The Sunday Oregonian., December 17, 1916, SECTION FIVE, Page 5, Image 67

3
REQUESTS TOR FAVORITE OLD POETIC GEMS TAX MEMORIES
Poems, Popular and Classic, Are Resurrected From Pages and Books Long Since Forgotten.
TIIE SUNDAY OREGOXIAX. TORTLAXD, DECEMBER 17, 191C
THFJ list of requests from readers
of the page of old poems continues
almost too great to meet, although
readers of the page usually send in
copies of desired poems within a few
days after the publication of a re
quest. Among the requests received the fol
lowing are a few: -, .
Mrs.. W. L Skip ton. of Salem, the
old sons running: -
"For it's bang-, banc:, bans: goes the
hammer on the anvil all day loner.
Sweetest is the music made by honest
toiling; in that old. village black
smith shop,"
And also the poem containing the
lines:
" "Oh, -ho!' said the Irishman, 'I had
a very queer dream:
I dreamt I saw a haystack down by a
pearly stream"
The address of Spartacus to the glad
iators is wanted by another reader.
"The Burial of Sir John Moore" Is
requested by another.
"Tommy's Prayer" Is askeqV by "Mrs.
E. L." The first stanza follows:
"In a dark and dismal alley where
the sunshine never came
Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sick
ly, delicate and lame;
He had never yet been healthy, but had
lain since he w.as horn
Dragging out his weak existence," etc.
Mrs. W. C. Hudson, who supplied us
with a copy of "The Tankee Girl" last
"week, requests "The Deacon's Master
piece," "Highland Mary" and "Bingen
on the Rhine."
Mrs. H. G. Cooper, of Arlington, who
pent us the copy of "The Master Is
Coming." wants" the words of the old
'cons, "Little Baby's Gone, to Sleep."
W. J. Collins asks for the poem on
(Seattle, which begins:
"Beside the blue Pacific seas she builds
her battleships. '
And while her fair and ' fertile fields
with busy hand she' sows,
Ehe hears afar the Russian bells ring
put across the. snows."
"Jessie's Dream" is another request.
It runs as follows:
"Far away to bonnie Scotland has my
spirit taken its flight
And I see our mother spinning In our
highland home tonight;
I see the kine a-browsing and my father
at the plough," etc.
The old hymn. "How Tedious and
Tasteless the Hours," was reprinted a
short time ago. ' A copy of it was re
ceived too late to be used from James
Barton Adams, of Vancouver, the pio
neer newspaper poet of the .West, ac
companied by the following letter:
"The verses a Milwaukle woman
asked for were often sung in the old
Methodist Church I was compelled to
sit in when a small boy three score
years asro. I then thought it was the
very quintessence of refined cruelty to
have my neck and ears washed every
Sunday morning, be dressed in my lit
tle best and hustled off to Sunday
pchool, at the conclusion of which
father and mother would be waiting
outside to take me with them into, the
church room and compel me to listen
to the hell-flrish and brimstonish warn
ings of an old fogy minister with
glasses on his eyes as big as silver
dollars and not hair enough on his
bean to stuff a pm cushion. .
"Then during the afternoon I was
compelled to read the Sunday school
book that had been given to me--for
the week, to be returned and changed
for another the following Sunday, and
study the Bible verses I had to recite
at the next Sunday school meeting. At
that age I felt that if I should neglect
to 'say my prayors' before retiring I
would awake in hell with' the flames
ecorchinn my cute little legs and the
devil standing over me and asking
how I was enjoying the heat. My only
religious enjoyment was on the Sun
days when the preacher would come to
our house for dinner, for. that meant
a chicken layout, and although I was
always helped to the armorplate back
of the sacrificed .fowl, with about as
little succulent meat clinging to it ad
there is on my now bald head, it was
chicken all the same. I had heard it
said that 'the good die young' and my
present advanced age may be Hue to
the "fact that the germs of goodness
ceased to feed up on me when I became
old enough to take a hand in worldly
pleasures, innocent and otherwise.
