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About The Sunday Oregonian. (Portland, Ore.) 1881-current | View Entire Issue (Oct. 29, 1916)
TITE SUNDAY OREGOXTAX, rORTLAXIJf, OCTOBER 20 191G. 3 MORE REQUESTS FOR OLD POEMS ARE MADE BY READERS" ED H. BUTTLES, of North Powder, sends in two requests for poems "which he wishes published on this page "Deadwood Dick and Piney" and -The Church and the World." A. Thomas, of Gardiner, asks for the old selection from the "Lays of Ancient Rome," tn which the combat between Mamillius and Hermlniua is described. The selection begins: "Right glad were all the Romans, who in that hour of dread, Against great odds, bore up the war around Valerius dead; When to the South the cheering rose with a mighty swell: Ilerminlus comes. Herminius, who kept the bridge so well!" " Grover H. Duffey. of Moro, wants "The Country Debating School," of which, he remembers the following lines: ' "The old wooden schoolhouse, worn, battered and brown, . Btlll stands on a hillside In a New Hampshire town; Its rafters are rotten, its floor Is de cayed; The chinks in the celling by children were made." ... Copies of "Faithless Nellie Gray," which was published a short time ago, have been sent by T. Peppard, of Olympia, "Wash., and "The Blue Juniala" has been received from. Mrs. Eleanor Endtcott. of this city. "Elder Lamb's Donation" was re quested several weeks ago. "We have received a copy of it from Mrs. James Graham, of Monmouth, and Grace Ruthven. of Corvallis. We reprint it herewish: ELDER LAMB'S DONATION. By Will Carleton. Good old Elder Lamb had labored for a thousand nights and days. And had preached the blessed Bible in a multitude of ways; Had received a message daily over Faith's celestial wire. And had kept his little chapel full of flames of heavenly fire; He had raised a num'rous family, straight and sturdy sis he could. And' his boys were all considered as unnaturally good; And his "slender Bal'ry" kept him till went forth the proclamation: We will pay him up this season with a gen'rous, large donation." Bo they brought him hay and barley, and some corn upon the ear Straw enough to bed his pony, for for- 'ever and a year; And they strewed him with potatoes of inconsequential size. And some onions whose completeness drew the moisture from his eyes; And some cider more like water, in an inventory strict And some apples, pears and peaches, that the Autumn gales had picked; And some strings of drled-up apples mummies of the fruit creation Came to swell the doleful census of old Elder Lamb's Donation. Also radishes and turnips pressed the pumpkin's cheerful cheek, Likewise beans enough to furnish half of Boston for a week; And some butter that was worthy to have Samson for a foe. And some eggs whose inner nature held the legend "Loni Ago"; And some stove wood, green and croqked, on his flowerbeds was laid. Pit to furnish fire departments with the most substantial aid. All things unappreciated found this night their true vocation In the Museum of Relics, known as Elder Lamb's Donation. - There were biscuits whose material was their own secure defense; There were sauces whose acuteness bore the sad pluperfect tense; There were jellies undissected. there were mystery-laden pies; There was bread that long had waited for the signal to arise. There were cookies tasting clearly of the drear and musty past; There were doughnuts that in Justice mongst the metals might be classed; There were chickens, geese and tur keys, that had long been on pro bation Now received in full connection at old Elder Lamb's Donation. Then they gave his wife & wrapper made for some one not so tall. And they brought him 20 slippers, every pair of which was small; And they covered him with sackcloth, as it were in various bits. And they clothed his helpless chWdren in a wardrobe of misfits; And they trimmed his house with "Welcome," and some brio-a- braclsh trash. , And one absent-minded brother brought Ave dollars all in cash! Which the good old pastor handled with a thrill of exultation. Wishing that in filthy lucre might have come his whole donation. Morning came at last in splendor; but the Elder, wrapped in gloom. Knelt amid decaying produce and the ruins of his home; And his piety had never till that morn ing been so bright: For he prayed for those who brought him to that unexpected plight. But some worldly thoughts intruded: for he wondered o'er and o'er If they'd buy that day at auction, what they gave the night before; And his fervent prayer concluded with the natural exclamation: "Take me to thyself in mercy. Lord, before my next donation!" The following is sent by