a time for changing, deviating, re-arranging ; Let the great God help the wounded, and their courage save the rest. ning is the story Of the foeman's friendly greeting of that valiant captive band ; Speech of his they understood not, talk to him in words they could not ; But their courage spoke a language that all men might understand. )(£: — ' P-- GENERAL WHEELER AT SANTIAGO. "Fighting Joe," as he was familiarly called, was one of the most conspicuous and heroic figures in the batdes fought around Santiago. Recite this tribute to the hero with feeling, and show by looks, tones and gestures that you appreciate the patriotism and valor of the famous commander of cavalry. IN'x'O the thick of the fight he went, pallid As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and and sick and wan. hair and beard of snow, iTxO the thick of the fight and sick and wan. Borne in an ambulance to the ghwtly wisp of a man; But the fighting soul of a fighting man, approved in the long ago, Went to the front in that ambulance, and the body of Fighting Joe. Out -^rom the front they were coming back, smit- ten of Spanish shells — Wounded boys from the Vermont Hills and the Alabama dells ; " Put them into this ambulance ; I'll ride to the front," he said, And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old ex-Confed. *?rom end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers, /*And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears, Imo the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe ! Sick with fever and racked with pain, he could not stay away. For he heard the song of the yester-years in the deep-mouthed cannon's bay — He heard in the calling song of the guns there was work for him to do. Where his country*s best blood splashed and flowed 'round the old Red, White and Blue. Fevered body and hero heart J This Union's heart to you Beats out in love and reverence — and to each dear boy in blue Who stood or fell 'mid the shot and shell, and cheered in the face of the foe, As, wan and white, to the heart of the fight rod£ little old Fighting Joe ! James Lindsay Gordon THE FLAG 'ATS off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, A flash of color beneath the sky: Hats off! The flag is passing by ! Blue and crimson and white it shines GOES BY. Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. Hats off"! The colors before us fly i But more than the flag is passing by, Sea-fights and land-fights grim and great Fought to make and to save the state ; Cheers of victory on dying lips; I^9iHH^HHHk^^!s^ oodard pjjUPo mRo With her waves of goldeu hair Floatiug free, Hilda ran along the shore, Gazing oft the waters o'er; And the fishermen replied: 'He will come in with the tide/ As they saw her golden hair Floating free ! L ?^Pw>v s THE NEW COOK. 'Will you iver be done wid your graneness/ 3he axed me wid a loud scrame." PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. 141 Weary marches and sinking ships; Days of plenty and years of peace March of a strong land's swift increase; Equal justice, right and law, Stately honor and reverend awe ; Sign of a nation great and strong. To ward her people from foreign wrong ; Pride and glory and honor, all Live in the colors to stand or falL Hats off 1 IN MANILA BAY. A graphic description of the great naval battle of Manila and Admiral Dewey's overwhelming victory. Unless this recital is delivered in an animated, exultant manner, and with great oratorical force, the grand power of the description will be weakened, if not entirely lost. Put your whole soul into it. N the broad Manila Bay The Spanish cruisers lay, In the shelter of their forts upon the shore ; And they dared their foes to sail Through the crashing iron hail Which the guns from decks and battlements would pour. All the harbor ways were missed. And along the channel blind Slept the wild torpedoes, dreaming dreams of wrath. Yea ! the fiery hates of hell Lay beneath the ocean's swell, Like a thousand demons ambushed in the path. Breasting fierce Pacific gales, Lo ! a little squadron sails. And the Stars and Stripes are noating from its spars. It is friendless and alone. Aids and allies it has none. But a dauntless chorus sings its dauntless tars : ''We're ten thousand miles from home; Ocean's wastes and wave and foam Shut us from the land we love so far away. We have ne'er a friendly port For retreat as last resort, But we'll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay. '*They have mines beneath the sea. They have forts upon their lee, They have everything to aid them in the fray; But we'll brave their hidden mines. And we'll face their blazing lines; Yes ! We'll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay. If we're worsted in the fight, We shall perish in the right — No hand will wipe the dews of death away. The wounded none will tend, For we've not a single friend ; But we'll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay. No ironclads we sail, Only cruisers light and frail, With no armor plates to turn the shells away. All the battleships now steer In another hemisphere, But we'll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay. Ho ! Remember now the Maine ! Up ! And smite the ships of Spain ! Let them not forget for years this first of May ! Though hell blaze up from beneath, Forward through the cannon's breath, When Dewey leads into Manila Bay.'^ There, half-way round the world. Swift and straight the shots were hurled. And a handful of bold sailors won the day. Never since earth was begun Has a braver deed been done Than when Dewey sailed into Manila Bay. 142 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. God made for him a path Through the mad torpedoes' wrath, From their slumbers never wakened into play. When dawn smote the east with gold, Spaniards started to behold Dewey and his gallant fleet within ther bay. Then from forts and warships first Iron maledictions burst, And the guns with tongues of flame began to pray : Like demons out of hell The batteries roar and yell, While Dewey answers back across the bay. O Gods ! it was a sight, Till the smoke, as black as night. Hid the fire-belching ships from light of day. When it lifted from the tide, Smitten low was Spanish pride, And Dewey was the master of their bay,, Where the awful conflict roared. And red blood in torrents poured. There the Stars and Stripes are waving high to-day. Dewey ! Hero strong and grand ! Shout his name through every land ! For he sunk the ships of Spain in their own bay. Charles Wadsworth, Jk. ^..o^...^ m MY SOLDIER BOY. when morning HEN night comes on, breaks, they rise, Those earnest prayers by faithful lips oft said, And pierce the blue which shrouds the inner skies : **God guard my boy; God grant he is not dead!" '•' My soldier boy — where is he camped to-night? ' " God guard him waking, sleeping or in fight ! " Far, far away where tropic suns cast down Their scorching rays, where sultry damp airs rise And haunting breath of sickness holds its own, A homesick boy, sore wounded, suffering lies, " Mother ! Mother ! " is his ceaseless cry. " Come, mother, come, and see me ere I die ! " Where is war's glory? Ask the trumpet's blare. The marching columns run to bitter strife ; Ask of the raw recruit who knows as yet Naught of its horrors, naught of its loss of life; Ask not the mother ; weeping for her son. She knows the heart-aches following victories won. THE YANKEES IN BATTLE, '^OR courage and dash there is no par allel in history to this action of the Spanish Admiral. He came, as he knew, to absolute destruction. There was one single hope. That was that the Spanish ship Cristobal Colon would steam faster than the American ship Brooklyn. The spectacle of two torpedo-boat destroyers, paper shells at best, deliberately steaming out in broad daylight in the face of the fire of battleships can only be described in one way. It was Spanish, and it was ordered by the Spanish General Blanco. The same may be said of the entire movement. In contrast to the Spanish fashion was the cool, deliberate Yankee work. The Ameri- can squadron was without sentiment appa- rently. The ships went at their Spanish opponents and literally tore them to pieces. Admiral Cervera was taken aboard the Iowa from the Gloucester, which had rescued him, and he was received with a full Admiral's guard. The crew of the Iowa crowded aft over the turrets, half naked and black with I PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. 14? powder, as Cervera stepped over the side bareheaded. The crew cheered vociferously. The Admiral submitted to the fortunes of war with a grace that proclaimed him a thoroughbred. The officers of the Spanish ship Vizcaya said they simply could not hold their crews at the guns on account of the rapid fire poured upon them. The decks were flooded with water from the fire hose, and the blood from the wounded made this a dark red. Fragments of bodies floated in this along the gun deck. Every instant the crack of exploding shells told of new havoc. The torpedo boat Ericsson was sent by the flagship to the help of the Iowa in the rescue of the Vizcaya's crew. Her men saw a terrible sight. The flames, leaping out from the huge shot holes in the Vizcaya's sides, licked up the decks, sizzling the flesh of the wounded who were lying there shrieking for help. Between the frequent ex- plosions there came awful cries and groans irom the men pinned in below. This car- nage was chiefly due to the rapidity of the American fire. From two 6-pounders 400 shells were fired in fifty minutes. Up in the tops the ma- rines banged away with i -pounders, too ex- cited to step back to duck as the shells whistled over them. One gunner of a sec- ondary battery under a 12-inch gun was blinded by smoke and saltpetre from the turret, and his crew were driven off, but sticking a wet handkerchief over his face, with holes cut for his eyes, he stuck to his gun. Finally, as the 6-pounders were so close to the 8-inch turret as to make it impossi- ble to stay there with safety, the men were ordered away before the big gun was fired,, but they refused to leave. When the 3-inch gun was fired, the concussion blew two men of the smaller gun's crew ten feet from their guns and threw them to the deck as deaf as posts. Back they went again, however, and were again blown away, and finally had to be dragged away from their stations. Such bravery and such dog- ged determination under the heavy fire were of frequent occurrence on all the ships en- gaged. Captain R. D. Evans. @N><:}® £:=--*• THE BANNER BETSEY MADE. The first American flag, including the thirteen stars and stripes, was made by Mrs. Betsey Ross, a. Quaker lady of Philadelphia. Recite these lines in an easy, conversational manner, yet with animation. In this and similar recitations never let your voice sink down into your throat, as if you were just ready ta faint away. Your delivery should never be dull, least of all in patriotic pieces. E have nicknamed it ^' Old Glory" As it floats upon the breeze, Rich in legend, song and story On the land and on the seas; Far above the shining river, Over mountain, glen and glade With a fame that lives forever Streams the banner Betsey made. Once it went from her, its maker, To the glory of the wars, Once the modest little Quaker Deftly studded it with stars ; And her fingers, sv/iftly flying Through the sunshine and the shade> Welded colors bright, undying, In the banner Betsey made. When at last her needle rested And her cherished work was done Went the banner, love invested, To the camps of Washington ; 144 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. And the glorious continentals In the monnng light arrayed Stood in ragged regimentals 'Neath the banner Betsey made. How they cheered it and its maker, They the gallant sons of Mars, How they blessed the little Quaker And her flag of stripes and stars ; 'Neath its folds, the foemen scorning, Glinted bayonets and blade. And the breezes of the morning Kissed the banner Betsey made. Years have passed, but still in glory With a pride we love to see, Laureled with a nation's glory Waves the emblem of the free ; From the rugged pines of Northland To the deepening everglade, In the sunny heart of Southland Floats the banner Betsey made. A protector all have found it And beneath it stands no skve. Freemen brave have died around it On the land and on the wave ; In the foremost front of battle Borne by heroes not afraid, 'Mid the musket's rapid rattle, Soared the banner Betsey made. Now she sleeps whose fingers flying With a heart to freedom true Mingled colors bright, undying — Fashioned stars and field of blue; It will lack for no defenders When the nation's foes invade. For our country ose to splendor *Neath the banner Betsey made. T. C. Harbaugkl 1 OUR OW can the world once more the glory see Of this our flag, emblem of liberty. {f) V Now can the tyrant quake with direst fear As o'er his land our banners shall appear. No selfish aim shall lead our flag astray, No base desire shall point our banner's way ; Each star has told a tale of noble deed, Each stripe shall mean from strife a nation free. Our glorious past when first with thirteen stars On field of blue with white and bright red bars, Our flag led on in battle's fierce array, And freed the land from mighty Britain's sway. FLAG. And since this time when first it was unfurled. Our flag has proved the noblest in the world. From Cuba's shore out to Manila Bay Its mighty folds protecting fly to-day. Beneath this flag with patriotic pride For freedom's cause great men have aiadiy died Our noblest sons beneath its folds so free In conflict died for Cuba's liberty. Float on, dear flag, our nation's greatest joy, Thy starry folds no despot shall destroy; Stretcri out thy arms till war forever cease, And all the world is universal peace. Chas. F. Alsop. THAT STARRY FLAG OF OURS. NFURL the starry banner, rill with loving eyes we view The stars and stripes we honor And the folds of azure blue 'Tis the pride of all our nation And the emblem of its powers — The gem of all creation Is that starry flag of ours,. Then raise aloft " Old Glory/' And its colors bright surround, In battle fierce and gory, Or in peace with honor bound. PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. Ub Let it float from spire and steeple, And from house-tops, masts and towers, For the banner of the people Is that starry flag of ours. Now, behold it, bright and peerless, In the light of freedom's sky; See its colors floating, fearless As the eagle soaring high. And amid the cannon's rattle And the bullets' deadly showers. Ten million men will battle For that starry flag of ours. THE NEGRO SOLDIER. In reciting this piece give stress and emphasis to the words, ''the Tenth at La Quasina." You are praising the valor of this regiment, and should not do it in a doubtful or hesitating manner. E used to think the negro didn't count for very much — Light-fingered in the melon patch, and chicken yard, and such ; Much mixed in point of morals and absurd in point of dress. The butt of droll cartoonists and the target of the press ; But we've got to reconstruct our views on color, more or less, Now we know about the Tenth at La Quasi na ! When a rain of shot was falling, with a song upon his lips. In the horror where such gallant lives went out in death's eclipse. Face to face with Spanish bullets, on the slope of San Juan, The negro soldier showed himself another type of man ; Read the story of his courage, coldly, carelessly, who can — The story of the Tenth at La Quasina ! We have heaped the Cuban soil above their bodies, black and white — The strangely sorted comrades of that grand and glorious fight — And many a fair-skinned volunteer goes whole and sound to-day For the succor of the colored troops, the battle records say, And the feud is done forever, of the blue coat and the gray — All honor to the Tenth at La Quasina ! B. M. Channing. DEEDS OF VALOR AT SANTIAGO- To be delivered with full, ringing tones. You are an exultant patriot, picturing the glorious deeds of our American army. This selection affords opportunity for very effective gestures. And down with its crown of guns a-frown looks HO cries that the days of daring are those that are faded far. That never a light burns planet-bright to be hailed as the hero's star? Let the deeds of the dead be laureled, the brave of the elder years. But a song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their peers ! High in the vault of the tropic sky is the garish eye of the sun, (lO-X) the hill-top to be won ; There is the trench where the Spaniard lurks, his hold and his hiding-place, And he who would cross the space between must meet death face to face. The black mouths belch and thunder, and the shrapnel shrieks and flies ; Where are the fain and the fearless, the lads with the dauntless eyes ? 146 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. Will the moment find them wanting ! Nay, but with valor stirred ! Like the leashed hound on the coursing-ground they wait but the warning word. '^Charge!" and the line moves forward, moves with a shout and a swing, ■ While sharper far than the cactus-thorn is the spiteful bullet's sting. Now they are out in the open, and now they are breasting the slope, While into the eyes of death they gaze as into the eyes of hope. Never they wait nor waver, but on they clamber and on, With '* Up with the flag of the stripes and stars, and down with the flag of the Don !" What should they bear through the shot-rent air but rout to the ranks of Spain, For the blood that throbs in their hearts is the blood of the boys of Anthony Wayne ! See, they have taken the trenches! Where are the foemen ? G one ! And now * * Old Glory ' ' waves in the breeze from the heights of San Juan ! And so, while the dead are laureled, the brave of the elder years, A song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their peers ! Clinton Scollard. A RACE FOR DEAR LIFE. (5 I HE battleships Brooklyn, Oregon and * I Texas pushed ahead after the Spanish ships Colon and Almirante Oquendo, which were now running the race of their lives along the coast. When Admiral Cer- vera's flagship, the Almirante Oquendo, sud- denly headed in shore, she had the Brooklyn and Oregon abeam and the Texas astern. The Brooklyn and Oregon pushed on after the Cristobal Colon, which was making fine time, and which looked as if she might es- cape, leaving the Texas to finish the Almi- rante Oquendo. This work did not take long. The Spanish ship was already burn- ing. Just as the Texas got abeam of her she was shaken by a loud and mighty ex- plosion. The crew of the Texas started to cheer. " Don^t cheer, because the poor devils are dying !" called Captain Philip, and the Texas left the Almirante Oquendo to her fate to join in the chase of the Cristobal Colon. That ship, in desperation, was ploughing the waters at a rate that caused the fast Brooklyn trouble. The Oregon made great speed for a battleship, and the Texas made the effort of her life. Never since her trial trip had she made such time. The Brooklyn might have proved a match to the Cristobal Colon in speed, but was not supposed to be her match in strength. It would never do to allow even one of the Spanish ships to get away. Straight into the west the strongest chase of modern times took place. The Brooklyn headed the pur- suers. She stood well out from the shore in order to try to cut off the Cristobal Colon at a point jutting out into the se*^ far ahead. The Oregon kept a middle course about a mile from the cruiser. The Desperate Don ran close along the shore, and now and then he threw a shell of defiance. The old Texas kept well up in the chase under forced draught for over two hours. The fleet Spaniard led the Americans a merry chase, but she had no chance. The Brooklyn gradually forged ahead, so that the escape of the Cristobal Colon was cut off. The Oregon was abeam of the Colon then, and the gallant Don gave it up. He headed for the shore, and five minutes later down came the Spanish flag. None of our ship:* PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. 147 were then within a mile of her, but her es- cape was cut off. The Texas, Oregon and Brooklyn closed in on her, and stopped their engines a few hundred yards away. With the capture of the Cristobal Colon the battle was ended, and there was great victory." rejoicing on all our ships. Meantime the New York, with Admiral Sampson on board, and the Vixen were coming up on the run. Commodore Schley signalled to Admiral Sampson : " We have won a great PATRIOTISM OF AMERICAN WOMEN. (^ I HE maid who binds her warrior's sash i I With smile that well her pain dissembles, -^ The while beneath her di coping lash One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, Though heaven alone records the tear, And fame shall never know her story, Her heart has shed a drop as dear As e'er bedewed the field of glory ! The wife who girds her husband's sword, Mid little ones who weep or wonder, And bravely speaks the cheering word, What though her heart be rent asunder, Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear The bolts of death around him rattle. Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er Was poured upon the field of battle ! The mother who conceals her grief While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief. Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God To know the pain that weighs upon her Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod Received on Freedom's field of honor ! Thomas Buchanan Read OUR COUNTRY'S CALL. There is a strain of gladness, a tone of rejoicing in this selection, which requh-es a spirited de- livery and full volume of voice. Patriotic emotions should always be expressed in an ex-ultant,, joyous manner by voice, attitude and gestures. (^ I HE clouds grew dark as the people paused, < I A people of peace and toil, -■- And there came a cry from all the sky : ** Come, children of mart and soil, Your mother needs you — hear her voice ; Though she has not a son to spare, She has spoken the word that ye all have heard, Come, answer ye everywhere ! " They need no urging to stir them on. They yearn for no battle cry ; At the word that their country calls for men They throw down hammer and scythe and pen, And are ready to serve and die ! From the North, from the South, from East, from West, Hear the thrill of the rumbling drum ! Under one flag they march along, With their voices swelling a single song, Here they come, they come, they come ! List ! the North men cheer the men from the Souti And the South returns the cheer; There is no question of East or West, For hearts are a-tune in every breast, 'Tis a nation answering here. It is elbow to elbow and knee to knee, One land for each and for all, And the veterans' eyes see their children rise To answer their country's call. They have not forgotten — God grant not so ! (Ah, we know of the graves on the hill.) But these eager feet make the old hearts beat. And the old eyes dim and fill ! 148 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. The Past sweeps out, and the Present comes — A Present that all have wrought ! And the sons of these sires, at the same camp- fires, Cheer one flag where their fathers fought ! Yes, we know of the graves on the Southern hills That are filled with the Blue and the Gray. We know how they fought and how they died, We honor them both there side by side, And they're brothers again to-day. Brothers again — thank God on high ! (Here's a hand-clasp all around.) The sons of one race now take their place On one common and holy ground. Richard Barry. :@S><^C THE STORY OF SEVENTY=SIX, HA r heroes from the woodland sprung, When, through the fresh awakened land. The thrilling cry of freedom rung, And to the work of warfare strung The yeoman's iron hand ! Hills flung the cry to hills around, And ocean-mart replied to mart. And streams, whose springs were yet unfound. Pealed far away the startling sound Into the forest's heart. Then marched the brave from rocky steep. From mountain river swift and cold ; The borders of the stormy deep, The vales where gathered waters sleep. Sent up the strong and bold — As if the very earth again Grew quick with God's creating breath. And, from the sods of grove and glen, Rose ranks of lion-hearted men To battle to the death. The wife, whose babe first smiled that day. The fair fond bride of yestereve. And aged sire and matron gray. Saw the loved warriors haste away, And deemed it sin to grieve. Already had the strife begun; Already blood on Concord's plain Along the springing grass had run, And blood had flowed at Lexington, Like brooks of April rain. That death-stain on the vernal sward Hallowed to freedom all the shore; In fragments fell the yoke abhorred — The footstep of a foreign lord Profaned the soil no more. W. C. Bryant. THE ROLL CALL. Speak the names of persons in this recitation, exactly as you would if you were the calling the roll, or the private in the ranks who is answering. The general character of lection is pathetic ; recite it with subdued and tender force. orderly the se- T^ORPORAL GRE I kJ cried ; \A^^ ''Here!'* w GREEN!" the orderly was the answer, loud and clear, From the lips of a soldier who stood near, And " Here ! " was the word the next replied. *' Cyrus Drew ! " — then a silence fell— This time no answer followed the call; Only his rear man had seen him fall, Killed or wounded he could not tell. There they stood in the falling light. These men of battle^ with grave, dark looks, As plain to be read as open books. While slowly gathered the shades of night. The fern on the hill-side was splashed with blood, And down in the corn where the poppies grew, I ; PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. 149 Were redder stains than the poppies knew ; And crimson dyed was the river's flood. For the foe had crossed from the other side, That day in the face of a murderous fire, That swept them down in its terrible ire ; And their life-blood went to color the tide. " Herbert Kline ! " At the call, there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line. Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding to answer his name. *' Ezra Kerr ! " — and a voice answered " Here I " " Hiram Kerr! " — but no man replied. They were brothers, these two, the sad wind sighed. And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. " Ephraira Deane \ *' — then a soldier spoke; ^'Deane carried our Regiment's colors," he said ; *' Where our Ensign was shot, I left him dead. Just after the enemy wavered and broke. *' Close to the roadside his body lies. I paused a moment and gave him a drink. He murmured his mother's name I think, And death came with it and closed his eyes." *Twas a victory ; yes, but it cost us dear — For that company's roll, when called at night, Of A HUNDRED men who went into the fight The number was few that answered ^* Here I " THE BATTLE=FIELD. This striking poem is an American classic. Two lines alone, if there were no others, are enough to give it immortal fame : " Truth crushed to earth, shall rise again ; The eternal years of God are hers.'* NCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd. And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle cloud. Ah ! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave, Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they sought to save. Now all is calm, and fresh, and still. Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine are heard. Soon rested those who fought ; but thou Who mightiest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now. Thy warfare only ends with life. k friendless warfare ! lingering long Through weary day and weary year. A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof. And blench not at thy chosen lot. • The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may front — yet faint thou not. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast. The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born. Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again i The eternal years of God are hers ; But Error, wounded, writes with pain, And dies among his worshippers. Yea, though thou lie upon the dust. When they who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust. Like those who fell in battle here. Another hand thy sword shall wield. Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. W. C. Bryant. 150 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. THE SINKING OF THE MERRIMAC. The sinking of the ship Merrimac at the mouth of Santiago harbor, by Lieutenant Hobson, was one of the most daring exploits on record. It is here told in his own words, Although this selection is simple narrative, you should recite it in a spirited manner, with strong tones of voice, and show by your demeanor and expression that your are relating an event worthy of admiration. The figures printed in the text refer you to the corresponding numbers in " Typical Gestures," near the beginning of Part II. of this volume. Use other gestures that are appropriate, not in a stiff awkward way, but gracefully, making them appear, not forced, but natural. I DID not miss the entrance to the har- bor, I turned east until I got my in. DID not bon I bearings and then made ^ for it, straight Then came the firing. It was grand, " flashing out first from one side of the harbor and then from the other, from those big guns ^ on the hills, the Spanish ship Vizcaya, lying inside the harbor, joining in. Troops from Santiago had rushed down when the news of the Merrimac's coming was telegraphed and soon lined the foot of the cliff, firing wildly across and killing each other with the cross fire. The Merrimac's steering gear broke as she got to Estrella Point. Only three of the torpedoes on her side exploded when I touched the button. A huge submarine mine caught her full amid- ships, hurling the water high in the air and tearing ^ a great rent in the Merrimac's side. Her stern ran upon Estrella Point. Chiefly owing to the work done by the mine she began to sink slowly. At that time she was across the channel, but before she settled the tide drifted her around. We were all aft, lying on the deck. Shells ^^ and bullets whistled around. Six-inch shells from the Vizcaya came tearing into the Merrimac, crashing into wood and iron and passing clear through while the plunging shots from the fort broke through her decks. " Not a man ^ must move," I said, and it was only owing to the splendid discipline of the nien that we all were not killed, as the shells rained >verusand minutes became hours of suspense. The men's mouths grew parched, but we must lie there till daylight, I told them. Now and again one or the other of the men 13'ing with his face glued to the deck and wondering whether the next shell would not come our way would say : ^* Hadn't^ we better drop off now, sir ? " but I said : " Wait ^^ till daylight" It would have been impossible to get the catamaran or raft anywhere but to the shore, where the soldiers stood shooting, and I hoped that by daylight we might be recog- nized and saved. The grand old Merrimac kept sinking. I wanted to go forward and see the damage done there, where nearly all the fire was directed, but one man said that if I rose it would draw all the fire on the rest. So I lay motionless. It was splendid ^^ the way these men behaved. The fire^ of the soldiers, the batteries and the Vizcaya was awful. When the water came up on the Merrimac's decks the raft floated amid the wreckage, but she was still made fast to the boom, and we caught hold ^^ of the edge and clung on, our heads only being above water. One man thought we were safer right ^ there ; it was quite light; the firing had ceased, except that on the launch which followed to rescue us, and I feared^ Ensign Powell and his men had been killed. A Spanish launch ^ came roward the Mcr rimac. We agreed to capture her and run. Just as she came close the Spaniards saw us, and a half-dozen marines jumped up and pointed ^ their rifles at our heads. " Is there any officer in that boat to receive a surrendei of prisoners of war ? " I shouted. An old man leaned out under the awning and held out ^ his hand. It was the Spanish Admiral Cervera. PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. 151 THE STARS AND STRIPES, The following glowing tributes to our American Flag afford excellent selections for any patriotic occasion. They make suitable recitations for children at celebrations on the Fourth of July, Washing- ton's birthday, etc. NOTHING BUT FLAGS. lOTHING but flags ! but simple flags ! l^OTH I =z/ Tattered and torn, and hanging in rags ; J_|i> L^^^ And we walk benealh them with careless tread, Nor tliink of the hosts of the mighty dead Who have marched beneath them in days gone by With a burning cheek and a kindling eye, And have bathed their folds with their young life's tide, And dying blessed them, and blessing died, OUR BANNER. Hail to our banner brave All o'er the land and wave To-day unfurled. No folds to us so fair Thrown on the summer air j None with thee compare In all the world. W. P. TiLDEN. STAINED BY THE BLOOD OF HEROES. Around the globe, through every clime, Where commerce wafts or man hath trod, It floats aloft, unstained with crime. But hallowed by heroic blood. THE TATTERED ENSIGN. We seek not strife, but when our outraged laws Cry for protection in so just a cause. Ay, tear her tattered ensign dowp ' Long has it waved on high. And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky. Naii to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the God of storms, The lightning and the gale ! Oliver Wendell Holmes. THE FLAG OF OUR UNION. The union of lakes, the union of lands, The union of States none can sever ; The union of hearts, the union of hands. And the flag of our Union forever. George P. Morris FLAG OF THE FREE. When freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light. Flag Of" the free hearts' hope and home ! By angel hands to valor given ! Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet. Where breathes the foe, but falls before us, With freedom's soil beneath" our feet. And freedom's banner streaming o'er us. Joseph Rodman Drake. STAND BY THE FLAG. Stand by the flag ! on land and ocean billow ; By it your fathers stood, unmoved and true ; Living, defended ; dying, from their pillow. With their last blessing, passed it on to you. The lines that divide us are written in water, The lov3 that unite us is cut deep as rock. Thus by friendship's ties united, We will change the bloody past Into golden links of union, Blending all in love at last. 152 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. Thus beneath the one broad banner, Flag of the true, the brave, the free, We will build anew the Union, Fortress of our Liberty. FREEDOM'S STANDARD. God bless our star-gemmed banner ; Shake its folds out to the breeze ; From church, from fort, from house-top, Over the city, on the seas ; The die is cast, the storm at last Has broken in its might ; Unfurl the starry banner. And may God defend the right. Then bless our banner, God of hosts [ Watch o'er each starry fold ; 'Tis Freedom's standard, tried and proved On many a field of old ; And Thou, who long has blessed us, Now bless us yet again. And crown our cause with victory. And keep our flag from stain. RODNEY'S RIDE. On the third day of July, 1776, Caesar Rodney rode on horseback from St. James's Neck, below Dover, Delaware, to Philadelphia, in a driving rain storm, for the purpose of voting for the Declaration of Independence. This is an excellent reading for quick changes of voice and manner. To render it well will prove tha*. you have genuine dramatic ability. You should study this selection carefully and practice it until you are the complete master of it. It requires a great deal of life and spirit, with changes of voice from the low tone to the loud call. For the most part your utterance should be rapid, yet distinct. IN that soft mid -land where the breezes bear The North and South on the genial air, Through the county of Kent, on affairs of State, Rode Caesar Rodney, the delegate. Burly and big, and bold and bluff, In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff, A foe to King George and the English State, Was Caesar Rodney, the delegate. Into Dover village he rode apace. And his kinsfolk knew from his anxious face, It was matter grave that brought him there, To the counties three upon the Delaware. "Money and men we must have," he said, *'0r the Congress fails and our cause is dead. Give us both and the King shall not work his will, We are men, since the blood of Bunker Flill " Comes a rider swift on a panting bay ; " Ho, Rodney, ho ! you must save the day, For the Congress halts at a deed so great, And your vote alone may decide its fate." Answered Rodney then : "I will ride with speed ; It is Liberty's stress; it is Freedom's need." ''When stands it?" ''To-night." "Not a moment to spare. But ride like the wind from the Delaware." " Ho, saddle the black I I've but half a day, And the Congress sits eighty miles away — But I'll be in time, if God grants me grace, To shake my fist in King George's face." He is up; he is off! and the black horse flies On the northward road ere the "God-speed " dies, It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear. And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear. It is two of the clock ; and the fleet hoofs fling The Fieldsboro' dust with a clang and a cling, It is three; and he gallops with slack rein where The road winds down to the Delaware. Four; and he spurs into New Castle town. From his panting steed he gets him down — "A fresh one quick ! and not a moment's wait ! " And off speeds Rodney, the delegate. PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. 153 It is five; and ttie beams of the western sun Tinge the spires of Wilmington, gold and dun; Six; and the dust of Chester street Flies back in a cloud from his courser's feet. It is seven ; the horse-boat, broad of beam, At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream — ' A.nd at seven fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock, He flings his rein to the tavern jock. The Congress is met; the debate's begun, And Liberty lags for the vote of one — — *^.- When into the hall, not a moment late, Walks Caesar Rodney, the delegate. Not a moment late ! and that half day's ride Forwards the world with a mighty stride; For the act was passed ; ere the midnight stroke O'er the Quaker City its echoes woke. At Tyranny's feet was the gauntlet flung; " We are free ! " all the bells through the colonies rung, And the sons of the free may recall with pride. The day of Delegate Rodney's ride. (T^ '•••^ A SPOOL OF THREAD. The last battle of the Civil War was at Brazos, Texas, May 13, 1865, resulting in the surrender of the Texan army. Recite this in a conversational tone, as you would tell any story. ELL, yes, I've lived in Texas, since the spring of '61 ; And I'll relate the story, though I fear, sir, when 'tis done, 'Twill be little worth your hearing, it w^as such a simple thing, Unheralded in verses that the grander poets sing. There had come a guest unbidden, at the opening of the year. To find a lodgment in our hearts, and the tenant's name was fear; For secession's drawing mandate was a call for men and arms. And each recurring eventide but brought us fresh alarms. They had notified the General that he must yield to fate, And all the muniments of war surrender to the State, IBut he sent from San Antonio an order to the sea To convey on board the steamer all the fort's artillery. Right royal was his purpose, but the foe divined his plan. And the wily Texans set a guard to intercept the man Detailed to bear the message; they placed their watch with care That neither scout nor citizen should pass it unaware. Well, this was rather awkward, sir, as doubtless you will say. But the Major who was chief of staff resolved to have his w^ay, Despite the watchful provost guard ; so he asked his wife to send. With a little box of knick-knacks, a letter to her friend ; And the missive held one sentence I remember to this day : ''The thread is for your neighbor, Mr. French, across the way." He dispatched a youthful courier. Of course, as you will know, The Texans searched him thoroughly and ordered him to show The contents of the letter. They read it o'er and o'er, But failed to find the message they had hindered once before. So it reached the English lady, and she wondered at the word. 154 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. But gave the thread to Major French, explaining that she heard He wished a spool of cotton. And great was his surprise At such a trifle sent, unasked, through leagues of hostile spies. *' There's some hidden purpose, doubtless, in the curious gift," he said. Then he tore away the label, and inside the spool of thread Was Major Nichols' order, bidding him convey to sea iili the arms and ammunition from Fort Duncan's battery. ''Down to Brazon speed your horses," thus the Major's letter ran, ''Shift equipments and munitions, and embark them if you can." Yes, the transfer was effected, for the ships lay close at hand, Ere the Texans guessed their purpose they had vanished from the land. Do I know it for a fact, sir ? 'Tis no story that I've read — I was but a boy in war time, and I carried him the thread. Sophie E. Eastman. THE YOUNG PATRIOT, ABRAHAM LINCOLN. NE Fourth of July, v^hen Abraham Lincoln was a boy, he heard an ora- tion by old 'Squire Godfrey. As in the olden days, the 'Squire's oration was full of Washington; inspiring in the heart of young Lincoln an enthusiasm that sent him home burning with a desire to know more of the great man who heretofore had seemed more of a dream than a reality. Learning that a man some six miles up the creek owned a copy of Washington's life, Abraham did not rest that night until he had footed the whole distance and begged the loan of the book. " Sartin, sartin," said the owner. " The book is fairly well worn, but no leaves are missin', and a lad keen enough to read as to walk six miles to get a book, ought to be encouraged." It was a much-worn copy of Weem's " Life of Washington," and Abe, thanking the stranger for his kindness, walked back under the stars, stopping every little while to catch a glimpse of the features of the " Father of his Country" as shown in the frontispiece. After reaching home, tired as he was, he could not close his eyes until, by the light of a pirie knot, he had found out all that was recorded regarding the boyhood of the man who had so suddenly sprung into prominence in his mind. In that busy harvest season he had no time to read or study during the day, but every night, long after the other members of the family were sleeping peacefully, Abe lay, stretched upon the floor with his book on the hearth, reading, reading, reading, the pine knot in the fireplace furnishing all the light he needed, the fire within burning with such intense heat as to kindle a blaze that grew and increased until it placed him in the highest seat of his countrymen. What a marvelous insight into the human heart did Abraham Lincoln get between the covers of that wonderful book. The little cabin grew to be a paradise as he learned from the printed pages the story of one great man's life. The barefooted boy in buckskin breeches, so shrunken that they reached only halfway between the knee and ankle, actually asked himself whether there might not be some place — great and honorable, awaiting him in th future. Before this treasured " Life ot Washing- ton " was returned to its owner, it met with such a mishap as almost to ruin it. The PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. 155 book, which was lying on a board upheld by- two pegs, was soaked by the rain that dashed between the logs one night, when a storm beat with unusual force against the north end of the cabin. Abraham was heartbroken over the catastrophe, and sadly carried the book back to its owner, offering to work to pay for the damage done. The man con- sented, and the borrower worked for three days at seventy-five cents a day, and thus himself became the possessor of the old, fade:!, stained book — a book that had more to do with shaping his life, perhaps, than any one other thing. Abe had not expected to take the book back with him, but merely to pay for the damage done, and was surprised when the man handed it to him when starting. He was very grateful, however, and when he gave expression to his feelings the old man said, patting him on the shoulder: "You have earned it, my boy, and are welcome to it. It's a mighty fine thing to have a head for books, just as fine to have a heart for honesty, and If you keep agoin' as you have started, maybe some day you'll git to be President yourself. President Abraham Lin- coln ! That would sound fust rate, fust rate, now, wouldn't it, sonny ? '' " It's not a very handsome name, to be sure," Abe replied, looking as though he thought such an event possible, away off, In the future. " No, it's not a very very hand- some name, but I guess it's about as hand- some as its owner," he added, glancing at the reflection of his homely features in the little old-fashioned, cracked mirror hanging oppo- site where he sat. '' Handsome is that handsome does," said the old farmer, nodding his gray head in an approving style. " Yes, indeedy ; handsome deeds make handsome men. We hain't a nation of royal Idiots, with one generation of kings passin' away to make room for an- other. No, sir-ee. In this free country of ourn, the rich and poor stand equal chances, and a boy without money is just as likely to work up to the Presidential chair as the one who inherits from his parents lands and stocks and money and influence. It's brains that counts In this land of liberty, and Abraham Lincoln has just as much right to sit In the highest seat In the land as Washington's son himself, if he had had a son, which he hadn't." Who knows but the future War President of this great Republic received his first aspi- rations from this kindly neighbor's words? COLUMBIA. T^^OLUMBIA, Columbia, to glory arise; I V^ The queen of the world, and the child ^|U ^ of the skies ; Thy genius commands thee ; with rap- ture behold, While ages on ages thy splendors unfold. Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time, Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy cHme ; Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name. Be freedom, and science, and virtue, thy fame. To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire, Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire; Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend. And triumph pursue them, and glory attend. A world is thy realm — for a world be thy laws- Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause ; On freedom's broad basis thy empire shall rise, Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display, The nations admire, and the ocean obey ; 156 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold, And the east and the south yield their spices and gold. As the day-spring, unbounded, tliy splendor shall flow, And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow. While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled, Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world. Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'er- spread. From war's dread confusion, I pensively strayed, The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired ; The winds ceased to murmur ; the thunder expired ; Perfumes, as of Eden, flowed sweetly along, And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung, " Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise; The queen of the world, and the child of the skies." Joel Barlow. CAPTAIN MOLLY AT MONMOUTH. One of the farri^as battles of the Revolution was that of Monmouth, New Jersey, which was fought on the 28th of June, 1778. General Washington was in command on the American side, and General Sir Henry Clinton was commander-in-chief of the British forces. The Bridsh troops met with a decisive defeat. The wife of an Irish gunner on the American side who went by the name of Molly had followed her husband to the battle. During the engagement he was shot down. With the most undaunted heroism Molly rushed forward and took his place at the gun and remained there throughout the thickest of the fight. In reciting this graphic account of her courageous deed you should show great spirit and animation, pointing her out as she takes her husband's place, and in glowing manner describe her patriotism. N the bloody field of Monmouth flashed the guns of Greene and Wayne ; Fiercely roared the tide of battle, thick the sward was heaped with slain. Foremest, facing death and danger, Hessian horse and grenadier, In the vanguard, fiercely fighting, stood an Irish cannoneer. Loudly roared his iron cannon, mingling ever in the strife, And beside him, firm and daring, stood his faithful Irish wife; Of her bold contempt of danger, Greene and Lee's brigade could tell. Every one knew ''Captain Molly," and tlie army loved her well. Surged the roar of battle round them, swiftly flew the iron hail ; Forv/ard dashed a thousand bayonets that lone battery to assail ; From the foeman's foremost columns swept a furious fusilade, Mowing down the massed battalions in the ranks of Greene's brigade. Faster and faster worked the gunner, soiled with powder, blood and dust ; English bayonets shone before him, shot and shell around him burst ; Still he fought with reckless daring, stood and manned her long and well, Till at last the gallant fellow dead beside his cannon fell. With a bitter cry of sorrow, and a dark and angry frown. Looked that band of gallant patriots at their gunner stricken down. '' Fall back, comrades! It is folly thus to strive against the foe." ' ' Not so ! " cried Irish Molly, * ' we can strike another blow ! " Quickly leaped she to the cannon in her fallen husband's place, Sponged and rammed it fast and steady, fired iv in the foeman's face. Flashed another ringing volley, roared anothei from the gun ; ''Boys, hurrah ! " cried gallant Molly, " for the flag of Washington!" PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. 157 Greene's brigade, though shorn and shattered, slain and bleeding half their men. When they heard that Irish slogan, turned and charged the foe again; Knox and Wayne and Morgan rally, to the front they forward wheel. And before their rushing onset Clinton's Eng- lish columns reel. Still the cannon's voice in anger rolled and rattled o'er the plain. Till they lay in swarms around it mingled heaps of Hessian slain. *' Forward ! charge them with the bayonet ! ' 'twas the voice of Washington ; And there burst a fiery greeting from the Irish- woman's gun. Monckton falls ; against his columns leap the troops of Wayne and Lee, And before their reeking bayonets Clinton's red battalions flee ; Morgan's rifles, fiercely flashing, thin the foe's retreating ranks. And behind them, onward dashing, Ogden hovers on their flanks. Fast they fly, those boasting Britons, who in all their glory came, With their brutal Hessian hirelings to wipe out our country's name. Proudly floats the starry banner; Monmouth's glorious field is won ; And, in triumph, Irish Molly stands besides her smoking gun. William Collins. DOUGLAS TO THE POPULACE OF STIRLING. 'EAR, gentle friends ! ere yet, for me, Ye break the bands of fealty. My life, my honor, and my cause, I tender free to Scotland's laws. Are these so weak as must require The aid of your misguided ire ? Or, if I suffer causeless wrong. Is then my selfish rage so strong. My sense of public weal so low. That, for mean vengeance on a foe. Those cords of love I should unbind Which knit my country and my kind ? Oh no ! believe, in yonder tower It will not soothe my captive hour, To know those spears our foes should dread For me in kindred gore are red ; To know, in fruitless brawl begun, For me, that mother wails her son ; For me that widow's mate expires, For me, that orphans weep their sires, That patriots mourn insulted laws, And curse the Douglas for the cause. O let your patience ward such ill, And keep your right to lo^^e me still. Sir Walter Scott. OUR COUNTRY. UR country ! — 'tis a glorious land ! With broad arms stretched from shore to shore. The proud Pacific chafes her strand. She hears the dark Atlantic roar ; And, nurtured on her ample breast. How many a goodly prospect lies In Nature's wildest grandeur drest, Enamelled with her loveliest dyes. decked with flowers of; Rich prairies, gold, Like sunlit oceans roll afar ; Broad lakes her azure heavens behold, Reflecting clear each trembling star, And mighty rivers, mountain-born, Go sweeping onward dark and deep. Through forests where the bounding fawn Beneath their sheltering branches leap. 158 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. And, cradled mid her clustering hills, Sweet vales in dreamlike heauty h;de, Where love the air vvi:h music f.lLs ; And calm content and peace abide; For plenty here her fulness pours In rich profusion o'er the land, And sent to seize her generous stores. There prowls no tyrant's hireling band. Great God ! we thank thee for this home— - This bounteous birtliland of the free ; Wliere wanderers from afar may come, And breathe the air of liberty ! — Still may her flowers untrampled spring, Her harvests wave, her cities rise ; And yet, till Time shall fold his wing, Remain Earth's loveliest paradise ! W. G. Pkabodik. M'lLRATH OF MALATE, Acting Sergeant J. A. Mcllrath, Battery H, Third Artillery, Regulars ; enhsted from New York; fifteen years' service. The heroism of our brave Regulars in the War with Spain was the theme of universal admiration. Throw plenty of life and fire into this reading, and avoid a sing-song tone. ■^/^. ES, yes, my boy, there's no mistake, Y^ You put the contract through ! "^ You lads with Shafter, I'll allow, Were heroes, tried and true; But don't forget the men who fought About Manila Bay, And don't forget brave Mcllrath Who died at Malat6. The night was black, save where the forks Of tropic lightning ran, When, with a long deep thunder-roar, The typhoon storm began. Then, suddenly above the din, We heard the steady bay Of volleys from the trenches where The Pennsylvanians lay. The Tenth, we thought, could hold their own Against the feigned attack, And, if the Spaniards dared advance, Would pay them doubly back. But soon we marked the volleys sink Into a scattered fire — And, now we heard the Spanish gun Boom nigher yet and nigher ! Then, like a ghost, a courier Seemed past our picket tossed With wild hair streaming in his face— ** We're lost— we're lost— we're lost.** ''Front, front — in God's nam.e— front! " he cried : '' Our ammunition's gone ! " He turned a face of dazed dismay — And through the night sped on ! "Men, follow me ! " cried Mcllrath, Our acting Sergeant then ; And when he gave the word he knew He gave the word to men ! Twenty there — not one man more— But down the sunken road We dragged the guns of Battery H, Nor even stopped to load ! Sudden, from the darkness poured A storm of Mauser hail— But not a man there thought to pause. Nor any man to quail ! Ahead, the Pennsylvanians' guns In scattered firing broke ; The Spanish trenches, red with flame. In fiercer volleys spoke ! Down with a rush our twenty came — The open field we passed — And in among the hard-pressed Tenth We set our feet at last ! Up, with a leap, sprang Mcllrath, Mud-spattered, worn and wet, And, in an instant, there he stood High on the parapet I II PATHIOTIC RECITATIONS. 159 " Steady, boys ! we've got 'em now — Only a minute late ! It's all right, lads — we've got 'em wiiipped. Just give 'em volleys straight ! " Then, up and down the parapet With head erect he went, As cool as when he sat with us ^ Beside our evening tent ! Not one of us, close sheltered there Down in the trench's pen, But felt that he would rather die Than shame or grieve him then 1 The fire, so close to being qnenched In panic and defeat, Leaped forth, by rapid volleys sped, In one long deadly sheet ! A cheer went up along the line As breaks the thunder-call — But, as it rose, great God ! we saw Our gallant Sergeant fall ! He sank into our outstretched arms Dead — but immortal grown ; And Glory brightened where he fell, And valor claimed her own ! John Jerome Rooney. AFTER THE BATTLE. If you should read or recite this tragic selection in a dull monotone, as most persons read poetry, the effect would be ludicrous. The brave captain is dying. With gasping utterance, signs of weakness and appealing looks, his words should be delivered. Some of the sentences should be whispered. Do not attempt to recite this piece until you have mastered it and can render it with telhng effect. It demands the trained powers of a competent elocutionist. ''It can make no difference whether I go from here or there. Thou' It write to father and tell him when I am dead ?— The eye that sees the sparrow fall numbers every hair Even of this poor head. ^f^ RAVE captain ! canst thou speak ? What is it thou dost see ? "^ ) A wondrous glory lingers on thy face, The night is past ; I've watched the night with thee. Knowest thou the place? *' " The place ? 'Tis San Juan, comrade. Is the battle over? The victory — the victory — is it won ? My wound is mortal ; I know I cannot recover — The battle for me is done ! " I never thought it would come to this ! Does it rain ? The musketry I Give me a drink j ah, that is glorious ! Now if it were not for this pain— this pain — Didst thou say victorious ? "It would not be strange, would it, if I do wander ? A man can't remember with a bullet in his brain. I wish when at home I had been a little fonder— Shall I ever be well again ? " Tarry awhile, comrade, the battle can wait for thee; I will try to keep thee but a few brief moments longer ; Thou'lt say good-bye to the friends at home for me? — If only I were a little stronger ! " I must not think of it. Thou art sorry for me? The glory — is it the glory ? — makes me blind ; Strange, for the light, comrade, the light I can- not see — Thou hast been very kind ! "I do not think I have done so very much evil — I did not mean it. ' I lay me down to sleep, 160 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. I pray the Lord my soul ' — ^jiist a little rude and uncivil — Comrade, why dost thou weep ? *' Oh ! if human pity is so gentle and tender — Good-night, good friends ! ' I lay me down to sleep !' — Who from a Heavenly Father's love needs a de- fender ? * My soul to keep!' " ' If I should die before I wake ' — comrade, tell mother, Remember — T pray the Lord my soul to take !' My musket thou'lt carry back to my little brother For my dear sake ! " Attention, company ! Reverse arms ! Very well, men ; my thanks. Where am I ? Do I wander, comrade, — wan- der again ? — Parade is over. Company E, break ranks ! break ranks ! I know it is the pain. ''Give me thy strong hand; fain would I cling, comrade to thee ; I feel a chill air blown from a far-off shore ; My sight revives; Death stands and looks at me. What waits he for ? ''Keep back my ebbing pulse till I be bolder grown ; I would know something of the Silent Land ; It's bard to struggle to the front alone — Comrade, thy hand. ^ "The 7'eveine calls! be strong, my soul, and peaceful ; The Eternal City bursts upon my sight ! The ringing air with ravishing melody is full— I've won the fight ! "Nay, comrade, let me go; hold not my hand so steadfast ; I am commissioned — under marching orders — ■ I know the Future — let the Past be past — I cross the bai'dersJ''' THE GREAT NAVAL BATTLE OF MANILA. ITH the United States flag flying at all their mastheads, our ships moved to the attack in line ahead, with a speed of eight knots, first passing in front of Manila, where the action was begun by three batteries mounting guns powerful enough to send a shell over us at a distance of five miles. The Concord's guns boomed out a reply to these batteries with two shots. No more were fired, because Admiral Dewey could not engage with these batteries without send- ing death and destruction into the crowded city. As we neared Cavite two very powerful submarine mines were exploded ahead of the flagship. The Spaniards had misjudged our position. Immense volumes of water were thrown high in air by these destroyers, but no harm was done to our ships. Admiral Dewey had fought with Farragut at New Orleans and Mobile Bay, where he had his first experience with torpedoes. Not knowing how many more mines there might be ahead, he still kept on without faltering. No other mines exploded, however, and it is believed that the Spaniards had only these two in place. Only a few minutes later the shore battery at Cavite Point sent over the flagship a shot that nearly hit the battery in Manila, but soon the guns got a better range, and the shells began to strike near us, or burst close, aboard from both the batteries and the Span- ish vessels. The heat was intense. Mer stripped off all clothing except their trousers. As the Admiral's flagship, the Olympia, drew nearer all was as silent on board as ii the ship had been empty, except for the whirr of blowers and the throb of the en- PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. 16. gines. Suddenly a shell burst directly over us. From the boatswain's mate at the after 5 -inch gun came a hoarse cry. ** Remember the Maine !" arose from the throats of five hundred men at the guns. This watchword was caught up in turrets and fire-rooms, wherever seaman or fireman stood at his post " Remember the Maine !" had rung out for defiance and revenge. Its utterance seemed unpremeditated, but was evidently in every man's mind, and, now that the moment had come to make adequate reply to the murder of the Maine's crew, every man shouted what was in his heart. The Olympia was now ready to begin 1lie fight. "You may fire when ready, Captain Gridley," said the Admiral, and at nineteen minutes of six o'clock, at a distance of 5,500 yards, the starboard 8-inch gun in the for- ward turret roared forth a compliment to the Spanish forts. Presently similar guns from the Baltimore and the Boston sent 250-pound shells hurtling toward the Spanish ships Cas- tilla and the Reina Christina for accuracy. The Spaniards seemed encouraged to fire faster, knowing exactly our distance, while we had to guess theirs. Their ship and shore guns were making things hot for us. The piercing scream of shot was varied often by the bursting of time fuse shells, fragments of which would lash the water like shrapnel or cut our hull and rigging. One large shell that was coming straight at the Olympia's forward bridge fortunately fell within less than one hundred feet away. One tragment cut the rigging exactly over the heads of some of the officers. Another struck the bridge gratings in line with it. A third passed just under Dewey and gouged a hole in the deck. Incidents like these were plentiful. " Capture and destroy Spanish squadron," were Dewey's orders. Never were instruc- tions more effectually carried out. Within seven hours after arriving on the scene of action nothing remained to be done. The Admiral closed the day by anchoring off the city of Manila and sending word to the Gover- nor General that if a shot was fired from the city at the fleet he would lay Manila in ashes. What was Dewey's achievement? He steamed into Manila Bay at the dead hour of the night, through the narrower of the two channels, and as soon as there was daylight enough to grope his way about he put his ships in line of battle and brought on an en- gagement, the greatest in many respects in ancient or modern warfare. The results ar«i known the world over — every ship in the Spanish fleet destroyed, the harbor Dewey's own, his own ships safe from the shore batter- ies, owing to the strategic position he occupied, and Manila his whenever he cared to take it. Henceforth, so long as ships sail and flags wave, high on the scroll that bears the names of the world's greatest naval heroes will be written that of George Dewey. THE SINKING OF THE SHIPS. This is an excellent selection for any one who can put dramatic force into its recital. Picture lu your Imagination the "Sinking of the Ships," and then describe it to your hearers as though the actual scene were before you. You have command in these words, "Now, sailors, stand by," etc.; rapid utterance in Ihese words, "And the Oregon flew," etc.; subdued tenderness in the words, "Giving mercy to all," etc. In short, the who2« piece affords an excellent opportunity for intense dramatic description. w RK, daik is the night; not a star in the sky, And the Maii:^ rides serenely; what danger is ni^h? (II-X) Our nation's at peace with the Kingdom of Spain, So calmly they rest in the battleship Maine. But, hark to that roar ! See, the water is red ! And the sailor sleeps now with the slime for his bed. 162 PATRIOTIC kEClTATIONa Havana then shook, like the leaves of the trees, When the tornado rides on the breast of the breeze ; Then people sprang up from their beds in the gloom, As they'll spring from their graves at the thunder of doom ; A.nd they rushed through the streets, in their terror and fear, Grying out as they ran, *' Have the rebels come here ? ' ' *'0h, see how the flame lights the shores of the bay, Like the red rising sun at the coming of day; 'Tis a ship in a blaze ! 'lis the battleship Maine ! What means this to us and the Kingdom of Spain ? The eagle will come at that loud sounding roar, And our flag will fly free over Cuba no more." Dark, dark is the night on the face of the deep, In the forts all is still ; are the soldiers asleep ? Oh, see how that ship glides along through the night ; *Tis the ghost of the Maine — she has come to the fight ; A flash, and a roar, and a cry of despair ; The eagle has come, for brave Dewey is there. Oh, Spaniards, come out, for the daylight has fled. And look on those ships — look with terror and dread ; The eagle has come, and he swoops to his prey ; Oh, fly, Spaniards, fly, to tliat creek in the bay ! The eagle has come — " Remember the Maine ! " And the water is red with the blood of the slain. They rest for a time — now they sail in again ! Oh, woe, doom and woe, to the kingdom of Spain. Their ships are ablaze, they are battered and rent. By the death-dealing shells which our sailors have sent. Not a man have we lost ; yet the battle is o'er, And their ships ride the bay of Manila no more. Dark, silent and dark, on the face of the deep, A ship glides in there; are the Spaniards asleep? The channel is mined ! Oh, rash sailors betwaf^ i Or that death dealing fiend will spring up from his lair ; He will tear you, and rend you, with wild fiend ish roar. And cast you afar on the bay and the shore ! They laugh at the danger ; what care they for death? 'Tis only a shock and the ceasing of breath ; Their souls to their Maker, their forms to the wave. What nation has sons like the home of the brave ? That ship they would steer to the pit of despair, If duty cried " Onward ! " and glory were there. The shore is ablaze, but the channel they gain ; A word of command, and the rattle of chain ; A flash — and the Merrimac's sunk in the bay. And the Spaniard must leave in the light of the day. Santiago and Hobson remembered shall be. While waves the proud flag of the brave and the free. The Spaniards sail out — what a glorious sight ! Now, sailors, stand by and prepare for the fight ; O, Glo'ster, in there, pelt the Dons as they fly. Make us glorious news for the Fourth of July ! And Wainwright remembered the Maine with a roar. And that shell-battered hulk is a terror no more. Then Schley and the Brooklyn were right in the way. But Sampson had gone to see Shafter, they say ; And the Oregon flew like a fury from hell. Spreading wreckage and death with the might of her shell ; Then Evans stood out, like a chivalrous knight^ Giving mercy to all at the end of the fight. The Colon still flies, but a shell cleaves the air, Its number is fatal — a cry of despair — Slie turns to the shore, she bursts into flame, And down comes the flag of the kingdom of Spain ; Men float all around, the battle is done. And their ships are all sunk for the sinkin^ of one^ Not ours is the hand that would strike night, With the fiendish intention to mangle and slay; PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS, in ih 163 We strike at obstruction to freedom and right, And strike when we strike in the light of the day. W. B. Collison. ^..0.0..^ i PERRY'S CELEBRATED ,ERRY'S famous battle on Lake Erie raised the spirits of the Americans. The British had six ships, with sixty-three guns. The Americans had nine ships, with fifty-four guns, and the American ships were much smaller than the English. At this time Perry, the American commander, was but twenty-six years of age. His flagship was the Lawrence, The ship's watchword was the last charge of the Chesa- peake's dying Commander — " Don't give up the ship.'' The battle was witnessed by thousands of people on shore. At first the advantage seemed to be with the English. Perry's flagship was riddled by English shots, her guns were dismounted and the battle seemed lost. At the supreme crisis Perry embarked in a small boat with some of his officers, and under the fire of many cannon passed to the Niagara, another ship of the fleet, of which he took command. After he had left the Lawrence she hauled down her flag and surrendered, but the other American ships carried on the battle with such fierce impetuosity that the English VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE. battle-ship in turn surrendered, the Lawrence was retaken and all the English ships yielded with the exception of one, which took -flight. The Americans pursued her, took her and came back with the entire British squadron. In the Capitol at Washington is a historical picture showing this famous victory. In Perry's great battle on Lake Erie was shown the true stuff of which American sailors are made. Perry was young, bold and dashing, but withal, he had the coolness and intrepidity of the veteran. History records few braver acts than his passage in an open boat from one ship to another under the galling fire of the enemy. The grand achievements of the American navy are brilliant chapters in our country^s history. When the time comes for daring deeds, our gallant tars are equal to the occa- sion. Coolness in battle, splendid discipline, perfect marksmanship and a patriotism that glories in the victory of the Stars and Stripes, combine to place the officers and men of our navy in the front rank of the world's greatest heroes. /^N THE CAPTURE OF QUEBEC. ENERAL WOLFE, the English \ f^ I commander, saw that he must take Quebec by his own efforts or not at all. He attempted several diversions above the city in the hope of drawing Mont- calm, the French comimander, from his in- trenchments into the open field, but Mont- calm merely sent De Bougainville with fifteen hundred men to watch the shore above Que- bec and prevent a landing, Wolfe fell into a fever, caused b)^ his anxiety, and his despatches to his government created the gravest uneasiness in England for the success of his enterprise. Though ill, Wolfe examined the river with eagle eyes to detect some place at which a 164 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. landing could be attempted. His energy was rewarded by his discovery of the cove which now bears his name. From the shore at the head of this cove a steep and difficult pathway, along which two men could scarcely march abreast, wound up to the summit of the heights and was guarded by a small force of Canadians. Wolfe at once resolved to effect a landing here and ascend the heights by this path. The greatest secrecy was necessary to the success of the undertaking, and in order to deceive the French as to his real design, Captain Cook, afterwards famous as a great navigator, was sent to take soundings and place buoys opposite Montcalm's camp, as if that were to be the real point of attack. The morning of the thirteenth of September was chosen for the movement, and the day and night of the twelfth were spent in prepara- tions for it. At one o'clock on the morning of the thir- teenth a force of about five thousand men under Wolfe, with Monckton and Murray, set off in boats from the fleet, which had ascended the river several days before, and dropped down to the point designated for the land- ing. Each officer was thoroughly informed of the duties required of him, and each shared the resolution of the gallant young commander, to conquer or to die. As the boats floated down the stream, in the clear, cool starlight, Wolfe spoke to his officers of the poet Gray, and of his " Elegy in a Country Churchyard." "I would prefer," said he, " being the author of that poem to the glory of beating the French to-morrow." Then in a musing voice he repeated the lines : " The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. Await alike the inexorable hour ; The paths of glory lead but to the grave." In a short while the landing-place was reached, and the flecc, following silently, took position to cover the landing if neces- sary. Wolfe and his immediate command leaped ashore and secured the pathway. The light infantry, who were carried by the tide a little below the path, climbed up th(f side of the heights, sustaining themselves b; clinging to the roots and shrubs which lined the precipitous face of the hill. They I reached the summit and drove off the picket- guard after a light skirmish. The rest of the troops ascended in safety by the path- way. Having gained the heights, Wolfe moved forward rapidly to clear the forest, and by daybreak his army was drawn up on the Heights of Abraham, in the rear of the city. Montcalm was speedily informed of the presence of the English. " It can be but a small party come to burn a few houses and retire," he answered incredulously. A brief examination satisfied him of his danger, and he exclaimed in amazement : *' Then they have at last got to the weak side of this miserable garrison. We must give battle and crush them before mid-day." He at once despatched a messenger for De Bougainville, who was fifteen miles up the river, and marched from his camp opposite the city to the Heights of Abraham to drive the English from them. The opposing forces were about equal in numbers, though the English troops were superior to their adver- saries in discipline, steadiness and determina- tion. The battle began about ten o'clock and was stubbornly -contested. It was at length decided in favor of the English. Wolfe though wounded several times, continued to direct his army until, as he was leading them to a final charge, he received a musket ball in the breast. He tottered and called to an officer near him : " Support me; let not my brave fellows see me drop.'' He PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. 165 was borne tenderly to the rear, and water was brought him to quench his thirst. At this moment the officer upon whom he was leaning cried out : " They run ! they run ! " ** Who run ? " asked the dying hero, eagerly. *' The French," said the officer, " give way everywhere." " What," said Wolfe, summoning up his remaining strength, " do they run already ? Go, one of you, to Colonel Burton; bid him march Webb's regiment with all speed to Charles River to cut off the fugitives." Then a smile of con- tentment overspreading his pale features, he murmured : " Now, God be praised, I die happy," and expired. He had done his whole duty, and with his life had purchased an empire for his country. James D. McCabe. LITTLE JEAN. At the battle of the Pyramids, July 21st, A. D. lygS. URNING sands, and isles of palm, and the Mamelukes' fierce array, Under the solemn Pyramids, Napo- leon saw that day ; ** Comrades," he cried, '' from those old heights, Fame watches the deeds you do, The eyes of forty centuries are fixed this day on you I " They answered him with ringing shouts, they were eager for the fray, Napoleon held their central square, in front was bold Desaix ; They gave one glance to the Pyramids, one glance to the rich Cairo, And then they poured a rain of fire upon their charging foe. Only a little drummer boy, from the column of Dufarge, Tottered to where the " Forty-third ' ' stood wait- ing for their '' charge," Bleeding— but beating still his call — he said, with tear-dimmed eye : "I'm but a baby, Forty- third, so teach me how to die!" Then Regnier gnawed his long gray beard, and Joubert turned away. The lad had been the pet of all, they knew not what to say ; *'I will not shame you, 'Forty-third,' though I am but a child ! " Then Regnier stooped and kissed his face, and shouted loud and wild : * ' Forward ! Why are we waiting here ? Shall Mamelukes stop our way ? Come, little Jean, and beat the 'charge/ a^ad ours shall be the day ; And we will show thee how to die, good boy ! good boy I Be brave ! It is not every ' nine years' old' can fill a soldier's grave ! " It was as though a spirit spoke, the men to bat- tle flew ; Yet each in passing, cried aloud: ''My little Jean, Adieu ! " "Adieu, brave Forty-third, Adieu!" Then proudly beat his drum — " You've showed me how a soldier dies — and lit- tle Jean will come ! " They found him 'mid the skin next day, amid the brave who fell, Said Regnier, proudly, " My brave Jean, thou learned thy lesson well ! ' ' They hung the medal round his neck, and crossed his childish hands, And dug for him a little grave in Egypt's lonely sands. But, still, the corps his memory keep, and name with flashing eye, The hero whom the " Forty-third, " in Egypt, taught to die. Lillie E. Barr. 166 PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS. W: THE DEFEAT OF GENERAL BRADDOCK. ASHINGTON, who, at this time, was a subordinate officer, was well convinced that the French and In- dians were informed of the movements of the army and would seek to interfere with it before its arrival at Fort Duquesne, which was only ten miles distant, and urged Brad- dock to throw in advance the Viiginia Ran- gers, three hundred strong, as they were ex- perienced Indian fighters. Braddock angrily rebuked his aide, and as if to make the rebuke more pointed, ordered the Virginia troops and other provincials to take position in the rear of the regulars. In the meantime the French at Fort Du- quesne had been informed by their scouts of Brr^ddock's movements, and had resolved to ambuscade him on his march. Early on the morning of the ninth a force of about two hundred and thirty French and Canadians and six hundred and thirty-seven Indians, under De Beaujeu, the commandant at Fort Duquesne, was despatched with orders to occupy a designated spot and attack the en- emy upon their approach. Before reaching it, about two o'clock in the afternoon, they encountered the advanced force of the Eng- lish army, under Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Gage, and at once attacked them with spirit. The English army at this moment was moving along a narrow road, about twelve feet in width, with scarcely a scout thrown out in advance or upon the flanks. The en- gineer who was locating the road was the first to discover the enemy, and called out: " French and Indians ! " Instantly a heavy fire was opened upon Gage's force, and his indecision allowed the French and Indians to seize a commanding ridge, from which they maintained their attack with spirit. The regulars were quickly thrown into confusion by the heavy fire and the fierce yells of the Indians, who could nowhere be seen, and their losses were so severe and sud- den that they became panic-stricken. The only semblance of resistance main- tained by the English was by the Virginia Rangers, whom Braddock had insulted at the beginning of the day's march. Immediately upon the commencement of the battle, they had adopted the tactics of the Indians, and had thrown themselves behind trees, from which shelter they were rapidly picking off the Indians. Washington entreated Brad- dock to follow the example of the Virginians, but he refused, and stubbornly endeavored to form them in platoons under the fatal fire that was being poured upon them by their hidden assailants. Thus through his obstinacy, many useful lives were lost. The officers did not share the panic of the men, but behaved with the greatest gallantry. They were the especial marks of the Indian sharpshooters, and many of them were killed or wounded. Two of Braddock's aides were seriously wounded, and their duties devolved upon Washington in addition to his own. He passed repeatedly over the field, carrying the orders of the commander and encourag- ing the men. When sent to bring up the artillery, he found it surrounded by Indians, its commander, Sir Peter Halket, killed, and the men standing helpless from fear. Springing from his horse, he appealed to the men to save the guns, pointed a field- piece and discharged it at the savages and entreated the gunners to rally. He couW accomplish nothing by either his words or i example. The men deserted the guns and ' fled. In a letter to his brother, Washington wrote : " I had four bullets through my coat, 1 two horses shot under me, yet escaped un- ■ hurt, though death was levelling my com- panions on every side around me." James D. McCade Descriptive and Dramatic Recitations ■ — ^■■■'^•■'^ — ■ QUICK ! MAN THE LIFE=BOAT ! This sefection demands great vivacity and intense dramatic expression. Each reference to the life-boat reqLiiies rapid utterance, elevated pitch and strong tones of command. Point to the hfe-boat ; you are to see it, and make your audience see it. They will see it in imagination if you do ; that is, if you speak and act as if you stood on the shore and actually saw the life-boat hurrying to the rescue. UICK ! man the life -boat ! See yon bark That drives before the blast ? There's a rock ahead, the fog is dark, And the storm comes thick and fast. Can human power, in such an hour, Avert the doom that's o'er her? Her mainmast's gone, but she still drives on To the fatal reef before. The life-boat ! Man the life-boat ! Quick ! man the life-boat ! hark ! the gun Booms through the vapory air; And see ! the signal flags are on, And speak the ship's despair. That forked flash, that pealing crash, Seemed from the wave to sweep her : She's on the rock, with a terrible shock — And the wail comes louder and deeper. The life-boat ! Man the life-boat! Quick ! man the life-boat ! See- Gaze on their watery grave : Already, some, a ga.Uant few, Are battling with the wave ; ■the crew And one there stands, and Avrings his hand As thoughts of home con^ o'er him ; For his wife and child, through the tempest wild, He sees on the heights before him. The life-boat ! Man the life-boat ! Speed, speed the life-boat ! Off she goes ! And, as they pulled the oar, From shore and ship a cheer arose, That startled ship and shore. Life-saving ark ! yon fated bark Has human lives within her; _\xid dearer than gold is the wealth untold, Thou' It save if thou canst win her. On, life-boat ! Speed thee, life-boa^ f Hurrah ! the life-boat dashes on. Though darkly the reef may frown ; The rock is there — the ship is gone Full twenty fathoms down. But cheered by hope, the seamen cope With the billows single-handed ; They are all in the boat ! — hurrah ! they're afloat \ And now they are safely landed By the life-boat ! Cheer the life-boat J BEAUTIFUL HANDS. (^fr' S I remember the first fair touch f^ Of those beautiful hands that I love so much, seem to thrill as I then was thrilled Kissing the glove that I found unfilled— When I met your gaze and the queenly bow As you said to me laughingly, ^' Keep it now ! " M<_^ And dazed and alone in a dream I stana Kissing the ghost of your beautiful hand. When first I loved in the long ago. And held your hand as I told you so — Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss, And said, " I could die for a hand like this * *' 167 168 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. Little I dreamed love's fullness yet Had I to ripen when eyes were wet, And prayers were vain in their wild demands For one warm touch of your beautiful hands. Beautiful hands ! O, beatitiful hands I Could you reach out of the alien lands Where you are lingering, and give me to-night Only a touch — were it ever so light — My heart were soothed, and my weary brain Would lull itself into rest again ; For there is no solace the Avorld commands Like the caress of your beautiful hands. Jam'^s Whitcomb Riley, THE BURNING SHIR The general character of this selection is intensely dramatic. It is a most excellent piece for any one who has the ability and training to do it full justice. The emotions of agony, horror and exultation are here, and should be made prominent. Let the cry of " Fire ! " ring out in startUng tones, and let your whole manner correspond with the danger and the excitement of the scene. The rate throughout should be rapid. The figures in the text refer you to the corresponding numbers of Typical Gestures, at the beginning of Part 11 of this volume. Insert other gestures of your own. (j^ I HE storm o'er the ocean flew furious and * I fast, -^ And the waves rose in foam at the voice of the blast, And heavily ^ labored the gale-beaten ship, Like a stout-hearted swimmer, the spray at his lip; And dark^^ was the sky o'er the mariner's path, Save when the wild lightning illumined in wrath, A young mother knelt in the cabin below, And pressing her babe to her bosom of snow, She prayed to her God,^° 'mid the hurricane wild, "O Father, have mercy, look down on my child ! " It passed — the fierce whirlwind careered on its way. And the ship like an arrow '^ divided the spray; Her sails glimmered white in the beams of the moon, And the wind up aloft seemed to whistle a tune — to whistle a tune. There was joy'* in the ship as she furrowed the foam. For fond hearts within her were dreaming of home. The young mother pressed her fond babe to her breast. And the husband sat clieerily down by her side, A.i;d looked with delight on the face of his bride. '• Oh, ^^ happy," said he, ^Svhen our roaming is o'er, We'll dwell in our cottage that stands by the shore. Already in fancy its roof I descry, And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky) Its garden so green, and its vine-covered wall; The kind friends^ awaiting to welcome us all, And the children that sport by the ^Id oaken tree." Ah gently the ship glided over the sea ! Hark ! '^ what was that ? Hark ! Hark to the shout ! ' ' Fire ! " ^*^ Then a tramp and a rout, and a tumult of voices uprose on the air; — And the mother knelt ^ down, and the half- spoken prayer, That she offered to God in her agony wild. Was, ''Father, have mercy, look down on my child!" She flew to her husband,^ she clung to his side, Oh there was her refuge whate'er might betide. ''Fire!"'° ''Fire!" It was raging above and below — And the cheeks of the sailors grew pale at the sight , And their eyes glistened wild in the glare of the light, 'Twas vain o'er the ravage the waters to drip ; The pitiless flame was the lord of the ship, DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 169 And tne smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher. " O God, ^° it is fearful to perish by fire." Alone with destruction, alone on the sea, " Great Father of mercy, our hope is in thee." Sad at heart and resigned, yet undaunted and brave, They lowered the boat,"^ a mere speck on the wave. First entered the mother, enfolding her child : It knew she caressed it, looked ^^ upward and smiled. Cold, cold was the night as they drifted away. And mistily dawned o'er the pathway the day— And they prayed for the light, and at noontide about. The sun^^ o'er the waters shone joyously out. '' Ho ! a sail ! ^ Ho ! a sail ! " cried the man at the lee, ' Ho ! a sail ! " ^ and they turned their glad eyes o'er the sea. '^ They see us, they see us," the signal is waved | They bear down upon us, they bear down upon us: Huzza! we are saved." THE UNKNOWN SPEAKER, IT is the Fourth day of July, 1776. In the old State House in the city of Philadelphia are gathered half a hundred men to strike from their limbs the shackles of British despotism. There is silence in the hall — every face is turned toward the door where the committee of three, who have been out all night penning a parchment, are soon to enter. The door opens, the committee appears. The tali man with the sharp fea- tures, the bold brow, and the sand-hued hair, holding the parchment in his hand, is a Vir- ginia farmer, Thomas Jefferson. That stout- built man with stern look and flashing eye, is a Boston man, one John Adams. And that calm-faced man with hair drooping in thick curls to his shoulders, that is the Phil- adelphia printer, Benjamin Franklin. The three advance to the table. The parchment is laid there. Shall it be signed or not? A fierce debate ensues, Jefferson speaks a few bold words. Adams pours out his whole soul. The deep- toned voice of Lee is heard, sv/elling in syllables of thunder like music. But still there is doubt, and one pale-faced man whis- pers so L{ibbet methino; about axes, scaffolds and "Gibbet?" echoed a fierce, bold voice through the hall. " Gibbet ? They may stretch our necks on all the gibbets in the land ; they may turn every rock into a scaf- fold ; every tree into a gallows ; every home into a grave, and yet the words of that parch- ment there can never die ! They may pour our blood on a thousand scaffolds, and yet from every drop that dyes the axe a new champion of freedom will spring into birth. The British King may blot out the stars of God from the sky, but he cannot blot out His words written on that parchment there. The works of God may perish. His words never ! '^ The words of this declaration will live in the v/orld long after our bones are dust. To the mechanic in his workshop they will speak hope; to the slave in the mines, free- dom ; but to the coward-kings, these words will speak in tones of warning they cannot choose but hear. " They will be terrible as the flaming sylla- bles on Belshazzar's wall ! They will speak in language startling as the trump of the Archangel, saying : ' You have trampled on mankind long enough ! At last the voice of human woe has pierced the ear of God, and 170 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. • called His judgment down ! You have waded to thrones through rivers of blood ; you have trampled on the necks of millions of fellow-beings. Now kings, now purple hangmen, for you come the days of axes and ijibbets and scaffolds.' ''Such is the message of that declaration lo mankind, to the kings of earth. And shall we falter now ? And shall we start back appalled when our feet touch the very- threshold of Freedom ? ** Sign that parchment ! Sign, if the next moment the gibbet's rope is about your neck! Sign, if the next minute this hall rings with the clash of the falling axes ! Sign by all your hopes in life or death as men, as husbands, as -fathers, brothers, sign your names to the parchment, or be accursed forever ! " Sign, and not only for yourselves, but for all ages, for that parchment will be the text- book of freedom — -the Bible of the rights of men forever. Nay, do not start and whisper with surprise ! It is truth, your own hearts witness it ; God proclaims it. Look at this strange, history of a band of exiles and out- casts, suddenly transformed into a people — a handful of men weak in arms — but mighty in God-like faith ; nay, look at your recent achievements, your Bunker Hill, your Lex- ington, and then tell me, if you can, that God has not given America to be free ! ** It is not given to our poor human intel- lect to climb to the skies, and to pierce the councils of the Almighty One. But me- thinks I stand among the awful clouds which veil the brightness of Jehovah's throne. " Methinks I see the recording angel come trembling up to that throne to speak his dread message. * Father, the old world is baptized in blood. Father, look with one glance of thine eternal eye, and behold ever- more that terrible sight, man trodden beneath t'hc oppressor's feet, nations lost \x\ blood, murder and superstition walking hand in hand over the graves of their victims, and not a single voice to whisper hope to man ! ' ** He stands there, the angel, trembling with the record of human guilt. But hark ! The voice of Jehovah speaks out from the awful cloud : ' Let there be light again 1 Tell my people, the poor and oppressed, to go out from the old world, from oppres- sion and blood, and build my altar in the new ! ' "As I live, my friends, I believe that to be His voice ! Yes, were my soul trembhng on the verge of eternity, were this hand freezing ( in death, were this voice choking in the last struggle, I would still with the last impulse of that soul, with the last wave of that hand, with the last gasp of that voice, implore you to remember this truth — God has given America to be free ! Yes, as T sank into the gloomy shadows of the grave, with my last faint w^hisper I would beg you to sign that parchment for the sake of the millions whose very breath is now hushed m intense expec- tation as they look up to you for the awful words, ' You are free ! ' ' The unknown speaker fell exhausted in his seat; but the work was done. A wild murmur runs through the hall. *' Sign ! " There is no doubt now. Look how they rush forward.' Stout-hearted John Hancock has scarcely time to sign his bold name before the pen is grasped by another — another and another. Look how the names blaze on the parchments Adams and Lee, Jefferson and Carroll, Franklin and Sherman. And now the parchment is signed. Now, old man in the steeple, now bare you»' arm and let the bell speak ! Hark to the music of that bell ! Is there not a poetry in that sound, a poetry more sublime than thai of Shakespeare and Milton ? Is there not a music in that sound that reminds you of those: DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. ITl sublime tones which broke from angel lips when the news of the child Jesus burst on the hill-tops of Bethlehem ? For the tones of that bell now come pealing, pealing, peal- ing, " Independence now and Independence forever." •MM- CHILD LOST. It used to be a custom to have a man go through the town ringing a bell and " crying '' any thing was lost. You should imitate the crier, at the same time swinging your hand as if ringing a bell. This selection requires a great variety in the manner, pitch of the voice and gestures of the reader. INE," by the Cathedral clock ! Chill the air with rising damps ; Drearily from block to block In the gloom the bellman tramps — '^ Child lost! Child lost! Blue eyes, curly hair, Pink dress — child lost ! " Something in the doleful strain Makes the dullest listener start; And a sympathetic pain Shoot to every feeling heart. Anxious fathers homeward haste, Musing with paternal pride Of their daughters, happy-faced, Silken-haired and sparkling-eyed. Many a tender mother sees Younglings playing round her chair, Thinking, "If 'twere one of these, How could I the anguish bear? " "Ten," the old Cathedral sounds; Dark and gloomy are the streets; Still the bellman goes his rounds. Still his doleful cry repeats — *^ Oh, yes ! oh, yes ! Child lost ! Blue eyes, Curly hair, pink dress — Child lost! Child lost!" "Can't my little one be found? Are there any tidings, friend ? " Cries the mother, '' Is she drowned? Is she stolen ? God forfend ! Search the commons, search the parks, Search the doorway and the halls, Search the alleys, foul and dark, Search the empty market stalls. Here is gold and silver — see ! Take it all and welcome, man ; Only bring my child to me, Let me have my child again." Hark ! the old Cathedral bell Peals " eleven," and it sounds To the mother like a knell ; Still the bellman goes his rounds. "Child lost! Child lost! Blue eyes, curly hair. Pink dress — child lost ! " Half aroused from dreams of peace. Many hear the lonesome call, Then into their beds of ease Into deeper slumber fall; But the anxious mother cries, " Oh, my darling's curly hair! Oh, her sweetly-smiling eyes ! Have you sought her everywhere? Long and agonizing dread Chills my heart and drives me wild— What if Minnie should be dead ? God, in mercy, find my child ! " "Twelve" by the Cathedral clock; Dimly shine the midnight lamps; Drearily from block to block, In the rain the bellman tramps. "Child lost! Child lost! Blue eyes, curly hair. Pink dress— child lost I" 172 i)ESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. THE CAPTAIN AND THE FIREMAN. PIN us a yarn of the sea, old man, About some captain bold, Who steered his ship and made her slip Wlien the sea and the thunder rolled ; Some tale that will stir the blood, you know. Like the pirate tales of old. '' It v.as the old ' tramp' Malabar, With coal for Singapore ; * The captain stood upon the bridge ' And loud the wind did roar, A.id far upon the starboard bow We saw the stormy shore. <' The night came down as black as pitch; More loud the wind did blow ; The waves made wreck around the deck And washed us to and fro ; But half the crew, though wild it blew. Were sleeping down below. ' ' ' The captain stood upon the bridge,' And I was at the wheel ; The waves were piling all around. Which made the old * tank ' reel. When — smash ! there came an awful crash That shook the ribs of steel. *' * We've struck a wreck ! ' * Stand by the pumps ! ' Her plates were gaping wide ; And out her blood streamed in the flood, The wreck had bruised her side ; Her coal poured out — her inky blood — And stained the foaming tide. " * The captain stood upon the bridge,* The firemen down below ; He saw and knew what he could do. While they but heard the blow. The bravest man is he that stands Against an unseen foe. " ' All hands on deck ! ' was now the cry, * For we are sinking fast ; Our boats were stove by that last wave — This night will be our last ; There's not a plank on board the tank,' She's steel, from keel to mast.' ^' ' The captain stood upon the bridge; * All hands were now on deck; The waves went down, the sun came up, We saw the drifting wreck. And there, upon the starboard bow, The land— a distant speck. '* * Who'll go below and fire her up ? " The captain loud did roar. * We're dumping coal with every roll, But, see ! the storm is o'er ; And I will stand upon the bridge, And guide her to the shore.' '* * I'll go for one,' said old ' Tramp Jim,' ' And shovel in the coal. I'll go,' said Jim, all black and grim, ' Though death be down that hole ; I've heard a man who dies for men Is sure to save his soul. ^^ * So turn the steam into that mill, And let it spin around. And I will feed the old thing coal Till you be hard aground ; I'll go alone, there's none to moan, If old * Tramp Jim ' be drowned I * ''He went below and fired lier up. The steam began to roar ; ' The captain stood upon the bridge ' And steered her for the shore ; The ship was sinking by the bow, Her race was nearly o'er. "The water rose around poor Jim, Down in the fire-room there. 'I'll shovel in the coal,' he gasped, ' 'Till the water wets me hair — The Lord must take me as I am, I have no time for prayer.' DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 173 ^' ' The captain stood upon the bridge.* (Oh, hang that phrase, I say ! 'The firemen bravely stood below,' Suits more this time of day,) Old Jim kept shovelling in the coal, Though it was time to pray. ** And every soul was saved, my lads, Why do I speak it low ? I The Lord took Jim, all black and grim. And made him white as snow. Some say, ' the captain on the bridge,' But I say, ' Jim below ! ' " W. B. COLLISON. THE FACE ON THE FLOOR. This is one of many recitations in this volume that have proved their popularity by actual test. Face on the Floor," when well recited, holds the hearers spell-bound. The WAS a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there That well nigh filled Joe's barroom on the corner of the square. And as songs and witty stories came through the open door ; A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor. ** Where did it come from?" some one said; ** The wind has blown it in." *'What does it want?" another cried, "Some whiskey, beer or gin ? ' ' " Here. Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work, I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk." This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace, In fact, he smiled as if he thought he'd struck the proper place; "Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd ; To be in such good company would make a dea- con proud. "Give me a drink! That's what I want, I'm out of funds, you know, When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow ; What ? