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.