"These recollections have been
awakened by copying the old hymn the
Milwaukie woman asked for. It is
possible that you may be literally
fiooded with copies from old-time Meth
odist brethren and sistcrn whom the
request sent to their hymnals. The
book I copy the verses from belongs
to my wife. I laid mine aside with
my cloak of piety years ago- and it has
been lost in the shuffle."
"We are indebted to M. t. Wallace for
a copy of "Christine Le Roy," which
was published last Sunday, and also
for a complete copy of "Mcrtain'a Re
venge, in a completer form than the
copies used recently. This will be re
printed when space .ois available.
Several copies of "Ring the Bell."
which was published a short time ago,
must be acknowledged. One was re
ceived from Mrs. Mary H. Robinson.
of Aberdeen; another from Mrs. R. H.
HennecX, of Independence. and an
other from Otto Krogstad. Mr. Krog
stad's copy has been'on hand for some
time, but was accidentally misplaced
and was not available when a request
lor the poem came a short time later.
Another reader calls attention to an
error in printing the poem, which ap
peared December 3. The last stanza
was omitted and the last line in the
third atanaa, it was pointed out, should
' have been "Ever and anon repeating:
"Jting, ring tne Dell:
The final stanza, which was omitted.
follows:
"Bonfires are blazing and rockets as
cend;
No meager triumph such tokens por
tend;
Shout, shout, my brother, for all, all
is well
'Tis the universal chorus: "Ring, ring
the bell!"
"We would call attention to the fact
that In the vast amount of manuscripts
received acknowledgment is sometimes
delayed foi several weeks and limita
tions of-space often make it impossible
to print contributions in the first issue
after they are received.
In response to several requests re
ceived, we reprint the following ver
sion of "Long, Long Ago," which was
contributed by Ivy u. Morgan:
LOC, LOXG AGO.
(By Thomas Haynes Bayley.),
Tell me the tales that to me were so
dear, '
Long, long ago, long, long ago:
Sing me the songs I delighted to hear,
Long, long ago, long ago.
Kow you are come, all my grief is re
moved:
ALet me forget that so long you have
roved:
" Let me believe that you love as you
loved
. Long, long ago, long ago.
Do you remember the path where we
met.
Long, long ago. long, long ago?
Ah, yes. you told me you ne'er would
forget,
Long, long ago. long ago.
Tfien, to all others my smile you pre
f erred:
Love, when you. spoke, gave a charm to
each word;
Still my heart treasures the praises I
heard.
Long, long ago, long ago.
Though by your kindness my fond
hopes were raised, 4
Long, long ago, longlong ago.
Tou by more eloquent lips have been
praised.
Long, long ago. long ago.
But by long absence your truth has
been tried; v i
Still to your accents I listen with pride;
Blest as I was when I sat by your aide.
Long, long ago. long ago.
Eugene Hall's "old Settlers jneetln"
story is contributed by Mrs. H. H.
Smith.
HOW WE TRIED TO WHIP THE
TEACHER. -I
wuz a boy o' seventeen, ungainly,
an' tall.
Ez green ez eny gozlln', hut I tho't-1
know'd It all.
I went to school at Piano. I chopped up
wood and chored
Fur Zephanlah "Wilkinson to pay him
for my board. ,
One day Philetus Phlnney. another hoy
In school.
About ex rough an' raw es I about
ex big a fool
Just hinted, in a private way, "would
be a right smart featur
An' give us lots of glory, .if we'd up
an lick the teacher.
"We wouldn't ask no better fun than
jist to make him climb.
"We'd have a long vacation an' a whop
per of a time.
The teacher he was sickly he was not
ez big as I
I knew that we could bounce him It
we didn't half but try.
For eny . on on look'n at him would
a said on sight
Ther wuzn't eny sand In him an not
a speck o' fight.
His hands they wan't accustomed much
to hangin' on to- ploughs.
