The Sunday Oregonian., June 18, 1916, SECTION FIVE, Page 5, Image 63

TITO SUNDAY OltEGOXIAX. PORTLAND, JUNE 18. 1916.
"CURFEW MUST NOT RING TONIGHT" IS POPULAR STILL
,. ; . . , " . ' . . j ... - - ! I -
Many Send Response to Request for Poem Favorite in Days of Long Ago.
r
THE request of one of the reader
of the page of favorite poems in
The Oregonian last week for
Curfew Must Not Ring .Tonight"
brought an Instant response, and -we
are publishing the poem today.
For copies of it we are Indebted to
Miss Amy Lee. of Independence: Mrs.
P. O. Harvey, of Glendale; Mrs. Sollars,
of Portland; Arthur Roseman, of Cor
vallis; C. W. Castle, of Baker, and sev
eral anonymous contributors.
Copier of "Fair Charlotte: or the
Frosen Girl.' which was reprinted last
Sunday, have been received - through
courtesy of Mrs. W. D. Barns, of Silver
Lake: R. C. Brown, of Roseburg; Mrs.
Soll-us. of Portland; Mrs. E. L. Turney.
of Portland.
W. A. Darling, of Condon, has fa
voted us with a. copy of "Ostler Joe,"
but this poem was reprinted two weeks
ago.
Anions: the many requests that have
come in during the past weeks are tb.e'i
following:
. "The Demon Ship."
" "Bernardo Del Carplo." (A copy of
this poem was sent in, but was illeg
ible when received.)
"The Cld Man by the Wayside." which
begins: "By a wayside on . a mossy
stone, sat a hoary Pilgrim sadly mus
ing Oft I marked him sitting there
Bjone. all the landscape like . page
perusing." ,
A request from Mrs. R. W. Powell for
the poem beginning: - - "
"How big viis Alexander, pa.
That people call him great?
"Was he like old Goliath tall:
His spear a hundred weight?"
' "Asleep At the Switch." requested by
p. L. Kaler, of La Grande.
C. R. Christie, of The Dalles, asks
tor- "The Dying Nun." Tha only line
he is able to. remember is, "Sister"
Martha, you' were kind."
He also requests t Ifc song which con
tains tho words:
Go birdie, tell "Winnie I'm waiting.
In the little old path In. 'the lane."
Mrs. W. D. Palmer haa requested "A
Thousand Tear. My Own Columbia."
This song was. reprinted on the page
of old favorites in the issue of Sunday,
Way 21. ,
Requests have been received from
time to time for poems of Robert
Service,' Rudyard' Kipling and other
wrltuia whose work can be said to be
hardly in the classification of pld
favorites and whose poems are easily
obtainable at any library. We are re
printing herewith "The Spell of .the
Yukon," which was requested by . a
number of readers, and which appears
in Robert Service's poems. Hereafter
we shall be obliged'to omit reprinting
poems which are so modern and well
known as lo be easily available else
where and confine this page to verse
that comes mors truly under the classi
fication of "old favorites.'" We are in
debted to Florence Purinton. of Tigard.
and "M. C. B.." of Eugene, for copies.
THE SFELL OF THE Tl'KOX.
I wanted the gold and. I sought it:
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy, I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold and I got it
Came out with a fortune last Fall.
But somehow life's not what I thought
And somehow the gold isn't all. '
"No! there's the land (have you seen it?)
It's the cussedest land that I know.
From the big. diszy mountains that
screen it.
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when he made
it;
Borne soy U'b a fine ltnd to shun;
Maybe; but there's them as would
trade it
For.no land on earth and I'm one.
!Tou lame to get rich (damned good
reason ;
You feel like an exile at first;
Ton hate it like hell for a season
And then you are worse than the
worst.
It grips you like some kinds of sinning.
It twists you from foe to a friend:
It seems it's been since the beginning';
It seems it will be to the end.
I've stood In some mighty-mouthed
hollow
That's plumb-full of hush to the brim.
And watched the big, dusky sun wallow
In crimson and gold and grow dim.
Till the moon set the pearly peaks
gleaming
And the stars tumbled out neck and
crop;
'And it seemed that I surely was
dreaming.
With the peace o the world piled on
top. .
The Summer no sweeter was ever;
- The sunshiny woods all a-thrill;
The grayling a-leap in the river.
Tho highborn asleep on the hill.
