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About The Sunday Oregonian. (Portland, Ore.) 1881-current | View Entire Issue (Oct. 22, 1916)
I 8 TIIE SUNDAY OREGOXIAN, PORTLAND, OCTOBER 22, 1916. MORE FAVORITE OLD POEMS ARE ASKED FOR BY READERS Frequent Contributor Now Makes Request for Lost Verses. t a MONO the requests for old favor l ites that come in Increasing vol XX ume along with the contributions of poems that have been asked for, the following: are but a few that have been received: B. F. Case, of Yacolt, wants the poem In which these lines appear: They grew in beauty side by side. They filled our home with glee; Their graves are sundered far and wide By mountain, stream and lea. Mrs. J. Mallon. of 944 Gladstone Btreet, wants "If there, wasn't so many onri "Th Master Is Coming." Ruth Luce, who has been one of the best of all the contributors to this page, Tequests the reprinting of John Green leaf Whittier's "Marguerite." Oliver Wendell Holmes" "My Sunday Breeches, which goes under the title of the "Sep tember Gale." She also wants "Little Brown Baby With Sparklin' Eyes and "October's Bright Blue -Weather,' by Helen Hunt Jackson. She also calls attention to an error in the reprint of "The Courtin'," which was published on this page August 28. The reading of the ninth stanza should have been as follows: He'd sparked it with full twenty gals. He'd squired 'em. danced 'em, druv 'em, Tust this one and then thet, by spells All is, he couldn't love 'em. Among the contributions received re cently from her, one of the most in teresting is the famous old rhyme of "The Bachelor Sale," which we reprint herewith. THE BACHELOR SALE. I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers. And as fast as I dreamed it was coined Into numbers: My thoughts ran along In such beau tiful meter. I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter. It seemed that a law had been recently made. That a tax on old bachelors pates should be laid: And in order to make them all willing to marry. The tax was as large as a man could well carry. The bachelors grumbled, and said 'twas vn nap. Twas cruel Injustice and horrid abuse. And declared that to save tneir own heart's blood from spilling Of such a vile tax they would ne'er pay a shilling. But the rulers determined their scheme to pursue. Bo they set all the old bachelors up at vendue, A crier was sent through the town to and fro. To rattle his bell and his trumpet to And to bawl out to all he might meet on his way: Ho! 40 old bachelors sold here today. And presently all the old maids of the town Each one in her very best bonnet and gown Pram 30 to 60. fair, plain, red and pale Of every description, all flocked to the sale. The auctioneer, then. In his labor bp iran ". And called out aloud, as he held up a man. "How much for a bachelor? Who wants tf hu v ?" . In a twink. every maiden responded: "I. I!" In short, at a hugely extravagant price.. The bachelors all were sold off in a trice, And 40 old maidens some younger, some older. Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. The following is contributed Clara McKee. of Junction City: by DONT MARRY A MAN TO REFORM HIM. Don't marry a man to reform him; To God and your own self be true. Don't link to his vices your virtue. You'll rue It, dear girl, if you. No matter how fervent his pleadings, Be not by his promise lea. If he can't be a man while a-wooing He'll never be one when ne s we a. Don't marry a man to reform him Tn rpnpnf it. alas, when too late; The mission of wives least successful Is the making of crooked limbs straight. There's many a maiden has tried It, And proved it a failure at last Better tread your life's pathway alone, dear. Than wed with a lover that's fast. Mankind's much the same the world over; The exceptions you'll find are but When the'rule Is defeat and disaster. The chances are great against you. Don't trust your bright hopes for the future. The beautiful crown of your youth. To the keeping of him who holds lightly His fair name and honor and truth. To honor and love you must promise; Don't pledge what you cannot fulfil; If he'll have no respect for himself, dear. Most surely you then never will. 'Tis told us the frown of a woman Is Rtrone- as the blow of a man. And the world will be better when women Frown on error as hard as they can Make virtue the price of your favor; Place wrongdoing under a ban; And let him who would win you and wed you Prove himself In full measure a man. In a collection of clippings sent by Clara McKee, of Junction City, is the following favorite: LAST NIGHT. Last night the nightingale waked me. Last night when all was still; It lang In the golden moonlight From out on the woodland hill. I opened the window gently. And all was dreamy dew And oh! the bird, my darling. Was singing, singing of you. I think of yHi In the daytime; I dream ofvyou by night I wake would you were near me. And not tears blind my sight. I hear a sigh In the lime-tree. The wind is floating through. And oh! the night, my darling. Is longing, longing for you. Nor think I can forget you! I could not though I would! 