Chapter XIII: General Examples for Practice (2)

"Who cut it down?"

"George did."

"Oh!"

"But his father came home and saw it the first thing, and--"

"Saw the hatchet?"

"No, saw the apple-tree. And he said, 'Who has cut down my favourite apple- tree?'"

"What apple-tree?"

"George's father's. And everybody said they didn't know anything about it, and--"

"Anything about what?"

"The apple-tree."

"Oh!"

"And George came up and heard them talking about it--"

"Heard who taking about it?"

"Heard his father and the men"

"What were they talking about?"

"About this apple-tree."

"What apple-tree?"

"The favourite tree that George cut down."

"George who?"

"George Washington"

"Oh!"

"So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he--"

"What did he cut it down for?"

"Just to try his little hatchet."

"Whose little hatchet?"

"Why, his own, the one his father gave him."

"Gave who?"

"Why, George Washington."

"Oh!"

"So, George came up, and he said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I--'"

"Who couldn't tell a lie?"

"Why, George Washington. He said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie. It was--'"

"His father couldn't?"

"Why, no; George couldn't?"

"Oh! George? oh, yes!"

"'It was I cut down your apple tree; I did--'"

"His father did?"

"No, no; it was George said this."

"Said he cut his father?"

"No, no, no; said he cut down his apple-tree."

"George's apple-tree?"

"No, no; his father's."

"Oh!"

"He said--"

"His father said?"

"No, no, no; George said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I did it with my little hatchet.' And his father said, 'Noble boy, I would rather lose a thousand trees than have you tell a lie.'"

"George did?"

"No, his father said that."

"Said he'd rather have a thousand apple-trees?"

"No, no, no; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple-trees than--"

"Said he'd rather George would?"

"No, said he'd rather he would than have him lie."

"Oh! George would rather have his father lie?"

We are patient and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers hadn't come and got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington could have pulled us out of the snarl. And as Clarence Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers pattered down the stairs, we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a father named George, and he told him to cut down an apple-tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple-tree.

_R. N. Burdette._

* * * * *

TRUSTING.

I do not ask that God will always make
My pathway light;
I only pray that He will hold my hand
Throughout the night.
I do not hope to have the thorns removed
That pierce my feet,
I only ask to find His blessed arms
My safe retreat.

If He afflict me, then in my distress
Withholds His hand;
If all His wisdom I cannot conceive
Or understand.
I do not think to always know His why
Or wherefore, here;
But sometime He will take my hand and make
His meaning clear.

If in His furnace He refine my heart
To make it pure,
I only ask for grace to trust His love--
Strength to endure;
And if fierce storms beat round me,
And the heavens be overcast,
I know that He will give His weary one
Sweet peace at last.

* * * * *

THE LAST HYMN.

The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea, The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly, And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing lighted West And then hasten to their dwellings for God's blessed boon of rest. But they looked across the waters and a storm was raging there. A fierce spirit moved above them--the wild spirit of the air, And it lashed, and shook, and tore them till they thundered, groaned, and boomed, But alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed. Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales, Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales, When the sea had spent its passion, and should cast upon the shore Bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore. With the rough winds blowing round her a brave woman strained her eyes, And she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise. Oh! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be, For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea. Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach. Oh, for power to cross the waters, and the perishing to reach. Helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts grew cold with dread, As the ship urged by the tempest to the fatal rock-shore sped. She has parted in the middle! Oh, the half of her goes down! God have mercy! Is His heaven far to seek for those who drown? So when next the white shocked faces looked with terror on the sea, Only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be. Nearer the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed by the wave, And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could save. "Could we send him a short message! Here's a trumpet, shout away!" 'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say. Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah, no. There was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of woe. So he shouted through the trumpet, "Look to Jesus! Can you hear?" And "Aye, aye, sir!" rang the answer o'er the waters loud and clear, Then they listened, "He is singing, 'Jesus, lover of my soul,'" And the winds brought back the echo, "While the nearer waters roll." Strange indeed it was to hear him, "Till the storm of life is past." Singing bravely o'er the waters, "Oh, receive my soul at last." He could have no other refuge, "Hangs my helpless soul on thee;", "Leave, oh, leave me not!"--the singer dropped at last into the sea. And the watchers looking homeward, through their eyes, by tears made dim, Said, "He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn."

