Part 7

Oh, tell me not that they are dead--that generous host, that airy army of invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives, and more heroic patriotism?

Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. It _was_ your son, but now he is the nation's. He made your household bright: now his example inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now brother to every generous youth in the land. Before, he was narrowed, appropriated, shut up to you. Now he is augmented, set free, and given to all. Before he was yours: he _is_ ours. He has died from the family, that he might live to the nation. Not one name shall be forgotten or neglected: and it shall by and by be confessed of our modern heroes, as it is of an ancient hero, that he did more for his country by his death than by his whole life.

LULLABY.

"Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green; Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen." Rockaby, lullaby, all the day long, Down to the land of the lullaby song. Babyland never again will be thine, Land of all mystery, holy, divine, Motherland, otherland, Wonderland, underland, Land of a time ne'er again to be seen; Flowerland, bowerland, Airyland, fairyland, Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green.

Rockaby, baby, thy mother will keep Gentle watch over thine azure-eyed sleep; Baby can't feel what the mother-heart knows, Throbbing its fear o'er your quiet repose. Mother-heart knows how baby must fight Wearily on through the fast coming night; Battle unending, Honor defending, Baby must wage with the power unseen. Sleep now, O baby, dear! God and thy mother near; Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green.

Rockaby, baby, the days will grow long; Silent the voice of the mother-love song, Bowed with sore burdens the man-life must own, Sorrows that baby must bear all alone. Wonderland never can come back again; Thought will come soon--and with reason comes pain, Sorrowland, motherland, Drearyland, wearyland, Baby and heavenland lying between. Smile, then, in motherland, Dream in the otherland, Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green.

PENNING A PIG.

JAMES M. BAILEY.

Two families in Slawson had a somewhat singular experience several weeks ago. These families live in a double house, and each had a pen with two pigs. Last Friday the woman in one part discovered that her two pigs were free from their pen, and looking after geological specimens at the foot of the yard. She also discovered at the same time that the gate to a cabbage yard adjoining was open, and that the pigs might at any moment become ravished by a view of the glories within.

Her husband being away she hurriedly secured the gate, and then set about to return the truants by the following ingenious plan: Taking a shovelful of corn, she approached as close to the animals as possible, and, holding the tempting morsel near enough for them to learn its inviting character, she screwed her face into an expression of winning sweetness, and backed slowly toward the pen.

It was a beautiful illustration of woman's faith, and we regret to write that it did not work. The pigs took one snuff at the contents of the shovel, just to show that they took some interest in the matter, and, being convinced thereby that there was nothing injurious in the experiment, fell to rooting about again with renewed fervor.

The nearer the woman came to the pen the straighter her face grew, and presently lost every vestige of solicitude, and assumed instead an expression of medium ferocity. What she may have done will never be known, as at this juncture her husband made his appearance on the back stoop, and, her eye resting upon him, she commenced to apostrophize him in the language married people alone are adepts at.

After requesting somebody to show him the idiot who had left those hogs out that he might punch his head, he drove straight at the truants, and missed them, of course. Then he drove at them again with a clothes pole, and missed them again, although he made another pole by hitting that on a stone. Any one who has helped to drive one or two pigs will readily understand the number of articles that passed through the air, and the style of conversation the man kept up during the chase.

Finally, he got one of the animals in a corner, and, being by this time utterly regardless of personal appearance or consequences, threw himself upon the brute, neatly scraping the fence with the top of his head, and falling upon the pig in such a way as to hold in abeyance every one of its muscles except those in the throat. These were at once put into active operation, and the man for a moment thought he had captured a planing-mill. Then he raised slowly, keeping a tight hold of the animal, and getting on his feet with a pig in his arms, struck out for the pen, preceded by his wife and the other woman, and closely and anxiously observed by all the neighbors for a half-mile around.

In this way the procession laboriously moved. The pig, having worked its head within two inches of the man's ear, was pouring therein a tale of unparalleled distress, which, if not calculated to melt the stoutest heart, actually threatened to split open the stoutest head. The man was utterly powerless to remedy the horror, having both hands engaged, and could only twist his ear a little out of range, and scream at the top of his voice his plans for the future of "them hogs."

On reaching the pen, and while in the act of dumping the howling viper over the side, the woman next door made an unfortunate discovery. _His_ hogs were in the pen; the truants were _hers_. The man, who was still holding the pig, and might have, with reason, taken a prominent part in the debate, contented himself by merely expressing a hope that he might be blessed, and then trudged around to the other pen, where he arrived after much unlooked for tribulation, and again hoisted the howling monster up to the top, when the woman next door made another and still more remarkable discovery. Her pigs were in their pen.