Mrs. R. H. Louttit: DOST LEAVES THE FARM. Come, boys, I have something to tell you. Come near, I would whisper it low you are thinking of leaving the home stead; Don't be in a hurry to go. The city has many attractions; But think of the vices and sins. When once in the vortex of fashion, How downward the course soon begins. Ton talk of the mines of Australia. They're wealthy in gold, without doubt. But, ah, there is gold on the farm, boys. If only you li snovel It out. The mercantile life is a hazard. The goods are first high and then low; Better risk the old farm a while longer; Don t be in a hurry to go. The great stirring world has induce ments. There is many a busy mart; But wealth Is not made in a day, boys, Don't be in a hurry to start. The bankers and brokers are wealthy, They take in their thousands or so; But think of the frauds and decep tions Don't be in a hurry to go. The farm is the safest and surest. The orchards are loaded today; You're free as the air on the mountains. And monarch of all you survey. Better stay on the farm a while longer. Though profits should come rather , slow; Remember you've nothing to risk, boys Don't be in a hurry to go. Mrs. K. L. Fornshell, of Newberg, In a. collection of "Excellent clippings, con tributes, among others, the following from an old paper of 1866: Many have sought to rival the ex cellence of General Lyttle's verses en titled "I Am Dying, Egypt, Dying." The following appears in the Crescent Monthly. We have reason to believe that the authorship will be traced to Miss Mollis E. Moore, of Texas. This was written after reading General Lyttle'a effusion: CLEOPATRA TO MARC ANTONY. Oh! my Anthony, look on me; Let me gaze into thine eyes; Let me revel in their radiance Till the light within them dies. Let their starry brightness beaming O'er my tranced soul once more. Thrill me with the wild emotions Which they woke in days of yore. Oh! my Antony, look on me; Raise thy worshiped eyes to mine; Let my soul hold sweet communion Through those crystal doors with thine. Let our loving spirits mingle Till the icy thrall of death Shuts thoseeyes on me forever Stops that music-making breath. Thou art dying, my proud Roman, Dying when thou mightst have been Monarch of a world, but gave it For a smile from Egypt's Queen. Fatal smile to win thy spirit From its glorious eagle flight; Mark me Antony, my Roman; It shall fade in endless night. Egypt's Queen Is throneless, fallen; But she hath a soul of pride. Mark! the victors they are coming; How they mock me and deride! One more look, my dying Roman; One fond, lingering, last embrace; Caesar comes, but Caesar's triumph Egypt's Queen shall never grace. He la dead! But died Triumvir; Cleopatra dies a Queen! Back to Rome, steel-hearted victor; Tell them there what thou has seen. Tell the fair and chaste Octavia Antony has scorned a crown; Tell her how, for him and with him, Egypt's Roya'l Star went down. Another famous parody on Poe's "Raven" is sent in by F. M- Sebring. of Roseburg. The name of the author of "The Ager" is not given, but the parody is one of the best of the hundreds of parodies that have been composed on the famous stanzas of Poe. THE AGER. Once upon an evening bleary. While I sat me dreamy, dreary. In the sunshine, thinking over . Things that passed In days of yore. While I nodded, nearly sleeping. Gently came there something creeping ing Up my back,- like water leaping Leaping upward from the. floor; "'Tis a cooling breeze," I muttered, "From the regions 'neath the floor Only this and nothing more!" , Ah! distinctly I remember It was in that wet September When the earth and every member Of creation that it bore Had for days and weeks been soaking In the meanest, most provoking Foggy rains that, without Joking, We had ever seen before; -- So I knew it must be very Cold and damp beneath the floor Very cold beneath the floor! So I sat me nearly napping In the -sunshine, stretching, gaping. Craving water, but delighted With the breeze from 'neath the floor; Till I found me waxing colder. And the stretching growing bolder. And myself a feeling older- Older than Id felt before; Feeling that my Joints were stlffer Than they were in days of .yore Stiffer than they'd ben before! All along my back the creeping Soon gave place to rushing, leaping. As if countless frozen demons Had concluded to explore All the cavities the varmints! 