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About The Sunday Oregonian. (Portland, Ore.) 1881-current | View Entire Issue (Aug. 13, 1916)
THE SUNDAY OREGOMAX, IORTLAXD, AUGUST 13, 191G. REQUESTS FOR AND COPIES OF "OLD FAVORITES" PILE HIGH Contributors Urged Not to Be Impatient, as It Takes Three Weeks at Least After Receipt to Publish Poems. EQUESTS and contributions for aid favorite poem page have up in such great number that it is impossible, as a rule., for a contribution to be run within from two to three weeks after it has been' received, as space is limited to a single page. This is announced to reassure those who have written inquiring why contributions sent in by them have not yet been published. We are also in receipt of many re quests for poems which we have run already, and in view of the great num ber that have been requested and not yet run we cannot well reprint those which have appeared within the past few months upon this page. We would refer our readers to back files of The Oregonian to find "Curfew Shall Not King Tonight," and "Evolution; or. "When You Were a Tadpole and I Was a. Fish.' for which we are receiving continual requests. "Lasca" was printed about three weeks ago. Since then we have received copies from Sidney H. Ring and Mrs. C. A. Bloss, which we wish to acknowl edge. , We have to acknowledge our obligation likewise to R. S. Van Tull, of South Bend, for an excellent copy of "The First Settler's Story," which was reprinted last week, and to Mrs. Starr, of Corvallis, for a copy of the "Dying Cowboy," which was reprinted at the same time. Copies of "Thou Hast Been the Cause of This Anguish, My Mother," which was printed last Sunday, have con tinued to come in. We have received them from Mrs. F. S. Foster, of Port land; John Dolan, of Houlton; Mrs. Will Godel, of Aberdeen. Wash.; Mrs. Will iam Stanton, of Portland and Mrs. Cieorge Osborne, of Oregon City. Still another stanza to -this old song was contained in a version submitted by Miss Myrtle Jones, of Portland. The extra stanza was as follows: 'Once again we met, but with anguish I saw him; I gazed but to weep, for he lay in his coffin; His bright auburn locks, like some love- drooping willow, Lay peacefully resting upon his cold pillow. His pale, lonely bride stood over him, weeping; I kissed his cold lips, so quietly sleep ing: I kissed his cold lips, I, the bride of another; There was no one to chide me not even my mother." Accompanying this contribution. Mr. rolan sends a request for "The Texas Ranger" and Ve are also in receipt of a request, among many others, from Mrs. Laura King, of 141 street, for the old song: Est Stark "Katie Lee and Willie Gray." "Lost on the Lady Elgin." requested a few weeks ago. has come In numer ous copies. Contributors to whom we are indebted for help on it are: Mrs. T. F. Cowing, of Portland: Mrs. George Osborne, of Oregon City; Laverna Spitzenberger, of Portland; Mrs. C. G. Humason. of Oresham: Mrs. H. M. KTirs nf Portland: Miss Sadie Jack. of Borine: Mrs. Emma Kirkpatrick, of Eugene: H. K. Jones, of Corvallis; Au gustus Bloom, of Hillsboro; B. J. Prain, of Gladstone, and several anonymous contributors. "Mv mother was in Milwaukie when the disaster of the Lady Elgin oc curred." wrote Mrs. Kirkpatrick. "The Lady Elgin was an excursion steamer and was run Into and sunk by a boat loaded with lumber. Miss Jack asks for a copy of "The Battle of Shiloh" and Miss Spitzenber ger requests the old song "The News bov, Jimmie Brown." The words of "The Lady Elgin" fol low: LOST OX THE LADY ELGIS. Up from the poor man's cottage. Forth from the mansion door. Sweeping across the waters And echoing 'long the shore; Caught by the morning breezes. Borne oh the evening gale, Cometh a voice, of mourning, A sad and solemn wail. Chorus. Lost on the Lady Elgin, Sleeping to waKe no more: Numbered in that three hundred. Who failed to reach the shore. Oh. 'tis the cry of children Weeping for parents gone: Children who slept at evening. But orphans woke at dawn. Bisters for brothers weeping: Husbands for missing wives; Euch are the ties dissevered With those three hundred lives. Stanch was the noble steamer. Precious the freight she bore; Gaily she loosed her cables A few Ehort hours before. Grandly she swept our harbor. Joyfully rang her bell; Little thought we, ere morning 'Twould toll so sad a knell. The following ballad. "Civil War.' is also contributed by Horace Stevens. The author is Charles Dawson Shan- ly: CIVIL WAR. Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot Straight at the heart of you prowling vidette; Ring me a ball in the glittering spot That shines on his breast like an amulet!" "Aye, Captain; here goes for a fine drawn bead! There's music around when my barrel's in tune!" Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped. And dead from his horse fell the ring ing dragoon. "Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes and snatch From your victim some trinket, to handsel first blood A button, a loop or that luminous patch That gleams in the moonlight like diamond stud." "O. Captain! I staggered and sunk on my track When I gazed in the face of that fallen vidette: For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and mas ters me yet. "But I snatched off the trinket thi locket of gold An inch from the center my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold Of a beautiful lady in bridal array.' "Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket! tis she. My brother's young bride, and th fallen dragoon Was her husband Hush! soldier 'twas heaven's decree. We must bury him here, by the ligh of the moon! "But. hark! the far bugles their warn ings unite; War is a virtue weakness a sin: There's lurking and loping around us tonight; Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!" The accompanying poem was written by Richard Realf, an eccentric geniu who committted suicide in .Oakland, Cal., soon after its composition in 18 1 have always regarded it in the light of a noetic gem, inspired by a mind REQUES the ol. piled wonderful in its Horace Stevens. mystic resources. INDIRECTION. Fair are the flowers and the children. But their subtle suggestion is fairer: Rare is the roseburst of dawn. But the secret that clasps it is rarer; Sweet the exultance of song. But the strain that precedes it is sweeter; nd never was poem yet writ But the meaning outmastered the metre. Never a daisy that grows But a mystery guideth the growing; Never a river that flows But a majesty sceptres the flowing; Never a Shakespeare that soared But a stronger than he did enfold him. Nor ever a prophet foretells But a mightier seer hath foretold him. Back of the canvas that throbs The painter is hinted and hidden; nto the statue that breathes The soul of the sculptor is bidden; Under the Joy that is felt Lie the infinite issues of feeling; Crowning the glory revealed Is the glory that crowns the revealing. Great are the symbols of being. But that which is symbol'd is greater; ast the create and beheld. But vaster the inward creator; Back of the sound broods the silence. Back' of the gift stands the giving; Back of the hand that receives Thrill the sensitive nerves of receiv ing. Space is as nothing to spirit. The deed is outdone by the doing; The heart of the wooer is warm. But warmer the heart of the wooing: And up from the pita where these shiver And up from the heights where those shine. Twin voices and shadows swim star- ward, And the essence of life is divine. Lloyd E. Reed, of Stella. Wash.. sends "The Fire Fiend," which was re- uested by Fred Brown. Mr. Reed asks for "Courtin'," by James Russell Low- 11. THE FIRE FIEND. BY JESSIE GLENN. Hark! hark! o'er the city alarm bells ring out. Cling, clang! Fire! Fire!" each tone seems to shout. 'Come on," cries a voice, "there is work to be done." So forth for our steamer and hosecart we run! Here they are! Roll them out! Now quick let us fly! Clear the track! turn out! Fire! Fire!" Fiend is out! Ha! ha! heer we are! Yes, the Fire Fiend is out! Just see the smoke roll, while the names leap about: Unroll the hose, quick; pull to the tank. Doys; Make fast the steamer now! Listen to its noise! There go the water Jets high in the air! Dash them on! higher! higher! flames everyhere. But stay! A wild cry rises loud o'er the din. A woman is shrieking, "My child sleeps witnin; Help! help! Can ye stand, oh, men, here and see A little child die, yet do nothing for me r She burns! she is lost!" shrieks the mother, half wild. Are ye men? Have ye hearts? Then help my poor child." Be calm, cried a fireman, young. sturdy and brave. T die in yon flames or your child will I save! Ho! ladders, quick! quick! hoist them up to the wall Now, steady! God help me! Oh, what if I fall?" One glance up to heaven, one short prayer he spoke. Sprang up and was hidden by darkness and smoke. On her knees sank the mother, lins moving in prayer. While fear sent a thrill through the crowd gathered there. creamiess silence prevailed, none speaking a word. While puffs from the engine alone could be heard. All eyes remained lixed on the window above. Where last stood a hero whom angels might love. Will he ever come back?" No sound in reply Save the Fire Fiend's laugh, as he leaps up so high. Catching windows and doors, wood work, lintel and all. While "burn with all speed" seems his conquering call. "Spare nothing, speed onward! In this 1 delight! Two victims are mine! I am king here tonight." Not so! Oh. not so! for mid Joy-speak ing cneers A fireman with child on the ladder ap pears; Blackened, yet