1 see you In all around me The stream, the night, the wood; The flowers that sleep so gently. The stars above the blue. Oh. heaven Itself, my darling. Is praying, praying for you! This ballad, which appeared in some of the public newspapers in or before (he year 1724, came from the pen of David Mallet, Esq. The copy is sent by Ivy I). Morgan. MARGARETS GHOST. 'Twas at the silent, solemn hour When night and morning meet: In glided Margaret's grimly ghost. And stood at William's feet. Her face was like an April morn Clad in a wintry cloud: And clay-cold was her lily hand, That held her sable Bhrowd. So shall the fairest face appear When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear When death has reft their throne. Her bloom was like the springing flower That sips the silver dew; The rose was budded in her cheek. Just opening to the view. But love had. like the canker worm. Consumed her early prime; The rore grew pale, and left her cheek; She dyed before her time. 'Awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls. Come from her midnight grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid. Thy love refused to save. This Is the dumb and dreary hour. When injured ghosts complain; Iow yawning graves give up their dead. To haunt the faithless swain. 'Bethink thee. William, of thy fault. Thy pledge and broken oath; And give me back my maiden vow, And give me back my troth. Why did you promise love to me. And not that promise keep? Why did you swear mine eyes were bright, Tet leave those eyes to weep? How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break? Why did you say my lip was sweet. And made the scarlet pale? And why did I young, witless maid. Believe the flattering tale? That face, alas! no more is fair; These lips no longer red; Dark are my eyes, now closed in death. And every charm Is fled. The hungry worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear; And cold and weary lasts our night. Till that last morn appear. But hark! the cock has warn'd me I hence! A long and last adieu! Come see, false man, how low she lies Who dy'd for love of you." The lark sung loud; the morning smil'd With beams of rosy red; Pale William shook In every limb. And, raving, left his bed. He hyed him to the fatal place Where Margaret's body lay. And stretch'd him on the grass-green turf That wrapt her breathless clay. And thrice he call'd on Margarets name. And thrice he wept full sore; Then laid his cheek to her cold grave. And word spake never more. "Wanted A Minister's Wife" well-remembered old poem, for c Is copy of which we are indebted to Clara Mc- tt.ee, ol junction iity; WASTED A MINISTER'S WIFE. At length we have settled a pastor I am sure I cannot tell why The people should grow so restless Or candidates grow so shy. But after two years' searching For the "smartest" man in the land, In a fit of desperation We took the nearest at hand. And really he answers nicely To "nil up the gap," you know. To "run the machine" and "bring up arrears And make things generally go. He has a few little failings. His sermons are commonplace quite. But his manner is very charming And his teeth are pearly white. And so, of all the "dear people." Not one in a hundred complains, For beauty and grace of manner Are so much better than brains; But the parish have all concluded He needs a partner for life. To shine, a fem, in the parlor; Wanted a ministers wife! Wanted a perfect lady. Delicate, gentle, refined. With every beauty of person And every endowment of mind; Fitted by early culture To move in fashionable life Please notice our advertisement: 'Wanted a minister's wife." Wanted a thoroughbred worker. Who well to her household looks. (Shall we see our money wasted By extragant Irish cooks?) Who cuts the daily expenses With economy sharp as a knife. And washes and scrubs in the kitchen 'Wanted a minister's wife." A "very domestic person," To callers she must not be "out"; It has such a bad appearance For her to be gadding about- Only to visit the parish Every year of her life. And attend the funerals and wed dings "Wanted a minister's wife." To conduct the "ladles' meetings," The "sewing circle" attend. And when we have work for the sol diers Her ready assistance to lend; To clothe the destitute children. Where sorrow and want are rife: To hunt up Sunday school scholars "Wanted a minister's wife!" Careful to entertain strangers. Traveling agents and "such." Of this kind of "angels' visits" The deacons have