Chapter 9

How long she lay it boots not, But she woke from her swoon at last In her own bright room. To find the gloom, And the grief, and the peril past, With the sense of joy within her, And the Christ's sweet presence near; And friends around, And the cooing sound Of her babe's voice in her ear.

And they told her all the story, How a brave and gallant few O'ercame each check, And reached the wreck, And saved the hopeless crew. And how the curious sexton Had climbed the belfry stair, And of his fright When, cold and white, He found her lying there;

And how, when they had borne her Back to her home again, The child she left With a heart bereft Of hope, and weary with pain, Was found within his cradle In a quiet slumber laid; With a peaceful smile On his lips the while, And the wasting sickness stayed.

And she said "Twas the Christ who watched it, And brought it safely through"; And she praised His truth And His tender ruth Who had saved her darling too.

Nathan Hale

To drum beat and heart beat, A soldier marches by, There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye; Yet to drum beat and heart beat, In a moment he must die.

By starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Britons' camp; He hears the rustling flag, And the armed sentry's tramp; And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp.

With a slow tread and still tread, He scans the tented line, And he counts the battery guns By the gaunt and shadowy pine, And his slow tread and still tread Gives no warning sign.

The dark wave, the plumed wave, It meets his eager glance; And it sparkles 'neath the stars, Like the glimmer of a lance-- A dark wave, a plumed wave, On an emerald expanse.

A sharp clang, a steel clang, And terror in the sound! For the sentry, falcon-eyed, In the camp a spy has found; With a sharp clang, a steel clang, The patriot is bound.

With calm brow, steady brow, He listens to his doom. In his look there is no fear, Nor a shadow trace of gloom, But with calm brow, steady brow, He robes him for the tomb.

In the long night, the still night, He kneels upon the sod; And the brutal guards withhold E'en the solemn word of God! In the long night, the still night, He walks where Christ hath trod.

'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree; And he mourns that he can give But one life for liberty; And in the blue morn, the sunny morn His spent wings are free.

But his last words, his message words, They burn, lest friendly eye Should read how proud and calm A patriot could die. With his last words, his dying words, A soldier's battle cry.

From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, From monument and urn, The sad of earth, the glad of Heaven, His tragic fate shall learn; And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, The name of Hale shall burn.

_Francis M. Finch._

The Lips That Touch Liquor Must Never Touch Mine

You are coming to woo me, but not as of yore, When I hastened to welcome your ring at the door; For I trusted that he who stood waiting me then, Was the brightest, the truest, the noblest of men. Your lips on my own when they printed "Farewell," Had never been soiled by "the beverage of hell"; But they come to me now with the bacchanal sign, And the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

I think of that night in the garden alone, When in whispers you told me your heart was my own, That your love in the future should faithfully be Unshared by another, kept only for me. Oh, sweet to my soul is the memory still Of the lips which met mine, when they murmured "I will"; But now to their pressure no more they incline, For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine!

O John! how it crushed me, when first in your face The pen of the "Rum Fiend" had written "disgrace"; And turned me in silence and tears from that breath All poisoned and foul from the chalice of death. It scattered the hopes I had treasured to last; It darkened the future and clouded the past; It shattered my idol, and ruined the shrine, For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

I loved you--Oh, dearer than language can tell, And you saw it, you proved it, you knew it too well! But the man of my love was far other than he Who now from the "Tap-room" comes reeling to me; In manhood and honor so noble and right-- His heart was so true, and his genius so bright-- And his soul was unstained, unpolluted by wine; But the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

You promised reform, but I trusted in vain; Your pledge was but made to be broken again: And the lover so false to his promises now, Will not, as a husband, be true to his vow. The word must be spoken that bids you depart-- Though the effort to speak it should shatter my heart-- Though in silence, with blighted affection, I pine, Yet the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine!

If one spark in your bosom of virtue remain, Go fan it with prayer till it kindle again; Resolved, with "God helping," in future to be From wine and its follies unshackled and free! And when you have conquered this foe of your soul,-- In manhood and honor beyond his control-- This heart will again beat responsive to thine, And the lips free from liquor be welcome to mine.