safe, he descends to the ground. Gives the babe to its mother, then looks calmly 'round. Thank God that he gave me the strength this to do! We will." cried a voice, "but we also thank you! The Fire Fiend rushed by on his mer ciless path; At losing his victims he seemed full ot wrath; He sputtered and hissed hisunceaslng reprooi. Until, with a crash. Inward tumbled the roof. Then, 'mid water and work, mid laugh ter ana snout. The Fiend slunk away and the fire was out. The name of the author of the fol lowing is requested by the contributor MY LESSOX. I told a secret! It wasn't much For a little girl to tell; I only told it. softly and low. To my intimate -schoolmate. Belle. But the silly secret grew and grew. And all around it spread. Until at last it was hard to find The thing I had really said. And when I Bat In mamma's lap. With all my troubles told. She said twas the "matter great" that grew From the "little fire" of old. Sd I learned a lesson well that night Before I went to bed. And mamma gave me a rule to keep. Ana mis is wnat sne saia: "The only way is never to say A word that can offend; Not even close to the listening ear Of the dearest intimate friend." xne une kock oy the Sea" wa almost rs popular with readers as "Los on the Lady Elgin." Copies were re ceived from Mrs Sellers, Mr. Prain, Mrs. E. M. Meeds, of Gladstone; Dr. P. Francis Gunster. of Portland: Mrs M. E. Walker, of Bandon; Mrs. E. E. (Among the songs of half a century ago. none was more popular nor more widely sung than this beautiful lyric by Thomas Campbell. Its sweet melody has been a lullaby that will be remembered by many whose natr nas long since turned to gray. In life's Bybee and contributors who did not give their names. The poem follows: Ml' LO.E ROCK. BY THE SEA. tell me not the woods are fair Now- Spring is on her way. For well L know how blithely there In Joy the young leaves play. How sweet on winds of morn or eve The violet's breath may be. Tet ask yet woo me not to leave My lone rock by the sea. Yet ask yet woo me not to leave My lone rock by the sea. The wild waves thunder on the shore. The curlew's restless cries Unto my watching heart are more Than all earths meloaies. Come back, my ocean rover, come. There's but one spot for me Till I can greet they swift sail home My lone rock by the sea Till I can greet thy swift sail home. My lone rock by the sea. R. E. Harbison sends the following from the old McGufty's Fourth Reader, Indiana series: A DIRGE. Earth to earth and dust to dust!" Here the evil and the Just, Here the youthful and the old. Here the fearful and the doio. Here the matron and the maid In one silent bed are" laid: Here the vassal and the king Side by side lie withering; Here the sword and scepter rust: Earth to earth and dust to dust: Age on age shall roll along , O'er this pale and mighty throng; Those that wept them. those that weep. All shall with these sleepers sleep; Brothers, sisters of the worm. Summer's sun or Winter's storm. Song of peace or battle's roar Ne'er shall break their slumbers more; Death shall keep his sullen trust; "Earth to earth and dust to dust! But a day is eoming fast. Earth, thy nVlghtlest and thy last! It shall come in fear and wonder, Heralded by trump and thunder; It shall come in strife and toil: It shall come in blood and spoil; It shall come in empires' groans. Burning temples, trampled thrones; Then, ambition, rue thy lust; Earth to earth and dust to dust: Then shall come the Judgment sign; In the east the King shall shine: Flashing from heaven's golden gate. Thousands, thousands round his state. Spirits with the crown and plume; Tremble, then, thou solemn tomb; Heaven shall open on our sight. Earth be turned to living light. Kingdom of the ransomed just! Earth to earth and dust to dust! Then thy mount, Jerusalem, Shall be gorgeous as a gem: Then shall in the desert rise Fruits of more than paradise. Earth by angel feet be trod. One great garden of her God! Till are dried the martys' tears Through a thousand glorious years; Now in home of him we trust; Earth to earth and dust to dust! , SINGIN' SKCT'L J. H. Bristow writes: "The following poem appeared in the Song King about the year 1875. It may be of interest to an older generation who knew the Joys of the singing school": O, childhood's Joys is very grate, A swingin' on his muther's gate, A eatin' candy til his mouth Is all stuck up from north to south. & uther things he likes kwite well " That I hain't here Jist time to tell. But if he izzn't kwite a phool He'd rather go to singln' skewL & it's' considered very nice To skate upon the friz-up ice, Unlest you chanst to fall kerwhack & thereby cos your head to crack. & when you go from home to dine, A roasted turkey's very fine. But still I think it's more Joyfull To