The strong life that's never known
harness;
The wilds where the caribou call:
The freshness, the freedom, the far
ress Oh, God! bow I'm stuck on it all.
The Winters! the brightness that
blinds you.
The white lands locked, tight as a
drum.
The cold fear that follows and finds
you.
The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history.
The woods where the weird shadows
slant.
Tha stillness, the moonlight, the mys
tery, I've bade 'em good-bye, but I can't
There's a land where the mountains are
nameless
And the rivers all run God knows
wi'ere;
There are lives that are erring and
aimless
And deaths that hang Just by, a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reck
ons. There are valleys unpeopled and still.
There's a land, oh, it beckons and
beckons,
I want to go back and I will.
They're making my money diminish;
I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God, when I'm skinned to a fin
ish I'll pike to the Tukon again.
Til fight and you bet it's no sham fight:
It's hell, but I've been there before:
But it's better than this by a damn
sight
So .me for the Tukon once more.
There's gold, and it's haunting and
haunting:
It's" luring me on as of old,
Tet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting
So much as just finding the gold.
It's the great, big. broad land 'way
back up yonder.
It's the forests where silence has
lease;
It's"" the beauty that thrills me with
wonder.
It's the stillness that fills me with
peace.
Some one in last Sunday's Oregonian
askeU for the poem "How to Be Hand
some When Old." I do not know
.whether the enclosed lines are wbat
was wanted. These were a part of the
memory work given the girls attending
St. Helen's Hall in the early days of
that institution in this city. I give them
from memor v and do not know the
author. MRS. ADA. F. ilOKDEN.
How to be handsome when you're, old
I can tell you. maiden fair;
Not by lotions, dyes and .pigments;
sot by washes for your hair.
While you're young, be pure and gentle.
Keep your passions well controlled
Work and pray and do your duty.
You'll be handsome when you're old.
"The Battle of Fredericksburg," a
ballad of the Civil War times, is con
tributed by Mrs. W. C. Kirchem, of
Oregon City:
THE' BATTLE OF FREDCRICKSBt'RG
'Twas just before the last grand
charge.
Two .soldiers-drew 4heir rein
For a parting word and. a touch of
hand - '
- They' might never meet again. '
On had blue eyes and clustering curls.
Nineteen but a month ago;
TheKlew of health was on his cheek -
He was only a boy, you know.
The other was tall and dark and stern.
His faith in the world was slim.
He only trusted the more in those'
Who were all the world to him.
They had fought together- through
many a raid.
They had ridden for many a mile,
Bub ever 'til now they had met the foe
With a calm and hopeful smile.
But now they gazed in each others'
eyes.
With an awful and stately gloom.
The dark, stern man was the first to
speak,
Saying "Charley, my time has come."
We shall ride together up yonder hill
But you'll rid ba,ck alone.
Then promise me Charley, a message
A you'll take,
' . For me when I am gone. .
"Upon my breast you'll find a face,
I shall wear It Into the fight,
With dark blue eyes and clustering
, 'curls, "
. And a smile like the morning's light.
Like the - morning light was her love
.. to- me,
' And It gladdened a lonely life.
Little cared I for the- frown of fate,
When she promised to be my wife.
'Then write to her Charley, when I
am gone.
Send back that fair fond face.
Tell her tenderly how I died.
And where is my resting place.
Tell her my soul shall wait for hers,
' In the bordering lands between.
The Heavens and earth until she comes
It viil not be long, I ween."
Tears dimmed the blue eyes of the lad.
And" his voice was low -with pain,
"I will do your bidding, pomrade
If I ride back again. .
But if you ride back and I am left,
You must do the same for me.
The mother who watts for her boy. at
. home,
O, write to hr tenderly. v
"One after another of those she loved,
She has buried, husband and son.
Till I was the last that my country
called.
She kissed and sent me on.
Now she waits at home like a praying
saint, J
Her fond face white with woe.
Her. heart will be broken when I am
gone,
I shall see her soon I know."
Just then the order came to-charge
1 ar an instant hand touched hand.
Eye answered eye and on they marched,
That brave devoted band.
They marched right on towards the
crert of the hill.
Where rebel with shot and shell
Plowed rifles of death 'midst their
toiling ranks
Atld cheered them as they fell.
They turned with a horrible dying yell.
From the heights they could not
gain.
And the few whom death and doom
had spared
Rode slowly back again.
