Image provided by: University of Oregon Libraries; Eugene, OR
About The Sunday Oregonian. (Portland, Ore.) 1881-current | View Entire Issue (Feb. 11, 1917)
TIIE SUNDAY OREGOXIAX, PORTLAND, FEBRUARY Tl, 1917. 9 POEMS FOR WASHINGTON BIRTHDAY ARE DESIRED MOST . . . - - Principal of School Wants Contributions for Programmes to Be Given Many Offerings Are Appreciated. WE DESIRE to acknowledge re ceipt of copies of "The Bare foot Boy" from Miss Catherine Morlarty, of Lebanon, and Miss Dora Nettleblad, of Aberdeen, which were received too late for acknowledgement last week. We are also Indebted to Mrs. M. A. Wheeler, of Tillamook, for a copy of "Oh, Be Not the First,' which was recently requested. From Miss Ber nice Jones, of Silverton, and Mrs. Metta Benefiel, of Banks, we received copies of "After the Ball" too late for recog nition last week, and we are also in debted to Kathleen Parmeter for "Fall en Leaf," who requests "The Church Across the Way" and "Little Sister and I." We have received a request from the principal of a school for the 'publica tion as soon as possible of selections about Washington and Lincoln, which can be used in the public school pro grammes in celebration of the anni versaries of those (rreat men. It will be too late to devote a page to Lin coln poems, but we shall be glad to give space to poems suitable for Wash ington's birthday, if such copies are received in the coming week. Daniel Webster, of Salem, sends us a copy of "Lprena," but this has been reprinted already on this page. Simi larly we have received a copy of "Somebody's Darling," which we have already printed, from G. C. Kissell. Mrs. A. L. Applewhite, of Willamina, ent copies of "The House By the Side of the Road" and "The Barefoot Boy." both of which have been printed. Edith Weidman, of Eagle Point, sent a copy of "Sweet Marie," which was recently used, and we had a copy of "Papa's Letter," from Mrs. Barbara Robertson, of Albany. V. V. rflvnnftiich. of Edeewood. Cali fornia, sent "The Three Warnings,"! which was recently requested and re printed. "The Sunlight Is Beautiful, Mother" has been sent in by Mrs. H. M. Par ham, of Grants Pass. Mrs. Wheeler, of Tillamook, and Mrs. B. R. Wolfe. The latter also sends "A Flower From My Angel Mother's Grave," which was re cently used. M. B. Zumwalt, of Portland, sends a. copy of "The Sunlight Is Beautiful," reprinted elsewhere. We also receive from the same contributor the follow ing crude and Jovial old nonsense bal lad of early days. TIIK CALIFORNIA HCSTER, Twas on one Monday morning Just at the fall of snow, I picked up my gun, sir. And into the woods did go. 3i nd providence attended me 1 chanced upon some deer; I tracked them through the sand, sir. And into the water so clear. I loaded up my gun. sir. And into the water did go; I fired off my gun, sir. Like cannons they did roar. Kind providence attended me I chanced for to kill one. The rest they bristled up. sir. And at me they did come. I. being a resolute soldier. Determined to go through. I flew all up in a passion; My naked sword I drew. And out of ten I killed fifteen. The rest they ran away. As I came out of the water, Just as you've heard me say. When I came out of the water The deer they all had fled; I peeped, up over the mountain top And scarce could see one's head. I bent my gun in a circle And shot around the hill. And out of four and twenty Four score or more did I kill. A-gathering up my venison. All on the mountain high, X stepped aboard of the sun, sir. As she went passing by. She carried me over the salt sea lakes And over the rolling tide; The stars they carried my venison So merrily I did ride. But at the set of sun, sir. She chanced to give a whirl, .And as I could stick no longer I fell in another whirL Kind providence attended me I chanced upon the moon. And in the speed of one-half of a day She landed me safe home. The money that I got for My venisons and skins, I stacked it into my forty-foot barn One-half of It wouldn't go In. Come, now, fill up the bowl, boys, I'm getting very dry. If you believe one-half that I've told you , Tou'll believe one hell of a lie. I From Cottage Grove we have re ceived a collection of old poems, with no contributors name given. Among them is "Which Shall It Be?" which We reprinted several months ago. "Measuring Baby" Is also Included and we reprint it herewith. MEASURING THE BABY. We measured the riotous baby Against the cottage wall, A lily grew at the threshold. And the boy was just as tall; , A royal tiger lily. With spots of purple and gold. And a heart like a Jeweled chalice The