_Marianne Farningham._

* * * * *

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I remember, I remember The house where I was born-- The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember The roses red and white, The violets and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light; The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday-- The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh; To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.

_Thomas Hood._

* * * * *

NEVER GIVE UP.

Never give up! it is wiser and better
Always to hope than once to despair:
Fling off the load of Doubt's cankering fetter,
And break the dark spell of tyrannical care;
Never give up! or the burden may sink you--
Providence kindly has mingled the cup;
And, in all trials or trouble, bethink you
The watchword of life must be--Never give up!

Never give up!--there are chances and changes
Helping the hopeful a hundred to one,
And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges
Ever success--if you'll only hope on;
Never give up!--for the wisest is boldest,
Knowing that Providence mingles the cup;
And of all maxims the best, as the oldest,
Is the true watchword of--Never give up!

Never give up!--though the grapeshot may rattle,
Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst,
Stand like a rock--and the storm or the battle
Little shall harm you, though doing their worst.
Never give up!--if adversity presses,
Providence wisely has mingled the cup;
And the best counsel, in all your distresses,
Is the stout watchword of--Never give up.

_Anon._

* * * * *

MARMION AND DOUGLAS.

Not far advanced was morning day, When Marmion did his troop array To Surrey's camp to ride; He had safe-conduct for his band, Beneath the royal seal and hand, And Douglas gave a guide: The ancient Earl, with stately grace, Would Clara on her palfrey place, And whispered in an undertone, "Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."-- The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:-- "Though something I might plain," he said, "Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your King's behest, While in Tantallon's towers I stayed, Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble Earl, receive my hand."-- But Douglas around him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:-- "My manors, halls, and bowers shall still Be open, at my Sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my King's alone, From turret to foundation-stone,-- The hand of Douglas is his own; And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp."

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And--"This to me!" he said,-- "An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head! And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, He who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate; And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee, thou'rt defied! And if thou saidst I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"-- On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age; Fierce he broke forth,--"And dar'st thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall? And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go?-- No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms,--what, Warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall."-- Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need!-- And dashed the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung; The ponderous gate behind him rung; To pass there was such scanty room, The bars descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise; Nor lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim; And when Lord Marmion reached his band, He halts, and turns with clenched hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers. "Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!"; But soon he reined his fury's pace; A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name.

* * * * *

St. Mary, mend my fiery mood! Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. "'Tis pity of him, too," he cried; "Bold can he speak, and fairly ride; I warrant him a warrior tried." With this his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle halls.

_Sir Walter Scott._

* * * * *

CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.

Banished from Rome! What's banished, but set free From daily contact of the things I loathe? "Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this? Who'll prove it, at his peril on my head? Banished? I thank you for't. It breaks my chain! I held some slack allegiance till this hour; But _now_ my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords; I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, Strong provocation, bitter, burning wrongs, I have within my heart's hot cells shut up, To leave you in your lazy dignities. But here I stand and scoff you! here I fling Hatred and full defiance in your face! Your Consul's merciful. For this all thanks:-- He _dares_ not touch a hair of Catiline! "Traitor!" I go; but I _return_. This--trial! Here I devote your Senate! I've had wrongs To stir a fever in the blood of age, Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel. This day's the birth of sorrow! This hour's work Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my lords For there, henceforth, shall sit for household gods, Shapes hot from Tartarus!--all shames and crimes;-- Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn; Suspicion poisoning his brother's cup; Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe, Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones; Till Anarchy comes down on you like night, And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave. I go; but not to leap the gulf alone. I go; but when I come, 'twill be the burst Of ocean in the earthquake,--rolling back In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well! You build my funeral-pile; but your best blood Shall quench its flame.

_Rev. George Croly._

* * * * *

THE WORN WEDDING-RING.

Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife; ah, summers not a few, Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o'er me and you; And, love, what changes we have seen--what cares and pleasures too-- Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new.

O blessings on that happy day, the happiest in my life, When, thanks to God, your low sweet "Yes" made you my loving wife; Your heart will say the same, I know, that day's as dear to you, That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new.

How well do I remember now, your young sweet face that day; How fair you were--how dear you were--my tongue could hardly say; Nor how I doted on you; ah, how proud I was of you; But did I love you more than now, when this old ring was new?

No--no; no fairer were you then than at this hour to me, And dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be? As sweet your face might be that day as now it is, 'tis true, And did I know your heart as well when this old ring was new!

O partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief is there, For me you would not bravely face,--with me you would not share? O what a weary want had every day if wanting you, Wanting the love that God made mine when this old ring was new.

Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife--young voices that are here, Young faces round our fire that make their mother's yet more dear, Young loving hearts, your care each day makes yet more like to you, More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring was new.

And bless'd be God all He has given are with us yet, around Our table, every little life lent to us, still is found; Though cares we've known, with hopeful hearts the worst we've struggled through; Blessed be His name for all His love since this old ring was new.

The past is dear; its sweetness still our memories treasure yet; The griefs we've borne, together borne, we would not now forget; Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart still true, We'll share as we have shared all else since this old ring was new.

And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and daughters to grow old, We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine grow cold; Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to you, And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new.

And O when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest, May I die looking in those eyes, and leaning on that breast; O may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight of you, Of those fond eyes--fond as they were when this old ring was new.

_W. C. Bennett._

* * * * *

ROLL-CALL.

The battle was over--the foemen were flying, But the plain was strewn with the dead and the dying, For the dark angel rode on its sulphurous blast, And had reaped a rich harvest of death, as he passed; For, as grass he mowed down the blue and the gray, With the mean and the mighty that stood in his way, While the blood of our bravest ran there as water, And his nostrils were filled with the incense of slaughter.

The black guns were silent--hushed the loud ringing cheers, And the pale dead were buried, in silence and tears; And the wounded brought in on stretchers so gory, Broken and mangled but covered with glory, Whilst the surgeons were clipping with expertness and vim, From the agonised trunk each bullet-torn limb, And the patient, if living, was carefully sent To the cool open wards of the hospital tent.

Within one of those wards a brave Highlander lay, With the chill dews of death on his forehead of clay, For a shell had struck him in the heat of the fray, And his right arm and shoulder were carried away; No word had he spoken--not a sound had he made, Yet a shiver, at times, had his anguish betrayed, And so calmly he lay without murmur or moan, The gentle-voiced sister thought his spirit had flown.

The lamps burning dimly an uncertain light shed, While the groans of the wounded, the stare of the dead, Made an age of a night to the gentle and true, That had waited and watched half its long hours through; When the surgeon came in with a whisper of cheer, And a nod and a glance at the cot that stood near, When--"_Here_!" like a bugle blast, the dying man cried, "_It is roll-call in Heaven_!" He answered and died.

_Anon._

* * * * *

THE DEAD DOLL.

You needn't be trying to comfort me--I tell you my dolly is dead! There's no use in saying she isn't--with a crack like that in her head. It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out that day; And then when the man most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say.

And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue! As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you? You might make her _look_ all mended--but what do I care for looks? Why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books!

My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's the awfullest crack! It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the little shelf, Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself!

I think you must be crazy--you'll get her another head! What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead! And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant New Year's hat! And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie on that horrid cat!

When my mamma gave me that ribbon--I was playing out in the yard-- She said to me most expressly: "Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde." And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it; But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it!"

But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe, I do, That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too. Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit! For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit.

But since the darling _is_ dead, she'll want to be buried of course; We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse; And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this--you see, This dear little box--and we'll bury them under the maple tree.

And papa will make a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird; And he'll put what I tell him on it--yes, every single word! I shall say: "Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll who is dead; She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head."

_St. Nicholas._

* * * * *

AUNTY DOLEFUL'S VISIT.

How do you do, Cornelia? I heard you were sick and I stepped in to cheer you up a little. My friends often say, "It's such a comfort to see you, Aunty Doleful. You have such a flow of conversation, and _are_ so lively." Besides, I said to myself, as I came up the stairs, "Perhaps it's the last time I'll ever see Cornelia Jane alive."

You don't mean to die yet, eh? Well, now, how do you know? You can't tell. You think you are getting better; but there was poor Mrs. Jones sitting up, and every one saying how smart she was, and all of a sudden she was taken with spasms in the heart, and went off like a flash. But you must be careful, and not get anxious or excited. Keep quite calm, and don't fret about anything. Of course, things can't go on just as if you were down stairs; and I wondered whether you knew your little Billy was sailing about in a tub on the mill-pond, and that your little Sammy was letting your little Jimmy down from the verandah roof in a clothes-basket.

