^«: marr sm- T7T\ ,A.,iJwl.: ,-!«;■ .-.'r^^jt; iiii Book__l_- Cop)Tigllt^'' COFYKUnrr DEPOSIT. BOOK OF SELECTIONS FOR HOME AND SCHOOL Entertainments CONTAINING CHOICE RECITATIONS AND READINGS FROM THE BEST AUTHORS INCLUDING RECITALS IN PROSE AND TERSE, WITH MUSICAI ACCOMPANIMENTS ; BALLADS, DIALOGUES, ETC., ETC. Written and Edited by OKORGK ISA, VICKKRS With Annotations ; Hints upon Gesture and Dramatic Poses by FRANCES E. PIERCE Principal of Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution and Language, Philadelphia Embellished with a large number of Superb Photograph Engravings and Line Drawings NATIONAL PUBLISHING CO, N0,241 American STREET: PHILADELPHIA., PA. ' ENTERED AOCORDINQ TO ACT OF CONGRESS IN THE YEAR 1011, BY GEO. W. BERTRON THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS, AT WASHINGTON, 0. C. O. 8. ©CI.A2837G0 INTRODUCTION. IN preparing this work for the pubUc it has been our aim to choose the very best, and every selection has been made with a special view to elocutionary merits. The Speakers' Ideal is composed of carefully selected pieces from the writings of well known authors, and as a source of supply to the giver of dramatic enter- tainments, from which they may obtain at once a suitable subject for declamation, recital, dialogue and drama, this volume is without a peer. The work contains many new pieces not found in any other book, and we have been able to secure a number of selections in the original manuscript, which are here published for the first time. Most of the recitations are accompanied by Annotations for Gesture, by which the amateur, as well as the elocutionist, may be guided in the necessary action, and by a method so extremely simple that the novice who has never had the privilege of instructions in the art of elocution will be enabled to give that indispensable accom- paniment, without which, there can be neither natural, oratorical, nor dramatical delivery. This important feature has been carefully prepared by one who stands at the head of the profession as an Instructor of elocution, and is found in no other " Speaker." Another Of the chief characteristics of this work is the large number of full-page and exquisitely engraved half-toned plates, which have been taken from life and produced at large expense expressly for this book. The Speakers' Ideal contains every characteristic of a complete book of elocution, and is, strictly speak- ing, the only " Speaker " ever published. The unprecedented success that has attended the sale of the first editions, is proof that our hope to supply a long-felt v^'ant has been fully realized, and it is with entire confidence in its merits that we present this work to the oublic. THE PUBLISHERS. 3 HINTS TO AMATEUR ELOCUTIONISTS. Effect of Personal Appearance upon the Audience. AS the Speaker or Reader steps upon the stage the audi- ence will, almost unconsciously, form a verdict upon his capabilities ; hence it is highly important that walk, manner, and general carriage should be carefully observed and acted upon. Dignity and grace should characterize the walk as the performer approaches the front. The limbs move from the hip joints and, while being flexible and elastic, should not have a looseness or shambling action. At rest, one foot should be slightly in advance of the other, the weight of the body being equally supported by both feet. This position is appropriate to all sentiments of an unemotional character, as well in conversation as in public address. When the earnest- ness or intensity increases, one foot is further advanced, and the weight of the body is thrown upon the advanced limb. On the other hand, haughtiness, pride, arrogance, and defence require the weight of ihe body on the retired limb. Gestures with the iiands and arms should be graceful and appropriate to the sentiment, and the face should be taught to mirror every thought. Mem *zing. It is always best to mem . e selections for public recita- tion, but when from want of time or other reasons, this is impossible, the book should be on a reading-stand of conven- ient height, or it may be held in the left hand, with the thumb 4 HINTS TO AMA TEUR ELOCUTIONISTS 5 and little finger holding it open. The book should never be held between the face of the reader and the audience, but suf- ficiently to one side to give a graceful appearance to the arm in holding it, and at the same time, high enough to permit the eye to glance at the words without effort. The audience should be addressed as much as possible, and a reader may, by practice, learn to grasp the idea in a sentence at a glance and give it out to his hearers as though it were his own ; and, just here let me say, that when you attempt to recite a selec- tion, it is your duty to endeavor to express in the author's words just the meaning he wished to convey. It is a heinous sin to commit intellectual murder, or in other words, to overdo or underdo an author's meaning. Analysis. In preparing a piece for recitation, the meaning should first be analyzed. Decide whether it is descriptive, sentimental or dramatic, for upon its classification will depend its preparation. If descriptive, lay out the entire scene in your mind, just as though you were making a sketch for a painting ; decide in this way the location of every object mentioned, and do not change them during the course of the recitation. If sentimen- tal, decide what form of voice is best suited to express the thought, which ideas are the most prominent and are entitled to the primary emphasis ; which to the secondary, and in short, endeavor to thoroughly understand the sentiment. Dramatic recitations require the highest degree of talent, and should not be attempted without the assistance of a teacher. Personation. Personation may be divided into two classes — humorous and dramatic. A person who has good powers of mimicry 6 HINTS TO AM A TEUR ELOCUTIONISTS may be quite successful in the former, but in the latter, good judgment and keen insight into character are absolutely requisite. The peculiarities of each individual must be brought out clearly, and not only must the voice and manner be suited to each, but the positions of the principle characters be strongly contrasted and distinguished. Voice. The voice in all unemotional recitation should be pure and produced by deep breathing. In grandeur, sublimity, or reverence it should be round and full, with a depth of reso- nance. Dread, horror, and remorse require pectoral tones, while the gutteral is exhibitive of anger, rage, ill-humor, and dis- like. The aspirate voice indicates weakness, fear, caution and extreme terror. The falsetto is found in shrieks, screams, affectation, and in the imitation of high female voices, and the nasal in sarcasm, irony, and mockery. For the adaptation of the different forms of voice, it is abolutely necessary to acquj re a thorough understanding of the sentiment of the piece. Modulation. Modulation may be called the soul of speech, or its life. Words are but the forms of clay into which we place the breath of life by modulation, and this may be accomplished by the varieties of pitch, force, rate, and pause. The medium degrees of these are used in unemotional language, whilst gay- ety, joy, shouting, command, and shrieks require full force, high pitch, and rapid rate, with short pauses ; reverence, solem- nity, awe, and melancholy being expressed in low pitch, sub- dued force, slow rate, and long pauses. HINTS TO AMATEUR ELOCUTIONISTS 7 Articulation. Top much cannot be said upon the necessities of clear and distinct utterance. It is not only more pleasant to our hearers, but it is a positive economy to the voice. A person with a comparatively weak voice, and who articulates clearly, will be heard and understood in a much larger space than one with a more powerful voice, but a blurred or indistinct utterance. In studying a recitation, it is an excellent plan to go carefully through all the words, ascertaining the pronunciation, where uncertain, and then enunciating every sound in every syllable. A thorough knowledge of the elementary sounds of the lan- guage is also requisite. Choice of Pieces for Certain Occasions. As much of the success of a reader depends upon his good taste in selecting pieces as upon the rendering, and many a really good reciter has failed from this very cause. For church entertainments, particularly if held in the church, broad humor is not advisable, neither is it in good taste to give any- thing which may reflect upon the peculiar views of the denom- ination. In cases of uncertainty, it is well to consult the com- mittee, and if they sanction, all responsibility will be removed from the performer. Lodges are generally the best pleased with selections which have some bearing upon their particular Order, and it is well for the reader who has much of this line of work to be constantly on the outlook for such pieces, or even to pay an author to write them for him. For parlor entertainments, simple narratives or stories are the most suitable, high tragedy and declamation being decid- edly inappropriate, because of the nearness of the audience. 8 GESTURE Gesture. As a tree without leaves, so is recitation without gesture. By appropriate, graceful action, ideas are intensified, emphasized, descriptions are brought before the mind's eye, and what we say becomes a perfect whole. Gesture cannot be acquired without practice upon its rudiments and, therefore, if possible, instruc- tions should be received from some competent teacher. Much of the beauty and power of gesture depends upon its appro- priateness to the sentiment expressed, and it is far better to make a few significant gestures than to make a large number which arc meaningless or poorly chosen. A thorough and systematic drill upon the mechanical formation and elements of action is indispensible to the reader or speaker, and until this has been taken no one should depend upon the inspira- tion of the moment. Bacon divides gestures into three parts : i. e., the prepar- atory, executionary, and return movements. He fails, how- ever, to explain that there are two forms of preparation ; the curved and the straight. In the former, the hand and arm are carried across the body to the opposite shoulder and thence through a curved line to the ictus or executionary point. Conversation, description, and grand or noble ideas require this preparation. Straight preparation, on the contrary, requires the hand and arm to be raised perpendicularly on the oblique to different degress of height, according to the senti- ment, and then thrown through a straight line to the point required. Emphasis, directness, forward motion, and intensity are thus expressed. In the return movement, the hand is dropped easily and gracefully to the side. Where several gestures follow one another, connected in GESTURE meaning, the return movement is frequently omitted, and the hand passes by transition into the preparation for the next gesture. The face should reflect promptly all sentiments expressed, and the eye, more than any other part of the body, imparts an intelligence to speech. The reciter should always endeavor to imagine whatever scene he is depicting, and, in seeing it him- self, he causes his auditors to see it also. In all descriptive gestures, or for anything you are supposed to witness, the eye follows the hand ; but in sentimental or emphatic gestures, the eye is upon those addressed. Positions of the Feet. FIGURE I. FIGURE 2. In the Passive position one foot is slightly in advance of the other, as represented in Figure i, the weight of the body being equally supported by both feet. This position should be used in conversational or unemotional ideas and in public address. Example. — " Yes, I have served that noble chief through- out his proud career." {The Spanish Mother, p. jp.) lO GESTURE The Advanced position requires one foot to be thrown forward, as shown in Figure 2, and the weight of the body to be supported by the advanced foot, the retired foot merely sus- taining the body in an upright position, and sometimes resting upon the toe alone. Agressiveness, command, and earnestness are thus expressed. Example. — *' Sign that parchment ! Sign, if the next moment the gibbet's rope is about your neck." The Retired position as illustrated in Figuer 3, takes the same relative position of the feet, but the weight of the body is sustained by the retired foot. Arrogance, haughti- ness, defence, resistance, horror, and dislike require this position. FIGURE 3. Example. — *' Oh, such a sight of ruin ! oh, such a ghastly scene." {Roderick Lee, p. jd.) Hands. figure 5. FIGURE 4. The Supine hand requires the hand to be well opened, palm upward, the fore-finger being straight and the remaining GESTURE II fingers slightly relaxed, but not bent. Figure 4 represents this position. It should be used in assertion, description, com- mand, commendation, and in emphasizing a statement or argu- ment. Example. — ** We know that we are more fortunate than our fathers." The Prone hand, in which the palm is downward, as in Figure 5, signifies the resting of one body, fact or prin- ciple upon another ; it is also used to express destruction either morally or physically. While the Supine hand permits or allows, the Prone hand restrains or prohibits. With the curved lines of preparation, it is used in blessing and benediction. Example. — ''The flames flung a smile o'er her features." [The Old Actor's Story, p. 2j2.) The Vertical hand in which the palm is outward, as in Figure 6, wards off and expresses aversion, disgust, depreciation or darkness. When raised from the elbow it expresses wonder or amazement. Example. — '' Now the night grows blacker, more dismal than be- {Tke Felon's Wife, p. 128.) FIGURE 6. fore." The Index Finger, supine in which the back of the hand is sidewise, as Figure 7 indi- cates, points out a particlar figure 7 spot or individual. It also expresses strong emphasis or affirmation and is sometimes employed in cautioning. 12 GESTURE Example. — ** That wild, fierce crag, the highest, is known as Sir Rupert's Head." {Sir Rupert's Wife, p. 22.) FIGURE 8 FIGURE 9. The Index Finger, prone, with hand downward, as indi- cated in Figure 8, is used in scorn, contempt, derision, or reproach. Epample. — '' And lo ! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye." (Mary, Queen of Scots, p, ^6.) The Clinched Hand is formed by closing the fingers tightly and doubling the thumb over them as in Figure 9. It expresses defiance, hatred and the extreme of emphasis. As this is the strongest gesture possible to make, it should be reserved for the climax of the sentiment. For strong emphasis it should take a descending line. Example. — '' And hate in- tense begat intenser love." FIGURE 10 The Hands are Clasped, as in Figure 10, in strong emo- tion, distress, entreaty, prayer, supplication, and extreme gladness. FIGURE II. GESTURE 13 Example. — '' Come, for God's sake, or he will die." " Oh, save me, save me, holy man ! " {Ruth Bonython's Confession, p. 25 .) The Hands are Applied, as \\\ Figure 1 1, by pressing the palms together, the fingers and thumb being straight. This position is used in adoration and sometimes in prayer. Example.—" And glistens in the Eternal's praise-" (The Stars, p. 14.J.) " Now I lay me down to sleep." {Dying to Win, p. II.) Notations of Gesture, A simple method of ma. -.ing gesture, and the one we employ in this book, consists in using the initials of the words expressing the direction or position, as follows ; D. P., Descending Front. D. O., Descending Oblique. D. L., Descending Lateral. D. B., Descending Backward. H. F., Horizontal Front. H. O., Horizontal Oblique. H. L., Horizontal Lateral. H. B., Horizontal Backward. A. F., Ascending Front. A. O., Ascending Oblique. A. L., Ascending Lateral. A. B., Ascending Backward. B. placed before the letters in- dicates that both hands are to be used. The Supine position of hand is to be used when there is no designation to the con- trary. P., Prone hand. v., Vertical hand. Ind., Index finger supine. Ind. P., Index finger prone. CL, Clinched hand. Cla., Clasped hands. Imp., Impulse, or repetition of the same gesture. L. before the letters, Left hand. Ap,, Hands Applied. 14 GESTURE Sp., Special. Con., Conversational, or move- Sw., Sweep from the opposite ment from the elbow. shoulder outward. Par., Parallel, or both hands Sust., Sustained gesture. in one direction to the right Lis., Hand raised to listen. or left. Hand and Arm. Gestures of the arm are divided into Elbow or Fore-arm and Shoulder or Full-arm. In the former the motion proceeds from the elbow, the upper arm being moved little or not at all. Conversational or unimportant ideas employ this movement. In the Shoulder movements the entire arm is employed, the shoulder being the pivot for the action ; but the elbow joint plays an important part in conducing to the grace and force of the movement. The latter are appropriate to description, grandeur, reverence, forward motion, and intense or emphatic statements. The directions into which the hand and arm may be thrown are as follows : Descending, or toward any point which will bring the hand below the armpit ; Horizontal, or on a level with the armpit, and Ascending, which will cover any line above the shoulder. These directions, as will be observed by referring to the Notation of Gesture, are designated respectively by the letters D. H. and A. When we make a descending, horizontal or ascending gesture, the hand and arm is at the same time thrown to the Front, to the Oblique, to the Lateral, or to the Backward, and these directions are thus expressed by their corresponding initials F., O., L., and B. Thus, if a Descending gesture takes GESTURE t5 a line in front of the body, it is called Descending Front, and is expressed by the letters D. F. If the line diverges towards the side it becomes Descending Oblique, expressed by D. ^O. If directly at the side, it is called Descending Lateral, D. L., and if carried further back, it is called Descending Backward^ D. B. The same is true of the Horizontal and the Ascending. To enable the reciter to apply gestures that are suitable to various sentiments, some definitions to the various directions described and explanations of the accompanying cuts are here- with given. Descending ^Qstures per- tain to the sphere of the will and express determina- tion, emphasis and refer to objects beneath us. They are also used in ideas of a low or debasing character. See Figure 12, which is Descending Oblique. Example. — "They may turn every rock into a scaf- fold." Horizontal gestures be- long to the sphere of the intellect and are largely used in argument. They FIGURE 12. also designate things or in- dividuals on a level with us. Figure 1 3 represents a Horizontal Oblique gesture, which is chiefly used in general address. i6 GESTURE Example. — '* And this is why, forsooth, they deem me so. Ascending ges- tures pertain to the sphere of the imagination and express exulta- tion, gla d n e s s and victory. Fig- ure 14 rep re- figure 13 sents an Ascending Lateral position. Example. — ''And we are free, forever free." {The World's Hero, p. Sy.) Front gestures express unity, personality, direct address, figure 14. GESTURE ^7 and forward motion. They also refer to the fufure and to objects located in front of us. Figure 1 5 shows a front gesture on the descending line, which carries the strongest degree of FIGURE 16. emphasis. The definitions here given are mostly applicable to horizontal and ascending lines, but this can be decided by the judgment of the elocutionist. FIGURE 15. Example. — ''There was no land on earth she loved like that dear land." (Mary, Queen of Scots, p. 75.) Oblique gestures express pluralit>% impersonality, and are used largely in argument. (See Figure 12 for example.) Example. — '' We'll show King Ludwig when he comes what the boys in this school can do." (Little Christel,p. iji.) Lateral gestures express vastness in time, space, numbers i8 GESTURE or idea ; also casting away and negation. . The lateral is rep- resented on a descending line in Figure i6. Example. — *' We think, we hope but we do not know." B ackward gestures ex- press remote- ness in time or space and refer to the past or to ob- jects lying be- hind us. Fig- ure 17 shows the backward direction of a desc ending gesture. FIGURE 17. Example. — "Only a century distant it was 'nt as good as now." {Sir Ruperfs Wife, p. 2y^ ''Oh God! that horrid, horrid dream." Whdre breadth or expanse are expressed both hands should be used. GESTURE 19 The Arms Parallel, Figure 18, are frequently used to FIGURE 18. express greater intensity than is possible with one hand, and sometimes in impassioned reference. Example. — '' Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one enhance of life." {Old Actor's Story, p. 2jj.) DECLARATION. SECRECY. 20 GESTURE DESIGNATION. JOY. DEFIANCE. SURPRISE. INDIGNATION. VENGEANCE. GESTURE EXPECTATION. ANTICIPATION. GREETING. INVITATION. 22 GESTURE RESIGNED APPEAL. HORROR. MADNESS. REPULSION. BASH FULNESS. MISCHIEF. GESTURE 23 COQUETRY. MIRTH. RETROSPECTION. INDECISION. BENEDICTION. TRIUMPH. 24 GESTURE RIDICULE. ENTREATY. DEPRECATION. COMMAND. Ruth Bonython's Confession. A selection adapted from " Mogg Megone." — jfohn Greenleaf Whitteir. [The First Graduating Medal was won upon this at the Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution and Languages.] *' O father,^ bear with me ; my heart- Is sick and death-like, and my braiir^ Seems girdled with a fiery chain, Whose scorching links will never part, And never cool again. For half I fancy I can see My mother's sainted look in thee.* Ah, woe for me ? my mother died Just at the moment when I stood Close on the verge of womanhood, And when my wild heart^ needed most Her gentle counsels, they were lost.'^ My father lived a stormy life, Of frequent change and daily strife ; And, — God forgive him !^ left his child To feel like him a freedom^ wild ; To love the red man's dwelling-place,^^ The birch boat^^ on his shaded floods, The wild excitement of the chase^^ far more Than that restaining awe^^ I felt Beneath my gentle mother's care. Gestures, i B. H. F. to Left. 2 R. to Heart. 3 B. to Head. 4 L. H. O. 5 Sp. (see illustration). 6 H. F. 7 H. j- 8 Raise Eyes. 9 B. H. O. 10 H. O. 11 D. L. 12 L. H. O. 13 P. H. O. 2f 26 RUTH BONYTHON'S CONFESSION Then came a change. The wild, glad mood Of unchecked freedom passed/* A softened voice^^ was in my ear, A manly form^® was ever nigh, A bold, free hunter, with an eye Whose dark, keen glance had power to wakd Both fear^'' and love. 'Twas as the wizard rattlesnake,^^ Whose evil glances lure^^ to harm — Whose brilliant coil, and changing dye Draw, step by step,^*^ the gazer nigh, A conscious, but a willing prey. Faded^^ the world which I had known, A poor, vain shadow, cold and waste ; In the warm, present^^ bliss alone Seemed I of actual life to taste. Seen in the glance^^ which met my own, Heard^* in the soft and pleading tone, Felt in the arms around^^ me cast. Warm heart pulses beating fast. Ah ! scarcely yet to God^^ above Has prayerful saint his meek heart lent. Than I, before a human^'^ shrine. As mortal and as frail as mine, With heart, and soul, and mind, and forn\^ Knelt^ madly to a fellaw worm. Full soon, upon that dream of sin, 14 H. Sw. 15 Lis. 16 H. O. 17 to Breast. 18 Ind. D. O. 19 P. D. Sw. 20 P. Sp. 21 P. H. L. 22 H. F. 23 H. O. 24 Lis. 25 B. Sp. 26 A. F. 27 H. F. 28 D. F. RUTH BONYTHON'S CONFESSION 27 An awful lighP came bursting in. The shrine was cold at which I knelt f'^ The idol of that shrine was gone f^ A humbled^^ thing of shame and gilt, Outcast and spurned and lone, Wrapt^ in the shadows of my crime, I passed a fearful time. There came a voice^ — it checked^ a tear — My father's voice was in my ear ; It whispered of revenge f^ Then tiger passions, which had slept,^ In childhood's better day. Unknown, unfelt, arose^ at length In all their own demoniac strength. A youthful warrior of the wilds, By words deceived, by smiles beguiled,^^ Upon our fatal errands went. Through camp and town and wilderness^ He tracked his victim ; and, at last. Just when the tide of hate had passed, And milder thoughts came warm and fast. Exulting, at my feet*^ he cast The bloody token of success. God ! with what an awful power 1 saw the buried past uprise,^ 29 P. H. F. 30 D. F. 31 H. L. 32 Kneel. 33 B. Sp. 34 Clasp and let fall. 35 P. H. O. 36 B. Cli. D. 37 P. H. O. 38 Rise and raise B. P. 39 P. H. Sw. 40 P. H. Sw. 41 D. F. 42 Raise P. 28 RUTH BONYTHON'S CONFESSION And then I felt — alas ! too late*^ — That underneath the mask of hate The heart's^ wild love had known no change » There*^ lay the fearful scalp, and there*® The blood was on its pale brown hair ! I thought not of the victim's scorn, My deadly wrong, my outcast name, I only saw that victim's smile,*^ — The still, green places*^ where me met, — The smile, — the embrace, — the tone, which made An Eden*^ of the forest shade. And, oh, with what a loathing^^ eye, I saw that Indian murderer^^ lie Before me, in his drunken sleep ; What^^ though for me the deed was done, And words of mine had sped^^ him on ! Yet when he murmured as he slept. The horrors of that deed of blood. The tide of utter madness swept O'er brain and bosom^* like a flood. And, father, with this hand"*^ of mine I smote^® him as I would a worm." " Woman^^ of sin and blood and shame, Speak, — I would know that victim's name." 43 Shake Head. 44 to Heart. 45 Ind. D. F. 46 Imp. 47 D. F. 48 H. Sw. 49 B. H. O. so V. D. O. 51 D. O. 52 B. H. O. 53 H. Sw. 54 B. on Breast. 55 Cli. Sp. 56 Cli Sp. 57 to R. RUTH BONYTHON'S CONFESSION 29 " Father, ^^ a chieftain known As Saco's Sachem, — Mogg Megone ! " « Off,^^ woman of sin ! nay touch not me With those^° fingers of blood ; — begone ! "®^ " Oh, save me,^^ save me, holy man ! " " Wretched girl ! one eye^^ alone Notes the way that thou hast gone. Still though earth and man*^^ discard thee, Doth thy Heavenly Father^^ guard thee. He whose mercy ever liveth, Who repenting guilt forgiveth,^^ Wanderer of the wilderness, Haunted, guilty, crazed and wild, He regardeth thy^'' distress, And careth for His sinful child." " Blessed Mary ! who is she^^ Leaning against that maple tree ? The sun upon her face burns hot. But the fixed eyelid moveth not ; God save her ! will she sleep alway ? Wake,^^ daughter, — wake ! " — 'but she stirs no limb ; The eye that looks on him is dim ; And the sleep she is sleeping shall be no deeper, 58 to Left. 59 V. H. O. 60 Ind. H. O. 61 V. H. O. 62 B. H. F. to Left. 63 Ind. A. 64 H. Sw. 65 A. O. 66 P. H. O. (i-j H. O. 68 H. O. 69 Sp. 3(3 CIVILIZATION Until the angel' s^^ oath is said, The final blast of the trump goes forth'^^ To the graves of the sea and the graves of earth. Ruth Bonython is dead.^^ 70 A. O. 71 H. Sw. 72 P. D. O. Civilization. As Discovered by Professor Peekwell, Samuel Searcher AND Philip Deadlight. Professor. — Civilization is the science of discontent. Searcher. — How do you make that out ? Professor.— Gentlemen, allow me to explain. In the first' place, all that man requires on this terrestial ball can be ex- pressed in three words, namely : food, shelter and raiment. Seacher. — How about a wife ? Deadlight. — And segars ? Professor. — I use the term man as indicating the human race. Searcher. — Well, go on. Deadlight. — I'm ashamed of you, Professor ; would you have us go back to savage life ? Professor. — Yes, but only in fancy, for the purpose of illus- tration. Let us drop down on a remote island in the India© CJMr.I/.ATlOh'. Ocean, It is night-fall. The last rosy tints of sunset are fad- ing from the western sky. The murmur of the distant surf mingles with the soft lullaby of the Indian mother who soothes her babe to sleep. Searcher. — Why didn't the goose use soothing syrup ? Deadlight. — Or a cradle ? Professor. — Beneath a tall palm, circled about the embers of a dying fire, sit the tawny natives. They are listening to the words that fall from the lips of an aged chief With rap- ture they hang upon the oft-told legend of the isle. In their hearts they wonder at the old man's wisdom. As he dilates upon their by-gone deeds, and their present might, their eyes involuntarily wander toward the rich foliage that gently sways on yonder high hill top ; now they glance at the bright stars that peep forth from the upper blue, and now at the dim ocean that stretches away on either hand like a desert waste. Con- tentment almost perfect sits on every brow. Each savage has his spear, his hut of twigs : thus the Great Creator hath set them to fulfill their mission ; and yet the spear and hut are the initial steps in the march of civilization ; only luxury lies beyond them; comparative luxury is the acme of civilization. Searcher. — You're a crank ! Deadlight. — No, he's a philosopher. Think of the bless- ings of savage life ! No creditors to ring your door bell, and make you leap out of your chair with consternation. Searcher. — That is a point. Deadlight. — Then there's no fashion to ruin a man every time the seasons change. Look at that bonnet yonder! I'll wager it cost thirty dollars. Searcher. — And that dude's coat, to say nothing of his monstrous collar. Professor. — Hold on 32 GE TTIXG A-/-:. ID K Deadlight. — And there's no bank cashier to skip away with your limited balance. Professor. — Hold on, I say. Civilization is good ; it ele- vates mankind ; but the higher our civilization the greater our wants ; therefore civilization is the science of discontent. Searcher. — Humph 1 Deadlight. -Ahem! Professor. We will now adjourn, Geo, M, Vickers. Getting Ready. Characters. Nicholas Neverslip, a modern husband, Patrick Dolan, an Irish lad, Matilda, Neverslifs wife. Miss Spyall, a gossip. Biddy Crogan, a domestic. Scene: — A drawing room. Time, evening. Table and twd chairs, C. Nicholas discovered standing near L. E. with cane and gloves in his hands : he calls to his wife, who is supposed to be up stairs dressing for the opera. Nicholas. — My dear, it is half-past seven ; do hurry ; I am sure we will be late. Matilda. — I am coming — be with you in one minute. Has Biddy fastened the back gate ? Nicholas (aside). — I know we'll be late {calls), Biddy! (crosses to R. E) Biddy. — I'm here, sur. [Enter Biddy R. E!\ What do you want wid me, sur ? Nicholas. — Biddy, is the back gate fastened ? Biddy. — I'll see, sur, {turns to go) Nicholas. — Biddy ! Biddy. — Sur! r i$f^ ¥ i WHAT ARE LITTLE GIRLS GOOD FOR?" WE HEARD A MAN ASK TO-DAY; «C WE HAVE COME HERE TO TELL YOU, «»CEASE LISTEN TO WHAT WE SAY. THE cn Tte -tCiPENS. i »'^0 L _J NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SI.EEP EVER OF THEE I'M FONDLY lyREAMING COLONIAIv SCHOOLMASTER. LET ME TELL YOU : YOU WILL LAUGH. TOO, AN AMATEUR PKT? FORMER THE LITTLE HUSSAR SLOW DYING DAY, ALONG THE MOUNTAIN'S BROW, CASTS THE SOFT RADIANCE OF THE AFTERGLOW From The Al^ini: Cl'mber ks^ A SAIL! A SAIL! OR IS IT BUT A SHRED OF W-.,\DLfi:NG C^JJi IN DISGRACE. THK YOUNG NATURALIST YUM- VTTM SOL SMITH RUSSELL and MINNIE RADCLIFFE. "will YOU-ER-ACCEPT this slight TCKtN-!'» "l MIGHT FROM SOME MEN." I'M CAPTAIN OF THE FINEST CRAFT AFLOAT, COME, TAKE A RIDE IN MY PLEASURE BOAT. MR. SIDNEY EBY. "me received the sad intelligence of the death of His MOTHER-IN-LAW " GETTTiYG READY. j^ Nicholas. — Biddy, I am going to the opera ; that is, we are, Mrs. Neverslip and myself. Matilda (calls). — Nicholas ! Nicholas. — Well, what's the matter ? Matilda. — Where did you lay my fan ? Nicholas. — I never touched your fan. {looks at his watcK) ft is twenty minutes to eight ; I declare we will be late, Biddy (aside). — I wonder if he manes to keep me shtandin* here all night ? Nicholas \to Matilda). — I am going ! Matilda. — Here I come. Nicholas. —It is time you were coming. MATiLDA.-^Oh, dear! Nicholas. — What's the matter? Matilda. — Oh, youVe hurried me so that IVe gone and dressed without my fichu ; I can never go without it. Nicholas (aside). — Confound her fish-hook, (aloud) Snails and turtles! are you never coming? Biddy (aside). — I'm nather a gate post nur a clothes prop. (aloud) Mr. Neverslip, I'll be goin' to the kitchen ; I lift the banes on the sthove; I think they're burnin'. \Exit Biddy Nicholas. — For mercy sake do come. Matilda (singing). — I am coming, darling, eoming Nicholas. — How provokingly cool you are. {Enter Matilda L. £.] Matilda. — Now, my dear, we'll be off. {Bot/i start toward L. £.] Why, where's your hat ? ^icno'LAS (feels his head). — Good giacious! It is upstairs '-Matilda, dear, will you get it for me ? Matilda. — You cruel man (knock heard from without^ Both. — Horrors! Some one at the door! Nicholas. — Biddy t 3 34 GETTING READY. Biddy. — ^Ay, sur ! [Enter Biddy R. E!] Nicholas. — Biddy, we're out. Biddy. — Yer what? Nicholas. — We're out; that is, we soon will be. We do not wish to see anyone — you comprehend ? Biddy {aitgrily). — Don't want to see anyone I comprehend ! Sur, I'm an honest Irish girl, and I niver comprehended any- body, {arms akimbo) Niver! [Prolonged knock at the door.'\ Nicholas. — Go to the door and say we're out ! Biddy {aside). — The man is surely out of his head. [Exit Biddy L, E^ Matilda. — Oh my ! we'll never get off. Nicholas. — My dear it's all your own fault. Matilda {^puts handkerchief to ^jj/^.y).— Dear, dear! Nicho- las. Hark ! Miss Spyall {from without). — Take this card to ■ Biddy {from without). — They're out, mum. Miss Spyall. — Then I'll just step in a moment and write a line or two. Biddy. — But they're out ! Matilda. — Oh grief! It is that awful Spyall; good-bye opera to-night. Nicholas. — We might as well give up now. [Enter Biddy L. E. walking backward followed by Miss Spyall^ Miss Spyall {aside), — Out of the street ; ah 1 I understand ! {Extends hands to Nicholas and Matilda) — {aloud) How delighted I am to see you ! What ! going out ? Biddy. — Yis, out; they're out — outward bound, I forgot part of the wurruds. Nicholas. — Silence, Bridget I Matilda. — We need you no longer, Biddy. GETTING READY, ^^ Biddy. — Indade, ye'll give me two wakes* notice. I'll not lave now. Matilda. — I mean we do not need you here. You may go to the kitchen. Oh, bother ! My hair is coming down. Biddy get me a hair-pin, quick ! [Exit Biddy R. E^ Miss Spyall. — What a beautiful dress ; is it all silk ? Nicholas. — Part muslin, Miss. Matilda. — Nicholas, you shock me. Nicholas {Pidls out watch and starts togd)» — Oh, oh, oh! Miss Spyall. — Going to church ? Nicholas. — No, not to church. Miss Spyall. — Oh, I see ; the museum. Nicholas. — We have an engagement. Miss Spyall. — A wedding ? That's it ! I know. Who is it ? Do tell me if it is Nancy Beadle ? I thought she and John Matilda. — My husband and I are about going down town on important business, it is time we were there now. Miss Spyall. — Anything important? You know I can be trusted. Nicholas. — Gone! gone! gone! Miss Spyall. — Hey ? Matilda. — Miss Spyall, you will please excuse me this evening, we must go at once. [Enter Biddy R. E. with clothes-pins in each hand^ Nicholas {pointing to watch). — We've lost our seats. {Ma^ tilda and Miss Spyall take seats) Biddy {to Nicholas). — Niver moind me ; still, I'll bring two chairs from the dining-room if ye insist. (To Matilda) Here's the puns, mum. Matilda. — Stupid girl, these are clothes-pins. Miss Spyall. — What a silly creature. Biddy {aside). — The spalpeen ! Nicholas. — Excuse me. I must get my hat, [Exit L. E!} 36 GETTING KEAD\. Matilda. — Oh, he's a darling man ! Miss Spyall. — Spe-len-did ! {A crash heard) Matilda. — What have you done ? Nicholas {groaits). — Broken my shins, smashed my hat and upset your toilet stand! Matilda. — You wretch — edly unfortunate man. Enter Nicholas L. E. limping with smashed hat in hand^ Miss Spyall, — I must be going. Matilda. — We are going to ^;he opera. Nicholas. — ^To hear the final chorus. Miss Spyall. — How delightful ! Matilda. — Biddy, keep a sharp look out. \_Exit all except Biddy L. .