But among the dead who was left
behind.
Was the boy with the curly hair
And the dark, stern man who rode by
his side,
Lay dead beside him there.
There's no one to write to the blue
eyed maid.
The words that her lover said.
And the mother who waits for her
boy at "home
Will only know he is dead.
They never will know the last fond
words.
That were said to soothe their pain.
Until they cross the valley of death
And stand beside them again.
Mrs. May Martin has copied from her
scrapbook and sent in "Love Will Find
a Way." for which a request was made
recently:
LOVE WILL KIND A WAIT,
Some fain would fetter Cupid's arms,
Put shackles on his feet; .
And yet their toil his march ne'er
harms.
His step is sure and fleet.
Aye, "true love seldom smoothly runs,"
Has oft its troubled sea.
As well as all its brighter ones.
But love will find a way!
'Tis folly, then, to cross his path.
Or laws for him decree;
Commands can only make him laugh
For love is always free.
Think not to thwart young love's de
signs.
Nor yet his hand to suay;
He'll break right through your rude
connnes.
For love will find a way.
Intrepid is his iron will.
His courage unexcelled;
He never suffers long an ill.
His valor can't be quelled. '
Invincible, he moves along.
Nor dare we bid him nay:
Each battle makes him doubly strong,
And love will find a way!
Not laws nor walls nor space nor time,
Not danger, no, nor chains
Not anything, his strength sublime
Can militate against!
His craft increases with each trial.
Again ha will essay
To win by force or chance or guile.
For love must find a way.
Like sweet Anne Page (of Shake-
speare's rhyme),
Tho' parents strive and plan.
Still mutual hearts together chime
. And with each other stand.
Yea. place the world between the two,
Apart they will not stay:
You'll find the saying always true:
That "Lovs will find a way."
When love is real and intense.
None can reverse Its stream:
Two soul mates' power is immense
And theirs no idle dream.
"Old heads" and "wisdom" do not
"work";
Black hairs can outwit gray;
In. golden locks dark plans may lurk
And love will find a way!
The Song of the Rose." from the
"Golden Robin." an old sung book, has
(URPEvf
T0N1G
. BT MRS. ROSA HARD WICK THORPE.
Slowly England's sun was setting o'er tha hilltops far away.
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one aad day.
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden
fair ,
He with footsteps slow and weary she with eunny, floating
hair: . . - -
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful she with lips all
cold and white.
Struggling to keep back the murlkur:
"Curfew must not ring tonight."
"Sexton." Bessie's white lips faltered." pointing "to the prison
old, -'
With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls, dark, damp
and cold, - .
"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die
At the' ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh;
Cromwell will not wait till sunset." and her lips grew
strangely white
As she breathed the husky whisper:
"Curfew must not ring ionight."
"Bessie." calmly spoke the sexton every word pierced her
young heart
Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart
"Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy,
shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour;
I have done, my duty ever, tried to do it Just and right
Now I'm old I still must do it
Curfew it must ring tonight"
Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her
thoughtful brew,
And within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the Judges read, without a tear
or sigh:
"At the ringing of the Curfew, Basil Underwood must die."
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew
large and bright
In an undertone she murmured: . - -. . '
"Curfew must not ring toaight." ,
She with quick steps bounded forward sprung within the old
church door.
Left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd trod
before; ... .
Not one moment paused the maiden, but, with eyo and cheek
aglow, -Mounted
up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to
and fro.
As she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of
. light, -i - " .
Up and up her white lips saying:
"Curfew shall not ring tonight'
been sent in by Alma Darling, of Ma-
plewood:
THE SONG OF THE ROSE. J
No beautiful palace have I on the hill,
No pictures to hang in my halls. I
But never a painter could match with j
his skill
The roses that bloom on my walls.
When down the green valleVjNn pur
ple and gold.
The morning comes dew and bright,
I look from my window to see theiri
(infold
Their buds at the kiss of the light.
And when at the evening my labors
are o'er
And shadows grow long on the lea.
The breath of the roses comes in at
the door
As if they were talking to me.
CHORUS.
Then sing me a song of the rose.
A song that is tender and true:
She wears her red robes lik the dain
tiest queen,
All gleaming with Jewels of dew.
Mrs. E. L. Turney, of Portland, con
tributes the copy of the following by
Robert Browning:
SOMETIME. SOMEWHERE.
