Chapter 10

Under the willows and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go; Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the footpath damp,--

Across the clover and through the wheat. With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple bloom; And now, when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cool and late; He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one,--

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind, Cropping the buttercups out of the grass-- But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, Looked out a face that the father knew.

For southern prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again; And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb, And under the silent evening skies Together they followed the cattle home.

_Kate P. Osgood._

A Song of Our Flag

Your Flag and my Flag! And, oh, how much it holds-- Your land and my land-- Secure within its folds! Your heart and my heart Beat quicker at the sight; Sun-kissed and wind-tossed, Red and blue and white. The one Flag--the great Flag--the Flag for me and you-- Glorified all else beside--the red and white and blue!

Your Flag and my Flag! To every star and stripe The drums beat as hearts beat And fifers shrilly pipe! Your Flag and my Flag-- A blessing in the sky; Your hope and my hope-- It never hid a lie! Home land and far land and half the world around, Old Glory hears our glad salute and ripples to the sound!

_Wilbur D. Nesbit._

When the Minister Comes to Tea

Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair, And they've got the tidies hangin' jest exactly on the square; And the what-not's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat, And the pantry's brimmin' over with the bully things ter eat; Sis has got her Sunday dress on, and she's frizzin' up her bangs; Ma's got on her best alpacky, and she's askin' how it hangs; Pa has shaved as slick as can be, and I'm rigged way up in G,-- And it's all because we're goin' ter have the minister ter tea. Oh! the table's fixed up gaudy, with the gilt-edged chiny set, And we'll use the silver tea-pot and the comp'ny spoons, you bet; And we're goin' ter have some fruitcake and some thimbleberry jam, And "riz biscuits," and some doughnuts, and some chicken, and some ham. Ma, she'll 'polergize like fury and say everything is bad, And "Sich awful luck with cookin'," she is sure she never had; But, er course, she's only bluffin,' for it's as prime as it can be, And she's only talkin' that way 'cause the minister's ter tea. Everybody'll be a-smilin' and as good as ever was, Pa won't growl about the vittles, like he generally does. And he'll ask me would I like another piece er pie; but, sho! That, er course, is only manners, and I'm s'posed ter answer "No." Sis'll talk about the church-work and about the Sunday-school, Ma'll tell how she liked that sermon that was on the Golden Rule, And if I upset my tumbler they won't say a word ter me:-- Yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister ter tea! Say! a minister, you'd reckon, never'd say what wasn't true; But that isn't so with ours, and I jest can prove it, too; 'Cause when Sis plays on the organ so it makes yer want ter die, Why, he sets and says it's lovely; and that, seems ter me,'s a lie: But I like him all the samey, and I only wish he'd stay At our house fer good and always, and eat with us every day; Only think of havin' goodies _every_ evenin'! Jimmin_ee_! And I'd _never_ git a scoldin' with the minister ter tea!

_Joseph C. Lincoln._

When the Cows Come Home

When klingle, klangle, klingle, Far down the dusty dingle, The cows are coming home;

Now sweet and clear, now faint and low, The airy tinklings come and go, Like chimings from the far-off tower, Or patterings of an April shower That makes the daisies grow; Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle Far down the darkening dingle, The cows come slowly home.

And old-time friends, and twilight plays, And starry nights and sunny days, Come trooping up the misty ways When the cows come home, With jingle, jangle, jingle, Soft tones that sweetly mingle-- The cows are coming home;

Malvine, and Pearl, and Florimel, DeKamp, Red Rose, and Gretchen Schell. Queen Bess and Sylph, and Spangled Sue, Across the fields I hear her "loo-oo" And clang her silver bell; Go-ling, go-lang, golingledingle, With faint, far sounds that mingle, The cows come slowly home.

And mother-songs of long-gone years, And baby-joys and childish fears, And youthful hopes and youthful tears, When the cows come home. With ringle, rangle, ringle, By twos and threes and single, The cows are coming home.

Through violet air we see the town, And the summer sun a-sliding down, And the maple in the hazel glade Throws down the path a longer shade, And the hills are growing brown; To-ring, to-rang, toringleringle, By threes and fours and single, The cows come slowly home.

The same sweet sound of wordless psalm, The same sweet June-day rest and calm, The same sweet smell of buds and balm, When the cows come home. With tinkle, tankle, tinkle, Through fern and periwinkle, The cows are coming home.