£".] Biddy. — Yis, I'll kape a sharp look out. I'll first take a look at the back gate. Poor Pat's been waitin' at that same gate for a whole hour ; faith he's stharved wid the cold {starts and listens) Arrah, what's that ? Sure some one's in the kitchen. I hear a brogan on the stairs — the saints protect me. \Enter Pat R. E., lookhig around cautiously^ Oh, Pat Dolan ! How dare ye frighten me loike that? How did ye enter the house? — What if the folks had been in ? Pat. — Whist, me darlin' ; I saw them lave by the front door, and in the wink of an eye, its meself that lepped over the fince ; I thried the back door, it was unlatched, and here I am, Biddy dear ! Biddy. — Niver do the loikes of that again. You might be shot lor a burglar or a dynamiter, Pat. (sitting at table). — Niver fear, Biddy dear ; go ye and bring a crust of bread and sup of — of something stronger than tay, if yer have it ; sure I've room here for a loaf, and I'm thrimblin' wid wakeness Biddy. — I'll see what's lift in the pantry. Be aisy till 1 come back. {Starts to go) GETTING READY. • ^y Pat.— Biddy! Biddy. — What, darlint ? {Pauses) Pat. — Do ye hear anything ? Biddy. — Its the Niverslips ! Run for your life ! Pat. — Be aisy ; it's me poor heart beatin' ; and nothin' more. It always bates whin I see that face. Biddy {Looks over her shoulder). — What face ? I see no face ! Pat. — Don't be a greenhorn. I mane your own lovely countenance. Biddy. — Oh, ye blarney ! [Exit R. E^ Pat. {Rises from chair and walks up and down the stage). — Humph ! this is a very foine house. It lacks the comforts of a home, howiver, for there's not the sign of a pipe or a 'bacca bowl about the room. They're evidently mane people. [Enter Biddy R. E. carrying tray, on which are loaf of bread, a knife, a black bottle and two glasses^ Look at that now ! If that isn't the tip of hospitality my name's not Patrick Dolan. Biddy {places tray on table). — Now, Pat, ye must not thrifle over the sup, {fills glass from bottle) but drink it at once. It would niver do to have the folks foind ye here. Pat {takes glass). — Here's to our wedding day, {drinks) Oh ! ah ! {jumps to his feet and runs about stage holding his throat) I'm pizened, I'm kilt. Biddy {following him about). — Shpeak, shpeak, me darlint Pat. Pat {gasping and pointing to bottle). — Look — look — look at that! What's in the bottle ? Biddy. — Sure I can't read. {Hands bottle to Pat) Pat. — Saint Patrick defind me ! (reads) " Pure Jamaica Ginger," Oh ! its atin me up ! {Noise heard without) Biddy. — Hark ! {Both listen) Nicholas {from without). — We should have taken an um- brella ; hurry in or we shall be drowned with the rain. 38 GETTING READY. Pat (agitatecPj. — Put me away ! hide me ! cover me up ! Biddy. — Run ! No — shtop — ^they're here ! get under the table. Pat (crawls under table). — Bad luck to the rain ! Biddy. — Arrah ! What shall I do ? He's opening the door wid the noight key. Kape shtill, Pat. Nicholas. — Walk in Miss Spyall ; it is only a shower. \Enter Neverslip^ Matilda and Miss Spyall L. E. Miss Spyall {aside). — Refreshments, as I live! (Aloud) I feel real chilly! If I were home I'd have a bowl of hot tea, or some- thing warm. Biddy. — I was thinkin' mum, that ye might be cold. Matilda.— What's that, Biddy ? Biddy.- — I thought ye'd need a warrum drink and a bite, so I've the bottle and bread handy for yez. (Points to bottle) Nicholas (takes bottle). — Jamaica Ginger. Matilda. — The idea ! Bread and ginger. Why, Biddy, you are certainly becoming insane. Miss Spyall (aside). — I thought they were too mean to have cake and wine, I thought it was a pound cake. How- disappointed and hungry I feel. (Aloud) I wonder if it still rains ? Nicholas. — Be seated, ladies. Biddy, go to the door, and see if it has stopped raining. — (Matilda and Miss Spyall take seats at table). I will see if I can find an umbrella for Miss Spyall. \^Exit l,e:\ Pat. — (Pats head rises slowly from behind table). Miss Spyall. — Does Mr. Neverslip smoke much? Matilda. — Never at all. Why do you ask ? Miss Spyall. — I thought I detected a strong odor of an old pipe. GETTING READY. y^ Pat. — [aside) Ye spalpeen ! {Pulls her ear and stoops behind table). Miss Spyall Oh ! {indignantly), — Don't do that again. I dislike such familiarity. Matilda {astonished). — Why, what's the matter with 3^ou ? Miss Spyall. — I guess if I were to pull your ear you would know how it feels. There! {They turn their backs to each other angrily). {Pat peeps from under table and pulls Matilda's ear). Matilda {springing to her feet). — You impudent gossip \ How dare you ? {rubs her ear) If you want exercise, try pedes- trianism ; I will excuse your presence. {Points to door). Miss ^YYK\A.(rising and backing off). — I am shocked beyond expression, {aside) If I only get out — the woman's surely mad, \Enter Nicholas L. E. with umbrella'^ Matilda. — My dear, give Miss Spyall the umbrella ; she is surely ill and should get home with all possible speed. Miss Spyall. — Not at all, not at all, sir ; it is your insolent wife who needs your attention. Nicholas. — What is the meaning of such singular language ? ( picks up bottle) You have not been tampering with this ? \_Enters Biddy R. E. holding shawl in her hands^ Biddy. — Look at me shplendid shawl ! An illigant present that oi've just received, {unfolds shawl and advances towards rear of table^ Nicholas. — Some other time, Biddy; we are engaged at present. Miss Spyall {aside). — The whole family are certainly crazy. Matilda. — I'm in no humor to look at shawls ; I prefer taking a dissolving view of somebody's back, (looks at Miss Spyall^ Biddy {holds up shawl with both hands). — Pat, get behind the shawl. 40 GETTING READY. Pat. — {crawls behind the shawl ^ screens himself from view, and moves off with Biddy). Biddy, (backing towards the door) — It shows better at a dis- tance, mum. Nicholas {advancing to Biddy). — This must cease. Biddy. — Don't come too close ; ye'll shpoil the effect Matilda. — Take the shawl from her. Nicholas. — Let me have it. {pulls shawl from Biddy ^ expos- ing Pat to view). Pat ( bowing). — Yez'll pardon me, but I was always bashful, Nicholas. — Explain yourself, at once ! Matilda. — Look after the teaspoons ! Miss Spyall {aside). — Here's a nut to crack! Here's a scandal. Biddy {crying and holding apron to eyes). — I'll tell yez the truth. Patsy and meself are engaged to be married, and seein' as I was to be lift alone in this big barn of a house, an' bem timid, the poor man jist happened in to kape me company for a few minutes. Pat. — What she says is intirely true, your honors ; it's meself that can bring a reference the lingth of me arrum. Nicholas. — Enough. Biddy is too good a girl to be guilty of even a wrong thought. Our spoons are safe, and I {all advancing to front) have but one suggestion to make, that in future you entertain him in the kitchen, where you will not be likely to be disturbed by unwelcome visitors. Matilda. — If I thought I would be free from unwelcome visitors (looking at Miss Spyall) I'd go to the kitchen too. Pat. — The nixt kitchen we mate in will be the kitchen of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Dolan ; how do ye loike that ? Miss Spyall {aside). — Well I'm supplied with a lot of fresh news anyhow. {All take positions}^ THE HUMORS OF ELOCUTION. ^j Nicholas. — And as there appears to be a wedding near at hand, we must prepare for it ; so we'll say good night — and dream of getting ready. [curtain.] Geo. M. Vickers. The Humors of Elocution Sitting in our Library some few weeks ago we were startled by a resounding knock upon the door, and in answer to our summons, " Come in," a large woman entered, followed by a bouncing girl of seventeen or thereabouts. The costumes of both bespoke them to be just from the rural districts. After a courtesy from the woman, followed by a fac-simile from the girl, the former said : " We've heard that you was a good hand at learnin' people fur to speak pieces, and Samanthy here hez to spout at the next meetin' of our Lyceum, and she wants you fur to larn her somethin' funny. You see. all the young folks down our way has gone just cracked over speakin' pieces, and the school ma'am has been coachin' 'em, but Samanthy wants to do better nor the rest, and wants to hev it to say that she has took lessons from a reg'lar purfessor, so I thought if you would find her a piece and coach her on it, I wouldn't begrudge a quarter of a dollar, even if I has to save it out of my egg-money, then if she'll hold on to what she larns she can go ahead of the hull caboodle of 'em." Seeing in the credulous face of the old woman a rich chance for some fun at her expense we said : " Is it howld on ye say? An' didn't I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke intoirely, an' me wastin' that thin you could clutch me wid yer two hands." " Oh, law !" exclaimed the old woman, is elocution so bad on you as that, but you don't seem to look the wuss for it now." " Seems ! madam, nay, it is ! I know not seems ! Oh that this 42 THE HUMORS OF ELOCUTION. too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew." " Oh, I catch your meanin' now. You mean you was thin and then you got fleshy. That's just like my husband's sister's son's wife. You see she was always kind o' sickly, but she was such a shrew — " Oh, yes, " tis about twenty years since Abel Law, a short, round-favored, merry old soldier of the Revolutionary war was wedded to a most abominable shrew." " No marm, you're mistaken, her husband's name was Timothy Titcomb, and he never was a soldier, but he was jest like a rollin' stone, he never made nothin' — " " Off a rollin' shtone vas der root of all efil, und a settin' hens vould catch der early vorm by chance der usual vay, alzo der early bird vould not got fat on moss ofer he don't had vorms, ain't it ?" The girl who had been standing at one side with her mouth wide open, here pulled her mother's sleeve and whimpered, " Mom, let's go. I'm afeared ! I think that woman's mad;' We turned upon her with — •* I'm mad, I'm mad, I know Pm mad, Enough to drive one mad, Stark, raving, howling, crazy mad. It is to lose one's child. Samantha subsided and flew behind her mother like a chicken behind an old hen. The old woman laid her hand tenderly on our shoulder, and said sympathizingly : " Poor creetur she's lost a child; I think I'd go crazy, too, if I lost Samanthy. Poor lamb ! " ** Mary haf got a leetle lambs already, Dose wool vas vite like shnow, Und efery times dot Mary did vend oud. Dot lambs vent oud vid Mary." " Massy sakes ! " cried the woman, " what do you call your- self, Dutch, Irish or American ? " My father and mother are Irish, and I am Irish too." "Mon dieu, madame, vat you please." THE REASON WHY. 43 ** Is this a dagger which I see before me, its handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee, I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. What light is this which surrounds me and seems to set fire to my brain ? What whistle that, yelling so shrilly? Ah ! I know now, 'tis the train." The woman then said, " Samanthy, I think it is time we was takin' the train. I don't think I could trust you to come here alone. Good day, marm, we must be goin'. I would like to send you some of my yarb tea. Its powerful soothin' to i-he nerves." *» Be that word our sign of parting, Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore; Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken, Leave my loneliness unbroken. By this time she had the door shut, but she went to some of the neighbors and asked if our place was not a private lunatic asylum. F, Lizzie Peirce. The Reason Why. , Can anybody tell why, when Eve was manufactured from one of Adam's ribs, a hired girl wasn't made at the same time to. wait on her? We can, easily. Because Adam never came whining to Eve with a ragged stocking to be darned, a collar button to be sewed on, or a glove to be mended " right away quick now." Because he never read the newspaper until the sun got down behind the palm trees, and then stretched himself, yawning out, " Ain't supper most ready, my dear." Not he. He made the fire and hung over it the tea-kettle himself we'll venture, and pulled the radishes and peeled the bananas^ and did every- thing else that he ought to. He milked the cows and i&a the chickens and looked after the pigs himself He never brought home half a dozen friends to dinner when Eve hadn't any fresh 44 Nu THING TO WEAR. pomegranates and the mango season was over, He nevei stayed out until 1 1 o'clock to a ward meeting, hurrahing for the out-and-out candidate, and then scolded because poor Eve was sitting up and crying inside the gates. To be sure he acted rather cowardly about the apple-gathering time, but that don't depreciate his general helpfulness about the garden ! He never played billiards, nor drove fast horses, nor choked Eve with cigar-smoke. He never loafed around corner groceries while solitary Eve was rocking little Cain's cradle at home. In short, he did not think she was specially created for the purpose of waiting on him, and wasn't under the impression that it disgraced a man to lighten his wife's cares a little. That is the reason that Eve did not need a hired girl, and we wish it was the reason that none of her descendant's did. — Anon Nothing to Wear. Toby Simpson, a dealer most worthy and just, Slowly wended his way through the rattle and dust Of the city. He mused on the cholera scare. On his relative chance as a wheat or a tare In the prophesied raid. Then he mumbled a prayer. And each mud hole he eyed seemed a villainous snare, While his conscience said, solemnly, ** Simpson, beware ! On the strength of a limited balance in cash He had planned for himself and his family a dash To the mountains, the seaside, it mattered not where ; To delay any longer was more than he dare ; Some relief must be had from the terrible flare Of the midsummer sun, which would surely impair The good health of Dame Simpson, now cross as a bear. NOTHING TO WEAR. 45 'Twas quite late in July and old Sol was aglow, All the people had gone who had money to go From the city to seek a few sniffs of fresh air, And forgot for a season their burdens of care ; Then no wonder Dame Simpson was heard to declare That the Joneses looked up with an insolent stare, As she stood at her window exposed to the glare. But her husband that ev'ning when rising from tea. With his hands full of tickets and heart full of glee, Quite as proud as a lion could be in its lair, Shouted out : " To the Capes, yes, to-morrow, prepare, I've engaged jolly quarters and paid all the fare ! " To which mother and daughters, with mock debonair. Chorused forth : " Why, dear papa, we've nothing to wear I ** With a look most bewildered he clutched at a tray. For his mercantile courage was oozing away. And his features were grim 'neath his carroty hair ; Twenty bills he had paid for goods costly and rare For those females ! and now could not possibly spare An additional stamp. Unaccustomed to swear, It was startling to hear him say : '' Darned if it's fair 1 " In an eight by ten office, half sweltered with heat, Sat T. Simpson, the jobber. He gazed at his feet Which reposed on a desk, just in front of his chair, While his face was dejected and full of despair ; And he owed not a cent ; his accounts were all square — No, not that, but the problem of Nothing to Wear Was just why the poor fellow sat pondering there. George M. Vkkers, Echo and the Perry. Ay, Oliver ! I was but seven, and he was eleven ; He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven ! A small guest at the farm ); but he said, '' Oh ! a girl was no good!" So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood. It was sad, it was sorrowful ! Only a girl — only seven ! At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out. The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue-birds flashed about, And they, too, were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven ? I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven — eleven ! So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet. And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered; And under and over the branches those little birds twittered. While hanging head downward they scolded because I was seven. A pity — a very great pit}^. One should be eleven. But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet, And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old. Then I knew, for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold. Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter; And then some one else — oh ! how softly ! — came after, came after With laughter — with laughter came after. And no one was near us to utter that sweet, mocking call, That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall. But this was the country — perhaps it was close under heaven ; Oh ! nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even. a6 ECHO AND THE FERRY. 4^ I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings, not at all. Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver : She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small, Then flashed down her hole like a dart — like a dart from the quiver. And I waded atween the long grasses, and felt it was bliss. — So this was the country ; clear dazzle of azure and shiver And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall — A little low wall — and looked over, and there was the river, The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river, Clear shining and slow, she had far, far to go from her snow; But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow, And she murmured, methought, with a speech very soft — very low. " The ways will be long, but the days will be long," quoth the river, "To me a long liver, long, long!" quoth the river — the river. I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky. The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under. But at last — in a day or two namely — Eleven and I Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. He said that was Echo. " Was Echo a wise kind of bee That had learned how to laugh ; could it laugh in one's eai and then fly, And laugh again yonder?" "No; Echo" — he whispered it low — *' Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see, And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he; But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder. 48 ECHO AND THE FERR V. Vet I that had money — a shilling, a whole silver shilling — We might cross if I thought I could spend it." *' Oh ! yes, 1 was willing " — And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry, And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry When they called for the ferry ; but, oh 1 she was very — was very Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone ; and when Oliver cried, " Hie over ! hie over 1 you man of the ferry — the ferry ! " By the still water's side she was heard far and wide — she replied. And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, " You man of the ferry, You man of — you man of the ferry ! " " Hie over! " he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling- Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast. Such a chase ! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on ; it surpassed All measure her doubling — so close, then so far away falling, Then gone, and no more. Oh ! to see her but once unaware, And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there). Nor behold her wild eyes, and her mystical countenance fair. We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead ; In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead ; By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow, deep-nested, in brown ; Not Echo, fair Echo, for Echo, sweet Echo, was flown. So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call. The church was among them, gray moss over roof, over walL ECHO AND 'J HE FKRRY. 49 Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green, grassy mound And looked in at the window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round Might have come in to hide there. But, no ; every oak- carven seat Was empty. We saw the great Bible — old, old, very old. And the parson's great prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beat Of the pendulum swing in the tower ; we saw the clear gold Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle, and then waver and play On the low chancel step and the railing ; and Oliver said, " Look, Katie ! look, Katie ! when Lettice came here to be wed She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown ; And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her." Then quoth small Seven : " Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever ? " All doubtful : " It takes a long time to grow up," quoth Eleven ; " You're so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never Last on till you're tall." And in whispers — because it was old And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told. Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk. Neither heard nor beheld, but about us~in whipers we spoke. Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand. While bleating of flocks and birds' piping made sweeter the 4 land. 50 ^LHO AND THE I^ERR V. And Echo came back e'en as Oliver drew to the ferry, ''O Katie!" "O Katie!" ''Come on, then!" " Come or then I " " For see, The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree " — " by the tree." "^^ By the tree." Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry ; * Hie over ! " " Hie over ! " " You man of the ferry"—" the ferry." " You man of the ferry — " " You man of — you man of — the ferry." Ay, here — it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old; All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white To that little low church ? and will Oliver meet me anon ? Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over — passed on? Will the grave parson bless us ? Hark ! hark ! in the dim failing light I hear her ! As then the child's voice clear and high, sweet and merry, Now she mocks the man's tone with " Hie over I Hie ovei the ferry!" "And, Katie." "And, Katie." "Art out with the glow-worms to-night. My Katie?" "My Katie!" ^For gladness I break into laughter And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years ; Again, some one else — oh, how softly ! — with laughter comei after. Comes after — with laughter comes after. — -Jean Ingelow. Roderick Lee. This is a wild, lone valley, and the road that threads it through Is the loneliest road I know of, and I've traveled not a few ; Those hills on the left^ so barren, and yon^ towering, rocky ridge, Look down on a sluggish river that is spanned by a moss-grown bridge — And nigh to the bridge like a sentry, a tall, gray chimney stands, 'Mid the wreck that time has buried 'neath the tangled weeds and sands. In this valley three ruins moulder that were once three happy homes. And where once fond voices mingled, now the sly fox fearless roams ; Then these locks^ were thick and glossy, that are now so sparse and gray; Then I'd clamber these rocks as willing by night as I would by day — But, if a royal scepter, if the world"* were promised mine To cross again this valley, I would shudder and decline. Roderick Lee was a miller, and as grist was hard to find Down in his old New Hampshire,^ he had little or naught to grind ; So, with his young wife blooming and his brown-eyed daughter Nell, Gestures, i. Left A. O. 2. Left ind. A. O. 3. Point to head. 4. H. sweep. 5. H. L. SI 32 ^ RODERICK LEE. Together with two young farmers, he came to this® place to dw^U : And many's the mile of prairie, and many's the forest drear, That lay 'twixt the far-off Merrimack^ and the stream^ that ripples here. Yet with a heart as buoyant and as brave as it was true. Young Lee, 'mid the cheers at parting, bade his native town adieu ; Then came the weeks of toiling, aye, months, ere the scorching plain Was crossed, and his eyes were greeted by the distant moun- tain chain ; But the white-topped, dusty wagons at last made their final stand. And he knelt to breathe thanksgiving with his little pilgrim band. Stay ! even now in fancy, I can see their forms once more, I can see their peaceful faces and the look of hope they wore — Poor Kate and Nell and Edith, young Harry, Mag and Joe—' 'Neath that oak^ I see them kneeling, tho' 'tis thirty years ago! And long ere the hazy autumn had mellowed another year, Our huts were built in the clearing, and our corn hung rip^ X> the ear. Joe was a model husband, as fair Edith, his wife, well knew, And Mag and her raw-boned Harry, lived as loving couples do; But, as their homes were childless, very natural-like it fell 6. H. F. 7. H. 1.. 8. II. F. 9. Ind. H. F. R ODE RICK- LEE. 53 That these kind and worthy people thought the world of little Nell. Many a time they kept her whole days 'gainst her mother's will, First in the hut by the river^*^, then in the hut by the hill". Once in the chill November, when the slender moon^^ hung low, And the barren hill tops yonder^^ were clad in a gauze of snow ; Kate with a gleam of mischief in her bright and twinkling eye. Started across the river^"* to the hut of Joe, hard by ; And Roderick sat by the window, watching her out of sight. Dreamily watching the shadows of that chill November night Ere it had seemed a moment she again stood by his chair ; She had called at their neighbor's cabin, but Nellie had not been there. Roderick slowly rising took his rifle from the rack, For the road was wild and lonely and led through a forest tract ; Over the ruts and boulders, chatting, they strode^^ along Till the voice of raw-boned Harry was heard in a merry song. " Singing for Nell's amusement," said the wife, as she hurried on ; " Pity," she added, musing, " that they have no child of their own." Soon with a hearty greeting they were met at the cabin door, 10. H. O. ^11. Left H. O. 12. A. O. 13. Left A. O. 14 H. O. 15. H. s^ 54 RODERICK LEE. "And where is your little daughter?" asked Mag, as she scanned them o'er. ** Question your good man, Harry^^, for I'll venture that he can tell," Said Kate, then smiling added, " we must stop lending little Nell." Mag, with a playful gesture drew the bed-room screen" aside, " See ! " she exclaimed, " she's not here ; now I hope you are satisfied." " Come, Maggie, come, don't trifle, for the hour is growing late ; I know that the child is hiding ; would you have us longer wait ? " Thus queried Kate, half pleading, when a look akin to fear Stole over the face of Harry as he said, *' she is not here! "^^ "Not here! O God^^ protect her!" with a gasp young Roderick cried. And his pale wife like a statue, mute with fright, stood at hi? side. 'Twas but a single moment, yet it seemed like an age to wait Ere Mag and Kate with their husbands filed out^'^ through the open gate ; Dark^^ was the night as a dungeon, for the moon had sunk away^^, And the far-off cries of a panther^^ filled each breast with dread dismay. i6. H. O. 17. Left H. O. 18. Shake head. 19. Glance up. 2^ H. F. ■21. Ver. H. sweep. 22. Let hand fall. 23. H. O RODERICK LEE. 5^' On^ through the gloomy forest like a band of ghosts they sped Silently, save when the mother sobbed, or a twig snapped 'neath their tread ; " Hark^^ 1 " whispered tall, gaunt Harry, and they stood with heads^® bent low. While faint on the air of midnight came shrieks^^ of pain and woe. " Hello ! hello^^ ! " cried Harry ; but they heard no voice reply — " Heavens ! what means that crimson, that glow^* on the fleecy sky? See how it spreads^*^ and deepens ! Look ! our cabins are ablaze ! " Then Roderick paused in terror at the sight that met his gaze Light grew the wood about^Hhem ; their shadows fell before. For behind^^ them on the hillside leaped the flames from Harry's door : <4 Qj^33 |*Qj. yQ^^ lives ! " screamed Harry, " on for little Nell ! ' Then, like an answering challenge, rose the distant Indians' yell. Bang! bang! "That's Joe replying; he'll fight 'em game and well," Were the words that Harry uttered ; " God^ spare my darling Nell ! " This from the pallid mother ; and the settlers fairly flew 24. H. r. 25. Raise hand to listen. 26. Bow head. 27. H, F. 28. Hand to mouth. 29. A. F. 30. A. sweep. 31. b. H. O. 32. A. B. 33. H. F. 34. Clasp hands. 55 RODERICK LEE. O'er the matted brush and boulders till the clearing came in view. Oh, such a sight^^ of ruin ! oh, such a ghastly scene ! Stark, dead/^ lay Joe and Edith on the charred and trampled green. Crouching down 'mid the bushes they watched the painted fiends, Watched with the strange, grim calmness that despair so often lends ; " My child ! my child ! " then springing from the group like a startled deer, Kate rushed^^ o'er the red-lit clearing ere one could interfere — The hideous, screeching cut-throats had captured little Nell ; But, when they saw her mother, they stood bound, as by a spell. " Spare !^* oh, spare my darling ! Here, pierce me,^^ strike me dead !*^ Give back my child, my Nellie ! " the frantic woman said ; Then on her panting bosom her daughter's head she laid, Then both sank'*^ down in silence, looked up and mutely prayed ; That was the fatal signal, for on, like a sweeping hell'*^ They came with knife and hatchet, with rifle-shot and yell. Bravely they fought, yet vainly, that fated settler band. Clubbing their empty rifles, meeting them hand to hand ; Roderick reeled and staggered, then fell*^ 'neath a crushing blow. 35. b. hands raised V, and head turned away. 36. H. F. 37. H. F. 38. Clasp hands. 39. b. H. F. 40. b, D. F. 41. b. D. F. 42. P. ind. D. F. 43. D. F. HOLDING A BABY. ,57 And a whoop of fiendish malice told the triumph of the foe; Then like a flash they vanished"" and Roderick bleeding lay, Hearing their yells grow fainter, till at last they died away. Gray dawned the wintry morning on that awful scene of death, And five cold brows of marble were kissed"^ by its chilling breath — God in his wisdom took them — save Nellie, who ne'er was found ; And all of them sleep in this valley, each 'neath a grassy mound. Poor little Nell may be living, but if living she's dead to me ; Yes, the tale is indeed a true one — and my name ? — is Roderick Lee. — Geo. M, Vickers. 44. H. O. 45. P. D. F. Holding a Baby. Yesterday, while waiting on the corner for a street-car, a woman, laden with an umbrella, a bandbox and a baby, ac- costed me with *' Say, mister, can I git to Market street on these yer cars ? " "You can," I replied. " How long must I Wait?" "Madam," said I, noticing the string slipping from her bandbox, " may I hold your umbrella and bandbox until the car arrives? See, here it comes ! " " I'd rather you'd hold Berthy, if you will, mister, 'cause this darned string's a slippin' off — quick ! — ketch it ! Land o' misery ! '^rrere be all my things scattered over the bricks ! Do hold Berthy while I pick 'em up." Here was a dilemma. The car was not forty yards off, while the sidewalk was strewn with every conceivable article, from a broken hair brush to a pair of old worsted slippers 58 HOLDING A BABY. " Hurry up, then, madam," cried I, as I reached for the child, " I have an appointment and must take this car." Just as I took her from the woman's arms, Berthy set up a yell that would have paralyzed a huckster. Before the woman had gathered up half the articles the car was upon us. Leaving her bandbox, she ran to the crossing, and with a " Hold on there, you ! " signaled the driver to stop. The latter, taking in the situation, kept on, but a fat man standing on the plat- form pulled the bell and the car stopped about half a dozen yards beyond the flag-stones. The conductor, who was inside, collecting fares, ran out, and, grasping the bell-strap with one hand and beckoning with the other, screeched : " If you want to ride down, come on ; I ain't a-goin' to anchor here all day ! " As soon as the woman took up her bandbox and umbrella, I started for the car. " Tell your wife to come," yelled the con- ductor. I looked back and there stood the woman on the corner. " Do you think I'm a-goin' to wade through that mud ? " screamed the woman, " for if you do, you're mistaken. Just back that ve-he-cle to me, right quick, too! " I had reached the platform with Berthy in my arms, but the woman, looking cyclones, still refused to move an inch. I shrieked out, " Walk along the pavement and get on here ! " A cross old maid looking through the window at my elbow remarked aloud : " Hear him abuse his poor wife ! " The fat man suggested that I should manage the freight and let my wife take the baby. The woman slowly picked her way through the mire and stepped on the car. The conductor gave the bell a wicked snap, and with a jerk that almost threw us over the dasher, the car started down the street like a ten-penny nail from a slap-jack. " Here, madam," said I, in desperation, " take the child, I have forgotten my pocket book." She dropped into a seat and took her baby. Just as I was rushing from the car THE SPAXISU J/UT//ER. ^g the word " scoundrel ! " was hissed into my ear. Turning quickly, my horrified eyes beheld the stony gaze of my wife. " Go ! " she muttered. Well, I did go ! Friends do you see this bald spot on my head ? Well, that reminds me never to fool with other people's babies. — Geo. M. Vickers. The Spanish Mother. [Supposed to be related by a veteran French officer.] Yes ! I have served that^ noble chief throughout his proud career, And heard the bullets whistle past in lands both far and near — Amidst Italian flowers,^ below the dark pines of the north,^ Where'er the Emperor willed"* to pour his clouds of battle forth. ~ 'Twas theft a splendid sight to see, though terrible, I ween, How his vast spirit filled^ and moved the wheels of the machine; Wide sounding leagues® of sentient steel, and fires that lived to kill,' Were but the echo of his voice, the body of his will. But now my heart is darkened with the shadows* that rise and fall Between the sunlight and the ground to sadden and appall : The woeful things both seen and done we heeded little then, But they return, like ghosts, to shake the sleep of aged men. I. H. O. 2. H. O. 3. Left H. O. 4. D. F. 5. b. H. O. 6. H.O. sweep. 7. D. O. 8. V. H. O, 6o THE SPANISH MOTHER. The German and the Englishman were each an open foe, And open hatred hurled® us back from Russia's blinding snow • Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires unquenched, remain The dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the brooding soul of Spain. I saw a village^^ in the hills, as silent^^ as a dream, Naught stirring but the summer sound^^ of a merry mountain stream ; The evening star^^ just smiled from heaven with its quiet silver eye. And the chestnut woods^^ were still and calm beneath the deepening sky. But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man nor beast we found. Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor corn upon the ground ; Each roofless hut^^ was black with smoke, wrenched up each trailing vine. Each path was fouP with mangled meat and floods of wasted wine. We had been marching, travel-worn, a long and burning way, And when such welcoming we met, after that toilsome day. The pulses in our maddened breasts were human hearts no more, But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent of gore. We lighted on one dying man, they slew him where he lay ; His wife, close-clinging, from the corpse they tore^^ and wrenched away ; 9. b. V. par. H. O. 10. H. O. 11. P. H. O. 12. H. L. 13. Left ind. A. O. 14. H. O. 15. H. O. 16 V. D. O. 17. Sp. THE SPANISH MOTHER. 