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou ; I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. "There, thanks, that braced me nicely, God bless you, one and all. Next time I pass this good saloon I'll make another call; Give you a song? No, I can't do that, my sing- ing days are past. My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out and my lungs are going fast. " Say, give me another whiskey and I'll tell you what I'll do — I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too; That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think, But I was, some four or five years back, say, give us another drink. " Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame — Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame ; Five fingers — there, that's the scheme — and cork- ing whiskey, too, Well, boys, here's luck, and landlord, my best regards to you. * "You've treated me pretty kindly and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now: As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health. And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth. " I was a painter — not one that daubed on bricks and wood. 174 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good; I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise ; For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes. *'I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the Chase of Fame; •i brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name; Ana men, I met a woman — now comes the funny part— With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart. "Why don't you laugi^? *Tis funny that the vagabond you see Could ever love a woman and expect her love for me ; But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smile was freely given ; And when her loving lips touched mine, it car- ried me to heaven. "Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give, With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live. With eyes that would beat the Kohinoor and a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair. " I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May, Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine who lived across the way. And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise, Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes. '*It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown/ My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone ; And ere a year of misery had passed above my head, The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead. "That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile, I thought you'd be amused and laughing all the while ; Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a tear- drop in your eye, Come, laugh like me, 'tis only babes and women that should cry. ''Say, boys, if you'll give me another whiskey, I'll be glad. And I'll draw right here, the picture of the face that drove me mad ; Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the base-ball score — And you shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar-room floor." Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vag- abond began To sketch a face that well might buy the goul of any man, Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture — dead. H. Antoine D'Arcy. 1 THE ENGINEER'S STORY. d K'SOM, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart ez she can be. Clever? Wy ! she ain't no chicken, but she's good enough fur me. What's her name ? 'Tis kind o' common, yit I ain't ashamed to tell. She's ole "Fiddler" Filkin's daughter, an' her dad he calls her " Nell." I wuz drivin' on the " Central " jist about a year ago On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe. There's no end o' skeery places. 'Taint a road fur one who dreams. With its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' mountain streams. DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 175 *Twuz an afternoon iii August, we hed got be- hind an hour An' wuz tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower, Round the bends an' by the hedges 'bout ez fast ez we could go, With the mountain-peaks above us an' the river down below. Ez we come nigh to a tres'le 'cros't a holler, deep an' wild. Suddenly I saw a baby, 'twuz the stationkeeper's child, Toddlin' right along the timbers with a bold and fearless tread Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead. 1 jist jumped an' grabbed the throttle an' I fa'rly held my breath, Fur I felt I couldn't stop her till the child wuz crushed to death, When a woman sprang afore me like a sudden streak o' light, Caught the boy and twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight. I jist whis'l'd all the brakes on. An' we worked with might an' main Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn't stop the train, An' it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by An' the river roared below us — I shall hear her till I die ! Then we stop't ; the sun was shinin' ; I ran back along the ridge An' I found her — dead? No! livin' ! She wuz hangin' to the bridge Wher she drop't down thro' the cross-ties with one arm about a sill An' the other round the baby, who wuz yelliu* fur to kill ! So we saved 'em. She wuz gritty. She's ez peart ez she kin be — Now we're married ; she's no chicken, but she's good enough fur me, An' ef eny ask who owns her, wy ! I ain't ashamed to tell — She's my wife. Ther' ain't none better than ole Filkin's daughter " Nell." Eugene J. Hall. JIM. ?ST"E was jes' a plain, ever' -day, all-round kind of a jour., [S \ Consumpted lookin' — but la! The jokeyest, wittyest, story-tellin', song-singin', laughin'est, jolliest Feller you ever saw ! Worked at jes' coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his talk. And his feelin's, too I |Lordy I ef he was on'y back on his bench again to-day, a carryin' on Like he ust to do ! Any shop-mate' 11 tell you they never was on top o'dirt A better feller'n Jim ! You want a favor, and couldn't git it anywheres '^Ise — You could git it o' him ! 'Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess ! Give ever' nickel he's worth — And, ef you'd a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his. He'd a-give you the earth ! Alius a-reachin' out, Jim was and a-helpin' some Poor feller onto his feet — He'd a-never a-keered how hungry he was his se'f. So's the feller got somepin to eat ! Didn't make no difference at all to him how he was dressed, He used to say to me : ''You tog out a tramp purty comfortable in win- ter-time. And he'll git along I " says he. 176 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. it rahead, so Jim didn't have, nor never could overly much O' this world's goods at a time — 'Fore now I've saw him, more'n onc't lend a dollar and ha'f to Turn 'round and borry a dime ! Mebby laugh and joke about hisse'f fer awhile — then jerk his coat, And kind o' square his chin, Tie his apern, and squat hisse'f on his old shoe bench And go peggin' agin. Patientest feller, too, I reckon, at every jes' nat- urally Coughed hisse'f to death ! Long enough after his voice was lost he'd laugh and say, He could git ever' thing but his breath — ''You fellers," he'd sort o' twinkle his eyes and say, " Is pilin' onto me A mighty big debt for that air little weak-chested ghost o' mine to pack Through all eternity ! " Now there was a man 'at jes' 'peared like to me, 'At ortn't a-never died ! ''But death hain't a-showin no favors," the old boss said, " On'y to Jim," and cried : And Wigger, 'at put up the best sewed work in the shop, Er the whole blamed neighborhood, He says, "When God made Jim, I bet you He didn't do anything else that day. But jes' set around and feel good." James Whitcomb Riley, QUEEN VASHTI'S LAMENT. Is this all the love that he bore me, my hus- band, to publish my face To the nobles of Media and Persia, whose hearts are besotted and base ? Did he think me a slave, me, Vashti, the Beauti- ful, me. Queen of queens, To summon me thus for a show to the midst of his bacchanal scenes ? I stand like an image of brass, I, Vashti, in sight of such men ! No, sooner, a thousand times sooner, the mouth of the lioness' den, When she's fiercest with hunger and love for the nungry young lions that tear Her teats with sharp, innocent teeth, I would enter, far rather than here ! Did he love me, or is he, too, though the King, but a brute like the rest ! I have seen him in wine, and I fancied 'twas then that he loved me the best ; Though I think I would rather have one sweet, passionate word from the heart iThan a year of caresses that may with the wine that creates them depart. But ever before, in his wine, toward me he showed honor and grace ; He was King, I was Queen, and those nobles, he made them remember their place. But now all is changed ; I am vile, they are honored, they push me aside, A butt for Memucan and Shethar and Meres, gone mad in their pride ! Shall I faint, shall I pine, shall I sicken and die for the loss of his love ? Not I ; I am queen of myself, though the stars fall from heaven above. The stars 1 ha ! the torment is there, for my light is put out by a star. That has dazzled the eyes of the King and his court and his captains of war. He was lonely, they say, and he looked, as he sat like a ghost at his wine, On the couch by his side, where, of yore his Beautiful used to recline. But the King is a slave to his pride, to his oath and the laws of the Medes, And he cannot call Vashti again though his poor heart is wounded and bleeds. 4' DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 177 So they sought through the land for a wife, while the King thought of me all the while — I can see him, this moment, with eyes that are lost for the loss of a smile, Gazing dreamily on while each maiden is tempt- ingly passed in review, While the love in his heart is awake with the I thought of a face that he knew ! Tlien she came when his heart was grown weary with loving the dream of the past ! She is fair — I could curse her for that, if I thought that this passion would last ! But e'en if it last, all the love is for me, and, through good and through ill. The King shall remember his Vashti, shall think of his Beautiful still. Oh ! the day is a weary burden, the night is a restless strife, — I am sick to the very heart of my soul, with this life — this death in life ! Oh ! that the glorious, changeless sun would draw me up in his might, And quench my dreariness in the flood of his everlac<^ing light ! What is it? Oft as I lie awake and my pillow is wet with tears. There comes — it came to me just r,ow — a flash, then disappears ; A flash of thought that makes this life a re-en- acted scene, That makes me dream what was, will be, and what is now, has been. And I, when age on age has rolled, shall sit cv. the royal throne. And the King shall love his Vashti, his Beautiful, his own. And for the joy of what has been and what again will be, I'll try to bear this awful weight of lonely misery i The star ! Queen Esther ! blazing light that burns into my soul ! The star ! the star ! Oh ! flickering light of life beyond control ! O King ! remember Vashti, thy Beautiful, thy own. Who loved thee and shall love thee still, when Esther's light has flown ! John Reade. THE SKELETON'S STORY. Tt will require all the dramatic power of which you are capable to recite this selection and do it full justice. Be wide-awake, quick in tone and gesture, shouting at one time, whispering at another, speaking with your whole body. The emotions of fear and horror are especially prominent. IT is two miles ahead to the foot-hills — tv^^o miles of parched turf and rocky space. To the right — the left — be- hind, is the rolling prairie. This broad val- ley strikes the Sierra Nevadas and stops as if a wall had been built across it. Ride closer ! What is this on the grass ? A skull here — a rib there — bones scattered about as the wild beasts left them after the horrible feast. The clean-picked skull grins and stares — every bone and scattered lock of hair has its story of a tragedy. And what besides these relics? More bones — not scattered, but lying in heaps — a vertebra (12— X) with ribs attached — a fleshless skull bleach- ing under the summer sun. Wolves ! Yes. Count the heaps of bones and you will find nearly a score. Open boats are pickei up at sea with neither life nor sign to betray their secret. Skeletons are found upon the prairie, but they tell a plain story to those who halt beside them. Let us listen : Away off to the right you can see tree- tops. Away off to the left you can see the same sight. The '^ikeleton is in line between the two points. He left one grove to ride to the other. To ride ! Certainly ; a mile 178 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. away is the skeleton of a horse or mule. The beast fell and was left there. It is months since that ride, and the trail has been obliterated. Were it otherwise, and you took it up from the spot where the skeleton horse now lies, you would find the last three or four miles made at a tremendous pace. "Step! step! step!" What is it ? Darkness has gathered over mountain and prairie as the hunter jogs along over the broken ground. Overhead the countless stars look down upon him — around him is the pall of night. There was a patter of footsteps on the dry grass. He halts and peers around him, but the darkness is too deep for him to discover any cause for alarm. "Patter! patter! patter!" There it is again ! It is not fifty yards from where he last halted. The steps are too light for those of an Indian. " Wolves ! " whispers the hunter, as a howl suddenly breaks upon his ear. Wolves 1 The gaunt, grizzly wolves of the foot-hills — thin and poor and hungry and sav- age — the legs tireless — the mouth full of teeth which can crack the shoulder-bone of a buffalo. He can see their dark forms flitting from point to point — the patter of their feet upon the parched grass proves that he is surrounded. Now the race begins. A line of wolves spread out to the right and left, and gallops after — tongues out — eyes flashing — great flakes of foam flying back to blotch stone and grass and leave a trail to be followed by the cowardly coyotes. Men ride thus only when life is the stake. A horse puts forth such speed only when terror follows close behind and causes every nerve to tighten like a wire drawn until the scratch of a finger makes it chord with a wail of despair. The line is there — aye! it is gaining! Inch by inch it creeps up, and the red eye takes on a more savage gleam as the hunter cries out to his horse and opens fire from his revolvers. A wolf falls on the right — a second on the left. Does the wind cease blowing because it meets a forest ! The fall of one man in a mad mob increases the determination of the rest. With a cry so full of the despair that wells up from the heart of the strong man when he gives up his struggle for life that the hunter almost believes a companion rides beside him, the horse staggers — recovers — plunges forward — falls to the earth. It was a glorious struggle ; but he has lost. There is a confused heap of snarling, fight- ing, maddened beasts, and the line rushes forward again. Saddle, bridle, and blanket are in shreds — the horse a skeleton. And now the chase is after the hunter. He has half a mile the start, and as he runs the veins stand out, the m.uscles tighten, and he won* ders at his own speed. Behind him are the gaunt bodies and the tireless legs. Closer, closer, and now he is going to face fate like a brave man should. He has halted. In an instant a circle is formed about him — a cir- cle of red eyes, foaming mouths, and yellow fangs which are to meet in his flesh. There is an interval — a breathing spell. He looks up at the stars — out upon the night. It is his last hour, but there is no quaking — no crying out to the night to send him aid. As the wolves rest, a flash blinds their eyes — a second — a third — and a fourth, and they give before the man they had looked upon as their certain prey. But it is only for a moment He sees them gathering for the rush, and firing his remaining bullets among them he seizes his long rifle by the barrel and braces to meet the shock. Even a sav- age would have admired the heroic fight he made for life. He sounds the war-cry and whirls his weapon around him, and wolf after wolf falls disabled. He feels a strange exultation over the desperate combat, and as the pack give way before his mighty blows a gleam of hope springs up in his heart. DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 179 day — the stars of evening will look down upon grinning skull and whitening bones^ and the wolf will return to crunch them again. Men will not bury them. They will look down upon them as we look, and ride away with a feeling that 'tis but another dark isecret of the wonderful prairie. THE LADY AND THE EARL. The figures in the text of this piece indicate the gestures to be made, as shown in Typical Gestures, at the beginning of Part II. of this volume. It is only for a moment; then the circle narrows. Each disabled beast is replaced by three which hunger for blood. There is a rush — a swirl— and the cry of despair is drowned in the chorus of snarls as the pack fight over the feast. The gray of morning — the sunlight of noon- ISAW her in the festive halls, in scenes of pride and ^^ glee, 'Mongst many beautiful and fair, but none so fair as she ; Her's was the most attractive^ form that mingled in the scene, And all who saw her said she moved a goddess and a queen. The diamond blazed in her dark hair and bound her polished brow, And precious gems were clasped around her swan- like neck of snow ; And Indian looms had lent their stores to form her sumptuous dress, And art with nature joined to grace her passing loveliness. I looked upon her and I said, who* is so blessed as she? A creature she all light and life, all beauty and all glee; Sure,^ sweet content blooms on her cheek and on her brow a pearl. And she was^ young and innocent, the Lady of the Earl. But as I looked more carefully, I saw that radiant smile Was but assumed in mockery, the unthinking to • to beguile. Thus have I seen a summer rose in all its beauty bloom, When it has^^ shed its sweetness o'er a cold and lonely tomb. She struck the harp, and when they praised her skill she turned aside, A rebel tear of conscious woe^° and memory to hide; But wlien she raised her head she looked so^^ lovely, so serene. To gaze in her proud eyes you'd think a tear had seldom been. The humblest maid in rural life can ^ boast a hap- pier fate Than she, the beautiful and good, in all her rank and state; For she was sacrificed,^" alas! to cold and selfish pride When her young lips had breathed the vow to be a soldier's bride. Of late I viewed her move along,' the idol of the crowd ; A few short months elapsed, and then,^^ I kissed her in her shroud ! And o'er her splendid monument I saw the hatch- ment wave. But there was one proud heart ^ which did more honor to her grave. A warrior dropped his plumed head upon her place of rest, And with his feverish lips the name of Ephilinda pressed ; Then breathed a prayer, and checked the groan of parting pain, And as he left the tomb he said," " ^et we shall meet again." 180 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. MY VESPER SONG, KILLED with weariness and pain, Scarcely strong enough to pray, In this twilight hour I sit, Sit and sing my doubts away. O'er my broken purposes, Ere the coming shadows roll, Let me build a bridge of song : *' Jesus, lover of my soul." *' Let me to Thy bosom fly ! " How the words my thoughts repeat : To Thy bosom, Lord, I come. Though unfit to kiss Thy feet. Once I gathered sheaves for Thee, Dreaming I could hold them fast : Now I can but faintly sing, '' Oh ! receive my soul at last." I am weary of my fears, Like a child when night comes on : In the shadow, Lord, I sing, " Leave, oh, leave me not alone." Through the tears I still must shedj Through the evil yet to be^ Though I falter while I sing, " Still support and comfort me." '* All my trust on Thee is stayed ; " Does the rhythm of the song Softly falling on my heart, Make its pulses firm and strong? Or is this Thy perfect peace. Now descending while I sing, That my soul may sleep to-night " 'Neath the shadow of Thy wing ? *' ' Thou of life the fountain art ; " If I slumber on Thy breast. If I sing myself to sleep, Sleep and death alike are rest. Not impatiently I sing. Though I lift my hands and cry '■' Jesus, lover of my soul. Let me to Thy bosom fly." THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST, With distinct enunciation give the dialect in this is telling this story. Guard against being vulgar or 6|The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' of silk, An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk ; Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys, an' stove- pipe hats were there. An' dudes 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer. The elder in his poolpit high said, as he slowly riz : ' ' Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz, An' as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore ain't here, Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind 's to volunteer ? " An' then a red- nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low- toned, rowdy style. Give an interductory hiccup, an' then swaggered up the aisle. piece, and assume the character of a countryman Wian too commonplace. Then thro' that holy atmosphere there crep' s sense er sin. An* thro' thet air of sanctity the odor uv oV gin. Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge : ''This man perfanes the house er God! W'y, this is sacrilege ! " The tramp didn* hear a word he said, but sloucht I 'ith stumblin' feet. An' stalked an' swaggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat. He then went pawin' thro' the keys, an' soon there rose a strain Thet seemed to jest bulge out Che heart, an' 'lec- trify the brain ; PHOTO. BY MORRISON, CHICAGO "DO YOU KNOW ME NOW? i PHOTO, t ^ ■■ ') --I^ON , r ; "I'VE per THH SOIII^ OF LAUGHTER IN MY FACE. DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 181 An* then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees, He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys. The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry. It swelled into the rafters, an' bulged out into the sky; The ol' church shook and staggered, an' seemed to reel an' sway, An' the elder shouted " Glory! " an' I yelled out ''Hooray! " An' then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears, Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears; An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on the mat, Tu home an' luv an' baby days, an' mother, an' all that ! An' then he struck a streak uv hope — a song from souls forgiven — Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an' stormed the gates uv heaven ; The morning stars together sung — no soul wuz left alone — We felt the universe wuz safe, an' God was on His throne ! An' then a wail of deep despair an' darkness come again. An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men ; No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, An' then — the tramp, he swaggered down an' reeled out into the night ! But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho' he never spoke a word. An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard ; He hed tol' his own life history, an' no eye was dry thet day. Wen the elder rose an' simply said: *'My brethren, let us pray." S. W. Foss. COMIN' THRO' THE RYE, (jjVF a body meet a body J I Comin' thro' the rye, JJ_ If a body Tiiss a body, Need a body cry? Ev'ry lassie has her laddie, Nane they say ha'e I, Yet all the lads they smile at me When comin' thro' the rye. If a body meet a body, Comin' frae the town ; If a body meet a body. Need a body frown ? JOAN OF ARC. Ev'ry lassie has her laddie, Nane they say ha'e I, Yet all the lads they smile at me When comin' thro' the rye. Amang the train there is a swain, I dearly love mysel'. But what's his name, or where' s his hame I dinna choose to tell. Ev'ry lassie has her laddie, Nane they say ha'e I, Yet all the lads they smik at me When comin* thro' the rye. Robert Burns. I ^1 j WAS in the days of chivalry, when steel- clad warriors swore To bear their ladies' favors amidst the battle's roar, To right the wrongs of injured maids, the lance in rest to lay. And nobly fall in honor* 3 cause pr triumph in the fray, 18:i DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. But not to-day a lance is couched, no waving plume is there, No war-horse sniffs the trumx^et's breath, no ban- ner woes the air ; No crowding chiefs the tilt-yard throng to quench the thirst of fame, Though chiefs are met, intent to leave their names eternal shame ! A still and solemn silence reigned, deep darkness veiled the skies, And Nature, shuddering, shook to see the im- pious sacrifice ! Full in the centre of the lists a dreadful pile is reared, Awaiting one whose noble soul death's terrors never feared, Gaul's young Minerva, who had led her country- men to fame, And foremost in the battle rent that conquered country's chain ; Who, when the sun of fame had set that on its armies shone. Its broken ranks in order set, inspired and led them on ; The low-born maid that, clad in steel, restored a fallen king, Who taught the vanquished o'er their foes trium- phal songs to sing ; Whose banner in the battle's front the badge of conquest streamed, And built again a tottering throne, a forfeit crown redeemed ! But when her glorious deeds were done. Fate sent a darker day. The blaze of brightness faded in murkiest clouds away ; And France stood looking idly on, nor dared to strike a blow, Her guardian angel's life to save, but gave it to the foe ! Ungrateful France her saviour's fate beheld with careless smile. While Sup' rstition, hiding hate and vengeance, fired the pile ! What holy horror of her crime is looked by yonder priest, Like that grim bird that hovers nigh, and scents the funeral feast ! Is this the maiden's triumph, won in battle's dreadful scenes, Whose banner so triumphant flew before thy walls, Orleans I Hark to the trumpet's solemn sound ! Low roll the muffled drums As slowly through the silent throng the sad pro- cession comes ; Wrapp'd in the garments of the grave, the corselet laid aside, Still with Bellona's step she treads, through all her woes descried. As beautiful her features now as when inspired she spoke Those oracles that slumbering France to life and action woke : The majesty yet haunts her looks, that late so dreadful beamed In war, when o'er her burnished arms the long rich tresses streamed, She gazes on the ghastly pile, tho' pale as marble stone ; 'Twas not with fear, for from her lips escaped no sigh nor groan ; But she, her country's saviour, thus to render up her bre.th — That was a pang far worse than all the bitterness of death ! 'Twas done; the blazing pile is fired, the flames have wrapped her round ; The owlet shrieked, and circling flew with dull, foreboding sound ; Fate shuddered at the ghastly sight, and smiled a ghostly smile ; And fame and honor spread their wings above the funeral pile. But, phoenix-like, her spirit rose from out the burning flame, More beautiful and bright by far than in her days of fame. Peace to her spirit ! Let us give her mcu.or\' X(^ renown, Nor on her faults or failings dwell, but dinv, f curtail:^ down. Cl-ARE S. McKinJ-KV^ DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS. 183 This selection is narrative, yet it is narrative intensely dramatic. Imagine the feelings of a parent who sees the "youngest of his babes " torn away from his embrace by a vulture and carried away in mid-air. Let your tones, attitudes and gestures all be strong. Picture the flight of a mountain eagle with uplifted arn?, and depict with an expression of agony the grief of the parent. ! 'VE been among the mighty Alps, and wan- dered through their vales, And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales. As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er, They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more. And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear, A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear : The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous. But, wiping all those tears away he told his story thus: — " It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells. Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells ; But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock, He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock. *'One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high, When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry, As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again. " I hurried out to learn the cause ; but, over- whelmed with fright, The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care, But something caught my searching eyes, slow jailing through the air. '' Oh ! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye! , His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry ! And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave. That earthly power could not avail, that innocent" to save ! " My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me. And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free. At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed : Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed. ^'The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew, A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view : But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight ; 'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had van- ished quite. ^'AU search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot. When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot. From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached. He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached ! "I clambered up that rugged clifl"; I could not stay away ; I knew they were my infant's bones thus hasten- ing to decay ; A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred. The crimson cap he wore that mgri] was Still upon the head/' 184 DESCRIPTIVE AND DP.AMATIC RECITATIONS. That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers pass- ing by, Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh. And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way, The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay. THE OLD=FASHIONED QIRL. (b I HERE'S an old-fashioned girl in an old- * I fashioned street, -^ Dressed in old-fashioned clothes from her head to her feet. And she spends all her time in the old-fashioned way, Of caring for poor people's children all day. She never has been to cotillion or ball. And sb'- '-nows not the styles of the spring or the fall. Two hundred a year will suffice for her needs, And an old-fashioned Bible is all that she reads. And she has an old-fashioned heart that is true To a fellow who died in an old coat of blue. With its buttons all brass — who is waiting above For the woman who loved him with old-fashioned love. Tom Hall. NATHAN HALE, THE MARTYR SPY. After the disastrous defeat of the Americans on Long Island, Washington desired information respect- ing the British position and movements. Captain Nathan Hale, but twenty-one years old, volunteered to procure the information. He was taken and hanged as a spy the day after his capture, September 22, 1776. His patriotic devotion, and the brutal treatment he received at the hands ot his captors, have sug- gested the following. Put your whole soul into this piece^ especially Hale's last speech. It rises to the sublime. rS in the year that gave the nation birth ; A time when men esteemed the com- mon good As greater weal than private gain. A battle fierce And obstinate had laid a thousand patriots low. And filled the people's hearts with gloom. Pursued like hunted deer. The crippled army fled ; and, yet, amid Disaster and defeat, the Nation's chosen chief , Resolved his losses to retrieve. But not 'With armies disciplined and trained by years Of martial service, could he, this Fabian chief, Now hope to check the hosts of Howe's victor- ious legions — These had he not. In stratagem the shrewder general Ofttimes o'ercomes his strong antagonist. To Washington a knowledge of the plans, Position, strength of England's force, Must compensate for lack of numbers. He casts about for one who'd take his life In hand. Lo ! he stands before the chief. In face, A boy — in form, a man on whom the eye could rest In search of God's perfected handiwork. In culture, grace and speech, reflecting all A mother's love could lavish on an only son. The chieftain's keen discerning eye Appraised the youth at his full worth, and saw In him those blending qualities that make The hero and the sage. He fain would save For nobler deeds a man whose presence marked A spirit born to lead. ''Young man," he said with kindly air, ''Your country and commander feel grateful that DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 185 Sucu calents are offered in this darkening hour. Have you in reaching this resolve considered well Your fitness, courage, strength — the act, the risk. You undertake ? ' ' The young man said : *' The hour demands a ^ duty rare — Perhaps a sacrifice. If God and training in The schools have given me capacities This duty to perform, the danger of the enter- prise Should not deter me from the act Whose issue makes our country free. In times Like these a Nation's life sometimes upon A single life depends. If mine be deemed A fitting sacrifice, God grant a quick Deliverance *' ^' Enough, go then, at once," the great Commander said. ''May Heaven's guardian angels give You safe return. Adieu.' Disguised with care, the hopeful captain crossed The bay, and moved through British camp Without discovery by troops or refugees. The enemy's full strength, in men, in stores, Munitions, guns — all military accoutrements Were noted with exact precision ; while With graphic sketch, each trench and parapet, Casemated battery, magazine and every point Strategic, was drawn with artist's skill. The task complete, the spy with heart Elate, now sought an exit through the lines. Well might he feel a soldier's pride. An houi hence A waiting steed would bear him to his friends. His plans he'd lay before his honored chief; His single hand might turn the tide of war, His country yet be free. " Halt ! " a British musket leveled at His head dimmed all the visions of his soul. A dash — an aimless shot ; the spy bore down Upon the picket with a blow that else Had freed him from his clutch, but for a score Of troopers stationed near. In vain the struggle fierce And desperate — in vain demands to be released. A tory relative, for safety quartered in The British camp, would prove his truckling loyalty With kinsman's blood, a word — a look — A motion of the head, and he who'd dared So much in freedom's name was free no more Before Lord Howe the captive youth Was led. "Base dog!" the haughty general said, '* Ignoble son of loyal sires! you've played the spy Quite well I ween. The cunning skill where- with You wrought these plans and charts might well adorn An honest man ; but in a rebel's hands they're vile And miLchievous. If ought may palliate A traitor's act, attempted in his sovereign's camp, I bid you speak ere I pronounce your sentence." With tone and mien that hushed The buzzing noise of idle lackeys in the hall. The patriot thus replied : ' ' You know my name — My rank; — my treach'rous kinsman made My purpose plain. I've nothing further of my- self To tell beyond the charge of traitor to deny. The brand of spy I do accept without reproach ; But never since I've known the base ingratitude Of king to loyal subjects of his realm Has British rule been aught to me than barbarous Despotism which God and man abhor, and none Bui^ dastards fear to overthrow. For tyrant loyalty your lordship represents I never breathed a loyal breath ; and he Who calls me traitor seeks a pretext for a crime His trembling soul might well condemn." ''I'll hear no more such prating cant," Said Howe, "your crime's enough to hang a dozen men. Before to-morrow's sun goes down you'll swing 'Twixt earth and heaven, that your countryme' May know a British camp is dangero^'ts fyt^r/ For prowling spi^s. Away I " 186 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. Securely bound upon a cart, amid A speechless crowd, he stands beneath a strong Projecting limb, to which a rope with noose attached, Portends a tragic scene. He casts his eyes Upon the surging multitude. Clearly now His tones ring out as victors shout in triumph ; " Men, I do not die in vain, My humble death upon this tree will light anew The Torch of liberty. A hundred hands to one Before will strike for country, home and God, And fill our ranks with men of faith in His Eternal plan to make this people free. A million prayers go up this day to free The land from blighting curse of tyrant's rule. Oppression's wrongs have reached Jehovah's throne ; The God of vengeance smites the foe ! This land, — This glorious land, — is free — is free ! '' My friends, farewell ! In dying thus I feel but one regret ; it is the one poor life I have to give in Freedom's cause." I. PI. Brown. THE FUTURE. HEN Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried, When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died. We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it — lie down for an aeon or two, Till the Master of all Good Workmen shall set us to work anew I And those that were good shall be happy ; they shall sit in a golden chair; They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair; ^ .o^o They shall find real saints to draw from — Magda- lene, Peter and Paul ; They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all ! And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame ! And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame; But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star. Shall draw the Thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are ! RuDYARD Kipling. THE POWER OF HABIT. Adapted to the development of transition in pitch, and a very spirited utterance. When you are able to deliver this as Mr. Gough did, you may consider yourself a graduate in the art of elocution. "You Vi^ill find it so, sir. I REMEMBER once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls. I said to a gen- tleman, "What river is that, sir?" " That," said he, " is Niagara River." " Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I ; " bright and fair and glassy. How far off are the rapids?" "Only a mile or two," was the reply. " Is it possible that only a mile from us we shall find the water in the turbulence which it must show near the Falls ? " And so I found it; and the first sight of Niagara I shall never forget. Now, launch your bark on that Niagara River; it is bright, smooth, beautiful and glassy. There is a ripple at the bow ; the silver wake you leave behind adds to your enjoyment. Down the stream you glide, oars, sails, and helm in proper trim, and you set out on your pleasure excur- sion* DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 187 Suddenly some one cries out from the bank, " Young men, ahoy !" "What is it?" *' The rapids are below you ! " " Ha ! ha ! we have heard of the rapids ; but we are not such fools as to get there. If we go too fast, then we shall up with the helm, and steer to the shore ; we will set the ma?t in the socket, hoist the sail, and speed to the land. Then on, boys; don't be alarmed, there is no danger." " Young men, ahoy there ! " " What is it ? " " The rapids are below you ! '^ "Ha! ha! we will laugh and quaff; all things delight us. What care we for the future ? No man ever saw it. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof We will enjoy life while we may, will catch pleasure as it flies. This is enjoyment; time enough to steer out of danger when we are sailing swiftly with the current." " Young men, ahoy !" "What is it?" " Beware ! beware ! The rapids are below you ! " " Now you see the water foaming all around. See how fast you pass that point ! Up with the helm ! Now turn ! Pull hard ! Quick ! quick ! quick ! pull for your lives ! pull till the blood starts from your nostrils, and the veins stand like whip cords upon your brow ! Set the mast in the socket ! hoist the sail ! Ah ! ah ! it is too late ! Shrieking, blaspheming, ovep they go." Thousands go over the rapids of intemper- ance every year, through the power of habit, crying all the while, " When I find out that it is injuring me, I will give it up!" John B. Gough. DIED ON DUTY. The following lines were written by a comrade, on the death of Engineer Billy Ruffin, who lost his life by an accident that occurred on the Illinois Central Railroad, in Mississippi. But the devil's own had been at work, and loos- ened a rail that night ; When, gods of mercy ! what a shock and crash I then all so quiet and still. And old 258 lay dead in the pond, and the train piled up on the fill. The crew showed up one by one, lookmg all white and chill, Anxious to see if all were on deck, but whar on airth wuz Bill? But it wasn't long before they knew, for there in the pond was the tank, Stickin' clus to her engine pard, and holdin* Bill down by the shank. When the boys saw what orter be done, they went to work with a vim, But willin' hands doin' all they would, couldn't nze tons oft^n him i ILL RUFFIN to some wouldn't rank very high, being only an engineer; But he opened the throttle with a steady grip, and didn' t know nothin' like fear ; For doin' his duty and doin' it right, he was known all along the line, And with him in the box of 258, you might figger " you'd be thar on time." Bill was comin' down the run, one Monday night, a pullin' of No. 3, Just jogging along at a 30 gait, and a darker night you never see. They had struck the trestle twenty rod north of old Tallahatchie bridge. Where the water backs up under the track, with here and there a ridge. Bill had come down that run a hundred times, ^nd supposed that 4II wa^ right j 188 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. oill stood thar, brave man that he was, as the hours went slowly by, Seeniin' to feel, if the rest wur scared, he was l^erfectly willin' to die. Just before daylight looked over the trees, they brought poor Bill to the fire. And done the best they could for him in a place that was all mud and mire ; But they done no good, 'twant no use; he had seen his last of wrecks ; And thar by the fire that lit up his brave face, poor Bill passed in his checks. When they raised old 258 again, the story she did tell Was that the hero in her cab had done his duty well ; They found her lever thrown hard, her throttle open wide. Her air applied so close and hard that every wheel must slide. Thar's a wife and two kids down the line, whose sole dependence wuz Bill, Who little thought when he came home he'd be brought cold and still ; But tell them, tho' Bill was rough by natur' and somewhat so by name, That thar's a better land for men like him, and he died clear grit just the same. MY FRIEND THE CRICKET AND I. kY friend the Cricket and I Once sat by the fireside talking ; ''This life," I said, ''is such weary work ; ' ' Chirped Cricket, " You're always croaking." "It's rowing against baith wind an' tide, And a' for the smallest earning." ^Ah! weel," the merry Cricket replied, "But the tide will soon be turning." *'And then," I answered, " dark clouds may rise, And winds with the waters flowing." ** Weel ! keep a bit sunshine in your heart, It's a wonderfu' help in rowin (." *' But many a boat goes down at sea : " " O ! friend, but you're unco trying, Pray how many more come into port. With a' their colors flying ? " Would ye idly drift with changing tides, Till lost in a sea of sorrow ? ' ' " Ah ! no, good Cricket, I'll take the oars And cheerfully row to-morrow." "I would ! I would ! Yes, I would ! " he chirped, While I watched the bright fire burning, "I would! I would ! Yes, I'd try again, For the tide must have a turning." So all the night long through the drowsy hours I heard, like a cheerful humming — " I would ! I would ! Yes, I'd try again, Ye never ken what is coming." So I tried again : — now the wind sets fair, And the tide is shoreward turning. And Cricket and I chirp pleasantly While the fire is brightly burning. LiLLiE E. Barr. THE SNOW STORM, (sfX FARMER came from ihe village plain, f^L But he lost the traveled way ; yJls \^ And for hours he trod with might and main A path for his horse and sleigh ; But colder still the cold winds blew. And deeper still the deep drifts grew, And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, At last in her struggles, floundered down. Where a log in a hollow lay. In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, She plunged in the drifting snow. While her master urged, Ull his breath grew short, 4 SOCIETY IS QUICK TO TRACK THE MAGIC OF A PLEASING FACE DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 189 With a word and a gentle blow. But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight ; His hands were numb and had lost their might ; So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, And strove to shelter himself till day, With his coat and the buffalo. Me has given flie last faint jerk of the rein, To rouse up his dying steed ; And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain For help in his master's need. For a while he strives with a wistful cry To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, And wags his tail if the rude winds flap The skirt of the buffalo over his lap, And whines when he takes no heed. The wind goes down and the storm is o'er, 'Tis the hour of midnight, past ; The old trees writhe and bend no more In the whirl of the rushing blast. The silent moon with her peaceful light Looks down on the hills with snow all white, And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, The blasted pine and the ghostly stamp Afar on the plain are cast. But cold and dead by the hidden log Are they who came from the town : The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, And his beautiful Morgan brown — ■ In the wide snow-desert, far and grand, With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand — • The dog with his nose on his master's feet, And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet Where she lay when she floundered down» PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE. This is a picture of inordinate ambition. It should be represented by a voice of cold indifference to iiuman suffering. The flame of selfish passion is wild and frenzied. Quick — or he faints !— stand with the cordial near ! Now — bend him to the rack ! Press down the poisoned links into his flesh \ And tear agape that healing wound afresh ! ARRHASIUS stood, gazing forgetfully Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, 19 Chained to the cold rocks of Mount . Caucasus — The vulture at his vitals, and the links Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh; And as the painter's mind felt through the dim, Rapt mystery, and pluck' d the shadows forth With its far-reaching fancy, and with form And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip. Were like the winged god's, breathing from his flight. " Bring me the captive now ! My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift. And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens — around me play Colors of such divinity to-day. " Ha ! bind him on his back ! Look ! — as Prometheus in my picture here 1 " So — let him writhe ! How long Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now! What a fine agony works upon his brow ! Ha ! gray-haired, and so strong ! How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan ! ^'^Pity' thee! So I do ! I pity the dumb victim at the altar — But does the robed priest for \i\'s> pity falter? I'd rack thee, though I knew A thousand lives were perishing in thine — What were ten thousand to a fame like mine? " ^Hereafter ! ' Ay — hereafter ! A whip to keep a coward to his track ! What gave Death ever from his kingdom back To check the skeptic's laughter? 190 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. Come from the grave to-morrow with that story And I may take some softer path to glory. '^ No, no, old man ! we die Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away Our life upon the chance wind, even as they ! Strain well thy fainting eye — lor ^vhen that bloodshot quivering is o'er, The light of heaven will never reach thee more. " Yet there's a deathless name ! A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn. And like a steadfast planet mount and burn — And though its crown of flame Ccmsumed my brain to ashes as it shone, By all the fiery stars ! I'd bind it on ! ''Ay — though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst — Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first— Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child. And taunt its mother till my brain went wild— - ''All— I would do it ail- Sooner than die, lie a dull worm, to rot — Thrust foully into earth to be forgot ! O heavens ! — but I appall Your heart, old man ! forgive ha ! on your lives Let him not faint ! — rack him till he revives ! "Vain — vain — give o'er ! His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now — Stand back ! I'll paint the death dew on his brow 1 Gods! if he do not die But for one moment — one — till I eclipse Conception with the scorn of those cold lips ' " Shivering ! Hark ! he mutters Brokenly now — that was a difficult breath — Another ? Wilt thou never come, O Death ! Look \ how his temple flutters ! Is his heart still ? Aha! lift up his head ! He shudders — gasps — Jove help hun ! — so — he's dead." How like a mounting devil in the heart Rules the unreined ambition I Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought And unthrones peace forever. Putting -on The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns The heart to ashes, and with not a spring Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip. We look upon our splendor and forget The thirst of which we perish ! N. P. Willis. Hi THE NINETY=THIRD OFF CAPE VERD. The figures refer you to the Typical Gestures at the beginning of Part II. of this volume, gestures of your own. A good recital for animated description. Use othei % I r is night upon the ocean Near old Afric's shore ; Loud the wind wails o'er the water, Loud the waters roar. Dark o'erhead^^ the storm-clouds gather. Huge waves mountains form, As a stout ^ old ship comes struggling On against the storm. Hark ! ^ e'en now across the billows On the wind there floats. Sharp and shrill, the boatswain's whistle Sounding, ^ " Man the boats ! " At the sound, from cabin doorways. Rushing out headlong. Pours a weeping, ^° shrieking, shuddering, * Terror-stricken throng. Men, and women with their children. Weak and pale from fright, Praying, '^^ cursing, hurry onward Out iUto the night. But the lightning's^' frequent flashes By their ghastly sheen, Further forward in the vessel. Show another scene. DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 19^ From the crowd of trembling women, And of trembling men, See ! ^ a soldier presses forward, Takes his place, and then — ''Fall in ! " ^ Then comes the roll-call. Every man is at his post, Although now they hear the breakers Roaring on the coast. ^* Present arms ! " ° And till the life-boats With their precious freight Have been lowered safely downward Thus they stand and wait. And then, as the staunch old vessel Slowly sinks at last, Louder than the ocean's roaring, Louder than the blast. O'er the wildly raging water, Echoing far and near, Hear" the soldiers' dying volley, Hear their dying cheer. A FELON'S CELL. with An intensely dramatic reading, requiring I'M going to a felon's cell. To stay there till I die ; They say my hands are stained blood, But they who say it — lie. The court declared I murdered one I would have died to save ; I know who did the awful deed, I saw, but could not save. I saw the knife gleam in his hand, I heard the victim's shriek; My feet seem chained, I tried to run. But terror made me weak. Reeling, at length I reached the spot Too late — a quivering sigh — The pale moon only watched with me To see a sweet girl die. The reeking blade lay at my feet. The murderer had fled; 1 stooped to raise the prostrate form, To lift the sunny head Of her I loved, from out the pool Her own sweet blood had made ; That knife was fairly in my way, I raised the murderous blade. Unmindful of all else, beside That lovely, bleeding corse. Unheeding the approaching steps Of traveler and horse, rapid changes of voice and gesture. I raised the knife ; it caught the gleam Of the full moon's bright glare. One instant, and the next strong arms Pinioned mine firmly there. They led me forth, mute with a woe Too deep for word or sign ; The knife within my hand the court Identified as mine. My name was graven on the hilt, — The letters told a lie ; They doomed me to a felon's cell To stay there till I die. And yet, I did not do the deed ; The moon, if she could speak, Would lift this anguish from my brow, This shame from off my cheek. I was not born with gold or lands Nor was I born a slave. My hands are free from blood, — and ye* I'll fill a felon's grave. And I, who last year played at ball Upon the village green, A stripling, on whose lips the sign Of manhood scarce is seen, Whose greatest crime (if crime it be) Was loving her too well, Must leave this beautiful, For a dark prison cell- r]ad world 192 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. I had just begun to learn to live Since I laid by my books, And I had grown so strangely fond Of forest, spring, and brook, I read a lesson in each drop That trickled through the grass, And found a sermon in the flow Of wavelets, as they pass. Dear woodland haunts ! I leave your shade; No more at noon's high hour I'll list the sound of insect life, Or scent the sweet wild flower. Dear mossy banks, by murmuring streams, 'Tis hard to say good-bye ! To leave you for a felon's cell, Where I must stay and die. Farewell all joy and happiness ! Farewell all earthly bliss ! All human ties must severed be,— - Aye, even a mother's kiss Must fail me now; in this my need O God ! to Thee I cry ! Oh ! take me now, ere yet I find A grave wherein to lie. Mother, you here ! Mother, the boy You call your poet child Is innocent ! His hands are clean, His heart is undefiled. Oh ! tell me, mother, am I weak To shrink at thought of pain ? To shudder at the sound of bolt, Gt-ow cold at clank of chain ? \ Oh ! tell me, is it weakness now To weep upon your breast, — • That faithful pillow, where so oft You've soothed me to my rest ! Hark ! 'tis an officer's firm tread, God ! Mother, good-bye ! They've come to bear me to my cell Where I must stay and die. They're coming now, I will be strong. No, no. it cannot be. My giddy brain whirls round in pain, Your face I cannot see. But I remember when a child 1 shrank at thought of pain. But, oh, it is a fearful thing To have this aching brain. Pardon ! heard I the sound aright ? Mine comes from yonder sky; Hold me ! don't let them take me forth To suffer till I die ! Pardon ! pardon ! came the sound, And horsemen galloped fast, But 'twas too late ; the dying man Was soon to breathe his last. The crime's confessed, the guilt made known Quick, lead the guiltless forth. ■'Then I am free ! mother, your hand, Now whisper your good-bye, I'm going where there are no cells To suffer in and die ! " n THE BATTLE OF W^ATERLOO. This soul-stirring account of the historic battle where thrones and empires were staked, is from the pen of the great French author whose famous descriptions are unsurpassed by those of any otliei writer. In reciting this piece every nerve must be tense, and soul and body must be animated by the imaginary sight of the contending armies. Your utterance should be somewhat rapid, the tones of your voice round and full, the words of command given as a general would give them on the field of battle, and you must picture to your hearers the thrilling scene in such a way that it may appear to be almost a reality. Otherwise, this very graphic description will fall flat, and the verdict of your audience will be that you were not equal to the occasion. w I HE sky had been overcast all day. All ^1 at once, at this very moment — it was eight o'clock at night — the clouds in the horizon broke, and through the elms of the Nivelles road streamed fh^ sinister red light of the setting sun. DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 195 Arrangements were speedily made for the filial effort. Each battalion was commanded by a general. When the tall caps of the Grenadiers of the Guard with their large eagle plates appeared, symmetrical, drawn up in line, calm in the smoke of that conflict, t\e enemy felt respect for France. They thought they saw twenty victories entering upon the field of battle with wings extended and those who were conquerors thinking tliemselves conquered recoiled ; but Welling- ton cried : " Up, Guards, and at them ! " The red regiment of English Guards, lying behind the hedges, rose up ; a shower of grape riddled the tricolored flag. All hurled themselves forward, and the final carnage began. The Imperial Guard felt the army slipping away around them in the gloom and the vast overthrow of the rout. There were no weak souls or cowards there. The privates of that band were as heroic as their 'eneral. Not a man flinched from the suicide. The army fell back rapidly from all sides at once. A disbanding army is a thaw. The whole bends, cracks, snaps, floats, rolls, falls^ crashes, hurries, plunges. Ney borrows a horse, leaps upon him, and, without hat, cravat, or sword, plants himself in the Brussels 'oad, arresting at once the English and the French. He endeavors to hold the army ; he calls them back, he reproaches them, he grapples with the rout. He is swept away. The soldiers flee from him, crying, " Long live Ney ! " Durutte's two regiments come and go, frightened and tossed between the sabres of the Uhlans and the fire of the brig- ades of Kempt. Rout is the worst of all conflicts; friends slay each other in their flight; squadrons and battalions are crushed and dispersed against each other, enormous foam of the battle. Napoleon gallops among the fugitives, harangues them, urges, threatens, entreats. The momh«^. which in the morning were cry- (13-X) ing " Long live the Emperor," are now agape. He is hardly recognized. The Prus- sian cavalry, just come up, spring forward, fling themselves upon the enemy, sabre, cut, hack, kill, exterminate. Teams rush off; the guns are left to the care of themselves ; the soldiers of the train unhitch the caissons and take the horses to escape ; wagons upset, with their four wheels in the air, block up the road, and are accessories of massacre. They crush and they crowd ; they tram- ple upon the living and the dead. Arms are broken. A multitude fills roads, paths bridges, plains, hills, valleys, woods, choked up by this flight of forty thousand men. Cries^ despair; knapsacks and muskets cast into the rye ; passages forced at the point of the sword; no more comrades, no more officers, no more generals ; an inexpressible dismay. Lions become kids. Such was this flight. A few squares of the Guard, immovable in the flow of the rout as rocks in running water, held out until night. Night approach- ing and death also, they awaited this double shadow, and yielded unfaltering to its em- brace. At every discharge the square grew less, but returned the fire. It replied to grape by bullets, narrowing in its four walls continually. Afar off, the fugitives, stopping for a moment out of breath, heard in the darkness this dismal thunder decreasing. When this legion was reduced to a hand- ful, when their flag was reduced to a shred, when their muskets, exhausted of ammuni- tion, were reduced to nothing but clubs, when the pile of corpses was larger than the group of the living, there spread among the con- querors a sort of sacred terror about these sublime martyrs, and the English artillery, stopping to take breath, was silent. It was a kind of respite. These combatants had about them a swarm of spectres, the outlines of men on horseback, the black profile of the 194 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. d cannons, the white sky seen through the wheels and gun-carriages. The colossal death's head, v/hich heroes always see in the smoke of the battle, was advancing upon them and glaring at them. They could hear in the gloom of the t vilight the loading of the pieces. The lighted matches, like tigers' eyes in the night, made a circle about their heads. All the linstocks of the English batteries ap- proached the guns, when, touched by their heroism, holding the death-moment sus- pended over these men, an English general cried to them : " Brave Frenchmen, surrender ! " The word " Never ! " fierce and desperate came rolling back. To this word the English general replied, " Fire ! " The batteries flamed, the hill trembled; from all those brazen throats went forth a final vomiting of grape, terrific, A vast smoke, dusky Vv^hite in the light of the rising moon, rolled out, and when the smoke was dissipated, there was nothing left. That for- midable remnant was annihilated — the Guard was dead ! The four walls of the living re- doubt had fallen. Hardly could a quivering be distinguished here and there among the corpses ; and thus the French legions expired. Victor Hugo. A PIN. H, I know a certain woman who is reck- oned with the good, But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion could. The little chills run up and down my ^^pine whene'er we meet, Though she seems a gentle creature, and she's very trim and neat. And she has a thousand virtues, and not one acknowledged sin. But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin. And she pricks you, and she sticks you in a way that can't be said — When you ask for what has hurt you, why you cannot find the head. But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain — If anyl)ody asks you why, you really can't explain. A pin is such a tiny thing — of that there is no doubt — Yet when it's sticking in your flesh, youVe wretched till it's out. She is wonderfully observing — when she meets a pretty girl She is always sure to tell her if her **bang" is out of curl. And she is so sympathetic to her friend, who's much admired, She is often heard remarkmg: " Dear, you look so worn and tired ! " And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed The nev/ dress I was airing with a woman's nat- ural pride, And she said : *' Oh, how becoming ! " and then softly added to it, ^' It is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit." Then she said : ''If you had heard me yestereve, I'm sure, my friend, You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend." And she left me with the feeling — most unpleas- ant, I aver — That the whole world would despise me if it hnd not been for her. Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way, She gives me the imj)ression I am at my worst that day. l)p:j)CRIptive and dramatic recitations. 195 -\nd the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet), With just one glance from her round eye, becomes a Bowery bonnet. Siie is always bright and smiling, sharp and shin- ing for a thrust- Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust — Oh ! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this P^^- Ella Wheeler Wilcox. A RELENTING MOB, Translated from the French of Victor Hugo. HE mob was fierce and furious. They cried : Kill him ! ' ' the while they pressed from every side Around a man, haughty, unmoved and brave, Too pitiless himself to pity crave. • Down with the wretch ! " on all sides rose the cry. The captive found it natural to die. The game is lost — he's on the weaker side, Life, too, is lost, and so must fate decide. From out his home they dragged him tn the street, With fiercely clenching hands and hurrying feet, And shouts of •' Death to him ! " The crimson stain Of recent carnage on his garb showed plain. This m.an was one of those who blindly slay At a king's bidding. He'd shoot men all day, Killing he knew not whom, scarce knew why. Now marching forth impassible to die, Incapable of mercy or of fear. Letting his powder-blackened hands appear. A woman chitched his collar with a frown, ' He's a policeman — he has shot us down ! " 'Tiiat's true," the man said. ''Kill him!" ''Shoot him!" "Kill!" ' No, at the Arsenal " — " The Bastile ! " — " Where you wil"," The captive answered. And with fiercest breath, Loading their guns his captors still cried "Death!" We'll shoot him like a wolf!" "A wolf am I? Then you're the dogs," he calmlv made reply. " Hark, he insults us ! " And from every side Clenched fists were shaken, angry voices cried, Ferocious threats were muttered, deep and low. With gall upon his lips, gloom on his brow, And in his eyes a gleam of baffled hate, He went, pursued by bowlings, to his fate. Treading with wearied and supreme disdain 'Midst the forms of dead men he perchance had slain. Dread is that human storm, an angry crowd : He braved its wrath with head erect and proud. He was not taken, but walled in with foes. He hated them with hate the vanquished knows, He would have shot them all had he the power. " Kill him — he's fired upon us for an hour ! " "Down with the murderer — down with the spy!" And suddenly a small voice made reply, "No — no, he is my father! " And a ray Like a sunbeam seemed to light the day. A child appeared, a boy with golden hair, His arms upraised in menace or in prayer. All shouted, ' ' Shoot the bandit, fell the spy ! " The little fellow clasped him with a cry Of "Papa, papa, they'll not hurt you now! " The light baptismal shone upon his brow. From out the captive's home had come the child. Meanwhile the shrieks of "Kill him — Death ! " rose wild. The cannon to the tocsin's voice replied. Sinister men thronged close on every side, 196 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. And in the street ferocious shouts increased Of "Slay each spy — each minister — each priest — We'll kill them all ! " The little boy replied : **I tell you this is papa." One girl cried ' * A pretty fellow — see his curly head ! ' ' '■ " How old are you, my boy ? ' ' another said. '*Do not kill papa ! " only he replies. A soulful lustre lights his streaming eyes, Some glances from his gaze are turned away, And the rude hands less fiercely grasp their prey. Then one of the most pitiless says, "Go — Get you back home, boy." ' ' Where — why ? ' ' "Don't you know? Go to your mother." Then the father said, "He has no mother." "What — his mother's dead? Then you are all he has." "That matters not," The captive answers, losing not a jot Of his composure as he closely pressed The little hands to warm them in his breast. And says, " Our neighbor, Catherine you know, Go to her." "You'll come too?" "Not yet." "No, no. Then I'll not leave you." " Why ? " " Thest men, I fear, Will hurt you, papa, when I am not here." The father to the chieftain of the band Says softly, "Loose your grasp and take my hand, I'll tell the child to-morrow we shall meet, Then you can shoot me in the nearest street, Or farther off, just as you like." "'Tis well ! " The words from those rough lips reluctant fell. And, half unclasped, the hands less fierce appear. The father says, " You see, we're all friends here, I'm going with these gentlemen to walk; Go home. Be good. I have no time to talk.'' The little fellow, reassured and gay. Kisses his father and then runs away. "Now he is gone and we are at our ease. And you can kill me where and how you please," The father says, " Where is it I must go ? " Then through the crowd a long thrill seems to flow. The lips, so late with cruel wrath afoam, Relentingly and roughly cry, " Go home ! " Lucy H. Hooper. THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER. Slow utterance, rapid utterance, loud tones, subdued tones, quick changes and intense dramatic force are all required in this reading. Lose yourself in your recitation. Never be self-conscious. IT wa.s the 7th of October, 1777. Hora- tio Gates stood before his tent gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of Autumn. The sky was cloudless ; the foliage Oi^ the wood scarce tinged with purple and gold ; the buckwheat in yonder fields frost- ened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of legions shook the ground ; from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel ; on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet. Gates was sad and thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions of the two armies. But all at once, a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground, and a chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while th : sky was clouded with leaden folds, and th • earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart. Suddenly, Gates and his of- ficers were startled. Along the heighf on which they stood, came a rider, upon a bl-icl^ horse, rushing toward the distant battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and his rider, that struck tliem DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 197 with surprise. Look ! he draws his sword, the sharp blade quivers through the air — he points to the distant battle, and lo ! he is gone ; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight is the thickest, there through intervals of cannon smoke, you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a magnificent sight, to see that strange soldier and that noble black horse dashing like a meteor, down the long col- umns of battle ? Let us look for a moment into those dense war-clouds. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of American militia-men, their rude farmer coats stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee before that company of redcoat hirelings, who come rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. In this moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The un- known rider reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of a broad- shouldered militia-man. " Now, cowards ! advance another step and I'll strike you to the heart ! " shouts the unknown, extending a pistol in either hand. " What ! are you Americans, men, and fly before British sol- diers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you down." This appeal was not without its effect. The militia-man turns; his comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. " Now upon the rebels, charge ! " shouts the red-coat officer. They spring forward at the sanie bouad. i,ook 1 their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider was heard : " Now let them have it ! Fire ! " A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death some crawling along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. " Club your rifles and charge them home ! " shouts the unknown. That black horse springs forward, followed by the militia-rrten. Then a confused con- flict — a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers. Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemiss' Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost ! That cliff is too steep— that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to ad- vance. The Americans have lost the fi^eld. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder ! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood ; he lays his hand upon that brave rifleman's shoulder, and as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he seized his rifle and started toward the rock. And now look ! now hold your breath, as that black steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quiv- ers ! he totters ! he falls ! No ! No ! Still on, still up the cliff, still on toward the for- tress. The rider turns his face and shouts, *' Come on, men of Quebec ! come on ! " That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. Now British cannon pour 198 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. your fires, and lay your dead in tens and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hire- lings, shout your battle-cry if you can ! For look ! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the Black Horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls ; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates wait- ing yonder in his tent, '^ Saratoga is won ! " As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg shattered by a cannon ball Who was the rider of the black horse ? Do you not guess his name ? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it bears the marks of a former wound. That wound was received in the storming ol Quebec. That rider of the Black Horse was Benedict Arnold. Charles Sheppard. THE UNFINISHED LETTER. Near Deadwood. Dear Jenny — E reached here this morning, Tom Baker, Ned Leonard and I, So you see that, in spite of your warning, The end of our journey is nigh. *' The redskins — 'tis scarce worth a mention, Don't worry about me, I pray — Have shown us no little attention — ■ Confound them ? — along on our way. "Poor Ned's got a ball in the shoulder — ■ Another one just grazed my side — But pshaw ! ere we're half a day older We'll be at the end of our ride. ** We've camped here for breakfast. Tom's splitting Some kindhng wood, off of the pines. And astride a dead cedar I'm sitting To hastily pen you these lines. ''A courier from Deadwood — we met him Just now with a mail for the States, (Ah, Jenny ! I'll never forget him} — > For this most obligingly waits. '^ He says, too, the miners are earning Ten dollars a day, every man. Halloa ! here comes Tom — he's returning, And running as fast as he can. *' It's nothing, I guess ; he is only At one of his practical — ' ' Bang ! And sharp through that solitude lonely The crack of Sioux rifle shots rang. And as the dire volley came blended With echo from canyon and pass, The letter to Jenny was ended — Its writer lay dead on the grass. ^ LEGEND OF THE ORQAN=BUILDER. M AY by day the Organ-builder in his lonely chamber wrought ; Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought ; Till at last the work was ended; and no organ- voice so grand Ever yet had soared responsive to the master's magic hand. Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom and bride. Who, in God's sight were well- pleasing, in the church stood side by side. Without touch or breath the orgr. i of itself began to play, And the very airs of heaven through ihe soil ^loom seemed to stray DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 19J? He was young, the Organ-builder, and o'er all the land his fame Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame. All the maidens heard the story ; all the maidens blushed and smiled, By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled. So he sought and won the fairest, and the wed- ding-day was set : Happy day — the brightest jewel in the glad year's coronet ! But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride ~ Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride. '* Ah ! " thought he ; '' how great a master am I ! When the organ plays, How the vast cathedral-arches will re-echo with my praise ! ' ' Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar, With €very candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star. But he hstened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer. For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there. All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest's low monotone. And the bride's robe trailing softly o'er the floor of fretted stone. Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him Who had built the wondrous organ for His tem- ple vast and dim ! Whose the fault, then ? Hers — the maiden stand- ing meekly at his side ! Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him — his bride, Vain were all her protestations, vain her inno- cence and truth ; On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth. For he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name ; For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame. Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day Of the bride he had deserted, till ne hardly dared to pray ; Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beau- tiful and good ; Thought of his relentless anger, that had cursed her womanhood ; Till his yearning grief and penitence at last weT all complete. And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet. Ah ! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night. Rose his native towers before him, with the sun- set glow alight ! Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread ; There he met a long procession— mourners fol- lowing the dead. " Now why weep ye so, good people ? and whom bury ye to-day ? Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way ? *' Has some saint gone up to heaven ? " *' Yes,'* they answered, weeping sore ; '* For the Organ-builder's saintly wife our eyes shall see no more ; ''And because her days were given to the ser- vice of God's poor, From His church we mean to bury her. See ! yonder is the door." 200 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. No one knew him ; no one wondered when he 1 All the vaulted arches rang with the music sweet cried out, white with pain ; fo one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain. *' 'Tis some one whom she has comforted, who ' mourns with us," they said, As he made his wa) unchallenged, and bore the coffin's head : Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle. Let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while ; When, oh, hark ! the wondrous organ of itself began to play- Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day ! and clear ! All the air was filled with glory, as of angels ho- vering near ; And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin's head, With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank be- side it — dead. They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride ; Down the aisle and o'er the threshold they were carried, side by side ; While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before, And .'hen softly sank to silence— silence kept for evermore. Julia C. R. Dorr. ®-< ■^=^ ■o^o-» A=2. >^ CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND. 3^T sometimes happens that a man, traveler I or fisherman, vi^alking on the beach at JL low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices that for several minutes he has been walking with some difficulty. The strand beneath his feet is like pitch ; his soles stick in it; it is sand no longer; it is glue. The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon as he lift his foot, the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye, however, has noticed no change; the Immense strand is smooth and tranquil ; all iie sand has the same appearance; nothing distinguishes the surface which is solid from hat which is no longer so ; the joyous little crowd of sandflies continue to leap tumult- uously over the wayfarer's feet. The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines to the land, endeavors to get nearer the upland. He is not anxious. Anxious about what? Only he feels, somehow, as if the weight of his feet increases with every step he takes. Suddenly he sinks in, He sinks in two or three inches. Decid- edly he is not on the right road; he stops to take his bearings ; now he looks at his feet. They have disappeared. The sand covers them. He draws them out of the sand ; he will retrace his steps. He turns back, he sinks in deeper. The sand comes up to his ankles; he pulls himself out and throws him- self to the left ; the sand half leg deep. He throws himself to the right; the sand comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes with unspeakable ter- ror that he is caught in the quicksand, and that he has beneath him the terrible medium in which man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He throws off his load, if he has one, lightens himself as a ship in distress; it is already too late; the sand is above his knees. He calls, he waves his hat or his handkerchief; the sand gains on him more and more. If the beach is deserted, if the land is too far off, if there is no help in sight, it is all over. DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 201 He is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infallible, implacable and impossible to slacken or to hasten, which endures for hours, which seizes you erect, free and in full health, md which draws you by the feet; which, at every effort that you attempt, at every shout 3^ou utter, drags you a little deeper, sinking you slowly into the earth while you look upon the horizon, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, the sun- shine and the sky. The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep ; every move- ment he makes inters him ; he straightens up, he sinks in ; he feels that he is being swallowed. He howls, implores, cries to the clouds, despairs. Behold him waist deep in the sand. The sand reaches his breast; he is now only a bust. He raises his arms, utters furious groans, clutches the beach with his nails, would hold by that straw, leans upon his elbows, to pull himself out of this soft sheath ; sobs frenziedly ; the sand rises ; the sand reaches his shoulders ; the sand reaches his neck; the face alone is visible now. The mouth cries, the sand fills it — silence. The eyes still gaze — the sand shuts them ; night. Now the forehead decreases, a little hair flutters above the sand ; a hand come to the surface of the beach, moves, and shakes, disappears. It is the earth-drowning man. The earth filled with the ocean becomes a trap. It presents itself like a plain, and opens like a wave. Victor Hugo. THE LITTLE QUAKER SINNER. LIITLE Quaker maiden, with dimpled cheek and chin, Before an ancient mirror stood, and viewed her from within She wore a gown of sober gray, a cap demure and prim, With only simple fold and hem, yet dainty, neat and trim. Her bonnet, too, was gray and stiff; its only line of grace Was in the lace, so soft and white, shirred round her rosy face. Quoth she: *^ Oh, how I hate this hat ! I hate this gown and cape ! I do wish all my clothes were not of such out- landish shape ! The children passing by to school have ribbons on their hair ; The little girl next door wears blue ; oh, dear, if I could dare, I know what I should like to do !" — (The words were whispered low, Lest such tremendous heresy should reach her aunts below.) Calmly reading in the parlor sat the good aunts Faith and Peace, Little dreaming how rebellious throbbed the heart of their young niece. All their prudent, humble teaching willfully she cast aside. And, her mind now fully conquered by vanity and pride, She, with trembling heart and fingers, on a has- sock sat her down, And this little Quaker sinner sewed a tuck into her gown ! "Little Patience, art thou ready? Fifth day meeting time has come, Mercy Jones and Goodman Elder with his wife have left their home. ' ' 'Twas Aunt Faith's sweet voice that called her. and the naughty httle maid — Gliding down the dark old stairway — hoped their notice to evade. Keeping shyly in their shadow as they went out at the door. Ah ! never little Quakeress a guiltier conscience bore ! 202 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. Dear Aunt Faith walked looking upward; all her thoughts were pure and holy; And Aunt Peace w^alked gazing downward, wdth a humble mind and lowly. But ''tuck — tuck!" chirped the sparrows, at the little maiden's side; And, in passing Farmer Watson's, where the barn-door opened wide, Every sound that issued from it, every grunt and every cluck, Was to her affrighted fancy like " a tuck ! " "a tuck!" ''a tuck!" In meeting, Goodman Elder spoke of pride and vanity. While all the Friends seemed looking round that dreadful tuck to see. How it swelled in its proportions, till it seemed to fill the air, And the heart of little Patience grew heavier with her care. O, the glad relief to her, when, prayers and ex- hortations ended. Behind her two good aunties her homeward way she wended ! The pomps and vanities of life she'd seized with eager arms. And deeply she had tasted of the world's allur- ing charms — Yea, to the dregs had drained them, and only this to find: All was vanity of spirit and vexation of the mind. So, repentant, saddened, humbled on her hassock she sat down, And this little Quaker sinner ripped the tuck out of her gown ! Lucy L. Montgomery. THE TELL=TALE HEART. The emotions of horror and dismay are vividly brought out in this selection, which is character- istic of some of the writings of Edgar A. Poe. He had a morbid fancy for the weird, the gruesome and startling, all of which appear in this ghastly description from his pen. The piece is an excellent one of its kind. It requires the ability of a tragedian to properly deliver it. ITH a loud yell I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once — once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gayly to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. If you still think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise pre- cautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked has- tily, but in silence. First of all I dismem- bered the corpse. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye — not even his — could have de- tected anything wrong. When I had made an end of these labors it was four o'clock — still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart — for what had I now to fear? Then entered three men who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night ; suspicion of foul play had been aroiised ; information had been lodged at the DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 205 police ofifice, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled — for what had I to fear ? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search — search well. I led them at length to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the en- thusiasm of my confidence I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. But ere long I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears ; but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing be- came more distinct ; it continued and gained definitiveness — until at length I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale ; but I talked more fluently and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased — and what could I do. It was a low, dull, quick sound — much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped foi breath — and yet the officers heard it not. 1 talked more quickly^ — more vehemently ; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations ; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone ? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy stride;;, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men — but the noise steadily increased. O God ! what could I do ? I foamed — I raved — I swore ! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder. And still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not ? They heard ! — they suspected ! — they knew ! —they were making a mockery of my hor- ror ! this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony ! Any- thing was more tolerable than this derision ! I can bear those hypocritical smiles no longer ! I felt that I must scream or die ! — ■ and now- — again ! — hark ! louder ! louder ! louder ! louder ! ** Villains ! " I shrieked, " dissemble no more ! I admit the deed — tear up the planks ! here! here! it is the beating of his hideous heart ! " Edgar Allan Poe. THE LITTLE MATC!1=GIRL. A CHRISTMAS STORY. IT was terribly cold ; it snowed and was already almost dark and evening com- ing on— the last evening of the year. In the cold and gloom a little girl, bareheaded and barefooted, was walking through the streets. When she left her own house she certainly had slippers on, slippers, but of what use were they ? They were very big slippers^ and her mother had used them yntil then. So big were they the little maid lose them as she slipped across the road, where two carriages were rattling by terribly fast. On.Q slipper was not to be found again, and a boy had seized the other and ran away with it. So now the little girl went with naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of niatches and a buiidle of thern 104 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. »n her hanu. No one had bought anything oi her all day, and no one had given her a farthing. Shivering with cold and hunger she crept along, a picture of misery, poor little girl ! The snow-flakes covered her long, fair hair, which fell in pretty curls over her neck, but >he did not think of that now. In all the windows lights were shining and there was a glorious smell of roast goose, for it was Christmas Eve. Yes, she thought of that ! In a corner formed by two houses, one of Tvhich projected beyond the other, she sat down, cowering. She had drawn up her little feet, but she was still colder, and she did not dare go home, for she had sold no matches, and did not therefore have a farth- ing of money. From her father she would certainly receive a beating, and, besides, it was cold at home, for they had nothing over them but a roof, through which the wind whistled, though the largest rents had been stopped with straw and rags. Her hands were almost benumbed with the cold. Ah ! a match might do her good if she could only draw one from the bundle and rub it against the wall and warm her hands at it. She draws one outo R-r-atch ! How it sputtered and burned! It was a warm, bright flame, like a candle, when she held her hands over it ; it was a wonderful little light ! It really seemed to the child as if she sat before a great polished stove with bright brass feet and a brass cover. How the fire burned! How comfortable it was! but the little flame went out, the stove van- ished, and she had only the remains of the burnt match in her hand. A second one was rubbed against the wall. It burned up, and when the light fell upon the wall it became transparent, like a thin veil, and she could see through it into the room. On the table a snow-white cloth was spr,;ad; upon it stood a shining dinner ser- vice; the roast goose smoked gloriously, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more splendid to behold, the goose hopped down from the dish and wad- ■ died along the floor, with a knife and fork 'n\ f its breast, to the little girl. Then the match went out, and only the thick, damp, cold wall was before her. She lighted another match. Then she was sitting under g. beautiful Christmas tree; it was greater and more ornamented than the one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. Thousands of candles burned upon its green branches and lighted up the pictures in the room. The girl stretched forth her hand toward them ; then the match went out. The Christmas lights mounted higher. She saw them now as stars in the sky ; one of them fell down, forming a long line of fire. " Now some one is dying," thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her and who was now dead, had told her that when a star fell down a soul mounted up to God. She rubbed another match against the wall ; it became bright again, and in the brightness the old grandmother stood clear and shining, mild and lovely. " Grandmother ! " cried the child, " ohJ take me with you ! I know you will go when the match is burned out. You wil^ vanish like the warm fire, the warm food, and the great, glorious Christmas tree ! " And she hastily rubbed the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her grand- mother fast. And the matches burned with such a glow that it became brighter than w the middle of the day; grandmother had never been so large or so beautiful. She took the child in her arms and both flew in brightness and joy above the earth, very, very high ; and up there was neither cold nor hunger nor care — they were with God. DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 205 But in the corner, leaning against the wall, sat the poor girl with red cheeks and smiling mouth, frozen to death. '* She wanted to warm herself/' the people said. No one imagined what a beautiful thing jhe had seen and in what glory she had gone lu with her grandmother on that Christmas night. Hans Christian Andersen. THE MONK'S VISION, I RE AD a legend of a monk who painted, In an old convent cell in days bygone, Pictures of martyrs and of virgins sainted, And the sweet Christ-face with the crown of thorn. Poor daubs not fit to be a chapel's treasure — Full many a taunting word upon them fell ; But the good abbot let him, for his pleasure, Adorn with them his solitary cell. One night the poor monk mused: '' Could I but render Honor to Christ as other painters do — Were but my skill as gpeat as i.s the tender Love that inspires me wnen His cross I view ! *'But no ; 'tis vain I toil and strive in sorrow; What man so scorns, still less can He admire; My life's work is all valueless ; to-morrow I'll cast my ill- wrought pictures in the fire." He raised his eyes within his cell — O wonder ! There stood a visitor ; thorn-crowned was He, And a sweet voice the silence rent asunder: ''I scorn no work that's done for love of me." And round the walls the paintings shone re- splendent With lights and colors to this world unknown, A perfect beauty, and a hue transcendent, That never yet on mortal canvas shone. There is a meaning in this strange old story; Let none dare judge his brother's worth or need; The pure intent gives to the act its glory, The noblest purpose makes the grandest deed. 6irHE THE BOAT RACE. HE Algonquins rowed up and down a ^ I few times before the spectators. They appeared in perfect training, mettle- some as colts, steady as draught horses, deep breathed as oxen, disciplined to work to- gether as symmetrically as a single sculler pulls his pair of oars. Five minutes passed, and all eyes were strained to the south, looking for the Ata- lanta. A dumb of trees hid the edge of the lake along which the Corinna's boat was stealing toward the starting point. Presently the long shell swept into view, with its blooming rowers. How steadily the Ata- lanta came on ! No rocking, no splashing, no apparent strain ; the bow oar turning to look ahead every now and then, and watch- ing her course, which seemed to be straight as an arrov/, the beat of the strokes as true and regular as the pulse of the healthiest rower among them all. If the sight of the other boat and its crew^, of young men was beautiful, how lovely was the look of this : eight young girls - all in the flush of youth, all in vigorous health ; every muscle taught. its duty; each rower alert not to be a tenth of a second out of time, or let her oar dally with the v/ater so as to lose an ounce of its propelling virtue ; every eye kindling with the hope of victory. Each of the boats was cheered as it came in sight, but the cheers for the Atalanta were 206 Di^:SCRIPTlVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. -..lurally the loudest, as the gallantry oi one ricx and the clear, high voices of the other gave it life and vigor. ' *'Take your places! " shouted the umpire, five minutes before the half-hour. The two ! oats felt their way slowly and cautiously to their positions. After a little backing and filling they got into line, and sat motionless, the bodies of the rowers bent forward, their arms outstretched, their oars in the water, waiting for the word. " Go ! " shouted the umpire. Away sprang the Atalanta, and far behind her leaped the Algonquin, her oars bending like long Indian bows as their blades flashed through the water. " A stern chase is a long chase,'' especially when one craft is a great distance behind the other. It looked as if it would be impossible for the rear boat to overcome the odds against it. Of course, the Algonquin kept gaining, but could it possibly gain enough ? As the boats got farther and farther away, it became difficult to determine what ch?'*ige there was in the interval between them. But when they came to rounding the stake it was easier to guess at the amount of space which had been gained. Something like half the distance — four lengths as nearly as could be estimated — had been made up in rowing the first three-quarters of a mile. Could the Algonquins do a little better than this in the second half of the race-course they would be sure of winning. The boats had turned the stake and were roming in rapidly. Every minute the Uni- 1 ?rsity boat was getting nearer the other. " Go it, 'Quins! " shouted the students. ** Pull away, 'Lantas ! " screamed the girls, /ho were crowding down to the edge of the ,»/ater. '- Nearer, nearer — the rear boat is pressing (he other more and more closely — a few more strokes and they will be even. It looks desperate for the Atalantas. The bow oar of the Algonquin turns, his head. He sees the little coxswain leaning forward at every stroke, as if her trivial weight were of such mighty consequence—but a few ounces might turn the scale of victory. As he turned he got a glimpse of the stroke oar of the Ata- lanta ; what a flash of loveliness it was I Her face was like the reddest of June roses, with the heat and the strain and passion of expected triumph. The upper button of her close-fitting flan- nel suit had strangled her as her bosom heaved with exertion, and it had given way before the fierce clutch she made at it. The bow oar was a staunch and steady rower, but he was human. The blade of his oar lingered in the water; a little more and he would have caught a crab, and perhaps lost the race by his momentary bewilderment. The boat, which seemed as if it had all the life and nervousness of a three-year-old colt, felt the slight check, and all her men bent more vigorously to their oars. The Atalanta saw the movement, and made a spurt to keep their lead and gain upon it if they could. It was no use. The strong arms of the young men were too much for the young maidens ; only a few lengths remained to be rowed, and they would certainly pass the Atalanta be- fore she could reach the line. The little coxswain saw that it was all up with the girls' crew if she could not save them by some strategic device. As she stooped she lifted the handkerchief at her feet and took from it a flaming bouquet " Look ! " she cried, and flung it just forward of the track of the Algonquin. The captain of the University boat turned his head, and there was the lovely vision which had, a moment before, bewitched him. The owner of all that loveliness must, he thought, have flung the bouquet. It was a challenge ; how could he be such a coward as to decline accepting it? He was sure he f DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 207 could win the race now, and he would sweep past the line m triumph with the great bunch of flowers at the stern of his boat, proud as Van Tromp in the British Channel with the broom at his masthead. He turned the boat's head a little by back- ing water, and came up with the floating flowers, near enough to reach them. He stooped and snatched them up, with the loss perhaps of a second, no more. He felt sure of his victory. The bow of the AlgonquLi passes the stern of the Atalanta! The bow of the Al- gonquin is on a level with the middle of the Atalanta — three more lengths and the college crew will pass the girls ! "Hurrah for the 'Quins!" The Algon- quin ranges up alongside of the Atalanta! " Through with her ! " shouts the captain of the Algonquin. " Now, girls ! " shrieks the captain of the Atalanta. They near the line, every rower straining desperately, almost madly. Crack goes the oar of the Atalanta's captain, and up flash its splintered fragments as the stem of her boat springs past the line, eighteen inches at least ahead of the Algonquin. " Hooraw for the 'Lantas ! Hooraw for the girls ! Hooraw for the Institoot ! " shout a hundred voices. And there is loud laughing and cheering all round. The pretty little captain had not studied her classical dictionary for nothing. " I have paid off an old 'score,' " she said. "Set down my damask roses against the golden apples of Hippomenes ! " It was that one second lost in snatching up the bouquet which gave the race to the Atalantas I ^^<^^^ PHILLIPS OF PELHAMVILLE. HORT is the story I say, if you will Hear it, of Phillips of Pelhamville : An engineer for many a day Over miles and miles of the double ^yay. He was out that day, running sharp, for he knew He must shunt ahead for a train overdue, The South Express coming on behind With the swing a^id rush of a mighty wind. No need to say in this verse of mine How accidents happen along the line. A rail lying wide to the gauge ahead, A signal clear when it should be red ; An axle breaking, the tire of a wheel Snapping off at a hidden flaw in the steel. Enough. There v^'ere wagons piled up in the air, As if some giant had tossed them there. Rails broken and bent like a willow wand, And sleepers torn up through the ballast and sand. The hiss of the steam was heard, as it rushed Through the safety-valves ; the engine crushed Deep into the slope, like a monster driven To hide itself from the eye of heaven. But where was Phi]lij>s? From underneath The tender wheels, with their grip of death, They drew him, scalded by steam, and burned By the engine fires as it overturned. They laid him gently upon the slope. Then knelt beside him with little of hope. Though dying, he was the only one Of them all that knew what ought to be done; l-'or his fading eye grew quick with a fear, As if of some danger approaching near. And it sought —not the wreck of his train that lay Over the six and the four feet away — But down the track, for there hung on his mind The South Express coming up behind. 