Chapter XVIII: Part II: Readings and Recitations From the Most Celebrated Authors (4)

“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 smile was freely given;
And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven.

“Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you’d give,
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live,
With eyes that would beat the Kohinoor 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 surprise,
Said that she’d like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

“It didn’t take long to know him, and before the month had flown;
My friend had stole 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 teardrop in your eye,
Come, laugh like me, ’tis only babes and women that should cry.

“Say, boys, if you’ll give me another whiskey, I’ll be glad,
And I’ll draw right here, the picture of the face that drove me mad;
Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the base-ball score—
And you shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar-room 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 lock upon the shapely head,
With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture—_dead_.

H. ANTOINE D’ARCY.

THE ENGINEER’S STORY.

Han’som, stranger? Yes, she’s purty an’ ez peart ez she can be.
Clever? Wy! she ain’t no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me.
What’s her name? ’Tis kind o’ common, yit I ain’t ashamed to tell,
She’s ole “Fiddler” Filkin’s daughter, an’ her dad he calls her “Nell.”

I wuz drivin’ on the “Central” jist about a year ago
On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe.
There’s no end o’ skeery places. ’Taint a road fur one who dreams,
With its curves an’ awful tres’les over rocks an’ mountain streams.

’Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hour
An’ wuz tearin’ up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower,
Round the bends an’ by the hedges ’bout ez fast ez we could go,
With the mountain-peaks above us an’ the river down below.

Ez we come nigh to a tres’le ’cros’t a holler, deep an’ wild,
Suddenly I saw a baby, ’twuz the stationkeeper’s child,
Toddlin’ right along the timbers with a bold and fearless tread
Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead.

I jist jumped an’ grabbed the throttle an’ I fa’rly held my breath,
Fur I felt I couldn’t stop her till the child wuz crushed to death,
When a woman sprang afore me like a sudden streak o’ light,
Caught the boy and twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight.

I jist whis’l’d all the brakes on. An’ we worked with might an’ main
Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn’t stop the train,
An’ it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by
An’ the river roared below us—I shall hear her till I die!

Then we stop’t; the sun was shinin’; I ran back along the ridge
An’ I found her—dead? No! livin’! She wuz hangin’ to the bridge
Wher she drop’t down thro’ the cross-ties with one arm about a sill
An’ the other round the baby, who wuz yellin’ fur to kill!

So we saved ’em. She wuz gritty. She’s ez peart ez she kin be—
Now we’re married; she’s no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me,
An’ ef eny ask who owns her, wy! I ain’t ashamed to tell—
She’s my wife. Ther’ ain’t none better than ole Filkin’s daughter “Nell.”

EUGENE J. HALL.

JIM.

He was jes’ a plain, ever’-day, all-round kind of a jour.,
Consumpted lookin’—but la!
The jokeyest, wittyest, story-tellin’, song-singin’, laughin’est,
jolliest
Feller you ever saw!
Worked at jes’ coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his
talk,
And his feelin’s, too!
Lordy! ef he was on’y back on his bench again to-day, a carryin’ on
Like he ust to do!

Any shop-mate’ll tell you they never was on top o’dirt
A better feller’n Jim!
You want a favor, and couldn’t git it anywheres else—
You could git it o’ him!
Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess!
Give ever’ nickel he’s worth—
And, ef you’d a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his,
He’d a-give you the earth!

Allus a-reachin’ out, Jim was and a-helpin’ some
Poor feller onto his feet—
He’d a-never a-keered how hungry he was his se’f.
So’s the feller got somepin to eat!
Didn’t make no difference at all to him how he was dressed,
He used to say to me:
“You tog out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time,
And he’ll git along!” says he.

Jim didn’t have, nor never could git ahead, so overly much
O’ this world’s goods at a time—
’Fore now I’ve saw him, more’n onc’t lend a dollar and ha’f to
Turn ’round and borry a dime!
Mebby laugh and joke about hisse’f fer awhile—then jerk his coat,
And kind o’ square his chin,
Tie his apern, and squat hisse’f on his old shoe bench
And go peggin’ agin.

Patientest feller, too, I reckon, at every jes’ naturally
Coughed hisse’f to death!
Long enough after his voice was lost he’d laugh and say,
He could git ever’thing but his breath—
“You fellers,” he’d sort o’ twinkle his eyes and say,
“Is pilin’ onto me
A mighty big debt for that air little weak-chested ghost o’ mine to pack
Through all eternity!”

Now there was a man ’at jes’ ’peared like to me,
’At ortn’t a-never died!
“But death hain’t a-showin’ no favors,” the old boss said,
“On’y to Jim,” and cried:
And Wigger, ’at put up the best sewed work in the shop,
Er the whole blamed neighborhood,
He says, “When God made Jim, I bet you He didn’t do anything else
that day,
But jes’ set around and feel good.”

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

QUEEN VASHTI’S LAMENT.

Is this all the love that he bore me, my husband, to publish my face
To the nobles of Media and Persia, whose hearts are besotted and base?
Did he think me a slave, me, Vashti, the Beautiful, me, Queen of queens,
To summon me thus for a show to the midst of his bacchanal scenes?

