THE SUNDAY OREGOMAN, PORTLAND, MARCH 23, 1917.
9
NUMEROUS ARE REQUESTS MADE FOR VARIOUS OLD POEMS
AMONG the requests received is one
for the poem that begins: 'The
maid who binds her warrior's
ash. with smile that well her grief
dissembles."
Mrs. H. E. Dye. of Lents, asks for
the old war poem, "The Wandering
Kefugee."
""Mary, of the Wild Moor" is requested
ty several readers.
Ruth Luce, one of our most liberal
contributors, asks for the words of the
following two old songs: "When the
Roses Bloom Again," "Happy Summer
land of Bliss" and "I Once Did Know a
Farmer."
"I Believe It for My Mother Told
Me So" is requested by Mrs. A. Cum
mings. of Salem, and also "The Sucking
fig," which begins:
A parson dressed all in his best.
Cocked hat ar.d bushy wis.
He went Into a farmer's house
To choose a flunking- pig.
"Go Pretty Rose" is requested by "P.
T.." of Beaverton.
A Junction City reader requests the
following song, of Civil War times, in
which the lines occur:
fo let the cannon boom as they will.
We'll be g-ay and happy still:
Gay and happy, swell the answer;
Xone but fools will marry now.
Valiant men have all enlisted
T'nto traitors we'll not bow.
"Eloise. or the Belle of the Mohawk
Vale," requested recently, has been sent
In bv Mrs. H. E. Dye. of Lents; Bonnie
Lievsay. of Wallula: A. W. Botkin, Mrs.
L. B. McKeever. of Aberdeen, and Alice
B. Russell, of Berkeley. Cal. The song
was popular about the time of the
Civil War. The words were by C. W.
Klliot and the music to which it was
sung was by J.r R. Thomas.
The song follows:
BOXJfY EL.OISE.
O, "sweet Is the vale where the Mohawk
gently glides
On Its clear winding way to the sea.
And dearer than all storied streams on
earth besides.
2a this bright rolling river to me;
Chorus
But sweeter, dearer, yes dearer far than
these
"Who charm where others all fall
Xs blue-eyed, bonny. Bonny Elolse,
The belle of the Mohawk Vale.
O, sweet are the scenes of my boy
hood's sunny years.
That bespangle the gay valley o'er, .
'And dear are the friends seen thro
memories' fond tears
That have lived In the best days of
yore;
f
O, aweet are the moments when dream
ing I roam.
Thro' my loved haunts now mossy
and gray..
And dearer than all Is my childhood's
hallowed home.
That is crumbling now slowly away.
' HALF-WAY DOIN'S.
By Irwin RusselL
Selubbed fellow trabelers in holdln'
forth today.
X doesn't quote no special vers for
what I has to say.
De sermon will be berry short, and dis
here am de text:
Sat half-way doin's ain't no 'count for
dis worl' or de nex .
Dis worl' dat we's a-llbbin In is like
a cotton row.
Where ebery cullud gentleman has got
his line to hoe;
And ebery time a lazy nigger stops to
take a nap,
De grass keeps om a-grswin" for to
smudder up His crap.
When Moses led de Jews acrost de
waters of de Bea.
JDey had to keep a-goin', Jes' as fas' as
fas could be:
Do you, s'pose dat dey could ebher hab
succeeded in deir wish.
And reached de Promised Land at last
it dey had stopped to fish?
My fren's. der was a garden once,
where Adam libbert wlH
Wid no one "round to bodder dem, no
neighbors for to thieve:
And ebery day was Christmas, and dey
got deir rations free.
And beryting belonged to dem except
an apple tree.
Tou all know 'bout de story how de
snake come snooDln 'round .
A stump-tail, rusty moccasin, a crawl
in' on de erniin' .
Ho Eve and Adam ate de fruit, and
went and hid deir face.
Till de angel overseer he coma and
drove em off de place.
Now s'pose dat man and woman
hadn't tempted for to shirk.
But had gone about deir gardenin' and
tended to deir work- ,
Dey wouldn't hab been lookln' round
wnar dey had no business to.
And de debbil never'd got a chance to
tea em what to do.
nan-way (loin's. Dredren! It'll neb
ber do. I say!
