AN ANTHEM

A sailor who had been to a church service where he heard some fine music was afterward descanting upon an anthem which had given him great pleasure. A listening shipmate finally asked:

"I say, Bill, what's a hanthem?"

"What!" exclaimed Bill, "do you mean to say you don't know what a hanthem is?"

"Not me."

"Well, then, I'll tell yer. If I was to tell yer, "Ere, Bill, give me that 'andspike,' that wouldn't be a han­them. But if I was to say: 'Bill, Bill, Bill, give, give, give, give me, give me that, Bill, give me, give me that

'and, give me that 'andspike, spike, Bill, give me that, that 'and, 'andspike, 'and, 'andspike, spike, spike, spike, Ahmen, Ahmen, Bill, give me that 'andspike, spike, Ahmen,' why, that would be a hanthem."   

THE MARINER'S DREAM

In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay;

   His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;

But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dreamed of his home and dear native bowers

And pleasures that waited on life's merry mom;

 While memory each scene gaily covered with flowers,

   And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide,

   And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise;

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide

   And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,

   And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the waIl:

All trembling with transport he raises the latch

   And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,

His cheek is bedewed with Ii mother's warm tear,

And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

I With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast;

   Joy q)1ickens his pulses, his hardships seem o'er;

And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest­

   "0 God! Thou hast blest me; I ask for no more."

Ah! whence is that flame that now glares on his eye?

   Ah! what is that sound that bursts on his ear?

'Tis the lightning's gleam painting hell on the sky,

   'Tis the crashing of thunder, the groan of. the sphere.

He springs from his hammock, he flees to the deck;

   Amazement confronts him with images dire,

Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel, a wreck;

   The masts fly in splinters, the shrouds are on fire.

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell,

   In vain the lost wreck calls on mercy to save.

Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

   And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave.

0 sailor-boy! woe to thy dream of delight,

   In darkness dissolves the gay frostwork of bliss;

Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright,

   Thy parents' fond pressure, thy love's honeyed kiss?

   0 sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again

      Shall love, home or kindred thy wishes repay;

. Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main,

      Full many a fathom, thy fame shall decay.

   No tomb shall e'er plead in remembrance for thee,

      Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge;

   But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,

      And the winds of midnight shall winter thy dirge.

On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid~

   Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;

Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,

   And every part suit to thy mansions below.

Days, months, years and ages shall circle away,

   And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;

Frail, short-sighted mortals their doom must obey­

   0 sailor-boy, sailor-boy! peace to thy soul.

                                                                          W. Dimond.

A BIBLE "HEART THROB"

"Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me.

"In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so I would have told you.

 I go to prepare a place for you.

"And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again,

and receive you unto myself, that where I am, there ye may be also.

"Peace I leave with you,- my peace I give unto you:

not as the world giveth, give I unto you.

 Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."

John xiv: I, 2, 3, 27.

THE LEGEND OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT

When to the flowers so beautiful

    The Father gave a name,

There came a little blue-eyed one­

    All timidly it came­

And standing at the Father's feet,

    And gazing in His face,

It said with low and timid voice,

    And yet with gentle grace,

"Dear Lord, the name thou gavest me,

    Alas, I have forgot."

The Father kindly looked on him

    And said, "Forget-me-not."

A non.

REMEDIES FOR TROUBLE

If you are down with the blues, read the twenty­ third Psalm.

     If there is a chilly sensation about the heart, read the third chapter of Revelations.

     If you don't know where to look for a month's rent. read the twenty-seventh Psalm.

     If you are lonesome and unprotected, read the ninety-first Psalm.

If the stovepipe has fallen down and the cook gone off in a pet, put up the pipe and wash your hands and read the first chapter of St. James.

     If you find yourself losing confidence in men, read the thirteenth chapter of I Corinthians.

     If people pelt you with hard words, read the fifteenth chpter of St. John and the fifty-first Psalm.

     If you are out of sorts, read the twelfth chapter of Hebrews.

Selected

MARCO BOZZARIS, THE EPAMINONDAS OF MODERN GREECE

His last words were: "To die for liberty is a pleasure and not a pain."