'Twixt me and my nether garments. Up into my hair and downward Through my boots inco the floor. Then I found myself a shaking. Gently first, but more and more Every moment more and more 'Twas the "Ager"! and it shook me In my very clothes, and took me Shaking to the kitchen every Place where there was warmth In store; Shaking till the dishes clattered. Shaking tiil the tea was spattered. Shaking, and with all my warming Feeling colder than before Shaking till it had exhausted All its powers to shake me more Till it could not shake me more. Then It rested till the morrow. Then resumed with all the horror That it had the face to borrow. Shaking, shaking, as before; And from that day in September Day that I shall long remember It has made diurnal visits. Shaking, shaking oh so sore! Shaking off my boots, and shaking -Me to Ded ir nothing more Fully this if nothing more! And today the swallows flitting Round my cottage, see me sitting Moodily within the sunshine Just inside my silent door Waiting for the "Ager." seeming Like a man forever dreaming; And the sunshine on me streaming Throws no shadow on the floor For I am too thin and sallow To make shadows on the floor Nary shadow any more! "Grafted Into the Army" Is a rollick ing old Civil War song that many will remember. Mrs. O. L, Francis, of Metz ger, sends the copy. GRAFTED INTO THE ARMY, Our Jlmtnie has gone for to live In a tent. They have grafted hlrh into the army: He Anally puckered tip courage and went When they grafted him into the army. He looked kind o" slcklsh begin to cry: wnn a great Dig volunteer standing right In his eye; Oh, what if the Ducky should up and die, (Now they've grafted him into the army! CHORUS. Oh, Jimmle, farewell. Your brothers fell Way down in Alabama; I thot they would spare A lone widder's heir. But they grafted him into the army. Now in my provision I see him revealed. They have grafted him into the army; A picket beside the contented field. Now they've gr?ted him into the I told them the hlld was too young. alas. At the Captain's forequarters they said ne would pass; So they trained him right tip In the Inrantry class When they grafted him Into the army. Dressed Tip In his unicorn, dear little cnap. They've grafted him into the army. It seems but a day since he sat on my lap. Now they've grafted him Into the army. There are the trousers he used to wear. The very same buttons, the patch and the tear. But Uncle Sam gave him a brand new pair, When they grafted him into the army. We regret that the name of the con tributor of the following has been ao- (Based on an incident of the Crimean War, the following poem has been a favorite through generations and in the present war Comes in again with an especial appeal. It is probably one of the most popular of all of Taylor'a poems. The copy used here was contributed by Clara D. Mitchell.) v cidentally lost and we are unable to make full acknowledgment accord ingly: THE MAN WITH THE MUSKET. The poem Is by Howard S. Taylor. It is ranked by some with Will 11. Thomp son's ode, "High Tide of Gettysburg." The author was drafted Into the rebel service, but deserted. He Joined the Union forces and remained with the boys In blue throughout the remainder of the war. They are building as Babel was built, to the sky. With clafh and confusion of speech; They are piling up monuments mas sive and high To lift a few names out of reach As if haughty Jove, in a whimsy of fate. Had juggled the metal and stone And laid all the honors of held and of state On a favorite few of his own! But I I will pass from this rage of re nown. This ant hill, commotion and strife. Pass by where the marbles and bronzes look down With their fast-frozen gestures of life. On, out to the nameless who lie 'neath the gloom Of the pitying cypress and pine; Your man Is the man of the sword and the plume, - But the man with the musket Is mine! I knew him! By all that is noble I knew This commonplace hero I name! I've camped with him, marched with nlm, fought with him. too. In the swirl of the fierce battle flame! Laughed with him, cried with him. taken a part Of his canteen and blanket, and known That the throb of this chivalrous prai rie boy s heart Was an answering stroke of my own! I knew him,' I tell you; And, also, I knew When he fell on the battle-swept ridge, . That the poor mangled body that lay there in blue Was only a plank In the bridge Over which some should pass to a fame That shall shine while the high stars shall shine; Your hero is knowfi by an echoing name. But the man with the musket is mine! I knew him! All through him the good and the bad Ran together and equally free; But I Judge as I trust Christ has Judged the brave lad. For death made him noble to me! In the cyclone of war, in the battle's eclipse. Life shook out its lingering sands. And he died with the names thatvjie loved on his lips. His musket still grasped. In