Chapter XIV: Part III: Serious Hits (2)

_King Henry._ What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland?--No, my fair cousin:
If we are marked to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men the greater share of honor.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold;
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It years me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires;
But if it be a sin to covet honor
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honor,
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more.
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called--the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tiptoe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
And say,--"_To-morrow is Saint Crispian_":
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars,
And say, "_These wounds I had on Crispian's day_."
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day: then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,--
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,--
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd:
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And _Crispin Crispian_ shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd:
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here;
And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon SAINT CRISPIAN'S DAY.

THE C'RRECT CARD

BY GEORGE R. SIMS

"C'rrect card, sir? C'rrect card, sir? What! you've seen my face before? Well I dare say as how you have, sir, and so have many more; but they passes me by without a word--but perhaps it's just as well; a poor crippled chap like me, sir, ain't fit company for a swell. But I've seen the time when they all was proud with me to be talking seen--when I rode for Lord Arthur Forester, and wore the black and green. How did it happen ? I'll tell you, sir. You knew little Fanny Flight--old Farmer Flight's one daughter--always so pretty and bright? You used to joke with her sometimes, sir, and say as, if you she'd marry, you'd set up a 'pub' together, an' pitch your folks to Old Harry. You was just down for the holidays, sir, from Oxford, where you were at school; but _you_ only played at being in love, while I ... was a cursed fool! Well, there were lots of 'm after her, sir, what with her ways and face; but I was in earnest, you see, sir, and rode a waiting race. 'Twas one fine April morning, when she came out to see us train, and just as she stood with her little hand holding on by my horse's mane, I felt as how I could do it, and came with a rush, you see, an' I said to her--all of a tremble, sir,--'Fan, will you marry me?' And she blushed an' smiled, an' whinnied, and after a bit she agreed that as soon as I found the money to pay for our keep and feed, why we'd run in harness together. We'd ha' made a tidyish pair; for I weren't a bad looking colt at the time, and _she_--such a nice little mare! Such a mouth! such a forehead! such action! Ah, well, let 'em say what they may, that's the sort to make running with us, sir,--tho, hang it! they never can _stay_.

"Well, the time went on, and I rode my best, an' they called me a 'cuteish' chap, and Lord Arthur put me up to ride for the Leicestershire Handicap. Lord Arthur, he was a _gentleman_--never was stingy or mean--an' he said, 'I'll give you five hundred, my man, if you win with the black and green.' Well, the horse I rode was Rasper; perhaps you remember him?--Black all but one white foot, sir; _and_ a temper!--he'd pull like sin. But jump like a bird if he had a mind--plenty of power and pace--and I knew he had it in him, and I swore I'd win the race. The night before the race came off I went down to Farmer Flight's--they'd got to expect me regular now on Tuesday and Friday nights--and I told her what Lord Arthur said, and how, if I chanced to win, we'd go into double harness on the strength of his lordship's tin. An' she put my colors in her hair, and her arms around my neck, and I felt ... but, hang it! a chap's a fool as can't keep his feelings in check. But then, you sees, sir, I _was_ a fool--a big one as ever was seen--but then I was only twenty when I rode in the black and green. I got up early next morning, an' felt as light as a feather, and I went to start for the stables; and mother she asked me whether I'd not take my flask in my pocket, in case it might come in handy; but 'Mother,' I says, 'when a chap's in love, he don't feel to want any brandy.' And I thought, as I put on a new pair o' spurs, and a jacket bran new and clean, that I'd give long odds that I'd pull it off--ten to one on the black and green. Well, Lord Arthur gave me my orders, and a leg up on to my horse, and I just had taken my canter an' was coming back up the course, when who should I spy but Fanny, in a stylish sort of a trap, talking away like blazes to a dark, long-whiskered chap; but I hadn't time to think of more, for we got the word to start, and Rasper gave a thundering tear that nearly pulled out my heart; an' then I pulled him together, for mine was a waiting race, and I knew that what was to win it was Rasper's pluck not pace. Well, I got round all right the first time; the fences were easy enough--at least to a couple like _we_ were; the only one that was tough was a biggish hedge, with a post and rails; but the taking-off was fair, and I shouldn't call it a dangerous jump, as long as you took it with care. And Rasper! that very morning I said to Lord Arthur, I said, 'I think as that horse there could jump a _church_, if he took the thing into his head'; an' that morning he went like a lady and looked as bright as a bean, and I knew, if it only lasted, I'd win with the black and green. I was riding Rasper easy, when, just as we passed the stand, it struck me the carriage that Fanny was in was somewhere upon my right hand; and I took a pull at Rasper, and a glance toward that side, and I saw what made me forget the race and forget the way to ride--only a kiss! An' what's a kiss to the like of him and her? But I could not help letting Rasper feel that I wore a long-necked spur; an' tho I set my teeth to be cool and steadied him with the rein, I knew that the devil in Rasper was up, and couldn't be laid again; an' the very next fence, tho I kept him straight, and he went at it after the rest, I could feel that he meant to do his worst, and I couldn't ride my best. For, you know, when a man feels desperate-like, he's no more head than a child, and it's all _up_ with a jock, you see, if he goes at his fences wild. Over the next fence--over the next--till I thought, as my teeth I set, if I only could keep my head to my work, I might pull through with it yet; and I took a pull at Rasper, an' fell back a bit to the tail, for I'd never forget the one difficult spot--the hedge with the post and rail. How it all comes back! We're in the field--now for a rattling burst; for the race is half won by the horse and man that crosses that fence first. I run up to my horses and pass them--I've given Rasper his head; I can hear, some lengths behind me, the trampling and the tread; and now I send him at it firmly but not too fast--he stops--lays his ears back--REFUSES! _The devil's come out at last!_ And I dig in the steel and let him feel the sting of stout whalebone, and I say, 'You shall do it, you devil! if I break your neck and my own.' And the brute gives a squeal, and rushes at the post and rail like mad--no time to rise him at it--not much use if I had; and then ... well, I feel a crash and a blow, and hear a woman scream, and I seem to be dying by inches in a horrid sort of a dream.