Unanswered yet? the prayer your lips
have pleaded
In agony of heart these many years?
Does faith begin to fail? Is hope de
parting? And think you all in vain those falling
tears?
Say not the Father hath not heard your
prayer;
You shall have your desire sometime,
somewhere.
Unanswered yet? though when you
first presented
This one petition at the Father's
throne.
It seemed you could not wait the time
of asking,
So urgent was your heart to make it
known;
Though years have passed, since then,
do not despair.
The Lord will answer you sometime.
somewhere.
Unanswered yet? nay. do not say un-
granted
Perhaps your part is not yet wholly
done:
The work began when your first prayer
was uttered.
And God will finish what he has begun.
If you will keep the incense burning
there.
His glory you shall see, sometime,
somewhere.
Unanswered yet? Faith cannot be un
answered; Her feet are firmly planted on the rock;
Amid tha wildest storms she stands un
daunted :
Nor quails -before the loudest thunder
shock.
She knows omnipotence has beard, her
prayer.
And cries. "It shall be done." some
. time, somewhere.
I A Eugene contributors sends the fol
MUST
.
She has reached the
great dark bell:
Awful is the gloom
to Hell.
Lo. the. ponderous
Curfew now,
And the sight has
paled her brow.
Shall she let .it ring?-
light
And she springs and grasps it firmly:
"Curfow shall not ring tonight!
Out she swang far
below
"Twixt Heaven and
4wung to and
And the sexton at
the bell.
But he thought it
funeral knell.
Still the maiden clung
and white.
Said, to hush her heart's wild beating:
, -"Curfew .shall not ring tonight"
It was o'er, the bell
once more
Firmly on the dark
lowing two poems, one by John Hay
and one by Marc Cook, as appropriate
for publication in this season of the
roses:
THE 1YHITR FLAG.,
BY JOHN HAY.
I sent my love two roses, on
As white as driTen snow
And one a blushing, royal red.
A flaming Jacqueminot
I thought to touch and test my fate
That night I would divine
The moment that I saw my love
If her true heart were mine.
For if she holds me dear, I said,
She'll wear my blushing rose;
If not. she'll wear my cold Lamarque,
As white as Winter's snows.
My heart sank when I met her sure,
I bad been overbold;
There on her breast my pale rose lay.
In virgin whiteness cold!
Yet with low words she greeted me
And smile divinely tender
Upon her cheek the red rose dawned.
The white rose meant surrender.
"The Evergreen Mountain of Life"
was printed in a paper in Hartford,
Conn., 25 years ago and the copy re
printed here is contributed by Mrs.
llellman, of this city:
THE EVEBCEEEN MOUNTAIN OF
LIFE.
BY JAMES G. CLARK.
There's a land far away, 'mid the stars,
we are told.
Where they know not of the sorrow
of time.
Where the pure waters wander thro'
, valleys of gold.
And life is a treasure sublime;
'Tis the land of our God, 'tis the home
of the soul.
Where ages of splendor eternally roll.
Where the way-weary traveller reachea
his goal.
On the evergreen mountain of life.
Our gaze cannot soar to that beautiful
land.
But our visions have .told of its bliss.
And our souls by the gale from its gar
dens are fanned
When we faint in the deserts of this;
And we sometimes have long'd for its
holy repose.
When our spirits were torn with temp
tations and woes,
And we've drank from the tide of the
river that flows
From the evergreen mountain of life.
Oh, the stars never tread the blue
heavens of night
But we think where the ransomed
have trod.
And the day never smiles from bis pal
ace of light
But we feel the bright smile of our
God.
We are traveling homeward thro'
changes and gloom
To a kingdom 'where pleasures un
changingly bloom.
And our guide is the glory that shine
through the tomb
From the evergreen mountain of Ufa
t m
"The LJUle Black-eyed Rebel." was
NOT RING
topmost .ladder o'er her bangs the
.
beneath ber, like the pathway down
- . -
tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of
chilled her bosom.' stopped her breath, and
No, never! Flash her eyes with sudden
out the city seemed a speck of light
Earth her form suspended, as the bell
fro;
the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not
still was ringing fair young Basil's
more firmly, and, with trembling lips
ceased swaying, and the maiden atepped
old ladder, where Tor hundred years
berore
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that aha
had done
Should be told long ages after, as the rays of setting sun
Should illume the sky with beauty; aged aires with heads
of white
Long should tell the little children e
Curfew did not ring that night
O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him. and
1 her brow. - ,
Fisll of hope and full of gladness, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, showing her bands all bruised
and torn:
And her face, so "sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale
and worn.