had so much As to prove a perfect nuisance; And hope these "plagues of their life" Can soon be sent to the parson's "Wanted a minister's wife!" A perfect pattern of prudence To all others, spending less. But never disgracing the parish By looking shabby in dress. Playing the organ on Sunday Would aid our laudable strife To save the society's money "Wanted a minister's wife." And when we have found the person We hope, by working the two. To lift our cebt and build a new church. Then we shall know what to do; For they will be worn and weary. Needing a change of life. And so we'll advertise. "Wanted, A minister and his wife!" "Mysterious Rapping," by B. P. Shll- laber, is one of the classical parodies 1 r j . ii ii I cannot sing the old songs I sang long years ago, For heart and voice would fail me, And foolish tears would flow; For bygone hours come o'er my heart With each familiar strain. I cannot sing the old songs, Or dream those dreams again, ' I cannot sing the old songs, Their charm is sad and deep ; Their melodies would waken Old sorrows from their sleep; And though all unforgotten still, And sadly sweet they be, I cannot sing the old songs They are too dear to me. I cannot sing the old songs, For visions come again Of golden dresms departed And years of weary pain. Perhaps when earthly fetters shall Have set my spirit free, My voice may know the old songs For all eternity. on Poe's "Raven," which we have re ceived from Ruth Luce. MYSTERIOUS RAPIMNGS. Late one evening I was sitting, glomy shadows round me flitting Mrs. Partington a-knitting, occupied the grate before. Suddenly I heard a patter, a very trifling matter. As if it were if thieving rat or mouse within my closet door Only this and nothing mora Then all my dreaminess forsook me; rising tip I straightway shook me. A light off of the table took and swift the rat s destruction swore. Mrs. P. smiled approbation on my prompt determination. And without more hesitation oped I wide the closet door Darkness there and nothing more. As upon the sound I pondered, what the deuce It was I wondered; Can it be my ear had blundered as at times it had before? But scarce again was I reseated 'ere I heard the sound repeated. The same dull patter that had greeted me from out the closet door; Heard the patter that had greeted me from out the closet door A gentle patter, nothing more. Then my rage arose unbounded. "What." cried I. "is this con founded Noise with which my ear is wounded noise I've never heard before? If 'tis presage dread of evil, if 'tis made by ghost or devil. I call on ye to be more civil stop that knocking at the door! Stop that strange, mysterious knock inir there within mv closet floor, Grant me this, if nothing more." Once again I seized the candle, rudely erasoed the latchet s handle, Savage as a Goth or vandal that kicked up rumpuses of yore. "What the dickens is the matter." said I, "to produce this patter?" To Mrs. P. I looked straight at her. I don't know," she said, I m shore: i Lest it be a pesky rat. or something. I don't know I m shore. This she said and nothing more. Still the noise kept on. unceasing, evi dently 'twas increasing Like a cartwheel wanting greasing. wore it on my nerves full sore. Patter! patter! patter! patter! the rain ithe while made noisy cianer. My teeth with boding ill did chatter, as when I m troubled by a core Some prosing, dull and dismal fellow. coming in but just to core Only this and nothing more. All night long it kept on tapping: vain T laid myself for napping. Calling sleep my sense to wrap in dark ness until trie nignt was o er; dismal candle. dimly burning, watched me as I lay there turn ing. desperation wildly yearning that sleen would visit me once more. In Sleep, refreshing sleep did I most ur gently implore; This I wished and nothing more. With the day I rose next morning. and, all idle terror scorning. Went to find out the warning mat annoyed me so before. Went straightway, to my consternation daylight made the revelation Of a scene of devastation that annoyed m verv sore: Such a scene of devastation as annoyed me very sore This it was and nothing more: The rotten roof had taken leaking, and the rain, a passage seeking. Through the murky darkness sneaking. found my hat box on me iioor; There, exposed to dire disaster, lay my brand-new Sunday castor. And Its hapless, luckless master ne'er shall see Its beauties more Ne'er shall see its glossy Deauty iiiat his glory was beiore " It Is gone for evermore! The following clipping Is received from J. B. Fithian: THE MOTHER-HUNGER. If I could only find her for the mother- huncer'a on me: I want to see and touch her, to know her close beside: - I want to put my head In tne nonow oi fher snouiaer. I want to feel her love me as she did before she died. In all the world Is