"No, thank ye--I'd rather not, sir. You see they ain't all like you; these gents as has plenty of money don't care who they gives it to; but as for stopping an' saying a word, an' hearing a fellow's tale, they'd rather give him a crown, sir, or stand him a quart of ale. But it brings back old times to be talking to you. Ah! the jolly old times as I've seen, when I rode for Lord Arthur (c'rrect card, sir?) and wore the black and green!"

THE ENGINEER'S STORY

BY ROSA H. THORPE

No, children, my trips are over,
The engineer needs rest;
My hand is shaky; I'm feeling
A tugging pain i' my breast;
But here, as the twilight gathers,
I'll tell you a tale of the road,
That'll ring in my head forever,
Till it rests beneath the sod.

We were lumbering along in the twilight,
The night was drooping her shade,
And the "Gladiator" labored,--
Climbing the top of the grade;
The train was heavily laden,
So I let my engine rest,
Climbing the grading slowly,
Till we reached the upland's crest.

I held my watch to the lamplight,--
Ten minutes behind the time!
Lost in the slackened motion
Of the up-grade's heavy climb;
But I knew the miles of the prairie
That stretched a level track,
So I touched the gauge of the boiler,
And pulled the lever back.

Over the rails a-gleaming,
Thirty an hour, or so,
The engine leaped like a demon,
Breathing a fiery glow;
But to me--a-hold of the lever--
It seemed a child alway,
Trustful and always ready
My lightest touch to obey.

I was proud, you know, of my engine,
Holding it steady that night,
And my eye on the track before us,
Ablaze with the Drummond light.
We neared a well-known cabin,
Where a child of three or four,
As the up train passed, oft called me,
A-playing around the door.

My hand was firm on the throttle
As we swept around the curve,
When something afar in the shadow
Struck fire through every nerve.
I sounded the brakes, and crashing
The reverse-lever down in dismay,
Groaning to heaven,--eighty paces
Ahead was the child at its play!

One instant,--one, awful and only,
The world flew round in my brain,
And I smote my hand hard on my forehead
To keep back the terrible pain;
The train I thought flying forever,
With mad, irresistible roll,
While the cries of the dying, the night-wind
Swept into my shuddering soul.

Then I stood on the front of the engine--
How I got there I never could tell--
My feet planted down on the crossbar,
Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail,
One hand firmly locked on the coupler,
And one held out in the night,
While my eye gauged the distance, and measured
The speed of our slackening flight.

My mind, thank the Lord! it was steady;
I saw the curls of her hair,
And the face that, turning in wonder,
Was lit by the deadly glare.
I know little more--but I heard it--
The groan of the anguished wheels,
And remember thinking--the engine
In agony trembles and reels.

One rod! To the day of my dying
I shall think the old engine reared back,
And as it recoiled, with a shudder
I swept my hand over the track;
Then darkness fell over my eyelids,
But I heard the surge of the train,
And the poor old engine creaking,
As racked by a deadly pain.

They found us, they said, on the gravel,
My fingers enmeshed in her hair,
And she on my bosom a-climbing,
To nestle securely there.
We are not much given to crying--
We men that run on the road--
But that night, they said, there were faces
With tears on them, lifted to God.

For years in the eve and the morning,
As I neared the cabin again,
My hand on the lever prest downward
And slackened the speed of the train.
When my engine had blown her a greeting,
She always would come to the door;
And her look with a fulness of heaven
Blesses me evermore.

THE FACE UPON THE FLOOR

BY H. ANTOINE D'ARCY

'Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there,
Which well-nigh filled Joe's barroom on the corner of the square;
And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" some one said. "The wind has blown it in."
"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whisky, rum or gin?"
"Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work--
I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;
In fact, he smiled as tho he thought he'd struck the proper place.
"Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd--
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

"Give me a drink--that's what I want--I'm out of funds, you know,
When I had the cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow.
What? You laugh as tho you thought this pocket never held a sou,
I once was fixt as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks; that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and all;
Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call.
_Give you a song?_ No, I can't do that, my singing days are past;
My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going
fast.

"Say! give me another whisky, and I'll tell you what I'll do--
I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.
That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think;
But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame--
Such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame;
Five fingers--there, that's the scheme--and corking whisky, too.
Well, here's luck, boys; and landlord, my best regards to you.

