Part 11

Not long afterwards, the goat came home out of the wood. Ah! a sight met her view! The house-door stood wide open, tables, stools, and chairs were overturned, the washing-tub in pieces, counterpanes and pillows strewed about in terrible confusion. She sought her children, but they were nowhere to be found; she called them by name, but no reply came.

At length, as she was passing near the place where the youngest was concealed, she heard a weak voice say, "Dear mother, I'm in the clock-case." She instantly opened it, and there was the kid, who related the misfortune that had befallen them through the wolf, and the dreadful fate of her brothers and sisters. The anger and sorrow of the old goat can scarcely be described; but at length she became calmer, and taking her kid with her, resolved to seek her enemy. When she arrived at the meadow, she discovered him under the tree, snoring so loudly that the twigs trembled. She examined him on all sides, and saw that something was moving and jumping inside him. "Can it be possible," said she, "that my poor children whom the monster has swallowed for his supper, are still alive?" Full of hope, she sent her kid quickly home for scissors, needle and thread, and upon her return ripped the wolf up; scarcely had she commenced, than a kid's head appeared, and when she had finished, all six sprang joyfully out, without having suffered the least harm, for the wolf had swallowed them whole. The mother caressed them and jumped for joy, then said, "Now go and fetch me some large paving stones, that I may fill up the wicked creature while he is yet asleep." The kids obeyed and dragged plenty of large stones to the place, which the mother put inside the wolf; she then sewed him up, so quickly, that he neither stirred nor found out what she had done.

At length the wolf awoke, raised himself on his legs, and as the stones made him feel thirsty, he went towards the spring to quench it. But when he began to move, the stones moved likewise, and rattled loudly. Then he said, "What can it be that rattles about inside me, and feels so heavy? I thought I had eaten kids, but I feel as if they were paving-stones." He then came to the spring, and stooped down to drink, but the weight of the stones carried him in, for the bank was sloping, and he sank to the bottom and perished miserably. When the kids saw this, they danced and sprang about in great joy, crying out, "The wolf is drowned! The wolf is dead! We have nothing more to fear--the wolf is dead!"

* * * * *

There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.--

BRYANT.

BIRDIE AND BABY.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother let me fly away. Birdie rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away.

What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day? Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, Baby, too, shall fly away.

THE INFLUENCE OF BOOKS.

From the hour of the invention of printing, books, and not kings, were to rule in the world. Weapons forged in the mind, keen-edged, and brighter than a sunbeam, were to supplant the sword and the battle-axe. Books! light-houses built on the sea of time! Books! by whose sorcery the whole pageantry of the world's history moves in solemn procession before our eyes. From their pages great souls look down in all their grandeur, undimmed by the faults and follies of earthly existence, consecrated by time.

EDWIN P. WHIPPLE.

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

ELIZABETH AKERS.

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echo-less shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears,-- Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,-- Take them and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay,-- Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; Weary of sowing for others to reap-- Rock me to sleep, mother--rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O Mother, my heart calls for you! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between; Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep, Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

Over my heart in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shown; No other worship abides and endures,-- Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours; None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep; Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened to your lullaby song; Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep,-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep.

HEROISM.

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man, When duty whispers low, "_Thou must_," The youth replies, "_I can_."

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

* * * * *

Politeness is _to do_ and say The kindest thing in the kindest way.

MEASURING THE BABY.

EMMA ALICE BROWN.

We measured the riotous baby Against the cottage wall-- A lily grew on the threshold, And the boy was just as tall; A royal tiger-lily, With spots of purple and gold, And a heart like a jeweled chalice, The fragrant dew to hold.

Without, the bluebirds whistled High up in the old roof-trees, And to and fro at the window The red rose rocked her bees; And the wee pink fists of the baby Were never a moment still, Snatching at shine and shadow That danced on the lattice-sill.

His eyes were wide as bluebells-- His mouth like a flower unblown-- Two little bare feet like funny white mice, Peeped out from his snowy gown; And we thought, with a thrill of rapture That yet had a touch of pain, When June rolls around with her roses, We'll measure the boy again.

Ah me! in a darkened chamber, With the sunshine shut away, Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, We measured the boy to-day; And the little bare feet, that were dimpled And sweet as a budding rose, Lay side by side together, In a hush of a long repose!

Up from the dainty pillow, White as the risen dawn, The fair little face lay smiling, With the light of Heaven thereon; And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves Dropped from a rose, lay still, Never to snatch at the sunshine That crept to the shrouded sill.

We measured the sleeping baby With ribbons white as snow, For the shining rosewood casket That waited him below; And out of the darkened chamber We went with a childless moan-- To the height of the sinless angels Our little one had grown.