fragrant dew to hold. Without the bluebirds whistled, High up in the old roof-trees. And to and fro at the window The red rose rocked her bees; iAnd the wee, pink fists of the baby Were never a moment still. Snatching at shine and shadow That danced on the lattice-sill. Els eyes were wide as bluebells. His mouth like a flower unblown. Two little bare feet like funny white mice Peeped out from his snowv e-owr: And we thought with a thrill of rap ture. That yet had a touch of pain. When June rolls around with her roses We'll measure the boy again." Ah me! In a darkened chamber With the sunshine shut awav. Through tears that fell like bitter rain. We measured the boy today: And the little bare feet that were dimpled And. sweet as a budding rose. Lay side by side together. In the hush of a long repose. Up from the dainty pillow. White as the risen dawn. The fair little face lay smiling. With the light of heaven thereon. And the dear little hands like rose leaves Dropped from a rose, lay stllf, Never to snatch at the sunshine . That crept to the shrouded sill. We measured the sleeping baby. With ribbons white as snow. For the shining rosewood casket That waited him below; And out of the darkened chamber. We went with a childless moan. To the light of the sinless angels Our little one had grown. quests that It be reprinted on this page. AT THE EXD OK THE DAY. How is It with me at the end of the day? Is pride in my heart and Is peace In my breast? Can I sit in the darkness and honestly say That in all of my acts I have tried , for the best That If profits have come to me, little or great No wronged one may think of me, treasuring hate? Can I turn at the end of the day and be glad That no one is poorer for aught I have done That no one has reason to curse or be sad Because of a triumph that I may have won? Can I go to my bed with the peace In my heart' That is his who has acted the praise worthy part Can I gaze at the stars when the silence is deep And say, as if God was consenting to hear. That no one tonight will be robbed of sweet sleep Because I have won a success which was dear? Have I crushed no fair hope, nor spread grief on the way? How is it with me at the end of the day? THE CLOWN'S BABY. BY MARGARET VANDERGRIFT. It was on the Western frontier; The miners, rugged and brown. Were gathered around the posters; The circus had come to town! The great tent shone in the darkness. Like a wonderful palace of light. And rough men crowded the entrance Shows didn t come every night. Not a woman's face among them; Many a face that was bad. And some that were only vacant. And some that were very sad; And behind a canvas curtain, In a corner of the place. The clown, with chalk and Vermillion, Was "making up" his face. A weary-looking woman. With a smile that still was sweet. Sewed on a little garment. With a cradle at her feet. Pantaloon stood ready and wafting. It was time for the going on. But the clown in vain searched wildly. The "property baby" was gone! He murmured, impatiently hunting: 'It's strange I cannot find- There! I've looked In every corner; It must have been left behind!" The miners were stamping and shout ing. They were not patient men. The clown bends over the cradle 'I must take you, little Ben!" The mother started and shivered. But trouble and want was near; She lifted her baby gently: "You'll be very careful, dear? Careful? You foolish darlings " How tenderly it was said. What a smile broke through the chalk and paint T love each hair of his head." The noise rose Into an uproar. Misrule for the time was king: The clown, with a foolish chuckle. Bolted into the ring. But as, with squeak and flourish. The fiddles closed their tune. You'll hold him as if he were made of glass?" Said the clown to the pantaloon. The Jovial fellow -nodded: "I've a couple myself." he said, I know how to handle 'em, bless you! Old fellow, go ahead!" The fun grew fast and furious. And not one of all the crowd Had guessed that the baby was alive. when he suddenly laughed aloud. Oh. that baby laugh! It was echoed From the benches with a ring. And the roughest customer there sprang up With: "Boys, it's the real thing!" The ring was Jammed in a minute. Not a man that did not strive For "a shot at holding the baby." The baby that was "alive! He was thronged by kneeling suitors, In the midst of the dusty ring; And he held his court right royally The fair little baby king Till one of the shouting courtiers. A man with a bold hard face. The talk, for miles, of the country. And the terror of the place. Raised the little king to his shoulder. And