"You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how
I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health,
And but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

"I was a painter--not one that daubed on bricks and wood,
But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good.
I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise,
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of
Fame,'
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name.
And then I met a woman--now comes the funny part--
With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see
Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me;
But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven.

"Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give,
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;
With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-nor, and a wealth of chestnut
hair?
If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,
Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way;
And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprize,
Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

"It didn't take long to know him, and before a month had flown,
My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone;
And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,
The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead.

"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why I never saw you smile,
I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while.
Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a tear-drop in your eye,
Come, laugh like me; 'tis only babes and women that cry.

"Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad,
And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad.
Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score--
You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor."

Another drink, and, with chalk in hand, the vagabond began
To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.
Then as he placed another look upon the shapely head,
With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture dead.

THE FUNERAL OF THE FLOWERS

BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE

The summer is ended, and we have all been invited to attend the Funeral of the Flowers. It occurred on a long slope which at one side dipt into the warm valleys, and on the other side arose very high into the frosty air, so that on one boundary line lived cactus and orange-blossom and camellia, and on the other resided balsam-pine and Alpine strawberry, and all kinds of growths between.

Living midway that steep slope of land there was a rose, that in common parlance we called "Giant of Battle." It was red and fiery, looking as if it had stood on fields of carnage where the blood dashed to the lip. It was a hero among flowers. Many of the grasses of the field worshiped it as a god, the mignonette burning incense beneath it, the marigold throwing glittering rays of beauty before it, the mistletoe crawling at its feet. The fame of this Giant of Battle was world-wide, and some said that its ancestors on the father's side had stood on the plains of Waterloo, and on its mother's side at Magneta, and drank themselves drunk on human gore. But children are not to blame for what their ancestors do, and this rose, called Giant of Battle, was universally adored.

But the Giant got sick. Whether it was from the poisonous breath of the Nightshade that had insolently kissed him, or from grief at the loss of a Damask-rose that had first won his heart by her blushes, and then died, we know not; but the Giant of Battle was passing rapidly away. There was great excitement up and down the slopes. A consultation of botanical physicians was called, and Doctor Eglantine came and thrust a thorn for a lancet into the Giant's veins, on the principle that he had too much blood and was apoplectic, and Doctor Balm of Gilead attempted to heal the pain by poultices; but still the Giant grew worse and worse. The Primrose called in the evening to see how the dying hero was, and the Morning-glory stopt before breakfast to see if it could do any good. Every flower or grass that called had a prescription for him that would surely cure. Neighbor Horse-sorrel suggested acids, and Honeysuckle proposed sugars, and Myrrh suggested bitters, and Ladies'-slipper, having taken off her shoes, said all the patient wanted was more quiet about the room.

But too much changing of medicine only made the Giant more and more sick, and one afternoon, while sitting up in bed with a cup of honeysuckle to his lips, and with the fan of the south wind fluttering in his face, his head dropt and he died. As the breath went out of him a Clematis that had been overlooking the sad scene, said: "What time is it?" and a cluster of Four-o'clocks answered, "A little past the middle of the afternoon."

The next morning the funeral bells all rang: the Blue-bells and the Canterbury-bells and the Fox-glove-bells and Hare-bells and all the flowerdom came to the obsequies of the Giant of Battle. He was laid out on a trellis, and on a catafalque, such as dead monarchs never had, of dahlia and phlox and magnolia and geranium and gladiola. There was a great audience of flowers. Solemnity came down upon them. Even the Cock's-comb stopt strutting, and Larkspur ceased her fickleness, and Snapdragon looked gentle, and Snowdrop seemed to melt, and Bachelor's-button wished it had some one to express its grief to. The Passion-flower came in and threw herself on the pale cheek of the Giant with most ardent demonstration of affection. Amaranth and Hydrangea and Daffodil and Spiderwort and Spiræa having come far from the night and dew, stood around with their eyes full of tears.

The funeral services began. Rose of Sharon and Lily of the Valley took part in them. The Star of Bethlehem sang a hymn to the tune of Bonny Doon. Forget-me-not said a few words of commemoration. Then Heartsease arose for the work of comfort, and read the lesson of the day: "As a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more." And all the bells, Fox-glove-bells and Blue-bells and Canterbury-bells and Hare-bells, prolonged the strain through all that day, tolling, tolling out, "No more! no more!"

CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON IMMORTALITY

BY JOSEPH ADDISON

It must be so: Plato, thou reasonest well!
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or, whence this secret dread and inward horror
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself and startles at destruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis Heaven itself, that points out an hereafter
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.

OPPORTUNITY

BY JOHN J. INGALLS

Master of human destinies am I
Fame, love and fortune, on my footsteps wait.
Cities and fields I walk, I penetrate
Deserts and seas remote--and passing by
Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late,
I knock unbidden once at every gate--
If sleeping, wake, if feasting, rise, before
I turn away. It is the hour of fate
And they who follow me, reach every state

Mortals desire, and conquer every foe
Save death: but those who doubt or hesitate
Condemned to failure, penury and wo,
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore;
I answer not and I return no more.

OPPORTUNITY'S REPLY

BY WALTER MALONE

They do me wrong who say I come no more,
When once I knock and fail to find you in:
For every day I stand outside your door,
And bid you wake and rise to fight and win.

