Chapter 5

But if through, all the livelong day You've eased no heart by yea or nay, If through it all you've nothing done that you can trace That brought the sunshine to one face, No act most small that helped some soul and nothing cost, Then count that day as worse than lost.

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth

Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main,

And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.

_A.H. Clough._

The Miller of the Dee

There dwelt a miller, hale and bold, Beside the river Dee; He worked and sang from morn till night-- No lark more blithe than he; And this the burden of his song Forever used to be: "I envy nobody--no, not I-- And nobody envies me!"

"Thou'rt wrong, my friend," said good King Hal, "As wrong as wrong can be; For could my heart be light as thine, I'd gladly change with thee. And tell me now, what makes thee sing, With voice so loud and free, While I am sad, though I'm a king, Beside the river Dee?"

The miller smiled and doffed his cap, "I earn my bread," quoth he; "I love my wife, I love my friend, I love my children three; I owe no penny I cannot pay, I thank the river Dee That turns the mill that grinds the corn That feeds my babes and me."

"Good friend," said Hal, and sighed the while, "Farewell, and happy be; But say no more, if thou'dst be true That no one envies thee; Thy mealy cap is worth my crown, Thy mill my kingdom's fee; Such men as thou art England's boast, O miller of the Dee!"

_Charles Mackay._

The Old Red Cradle

Take me back to the days when the old red cradle rocked, In the sunshine of the years that are gone; To the good old trusty days, when the door was never locked, And we slumbered unmolested till the dawn.

I remember of my years I had numbered almost seven, And the old cradle stood against the wall-- I was youngest of the five, and two were gone to heaven, But the old red cradle rocked us all.

And if ever came a day when my cheeks were flushed and hot, When I did not mind my porridge or my play, I would clamber up its side and the pain would be forgot, When the old red cradle rocked away.

It has been a hallowed spot where I've turned through all the years, Which have brought me the evil with the good, And I turn again to-night, aye, and see it through my tears, The place where the dear old cradle stood.

By its side my father paused with a little time to spare. And the care-lines would soften on his brow, Ah! 't was but a little while that I knew a father's care, But I fancy in my dreams I see him now.

By my mother it was rocked when the evening meal was laid, And again I seem to see her as she smiled; When the rest were all in bed, 'twas there she knelt and prayed, By the old red cradle and her child.

Aye, it cradled one and all, brothers, sisters in it lay, And it gave me the sweetest rest I've known; But to-night the tears will flow, and I let them have their way, For the passing years are leaving me alone.

And it seems of those to come, I would gladly give them all For a slumber as free from care as then, Just to wake to-morrow morn where the rising sun would fall Round the old red cradle once again.

But the cradle long has gone and the burdens that it bore, One by one, have been gathered to the fold; Still the flock is incomplete, for it numbers only four, With one left out straying in the cold.

Heaven grant again we may in each other's arms be locked, Where no sad tears of parting ever fall; God forbid that one be lost that the old red cradle rocked; And the dear old cradle rocked us all.

_Annie J. Granniss._

The Moo Cow Moo

My papa held me up to the Moo Cow Moo So close I could almost touch, And I fed him a couple of times or so, And I wasn't a fraid-cat, much.

But if my papa goes in the house, And my mamma she goes in too, I keep still like a little mouse For the Moo Cow Moo might Moo.

The Moo Cow's tail is a piece of rope All raveled out where it grows; And it's just like feeling a piece of soap All over the Moo Cow's nose.

And the Moo Cow Moo has lots of fun Just switching his tail about, But if he opens his mouth, why then I run, For that's where the Moo comes out.

The Moo Cow Moo has deers on his head, And his eyes stick out of their place, And the nose of the Moo Cow Moo is spread All over the Moo Cow's face.

And his feet are nothing but fingernails, And his mamma don't keep them cut, And he gives folks milk in water pails, When he don't keep his handles shut.

But if you or I pull his handles, why The Moo Cow Moo says it hurts, But the hired man sits down close by And squirts, and squirts, and squirts.

_Edmund Vance Cooke._

All Things Bright and Beautiful

All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful,-- The Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens, Each little bird that sings,-- He made their glowing colors, He made their tiny wings.

The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate, God made them, high or lowly, And ordered their estate.

The purple-headed mountain, The river running by, The morning, and the sunset That lighteth up the sky,

The cold wind in the winter, The pleasant summer sun, The ripe fruits in the garden,-- He made them, every one.

The tall trees in the greenwood, The meadows where we play, The rushes by the water We gather every day,--

He gave us eyes to see them, And lips that we might tell How great is God Almighty, Who hath made all things well.

_Cecil Frances Alexander._

An Order for a Picture

Oh, good painter, tell me true, Has your hand the cunning to draw Shapes of things that you never saw? Aye? Well, here is an order for you.