* * * * *

Every man stamps his value on himself. The price we challenge for ourselves is given us. Man is made great or little _by his own will_.

SCHILLER

* * * * *

It was a noble Roman, In Rome's imperial day, Who heard a coward croaker, Before the Castle say: "They're safe in such a fortress; There is no way to shake it!" "On--on," exclaimed the hero, "_I'll find a way, or make it!_"

JOHN G. SAXE.

THE ENGINEER'S STORY.

No, children, my trips are over, The engineer needs rest; My hand is shaky, I'm feeling A tugging pain i' my breast; But here, as the twilight gathers, I'll tell you a tale of the road, That will ring in my head forever, Until it rests beneath the sod.

We were lumbering along in the twilight, The night was dropping her shade, And the "Gladiator" labored-- Climbing the top of the grade; The train was heavily laden, So I let my engine rest, Climbing the grading slowly, Till we reached the upland's crest.

I held my watch to the lamplight-- Ten minutes behind the time! Lost in the slackened motion Of the up grade's heavy climb; But I knew the miles of the prairie That stretched a level track, So I touched the gauge of the boiler, And pulled the lever back.

Over the rails a-gleaming, Thirty an hour, or so, The engine leaped like a demon, Breathing a fiery glow; But to me--ahold of the lever-- It seemed a child alway, Trustful and always ready My lightest touch to obey.

I was proud, you know, of my engine, Holding it steady that night, And my eye on the track before us, Ablaze with the Drummond light. We neared a well-known cabin, Where a child of three or four, As the up-train passed, oft called me, A-playing around the door.

My hand was firm on the throttle As we swept around the curve, When something afar in the shadow, Struck fire through every nerve. I sounded the brakes, and crashing The reverse lever down in dismay, Groaning to Heaven,--eighty paces Ahead was a child at its play!

One instant--one awful and only, The world flew around in my brain, And I smote my hand hard on my forehead To keep back the terrible pain; The train I thought flying forever, With mad, irresistible roll, While the cries of the dying, the night-wind Swept into my shuddering soul.

Then I stood on the front of the engine, How I got there I never could tell,-- My feet planted down on the cross-bar Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail, One hand firmly locked on the coupler, And one held out in the night, While my eye gauged the distance and measured, The speed of our slackening flight.

My mind, thank the Lord! it was steady; I saw the curls of her hair, And the face that turning in wonder, Was lit by the deadly glare. I know little more--but I heard it-- The groan of the anguished wheels, And remember thinking--the engine In agony trembles and reels.

One rod! to the day of my dying, I shall think the old engine reared back, And as it recoiled with a shudder I swept my hand over the track; Then darkness fell over my eyelids, But I heard the surge of the train, And the poor old engine creaking, As racked by a deadly pain.

They found us, they said, on the gravel, My fingers enmeshed in her hair, And she on my bosom a climbing, To nestle securely there. We are not much given to crying-- We men that run on the road-- But that night, they said there were faces, With tears on them, lifted to God.

For years in the eve and the morning, As I neared the cabin again, My hand on the lever pressed downward And slackened the speed of the train. When my engine had blown her a greeting, She always would come to the door; And her look with a fullness of Heaven, Blessed me evermore.

* * * * *

I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble, or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.

SIR ISAAC NEWTON.

* * * * *

Oh, many a shaft, at random sent, Finds mark, the archer little meant! And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe, or wound, a heart that's broken.

WALTER SCOTT.

TWO BRAVE BOYS.

FROM PRITT'S BORDER LIFE.

During the early pioneer days of Ohio, there lived on the Ohio river, not far from Cincinnati, a family named Johnson.

The two sons, John and Henry, aged respectively thirteen and eleven years, were one day seated on an old log some distance from the house. Presently they saw two men coming toward them, whom they supposed to be white men from the nearest settlement. To the great dismay of the boys, they discovered when too late for escape, that two Indians were beside them.

They were made prisoners and taken about four miles into the deep forests, when, after eating some roasted meat and parched corn, given them by their captors, they arranged for the night, by being placed between the two Indians and each encircled in the arms of the one next him.

Henry, the younger, had grieved much at the idea of being carried off by the Indians. John had in vain tried to comfort him with the hope that they should escape and return to their parents; but he refused to be comforted. The ugly red man, with his tomahawk and scalping-knife, which had often been called in to quiet his cries in infancy, was now actually before him; and every scene of torture and cruelty of which early settlers knew so much, rose up to terrify his mind.

But when the fire was kindled in the forest, that night, the supper prepared and offered to him, all idea of his future fate was forgotten, and Henry soon sank to peaceful sleep, though he was enclosed in the arms of a red savage.