A-loitering in the checkered stream, Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, Clarine, Peach-bloom and Phebe Phillis Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies, In a drowsy dream; To-link, to-lank, tolinklelinkle, O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle, The cows come slowly home.

And up through memory's deep ravine Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen, And the crescent of the silver queen, When the cows come home. With klingle, klangle, klingle, With loo-oo, and moo-oo and jingle, The cows are coming home.

And over there on Merlin Hill Sounds the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will, And the dew-drops lie on the tangled vines, And over the poplars Venus shines, And over the silent mill. Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle, With ting-a-ling and jingle, The cows come slowly home.

Let down the bars; let in the train Of long-gone songs, and flowers, and rain; For dear old times come back again, When the cows come home.

_Agnes E. Mitchell._

Custer's Last Charge

Dead! Is it possible? He, the bold rider, Custer, our hero, the first in the fight, Charming the bullets of yore to fly wider, Shunning our battle-king's ringlets of light! Dead! our young chieftain, and dead all forsaken! No one to tell us the way of his fall! Slain in the desert, and never to waken, Never, not even to victory's call!

Comrades, he's gone! but ye need not be grieving; No, may my death be like his when I die! No regrets wasted on words I am leaving, Falling with brave men, and face to the sky. Death's but a journey, the greatest must take it: Fame is eternal, and better than all; Gold though the bowl be, 'tis fate that must break it, Glory can hallow the fragments that fall.

Proud for his fame that last day that he met them! All the night long he had been on their track, Scorning their traps and the men that had set them, Wild for a charge that should never give back. There, on the hilltop he halted and saw them-- Lodges all loosened and ready to fly; Hurrying scouts with the tidings to awe them, Told of his coming before he was nigh.

All the wide valley was full of their forces, Gathered to cover the lodges' retreat,-- Warriors running in haste to their horses, Thousands of enemies close to his feet! Down in the valleys the ages had hollowed, There lay the Sitting Bull's camp for a prey! Numbers! What recked he? What recked those who followed? Men who had fought ten to one ere that day?

Out swept the squadrons, the fated three hundred, Into the battle-line steady and full; Then down the hillside exultingly thundered Into the hordes of the Old Sitting Bull! Wild Ogalallah, Arapahoe, Cheyenne, Wild Horse's braves, and the rest of their crew, Shrank from that charge like a herd from a lion. Then closed around the great hell of wild Sioux.

Right to their center he charged, and then, facing-- Hark to those yells and around them, Oh, see! Over the hilltops the devils come racing, Coming as fast as the waves of the sea! Red was the circle of fire about them, No hope of victory, no ray of light, Shot through that terrible black cloud about them, Brooding in death over Custer's last fight.

THEN DID HE BLENCH? Did he die like a craven, Begging those torturing fiends for his life? Was there a soldier who carried the Seven Flinched like a coward or fled from the strife? No, by the blood of our Custer, no quailing! There in the midst of the devils they close, Hemmed in by thousands, but ever assailing, Fighting like tigers, all bayed amid foes!

Thicker and thicker the bullets came singing; Down go the horses and riders and all; Swiftly the warriors round them were ringing, Circling like buzzards awaiting their fall. See the wild steeds of the mountain and prairie, Savage eyes gleaming from forests of mane; Quivering lances with pennons so airy; War-painted warriors charging amain.

Backward again and again they were driven, Shrinking to close with the lost little band; Never a cap that had worn the bright Seven Bowed till its wearer was dead on the strand. Closer and closer the death-circle growing, Even the leader's voice, clarion clear, Rang out his words of encouragement glowing, "We can but die once, boys, but SELL YOUR LIVES DEAR!"

Dearly they sold them, like Berserkers raging, Facing the death that encircled them round; Death's bitter pangs by their vengeance assuaging, Marking their tracks by their dead on the ground. Comrades, our children shall yet tell their story,-- Custer's last charge on the Old Sitting Bull; And ages shall swear that the cup of his glory Needed but that death to render it full.

_Frederick Whitttaker._

A Boy and His Stomach

What's the matter, stummick? Ain't I always been your friend? Ain't I always been a pardner to you? All my pennies don't I spend In getting nice things for you? Don't I give you lots of cake? Say, stummick, what's the matter, You had to go an' ache?

Why, I loaded you with good things yesterday; I gave you more corn an' chicken than you'd ever had before; I gave you fruit an' candy, apple pie an' chocolate cake, An' last night when I got to bed you had to go an' ache.

