Chapter 3

Now we remember; over here in Flanders-- (It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders)-- This hideous warfare seems to make things clear. We never thought about You much in England-- But now that we are far away from England-- We have no doubts, we know that You are here.

You helped us pass the jest along the trenches-- Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches-- You touched its ribaldry and made it fine. You stood beside us in our pain and weakness-- We're glad to think You understand our weakness-- Somehow it seems to help us not to whine.

We think about You kneeling in the Garden-- Ah, God, the agony of that dread Garden-- We know You prayed for us upon the cross. If anything could make us glad to bear it-- 'Twould be the knowledge that You willed to bear it-- Pain--death--the uttermost of human loss.

Though we forgot You--You will not forget us-- We feel so sure that You will not forget us-- But stay with us until this dream is past. And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon-- Especially, I think, we ask for pardon-- And that You'll stand beside us to the last.

_L.W. in London "Spectator."_

We Are Seven

--A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; --Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little Maid's reply, "O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'T was throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

_William Wordsworth._

Echo

"I asked of Echo, t'other day (Whose words are often few and funny), What to a novice she could say Of courtship, love and matrimony. Quoth Echo plainly,--'Matter-o'-money!'

"Whom should I marry? Should it be A dashing damsel, gay and pert, A pattern of inconstancy; Or selfish, mercenary flirt? Quoth Echo, sharply,--'Nary flirt!'

"What if, aweary of the strife That long has lured the dear deceiver, She promise to amend her life, And sin no more; can I believe her? Quoth Echo, very promptly,--'Leave her!'

"But if some maiden with a heart On me should venture to bestow it, Pray should I act the wiser part To take the treasure or forego it? Quoth Echo, with decision,--'Go it!'

"But what if, seemingly afraid To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter, She vow she means to die a maid, In answer to my loving letter? Quoth Echo, rather coolly,-'Let her!'

"What if, in spite of her disdain, I find my heart entwined about With Cupid's dear, delicious chain So closely that I can't get out? Quoth Echo, laughingly,--'Get out!'

"But if some maid with beauty blest, As pure and fair as Heaven can make her, Will share my labor and my rest Till envious Death shall overtake her? Quoth Echo (sotto voce),--'Take her!'"

_John G. Saxe._

Engineers Making Love

It's noon when Thirty-five is due, An' she comes on time like a flash of light, An' you hear her whistle "Too-tee-too!" Long 'fore the pilot swings in sight. Bill Madden's drivin' her in to-day, An' he's calling his sweetheart far away-- Gertrude Hurd lives down by the mill; You might see her blushin'; she knows it's Bill. "Tudie, tudie! Toot-ee! Tudie, tudie! Tu!"

Six-five, A.M. there's a local comes, Makes up at Bristol, runnin' east; An' the way her whistle sings and hums Is a livin' caution to man and beast. Every one knows who Jack White calls,-- Little Lou Woodbury, down by the falls; Summer or Winter, always the same, She hears her lover callin' her name-- "Lou-ie! Lou-ie! Lou-iee!"

But at one fifty-one, old Sixty-four-- Boston express, runs east, clear through-- Drowns her rattle and rumble and roar With the softest whistle that ever blew. An' away on the furthest edge of town Sweet Sue Winthrop's eyes of brown Shine like the starlight, bright and clear, When she hears the whistle of Abel Gear, "You-oo! Su-u-u-u-u-e!"

Along at midnight a freight comes in, Leaves Berlin sometime--I don't know when; But it rumbles along with a fearful din Till it reaches the Y-switch there and then The clearest notes of the softest bell That out of a brazen goblet fell Wake Nellie Minton out of her dreams; To her like a wedding-bell it seems-- "Nell, Nell, Nell! Nell, Nell, Nell!"

Tom Willson rides on the right-hand side, Givin' her steam at every stride; An' he touches the whistle, low an' clear, For Lulu Gray on the hill, to hear-- "Lu-Lu! Loo-Loo! Loo-oo!"