Go at your task and finish it, and den'i
me time to piay
For eben If de crap is good, de rain'U
spoil de bools.
Unless you keep a-pickln' in de garden
ob your souls.
Keep a-plowin' and a-hoein', and
a-scrapin ob de rows.
And when de ginnin's ober you can
pay up what you owes;
But if you quits a-workin' ebery time
the sun is hot, I
De Sheriff's gwine to lebby upon ebery-
ting you's got.
Wnateber 'tis you's" dribin' at, be sure
and dribe it through.
And don't let nuffln stop you, but do
what you's gwine to do;
For when you see a nigger foolin', den.
as-shore's you're born.
Tou's gwine to see him comin' out de
small end of the horn.
I thanks you for de' tention you has
gib dis afternoon
Bister Williams will oblige us by 1 a
raisin" ob a tune
I see that Bruther Johnson's 'bout to
pass aroun' the hat
And don't let's hab no half-way doin's
when it comes to dat.
Contributed by .Mrs. H. H. Smith.
The following, contributed by Ruth
Lull, will be remembered with pleasure
by -many to whom it was a favorite
song a generation or more ago:
TWILIGHT IS STEALKG.
Twilight is stealing over the sea
Shadows are falling dark on the lea.
Borne on the night wind voices of yore
Come from that far of shore.
Chorus
Far away beyond the starlit skies.
Where the love'iprht never, never dies,
Ulearoeth the mansions filled with de
light Sweet happy home so bright.
Voices of loved ones, songs of the past
Still linger round me while life shall
last.
Cheering my pathway while here I
roam
Seeking that far off home.
Come in the twilight. come, come
with me
Bringing some message over the sea
IOnely I wander, sadly I roam
Eeeklng that far-off home.
To the Editor: Having read with In
terest the old poems published In the
Sunday Oregonian, I take the liberty of
inclosing one. It was published in the
Saturday Evening Post some 55 years
ago, a copy of which was kept and
committed to memory when the writer
was a child. It was often a subject
for - recitations at school exhibitions.
My cousin. Judge A. 8.. Bennett, of The
Dalles, used to recite it -very effective
ly at- the old-fashioned country school
exhibitions in Iowa before we crossed
the plains to Oregon in 1865. Early in
the '70s I taught school in Yamhill
County for several years and the poem
was committed to memory by several
of my pupils among the number be
ing Dr. J. D. Fenton, now of Portland,
who, as a boy of 13. recited it at ' a
school exhibition given by my pupils
in the Carse district.
Trusting that you will find the poem
"old enough" and of sufficient interest
for publication, I am respectfully
yours.
MRS. WILLIAM GALLOWAY.
201 Mission street. Salem, Or.
THE BATTLE OK NEV ORLEANS.
(A Ballad of Louisiana)
BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
Here in my rude log cabin.
Few poorer men there be
Among the mountain ranges
Of Western Tennessee.
My limbs are weak and shrunken.
White hairs upon my brow;
My dog lie still, old fellow
My sole companion now. -
Yet I, when young and lusty.
Have gone through stlrrfng scenes.
For I went down with Carroll
To fight at New Orleans.
You say you'd like to hear me
The stirring story tell
Of those who stood the battle
And those who fighting fell?
Short work to count our losses;
We stood and dropped the foe.
As easily as by firelight
Men shoot a buck or doe:
And while they fell by hundreds
Upon the bloody plain.
Of us fourteen were wounded
And only eight were slain.
'Twas the eighth of January
Before the break of day.
Our raw and hasty levies
Were brought into array.
No cotton bales before us ,
Some fool that falsehood told
Before us was an earthwork
Built from the swampy mold:
And there we stood in silence
And waited with a frown
To greet with bloody welcoma
The bulldogs of the crown.
The heavy fog of morning
Still hid the plain from sight.
When came a thread of scarlet
Marked faintly in the white.
We fired a single cannon.
And. as Its thunder rolled.
The mist before us lifted
In many a heavy fold.
The mist before us lifted.
And in their bravery fine
Came rushing to their ruin
The fearless British line.
Then from our waiting cannona
J-rfsaped rorth the deadly flam
To meet the solid columns
That swift and steady came.
The thirty-twos of Crawley
And Blucher's twenty-four.
