HAVE YOU WRITTEN TO MOTHER?

Pray, may I ask you, worthy lad,

Whose smile no care can smother,

 Though busy life throbs round about,

            Have you written home to mother?

You are fast forgetting, aren't you, quite,

            How fast the weeks went flying;

And that a little blotted sheet

            Unanswered still is lying?

Don't you remember how she stood,

            With wistful glance at parting?

Don't you remember how the tears

            Were in her soft eyes starting?

Have you forgotten how her arm

            Stole round you to caress you?

Have you forgotten those low words:

            "Good-by, my son; God bless you?"

Oh! do not wrong her patient love;

            Save God's, there is no other

So faithful through all mists of sin;

            Fear not to write to mother.

Tell her how hard it is to walk

            As walked the Master, lowly;

Tell her how hard it is to keep

            A man's life pure and holy.

Tell her to keep the lamp of prayer,

            A light, a beacon burning;

Whose beams shall reach you far away,

            Shall lure your soul returning.

Tell her you love her dearly still,

            For fear some sad tomorrow

Shall bear away the listening soul

            And leave you lost in sorrow.

And then. through bitter, falling tears,

            And sighs you may not smother,

You will remember when too late

            You did not write to mother.

                                                            Jane Ronalson, in Banner of Gold.

LEFT ALONE

It's the lonesomest house you ever saw,

            This big gray house where I stay;

I don't call it livin' at all, at all,

            Since my mother went away,

Four long weeks ago, an' it seems a year,

            "Gone home," so the preacher said,

An' I ache in my breast with wantin' her,

            An' my eyes are always red.

I stay out of doors till I'm almost froze,

            'Cause every comer and room

Seems empty enough to frighten a boy

            And tilled to the doors with gloom.

I hate them to call me in to my meals,

            Sometimes I think I can't bear

To swallow a mouthful of anything,

            And see her not sittin' up there,

A-pourin' the tea an' passin' the things,

            An' laughin' to see me take

Two big lumps of sugar instead of one,

            An' more than my share of cake.

'I'm too big to be kissed," I used to say,

            But somehow I don't feel right

Crawlin' into bed as still as a mouse,

            Nobody saying "good-night,"

An' tuckin' the clothes up under my chin,

  An' pushin' my hair back so­-

Things a boy makes fun of before his chums,

            But things that he likes, you know.

There's no one to go to when things go wrong,

            She waz always so safe and sure.

Why, not a trouble could tackle a boy

            That she couldn't up and cure!

There are lots of women, it seems to me,

            That wouldn't be missed so much­

Women whose boys are about all grown up,

            An' old maid aunties, and such.

I can't make out for the life of me

            Why she should have to go,

An' her boy left here m. this old gray house,

            A-need in' and want in' her so.

I tell you, the very lonesomest thing

            In this great big world today

Is a boy of ten whose heart is broke

            'Cause his mother is gone away.

Toronto Globe

INDIRECTION

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle sug­gestion is fairer;

Rare is the rose-burst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer;

Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is sweeter;

And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning outmastered the meter.

Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing;

Never a river that flows, but a majesty scepters the flowing;

Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he did enfold him:

Nor ever a prophet foretells but a mightier seer hath foretold him.

Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted and hidden;

Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor is bidden;

Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feeling;

Crowning the glory revealed is the glory that crowns the revealing.

Great are the symbols of being, but that which is symbolled is greater;

Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator;

Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift stands the giving;

Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of receiving.

Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the doing;

The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of the wooing;

And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the heights where those shine,

Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence of life is divine.

                                                                                                                        Richard Realf.

A BIT OF NEWSPAPER VERSE

She took up one of the magazines and glanced through it casually, but somehow it did not appeal to the old lady, and so she laid it down again. There was a volume of poems, richly bound in vellum, on the table by her side, and for a little while the story of its gallant knights and lovely maidens bewitched her. But soon the weight of the book began to tire her feeble hands.

After that, quite as a last resort, she took up the evening paper and glanced through it, just to while away the time. She had never taken much concern in politics, the latest Parisian fashion did not interest her in the least, but pres­ently three little verses, wedged in between a lurid account of a murder and a patent medicine advertisement, caught her eye.

 The poem was Eugene Field's "Little Boy Blue," and at the very first lines of it the old lady became all atten­tion:

The little toy dog is covered with dust,

            But sturdy and staunch it stands,

And the little tin soldier is covered with rust,

            And his musket molds in his hands.