Wail not for precious changes passed away;
Weep not for golden ages on the wane;
Each night I burn the records of the day;
At sunrise every soul is born again.

Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped;
To vanished joys be blind, and deaf and dumb;
My judgments seat the dead past with its dead,
But never bind a moment yet to come.

THE ERL-KING

BY JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

(_Translated by Sir Walter Scott_)

Oh, who rides by night thro' the woodland so wild?
It is the fond father embracing his child,
And close the boy nestles within his loved arm,
To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm.

"O father, see yonder! see yonder!" he says;
"My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze?"
"Oh, 'tis the Erl-king with his crown and his shroud."
"No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud."

"Oh, come and go with me, thou loveliest child;
By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled;
My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy,
And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy."

"O father, my father, and did you not hear
The Erl-king whisper so low in my ear?"
"Be still, my heart's darling--my child, be at ease;
It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees."

"Oh, wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy?
My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy;
She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and thro' wild,
And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child."

"O father, my father, and saw you not plain,
The Erl-king's pale daughter glide past thro' the rain?"
"Oh, yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon;
It was the gray willow that danced to the moon."

"Oh, come and go with me, no longer delay,
Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away."
"O father! O father! now, now keep your hold,
The Erl-king has seized me--his grasp is so cold!"

Sore trembled the father; he spurr'd thro' the wild,
Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child.
He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread,
But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was dead!

CARCASSONNE

BY M. E. W. SHERWOOD

How old I am! I'm eighty years. I've worked both hard and long,
Yet patient as my life has been, one dearest sight I have not seen,
It almost seems a wrong. A dream I had when life was young.
Alas! our dreams, they come not true.
I thought to see fair Carcassonne,
That lovely city, Carcassonne.

One sees it dimly from the height beyond the mountain blue.
Fain would I walk five weary leagues, I do not mind the road's
fatigues,
Thro' morn and evening's dew.
But bitter frosts would fall at night, and on the grapes that
withered blight,
I could not go to Carcassonne,
I never went to Carcassonne.

They say it is as gay all times as holidays at home.
The gentles ride in gay attire, and in the sun each gilded spire
Shoots up like those at Rome.
The bishop the procession leads, the generals curb their prancing
steeds.
Alas! I saw not Carcassonne.
Alas! I know not Carcassonne.
Our vicar's right. He preaches loud and bids us to beware.
He says, "Oh, guard the weakest part and most the traitor in the
heart
Against ambition's snare."
Perhaps in autumn I can find two sunny days with gentle wind,
I then could go to Carcassonne,
I still could go to Carcassonne.

My God and Father, pardon me, if this my wish offends.
One sees some hope more high than he in age, as in his infancy
To which his heart ascends.
My wife, my son have seen Narbonne, my grandson went to
Perpignan,
But I have not seen Carcassonne,
But I have not seen Carcassonne.

Thus sighed a peasant bent with age, half dreaming in his chair.
I said, "My friend, come, go with me to-morrow; thine eyes shall see
those streets
That seem so fair."
That night there came for passing soul the church-bell's low and
solemn toll.
He never saw gay Carcassonne.
Who has not known a Carcassonne?

THE MUSICIANS

ANONYMOUS

The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure,
And I laughed when the music fell on my ear,
For he and Mirth played a joyful measure,
And they played so loud that I could not hear
The wailing and mourning of souls a-weary,
The strains of sorrow that sighed around;
The notes of my heart sang blithe and cheery,
And I heard no other sound.
Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,
But sometimes a discord was heard by others
Tho only the rhythm was heard by me.
Louder and louder and faster and faster,
The hands of those brothers played strain on strain,
Till, all of a sudden a mighty master
Swept them aside, and Pain,
Pain, the Musician, the soul refiner,
Resting the strings of my quivering heart;
And the air that he played was a plaintive minor,
So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start.
Each note was an echo of awful anguish,
As shrill, as solemn, as sad as slow,
And my soul for a season seemed to languish
And faint with its weight of wo.
With skilful hands that were never weary,
This master of music played strain on strain;
And between the bars of the Miserere
He drew up the strings of my heart again.
And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder
To see that they did not break in two;
They are drawn so tight they will snap asunder
I thought, but instead they grew
In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger,
And I could hear on the stilly air;
Now my ears were deafened by mirth no longer,
The sounds of sorrow, and grief and despair.
And my soul grew tender and kind to others;
My nature grew sweeter and my mind grew broad
And I held all men to be my brothers,
Linked by the chastening rod,
My soul was lifted to God and heaven,
And when on my heart-strings fell again
The hands of Mirth and Pleasure, even,
There was no _discord_ to mar the strain,
For Pain, the Musician, the soul refiner,
Attuned the strings with a master hand,
And whether the music be major or minor,
It is always _sweet_ and grand.

