TOE SUNDAY OREGOXIAX, PORTLAND, JUjLY 23, 1916. ALL CONTINUES FOR FAVORITE BALLADS OF THE OLDEN DAYS CCE this page -was begun in Feb- i-uary, we have published several hundred old favorite poems, and still receiving requests for One of our readers wrote that ad constructed a scrapbook from old poetry" pages and had in it a of Doems that she had neara in hildhood. but naa never oera aoie The t in printed form. ile the contributions to rne page nue to come in steaauy. mere is responding flood of requests for avorites. among wnicn are soma e following: Leslie or Oswego, desires the which begins: "Wave the starry er high; ike its colors never e stars and stripes forever." ve Turney, 01 i-innLon, asKs 11 of our readers can supply 'Tve Been Down to the Club." She asks for "The Dying Cowboy." oes not make it clear -whether she the poem which begins: "Bury ot in the lone prairie ; which was shed a few weeks ago on this or some other poem under the which she gives, v ,ate Compositions Are Barred. irles W. Buell, asks for "Life's nny Proposition After All. This song of comparatively recent ap- uice and can be purchased at al- any music store. We cannot re it on this page. Another poem v-hich he asks, however, contains ollowing lines: walk -with myself, alk with myself. d myself said unto me: ware of thyself. ke care of thyself, r no one cares for thee " s. H. A. Dyer requests "The Exile's rn, wnlch bgeins: ed. my boat, swiftly, the shore Is in sight: e wind sits fair, we will ancnor tonight; morrow at sunrise again 1 win stand the sea-beaten shore of my native land." poem containing the following is requested by Mrs. H. SLPalmer, bany: as but a child over there. p-iting my name in the sand; now I am laden with care. d alone In a wearisome land." Miner's Plaint Wanted. om Corvallis comes the request of Grugett for the old San Francisco running: miner, poor miner, hungry and cold. ough poor, 111 return to my home far away. irewell to the land of gold." bout 15 years ago, there appeared Portland paper a poem entitled Portland Jail.' written by O'Dono Rossa, the Irish patriot, who has died." writes J. C. Cooper, of Is Lake, and asks if some of the ributora to the page can supply it. requests have come from Dr. Pelham. of Union. One is the song of Caroline of Edinborough , which begins: le all young men and maidens and listen to my rhyme; tell about a maiden, a maiden in her prime " ft second poem is entitled "For Baby's Sake" and runs: was evening, and the dwellers in iet London street " E. Belew, of Everett, remembers there was a reply to the poem k Me to Sleep," and asks that it upplied if possible. It begins: Ty child, O, my child, I am weary ,-ht " e request that was made a few is ago for "Lasca" has been met contribution from J. C. Albright, Portland, who has furnished the we reprint here: LASCA. BY FRANK DESPREZ. ant free life and I want fresh air. I long for the canter after the cattle. crack of the whip, like shot in battle melee of horns and hoofs and heads t wars and wrangles and scatters ai-d spreads; green below, the blue above ftash, danger, live and love and Lasca! usea to ride on a mouse-gray mustang close by my side h blue eerape and bright-belled spur; ughed with joy as I looked at her. le she knew of books or creeds. Ave Maria sufficed her needs. e she cared save to be by my side, ride with me and ever to ride,' m San Sabas shore to Lavaca a tide. ffexas, down by the Rio Grande. was as bold as the billows that beat, was as wild as the breezes that blow; m her little head to her little feet, was swayed jn her suppleness, to and fro, each gust of passion, sapling pine that grows the edge of the Kansas bluff. wars with the wind when the weather is. rough. like this Lasca, this love of mine. would hunger "that I might eat; uld take the bitter and leave me the sweet; once when I made her jealous for fun r something I'd whispered, or looked, or done, Sunday in San Antonio, La glorious girl on the Alamo, drew from her bosom a dear little dagger. I quick sting of a wasp it made me stagger! inch to the left or an inch to the right. I I shouldn't be maundering here tonight; she sobbed, and sobbing, so swiftly bound torn reboso about the wound it J quite forgave her well, scratches don't count Texas, down by the Rio Grande. - eye 'was brown, a deep, deep brown; - hair was darker than her eye: 1 something in the smile and frown, led. crimson lip and instep high, wed that there rah in each blue vein, ed with the milder Aztec strain, vigorous vintage of old Spain, was alive in .every limb with feel ing the finger tips, and when the sun is like fire, 1 the sky a shining soft sapphire. ( docs not drink in the little sips. ?xair was heavy, the night was hot it by her side and forgot forgot, got the herd that were taking their reyt; -got that the air was close," oppres't: it the Texas norther comes sudden and soon, the dead of night or the blaze of noon, d once