To holn' corn, to cradlin' wheat, or
millcin' twenty cows.
Philetus said he'd use him for a mop
to mop the floor.
An' when he begged an hollered that
.we'd hist him out the'door.
We told the hoys at recess o" tha plot
that we had planned;
They said if we couldn't down him
they'd lend a helpln' hand;
But big Philetus Phlnney, he wuz
tickled ez could be;
To think we tho't a snip like that could
lick a chap like he;
'F I'd kick the bucket over, he'd make
the teacher dance
He'd flop him in the water, and he'd
mop It with hia pants.
We heard the achoolbell rlngin', we
scrambled in pell-mell;-
I run again' the water-pail, on pupus,
an' I fell;
I struck upon a stick o' wood, I badly
raked my shin.
The water swosbed upon me, an' It wet
me to the skin.
That scrawny .little teacher, why! he
bounded from his chair,
He took me by the trous'ea.and he
held me in the atr. 1
Then round an' round an round an1
round he whirled me like a top.
An' when I seed a thousand stars, he
sudden let me drop:
He took me an' he shook ma till I
tho't that I should die
He swished me with his ruler till my
pants were nearly dry.
While big Philetus Phinney he wttJ Jist
too car d to laugh.
He let the teacher thrash me till I
bellered like a calf.
An' all the other flghtln hoys, with
white an' frightened looks.
Sot shaken" in the'r very boots an'
ras'lin with the'r books;
An O how hard they studied not a
feller spoke or stirred
They didn't dare to whisper or to say
a single word.
What-" is that little teacher that giV
me such a scare?
He still is peaked lookin' he's settin'
over thar
An tho' he's nearly seventy, and sickly
ylt, I vow
I'd hate to hev him git those hands
o' his'n on me nowf
He taught me one great lesson by thaf
floggin in his school:
That a braggart an' a bully ar a cow
ard an a fool.
Mrs. H. II. Smith contributes tho fol
lowing:
JOHV JAXKIVS SERMOX.
The minister said last night, says he,
'Don't be afraid of givin ;
If your life ain't nothin' to other folks.
Why what's the use of livin ?
And that's what I say to my wife.
says i.
'There's Brown, that miserable sin
ner. He'd sooner a beggar would starve
than give
A cent toward buyin a dinner."
I tell you our minister's prime, he is,
But I couldn t quite determine.
When I heard him givin' It right and
left.
Just who was hit by the sermon.
Of course there couldn't be no mistake.
When he talked of long-winded
prayln ,
Fot Peters and Johnson they sot and
scowled
At every wdTd he was sayin. - .
And the minister he went -on to say,
"There's various kinds of cheatin .
And religion's as good for every day
as it is to oring to meetin .
I don't think much of a man that gives
the loud Amens at my preachln.
And spends his time the foilowin' week
in cheatin" and overreachin'."
I guess that dose was bitter
For a man like Jones to swaller;
But J noticed he didn't open his mouth.
jNot once, alter that, to holler.
Hurrah, bays 1 for the minister
Of course I said It quiet-
Give us some more of this open talk
its very retreshin diet.
The minister hit .'em every time;
And when he spoke of fashion.
And a-riggin' out in bows and things,
As woman s rulin passion.
And a-comin' to church to sea the
styles,
I couldn't help a-winkin'
And a-nudgin' my wife, and says
That s you,"
And I gue'js it sot her thinkin'.
Say3 I to myself, that sermon's pat;
But man is a ueer creation;
And I'm much afraid that most o' the
folks
Wouldn't take the application.
Now if he had said a word about
My. personal mode of slnnln'.
I'd have. gone to work to right .myself,
X nd no', set there a-grlnnin .
Just then the minister says, says he,
And now I have come to the feller
Who've lost this shower by uain' thai
friends
As sort of moral umbrellers.
Go homo," says he, "and find your
faults.
Instead of huntln' your brothers:
Go himt," says he, "and wear the coats
Tou've tried to fit tbe others."