Very slowly, as she read on, the tears came into her eyes and dimmed the spectacles so that she could scarcely see the lines of the second verse:

"Now don't you go till I come," he said,

             "And qon't you make any noise !"

Then, toddling off to his trundle bed,

  He dreamed of his pretty toys.

 And as he was dreaming, an angel song

   Awakened our little boy.

Oh, the years are many­-

Yes, they were many! It was more than half a century ago now. The paper dropped from the old lady's hand and rustled to the floor. There was no use in trying to read any more, for her thoughts had flown away now to the time when she had had just such a Little Boy Blue as that. Since then she had had lots of other children. Even now, as she sat there in the twilight, she could hear the shouts of her grandchildren at play not far away, but little Geordie had been her first-born and somehow the others were differ­ent, and nobody knew just how but herself. She had daugh­ters to console her in her widowhood, and when her married daughter had died her children had been left. But with little Geordie it was different. They only knew of him by the little headstone in the graveyard: but to he- why, after reading that little poem, it seemed as though it were only yesterday that he was toddling along beside her, rosy and bright and full of fun. And he used to say just those things- she re­membered. .

            "Why, mother," said her daughter, as she came in, "you've been crying! What's the matter?"

"It was nothing, dear," answered the old lady, as she wiped her eyes. "I was reading, you know. and it upset me a little. It was only a bit of newspaper verse."

A BIT OF NEWSPAPER VERSE

She took up one of the magazines and glanced through it casually, but somehow it did not appeal to the old lady, and so she laid it down again. There was a volume of poems, richly bound in vellum, on the table by her side, and for a little while the story of its gallant knights and lovely maidens bewitched her. But soon the weight of the book began to tire her feeble hands.

After that, quite as a last resort, she took up the evening paper and glanced through it, just to while away the time. She had never taken much concern in politics, the latest Parisian fashion did not interest her in the least, but pres­ently three little verses, wedged in between a lurid account of a murder and a patent medicine advertisement, caught her eye.

 The poem was Eugene Field's "Little Boy Blue," and at the very first lines of it the old lady became all atten­tion:

The little toy dog is covered with dust,

            But sturdy and staunch it stands,

And the little tin soldier is covered with rust,

            And his musket molds in his hands.

Very slowly, as she read on, the tears came into her eyes and dimmed the spectacles so that she could scarcely see the lines of the second verse:

"Now don't you go till I come," he said,

             "And qon't you make any noise !"

Then, toddling off to his trundle bed,

  He dreamed of his pretty toys.

 And as he was dreaming, an angel song

   Awakened our little boy.

Oh, the years are many­-

Yes, they were many! It was more than half a century ago now. The paper dropped from the old lady's hand and rustled to the floor. There was no use in trying to read any more, for her thoughts had flown away now to the time when she had had just such a Little Boy Blue as that. Since then she had had lots of other children. Even now, as she sat there in the twilight, she could hear the shouts of her grandchildren at play not far away, but little Geordie had been her first-born and somehow the others were differ­ent, and nobody knew just how but herself. She had daugh­ters to console her in her widowhood, and when her married daughter had died her children had been left. But with little Geordie it was different. They only knew of him by the little headstone in the graveyard: but to he- why, after reading that little poem, it seemed as though it were only yesterday that he was toddling along beside her, rosy and bright and full of fun. And he used to say just those things- she re­membered. .

            "Why, mother," said her daughter, as she came in, "you've been crying! What's the matter?"

"It was nothing, dear," answered the old lady, as she wiped her eyes. "I was reading, you know. and it upset me a little. It was only a bit of newspaper verse."

ROCK ME TO SLEEP

Backward, turn backward, 0 Time, in your flight,

Make me a child again just for tonight!

 Mother, come back from the echoless shore,

 Take me again to your heart, as of yore;

 Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,

 Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;

Over my slumbers your loving watch keep,

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!

 I am so weary of toil and of tears-­

Toil without recompense, tears all in vain-

­Take them and give me my childhood again!

I have grown weary of dust and decay-

­Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;

Weary of sowing for others to reap;

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,

 Mother, 0 mother, my heart calls for you!

