Chapter 14

Then they listened,--"He is singing, 'Jesus, lover of my soul.'" And the winds brought back the echo, "While the nearer waters roll." Strange, indeed, it was to hear him,--"Till the storm of life is past," Singing bravely o'er the waters, "Oh, receive my soul at last!"

He could have no other refuge,--"Hangs my helpless soul on thee." "Leave, ah! leave me not"--the singer dropped at last into the sea. And the watchers, looking homeward, through their eyes by tears made dim, Said, "He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn."

_Marianne Faringham._

A Fence or an Ambulance

'Twas a dangerous cliff, as they freely confessed, Though to walk near its crest was so pleasant; But over its terrible edge there had slipped A duke and full many a peasant. So the people said something would have to be done, But their projects did not at all tally; Some said, "Put a fence around the edge of the cliff," Some, "An ambulance down in the valley."

But the cry for the ambulance carried the day, For it spread through the neighboring city; A fence may be useful or not, it is true, But each heart became brimful of pity For those who slipped over that dangerous cliff; And the dwellers in highway and alley Gave pounds or gave pence, not to put up a fence, But an ambulance down in the valley.

"For the cliff is all right, if you're careful," they said, "And, if folks even slip and are dropping, It isn't the slipping that hurts them so much, As the shock down below when they're stopping." So day after day, as these mishaps occurred, Quick forth would these rescuers sally To pick up the victims who fell off the cliff, With their ambulance down in the valley.

Then an old sage remarked: "It's a marvel to me That people give far more attention To repairing results than to stopping the cause, When they'd much better aim at prevention. Let us stop at its source all this mischief," cried he, "Come, neighbors and friends, let us rally, If the cliff we will fence, we might almost dispense With the ambulance down in the valley."

"Oh, he's a fanatic," the others rejoined, "Dispense with the ambulance? Never. He'd dispense with all charities, too, if he could; No! No! We'll support them forever. Aren't we picking up folks just as fast as they fall? And shall this man dictate to us? Shall he? Why should people of sense stop to put up a fence, While the ambulance works in the valley?"

But a sensible few, who are practical too, Will not bear with such nonsense much longer; They believe that prevention is better than cure, And their party will soon be the stronger. Encourage them then, with your purse, voice, and pen, And while other philanthropists dally, They will scorn all pretense and put up a stout fence On the cliff that hangs over the valley.

Better guide well the young than reclaim them when old, For the voice of true wisdom is calling, "To rescue the fallen is good, but 'tis best To prevent other people from falling." Better close up the source of temptation and crime, Than deliver from dungeon or galley; Better put a strong fence 'round the top of the cliff Than an ambulance down in the valley."

_Joseph Malins._

The Smack in School

A district school, not far away, 'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day, Was humming with its wonted noise Of three-score mingled girls and boys; Some few upon their tasks intent, But more on furtive mischief bent. The while the master's downward look Was fastened on a copy-book; When suddenly, behind his back, Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack! As 'twere a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss! "What's that?" the startled master cries; "That, thir," a little imp replies, "Wath William Willith, if you pleathe, I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!" With frown to make a statue thrill, The master thundered, "Hither, Will!" Like wretch o'ertaken in his track With stolen chattels on his back, Will hung his head in fear and shame, And to the awful presence came,-- A great, green, bashful simpleton, The butt of all good-natured fun, With smile suppressed, and birch upraised The threatener faltered, "I'm amazed That you, my biggest pupil, should Be guilty of an act so rude-- Before the whole set school to boot-- What evil genius put you to 't?" "'Twas she, herself, sir," sobbed the lad; "I did not mean to be so bad; But when Susanna shook her curls, And whispered I was 'fraid of girls, And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, I couldn't stand it, sir, at all, But up and kissed her on the spot! I know--boo-hoo--I ought to not, But, somehow, from her looks--boo-hoo-- I thought she kind o' wished me to!"

_William Pitt Palmer._

A Woman's Question

Do you know you have asked for the costliest thing Ever made by the Hand above-- A woman's heart and a woman's life, And a woman's wonderful love?

Do you know you have asked for this priceless thing As a child might ask for a toy; Demanding what others have died to win, With the reckless dash of a boy?

You have written my lesson of duty out, Man-like you have questioned me-- Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul, Until I shall question thee.

You require your mutton shall always be hot, Your socks and your shirts shall be whole. I require your heart to be true as God's stars, And pure as heaven your soul.

You require a cook for your mutton and beef; I require a far better thing-- A seamstress you're wanting for stockings and shirts-- I look for a man and a king.