208 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. And he half arose with a stifled groan, While his voice had the same old ring in its tone •Signal the Soiilli Express!" he said, /hen fell back in the arms of his fireman, dead. Sliort, as you see, is this story of mine, And of one more hero of the line. For hero he was, though before his name Goes forth no trumpet-blast of fame. Yet true to his duty, as steel to steel, Was Phillips the driver of Pelhamville. Alexander Anderson. IF POOR LITTLE JIM. cottage was a thatched one, the outside 1 1 old and mean, But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean ; The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild, As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child : A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim: It was a collier's wife and child, they called him little Jim. And oh ! to see the briny tears fast nurrying down her cheek. As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid to speak. Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her life ; For she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier's wife. With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed. And prays that He would spare her boy, and take herself instead. She gets her answer from the child : soft fall the words from him : " Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon lit- tle Jim, I have no pain, dear mother, now, but oh ! I am so dry. Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother. don't you cry." With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip ; He smiled to thank her as he took each little, tiny sip; '^ Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good-night to him, And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas! poor little Jim ! She knew that he was dying ; that the child she loved so dear Had uttered the last words she might ever ho-pe to hear : The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard. The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word. He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead, He took the candle in his hand and walked to- ward the bed ; His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal, And see, his wife has joined him — the stricken couple kneel : With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask of Him, In heaven once more to meet again their own poor little Jim. Orations by Famous Orators, ^..o^...^^ An oration, strictly speaking-, is an elabo- rate discourse delivered on some special occasion, and in a somewhat formal and dig- nified manner. As this class of recitations stands by itself and is quite different from the other selections contained in this volume, cal ability required for reci^jog them. I have grouped together here a number of Famous Orations, a)) of which have given their authors celebrity. These are well suited for public delivery by those who pre- fer this kind of recitation and have the oratori- TRUE MORAL COURAGE. BY HENRY CLAY. When reference is made to America's greatest orators it is customary to mention the name of Henry Clay among the very first. He was frequently called *' The Mill Boy of the Slashes," from the fact that he was a poor boy and was born in a district in Virginia called '" the Slashes."' Mr. Clay was tali and slender and had a voice of wonderful range and sympathy, was rem_arkably easy and graceful in manner, and few orators who ever lived possessed such persuasive power. The opening part of this fine selection should be delivered in a rather quiet, slightly satirical tone ; but iti the later passages the speaker should grow warm and enthusiastic, and voice and gesture should express a full appreciation of the lofty sentiments he is uttering. C^ I HERE is a sort of courage, which, I ^ I frankly confess it, I do not possess — a boldness to which I dare not aspire, a valor which I cannot covet. I cannot lay myself down in the way of the welfare and happiness of my country. That, I cannot — I have not the courage to do. I cannot in- terpose the power with which I may be in- vested—a power conferred, not for my per- sonal benefit, nor for my aggrandizement, but for my country's good—to check her onward march to greatness and glory. I have not courage enough, I am too cowardly or that. I would not, I dare not, in the exercise of such a threat, lie down, and place my tody across the path that leads my country to prosperity and happiness. This is a sort of courage widely different from that which a man may display in his private conduct and personal relations. Personal or private cour- (14— X) age is totally distinct from that higher and nobler courage which prompts the patriot to offer himself a voluntary sacrifice to his country's good. Apprehensions of the imputation of the. want of firmness sometimes impel us to per- form rash and inconsiderate acts. It is the greatest courage to be able to bear the im- putation of the want of courage. But pride, vanity, egotism, so unamiable and offensive in private life, are vices which partake of the character of crimes in the conduct of public affairs. The unfortunate victim of these passions cannot see beyond the little, petty, contemptible circle of his own personal interests. All his thoughts are withdrawn from his country, and concen- trated on his consistency, his firmness, him- self * The high, the exalted, the sublime emo- tions of a patriotism which, soaring toward 209 210 ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. heaven, rises far above all mean, low, or selfish things, and is absorbed by one soul- transporting thought of the good and the glory of one's country, are never felt in his impenetrable bosom. That patriotism which, catching its inspiration of the immortal God, and, leaving at an immeasurable distance be- low all lesser, groveling, personal interests and feelings, animates and prompts to deeds of self-sacrifice, of valor, of devotion, and of death itself — that is public virtue; that is the noblest, the sublimest of all public virtues ! THE STRUGGLE FOR LIBERTY. BY JOSIAH QUINCY. An American orator and patriot, born in Massachusetts in 1744, Mr. Quincy, by his fervid and con< vincing eloquence, was one of the most powerful champions of the popular cause of independence. D E not deceived, my countrymen. Believe not these venal hirelings, when they would cajole you by their subtleties into submission, or frighten you by their vaporings into com- pliance. When they strive to flatter you by the terms *' moderation and prudence," tell them that calmness and deliberation are to guide the judgment; courage and intrepidity command the action. When they endeavor to make us " perceive our inability to oppose our mother country," let us boldly answer — In defence of our civil and religious rights, we dare oppose the world ; with the God of armies on our side, even the God who fought our fathers' battles, we fear not the hour of trial, though the hosts of our enemies should cover the field like locusts. If this be enthu- siasm, we will live and die enthusiasts. Blandishments will not fascinate us, nor will threats of a " halter " intimidate. For, under God, we are determined, that whereso- ever, whensoever, or howsoever we shall be called to make our exit, we will die freemen. IVell do we know that all the regalia of this world can not dignify the death of a villain, nor diminish the ignominy with which a slave shall quit existence. Neither can it taint the unblemished honor of a son of freedom though he should make his departure on the already prepared gibbet, or be dragged to the newly-erected scaffold for execution. With the plaudits ot his coun- try, and what is more, the plaudits of his con- science, he will go off the stage. The history of his life, his children shall venerate. The vir- tues of their sires shall excite their emulation. Is the debt we owe posterity paid ? An- swer me, thou coward, who hidest thyself in the hour of trial ! If there is no reward in this life, no prize of glory in the next, capa- ble of animating thy dastard soul, think and tremble, thou miscreant! at the whips and stripes thy master shall lash thee with on earth — and the flames and scorpions thy second master shall torment thee with hereafter ! Oh my countrymen ! what will our chiU dren say, when they read the history of these times, should they find that we tamely gave way, without one noble struggle for the most invaluable of earthly blessings ! As they drag the galling chain, will they not execrate us? If we have any respect for things sacred, any regard to the dearest treasure on earth ; if we have one tender sentiment for posterity ; if we would not be despised by the world; let us, in the most open, solemn manner, and with determined fortitude, swear — we will die if we cannot live freemen. While we have equity, justice, and God on our side, tyranny, spiritual or temporal, shall never ride triumphant in a land inhabited by Englishmen. ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. 211 CENTENNIAL ORATION. BY HENRY ARMITT BROWN. From the oration delivered upon the occasion of the Centennial Anniversary of the meeting of the first Colonial Congress in Carpenters ' Hall, Philadelphia. This oration is the masterpiece of a young orator who died when but little past the age of thirty, having already gained a wide celebrity for scholarly attain- ments and commanding eloquence. It is remarkable for boldness of thought and fervor of expression. fHE conditions of life are always chang- ing, and the experience of the fathers is rarely the experience of the sons. The temptations which are trying us are not the temptations which beset their footsteps, nor the dangers which threaten our pathway the dangers which surrounded them. These men were few in number; we are many. They were poor, but we are rich. They were weak, but we are strong. What is it, coun- trymen, that we need to-day? Wealth? Be- hold it in your hands. Power? God hath given it you. Liberty? It is your birth- right. Peace ? It dwells amongst you. You have a Government founded in the hearts of men, built by the people for the common good. You have a land flowing with milk and honey; your homes are happy, your workshops busy, your barns are full. The school, the railway, the telegraph, the printing press, have welded you together into one. Descend those mines that honeycomb the hills ! Behold that commerce whitening every sea ! Stand by your gates and see that multitude pour through them from the cor- ners of the earth, grafting the qualities of older stocks upon one stem ; mingling the blood of many races in a common stream, and sv/eUing the rich volume of our English speech with varied music from an hundred tongues. You have a long and glorious history, a past glittering with heroic deeds, an ancestry full of lofty and imperishable examples. You have passed through danger, endured priva- tion, been acquainted with sorrow, been tried by suffering. You have journeyed in safety through the wilderness and crossed in tri- umph the Red Sea of civil strife, and the foot of Him who led you hath not faltered nor the light of His countenance been turned away. It is a question for us now, not of the founding of a new government, but of the preservation of one already old ; not of the formation of an independent power, but of the purification of a nation's life; not of the conquest of a foreign foe, but of the subjec- tion of ourselves. The capacity of man to rule himself is to be proven in the days to come, not by the greatness of his wealth ; not by his valor in the field ; not by the ex- tent of his dominion, nor by the splendor r-f his genius. The dangers of to-day come from within. The worship of self, the love of power, the lust for gold, the weakening of faith, the de- cay of public virtue, the lack of private worth — these are the perils which threaten our future; these are the enemies we have to fear ; these are the traitors which infest the camp; and the danger was far less when Catiline knocked with his army at the gates of Rome, than when he sat smiling in the Senate House. We see them daily face to face ; in the walk of virtue ; in the road to wealth; in the path to honor; on the way to happiness. There is no peace between them and our safety. Nor can we avoid them and turn back. It is not enough to rest upon the past. No man or nation can stand still. We must mount upward or go down. We must grow worse or better. It is ""he Eternal Law — ^»'^ cannot change it. ^12 ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. My countrymen : this anniversary has gone by forever, and my task is done. While I have spoken, the hour has passed from us ; the hand has moved upon the dial, and the old century is dead. The American Union hath endured an hundred years! Here, on this threshold of the future, the voice of humanity shall not plead to us in vain. There shall be darkness in the days to come ; danger for our courage ; temptation for our virtue; doubt for our faith; suffering for our fortitude. A thousand shall fall before us, and tens of thousands at our right hand. The years shall pass beneath our feet, and century follow century in quick succession. The generations of men shall come and go; the greatness of yesterday shall be forgotten ; to-day and the glories of this noon shall vanish before to-morrow's sun; but America shall not perish, but endure while the spirit of our fathers animates their sons. SPEECH OF SHREWSBURY BEFORE QUEEN ELIZABETH, BY FREDERIC VON SCHILLER. ^^ CD whose most wondrous hand has •) I four times protected you, and who to-day gave the feeble arm of gray hairs strength to turn aside the stroke of a madman, should inspire confidence. I will not now speak in the name of justice : this is not the time. In such a tumult, you cannot hear her still small voice. Consider this only : you are fearful now of the living Mary ; but I say it is not the living you have to fear. Tremble at the dead — the beheaded. She will rise from the grave a fiend of dis- sension. She will awaken the spirit of re- venge in your kingdom, and wean the hearts of your subjects from you. At present she is an object of dread to the British ; but when she is no more, they will revenge her. No longer will she then be regarded as the enemy of their faith ; her mournful fate will cause her to appear as the grand-daugh- ter of their king, the victim of man's hatred, and woman's jealousy. Soon will you see the change appear ! Drive through London after the bloody deed has been done ; show yourself to the people, who now surround you with joyful acclamations : then will you see another England, another people ! No longer will you then walk forth encircled by the radiance of heavenly justice which now binds every heart to you. Dread the fright- ful name of tyrant which will precede you through shuddering hearts, and resound through every street where you pass. You have done the last irrevocable deed. What head stands fast when this sacred one has fallen ? ' THE PROSPECTS OF THE REPUBLIC BY EDWARD EVERETT. fe I HIS, then, is the theatre on which the ^ I intellect of America is to appear, and such the motives to its exertion, such the mass to be influenced by its energies, such the crowd to witness its efforts, such the glory to crown its success. If I err in thi? happy vision of my country's fortunes, I thank God for an error so animating. If this be false may I never know the truth. Never may you, my friends, be under any other ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. 213 feeling man that a great, a growing, an im- measurably expanding country is calling upon you for your best services. The most powerful motives call on us for those efforts which our common coun- try demands of all her children. Most of us are of that class who owe whatever of knowledge has shone into our minds, to the free and popular institutions of our native land. There are few of us, who may not be permitted to boast, that we have been reared in an honest poverty or a frugal competence, and owe everything to those means of education which are equally open fo all. We are summoned to new energy and zeal by the high nature of the experiment we are appointed in Providence to make, and the grandeur of the theatre on which it is to be performed. When the Old World afforded no longer any hope, it pleased Heaven to open this last refuge of humanity. The at- tempt has begun, and is going on, far from foreign corruption, on the broadest scale, and under the most benignant prospects ; and it certainly rests with us to solve the great problem in human society, to settle, and that forever, that momentous question — whether mankind can be trusted with a purely popu- lar system ? One might almost think, without extrava- gance, that the departed wise and good of all places and times are looking down from then happy seats to witness what shall now be done by us ; that they who lavished their treasures and their blood of old, who labored and suffered, who spake and wrote, who fought and perished, in the one great cause of freedom and truth, are now hanging from their orbs on high, over the last solemn ex- periment of humanity. As I have wandered over the spots, once the scene of their labors, and mused among the prostrate columns of their senate houses and forums, I have seemed almost to hear a voice from the tombs of departed ages; from the sepulchers of the nations, which died be- fore the sight. They exhort us, they adjure us, to be faithful to our trust. They implore us, by the long trials ol struggling humanity, by the blessed memory of the departed ; by the dear faith, which has been plighted by pure hands, to the holy cause of truth and man ; by the awful secrets of the prison houses, where the sons of free- dom have been immured ; by the noble head^ which have been brought to the block ; by the wrecks of time, by the eloquent ruins of nations, they conjure us not to quench the light which is rising on the world. Greece cries to us, by the convulsed lips of her pois- oned, dying Demosthenes ; and Rome pleads with us, in the mute persuasion of her man- gled Tully. THE PEOPLE ALWAYS CONQUER. BY EDWARD EVERETT. As a finished scholar and eloquent speaker, Mr. Everett gained the highest distinction. His silvery tones and flowery periods held multitudes spellbound. His orations were always prepared with the greatest care, deUvered from memory, and are models of elevated thought and sentiment and brilhant diction. He was the finished orator, noted for the classic beauty of his writings. IR, in the efforts of the people — of the people struggling for their rights — moving, not in organized. disciplined masses, but in their spontaneous action, man for man, and heart for heart- there is something glorious. They can then 214 ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. move forward without orders, act together without combination, and brave the flaming Hnes of battle without entrenchments to cover or walls to shield them. No dissolute camp has worn off from the feelings of the youthful soldier the freshness of that home, where his mother and his sis- ters sit waiting, with tearful eyes and aching hearts, to hear good news from the wars ; no long service in the ranks of a conqueror has turned the veteran's heart into marble. Their valor springs not from recklessness, from habit, from indifference to the preserva- tion of a life knit by no pledges to the life of others; but in the strength and spirit of the cause alone, they act, they contend, they bleed. In this they conquer. The people always conquer. They always must conquer. Armies may be defeated, kings may be overthrown, and new dynas- ties imposed, by foreign arms, on an ignor- ant and slavish race, that cares not in what language the covenant of their subjection runs, nor in whose name the deed of their barter and sale is made out. But the people never invade ; and, when they rise against the invader, are never sub- dued. If they are driven from the plains, they fly to the mountains. Steep rocks and everlasting hills are their castles ; the tangled, pathless thicket their palisado ; and nature, God, is their ally ! Now he overwhelms the hosts of their enemies beneath his drifting mountains of sand ; now he buries them be- neath a falling atmosphere of polar snows ; He lets loose his tempest on their fleets ; He puts a folly into their counsels, a mad- ness into the hearts of their leaders; He never gave, and never will give, a final tri- umph over a virtuous and gallant people, re- solved to be free. " For Freedom's battle once begun, Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son Though baffled oft, is ever won." TO THE SURVIVORS OF BUNKER HILL. BY DANIEL WEBSTER. One of the towering names in American statesmanship is that of Daniel Webster, " the great defender of the Constitution.'' Mr. Webster was not more remarkable for intellectual power than he was for mas- terly eloquence. His triumphs in Senatorial debate and on great public occasions are historic. In person he was large and brawny, with a swarthy complexion, massive head, and always conveyed the impression of strength, and, at times, even of majesty. His orations are masterpieces of patriotic fer /or and scholarly culture. \r /ENERABLE men ■ you have come Y(9 down to us from a former generation. ^ Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your lives that you might behold this joyous day. You are now where you stood fifty years ago, this very hour, with your brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, in the strife of your country. Be- hold how altered ! The same heavens are indeed over your heads ; the same ocean rolls at your feet ; but all else, how changed ! You hear now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed volumes of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The ground strewed with the dead and the dying ; the impetuous charge ; the steady and successful repulse ; the loud call to re- peated assault ; the summoning of all that is manly to repeated resistance; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in an in- stant to whatever of terror there may be in war and death ; — all these you have wit- ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. 215 nessed, but you witness them no more. All is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, its towers and roofs, which you then saw filled with wives and children and country- men in distress and terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the issue of the combat, have presented you to-day with the sight of its whole happy population, come out to welcome and greet you with a univer- sal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of posi- tion appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, and seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means of annoyance to you, but your country's own means of distinction and defence. All is peace ; and God has granted you this sight of your country's happiness, ere you slumber in the grave for ever. He has allowed you to behold and partake the reward of your patriotic toils; and he has allowed us, your sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and in the name of the pres- ent generation, in the name of your country, in the name of liberty, to thank you ! But, alas ! you are not all here ! Time and the sword have thinned your ranks. Pres- cott, Butnam, Stark, Brooks, Read, Pomeroy, Bridge ! our eyes seek for you in vain amidst this broken band. You are gathered to your fathers, and live only to your country in her grateful remembrance and your own bright example. But let us not too much grieve that you have met the common fate of men. You lived at least long enough to know that your work had been nobly and successfully accomplished. You lived to see your coun- try's independence established and to sheathe your swords from war. On the light of lib- erty you saw arise the light of Peace, like " another morn, Risen on mid-noon ; '' — and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless. SOUTH CAROLINA AND MASSACHUSETTS, BY DANIEL WEBSTER j HE eulogium pronounced on the char- J I acter of the State of South Carolina by the honorable gentleman, for her revolutionary and other merits, meets my hearty concurrence. I shall not acknowledge that the honorable member goes before me \n regard for whatever of distinguished tal- ent, or distinguished character. South Caro- lina has produced. I claim part of the honor ; 1 partake in the pride of her great names. I claim them for countrymen, one and all. The Laurenses, Rutledges, the Pinckneys, the Sumters, the Marions — Americans all — whose fame is no more to be hemmed in by state lines, than their talents and patriotism were capable of being circumscribed within the same narrow limits. In their day and generation, they servea and honored the country, the whole country, and their renown is of the treasures of the whole country. Him whose honored name the gentleman bears himself — does he sup- pose me less capable of gratitude for his pa- triotism, or sympathy for his sufferings, than if his eyes had first opened upon the light in Massachusetts instead of South Carolina ? Sir, does he suppose it in his power to ex- hibit a Carolina name so bright as to produce envy in my bosom ? No, sir — increased gratification and delight, rather. Sir, I thank God, that if I am gifted with little of the spirit which is said to be able to raise mortals to the skies, I have yet none, as I trust, of that other spirit which would drag angels down. 216 ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. When I shall be found, sir, in my place here in the Senate, or elsewhere, to sneer at public merit, because it happened to spring up beyond the limits of my own State and neighborhood ; when I refuse, for any such cause, or for any cause, the homage due to American talent, to elevated patriotism, to sincere devotion to liberty and the country ; or if I see an uncommon endowment of heaven — if I see extraordinary capacity and virtue in any son of the South — and if, moved by local prejudice, or gangrened by State jealousy, I get up here to abate the tithe of a hair^ :^rom his just character and just fame, may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth ! I shall enter on no encomium upon Massa- chusetts — she needs none. There she is— ■ behold her and judge for yourselves. There is her history — the world knows it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker's Hill ; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, fallen in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every State, from New Eng- land to Georgia ; and there they will lie for- ever. EULOQIUM ON SOUTH CAROLINA. BY ROBERT T. HAYNE. This distinguished American orator was born in the parish. of Saint Paul, South Carolina. His eminent ability soon secured for him a seat in the United States Senate. The following is from one of his orations delivered in the celebrated controversy between himself and Daniel Webster. It is a glowing defense of his native state, and is memorable in the annals of forensic eloquence. F there be one State in the Union, and I IF there be one State in the Union, and say it not in a boastful spirit, that may challenge comparison with any other for a uniform, zealous, ardent, and uncalcu- lating devotion to the Union, that State is South Carolina. From the very commence- ment of the Revolution, up to this hour, there is no sacrifice, however great, she has not cheerfully made, no service she has ever hesitated to perform. She has adhered to you in your prosperity ; but in your adversity she has clung to you with more than filial affection. . No matter what was the condition of her domestic affairs, though deprived of her re- sources, divided by parties, or surrounded by difficulties, the call of the country has been to her as the voice of God. Domestic discord ceased at the sound ; every man hccan^e reconciled to his brethren, and the sons of Carolina were all seen crowding to- gether to the temple, bringing their gifts to the altar of their common country. What was the conduct of the South dur- ing the Revolution? I honor New England for her conduct in that glorious struggle. But, great as is the praise which belongs to her, I think at least equal honor is due to the South. They espoused the quarrel of their brethren with a generous zeal which did not suffer them to stop to calculate their interest in the dispute. Favorites of the mother country, possessed of neither ships nor seamen to create a commercial rivalship, they might have found, in their situation, a guarantee that their trade would be forever fostered and protected by Great Britain. But trampling on all considerations, either of interest or safety, they rushed into the con- flict, and, fighting for principle, perilled all in the sacred cause of freedom. Never was there exhibited in the history ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. 217 of the world higher examples of noble dar- ing, dreadful suffering, and heroic endurance than by the Whigs of Carolina during the .Revolution! The whole State, from the mountains to the sea, was overrun by an overwhelming force of the enemy. The fruits of industry perished on the spot where they were produced, or were consumed by the foe. The ^' plains of Carolina " drank up the most precious blood of her citizens. Black and smoking ruins marked the places which had been the habitations of her children. Driven from their homes into the gloomy and almost impenetrable swamps, even there the spirit of Hberty survived, and South Car- olina, sustained by the example of her Sum ters and her Marions, proved, by her con duct, that, though her soil might be overrun^, the spirit of her people was invincible. THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. ^BY WENDELL PHILLIPS. It has been said of Mr. Phillips that in his public addresses he was " a gentleman talking," so easy and graceful was his manner. *' The golden-mouthed Phillips " was also an appropriate title. Considered simply as an orator, perhaps our country has never produced his superior. IT matters very little what spot may have been the birthplace of Washington. No people can claim, no country can ap- propriate him. The boon of Providence to the human race, his fame is eternity, and his residence creation. Though it was the de- feat of our arms, and the disgrace of our policy, I almost bless the convulsion in which he had his origin. If the heavens thundered, and the earth rocked, yet, when the storm had passed, how pure was the climate that it cleared; how bright, in the brow of the firmament, was the planet which it revealed to us ! In the production of Washington, it does really appear as if Nature was endeavoring ,to improve upon herself, and that all the vir- t ues of the ancient world were but so many -studies preparatory to the patriot of the new. Individual instances, no doubt, there were, splendid exemplifications of some singular qualification ; Caesar was merciful, Scipio was continent, Hannibal was patient ; but it was reserved for Washington to bind them all in one, and, like the lovely masterpiece of the Grecian artist^ to exhibit, in one glow of as- sociated beauty, the pride of every model, and the perfection of every master. As a general, he marshalled the peasant into a veteran, and supplied by discipline the absence of experience ; as a statesman, he enlarged the policy of the cabinet into the most comprehensive system of general ad- vantage ; and such was the wisdom of his views, and the philosophy of his counsels, that to the soldier, and the statesman he al- most added the character of the sage ! A conqueror, he was untainted with the crime of blood ; a revolutionist, he was free from any stain of treason ; for aggression com- menced the contest, and his country called him to the command. Liberty unsheathed his sword, necessity stained, victory returned it. If he had paused here, history might have doubted what sta- tion to assign him ; whether at the head of her citizens or her soldiers, her heroes or her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his career, and banishes all hesitation. Who, like Washington, after having eman- cipated a hemisphere, resigned its crown, and preferred the retirement of domestic life 218 ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. to the adoration of a land he might ahnost be said to have created ? *' How shall we rank thee upon Glory's page, Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage? All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee, Far less, than all thou hast forborne to be ! " Such, sir, is the testimony of one not to be accused of partiality in his estimate of Ame- rica. Happy, proud America! The light- nings of heaven yielded to your philosophy ! The temptations of earth could not seduce your patriotism. NATIONAL MONUMENT TO WASHINGTON. BY ROBERT C. WINTHROP. One of " Boston's hundred orators " is the author of this eloquent oration, which was delivered at the laying of the cornerstone of Washington's monument, that imposing shaft which is one of the greatest objects of interest at our national capital. Scarcely any finer tribute was ever paid to the Father of his Country. It should be delivered with full volume of voice and sustained energy Lf ELLOW-CITIZENS, let us seize this pj occasion to renew to each other our vows of allegiance and devotion to the American Union, and let us recognize in our common title to the name and the fame of Washington, and in our common veneration for his example and his advice, the all-sufficient centripetal power, which shall hold the thick clustering stars of our confederacy in one glorious constellation for- ever ! Let the column which we are about to construct be at once a pledge and an emblem of perpetual union ! Let the foundations be laid, let the super- structure be built up and cemented, let each stone be raised and riveted in a spirit of national brotherhood ! And may the earliest ray of the rising sun — till that sun shall set to rise no more — draw forth from it daily, as from the fabled statue of antiquity, a strain of national harmony, which shall strike a re- sponsive chord in every heart throughout the republic ! Proceed, then, fellow-citizens, with the work for which you have assembled. Lay the corner-stone of a monument which shall ade- quately bespeak the gratitude of the whole American people to the illustrious father of his country ! Build it to the skies ; you can r.^-.t outreach the loftiness of his principles! Found it upon the massive and eternal rock; you can not make it more enduring than his fame ! Construct it of the peerless Parian marble; you cannot make it purer than his life ! Exhaust upon it the rules and principles of ancient and of modern art; you cannot make it more proportionate than his character. But let not your homage to his memory end here. Think not to transfer to a tablet or a column the tribute which is due from yourselves. Just honor to Washington can only be rendered by observing his precepts and imitating his example. He has built his own monument. We, and those who come after us, in successive generations, are its appointed, its privileged guardians. The wide-spread republic is the future monument to Washington. Maintain its in- dependence. Uphold its constitution. Pre- serve its union. Defend its liberty. Let it stand before the world in all its original strength and beauty, securing peace, order, equality, and freedom, to all within its bound- aries, and shedding light and hope and joy upon the pathway of human liberty through- out the world — and Washington needs no other monument. Other structures may tes- tify our veneration for him ; this, alone can adequately illustrate his service to mankind. Nor does he need even this. The republic ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. 219 may perish ; the wide arch of our ranged Union may fall ; star by star its glories may expire ; stone by stone its columns and its capitol may moulder and crumble ; all other names v/hich adorn its annals may be forgotten ; but as long as human hearts shall anywhere ^ant, or human tongues anywhere plead, for a true, ra tional, constitutional liberty, those hearts shall enshrine the memory, and those tongue.-? prolong the fame, of George Washington. THE NEW WOMAN. BY FRANCES E. WILLARD. Although it is not customary to include women among orators, an exception must be made in the ca, of Miss Willard. Few men have ever possessed her command over popular audiences. Her eloquenct drew multitudes to listen to her burning appeals in behalf of the reforms of the day, among whom were always many who protested that they " never liked to hear a woman talk in public." Miss Willard's remarkable gifts, her zeal and earnestness, and her devotion to her cause, gave her a world-wide reputation. This extract from one of her eloquent public addresses is bright in thought, whole- some in sentiment, and is a model of effective speech. brothers, honor — dear to the hearts that you love best. I bring to you this thought, to- night, that you shall vote to represent us, and hasten the time when we can represent our- selves. I believe that we are going out into this work, being schooled and inspired for greater things than we have dreamed, and that the army of women will prove the grandest sis- terhood the world has ever known. As I have seen the love and kindness and good- will of women who differed so v/idely from us politically and religiously, and yet have found away down in the depths of their hearts the utmost love and affection, I have said, what kind of a world will this be when all women are as fond of each other as we strong-minded women are ? Home is the citadel of everything that is good and pure on earth ; nothing must enter there to defile, neither anything which loveth or maketh a lie And it shall be found that all society neeoed to make it altogether homelike was the home-folks ; that all gov- ernment needed to make it altogether pure from the fumes of tobacco and the debasing effects of strong drink, was the home-folks ; that wherever you put a woman who ha^ the • ^Y^ET "s b^ grateful that our horizon is I Jl widening. We women have learned -L^l^^^^ to reason from effect to cause. It is considered a fine sign of a thinker to be able to reason from cause to effect. But we, in fourteen years* march, have learned to go from the drunkard in the gutter, who was the object lesson we first saw, back to the children, as you will hear to-night ; back to the idea of preventive, educational, evangel- istic, social, and legal work for temperance ; back to the basis of the saloon itself. We have found that the liquor traffic is joined hand in hand with the very sources of the National Government. And we have come to the place where we want prohibition, first, last, and all the time. While the brewer talks about his " vested interests," I lend my voice to the motherhood of the nation that has gone down into the valley of unutterable pain and in the shadow of death, with the dews of eternity upon the mother's brow, given birth and being to the sons who are the " vested interests " of America's homes. We offset the demand of the brewer and distiller, that you shall protect their ill-gotten gains, with the thought of these most sacred treasures, dear to the hearts that you. our 220 ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. atmosphere oi home about her, she brings in the good time of pleasant and friendly relationship, and points with the finger of hope and the eye of faith always to some- ihing better — always it is better farther on. As I look around and see the heavy cloud j( apathy under which so many still are *tifled, who take no interest in these things, I just think they do not half mean the hard words that they sometimes speak to us, or they wouldn't if they knew; and, after awhile, they will have the same views I have, spell them with a capital V, and all be harmonious, like Barnum's happy family, a splendid men- agerie of the whole human race — clear-eyed, kind and victorious ! AN APPEAL FOR LIBERTY. BY JOSEPH STORY. I I CALL upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors — by the dear ashes which repose in this precious soil — by all you are, and all you hope to be — resist every object of disunion, resist every en- croachment upon your liberties, resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, or smother your public schools, or extinguish your sys- tem of public instruction. I call upon you, mothers, by that which never fails in woman, the love of your off- spring; teach them, as they climb your knees, or lean on your bosoms, the blessings of liberty. Swear them at the altar, as with their baptism.al vows, to be true to their country, and never to forget or forsake her. I call upon you, young men, to remember whose sons you are ; whose inheritance you possess. Life can never be too short, which brings nothing but disgrace and oppres- sion. Death never comes too soon, if ne- THE TRUE SOURCE OF REFORM. BY EDWIN H. CHAPIN. As a pulpit orator and lecturer Mr. Chapin was widely known and popular. His style was ornate and finished, and when to this was added his grand voice and magnetic dehvery, his audiences could not resist the charm of his eloquence. His opinions placed him in the front ranks of reformers. cessary in defence of the liberties ol" your country. I call upon you, old men, for your coun- sels, and your prayers, and your benedictions. May not your gray hairs go down in sorrow to the grave, with the recollection that you have lived in vain. May not your last sun sink in the west upon a nation of slaves. No; I read in the destiny of my country far better hopes, far brighter visions. We, who are now assembled here, must soon be gathered to the congregation of other days. The time of our departure is at hand, to make way for our children upon the theatre of life. May God speed them and theirs. May he who, at the distance of another century^ shall stand here to celebrate this day, still look round upon a free, happy, and virtuous people. May he have reason to exult as we do. May he, with all the enthusiasm of truth as well as of poetry, exclaim, that here is still his country. (blT'iiE ^l oi HE great element of reform is not born of human wisdom, it does not draw its hfe from human organizations. I find it only in Christianity. *' Thy kingdom come!" There is a sublime and pregnant burden in this prayer. It is the aspiration ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. 221 of every soul that goes forth in the spirit of Reform. For what is the significance of this prayer? It is a petition that all holy influences would penetrate and subdue and dwell in the heart of man, until he shall think, and speak, and do good, from the very necessity of his being. So would the institutions of error and wrong crumble and pass away. So would sin die out from the earth ; and the human soul living in harmony with the Divine will, this earth would become like heaven It is too late for the reformers to sneer at Christianity — it is foolishness for them to reject it. In it are enshrined our faith in human progress— our confidence in re- form It is indissolubly connected with all that is hopeful, spiritual, capable, in man. That men have misunderstood it, and perverted it, is true. But it is also true that the noblest efforts for human melioration have come out of it — have been based upon it. Is it not so ? Come, ye remembered ones, who sleep the sleep of the just — who took your conduct from the line of Christian philosophy — come from your tombs, and answer ! Come, Howard, from the gloom of the prison and the taint of the lazar-house, and show us what philanthropy can do when imbued with the spirit of Jesus. Come, Eliot, from the thick forest where the red man listens to the Word of Life; — Come, Penn, from thy sweet counsel and weapon- less victory — and show us what Christian zeal and Christian love can accomplish with the rudesr barbarians or the fiercest hearts Come, Raikes, from thy labors with the ignorant and the poor, and show us with what an eye this faith regards the lowest and least of our race ; and how diligently it labors, not for the body, not for the rank, but for the plastic soul that is to course the ages of immortality. And ye, who are a great number — ye nameless ones — who have done good in your narrow spheres^ content to forego renown on earth, and seeking your reward in the record on high — come and tell u'\ how kindly a spirit, how lofty a purpose, or how strong a courage the religion ye pro- fessed can breathe into the poor, the hum ble, and the weak. Go forth, then, Spirit c .' Christianity, to thy great v/ork of Reform ^ The past bears witness to thee in the blooc/' of thy martyrs, and the ashes of thy saints and heroes ; the present is hopeful because of thee ; the future shall acknowledge thy omnipotence. APPEAL TO YOUNG MEN. BY LYMAN BEECHER. A rather small wiry man with strong face, compact fibre, quick motions, great earnestness and pulpit ability of the highest order — this was Lyman Beecher. He made himself especially prominent in the early days of the temperance reformation. The selection here given is one of many similar utterances and is full of force and fire. /'TWOULD I call around me in one vast I, Sp assembly the temperate young men vi£_,^ of our land, I would say, — Hopes of the nation, blessed be ye of the Lord now in the dew of your youth. But look well to your footsteps ; for vipers, and scorpions, and adders surround your way. Look at the generation who have just pre- ceded you : the morning of their life was ^m ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. cloudless,, and ii dawned as brightly as your own ; but behold them bitten, swol- len, enfeebled, inflamed^ debauched, idle, poor, irreligious, and vicious, with halt- ing step dragging onward to meet an early grave ! Their bright prospects are clouded, and their sun ib set never to rise. No house of their own receives them » while from poorer to poorer tenements they descend, and to harder and harder fare, as improvidence dries up their re- sources. And now, who are those that wait on their footsteps with muffled faces and sable gar- ments? That is a father — and that is a mother — whose gray hairs are coming with sorrow to the grave* That is a sister, weep- ing over evils which she cannot arrest ; and there is the broken-hearted wife; and there are the children, hapless innocents, for whom their father has provided the in heritance only of dishonol', and nakedness^ and woe. And is this, beloved young men, the history of your course? In this scene ol desolation, do you behold the image of your future selves ? Is this the poverty and disease which, as an armed man, shall take hold on you ? And are your fathers, and mothers, and sisters, and wives, and children, to succeed to those who now move on in this mournful procession, weeping as they go ? Yes : bright as your morn- ing now opens, and high as your hopes beat, this is your noon, and your night, unless you shun those habits of intemper- ance which have thus early made theirs a day of clouds, and of thick darkness. If you frequent places of evening resort for social drinking; if you set out with drinking, daily, a little, temperately, prudently, it is yourselves which, as in a glass, you behold. THE PILGRIMS, BY CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW. Mr. Depew is considered one of the foremost of our American orators, and it is enough to say he has risen to this distinction in a land noted for the eloquence of its public men. He is an excellent extempora- neous speaker, is graceful and easy in manner, fluent in utterance,, and has a touch of humor that renders him popular. His tribute to the Pilgrims is worthy of a theme so inspiring. w I HEY were practical statesmen, these ^ I Pilgrims. They wasted no time theo- rizing upon methods, but went straight at the mark. They solved the Indian prob- lem with shot-guns, and it was not General Sherman, but Miles Standish, who originated the axiom that the only good Indians are the dead ones. They were bound by neither customs nor traditions, nor committals to this or that policy. The only question with them was, Docs it work ? The success of their Indian experiment led them to try similar methods with witches, Quakers and Baptists. Theii failure taught them the difference between mind and matter. A dead savage was another wolf under ground, but one of themselves persecuted or killed for conscience sake sowed the seed of discontent and disbe^ lief The effort to wall in a creed and wall out liberty was at once abandoned, and to- day New England has more religions and not less religion, but less bigotry, than any other community in the world. In an age when dynamite was unknown, the Pilgrim invented in the cabin of the May- flower the most powerful of explosives. The declaration of the equality of all men before ORATIONS BV FAMOUS ORATORS. 228 the law has rocked thrones and consolidated classes. It separated the colonies from Great Britain and created the United States. It pulverized the chains of the slaves and gave manhood suffrage. It devolved upon the individual the functions of government and made the people the sole source of power. It substituted the cap of liberty for the royal crown in France, and by a bloodless revolu- tion has added to the constellation of Ameri- can republics, the star of Brazil. But with the ever-varying conditions inci- dent to free government, the Puritan's talent as a political mathematician will never rust. Problems of the utmost importance press upon him for solution. When, in the effort to regulate the liquor traffic, he has advanced beyond the temper of the times and the sen- timent of the people in the attempt to enact or enforce prohibition, and either been disas- trously defeated or the flagrant evasions of the statutes have brought the law into con- tempt, he does not despair, but tries to find the error in his calculation. If gubernatorial objections block the way of high license he will bombard the executive judgment and conscience by a proposition to tax. The destruction of homes, the ruin of the young, the increase of pauperism and crime, the added burdens upon the taxpayers by the evils of intemperance, appeal with resistless force to his training and traditions. As the power of the saloon increases the difficulties of the task, he becomes more and more certain that some time or other and in some way or other he will do that sum too. PATRIOTISM A REALITY. BY THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. All Americans ought to feel kindly disposed toward this eloquent Irish patriot, for he not only risked his life in the cause of Irish liberty, but also in our own Civil War. This oration has a rugged strength and blunt earnestness quite characteristic of the man. Let it not be delivered in any feeble halting manner, but with all your nerve and energy. for all. IR, the pursuit of liberty must cease to be a traffic. It must resume among us its ancient glory — be with us an active heroism. Once sir, we must have an end of this money making in the public forum. We must ennoble the strife for liberty; make it a gallant sacrifice, not a vulgar game; rescue the cause of Ireland from the profanation of those who beg, and from the control of those who bribe ! Ah ! trust not those dull philosophers of the age, those wretched sceptics, who, to re- buke our enthusiasm, our folly, would per- suade us that patriotism is but a delusion, a dream of youth, a wild and glittering passion; that it has died out in this nineteenth century; that it cannot exist with our advanced civili- zation—with the steam-engine and free trade! False — false ! — The virtue that gave to Paganism its dazzling lustre, to Barbarism its redeeming trait, to Christianity its heroic form, is not dead. It still lives, to preserve, to console, to sanctify humanity. It has its altar in every clime — its worship and festivi- ties. On the heathered hills of Scotland, the sword of Wallace is yet a bright tradition. The genius of France, in the brilliant litera- ture of the day, pays its high homage to the piety and heroism of the young Maid of Orleans. In her new senate hall, England bids her sculptor place among the effigies of her greatest sons the images of Hampden and 224 ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. of Russell. By the soft blue waters of Lake Lucerne stands the chapel of William Tell. At Innsbruck, in the black aisle of the old cathedral, the peasant of the Tyrol kneels before the statue of Andrew Hofer. In the great American republic — in that capital city which bears his name — rises the monument of the Father of his country. Sir, shall we not join in this glorious hom- age, and here in this island, consecrated by the blood of many a good and gallant man, shall we not have the faith, the duties, the festivities, of patriotism? You discard the weapons of these heroic men — do not discard the virtues. Elevate the national character ; confront corruption wherever it appears ; scourge it from the hustings ; scourge it from the public forum; and, whilst proceed- ing with the noble task to which you have devoted your lives and fortunes^ let this thought enrapture and invigorate your hearts : That in seeking the independence of your country, you have preserved her virtue — preserved it at once from the seductions of a powerful minister, and from the infidelity of bad citizens. 'y-^==sx^^e THE QLORY OF ATHENS. BY LORD MACAULAY. As a historian Macaulay has a world-wide reputation. As a poet he takes high rank. H As an orator his speeches are characterized by lofty thought, felicitious language and the most elaborate style. I would call him a graceful giant. The last paragraph of the following selection in which he predicts the final decay of England, has created an endless amount of comment and criticism. Concerning the beauty and grandeur of this selection from his writmgs, there can be but one opinion. LL the triumphs of truth and genius over prejudice and power, in every country and in every age, have been the triumphs of Athens. Whenever a few great minds have made a stand against violence and fraud, in the cause of liberty and reason, there has been her spirit in the midst of them ; inspiring, en- couraging, and consoling. It stood by the lonely lamp of Erasmus ; by the restless bed of Pascal ; in the tribune of Mirabeau ; in the cell of Galileo; on the scaffold of Sidney. But who shall estimate her influence on private happiness ? Who shall say how many thousands have been made wiser, hap- pier, and better, by those pursuits in which she has taught mankind to engage ; to how many the studies which took their rise from her have been wealth in poverty; liberty in bondage; health in sickness; society in soli- t!,clc. Her power is indeed manifested at the bar, in the senate ; in the field of battle, in the schools of philosophy. But these are not her glory. Surely it is no exaggeration to say, that no external advan- tage is to be compared with that purification of the intellectual eye, which gives us to con- template the infinite wealth of the mental world ; all the hoarded treasures of the pri- meval dynasties, all the shapeless ore of the yet unexplored mines. This is the gift of Athens to man. Her freedom and her power have for more than twenty centuries been annihilated. Her peo- ple have degenerated into timid slaves ; her language, into a barbarous jargon. Hei temples have been given up to the successive depredations of Romans, Turks, and Scotch- men ; but her intellectual empire is imperish- able, e And, when those who have rivaled her greatness, shall have shared her fate ; when ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. 22i civilization and knowledge shall have fixed their abode in distant continents; when the sceptre shall have passed away from England ; when, perhaps, travelers from distant regions shall in vain labor to decipher on some moul- dering pedestal the name of our proudest chief; and shall see a single naked fisherman wash his nets in the river of tne ten thousand masts; her influence and her glory will still survive, fresh in eternal youth, exempt from mutability and decay, immortal as the intel- lectual principle from which they derived their origin, and over which they exercise their control. THE IRISH CHURCH. BY WILLIAM E. GLADSTONE. No man in England, or in fact in the whole world, has gained so high a distinction in modern times for statesmanship and eloquence as Mr. Gladstone. Possessed of vast resources of brain and culture, a remarkable command of language, an iron will and an enthusiasm in behalf of every cause he espoused that was checked by no opposition, the " Grand Old Man,'' as he was called, was the most majestic and commanding figure in English pohtics and literature for a generation. His oration on the Irish Church is a good specimen of his impassioned oratory. (^F we are prudent men, I hope we shall N I endeavor as far as in us lies to make alL some provision for a contingent, a doubtful, and probably a dangerous future. If we be chivalrous men, I trust we shall en- deavor to wipe away all those stains which the civilized world has for ages seen, or seemed to see, on the shield of England in her treatment of Ireland. If we be compas- sionate men, I hope we shall now, once for all, listen to the tale of woe which comes from her, and the reality of which, if not its justice, is testified by the continuous emigra- tion of her people— that we shall endeavor to— " Pluck from her memory a rooted sorrow. And raze the written troubles from her brain." But, above all, if we be just men, we shall go forward in the name of truth and right, bear- ing this in mind — that, when the case is proved and the hour is come, justice delayed is justice denied. There are many who think that to lay hands upon the national Church Establish- »nent of a country is a profane and unhal- owed act. I respect that feeling. I sym- 15- 'c) pathize with it. I sympathize with it while I think it my duty to overcome and repress it. But if it be an error, it is an error enti- tled to respect. There is something in the idea of a national establishment of religion, of a solemn appropriation of a part of the Commonwealth for conferring upon all who are ready to receive it what we know to be an inestimable benefit; of saving that portion of the inheritance from private selfishness, in order to extract from it, if we can, pure and unmixed advantages of the highest order for the population at large. There is something in this so attractive that it is an image that must always com- mand the homage of the many. It is some- what like the kingly ghost in Hamlet, o\ which one of the characters of Shakespeare says : — " We do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence ; For it is, as the air, invulnerable, And our vain blows mahcious mockery '' But, sir, this is to view a religious estab- lishment upon one side, only upon what I may call the ethereal side. It has likewise 226 ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. a side of earth ; and here I cannot do better than quote some hnes written by the Arch- bishop of DubHn, at a time when his genius was devoted to the muses. He said, in speaking of mankind : " We who did our lineage high Draw from beyond the starry sky, Are yet upon the other side, To earth and to its dust aUied." And so the Church Estabhshment, re- garded in its theory and in its aim, is beau- tiful and attractive. Yet what is it but an appropriation of pubHc property, an appro- priation of the fruits of labor and of skill to certain purposes, and unless these purposes are fulfilled, that appropriation cannot be justified. Therefore, Sir, I cannot but feel that we must set aside fears which thrust themselves upon the imagination, and act upon the sober dictates of our judgment. I think it has been shown that the cause for action is strong — not for precipitate ac- tion, not for action beyond our powers, but for such action as the opportunities of the times and the condition of Parliament, if noble fabric of the British empire. there be but a ready will, will amply and easily admit of. If I am asked as to my ex- pectations of the issue of this struggle, I begin frankly by avowing that I, for one, would not have entered into it unless I be- lieved that the final hour was about to sound. And I hope that the noble lord will for- give me if I say that before Friday last I thought that the thread of the remaining life of the Irish Established Church was short, but that since Friday last, when at half-past four o'clock in the afternoon the noble lord stood at that table, I have regarded it as being shorter still. The issue is not in our hands. What we had and have to do is to con- sider well and deeply before we take the first step in an engagement such as this ; but having entered into the controversy, there and then to acquit ourselves like men, and to use every effort to remove what still re- mains of the scandals and calamities in the relations which exist between England and Ireland, and use our best efforts at least to fill up with the cement of human concord the ^®v><^«^ APPEAL TO THE HUNGARIANS. BY LOUIS KOSSUTH. The eminent Hungarian orator and statesman, whose name for a whole generation stood for liberty, visited our country in his early manhood and received an ovation wherever he went. His progress was a triumphal march. This was due not merely to the fact that he was exerting all his energies to liberate his country, but his reception was a tribute to his brilliant genius and overpowering eloquence. Kossuth was one of the most remarkable orators of modern times. The following selection is a fine illustration of his impassioned, burning eloquence. UR fatherland is in danger. Citizens of the fatherland ! To arms ! To arms ! If we believed the country could be saved by ordinary means, we would not cry that it is in danger. If we stood at the head of a cowardly, childish nation, which, in the hour of peril, prefers defeat to defence, we would not sound the alarm-bell. But because we know that the people of our land compose a manly nation, determined to defend itself against oppression, we call out in the loudest voice, '' Our fatherland is in danger ! " Because we are sure that the na- tion is able to defend its hearths and homes, we announce the peril in all its magnitude, and appeal to our brethren, in the name of ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. 227 U God and their country, to look the danger boldly in the face. We will not smile and flatter. We say it plainly, that unless the nation rise, to a man, prepared to shed the last drop of blood, all our previous struggles will have been in vain. The noble blood that has flowed like water, will have been wasted. Our fatherland will be crushed to the earth. On the soil, where rest the ashes of our ancestors, the Russian knout will be wielded over a people reduced beneath the yoke of slavery. If we wish to shut our eyes to the danger, we shall thereby save no one from its power. If we represent the matter as it is, we make our country master of its own fate. If the breath of life is in our people, they will save themselves and their fatherland. But, if paralyzed by coward fear, they remain supine, all will be lost. God will help no man who does not help himself. We tell you that the Austrian Emperor sends the hordes of Rus- sian barbarians for your destruction. People of Hungary! Would you die under the destroying sword of the barbarous Rus- sians ? If not, defend your own lives ! Would you see the Cossacks of the distant north trampling under foot the dishonored bodies of your fathers, your wives, and your chil- dren ? Knot, defend yourselves! Do you wish that your fellow-countrymen should be dragged away to Siberia, or should fight for tyrants in a foreign land, or writhe in slavery beneath a Russian scourge? If not, defend yourselves ! Would you see your villages in flames, and your harvest-fields in ruins ? Would you die of hunger on the soil which you have cultivated with sweat and blood ? If not, defend yourselves ! This strife is not a strife between two hos- tile camps, but a war of tyranny against free- dom, of barbarians against the collectii^e might of a free nation. Therefore must the whole people arise with the army. If these millions sustain our army, we have gained freedom and victory for universal Europe, as well as for ourselves. Therefore, O strong, gigantic people, unite with the army, and rush to the conflict. Ho ! every freeman ! To arms! To arms ! Thus alone is victory certain. THE TYRANT VERRES DENOUNCED. BY CICERO. This oration is inserted here to furnish an example of the style of the great Roman orator whose elo- quence has been proverbial from his time to the present. His patriotic utterances should stir the blood ol the reciter, and if they do this his hearers will share the inspiration. N opinion has long prevailed, fathers, that, in public prosecutions, men of wealth, however clearly convicted, are always safe. This opinion, so injurious to your order, so detrimental to the state, it is now in your power to refute. A man is on trial before you who is rich, and he hopes his riches will compass his acquittal; but whose life and actions are his sufficient con- demnation in the eyes of all candid men. I speak of Caius Verres, who, if he now receive not the sentence his crimes deserve, it shall not be through the lack of a criminal or of a prosecutor, but through the failure of the ministers of justice to do their duty. Passing over the shameful irregularities of his youth, what does the quaestorship of Verres exhibit but one continued scene of villanies ? The public treasure squandered, a consul stripped and betrayed, an army deserted and reduced to want, a province robbed, the civil and religious rights of a 228 ORATIONS BY FAMOUS ORATORS. people trampled on ! But his praetorship in Sicily has crowned his career of wickedness, and completed the lasting monument of his infamy. His decisions have violated all law, all precedent, all right. His extortions from the industrious poor have been beyond com- putation. Our most faithful allies have been treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put to death with tortures. Men the most worthy have been condemned and banished without a hearing, while the most atrocious criminals have, with money, purchased exemption from the punishment due to their guilt. I ask now, Verres, what have you to advance against these charges ? Art thou not the tyrant Praetor, who, at no greater distance than Sicily, within sight of the Ital- ian coast, dared to put to an infamous death, on the cross, that ill-fated and inno- cent citizen^ Publius Gavius Cosanus ? And what was his offence? He had de- clared his intention of appealing to the justice of his country against your brutal persecutions ! For this, when about to embark for home, he was seized, brought before you, charged with being a spy, scourged and tortured. In vain did he exclaim : " I am a Roman citi- zen! I have served under Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus, and who will attest my innocence ! " Deaf to all remonstrance, remorseless, thirsting for innocent blood, you ordered the savage punishment to be in- flicted ! While the sacred words, ''I am a Roman citizen," were on his lips — words which, in the remotest regions, are a pass- port to protection — you ordered him to death —to a death upon the cross ! O liberty ! O sound once delightful to every Roman ear! O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship ! once sacred — now tram- pled on ! Is it come to this ? Shall an in- ferior magistrate— a governor, who holds his whole power of the Roman people — in a Roman province, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture, and put to an infamous death, a Roman citizen ? Shall neither the cnes of innocence expiring in agony, the tears of pitying spectators, the majesty of the Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the merciless monster, who, in the confidence of his riches, strikes at the very root of liberty, and sets mankind at defiance? And shall this man escape? Fathers, it must not be ! It must not be un- less you would undermine the very founda- tions of social safety, strangle justice, and call down anarchy, massacre, and ruin on the commonwealth. Humorous Recitations. A recitation that Has a touch of humor, :>ne that is quaint and droll, one that has comical situations, or one that hits off any- popular absurdity, is sure to be well received by your audience. A school exhibition or an evening's entertainment without something of this kind would be pronounced dull and dry. Some readers are especially adapted to re- citals of this description. They have an in- nate sense of the ludicrous and are able to convey it by voice and manner. Those who are not favored with the very desirable gift of humor should confine themselves to selec* tions of a graver character. The department of Wit and Humor here presented is large and complete, containing a great variety of readings that cannot fail to be enthusiasti- cally received when properly rendered. BILL'S IN TROUBLE 1 I'VE got a letter, parson, from my son away out West, An' my ol' heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast. To think the boy whose futur' I had once so proudly planned Should wander from the path o' right an' come to sich an end ! Bill made a faithful promise to be keerful, an' allowed He'd build a reputation that'd make us mighty proud, But it seems as how my counsel sort o' faded from his mind, An' now the boy's in trouble o' the very wustest kindl His letters came so seldom that 1 somehow sort o' knowed That Billy was a-trampin' on a mighty rocky road, But never once imagined he would bow my head in shame. An' in the dust'd waller his ol' daddy's honored name. He writes from out in Denver, an' the story's mighty short ; I just can't tell his mother ; it'll crush her poor o'l heart ! An' so I reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her — Bill's in the Legislatur, but he doesn't say what fur. " 5PACIALLY JIM." I WUS mighty good-lookin' when I was young, Peert an' black -eyed an' slim, With fellers a courtin' me Sunday nights, 'Spacially Jim. The likeliest one of 'em all was he, Chipper an' han'som' an' trim, But I tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowd, 'Spacially Jim 1 229 230 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men, An' I wouldn't take stock in him I But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o* my talk, 'Spacially Jim ! I got so tired o' havin' ('Spacially Jim !) em roun I made up my mind Vd settle down An' take up with him. So we was married one Sunday in church, 'Twas crowded full to the brim ; 'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, 'Spacially Jim. THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY, Be careful, in all dialect recitations, to enunciate as brought out in the accent, and you should study this until tOU promise now, you goot man dere, Vot shtunds upon de floor, To take dis woman for your vrow, And luff her efermore ; You'll feed her well on sauerkraut, Beans, buttermilk and cheese, And in all dings to lend your aid Vot vill promote her ease ? -Yah I Yes, and you, good voman, too — Do you pledge your vord dis day Dat you vill take dis husband here And mit him alvays shtay ? Dat you vill bet and board mit him, Vash, iron and mend his clothes ; the piece requires. A good part of the humor is you are master of it. Laugh when he schmiles, veep when he sighs, Und share his joys and voes ? —Yah I Vel, den, mitin these sacred halls, Mit joy and not mit grief, I do bronounce you man and vifc ; Von name, von home, von beef 1 I publish now dese sacred bonts, Dese matrimonial dies. Before mine Got, mine vrow, minezelf Und all dese gazing eyes. Und now, you pridegroom standing dere, I'll not let go yoz collar Undil you dell me one ding more, Dat ish : vere ish mine tollar ? BLASTED HOPES. E said good-bye ! My lips to hers were pressed. We looked into each other's eyes and sighed ; I pressed the maiden fondly to my breast. And went my way across the foamy tide. I stood upon the spot where Caesar fell, I mused l)eside the great Napoleon's tomb; I loitered where dark-visaged houris dwell, And saw the fabled lotus land abloom. I heard Parisian revelers, and so Forgot tlie maiden who had wept for me ; I saw my face reflected in the Po, And saw Italian suns sink in the se^. Aweary of it all, at last, I turned My face back to my glorious native land ; I thought of her again — my bosom burned— And joyfully I left the ancient strand. At last, I held her little hand again, But, oh, the seasons had kept rolling on, I did not stroke her head or kiss her then — Another had appeared while I was gone. I'd brought her trinkets from across the sea— Ah, well ! she shall not have them now, o* course ; Alas ! the only thing that's left for me Is to give her little buy a hobby horse I HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 231 I TIM MURPHY MAKES A FEW REMARKS. A good specimen of the Irish brogue and wit. SAW Teddy Reagan the other day ; he told me he had been dealing in hogs. QJJL '' Is business good ?" says I. " Yis/' says he. '' Talking about hogs, Teddy, how do you find yourself?" sez I. I wint to buy a clock the other day, to make a present to Mary Jane. " Will you have a Frinch clock ?" says the jeweler. '' The deuce take your Frinch clock," sez I. ** I want a clock that my sister can understand when it strikes." "I have a Dutch clock," sez he, "an' you kin put that on the shtairs." " It might run down if I put it there," sez I. "Well," sez he, " here's a Yankee clock, with a lookin'- glass in the front, so that you can see your- self," sez he. " It's too ugly," sez I. ''Thin I'll take the lookin'-glass out, an' whin you look at it you'll not find it so ugly," sez he. I wint to Chatham Sthreet to buy a shirt, for the one I had on was a thrifle soiled. The Jew who kept the sthore looked at my bosom, an said: " So hellup me gracious! how long do you vear a shirt ?" " Twinty-eight inches," sez I. *' Have you any fine shirts ?" sez I. " Yis," sez he. " Are they clane ?'' says I. " Yis," sez he. " Thin you had better put one on," sez I. You may talk about bringin' up childer in the way they should go, but I believe in bringing them up by the hair of the head. Talking about bringing up childer — I hear my childer's prayers every night The other night I let thim up to bed without thim. I skipped and sthood behind the door. I heard the big boy say : '^ Give us this day our daily bread." The little fellow said: "Sthrike him for pie, Johnny." I have one of the most economical boys in the Citty of New York ; he hasn't spint one cint for the last two years. I am expecting him down from Sing Sing prison next week. Talking about boys, I have a nephew who, five years ago, couldn't write a word. Last week he wrote his name for ;^ 10,000; he'll git tin years in the pinatintiary. I can't write, but I threw a brick at a policeman and made my mark. They had a fight at Tim Owen*s wake last week. Mary Jane was there. She says, barrin' herself, there was only one whole nose left in the party, an' that belonged to the tay-kettle. PASSING OF THE HORSE. I DROVE my old horse, Dobbin, full slowly toward the town, One beautiful spring morning. The rising sun looked down And saw us slowly jogging and drinking in the balm Of honeyed breath of clover fields. We lissed, in Nature's calm, To chirping squirrel, and whistling bird, the robin and the wren ; The sound of life and love and peace came o'er the fields again. 'Way back behind the wagon there came a tan- dem bike, A pedaling 'long to beat the wind, I never saw the like. They started by — the road was wide, old Dobbin feeling good. The quiet calmness of the morn had livened up his mood, And stretching out adown the road he chased these cyclers two. And Dobbin in his younger days was distanced by but few? 232 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. We sped along about a mile, it was a merry chase, But Dobbin gave it up at last, and, dropping from the race, He looked at me, as if to say: '^ Old man, I'm in disgrace. The horse is surely passing by, the bike has got his place " And all that day, while in the town, old Dob- bin's spirits fell ; His stout old pride was broken sure ; the reason I could tell. But when that night we trotted back from town, below the hill We met two weary cyclers who waved at us a bill That had a big V on it, and said it would be mine If I would let them ride with us and put their bike behind, And so I whistled softly ; and Dobbin winked at me, " I guess the horse will stay, old man ; he's punc- ture proof — you see ?' ' A SCHOOL=DAY, Don't overdo the whimpering and crying, but make one in tears. Make use of a handkerchief to render the ,0W, John," the district teacher says With frown that scarce can hide The dimpling smiles around her mouth, Where Cupid's hosts abide, "What have you done to Mary Ann, That she is crying so ? Don't say 'twas 'nothing ' — don't, I say, For, John, that can't be so ; *'For Mary Ann would never cry At nothing, I am sure ; And if you've wounded justice, John, You know the only cure Is punishment ! So, come, stand up ; Transgression must abide The pain attendant on the scheme That makes it justified." So John steps forth with sun-burnt face, And hair all in a tumble, His laughing eyes a contrast to His drooping mouth so humble. "Now, Mary, you must tell me all — I see that John will not, And if he's been unkind or rude, I'll whip him on the spot." " W — we were p — playin' p — pris'ner'sb— base. An' h — he is s — such a t — tease, \n' w — when I w — wasn't 1 — lookin', m — ma'am' H — he k— kissed me — if you please. ' ' the facial expressions and imitate the sobbing of imitation more effective. Upon the teacher^s face the smiles Have triumphed o'er the frown, A pleasant thought runs through her mind, The stick comes harmless down. But outraged law must be avenged ! Begone, ye smiles, begone ! Away, ye little dreams of love, Come on, ye frowns, come on ! "I think I'll have to whip you, John, Such conduct breaks the rule ; No boy, except a naughty one, Would kiss a girl — at school." Again the teacher's rod is raised, A Nemesis she stands — A premium were put on sin, If punished by such hands ! As when the bee explores the rose We see the petals tremble, So trembled Mary's rosebud lips — Her heart would not dissemble. "I wouldn't whip him very hard" — The stick stops in its fall — "It wasn't right to do it, but — It didn't hurt at all ! " "What made you cry, then, Mary Ann?** The school's noise makes a pause, And out upon the listening air. From Mary comes — " Because ! " W. F. McSparrais-, HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 233 THE BICYCLE AND THE PUP. IS a bicycle man, over his broken wheel, That grieveth himself full sore. For the joy of its newness his heart shall f feel, Alack and alas ! no more. When the bright sun tippeth the hills with gold. That rider upriseth gay, And with hat all beribboned and heart that is bold, Pufsueth his jaunty way. He gazeth at folks in the lowly crowd With a most superior air. He thinketh ha ! ha ! and he smileth aloud As he masheth the maiden fair. Oh, he masheth her much in his nice new clothe:^ Nor seeth the cheerful pup, Till he roots up the road with his proud, proud nose, While the little wheel tilteth up. Oh, that youth on his knees — though he doth not pray — Is a pitiful sight to see, For his pants in their utterest part give way, While merrily laugheth she. And that bicycle man in his heart doth feel That the worst of unsanctified jokes Is the small dog that sniffeth anon at his wheel. But getteth mixed up in the spokes. THE PUZZLED CENSUS TAKER. Before reciting this state to your audience that "' nein " is the German for " no* " ^) OT any boys? " the marshal said, ^ I ■ To a lady from over the Rhine ; And the lady shook her flaxen head. And civilly answered '' nein ! " •'Got any girls? " the marshal said. To that lady from over the Rhine ; And again the lady shook her head, And civilly answered " nein ! " '*But some are dead," the marshal said To the lady from over the Rhine ; And again the lady shook her head. And civilly answered " nein ! " 'Husband, of course ? " the marshal said To the lady from over the Rhine ; And again she shook her flaxen head, And civilly answered " nein ! " ' The duce you have ! ' ' the marshal said To the lady from over the Rhine; And again she shook her flaxen head, And civilly answered '^ nein ! " ' Now what do you m^ean by shaking your heac And always answering *'nein?" ' Ich kann nicht Englisch," civilly said ' The lady from over the Rhine. @^^ into the house,, when my feet slipped from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knocked out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as 5^ou may suppose, and my face ain't well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, 'specially by the women folks. {Coughs,) Oh, dear! but that ain't all. Doctor; I've got fifteen corns on my toes — and I'm afeard I'm going to have the " yaller janders." [Coughs) Dr. Valentine, I heard some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high, Tew high fer busy farmer folks with chores tei dew ter fly. I i HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 241 But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontel She come in her reg'lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a si^ell. My Jake an' her had been cronies ever since they could walk, An' it tuk me aback ter hear her kerrectin' him in his talk. Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work ; But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!" Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said ir. a mournful way. He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay. 1 remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns, An' she said he should alius say, " them air," stid o' " them is " the ones. Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long. Tell he dassent open his moutli for fear o' talkin' wrong. One day I was pickin' currants daown by the old quince tree, When I heerd Jake's voice a-sayin': "Be ye willin' ter marry me ?" An' Mary Ann kerrectin', '* Air ye willin', yeou sh'd say." Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum, decided way, " No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be re-arrangin* me. Hereafter I says * craps,' ' them is/ * I calk'late,' an' a be.' Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say ; But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay. I ask you free an' final : Be ye goin' ter marry me?" An' Mary Ann sez, tremblin', yet anxious-like, "I be." Florence E. Pyatt. THE DUTCHMAN'S SNAKE, ;EAR the town of Reading, in Berks County, Pennsylvania, there form- }p \^ erly lived a well-to-do Dutch farmer named Peter Van Riper. His only son was a strapping lad of seventeen, also named Peter, and upon old Peter and young Peter devolved the principal cares of the old man's farm, now and then assisted by an an- cient Dutchman named Jake Sweighoffer, ivho lived in the neighborhood, and went out to work by the day. One warm day in haying time this trio were hard at work in a meadow near the farm-house, when suddenly Peter the elder dropped his scythe and called out: "Oh! mine gracious, Peter! Peter!" ''What's de matter, fader ?" answered the son, straightening up and looking at his sire. (i6— X) "Oh! mine Peter! Peter !" again cried the old man, " do come here, right off! Der schnake pite mine leg !" If anything in particular could disturb the nerves of young Peter, it was snakes ; for he had once been chased by a black one and frightened nearly out of his wits. At the word snake, therefore, young Van Riper fell back, nimbly as a wire-drawer, and called out in turn : " Where is der shnake, fader?" " Here, up mine preeches! — Oh! my! my! my!" " Vy don't you kill him, fader?" exclaimed Peter, junior, keeping at a safe distance from his suffering sire. " I can't get at der little sinner, Peter ; you come dake off my drowsis, or he'll kill me mit his pites." But the fears of Peter, the younger, over- 242 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. came his filial affection, and lent strength to his lesrs, for he started off like a scared two- /ear-old toward the old man Jake, to call him to the assistance of his unhappy father. A few moments after, the two came bounding toward the old man, and as they passed a haycock where their garments had been laid when they began work, Jake grabbed the vest which he supposed belonged to his em- ployer. During this time old Peter had managed to keep on his feet, although he was quaking and trembling like an ' spen leaf in a June gale of wind. *' Oh ! come quick, Yacob 1" exclainrk<;d he, '' he pite like sixty, here, on mine leg." Old Jake was not particularly sensitive to fear, but few people, young or old, are free from alarm when a " pizenous " reptile is about. He seized a small pitchfork, and, telling the unhappy Van Riper to stand steady, promised to stun the reptile by a rap or two, even if he didn't kill it outright. The frightened old man did not long hesitate be- tween the risk of a broken leg or being bit- ten to death by a snake, but promptly indi- cated the place where Jake should strike - Whack went the pitchfork, and down tum- bled Peter, exclaiming, "Oh! my! my! my I I pleeve you've proke mine leg ! but den der shnake's gone." " Vere ! vere's he gone to ? " says old Sweighoffer, looking sharply about on the ground he stood upon. " Never mind der shnake now, Yacob," says Van Riper," come and help me up, and I'll go home." " Here, I've got your shacket — put it on,'' says Jacob, lifting up the old man, and slipping his arms into the armholes of the vest. The moment old Peter made the effort to get the garment on his shoulders, he grew livid in the face — his hair stood on end — he shivered and shook — his teeth chattered, and his knees knocked an accompaniment. " O Yacob ! " exclaimed he, " help me to go home — I'm dead ! I'm dead ! " " Vat's dat you say ? Ish dere nodder shnake in your preeches ? " inquired the in- trepid Jacob. " Not dat — I don t mean dat," says the farmer, "but shust you look on me — I'm shwelt all up, pigger as an ox ! my shacket won't go on my pack. I'm dying mit de pizen. Oh ! oh ! oh ! help me home quick." The hired man came to the same conclu- sion ; and with might and main he hurried old Peter along toward the farm-house. Meantime young Peter had run home, and so alarmed the women folks that they were in a high state of excitement when they saw the approach of the good old man and his assistant. Old man Peter was carried into the house, laid on a bed, and began to lament his sad misfortune in a most grievous manner, when the old lady, his frow, came forward and proposed to examine the bitten leg. The unhappy man opened his eyes and feebly pointed out the place of the bite. She care- fully ripped up his pantaloons, and out fell — a thistle-top ! and at the same time a consid- erable scratch was made visible. " Call dis a shnake ? Bah ! " says the old lady, holding up the thistle. " Oh ! but Tm pizened to death, Katreen ! — see, I'm all pizen ! — mine shacket ! — Oh 1 dear, mine shacket not come over mine pody ! " " Haw ! haw ! you crazy fellow," roars the frow, " dat's not your shacket — dat's Peter's shacket! ha! ha! ha!" " Vat ! dat Peter's shacket ? " says old Peter, shaking off death's icy fetters at one surge, and jumping up : " Bosh ! Jacob, vat an old fool you must be to say I vas shnake- pite ! Go 'pout your pusiness, gals. Peter, give me mine pipe." 4 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 24S NO KISS, ISS me, Will," sang Marguerite, To a pretty little tune, Holding up her dainty mouth, Sweet as roses born in June. Will was ten years old that day, And he pulled her golden curls Teasingly^ and answer made — ** I'm too old — I don't kiss girls." Ten years pass, and Marguerite Smiles as Will kneels at her feet. Gazing fondly in her eyes, Praying, '' Won't you kiss me, sweet? '* 'Rite is seventeen to-day, With her birthday ring sne toys For a moment, then replies : "Vm too old — I don't kiss boys.** THE LISPING LOVER. H ! tnta:y one moment, love implorth, Ere yet we break thith happy thpell ! For to the thoul my thoul adorth It ith tho hard to thay farewell And yet how thad to be tho weak, To think forever, night or day, The thententheth my heart would thpeak Thethe lipth can never truly thay. How mournful, too, while thuth I kneel. With nervouthneth my blith to mar, And dream each moment that I feel The boot-toe of thy thtern papa. Or yet to fanthy that I hear A thudden order to decamp, Ath dith agreeably thevere Ath — " Get out you infernal thcarap ! ** Yet recklethly I pauthe by thee. To lithp my hopeth, my fearth, my careth. Though any moment I may be Turning a thomerthel down the thtairth ! LARRIE O'DEE, ■^•rVOW the widow McGee, And Tarrie O'Dee, Had two little cottages out on the green, \Vith just room enough for two pig-pens becween. The widow was young and the widow was fair. With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair; And it frequently chanced, when she came ih. the morn With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn. And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand, In the pen of the widow were certain to land. One morning said he : ** Och ! Misthress McGee, It's a waste, of good Wmber, this runnin' two rigs, Wid a fancy petition betwane our two pigs ! " " Indade sur, it is ! " answered Widow McGee, With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O'Dee. ''And thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted and mane, Kapin' two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near That whiniver one grunts the other can hearj And yit kape a cruel petition betwane.*' '' Shwate Widow McGee," Answered Larrie O'Dee, '' If ye fale in your heart we are mane to ine pigs, Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' two rigs? Och ! it made me heart ache whin I paped through the cracks 244 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez shwingin' yer axe; An' a bobbin' yer head an' a shtompin' yer fate, Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate, A-sphlittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the shtorm, When one little shtove it would kap^ us both warm ! ' ' " Now, piggy," said she ; **Larrie's courtin' o' me. Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you, So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do . For, if I'm to say yez, shtir the swill wid yei snout ; But if I'm to say no, ye must kape yer nose out. Now Larrie, for shame ! to be bribin' a pig By a-tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig ! ' "Me darHnt, the piggy says yes," anwered he. And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee. W. W. Fink. HOW PADEREWSKI PLAYS THE PIANO, 'IRST a soft and gentle tinkle, Gentle as the rain-drop's sprinkle. Then a stop, Fingers drop. Now begins a merry trill, Like a cricket in a mill ; Now a short, uneasy motion, Like a ripple on the ocean. See the fingers dance about. Hear the notes come tripping out ; How they mingle in the tingle Of the everlasting jingle. Like to hailstones on a shingle. Or the ding-dong, dangle-dingle Of a sheep-bell ! Double, single. Now they come in wilder gushes, Up and down the player rushes. Quick as squirrels, sweet as thrushes. Now the keys begin to clatter Like the music of a platter When the maid is stirring batter. O'er the music comes a change, Every tone is wild and strange ; Listen to the lofty tumbling. Hear the mumbling, fumbling, jumbling, Like the rumbling and the grumbling Of the thunder from its slumbering Just awaking. Now it's taking To the quaking, like a fever-and-ague shaking ; Heads are aching, something's breaking — Goodness gracious ! it is wondrous, Rolling round, above, and under us, Like old Vulcan's stroke so thunderous. Now 'tis louder, but the powder Will be all exploded soon ; For the only way to do, When the music's nearly through, Is to muster all your muscle for a bang. Striking twenty notes together with a clang : Hit the treble with a twang. Give the bass an awful whang. And close the whole performance With a slam — bang — whang ! •►-r=rS)fi THE FRECKLE |A'S up stairs changing her dress," said the freckled-faced little girl, tying her doll's bonnet strings and casting her eye about for a tidy large enough to serve as a shawl for that double-jointed young person. **0h, your mother needn't dress up for FACED GIRL. me," replied the female agent of the mis^ sionary society, taking a self-satisfied view of herself in the mirror. " Run up and tell her to come down just as she is in her every- day clothes, and not stand on ceremony." '^ Oh, but she hasn't got on her everyday clothes. Ma was all dressed up in her new PHOrO. B t' MORRIfaON, CHICAGO THK MASK REMOVED >HOTO. BY MORRISON, CHICAGO NO DECEPTION, NOW 1 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 245 brown silk dress, 'cause she expected Miss Dimmond to-day. Miss Dimmond alv/ays comes over here to show off her nice things, and ma doesn't mean to get left. When ma saw you coming she said, * the dickens ! ' and I guess she was mad about something. Ma said if you saw her new dress, she'd have to hear all about the poor heathen, who don't have silk, and you'd ask her for money to buy hymn books to send 'em. Say, do the nigger ladies use hymn-book leaves to do their hair up on and make it frizzy ? Ma says she guesses that's all the good the books do 'em, if they ever get any books. I wish my doll was a heathen." "Why, you wicked little girl! what do you want of a heathen doll ? " inquired the missionary lady, taking a mental inventory of the new things in the parlor to get ma- terial for a homily on worldly extravagance. " So folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, and feel sorry to have her going about naked. Then she'd have her hair to frizz, and I want a doll with truly hair and eyes that roll up like Deacon Silderback's when he says amen on Sunday. I ain't a wicked girl, either, 'cause Uncle Dick — you know Uncle Dick, he's been out West and swears awful and smokes in the house — he says I'm a holy terror, and he hopes I'll be an angel pretty soon. Ma'U be down in a minute, so you needn't take your cloak off. She said she'd box my ears if I asked you to. " Ma's putting on that old dress she had last year, 'cause she didn't want you to think she was able to give much this time, and she needed a muff worse than the queen of the cannon-ball islands needed 'ligion. Uncle Dick says you oughter get to the islands, ^cause you'd be safe there, and the natives would be sorry they was such sin- ners anybody would send you to *em. He says he never seen a heathen hungry enough to eat you, 'less it was a blind one, an* you'd set a blind pagan's teeth on edge so he'd never hanker after any more missionary. Uncle Dick's awful funny, and makes ma and pa die laughing sometimes." *' Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved wretch, and ought to have remained out West, where his style is appreciated. He sets a horrid example for little girls like you.'* " Oh, I think he's nice. He showed me how to slide down the banisters, and he's teaching me to whistle when ma ain't around. That's a pretty cloak you've got, ain't it? Do you buy all your clothes with missionary money? Ma says you do." Just then the freckle-faced little girl's ma came into the parlor and kissed the mission- ary lady on the cheek and said she was de- Hghted to see her, and they proceeded to have a real sociable chat The little girl's ma cannot understand why a person who professes to be so charitable as the mission- ary agent does should go right over to Miss Dimmond's and say such ill-natured things as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a double-faced gossip. The little girl under- stands it better than her ma does. IP!" WHEN GIRLS WORE CALICO. HERE was a time, betwixt the days Of linsey woolsey, straight and prim. And these when mode, with despot ways. Leads woman captive at its whim, Yet not a hundred years ago, When girls wore sirnph calico. Within the barn, by lantern light. Through many a reel, with flying feet; The boys and maidens danced at night To fiddled measures, shrilly sweet ; And merry revels were they, though The girls were gowned in calico. 246 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. Across the flooring rough and gray The gold of scattered chaff was spread. And long festoons of clover hay That straggled from the loft o'erhead, Swung scented fringes to and fro O'er pretty girls in calico. They used to go a-Maying then, The blossoms of the spring to seek In sunny glade and sheltered glen, Unweighed by fashion's latest freak; And Robin fell in love, I know, With Phyllis in her calico. A tuck, a frill, a bias fold, A hat curved over gipsy-wise. And beads of coral and of gold, And rosy cheeks and merr). eyes. Made lassies in that long ago Look charming in their calico. The modern knight who loves a maid Of gracious air and gentle grace, And finds her oftentimes arrayed In shining silk and priceless lace, Would love her just as well, I know^ In pink and lilac calico. Hattie Whitney. ••-^-=®©N'^t hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can't handle many mice at once to advantage. Besides, I'm not so spry as I was before I had that spine in my back and had to wear plasters. Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen and asked what she should do — as though I could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the same time. I told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at the intruder ; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal-scuttle. She paused for breath ; but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. " O Joshua," she cried, " I wish you had n\)t killed the cat." Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to ^ scald the mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did n^t dare to let go, for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept jump- ing. Just as I was ready to faint with ex- haustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, very 5>54 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. dead I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy. That was not the end of the trouble, for before I had recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him through, and tiiey dragged hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then the fore- man wanted to thrash me because the house was n^t on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and ar- rested me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Mar''«, It was all Maria and I could do, by com bining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finallv got matters quieted and the house clear. Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and* let Maria " shoo " them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don't pay for the trouble. Joshua Jenkins. THE VILLAGE SEWING SOCIETY. This is a very amusing recitation when correctly rendered. The gossips make the most disparaging remarks about their neighbors, but are very pleasant to their faces. The words in parentheses should be spoken "aside ' in an undertone. A recital for one who can imitate different female voices. JS' JONES is late agin to-day : I'd be ashamed now ef 'tAvas me. Don't tell it, but I've heerd folks say She only comes ♦•.o get her tea.** '^Law me ! she nc^an't want it here, The deacop s folks ain't much on eatin' : rhey haven't made a pie this year ! Of course, 'twon't do to be repeatin'; "B'lt old Mis' Jenkins says it's true (You know she lives just 'cross the way, And sees most everything they do.) She says she saw 'em t'other day — " *'Hnsh, here comes Hannah! How d'ye do ? Why, what a pretty dress you've got ! " (''Her old merino made up new: /know it by that faded spot.") ''Jest look! there's Dr. Stebbins' wife" — "A bran-new dress and bunnit ! — well — They sny she leads him such a life ! But, iherc ! I promised not to tell." "Whit's that, Mis' Brown? 'Allfriench' of course ; And you can see with your own eyes, That that gray mare's the bet^^er horse, Though gossipin' I do dispise." " Poor Mary Allen's lost her beau" — "It serves her right, conceited thing! She's flirted awfully, I know. Say have you heard she kept his ring?" "Listen ! the clock is striking six. Thank goodness ! then it's time for tea.