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About The Sunday Oregonian. (Portland, Ore.) 1881-current | View Entire Issue (May 14, 1916)
TTTTI RFM)AT OTlKnoXTATT. rOTSTLA VD. MAT 14, 1016. 7t READERS REQUEST AND OFFER MANY OLD FAVORITE POEMS THE past week has been a week in ' which more requests than contri butions have been received for the page of favorite poems in The Orego nian. Among these requests have come some that call for the explanation that the page is intended to be devoted chiefly to the old favorites or semi obscure poems of other days rather than to poems that have become pop ular in modern days and are at this time easily within the reach of all. Several requests have been received for poems that have been publishd within the past few years or which are still enjoying a 'current popularity, but it iB the intention to give requests for the older ones preference over these. Som letters have been received ask ing explanations why poems that have been requested have not yet appeared. Efforts are being made to answer re quests by the publication of the poems desired as rapkily as possible, but the limits of the page make it possible to reprint only a small number each week. Also we are relying chiefly for the manuscripts of poems for the page upon contributions from interested fol lowers of its contents. Some of the requests that have been sent in have brought no responses from contributors and for that reason their publication has been postponed in the face of im mediate contributions of other poems that have been received. It appears necessary to call attention to the fact that a manuscript sent in written on both sides of the sheet will stand no show for immediate handling and that a manuscript legibly written or typewritten on one side of the sheet only will receive the most prompt at tention. ' Among the requests received in the past week ia the following from Mrs. it. Luce, to whom we are indebted for a number of contributions to answer the requests of other readers. Mrs. Luce wants the full text of the poem which contains the following: "Tis weary watching wave on wave. And yet the tide heaves onward; "We build like corals, grave on grave. But pave a pathway sunward. "We're beaten back in many a fray. But ever strength we borrow. For where the vanguard sleeps today The rear shall camp tomorrow." J. D. Kandy, of Ariel. Wash., requests the poem "Porto Rico," which he says was published in some of the Eastern papers in 1898. The name of the author and the text of "Kelly's Dream" is requested by an other reader of the page. Mrs. Palmer, of Albany, asks for the words of the song "Paul Vane." which she heard about 50 years ago. The song is an answer to "Lorena" and the first lines are:, "The years are creeping slowly by, 'dear Paul; The Winters come and go." S. W. Walker wants the poem which he committed to memory to recite when a schoolboy. It begins: "I am a Modoc chieftain and they call me Captain Jack; And well ye know my war-whoop and my trusty rifle's crack." Mrs. A. B. Chase asks for "The Drunkard's Wife," which contains the lines: "Tell me I hate the bowl. Hate is a feeble word. I loathe, abhor, my very soul With deep disgust is stirred, "Whene'er I see or hear or tell Of that dark beverage of hell." A reader in Bend wants the poem "Why He- Wouldn't Sell the Old Farm" and "The Story of the Empty Sleeve, both reminiscent of the Civil War." "The Dying Californian" is a poem sought by J. W. Bell, of Dallas. "C. F. B.," contributing a poem, also asks for the complete verses of the poem running: "Just beyond the harbor bar. There my bark is sailing far; O'er the world I wander lone. Sweet Belle Mahone." Mrs. O. L. Barbur asks for the words of "Molly Darling" and the "Sailor's Grave, the latter containing the lines: "With a splash and a dash, the task was o er And the billows rolled as they rolled before. Also she requests the words to "So carry Settin' a Hen." The poem. "Jack Dempsey's Grave," which was printed here some 15 years asn, is sought by Alex Maxwell, of Che hulis. Wash. "Oblivion wraps his faded form, but ages hence shall save The memory of the Irish lad who fills Jack Dempsey's grave." Almost equal in popularity to "We Are Seven" and "Little Jim" has been Tn-w.,.in lint.,'.. "UntVior, r.f l,n " rT- as it is sometimes known, "The Bravest DUllIf, U(iea nave uvcu leveivci iiutii jirs. uoutria ji. i&uuui, diis. murey or Lents; erne tsrignt, oi seaverton; Kuth Luce and others: MOTHER? OF ME. By Joaquin Miller. The bravest battle that ever was fought. Shall 1 tell you where and when? On the map of the world you will find it not It was fought by the mothers of men. ?"nt with cannon or battle shot. With sword or mightier pen; TCot with wonderful word or thought From the lips of eloquent men. But deep in some patient mother's heart, A woman who could not yield, Fut silently, cheerfully bore her part. Aye, there is the battle field. Ko mashaling troop, no bivouac song. No banners to naunt and wave. But, oh. their battles, they last bo long From the cradle e'en to the grave. Yet faithful still, as a bridge of stars. She fights in her walled-up town Fights on and on, in endless wars. Then silent, unseen, goes down. Oh. spotless woman, in world of shame, With splendid and silent scorn. Go