_George W. Young._

A Perfect Day

When you come to the end of a perfect day And you sit alone with your thought While the chimes ring out with a carol gay For the joy that the day has brought, Do you think what the end of a perfect day Can mean to a tired heart? When the sun goes down with a flaming ray And the dear friends have to part?

Well, this is the end of a perfect day, Near the end of a journey, too; But it leaves a thought that is big and strong, With a wish that is kind and true; For mem'ry has painted this perfect day With colors that never fade, And we find, at the end of a perfect day, The soul of a friend we've made.

_Carrie Jacobs Bond._

_Kate Ketchem_

Kate Ketchem on a winter's night Went to a party dressed in white. Her chignon in a net of gold, Was about as large as they ever sold. Gayly she went, because her "pap" Was supposed to be a rich old chap.

But when by chance her glances fell On a friend who had lately married well, Her spirits sunk, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast-- A wish she wouldn't have had made known, To have an establishment of her own.

Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng, With chestnut hair, worn pretty long. He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd, And knowing her slightly, stopped and bowed; Then asked her to give him a single flower, Saying he'd think it a priceless dower.

Out from those with which she was decked, She took the poorest she could select. And blushed as she gave it, looking down To call attention to her gown. "Thanks," said Fudge, and he thought how dear Flowers must be at that time of year.

Then several charming remarks he made, Asked if she sang, or danced, or played; And being exhausted, inquired whether She thought it was going to be pleasant weather. And Kate displayed her "jewelry," And dropped her lashes becomingly; And listened, with no attempt to disguise The admiration in her eyes. At last, like one who has nothing to say, He turned around and walked away.

Kate Ketchem smiled, and said, "You bet. I'll catch that Fudge and his money yet. He's rich enough to keep me in clothes, And I think I could manage him as I chose. He could aid my father as well as not, And buy my brother a splendid yacht. My mother for money should never fret, And all it cried for the baby should get; And after that, with what he could spare, I'd make a show at a charity fair."

Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed the sill, And saw Kate Ketchem standing still. "A girl more suited to my mind It isn't an easy thing to find; And every thing that she has to wear Proves her as rich as she is fair. Would she were mine, and I to-day Had the old man's cash my debts to pay! No creditors with a long account, No tradesmen wanting 'that little amount'; But all my scores paid up when due By a father-in-law as rich as a Jew!"

But he thought of her brother, not worth a straw, And her mother, that would be his, in law; So, undecided, he walked along, And Kate was left alone in the throng. But a lawyer smiled, whom he sought by stealth, To ascertain old Ketchem's wealth; And as for Kate, she schemed and planned Till one of the dancers claimed her hand.

He married her for her father's cash; She married him to cut a dash, But as to paying his debts, do you know, The father couldn't see it so; And at hints for help, Kate's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. And when Tom thought of the way he had wed He longed for a single life instead, And closed his eyes in a sulky mood, Regretting the days of his bachelorhood; And said, in a sort of reckless vein, "I'd like to see her catch me again, If I were free, as on that night When I saw Kate Ketchem dressed in white!"

She wedded him to be rich and gay; But husband and children didn't pay, He wasn't the prize she hoped to draw, And wouldn't live with his mother-in-law. And oft when she had to coax and pout In order to get him to take her out, She thought how very attentive and bright He seemed at the party that winter's night; Of his laugh, as soft as a breeze of the south, ('Twas now on the other side of his mouth); How he praised her dress and gems in his talk, As he took a careful account of stock.

Sometimes she hated the very walls-- Hated her friends, her dinners, and calls; Till her weak affection, to hatred turned, Like a dying tallow-candle burned. And for him who sat there, her peace to mar, Smoking his everlasting cigar-- He wasn't the man she thought she saw, And grief was duty, and hate was law. So she took up her burden with a groan, Saying only, "I might have known!"

Alas for Kate! and alas for Fudge! Though I do not owe them any grudge; And alas for any who find to their shame That two can play at their little game! For of all hard things to bear and grin, The hardest is knowing you're taken in. Ah, well! as a general thing, we fret About the one we didn't get; But I think we needn't make a fuss, If the one we don't want didn't get us.