So it goes all day an' all night Till the old folks have voted the thing a bore; Old maids and bachelors say it ain't right For folks to do courtin' with such a roar. But the engineers their kisses will blow From a whistle valve to the girls they know, An' stokers the name of their sweethearts tell; With the "Too-too-too" and the swinging bell.

_R.J. Burdette._

Guilty or Not Guilty

She stood at the bar of justice, A creature wan and wild, In form too small for a woman, In features too old for a child; For a look so worn and pathetic Was stamped on her pale young face, It seemed long years of suffering Must have left that silent trace.

"Your name?" said the judge, as he eyed her With kindly look yet keen,-- "Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir." And your age?"--"I am turned fifteen." "Well, Mary," and then from a paper He slowly and gravely read, "You are charged here--I'm sorry to say it-- With stealing three loaves of bread.

"You look not like an offender, And I hope that you can show The charge to be false. Now, tell me, Are you guilty of this, or no?" A passionate burst of weeping Was at first her sole reply. But she dried her eyes in a moment, And looked in the judge's eye.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir: My father and mother are dead, And my little brothers and sisters Were hungry and asked me for bread. At first I earned it for them By working hard all day, But somehow, times were bad, sir, And the work all fell away.

"I could get no more employment. The weather was bitter cold, The young ones cried and shivered-- (Little Johnny's but four years old)-- So what was I to do, sir? I am guilty, but do not condemn. I _took_--oh, was it _stealing?_-- The bread to give to them."

Every man in the court-room-- Gray-beard and thoughtless youth-- Knew, as he looked upon her, That the prisoner spake the truth; Out from their pockets came kerchiefs, Out from their eyes sprung tears, And out from their old faded wallets Treasures hoarded for years.

The judge's face was a study, The strangest you ever saw, As he cleared his throat and murmured _Something_ about the _law_; For one so learned in such matters, So wise in dealing with men, He seemed, on a simple question, Sorely puzzled, just then.

But no one blamed him or wondered, When at last these words he heard, "The sentence of this young prisoner Is, for the present, deferred." And no one blamed him or wondered When he went to her and smiled And tenderly led from the court-room, Himself, the "guilty" child.

The Baby

Where did you come from, baby dear? _Out of the everywhere into the here._

Where did you get your eyes so blue? _Out of the sky as I came through._

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? _Some of the starry spikes left in._

Where did you get that little tear? _I found it waiting when I got here._

What makes your forehead so smooth and high? _A soft hand stroked it as I went by._

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? _Something better than anyone knows._

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? _Three angels gave me at once a kiss._

Where did you get that pearly ear? _God spoke, and it came out to hear._

Where did you get those arms and hands? _Love made itself into hooks and bands._

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? _From the same box as the cherubs' wings._

How did they all just come to be you? _God thought about me, and so I grew._

But how did you come to us, you dear? _God thought of you, and so I am here._

_George Macdonald._

Song of the Sea

The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies, Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go. If a storm should come and awake the deep What matter? _I_ shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh, how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloud his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the southwest blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more, And back I flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she _was_, and _is_, to me, For I was born on the open sea!

I've lived, since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea.

_Barry Cornwall._

Diffidence

"I'm after axin', Biddy dear--" And here he paused a while To fringe his words the merest mite With something of a smile-- A smile that found its image In a face of beauteous mold, Whose liquid eyes were peeping From a broidery of gold.

"I've come to ax ye, Biddy dear, If--" then he stopped again, As if his heart had bubbled o'er And overflowed his brain. His lips were twitching nervously O'er what they had to tell, And timed the quavers with the eyes That gently rose and fell.

"I've come--" and then he took her hands And held them in his own, "To ax--" and then he watched the buds That on her cheeks had blown,-- "Me purty dear--" and then he heard The throbbing of her heart, That told how love had entered in And claimed its every part.

"Och! don't be tazin' me," said she, With just the faintest sigh, "I've sinse enough to see you've come, But what's the reason why?" "To ax--" and once again the tongue Forbore its sweets to tell, "To ax--_if Mrs. Mulligan, Has any pigs to sell_."