nothing, love of bus band or of children. In all the world is nothing that can soothe me or can stir Like the memory of her fragile hand on which the ring was supping- The hand that wakes my longing at the very thought of her. The window In the sunshine ana tne empty chair beside it. The loneliness that mocks me as find the sacred place! O mother, is there naught in the un erring speech or silence To let me know your presence though I cannot see your face? Oh, no. Tve not forgotten the triumph and tne glory I would not bring you back again to struggle and to pain. This hour will pass, but O. Just now, the mother-hunger s on me. And I would give my soul tonight to kiss your lips again. The "Lover'8 Leap" is a contribution r i requested, and for a copy of which we are indebted also to Mrs. Rande. THE LOVER'S LEAP, Behold yon beetling rock, whose brow Hangs pending o'er the glen below; A tale, not easily forgot. Is told of that same fearful spot; And thus It runs: One Summer's day. A bridal party blithe and gay. Came hither to enjoy the scene. And dance at evening on the green. Maria was the gentle bride. Her husband's Joy, her parents pride. That morning sun arose, to phed Its luster on her happy head. But ere its parting beams glanc'd down. On valley green, and mountains brown. A mourning bride she was! They laugh'd and revel'd 'till the sun In heaven his midday course begun, When, to avoid the scorching heat. In groups they sought some cool retreat. Maria, with her bosom friend. In yonder grove, rctlr'd to spend An hour of confidence, and share The breezes that were sporting there; While William, full of hope and Joy, His happy moments to employ. Wound through that rocky path to gain A prospect of the neighboring plain. Which, bounded by the distant skies. In vai legated beauty lies. His steps were watched, his way pursued. By one who thirsted for his blood. Inflamed by Jealousy and fir'd By fiendish rage, he but deslr'd To live to strike a deadly blow. And lay his hated rival low. He loved Maria, and he strove. By every strategem of love. To captivate her gentle heart; But vain he found his ev'ry art. That undivided realm to phase. For William rul'd supremely there. Enraged and stung, his hair he tore, A deep arid deadly vengeance swore. And, to fulfill his dark intent. The bridal morn he chose to vent His smother'd rage; he traced his way. Like bloodhound hov'ring on his prey Silent and sure: while gay and light The happv bridegroom climbed the height. Borne on the wings of bliss elate. And thoughtless of Impending fate. He Just had pained the dizzy place. And felt the fresh breeze fan his face, When pale and trembling in his Ire. With qulv'rlng lip, and eye of fire. His foe sprung on the fatal spot Their lonference was brief and hot. Insult began, defiance flash'd A rash and sudden blow was dash'd They grasp'd, they strove, they strained for breath, Their struggle was the strife of death. Twice to the dizzy ledge they roll d, Clasp'd In each other's deadly fold. And twice they backward fell, and then Henew'd the fatal fight again; The aim of each was now to throw His rival on the rocks below. To compromise they bade adieu. And nothing short of death would do. They spoke no word of rage or hate. But. in each fearful pause of fate. Panting for breath, pale, parch'd. and spent. Their looks still gave defiance vent. No sound was heard, no hand was nigh. To hold an olive branch; the sky. As if it smiled upon the fight Was still, blue, beautiful, and bright. Again the frightful steep they eye'd. And. struggling hard, again they tried To fling each other down: at length,! William's activity and strength, Had work'd his now exhausted foe Just to the grave that yawned below; One effort more and he was free But. in his dire extremity. His rival drew a deadly blade. One sure and fatal plunge he made. The weapon plerc'd young William's breast. A groan and struggle marked the rest The vector's eye no lenger flashed, The cold drops from his brow he dash'd And slowly rose; his haggard look Betray'd his soul; he shudder'd, shook, And glanc d around, with timid eye. To see no evidence was nigh; Then dragged the body to the edge And from the steep and dizzy ledge He hurled it over rocks and all; 'Twas dash'd to pieces from the fall. And then he silently withdrew. The bloody story no man knew; The mangl'd limbs were found, and all Lamented William s luckless fall. Twas thought. In climbing the height And turning, that his brain grew light; Or that some faithless crag gave way. And hurled him from the light of day To instant death. Maria's grief Was silent, but beyond relief. Deep in a gloomy solitude. She keat her maiden widowhood. For three sad years; and. when at last. Her lonely boundary she passed. To mingle with the world again All