hack to God, as white as you came The kingliest warrior born. (Note The two concluding stanzas do not appear in all of the copies of the poem, the usual form being apparently the first four stanzas only.) Another of Mr. Wood's contributions, which follows, will be fondly remem bered by hundreds who learned to re cite it in school years ago and who remember it in their school readers a generation back: THE THREE CLOI DS. Across the blue sky together Flew three little clouds one day. The Sun they had passed at noontime. The West was a league away. "Oh he is so slow." they whispered, "So slow and so far behind. That we three can be first at the Sunset If we only have half a mind!" So they hurried along together. They took hold of hands and flew. But alas, what a sad disapointment They afterwards learned anew. For this they had quite forgotten As they hurried along through the air There never can be any sunset Till the Sun himself is there. A. B. Wood, of Cottage Grove, has furnished us. together with several other selections, the following by Joaquin Miller, which, although writ- ten years ago, has a striking applica tion to the conditions that surround the present day: "THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE" Europe was never so entirely and terribly armed. Woe to him who sets Europe on fire now. Von Moltke. And who the bravest of the brave. The bravest hero ever born? 'Twas one who dared a felon's grave. Who dared to bear the scorn of scorn, Nay, more than this, when sword was drawn And vengeance waited but his word. He looked with pitying eyes upon The scene and said, "Put up thy sword!" Could but one king be found today As brave to do. as brave to say. "Put up thy sword into the" sheath. Put up thy sword, put up thy sword!" By Cedron's brook, thus spake beneath The olive trees, our valiant Lord; Spake calm and king-like. Sword and stave And torch, and stormy man of death. Made clamor; yet he spake not. save With loving word and patient breath: "Put up thy sword into thy sheath" The peaceful olive branch beneath. Ye Christian kings in Christ's dear name I charge you live no more the lie! Put up thy sword. The time they came To bind and lead him forth to die Behold, this was his last command. Yet ye dare cry to Christ in prayer. With red and reeking sword in hand. Ye dare to do as devils dare! Ye liars liars great and small. Ye cowards, cowards, cowards all! Oh God. but for our gallant czar. Our valiant king, our fearless queen. Yea, there would be an end of war. If but one could be heard or seen To follow Christ, and bravely cry, "Put up thy sword, put up thy sword" And let us dare to live and die As did command our valiant Lord, With sword commanded to its sheath. The peaceful olive boughs beneath! Mrs. Ruth Luce has sent us "Papa's Letter," an old selection which has been for years a prime favorite as a reading. The handbooks on elocution and the "Speakers" that have been in vogue have nearly all utilized the pa thetic ballad: PAPA'S LETTER. I was sitting in my study Writing letters, when I heard, "Please, dear mamma, Mary told me Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed. "But I'se tired of the kitty, Want some ozzer ring to do. Witing letters, is 'on, mamma? Tan't I write a letter, too?" "Not now, darling, mamma's busy; Run and play with kitty now." "No, no, mamma, me wite letters. Tan if 'ou will show me how." I would paint my darling's portrait As his sweet eyes searched my face. Hair of gold and eyes of azure, Form of childish, witching grace. But the eager face was clouded As I slowly shook my head. Till I said, "I'll make a letter Of you, darling boy, instead." So I parted back the tresses From his forehead high and white. And a stamp in sport I pested 'Mid its waves of golden light. Then I said, "Now, little letter. Go away and bear good news." And 1 smiled as down the staircase Clattered loud the little shoes. Leaving me, the darling hurried Down to Mary in his glee. "Mamma's w'iting lots of letters; l'se a letter, Mary see!" No one heard the little prattle. As once more he climbed the stair. Reached his little cap and tippet Standing on the entry stair. No one heard the front door open. No one saw the golden hair As it floated o'er his shoulders In the crisp October air. Down the street the baby hastened Till he reached the office door. "I'se a letter, Mr. Postman: Is there room for any more? "Cause dis letter doin' to papa. Papa lives with God, you know. Mamma sent me for a letter. Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?" But the clerk in wonder answered: "Not today, my little man." "Den I'll find anozzer office, 'Cause I must do if I can." Fain the clerk would have detained him. But the pleading face was gone And the little feet were hastening. By the busy crowd swept on. Suddenly the crowd was parted; People fled from left to right As a pair of maddened horses At the moment dashed in sight. No one saw the baby figure; No one saw the gulden hair. Till a voice of frightened sweetness Rang out on the Autumn air. 