Part 5

I think that each toil-worn creature Who stops to drink by the way, His thanks in his own dumb fashion To the sisters small must pay.

Years have gone by since busy hands Wrought at the basin’s stone; The kindly little sisters Are all to women grown.

I do not know their home or fates, Or the name they bear to men, But this sweetness of their gracious deed Is just as fresh as then.

And all life long, and after life, They must the happier be, For the cup of water given by them When they were children three.

BESIDE THE RAILWAY TRACK.

On its straight iron pathway the long train was rushing, With its noise, and its smoke, and its great human load; And I saw a wild rose that in beauty was blushing, Fresh and sweet, by the side of the hot, dusty road.

Untrained were its branches, untended it flourished, No eye watched its opening or mourned its decay; But its leaves by the soft dews of heaven were nourished, And it opened its buds in the warm light of day.

I asked why it grew there where none prized its beauty, For of thousands who passed none had leisure to stay. And the answer came sweetly, “I do but my duty; I was told to grow here by the side of the way.”

There are those on life’s pathway whose spirits are willing To dwell where the busy crowd passes them by; But the dew from above on their leaves is distilling, And they bloom ’neath the smile of the All-seeing Eye.

They are loved by the few—like the rose, they remind us, When tempted from duty’s safe pathway to stray; We, too, have a place and a mission assign’d us, Though it be but to grow by the side of the way.

A SONG FOR THE CONQUERED.

WILLIAM W. STORY.

I sing the Hymn of the Conquered, who fell in the battle of life; The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife. Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame. But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart, Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part; Whose youth bore no flower in its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away; From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at; who stood at the dying of day With the work of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone, With death swooping down o’er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.

While the voice of the world shouts its chorus,—its pæan for those who have won,— While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun Gay banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat, In the shadow ’mongst those who are fallen, and wounded and dying, and there Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer, Hold the hand that is hapless, and whisper, “They only the victory win Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within; Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high; Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight—if need be to die.”

Speak, History! Who are life’s victors? Unroll thy long annals, and say— Are they those whom the world called the victors who won the success of the day? The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans who fell at Thermopylæ’s tryst, Or the Persians of Xerxes? His judges, or Socrates? Pilate, or Christ?

THE AMEN OF THE ROCKS.

CHRISTIAN GELLERT.

The Venerable Bede, with age grown blind, till went abroad to preach the new evangel. From town to town, village to village, journeyed The saintly elder, with a lad for guide, And preached the word with youthful zeal and fervor; And once the lad led him along a vale, All scattered o’er with mighty moss-grown bowlders.

More thoughtless than malicious quoth the urchin, “Here, reverend father, many men have come, And all the multitude await thy sermon.” The blind old man stood upright at his speech, And spake his text, explained it, thence digressed, Exhorted, warned, reproved, and comforted, So earnestly that tears of love and joy Ran down his cheeks, and on his long gray beard;

Then, as was meet, he ended with “Our Father, Thine is the kingdom, Thine the power, and Thine The glory is forever and forever.” Then came a thousand, thousand answering voices— “Yea, reverend father, amen and amen.” Then, terrified, the boy fell down repentant, Confessing to the saint his ill behavior.

“Son,” said the holy man, “didst thou read never That stones themselves shall cry if man is silent? Play thou no more, my son, with things divine. God’s word is powerful, and cuts more sharp Than any two-edged sword. And if it be That man toward the Lord is stony-hearted, A human heart shall wake in stones, and witness.”

ONLY A LITTLE THING.

MRS. M. P. HANDY.

It was only a tiny seed, Carelessly brushed aside; But it grew in time to a noxious weed, And spread its poison wide.

It was only a little leak, So small you might hardly see; But the rising waters found the break, And wrecked the great levee.

It was only a single spark, Dropped by a passing train; But the dead leaves caught, and swift and dark Was its work on wood and plain.

It was only an unsound nail That the workman used—ah me! But the ship that else had weathered the gale Went down in the deep, dark sea.

It was only a thoughtless word, Scarce meant to be unkind; But it pierced as a dart to the heart that heard, And left its sting behind.

It may seem a trifle at most, The thing that we do or say; And yet it may be that at fearful cost We may wish it undone some day.

THE LITTLE MESSENGER OF LOVE.