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit bis eyes with
misty light;
"Go, your lover lives," said Cromwell;
"Curfew shall not ring tonight!"
requested last week by one of our
readers. A copy of the poem haa been
sent by Miss Margaret Davies. of Port
land. ,
J HE LITTLE DLACK-BYED REBEL.
A boy drove into the city, his wagon
loaded down
With food to feed the people of the
British-governed town,
Anc' the little black-eyed rebel, so In
nocent and sly.
Was watching for his coming from the
corner of ber eye.
His face looked broad and honest, bis
iibnus were Drown .ana tough.
The clothes he wore upon him were
homespun, coarse and rough;
But one there was who watched him,
who long time lingered nigh.
And cast at him sweet glances from
the corner of her eye.
He drove up. to the market, he waited
in the line;
His apples and potatoes were fresh and
fair and fine:
But long and long he waited, and so
one came to buy.
Save the black-eyed rebel, watching
from the corner of her eye.
"Now. who will buy my apples?" he
shouted long and loud;
And "Who wants my potatoes?" he
repeated to the crowd;
But from all the people round him came
no word of a reply.
Save the black-eyed rebel, answering
from the corner of her eye.
For she Knew that 'neath the lining of
the coat he w;ore that day.
Were long letters from the husbands
ana lathers far away,
Wht were fighting for the freedom
they meant to gain or die: t
And a tear like silver glistened in the
corner of her eye.
But the treasures how to get them?
crept the question through her mind.
Since keen enemies were watching for
what prises they might ftnd:
And she paused awhile and pondered,
with a pretty little sigh: -
Then resolve crept through her fea
tures and a shrewdness fired her eye.
So she resolutely walked up to the
waacm old and red;
May I have a doxen apples for a kiss?"
she sweetly said.
And the brown-face flushed to scarlet;
for the boy Wu somewhat ahy.
And be saw her laughing at him from
the corner of her eye.
'Too may have them all for nothing.
and more, if you want." quoth he.
"I will have them my good fellow, but
can pay for them." she saiq.
And she clambered on the wagon.
minding not who all were by.
With a laugh of reckless romping lo
the corner of her eye. - ,
Clinging roound his brawny neck, she
clasped her fingers white and small.
And Chen whispered. "Quick! the let
ters! thrust them underneath ny
shawl!
Carry back again this package, and be
sure Laat you are syryl"
And she sweetly smiled upon him from
the corner of ber eye.
Loud the motley crowd was laughing
at the strange, ungirlish freak.
And the boy was scared and panting,
and dashed he could not speak;
And "Miss. I have good apples, a
bolder lad did cry:
But she answered. "No. I thank you.
from tha corner of ber eye.
With the news of loved ones absent to
the dear friends they would greet.
Searching then who hungered for
them, awift aha glided through the
street;
There is nothing worth tha doing that
it does not pay to try.
Thought the little black -eyed, rebel
with a twinkle in her eye.
The foregoing Incidents occurred
during the British occupation of Phll
aoelpia, between September 2s. 1777.
anc June 17, 177s. Mary Kedmond was
tne daughter of a patriot citizen, and
ieniained during the hostile occupation.
uiaking herself useful to tha American
vause by assisting in the transmission
of correspondence through the lines, by
such ingenious strategy as is related
in these lines.
Mrs. Eleanor Endlcott,- of Portland.
has supplied us with a copy of the
Legend of the Organ Builder." which
waa published in Harper's Magaxine:
THE LEGEND OF THE ORGAN
BlILUER.
BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.
Day by day the organ builder in bis
lonely chamber wrought;
Day by day the soft air trembled ta
ttle music of his thought;
Till at last the work was ended, and
no organ- voice so errand
Ever yet had soared responsive to the
master a magic hand.
Ay. so rarely was it bullded that when
ever groom and bride
Who in God's eight were well pleasing
in the church stood aide by side.
Without touch or breath the organ of
itself began to play.
And the vry airs of heaven through
the soft gloom teemed to stray
He was young, the organ builder, and
o'er all the land his fame
Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like
. a swiftly rushing flame.