'Twas too late a moment only Stood the beauteous vision there. Then the little face lay lifeless. Covered o'er with golden hair. Reverently they raised my darling. Brushed away the curls of gold. Saw the stamp upon the forehead. Growing now so icy cold. Not a mark the face disfigured. Showing where a hoof had trod; But the little life was ended "Papa's letter" was with God. "Only a Thin Veil Between Us." pleasing lyric, typical of the verse produced a generation or so ago, is contributed by C. F. Barber. ONLY A THIX VEIL BETWEEN" VS. Only a thin veil betwen us. My loved ones so precious and true; Only a mist before sunrise, I am hidden away from your view. Often I come with my blessing. And strive all your sorrows to share. At night when you re quietly sleeping, I kiss down your eyelids in prayer. Only a thin veil between us. Not many long years will it stay. 'Tis growing more fleecy and golden, As earth-life with you fades away. And when you are thinking so sadly Oi days all so Joyous and free. It is then I am nearest, my darling. And I bring sweetest comfort to thee Onl a thin veil betwen us. Oh! can you not see me just now? I brin you a crown of rare flowers. w ith which to encircle your brow. So long have 7. waited to greet thee, And tell of the Joys that are mine, Be true and be faithful to duty And my home in its beauty is thine. Only a thin ve'l between us; Some morning the angels will come, And then, in a bright land of beauty, We'll gather with loved ones at home Home, beautiful home. No longer in sadness to roam. But safe in the kingdom of glory. We'll dwell with our loved ones at home. Miss Metzgers has also sent a few verses which will be remembered well as characteristic memory gems learned In the second or third grade in the by It was a Summer evening:, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the gTeen His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet. In playing there, had found. She came to ask what he had found That was so large, and smooth, and round, Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And when the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, " Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory." "Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin, he cries; While littje Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes. "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for." "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out. But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory. "My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; ma 4 m schools back in the old "Barnes Third Reader days": WHICH LOVED BESTf I love you. mother." said litte Ben. Then, forgetting his work, his cap went on Aiul he was off to the garden to swing. Leaving the water and wood to bring. "I love you. mother," said rosy Nell I love you better than tongue can tell": Then she teased and pouted full half the day. Till her mother rejoiced when she went to play. I love you, mother," said little Fan, Today I'll help you all I eau; How glad I am school doesn't keep"; So she rocked the babe till it leu asleep. Then, stepping softly, she fetched the broom And swept the floor and tidied the room: Busy and happy all day was she. Helpful and happy as child could be. 1 love you. mother, again tney sakl. Three little childj-en going to bed; How do you think that mother guessed Which of them really loved her best? Out of a great collection of poems that have been written on the same theme, the following is one of the well- known favorites. It is contributed by Mrs. J. H. Behrendt. of Portland, who also kindly contributed copies of "Lit tle Jim" and "We Are Seven," .which already have been reprinted in, this section: WRITE THEM A LETTER TONIGHT. Don't go to the theater, lecture or ball. But stay in your room lonipm. Deny yourself of the friends that call And a eood long letter wriie. Write to the sad old folks at home. Who sit when the day is done With folded hands and downcast eyes And think of the absent one. Don't selfishly scribble: "Exuse my baste. I've scarcely the time to write.' Lest their brooding thoughts go wan dering back To many a bygone night. When they lost their needed sleep and rest. And every breath was a prayer That God would leave their delicate babe To their tender love and care. Don't let them feel that you've no msro need Of their love and counsel wise: For the heart grows strangely sensi tive When age has dimmed the eyes. It might be well to let them believe You never forgot them quite. That you deem it a pleasure when far away Long letters home to write. Don't, think that the young and gidly friends Who make your pastime gay. Have half the anxious cares for you That the old folks have today. The duty of writing do not put off. Let sleep or pleasure wait. Lest the letter for which they looked and longed Be a day or an hour too late. For the sad old folks at home. With locks fast turning white. Are longing to hear from the absent one. So write them a letter tonight. The words of "Billy Boy" will bring back to the memory of many readers the Jolly lilting melody to which it used to be sung in the days when it was a popular song with as big a run a any of the rat time favorites of l)hecl53ulhey They burned his dwelling to the ground. And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. "With fire and sword the country i-ound 1 'i ,. Was wasted far and wide; And many a childing mother, then, And new-born baby died; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. . "They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won, S For many thousand bodies here ' Lay rotting in the sun; S Z4 the present day. The copy Is sent by Mrs. O. L. Barber. BILLY BOY. Oh. where have you been? Billy boy, Billy boy. Oh, where have you been, charming Billy? I have been to seek a wife She's the Joy of my life. She's a young thing and cannot leave her mother. Did she bid you to come in? Billy boy, Billy boy. Did she bid you to come In, charming Billy? Yes, she bade me to come in There's a dimple in her chin She's a young thing and cannot leave her mother. Did she set for you a chair? Billy boy. Billy boy. Did she set for you a chair? charming Billy. Yes, she set for me a chair There were ringlets in her hail She's a young thing and cannot leave her mother. Can she make a cherry pie? Billy boy. Billy boy. Can she make a cherry pie. charming Billy. She can make a cherry pie Quick as a cat can wink her eye. She's a young thing and cannot leave her mother. How old Is she? Billv boy. Billy boy. How old is she? charming Billy. Three times six, four times seven. Twenty-eight, and eleven. She's a young thing and canot leave her mother. "Almost There, requested In a pre vious issue, has been sent In by F. E. Briggs. of this city. The text of the poem is herewith given: ALMOST THERE. "Are we almost there? Are we almost there?" Said a dying girl as she drew near home. "Are those our poplar trees that rear Their forms so nigh 'gainst the hea ven's blue" dome? Then she thought of her flowers and talked of the well. Where the cool water dashed o'er the large white stone. And she thought it would soothe like a fairy spell Could she drink of that well when the fever was on. In her earlier days, when her bloom grew less. They had borne her away to a kind lier clime; For she would not tell that 'twas only distress That had wasted her bloom in its sweet Springtime. But now she sighed for the quiet spot. Where often she roamed In her child hood's hour. Though shrub and flowerlet marked It not. It was dearer to her than the gayest bower. And often she asked, "Are we almost there?" And her eyes grew dim and her flushed cheeks pale. And they strove to soothe her with useless care, As her sighs escaped on the evening gale. Then quickly, more' quickly they hur ried her on And over each heart came a chill despair. But when the light of her eyes was gone And the quick pulse stopped, they were almost there. Miss Lima Metzser, of Gold Beach, immm But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. "Great praise the Duke of Marborough won And our good prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay. nay, my little girl," quoth he; "It was a famous victory. "And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." "And what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory." has sent the following copy of "The Two Words.' Miss Metzger also kindly contributed a copy of the requested poem. "You Put No Flowers on My Papa Grave." but this has already been reprinted In a recent issue: THE TWO WORDS. One day a harsh word, rashly said. Upon an evil Journey sped. And like a sharp and cruel dart. It pierced a fond and loving heart; It turned a friend into a foe And everywhere brought pain and woe. A kind word followed It one day. Flew swiftly on Its blessed way: It healed the wound, it soothed the pal And friends of old were friends again it made the hate and anger cease And everywhere brought Joy and peace. But yet the harsh word left a trace The kind word could not quite efface And. though the heart Its love regained. it nore a scar that long remained: Friends could forgive, but not forge ur lose me sense or keen regret. Oh. if we could but learn to know How swift and sure one word can ko. How we would weigh with utmost care r-ach thought before it sought the air, And only speak the words that move Like white-winged messengers of love. "I F." If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs, and blaming It o you ; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you. But make allowance for their doubting. too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting; Or being lied about, don't deal In lies Or being ated, don t give way to hating; If you don't look too good, nor talk too- wise. If you can dream, and not make dreams your master; If you can think, and not make thought: your aim; If you can meet with triumph and disaster And treat these two impostors Just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for tools; Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken. And stoop and build 'em up with worn. out tools. If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pltch-and-toss. And lose, and start again at your beginnings. And never breathe a word about your loss: If you can force your nerve and heart, and sinew. To serve your turn long after they are gone. And so hold on. when there l nothing in you. Except the will, which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue: Or walk with kings nor lose the common touch; If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you. If all men count with you, but none too much: If you can fill the unforgiving minute. With sixty seconds' worth of distance run. Yours is the earth " and everything that's In It; And whlcn is more you'll be a man, my son! Rudyard Kipling, in American Mag azine. Among the contributions received in the past week, Mrs. r. Irons, sending a copy of "We Are Seven," which has al ready been printed, contributes also 1 ennyson's "Slay Queen," which she first found in Wilson's Fourth Reader: THE MAY Qt'EEX, Tou must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear: Tomorrow'U be the happiest time of all the glad new year; Of all the glad new year, mother, the maddest. aierriest day: For I'm to be Queen o' the May. mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There's many a black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline. But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, tbey say. So I'm to be Queen o' the May. mother. 