A king for a beautiful realm called home, And a man that the Maker, God, Shall look upon as He did the first, And say, "It is very good."

I am fair and young, but the rose will fade From my soft, young cheek one day-- Will you love then, 'mid the falling leaves, As you did 'mid the bloom of May?

Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep I may launch my all on its tide? A loving woman finds heaven or hell On the day she is made a bride.

I require all things that are grand and true, All things that a man should be; If you give this all, I would stake my life To be all you demand of me.

If you cannot do this, a laundress and cook You can hire with little to pay; But a woman's heart and a woman's life Are not to be won that way.

_Lena Lathrop._

Lasca

I want free life and I want fresh air; And I sigh for the canter after the cattle, The crack of the whips like shots in battle, The mellay of horns, and hoofs, and heads That wars, and wrangles, and scatters, and spreads; The green beneath and the blue above, And dash and danger, and life and love; And Lasca! Lasca used to ride On a mouse-gray mustang, close to my side, With blue _serape_ and bright-belled spur; I laughed with joy as I looked at her! Little knew she of books or creeds; An _Ave Maria_ sufficed her needs; Little she cared, save to be by my side, To ride with me, and ever to ride, From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide. She was as bold as the billows that beat, She was as wild as the breezes that blow; From her little head to her little feet She was swayed, in her suppleness, to and fro By each gust of passion; a sapling pine, That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff And wars with the wind when the weather is rough, Is like this Lasca, this love of mine. She would hunger that I might eat, Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet; But once, when I made her jealous for fun, At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done, One Sunday, in San Antonio, To a glorious girl on the Alamo, She drew from her girdle a dear little dagger, And--sting of a wasp!--it made me stagger! An inch to the left or an inch to the right, And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night; But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound Her torn _rebosa_ about the wound That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Her eye was brown,--a deep, deep brown; Her hair was darker than her eye; And something in her smile and frown, Curled crimson lip, and instep high, Showed that there ran in each blue vein, Mixed with the milder Aztec strain, The vigorous vintage of old Spain. She was alive in every limb With feeling, to the finger tips; And when the sun is like a fire, And sky one shining, soft sapphire, One does not drink in little sips.

The air was heavy, the night was hot, I sat by her side, and forgot--forgot; Forgot the herd that were taking their rest; Forgot that the air was close opprest; That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon, In the dead of night or the blaze of noon; That once let the herd at its breath take fright, That nothing on earth can stop the flight; And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, Who falls in front of their mad stampede! Was that thunder? No, by the Lord! I sprang to my saddle without a word, One foot on mine, and she clung behind. Away on a hot chase down the wind! But never was fox-hunt half so hard, And never was steed so little spared, For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The mustang flew, and we urged him on; There was one chance left, and you have but one; Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; Crouch under his carcass, and take your chance; And if the steers, in their frantic course, Don't batter you both to pieces at once, You may thank your star; if not, good-by To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, And the open air and the open sky, In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The cattle gained on us, and just as I felt For my old six-shooter, behind in my belt, Down came the mustang, and down came we, Clinging together, and--what was the rest? A body that spread itself on my breast, Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, Two lips that hard on my lips were pressed; Then came thunder in my ears, As over us surged the sea of steers, Blows that beat blood into my eyes, And when I could rise, Lasca was dead!

I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep! And there she is lying, and no one knows, And the summer shines and the winter snows; For many a day the flowers have spread A pall of petals over her head; And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air, And the sly coyote trots here and there, And the black snake glides, and glitters, and slides Into the rift in a cotton-wood tree; And the buzzard sails on, And comes and is gone, Stately and still like a ship at sea; And I wonder why I do not care For the things that are like the things that were. Does half my heart lie buried there In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

_Frank Desprez._

Over the Hill to the Poor-House

Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way-- I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray-- I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told, As many another woman that's only half as old.

Over the hill to the poor-house--I can't quite make it clear! Over the hill to the poor-house-it seems so horrid queer! Many a step I've taken a-toiling to and fro, But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? Am I lazy or crazy? Am I blind or lame? True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound, If anybody only is willin' to have me round.

Once I was young an' han'some--I was upon my soul-- Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal; And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say, For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.

'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over-free, But many a house an' home was open then to me; Many a han'some offer I had from likely men, And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.

And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart, But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part; For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong, And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.

And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay, With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way; Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.

So we worked for the childr'n, and raised 'em every one, Worked for 'em summer and winter just as we ought to've done; Only, perhaps, we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn-- But every couple's childr'n's a heap the best to them.

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones! I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons; And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, I've noticed it sometimes, somehow, fails to work the other way.

Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown, And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone; When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, The Lord of Hosts he come one day, an' took him away from me.

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall-- Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all; And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown, Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile-- She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style; But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know; But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.

She had an edication, an' that was good for her; But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur; An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick), That I never swallowed a grammar, or eat a 'rithmetic.

So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done-- They was a family of themselves, and I another one; And a very little cottage one family will do, But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two.

An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye, An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try; But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, When Charley turn'd agin me, an' told me I could go.

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small, And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all; And what with her husband's sisters, and what with childr'n three, 'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot; But all the childr'n was on me--I couldn't stand their sauce-- And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.

An' then I wrote Rebecca, my girl who lives out West, And to Isaac, not far from her--some twenty miles, at best; And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old, And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold.

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about-- So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out; But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down, Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.

Over the hill to the poor-house--my childr'n dear, good-by! Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh; And God'll judge between us; but I will always pray That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.

_Will Carleton._

The American Flag

When Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land.

Majestic monarch of the cloud, Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of War, The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on. Ere yet the lifeblood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance.

And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly 'round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home! By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

_Joseph Rodman Drake._

Golden Keys

A bunch of golden keys is mine To make each day with gladness shine.

"Good morning!" that's the golden key That unlocks every door for me.

When evening comes, "Good night!" I say, And close the door of each glad day.

When at the table "If you please" I take from off my bunch of keys.

When friends give anything to me, I'll use the little "Thank you" key.

"Excuse me," "Beg your pardon," too, When by mistake some harm I do.

Or if unkindly harm I've given, With "Forgive me" key I'll be forgiven.

On a golden ring these keys I'll bind, This is its motto: "Be ye kind."

I'll often use each golden key, And so a happy child I'll be.

The Four-leaf Clover

I know a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blooms burst like snow; And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

One leaf is for faith, and one is for hope, And one is for love, you know; And God put another one in for luck-- If you search, you will find where they grow.

But you must have faith and you must have hope, You must love and be strong, and so If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

_Ella Higginson._

Telling the Bees

NOTE: A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country, formerly prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death of a member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event, and their hives dressed in mourning. This ceremonial was supposed to be necessary to prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a new home.

Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the old wall still. And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.

There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the poplars tall; And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall.

There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago.

There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.

I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.

Since we parted, a month had passed,-- To love, a year; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.

I can see it all now,--the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, The bloom of her roses under the eaves.

Just the same as a month before,-- The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,-- Nothing changed but the hives of bees.

Before them, under the garden wall, Forward and back, Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black.

Trembling, I listened; the summer sun Had the chill of snow; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go!

Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps For the dead to-day: Haply her blind grandsire sleeps The fret and pain of his age away."

But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, With his cane to his chin, The old man sat; and the chore-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in.

And the song she was singing ever since In my ear sounds on:-- "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"

_John G. Whittier._

"Not Understood"

Not understood, we move along asunder, Our paths grow wider as the seasons creep Along the years. We marvel and we wonder, Why life is life, and then we fall asleep, Not understood.

Not understood, we gather false impressions, And hug them closer as the years go by, Till virtues often seem to us transgressions; And thus men rise and fall and live and die, Not understood.

Not understood, poor souls with stunted visions Often measure giants by their narrow gauge; The poisoned shafts of falsehood and derision Are oft impelled 'gainst those who mould the age, Not understood.

Not understood, the secret springs of action Which lie beneath the surface and the show Are disregarded; with self-satisfaction We judge our neighbors, and they often go Not understood.

Not understood, how trifles often change us-- The thoughtless sentence or the fancied slight-- Destroy long years of friendship and estrange us, And on our souls there falls a freezing blight-- Not understood.

Not understood, how many hearts are aching For lack of sympathy! Ah! day by day How many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking, How many noble spirits pass away Not understood.

O God! that men would see a little clearer, Or judge less hardly when they cannot see! O God! that men would draw a little nearer To one another! They'd be nearer Thee, And understood.

Somebody's Mother

The woman was old, and ragged, and gray, And bent with the chill of a winter's day; The streets were white with a recent snow, And the woman's feet with age were slow.

At the crowded crossing she waited long, Jostled aside by the careless throng Of human beings who passed her by, Unheeding the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of "school let out," Come happy boys, like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep; Past the woman, so old and gray, Hastened the children on their way.

None offered a helping hand to her, So weak and timid, afraid to stir, Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet Should trample her down in the slippery street.

At last came out of the merry troop The gayest boy of all the group; He paused beside her, and whispered low, "I'll help you across, if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong young arm She placed, and so without hurt or harm, He guided the trembling feet along, Proud that his own were young and strong; Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well content.