Curfew Must Not Ring To-night

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day, And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,-- He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny floating hair; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white, Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp and cold, "I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh; Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely white As she breathed the husky whisper: "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton--every word pierced her young heart Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart,-- "Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower; Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour; I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right; Now I'm old I will not falter,--curfew, it must ring to-night."

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow. As within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow. She had listened while the judges read without a tear or sigh: "At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright; In an undertone she murmured, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

With quick step she bounded forward, sprung within the old church door, Left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd trod before; Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro,-- As she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light, Up and up,--her white lips saying: "Curfew must not ring to-night."

She has reached the topmost ladder; o'er her hangs the great, dark bell; Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell. Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging--'tis the hour of curfew now, And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring? No, never! flash her eyes with sudden light, As she springs and grasps it firmly--"Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Out she swung--far out; the city seemed a speck of light below, There 'twixt heaven and earth suspended as the bell swung to and fro; And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, Sadly thought, "That twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell." Still the maiden clung more firmly, and with trembling lips so white, Said, to hush her heart's wild throbbing: "Curfew shall not ring to-night."

It was o'er; the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the dark old ladder where, for hundred years before Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done Should be told long ages after; as the rays of setting sun Crimson all the sky with beauty, aged sires with heads of white, Tell the eager, listening children, "Curfew did not ring that night."

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him, and her brow, Lately white with fear and anguish, has no anxious traces now. At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn; And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light: "Go! your lover lives," said Cromwell, "Curfew shall not ring to-night."

Wide they flung the massive portal; led the prisoner forth to die,-- All his bright young life before him. 'Neath the darkening English sky Bessie comes with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love-light sweet; Kneeling on the turf beside him, lays his pardon at his feet. In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white, Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me--curfew will not ring to-night."

_Rose Hartwick Thorpe._

Kate Shelly

Have you heard how a girl saved the lightning express-- Of Kate Shelly, whose father was killed on the road? Were he living to-day, he'd be proud to possess Such a daughter as Kate. Ah! 'twas grit that she showed On that terrible evening when Donahue's train Jumped the bridge and went down, in the darkness and rain.

She was only eighteen, but a woman in size, With a figure as graceful and lithe as a doe, With peach-blossom cheeks, and with violet eyes, And teeth and complexion like new-fallen snow; With a nature unspoiled and unblemished by art-- With a generous soul, and a warm, noble heart!

'Tis evening--the darkness is dense and profound; Men linger at home by their bright-blazing fires; The wind wildly howls with a horrible sound, And shrieks through the vibrating telegraph wires; The fierce lightning flashes along the dark sky; The rain falls in torrents; the river rolls by.

The scream of a whistle; the rush of a train! The sound of a bell! a mysterious light That flashes and flares through the fast falling rain! A rumble! a roar! shrieks of human affright! The falling of timbers! the space of a breath! A splash in the river; then darkness and death!

Kate Shelly recoils at the terrible crash; The sounds of destruction she happens to hear; She springs to the window--she throws up the sash, And listens and looks with a feeling of fear. The tall tree-tops groan, and she hears the faint cry Of a drowning man down in the river near by.

Her heart feebly flutters, her features grow wan, And then through her soul in a moment there flies A forethought that gives her the strength of a man-- She turns to her trembling old mother and cries: "I must save the express--'twill be here in an hour!" Then out through the door disappears in the shower.

She flies down the track through the pitiless rain; She reaches the river--the water below Whirls and seethes through the timbers. She shudders again; "The bridge! To Moingona, God help me to go!" Then closely about her she gathers her gown And on the wet ties with a shiver sinks down.

Then carefully over the timbers she creeps On her hands and knees, almost holding her breath. The loud thunder peals and the wind wildly sweeps, And struggles to hurry her downward to death; But the thought of the train to destruction so near Removes from her soul every feeling of fear.