It was different with John. He felt the reality of their situation; he was alive to the fears which he knew would possess his dear mother when night came and her boys did not return. His thoughts of how to restore his brother and himself to their friends drove sleep from his eyes.

Finding all others locked in deep repose, he gently slipped from the arms of his captor and walked to the fire. To test the soundness of their sleep, he rekindled the dying fire and moved freely about it. All remained sound asleep--now was the time to escape. He gently awoke Henry and told him to get up; he obeyed and both stood by the fire.

"I think," said John, "we had better go home now."

"Oh!" replied Henry, "they will follow and catch us."

"Never fear that," replied John, "we'll kill them before we go."

The idea was for some time opposed by Henry, but when he beheld the savages so soundly asleep, and listened to his brother's plan of executing his wish, he finally consented to act the part prescribed him.

The only gun which the Indians had was resting against a tree, at the foot of which lay their tomahawks. John placed it on a log, with the muzzle near to the head of one of the savages, and, leaving Henry with his finger on the trigger, ready to pull on the signal being given, he repaired to his own station. Holding in his hand one of their tomahawks, he stood astride of the other Indian, and, as he raised his arm to deal death to the sleeping savage, Henry fired, and, shooting off the lower part of the Indian's jaw, called to his brother, "_Lay on; for I've done for this one_," seized up the gun and ran off. The first blow of the tomahawk took effect on the back of the neck and was not fatal. The Indian attempted to spring up, but John repeated his strokes with such force and so quickly that he soon brought him again to the ground, and leaving him dead proceeded on after his brother.

They presently came to a path which they recollected to have traveled the preceding evening, and, keeping along it, arrived at the station awhile before day. The inhabitants were, however, all up, and in much uneasiness for the fate of the boys; and when they came near, and heard a well-known voice exclaim, in accents of deep distress, "_Poor little fellows! they are either killed or taken prisoners_," John called aloud, "No, mother, we are here again."

When the tale of their captivity and the means by which they escaped, were told, they did not receive full belief, upon which John said, "You had better go and see." "But can you again find the spot?" said one; "Yes," he said, "I hung my cap up at the place where we turned into the path." So, with a number of men, John led the way, and when they came to the fire they found the Indian who had been tomahawked, dead, while they tracked the one who had been shot, by his blood, until they found him, not quite dead yet, but so weak that he would die, so they left him.

* * * * *

I am positive I have a Soul; nor can all the books with which materialists have pestered the world ever convince me to the contrary.

STERNE.

THE FLIGHT OF YEARS.

GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

Gone! gone for ever!--like a rushing wave Another year has burst upon the shore Of earthly being--and its last low tones, Wandering in broken accents on the air, Are dying to an echo.

The gay Spring With its young charms, has gone--gone with its leaves-- Its atmosphere of roses, its white clouds Slumbering like seraphs in the air--its birds Telling their loves in music--and its streams Leaping and shouting from the up-piled rocks To make earth echo with the joy of waves. And Summer, with its dews and showers, has gone-- Its rainbows glowing on the distant cloud

Like Spirits of the Storm--its peaceful lakes Smiling in their sweet sleep, as if their dreams Were of the opening flowers and budding trees And overhanging sky--and its bright mists Resting upon the mountain tops, as crowns Upon the heads of giants.

Autumn too Has gone, with all its deeper glories--gone With its green hills like altars of the world Lifting their rich fruit-offerings to their God-- Its cool winds straying 'mid the forest aisles To wake their thousand wind-harps--its serene And holy sunsets hanging o'er the West Like banners from the battlements of Heaven-- And its still evenings, when the moonlit sea Was ever throbbing, like the living heart Of the great Universe--Aye--these are now But sounds and visions of the past--their deep, Wild beauty has departed from the Earth, And they are gathered to the embrace of Death, Their solemn herald to Eternity.

Nor have they gone alone. High human hearts Of Passion have gone with them. The fresh dust Is chill on many a breast, that burned erstwhile With fires that seemed immortal.

Joys, that leaped Like angels from the heart, and wandered free In life's young morn to look upon the flowers, The poetry of nature, and to list The woven sounds of breeze, and bird, and stream, Upon the night-air, have been stricken down In silence to the dust.

Yet, why muse Upon the past with sorrow? Though the year Has gone to blend with the mysterious tide Of old Eternity, and borne along Upon its heaving breast a thousand wrecks Of glory and of beauty--yet, why mourn That such is destiny? Another year Succeedeth to the past--in their bright round The seasons come and go--the same blue arch, That hath hung o'er us, will hang o'er us yet-- The same pure stars that we have loved to watch, Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hour Like lilies on the tomb of Day--and still Man will remain, to dream as he hath dreamed, And mark the earth with passion.

Weep not, that Time Is passing on--it will ere long reveal A brighter era to the nations.