"What's that?" screamed the man, who was so fixed he could not very well see into the pen, and was obliged to lift his voice to make himself heard above the din.

"Them ain't my pigs," screamed the woman.

"Why ain't they?" he yelled.

"Cause my pigs are here," she shrieked back.

It is needless to say that the strange animals were urged out of that garden without the use of subterfuge.

LITTLE JIM.

BY GEORGE R. SIMS.

Our little Jim Was such a limb His mother scarce could manage him. His eyes were blue, And looked you through, And seemed to say, "I'll have my way!" His age was six, His saucy tricks But made you smile, Though all the while You said, "You limb, You wicked Jim, Be quiet, do!"

Poor little Jim! Our eyes are dim When soft and low we speak of him. No clattering shoe Goes running through The silent room, Now wrapped in gloom. So still he lies, With fast-shut eyes, No need to say, Alas! to-day, "You little limb, You baby Jim, Be quiet, do!"

GET ACQUAINTED WITH YOURSELF.

BY R. J. BURDETTE.

Telemachus, it will do you ever so much good if every once in a while you will go away by yourself for an hour or two and get real well acquainted with yourself. As a man thinketh, so he is. And you will never "know thyself" thoroughly unless now and then you get alone and sit down and talk to yourself, cross-examine yourself; learn what you know; what are your ambitions, your aims, your hopes,--what is your real character; because, my dear boy, your reputation may be one thing and your character quite another. Sometimes it does happen, in this faulty old world, that a really good man, a man whose character is above reproach, may bear the reputation of a rascal; and once in a while--two or three times in a while, in fact--a rascal wears the stolen reputation of an honest man. Go away now and then, my boy, and sit down all by yourself and think. Think of nothing under the sun only yourself. Yes, I know, my son, there are men who never think of anything else, and God never made more useless men; but that is because they do all their thinking about themselves publicly and loud. They never think alone.

You will be honest with yourself when you are alone, my boy. A man is apt to be honest with himself in the dark. He does not pose in heroic postures when he has no audience. When he stands face to face with himself, with no human eye to watch him, and no human ear to listen to his confession, and only his Maker, who knows every secret motive and thought of his life to see and to listen, a man has to be honest. How could he be a hypocrite then?

Get away from the crowd a little while every day, my boy. Stand one side and let the world run by, while you get acquainted with yourself, and see what kind of a fellow you are. Ask yourself hard questions about yourself. Find out all you can about yourself. Ascertain from original sources if you are really the manner of man people say you are. Find out if you are always honest; if you always tell the square, perfect truth in business deals; if your life is as good and upright at eleven o'clock at night as it is at noon; if you are as sound a temperance man on a fishing expedition as you are at a Sabbath-school picnic; if you are as good a boy when you go to Chicago as you are at home; if, in short, you really are the manner of young man your father hopes you are, your mother says you are, and your sweetheart believes you are. Get on intimate terms with yourself, my boy, and, believe me, every time you come out from one of those private interviews you will be a better, stronger, purer man. Don't forget this, Telemachus, and it will do you good.

THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE.

BY J. W. RILEY.

As the little white hearse went glimmering by-- The man on the coal cart jerked his lines, And smutted the lid of either eye, And turned and stared at the business signs; And the street-car driver stopped and beat His hands on his shoulders and gazed up street Till his eye on the long track reached the sky-- As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

As the little white hearse went glimmering by-- A stranger petted a ragged child In the crowded walk, and she knew not why, But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled; And a bootblack thrilled with a pleasure strange As a customer put back his change With a kindly hand and a grateful sigh-- As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

As the little white hearse went glimmering by-- A man looked out of a window dim, And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry-- For a dead child even were dear to him! And he thought of his empty life and said: "Loveless alive and loveless dead, Nor wife nor child in earth or sky!"-- As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

THERE'LL BE ROOM IN HEAVEN.

She was a little old woman, very plainly dressed in black bombazine that had seen much careful wear; her bonnet was very old-fashioned, and people stared at her tottering up the aisle of the church, evidently bent on securing one of the best seats, for a great man preached that day. The house was filled with splendidly dressed people who had heard of the fame of the preacher, of his learning, his intellect and goodness, and they wondered at the presumption of the poor old woman. She must have been in her dotage, for she picked out the pew of the richest and proudest member of the church and took a seat. The three ladies who were seated there beckoned to the sexton, who bent over the intruder and whispered something, but she was hard of hearing, and smiled a little withered smile, as she said, gently: "Oh, I'm quite comfortable here, quite comfortable."

"But you are not wanted here," said the sexton, pompously; "there is not room. Come with me, my good woman; I will see that you have a seat."

