11
POEMS OF OTHER DAYS AGAIN FIND WAY TO TYPE
.
Requests Appear for Verses of Which Only Line or so Is Remembered Subscribers Aid in Supplying Galls for Old Favorites.
Till? SUNDAY ' OREGOXIAX, PORTLAND, MATICIT 2G. J91C.
-J ACH week brings contributions to
Hi The Ore-onian from persons who
have noticed specific requests for
'poems to be published on the page of
Old favorites, and who are able to sup
ply the desired verses.
At the same time the demands for
other verses continues to be as great
-as ever, and scarcely is one request met
ithrough the help of sonie contributor
before another re-quest is received.
"Among the requests for poems which
(Subscribers remembered as favorites,
"out were unable to give, was a plea
from one subscriber to print the whole
of the poem of Foley's, which has for
Jthe burden of each stanza:
And all us other Chilians we runned
' off and h id.
Cause we didn't know who did it btfi
:, somebody did!"
".Another writer asks for the publica
tion of a poem published 34 years ago
in the. Willamette Farmer, under the
title "The Snow Fay's Gift."
"Can any of your readers tell me."
writes E. F. Sias, of Hillsboro, "where
I can get the words of a song entitled:
He Doeth All Things Well'?"
Among the verses sent in in response
to the requests from other readers is
the "Rhyme of the Nancy Bell." one of
the Bab ballads, which was contributed
ly J. B. Klston, of Aberdeen. Wash.
THE YARN OK THE "NANCY BELL."
Twas on the shores that round our
', " coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span.
That 1 found alone, on a piece of stone,
' . An elderly naval man.
Wis hair was weedy, his beard, was
long.
And weedy and Ions: was he:
And I heard this wight on the shore
recite.
In a singular minor key:
Oh. I am a cook and a captain bold.
And the mate of the Nancy brig.
'And a bo sun tight, and a midshipmite.
And the crew of the captain's gig."
And he shook his fists and he tore his
hair.
Till 1 really felt afraid.
For I couldn't help thinking the man
had been drinking.
And so I simply said:
"O elderly man, it's little T know
Of the duties of men of the sea.
And I'll eat my. hand if I understand
How you can possibly be
At onre a cook and a captain bold.
And the mate of the Nancy brig.
And a ho'sun tight, and a midshipmite.
And the crew of the captain's gig!"
Then he gave a. hitch to his trousers,
which
Is a trick all seamen l'arn.
And having got rid of a thumping quid
He spun this painful yarn:
"Twas In the good ship Nancy Bell
That we sailed to the Indian Sea.
And there on a reef we come to grief.
Which has often occurred to me.
"And pretty nigh all o' the crew was
drowned
(There was seventy-seven o' soul);
And only ten of the Nancy's men
Said 'Here' to the muster-roll.
"There was me. and the cook, and the
captain bold.
And the mate of the Nancy brig.
And a ho'sun tight and a midshipmite.
And the crew of the captain's gig.
"For a month we'd neither wittles nor
drink.
Till a-hungry we did feel.
Co we drawed a lot. and. accordin', shot
The captain for our meal.
"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate.
And a delicate dish he made:
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.
"And then we murdered the bo'sun
tigh t.
And he much resembled pig:
Then we wittled free, did the cook and
me.
On the crew of the captain's gig.
"Then only the cook and me was left.
And the delicate question, 'Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose.
And we argued it out as sich.
"For I loved that cook as a brother, I
did.
And the cook he worshiped me;
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either
be stowed
j In the other chap's hold, you see.
J "'I'll be eat if you dines off me.'
; says Tom.
Yes. that." says I. 'you'll be.
I'm boiled if I die. my friend,' quoth. I,
And 'Exactly so.' quoth he.
"Says he: "Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,
Ftor don't you see that you can't cook
i me,
"While I can and will cook you?
o he boils the water, and takes the
. salt
' And the pepper in portions true
Whicli he never forgot), and some
chopped shalot,
J And some sage and parsley, too.