ON THE RAPPAHANNOCK

ANONYMOUS

The sun had set, and in the distant west
The last red streaks had faded; night and rest
Fell on the earth; stilled was the cannon's roar;
And many a soldier slept to wake no more.
'Twas early spring--a calm and lovely night--
The moon had flooded all the earth with light.
On either side the Rappahannock lay
The armies; resting till the break of day
Should call them to renew the fight. So near
Together were the camps that each could hear
The other's sentry call. And now appear
The blazing bivouac fires on every hill,
And save the tramp of pickets all is still.
Between those silent hills in beauty flows
The Rappahannock. How its bosom glows!
How all its sparkling waves reflect the light
And add new glories to the starlit night!
But hark! From Northern hill there steal along
The strains of martial music mixed with song:
"Star Spangled Banner, may'st thou ever wave,
Over the land we shed our blood to save!"
And still they sing those words: "Our cause is just.
We'll triumph in the end; in God we trust;
Star Spangled Banner, wave, forever wave,
Over a land united, free and brave!"
Scarce had this died away when along
The river rose another glorious song:
A thousand lusty throats the chorus sing:
With "Rally Round the Flag," the hilltops ring.
And well they sang. Each heart was filled with joy.
From first in rank to little drummer-boy.
The loud huzzas and wildest cheers were given,
That seemed to cleave the air and reach to heaven.
The Union songs, the loud and heartfelt cheers
Fall in the Southern camp on listening ears.

While talking at their scanty evening meal
They pause and grasp their trusty blades of steel.
Fearless they stand and ready for the fray;
Such sounds can startle them, but not dismay.
Alas! Those strains of music which of yore
Could rouse their hearts are felt by them no more.
When the last echo of the song had died
And all was silent on the Northern side,
There came from Southern hill, with gentle swell,
The air of "Dixe," which was loved so well
By every man that wore the coat of gray,
And is revered and cherished to this day.
"In Dixie's Land" they swore to live and die,
That was their watchword, that their battle-cry.
Then rose on high the wild Confederate yell,
Resounding over every hill and dell.
Cheer after cheer went up that starry night
From men as brave as ever saw the light.
Now all is still. Each side has played its part.
How simple songs will fire a soldier's heart!
But hark! O'er Rappahannock's stream there floats
Another tune; but ah! how sweet the notes.
Not such as lash men's passions into foam,
But--richest gem of song--'tis "Home, Sweet Home!"
Played by the band, it reached the very soul,
And down the veteran's cheeks the tear-drops stole.
On either side the stream, from North and South,
Men who would march up to the cannon's mouth
Wept now like children. Tender hearts and true
Were beating 'neath those coats of gray and blue.
The sentry stopt and rested on his gun,
While back to home his thoughts unhindered run.
He thought of loving wife and children there
Deprived of husband's and of father's care.
And stripling lads, scarce strong enough to bear
The weight of saber or of knapsack, tried
To stop their tears with foolish, boyish pride.
They might as well have sought to stop the tide!

Through both those hostile camps the music stole
And stirred each soldier to his inmost soul.
From North and South, in sympathy, there rose
A shout tremendous; forgetting they were foes,
Both armies joined and shouted with one voice
That seemed to make the very heavens rejoice.

Sweet music's power! One chord doth make us wild.
But change the strain, we weep as little child.
Touch yet another, men charge the battery-gun,
And by those martial strains a victory's won!
But there's one strain that friends and foes will win,
One magic touch that makes the whole world kin:
No heart so cold, but will, tho far it roam,
Respond with tender thrill to "Home, Sweet Home!"

COMO

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

The red-clad fishers row and creep
Below the craigs, as half asleep,
Nor even make a single sound.
The walls are steep,
The waves are deep;
And if the dead man should be found
By these same fishers in their round,
Why, who shall say but he was drowned?

The lake lay bright, as bits of broken moon
Just newly set within the cloven earth;
The ripened fields drew round a golden girth
Far up the steppes, and glittered in the noon.
And when the sun fell down, from leafy shore
Fond lovers stole in pairs to ply the oar.
The stars, as large as lilies, flecked the blue;
From out the Alps the moon came wheeling through
The rocky pass the great Napoleon knew.

A gala night it was--the season's prime;
We rode from castled lake to festal town,
To fair Milan--my friend and I; rode down
By night, where grasses waved in rippled rhyme;
And so what theme but love in such a time?
His proud lip curved the while in silent scorn
At thought of love; and then, as one forlorn,
He sighed, then bared his temples, dashed with gray,
Then mocked, as one outworn and well blasé.

A gorgeous tiger-lily, flaming red,
So full of battle, of the trumpets blare,
Of old-time passion, upreared its head.
I galloped past, I leaned, I clutched it there.
From out the long, strong grass I held it high,
And cried, "Lo! this to-night shall deck her hair
Through all the dance. And mark! the man shall die
Who dares assault, for good or ill design,
The citadel where I shall set this sign."

He spoke no spare word all the after while.
That scornful, cold, contemptuous smile of his!
Why, better men have died for less than this.
Then in the hall the same old hateful smile!
Then marvel not that when she graced the floor,
With all the beauties gathered from the four
Far quarters of the world, and she, my fair,
The fairest, wore within her midnight hair
My tiger-lily--marvel not, I say,
That he glared like some wild beast well at bay!

Oh, she shone fairer than the summer star,
Or curled sweet moon in middle destiny.
More fair than sunrise climbing up the sea,
Where all the loves of Ariadne are.
Who loves, who truly loves, will stand aloof,
The noisy tongue makes most unholy proof
Of shallow waters--all the while afar
From out the dance I stood, and watched my star,
My tiger-lily, borne an oriflamme of war.