5i They thundered in her widowed ears, with frowns and curses grim, " Food, woman — food and wine, or else we tear^* thee limb from limb." The woman shaking o^ his blood, rose/^ raven-haired and tall, And our stern glances quailed before one sterner far than all. " Both food and wine,"^*^ she said, " I have ; I meant them for the dead,^^ But ye are living still, and so let them be yours instead." The food was brought, the wine was brought out of a secret place,^^ But each one paused aghast, and looked into his neighbor's face; Her haughty step and settled brow, and chill indifferent mien, Suited so strangely with the gloom and grimness of the scene. She glided here,^ she glided there,^ before our wondering eyes, Nor anger showed, nor shame, nor fear, nor sorrow, nor sur- prise ; At every step, from soul to soul a nameless horror ran. And made us pale and silent as that^^ silent murdered man. She sat, and calmly soothed her child into a slumber sweet ; Calmly the bright blood on the floor crawled^^ red around our feet. On placid fruits and bread lay soft the shadows of the wine. And we like marble statues glared — a chill, unmoving line. 1 8. b. CI. H. O. as though tearing apart. 19. raise hand P. 20. Look to left. 21. D. O. 22. Left H. L. 23. H. F. 24. H. O. 25. Ind. D O. 26. P. D. sweep. 62 THE SPANISH MOTHER. All white, all cold ; and moments thus flew by without a breath, A company of living things where all was still — but death f My hair rose up from roots of ice as there unnerved I stood And watched^^ the only thing that stirred — the rippling of the blood. That woman's voice was heard at length, it broke the solemn spell, And human fear, displacing awe, upon our spirits fell — „ Ho! "^^ slayers of the sinewless! Ho! tramplers of the weak! What! shrink ye from the ghastly meats^^ and life-bought wine ye seek ? Feed, and begone !^^ I wish to weep — I bring you out my store^^ — ' Devour^^ it — waste^"* it all — and then — ^pass^^ and be seen no more. Poison! Is that your craven fear?" She snatched the goblet^® up And raised it to her queen-like head, as if to drain the cup. But our fierce leader grasped her wrist — " No, woman ! No ! " he said, "A mother's heart of love is deep — give it your child^^ instead." She only smiled a bitter smile — " Frenchmen, I do not shrink — As pledge of my fidelity, behold^* the infant drink ! " He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning her inmost soul; But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned the bowl. 27. D. O. 28. Look to D. O. 29. Look to left. 30. H. F. 31. H. L. 32. b. H. O. 33-34. Impulses. 35. H. sweep. 36. Sp. 37. Left D. O. 38. In- clination of head to D. O. THE SPANISH MOTHER. 6^ And we with lightsome hardihood, dismissing- idle care, Sat down^^ to eat and drink and laugh over our dainty fare. The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting wild and light; But / was fevered with the march, and drank no wine that night; I just had filled a single cup, when through my very brain*^ Stung, sharper than a serpent's tooth, an infant's cry of pain. Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous cheer, To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a frozen spear. "Aye," shrieked the woman, darting up, "I pray you trust again A widow's hospitality in our unyielding"*^ Spain. Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God^ Himself I swore To treat you^ as you treated him^ — that"^ body on the floor. Yon secret place^^ I filled, to feel, that if ye did not spare. The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there. A mother's love is deep, no doubt ; ye did not phrase it ill, But in your hunger ye forgot, that hate is deeper still. The Spanish woman speaks for Spain ;'*^ for her butchered love,^^ the wife. To tell you that an hour is all my vintage leaves of life. I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on, Nor count the crowded brave who sleep beneath*® a single stone; 39. B. H. O. 40. Hand to head. 41. D. F. 42 Point up. 43. H.F. 44. D O. 45. Ind. D. O. 46. Left H. L. 47- H. sweep. 48. D. O. 49. P. D. O. 64 AN" ENGINEER'S RIDE ON A PIANO. I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by, I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die. But though upon her wrenched limbs they leaped like beasts of prey, And with fierce hands, like madmen, tore^ the quivering life away — Triumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain. Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain. And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild. Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds,^* around the mother and her child — While she,^^ distinct in raiment white, stands silently the while, And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchang- ing smile. — Sir Francis Hastings Doyle, §©. Sp. 51- H. Sw. 52. H. F. An Engineer's Eide on a Piano. Bill Jones is my fireman ; we have run together on old " thirty-six " for more than twenty years. One night when we were off duty, said Bill, '' Jim, let's take in a show." " Where ? " I replied, at the same time scanning the bill- board at the end of the depot. " See ! " cried Bill, " Mons. De Frog- limb, the great French piano virtuoso — " " That's enough, Bill," said I, " we'll go " — and we did. He was a Frenchman , looked like an animated switch-signal. I am an old engineei, and have often whistled through the wind, but that virtuoso ! — Well, as soon as he sat down on the stool I knew by the way GLADYS WALLACE. MY LIPS ARE PADLOCKED, HOUR . EVEN IF AND I WOULD NOT L'SP THE SECRETS OF THAT TWERE TO HAVE THE LAST WORD." ALEXANDER SALVINI. there! bring my love the shattered glass- charge ON THE FOEl NO JOYS SURPASS ISUCH DYING I THE TROOPER'S DEATH Ivii ; And the little black-eyed rebel, so cunning and so sly^ Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye. His face was broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough, The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough ; But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered ^ nigh, And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye. He drove up to the market, he waited in the line : His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine. But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy, Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye. " Now, who will buy my apples ? he shouted, long and loud ; And, ''Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd. But from all the people round him came no word of reply, Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye. For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day 6^ THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL. 6g Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away, Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain, or die ; And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye. But the treasures — how to get them ? crept the question through her mind, Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find ; And he paused a while and pondered, with a pretty little sigh. Then resolve, crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye. So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red. '' May I have a dozen apples for a kiss ?" she sweetly said ; And the brown face flushed to scarlet, for the boy was some- what shy. And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye. '' You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he. ''I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she. And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by, With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye. Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small. And then whispered, " Quick ! the letters ! thrust them under- neath my shawl ! Carry back again t/iis package, and be s,ure that you are spry" ! And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye. 70 EXPERIENCE WITH A REFRACTORY COW. Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, un- girlish freak ; And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak. And *' Miss, I have good apples," a bolder lad did cry ; But she answered, " No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye. With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends would they greet. Searching for them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street. ** There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try," Thought the little black-eyed rebel with a twinkle in her eye. -^Will Carle ton. Experience with a Refractory Cow. [This piece is very effective given in costume.] We used to ketp a cow when we lived in the country, and sich a cow ! Law sakes ! Why she used to come to be milked as reg'lar as clock-work. She'd knock at the gate with her horns, jest as sensible as any other human- critter. Her name was Rose. I ne\'er knowed how she got that name, for she was black as a kittle. Well, one day Rose got sick, and would't eat nothing, poor thing ! and a day or so arter she died. I raly do be- EXPERIENCE WITH A REFRACIOKY COW. yi lieve I cried when that poor critter was gone. Well, we went for a little spell without a cow, but I told Mr. Scruggins it wouldn't do, no way nor no how ; and he gin in. Whenever I sdiid must yiw Scruggins knowed I meant it. Well, a few days arter, he come home with the finest cow and young calf yoy ever seed. He gin thirty dollars for her and the calf, and two levies to a man to help bring her home. Well, they drove her into the back yard, and Mr. Scruggins told me to come out and see her, and I did ; and I went up to her jest as I used to did to Rose, and when I said *' Poor Sukey," would you be- lieve it ? the nasty brute kicked me right in the fore part of my back ; her foot catched into my dress — bran-new dress, too — cost two levies a yard, and she took a levy's-worth right out as clean as the back of my hand. I screeched right out and Mr. Scruggins kotched me jest as I was dropping, and he carried me to the door, and I went in and sot down. I felt kind o' faintish, I was so abominable skeered. Mr. Scruggins said he would larn her better manners, so he picked up the poker and went out, but I had hardly began to g<^t a leetle strengthened up afore in rushed my dear husband 'a-flourishing the poker, and that vicious cow arter him like all mad. Mr. Scruggins jumped into the room, and, afore he had time to turn round and shut the door, that desperate brute was in, too. Mr. Scruggins got up on the dining-room table, and I run into the parlor. I thought I'd be safe there, but I was skeered so bad that I forgot to shut the door, and, sakes alive ! after hooking over the dining-room table and rolling Mr. Scruggins off, in she walked into the parlor, shaking her head as much as to say : " I'll give you a touch now." I jumped on a chair, but thinking that warn't high enough, I got one foot on the 72 EXPERIENCE WITH A REERACTORY COW. ^rass knob of the Franklin stove, and put the other on the mantel-piece. You ought to ha' seen that cow in our parlor ; she looked all round as if she was 'mazed ; at last she looked in the looking-glass, and thought she seed another cow exhibiting anger like herself; she shuck her head and pawed the carpet, and so did her reflection, and — would you believe it ? — that awful brute went right into my looking-glass. Then I boo-hoo'd right out. All this while was getting agonized; the brass knob on the stove got so hot that I had to sit on the narrer mantel-piece and hold on to nothing. I dussent move for fear Td slip off Mr. Scruggins came ro^uid to the front door, but it was locked, and then he come te the window and opened it. J jumped down and run for the window, and hadn't more'n got my head out afore I heard that critter a-coming after me. Gracious ! but I was in a hurry ; more haste, less speed, al'- ways ; for the more I tried to climb qu^'ck the longer it took, and just as I got ready to jump down, that brute of a cow kotched me in the back and turned me o\'er a.pd over out of the window. Well, when I got right side up, I looked at the v/n^dow and there stood that cow, with her head between the whr'tc and red curtains, and another piece of my dress dangling on her horns. Well, my husband and me was jest starting for the little alley that runs alongside of the house, when the cow give ^ bawl, and out of the window she come, whisking her tail, which had kotched fire on the Franklin stove, and it served her right. Mr. Scruggins and me run into the alley in such haste we got wedged fast. Husband tried to get ahead, but I'd been in the rear long enough, and I wouldn't let him. That dread MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 73 ful cow no sooner seen us in the alley, than she made a dash, but thank goodness ! she stuck fast, too. Husband tried the gate, but that was fast, and there wasn't nobody inside the house to open it. Mr. Scruggins wanted to climb over and unbolt it, but I wouldn't let him. I wasn't go- ing to be left alone again with that desperate cow, even if she was fast ; so I made him help me over the gate. Oh, dear, climbing a high gate when you're skeered by a cow is a dread- ful thing, and I know it ! Well, I got over, let husband in, and then it took him and me and four other neighbors to get that dreadful critter out of the alley. She bellered and kicked, and her calf bellered to her, and she bawled back again ; but we got her out at last, and such a time ! I'd had enough of her; husband sold her for twenty dollars next day. It cost him seventy-five cents to get her to market, and when he tried to pass off one of the five dollar bills he got, it turned out to be a counterfeit. Mr. Scruggins said to his dying day that he believed the brother of the man that sold him the cow bought it back again. I believe it helped to vv^orry my poor husband into his grave. Ah, my friends, you better believe I know what a cow is. Mary, Queen of Scots. [First Honor at Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution and Languages, 1885.] I looked far back^ into other years, and lo ! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away. It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls. And gardens with their broad green walks^ where soft th^ foot- steps falls ; Gestures, i. H. F. 2. P. D. O. 74 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. And o'er the antique dial stone^ the creeping shadow passed. And all around,^ the noonday sun a drowsy radiance cast. No sound of busy life was heard, save from the cloister^ dim. The tinkling^ of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. And there' five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees, In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please ; And little recked they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers, That Scotland knew no prouder^ names, held none more dear than theirs : And little even the loveliest thought, before the holy shrine, Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line! Calmly her happy days fiew on,^ uncounted in their flight, And as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light. The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of Bourbon, And 'neath a thousand^^ silver lamps a thousand courtiers" throng ; And proudly kindles Henry's^^ eye — well pleased, I ween, to see The land assemble alP^ its wealth of grace and chivalry ; But fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune's tide, Effulgent in the light of youth, is she,^"* the new-made bride ! The homage of a thousand hearts — the fond deep love of one — The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun — They lighten up her chestnut eye,^^ they mantle o'er her cheek, They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak ; 3. H. O. 4. b. H. O. 5. Left H. O. 6. Hand raised to listen. 7. H. O. 8. A. O. 9. H. sweep. 10. b. A. O. 11. b. H. O. 12. H. O. 13. b. H. O. »4. H. O. 15. H. O. sustained with slight impulses from the wrist upon each clause. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. yc Ah ! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its bril- liant hours, She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its flowers ? The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way. And o'er its lee^® the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast-receding hills,^^ that dim and distant rise. No marvel that the lady wept — there was no land on earth^® She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth ; It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends- It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends— The land where her dead husband slept — the land where she had known The tranquil convent's hushed repose,^^ and the splendors of a throne^" ; No marvel that the lady wept — it was the land of France— The chosen home of chivalry, the garden of romance! The past was bright, like those fair hills^^ so far beyond her bark ; The future^^, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark^^ ! One gaze again — one long, last gaze — *' Adieu, fair France, to thee ! "^^ The breeze comes forth — she is alone on the unconscious sea! i6. H. L. 17. H. B. 18. D. F. 19. P. F. 20. A. O. 21. H. K 22. H. F. 23. b. V. H. O. 24. Sweep from face to H. B. (must be graceftll 01 leave out). ^6 MAJ^Y, QUEEN OF SCOTS. The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood, And in a turret chamber high^^ of ancient Holyrood Sat Mary, listening^® to the rain, and sighing with the winds, That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds. The touch of care had blanched her cheek, — her smile was sadder now, The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow ; And traitors to her councils^^ came, and rebels to the field -^ The Stuart Scepter well she swayed, but the Sword she could not wield. She thought of all her blighted hopes — the dreams of youth's brief day, And summoned Rizzio^^ with his lute, and bade the minstrel play The songs she loved in early years — the songs of gay Nevarre, The songs, perchance, that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar; They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed^^ her into smiles. They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils ; But hark P the tramp of armed men ! the Douglas' battle cry I They come, they come !^^ — and lo ! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye ! And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words are vain^^ — The ruffian steel is in his heart^^— the faithful Rizzio's slain ! Then Mary dashed^^ aside the tears that trickling fell ; " Now for my father's arm ! "^® she said, " my woman's heart, farewell I "«' 25. A. F. 26. Incline head to listen. 27. H. F. 28. H. O. 29. Left H.L. 30. P. H. sweep. 31. Raise hand to listen. 32. H. F. 33. D. L. 34. P. ind. D. F. 35. Special. 36. Cli. raised. 37. H. L. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. yy The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one small lonely isle, And there^ within the prison-walls of its baronial pile, Stern men stood menacing their Queen, till she should stoop to sign The traitorous scroll that snatched the crown from her ances- tral line. " My lords, my lords ! " the captive said, " were I but once more free. With ten good knights on yonder shore^^, to aid my cause and me. That parchment would I scatter'**^ wide to every breeze that blows, And once more reign a Stuart Queen o'er my remorseless foes ! " A red spot burned upon her cheek — streamed her rich tresses down, She wrote the words — she stood erect-^a QUEEN WITH- OUT A CROWN/ The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner*^ bore, And the faithful of the land stood round^ their smiling Queen once more ; She stayed her steed upon a hill — she saw them marching by^^ She heard their shouts — she read success in every flashing eye. The tumult of the strife begins — it roars — it dies away ;** And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers — where are they?« • 38. LeftH. O. 39. H.O. 40. b.H.O. 41. A. F. 42. b. H. O. 43. H. sweep. 44. H. L. 45. b. H. O. 78 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. Scattered and strown and flying*^ far, defenseless and undone*' — Alas ! to think what she has lost, and all that guilt has won ! — Away ! away I''* thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part; Yet vain his speed — for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart! The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman'"' stood, And gleamed the broad-axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood. With slow and steady step there came a lady^^ through the hall, And breathless silence^^ chained the lips and touched the hearts of all. I knew that queenly form^^ again, though blighted was its bloom — I saw that grief had decked it out — an offering for the tomb ! I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone : I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled with every tone. I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads of living gold; I knew that bounding grace of step — that symmetry of mould! Even now I see^^ her far away, in that calm convent aisle, I hear^^ her chant her vesper hymn, I mark her holy smile — Even now I see^^ her bursting forth, upon the bridal morn, A new star^ in the firmament, to light and glory^^ born ! Alas ! the change ! — she placed her foot upon a triple throne, And on the scaffold^ now she stands — beside the block— ALONE ! :46. H. L. 47. D. L. 48. Left H. L. 49- H. F. 50. Left H. O. 51. b. P. H. O. 52. Left H. O. 53. H. O. 54. Listen. 55. H. O. 56. Ind. A. O 57. A. sweep. 58. H. F. THE YANKEE STILL AHEAD. rr,, The little dog that licks her hand — ^the last of a/i the crowd That sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps bowed ! — Her neck is bared — the blow is struck — the soul has passed^* away! The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of clay !®* The dog is moaning piteously ; and, as it gurgles o'er, Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor !«i The blood of beauty, wealth and power — the heart blood^^ of a Queen — The noblest of the Stuart race — the fairest earth has seen — Lapped by a dog ! Go, think of it, in silence and alone ; Then weigh against a grain®^ of sand the glories^^ of a throne! H.G.BelL 59. A. F. 60. H. F. 61. D. F. 62. Ind. H. F. 63. D. O. 64. A. O. The Yankee Still Ahead. A Yankee, visiting London, and passing along one of the principal thoroughfares of trade and travel, stopped to look at some beautiful specimens of writing paper exposed for sale in a shop window ; he gazed long and earnestly at the gorgeous display, when presently he turned and encountered the pro- prietor of the establishment standing at the door. The Yankee politely said : " Will ye tell me what ye du with them nice bits of paper ?" " Yes, we keep them to tie up gape-seed in," was the snappish response. " Oh, ye du, du ye? " said Jonathan, with a sly twinkle in his eye, as he walked on. Passing down the street a short distance 8o THE YANKEE STILL AHEAD, our indignant Yankee accosted another merchant, to whom he said : " Mister, can ye tell me what that feller duz for a livin' what keeps them nice bits o' paper in his winder ? " " Yes, sir; he writes letters for persons who desire his assist- ance." ** Du ye think he'd write a letter for me if I'd pay him fur it ?" ** Certainly he would, and be glad of the chance." Our bright-eyed hero thanked him, and turned t^bruptly away, walking briskly in the direction from which he came. The shop was soon reached, and, fortunately, the same indi- vidual stood on the door-step. The Yankee lost no time in addressing the cockney, and thus at once began : " I say, mister, I heerd that ye write letters fur folks what can't write ; what'U ye tax me to write a letter to my uncle Peter?" "I will charge you five shiUings," he said, in such a changed tone of voice that the Yankee had to look again to see that he had not mistaken the person. " Will ye write jest what I tell ye tu, and spell all the words right?" '' To be sure I will." "And if ye don't, I won't pay ye ; will ye agree to that ? " "As I understand my business thoroughly ^ of course I will agree to that." " Wall, then, ye may commence." The scribe arranged his paper, ink and pen, and pron ♦^nced himself ready. " My dear uncle Peter : — ready fur more ? " "Yes." "'Rived here in London last week, — have ye got thai deown ? " " Yes, go on." THE YANKEE STILL AHEAD. 3i " Thought I'd take a stroll through the woods, — got that deown and spelt right ? " " Yes, yes ; go on, and do not bother me so." " I pay ye five shillings by-and-bye, don't I ? " " Yes, but you have no need to detain me so if you do.'* " Wall, I walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and — " " What's the use of saying it over so many times ? " ** None o' your business, — I pay ye five shillings, — and walked and walked and walked — " "See here, this page is full of the words ' and walked.' " " Turn over then, — and walked and walked, and I couldn't find any woods. Have ye got all that deown and spelt right?" " Yes, but why don't you go on." " Jest then I stopped to think what I should du, or where to go, — got that all deown ? " (Snappishly) " Yes." " Wall, then I seen a sign, and on it wuz : * Teams to hire,* so I went up and told the man to give me a fust-rate team with a hoss I could easy manage myself My ! but you write fast. Is all that deown ? " (Surprised). " It is, and I would like to have the rest of your letter, sir." " Wall, that hoss started off all right, but in less than two minutes she got stubborner than any mule ; and I hed to get? eout, and lick her and kick her and prick her and lick her and kick her and prick her, (continue to repeat these words very rapidly), and she wouldn't go. Is that all deown, and spelt right?" " You are only losing time, sir, in repeating that last phrase." "That's my business, — When I see'd she wouldn't go fur lickin', I tried to coax her, and coaxed and coaxed and coaxed and coaxed and coaxed, but she wouldn't go ; then I got cross- ^2 TOMMY'S DEATHBED. like and went — *' (here the Yankee makes a chirruping sounc? which bids defiance to orthography). " I can't spell that," said the Englishman. " Oh, ye can't spell that, can't ye ? Then ye needn't write any more for me." " Need not write any more ! " " No more," was the composed reply of the Yankee, as he laid his hand over his fat pocket and said : '' I 'spose ye remember our agreement ? " " Yes, I do, but what's to be done with all this paper ? " " Keep it to tie up gape-seed in. Good bye, sir ! " and the Yankee made a speedy exit. Arranged by S, Anna Gesemyer, Tommy's Deathbed. But hush ! the voice from the little bed, And the watchful mother bent her head. " Mammy, I know that I'm soon to die And I want to wish them all good-bye. I shouldn't like any here to say, * He didn't shake hands when he went away ; He was glad to be off to his harp and wings And couldn't remember his poor old things.* In Heaven I never should feel content If I hadn't been kind before I went ; So let me take leave of them, great and small, Animals, people and toys and all." So the word went, forth, and in no great while The servants entered in solemn file — TOMMY'S DEATHBED. The stout old cook, and the housemaid. Rose, And the aproned boy, with his smutted nose. So each of the women, with streaming cheek. Bent over and kissed him and could not speak ; But he said that they must not grieve and cry, For they'd meet again in the happy sky. 'Twas longer and harder to deal with Jim— The child grew grave as he looked at him, For he thought to himself, " He bets and swears, And I hardly believe that he says his prayers. Oh, Jim, dear Jim, if you do such things You'll never be dressed in a harp and wings." He talked to the boy as a father should. And begged him hard to be grave and good. The lad lounged out with a brazen air And whistled derisively down the stair. But they found him hid in the hole for coal, Sobbing and praying in grief of soul. Old " Rover " came next, sedate and good. And gazed at his master and understood ; Then up we carried, in order due, " Maria," the cat, and her kittens two. Proud purred the mother, and arched her back, And vaunted her kittens, one white, one black ; And the sweet white kitten was good and still, But the black one played with his nightgown's frill. 83 84 TOMMY'S DEATHBED. He stroked them all with his poor weak hand But he felt they could not understand. He smiled, however, and was not vext, And bade us bring him the rabbit next. He welcomed " Punch " with a loving smile, And hugged him close in his arms awhile ; And we knew (for the dear child's eyes grew dim) How grievous it was to part with him. His mother he bade, with tearful cheek, Give " Punch " his carrot three days a week. With lettuce-leaves on a cautious plan, And only just moisten his daily bran. Then next we brought to him, one by one, His drum and his trumpet, his sword and gun ; And we lifted up for his fondling hand His good gray steed on the rocking-stand. Then close to his feet we placed a tray. And we set his armies in array ; And his eyes were bright with fire and dew As we propped him up for his last review. His ark came next, and pair by pair, Passed beasts of the earth and fowls of the air ; He kissed good Japheth, and Ham, and Shem, And waved his hands to the rest of them. But we saw that his eyes had lost their fire, And his dear little voice began to tire ; He lay quite still for a little while. With eyes half-closed and a peaceful smile. GOING TO MARKET. 85 Then " Mammy," he said, and never stirred, And his mother bent for the whispered word; '' Give him his carrot each second day," Our Tommy murmured, and passed away. Going to Market. Oh, dear ! these are dull times. What is a body to do ? Bills cannot be collected, the season for business is over, and prospects for relief look decidedly blue. How can a woman buy a Saturday's marketing for eight persons with only five dollars ? The idea is preposterous ! I could cry my eyes out with perplexity, but what's the use ? Moses Flint is a good husband ; he dotes on me, I know ; yet he has no more idea of the cost of a shoulder of mutton than a Kickapoo Indian has of a sewing machine. Well, there's no use of standing here talking about it ; it must be done, but how ? Oh, my poor head ! One pound of butter, fifty cents ; observe — sixteen ounces of butter for eight persons, just two ounces apiece, to last until Monday morning. Why, Moses himself eats two ounces at a meal ! The thought distracts me. Butter, fifty ; potatoes, twenty-five ; onions, fifteen ; he will have onions on Sunday ; won't eat 'em through the week ; says they interfere with his business ; but it makes no difference the day he spends with me. I wonder if my nostrils are better adapted to smell onions than Jhose of his customers ? Men are strange mortals, any- how ; my Moses will get shaved and polish his boots to go to the lodge, but let me ask him to go with me to the dress- makers, or to the Muggins', and he won't even put on a clean collar. The lodge must be a very particular place. Cabbage for slaw, ten ; there is a dollar gone already. A 86 THE MERRY SUNFLOWER. pair of chickens, one dollar and fifty cents ; rabbits would be cheaper, but he insists on chickens. It provokes me so. Last Sunday every blessed one wanted a drum-stick ; of course two fowls have but four drum-sticks, therefore, as intimated before, only four got the four, which left the other four to envy the lucky four who got the four drum-sticks, and to content them- selves with breasts and wings. For my part, I got only a neck and a gizzard. Well, I'll do the best I can, but I'll manage to squeeze out enough for two yards of that cherry-colored ribbon at Jones', dinner or no dinner, or my name isn't Sarah Flint. — Geo, M. Vickers, The Merry Sunflower. With a little ingenuity and with six musical voices this piece may be made a very pleasing and attractive feature in an evening's entertainment. Procure a piece of sheeting at least six feet in length by five in width. Fasten the lower lengthwise edge to the floor of the stage, and the upper edge, by means of cords or other fastenings, to the ceiling. Cut three holes about the height of a person's face in standing and of the shape and size of the face, and three others at kneeling height ; then around these holes paint or paste on paper to represent the petals of immense sunflowers, with stalks attached. The singer's faces occupy the holes, and the words ar*? sung to the air of " The Little Brown Jug." 1ST VOICE. Oh, I'm a namesake of the Sun, Prized and loved by every one. 2D VOICE. Quite tall and stately here am I, Oscar Wilde for me would sigh. Chorus. . HINTS ON EXPRESSION. g^ Oh, proud the rose and pink may be. Still they're naught compared with me; We look down on all the rest, Thus of flowers we are the best 3D VOICE. Yes, you're a beauty, so am I, Sitting on my throne so high ! 4TH VOICE. Rich black and yellow, gold and brown. Who's not heard of my renown ? Chorus, 5TH VOICE. Mister Sol he flirts with me, Tries his best my face to see ! 6th VOICE. Here list'ning to the warbler's song Rock I all the summer long. ChoTUS, Hints on Expression. Expression consists in so modulating the voice by means of the different degrees of pitch, force, rate, and rhetorical pause, as to perfectly convey every shade of meaning con- tained in the sentiment; in other words, it is painting with sound. As perfect a picture can be conveyed to the ear by means of voice as to the eye through color ; and in order to utilize this life-coloring of modulation in reading, you must first acquire a thorough conception of the meaning of the author; try to place yourself in sympathy with the sentiments you are to utter, adopt them and put them into your own words, notice how you express them, what degrees of force come S$ THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y-SCHOOL ANGEL. natural to them, what pitch and slides, degrees of rate, what pauses between words and upon words best bring out their meaning, and then take up again the author's words, and try to give them as nearly as possible like your own ; you will find the battle is half won. One of the greatest obstacles in the way of giving true expression is the presence of the printed page before the eye. The words are repeated one after the other mechanically, while the thoughts are perhaps upon an- other subject. An artist cannot paint a picture without first drawing it in his mind ; so we cannot paint a word picture unless its impression is made upon the brain ; hence the key to expression consists in understanding what you read. A future number will contain directions for the remedy of unmanageable voices. — F. Lizzie Peirce, The Crowning of the Sunday-School Angel. MUSICAL DIALOGUE WITH TABLEAU. CHARACTERS. The Guard, ....... Gentleman, The Angel of Order, The Angel of Literature, The Angel of Music, !^ Ladies. The Angel of Love, The Angel of the Word of God. ^ A small boy. Two Ragged Children, > J A little girl. A Chorus of Sunday-school Scholars. Preparations. — A large Gothic chair raised 07ie step or more from the floor of the pulpit for a throne, A crown (inade of pasteboard and covered with gold paper will answer)^ placed on THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y-SCIWOL ANGEL. 