Say, what's the matter with you? Ain't you satisfied at all? I gave you all you wanted; you was hard jes' like a ball, An' you couldn't hold another bit of puddin'; yet last night You ached most awful, stummick! That ain't treatin' me jest right.

I've been a friend to you, I have! Why ain't you a friend o' mine? They gave me castor oil becoz you made me whine. I'm feelin' fine this mornin'; yes it's true; But I tell you, stummick, you better appreciate things I do for you.

On the Shores of Tennessee

"Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey, In the sunshine bright and strong, For this world is fading, Pompey-- Massa won't be with you long; And I fain would hear the south wind Bring once more the sound to me, Of the wavelets softly breaking On the shores of Tennessee.

"Mournful though the ripples murmur As they still the story tell, How no vessels float the banner That I've loved so long and well, I shall listen to their music, Dreaming that again I see Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop Sailing up the Tennessee;

"And Pompey, while old Massa's waiting For Death's last dispatch to come, If that exiled starry banner Should come proudly sailing home, You shall greet it, slave no longer-- Voice and hand shall both be free That shout and point to Union colors On the waves of Tennessee."

"Massa's berry kind to Pompey; But old darkey's happy here, Where he's tended corn and cotton For dese many a long-gone year. Ober yonder, Missis' sleeping-- No one tends her grave like me; Mebbe she would miss the flowers She used to love in Tennessee.

"'Pears like, she was watching Massa-- If Pompey should beside him stay, Mebbe she'd remember better How for him she used to pray; Telling him that way up yonder White as snow his soul would be, If he served the Lord of Heaven While he lived in Tennessee."

Silently the tears were rolling Down the poor old dusky face, As he stepped behind his master, In his long-accustomed place. Then a silence fell around them, As they gazed on rock and tree Pictured in the placid waters Of the rolling Tennessee;--

Master, dreaming of the battle Where he fought by Marion's side, Where he bid the haughty Tarleton Stoop his lordly crest of pride:-- Man, remembering how yon sleeper Once he held upon his knee. Ere she loved the gallant soldier, Ralph Vervair of Tennessee.

Still the south wind fondly lingers 'Mid the veteran's silver hair; Still the bondman, close beside him Stands behind the old arm-chair. With his dark-hued hand uplifted, Shading eyes, he bends to see Where the woodland, boldly jutting, Turns aside the Tennessee.

Thus he watches cloud-born shadows Glide from tree to mountain-crest, Softly creeping, aye and ever To the river's yielding breast. Ha! above the foliage yonder Something flutters wild and free! "Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! The flag's come back to Tennessee!"

"Pompey, hold me on your shoulder, Help me stand on foot once more, That I may salute the colors As they pass my cabin door. Here's the paper signed that frees you, Give a freeman's shout with me-- 'God and Union!' be our watchword Evermore in Tennessee!"

Then the trembling voice grew fainter, And the limbs refused to stand; One prayer to Jesus--and the soldier Glided to the better land. When the flag went down the river Man and master both were free; While the ring-dove's note was mingled With the rippling Tennessee.

_Ethel Lynn Beers._

The White-Footed Deer

It was a hundred years ago, When, by the woodland ways, The traveler saw the wild deer drink, Or crop the birchen sprays.

Beneath a hill, whose rocky side O'er-browed a grassy mead, And fenced a cottage from the wind, A deer was wont to feed.

She only came when on the cliffs The evening moonlight lay, And no man knew the secret haunts In which she walked by day.

White were her feet, her forehead showed A spot of silvery white, That seemed to glimmer like a star In autumn's hazy night.

And here, when sang the whippoorwill, She cropped the sprouting leaves, And here her rustling steps were heard On still October eves.

But when the broad midsummer moon Rose o'er the grassy lawn, Beside the silver-footed deer There grazed a spotted fawn.

The cottage dame forbade her son To aim the rifle here; "It were a sin," she said, "to harm Or fright that friendly deer.

"This spot has been my pleasant home Ten peaceful years and more; And ever, when the moonlight shines, She feeds before our door,

"The red men say that here she walked A thousand moons ago; They never raise the war whoop here, And never twang the bow.

"I love to watch her as she feeds, And think that all is well While such a gentle creature haunts The place in which we dwell."

The youth obeyed, and sought for game In forests far away, Where, deep in silence and in moss, The ancient woodland lay.

But once, in autumn's golden time, He ranged the wild in vain, Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, And wandered home again.