3 "'Come berj.' says he, with a proper
- pride,
'Which his smiling features tell;
Twill soothing be if I let you see
'How extremely nice you'll smell.
"And he stirred it round, and round.
And he sniffed at the foaming froth;
.When I ups with his heels, and smold
ers his squeals
In the scum of the boiling broth.
"And I eat that cook in a week or less.
And as I eating be
The last of his ""Shops, why I almost
drops,
. For a wessel in sight I see.
"And I never larf, and I never smile,
' And I never lark nor play;
But I sit and croak, and a single joke
; I have which is to say:
".'O. I am a cook and a captain bold
And the mate of the Nancy brig.
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."-
-Lillian M. Davis, of 621. Overton
street. in submitting the fellowing
verses expressed regret that she could
Jiot recall the author's name:
What Io They Kn'oir of I-lvlngf
"What does he know of life who never
was- hurt in the bruising strife?"
-With luxury smoothing his every
... turn, with no grim reason to toil
or earn:
never has seen the dead souls
whirled hither and yon in the
underworld;
Who
-Who
never was hungry, never was
cold, never was tempted by
tainted gold.
Never once strayed, vhth passion rife,
what does he know of life?
,Wrhat does she know of life, the pain-
fully proper deacon's wife.
JWho dwells secure in. her righteous
home, with neither the wish or
chance to roam;
,Who never was swept by passion wave
- . to a crust of bread or a moral
grave.
W'ho never has known the wild unrest
" - teigning in many a girlish breast:
Heady to Judge and quick to spurn,
j- scoffing at things she can never
lea rn,
Ever unyielding and unforgiving
what does she know of life or liv-
' ing?
' ""'Albert Rigelow Paine's verses "Con
rernin' Some Folks." contributed by
' W. . R. Biddle. were originally pub
lished in the Fort Scott Daily Monitor.
Paine was for years secretary to Mark
Twain and after his death was his
biographer.
CONCERNIX SOME FOLKS.
BV ALBERT BfGELOW PAINE.
Some folks is allers grumblln.' no mat
ter what they've got.
A-finding fault with what they have,
an wantln" what they've not.
An' you'd think, to hear 'em kickin' an
a-cussln' of their luck.
That the world's a bad investment an'
the Lord's a-gettin stuck.
An.' it riles me up to hear 'em .a-com-plainin'
all the time.
With, their measly misconception of
the works o' the Sublime
An" it sets me to reflectin on the merits
of the case.
An a-drawin' of conclusions apper
taining to the race.
Till I've sorter got to thinkln' that it's
sinful to complain.
That there's jest as much of pleasure
as there ever was of pain;
That there ain't no more to cuss about
than what there is to bless,
An' things are pretty ekally divided
up, I guess.
For when you strike a balance 'twlxt
the shadder an' the sun.
The two will allers ekallize when all
is said an' done;
An' the world is balanced even, er it
wouldn't spin aroun,"
An' the hills'll fill the hollers when the
thing is leveled down.
There's another old-time doctrine, an'
I've found it mighty true.
That you never get a thing without
a-losin' somethin' too;
That there never was a gain without
a correspondin' loss;
That you're not a-goin' to wear a crown
unless you bear a cross.
An" when you see a pint in life, the
where you'd like to get.
You may make it soon er later, but
you'll pay fur it, I bet.
A man may get the larnin of the
sciences an' sich.
An another deal in futures an' may
strike it sudden rich.
But the first has lost the peace of mind
that once he use to feel.
An" the last has lost the relish of the
hard-earned, honest meal.
An' when you see a feller that has got
things extra nice.
You can gambol that fur all he's got
he's paid the market price.
An" if your life was figured out, I'll
tell you what, my friend.
You'd find it balanced just the same as
his'n at the end.
Then quit your fool complainin' an'
a-studyin how to shirk.
