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Little Willie's Hearing

 
Sometimes w'en I am playin' with some fellers 'at I knows,
My ma she comes to call me, 'cause she wants me, I surpose:
An' then she calls in this way: "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!"
An' you'd be surprised to notice how dretful deef I be;
An' the fellers 'at are playin' they keeps mos' orful still,
W'ile they tell me, jus' in whispers: "Your ma is callin', Bill."
But my hearin' don't git better, so fur as I can see,
W'ile my ma stan's there a-callin': "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!"
 
 
An' soon my ma she gives it up, an' says: "Well, I'll allow
It's mighty cur'us w'ere that boy has got to, anyhow";
An' then I keep on playin' jus' the way I did before—
I know if she was wantin' much she'd call to me some more.
An' purty soon she comes agin an' says: "Willie! Willee-e-ee!"
But my hearin's jus' as hard as w'at it useter be.
If a feller has good judgment, an' uses it that way,
He can almos' allers manage to git consid'ble play.
 
 
But jus' w'ile I am playin', an' prob'ly I am "it,"
They's somethin' diff'rent happens, an' I have to up, an' git,
Fer my pa comes to the doorway, an' he interrup's our glee;
He jus' says, "William Henry!" but that's enough fer me.
You'd be surprised to notice how quickly I can hear
W'en my pa says, "William Henry!" but never "Willie, dear!"
Fer though my hearin's middlin' bad to hear the voice of ma,
It's apt to show improvement w'en the callin' comes from pa.
 

The Service Flag

 
Dear little flag in the window there,
Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer,
Child of Old Glory, born with a star—
Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!
 
 
Blue is your star in its field of white,
Dipped in the red that was born of fight;
Born of the blood that our forebears shed
To raise your mother, The Flag, o'er-head.
 
 
And now you've come, in this frenzied day,
To speak from a window—to speak and say:
"I am the voice of a soldier son,
Gone, to be gone till the victory's won.
 
 
"I am the flag of The Service, sir:
The flag of his mother—I speak for her
Who stands by my window and waits and fears,
But hides from the others her unwept tears.
 
 
"I am the flag of the wives who wait
For the safe return of a martial mate—
A mate gone forth where the war god thrives,
To save from sacrifice other men's wives.
 
 
"I am the flag of the sweethearts true;
The often unthought of—the sisters, too.
I am the flag of a mother's son,
Who won't come home till the victory's won!"
 
 
Dear little flag in the window there,
Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer,
Child of Old Glory, born with a star—
Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!
 

William Herschell.

Flying Jim's Last Leap

(The hero of this tale had once been a famous trapeze performer.)

 
Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen. Helped by Bridget's willing hands,
Bustled Hannah, deftly mixing pies, for ready waiting pans.
Little Flossie flitted round them, and her curling, floating hair
Glinted gold-like, gleamed and glistened, in the sparkling sunlit air;
Slouched a figure o'er the lawn; a man so wretched and forlore,
Tattered, grim, so like a beggar, ne'er had trod that path before.
His shirt was torn, his hat was gone, bare and begrimed his knees,
Face with blood and dirt disfigured, elbows peeped from out his sleeves.
Rat-tat-tat, upon the entrance, brought Aunt Hannah to the door;
Parched lips humbly plead for water, as she scanned his misery o'er;
Wrathful came the dame's quick answer; made him cower, shame, and start
Out of sight, despairing, saddened, hurt and angry to the heart.
"Drink! You've had enough, you rascal. Faugh! The smell now makes me sick,
Move, you thief! Leave now these grounds, sir, or our dogs will help you quick."
Then the man with dragging footsteps hopeless, wishing himself dead,
Crept away from sight of plenty, starved in place of being fed,
Wandered farther from the mansion, till he reached a purling brook,
Babbling, trilling broken music by a green and shady nook,
Here sweet Flossie found him fainting; in her hands were food and drink;
Pale like death lay he before her, yet the child-heart did not shrink;
Then the rags from off his forehead, she with dainty hands offstripped,
In the brooklet's rippling waters, her own lace-trimmed 'kerchief dipped;
Then with sweet and holy pity, which, within her, did not daunt,
Bathed the blood and grime-stained visage of that sin-soiled son of want.
Wrung she then the linen cleanly, bandaged up the wound again
Ere the still eyes opened slowly; white lips murmuring, "Am I sane?"
"Look, poor man, here's food and drink. Now thank our God before you take."
Paused he mute and undecided, while deep sobs his form did shake
With an avalanche of feeling, and great tears came rolling down
O'er a face unused to showing aught except a sullen frown;
That "our God" unsealed a fountain his whole life had never known,
When that human angel near him spoke of her God as his own.
"Is it 'cause my aunty grieved you?" Quickly did the wee one ask.
"I'll tell you my little verse then, 'tis a holy Bible task,
It may help you to forgive her: 'Love your enemies and those
Who despitefully may use you; love them whether friends or foes!'"
Then she glided from his vision, left him prostrate on the ground
Conning o'er and o'er that lesson—with a grace to him new found.
Sunlight filtering through green branches as they wind-wave dance and dip,
Finds a prayer his mother taught him, trembling on his crime-stained lip.
Hist! a step, an angry mutter, and the owner of the place,
Gentle Flossie's haughty father, and the tramp stood face to face!
"Thieving rascal! you've my daughter's 'kerchief bound upon your brow;
Off with it, and cast it down here. Come! be quick about it now."
As the man did not obey him, Flossie's father lashed his cheek
With a riding-whip he carried; struck him hard and cut him deep.
Quick the tramp bore down upon him, felled him, o'er him where he lay
Raised a knife to seek his life-blood. Then there came a thought to stay
All his angry, murderous impulse, caused the knife to shuddering fall:
"He's her father; love your en'mies; 'tis 'our God' reigns over all."
 