My wife she nudged, and Brown
winked.
And there was lota of smilin'.
And lots of lookin at our pew;
I s"t my blood a-billn'.
Says I to myself, our-minister
Is gettin' a little bitter;
I'll tell him when meetin' out, that 1
Ain't at all that kind" of a critter.
Author Unknown
"The Baggage Coach Ahead," a typi
cal sentimental song of a score of years
(The following poem by Charles B. Clark, Jr.. has been regarded as one of the best bits of poetic
sentiment that have been clustered around the picturesque life of the ranges, and has probably found its
way Into more scrapbooks than any other cowboy poem that has been written in many years. We are.
indebted for the copy used here to Mrs. A. U. Wallace, of Portland.)
0, Lord, I've never lived where churches grow;
I love creation better as it stood
That day you finished it so long ago
And looked upon your work and called it good.
I know that others find you in the light
That's sifte'd down through tinted window panes,
And yet, I seem to feel you near tonight
Ins-this dim, quiet starlight on the plains.
i
I thank, you, Lord, that I am placed so well;
That you have made my freedom so complete;
That I'm no slave cf whistle, clock and bell,
" Or weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street.
Just let me live my life as I've begun,
And give me work that's open to the sky;
Make me a pardner of the wind and sun
And I won't ask a life that's soft or high.
ago. was requested recently. We are
indebted for the copy to Mrs. Theo.
Jeffries, of Newberg, and Henry Butler,
of Ballston.
THE BAGGAGE COACH AHEAD.
On a dark and stormy night as a train
rattled on. all the passengers had
gone to bed.
Except one young man with a babe
on bis arm, who sat there witn a
bowed-down head.
The innocent one commenced crying
just then, as tho' its poor heart would
break;
One angry man said, "Make that child
stop its noise, for you're keeping
all of us awake."
'Put it out," said another, "don't keep
it in here, we've paid for our berths
and want rest."
But never a word said the man with
the child, as he fondled It close to his
breast.
"Where is its mother? go take it to
her." this a lady then softly said.
'I wish that I could." was 'the man's
sad reply, "but she's dead, in the
coach ahead." .
Chorus.
When the train rolled onward a -hus
band sat In tears.
Thinking of the happiness of Just a few
short years:
For baby's face brings pictures of a
cherished hope that s dead.
But baby's cries can't waken her In
the baggage coach ahead..
Ev'ry eye filled with tears when his
story he told ot a wue wno was
faithful and true.
He told how he'd saved up his earnings
for . years, just to build up a home
for two;
How, when Heaven had sent them this
sweet little babe, their young, nappy
lives were blessed;
In tears he broke down when he men
tioned her name, and in tears he tried
to tell tTrem the rest, .
Ev'ry woman arose to assist with the
child, tnre were mothers and wives
on that train..
And soon was the little one sleeping In
peace, with no thought of sorrow and
Dain.
Next morn at a station he bade all
good-bye. "God bless you." he softly
said.
Each one had a story to tellIn their
home ot the baggage coach. aneaa.
The request for "Old Grimes" has
been answered by the following con
trlbutlon from Mrs. T. Dahl. Judge AI
bert Gorton Greene, of Providence,
Rhode Island, was tbe author of the
Quaint old classic.
OLD GRIMES.
(Tune: "John Gilpin Was a Citizen".")
Old Grimes is dead that good old man.
We ne er shall see him more.
He used to wear a long black coat
All buttoned down -before.
His heart was- open as the day,
His feelings all were true:
His hair was some Inclined to gray
He wore it in a queue.
Whene'er was heard the voice of pain
Mia HrAftt with nitv burned..
The large, round bead, upon is cane
f rom ivory w&a lurncu.
Thus, ever prompt at pity's call.
He knew no base design.
His eyes were dark, and rather small:
(lis nose was aquiline.
He lived at peace with all mankind.
In friendship ne was true.
His cott had poeket-holes behind
His pantaloons, were blue.