*' "Now ain't that too much I Abby Mix Has folded up her work ! Just see ! " "Why canU she wait until she's told ? Yes, thank you, deacon, here we come." ("I hope the biscuits won't be cold: No coffee ? Wish I was tu hum I " " Do tell, Mis' Ellis ! Did you make This cheese ? the best I ever saw. Such jumbles too (no jelly cake) : I'm quite ashamed to take one more." '' Good-by : we've had a first-rate time, And first-rnte tea, I must declare. Mis' Ellis' things are always prime. (Well, next week's meetin' won't be there f*^^ ^ n HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 25^ SIGNS whose style was what he (^>|^N old gentleman A^ Germanized, was asked yJljjV^^ thought of signs and omens. " Veil, I don't dinks mooch of dem dings, und I don't pelieve averydings; but I dells you somedimes dere is somedings ash dose dings. Now de oder night I sit and reads mine newspaper, und my frau she speak und say — " * Fritz, de dog ish howling ! ' "Veil, I don' dinks mooch of dem dings, und I goes on und reads mine paper, und mine frau she says — " * Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen, — der dog ish howling ! ' " Und den I gets hop mit mineself und look out troo de wines on de porch, und de moon was shinin', und mine leetle dog he shoomp AND OMENS. right up und down hke averydings, und he park at de moon, dat was shine so bright as never vas. Und ash I hauled mine het in de winder, de old voman she say — " ' Mind, Fritz, I dells you dere ish some- ding pad ish happen. De dog ish howling/ " Veil, I goes to ped, und I shleeps, und all night long ven I vakes up dere vas dat dog howling outside, und ven I dream I bear dat howling vorsher ash never. Und in de morn- ing I kits up und kits mine breakfast, und mine frau she looks at me und say, werry solemn — " * Fritz, dere is somedings pad ish happen. De dog vas hov/1 all night.' " Und shoost den de newspaper came in, und I opens him und by shings, vot you dinks ; dere vas a man's vife cracked his skull in Philadelphia ! " THE GHOST. Sing to the tune of Yankee IS about twenty years since Abel Law, A short, round -favored, merry Old soldier of the Revolutionary War, Was wedded to A most abominable shrew. The temper, sir, of Shakespeare's Catharine Could no more be compared with hers, Than mine With Lucifer's. Her eyes were like a weasel's ; she had a harsh Face, like a cranberry marsh. All spread With spots of white and red ; Hair of the color of a wisp of straw, And a disposition like a cross-cut saw. The appellation of this lovely dame Was Nancy; don't forget the name. Her brother David was a tall. Good-looking chap, and that was all ; Doodle the words designated. One of your great, big nothings, as we say Here in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes And cracking them on other folks. Well, David undertook one night to play The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who. He knew, W@uld be returning from a journey through A grove of forest wood That stood Below The house some distance — half a mile, or so. With a long taper Cap of white paper, Just made to cover A wig, nearly as large over As a corn-basket, and a sheet With both ends made to meet Across his breast, (The way in which ghosts are always dressed,) He took 256 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. His station near A huge oak-tree, \\' hence he could overlook The road and see Whatever might appear. It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel Had left the table Of an inn, where he had made a halt. With horse and wagon. To taste a flagon. Of malt Liquor, and so forth, which, being done. He went on. Caring no more for twenty ghosts. Than if they were so many posts. David was nearly tired of waiting; His patience was abating ; At length, he heard the careless tones Of his kinsman's voice, And then the noise Of wagon-wheels among the stones. Abel was quite elated, and was roaring With all his might, and pouring Out, in great confusion. Scraps of old songs made in '''the Revolution." His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton And jovially he went on, Scarinqc the whip-po-wills among the trees With rhymes like these : — [Sings.] *' See the Yankees Leave the hill, With baggernetts declining, With lopped-down hats And rusty guns, And leather aprons shining." ' ' See the Yankees — Whoa ! Why, what is that ? *' Said Abel, staring like a cat. As, slowly on, the fearful figure strode Into the middle of the road. . " My conscience ! what a suit of clothes \ Some crazy fellow, I suppose. Hallo ! friend, what's your name ? By the powers of gin. That's a strange dress to travel in." *' Be silent, Abel; for I now have come To read your doom ; Then hearken, while your fate I now declare. I am a spirit " — ''I suppose your are ; But you'll not hurt me, and I'll tell you why: Here is a fact which you cannot deny; — All spirits must be either good Or bad — that's understood — And be you good or evil, I am sure That I'm secure. If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil — And I don't know but you may be the Devil — If that's the case, you'll recollect, I fancy. That I am married to your sister Nancy! " >;^^<^ A BIG MISTAKE, ECENTLY our church had a new minister. He is a nice, good, so- }p \^ ^ ciable gentleman ; but coming from a distant State, of course he was totally unacquainted with our people. Therefore it happened that during his pas- toral calls, he made several ludicrous blun- ders. One as follows : The other evening he called upon Mrs. Haddon. She had just lost her husband, and she naturally supposed that his visit was relative to the sad occur- rence. So, after a few common-places had been exchanged, she was not surprised to hear him remark : " It was a sad bereavement, was it "ot Mrs. Haddon ? " " Yes," faltered the widow. " Totally unexpected ? " " Oh, yes ; I never dreamed of it " He died in the barn, I suppose." " Oh, no ; in the house." "Ah, well, I suppose you must thought a great deal of him ? " " Of course, sir." have HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 267 This was with vim. The minister looked rather surprised, crossed his legs and re- newed the conversation. " Blind staggers was the disease, I believe." " No, sir," snapped the widow. '' Apoplexy." " Indeed ; you must have fed him too much." '^ He was quite capable of feeding himself, sir." " Very intelligent he must have been. Died hard ? " " He did." '' You had to hit him on the head with an axe to put him out of his misery, I am told." Mrs. Haddon's eyes snapped fire. ** Whoever told you that did not speak the truth," she haughtily uttered. " James died naturally." " Yes," continued the minister, in a per- plexed tone. " He kicked the side of the barn down in his last agonies^ didn't he ? " "No, sir; he did not." "Well, I have been misinformed, I sup- pose. How old was he ? " " Thirty-five." " He did not do much active work. Per- haps you are better without him, for you can easily supply his place with a better one." " Never ! sir, will I find such a good one as he." " Oh, yes you will ; he had the heaves bad, you know." '* Nothing of the kind, sir." *' Why, I recollect I saw him one day, with you on his back, and I distinctly recol- lect that he had the heaves, and walked as if he had the spring-halt." Mrs. H.'s eyes snapped fire, and she stared at the reverend visitor as if she imagined he was crazy. " He could not have had the spring-halt, ^or he had a cork-leg," she replied. " A cork-leg — remarkable ; but really, (17-X) didn't he have a dangerous trick of suddenly- stopping and kicking the wagon all to pieces ? " " Never, sir ; he was not mad." " Probably not. But there were some good points about him." " I should think so." " The way in which he carried his ears, for example." " Nobody ever noticed that particular merit," said the widow, with much asperity, " he was warm-hearted, generous and frank." " Good qualities," answered the minister. '' How long did it take him to go a mile ? " " About fifteen minutes." " Not much of a goer. Wasn't his hair apt to fly ? " '* He didn't have any hair, he was bald- headed." " Quite a curiosity.'^ " No, sir ; n?o more of a curiosity than you are." The minister shifted uneasily, and got red in the face ; but he returned to the attack. " Did you use the whip much on him ?" " Never, sir." " Went right along without it, eh ? " " Yes." " He must have been a good sort of a bnae .^ " The widow sat down and cried. " The idea of your coming here and in- sulting me,'' she sobbed. " If my husband had lived you would not have done it. Your remarks in reference to the poor dead man have been a series of insults, and I won't stand it." He colored, and looked dumfounded. "Ain't you Mrs. BHnkers ? " at last he stammered, " and has not your gray horse just died ? " " No ! no ! '^ she cried. ^* I never owned a horse, but my husband died a week ago." Ten minutes later that minister came out 258 HUMOROUS kEClTAtlONS. of that house. with the reddest face ever seen on mortal man. " And to think," he groaned, as he strode home, "that I was talking horse to that woman all the time — and she was talking husband." THE DUEL. Imitate tlie '*dow-vvow" of the dog and the "me-ow" of the cat; at least, sxj deliver the wortrs a.& to convey the idea of the barking and the mewing. (•) I HE gingham dog and the calico cat t I Side by side on the table sat ; -^ 'Twas half-past twelve, and what do you think, Neither of them had slept a wink ! And the old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate Seemed to know, as sure as fate, There was going to be an awful spat. (I wasn't there — I simply state What was told to me by the Chinese plate.) The gingham dog went " bow-wow-wow ! " And the calico cat replied '' me-ow?" And the air was streaked for an hour or so With fragments of gingham and calicOo While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place Up with its hands before its face, Por it always dreaded a family row ! (Now mind, I'm simply telling you What the old Dutch clock declares is true.) The Chinese plate looked very blue And wailed : " Oh, dear what shall we do ?'' But the gingham dog and the calico cat Wallowed this way and tumbled that. And utilized every tooth and claw In the awfulest way you ever saw — And, oh ! how the gingham and calico flew I (Don't think that I exaggerate I got my news from the Chinese plate.) Next morning where the two had sat They found no trace of the dog or cat; And some folks think unto this day That burglars stole that pair away ; But the truth about that cat and pup Is that they ate each other up — Now, what do you think of that ? (The old Dutch clock, it told mt so, And that is how I came to know. ) Eugene Field. PLAYING JOKES UROPEAN guides know about enough English to tangle every thing up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by teart, — the history of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would ; and if you interrupt, and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long, they are em- ployed in showing strange things to foreign- ers and listening to their bursts of admiration. ON A GUIDE. After we discovered this, we never went into ecstasies any more, we never admired anything, we never showed any but impassi- ble faces and stupid indifference in the pres- ence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to display. We had found their weak point. We made some of those people savage, at times, but we never lost our serenity. The doctor asked the questions generally, because he can keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more imbecility into the tone of his voice HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 125S than any man that lives. It comes natural to him. . The guides in Genoa are delighted to se- cure an American party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in senti- ment and emotion before any relic of Colum- bus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if , he had swallowed a spring mattress. He v/as full of animation — full of impatience. He said: " Come wis me, genteelmen ! — come ! I show you ze letter writing by Christopher Colombo! — write it himself! — write it wis his own hand ! — come ! " He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of keys and open- ing of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us. The guide's eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger. " What I tell you, genteelmen ! Is it not so ? See ! handwriting Christopher Colombo ! — write it himself! " We looked indifferent, unconcerned. The doctor examined the document very deliber- ately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any show of interest, "Ah — what — what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this?" " Christopher Colombo I ze great Christo- pher Colombo I " Another deliberate examination. '^ Ah — did he write it himself, or — or how ?" " He write it himself! — Christopher Co- /ombo ! he's own handwriting, write by him- self! " Then the doctor laid the document down, and said, " Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that." " But zis is ze great Christo — " " I don't care who it is ! It's the worst writing I ever saw. Now you mustn't think you can impose on us because we are stran- gers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out ! — and if you haven't, drive on ! " We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said, "Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me I I show you beautiful, oh, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo — splendid, grand, mag- nificent ! " He brought us before the beautiful bust — for it zvas beautiful — and sprang back and struck an attitude : "Ah, look, genteelmen! — beautiful, grand — bust Christopher Colombo ! — beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal ! " The doctor put up his eye-glass-— procured for such occasions : " Ah — what did you say this gentleman's name was ? " " Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christo- pher Colombo ! " " Christopher Colombo — the great Chris- topher Colombo. Well, what did he do ? " " Discover America ! — discover America, oh, ze devil ! " " Discover America ? No — that statement will hardly wash. We are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christopher Colombo — pleasant name — is — ■ is he dead ? " " Oh, corpo di Baccho ! — three hundred year ! " "What did he die of?" " I do not know. I cannot tell." " Small-pox, think ? " " I do not know, genteelmen — I do not know what he died of." " Measles, likely ? " " Maybe — maybe. I do not know — I think he die of something." 260 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. " Parents living ? '^ " Im-possible ! " " Ah — which is the bust and which is the pedestal ? " " Santa Maria ! — sis ze bust ! — sis ze ped- estal ! " "'Ah, I see, I see — happy combination — very happy combination indeed. Is — is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust?" That joke was lost on the foreigner; guides cannot master the subtleties of the American joke. We have made it interesting for this Roman guide. Yesterday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful world of curiosities. We^ came very nea*- expressing interest sometimes, even admira- tion. It was hard to keep from it. We suc- ceeded, though. Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide was be- wildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure ; we never showed any interest in anything. He had reserved what he con- sidered to be his greatest wonder till the last ■ — a royal Egyptian mummy, the best pre- served in the world, perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him: " See, genteelmen ! — Mummy ! Mummy ! ' The eye-glass came up as calmly, as delib- erately as ever. " Ah—what did I understand you to say the gentleman's name was ? " " Name ? — he got no name ! — Mummy ! — 'Gyptian mummy ! " ** Yes, yes. Born here?" " No. ' Gyptian mummy." " Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume ? " " No ! — not Frenchman, not Roman ! — born in Egypta ! " " Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, likely. Mummy — mummy. How calm he is, how self-pos- sessed ! Is — ah — is he dead ?" " Oh, sacj-e bleu ! been dead three thousan' year!" The doctor turned on him, savagely : '' Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this? Playing us for Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn! Trying to impose your vile second-hand car- casses on us ! Thunder and lightning ! I've a notion to — to — if you've got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out ! — or, by George, we'll brain you ! " Mark Twain. A PARODY. (^ I HE boy stood on the backyard fence, i I whence all but him had fled ; ^-^ The flames that lit his father's barn shone just above the shed. One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat, With piteous accents loud he cried, ''I never thought of that ! " A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he'd tied; The dog in anguish sought the barn, and 'mid its ruins died. The sparks flew wide and red and hot, they lit upon that brat ; They fired the crackers in his hand, and e'en those in his hat. Then came a burst of rattling sound— the boy' Where was he gone ? Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of meat and bone, And scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and hooks and yarn — The relics of that dreadful boy that burned his father's barn. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 261. MAN'S DEVOTION, ^^V-AKE BOGGLES was a country youth, Who paid his debts and told the trutli He labored hard, and seemed content With life, no matter how it went, 'Till with a girl named Sally Skreels He fell in love head over heels. Now Sally's father wasn't worth A dollar or a foot of earth. And Jake's paternal parent owed Most every other man he knowed ; But Jake, who had a valiant heart, Vowed that he'd work and get a start, And with the help of Sally, dear, He'd own a farm within a year. Now Sally, who was cold And pretty — that is, pretty old. Pretended that for her dear Jacob The heaviest cross she'd gladly take up ; But, really, she cared no more For Jake than for the shoes he wore. An old maid's matrimonial chances Grow very slim as time advances, And this explains why Sally Skreels Proposed to share Jake's bed and meals. They married. Time fled on apace — Jake rented old Bill Scroggins' place And went to work resolved to make A fortune for his Sally's sake. Poor soul, he toiled with all his might, From early morn till late at night j But, ah ! no kind, approving word From Sally's lips was ever heard. She lay around, chewed wax and sung Love songs she'd learned when she was young; Read old love letters she had got From boobies, long since gone to pot ; Yawned o'er a scrap book filled with bosh Collected by her Cousin Josh ; Trimmed her old hat in various ways With all the gew-gaws she could raise. In fact, she proved herself to be A slip-shod lump of frivolity. Poor Jake, he worked and ate cold meals, Wore socks with neither toes nor heels, Washed his own clothes when Sunday came And sewed fresh buttons on the same. Got breakfast while his Sally slept. Washed up the dishes, dusted, swept — There's no use talking, Jacob strove To prove how perfect was his love. One day Sal ate too many beans. Grew sick and went to other scenes. From that day forth Jake seldom spoke, Or smiled, or worked — his heart was broke. In the poor-house now he sits and grieves. And wipes his eyes on his threadbare sleeves. Moral. — I've told you this to let you see What an all-fired fool a man can bee Parmenas Hill. AUNT POLLY'S *' GEORGE WASHINGTON." y^TK)RGE WASHIN'TON!" ' From down the hill the answer floated up, muffled by the distance i Wi} -"Ma'm?" " Come heah. sah ! Aunt Polly folded her arms and leaned against the doorway and waited for the ap- pearance of her son and heir above the edge of the hill on which her cabin stood. " George Washin'ton,'' she said, ** you sar- 262 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. tainly is de laziest nigger I eber see. How, long, sah, does you s'pose you was a-comin' up dat hill? You don' no? I don' nether; 'twas so long I los' all count. You'll bring yore mudder's gray har in sorrer to de grabe yet, wid yore pokin' and slowness^ see if you don'. Heah I is waitin' and a'waitin' on you for to go down to ole Mass' Cunningham's wid dose tings. Take 'em to de young city man boardin' dar, and tell him dese is his clean close dat yore old mudder washed, and dat dey comes to fifty cents. And if you let de grass grow under yore feet, George Wash- in'ton, or spiles dese close, or loses dat fifty cents, I'll break yore bones, chile, when you comes home. You heah dat ? " George Washington rested his basket on his hip and jogged along. Meditations as to what his mother might have for supper on the strength of the fifty cents brightened his visage and accelerated his steps. His fancy revelled in visions of white biscuit and crisp bacon floating in its own grease. He was gravely weighing the relative merits of spring chicken fried and more elderly chicken stewed, when — There was only one muddy place on George Washington's route to town ; that was down at the foot of the hill, by the rail- road track. Why should his feet slip from under him, and he go sliding into the mud right there ? It was too bad. It did not hurt him, but those shirts and shining collars, alas ! Some of them tumbled out, and he lifted them up all spattered and soiled. He sat down and contemplated the situa- tion with an expression of speechless solem- nity. He was afraid to go back, and he was afraid to go on, but he would rather face the " city man " than his mother ; and with a sigh that nearly burst the twine string that did duty as a suspender, he lifted the linen into its place and trudged on. The youn^ folks at " Mass' Cunningham's " I sent him to the boarder's room, witn many a jest on his slowness, and he shook in his ragged clothes when the young man lifted : the things from the basket to put them away. He exclaimed in anger at their soiled ap- pearance, and, of course, immediately bundled them back into the basket. '' Here, George," he said, *' take these back to your mother to wash, and don't you dare, you little vagabond ! ever bring such looking things to me again." Slowly the namesake of our illustrious countryman climbed the hill toward home ; slowly he entered and set down his basket. The rapidity with which he emerged from the door, about three minutes later, might have led a stranger to believe that it was a different boy. But it was not. It was the same George. The next afternoon came around, and George Washington again departed on his errand. No thoughts of supper or good things ran rife in his brain to-day. He at- tended strictly to business. His mother, standing in the door-way, called after him : '^ Be keerful, George Washin'ton, 'bout de train. I heer'd it at de upper junction jess now. It'll be long trectly." George Washington nodded and disap- peared. He crossed the muddy place in safety, and breathed more freely. He was turning to- ward town, when something on the railroad track caught his eye. There lay the big rock that had been on the hill above ever since he could remember ; it was right in the track. He wondered how the coming train would get over it. Across on the other side, the hill sloped down to a deep ravine. What if the big rock pushed the train off! His heart gave a great jump. He had heard them talk of an accident once, where many people were killed. He thought of running to tell sonic- HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 263 I body, but it was a good way to the next house, and just then he heard the train faint- ly; it was too late for that. Just above, in the direction that the train was coming, was a sharp curve. It could not stop if it came tearing round that, and on the other side of the bend was a very high trestle that made him sick to look at. The slow, dull boy stood and trembled. In a moment more he had set his basket care- fully in the bush, and ran around the curve. At the edge of the trestle he paused, and then dropping on his hands and knees, crept as fast as he could over the dizzy height to the other side. He staggered to his feet, and ran on. When the train dashed in sight, the en- gineer spied a small object on the track, pointing frantically behind him. The child ran away from the track, but continued to wave and point and shout " Stop ! " The train whistled and slackened. George Washington, hatless and breathless, was jerked into the engine, where he gasped, " Big rock on de track round de curve." The train was moved slowly over the trestle and stopped in the curve, and there, indeed, was the rock that might have hurled them all down to death^ but for that ridiculous-looking little boy. Meanwhile in the cabin, Aunt Polly was restless, and concluded to go down to the foot of the hill, and wait for George Wash- ington. Behold, then, as she appeared down the path, the sight that met her gaze. " What's dis boy bin a-doin' ! Fse his mother. I is. What's dis mean ? " On this identical train was the president of the road. "Why, auntie," he said, "you have a boy to be proud of He crept over the high trestle and warned the train, and maybe saved all our lives. He is a hero." Aunt Polly was dazed. "A hearo," she said ; " dat's a big t'ing for a little black nigger. George Washin'ton, whar's dat basket?" " In de bushes, mammy; I'se gwine for to get it." The train was nearly ready to be off. The president called Aunt Polly aside, and she came back with a beaming face, and five ten- dollar bills clutched in her hands. Aunt Polly caught George in her arms." " Dey sed you was a hearo, George Wash- in'ton, but you is yore mammy's own boy, and you shall hab chicken for yore supper dis berry night, and a whole poun' cake to- morrow, yes, you shall ! " And when George Washington returned the gentleman his washing, he, like his name- sake, was a hero. MINE VAMILY. IMPLED scheeks, mit eyes off plue, Mout' like it was mois'd mit dew, ^S J Und leedle teeth shust peekin' droo- Dot's der baby. B Curly hed und full of glee. Browsers all oudt at der knee — He vas peen playin' horss, you see — Dot's leedle Otto. Von hunderd seexty in der shade, Der Oder day ven she was veighed — She beats me soon, I vas afraid — Dot's mine Gretchen. Bare- footed hed, und pooty stoudt, Mit grooked legs dot vill bend oudt. Fond oif his beer und sauer-kraut — Dot's me himself. Von schmall young baby, full of fun, Von leedle, pright-eyed, roguish son, Von frau to greet vhen vork was done — Dot's mine vamily. Yawcob Strauss. I 264 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. AT THE GARDEN GATE, HEY lingered at the garden gate, The moon was full above ; He took her darling hand in his, The trembling little dove, And pressed it to his fervent lips, And softly told his love. About her waist he placed his arm. He called her all his own ; His heart, he said, it ever beat For her, and her alone ; And he was happier than a king Upon a golden throne. '^Come weal, come woe, " ih ardent ton This youth continued he, "As is the needle to the pole. So I will constant be ; No power on earth shall tear thee, love, Away, I swear, from me ! ' ' From out the chamber window popped A grizzly night-capped head ; A hoarse voice yelled : "You, Susar^ Jane, Come in and go to bed ! ' ' And that was all — it was enough ; The young man wildly fled. •1 . S(i THE MINISTER'S CALL. (5 I HE Rev. Mr. Mulkittle having success- ^ I fully organized a church fair, was a very happy man. It had been hinted that the congregation were a " little short ^' on raising the reverend gentleman's salary, hence the proceeds of the fair would more than supply the deficiency. The good man, after retiring from a pro- fitable afternoon's work, during which he had assured dyspeptics that potato salad would not hurt them, seated himself by the library fire, when the '' youngest '^ entered. " Where have you been, pa ? " " To the fair." '' What fair ? " " Our church fair." " Did they have it out to the fair grounds?" "No." " Where then ? " " Down town in our church." " Did they have horses and cows ? " ^' Oh, no ! they didn't show anything." " Well, what did they do ? '' " Oh, they sold toys and something for people to eat." " Did they sell it to the poor? " " They sold it to anybody who had money." " Oh, papa ! it was the feast of the pass- over, wasn't it ? " Mr. Mulkittle took up a newspaper and began to read. " Do you want me to be a preacher, pa ? " ^^ Yes, if the Lord calls you." " Did the Lord call you ? " " Yes." "What did He say?" " Told me to go and preach the gospel to every living creature." *' Didn't tell you to preach to niggers, did He?'' "That'll do now." " You thought the Lord had called you again the other day, did you ? " " I don't know what you are talking about,'* said the minister. " Don't you know the other day you told ma you had a call to go to some place, and you would go if you could get two hundred dollars more. Wouldn't the Lord give you the two hundred dollars ? " " Didn't I tell you to hush, sir ? " said the minister, throwing down his paper and glar- ing at his son. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 265 '" No, sir; you told me to behave myself." " Well, see that you do." " I wish you'd tell me — " " Tell you what ? " '' 'Bout the call" " Well, a church in another town wanted Me to come there and preach." "Why didn't you go?" " Couldn't afford it. They didn't pay enough money." " Call wasn't loud enough, was it? " "Well, hardly," asserted Mr. Mulkittle, with a smile *' It wasn't loud enough to be very interesting." " If it had been louder, would you went ? " " I should have gone if they had offered me more money." " It wasn't the Lord that called you that time then, was it?" " I think not." " How much money did the Lord offer you ? " " Do you see that door ? " "No sir; which door?" "That one." " Yes, sir." " Well, go out and shut it." " I want to stay in here." " You cannot." "Why?" " Because you are too foolishly inquisitive." "What's foolish 'quisitive?" " Asking so many questions." " How many must I ask ? " " None." " Then I couldn't talk, could I ? " " It would be better for you, if you couldn't talk so much." " How much must I talk? " " Here, I'll give you ten cents now, if you'll go away and hush." " Call ain't strong enough," said the boy, shaking his head. " Well, here's a quarter," said the preacher, smiling. "Call is strong enough ; I'll go." LED BY A CALF. NE day through the primeval wood A calf walked home, as good as calves should, But made a trail all bent askew, A crooked trail, as all calves do. Since then two hundred years have fled, And, I infer, the calf is dead. Bat still he left behind his trail. And thereby hangs a mortal tale. The trail was taken up next day By a lone dog that passed that way, And then a wise bell-wether sheep Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep, And drew the flock behind him, too, As good bell-wethers always do. And from that day, o'er hill and glade, Through those old woods a path was made. And many men wound in and out. And dodged and turned and bent about. And uttered words of righteous wrath, Because 'twas such a crooked path; But still they followed — do not laugh — The first migration of that calf, And through the winding woodway stalked Because he wabbled when he walked. This forest path became a lane, That bent and turned and turned again ; This crooked lane became a road. Where many a poor horse, with his load. Toiled on beneath the burning sun, And traveled some three miles in one. And thus a century and a half They trod the footsteps of that calf The years passed on in swiftness fleet, ^e HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. The road became a village street. And this, before men were aware, A city's crowded thoroughfare, And soon tht central street was this Of a renowned metropolis, •^nd men two centuries and a half Trod in the footsteps of that calf; Each day a hundred thousand rout Followed the zigzag calf about ; And o'er his crooked journey went The traffic of a continent. A hundred thousand men were led By one calf near three centuries dead. TOM QOLDY'S LITTLE JOKE- 6.1 OM GOLDY was a ladies' man, And popular among them, very — The reason why ? Because he was A maker of confectionery. Tom*s peppermints and caramels Were always fresh and handy ; And so he entertained his guests With packages of candy. Tom gave a grand reception once — It was a sweet occasion — The ladies took his caramels And needed no persuasion. And when he freely passed around His most delicious fare. To all the damsels there that night He gave an equal share. But one, and she a gossip, too, Was singled out for honor, By having twice what others had Of sweets bestowed upon her. " Twice what you gave us." One and all Against Tom laid this charge ; Tom slyly winked and said, *' Why not? Her mouth is twice as large." HOW HEZEKlAtl STOLE THE SPOONS. how? No breakfast!" exclaimed IN a quiet little Ohio village, many years ago, was a tavern where the stages always changed, and the passengers expected to get breakfast. The landlord of the said hotel was noted for his tricks upon travelers, who were allowed to get fairly se^ited at the tabic, when the driver would blow his horn (after taking his " horn "), and sing out, "Stage ready, gentlemen!" — where- upon the passengers were obliged to hurry out to take their seats, leaving a scarcely tasted breakfast behind them, for which, how- ever, they had to i)ay over fifty cents ! One day, when the stage was approaching the house of this obliging landlord, a passenger said that he had oftrn heard of the landlord\s trick, and he was afraid they would not be abh? to eat any breakfast. ''What!- the rest. " Exactly so gents, and you may as well keep your seats and tin." " Don't they expect passengers to break- fast ?" " Oh ! yes ! they expect you to it, but not to eat it. I am under the impression that there is an understanding between tlie land- lord and the driver that for sundry and various drinks, etc., the latter starts before you can scarcely commence eating." " What on airth are you all talking about? Ef you calkelate I'm going to pay four and ninepence for my breakfast, and not get the valee on't you're mistaken," said a voice from a back seat, the owner of which was one Hezekiah Spaulding — though "tew hum" HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 267 they call him " Hez '^ for short. " I'm goin' to get my breakfast here, and not pay nary red cent till I do." " Then you'll be left." " Not as you knov/s on, I guess I won't." " Well, we'll see," said the other, as the stage drove up to the door and the landlord ready "to do the hospitable," says — "Breakfast just ready, gents! Take a wash, gents? Here's water, basins, towels, and soap." After performing the ablutions, they all proceeded to the dining-room, and com- menced a fierce onslaught upon the edibles, though Hez took his time. Scarcely had they tasted their coffee when they heard the unwelcome sound of the horn, and the driver exclaim, " Stage ready !" Up rise eight grumbling passengers, pay their fifty cents, and take their seats. " All on board, gents ? " inquires the host. " One missing," said they. Proceeding to the dining-room the host rfinds Hez very coolly helping himself to an [immense piece of steak, the size of a horse's lip. 'You'll be left, sir! Stage going to rstart." \Vall, I hain't got nothin' agin it," drawls font Hez. " Can't wait, sir — better take your seat." " I'll be blowed ef I do, nother, till I've [got my breakfast ! I paid for it, and I am ;goin' to get the valee on't it ; and ef you cal- kelate I hain't you are mistaken." So the stage did start, and left Hez, who continued his attack upon the edibles. Bis- cuit, coffee, etc., disappeared before the eyes of the astonished landlord. " Say, squire, them there cakes is 'bout eat • — fetch on another grist on 'em. You " (to the waiter), " 'nother cup of that ere coffee. Pass them eggs. Raise your own pork, squire? This is 'mazin' nice ham. Land 'bout here tolerable cheap, squire ? Hain't much maple timber in these parts, hev ye ? Dew right smart trade, squire, I cal- kelate ? " And thus Hez kept quizzing the landlord until he had made a hearty meal. " Say, squire, now I'm 'bout to conclude paying my devowers to this ere table, but just give us a bowl of bread and milk to top off with ; I'd be much obleeged tew ye." So out go the landlord and waiter for the bowl, milk, and bread, and set them before him. " Spoon, tew, ef you please." But no spoon could be found. Landlord was sure he had plenty of silver ones lying on the table when the stage stopped. " Say, dew ye ? dew ye think them pas- sengers is goin' to pay ye for a breakfuss and not git no compensashun ? " " Ah ! what ? Do you think any of the passengers took them ? " *' Dew I think T No, I don't think, but I'm sartin. Ef th^y are all as green as yew bout here Vm going to locate immediately and tew wonst." The landlord rushes out to the stable, and starts a man off after the stage, which had gone about three miles. The man overtakes and says something to the driver in a low tone. He immediately turns back, and on arriving at the hotel Hez comes out, takes his seat, and says : " How are yew, gents ? I'm glad to see yew." " Can you point out the man you think has the spoons?" asked the landlord. '' P'int him out ? Sartenly I ken. Say, squire, I paid yew four and ninepence for a breakfuss, and I calkelate I got the valee on't it ! You'll find them spoons in the cof- fee-pot." " Go ahead 1 All aboard, driver." The landlord stared. 268 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. TWO KINDS OF POLUWOQS. IGGLE, waggle, how they go, Through the sunny waters, Swimming high and swimming low, Froggie's sons and daughters. What a wondrous little tail Each black poUy carries. Helm and oar at once, and sail, That for wind ne'er tarries. Lazy little elves ! at morn Never in a hurry, In the brook where <:hey were born Business did not worry. When the sun goes in they sink To their muddy pillow. There they lie and eat and drink Of soft mud their fill, oh. When has passed the gloomy cloud. And the storm is over, Up they come, a jolly crowd, From their oozy cover. Wiggle, waggle, how they go ! Knowing nothing better. Yet they are destined to outgrow Each his dusky fetter. Watch ! they now are changing fast, Some unduly cherish The dark skin whose use is past, So they sink and perish. Others, of their new-birth pain Bitterly complaining, Would forego their unknown ^sjain, Polliwogs remaining There are other folk, to-day. Who, with slight endeavor, "Give it up," and so they stay Polliwogs forever. Augusta Moore. -•-— =s)®V*<^e THE BEST SEWINQ=MACHINE. r.' one? Don't say so ! Which did you get? One of the kind to open and shut ? Own it or hire it? How much did you pay? Does it go with a crank or a treadle? S-a-y. I'm a single man, and somewhat green ; Tell me about your sewing-machine." '* Listen, my boy, and hear all about it : I don't know what I could do without it ; I've owned one now for more than a year, And like it so well that I call it ' my dear ; ' Tis the cleverest thing that ever was seen, This wonderful family sewing-machine. '' It's none of your angular Wheeler things, With steel-shod back and cast-iron wings; Its work would bother a hundred of his. And worth a thousand ! Indeed it is; And has a way — you need not stare — Of combing and braiding its own back hair ! < Mine is one of the kind to love, And wears a shawl and a soft kid glove ; Has the merriest eyes and the daintiest foot. And sports the charmingest gaiter-boot, And a bonnet with feathers, and ribbons, and loops. With any infinite number of hoops. '' None of your patent machines for me, Unless Dame Nature's the patentee ; I like the sort that can laugh and talk, And take my arm for an evening walk ; That will do whatever the owner may choose. With the slightest perceptible turn of the screws: " One that can dance, and — possibly — flirt; And make a pudding as well as a shirt; One that can sing without dropping a stitch. And play the housewife, lady, or witch ; Ready to give the sagest advice, Or to do up your collars and things so nice. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 269 ''What do you think of my machine ? A' n't it the best that ever was seen? 'Tisn't a clumsy, mechanical toy, But flesh and blood ! Hear that, my boy ? With a turn for gossip and household affairs, Which include, you know, the sewing of tears. " Tut, tut, don't talk. I see it all— You needn't keep winking so hard at the wall : I know what your fidgety fumblings mean ; You would hke, yourself, a sewing-machine ! Well, get one, then — of the same design — There are plenty left where I got mine ! " HOW THEY SAID QOOD=NIQHT. (*) I HEY have had a long evening together ^ I (three whole hours), but it doesn't seem more than five minutes to them. Still, the inexorable clock is announcing the hour of eleven in the most forcible and un- compromising manner. He knows that he ought to go, because he must be at the store at seven in the morning; she fully realizes that his immediate departure is necessary, for has not her father threatened that he will come down and '' give that young Simpkins a piece of his mind if he don't leave by eleven o'clock in the future ? " They both under- stand that the fatal hour has come, yet how they hate to part ! "Well, I suppose I must be going," he says, with a long, regretful sigh. " Yes, I suppose you must," she rejoins. Then they gaze into each other's eyes • then she pillows her head upon his bosom ; then their lips meet, and he mentally swears that if he can get his salary raised to eighteen dollars a week he will make her Mrs. G. W. Simpkins without further agonizing delay. The clock looks on with a cynical expres- sion on its face. It is doing its duty, and if old man Smith comes down stairs and de- stroys the peace of mind of this loving couple, it will not be its fault. He asks her if she will not be happy when the time comes that they will never, never have to part, and she murmurs an affirmative response. Then follow more kissing and embracing. If G. W. Simpkins were told now that he would ever come home to her at 2 A.M. with fabulous tales of accidents by flood and field, and on the Elevated Railroad, would he believe it ? No ; a smile of incre- dulity and scorn would wreathe his lips, and he would forthwith clasp her to his breast. He knows that other men do such things, but he is not that sort of man. Beside, he will have the immense advantage over all others of his sex in possessing the only ab- solutely perfect specimen of femininity extant. He thinks that he will never be happy any- where away from her side, and he tells her so, and she believes him. The clock does not announce the quarter- hour, because it is not built that way, but, nevertheless, it is now 11.15. They do not imagine that it is later than 11.02. He asks her if she ever loved any one else, and she says " No ; " and then he reminds her of a certain Tom Johnson with whom she used to go to the theatre, at which she becomes angry and says that he (G. W. Simpkins) is a ''real mean thing." Then G. W. S. arises with an air of dignity, and says that he is much obliged to her for her flattering opinion ; and she says that he is quite welcome. Just then a heavy foot-fall is heard up-stairs. She glances at the clock, and perceives to her dismay that it is 11.20. She had ex- pected to have a nice little quarrel, followed by the usual reconciliation, but there is no time for that now. She throws her arms 270 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. around his neck, and whispers in great agita- tion that she beheves pa is coming. G. W. S. quakes inwardly, for her pa is about four sizes larger than himself, and of a cruel, vin- dictive nature. But he assumes an air of bravado, and darkly hints at the extreme probability that the room in which they stand will be the scene of a sanguinary conflict in the immediate future, should any one venture to cross his path. Then she begs him to re- member that papa, notwithstanding his faults, is still her father. At this he magnanimously promises to spare the old man. But the footstep is heard no more ; papa does not appear. G. W. S. puts on his over- coat. Then the couple stand by the door and settle the Tom Johnson matter. She says she never cared for Tom Johnson, and he says he knows it and that he (G. W. S., you understand) is a brute, and that she is an angel, and that he will never again refer to the aforesaid Tom Johnson. He will, though, the very next time they meet, just as he has every time they have met for the last two months. While they are talking the clock strikes the half hour, but they don't hear it. The Johnson business disposed of, they discuss their future prospects, vow eternal fidelity, compare themselves to all the famous lovers of history (to none of whom they bear the slightest resemblance), make an appoint- ment for Wednesday evening (on which occa- sion G. W. S. will have the extreme feli- city of spending two-thirds of his week's salary for theatre tickets and a supper at the Brunswick), and indulge in the usual oscula- iJ on. Suddenly the clock begins to strike twelve, ctnd at the same moment a hoarse masculine cough is heard in the room overhead. The fatal moment has really and truly arrived this time. One more kiss, one more embrace, and they part — he to go home and oversleep in the morning, and be docked fifty cents at the store ; she to receive the reproaches of an irate parent, who hasn't been young for such a long time himself that he has forgot- ten all about it. JOSIAR'S COURTING, I NEVER kin forgit the day That we went out a walkin' And sot down on the river bank, And kept on hours a-talkin'; He twisted up my apron string, An' folded it together, An' said he thought for harvest-time 'Twas cur'us kind o' weather. The sun went down as we sot there — Josiar seemed uneasy, An' mother, she began to call ; " Loweezy ! Come, Loweezy ! " An' then Josiar spoke right up, As I wos just a startin' An' said, " Loweezy, what's the use Of us two ever partin ? ' ' It kind o' took me by surprise, An' yet I knew 'twas comin* — I'd heard it all the summer long In every wild bee's hummin' ; I meant to hide my love from him, But seems as if he knew it ; I'd studied out the way I'd act. But la! I couldn't do it. It darker grew as we sot there, But Josiar seemed quite easy, And mother had to call again, ** Loweezy ! Come, Loweezy I " Pathetic Recitations. -^••°^-^?^ It is a common saying that the public speaker who can draw both smiles and tears from his audience is the highest type of ora- tor. The same is true of the reciter. If you would awaken pathetic emotions in the hearts of your hearers, you must have recitations suited to this purpose, tender in sentiment and full of feeling. A charming collection of such pieces is here furnished. Put yourself fully into the spirit of each selection. Do not deliver a pathetic recita- tion in a cold, unfeeling manner. Look well to the tones of your voice and facial expres- sion. If you feel the words you are uttering, the subtle influence cannot fail to move those who hear you. You cannot put on an ap- pearance of feeling ; give reality to all the emotions your words express. PLAY SOFTLY, BOYS. Observe the Irish brogue I'M thinkin' av the goolden head I nestled to my breast ; They're telling me, '' He's betther off." And sayin', ''God knows best." But, oh, my heart is breakin' And the wild, wild waves at play Where the goolden head is buried low- Close to Manila Bay. I'm thinkin' av the roguish eyes Of tender Irish gray ; They're tellin* me, ''He's betther off," And, " I'll thank God some day." But, oh, my heart is breakin' And the wild, wild waves at play. And my baby's eyes all closed in death Close to Manila Bay. I'm thinkin' av the little hands That's fastened 'round my heart j They're tellin' me, ''Have courage, Sure, life's to meet and part." But, oh, my heart is breakin' \.nd the wild, wild waves at play, A.nd my baby's hands so stiff and cold Close to Manila Bay. in this selection. I'm thinkin' av the noble boy That kissed my tears away ; They're teilin' me, " How brave he was. And foremost in the fray ! ' ' But, oh, my heart is breakin' And the wild, wild waves at play. And my baby and my soldier dead-^ Close to Manila Bay. Play softly, boys, I know you will. Remembering he's away — My boy, who proudly marched with ye On last St. Patrick's Day. Play softly, boys, I know ye will. And the wild, wild waves at play, And your comrade lying lonely. Close to Manila Bay. Play softly, boys, I know ye will. And hush this pain to rest — And soothe the bitter agony That's tearin' at my breast. How can ye march at alb at all. And the wild, wild waves at play, And the boy who loved ye lying cold — Close to Manila Bay? Teresa Beatrice O'Hari, 271 '^72 PATHETIC RECITATIONS. IN THE BAGGAGE COACH AHEAD, N a dark stormy night, as the train rattled on, All tha passengers had gone to bed, Except one young man with a babe on his arm, Who sat there with a bowed-down head. The innocent one commenced crying just then, As though its poor heart would break. One angry man said, " Make that child stop its noise. For you're keeping all of us awake." '•Put it out," said another; "don't keep it in here, We've paid for our berths and want rest." But never a word said the man with the child, As he fondled it close to his breast. "Where is its mother? Go, take it to her — " This a lady then softly said. *'I wish that I could," was the man's sad reply, - " But she's dead in the coach ahead." Every eye filled with tears when his story he told, Of a wife who was faithful and true. He told how he's saved up his earnings for years Just to build up a home for two. How, when Heaven had sent them this sweet little babe, Their young happy lives were blessed. In tears he broke down when he mentioned her name. And in tears tried to tell them the rest. Every woman arose to assist with the child ; There were mothers and wives on that train, And soon was the little one sleeping in peace. With no thoughts of sorrow and pain. Next morn' at a station he bade all good-bye. " God bless you," he softly said. Each one had a story to tell in their horiie Of the baggage coach ahead. While the train rolled onward a husband sat in tears, Thinking of the happiness of just a few short years. For baby's face brings pictures of a cherished hope that's dead ; But baby's cries can't wake her in the baggage coach ahead. THE MISSING ONE, The deep pathos of these lines should be expressed by a trembling utterance. Put tears in your voice, if you can do this difficult thing. All the life and spirit are taken out of the old man as he thinks of the regiment returning without his son, whose desolate grave is somewhere on the Cuban shore. I DON'T think I'll go into town to see the boys come back ; My bein' there would do no good in all that jam and pack ; There 11 be enough to welcome them — to cheer them when they come A-marchm' bravely to the time that's beat upon the drum — They'll never miss me in the crowd — not one of *em will care If, when the cheers are ringin' loud, I'm not among them there. I went to see them march away — I hollered with the rest. And didn't they look fine, that day, a-marchin' four abreast, With my boy James up near the front, as hand- some as could be, And wavin' back a fond farewell to mother and to me ! I vow my old knees trimbled so, when they had all got by, I had to jist set down upon the curbstone there and cry. PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 273 And now they're comin' home again ! The record that they won Was sich as shows we still have men, when men's work's to be done ! There wasn't one of 'em that flinched, each feller stood the test — Wherever they were sent they sailed right in and done their best ! They didn't go away to play — they knowed what was in store — But there's a grave somewhere to-day, down on the Cuban shore ! I guess that I'll not go to town to see the boys come in; I don't jist feel like mixin' up in all that crush and din ! There'll be enough to welcome them — to cheer them when they come A-marchin' bravely to the time that's beat upon the drum, And the boys'll never notice — not a one of 'em will care, For the soldier that would miss me ain't a goin' to be there ! S. E. Kiser. IN MEMORIAM. It was a strange coincidence, and a fitting end for a noble old seaman who had given his life to the service of his country, that Rear-Admiral W. A. Kirkland, U. S. N., and once commandant at Mare Island, should die the day peace was declared between our country and Spain. In strong tones give the command, "Cease firing!'' Point to "the red flames," "the gray smoke-shrouded hills," "the weary troops," "the armored squadron," etc. On the first two lines of the last verse use Figure ii of Typical Gestures. ii firing ! " Lo, the bugles call — Cease!" and the red flame dies away. The thunders sleep; along the gray Smoke-shrouded hills the echoes fall, 'Cease firing ! " Close the columns fold Their shattered wings ; the weary troops Now stand at ease ; the ensign droops ; The heated chargers' flanks turn cold. Cease firing ! " Down, with point reversed, The reeking, crimson sabre drips ; Cool grow the fevered cannon's lips— Their wreathing vapors far dispersed. '•' Cease firing 1 " From the sponson's rim The mute, black muzzles frown across The sea, where swelling surges toss The armored squadrons, silent, grim. ' Cease firing ! " Look, white banners show Along the groves \i^here heroes sleep — • Above the graves where men lie deep — ■ In pure, soft flutterings of snow. ' Cease firing ! " Glorious and sweet For country 'tis to die — and comes The Peace — and bugles blow and drum* Are sounding out the Last Retreat. Thomas R. Gregory, U. S, N. THE DYINQ NEWSBOY, 3^^N an attic bare and cheerless, Jim, the news- I boy, dying lay, JL On a rough but clean straw pallet, at the fading of the day; Scant the furniture about him, but bright flowers were in the room. Crimson phloxes, waxen lilies, roses laden with perfume. (i8-x) On a table by the bedside, open at a wdl-worn page. Where the mother had been reading, lay a Bible stained by age. Now he could not hear the verses; he was flighty, and she wept With her arms around her youngest, who close i^ her side had crept. 274 PATHETIC RECITATIONS. Blacking boots and selling papers, in all weathers day by day, Brought upon poor Jim consumption, which was eating life away. And this cry came with his anguish for each breath a struggle cost, •"'Ere's the morning Sun and ^ Erald — latest news of steamship lost. Papers, mister? Morning papers ? " Then the cry fell to a moan, Which was changed a moment later to another frenzied tone : ''Black yer boots, sir? Just a nickel! Shine 'em like an evening star. It grows late. Jack ! Night is coming. Evening papers, here they are ! " Soon a mission teacher entered, and approached the humble bed ; Then poor Jim's mind cleared an instant, with his cool hand on his head. ''Teacher," cried he, "I remember what you said the other day, Ma's been reading of the Saviour, and through Him I see my way. " He is with me ! Jack, I charge you of our mother take good care When Jim's gone ! Hark ! boots or papers, which will I be over there? Black yer boots, sir ? Shine 'em right up ! Papers ) Read God's book instead, Better'n papers that to die on ! Jack " one gasp, and Jim was dead ! Mrs. Emily Thornton. COALS OF FIRE." fe I HE coffin was a plain one — no flowers ^ I on its top, no lining of rose-white satin for the pale brow, no smooth ribbons about the coarse shroud. The brown hair was laid decently back, but there was no crimped cap, with its neat tie beneath the chin. " I want to see my mother," sobbed a poor child, as the city undertaker screwed down the top. " You can't : get out of the way^ boy ! Why don't somebody take the brat away ? " '' Only let me see her for one minute/* cried the hapless orphan, clutching the side of the charity box. And as he gazed into that rough face .tears streamed down the cheek on which nox:hildish bloom every lingered. Oh, it was pitiful to hear him cry, " Only once! let me see my mother only once ! " Brutally, the hardhearted monster struck the boy away, so that he reeled with the blow. ^ For a moment the boy stood panting with grief and rage, his blue eyes expanded, his lips sprang apart; a fire glittered through his tears as he raised his puny arm, and with a most unchildish accent screamed, " When I am a man I'll kill you for that ! " A coffin and a heap of earth was between the mother and the poor forsaken child ; a monument stronger than granite built in his boy-heart to the memory of a heartless deed. The court house was crowded to suffoca- tion. *' Does any one appear as this man's counsel?" asked the judge. There was silence when he finished, until, with lips tightly pressed together, a look of strange recognition blended with haughty reserve upon his handsome features, a young man, a stranger, stepped forward to plead for the erring and the friendless. The splendor of his genius entranced, convinced. The man who could not find a friend was acquitted. ^' May God bless you, sir! I cannot." "I want no thanks," replied the stranger, with icy coldness. " I — I believe you are unknown to me." " Man, I will refresh your memory. Twenty years ago you struck a broken- hearted boy away from his poor mother's coffin ; I was that poor, miserable boy/' PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 275 " Have you rescued me, then, to take my life ? " ** No ! I have a sweeter revenge: I liave saved the life of a man whose brutal deed has rankled in my breast for twenty years. Go, and remember the tears of a friendless child." >-^ DIRGE OF THE DRUMS. The effect produced by this selection will depend very much upon the manner in which you speak the constantly repeated word, " Dead ! " It should be spoken with subdued force, rather slowly, and in a low tone. Show intense emotion, but not in a boisterous manner. M EAD! Dead! Dead! To the solemn beat of the last re- treat That falls like lead, Bear the hero now to his honored rest With the badge of courage upon his breast, While the sun sinks down in the gleaming West — Dead ! Dead ! Dead ! Dead ! Dead ! Mourn the dead ! While the mournful notes of the bugles float Across his bed. And the guns shall toll on the vibrant air The knell of the victor lying there — 'Tis a fitting sound for a soldier's prayer- Dead ! Dead! Dead Dead! Dead! Dead! To the muffled beat of thv- lone retreat And speeding lead, Lay the hero low to his well-earned rest, In the land he loved, on her mother breast, While the sunlight dies in the darkening West- Dead ! Dead ! Dead ! Ralph Alton. THE OLD DOG'S DEATH POSTPONED. Any one at all famihar with farm hfe knows that when the old dog becomes bhnd, toothless and helpless it is the sad but humane duty of the farmer to put an end to his sufferings ; it is generally done by taking him off to the woods and shooting him. Although the new dog quickly wins his place in our affections, the old is not soon forgotten, and more than one story begins: "You remember how old Fide.'' Give strong expression in the last verse to the old man's sudden change of purpose. |OME along old chap, yer time's 'bout up, We got another brindle pup ; I 'lows it's tough an' mighty hard. But a toothless dog's no good on guard. So trot along right after me, An' I'll put yeh out o' your misery. Now, quit yer waggin' that stumpy tail — We ain't a-goin' fer rabbit er quail; 'Sides, you couldn't pint a bird no more, Yer old an' blind an' stiff an' sore, ; An' that's why I loaded the gun to-day- - Yer a-gittin' cross an' in the way. I been thinkin' it over ; 'taint no fun. X don't like to do it, but it's got to be done ; Got sort of a notion, you know, too, The kind of a job we're goin' to do, Else why would yeh hang back that-a-way, Yeh ain't ez young ez yeh once wuz, hey ! Frisky dog in them days, I note, When yeh nailed the sneakthief by the throat j Can't do that now, an' there ain't no need A-keepin' a dog that don't earn his feed So yeh got to make way for the brindle pup ; Come along, old chap, yer time's 'bout up. We'll travel along at an easy jog — Course, you don't know, bein' only a dog; But T can mind when you wuz sprier, ' Wakin' us up when the barn caught fire — 276 PATHETIC RECITATIONS. It don' I seem possible, yet I know That wuz close onto fifteen years ago. ]\Iy, but yer hair wuz long an' thick When yeh pulled little Sally out o' the crick ; An' it came in handy that night in the storm, We coddled to keep each other warm. Purty good dog, I'll admit — but, say, What's the use o' talkin' yeh had yer day. I'm hopin' the children won't hear the crack, Er what' 11 I say when I get back ? They'd be askin' questions, I know their talk, An' I*d have to lie 'bout a chicken hawk j But the sound won't carry beyond this hill, All done in a minute — don't bark, stand still, There, that'll do ; steady, quit lickin' my hand, What's wrong with this gun, I can't under- stand ; I'm jest ez shaky ez I can be — Must be the agey's the matter with me. An' that stitch in the back — what! gitten' ola, too — i The — dinner — bell's- you. r i ngi n ' — fer — me — 2 Charles E. Baer. THE FALLEN HERO. E went to the war in the morning — The roll of the drums could be heard. But he paused at the gate with his mother For a kiss and a comforting word. He was full of the dreams and ambitions That youth is so ready to weave, And proud of the clank of his sabre And the chevrons of gold on his sleeve. He came from the war in the evening — The meadows were sprinkled with snow. The drums and the bugles were silent, And the steps of the soldier were slow. He was wrapped in the flag of his country When they laid him away in the mould. With the glittering stars of a captain Replacing the chevrons of gold. With the heroes who slept on the hillside He lies with a flag at his head. But, blind with the years of her weeping. His mother yet mourns for her dead. The soldiers who fall in the battle May feel but a moment of pain, But the women who wait in the homesteads Must dwell with the ghosts of the slain. Minna Irving. THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. ~Y^| E offered him^self for the land he loved, L^J But what shall we say for her? 1^1 He gave to his country a soldier's life; ^^"^ 'Twas dearer by far to the soldier's wife. All honor to-day to her ! He went to the war while his blood was hot. But what shall we say of her ? He saw himself through the battle's flame A hero's reward on the scroll of fame; What honor is due to her? He offered himself, but his wife did more, All honor to-day to her ! For dearer than life was the gift she gave In giving the life she would die to save ; What honor is due to her? He gave up his life at his country's call- But what shall we say of her? He offered himself as a sacrifice, But she is the one who pays the price, All honor we owe to her. Elliott Flower. PATHETIC RECITATIONS. BREAK THE NEWS GENTLY." 277 v^ I HERE on the ground he lay, a fireman so He'd risked his life, he'd fallen, a little child to save ; Life's stream was ebbing fast away, his comrades all stood by, m A-nd listened to his dying words, while tears be- dimmed each eye : '' Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died, Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried ; Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I'm dead and gone. Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn." There in her home she rests, that mother old and gray. She lost a son, but others — they took his place that day; And nobly do they care for her and honor her gray head. In mem'ry of their comrade and the last words that he said : " Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died. Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried ; Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I'm dead and gone. Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn." There on the wall it hangs, within the engine- room. The picture of the bravest lad that ever faced his doom; And, as they point it out and speak the virtues of the dead, They tell about that awful night and the last words that he said : ''Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died, Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried ; Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I'm dead and gone. Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn." ON THE OTHER TRAIN. fHERE, Simmons, you blockhead ! Why didn't you trot that old woman aboard her train ? She'll have to wait now until the 1.05 a.m." " You didn't tell me." *' Yes, I did tell you. 'Twas only your confounded stupid carelessness." "She " " S/ie/ You fool ! What else could you expect of her ! Probably she hasn't any wit; besides, she isn't bound on a very jolly journey^got a pass up the road to the poor- house. I'll go and tell her, and if you for- get her to-night, see if I don't make mince- meat of you !" ancj our worthy ticket-agent shook his fist menacingly at his subordi- nate. *' YouVe missed your train, marm," he re- marked, coming forward to a queer-looking bundle in the corner. A trembling hand raised the faded black veil, and revealed the sv/eetest old face I ever saw. " Never mind," said a quivering voice. " 'Tis only three o'clock now ; you'll have to wait until the night train, which doesn't go up until 1.05." " Very well, sir ; I can wait." "Wouldn't you like to go to some hotel? Simmons will show you the way/' 278 PATHETIC RECITATIONS. "No, thank you, sir. One place is as good as another to me. Besides, I haven't any money." " Very well," said the agent, turning away indifferently. " Simmons will tell you when it's time." All the afternoon she sat there so quiet that I thought sometimes she must be asleep, but when I looked more closely I could see every once in a while a great tear rolling down her cheek, which she would wipe away hastily with her cotton handkerchief. The depot was crowded and all was bustle and hurry until the 9.50 train going east came due ; then every passenger left except the old lady. It is very rare indeed that any one takes the night express, and almost always, after I have struck ten, the depot becomes silent and empty. The ticket agent put on his great coat, and bidding Simmons keep his wits about him for once in his life, departed for home. But he had no sooner gone than that func- tionary stretched himself out upon the table, as usual, and began to snore vociferously. Then it was I witnessed such a sight as I never had before and never expect to again. The fire had gone down — it was a cold night, and the wind howled dismally outside. The lamps grew dim and flared, casting weird shadows upon the wall. By and by I heard a smothered sob from the corner, then another. I looked in that direction. She had risen from her seat, and oh ! the look of agony on the poor, pinched face. ** I can't believe it," she sobbed, wringing her thin, white hands. " Oh ! I can't be- lieve it 1 My babies! my babies ! how often have I held them in my arms and kissed them ; and liow often they used to say back to me, ' Ise love you, mamma;' and now, O God ! they've turned against me. Where am I going ? To the poor-house ! No I no ! no! I cannot! I will not! Oh, the dis- grace ! " And sinking upon her knees, she sobbed out in prayer : " O God ! spare me this and take me hom.e ! O God, spare me this dis- grace; spare me !" The wind rose higher, and swept through the crevices icy cold. How it moaned and seemed to sob like something human that is hurt. I began to shake, but the kneeling figure never stirred. The thin shawl had dropped from her shoulders unheeded. Sim- mons turned over and drew his heavy blanket more closely around him. Oh, how cold! Only one lamp remained, burning dimly ; the other two had gone out for want of oil. I could hardly see, it was so dark. At last she became quieter, and ceased to moan. Then I grew drowsy, and kind of lost the run of things after I had struck twelve, when some one entered the depot with a bright light. I started up. It was the brightest light I ever saw, and seemed to fill the room full of glory. I could see 'twas a man. He walked to the kneeling figure and touched her upon the shoulder. She started up and turned her face wildly around. I heard him say : *' 'Tis train time, ma'am. Come!" A look of joy came over her face. " I'm ready," she whispered. " Then give me your pass, ma'am." She reached him a worn old book, which he took and from it read aloud : " Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." " That's the pass over our road, ma'am. Are you ready?*' The light died away and darkness fell in its place. My hand touched the stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start, and snatched his lantern. The whistles sounded down brakes; the train was due. He ran to the corner and shook the old woman. < PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 279 " Wake up, marm ; 'tis train time." But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white, set face, and dropping his lan- tern, fled. The up-train halted, the conductor shouted "All aboard," but no one made a move that way. The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he found her frozen to death. They whispered among themselves, and the cor- oner made out the verdict " apoplexy," and it was in some way hushed up. They laid her out in the depot, and adver- tised for her friends, but no one came. So, after the second day they buried her. The last look on the sweet old face, lit upf with a smile so unearthly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurrence of that night, I know that she went out on the other train, that never stopped at the poor-house. SOME TWENTY YEARS AGO. It were well worth while to insert this wonderfully beautiful and pathetic selection here to preserve it in enduring type, but it has the additional merit of being a most excellent piece for recitation. The author's assumed name was " James Pipes, of Pipes ville." His real name you may see below the lines. I'VE wandered to the village, Tom; I've sat beneath the tree Upon the school house playground that sheltered you and me ; But none were there to greet me, Tom ; and few were left to know. Who played with us upon the green, some twenty years ago. The grass is jnst as green, Tom ; bare-footed boys at play Were sporting, just as we did then, wdth spirits just as gay. But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which coated o'er with snow, Afforded us a sliding place, some twenty years ago. The old school house is altered now, the benches are replaced By new ones, very like the same our penknives once defaced; But the same old bricks are in the wall; the bell swings to and fro ; It's music just the same, dear Tom, 'twas twenty years ago. The boys were playing some old game beneath that same old tree ; I have forgot the name just now — you've played the same with me On that same spot; 'twas played with knives, by throwing so and so ; The loser had a task to do — these twenty years ago. The river's running just as still ; the willows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom ; the stream ap- pears less wide ; But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau. And swung our sweethearts — pretty girls — ^just twenty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill close by the spreading beach Is very low — 'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach ; And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so. To see how sadly I am changed, since twenty years ago. Near by that spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name ; Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same ; Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark ; 'twas dying sure but slow. Just as she died, whose name you cut, some twenty years ago. 280 PATHETIC RECITATIONS My lids liave long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes ; I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties ; I visited the old church yard, and took some flowers to strow Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago. Some are in the church-yard laid, some sleep beneath the sea ; But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me ; And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, I hope they'll lay us where we played, just twenty years ago. Stephen Marsell. ONLY A SOLDIER, Q\ tNARMED and unattended walks the Czar, y 1 I Through Moscow's busy street one ICjI winter's day. The crowd uncover as his face they see — "God greet the Czar ! ' ' they say. Along his path there moved a funeral. Gray spectacle of poverty and woe, A wretched sledge, dragged by one weary man. Slowly across the snow. And on the sledge, blown by the winter wind, Lay a poor coffin, very rude and bare. And he who drew it bent before his load, With dull and sullen air. The Emperor stopped and beckoned on the man ; " Who is 't thou bearest to the grave ?" he said. *' Only a soldier, sire ! " the short reply, " Only a soldier, dead.'* " Only a soldier ! " musing, said the Czar ; " Only a Russian, who was poor and brave. Move on. I follow. Such a one goes not Unhonored to his grave." He bent his head, and silent raised his cap ; The Czar of all the Russias, pacing slow, Following the coffin, as again it went Slowly across the snow. The passers of the street, all wondering, Looked on that sight, then followed silently; Peasant and prince, the artisan and clerk, All in one company. Still, at they went the crowd grew ever more, Till thousands stood around the friendless grave, Led by that princely heart, who royal, true, Plonored the poor and brave. *~f==S)(t THE PILGRIM FATHERS. UK jjilgrim fathers — where are they? Tiie waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray, As they break along the shore ; Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day When the Mayflower moored below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The i)ilgrim fathers are at rest : When summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressetl. Go stand on the hill where they lie : The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallowed spot is cast, And the evening sun, as he leaves the wofld, Ivooks kindly on that spot last. The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell ; For by their blood that land was bought, The land they loved so well, PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 281 Then glory to that valiant band, The honored saviours of the land ! Oh ! few and v^^eak their numbers were — A handful of brave men ; But to their God they gave their prayer, } And rushed to battle then. The God of battles heard their cry, Aijd sent them the victory. They left the ploughshare in the mould. Their flocks and herds without a fold, The sickle in the unshorn grain, The corn half garnered on the plain, And mustered, in their simple dress, For wrongs to seek a stern redress ; To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe, To perish, or o'ercome their foe. And where are ye, O fearless men, And where are ye to-day? I call: the hills reply again, That ye have passed away ; That on old Bunker's lonely height. In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright, Above each soldier's mound. The bugle's wild and warlike blast Shall muster them no more ; An army now might thunder past. And they not heed its roar. The starry flag, 'neath which they fought In many a bloody fray. From their old graves shall rouse them not. For they have passed away. '■^■•°^-^i^ MASTER JOHNNY'S NEXT=DOOR NEIGHBOR. (jHTT was Spring the first time tliat I saw her, h I for her papa and mamma moved in (JJl Next door just as skating was over and marbles about to begin, For the fence in our back-yard was broken, and I saw, as I peeped through the slat. There were ' Johnny Jump-ups' all around her, and I knew it was Spring just by that. '^I never knew whether she saw me — for she didn't say nothing to me. But 'Ma! here's a slat in the fence broke, and the boy that is next door can see.' But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know Mamma says I've a right. And she calls out, ' Well, peekin is manners ! ' and I answered her, ' Sass is perlite ! ' *' But I wasn't a bit mad; no. Papa; and to prove it, the very next day. When she ran past our fence, in the morning I happened to get in her way. For you know I am ' chunked ' and clumsy, as she says are all boys of my size, And she nearly upset me, she did. Pa, and laughed till tears came in her eyes. ''And then we were friends, from that moment, for I knew that she told Kitty Sage — And she wasn't a girl that would flatter — 'that she thought I was tall for my age,' And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to ride on my sled. And — ' What am I telling you this for ? ' Why, Papa, my neighbor is dead ! " You don't hear one half I am saying — I really do think it's too bad ! Why, you might have seen crape on her door- knob, and noticed to-day I've been sad ; And they've got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they have dressed her in white, And I've never once looked through the fence. Pa, since she died — at eleven last night. "And Ma says its decent and proper, as I was her neighbor and friend. That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that you ought to attend ; But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the way, And suppose they should speak to me. Papa, 1 wouldn't know just what to say. 282 PATHETIC RECITATIONS. •* So I think I will get up quite early, I know I sleep late, but I know i'll be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that I'll tie to my toe, And I'll crawl through the fence and I'll gather the ' Johnny Jump-ups ' as they grew Round her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I'll give them to you. " For you're a big man, and you know. Pa, cai. come and go just where you choose, And you'll take the flowers into her -and surely they'll never refuse ; But, Papa, don't say they're from Johnny; they won't understand, don't you see; But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, j-/^o^o« ••^^ LITTLE NAN. HE wide gates swung open. The music softly sounded, And loving hands were heaping the soldiers' graves with flowers ; With pansies, pinks, and roses, And pure, gold-hearted lilies. The fairest, sweetest blossoms that grace the spring-time bovvers. When down the walk came tripping A wee, bare-headed girlie, Her eyes v/ere filled with wonder, her face was grave and sweet ; Her small brown hands were crowded With dandelions yellow — The gallant, merry blossoms that children love to greet. O, many smiled to see her. That dimple-cheeked wee baby, Pass by with quaint intentness, as on a mission bound ; And, pausing oft an instant, Let fall from oul; her treasures A yellow dandelion upon each flower, strewn mound. The music died In silence, A robin ceased its singing ; And in the fragrant stillness a bird- like whisper grew. So sweet, so clear and solemn. That smiles gave place to tear-drops ; *'Nan loves 'oo darlin' soldier; an' here's a f'ower for 'oo." (m\ wa^ ONE OF THE LITTLE ONES. WAS a crowded street, and a cry of joy •1 1 Came from a ragged, barefoot boy — -■- A cry of eager and glad surprise. And he opened wide his great black eyes As he held before him a coin of gold He had found in a heap of rubbish old By the curb stone there, '' How it sparkles ! " the youngster cried, As the golden piece he eagerly eyed : "Oh, see it shine ! " and he laughed aloud ; Little heeding the curious crowd That gathered around, " Hurrah ! " said he, •How glad my poor mother will be ! I'll buy her a brand-new Sunday hat, And a pair of shoes for Nell^, at that, And baby sister shall have a dress — ■ There'll be enough for all, I guess ; And then I'll " " Here," said a surly voice 'That money's mine. You can take your choice Of giving it up or going to jail." The youngster trembled, and then turned pale '6SG PATHETIC RECITATIONS. As he looked and saw before liim stand A burly dra) man with outstretched hand ; Rough and uncouth was the fellow's face, And without a single line or trace Ot the goodness that makes the world akin. •'Come, be quick ! or I'll take you in," Said he. '' For shame !" said the listening crowd. The ruffian seemed for the moment cowed. ** The money's mine," he blurted out; *'I lost it yesterday hereabout. I don't want nothin' but what's my own And I am going to have it." The lad alone Was silent. A tear stood in his eye, And he brushed it away ; he would not cry. "Here, mister," he answered, '' take it then; If it's yours, it's yours; if it hadn't been '' A sob told all he would have said, Of the hope so suddenly raised, now dead. And then with a sigh, which volumes told, He dropped the glittering piece of gold Into the other's hand. Once more He sighed — and his dream of wealth was o'er. But no ! Humanity hath a heart Always ready to take the part Of childish sorrow, wherever found. 'Let's make up a purse" — the word went round Through the kindly crowd, and the hat was passed And the coins came falling thick and fast. Here, sonny, take this," said theyo Behold, Full twice as much as the piece of gold He had given up was in the hand Of the urchin. He could not understand It all. The tears came thick and fast, And his grateful heart found voice at last. But, lo ! when he spoke, the crowd had gone- Left him, in gratitude, there alone. Who'll say there is not some sweet, good-will And kindness left in this cold world still? G. L. Catlin. THE DRUNKARD'S DAUGHTER. HE was a bright and beautiful child, one who seemed born for a better career, yet one on whom the blight of intemperance had left its impress early. Her father was a drunkard, a worthless, miserable sot, whose only aim and ambition in life seemed to be to contrive ways and means of satisfying the devouring fire that ionstanily burned within him. Her mother had died when she was a mere child, leaving her to grow up a wild flower ''n the forest, uncultured and uncared for. Yet she was very beautiful; her form and face were of wondrous perfection and loveli- ness; her disposition was happy and cheerful, notwithstanding the abuse to which she was continually suVjjccted. The years went by; she grew to be almost a woman. She could not go to school or church, because she had nothing respectable to wear; and had she gone her wicked father would have reviled her for her disposition to make something better of herself and for her simple piety. He sank lower and lower in the miserable slough of intemperance, and yet, when urged by well-meaning friends, to leave him she clung to him with an affection as unaccountable as it was earnest and sincere. " If I should leave him he would die," she said. " If I stay and suffer with him here, some time I may save him and make him a worthy man." Many would have given her a home, food and comfortable clothes, but she preferred to share her father's misery rather than selfishly forsake him in his unhappy infirmity. The summer passed, the berries ripened PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 287 and disappeared from the bushes. The leaves turned to crimson and yellow, and fell from the trees. The cold November winds howled through the desolate hollows, while, scantily clad, she crouched in a corner of her inhos- pitable, unhappy home. She was very ill ; bad treatment, poor food, and exposure had brought on a fatal sickness. Her brow burned with fever. Even her wretched father, selfish and inebriated as he was, became alarmed at her condition as he staggered about the room upon his return at a late hour from the village tavern, where he had spent the evening with a company of dissolute companions. " Father," she said, " I am very sick ; the doctor has been to see me; he left a prescrip- tion. Will you not go to the village and get it filled ?'' *' They won't trust me, child, '^ he said, gruffly. " But I will trust you," she said sweetly. *' There is a little money hidden in the old clock there, which I saved from picking and selling berries. You can take it ; there is enough." His eyes sparkled with a dangerous glitter. "Money!" he exclaimed almost fiercely. " I didn't know you had money. Why didn't you tell me before? Didn't you know it belonged by right to me ? " She sighed pitiful h^ He staggered to the clock, fumbled about for a few moments, and soon found what he was seeking. " Yes, I'll go," he said, excitedly. " Give me the prescription." He snatched it from her extended hand, opened the door and disappeared. The night grew colder. The sick girl crept into bed and tossed and turned restlessly. The oil in the old lamp burned out. The windows rattled, a storm came, and rain and hail beat upon the window panes. The old clock struck the hour of midnight. The drunkard did not return. Poor girl, her soul became filled with ap- prehension and fear for him. " I must go for him,'' she said. " He will perish, and it will be my fault." She crawled out of bed, drew on her scanty apparel and worn shoes, threw a ragged shawl over her head and shoulders, and went forth into the darkness, heroically facing the driving storm. The morning came, clear, cloudless and beautiful. The earth was cold and frosty. A neighbor, going early to the village, found two lifeless forms lying by the roadway. Beside the dead man lay an empty black bottle. The girl's white arms were clasped about his neck. Her soul had gone to inter- cede for him before the Mercy Seat on high, Eugene J. Hall. THE BEAUTIFUL. EAUTIFUL taces are those that wear — It mattei-s little if dark or fair — Whole-souled honesty printed there. Beautiful eyes are those that show, Like crystal panes, where eartli fires glow, Beautiful thoughts that burn below. 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 ministry to and fro, Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so. Beautiful shoulders are those that bear Heavy burdens of homely cart With patience, grace and daily prayer. 288 PATHETIC RECITATIONS. Beautiful lives are those that bless — Silent rivers of happiness, Whose hidden fountains but few may guess. Beautiful twilight at set of sun. Beautiful goal with race well run, Beautiful rest with work well done. Beautiful grave where grasses creep. Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep. Over worn-out hands — oh, beautiful sleep. TROUBLE IN THE AMEN CORNER. WAS a stylish congregation, that of Theo- phrastus Brown, And its organ was the finest and the big- gest in the town, And the chorus, all the papers favorably com- mented on it, For 'twas said each female member had a forty- dollar bonnet. Now in the ''amen corner" of the church sat Brother Eyer, Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir ; He was poor, but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white, And his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might. His voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords, And nearly tvery Sunday he would mispronounce the words Of the hymns, and 'twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind, And the choir rattling onward always left ];iim far behind. Then the pastor called together in the lecture- room one day Seven influential members who subscribe more than they pay. And having asked God's guidance in a printed prayer or two, Thry put their heads together to determine what to do. Tliey debated, thought, suggested, till at last "dear Brother York," Wl'O last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork, Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Eyer, And proceed to rake him lively for "disturbin' of the choir." Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four, With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer's door; And the sleek, well-dressed committee, Brothers Sharkey, York, and Lamb, As they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jam. They found the choir's great trouble sitting in his old arm-chair, And the summer's golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair; He was singing " Rock of Ages " in a voice both cracked and low. But the angels understood him, 'twas all he cared to know. Said York: " We're here, dear brother, with the vestry's approbation. To discuss a little matter that affects the congre- gation ; " ''And the choir, too/' said Sharkey, giving Bro- ther York a nudge, " And the choir, too ! " he echoed with the grave- ness of a judge. " It was the understanding when we bargained for the chorus That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us ; If we rupture the agreement, it is very pain, dear brother, It will leave our congregation and be gobbled I))' another. PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 289 ^' We don't want any singing except that what we've bought ! The latest tunes are all the rage ; the old ones stand for naught ; And so we have decided — are you listening, Bro- ther Eyer? — That you'll have to stop your singin', for it flurry- tates the choir. ' ' The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear. And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear ; His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky snow, As he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and low ; *' I've sung the psalms of David for nearly eighty years, They've been my staff and comfort and calmed life's many fears; I'm sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm doing wrong ; But when my heart is filled with praise, I can't keep back a song. ''I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking at my feet, In the far-off heavenly temple, where the Master I shall greet, — Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of God up higher. If the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven's choir." A silence filled the little room; the old ma^ bowed his head ; The carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead ! Yes, dead ! his hand had raised the veil the fu- ture hangs before us. And the Master dear had called him to the ever- lasting chorus. The choir missed him for awhile, but he was soon forgot, A few church-goers watched the door ; the old man entered not. Far away, his voice no longer cracked^ he sings his heart's desires, Where there are no church committees and nc fashionable choirs. C. T. Harbaugh. :^|^. LITTLE MAG'S VICTORY. WAS a hovel all wretched, forlorn and poor. With crumbling eves and a hingeless door, And windows where pitiless midnight rains Beat fiercely in through the broken panes. And tottering chimneys, and moss-grown roof. From the heart of the city far aloof, Where Nanny, a hideous, wrinkled hag, Dwelt with her grandchild, "Little Mag." The neighbors called old Nanny a witch. The story went that she'd once been rich — Aye, rich as any lady in town — But trouble had come and dragged her down And down ; then sickness, and want, and age Had filled the rest of her life's sad page, And driven her into the slums to hide Her shame and misery till she died. (19— X) The boys, as she hobbled along the street, Her coming with yells and hoots would greet; E'en grown folks dreaded old Nan so much That they'd shun, in passing, her very touch. And a mocking word or glance would send. Poor little Mag was her only friend : Faithful and true was the child, indeed. What did she ever care or heed For those cruel words, and those looks of scorn In patient silence they all were borne ; But she prayed that God would hasten the day That would take her sorrow and care away. Alas ! that day — that longed-for boon. That ending of sorrow — came all too soon. For there came a day when a ruffian crowd. With stones, and bludgeons, and hootings loud. Surrounded old Nanny's hovel door, 290 PATHETIC RECITATIONS. Led on by a drunken brute, who swore, In blasphemous oaths, and in language wild, She had stolen a necklace from off his child. Crouched in a corner, dumb with fear, The old hag sat, with her grandchild near, As the furious mob of boys and men, Yelling, entered her dingy den. *• Kill her ! " shouted the brutal pack. ''Cowards!" screamed Little Mag. *' Stand back!" As she placed her fragile form before Her poor old grandmother, on the floor, And clasped her about the neck, and pressed The thin gray hairs to her childish breast. " Cowards ! " she said. " Now, do your worst. If either must die, let me die first ! ' ' Cowed and abashed, the crowd stood still, Awed by that child's unaided will ; One by one, in silence and shame. They all stole out by the way they came. Till the fair young child and the withered crone Were left once more in that room — alone. n But stop ! What is it the child alarms ? 0/d Nan lies dead in her grandchild^ s arms I George L. Catlin. P\ thi( LIFE'S BATTLE, LAS 1 I'm growing old, my hair, once thick and brown, now quite white and silky, and sparse about the crown ; A year, that once seemed endless, now, passes like a dream, Yet my boat still rides the billows, as it floats along the stream. My eye, once like the eagle's, is now much dimmed by age, And art alone enables me to read the printed page. Yet still it rests with quickened glance upon each lovely scene. As years roll by with silent pace and changes come between. Life is full of gladness if we but make it so, | There's not a wave of sorrow but has an under* tow. A stout heart and a simple faith gives victory o'er the grave. And God awaits all patiently, all powerful to save. 'Tis not a cross to live, nor is it hard to die, If we but view the future with steadfast, fearless i eye, i Looking ever on the bright side, where falls ti^e sun's warm beam. Our boats will ride the billows as they float ale az, the stream. Wayne Howe Parsons ^@S><}®' THE LOST KISS, I PUT by the half-written poem, While the pen, idly trailed in my hand. Writes on, '' Had I words to complete it, Who'd read it, or who'd understand? " But the little bare feet on the stairway, And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall. And *-he eerie-low lisp on the silence. Cry up to me over it all. So I gather it up — where was broken The tear — faded thread of my theme, Telling how, as one night I sat writing, A fairy broke in on my dream. A little inquisitive fairy My own little girl, with the gold Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy Blue eyes of the fairies of old. 'Twas the dear little girl that I scolded- " For was it a moment like this,'' I said, when she knew I was busy, " To come romping in for a kiss? PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 291 Come rowdying up from her mother And clamoring there at my knee For ' One 'ittle kiss for my dolly And one 'ittle uzzer for me ? ' " God pity the heart that repelled her And the cold hand that turned her away ! And take from the lips that denied her This answerless prayer of to-day ! Take, Lord, from my mem'ry forever That pitiful sob of despair. And the patter and trip of the little bare feet And the one piercing cry on the stair ! I put by the half-written poem, While the pen, idly trailed in my hand, Writes on, '^ Had I words to complete it, Who'd read it, or who'd understand ? " But the little bare feet on the stairway, And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall. And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, Cry up to me over all. James Whitcomb Riley. EXECUTION OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. w I HE Queen arrived in the hall of death. ^ I Pale but unflinching she contemplated the dismal preparations. There lay the block and the axe. There stood the ex- ecutioner and his assistant. All were clothed in mourning. On the floor was scattered the sawdust which was to soak her blood, and in a dark corner lay the bier. It was nine o^cIock when the Queen appeared in the funereal hall- Fletcher, Dean of Peterborough, and certain privileged persons, to the number of more than two hundred, were assembled. The hall was hung with black cloth ; the scaflbld, which was elevated about two feet and a half above the ground, was covered with black frieze of Lancaster ; the arm-chair in which Mary was to sit, the footstool on which she was to kneel, the block on which her head was to be laid, were covered with black velvet. The Queen was clothed in mourning like the hall and as the ensign of punishment. Her black velvet robe, with its high collar and hanging sleeves, was bordered with er- mine. Her mantle, lined with marten sable, was of satin, with pearl buttons and a long train.* A chain of sweet-smelling beads, to which was attached a scapulary, and beneath ^hat a golden cross, fell upon her bosom. Two rosaries were suspended to her girdle, and a long veil of white lace, which in some measure softened this costume of a widow and of a condemned criminal, was thrown around her. Arrived on the scaffold, Mary seated her- self in the chair provided for her, with her face toward the spectators. The Dean of Peterborough, in ecclesiastical costume, sat on the right of the Queen, with a black vel- vet footstool before him. The Earls of Kent and Shrewsbury were seated, like him, on the right, but upon larger chairs. On the other side of the Queen stood the Sheriff, Andrews, with white wand. In front of Mary were seen the executioner and his assistant, dis- tinguishable by their vestments of black vel- vet with red crape round the left arm. Behind the Queen's chair, ranged by the wall, wept her attendants and maidens. In the body of the hall, the nobles and citizens from the neighboring counties were guarded by musketeers. Beyond the balus- trade was the bar of the tribunal. The sen- tence was read ; the Queen protested against it in the name of royalty and of innocence, but accepted death for the sake of the faith. She then knelt before the block and the executioner proceeded to remove her veil. She repelled him by a gesture, and turning toward the Earls with a blush on her fore- head, " I am not accustomed," she said, " to 292 PATHETIC RECITATIONS. be undressed before so numerous a company, and by the hands of such grooms of the chamber." She then called Jane Kennedy and Eliza- beth Curie, who took off her mantle, her veil, her chains, cross and scapulary. On their touching her robe, the Queen told them to unloosen the corsage and fold down the ermine collar, so as to leave her neck bare for the axe. Her maidens weepingly yielded her these last services. Melvil and the three other attendants wept and lamented, and Mary placed her finger on her lips to signify that they should be silent. She then arranged the handkerchief embroidered with thistles of gold with which her eyes had been covered by Jane Kennedy. Thrice she kissed the crucifix, each time repeating, " Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit." She knelt anew and leant her head on that block which was already scored with deep marks, and in this solemn attitude she again recited some verses from the Psalms. The executioner interrupted her at the third verse by a blow of the axe, but its trembling stroke only grazed her neck ; she groaned slightly, and the second blow separated the head from the body. Lamartine. OVER THE RANGE. ALF-SLEEPING, by the fire I sit, I start and wake, it is so strange To find myself alone, and Tom Across the Range. We brought him in with heavy feet And eased him down ; from eye to eye. Though no one spoke, there passed a fear That Tom must die. He rallied when the sun was low. And spoke; I thought the words were strange; '' It's almost night, and I must go Across the Range." ''What, Tom?" He smiled and nodded : ''"as, They've struck it rich there, Jim, you know, The parson told us; you'll come soon; Now Tom must go." I brought his sweetheart's pictured face : Again that smile, so sad and strange, " Tell her," said he, " that Tom has gone Across the Range." The last night lingered on the hill. "There's a pass, somewhere," then he said. And lip, and eye, and hand were still ; And Tom was dead. Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit : I start and wake, it is so strange To find myself alone, and Tom Across the Range. J. Harrison Mills. THE STORY OF CRAZY NELL. FOUNDED ON FACT. ,OME, Rosy, come ! ' T^OM I \-^ and looked I heard the voice Out on the road that passed my window wide, And saw a woman and a fair-haired child That knelt and picked the daisies at the side. The child ran quickly with its gathered prize, And, laughing, held it high above its head ; A light glowed bright within the woman's eyes, And in that light a mother's love I read. She took the little hand, and both passed on ; The prattle of the child I still could hear. Mixed with the woman's fond, caressing tone, That came in loving words upon my ear. " Come, Rosy, come ! " Years, many years had gone. PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 293 But yet had left the recollection of that scene — The woman and the fair-haired child that knelt And picked the daisies on the roadside green. I looked. The old familiar road was there — ■ A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too ; i\nd beckoned slowly, and with vacant stare That fixed itself back where the daisies grew. * ' Come, Rosy, come ! " I saw no fair-haired child Run from the daisies with its gathered prize; ■' Come, Rosy, come ! " I heard no merry laugh To light the love-glow in the mother's eyes. '* Come, Rosy, come ! " She turned, and down the road The plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear ; Caressing tones — not mixed with prattle now. But full of loving words — I still could hear. I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door ; He told the story — all there was to tell ; A little mound the village churchyard bore ; And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell. Joseph Whitton. LITTLE SALLIE'S WISH. The following poem was written from facts, concerning a sweet little girl who lived in New York. When Summer came her parents took a cottage in the country, where the scene described was enacted. fHAVE seen the first robin of Spring, mother dear. And have heard the brown darling sing ; You said, " Hear it and wish, and 'twill surely come true," So I've wished such a beautiful thing. I thought I would like to ask something for you, But couldn't think what there could be That you'd want, while you had all these beauti- ful things ; Besides you have papa and me. So I wished for a ladder, so long that 'twould stand One end by our own cottage door, And the other go up past the moon and the stars. And lean against heaven's white floor. Then I'd get you to put on my pretty white dress, With my sash and my darling new shoes ; And I'd find some white roses to take up to God, The most beautiful ones I could choose. And you, dear papa, would sit on the ground. And kiss me, and tell me ^'good-bye; " Then I'd go up the ladder, far out of your sight, Till I came to the door in the sky. I wonder if God keeps the door fastened tight ? If but one little crack I could see, I would whisper, ' ' Please, God, let this little girl in. She's as weary and tired as can b^. '' She came all alone from the earth to the sky, For she's always been wanting to see The gardens of heaven, with their robins and flowers ; Please, God, is there room there for me ? " And then when the angels had opened the door, God would say, " Bring the little child here. ' ' But He'd speak it so softly, I'd not be afraid, And He'd smile just like you, mother dear. He would put His kind arms round your dear little girl. And I'd ask Him to send down for you. And papa, and cousin, and all that I love — Oh, dear, don't you wish 'twould come true? The next Spring time, when the robins came home, They sang over grasses and flowers, That grew where the foot of the long ladder stood, Whose top reached the heavenly bowers. And the parents had dressed the pale, still child For her flight to the Summer land. In a fair white robe, with one snow-white rose Folded tight in her pulseless hand. And now at the foot of the ladder they sit, Looking upward with quiet tears, Till the beckoning hand and the fluttering rob^ Qf the child at the top re-appear§. 294 PATHETIC RECITATIONS. DROWNED AMONG "0\V the reeds and rushes quiver On the low banks of the river, And the leaning willows shi\^r In a strange and deep affright, And the water moans and murmurs As it eddies round the lilies, Like a human soul in sorrow, Over something hid from sight. How the shadows haunt the edges Of the river, where the sedges To the lilies whisper ever Of some strange and awful deed ! How the sunshine, timid, frightened, Dares not touch the spot it brightened Yesterday, among the shadows Of the lily and the reed. What is that that floats and shimmers Where the water gleams and glimmers. In and out among the rushes, Growing thick, and tall, and green? THE LILIES. Something yellow, long and shining Something wondrous fair and silken. Like a woman's golden tresses. With a broken flower between. What is that, so white and slender, Hidden, almost, by the splendor Of a great white water lily. Floating on the river there ? *Tis a hand stretched up toward Heaven, As, when we would be forgiven. We reach out our hands, imploring, In an agony of prayer. Tremble, reeds, and moan and shiver, At your feet, in the still river. Lies a woman, done forever. With life's mockery and woe. God alone can know the sorrow, All the bitterness and heartache. Ended in the moaning river Where the water lilies blow. Eben E. Rexford. 4 THE FATE OF CHARLOTTE CORDAY, (*)l I HE sunny land of France with streams of i I noblest blood was dyed, -^ Nor could a monarch's royal veins suffice the insatiate tide ; And youth and beauty knelt in vain, and mercy ceased to shine, And Nature's holiest ties were loosed beneath the guillotine. Wild war and rapine, hate and blood, and terror ruled supreme, Till all who loved its vine-clad vales had ceased of peace to dream ; But there was one whose lover's blood wrote ven- geance in her soul, Whom zeal for France and blighted hopes had bound in fast control. Dark '* Discord's demon," fierce Marat, his coun- try's fellest foe, Belzance's executioner, the fount of war and woe ; Demon alike in mind and face, he dreamt not of his fall, Yet him the noble maiden doomed to vengeance and to Gaul. O ! had an artist seen them there as face to face they stand ; The noblest and the meanest mind in all that bleeding land; The loveliest and most hideous forms that pencil could portray — A picture might on canvas live that would not pass away. ''Point out the foes of France," he said, ''and ere to-morrow shine. The blood, now warm within their veins, shall stain the guillotine." " The guillotine ! " the maid exclaimed, the steel ^ moment gleams, I PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 295 A moment more 'tis in his heart ; adieu to all his dreams ! . Before her judges Charlotte stands, undaunted, undismayed, While eyes that never wept are wet with pity for the maid, Unstained as beautiful she stands before the judg- ment seat, Resigned to fate, her heart is calm while others wildly beat ! Alas ! too sure her doom is read in those stern faces, while Fear from her looks affrighted fled, where shone Minerva's smile; Hope she had none, or, if perchance she had, that hope was gone. Yet in its stead 'twas not despair but brightest triumph shone ! "What was the cause?" *' His crimes," she said, her bleeding country's foe. Inspired her hand, impelled the steel, and laid the tyrant low ; Though well she knew her blood would flow for him she caused to bleed. Yet what was death ? — The crowning wreath that graced the noble deed ! Her doom is passed, a lovely smile dawns slowly o'er her face, And adds another beauty to her calm majestic grace ; She does not weep, she does not shrink, her fea- tures are not pale, The firmness that inspired her hand forbids her heart to fail ! 'Tis morn ; before the Tuilleries the dawn is break- ing gray, And thousands through the busy streets in haste pursue their way ; What means the bustle and the throng, the scene is nothing new — A fair young lady, doomed to die, each day the same they view. Before that home of bygone kings a gloomy scpi"- fold stands, Upreared in Freedom's injured name to manaclt. her hands ; Some crowd to worship, some insult, the martyr in her doom, But over friends and foes a cloud is cast of som- bre gloom. She stands upon the fatal spot angelically fair, The roses of her cheek concealed beneath her flowing hair ; "Greater than Brutus," she displays no sign of fear or dread. But in a moment will be still and silent with the dead. Her neck is bared, the fatal knife descends, and all is o'er. The martyred heroine of France — of freedom dreams no more ; The insults of the wretched throng she hears no longer now. But Death, man's universal friend, sits on her pallid brow ! In life, fear never blanched her cheek ; but now 'tis calm and pale. Love and her country asked revenge, and both her fate bewail ; She fell, more glorious in her fall than chief or crowned queen, A martyr in a noble cause, without a fault to screen ! Clare S. McKinley. T: THE LITTLE VOYAGER. HREE little children in a boat On seas of opal spendor ; The willing waves their treasure float To rhythm low and tender ; Over their heads the skies are blue — Where are the darlings sailing to? They do not know — we do not know. Who watch their pretty motions ; Safe moored within the harbor, though They sail untraveled oceans ; They rock and sway and shut their exes ; **No land in sight ! " the helmsman cries! 296 PATHETIC RECITATIONS. ■ Oh, little children have you heard Of ships that sail for pleasure ; And never wind or wave hath word Of all their vanished treasure ? They were as blithe and gay as you And sailed away as fearless, tool" Then from the pleasure-freighted crew One spake — a little maiden, With sunny hair, and eyes of blue, And lashes fair, dew-laden. Her wise head gave a thoughtful nod — ! Perhaps — they sailed — away to God ! ' ' Mrs. M. L. Baynf ®^<}®' THE DREAM OF ALDARIN. This selection won a gold medal at a Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution ».- Philadelphia. It is a remarkable embodiment of tragedy and pathos. grasping the infinitude of the cataract, his fee'i. resting upon islands of bitumen far in the (^>r- CHAMBER with a low, dark ceiling, LA supported by massive rafters of oak; yJLV floors and walls of dark stone, un- relieved by wainscot or plaster — bare, rugged, and destitute. A dim, smoking light, burning in a vessel of iron, threw its red and murky beams over the fearful contents of a table. It was piled high with the unsightly forms of the dead. Prostrate among these mangled bodies, his arms flung carelessly on either side, slept and dreamed Aldarin — Aldarin, the Fratricide. He hung on the verge of a rock, a rock of melting bitumen, that burned his hands to masses of crisped and blackened flesh. The rock projected over a gulf, to which the cata- racts of earth might compare as the rivulet to the vast ocean. It was the Cataract of Hell. He looked below. God of Heaven, what a -ij^h* Fiery waves, convulsed and foaming, with innumerable whirlpools crim- soned by bubbles of flame. Each whirlpool swallowing millions of the lost. Each bubble Jjcaring on its surface the face of a soul, lost and lost forever. Born on by the waves, they raised their hands and cast their burning eyes to the skies, and shrieked the eternal death-wail of the lost. Over this scene, awful and vast, towered a figure of ebony blackness, his darkened brow concealed in the clouds, his extended arms gulf below. The eyes of the figure wer^ fixed upon Aldarin, as he clung with the ner- vous clasp of despair to the rock, and thei*- gaze curdled his heated blood. He was losing his grasp; sliding and shd ing from the rock, his feet hung over the gulf. There v/as no hope for him. He must fall — fall — and fall forever. But lo ! a stair- way, built of white marble, wide, roomy and secure, seemed to spring from the very rock to which he clung, winding upward from the abyss, till it was lost in the distance far, far above. He beheld two figures slowly de- scending — the figure of a warrior and the form of a dark- eyed woman. He knew those figures; he knew them well. They were his victims ! Her face, his wife's ! beautiful as when he first woed her in the gardens of Palestine; but there was blood on her vestments, near the heart, and his lip was spotted with one drop of that thick, red blood. " This," he muttered, " this^ indeed, is hell, and yet I must call for aid — ^ call to them ! " How the thought writhed like a serpent round his very heart. He drew himself along the rugged rock, clutching the red-hot ore in the action. He wanted but a single inch, a little inch and he might grasp the marble of the stairway. Another and a desperate effort His fingers I PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 297 clutched it, but his strength was gone. He could not hold it in his grasp. With an eye of horrible intensity he looked above. "Thou wilt save me, Ilmerine, my wife. Thou wilt drag me up to thee." She stooped. She clutched his blackened fingers and placed ihem around the marble. His grasp was tight and desperate. "Julian, O Julian! grasp this hand. Aid me, O Julian! my brother ! " The warrior stooped, laid hold on his hand and drawing it toward the casement, wound it around another piece of marble. But again his strength fails. " Julian, my brother; Ilmerine, my wife, seize me! Drag me from this rock of terror ! Save me ! O save me ! " She stooped. She unwound finger after finger. She looked at his horror- stricken face and pointed to the red wound in her heart. He looked toward the other face. •9- , — j S)| " Thou, Julian, reach me thy handr Thy hand, or I perish ! " The warrior ".lowly reached forth his hand from beneath the folds of his cloak. He held before the eyes of the doomed a goblet of gold. It shone and glimmered through the foul air like the beacon fire of hell. " Take it away ! 'Tis the death bowl ! " shrieked Aldarin's livid lips. " I murdered thee. Thou canst not save." He drew back from the maddening sight. He lost his hold, he slid from the rock, he fell. Above, beneath, around, all was fire, horror, death ; and still he fell. " Forever and for- ever," rose the shrieks of the lost. All hell groaned aloud, " Ever, ever. Forever and forever," and his own soul muttered back^ " This— this— is— hell ! '' George Lippard. IN THE MINING TOWN. IS the last time, darling," he gently said, As he kissed her lips like the cherries red. While a fond look shone in his eyes of brown. " My own is the prettiest girl in town ! To-morrow the bell from the tower will ring A. joyful peal. Was there ever a king So truly blessed, on his royal throne. As I shall be when I claim my own ? ' ' 'Twas a fond farewell, 'twas a sweet good-by, But she watched him go with a troubled sigh. So, into the basket that swayed and swung O'er the yawning abyss, he lightly sprung. And the joy of her heart seemed turned to woe As they lowered him into the depths below. Her sweet young face, with its tresses brown, Was the fairest face in the mining town. Lo! the morning came; but the marriage-bell, High up in the tower, rang a mournful knell For the true heart buried 'neath earth and stone. Par down in the heart of the mine, alone. A sorrowful peal on their wedding-day, For the breaking heart and the heart of clay. And the face that looked from the tresses brown. Was the saddest face in the mining town. Thus time rolled along on its weary way, Until fifty years, with their shadows gray, Had darkened the light of her sweet eyes' glow. And had turned the brown of her hair to snow. Oh 1 never the kiss from a husband's lips. Or the clasp of a child's sweet finger-tips. Had lifted one moment the shadows brown From the saddest heart in the mining town. Far down in the depths of the mine, one day. In the loosened earth they were digging awayj They discovered a face, so young, so fair; From the smiling lip to the bright brown hair Untouched by the finger of Time's decay. When they drew him up to the light of day, The wondering people gathered 'round To gaze at the man thus strangely found- 298 PATHETIC RECITATIONS. Then a woman came from among the crowd, With her long white hair and her slight form bowed. She silently knelt by the form of clay, And kissed the lips that were cold and gray. Then, the sad old face, with its snowy hair On his youthful bosom lay pillowed there. He had found her at last, his waiting bridej And the people buried them side by side. Rose Hartwick Thorpe. TOMMY'S PRAYER. This beautiful poem is full of the pathos and suffering of poverty. It should be delivered with expres- sion and feeling. Although lengthy the interest is sustained throughout. IN a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came. Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate and lame; He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was born. Dragging out his weak existence well nigh hope- less and forlorn. He was six, was little Tommy, 'twas just five years ago Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so. He had never known the comfort of a mother's tender care. But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear. There he lay within the cellar from the morning till the night, Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, naught to make his dull life bright ; Not a single friend to love him, not a living thing to love — For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above. 'Twas a quiet summer evening; and the alley, too, was still ; Tommy's little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till, Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street, Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh ! so clear and sweet. Kagerly did Tommy listen as the singing nearer came— Oh ! that he could see the singer ! How he wished he wasn't lame. Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound. And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found. 'Twas a maiden, rough and rugged, hair unkempt and naked feet. All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat ; "So yer called me," said the maiden, ** wonder wot yer wants o' me ; Most folks call me Singing Jessie ; wot may your name chance to be ? " '' My name's Tommy; I'm a cripple, and I want to hear you sing, For it makes me feel so happy — sing me some- thing, anything." Jessie laughed, and answered, smiling, *'I can't stay here very long, But I'll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the 'Glory song ' " Then she sang to him of Heaven, pearly gates and streets of gold. Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold ; But where happiness and gladness never can- decrease or end, And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sover- eign and their Friend. Oh ! how Tommy's eyes did glisten as he drank in every word As it fell from ''Singing Jessie "—was it true, what he had heard ? PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 299 ^nd so anxiously he asked her : " Is there really such a place ? ' ' And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face. '' Tommy, you're a little heathen ; why, it*s up beyond the sky, A.nd if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die." '^Then," said Tommy; "tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love, When I'm down in this 'ere cellar, and he's up in Heaven above ? " So the little ragged maiden who had heard at Sunday-school All about the way to Heaven, and the Christian's golden rule, Taught the Httle cripple Tommy how to love and how to pray, Then she sang a "Song of Jesus," kissed his cheek and went away. Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold, Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold ; And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room, For the joy in Tommy's bosom could disperse the deepest gloom. " Oh! if I could only see it," thought the crip- ple, as he lay. '' Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think I'll try and pray; " So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes, And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this mes- sage to the skies : ** Gentle Jesus, please forgive me, as I didn't know afore. That yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor. And I never heard of Heaven till that Jessie came to-day \nd told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray. " You can see me, can*t yer, Jesus? Jessie told me that yer could. And I somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good ; And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die. In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky, " Lord, I'm only just a cripple, and I'm no use here below. For I heard my mother whisper she'd be glad if I could go ; And I'm cold and hungry sometimes; and I feel so lonely, too. Can't yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to Heaven along o' you? "Ohl I'd be so good and patient, and I'd never cry or fret; And yer kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget ; I would love you all I know of, and would never make a noise — Can't you find me just a corner, where I'll watch the other boys ? Oh ! I think yer'U do it, Jesus, something seems to tell me so. For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go; How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright ! Come and fetch me, won't yer, Jesus? Come and fetch me home to-night ! " Tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul's desire, And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire ; Then he turned towards his corner, and lay hud- dled in a heap, Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep. Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have seen his little face As he lay there in the corner, in that damp and noisome placf ; 300 PATHETIC RECITATIONS. For his countenance was shining like an angel's, fair and bright, And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, her.venly light. He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged sing- ing girl, He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl; But he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there. Simply trusting in the Saviour, and His kind and tender care. In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy, She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy, And she shook him sopaewhat roughly, but the cripple's face was coM — He had gone to join the children in the street's of shining gold. Tommy's prayer had soofi been answereO, and the Angel Death had come To remove him from his ceiJ.ar, to His bright and heavenly home Where sweet comfort, joy an^i gladness never can decrease or end, And where Jesus reigns eterf-^Uy, his Sovereign and his Friend. I. F. Nichols. ROBBY AND RUTH, KBY and Ruth strolled out one day. Over the meadows, beyond the town ; The robins sang, and the fields looked gay, And the orchards dropped their blossoms down : But they took no thought of song or flower, For this, to them, was love's sweet hour; And love's hour is fleet, And swift love's feet. When a lad and a winsome lassie meet ! Robby and Ruth in the church were wed. Ere the orchard apples began to fall ; *' Till death shall part," were the words they said. And love's pure sunlight hallowed all. Ah ! never a bride more sweet and fair Wore orange-blooms in her sunny hair ! The maiden sung, And the joy-bells rung And echoed the orchafds and groves among. Robby and Ruth kept house together, Till both were old and bent aid gray, And little they cared for outside weather, For home's sweet light gilded nil their way; And many a precious nestling came To be called by the dear old hous^t^hold name ; And the love that blesse(i When first confessed Remained in their hearts a constant guest. Robby and Ruth grew weary at last- Bobby went first the shining way ; And when the earth on his grave was cast, The faithful Ruth could no longer stay ; And daisy ne'er blossomed or wild-rose grew O'er hearts more tender, leal and true ! Love's vows were sweet When they sat at Love's feet. And Heaven makes love itself complete. Louisa S. Upham. Recitations for Children. C-*"'«^^S#»0.*.0.:^2/ZT/-»-* The perplexing question of obtaining something suitable for the " little tots " to recite, is solved by the choice collection of pieces here presented. The pathetic, the humorous, the beautiful, in short, every va- riety of recitation for the young people, mar be found in the following pages, includin^ drills and motion recitals, and selections for special occasions, all of which are entertain- ing and admirably suited to the little folks. %'°i M_< TWO LITTLE MAIDENS, SORRY little maiden Is Miss Fuss-and- Feather, Crying for the golden moon, Grumbling at the weather; The sun will fade her gown, The rain will spoil her bonnet, If she ventures out. And lets it fall upon it. A merry little maiden Is Miss Rags-and-Tatters, Chatting of the twinkling stars And many other matters; Dancing in the sunshine, Pattering through the rain. Her clothes never cause her A Single thought or pain. Agnes Carr. THE WAY TO SUCCEED. M RIVE the nail aright, boys, Hit it on the head ; Strike with all your might, boys. While the iron's red. When youVe work to do, boys, Do it with a will ; They who reach the top, boys. First must climb the hill. Standing at the foot, boys, Gazing at the sky, How can you ever get up, boys. If you never try ? Though you stumble oft, boys, Never be downcast ; Try, and try again, boys— You'll succeed at last. WHEN PA BEGINS TO SHAVE. HEN Sunday mornin' comes around My pa hangs up his strop, An' takes his razor out an' makes It go c'flop ! c'flop ! An' then he gits his mug an' brush An' yells t' me, ** Behave ! " I tell y'u, things is mighty still- When pa begins t' shave. Then pa he stirs his brush around An' makes th' soapsuds fly ; An' sometimes, when he stirs too hard. He gits some in his eye. I tell y'u, but it's funny then To see pa stamp and rave ; But y'u mustn't git ketched^laffin*-^ When pa begins t' shave. 30] 302 RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. Th' hired hand he dassent talk, An' even ma's afeard, An' y'u can hear th' razor click A-cuttin' through pa's beard ! An' then my Uncle Bill he laffs An' says : *' Gosh ! John, you're brave,' An' pa he swears, an' ma jest smiles — When pa begins t' shave. When pa gits done a-shavin' of His face, he turns around, And Uncle Bill says : "Why, John, Yu'r chin looks like plowed ground I " An' then he laffs— jest laffs an' laffs, But I got t' behave, Cos things's apt to happen quick — When pa begins t' shave. Harry Douglass Robbins. -♦-%- -%-*- A BOY'S VIEW rLL is very nice ! Everybody who has not the misfortune to be girl will allow this. Nice girl will allow it also as far as itself is concerned. Strange girl is objectionable in the eyes of girl generally. Powder improves girl sometimes, but it seldom finds this out until it is suggested to it by one of experience. Healthy girl costs its parents less money for doctors* bills, but persons who write romantic tales for circulating libraries choose unhealthy and pasty faced girl to write about — the swooning kind preferred. If I were not boy I think I should like to be girl. It's best fun to be boy when their's plenty of girl about. I^ET still, honey, let ole Mammy tell yer 'bout de churn, Wid de cream en clabber dashin', En de buttermilk er-splashin'. Dis de chune hit am er-singin' 'fore hit 'gin ter turn: Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum. Bum-bum-bum, But-ter-come, Massa give old nigger some. Jump down, honey, en fotch me dat rag fum de table, fer ter wipe off dis hyah led. Tole yer so, dat milk gwine ter splatter up hyah 'reckly ! Dar now, dat's er good chile, git back in mer lap. Now de cream, en milk, en clabber's churnin' up so fas', Hyah hit splatterin' en er-splutterin*. En er-mixin', en er-mutterin*. In de churn en jroun* de dasher, singin* ter de las' ; Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum, Bum-bura-bum, [MAMMY'S CHURNING SONG. But-ter-come, Massa gib old nigger some. Uh-er ! Teck kyah, honey, keep dem fingers way fum dar ! Butter mos' come now : set still jis' er leetle w'ile longer. Sooen de lumps ob butter '11 be er-floatin* on de top — Now de ole churn 's fa'rly hummin', Tell yer wot, de butter comin* — Done come ! Mammy's arm so ti-yerd, now she's gwine ter stop. Jiggery; jiggery, jiggery, jum. Bum-bum-bum, But-ter-come, Mammy '11 gib de baby some. Dar now! {removing the top and giving the dasher a circular ^notion] jis' peep in dar en see de lumps ob yaller butter er-huddlin' tergedder. Now run fotch yer leetle blue mug, en Mammy '11 gib yer some nice sweet buttermilk right outen dis hyah churn. Edward A. Oldham RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 303 THE TWENTY FROQS! fWENTY froggies went to school. Down beside a rushy pool ; Twenty little coats of green, Twenty vests all white and clean. "We must be in time," said they; "First we study, then we play; That is how we keep the rule When we froggies go to school." Master Bullfrog, grave and stern, Called the classes in their turn ; Taught them how to nobly strive. Likewise how to leap and dive. From his seat upon the log, Taught them how to say " Ker-chug,'* Also how to dodge a blow From the sticks which bad boys throw. Twenty froggies grew up fast ; Bullfrogs they became at last | Not one dunce among the lot, Not one lesson they forgot; Polished in a high degree, As each froggie ought to be ; Now they sit on other logs. Teaching other little frogb. ONLY A BIRD. NLY a bird ! and a vagrant boy Fits a pebble with a boyish skill Into the fold of a supple sling. ** Watch me hit him. I can an' will." Whirr ! and a silence chill and sad Falls like a pall on the vibrant air. From a birchen tree, whence a shower of song Has fallen in ripples everywhere. Only a bird ! and the tiny throat With quaver and trill and whistle of flute, Bruised and bleeding and silent lies There at his feet. Its chords are mute. And the boy, with a loud and boisterous laugh, Proud of his prowess and brutal skill. Throws it aside with a careless toss— " Only a bird ! it was made to kill." Only a bird ! yet far away Little ones clamor and cry for food — Clamor and cry, and the chill of night Settles over the orphan brood. Weaker and fainter the moaning call For a brooding breast that shall never come. Morning breaks o'er a lonely nest, Songless and lifeless ; mute and dumb. Mary Morrison. THE WAY TO DO IT. Teach the chil^ to make all the gestures and facial expressions. This is a captivating recita) toi any " little tot" who can do it well, and this will require patient practice. I LL tell you how I speak a piece : First, I make my bow ; Then I bring my words out clear And plain as I know how. Next, I throw my hands up — so ! Then I lift my eyes : That's to let my hearers know Something doth surprise. Next, I grin and show my teeth, Nearly every one, Shake my shoulders, hold my sides : That's the sign of fun. Next, I start, and knit my brows. Hold my head erect : Something's wrong, you see, and I Decidedly object. ;o-4 RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. Then I wabble at my knees, Clutch at shadows near, Tremble well from top to tot . That's the sign of fear. Now I start, and with a leap, Seize an airy dagger. " Wretch ! " I cry : that's tragedy. Every soul to stagger. Then I let my voice grow fraint, Gasp, and hold my breath. Tumble down and plunge about: That's a villain's death. Quickly then I come to life. Perfectly restored ; With a bow my speech is done. Now you'll please applaud Mary Mapes Dodge WE MUST ALL SCRATCH, for five little children and one older, a girl, »a( h steps forward and recites the verse. AID the first little chicken, With a queer little squirm, " I wish I could find A fat little worm." Said the next little chicken, With an odd little shrug, ** I wish I could find A fat little bug." Said the third little chicken, With a sharp little squeal, "I wish I could find Some nice yellow meal." who takes the part of the mother. They stand in a row and Said the fourth little chicken. With a small sigh of grief, ** I wish I could find A green little leaf." Said the fifth little chicken, With a faint little moan, ^* I wish I could find A wee gravel stone " ** Now, see here,"' said the mother, From the green garden patch, *' If you want any breakfast, Just come here and scratch." KITTY AT OME, Kitty dear, I'll tell you what We'll do this rainy day ; Just you and I, all by ourselveS;. At keeping schooh will play. The teacher, Kitty, I will be \ And yoii shall be the class ; And you must close attention give, If you expect to pass. Now, Kitty, ''C-A-T" spells r^/. Stop Inlaying with your tail ! You are so heedless, I am sure In spelling you v.- ill fail. ** C-A " oh, Kitty ! do sit still ! You must not ch^tse that fly ! You'll never learn a single word, You do not even try. SCHOOL. I'll tell you what my teacher says To me most ev'ry day — She says that girls can never learn While they are full of play. : So try again — anothei word ; "L-A-C-E ' spells ^■' lace.'' Why, Kitty, it is not polite In school to wash your face ! You are a naughty, naughty puss, And keep you in I should ; But then, I love you, dear, so much I don't see how I could ! O, see ! the sun shines bright again I We'll run out doors and play; We'll leave our school and lessons for Another rainy day. Kate ULMF-i^ 4 RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 30^ A FELLOW'S MOTHER. '(^fr' FELLOW'S mother," said Fred the UX wise, yJIgl With his rosy cheeks and his merry- eyes, *' Knows what to do if a fellow gets hurt By a thump, or a bruise, or a fall in the dirt. ' A fellow's mother has bags and strings, Rags and buttons, and lots of things ; No matter how busy she is, she'll stop To see how well you can spin your top. ■ She does not care — not much, I mean — If a fellow's face is not always clean; And if your trousers are torn at the knee She can put in a patch that you'd never see. A fellow's mother is never mad. But only sorry if you are bad. And I'll tell you this, if you're only true, She'll always forgive whate'er you do. I'm sure of this, ' ' said Fred the wise. With a manly look in his laughing eyes, I'll mind my mother, quick, every day, A fellow's a baby that don't obey." M. E. Sangster. :@^<^G THE STORY KATIE TOLD, |0W, stay right still and listen, kitty- cat, and I'll tell you a story. Once there was a girl. She was a pretty good little girl, and minded her papa 'n^ mamma everything they said, only sometimes she didn't, and then she was naughty ; but she was always sorry, and said she wouldn't do so any more, and her mamma'd forgive her. She was going to hang up her stocking. *' You'll have to be pretty good, 'lest 'twon't be filled," said her mamma. " 'Less maybe there'll be a big bunch of sticks in it/' said her papa. Do :you think that's a nice way to talk, kittyTcat? I don't. So the little girl was good as she could be^ 'less she was bigger, and didn't cry and slap her little sister hardly any at all, and always minded her mamma when she came where the chimney was, 'specially much. So she hung up her stocking. And in the night she got awake, and wanted it to come morning; but in the morning she didn't get awake till 'twas all sunshiny out doors. Then she ran quick as she could to look at (20^X) her stocking where she'd hung it ; and true's you live, kitty-cat, there wasn't the leastest thing in it — not the leastest bit of a scrimp ! Oh, the little girl felt dreadfully ! How'd you feel, s'pose it had been you, kitty-cat ? She 'menced to cry, the little girl did, and she kept going harder 'n harder, till by'mby she screeched orfly, and her mamma came running to see what the matter was. ** Mercy me ! " said her mamma. " Look over by the window 'fore you do that any more, Kathie." That little girl's name was Kathie too, kitty-cat, just the same's mine. So she looked over by the window, the way her mamma said, and — oh ! there was the loveliest dolly's house you ever saw in all your born life. It had curtains to pull to the sides when you wanted to play, and pull in front when you didn't. There was a bed-room, kitty-cat, and a dinner-room, and a kitchen, and a parlor, and they all had carpets on. And there was the sweetest dolly in the parlor, all dressed up in blue silk! Oh, dear! And a penano, to play real little 306 RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. tunes on, and a rocking-chair, and — O kitty- cat ! I can't begin to tell you half about it. I can't about the bed-room, either, and the dinner-room. But the kitchen was the very bestest of all. There was a stove — a teeny tonty mite of a one, kitty-cat, — with dishes just zactly like mamma's, only littler, of course, and fry-pans and everything; and spoons to stir with, and a rolling-pin, and two little cut- ters-out, and the darlingest baker-sheet ever you saw ! And the first thing that little girl did was to make some teenty mites of cookies, ^cause her mamma let her ; and if you'll come right down stairs, kitty-cat, I'll give you one. 'Cause I was that little girl, kitty-cat, all the time. <• - ^V o "- ^^ A LITTLE ROGUE i 2)RANDMA was nodding, I rather think ; I JT Harry was sly and quick as a wink ; He climbed in the back of her great arm-chair, And nestled himself very snugly there ; Grandma's dark locks were mingled with white, And quick this- fact came to his sight; A sharp twinge soon she felt at her hair. And woke with a start, to find Harry there. ''Why, what are you doing, my child?'* she said; He answered, "I'se pulling a basting fread?" MATTIE'S WANTS AND WISHES. I WANTS a piece of cal'co To make my doll a dess ; I doesn't want a big piece; A yard' 11 do, I guess. I wish you'd fred my needle. And find my fimble, too — I has such heaps o' sewin' I don't know what to do. I wants my Maud a bonnet ; She hasn't none at all; And Fred must have a jacket ; His ozzer one's too small. I wants to go to grandma's; You promised me I might. I know she'd like to see me; I wants to go to-night. She lets me wipe the dishes, And see in grandpa's watch- I wish I'd free, four pennies To buy some butter-scotch. My Hepsy tored her apron A tum'lin' down the stair, And Csesar's lost his pantloons. And needs anozzer pair. I wants some newer mittens — I wish you'd knit me some, * Cause most my fingers freezes. They leaks so in the fum. I wored 'em out last summer, A pullin' George's sled ; I wish you wouldn' t laugh so— ■ It hurts me in my head. I wish I had a cookie; I'm hungry's I can be. If you hasn't j retty large ones. You'd better bring me free. I wish I had a p'ano — Won't you buy me oPxC to keep ? O, dear ! I feels so tired, I wants to go to sleep. Grace Gordon, I RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 80? WON'T AND WILL, HA'N'T and Won't were two little brothers, Angry, and sullen, and gruff; Try and Will are dear little sisters. One can scarcely love them enough. Sha'n't and Won't looked down on their noses, Their faces were dismal to see ; Try and Will are brighter than roses In June, and as blithe as a bee. Sha'n't and Won't are backward and stupid, Little, indeed, did they know ; Try and Will learn something new daily, And seldom are heedless or slow. Sha*n't and Won't loved nothing, no, nothing, So much as to have their own way; Try and Will give up to their elders. And try to please others at play. Sha'n't and Won't came to terrible trouble : Their story is awful to tell ; Try and Will are in the schoolroom, Learning to read and spell. WILLIE'S BREECHES. The boy's garments should suit the description contained in the piece. In reciting the last two lines he should point to his head, stretch out his hands to show them, look down at his feet, and then catch hold of his pants and spread them out on the sides, putting on at the same time a look of pride. I'M just a little boy, you know, And hardly can remember, When people ask how old I am, To tell 'em four last 'vember. And yet for all I am so small, I made so^many stitches For mamma's fingers, that she put Her little boy in breeches. You may be sure that I was glad ; I marched right up and kissed her, Then gave my bibs and petticoats. And all, to baby sister. I never whine, now I'm so fine, And don't get into messes ; For mamma says, if I am bad, She'll put me back in dresses I There's buttons up and down my legs. And buttons on my jacket ; I*d count 'em all, but baby makes Just now, an awful racket. She's sitting there, behind the chair, With blocks, and dolls, and kitty, A playing ^^ go to gran'raa's house," Alone, 'n that's a pity. I think I'll go and help her some, I'm sure it would amuse me ; So I won't bother any more To talk — if you'll excuse me. But first I'll stand before the glass, From top to toe it reaches ; Now look ! there's head, and hands, and feet, But all the rest is breeches ! Etta G. Salsbury. )@S><:^(. LITTLE DORA'S SOLILOQUY. ITAN'T see what our baby boy is dood for anyway : He don't know how to walk or talk, he don't know how to play ; He tears up ev'ry single zing he posser-bil-ly tan, An' even tried to break, one day, my mamma's bestest fan. He's al'ays tumblin' 'bout ze floor, aa' gives us awful scares, An' when he goes to bed at night, he never says his prayers. 308 RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. On Sunday, too, lie musses up my go-to-meetin' clothes. An' once I foun' him hard at work a-pinc'in' Dolly's nose ; An' ze uzzer day zat naughty boy (now what you s'pose you zink?) Upset a dreat big bottle of my papa's writin' ink; An', 'stead of kyin' dood an' hard, as course he ought to done, He laughed and kicked his head 'most off, as zough he zought 'twas fun. He even tries to reach up high, an' pull zings off ze shelf, An' he's al'ays wantin' you, of course, jus' when you wants you' self. I rather dess, I really do, from how he pulls my turls, Zey all was made a-purpose for to 'noy us little dirls ; An' I wish zere wasn't no such zing as naughty baby boys Why — why, zat's him a-kyin' now; he makes a drefful noise, I dess I better run and see, for if he lias — boo- hoo ! — Felled down ze stairs and killed his-self, whatever s-s-s'all I do I THE SQUIRREL'S LESSON. WO little squirrels, out in the sun, One gathered nuts, and the other had none; *'Time enough yet," his constant refrain; *^ Summer is still just on the wane." Listen, my child, while I tell you his fate : He roused him at last, but he roused him too late; Down fell the snow from a pitiless cloud, And gave little squirrel a spotless white shroud. Two little boys in a school-room, were placed, One always perfect, the other disgraced ; ''Time tixv^agh yet for my learning," he said; ''I will climb, by and by, from the foot to the head." Listen, my darling ; their locks are turned gray; One as a Governor sitteth to-day ; The other, a pauper, looks out at the door Of the almshouse, and idles his days as of yore. Two kinds of people we meet every day; One is at work, the other at play, Living uncared for, dying unknown — The busiest hive hath ever a drone. -4-V-o— ^ LITTLE KITTY. NCE there was a little kitty. Whiter than snow ; In the barn she used to frolic. Long time ago ; In the barn a little mousie Ran to and fro ; For she heard the kitty coming, Long time ago. Two black eyes had little kitty, Black as a sloe ; And they spied the little mousie. Long time ago. Nine pearl teeth had little kitty. All in a row •. And they bit the little mousie. Long time ago. When the teeth bit little mousie, Little mousie cried, " Oh ! '* But she got away from kitty, Long time ago. Kitty White so shyly comes, To catch the mousie Gray ; But mousie hears her softly stej And quickly runs away. RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 509 LABOR SONG. This is a charming exercise for boys and girls. Each should be dressed in the costume of the character to be represented, and, as far as possible, should go through the motions called for by the part. The prop- erties can all be placed on the stage before the performance begins. Each character comes in alone, those who have already entered remaining until the close. All unite in singing the chorus, after each performer has spoken or sung (according to choice) the part he or she is to act. Music suitable for this selection is herewith furnished. Come in promptly and avoid long pauses. The Farmer {with scythe and dressed like a farmer,^ M glad I am a husbandman, I My acres broad to till, And in the Autumn of the year My many barns to fill. How happy is the laborer, His heart is light and gay» And merrily his song rings out. Throughout the livelong day. The Farmer's Wife {kneading breadT). I'm glad I am a farmer's wife. --W- ^ a^-i: «+t ba-l 1 W~ -»=^: r :^--C -1-4- :i^=a^=^: -M=js^—W\ •*^- 11^ 1 1 ^ r p t=X- -MjbL •si- _-^p: -t—t- t= J _l^ Fine. E:E?^=S-=^; -"r-r-x How happy is the farmer's life, *Tis one of peace and joy. To reap and sow, and plow and mow, And thus the time employ. Chorus. * How happy is the laborer, For when the day is o'er, The evening shadows gather round. That he may work no more \ ^ip^^^i ■^--:^T Chorus D. C. al Fine. The wheaten bread to knead, And when the men come home from woi4. Their hungry mouths to feed. I keep my house in perfect trim, I sweep and dust and bake, And when the busy day is done, Sweet is the rest I take. — Chorus. The Farmer's Girl {with broom and milk pail) I'm glad I am a farmer's girl, 310 RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. I love the farmer's life, And if I ever wed at all, I'll be a farmer's wife. My milking pails make music sweet, I'm happy all the day, Work gives my cheek the glow of health, And drives dull care away. — Chorus. The Farmer's Boy {with rake). I'm glad I am a farmer's boy, To plant and rake and hoe — I get upon old Dobbin's back, And don't I make him go ? I shout and make the welkin ring, I sing my merry song, And, roaming through the fields and woods, I'm jolly all day long. \^Boy whistles Chorus. Dairy Maid {with churn.) I'm glad I am a dairy maid, My butter is so yellow ; I know the lad that catches me Will be a lucky fellow. I'm glad I am a dairy maid, My heart is light and gay. And with my milk and cream and churn, I'm happy all the day. — Chorus. Washerwoman {with tub and washboard). I'm glad I am a washerwoman. Ye know me by my look, I'll wash and starch your snowy clothes. And fold them like a book ; Then sind me in your orders quick For I've no time for fooling ; {Spoketi). I'll do thim to the best of my ability, entirely sure. — Chorus. The Shoemaker {shoe, last and hammer), I'm glad I am a shoemaker, With hammer, last and shoe ; Without the slippers that I make. What would the ladies do ? I cut the leather, fit the last — To me, my work is play — From morn to night, with heart so light, I sing and peg away. — Chorus. The Blacksmith {with anvil and hatnmer). I'm glad I am a blacksmith, . A noble horse to shoe, I hold within my lap his hoof. And whack the shoe-nail through ; I swing the hammer and I know Just how to make a hit, And indigestion, if you please, Don't trouble me a bit. — Chorus. The School-Teacher {imth slate , book and rule , three or four children to take part of scholars). I'm glad I am a school-teacher. With slate and book and rule. To teach the young idea to shoot, And extirpate the fool. The heights of knowledge I point out. And upward lead the way, And with my pupils pressing on, I'm happy every day, — Chorus. — =®(^|^i WHAT BABY SAID. I AM here. And if this is what they call the world, I don't think much of it. It's a very flannelly world and smells of paregoric awfully. It's a dreadful light world, too, and makes me blink, I tell you. And I don't know what to do with my hands ; I think I'll dig my fists in my eyes. No, I won^t. ni scratch at the corner of my blanket and chew it up, and then I'll holler; whatever happens, I'll holler. And the more paregoric they give me, the louder I'll yell. That old nurse puts the spoon in the corner of my mouth, sidewise like, and keeps .tast- ing my milk herself all the while. She spilt snuff in it last night, and when I hollered she trotted me. That comes of beings a twe- 1 RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 311 days-old baby. Never mind; when I'm a man, I'll pay her back good. There's a pin sticking in me now, and if I say a word about it, I'll be trotted or fed ; and I would rather have catnip-tea. I heard folks say, " Hush ! don't wake up Emeline's baby ; " and I suppose that pretty, white-faced woman on the pillow is Emehne. No, I was mistaken ; for a chap was in here just now and wanted to see Bob' s baby and looked at me and said I was a funny little toad, and looked just like Bob. Hf: smelt of cigars. I wonder who else I be long to! Yes, there's another one — that's ** Gamma." " It was Gamma's baby, so it was." I declare, I don't know who I belong to ; but I'll holler, and maybe I'll find out. There comes snuffy with catnip tea. I'm going to sleep. I wonder why my hands won't go where I want them to ! I ONE LITTLE ACT. SAW a man, with tottering steps. Come down a graveled walk, one day; The honored frost of many years Upon his scattered thin locks lay. With trembling hands he strove to raise The latch that held the little gate, When rosy lips looked up and smiled, — A silvery child-voice said, ** Please wait. A little girl oped wide the gate, And held it till he passed quite through, Then closed it, raising to his face Her modest eyes of winsome blue. ^'May Heaven bless you, little one," The old man said, with tear- wet eyes ; " Such deeds of kindness to the old Will be rewarded in the skies." 'Twas such a little thing to do — A moment's time it took — no more ; And then the dancing, graceful feet Had vanished through the school-room door. And yet I'm sure the angels smiled, And penned it down in words of gold ; 'Tis such a blessed thing to see The young so thoughtful of the old. to THE LITTLE Lines written for Edward RAY, how should I, a Httle lad, In speaking make a figure ? S You're only joking, I'm afraid — Do wait till I am bigger. But, since you wish to hear my part. And urge me to begin it, 1*11 strive for praise, with all my heart. Though small the hope to win it. I'll tell a tale how Farmer John A httle roan colt bred, sir, And every night and every morn He watered and he fed, sir. Said Neighbor Joe to Farmer John, ** Aren't you a silly dolt, sir, ORATOR- Everett, when a child. To spend such time and care upon A little useless colt, sir? " Said Farmer John to Neighbor Joe, "I bring my little roan up, Not for the good he now can do, But will do when he's grown up." The moral you can well espy. To keep the tale from spoiling; The little colt, you think, is I— I know it by your smiling. And now, my friends, please to excuse My lisping and my stammers ; I, for this once, have done my best. And so — I'll make my manners. Thaddeus Mason Harris. 312 RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. I A GENTLEMAN. KNEW him for a gentleman By signs that never fail ; His coat was rough and rather worn, His cheeks were thin and pale — A lad who had his way to make, With little time for play; I knew him for a gentleman By certain signs to-day. He met his mother on the street ; Off came his little cap. My door was shut ; he waited there Until I heard his rap. He took the bundle from my hand. And when I dropped my pen, He sprang to pick it up for me — This gentleman of ten. He does not push and crowd along ; His voice is gently pitched ; He does not fling his books about As if he were bewitched, He stands aside to let you pass ; He always shuts the door ; He runs on errands willingly To forge and mill and store. He thinks of you before himself, He serves you if he can ; For, in whatever company, The manners make the man. At ten or forty, 'tis the same ; The manner tells the tale. And I discern the gentleman By signs that never fail. Margaret E. Sangster. e-^-v-o-v^H. feT'HEl BABIES AND KITTENS. 4 I HERE were two kittens, a black and a gray. And grandma said with a frown : It never will do to keep them both. The black one we had better drown," ** Don't cry, my dear," to tiny Bess, " One kitten is enough to keep. Now run to nurse, for 'tis growing late And time you were fast asleep." The morning dawned, and rosy and sweet. Came little Bess from her nap, The nurse said, " Go in mamma's room, And look in grandma's lap." *' Come here," said grandma, with a smile, From the rocking-chair, where she sat, '' God has sent you two little sisters, What do you think of that ? " Bess looked at the babies a moment, With their wee heads, yellow and brown, And then to grandma soberly said : '' Which one are you going to drown ? " L. M. Hadley. 4 A DISSATISFIED CHICKEN. (*) I HERE was a little chicken that was shut up ^1 in a shell, -^ He thought to himself, ^' I'm sure I can- not tell Wnat I am walled in here for — a shocking coop I find, Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind." He went out in the barnyard one lovely morn in May, Each hen he found spring-cleaning in the only proper way; ''This yard is much too narrow — a shocking coop I find, Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind." He crept up to the gateway and shpped betwixt a crack, The world stretched wide before him, and just as widely back; RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 313 '* This world is much too narrow — a shocking coop I find, Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind. ^^I should like to have ideals, I should like to tread the stars, •o get the unattainable, and free my soul from bars ; I should like to leave this dark earth, and some other dwelling find More fitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind. ** There's a place where ducks and pleasure boats go sailing to and fro, There's one world on the surface and another world below." The little waves crept nearer and, on the brmk inclined, They swallowed up the chicken with an enter- prising mind. A. G, Waters THE LITTLE TORMENT. kY name's Jack. I'm eight years old. I've a sister Arathusa, and ^ V^ she calls me a little torment. I'll tell you why: You know Arathusahas got a beau, and he comes to see her every night, and they turn the gas 'way, 'way down 'till you can't hardly see. I like to stay in the room with the gas on full blaze, but Arathusa skites me out of the room every night. I checked her once, you better believe. You know she went to the door to let Al- phonso in, and I crawled under the sofa. Then they came in, and it got awful dark, and they sat down on the sofa, and I couldn't hear nothing but smack ! smack ! smack ! Then I reached out and jerked Arathusa's foot. Then she jumped and said, '' Oh, mercy, what's that?" and Alphonso said she was a " timid little creature." " Oh, Al- phonso, I'm happy by your side, but when I think of your going away it almost breaks my heart." Then I snickered right out, I couldn't help it, and Arathusa got up, went and peeked through the keyhole and said, " I do believe that's Jack, nasty little torment, he's always where he isn't wanted." Do you know this made me mad, and I crawled out from under the sofa and stood up before her and saidj ^' You think you are smart because you have got a beau. I guess I know what youVe been doing; you've been sitting on Alphonso' s lap, and letting him kiss you like you let Bill Jones kiss you. You ought to be ashamed of your- self. If it hadn't been for that old false front of yours. Pa would have let me have a bicycle like Tom Clifford's. You needn't be grinding them false teeth of yours at me, I ain't a-going out of here. I ain't so green as I look. I guess I know a thing or two. I don't care if you are 28 years old, you ain't no boss of me 1" THE REASON WHY, /V) 1*1^ BOSTON master said, one day, l^ " Boys, tell me, if you can, I pray, /J\\ Why Washington's birthday should shine In to-day's history, more than mine ? " At once such stillness in the hall You might have heard a feather fall ; Exclaims a boy not three feet high, " Because he never told a lie ! " 314 RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. A CHILD'S REASONING HE was ironing dolly's new gown, Maid Marian, four years old, With her brows puckered down In a painstaking frown Under her tresses of gold. 'Twas Sunday, and nurse coming in Exclaimed in a tone of surprise : *^ Don't you know it's a sin Any work to begin On the day that the Lord sanctifies? " Then, lifting her face like a rose, Thus answered this wise little tot : "Now, don't you suppose The good Lord He knows This little iron ain't hot?" A SWELL DINNER, (^PL. PLAIN, grave man once grew quite cele- brated ; Dame Grundy met him with her blandest smile. And Mrs. Shoddy, finding him much feted, Gave him a dinner in her sweliest style. Her dining-table was a blaze of glory ; Soft light from many colored candles fell Upon the young, the middle aged, and hoary — On beauty and on those who " made up " well. Her china was a miracle of beauty — No service like it ever had been sold, And, being unsmuggled, with the price and duty, Was nearly worth its weight in gold. The flowers were wonderful — I think that maybe Only another world has flowers more fair ; Each rose was big enough to brain a bab)'. And there were several bushels cf them there. The serving was the acme of perfection ; Waiters were many, silent, deft, and fleet ; Their manners seemed a reverent affection And oh ! what stacks of things there were to eat! And yet the man, for all this honor singled, Would have exchanged it with the greatest joy For one plain meal of pork and cabbage mingled, Cooked by his mother when he was a boy. LITTLE JACK. E wore a pair of tattered pants, A ragged roundabout, And through the torn crown of his hat A lock of hair stuck out ; He had no shoes upon his feet. No shirt upon his back ; His home was on the friendless street, His name was *' Little Jack." One day a toddling baby-boy With head of curly hair Escaped his loving mother's eyes, Who, busy with her care. Forgot the little one, that crept Upon the railroad near To play with the bright pebbles there. Without a thought of fear. But see ! around the curve there comes A swiftly flying train — It rattles, roars ! the whistle shrieks With all its might and main ; The mother sees her child, but stands Transfixed with sudden fright ! The baby clasps his little hands And laughs with lovy delight. RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 315 Look ! look ! a tattered figure flies Adown the railroad track ! His hat is gone, his feet are bare ! 'Tis ragged /' Little Jack ! " He grasps the child, and from the track The babe is safely tossed — A slip ! a cry ! the train rolls by — Brave '' Little Jack " is lost. They found his mangled body there, Just where he slipped and fell, And strong men wept who never cared For him when he was well. If there be starry crowns in heaven For little ones to wear, The star in ^' Little Jack's " shall shine As bright as any there ! Eugene J. Hall. A STORY OF AN APPLE. 2ITTLE Tommy and Peter and Archy and Bob , Were walking one day, when they found An apple ; 'twas mellow and rosy and red, And lying alone on the ground. Said Tommy: '^'11 have it." Said Peter: "*Tis mine.' ' Said Archy : "I've got it ; so there ! " Said Bobby : " Now let us divide in four parts, And each of us boys have a share." *'No, no ! " shouted Tommy, "I'll have it my- self." Said Peter: "I want it, I say." Said Archy : '* I've got it, and I'll have it all ; I won't give a morsel away." Then Tommy, he snatched it, and Peter, he fought, ('Tis sad and distressing to tell !) And Archy held on vv^ith his might and his main, Till out of his fingers it fell. Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flew, And then down a green little hill That apple it rolled, and it rolled, and it rolled As if it would never be still. A lazy old brindle was nipping the grass And switching her tail at the flies, When all of a sudden the apple rolled down And stopped just in front of her eyes. She gave but a bite and a swallow or two-— That apple was seen nevermore ! "I wish," whimpered Archy and Peter and Tom, "We'd kept it and c*ut it in four.'' Sydney Dayre. ! IDLE BEN. DLE Ben was a naughty boy ; (If you please, this story's true ]) He caused his teachers great annoy, And his worthy parents, too. Idle Ben, m a boastful way. To his anxious parents told, That, while he was young, he thought he'd play, And he'd learn when he grew old. " Ah, Ben ' " -:: J l.xc xnother, and dropped a tear, *' You'll be sorry for this by-and-by." Says Ben, " To me, that's not very clear, But at any rate I'll try." So Idle Ben, he refused to learn, Thinking that he could wait ; But, when he had his living to earn, He found it was just too late. Little girls, little boys, don't delay youi work; Some day you'll be women and men : Whenever your task you're inclined to shirk. Take warning by Idle Ben. 316- RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. BABY ALICE'S RAIN, HE drouth had been long — oh, very long — The whole long month of blithesome May ; The rain-clouds seemed to have wandered wrong. From the pinched, brown land so far away: Leaves fell ; and the blue-birds hushed their song, As field and forest grew dim and gray. Then one night the clouds had gathered : the wind Came in from the east ; but it needed trust To believe that the soft rain lurked behind, To cool the fierce heat and to lay the dust : So soon we forget that God is kind ! So easily cease to hope and to trust ! But it rained at morning : oh, welcome fall Of the drops from heaven, that had such need ! Those drops that have fallen alike on all. Of the kindly thought and the cruel deed. Since the plant of life was so tin}' «xia small When the Mighty Hand had just dropped the seed. Did we wonder, to see it come at last — This coveted blessing? — wee Alice did not, As quick to the window all dimpled she passed, Springing up in glee from her little cot, And bearing a love so holy and vast In such limited space — dear baby tot I " Look, mamma! look, papa ! — oh yes, it yanee I "1 tought dere ood be some 'ittle showers! " Detoration Day — Dod take such pains ! "Don't 'u see Dod's waterin' de soldiers' f 'owers ? " Oh, lips of the children! — there's something rC' remains Yet, of Eden's prime, in this world of ours. John Hay Furness. GIVE US LITTLE BOYS A CHANCE. ERE we are I don't leave us out. Just because we're little boys! Though we're not so bold and stout, In the world we'll make a noise. You are many a year ahead. But we'41 step by step advance ; All the world's htiort you spread — Give us little boys a chance ! Never slight us in our play ; You were once as small as we ; We'll be big, like you, some day, Then perhaps our power you'll see. We will meet you, when we'er grown With a brave and fearless glance ; Don't think all this y^orld^ s yoitr own- Give us little boys a chance ! Little hands will soon be strong For the work that they must do j Little lips will sing their song When these early days are through. So, you big folks, if we're small. On our toes you needn't dance; There is room enough for all — Give us little boys a cbance ! W^ PUSS IN THE OVEN. HILE sitting at our breakfast rather late One winter's morn a little after eight, We heard a noise ; But from the shuffling of feet and legs. Of dririking coff"ee and of eating eggs. We girls and boys Thought Httle of it, but looked at one another; Fred looked at Polly — Polly at her brother. Just then we heard a feeble cry, so wee. Where could it come from — and what could it be? "It's puss," cried one, "she must oc in the 'aery.' " RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 317 And so we went with footsteps soft and wary. But, no ; Puss in the aery was not found, And once again we heard the plaintive sound, '' M-e-o-w, M-e-w," What could we do ? We looked again and Clara searched the house ; Was pussy in the coal-hole, with a mouse ? '' M-e-w, M-e-o-w," Much louder now. ** She s in the cupboard," so, we search the shelves, But find no pussy. Have some fairy elves Been imitating puss ? But once again Poor pussy gives a cry as if i^ pain ; The drawers are searched ; in every little nook Where puss could hide we take a hasty look. *' M-e-w, M-e-o-w," Still louder now, We all look frightened, so while one declares That pussy's hidden underneath the stairs ; And while we stood upon the kitchen rug. Wondering where pussy was so nice and snug. The oven door was opened just a bit To warm some toast, when out jumped little Kit / And as she shook her furry brindled form. She seemed to say, "My bed was rather warm.** -4^ WHAT WAS IT? UESS what he had in his pocket. Marbles and tops and sundry toys Such as always belong to boys, A bitter apple, a leathern ball ? — = Not at all. What did he have in his pocket ? A bubble-pipe, and a rusty screw, A brassy watch-key, broken in two. A fish-hook in a tangle of string ?— No such thing. What did he have in his pocket ? Ginger-bread crumbs, a whistle he made, Buttons, a knife with a broken blade, A nail or two and a rubber gun ? — Neither one. What did he have in his pocket ? Before he knew it slyly crept Under the treasures carefully kept. And away they all of them quickly stole— 'Twas a hole ! Sidney Dayre. THE COBBLER (^>t^ WAGGISH cobbler once in Rome, l^ X Put forth this proclamation, /J|jj\ That he was willing to disclose For due consideration, A secret which the cobbling world Could ill afford to lose ; The way to make in one short day A hundred pairs of shoes. From every quarter soon there came A crowd of eager fellows ; Tanners, cobblers, bootmen, shoemen, Jolly leather sellers, All redolent of beef and smoke, And cobbler's wax and hides; Each fellow paid his thirty pence And called it cheap besides. '5 SECRET. Silence 1 The cobbler enters And casts around his eyes, Then curls his lips — the rogue ! — then frowns. And looks most wondrous wise ; " My friends," he says, '''tis simple quite. The plan that I propose ; And every man of you, I think. Might learn it if he chose. A good sharp knife is all you need In carrying out my plan ; So easy is it none can fail Let him be child or man. To make a hundred pairs of shoes, Just go back to your shops, And take a hundred pairs of boots And cut off all their tops ! ** 318 RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. I'M a poor little kitty, And alas ! when born, so pretty, That the morning I was found. Instead of being drowned, I was saved to be the toy Of a dreadful baby-boy, AVho pinches and who pokes me. Holds me by my throat and chokes me. And when I could vainly try From his cruel clutch to fly, Grabs my tail, and pulls so hard That some day, upon my word ! I am sure 'twill broken be, And then everybody'll see Such a looking Kitty I A SAD CASE. That baby has no pity ! Thinks I'm " only a kitty *' — » I won't stand it, nor would you I 'Tis no use to cry out m-e-w ! Listen ! Some day I shall scratch, And he'll find he's met his m.atch; That within my little paws There are ever so many claws ! And it won't be very long, If this sort of thing goes on, Till there'll be a kitten row Such as has not been till now ; Then, my lad, there will be found, Left upon that battle-ground, Such a looking Baby ! Clara D. Bates. -4-V-o— %-f- THE HEIR APPARENT. A small boy who can adopt the air and demeanor of the " afflicted parent" will make this soliloquy very amusmg. BABY ! Yes — a baby — a real, definite, unquestionable baby! What of it? o you ask. Well, that's queer. Don't know vi^hat a baby is ? I'm sorry for you. My advice is — go and get one. Heigho ! Tm weighted down with my re- sponsibility. Solferino in color — no hair on its head — kicks — yowls — mews — whines — sneezes — squints — makes up mouths — it's a singular circumstance — that baby is, and — but never mind. Cross ? I guess that's a beginning of the truth, so far as it's concerned, but, why did it happen along just at the moment when muslin, linen and white flannel were the highest they had been since Adam built a hen-house for Mrs. Eve's chickens ? when the doctors charge two dollars a squint, four dollars a grunt, and, on account of the scarcity in the country, take what is left in a man's pocket, no discount for cash, and «£^nd bill for balance, Jan. 1st? Queer, isn't k ? {A pause.) A queer little thing is that baby ; a speck of a nose like a wart, head as bald as a squash, and no place to hitch a waterfall ; a mouth just situated to come the gum-game and chew milk. Oh ! you should hear her sing. I have stuffed my fur cap down its throat, given it the smoothing-iron to play with ; but that little red lump that looks as if it couldn't hold blood enough to keep a musketo from fainting, persists to swallow its fists, and the other day they dropped down its throat, to the crook in its elbows. That stopped its music, and I was happy for one and a half minutes. It is a pleasant thing to have a baby in the house — one of your achy kind. Think of the pleasures of a father in his night cos- tume, trembling in the midnight hour, with his warm feet upon a square yard of oilcloth, dropping paregoric in a teaspoon, by moon- light, the nurse thumping at the door, and the wife of your bosom crying " hurray," and the baby yelling till the fresco drops from RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 319 the ceiling. It's a nice time to think of dress coats, pants, ties, and white kids. Its mother says the darling is troubled with — oh, don't mention it. I have got to get up in the cold and shiver while the milk warms — it uses the bottle. I tried to stop its growth the other night ; it was no go. 1 rocked so hard that I missed stays, and sent it slap clear across the room, upsetting the flower- stand. It didn't make any noise then! Oh, no ! I was a happy man. Oh, yes. {A pause.) That baby's mother says only wait until it gets bleached (it's been vaccinated) and old enough to crawl about and feed on pins. Yes, I'm going to wait. Won't it be delightful ? John, run for the doctor; it's fallen into the slop pail ; it's choking with a peach-skin; or it has fallen down stairs ; or has swallowed the tack-hammer ; or shows signs of the mumps, croup, whooping cough, small poXp cholera infantum, or some other curious thing to let the doctor take the money laid by for my winter's donation to the poor. Shampooing, curling my hair, wearing nice clothes, going to parties ? Oh, no more of that ! No — more — of— that. A baby — oh ! I'm an old fellow now. Adieu, vain world ! -^- AN EGG A CHICKEN. N Qgg a chicken ! Don't tell me ! For didn't I break an tgg to see ? There was nothing inside but a yel- low ball, With a bit of mucillage round it all — Neither beak nor bill, Nor toe nor quill, Not even a feather To hold it together; Not a sign of life could any one see. An Qgg a chicken ? You can't fool me ! An tgg a chicken ! Didn't I pick Up the very shell that had held the chick — So they said? — and didn't I work half a day To pack him in where he couldn't stay? Let me try as I please, With squeeze upon squeeze, There is scarce space to meet His head and his feet. No room for any of the rest of him — so That tgg never held that chicken I know." Mamma heard the logic of her Httle man, Felt his trouble, and helped him, as mothers can ! Took an egg from the nest— it was smooth and round : ** Now, my boy, can you tell me what makes this sound?" Faint and low, tap, tap ; Soft and slow, rap, rap ; Sharp and quick, Like a prisoner's pick. ''Hear it peep, inside there! " cried Tom, with a shout ; ''How did it get in, and how can it get out? " Tom was eager to help — he could break the shell. Mamma smiled and said, "All's well that ends weli^ Be patient awhile yet my boy." Click, click. And out popped the bill of a dear little chick. No room had it lacked. Though snug it was packed. There it was, all complete. From its head to its feet. The softest of down and the brightest of eyes, And so big — why, the shell wasn't half its size. Tom gave a long whistle, " Mamma, now I see That an egg is a chicken — though the how beats me, An tgg isn't a chicken, that I know and declare/ Yet a egg isn't a chicken — see the proof ot it there Nobody can tell How it came in that shell ; Once out all in vain Would I pack it again. I think 'tis a miracle, mamma mine, As much as that of the water and wine.* 320 RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. ONE OF GOD'S LITTLE HEROES. (5 I HE patter of feet was on the stair, * I As the Editor turned in his sanctum -^ chair, And said — for weary the day had been — *' Don't let another intruder in." But scarce had he uttered the words, before A face peered in at the half-closed door, And a child sobbed out — *' Sir, mother said I should come and tell you that Dan is dead." "And pray who is *Dan'?" The streaming eyes Looked questioning up, with a strange surprise : " Not know him? — Why, sir, all day he sold The papers you print, through wet and cold. ''The newsboys say that they could not tell The reason his stock went off so well : 1 knew ! — with a voice so weak and low. Could any one bear to say him ' No ? ' ' ' And the money he made, whatever it be, He carried straight home to mother and me : No matter about his rags, he said. If only he kept us clothed and fed. ''And he did it, sir — trudging through rain and cold, Nor stopped till the last of his sheets was sold ; But he's dead — he's dead ! and we miss him so ! And mother — she thought you might like to know ! ' ' In the paper, next morning, as " leader," ran A paragraph thus : ' ' The newsboy Dan, One of God's little heroes, who Did nobly the duty he had to do — For mother and sister earning bread. By patient endurance and toil — is dead." Margaret J. Preston. '*-5==rs>i ^4^' WHAT THE COWS WERE DOING, KITTLE Rosie, walking slowly Past the verdant meadow, sees ^ Many cows, and some are standing. Others lying 'neath the trees. In the road stands little Rosie, Caring not for dust or mud, While her eyes are bent upon them As they calmly chew their cud. Great surprise her face expresses. For awhile her lips are dumb ; Then she cries out, " Mamma ! Mamma ! All the cows are chewing gum ! ' ' T: MAMMA'S HELP. ES, Bridget has gone to the city, And papa is sick, as you see. And mamma has no one to help her But two-year old Lawrence and me. " You'd like to know what I am good for, ' Cept to make work and tumble things down ; I guess there aren't no little girlies \t your house at home, Dr. Brown. *'I've brushed all the crumbs from the table, And dusted the sofa and chairs, I've polished the hearthstone and fender. And swept off the area stairs. I've wiped all the silver and china, And just dropped one piece on the floor , Yes, Doctor, it broke in the middle, But I 'spect it was cracked before. And the steps that I saved precious mamma ! You'd be s'prised, Doctor Brown , if you knew. She says if it wasn't for Bessie She couldn't exist the day through ! RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 321 It's ^ Bessie, bring papa some water ! ' And * Bessie dear^ run to the door ! ' And ' Bessie love, pick up the playthings The baby has dropped on the floor ! ' ' ''Yes, Doctor, I'm 'siderably tired, I've been on my feet ail the day ; Good-bye ! well, perhaps I will help you When your old Bridget 'goes off to stay ! ' HOW TWO BIRDIES KEPT HOUSE. HE morning was sunshiny, lovely, and clear. And two little wrens were both hovering near, Chirping and warbling with wonderful zest. Looking for some place to build them a nest. They searched the veranda, examined the trees, But never a place could they And that would please ; Till Mabel, whose eyes were as blue as the sky, And very observing, their trouble did spy. Then; 4uick as the thought darted through her wee head, ''I'll help you, dear birdies," she lispingly said ; "You just wait a minute, I'll give you my shoe ; 'Twill make you a nice nest — as good as if new." With much toil and trouble she undid the knot. Took off the small shoe, and picked out a spot Behind a large pillar : there tucked it away ; And soon she forgot it in innocent play. But the wrens chirped, " Why, here's a nest ready- made, In the very best place, too, and quite in the shade!" They went to work quickly, without more ado. To keep house like the woman " that lived in a shoe." When evening shades came, at the close of the day, And dear little Mable was tired of play, She thought of the birdies, and went off alone. To see, if she could, what the birdies had done. With heads under their wings the wrens were asleep ; Side by side, in the shoe, they were cuddled down deep, Then, clapping her hands, Mable said, " Keep my shoe ; My new ones I'll wear, and this one's foy you." •»-i-=S)@S^<^( WHY -^f^sISTEN, my boy, and you shall know III A thing that happened a long time ago, JL Jf ^ When I was a boy not as large as you, And the youngest of all the children, too. I laugh even now as I think it o'er, And the more I think I laugh the more. 'Twas the chilly eve of an autumn day j We were all in the kitchen, cheery and gay ; The fire burned bright on the old brick hearth. And its cheerful light gave zest to our mirth. My elder sister, addressing me, "To-morrow's Thanksgiving, you know," said she; (2I-X) HE WOULDN'T DIE. We must kill the chickens to-night, you see. Now light the lantern and come with me ; I will wring their necks until they are dead, And have them all dressed ere we go to bed." My sister, unused to sights of blood, And, pale with excitement, trembling stood ^ But summoning courage, she laid her plans. And seized the old rooster with both her hands. And, with triumph written all over her face. Her victim bore to the open space. Then she wrung and wrung with might and main. And wrung and twisted and wrung again. S22 kEClTATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 'Till, sure that the spark of life had fled, She threw him down on the ground for dead. But the rooster would not consent to die, And be made up into chicken-pie, So he sprang away with a cackle and bound, Almost as soon as he touched the ground, And hiding away from the candle's light^. Escaped the slaughter of that dark night- My sister, thus brought to sudden stand, And looking at what she held in her hand, Soon saw why the rooster was not dead- She had wrung off his tail instead of head ! his THE SICK DOLLY. It needs a cute little girl who can make appropriate gestures to recite this piece. Y dolly is very sick ! I don't know what to do ; Her little forehead it scowls quite horrid, Her lips are turning blue. She's got a dreadful pain, I know it from her face ; I'll fetch a pellet and make her smell it^ From mamma's medicine-case. There, there, my child, lie still; That's sure to do you good. Now don't be ugly, I'll wrap you snugly All in your scarlet hood. I know what made her sick ! She's had too much to eat ! A piece of cheese, six blackberries And a little bit of meat I That's too much for a doll, (Hush, Baby dear, don't cry !) All those blackberries, besides stewed cherries. And huckleberry pie. I ought to be ashamed (That's just what mamma said) To let my dolly commit such folly, And get a pain in her head. Some gruel would do her good ; What fun 'twill be to make it ! Just flour and water, and then, my daughter, You'll have to wake and take it ! I'd like to be a cook ! How nice the gruel does smell I Oh, there it goes all over her nose I Now dolly has got well. DAYS OF THE WEEK. (5! 1 'hk'^ 11 ^^ For seven little boys and girls. Teacher i, days of the week once talking together About their housekeeping, their friends and the weather. Agreed in their talk it would be a nice thing For all to march, and dance, and sing; So they all stood up in a very straight row, And this is the way they decided to go : {Let seven children stand up, and as day of week is called, take places, each one equipped with the thifigs the speaker mentionsi) or some large boy or girl should speak. First came little Sunday, so sweet and good, With a book in her hand, at the head she stood. Monday skipped in with soap and a tub, Scrubbing away with a rub-a-dub-dub ; With board and iron comes Tuesday bright. Talking to Monday in great delight. Then Wednesday — the dear little cook — came in. Riding cock horse on his 'rolling-pin Thursday followed, with broom and brush, Her hair in a towel, and she in a rush. il RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 323 Friday appeared, gayly tripping along; He scoured the knives and then he was gone. Saturday last, with a great big tub, Into which we all ;ump for a very good rub. ( The children march and si?tg to the tune of " Good Morning, Merry Sunshine.''^') Children of the week are we, Happy, busy, full of glee. Often do we come this way. And you meet us every day. Hand in hand we trip along, Singing, as we go, a song. Each one may a duty bring, Though it be a little thing. {All how, and, taking tip the articles, retire from the stage in order, Sunday, Monday etc.') Mary Ely Page. POPPING CORN. ND there they sat, a popping corn, John Styles and Susan Cutter — John Styles as fat as any ox And Susan fat as butter. And there they sat and shelled the corn. And raked and stirred the fire, And talked of different kinds of care. And hitched their chairs up nigher. Then Susan she the popper shook, Then John lie shook the popper, Till both their faces grew as red As saucepans made of copper. And then they shelled, and popped and ate. All kinds of fun a-poking, While he haw-hawed at her remarks. And she laughed at his joking. And olsill they popped, and still they ate— John's mouth was like a hopper — And stiri'ed the fire and sprinkled salt. And shook and shook the nopper. The clock struck nine — the clock struck ten, And still the corn kept popping; It struck eleven, and then struck twelve, And still no signs of stopping. And John he ate, and Sue she thought — ^ The corn did pop and patter — Till John cried out, ''The corn's afire | Why, Susan, what's the matter?" Said she, ** John Styles, it's one o'clock; You'll die of indigestion ; I'm sick of all this popping corn- Why don't you pop the question ? '* J HOW THE FARMER WORKS, For Several Boys. HIS is the way the happy farmer (i) Plows his piece of ground, That from the little seeds he sows A large crop may abound. This is the way he sows the seed, (2) Dropping with careful hand, = straint. (Fig. 1 1.) Being at the Guard — Advance !- — Move the left foot quickly forward, twice its length ; follow with the right foot the same distance. Retire ! — Move the right foot quickly to Fig. 9. Fig. five steps from the one in the rear, until all are the same distance apart. They then face front. To close the rank, tur:.: to the right or left and march toward the pupil standing at the end until halted by the one ahead. Then face front. Attentio7i — Guard! — At the command guard, half face to the right, carry back and place the right foot about twice its length to the rear and nearly the same distance to the right, the feet at little less than a right angle, the right toe pointing squarely to the right, both knees bent slightly, weight of the body held equally on both legs ; at the same time Fig. II. the rear, twice its length ; follow with the left foot the same distance. Front — Pass! — Advance the right foot quickly, fifteen inches in front of the left, keeping right toe squarely to the right ; ad- vance the left foot to its relative position in front. Rear — Pass ! — Carry the left foot quickly fifteen inches to the rear of the right ; place the right foot in its relative position in rear, keeping the rfght toe squarely to the right. Riglit — Volt ! — Face to the right, turning on the ball of the left foot at the same time RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 329 carry the right foot quickly to its position in rear. Left — Volt ! — Face to the left, turning on handle upward, the fingers of the left hand on the handle, the left elbow touching the right wrist. (Fig. 12.] Fig. 12. the ball of the left foot, at the same time carry the right foot quickly to its position in rear. Right rear and left rear volts are similarly Fig. 13. Fig. 14. Seconde — Parry ! — Move the point of the broom-handle quickly to the left, describing a semi-circle from left to right, the left elbow in front of the body, the flat of the broom Fig. 15. executed, facing about on the ball of the left foot Quarte — Parry ! — Hold the broom in front Q>f the left shoulder with the right hand, Fig. 16. under the right forearm, the right elbow two or three inches higher than the right shouldei. (Fig. 13.) Prime — Parry. — Carry the broom to the 330 RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. left, covering the left shoulder, the handle ! downward, the left forearm behind the han- dle, the right arm in front of and above the eyes. (Fig^. 14."^ Fig. 17. THRUSTS. To Thrust in Tierce. — Straighten the right leg, extend both arms, keeping point of handle at height of the breast, broom at right side of head. (Fig. 15.) Fig. 19. Thrust in Quarts. — The same as tierce, but with the broom on the left side of the head. LUNGES. The lunges are the same as the thrusts, except that the left foot is extended farther in front. (Fig. 16.) Fig. 18. Broom to Front — One! — Raise handle nearly straight up and down, drop it into the hollow of the right shoulder. — Two I — Strii<:e quickly by pushing the broom for- ward, the handle always resting on the right shoulder. (Fig. 17.) Right Short — Thrust ! — One ! — H old the broom with the right hand to the r^ar, left hand by the right breast, the point of the Fig. 20. handle opposite the centre of the body.—- Two! — Thrust forward. (Fig. 18.) High Fnme — Parry!— Raise the broom RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. 331 with both hands in front of and higher than the head. Hold the handle firmly with the right hand, the broom being to the right; turn the knuckles of the left hand to the front, and let other end of broom handle rest on the thumb and forefinger. (Fig. 19.) To Guard when Kneeling. — Bring the toe of the left foot square in front, plant the right foot to the rear, kneel on the right march in single files according to the diagram' furnished below. When they meet at C F, separate and march to L F and R F, then up sides of stage to back, then across back to C B. When they meet at C B, form couples and march in twos forward on centre line. At C F first couple turn to R F, second to L F, third to R F, fourth to L F, etc. March up sides to back, and when couples meet ^t C B march in RB. CB. €: ■ r«**c«iim«iaitq«tir«%i R.F_ 0]_ LB. LR knee, bending the left, hold the broom at an angle of 45 degrees, pointing directly to the front, the right hand pressed firmly against the side, the left hand holding the point of handle upward. (Fig. 20.) THE MARCH. There should be music while the pupils are coming upon the stage and leaving. Any spirited march will answer. Girls enter from right and left sides of stage at the back, eight on each side, and forars to C F. First four turn to R F, second four to L F, etc. March up sides to back . When the fours meet at C B, form eights and march toward front and halt for drill. During the march they "carry brooms" in the right hand, the stick resting against the right shoulder and nearly vertical, the arm hanging at nearly its full length near the body, the hand grasping the handle of the broom just above the sweep (the brush part), which rests flat against the side of skirt. The thumb and forefinger must be in front. RECITATIONS FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL It is so difficult to obtain really good selections to be recited at Sunday-school anniversaries and similar occasions, that those here presented will be much appreciated. They have the merit of containing good sentiments and are therefore appropriate. The best lessons for young and old are often conveyed in simple language. LITTLE SERVANTS. H, what can little hands do To please the King of heaven ? The little hands some work may try To help the poor in misery ; — Such grace to mine be given. Oh, what can little lips do To please the King of heaven? The little lips can praise and pray, And gentle words of kindness say ; — Such grace to mine be given. Oh, what can little eyes do To please the King of heaven? The little eyes can upward look, Can learn to read God's holy book;-»- Such grace to mine be given. Oh, what can little hearts do To please the King of heaven ? The hearts, if God his Spirit send. Can love and trust the children's Friend ; — Such grace to mine be given. When hearts, eyes, lips and hands unite To please the King of heaven. And serve the Saviour with delight, They are most precious in his sight ; — Such grace to mine be given. WILLIE AND THE BIRU»:i. A little black-eyed boy of five Thus spake to his mamma -. ''Do look at all the pretty birds; How beautiful they are ! How smooth and glossy are their wings; How beautiful their hue ; Besides, mamma, I really think That they zxt pious, too j " P.32 *' Why so, my dear ? " the mother said, And scarce suppressed a smile ; The answer showed a thoughtful head, A heart quite free from guile : " Because, when each one bows his head> His tiny bill to wet. To lift a thankful glance above He never does forget ; And so, mamma, it seems to me That very pious they must be.** Dear child, I would a lesson learn From this sweet thought of thine, And heavenward, with a glad heart, turn These earth-bound eyes of mine ; Perfected praise, indeed is given, By babes below, to God in heaven, A CHILD'S PRAYER. Lord, teach a little child to pray. And oh ! accept my prayer ; Thou canst hear all the words I say. For Thou art everywhere. A little sparrow cannot fall Unnoticed, Lord by Thee; And though I am so young and small. Thou dost take care of me. Teach me to do whate'er is right, And when I sin, forgive ; And make it still my chief delight To serve Thee while I live. GOD LOVES ME. God cares for every little child That on this great earth liveth. ; He gives them homes and food and clothe? And more than these God giveth;— ^ RECITATIOiNS FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL, S3S He gives them all their loving friends ; He gives each child its mother ; He gives them all the happiness Of loving one another. He makes the earth all beautiful ; He gives us eyes to see ; And touch and hearing, taste and smell, He gives them all to me. And, better still, he gives his word, Which tells how God's dear Son Gathered the children in his arms And loves them — every one. What can a little child give God ? From his bright heavens above The great God smiles, and reaches down To take his children's love. THE UNFINISHED PRAYER. This beawtiful poem is admirably adapted for a church entertainment when spoken by a little girl, " Now I lay" — say it, darling; ^' Lay me," lisped the tiny lips Of my daughter, kneehng, bending O'er her folded finger tips. *' Down to sleep " — " to sleep," she murmured And the curly head dropped low ; *' I pray the Lord " — I gently addedj *' You can say it all, I know." ** Pray the Lord " — the words came famtiy, Fainter still — " my soul to keep ; " When the tired head fairly nodded, And the child was fast asleep. But the dewy eyes half opened. When I clasped her to my breast, And the dear voice softly whispered, " Mamma, God knows all the rest." DEEDS OF KINDNESS. Suppose the little cowslip Should hang its little cup. And say, '* I'm such a tiny flower, I'd better not grow up." How many a weary traveler Would miss its fragrant smell ! How many a little child would grieve To lose it from the dell ! Suppose the glistening dew-drops Upon the grass should say, *' What can a little dew-drop do ? I'd better roll away." The blade on which it rested. Before the day was done, Without a drop to moisten it Would wither in the sun. Suppose the little breezes. Upon a summer's day, Should think themselves too small to cool The traveler on his way ; Who would not miss the smallest And softest ones that blow, And think they made a great mistake If they were talking so? How many deeds of kindness A little child may do, Although it has so little strength. And little wisdom too ! It needs a loving spirit, Much more than strength, to prove How many things a child may do For others by its love. A LOT OF DON'TS. I believe, if there is one word that grown* up folks are more fond of using to us little folks, than any other word in the big dic- tionary, it is the word D-o-n-t. It is all the time " Don't do this," and " Don't do that," and " Don't do the other," until I am sometimes afraid there will be nothing left that we can do. Why, for years and years and years, ever since I was a tiny little tot, this Vv/ord " Don't" has been my torment. It's " Lizzie, don't make a noise, you disturb me," and " Lizzie, don't eat so much candy, it w^ill make you sick," and "Lizzie, don't be so idle," and " Don't talk so much," and " Don't soil your clothes," and " Don't " everything else. One day I thought I'd count how many times I was told not to do things ! Just think ! I counted twenty-three "don'ts," and i^.34 RECITATIONS FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL. I think I missed two or three httle ones be- sides. But now it is my turn. I have got a chance to talk, and l^ni going to tell some of the big people when to Don't ! That is what my j)iece is about. First, I shall tell the papas fnd mammas — Don't scold the children, just because you have been at a party the night before, and so feel cross and tired. Second, Don't fret and make wrinkles in your faces^ over things that cannot be helped. I think fretting spoils big folks just as much as it does us little people. Third, Don't forget where you put your scissors, and then say you s'pose the children have taken them. Oh ! I could tell you ever so many " don'ts," but I think I'll only say one more, and that is — Don't think I mean to be saucy, because all these don'ts are in my piece, and I had to say them. E. C. Rook. LITTLE WILLIE AND THE APPLE. Little Willie stood under an apple tree old, The fruit was all shining with crimson and gold, Hanging temptingly low — how he longed for a bite, Though he knew if he took one it wouldn't be right. Said he, " I don't see why my father should say, ' Don't touch the old apple tree, Willie, to-day;' I shouldn't have thought, now they're hanging so low. When I asked for just one, he would answer me, ^No.' ,' He would never find out if I took but just one, Ai":d they do look so good, shining out in the sun, There are hundreds and hundreds, and he wouldn't miss So paltry a little red apple as this." He stretched forth his hand, but a low mournful strain Came wandering dreamily over his brain; In his bosom a beautiful harp had long laid, Which the angel of conscience quite frequently played : — And he sang, " Little Willie, beware, O beware ! Your father is gone, but your Maker is there. How sad you would feel, if you heard the Lord say, ' This dear little boy stole an apple to-day.' " Then Willie turned round, and, as still as a mouse, Crept slowly and carefully into the house. In his own little chamber he knelt down to pray That the Lord would forgive him, and please not to say, ^' Little Willie almost stole an apple to-day." THE CHILD'S PRAYER. The curtains drawn across the light Made darkness in the room. And in our watching eyes and hearts Fear wrought an answering gloom. Grief-wrung, we heard from lips we loved The moanings of distress. And vainly strove to stifle pain With helpless tenderness. We scarcely marked the three-years boy Who stood beside the bed, From whose wet cheeks and quivering lips The frightened dimples fled. Till all at once, with eager hope, A thrill in every word, Our darling cried, '^ I guess I'll speak About it to the Lord ! " He sank upon his bended knee, And clasped his hands in prayer. While, like a glory, from his brow Streamed back his golden hair. ** O Lord ! " he said, " dear grandma's sick; We don't know what to do! If I could only make her well, I'm sure I would. Won't you ?" He rose ; o'er all his childish face A subtle radiance shone, RECITATIONS FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL. 335 As one who on the mount of faith Had talked with God alone. We gazed each in the other's eyes. We almos' held our breath Before the fearless confidence That shamed our tardy faith. But, when our yearning glances sought The sufferer's face again, A look of growing ease and rest Replaced the lines of pain. Quick as his trusting prayer to raise, Its answer to discern, The child climbed up to reach her lips, Which kissed him in return. " Grandma " — the ringing accents struck A new, triumphant chord — ** I knew you would be better soon, Because I asked the Lord ! ' ' Mary A. P. HumphreYc "MAYN'T 1 BE A BOY?" *' Mayn't I be a boy? " said our Mary, The tears in her great eyes blue ; " I'm only a wee little lassie — There's nothing a woman can do. ** * Tis so ; I heard Cousin John say so — He's home from a great college, too— He said so just now in the parlor ^ * There's nothing a woinmi can do.* ** " My wee little lassie, my darling," Said I, putting back her soft hair, ** I want you, my dear little maiden. To smooth away all mother's care. ** Who is it, when pa comes home weary, That runs for his slippers and gown ? What eyes does he watch for at morning, „ Looking out from their lashes of brown ? •'And can you do nothing, my darling, What was it that pa said last night ? * My own little sunbeam is coming, I know, for the room is so bright.' '* And there is a secret, my Mary — Perhaps you will learn it some day— - The hand that is willing and loving Will do the most work on the way. ''And the work that is sweetest and dearest—- The great work that so many ne'er do— The work of making folks happy Can be done by a lassie like you." GIVE YOUR BEST. See the rivers flowing Downward to the sea, Pouring all their treasures Bountiful and free ! Yet, to help their giving, Hidden springs arise ; Or, if need be, showers Feed them from the skies. Watch the princely flowers Their rich fragrance spread ; Load the air with perfumes From their beauty shed j Yet their lavish spending Leaves them not in dearth. With fresh life replenished By their mother earth. Give thy heart's best treasures; From fair Nature learn ; Give thy love, and ask not, Wait not, a return. And the more thou spendest From thy little store, With a double bounty God will give thee more. Adelaide A. Proctor. THE BIRDS. For six children and an older scholar, who takes the part of teacher, and recites the " Response.*' Stand in a row and step forward as you recite your lines. HUMMING-BIRD. 1 wish I were a humming-bird, A tiny little thing, With feathers light and airy. And a brilliant rainbow wing; Fleet as a sound, I'd fly, I'd fly, Away from fear and harm, Over the flowers and through the air,, Inhaling heavenly balm. 1 336 RECITATIONS FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL LARK. I'd rather be a lark to rise, When the sleep of night is done |. And higher, higher through the skies Soar to the morning sun ; And clearer, sweeter, as I rise, With rapture 1 would sing, While diadems from heaven's own light Would sparkle on my wings. NIGHTINGALE. I*d like to be a nightingale ; She sings the sweetest song; The daylight gone, her voice is heard In tune the whole night long. The stars look down from heaven's dome, The pale moon rolls along ; And maybe angels live up there, And listen to her song. EAGLE. Of all the birds that sing so sweet. Or roam the air so free. With pinions firm, and proud, and strong, The eagle I would be ; On some high mount whose rugged peaks Beyond the clouds do rest, There, in the blaze of day, Td find My shelter and my rest. DOVE. The humming-bird's a pretty thing, The lark flies very high, The eagle's very proud and strong. The nightingale sings lullaby; But, as I want a nature That every one can love, And would be gentle, mild, and sweet, I think I'll be a dove. CHICKADEE. I'll tell you what I want to be — A little, merry, chickadee; In the storm and in the snow When the cold winds fiercely blow. Not to mind the wintry blast, Nor bow long the storm may last, Active, merry, blithe and free, Tbis's the bird I'd like to be. RESPONSE. I do not want to be a biic. And really had not you Much rather be like all the birds. And yet be children too ? The humming-bird, from bloom to bloom Inhales the heavenly balm ; So we from all may gather good. And still reject the harm. And, like the lark, our minds arise. By inspirations given, To bathe our souls, as she her wings, In the pure light of heaven. The nightingale sings all the night, In sweet, harmonious lays ; So, in the night of sorrow, we Should sing our Maker's praise. The eagle, firm, and proud, and strong, On his own strength relying. Soars through the storm, the lightning's glare And thunders bold defying. Till far above the clouds and storm, High on some mountain crest. He finds the sun's clear light at last. And there he goes to rest. Be ours a spirit firm and true, Bold in the cause of right. Ever steadily onward moving. And upward to the light ; But still as gentle as the dove. As loving and as true ; Every word and act be kindness, All life's journey through ; Always thankful, happy, free; Though life's tempests fiercely blow; Cheerful as a chickadee Flying through the wintry snow. Myra A. Shattucf. «*COME UNTO ME." As children once to Christ v.ere brought That he might bless them there, So now we little children ought To seek the Lord by prayer. RECITATIONS FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL. 337 And as so many years ago Poor babes his pity drew, I'm sure he will not let me go Without a blessing too. Then while, this favor to implorey My little hands are spread, Do thou thy sacred blessing pour. Dear Jesus, on my head. THERE IS A TEETOTALER. This piece should be spoken by a spirited boy, and as he goes upon the stage, some one should cry out, ■* There's a teetotaler ! " Yes, sir, here is a teetotaler, from the crovM of his head to the tips of his toes. I've jot on teetotal boots, too, that never vjiW walk m the way of a drunkard. The other day a man asked me about our White Ribbon Army. He wanted to know what use there is in making so many promises. I told him the use was in keeping the promises more than in making \}a^vix. The boys which belong to our Army have something to do besides loafing at the cor- ners of the streets, and smoking the stumps of cigars they pick out of the gutters It makes me sick to think of it ! Some boys are dreadfully afraid of losing their liberty, so they won't sign our pledge. I saw four or five of them the other day. They had been off, somewhere, having what they call a jolly time; and they were so drunk they couldn't walk straight. They lifted their feet higher than a sober boy would to go upstairs, and I watched them till one fell down and bumped his nose. Thinks I to myself, there's liberty for you, but it's just such liberty as I don't want. I would rather walk straight than crooked, I would rather stand up than fall down, and I would rather go to a party with my sisters, and some other pretty girls, than hide away with a lot of rough fellows, to guzzle beer and whisky. (22— X) There are plenty of other reasons why I am a teetotaler. When I grow up, I would rather be a man than a walking wine-cask or rum-barrel ; I would rather live in a good house than a. poor one, and I would rather be loved and respected than despised and hated. Now, if these are not reasons enough for being a teetotaler, I will give you some more the next time we meet. AN APPEAL FOR BENEFICENCE. J^or a small boy. The boy that spoke first to-night said you were all welcome. 