his hands! Up, close to the flag, my soldier went down. In the salient front of the line! You may take for your heroes the men of renown. But the man with the musket Is mine! There Is peace In the May-laden grace of the hours That come when the day's work Is done; And peace with the nameless who. un der the flowers. Lie asleep in the slant of the sun. Beat the taps! Put out lights! and si lence all sound! There is rifle-pit strength In th'e grave! They sleep well who sleep, be they crowned or uncrowned. For death will be kind to the brave'. Old comrades of mine, by the fast waning years That move to mortality's goal. By my heart full of love and my eyes rull or tears, I hold you all fast in my soul! And I march with 'the May and Its blossomy charms I tenderly lay on this sod. And pray they may rest there, old comrades In arms. Like a kiss of forgiveness from God Mrs. W. L. Jones, of Aberdeen, sends the following: This poem was originally published without the name of the author 30 or more years ago. It was accredited to the Dublin University M.agaslne. Many school children of the last generation were familiar with it. I LIVE FOR THOSE WHO LOVB ME, I live for those who love me. ' Whose hearts are kind and true; For the heaven that smiles above me And awaits my spirit, too; For all human ties that bind me. For the task that God assigned me. For the bright hopes left behind me. And the good that I can do. I live to learn their story, Who suffered for my sake; To emalate their glory And follow in their wake; Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages. The noble of all ages. Whose deeds crown history's pages. And time's great volume make. I live to hold communion With all that Is divine; To feel there is a union 'Twixt nature's heart and mine; To profit by affliction. Reap truth from fields of fiction. Grow wiser from conviction And fulfill each grand design. I live to hall that season By gifted minds foretold. When man shall live by reason And not alone by gold; When man to man united. And every wrong thing righted. The whole world shall be lighted As Eden was of old. I live for those who love me. For those who know" me true; For the heaven that smiles above me And awaits my spirit, too. For the cause that lacks assistance. For the wrongs that need resistance. For the future In the distance. And the good that I can do. The following from Mrs. Clara D. Mitchell Is a fine characteristic Ameri can bit of verse: PATHS OVER THE OLD FARM. Oh, what is so pleasant and good to remember. And holds such a subtle charm. As all the winding paths, that were Around over the old farm. Alongside the fences and through the pastures. To the creek, the ponds and calamus bed. The grazing stock made little paths By their every-day, shifting tread. There was the one down to the "old house," The orchard and the "mllkln pen"; So much going, coming and stirring about. Everywhere 'round, paths seemed then. In the pasture "north," across the branch. Two more ran along at am angle To the old log stables, where, from the lofts. The hay woald swing and dangle. Then there was another a merry path. As merry as merry could be; It ran near by the old knotted oak, 'Then on past the wild cherry tree. It led to the creek and the "swimmln" holes," And on to the "pound's" orchard, too. Where the sapsuckers drummed and the yellowjacketa hummed. And the striped June apples grew. All the Summer long this path seemed new. And over it the chaps would go. With can of worms and "fishln poles," Sunburnt faces and health aglow. There was yet another Oh, memory pleasant To the merry path 'twas a mate;' And like two sunbeams they angled apart. Both starting at the old front gate. First It led to the sugar camp. Then over and down a hillside. Kept along In the bottom to the "fer" footlog. Where a sycamore stood on the other side. And this was the path -to the little schoolhouse. So modest, so humble, so dear: But hasten, oh memory and lift the mist. Of a fast gathering tearr" t Lift it silently and unseen, As the sunshine lifts the dew. The bygone years must bring no tears. For their memory is sunshine, too. Anon. We have received two ooplea of "The Letter Edged in Black," one copy anon ymous end one sent by Lets. Richard son, of Canyon City, who aiso sends 1 " "Give us a song," the' soldiers cried, The outer trenches jruardinjr, When, the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff. Lay grim and threatening under; -And the tawny mound of Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said, "We storm the forts tomorrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow." They lay along the battery's side, Below the smoking cannon, Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon, They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain's glory; Each heart recalled a different name, But'all sang "Annie Laurie." Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong Their battle-eve confession. Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset's embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers. And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot and burst of shell And bellowing of the mortars. And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of "Annie Laurie. Sleep', soldiers, still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing. The bravest are the tenderest, The loving are the daring. '1 a copy of "The Red River Valley,' which has been reprinted already. THE LETTER EDGED IN BLACK. I was standing by ray window jester day morning. Without a thought of worry or care. When I saw the postman coming up the pathway With such a smiling face and jaunty air. He rung the bell and whistled as he waited. And then he said, "Good morning to you. Jack, But he little knew the sorrow he had brought me As he handed me a letter edged In Diack. CHORL'S. As I heard the postman whistling yes terday morning. Coming up the pathway with his pack. He little knew the sorrow he had brought me As he handed me a letter edged in black. With trembling hands I took the letter . i . iruill mm; I broke the seal and this Is what it said: "Come home, my boy; your dear old TnAlhtfr', n .1 Your mother's words, the last she ever uiierea: 'Tell my boy I want him to come back.' rye, Hre Diurreu. MV DOOr fM h.nrr Am , a , tr t While I'm writing you this letter eugca in oiacK. I bow my head In sadness and In sor row; The sunshine of by llfe.lt has all fled Since the postman brought that lettei V yesterday m or nine- Saying "Come home, my boy, your dear old mother's dead." It said, "Forget those angry words were spoken. You know I didn't mean them, don't May the angels bear me witness, I am asking Your forgiveness in this letter edged In black." PEOPLE WILL TALK. (Author linlmnu'i, You may get through this world, but twill be very slow If you listen to all that Is said as you go; V . . oe worried and fretted, and kept In a etew-i For meddlesome tongues must have auuieining to do. And people will talk. If quiet and modest, you'll have It pre sumed That your humble position is only as sumed You're a wolf In sheep's clothing, or -w u lO CT a KJJ I , But don't get excited keep perfectly For people will talk. And then. If fou show the least bold, ness of heart. Or a slight Inclination to take your uwn pari. They will call you an "upstart." con ceited and vain. But keep straight ahead don't stop For people will talk. If threadbare your dress, or old-fash loned your hat. Someone will surely take notice of mat, And hint rather strong that you can't pay your way; But don't get excited, whatever they say For people will talk. If you drew In the fashion, don't think to escape. For they'll criticise then in a different shape; You're ahead of your means, or your tailor's unpaid; But mind your own business, there's naught to be made For. people will talk. Now the beet way to do is to do as you please. For your mind, if you have one, will then be at ease: Of course you will meet with all sorts of abuse. But don't think to stop them It's not any use For people will talk. Contributed by Mrs. If. H. Smith. The Alamo was a mission building' founded In 1774 at San Antonio, Tex. Until 1793 it was used as a church and subsequently as a fort, being sur rounded by strong walls. In February 1836, it was occupied by Colonel W. B. Travis with about 150 men In revolt against the government of Mexico After withstanding a terrible siege it was taken by. assault on JIarch (, and the garrison. Including Colonel Bowie and David Crockett, killed. One man had previously made his escape. The copy of the poem is sent by Clara D. Mitchell. THE DEFENSE OK THE ALAMO. Santa Ana came storming, aa a storm might come; There was rumble of cannon, there was rattle of blade! I There was cavalry. Infantry, bugle and drum Full seven thousand, in pomp and parade. The chivalry, flower of Mexico: And a gaunt two hundred in the Alamo! And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through: For the siege bad been bitter, and bloody, and long. Surrender, or die!" "Men, what will you do?" And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong; Drew a line at his feet "Will you come? Will you goT I die with my wounded, in the Alamo." Then Bowie gasped: "Lead me over that line!" Then Crockett, one