Unharmed tha sin which earth pol
lutes. .. i
Ha passed securely o'er; '
And never wore a pair of boots
. For thirty years or more.
But poor Old Grimes is now at rest,
Isor fears misfortune's frown.
Let me be easy on the man that's down
And make me juare and generous with all;
I'm careless sometimes, Lord, when I'm in town,
But never let thorn say I'm mean or small.
.," Make me as big and open as the plains;
As honest as the horse between my knees;
Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains;
Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze.
Forgive me, Lord, when sometimes I forget;
You understand the reasons that are hid".
You know about the things that gall and fret;
You know me better than my mother did.
Just keep an eye on all that'3 done and said;
Just right me sometimes when I turn aside,
'And guide me on the long, dim trail ahead,
' That reaches upward toward the Great Divide.
He had a double-breasted vest
The stripes ran up and down.
He modest merit sought to find.
And nav it its desert.
He had no malice in his mind
No ruffles on his sbirt.
His neighbors he did not abuse.
Was sociable and cay.
He wore large '"buckles in his shoes.
And changed them every day.
His knowledge, hid from public gaze.
He did not bring in view
Nor made a noise town-meeting days.
As many people do. '
His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to fortunes chances:
But lived (aa all his brothers do) -
In easy circumstances.
Thus undisturbed by anxious cares.
His peaceful moments ran;
And everybody said he was
A tine old gentleman..
Good people all give cheerful thought
To Grimes memory;
s doth his cousin. Esek Short,
Who made this poetry.
Mrs. Theo. Jeffries, of Newberr. also
contributes "The Cricket." a recitation
popular many years ago.
THE CRICKET.
Bound for the sunny land. Brazil.
She left the Cadiz shore.
A vessel strongly built and rigged.
To ride the deep seas o'er;
And favoring breezes filled her ealls
As nobly on she bore.
There was a passenger aboard
That paid .no fare in gold:
But. ere the voyage was over, gave
A price, as shall be told.
That well outweighed tha glittering
coin
Aa life's not bought or sold.
A soldier, ill and lonely, brought.
His homesick heart to cheer,
A cricket from his mother's hearth
To have even that no near.
A sight and Bound of home would give,
The tiny thing was dear.
The cricket learned to know its friend,
Would nestle in his coat.
Come at his call, feed from his hand.
But did not sine a note.
""Sow. why is this?" he asked. "Because
Far out at. sea we float.
"They never chirp but near the shore,"
The sailors answered round.
But, as the fourth blue mornins
dawned,
Lo, an unwonted sound.
The cricket's chirp! Again: again;
The watch was faithless found.
Far out at sea they should have been;
But. In the mist-wrapped night,
The' ship had drifted from her course;
And lo! steep rocks in sight;
They cast their anchor, scarce In time.
With all their hurried might. -
But for the cricket's warning note.
Ere dawned another day.
The noble ship, cast on the rocks.
Had been the dark wave's prey.
The tiny creature saved those lives,'
Plying its feeble lay.
They sailed away along the coast
For many a toilsome mile; "
And always in the twilight hour
The cricket sang awhile.
Till rose before their eager sight
Saint Catalina's Isle.
The ' following Is an old song often
sung around the old home fireside and
which I have always considered worthy
of the popularity it Is said to have at
talned In the days of which it tells. It
is humorously al.uded to by Bret Harte
in his "Address to a Pliocene Skull'
and seems to me to be worthy of
place on your page -of old poems.
L. ,. WILKES, Hillsboro. Or.
JOB BOWERS.
My name it is Joe Bowers. I have
brother "Ike."
come from old Missouri, and all the
way from Pike:
And now I'll tell you what brung me
here, and how I come to roam.
To leave my pore old mammy, and git
so lur from Home.
I used to court a gal thar, her name
was Sally Black.
I axt her tor to marry me, she said it
were a whack;
But she says to me. "Joe Bowers.
before we're hitched for life.