For the time you spend in cussin" you
can better spend in work.
Things do take on a billious look, at
times, I must admit.
But a kickin' an' complainin" won't
help the thing a Hit.
An the clouds that come a driftln'
by'll vanish one by one.
An' a-peerin' from behind 'em is the
glory of the sun.
There's as much of sun as shadder in
every drap o' dew.
There's as much ot day as darkness
when you take the year all
through;
There's as much of sun as shadder In
every human heart.
An of day an' night In every life
you'll find an. ekal part.
An' should there be a residue a-stan'ln
either way.
The Lord'll make it ekal on the other
side, some day.
Mrs. Adams also has sent in & copy
of Longfellow's "Leap of Roushan
Beg," which was one of the favorites
of a generation ago in the selections in
the old Barnes' school readers.
"THE" LEAP OF ROISHAV BEG."
Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet.
His chestnut steed with four white feet,
Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,
Son of the road and bandit chief
Seeking refuge and relief.
Up the mountain pathway flew.
Such was Kyrat's wonderous speed,
Never yet couid any steed.
Reach the dustcloud in his course.
More than maiden.' more than wife.
More than gold and next to life,
Roushan, the robber, loved his horse.
In the land that lies beyond
Krzeroum and Trebizond,
Garden-girt his fortress stood,
plundered tchan. or caravan.
Journeying north from Koordistan.
Gave him wealth and wine and food.
Seven hundred and fourscore
Men-at-arms his livery wore.
Did his bidding night and day.
Now, through regions all unknown.
He was wandering, lost, alone,
Seeking without guide his way.
Suddenly the pathway ends.
Sheer the precipice descends.
Loud the torrent roars unseen;
Thirty feet from side to side
Yawns the chasm; on air must ride
He who crosses this ravine.
Following close In his pursuit.
At the precipice's foot.
Reyhan, the Arab of Orfah,
Halted with his hundred men.
Shouting upward from the glen,
"La Illah ilia Allah."
Gently Roushan Beg caressed
Kyrat's forehead, neck and breast;
Kissed him upon both his eyes;
Sang to him in his wild way.
As upon the topmost f spray
Sings a bird before it flies.
"O. my Kyrat, O my steed.
Round and slender as a reed.
Carry me this peril through!
Satin housings shall be thine.
Shoes of gold. O Kyrat mine,
O thou soul of Kurroglou!
"Soft thy skin as silken skein.
Soft as woman's hair thy mane,
Tender are thine eyes and true;
All thy hoofs like ivory shine.
Polished bright. O, life of mine.
Leap and rescue Kurroglou!",
Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet.
Drew together his four white feet.
Paused a moment on the verge.
Measured with his eye the space,
And into the air's embrace
Leaped as leaps the ocean surge.
As the ocean surge o'er sand
Bears a swimmer safe to land,
Kyrat safe his rider bore;
Rattling down the deep abyss.
Fragments of the precipice
Rolled like pebbles on a shore,
Roushan's tassled cap of red
Trembled not upon his head.
Careless sat he and upright;
Neither hand nor bridle shook.
Nor his head he turned to look.
As he galloped out of sight.
Flash of harness in the air.
Seen a moment. like the glare
Of a -sword drawn from Its sheath;
Thus the phantom horseman pa.ased.
And the shadow that he cast
Leaped the cataract underneath.
Reyhan. the Arab, held his breath
While the vision of life and death
Passed above him. "Allahu!"
Cried he. "In all Koordistan
Lives there not so brave a man
As this Robber Kurroglou!"
Mrs. Lottie Reed, of 334 Fifth street,
has sent in "The Newsboy's Debt." a
(This is the best beloved by the people of Oregon,among all the writings of Samuel L. Simpson,
who was Oregon's poet laureate in .the earlier days.)