hand to the sick. one hand to bis gun. Crossed with him; and never a word or a sign Till all. sick or well. all. all save but one. One man. Then a woman stopped pray ing, and lo Took her place to die in the Alamo. Then that one coward fled, in the night, in that night When all men silently prayed and thought Of home, of tomorrow, of God and the right. Till dawn; then Travis and cannon shot. In answer to Insolent Mexico, From the old bell tower of the Alamo. Then came Santa Ana; a crescent of flame! Then the red escalade; then the fight hand to hand; Such an unequal fight as never had name Since the Persian hordes butchered that doomed Spartan band. All day! and all night! and the morn ing so slow. Through battle smoke mantling the - Alamo. Then silence! Such silence! Two thou sand lay dead In a crescent outside! and within? Not a breath Save the gasp of a woman, with gory gashed head'; All alone, all alone there, waiting for death; And she but a nurse. Yet when shall we know Another like this of the AlamoT Shout "Victory, victory, victory ho!" I sy 'tis not always for hosts to win; I say that the victory, sudden or slow. Is given the hero who grapples with In Or legion or single; Just asking to Know When duty fronts death In his Alamo. JOAQUIN MILLER. The only copy of "True Worth" re printed here is contributed by Ruth Luce. TRI K WORTH, By the pleasant fire they sat one night. Husband and wife alone. And they talked of the changes they nact seen. And of how the yoars had flown; Of the sons now scattored far and near, And the daughters wooed and wed: "We're only two in the house once more. Oh. Mary, my wife!" he said. "When we were alone frty years ago. So young, and happy and poor. There wasn't a prettier girl than you. Nor a better one. I am sure. I promised you then la make you rich If you'd only share my life; , I am worth a million pounds today! A million of money, dear wife!" "How much am I worth?" she, smiling. asked. He looked in her tender face. He looked in her eyes, then closed his own. And thought for a little space. "You are worth the life I've spent with you; You are worth Its richest Joys: You are worth more gold than can be told You are worth my girls and boys. "You are worth the years that are yet to come. You are worth the world to me: Oh. Mary, there Is not gold enough To say what you're worth to me!" "Well. dear. I was worth the world to you More than forty years ago; A million Is but a bagatelle To the whole wide world, you know. "So. then, we have never been poor at all: Now. Isn't It nice to know That you were a million, billionaire More than forty years ago? We were happy then, we are happy now So tell me the difference. Frank?" "Tt Isn't much." he said with a smile "I've gathered a million from the pile Ana locked It up In the bank." nAisr OX THE ROOF. When the humid darkness, gathered Over all the starry spheres. Flows and falls like sorrow, softly Breaking Into happy tears. Then how sweet to press the pillow Of a cottage chamber bed And He listening to the raindrops On the low roof overhead. To the quick beats on the shingles Answer echoes In the heart. And dim. dreamy recollections Into form and being start. And the busy fairy. Fancy, Weaves her air threads, warp and woof, Aa I listen to the patter Of the light rain on the roof. Now In memory comes my mother. As she used, far Summers gone, Taklntr leave of little faces That her loving look shone on. And I feel that fond look on me As I hear the old refrain Hear repeated on the shingles By the patter of the rain. Then my little seraph-sister. With the wings and waving hair. With her star-eyed cherub brother A serene, angelic pair Glide around my wakeful pillow With sweet praise or mild reproof. As I shut my eyes and listen To the soft rain on the roof. And another comes to thrill me With her eyes betwlchlng blue. And I mind nofmuslng on her. That my heart she never knew. I remember but to love her. With a passion kin to pain. And my quickened pulses quiver To the patter of the, rain. Art hath naught of tone or cadence. Naught of music's magic spell. That can thrill the secret fountain Whence the tears of rapture well Like the weird nocturne of Nature, That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. (Contributed by Mrs. F. L. Fornshell, of Jsewberg.) "Jane Jones" is one of the best known of the many delightful, humor ous blta by that famous young genius. Ben King. Ruth Luce sends the fol lowing copy; JANE JONTES. Jane Jones keeps a-whisperin to xn all the time. An' says: "Why don't you make It a rule . To study your lessons an work hard - - - - An never be absent from school? Rer