Many a summer the grass has grown green

Blossomed and faded, our faces between;

Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,

Long I tonight for your presence again,

Come from the silence so long and so deep;

 Rock me to sleep, mother- rock me to sleep.

Over my heart in the days that are flown

No love like mother-love ever has shone;

No other worship abides and endures­

Faithful, unselfish and patient like yours,

None like a mother can charm away pain.

From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.

Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep;

Rock me to sleep, mother- rock me to sleep.

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,

 Fall on your shoulders again, as of old;

Let it drop over my forehead tonight,

Shading my faint eyes away from the light;

For with its sunny-edged shadows once more

Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;

Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep­-

Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long

Since I last listened your lullaby song.

Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem

Womanhood's years have been only a dream.

Clasped to your breast in a loving embrace,

With your light lashes just sweeping my face,

Never hereafter to wake or to weep-­

Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep.

Florence Percy (pen name): Elizabeth Akers Allen.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY

To be. or not to be: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

Anci by opposing end them. To die: to sleep:

No more: and by a sleep to say we end

  

The pangs of despised love. the law's delay.

The insolence of office and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes.

 When he himself might his quietus make

 With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear.

To grunt and sweat under a weary life.

But that the dread of something after death.

 The undiscovered country from whose bourn

No traveler returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

 Than fly to others that we know not of?

 Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

 And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

 And enterprises of great pith and moment

 With this regarq their currents turn awry,

 And lose the name of action.

Shakespeare.

ENGLISH KNIGHTS AND IRISH KNIGHTS

It was evident in his swagger that he was a scion of the British aristocracy, and the most casual observer could not have failed to note that he was a stranger to the city. He touched a well-dressed, auburn-haired young man, who was lolling in front of a Broadway hotel, on the shoulder.

"Pardon me, me dear man, but could I trouble you for a match?" After lighting his cigar he continued: "Bah Jove, this is a remarkable city. This is me first visit to New York, d'ye know? I'm a deucid stranger, but on the other side I'm a person of importance. I am Sir Francis Daffy, Knight of the Garter, Knight of the Bath, Knight of the Double Eagle, Knight of the Golden Fleece, Knight Of the Iron Cross. D'ye mind telling me your name, me dear man?"

Replied he of the auburn hair in a deep rich brogue:

            "Me name is Michael Murphy, night before last, night before that, last night, tonight, and every damn night- ­Michael Murphy."

From the New York Sun.

HAIL, SOVEREIGN LOVE

The following beautiful poem was written by Major Andre, a few days before his execution:

Hail, sovereign love, which first began

The scheme to rescue fallen man!

Hail, matchless, free, eternal grace,

Which gave my soul a Hiding Place.

Against the God who built the sky,

 I fought with hands uplifted high,

 Despised the mention of His grace,

 Too proud to seek a Hiding Place.

 Enwrapt in thick Egyptian night,

 And fond of darkness more than light,

Madly I ran the sinful race,

Secure, without a Hiding Place.

And thus the eternal counsel ran,

Almighty love, arrest that man!

I felt the arrows of distress,

And found I had no Hiding Place.

Indignant justice stood aview

To Sinai's fiery mount I flew;

But justice cried. with frowning face:

"This mountain is no Hiding Place."

Ere long a heavenly voice I heard,

And Mercy's angel soon appeared;

He led me at a placid pace,

To Jesus as a Hiding Place.

On Him almighty vengeance fell

Which must have sunk a world to Hell.

He bore it for a sinful race,

And thus became their Hiding Place.

Should sevenfold storms of thunder roll,

And shake this globe from pole to pole,

No thunderbolt shall daunt my face,

For Jesus is my Hiding Place.

A few more rolling suns at most,

Shall land me on fair Canaan's coast,

When I shall sing the song of grace,

And see my glorious Hiding Place.

John Andre.

HE WHO DIED AT AZAN SENDS

He made life-and he takes it- but instead

 Gives more; praise the restorer, Al-Mu'hid!

He who died at Azan sends

This to comfort faithful friends:

Faithful friends! it lies, I know.

Pale and white, and cold as snow;

And ye say, "Abdullah's dead!"

Weeping at my feet and head;

I can see your falling tears,

I can hear your cries and prayers;

Yet I smile and whisper this:

  I am not that thing you kiss;

Cease your tears, and let it lie;

It was mine, it is not I.”

