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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
"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
His bright auburn locks, like some love-
Lay peacefully resting upon
His pale, lonely bride stood over him,
I kissed his cold lips, so quietly sleep
I kissed his cold lips, I, the bride
There was no one to chide me not even
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:
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
"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.
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-
Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot
Straight at the heart of you prowling
Ring me a ball in the glittering spot
That shines on his breast like an
"Aye, Captain; here goes for a fine
There's music around when my barrel's
Crack! went the rifle, the messenger
And dead from his horse fell the ring
"Now, rifleman, steal through the
bushes and snatch
From your victim some trinket, to
handsel first blood
A button, a loop or that luminous
in the moonlight like
"O. Captain! I staggered and sunk on
When I gazed in the face of that
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
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array.'
rifleman, fling me the locket!
brother's young bride, and th
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
War is a virtue weakness a sin:
There's lurking and loping around us
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand
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
wonderful in its
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
nd never was poem yet writ
But the meaning outmastered the
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
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
And up from the heights where those
Twin voices and shadows swim star-
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-
THE FIRE FIEND.
BY JESSIE GLENN.
Hark! hark! o'er the city alarm bells
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
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.
Make fast the steamer now! Listen to
There go the water Jets high in the
Dash them on! higher! higher! flames
But stay! A wild cry rises loud o'er the
A woman is shrieking, "My child sleeps
Help! help! Can ye stand, oh, men, here
A little child die, yet do nothing for
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
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
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
Where last stood a hero whom angels
Will he ever come back?" No sound
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
"Spare nothing, speed onward! In this
Two victims are mine! I am king here
Not so! Oh. not so! for mid Joy-speak
A fireman with child on the ladder ap
Blackened, yet safe, he descends to the
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
The Fire Fiend rushed by on his mer
At losing his victims he seemed full
He sputtered and hissed hisunceaslng
Until, with a crash. Inward tumbled the
Then, 'mid water and work, mid laugh
ter ana snout.
The Fiend slunk away and the fire was
The name of the author of the fol
lowing is requested by the contributor
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
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.
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,
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
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.
How many pounds does the baby weigh.
Baby who came but a month ago?
How many pounds from tho crowning
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
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
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
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.
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
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.)
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
"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
But the water looked so scowly and
We took hold of hands and ran right
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
Did we tarry after school along the
When In the pastures near, the wal
And the hickorynuts. butternuts and
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
To where the nuts so thickly lay.
The balmy breeze seemed a dream all
Of wonderful air-castles and never a
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
We soon gathered our treasure and
Ere darkness o'er took us and changed
Into sudden Illusions of hobgoblins
Not once, twice nor thrice, but many
We repeated our trips when school
hours were o'er.
Now, years have passed twenty-five
Time steers our
currents of the oast.
And moves steadily onward oh. so
And In his
eternal orbit of every-
Has placed uj far distant here and
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
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
The Summer and Autumn had been so
That in Winter the corn was growing
'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
Rejoiced, such tidings good to hear.
The poor folk flocked from far and
The great barn was full as it could
Of women and children, and young and
Then, when he saw It could hold no
, Bishop Hatto made fast the door.
h-7 i mm
And while for mercy on God they call
He set fire to the barn and burned
faith, 'tis an
is greatly obliged
And the country
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
But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
n the morning, as he entered the hall.
Where his picture hung against the
sweat like death all over him came.
For the rats had eaten it out of the
As he looked, there came a man from
He had a countenance white with
'My Lord. I opened your granaries this
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
The Lord forgive you for yesterday.
"I ll go to my tower on the Rhine, re
Tis the safest place in Germany;
The walls are high and the shores are
And the stream Is strong, and the
Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away.
And he crossed the Rhine without de
And reached the tower, and barred
All the windows, doors and loopholes
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
He 'listened and looked; it was only
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
And they have
climbed the shores so
And up the tower their way Is bent.
To do the work for which they were
They are not to be told by the dozen
By thousands they come, and by
myriads and more,
Such numbers had never been heard of
Such a Judgment had never been wit
nessed of yore.
Down on his knees the Bishop fell.
And faster and faster his beads did
As louduer and louder, drawlnc; near.
The gnawing of their teeth he could
And in at the windows,
And through the walls,
and in at the
And down from the celling
through the floor.
From the right and the left, from be
hind and before.
From within and without, from above
And all at once to the Bishop they go.
They have whetted their teeth against
And now they pick the Bishop's bones:
They gnawed the flesh from every
For they were sent to do Judgmesrt
Mrs. George Haines, of Latourell,
sends In the following clipping farni
an old copy of the Philadelphia News:
"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
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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
I know not, but thus the vision did
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
Think of the stitches her fingers will
Think of her work ere her heart will
She's up at three dollars a week
Three, three,, three will none of yoa
She's young and hale, tips a high scale:
What better bargain could you seek?
"Well, here is a bright and strong little
Sometime he was reckoned his mother's
Now, look at him. gents, I sell you no
Start him at two, give us a run.
One. one. one, one have you all done?
One dollar & week, going, gone.
"Next. I offer
Seven dollars a
Going at seven,
l man don't
week he's tall
now, who will
Body and soul to have and hold;
Seven, seven, come, show up your
Tou did not bid! I thought you did;
Well, bid at once, he must be sold.
To bid for
once more I lengthen thej
talk' morals, 'and poets
man's labor cannot be)
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
You won't give seven? then start blni
You'll want him for nothing, ere Ions,
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
Sin. how sin in this world hath
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
To think the boy whose futur' I had so
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
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
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
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,