89 the top of the chair, A scepter is needed. The ladies taking the pa7'ts should be dressed in white ; they may each wear a long flowing veil of illusion or other light material, zvith star on the forehead. The veil shotdd not cover the face ^ but fall back over the shoulders. The Guard shoidd zvear a Knight Templar or other suitable tmiform, and shoidd take charge of and guard the throne before Order presents herself. The Angel of Order {comes up the aisle, with a bell or some emblem of order in her hand, and ascending the pulpit advances towards the throne and addresses the Guard as follozvs) : I am the Angel of Order; " Order is heaven's first law," — a glorious law, seen in those beauteous isles of light that come and go, as circling months fulfil their high behest. Nor less on earth discerned mid rocks snow-clad or wastes of herbless sand. Throughout all climes, beneath all varying skies, fixing for e'en the smallest flower that blooms, its place of growth. I am the child of beauty and wisdom. My attendants are comfort, neatness, and activity. I come to be the angel of the Sunday-school. Let me occupy this throne and issue my decrees, and confusion will be unknown ; officers, teachers and scholars shall be under my control. All the regulations essential to a proper conducting of the school shall be enforced. Punctuality in attendance, propriety in behavior, attention to instruction, and obedience to rules shall be insisted upon. I will have a place for everything, and everything shall be in its place. Guard {replies^. — Angel of Order, I welcome thee ; what thou hast said is true ; what would this universe be without gQ THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y-SCHOOL ANGEL. thy mighty presence? Were thy power aboh'shed but for d moment, "the war of elements, the wreck of matter and the crush of worlds " would be the immediate and inevitable result. Thou art needed everywhere, and we must have thee in our school, but thou canst not be the Supreme Angel of the school. Stand here upon the right of the throne (conducts her to the right of the throne). The Angel of Literature {comes up the aisle with Sooks, papers and tracts in her hand, ascending the pidpit, advances toward the throne, and addresses the Guard as follows^ : I am the Angel of Literature. The written thoughts and emotions of men constitute my domain. The pen and thf r press are the instruments of my progress, and are mightier than the sword. I, too, am an applicant for this throne. Give me authority and I will supply the school with books and papers, with leaves and tracts, — of these there shall be no lack. The library shall be replenished from time to time with entertain- ing, instructive and religious volumes, — well bound and beau- tiful. And all will be glad for my presence and rejoice in my power {advances tozvard the throne^. Guard {replies). — Angel of Literature, I greet thee also with pleasure. Thy sphere is a noble one, and thy mission worthy. The mind must be stored with knowledge and stimulated with truth. It is thine to impart information and administer cul- ture, — to aid in the education of our race. We give thee a place in our school, but cannot crown thee as its Ruling Angel. Stand here upon the left {leads her to the left of the throne). The Angel of Music {comes up the aisle starting from the vestibule of the church, having in her hand a harp^ or other instrumeJit, and a roll of music, singing) : i THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y-SCHOOL AiXGKL. g i Solo, ly Angel of Music. a 2=4: ^^ — h — There are lit- tie child-drea sing - ing round the throne P ^ In that heav'n - ly land, In that heav'n-ly land, They are m ^ A— h — ^— v- H 1 H l-i- s i singing round the bright eternal throne, The great white throne of God. m ^ Chorus by the School. V i-tr, 7" .F*' f- • » a ■■■ a"- ■■ « ^ • i ' i ' ! tVii'Wl. J J » a j m _' (m^ y i t U ^ K p it —%- —0^ Vl,/ • • €/ b u' b We shall meet them in (8 «— r— P * ^ i^ 1^ ^ their bright e — ^» -^8 ^ I*' -ter- nal i home, We ■•- ! will ^.-^»-> » » B »- ^ 1 r -H — /y • 0" .. ^ ^^k'l ■ r : 1 1 i ■ '^ ,- ^ ^ 1 — ?Llz_L ^L_L_;^ — t-i — L^ _v — p — r^ — r^ -T— 1 — 1 _^^ — 1 V sing with them around tne great white throne, We will sing of Him who died, "fn ii it: ^ ^ ^ ft fi ^. # — » — if » — f — f — » — f- ■k=. ^^ ^ "- V ■■ 'J ^ — [j^. 1 321:1: -/i— ^— ^-^ ^^3^ 92 THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y-SCHOOL ANGEL. ^ fezrSziJ: Of our Saviour cru-ci-fied, Eound the great white throne of God. From the New Silver Sonp, by permission of W. W. Whitney. The Angel of Music (advances toward the Guard, and addresses him 'as follows) : I am the Angel of Music. Melody and Harmony are my children. I open my mouth in song and my voice trembles with sweet sounds. I touch the keys of the instrument and the air is full of delightful strains. I give strength to the weak ; encourage the wavering ; cheer the sick, and assist in the triumph of the dying. I make heaven jubilant with anthems of praise. My voice is heard on earth in the lullabys of the nursery, in the songs of childhood, in the hymns of the sanc- tuary and in the ballads of the nation. My power is felt by the refined and the savage. Let me be the ruling angel of the Sumlay-school. I will furnish each department with an organ. I will teach all to sing. The tunes and the time shall be perfect, and no discord shall be heard amid the blended notes. Books of music shall be in abundance and all hearts shall thrill with gladness. Chorus hy the School. lorus oy me ocnooi. , We love to sing to-geth - er, we love to sing to-getb - er, Our m=^P^ •— f- -0-^- iw-tf,j b p-i- u-K-^-K-i^ -g m fKE CROIVNING OF THE SUNDA Y-.^JJJOOL ANGEL. 95 i 4— -r jt ^ — R N—>, — s -^iT-t m hearts and voic - es one ; -\ — i, i l> n To praise our heav'nly Father, To 0—^- -f:^wr- ^^^^^^ei^p praise our heav'nly Fa -ther, And His e - ter - nal Son ; We ^ ^zr^— ^ :|=: J uN r h 1 r^ ,..y d »"d J . ■ J — — ■p" - h ■ ..._ .. .... -_ 1 ... X - ~ • ^ #-.--' J --,! .. _l . . __. __ 1 1 >* 1 ^A^ J • J J J S' ^ • ^ i^ 1 J J "^ J V>L? • * * . ^ ^' . • « . « 2 in' J ^ ^ d 1 love, welove, V7e love, we love. We * 4 ^ 5 love to sing to - ^111 :_^ ^ ^ i geth-er, We ^ V-lr^ -=^— tZHL^lfe- 1 U — 1 — 1 1 — ^_ ~\-[-^^^ :ti=S:: love, V7e love, we love, we love, We love to sing to -geth-er. ^S i± i Copyrighted, 1859, in Oriola, by W. B. Bradbury ; used by permission of BiGiiOW & Main. Guard {replies). — Angel of Music, I have listened to thy son^, and its sweetness has captivated my soul. Surely thy work is sublime and thy influence great. ** Music the fierest grief can charm. And fate's severest rage disarm ; 94 THE CR O WNING OF THE S UN DA V-SCHO OL ANGEL. Music can soften pain to ease, And make despair and madness please; Our joys below it can improve, And antedate the bliss above." We cheerfully assign thee a place in our midst, but thou canst not be the Supreme Angel of the school {leads Iter to the right of the throne). The Angel of Love {comes up the aisle leading a little boy and girl, each wearing a loose, ragged garment that can he easily thrown off. She advances toward the Guard and addresses him as follows^ : I am the Angel of Love. I dwell in the bosom of God and in the hearts of men. Heaven is the scene of my highest mani- festation, but I breathe benedictions on the earth. I relieve the needy and cheer the disconsolate with words and deeds of sympathy. The light of my smile kindles a radiance in many dark places of sorrow. My scepter subdues the hardest heart, and my speech often wins the prodigal back to his father's house. I make home happy and bless the church with pros- perity. I am a candidate for this throne. Give m^e place, and I will cause with magic power springs of happiness to rise, and flowers of social delight to bloom in the pathway of all ; the aged and the young shall alike rejoice, and the entire school shall witness how good and pleasant it is to dwell together in unity. Besides this, I will go out into the highways and hedges, into the lanes and alleys ; visit the abodes of the poor and the haunts of ignorance, and will gather the children in -that they may be enriched with the treasures of grace, and made wise unto salvation. THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y- SCHOOL ANGEL QUAETETTE. 95 Gather them in, gather them in , Gather the chil-dren in. ^ ^ ^fe=i: :^^^^-lVf^ Si -^ J ^ h -V— v^ V \^ \^ -d-T , Vj S Ic h. ■ ^ ^ ■ vL/ • J J J J J J m 2 S • 8 f! 9 4 * J7 4 4^^-14 f Gath - er them in from the \ Gath - er them in from the 4 ' ' broad highway, prai - lies vast,^ 1 — m i 1 ^* 9 # * . ■ gath - er them in, gath - er them in, v^—% S %-\ f^sH-;* f ^ * ^ — *—\ — ^ 1 1 1 — • — .* — ^ — ^-^- ~ — * ^ — e_i —2/ '^ ^ U U 1/ b I' > ! u^ i I gath gath er them in : er them in Gath Gath er them in, in this gos - pel day, •er them in of ev - er - y cast, •y ■y y '^ Full Choki's. mm^^^mmm^^ gath gath -er, gather them -er, gather them :} L> U U' Gather them in, let the house be full, M. M. ^ Jl'jL, Jt. JL ^ ^ ^ ^- ■/ !^ U >^ ^ ^ $ ^=8^^ :fi«n Gath er them in - to m- the Snn - day School, Gath-er them in, ■^■^ ^ ^ ^' ^ ^ ^ ^ i^ ()5 THE CROIVAJNG OF THE SUN DA Y-SC//OOL ANCiF.L $ ;i=i: ■^ \j \j ~j gath - er them in, Gath - er the chil - dren in. * Copyrighted, 1861, in Golden Chain, by W. B. Bradbuky; used by permission of Biglow & Main. Guard. — Angel of Love, fairest daughter of the skies, thy smile is radiant with blessing, and thy coming is ever a bene- diction. Without thee, this world would be a wilderness, drear and cold, where naught but cruelty and sorrow would abound. Truly thou art welcome. Let thy voice be heard and thy power be felt among us. Bind our hearts together with a threefold cord which cannot be broken, and may the glory of thy presence surround us ever as with a halo ; but to thee, as to all who have preceded thee, I am compelled to say, thy place is not upon the throne, as the ruling angel of the Sunday-school. Guard {leads her to the left, beside the Angel of Literature ; the boy and girl during the singing having throzvn off their ragged garments^ take their places 07ie on each side of her). The Angel of the Word of God {comes up the aisle, carry- ing a Bible in her arms^ and advancing toward the Guards addresses him as follows^: 1 am the Angel of the Word of God ; Order is indispensible. Literature is needed. Music is to be desired. Love must ever abide. Each has her place and her work, but higher than all, and the inspirer of all, is the Bible. I come as the lamp of truth to a benighted woi'ld ; the bearer of intelligence from the throne of God — a revelation to men of duty and destiny. I come as the chart and compass to guide men safely over the THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y- SCHOOL ANGEL. g>^ Jea of life to the desired haven. My mission is to instruct both adults and children in the way of holiness that leads to heaven. I teach the sublime truths of faith and salvation — of God and immortality. Wherever I go, the wilderness and solitary places are glad for me, and the deserts rejoice and blossom as the rose. If all would heed my v/ords and partake of my spirit, the whole world would soon recover the charms of Eden. Instead of sin and misery, there would be everywhere purity and bHss. I come to train these children and youth in the ways of piety, and develop in them the elements of true man- hood and womanhood ; to qualify them for usefulness here, and blessedness hereafter. I wish to be crowned the angel of the Sunday-school. Guard. — Angel of the Word of God, All Hail ! A thousand welcomes. For thee we have waited long and rejoice in thy coming. Thou hast said well — Order is indispensible. Liter- ature is needed. Music is to be desired. Love must ever abide. These are thy handmaids and shall remain with us, but thou shalt be supreme. Ascend the throne (she takes her place on the throne). On thy head I put this crown. In thy hand I place this scepter. Rule thou over us. Fill our minds with thy wisdom, our hearts with thy spirit, that our lives may show forth the praise of Him who created us, and redeemed us h ' the blood of His Son. Order, Literature, Music, Love, tl 2se shall assist thee, and our School shall be a Bible School, I :ou art the Angel of the Sunday-school ! TABLEAU. The Guard. — {Standing immediately in front of the throne^ will sheath his sword, take off his hat, and say) : Order, Literature, Music, Love, let us bow in token of our 7 98 THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y- SCHOOL ANGEL. submission to the Word of God. {They all kneel and the Angel of the Word of God holds the Bible out on her hand while the school rises and sings) : Full Chorus. nttj_u, , ,. 1 rH — 1 — n ' — \ — 1 "T " ^rr-ff-^-^ — €— "J— 5=^ __j — 1 ^ ^ « fd~ ■'0 I 4 J 01 _j5 €■ - 1. The Bi-ble!the Bi - ble ! more precious than gold, The 2. The Bi - ble ! the Bi - ble ! the val-leys shall ring, And ^ftrSfr-B — m— --=f—r-T= P P ^ H— j=^- --r^ ?— ' p^ tt ff -^ p — Ft F— F -r 1 — r- — •— J — »- \-r—^ ^^=^: ^^^^^^t hopes and the glo -ries its pag - es un - fold, It speaks of a hills-tops re - ech - o the notes that we sing, Our banners, in g ^HEE m tj t ^.n s 1:f^ ■±±. '-t ±3L Sav-iour, and tells of his love, It shows us the way to the scribed with its pre-cepts and rules, Shall long wave in triumph the =z3t=:/ i ft Chorus. A-A— 0—0-^ ^=Sptq=qi r N — bsr- jro°°o„tscZol.}Hal-le-lu-jah,A - men! HaWe-lu-jah, A - * ~-i--=i- ^ THE CALLS OF THE BELLS, gg .. ^ S". , ^ ^^ \ \ K k I \.y =^>^> : ' «t ji J r ■ ! «u 1 1 1 — «-^— f- ^— $=rT-*- -r-i—f-^ » M J - men ! Hal - le - ■ lu-jah, Hal-le •lu -jah, Hal-le- 1 —a-. — ^-\ lu -jah, A- rf — '^ men! ^%^^— ^- — ^-— ^ f — r — h—-^ 9 £ f-'-fc -1— — -+-h^— H \j /j 1 ■■ t ■ U J 1 1 lV ^ ' m r M 1 tT '' 1 '' '' 1 1 '^ ^ ! II From the Sabbath Bell, No, 1, by permission of BiQLOw & Main owners of Copyright. CURTAIN. Rev. D, W. GoBDow. * The Calls of the Bells. [Represent bell tones with the voice upon the italicized troitJs,] " In union and in freedom dwell/** Peals forth a brave, time-honored bell. ** To all proclaim sweet liberty Throughout the land — the land is free ! " In the tower let it cheerily swing, And make the whole world hear it ring " The tyrants knell, the knell, the knell** It is the Independence Bell. At dawn of day, to break the spell Of sleep, the watchman rings a bell. The 'rough bell in the dusky tower. With rude tongue calls the signal hour. Oh, how it rings, and swings and clangs^ Shaking the old roof where it hangs ! The sound foretells , foretells , foretells The toils that follow morning bells. * Published by special permission from the author. jOO THE CALLS OF THE BELLS, In ringing notes that rise and swell. In startling sharpness sounds a bell. To boys and girls, it seems to speak Of German, Latin, French and Greek ; The lads and lassies know it well, It is the famed Academy bell. Read well, think well, learn well, do weU^ In haste exclaims the scholars' bell. In stout hands, jangling as it fell, Near a white apron rang a bell. Its tones are sounds that all may know, It gives the languid pulse a glow, It tinkles, jingles, rings and sings, And talks of sweet and savory things,. The roast, the broil and on the sheU, It is the dinner bell, " sweet-bell." A great white sheet in silence fell, Followed by the tinkling of a bell. How wide and white the snow-lit scene I Wrapped in warm furs two lovers lean, Bringing their beating hearts so near, Responsive throbbings they might hear^ And the fond story that love tells, But for the bells, sleigh bells, sleigh belK Sweet music comes from hill and dell* A charm of sound from a sweet bell; In softest harmony the tones Ring in the sweetest honey-moons. THE CALLS OF THE BELLS, iqi May no harsh speech come from the Hps To shade the fair moon with eclipse. Its melody in love-tones tells Of bride and groom and wedding bells. From far and near, where virtue dwells, There comes the sound of sacred bells, Soft choral chimes, one day in seven : Voices of love from the vast heaven. Their varied tones in sweetness blend, And like a psalm of praise ascend. And each glad heart in rapture swells^ Responsive to the Sabbath Bells. Flaming Hke lurid light of hell, Startled at midnight by the bell, Oh, merciless, disastrous fire. That spreads and rises, higher, higher, higher! Crackhng in speech like flames in fir. That needs not the interpreter. The thrilling ^varning peals and swells ^ It is the fire alarm of bells. There comes at last a saddening knell, Startling our sluggish souls. The bell Reminds us of the close of time. And warns us with its solemn chime. E'en the sad bell seems short of breath. When tolling in slow tones of death ! Let's hope that all is welly is well When tolls at last the funeral bell. — Ge0, W, Bungay. Dorothy Clyde; OR, The Squire's Daughter. a comedy in two acts. characters: Barton Clyde, a country squire. Leslie Raymore, a clerk. Morley Dingle, a rich man's son. Caleb Weatherspout, an old bachelor, Dorothy, the Squire's daughter. Mrs. Felton, a poor widow. Em'ly, her only child, Parthenia Philp, an heiress. Mercy, her maid. masqueraders. Scene: A Pennsylvania village. Time: The present. Act I. Interior of widow's cottage. Act II. The masquerade. Costumes : For first act — modern. For second act — Squire, sailor; Raymore, Chinese ; Dingle, knight; Weatherspout m,onk ; Dorothy, gypsy ; Mrs. Felton, ghost ; Em ly, peasant ; Miss Philp, duchess ; Mercy, French maid. Masqueraders to suitfancy. Act I. Scene : Interior of widow Felton' s cottage. Table, C. Rock~ ing-chair, L. C. Door Pract, in F., windows, etc. Time, morn- ing. Mrs. Felton discovered seated in rocking-chair ; Em'ly standing R. facing L. I02 DOROTHY CLYDE. X03 Em'ly.— Mother, I was never so insulted in my life ; she threw the dress on her toilet stand, and fairly ground her teeth with rage. Mrs. Felton. — Dear ! dear ! dear ! what shall we do ! I depended on the money for making that dress to pay at least a month's rent. Did you explain our distressed condition to Miss Philp ? Em'ly. — Mother, dear, I did my best to reason with her, but she only stamped her foot, and bade me hold my saucy tongue. She said the dress was ruined. Mrs. Felton. — Our lot is indeed hard. What a dreadful misfortune my sickness has proved to be. Em'ly. — Dorothy Clyde stopped me on the road opposite the mill ; she saw that my eyes were red, and pressed me so hard that I made a clean breast of the whole matter. She said she would be over about ten o'clock with her father, the Squire. Mrs. Felton. — Oh, if your poor, dear papa had only lived, how different our lot would be to-day. Alas ! I fear we shall soon be homeless. Em'ly {Kneels at her side). — Do not give way to such gloomy thoughts ; God has promised to care for the widow and the fatherless ; let us trust in His goodness. Mrs. Felton. — My child, your mother is justly rebuked. We will trust in the Lord, come what may. \_K7tock at the door."] Em'ly (Rises and opens door). — Oh ! walk in. Miss Philp. {Enter Miss Philp and Mercy, the latter bearing a bundle') Miss Philp. — Walk in ! Do you suppose I would run in, crawl in or creep in ? Walk in ! Of course I'll walk in, and when I am ready, I shall walk out again. Humph ! I04 DOROTHY CLYDE. Mrs. Felton. — Em'ly, dear, give the lady a chair. Pray be seated, Miss Philp. Miss Philp {Dusts the chair with her handkerchief^. — I think I shall stand. Em'ly. — The chairs are perfectly clean, Miss Philp ; I care- fully dusted them early this morning. Miss Philp. — I prefer to stand, however. Mrs. Y^iJio^ {To Mercy). — Sit down, Mercy. Mercy. — Thank you. {Attempts to sit on chair.) Miss Philp. — Stop ! how dare you sit when your mistress is standing ! Place that bundle on the table ; such brazen con- duct is intolerable. And as for you, madam, you have not only ruined my robe, but you have prevented my attendance at the ball to-night. Mrs. Felton. — Mercy ! Mercy {starts). — Eh ? Mrs. Felton. — It was merely an ejaculation. {To Miss Philp). — I deeply regret having incurred your displeasure. Em'ly. — Perhaps we can remedy the defect if it is but trifling • it is yet early in the day. Mercy {Places bundle on table). — Why yes ; I will open it {Beghts to untie bundle}) Mrs. Felton. — That's it ; how stupid we are. Miss Philp. — Don't include me ; I am not willing to be classified with dolts. Em'ly. — Oh, dear, no ! Mrs. Felton. — I meant no offense. Mercy {Takes dress from paper). — Look at it, Mrs, Felton. Miss Philp. — Silence ! Stop talking all together like quack- ing ducks ; your din will drive me distracted. Have you no refinement, no breeding ? How I dislike to mingle with vulgar persons. Young woman, ah, that is, Em'ly, hold up that dress. DORO Til V CL YDE. j 05 Em'ly (Takes up dress). — Yes, miss. Miss Philp. — Just try it on, so that I may show your mother her stupid work. Mrs. Felton. — Pardon me, but — Miss Philp. — Silence ! I am talking. Mercy {Aside). — Shame upon you, you spitfire ! Em'ly {Putting on dress). — I am sure we can fix it in time for this evening. Mercy {Assisting Em'ly). — How well you become fine clothes ; you were intended to be a lady. Just see what a gracefial figure. Miss Philp. — Ridiculous ; the idea ! Why the girl looks like a jointed doll. Mrs. Felton. — Em'ly, dear, hold still. Em'ly {Raises dress to her eyes). — ^Mother — Miss Philp. — Here, don't wipe your eyes on that dress, if you please. Em'ly. — Mother, I do not think it womanly in Miss Philp to thus take advantage of our reverse in fortune. Mrs. Felton. — There, there, Em'ly ! Never mind, let me examine the dress. Where is the fault. Miss Philp ? Miss Philp. — The sleeves are too long, the neck is too small, and the skirt is too short. Mrs. Felton. — Alas! I fear it is spoiled. My mind has been so burdened with trouble that I am beside myself. Mercy. — It fits Em'ly to perfection. Em LY. — How can we ever pay you for the material ? What shall we do ? Miss Philp. — Madam, what is your bill for making this dress ? Mrs. Felton. — I sent you the bill. Miss Philp. — Ah, yes, I recollect. {Draws bill from pocket I06 DOROrilY CLYDE. and reads') " To making dress, twelve dollars." Well, it is oi no use to me ; you may keep it — take the dress and receipt the bill. Mrs. Felton. — But our rent — if we do not pay something to-day we may be turned out into the world, homeless. Miss Philp. — I am not a charity visitor ; you should study economy. Ahem ! Mercy, follow me. \Exits door F. followed by Mercy'\ Mrs. Felton. — My child, my child ! (They embrace and stand weeping) \Enter Squire aiid Dorothy ; they pause and observe Mrs. Felton and Em'ly^ Squire (Aside). — This is, indeed, a tableau. (Aloud) Ladies I Mrs. Felton. — 1 / o^ a r\u % Em'ly.- \ {Start) OM Dorothy {Taking their hands). — Why are you weeping ? Papa will fix things all right. Do not worry. Squire. — Mrs. Felton, your husband was a man whom I esteemed highly. He at one time rendered me a valuable ser- vice, and it is but common gratitude that I now befriend his family. Here is a check for double the amount of all arrears of rent due on your cottage. (Hands her check) Accept it as a loan until you are able to return it. Mrs. Felton. — I could not think of it. Squire. — You must 1 Dorothy. — Take it for my sake ; do not refuse ; take it and welcome. Mrs. Felton. — Oh, what kindness ! Em'ly (Kisses Dorothy on forehead). — My own, dear Dorothy. Squire. — Now for a little talk on another subject. Be seated. (All take chairs) Mrs. Felton, you are aware that I am agent for the Dingle estate, of which your cottage is a part. I have long acted in that capacity as a matter of courtesy to my old friend. DOROTHY CL YDE, joy Caspar Dingle. I shall look after his property no longer, Mrs. Felton. — No doubt it is a great annoyance to you — Squire. — Not at all. Listen. I am rich, and my friend Dingle, in order to augment his already immense estate, desires his son Morley to become the husband of my daughter. Dorothy {Confused^. — Oh, papa, how can you talk of that horrid young man ! You know I detest his very name. Squire. — My dear child, if you will allow me to talk, I can easily show you the necessity of taking these ladies into our confidence. Dorothy.— Pardon me, papa, dear ; although I have never met Mr. Morley Dingle, yet from your description of his inter- view with you, I am sure he is very rude and ill-bred. Squire.— True. Now in order that he may have a pretext for visiting our village, he will in future collect his rents in person. He will be here to-day, perhaps may now be on his way to your cottage. Mrs. Felton. — 1 am. i • Em'lv.- I Oh, horrors! Squire. — You have my check. Mrs. Felton. — True, true, kind sir ; I had for the moment fogotten it. Squire. — Morley Dingle knows that my daughter has a generous nature and abhors meanness in any guise ; therefore, he would act his best were he introduced to her. I prefer Dorothy should see him in his ordinary character. Dorothy. — And how can I, papa ? Squire. — He will call here for the rent. He knows Mrs. Felton is largely indebted. Ladies, my plan is this : You and I will take a walk in the grove back of the cottage. Dorothy will remain and represent herself to be Em'ly; she can promise i08 DOROTHY CLYDE. the rent within a week; plead for time, anything, so that his manliness may be thoroughly tested. Dorothy. — No, no, papa ! Squire. — Take off your hat, throw an old shawl over your shoulders. {Points tJirongh window^ See! there he comes. Let us be off. Em'ly (Aside). — I wish I could stay and peep. Mrs. Felton. — I hope he will not be cross to the dear child— Squire. — Come, quick! \Exit all except Dorothy 1\ Dorothy (Hurriedly searching). — What can I get ? {picks up apron) Ah, this will do ! (removes hat) I hear his footstep on the gravel walk. (Listens) Gracious, how my heart beats ! [Loud knock at the door^ I wish papa was here. [Prolonged knock.'\ Well, he can't eat me, anyhow. (Opens door) [Enter Dingle?^ Dingle (Surveying Dorothy through eye-glasses). — Ah ! 1 presume you are the daughter of the, ah — Dorothy. — Yes, sir ; I am the daughter. Dingle. — Is it possible 1 Dorothy. — Sir, will you be seated ? Dingle (Aside).- — What airs these poor creatures assume. (Aloud) Miss, (takes card from case) this will probably explain both who I am and the nature of my business. Dorothy (Takes card and reads aloud) — " Morley Dingle, Dingleton, Dingle Township, Pennsylvania, (aside) Dingle, dong, dingle — (Aloud) I am not prepared to pay you any- thing to-day, Mr. Dingle. There has been very little money earned in this house since the last payment was made. Dingle (Sits on a chair and puts feet on table) — You must settle with me before I leave this village, or give up the house, (pulls book from pocket). Let me see; yes, here it is — Felton — DOROTHY CLYDE. 100 March, April, May, June — twelve dollars a month, just forty- eight dollars. What do you take me for ? Dorothy {Aside). — How I would like to tell you. {Aloud) O sir, if you but knew the sufferings of the poor I am sure your sympathy would guide your action. Dingle. — Not a bit of it. The laws of this State protect the defenseless landlord more effectively than any other govern- ment on the globe — except Ireland. I'm proud that I am a Pennsylvanian. Dorothy. — Surely, sir, you would not invoke the law to distress a poor widow and her child ? Dingle. — John Felton signed a lease giving me the right to sell all his effects for any arrears of rent due upon this house. Dorothy. — Does not the law exempt a certain amount of household chattels ? Dingle. — John Felton waived the benefit of the exemption law. Dorothy. — But he is dead. Dingle. — Young woman, his family must suffer the conse- quences of his act. Dorothy {Indignantly). — This is unjust ; it is contrary to the letter and spirit of the law. • Dingle {Looking through eyeglass). — You talk like a member of the bar ; that is, a country member — a squire. Dorothy. — The exemption law was enacted as a merciful barrier against the sweeping tide of adversity — a life-boat for h-;lpless castaways : how then dare any man's hand thwart the law and defeat its purpose ? To waive that law repeals it : is this an absolute monarchy ? Dingle. — This government is run upon a solid cash basis: if you have cash, you can smile at waivers. The remedy, young woman, is cash. That's my prescription for landlords' i;iO DOROTHY CL YDE. warrants ; it's a powerful antidote. (Taps his pocket and laughs). Dorothy. — You shock me, sir; you fill me ^with alarm ; would you strip us of these poor household necessities. Dingle. — I am a benefactor to women. If I see they have no possibility of keeping house I resort to heroic measures — I sell 'em out. What's the result ? They get situations, get plenty to eat and comfortable quarters. Dorothy. — And the little children ? Dingle {Pulls out watch). — It is time to end this nonsense. Have the rent by to-night. Good morning, \_Extt door F?^ Dorothy {Sits in chair). — So that's the suitor for my heart and hand ! Whew ! \Enter Squire^ followed by Mrs. Felton and EmHy\. Squire {Pointing with cane). — There he goes ! Look at him ; see how pompously he struts ; observe the elevation of his nose ! \All look towards window^. Take care ! down he goes ! [All laugh boisterously]. Dorothy.' — Poor fellow, I wonder if he is hurt ! Em'ly — His hat is completely demolished. Mrs. Felton. — Rather a bad fall. Squire. — Off he starts again. There goes the strut — up goes the nose — the lesson is lost. {To Mrs. Felton) Madam, now that we have arranged for the masquerade, banish your sor- rows : forget the trials of the day in the pleasures of the even- ing. Your daughter knows her part well ; she will personate Dorothy in her conversation with Dingle, until all unmask. Dorothy. — And my voice will convince him that I am hia delinquent tenant. Em'ly. — Dorothy, dear, do you really think Miss Philp will not recognize this dress ? Dorothy. — She will be too eager to be seen by Morley DORO THY CL YDE. 1 1 1 Dingle, Esquire, to even waste a thought on the toilet of any one save her precious self. \All listen^ Weatherspout (From without). — This way, Leslie, this way ; I've not forgotten the art of climbing rail fences, even if I am seventy-five. Squire. — My old friend Weatherspout, as I live ! [Enter Weatherspout']. Weatherspout (Pausing onthe threshold). I — I — beg pardon! Squire. — Come in, my long-tried friend. Weatherspout. — The door was open and it seemed kind o* natural to walk right in — so Leslie and — (turning to door) why, I thought he came in ! We have just helped ourselves to a draught of your delicious spring water. Em'ly (Goes to door). — Come in, Leslie. \_Enter Leslie Raymore^ Leslie. — Pardon my intrusion, ladies ; I assure you I had no idea you were engaged. Mrs. Felton. — You are welcome. Dorothy. — 1 ^^ , -p , > No apology IS necessary. Weatherspout. — Ladies, Mr. Ray more has been in my em- ployment for a number of years ; in fact, since his boyhood I have every confidence in his honor and integrity. Squire. — We all know Leslie, and every one is acquainted with you, Mr. Weatherspout : and it is exceedingly gratifying to hear of the cordial relations which exist between two such worthy men— but you were about to say — • Weatherspout.— I was about to remark that I have come here solely for the purpose of attending the masquerade ball to-night. X-ESLIE. — Mr. Weatherspout has stated the fact. I showed him the invitation from Squire Clyde, and he gave me permission J J 2 DOKO Tli Y CL YDE. to accept only on condition that I would allow him to accom- pany me. Squire, — Which I take as a high compliment to myself, and shall do all in my power to make you remember the hos- pitalities of Clyde Hall. \_All make show of conversing?^ Dorothy {To Leslie), — I am so glad you have come. Leslie. — I am more than glad ; I cannot express my hap- piness. Dorothy. — And papa wrote his consent — were you not sur- prised ? Leslie. — No, Dorothy, love ; your father is sensible, and judges a man by his personal worth rather than by the weight of his purse. Dorothy. — You have told no one ? Leslie — Only my employer. Dorothy. — You rogue ! No wonder he came with you. Squire. — Yes, yes ; that is so, we had better go to the man- sion. Mrs. Felton, we will depart. Recollect, Em'ly, until we unmask you are Dorothy Clyde — that is, to Morley Dingle. Good day, ladies. \All exit except Mrs. Felton and Em'lyi\ Mrs. Felton. — Em'ly, my child, God is good. Something seems to tell me that there are better days in store for us. Em'ly — Let us hope, mother; {takes her hand) my heart, too, seems lighter. Mrs. Felton. — We will hope. [curtain.] End of the first act. Act II. Scene : Interior of Clyde Hall. Seats arranged at wings. Door pract. in Flat, through which fiowers are visible. Em'ly md Dingle discovered standing C. Both are masked. DOROTHY CL YDE. 1 1 3 Dingle. — By yonder fair moon whose radiance is reflected in a thousand dewy gems ; by the glorious splendors of this summer night, I adjure you to remove that mask. Em'ly. — Sir Knight, if eloquence could tempt me to reveal my face before the proper time, then your words would win your wish. I am not what you think I am. Knights woo not poor peasant maids, and I am poor, and humble, too. Dingle. — The wealth of those bright eyes would make one rich though he were a beggar. Em'ly. — Flattery from friends is at best embarrassing ; from strangers it is wholly out of place. Dingle (Aside). — There's no humbleness in that remark. {Aloud) I crave your forgiveness ; I am the last man in the world who would do an ungallant act. Em'ly {Aside). — You are among the latest who did. {Aloud) Are you always mindful of a woman's feelings ? Do you treat them all with gentle courtesy? Dingle {Aside). — There's a little sarcasm in that ; I wonder what she means ? {Aloud) Certainly ! I would scorn, loathe, abhor a man who could forget his duty in that regard. Em'ly. — Even though she owed him money ? Dingle. — Eh! {Aside) What is she driving at? {Aloud) Miss Clyde, you are severe. Em'ly. — If any one designated me as Miss Clyde they erred. Once more I repeat that I am not Dorothy Clyde. Dingle {Laughs). — We will not discuss that point. I have danced with you twice to-night, and I have danced with no one else ; and yet I have had the honor of twice dancing with the lady whose name you mentioned. Em'ly. — The music has ceased. The guests will come this WF.y. Excuse me. \Exits hastily Z.] Dingle {Looking L). — O Jupiter, what a beauty! How 114 DOROTHY CLYDE. lightly she trips across the hall. Sweet Dorothy, thou hast won my heart. \_Enter Dorothy R^ But why does she persist in denying her identity ? A servant volunteered to point out both her and the Felton girl ; she evidently desires to — Dorothy {Coughs). Dingle (Aside). — The tenant's daughter. I would recognize that haughty minx though she were doubly masked. Dorothy. — Pardon me, sir ; I would inquire the way to the banquet room. Dingle (Aside). — It will never do to let her recognize m^. voice ; I will assume a falsetto tone. (Aloud) You had better find a servant, Miss Gypsy Queen ; I am not posted in the commissary department. Dorothy. — I perceive that all knights are not Quixotes in gallantry. Thanks, however, for your suggestion. Dingle (Sarcastic bow). — Don't mention it, fair fortune- teller. Dorothy. — If you knew me you would try to be more cour- teous; thus have you unmasked your nature, though your face is still unseen. \_Exit Z.] Dingle. — The saucy beggar ! Well, in some natures poverty serves to intensify pride ; I will seek the Squire. (Exits R.) (Enter Weatherspout and Miss Philp, Door F. ; she leans upon his arm?) Weatherspout. — The night is lovely ; years and years ago it was my delight to wander forth beneath the moon's soft rays — Miss Philp. — Years and years ago! There! you talk like a sexagenarian. I will wager you what you will that you are under twenty-five ! Aye, that I know your name ! Weatherspout. — In a few minutes the guests will assemble DOROTHY CL YDE. i j j and unmask; if you guess my name I will anticipate that ceremony. Can you not detect the tremor of age in my voice? Miss Phtlp {Aside).