Sweet friends, what the women lave,

For its last bed in the grave,

Is a tent which I am quitting,

Is a garment no more fitting,

Is a cage from which at last,

Like a hawk my soul hath passed.

Love the inmate. not the room;

The wearer. not the garb; the plume

Of the falcon, not the bars

Which kept him from those splendid stars.

Loving friends! be wise, and dry

Straightway every weeping eye;

What we lift upon the bier

Is not worth a wistful tear.

'Tis an empty seashell, one

 Out of which the pearl is gone;

The shell is broken, it lies there;

The pearl, the all, the soul, is here.

'Tis an earthen jar whose lid

Allah sealed, the while it hid

That treasure of his treasury,

A mind which loved Him; let it lie!

Let the chard be Earth's once more,

Since the gold shines in His store.

Allah Glorious! Allah Good!

Now Thy grace is understood;

Now my heart no longer wonders

What AI-Barsakh is, which sunders

Life from death and earth from heaven;

 Nor the "Paradises Seven"

Which the happy dead inherit;

Nor those "birds” which bear each spirit

 Toward the throne, "green birds and white,"

 Radiant, glorious, swift their flight!

Now the long, long darkness ends,

Yet ye wail, my foolish friends,

While the man whom ye call "dead"

 In unbroken bliss instead

Lives and loves you; lost, 'tis true,

By any light which shines for you;

 But in light ye cannot see

Of unfulfilled felicity,

And enlarging paradise,

Lives the life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell;

Where I am, ye too shall dwell.

I am gone before your face,

A heart-beat's time, a gray ant's pace,

- -­

When ye come where I have stepped,

Ye will wonder why ye wept,

Ye will know, by true love taught,

 That here is all and there is naught.

 Weep awhile, if ye are fain,

Sunshine still must follow rain!

Only not at death, for death-

­Now I see- is that first breath

Which our souls draw when we enter

 Life. that is of all life center.

Know ye Allah's law is love,

 Viewed from Allah's throne above;

 Be ye firm of trust, and come

Faithful onward to your home!

"La Allah illa Allah ! Yea,

Mu'hid! Restorer! Sovereign!" say

He who died at Azan gave

This to those who made his grave.

 Sir Edwin Arnold in "Pearls of the Faith."

THE ARROW AND THE SONG

I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth. I knew not where:

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong,

That it can follow the flight of song?

  

Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;

 And the song, from beginning to end,

 I found again in the heart of a friend.

            Henry W. Longfellow.

A GOOD FRIEND

To have a good friend is one of the highest delights of life; to be a good friend is one of the noblest and most difficult undertakings. Friendship depends not upon fancy, imagination or sentiment, but upon character. There is no man so poor that he is not rich if he have a friend; there is no man so rich that he is not poor without a friend. But friendship is a word made to cover many kindly, imperman­ent relationships. Real friendship is abiding. Like charity, it suffereth long and is kind. Like love, it vaunteth not itself, but pursues the even tenor or its way, unaffrighted by ill-report, loyal in adversity, the solvent of infelicity, the shining jewel of happy days. Friendship has not the irides­cent joys of love, though it is closer than is often known to the highest, truest love. Its heights are ever serene, its valleys know few clouds. To aspire to friendship one must cultivate a capacity for faithful affection, a beautiful dis­interestedness, a clear discernment. Friendship is a gift, but it is also an acquirement. It is like the rope with which climbers in the high mountains bind themselves for safety, and only a coward cuts the rope when a comrade is in danger. From Cicero to Emerson, and long before Cicero, and forever after Emerson, the praises of friendship have been set forth. Even fragments of friendship are precious and to be treas­ured. But to have a whole, real friend is the greatest of earth gifts save one. To be a whole, real friend is worthy high endeavor, for faith, truth, courage and loyalty bring one close to the Kingdom of Heaven.

By Atmos.

THE CHILDREN

When the lessons all are ended,

            And the school for the day is dismissed.

And the little ones gather round 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 of joy on my face!

And when they are gone I sit dreaming

            Of my childhood too lovely to last;

Of love that my heart well remembers

            When it wakes to the pulse of the past,

Ere the world and its wickedness made me

            A portion of sorrow and sin­-

When the glory of God was about me,

            And the glory of gladness within.