From the Cascade's frozen gorges,
Leaping like a child at play,
Winding, widening through the valley,
Bright Willamette glides away. -Onward
ever,
Lovely river,
Softly calling to the sea;
Time, that scars us,
- Maink and mars us,
Leaves no track or trench on thee!
Spring's green witchery is weaving
Braid and border for thy side;
Grace forever haunts thy journey,
Beauty dimples on thy tide;
Through the purple gates of morning.
Now thy roseate ripples dance,
Golden, then, when day, departing,
On thy waters trails his lance.
Waltzing, flashing,
Tinkling, splashing,
Limpid, volatile and free
Always hurried
To be buried
In the bitter, moon-mad sea.
characteristic ballad poem by Helen
Hunt Jackson.
THE NEWSBOY'S DEBT.
I.
Only last year, at Christmas time.
Whiles pacing down a city street,
I saw a tiny, ill-clad boy
One of the thousands that we meet
II.
As ragged as a boy could be.
With half a cap. with one good shoe;
Just patches to keep out the wind
I know the wind blew keenly, too;
III.
A newsboy, with a newsboy's lungs,
A square (Scotch face and honest
brow.
And eyes that lilcod to smile so well
They had not yet forgotten how;
IV.
A newsboy, hawking his last sheets
With "loud persistence. Now and then
Stopping to beat his stiffened hands.
And trudging bravely on again.
V.
Dodging about among the 'crowd.
Shouting his "Extras" o'er and o'er.
Pausing by whiles, to cheat the wind
Within some alley, by some door.
VI.
At last he stopped six papers left.
Tucked hopelessly beneath his arm
To eye a fruiter's outspread store.
And products from some country
farm.
VII.
He stood and gazed with wistful face.
All a child's longing in his eyes;
Then started, as I touched his arm.
And turned in quick, mechanic wise.
VIII.
Raised his torn cap with purple hands.
Said, "Paper, sir? Sun. Star, Times!"
And brushed away a freezing tear
That marked his cheek with frosty
rimes.
IX.
"flew many have yoj? Never mind
Don't stop to count I'll take them
all.
And when you pass my office here
With stock on hand, give me a call."
X
He, thankaed me with a broad Scotch
smile,
A look half wondering and 'half
glad.
I fumbled for the proper "change."
And' said: "You seem a little lad
XI.
"To rough it in the streets like this."
"I'm 10 years old this Christmas
time."
"Your name?" "Jim Hanley." "Here's
a bill
I've nothing else, but this one dime
XII.
"Five dollars. When you get it
changed
Come to my office that's the place.
Now wait a bit, there's time enough;
You need not run a headlong race.
XIII.
"Where do you live?" "Most any
where. We hired a stable-loft today.
Me and two others." "And you thought
The fruiter's window pretty, hey?
XIV.
"And you are cold?" "Aye. just a bit.
I don't mind cold." "Why, that is
strange."
He smiled and pulled his ragged cap.
And darted oil to get the "change."
XV.
So. with half unconscious sigh,
I sought my office desk again.
An hour or more my busy wits
Found work enough with book and
pen.
XVI.
But when the mantel clock struck five
I started with a sudden thought.
For there beside my hat and coat
Lay those six papers I had bought.
"Why, where s the boy, and Where's
the 'change'
He should have bro'ight an hour ago?
In thy crystal deeps, inverted.
Swings a picture of the sky,,
Like those wavering hopes of Aidenn
Dimly in our dreams that lie;
Clouded often, drowned in turmoil,
Faint an4 lovely, far away
Wreathing 'sunshine on the morrow,
Breathing fragrance 'round today.
Love would wander
Here and ponder
. Hither poetry would dream ;
Life's old questions
Sad suggestions
"Whence and whither ? " throng thy stream.
On the roaring wastes of ocean,
Soon thy scattered waves shall toss;
'Mid the surges' rhythmic thunder,
Shall thy silver tongues be lost.