Woods and cornfields, a little brown,-- The picture must not be over-bright,-- Yet all in the golden and gracious light Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. Alway and alway, night and morn, Woods upon woods, with fields of corn Lying between them, not quite sere, And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, When the wind can hardly find breathing-room, Under their tassels,--cattle near, Biting shorter the short green grass, And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, With bluebirds twittering all around,-- (Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)-- These, and the little house where I was born, Low and little, and black and old, With children, many as it can hold, All at the windows, open wide,-- Heads and shoulders clear outside, And fair young faces all ablush: Perhaps you have seen, some day, Roses crowding the self-same way, Out of a wilding, wayside bush.

Listen closer. When you have done With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, A lady, the loveliest ever the sun Looked down upon you must paint for me: Oh, if I could only make you see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman's soul, and the angel's face That are beaming on me all the while, I need not speak these foolish words: Yet one word tells you all I would say,-- She is my mother: you will agree That all the rest may be thrown away.

Two little urchins at her knee You must paint, sir: one like me,-- The other with a clearer brow, And the light of his adventurous eyes Flashing with boldest enterprise: At ten years old he went to sea,-- God knoweth if he be living now; He sailed in the good ship "Commodore,"-- Nobody ever crossed her track To bring us news, and she never came back. Ah, it is twenty long years and more Since that old ship went out of the bay With my great-hearted brother on her deck: I watched him till he shrank to a speck, And his face was toward me all the way. Bright his hair was, a golden brown, The time we stood at our mother's knee: That beauteous head, if it did go down, Carried sunshine into the sea!

Out in the fields one summer night We were together, half afraid Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,-- Loitering till after the low little light Of the candle shone through the open door, And over the hay-stack's pointed top, All of a tremble and ready to drop, The first half-hoar, the great yellow star, That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, Had often and often watched to see Propped and held in its place in the skies By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree, Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,-- Dead at the top, just one branch full Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, From which it tenderly shook the dew Over our heads, when we came to play In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day. Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,-- The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat: The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and shining, to keep her still.

At last we stood at our mother's knee. Do you think, sir, if you try, You can paint the look of a lie? If you can, pray have the grace To put it solely in the face Of the urchin that is likest me: I think 'twas solely mine, indeed: But that's no matter,--paint it so; The eyes of our mother--(take good heed)-- Looking not on the nestful of eggs, Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, But straight through our faces down to our lies, And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise! I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though A sharp blade struck through it.

You, sir, know That you on the canvas are to repeat Things that are fairest, things most sweet,-- Woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree,-- The mother,--the lads, with their bird at her knee: But, oh, that look of reproachful woe! High as the heavens your name I'll shout, If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.

_Alice Cary._

Who Won the War?

Who won the war? 'T was little Belgium stemmed the tide Of ruthless hordes who thought to ride Her borders through and prostrate France Ere yet she'd time to raise her lance. 'T was plucky Belgium.

Who won the war? Italia broke the galling chain Which bound her to the guilty twain; Then fought 'gainst odds till one of these Lay prone and shattered at her knees. 'T was gallant Italy.

Who won the war? Old England's watch dogs of the main Their vigil kept, and not in vain; For not a ship their wrath dared brave Save those which skulked beneath the wave. 'T was mighty England.

Who won the war? 'T was France who wrote in noble rage The grandest words on history's page, "They shall not pass"--the devilish Hun; And he could never pass Verdun. 'T was sturdy France.

Who won the war? In darkest hour there rose a cry, "Liberty, sweet Liberty, thou shalt not die!" Thank God! they came across the sea, Two million men and victory! 'T was glorious America.

Who won the war? No one of these; not one, but all Who answered Freedom's clarion call. Each humble man who did his bit In God's own book of fame is writ. These won the war.

_Woodbury Pulsifer._

Mothers of Men

The bravest battle that ever was fought! Shall I tell you where and when? On the map of the world you will find it not, 'Twas fought by the mothers of men.

Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, With sword or nobler pen, Nay, not with eloquent words or thought From mouths of wonderful men;

But deep in the walled-up woman's heart-- Of woman that would not yield, But bravely, silently, bore her part-- Lo, there is the battle field!

No marshaling troup, no bivouac song, No banner to gleam or wave, But oh, these battles, they last so long-- From babyhood to the grave.

Yet, faithful as a bridge of stars, She fights in her walled-up town-- Fights on and on in the endless wars, Then, silent, unseen, goes down.

Oh, ye with banner and battle shot, And soldiers to shout and praises I tell you the kingliest victories fought Were fought in those silent ways.

Oh, spotless in a world of shame, With splendid and silent scorn, Go back to God as white as you came-- The kingliest warrior born!

_Joaquin Miller._

Plain Bob and a Job

Bob went lookin' for a job-- Didn't want a situation; didn't ask a lofty station: Didn't have a special mission for a topnotcher's position; Didn't have such fine credentials--but he had the real essentials-- Had a head that kept on workin' and two hands that were not shirkin'; Wasn't either shirk or snob; Wasn't Mister--just plain Bob, Who was lookin' for a job.