Ohl my heart grows as weak as a woman's,

            And the fountain of feeling will flow

When I think of the path. steep and stony,

    Where the feet of the dear ones must go;

Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,

            Of the tempest of fate blowing wild;

Ohl 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 gleams in their eyes.

Oh I those truants from home and from Heaven.

            They make me more manly and mild;

And I know now how Jesus can liken

            The kingdom of God to a child.

I ask 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 eviI-­

            But my prayer would bound back to myself­-

Ah! a seraph can pray for a sinner,

            But a sinner must pray for himself.

           

The twig is so easily bended,

            I have banished the rule and 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;

            When 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 its 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 even,

            Their songs 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 Dickens

ALMOST HOME

A little winding railway in a southern county connects two widely parallel systems and is known as the C. & G. The trains are small and meek when compared with the long aggregation of cars with which they connect at G.

But to the old man who sat today in one of the cramped, uncomfortable coaches, defects were not apparent. For forty years little cars like these had passed his door; along this same road he and Mary had taken their wedding trip. How proud he was of her when they returned, and he had taken her home, where his father and his father's father had lived before him. There they had lived and labored together, going on Saturdays to the village and on Sundays to the little church; and there Tom had been born.

It seemed hard to realize that all this was long ago; for so much had happened since then. No lusty boy would come rushing to meet him today; the rocking chair where she used to sit would be very still. The old man choked a little and wiped his eyes with his cotton handker­chief.

He had not known what all this meant to him until he had left it. He had been lonely and Tom had persuaded him to go live with him. But it was all so strange in this new place, so little like he had pictured it. He said nothing. They were kind to him, and he must not seem ungrateful. He would not admit, even to himself, that he wished to go back, but he grew so silent, white and still that his son, watching his wistful face, was touched.

"Father," said he, "am I not your son? Tell me." And the old man answered humbly: "Tom, I am old and getting childish, but I want to go back. I've never lived anywhere else before, and- and she's there, Tom."

    So today he was going home; back to the hills and trees; back to his old house and graves; back where she had left him to wait until she had called him; and the journey was almost done.

The sunshine crept across the car, and the noise of voices grew lower and lower. Somehow it was evening, and he was coming home down the long lanes between the fields. Over the hills came the tinkle of bells, as the cattle came home to the milking; here, running to meet him, was little Tom, the red stains of berries still marking his face and fingers; and there by the gate, the love-light as strong in her eyes as on the day they were married, stood Mary, the wife of his youth.

 “I am late," he said, “and tired.”

"Come," she said, "you can rest now; it is only a step more," and- a long, quavering sigh of relief- and- he was at home. The little rough train went jolting along and reached his station at last. But when the conductor shook him he did not answer.

E. Crayton McCants.

"I SHOULD LIKE TO DIE,” SAID WILLIE

"I should like to die," said Willie, "if my papa could die, too;

 But he says he isn't ready- 'cause he's got so much to do;

 But my little sister Nellie says that I must surely die,

And she and mamma-then she stopped because it made me

cry.

"I remember that she told me once, while sitting on her knee,

That the angels never weary watching over her and me;

 And if r was only good- Nellie told me so before­-

That they let us into Heaven when they see us at the door.

"I shall know no more of sorrow, I shall know no more of sin-

­I shall see mamma and Nellie, for I know they'll let me in;

 But I'll have to tell the angel when I meet him at the door,

That he must excuse my papa, because he couldn't leave the store.

"I know I shall be happy, and shall always want to stay­-

 I should like to hear the singing-I should love the endless day;

I would like to look at Jesus- I'd love him more and more,

And I'd gather water-lilies for the angel at the door.

 Nellie says that it may be I shall soon be called away-­

If papa was only ready I should like to go today;

But if I go before him to that world of light and joy,

I guess he'll want to come to Heaven to see his little boy."

AULD LANG SYNE

            Favorite selection of Joel Chandler Harris (Uncle Remus), and by him contributed.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot.

            And never brought to min' ?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

            And days 0' lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,

            For auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup 0' kindness yet,

            For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes

            And pu' d the gowans fine;

But we've wandered mony a weary foot

            Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn

            From morning sun till dine:

But seas between us braid hae roared

            Sin' auld lang syne.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere.

            And gie's a hand o' thine.

And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught.

For aula lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup,

            As sure as I'll be mine;

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

            For auld lang syne.

Robert Burns.