chuckled: Look at that!" As the chubby fingers clutched his hair, Then: "Boys, hand round the hat.' There never was such a hatful , Of silver, and gold, and notes; People are" not always penniless Because they don't wear coats. And then: "Three cheers for the baby!" 1 tell you those cheers were meant: And the way in which they were given was enough to raise the tent. And then there was a sudden silence. And a gruff old miner said: Come, boys, enough of this rumpus. It's time It was put to bed." So. looking a little sheepish. But with faces strangely bright. The audience somewhat lingeringly f iocKea out into the night: And the bold-faced leader chuckled: "He wasn t a bit afraid! He's as game as he is good looking; cojb, mat was a snow that paid." Contributed by Ruth Luce. James A. Wood sends from Salem the following poem written by Colone v. tj. u. fiercer, or England, and re of the South," printed by Spottlswood & Co., London, England, 1866. CLARE G. MOREY. A CONFEDERATE NOTE. Representing nothing on God's earth now. And' naught In the water below It, As a pledge of the Nation that's deaa and gone. Keep it, dear friend, and show It. Show it to those who will lend an ear To the tale that this paper can tell. Of liberty born, of the patriot's dream Of the storm-cradled Nation that fell. Too poor to possess the precious ores And too much of a stranger to bor row. We Issued today our promise to pay. And hoped to redeem on the morrow. The days rolled on, and the weeks be came years. But our coffers were empty still; Coin was so rare that the Treasury quaked If a dollar should drop In the till. But the faith that was In us was strong, indeed. And our poverty well discerned; And these little checks represented the pay That our suffering volunteers earned. We knew it had hardly a value in gold. Yet as gold our soldiers received it; It gazed In our eyes with a promise to pay. And each patriot soldier believed It. But our boys thought little of price or pay. Or of bills that were overdue: We knew if it brought us bread today. It was the best our poor country could do. Keep It, it tells our history all over. From the birth of its dream to the last: Modest, and born of the angel Hope, Like the hope of success it passed. sends also the following poem by Augusta Lenols Allen. VESPERS. The vesper bells were ringing sweet in the sultry Summer weather. As they climbed the mount with tired feet to kneel and pray together. "Our hearts, oh God, are one," they said, "but we go two ways to morrow; And life will linger and lovers wed. and what can we beg -or borrow To bridge the years, drearier than dreariest night la, Lying between the valley of tears and the city where Thy delight is?" Over their cold, crossed palms a light struck sharp through a coal black shadow; And silences, not of day nor of night, and sweets, not of morn nor of meadow. Folded them fast; while a voice sang clear through the soul of the silvery arches, "They are true soldiers who feel no fear. God knoweth how hard the march is." Only a dimming of patient eyes, a smiling of lips that quiver. And gray behind them the mountain lies; blue before them the river. Battles for both of them. Burdens for each. And the wild and weary ing weather; But, further away, a paradise beaffh and two ways winding together. "The Forty-Acre Farm" is another lnclosure in the list sent by an un known Cottage Grove contributor. THE FORTY-ACRE FARM. I'm thinking, wife, of Neighbor Jones, that man or stalwart arm; He lives in peace and plenty on a forty- acre farm: While men are all around us, with hands and hearts asore. Who own two hundred acres and still are wanting more. His Is a pretty little farm, a pretty little house: He has a loving wife within as quiet as a mouse; His children play around the door. their father's life to charm. Looking as neat and tidy as the tidy little farm. No weeds are in the corn-fields, no thistles in the oats: The horses show good keeping by their tine and glossy coats; The cows within the meadow resting - 'neath the beechen shade. Learn all their gentle manners of the gentle milking maid. Within the fields on Saturday he leaves no cradled grain To be gathered on the morrow for fear of coming rain. He keeps the Sabbath holy, his chil dren learn his ways. And plenty fills his barn and bin after the harvest days. He never has a law-suit to take him to the town. For the very simple reason there are no line fences down. The bar-room in the village does not have for him a charm, I can always find my neighbor on his forty-acre farm. His acres are so very few he plows