let that herd at its breath take fright, thing on earth can stop their flight; i woe to the rider and woe to. the steed. io falls in front of their mad stam pede. is that thunder? No! I grasped the cord my mustang without a word. I sprang to the saddle, she clung be hind. Away on a hot race down the wind! But never was fox hunt half so hard. And never was steed so little Bpared, For we rode for our lives. And you shall hear how we fared. In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. mustang flew as we urged him on. There is one chance left and you have but one. Halt. Jump to earth. Shoot your horse And crouch under his carcass and take your chance, And if those steers. In their frantic course. Don't batter you both to pieces at once. You may thank your star. If not, good by. With a quickening kiss, and long-drawn sigh, - - And the open air and the open sky. In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. The cattle were gaining, and just as I felt For my good six-shooter behind in my belt, Down came the mustang, and down came we, clinging together. What was the rest? A body that spread itself on my breast. Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, Two lips that hard on my lips were pressed. Then-came thunder in our ears. As over us surged that sea of Steers. Blows that beat blood into my eyes. And when I could rise, Lasca was dead. I gouged out a grave a few feet deep. And there in earth's arms, I laid her to sleep, And there she is lying. and no one knows. And the Summer shines and the Winter snows For many a day; the flowers have spread A pall of petals over her head; And the little gray hawk hapgs aloft in the air. And the sly coyote trots here and there. And the blacksnake glides and glitters slides Into a rift into the cottonweed trees. And the buzzard sails oer and comes and Is gone, Stately and still, .like a ship at sea. And I wonder why I do not care For the things rhat are, like the things that were. Does half my heart, lie buried there In Texas, down by the Rio Grande? Another favorite sent us by Clara D. Mitchell is "The Halloween Trick," whech we reprint here: A HALLOWEEN TRICK. Yes. he has laughed a thousand times Genial, kind old Deacon Grimes Telling over with rare delight The trick we played on him that night, Look at Sam Allen's load of hay. Left for tomorrow to haul away. wen all take hold now hushed and soil And stow it in Deacon's loft. Soon agreed and at once begun Trust in a boy to work for fun! Oh, when was harder, heavier labor Done for the love of friend or neighbor? How we panted and pushed and tugged How we lifted and pulled and lugged Keacmng at last through effort hard Ola iieacon Grimes: stable yard. And still there was, you may well be lieve. Plenty of work on that Halloweve Before we were safely in our beds. V ith blistering hands and whirling heads. Next morning early a few of us Came straying around to see the fuss Deacon Grimes, with a beaming smile (Just as he wore it all the while). Patted our shoulders (aching still). Saying, "Well boys, you work with a will; I heard you the moment you begun. But aidn t let on to spoil the fun. I bought it of Sam, that load of hay. And there was to be some extra pay For putting it up. But boys, you see, Like to help an old man like me." And ever since, if you want to hear The Deacon's laugh ringing loud and clear, Ask him if he has ever seen Boys having fun on. Halloween. Sidney Dayre. Mrs. Matthews sends "The Exile of Erin" in response to the request for "Erin Go Bragh, which was made few weeks ago: THE EXILE: OK ERIN. There came to the beach a poor exile 1 of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing. To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day star attracted his eyes' sad devotion. For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean. Where once in, the Ore of his youthful emotion He pan,; the bold anthem of Erin Go 11 Bragh! "Oh, sad Is my fate." said the heart broken stranger, "The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Ah! never again In the green sunny bowers. Where my forefathers lived shall spend the sweet hours. Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flower?. And strike to the numbers of Erin Go Bragh! Oh. Erin, my forsaken, dreams I shore; alas! in country, tho' sad and In revisit thy sea-beaten a far foreign land I But. awaken. Aijd sigh for the friends who can greet me no more. Ah! cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Ah! never again shall my brothers em brace me! They died to defend me, or live to deplore! Clara D. Mitchell has sent the fol lowing beautiful verses by Edwin L. Sabin: MOTHERS. Mothers are the queerest things! 