A thousand beauties flashed at love's advance,
Like bright white mice at moonlight in their play,
Or sunfish shooting in the shining bay,
The swift feet shot and glittered in the dance.
Oh, have you loved, and truly loved, and seen
Aught else the while than your own stately queen?
Her presence, it was majesty--so tall;
Her proud development encompassed--all.
She filled all space. I sought, I saw but her.
I followed as some fervid worshiper.

Adown the dance she moved with matchless pace.
The world--my world--moved with her. Suddenly
I questioned whom her cavalier might be.
'Twas he! His face was leaning to her face!
I clutched my blade; I sprang; I caught my breath,
And so stood leaning still as death.
And they stood still. She blushed, then reached and tore
The lily as she passed, and down the floor
She strewed its _heart_ like bits of gushing gore.

'Twas he said heads, not hearts, were made to break.
He taught me this that night in splendid scorn.
I learned too well. The dance was done. Ere morn
We mounted--he and I--but no more spake.
And this for woman's love! My lily worn
In her dark hair in pride to be thus torn
And trampled on for this bold stranger's sake!
_Two_ men rode silent back toward the lake.
_Two_ men rode silent down, but only _one_
Rode _up_ at _morn_ to greet the _rising sun_.
The walls are steep,
The waves are deep;
And if the dead man should be found
By red-clad fishers in their round,
Why, who shall say but he was--drowned?

AUX ITALIENS

BY OWEN MEREDITH

At Paris it was, at the Opera there;
And she looked like a queen in a book, that night,
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,
And the brooch on her breast, so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,
The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore;
And Mario can soothe with a tenor note
The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,
"_Non ti scordar di me?_"

The emperor there, in his box of state,
Looked grave, as if he had just then seen
The red flag wave from the city-gate,
Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye.
You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,
For one moment, under the old blue sky,
To the old glad life in Spain.

Well! there in our front-row box we sat
Together, my bride-betrothed and I;
My gaze was fixt on my opera-hat,
And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad.
Like a queen, she leaned on her full white arm,
With that regal, indolent air she had;
So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Of her former lord, good soul that he was!
Who died the richest and roundest of men,
The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,
Through a needle's eye he had not yet to pass;
I wish him well for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love,
As I had not been thinking of aught for years,
Till over my eyes there began to move
Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time,
When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees, together,
In that lost land, in that soft clime,
In the crimson evening weather;

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot),
And her warm, white neck in its golden chain.
And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again;

And the jasmine-flower in her fair, young breast;
Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower,
And the one bird singing alone to his nest,
And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife,
And the letter that brought me back my ring,
And it all seemed then, in the waste of life,
Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill,
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over.
And I thought ... "were she only living still,
How I could forgive her and love her."

And I swear, as I thought thus, in that hour,
And of how, after all, old things were best,
That I smelt the smell of that jasmine-flower,
Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,
It made me creep, and it made me cold!
Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet
When a mummy is half unrolled.

And I turned and looked. She was sitting there
In a dim box, over the stage; and drest
In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,
And that jasmine in her breast!

I was here, and she was there,
And the glittering horseshoe curved between--
From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair,
And her sumptuous, scornful mien.

To my early love, with her eyes downcast,
And over her primrose face the shade
(In short, from the Future back to the Past),
There was but one step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride
One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door,
I traversed the passage; and down at her side
I was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her, or the music's strain,
Or something which never will be exprest,
Had brought her back from the grave again,
With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!
But she loves me now, and she loved me then!
And the very first word that her sweet lips said,
My heart grew youthful again.

The marchioness there, of Carabas,
She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still,
And but for her ... well, we'll let that pass--
She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love,
With her primrose face; for old things are best,
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above
The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin,
And Love must cling where it can, I say;
For Beauty is easy enough to win,
But one isn't loved every day.

And I think, in the lives of most women and men,
There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,
If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven.

But oh, the smell of that jasmine-flower!
And oh, that music! and oh, the way
That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
_Non ti scordar di me, non ti scordar di me!_