With Scott's eighteen-pounders
.Responded with their roar
Sending their grape-shoe deadly
That marked its nathvav niatn
And paved the road It traveled
vvitn corses of the slain.
Our rifles firmly grasping
And heedless of the din.
We stood in silence waiting
For orders to begin.
Our fingers qn the triggers. .
Our hearts with, anger stirred.
Grew still more fierce and eager
' As Jackson's voice we heard
"Stand steady! Waste no powder!
Wait till your shots will tell!
Today the work you finish.
See that you do it well!"
Their columns drawing nearer
We felt our patience tire.
When came the voice of Carroll,
Distinct and measured "Fire!"
Oh, then you should have marked us
Our volleys on them pour;
Have heard our Joyous rifles
Ring sharply through the roar;
And seen their foremost columns
Melt hastily away,
As snow in mountain gorges
Before the floods of May.
They soon reformed their columns
And, 'mid the fatal rain.
We never ceased to hurtle.
Came to their worn again.
The Forty-fourth is with them.
That tirst Its laurels won
With stout old Abercrombie
Beneath an Eastern sun.
It rushes to the battle.
And, though within th rear
Its leader is a laggard. r
It shows no signs of fear.
It did not need its Colonel.
For soon there came, instead,
An eagle-eyed commander.
And on its march he led.
'Twas Packenham in person.
The leader of the field:
I knew it by the cheering
That loudly 'round him pealed.
And by his quick, sharp movements;
We felt his heart was stirred
As when at Salamanca
He led the fighting Third.
I raised my rifle quickly,
I sighted at his breast
"God save the gallant leader
And take him to his reel:" "
x did not draw the trigsre-'
I could not for my life '
So calm he sat J. .3 charger
. Amid the deadly strife
That, in my fiercest moments
A prayer arose from me:
"God save that gallant leader.
Our foe man. tnough he be!"
Sir Edward's charger staggers.
He leaps at once to ground.
And ere the brute falls bleeding
Another horse is found.
His right arm falls 'tis wounded
He waves on high his left;
In vain he leads the movement.
The ranku in twain are cleft.
The men in scarlet waver
Before th- men in brown
And fly in utter panic
The soldiers of the crown.
I thought the work was over.
But newer shouts were heard.
And came, with Gibbs to lead It,
The gallant Ninefy-third;
Then Packenham. exulting.
With proud and joyous glance.
Cried: "Children of the Tartan, v
Bold Highlanders, advance!
Advance and scale their breastworks
And drive them from their hold.
And show them that stainless courage
That marked your sires of old!"
His voice as yet was ringing.
When swift as light there cam
The roaring of a cannon.
And earth seemed all aflame.
Who causes thus the thunder
The doom of men to. speak?
It is the Baratarian,
The fearless Dominique.
Down through the marshaled Scots
men The step of death Is heard.
And as by fierce tornado
Falls half the Ninety-third.
The smoke passed slowly upward
And as it soared on high
I saw that brave commander
In dying anguish lie.
They bear him from the battle
Who never fled the foe;
Unmoved by death around them
His bearers softly go.
In vain their care so gentle.
Fades earth and all its scenes;
The man of Salamanca
Lies dead at New Orleans.
But where are his lieutenants?
Have they in terror fled?
No, Keane is sorely wounded
And Gibbs as good as dead.
Brave Wilkinson, commanding.
A Major of brigade.
The scattered force to rally
A final effort made.
He led them up our ramparts.
Small glory did he gain;
Our captives some, while others fled.
And he himself was slain.
The stormers had retreated.
The bloody work was o'er.
The feet of our invaders .
Were soon to leave our shore.
We rested on our rifles
And talked about the fight.
When ran a sudden murmur
As fire from left to right;
We turned and saw our chieftain.
And then, good friend of mine.
You should have heard the cheering
That ran along our line.
For well our men remembered
How little when they came
Had they of native courage
And trust in Jackson's name.
How through the day he labored.
How kept the vigils still, ,
Till discipline controlled us ,
A stronger power than will.
How then he hurled us at them
Within that evening hour ,
Of that red night In December, -
And made them feel our power.
In answer to our shouting
Fire lit his eyes of gray.
As erect, but thin and pallid.
He passed upon his bay;
Weak from the baffled fever
And shrunken in each limb.