Gracious goodness! what's the matter? I guess Providence'll take care of 'em. Don't look so. You thought Bridget was watching them? Well, no, she isn't. I saw her talking to a man at the gate. He looked to me like a burglar. No doubt she let him take the impression of the door-key in wax, and then he'll get in and murder you all. There was a family at Kobble Hill all killed last week for fifty dollars. Now, don't fidget so, it will be bad for the baby.

Poor little dear! How singular it is, to be sure, that you can't tell whether a child is blind, or deaf and dumb or a cripple at that age. It might be _all_, and you'd never know it.

Most of them that have their senses make bad use of them though; _that_ ought to be your comfort, if it does turn out to have anything dreadful the matter with it. And more don't live a year. I saw a baby's funeral down the street as I came along.

How is Mr. Kobble? Well, but finds it warm in town, eh? Well, I should think he would. They are dropping down by hundreds there with sun-stroke. You must prepare your mind to have him brought home any day. Anyhow, a trip on these railroad trains is just risking your life every time you take one. Back and forth every day as he is, it's just trifling with danger.

Dear! dear; now to think what dreadful things hang over us all the time! Dear! dear!

Scarlet fever has broken out in the village, Cornelia. Little Isaac Potter has it, and I saw your Jimmy playing with him last Saturday.

Well, I must be going now. I've got another sick friend, and I shan't think my duty done unless I cheer her up a little before I sleep. Good-bye. How pale you look, Cornelia. I don't believe you have a good doctor. Do send him away and try some one else. You don't look so well as you did when I came in. But if anything happens, send for me at once. If I can't do anything else, I can cheer you up a little.

* * * * *

THE MINIATURE.

William was holding in his hand
The likeness of his wife--
Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,
With beauty, grace, and life.
He almost thought it spoke--he gazed,
Upon the treasure still;
Absorbed, delighted, and amazed
He view'd the artist's skill.

"This picture is yourself, dear Ann,
Tis' drawn to nature true;
I've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
It is so much like you."
"And has it kiss'd you back, my dear?"
"Why--no--my love," said he;
"Then, William, it is very clear,
'Tis not at all like me!"

* * * * *

THE CHIMES OF S. S. PETER AND PAUL.

Ring out, sad bells, ring out Melody to the twilight sky, With echoes, echoing yet As along the shore they die; Chiming, chiming, Sweet toned notes upon the heart That one can ne'er forget.

Ring louder! O louder! Until the distant sea Shall send thy clear vibrations Dying back to me; Tolling, tolling, Beautiful, trembling notes Of sad sweet melody.

Ring, ring, ring, a merry Christmas And a glad New Year; Ring on Easter morning And at the May-day dear; Fling, fling Thy tones over woodland ways All the hills adorning.

At the joyous marriage,
And at the gladsome birth
Fling thy silvery echoes
Over all the earth,
But knell, O knell
When death, the shadowy spectre
Shall kiss the lips of mirth

O blessed bells, silver bells,
Thy notes are echoing still
Like the song of an ebbing tide,
Or a mournful whip-poor-will.
As he sings, sings,
In the crimson sunset light
That dies on the burnished hill

Then ring, O softly ring
Musical deep-toned bells;
Till harmony, sweet harmony
Throughout the woodland swells.
To bring, faintly bring,
Thy dying echoes back to me,
Over fields and fells,
Bells, bells, bells.

* * * * *

THE ENGINEER'S STORY.

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 dropping her shade,
And the "Gladiator" laboured--
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 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 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 pressed 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 the fullness of heaven
Blesses me evermore.

* * * * *

FASHIONABLE SINGING.

Miss Julia was induced to give a taste of her musical powers, and this is how she did it. She flirted up her panniers, coquettishly wiggle-waggled to the piano and sang--

"When ther moo-hoon is mi-hild-ly be-ahming
O'er ther ca-halm and si-hi-lent se-e-e-e,
Its ra-dyance so-hoftly stre-heam-ing
Oh! ther-hen, Oh! ther-hen,
I thee-hink
Hof thee-hee,
I thee-hink,
I thee-hink,
I thee-he-he-he-he-he-he-hink hof thee-e-e-e-e!"