I stand like an image of brass, I, Vashti, in sight of such men!
No, sooner, a thousand times sooner, the mouth of the lioness’ den,
When she’s fiercest with hunger and love for the hungry young lions that
tear
Her teats with sharp, innocent teeth, I would enter, far rather than
here!

Did he love me, or is he, too, though the King, but a brute like the
rest!
I have seen him in wine, and I fancied ’twas then that he loved me the
best;
Though I think I would rather have one sweet, passionate word from the
heart
Than a year of caresses that may with the wine that creates them depart.

But ever before, in his wine, toward me he showed honor and grace;
He was King, I was Queen, and those nobles, he made them remember their
place.
But now all is changed; I am vile, they are honored, they push me aside,
A butt for Memucan and Shethar and Meres, gone mad in their pride!

Shall I faint, shall I pine, shall I sicken and die for the loss of his
love?
Not I; I am queen of myself, though the stars fall from heaven above.
The stars! ha! the torment is there, for my light is put out by a star,
That has dazzled the eyes of the King and his court and his captains
of war.

He was lonely, they say, and he looked, as he sat like a ghost at his
wine,
On the couch by his side, where, of yore his Beautiful used to recline.
But the King is a slave to his pride, to his oath and the laws of the
Medes,
And he cannot call Vashti again though his poor heart is wounded and
bleeds.

So they sought through the land for a wife, while the King thought of
me all the while—
I can see him, this moment, with eyes that are lost for the loss of
a smile,
Gazing dreamily on while each maiden is temptingly passed in review,
While the love in his heart is awake with the thought of a face that
he knew!

Then she came when his heart was grown weary with loving the dream of
the past!
She is fair—I could curse her for that, if I thought that this passion
would last!
But e’en if it last, all the love is for me, and, through good and
through ill,
The King shall remember his Vashti, shall think of his Beautiful still.

Oh! the day is a weary burden, the night is a restless strife,—
I am sick to the very heart of my soul, with this life—this death
in life!
Oh! that the glorious, changeless sun would draw me up in his might,
And quench my dreariness in the flood of his everlasting light!

What is it? Oft as I lie awake and my pillow is wet with tears,
There comes—it came to me just now—a flash, then disappears;
A flash of thought that makes this life a re-enacted scene,
That makes me dream what was, will be, and what is now, has been.

And I, when age on age has rolled, shall sit on the royal throne,
And the King shall love his Vashti, his Beautiful, his own,
And for the joy of what has been and what again will be,
I’ll try to bear this awful weight of lonely misery!

The star! Queen Esther! blazing light that burns into my soul!
The star! the star! Oh! flickering light of life beyond control!
O King! remember Vashti, thy Beautiful, thy own,
Who loved thee and shall love thee still, when Esther’s light has flown!

JOHN READE.

THE SKELETON’S STORY.

It will require all the dramatic power of which you are capable to recite this selection and do it full justice. Be wide-awake, quick in tone and gesture, shouting at one time, whispering at another, speaking with your whole body. The emotions of fear and horror are especially prominent.

It is two miles ahead to the foot-hills—two miles of parched turf
and rocky space. To the right—the left—behind, is the rolling
prairie. This broad valley strikes the Sierra Nevadas and stops
as if a wall had been built across it.

Ride closer! What is this on the grass? A skull here—a rib
there—bones scattered about as the wild beasts left them after
the horrible feast. The clean-picked skull grins and stares—every
bone and scattered lock of hair has its story of a tragedy. And
what besides these relics? More bones—not scattered, but lying in
heaps—a vertebra with ribs attached—a fleshless skull bleaching
under the summer sun. Wolves! Yes. Count the heaps of bones and
you will find nearly a score. Open boats are picked up at sea
with neither life nor sign to betray their secret. Skeletons are
found upon the prairie, but they tell a plain story to those who
halt beside them. Let us listen:

Away off to the right you can see treetops. Away off to the left
you can see the same sight. The skeleton is in line between the
two points. He left one grove to ride to the other. To ride!
Certainly; a mile away is the skeleton of a horse or mule. The
beast fell and was left there.

It is months since that ride, and the trail has been obliterated.
Were it otherwise, and you took it up from the spot where the
skeleton horse now lies, you would find the last three or four
miles made at a tremendous pace.

“Step! step! step!”

What is it? Darkness has gathered over mountain and prairie
as the hunter jogs along over the broken ground. Overhead the
countless stars look down upon him—around him is the pall of
night. There was a patter of footsteps on the dry grass. He halts
and peers around him, but the darkness is too deep for him to
discover any cause for alarm.

“Patter! patter! patter!”

There it is again! It is not fifty yards from where he last
halted. The steps are too light for those of an Indian.

“Wolves!” whispers the hunter, as a howl suddenly breaks upon his
ear.

Wolves! The gaunt, grizzly wolves of the foot-hills—thin and poor
and hungry and savage—the legs tireless—the mouth full of teeth
which can crack the shoulder-bone of a buffalo. He can see their
dark forms flitting from point to point—the patter of their feet
upon the parched grass proves that he is surrounded.