With the blood dripping down from each torn, bleeding limb, Slowly over the timbers her dark way she feels; Her fingers grow numb and her head seems to swim; Her strength is fast failing--she staggers! she reels! She falls--Ah! the danger is over at last, Her feet touch the earth, and the long bridge is passed!

In an instant new life seems to come to her form; She springs to her feet and forgets her despair. On, on to Moingona! she faces the storm, She reaches the station--the keeper is there, "Save the lightning express! No--hang out the red light! There's death on the bridge at the river to-night!"

Out flashes the signal-light, rosy and red; Then sounds the loud roar of the swift-coming train, The hissing of steam, and there, brightly ahead, The gleam of a headlight illumines the rain. "Down brakes!" shrieks the whistle, defiant and shrill; She heeds the red signal--she slackens, she's still!

Ah! noble Kate Shelly, your mission is done; Your deed that dark night will not fade from our gaze; An endless renown you have worthily won; Let the nation be just, and accord you its praise, Let your name, let your fame, and your courage declare What a _woman_ can do, and a _woman_ can dare!

_Eugene J. Hall._

There's But One Pair of Stockings to Mend To-Night

An old wife sat by her bright fireside, Swaying thoughtfully to and fro In an easy chair, whose creaky craw Told a tale of long ago; While down by her side, on the kitchen floor, Stood a basket of worsted balls--a score.

The good man dozed o'er the latest news Till the light in his pipe went out; And, unheeded, the kitten with cunning paws Rolled and tangled the balls about; Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair, Swaying to and fro in the fire-light glare.

But anon, a misty teardrop came In her eyes of faded blue, Then trickled down in a furrow deep Like a single drop of dew; So deep was the channel--so silent the stream-- That the good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.

Yet marveled he much that the cheerful light Of her eye had heavy grown, And marveled he more at the tangled balls, So he said in a gentle tone: "I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow, Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."

Then she spoke of the time when the basket there Was filled to the very brim; And now, there remained of the goodly pile But a single pair--for him; "Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light, There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

"I cannot but think of the busy feet Whose wrappings were wont to lay In the basket, awaiting the needle's time-- Now wandering so far away; How the sprightly steps to a mother dear, Unheeded fell on the careless ear.

"For each empty nook in the basket old By the hearth there's a vacant seat; And I miss the shadows from off the wall, And the patter of many feet; 'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight, At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

"'Twas said that far through the forest wild, And over the mountains bold, Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves Were gemmed with the rarest gold; Then my first-born turned from the oaken door-- And I knew the shadows were only four.

"Another went forth on the foaming wave, And diminished the basket's store; But his feet grew cold--so weary and cold, They'll never be warm any more. And this nook, in its emptiness, seemeth to me To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea.

"Two others have gone toward the setting sun, And made them a home in its light, And fairy fingers have taken their share, To mend by the fireside bright; Some other baskets their garments will fill-- But mine, ah, mine is emptier still.

"Another--the dearest, the fairest, the best-- Was taken by angels away, And clad in a garment that waxeth not old, In a land of continual day; Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light, When I mend the one pair of stockings to-night."

The Young Man Waited

In the room below the young man sat, With an anxious face and a white cravat, A throbbing heart and a silken hat, And various other things like that Which he had accumulated. And the maid of his heart was up above Surrounded by hat and gown and glove, And a thousand things which women love, But no man knoweth the names thereof-- And the young man sat and--waited.

You will scarce believe the things I tell, But the truth thereof I know full well, Though how may not be stated; But I swear to you that the maiden took A sort of half-breed, thin stove-hook, And heated it well in the gaslight there. And thrust it into her head, or hair. Then she took something off the bed, And hooked it onto her hair, or head, And piled it high, and piled it higher, And drove it home with staples of wire! And the young man anxiously--waited.

Then she took a thing she called a "puff" And some very peculiar whitish stuff, And using about a half a peck, She spread it over her face and neck, (Deceit was a thing she hated!) And she looked as fair as a lilied bower, Or a pound of lard or a sack of flour;-- And the young man wearily--waited.