The swamps of-Alabama ,
Had done their work on him;
Yet spite of that, and fasting.
And hours of sleepless care.
The soul of Andrew Jackson
Shone forth in glory there.'
AFTER. THE BATTLE
Hold the lantern aside and shudder
not so:
There's more blood to see than this
stain on the snow;
There are pools of it, lakes of it, just
over there;
And fixed faces all streaked and crimson-soaked
hair.
Did you think, when we came, you and
I, out tonight
T6 search for our dead, you would see
a fair sight?
You're his wife; you love him you
think so; and I
Am Only his mother; my boy shall
not lie
In a ditch with the rest, while my
arras can bear
His form to a grave that ml-e own
may soon share.
So, if your, strength fails, best go and
sit by the hearth.
While his mother alone seeks his bed
on the earth.
You will go? Then no falntlngs! Give
me the light.
And follow my footsteps my heart
will lead right.
Ah God! What is here? A great heap
of the slain.
All mangled and gory! What horrible
pain
These beings have died in! Dear moth
ers weep.
Ye weep, oh ye weep o'er this terrible
sleep!
More! More! Ah! I thought I could
never more know
Grief, horror or pity for aught here
below.
Since I stood oi the porch and heard
his chief tell
How brave was my son, how gallantly
he fell.
Did they think I cared then, to see
officers stand
Before my great sorrow, -each hat in
each hand?
Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence
nor fright
That your red nan'" . turn over toward
this dim light
These dead men that i tare so? Ah, if
you had kept
Your senses this morning ere his com
rades, left
You had heard that his I lace was the
worst of them ail.
Not 'mid the stragglers, where he
fought, he would fall.
There's the moon through the clouds;
Oh Christ what a scene!
Dost thou, from thy leavens o'er such
visions lean,
A.d sti 1 1 call this cursed world a foot
stool of thine?
Hark! A groan! There another here i
this line.
Piled close on each other! Ah, here is
the flag.
Torn, dripping ..:th gore bah! they
died for this rag.
Here's the voice that we seek," poor
soul, do not start;
We're women, not ghosts. What a gash
o'er the heart!
Is there aught that we can do? ' A
message to give
To any beloved one? I swear if I live
To take it for the sake of the words
my boy said,
"Home." "mother." "wife." ere he reeled
down 'mong the dead. , .
But, first, can you tell me where his
regiment stood?
Speak, speak, man. or point; 'twass the
Ninth. Oh the blood
Is choking his voice! What a look of
' despair!
There, lean on my knee, while I put
back the hair
From eyes so fast glazing. Oh. my
darling, my own.
My hands were both idle, when you
died alone!
He's dying, he's dead! Close his lids,
let us so.
6y ALFRED LORD TENNYSON
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.-
j
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld.
Sad as the last -which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verg;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad nd strange as in dark Summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half awakened birds
To dying ears, when onto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death.
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, rnd wild with all regret;
O, death in life, the days that are no more.
God's peace on his soul! If we only
could know.
Where our own dear one lies! My soul
has turned sick;
Must we crawl o'er these that lie here
- so thick?
I cannot! I cannot! How eager you
are!
One might think you were nursed on
the red lap of war.
He's not here and npt there what
wild hopes flash through
My thoughts, as foot deep I stand in
this dread dew.
And cast up a prayer to the blue, quiet
sky!
Was it you. girl, that shrieked? Ah!
what face doth lie.
Upturned toward me there, so rigid and
so white?
Oh God! My brain reels! 'Tls a dream
my old, old sight .
Dimmed with these horrors. My son!
Oh my son !
Would I had died for thee, my own.
my only one!
There, lift off your arms; let him
come to the breast
Where first he was lulled with my
soul's hymn to rest.
Your heart never thrilled to your lov
er's fond kiss
As mine to his baby-touch oh! was it
'for this?
He was yours, too; he loved you! Yes.
yes, you're right.
Forgive, oh forgive me. my daughter!
I'm maddened tonight.
Don't moan so, dear child;- you're
young, and your years
May still hold fair hopes; but the old
die of tears.
Yes. take him again; ah! don't lay your
face there;
See the blood from his wound has
stained your hair.
"
How quiet you are! Has she fainted?
Her cheek
Is cold as his own. Say a word to me,
oh speak!