1 shan't take it back You are welcome. You're welcome to see and hear; but you're just twice as welcome to give. We love to look at you, and we're zvilling you should look at us. We're glad to have you hear us ; but we want to hear you. You haven't any speeches ready ? All right ! We don't want to hear those. We can make those ourselves — as you've seen. What we do want to hear is the rustling of Greenbacks and the clinking of Silver, as the ushers pass the boxes round. That's a kind of music that we appreciate, for it gets us our library-books, our papers, our banners, and everything else that a Sunday-School needs ; and then it's a kind of music that we can't make ourselves, and everybody prizes what he can't do himself. We do our best now. This school has given dollars for benevo- lent objects, during the past year. Isn't such a school worth helping ? We mean to do bettet by-and-by, when we get hold of the money- bags. Just now, jK^^^ must do the giving. ADDRESS OF WELCOME TO A NEW PASTOk To be spoken by a small girl. Dear Pastor : — The old folks have askeo. you to come and be their pastor, and we children want to know if you won't come and be ours too. I am sure little folks need I a pastor just as much as big ones do, I m RECITATIONS FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL. think they do more, because big folks ought to be able to take care of themselves. We think the Sunday-school belongs espe- cially to us, as we are allowed to say more there than we are in church, so we would like you to come into the Sunday-school and work with us there, and we will gladly pay you with our love and sunny smiles. (We can't give you our pennies because they have to go across the ocean to the poor heathen.) If you could only come around through our classes every week and help us just a little by a word of good cheer, I am sure we would feel that you belonged to us and we to you. I know pastors have an awful lot to do, and they say it is real hard work to preach, but if you could say just a little less to the old folks, and a little more to the young folks, we will help you build up the church and make it a big success. So, I hope, dear pastor, you will let us call you our own, and when you come among us you may be sure we will love you and welcome you as the children's friend. ADDRESS OF WELCOME TO A NEW SUPERINTENDENT. To be spoken by a small boy. Dear Mr. Blank : — I am sent out here to-day to tell you how glad we are that you are to be our new superintendent. I welcome you in the name of the school, and do it most heartily. Boys know a good thing when they see it — if they didn't Farmer Jones wouldn't have to put up sticky fly-paper on his peach trees— just to catch flies, of course. So, when we were told that you had been chosen for our new superintendent, we said " that's all right." ' There must be an engineer to every train if it is to be run properly, at the same time a great deal depends on the train and how it is made up. Now, I believe there is good stuff in our Sunday-school, We would make a good train if guided by a good engi- neer. We can't run ourselves and keep on the track, that's sure. We are quite certain, to begin with, that we are on the right track, and we know that Mr. Blank can keep us there. To get to the end of our journey safely, though, will depend much on how well our train hangs together. This, boys and girls, is our part, and we must do our best. We know that love will make the wheels go round and charity will bind us together, tighter than any cord. We hope our engi- neer will be proud of his train. OPENING ADDRESS FOR A SUNDAY=SCHOOU EXHIBITION. I have always been told that children should be seen and not heard, but this is children's night and we are going to be seen and heard too. We are very glad to welcome the old folks. There are so many here their pres- ence would lead us to think they believe boys and girls can do something after all. Their eyes are on us, and I hope, children, that you have brought your best behavior with you, because this is a good time and place to use it. Perhaps I may be allowed to suggest that you keep your eye on the old folks, just to see that they conduct them- selves properly. Boys and girls, we have a great deal to say that is worth hearing, and I hope you will speak out loud and prompt so that our audience will not miss any of the good things. We want to make this the best exhibition we have ever given, so that when our elders go home they will have a better impression of us than they ever had before CLOSING ADDRESS FOR A SUNDAY=SCHOOL EXHIBITION. When I found that our superintendent had put me last on the programme, I felt, as boys often do, that it would be much nicer to be RECITATIONS FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL. 339 H^rst, buc lie said it was a good plan to keep the best wine till the last, so I feel all right about it. I know, too, that you will not question the superintendent's good taste. I mean about ine^ not the wine. He wants me to say we are all very much obliged to you for coming, and we hope you have had a much bigger treat than you expected. These exhibitions mean work for the boys and girls, as well as for the teachers, but work does everybody good, especially boys who love base-bal] better than Sunday- school. I hope our efforts have been a credit to ourselves and to the Sunday- school, of which we are all so proud. PRESENTATION ADDRESS TO A PASTOR. For a young lady. Dear Pastor: — It is our delight at this season of gifts and good will, to present to you a slight token of the esteem in which you are held by your Sunday School. To say we all love you is to repeat whdt you must already know. " Out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh," but words do not always answer our purpose. We like to put them into some tangible form, and so to-night we present you with this which comes as an expression of our sincere love and good wishes. We ask you to accept this, not for its in- trinsic value, but as a gift from loyal scholars, who recognize and appreciate your constant and untiring efforts to minister to their needs in every way and at all times. Do not thank us, dear Pastor. We are discharging but a mite of the indebtedness we owe you, and you will only add to that debt if you persist in returning thanks to us. You know how Church people abhor debts, and we are trying to put into practice some of your preaching. We hope the token will be a con- stant reminder, if that were necessary, of our unceasing interest in you and your work. A PRESENTATION ADDRESS TO A TEACHER. Dear Teacher : — We take this occasion to acknowledge publicly our deep and sin- cere appreciation of the faithful service you have rendered us. It is our desire to tender you some tangible expression of the sincere feeling we have for you and to impress upon you the love and good will felt by every pupil. I, therefore, present you this asking you to associate it forever with the names and faces of the donors. Through youi kind and prayerful aid many of us have been led into the way of truth, and will, therefore, gratefully remember you as long as we live. A PRESENTATION ADDRESS TO A SUPER= INTENDENT. For a young man. Mr. Superintendent :— We are going to make you a present to-night, and I for one think you deserve it. Our School has the reputation of being a live one, and it is a good deal because there is a live man at the head of it. In the past year that you have been with us, your pa- tience must have been sorely tried, for while most of the children are naturally good, some are naturally unruly. The young men and young women from whom we expect the best conduct are often, strange to say, more atten- tive to each other than to their lessons. But having been first a boy yourself, and perhaps later a beau, you have not had the heart to be too severe on those who are still young pupils in the school of experience. By your untiring efforts you have brought the Sunday School up to a standard of un- usual excellence. For its free and vigorous life, we are largely indebted to you. As aJ token of that fact please accept this gift. We wish its intrinsic value were twice as great. But if it conveys, even in a slight degree, the 340 RECITATIONS FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL. esteem in which you are held by all our scholars, young and old, it will serve the pur- pose for which it was procured. ADDRESS OF WELCOME AFTER ILLNESS. To be spoken by a young lady. Dear Mr. Blank : — I feel unable to fully express to you our joy at seeing you once more in your place in the Sunday School. It has been hard for us to be deprived of your presence, for you had made yourself invalu- able to us, but added to the personal loss we felt at your absence was the greater sorrow that you had been called upon to pass through so much physical suffering. But, we know that God's hand is always leading us, and the same wise purpose that causes the shadows to fall, also makes the sun to shine, and " the darker the shadow, the brighter the sunshine." When, for a time, it was feared that you might not be restored to us, we felt we could not have it so, but our prayers were heard, and our thanks are deep and sincere that you are again in our midst. We pray that you may long be per- mitted to glorify Him who is the great physi- cian, in the work to which you are returned. ADDRESS OF WELCOME AFTER ABSENCE. To be spoken by a young man. Dear Pastor: — I want to speak in behalf of the younger members of your flock and add our hearty welcome to that already voiced by our elders. We congratulate you on your safe return, and rejoice with you that change and rest have reinvigorated your physical health. As you come, bringing the fresh fruits of added experience and observation, you will find us all eager to benefit by what has enriched your store. Welcome home, then, to all that has suf- fered by your absence. The Church with its manifold offices has often felt the need of your strength and wisdom. Welcome to the Sunday-school where your words of help and counsel have guided us many times, and where your presence has been most up- lifting. Welcome to the homes and hearts of the young and old alike. There is not a fireside in our midst that has not been cheered by your frequent and timely visits. In the sea- sons of joy and sorrow which must come to all homes alike, there has been no one to whom we could turn and be so sure of loving sympathy as yourself. Welcome to the privileges and responsi- bilities of your calling and to the honor of your old title — The Pastor who loves the children. We want to give fresh assurance of our hearty co-operation in that work which you are about to resume. We have learned in your absence how much and how great is that work. Let it be our privilege to share it with you and so prove by our deeds, the love we have for your labors. May Hatheway. PART III. Programmes for Special Occasions CONTAINING Cliariiiing Exercises for Fourth-of-July Celebrations; Washington's Birthday; Christmas and Thanksgiving; Decoration Day; Public School Exhibitions ; Arbor Day; Harvest Homes; Even- ing Entertainments, Etc., Etc. INCLU^'^iNG A CHOICE COLLECTION OF DIALOGUES, TABLEAUX, SUBJECTS FOR DEBATE, ETC. PROGRAMME NO. 1 FOR FOURTH OF JULY. The following programme can be varied as occasion may require by additional exercises or by substi- tuting others for those here suggested. The platform should be decorated with flags and patriotic emblems In addition to the singing of patriotic airs, there should be music by a band or orchestra. Each of the children should be furnished with a small flag. Let all the exercises be very spirited. MUSIC By the Band or Orchestra. SINGING Tune: "America." ^Y country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing ; 'Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrim's pride, From every mountain-side Let freedom ring. My native country, thee— Land of the noble free — Thy name I love ; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills ^ My heart with rapture thrills Like that above. Let music sv/ell the breeze And ring from all the trees Sweet freedom's song ; Let mortal tongues awake ; Let all that breathe partake ; ^ et rocks their silence break— The sound prolong. Our fathers' God, to Thee, Author of liberty. To Thee we sing ; Long may our land be bright With Freedom's holy light ; Protect us by Thy might. Great God, our King. Samuel F. Smith. READING The Declaration of Inde- pendence. RECITATION . . The Fourth of July. (5 I O the sages who spoke, to the heroes who ^1 bled, -*- To the day and the deed, strike the harp-strings of glory 1 Let the song of the ransomed remember the dead, And the tongue of the eloquent hallow the story, O'er the bones of the bold Be that story long told, And on fame's golden tablets their triumphs enrolled 341 342 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS.. ^^'ho on freedom's green hills freedom's banner unfurled, And the beacon-fire raised that gave light to the world ! 'I'hty are gone — mighty men ! — and they sleep in their fame : Shall we ever forget them? Oh, never! no, never ! Let our sons learn from us to embalm each great name, And the anthem send down — "Independence forever ! " Wake, wake, heart and tongue 1 Keep the theme ever young ; Let their deeds through the long line of ages be sung Who on freedom's green hills freedom's banner unfurled, And the beacon-fire raised that gave light to the world ! Charles Sprague. MUSIC By Band or Orchestra. READING The Vow of Washington. 05 I HE sword was sheathed : in April's sun i I Lay green the fields by freedom won ; -^ And severed sections, weary of debates, Joined hands at last and were United States. O city, sitting by the sea ! How proud the day that dawned on thee, When the new era, long desired, began. And, in its need, the hour had found the man ! One thought the cannon salvos spoke ; The resonant bell-tower's vibrant stroke. The voiceful streets, the plaudit-echoing halls. And prayer and ^ymn borne heavenward from St. Paul's ! How felt the .and in every part The strong tl'.rob of a nation's heart, As its g^-eat lead'T gave, with reverent awe. His pledge to w ion, liberty and law ! That pledge the heavens above him heard, That vo'A' the sleep of centuries stirred ; In world-wid'» wonder listening peoples bent Their gaze on freedom's great experiment. Could it succeed ? Of honor sold And hopes deceived all history told. Above the wrecks that strewed the mournful past Was the long dream of ages true at last ? Thank God ! the people's choice was just, The one man equal to his trust, Wise beyond lore, and without weakness good, Calm in the strength of flawless rectitude ! His rule of justice, order, peace, Made possible the world's release ; Taught prince and serf that power is but a trust, And rule, alone, which serves the ruled, is just ; That freedom generous is, but strong In hate of fraud and selfish wrong. Pretense that turns her holy truths to lies. And lawless license masking in her guise. Land of his love ! v/ith one glad voice Let thy great sisterhood rejoice ; A century's suns o'er thee have risen and set. And, God be praised, we are one nation yet. And still, we trust, the years to be Shall prove his hope was destiny. Leaving our flag with all its added stars Unrent by faction and unstained by wars ! Lo ! where with patient toil he nursed And trained the new-set plant at first. The widening branches of a stately tree Stretched from the sunrise to the sunset sea. And in its broad and sheltering shade, Sitting wdth none to make afraid, Were we now silent, through each mighty limb, The winds of heaven would sing the praise of him. Our first and best — his ashes lie Beneath his own Virginian sky. Forgive, forget, O true and just and brave, The storm that swept above thy sacred grave ! For, ever in the awful strife And dark hours of the nation's life. Through the fierce tumult pierced his warning word, Their father's voice his erring chil Iren heard I PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. 343 The change for which he prayed and sought In that sharp agony was wrought ; No partial interest draws its alien line 'Twixt North and South, the cypress and the pine ! One people now, all doubt beyond, His name shall be our Union-bond; We lift our hands to heaven, and here, and now, Take on our lips the old Centennial vow. For rule and trust must needs be our-} ; Chooser and chosen both our powf .s Equaled in service as in rights ; the claim Of duty rests on each and all the same. Then let the sovereign millions, where Our banner floats in sun and air, 3i'rom the warm palm-lands to Alaska's cold, Repeat with us the pledge a century old ! John Greenleaf Whittier. DECLAMATION . . . The Little Mayflower. ND now — for the fulness of time is come — let us go up, in imagination to yonder hill, and look out upon the November scene. That snigle dark speck, just discernible through the per- spective glass, on the waste of waters, is the fated vessel. The storm moans through her tattered canvas, as she creeps, almost sinking, to her anchorage in Provincetown harbor ; and there she lies, with all her treasures, not of silver and gold (for of these she has none), but of courage, of patience, of zeal, of high spiritual daring. So often as I dwell in imagination on this scene ; when I consider the condition of the Mayflower, utterly incapable, as she was, of living through another gale ; when I survey the terrible front presented by our coast to the navigator who, unacquainted with its channels and roadsteads, should approach it in the stormy season, I dare not call it a mere piece of good fortune, that the general north and south wall of the shore of New England should be broken by this extraordinary projection of the cape, run- ning out into the ocean a hundred miles, as if on purpose to receive and encircle the precious vessel. As I now see her, freighted with the des- tinies of a continent, barely escaped from the perils of the deep, approaching the shore precisely where the broad sweep of this most remarkable headland presents almost the only point at which, for hundreds of miles, she could, with any ease, have made a harbor, and this, perhaps, the very best on the seaboard, I feel my spirit raised above the sphere of mere natural agencies. I see the mountains of New England rising from their rocky thrones. They rush for- ward into the ocean, setthng down as they advance; and there they range themselves, as a mighty bulwark around the heaven-di- rected vessel. Yes, the everlasting God himself stretches out the arm of his mercy and his power, in substantial manifestation, and gathers the meek company of his wor- shipers as in the hollow of his hand. Edward Everett. MARCH Our Naval Cadets. (Twelve or more' boys dressed in naval costume and carrying flags.) 5INGINQ . . . TUNE: Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean. LAND of a million brave soldiers. Who severed the bonds of despair ; , O, land of a million true-hearted Who failed not to do and to dare I May ever thy shores gleam before us. With harvests whose wealth shall not cease,' May ever in beauty bend o'er us, The wings of the white dove of peace. CHORUS. Hail the glory of Freedom's glad light ! Hail the passing of Slavery's night ! Hail the triumph of Truth over Error ! Hail the glory of Freedom's glad Hght ! 344 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. Though hushed is the voice of the cannon Though silent the loud battle cry, There's many to-day, who if needful. For Freedom would suffer and die. Columbia's sons still are loyal, Columbia's sons still are true, 'Neath the emblem of Justice and Mercy The banner of red, white and blue. RECITATION To the Ladies. (To be prefaced with the following statement : " In the year 1768, the people of Boston resol^^ed that they would not import any tea, glass, paper, or other commodities commonly brought from Great Britain, until the act imposing duties upon all such articles should be repealed. This poetical appeal to the la- dies of the country, ♦^o lend a ' helping hand ' for the furtherance of that resolution, appeared in the Boston Ncii's Le/fer, anonymously.'') ^ OUNG ladies in town, round. and those that live *- Let a friend at this season advise you ; Since money's so scarce, and times growing worse, Strange things may soon hap and surprise you. First, then, throw aside your topknots of pride; Wear none but your own country linen; Of economy boast, let your pride be the most To show clothes of your own make and spinning. What if homespun they say is not quite so gay As brocades, yet be not in a passion, For when once it is known this is much worn in town. One and all will cry out — 'Tis the fashion ! And, as one, all agree, that you'll not married be To such as will wear London factory. But at first sight refuse, tell 'em such you will choose As encourage our own manufactory. No more ribbons wear, nor in rich silks appear ; Love your country much better than fine things ; Begin without passion, 'twill soon be the fashion To grace your smooth locks with a twine string Throw aside your Bohea, and your Green Hyson tea, And all things with a new-fashion duty ; Procure a good store of the choice Labrador, For there'll soon be enough here to suit you. These do without fear, and to all you'll appear Fair, charming, true, lovely and clever; Though the times remain darkish, young men may be sparkish. And love you much stronger than ever. Then make yourselves easy, for no one will teaze ye, Nor tax you, if chancing to sneer At the sense-ridden tools, who think us all fools ; But they'll find the reverse far and near. MUSIC By Band or Orchestra. TABLEAU . . . Conquered and Conqueror. (A soldier dressed as a British redcoat is lying down, resting on one elbow and holding up his hand to ward off his foe. A soldier dressed in Continental uniform stands over him, pointing a bayonet at his breast.) MUSIC By Band or Orchestra. PROGRAMME NO. 2, FOR FOURTH OF JULY. MUSIC By Band or Orchestra. SINGING TUNE: America. / v^ OD bless our native land ! I S~l~ Firm may she ever stand ^--^ Through storm and night ; When the wild tempests rave. Ruler of winds and wave ! Do thou our country save By thy great might. For her our prayers shall rise To God above the skies. On him we wait ; Thou who art ever nigh, Guardian v/ith watchful eye! To thee alone we cry, God save the State. Our fathers' God ! to thee, Author of liberty, To thee we sing; PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. 345 Long may our land be bright With freedom's holy light; Protect us by thy might, Great God, our King ! READING . . Declaration of Independence. RECITATION Our Natal Day. H, the Fourth of July ! When fire-crackers fly, And urchins in petticoats tyrants defy ! When all the still air Creeps away in despair, And clamor is king, be the day dark or fair I When freedom's red flowers Fall in star-spangled showers. And liberty capers for twenty-four hours. When the morn's ushered in By a sleep-crushing din, That tempts us to use philological sin ; When the forenoon advances With large circumstances. Subjecting our lives to debatable chances ; When the soldiers of peace Their attractions increase. By marching, protected with clubs of police ; When the little toy gun Has its share of the fun. By teaching short -hand to the favorite son. Oh, the Fourth of July ! When grand souls hover nigh ! When Washington bends from the honest blue sky! When Jefferson stands — Famous scribe of all lands — The charter of heaven in his glorified hands ! When his comrade — strong, high, John Adams — comes nigh, (For both went to their rest the same Fourth of July!) When Franklin — grand, droll — That could lightnings control. Comes here with his sturdy, progressive old soul ; When freedom's strong stafl — Hancock — with a laugh, Writes in memory's album his huge autograph 1 But let thought have its way, And give memory sway ; Do we think of the cost of this glorified day ? While the harvest-field waves, Do we think of those braves In the farms thickly planted with thousands of graves ? How the great flag up there. Clean and pure as the air. Has been drabbled with blood-drops, and trailed in despair ? Do we know what a land God hath placed in our hand. To be made into star-gems, or crushed into sand ? Let us feel that our race, Doomed to no second place, Must glitter with triumph, or die in disgrace ! That millions unborn. At night, noon, and morn. Will thank us with blessings, or curse us with scorn. For raising more high Freedom's flag to the sky. Or losing forever the Fourth of July ! Will Carleton. SINGING Tune: *« Hold the Fort." H, behold in all its beauty. Freedom's flag unfurled ! Glorious flag — to us the fairest In the wide, wide world. CHORUS. Proudly float, O flag of Freedom, Fair Columbia's pride ! For thy stars and stripes of beauty, Many a hero died. Great the price of Freedom's purchase — 'Twas the price of life; Oh, the pain and loss and sorrow Ere the end of strife. Ever mindful of the struggle. Let us all be true To the colors of our nation- Red, and white and blu«. I 346 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. RECITATION . . . The Banner of the Sea. Y wind and wave the sailor brave has fared To shores of every sea , But never yet have seamen met or dared Grim death for victory In braver mood than they who died On drifting decks, in Apia's tide, While cheering every sailor's pride, The banner of the free! Columbia's men were they who then went down, Not knights nor kings of old, But brighter far their laurels are than crown Or coronet of gold ; Our sailor true, of any crew, Would give the last long breath he drew To cheer the old red, white and blue. The banner of the bold ! With hearts of oak, through storm and smoke and flame, Columbia's seamen long Have oravely fought and nobly wrought, that shame Might never dull their song ; They sing the country of the free, The glory of the rolling sea, The starry flag of liberty. The banner of the strong ! We ask but this, and not amiss the claim, A fleet to ride the wave, A navy great to crown the State with fame, Though foes or tempests rave ; Then, as our fathers did of yore, We'll sail our ships to every shore. On every ocean wind will soar The banner of the brave ! Oh ! this we claim, that never shame may ride On any wave with thee, Thou Ship of State, whose timbers great abide The home of liberty ! For, so, our gallant Yankee tars. Of daring deeds and honored scars, Will make the banner of the stars The banner of the sea. I]omj:r Green. m MUSIC Cornet Solo. ORATION . . What America has Done fo- the World. FIAT has this nation done to repay the world for the benefits we have received from others ? We have been repeatedly told, and sometimes, too, in a tone of affected impartiality, that the highest praise which can fairly be given to the American mind, is that of possessing an enlightened selfishness ; that if the philos- ophy and talents of this country, with all their effects, were forever swept into oblivion, the loss would be felt only by ourselves; and that if to the accuracy of this general charge, the labors of Franklin present an illustrious, it is still but a solitary, exception. The answer may be given, confidently and triumphantly. Without abandoning the fame of our eminent men, whom Europe has been slow and reluctant to honor, we would reply, that the intellectual power of this people has exerted itself in conformity to the general system of our institutions and manners ; and therefore, that, for the proof of its existence and the measure of its force, we must look not so much to the works of prominent indi- viduals, as to the great aggregate results ; and if Europe has hitherto been wilfully blind to the value of our example and the exploits of our sagacity, courage, invention, and freedom, the blame must rest with her, and not with America. Is it nothing for the universal good of mankind to have carried into successful oper ation a system of self-government, uniting personal liberty, freedom of opinion, and equality of rights, with national power and dignity; such as had before existed only in the Utopian dreams of philosophers ? Is i. nothing, in moral science, to have anticipated in sober reality, numerous plans of reform in civil and ciiminnl {nri'-'prndcnc", v/hich. PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. 347 are, but now, received as plausible theories by the politicians and economists of Europe? Is it nothing to have been able to call forth on every emergency, either in war or peace, a body of talented patriots always equal to the difficulty? Is it nothing to have, in less than a half- century, exceedingly improved the sciences of political economy, of law, and of medicine, with all their auxiliary branches; to have enriched human knowledge by the accumu- lation of a great mass of useful facts and observations, and to have augmented the power and the comforts of civilized man, by miracles of mechanical invention ? Is it nothing to have given the world examples of disinterested patriotism, of political wisdom, of public virtue; of learning, eloquence^ and valor, never exerted save for some praiseworthy end ? It is sufficient to have briefly suggested these considerations; every mind would anticipate me in filling up the details. No — Land of Liberty I thy children have no cause to blush for thee^ What though the arts have reared few monuments among us, and scarce a trace of the muse's footstep is found in the paths of our forests, or along the banks of our rivers; yet our soil has been consecrated by the blood of heroes, and by great and holy deeds of peace. Its wide extent has become one vast temple and hal- lowed asylum, sanctified by the prayers and blessings of the persecuted of every sect, and the wretched of all nations. Land of Refuge — Land of Benedictions! Those prayers still arise, and they still are heard : " May peace be within thy walls, and plenteousness within thy palaces ! " " May there be no decay, no leading into captivity, and no complaining in thy streets !" " May truth flourish out of the earth, and right- eousness look down from Heaven!" GuLiAN C. Verplanck. MARCH . . Daughters of the Revolution. (Twelve or more little girls, dressed in Continental costume and carrying flags. They should be drilled to perform a march.) RECITATION .... Stand up for Liberty- ^^/E sons of Columbia, who bravely have Yj fought -*- Tor those rights which unstained from your sires had descended. May you long taste the blessings your valor has brought, And your sons reap the soil which your fathers defended. Let our patriots destroy anarch's pestilent worm, Lest our liberty's growth should be checked by corrosion ; Then let clouds thicken round us : we heed not the storm ; Our realm feels no shock but the earth's own explosion. Foes assail us in vain. Though their fleets bridge the main ; For our altars and laws with our lives we'll maintain ; For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. Should the tempest of war overshadow our land. Its bolts could ne'er rend freedom's temple asunder ; For, unmoved, at its portal would Washington stand, And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the thunder ! His sword from the sleep Of its scabbard would leap, And conduct, with its point, every flash to the deep ! For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves. While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. Let fame to the world sound America's voice ; No intrigues can her sons from their govern- ment sever : 348 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. Hei pride are her statesmen — their laws are her choice, And shall flourish till liberty slumbers forever. Then unite heart and hand, Like Leonidas' band, And swear to the God of the ocean and land That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. Robert Treat Paine, Jr. nU5IC By Band or Orchestra. RECITATION Off with Your Hat as the Flag Goes By. FF with your hat as the flag goes by ! And let the heart have its say ; You're man enough for a tear in your eye That you will not wipe away. You're man enough for a thrill that goes To your very finger tips — Ay ! The lump just then in your throat that rose Spoke more than your partqd lips. Lift up the boy on your shoulder high, And show him the faded shred — Those stripes would be red as the sunset sky If death could have dyed them red. The man that bore it, with death has lain These thirty years or more — He died that the work should not be vain Of the men who bore it before. The man that bears it is bent and old. And ragged his beard and gray ; But see his proud form grow young and bold, At the tune that he hears them play. The old tune thunders through all the air. And strikes right into the heart ; If it ever calls for you, boy, be there ! ^'^ there- and ready to start I Off with your hat as the flag goes by I Uncover the youngster's head ! Teach him to hold it holy and high, For the sake of its sacred dead. H. C. BUNNER. RECITATION The Young Americai^. CION of a mighty stock ! Hands of iron — hearts of oak— Follow with unflinching tread Where the noble fathers led. Craft and subtle treachery, Gallant youth ! are not for thee ; Follow thou in word and deeds Where the God within thee leads! Honesty with steady eye, Truth and pure simplicity, Love that gently winneth hearts — These shall be thy only arts : Prudent in the council train. Dauntless on the battle-plain. Ready at the country's need For her glorious cause to bleed ! Where the dews of night distill Upon Vernon's holy hill ; Where above it, gleaming far, Freedom lights her guiding star : Thither turn the steady eye. Flashing with a purpose high ; Thither, with devotion meet. Often turn the pilgrim feet ! Let the noble motto be, God — the country — liberty ! Planted on religion's rock. Thou shalt stand in every shock. TABLEAU Surrender of Cornwallis. (American and British soldiers in the background Washington in front and CornwaUis handing hirn his sword). nUSIC , By Band or Orchestra. PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. 349 PROGRAMME FOR A CHRISTMAS ENTERTAINMENT. (A Christmas tree always pleases young people, and what interests them is sure to be appreciated by older persons. In the absence of a Christmas tree, loaded with decorations and gifts, the room should be trimmed with evergreens; in fact, such decorations are always in order at the merry Christmas time) SONG .. Christmas Bells, Tune: " Ring the Bells of Heaven." ING, O bells, in gladness, Tell of joy to-day; Ring and swing o'er all the world so wide. Banish thoughts of sadness, Drive all grief away, For it is the Merry Christmas tide. CHORUS. Ring, O bells, from spire and swelling dome, Ring and bid the peaceful ages come ; Banish thoughts of sadness, Drive all grief away, For it is the Merry Christmas Day. Ring, O bells, the story From the ages far; Of the Christmas joy and song and light; How the wondrous glory Of the Christmas star Led the shepherds onward through the night ! Ring, O bells, in gladness Of the Saviour King; May your silver chimings never cease; Banish thoughts of sadness And all nations bring Glorious dawning of the Day of Peace. Alice Jean Cleator. RELIGIOUS EXERCISES . . To be Selected. RECITATION . , A Letter to Santa Claus. LESSED old Santa Claus ! king of de- lights! ^ i What are you doing these long winter nights? Filling your budgets with trinkets and toys — Wonderful gifts for the girls and the boys ? While you are planning for everything nice, Pray let me give you a bit of advice- Don' t take it hard, if I say in your ear, Santa, I think you were partial last year ; Loading the rich folks with everything gay. Snubbing the poor ones who came in your way: Now, of all times in the year, I am sure This is the time to remember the poor. Little red hands that are aching with cold, You should have mittens your fingers to hold ; Poor little feet, with your frost-bitten toes, You should be clothed in the warmest of hose. On the dark hearth I would kindle a light. Till the sad faces were happy and bright. Don't you think, Santa, if all your life through, Some one had alwa3^s been caring for you. Watching to guard you by night and by day, Giving you gifts you could never repay. Sometimes, at least, you would sigh to recall How many children have nothing at all? Safe in your own quiet chamber at night. Cozy and warm in your blankets so white. Wouldn't you think of the shivering forms Out in the cold and the wind and the storms ? Wouldn't you think of the babies who cry. Pining in hunger and cold till they die ? Blessed old Nick ! I was sure, if you knew it, You would remember, and certainly do it ; This year, at least, when you open your pack. Pray give a portion to all who may lack ; Then if you change to have anything over, Bring a small gift to your friend — Kitty Clover.' RECITATION . Christmas in al! the Lands i (For four children. They recite singly and then in concert, beginning with the vords in the ''ast verse, " Lo, want and sin," etc.) FIRST CHILD. pROM the wild Northland where the wolfs long howl Stirs the depths of down in the ocean fowl, And the white bear prowls with stealthy creep To the spot where the seal lies fast asleep, 350 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. And the sledges flash through the silence vast lAke a glittering dream, now here, now past,- On this waste of sparkle and waste of snow 'Neath skies aflame with a crimson glow; The feet of the Christ-child softly fall, And Christmas dawn brings cheer to all. SECOND CHILD. "Tis the homestead low in the quiet vale Where the farm-dog follows Dobbin's trail To the pasture lot, now cold and bare, And sniffs with glee the snow-filled air. In this home of busy household joys, 'Mong the rosy girls and sturdy boys, Sweet peace descends on wings of light, And all exclaim, '''Tis Christmas night, The dear Christ-child is hovering near Let each one share our Christmas cheer.'' THIRD CHILD. *Tis the prairies vast where cyclones sweep. And their sturdy men world -harvests reap, Where the skies are such an airy blue An angel's robe might flutter through ; And the lark flings down her music sweet A chain of song, each link complete ; Then a white day comes, so bland or wild. It bears in arms the sweet Christ-child, And hearts touch heart and hands touch hand, While Christmas light illumes the land. FOURTH CHILD. 'Tis the land of palms and of orange trees, Whose lami)s of gold swing in the breeze, Where the pickaninny's black eyes glow, O'er swarthy cheeks and teeth of snow, And the dusky hand is raised to bless The gift that makes his misery less ; For rich and poor and young and old Stand in the charmed ring of gold Which Christmas brings. Lo, want and sin Flee from the blessed eyes of Him, The dear Christ child, who far and near Gives Christmas love and Christmas cheer. G. A. Brown. MUSIC Cornet Solo, or Choir. READING . . . Santa Claus on the Train. N a Christmas eve an emigrant train Sped on through the blackness of night. And cleft the pitchy dark in twain "With the gleam of its fierce headlight. In a crowded car, a noisome place, Sat a mother and her child ; The woman's face bore want's wan trace. But the little one only smiled. And tugged and pulled at her mother's dress. And her voice had a merry ring. As she lisped, ''Now, mamma, come and guess What Santa Claus' 11 bring." But sadly the mother shook her head. As she thought of a happier past ; "He never can catch us here," she said ''The train is going too fast." "O, mamma, yes, he'll come, I say. So swift are his little deer. They run all over the world to-day; — I'll hang my stocking up here." She pinned her stocking to the seat, And closed her tired eyes ; And soon she saw each longed-for sweet In dreamland's paradise. On a seat behind the little maid A rough man sat apart, But a soft light o'er his features played. And stole into his heart. As the cars drew up at a busy town The rough man left the train. But scarce had from the steps jumped down Ere he was back again. And a great big bundle of Christmas joys Bulged out from his pocket wide ; He filled the stocking with sweets and toys He laid by the dreamer's side. At dawn the little one woke with a shout, 'Twas sweet to hear her glee ; "I knowed that Santa Claus would find me out* He caught the train you ?ee " PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. 355 Though some Ttom smiling may scarce refrain, The child was surely right, The good St. Nicholas caught the train, And came aboard that night. For the saint is fond of masquerade And may fool the old and wise, And so he came to the little maid In an emigrant's disguise. And he dresses in many ways because He wishes no one to know him, For he never says, " I am Santa Glaus," But his good deeds always show him. Henry C. Walsh. RECITATION The Waifs. T the break "of Christmas day. Through the frosty starlight ringing, Faint and sweet and far away. Comes the sound of children, singing, Chanting, singing, "Cease to mourn, For Christ is born. Peace and joy to all men bringing 1 ** Careless that the chill winds blow, Growing stronger, sweeter, clearer, Noiseless footfalls in the snow Biinging the happy voices nearer; Hear them singing, " Winter's drear, But Christ is here, Mirth and gladness with him bringir'^ ! '* ''Merry Christmas ! " hear them say As the east is growing lighter ; ** May the joy of Christmas day Make your whole year gladder, brighter I ' ' Join their singing, '■To each home Our Christ has come, All Love's treasures with him bringing 1 " Margaret D eland. SONG Welcome Santa Claus. Tune: *'Hold the Fort.'* '^ROM the cold and frosty northland Oh so far away, Santa Claus will soon be coming In his little sleigh j Let us listen for the reindeers* Dancing, prancing feet, Let us wait old Santa's jolly, Jolly face to greet ! Listen, don't you hear his sleigh-bells Oh so faintly ring, Santa Claus is surely coming Many gifts to bring ; In his busy little workshop Many a long, long day, Pretty presents he has made To give them all away ! Oh his sleigh-bells jingle, jingle. Very, very near ; Can it be that dear old Santa's Really almost here ? Hark, they cease their silver music, Santa Claus has come ! Welcome^ welcome, dear old Santa, Welcome to each home ! ORIGINAL ADDRESS .... By a Person Selected. RECITAL o . Santa Claus and the Mouse. (For boy or girl, who has a stocking widi a hole in it, and holds it up in the last verse, shows the hole and thrusts one or two fingers through it.) NE Christmas eve when Santa Claus Came to a certain house, To fill the children's stockings there. He found a little mouse. '*A merry Christmas, little friend," Said Santa, good and kind. *'The same to you, sir," said the mouse * ^' I thought you wouldn't mind If I should stay awake to-night And watch you for awhile." "You're very welcome, little mouse," Said Santa with a smile. And then he filled the stockings up Before the mouse could wink.— From toe to top, from top to toe There wasn't left a chink. 852 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. *'Now, they won't hold another thing," Said Santa Claus, with pride. A twinkle came in mouse's eyes, But hmiibly he replied : "It's not polite to contradict, — Your pardon I implore, — But in the fullest stocking there I could put one thing more." •■^Oh, ho ! " laughed Santa, '* silly mouse ! Don't I know how to pack? By filling stockings all these years, I should have learned the knack.' ' And then he took the stocking down From where it hung so high, And said : " Now put in one thing more ; I give you leave to try." The mousie chuckled to himself, And then he softly stole Right to the stocking's crowded toe And gnawed a little hole ! *'Now, if you please, good Santa Claus, I've put in one thing more ; For you will own that little hole Was not in there before." How Santa Claus did laugh and laugh ! And then he gayly spoke : "Well ! you shall have a Christmas cheese For that nice little joke." If you don't think this story true. Why I can show to you The very stocking with the hole The little mouse gnawed through ! Emilie Poulsson. RECITATION . I What Ted Found in his Stocking. DON'T care, I will gQ\ So there, Mamma Mouse ! The folks are all sleeping All over the house : "The stockings are hanging — I smell the sweet bits. It's enough to drive mousies Into wild, crazy fits! '' So when old Mrs. Mo Went off to her bed. The little mouse watched, And popped up his head. Then smelling 'uis way Very nicely diong^ He jumped into a stocking. So new and so strong. But a stri;,„ on a bundle Stuck out in a loop. And in it he tumbled, Tu« poor silly dupe ! On, then what bewailings Came out of that stocking I Such moans and lamentings. It really was shocking ! " O dear ! and oh dear ! I wish I was home ! If I'd minded mamma. And hadn't 'a' come ! " But 'twas all of no use. The string was so tight That all he could do Was to wait for daylight. Then Ted gave a shout That awoke the whole house; For there in his stocking Was a little gray mouse ! What became of him then The cat only can tell, But one thing I'll say — I know very well {By Whole School i7i Co7icert'). That he'll never again on a Christmas Evf Jump into a stocking without any leave 1 MUSIC To be Selected, SANTA CLAUS To be Selected. (Comes in dressed in heavy winter garments, with long, white beard and pockets stuffed with toys\ DISTRIBUTION OF GIFTS. PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. 35S PROGRAMME FOR DECORATION DAY. (Music by band or orchestra can be introduced whenever deemed appropriate). 5INQINQ . . "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean." DECLAMATION . . The Meaning of the Day, LL over our land, in every cemetery where rests members of our army of the dead — and we doubt if any burial place has not such sleepers, — people are gathered to-day to pay tribute to our soldier dead and strew flowers over their graves. All hearts turn as by a com- mon impulse to these ceremonies. We bring our offerings of flowers to the soldiers, but it affects them not; they cannot feel the love and gratitude that prompt the gift. Their lives and deeds have wrought for themselves more enduring monuments than sculptured marble. We assure the loving soldiers that they are not forgotten — that their courage and patriotism will always be remembered as long as a loyal school boy or school girl may live. But this day means more than this, it means something for our nation, something for posterity; Its belief In that grand old flag and what it stands for ; a belief In freedom. It means that the boys and girls of to-day, the men and women of to-morrow, who share in this day's ceremonies, echo the words of our fathers, that " this government shall be pre- served, come what will, threaten it who may." EXERCISE. ' (For fifteen pupils each carrying a flag, and ges- turing as indicated. Pupil 8 should carry a larger flag than the others. Seven to the left of eight should hold flags to left shoulder ; seven to right of eight, should hold flags to right shoulder. When the word North is recited, the seven to the right of number eight raise their flags, then back to the shoulder; when the word Sottfh is recited, the seven to the left of numbej" eight lift their flags, then replace to shoul- ders. Each might carry in other hand a bunch of flowers, and at the word flowers, the bouquets should be raisetS as were the flags. The pupils to the left could wear gray and those to the right, blue, in some (23-x) way — in caps, sashes or bows. Number eight should be dressed in red, white and blue.) 1st Pupil. There is peace, there is peace in the South and the North, When the suns of the May-time shall call the blooms forth. 2nd Pupil. There is peace in the vale where the Tennessee runs — Where the river grass covers covers the long silent guns. jrd Pupil. There is peace in Virginia amid the tall corn ; Where Lookout's high summit grows bright in the morn. 4th Pupil. There is peace where the James wanders down to the main ; Where the war-torn Savannas are golden with grain. ^th Pupil There is peace where the squadrons of carnage have wheeled. Fierce over Shiloh's shell-furrowed field, 6th Pupil. There is peace in the soil whence the palmettoes spring; In the sad Shenandoah the harvesters sing. ph Pupil. There is peace in Manassas, Antietam's dark rills; No more throb the drum on the bare Georgian hills. 8th Pupil There is peace where the warriors of Gettysburg rest ; On the ramparts of Sumter the summer bird's nest. <^th Pupil. There is peace where the ** Father of Waters" ran red, Where the batteries of Mobile lie soundless and dead. 354 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. lOth Pupil There is peace where the rifle hangs mantled with dust, Where the once reeking saber is sheathed in its rust. nth Pupil There is peace where the war-hoofs tore up the smooth lea, Where the hoarse-noted cannon rang over the sea. 1 2th Pupil There is peace in the North, though her soldier is yet Far away on the field where the fierce columns met. ijth Pupil There is peace in the South, though her soldier is lost In the path where the lines of the foeman have crossed. 14th Pupil There is peace in the land, and the *' stars and the bars ' ' Forever have merged in the "stripes and the stars.'' i^th Pupil There is peace where the flowers cover the tombs, And the Blue and the Gray now blend with the blooms. All God grant that this peace may forever be ours ! And the Blue and the Gray alike sleep neath the flowers ! (These last two lines should be recited while flags and flowers are held in front, in prayerful attitude, eyes of pupils glancing upward.) RECITATION Decoration Day. JT'S lonesome — sorto' lonesome — it's a Sun- d'y day to me. It 'pears like — mor'n any day I nearly ever see ! Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a flutterin' in the air, On ev'ry soldier's grave I'd love to lay a lily there. They say, though, Decoration Days is generally observed — Most ev'ry wheres — especially by soldier boys that served— ° But me and mother never went — we seldom gH away — In pint of fact, we're alius home on Decoration Day. They say the old boys marches through the streets in columns grand, A-follerin' the old war tunes they're playin' on the band. And citizens all jinin' in — and little children, too — All marchin' under shelter of the old Red, White and Blue, With roses ! roses ! roses ! — ev'rybody in the town! And crowds of girls in white, just fairly loaded down ! Oh ! don't the boys know it, from their camp across the hill ? Don't they see their comrades comin' and the old flag wavin' still ? Oh! can't they hear the bugle and the rattle of the drum ? — Ain't they no way under heaven they can rickol- lect us some ? Ain't they no way we can coax 'em through the roses, just to say They know that every day on earth is their De- coration Day? We've tried that, — me and mother, — where Elias takes his rest. In the orchard, in his uniform, and hands across his breast. And the flag he died fer smilin' and a-ripplin* in the breeze Above his grave — and, over that— the robin in the trees. And yet it's lonesome — lonesome ! It's a Sun- d'y-day to me. It 'pears like — more'n any day — I nearly ever see — Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a flutterin* in the air, On ev'ry soldier's grave — I'd love to lay a lily there. James Whitcomb Riley. PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. 865 ACROSriC Memorial Day. {Exercise for eleven children. Each carries stand- ard on which the letters are pasted in red, white and blue, and turns the letter toward the audience as the words are recited^ |EMORIAL Day again has come, When throbs the music of the drum. Each muffled accent seems to tell Of heroes who in battle fell. Memories return to boys in blue, Of vanished comrades brave and true. On camping ground and battle plain Alike they met with want and pain. Rivers of blood their courses swept, While sad Columbia mourned and wept. In fever swamp and prison pen Died many of her bravest men. All honor to the soldier bands Who followed Freedom's stern commands. Let each true soldier's noble name, Glow brightly on the books of Fame. Deeds wrought for truth can never die For they are penned in books on high. A nation now in reverence stands With sorrowing heart and flower-filled hands. Years may into long ages glide, These names shall still be glorified. PAPER Origin of Memorial Day. /PTeNERAL JOHN MURRAY was the \ 3 I originator of Memorial Day in the ^""■^ North. While visiting in the South in the winter of 1867-68, he noticed the touching rite of decorating soldiers' graves with flowers by the ladies. Being very much impressed with this custom, he instituted a similar one at his own home. On the 5 th day of May, 1868, Gen. John A. Logan, who was then Commander-in- chief of the Grand Army of the Republic,, established Decoration Day, and by a gen- eral order. May 30, 1868, was designated as ■ a day set apart for the purpose of paying tri- I bute to the memory of those brave men who died in defense of our country. The na- tional encampment held in Washington had it incorporated in its rules and regulations, May II, 1870. Since then, in many of the States, May 30th has been established as a holiday, and it is the universal custom to decorate the graves of all ex-soldiers, thus making it one of the most patriotic days of the year, wherein all classes unite in paying honor to our heroic dead, and feel a con- scious pride in being able to thus show re- spect for their memory and the cause for which they fought. SONG : . . *♦ The Star Spangled Banner." EXERCISE. (A large urn or vase is placed on a stand decorated with the national colors and a bow of black ribbon. Around the rim of the vase a beautiful wreath should be placed. The stand should be at the front of the rostrum, so the pupils may pass behind it. The pu- pils representing the various wars should be dressed if possible in the costumes of that day — military cos- tumes. Beside the urn, a girl representing Liberty should stand holding a large flag at half-mast, she should dress in white and wear sash of the national colors. After reciting, each pupil stands in rear of Liberty. When coming upon the stage, each pupil salutes the flag before reciting and stands on oppo- site side of urn while reciting. When through, he gracefully deposits his bouquet into the urn. At close of exercise the school arises and salutes the flag and repeats the pledge.) Liberty {Enters carrying flag and recites standing at right of urn ; when through reciting casts her flowers into the urn.) TREW with flowers the soldier's grave, Plant each lovely thing that grows; Let the summer breezes wave The calla lily and the rose ; White and red — the cause, the price ! Right, upheld by sacrifice. Let the summer's perfumed breath. Fragrant with the sweetest flowers, Charm the sadness out of death, Glorify the mourners' hours. 356 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. Freighted witli their prayers, arise Incense of tiieir sacrifice. 'Tis not valor that we praise, Thirst for glory, love of strife ; Gentle hearts from quiet ways, Turned to save a nation's life, Lest in jealous fragments torn Freedom's land should come to scorn. O'er the Gray, as o'er the Blue, Nature's bursting tears will flow ; Both were brave, and both were true And fought for all they loved below. Pity ! nor forbid the tear Shed above so sad a bier. Cherish, then, the patriot fires, Honor loyalty, and trust In God that Freedom ne'er expires Where virtue guards the martyr's dust, Who counted life as little worthy And saved the imperiled Hope of Earth." Jno. W. Dunbar. OUR NATION'S PATRIOTS. Revolutionary Pupil. I HAD heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle; Lord Percey's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still ; But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me, When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker HilL Here are lilies for the valorous, and roses for the brave ; And laurel for the victor's crown, and rue for lowly grave. There's crimson for the blood that flowed that Freedom might be free, And golden for the hearts of gold that died for you and me ; Till love no more is loving, we lift our souls and say. For liberty and loyalty we bless their names to-day ! Civil War Pupil. Strew the fair garlands where slumber the dead. Ring out the strains like the swell of the sea. Heartfelt the tribute we lay on each bed. Sound o'er the brave the refrain of the free. Sound the refrain of the loyal and free, Visit each sleeper and hallow each bed, Wave the starred banner from seacoast to se;i Grateful the living, and honored the dead. Cuban War Pupil {carrying Cuban Flagi) New graves we crown with flowers to-ddy New homes shall saddened be ; For loved ones sleeping far away, And some beneath the sea. 'Twas for humanity and right Our loved boys fought and died ; To lift the islands into light And break the Spanish pride. We'll wrap the Bible in the Flag And back them with our might. And bear them over sea and crag. In lofty eagle's flight; And break the bands of heathen night, And set the islands free ; Till Fredom sheds her glorious light O'er every land and sea. Libei'ty (^In prayerful attitude, the boys standing in rear with hats lifted.^ O God ! look down upon the land which Thou hast loved so well, And grant that in unbroken truth her children still may dwell; Nor while the grass grows on the hiil, and streams flow through the vale. May they forget their fathers' faith, or in theii covenant fail ! God keep the fairest, noblest land that lies be- neath the sky — Our country, our whole country, whose fame shall never die. PLEDGE. . (All stand ; salute flag ; and repeat pledge.) E pledge allegiance to our flag and the republic for which it stands — one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.'' ' SONG America. PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. 357 PROGRAMME FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. RECITATION ...... Washington's Day. For a little boy. MUSIC n . **The Star-Spangled Banner." RECITATION .... Washington Enigma. To be given by ten little girls with evergreen or large printed letters hung around their necks by a black thread and adjusted to the proper height. Let ^he letter be turned as the child speaks. Firs^ Child— V^— IN the wailing winds my first Speaks in faintly murmuring tones. Second Child— K— While my second's cry will burst In the martyr's latest groans. — Thii-d Child — S — How the noisome serpents scare i In them finds my third a place. Fourth Child— B.— In the homes which mothers share, Rules my fourth with gentle grace. Fifth Child— I— Watch the Indian's scalping knife, And my fifth shall greet your sight. Sixth Child — N — But my sixth is brought to life In the moonless ebon night. Seventh Child— -Q — See the gambler's greed and note How my seventh rules supreme. Fighth Child— T— The latest presidential vote Holds secure my eighth, I deem. Ninth Child— O — From our sorrow, from our woe. None can drive my ninth away. Te7ithChild—l^— Mark the wailing infant — lo ! There my tenth holds fullest sway. All i?t Concert. Join from first to tenth each part, And you'll find a noble name. Written on each patriot's heart. Glorious in our country's fame. IT ! how the world remembers ! It is many and many a day Since the patriot, George Washingtoa, Grew old and passed away. And yet to-day we are keeping In memory of his birth, And his deeds of truth and valor Are told at every hearth. How he fought for independence All little schoolboys know ; And why he signed the declaration So many years ago. To be as great as Washington I could not if I would ; But I've made up my mind that I Will try to be as good. RECITATION . A Little Boy's Hatchet Story. HEN the great and good George Wash* ington Was a little boy like me, He took his little hatchet And chopped down a cherry tree. And when his papa called him, He then began to cry, '' I did it, oh, I did it ; I cannot tell a lie!'' His papa didn't scold at all. But said, " You noble youth, I'd gladly lose ten cherry trees To have you tell the truth ! " But I myself am not quite clear ; For if I took my hatchet And chopped my papa's cherry treC;, Oh, wouldn' i I just catch it ! 358 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. READING . . . , Maxims of Washington. Adopted by him at the age of fifteen. ^T\ EITHER laugh, nor speak, nor lis- ten when older people are talking together." Say not anything that will hurt another, either in fun or in earnest.'^ " If you say anything funny, don't laugh at it yourself, but let others enjoy it." " When another person speaks, listen your- self, and try not to disturb others.'^ " Obey and honor your father and mother.'^ " Every action in company ought to be with some sign of respect to those present." " When you meet with one of greater quality than yourself, stop and retire, espe- cially if it be at a door or any strait place, to give way for him to pass." "Speak not evil of the absent, for it is unjust." " Show not yourself glad at the misfortune of another, though he were your enemy." " Be not curious to know the affairs of others ; neither approach to those that speak in private." '' Undertake not what you cannot perform, but be careful to keep )^our promises." " Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience." SINGING Tune: *»My Country." NCE more we celebrate Birthday of him so great, So true and brave ; Who struggled not in vain Liberty to attain. Breaking a tyrant's chain His land to save. Bravely the patriot band Fought 'neath his sure command And freedom won ; Honor those soldiers all. Who did for freedom fall, Who followed at the call Of Washington. While shines in heaven the sun, The name of Washington Shall glow with light ; He feared no tyrant grand, But foremost in command, Did like a mountain stand For cause of right. Alice Jean Cleator. ORATION . . . The Father of his Country. foTHE birthday of the " Father of his * I Country ! " May it ever be freshly re- membered by American hearts ! May it ever re-awaken in them a filial veneration for his memory; ever rekindle the fires of patriotic regard to the country he loved so well; to which he gave his youthful vigor and his youthful energy, during the perilous period of the early Indian warfare ; to which he devoted his life, in the maturity of his powers, in the field; to which again he offered the counsels of his wisdom and his experi- ence, as President of the Convention that framed our Constitution ; which he guided and directed while in the Chair of State, and for which the last prayer of his earthly sup- plication was offered up, when it came the moment for him so well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was the first man of the time in which he grew. His memory is first and most sacred in our love; and ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the last American heart, his name shall be a spell of power and might. Yes, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no man can share with him. It was the daily beauty and towering and matchless glory of his life, which enabled him to create his country, and, at the same time, secure an undying love and regard from the whole American people. " The first in the hearts of his countrymen ! " Yes, first ! He has our first and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there were brave and wise and good men PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. a5i) before his day, in every colony. But the American Nation, as a Nation, I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. And the first love of that young America was Washington. The first word she lisped was his name. Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejaculation ; and it will be the last gasp of her expiring life! Yes, others of our great men have been appreciated— many admired by all. But him we love. Him we all love. About and around him we call up no dissentient and dis- cordant and dissatisfied elements — no sec- tional prejudice nor bias, — no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes, when the storm of battle blows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Washington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. It shall relume that Promethean fire, that sub- lime flame of patriotism, that devoted love of country, which his words have commended, which his example has consecrated. Well did Lord Byron write : *' Where may the wearied eye repose; When gazing on the great, Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state ? — Yes — one — the first, the last, the best, The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom Envy dared not hate. Bequeathed the name of Washington, To make man blush, there was but one." RECITATION . . February Twenty =second. IN seventeen hundred thirty-two, This very month and day, Winking and blinking at the light, A little baby lay. Nc doubt they thought the little man A goodly child enough ; But time has proved that he was made Of most imcommon stuff. The little babe became a man That everybody knew Would finish well what he began^ And prove both firm and true. So when the Revolution came. That made our nation free. They couldn' t find a better man For general, you see. As general, he never failed Or faltered ; so they though' He ought to be the President, And so I'm sure he ought. And then he did his part so well As President — ;was plain They couldn't do a better thing Than choose him yet again. Through all his life they loved him welj And mourned him w^ien he died ; And ever since his noble name Has been our nation's pride. The lesson of his life is clear, And easy quite to guess, Be firm and true, if you would make Your life a grand success. Joy Allison, SONG A True Soldier. Tune: " Hold the Fort. f HOUGH we never may be soldiers On the battle field, Though we may not carry banner^ Bayonet or shield ; Each can be as true and valiant Till life's work is done. Each can be as brave a soldier As George Washington. There are mighty hosts of evil, Armies great and strong. Each can be a little soldier Fighting all day long. Let us ever fight them bravely, Let us valiant be ; 360 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. Fight the host of falsehood, envy, Pride and cruelty. Oh, how valiant are the soldiers Who to battle go, Yet more brave a,re they who struggle 'With an iin'^eei"! foe. When the battles all are ended And the victory's won, Each will be as true a soldier As George Washington. Alice Jean Cleator. RECITAL . . . . e . . Washington's Life. (Recitation for five boys ; each holds in his right hand a card with date, lifting it during his recitation.) 1732. N seventeen hundred and thirty-two George Washington was born ; Truth, goodness, skill, and glory high. His whole life did adorn. I 1775. In seventeen hundred and seventy-five The chief command he took Of all the army in the State Who ne'er his flag forsook. 1783- In seventeen hundred and eighty-three, Retired to private life ; He saw his much-loved country free From battle and from strife. 1789. In seventeen hundred and eighty-nine, The country with one voice, ftoclaimed him president, to shine, Blessed by the people's choice. 1799. In seventeen hundred and ninety-nine. The nation's tears were shed, To see the patriot life resign. And sleep among the dead. ALL IN CONCERT. As ** first in war, first in peace," As patriot, father, friend — He will be blessed till time shall cease, And earthly life shall end. SINGING .... Birthday of Washington. (May be sung to "America.") First Pupil : /^ELCOME, thou festal morn ,• iNever be passed in scorn Thy rising sun. Thou day forever bright With Freedom's holy light, That gave the world the sight Of Washington. Second Pupil : Unshaken 'mid the storm, Behold that noble form — That peerless one. With his protecting hand, Like Freedom's angel, stand, The guardian of our land, Our Washington. Third Pupil: Traced there in lines of light, Where all pure rays unite. Obscured by none; Brightest on history's page. Of any clime or age. As chieftain, man or sage, Stands Washington. Fourth Pupil : Name at which tyrants pale. And their proud legions quail. Their boasting done ; While Freedom lifts her head, No longer filled with dread. Her sons to victory led By Washington, Class in Concert: Now the true patriot see. The foremost of the free. The victory won. In Freedom's presence bow. While sweetly smiling now She wreathes the spotless broKU Of Washington. PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. Then, with each coming year, Whenever shall appear That natal sun, Will we attest the worth Of one true man to earth And celebrate the birth Of Washington. George Rowland. MARCH. Boys and Girls Carrying Flags. W PROGRAMME FOR ARBOR DAY. The celebration of Arbor Day has become so common that there is a demand for a programme of public exercises for schools and academies. The following can be varied by omitting pieces or substi- tuting others. Little flags on palm-leaf fans tacked on well, also tufts of pine, and wreaths of flowers, bouquets, etc., might aid in decoration. Let the pupils take an active part in preparation. SONG. Tune : «* What a Friend We Have In Jesus." E have come with joyful greeting, Songs of gladness, voices gay. Teachers, friends, and happy children, All to welcome Arbor Day. Here we plant the trees whose branches, Warmed by breath of summer days, Nourished by the dews and showers. Soon shall wave in leafy sprays. Let us plant throughout our borders, O'er our lands so far and wide. Treasures from the leafy forest, Vale, and hill, and mountain side ; Rooted deep, oh let them flourish. Sturdy giants may they be ! Emblems of the cause we cherish- — Education broad and free. Gentle winds will murmur softly, Zephyrs float on noiseless wing ; 'Mid their bows shall thrush and robin. Build their nests and sweetly sing. 'Neath their shady arms will childhood Weary of the noontide heat, In its cool inviting shadow. Find a pleasant, safe retreat. READING. Proclamation of State Governor or of School Com- missioner. DECLAMATION. /^RBOR DAY is an anniversary that Pj looks forward with bright hope. J The trees which we plant to-day, will grow into groves and forests of the fu- ture, and in their silent beauty and voiceless green will honor the hands that so tenderly planted them. Beneath them the youth yet to be may meet in social banquet, and enjoy the fruitage of our labors. *' We are what wind and sun and water make us. The mountains are our sponsors, and the rills Fashion and win their nurslings with their smiles. ' ' This is not a holiday ; but a day especially set apart for the purpose of tree-planting, of observing more closely and studying more carefully the trees, flowers and gifts of the forest ; also of cultivating a greater reverence and finer sense of the beautiful and sublime. What object can better inspire us to gain victory over trials than the grand old oak which in bold defiance to its foes while reel- ing in the wrath of the tempest is sending down to deeper hold its gnarled roots only to be better able to triumph in the next storm ? Our poets have used their purest thought, their sweetest music in praise of the forest and the flowers. Arbor Day pro- vides gracious means of a closer acquaintance with *' God's first temples," and we hope that this day's effort may result in much good. QUOTATIONS. ( Pupils stand by desks and after naming authors recite the quotations. ) 1st Pupil. — Whittier said : *' Give fools their gold, and knaves their power; Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall ; 362 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. Who so\ys a field or trains a flower. Or plants a tree, is more than all." 2nd Pupil. — Ben Johnson wrote: "Not merely growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be, Or standing long an oak three hundred years, To fall a log at last, dry, bald and sear. A lily of a day is fairer far in May ; Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measure life may perfect be." ^rd Pupil. — Holmes said : "In fact there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. ' ' 4th Pupil. — Morris wrote : **To me the world's an open book Of sweet and pleasant poetry ; I read it in the running book That sings its way toward the sea. It whispers in the leaves of trees. The swelling grain, the waving grass. And in the cool, fresh evening breeze, That crisps the wavelets as they pass. "The flowers below, the stars above, In all their bloom and brightness given. Are, like the attributes of love. The poetry of earth and heaven ; Thus, nature's volume, read aright. Attunes the soul to minstrelsy, Tingeing life's cloud with rosy light And all the world with poetry." f//^ Pupil. — Longfellow said: '^ ^f thou art worn and heart beset With sorrows that thou wouldst forget. If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills ! No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.** 6th Pupil. — Bryan Waller Froctor wrote: "Methinks I love all common things, The common air, the common flower. The dear, kind, common thought that springs From hearts that have no other dowOT, No other wealth, no other power, Save love ; and will not that repay For all else fortune tears away ? What good are fancies rare, that rack With painful thought the poet's brain ? Alas! they cannot bear us back Unto happy years again ! But the white rose without a stain Bringeth times and thoughts of flowers, When youth was bounteous as the hours.** The School. '^He who plants a tree Plants a hope. Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope j Leaves unfold into horizons free, So man's life must climb From the clods of time Unto heavens sublime." RECITATION. . VilK W( . What do we Plant whei) we Plant a Tree ? ITAT do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the ships that will cross the sea, We plant the mast to carry the sails. We plant the plank to withstand the gales, The keel, the keelson, the beam and knee. We plant the ship when we plant the tree. What do we plant when we plant the tree ? We plant the \ ^uses for you and me ; We plant the rar^irs, the shingles, the floors. We plant the stuoc'ing, the lath, the doors. The beams, the sida^g, all parts that be, We plant the house when we plant the tree. What do we plant when we plant the tree ? A thousand things that we daily see. We plant the spire that out-towers the crag. We plant the staff" for our country's flag; We plant the shade from the hot sun free. We plant all these when we plant the tree. Henry Abbey. PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. 363 EXERCISE, . . Wedding of the Palm and Pine. (Characters.- Uncle Sam, Miss Palm, Mr. Pine, and maids for Miss Palm, and servant for Mr. Pine. The maids carry tropical fruits, and one holds either a palm leaf or a peacock fan over Miss Palm, who wears a flowing dress made of some light cheesecloth or goods without starch ; also over her head an ice- wool shawl. Her face powdered white, cheeks rosy, and she should be a girl having black hair and eyes. Approaches the stage very modestly, aiid is always very reserved. Her dress should wear flowers and blossoms. Mr. Pine should be stately, tall and re- served, and should wear tuft of pine for button-hole bouquet. His hair might be whitened with magnesia. Plis attendant should carry his fur coat and leggings, etc. Uncle Sam should be dressed in customary at- tire. Uncle Sam first enters stage, carrying a good- sized flag. Palm carries a palm-leaf fan on which xS fastened on one side a small flag, and on the other side a wreath of leaves — myrtle or the like ) Uncle Sam : u /-^c&^HE'S up there, Old Glory, where light wings are sped. She dazzles the nations with ripples of red ; And she'll wave for us living, or droop o'er us dead— The flag of our country forever ! She's up there. Old Glory, how bright the stars stream ! And the stripes like red signals, of liberty gleam ! And we dare for her living or dream the last dream, 'Neath the flag of our country forever ! She's up there, Old Glory, no tyrant-dealt scars- No blur on her brightness, no stain on her stars ! The brave blood of heroes hath crimsoned her bars — She's the flag of our country forever!" There comes from the south {Miss Palm eitfers) where the balmy breeze blows. There comes from the north (J/r. Pi?ie enters^ where the hardy pine grows. Warm hearts and true hearts, loyal and free. The Palm and the Pine now wedded to be. Come stand 'neath the flag, modest Palm, mighty Pine, {JBoth step to front before Uncle Sam and bow to each other, and then gracefully salute the flag ^ The emblem so dear to brave fathers of thine, And under its bars, and its stars and its blue, Unite now and ever to dare and to do i^joi?t hands') What your hearts and your hands can our nation to save, And to keep the old flag o'er the free and the brave. {Uncle Sam, placing his right hand upon the joined hands of Palm and Pine, continues,) No north, no south, no east, no west, But one, united, free ! The Palm and Pine, in Union blest, Now stand for liberty. From lakes to gulf, from sea to sea. May union stronger grow \ Thus teach the world humanity, And might together go. {Retire J Pahn leaning on ar7n of Pine ^ PAPERo Origin of Arbor Day. At an annual meeting of the Nebraska State Board of Agriculture, held in the city of Lincoln, January 4, 1872, Hon. J. Sterling Morton introduced the following resolution which was unanimously adopted after a short debate as to the name ; some desired to call the day " Sylvan ^' instead of "Arbor :" Resolved, ^^That Wednesday, the loth day of April, 1872, be, and the same is hereby especially set apart and consecrated for tree planting in the State of Nebraska* and the State Board of Agriculture hereby name it Arbor Day, and urge upon the people of the State the vital importance of tree planting, and hereby offer a special premium of one hundred dollars to the agricultural society of that county in Nebraska which shall upon that day plant properly the largest number of trees; and a farm library of twenty-five dollars' worth of books to that person, who, on that day, shall plant properly in Nebraska the greatest number of trees," 364 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. The result was that over a milHon trees were planted in Nebraska on that first Arbor Day. A few years later, April 22, the birth- day of Mr. Morton was set apart by the Governor as Arbor Day in that State, and now nearly all States observe Abor Day. RECITATION Value of Our Forests. (The pupils come on the stage, one at a time, and recite, showing the article about which they speak and give inotions.) 1st Pupil (carrying a bunch of toothpicks). (gy^ TOOTHPICK is a little thing, yet it f^\ is reported that one factory uses ^JLV^^ 10,000 cords of wood annually in the production of these splints of wood. 2d Pupil (carrying a box of pegs). Shoe pegs are small affairs ; yet a single factory sends to Europe annually 40,000 bushels of pegs, besides wha<" it sells in this country. ■^d Pupil, A spool is of small account when the thread is wound off"; yet several factories use each from 1800 to 3500 cords of wood every year in making these articles. Thousands of acres of birch trees have been bought at one time by thread manufacturers, for the sole purpose of securing a supply of spools. ^j.th Pupil. Who thinks much of the little friction match, as he uses it to light the lamp or fire, and then throws it away ? But one factory, it is said, makes 60,000,000 of these little arti- cles every day, and uses for this purpose 12,000 square feet of best pine lumber. Sth Pupil, Forests affect the climate of the country ; influence the rain of a country ; build up a wall and protect the crops; they keep the air pure. The leaf-mold in forests holds back tiie rains. We draw ;^70o,ooo,ooo worth of products every year from the trees. No other crop equals this in value. All in Concert " The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft and lay the architrave And spread the roof above them ; ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood. Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thank? And supplication." SONG . .Tune^ "Am^ica." P from the smiling earth Comes there a voice of mirth. Our hearts to cheer ; Listen where the willows lean. Lovingly o'er the stream, Listen, where the pine trees dream. Springtime is here. Let us sing merrily, Blithely and cheerily, With the new year ; Join in the chorus. Loudly swelling o'er us; Joy is before us. Springtime is here. Come, let us plant a tree Tenderly, lovingly. Some heart to cheer, Long may its branches sway. Over the dusty way With shade for sultry day, For years to be. Edna D. Proctor. CONCERT RECITATION The Trees, (By small pupils standing in aisles and in imitation of trees, gestures as indicated.) E are trees in tiny rows Growing straight and tall ; Roots we have so when it^ blows. None of us may fall. PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. 3Gi Bending gently^ to and fro Then to^ left and right, Makes us stronger as we grow, * Upward to the light. Tiny branches spreading wide,^ Adding grace and form, Growing firmly from our side, ® Hide us from the storm. On our branches, in the spring, 'Leaves in green unfold; Till the frost with cruel sting, Turns them into gold. Then our brightly tinted leaves, From our branches fall ; * Flutter in the autumn breeze, To October's call. ® Midst our branches squirrels rim, Searching for our fruit ; And the birds in summer's sun, ^*^Flit in hot pursuit And at night when all is still, "We have gone to sleep, Comes the owl, a mouse to kill, And ^^hoots in a voice so deep. As little trees of hope we stand, And promises of good ; Oh, may we grow up ^'^tall and grand A deep and shady wood, Bear sweet and gladsome fruit of love^ And shelter weary souls; And ^*lift our crests the storm above. Where endless sunlight rolls. Gestures for ^' The Trees.'''* I. Half of the number imitate the swaying of trees by the blowing of wind, done by bending head and body to right and left. 2. Hands on hips, body bending forward and backward. 3. Body bending left and right. 4. Point upward with right hands. 5. Slowly extend arms. 6. Crouch as in hiding. 7. Arms extended, open hands slowly. 8. Arms ex- tended, move fingers like fluttering leaves. 9. First imitate leaping squirrel with right hand ; then with left; then with both hands. 10. Move hands to and fro with fast moving fingers. 11. Arms extended direct above head, fingers closed and eyes shut. I2„ Half the number imitate the /z^f^/i- while others recite. 13. Move arm full length obliquely from right side, and direct eyes upward in same direction. 14. Lift both hands slowly to full length above head in front of body, and look up. MUSIC To be Selected. PROGRAMME FOR TUNE. — *'Marching Through Georgia.'* \^ I HROUGH the golden summertime we've ^ I all been sowing seeds ; -*- Oh they've sprung to blossoms or to tall and ugly weeds ; Children have we sown the seed of wrong or kindly deeds, All through the bright days of summer. Chorus. The seeds we planted along life's onward way, Are swiftly growing, growing every day ; What the harvest time shall be, it is for us to say- Let us be cheerful in sowing. A HARVEST HOME. RECITATION. ... A Sermon in Rhyme IF you have a friend worth loving, Love him. Yes, and let him know That you love him, ere life's evening Tinge his brow with sunset glow. Why should good words ne'er be said Of a friend till he is dead ? If you hear a song that thrills you^ Sung by any child of song. Praise it. Do not let the singer Wait deserved praises long. Why should one who thrills your heart Lack the joy you may impart ? If a silvery laugh goes rippling Through the sunshine on his race^ 366 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. Share it. 'Tis the wise man's saying For both joy and grief a place. There's health and goodness in the mirth In which an honest laugh has birth. If your work is made more easy By a friendly helping hand, Say so. Speak out brave and truly Ere the darkness veil the land. Should a brother workman dear Falter for a word of cheer ? Scatter thus your seeds of kindness, All enriching as you go — Leave them. Trust the Harvest Giver, He will make each seed to grow. So, until its happy end Your life shall never lack a friend. FARMER JOHN. (For a man dressed in farmer's costume.) "OME from his journey Farmer John Arrived this morning safe and sound; His black off and his old clothes on; ''Now I'm myself," says Farmer John; And he thinks, '' Til look round." Up leaps the dog : ' ' Get down, you pup ! Are you so glad you would eat me up? " The old cow lows at the gate to greet him, .^*ae horses prick up their ears to meet him : *'Well, well, old Bay! Ha, ha, old Gray ! Do you get good food when I'm away ? ''You haven't a rib," says Farmer John ; *'The cattle are looking round and sleek; The colt is going to be a roan, And a beauty, too ; how he has grown I We'll wean the calf next week." " I've found this out," says Farmer John, " That happiness is not bought and sold, And clutched in a life of waste and hurry. In nights of pleasure and days of worry ; And wealth isn't all in gold, Mortgages, stocks, and ten per cent., But in simple ways and sweet content] Few wants, pure hope, and noble ends. Some land to till, and a few good friends Like you, old Bay, And you, old Gray : That's what I learned by going away." J. T. Trowbridge. RECITAL The Mrsf : Husbandman, (For boys and girls.) ARTH, of man the bounteous mother. Feeds him still with golden grain ; He who best would aid a brother Shares with him his loaded wain. Second: Many a power within her bosom. Noiseless hidden, works beneath ; Hence are seed and leaf and blossom, Golden ear, and clustered wreath. TAi'rd : These to swell with strength and beauty Is the royal task of man ; Man's a king ; his throne is duty, Since his work on earth began. Fourth : Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage — These, like men, are fruits of earth ; Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage. All from dust receive their birth. Fifth : What the dream but vain rebelling, If from earth we sought to flee ? 'Tis our stored and ample dwelling; 'Tis from it the skies w^esee. Sixth : Wind and frost, and hour and season, Land and water, sun and shade — - Work with these, as bids thy reason, For they work thy toil to aid. All i7i co7icert : Sow thy seed and reap in gladness ! Man himself is all a seed ; Hope and hardship, joy and sadness — Slow the plant to ripeness lead. John Sterling.; PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. 361 ORATION The Nobility of Labor. I CALL upon those whom I address to stand up for the nobility of labor. It is Heaven's great ordinance for human improvement. Let not that great ordinance be broken down. What do I say? It is broken down ; and it has been broken down for ages. Let it, then, be built up again; here, if anywhere, on these shores of a new world — of a new civilization. But how, I may be asked, is it broken down ? Do not men toil ? it may be said. They do, indeed^ toil ; but they, too, generally do it because they must. Many submit to it as, in some sort, a degrading necessity; and they desire nothing so much on earth as escape from it. They fulfill the great law of labor in the letter, but break it in the spirit ; fulfill it with the muscle, but break it with the mind. To some field of labor, mental or manual, every idler should fasten, as a chosen and coveted theatre of improvement. But so is he not impelled to do, under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the con- trary, he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in his idleness. This way of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system, under which serfs la- bored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away with. Ashamed to toil, art thou ? Ashamed of thy dingy workshop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hands, scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which Mother Nature has embroidered, 'midst sun and rain, 'midst fire and steam, her own heraldic honors ? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunt- ing robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to nature — it is impiety to Heaven — it is breaking Heaven^s great ordi- ^lance. Toil, I repeat — toil, either of the brain, or of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true nobility I Orville Dewey. RECITATION The Com Song. (For a lad who holds a tall stalk of corn in left hand.) EAP high the farmer's wintry hoard ; Heap high the golden corn ! No richer gift has autumn poured From her most lavish horn ! Let other lands, exulting, glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green. The cluster from the vine ; We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow. Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth Sends up its smoky curls. Who will not thank the kindly earth, And bless our farmer girls ? Then shame on all the proud and vain, Whose folly laughs to scorn The blessing of our hardy grain, Our wealth of golden corn ! Let earth withhold her goodly root, Let mildew blight the rye. Give to the worm the orchard's fruit. The wheat-field to the fly. But let the good old crop adorn The hills our fathers trod ; Still let us, for his golden corn. Send up our thanks to God ! J. G. Whittier. SINGING Tune: ♦'Rockingham." r:AT GOD ! our heart-felt thanks to Thee! Ne feel Thy presence everywhere ; And pray that we may ever be The objects of Thy guardian care. 368 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. We sowed ! — by Thee our work was seen, And blessed ; and instantly went forth Thy mandate ; and in living green Soon smiled the fair and fruitful earth. We toiled !— and Thou didst note our toil ; And gav'st the sunshine and the rain, Till ripened on the teeming soil The fragrant grass, and golden grain. And now, we reap ! — and oh, our God ! From this, the earth's unbounded floor, We send our song of thanks abroad, And pray Thee, bless our hoarded store I W. D. Gallagher ^@^ From skies are pushed away By nature's hand; We gladly welcome you, Blossoms of red and blife. Blossoms of every hue. To our fair land. RECITAL. . . The Poppy and Mignonette. NCE 'tis said, gay, flaunting poppies, And the humble mignonette. Side by side grew in a garden Where one day their glances met. Cried a Poppy : '' Of your presence. In this spot we have no need, You are sadly out of place, You are nothing but a weed." Meekly bowed the Mignonette And ashamed in silence stood. When there came a gentle murmur. Like a whisper from the wood : "Henceforth, gay and flaunting poppies, Proud and stately in thy bloom. Shall be taken half thy beauty- All thy wealth of sweet perfume. It is thine, O mignonette, Flower of sweet and lowly grace ; Thou shalt win the hearts of others. Though thou hast a humble face." And the magic of that whisper, Holds its mystic power yet ; Poppies lure us with their beauty, But we love the mignonette. FLOWER QUOTATIONS. (For seven pup'ls, each of whom recites a verse, prefacing it with the name of the author.) Wordsiuorth wrote: (^ i HE rainbow comes and goes, < I And lovely is the rose ; -*- The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare. Waters on a starry night, Are beautiful and fair. Longfellow wrote : O flower de luce, bloom on, and let the river Linger to kiss thy feet. O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever The world more fair and sweet. Lowell wrote : The cowslip startles in meadows green. The buttercup catches the sun in its chalic^ And there's never a blade or a flower too mean, To be some happy creature's palace. Leigh Hunt wrote ; We are violets blue, For our sweetness found Careless in the mossy shades. Looking on the ground. Love-dropped eye-lids, and a kiss, Such our breath and blueness is. John Wolcott wrote : The daisies peep from every field, And violets sweet their odors yield. The purple blossom paints the thorn. And streams reflect the blush of morn Then lads and lasses, all be gay, For this is Nature's holiday. Horace Smith wrote : Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living teachers, Each cup a pulpit and each leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers. From loveliest nook. 378 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. Lowell wrote : AVinds wander, and dews drip earthward, Rains fall, suns rise and set, Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet. SONQ Tune: '♦ Auld Lang Syne." 1^; HEN winter o'er the hills afar, Has vanished from the land, x\nd glad and welcome signs of Spring Are seen on every hand. Then Robin in his vest of red, And sober suit of brown, From out his sunny, southern home. Flies gaily into town. The blossoms smile to hear him sing, And see him build his nest ; For of all merry summer birds Dear Robin, they love best. He chirps and twitters at his work, While skies forget to frown, And all the world is glad and gay When Robin lives in town. The summer softly fades away Into the winter drear, Then Robin gayly sings, •' good-bye,, I'll come another year," So when the woodland trees are bare, And snowy flakes fall down ; In little suit of brown and red. Dear Robin leaves the town. RECITATION Flowers. 'OW the universal heart of man blesses flowers ! They are wreathed round the cradle, the marriage altar, and the tomb. The Persian in the far East delights in their perfume, and writes his love in nosegays ; while the Indian child of the far West clasps his hands with glee as he gathers the abundant blossoms — the illumi- nated scripture of the prairies. The Cupid of the ancient Hindoos tipped his arrows with flowers, and orange buds are the bridal crown with us, a nation of yesterday. Flowers garlanded the Grecian altar, and they hang in votive wreaths before the Christian shrine. All these are appropriate uses. Flowers should deck the brow of the youthful bride, for they are in themselves a lovely type o\ marriage. They should twine round the tomb, for their perpetually renewed beaut}/ is a symbol of the resurrection. They should festoon the altar, for their fragrance and their beauty ascend in perpetual worship before the Most High. Lydia M. Child. THE FOOLISH HAREBELL. (For eighteen pupils, each speaking two lines.) (^lY HAREBELL hung its willful head : j^4 '' I am so tired, so tired ! I wish I was J^^K^^ dead." She hung her head in the mossy dell : "If all were over, then all were well." The wind he heard, and was pitiful ; He waved her about to make her cool. "■ Wind, you are rough," said the dainty bell j '^ Leave me alone — I am not well." And the wind, at the voice of the drooping dame, Sank in his heart, and ceased for shame. " I am hot, so hot ! " she sighed and said ; ** I am withering up ; I wish I was dead." Then the sun, he pitied her pitiful case, And drew a thick veil over his face. '' Cloud, go away, and don't be rude; I am not — I don't see why you should." The cloud withdrew, and the harebell cried, " I am faint, so faint ! and no water beside ! " And the dew came down its million-fold, path; But she murmured, "I did not want a bath." A boy came by in the morning gray; He plucked the harebell, and threw it away. The harebell shivered, and cried, '' Oh ! oh ! I am faint, so faint ! Come, dear wind, blow." The wind blew softly, and did not speak. She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak. PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. 379 (^ 1 o De answi w " Sun, dear sun, I am cold," she said. He rose ; but lower she drooped her head. * ' O rain ! I am withering ; all the blue Is fadmg out of me; — come, please do." The rain came down as fast as it could, But for all its will it did her no good. She shuddered and shriveled, and moaning said; ** Thank you all kindly; " and then she was dead. Let us hope, let us hope, when she comes next year, She'll be simple and sweet. But I fear, I fear. George Macdonald. QUESTIONS ABOUT FLOWERS. (To be answered by a class or the whole school.) HAT is the favorite flower of the poets ? Ans. The daisy. What English poet so loved the daisy that he lay all one day in the field to see it open in the morning and close at night ? Ans. Chaucer. What violet, so called, really belongs to the lily family ? Ans. The dog-tooth violet. What flower was named by the Greeks after one of their gods ? Ans, The pansy, after Pan. About what flower was Emerson's finest poem written ? Ans. The rhodora. Which of the buttercups are foreigners ? Ans. The tall buttercup and the common buttercup with bulbous base. Name some other imported flowers. Ans. Dandelion and ox eyed daisy. Name two distinctly American blossoms. Ans. Indian pipe and blood-root. What queen adopted the daisy as her flower ? Ans. Queen Margherita of Italy. Name one of the most brilliant of August flowers. Ans. The cardinal flower. What is one of the most difficult wild flowers to cultivate ? Ans. Trailing arbutus, whicn grows all over the United States. What floral poem of Wordsworth's is famous ? Ans. Daflbdils. What is the most beautiful plant of Au- tumn? Ans. The golden rod. RECITATION Pansies. E had climbed to the top of the old Gray Peak, And viewed the valley o'er ; And we started off on our homeward tramp, A good three miles or more. The road lay curved like a ribbon of gold. Around the base of the hill, And the brook gleamed out with a silver sheen, From thickets near the mill. But the sun shone warm on the du«ty road, Until by heat oppressed. We wearily stopped at a cottage gate ; The matron bade us rest. How cool was the shade of the trumpet-vine, A spring ran fresh and clear ? The flash and whirr of a jeweled thing, A humming-bird was near. We were sauntering down the garden path, Repeating kind good-byes. When suddenly now were our footsteps stayed, New beauties met our eyes. ''Will you have some pansies?" the hostess asks, *' O, thank you, on ! " we say ; But the matron is culling the purple blooms, ' We let her have her way. Purple and blue and russet and gold Those fragrant rich bouquets ; *' Ah ! " she explains, '* of my violets sweet, You have not learned the ways. 380 PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. ** There is something good about pansies That's worth your while to know; The more they are picked and given away The more they're sure to grow." Mary A. McClelland. RECITAL Plant Song. AVIIERE do you come from, berries red, Nuts, apples and plums, that hang ripe overhead, Sweet, juicy grapes, with your rich purple hue, Saying, '' Pick us and eat us; we're growing for you ? ' ' O, where do you come from, bright flower and fair, That please with your colors and fragrance so rare, Glowing with sunshine or sparkling with dew ? ''We are blooming for dear little children like you." ''Our roots are our mouths, taking food from the ground. Our leaves are our lungs, breathing air all around, Our sap, like your blood, our veins courses through — Don't you think, little children, we're somewhat like you? " Your hearts are the soil, your thoughts are the seeds ; Your lives may become useful plants or foul weeds ; If thou think but good thoughts your lives will be true, For good women and men were once children like you." Nellie M. Brown. 50NQ. . . . TUNE.—" Bounding Billows." E would hail thee, joyous summer, We would welcome thee to-day. With thy skies so blue and cloudless And thy song-birds, glad and gay. Oh, the blossoms hear thee calling, Hear thy voice that ne'er deceives^ And they waken from their slumbers Far beneath the withered leaves. Little brooks with merry laughter, Run to greet their lovely guest ; For of all the happy seasons Summer dear, they love thee best. So we hail thee, joyous summer. We would welcome thee to day; With thy skies so blue andcloudless. And thy song-birds, glad and gay. READING ........ Sunimer=Time. (f) I HEY were right — those old German ^ I minnesingers — to sing the pleasant summer-time ! What a time it is ! How June stands illuminated in the calen* dar! The windows are all wide open; only the Venetian blinds closed. ITere and there a long streak of sunshine streams in through a crevice. We hear the low sound of the wind among the trees; and, as it swells and freshens, the distant doors clap to, with a sudden sound. The trees are heavy with leaves; and the gardens full of blossoms, red and white. The whole atmosphere is laden with perfume and sunshine. The birds sing. The cock struts about, and crows loftily. Insects chirp in the grass. Yellow buttercups stud the green carpet like golden buttons, and the red blossoms of the clover like rubies. The elm-trees reach their long, pendu- lous branches almost to the gr.ound. White clouds sail aloft, and vapors fret the blue sky with silver threads. The white village gleams afar against the dark hills. Through the meadow winds the river — careless, indo- lent. It seems to love the country, and is in no haste to reach the sea. The bee only is at work — the hot and angry bee. All things else are at play ! he never plays, and is vexed that any one should. People drive out from town to breathe, and to be happy. Most of them have flowers in their hands; bunches of apple-blossoms, and still oftener lilacs. Ye denizens of the PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS. 381 crowded city, how pleasant to you is the change from the sultry streets to the open fields, fragrant with clover blossoms! how pleasant the fresh, breezy country air, dashed with brine from the meadows ! how pleasant, above all, the flowers, the manifold beautiful flowers ! H. W. Longfellow. 