Bob went lookin' for a job; And he wasn't scared or daunted when he saw a sign--"Men Wanted," Walked right in with manner fittin' up to where the Boss was sittin', And he said: "My name is Bob, and I'm lookin' for a job; And if you're the Boss that hires 'em, starts 'em working and that fires 'em, Put my name right down here, Neighbor, as a candidate for labor; For my name is just plain 'Bob, And my pulses sort o' throb For that thing they call a job." Bob kept askin' for a job, And the Boss, he says: "What kind?" And Bob answered: "Never mind; For I am not a bit partic'ler and I never was a stickler For proprieties in workin'--if you got some labor lurkin' Anywhere around about kindly go and trot it out. It's, a job I want, you see-- Any kind that there may be Will be good enough for me."

Well, sir, Bob he got a job. But the Boss went 'round all day in a dreamy sort of way; And he says to me: "By thunder, we have got the world's Eighth Wonder! Got a feller name of Bob who just asked me for a job-- Never asks when he engages about overtime in wages; Never asked if he'd get pay by the hour or by the day; Never asked me if it's airy work and light and sanitary; Never asked me for my notion of the chances of promotion; Never asked for the duration of his annual vacation; Never asked for Saturday half-a-holiday with pay; Never took me on probation till he tried the situation; Never asked me if it's sittin' work or standin', or befittin' Of his birth and inclination--he just filed his application, Hung his coat up on a knob, Said his name was just plain Bob-- And went workin' at a job!"

_James W. Foley._

Aunt Tabitha

Whatever I do and whatever I say, Aunt Tabitha tells me it isn't the way When _she_ was a girl (forty summers ago); Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.

Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice! But I like my own way, and I find it _so_ nice! And besides, I forget half the things I am told; But they all will come back to me--when I am old.

If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt, He may chance to look in as I chance to look out; _She_ would never endure an impertinent stare-- It is _horrid_, she says, and I mustn't sit there.

A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own, But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone; So I take a lad's arm--just for safety you know-- But Aunt Tabitha tells me _they_ didn't do so.

How wicked we are, and how good they were then! They kept at arm's length those detestable men; What an era of virtue she lived in!--But stay-- Were the _men_ all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?

If the men _were_ so wicked, I'll ask my papa How he dared to propose to my darling mamma; Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows? And what shall _I_ say, if a wretch should propose?

I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin, What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been! And her grand-aunt--it scares me--how shockingly sad That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!

A martyr will save us, and nothing else can, Let _me perish_--to rescue some wretched young man! Though when to the altar a victim I go, Aunt Tabitha'll tell me _she_ never did so!

The Flag Goes By

Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, A flash of color beneath the sky: Hats off! The flag is passing by!

Blue and crimson and white it shines, Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. Hats off! The colors before us fly; But more than the flag is passing by.

Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, Fought to make and to save the State; Weary marches and sinking ships; Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Days of plenty and years of peace, March of a strong land's swift increase: Equal justice, right and law, Stately honor and reverent awe;

Sign of a nation, great and strong, To ward her people from foreign wrong; Pride and glory and honor, all Live in the colors to stand or fall.

Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, And loyal hearts are beating high: Hats off! The flag is passing by!

_H.H. Bennett._

The Rivers of France

The rivers of France are ten score and twain, But five are the names that we know: The Marne, the Vesle, the Oureq and the Aisne, And the Somme of the swampy flow.

The rivers of France, from source to sea, Are nourished by many a rill, But these five, if ever a drouth there be The fountains of sorrow would fill.

The rivers of France shine silver white, But the waters of five are red With the richest blood, in the fiercest fight For freedom that ever was shed.

The rivers of France sing soft as they run, But five have a song of their own, That hymns the fall of the arrogant one And the proud cast down from his throne.

The rivers of France all quietly take To sleep in the house of their birth, But the carnadined wave of five shall break On the uttermost strands of earth.

Five rivers of France--see! their names are writ On a banner of crimson and gold, And the glory of those who fashioned it Shall nevermore cease to be told.

_H.J.M., in London "Times."_

Seven Times One

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven; I've said my "seven times" over and over: Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done; The lambs play always, they know no better, They are only one times one.

O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low; You were bright! but your light is failing, You are nothing now but a bow.

You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, That God has hidden your face? I hope if you have, you'll soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place.

O velvet Bee, you're a dusty fellow; You've powdered your legs with gold! O brave Marshmary buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold!

O Columbine, open your folded wrapper Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! O Cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell!

And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, I will not steal them away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, I am seven times one to-day.

_Jean Ingelow._

Seven Times Two

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges, Come over, come over to me.

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days.

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily. While a boy listened alone; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be; No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, Preparing her hoods of snow: She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: Oh, children take long to grow.

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head: "The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said."

I wait for my story--the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it! Such as I wish it to be.

_Jean Ingelow._

Seven Times Three

LOVE

I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover-- Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near, For my love he is late!

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? Let the star-clusters grow, Let the sweet waters flow. And cross quickly to me.

"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep,

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover; Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight; But I'll love him more, more Than e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright.

_Jean Ingelow._

Seven Times Four

MATERNITY

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! When the wind wakes, how they rock in the grasses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses Eager to gather them all.

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow,"-- Sing once, and sing it again.

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her prow, O bonny brown son, and O sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks on you now!

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall! Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, God that is over us all!

_Jean Ingelow._

Autumn Woods

Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold, In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, Where the gay company of trees look down On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while, The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-- The sweetest of the year.