"Beautiful, Miss Julia! Beautiful!" and we all clapped our hands. "Do sing another verse--it's perfectly divine, Miss Julia," said Eugene Augustus. Then Julia raised her golden (dyed) head, touched the white ivory with her jewelled fingers, and warbled--

"When ther sur-hun is bri-hight-ly glow-ing-how-ing
O'er the se-hene so de-hear to me-e-e,
And swe-heat the wie-hind is blow-how-ing,
Oh! ther-hen, oh! ther-hen,
I thee-hink
Hof thee-hee,
I thee-hink
I thee-hink
I thee-he-he-he-he-he-he-hink-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-hof
the-e-e-e-e-e!"--

_Baltimore Elocutionist._

* * * * *

THE OLD SOLDIER OF THE REGIMENT.

From the bold heights of the island, far up in the Huron Sea, Proudly waved that Summer morning the old flag of liberty; While close under that fair banner, which to him was love and law, Sat that hour a veteran soldier of the guard at Mackinaw.

Bowed and wrinkled, thin and hoary, sat he there that Summer day, His form leaning 'gainst the flagstaff, while he watched the sunlight play On the waters of that inland ocean which, in beauty purled, Were to him--the scarred old soldier--fairest waters of the world.

In the days when Peace no longer walked the land, a beauteous queen, Fragrance dropping from her garments, gladness beaming in her mien; When grim war strode forth thro' valley, and o'er hill from sea to sea, All along her pathway shedding, woe in its infinity.

Although time and gallant service, for the land he loved the best, Had upon his manhood told already, and he needed rest, Brave, and trusting still, and loving, as a knight of ancient days, Forth he went with other comrades, caring not for fame or praise.

Only eager, aye, for duty, as God made it plain to all, When upon the breath of Zephyrus, patriot heroes heard him call; Anxious to beat back the dread one, and thro' war bring sweet release, From the demon of the tempest, usher in the reign of peace!

O, the hot and bloody conflicts, hour by hour, and day by day, 'Mid those years of which the memory can never pass away! O, at last the hard-won triumph, aye, but glorious we may say, Since thro' tears and loss God's blessing comes to-day to "Blue and Gray!"

And the soldier, the old soldier, sitting there that hour alone, Gazing out upon the waters, thought of those years long since flown, And, on many a field of strife, his humble part--his part sublime-- When his comrades fell around him like leaves in the Autumn time!

Sitting there that summer morning he thought, too, how since his youth, His whole life had ever been, as 'twere, a lone one, how in sooth He had never since that hour--and his years how great the sum!-- He had never known the blessing of a wife, or child, or home.

And, ah, now he fast was nearing--sad old man!--the end of life, Soon he should lay by his armour and go forth beyond the strife. And he tho't--"O, ere I go hence, if the one who gave me birth Could but come from yonder Heaven, only come once more to earth;

"That again, as in my childhood, I might look upon her face, Feel once more, once more, the pressure of her loving, dear embrace, Hear her speak, ah, as she used to, those sweet words I so much miss, Feel upon my cheek and forehead the touch of her fragrant kiss!"

And the sad old soldier's eyelids closed, his lips they moved no more; He had gone to sleep where often he had gone to sleep before!-- So his comrades tho't that hour as they saw him sitting there, Leaning fondly 'gainst the flagstaff, on his face a look most fair!

And they left him to his slumbers, with no wish to break the spell Which had come to him so gently--the old soul they loved so well! And the breezes so delightful played among his locks so white, While above him proudly floated the old flag of his delight.

But ere long, when loved ones round him called the name of "Sergeant Gray," Not a word the veteran answered, for his life had passed away.-- Though a tear was on each pale cheek of the dead one whom they saw-- The old soldier of the regiment on guard at Mackinaw.

_Geo. Newell Lovejoy._

* * * * *

POOR LITTLE STEPHEN GERARD.

The man lived in Philadelphia who, when young and poor, entered a bank, and says he, "Please, sir, don't you want a boy?" And the stately personage said: "No, little boy, I don't want a little boy." The little boy, whose heart was too full for utterance, chewing a piece of liquorice stick he had bought with a cent stolen from his good and pious aunt, with sobs plainly audible, and with great globules of water rolling down his cheeks, glided silently down the marble steps of the bank. Bending his noble form, the bank man dodged behind a door, for he thought the little boy was going to shy a stone at him. But the little boy picked up something, and stuck it in his poor but ragged jacket. "Come here, little boy," and the little boy did come here; and the bank man said: "Lo, what pickest thou up?" And he answered and replied: "A pin." And the bank man said: "Little boy, are you good?" and he said he was. And the bank man said: "How do you vote?--excuse me, do you go to Sunday school?" and he said he did. Then the bank man took down a pen made of pure gold, and flowing with pure ink, and he wrote on a piece of paper, "St. Peter;" and he asked the little boy what it stood for, and he said "Salt Peter." Then the bank man said it meant "Saint Peter." The little boy said: "Oh!"