Now the race begins. A line of wolves spread out to the right and
left, and gallops after—tongues out—eyes flashing—great flakes of
foam flying back to blotch stone and grass and leave a trail to
be followed by the cowardly coyotes.

Men ride thus only when life is the stake. A horse puts forth
such speed only when terror follows close behind and causes every
nerve to tighten like a wire drawn until the scratch of a finger
makes it chord with a wail of despair. The line is there—aye! it
is gaining! Inch by inch it creeps up, and the red eye takes on a
more savage gleam as the hunter cries out to his horse and opens
fire from his revolvers. A wolf falls on the right—a second on
the left. Does the wind cease blowing because it meets a forest!
The fall of one man in a mad mob increases the determination of
the rest.

With a cry so full of the despair that wells up from the heart of
the strong man when he gives up his struggle for life that the
hunter almost believes a companion rides beside him, the horse
staggers—recovers—plunges forward—falls to the earth. It was a
glorious struggle; but he has lost.

There is a confused heap of snarling, fighting, maddened beasts,
and the line rushes forward again. Saddle, bridle, and blanket
are in shreds—the horse a skeleton. And now the chase is after
the hunter. He has half a mile the start, and as he runs the
veins stand out, the muscles tighten, and he wonders at his own
speed. Behind him are the gaunt bodies and the tireless legs.
Closer, closer, and now he is going to face fate like a brave man
should. He has halted. In an instant a circle is formed about
him—a circle of red eyes, foaming mouths, and yellow fangs which
are to meet in his flesh.

There is an interval—a breathing spell. He looks up at the
stars—out upon the night. It is his last hour, but there is no
quaking—no crying out to the night to send him aid. As the wolves
rest, a flash blinds their eyes—a second—a third—and a fourth,
and they give before the man they had looked upon as their
certain prey. But it is only for a moment. He sees them gathering
for the rush, and firing his remaining bullets among them he
seizes his long rifle by the barrel and braces to meet the shock.
Even a savage would have admired the heroic fight he made for
life. He sounds the war-cry and whirls his weapon around him, and
wolf after wolf falls disabled. He feels a strange exultation
over the desperate combat, and as the pack give way before his
mighty blows a gleam of hope springs up in his heart.

It is only for a moment; then the circle narrows. Each disabled
beast is replaced by three which hunger for blood. There is a
rush—a swirl—and the cry of despair is drowned in the chorus of
snarls as the pack fight over the feast.

The gray of morning—the sunlight of noonday—the stars of evening
will look down upon grinning skull and whitening bones, and the
wolf will return to crunch them again. Men will not bury them.
They will look down upon them as we look, and ride away with
a feeling that ’tis but another dark secret of the wonderful
prairie.

THE LADY AND THE EARL.

The figures in the text of this piece indicate the gestures to be made, as shown in Typical Gestures, at the beginning of Part II. of this volume.

I saw her in the festive halls, in scenes of pride and[16] glee,
’Mongst many beautiful and fair, but none so fair as she;
Hers was the most attractive[2] form that mingled in the scene,
And all who saw her said she moved a goddess and a queen.

The diamond blazed in her dark hair and bound her polished brow,
And precious gems were clasped around her swan-like neck of snow;
And Indian looms had lent their stores to form her sumptuous dress,
And art with nature joined to grace her passing loveliness.

I looked upon her and I said, who[6] is so blessed as she?
A creature she all light and life, all beauty and all glee;
Sure,[5] sweet content blooms on her cheek and on her brow a pearl,
And she was[1] young and innocent, the Lady of the Earl.

But as I looked more carefully, I saw that radiant smile
Was but assumed in mockery, the unthinking to beguile.
Thus have I seen a summer rose in all its beauty bloom,
When it has[24] shed its sweetness o’er a cold and lonely tomb.

She struck the harp, and when they praised her skill she turned aside,
A rebel tear of conscious woe[20] and memory to hide;
But when she raised her head she looked so[13] lovely, so serene,
To gaze in her proud eyes you’d think a tear had seldom been.

The humblest maid in rural life can[5] boast a happier fate
Than she, the beautiful and good, in all her rank and state;
For she was sacrificed,[20] alas! to cold and selfish pride
When her young lips had breathed the vow to be a soldier’s bride.

Of late I viewed her move along,[2] the idol of the crowd;
A few short months elapsed, and then,[12] I kissed her in her shroud!
And o’er her splendid monument I saw the hatchment wave,
But there was one proud heart[5] which did more honor to her grave.

A warrior dropped his plumed head upon her place of rest,
And with his feverish lips the name of Ephilinda pressed;
Then breathed a prayer, and checked the groan of parting pain,
And as he left the tomb he said,[11] “Yet we shall meet again.”

MY VESPER SONG.

Filled with weariness and pain,
Scarcely strong enough to pray,
In this twilight hour I sit,
Sit and sing my doubts away.
O’er my broken purposes,
Ere the coming shadows roll,
Let me build a bridge of song:
“Jesus, lover of my soul.”