go-o-o to singin' skewl. Sum thinks that nuthln's Vi so good As olsters roasted, fried or stood, & u triers thinks the pleasures more A slidin on a seller dore. So sum thinks this & sum thinks that. But all agree there s greater sat isfaction to be always hed At singln' skewl as I hev eed. O. sweet the breth of dewy morn, A blowin" sadly thru the korn. While golden rays of mistic lite Is herd upon the dawn of nlte. But sooperfine, extattick bliss You'll always And. & never miss. If you will only mind this rool & always go to singln' skewl. O, the singin" skewl's butlfool! O. the singin' skewl's butifool! If I hed you fer my teecher I shood be a happy creecher, Fer I dote upon the singln skewl. "Weighing Baby," requested several weeks ago. is herewith reprinted. We are indebted for copies to Lloyd E. Reed, of Stella. Wash.; Fannie Ladd Baker, of PortU-nd; Emaline Olsen, of For the copy here used we are indebted Our bugle sang1 truce, for the night cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw By the wolf -scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methoug-ht from the battlefield's dreadful array. Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; Twas Autumn and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft mornintr march, when mv bosom was I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn rear. Then pledged we the wine cup, and fondly I swore 1 From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, - And my wife sobbed aloud in her f ullnes of heart. "Stay, stay with us! rest! thou art weary and worn!" And "fain was their war-broken soldier to stay But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. Seaside-; Hallle J. Hillis. of Portland; Mrs. R. H. Jay, of Eugene, and others. WEIGHING BABY. How many pounds does the baby weigh. Baby who came but a month ago? How many pounds from tho crowning curl To the rosy of the restless toe? Grandfather ties the 'kerchief knot. Tenderly guides the swinging weight. And carefully over his glasses peers To read the record "Only eight." Softly the echo goes around; The father laughs at the tiny girl; The fair young mother sings the words. While grandmother smooths the golden curl; And, stooping above the precious thing. Nestles a kiss within a prayer. Murmuring softly: "Little one. Grandfather did not weigh you fair." Nobody weighed the baby's smile. Or the love that came with the help less one; Nobody weighed the threads of care From which a woman's life is spun. No index tells the mighty worth Of little baby's quiet breath A soft, unceasing metronome. Patient and faithful unto death. Nobodv weighed the baby's soul. For here on earth no weight there De That could avail: God only knows Its value in eternity. Only eight pounds to hold a soul That seeks no angers silver wing. But shrines it in this human guise Within so small and frail a thing! Oh, mother.-laugh your merry note. Be gay and glad, but don't forget From baby's eyes looks out a soul. That claims a home in Lden yet. "The Boy and the Butterfly," from McGufty's old Fourth Reader, is sent us by R. E. Harbison, of Hillsboro: THE BOY AND THE BUTTERFLY. Truant boy, with laughing eye. Chasing the winged butterfly In her flight from bud to flower. Wasting many a precious hour; Thine's a chase of Idle Joy, Happy, thoughtless truant boy! Thou hast left thy playmates, laid 'Neath the beech tree's leafy shade. Sheltered from the hour of noon And the burning skies of June; What are hours "or skies to thee. Joyous type of liberty? Pause! Thy foot hath touch'd the brink, - Where the water lilies drink Moisture from the silent stream. Glittering In the sunny beam; Truant, pause! or else the wave May thy future idling save! Now! pursue the painted thing! See, she drops her velvet wing! Tired, she rests on yonder rose; Soon thy eager chase will close! Stretch thine hand! she is thine own! Ah! she files; thy treasure's gone! Boy! in thee the poet's eye Man's true emblem may descry. Like thee, through the viewless air He doth follow visions fair! Hopes as vain, pursuits as wild Occupy the full-grown child! "Lulu s Complaint, requested sev eral weeks ago by one of our readers, is contributed by Lloyd Reed, of Stella. Wash. LULU'S COSIPLAINT. I'se a poor, "ittle sorrowful baby. For B'idget is 'way down 'tairs. My tltten has scratched my fln'er And Dolly won't say her p'ayers. I hain't seen my bootiful mamma Since ever so long ado. And 1 ain't her tunninest baby No longer, for B'ldget says so. Mamma dot anoder new baby, Dod dived It he did yes'erday; And it kies. it kles oh! so deffull I wis' he would take it away. I don't want no "sweet 'ittle sister" I want my dood mamma, I do; I want her to tiss me and tiss me An' call me her p'ecious Lulu. I dess my dear papa will b'ln me A dood 'ittle titten