 
At midnight, lambent, lurid flames light up the sky with fiercest beams,
Wild cries, "Fire! fire!" ring through the air, and red like blood each flame now seems;
They faster grow, they higher throw weird, direful arms which ever lean
About the gray stone mansion old. Now roars the wind to aid the scene;
The flames yet higher, wilder play. A shudder runs through all around—
Distinctly as in light of day, at topmost window from the ground
Sweet Flossie stands, her golden hair enhaloed now by firelit air.
Loud rang the father's cry: "O God! my child! my child! Will no one dare
For her sweet sake the flaming stair?" Look, one steps forth with muffled face,
Leaps through the flames with fleetest feet, on trembling ladder runs a race
With life and death—the window gains. Deep silence falls on all around,
Till bursts aloud a sobbing wail. The ladder falls with crashing sound—
A flaming, treacherous mass. O God! she was so young and he so brave!
Look once again. See! see! on highest roof he stands—the fiery wave
Fierce rolling round—his arms enclasp the child—God help him yet to save!
"For life or for eternal sleep,"
He cries, then makes a vaulting leap,
A tree branch catches, with sure aim,
And by the act proclaims his name;
The air was rent, the cheers rang loud,
A rough voice cried from out the crowd,
"Huzza, my boys, well we know him,
None dares that leap but Flying Jim!"
A jail-bird—outlaw—thief, indeed,
Yet o'er them all takes kingly lead.
"Do now your worst," his gasping cry,
"Do all your worst, I'm doomed to die;
I've breathed the flames, 'twill not be long";
Then hushed all murmurs through the throng.
With reverent hands they bore him where
The summer evening's cooling air
Came softly sighing through the trees;
The child's proud father on his knees
Forgiveness sought of God and Jim,
Which dying lips accorded him.
A mark of whip on white face stirred
To gleaming scarlet at his words.
"Forgive them all who use you ill,
She taught me that and I fulfill;
I would her hand might touch my face,
Though she's so pure and I so base."
Low Flossie bent and kissed the brow,
With smile of bliss transfigured now:
Death, the angel, sealed it there,
'Twas sent to God with "mother's prayer."
 

Emma Dunning Banks.

Betty and the Bear

 
In a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say,
A great big black grizzly trotted one day,
And seated himself on the hearths and began
To lap the contents of a two gallon pan
Of milk and potatoes,—an excellent meal,—
And then looked, about to see what he could steal.
The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep,
And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep
Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there,
And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear.
 
 
So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering frau,
"Thar's a bar in the kitchen as big's a cow!"
"A what?" "Why, a bar!" "Well murder him, then!"
"Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in."
So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized.
While her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed,
As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows.
Now on his forehead, and now on his nose,
Her man through the key-hole kept shouting within,
"Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agin,
Now poke with the poker, and' poke his eyes out."
So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty alone
At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone.
 
 
Now when the old man saw the bear was no more,
He ventured to poke his nose out of the door,
And there was the grizzly stretched on the floor,
Then off to the neighbors he hastened, to tell
All the wonderful things that that morning befell;
And he published the marvellous story afar,
How "me and my Betty jist slaughtered a bar!
O yes, come and see, all the neighbors they seed it,
Come and see what we did, me and Betty, we did it."
 

The Graves of a Household

 
They grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee;–
Their graves are severed, far and wide,
By mount, and stream and sea.
 
 
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight—
Where are those dreamers now?
 
 
One, 'midst the forest of the West,
By a dark stream is laid—
The Indian knows his place of rest
Far in the cedar shade.
 
 
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one—
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
 
 
One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain:
He wrapped his colors round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.
 
 
And one—o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers—
The last of that bright band.
 