“Let me to Thy bosom fly!”
How the words my thoughts repeat:
To Thy bosom, Lord, I come,
Though unfit to kiss Thy feet.
Once I gathered sheaves for Thee,
Dreaming I could hold them fast:
Now I can but faintly sing,
“Oh! receive my soul at last.”

I am weary of my fears,
Like a child when night comes on:
In the shadow, Lord, I sing,
“Leave, oh, leave me not alone.”
Through the tears I still must shed,
Through the evil yet to be,
Though I falter while I sing,
“Still support and comfort me.”

“All my trust on Thee is stayed;”
Does the rhythm of the song
Softly falling on my heart,
Make its pulses firm and strong?
Or is this Thy perfect peace,
Now descending while I sing,
That my soul may sleep to-night
“’Neath the shadow of Thy wing?

“Thou of life the fountain art;”
If I slumber on Thy breast,
If I sing myself to sleep,
Sleep and death alike are rest.
Not impatiently I sing,
Though I lift my hands and cry
“Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly.”

THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST.

With distinct enunciation give the dialect in this piece, and assume the character of a countryman who is telling this story. Guard against being vulgar or too commonplace.

The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an’ of silk,
An’ satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol’ brindle’s milk;
Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys, an’ stove-pipe hats were
there,
An’ dudes ’ith trouserloons so tight they couldn’t kneel down in prayer.

The elder in his poolpit high said, as he slowly riz:
“Our organist is kep’ to hum, laid up ’ith roomatiz,
An’ as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore ain’t here,
Will some ’un in the congregation be so kind ’s to volunteer?”

An’ then a red-nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style,
Give an interductory hiccup, an’ then swaggered up the aisle.
Then thro’ that holy atmosphere there crep’ a sense er sin,
An’ thro’ thet air of sanctity the odor uv ol’ gin.

Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge:
“This man perfanes the house er God! W’y, this is sacrilege!”
The tramp didn’ hear a word he said, but slouched ’ith stumblin’ feet,
An’ stalked an’ swaggered up the steps, an’ gained the organ seat.

He then went pawin’ thro’ the keys, an’ soon there rose a strain
Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an’ ’lectrify the brain;
An’ then he slapped down on the thing ’ith hands an’ head an’ knees,
He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys.

The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin’ high an’ dry,
It swelled into the rafters, an’ bulged out into the sky;
The ol’ church shook and staggered, an’ seemed to reel an’ sway,
An’ the elder shouted “Glory!” an’ I yelled out “Hooray!”

An’ then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears,
Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched ’em down ’ith tears;
An’ we dreamed uv ol’ time kitchens, ’ith Tabby on the mat,
Tu home an’ luv an’ baby days, an’ mother, an’ all that!

An’ then he struck a streak uv hope—a song from souls forgiven—
Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an’ stormed the gates uv heaven;
The morning stars together sung—no soul wuz left alone—
We felt the universe wuz safe, an’ God was on His throne!

An’ then a wail of deep despair an’ darkness come again,
An’ long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men;
No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight,
An’ then—the tramp, he swaggered down an’ reeled out into the night!

But we knew he’d tol’ his story, tho’ he never spoke a word,
An’ it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard;
He hed tol’ his own life history, an’ no eye was dry thet day,
W’en the elder rose an’ simply said: “My brethren, let us pray.”

S. W. FOSS.

COMIN’ THRO’ THE RYE.

If a body meet a body
Comin’ thro’ the rye,
If a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?
Ev’ry lassie has her laddie,
Nane they say ha’e I,
Yet all the lads they smile at me
When comin’ thro’ the rye.

If a body meet a body,
Comin’ frae the town;
If a body meet a body,
Need a body frown?
Ev’ry lassie has her laddie,
Nane they say ha’e I,
Yet all the lads they smile at me
When comin’ thro’ the rye.

Amang the train there is a swain,
I dearly love mysel’,
But what’s his name, or where’s his hame
I dinna choose to tell.
Ev’ry lassie has her laddie,
Nane they say ha’e I,
Yet all the lads they smile at me
When comin’ thro’ the rye.

ROBERT BURNS.

JOAN OF ARC.

Twas in the days of chivalry, when steel-clad warriors swore
To bear their ladies’ favors amidst the battle’s roar,
To right the wrongs of injured maids, the lance in rest to lay,
And nobly fall in honor’s cause or triumph in the fray.
But not to-day a lance is couched, no waving plume is there,
No war-horse sniffs the trumpet’s breath, no banner woos the air;
No crowding chiefs the tilt-yard throng to quench the thirst of fame,
Though chiefs are met, intent to leave their names eternal shame!

A still and solemn silence reigned, deep darkness veiled the skies,
And Nature, shuddering, shook to see the impious sacrifice!
Full in the centre of the lists a dreadful pile is reared,
Awaiting one whose noble soul death’s terrors never feared,
Gaul’s young Minerva, who had led her countrymen to fame,
And foremost in the battle rent that conquered country’s chain;
Who, when the sun of fame had set that on its armies shone,
Its broken ranks in order set, inspired and led them on;
The low-born maid that, clad in steel, restored a fallen king,
Who taught the vanquished o’er their foes triumphal songs to sing;
Whose banner in the battle’s front the badge of conquest streamed,
And built again a tottering throne, a forfeit crown redeemed!