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

   The Turk was dreaming of the hour

When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,

Should tremble at his power.

In dreams through camp and court, he bore

 The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;

Then wore his monarch's signet ring

Then pressed that monarch's throne-a king

As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

An hour passed on-the Turk awoke;

That bright dream was his last;

He woke-to hear the sentry's shriek,

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"

He woke-to die midst flame and smoke,

And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast

As lightnings from the mountain cloud;

And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band:­

"Strike-till the last armed foe expires,

 Strike-for your altars and your fires,

Strike-for the green graves of your sires,

God-and your native land!"

They fought-like brave men, long and well,

   They piled that ground with Moslem slain;

They conquered-but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rang their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won;

 Then saw in death his eyelids close

Calmly, as to a night's repose,

   Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

   Come to the mother's when she feels

For the first time her first-born's breath!

Come when the blessed seals

That close the pestilence are broke,

And crowded cities wail its stroke!

Come in consumption's ghastly form,

The earthquake shock, the ocean storm.

 Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine!

 And thou art terrible!-the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,

And all we know or dream or fear

Of agony are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,

And in its hollow tones are heard

   The thanks of millions yet to be.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

   Greece nurtured in her glory's time,

Rest thee-there is no prouder grave,

Even in her own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh;

For thou art freedom's now, and fame's­

One of the few, the immortal names

That were not born to die.

                                       

They fought-like brave men, long and well,

   They piled that ground with Moslem slain;

They conquered-but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rang their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close

Calmly, as to a night's repose,

   Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

   Come to the mother's when she feels

For the first time her first-born's breath!

Come when the blessed seals

That close the .pestilence are broke,

And crowded cities wail its stroke!

Come in consumption's ghastly form,

The earthquake shock, the ocean storm.

Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine!

And thou art terrible! -the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,

And all we know or dream or fear

Of agony are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle f-or the free

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,

And in its hollow tones are heard

   The thanks of millions yet to be.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

   Greece nurtured in her glory's time,

Rest thee-there is no prouder grave,

Even in her own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh;

For thou art freedom's now, and fame's

­One of the few, the immortal names

That were not born to die.

                                                   Fitz-Greene Halleck.

DAVID'S LAMENT OVER ABSALOM

The king stood still till the last echo died;

 then, throwing off the sackcloth from his brow,

and laying back the pall from the still features of his child,

He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth

In the resistless eloquence of woe:­

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!

    Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!

That death should settle in thy glorious eye,

    And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!

How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,

    My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,

    As to my bosom I have tried to press thee.

How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

    Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,

CASEY AT THE BAT

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play.

So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the leatur" 01 the patrons 01 the game.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast,

For they thought, "if only Casey could get a whack at that," They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake,

So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

 But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all, And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball.

And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell;

 It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner, as he stepped into his place; There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed  his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;

Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

 Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped­"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of storm waves on a stem and distant  shore.

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand, And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised a hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to Sir Timothy, once more the spheroid flew; But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two. "

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stem and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched  in hate; He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; But there is no joy in Mudville-mighty Casey has struck out.

Phineas Thayer.

morning prayer

Now I get me up to work,

I pray the Lord I may not shirk.

 If I should die before tonight,

I pray the Lord my work's all right.

Anon.

HIS LAST REQUEST

4Ipat," said the priest, "you're drunk, and I'm going to make you stop this right here. If you ever get drunk again I'll turn you into a rat-do you mind that? If I don't see you I'll know about it just the same, and into a rat you go. Now you mind that."

Pat was very docile that night, but the next evening he came home even worse drunk than ever, kicked in the door, and Biddy dodged behind the table to defend herself.

"Don't be afraid, darlint," said Pat, as he steadied himself before dropping into a chair, "I'm not going to bate ye. I won't lay the weight of me finger on ye. I want ye to be kind to me tonight, darlint, and to re­member the days when we was swatehearts and when ye loved me. You know his riverince said last night if I got dhrunk again he'd turn me into a rat. He didn't see me, but he knows I'm dhrunk, and this night into a rat I go. But I want ye to be kind to me, darlint, and watch me, and when ye see me gettin' little, and the hair growin' out on me, and me whiskers gettin' long, if ye ever loved me, darlint, for- God's sake keep yer eye on the cat."

