Part 3

"Thy one son, Noumid, dead before my face; And by the swiftest courser of my stud Sent to thy door his corpse. And one might trace Their flight across the desert by his blood.

"Strike! for my hate is greater than thy own!" But with a frown the Arab moved away, Walked to a distant palm and stood alone With eyes that looked where purple mountains lay.

This for an instant; then he turned again Toward the place where Ackbar waited still, Walking as one benumbed with bitter pain, Or with a hateful mission to fulfil.

"Strike! for I hate thee!" Ackbar cried once more, "Nay, but my hate I cannot find!" said now His enemy. "Thy freedom I restore, Live, life were worse than death to such as thou."

So with his gift of life, the Bedouin slept That night untroubled; but when dawn broke through The purple East, and o'er his eyelids crept The long, thin finger of the light, he drew

A heavy breath and woke. Above him shone A lifted dagger--"Yea, he gave thee life, But I give death!" came in fierce undertone, And Ackbar died. It was dead Noumid's wife.

The New Year Ledger.

BY AMELIA E. BARR.

I said one year ago, "I wonder, if I truly kept A list of days when life burnt low, Of days I smiled and days I wept, If good or bad would highest mount When I made up the year's account?"

I took a ledger fair and fine, "And now," I said, "when days are glad, I'll write with bright red ink the line, And write with black when they are bad, So that they'll stand before my sight As clear apart as day and night.

"I will not heed the changing skies, Nor if it shine nor if it rain; But if there comes some sweet surprise, Or friendship, love or honest gain, Why, then it shall be understood That day is written down as good.

"Or if to anyone I love A blessing meets them on the way, That will to me a pleasure prove: So it shall be a happy day; And if some day, I've cause to dread Pass harmless by, I'll write it red.

"When hands and brain stand labor's test, And I can do the thing I would, Those days when I am at my best Shall all be traced as very good. And in 'red letter,' too, I'll write Those rare, strong hours when right is might.

"When first I meet in some grand book A noble soul that touches mine, And with this vision I can look Through some gate beautiful of time, That day such happiness will shed That golden-lined will seem the red.

"And when pure, holy thoughts have power To touch my heart and dim my eyes, And I in some diviner hour Can hold sweet converse with the skies, Ah! then my soul may safely write: 'This day has been most good and bright.'"

What do I see on looking back? A red-lined book before me lies, With here and there a thread of black, That like a gloomy shadow flies,-- A shadow it must be confessed, That often rose in my own breast.

And I have found it good to note The blessing that is mine each day; For happiness is vainly sought In some dim future far away. Just try my ledger for a year, Then look with grateful wonder back, And you will find, there is no fear, The red days far exceed the black.

GOOD READING THE GREATEST ACCOMPLISHMENT.

BY JOHN S. HART, LL.D.

There is one accomplishment, in particular, which I would earnestly recommend to you. Cultivate assiduously the ability to read well. I stop to particularize this, because it is a thing so very much neglected, and because it is such an elegant and charming accomplishment. Where one person is really interested by music, twenty are pleased by good reading. Where one person is capable of becoming a skillful musician, twenty may become good readers. Where there is one occasion suitable for the exercise of musical talent, there are twenty for that of good reading.

The culture of the voice necessary for reading well, gives a delightful charm to the same voice in conversation. Good reading is the natural exponent and vehicle of all good things. It is the most effective of all commentaries upon the works of genius. It seems to bring dead authors to life again, and makes us sit down familiarly with the great and good of all ages.

Did you ever notice what life and power the Holy Scriptures have when well read? Have you ever heard of the wonderful effects produced by Elizabeth Fry on the criminals of Newgate, by simply reading to them the parable of the Prodigal Son? Princes and peers of the realm, it is said, counted it a privilege to stand in the dismal corridors, among felons and murderers, merely to share with them the privilege of witnessing the marvelous pathos which genius, taste, and culture could infuse into that simple story.

What a fascination there is in really good reading! What a power it gives one! In the hospital, in the chamber of the invalid, in the nursery, in the domestic and in the social circle, among chosen friends and companions, how it enables you to minister to the amusement, to the comfort, the pleasure of dear ones, as no other art or accomplishment can. No instrument of man's devising can reach the heart as does that most wonderful instrument, the human voice. It is God's special gift and endowment to his chosen creatures. Fold it not away in a napkin.

If you would double the value of all your other acquisitions, if you would add immeasurably to your own enjoyment and to your power of promoting the enjoyment of others, cultivate, with incessant care, this divine gift. No music below the skies is equal to that of pure, silvery speech from the lips of a man or woman of high culture.