The crescent moon and crimson eve Shone with a mingling light; The deer, upon the grassy mead, Was feeding full in sight.

He raised the rifle to his eye, And from the cliffs around A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, Gave back its deadly sound.

Away, into the neighboring wood, The startled creature flew, And crimson drops at morning lay Amid the glimmering dew.

Next evening shone the waxing moon As sweetly as before; The deer upon the grassy mead Was seen again no more.

But ere that crescent moon was old, By night the red men came, And burnt the cottage to the ground, And slew the youth and dame.

Now woods have overgrown the mead, And hid the cliffs from sight; There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon, And prowls the fox at night.

_W.C. Bryant._

Mount Vernon's Bells

Where Potomac's stream is flowing Virginia's border through, Where the white-sailed ships are going Sailing to the ocean blue;

Hushed the sound of mirth and singing, Silent every one! While the solemn bells are ringing By the tomb of Washington.

Tolling and knelling, With a sad, sweet sound, O'er the waves the tones are swelling By Mount Vernon's sacred ground.

Long ago the warrior slumbered-- Our country's father slept; Long among the angels numbered They the hero soul have kept.

But the children's children love him, And his name revere, So where willows wave above him, Sweetly still his knell you hear.

Sail, oh ships, across the billows, And bear the story far; How he sleeps beneath the willows,-- "First in peace and first in war,"

Tell while sweet adieus are swelling, Till you come again, He within the hearts is dwelling, Of his loving countrymen.

_M.B.C. Slade._

Gradatim

Heaven is not reached at a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to the summit round by round,

I count this thing to be grandly true: That a noble deed is a step toward God, Lifting a soul from the common sod To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by things that are under our feet; By what we have mastered of good and gain, By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, When the morning calls us to life and light; But our hearts grow weary, and ere he night Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, And we think that we mount the air on wings, Beyond the recall of sensual things, While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, And the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to the summit round by round.

_J.G. Holland._

Mr. Finney's Turnip

Mr. Finney had a turnip And it grew behind the barn; It grew there, and it grew there, And the turnip did no harm,

It grew and it grew, Till it could get no taller; Mr. Finney pulled it up And put it in his cellar.

It lay there and it lay there, Till it began to rot; His daughter Sallie took it up, And put it in the pot.

She boiled it, and she boiled it, As long as she was able; His daughter Peggy fished it out. And put it on the table.

Mr. Finney and his wife. They sat down to sup, And they ate, and they ate, Until they ate the turnip up.

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begun, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.

_H. W. Longfellow._

You and You

_To the American Private in the Great War_

Every one of you won the war-- You and you and you-- Each one knowing what it was for, And what was his job to do.

Every one of you won the war, Obedient, unwearied, unknown, Dung in the trenches, drift on the shore, Dust to the world's end blown; Every one of you, steady and true, You and you and you-- Down in the pit or up in the blue, Whether you crawled or sailed or flew, Whether your closest comrade knew Or you bore the brunt alone--

All of you, all of you, name after name, Jones and Robinson, Smith and Brown, You from the piping prairie town, You from the Fundy fogs that came, You from the city's roaring blocks, You from the bleak New England rocks With the shingled roof in the apple boughs, You from the brown adobe house-- You from the Rockies, you from the Coast, You from the burning frontier-post And you from the Klondyke's frozen flanks, You from the cedar-swamps, you from the pine, You from the cotton and you from the vine, You from the rice and the sugar-brakes, You from the Rivers and you from the Lakes, You from the Creeks and you from the Licks And you from the brown bayou-- You and you and you-- You from the pulpit, you from the mine, You from the factories, you from the banks, Closer and closer, ranks on ranks, Airplanes and cannon, and rifles and tanks, Smith and Robinson, Brown and Jones, Ruddy faces or bleaching bones, After the turmoil and blood and pain Swinging home to the folks again Or sleeping alone in the fine French rain-- Every one of you won the war.

Every one of you won the war-- You and you and you-- Pressing and pouring forth, more and more, Toiling and straining from shore to shore To reach the flaming edge of the dark Where man in his millions went up like a spark, You, in your thousands and millions coming, All the sea ploughed with you, all the air humming, All the land loud with you, All our hearts proud with you, All our souls bowed with the awe of your coming!

Where's the Arch high enough, Lads, to receive you, Where's the eye dry enough, Dears, to perceive you, When at last and at last in your glory you come, Tramping home?