_Phoebe Cary._

Mandalay

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', an' I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, an' the temple-bells they say: "Come you back, you British soldier: come you back to Mandalay!" Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old flotilla lay: Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay? On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

'Er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her fust a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot; Bloomin' idol made o' mud-- Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd-- Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay--

When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' low, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "_Kul-la-lo-lo_!" With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' her cheek agin my cheek We useter watch the steamers and the _hathis_ pilin' teak. Elephints a-pilin' teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay--

But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away, An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Benk to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year sodger tells: "If you've 'eard the East a-callin', why, you won't 'eed nothin' else." No! you won't 'eed nothin' else But them spicy garlic smells An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells! On the road to Mandalay--

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gutty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talk a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? Beefy face an' grubby 'and-- Law! wot _do_ they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! On the road to Mandalay--

Ship me somewheres east of Suez where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments, an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be-- By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea-- On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! On the road to Mandalay! Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

_Rudyard Kipling._

Columbus

Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: "Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone. Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?" "Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan and weak." The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek, "What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" "Why, you shall say at break of day: 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: "Why, now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say--" He said: "Sail on! Sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows his teeth tonight. He curls his lips, he lies in wait With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word: What shall we do when hope is gone? The words leapt like a leaping sword; "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck-- A light! a light! a light! a light! It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson; "On! sail on!"

_Joaquin Miller._

"Sister's Best Feller"

My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three, And handsome and strong as a feller can be; And Sis, she's so little, and slender, and small, You never would think she could boss him at all; But, my jing! She don't do a thing But make him jump 'round, like he worked with a string! It jest made me 'shamed of him sometimes, you know, To think that he'll let a girl bully him so.

He goes to walk with her and carries her muff And coat and umbrella, and that kind of stuff; She loads him with things that must weigh 'most a ton; And, honest, he _likes_ it,--as if it was fun! And, oh, say! When they go to a play, He'll sit in the parlor and fidget away, And she won't come down till it's quarter past eight, And then she'll scold _him_ 'cause they get there so late.

He spends heaps of money a-buyin' her things, Like candy, and flowers, and presents, and rings; And all he's got for 'em's a handkerchief case-- A fussed-up concern, made of ribbons and lace; But, my land! He thinks it's just grand, "'Cause she made it," he says, "with her own little hand"; He calls her "an angel"--I heard him--and "saint," And "beautif'lest bein' on earth"--but she ain't,

'Fore I go on an errand for her any time, I just make her coax me, and give me a dime; But that great big silly--why, honest and true-- He'd run forty miles if she wanted him to. Oh, gee whiz! I tell you what 'tis! I jest think it's _awful_--those actions of his. I won't fall in love, when I'm grown--no sir-ee! My sister's best feller's a warnin' to me!

_Joseph C. Lincoln._

Where the West Begins

Out where the handclasp's a little stronger, Out where a smile dwells a little longer, That's where the West begins. Out where the sun's a little brighter, Where the snow that falls is a trifle whiter, Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, That's where the West begins.

Out where the skies are a trifle bluer, Out where friendship's a little truer, That's where the West begins. Out where a fresher breeze is blowing, Where there is laughter in every streamlet flowing, Where there's more of reaping and less of sowing, That's where the West begins.

Out where the world is in the making, Where fewer hearts with despair are aching; That's where the West begins. Where there is more of singing and less of sighing, Where there is more of giving and less of buying, And a man makes friends without half trying-- That's where the West begins.

_Arthur Chapman._

The Tapestry Weavers

Let us take to our hearts a lesson--no lesson can braver be-- From the ways of the tapestry weavers on the other side of the sea. Above their heads the pattern hangs, they study it with care, The while their fingers deftly move, their eyes are fastened there.

They tell this curious thing, besides, of the patient, plodding weaver: He works on the wrong side evermore, but works for the right side ever. It is only when the weaving stops, and the web is loosed and turned, That he sees his real handiwork--that his marvelous skill is learned.

Ah, the sight of its delicate beauty, how it pays him for all his cost! No rarer, daintier work than his was ever done by the frost. Then the master bringeth him golden hire, and giveth him praise as well, And how happy the heart of the weaver is, no tongue but his can tell.