Tou'd oughter, have a little place, to
take your lovln wife:
Says I to her. "Dear Sally. It's only!f,ne was ail gentleness, all gaiety,
for your sake. Her pranks the favorite theme of ev
111 go to Catiforny
and try to raise
stake
She patted me on the back and said.
Yore the chap to win."
And give me a buss to seal the bargain.
ana tnrowea a dozen in.
I never can fergit the -day, I bid adieu
to all.
Sal ketched me round the middle., and
I begin to bawl;
When I begin, they all set in. you
never heerd the like.
O how they all tuk on and cried, the
day I left, old Pike.
And when I got to this country, I
hadn't nary red.
I had sich wolfish feelln's. I almost
wished me dead:
But thoughts of my dear Sally, soon
made them feelln's git
And whispered hopes to Bowers; I wish
I had them yit.
I got me a pick and shovel, put lo
my biggest licks.
Come down upon the boulders, just
like a thousand bricks:
I worked both late and early, thru
rain and hail and snow;
Was workin' for my Sally; 'twaa all the
same fer Joe.
At last I made a lucky strike; the gold
itself will tell.
I saved fer my Sally, the gal I loved
so well;
I saved fer my Sally, to pour In at her
feet.
And she would hug and kiss ma and
call me something sweet.
Cne day I got a letter, from my kind
brother Ike.
It come from old Missouri, and all the
way from Pike;
It brought to me the goldarndest news
that ever I did hear;
My pore heart's almost break I n. I
pray excuse this tear.
It aald Sal had proved fickle, her love
fer me. 'had fled.
She'd married with a butcher, whose
h&'r was awful red:
It told me more than that, too, it's
enough to make one nwear.
That Sally had a baby, and the baby
had red hair.
And now I've told you all I know, about
this sad affair.
About Sal havln' a baby and the baby
havin' red hair;
But whether a gal or a bby child, the
letter never said: '
It only said Its cussed ha'r inclined
to be red. .
Author not known.
SiniLKS.
The following interesting lines, of
which the composer is unknown, but
which have long drifted about in the
newspapers, contain all the stock com
pariiims most frequently used in von
verxation, arranged in such a manner
as to rime. The poem, if it can so be
calico, ha-i been rescued, ttoxn oblivion
by Miss Carolyn Wells. In "A Whimsey
Anthology." Mrs. T. Dahl sends, it la
response to a request.
As wet as a fish as dry as abone;
As live as a bird as dead b a stone;
As plump as a partridge as poor as
a rat;
Aa strong" as a honse as weak as a cat;
Aa hard as a flint as soft as a mole;".
As white as a lily as black as a coal;
As plain aa & pikestaff as rough as
a bear:
As light as a drum as free as the air;
As heavy aa lead as light as a feather;
As steady as time uncertain as
weather;
Aa hot aa an oven as cold as a frog:
As gay as a lark aa alck as a dog;
As slow aa the tortoise as swift as
tho wind;
As true asth gospel aa false aa man
kind; Aa thin as a herring as fat as a pig:
As proud as a peacock as blithe as a
grig;
As savage as tigers as mild aa a dove;
As stiff as a poker as limp as a glove;
As blind as a bat as deaf as a post;
Aa cool as a cucumber as warm as a
toast;
As flat as a flounder as round as a
ball;
As blunt aa a hammer aa sharp aa an
awl;
Aa red as a ferret as safe aa tha
stocks;
As bold as a thief as sly as a fox;
As straight as an arrow as. crook' d as
a bow;
Aa yellow as saffron aa black as
sloe: .
As brittle as glass ras tough as gristle;
Aa neat as my nail as clean as a
whistle; .
Aa good as a feast as bad a a witch:
As light aa Is day as dark as is pitch";
As brisk as Jk bee as dull as an ass;
As full as a tick as solid aa brass.
Ruth Luce, a contributor of unfailing
seal and liberality, sends the following
requested verses:
GIAEVRA.