them very deep: 'TJs his own hands that turn the sod 'tis his own hands that rean: He has a place for everything and things are in their place; The sunshine smiles upon his fields, contentment on his face.. May w not learn a lesson, wife, from pruaent Neighbor Jones. And not for what we haven't got give vent to sighs and moans? The rich aren't always happy, nor free rrom life s alarms: But blest are they who live content. wough small may be their farms. Mrs. Mona Porter, of Roseburg, sends the following, recently requested: O, BE NOT THE FIRST. O, be not the first to discover A blot on the name of a friend, A flaw in the faith of a lover. Whose heart may be true to the end. We none of us know one another And oft into error we fall. So let us speak well of each other Or speak not at alL How often the smile of gladness Is worn by a friend we meet To cover a heart full of sadness Too proud to acknowledge defeat. How often the friends we love dearest Their noblest actions conceal. And bosoms the purest, sincerest. Have secrets they cannot reveal. How often the sigh of Rejection Is heard from the hypocrite's breast, To parody truth and affection Or lull a suspicion to rest. We none of us know one another And oft into error we fall. So let us speak well of each other Or speak not at all. To the Editor I thought you might be interested in the following poem. written on the back of a five-hundred dollar Confederate note. Published in a small book, "War Lyrics and Songs KATIE'S SECRET. The snnlight is beautiful, mother And sweetly the flowers bloom to day. And the birds In the branches of haw thorn Are caroling ever so gavt And down by the rock In the meadow The rill ripples bv with a sonsr. And, mother, I, too, have been sing ing The merriest all the day long. Last night I was weeping, dear mother Last night I was weepins: alone The world was so dark and so dreary .niy neart grew as heavy as stone. I tho't of the lonely and loveless. All lonely and loveless was I. I scarcely could tell how It was. motner. For, Oh, I was longing to die. Last night T was weeping, dear mother When Willie came down bv the eate Ana wnisperea, uome out in the moon light. For I've something to say to you Kate." Oh. mother, to him I am dearer Than all the wide world beside: He told me so out in the moonlleht. And called me his darling, his bride. And so I will gather the roses And twine in my Iontr. braided hair-. And Willie will come in the evening Ana smile wiven he sees me so fair. And out in the moonlight we'll wan cer. 'Way down by the old hawthorne tree, Oh, mother, I wonder if any Were ever as happy as we. THE WANDERER. (By Helena Modjeska.) Upon a mountain's height, far from the sea. I found a shell. And to my curious ear this lonely thing Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell. How came this shell upon the moun tain height? Ah, who can say i - Whether there dropped by some too careless hand Whether there cast when ocean swept tne ian3. Ere the Eeternal had ordained the Day? Strange, was It not? Far from Its na tive sea, t One song it sang Sang of the mighty mysteries of the tide. Sang of the awful, -vast, profound and wide. Softly with echoes of the ocean Tang, And as the shell upon the mountain's height Things of the sea. So do I ever, leagues and leagues , away So do I ever, wandering where I may. Sing, O my home, sing, O my home of thee. Contributed by May Fercival Emer son. Mary Alice Ogden contributes "The Sunlight Is Beautiful, Mother," and In the list of unsigned contributions from Cottage Grove was also "Leoua." LEON A. Leona, the hour draws nigh. The hour we've awaited so long. For the angel to open a door through the sky. That my spirit may break from its prison and try Its voice in an infinite song. Just now as the slumbers of night Came o'er me with peace-giving breath. The curtain, half-lifted, revealed to my sight Those windows which look on the kingdom of light. That borders the river of death. And a vision fell solemn and sweet. Bringing gleams of a morning-llt-land; I saw the white shore which the pale waters beat. And I heard the low lull, as they broke at their feet. Who walked on this beautiful strand. And I wondered why spirits should cling To their clay with a struggle and sigh. When life's purple Autumn Is better than Spring, And the soul flies away like a sparrow. to sing In a climate where leaves never die. Leona, come close to my bed. And lay your dear hand on my brow; The same touch that thrilled me In days that are fled. And raised the lost roses of youth from the dead. Can brighten the brief