Oh! thy glimmering rush of gladness ;
Mocks this turbid life of mine
Racing to the wild Forever,
Down the sloping paths of Time.
Onward ever,
, Lovely river
Softly calling to the sea;
Time, that scars us,
Maims and mars us,
Leaves no track or trench on thee!
Ah, well! Ah, well! they're all alike!
1 was a fool to tempt him so!
XVIII.
"Dishonest! Well, I might have known;
And yet his face seemed candid, too.
He would have earned the difference
'If he had brought me what was due."
XIX.
Just two days later, as I sat.
Half dozing in my office chair,
I heard a timid knock, and called.
In my brusque fashion, "Who's
there?"
XX.
An urchin entered, barely seven
The same Scotch face, the same blue
eyes
And stood half doubting at the door,
Abashed at my forbidding guise.
XXI.
"Sir, if you please, my brother Jim
The one you gave the bill, you know.
He couldn't bring the money, sir.
Because his back was hurted so.
XXII.
"He didn't mean to keep the 'change,'
He got runned over on the street;
One wheel went right across his back.
And t'other .fore-wheel mashed his
feet.
XXIIT.
"They stopped the horses just in time.
And then they took him up for dead;
And all that day and yesterday
He wasn't rightly in his head.
XXIV.
"They took him to the hospital
One of the newsboys knew 'twas
Jim
And I went too, because, you see.
We two are brothers, I and him.
XXV. t
"He had that money in his hand.
And never saw it any more. .
Indeed, he didn't mean to steal!
He never lost a cent before.
XXVI.
"He 'was afraid you might think
He meant to keep it. anyway.
This morning, when they brought
him to.
He cried because he couldn't pay.
XXVII.
"He made me brrng his Jacket here;
It 8 torn and dirtied pretty bad,
It's only fit to sell for rags.
But then, you know, it's all he had!
XXVIII.
"When he gets well it won't be long
If you will call the money lent.
He says he'll work his fingers off.
But what he'll pay you every cent."
XXIX.
And then he cast a rueful glance
At the soiled jacket, where it lay,
"No, no, my boy! Take back the coat.
Your brother's badly hurt, you ay?
XXX.
"Where did they take him?. Just run
out
And hail a cab, then wait for me.
Why, I would give a thousand coats.
And pounds, for such a boy as he!"
XXXI.
A half hour after this we stood
Together In the crowded wards.
And the nurse checked the hasty steps
That fell too loudly on the boards.
XXXII.
I thought him smiling In his sleep.
And scarce believed her when she
said.
Smoothing away the tangled hair
From brow and cheek, "The boy is
dead."
xxxiu.
Dead? Dead so soon? How fair he
looked.
One streak of sunshine on hie hair.
Poor lad! Well, it is warm in heaven;
No need of "change" and jackets
there.
XXXIV.
And something rising in my throat
Made it so hard for me to speak,
I turned away, and left a tear
Lying upon his sunburned cheek.
' HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
MY MOTHER'S HANDS.
Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
They're neither white nor small:
And you, I knowv would scarcely think
That they are fair at all.
I've looked on hands whose form and
hue
A sculptor's dream might be;
Yet are those aged, wrinkled hands
More beautiful to me.
Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
Though heart were weary and sad.
Those patient hands kept toiling on.
That the children might be glad.
I always weep, as. looking back.
To childhood's distant day,
I think how those hands rested not'
When mine were at play.
Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
They're growing feeble now. "-
For time and pain have left their mark
On hands and heart and brow.
Alas! alas! the nearing time.
And the sad, sad day to me.
When "neath the daisies, out of sight.
These hands will folded be.
But oh! beyond this shadow land.
Where- all is bright and fair,
I know full well these dear old hands
Will palms of victory bear; '
Where crystal streams through endless
years
Flow over golden sands.
And where the old grow young again,
I'll clasp my mother's hands.
THE SIX" OF OMISSION.
It Isn't the thing you do, dear
It's the thing you leave undone.