But when her glorious deeds were done, Fate sent a darker day,
The blaze of brightness faded in murkiest clouds away;
And France stood looking idly on, nor dared to strike a blow,
Her guardian angel’s life to save, but gave it to the foe!
Ungrateful France her saviour’s fate beheld with careless smile,
While Superstition, hiding hate and vengeance, fired the pile!

What holy horror of her crime is looked by yonder priest,
Like that grim bird that hovers nigh, and scents the funeral feast!
Is this the maiden’s triumph, won in battle’s dreadful scenes,
Whose banner so triumphant flew before thy walls, Orleans!

Hark to the trumpet’s solemn sound! Low roll the muffled drums
As slowly through the silent throng the sad procession comes;
Wrapp’d in the garments of the grave, the corselet laid aside,
Still with Bellona’s step she treads, through all her woes descried.

As beautiful her features now as when inspired she spoke
Those oracles that slumbering France to life and action woke:
The majesty yet haunts her looks, that late so dreadful beamed
In war, when o’er her burnished arms the long rich tresses streamed,
She gazes on the ghastly pile, tho’ pale as marble stone;
’Twas not with fear, for from her lips escaped no sigh nor groan;
But she, her country’s saviour, thus to render up her breath—
That was a pang far worse than all the bitterness of death!

’Twas done; the blazing pile is fired, the flames have wrapped her round;
The owlet shrieked, and circling flew with dull, foreboding sound;
Fate shuddered at the ghastly sight, and smiled a ghostly smile;
And fame and honor spread their wings above the funeral pile.
But, phœnix-like, her spirit rose from out the burning flame,
More beautiful and bright by far than in her days of fame.
Peace to her spirit! Let us give her memory to renown,
Nor on her faults or failings dwell, but draw the curtain down.

CLARE S. MCKINLEY.

THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS.

This selection is narrative, yet it is narrative intensely dramatic. Imagine the feelings of a parent who sees the “youngest of his babes” torn away from his embrace by a vulture and carried away in mid-air. Let your tones, attitudes and gestures all be strong. Picture the flight of a mountain eagle with uplifted arm, and depict with an expression of agony the grief of the parent.

I’ve been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales,
And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales,
As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o’er,
They spake of those who disappeared, and ne’er were heard of more.

And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear,
A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear:
The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous.
But, wiping all those tears away he told his story thus:—

“It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells,
Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells;
But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock,
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.

“One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,
When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry,
As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain,
A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne’er may hear again.

“I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright,
The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight
I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care,
But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air.

“Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father’s eye!
His infant made a vulture’s prey, with terror to descry!
And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave,
That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save!

“My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me,
And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free,
At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed:
Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.

“The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew,
A mote upon the sun’s broad face he seemed unto my view:
But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight;
’Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.

“All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne’er forgot,
When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot,
From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached,
He saw an infant’s fleshless bones the elements had bleached!

“I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away;
I knew they were my infant’s bones thus hastening to decay;
A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred,
The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head.”

That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers passing by,
Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh.
And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way,
The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.

THE OLD-FASHIONED GIRL.

There’s an old-fashioned girl in an old-fashioned street,
Dressed in old-fashioned clothes from her head to her feet,
And she spends all her time in the old-fashioned way,
Of caring for poor people’s children all day.

She never has been to cotillion or ball,
And she knows not the styles of the spring or the fall.
Two hundred a year will suffice for her needs,
And an old-fashioned Bible is all that she reads.

And she has an old-fashioned heart that is true
To a fellow who died in an old coat of blue,
With its buttons all brass—who is waiting above
For the woman who loved him with old-fashioned love.

TOM HALL.

NATHAN HALE, THE MARTYR SPY.

After the disastrous defeat of the Americans on Long Island, Washington desired information respecting the British position and movements. Captain Nathan Hale, but twenty-one years old, volunteered to procure the information. He was taken and hanged as a spy the day after his capture, September 22, 1776. His patriotic devotion, and the brutal treatment he received at the hands of his captors, have suggested the following. Put your whole soul into this piece, especially Hale’s last speech. It rises to the sublime.

’Twas in the year that gave the nation birth;
A time when men esteemed the common good
As greater weal than private gain. A battle fierce
And obstinate had laid a thousand patriots low,
And filled the people’s hearts with gloom.

Pursued like hunted deer,
The crippled army fled; and, yet, amid
Disaster and defeat, the Nation’s chosen chief
Resolved his losses to retrieve. But not
With armies disciplined and trained by years
Of martial service, could he, this Fabian chief,
Now hope to check the hosts of Howe’s victorious legions—
These had he not.

In stratagem the shrewder general
Ofttimes o’ercomes his strong antagonist.
To Washington a knowledge of the plans,
Position, strength of England’s force,
Must compensate for lack of numbers.