^ — The servant volunteered to tell me this man's name. He is merely assuming the ancient quaver. His form is as straight as a pin oak. {Aloud) My eyes are not deceived, Mr. Morley Dingle. Weatherspout. — Not knowing the party for whom you take me, I am unable to rate the value of your compliment. Miss Phil? (Aside). — It is Dingle, sure ! {Aloud) Then, holy Monk, be my father confessor and learn that Mr. Morley Dingle is a perfect Adonis, a gentleman of rare attainments, one whose name any woman would be proud to— to — that is— include among her list of friends. Weatherspout.— Or read upon her teaspoons— I compre- hend. Miss Philp. — Of course I speak from hearsay only; I have not the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with the gentleman ; although I think I have enjoyed his company this evening. Weatherspout.— My child, you are mistaken ; I am not Dingle. I am glad for your sake that you are deceived. You will also be satisfied when you have reflected upon the matter. Miss Philp {Angrily). — Do you know to whom you are talk- ing ? Weatherspout. — Candidly, I do not. Miss Philp {Aside). — I see ; he fears I will penetrate his disguise. {Aloud) Oh, you are deep, very deep. Weatherspout {Offering his ami). — Permit me to escort you to the drawing-room. Miss Philp {Takes his arm). — What a dreamy, soul-inspir- ing night. Weatherspout ( \ awning). — Very. [ They exit Z.7 Squire {From without). — I will tell you. Step this way. 1 1 6 DOROTHY CL YDS. {Enter Squire and Leslie R., each holding mask in hand) Know-, ing that Dingle was anxious to identify my daughter, and that Miss Philp was dying to meet Dingle, I instructed a trusty servant to mislead them by making certain remarks within their hearing. The thing has worked like a charm, and the most ludicrous blunders have resulted. Leslie. — I thought that Dorothy was unusually interested in the movements of certain couples. So the little rogue is a party to your conspiracy ! Squire. — The motive justifies the means ; I desire to reclaim an arrogant young man and a silly woman ; both are difficult cases, yet I hope to succeed. Leslie. — Some one is calling — hark ! M.iB.-RCY {Without). — Quick! quick! Squire, quick ! (^;2^^ri L. running) Oh ! oh ! oh — I Squire. — Speak, girl, what is amiss ? Mercy.— Oh, sir, you wouldn't joke if you knew the trouble It may end in bloodshed ! Sv^aiRE. — Who's joking ? Mercy. — You asked me a conundrum. Squire. — Never ! Mercy. — You asked me what is a miss — every girl know.' what a miss is. [Exits R. running^ Leslie. — The girl is mixed. [Leslie and Squire mask.'] Dingle ( Without). — You shall apologize or fight. {Entef L.) Ah, here are gentlemen who will see fair play. Come on. sir, come on ! [Enter Weatherspout Z.] Weatherspout. — Silence ! Give me a chance to explain. Dingle {Drawing sword). — Retract, sir! Eat your words! {Flourishes sword) Feast upon them ! Swallow them ! "W eatherspout. — Gentlemen, hear him ! His tongue would madden an auctioneer with envy. DOROTHY CLYDE. 117 Dingle. — Ha ! more insults ! Hold me back ! {Makes a pass at lVcathcrspo7ct.) Let me dissect him ! \_Sq?iire and Leslie take hold of Dingle.'] Squire. — Remember where you are! Leslie. — Do notliing rash, sir ! Weatherspout. — Release him ; I fear his jargon, not his blade ; let me explain, and if he then insists on satisfaction, I will thrash him with my staff. Dingle. — My honor ! (Flowdshes his sword) must I submit to this ! Squire. — Let the monk speak. Weatherspout. — While standing on the porch enjoying the cool breeze, my companion, a lady, playfully called me Dingle I replied that the air was filled with Dingles, whereupon this fellow sprang from behind a bush, and would have throttled me, had I not sneezed in his face. DiNGLE.-What right had he to mention my name ? Squire. — You are a masked knight — how should he know you are the champion of one Dingle ? Dingle {Aside). — What a donkey I have made of myself. {Alotid) Gentlemen, there is a blunder here. Mr. Monk, I ask your pardon {Sheathes his szvord). I apologize. \E7iter Mrs. Felton D. F. She pauses C^ Squire. — Gentlemen, you've raised the dead with your noise. Look! Weatherspout. — Beg pardon, sir ? Leslie. — Were you addressing me ? Dingle. — What did you observe, sir? Squire. — I say it is a shame when even spirits cannot rest \All look at each other for explanation^ Dingle. — My dear sir, you've indulged too freely in lobster salad ; you've got the nightmare. 11 8 DORO THY CL YDE. Squire {Points at Mrs. Felton). — Brave Sir Knight, look over your shoulder. Dingle (Turns slowly^ sees Mrs, F., and runs off L.) Weatherspout {Same business). Leslie. — Well, gentlemen — {Turns and sees Mrs, F.) Ugh! (Runs off R.) Mrs. Felton {Removing pillow case from head). — Is it possible that I am such a hideous object that priests, soldiers and brigands flee from my presence ? Squire {Removes jnask). — My dear Mrs. Felton, they were frightened almost to death before you came; they were longing to disperse, and you furnished the excuse. Mrs. Felton.— This has been a night of excitement and pleasure to the young folks ; to me it has proved a season of consternation. One man was so terrified on meeting me in the hall that he fell into a tub of egg flip ; another individual dropped the arm of his lady-love and ran howling into the midst of the dancers. Squire. — When the guests behold your face, their fears will turn to admiration. Mrs. Felton. — Oh, now, really. Squire ! Squire. — I have long sympathized with you in your bereave- ment ; I have observed your trials and sorrows with positive pain ; sympathy often ends in love— Mrs. Felton {Aside). — Is he going to propose ? {Aloud) Don't, don't, Squire. Squire. — I repeat, sympathy often ends in love ; Dorothy loves you well. Mrs. Felton {Aside). '--^Tioroth.y I {Aloud) She does, I am sure. Ahem I Squire {Falls on his knee).-^And so does her father, {Enter Mercy Z.; she pauses unobsenwd^ DOROTHY CLYDE. nC; Mrs. Felton (Takes his hand). — ^This is indeed an honor Squire. — A true woman is an honor beyond price. I an the honored one {Look bashfully at each other). Mercy (Aside). — Well, if this isn't the spooniest collection of humans I ever was thrown among, then my name's not Mercy. (Aloud) Excuse me. Squire. — \f(r/ /N Eh ! Mrs. Felton.— / ^^^"^^^^ Oh, my ! Mercy. — I've lost my mistress and I want to find her. Its time to go home. Squire. — The masqueraders are coming ; (Mrs. Felton and Sqidre masJi) you will soon see your mistresjj. ( Waltz music in distance^ to continue until masqueraders enter^ zvhen change to vtarcJi') They are now dancing the last waltz. Mrs. Felton. — How sweetly the strains of music fall upon the ear. Squire (Extending his arms). — Do you waltz, my dear madam ? Mercy. — The idea! Mrs. Felton (Retreating). — Oh, no, no, no. Mercy. — Here they come ! (Sqtdre and Mrs Felto7i take position C. Mercy L» E.) Squire. — They come, my dear Mrs. Felton. Mrs. Felton. — Yes, they come. Squire. — My dear madam, let them come. \_E71ter Dingle a?id Enily^ Leslie and Dorothy y Weatherspout and Miss Philp, 2 L. E., followed by masqiieraders ; all counter- marcJi to music, and take final positions asfollozvs: Dingle and Em'ly R. C, Leslie and Dorothy L. C, Weatherspout a7id Miss Philp R., masqueraders form semi-circle in rear. Squire (Removing mask). — As your host I bid you each and all unmask. (All unmask!) 120 DOROTHY CLYDE. Miss Philp {Astonished). — Only look ! {Aside) Old as sin ! Squire. — I will first present my daughter. Dingle {Bows to Ein'ly). Squire. — Ladies and gentlemen {takes Dorothys hand), this is Miss Dorothy Clyde {all bow). Tiiv^Giss. {Aside). — The widow's daughter! {Aloud to Em!ly) Surely, this is a joke; are you not Miss Clyde? Dorothy. — No, sir; my name is Dorothy Clyde, and the young lady at your side is the one who did not hear your gallant views on the subject of arrears of rent. Dingle. — Do you mean to say — ? Em'ly.— She means to say that I am Em'ly Felton. Squire. — And that you are by ho means a stranger to Dorothy. Miss Philp. — And Mr. Dingle, pray what has become of him? Squire. — The ladies first. This is Miss Philp, my friends; this is Miss Felton, and last, but not least, this is my esteemed — ah — that is — my very esteemed friend, her mother. Now, Miss Philp, allow me to introduce to your kind consideration Mr. Morley Dingle, of Dingleton, Dingle Township, Pennsyl- vania. Dorothy {Aside). — Dingle, dong, dingle. Dingle. — I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Miss. Miss Philp. - -It is such a pleasure to place your name — • Weatherspout {Aside). — On your teaspoons, if you could. Miss Philp. — Among those of my chosen friends. Squire. — Perhaps it would give Mr. Dingle exquisite pleasure to escort you home. Dingle. — I have already a lady. Dorothy (To Di^igle). — Are you going to distrain the house- hold chattels ? DOROTHY CLYDE. \2\ DiNGLK.' —Not with such good collateral security. I was TTong. I deeply regret my action. Dorothy. — Then the court has reversed its decision ? Dingle. — Completely ! The waiver is a fraud. Squire. — Ladies and gentlemen, this is my old chum, Caleb Weatherspout, and this is my future son-in-law, Leslie Ray- more. Weatherspout. — Of the firm of Weatherspout & Ray- more. Miss Philp. — Mercy, get my wrap, quick. Mercy. — Must you go home alone ? Weatherspout, — Not by any means. I shall see you both safely home. Miss Philp {Aside). — He -don't look so aged after all. \Aloud) How kind, sir. Squire, — Now that we have thrown off our masks, let us keep then: off. Mrs. Fllton. — And let us clasp hands in the light of a perfect unaorstanding. {All join hands) Leslie.— Tl\3 is mainly due to Dorothy Clyde — Em'ly {Nods o Doi'othy).—T\i^ Squire's Daughter. [Curtain?^ — Geo. M. Vickcrs. A Dog Story. I. He was strong and trim, and a good sized cur, A gfant of dogs ; with soft silk fur, Poised head, of an intellectual size, And two straight, luminous hero eyes, A tail whose gestures were eloquence ; A bark with a germ of common sense. And this dog looked, upon the whole, As if he had gathered some crumbs of soul That fell from the feast God spreads for man — > Looked like a line of the human plan. There went with his strong, well-balanced stride A dignity oft to man denied. God's humblest brutes, where'er we turn. Are full of lessons for man to learn. That night that he crouched by the yielding door* And two grim, murderous thieves, or more. Had bribed the locks with their hooks of steel. He fought with more than a henchman's zeal For sleeping loved ones' treasures and life :— He conquered rogue, and bullet, and knife. That day that he walked by the river's brink, Thinking (if certain men can think). And saw distress with a quick, sure eye. And heard the half-choked drowning cry A living life boat, soon he bore The half-killed man to a welcome shore. And when the wife of the rescued one Wept him her love for the great deed done, And fondled him in a warm embrace, He talked with his honest, kind old face, 122 A DOG STORY. And said, " I have shown you nothing new ; It is what we Hve and love to do. In lake or river, in sea or bay, My race are rescuers every day ; In the snowy gulfs, 'mid hills above My race brings life to the race we love.*^ II. He was sick and reeling — deadly faint ; He roamed the streets with a piteous plaint. He had lips afoam, and eyes hard set ; He asked the mercy of all he met. He drearily ran his death-strown race ; He found no pity in any face. He glanced at an old friend with a moan, There came to him back a well-aimed stone. No cure for him in his strange distress, No tender nursing and kind caress ! All fled or fought when he came near ; The world seemed mad with rage and fear. He searched for an unfrequented way ; He would have prayed if a beast could pray. For he who man had deified Was now all mercy of man denied ; He who to save man's life had flown Now had to fight man for his own. ;}j 5jc * * <| The soul of the humble brute has fled : The grand old dog lies safely dead. O, man-like brain, and God-like heart ! You were made to carry a noble pari What spirit of vile Satanic breed Had sowed in your veins the poison-seed 12 ; 24 EXERCISES IN rRONUWClA TION. That turned to a curse your honest breath, — That shaped your Hps to a fount of death ? Sleep well old friend; your teeth of flame Grew not from a soul of vice and shame. Sleep well, old saint ; not yours the will To plant the world with the germs that kill. Not yours the conscious guilt that lies In men who ravage with open eyes. You did, old dog, the best you knew. And that is better than most men do ; And if ever I get to the great Just Place I shall look iox your honest, kind old face. — Will Carleton, Exercise in Pronunciation. A jocund, sacrilegious son of Belial, who suffered tVom bron- chitis, having exhausted his finances at the annual jajst, in order to make good the deficit, resolved to ally himself to a comely, lenient and docile young lady of the Malay or Caucasian race. He accordingly purchased a calliope, a coial necklace of chameleon hue, and securing a suite of rooms at a hotel, he engaged the head waiter as his coadjutor. He then dis- patched a letter of the most unexceptionable calligraphy ex- tant, with a sentimental hemistich, inviting the young lady to an orchestral concert. She was harassed, and with a truculent look revolted at the idea, refused to consider herself sacrificable to his desires, and sent a polite note of refusal, on receiving which, he procured a carbine and bowie knife, said that he would not now forge fetters hymeneal with the queen, went to an isolated spot, sev- ered his jugular vein, and discharged the contents of his car- bine into his abdomen, with a grimace at the raillery of his acquaintances. He succumbed and was irrefragably dead, and neither vagaries nor pageantry were permitted when he was conveyed to the mausoleum followed by his enervated canine. The Moon. Serenely, O moon, thou art beaming to-night, Tracking the sea with thy silvery light ; Piercing the forest, thy beautiful rays Are patching the ground in fantastical ways. On city, on hamlet, on palace and hut, On the far-stretching plain, in the deep mountain cut Thy mellow beams softly on all alike fall ; O, queen of the night, thou hast homage from all : From the glistening dew, from the true lover's sigh, From the cricket's shrill voice and the katy-did's cry ; Thy heart-soft'ning power all races have felt ; To thy soothing appeal the most callous must melt. O mute sympathizer, invoker of tales, A fleet of heart secrets each night to thee sails. To the shipwrecked at sea, when the storm clears away And calm night succeeds the wild, boisterous day, All huddled on raft, or faint clinging to spar, There's a hope in thy beams that no danger can mar. When red in the east thou ascendest the sky. And thy disc meets the half-naked savage's eye, He pauses, and feels as he views thy bright light That a Greater than he is displaying His might. Ere since by Omnipotence whirled into space. Thou hast gladdened the night with thy radiant face. To nations long dead, and unheard of by man. Thou wast familiar when first they began. Through their ages of splendor, their waning away, Till their last mould'ring relic succumbed to decay. ^ And so, till Jehovah's dread voice bids thee stay, And the night is absorbed by Eternity's day, Thou shalt in thine orbit thy mission pursue, A bright silver ship in an ocean of blue. — Geo, M. Vtckers, 125 The Suicide. The sun had set. The ruddy clouds Had changed to gloomy gray, And sweet, sad twilight soothed the hour Forsaken by the day. A village road, with nest-like cots, And oaks, on either hand. An old stone bridge, whose single arch, A dark, deep river spanned : And sounds of distant merry shouts Were borne upon the breeze, When, on the bridge there came a maid. And sank upon her knees. A maid ? Perhaps a slighted wife— Or neither — none could tell— A stricken life — a broken heart About to bid farewell — Farewell to that, which lacking hope. Is but a dreary waste ; Where Nature's brightest, fairest sweets Grow bitter to the taste. She rose — advanced unto the brink— A wild, imploring prayer — Alas ! she stood, unloved — alone — A statue of despair. One plaintive wail, and then a plunge— The wavelets laved the shore — • Then all was still. The river flowed As smoothly as before. _^^^ ^ ^^^^^_ 126 The Felon's Wife. The scene was a court of justice, where criminals were tried, And a woman and child^ stood sobbing close by a prisoner's side . The man was the woman's husband, the child their darling boy. And they waited the dreadful sentence that would two fond lives destroy. The sunshine streamed through the window and fell on the judge's face,^ While the song of a bird in a tree-top^ seemed harsh and out of place ; Then the sunlight merged into shadow,'* and the bird had ceased to sing — So quick are the fitful changes that fate and nature bring. The ordeal soon was over, and the woman stood alone, Alone with her tender offspring, with a heart that weighed like stone. The convict's tear still glistened like a gem on her pallid cheek. And that tear-drop mutely told her what his white lips could not speak. *Twds a sad farewell, that parting, for it severed man and wife — Doomed her to toil unaided ; him to servitude for life: Gestures, i. H. O. 2. Left H. O. 3. A. L. 4. B. P. H. O. 127 ^28 - '^^^ FELON'S WIFE. But time soothes' the deepest sorrow, and love will hope and pray, And soon like a dream grew the terrors of that sad and awful day. ******* 'Tis night on the Mississippi, and a steamer, staunch and new^ Has stopped at a village landing her fuel to renew ; A man, the only passenger, steps^ hurriedly on board. And mates and crew stand ready, waiting the captain's word : " Haul in the gang-plank, lively! cast off your hawser, quick!" Who — oo ! blows the hoarse, loud whistle, for the fog hangs low' and thick : Dong ! dong ! rings the pilot's signal ; plash ! plash ! go the mammoth wheels, And into the gloomy shadows, like a monster swan she steals.* A hundred souls are sleeping, and the engine's throbbing drone^ Has lulled the weary look-out with its drowsy monotone. Now the mist is lifting^*^ slightly, and a light" gleams on the shore — 'Tis gone; now the night grows blacker,^^ more dismal than before : Who-oo ! goes the whistle hoarsely, but the steamer plows along. For the pilot knows his bearings and he softly hums a song. Who — oo ! comes a sound, and faintly, like an echo far away; And the engine still is droning, still is heard the raining spray; ''Boat ahead, sir!"^^ calls the look-out; "Ay, ay, sir, boat ahead 1 " Thus replies the watchful pilot as he glances at the red," 5. P. H. O. 6. H. F. 7. B. P. H. O. 8. H. F. 9. P. H. F. >^. R^e- ftand P. II. H. L. 12. B. V. H. O. 13. Look up. 14. Look uy V* nght THE FELON'S WIFE. 129 Then turns to see the green** light, which the mist-clouds magnify Till upon each wheelhouse, gleaming, stares a single monster eye. Below the lights burn dimly, for all are locked in sleep, Save the stewardess and a porter who silent vigil keep — Who — 00! that's close upon us! dong! quick goes the pilot's bell. The engineer springs promptly and handles his lever well : "God help us ! what has happened ? " the frantic people cry, While terror and wild confusion are seen in every eye : Hark^^ to the trampling overhead ! to the rudder's rattling chain ! To the shrieks that come from the cabin, where the women still remain ! One blinding flash !^^ one shudder ! now everything is still, Save the swash^^ of the flowing river, and the sigh of the night wind^^ chill. The papers were full of the story, 'twas their theme for a day or more. Then the tale grew old and the world rolled on as smoothly as before. In a lowly home by the river^^ live a woman and her son. And the Hues on their patient faces show what toil and care have done : They stand with a priest and surgeon, near the bed of a dying man. And hark to his broken whispers, while his ashen face they scan : His life had been worse than wasted, and his soul was black with sin. And a seething hell of sorrow was raging his breast within — 15. Look up to left. 16. Raise hand **> listen. 17. V. H. O. 18. P. Sw. 19. A. O. 20. H. O. 9 I^O l'^^ FELON S WIFE. *' Yet— -rd-— make — one — reparation — " and his trembling voice sinks low — " I — would — do — one — thing — of — honor — tho' the last — be- fore — I — go." From — the — wreck — of — the— smouldering — steamer — fate — bore — me — bleeding — here, — That — my — awful — retribution — to — these — victims — mighi — appear — I — swear !^^ — "and his voice grows louder, "if — you — search — that — satchel — there — ^^ You — will — find — some — strange — confessions — and — the — proofs- — of— truth — they bear — " On the walP^ hangs a bag all blistered, which the womaii hastes to reach. For she of all his hearers knows the purport of his speech. "This^ proves my husband's innocence! Thank God for what you've said ! " And she turns to the lonely passenger, only to find him dead. Softly the sunbeams golden steaP by a prison bar Lighting an empty dungeon whose iron door stands ajar;-^ And the same sun lights a cottage,^^ with a warm and cheery glow. Where three fond hearts united, with rapture overflow : "O, husband," the woman whispers, "I knew that you told me true ;" And he smiles and gently answers, " let us our vows renew ; Come, boy, kiss your new found mother, whom we'll love to the end of life. For we've bid farewell forever to the grief-tried felon's wife." — Geo. M. Vickers. 21. Raise hand to swear, 22. Ind. H. O. 23. 11. O. 24. Fist raised as though holding satchel, 25. P. Sw. 26. H. O. 27. Left H. O. Little Christel. Fraulein, the young school mistress, to her pupils said one day, " Next week, at Pfingster holiday. King Ludwig rides this way; And you will be wise my little ones, to work with a will at your tasks, That so you may answer fearlessly whatever question he asks. It would be a shame too dreadful, if the king should have it to tell. That Hansel missed in his figures, and Peterkin could not spell !" " Oho ! that never shall happen," cried Hansel, and Peterkin too, " We'll show King Ludwig when he comes, what the boys in this school can do." " And we," said Gretchen and Bertha, and all the fair little maids. Who stood in a row before her, with their hair in flaxen braids. " We will pay such good attention to every word you say That you shall not be ashamed of us when King Ludwig rides this way." She smiled, the young schoolmistress, to see that they loved her so. And with patient care she taught them the things it was good to know. Day alter day she drilled them, till the great day came at last, When the heralds going before him blew out their sounding blast; 131 133 LITTLE CJIRISTEL. And with music and flying banners, and the clatter of horses' feet, The King and his troops of soldiers rode down the village street. Oh, the hearts of the eager children, beat fast with joy and fear, And Fraulein trembled, and grew pale, as the cavalcade drew near; But she blushed with pride and pleasure when the lessons came to be heard, For in all the flock of her boys and girls, not one of them missed a word. And King Ludwig turned to the teacher, with a smile and a gracious look ; " It is plain," said he, " that your scholars have carefully conned their book." " But now let us ask some questions, to see if they understand;" And he showed to one of the little maids an orange in his hand. It was Christel, the youngest sister of the mistress fair and kind, — A child with a face like a lily, and as lovely and pure a mind. " What kingdom does this belong to ?" as he called her to his knee ; And at once, " The vegetable," she answered quietly. " Good," said the monarch kindly ; and showed her a piece oi gold; * Now tell me what does this belong to, the pretty coin that I hold ?" LirTLE ClIRISTEL. 13^ She touched it with a careful finger — for gold was a metal rare — And then, " The mineral kingdom !" she answered with confi- dent'air. " Well done for the little madchen !" and good King Ludwig smiled At Fraulein and her sister, the teacher, and the child. " Now answer me one more question," — with a twinkle of fun in his eye, — " What kingdom do / belong to ?" For he thought she would make reply " The animal ;" and he meant to ask with a frown, if that was the thing For a little child like her, to say to her lord and master, the King ? He knew not the artless wisdom that would set his wit at naught, And the little Christel guessed nothing at all of what was in his thought. But her glance shot up at the question, and the brightness in her face. Like a sunbeam on a lily, seemed to shine all over the place. '* What kingdom do you belong to ?" her innocent lips repeat ; " Why, surely, the Kingdom of Heaven !" rings out the answer sweet. And then for a breathless moment a sudden silence fell, And you might have heard the fall of a leaf as they looked at little Christel. But it only lasted a moment ; then rose as sudden a shout, — " Well done, well done for little Chrietel !" and the braves rang about. 134 THE BALLAD OF BREAKNECK. For the King in his arms had caught her, to her wondering, shy surprise, And over and over he kissed her, with a mist of tears in his eyes. " May the blessing of God," he murmured, "forever rest on thy head ! Henceforth, by his grace, my Hfe shall prove the truth of what thou hast said." He gave her the yellow orange, and the golden coin for her own. And the school had a royal feast that day whose like they had never known. To Fraulein, the gentle mistress, he spoke such words of cheer, That they lightened her anxious labor for many and many a year. And because in his heart was hidden the memory of this thing. The Lord had a better servant, the land had a better King. — Mrs. Mary E. Bradley, iit*'' Wide Awake!' The Ballad of Breakneck. The sun shines out on the mountain^ crest; Far down the valley the shadows^ fall ; All crimson and gold is the glowing west;^ And wheeling and soaring the eagles^ call. The good ship^ rides with a filling sail ; The sailors are crying, " Away ! away ! We must stem the tide ere the North wind fail ; The night and the breeze brook no delay." Gestures, i. Left A. O. 2. P. H. F. 3. H. L. 4. Left A. Sw. 5. H. F. THE BALLAD OF BREAKNECK, 135 The young mate lingers upon the strand* Near a dusky maiden with flushing cheek; In his broad brown palm he holds her hand, And eager and low are the words they speak. " Weep^ not, Nekama ; I shall return ; Wait for me here on the mountain side ; When the woods in their autumn glory burn, I shall come again to claim my bride." Slowly the Indian lifts her head ; Dry is her cheek, and clear her eye : " Nekama^ will wait as thou hast said : The son of the pale-face cannot lie. Seeking thy sails on the stream below,' Under the shade of the tall pine-tree,^^ When the beeches are gold and the sumachs glow. From the mountain top I shall watch for thee." The sailors are calling ; the broad sails flap ; From his neck Dirck loosens his great gold chain, Flings^^ the gleaming links in Nekama's lap, Then springs^ to the shallop's stern again. The stout ash bends to the rowers will. Till the small boat reaches the vessel's side, Then he turns to Nekama waiting still. Sad, but calm in her savage pride. Sails the ship under high Cro' Nest,^^ Wearing and tacking in Martins' Reach,^* While Dirck looks back with a man's unrest; And Nekama^^ lingers upon the beach. Fade the sails to a vague white speck ; 6. H. O. 7. Look to H. O. 8. Look to Left H. O. 9. H. O. lo. A. O. /I. Sp. 12. H. F. 13. A. O. 14. Left H. F. 15. H. O. 1^6 THE BALLAD OF BREAKNECK. Loom the mountains, hazy and tall ; Dirck watches still from the vessel's deck, And the girl moves not, though the night-dews fall. A year has passed, and upon the hills*^ Scarlet and russet have faded to brown ; No sound is heard but the flowing rills," The summer's voices are hushed ^^ and gone.** A late, sad crow^*^ on a bare beech top Caws and swings in an autumn wind ; The dead leaves fall, and the acorn's drop^ Breaks the stillness and scares the hind. Wrapped in her blanket Nekama stands, Scans^^ the horizon with eager eye. Late he lingers. She clasps^* her hands, And a sadness dims her wide dark eye. Is it a mist^^ o'er the distant shore ? Look how the maiden's^ dusky face Glows and brightens ! a moment more. And the white speck changes,^^ and grows apace. He comes ! he comes ! From the wigwams near Gather the braves^^ and the squaws again ; The men are decked with arrow and spear, And the women of wampum and feathers vain. Flecked is the river^* with light canoes. Laden with gifts for the welcome guest ; The spoils of the chase let him freely choose ; 29 Close to the ship are the frail barks pressed. 16. Left A. O. 17. H. L. 18. P. H. O. 19. Drop hand. 20. Left A. O. 21. Sp. 22. Hand over eyes, and lean forward. 23. Clasp hands. 24. LeftH. F. 25. H. O. 26. Left H. F. 27. B. H. O. 28. P. H. F. 29, H. F. THE BALLAD OF BREAKNECK, j 37 Brown and still as a bronze relief, Shyly Nekama^*^ keeps her place Behind her father, the Mohawk chief, Who, plumed and tall, with painted face, Grasping a spear^^ in his nervous hand, Looking in vain one face to see. Turns and utters his proud demand : " Dirck Brandsen^^ comes not : where lingers he ?" ^Dirck stays in Holland," ^^ the sailors say ; " He has wedded a dame of wealth and state ; He sails no more for many a day — God send us all like happy fate ! " Dark grows the brow of the angered sire : " Can the white man lie like a Huron knave ? " The eyes of the maiden burn like fire. But her mien is steady, her words are brave. From her bosom she drags^^ the great gold chain ; Dashed ^^ at the captain's feet it lies : " Take back to the traitor his gift again ; Nekama has learned how a pale-face lies ! '* Proudly she steps^^ to her light canoe ; Bends her paddle at every stroke ; The graceful bark o'er the waters flew. Nor wist they a woman's heart had broke. Up the mountain^^ Nekama hies ; Stands in the pine tree's shade again ; Scans the scene with her wide wild eyes ; Moans Hke a creature in mortal pain. 30. H. O. 31. Sp. 32. Turn to left. 33. to right. 34. Sp. 35. D. F. 36. H. O. 37. A. O. UB THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. The dark clouds crowd round the mountain peak,** - Caws the crow on the bough^® o'erhead The great limbs bend and the branches creak — " Ah, why do I live P'*^ He is false !"^^ she said. A shriek is heard through the gathering storm ; A rushing figure darkens the air ; Out from the cliffy springs a slender form And the maiden's grief lies buried there."*^ Towers the gray crag'^ grim and high ; Drips the blood from its rugged side ; Loud and shrill is the eagles call O'er the muttering wash of the angry tide ! But Storm King^ nods to old Cro' Nest,^^ Where the pine-trees nod, and the hoarse crows call, Though the Mohawk sleeps 'neath that rocky crest,'*® While the leaves on his ruined castles fall. To-day on the Hudson sailing by, Under the shadow of Breakneck Hill, We tell the legend, and heave a sigh, Where Nekama's memory lingers still. — Harper's Magazine. The Chemist to his I ova. I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me. Our mutual flame is like the affinity That doth exist between two simple bodies : I am Potassium to thine Oxygen: 38. B.Par. A. O. 39. A. F. 40. Wring hands. ' 41. B. D. Cli. 42. A.O. 43. Ind.D.O. 44. A.O. 45. H.O. 46. Left A.O. 47. A.O. 48 tnd. A.Q THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. 13^ 'Tis little that the holy marriage vow Shall shortly make us one. That unity Is, after all, but metaphysical. Oh, would that I, my Mary, were an Acid, A living acid, and thou an alkali, Endowed with human sense, that brought together. We might coalesce unto one salt. One homogeneous ciystal. Oh, that thou Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen ! We would unite to form olefiant gas, Or common Coal, or Naphtha. Would to Heaven That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime, And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret ! I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, So that thou might be Soda ; in that case We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia Instead, we'd form the salt that's named from Epsom Could 'st thou Potassa be, I, Aquafortis, Our happy union should be that compound form, Nitrate of Potash, — otherwise Saltpetre. And thus our several natures sweetly blent, We'd live and love together, until death Should decompose the fleshy tertium quid. Leaving our souls to all eternity Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs And mine is Johnson. Wherfore should not we Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs ? We will. The day, the happy day is nigh, When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine. A Wayward Life. [An organ accompaniment, and singing by a concealed choir, will add very materially to the effect of this piece.] ^n^IS a cold winter night, and the earth is robed in a gown j[ of snow. The moon is partly hidaen by the driving clouds, and but dimly lights the sleeping world. The scene is a grave-yard. In the centre stands an old church. From its stained glass windows the warm light softly gleams. Slowly tottering along the narrow path is seen a human form ; it is a rough, old tramp, lonely, and almost bowed to the earth. He seeks among the tall, white tombs ; now he sinks wearily down on a hard, rough mound. There is no marble slab to mark out the spot ; only the drifted snow, only the bare leafless willow that moans and sighs above it. Hark ! he speaks ; his voice is feeble ; he mournfully cries, " Mother, I've come home to die with you. Here on your long-neglected grave, here let me pillow my head and fancy I sleep in your arms ; and the soft music within that dear church, let me fancy 'tis your sweet voice as you lull me to sleep. I dare not enter yon church, where in youth I worshiped my God." See ! he lays his head on that cold, hard mound, and sobs like a tired little child, " Oh, mother, I am weary, so weary of life, of toil so bitter and labor so hard. I long for rest, but I am afraid to die." He pauses, he listens, for within the church a voice speaks slowly and reverently, " Come unto me all ye that laborand are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." The tramp 140 A IVAYWARD LIFE. j^j replies, " Could I but know those words were meant for such a sinner as I ! " — and heavy sobs convulse his poor, wretched frame. Now the choir sings : " Go tell it to Jesus, He knoweth thy grief. Go tell it to Jesus, He'll send thee relief; Go gather the sunshine He sheds on the way, He'll lighten thy burden, go, weary one, pray." The wind moans piteously through the tall, gaunt trees, and he murmurs half inaudibly, " The prayers that were taught me in sweet boyhood years I then repeated with smiles, but now tears dim my eyes as I think of that patient mother who lies beneath this mound. I killed her ! I broke her heart ! But mother, oh, hear me to-night ! With my poor, weary form I will guard you and sleep on your snow-covered grave. Could I know that when dead I could meet you in Heaven, I would rest calmly here on this rough pillow, but alas for my sins, so many, so vile ! 