Am I crazed? Is she . dead? Has her
heart broken first? v
Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine
is worst.
I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with
these dead;
These corpses are stirring; God help
my poor head!
I'll sit by my children until the men
come
To bury the others, and then we'll go
home.
The slain are all dancing! Dearest,
don't move.
Keep away from my boy, he's guarded
by love. .
Lullaby, lullaby, sleep, sweet darling.
sleep!
God and thy mother will watch o'er
thee keep.
(This poem was contributed, in re
sponse to a recent request, by Ruth
Luce, of Portland, and by C. W. Castle,
of Baker.
"Her First Party," recently requested
has been sent by Ruth Luce. Mrs.
Walter Jones, of Portland, and by Miss
Barbara Pfeiffer, of Albany.
HER FIRST PARTY.
Miss Annabel McCarty
Was invited to a party
"Your company from four to ten,"
the invitation said:
And the maiden was delighted
To think she was invited
To sit up till the hour when .the big
folks went to bed.
The crazy little midget
Ran and told the news to Bridget,
Who clapped her hands, and danced
a Jig. to Annabel's delight.
And said, with accents hearty,
"'Twill be the swatest party.
If ye're there yerself, me darlint! I
wish it, was tonight!" '
The great display of frilling
Was positively killing: . -
And, oh. the little booties! and the
lovely sash so wide!
And the gloves so very cunning!
She was altogether "stunning."
And the whole McCarty . family
regarded her with pride.
They gave minute directions.
With copious interjections
Of "sit up straight!" and "don't do
this or that 'twould be absurd!"
But what with their caressing
And the agony of dressing.
Miss Annabel McCarty did not hear
a single word.
There was music, there was dancing.
And the sight was most entrancing.
As if fairy land and floral band were
holding jubilee:
There was laughing, there was pouting;
There was singing, there was shouting:
And the old and young together
made a carnival of glee.
Miss Annabel McCarty
Was the youngest at the party.
And every one remarked she was
beautifully dressed;
Like a doll she sat demurely
On the softs thinking surely
It world never do for her to run and
frolic with the rest.
The -noise kept growing louder;
The naughty boys would crowd her:
"I think you're very rude indeed!" the
little lady said;
And then, without a warning.
Her home Instructions scorning,
She screamed: "I want my supper,
and I want to go to bed."
Now. big folks who are older.
Need not laugh at her nor scold her.
For doubtless. If the truth were
known, we've often felt Inclined
To leave the ball or party.
As did Annabel McCarty,
But we hadn't half the courage, and
we couldn't speak our mind.
"The Gray Swan." by Alice Cary, was
requested recently and copies were sent
by Mrs. M. Osburn, of Chehalis, Mrs. J.
S. McDonald, of St. Paul, and Mrs.
s r
Florence Cady. of Fallbrldge. of Wash
ington.
THE GRAY SWAN.
"Oh tell me. sailor, tell me true.
Is my little lad. my Elihu.
A-sailing with your ship?"
The sailor's eyes were dim with dew
"Your little lad. your Elihu?"
He said, with trembling lip
"What little lad? What ship?"
"What little lad! as if there could be
Another such a one as he!
What little, little lad ro you say?
Why Elihu. that to the sea
The moment I put him off my knee!
It was Just the other day
The Gray Swan sailed away."
"The other day!" the tsailor's eyes
Stood open with a great surprise,
"The other day! the Swan!"
His hearty began in his throat to rise.
"Ay. ay. sir: here in the cupboard lies
The jacket he had on."
"And so your lad is gone?"
"Gone with.' the Swan," "And did. she
stand
With her anchor clutching hold of the
sand.
For a month and never stir?"
"Why to be sure! I've seen from the
land.
Like a lover kissing his lady's hand
The wild sea kissing her,
A sight ' to remember, sir."
"But. my good mother, do you know.
All this was twenty years ago?
I stood on the Gray Swan's deck.
And to that lad I saw you throw.
Taking it off. as it might be so.
The 'kerchief from your neck."
"Ay, and he'll bring it back!"
"And did tlie little lawless lad
That has made you sick and made you
sad.
Sail with the Gray Swan's crew?"
"Lawless! the man is going mad!
The best boy ever mother had
Be sure he sailed with the crew!