Selected.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat

   The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on life's parade shall meet

   That brave and fallen few.

On Fame's eternal camping-ground

   Their silent tents are spread,

And Glory guards, with solemn round,

   The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance

   Now swells upon the wind;

No troubled thought at midnight haunt~

   Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow's strife

   The warrior's dream alarms;

No braying horn nor screaming fife

   At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,

   Their plumed heads are bowed;

Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,

   Is now their martial shroud.

And plenteous funeral tears have washed

   The red stains from each brow,

And the proud forms, by battle gashed,

   Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,

   The bugle's stirring blast,

love

To keep one sacred flame

   Through life unchilled, unmoved,

To love in wintry age, the same

   As first in youth we loved,

To feel that we adore

   Even to fond excess

That though the heart would break with more,

   It could not live with less.

Thomas Moore.

Divorce

Ex-Governor Pennypacker, in an address that wa.s both kind and witty, said in Philadelphia of the divorce evil:

"There would be less divorce if there were more forgiveness. We forgive our enemies-would it be so dreadful to forgive our husbands and our wives?

"I have been reading a play by a Frenchman-Her­vieu's Connaistoi-I wish we turned out stich plays in this country-and in the last act of this play an old soldier says a profoundly beautiful thing about those husbands and wives who forgive.

" 'Happiness,' he says, 'is so precious to some of us that, when it is broken, we stoop and gather up the pieces.' "

Selected.

BEETHOVEN'S MOONLIGHT SONATA

It happened at Bonn.

One moonlight winter's evening I called upon Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk, and afterward sup with me.

In passing through some dark, narrow street, he paused suddenly. "Hush!" he said- "what sound is that? It is from my sonata in F!" he said eagerly. "Hark! how well it is played!"

 It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused out­side and listened. The player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was a sudden break, then the voice of sobbing. "I cannot play any more. It is so beautiful, it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh, what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!" "Ah, my sister," said her companion, "why create regrets, when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent." "You are right; and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really good music. But it is of no use."

Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said. "Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?" "I will play to her," he said in an excited tone. "Here is feeling-genius-understanding. I will play to her, and she will understand it."

And before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door. A pale young man was sitting by the table making shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned toward us as we entered.

 "Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music, and was tempted to enter! I am a musician." The girl blushed and the young man looked grave and somewhat annoyed. "I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend. "You wish to hear-that is, you would like - that is - Shall I play for you?"

 There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all smiled involuntarily. "Thank you!" said the shoemaker; "but our harpsichord is so wretched, and we have no music."

 "No music!" echoed my friend. "How, then, does the Fraulein-" He paused and colored up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw that she was blind. "I entreat your pardon!" he stammered. "But I had not perceived before. Then you play by ear?"

 "Entirely."

 "And where do you hear the music, since you frequent no concerts?"

 "I used to hear a lady practicing near us, when we lived at Bruhl two years. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her." She seemed shy; so Beethoven said no more, seated himself quietly before the piano, and began to play.

He had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what would follow - how grand he would be that night. And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He was inspired; and from the instant when his fingers began to wander along the keys, the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal. The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture.

 The former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the harpsichord, as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart should break the flow of those magical, sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a strange, dream, and only feared to wake.

 Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before, and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano-and player. But the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time.

 "Listen!" the composer said, and he played the opening bars of the sonata in F. At length the young shoemaker rose and approached him eagerly, yet reverently.

 "Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone, "who and what are you?"

 A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming, "Then you are Beethoven!" He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties. "Play to us once more-only once more!' He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious, rugged head and massive figure.

 "I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!" looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth. This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time-a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a swift agitato finale a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight and uncertainty, and vague, impulsive terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all in emotion and wonder.

 "Farewell to you!" said Beethoven, pushing back his chair and turning toward the door-"farewell to you!"

 "You will come again?" asked they in one breath.

He paused and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the blind girl. "Yes, yes," he said hurriedly, "I will come again and give the Fraulein some lessons. Farewell! I will soon come again!"