friendly efforts were in vain Her pensive moments to beguile Or raise one melancholy smile. At last she died, and time roll'd on, 'Till years were counted twenty-one Since that sad bridal-day the steep Had long been named "The Lover's Leap." Although the dismal story then Was fading from the minds of men. When, writhing on his bed of death. The murd'rer, with his dying breath, In deepest agony reveal'd The fearful tale so long conceal'd. And then he. raving, died. "The following piece author vn- known was taken from the Methodist Advocate over 40 years ago, and. is worthy of the attention of those who write other than after the John Wesley style brief and to the point." MRS. H. H. SMITH. BOIL IT DOWN. Whatever you have to say, my friend. Whether witty, or grave, or gay. Condense it as much as ever you can, And say it In the readiest way. And whether you write of household affairs. Or particular things about town. Just take a friendly word of advlc Boil it down. For it you go spluttering over a page, hen a couple of lines will do. Tour butter is spread so much, you see, That the bread looks plainly through: So when you have a story to tell. And would like a little renown. To make quite sure of your wish, my friend. Boil it down. When writing an article for the press. W hether prose or verse, Just try To utter your thoughts in the fewest words. And let them be crisp and dry; And when it is finished, and you suppose It is done exactly brown. Just look It over again, and then Boll It down. For editors do not like to print An article really long. And the busy reader does not care For a couple of yards of -song: So gather your wits In the' smallest space. If you'd win the author's crown. And every time you write, my friend. Boil It down. Life Is But a Game of Cards" Is con tributed by Mrs. W. L. Joynt. of Aber deen: LIFE IS BUT A GAME OF CARDS. Life is but a game of cards, which each nn v,nii tn .irn " Each shuffles, cuts and deals a pack ana each a trumn doth turn- I Some turn a hiarh card at the ton uhlu nih.ri turn - inw Some hold a hand quite full of trumps. while others none can show. Some shuffle with a practiced hand and pack their cards with care. oo mey may Know, when ther are dealt, where all the leaders are Thus fools are made the dupes of rogues, while rogues each other cheat. But he is very wise. Indeed, who never meets defeat. In playing, some will lead the ace, their uu..i...K vaiu io save, some piay tne deuce and some the tray ana many play the knave. oMiic pi&y lor money, some lor xun, ana more for worldly fame. And not till the game's played out can tney count up their gain. When hearts are trumps we play (or love; then pleasures deck the nour. No thought of sorrow checks our Joy In Rosy a beauteous bower: We dance and sing, sweet music make, our cards at random play. And while" the heart remains on top our game s a holiday. when diamonds chance to crown the top. then players stake their erold. And heavy sums are won and lost by gamblers young and old. Intent on winning, each doth watch his cards with eager eye, So he may watch his neighbor's hand ana cheat him on the air. When clubs are trumps look-out for war. on ocean or on land! Fcr bloody deeds are often done when clubs are in the hand. Then lives are staked instead of gold. ana loving hearts may bleed across tne oroaa Atlantic now. see! clubs have got the lead. And last of all is when the spade Is turned by hand of time: it always nnishes the game In every jana ana clime: No matter how much men win or how much men may save. Ycu 11 find the spade turns up at last and digs the player a grave. sends the following old clipping, questing that we reprint it: GROWING OLD. little more hair. gray In the lessening Each day as the years go by; A little more stooping in the form. A little more dim in the eye. A little more faltering of the step As we tread life s pathway .o er. And a little nearer every day To the ones who have gone before. A little more halting of the gait And a dullness of the ear: A growing weariness of the frame With each swift passing year. A fading of hopes, and ambition A faltering In life's quest And a little nearer every day To a sweet and peaceful rest A'llttle more loneliness In life As the dear ones pass away A bigger claim on the heavenly land With every passing day. A little further from toil and care. A little less way to roam; A drawing near to a peaceful voyage Ana a nappy welcome noma, Mrs. H. L. Conklin. of Benton Citv.l JULIA WARD HOWE. sends "Hail to the Chief." which w. reauested under the title of "Rodrrii Dhu." She also sent copies ol "Poor Little Joe" and "The Red River Valley," which has been already reprinted. HAIL TO THE CHIEF. By Sir Walter Scott. Hail to the chief, who in triumph ad vances ! Honored and blessed be the evergreen pine! Long may the tree in his banner that glances. Flourish, the sheltered and grace of our line! - Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend It sap anew. Gaily to burgeon and broadly to grow. While every Highland glen. Sends our shout back agen, 'Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu. ho! leroe!" Ours is no eapTing. chance-sown by the fountain. Blooming at Betane, in Winter to fade. When the whirlwind has strip'd every leaf on the mountain. The more shall Clan Alpine exult in her shade. Moor'd in the rifted rock. Proof to the tempest's shock. Firmer he roots him the ruder It blow. . Menteith and Breadalbane. then. Echo his praise agen. "Roderigh Vich Alptne dhu, ho! leroe!" Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands! Stretch to your oars for the ever green pine! Oh, that the rosebud that graces yon islands. Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! Oh. that some seedling gem. Worthy such noble stem. Honor'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow! Loud should Clan Alpine then. Ring from the deepmost glen. Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu. ho! leroe!" A reader recently requested "Drift ing." The following poem of that title, by T. Buchanan Read. Is sent by Ruth Luce: DRIFTING. My soul today Is far away. Sailing the Vesuvian Bay! My winged boat, A bird afloat. Swims round the purple peaks remote Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks. Where high rocks throw. Through deeps below. A duplicated golden glow. Far. vague and dim. The monutains swim; While on Vesuvius' misty brim. With outstretched hands. The gray smoke stands O'erJooking the volcanic lands. Here Eschia smiles O'er liquid miles: And yonder bluest or tne isles Calm Capri waits. Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. I heed not. If My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cllff- Wlth dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. Under the walls Where swells and falls The bay's deep breast at Intervals At peace I He. Blown softly by. s A cloud upon this liquid sky. The day so mild. Is Heaven's own child. With earth and ocean reconciled: I The airs I feel i a round me steal I Are murmuring to the murmuring Reel. I Over the rail Mv hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail. A Joy Intense. The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes Mv BDirlt lies Where Summer sings and never dies O'ervelled with vines. She glows and shines Among her future oil ana wines. Her children, hid I Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; i Qr down the walls, with tlnsv calls. ijm.h on the rocks like waterfalls. I tk. ti.her'i child with tresses wild. Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With fflnwlno- lloa Kinia as she skips. I Or gazes at the far-off shipa Ton Aeeo bark goes Where traffic blows. I From lands of sun to land of snow This happier one. Its course Is won From lands of snow to lands of sun. O hatDV ship. I Tn. rise and diD. with the blue crystal at your lip! I O happy crew. I My heart with you I Sails, and sail, and sings anew! I No more, no more I Th wnrldlv shore UDbralds me with Its loud uproar: I With dreamrul eyes I Mv unlrit lies 1 Under the walls of Paradise! BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC, Mine eyes have seen the glary or tne rnminz of the Lord He is trampling out the vintage where the rranea of wrath are storea He has loosed the fateful lightnings of his terrible swift sword. His truth Is marching on. CHORUS. Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! His truth Is marching on have seen him in the watchf Ires of n hundred circling camps Th hiva bullded him an altar mid the evening aews ana aamps. I can read his righteous sentence Dy the dim and flaring lamps; His day is marching on. I have read his fiery gospel writ In rows of burnlshea steel: f 'As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal." Let the hero, born of woman, crush th serpent with his heel; Since God Is marching on. He has sounded forth a trumpet that shall never call "retreat He Is searching out the hearts of men before his judgment seat Be swift, my soul, to answer him; be Jubilant my feet; Our God is marching on. I In the beauty of the lilies Christ was I born across the sea. I With a beauty In his bosom that trans I figures you and me. I As he died to make men holy, let ns I die to make men Tree, While God Is marching on. - vi Mrs. A. G. Wallace sends "t athe W.im03 which is prooaoiy ess known than Louis on it. Carroll's" famous parody FATHER WILLIAM. . "You are old.' Father William," the young man cried; "The few locks that are left you are gray. You are hale. Father William, a hearty oia man; Now tell me the reason. I pray." Tn the days of my youth." Father