Then the bank man took the little boy to his bosom, and the little boy said "Oh!" again, for he squeezed him. Then the bank man took the little boy into partnership, and gave him half the profits and all the capital, and he married the bank man's daughter, and now all he has is all his, and all his own, too.

My uncle told me this story, and I spent six weeks in picking up pins in front of a bank. I expected the bank man would call me in and say: "Little boy, are you good?" and I was going to say "Yes;" and when he asked me what "St. John" stood for, I was going to say "Salt John." But the bank man wasn't anxious to have a partner, and I guess the daughter was a son, for one day says he to me: "Little boy, what's that you're picking up?" Says I, awful meekly, "Pins." Says he: "Let's see 'em." And he took 'em, and I took off my cap, all ready to go in the bank, and become a partner, and marry his daughter. But I didn't get an invitation. He said: "Those pins belong to the bank, and if I catch you hanging around here any more I'll set the dog on you!" Then I left, and the mean old fellow kept the pins. Such is life as I find it.

_Mark Twain._

* * * * *

THE LITTLE QUAKER SINNER.

A little Quaker maiden, with dimpled cheek and chin, Before an ancient mirror stood, and viewed her form within; She wore a gown of sober grey, a cape demure and prim, With only simple fold and hem, yet dainty, neat, and trim. Her bonnet, too, was grey and stiff; its only line of grace Was in the lace, so soft and white, shirred round her rosy face.

Quoth she, "Oh, how I hate this hat! I hate this gown and cape! I do wish all my clothes were not of such outlandish shape! The children passing by to school have ribbons on their hair; The little girl next door wears blue; oh, dear, if I could dare I know what I should like to do?"--(The words were whispered low, Lest such tremendous heresy should reach her aunts below).

Calmly reading in the parlour sat the good aunts, Faith and Peace, Little dreaming how rebellious throbbed the heart of their young niece. All their prudent humble teaching wilfully she cast aside, And, her mind now fully conquered by vanity and pride, She, with trembling heart and fingers, on a hassock sat her down, And this little Quaker sinner _sewed a tuck into her gown_!

"Little Patience, art thou ready? Fifth-day meeting time has come, Mercy Jones and Goodman Elder with his wife have left their home." 'Twas Aunt Faith's sweet voice that called her, and the naughty little maid-- Gliding down the dark old stairway--hoped their notice to evade, Keeping shyly in their shadow as they went out at the door, Ah, never little Quakeress a guiltier conscience bore!

Dear Aunt Faith walked looking upward; all her thoughts were pure and holy; And Aunt Peace walked gazing downward, with a humble mind and lowly. But "tuck--_tuck_!" chirped the sparrows, at the little maiden's side; And, in passing Farmer Watson's, where the barn-door opened wide, Every sound that issued from it, every grunt and every cluck, Seemed to her affrighted fancy like "a tuck!" "a tuck!" "a tuck!"

In meeting Goodman Elder spoke of pride and vanity, While all the Friends seemed looking round that dreadful tuck to see. How it swelled in its proportions, till it seemed to fill the air, And the heart of little Patience grew heavier with her care. Oh, the glad relief to her, when, prayers and exhortations ended, Behind her two good aunts her homeward way she wended!

The pomps and vanities of life she'd seized with eager arms, And deeply she had tasted of the world's alluring charms-- Yea, to the dregs had drained them and only this to find; All was vanity of spirit and vexation of the mind. So repentant, saddened, humbled, on her hassock she sat down, And this little Quaker sinner _ripped the tuck out of her gown_!

_St. Nicholas._

* * * * *

HOW WE HUNTED A MOUSE.

I was dozing comfortably in my easy chair, and dreaming of the good times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice came from the kitchen, and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions, and shouting "shoo," in a general manner at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed: "O! Joshua, a mouse, shoo--wha--shoo--a great--ya, shoo--horrid mouse, and-- she--ew--it ran right out of the cupboard--shoo--go way--O Lord--Joshua-- shoo--kill it, oh, my--shoo."