The years of man are the looms of God, let down from the place of the sun, Wherein we are weaving ever, till the mystic web is done. Weaving blindly but weaving surely each for himself his fate-- We may not see how the right side looks, we can only weave and wait.

But, looking above for the pattern, no weaver hath to fear; Only let him look clear into heaven, the Perfect Pattern is there. If he keeps the face of the Savior forever and always in sight His toil shall be sweeter than honey, his weaving sure to be right.

And when the work is ended, and the web is turned and shown, He shall hear the voice of the Master, it shall say unto him, "Well done!" And the white-winged Angels of Heaven, to bear him shall come down; And God shall give him gold for his hire--not a coin--but a glowing crown.

When the Teacher Gets Cross

When the teacher gets cross, and her blue eyes gets black, And the pencil comes down on the desk with a whack, We chillen all sit up straight in a line, As if we had rulers instead of a spine, And it's scary to cough, and it a'n't safe to grin, When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in.

When the teacher gets cross, the tables get mixed, The ones and the twos begins to play tricks. The pluses and minuses is just little smears, When the cry babies cry their slates full of tears, And the figgers won't add,--but just act up like sin, When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in.

When the teacher gets cross, the reading gets bad. The lines jingle round till the' chillen is sad. And Billy boy puffs and gets red in the face, As if he and the lesson were running a race, Until she hollers out, "Next!" as sharp as a pin, When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in.

When the teacher gets good, her smile is so bright, That the tables gets straight, and the reading gets right. The pluses and minuses comes trooping along, And the figgers add up and stop being wrong, And we chillen would like, but we dassent, to shout, When the teacher gets good, and the dimples comes out.

Recessional

God of our fathers, known of old, Lord of our far-flung battle line, Beneath whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies; The captains and the kings depart: Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard, All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding, calls not Thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Amen.

_Rudyard Kipling._

The Eternal Goodness

O Friends! with whom my feet have trod The quiet aisles of prayer, Glad witness to your zeal for God And love of man I bear.

I trace your lines of argument; Your logic linked and strong I weigh as one who dreads dissent, And fears a doubt as wrong.

But still my human hands are weak To hold your iron creeds: Against the words ye bid me speak My heart within me pleads.

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? Who talks of scheme and plan? The Lord is God! He needeth not The poor device of man.

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground Ye tread with boldness shod; I dare not fix with mete and bound The love and power of God.

Ye praise His justice; even such His pitying love I deem; Ye seek a king; I fain would touch The robe that hath no seam.

Ye see the curse which overbroods A world of pain and loss; I hear our Lord's beatitudes And prayer upon the cross.

More than your schoolmen teach, within Myself, alas! I know; Too dark ye cannot paint the sin, Too small the merit show.

I bow my forehead to the dust, I veil mine eyes for shame, And urge, in trembling self-distrust, A prayer without a claim.

I see the wrong that round me lies, I feel the guilt within; I hear, with groan and travail-cries, The world confess its sin.

Yet, in the maddening maze of things, And tossed by storm and flood, To one fixed stake my spirit clings; I know that God is good!

Not mine to look where cherubim And seraphs may not see, But nothing can be good in Him Which evil is in me.

The wrong that pains my soul below I dare not throne above; I know not of His hate,--I know His goodness and His love.

I dimly guess from blessings known Of greater out of sight, And, with the chastened Psalmist, own His judgments too are right.

I long for household voices gone, For vanished smiles I long, But God hath led my dear ones on, And he can do no wrong.

I know not what the future hath Of marvel or surprise, Assured alone that life and death His mercy underlies.

And if my heart and flesh are weak To bear an untried pain, The bruised reed He will not break, But strengthen and sustain.

No offering of my own I have, Nor works my faith to prove; I can but give the gifts He gave, And plead His love for love.

And so beside the Silent Sea, I wait the muffled oar; No harm from Him can come to me On ocean or on shore.

I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.

O brothers! if my faith is vain, If hopes like these betray, Pray for me that my feet may gain The sure and safer way.

And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen Thy creatures as they be, Forgive me if too close I lean My human heart on Thee!

_John G. Whittier._

Driving Home the Cows

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river-lane; One after another he let them pass. Then fastened the meadow-bars again.