1'ra to be Queen o the May. sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break; .But I must gather knots of flowers and buds and garlands gay. For I'm to be Queen o' the May. mother. I'm to be Queen o' the May. As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see But Kobin leaning on the bridge be neath the hazel tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother. I gave him yesterday But I'm to be Queen o" the May, mother. 1 m to be Queen o the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be; They say his heart is breaking, mother what Is that to me? There's many a bolder lad will woo me any Summer day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May. mother. I m to be Queen o the May. Little Effie shall go with me tomorrow to the green. And you'll bp there, too. mother, to see me male the Queen; For the shephehrd lads on every side will come from far away And I'm to be Queen o' the May. mother. I'm to be Queen o the May. NEW YEAR'S EVE. If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear. For I ttould see the sun rise upen the glad new year; It Is the last new year that I shall ever see. Then you may lay me low In the mould and think no more of me. To night I saw the sun set; he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time. and all my peace of mind; And the new year's coming up, mother. but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the lea! upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day: Beneath the hawthorn on the green they niade me Queen of May, And we danced about the Maypole and in the hazel copse Till Charles's train came out above the tall white chimney tops. There's not a flower on all the hills the frost Is on the pane; only wish to live till the snowdrops come again; I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: I long to see a flower so before the day 1 die. The building rook will caw from the windy, tall elm tree And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea. And the swallow will come back again with Summer o'er the wave- But I shall He alone, mother, within the moldering grave. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light. You'll never see me more In the long gray fields at night: When from the dry. dark wold the Sum mer airs blow cool On the oat grass and the bulrush in the pool. You'll bury me. my mother. Just be neath 'tie hawthorn shade. And you'll ct u-.e sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you. mother; I shall hear you when you pass. With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; Youll kiss me. my own mother, upon my check and brow: Nay, nay, you must not weep nor let your grief be wild: You should not fret for me. mother you have another child. Good night, good night: when I have said good nlsht for evermore And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door. Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green: Shel'U be a beter child to you than ever I have been. She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor: Let her take them; they are hers; I shall never garden more. But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose bush that I set About the parlor window, and the box of mignonette. Good night, sweet mother; call me be fore the day Is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep , at morn; But I should see the sun rise upon the glad new year. So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. CONCLCSIOX. I thought to pass away before and yet alive I am. And In the fields all 'round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly. I remember, rose the morn ing of the year! To die fiefore the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun. And now It seems as hard to stay, and yet his will be done! But still I think It can't be long before I find release. And that good man. the clergyman, has told me words of peace. O, blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair! And blessings on his whole life long. until he meet me there! O, blessings on his kindly heart and on hi silver head! A thousand times I bles't him as he knelt beside my bed. He show'd me all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin; Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in. Nor would I now be well, mother, again If that could be. For my desire Is but to pass to him that died for me. O, look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now and there his light may shine Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. O, sweet