'Tis only the pure and holy and good that ever dare hope they may enter therein." Each note of the organ peals out, full of tenderest pathos, each word from the singers comes clearly and plainly : " Weary of earth and laden with my sin, I look at Heaven and long to enter in ; But there no evil thing may find a home, And yet I hear a voice that bids me come." Now he kneels in the snow and his head is bent low, he clasps his trembling hands, then with one yearning look towards Heaven, he sinks like a child, weary of play," sleepy and tired, on that snow-covered pillow, the pillow of death. 142 THE LITTLE TORMENT. Now the flakes fall faster and faster still, they cover him gently, like a mother that covers her child, lest she waken it out of its slumber. Now more holy than ever, grander than ever, the old organ peals out, and the choir sings : "Safe in the arms of Jesus, Safe on his gentle breast, There by his love o'er-shadowed, Sweetly my soul shall rest." — Lizzie G. Vickers. The Little Torment. M Y NAME'S Jack. I'm eight years old. I've a sister Ara- thusa, and she calls me a little torment. I'll tell you why : You know Arethusa has 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 Alphonso 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 Arethusa's foot. Then she jumped and said, " Oh, mercy, what's that?" and Alfonso said she was a " timid little creature." Oh, Alfonso, 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 key-hole and said, " I do believe that's Jack, nasty little THE STAR^. J4^ 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 said, "you think you are smart because you wear a Grecian Bend. I guess I know what you've 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 yourself If it hadn't been for that old false front of yours, Pa would have let me have a velocipede 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 ! " The Stars. Spanglets of heaven ! Ye seem to me The alphabet of immensity. By which I read, in dazzling light, The lofty name of the Infinite. Shine on ! Shine on ! in your depths of blue, 'Till every heart can read it too, And every raptured eye that's bent Up to the studded firmament. Catches the glow of your ceaseless rays, And glistens in the Eternal's praise. Beautiful stars ! 'Neath your rich beams, As down from heaven their glory streams, When silence has sealed up the lips of Earth, And thought, more wild than the winds, has birth. _|^^^ 14^ HY SHE DIDN'T STAY TV THE POORHOUSE, I wander ! I wander ! with untold joy, To feast my soul on the orb-lit sky ; And never did Chaldee, when taught to kneel At the shrines of your splendor, more wildly feel The torrents of bliss through his bosom flow, As he upward gazed from the dust below. Eyes of the universe ! Gems divine ! Suns that bask in your own pure shine ! Countless guides of the awe -struck soul. As inquiring it rushes from pole to pole : I drink ! I drink ! at your fountains deep. While the world is locked in the arms of sleep, 'Till filled with the Pythonic draught of light, My intoxicate spirit deems all things bright ; And earth (and its deeds) is lost to me, Eclipsed by your dazzling radiency. — Dublin University Magazine. Why She didn't Stay in the Poorhouse. No, I didn't stay in the poorhouse, and this is how, you see. It happened at the very last, there came a way for me. The Lord, he makes our sunniest times out of our darkest days, And yet we fail most always to render His name the praise. But, as I am goin' to tell you, I have a home of my own. And keep my house, an' — no, I'm not a-livin' here alone. Of course you wonder how it is, an' I'm a-goin* to tell How, though I couldn't change a jot, the Lord done all things well. iVHY SHE DIDN'T STa IN TBI': ^OOI^HOUS^.. ,^r I've spoke of Charlie and Thomas, and Rebecca, " that lives out West;" An' Isaac, not far from her, some twenty miles at best ; An' Susan ; — but not a single word I said about another one,^- Yet we had six ; but Georgie ! Ah ! he was our wayward son, An' while his father was livin' he ran away to sea. An' never sent a word or line to neither him nor me. Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides in silence there, An' what we can freely speak of is never so hard to bear. But I couldn't talk of Georgie — he was too dear to blame, — It seemed as if I couldn't bear even to hear his name. But when I took my pauper's place in that old work -house grim, My weary heart was every day a-cryin' out for him. For I'd tried the love of the others, and found it weak and cold. An' I kind o'_ felt if Georgie knew that I was poor and old, He'd help to make it better, and try to do his part. For love and trust are last of all to die in a woman's heart. An' he used to be always tellin' when he was a man and strong. How he'd work for father and mother ; and he never done no wrong, Exceptin' his boyish mischief, an' his runriin' off to sea ; — So somehow now, out of them all, he seemed the best to me. And so the slow days wore along, just as the days all go. When we cling to some wild fancy that all the time we know Is nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till 'twould seem That the dream alone is real, and the real but a dream. And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my faith in him, And thought of him the long days through, until my eyes were dim. 146 ''BILL;' THE ENGINEER. And my old heart ached full sorely to think that never again I should see my boy until we stood before the Judge of men. When one day a big brown-bearded man came rushin' up to me, Sayin' *' Mother! my God! have they put you here?" An' then I see 'Twas Georgie, my boy, come back to me, and I knowed nothin' more, 'Cause I got faint, and but for him, I'd fallen on the floor. They say he swore some awful words, — I don't know, — it may be; But swear or not, I know my boy's been very, very good to me. An' he's bought the old home back again, an' I've come here to stay, Never to move till the last move, — the final goin' away. An' I take a heap of comfort, for Georgie' s good an' kind, An' the thought of bein' a pauper ain't wearin' on my mind; But still I never can forget until my dyin' day. That they put me in the poorhouse 'cause I was in the way "Bill" the Engineer. "AH 'board!" " Sphee-ee-chee — sphee-ee-choof !" And the iron horse moves his steel-rimmed hoof, And snorts from his chest his breath of steam. With a quickening pulse and warning scream. Moves out^ with his freight of human lives — A sinuous^ chain of humming hives. I. H. F. 2. H. O. **bill;' the engineer. i^^ Anon the hum is a rattling din, As the bright steel arms fly out and in, Till naught is heard save a deafening jar, As the train speeds^ on like a shooting star, With a lengthening trail'* like a smoky pall , Whose writhing folds envelope all. " Stoke up ! " shouts Bill, the engineer ; " We must rush this grade and the bottom clear" With a monstrous bulge, to pull up hill T'other side— heavy train." " All right. Bill ! " And the coal went in and the throttle out. " Watch yo' side the curve ! " from Bill with a shout. Adown the grade with open throttle They swiftly glide as a flying shuttle — Weaving in streaks of green and gray, The warp and woof of bush and clay. While steam and smoke and dust behind Form mottled clouds in the tortured wind. Through the cut^ and into the vale — Across the trestle that spans the swale ; There the willows swirl, and the rank weeds sway, And the heron starts with a shriek away® — Blown from her course — a shrill refrain, 'Mid the whirling gusts of the flying train. * * * * * * :|e Beyond the curve this side the hill. There runs a creek — by the old saw-mill — 3. H. O. quick motion, 4. Trace line of smoke with ind. fin. from H. O. to H. F. 5. H. O. continuous gesture. 6. A. O. 148 •*3ill;' the engineer, A covered bridge^ and a water tank, With the watchman's shanty on this bank : A quiet nook, for the mill is done, — With crippled Jemmie it ceased to run. Just round ^ the curve in the shady wood That fringes the creek, his low hut stood. Where Jemmie, the watch, spent his useful life. With a lovely child and a loving wife. Naught now came their peace to mar Worse than a swift train's rumbling jar. To fame unknown, but to roadmen dear ; For Jemmie had watched from year to year— And more than once did his vigil save A train and its lives from a watery grave; Since broken in purse and form at the mill He worked on crutches — a good watch still ! " Hark !^ 'Tis the train ! The mother's ear Leans to the sound ; then a mortal fear Freezes her veins — she sees not her child^*^ ! " Oh, darling ! Oh, Maggie ! " in accents wild. She starts^^ from the hut — no^ feeling the way, " Keep Maggie in when the trains go by!' She strains her eyes^^ out toward the creek, Where up the track, with an ashen cheek, Hobbled the watch^^ — one pointing crutch 7. H. O. continue with impulses to *' bank:' 8. H.O. sweep. 9, Left listen, ing. 10. Look around distractedly. 11. H.O. 12. Handover eyes. 13. H.O. ^BlLLr THE ENGINEER. Where Maggie lay^^ in the engine's clutch— The wilting flowers across her breast ; She'd wearied to sleep in their eager quest. " Save her, Mary!*^ For God's sake run !" Came Jemmie's voice like a signal gun ; The mother sprang like a startled deer, But the rushing train^^ was now too near — She saw, and swooned^^ with a piercing shriek That echoed afar o'er the winding creek ; Ay, pierced the boom round the curve so near,** And smote on the ear of the engineer ; " Great God ! Down brakes ! Quick ! Reverse !' And Bill was out*^ on the iron horse. Treading his thrills o'er the roaring fires With his nerves strung tense as electric wires. Alas ! the engine's speed is too great ; The baby dreams in the path of fate ! Yet Bill knows the force and just the brace To lift a pound in such a case ; With a rushing train and the child asleep, 'Tis a giants' power his place must keep. Still reaching forth with an iron grasp. He does with his might this God-like task ; Bears the startled child on high^^ — So happy to hear its frightened cry — 149 14. Ind. H. F. 15. Throw both hands up. 16, Left H. O. 17. D. F. l8. Left H. L. 19. Left H. O. 20. Raise hand as though lifting child. ijc **bill;' the engineer. Then crushing it to his manly breast,^ Kisses its cheeks with a lover's zest. " More brakes !" calls Bill, for the mother's seen,^^ And the crutches and form of Jemmie between His wife and the train — that's crushed the life From his child, he thinks — " I'll die with my wife !" But the train now slackens and stops apace — Hard by a pallid upturned face?^ "Saved!" cries Bill, from the engine's front; " Saved !" echoes Jemmie, his crutches shunt ; " Saved ! " shout the passengers, " Saved from death !" " Saved ?"^^ queries Mary, with conscious breath Then helped to her feet — " God bless you sir !" And Bill's grimy hand wipes back a tear "All 'board!" Sphee-ee-chee — sphee-ee-cboof !" And the iron horse moves his steel-rimmed hoof; And the train resumes its journey far. Heroes have been, and heroes are — Of battle and State^ of travel and skill, Of letters and art — but give us " Bill."^ At the end of the road they gave him a purse " I don't want that !" and he muttered a curse;. But finally took it, and stowed it away, And then threw^^ it to " Mag " as he passed next day It whirled through the air and struck by the stoop, Where the three stood to greet him, a joyful group. — Bettersworth 21. Hand on breast. 22. D. O. 23. D. L. 24. A. O. 25. Dazed mannei 26. H. F. cordially. 27. H. sweep. Published by permission of T. J. Carey, Editor of " Excelsior Readings and Recitations." The True Remedy. Don't say that times are pinching ; Don't say that bread is dear; Don't say that our prospects darken. And that worse times are near. Times are not so very pinching ; Bread is not so very dear; Countless stores of loaves are wasted, Burned in whisky, — drowned in beer. Don't say that the harvest failed us, — "Under average," "short," or "light;" Don't say that the Bounteous Giver Gave not as you think he might. God is bountiful, and giveth As becomes the Godhead's hand ; Food for man and beast providing, Scattering plenty o'er the land. Man himself, the food destroyer, Spurns and wastes the bounties given ; Turns to famine God's abundance, Robs his brothers, blasphemes heaven. Don't say that this is fearful, Killing men and burning com ; War is raging here among us, Day and night, and eve and morn. 152 THE TRUE REMEDY. Noiselessly and never ending, In a quiet, legal way, Murdering, starving, scourging, blasting. All the year and every day ! Take your grain in million quarters, Sink it in the lonely main. There to feed the gaping fishes, Never to be seen again ; Hide it in earth's drearest caverns. Burn it in the mid-day sun : — That were mercy, that were worship, When compared with what is done, — Taking bread from hungry children. And from starving, weeping wives ; Turning it to direst poison ; Demonizing human nature. Dwarfing it in moral stature, Blotting out each God-like feature, Shortening, tort'ring human lives I We say, something must be done ; Government must interfere, — Take the " short and simple method ;** Stop the whisky, stop the beer ! You can stop them if you will. 'Tis a small thing, will you do it? *Tis your country calls you to it ; Stop the traffic — shut the still. — Tempe'^anc^ Speaki^, Wanted— A Wife. I DO wish somebody would tell me how to get a wife. For the last ten years I've been continually proposing, at all sorts of times, in all sorts of places, to all sorts of girls, and in all sorts of positions. I have knelt in the clear moonlight, while the soft zephyrs of June fanned my heated brow, and with my hands on my heart made the most passionate appeal romantic maiden could desire. I have proposed in the giddy mazes of the waltz ; I" have besought a fair girl to be mine while skating, reminding her at the time that the path of life was far too slippery to be trodden alone ; I have popped the question on the stairs, and in fact everywhere I could; the last time being in the surf at Long Branch, where I begged the object of my affections to let us breast the waves of life together. But it's of no earthly use ! No one will have me except some superannuated female, and I'm not partial to aged charm- ers, though, goodness knows, I want a wife almost bad enough to take one. I've hardly a button on any of my shirts, or other undergarments, and am consequently obliged to fasten them with pins, (which occasionally prick me at most incon- venient times). My toes are poking out of my socks, and my fingers out of my gloves, while to crown all, I, who am a great lover of cleanliness, am forced to sit in a horribly dirty room. I have changed my boarding house ever so many times, but it does'nt make a particle of difference. My landlady always says it isn't her business to "clean up" after me ; the servants invariably remark that its no business of theirs, and I'm sure nobody can say that I ought to get a broom and dustpan and keep my own room clean. 153 jfCA BACK TO GRIGGSBTS. My washerwoman is everlastingly cheating nie, besides con- tinually suppressing various articles of clothing ; and when I mildly inquire where they have gone to, she solemnly swears she never had them ; though I could swear equally solemnly that she had. Then she cuts the pearl buttons off my shirts. and declares they came off in "the wash ;" and if I venture timidly to suggest that she should put them on again, she thanks God that all the gentlemen are not as mean as I am. Oh, dear ! It's very hard upon a poor fellow not to be able to get a wife when he wants one ! I'm not so very bad look- ing either ; to be sure I squint a little, but then that peculiarity is sometimes admired, and if it were not, surely some kind- hearted girl might shut her eyes to the fact and confer upon me the inestimable benefit of becoming my partner for life. I'm not bad-tempered, and don't drink nor sm^oke. I'm only thirty, and though I now belong to a club, I'll promise to give it up if required. I possess enough money to keep a wife comfortably ; have a good disposition ; and what more could a girl ask. If, after trying six months longer, I cannot induce any girl to have me, I will emigrate to some tropical climate where clothes are almost superfluous, and washerwomen un- known, and consequently where a wife will not be one of the absolute necessities of civilized life. Back to Griggsby's. Pap's got his patent-right, and rich as all cre?.tion j But Where's the peace and comfort that we all had bf;fore ? Let's go a-visitin* back to Griggsby's station— - Back where we used to be so happy and so pore I BACK TO GRIG uSBV :^. j r ^ The like of us a-livin' here ! It's jest a mortal pity To see us in this great, big house, with carpets on the stairs, And the pump right in the kitchen ! And the city ! city ! city! And nothi'X but the city all around us everywheres ! Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple, And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree ! And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people, And none that neighbors with us, or we want to go and see ! Let's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's station — Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door ; And every neighbor round the place is dear as a relation — Back where we used to be so happy and so pore ! I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit and bilin' A- drivin' up from Shallow Ford to stay the Sunday through ; And I want to see them hitchin' at their son-in-law's and pilin' Out there at Lizy Ellen's, like they used to do ! I want to see the piece quilts the Jones girls is makin', And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired hand, And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh a-takin', Till her pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his land Let's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's station — Back where there's nothin' aggervatin' anymore, Shet away safe in the wood around the old location — Back where we used to be so happy and so pore ! \ want to see Mirandy and help her with her sewin'. And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and gone* I 56 ^^^^ ^^^ SPINSTER. And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's growin , And smile as I have saw her, 'fore she put her mournin' on. And I want to see the Samples on the old lower Eighty — Where John, our oldest boy, he was took and buried, for His own sake and Katy's — and I want to cry with Katy As she reads all his letters over, writ from the war. What's in all this grand life and high situation, And nary pink nor hollyhawk bloomin' at the door — Let's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station — Back where we used to be so happy and so pore ! — /. W, Riley. The Old Spinster. No, she never was married, but was to have been — At the time she was running the loom — But the fact'ry burned down, some were mangled and scarred. And her lover was never her groom, As he wedded a handsomer girl. To the stranger, old Rachel was ugly indeed, For her features were grim and distorted ; Tho' in years long gone by she was lovely and fair, As the hopes of her life that were thwarted By the dreadful mishap in the mill. But beneath the plain calico gown that she wore, Beat a heart that was loving and tender — As the villagers knew — and man, woman or child 'Gainst the merest rude speech would defend her So well was the poor woman loved. THE OLD SPINSTER. jq;^ And right many's the maid, who, bewailing her woe. Has told Rachel the slight that distressed her, Only soon to trip on with a happier look, While the silly goose inwardly blessed her, For her comforting words and advice. Then the urchins have gone to her, covered with mud, Afraid to go home — perhaps crying — But old Rachel (the remedy) washed out the stains, And they laughed while their garments were drying, In the yard at the back of her cot. When the villagers slept, and the cricket and owl, And the rustling of leaves were unheeded. In the room of the sick, by the flickering light Was she seen, where her presence was needed. While her gaunt shadow danced on the wall. And the out-casts who begged at her door for a crust. Ere they went on their wearisome ways, Felt that one thought them human and pitied their fate. Who recalled the remembrance of earlier days. And who reckoned them not by their rags. But the weight of her grief which was never revealed, — Save to Jesus — the friend of the lowly — Bore her down — and the sands of her desolate life. Which for years had been ebbing out slowly. Ceased to run — and her spirit was freed. When the villagers stood at the side of her grave, When the gray-headed preacher's voice faltered, When the tears trickled down the bronzed cheeks of the men— Oh ! her beauty seemed fresh and unaltered As when happy she worked in the mill. 158 A STRING OF BROKEN BEADS. And oft where she lies a bent form can be seen When the twilight is deep'ning its shadows : And the sweetest of flow'rets are found on her tomb, All fresh from the dew-gleaming meadows ; Yet who gathers them no one can tell. — Geo, M, VickerSi String of Broken Beads; or, Jingles from Favorite Authors. Oh, with what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to my God, And bless him that the land was free. 'Twas free — From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free ! Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks, And plow our valleys, without asking leave I Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow In very presence of the Light Brigade. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them. Cannon in front of them, All a gwine into the ark. And there was the elephant-ah, that g-r-e-a-t animal-ah oi which Goldsmith describes in his Animated Nater-ah. which is as big as a house-ah, and his bones as big as a tree-ah, de- pending somewhat upon the size of the tree-ah ; and there was Shem, and there was Ham, and there was Japhet-ah, a-1-1 a-gwine into the show-room. A STRING OF BROKEN BEADS. j^q The auctioneer then in his labor began ; And called out aloud as he held up a man. How much for a bachelor, who wants to buy ? In a twinkling each maiden responded, " I — I !" In short, at a hugely extravagant price, The bachelors all were sold off in a trice, And forty old maidens — some younger, some older- Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. But scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er their heads, When one morning to Zantippe, Socrates said, " I think for a man of my standing in life. This house is too small as I now have a wife : So without further delay Carpenter Gary Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy.** " Now, Socrates, dearest," Zantippe replied, " I hate to hear everything vulgarly my'd; Now, whenever you speak of your chatties again. Say our cowhouse, our barn-yard, our pig-pen." " By your leave Mrs. Snooks, I'll say what I please Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my trees." Then he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the judge rode on, And Maud was left in the fields alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court the Bugle Song. Oh, love, they die in yon fair sky. They faint on field, and hill, and river ; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. Answer, echoes, answer. l60 A STRING OF BROKEN BEADS. Hark ! how the sign-board creaks ! the blast howls by ! Moan ! moan ! a dirge swells through the angry sky! Ha ! tis his knock ! he comes, he comes once more — • Ha, ha ! Take that ! and that ! and that ! Ha, ha ! So, through your coward throat The full day shines ! . . . . Two fox tails float And drift and drive adown the stream ; Therefore, mybruddren, if you's a-gwine to git saved, you's got to git aboard de Ship of Faith. Dere ain't no udder way my bruddren. Dere ain't no gitting up de back stairs, nor goin' 'cross lots, you's got to git aboard de Ship of Faith, for Me thought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!' to all the house, Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore, Cawdor shall sleep no more ! Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor. Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls twinkled on the tufted floor. " Wretch," I cried, " Thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of L^nore ! Q uaff, oh, quaff, this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore ! ' Quoth the raven— Good night. — Arranged by F, Lizzie Peirce, The Legend of Wissahickon. While yet the Pale-face ne'er had peeped Within that tranquil vale, — where steeped In sombre, fir-clothed heights,^ and bound On either side^ with moss-grown ground And craggy cliff,^ a goodly stream,* With many a rippling noontide gleam, Nor ceased her daily tithes to pay To good Queen Ocean^ far away — Deep sheltered from the hostile world The smoke from many a tent up-curled, Where, round the wigwam fire, red dames Talked o'er their tawny lords' brave names, While they, with feathered death and bow And trackless step, now quick, now slow, Gave chase, in neighboring hills, ^ the game, There pasturing heedless, till death came In one fell dart. Life surely here — With naught but Manitou^ to fear — Seemed sweet to those blest sons of men ; Yet it did find its cares e'en then, For lo !^ at last there came a day Of sorrow and of dread dismay, When from a lowering cloud that spread* Across the summer blue o'erhead, Their God-chiefs awful voice was heard, As like the thunder rolled each word : Gestvpes. I. a. O, 2. B. H. O. 3. A. O. 4. D. F. 5. Left. H. L. «. H O. 7. Ind. fin. A. O. 8. Rais'>. hand. 9. V. A. O. " 161 1 62 THE LEGEND OF VVISSAHICKON. ** My children, I am called away Where other souls my presence pray, But ere I leave ye I must ask One boon of all, — a simple task Twill be to those whose faith hath borne The tests of fiery stake or thorn. Yet some I know among ye, who Will find it hard to sin eschew When left alone, and all must know, An evil spirit dwells below These rocks, and ever guards his chance To tempt ye, with his fiendish dance And wicked ways, to but forsake My laws for aught that he may make ; Lo, should he rise when I am gone, Let no temptation lead ye on To overstep the bounds here set About your hunting grounds, nor let Aught of shape, however fair And good it seems, entice ye where My word hath said ye nay." Thus said. The cloudy spirit, then vanished Into the air from whence it grew ; And now a wild commotion^*' flew Throughout the warriors gathered there j And wondered all how soon, and where, This new-brought ill its face should show^ To tempt their Eve-like hearts ; when lo ! to. B. H. L. THE LEGEND OF WJSSAHJCKON, Ere two short days had dragged away, Within a distant wood/^ where lay Soft twilight^ ever 'mong the trees, Strange music stirred, and on the breeze Of evening came wild shouts ot mirth,^^ That seemed to wake the very earth,^"* So boisterous were they, and, alas ! The youths could not a moment pass Till they with stealthy steps were brought Close to that God-forbidden spot ; And there, as o'er a lofty brow That hemmed the darksome glade, they now Did creep,^^ behold ! a wondrous sight,^^ Such as their soul's most fancied flight Had ne'er conceived of, met their eyes, Even like some glimpse of paradise: A Pale-face spirit,^^ lank and grim, With horns and claws that gave to him A weird, unearthly look, sat high Upon a rock that towered nigh ; And while below^^ fair damsels played Wild antics through the woodland shade, He to loud fits of mirth gave vent, As near the maidens came and went, And cast before him laurels wreathed In crowns ; then — ere the watchers breathed, Lest they should be discovered there — Lo ! quick as lightning 'thwart the air, The fiendish god turned full to view, 163 II. H. F. 12. P. H. F. 13. H. F. 14. D. F. 15. P. D. F. 16. B, H. O 17. Left. A. F. 18. D. F. 104 ^^^ LEGEND OF WISSAHICKON, And ere the astonished gazers knew, Close by their side^^ with devilish smile He stood, and thus addressed them,^*^ while With spell-bound gaze — their eyes made dim With fascination — now from him From whom they had no power to go, Did wander to the scene below,^^ Where still, — though now the sun had gone— To music soft, the dance went on : — " Would'st tho'U, oh man, to pleasure blind, Seeking a gift thou ne'er shalt find, Led by a promise far astray^^ Along that hard and narrow way, Would'st thou no more sad anguish know, Nor lose the chase with feeble bow ? Would'st thou be free,^^ and tread once more The grounds your fathers roamed of yore ? Wouldst thou find game in every copse And stream,^ and gather plenteous crops In autumn, yet know naught of care Nor labor, but with damsels fair^^ And waxen, pass life's endless days Along my smooth and flower-girt ways ? Would'st thou, in fine, the height of bliss*^ Attain ? I offer^^ ye all this, And more : come, follow me." 19. Left. H. L. 20. Look to left. 21. D. F. 21. Speak to H. O. 22. H. O. 23. B. H. O. 24. Left. H.O. 25. D. F. 26. Ind. fin. A. O. 27. R O, H. THE LEGEND OF WISSANICKOIV, 165 He ceased, And like some semi-human beast, His blood-cast eye the crowd scanned o'er, Where some, entranced, could hear no more, But, weak of heart, with outstretched hand, Forgetting quite their God's command Of yester morn, were quickly led Adown the cliffy* with dizzy head And burning brain, and those, alas ! From mortal view for aye did pass ; But some there were who still delayed, Not resolute and halt afraid To follow ; lingering there they stood Till lo ! the dawn^ crept through the wood ; And on its gentle face, behold !^^ A strange-shaped cloud, fringed round^^ with gold, Came darkly flitting through the sky, Till seemingly it had drawn nigh Above^^ that gathering in the vale. Then quick the subtle fiend turned pale, As from the frowning mists o'erhead A mighty voice and angry said : — " Depart, ye tempter of the night ! Hence ! Dare ye show your face in light ? Did I not bid thee well beware Lest thou shouldst fall in thine own snare ?" The spirit fled,^^ but scarce had left His seat, when some great earthquake cleft 28. D. F. 29. H. L. 30. A. L. 31. A. Sw. 32. A. F. 33. Lett. H. O. 1 66 A NEIV MO THER. The rock beneath his feet in twain, And deep he plunged^* between. In vain He strove to rise again, for quick The waters from a hillside creek^^ O'erran that pool,^^ that marks to-day The spot where Satan passed away. Then kindly smiled the Manitou On those around, and said : — " To you My children, who have yet withstood The things of evil for the good ; To you whose faith has ne'er been turned Astray by sin, well have ye earned The joys foretold ; so now go forth ; The boundless woods from south to north, From east to west, are yours to roam For aye, till I shall call ye home." — -Johii- L Cooper, A New Mother. I was with my lady when she died : I it was who guided her weak hand, For a blessing on each little head. And laid her baby by her on the bed. Heard the words they could not understand. And I drew them round my knee at night. Hushed their childish glee, and made them say, 34. Left. D. O. 35. Left. H. L. 36. Left. D. O. A NEW MO THER. \ ^j They would keep her words with loving tears, They, would not forget her dying fears, Lest the thought of her should fade away. I, who guess'd what her last dread had been, Made a promise to that still, cold face, That her children's hearts, at any cost. Should be with the mother they had lost, When a stranger came to take her place. And I knew so much : for I had lived With my lady since her childhood : known What her young and happy days had been, And the grief no other eyes had seen — I had watch'd and sorrowed for alone. Ah ! she once had such a happy smile ! I had known how sorely she was tried : Six short years before, her eyes were bright As her little blue-eyed May's that night, When she stood by her dead mother's side. No — I will not say he was unkind ; But she had been used to love and praise. He was somewhat grave : perhaps, in truth, Could not weave her joyous, smiling youth Into all his stern and serious ways. She, who should have reigned a blooming flower, First in pride and honor as in grace — She, whose will had once ruled all around. Queen and darling of us all — she found Change enough in that cold, stately place. l68 A NEW MOTHER. Yet she would not blame him, even to me, Though she often sat and wept alone ; But she could not hide it near her death, When she said with her last struggling breath " Let my babies still remain my own !" I it was who drew the sheet aside. When he saw his dead wife's face. That test Seem'd to strike right to his heart. He said, In a strange, low whisper, to the dead, " God knows, love, I did it for the best !" And he wept — O yes, I will be just — When I brought the children to him there, Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes ; And he sooth'd them with his fond replies Bidding me give double love and care. Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake : Little Arthur, with his serious air ; May, with all her mother's pretty ways. Blushing, and at any word of praise Shaking out her sunny golden hair. And the little one of all — poor child ! She had cost that dear and precious life. Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady's name, When the baby's gloomy christening can«*e And he call'd her " Olga — like my wife." Save that time he never spoke of her He grew graver, sterner every day : And the children felt it, for they dropp'd A NEW MO THER, i g^ Low their voices, and their laughter stopp'd While he stood and watch'd them at their play. No, he never nam'd their mother's name. But I told them of her : told them all She had been, so gentle, good and bright ; And I always took them every night Where her picture hung in the great hall. There she stood : white daisy's in her hand, And her red lips parted as to speak With a smile ; the blue and sunny air Seem'd to stir her floating golden hair, And to bring a faint blush on her cheek. Well, so time pass'd on ; a year was gone, And Sir Arthur had been much away. When the news came ! I shed many tears When I saw the truth of all my fears Rise before me on that bitter day. Any one but her I could have borne! But my lady lov'd her as her friend. Through their childhood and their early youth, How she used to count upon the truth Of this friendship that would never end ! Older, graver than my lady was, Whose young, gentle heart on her relied, She would give advice, and praise, and blame, And my lady lean on Margaret's name, As her dearest comfort, help and guide. 1 70 A NEW MO THER. I had never liked her, and I think That my lady grew to doubt her too Since her marriage ; for she named her less, Never saw her, and I used to guess At some secret wrong that I never knew. That might be or not. But now, to hear She would come and reign here in her stead, With the pomp and splendor of a bride : Would no thought reproach her in her pride With the silent memory of the dead ? Lo the day came, and the bells rang out. And I laid the children's black aside ; And I held each little trembling hand, As I strove to make them understand. They must greet their father's new-made bride. Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern, And his lady's eyes might well grow dim. When the children shrank in fear away, — Little Arthur hid his face, and May Would not raise her eyes, or speak to him. When Sir Arthur bade them greet " their mother," I was forced to chide, yet proud to hear How my little loving May replied. With her mother's pretty air of pride, — " Our dear mother has been dead a year !" Ah ! the lady's tears might well fall fast, As she kiss'd them, and then turned away. A NEW MOTHER, ij^ She might strive to smile or to forget, But I think some shadow of regret Must have risen to blight her wedding-day. She had some strange touch of self-reproach ; For she used to linger day by day By the nursery door or garden gate With a sad, calm, wistful look, and wait Watching the children at their play. Bitt they always shrank away from her When she strove to comfort their alarms, And their grave, cold silence to beguile : Even little Olga's baby smile Quiver'd into tears when in her arms. I never could chide them ; for I saw How their mother's memory grew more deep In their hearts. Each night I had to tell Stories of her whom I loved so well When a child, to send them off to sleep. But Sir Arthur — O, this was too hard ! — He who had been always stern and sad In my lady's time, seem'd to rejoice Each day more ; and I could hear his voice Even, sounding younger and more glad. He might perhaps have blamed them ; but his wife Never failed to take the children's part She would stay him with her pleading tone, Saying she would strive, and strive alone. Till she gained each little wayward heart. i;» A NEW MOTHER, And she strove indeed, and seem'd to be Always waiting for their love, in vain ; Yet when May had most their mother's look. Then the lady's calm, cold accents shook With some memory of reproachful pain. Little May would never call her mother : So one day, the lady bending low, Kiss'd her golden curls, and softly said, " Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead, — Your dear mother used to call me so." She was gentle, kind, and patient too. Yet in vain : the children held apart. Ah, their mother's gentle memory dwelt Near them, and her little orphans felt She had the first claim upon their hearts. So three years pass'd ; then the war broke out ; And a rumor seemed to spread and rise ; First we guess'd what sorrow must befall, Then all doubt fled, for we read it all In the depths of her despairing ^y^s. Yes ; Sir Arthur had been called away To that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife. Now he seemed to know with double pain The cold, bitter gulf that must remain To divide his children from his wife. Nearer came the day he was to sail, Deeper grew the coming woe and fear, A NEW MOTHER. When>one night, the children at my knee, Knelt to say their evening prayer to me, I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near. There he waited till their low " Amen ;" Stopp'd their rosy lips raised for " good night!" Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near, As he bade them stay with him, and hear Something that would make his heart more light Little Olga crept into his arm.s ; Arthur leant upon his shoulder; May Knelt beside him, with her earnest eyes Lifted up in patient, calm surprise — I can almost hear his words to-day. " Years ago, my children, years ago, When your mother was a child, she came From her northern home, and here s'hq met Love for love, and comfort for regret, In one early friend, — you know her name. *' And this friend — a few years older — gave Such fond care, such love, that day by day The new home grew happ}', joy complete, Studies easier, and play more sweet, While all childish sorrows pass'd away. " And your mother — fragile, like my May — Leant on this deep love, — nor leant in vain. For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart !) Gave the sweet and took the bitter part. Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain. 173 1/4 A NEW MOTHER. "Years pass'd on, and then I raw them first: It was hard to say which was inost fair, Your mother's bright and blushing face, Or the graver Margaret's stately grace ; Golden locks, or braided raven hair. " Then it happen'd by a strange, sad fate. One thought entered into each young soul ; Joy for one — if for the other pain ; Loss for one, — if for the other gain , One must lose, and one possess the whole. " And so this — this — what they car'd for — came And beiong'd to Margaret: was her own. But she laid the gift aside, would take Pain and sorrow for your mother's sake,- And none knew it but herself alone. ** Then she travell'd far away, and none The strange mystery of her absence knew, Margaret's secret thought was never told : Even your mother thouvght her changed and cold, And for many years I thought so too. "She was gone ; and then your mother took That poor gift which Margaret cast aside : Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not — What it was had better be forgot ; It was just then she became my bride. ** Margaret is my dear and honored wife, And I hold her so. But she can claim RICHARD DINGLES SPEECH. From your hearts dear ones, a loving debt I can neither pay, nor yet forget : You can give it in your mother's name," Next day was farewell — a day of tears ; Yet Sir Arthur as he rode away. And turned back to see his lady stand With the children clinging to her hand, Look'd as if it were a happy day. Ah, they lov'd her soon ! The little one Crept into her arms as to a nest ; Arthur always with her now ; and May Growing nearer to her every day : — Well, I loved my own dear lady best — Adelaide Procter 175 Richard Dingle's Speech, I am Master Richard Dingle, Tho' my comrades call me Dick, And I have a purpose single. Which I'll mention very quick. Every day I get a lecture For behaving very wrong ; And with wise looks some conjecture That I'll never get along. WORD PICTURES. But what's past my mind's construing Is, that all these busy elves Scold and thrash poor me for doing What they daily do themselves ! Master Meekly says 'tis fearful, To be crushing harmless flies, Yet can he, with gun, quite cheerful Seek the bird that bleeding lies. Others say : " Look here, Dick Dingle^ Love of gold is vain and vile." Yet when they detect its jingle Why, somehow they always smile. Doctor Blacktooth says tobacco Is not even fit for brutes, Yet to make his teeth still blacker Smokes the rankest of cheroots ! Now it seems to me the purest Seldom scold us when they teach, For they know the way that's surest Is to practice what they preach ! — Geo. M. Vickers, Word Pictures. In fulfillment of our promise in a former number, we will now endeavor to give a few ideas upon the important subject of " suiting the action to the word." Gestures are of two kinds, curved and straight, or emphatic and descriptive. In the preparation for emphatic gestures the hand should be f4^0RD I'ICTURES. lyy brought up on the oblique to diiTerent degrees of elevation, depending upon the force of emphasis, and then given a stroke on whatever line the sense requires. Descriptive gestures require the curved preparation, /. ^., the hand is brought in front of the body in the direction of the opposite shoulder, and then a graceful sweep is made in the line desired. In the preparation of a selection for recitation, the first requisite is to lay out your picture, and locate every object that is mentioned ; let it be firmly set in your mind so that you will not change the position of any portion of the scene during the course of the recitation. A very fine piece for practice upon this is the " Ballad of Breakneck," in the present number. Suppose you turn to it and imagine yourself to be standing upon the banks of the Hudson, in a position commanding the view down the river ; by examining the marked gestures you will be able to locate the entire scene. In the delivery of a piece, always try to see with your mind's eye what you are describing to your audi- ence, and if the object is supposed to be in sight, let the eye follow the gesture ; this, however, should be avoided in em- phatic gestures, or where the thing described is supposed to be hidden from view. The following rules will serve as a guide in deciding the directions that gestures should take : Front gestures express unity, personality^ direct address, and forward motion ; also refer to the future. Oblique gestures express plurality, general assertion, and are used in addressing numbers. Lateral gestures express vastness in time, numbers, space or idea ; also casting away, and negation. Backward gestures express remoteness in time or space. 12 1^8 THE MEETING AT WENDLETOWN: Descending gestures pertain to the will, express determina- tion and emphasis. Horizontal gestures pertain to the intellect, and are used in argument and address. Ascending gestures pertain to the imagination, and express exultation. — F. Lizzie Peirce. The Meeting at Wendletown. Twas early in the winter when first the talk began About the rights of women and the cruelty of man, Sech talk was new in Wendeltown, it scared us all to hear How ignorant we women was about our proper speer ; And how we'd toiled and pinched and saved, and nothing better knew. While our husbands did the thinking and held the purse- strings too. Miss Harper come and tell us this — a lecturer — ydM know. Lawme! howbeautiful she talked; her words jest seemed to flow As smooth and easy as the brook — she looked and moved so quiet ; But she fairly shook old Wendletown, she raised up sech a riot ; And when I heerd her tell about us women's *' wasted years," Although I'm old and tough, you'd think, I couldn't keep from tears. Soon all the wives and mothers too, began to see quite plain That jest to bake and churn and mend was laboring in vain ; While Mrs. Cap'n Brown she come and sez, sez she to me, " I'm going to have a high career," whatever that may be. THE MEETING AT WENDLETOWN. j^g But Miss Harper hed to leave us, so she advertised one day That she'd lecture in the school-house once before she went away. Well, the room was packed that evening and Miss Harper did her best, Her gift of speech was wonderful, — that all the men con- fessed — She soared,way up into the clouds, and back to earth again, And showed us most convincin'ly the worthlessness of men ! Her speech was drawing to a close, and she was jest a saying : " Dear sisters, spurn your tyrant, man, and scorn the part he's playing; Let him perform the menial tasks he's set for you so long, While yoii stand on the mountain tops, rejoicing free and strong !" Joe Hale was setting close at hand, right in the foremost row, And on his knees his little child, 'bout two year old or so : Joe was a poor, lone widower, his wife was dead and gone, His home was near the school-house, and I 'spose he felt forlorn. So he'd come and brought the baby, though the reason why I knew — His hired girl had slipped away to hear the lecture too. And jest that very minute, when the room was still as death, And you might have heerd a pin drop as Miss Harper stopped for breath, That little toddling thing slid from off her father's knee. Crept close up to the lecturer's desk and said : " Does 'ou love me?" Poor Joe jest turned a fiery red, and tried to snatch the child ; l80 TTIIE MELTING AT WENDLETOWN, But Miss Harper she leaned over and looked at him and smiled ; Then dropping all her papers, in the twinkling of an eye. She clasped the little one, who gave a wondering, happy cry, And laid her little curly head right down upon her breast, With both arms clinging round her neck, as if she'd found h^ rest! It's as fresh now as a picter, though it happened months ago, How she held that little baby girl a whispering soft and low ; Her eyes as bright and smiles a-coming and a-going. While all the sound that you could hear wa» jest the child a-crowing. Up to this time astonishment had kept the- folks all still ; But some one shouted out — " Three cheers and give 'em with a will ! It's plain enough Miss Harper has found her proper speer, And man, the tyrant's conquered! Now boys a rousing cheer!" That meeting broke up in %, tumult, but Joe was waiting there ; He's a manly, handsome fellow, and when I saw the pair Go walking off together, I sez, sez I, ** It needs no witch to tell What's coming next." And warn't I right ? Folks laughed and talked a spell. But we all danced at the wedding 1 Law ! how she settled down! There ain't no better housewife than Mrs. Hale in all this town. Petruchio's Widow. A Shakesperian Travesty In One Act. Characters. Mr. Romeo Montague, an unlucky suitor. Mr. Moses Shylock, a pawnbroker. Mrs. Kate Petruchio, a dashing widow. Miss Helena, an affectionate spinster. Mr§, Desdemona Othello, an unhappy neighbor. Mrs. Jessica Lorenzo, an ungrateful daughter. Scene: — A parlor; door pract. C. flat; window L. flat, open; table beneath window; rocking chair R. C. ; chairs at wings; Mrs. Petruchio discovered standing in door. Mrs. Pet. — 'Tis a good thing that Jessica has finished dust- ing this parlor ; no nonsense will I tolerate from man, woman, or child within this domicile. {Enters and throws herself in rocking chair) Petruchio ran affairs while living ; but, in his demise — ^poor fellow — I re-inherited the freedom of my tongue. [Calls) Jessica! Jessica {from without). — I am here ; please wait ; don't scold ; here I am. {Enters L) Your pleasure, madam. Mrs. Pet. — Have you washed the front steps, scrubbed the pavement and wrung out the clothes that were wet by the rain ? 18j Ig2 PETRUCHiaS WIDOW. Jessica. — Alas ! all these, and more, have I done. I hav/ (,»-). — "Oh, meet nu^ by UKx^nli^dit alone, And then I will tell you a tale Must be told in the moonlight alone, In the ^rove " TTklk.na. — If music b(* the ^(^(^(\ ot" lovi\ sing on, Give me excess of it ; that, surfeiting, riie ;i|)|)('lil(" may sicki'u and so die. Mks. Vv.w — This music mads me ; let it sound no more, For though it have helped mad men to tlu>ir wits, Tn m<-, it seems, it will make wise: men mad. RoMi'.o {^ivithont, .v////;.v).-— ' Oh, med \\w by moonlight a lone I " /'A / A' i ( ■///() .s li //)()l K 1 ^ ' Helena. — That strain again ; it had a dying fall ; Oh, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odor. Romeo {zuithotit, sings). — ' Yes, meet — ys, meet — yes, meet me by moonlight a — lone." Mrs. Pet. — Horrible! monstrous ! was ever sound so nerve- destroying heard save from the larynx of a dying calf? I de- spise these daylight serenades. Mrs. Othello. — The woman that hath no music in herself, Nor is not woo'd with concord of sweet sounds. Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils; The motions of her spirit are dull as night, And her affections dark as Erebus : Let no such dame be trusted ! Mrs. Pet. — Ha ! this is more than I can brook ; my tongue's my own to wag it as I will, therefore attempt not to criticise my criticisms I repeat, the fellow sings like a Scandinavian bag-pipe. Helena. — Ladies, pray be still ! He may hear your dreadful comments. \Knock heard at door.'] Tis he I Mrs. Othello. — Let him not in until I depart! If Mr. Othello should happen to step in and find me in company with this gallant youth his jealousy would know no bounds ! [Knock repeated^] Mrs. Pet. — Nonsense ! I hope he does come, I'd like to give him my opinion of jealous husbands — iSS FETKUCIIiaS IVWOIV. Foul jealousy ! that turnest love divine To joyless dread, and mak'st the loving heart With hateful thoughts to languish and to pine. And feed itself with self-consuming smart ; Of all the passions in the mind thou vilest art ! Romeo (without). — I suppose there's no one home. {Knocks), Hello ! anybody in ? Helena {opens door). — Mr. Romeo ! how delightful this sur- prise. Romeo {enters). — To me this is a pleasure sweet, sweet be- yond comparison. {Aside.) Her looks do argue her replete with modesty. Helena. — It gives me wonder, great as my content, to see you here before me. Mrs. Pet. — Sir, you are very welcome to our house : It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. Mrs. Othello. — A hundred thousand welcomes ; I could weep. And I could laugh ; I am light and heavy — welcome. [Looks about cautiously^ Yea, I could laugh and weep {aside) It entirely depends upon the movements of Mr. Othello. He's so jealous. Mrs. Pet. — Be seated, friend Romeo ; Miss Helena will en- tertain you while Mrs. Othello and I see that the festive board is spread below. Come, away to the pantry ! [Exit followed by Mrs. Othello.] RoMEO {places a chair for Helena). {Aside) There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks. {Aloud) Be seated, miss. PETRUCHiaS WIDOW. 189 Helena. — Thank you, sir. {Aside^ I know not why I love this youth. Romeo. — Helena, I love thee ; by my life I do ; I swear by that which I will lose for thee, To prove him false that says I love thee not ! Helena. — Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say ay, ^nd I will take thy word. Romeo {takes chair). — O happy fair ! Your eyes are load-stars, and your tongue's sweet air. More tunable than lark to shepherds' ear. When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Helena. — You have bereft me of all words. Romeo {aside). — See how she leans her cheek upon her hand I O that I were a glove upon that hand. That I might touch that cheek. ! [Knock at door'\ [Aloud,) Ah, me ! for aught that I could ever read; Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. \_Rises and opens door^ [Enter Shylock with old garments on his arm."] Helena {rising). — His horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Romeo. — Angels and ministers of grace, defend us ! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned. lijO PETRUCHiaS WIDOW, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell; Be thy intents wicked or charitable Thou comest in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee ! Shylock {to Helena). — I do defy him, and I spit at him ; Call him a slanderous coward and a villain, Which to maintain, I would allow him odds, And meet him where I tried to run a-foot ; Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps. [Throws garments on floor 7\ Helena. — What cracker is this same that deafs our ears With this abundance of superfluous breath ? Romeo. — He gives the bastinado with his tongue ; Our ears are cudgel'd ; not a word of his. But buffets better than a fist of France : Zounds, I was never so bethumped with words Since I first called my brother's father dad. Shylock. — Peace ! one word : in yonder pile, for little more than half the cost, a seal-skin wrap and overcoat may grace your youthful forms. Romeo (to Shylock in undertone). — I pray thee, gentle sig- nor of the Gilded Balls, say naught before this maid that will reveal the fact that half my garments now repose upon your shelves. Helena {to Shylock). — To-night I'll steal into thy place of trade, and, under cover of the evening's shades, examine well the seal-skin sack whereof you speak. Say nothing now, sir ; mum's the word I PETRUCHiaS IVIDOW, ic^i Shylock. — ^Tis in mjr memory locked, and you yourself shall keep the key of it. \Enter Jessica, Mrs. Petruchio and Mrs. Othello.] Jessica. — Oh ! Oh ! {jumps behind Mrs. Petruchio). Mrs. Othello. — Hide me ! Save me ! Mrs. Pet. — Thou shalt be punished for thus frightening me, thou man of loans. Be quiet sweet Mrs. Othello, thy hus- band is not here. Mrs. Othello. — Mr. Romeo, what brings this, our general kinsman, here upon the scene ? Romeo. — His business calls him here. Mrs. Pet. — Romeo, put him out: mind not his glaring eyes, but put him hence ! ROMEO.^ — Prythee, peace ! I dare do all that may become a man] Who dares do more is none I Mrs. Pet.— What seek'st thou ? Avaunt, and quit my sight! let the earth hide theet Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold ; Thou hast no speculation in thy eyes Which thou dost glare with ! Helena (to Shylock). — Win her with gifts if she respect not v/ords ; Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind, More quick than words do move a woman's mind. ' Mrs. Pet. — See here, old man, just tell me what you want? ig2 PETRUCHiaS WIDOW. Shylock. — My daughter ! O my ducats ! O my daughter ! Fled with a Christian ! O my, my Christian ducats ! Justice ! the law ! my ducats and my daughter ! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, Stolen by my daughter ! Justice ! find the girl ! Romeo. — Poor man ! Helena. — Why not advertise her in the papers ? Mrs. Othello. — Or, like my husband, employ a private de- tective ? Shylock {to Mrs. Petruchio). — Woman, tell me where to find my child ! Lorenzo, he has been set fi*ee by theVenice court's decree. If the proof you wish to see, take the train for the city by the sea. Mrs. Pet. — I know not where Jessica Shylock lives, nor care to hear your family cares. Shylock. — A serpent heart, hid with a flow'ring face, Did ever dragon keep so fair a case ? Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical ! Just opposite to what thou seem'st — I see my daughter's head behind thy ear, Ay, behind the wig that doth surmount thy head ! Mrs. PET.^Me wear a wig ? O wrinkled Jew, take back thy child, whom only kindness taught me to conceal. No n>ore courage now remains : away with her ! In saying that I v^af a wig, you crush my heart, and now I fain would be alone^ Jessica {embraces Shylock). — Father, forgive me I Romeo. — See ! the Jew relents ! Helena. — O gentle Romeo I PETRUCHiaS WIDOW, 193 Mrs. Othello. — I hope I shall get home before the Moor returns ! Shylock {takes Mrs. Petruchio's hand) You are a widow, and I without a wife. Seek, vainly seek, for joy in life — Will you, in short, old Shylock wed? Mrs. Pet. — Think you, sir, my reason's fled. ( Withdraw i)ig hand indignantly) Marry you ? Never ! Sooner would I see you hanged. Shylock. — But are you happy? Romeo. — Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn ; and happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit Would ne'er commit itself to yours. Shylock. — Go to, and why ? Mrs. Othello. — Oh ! sir, you are too old ; Nature, in you, stands on the very Verge of her confine. Helena. — Our hostess needs no fossil staff On which to lean through hfe ; The dame in scorn does at you laugh. Go, seek an older wife ! All. — Yes, go ! {pounding a?td pushing him) Go ! go ! go ! Shylock {ru?ts to centre and kneels). — Mercy! (All take positions) [Curtain.] -^George M, Vtckers, 13 * Tlie Proud Flag of Freedom. The proud flag of freedom, unsullied, behold How cluster about it the glories of years, As skyward and westward, 'mid purple and gold. In the land of the sunset, its home, it appears, America's token of faith never broken. Sweet signal that flutters o'er mountain and sea ; That mutely repeats what our fathers have spoken, That tells the oppressed they may come and be free ! O proud flag of freedom, how swells with delight The breast of the wand'rer who meets thee afar; What home-visions come with the gladdening sight, And how fond dwells his eye on each stripe and each star^ Thus be it forever, while oceans may sever, Or fate hold in exile, a man from our shore ! Tho* fairer the clime, an American never Forgets his own colors, but loves them the more. Thou proud flag of freedom, so lovely in peace, So awfully grand in the dread crash of war, Be ever unfaded 'till nations shall cease, While there's room in the blue for another bright star : From danger defending, still onward, ascending ; The hope of mankind and the envy of none : E Pluribus Unum, our motto transcending, Till earth's constellations are blended in one ! -—Geo. M. Vickers. * By permission of J. C. Beckel, Esq., owner of the copyright. 194 Lost in the Mountains. See you that^ yellow thread, that, snake-like, winds High up the mountain side, now hid, now seen, Now lost^ to view amid the shelving crags And stunted pines? That is a rugged pass, Called, hereabouts. The Devil's Trail. Just where We stand, ^I stood one Autumn day, and heard The legend from an aged mountaineer. And, as my mem'ry serves me, word for word. Like this the story ran : Mark Lysle, a rich, Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child. Long years agone, lived in that house^ whose red Roof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and though You see a light, blue plume of smoke above The chimney top, yet other hearts now sit About the hearth and watch its glow, for that Bright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, died out One stormy night, never to burn again. For miles and miles,^ which way you went, the fame Of Lysle would greet your ear ; his courtesies, His open house and hospitalities. Were themes discussed no less than were his quick Resentment of a fancied slight, his fierce, Hot temper, when aroused, or swiftness to Avenge a wrong. But those who knew his child. Who saw her pure, white brow, her gold brown hair. And read the truth within her hazel eyes, I. Ind. A. O. 2 Drop hand, 3 D. O. 4 Left H. O. $ B. H. O. IC)6 i-OST IN THE MOUNTAINS. Deemed her in ev'ry^ trait of character His antipode, his very opposite — A lion him, and her a sweet gazelle. Together lived they in thaf red-roofed house. He, father, brother, lord and slave by turns : She, ever steadfast, mild, obedient, So like her mother — an exotic frail, A Northern lily 'neath a Southern sun. One Victor Dale, whose acres joined, and stretched* Far west from Lysle's estate ; whose negro huts Gleamed white amid the evergreens ; the man Her father called his chosen friend, this man. Her senior by a score of years, and ill Of feature, sought the maiden's hand, nay, claimed It by a compact with her father made Before her mother's death. But Maud, sweet Maud, Who knew not how to hate, whom duty bound. Whose only statute was her father's will. Thus far had viewed her marriage in the light Of something that she might escape, a thing She might avoid, that would not come to pass ; As those condemned to death will hope when hope Is dead, so hung she on the rosy thought, And comfort took in hoping that it would Not be ; and though his would-be gallantries Oft filled her with disgust,^ and oft provoked A loathing in her breast, she hated not. Once, on a summer day, with book in hand, Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch, 6H. O. 7LeftH.O. 8 H. Sw. 9 V. H.O. LOST J y THE MOUNTAINS. j^? Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed : A sudden cry aroused them both in time To see a horse, with empty saddle, dash^^ Across the road and leap the hedge. While yet They stood amazed some field hands moving slow. Came up the shaded walk^^ bearing between Their swarthy forms the helpless body of A man. With almost woman's tenderness Mark Lysle made haste to have the wounded youth Borne to his choicest room, and summoned quick A surgeon, nor would rest until assured His uninvited guest was doing well, As well as one with broken limb could do. Thus Henri Clair, an artist, far from home, Was thrust by fate upon a stranger's care. The leaves*^ have lost their summer hue of green; The purple grapes in clusters thick hang low ; The grain is garnered, and a late bee wings Its way across the porch. Young Clair and Maud Stand side by side^^; the setting sun shines full Upon their faces^^ : pale is his and sad, And hers all tenderness and sympathy : His time to go has come; this night will be His last beneath her father's roof In two Short months, by merest chance, their youthful hearts Have learned to beat as one, yet hopelessly. Behind a tree^^ two other forms crouch low; Her father, and her suitor, Victor Dale. They glide away^^ unseen. ""ToH. Sw. iiH.F. 12 A. O. 13H. F. 14 B. H. F. IS Left H. O. 16 LeftH.Sw, igS LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS. That night when all Were gathered round the hearth, Mark Lysle, In tones that fell like death upon the ears Of those who heard him speak, announced It as his will,^^ that on the coming day His daughter Maud should wed his chosen friend ; "And, sir," said he to Clair, "as you must deem It time to go, I shall not press you to Remain, but bid you speed upon youf way," And then, with haughty bow, strode out^® " Farewell," Until we meet again — " " No,^^ Maud, w^ must Not say good-bye ; to leave you now would be To part forever," then young Clair*^ voice f*^nk Into a whisper; then, with one pure kiss In haste imprinte,d on her brow, he left The room, and tnen the house. The tall, oW cIocU That in the hallway stood, was striking nine As Maud stole out^^ into the night. Dark cloud^*• Were rising^^ in the west. The lightning flashed From out the distant sky;^^ the thunder boomed And rattled off in echoes 'mong the hills p** The black mass rising soon obscured^^ the stars O'erhead; then plashing rain drops told the storm Had burst. " To wed the hand and not the heart Is sin, far greater than to disobey. May God forgive me if I err: my heart-^ 17 D. F. 18 H. Sw. 19 Turn to Right. 20 Turn to Left. 21 H. F. 2 J Raise hand P. H. L. 23 H. L. 24 H. Sw. 25 V. A. O. 26 Hand on heart. LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS. jgg Must be my guide." Thus murmured Maud, as all Alone she sped across the fields to reach Yon rugged pass^ where Clair had gone to wait, That when she came they both might mount his steed, And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming they Would choose that fearful path for flight. The sun Shone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though bedecked^^ With gems. The storm had gone ; the night had gone, And she had gone, the star^^ of Mark Lysle's home, Gone — ^to return no more. The dark night through. Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliff Had watched and listened for his promised bride ; Had bended to the rock his ear,^*^ had called. Loud as he dared, "Maud! I am waiting, Maud!" But never came reply. Again, "Here, Maud!" Then sobbed and sighed the wind,^^ all else was still. At dawn of day, and fearing that she could Not brave the storm, all wan and pale he rode Swift down the steep descent to learn the worst. He scarce had reached the narrow valley road Ere Lysle and Dale each bade him halt^^ or die. Then shouting loud they called the negroes, swore. And charged him with the maiden's death or worse. "She's lost! O God,^ she's lost ! Come, follow me!" Cried Clair; then, struck with cruel spur, his horse In terror bore him up^ the winding path. 27 A O. 28 P. D. O. 29 Point up. 30 Bend over. 31 B. H. O. and turn them to P. 32 P. Ind. H. F. 33 Raise eyes. 34 A. F. 200 LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS. "I come!" shrieked out his rival, Dale; "I come!" And off he dashed/^ his livid face drawn grim With jealous rage. Then followed Lysle, and then The throng of blacks, like hounds unleashed. A cry! Again a cry of mortal pain was heard ! The throng pressed up, and round^^ a jutting point, Till came in view a level breadth^^ of rock That shelved and overhung a sheer descent^ Of awful depth. There, like a sculptor's work On pedestal of stone, young Henri Clair Sat rigid on his steed and pointed down^* The deep abyss. In horror peered they all Below, where lay the object of his gaze — The white, the lifeless form of Maud. The spell Was broke by one wild laugh from Henri's lips. With curb he drew^*^ his horse erect ; he threw His mantel o'er its head, struck deep his spurs, And with the shout, "My bride!" leaped down to death.