’Twas a little sermon preached to me By a sweet, unconscious child— A baby girl, scarce four years old, With blue eyes soft and mild. It happened on a rainy day; I, seated in a car, Was thinking, as I neared my home, Of the continual jar And discord that pervade the air Of busy city life, Each caring but for “number one,” Self-gain provoking strife. The gloomy weather seemed to cast On every face a shade, But on one countenance were lines By sorrow deeply laid. With low bowed head and hands clasped close, She sat, so poor and old, Nor seemed to heed the scornful glance From eyes unkind and cold. I looked again. Oh, sweet indeed The sight that met my eyes! Sitting upon her mothers lap, With baby face so wise, Was a wee child with sunny curls, Blue eyes, and dimpled chin, And a young, pure, loving heart Unstained as yet by sin. Upon the woman poor and sad Her eyes in wonder fell, Till wonder changed to pitying love; Her thoughts, oh, who could tell? Her tiny hands four roses held; She looked them o’er and o’er, Then choosing out the largest one, She struggled to the floor. Across the swaying car she went Straight to the woman’s side, And putting in the wrinkled hand The rose, she ran to hide Her little face in mother’s lap, Fearing she had done wrong, Not knowing, baby as she was, That she had helped along The up-hill road of life a soul Cast down, discouraged quite, As on the woman’s face there broke A flood of joyous light.

Dear little child! she was indeed A messenger of love Sent to that woman’s lonely heart From the great Heart above. This world would be a different place Were each to give to those Whose hearts are sad as much of love As went with baby’s rose.

_Harper’s Young People._

* * * * *

I’d rather be right than to be President of the United States.—HENRY CLAY.

ORIGINAL MAXIMS OF GEORGE WASHINGTON.

[_Recitations for Twelve Students._]

I.

Commerce and industry are the best mines of a nation.

II.

Let your heart feel for the afflictions and distresses of every one.

III.

Ingratitude, I hope, will never constitute a part of my character, nor find a place in my bosom.

IV.

Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience.

V.

To persevere is one’s duty, and to be silent is the best answer to calumny.

VI.

I never wish to promise more than I have a moral certainty of performing.

VII.

I shall never attempt to palliate my own foibles by exposing the error of another.

VIII.

It is a maxim with me not to ask what, under similar circumstances, I would not grant.

IX.

Be courteous to all, but intimate with few; and let those be well tried before you give them your confidence.

X.

Associate with men of good quality if you esteem your own reputation, for it is better to be alone than in bad company.

XI.

A good character is the first essential in a man. It is, therefore, highly important to endeavor not only to be learned, but virtuous.

XII.

I am resolved that no misrepresentations, falsehoods, or calumny shall make me swerve from what I conceive to be the strict line of duty.

THE WORK OF A SUNBEAM.

NATHAN G. SHEPHERD.

I have read in old tales of the buried past, Of two armies which met on the battle-plain; Roman and Cymbric, in numbers vast, How they fought till the field was heaped with slain; And how through all day the crimson tide Of battle favored the Cymbric side, Though their dead bestrewed the plain,

Till at length, from out of the clouded skies, A sunbeam darted across the world, Blinding the Cymbrian warrior’s eyes; And backward their conquering hosts were hurled. And thus in the record of years is told How a sunbeam, back in the days of old, Decided the fate of the world.

THE SILVER BIRD’S NEST.

A stranded soldier’s epaulet The waters cast ashore, A little wingèd rover met, And eyed it o’er and o’er; The silver bright so charmed her sight, On that lone idle vest, She knew not why she should deny Herself a silver nest.

The shining wire she pecked and twirled, Then bore it to her bough, Where on a flowery twig ’twas curled, The bird can show you how; But when enough of that bright stuff The cunning builder bore, Her house to make, she would not take, Nor did she covet, more.

And when the little artisan— While neither pride nor guilt Had entered in her pretty plan— Her resting-place had built, With here and there a plume to spare, About her own light form, Of these, inlaid with skill, she made A lining soft and warm.

But do you think the tender brood She fondled there, and fed, Were prouder when they understood The sheen about their bed? Do you suppose they ever rose, Of higher powers possessed, Because they knew they peeped and grew Within a silver nest?

LUTHER.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

Valiant, defiant, and free, Majestic, impressive, and lone, He looms like that isle of the sea That rose to an emperor’s throne.

Honor where manhood is found, Glory where valor has led, To priest or not priest, the world round; To white man, or black man, or red.

Honor to manhood and worth, Glory to action and deed, To manhood, not priesthood, on earth; For man is the master of creed.

ORIGINAL MAXIMS OF JAMES A. GARFIELD.

[_Recitations for Ten Students._]

I.

A pound of pluck is worth a ton of luck.

II.

Poets may be born, but success is made.

III.

Be fit for more than the one thing you are now doing.

IV.

I would rather be beaten in right than succeed in wrong.

V.

Luck is an _ignis fatuus_. You may follow it to ruin, but not to success.

VI.

If the power to do hard work is not a talent, it is the best possible substitute for it.

VII.

I would rather be defeated than make capital out of my religion.

VIII.

Things don’t turn up in this world unless somebody turns them up.

IX.

Territory is but the body of a nation. The people who inhabit its hills and its valleys are its soil, its spirit, and its life.

X.

The privilege of being a young man is a great privilege, and the privilege of growing to be an independent man, in middle life, is a greater.