'Member when John went away. All but mother cried and cried When they said good-bye that day. She just talked, and seemed to be Not the slightest bitupset Was the only one who smiled! Other's eyes were streaming wet. But when John came back again On a furlough, safe and sound, . With a medal for Jiis deeds. And without a single wound. While the rest of us hurrahed. Laughed and Joked and danced about. Mother kissed him, and then sheried Cried and cried like all git out! (To the Editor.) In The Sunday Oregonian on the poem page there was an inquiry for name of author' of "Little Green Tents." The poem is by Walt Mason, of Emporia, Kan. Cpn anyone contribute the poem, "Lines to a Dying Infant," which used (The publication of a famous old poem made up of single lines from -various standard poets a few weeks ago, on this page, brought the follow ing contributions from Gudrun Dahl. The mosaic poem here reprinted has been famous among poem's of its typ e for some time. The names of the authors of each line are given opposi te. the lines.) - ( to be in one of the school readers of I Canada, 50 years ago? It goes like I this, as much as I can remember of it: I TO A DTIXG DiFANT. Sleep, little baby, sleep; Not in thy cradle bed. Not on thy mother's breast Henceforth shall be thy rest. But with the quiet dead. Tes, with the quiet dead. Baby, thy rest shall be. Oh. many a weary night. Weary of life and light. Would pain lie down, with thee. Flee, little tender nestling. Flee to thy grassy nest. There the first flowers shall blow, The first pure flake of snow Shall fall upon thy breast. The little mouth half opened. The soft lips quivering. As if like Summer air Rustling the rose leaves, there. Thy soul were fluttering. Labors with shortening breath. That heavy tremulous sigh Speaks thy departure nigh. These are the damps of death. He took thee in thy Innocence. A lamb untasked, untried; He fought the fight for thee. He won the victory. And thou are sanctified. This is all I can remember of it, but that much has stuck in my memory for over 50 years. r. n. n. "Paddle Tour Own Canoe," a favorite that has had a universal vogue, was sent in by James Harman, of Myrtle Creek, Or. PADDLE TOUR OWN CANOE. Tve traveled about a bit In my time. And of troubles I've seen a few; But found it better in every clime To paddle my own canoe. My wants are small; I care not at all If my debts are raid when due. I drive away strife in the ocean of life While I paddle by own canoe. CHORUS. Then love your neighbor as yourself As 'the world you go traveling through: And never sit. down with a grouch or a frown. But paddle your own canoe. I have no wife to bother my life. No lover to prove untrue. But the whole day long, with a laugh and a song, I paddle my own canoe. I rise with the lark and from daylight till dark I do what I have to do; rn careless of wealth, if I've only the health To paddle my own canoe. It's all very well to depend on a friend. That Is. if you've proved him true. But you'll find it better by far, in the end. To paddle your own canoe. To borrow is dearer by far than to buy, A maxim tho' old. still true; Tou never will sigh if you only will try To paddle your own canoe. If a hurricane rise in the midday skies And the sun is lost to view. Move steadily by. with a steadfast eye. And paddle your own canoe. The daisies that grow in the bright green fields Are blooming so sweet for you. So never Eit down with a grouch or a frown, But paddle your own canoe. Mrs. H. R. Dibblee, of Rainier, haw sent in a copy of "Alexander Selkirk. by William Cowper, which was xe- I only knew she came and went Lowell Like a troutlet in a pool; Hood She was a phantom Jf delight Wordsworth And I was like a fool. Eastman 4 "One kiss, dear maid," I said and sighed Coleridge "Out of those lips unshorn." Lenrfellow She shook her ringlets round her head, Stoddard And laughed in merry scorn. , Tennyson King out, wild bells, to the wild sky, Teaayson You hear them, oh my heart t Allca Cary Tis twelve at night by the Castle clock, Golerl&s . Beloved, we must part! Alice Cary "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, Campbell "My eyes are dim with tears; --Bayrd Taylor "How shall I live through all the days Mrs. Osgood "All through a hundred years?" T. F. Perry Twas in the prime of Summer time, Hood She blessed me with her hand ; Hoyt We strayed together deeply blest, Mrs. Edwards Into the Dreaming land. Cornwall The laughing bridal roses blow, Patmore To dress her dark brown hair v Bayard Taylor No maiden may with her compare, Brallsford Most beautiful, most rare! Read I clasped it on her sweet, cold hand, Browning The precious goldea link; Smith 1 calmed her fears and she was calm. Coleridge "Drink, pretty creature, drink!" Wordsworth And so I won my Genevieve, Coleridge And walked in Paradise; TTervey The fairest thing that ever grew Wordsworth Atween me and the skies. . - Osgood quested by one of our readers a week I ago: ALEXANDER SELKIRK. I am monarch of all I survey. My right there is none to dispute: From the center all round to the sea. I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen In thy face? Better dwell In the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place. I am out of humanity's reach; I must finish my Journey alone: Never hear the sweet music of speech I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see: They are so unacquainted with men. Their tameness is shocking to me. Society, friendship, and love. Divinely bestow'd upon man, O had I the wings of -a dove. How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage ' In the ways of religion and truth: Might learn from the wisdom of age. And be cheer'd by the sallies of youta. Religion! whattreasure untold Resides In that heavenly word! Mere precious than silver and gold. Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell. Or smiled when a Sabbath appear'd. Te winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought arter me: O tell me I yet have a friend Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the wind! Compared with the speed of its flight. The temnest itself lags behind. And the swift-winged arrows of lithL When I think of my own native land. In a moment I seem to be there. But, alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest; The beast is laid down In nia lair; Even here Is a season of rest. And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy In every place: - And mercy, .encouraging thought: Gives even affliction A grace. And reconciles man to his lot. Mrs. Thomas Jrlagan. of Sandy, con tributes the following poem, which she attributed to Scott Flayei Innes as the author: BIDS AND FRUIT. The pink apple blossom is Just out of reach. Though you stand on the tips of your toes. A lesson has nature she wishes to teach. Tou will . learn it before Autumn goes. Strive not for those buds that will fade in a day. But patiently wait lor a while. All things come in time, the moments are fleet. Soon that frown will give place to" a smile. Strive not for those buds that will fade in a day. But -await the sweet fruit God will send: The bud may be high and out of your way While at the harvest the bough will bend. The following poem was sent in by Mrs. L. Craig. It appears in abridged form In many collections accredited to T J9 pi Lord Lytton. It has also been said to have been written by J. L. McCreery, author of "Songs of Toil," which was published in New York in 1S83. THERE IS NO DEATH. There is no death! the stars go down To rise upon some other shore. And bright in heaven's Jeweled crown They shine forevermore. There Is no death! the forest leavos Convert . to life the viewless air: The rocks disorganize to feed The hungry moss they bear. There Is no death! the dust we tread Shall change, beneath the Summer showers. To golden grain, or mellow fruit. Or rainbow-tinted flowers. There Is no death; the leaves may fall. a he flowers may fade and pass away They only wait, through wintry hours. The warm, sweet breath of May. There is no death; the choicest gifts That heaven hath kindly lent to earth Are ever first to seek again The country of their birth. And all things that for growth or joy Are worthy of our love or care. Whose loss has left us desolate Are safely garnered there. Though life become a desert waste. W e know its fairest, sweetest flow ers. Transplanted into paradise. Adorn Immortal bowers. The voice of birdlike melody That we have missed and mourned so long. Now mingles with the angel choir In everlasting song. There is no death! although we grieve ll'V I , 1 1.. That e have learned to love are torn From our embracing arms Although with bowed and breaking heart. With sable garb and eflent tread. We bear their senseless dust to rest And say that they are "dead." They are not dead! They have but passed Beyond the mists, that blind us here. Into the new and larger life Of that serener sphere. They have but dropped their robe of clay. To put their shining raiment on; They have not wandered far away They are not lost or gone. Though disenthralled and glorified. They still are here and love us yet The dear ones they have left behind They never can forget. And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint. Amid temptations fierce and deep. Or when tife wildly raging waves Of eVief or passion sweep. We feel upon our fevered brow Their gentle touch, their breath balm.