What would you have him do?"
"And he has never written line.
Nor sent you word, nor made you sign
To say he was alive?"
"Hold! if Twas wrong, the wrong is
mine:
Besides, he may be in the brine.
And could he wvlte from the grave?
Tut, man; what could you have?"
"Gone twenty years a long, long
cruise,
'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse
But If the lad still live.
And come back home, think you, you
can forgive?"
"Miserable man: you're
as mad as the
sea you rave
What have I to forgive?"
The sailor . twitched his shirt so blue.
And from within his bosom drew
The 'kerchief. She was wild.
"My God! my Father! is it true?"
My little lad, my Elihu!
My blessed boy, my child!
My dead my living child!"
HIS MOTHER WAS IX HEAVEN.
BY ROBERT.. CAREY. "JR.
He came to the stable at sunset, a queer
looking sort of a lad.
His clothes hangin' round him in tat
ters, a face that was old-like and
sad;
He told me that he was an orphan, his
father and mother were dead;
He hadn't a sister or brother, and knew
about horses, ne said.
"Twas somewhere along in December,
--the racing wis over and done.
The boys were kicking their heels up
rolling around in the sun.
With nothing to do In the morning and
nothing to do at the night.
The horses all eating their heads off
and not a Winter In sight.
At first I confess I was tempted to turn
him away from the door, .
But just at that moment he. fainted, and
fell in a heap on the floor;
Then I knew right away he was starvin"
and lifted hlnv. up, the poor kid,
I just took him in and I fed him, and
now I thank God that 1 did. -
He worked round the stables all Winter,
and soon I found out he could
ride;
Had hands that were light as a wo
man's and strong as a steel
spring beside;
Had a seat an Archer might envy, and
all Murphy's knowledge of pace.
And knew every horse in tne stable, but
best of them he loved Grace.
By Gabriel, out of Brown Nellie, the
mare was the pride of my string;
Sweet-tempered she was as a kitten,
and swift as a bird on the wing;
As yet, she had not faced a starter, but
somehow I fancied that she.
With little Jim perched in the saddle,
might yet be the maxing of me.
We worked her that Spring on the quiet
and tried her one day at a mile;
At one-forty flat stopped the watches;
'twas done in the handiest style.
"She'll do for the Oaks, Jim," I whis
pered. And Jim answered back.
Ain't she sweet?
There never was anything like her:
they'll find her a hard one t
beat"
I entered her up in the circuit in -all of
the stakes I could flna:
I said she would make me or break me,
yet felt 1 was going it blind;
But Jim only laughed at my fancies,
"She'll make, but not break you,"
he said;
And Grace, looking out of the stable,
kept nodding and nodding her
head.
The Summer came on in its splendor;
the days for the Oaks was at
hand;
The field that was carded, a grand one,
the pride and the pick of the
land.
In the pools she was selling for fifty,
the favorite being Belle Stone.
And I was the sucker a-buylng the
tickets on Grace all alone.
Just five hundred dollars I wagered
against thirteen thousand that
Grace
Would be in the first, in the finish, I
knew she was ready to race.
Then told little Jim how to ride her:
"Get off well and give her her
head."
''Never fear." he said. "If we're beaten,
both I and the mare will be dead."
With fourteen that danced round the
starter, the field was a large one,
yet
The mare didn't seem the least nervous,
showed no disposition to fret;
And Jim, in his dingy old jacket my
colors were purple and white
Seemed able to hold, and control her
with touch that was th.stle-down
light.
"They're off." was the cry from the
watchers. "Belle Stone's In the
lead!" "No it's Grace."
"She'll come back to her field." "No,
she will not." "She'll never live
at that pace."
By the time they'd gone to the first
quarter, my mare was ten lengths
to the good, , '
And streaking a v. y lik'e a rabbit,
scared out of the heart of the
wood.
'Twas in vain that th whips cracked
behind her; vain was the touch
of the steel.
With nostrils blood-red and mane
- flyln', my Grace was a-leading
the' reel.
Jim eased her a bit the last quarter.
and, turning he looked for Belle
Stone,
Who led all the rest at the eighth pole.
and my mare Just finished alone.
Unbeaten she went through the season,
the pet of the public, and Jim
Was the jock that the plungers all fol
lowed all seemed to cotton to
him.