BY SAMUEL ROGERS.
If ever you should come to Modena
(Where among other relics you may see
Tassoni's bucket but 'tis not the true
one).
Stop at a palace near Regglo-gate.
Dwelt In of old by one of the Donatl.
It noble gardens, terrace above ter-
ace.
And rich in fountains, statues, cy
presses.
Will long deta-in you; but before you go.
Enter the house-r-forget it not. I pray
you
And look awhile upon a picture there
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth.
The last of that illustrious family:
Done by Zampieri but by whom I care
not
He who observes It ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes
again
That he may call it up when far away.
She sits inclining forward as to apeak
Her Upa half open and Ht fincer up.
As though she said: "Beware!" Her
vest ot gold
Broidered. with flowers, and clasped
froih head to foot:
An emerald stone in every golden clasp
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.
But then her face.
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth
The overflowings of an innocent heart
It haunts me still, though many a year
ha tied.
Like some wild melody.
Alone it Hangs.
Over a mouldering heirloom, its com
panlon.
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm
But richly carved by Antony of Trent,
Hith scatpture stories ironv the life o
Christ:
A chest that came from Venice, and
had hel
The ducal robes of some old ancestor
That by the way it may be true or
fala
But don't forget the picture; and you
will not
When you have heard the tale they told
me there.
She was an only child her name Gin
ev ra
The joy, the pride of an injulgen
rather.
And In her fifteenth year became
bride.
Marrying an only son. Francesco Do
ria.
Her playmate from her birth and her
first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal
dresa.
tongue;
But. now the day was come, the day.
the hour;
Now 'frowning, smiling for the hun
dredth time.
The nurse, that ancient lady preached
decorum;
And In the lustre of her youth she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Fran
cesco. T ,
Great was the joy; but at the nuptial
v feast.
When all sat down, the bride herself
was wanting. . t
Nor was she to be found. Her father
cried:
"'Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And filled his glass to all; but hia band
shook.
And soon from guest to guest the panic
spread
'Twaa but that instant she had left
Francesco.
Laughing and looking back, and flying
su'.l.
Her Ivory tooth Imprinted on his tin
ge. But now, alas! sh.e was not to be found:
Nor from that hour could anything be
gueed
But that she was not.
Weary of life
Francesco flew to Venice, and. embark
ing. Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Uonati lived, and long might you have
seen
An old man wandering as in qufst of
something -
Something he could not And he knew
not what.
When he was gone the houso remained
a whilo
Silent and tenantless then went to
strangers.
Full fifty years were passed and all
forgotten.
When, on an idle day, a day of search
Mid the old lumber in the gallery.
That moiyKlering chest was noticed;
and, 'twaa said
By one as youne, as thoughtless as
Ginevra.
"Why not remove It from Its lurking,
placer"
'Twa's done as soon as said; but on the
way
It hurst, it fell, ana lo. a skeleton. j
nil nfiiq aim iiicrfl m fear;, L (I fiier-
ald atone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of
geld.
All elae had perished, save a wedding
ring
And a small seal, her mother's legacy.
Engraven with a name the name, of
both "Olnevra."
There theh had she found a grave!
Within that chest ehe had concealed
herself.
Fluttering with Joy, the happiest of the
happy.
When a spring lock, that lay in ambush
there.
Fastened her down forever.
Two versions of "The Teias Ranger,"
rectsatiy ri'4euat huve come to. hand
Of one version we have received two
copies, and we are reprinting it here.
It is probably the ballad tfi"at was
wanted, and is a good example of tbe
crude balladry of the early days. The
contributors are H. B. Crouch, of Wood
land. Wash., and a friend who writes
from Monmouth. Or. The song wa4
sung more than half a century ago.
TEXAS RANGER.
Come all you Texas Rangers,
Wherever you may be:
J will tell you of some trouble
That happened unto me.
My name Is nothing extra.
And that I will not tell:
I am a roving ranger.
And I sure wish you well.