All the maidens heard tha story; all
the maidens blushed and amlled.
By his youth and wondrous beauty and
his great renown beguiled.
So ho sought and won the fairest and
the wedding day was set
Happy day tha brlghest Jewel in the
glad year s coronet!
0
But when they the portal entered ha
lorgot his lovely bride
Forgot his love, forgot his God. and
his heart swelled high with
pride.
"Ah!" thought he, "how great a master
am I! When the oraan plays.
How the vast cathedral arches will re
echo with my praise!"
Up they aisle the gay procession moved.
The altar shone afar.
With. its every candle gleaming through
' soft shadows like a star.
But he listened, listened, listened, with
no thought of love or prayer,
For the swelling notes of triumph from
his organ standing there.
All was silent Nothing beard ha save
the priest s low montone
j Ana ine oriae s rone Trailing soxtiy
o er tha floor of fretted atone
Then his lips grew white with anger.
Surely God was pleased with him
Who had built the wondrous organ for
bis temple vast and dim?
Whose the fault then? Hers the maid-'
n otanding meekly at his side!
Flamed his Jealous rage, maintaining
she was false to him his bride.
Vain were -all ber protestations, vain
her Innocence and truth:
On that very night be left her to her
anguish and her ruth.
Far he wandered to a country wherein
no man knew his name.
For ten weary years he dwelt there,
nursing still his wrath and
shame.
-Then bis haughty heart grew softer.
and he thought by night and day
Of the bride he bad deserted, till he
hardly dared to pray
Thought of her, a-opotless maiden, fair
and beautiful and good:
Thought of his relentless anger that
had cursed ber womanhood;
Till his yearning grief and penitence
at laat were all complete.
And be lonced with bitter longing Just
to fall down at her leet
Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after
many a weary day and night
Rose his native towers before him.
with the sunset glow alight!
Through the gates into the city on he
pressed with eager tread:
There he met a long procession
mourners following the dead.
"Now, why weep ye ao. good people?
-and whom bury ye today?
Why do yonder sorrowing maidens
scatter Sowers along the way?
"Has some saint gone -ur to heaven?"
"Yes," they answered, weeping
sore:
"For the organ builder's saintly wife
-our eyes shall see no more;
"And because her days were given to
the- aervice of God's poor.
From bis church we mean to bury her.
See! yonder is the door."
No one knew him: no one wondered
when he cried out white with
pain:
No one questioned when, with pallid
lips, be poured hla tears like
rain.
" TIs someone whom she has comfort
ed who mourns with us." they
saia.
As be made his way onrhaTlenged and
bore tha conin's bead.
Bore it through the open portal, bore
it the echoing aisle.
Let It down before the altar, where the
lights burned clear the while.
When, oh', hark; the wondrous organ
of itself began to play
Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness
never heard until JJiat day!
All the vaulted arches ran: with the
mualo sweet and clear:
Air the air was filled with glory, as of
angels' hovering near;
And ere yet the strain was. ended, be
who bore the coffin's head.
With the smile of one forgiven, gently
sank beside it dead. s
They who raised the body knew him
and they laid him by bis bride:
Down the aisle and o'er the threshold
they were carried side by side,
While the organ played a dirge thai
no man ever heard before.
Anc then softly sank to silence
silence kept for evermore.
Mrs. O. C. teveoa, of Farkxose. sends
tha following poem, which was one of
many that she copied in a memory
book, when a girl In London.
THEY TWO.
They are left alone in the dear old
home.
After so many years;
Whan tha house was full of frolic and
fun ;
Of childish laughter and tears.
They are left alone, they two once
more.
" Beginning life over again.
Just as they did in the days of Tor,
Before they were niue or ten.
And the table is set for two these days;
Tho children went one by one.
Away from home on their separate
ways.
When the childhood days were done.
How healthily hungry they used to be!
What romping they used to do.
And mother for weeping can hardly
see
To set tha table for two.
They' used to gather around the fire
While, someone would read aloud.
But whether at study or work or play,
'Twas a loving and merry crowd.
And now. they are two that gather
there
At evening to read or sew.
And it seems almost too much to bear
hen they think of tha long ago.
Ah, well ah, well, 'tis the way of tie
world!
Children stay but a little while.
And then into other scenes are whirled.
Where other homes bes-ulle:
But it matters not how far they roam.
ineir Hearts are lond and true.
And there's never a home like the dear
old home.