30NQ o . Tune.— «' The Last Rose of Suni= 4L A: mer, IS the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh ! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may ollow. When friendships decay. And from love's shining circle The gems drop away ! When true hearts lie withered And fond ones are flown, Oh ! who would inhabit This bleak world alone ? Thomas Moore. MARCH Honor to the Flag. (Young people march to a well known tune ; each carries a bouquet, and, approaching a staff flying the Stars and Stripes, places the flowers at the base.) Dialogues for Schools and Lyceums. IN WANT OF A SERVANT. Characters : Mr. Marshall and Wife. Margaret O' Flanagan. Katrina Van Follestein. Snowdrop Washington. Mrs. Bunker. Freddie. Sce?te I. — The breakfast-room of Mr. and Mrs. Marshali,. Mr. Marshall enjoying the morning paper with his heels on the mantel. Mrs. Marshall {in a complaining to7te.) H, dear, Charles, how sick and tired I am of housework ! I do envy peo- ple who are able to keep help. Here I am tied up to the little hot kitchen morn- ing till night — stewing, and baking, and fry- ing, and scrubbing, and washing floors, till I am ready to sink ! One thing over and over again. I wonder why Hood, when he wrote the " Song of the Shirt," had not kept on and written the ** Song of the Basement Story." Mr. M. Is it so very bad, Lily ? Why, I always thought it must be nice work to cook — and washing dishes is the easiest thing in the world. All you have to do is to pour a little hot water over 'em and give 'em a flirt over with a towel. Mrs. M. That's all you men know about it ; it is the hardest work in the world ! I always hated it. I remember, when I was a little girl, I always used to be taken with a headache when mother wanted me to wash che dishes. And then she'd dose me with rhubarb. Ugh ! how bitter it was ; but not 382 half so bitter as washing dishes in boiling water in a hot kitchen in the middle of August! Mr. M. [meditatively taking his feet from the mantel}) I made a lucky sale this morn- ing, and saved a cool three hundred. I had intended giving you a new silk, but I'll do better — I'll hire you a girl. How will that suit? Mrs. M. Oh, what a darhng! I would kiss you if you hadn't been smoking, and my collar weren't quite so fresh. I am afraid I shall muss it. But you are a good soul, Charlie ; and I shall be so happy. Do you really mean it ? Mr. M. To be sure. Mrs. M. Won't Mrs. Fitzjones die of envy? She puts her washing out, and she's always flinging that in my face. I guess the boot will be on the other foot now ! I wonder what she'll say when she runs in of a morn- ing to see what I'm cooking, and finds me in the parlor hem-stitching a handkerchief, and my maid attending to things in the kitchen? But where is a girl to be had ? Will you go to the intelligence office ? Mr. M. No ; I don't approve of intelli gence offices. I will advertise. Bring me a pen and ink, Lily. Mrs. M. (bringing the articles}) You won't say that to me any more, Charles. It will be, "Biddy, my good girl, bring me the writ, ing implements." Won't it be nice ? Just like a novel. They always have servants, you know. Mr. M. What, the novels ? Mrs. M. No ; the people in them. Are DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. 3S3 you writing the advertisement ? Be sure and say that no one need apply except experi- enced persons. I want no green hands about my kitchen. Mr, M. {reads from the paper what he has been writing^ " Wanted, by a quiet family, a girl to do general housework. None but those having had experience need apply. Call at No. Ii6 B street, between the hours of ten and two." How will that answer ? uWrs. M, Admirably ! Charles, you ought to have been an editor. You express your ideas so clearly! Mr. M. Thank you, my dear, thank you. I believe I have some talent for expressing my meaning. But I am going down town now, and will have this advertisement in- serted in the Herald, and by to-morrow you can hold yourself in readiness to receive ap- plicants. By-bye (^goes out). Mrs. M» {alone). If it isn't the most charm- ing thing ! Won't the Fitzjoneses and Mrs. Smith be raving ? Mrs. Smith has got s, bound girl, and Mrs. Fitzjones puts out her washing; but I am to have a regular servant ! I shall get a chance to practice my music now. Dear me —how red my hands are ! [looks at them) I must get some cold cream for them ; one's hands show so on the white keys of a piano. I'll go and open that piano now, and dust it. It must be dreadfully out of tune. But I'll have it tuned as soon as ever I get that girl fairly initiated into my way of doing work {goes out). Scene II. — Mrs. Marshall awaiting the com- ing of applicants,'' A furious ring at the front door bell, Mrs. M. {peeping through the blinds). Dear me ! I wonder who's coming ! A person applying for the situation of servant would not be likely to come to the front door. I can just see the edge of a blue-silk flounce, and a streamer of red ribbon on the bonnet, ril go and see who it is {opens the door, and a stoiLt Irish girl, gaudily dressed, with an eye- glass, and a bonnet of enormous dimensions Pushes by her, and entering the parlor, seats herself in the rocking-chair). Mrs. M. To what am I indebted for this visit ? Irish Girl. It looks well for the like of yees to ask! It's the leddy what's wanting a young leddy to help in the wurrk that I'm after seeing. Mrs. M. {with dignity). I am that person, if you please. What may I call your name? ■ Irish Girl. Me name's Margaret O'Flana- gan, though some people has the impudence to call me Peggy ; but if ever the likes of it happens agin I'll make the daylight shine into 'em where it never dramed of shining before. What may your name be, mum ? Mrs. M. My name is Marshall. I am in want of a servant. Margaret. Sarvint, is it ? Never a bit of a sarvint will I be for anybody ! The blud of my forefathy would cry out against it. But I might have ixpected it from the appearance of yees. Shure, and I'd no other thought but ye was the chambermaid. Marshall, is it? Holy St. Patrick! why that was the name of the man that was hung in County Cork for the murthering of Dennis McMur- phy, and he had a nose exactly like the one forenlnst yo u r face. {A second ring at the door. Mrs. Marshall ushers in a stolid-faced Ger- man girl, and an over-dressed colored lady. They take seats on the sofa.) German Girl, Ish dis the place mit the wo- man what wants a girl in her housework that was put into de paper day pefore to-morrow. Mrs, M, Yes, I am the woman. What is your name? German Girl. Katrina Van Follenstein. I can do leetle of most everything. I can baks all myself, and bile, and fry ; and makes sour- krout — oh, sphlendid ! And I sphanks the children as well as their own mudders. 384 DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. Marg. If ye'll condescend to lave that dirty Dutchman, young leddy, I'll be afther asking ye a ^cw questions ; and then if ye don't shute me I can be laving. Me time is precious. Is them the best cheers in yer house ? Mrs, M. They are. Marg. Holy Virgin ! Why, mum, I've been used to having better cheers than them in me own room, and a sofy in me kitchen to lay me bones on when they're took aching. Have ye got a wine cellar ? Mrs. M. {indignantly). No ! We are tem- perance people. Marg. Oh, botheration ! Then ye'll niver do for me, at all at all ? It's wine I must have every day to keep me stummach in tune, and if Barney O'Grath comes in of an evening I should die of mortification if I didn't have a drop of something to trate him on. And about the peanny. It's taking lessons I am, meself, and if it's out of kilter, why, it must be fixed at once. I never could think of playing on a instrument that was ontuned. It might spile me voice. Mrs. M. I want no servants in rny house who are taking music lessons. I hire a girl to do my work — not to dictate to me, and sit in the parlor. Marg. Ye don't hire me. No mum ! Not by a long walk. It's not Margaret O'Flanagan that'll be hosted round by an old sharp-nosed crayter like yerself, wid a mole on yer left cheek, and yer waterfall made out of other folks' hair ! The saints be blessed, me own is an illegant one — and never a dead head was robbed for to make it ! 'Twas the tail of me cousin Jimmy's red horse — rest his soul ! Mrs. M. {pointing to the door). You can leave the house. Miss O'Flanagan. You won't suit me. Marg. And you won't shute me. I wouldn't work with ye for a thousand dollars a week ! It's not low vulgar people that Margaret O'Flanagan associates with. Good-bye to ye ! . I pity the girl ye gets. May the saints presarve her — and not a drop of wine in the house ! (Margaret goes out.) Mrs. M. Well, Katrina, are you ready to answer a few questions ? Katrina. Yah ; I is. Mrs. M. Are you acquainted with general housework ? Kat. Nix ; I never have seen that shin- neral. I know Shinneral Shackson, and Shin- neral Grant, but not that one to speak of! Mrs. M. I intended to ask if you are used to doing work in the kitchen^ Kat. Yaw, I sees. Dat ish my thrade. Mrs. M. Can 5^ou cook ? Kat. Most people, what bees shenteel, keeps a cook. Mrs. M. I do not. I shall expect you to cook. Can you wash ? Kat. Beeples that ish in de upper-crust puts their washing out. Mrs. M. Can you make beds, and sweep? Kat. The dust of the fedders sthuffs up my head, what has got one leetle giutar into it. Most beeples keeps a chambermaid. Now, I wants to ask you some tings. You gits up in morning, and gits breakfast, of course ? It makes mine head ache to git up early. And you'll dust all the furnitures, and schrub the kittles, and your goot man will wash the floors and pump the water, and make the fires, and Mrs. M. We shall do no such thing. What an insolent wretch ! You can go at once. I've no further use for you. You won't suit. Kat. {retreating). Mine krout! what a par- ticular vomans. Colored Lady. Wall, missis, specks here's jest de chile for ye. What wages does you gib ? and what is yer pollyticks ? Mrs. M. What is your name — t^^d what wages do you expect ? Colored Lady. My name is Snowdrop Washington, and I specks five dollars a week DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. 385 If I do my own washing, but if it is put out to de washerwoman's wid de rest of de tings, den I takes off a quarter. And it's best to have a fair understanding now, in de begin- ning. I'm very particular about my after- noons. Tuesdays I studies my cataplasin and can't be 'sturbed; Wednesdays I goes to see old Aunt Sally Gumbo, what's got de spine of de back ; Thursdays I allers takes a dose of lobeely for me stummuch, and has to lay abed ; and Fridays I ginerally walks out wid Mr. Sambo Snow, a fren of mine — and in none of dem cases can I be 'sturbed. And 1 shall spect you to find gloves for me to do de work in ; don't like to sile my hands. Mrs, M. I want to hire a girl to work — • every day— and every hour in the day. Snowdrop. The laws-a-massy ! what a mis- sis ! Why, in dat case dis chile haint no better off dan wite trash ! Ketch Snowdrop Washington setting in that pew ! Not dis nigger. I wish you a berry lubly morning ! {^goes out, and a woman clad in widow's zveeds, and a little boy enter.) Woman {in a brisk tone\ Are you the per- son that wants to hire help ? Dear me, don't I smell onions ! I detest onions ! Only vul- gar people eat 'em ! Have your children had the measles ? Because I never could think of taking Freddie where he might be exposed to that dreadful disease! Freddie, my love, put down that vase. If you should break it, you might cut yourself with the pieces. Have you a dog about the house, marm ? Mrs. M. Yes, we have. Woman in Black, Good gracious ! he must be killed then ! I shouldn't see a bit of comfort if Freddie was where there was a dog. The last words my dear lamented hus- band said to me were these : " Mrs. Bunker, take care of Freddie." Bunker's my name, marm. Have you a cow ? Mrs. M. We have not. Mrs. Bunker, How unfortunate I Well, I (25— X) suppose you can buy one. Freddie depends so much on his new milk ; and so do I H^ow many children have you ? Mrs. M. Three. Mrs. B. Good gracious ! what a host ! I hope none of them have bad tempers, or use profane language. I wouldn't have Freddie associate with them for the world if they did. He's a perfect cherub in temper. My darling, don't pull the cat's tail ! she may scratch you. Mrs. M. You need not remain any longer, Mrs. Bunker. I do not wish to employ a maid with a child. Mrs. B. Good heavens ! {indignantly). Whoever saw such a hard-hearted wretch ! Object to my darling Freddie ! Did I ever expect to live to see the day when the off- spring of my beloved Jeremiah would be treated in this way ? I'll not stay another moment in the house with such an unfeeling monster! Come, Freddie. {Goes out. Mrs. Marshall closes the door and locks it^ Mrs. M. Gracious ! if this is the way of having a servant, I am satisfied. I'll do my own work till the end of the chapter ! There's another ring ; but I won't answer it — not I. I'll make believe I'm not at home. Ring away, if it's any satisfaction to you ! It doesn't hurt me. Clara Augusta. THE UNWELCOME QUEST. Characters : Mr. Edward Simpson. Mrs. Emeline Simpson, his wife. John Simpson, his brother, and a guest. Mr. Martin Jones. Mrs. Eliza Jones, his wife. SCENE — A room in Edward Simpson'' s house. Mr. and Mrs. Simpson discovered. Mrs. S, DWARD, I may just as well say plainly that I think we must do something to get your brother off our hands. 386 DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCKUMS. He has been here now over two weeks, and he stays and stays just as if this was his home, and as if he hadn't the slightest idea of ever going away. Mr, S. You are quite right, wife ; we must 'get him away. I thought it possible, when he came here, that he had plenty of money ; but that idea has vanished entirely. If he had money, he would not go around so shab- bily dressed. He had the audacity to hint to me yesterday that I might buy him a new ;oat ; just as if I hadn't enough to do to buy ew coats for myself and my children. Mrs. S. Oh ! the impudence of some peo- ple ! I am sure we have done very well in keeping him these two weeks, and not charg- ing him a cent for his boarding. And now he wants a new coat, does he? I wonder he didn't ask for a full suit; he certainly has need of it ; but he needn't expect to get it here. But are you su7'e, Edward, that he didn't bring any money home with him ? Mr. S. Yes, quite sure. I didn't say any- thing to him about it, but John was never the man to go in rags if he had any money in his pocket. He has been away for fifteen years, you know, and he might have made plenty of money in that time; but it is my impression, that if he did make anything, he spent it all before he started for home. Mrs. S. Well, what are we to do with him ? Mr. S. Send him to the poor-house, I sup- jse. I don't quite like to do that, either J .or people will talk, and they will say that I ought to have kept him in his old days. Mrs. S. Let them talk. It's nobody's business but our own, and it will all blow over in a week or two. Of course we can't have him on our hp.nds as long as he lives, merely because the neighbors will talk a littlf about oui sending him to the poor-house. Mr. S. No, of cours-^ not. Here he comes now; we must inform hh/ of our decision. Bn^er John Simpson, sJiahbily dressed. Mr. S. John, we have been talking about you. John, So I supposed. I thought I heard my name mentioned. You were considering that matter about vhe coat, were you? I hope you will think favorably of it. Mrs. S. {bridling up) No, sir; we were not thinking of bu} ''ng you a coat, but we were speaking of } our audacity in making such a request. JoJm. Ah ! were you ? Don't you see I am old now, and dreadfully crippled with rheumatism? And, of course I am not able to work to buy myself clothes. If my brother will not take care of me now, who will ? Mrs. S. That's just what we are going to talk about. Mr. S. Wife, allow me to speak to John about the matter, {/o John.) It may sound a little harsh and unpleasant, but we have come to the conclusion that we cannot keep you any longer. Y^>u know that we are not very well off in this ^vorld's goods; we have not much house-rorm, and we have three children that demanc' our attention. We have kept you two weeks and we think we have done very well. Wr. feel that you would be considerably in our road here, and we have concluded to send you to the poor-house. John. The poor-house ! I always did hate the poor-house. It must be so lonesome there ; and then, I o .>n't think the boarding will be good. Must I go to the poor-house? Mr. S. Yes, we ha^/e decided. We cannot keep you. John. I thought, when I was away, that if I could only get heme again, I would find my brother willing to take me under his roof, and allow me fo end my days there. But I was mistaken. When must I go ? Mr. S. I will have x^h^ papers made out, and be ready to take yoi- to-morrow afternoon. John.' Send for E*'za Jones and her hus» DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. 387 band. Tlu-y will not want to keep me either, I suppose — how can I expect them, when they are a great deal poorer than you ? But send for them. I want to see t^iem, and say good-bye, before I go away. * Mrs. S. Emeline, tell Parker to run across Jones' for his Uncle Martin and Aunt Eliza. \Exit Mrs. S. John. If they do not treat me well at the poor-house, what shall I do ? Cut stick and run off, or sue them for breach of promise ? Mr, S. {aside.) It seems to me, he takes it exceedingly cool. But it is better he should do so, than to make a noise about it {To /ohn.) I think you will be well treated- The Superintendent is very kind to all under his care, and is considered a perfect gentleman. John. A gentleman ! I'm glad of that. {Sarcastically) Ah! Edward, it i? a great thing to be a gentleman. Mr. S. I am glad you are willing to go without making any fuss about it. You know people zvill talk ; and they would talk a great deal more, if you should be opposed to going. I hope you will not think unkindly of us, because we have concluded to take this step; you see that we can not well keep you here ; and as you are getting old, and are greatly afflicted with rheumatism, you will be better attended to there than you could be here. John. Yes, yes, I understand. Don't fret about me, Edward. I suppose it isn't much difference v/here I live, and where I end my days. But, Edvv^ard, I think I would not have treated you so. However, one hardly knows what one will do when one comes to the pinch. If I had brought home a market-basket full of • 'nety-dollar gold pieces, perhaps I would not nave taken up so much room in your house, nor crowded your children so dreadfully. Enter Mrs. Simpson, and Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Mrs, J. (running to J And that shipii ent to Buffalo ? Clerk. All right, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have long wanted to speak to you — Mr. P. Ah! speak to me? Why, thought you spoke to me fifty times a day. Clerk. Yes, sir, I know, but this is a private matter. Mr. P. Private ? Oh ! Ah ! Wait till I see how much we made on the last ten thousand pounds of soap — Six times four are twenty^ four; six times two are twelve and two to carry make fourteen ; six times nought are nothing and one to carry makes one ; six times five are thirty ; seven times four — ah ! well go ahead, I'll finish this afterwards. Clerk. Mr. Pinchem, I have been with you ten long years. — Mr. P. Ten, eh ! Long years, eh ! any longer than any others years ? Go ahead. Clerk. And I have always tried to do my duty, Mr. P. Have, eh ? Go on. Clerk. And I now make bold — Mr. P. Hold on! What is there bold about it ? But never mind, I'll hear you out. Clerk. Mr. Pinchem I want to ask — ask — I want to ask — Mr. P. Well, why don't you ask, then ? I don't see why you don't ask if you want to. Clerk. Mr. Pinchem I want to ask you for — for— Mr. P. You want to ask me for the han^' of my daughter. Ah ! why didn't you speak right out? She's yours, my boy, take her and be happy. You might have had her two years ago if you had mentioned it. Go long, now, I'm busy. Seven times six are forty-two, seven times five are thirty-five and four are thirty-nine, seven times eight — Clerk Mr. Pinchem — Mr. P. What! You here yet? Well, what is it? Clerk. I want to ask you for — Mr. P. Didn't I give her to you, you rascal I ;92 DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. Clerk. Yes, but what I wanted to ask you for was not the hand of your daughter, but a raise of salary. Mr. P. Oh ! that was it, eh ? Well, sir, ^.hat is an entirely different matter, and it re- quires time for serious thought and earnest deliberation. Return to your work. I'll think about it, and some time next fall I'll see a'^^out giving you a raise of a dollar or so a week. Seven times eight are fifty-six and three are fifty- nine — THE Q0SSIP5. Characters. — Mrs. Pry, Mrs. Quick, Mrs. Search, Mrs. Gossip. Scene. — The Street. Mrs. Pry, Mrs. Search a7id Mrs. Quick, meeting. Mrs. Pry. "AVE you heard any news, neighbor Search ? Mrs. Search. News? no. I am dying to hear some. I have not heard a word since last night, and it is now almost noon. Mrs. Quick. I have heard a piece of news as I came along, and you will hardly believe it, though I received it from a person of ver- acity, who was knowing to the fact, and therefore could not mistake. Mrs. S. Pray let us have it. I hope it is nothing short of an elopement. Mrs. P. I hope it is a murder, or, at least, a suicide. We have not had any news worth mentioning these two months. Mrs. Q. It is neither an elopement nor a murder, but you may think it something akin to the latter. The truth is, there is a woman down in the village, and they will not allow her to be buried. Afrs. S. You don't say so ? Mrs. Q. I do. The coroner has positively refused to bury her. Mrs. P. Do tell! What could the poor creature have done to be denied Christian burial? Mrs. Q. I do not know what the offense was, but they say he has his reasons, and buried she shall not be. Mrs. P. Where is she lying ? I must go and inquire into it. Bless me, Mrs. Search, how could this happen and we not hear of it? Mrs. S. Did you hear her name, Mrs. Quick? That may give us a clue to the mys- tery. Mrs. Q. I did not learn her name, though, if I forget not, it began with a G, or some such letter. But I have a little errand up the street, and must leave you. In the mean- time as we know so little of the circum- stances, it will be prudent not to repeat what I have told you. Good morning. {She goes out). Mrs. P. Did you ever hear anything so strange ? One of two things is certain, she has either killed herself or been killed, and is reserved for examination. Mrs. S, I don't understand it so. Mrs. Quick seemed to insinuate that she had been lying a long time, and was not to be buried at all. But here comes Mrs. Gossip, and perhaps she can tell us all about it, a« she comes fresh from the village. Enter Mrs. Gossip. Mrs. P. Good morning, Mrs. Gossip. Mrs Gossip. Good morning, Mrs. Pry. How do you do, Mrs. Search ? Mrs. S. Pretty well, I thank you. I.Viw do you do? Mrs. G. Indifferent, I'm much obliged *;o you. I've had a touch of hydrophoby, Ii believe they call it or something else. Mrs. P. {to Mrs. Search aside). No new complaint. She always hated cold water. [aloud) How did the dreadful disease affect you^ Mrs, G. ? What dog bit you ? JIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. 393 Mrs. G. Dog ! what do you mean by a dog ? The disease began with a cold in my head, and a sore throat, and — Mj's. S. Oh, it was the influenza. Mrs. G. So it was; I knew it wa? .ome Dutlandish name, and they all sound alike to me. For my part, I wish there was no foreign words. Mrs. P. Mrs. Gossip, did you hear the particulars of the dreadful news in the vil- lage ? Mrs. G, No. What dreadful news? I have not heard ?iothing^ good, bad, or indif- ferent. Mrs. P. What ! haven't you heard of the woman in the village that they won't bury ? Mrs, G. Not a word. Who is she ? What's her name? Mrs. S. Her name begins with G, and as that begins your name, I hoped you would know something about it. Mrs. G. Bless me ! I never heard a sylla- ble of it ! Why don't they bury the poor thing ? I couldn't refuse to bury even a dog. Mrs. P, There is a suspicion of murder or suicide in the case. Mrs. G. Well, they hang murderers and suicides, don't they ? What can be the mat- ter? There is something very mysterious about it ! Mrs. S. I am dying to know all about it. Come, let's all go down to the village, and probe the matter to the bottom. I dearly love to get hold of a mystery. Mrs. P. I say, let us all go, and here is Mrs, Quick coming back. She will go with us, for she told us the news, and she is dying o learn the particulars. Re-enter Mrs. Quick. Mrs. Quick. Good morning again, ladies. AIL Good morning. ^■'Trs. G. What was the matter with that air . nan that they won't bury in the village? Mrs. Q. Nothing is the matter with her. Mrs. G. Then, in inarcfs name, why don't they bury her ? Mrs. Q. I know of but one reason, but that is a very important one. Mrs. P. We did not know you knew the reason they wouldn't bury her. Why did you not tell us what it was ? Mrs. Q. You did not ask me, and, besides, it is somewhat of a secret. Mi's. S. You need not fear our disclosing it. Pray let us have it. Mrs. P. Pray do. I am bursting with curiosity. Mrs. G. And I too. Mrs. Quick, you say there is but one reason why they will not bury the woman, and pray what is that? Mrs. P. What is it ? Mrs. S. Yes, what is it ? All [earnestly). What is it ? Mrs. Q. She is not dead! FARMER HANKS WANTS A DIVORCE. (For two males and one female.) Characters. — Lawyer Porter; Farmer Hanks; Mrs. Hanks. Scene. — Lawyer's office. Lawyer Porter sitting at desk writing. Knock at door. {Enter Farmer Hanks in rustic atttre, look- ing hesitatingly around?) Farmer Hanks. E you the divorce man ? Lawyer Porter. (Smilhtg?) Well, I don't exactly know that my vo= cation lies particularly in that direction, but I have been known to undertake such cases. Are you in trouble ? Far. II. I should rather say so ! It's come to jest this 'ere climax that I can't stand it nohow, not another day ; an' ef you can't git me unspliced, I'll hev to find some one who can. Law. P. What are your grounds for com' plaint ? S94 DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. Far, ff. Grounds! Ordinary grounds wouldn't hold 'em ! IVe a hull farm full ! Lazu. P. One or two are just as efficient in procuring a divorce as a hundred, providing 'he offence is grave enough. Your wife now, .or instance ; I suppose she hasn't fallen in love with another man ? Far. H, Haw-haw ! That's a good 'un ! Betsey in love with another feller ! Wal, hardly, mister ! Betsey isn't no fool. You can bet high on that ! Law. P. Of course that was a suppositional case, merely. Is she a scandal-monger ? Far. H. Scandal-monger ? Not much ; ef ever a woman knew how to hold her tongue when other folks's is a-waggin', that's Betsey every time. Law. P. Cruel to her children, possibly ? Far. H. I swow, I'll begin to take you fer the fool, mister. Our children is growed up an' in homes of the'r own, years back; an' ez fer gran'children, ef ever an old woman made an idjit of herself over babies, it's Betsey with them thar youngsters. She jest sp'iles them no end, an' thar's nobudy they sets such store by as gran'ma. You hain't on the right track, by long odds. Law. P. Evidently not. Suppose now, as my time is valuable, we reverse the case, and you enlighten me as to the cause of your unhappiness, instead of ray wasting the min- utes in making conjectures ? Perhaps incom- patibility of temper may cover the ground. Far. PL In — com — what kind of temper ? You beat me with them long words o' yourn ; but, mebbe you've struck it, this time. Thar's lo use talking, but Betsey's that aggervatin', she riles me so it seems like as though I'd bu'st! Ef she'd ever say a word I could stand it; but she's that mum you can't get a word out o' her edgewise; you'd say, forsar- tain, thet she'd b'en born deaf, an' without a tongue in her mouth. Law, H, A woman and dumb? Ye gods! This is a reversal of the laws of nature with a vengeance ! Do you mean for me to un- derstand that your wife never speaks ? How can she conduct her household ? Far. PL Oh, she's chipper enough wh^n things goes to suit ; but when I'm r'iled, an' dyin' to see the fur fly — to hev it out with some one — then she's mummer than the side o' a house ; ye couldn't git a word out o' her then with a pair o' oxen ! Ef she'd only spf it out, too, an' hev a good out en out,settlin' o' matters, 'twould clear the air like a thun- der-storm ; but thet's exactly whar the pinch comes. I might r'are an' tear, an' pull the house down over our heads, fer all the good 'twould do — thet woman would set as calm es a cucumber, or go about her chores, an' you'd never guess she knew I was within a hundred miles o' her ! Either she hain't got an atom o' sense in her git up, or else she's too dumb to show it at sech times. It's enough to drive a man into fits, an* I can't go it no longer. It's either her or me that's got to git out ! I'm willin' to do my duty to the letter, an' give her a share in the old farm. I wouldn't see her want for nothin', fer in spite o' her tongue— Law. P. I rather think you mean her want of tongue ! Far. H. Jest so ! There isn't a kinder or willin'er woman in the section. Law. P. Suppose, now, that we sum up : your wife, according to your statements, is a good, pure woman — Far. H. That she is, lawyer ! I'd like to hear any one say a thing against Betsey's character ! I'd choke the life out ov him ! Law. P. Fond of her children and grand- children; don't gossip; domestic in her tastes — Does she keep your house in order, your clothes mended, your wants all attended to, and give you your meals on time ! Far. H. Why, of course ! Thet's what a wife's fer, isn't she ? What a question to ax! DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. 395 Law. F, You acknowledge all this. Now, supposing, on the contrary, that your wife was a shrew. Far. H. [Bewildered^ A which ? Law. F. A cross, scolding woman ; a woman who left her own fireside to gossip and make scandal among her neighbors ; who neglected her home ; who got your meals at all or no times and let you look out for your- self; who abused the little children around her; who — Far. H. Stop, mister ! Betsey coiddrCt do lone o' them things. Why, you'd make her out a pretty sort o' critter for me to hev been livin' with these forty years ! Law. P. No, Betsey couldn't do all or any of these things. From your own story you have a saint instead of an ordinary woman for a wife ; a being who knows that essence of all true happiness — how to hold her tongue; who, instead of lowering herself to petty quarrels and commonplace bickerings, keeps her temper within bounds while you are pur- posely doing all you possibly can to aggra- vate her — to make her dislike you — to — Far. H. {Shamefacedly.) Sho ! You air trying to make out a purty strong case igainst me, ain't you now ? I never looked at it in jest that light before, an* you can't tell how a few words now an' then would splice up things in general. Lazv. P. If your wife were to come to me ^vid demand a divorce, after what you have told me, I should be strongly tempted to take »ip her case. Far. H. Betsey git a divorce from me! Thet's the best yet ! Well, I should as soon think o' the sky falling. {Knock at door^ , voice outside asking if Lawyer Porter is in.) I'll be everlastin'ly simmered, ef thet don't sound like Betsey's voice this actual minute ! Whar'U I go? I don't want to be found around these parts ; but, what in the name o' conscience kin she want with ^ou, now ? {Glares at the lawyer ^ who takes him by the shoulder and leads him up to closet door or be- hind a screen^ Law. P. Step into this cover, and be quick about it. You'll soon ascertain what your wife wants of me. And remember, this is a private interview which you are not to inter- rupt (Farmer Hanks disappears, and the lawyer goes to door.) {Enter Mrs Hanks, hesitatingly^ Law. P. Good morning, madame ! What can I do for you ? Let me give you a chair. {Seats her with back to closet or screen. Far- mer H. pokes his head out.) Far. H. I'll be durned but it is Betsey ! {Comes half out into room, but Lawyer P. scowls and motions him back. Mrs. Hanks sits silent.) Law. P. {Kindly^ Well, madame, you want — Mrs. Hanks. {In a half whisper') I want, or I guess I want a bill of divorce. (Farmer Wk^y:.^^ face pops out again, with a7t expres- sion of bewilderment and horror upon it) Law. P. Your husband is addicted to the excessive use of liquor, maybe ? (Farmer H. shakes his fist at the lawyer) Mrs. H. Good gracious, no ! Samuel never took too much liquor in his life, to my knowledge. Law. P. Then, perhaps, he is violent, and cruel to you and the children ? Mrs. H. Mercy, no ! Whatever made you think of sech a thing! Samuel wouldn't hurt a fly ; he's the softest-hearted man in the world ; it isn't that — it's only — only — ^ Law. P. Well, you must try to tell me your difficulty, or I will be unable to help you. Mrs. H. {Bursting into tears.) It's so hard to tell, yet it's so hard to bear. It seems jest as if I'd go wild ef I had it to stand another day. Yet except fer this one thing Samuel's 396 DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. the best husband a woman could ask fer. He is perfect temperate in all his habits, liberal an' open-handed as the day is long, an' as kind an' considerate as any one could wish fer. (Farmer H. looks out at the lawyer ex- ultingly. ) B u t — b u t — Law. P. But what ? Mrs. H. Oh, those dreadjiU tantrums of his'n ! They come on without any apparent reason at all, an' he's like to a crazy man. La,w. P, And you oppose him and aggra- vate him when he gets in these moods, pos- sibly? Mrs. H. iSadly.) Oh, no! What good would that do? or rather, what harm wouldn't it do ? I jest stand them as best I may, an' pray the Good Power above for strength to hold my tongue, an' bear the affliction which he has seen fit to visit me with. (Farmer H. looks out again with an incredulous^ shame- faced expressioft, and seems about to speak ^ but the lawyer motions him back) Law. P. And you say absolutely nothing? Mrs. H. I never hev given way to my tongue yet ; ef I once shoidd, or to the feelin' that he rouses in me at sech times, I almost think I should strike him. (Farmer H. again advances, but is motioned back) Law. P. Wouldn't that serve him right ? Mrs. H. {Surprised) Strike Samuel ? I'd never forgive myself ef I did. Yet, it is so hard ; you can't tell ! It really seems as ef the harder I tried to hold my tongue an' keep the peace, the worse he got, until sometimes I 'most think he'd like to kill me ! • Law. P. Oh, surely not ! His wicked tem- per would not, or could not, carry itself to such an extent against such an angel of peace. But, I cannot find words to express my opin- ion of such a brute. I cannot find strong enough terms to convey my condemnation. A man who will seek willfully to quarrel with a wife who is gentleness and meekness itself, to say nothing of the other cardinal virtues, is a selfish heartless piece of humanity, un- worthy of the name of man, and deserves nothing better than the public whipping-post, which, unhappily — Mrs. H. Stop! I will not allow you to speak of Samuel in such a manner ! He may hev his little faults as all men do — Far. H. (Rushing out). Yes, let him say every durned thing he kin of me, Betsey ! I deserve it all, an' a hundred times more— (Mi's. Hanks gives a scream and almost sinks to the floor ^ but her husband catches her) — when I think of what a howlin' idjit I've b'en all these years. The whippin'-post ain't half severe enough. Mrs. H. Oh, you never was that, Samuel ! Far. H. Yes I was, an' be, up to this very minute; but I be goin' to make a clean breast of it or bu'st. Here I hev b'en thinkin' an' sayin' that you didn't quarrel with me nor answer me back, because ye didn't know enough' — Mrs. H. Oh, Samuel, how could you ? Far. H. An' thet you was a perfect fool, with no spunk in ye, an' here youVe b'en with the spunk all bottled up, an' never darin' to let her loose for fear o' makin' me wuss, an' doin' wrong yourself! Oh ! I'm the wickedest kind of a sinner, Betsey. [Groans). I don't wonder you want to git a bill ag'inst me; an' this here lawyer'll be sure to git ye one, as he sees you deserve it fast enough, an' I don't blame neither o' ye. Mrs. H. But I don't want it, Samuel. Now you see jest how it is, an' that I never al- lowed to r'ile you, I'm sure 'twill all be right. {Turning to Lawyer P). An' you won't let what I've said turn you ag'inst him, A^illyou ? You can see for yourself that he never could hev meant it. Law. P. And he never was such a man as he proves at this very time when he humbles himself to confess how wrong he has been, and acknowledges the true worth of his de DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. 897 voted wife whom he has so long misjudged or misunderstood. Far. H. YouVe right thar, Lawyer Porter. I can't find the words to tell what a blamed fool I've been ; yet, ef you'll believe it, I feel lighter o' heart this blessed minute than I hev in a month o' Sundays before. An' to think that an hour ago I was actually hank- erin' after a bill ag'in ye, Betsey ! I don't de- sarve ye should forgive me, like this, but I give ye my word o' honor that the next time a tantrum strikes me 1 11 hev it out down in the meddar with that old Jersey bull o' mine. {Curtain falls) TAKING THE CENSUS. Characters : Inquisitor. A Patient Man, with pen, ink and a targe sheet of paper, engaged in taking the census. Mrs. Touchwood. An old lady in frilled cap and set-sprig apron, engaged in giving it. Scene. — A house in the country. Mrs. Touchwood at a wash-tub hard at work. Enter Inquisitor. Inquisitor. r)D morning, madam. Is the head of the family at home ? Mrs, Touchwood. Yes, sir, Pm at home, Inq. Haven't you a husband ? Mrs. T. Yes, sir, but he ain't the head of the family, I'd have you to know. Inq. How many persons have you in your family^? Mrs. T. Why, bless me, sir, what's that to you ? You're m.ighty inquisitive, I think. Inq. I'm the man that takes the census. Mrs. T. If you was a man in your senses vou wouldn't ask such impertinent questions. 2nq. Don't be offended, old lady, /jut an- wer my questions as I ask them. Mrs. T. " Answer a fool according to his folly ! " — you know what the Scripture says. Old lady, indeed ! Inq. Beg your pardon, madam ; but I don't care about hearing Scripture just at this mo- ment. I'm bound to go according to law and not according to gospel. Mrs. T. I should think you went neither according to law nor gospel. What business is it to you to inquire into folks' affairs, Mr. Thingumbob ? Inq. The law makes it my business, good woman, and if you don't want to expose yourself to its penalties, you must answer my questions. Mrs. 7. Oh, it's the law, is it ? That alters the case. But I should like to know what the law has to do with other people's house- hold matters ? Inq. Why, Congress made the law, and if it don't please you, you must talk to them about it. Mrs. T. Talk to a fiddle-stick ! Why, Con^ gress is a fool, and you're another. Inq. Now, good lady, you're a fine, good- looking woman ; if you'll give me a few civil answers I'll thank you. What I wish to know first is, how many are there in your family ? Mi's. T. Let me see \counting on her fin- gers'] ; there's I and my husband is one Inq. Two, you mean. Mrs. T. Don't put me out, now, Mr. Thinkummy. There's I and my husband is one Inq. Are you always one ? Mrs. T. What's that to you, I should like to know. But I tell you, if you don't leave off interrupting me I won't say another word. Inq. Well, take your own way, and be hanged to you. Mrs. T. I will take my own way, and no thanks to you. \_Again counting her fingers. ^ There's I and my husband is one ; there's John, he's two; Peter is three. Sue and Moll are four, and Thomas is five. And then there's Mr. Jenkins and his wife and the two 39S DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. children is six ; and there's Jowler, he's seven. Inq. Jowler ! Who's he ? Mrs. T. Who's Jowler ! Why, who should he be but the old house dog ? Inq. It's the number of persons I want to ' iOW. xl'Irs. T. Very well, Mr. Flippergin, ain't Jowler a person ? Come here, Jowler, and speak for yourself I'm sure he's as person- able a dog as there is in the whole State. hiq. He's a very clever dog, no doubt. But it's the number of human beings I want to know. Mrs. T. Human ! There ain't a more hu- man dog that ever breathed. Inq. Well, but I mean the two-legged kind of beings. Mrs. T. Oh, the two-legged, is it ? Well, then, there's the old rooster, he's seven ; the fighting-cock is eight, and the bantam is nine Inq. Stop, stop, good woman, I don't want to know the number of your fowls. Mrs. T. I'm very sorry indeed, I can't please you, such a sweet gentleman as you are. But didn't you *^ell me — 'twas the two- legged beings Inq. True, but I didn't mean the hens. Mrs. T. Oh, now I understand you. The old gobbler, he's seven, the hen turkey is eight ; and if you'll wait a week there'll be a parcel of young ones, for the old hen turkey is setting on a whole snarl of eggs. Inq. Blast your turkeys ! Mrs. T. Oh, don't now, good Mr. Hipper- !3titcher, I pray you don't. They're as honest turkeys as any in the country. Inq. Don't vex me any more. I'm getting to be angry. Mrs. T. Ha! ha! ha! Inq. [striding about the room in a rage.'] Have a care, madam, or I shall fly out of my skin. Mrs T. If you do, I don't know who will fly in. Inq. You do all you can to anger me. It's the two-legged creatures who talk I have re- ference to. Mrs. T. Oh, now I understand you. Well then, our Poll Parrot makes seven and Hi^ black gal eight. Inq. I see you will have your own way. Mrs. T. You have just found out, have you ! You are a smart little man 1 Inq. Have you mentioned the whole of your family ? Mrs. T. Yes, that's the whole— except the wooden-headed man in front. Inq. Wooden-headed ? Mrs. T. Yes, the schoolmaster what's board- ing here. Inq. I suppose if he has a wooden head he lives without eating, and therefore must be a profitable boarder. Mrs. T. Oh, no, sir, you are mistaken there. He eats like a leather judgment. Inq. How many servants are there in the family ? Mrs. T. Servants ! Why, there's no ser- vants but me and my husband. Lzq. What makes you and your husband servants ? Mrs. T. I'm a servant to hard work, and he is a servant to rum. He does nothing all day but guzzle, guzzle, guzzle ; while I'm working, and stewing, and sweating from morning till night, and from night till morn- ing. Inq. How many colored persons have you ? Mrs. T. There's nobody but Dinah, th' black girl, Poll Parrot and my daughter Sue. Inq. Is your daughter a colored girl ? Mrs. T. I guess you'd think so if you was to see her« She's always out in the sun — and she's tanned up as black as an Indian. Inq. How many white males are there in your family under ten years of age? DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. S99 Mrs. T. Why, there ain't none now ; my husband don't carry the mail since he's taken to drink so bad. He used to carry two, but they wasn't white. Inq. You mistake, good woman ; I meant mile folks, not leather mails. Mrs, T. Let me see ; there^s n3ne except little Thomas, and Mr. Jenkins' two little girls. Inq. Males, I said, madam, not females. Mrs. T. Well, if you don't like them, you may leave them off. Ltq. How many white males are there be- tween ten and twenty ? Mrs. T. Why, there's nobody but John and P^ter, and John ran away last week. Inq, How many white males are there be- tween twenty and thirty ? Mrs. T. Let me see — there's the wooden- headed man is one, Mr. Jenkins and his wife is two, and the black girl is three. Inq. No more of your nonsense, old lady; Fm heartily tired of it. Mrs. T, Hoity toity! Haven't I a right to talk as I please in my own house ? Inq. You must answer the questions as I put them. Mrs. T. " Answer a fool according to his folly" — you're right, Mr. Hippogriff. Inq. How many white males are there be- tween thirty and forty ? Mrs. T. Why, there's nobody but I and my husband — and he was forty-one last March. Inq. As you count yourself among the ^vv.les, I dare say you wear the breeches. Lifts. T. Well, what if I do, Mr. Imperti- n(;nce ? Is that anything to you? Mind your own business, if you please. ' Inq. Certainly — I did but speak. How many white males are there between forty and fifty ? Mrs. T. None. Inq. How many between fifty and sixty ? Mrs. T. None. Inq. Are there any between this and a hundred ? Mrs. T. None except the old gentleman. Inq. What old gentleman ? You haven't mentioned any before. Mrs. T. Why, gramther Grayling — I thought everybody knew gramther Graylinf — he's a hundred and two years old nexv August, if he lives so long — and I dare say he will, for he's got the dry wilt, and they say such folks never dies. Inq. Now give the number of deaf and dumb persons. Mrs. T. Why, there is no deaf persons, excepting husband, and he ain't so deaf as he pretends to be. When anybody axes him to take a drink of rum, if it's only in a whis- per, he can hear quick enougho But if I tell him to fetch an armful of wood or feed the pigs or tend the griddle, he's as deaf as a horse-block. Inq. How many dumb persons ? Mrs. T. Dumb ! Why, there's no dumb body in the house, except the wooden-headed man, and he never speaks unless he's spoken to. To be sure, my husband wishes I was dumb, but he can't make it out. Inq. Are there any manufactures carried on here ? Mrs. T. None to speak on, except turnip sausages and tow cloth. Ltq. Turnip -sausages ! Ivlrs. T. Yes, turnip-sausages. Is there anything so wonderful in that? Inq. I never heard of them before. What kind of machinery is used in making them ? Mrs. T. Nothing but a bread-trough, a chopping-knife and a sausage filler. htq. Are they made of clear turnips ? Mrs. T. Now you're terrible inquisitive. What would you give to know ? Inq. I'll give you the name of being the 400 DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. most communicative and pleasant woman I've met v^ith for the last half-hour. Mrs. T. Well, now, you're a sweet gentle- man, and I must gratify you. You must know we mix with the turnip a little red cloth, just enough to give them a color, so they needn't look as if they were made of clear fat meat ; then we chop them up well together, put in a little sage, summer savory, and black pepper ; and they make as pretty little delicate links as ever was set on a gen- tleman's table ; they fetch the highest price in the market. Inq. Indeed! Have you a piano in the house ? Mrs. T. A piany! What's that? Inq. A musical instrument. Mrs. T. Lor, no. But Sary Jane, down at the Corners, has one — you see. Sary got all highfalutin about the great Colushun down So Bosting, and down she went ; an' when she came back the old man got no rest until she had one of the big square music boxes with white teeth — 'spose that's what you call a piany. Inq. You seem to know what it is, then. Mrs. T. Yes, sir. Have you anything more to ax ? Inq. Nothing more. Good morning, mad- am. Mrs. T. Stop a moment ; can't you think / something else ? Do now, that's a good /lan. Wouldn't you like to knov/ what we're a-going to have for dinner ; or how many chickens our old white hen hatched at her last brood ; or how many — Inq. Nothing more — nothing more. Mrs. T. Here, just look in the cupboard, and see how many red ants there are in the sugar-bowl ; I haven't time to count them myself Inq. Confound your ants and all your re- lations. [Exit in a huff. ELDER SNIFFLES' COURTSHn Characters, Widow Bedott, | ^^ Character. Elder Sniffles, J Tlie widow retires to the grove in the rear of Elder Sniffles' house^ sits down on a log and sings in a plaintive voice. Widow Bedott. HAT peaceful hours I once enjoyed, All on a summer's day ! But O, my comfort was destroyed. When Shadrack crossed my way ! I heerd him preach — I heerd him pray— I heerd him sweetly sing ; Dear suz ! how I did feel that day ! It was a drefful thing ! Full forty dollars would I give If we'd continnerd apart — For though he's made my sperrit live He's surely bust my heart ! She sighs profoundly , and the Elder advances, unexpectedly. W. B. Good gracious ! is that you, Elder Sniffles ! how you did scare me ! Never was so flustrated in all the days o' my life ! hadn't the remotest idee o' meeting j^^ here — would't a come for forty dollars if I'd a s'posed you ever meander'd here. I never was here afore—but was settin' by my winder and I cast my eyes over here, and as I ob- served the lofty trees a wavin' in the gentle blast, and heerd the feathered songsters a wobbhn' their mellancolly music, I felt quite a call to come over; it's so retired and mo- rantic — such an approbriate place to marvel round in, ye know, when a body feels low- sperrited and unconsolable, as I dei v to-night O, d-e-a-r! E. S. Most worthy Mrs. Bedott, your evi- dent depression fills me with unmitigated sympathy. Your feelings (if I may be per- mitted to judge from the language of vour 'iong, which I overheard) DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. 401 JV. B. You didn't though, Elder! the drefful suz ! what shall I dew ! I wouldn't a had you heerd that song for no money ! I wish I hadn't a come ! I wish to gracious I hadn't a come ! E. S, I assure you, Mrs. Bedott, it was unintentional on my part, entirely uninten- tional, but my contiguity to yourself and your proximity to me were such as ren- dered it impossible for me to avoid hearing you — ■ W, B, Well, it can't be helped now; it's no use crying for spilt milk, but I wouldn't have you to think I know'd you ever came here. E. S. On the contrary, this grove is a favorite resort of mine ; it affords a congenial retreat after the exterminating and tremen- dous mental labors of the day. I not un- frequently spend the declining hours of the evening here, buried in the most profound meditations. On your entrance I was occu- pying my customary seat beneath that um- brageous mounting ash which you perceive a few feet from you ; indeed, had not your mind been much pre-occupied you could scarcely have avoided discovering m.e. W. B. Oh, granPther grievous ! I wish I'd staid to hum ! I was born for misfortin' and nothin' else ! I wish to massy I'd staid to hum to-night ! but I felt as if I'd like to come here once afore I leave the place. \_She zueeps.~\ E. S. Ah ! indeed ! do you project leav- ing Scrabble Hill? W. B. Yes, I dew ; I calklate to go next week. I must hear you preach once more — once more. Elder, and then I'm gwine — some- where — I don't care where, nor I don't care what becomes o' me when I git there. \_Ske sobs violently.'] E. S. O, Mrs. Bedott, you distress me be- yond limitation — permit me to inquire the cause of this uncontrollable agony ? (26--X) IV. B, O, Elder Sniffles, you're the last indiwidual that ought to ax such a question. O, I shall die ! I shall give it up ! E. S, Madame, my interest in your wel- fare is intense ; allow me to entreat you still more vehemently to unburden your mind ; perhaps it is in my power to relieve you. W. B. Relieve me ! what an idee ! O, Elder, you will be the death o' me if you make me revulge my feelings so. An hour ago I felt as if I'd a died afore I'd a said what I hev said now, but you've draw'd it out o' me. E. S. Respected madame, you have as yet promulgated nothing satisfactory; permit me W. B. O, granf^ther grievous ! must I come to't ? Well, then, if I must, I must, so to begin at the beginnin'. Whr;n I fust heern you preach, your sarmons onsettled my faith ; but after a spell I was convinced by yer argefyin', and gin up my 'roneus no- tions, and my mind got considerably carm. But how could I set Sabberday after Sabber- day under the droppin's o' yer voice, and not begin to feel a mor'n ordinary interest in the speaker? I indevored not tew, but I couldn't help it ; 'twas in vain to struggle against the feelin's that prepossest my buzzom. But it's all over with me now! my felicitude is at an end ! my sittiwation is hopeless ! I shall go back to Wiggleton next week, and neve/ truble you no more. ' E. S. Ah, Mrs. Bedott, you alarm— ^ — VV. B. Yes, you never'll see no more truble with Prissilly. I'm agwine back to Wiggle- ton. Can't bear to go back thar, nother, on' account o' the indiwidduals that I come away to git rid of. There's Cappen Canoot, he's always been after me ever since mi' hus- band died, though I hain't never gin hnii no incurridgement — but he won't take no for an answer. I dread the critter's attentions. And 'Squire Bailey — he's wonderful rich — but that m DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCln/MS. ain't no recommendation to me, and I've told him so time and agin, but I s'pose he thinks I'll come round bumby. And Deacon Crosby, he lost his partner a spell afore I come away ; he was very much pleased with me ; he's a wonderful fine man — -make a fust-rate hus- band. I kind o' hesitated when he promul- 'gated his sentiments tew me, told him I'd think on't till I cum back — -s'pose he'll be at me as soon as I git there. I hate to disap- point Deacon Crosby, he's such a fine man, and my dezeased companion sot so much by him, but then I don't feel for him as 1 dew for . He's a Presbyterian, tew, and I don't think 'twould be right to unite my des- tination to hisen. E. S. Undoubtedly in your present state of feeling, the uncongeniality would render a union W. B. O, dear, dear, dear ! I can't bear to go back there and indure their attentions, but, thank fortune, they won't bother me long — I shall go into a decline, I know I shall, as well as I want to know it. My trubles '11 soon be over — undoubtedly they'll put up a monnyment to my memory — I've got the description all ready for it — it says • Here sleeps Prissilly P. Bedott, Late relic of Hezekier, How mellancolly v/as her lot ! How soon she did expire ! She didn't comm.i; self-suicide, 'Twas tribbilation killed her; O, what a pity she hadn't a died Afore she saw the elder ! And O, Elder, you'll visit my grave, won't ye, and shed tew or three tears over it ? 'Tvvould be a consolation tew me tew think jyou would. E. S. In case I should ever have occasion to journey through that section of the coun- try, and could consistently with my arrange- ments make it convenient to tarry for a short time at Wiggleton, I assure you it would afford me much plea.^ure to visit your grave, agreeably to your request. W. B. O, Elder, how onfeelin' ! E. S. Unfeeling! did I not understand you correctly when I understood you to request me to visit your grave ? W. B. Yes, but I don't see how you could be so carm, when I'm talkin' about dyin'. E. S. I assure you, Mrs. Bedott, I had not the slightest intentior- of manifesting a want of feeling in my ren;ark. I should "egard your demise as a most deplorable event, and it would afford me no small degree of satis- faction to prevent so melancholy a catastrophe were it in my power. W. B. V/ell, I gues? I'll go hum. If Sally should know you was here a taUkin' with me, she'd make an awful fuss. E. S. Indeed I see no reason to fear that my domestic should mterfere in any of my proceedings, W. B. O, lawful sakes ! how numb you i be, elder! I didn't aUude to Sal Blake — I I meant Sal Hugle. She't you're ingaged tew. E. S, Engaged to Miss Hugle ! You alarm me, Mrs. Be W. B. Now don't undertake to deny it. Elder; everybody says it's a fact. E. S. Well, then, it only remains for me to assert that everybody is laboring under an entire and unmitigated mistake. W. B, You don't sjy so, Elder! Well, I declare, I do feel relieved. I couldn't endure the idea o' stayin' here to see that match ^o off. She's so onworthy — so different from what your companion had ort to be — and so lazy — and makes such awful poitry; and then she hain't worth a cent in the world. But I don't want to say a word against her; for, if you ain't ingaged now, mabby you will be. O, Elder ! proinise me, dew promise me now 't you won'f' marry that critter. DIALOGUES FOR SCTTOO^*^ AND LYCEUMS. 40S 'Twould be a consolation to me when I'm far away on my dyin' bed to know — \_She weeps with rcneived energy^ O, Elder, Fm afeared I'm a gvvine to have the highsterics. I'm subjick to spasmotic affections when I'm excited and overcome. E. S. You alarm me, Jvlrs. Bedott! I will hasten to the house and bring* ti^e sal volatile, which may restore you. W. B. For the land's sake, Elder, don't go after Sal; she can't dew nothin' for me. It'll only make talk, for she'll tell it all round the village. Jest take that ar newspaper that sticks out o' yer pocket, and fan me with it a leetle. There, I feel quite resusticated. I'm obliged tew ye ; guess I can manage to get hum now. \_SIie rises.'] Farwell, Elder Sniffles! adoo! we part to meet no more! E. S. Ah, Mrs. Bedott ! do not speak in that mournful strain; you distress me beyond all mitigation. [He takes her hand.'\ Pray reseat yourself, and allow me to prolong the conversation for a short period. As I before observed, your language distresses me be- yond all duration. W. B. Dew you actually feel distressed at the idee o* partin' with me ? E. S. Most indubitably, Mrs. Bedott. W. B. Well, then, what's the use o' partin' at all? Oj what have I said? what have I said ? E. S. Ahem — ahaw, allow me to inquire —are you in easy circumstances, Mrs. Bedott? W. B. Well, not entirely yet, though I feel considerable easier'n what I did an hour ago. E. S. Ahem! I imagine that you do not fully apprehend my meaning. I am a clergy- man, a laborer in the vineyard of the Lord — as such you will readily understand I cannot be supposed to abound in the filthy lucre of this world; my remuneration is small — hence W. B. O, Elder, how can you s'pose I'd hesitate on account o' your bein' poor? Don't think on't— it only increases my opinion of you ; money ain'^ no objick to me. E, S. I naturally infer from your indiffer- ence respecti.iig the amount of my worldly possessions that you yourself have W. B. Don't be oneasy, Elder, dear — don't illude tew it again ; depend on't you're jest as dear tew me, every bit and grain, as you would be if you owned all the mines in Ingy. E. S. I will say no more about it. W. B. So I s'pose we're ingaged. E. S. Undoubtedly. W. B. We're ingaged, and my tribbilation is at an end. [Her head drops on his shoul- der.'] O, Shadrack! what will Hugelina say when she hears on't ? Francis M. Whitcher. THE MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENT. Characters. — Mary Cole ; Grandmother Cole, who is very deaf ; Jack Cole; Aunt Martha Gordon; Cyrus Gordon. Scene I. — The sitting-room of the Cojje. family. Mary reading a nezvspaper. Grandmo- ther Cole knitting. Aunt Martha cro- cheting. Jack playing with the balls in Aunt Martha's work-basket. Mary Cole. H, Aunt Martha! only hear this ! it's in the Chronicle. What a splendid chance ! I declare, I've a great mind to answer it myself! Aunt M. What have you got hold of now ? You're allez a-making some powerful dis- kivery somewheres. What now ? Some- thing to turn gray eyes black, and blue eyes gray? Mary. No; it's a matrimonicl advertise- ment. What a splendid fellow xhls " C. G " must be ! *04 DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. Aii/u M. Oh, shaw! A body must be dreadfully put to it, to advertise for a pardner in the newspapers. Thank goodness ! I never cfot in such a strait as that 'er. The Lord Has marcy fully kept me thus fur from hav- ing any dealings with the male sect, and I [rust I shall be presarved to the end. Jack Cole. Didn't you ever have an offer, Aunt Mattie? Aunt M. {indignantly.) Why, Jack Cole ! What an idee ! I've had more chances to change my condition than you've got fingers and toes. But I refused 'em all. A single life is the only way to be happy. But it did kinder hurt my feelings to send some of my sparks adrift — they took it so hard. There was Colonel Turner. He lost his wife in June, and the last of August he come over to our 'ouse, and I gave him to understand that he needn't trouble himself; and he felt so mad that he went rite off and married the Widder Hopkins afore the month was out. Jack. Poor fellow [ How he must have felt! And, Aunt Mattie, I notice that Deacon Goodrich looks at you a great deal in meet- ing, since you've got that pink feather on your bonnet. Wha^ if he 'should want you to be a mother to his ten little ones ? Aunt M. [simpering). Law, Jack Cole ! What a dreadful boy you be ! [pincJies his ear.) The deacon never thought of such a thing ! But if it should please Providence to appoint to me such a fate, I should try and be resigned. Granny Cole. Resigned? Who's resigned? Not the President, has he? Well, I don't blame him. I'd resign, too, if I was into his place Nothing spiles a man's character so quick as being President or Congress Yer gran'father got in justice of the peace and chorus, once, and he resigned afore he was elected. Sed he didn't want his repetition spiled Jack, Three cheers for Gran'father Cole! Gra7iny C. Cheers? What's the matter with the cheers, now ? Yer father had them bottomed last year, and this year they were new painted. What's to pay with 'em now ? Mary [impatiently). Do listen, all of you, to this advertisement. Aunt M. Mary Cole, I'm sorry ycur head is so turned with the vanities of this world. Advertising for a pardner in that way is wicked. I hadn't orter listen to it. * Mary. Oh, it won't hurt you a bit, auntie. [reads) '* A gentlemai" of about forty, very fine looking; tall, slender, and fair-haired, with very expressive eyes, and side whiskers, and some property, wishes to make the ac- quaintance of a young lady with similar qualifications " Jack. A young lady with expressive eyes and side whiskers Mary. Do keep quiet, Jack Cole ! [reads) " With similar qualifications as to good looks and amiable temper, with a view to matri- mony. Address, with stamp to pay return postage — 'C. G., Scrubtown ; stating when and where an interview may be had." There! what do you think of that ? Jack. Deacon Goodrich to a T. *'C. G.'* stands for Calvin Goodrich. Aunt M. The land of goodness ! Deacon Goodrich, indeed ! a pillar of the church ! advertising for a wife ! No, no, Jack; it can't be him ! He'd never stoop so low ! Jack. But if all the women are as hard- hearted as you are^ and the poor man needs a wife. Think of his ten little olive plants ! Granny C Plants? Cabbage plants? Taint time to set them out yet. P'ust of August is plenty airly enuff to set 'em for winter. Cab- bages never begin to head till the nights come cold. Jack. Poor Mr. C. G. ! Why don't you answer it, Aunt Mattie ; and tell hmi you'll darn his stockings for him, and comb that fair hair of his ^ DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. 405 Aunt M. Jack Cole ! if you don't hold your tongue, I'll comb your hair for you in a way you won^t like. Me answering one of them low advertisements ! Me, indeed ! I hain't so eager to get married as some folks I know. Brother Cyrus and I have lived all our lives in maiden meditation, fancy free — the only sensible ones of the family of twelve children ; and it's my idee that we shall con- tinner on in that way. Mary. Why, don't you believe that Uncle Cyrus would get married if he could ? Aunt M. Your Uncle Cyrus ! I tell you, Mary Cole, he wouldn't marry the best wo- man that ever trod ! I've hearn him say so a hundred times. Mary. Won't you answer this advertise- ment, auntie ? Ill give you a sheet of my nicest gilt-edge note-paper if you will ! Au7tt M. {furiously). If you weren't so big, Mary Jane Cole, I'd spank you soundly ! I vow I would ! Me answer it, indeed ! {Leaves the room in great indignation^ Mary. Look here, Jack. What'll you bet she won't reply to that notice ? Jack. Nonsense ! Wouldn't she blaze if she could hear you ? Mary. I'll wager my new curled waterfall against your ruby pin that Aunt Mattie re- plies to Mr. " C. G." before to-morrow night. Jack. Done ! I shall wear a curled water- fall after to-morrow. Mary. No, sir ! But I shall wear a ruby pin. Jack, who do you think " C. G." is ? Jack. Really, I do not know ; do you ? Ah ! I know you do, by that look in your eyes. Tell me, that's a darling. Mary. Not I. I don't expose secrets to a fellow who tells them all over town. Be- sides, it would spoil the fun. Jack. Mary, you are the dearest little sister in the world! Tell me, please, (taking her hnnds}\ Mary. No, sir ! You don't get that out of me. Take care, now. Let go of my hands. I'm going up stairs to keep an eye on Aunt Mattie. She's gone up now to write an answer to " C. G." And if there is any fun by-and-by. Jack, if you're a good boy you shall be there to see. Granny C. To sea ? Going to sea ? Why, Jack Cole ! you haint twenty -one yet, and the sea's a dreadful place ! There's a sar- pint liver in it as big as the Scrubto^n meet- ing-'us', and whales that swaller folks ahve, clothes and all ! I read about one in a book a great while ago that swallered a man of the name of Jonah, and he didn't set well on the critter's stummuck, and up he come, lively as ever ! {Curtain falls ^ Scene ii. — The garden of a deserted house ^ in the vicinity ^ Mr. Cole's. Mary leading Jack cautiously along a shady path. Mary. There; we'll squat down behind this lilac bush. I'ts nearly the appointed hour. I heard Aunt Mattie soliloquizing in her room this morning, after this manner — " At eight o'clock this night I go to meet my destiny ! In the deserted garden, under the old pear tree. How very romantic ! " Hark ! there she comes ! Jack. Well, of all the absurd things that ever I heard tell of! Who would have be- lieved that our staid old maid aunt would have been guilty of answering a matrimonial advertisement ? Mary. Hush! Jack, if you make a noise and spoil the fun now, I'll never forgive you. Keep your head still, and don't fidget so. Aunt Mattie [slowly walking down the path — soliloqtdsing!) Eight o'clock ! It struck just as I started out. He ought to be here. Why does he tarry? If he aint punctual I'll give him the mitten. I swow I will ! Dear gracious ! what a sitivation to be in ! Me, at my time of hfe ! though, to be shure, I haint so old as — as I might be. The dew's 406 DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS, a-falling, and I shall get the rheumatiz in these thin shoes, if he don't come quick. What if Jack and Mary should git hold of this ? I never should hear the last of it ! Never ! I wouldn't have 'em know it for a thousand dollars ! Goodness me 1 What if it should be the deacon ? Them children of his'n is dreadful youngsters ; but, the Lord helping me, I'd try to train 'em up in the way ::hey should go. Hark ! is that him a-coming? No ; it's a toad hopping through the carrot bed. My soul and body! what if he should want to kiss me ? I'll chew a clove for fear he should. I wonder if it would be proper- ous to let him ? But then I s'pose if it's the deacon I couldn't help myself. He's an aw- ,ful ^6'^tarmined man ; and if I couldn't help it ^I shouldn't be to blame ! Deary me ! how I trimble ! There he comes 1 I hear his step! What a tall man ! 'Taint the deacon. He's got a shawl on ! Must be the new school- master ! he wears a shawl ! (a man approaches. Miss Mattie ^^^i- up to him cautiously^ Is this Mr. C. G. ? C, G. Yes, it is ; Is this Miss M. G. ? Aunt M. It is. Dear sir, I hope you wont think me bold and unmaidenly in coming out here all alone in the dark to meet you ? C. G. Never ! Ah, the happiness of this moment ! For forty years I have been look- ing for thee ! [puts his arm around her.) Aunt M. Oh, dear mc ! dont ! dont! my dear sir ! I aint used to it! and it aint ex- actly proper out here in this old garden ! It's a dreadful lonely spot, and if people should see us they might talk. C, G. Let 'em talk! They'll talk still more when you and I are married, I reckon. Lift your veil and let me see your sweet fa :e. Aunt M. Yes, if you'll remove that hat and let me behold your countenance. C. G. Now, tnen ; both together. (Aunt M. throws back her veil. C. G. removes his hat. They gaze at each other a mon„cfU tn utter silence^ Aunt M. Good gracious airth ! 'tis brother Cyrus ! C. G. Jubiter Ammon ! 'tis sister Martha ! Aunt M. Oh, my soul and body, Cyrus Gordon ! Who'd ever a-thought of you, at your time of life, cutting up such a caper as this ? You old, bald-headed, gray-whiskered man! Forty years old! My gracious! You were fifty-nine last July ! C, G. Well, if I am, you're two year older. So it's as broad as 'tis long! Aunt M. Why, I thought shure it was Deacon Goodrich that advertised. C. G. stands for Calvin Goodrich. C. G. Yes ; and it stands for Cyrus Gor- don, too. And Deacon Goodrich was mar- ried last night to Peggy Jones. Aunt M. That snub-nosed, red-haired Peg- gy Jones! He'd ort to be flayed alive! Married again ! and his wife not hardly cold \ Oh, the desatefulness of men ! Thank Pro- video'^e I haint tied to one of the abominable sect. C. G. Well, Martha, we're both in the same boat. If you wont tell of me, I wont of you. But it's a terrible disappointment to me, for I sarting thought M. G. meant Ma- rion Giles, the pretty milliner. Aunt M. Humph! What an old goose! She wouldn't look at you ! I heerd her laf- fing at your swaller-tailed coat, when you come out of meeting last Sunday. But I'm ready to keep silence if you will. Gracious! if Jack and Mary should get wind of thi? shouldn't we have to take it ? C. G. Hark! what's that? {voice behind the lilac-bush sings .*) ''Oh, there's many a bud the cold f.^st will nip, And there's many a slip'twixt the cup and the lip." Aunt M. That's Jack's voice ! Goodness mc ! Let us scoot for home ! DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. 407 Jack. Did he kiss ycu, Aunt Mattie ? Mary. Do you like the smell of cloves, Uncle Cyrus ? C. G. Confound you both ! If I had hold of ye I'd let you kn-r-w if I like to smell cloves, and birch, too. {Curtain falls. MRS. MALAPROi^ AND CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE. Fro7n ''Thj Rivals.'' Costc^mes. IVErs. Malafrop, Crin^son satin dress, trim- med with white lace ^md satin ribbon. Captain Absolute, Si-arlct regimental full- dress coat, white breec lies, silk stockings and cocked hat. Enter Mrs. MALAPROi>, with a letter in her hand, Captain Absolute following. Mrs. Malaprop. W/ou: OUR being Sir Anthony's son, Captain, |\) would itself be a sufficient accommo- dation ; but fi :)m the ingenuity of your appearance, I am convinced you de- serve the character her-i given of you. Capt. A. Permit me to say, madame, that ss I have never yet had the pleasure of see- ing Miss Languish, my principal inducement in this affair, at present, is the honor of being allied to Mrs. Malaprop, of whose intellectual accomplishments, elegr.nt manners and un- affected learning no tongue is silent. Mrs. M. Sir, you dr* me infinite honor ! I beg, Captain, you'll he seated. {Both sit7\ Ah ! few gentlemen, nowadays, know how to value the ineffectual qualities in a woman ! Men have no sense nov/ but for the worthless flower of beauty. Capt. A. It is but toe- true, indeed, ma'am ; yet I fear our ladies shculd share the blame ; they think our admi nation of beauty so great that knowledge in them would be superfluous. Thus, lik^ garden trees, they seldom show fruit till time has robbed them of the more spacious blossoms : few, like Mrs. Malaprop and the orange tree, are rich in both at once. Mrs. M. Sir, you overpower me with good breeding. \_Aside.'\ He is the very pine- apple of politeness ! You are not ignorant. Captain, that this giddy girl has, somehow, contrived to fix her affections on a beggarly, strolling, eavesdropping ensign, whom none of us have seen, and nobody knows any- thing of. Capt. A. Oh, I have heard the silly affair before. I'm not at all prejudiced against her on that account. But it must be very dis- tressing, indeed, to you, ma'am. Mrs. M. Oh, it gives me the hydrostatics to such a degree ! — I thought she had per- sisted from corresponding with him; but, behold, this very day, I have interceded another letter from the fellow — I believe I have it in my pocket. Capt. A. My last note ! [Aside.'] Mrs. M. Ay, here it is. - Capt. A. Oh, the little traitress, Lucy! Mrs. M. There, perhaps you may know the writing. [Gives him the letter^ Capt. A. I think I have seen the hand before — yes, I certainly must have seen this hand before. Mrs. M. Nay, but read it, Captain. Capt. A. [reads'^ *' My soul's idol, my adored Lydia ! " Very tender, indeed ! Mrs. M. Tender! ay, and profane too^ o'my conscience. Capt. A. ''I am excessively alarmed at the intelligence you send me, the more sc as my new rival" Mrs. M. That's you, sir. Capt. A. " Has universally the character of being an accomplished gentleman and a man of honor." Well, that's handsome enough. Mrs. M, Oh, the fellow has some design in writing so. 408 DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. Capt. A. That he had, I'll answer for him, ma'am. Mrs. M. But go on, sir — you'll see pres- ently. Capt. A. "As for the old weather-beaten she-dragon who guards you"- — who can he mean by that ? Mrs. M. Me, sir — me — he means me there —what do you think now? — but go on a little further. Capt. A. Impudent scoundrel ! — "it shall go hard, but I will elude her vigilance ! as I am told that the same ridiculous vanity which makes her dress up her coarse features and deck her dull chat with hard words which she don't understand" Mrs. M. There, sir, an attack upon my language! what do you think of that? — an aspersion upon my parts of speech ! was ever such a brute ! Sure, 'ii I reprehend anything in this world, it is thi:: use of my oracular tongue, and a nice derangement of epitaphs. Capt. A. He deserves to be hanged and quartered ! let me see — " same ridiculous vanity " Mrs. M. You need not read it again, sir! Capt. A I beg pardon, ma'am — " does also lay her open to the grossest deceptions from flattery and pretended admiration " — an im- pudent coxcomb — " so that I have a scheme to see you shortly, with the old harridan's consent, and even to make her a go-between in our interviews " — Was ever such assur- ance ! Mrs^ M. Did you ever hear anything like it? \They rise.'] He'P elude my vigilance? will he? — yes, yes! — ha! ha! he's very likely to enter these doors! — we'll try who can run best! Capt. A. So we will, ma'am — so we will — Ha ! ha ! ha ! a conceited puppy ! ha ! ha ! ha! — Well, but Mrs. Malaprop, as the girl seems so infatuated by this fellow, suppose you »verc to wmk at her corresponding with him for a little time — let her even plot an elopement with him — then do you connive at her escape — -while I, just in the nick, will have the fellow laid by the heels, and fairly contrive to carry her off in his stead. Mrs. M. I am delighted with the scheme; never was anything better perpetrated. Capt. A. But, pray, could I not see the lady for a few minutes now ? — I should like to try her temper a little. Mrs. M. Why, I don't know — I doubt she is not prepared for a visit of this kind. There is a decorum in these matters. Capt. A. O, she won't mind me! — only tell her Beverley Mrs.M. Sir! Capt. A. Gently, good tongue ! \_Aside.'] Mrs, M. What did you say of Beverley? Capt. A. Oh, I was going to propose that you should tell her, by way of jest, that it was Beverley who was below — she'd come down fast enough then — ha ! ha ! ha ! Mrs. M, 'Twould be a trick she well de- serves— -besides, you know, the fellow tells her he'll get my consent to see her — ha! ha! — Let him, if he can, I say again. — Lydia, come down here! \^Calling7\ He'll make me a go-between in their interviews! — ha! ha ! ha !— Come down, I say, Lydia ! — I don't wonder at your laughing — ha! ha! ha! his impudence is truly ridiculous. Capt. A. 'Tis very ridiculous, upon my soul, ma'am! — ha! ha! ha! Mrs.M. The little hussy won't hear. Well, I'll go and tell her at once who it is— she shall know that Captain Absolute is come to wait on her; and I'll make her behave as becomes a young woman. Capt. A. As you please ma'am. Mrs. M. For the present, Captain, your servant — Ah! youVe not done laughing yet, I see — elude my vigilance! yes, yes— - Ha! ha! ha! {Exit, Richard Bkinsley Sheridan. DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. 409 WINNING A WIDOW. Characters. Mrs. Cummiskey . . A Middle-aged V/idow. Mr. Costello . . .An Old Bachelor, Scene. — Mrs. C.^s dwelling. Table set. Mr. C. outside. Mr. C. Good evcnin' to you, ma'am. Mrs. C. Good evenin' to you, Mr. Costello. Mr. C. It's fine weather we're havin', ma'am. Mrs. C. It is that, thank God, but the win- ter's comin' at last, and it comes to all, both great and small. Mr. C. Ah ! but for all that it doesn't come to all alike. Now here are you, ma'am, fat, rosy and good-lookin', eqwally swate as a summer greenin', a fall pippin or a winter russet — Mi's. C. Arrah, hould your whist, now. Much an old bachelor like you knows about apples or women. But come in, Mr. Cos- tello, and take a cup o' tay with me, for I was only standin' be the door lookin' at the peo- ple passin' for company sake, like, and I'm sure the kittle must have sung itself hoarse. [Mr. C. ejzters and sits7\ Mr. C. It's very cosy ye are here, Mrs. Cummiskey. Mrs. C. Yes. [Lays the stepper.'] It is that whin I do be havin' company. Mr. C, Ah ! it must be lonesome for you with only yer cat and the cup o' tay. Mrs. C. Sure it is. But sit up to the table, Mr. Costello. Help yourself to this fish, and don't furget the purtaties. Look at them ; they're splittin' their sides wid laughin'. [She pours tea.] Mr. C. I'm sensible of the comforts of a home, Mrs. Cummiskey, though I've none meself. Mind now, the difference between the taste o' tay made and sarved that way and the tay they gives you in an aitin'-house. Mrs. C. Sure there's nothin' like a little liome of yer own. I wonder yer never got piarrit, Mr, Costello- Mr. C. I was about to make the same re- mark in rifference to yerself, ma'am. Mrs. C. God help us, aren't I a widder woman this seven years ? Mr. C. Ah, but it's thinkin' I was why ye didn't get marrif again. Mrs. C. Well, it's sure I am [thoughtfully setting down her teacup and raising her hand by way of emphasis], there was no betther husband to any woman than him that's dr"^ and gone, heaven save an' rest his sowl. He was that asy a child could- do anything wid him, and he was as humorous as a monkey. You favor him very much, Mr. Costello. He was about your height, and complicted like you. Mr. C. Ah! Mrs. C. He often used to say to me in his banterin' way. Sure, Nora, what's the woruld to a man whin his wife is a widder, manin', you know, that all the timptations and luxu- ries of this life can never folly a man beyant the grave. Sure, Nora, says he, what's the woruld to a man whin his wife's a widder ? Mr. C. It was a sensible sayin'that [helping himself to more fish]. Mrs. C. I mmd the day John died. He knew everything to the last, and about four o'clock in the afthernoon — it was seventeen minutes past five exactly, be the clock, that he died — he says to me, Nora, says he, you've been a good wife, says he, an' I've been a good husband, says he, an' so there's no love lost atween us, says he, an' I could give ye a good characthur to any place, says he, an' I wish ye could do the same for me where I'm goin', says he; but it's case equal, says he^ an' every dog has his day, an' some has a day an' a half, says he, an' says he, I'll know more in a bit than Father Corrigan himself, says he, but I'll say now, says he, that I've always been a true son of the Church, says he, so I'll not bother my brains about it ; an' he says, says he, I lave ye in good hands^ Nora, 410 DIALOGUES FOR SCHOOLS AND LYCEUMS. for I lave you in your hands, says he ; an' if at any time ye see any wan ye hke betther nor me, marry him, says he. Ah, Nora, says he, for the first time spakin' it solemn like, ah, Nora, what's the woruld to a man whin his wife's a widder ? An' says he, I lave fifty dollars for masses, and the rest I lave to your- self, said he, an' I needn't tell ye to be a good mother to the childer', says he, for well ye know there are none. Ah, poor John ! Will ye have another cup of tay, Mr. Costello ? Mr. C. It must have been very hard on ye \_passi71g ciip\. Thank ye, ma'am, no more. Mrs, C. It was hard, but time will tell. I must cast about me for my own livin' ; and so I got intil this place an' here I am to-day. \_Botii rise from the tabic and seat themselves before the fire.'] Mr. C. Ah ! an' here we are both of us this even in.' Mrs. C. Here we are, sure enough. Mr. C. And so I mind ye of — of him, do I ? Mrs. C. That ye do. Ye favor him greatly. Dark complicted, an' the same pHsint smile. Mr. C. Now, with me sittin' here an' you sittin' there ferninst me, ye might almost think ye were marrit agin. \_Insi7iiiatingly .] Mrs. C. Ah, go away now for a taze that ye are. [Mussi?ig her apron by rolling the cor Iters of it. Mr. C, I dis remember what it was ye said about seein' any man you liked betther nor him. \j\Ioving his chair nearer to that of the widow.'] Mrs. C. He said, said he [smoothing her apron over her knees\ Nora, said he, if anny time ye see anny man ye like betther nor me, marry him, says he. Mr. C. Did he say anything about anny one ye liked as good as him ? Mrs. C. I don't mind that he did. {Re-- flectively, folding her hands in her lap.] Mr. C. I suppose he left that to yerself ? Mrs. C, Faith, an' I don't know, thin, v, Mr. C. Div ye think ye like me as well a^ ye did him ? \_Persuasively, leaning forward to look i7tto the widoius eyes^ which are cast down.] Mrs. C. Ah, go away now for a taze. \_Straightening herself and play f idly slapping Mr. Costello on the face. He moves his chair still nearer, a?id puts his arm around her waist.] Mr. C. Tell me, div ye like me as well as ye did him ? Mrs. C. I — I most — I most disremember now how much I liked him. [Embar- rassed.] Mr. C. Ah, now, don't be breakin' me heart. Answer me this question, Mrs. Cum- miskey — Is your heart tender toward me ? Mrs. C. It is [whispers]^ an' there, now yt have it. Mr. C. Glory ! [Kisses her.] Mrs. C. But, James, ye haven't told me yet how ye liked yer tay ? Mr. C. Ah, Nora, me jewel, the taste of that first kiss would take away the taste of all the tay that ever was brewed. Miscellaneous Selections COMPRISING Dramatic, Humorous and Tragic Pieces from the most Celebrated Authors, adapted to the use of Public Schools, Academies and Higher Institutions of Learning, for Public and Social Entertainments. Wit and Wisdom Represented by a Great Variety of Entertaining Characters, UNCLE PETE. Characters. George Peyton, a planter. Uncle Pete, a venerable darkey, looking the worse for wear, with more patches than pantaloons. SiQ^W£.— 'Exterior view of a planter's cabin, with practicable door. George Peyton discovered, seated on a bench, imder veranda, reading a newspaper. Enter Uncle Pete, a limp noticeable in his left leg^ the knee of which is bowed outward, hoe 071 his shoulder. Uncle Pete. {Pausing as he enters, shading his eyes with his hand, and going towards George Peyton.) Yes, dar he is ; dar is Marse George, a sittin' on the porch, a readin' his papah. Golly, I cotch him at home ! {Advancing and calling) Marse George, Marse George, Fs come to sec you once mo', once mo,' befo' I leabes you fo'- ebber. Marse George, I'se gwine to de odder shoah ; Pse far on de way to my long home, to dat home ober acrost de ribber, whar de wicked hab' no mo' trouble, and where water- millions ripen all the year ! Youns has all bin berry kine to me heah, Marse George, berry kine to de ole man, but I's gwine away, acrost de dark ribber. Ps gwine ober, an' dar, on dat odder shoah, Pll stan' an' pick on de golden hawp among de angels, \\\\ in de company of de blest. Dar Pll fine my rest; dar Pll stan' befo' de throne fo'- ebber mo^ a singin' an' a shoutin' susannis to de Lord ! George Peyton. Oh, no. Uncle Pete, you're all right yet — you're good for another twenty years. Uncle P. Berry kine o' you to say dat, Marse George — berry kine — but it's no use. It almos' breaks my hawt to leab you, and to leabde missus and de chillun, Marse George, but Ps got my call — Ps all gone inside. George P. Don't talk so, Uncle Pete ; you are still quite a hale old man. Utcle P. No use talkin', Marse George, Ps gwine to hebben berry soon. 'Pears like I can heah the singin' on de odder shoah. 'Pears like I can heah de voice of ol' " Aunt Liza" an' de odders dat's gone befoah. You's bin berry kine, Marse George— de missus an' de chillun'sbin berry good — seems like all de people's been berry good to poor ole Pete — poor cretur Ifke me. George P. Nonsense, Uncle Pete {kindlj a7id encouragingly^, nonsense, you are good for many years yet. You'll see the sod placed on the graves of many younger men than you are, before they dig the hole for you. What you want just now. Uncle Pete, is a good square meal. Go into the kitchen and help yourself — fill up inside. There is no one at home, but I think you know the road. Plenty of cold victuals of all kinds in there. 411 il2 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. Uncle P. {^A smile illuminating his face.) 'Bleedged t'ye, Marse George, 'bleeged t'ye, sah, I'll go ! For de little time I has got to stay, I'll not go agin natur'; but it's no use. I's all gone inside — I's got my call. I'm oneo' dem dat's on de way to de golden shoah. {Exit Uncle Pete through door, his limp luirdly noticeable. His manner showing his de- light.-) George P. Poor old Uncle Pete, he seems to be the victim of religious enthusiasm. I sup- pose he has been to camp-meeting, but he is a cunning old fox, and it must have taken a regular hard-shell sermon to convert the old sinner. He was raised on this plantation, and I have often heard my father say, he hadn't a better negro on the place. Ever since the war, he has been working a little, and loafing a good deal, and I have no doubt he sometimes sighs to be a slave again at work on the old plantation. (^Starts and listens. ) Uncle P. (^Singing inside :) Jay bird, jay bird, sittin' on a limb, He winked at me, an' I at him ; Cocked my gun, an* split his shin, An' left the arrow a-stickin'. George P. {^Starting up. ) Zounds ! if that ©Id thief hasn't found my bitters bottle ! Pete ! Pete, you rascal ! Uncle P. ( Contiftues singing:) Snake bake a hoe cake. An' set the frog to mind it ; But the frog fell asleep, An' the lizard come an' find it. Geoi'ge P. Pete ! you rascal, come out of that. Uncle P. ( Whc does not hear the planter, continues singing, and dances a gentle^ old- ■fashio7ied shuffle. ) De debbil cotch the groun' hog A-sittin' in desun, An' kick him off de back-log, ^ ^s' to see de fun. George P. {Furious.) Pete; you infernal nigger, come out of that, I say. Uncle P. {Still singing and dancing S) De 'possum up de gum tree, A-playin' wid his toes, An' up comes de ginny pig, Den off he goes. George P. {Thoroughly aroused, throwing down his paper. ) You, Pete ; blast the nigger. Uncle P. { Continues singing :) De weasel went to see de polecat's wife, You nebber smelt such a row in all yer — George P. {Rushes in the cabin, interrupts the singing, and drags Pete out by the ear.) Pete ! Pete, you infernal old rascal, is that the way you are crossing the river ? Are those the songs they sing on the golden shore ? Is this the way for a man to act when he has got his call — when he is all gone inside ? Uncle P. {Looking as if he had been caught in a hen-roost.) Marse George. I's got de call, sah, an' I's gwine acrost de dark ribber soon, but I's now braced up a little on de inside, an' de 'scursion am postponed — you see, de 'scur- sion am postponed, sah ! George P. {Folding his arms, looking at Pete, as if in admiration of his impudence.) The excursion is postponed, is it ? Well, this excursion is not postponed, you old scoundiel. {Seizes Pete by the coat- collar and runs him off stage, L.) [curtain.] PAT'S EXCUSE. „ ( Nora, a young Irish lass. Characters \ \ ' ./ e> ( Pat Murphy, a gay deceiver. Curtain rises. — Discovers Nora in kitchen, peeling potatoes. Nora. Och ! it's deceivin' that all men are ! Now I belaved Pat niver would forsake me, and here he's trated me like an ould glove, and I'll niver forgive him. How praties make your eyes water. ( Wipes tears away. ) Almost as bad as onions. Not that I'm sryin'; oh, no. Pat Murphy cant see me cry. {Kiiock zuithout.) There is Pat now, the rascal. I'll lock the door. {Hastens to lock door. ) Pat {without). Arrah, Nora, and here I am. MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. ilH Rora. And there ye' 11 stay, ye spalpeen. Pat {without'). Ah, come now, Nora, — ain't it opening the door you are after? Sure, I'm dyin' of cold. Nora. Faith, you are too hard a sinner to die aisy — so you can take your time about it. Pat. Open the door, cushla \ the police will be takin' me up. No7^a. He won't kape you long, alanna ! Pat. Nora, if you let me in, I'll tell you how I came to lave you at the fair last night. Nora {relenting). Will you, for true? Pat. Indade I will. {Nora unlocks door. Enter Pat gayly. He snatches a kiss front her. ) Nora. Be off wid ye ! Now tell me how you happened to be wid Mary O'Dwight last night? Pat {sitting down). Well, you see it happened this way ; ye know Mike O' Dwight is her brother, and he and me is blatherin' good friends, ye know j and as we was going to Caltry the ither day, Mike says tome, says he: ^'Pat, what' 11 you take fur that dog?" and I says, says I — Nora {who has been listening earnestly). Bother you, Pat, but you are foolin' me again. Pat {coaxingly takes her hand). No — no- — Nora — I'll tell ye the truth this time, sure. Well, as I was sayin', Mike and me is good friends; and Mike says, says he: ''Pat, that's a good dog." ''Yis," says I, ''it is." And he says, says he. "Pat, it is a blatherin' good dog." ' ' Yis, ' ' says I ; and then — and then — {Scratches his head as if to aid his unagination. ) Nora {angrily snatching away hand\. There ! I'll not listen to another word ! She sings. (Tune-Rory O'Moore.) Oh, Patrick Murphy, be off wid you, pray, I been watching your pranks this many a day ; You're false, and ye're fickle, as sure as I live And your hateful desaivin' I'll niver forgive. Ouch ! do you think I was blind yester night. When you walked so fine with Mary O'Dwight? You kissed her, you rascal, and called her your own, And left me to walk down the dark lane alone. Pat {taking up song). Oh, Nora, me darlint, be off wid your airs. For nobody wants you, and nobody cares ! For you do want your Patrick, for don't you see, You could not so well love any but me. When my lips met* Miss Mary's, now just look at me, I shut my eyes tight just this way, don't you see ? And when the kiss came, what did I do ? — I shut my eyes tight, and made believe it was jj/^m ! Nora. Be off wid your nonsense — a word in your ear, lyisten, my Patrick, be sure that you hear ; I^ast night when Mike Duffy came here to woo, We sat in the dark, and made believe it was you — And when the kiss came, now just look at me, — I shut my eyes tight, just this way, don't you see > And when our lips met, what did I do, But keep my eyes shut, and maka belave it was you ! {Nora, laughing; Pat, disconcerted.) [quick curtain.] THE DUEL. Enter Sir Lucius O' Trigger to left, with pistols^ followed by Acres. Acres. (Z.f ) By my valor, then, Sir Lucius, forty yards is a good distance. Odds levels and aims ! — I say it is a good distance. Sir Lucius. {R.) Is it for muskets or small field-pieces? Upon my conscience Mr. Acres, you must leave those things to me. — Stay, now — > I'll show y ou . ( Measures paces along the floor. ) There, now, that is a very pretty distance — ^a pretty gentleman's distance. Acr. {R. ) Zounds ! we might as well fight in a sentry-box ! I tell you. Sir Lucius, the further he is off, the cooler I shall take my aim. Sir L. (Z. ) Faith ! then I suppose you would aim at him best of all if he was out of sight ! Acr. No, Sir Lucius; but I should think i forty or eight-and-thirty yards — Sir L. Pooh ! pooh ! nonsense ! Three or four feet between the mouths of your pistols is as good as a mile. Acr. Odds bullets, no ! — by my valor ! .here is no merit in killing him so near ! Do, my dear Sir Lucius, let me bring him down at a long shot : — a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me ! * From the asterisk they sing- only the first strain of" Rory O' More ' ' — omitting the minor strain , with which Nora finishe* her first stanza. +Z.. signifies left ; R., right, and C, centre of stage. -114 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. Sir L. Well, the gentlemen's friend and I must settle that. But tell me now, Mr. Acres, in case of an accident, is there any little will or commission I could execute for you ? Act. I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius — but I don't understand — Sir L. Why, you may think there's no being shot at without a little risk ; and if an unlucky bullet should carry a quietus with it — I say it vvill be no time then to be bothering you about family matters. Acr. A quietus ! Sir Z. For instance, now — if that should be the case-.-'WOuld you choose to be pickled and sent home? — or would it be the same to you to lie here in the Abbey? — I'm told there is very snug lying in the Abbey. Acr Pickled ! — Snugly in the Abbey ! — Odds tremors ! Sir Lucius, don't talk so ! Sir L. I suppose, Mr. Acres, you never were engaged in an affair of this kind before. Acr. No, Sir Lucius, never before. Sir L. Ah! that's a pity! — there's nothing like being used to a thing. Pray, now, how would you receive the gentlemen's shot? Acr. Odds files ! — I've practiced that — there, Sir Lucius — there. (^Piits himself in an aiti- ,ude.') A side front, hey? Lll make myself small enough : I'll stand edgeways. Sir L. Now — you're quite out — for if you stand so when I take my aim — (^Leveling at him. ) Acr. Zounds ! Sir Lucius — are you sure it is not cocked? Sir L. Never fear. Acr. But — but —you do.x't know — it may go off of its own head ! Sir L. Pooh ! be easy. Well, now, if I hit you in the body, my bullet has a double chance ; for, if it misses a vital part of your right side, 'twill b J very hard if it don't succeed on the left. Acr. A vital part! Sir L. But, there, fix yourself so — (^placing him') — let him see the broadside of your full front , there, now, a ball or two may pass clean through your body, and never do any harm at all. Acr. Clean through me ! — a ball or two clean through me ! Sir L. Ay, may they ; and it is much the genteelest attitude into the bargain. Acr. Look'ee, Sir Lucius ! I'd just as lieve be shot in an awkward posture as a genteel one ; so, by my valor ! I will stand edgeways. Sir L. (^Looking at Ids watch. ) Sure, they don' t mean to disappoint us. Ha ! no, faith : I think I see them coming. ( Crosses to R. ) Acr. (Z.) Hey! — what! — comi ng Sir L. Ay. Who are those yonder, getting over the stile ? Acr. There are two of them, indeed ! Well — let them come — hey, Sir Lucius ! we — we — we — we — won't run ! SirL. Run! Acr. No, — I say, — we won't run, by my valor ! Sir L. What's the matter with you? Acr. Nothing — nothing — my dear' friend — my dear Sir Lucius! bui I— I don't feel quite so bold, somehow, as I did. Sir L. O, fy ! Consider your honor. Acr. Ay — true — my honor. Do, Sir Lucius, edge in a word or two every now and then about my honor, SirL. Well, here they're coming. (^Look- ing R.) Acr. Sir Lucius, if I wa'n't with you, I should almost think I was afraid ! If my valor should leave me ! — Valor will come and go. Sir L. Then pray keep it fast while you have it. Acr. Sir Lucius, I doubt it is going! — -yes — my valor is certainly going ! — it is sneaking off I feel it oozing out, as it were, at the palms o my hands ! Sir L. Your honor ! your honor I Here they are. Acr. O mercy ! — now — that I was safe 2 Clod Hall ! or could be shot before I was aware (Sir Lucius takes Acres by the arm, and ceads him reluctlantly off, R. ) Sheripan. MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. 415 READING THE WILL. Characters : Swipes, a brewer. Currie, a saddler. Frank Millington, and 'Squire Draw: . Enter Swipes, i?.,* Currie, Z., Swipes. A sober occasion this, brother Currie ! Who would have thought the old lady was so near her end ? Currie. Ah ! we must all die, brother Swipes. Those who live longest outlive the most. Swipes. True, true ; but, since we must die and leave our earthly possessions, it is well that the law takes such good care of us. Had the old lady her senses when she departed ? Cur. Perfectly, perfectly. 'Squire Drawl told me she read every word of her last will and test- ament aloud, and never signed her name better. Swipes. Had you any hint from the 'Squire what disposition she made of her property? Cur. Not a whisper ! the ' Squire is as close as a miner's purse. But one of the witnesses hinted to me that she has cut off ner graceless nephew with a shilling. Swipes. Has she ? Good soul ! Has she ? fou know I come in, then, in right of my wife. Cur. And I in my own right ; and this is, no ioubt, the reason why we have been called to iear the reading of the will. 'Squire Drawl knows how things should be done, though he is as air-tight as one of your own beer-barrels, brother Swipes. But here comes the young rep- robate. He must be present, as a matter of course, you know. {^Enter Frank Millington, R. ) Your servant, young gentleman. SO;, your benefactress has left you, at last ! Swipes. It is a painfull thing to part with old and good friends, Mr. Millington. Fra7ik. It is so, sir ; but I could bear her loss better, had I not so often been ungrateful for her kindness. She was my only friend, and I knew not her value. . Ctir. It is too late to repent. Master Milling- ton. You will now ^ave a chance to earn your own bread. * R. signifies Hghi : L„ Ufi and C, centre of stage-. Swipes. Ay, ay, by the sweat of your brow, as better people are obliged to. You would make a fine brewer's boy, if you were not toe* old. Cur. Ay, or a saddler's lackey, if held with a tight rein. Frank. Gentlemen, your remarks imply that my aunt has treated me as I deserved. I am above your insults, and only hope you will bear your fortune as modestly, as I shall mine submissively. I shall retire. (^As he is going, R., enter 'Squire Drawl, R.') ^Squire. Stop, stop, young man ! We must have your presence. Good-morning, gentle^ men : you are early on the ground. Cur. I hope the 'Squire is well to-day. ^Squire. Pretty comfortable for an invalid. Swipes. I trust the damp air has not affected your lungs. ^Squire. No, I believe riot. You know I never hurry. Slow and sure is my maxim. Well, since the heirs-at-law are all convened, I shall proceed to open the last will and testament of your deceased relative, according to law. Swipes. (^JVliile the 'Squire is breaking the seal.) It is a trying scene to leave all one's possessions, 'Squire, in this manner ! Cur. It really makes me feel melancholy when I look round and see everything but the venerable owner of these goods. Well did the preacher say. All is vanity ! ^Squire. Please to be seated, gentlemen. (^All sit. — The 'Squire puts on his spectacles, and reads slowly. ) '■ ^ Imprimis : Whereas my nephew, Francis Millington, by his disobedience and ungrateful conduct, has shown himself un- worthy of my bounty, and incapable of manag- ing my large estate, I do hereby give and be- queath all my houses, farms, stocks, bonds, moneys and property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt street, brewer, and Christopher Currie, o'' Fly Court, saddler." ('Squire takes off his spectacles to wipe them.") Swipes. (^Dreadfully overcome.) Generc^us creature ! kind soul ! I always loved her. 4i6 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. Cur. She was g-^M, she was kind ! She was in her right mind. Brother Swipes, when we divide, I think I will take the mansion-house. Swipes. Not so fast , if you please, Mr. Cur- rie ! My wife has lot;g had her eye upon that, and must have it. (^Both rise. ) Cur. There will be two words to that bar- gain, Mr. Swipes ! And, besides, I ought to have the first choice. Did not I lend her a new chaise every time she wished to ride ? And who knows what influence . Swipes. Am I not named first in her will? And did I not furnish her with my best small beer for inore than six months? And who knows . Frank. Gentlt^tiicn, I must leave you. i^Going.') ^Squire. ( Wiping his spectacles, and putting them on. ) Pray, gentlemen, keep your seats. I have not done yet. (^All sit. ) Let me see ; where was I? — Ay, — ''All my property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt street, brewer " Swipes. Yes ! 