BARBARA FRIETCHIE

Up from the meadows, rich with com,

 Clear in the cool September mom,

 The clustering spires of Frederick stand,

 Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,

Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,

 Fair as a garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant mom of the early fall,

 When Lee marched over the mountain wall-­

 Over the mountains, winding down,

 Horse and foot into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,

 Forty flags with their crimson bars,

 Flapped in the morning wind; the sun

 Of noon looked down and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,

 Bowed with her four-score years and ten;

 Bravest of all in Frederick town,

 She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,

 To show that one heart was loyal yet.

 Up the street came the rebel tread,

Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat, left and right,

He glanced-the old flag met his sight:

"Halt !"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast.

"Fire!"-outblazed the rifle blast;

It shivered the window, pane and sash;

It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick. as it fell, from the broken staff,

Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf:

She leaned far out on the window-sill

And shook it forth with a royal wiII.

"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,

But spare your country's flag," she said.

A shade of sadness. a blush of shame

Over the face of the ieader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred

To life at that woman's deed and word:

"Who touches a hair of yon gray head

Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.

All day long through Frederick Street

Sounded the tread of marching feet;

All day long that free flag tossed

Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light

Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,

And the rebel rides on his raids no more,

 Honor to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave

 Flag of freedom and union wave'

 Peace and order and beauty draw

 Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down

On thy stars below in Frederick town.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

BRAVE LOVE

James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet, was recently asked to name his favorite poem,

and responded by giving the following bit of fugitive verse, written many years ago, the

author of which is unknown:

He'd nothing but his violin.

  I’d nothing but my song,

But we were wed when skies were blue

  And summer days were long.

And when we rested by the hedge,

  The robins came and told

How they had dared to woo and win

  When early spring was cold.

We sometimes supped on dewberries,

            Or slept among the hay,

But oft the farmers' wives at eve

            Came out to hear us play

The rare old tunes- the dear old tunes­-

            We could not starve for long

While my man had his violin

            And I my sweet love song.

The world has aye gone well with us,

            Old man, since we were one­-

Our homeless wandering down the lanes­-

            It long ago was done.

But those who wait for gold or gear,

            For houses and for kine,

Till youth's sweet spring grows brown and sere.

            And love and beauty tine,

Will never know the joy of hearts

            That met without a fear,

When you had but your violin

            And I a song, my dear.

                         Urbana (0.) Journal.

THE BRAVE AT HOME

The maid who binds her warrior's sash

            With smile that well her pain dissembles,

The while beneath her drooping lash

            One starry teardrop hangs and trembles,

Though Heaven alone records the tear,

            And fame shall never know her story,

Her heart has shed a drop as dear

            As e'er bedewed the field of glory!

The wife who girds her husband's sword

            'Mid little ones who weep or wonder

And bravely speaks the cheering word,

            What though her heart be rent asunder.

Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear

            The bolts of death around him rattle,

Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er

Was poured upon the field of battle!

The mother who conceals her grief

            While to her breast her son she presses.

Then breathes a few brave words and brief,

            Kissing the patriot brow she blesses.

With no one but her secret God

            To know the pain that weighs upon her,

Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod

            Received on freedom's field of honor!

            Thomas Buchanan Read.

PICTURES OF MEMORY

Among the beautiful pictures

            That hang on Memory's wall.

Is one of a dim old forest.

            That seemeth best of all:

Not for its gnarled oaks olden.

            Dark with the mistletoe;

Not for the violets golden

            That sprinkle the vale below;

Not for the milk-white lilies

            ". That lead from the fragrant hedge,

Coquetting all day with the sunbeams.

            And stealing their golden edge;

Not for the vines on the upland.

            Where the bright red berries rest.

Nor the pinks. nor the pale sweet cowslip.

            It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother.

            With eyes that were dark and deep­

In the lap of that old dim forest

            He lieth in peace asleep:

Light as the down of the thistle,

            Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers.

            The summers of long ago:

But his feet on the hills grew weary.

            And. one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother

            A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded

            My neck in a meek embrace,

As the light of immortal beauty

            Silently covered his face:

And when the arrows of sunset

            Lodged in the tree-tops bright,

He fell, in his saint-like beauty.

            Asleep by the gates of light.

Therefore, of all the pictures

            That hang on Memory's wall,

The one of the dim old forest

            Seemeth the best of all.

Alice  Cary.