William replied, "I remembered that youth would fly fast; And abused not my health and my vigor at first. That I never might need them at lost" 'You are old. Father William." the young man cried. "And pleasures with youth pass away; And yet you lament not the days that are gone; Now tell me the reason, I pray." "In the days of my youth." Father William replied. "I remembered that youth could not last: thought of the future, whatever I did. That I never might grieve for the past" "You are old. Father William." the a young man cried, "And life must be hast'ning away: You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death; Now tell me the reason, I pray." "I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied. "Let the cause thy attention engage: In the days of my youth I remembered my God. And he hath not forgotten my age." Robert Southey. A BROKEN LIFE. By Belle W. Cook. My little brother, fair, so fair. With loving eyes and sun-touched hair, Begged hard to go with me to school. One Summer morning, sweet and cool. I brought his prettiest little eult. And combed his hair, while he stood mute And bore my pulls with patient mien. For he was three and I fifteen. Now," said my mother, "he's so sweet From shining head to plump, bare feet. L-et s nave nis picture, it there time Before the echool-bell rings its chime " V Oh. yes. the artist is so near. Come darling brother, never fear; oun sit as still as anything. And you shall wear my little ring." The sunshine caught his smile and brow. The picture lies before me now. With four and twenty yearn between Since he was three and I fifteen. To us a day of parting came. To many a heart has come the same A tearful, sad. yet hopeful day. When 1 went forth to win my way. I found it by the sunset sea. Where work in plenty welcomed me. The years flew by with swiftest pace. Nor brought again my brother's face. The voice of war thrilled all the land (How hard it was to understand). nd he. though etill a boy, went forth To Join the armies of the North. Three years of danger and of strife. Roared to his home the dear young life. nd. though the Jov had far to come. We felt the thrill of welcome home. Then came of busy life his share. His aged parents were his care. And who shall know what was denied. How much of love he set aside? month ago the tidings came An open card that bore his name: Would that a covering e'er so slight Had hid the cruel words from sight. scarce could see to walk the street. Or stand "upon my pulseless feet; The shock came on so suddenly. The day grew all so dark to me. The old. sad story. At his post to save a host These words tell Still falls the one Instantly killed!'' all. How Itke the valley clods they fall! Oh! brave young heart! Oh! broken life! "Beyond the danger and the strife." Could'et thou our. mother s question see: Did someone kiss my boy for me?" -Contributed by Mrs. H. H. Smith. 227 East Fortieth street. City. Mrs. H. H. Smith sends the following choice old selection: THE COUNTRY ALBUM. By Hugh Mllity. Lookin' at the old album, are you? Well, it's no great shakes to see; But I like to look at pictures, too. And can tell you. p'haps, whose they be. It belonged to my sister Abble. And when new 'twas right hard to beat; But the thing's got a trifle shabby. And the pesky clasps won't meet The first one's Aunt Jane, with her wig on; Then comes Uncle John, with his specs; The next their two sons. Zepn ana olon. With spick-span new etocks 'round their necks. Them are Ned Grim's boys, on the next page; I made every one of their suits; Seth, the big chap, had Just come of age. And Fred had his first red-topped boots. That's Cousin Matilda's first husband. Who'll be dead thirteen years next Spring; He left her the homestead at Upland, But now sne don't own anything. She was such a romantic creature. And would have his picture made so. With vines growin' -round a pillar. And an urn at his left elbow. And here is Matilda's own picture. Token ten veans aco or more. On the day that the Squire married her: I remember the dress which sne wore. You see. that limb Reub would go wuu her. And Just as the picture was made She was tryin' hard not to snicker At something or "other he'd said. Let me see; this is Captain Stiger. That was killed in the war down South; They say that he fought like a tiger. And fell at the cannon's mouth! The next one is his sweetheart's pic ture Miss Meigs she's the old maid, you know. That lives with good Deacon Ritter And Is the district school-marm now. Here's the last and the oddest of all; I wonder whose phia it can be? It's as homely as any stone wall; Why such people sit. I can't see. Them curls, bangin' down in such masses. Remind me of someone I ve known; Just wait till 1 put on my glasses Why. bless me. the picture s my own!