moments now. We have loved from the cold world apart; And your trust was too generous and true For their hate to o'erthrow; when the slanderer s dart Was rankling deep in my desolate heart, I was dearer than ever to you. I thank the great Father for this. That our love is not lavished In vain; Each germ, in the future, will blossom to bliss. And the form that we love, and the lips that we kiss Never shrink at the shadow of pain. By the light of this faith I am taught That my labor is only begun; In the strength of this hope have I struggled and fought With the legions of wrong, till my armor has caught The gleam of eternity's sun. Leona, look forth and behold. r rom headland, from hillside and deep. The day-king surrenders his banners of gold. The twilight aBvancea through wood land and wold. And the dews are beginning to weep. The moon's silver hair lies uncurled Down the broad-breasted mountains away; Ere sunset's red glories again shall be furled On the fields of the West, o'er the plains of the world, I shall rise in a limitless day. O come not In tears to my tomb. Nor plant with frail flowers the sod; There is rest among roses too weet for its gloom. And life where the lilies eternally bloom In the balm-breathing gardens of God. Yet deeply these memories burn Which bind me to you and to earth: And 1 sometimes have thought that my spirit would yearn In the bowers of its beautiful home to return. And visit the land of Its birth. Twould even be pleasant to stay, n And walk by your side to the last But the land-breeze of heaven is be ginning to play Life's shadows are meeting eternity's day. And its tumult is hushed In the past. Leona, good-hrye; should the grief That is gathering now ever be Too dark for your faith, you will long for relief; And remember the Journey though lonesome is brief. Over lowland and river, to me. James G. Clark. sung at a Sunday school convention at Washington, in 1861.) If you cannot on the ocean Sail among the swiftest fleet. Rocking on the highest billows. Laughing at the storms you meet. You can stand among the sailors Anchored yet within the bay. You can lend a hand to help them As they launch their boats away. If you are too weak to Journey Up the mountain, steep and high You can stand within the valley While the multitude goes by; You can chant in happy measure As they slowly pass along; Though they may forget the singer. They will not forget the song. If you have not gold and silver EVer ready at command; If you cannot toward the needy Reach an ever-helping hand. You can succor the afflicted. O'er the erring you can weep. You can be a true disciple. Sitting at the Master's feet. If you cannot in the harvest Garner up the richest sheaves. Many grains, both ripe and golden. Will the careless reapers leave. Go and glean among the briers Growing rank against the wall. For it may be that the shadows Hide the heaviest wheat of all. If you cannot in the conflict Prove yourself a soldier true; If where fire and smoke is thickest There's no work for you to do: When the battlefield is silent You can go with careful tread; You can bear away the wounded. You can cover up the dead. Do not. then, stand Idly waiting For some greater work to do; Fortune is a lazy goddess She will never come to you. Go and toil within life's vineyard. Do not fear to do or dare If you want a field of 4abor You can find it anywhere. Contributed by X. Y. Z., of Portland. - THE OLD HOISE AT HOME. O the old house at home, where my forefathers dwelt. When a child at the feet of my mother I knelt. Where she taught me the prayer, where she read me the page Which if in infancy lisped is the solace of asre: My heart mid all changes, wherever I roam. Never loses Its love for the. old house at home; It was there at the feet of my mother I knelt. In the old house at home, where my forefathers dwelt. CHORUS: O the old house at home, O the old house at home: My heart never changes for the old house at home. It was not for Its splendor that dwell ing was dear. It was not that the gay and noble were near: O'er the porch the wild rose and the woodbine entwined. And the Jessamine fragrantly waved in the wind But dearer to me than proud turret and dome Were the halls of my father, the old house at home: It was there at the feet of my mother I knelt. In the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt. But the old house no more Is a dwell ing for me. The home of the stranger henceforth it must De; And I never shall view it or Tove as e ... O'er the ever-green fields which my iatner possessea. Yet still in my slumbers sweet visions