- of Thelr.arms enfold us, and our hearts Grow comforted and calm. And ever near us. though unseen. The dear, immortal spirits tread ' For all the boundless universe Is life there ere no dead! Ruth Luce, who has been a contribu, tor of many poems that have been re quested by readers of this page, sent In "An American Exile," by L a Brown, which was requested by one of our readers several weeks ago. We reprint it herewith: AX AMERICAS EXILE. In Norfolk Bay, long years ago, where waved The Nation's flag from mlxzen gaff Of frigate, sloop and other warlike craft. A group "of naval officers, assembled On the flag ship's quarter, deck, dls-, cussed. With earnestness, the act by. which the State Of South Carolina annulled The tariff laws of Congress. The Nation's heart throbbed anxiously with fears Of what must follow such a deed por tentous. The President's prompt act. Despatching Scott to Charleston, order ing The execution of the lawa by force. Had thrilled the nerves ot those who be re Their country's arms. The naval service boasted many men Who travel through veins as chival rous as their sires The blood of Sumpter. Pickens, Hayne And other Revolutionary patriots: And conscious of a lineage illustrious , From those who gave (tie-grand repub lic birth. Their minds were often filled with, poli tics Of state; and thus the acts of courts And legislatures oft became their theme m In time of peace as much as warlike deeds Of Neptune. One of these in this debate. A handsome, dark-eyed officer of most Commanding mien, became conspicuous In warm approval of his state's rash act And censure strong of President And Congress. While his flashing eye betrayed The fierce emotions of his soul, his voice . Rang fearful maledictions:. "Curse the country Whose nag from yonder mizzen floats the men Be cursed, who in the name of Govern ment, Ignore the rights my native state has held supreme. Then, drawing forth his rapier. As if in frenzied rage: "My sword s my own. My heart Is loyal to my native state: And here I swear, this blade shall ne'er be drawn But in defense of rights this tyrant thing Called Government usurps, and those Its threats Would terrify. Its flag be trailed in dust; The fate of Carthage be its cursed doom; The memory of its present acts,, with those Who give them shape, go down in blood tnu snaine. Such direful imprecations shocked the ears Of those who heard; and ere the speech less group Recovered from their blank amaze, a young Lieutenant felled the speaker senseless to The deck, then quick before the officer Commanding, preferred the charge of treason. Court-martial trials are speedy in re sults; The sentence, novel in Its terms, was neard With unfeigned haugtlness and scorn by him Whom It deprived of countrv: 'The prisoner, hence, for life, shall be consigned To vessels cruising in a foreign sea No tongue to him shall speak his coun try's name. Nor talk to him of aught save daily wants And ever to his sight that country's nag Shall be a token that Its power lives To carry out this sentence." In far off seas, away from kindred hearts And native home, the years passed slowly on; But pride and stubborn will did not desert This strange misguided man his fate he seemed To cherish' for the cause he still be lieved Would triumph in the end. let to and fro his narrow bounds he paced. Alone amid a frigate's crew of whom Not one could speak to him a friendly word Nor tell of that wondrous growth and lame That land he cursed attained anion? The nations of the earth. No cheering wora This yearning heart in time could e'er expect From stricken mother, weeping wife ana Danes By him made worse than orphans who might blush To call him father. Still above, around In sportive play, the flag he mad v cursea. In gorgeous folds' waved klndlv o er his head . As if forgiving -his Ingratitude. Anon, as other years rolled sadlv bv. And he was passed from ship to ship, as eacn In turn went home, the lines of grle ana iros's Of age bore silent evidence of slow de cay. In time his face was marked with pen sive cast, A harbinger of sad repentant thought. A sailor unpercelved took note of him And oft observed him watch the wav ing nag With strange emotion, and once his lips T. moo ever-present t-i j, . vl .mi miii, u l wnat I've lost. Thou Nemesis of nature's wrongs; For that I've sinned against my birth. my souls Remorse affirms. How long ere na ture's laws. I More kind than human heart, will free my eyes, At first my curses, then my prayers to God. Of secret thoughts conceived within thy sight.. Thou seem'st so much a friend, I would not harm One star within thy field and yet and yet." Full thirty years sound bad passed since Of friendly voice had filled his ear, and now He paced another deck than one de signed For heavy armament a merchant m I Commissioned while the Nation's ships of war Were called for duty home to try the cause For which this poor deluded exile gave nis mannooa ana his lire. Near set of su The cry of "sail" was heard, and then. Against his will, they hurried him be low. The startling call to quarters thrilled nis ear And e're the roll of drum and boat swain a whistle died away, There came a distant "boom" that - roused a hope He yearned to realize. A moment more A deafning sound, that shook the very neei, Awoke his heart with Joy. He. knew and hailed The truth. The -land his land was now at war, The foe his came it mattered not to him Had struck the challenge blow and filled his soul With fire. Oh, love of country, thou art lasting as The faith of childhood, thou art strong er than The love of life, the fear of