Which gives you a bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.
The tender words forgotten;
The letter you did not write;
The flower you might have sent roe
dear.
Are your haunting ghosts tonight.
The stone you might have lifted
Out of a brother's way
The bit of heartsome counsel.
You were hurried too much to say.
The loving touch of the hand. dear.
The gentle and winsome tone.
That you had not time or thought for
With troubles enough of your own.
The little acts of kindness,
So easily out of mind.
These chances to be angels
Which even mortals find
They come in night and silence.
Each chill, reproachful wraith;
When hope is faint and nagging.
And a blight is dropped on faith.
For life is ari too short, dear.
And sorrow is all too great
To suffer our slow compassion,
That tarries until too late.
And it's not the thing you do, dear,
'Tis the thing you leave undone.
That gives you the bitter heartache
At the setting of the sun.
A TALK "OK THE ORIENT.
Shiek Hassan sat beside his door.
While three young men passed by;
The glow of youth was on each cheek,
youth's fire flashed in each eye.
"What seekest thou?' wise Hassan
asked
The first bright, ardent lad:
"I seek for pleasure." he replied,
"I only would be glad."
"What seekest thou?" the next he
asked.
"For riches," came reply.
"With riches, I am well assured.
Great pleasure I can buy."
"And you?" asked Hassan of the third,
"What is it you pursue?"
With modest mein he meekly said:
"I would my duty do."
In after years, now aged men.
The selfsame three passed by.
And, being asked how they had fared.
Each thus made his reply:
The first said: "Pleasure, phantomlike,
Just when you'd seize It, disappears."
The second, "Riches have not power
To banish sorrow, pain and tears."
The third thus spoke in cheerful tone.
While smiles lit up his happy face:
"While I my duty tried to do.
With duty pleasure walked apace."
Author unknown.
The following twelve-stanza poem,
"Doris," is the favorite of E. H. Sims,
of 4S35 Sixty-fourth street Southeast:
Doris.
I sat with Doris, the shepherd maiden;
Her crook was laden with wreathen
flowers;
I sat and wooed her through sunlight
wheeling.
And shadows stealing, or hours and
hours.
And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses
Wild Summer roses of rich perfume.
The while I sued her stood hushed and
harkened
The shades had darkened from gloss
to gloom.
She touched my shoulder with fearful
finger;
, She said: "We linger; we must not
stay; .
My flock's in danger, my sheep will
wander;
Behold them yonder; how far they
stray!"
I answered, bolder: "Nay, let me hear
you
And still be near you and still adore;
No wolf nor stranger shall touch one
yearling;
Stay,- my darling, one moment more!"
She whispered, sighing: "There will be
sorrow
Beyond tomorrow if I lose today
My flock unguarded, my sheep un
folded, I shall be scolded and sent away."
Said I. replying: ,"If they do miss you
They ought to kiss you when you
get home.
Apd well rewarded from friend andlRight glad was he when he beheld her,
neighbor FHtick after stick did Goody pull.
Should be the labor from
you come."
whence
"They might remember," she answered
meekly,
"That lambs are weakly and sheep
are wild;
I, they do love me, 'tis none too fervent;
I am a servant and not a child."
Then each hot ember glowed quick
within me.
And love did win me to swift reply:
"Ah, do but prove me and none shall
t blind you.
Nor fray, nor find you until I die.'"
She, startled, stopped and stood await
ing. As if debating in dreams divine.
But 1 did brave them and told her
plainly. .
She doubted vainly, she must be mine.
Then we, twin-hearted, from all the
valley.
Did choose and rally the nibbling
ewes.
And homeward drove them, we together.
Through blooming heather and
sparkling dews.
This simple duty from grace did lend
her
My Doris tender, my Doris true
That 1. her warden, did always bless
her
And often press her take her due.
And now in beauty she fills
my
dwelling
With grace excelling and undefiled.