All that fuss, you see, about one little, harmless mouse. Some women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down and ran off into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time I hit it I didn't poke it any on account of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would, but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment. There is something real disagreeable about having a mouse inside the leg of one's pantaloons, especially if there is nothing between you and the mouse. Its toes are cold, and its nails are scratchy, and its fur tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there is nothing pleasant about it, and you are all the time afraid it will try to gnaw out, and begin on you instead of on the cloth. That mouse was next to me. I could feel its every motion with startling and suggestive distinctness. For these reasons I yelled to Maria, and as the case seemed urgent to me I may have yelled with a certain degree of vigour; but I deny that I yelled fire, and if I catch the boy who thought that I did, I shall inflict punishment on his person.

I did not lose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can't handle many mice at once to advantage.

Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen, and asked what she should do--as though I could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the same time.

I told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal scuttle. She paused for breath, but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. "Oh, Joshua," she cried, "I wish you had not killed the cat." Now, I submit that the wish was born of the weakness of woman's intellect. How on earth did she suppose a cat could get where that mouse was?--rather have the mouse there alone, anyway, than to have a cat prowling around after it. I reminded Maria of the fact that she was a fool. Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let go for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor very dead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy.

That was not the end of trouble, for before I had recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him through, and they dragged hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house clear.

Now, when mice run out of the cupboard I go out doors, and let Maria "shoo" them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don't pay for the trouble.

_Joshua Jenkins._

* * * * *

IN SCHOOL DAYS.

Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry vines are running.

Within, the master's desk is seen,
Deep scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife's carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window panes,
And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favour singled:
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered;--
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered,

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand's tight caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word;
I hate to go above you,
Because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,--
"Because, you see, I love you!"

Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing.

He lives to learn, in life's hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumphs and his loss,
Like her,--because they love him.

_Whittier._

* * * * *

WATERLOO.

It struck my imagination much, while standing on the last field fought by Bonaparte, that the battle of Waterloo should have been fought on a Sunday. What a different scene did the Scotch Grays and English Infantry present, from that which, at that very hour, was exhibited by their relatives, when over England and Scotland each church-bell had drawn together its worshippers! While many a mother's heart was sending up a prayer for her son's preservation, perhaps that son was gasping in agony. Yet, even at such a period, the lessons of his early days might give him consolation; and the maternal prayer might prepare the heart to support maternal anguish. It is religion alone which is of universal application, both as a stimulant and a lenitive, throughout the varied heritage which falls to the lot of man. But we know that many thousands rushed into this fight, even of those who had been instructed in our religious principles, without leisure for one serious thought; and that some officers were killed in their ball dresses. They made the leap into the gulf which divides two worlds--the present from the immutable state without one parting prayer, or one note of preparation!

As I looked over this field, now green with growing corn, I could mark, with my eye, the spots where the most desperate carnage had been marked out by the verdure of the wheat. The bodies had been heaped together, and scarcely more than covered; and so enriched is the soil, that, in these spots, the grain never ripens. It grows rank and green to the end of harvest. This touching memorial, which endures when the thousand groans have expired, and when the stain of human blood has faded from the ground, still seems to cry to Heaven that there is awful guilt somewhere, and a terrific reckoning for those who caused destruction which the earth could not conceal. These hillocks of superabundant vegetation, as the wind rustled through the corn, seemed the most affecting monuments which nature could devise, and gave a melancholy animation to this plain of death.

When we attempt to measure the mass of suffering which was here inflicted, and to number the individuals that fell, considering each who suffered as our fellow-man, we are overwhelmed with the agonizing calculation, and retire from the field which has been the scene of our reflections, with the simple, concentrated feeling--these armies once lived, breathed, and felt like us, and the time is at hand when we shall be like them.

_Lady Morgan._

* * * * *

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell:--
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet--
But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; Who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since, upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier, ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb.
Or whispering with white lips--"The foe! they come, they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose--
The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard--and heard too have her Saxon foes--
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years;
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass
Grieving--if aught inanimate e'er grieves--
Over the unreturning brave--alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure; when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife;
The morn the marshalling of arms; the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent,
Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent!

_Lord Byron._

* * * * *

THE BRIDAL WINE-CUP.

SCENE--_Parlour, with wedding party, consisting of_ JUDGE OTIS; MARION, _his daughter, the bride_; HARRY WOOD, _the bridegroom; a few relatives and friends; all gathered around the centre table, on which are decanters and wine-glasses_.