"Not room," said the old woman, looking at her shrunken proportions, and then at the fine ladies. "Why, I'm not crowded a bit. I rode ten miles to hear the sermon to-day, because--"

But here the sexton took her by the arm, shook her roughly in a polite underhand way, and then she took the hint. Her faded old eyes filled with tears, her chin quivered; but she rose meekly and left the pew. Turning quietly to the ladies, who were spreading their rich dresses over the space she left vacant, she said gently: "I hope, my dears, there'll be room in heaven for us all." Then she followed the pompous sexton to the rear of the church where, in the last pew, she was seated between a threadbare girl and a shabby old man.

"She must be crazy," said one of the ladies in the pew which she had first occupied. "What can an ignorant old woman like her want to hear Dr. ---- preach for? She would not be able to understand a word he said."

"Those people are so persistent! The idea of her forcing herself into our pew! Isn't that voluntary lovely? There's Dr. ---- coming out of the vestry. Is he not grand?"

"Splendid! What a stately man! You know he has promised to dine with us while he is here."

He was a commanding looking man, and as the organ voluntary stopped, and he looked over the great crowd of worshipers gathered in the vast church, he seemed to scan every face. His hand was on the Bible when suddenly he leaned over the reading desk and beckoned to the sexton, who obsequiously mounted the steps to receive a mysterious message. And then the three ladies in the grand pew were electrified to see him take his way the whole length of the church to return with the old woman, when he placed her in the front pew of all, its other occupants making willing room for her. The great preacher looked at her with a smile of recognition, and then the services proceeded, and he preached a sermon that struck fire from every heart.

"Who was she?" asked the ladies who could not make room for her, as they passed the sexton at the door.

"The preacher's mother," was the reply.

THE RETORT DIS-COURTEOUS.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

Mr. Michael McGlynn, of Dublin town, And Dinny O'Doyle, of Kildare, Through the streets of the city, went up and down, A remarkably guileless pair. Said Michael to Dinny: "Me darlin' bhoy, Since the roise o' the mornin' sun, Niver a dhrop or a boite have Oi, Oi think I could ate a bun."

Said Dinny to Michael: "Av coorse: av coorse! To ate is the woise man's part; Oi have a sinsation loike that mesilf, Oi think Oi could touch a tart." So the kindred souls of this guileless pair, An eating house speedily found, And before them a jar on the table sat, Full of horseradish, freshly ground.

With a tablespoon, Mr. Michael McGlynn Took all that his mouth would hold, Then gasped for breath, while his head turned hot And his spine turned icy cold. The tears on his cheeks came rolling down, But he had no breath to swear, So he simply clutched at the tablecloth, And tore at his red, red hair.

Amazed and surprised, Mr. Dinny O'Doyle Said: "Michael, me darlin' bhoy, Phwat's troublin' yer sowl? Phwat's wrong wid ye now? Phwat's the raison ye've tears in yer oi?"

"Oh, nothin," said Michael; "my grandfather doid Some twenty-foive years ago, Oi chanced to remember the fine owld man, An' Oi couldn't help croiyin', ye know.

"But, Dinny O'Doyle, doant mind it at all; How wake an' how choildish Oi same," Then he passed the horseradish and spoon and all; "Have some of this nice oice crame!" So Dinny dipped into the treacherous jar, And the tears quickly sprang to his eyes, While Michael McGlynn, who had got back his breath, Affected a strange surprise.

"Phy, Dinny, me bhoy, ye're croiyin' yersilf," He said with a chuckle and grin; "Phwat's troublin' _yer_ sowl? Phwat's wrong wid _ye_ now? Is it wapin' ye are for a sin?" "Is it askin' ye are, phwat's makin' me croiy?" Said Dinny, "Oi'll spake as Oi'm bid, Oi'm croiyin' bekase Mr. Michael McGlynn, Didn't doi when his grandfather did."

ZENOBIA'S DEFENCE.

BY WILLIAM WARE.

[Zenobia became Queen of Palmyra A. D. 267, after the murder of her husband, Odenatus. She was a woman of great energy and assumed the title of Queen of the East. She was deprived of her dominion by Aurelian A. D. 272, and died in retirement near Rome.]

I am charged with pride and ambition. The charge is true, and I glory in its truth. Whoever achieved anything great in letters, arts, or arms, who was not ambitious? Cæsar was not more ambitious than Cicero. It was but in another way. All greatness is born of ambition. Let the ambition be a noble one, and who shall blame it? I confess I did once aspire to be queen, not only of Palmyra, but of the East. That I am. I now aspire to remain so. Is it not an honorable ambition? Does it not become a descendant of the Ptolemies and of Cleopatra? I am applauded by you all for what I have already done. You would not it should have been less.