He casts about for one who’d take his life
In hand. Lo! he stands before the chief. In face,
A boy—in form, a man on whom the eye could rest
In search of God’s perfected handiwork.
In culture, grace and speech, reflecting all
A mother’s love could lavish on an only son.

The chieftain’s keen discerning eye
Appraised the youth at his full worth, and saw
In him those blending qualities that make
The hero and the sage. He fain would save
For nobler deeds a man whose presence marked
A spirit born to lead.

“Young man,” he said with kindly air,
“Your country and commander feel grateful that
Such talents are offered in this darkening hour.
Have you in reaching this resolve considered well
Your fitness, courage, strength—the act, the risk,
You undertake?”
The young man said: “The hour demands a duty rare—
Perhaps a sacrifice. If God and training in
The schools have given me capacities
This duty to perform, the danger of the enterprise
Should not deter me from the act
Whose issue makes our country free. In times
Like these a Nation’s life sometimes upon
A single life depends. If mine be deemed
A fitting sacrifice, God grant a quick
Deliverance”

“Enough, go then, at once,” the great
Commander said. “May Heaven’s guardian angels give
You safe return. Adieu.”

Disguised with care, the hopeful captain crossed
The bay, and moved through British camp
Without discovery by troops or refugees.
The enemy’s full strength, in men, in stores,
Munitions, guns—all military accoutrements
Were noted with exact precision; while
With graphic sketch, each trench and parapet,
Casemated battery, magazine and every point
Strategic, was drawn with artist’s skill.

The task complete, the spy with heart
Elate, now sought an exit through the lines.
Well might he feel a soldier’s pride. An hour hence
A waiting steed would bear him to his friends.
His plans he’d lay before his honored chief;
His single hand might turn the tide of war,
His country yet be free.

“Halt!” a British musket leveled at
His head dimmed all the visions of his soul.
A dash—an aimless shot; the spy bore down
Upon the picket with a blow that else
Had freed him from his clutch, but for a score
Of troopers stationed near. In vain the struggle fierce
And desperate—in vain demands to be released.
A tory relative, for safety quartered in
The British camp, would prove his truckling loyalty
With kinsman’s blood, a word—a look—
A motion of the head, and he who’d dared
So much in freedom’s name was free no more.

Before Lord Howe the captive youth
Was led. “Base dog!” the haughty general said,
“Ignoble son of loyal sires! you’ve played the spy
Quite well I ween. The cunning skill wherewith
You wrought these plans and charts might well adorn
An honest man; but in a rebel’s hands they’re vile
And mischievous. If ought may palliate
A traitor’s act, attempted in his sovereign’s camp,
I bid you speak ere I pronounce your sentence.”

With tone and mien that hushed
The buzzing noise of idle lackeys in the hall,
The patriot thus replied: “You know my name—
My rank;—my treach’rous kinsman made
My purpose plain. I’ve nothing further of myself
To tell beyond the charge of traitor to deny.
The brand of spy I do accept without reproach;
But never since I’ve known the base ingratitude
Of king to loyal subjects of his realm
Has British rule been aught to me than barbarous
Despotism which God and man abhor, and none
But dastards fear to overthrow.
For tyrant loyalty your lordship represents
I never breathed a loyal breath; and he
Who calls me traitor seeks a pretext for a crime
His trembling soul might well condemn.”

“I’ll hear no more such prating cant,”
Said Howe, “your crime’s enough to hang a dozen men.
Before to-morrow’s sun goes down you’ll swing
’Twixt earth and heaven, that your countrymen
May know a British camp is dangerous ground
For prowling spies. Away!”

Securely bound upon a cart, amid
A speechless crowd, he stands beneath a strong
Projecting limb, to which a rope with noose attached,
Portends a tragic scene. He casts his eyes
Upon the surging multitude. Clearly now
His tones ring out as victors shout in triumph:

“Men, I do not die in vain,
My humble death upon this tree will light anew
The Torch of liberty. A hundred hands to one
Before will strike for country, home and God,
And fill our ranks with men of faith in His
Eternal plan to make this people free.
A million prayers go up this day to free
The land from blighting curse of tyrant’s rule.
Oppression’s wrongs have reached Jehovah’s throne;
The God of vengeance smites the foe! This land,—
This glorious land,—is free—is free!

“My friends, farewell! In dying thus
I feel but one regret; it is the one poor life
I have to give in Freedom’s cause.”

I. H. BROWN.

THE FUTURE.

When Earth’s last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and
dried,
When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an æon or two,
Till the Master of all Good Workmen shall set us to work anew!

And those that were good shall be happy; they shall sit in a golden
chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets’ hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene, Peter and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame!
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are!

RUDYARD KIPLING.

THE POWER OF HABIT.

Adapted to the development of transition in pitch, and a very spirited utterance. When you are able to deliver this as Mr. Gough did, you may consider yourself a graduate in the art of elocution.

I remember once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls. I said
to a gentleman, “What river is that, sir?”

“That,” said he, “is Niagara River.”

“Well, it is a beautiful stream,” said I; “bright and fair and
glassy. How far off are the rapids?”

“Only a mile or two,” was the reply.

“Is it _possible_ that only a mile from us we shall find the
water in the turbulence which it must show near the Falls?”