* * * * *

It is a strange fancy of mine, but I cannot help wishing we could move for returns—as their phrase is in parliament—for the suffering caused in any one day, or other period of time, throughout the world, to be arranged under certain heads; and we should then see what the world has occasion to fear most. What a large amount would come under the heads of unreasonable fear of others, of miserable quarrels amongst relations upon infinitesimally small subjects, of imaginary slights, of undue cares, of false shames, of absolute misunderstandings, of unnecessary pains to maintain credit or reputation, of vexation that we cannot make others of the same mind with ourselves! What a wonderful thing it would be to see set down in figures, as it were, how ingenious we are in plaguing one another!—ARTHUR HELPS.

THE ANGEL OF DAWN.

J. S. CUTLER.

One morn an angel stopped beside my door, Clad in the shining garments of the dawn; Upon his brow a starry crown he wore; In his right hand a flaming sword was drawn. With terror filled, I prayed with piteous cry The angel-presence then to pass me by.

“I am not death,” the angel said, and smiled; “Thy soul shall have the answer to thy prayer. Drive from thy breast this fearful anguish wild; I am the Angel of the Dawn—beware! I place a priceless jewel in thy hands; The day is thine, waste not its running sands.

“Therefore mark well—thy duty waiteth thee, Beside the morning’s swiftly opening gate; The new day dawns—its hours will quickly flee; Stamp them with honor ere it be too late; Thy deed may lift thee higher than thy prayer. The day is thine, remember and beware!”

And then the angel took his shining way, On silent wings, out to the shadowy west; And swiftly onward came the new-born day, The priceless jewel of my angel-guest. The birds awoke and filled the world with song, And made my burden light the whole day long.

And now, when morning throws its early beams In golden rays across the ocean’s floor, And I awake from slumbering and dreams, I know an angel waiteth at the door; I hear again that kindly voice declare— “Thy deed may lift thee higher than thy prayer.”

QUESTIONS.

KATE LAWRENCE.

Can you put the spider’s web back in its place that once has been swept away? Can you put the apple again on the bough which fell at our feet to-day? Can you put the lily-cup back on the stem, and cause it to live and grow? Can you mend the butterfly’s broken wing that you crushed with a hasty blow? Can you put the bloom again on the grape, or the grape again on the vine? Can you put the dew-drops back on the flowers and make them sparkle and shine? Can you put the petals back on the rose? If you could, would it smell as sweet? Can you put the flour again in the husk, and show me the ripened wheat? Can you put the kernel back in the nut, or the broken egg in its shell? Can you put the honey back in the comb, and cover with wax each cell? Can you put the perfume back in the vase, when once it has sped away? Can you put the corn-silk back on the corn, or the down on catkins—say? You think that my questions are trifling, then? Let me ask you another one: Can a hasty word ever be unsaid, or a deed unkind undone?

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS.

FELICIA HEMANS.

Plymouth (Dec. 21, 1620).

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o’er, When a band of exiles moored their bark, On the wild New England shore.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?— They sought a faith’s pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod; They have left unstained what there they found— Freedom to worship God.

THE TWENTY-FIRST OF FEBRUARY.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Pale is the February sky, And brief the mid-day’s sunny hours; The wind-swept forest seems to sigh For the sweet time of leaves and flowers.

Yet has no month a prouder day, Not even when the summer broods O’er meadows in their fresh array, Or autumn tints the glowing woods.

For this chill season now again Brings, in its annual round, the morn When, greatest of the sons of men, Our glorious Washington was born.

Lo, where, beneath an icy shield, Calmly the mighty Hudson flows! By snow-clad fell and frozen field, Broadening, the lordly river goes.

The wildest storm that sweeps through space, And rends the oak with sudden force, Can raise no ripple on his face, Or slacken his majestic course.

Thus, ’mid the wreck of thrones, shall live Unmarred, undimmed, our hero’s fame, And years succeeding years shall give Increase of honors to his name.

FOREFATHERS’ DAY.

HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

Find me the men on earth who care Enough for faith or creed to-day To seek a barren wilderness For simple liberty to pray.

Despise their narrow creed who will; Pity their poverty who dare: Their lives knew joys, their lives wore crowns, We do not know, we cannot wear.

And if so be that it is saved, Our poor Republic, stained and bruised, ’Twill be because we lay again Their corner-stones which we refused.

A TRUE STORY.

“Where is the baby, grandmamma?” The sweet young mother calls From her work in the cosy kitchen, With its dainty whitewashed walls. And grandma leaves her knitting, And looks for her all around; But not a trace of baby dear Can anywhere be found.

No sound of its merry prattle, No gleam of its sunny hair, No patter of tiny footsteps, No sign of it anywhere. All through house and garden, Far out into the field, They search each nook and corner; But nothing is revealed.