will come Of the days that Tr passed in the old house at home. It was there at th feet of my mother T Ln.tt In the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt. Contributed by Mrs. Lutie Marshall Stiles, of Walla Walla. A VALENTINE. (By Josephine Pollard.) A Valentine! Ah, can it be That some one has addressed to ma These lines, so sweet and tender? Name or initial is not set Upon the page, and yet and yet I think I know the sender. What though the writing be disguised, And many a little trick devised To aid the fond deception: St. Valentine provides the key That spoils the little mystery The moment of reception. How easy we detect tne signs. And read the words between the lines. No other eyes discoverl And thus the secret ne'er confessed By word of mouth is plainly guessed By sweetheart or by lover. We may be right, we may be wrong; For lack of confirmation strong We give the rein to fancy. And let her wonder at her will. And her bright destiny fulfill In fields of necromancy. And Valentines would lose their charm If they at once could doubt disarm Ere yet the seal was broken: And so the deeper the disguise The more delightful the surprise. And sweeter is the token. For I confess that from a host The one I've always prized the most Time has new beauty lent it Is this poor, faded Valentine; Because I never could divine Just who it was that sent it. Contributed by "X. Y. Z.." of Portland. Walla, sends "The Four-Leaved Sham rock," recently requested. THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. (The four-leaved shamrock Is so rare that it is supposed to endue the finder with magic power.) I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock, in all the fairy dell. And if I find the charmed leaves, oh. how I'll weave my spell. I would not waste my magic might on diamonds, pearl or gold. For treasure tires the weary sense such- triumph Is but cold: But I would play the enchanter's part. In casting bliss around Oh! not a tear nor aching heart, should in the world be found. To worth I would give honor; I'd dry tne mourner s tears. And to the pallid lip recall the smile of happier years. And hearts that had been long es tranged, and friends that had grown cold. Should meet again like parted streams, and mingle as of old! Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part. thus scatter bliss around. And not a tear nor aching heart, should in the world be found! The heart that had been mourning o'er vanished dreams of love. Should see them all returning, like Noah's faithful dove: And Hope should launch her blessed bark on Sorrow's darkening sea. And Mis'ry's children have an Ark, and saved from sinking be. Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, thus scatter bliss around. And not a tear nor aching heart, should in the world be found. CASTLES I' THE AIR. The bonnle, bonnie bairn wba sits pok- ln . i the ase. Glowerin at the fire wl' his wee, round face. Laughln' at the fuffin' lowe What sees he there? Ah, the young dreamer's biggin' cas tles i- the alrl His wee, chubby face an' his towsey. curley pow Are laughin' an' noddln" to the danc in' lowe. His brow Is brent sae braid Oh, pray that Daddy Care Will let the wean alane wl" his cas ties 1' the air. He sees mony castles, towerin' tae the moon; He sees little sojers pu'ln' them a' doun ; Warl's whomblln up and doun, bleez- In' wi' a flare See, how he loups as they glimmer F the air. For a sae sage is he. What can the lad die ken? He's thinkln' upon naethln', like mony mlchty men. A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak s us stare: There are mair folk than him biggin' castles i the air. Sic a nlcht In Winter may weel mak' him cauld. His cheek upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld. He'll brown his rosy cheek, an he'll singe his sunny hair, Laughln' at the imps, wi' their castles 1 the air. He'll glower at the fire, an' he'll keek at the llcht: But mony sparklin' stars are swallowed up by nicht. Aulder een than his are glamoured w a glare; Hearts are broken, heads are turned. wl castles i the air. Some time ago a request was sent In for "Castles In the Air," and In yes terday s Oregonian were published some patriotic Irish verses with that title. I give above from memory an old Scottish favorite of my childhood I do not know which of the poems was desired by the person sending the re quest, but think the above worth re printing. Very likely there are anum ber of poems in existence under the same title. IVY D. MORGAN. Palmateer, of HJllsboro. and Mrs. II. M. Palmer, of Albany. I CANNOT CALL HER