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in seventy-five-- Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year--

He said to his friend: "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light; One, if by land, and two if by sea, And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night," and, with muffled oar, Silently row'd to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay The "Somerset," British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade, By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night encampment on the hill. Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead, For, suddenly, all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,-- A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth And turned and lighted his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched, with eager search, The belfry tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight, A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in the village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark, Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; That was all; and yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He had left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides, And under the alders that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town; He heard the crowing of the cock And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river's fog, That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock When he came to the bridge in Concord town; He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket ball. You know the rest; in the books you have read, How the British regulars fired and fled; How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the redcoats down the lane, Then crossing the fields, to emerge again Under the trees, at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere, And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,-- A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the past, Through all our history to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

BY SPECIAL REQUEST.

BY FRANK CASTLES.

_A Lady Standing with one Hand on a Chair in a Somewhat Amateurish Attitude._

Our kind hostess has asked me to recite something, "by special request," but I really don't know what to do. I have only a very small _repertoire_, and I'm afraid you know all my stock recitations. What shall I do? (_Pause._) I have it; I'll give you something entirely original. I'll tell you about my last experience of reciting, which really is the cause of my being so nervous to-night. I began reciting about a year ago; I took elocution lessons with Mr. ----; no, I won't tell you his name, I want to keep him all to myself. I studied the usual things with him--the "Mercy" speech from the "Merchant of Venice," and Juliet's "Balcony scene," but I somehow never could imagine my fat, red-faced, snub-nosed old master (there! I've told you who he was), I never could fancy him as an ideal Romeo; he looked much more like Polonius, or the Ghost before he was a ghost--I mean as he probably was in the flesh.

My elocution master told me that Shakespeare was not my forte, so I studied some more modern pieces. He told me I was getting on very well--"one of my most promising pupils," but I found that he said that to every one.

Well, it soon became known that I recited (one must have _some_ little vices, you know, just to show up one's virtues). I received an invitation from Lady Midas for a musical evening last Friday, and in a postscript, "We hope you will favor us with a recitation." Very flattering, wasn't it?

I went there fully primed with three pieces--"The Lifeboat," by Sims, "The Lost Soul," and Calverley's "Waiting." I thought that I had hit on a perfectly original selection; but I was soon undeceived. There were a great many people at Lady Midas', quite fifty, I should think, or perhaps two hundred; but I'm very bad at guessing numbers. We had a lot of music. A young man, with red hair and little twinkling light eyes, sang a song by De Lara, but it did not sound as well as when I heard the composer sing it. Then two girls played a banjo duet; then--no, we had another song first, then a girl with big eyes and an ugly dress--brown nun's veiling with yellow lace, and beads, and ribbons, and sham flowers and all sorts of horrid things, so ugly, I'm sure it was made at home. Well--where was I? Oh, yes!--she stood up and recited, what do you think? Why, "Calverley's Waiting!" Oh! I was so cross when it came to the last verses; you remember how they go (_imitating_)--

"'Hush! hark! I see a hovering form! From the dim distance slowly rolled; It rocks like lilies in a storm, And oh! its hues are green and gold.

'It comes, it comes! Ah! rest is sweet, And there is rest, my babe, for us!' She ceased, as at her very feet Stopped the St. John's Wood omnibus."

Well, when I heard that I felt inclined to cry. Just imagine how provoking; one of the pieces I had been practicing for weeks past. Oh, it _was_ annoying! After that there was a violin solo, then another--no, then I had an ice, such a nice young man, just up from Aldershot, _very_ young, but _so_ amusing, and so full of somebody of "ours" who had won something, or lost something, I could not quite make out which.

Then we came back to the drawing-room, and an elderly spinster, with curls, sang, "Oh that we two were Maying," and the young man from Aldershot said, "Thank goodness we aren't."

Afterward I had another ice, not because I wanted it, not a bit, but the young man from Aldershot said he was _so_ thirsty.

Then I saw a youth with long hair and badly-fitting clothes. I thought he was going to sing, but he wasn't; oh no! much worse! he recited. When I heard the first words I thought I should faint (_imitating_):

"Been out in the lifeboat often? Aye, aye, sir, oft enough. When it's rougher than this? Lor' bless you, this ain't what _we_ calls rough."

How well I knew the lines! Wasn't it cruel? However, I had one hope left--my "Lost Soul," a beautiful poem, serious and sentimental. The æsthetic youth was so tedious that the young man from Aldershot asked me to come into the conservatory, and really I was so vexed and disappointed that I think I would have gone into the coal-cellar if he had asked me.