Where the table Is set for two.
To the Editor From one of mv scran
books I take the following and hope to
ee it printed in the near future. It is
taken from Pacific Monthly. C. L. H.
THE RISING OF THE SINK.
BY LEWIS R. FREEMAN.
(Note Certain Western streams hire
tho peculiarity of disappearing under
me ground upon reaching a stretch of
desert to rise again further on. purer
and stronger than ever.)
I found it where in crystal it cams
bubbling: from its fount.
And followed where in silver it went
tumbling down the mount
Rolling, flashing, darting. dashing,
over boulder-bordered bei.
To the smoother lower levels of tho
mighty range it led:
And its gay, impulsive spirit, careless,
buoyant and free.
Seemed the liquid incarnation of my
childhood unto me,
Down the pleasant-visaged valley still
it held its eager course.
Drawing freshness from the breezes,
from its branches gaining force;
Deepening, spreading, forward heading,
undefiled by froth or surge.
Crystal-clear it reached the open where
the greater streams converge.
And the snirit of the streamlet rose
before me. and, in sooth.
Knew I then the ateady purposo and
the promise of jny youth.
At length it flowed a river which, re
sistless, broad and strong.
Carried everything before it as it
' rushed in might along
Surging, swirling, roaring, whirling,
forcing restlessly ahead.
Through the fertile upland meadows to
the boundleas plains it led.
In tho midst abova the water I beheld
a spirit rise.
And my manhood's strong endeavor
was unfolded to my eyes. '
In a sheet of anowy splendor from the
mesa's lofty brow.
A triumphant flag of vict'ry broke the
.ronq-rinsr river now.
Roaring, thundering, tearing. sunder
ing, moistening miles of land
Era It settled in the sagebrush, stifled
by t!ie desert sand.
At the last least weed-choked puddle,
bitter, salty, alkaline.
Lingered I in cad reflection o'er this
. mis-spent life of mine.
And the mocking, imp-faced figures,
counter-marchinsr in the scum.
Wak'd in me dark premonitions of tha
end that is to come.
But the cowboys at the rancho tell me
how. down at the Pass.
Whore the ranges run together and the
sand giv-a way to grass.
There's glorious eryestal fountain, where
me river comes again
To its own. to ever after roll adown
the haunts of men.
Quieter flowing, calmer growing, ever
moving peacefully.
Till it finds its final haven in the bos
om of the eea.
So I Journey on the morrow, full of
hope and Joy tm life.
Burning with de termination to essay
again the. strife.
Eager only for the moment when I
stand upon the brink.
And once more drink Inspiration at tha
"Rlelng of the Sink."
T. J. Wiggins, of this city, aends tha
following stanzas written from mem
err; and desires the name of the au
thor and the real title:
-THE WAYS OF THE TAPESTRY
WEAVERS."
Let us take to ourselves a lesson.
No braver lesson can be.
From the ways of the tapestry weavers
On the other side of the sea.
Above their heads the pattern bangs.
They study it with care.
The while their fingers deftly move
Their eyes are fastened there.
They tell -this curious -thing beeide
Or the patient, plodding weaver.
Ho works on the wrone side evermore.
He works on the right side ever.
It is only when the ewavlng stops
And the web is loosed 'and turned
That he sees his real handiwork.
That his marvelous skill has earned.
O. -the ight of its delicate beauty;
How it pays him for'nll its cost!
For rarer, daintier work than his
Was never done by the frost
Then the master bringeth him golden
hire
And lveth him praise as well.
And bow happy the heart of the weaver
is
No tongue but his own can tcJJ.
The years of man are the loom of God.
Let down from the ways of the sun.
Wberein we are weaving ever
Till the mystic web is done.
Weaving blindly, but weaving surely.
Each for himself his fate.
Wo may not know how the right aide
looks.
We can only weave and wait
Snt looking above Tor the pattern.
No weaver need have fear;
Only let him look clear Into heaven.
The perfect pattern is there.
If he keeps the face of the Savior
Ever and always in sight.
His toil shall be sweeter than boner,
Hla weaving sure to be right
And when the weaving Is ended
And the web Is loosed and shown".
He shall hear the voice or the Maxtor,
It shall say to him, -Well done!
And the white-winged angels from
heaven
To bear him thence shall come down,
and God shall give him gold for his
hire.
Not coin, but a glowing crown.