“You will find it so, sir.” And so I found it; and the first
sight of Niagara I shall never forget.

Now, launch your bark on that Niagara River; it is bright,
smooth, beautiful and glassy. There is a ripple at the bow; the
silver wake you leave behind adds to your enjoyment. Down the
stream you glide, oars, sails, and helm in proper trim, and you
set out on your pleasure excursion.

Suddenly some one cries out from the bank, “Young men, ahoy!”

“What is it?”

“The rapids are below you!”

“Ha! ha! we have heard of the rapids; but we are not such fools
as to get there. If we go too fast, then we shall up with the
helm, and steer to the shore; we will set the mast in the socket,
hoist the sail, and speed to the land. Then on, boys; don’t be
alarmed, there is no danger.”

“Young men, ahoy there!”

“What is it?”

“The rapids are below you!”

“Ha! ha! we will laugh and quaff; all things delight us. What
care we for the future? No man ever saw it. Sufficient for the
day is the evil thereof. We will enjoy life while we may, will
catch pleasure as it flies. This is enjoyment; time enough to
steer out of danger when we are sailing swiftly with the current.”

“Young men, ahoy!”

“What is it?”

“Beware! beware! The rapids are below you!”

“Now you see the water foaming all around. See how fast you pass
that point! Up with the helm! Now turn! Pull hard! Quick! quick!
quick! pull for your lives! pull till the blood starts from your
nostrils, and the veins stand like whip cords upon your brow! Set
the mast in the socket! hoist the sail! Ah! ah! it is too late!
Shrieking, blaspheming, over they go.”

Thousands go over the rapids of intemperance every year, through
the power of habit, crying all the while, “When I find out that
it is injuring me, I will give it up!”

JOHN B. GOUGH.

DIED ON DUTY.

The following lines were written by a comrade, on the death of Engineer Billy Ruffin, who lost his life by an accident that occurred on the Illinois Central Railroad, in Mississippi.

Bill Ruffin to some wouldn’t rank very high, being only an engineer;
But he opened the throttle with a steady grip, and didn’t know nothin’
like fear;
For doin’ his duty and doin’ it right, he was known all along the line,
And with him in the box of 258, you might figger “you’d be thar on time.”

Bill was comin’ down the run, one Monday night, a pullin’ of No. 3,
Just jogging along at a 30 gait, and a darker night you never see.
They had struck the trestle twenty rod north of old Tallahatchie bridge,
Where the water backs up under the track, with here and there a ridge.

Bill had come down that run a hundred times, and supposed that all was
right;
But the devil’s own had been at work, and loosened a rail that night;
When, gods of mercy! what a shock and crash! then all so quiet and still.
And old 258 lay dead in the pond, and the train piled up on the fill.

The crew showed up one by one, looking all white and chill,
Anxious to see if all were on deck, but whar on airth wuz Bill?
But it wasn’t long before they knew, for there in the pond was the tank,
Stickin’ clus to her engine pard, and holdin’ Bill down by the shank.

When the boys saw what orter be done, they went to work with a vim,
But willin’ hands doin’ all they would, couldn’t rize tons offen him;
Bill stood thar, brave man that he was, as the hours went slowly by,
Seemin’ to feel, if the rest wur scared, he was perfectly willin’ to die.

Just before daylight looked over the trees, they brought poor Bill to
the fire,
And done the best they could for him in a place that was all mud and
mire;
But they done no good, ’twant no use; he had seen his last of wrecks;
And thar by the fire that lit up his brave face, poor Bill passed in
his checks.

When they raised old 258 again, the story she did tell
Was that the hero in her cab had done his duty well;
They found her lever thrown hard, her throttle open wide,
Her air applied so close and hard that every wheel must slide.

Thar’s a wife and two kids down the line, whose sole dependence wuz
Bill,
Who little thought when he came home he’d be brought cold and still;
But tell them, tho’ Bill was rough by natur’ and somewhat so by name,
That thar’s a better land for men like him, and he died clear grit
just the same.

MY FRIEND THE CRICKET AND I.

My friend the Cricket and I
Once sat by the fireside talking;
“This life,” I said, “is such weary work;”
Chirped Cricket, “You’re always croaking.”
“It’s rowing against baith wind an’ tide,
And a’ for the smallest earning.”
“Ah! weel,” the merry Cricket replied,
“But the tide will soon be turning.”

“And then,” I answered, “dark clouds may rise,
And winds with the waters flowing.”
“Weel! keep a bit sunshine in your heart,
It’s a wonderfu’ help in rowing.”
“But many a boat goes down at sea:”
“O! friend, but you’re unco trying,
Pray how many more come into port,
With a’ their colors flying?

“Would ye idly drift with changing tides,
Till lost in a sea of sorrow?”
“Ah! no, good Cricket, I’ll take the oars
And cheerfully row to-morrow.”
“I would! I would! Yes, I would!” he chirped,
While I watched the bright fire burning,
“I would! I would! Yes, I’d try again,
For the tide must have a turning.”