And love, bind her, both fast ana
fervent;
No more a. servant, nor yet a child.
"I am sending the words of a song
my mother used to sing me to sleep
With when I was a small child. 1
shtuld like to know the name of the
author." Mrs. Ella M. Crouch, 15 East
Twenty-sixth street.
THE LITTLE GRAVES.
'Twas Autumn, and the leaves were
dry.
And rustled on the ground.
And chilly winds went whistling by
. With low and pensive sound;
As through the graveyard's lone re
treat. By meditation led,
I walked with slow and cautious feet
Above the sleeping dead.
Three little graves, ranged side by
side.
My close attention drew;
O'er two the tall grass, bending, sighed.
And one seemed fresh and new.
As lingering there I mused awhile
On death's long dreamless sleep.
And morning life's deceitful smile,
A mourner came to weep.
Her form was bowed, but not with
years.
Her words were faint and few.
And on those little graves her tears
Distilled like evening dew.
A prattling boy, some four years old.
Her trembling hand embraced.
And from mv heart the tale he told
Will neve,r be effaced.
"Mamma, now you must love me more,
For little sister's dead;
And t'other, sister died before.
And brother, too, you said.
"Mamma, what made sweet sister die?
She loved me when we played;
You told me, if I would not cry.
You'd show me where she's laid."
"'Tis here, my child, that sister lies.
Deep buried in the ground;
No light comes to her little eyes
. And she can hear no sound."
"Mamma, why can't we take her up.
And put her in my bed?
I'll feed her from my little cup.
And then she won't be dead.
"For sister'll be afraid to lie
In this dark grave tonight.
And she'll be very cold and cry
Because there is no light."
"No, sister is not cold, my child.
For God. who saw her die,
As he looked down from heaven and
smiled,
Called her above the sky.
"And then her spirit quickly fled
To God, by whom 'twas given;
Her body in the ground is dead.
But sister lives in heaven."
"Mamma, won't she be hungry there.
And want some bread to eat?
And who will give her clothes to wear,
And keep them clean and neat?
"Pap must go and carry some,
I'll send her all I've got. ,
And he must bring sweet sister home.
Mamma, now must he not?"
"No. my dear child, that cannot be;
But if you're good and true.
You'll one day go to her, but she
Can never come to you.
" 'Let little children come to me,'
Once our good Saviour said:
And in his arms she'll always be,
And God will give her bread."
Together with his request for the
song. "He Doeth All Things" Well." E.
F. Sias, of Hillsboro, sends the follow-
ing old ballad, which he has written
from his memory of it, as it was given
60 years -ago:
GOODY BLAKE AXD HARRY GILL.
Oh, what's the matter, what's the mat
ter? What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
For evermore his teeth they chatter.
Chatter, chatter, chatter still.
Of clothing Harry has no lack. , . .
Good dapple gray and flannel fine,
He has a blanket on his back
And coats enough to cover nine. .
Now Harry was a .lusty drover.
And who so stout of limb as he.
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover.
His voice was like the voice of three.
And Goody Blake was old and poor,
Illfed she was and thinly clad.
And any one who passed her door.
Could" see how poor a hut she had.
'Twas well enough when Summer came.
The long, long lightsome Summer day.
When at her door the canty dame
AVould sit as any linnet gay.
But when the frost the stream did fetter
And made her poor old bones to ache.
You would have said, if you had met
her,
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
A joy for her whene'er in Winter,
The winds at night had made a rout.
And scattered many a lusty splinter,
And many a rotten bough about.
And when the last old bough had fled
And her old bones were cold and chill
She left her fire or left her bed.
And sought the hedge of Harry Gill.
Now, Harry, who had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake.
Now vowed that she should be detected
And he on her would vengeance take.
So oft from his warm fire he'd go.
And to the fields his road would take
And there at night in frost and snow.
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.
And once behind a rick of barley. '
Thus looking out did Harry stand.