INDEX

A

Adams, Charles Fallen, 185

Adeler, Max, 141

A-feared of a Gal, 237

Afternoon, One, 196

Agnes, I Lore Thee!, 81

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 47

Almost Beyond Endurance, 89

Amateur Night, 98

Amsbary, Wallace Bruce, 107

And She Cried, 68

Anstey, F., 210

At Five-o'clock Tea, 143

At the Restaurant, 235

Aux Italiens, 322

B

Bachelor Sews on a Button, How a, 154

Bailey, James M., 57

Baine, William, 282

Banging a Sensational Novelist, 83

Barbara Frietchie, Parody on, 137

Bary Jade, Lides to, 168

Becky Miller, 115

Before and After, 139

Belagcholly Days, 93

Bengaugh, J. W., 110

Beyond Endurance, Almost, 89

Big Mistake, A, 129

Big Words, Don't Use, 163

Billy of Nebraska, 110

Blackstonian Circumlocution, His, 233

Blossom, Henry M., Jr., 152

Book Agent, The Merchant and the, 134

Boss, John C., 247

Bounding the United States, 101

Boy, Dot Leetle, 69

Boy, Papa and the, 208

Bradley, Mary E., 154

Break, Break, Break, 277

Bridegroom's Toast, The, 203

Brooks, Fred Emerson, 40

Burbank, 261

Burdette, Robert J., 199

Burton, Richard, 267

Byron, 269

C

Candidate, The, 193

Carcassonne, 314

Card, The C'rrect, 300

Cards, Life Compared to a Game of, 289

Carlotta Mia, 228

Casey at the Bat, 147

Casuistry, Cupid's, 39

Cato's Soliloquy on Immortality, 311

Chance, They Met by, 203

"Charlie Must Not Ring To-night", 169

Checkers, A Friendly Game of, 150

Christopher Columbus, 155

Circumlocution, His Blackstonian, 233

Coles, Cynthia, 146

Como, 319

Content, I Am, 274

Coon's Lullaby, The, 136

Corydon, 47

Counting Eggs, 86

Counting One Hundred, 57

Crooked Mouth Family, The, 122

C'rrect Card, The, 300

Cupid's Casuistry, 39

Curfew, The Elocutionist's, 24

Cyclopeedy, The, 239

D

Daly, T. A., 114, 228

Dandy Fifth, The, 293

Da 'Mericana Girl, 114

D'Arcy, H. Antoine, 306

Davis, Daniel Webster, 49

Dead Kitten, The, 33

Desprez, F., 284

Dialectic Sketch, A Lancashire, 232

Dickens, Charles, 216

Difficulty of Riming, The, 179

Doctor Marigold, 216

Dog und der Lobster, Der, 102

Don't Use Big Words, 163

Dot lambs Vot Mary Haf Got, 112

Dot Leedle Boy, 69

Double, and How He Undid Me, My, 171

Drummond, W. H., 271

Dunbar, Paul Laurence, 35, 153

Dundreary's Letter, Lord, 131

Dunne, Finlay Peter, 73

Dutchman's Serenade, The, 220

E

Eagle's Song, The, 275

Earl King, The, 313

Echo, 244

Edwards, H. S., 44

Ehrmann, Max, 98

Eggs, Counting, 86

Elocutionist's Curfew, The, 24

Enchanted Shirt, The, 183

Endurance, Almost Beyond, 89

Engineer's Story, The, 303

Eve of Waterloo, The, 269

F

Face Upon the Floor, The, 306

Faith, The Ship of, 187

Fairies' Tea, The, 85

Familiar Lines, 149

Fan, A Lesson with the, 50

Feller, A little, 126

Father's Way, 272

Field, Eugene, 239, 272

Fiend, The Weather, 34

Fifteen Minutes, Her, 28

Finnigan to Flannigan, 175

Fiske, John, 101

Five-o'clock Tea, At, 143

Flannigan, Finnigan to, 175

Flowers, The Funeral of the, 309

Foss, S. W., 213, 287

Fly, The, 156

Foolin', Quit Your, 250

Fool's Prayer, The, 268

Foxes' Tails, The, 29

Freckled-face Girl, The, 96

Funeral of the Flowers, The, 309

G

Gal, A-feared of a, 237

Gassaway, F. H., 293

Georga Washingdone, 113

Gib Him One ub Mine, 49

Gilbert, W. S., 157

Gillinan, S. W., 175

Girl, The Freckled-face, 96

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 313

Gorilla, The, 82

Grape-seed, 190

Grilley, Charles T., 39, 139

Greek Meets Greek, When, 140

H

Hale, Edward Everett, 171

Hammock, Romance of a, 173

Harbour, J. L., 208

Harp of a Thousand Strings, The, 177

Hat in the Pit, The Obstructive, 210

Hatton, Henry, 104

Hay, John, 183

He Laughed Last, 103

Heaton, John L., 160

Henry the Fifth's Wooing, 254

Hens, Lavery's, 201

He Wanted to Know, 188

Her Fifteen Minutes, 28

His Blackstonian Circumlocution, 233

His Leg Shot Off, 224

Hood, Thomas, 78

Hopkins' Last Moments, 84

How a Bachelor Sews on a Button, 154

Hullo, 213

Huntley, Stanley, 204

I

I Am Content, 274

Idyl on "Grass," A Spring, 52

Idyl, A Twilight, 199

If I Can Be By Her, 65

If We Had the Time, 267

I Knew He Would Come if I Waited, 76

"Imph-M", 124

Ingalls, John J., 312

Introducin' the Speecher, 54

Introduction, An, 177

Irish Philosopher, The, 91

Irving, Minna, 68

Irwin, Wallace, 229

Italiens, Aux, 322

I Tol' Yer So, 160

J