And the mother’s face grew pallid; Grandmamma’s eyes grew dim; The fathers gone to the village; No use to look for him. And the baby lost! “Where’s Rover!” The mother chanced to think Of the old well in the orchard Where the cattle used to drink.

“Where’s Rover? I know he’d find her? Rover!” In vain they call, Then hurry away to the orchard; And there by the moss-grown wall, Close to the well, lies Rover, Holding to baby’s dress; She was leaning over the wall’s edge In perfect fearlessness!

She stretched her little arms down; But Rover held her fast, And never seemed to mind the kicks The tiny bare feet cast So spitefully upon him, But wagged his tail instead, To greet the frightened searchers, While naughty baby said:

“Dere’s a ’ittle dirl in the ’ater; She’s dust as big as me, Mamma; I want to help her out, And take her home to tea. But Rover, he won’t let me, And I don’t love him. Go Away, you naughty Rover! Oh! why are you crying so?”

The mother kissed her, saying: “My darling, understand, Good Rover saved your life, my dear— And, see, he licks your hand! Kiss Rover?” Baby struck him, But grandma understood; She said: “It’s hard to thank the friend Who thwarts us for our good.”

_Baldwin’s Monthly._

LITTLE CHRISTEL.

MRS. MARY E. BRADLEY.

Fräulein, the young schoolmistress, to her pupils said one day, “Next week, at Pfingster holiday, King Ludwig rides this way; And you will be wise, my little ones, to work with a will at your tasks, That so you may answer fearlessly whatever question he asks. It would be a shame too dreadful if the king should have it to tell That Hansel missed in his figures, and Peterkin could not spell.”

“Oho! that never shall happen,” cried Hansel and Peterkin too; “We’ll show King Ludwig, when he comes, what the boys in this school can do.” “And we,” said Gretchen and Bertha, and all the fair little maids Who stood in a row before her, with their hair in flaxen braids, “We will pay such good attention to every word you say, That you shall not be ashamed of us when King Ludwig rides this way.”

She smiled, the young schoolmistress, to see that they loved her so, And with patient care she taught them the things it was good to know. Day after day she drilled them till the great day came at last, When the heralds going before him blew out their sounding blast; And with music, and flying banners, and the clatter of horses’ feet, The king and his troops of soldiers rode down the village street.

Oh the hearts of the eager children beat fast with joy and fear, And Fräulein trembled and grew pale as the cavalcade drew near; But she blushed with pride and pleasure when the lessons came to be heard, For in all the flock of the boys and girls not one of them missed a word. And King Ludwig turned to the teacher with a smile and a gracious look; “It is plain,” said he, “that your scholars have carefully conned their book.

“But now let us ask some questions to see if they understand;” And he showed to one of the little maids an orange in his hand. It was Christel, the youngest sister of the mistress fair and kind— A child with a face like a lily, and as lovely and pure a mind. “What kingdom does this belong to?” as he called her to his knee; And at once—“The vegetable,” she answered quietly.

“Good,” said the monarch kindly, and showed her a piece of gold; “Now tell me what this belongs to—the pretty coin that I hold?” She touched it with careful finger, for gold was a metal rare, And then—“The mineral kingdom!” she answered with confident air. “Well done for the little mädchen!” And good King Ludwig smiled At Fräulein and her sister, the teacher and the child.

“Now answer me one more question,”—with a twinkle of fun in his eye: “What kingdom do I belong to?” For he thought she would make reply, “The animal;” and he meant to ask with a frown if that was the thing For a little child like her to say to her lord and master, the king? He knew not the artless wisdom that would set his wit at naught, And the little Christel guessed nothing at all of what was in his thought.

But her glance shot up at the question, and the brightness in her face, Like a sunbeam on a lily, seemed to shine all over the place. “What kingdom do _you_ belong to?” her innocent lips repeat; “Why, surely, the kingdom of Heaven!” rings out the answer sweet. And then for a breathless moment a sudden silence fell, And you might have heard the fall of a leaf as they looked at little Christel.

But it only lasted a moment, then rose as sudden a shout— “Well done, well done for little Christel!” and the bravos rang about. For the king in his arms had caught her, to her wondering, shy surprise, And over and over he kissed her, with a mist of tears in his eyes. “May the blessing of God,” he murmured, “forever rest on thy head! Henceforth, by His grace, my life shall prove the truth of what thou hast said.”

He gave her the yellow orange, and the golden coin for her own, And the school had a royal feast that day whose like they had never known. To Fräulein, the gentle mistress, he spoke such words of cheer That they lightened her anxious labor for many and many a year. And because in his heart was hidden the memory of this thing, The Lord had a better servant, the Lord had a wiser king!

CONCERT RECITATIONS.

SONGS OF THE SEASONS.

META E. B. THORNE.

[_For Four Students._]

SPRING.