Success made no change In his habits;
he gave me his earnings to keep.
And slept every night In the stable
the place where all jockeys
- should sleej).
We wintered at Mobile that season, and
often as twilight would fall.
We'd sit at the doorway together, and
list for the mocking-bird's call.
Watch the moonlist flooding the sta
bles; the shadows that danced on
the green.
The stars in their jewel-like splendor,
the patches of blue in between.
Jim was full of the queerest of fancies,
quaint as a man ever heard;
He thonght that a soul was imprisoned,
the soul of a man in each bird.
The night-wind, he said, told him sto
ries, the stories of dead and gone
kings:
That the clover-tops out in the mea
dows, fell from a butterfly's
wings.
That dew was the tears of the angels,
that fell when the world was
asleep.
For angels, he said, were like women
unhappy unless they can weep.
That violets blooming In the wlldwood
showed just where the fairies had
trod.
That the buttercups sprang from the
gold mines, burled deep under the
sod.
He'd tell me about his dead mother,
with tears shining bright in his
eyes: '
How the angels had taken her from
him, and carried her up to the
skies.
"She comes to me oft in the night-time,"
he whispered, "and wnen at the
dawn
I reach out my arms to embrace her, I
find to my sorrow, she's gone."
"But some time, I know, I shall see her.
shall kiss once again her dear
face.
Shall pillow my head on her bosom, and
then I'll have to leave Grace.
You'll give her to me, up in heaven, if
horses to heaven should go;
And you Bob, you'll have so many that
you will not miss her. I know."
I smiled as I said: "You can have her.'
I knew not. that death lurked so
near, i
For how could I know that an angel
was waiting e'en then to appear.
And how could I know that the fever
called "Yellow Jack' lurked at
the gate
No tiger that's left in the jungle had
ever so fearful a mate.
The stableboys came at the dawning,
and told me that something ailed
Jim,
I knew what It was Just the moment
that 1 had set eyes upon him.
I'd seen its grim reaping at Memphis.
the year It touched me with its
wing.
When strong men and women, together
fell down at the touch of the
king. .
For days we kept watch at -is bedside,
and, God! twas pitiful sight;
He'd ride all his old races over, and
oft In the dead of the night.
He'd start from his sleep and would
whisper a smile on his little,
thin face
"The flag has gone down, and we're
leading: we 11 show them the way,
won't we, Grace?"
"Get out of the way!" once he shouted:
"you're crowding too close to the
rail;
I can't hold the mare, and we're coming
along with the speed of a gale.
Your horse Is dead beat, Billy Saun
ders; stop whipping the beast he
can't win;
He would If he could, for he's willing;
to punish him now Is a sin."
He'd pick at the bedclothes and babble
of playmates he'd known long
before:
Then, whispering, ask his dead mother
to wait for him at the door.
And from his parched lips, in the dark
ness, the ghost of wandering
prayer
Escaped, and I fancy the Master was
bending and listening there.
In the darkness and gloom of the stable.
Made sweet by the smell of the
hay.
The angels stood close by the bedside
as, once. In a far-away day.
They stood in a Judean staote and wait
ed the birtn oi a King;
But this time their mission was dif
ferent they waited a soul's tak
ing wing.
We watched there. The night before
Christmas, the bells rang their
message of mirth.
Of peace and good will to all beings
that live on the face of the earth.
And Jim- started up at their chiming
and reached out his thin hands.
"I see
The gift of the Christ-child.'', he shout
ed; "they're bringing a crown
here for me." ,
T going! Good-bye. Bob," he whis
pered. "I'm going, and may I take
Grace T
"Yes, take her, my lad," I answered,
my tears falling fast on his face.
"God bless you, old fellow." he mur
mured, and then quickly grasp
ing my hand.
He said: "It's all right! There's my
number gone up at the top of the
stand.
His fingers relaxed and I, turning. Just
caught his last Muttering breath.
Tb low-spoken sweet words, "my
mother." the Jockey's first greeting to
death.
A smile curved his lips as he lay there.
I knelt for a moment in prayer.
The sound of the bells' merry music
still rank on the startled uight
air.
Th boys came to me at the dawning
and told rati that the mare. Grace,
was dead!