and strange It seems to me that, ere this day ia done. The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun orever and forever souls and true Ith those Just And what is lite that wp should moan? " ny maae we much ado? Forever and forever, all In a blessed home And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come: To lie within the light of God. as I lid upon your breast. And the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. "The White rilgrim" was reprinted a few weeks ago. but we have received since then copies of its sequel. "The Vihite i-llfrnii B Widow." Copies were sent by Mrs. R. H. StiHwell and Clara .McKee. of Junction City. We reprint both, for the benefit of such reader as may desire to have theru together: THE WHITE IMI.f.KIM. I came to the spot where the While Pil grim luy And pensivny stood by his tomb. And in a low wbiser a voice seemed to say : "How sweetly I sleep here alone. "The tempest may howl and loud thun ders may roll And gathering storms may arise; But calm are my feelings, at rest is my The tears are all wiped from mine eyes. "The call of my Master compelled me irom no me: I bade my companion farewell: : left my sweet children, who for me now mourn. In a far-distant region to dwell. "I wandered a stranger, an exile from home. To publish salvation abroad; I met the contusion and -unk in the tomb. My spirit ascending to Gftd.' "Go tell my companion and children most dear To weep not the loved one that's gone. The same hand thnt led me through scenes dark and drear Hath kindly conducted me home." THE WHITE PILGRIM'S DOV.'. called at the house of the mourner below. I entered the mansion of irrief. The tears of deep borrow did Mow, i iriei out, rou id not give relief. There sat lono uidow, dejected and sad. By affliction and sorrow oppressed, in mourn- And here were her children ' ing al rayed. And sighs were ercaping each breast. I spoke to the widow conccrnins her grief. I asked her the cause of her woe And why there was nothing to give her relief Or sooth her deep sorrow below. Sue looked at the children, then looked up at me: That look 1 can never forget. Moru eloquent far than a seraph can be, I spoke of the trials she had met. "The hand of affliction falls heav"ly now. I a:n left with my children to mourn: The friend of my youth ia silent and low. In yonder graveyard alone. "But why should I mourn or feel to complain Or think that fortune is hard? Have I met with affliction? 'Tis truly his gain: He has entered the Joys of his Lord. "His work is completed and finisned below. His last tear has fallen. I trust; Ho has preached his last sermon ana met his last foe. Has conquered and now is at rest."' "Small Beginnings.' also contributed by Mrs. Eunice P. Athey. has been a arat favorite and holds place of honor In many a scrapbook: MA1.1. RKGIM. BY CHARLES MAC KAY. A traveler through a dusty road strewd acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up and grew Into a tree. Love sought its shade, at evening time. to breathe its early vows: And age was pleased. In hents of noon, to bask beneath its boughs: The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds sweet music bore; It stood a glory in Us place, a olessins evermore. A little spring had lost its way an I1 the grass and fern. A passing stranger scooped a well. where weary men might turn; He walled It in and hung with care a ladle at the brink: He thought not of the deed he dd. but Judged that toll might drink; He passed again, and lo! the well, by Summer never dried. Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues and saved a life beside. A dreamer dropped a random thought: 'twas old. and yet 'twas new; A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true. It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray. a moni tory flame. The thought was small: its Issue great; a watch-lire on the hill; It sheds its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still! A nameless man. ami a crowd that thronged the viaily mart. Let fall a word of Hope and Love, un studied, from the heart: A whisper on the tumult thrown a transitory breath It raised a brother from the dust; It Saved a soul from death. O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought of random cast! Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last. The following by John G. Holland has been used to drive hosie innumer able public addresses, ranging from high school orations to political cam paign speeches, and is still one of the most widely quoted selections In t!".e English language. It was contributed by Mrs. Eunice P. Athey, of this city: GOD GltR t"S SIEX. God give us men; A time like this de mands Strong minds, great hearts, true faith nd ready hands; Men whom the love of office cannot kill; Men whom the spoils of office rarnot buy; Men who possess opinions and a will: Men who love honor; men wnj will not lie; Men who can stand before n dema gogue Ard damn his treacherous flatteries without winking. Tall men. sun-crowned, who live above the fog In public duty and In rrivate think ing; For while the rabble with their thumb worn creeds Their large professions and their little deeds. Mingle in selfish strife, lo! Maom weeps. Wronir rules the land and waiting "uj Uco sleeps' r