**' And to this day the story still is told Of trav'lers, who, belated on the pass, Have heard, when softly sobbed the wind, a voice Call tenderly and low, "I'm waiting, Maud! — Here, Maud! — Is that you, Maud?" — George M. Vickers^ 35 A. F. 36 A. O. 37 P. H. O. 38 P. D. O. 39 Point down. 40 Draw rein with left hand. 41 D. F. Maiden Song. Long ago and long ago, and long ago still, There dwelt three merry maidens upon a distant hill. One was tall Meggan, and one was dainty May, But one was fair Margaret, more fair than I can say, Long ago and long ago. When Meggan plucked the thorny rose, and when May pulled the brier. Half the birds would swoop to see, half the beasts draw nigher; Half the fishes of the stream would dart up to admire : But when Margaret plucked a flag-flower, or poppy, hot aflame, All the beasts and all the birds and all the fishes came To her hand more soft than snow. Strawberry leaves and May-dew in brisk morning air, Strawberry leaves and May-dew make maidens fair. " I go for strawberry leaves," Meggan said one day : " Fair Margaret can bide at home, but you come with me, May; Up the hill and down the hill, along the winding way, You and I are used to go." So these two fair sisters went with innocent will Up the hill and down again, and round the homestead hill : While the fairest sat at home, Margaret like a queen, Like a blush-rose, like the moon in her heavenly sheen. Fragrant-breathed as milky cow or field of blossoming bean, Graceful as an ivy bough, born to cling and lean, Thus she sat to sew and sing. 20I 202 MAIDEN SONG. When she raised her lustrous eyes a beast peeped at the door; When she downward cast her eyes a fish gasped on the floor ; When she turned away her eyes a bird perched on the sill, Warbling out its heart of love, warbling, warbling still With pathetic pleadings low. Light-foot May, with Meggan, sought the choicest spot, Clothed with thyme, alternate grass ; then, while day waxed hot. Sat at ease to play and rest, a gracious rest and play ; The loveliest maidens near or far, when Margaret was away, Who sat at home to sing and sew. Sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks, wind-play tossed their hair, Creeping things among the grass stroked them here ai\d there ; Meggan piped a merry note, a fitful, wayward lay. While shrill as bird on topmost twig piped merry May ; Honey-smooth the double flow. Sped a herdsman from the vale, mounting like a flame. All on fire to hear and see, with floating locks he came; Looked neither north nor south, neither east nor west. But sat him down at Meggan's feet as love-bird on his nest, And wooed her with a silent awe, with trouble not expressed ; She sang the tears into his eyes, the heart out of his breast ; So he loved her, listening so. She sang the heart out of his breast, the words out of his tongue ; Hand and foot and pulse he paused till her song was sung. MAID EX SOXG. 20'' Then he spoke up from his place simple words and true : " Scanty goods have I to %\^^y scanty skill to woo ; But I have a will to work and a heart for you : Bid me stay or bid me go." Then Meggan mused within herself: " Better be first with him, Than dwell where fairer Margaret sits, who shines my bright- ness dim, Forever second where she sits, however fair I be : I will be lady of his love, and he shall worship me ; I will be lady of his herds and stoop to his degree, At home where kids and fatlings grow. Sped a shepherd from the height headlong down to look, White lambs followed, lured by love of their shepherd's crook : He turned neither east nor west, neither north nor south, But knelt right down to May, for love of her sweet-singing mouth ; Forgot his flocks, his panting flocks in parching hillside drought; Forgot himself for weal or woe. Trilled her song and swelled her song with maiden coy caprice In a labyrinth of throbs, pauses, cadences : Clear-noted as a dropping brook, soft-noted like the bees. Wild-noted as the shivering wind forlorn through forest trees: Love-noted like the wood-pigeon who hides herself for love, Yet cannot keep her secret safe, but cooes and cooes thereof; Thus the notes rang loud or low. 204 MAIDEN SONG. He hung breathless on her breath ; speechless, who listened well; Could not speak or think, or wish till silence broke the spell. Then he spoke and spread his hands, pointing here and there : " See my sheep, and see my lambs, twin lambs which they bare. All myself I offer you, all my flocks and care, Your sweet song hath moved me so." In her fluttered heart young May mused a dubious while : ** If he loves me as he says " — her lips curved with a smile: " Where Margaret shines like the sun, I shine like the moon ; If sister Meggan makes her choice I can make mine as soon : At cockcrow we were sister-maids, we may be brides at noon. Said Meggan, '' Yes ; " May said not " No." Fair Margaret stayed alone at home, awhile she sang her song, Awhile sat silent, then she thought : "' My sisters loiter long." That sultry noon had waned away, shadows had waxed great : " Surely," she thought within herself, " My sisters loiter late." She rose, and peered out at the door, with patient heart to wait. And heard a distant nightingale complaining of its mate ; Then down the garden slope she walked, down to the garden gate. Leaned on the rail and waited so. The slope was lightened by her eyes like summer lightning fair. Like rising of the haloed moon lightened her glimmering hair. MAIDEN SONG. 205 While her fece lightened like the sun whose dawn is rosy white. Thus crowned with maiden majesty she peered into the night, Looked up the hill and down the hill, to left hand and to right, Flashing like fire-flies to and fro. Waiting thus in weariness, she marked the nightingale, Telling, if any one would heed, its old complaining tale. Then lifted she her voice and sang, answering the ,bird : Then lifted she her voice and sang, such notes were nevef heard From any bird when Spring's in blow. The king of all that country, coursing far, coursing neaf. Curbed his amber-bitted steed, coursed amain to hear ; All his princes in his train, squire, and knight, and peer, With his crown upon his head, his sceptre in his hand, Down he fell at Margaret's knees. Lord, King of all that land. To her highness bending low. Every beast and bird, and fish came mustering to the sound, Every man and every maid from miles of country round : Meggan on her herdsman's arm, with her shepherd, May ; Flocks and herds trooped at their heels along the hillside way; No foot too feeble for the ascent, not any head too gray, Some were swift and none were slow. So Margaret sang her sisters home in their marriage mirth ; Sang free birds out of the sky, beasts along the earth. Sang up fishes of the deep — all breathing things that move, Sang from far and sang from near to her lovely love ; Sang together friend and foe; 2o6 LECTURE BY ONE OF THE SEX. Sang a golden-bearded king straightway to her feet, Sang him silent where he knelt in eager anguish sweet. But when the clear voice died away, when longest echoes died, He stood up like a royal man and claimed her for his bride. So three maids were wooed and won in a brief May-tide, Long ago and long ago. — Christina G. Rosseiti Lecture by One of the Sex. My antiquated hearers, male and female. Squenchin' my native modesty which is natural to the weaker vessels of whom I am which, I feel impelled to speak to you this even- in' on the subject of woman— her origin, her mission, her des- tiny. A subject, bein' as I am a woman myself, I hev given much attention to. Man, my hearers, claims to be the superior of woman ! Is it so ? and ef so, in what, and how much ? Wuz he the fust creation ? He wuz, my hearers, but what does that prove? Man wuz made fust, but the experience gained in makin* man wuz applied to the makin' of a betterer and more finerer bein' of whom I am a sample. Nachur made man but saw in a brief space of time that he could n't take keer of himself alone, and so he made a woman to take keer uv him, and that's why we wuz created ; tho' seein' all the trouble we hev, I don't doubt that it would hev been money in our pockets if we hedn't been made at all. Imagine, my beloved hearers, Adam afore Eve wuz created! Who sewed on his shirt buttons? Who cooked his beef- LECTURE B V ONE OF THE SEX. 207 steak ? Who made his coffee in the momin* and did his washin' ? He wuz mizzable, he wuz, — he must have boarded out and eat hash I But when Eve come, the scene changed. Her gentle hand soothed his achin' brow when he come in from a hard day's work. She hed his house in order ; she hed his slippers and dressin' gown ready, and after tea he smoked his meerschaum in peace. Men, cruel, hard-hearted men, assert that Eve wuz the cause of his expulsion from Eden — that she plucked the apple and give him half; oh, my sisters, it's true, it's too true, but what uv it ? It proves fustly, her goodness. Had Adam plucked the apple, if it had been a good one, he'd never a thought of his wife at home, but would have gobbled it down himself, and perhaps have taken her the core. Eve, angel that we all are, thought of him and went halvers with him. Secondly^ it wuz the means of good anyhow. It introduced death into the world, which separated 'em while they still hed love for each other. I appeal to the sterner sex present to-night. S'posin* all of you had been fortunate enough to win such virgin souls as me, could you endure charms like mine for an eternity. If I had a husband, I know he'd bless Eve for introducin' death into the world. Woman is man's equal, but is she occupyin' her true speer ? Alas, not 1 We are deprived of the ballot, we ain't allowed to make stump speeches, or take part in politics. Is it right ? How many men vote who know what they are votin' for ? I demand the ballot. I want to take part in torchlight pro- 2o8 LECTURE BY ONE OF THE SEX, cessions ! I want to demonstrate my fitness for governing by coming home elevated on election nights. I demand the right of going to Congress. I want to assume that speer which nachur fitted me for equally with man, but from which mascu- line jealousy has thus far excluded me. There hev been women in the world who have done some- thing. There was the Queen of Sheba, who was excelled only by Solomon, and all that surpassed her in him wuz that he could support 3,000 women. Bless Solomon's heart! I'd like to see him do it now. Where could he find a house big enough to hold 'em with their dozen Saratoga trunks apiece ? How shall we gain our lost rights and assume that position in the world to which we are entitled to ? Oh, my sisters, these is a question upon which I have cogi- tated long and vigorously. We might do it by pisonin' all the men, but we would be robbed of one-half of our triumph, for they wouldn't be alive to see how well we did things without 'em. We might resolve to do no more of the degradin' work they have imposed onto us. But if we didn't, who would ? One week's eatin* what they would cook, would sicken any well-regulated woman, and besides, they might not let us eat at all. Matrimony, thus far in the world's history, has been our only destiny. I am glad I had always strength of mind enough to resist all propositions leadin' to my enslavement. I had too much respect for myself to make myself the slave of a man. Wunst, indeed, I might have done so, but the merest acci- dent in the world saved me. A young man in my younger ENGUERRANDE'S CHILD. 209 days, when the bloom wuz on the peach, ere sleepless nights spent in meditatin' on the wrongs of my sex had worn fur- rows into these wunst blushing cheeks, a young man come to our house, and conversed sweetly with me. It wuz my fust beau, and oh, my sisters, had he that night asked me to be his'n, I should have been weak enough to have said Yes, and I would have been a washer of dishes and a mender of stockin's for life. But fate saved me ! He did'nt ask me. — Revised by F. Lizzie Peirce. Enguerrande's Child. La Comtesse Marie holds festival In the fairest nook of her fair demesne. For courtly gallants and smiling dames To mimic the sports of the village green, In hats ^ la paysanne looped up with gems. And rustic kirtles of satin sheen. But Comtesse Marie, though crowned with May, Scarce smiles on the lovers who round her press. And sits on her floral throne distrait, Nor heeds who, watching her, strives to guess What troubles this heiress, free to choose From the proudest peers of the haute noblesse. She sighs — and a suitor the sigh repeats ; Again — and another bends over her chair. For every mood of a lady charms When la dame is so wealthy, so young, and fair ; She speaks — and the murmur of talk is hushed. And they throng around with expectant air : 14 2IO ENGUERRANDKS CHILD, ** Too sad to sing, and too tired to dance — Shall our sport take sober cast to-night ? And gathering under the fragrant limes, Shall we tell old stories of maidens bright, Of crusader bold, and the Soldan grim, Of dreary legend of ghost and sprite?** Then gay De Norville, for wild, weird tale To please the layde, has racked his brain ; While Saint Leu, with twirls of his huge mustache, His last duello fights o'er again, And fancies that Marie's cheek grows pale As he lightly dwells on his wounds and pain. But on one tall figure, that stands aloof. The eye of la Comtesse is seen to fall : And hast thou nothing to tell ? '* she asks, " Canst thou from the past no deed recall, That might quicken awhile our sluggish blood f Bethink thee, I pray, good Capitaine Paul.'" Le Capitaine Paul, whom no one knows, A soldier of fortune, scarred and browned^ A man more prized in the camp than court, Steps into the circle and glances round ; And scornful eyes on his boldness frown. But Marie has smiled, and he holds his gro»ind What boots the rest if she bids him speak ? What matter who lists if he gains her ear ? The shaft of malice is launched in vain, That aims at the stranger a barbed sneer. And the sauciest suitors of belle Marie Unchecked may flout him while she is near. ENGUERRANDE'S CHILD. 2\\ He turns from the guests, with their covert smiles. Begins with a stammer, and speaks by rote Till treasured mem'ries awake — and then His full lip quivers, and swells his throat. And his sinewy hand is clenched, as oft It hath clenched at the ring of the bugle's note. And thus le capitaine tells his tale : " Revolt and faction had cursed our land— Tonnerre ! that Frenchmen should be such curs I Our city walls was were but poorly manned ; I — sous lieutenant — a boy in years ; Our brave commander, Jaques Enguerrande. " We had one treasure, we soldiers, then— Enguerrande's daughter, a happy child ; She had no mother, but fifty slaves. By her winning looks and ways beguiled-— Great bearded fellows — were at her call, And felt themselves paid if their mistress smiled. " One night — sharp— sudden— -resistless broke The storm upon us : from every den The lawless rabble came howling forth. And we — ah, blind ! not to learn till then. That in all that city we loved so well, There was but one handful of loyal men I ** For life, for honor we fought, and still Our foes increased as the tumult spread. Yet side by side with Jacques Enguerrande I stood till we fell together — he, dead ; I, wounded — ^how badly, these scars reveal ; And then our last man, in his terror, fled. 212 ENGUERRANDE'S CHILD, ** Over our bodies the crowd tramped on, Nor recked if 'twere brothers their feet defiled ; The city was all their own, and the greed Of plunder had made them mad or wild ; And I heard one voice, with a drunken laugh, Call out for the child, Jacques Enguerrande's child " At that sound the blood to my heart returns. And fiercely I struggle on to my knees ! Never must Enguerrande's orphaned one Fall into such miscreant hands as these ! To my feet and away, ere the roaring mob Can hunt back the wounded wretch who flees I " Doubling upon them, and first to gain The little chamber wherein she slept. Where, roused from repose by the horrid din, In the darkest corner she cowered and wept, I bore her down by a winding stair. And into the streets with my burden crept " Hushing her sobs I staggered on. Faint, dizzy with pain, and perhaps despair; For sadly we needed some refuge safe, And who would offer it ? — nay, who dare ? Till an aged crone peeped fearfully out Of her wretched hovel, and hid us there. " But, alas ! though almost too old to live. She feared the mob, and she feared to die. And in selfish dread, when again night fell. From her door she thrust us, and bade us fly; Yet she flung me a blouse, and bonnet rouge. That none should my soldier's dress descry. ENGUERRANDE'S CHILD. 213 " Bribed with the little one's rosary— Le voici, I have it here on my breast; I brought it back for its weight in gold— = A fellow I drew aside from the rest, Let us slip by while he kept the guard, And like hunted deer for the woods we pressed. '* Scarce half a league from the city walls, Lo ! swooping down like a fiery blast- Armed to the teeth, and hot with wrath- Rank after rank spurring quickly past — The avengers came of Jacques Enguerrande, And I felt that his child was safe at last ! ** She knew their leader — she shrieked his name- He halted — I told you what garb I wore, They thought me a rebel ; the little one With oaths and blows from my arms they tore. And left me for dead on the cold hard earth ; But the child was safe — and my tale is o*er.** ** But your payment ?" a doztin voices ask, And le Capitaine smiles in his deep disdain ; ** Pardon, mesdames ! for a deed of love No soldier his palm with gold would stain ; Only this boon did I ever crave — One look at her ingel face again ! " Qu'importe ? she 1 . rich and happy, and I " He pauses — la Comtesse has left her throne ; Once more on his breast a fair head lies, Once more round his neck are white arms thrown, And sweet lips murmur, *' Mon brave ! mon brave 1 Let my poor love for the past atone !" 214 "^^^ KING'S KISS. The play is ended — ^the guests depart— La Comtesse was none so fair after all I But many an eye looks back with regret On the broad domain, and the princely hall, That Enguerrande's child with her hand bestows On the scarred and sun-burned Capitaine Paul. ■—Tid Bits. The King's Kiss.* A king rode forth one summ.er morn, his vast domain to see; Through fields of wheat and fields of corn, rode on his majesty : Quoth he, "A mighty king am I ; whate'er I say must be, For none there lives that dare deny a favor asked by me." The king in search of rest and shade, dismounted in a dell, Where, drawing water, stood a maid beside a mossy well ; With courtly bow the thirsty king, the proffered draught received. And as he drank, a gallant thing his royal mind conceived. "Fair girl," said he, "those lips of thine were surely made to kiss. And fain I'd press them close to mine, refuse me not that bliss." " No, no," the blushing lass replied, " no kiss you'll get from me, For I'm a true and promised bride, to one who's far at sea." "I am the King," the monarch said, " must I be disobeyed?" The maiden slowly dropped her head, and trembled, sore afraid: Then looking up with marble face, and wet but brave blue eye, Said she, " Ere thus my troth debase, within the well I die!" *By permission of W. F. Shaw, owner of Coiiyri<;ht. CONTRASTS IN SHAKESPEARE. 215 ' Enough/* the conquered sovereign cried, " this ring in honor wear, For truly have I found a bride, as pure as she is fair." The king rode off a wiser man than oft is monarch's lot. And deemed that naught was sweeter than the kiss he never got. — George M, Vickers, Contrasts in Shakespeare. Oration delivered at the Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of Klecution and Languages, June, 1886. Through the whole of Shakespeare's plays, we find every prominent character stamped with a separate individuality, which is preserved in every detail and characteristic, whether in the insane jealousy of Othello, the impetuosity of Harry Hotspur, the constancy of Portia, the vindictiveness of Shylock, the wickedness of Don John, or the benign, forgiving spirit of Prosper©. There is a silvery vein of wit threading his plays, gleaming and flashing like a sparkling brook in the sunshine. It runs smoothly in the calmly-uttered and thoughtful sentences of Hamlet; it bubbles and laughs in the saucy badinage of Beatrice and Celia; seeks the shadow in the mel- ancholy of Jacques; enters the realm of the pun in the wordy self-assertion of Polonius, and descends to the comic and some- times the vulgar in Falstaff and Dogberry. In the character of Hamlet we find a keen sense of humor, overcast by the ever-present suspicion of his father's foul end, and a vague distrust of those around him. A certain sarcasm lurks in the depths, and imparts an incisiveness to every well- turned sentence. He says to Guildenstern : 2i5 CONTRASTS IN SUA KF.SPKA RE. Hami^ET. Will you play upon this pipe? Guildenstern replies: GUII.D. — My lord, I cannot. Ham. — I pray you. Guiio. Poim to self. 60. Ind. H. O. 61. Left HO. 234 ^^^^ HASSAN'S DREAM. We've played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip, But ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship! — George R, Sims, Ben Hassan's Dream. I stood alone beside a mighty sea ; The waves in awful majesty swept in And crashed upon the strand. Far out beyond The snowy-crested Hne of breakers rode A ship ; and as she rose and fell her tall Masts seemed to trace a message on the sky: " O, ship 1 O, restless waste ! " I cried, " Be true. Be merciful, that they who watch on board. And they that wait at home, may once more clasp The hands and press the lips of those they love," The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent 'Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sands Stretched hot and gleaming till they touched the sky Upon my left lay leagues of sand ; before, Behind ; which way I looked was burning sand : The fierce sun overhead poured down a stream Of heat intolerable. Silence reigned. The caravan had gone. I leaned low down To hearken, but in vain. Abandoned ! Lost! Would my siesta prove a sleep of death ? Another scene : The sun had set, and peace Pervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfume Of flowers filled the evening air. The sound BEN HASSAN'S DREAM. 235 Of tinkling bells came faintly from a plain Where camels browsed. The slender minarets, And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a town. That nestled 'mid the distant, waving palms. A troop of horsemen slowly came in view ; Their banner bore the crescent and the star. i knelt and cried : " Praise be to Allah's name I " And then, it seemed, I was within a grot That opened on a placid lake. The moon Was at the full and o'er the water threw A track of silver sheen. Beside me stood A child with upturned face. I placed my hand Upon its head, when, lo ! from out the lake Arose a horrid, monster form. It glared With baleful eyes and then advanced. " Keep ofif ! Keep off ! " I shrieked, then seized the child and turned To fly — when suddenly the vision changed : Once more I dwelt beneath my parents' roof, A happy, careless child. The olden scenes Were fresh again, and things forgot had life And form. O home ! — how blest are they that have. A home ! — sweet haven sure when others fail ! " Oh, do not leave me, darling boy, my own ! " It was my mother's voice. Ah, yes, her eyes Were beaming love, as angel-like she smiled And kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face, ( -^e^ and wept to know 'twas but a dream. — Geo. M» Vickers. Six o'clock. Down by the rugged coast of Maine Breaks on the air the glad refrain That welcomes old Time on his westward flight, That makes the dull eye of the toiler bright, And heralds the bliss of a single night ; Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek, At six o'clock and six times a week. Loveliest hour of all the day, Blest is thy sweet and mystic sway : Affection and hope in their might are rife In each watching child ; in the waiting wife ; The father that tramps from his daily strife ; The widow's son and his fond embrace ; In the smile that beams on her pallid face. Who hath not felt the wondrous spell. Ushered by whistle and by bell ? A halo of peace round each home it flings ; To poor and to weary relief it brings ; And e'en the black tea-kettle gaily sings : O moments calm ! Ye foretell the rest That soon must come to each human breast Westward speed on o'er hill and dell, City and town and cot to tell ; On, on, like a courier, dash away, Hard pressing the heels of departing day Till stopped by the waters of " 'Frisco " Bayf 236 CHARLIE'S STORY, 237 Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek, At six o'clock, and six times a week. — Geo, M. Vickers, Charlie's Story, I was sitting in the twilight, With my Charlie on my knees, Little two-year old, forever Teasing " Talk a tory to me pease." '* Now;' I said, " talk me a 'tory." " Well," reflectively, " I'll 'mence. Mamma, I did see a kitty, Great big kitty on the fence." Mamma smiles. Five little fingers Cover up her laughing lips ; *' Is 00 laughing ? " " Yes " I tell him. But I kiss the finger tips ; And I say: " Now tell another." " Well " (all smiles) '' now I will 'mence. Mamma, I did see a doggie. Great big doggie on the fence." "Rather similar, your stories, Aren't they, dear ? " A sober look Swept across the pretty forehead ; Then he sudden courage took. ** But I know a nice new 'tory * Plendid, Mamma ! Hear me 'mence. Mamma, I did see a — elfunt Great big elfunt on the fence ! " The Months. A Pageant. Personifications. January, February. March, April. July. August. ^ ,1 May. >■ Gentlemen. , June. October. September. December. November. > Ladies. Robin Redbreasts ; Lambs and Sheep ; Nightingale and Nestlings. Various Flowers, Fruits, etc. Scene : — A Cottage with its Grounds. {A room in a large, comfortable cottage ; afire burning on the hearth ; a table on which the breakfast things have been left stand- ing, January discovered seated at the fir e^ January. Cold the day and cold the drifted snow, Dim the day until the cold dark night. \Stirs the fir e^ Crackle, sparkle, fagot ; embers, glow : Some one may be plodding through the snow, Longing for a light, For the light that you and I can show. 238 THE MONTHS. 239 If no one else should come, Here Robin Redbreast's welcome to a crumb, And never troublesome : Robin, why don't you come and fetch your crumb ? Here's butter for my bunch of bread, And sugar for your crumb ; Here's room upon the hearth-rug, If you'll only come. In your scarlet waistcoat, With your keen bright eye. Where are you loitering ? Wings were made to fly ! Make haste to breakfast, Come and fetch your crumb, For I'm as glad to see you As you are glad to come. {Two Robin Redbreasts are seen tapping with their beaks at the lattice ^ which January opens. The birds flutter in^ hop about the floor ^ and peck up the crumbs and sugar thrown to them. They have scarcely finished their meal^ when a knock is heard at the door. January hangs a guard in front of the fire, and opens to February ^ who appears with a bunch of snowdrops in her hand^ January. Good-morrow, sister. 240 '^^^^ MONTHS. February. Brother, joy to you ! iVe brought some snowdrops ; only just a few> But quite enough to prove the world awake, Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew. And for the pale sun's sake. (She hands a few of her snoiv drops to fanuary, who retires ijito the backgrotmd. While February stands arranging the remain- ing snowdrops in a glass of water on the windoiv-sill, a soft butting and bleating are heaj^d outside. She opens the door, a7td sees one foremost lamb, with other sheep and lambs bleating and crowding towards her?) February. O you, you little wonder, come — come in, You wonderful, you woolly, soft, white lamb : You panting mother ewe, come too. And lead that tottering twin Safe in : Bring all your bleating kith and kin, Except the horny ram. {February opens a second door in the background, and the little flock files through ifito a warm and sheltered compartment out of sight) The lambkin tottering in its walk. With just a fleece to wear; The snowdrop drooping on its stalk So slender, — Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair, Braving the cold for our delight, Both white, Both tender. THE MONTHS. 24 1 {A rattling of door and windows ; branches seen without, tossing violently to afidfro) How the doors rattle, and the branches sway ! Here's brother March comes whirling on his way, With winds that eddy and sing. {She turns the handle of the door, which bursts open, and dis- closes March hastening up, both hands full of violets a?id anemones) February. Come, show me what you bring; For I have said my say, fulfilled my day, And must away. March. {Stopping short on the threshold) I blow and arouse, Through the world's wide house. To quicken the torpid earth : Grappling I fling Each feeble thing. But bring strong Hfe to the birth. I wrestle and frown. And topple down ; I wrench, I rend, I uproot; Yet the violet Is born where I set The sole of my flying foot {Hands violets and anemones to February ^ who retires into the background) 16 ;42 THE MONTHS, And in my wake Frail wind-flowers quake, And the catkins promise fruit, I drive ocean ashore With rush and roar, And he cannot say me nay J . My harpstrings all Are the forests tall, Making music when I play. And as others perforce, So I on my course Run and needs must run, With sap on the mount, And buds past count, And rivers and clouds and sun. With seasons and breath And time and death And all that has yet begun. {Before March has done speakings a voice is heard approaching accompanied by a twittering of birds. April comes along singings and stands outside and out of sight to finish her song?) April. {Outside) Pretty little three Sparrows in a tree, Light upon the wing ; Though you cannot sing, You can chirp of Spring: Chirp of Spring to me, Sparrows, from your tree. THE MONTHS. Never mind the showers, Chirp about the flowers, While you build a nest : Straws from east and west, Feathers from your breast. Make the snuggest bowers In a world of flowers. You must dart away From the chosen spray, You intrusive third Extra little bird ; Join the unwedded herd! These have done with play, And must work to-day. 243 April. (Appearing at the open door^ Good-morrow and good-bye : if others fly. Of all the flying months you're the most flying* March. You're hope and sweetness, April. April. Birth means dying, As wings and wind mean flying ; So you and I and all things fly or die ; And sometimes I sit sighing to think of dying. But meanwhile I've a rainbow in my showers. And a lapful of flowers, 244 "^^^ MONTHS. And these dear nestlings, aged three hours; And here's their mother sitting, Their father merely flitting To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers. (As she speaks April shows March her apron full of flowers and nest full of birds. March wanders away into the grounds. April, ivithout entering the cottage, hangs over the hungry nest- tings watching them) April. What beaks you have, you funny things, What voices, shrill and weak ; Who'd think anything that sings Could sing with such a beak ? Yet you'll be nightingales some day And charm the country-side, When I'm away and far away, And May is queen and bride. {May arrives unperceived by April, and gives her a kiss- April starts and looks round) April. Ah, May, good-morrow, May, and so good-bye. May. That's just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh ; Your sorrows half in fun. Begun and done And turned to joy while twenty seconds run. At every step a flower Fed by your last bright shower, — {She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers with Aprils who strolls away through the garden) THE MONTHS, May. 24S And gathering flowers I listened to the song Of every bird in bower. The world and I are far too full of bliss, To think or plan or toil or care ; The sun is waxing strong, The days are waning long, And all that is, Is fair. Here are May buds of lily and of rose, And here's my namesake-blossom, May ; And from a watery spot See here, forget-me-not. With all that blows To-day. Hark to my linnets from the hedges green, Blackbird and lark and thrush and dove. And every nightingale And cuckoo tells its tale. And all they mean Is love. (June appears at the further end of the garden^ coming slcnh. towards May^ who seeing her, exclaims .*) May Surely you're come too early, sister June. 246 THE MONTHS. June. Indeed I feel as if I came too soon To round your young May moon. And set the world a-gasping at my noon, Yet must I come. So here are strawberries, Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please ; And there are full-blown roses by the score, More roses and yet more. (May^ eating strawberries, withdraws among the flower beds) June. The sun does all my long day's work for me. Raises and ripens everything ; I need but sit beneath a leafy tree And watch and sing. {Seats herself in the shadow of a laburnum.) Or if I'm lulled by note of bird and bee. Or lulled by noontide's silence deep, I need but nestle down beneath my tree And drop asleep. {June falls asleep ; and is not awakened by the voice of July, who behind the scenes is heard half singing, half calling) July. {Behind the scenes) Blue flags, yellow flags, all freckled, Which will you take ? Yellow, blue, speckled ! Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow. Each in its way has not a fellow. THE MONTHS, 2Aj {Enter July, a basket of many-colored irises swung upon his shoulders, a bunch of ripe grass in one hand, and a plate piled full of peaches balanced upon the other. He steals up to June^ and tickles her with the grass. She wakes.) June. What, here already? July. Nay, my tryst is kept; The longest day slipped by you while you slept. I've brought you one curved pyramid of bloom, {Hands her the plate) Not flowers, but peaches, gathered where the bees. As downy, bask and boom In sunshine and in gloom of trees. But get you in, a storm is at my heels ; The whirlwind whistles and wheels, Lightning flashes and thunder peals, Flying and following hard upon my heels. {June takes shelter in a thickly-woven arbor) July. The roar of a storm sweeps up From the east to the lurid west, The darkening sky, like a cup, Is filled with rain to the brink ; The sky is purple and fire. Blackness and noise and unrest; The earth, parched with desire. Opens her mouth to drink. 248 THE MONTHS. Send forth thy thunder and fire, Turn over thy brimming cup, O sky, appease the desire Of earth in her parched unrest ; Pour out drink to her thirst, Her famishing Hfe Hft up ; Make thyself fair as at first, With a rainbow for thy crest. Have done with thunder and fire, O sky with the rainbow crest ; O earth, have done with desire. Drink, and drink deep, and rest. {Enter August, carrying a sheaf made up of different kinds of grain!) July. Hail, brother August, flushed and warm, And scathless from my storm. Your hands are full of corn, I see, As full as hands can be : And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm In their recovered calm, And that they owe to me. {Jtdy retires into the shrubbery^ August. Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy, Barley bows a graceful head, Short and small shoots up canary, Each of these is some one's bread ; Bread for man or bread for beast, Or at very least A bird's savory feast. THE MONTHS. 249 Men are brethren of each other, One in flesh and one in food ; And a sort of foster brother, Is the litter, or the brood Of that folk in fur and feather, Who, with men together. Breast the wind and weather. (Au^st descries September toiling across the lattm^ August. My harvest home is ended ; and I spy September drawing nigh With the first thought of Autumn in her eye, And the first sigh Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly. {September arrives^ carrying upon her head a basket heaped high Tviih fruit,) September. Unload me, brother. I have brought a few Plums and these pears for you, A dozen kinds of apples, one or two Melons, some figs all bursting through . Their skins ; and pearled with dew These damsons, violet-blue. {While September is speaking, August lifts the basket to the ground, selects various fruits ^ and witltdraws slowly along the gravel walk, eating a pear as he goes) 250 ^-^-^ MONTHS. September. My song is half a sigh Because my green leaves die ; Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are dying; And well may Autumn sigh, And well may I Who watch the sere leaves flying. My leaves that fade and fall, I note you one and all ; I call you, and the autumn wind is calling, Lamenting for your fall. And for the pall You spread on earth in falling. And here's a song of flowers to suit such hours : A song of the last lilies, the last flowers, Amid my withering bowers. In the sunny garden bed Lilies look so pale. Lilies droop the head In the shady, grassy vale ; If all alike they pine In shade and in shine. If everywhere they grieve, Where will lilies live ? {October enters briskly, some leafy twigs bearing different sorts of nuts in one hand, and a long, ripe hop-vine trailing after him from the other. A dahlia is stuck in his button-hole^ THE MONTHS 2^1 October. Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite over, Even if the year has done with corn and clover, With flowers and leaves ; besides, in fact, it's true, Some leaves remain, and some flowers too, For me and you. Now see my crops. \Offering his produce to September^ I've brought you nuts and hops ; And when the leaf drops, why the walnut drops. (October wreathes the hop-vines about September's neck, and gives her the nut twigs. They enter the cottage together, but without shutting the door. She steps into the background; he advances to the hearth, removes the guard, stirs up the smoulder- ing fire^ and arranges several chestnuts ready to roast^ October. Crack your first nut, light your first fire. Roast your chestnuts, crisp on the bar, Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze higher ; Logs are as cheery as sun or as star, Logs we can find wherever we are. Spring, one soft day, will open the leaves, Spring, one bright day, will lure back the flowers ; Never fancy my whistling wind grieves. Never fancy I've tears in my showers; Dance, nights and days ! and dance on, my hours. \^Sees November approaching^ 252 THE MONTHS. October. Here comes my youngest sister, looking dim And grim, With dismal ways. What cheer, November ? November. {Entering and shutting the door.) Nought have I to bring. Tramping a-chill and shivering, Except these pine cones for a blaze, — Except a fog which follows, And stuffs up all the hollows, — Except a hoar frost here and there,-— Except some shooting stars, Which dart their luminous cars, Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air. i^October, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws into the back- ^ound, while November throws her pine cones on the Jiri and sits down listlessly.) November. The earth lies fast asleep, grown tired Of all that's high or deep ; There's naught desired and naught required Save a sleep. I rock the cradle of the earth, I lull her with a sigh ; And know that she will wake to mirth By and bye. THE MONTHS. z ^ -i {Through the window December is seen running and leap- trig i?i the direction of the door. He knocks}) November. (Calls out without rising^ Ah, here's my youngest brother come at last : Come in, December. {He opens the door and enters^ loadedwith evergreens in berry, etc.) Come in and shut the door, For now it's snowing fast ; It snows, and will snow more and more ; Don't let it drift in on the floor. But you, you're all aglow; how can you be Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold. December. Nay, no closed doors for me. But open doors and open hearts and glee To welcome young and old. Dimmest and brightest month am I ; My short days end, my lengthening days begin ; What matters more or less sun in the sky, When all is sun within ? {He begins making a wreath as he sings.) Ivy and privet dark as night I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show, And holly for a beauty and delight, And milky mistletoe. '^54 UNCLE NEI^S TALE, While high above them all I set Yew twigs and Christmas roses, pure and paie ; Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet May keep, so sweet and frail ; May keep each merry singing bird. Of all her happy birds that singing build : For I've a carol which some shepherds heard Once in a wintry fi^d. ( While December concludes his song, all the other months troop in from the garden, or advance out of the background. The twelve join hands in a circle, and begin dancing round to a stately measure as the Curtain falls}) — Christina G. Rossetti, MAB 29 19'^ One copy del. to Cat. Div. 1 SfiaH 2^ "^^^^