MOTHER. The marriage rite was over. And then I turned aside To keep the guests from seeing The tears I could not hide. I wreathed my face in smiling. And led my little brother To greet my father's chosen But I could not call her mother She is a fair young creature. With meek and gentle air. With blue eyes soft and loving ' And sunny silken hair, know my father gives her The love he bore another. But if she were an angel I could not call her mother. . Tonight I heard her singing The song I used to love When its dear notes were uttered By her who sings above. It grieved my heart to hear it. My tears I could not smother. For every tone was hallowed By the dear voice of my mother. My father. In the sunshine Of happy days to come. May half forget the shadow That darkened our dear home; His heart no more is lonely. But I and little brother Must still be orphan children God gives us but one mother. They've borne my mother's picture 1- rom its accustomed place. And set beside my father A younger, fairer face; They've made her dear old chamber The boudoir of another. But I will not forget thee. My own, my angel mother. Mrs. C. E. Depew. of Sandy, sends "The Slave's Dream," requested Janu ary 7: THE SLAVE'S DREAM. I had a dream, a happy dream; I dreamt that I was free! And in the land where freedom dwelt There was a home for me. And Savannah's tide rolled bravely on. And wave rolled after wave. And when I woke in fond delight, I found myself a slave! I never knew a mother's love. But happy was the day I sat down by my father's side And sang my simple lay. ' He died, and heartless strangers came, And covered o'er him the grave. They tore me. weeping, from his side And claimed me as their slave! And this was in a Christian land. Where men oft kneel and pray The vaunted home of liberty. Where whips and lashes sway. Oh, give me iack my Georgia cot; It is not wealth I crave But let me live in freedom's light. Although I die a slave. YOUR MISSION. (By S. N. Grannis.) (This is said to have been a favor ite song of Abraham Lincoln, he en cored it not less than 18 times when The following English song is very old. probabjy 100- years, according to C. B. Page, the contributor. REMEMBER, LOVE, REMEMBER. 'Twas ten o'clock one moonlight night, X ever shall remember. When every star shone twinkling bright in frosty cold Decembe. r When at the window, tap, tap, tap, I beard a certain well-known rap. With these words most sweet and clear: "Remember, ten o'clock, my dear. Re member, love, remember." My mam was dozing before' the fire, my dad his pipe was smoking; I for the world could not retire, now was not that provoking? At length the old folks fast asleep, I flew my promised word to keep. But, sure his absence to denote, he on the window shutter wrote: "Remember, ten o'clockTmy dear. Re member, love, remember." And did- I heed a hint so sweit? Ah, yes, for mark the warning Which said at church we were to meet, at ten o'clock next morning. And there we met, no more to part, to Join forever, hand and heart. And since that day in wedlock Joined, the window shutter brings to mind. "Remember.' ten o'clock, my dear. Re member, love, remember. Mrs. Luties Marshall Stiles, of Walla LULLABY. "Rockaby, baby, thy cradle Is green Father's a nobleman, mother's ' queen:" Rockaby, lullaby, all the day long. Down to the land of the lullaby song. Baby land never again will be thine. Land of all mystery, holy, divine. Motherland, otherland. Wonderland, underland. Land of a time ne'er again to be seen Flowerland. bowerland, Alryland, fairyland, Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green. Rockaby, baby, thy mother will keep Gentle watch over thine azure-eyed sleep; Baby can't feel what the mother heart knows. Throbbing its fear o'er your qule repose. Mother-heart knows how baby must fight Wearily on through the fast-coming night; Battle unending. Honor defending. Baby must wage with the power tm seen. Sleep, now, O baby, dear, God and thy mother near, Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green. Rockaby. baby, the days will grow long, Silent the voice of the mother-lov song; Bowed with sore burdens the man- life must own Sorrows that baby must bear all alone; Wonderland never can come back again, Thought will come soon, and with rea son comes pain, Sorrowland, motherland, Drearyland. wearyland. Baby and heavenland lying between. Smile, then, in motherland. Dream in the otherland, Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green. -Contributed by Ruth Luce. THE VALE OF AVOCA. There Is not in this wide world A valley so sweet. As that vale in whose bosom The bright waters meet. Oh! the last rays of feeling. And life must depart. Ere the bloom of that valley Shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that nature Had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystals And brightest of green; 'Twas not her soft magic Of streamlet or hill. Oh, no. it was something More exquisite still. 