But why pause here? Is _so_ much ambition praiseworthy, and _more_ criminal? Is it fixed in nature that the limits of this empire should be Egypt on the one hand, the Hellespont and the Euxine on the other? Were not Suez and Armenia more natural limits? Or hath empire no natural limit, but is broad as the genius that can devise, and the power that can win? Rome has the West. Let Palmyra possess the East. Not that nature prescribes this and no more. The gods prospering, I mean that the Mediterranean shall not hem me in upon the west, or Persia on the east. Longinus is right,--I would that the world were mine. I feel, within, the will and the power to bless it, were it so.

Are not my people happy? I look upon the past and the present, upon my nearer and remoter subjects, and ask, nor fear the answer, Whom have I wronged? What province have I oppressed, what city pillaged, what region drained with taxes? Whose life have I unjustly taken, or whose estates have I coveted or robbed? Whose honor have I wantonly assailed? Whose rights, though of the weakest and poorest, have I violated? I dwell, where I would ever dwell, in the hearts of my people. It is written in your faces, that I reign not more over you than within you. The foundation of my throne is not more power than love.

Suppose, now, my ambition should add another province to our realm. Would that be an evil? The kingdoms already bound to us by the joint acts of ourselves and the late royal Odenatus, we found discordant and at war. They are now united and at peace. One harmonious whole has grown out of hostile and sundered parts. At my hands they receive a common justice and equal benefits. The channels of their commerce have I opened, and dug them deep and sure. Prosperity and plenty are in all their borders. The streets of our capital bear testimony to the distant and various industry which here seeks its market.

This is no vain boasting: receive it not so, good friends. It is but the truth. He who traduces himself sins in the same way as he who traduces another. He who is unjust to himself, or less than just, breaks a law, as well as he who hurts his neighbor. I tell you what I am, and what I have done, that your trust for the future may not rest upon ignorant grounds. If I am more than just to myself, rebuke me. If I have over-stepped the modesty that became me, I am open to your censure, and I will bear it.

But I have spoken that you may know your queen, not only by her acts, but by her admitted principles. I tell you, then, that I am ambitious, that I crave dominion, and while I live will reign. Sprung from a line of kings, a throne is my natural seat. I love it. But I strive, too--you can bear me witness that I do--that it shall be, while I sit upon it, an honored, unpolluted seat. If I can, I will hang a yet brighter glory around it.

A SERENADE.[1]

BY THOMAS HOOD.

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" Thus I heard a father cry. "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! The brat will never shut an eye; Hither come, some power divine! Close his lids or open mine!

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby! What the mischief makes him cry? Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Still he stares--I wonder why; Why are not the sons of earth Blind, like puppies, from their birth?

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" Thus I heard the father cry; "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Mary, you must come and try! Hush, oh, hush, for mercy's sake-- The more I sing, the more you wake!

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Fie, you little creature, fie! Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Is no poppy-syrup nigh? Give him some, or give him all, I am nodding to his fall!

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Two such nights and I shall die! Lullaby, oh, lullaby! He'll be bruised, and so shall I-- How can I from bedposts keep, When I'm walking in my sleep?

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Sleep his very looks deny; Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Nature soon will stupefy-- My nerves relax--my eyes grow dim-- Who's that fallen, me or him?"

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This poem can be made very effective as a humorous recitation by the performer imitating a sleepy father vainly endeavoring to quiet a restless child. A doll, or something to represent one, should be held in the arms.

QUEEN VASHTI.

BY T. DEWITT TALMAGE.

We stand amid the palaces of Shushan. The pinnacles are aflame with the morning light. The columns rise festooned and wreathed, the wealth of empires flashing from the grooves; the ceilings adorned with images of bird and beast, and scenes of prowess and conquest. The walls are hung with shields, and emblazoned until it seems that the whole round of splendors is exhausted. Each arch is a mighty leap of architectural achievement,--golden stars, shining down on glowing arabesque; hangings of embroidered work, in which mingle the blueness of the sky, the greenness of the grass and the whiteness of the sea foam; tapestries hung on silver rings, wedding together the pillars of marble. Pavilions reach out in every direction,--these for repose, filled with luxuriant couches, in which weary limbs sink until all fatigue is submerged; these for carousal, where kings drink down a kingdom at one swallow.

Amazing spectacle! Light of silver dripping down over stairs of ivory on shields of gold; floors of stained marble, sunset red and night black, and inlaid with gleaming pearl. Why, it seems as if a heavenly vision of amethyst, and jacinth, and topaz, and chrysoprasus had descended and alighted upon Shushan. It seems as if a billow of celestial glory had dashed clear over heaven's battlements upon this metropolis of Persia.