Joke, Leaving Out the, 238

Julie Plante, The Wreck of the, 271

K

Khan, The, 225

Katie's Answer, 79

Katrina Likes Me Poody Vell, 234

Keep A'goin'!, 145

Kerr, Joe, 161

King, Byron W., 42

King, Benjamin Franklin, 65

Kiser, S. E., 95

Kitten, The Dead, 33

Kleiser, Grenville, 60

L

Lamb, The Original, 95

Lambs Vot Mary Haf Got, Dot, 112

Lampton, W. J., 39

Lancashire Dialectic Sketch, A, 232

Lariat Bill, 192

Lasca, 284

Last Moments, Hopkins', 84

Laughed Last, He, 103

Laughton, James L., 251

Lavery's Hens, 201

Leacock, Stephen, 25

Leaving Out the Joke, 238

Leg Shot Off, His, 224

Lesson with the Fan, A, 50

Letter, Lord Dundreary's, 131

Lever, Charles, 222

Life Compared to a Game of Cards, 289

Lides to Bary Jade, 168

Lincoln, On, 296

Lisp, 202

Little Stowaway, The, 296

Loomis, Charles Battell, 167

Lord Dundreary's Letter, 131

Lover's Quarrel, A, 146

Love's Moods and Senses, 77

"L," Song of the, 60

Lullaby, 153

Lullaby, The Coon's, 136

M

Macaulay, 277

MacDonald, George, 118

Malone, Walter, 312

Malone, Widow, 222

Mammy's Li'l Boy, 44

Man Who Will Make a Speech, The, 227

Mansfield, Richard, 275

Marketing, 52

Married Life, Ups and Downs of, 121

Mason, She Would be a, 251

Masson, Tom, 28

Mayor, Pat and the, 116

McCarthy and McManus, 66

Melpomenus Jones, 25

Merchant and the Book Agent, The, 134

Meredith, Owen, 322

'Mericana Girl, Da, 114

Miller, Joaquin, 319

Mistake, A Big, 129

Mr. Dooley on the Grip, 73

Mr. Potts' Story, 141

Modern Romance, 152

Morgan, Carrie Blake, 51

Morris, Joshua S., 177

Mule Stood on der Steamboat Deck, Der, 164

Mumbles Head, The Women of, 279

Musicians, The, 315

My Double, and How He Undid Me, 171

N

"Nancy Bell," The Yarn of the, 157

Nesbit, W. D., 24

New School Reader, The, 165

Nocturnal Sketch, A, 78

Norah Murphy and the Spirits, 104

Nothing Suited Him, 126

Not In It, 198

Nye, Bill, 193

O

Oak und der Vine, Der, 185

Oatmobile, The, 87

Obstructive Hat in the Pit, The, 210

Old Daddy Turner, 290

One Afternoon, 196

On Lincoln, 296

On the Rappahannock, 317

Opie Read, 107

Opportunity, 312

Opportunity, An, 190

Opportunity's Reply, 312

Oracle, The Village, 62

Organist, The Volunteer, 287

Original Lamb, The, 95

Our Railroads, 245

P

Papa and the Boy, 208

Parody on Barbara Frietchie, 137

Passion, The Ruling, 219

Pat and the Mayor, 116

Pat's Reason, 249

Philosopher, The Irish, 91

Phrases, Slang, 133

Poor Was Mad, The, 167

Prayer, The Fool's, 268

Presentation of the Trumpet, 162

Proof Positive, 90

Q

Quarrel, A Lover's, 146

Quarreled, They Never, 58

Quit Your Foolin', 250

R

Race Question, The, 35

Railroads, Our, 245

Rainy Day Episode, A, 75

Rappahannock, On the, 317

Reader, The New School, 165

Reason, Pat's, 249

Reason Why, The, 154

Rehearsing for Private Theatricals, 204

Reply, Opportunity's, 312

Restaurant, At the, 235

Riley, James Whitcomb, 23, 69, 89

Riming, The Difficulty of, 179

Ring To-night, Charlie Must Not, 169

"Rip Van Winkle," Scenes from, 261

Rivals, Scenes from the, 258

Robin Tamson's Smiddy, 127

Roche, James Jeffrey, 206

Rodger, Alexander, 127

Romance, Modern, 152

Romance of a Hammock, 173

Ruling Passion, The, 219

S

Saint Crispian's Day, 299

Saxe, John G., 244

Scott, Clement, 279

Sensational Novelist, Banging a, 83

Serenade, The Dutchman's, 220

Sermon, A Short, 231

Shakespeare, 254, 299

She Would Be a Mason, 251

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 258

Sherwood, M. E. W., 314

Ship of Faith, The, 187

Shirt, The Enchanted, 183

Short Encore, A, 170

Short Sermon, A, 231

Sill, Edward Rowland, 268

Sims, George R., 300

Siviter, William H., 219

Slang Phrases, 133

Smiddy, Robin Tamson's, 127

Smiley, Joseph Bert, 181

Song, The Eagle's, 275

Song of the "L.", 60

So Was I, 181

"'Späcially Jim", 80

Speecher, Introducin' the, 54

Speech, The Man Who Will Make a, 227

Spirits, Norah Murphy and the, 104

Spring Idyl on "Grass," A, 52

Stanton, Frank L., 145

Story, The Engineer's, 303

Stowaway, The Little, 296

Stuttering Umpire, The, 225

Sylva, Carmen, 274

T

Talmadge, T. De Witt, 309

Telephone, The Dutchman's, 214

Tell and His Boy, William, 282

Tennyson, Alfred, 277

Thayer, Phineas, 147

Theatricals, Rehearsing for Private, 204

They Never Quarreled, 58

Thorpe, Rosa H., 303

Time, If We Had the, 267

Toast, The Bridegroom's, 203