It was at the age of sixteen
r Joined this jolly band.
To march from San Antonio
Lnto. the RKi Grande.
Our captain he informed us.
Perhaps he thought It rieht
"Before you gain that station."
said ne. "Boys, you'll have to fight!"
I heard the bugle sounding. x
"Jur captain gave command;
To arms! To arms!" be shouted,
"And by your horsea stand."
I saw the Indians coming:
1 heard them raise the veil:
My feelings at that moment
No tongue could ever tell.
I saw their glittering lances:
Their arrows 'round me hailed:
My heart, it sank within me.
And my courage almost failed.
We fought for nine long hours
tserore the strife was o'er:
The like of dead and wounded '
I never saw before.
Five as brave and noble rangers
as ever roamed the Weet.
Were buried by their comrades. t
sweet be their peaceful rest!
I thought" of my poor mother" ;
wno In tears to me did say:
To you they are all strangers:
With me you had Better stay!"
I thought her old and childish;
The best she did not know:
My mind was fixed on ranging
Ana i was bound to go.
Perhaps you have a mother.
Likewise a sieter. too;
And maybe a sweetheart.
To weep and mourn for you.
This being the situation.
Altho you lave to roam.
I would advise you, by experience.
You'd better etay at home.
Henry Butler, of Ballston. sends "The
First Snowfall." which was requested.
THE FIRST SNOWFALL,
By James Russell Lowell.
The snow had begun In the gloaming.
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore efmine too dear for an earl.
And the poorest twig on the elm tree
Was ridged deep with pearL .
From sheds new roofed with Corsara,
Come Chanticleer's muffled crow.
The artff rails were softened to swan'a
down.
And mill fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky.
And the udden flurrien of snowbirds;
Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in Sweet Auburn
Where a little headittone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently.
As did robins the babes iu the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel
. laying. "Father, who makes it snow?
And 1 told her of the good All Father
Who cues for us here below.
Again I looked at the snow fall
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow.
When that mound was heaped so
high.
I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from the cloud like snow.
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep plunge woe.
er';And again to the child I whispered.
i ne snow inai nusnein ail.
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall." -
Then, with eyes that saw not. I kissed
her,
And, bin, kissing back, could not
know
That my kiss was given to her sister.
Folded close under deepening snow.
'Sherman's March to the Sea, a
song popular In the Civil War times, la
sent in by Mrs. Mary Dailey.
SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SE.
Our camp fires shone bright on tho
mountains
That frowned on the river below.
While we stood by our guns in the
morning
And eagerly watched for tho foe.
When a rider came, out from the
darkness
That hung over mountain and tree.
And shouted. "Boys, up and be ready.
For Sherman will march to the sea!"
Theh cheer upon cheer for bold Sher
man Went up from each valley and glen..
And the bugles re-echoed the musio
That came from the lips of the men;
For we kaew that the star in our ban
ner More bright in their splendor would
be.
And the blessings from Northland
would greet us
When Sherman marched down to the;
sea.
Then forward, boya. forward, to battle,
We marched on our wearisome way;
And we stormed the wild hilh of Ite
ijacai God bless those who fell on that day;
Then Kennefcaw frowned in its glory.
Frowned down on the flag of tho
tree.
But the East and tbe West bore our
standard. .
Ana Sherman -marched on to the sea.
Still onward we pressed till our ban
ners Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls.
And the blood of the patriots damp
ened The soil where the traitor flag falls.
But we paused not to weep fot the
fallen
Who slept by each river and tree.
But we twined them a wreath cf loe
lai : el
As Sherman marched down to tbe
eea.
O proud was our army hat morning.
That tod where tho pioe I'l-kiy
towers;
When Sherman aald: ""Soya, yi-u ai
weary.
But today fair 8avannah Is ours!"
Then sang a song for our chibftain
That cchood o'or river and loa.
And the stars in O'jr banners fci:one
brighter .
- When Sberrnan marched down to tha
ua.
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