some day; Here s nurse wif my mamma a n baby; I wis' she would tate It away. Ob! oh! what tunnirr" red fln'ers! It sees mejite out of its eyes; . I dess we will teep it and dive "it Some cany whenever it kles. I dess I will dive it my dolly To play with mos' every day; An' I dess, I dess -Say, B'idget. Ask Dod not to tate it away. Mrs. Harbison, contributor of several to Mrs. M. T. O Connell.) back. vounrr: III era suns' "l. other selections, sends in "What a Little Girl Heard": WHAT A LITTLE GIRL HEARD. I Just ran away to the buttercup lot When mamma told me I better not. And a little brown birdie, up in a tree. As true as you live, kept a-saylng to me, "Naughty May! ran away!" Till I didn't know what to do. Now how do you s'pose he knew? And once we went to the meadow brook, Josie and me, with a Ashing hook. And the very same birdie sang again, Over and over. Just as plain, "Naughty May! ran away!" And Josif.-, she heard him. too. Now how do you s'pose he knew? Josie, she guesses what I heard Was Just my conscience, 'stead of a bird; But the water looked so scowly and black We took hold of hands and ran right back. And all the way we heard it say "That is the best thing to do," And mamma, she said so, too. AFTER SCHOOL HOURS. Did we tarry along, my brother and I, In those Autumn days, long gone by When the pastures and orchard were a glorious hue. Against a sea of azure blue: And when through a filmy veil of haze, The sun cast its dreamy, mellow rays? Did we tarry after school along the way. When In the pastures near, the wal nuts lay. And the hickorynuts. butternuts and beachnuts, too. Where the leaves fluttered down as every breezes blew. Merrily hiding and covering deep, the little wild flowers, fast asleep Oh, no. Over the trodden path hearts merry and light. We hurried home with all our might Changed our clothes and were soon o the way. To where the nuts so thickly lay. The balmy breeze seemed a dream all fair. Of wonderful air-castles and never a care. Only childhood's fancies we were yet wont to trust. As we trod bare-footed through the soft, smooth dust. In a little wooden wagon and an old meal sack. We soon gathered our treasure and hastened back Ere darkness o'er took us and changed our aengnt. Into sudden Illusions of hobgoblins and fright. Not once, twice nor thrice, but many times more. We repeated our trips when school hours were o'er. Now, years have passed twenty-five and ten. But yesterday, seems since Time steers our only then. yesterday, 1H childhood into the currents of the oast. And moves steadily onward oh. so fast! And In his where. eternal orbit of every- Has placed uj far distant here and there: But when the pastures and orchards are a glorious hue. Against a sea of azure blue, These golden hours of innocent pleas ures. Sweet memory holds and returns as treasures. Contributed by Clara D. Mitchell. The ballad of the Bishop of BIngen and his mouse tower, by Robert ooutney, is contributed by Mrs. O. F. Cady. It Is copied from the old book, "Cumnoch's Choice Readings." HOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP. The Summer and Autumn had been so wet That in Winter the corn was growing yet; 'Twas a piteous sight to see. all around. The grain lie rotting on the ground. Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door; For he had a plentiful last year's store. And all the neighborhood could tell His granaries were furnished well. At last. Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay; He bade them to his great barn repair. And they should have food for the Winter there. Rejoiced, such tidings good to hear. The poor folk flocked from far and near. The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old. Then, when he saw It could hold no more. , Bishop Hatto made fast the door. .if jl Mnli h-7 i mm And while for mercy on God they call He set fire to the barn and burned thni alL faith, 'tis an quoth he. excellent bonfire." is greatly obliged And the country to me. For ridding it. in these times forlorn. Of rats that only consume the corn." So then, to his palace returned he. And he sat down to supper merrily. And he slept that night like an inno cent man. But Bishop Hatto never slept again. n the morning, as he entered the hall. Where his picture hung against the wall. " sweat like death all over him came. For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. As he looked, there came a man from his farm; He had a countenance white with alarm; 'My Lord. I opened your granaries this morn. And the rats had eaten all your corn." Another came running presently. And be was pale as pale could be; Fly, my Lord Bishop, fly! quoth he. Ten thousand rats are coming this way. The Lord forgive you for yesterday. "I ll go to my tower on the Rhine, re plied he, Tis the safest place in Germany; The walls are high and the shores are steep. And the stream Is strong, and the waters deep." Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away. And he crossed the Rhine without de lay. And reached the tower, and barred with cats. All the windows, doors and loopholes there. . He laid him down and closed his eyes. But soon a scream made him arise; He started, and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the scream ing came. He 'listened and looked; it was only the cat: But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that: . . For she sat screaming, mad with fear, At the army of rats that were draw ing near. - For they have swam over tho river so deep. And they have climbed the shores so steep. And up the tower their way Is bent. To do the work for which they were sent. They are not to be told by the dozen or score. By thousands they come, and by myriads and more, Such numbers had never been heard of before. Such a Judgment had never been wit nessed of yore. Down on his knees the Bishop fell. And faster and faster his beads did tell. As louduer and louder, drawlnc; near. The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. And in at the windows, door. And through the walls, and in at the helter-skelter they pour. And down from the celling and up through the floor. From the right and the left, from be hind and before. From within and without, from above and below. And all at once to the Bishop they go. They have whetted their teeth against the stones. And now they pick the Bishop's bones: They gnawed the flesh from every limb. For they were sent to do Judgmesrt on him! Mrs. George Haines, of Latourell, sends In the following clipping farni an old copy of the Philadelphia News: STANDING ALONE. "The baby is standing all 'lonely," The children shout in their glee And father and mother and auntie Must hurry and come and see. . So baby the cute little darling! . Is put through the wonderful feat. And fondled and kissed and commended For being so smart and sweet. With the cunningest air of triumph She stands in the midst of us all While the outstretched arm of her mother Is ready to save a fall. And whenever the little one totters Around her is hastily thrown. "Tis very fine fun." thinks the baby "This frolic of standing alone!" Ah! many a time In the future She'll long for the aid of that arm. When the No Ions the love and care of a mother o longer can snieia ner iron narmi For oft when our need is the sorest. There's no one to whom we can turn; And standing alone Is a leeson Tis hard for a woman to learn. And often and over, my baby. Before life's Journey is done. You will yearn in your hours of weak ness ' For something o lean upon. When the props upon which you de pended Are taken away or overthrown. You will rind 'tis wearisome, baby So wearisome! Standing alone. The Rev. E. C. Hause sends the fol lowing pretty little poem, clipped from an English paper: PAINT THE SKY FIRST. An artist of rare skill. And genius manifold. Did not outline the picture, till In tints of blue and gold. Upon the canvas lifted high He spread the colors of the sky. And when the sky "was done. He painted all below To match in every hue and tone. Until It seemed as though The very shadows were In love With colors copied from above. But when the work begun Was finished, 'twas so fine They did not think of sky or sun. But only how divine The landscape was: how cool and sweet The spot where lights and shadows meet. Yes. let the sky come first; This Is the lesson taught. That life-time is, alas, the worst Whose sky is latest wrought. For. finished with the greatest care. Something is always lacking there.. God first, and earth last! What better rule than this? If thou dost wish the work thou hast To be a masterpiece: Then smallest touches lightly given On earth and seas, are toned to heaven. THE HAHP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. BY THOMAS MOORE. (Thomas Moore was born at Dublin In 1779. He went tc Trinity College. He wrote many satirical papers and lam poons against the Regent, which were afterwards collected in the "Twopenny. Post Bag." His other prose writings consist chiefly of biographies, among which is one of Byron, whose friend Moore was. But what Moore will be best remembered and loved for are his Irish melodies and national songs. He died in 1817.) The harp that once through Tsra'a halls The soul of music shed. Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days. t-o glory s thrill is o er. And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more. No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone that breaks at night Its tale of ruin tells. Thus freedom now so seldom wakes. The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks. lo show that still she lives. "The Demon's Auction." bv William Lyle, has been sent us by Mrs. John Jeffcott. of Portland: THE DEMON'S AUCTION. Was it reality? was it a dream? Or what on earth was it prompted the tnemeT I know not, but thus the vision did seem: A fiend stood on the rostrum high. Selling lives, with many to buv While near him atood an angel good noting the scenes as each passed by. 'Here is a woman, without pain or ache. Think of the stitches her fingers will take. Think of her work ere her heart will break. She's up at three dollars a week Three, three,, three will none of yoa speak? . She's young and hale, tips a high scale: What better bargain could you seek? "Well, here is a bright and strong little boy. Sometime he was reckoned his mother's joy Now, look at him. gents, I sell you no toy. Start him at two, give us a run. One. one. one, one have you all done? One dollar & week, going, gone. "Next. I offer wait Seven dollars a straight. Going at seven, eight? l man don't let ma week he's tall now, who will and say Body and soul to have and hold; Seven, seven, come, show up your gold. Tou did not bid! I thought you did; Well, bid at once, he must be sold. "Gentlemen. time. Let savants rhyme To bid for once more I lengthen thej talk' morals, 'and poets man's labor cannot be) crime Labor Is labor, cash is cash. Why. this here man can live on bash. GenUemen. speak don't wait a week. As if I were selling you trash. "Ragged! -pooh, nonsense, don't look at his dress. You won't give seven? then start blni at less. You'll want him for nothing, ere Ions, I guess. I'm offered six. six. six; all done? Six dollars a week going gone. Take him away; now. gents, good day Haul down the red flag. Mister John.'' The angel stood waiting until the end- He wept to see labor without a friend; And this Is the record that angel penned: Sin. how sin in this world hath grown: How will this look before the Throne? Lives may be sold for greed of gold. But God at last will claim his own. The following poem created a laugh clear across the continent a score of years ago. It was reprinted so often that the author's name was lost and it finally sailed into the sea of anonyms. The writer, however, is James Burton Adams, the pioneer press humorist, now living at Vancouver. Wash. PILL'S BAD END. I got a letter, parson, from my son away out Went. An' my heart's as heavy as an anvil in my breast. To think the boy whose futur' I had so proudly planned. Should wander from the path of right and come to such an end. I told him when he left us only three, short years ago. He'd find himself a plowin' in a mighty rocky row. He'd miss his father's counsels, and hist mother's prayers, too. But he said the farm was hateful and he guessed he d have to go. know there's big temptation for a youngster in the West, But I thought our Billy had the cour age to resist. An' when he left us I warned mm oi the ever-waiting snares. That lie like hidden sarpents in life a pathway everywheres. But Bill he promised faithful to be keerful. .and allowed He'd build a reputation that would make us mighty proud. But it seems as how my counsels sort o' faded from his mind. And now the boy's in trouble of the very worstest kind. His letters came so seldom that I some how sort of knowed That Billy was a-travcling in a mighty rocky road. But never once imagined he would bow mv head in shame. And in "the dust would waller his old daddy's honored name He writes from out in Denver, and the story's mlRhty short. I Just can't tell his mother, it would break her poor old heart. An" so I reckon, parson, you might break the news to her. Bill's in the Legislature but he doesn't say what for. A reader in Aberdeen sends the fol lowing as one of her favorites: KISSING OUR BOYS GOOD NIGHT. Oh. what a change comes over things. What quiet fills the place; The Winter evening slowly drags. The purple flames that race Far up the chimney ,seem to shed Less cheerful warmth and light. When, putting on their little gowns. We kiss our boys good mghL We follow them as off they go. With ringing laugh and shout. To fondly tuck them in the bed And turn the gaslight out: And. clasped in one another's arms, Ho warm, and snug, and tight. They fill our hearts with worship When we kiss our boys good night. And as they drift to slumberland We linger round their cot. For lo! a strange enchantment Binds us voiceless to the spot. And life somehow grows sweeter. And the vexing cares lake flight. When, bending o'er their sleeping forma. We kiss our boys good nitfht. Then, looking to the future. Into whose mysterious years They must go to meet1 life's issues. Now with gladness, now with tears: We pray that he may lead them Ever in the path of right. When no more beneath our rooftree V.'e may kiss our boys good night,