So all the night long through the drowsy hours
I heard, like a cheerful humming—
“I would! I would! Yes, I’d try again,
Ye never ken what is coming.”
So I tried again:—now the wind sets fair,
And the tide is shoreward turning,
And Cricket and I chirp pleasantly
While the fire is brightly burning.

LILLIE E. BARR.

THE SNOW STORM.

A farmer came from the village plain,
But he lost the traveled way;
And for hours he trod with might and main
A path for his horse and sleigh;
But colder still the cold winds blew,
And deeper still the deep drifts grew,
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown,
At last in her struggles, floundered down,
Where a log in a hollow lay.

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort,
She plunged in the drifting snow,
While her master urged, till his breath grew short,
With a word and a gentle blow.
But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight;
His hands were numb and had lost their might;
So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh,
And strove to shelter himself till day,
With his coat and the buffalo.

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein,
To rouse up his dying steed;
And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain
For help in his master’s need.
For a while he strives with a wistful cry
To catch a glance from his drowsy eye,
And wags his tail if the rude winds flap
The skirt of the buffalo over his lap,
And whines when he takes no heed.

The wind goes down and the storm is o’er,
’Tis the hour of midnight, past;
The old trees writhe and bend no more
In the whirl of the rushing blast.
The silent moon with her peaceful light
Looks down on the hills with snow all white,
And the giant shadow of Camel’s Hump,
The blasted pine and the ghostly stump
Afar on the plain are cast.

But cold and dead by the hidden log
Are they who came from the town:
The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog,
And his beautiful Morgan brown—
In the wide snow-desert, far and grand,
With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand—
The dog with his nose on his master’s feet,
And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet
Where she lay when she floundered down.

PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE.

This is a picture of inordinate ambition. It should be represented by a voice of cold indifference to human suffering. The flame of selfish passion is wild and frenzied.

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay,
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus—
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And as the painter’s mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and pluck’d the shadows forth
With its far-reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip,
Were like the winged god’s, breathing from his flight.

“Bring me the captive now!
My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,
And I could paint the bow
Upon the bended heavens—around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

“Ha! bind him on his back!
Look!—as Prometheus in my picture here!
Quick—or he faints!—stand with the cordial near!
Now—bend him to the rack!
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!

“So—let him writhe! How long
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! gray-haired, and so strong!
How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!

“‘Pity’ thee! So I do!
I pity the dumb victim at the altar—
But does the robed priest for his _pity_ falter?
I’d rack thee, though I knew
A thousand lives were perishing in thine—
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?

“‘Hereafter!’ Ay—_hereafter_!
A whip to keep a coward to his track!
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back
To check the skeptic’s laughter?
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story
And I may take some softer path to glory.

“No, no, old man! we die
Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, even as they!
Strain well thy fainting eye—
For when that bloodshot quivering is o’er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.

“Yet there’s a deathless _name_!
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn—
And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
By all the fiery stars! I’d bind it on!

“Ay—though it bid me rifle
My heart’s last fount for its insatiate thirst—
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first—
Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild—

“All—I would do it all—
Sooner than die, lie a dull worm, to rot—
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!
O heavens!—but I appall
Your heart, old man! forgive——ha! on your lives
Let him not faint!—rack him till he revives!

“Vain—vain—give o’er! His eye
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now—
Stand back! I’ll paint the death dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die
But for _one_ moment—one—till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those cold lips!

“Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now—that was a difficult breath—
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death!
Look! how his temple flutters!
Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders—gasps—Jove help him!—so—he’s dead.”

How like a mounting devil in the heart
Rules the unreined _ambition_! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the bosom for the spirit’s lip,
We look upon our splendor and forget
The thirst of which we perish!

N. P. WILLIS.

THE NINETY-THIRD OFF CAPE VERD.

The figures refer you to the Typical Gestures at the beginning of Part II. of this volume. Use other gestures of your own. A good recital for animated description.

It is night upon the ocean
Near old Afric’s shore;
Loud the wind wails o’er the water,
Loud the waters roar.

Dark o’erhead[21] the storm-clouds gather,
Huge waves mountains form,
As a stout[2] old ship comes struggling
On against the storm.

Hark![3] e’en now across the billows
On the wind there floats,
Sharp and shrill, the boatswain’s whistle
Sounding,[5] “Man the boats!”

At the sound, from cabin doorways,
Rushing out headlong,
Pours a weeping,[10] shrieking, shuddering,
Terror-stricken throng.

Men, and women with their children,
Weak and pale from fright,
Praying,[20] cursing, hurry onward
Out into the night.

But the lightning’s[21] frequent flashes
By their ghastly sheen,
Further forward in the vessel,
Show another scene.

From the crowd of trembling women,
And of trembling men,
See![2] a soldier presses forward,
Takes his place, and then—

“Fall in!”[5] Then comes the roll-call.
Every man is at his post,
Although now they hear the breakers
Roaring on the coast.

“Present arms!”[5] And till the life-boats
With their precious freight
Have been lowered safely downward
Thus they stand and wait.

And then, as the staunch old vessel
Slowly sinks at last,
Louder than the ocean’s roaring,
Louder than the blast,