'Squire. ''And Christ^ooher Currie, Fly Court, saddler ' ' Cur. Yes ! 'Squire. " To h-^.ve and to hold in trust, for the sole and exclusive benefit of my nephew, Francis Millington, until he shall have attained the age of twenty-one years ; by which time I hope he will have so far reformed his evil habits, as that he may safely be intrusted with the large fortune which I hereby bequeath to him." Swipes. What's all this? You don't mean that we are humbugged? In trust ! — how does that appear? Where is it? 'Squire. (^Pointing to the parchment.') There! In two words of as good old English as I ever penned. Cur. Pretty well, too, Mr. 'Squire, if we must be sent for to be made a laughing-stock of ! She shall pay for every ride she had out of my chaise, I promise you ! Swipes. And for every drop of my beer. Fine times, if two sober, hard-working citizens are to be brought here to be made the sport of a graceless profligate ! But we will manage his property for him, Mr. Currie ! We will make him feel that trustees are not to be trifled with ,' Cur. That will we ! t 'Squire. Not so fast, gentlemen ; for the instrument is dated three years ago, and the young gentleman must already be of age, and able to take care of himself. Is it not so, Francis ? Frank. It is, your worship. 'Squire. Then, gentlemen, having attended to the breaking of this seal according to law, you are released from any further trouble in the premises. {Fxit Swipes and Currie in earnest conversa^ tion. ) Sargent. THE DEBTOR AND THE DUN. ^;2/]Jj>:^'nan house, tlie Green Dragon. MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. 410 £)ouh. Wi-i^tt's that? A nobleman at the Green Dragon ! Pry. Travehng carriage and four. Three servants on the dickey and an outrider, all in blue liveries. They dine and stop all night. A pretty bill there will be to-morrow, for the servants are not on board wages. Doiih. Plague take the Green Dragon ! How did you discover that they are not on board wages ? F7'y. I was curious to know, and asked one of them. You know I never miss any thing for want of asking. 'Tis no fault of mine that the nabob is not here, at your house. Doub. Why, what had you to do with it? Fry. You know I never forget my friends. I stopped the carriage as it was coming down the hill — brought it to a dead stop, and said that if his lordship — I took him for a lord at once — that if his lordship intended to make any stay, he couldn't do better than to go to Doubledot's. JDoul?. Well? Fry. Well, — would you believe it?-— (?ut pops a saffron-colored face from the carriage window, and says, ^'You're an impudent rascal for stop- ping my carriage, and I'll not go to Doubledot's if there's another innto.be found within ten miles of it !" Doub. There, that comes of your conibunded meddling ! If you had not interfered I should have stood an equal chance with the Green Dragon. Fry. I'm very sorry ; but I did ii for the best. Doub. Did it for the best, indeed! Deuce lake you ! By your officious attempts to serve, you do more mischief in the neighborhood than the exciseman, the apothecary, and the attorney, all together. Fry. Well, there's gratitude ! Now, really, I must go. Good-morning, (^j^// Paul Pry.) Doub. I'm rid of him at last, thank fortune ! (Pry re-enters.') Well, what now? Fry. I've dropped one of my gloves, Now, that's very odd — here it is in my hand all the time! Doub. Go to confusion ! {^Exit. ) Fry, Come, that's civil ! If I were tne least of a bore, now, it would be pardonable — But — Hullo ! There's the postman ! I wonder whether the Parkins's have got letters acrain to- day. They havs had letters every day this week, and I can't for the life of me think what they can— (^Fecls hastily in his pockets.) By the way, talking of letters, here's one I took from the postman last week for the colonel's daughter. Miss Eliza, and I have always forgot- ten to give it to her. I dare say it is not of much importance. {^Feeps into it — reads.) ' ' Likely — unexpected— affectionate. ' ' )i can ' t make it out. No matter; I'll contrive tt take it to the house — though I've a deal to d* to-day. (^Runs off and returns .) Dear me ! j wad like to have gone without my umbrella. [curtain.] John Poole. SPARTACUS AND JOVIUS. Enter Spartacus, Z. ,* Jovius, R. Spartacus. Sp^ak, Roman ! wherefore does thy master send Thy gray hairs to the '' cut throat's " camp? Jovius. Brave rebel — Spai't. Why, that's a better name than rogue or bondman ; But in this camp I am called General. Jov. Brave General, — for, though a rogue and bondman. As you have said, I'll still allow you General, As he that beats a consul surely is. Spart. Say two — two consuls ; and to tha> e'en add A proconsul, three praetors, and some generals. Jov. Why, this is no more than true. Are you a Thracian? Spa7't. Ay. Jov. There is something in the air of Thrace Breeds valor up as rank as grass. 'Tis pi?^ You are a barbarian. Spart. Wherefore? Jov. Had you been born A Roman, you had won by this a triumj>.., * L. signifies left ; R., right, and C, centre of stage 420 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. Spart. I thank the gods I am barbarian ; For I can better teach the grace-begot And heaven-supported masters of the earth Ho\^ a nierf^ dweller of a desert rock Can bow their crowned heads to his chariot- wheels, Their regal necks to be his stepping -blocks. But come, what is thy message ? Jov. Jalia, niece Of the prsetor, is thy captive. Spart. Ay. Jov. For whom Is offered in exchange thy wife, Senonc*, And thy young boy. Spart. Tell thou the praetor, Roman, The Thracian's wife is ransomed. Jov. How is that ? Spart. Ransomed, and by the steel, from out the camp Of slaughtered Gellius ! (^Pointing off. ) Be- hold them, Roman ! Jov. (^Looking as Spart. points.^ This is sorcery ! But name a ransom for the general's neice. Spart. Have I not now the praetor on the hip? He would, in his extremity, have made My wife his buckler of defence ; perhaps Have doomed her to the scourge ! But this is Roman. Now the barbarian is instructed. Look ! I hold the praetor by the heart ; and he Shall feel how tightly grip barbarian fingers. Jov. Men do not war on women. Name her ransom. Spart. Men do not war on women ! Look you : One day I climbed up to the ridgy top Of the cloud-piercing Haemus, where, among The eagles and the thunders, from that height, I looked upon the world, as far as where, Wrestling with storms, the gloomy Euxine chafed On his recoiling shores ; and where dim Adria In her blue bosom quenched the fiery sphere. Between those surges lay a land, might once Have matched Elysium ; but Rome had made It A Tartarus. In my green youth I looked From the same frosty peak where now I stood, And then beheld the glory of those larids, Where Peace was tinkling on the shepherd's bell And singing with the reapers. Since that glad day, Rome's conquerors had passed With withering armies there, and all was changed. Peace had departed ; howling War was there. Cheered on by Roman hunters. Then, methough|; E'en as I looked upon the altered scene, Groans echoed through the valleys, through which ran Rivers of blood, like smoking Phlegethons ; Fires flashed from burning villages, and Famine Shrieked in the empty cornfields ! Women and children. Robbed of their sires and husbands, left to starve — These were the dwellers of the land ! Say'st thou Rome wars not, then, on women ? Jov. This is not to the matter. Spart. Now, by Jove, It is ! These things do Romans. Bur me earth Is sick of conquerors. There is not a man. Not Roman, but is Rome's extremest foe : And such am I ; sworn from that hour I sa* Those sights of horror, while the gods support me, To wreak on Rome such havoc as Rome wreaks. Carnage and devastation, woe and ruin. Why should I ransom, when I swear to slay ? Begone ! This is my answer ! Bird. THE RESOLVE OF YKE.O\}\JJS.— Sargent. (Regulus, a Roman consul, having been defeatec^ in battle and taken prisoner by the Carthaginians, was detained in captivity five years, and then sent on an embassy to Rome to solicit peace, under a promise that he would return to Carthage if the proposals were rejected. These, it was thought, he would urge in order to obtain his own liberty ; but he urged contrary and patriotic measures on his country- men ; and then, having carried his point, resisted the persuasions of his friends to remain in Rome, and returned to Carthage, where a martyr's death awaited him. Some writers say that he was thrust into a cask covered over on the inside with iron spikes, and thus rolled down hill. The following scene pre- sents Regulus j ust as he has made known to his friends in Rome his resolution to return to Carthage. ) Enter Regulus, followed by Sertorius, Sertorius. Stay, Roman, in pity ! — if not foi thy life, For the sake of thy country, thy children, t'--^ wife. MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. 421 Sent, not to urge war, but to lead Rome to peace, Thy captors of Carthage vouchsafed thee release. Thou return' St to encounter their anger, their rage ;— No mercy expect for thy fame or thy age ! Regulus. To my captors one pledge, and one only, I gave : To RETURN, though it were to walk into my grave ! No hope I extended, no promise I made, Rome's Senate and people from war to dissuade. If the vengeance of Carthage be stored for me now, I have reaped no dishonor, have broken no vow. Sert. They released thee, but dreamed not that thou wouldst fulfil A part that would leave thee a prisoner still ; They hoped thy own danger would lead thee to sway The councils of Rome a far different way ; Would induce thee to urge the conditions they crave, If only thy freedom, thy life-blood, to save. Thought shudders, the torment and woe to depict Thy merciless foes have the heart to inflict I Remain with us, Regulus ! do not go back ! No hope sheds its ray on thy death-pointing track ! Keep faith with the faithless? The gods will forgive The balking of such. O, live, Regulus, live 1 Reg. With the consciousness fixed in the core of my heart. That I had been playing the perjurer's part ? With the stain ever glaring, the thought ever nigh, That I owe the base breath I inhale to a lie ? O, never ! Let Carhage infract every oath. Be false to her word and humanity both. Yet never will I in her infamy share. Or turn for a refuge to guilt from despair ! Sert. O, think of the kindred and friends who await To fall on thy neck, and withhold thee from fate ; O, think of the widow, the orphans to be, And let thy compassion plead softly with me. Reg. O, my friend, thou canst soften, but canst not subdue \ To the faith of my soul I must ever be true. If my honor I cheapen, my conscience discrowh^ All the graces of life to the dust are brought down ; All creation to me is a chaos once more — No heaven to hope for, no God to adore ! And the love that I feel for wife, children, and friend, Has lost all its beauty, and thwarted its end. Sert. Let thy country determine. Reg. My country ? Her will. Were I free to obey, would be paramount still. I go to my doom for my country alone ; My life is my country's; my honor, my own ! Sert. O, Regulus ! think of the pangs in reserve ! Reg. What menace should make me from probity swerve ? Sert. Refinements of pain will these miS' creants find To daunt and disable the loftiest mind. Reg. And 'tis to a Roman thy fears are addressed ! Sert. Forgive me. I know thy unterrified breast. Reg. Thou know'st me but human — as weak to sustain As thyself, or another, the searchings of pain. This flesh may recoil, and the anguish they wreak Chase the strength from my knees, and the hue from my cheek ; But the body alone they can vanquish and kill ; The spirit immortal shall smile at them still. Then let them make ready their engines of dread. Their spike-bristling cask, and their torturing bed; Still Regulus, heaving no recreant breath. Shall greet as a friend the deliverer. Death ! Their cunning in torture and taunt shall defy, And hold it in joy for his country to die. 422 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. HOW THE MONEY GOES. (A temperance play.) Characters. — Man, about th&ty -five years oid; his Wife ; Nellie, his daughter, ten years old ; Friend, man about husband s age, dressed in a man^of-the-world style; A. and B., tzvo young men, dressed as business men, should appear about thirty years of age. Scene 1. ^Mr. L. and his wife on the stage ; Mr. x.. dressed for his work, and about to go. ) Mrs. L. Albert, I wish you would give me seventy-five cents. Mr. L. What do you want seventy-five cents for? Mrs. L. I want to get some braid for my new dress. Mr. L. I thought you had material enough on hand for that. Mrs. L. So I thought 1 had; but it looks rather plain with no trimming at all. You know I was intending to trim it with that fringe ; but it looks too gray, come to try it by the side of the dress. Mr. L. Haven't you something else that will do? Mrs. L. No. But, then, braid is i:heap ; and I can make it look quite pretty with seventy-five cents. Mr. L. Plague take these women's fashions. Your endless trimmings and thing-a-ma-jigs cost more than the dress is worth. It is nothing but shell out money when a woman thmks of a new dress. Mrs. L. I don't have many new dresses. I do certainly try to be as economical as I can. Mr. L. It is funny kind of economy, at all events. But if you must have it, I suppose you must. ( Takes out his purse, and counts out carefully seventy-five cents, and puts his purse away, angrily. He starts to go; but when at the door, he thinks he will take his umbrella, and goes back for it. Finds his wife in tears, which she tries hastily to conceal. ) Mr. L. Good gracious ! Kate, I should like to know if you are crying at what. I said about the dress. Mrs. L. I was not crying at what }ou said , but you were so reluctant to grant the small favor ! I was thinking how hard I have to work. I am tied to the house. I have many little things to perplex me. Then to think — Mr. L. Pshaw! What do you want to be foolish for. (^Exit.) (^In the hall he was met by his little girl, 'Lizzie. ) Lizzie {holding both his hands'), O, papa, give me fifteen cents. Mr. L. What? Lizzie. I want fifteen cents. Please give me fifteen cents. Mr. L, What in the world do you want it for? Are they changing books again ? Lizzie. No. I want a hoop. It's splendid rolling ; and all the girls have one. Mr. Grant has some real nice ones lo sell. Please, can't I have one ? Mr. L. Nonsense ! If you want a hoop, go and get one off some old barrel. 1 can't afford to buy hoops for you to trundle about the streets. ( Throws her off. ) Lizzie (Jn a pleading tone'). Please, papa? Mr. L. No, I told you ! ( Slie bursts into tears, and he goes off 7nuttering, * ' Cry, then, and cry it out. ' ' ) Scene II. (Albert enters, his wife, entering on the opposite side. She kisses him as a greeting. ) Mrs. L. I am glad you are home thus early. How has business gone to-day ? Mr. L. Well, I am happy to say. Mrs. L. Are you very tired ? Mr. L. No ; why ? ' Mrs. L. I want you to go to the sewing circle to-night. Mr, L. I can't go ; I have an engagement. Mrs. L. I am sorry. You never go with me now. You used to go a great deal. {Just thcJi Lizzie comes in crying, dragging an old hoop, and rubbing her eyes. ) MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. 423 Mr. L. What is the matter with you, darhng? Lizzie. The girls have been laughing at me, and making fun of my hoo^j. They say mine is ugly and homely. Mr. L. Never mind ; perhaps we'll have a new one some time. Lizzie. Mayn't I have one now? Mr. Grant has one left — a real pretty one. Mr. L. Not now, Lizzie; not now. I'll think of it. {hizziE goes out crying^ followed by her mother. A frie7id of yix . L. enters.^ Friend. Hello, Albert ! What's up? Mr. L. Nothing in particular. Take a chair. Friend. How's business? Mr. L. Good. Friend. Did you go to the club lasc iiight ? Mr. L. Don't speak so loud ! Friend. Ha! wife don't know — does she? Where does she think you go? Mr. L. I don't know. She never asks me, and I am glad of it. She asked me to go with her to-night, and I told her I was engaged. FrieJid. Good ! I shan't ask you where, but take it for granted that it was with me. What do you say for a game of billiards ? Mr. L. Good ! I'm in foi that. {They rise to go.') Have a cigar, Tom ? Friend. Yes. ( They go out. ) Scene III. '' Two ine7i in conversation as they come upon the stage. ) B. Billiards ? No, I never play billiards. A. Why not? B. I don't like its tendency. A. It is only a healthy pastime. I am sure it has no evil tendency. B. I cannot assert that the game in its most innocent form is, of itself, an evil, to be sure. But, although it has the advantage of calling forth skill and judgment, yet it is evil when it excites and stimulates beyond the bounds of healthy recreation. A. That result can scarcely follow such a game. B. You are wrong tncre, ine result can follow in two ways. First, Ic can lead men away from their business. Secoadly, it leads those to spend money who have none to spend. Look at that young man just passing. He looks like a mechanic ; and I should judge fro ^ his appearance that he has a family. I see by his face that he is kind and generous, and wants' to do as near right as he can. I have watched him in the billiard saloon time after tnr.e, and only last night I saw him pay one dollar and forty cents for two hours' recreation. He did it cheerfully, too, and smiled at his loss. But how do you suppose it is at home ? Suppose his wife had asked him for a dollar or two for some household ornament, or his child, if ht has one, for a picture-book or toy, what do you suppose he v^^ould have answered ? This is not conjecture j for you and I both know plenty ol such cases. A. Upon my word, B., you speak to the point ; for I know that young man, and what you have sai^l is true. I can furnish you" with facts. "We have a club for a literary paper in our village, and last year he was one of the sub- scribers. This year he was obliged to discon- tinue. His wife was very anxious to take it ; but he said he could not afford the $1.25 for it. And his little Lizzie, ten years old, has coaxed her father for fifteen cents, for a hoop, in vain. My Nellie told me that. B. Yes ; and that two hours' recreation last night, would have paid for both. It is well for wives and children that they do not know where all the money goes. THE SALUTATORiAN'S DL^^TI- CULTIES. characte;rs. Fra.nk Clayton. Sammy Long. Harry Thompson. Johnny Wilson. Tommy Watkins. Willie Brown. Scene. — A stage. Curtain rises, and I rank Clayton co7nes forward and speaks. Frank. Ladies and gentlemen : Our perform- ances are now about to commence. We have 424 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. spent some time in preparing for this exhibition, and we hope you will be pleased with all the performances that may be given. You well know that we have not had much practice in giving school exhibitions, and if you see any errors, we hope you will kindly forgive and overlook. We will endeavor to give our recita- , tions correctly, and act our parts truthfully, and we ask you to — and we ask you to — and — and — and we ask that — that — {Enter Harry Thompson, He comes in front of Frank ami commences to speaiz.~) '* Did you ever hear of Jehosophat Boggs, A dealer and raiser of all sorts of dogs ? No ? Then I'll endeavor in doggerel verse To just the main points of the story reliearse. Boggs had a good wife — " Franiz. (^SpeaJzi?ig in a loud whisper. ) Harry, what did you come out here for? I'm not through with the introductory speech yet. Harry. ( Turns half way round, puts his hand to his mouth, as if to keep the audience from hear- ing, and speaks in a loud whisper. ) I know you weren't through, but you stuck, and I thought I had better come on. You know my recitation is second on the programme, and I didn't want to have a bungle right at the commencement of the exhibition. Frank. Go back to your place, you little rascal, and don't interrupt me again. I'm going to speak my piece. Harry. ( With his hand up to hide his moutJi as before.) Oh, you're stuck and you'd better retire. ( Turns to audience and continues to speak his piece.) *' Boggs had a good wife, the joy of his life. There was nothing between them inclining to strife. Except her dear J.'s dogmatic employment ; And that, she averred, did mar her enjoyment. ' ' Frank. ( Whispering as before. ) I say, Harry, get from before me and let me speak my piece. Harry, ( Turns, puts up his hand, and whis- pers as before.) Oh, you keep shady until I gel through. (^ Turns to audience and speaks.) '* She often had begged him to sell off his dogs. And instead to raise turkeys, spring chickens or hogs. She made him half promise at no distant day He would sell the whole lot, not excepting old Tray ; And as good luck would have it, — ' ' F)'ank. {^Turning Harry by the collar and pulling him back. ) I tell you to get out of this until I have spoken my piece. Hai'iy. I won't. Let me alone, I say. You have stuck fast, and do you want to spoil the exhibition? Didn't you know enough to keep oif the stage until I had spoken my piece ? Frank. (^Sti II holding him by the collar.) It is you that are spoiling the exhibition, {^Leads him off the stage. ) Harry. {^Speaking loudly as he goes out.) I call this an outrage, Frank. (^Returning to his place and coin- mejicing to speak.) Ladies and gentlemen, my speech has been interrupted, and I will com- mence again. Our performances are now about to commence. We have spent some time in preparing for this exhibition, and we hope you will be pleased with all the performances that may be given. You know that we have not had much practice in giving school exhibitions, and if you see any errors, we hope you will kindly forgive and overlook. We will endeavor t.j give our recitations correctly, and act our parts truthfully, and we ask you to — to — and we ask you to — and act our parts truthfully, and we ask you to — and we ask you to — (//z a lower to7ic. ) I've forgotten it again; isn't that too bad? (^Speaking as before. ) And we ask you to — to — to — (^Enter Tommy Watkins. He comes in frojtt oj Frank, and conwiences to speak " The Ghost. ' ' ) " 'Tis about twenty years since Abel Law, A short, round, favored merry Old soldier of the Revolutionary War, MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. 425 '^is wedded lo a Uxv.:- uDominable shrew. ihe temper, sir, of Shakespeare's Catharine Could no more be compared with hers Than mine With Lucifer's. Frank. (^I?t a loud whisper. ) Tommy Watkins, get from before me. Don't you see I'm speak- ing ? I don't want to be interrupted — I want to finish my speech. Tomrny. (^Facing the audiejice and speaking in the same tone as when recitijzg his speech. ) Oh, you'd better quit ! You've stuck twice now, and if you don't go off the stage the audi- ence will become disgusted. Sammy Long. (^Seated iji the audience. ) The people are disgusted now with that boy's open- ing speech. He'd better go home, memorize it, and speak it some time next year. Tommy. There ! You hear what they say out there in the audience. They are disgusted, and they think you had better leave the stage. Frank. Oh, that's nobody but Sammy Long, and he is displeased because we didn't invite him to take part in the exhibition. Tommy. Well, I'll go ahead and speak my piece while you are trying to think up the words you have forgotten. Her eyes were like a weasel's ; she had a harsh Face, like a cranberry marsh, All spread with spots of white and red ; Hair of the color of a wisp of straw, And a disposition like a cross-cut saw. The appellation of this lovely dame Was Nancy; don't forget the name. Frank. Stop, Tommy ; I can finish my speech now. Tommy. So can I. (^Continues his recitation.^ His brother David was a tall. Good-looking chap, and that was all , One of your great big nothings, as they say Out in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes, And cracking them on other folks. Well; David undertook one night to play The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who, He knew. Would be returning from a journey through A grove of forest wood That stood Below The house some distance — half a mile or so. With a long taper Cap of white paper. Just made to cover A wig, nearly as large over As a corn-basket, and a sheet With both ends made to meet Across his breast (The way in which ghosts are always dressed). He took His station near A huge oak-tree, Whence he could overlook The road and see Whatever might appear. It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel Had left the table Of an inn, where he had made a halt, With horse and wagon, To taste a flagon Of malt Liquor, and so forth, which, being done, He went on, Caring no more for twenty ghosts Than if they had been so many posts David wag nearly tired of waiting ; His patience was abating ; At length, he heard the careless tones Of his kinsman's voice, And then the noise Of wagon-wheels among the stones. Abel was quite elated, and was roaring With all his might, and pouring Out, in great confusion. Scraps of old songs made in '■ ' the Revolution. " His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton ; And jovially he went on. 426 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS^ Scaring the whip-po' -wills among the trees With rhymes like these : (^Si\^s. Air, ' ' Yankee Doodle. ' ' ) ' ' See the Yankees Leave the hill, With baggernetts declining, With lopped-down hats And rusty guns. And leather aprons shining. ' ' **'See the Yankees '—Whoa ! Why, what is that?" Said Abel, staring like a cat, As, slowly, on the fearful figure strode Into the middle of the road. "" My conscience ! what a suit of clothes ! Some crazy fellow, I suppose. Hallo! friend, what's your name? by the powers of gin. That's a strange dress to travel in. " ^* Be silent, Abel ; for I now have come To read your doom ; Then hearken, while your fate I now declare. I am a spirit — ' ' * ' I suppose you are ; But you'll not hurt me, and I'll tell you why : Here is a fact which you cannot deny 3 — - All spirits must be either good Or bad — that's understood — And be you good or evil, I am sure That I'm secure. If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil — And I don't know but you may be the devil — If that's the case, you'll recollect, I fancy, That I am married to your sister Nancy ! ' ' ( Bows and turns to go off. To Fran k. ) Now , Frank, you can go ahead again until you come to ihe sticking place. I hope that, during the time I have generously given you by speaking my piece, you have been collecting your scattered senses, and will now be able to finish what you began. {^Exit Tommv. ) Frank. Ladies and gentlemen, I am not at all pleased with this way of doing business. I think these boys have not treated me with proper respect. I was selected to give the opening or introductory addrcbo, and you see how it has been done. Sammy. (^In the audience.) We didn't see very much of it. Don't you think it would be well enough for you to retire and memorize your speech ? Frank. You boys out there had better keep silent and not create a disturbance. There is an officer in the house. {^Enter Willie Brown. He comes before Frank and commences to speak. ) " 'Twas night ! The stars were shrouded in a veil of mist; a clouded canopy o'erhung the world ; the vivid lightnings flashed and shook their fiery darts upon the earth — " Frank. (^Speaking out. ) I say, Willie Brown, what did you come here for? I haven't finished the opening speech yet. Willie. What's the use of having an open- ing speech now ? The exhibition is half over. ( Co7itinues his speech. ) ^'The deep-toned thunder rolled along the vaulted sky ; the elements were in wild commo- tion ; the storm-spirit howled in the air ; the Avinds whistled ; the hail-stones fell like leaden balls ; the hugh undulations of the ocean dashed upon the rock-bound shore ; and torrents leaped from mountain tops ; Avhen the murderer sprang from his sleepless couch with vengeance on his brow — murder in his heart — and the fell instru- ment of destruction in his hand." Frank. Stop, I say. What kind of an exhi- bition will this be without an introductory speech ? Stop, I say. We will be the laugh- ing-stock of the country if we don't open out exhibition with an introductory speech. Johnny. (^In the audience.) Oh, nobody care; for the introductory speech. Let the speech go and give us some dialogues and songs. Willie. No dialogues and songs until I have finished my speech. This is my place on the programme. ( Continues his speech. Frank comes a7id stands near liim and they both speak at the same time, Willie giving the coJicluding por- tion of his speech and Frank commencing at thj MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIOK^., 427 first of his Opening Speech and going as far as he had gone before, Willie sJwidd finish just before Frank commences to stammer.) " The storm increased ; the hghtnings flashed with brighter glare ; the thunder growled with deeper energy; the winds whistled with a wilder fury ; the confusion of the hour was congenial to his soul, and the stormy passions which raged in his bosom. He clenched his weapon with a sterner grasp. A demoniac smile gathered on his lip ; he grated his teeth ; raised his arm ; sprang with a yell of triumph upon his victim, and relentlessly killed — a mosquito ! ' ' {Bows and turns to go off. To Frank.) Stuck again, my boy? If we had waited for the opening speech we would not have got our exhibition opened for a week or ten days. {Exit Willie.) Johnny, {In the audience, ) Well, we haven't had that introductory speech yet, and I guess we are not going to get it. That was the queerest kind of speech I ever heard. It began, and then balked, and then kicked up, and then braced its feet in front, and finally stopped altogether. I think we would have done better if we had started without any in- troduction, just as grandpa said the other day he thought Parson Goodwin ought to have begun his serrr.on at the conclusion and left out all that went before it. Frank. {Excitedly}^ Hold on there ! You say we don't need any speech and yet you are making a long one yourself. You said that I hitched like a balky horse, but you have kicked up your heels and cantered off as if somebody had touched off a pack of fire-crackers under you. {Enter Harry Thompson. He comes for- ward and ipeo-ks.) Our parts are performed and our speeches are ended, We are monarchs and courtiers and hCiOes no more ; To a much humblel station again we've de- scended, And are now but the school-boys you've known us before. Farewell then our greatness — 'tis gone like a dream, 'Tis gone — but remembrance will often re- trace The indulgent applause which rewarded each theme, And the heart-cheering smiles that enlivened each face. We thank you ! Our gratitude words cannot tell, But deeply we feel it — to you it belongs ; With heartfelt emotion we bid you farewell. And our feelings now thank you much more than our tongues. We will strive to improve, since applauses thus cheer us, That our juvenile efforts may gain your kind looks ; And we hope X.k.^ convince you, the next time you hear us, That praise has but sharpened our relish for books. {Bows and turns to go off.) I have spoken the valedictory, and the exhibition is over. Ring down the curtain. Frank. {Excitedly^ Stop! Hold! Don't! I haven't finished my speech yet. Johnny. {In the audience}) You've given us enough for the present. You can finish it out next Christmas. Harry. Ring down the curtain. Frank. Stop ! Don't ! Don't ! I want to speak my piece. {A bell is rung and the cur- ' tai7z falls) Frank. {Drawing the curtain adde and looking out) Here's a go ! How are wt going to get along without an Opening Speech ? {Disappears) [Curtain.] il!8 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. PYGMALION AND GALATEA. Characters. Pygmalion, an Athenian sculpfor. Galatea, a statue. Costumes. — Gentleman, i?i the habit oj a Greek artist. Ladv, iii statues qite drapery or ordinary Greek costume. (A noted Greek sculptor, Pygmalion, makes a most beautiful statute of woman. Having attained per- fection of form lis longs to breathe life into his work, and blames the gods that they have limited his power. He stands on the stage, to the left, looking thoughtfull)'- up as if imploring the gods. While ap- parently uttering his complaints, Galatea, coming to life, calls to him from behind the curtain. ) Galatea (^from behind curtain, C.^). Pyg- malion ! Pygmalion {after a pause'). Who called? Gal. Pygmalion ! (Pygmalion tears away curtain and discovers Galatea alive.) Pyg. Ye gods ! It lives ! Gal. Pygmalion i Pyg. It speaks ! I have my prayer ! my Galatea breathes ! Gal. Where am I ? Let me speak, Pygmalion ; Give me thy hand — both hands — how soft and ^^^arm ! Whence came I? {Descends.) Pyg. Why, from yonder pedestal. GaL That pedeptal ! Ah, yes, I recollect, There was a time when it was part of me. Pyg . That time has passed forever, thou art now A Hving, breathing woman, excellent' In every attribute of womankind. Gal. Where am I, then ? Pyg. Why, born into the world By miracle, Gal. Is this the world ? Pyg. It is. Gal. This iuum? Pyg. This room is a portion of a house ; The house stands in a grove ; the grove itself Is one of many, many hundred groves In Athens. GaL And is Athens, then, the world? Pyg. To an Athenian — yes — * C. indicates t-^/ P.. ri^ht, and Z,., left of stage. Gal. And I am one? Pyg. By birth and parentage, not by descent Gal. But how came I to be ? Pyk Well, let me see Oh ! you were quarried in Pentelicus ; I modelled you in clay ; my artisans Then roughed you out in marble ; I, in turn, Brought my artistic skill to bear on you, And made you what you are, in all but life. The gods completed what I had begun, And gave the only gift I could not gi> . Gal. Then this is life ? Pyg. It is. Gal. And not long sinct I was a cold, dull stone. I recollect That by some means I knew that I was stone. That was the first dull gleam of consciousness ; I became conscious of a chilly self, A cold immovable identity. I knew that I was stone, and knew no more ; Then by an imperceptible advance, Came the dim evidence of outer things, Seen, darkly and imperfectly, yet seen ; The walls surrounded me, and I alone. That pedestal — that curtain — then a voice That called on Galatea ! At that word, Which seemed to shake my marble to the core. That which was dim before, came evident. Sounds that had hummed around me, indistinct, Vague, meaningless — seemed to resolve them- selves Into a language I could understand ; I felt my frame pervaded wdth a glow That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh ; Its cold, hard substance throbbed with active life, My limbs grew supple, and I moved — I lived ! Lived in the ecstasy of new born life ; Lived in the love of him that fashioned me ; Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope, Love, gratitude, thoughts that resolved them- selves Into one word, that word, Pygmalion ! {Kneels to him.) Pyg. I have no words to tell thee of my joy, O woman — perfect in thy loveliness. Gal. What is that word? Am I a woman ? MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. 429 Pyg. Yes. Gal. Art thou a woman ? Pyg. No, I am a man ! Gal. What is a man ? Pyg. A being strongly framed, To wait on woman, and protect her from All ills that strength and courage can avert ; To work and toil for her, that she may rest ; To weep and mourn for her, that she may laugh ; To fight and die for her, that she may live ! Gal. (^after a pause'). I'm glad I am a woman. ( Takes his hand — he leads her down y L. ) Pyg. So am I. ( They sit. ) Gal. That I escape the pains thou hast to bear? Pyg' That I may undergo those pains for tbae. Gal. With whom wouldst thou fight ? Pyg. With any man Whose word or deed gave Galatea pain. Gal. Then there are other men in this strange world ? Pyg. There are, indeed ? GaL And other women ? Pyg. {taken aback). Yes; Though for the moment I'd forgotten it ! Yes, other women. Gal. And for all of these Men work, and toil, and mourn, and weep, and fight ? Pyg. It is man's duty, if he's called upon, To fight for all — he works for those he loves. Gal. Then by thy works I know thou lovest me? Pyg. Indeed, I love thee. {Embraces her.) Gal. What kind of love ? Pyg' I love thee {recollecting himself and re- leasing her) as a sculptor loves his work ! {Aside. ) There is diplomacy in that reply. Gal. My love is different in kind to thine : I am no sculptor, and I've done no work. Yet I do love thee ; say — what love is mine ? Pyg. Tell me its symptoms, then I'll answer thee. Gal. Its symptons ? Let me call them as they come. A sense that I am made by thee for thee. That I've no will that is not wholly thine. That I've no thought, no hope, no enterprise, That does not own thee as its sovereign ; That I have life that I may live for thee. That I am thine — that thou and I are one ! What kind of love is that ? Pyg. A kind of love That I shall run some risk in dealing with. Gal. And why, Pygmalion ? Pyg. Such love as thine A man may not receive, except, indeed. From one who is, or is to be, his wife. Gal. Then I will be thy wife. Pyg. That may not be ; I have a wife — the gods allow but one. GaL Why did the gods then send me here to thee ? Pyg. I cannot say — unless to punish me {Rises.) For unreflecting and presumptuous prayer ! I pray'd that thou shouldst live. I have my prayer. And now I see the fearful consequence That must attend it ! Gal. Yet thou lovest me ? {Rises. ) Pyg. Who could look on that face and stifle love? Gal. Then I aip. beautiful ? Pyg. Indeed thou art. Gal. I wish that I could look upon myself, But that's impossible. Pyg. Not so, indeed, {Crosses, R.) This mirror will reflect thy face. Behold ! {Hands her a mirror frojn table, R. C.) Gal. How beautiful ! I am very glad to know That both our tastes agree so perfectly ; Why, my Pygmalion, I did not think That aught could be more beautiful than thou, Till I behold myself. Believe me, love, I could look in this mirror all day long. So I'm a woman. Pyg. There's no doubt of that ! Gal. Oh ! happy maid, to be so passing fair i And happier still Pygmalion, who can gaze At will upon so beautiful a face ! Pyg. Hush ! Galatea — in thine innocence ( Taking glass from her. - Thou say est things that others would reprove. 4:!0 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. Gal. Indeed, Pygmalion ; then it is wrong To think that one is exquisitely fair ? Pyg. Well, Galatea, it's a sentiment That every other woman shares with thee ; They think it — but they keep it to themseK \ Gal. And is thy wife as beautiful as I ? Pyg. No, Galatea ; for in forming thee I took her features — lovely in themselves— And in marble made them lovelier still. Gal. i^disappoittted') , Oh! then I am not orig- inal ? Pyg. Well— no— That is, thou httst indeed a prototype, But though in stone thou didst res/^mble her, In life, the difference is manifesl. Gal. Tm very glad that I am lovelier than she.. And am I better? (^Sits, Z.) Pyg. That I do not know. Gal. Then she has faults. Pyg. Very few, indeed; Mere trivial blemishes, that serve to show That she and I are of one common kin. I love her all the better for such faults. Gal, (^after apause). Tell me some faults and I'll commit them now. Pyg. There is no hurry ; they will come in time : {^Sits beside her, X.) Though for that matter, it's a grievous sin To sit as lovingly as we sit now. Gal. Is sin so pleasant ? If to sit and talk As we are sitting, be indeed a sin. Why I could sin all day. But tell me, love, Is this great fault that I'm committing now, The kind of fault that only serves to show That thou and I are of one common kin ? Pyg. Indeed, I am very much afraid it is. Gal. And dost thou love me better for such fault ? Pyg. Where is the mortal that could answer ^'no?" Gal. Why then I'm satisfied, Pygmalion; Thy wife and I can start on equal terms She loves thee? Pyg. ""-^ry much. Gal. I'm glad of that, I like thy wife. Pyg. And why ? Gal. (^surprised at the qiiestioti). Our tastes agree We love Pygmalion well, and what is more, Pygmalion loves us both. I like thy wife ; I'm sure we shall agree. Pyg. (^aside~). I doubt it much. Gal. Is she within ? Pyg. No, she is not within. Gal. But she'll come back ? Pyg. Oh ! yes, she will come back. Gal. How pleased she'll be to knew when she returns. That there was someone here to fill her place. Pyg. (^dryly). Yes, I should say she'd be ex- tremely pleased. {Pises. ) Gal. Why, there is something in thy voice which says That thou art jesting. Is it possible To say one thing and mean another? Pyg Yes, It's sometimes done. Gal. How very wonderful ! So clever ! Pyg. And so very useful Gal. Yes. Teach me the art. J^yg- The art wil\ come in time. My wife v/ill not be pleased; there — that's the truth. Gal, I do not think that I sViall like thy wife. Tell me more of her. Pyg. Well— Gal What did she say When she last left thee ? Pyg. Humph ! Well, let me see : Oh ! true, she gave thee to me as my wife — Her solitary representative ; ( Tenderly) She feared I should be lonely till she she came. And counselled me, if thought:s of love should come. To speak those thoughts to thee, cjs I am wont To speak to her. Gal. That's right. Pyg. {releasing her). But when she spoxe MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. 431 Thou wast a stone, now thou art flesh and blood, Which makes a diffen-nce. Gal. It's a strange world; A woman loves her husband ' ery much. And cannot brook that I she aid love him too ; She fears he will be lonely till she comes, And v/ill not let me che^r his loneliness : She bids him breathe his love to senseless stone, A.nd when that stone is brought to life — be dumb! It's a strange world, I cannot fathom it. ( Ci'osses, R. ) Pyg. {aside^. Let me be brave, and put an end to this. {Aloud.) Come, Galatea — till my wife returns. My sister shall provide thee with a home ; Her house is close at hand. Gal. (^astonished and alarmed'). Send me not hence, Pygmalion — let me stay. Pyg. It may not be. Come, Galatea, we shall meet again. Gal. (^resignedly) . Do with me as thou wilt, Pygmalion ! But we shall meet again ? — and very soon ? Pyg. Yes, very soon. Gal. And when thy wife returns, She'll let me stay v/ith thee ? Pyg. I do not know. (^Aside. ) Why should I hide the truth from . her? {Aloud. ) Alas ! I may not see thee then. Gill. Pygmalion , What fearful words are these ? Pyg. The bitter truth. I may not love thee ; I must send thee hence. Gal. Recall those words, Pygmalion, my love ! Was it for this that Heaven gave me life? Pygmalion, have mercy on me ; se® I am thy work, thou hast created me ; The gods have sent me to thee. I am thine, Thine ! only and unalterably thine ! (^Music. ) This is the thought with which my soul is charged. Thou tellest me of one who claims thy love. That thou hast love for her alone ! Alas ! I do not know these things ; I only know That Heaven has sent me here to be with thee. Thou tellest me of duty to thy wife, Of vows that thou wilt love but her; alas ! I do not know these things ; I only know That Pleaven, who sent me here, has given me One all-absorbing duty to discharge — To love thee, and to make thee love again ! (^During this speech Pygmalion has shown symptoms of irresolution ; at its conclusion he takes her in his arms and embraces hef passion- ately.) W. S. Gilbert. QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. (A dialogue for two men. From Act IV. ol Julius Ccssar. Before rendering the dialogue it is presumed that the participants will read the whole play from a volume of Shakespeare, and familiarize themselves with the spirit of the selection. The interest will be enhanced by the use of proper costumes. Where these cannot be hired — as they generally may in cities and large towns — they may be easily impro- vised by observing the simple Roman dress as illus- trated in historical works. ) ( Curtai?t rises, reveali7ig Brutus and Cassius in heated conversation on the stage. ) Cassius. That you have wronged me doth appear in this ; You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of Sardinians ; Wherein my letters (praying on his side Because I knew the man) were slighted of. Bi'utus. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case. Cas. At such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its com- ment. Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm ; To sell and mart your offices for gold. To undeservers. Cas. I an itching palm ? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last ! Bru. The name of Cassius honors this cor- ruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide its head. Cas. Chastisement ! 4^2 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. JBru. Remember March, the ides of March remember ! Did not great JuHus bleed for justice' sake ? What villain touched his body, that did stab;, And not for justice ? — What ! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world, But for supporting robbers, — shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? — I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman ! Cas. Brutus, bay not me ! I'll not endure it. You forget yourself To hedge me in : I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Bru. Go to ! you're not CassiusI Cas. I am. Bru. I say you are not. Cas. Urge me no more : I shall forget myself : Have mind upon your health: tempt me no fur- ther ! Bru. Away, slight man ! Cas. Is't possible? Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? Cas. Must I endure all this ? Bru. All this ? Ay, more ! Fret till your proud heart break ! Go, show your slaves how choleric you are. And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor ? You shall digest the venom of your spleen. Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, — y^a, for my la.1\7^- ter, — When you are waspish. Cas. Is it come to this? Bru. You say you are a better soldier, I>et it appear so ; make your vaunting true. And it shall please me well. P'or mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, Brutus : I bald an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say better ? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thu. have moved me. Bru. Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him. Cas. I durst not? Bru. No. Cas. What ! durst not tempt him? Bru. For your life you durst not. Cas. Do not presume too much upon my lov&., I may do that I shall be sorry for. Bru. You have done that you should be soiry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; For I am armed so strong in honesty. That they pass by me as the idle wind. Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ; — For I can raise no money by vile means : I had rather coin my heart. And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trask By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions ; Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius ? Should I liave answered Caius Cassius so ? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous. To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces ! Cas. I denied you not. Bru. You did. Cas. I did not : he was but a fool That brought my answer back. Brutus hatl; rived my heart, A friend should bear a friend's infirmities ; But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Bru. I do not, till you practice them or '^"e Cas. You love me not. Bru. I do not like your faults. MISCELLANEOUS SELECTION^. 4|ja Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As ' mge as high Olympus. Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come ! Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius ; For Cassius is a-weary of the world- Hated by one he loves ; braved by hi^ brother; Checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed, Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from my eyes ! — There is my dagger. And here my naked breast ; within, a heart Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold ; If that thou be' St a Roman, take it forth : I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart : Strike as thou didst at Caesar ; for I know. When tnou didst hate him worse, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. B7^u. Sheathe your dagger : Be angry when you will, it shall have scope : Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O, Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb. That carries anger as the flint bears fire ; Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark. And straight is cold again. Cas. Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him ? Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. Bru. And my heart, too. — Cas. O, Brutus ! Bru. What's the matter? Cas. Have you not love enough to oeai with me. When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful ? Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and, henceforth. When yo'i are over-earnest with you^ Brutus, He'll think your mother hides, and leave you so. ^^ ^ [curtain.] Siiakef .£ARE. TABLEAU. — Friendship Restored. Curtain rises ^ revealing Brutus and Cassius with one hand laid upon the other' s shoulder, w^' 'h the right hands firmly clasp. On the face of each beams the ligJit of nodle love and manly friendship, showing their mutual joy. The bear- ing should be dignified and manly. SCENE BETWEEN HAMLET AND THE QUEEN. (Dialogue for elderly lady and young man. From Act III. of the tragedy of Hamlet. The part of HamIvET is a very difficult one to play, and should be thoroughly studied. The whole tragedy should be read from Shakespeare, any illustrated volume of which will suggest appropriate costume. The Ghost may be impersonated by a voice, unless a suitable costume and staging are available. ) ( Curtain rises and reveals Hamlet approach- ing his Mother, who may be seated and appar- ently in much distress. ) Hamlet. Now, mother, what's the matter ? Queen. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. Hamlet. Mother, you have my father much offended. Queejt. Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue. Ha?nlet. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. Queen. Why, how now, Hamlet ! Hamlet. What's the matter now? Que e 71. Have you forgot me ? Hamlet. No, by the rood, not so. You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife ; / And — would it were not so — you are my motb^#> Queen. Nay, then, I'll set those to you that can speak. Hamlet. Come, come, and sit you down ; you shall not budge : You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may sc^ the inmost part of you. Queen. What wilt thou do ? tliou wilt not murther me ? Help, help, ho \ Polonius (iehind). What, ho ' help, help, help ! i34 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. Hamlet {^drawing. ) How now ! a rat ? Dead, ^"^r a ducat, dead ! {^Makes a passiiirough the arras. ^ Poconius (^behind^. O, I am slam ! {^Falls and dies, ^ Queen. O me, what hast thou done ? Hamlet. Nay, I know not \ h it the king ? Queen. O, what a rash and bloody deed is this ! Hamlet. A bloody deed ! almost as bad, good mother. As kill a king, and marry with his brother. Queen. As kill a king ! Hamlet. Ay, lady, 'twas my word. — {Lifts up the arras and discovers Polonius. ) Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell ! I took thee for thy better : Leave wringing of your hands : peace ! sit you down, And let me wring your heart j for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff, # If damned custom have not braz'd it so That it is proof and bulwark against sense. Queen. What have I done, that thon darest wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me ? Hamlet. Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love And sets a blister there, makes marriage-vows As false as dicers' oaths ; O, such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words : heaven's face doth glow. Yea, this sondity and compound mass. With tristful visage, as against "he doom, Is thought-sick at the act. Queen, Ay me, what act. That roars so loud and thunders in the index r Hamlet. Look here, upon this picture, and on this. The counterfeit presentment of two ^lOthers. See what a grace was seated on this brow ; Hyperion's curls; th'j front of Jove him.«ielf; An eye like Mars, to threaten arid command; A station hke the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven -kissing hill; A combination and a form indeed. Where every god did seem to set his seal. To give the world assurance of a man. This was your husband. Look you now, what follows : Here is your hj^sband ; like a mildew' d ear. Blasting his wholesom.e brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this lair j^iountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor ? Ha ! have you eyes ? You cannot call it love, for at y^ur age The hey-day in the blood is tame, 't's humble, And waits upon the judgment 5 and wh»i ruwi^- ment Would step from this to this ? O shame ! where is thy blush ? Queen. O Hamlet, speak no more ; Thou tarns' t mine eyes into my very soul. And there I see such black and grained spot? As will not leave their tinct. O, speak to me no more ; These words like daggers enter in mine ears.* No more, sweet Hamlet ! Hamlet. A murtherer and a villain ; A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord ; a vice of kings; A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, And put it in his pocket ! Queen. No more ! Hamlet. A king of shreds and patches, — {^Enter Ghost. / Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings. You heavenly guards ! — What would your gra- cious figure ? Queen. Alas ! he's mad ! Hamlet. Do you not come your tardy son \.q chide. That, laps' d in time and passion, lets go by The important acting of your dread command "^ O, say ! Ghost. Do not forget. This visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But, look, amazement on thy mother sits • MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. 43i» O, step between her and her fighting soul ' wSpeak to her, Hamlet. Hamlet. How is it with you, lady? Queen. Alas, how is't with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy And with the incorporal air do hold discourse ? O gentle son, * Jpon the heat and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look ? Hamlet. On him, on him ! Look you, how pale he glares ! His form and cause conjoin 'd, preaching to stones. Would make them capable. Do not look upon me ; Lest with this piteous action you convert My stern effects ; then what I have to do Will want true color ; tears perchance for blood. Queen. To whom do you speak this ? Hamlet. Do you see nothing there ? Queen. Nothing at all ; yet all that is I see. Hamlet. Nor did you nothing hear ? Queen. No, nothing but ourselves. Hamlet. Why, look you there ! look, how it steals away ! My father, in his habit as he liv'd ! Look, where he goes, even now, out at the por- tal. {^Exit Ghost. ) Queen. This is the very coinage of your brain ; This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in. Hamlet. Ecstasy ! My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music : it is not inadness That I have utter' d ; bring me to the test. And I the matter will re-word, which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace. Lay not that flattering unction to your soul. That not your trespass but my madness speaks ; It Avill but skin and film the ulcerous place. Whilst rank corruption, mining all within. Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven ; Repent what's past, avoid what is to come. Queen. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain. Hamlet, O, throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other half. For this same lord, {^Pointing to Polonius. ) I do repent ; I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him, — So, again, good-night. I must be cruel, only to be kind ; Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. [curtain.] Shakespeare. LOCHIEL'S WARNING. (This piece is frequently recited by one person, but is much more effective in dialogue. LochieI/, a Highland chieftain, while on his march to join the Pretender, is met by one of the Highland seers, or prophets, who warns him to return, and not incur the certain ruin and disaster which await the unfor- tunate prince and his followers on the field of Cullo- den. When used as a dialogue, a blast of trumpet ia heard. The curtain being drawn, LochieI/ enters, attired in the Highland fighting costume, and follow- ing him should appear in the doorway of the stage two or three armed Scotch soldiers to give the idea of a large number behind them. The SEER meets him from the other direction, dressed in flowing robes, and with long v/hite hair and beard, and, raising his hands in the attitude of warning, speaks imploringly as follows : ) Seer. LOCHIEL, Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in flight : They rally, they bleed, for their country and crown, — Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down I Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But, hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war. What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A stted comes at morning : no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair ! Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! O ! weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ! For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave— Culloden, that reeks with the blood o{ the brave \ 436 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. Lochiel. Go preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! Or, if gory Culioden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright ! Seer. Ha ! laugh' St thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth. From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the North ? Lo ! the death-shot of foemen out-speeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad : But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! Ah ! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of Heaven. O, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood ! Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my clan : Their swords are a thousand; their bosoms are one: They are true to the last of their blood, and their breath, And like reapers, descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud; All plaided, and plum'd in their tartan array — Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day ! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. Yet man cannot cover what God would reveal : 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore. And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culioden' s dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo ! anointed by Heaven with vials of wrath, Behold where he flies on his desolate path ! Now in darkness, and billows, he sweeps from my sight : Rise ! Rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 'Tis finish' d. — Their thunders are hush'd on the moors ; Culioden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner ! Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean -wave, banish' d, for- lorn, Like a limb from his country, cast bleeding, and torn? Ah ! no ; for a darker departure is near ; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; His death-bell is tolling ; oh ! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! Life flutters, convuls'd in his quivering limbs. And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accurs'd be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat. With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale . For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonor — so foul with retreat. Tho' his perishing ranks should be strow'd in their gore. Like ocean -weeds heap'd on the surf-beater shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight, or by chains, ^^hile \\^e, kindling of life in his bosom remams. MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. 437 Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. Campbell. [curtain.] TABLEAU. A wery pretty tableau may be quickly, iformed behind the curtain, and at the close of applause from the audience the curtain be raised, showing LocHiEL standing proud and imperious, his clan gathered around him, and the old Seer upon his knees, head thrown back, with hands and face raised imploringly. MARY STUART, QUEEN OF SCOTLAND. (Adapted from Schiller, Scene II. , Act III. Arranged for two ladies and two gentleman. Characters : Mary, Queen of Scotland. Elizabeth, Queen of England. Robert, Earl of Leicester. Talbot, a friend of Mary. Costumes. — Elizabethan age of Engla7id and Scotland. Enter Mary and Talbot. Mary. Talbot, Elizabeth will soon bf? iicre. I cannot see her. Preserve me from thi? hateful interview. Talbot. Reflect a while. Recall thy courage. The moment is come upon which everything depends. Incline thyself; submit to the neces- sity of the moment. She is the stronger. Thou must bend before her. Mary. Before her ? I cannoi ! Tal. Thou must do so. Speak to Ler humbly \ invoke the greatness of her generous heart ; dwell not too much upon thy rights. But see first how she bears herself towards thee. I my- self did witness her emotion on reading thy letter. The tears stood in her eyes. Her heart, 'tis sure, is not a stranger to compassion ; there- fore place more confidence in her, and prepare thyself for her reception^ Mary. (^Taking his hand.') Thou wert ever my faithful friend. Oh, that I had always re- mained beneath thy kind guardianship, Talbot ! Their care of me has indeed been harsh. Who attends her ? Tal. Leicester. You need not fear him ; the earl doth not seek thy fall. Behold, the queen approaches. (^Retires.) Enter Elizabeth and Leicester. Mary. {Aside. ) O heavens ! Protect me ! her features say she has no heart ! Elizabeth. {To Leicester.) Who is this woman? {Feigning surprise.') Robert, who has dared to — Lei. Be not angry, queen, and since heaven has hither directed thee, suffer pity to triumph in thy noble heart. Tal. {Advancing. ) Deign, royal lady, to cast a look of compassion on the unhappy woman who prostrates herself at thy feet. [Mary, having attempted to approach Elizabeth, stops short, overcome by repugnance, her gestures indicating inter Jial struggle. '\ Eliz. {Haughtily.') Sirs, which of you spoke of humility and submission ? I see nothing but a proud lady, whom misfortune has not succeeded in subduing. Mary. {Aside.) I will undergo even this last degree of ignominy. My soul discards its noble but, alas ! impotent pride. I will seek to forget who I am, what I have suffered, and will humble myself before her who has caused my disgrace. ( Turns to Elizebeth. ) Heaven, O sister, has declared itself on thy side, and has graced thy happy head with the crown of victory. {Kneel- ing. ) I worship the Deity who hath rendered thee so powerful. Show thyself noble in thy triumph, and leave me not overwhelmed by shame ! Open thy arms, extend in mercy to me thy royal hand, and raise me from my fearful fall. Eliz. {Drawing back. ) Thy place, Stuart, is there, and I shall ever raise my hands in grati- tude to heaven that it has not willed that I should kneel at thy feet, as thon now crouchest \Xi the dust fit mi»©- 438 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. Mary-. ( With great e7notio?i. ) Think of the vicissitudes of all things human ! There is a Deity above who punisheth pride. Respect the Providence who now doth prostrate me at thy feet. Do not show thyself insensible and piti- less as the rock, to which the drowning man, with failing breath and outstretched arms, doth cHng. My life, my entire destiny, depend upon my words and the power of my tears. Inspire my heart, teach me to move, to touch thine own. Thou turnest such icy looks upon m.e, that my soul doth sink within me, my grief parches my lips, and a cold shudder renders my entreaties mute. {J^ises. ) E/h. ( Coldly. ) AVhat wouldst thou say to me ? thou didst seek converse with me. Forgettmg that I am an outraged sovereign, I honor thee with my royal presence. 'Tis in obedience to a generous impulse that I incur the reproach of having sacrificed my dignity. Maiy. How can I express myself? how shall I so choose every v.'ord that it may penetrate, without irritating, thy heart? God of mercy! aid my lips, and banish from them whatever may offend my sister ! I cannot relate to thee my woes without appearing to accuse thee, and this IS not my wish. Towards me thou hast been neither merciful nor just. I am thine equal, and yet thou hast made me a prisoner, a sup- pliant, and a fugitive. I turned to thee for aid, and thou, trampling on the rights of nations and of hospitality, hast immured me in a living tomb ! Thou hast abandoned me to the most shameful need, and finally exposed me to the ignominy of a trial ! But, no more of the past-; we are now face to face. Display the goodness of thy heart ! tell me the crimes of which I am accused ! Wherefore didst thou not grant me this friendly audience when I so eagerly desired it ? Years of misery would have been spared me, and this painful interview would not have occurred in this abode of gloom and horror. Eliz. Accuse not fate, but thine own wayward soul and the unreasonable ambition of thy house. There was no quarrel between us until thy most worthy ally inspired thee with the mad and rash desire to claim for thyself the royal titles and my throne ! Not satisfied with this, he then urged thee to make war against me, to threaten my crown and my life. Amidst the peace which reigned in my dominions, he fraudulently excited my subjects to revolt. But heaven doth protect me, and the attempt was abandoned in despair. The blow was aimed at my head, but 'tis on thine that it will fall. Mary. I am in the hand of my God, but thoif wilt not exceed thy power by committing a deed so atrocious ? E/iz. What could prevent me ? Thy kinsman has shown monarchs how to make peace v/ith their enemies ! W^ho would be surety for thee if, imprudently, I Avere to release thee? How can I rely on thy pledged faith ? Nought but my power renders me secure. No ! there can be no friendship with a race of vipers. Maiy. Are these thy dark suspicions? To thine eyes, then, I have ever seemed a stranger and an enemy. If thou hadst but recognized me as heiress to thy throne — as is my lawful right — love, friendship, would have made me thy friend — thy sister. Eliz. What affection hast thou that is not feigned ? I declare thee heiress to my throne ! Insidious treachery ! In order, forsooth, to overturn the state, and — wily Armida that thou art — entrap within thy snares all the youthful spirits of my kingdom, so that during my own lifetime all eyes would turn towards thee — the new constellation ! Mary. Reign on in peace ! I „enounce all right to thy sceptre. The wings of my ambi- tion have long drooped, and greatness has no longer charms for me. ' Tis thou who hast it all ; I am now only the shade of Mary Stuart ! My pristine ardor has been subdued by the ignominy of my chains. Thou hast nipped my existence in the bud. But pronounce those magnanimous words for which thou cam'st hither ; for I will not believe that thou art come to enjoy the base delight of insulting thy victim ! Pronounce the words so longed for, and say, ''Mary, thou art free ! Till now thou hast known only my power ; MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. 439 aow know my greatness. ' ' Woe to thee, shouldst thou not depart from me propitious, beneficent, like an invoked Deity. O sister ! not for all England, not for all the lands the vast ocean embraces, would I present myself to thee with the inexorable aspect with which thou now re- gardest me ! Eiiz. At length thou confessest thyself van- quished ! Hast thou emptied thy quiver of the artifices it contained ? Hast thou no more as- sassins ? Does there not remain to thee one single hero to undertake in thy defence the duties of knight-errant? Gone, Mary, gone forever are those days. Thou canst no longer seduce a follower of mine; other causes now inflame men's hearts. In vain didst thou seek a fourth husband among my English subjects; they knew too well that thou murderest thy husbands, as thou dost thy lovers. Majj. {^Shuddering. ^ O heavens! sister! Grant me resignation. Eliz. {To Leicester, with contempt.) Earl, are these the boasted features, on which no mortal eye could gaze with safety? Is this the beauty to which no other woman's could be compared ? In sooth, the reputation appears to have been easily won. To be thus celebrated as the reigning beauty ol the universe seems merely to infer that she has been universal in the distribution of her favors. Mary. Ah, 'tis too much. Eliz, ( With a smile of satisfaction. ) Now thou showest thyself in thine own form. Till now thou hast worn a mask. Mary. ( With dignified pride, ) They were mere human errors that overcame my youth. My grandeur dazzled me. I have nought to conceal, nor deny my faults ; my pride has ever disdained the base artifices of vile intriguers. The worst I ever did is known, and I may boast myself far better than my reputation. But woe to thee, thou malignant hypocrite, if thou ever lettest fall the mantle beneath which thou con- cealest thy shameless amours i Thou, the daugnter of Anne Boleyn, hast not inherited virtue ! The causes that brought thy sinful mother to the block are known to all. Tal. {Stepping between them. ) Is this, O Mary, thine endurance ? Is this thy humility ? f Mary. Endurance? I have endured all thcQ a mortal heart can bear. Hence, abject humil- ity ! Insulted patience, get ye from my heart ! And thou, my long pent-up indignation, break thy bonds, and burst forth from thy lair .! Oh, thou gavest to the angry serpent his deadly glance ; arm my tongue with poisonous stings. Tal. {To Elizabeth.) Forgive the angry transports which thou hast thyself provoked. Lei, {hiducing Elizabeth /d withdraw.') Hear not the ravings ol a distracted woman. Leave this ill — Mary. The throne of England is profaned by a base-born — the British nation is duped by a vile pretender ! If right did prevail, thou wouldst be grovelling at my feet, for 'tis I who am thy sovereign. (Elizabeth reti?'es. Leicester aitd Talbot follow.) She departs, burning with rage, and with bitterness of death at heart. Now happy I am ! I have degraded her in Leicester's presence. At last ! at last ! After long years of insult and contumely, I have at least enjoyed a season of triumph. {Sinks upon the floor.) [curtain.] Schiller. TABLEAU. Curtain rises. Mary reclines upon the floor , disheveled hair, face bwied in hands, shaking with emotioft. Elizabeth stands glaring at her, face livid with anger, clenched fists. Leicester is restraining her ; his hand is raised as if admon- ishing her not to yield to her rage and do a7i act unbecoming a queen. Talbot leans over Mary, to whom he appears to offer words of hope and consolation, at the same time lifting his right hand imploringly to Elizabeth. 440 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. A CASE OF INDIGESTION. Scene — Dr. Gregory's study. A table and two chairs. Enter Patient {a?t unhappy Scotch merchant) from left. D. Gregory discovered reading {on right). Patient. Good morning, Dr. Gregory ! I'm just come into Edinburgh about some law business, and I thought when I was here, at any rate, I might just as weel take your ad- vice, sir, about my trouble. Doctor. Pray, sir, sit down. (Patient sits on left) And now, my good sir, what may your trouble be ? Pa. Indeed, doctor, Tm not very sure, but I'm thinking it's a kind of weakness that makes me dizzy at times, and a kind of pink- ling about my stomach — Pm just na right. Dr. You are from the west country, I should suppose, sir? Pa. Yes, sir ; from Glasgow. Dr. Ay, pray, sir, are you a glutton ? Pa, Heaven forbid, sir ! I am one of the plainest men living in the west country. Dr. Then, perhaps, you are a drunkard ? Pa. No, Dr. Gregory, thank Heaven, no one can accuse me of that ! Fm of the dis- senting persuasion, doctor, and an elder, so you may suppose I'm na drunkard. Dr. I'll suppose no such thing till you tell me your mode of living. I'm so much puzzled with your symptoms, sir, that I should wish to hear in detail what you do eat and drink. When do you breakfast, and what do you take at it ? Pa. I breakfast at nine o'clock; take a cup of coffee, and one or two cups of tea, a cou- ple of eggs, and a bit of ham or kippered sal- mon, or, maybe, both, if they're good, and two or three rolls and butter. Dr. Do you eat no honey, or jelly, or jam, at breakfast ? Pa. O, yes, sir ! but I don't count that as anything. Dr. Come, this is a very modetate break- fast. What kind of a dinner do you make? Pa. O, sir, I eat a very plain dinner, in- deed. Some soup, and some fish, and a little plain roast or boiled; for I dinna care for made dishes ; I think, some way, they never satisfy the appetite. Dr. You take a little pudding, then, and afterwards some cheese ? Pa. O, yes! though I don't care much about them. Dr. You take a glass of ale or porter with your cheese ? Pa. Yes, one or the other; but seldom both. Dr. You west-country people generally take a glass of Highland whiskey after din- ner? Pa. Yes, we do ; it's good for digestion. Dr, Do you take any wine during dinner? Pa. Yes, a glass or two of sherry; but I'm indifferent as to wine during dinner. I drink a good deal of beer. Dr. What quantity of port do you drink ? Pa. O, very little ; not above half a dozen glasses or so. Dr, In the west country, it is impossible, I hear, to dine without punch ? Pa. Yes, sir ; indeed, 'tis punch we drink chiefly; but, for myself, unless I happen to have a friend with me, I never take more than a couple of tumblers or so, and that's moderate. Dr. O, exceedingly moderate, indeed ! You then, after this slight repast, take some tea and bread and butter ? Pa. Yes, before I go to the counting-house to read the evening letters. Dr. And on your return you take supper, I suppose? Pa. No, sir, I canna be said to take supper ; just something before going to bed; — a riz- zered haddock, or a bit of toasted cheese, or di. half-hundred oysters, or the like o'that, «^nd. MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS, 441 /naybe, two-thirds of a bottle of ale; but I take no regular supper. Dr. But you take a little more punch after that ? Pa, No, sir; punch does not agree with nie at bedtime. I take a tumbler of warm v\'hiskey-toddy at night; it is lighter to sleep on. Dr. So it must be, no doubt. This, you say, is your everyday life ; but, upon great occasions, you perhaps exceed a little ? Pa. No, sir; except when a friend or two dine with me, or I dine out, which, as I am a sober family man, does not often happen. Dr. Not above twice a week ? Pa, No, not oftener. Dr. Of course you sleep well and have a good appetite ? Pa. Yes, sir, thank Heaven, I have; in- deed, any ill health that I have is about meal- time. Dr. (Rising with a severe air — the Patient also rises}) Now, sir, you are a very pretty fellow, indeed ! You come here and tell me you are a moderate man ; but, upon exam- ination, I find, by your own showing, that you are a most voracious glutton. You said you were a sober man; yet, by your own show- ing, you are a beer-swiller, a dram-drinker, a wine-bibber, and a guzzler of punch. You tell me you eat indigestible suppers, and swill toddy to force sleep. I see that you chew tobacco. Now, sir, what human stomach can stand this ? Go home, sir, and leave your present course of riotous living, and there are hopes that your stomach may recover its tone, and you be in good health, like your neigh- bors. Pa. I'm sure, doctor, Fm very much obliged to you. {Taking out a bundle of bank notes) I shall endeavor to Dr. Sir, you are not obliged to me : — put up your money, sir. Do you think I'll take ^ tee for telling you what you know as well as myself? Though you're no physician, sir, you are not altogether a fool. Go home, sir, and reform, or, take my word for it, your life is not worth half a year's purchase. Pa. Thank you, doctor, thank you. Good- day, doctor. {Exit on right, followed by Doctor.) MR. CROSS AND SERVANT JOHN. Mr. Cross. Why do you keep me knocking all day at the door ? John. I was at work, sir, in the garden. As soon as I heard your knock, I ran to open the door with such haste that I fell down and hurt myself Mr, C. Why didn't you leave the door open? John, Why, sir, you scolded me yesterday because I did so. When the door is open, you scold; when it is shut, you scold. I should like to know what to do ? Mr, C. What to do ? What to do, did you say? John. I said it. Shall I leave the door open? Mr. C. No. I tell you, no ! John. Shall I keep the door shut ? Mr. C, Shall you keep the door shut ? No, I say. John, But, sir, a door must be either open or Mr, C. Don't presume to argue with me, fellow ! John. But doesn't it hold to reason that a door Mr. C. Silence, I say. Hold your tongue ! John. And I say that a door must be either open or shut. Now, how will you have it ? Mr. C, I have told you a thousand times, you provoking fellow — I have told you that I wished it But what do you mean by cross questioning me, sir? Have you trimmed the grape-vine, as I ordered you ? John, I dicj that three days ago, sit. 442 MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS. Mr. C. Have you washed the carriage ? Eh? JoJm. I wash'^d it before breakfast, sir, as usual. Mr. C, You haven't watered the horses to- day ! John. Go and see, sir, if you can make them drink any more. They have had their fill. Mr. C. Have you given them their oats ? John. Ask William ; he saw me do it. Mr. C. But you have forgotten to take the mare to be shod. Ah! I have you now! JoJin. I have the blacksmith^s bill here. Mr. C. My letters ! — Did you take them to the post-office ? Ha ! You forgot, did you ? John. I forgot nothing, sir. The letters were in the mail ten minutes after you handed them to me. Mr. C. How often have I told you not to scrape on that abominable violin of yours ? And yet this very morning John. This morning ? You forget, sir. You broke the violin all to pieces for me last Sat- urday night. Mr. C. I'm glad of it ! Come, now ; that wood which I told you to saw and put into the shed — why is it not done? Answer me! John. The wood is all sawed, split, and housed, sir ; besides doing that, I have wa- tered all the trees in the garden, dug over three of the beds, and was digging another when you knocked. Mr. C. Oh, I must get rid of this fellow^ He will plague my life out of me. Out of my sight, sir ! ^John rushes out) HOW TO BREAK BAD NEWS. Mr. H. Ha, steward ! how are you, my old boy? How do things go on at home ? Steward. Bad enough, your honor; the magpie's dead. Mr. H. Poor Mag ! so he's gone. How came he to die ? Steward. Over-ate himself, sir. Mr. H. Did he, indeed ? a greedy villain ! Why, what did he get he liked so well ? Steward. Horse-flesh, sir ; he died of eat- ing horse-flesh. Mr. H, How came he to get so much horse-flesh? Steward. All your father's horses, sir. Mr. H. What ! are they dead, too ? Steward. Ay, sir ; they died of over-work. Mr. H. And why were they over-worked, pray. Steward. To carry water, sir. Mr. H. To carry water ! What did they carry water for ? Steward. Sure, sir, to put out the fire. Mr. H. Fire! What fire? Steward. Oh, sir, your father's house is burned to the ground. Mr. H. My father's house ! How come it set on fire ? Steward. I think, sir, it must have been the torches. Mr. H. Torches ! What torches ? Steward. At your mother's funeral. Mr. H. Alas ! my mother dead ? Steward. Ah, poor lady, she never looked up after it ! Mr. H. After what ? Steivard. The loss of your father. Mr. H. My father gone, '"oo ? Steward. Yes, poor man, he took to his bed soon as he heard of it. Mr. H. Heard of what ? Steward. The bad news, sir, an' please your honor. Mr. H. What ! more miseries ? more bati news ? No ! you can add nothing more ! Steward. Yes, sir; your bank has failed, and your credit is lost, and you are not worth a dollar in the world. I made bold, sir, to come to wait on you about it, for I thought you would like to hear the news. \ I HOW TO DRAFT Constitution and By-Laists FOR THE ORGANIZATION AND CONDUCT OF LITERARY SOCIETIES. TT LL permanent associations formed for h\ mutual benefit must have a Constitution by which they shall be governed. Where it is intended to organize a society for the intellectual improvement or social enjoy- ment of its members, a number of persons meet together and select a name for the organization. Th^ next step is to appoint a committee, whose duty it shall be to prepare a Constitution and code of By-Laivs for the society. These must be reported to the society at its next meeting, and must be adopted by the votes of a majority of that body before they can take effect. The Constitution consists of the rules which form the foundation upon which the organiza- tion is to rest. It should be brief and explicit. It should be considered and adopted section by section ; should be recorded in a book for that purpose, and should be signed by all the mem.- bers of the society. Amendments to the Constitution shouia be adopted in the same way, and should be signed by each member of the society. In addition to the Constitution, it is usual »-.o adopt a series of minor rules, which should <3e explanatory of the principles of the Constitu- tion. These are termed By-Laws, and should be recorded in the same book with the Constitu- tion, and immediately after it. New by-laws maybe added from time to time, as the necessity iOr them may arise. It is best to have as few as possible. They should be brief, and as clear that their meaning may be easily comprehended ^.nd should govern the action of the bod^. CONSTITUTION. As growth and development of mind, together with readiness and fluency of speech, are the result of investigation and free discussion of religious, education, political, and other topics, the undersigned agree to form an association, and for its government, do hereby adopt the following Constitution : Article I. — The name and title of this organization shall be *'The Philomathian Literary Society," and its objects shall be the free discussion of any subject coming before the meeting for the pur- pose of diffusing knowledge among its members, Article II. — The officers of the Association shah consist of a President, two Vice- Presidents, a Corresponding Secretary, a Recording Secre- tary, a Treasurer and a Librarian, who shall be elected annually by ballot, on the first Monday in January of each year, said officers to hold their position until their successors are elected. Article III. — It shall be the duty of the President to preside at all public meetings of the Society. The first Vice-President shall preside in the absence of the President, and in case of the absence of both President and Vice-Presi- dent, it shall be the duty of the second Vice- President to preside. The duty of the Secretary shall be to conduct the correspondence, keep the records of the Society, and read at each meeting a report of the work done at the preceding meeting. Th? Treasurer sjiall keep the funds of th^ 4U HOW TO DRAFT CONSTITUTION AND BY-LAWS. Society, making an annual report of all moneys received, disbursed, and the amount on hand. It shall be the duty of the Librarian to keep, in a careful manner, all books, records and manuscripts in the possession of the Society. Article IV. — There shall be appointed by the President, at the first meeting after his election, the following standing committees, to consist of three members each, namely : On lectures, library, finance, and printing, whose duties shall be designated by the President. The question for debate at the succeeding meeting shall be determined by a majority vote of the members present. Article V. — Any lady or gentleman may become a member of this Society by the consent of the majority of the members present, the signing of the Constitution, and the payment of two dollarr, as membership fee. It shall be the privilege of the Society to elect any person whose presence may be advantageous to the Society, an honorary member who shall not be required to pay membership fees or dues. Article VI. This Association shall meet weekly, and at such other times as a majority, consisting of at least five members of the Associa- tion, shall determine. The President s?iall be authorized to call special meetings upon the written request of any five members of the Society, at which meetings one-third of the members shall be sufficient to constitute a quorum for the transaction of business. Article VII. — It shall be the duty of the Finance Committee to determine the amount of dues necessary to be collected from each member, and to inform the Treasurer of the amount, who shall promptly proceed to collect the same at such times as the committe may designate. Article VIII. — The parliamentary rules and general form of conducting public meetings, as shown in *' Cushing's Manual of Practice," shall be the standard authority in governing the deliberations of this Association. Article IX. — Any member neglecting tc pay dues, or who shall be guilty of improper con- duct, calculated >) bring this Association into disrepute, shall be expelled from the membership of the Society by a two-thirds vote of the members present at any regular meeting. No member shall be expelled, however, until he shall have had notice of such intention on the part of the Association, and has been given an opportunity of being heard in his own defense. Article X. — By giving written notice of change at any regular meeting, this Constitution may be altered or amended at the next stated me jng by a ^'ote of two-thirds of the members present. BY-LAWS. Rule i.- Wo question shall be stated unless moved by two members, nor be open for con- sideration until stated by the chair. When a question is before the Society, no motion shall be received, except to lay on the table, the previoMS question, to postpone, to refer, or to amend; and they shall have precedence in the order in which they are here arranged. Rule 2.— When a member intends to speak on a question, he shall rise in his place, and respectfully address his remarks to the President, confine himself to the question, and avoid per- sonality. Should more than one member rise to speak at the same time the President shall de- termine who is entitled to the floor. Rule 3. — Every member shall have the privi- lege of speaking three times on any question under consideration, but not oftener, unless by the consent of the Society (determined by vote) ; and no member shall speak more than once, until every member wishing to speak shall have spoken. Rule 4. — The President, while presiding, shall state every question coming before the Society ; and immediately before putting it to vote shall ask : ' 'Are you ready for the ques- tion?" Should no member rise to speak, he shall rise to put the question ; and after he has risen no member shall speak upon it, unless by permission of the Society. Rule 5. — The affirmative ana negative of the i question having been both put and answered, the 11 President declares the number of legal votes cast, and whether th^ afftrmative or negative have it, HOW TO DRAFT CONSTITUTION AND BY-LAWS. Uh RuJ^E 6. — All questions, unless otherwise fixed by law, shall be decided by a majority of votes. Rule 7. — After any question, except one of indefinite postponement, has been decided, any member may move a reconsideration thereof, if done in two weeks after the decision. A motion for reconsideration the second time, of the same question, shall not be in order at any time. Rule 8. — Any two members may call for a division of a question, when the same will admit of it. Rule 9. — The President, or any member, may call a member to order while speaking, when the debate must be suspended, and the member take his seat until the question of order is decided. Rule 10. — The President shall preserve order and decorum ; may speak to points of order in preference to other members ; and shall decide all questions of order, subject to an appeal to the Society by any member, on which appeal no person shall speak but the President and the member called to order. Rule ii. — No motioii or proposition on a subject different from that under consideration shall be admitted under color of an amendment. Rule 12. — No addition, alteration, or amend- ment to the Constitution, By-Laws, etc., shall be acted upon, except in accordance with the Constitution. Rule 13. — No nomination shall be considered as made until seconded. Rule 14. — The President shall sign all pro- ceedings of the meetings. Rule 15. — No member shall vote by proxy. Rule 16. — No motion s^^-all be withdrawn by the mover unless the second withdraw his second. Rule 17. — No extract from any book shall be read consuming more than five minutes. Rule 18. — No motion for adjournment shall be in order-until after nine o'clock. « Rule 19. — Every motion shall be reduced to writing, should the officers of the society desire it. Rule 20. — ^An amendment to an amendment js in order, but not to amend an amendment to im amendment of a main question. Rule 21, — The previous question shall be pal in this form, if seconded by a majority of the members present : ' ' Shall the main question be put ?' ' If decided in the affirmative, the main question is to be put immediately, and all further debate or amendment must be suspended. Rule 22. — Members not voting shall be con- sidered as voing in the ai^rmative, unl-^ss excused by the Society. Rule 23. — Any member oft^ering a protest against any of the proceedings of this Society may have the same, if, in respectful language, entered in full upon the minutes. Rule 24. No subject laid on the table shall be taken up again on the same evening. Rule 2 5.^No motion shall be debatable until seconded. Rule 26. — = Points of order are debatable to the Society. Rule 27, — Appeals and motions to reconsider or adjourn are not debatable. Rule 28. — When a very important motion or amendment shall be made and seconded, the mover thereof may be called upon to reduce the same to writing, and hand it in at the table, from which it shall be read, open to the Society for debate. Rule 29. — The mover of a motion shall be at liberty to accept any amendment thereto ; but if an amendment be offered and not accepted, yet duly seconded, the Society shall pass upon it before voting upon the original motion. Rule 30. — Every officer, on leaving his office, shall give to his successor all papers, documents books, or money belonging to the Society. ' Rule 31. — No smoking, and no refreshmen .• except water, shall be allowed in the Society o hall. Rule 32. — When a motion to adjourn is cai ried, no member shall leave his '^eat until the; President has left his chair. Rule 33. — No alteration can be made in tnese rules of order without a four- fifth vote of the society, and two weeks' notice ; neither can they be suspended, but by a like vote, and then for the evening only. UG SUGGESTED SUBJECTS FOR DEBATE. 1. ohould thi c be a Board of Arbitration appointed by tlie (rovernment for Settling Dis- putes between Employees and Employers? 2. Is England ivising or Falling as a Nation? Note, — Compare the Elements of Modern rith the Elements of Ancient Prosperity. 3. Has Nature or Education the Greater In- fluence in the Formation of Character ? 4. From which does the Mind gain the more Knowledge, Reading or Observation ? 5. Is the Character of Queen Elizabeth deserv- ing of our Admiration ? 6. Is an Advocate Justified in Defending a Man whom he Knows to be Guilty of the Crime with which he is Charged ? 7. Which does the most to Produce Crime- Poverty, Wealth, or Ignorance ? 8. Is a Limited Monarchy, like that of Eng- land, the Best Form of Government ? 9. Is not Private Virtue essentially requisite to Greatness of Public Character? TO. Is Eloquence a Gift of Nature, or may it bij Acquired ? 11. Is Genius an Innate Capacity? 12. Is a Rude or a Refined Age the More Favorable to the Production of Works of Irru-jigi- nation ? 13. Is the Shakespearian the Augustan Age of English Literature ? 14. Ought Pope to Rank in the First Class of Poets? 15. Has the Introduction of Machinery been Generally Beneficial to Mankind ? 16. Which Produce the Greater Happiness, the Pleasures of Hope or of Memory ? 17. Is the Existence of Parties in the State ^'avorable to the J^ublic Welfare? * 18. Is there any Ground for Believing in the Jltimate Perfection and Universal Happiness of the Human Race? 19. Is Co-operation more Adapted lo Prom.ote the Virtue and Happiness of Mankind than Com- petition ? 20. Was the Banishment of Napoleon to St. Helena a Justifiable Proceeding ? 21. Ought Persons to be Excluded from the Civil Offices on Account of theii Religious Opinions ? 22 Which Exercises the Greater Influence on the Civilization and Happiness of the Human Race, the Male or the Female Mind ? 23. Which did the Most to Produce th? French Revolution, the Tyranny of the Govern- ment, the Excesses of the Higher Orders, or the Writings nf Voltaire, Montesquieu and Rous- seau? 24. Which was the Greater Poet, Byron or Burns ? 25. Is there Reasonable Ground for Believing that the Character of Richard the Third was not so Atrocious as is Generally Supposed? 26. Does Happiness or Misery Preponderate in Life ? 27. Should the Press be Totally Free? 28- Do Modern Geological Discoveries Agree with Floly V\^rit ? 29. Did Circumstances Justify the First French Revolution ? 30. Could not Arbitration be Made a Substi- tute for War ? 31. Which Character is the More to be Admired, that of Loyola or Luther? 32. Are there Good Grounds for Apply in- the Term ' ' Dark ' ' to the Middle Ages ? 33 „ Which was the Greater Poet, Chatterton or Cowper ? 34. Are Public or Private Schools to be Pre f erred ? 35. Is the System of Education Pursued at our Universities in Accordance with the Require- ments of the Age ? 36. Which is the More Healthful ExercTSr, Bicycle Riding or Walking? 37. Does the Game of Foot-Ball Produce more Evil than Beneficial Effects ? 38. Would the Free and Unlimited Coinage (,'f both Silver and Gold be better than the Single Gold Standard in America ? 39. Should Women be Granted the Right to Vote on all State and National Questions? 40. Would Absolute Prohibition be a Benefit to the Country? TABLEAUX. 447 TABLEAUX FOR PUBLIC ENTERTAINMENTS. JOAN OF ARC AT THE STAKE. CHARACTER AND COSTUME. Maiden. — Loose, white robe, wing-like sleeves, dis- playing arm ; hair long, loose, and flowing over shoulders. THE TABLEAU. A large post in centre of stage, around which are piled fagots. Fastened to the post by means of a chain around the waist stands the maiden, with eyes cast upward, and the whole attitude that of exaltation. A strong red light suddenly thrown upon the lower part of the picture, from both sides, will pro- duce the effect of ignited wood. Music, if any, triumphant. WINTER IN THE LAP OF SPRING. CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES. Winter, — Black, loose dress to the feet, fur cap, white wig, and long white beard ; dress flecked with bits of cotton, to represent snow ; face full and florid. The part may be taken by a lady. Spring — Trailing loose dress of white, sleeves draped so as to show arm to elbow; scarf and sash of pink; long, flowing, yellow hair; sprays of roses and other flowers gracefully fastened on the dress ; wealth of flowers on the head. THE TABLEAU. Spring is seated on a chair, over which r..ay be thrown a covering of white or pink, upon which are scattered profusely sprays of flowers. She holds at her side a golden sceptre. Winter is seated in the lap of Spring holding « xtended in his right hand a sceptre of black. THERE'S NO ROSE WITHOUT A THORN. The scene is a parlor, — Standing in the foreground is a young girl, simply dressed. In her left hand she has a rose, and holding out her right hand shows to her companion the scratches made by the thorns (a. little carmine paint, put on with a fine camel's-hair pencil, makes ver}^ painless scratches.) Her companion, a young man dressed as a me- chanic's apprentice (a carpenter's, butcher's, shoemaker's or any other trade), is, with a look of sympathy, raising the wounded hand to his lips. Behind the young man stands his employer, with an expression of rage, raising a rope about to strike the apprentice. He i.^ not perceived by either of the young people. In the background is a child, with a look of great glee, putting its fingers into a jar, marked jam, while the mother, behind the child, is raising her hand to box its ears. A NUN AT HER DEVOTIONS. It hardly needs description. A back- ground of dark brown gauze, very faintly lighted at the upper right-hand corner; a dress of black serge or stuff, with black veil and white coif; a crucifix and rosary — these are the very simple materials needed. Let the light fall from the left-hand upper corner in front. Choose your nun for the beauty of her eyes, the regularity and refinement of feature, and the elegance of her hands. TABLEAU WITH RECITALS. Characters, Poet. — A young man with long hair and wide linen collar turned down over coat collar. Statue. — Personated by a young woman in wfiite, with arms bare. ( The Poet speaks. ) (f) I HOU boldest me, thou holdest me, < I O marble presence, cold and fair . -^ I cannot draw my feet past thee Within thy niche above the stair. I found thee in a mossy cave — The entrance to a buried shrine ; The rocks around a shudder gave As thence I bore my prize divine. What master wrought thee long ago-— Who but Pygmalion's scholar apt^ The rose upon thy cheek of snow Ofttimes he saw in vision rapt 448 <^i TABLEAUX. The day upspringing in thine eye He fancied now, and now it seemed A hovering smile, a gradual sigh. Thy lips from silence dead redeemed ; But, dying ere the moment ripe When thou should'st gather vital fire, He left thee, a half-conscious type Of Love and Love's unvoiced desire. Thou holdest me, thou holdest me, marble presence, cold and fair ! Now let thy .prisoned soul be free, Thy breast its long-sealed fate declare * (^The Statue speaks.') Thou troublest me, thou troublest me ! A thousand years unused to speech, Why should the charm dissolve for thee, Or why to thee my secret teach ? Not Paros, nor Pentelicus, E'er held me in its quarried hill ; Nor master's chisel carved me thus. With lofty thought and patient skill. Ah, surely, not Pygmalion's hand Unprisoned me, through loving art — 1, who in marble moveless stand. Once held quick veins and pulsing heart : Love, changed to hate, wrought this cold change 1 froze beneath his bitter eye ; Love, changed to Hate — transformer strange — ■ Forbade me live, forbade me die \ Thou troublest me, thou troublest me ; No further question ; go thy way ! He, only, who could set me free. Hath long since crumbled back to clay ! Thy «:nul in peace if thou would 'st save. And give forgetfulness to mine. Restore me to that mossy cave, The entrance to a buried shrine ! Edith M. Thomas. CINDERELLA'5 SLIPPER. (This beautiful tableau may be represented in three or four scenes, with fine dress effect.) SCENE I. Cinderella meanly clad, the sisters and Prince in costliest attire One of the sisters is eagerly b^nt on forcing her foot into the slipper. A very large shoe, which she has just va- cated, is on the floor beside her. The other, her face and attitude showing keenest dis- appointment, has just put on her shoe. These shoes, while nicely made, should be the largest that can be had. The slipper mav be of white satin, small and handsome. SCENE II. Cinderella, having begged permission to try on the slipper, has just seated herself, withdrawn her shoe and placed a dainty foot on the cushion beside the slipper. The sis- ters give her a scornful and reproachful look. SCENE III. Cinderella, having put on the slipper, h&s just drawn from her pocket its mate. The sisters, bewildered and dumfounded, have thrown themselves at her feet. This scene makes a fitting conclusion to the perform- ance, and the next two scenes should not be attempted unless the appliances are at hand to make Cinderella imagination's richest queen. SCENE IV. The fairy has touched her clothes with the magic wand, and Cinderella has become a being of marvelous beauty. Her gorgeous splendor dazzles the eyes of the Prince. She helps her sisters to their feet, and shows, as before, no resentment for past insult. SCENE v. Cinderella and the Prince, arm in arm, pre- pare to leave the stage, followed by the sisters. LISTENERS HEAR NO GOOD OF THEMSELVES. The scene is a parlor. — In the foreground are two young girls, one of whom holds a minia- ture out to the other, who puts it aside, with an expression of angry contempt. The first girl is laughing heartily, and pointing her finger at the second, as if teasing her about the picture. Peeping out from behind a window-curtain is a young man, who, with an expression r ( perfect rage, is shaking his fist at the ladic.^. IBS 7a LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 021 100 547 6 ';^ r^ :-s. '■^t3