 
And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around the parent knee.
 
 
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth!—
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And naught beyond, O earth!
 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

The Babie

 
Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes,
Nae stockings on her feet;
Her supple ankles white as snow,
Or early blossoms sweet.
Her simple dress of sprinkled pink,
Her double, dimpled chin;
Her pucker'd lip and bonny mou',
With nae ane tooth between.
Her een sae like her mither's een,
Twa gentle, liquid things;
Her face is like an angel's face—
We're glad she has nae wings.
 

Hugh Miller.

A Legend of the Northland

 
Away, away in the Northland,
Where the hours of the day are few,
And the nights are so long in winter,
They cannot sleep them through;
 
 
Where they harness the swift reindeer
To the sledges, when it snows;
And the children look like bears' cubs
In their funny, furry clothes:
 
 
They tell them a curious story—
I don't believe 't is true;
And yet you may learn a lesson
If I tell the tale to you
 
 
Once, when the good Saint Peter
Lived in the world below,
And walked about it, preaching,
Just as he did, you know;
 
 
He came to the door of a cottage,
In traveling round the earth,
Where a little woman was making cakes,
And baking them on the hearth;
 
 
And being faint with fasting,
For the day was almost done,
He asked her, from her store of cakes,
To give him a single one.
 
 
So she made a very little cake,
But as it baking lay,
She looked at it, and thought it seemed
Too large to give away.
 
 
Therefore she kneaded another,
And still a smaller one;
But it looked, when she turned it over,
As large as the first had done.
 
 
Then she took a tiny scrap of dough,
And rolled, and rolled it flat;
And baked it thin as a wafer—
But she couldn't part with that.
 
 
For she said, "My cakes that seem too small
When I eat of them myself,
Are yet too large to give away,"
So she put them on the shelf.
 
 
Then good Saint Peter grew angry,
For he was hungry and faint;
And surely such a woman
Was enough to provoke a saint.
 
 
And he said, "You are far too selfish
To dwell in a human form,
To have both food and shelter,
And fire to keep you warm.
 
 
"Now, you shall build as the birds do,
And shall get your scanty food
By boring, and boring, and boring,
All day in the hard dry wood,"
 
 
Then up she went through the chimney,
Never speaking a word,
And out of the top flew a woodpecker.
For she was changed to a bird.
 
 
She had a scarlet cap on her head,
And that was left the same,
Bat all the rest of her clothes were burned
Black as a coal in the flame.
 
 
And every country school boy
Has seen her in the wood;
Where she lives in the woods till this very day,
Boring and boring for food.
 
 
And this is the lesson she teaches:
Live not for yourself alone,
Lest the needs you will not pity
Shall one day be your own.
 
 
Give plenty of what is given to you,
Listen to pity's call;
Don't think the little you give is great,
And the much you get is small.
 
 
Now, my little boy, remember that,
And try to be kind and good,
When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress,
And see her scarlet hood.
 
 
You mayn't be changed to a bird, though you live
As selfishly as you can;
But you will be changed to a smaller thing—
A mean and selfish man.
 

Phoebe Cary.

How Did You Die?

 
Did you tackle the trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide year face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?
 
 
You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face,
Its nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there—that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why, the higher the bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;
It's how did you fight—and why?
 
 
And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?
 

Edmund Vance Cooke.

The Children

 
When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And the school for the day is dismissed,
And the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good-night and be kissed,—
Oh, the little white arms that encircle
My neck in a tender embrace!
Oh, the smiles that are halos of Heaven,
Shedding sunshine and love on my face!
 
 
And when they, are gone, I sit dreaming
Of my childhood, too lovely to last;
Of love that my heart will remember
When it wakes to the pulse of the past;
Ere the world and its wickedness made me
A partner of sorrow and sin;
When the glory of God was about me,
And the glory of gladness within.
 
 
Oh, my heart grows as weak as a woman's
And the fountains of feeling will flow,
When I think of the paths, steep and stony
Where the feet of the dear ones must go.
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,
Of the tempests of fate blowing wild—
Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child!
 
 
They are idols of hearts and of households,
They are angels of God in disguise.
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
His glory still beams in their eyes:
Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven,
They have made me more manly and mild!
And I know how Jesus could liken
The Kingdom of God to a child.
 
 
Seek not a life for the dear ones
All radiant, as others have done.
But that life may have just enough shadow
To temper the glare of the sun;
I would pray God to guard them from evil,
But my prayer would bound back to myself.
Ah! A seraph may pray for a sinner,
But the sinner must pray for himself.
 
 
The twig is so easily bended,
I have banished the rule of the rod;
I have taught them the goodness of Knowledge,
They have taught me the goodness of God.
My heart is a dungeon of darkness,
Where I shut them from breaking a rule;
My frown is sufficient correction,
My love is the law of the school.
 