The moon was full and shining clearly.
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
He hears a noise, he's all awake.
Again, on tiptoe down the hill
He softly creeps, 'tis Goody Blake,
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill.
He stood behind a bush of elder
nil she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about.
The byroad back again to take.
He started forward with a shout.
And sprang upon old Goody Blake.
And fiercely by the arm he took her.
And by the arm held her fast.
And fiercely by the arm he shook her
And cried. "I've caught you now at
last."
Now Goody, who had nothing said.
Her bundle from her lap let fall.
And kneeling on the sticks she prayed.
To God who is the judge of all.
She prayed, her withered arm uprear
ing. While Harry held her by the arm,
"God, who art never out of hearing,'
Oh, ' may he never more be warm."
The cold, cold moon above her head
Thus on her knees did Goody pray.
Young Harry heard what she had said,.
And icy cold he turned away.
He went complaining all the morrow,
That he was cold and very chill.
His face was gloom, his heart was sor
row, Alas that day for Harry Gill.
'Twas all in vain a useless matter.
For blankets more about him pinned.
But still his jaws and teeth did chatter.
Like a loose casement in the wind.
And Harry's flesh it fell away
And all who see him say it's plain
That live as long as live he may.
He never will be warm again.
Abed or up by night or day.
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think ye. farmers all. I pray.
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.
to vnoA.
BY SAMUEL L. SIMPSON.
It was on that sacred eve. love.
Before Thanksgiving day.
When tears and doubts take leave, love.
And gratitude holds sway:
Of all men in the land, love.
You made of me the king
By the gift of that dear hand, love.
On which I placed the ring.
That diamond cannot vie, love,
Tho' all its heart be flame.
With the splendor of your eye. love.
Which veils the gem with shame;
Of all men in the land. love.
You crowned me as the king:
And I wave the regal wand, love.
As here of thee I sing.
Let others give their thanks, love,
, For all the earth bestows:
The sea and all its banks, love.
Where plenty overflows.
But 1 give thanks for thee, love.
Who made of me the king,
And I wave the regal wand, love.
As here of thee I sing.
(This poem has been heretofore n
published. It was submitted by Mrs.
G. A. Waggoner, of Lebanon.)
"Love Triumphant" Is contributed to
the list of favorites by Fred Lockley
as his favorite and he expresses his de
light in the fine lyric character of the
verse.
LOVE TRIUMPHANT.
Helen's lifs are drifting dust,
Ilion is consumed with rust;
All the galleons of Greece
Drink the ocean's dreamless peace;
Lost was Solomon's purple show
Restless centuries ago;
Stately empires wax and wane
Babylon, Barbary and Spain
Only one thing undefaced.
Lasts, though all the world lies wast
And the heavens are overturned:
Dear, how long ago we learned!
There's a sight that blinds the sun,
Sound that lives when sounds are done,
Music that rebukes the birds.
Language lovelier than words.
Hue and scent that shame the rose.
Wine no earthly vineyard knows.
Silence stiller than the shore
Swept by Charon's stealthy oar.
Ocean more divinely free
Than Pacific's houndless sea
Dear, how long: ago we knew!
Ye who love have learned it true.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
A LITTLE GIRL'S CURIOSITY.
My Ma's been working very hard.
And also, very sly:
She keepe her sewing out of sight
Whenever I come nigh.
I asked her once what made her stop
Her work when I came in;
She said she only stopped to get
A needle, thread or pin.
The bureau drawer next to mine
Is locked both night and day.
And when Ma wants to open it
She sends me out to play.
.4
I stole a peep the other day, ,
Although it whs not right.
And, Oh, the little thing I saw
Was such a pretty sight.
The cutest, nicest little clothes
Just big enough for doll;
But then I know they are not for her
She needs them not at all.
I know they are not for me
Or Ma, or Pa. or brother Hor;
For we can't wear such little clothes.
I wonder who they are for?