death. This exiled penitent, this prodigal V ithout a home, would prove himself a man! He cried for help to free him from his bonds; He tried to burst the door, with frantic yells He shrieked for those above to lead him forth To grapple with the foe. But all was vain. . A tearing; shot That ploughed through side and prison bulkhead walls Made clear a passage wide enough for him To struggle through to seek his wild desire. But ere he reached the deck the foe had lashed , Ilia ship beside,' and countless fierce. wild men Were leaping down among the feeble crew. Who battled hard, but wain against such odds. He saw the nag the enemy displayed. A tlag unknown, unseen by him before. Though strangely like the one he cursed now loved So much would die in its defense. He wrenched a cutlass from a dying hand And hewed his way among the pri vateers. Where'er he struck the way was cleared of men Like wheat before the blade. His strange demean And antique garb amazed the foe until It seemed he'd dri-e the boarders to their ship. At last his wounds o'ercame his mad dening strength. And sinking to his knee, was soon dls- armed. But spared the murderous stroke by one who knew His name and story from a child. His glazing eye turned wistful toward .that flag. Now drooping low as if to mourn for him. "My country, thou art now avenged. My life My wasted life I glve to thee to thee." " The Suicidal Cat." a delightful old favorite, is also a contribution from Ruth Luce, of this city. THE SriCIDAL CAT. There was a man named Ferguson. He lived on Market street: He had a speckled Thomas cat That couldn t well be beat; He'd catch more, rats and mice and sich Than forty cats could eat. This cat would come into the roam And climb upon a cheer. And there he'd set and lick hisself And purr so awful queer That Ferguson would yell at him. But still he'd purr severe. And then he'd climb the moonlit fence. And loaf about and yowl. And spit and claw another cat Alongside) -of the Jowl; And then they both would shake their tails, 'And Jump around and howl. Oh. this here cat of Ferguson's Was fearful then to see; He'd yell precisely like he was In awful agony. You'd think a first-class stomachache Had struck some small baby. And all the mothers In the street. Waked by the horrid din. Would rise right up and search their babes To find some warring pin. And still this viprous cat would keep A hollerin like sin. And as for Mr. Ferguson. 'Twas more than he could bear. And so he hurled his bootjack out. Right through the midnight air; But this vociferous Thomas cat. Not one cent did he care. For still he yowled and kept his fur A standin' up on end. And his old spine a doublin' up As far as it would bend. As if his hopes of happiness Did on his lungs depend. But while' a curvin' up his spine. And waiting to attack A cat up on another fence. There came an awful crack, "And this here speckled Thomas cat Was busted in the back. When Ferguson came home next day There lay his old feline. And not a life was left in him. Although he had had nine. "All this here comes," said Ferguson. "Of curvin' of his spine." Now, all you men whose tender hearts This painful tale does rack. Just take this moral to yourselves. All of yeu, white and Mack: Don't ever go like this here cat To gettin' up your back. Mrs. Edward Hughey has sent In the following, which was a favorite for declamation in the days of the old National Reader: THE GLOVE AND THE I. IONS. King Francis was a hearty King, .and loved a royal sport. And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court. The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies In their pride. And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed. And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show. Valor and love, and a King above, and the royal beasts below. Ramped roared the lions, with horrid laughing laws: They bit. they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another. Till all the pit with sand and mane was in & thunderous smother. The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis, then "Faith, gentlemen. we're better here than, there!" De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous, lively dame. With smiling lips and sharp, bright eyes, which always seemed the same; She thought, "the count, my lover. Is brave as brave can be. He surely would do wondrous things to show his love for me. King, ladies, lovers all look on; the occasion Is divine: Til drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine." She dropped her glove, to prove his love, she looked on him and smiled He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild. The leap was quick, return was quick, he hat regained his place. Then. threw the glove but not with love right in the lady's face: "By heaven!" said Francis, "rightly done!" and rose from where he sat: "No love." quoth he. "but vanity, seta love a task like that." --Leigh Hunt.