'Twas that friends the beloved Of my bosom were near. Who made every scene Of enchantment more dear; And who felt how the best charms Of nature improve. When we see them reflected From looks that we love. Sweet Vale of Avoca, How calm could I rest In the shade of thy bosom. With the friends I like best. Where the storms which we feel. In this -cold world shall cease. And our hearts like thy waters Be mingled in peace. Contributed r-y L. Hanson, of Ridge field,, waih. "I Cannot Call Her Mother. recent ly requested. . is aent by. Mr a. J. J, Rev. Alfred Bates, pastor of the War- renton. Or., Methodist Episcopal Church, sent us the following: THE PRODIGAL GIRL. We all have a heart for the Prodigal boy. Who was caught In sin's mad whirl. And we welcome him back with songs of Joy; But what of the Prodigal girl? For him there's ever an open door. And a father's bounteous fare. And, though he is wretched, sick and poor. He is sure of a welcome there. But what of the girl who has tone astray. Who has lost in the battle with sin? Say do we forgive in the same sweet way We've always forgiven him? Does the door stand ajar, as If to say, "Come, enter, you need not fear. I've been open thus since you went away. Now close to the second year?" Or, with a hand of hellish pride. Do we close, and bolt the door. And swear, "while heaven and earth abide. She shall enter here no more?" O Christ. It seems we have never learned. The lesson writ in the sand. For even yet the woman is spurned. And stoned In a Christian land. f Down Into the slough wo hurl her back. Then turn around with a smile. And welcome the boy from the sinful track. Though his was the life most vile. We all have a heart for the Prodigal boy. Who was caught in sin's mad whirl. And we welcome him back with songs of Joy; But what of the Prodigal girl? II. J. Bryce. "The Merchant's Daughter," an old ballad recently requested, is sent by, "M. H. R." THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. There was a rich old merchant. In Boston he did dwell. He had a pretty daughter And she I loved so well CHORUS. Then sing, carry me away; Then sing carry me back home; She was courted by big lawyers And officers so gay. But none but poor Jackie Could win her heart away. She dressed herself In men's clothes. She dressed herself so gay. She dressed herself In men's clothes And sailed herself away. Your waist, it Is too slender. Your hand. It is too small: Your face. It is too beautiful To face the cannon ball. She sailed to old England. She met her mother there. "You look like my daughter. My daughter, oh, so fair." "I am not your daughter; Your daughter I do not know, I am the Boston captain. My name it is Bill Roe." She fought among big officers. She fought among brave men. She fought by poor Jackie, 'Till Jackie he was slain. She called for her pistols. . She bid her friends adieu. She called for her sword. And pierced her body thru. CHORUS. Then sing, carry me away; Then sing, carry me back home. NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. (Written by an unknown miner in a Western camp, inspired by the light of his camp fire and the stars.) "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take." "Now I lay me down to sleepv" Near the camp-fire's flickering light. In my blanket bed I lie. Gazing through the shades of night At the twinkling stars on high. O'er me spirits in the air Silent vigils seem to keep. As I breathe my childhood's prayer. "Now I lay me down to sleep." Sadly says the whlppoorwill. In the boughs of yonder tree; Laughingly the dancing rill Swells the midnight melody; Foemen may be lurking near. In the canon dark and deep. Low I breathe in Jesus' ear, "I pray the Lord my soul to keep. 'Mid the stars one face I see. One the saviour called away Mother who in infancy Taught my baby Hps to pray; Her sweet spirit hovers near. In the lonely mountain brake. Take me to her, saviour dear. "If I should die before I wake- Fainter grows the flickering light As each ember slowly dies. Plaintively the birds of night Fill the air with saddening criers; "You may nevermore awake." Low I lisp. "If I should die, I pray the Lord my soul to take." Contributed by. "i li. C," of Spokane. I