We went into the conservatory and had a nice long talk, all about----well, it would take too long to tell you now, and besides it would not interest _you_.

All at once mamma came in, and I felt rather frightened at first (I don't know why), but she was laughing and smiling. "O, Mary," she said, "that æsthetic young man has been so funny; they encored 'The Lifeboat,' so he recited a very comic piece of poetry, that sent us all into fits of laughter, it was called 'The Fried Sole,' a parody on 'The Lost Soul' that you used to recite."

Alas! my last hope was wrecked; I could not read after that! I believe I burst into tears. Anyhow, mamma hurried me off in a cab, and I cried all the way home and--and--I forgot to say good-night to the young man from Aldershot. Wasn't it a pity?

And you see that's why I don't like to recite anything to-night. (_Some one from the audience comes up and whispers to her_). No! really, have I? How stupid! I'm told that I've been reciting all this time. I am so sorry; will you ever forgive me? I do beg pardon; I'll never do it again! (_Runs out._)

NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP.

[Found in the Knapsack of a Soldier of the Civil War After He Had Been Slain in Battle.]

Near the camp-fire's flickering light, In my blanket bed I lie, Gazing through the shades of night And the twinkling stars on high; O'er me spirits in the air Silent vigils seem to keep, As I breathe my childhood's prayer, "Now I lay me down to sleep."

Sadly sings the whip-poor-will In the boughs of yonder tree; Laughingly the dancing rill Swells the midnight melody. Foemen may be lurking near, In the cañon dark and deep; Low I breathe in Jesus' ear: "I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep."

'Mid those stars one face I see-- One the Saviour turned away-- Mother, who in infancy Taught my baby lips to pray; Her sweet spirit hovers near In this lonely mountain-brake. Take me to her Saviour dear "If I should die before I wake."

Fainter grows the flickering light, As each ember slowly dies; Plaintively the birds of night Fill the air with sad'ning cries; Over me they seem to cry: "You may never more awake." Low I lisp: "If I should die, I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take."

Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take.

THE AMERICAN UNION.

BY DANIEL WEBSTER.

I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our Federal Union. It is to that union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country.

That union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues, in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences, these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life.

Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings; and although our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our population spread further and further, they have not outrun its protection, or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness.

I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder.

I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below; nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the union should be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed.

While the union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that, in my day at least, that curtain may not rise! God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind!

When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious union; on states dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood!

Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured, bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as, What is all this worth? nor those other words of delusion and folly, Liberty first, and union afterward; but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart, liberty and union now and forever, one and inseparable!

THE POPPY LAND LIMITED EXPRESS.

BY EDGAR WADE ABBOT.

The first train leaves at six p. m. For the land where the poppy blows; The mother dear is the engineer, And the passenger laughs and crows.

The palace car is the mother's arms; The whistle, a low, sweet strain: The passenger winks, and nods, and blinks, And goes to sleep in the train!

At eight p. m. the next train starts For the poppy land afar, The summons clear falls on the ear: "All aboard for the sleeping-car!"

But what is the fare to poppy land? I hope it is not too dear. The fare is this, a hug and a kiss, And it's paid to the engineer!

So I ask of Him who children took On His knee in kindness great, "Take charge, I pray, of the trains each day, That leave at six and eight.

"Keep watch of the passengers," thus I pray, "For to me they are very dear, And special ward, O gracious Lord, O'er the gentle engineer."

MOTHER, HOME, AND HEAVEN.

Mother, Home, and Heaven, says a writer, are three of the most beautiful words in the English language. And truly I think that they may be well called so--what word strikes so forcibly upon the heart as mother? Coming from childhood's sunny lips, it has a peculiar charm; for it speaks of one to whom they look and trust for protection.

A mother is the truest friend we have; when trials heavy and sudden fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends, who rejoiced with us in our sunshine, desert us when troubles thicken around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts.

The kind voice of a mother has often been the means of reclaiming an erring one from the path of wickedness to a life of happiness and prosperity.

The lonely convict, immured in his dreary cell, thinks of the innocent days of his childhood, and feels that though other friends forsake him, he has still a guardian angel watching over him; and that, however dark his sins may have been, they have all been forgiven and forgotten by her.

Mother is indeed a sweet name, and her station is indeed a holy one; for in her hands are placed minds, to be moulded almost at her will; aye, fitted to shine--not much, it is true, on earth, compared, if taught aright, with the dazzling splendor which awaits them in heaven.