 
I shall leave the old house in the autumn
To traverse the threshold no more,
Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones
That meet me each morn at the door.
I shall miss the good-nights and the kisses,
And the gush of their innocent glee;
The group on the green and the flowers
That are brought every morning to me.
 
 
I shall miss them at morn and at evening.
Their song in the school and the street,
I shall miss the low hum of their voices
And the tramp of their delicate feet.
When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And death says the school is dismissed,
May the little ones gather around me
To bid me good-night and be kissed.
 

Charles M. Dickinson.

The King and the Child

 
The sunlight shone on walls of stone,
And towers sublime and tall,
King Alfred sat upon his throne
Within his council hall.
 
 
And glancing o'er the splendid throng,
With grave and solemn face,
To where his noble vassals stood,
He saw a vacant place.
 
 
"Where is the Earl of Holderness?"
With anxious look, he said.
"Alas, O King!" a courtier cried,
"The noble Earl is dead!"
 
 
Before the monarch could express
The sorrow that he felt,
A soldier, with a war-worn face,
Approached the throne, and knelt.
 
 
"My sword," he said, "has ever been,
O King, at thy command,
And many a proud and haughty Dane
Has fallen by my hand.
 
 
"I've fought beside thee in the field,
And 'neath the greenwood tree;
It is but fair for thee to give
Yon vacant place to me."
 
 
"It is not just," a statesman cried,
"This soldier's prayer to hear,
My wisdom has done more for thee
Than either sword or spear.
 
 
"The victories of thy council hall
Have made thee more renown
Than all the triumphs of the field
Have given to thy crown.
 
 
"My name is known in every land,
My talents have been thine,
Bestow this Earldom, then, on me,
For it is justly mine."
 
 
Yet, while before the monarch's throne
These men contending stood,
A woman crossed the floor, who wore
The weeds of widowhood.
 
 
And slowly to King Alfred's feet
A fair-haired boy she led—
"O King, this is the rightful heir
Of Holderness," she said.
 
 
"Helpless, he comes to claim his own,
Let no man do him wrong,
For he is weak and fatherless,
And thou art just and strong."
 
 
"What strength or power," the statesman cried,
"Could such a judgement bring?
Can such a feeble child as this
Do aught for thee, O King?
 
 
"When thou hast need of brawny arms
To draw thy deadly bows,
When thou art wanting crafty men
To crush thy mortal foes."
 
 
With earnest voice the fair young boy
Replied: "I cannot fight,
But I can pray to God, O King,
And God can give thee might!"
 
 
The King bent down and kissed the child,
The courtiers turned away,
"The heritage is thine," he said,
"Let none thy right gainsay.
 
 
"Our swords may cleave the casques of men,
Our blood may stain the sod,
But what are human strength and power
Without the help of God?"
 

Eugene J. Hall.

Try, Try Again

 
'Tis a lesson you should heed,
Try, try again;
If at first you don't succeed,
Try, try again;
Then your courage shall appear,
For if you will persevere,
You will conquer, never fear,
Try, try again.
 
 
Once or twice though you should fail,
Try, try again;
If at last you would prevail,
Try, try again;
If we strive 'tis no disgrace
Tho' we may not win the race,
What should you do in that case?
Try, try again.
 
 
If you find your task is hard,
Try, try again;
Time will bring you your reward,
Try, try again;
All that other folks can do,
Why, with patience, may not you?
Only keep this rule in view,
Try, try again.
 

Indian Names

 
Ye say they all have passed away—that noble race and brave,
That their light canoes have vanished from off the crested wave;
That,'mid the forests where they roamed, there rings no hunter's shout,
But their name is on your waters—ye may not wash it out.
 
 
'Tis where Ontario's billow like ocean's surge is curled,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake the echo of the world;
Where red Missouri bringeth rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps on green Virginia's breast.
 
 
Ye say their cone-like cabins, that clustered o'er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves, before the autumn's gale;
But their memory liveth on your hills, their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak their dialect of yore.
 
 
Old Massachusetts wears it upon her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it amid his young renown;
Connecticut hath wreathed it where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse through all her ancient caves.
 
 
Wachusett hides its lingering voice within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone throughout his lofty chart;
Monadnock on his forehead hoar doth seal the sacred trust;
Your mountains build their monument, though ye destroy their dust.
 
 
Ye call those red-browed brethren the insects of an hour,
Crushed like the noteless worm amid the regions of their power;
Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, ye break of faith the seal,
But can ye from the court of heaven exclude their last appeal?
 
 
Ye see their unresisting tribes, with toilsome steps and slow,
On through the trackless desert pass, a caravan of woe.
Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim?
Think ye the soul's blood may not cry from that far land to Him?
 

Lydia H. Sigourney.