eiriemoer ine story or Elihu Burrltt; How he dumb up to the top; at all tha lr - . n Got Down In the blacksmlthln' shop?" Jar Me ehhv h AlA T . I . . . ' 'Cc rourse. what's a-keepin' me "way from V, Is not never havln' no blacksmlthln' shop. She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully fu r. But full o' ambition anA Vr.ln. An studied philosophy all his hull life. An' see what he got for his pains. He brought electricity out of the sky With a kite an' the llrhtnir.' . .. So we're owin"' him more'n anyone else Fer all the bright lights 'at we see. Jane Jones, she actually said it was so; Course what's allera been htnderln' me Is not having any kite, lightnin or key. Janes Jones said Columbus w m . the knees When he first thought up his bis scheme; n' all the Spaniards and Italians, too. They laughed and Just said 'twas a But Queen Isabella, she listened to him. And pawned all her Jewels o' worth. An' bought him the Santa Marlern'a "Go, hunt up the rest of the earth." ne Jones, she honestly said it was SOI lebby he did I dunno; Jourse. that may all be, but you must allow They ain't any land to discover just "The Lodge's Rrami nifti . by Clara D. Mitchell, Is a typical "dra- utiiiu rvaaing or a re w years ago, THE LODGE'S GRAND BALL. "Well. Bill! Is It you? Nineteen yeans have passed! How are you? Where are the boys, all? Long time since we met last-, Since the night of the lodge's grand ball.. "You remember It. though. Well, well! I shall all the rest of my life; That was the night your partner. Bill. Was Minnie my own dear wife. "But that was the game In the lodge. Bill Trade wives at our balls and our f eats. And thus has been stolen a husband's heart. And replaced by the heart of a beast. "My home and my life are both wrecked. Bill; My child been robbed of that friend. Oh, could we plainly see through From Initiation to wicked end. "Tou were not all to blame. Bill. For others of the lodge did so Changed wives in the club circles. And others suffer this eama woe. "Where la she now. Bill, do you know? Has she gone from you, too? It's been I saw her ten years ago In the Wst No, more than that it's been four teen. "Our hahy was sixteen last June; iShe's forgotten a mother's care. I sent her to the Home, you know: But now she's I don't know where. "The memory of that night. Bill That night of the lodge's grand ball Turns my whole life into hato. And chunges my heart into call! "But at the ladies' party of dominoes. Hill. ' Your wife was my partner that night. And to at the other club meetings Ve swapped to even up rig.it. "We wore once so happy Minnie and I The first few years in our. new-made home. 'Twas before we Joined clubs, though. My God! Could we have known this would come! ' "Oh! if our lives were on hinges. Bill, - The kind that would turn fro and back. Perhaps we'd miss the home wrecks By a view of the sinful (side-track. "But when you are In the trap. Bill. You dare not the Inside works tell. Though it wrecks every home In the land, . And issues free tickets to hell, "Craxv! Yes, they say I'm sorter like that. But the way I've lost home, child and wife Would turn "most any man's mind. And craze him the reet of his life. "Oh! I'm so tired of this life. Bill. Disgusted with any and all; And this has been coming surely iince that night of the lodge's grand ball. "But here Is the remedy. Bill. And compared with my life it is " best" Then the suicide's weapon he drew. And it's bullet can tell you the reet. The following is sent by Mrs. Clara D. Mitchell: GOOD 'POSTLE PAVL Oh, I done read de good book cl'ar plum' thro' An" I tells you. hit's a mighty fine story: Ts fahmlliar with de gospel, ol an new. An' I "low Ts a walkin' In de glory. I like fo' to read 'bout the blessed Holy Ghoi' An' de saints an' de mahaclea an' veesions. But de part ob de book dat Z likes de mos' Is where Paul p'lnts his 'plstle at de 'I'heslans. When I looks down deep In man po' ol heart. I wondah ef de Lo'd kin evah like me! 'Pears like da lightnin "s gwlne ter . send a dart Out ob do thundah cloud ter strike me. But I know ef we's good an' does whit's richt. De great Judge Is kin' In his decees- ions. An' I turns to de book and I gits man light Where Paul p'lnts his 'plstle at d-e 'Phesians. Ef yo' faith's kinder shaky an' yon don' Jos' know Ef yo' feet is op de rock or In de mire. 'Postle Paul kin tell you de way you orter go Fo' to keep you from gettla" in de fire. ' You kin slip by Satan es sMck ex a dart. , An' you won't hev no wrecks r no colleeslons. ' Ef you read de good book till you git it all by heart Where Paul .p ints his 'plstle at de 'Phesians. NIXON WATERMAN,