Was well when they left her at even'
ana eating her supper, they said.
I gave her to Jim. boys," I muttered,
"I gave her to Jim era he died:
The way may be long. He was weary
and th angels wished him to
ride."
I've' no explanation to offer. Explaining
don't lav In mv line:
Th ways of the good Lord would
bother a brain that is larger
than mine.
Each year at the coming of Christmas
I look at the lnd'a niMtir.rf fa -
Christ gave you a crown for his gift.
Jim, ana l, lor a gift, gave you
Grace.
Contributed by Mrs. H. H. Smith. '2 J7
cast fortieth street, city.
A request for "Burv M Wnf In th
Deep Blue Sea" has brought th follow
ing irom Miss Myrtle Jones, of Port
land. It will be recognized as a variant
of the ballad, "Bury Me Not in the Lone
Prairie";
BURY ME NOT 15 THE DEEP, DEEP
SEA.
"On, bury me not In the deep, deep sea,"
The words came low and mournfully
From the pallid Hps of a youth who lay
On his cabin couch at the close of day.
He had wasted and pined till o'er his
brow
The death shade had slowly passed, and
now. v
With the land and his fond, loved horn
so nigh.
They had gathered around to sea him
die.
"Oh, bury me not In the deep, deep sea,"
Where the billowy waves will roll over
me.
Wbere no light shall glide through the
dark, cold wave.
And no sunbeams rest upon my grave.
It matters not. I have oft been told).
Where the body shall lie when the heart
is cold.
But grant ye. oh. grant ye, this boon for
me.
And bury me not in the deep, deep sea.
In fancy I've listened, to the well
known words.
The free, wild wind and the song of
oiras,
I have thought of home,, of cot and
bower.
And scenes I have loved In childhood's
hour.
I had ever hoped to be laid when I died
in the churchyard there on the green
hillside.
By the bones of my father my grave
shall be.
Oh. bury me not in the deep, deep sea.
- .
"Let my resting-place be where a moth
er s prayer.
And a s'ster's tears shall be mingled
there.
Oh, 'twill be sweet when these heart
throbs are o'er -
To know when its fountains shall gush
no more.
That those it so fondly has yearned for
will come
To plant the first wild) flowers of Spring
on my tomb.
Let me He where those loved ones shall
weep over me.
Oh, bury me not in the deep, deep sea.
"And there Is another whose tears will
be shed
For him who lies low in an ocean bed.
In hours It pains me to think of how
She has twined "these locks and has
pressed this brow.
In the hair she hath twined shall th
sea serpent hiss?
And the brow she hath pressed, shall
the wild wave kiss?
For the sake of that loved one still
waiting for me.
Oh, bury me not in the deep, deep sea.
"She has been in my dreams " his
voice failed theru:
They gave no heed to his dying prayer:
They lowered him low, o'er the vessel's
side:
Above him. has rolled the dark, cold
tide.
Where to dip their light wings the sea
fowl rest.
Where the wild waves dance o'er th
ocean's crest.
Where the billows bound and the winds
sport free.
They have buried him there in the deep,
deep sea.
THE OLD HOME.
I remember sn old gray farmhouse.
All mossy and stained with time;
With a film of old age upon it.
While yet it stood in its prime.
A broad, low-browed old homestead.
Where clambering wild woodbine
Hung out its flames in the Autumn,
Like wreaths on a holy shrine.
Great, drooping elms swayed o'er it;
And blossoming lilacs tall.
Thrust their purple plumes In the win
dows. With the bees they held in thralL
All under Its roof so mossy.
And around its heart so warm.
It gathered its happy children.
In a merry, busy swarm.
With the beat of rain on th shingles,
. It lulled them all to rest.
When Spring brought the ' muttering
showers.
Surging up from out the west.
As a hen soothes her sleepy chickens.
Beneath her wings widespread.
So we heard the soft, sweet wind-song.
Of the old roof overhead.
And now when I fall a dreaming.
When It rains, and the wind is strong,
I hear again the deep murmur
And beat of the old roof's song.
And the years fall away and leave me,
A sleepy child once more;
Slow rocking on grand wild surges,
Toward some dream land shore.
i
Now drifting among the treetops
Now floating o'er rivers deep.
Till I sink In that rushing, sweeping
sea,
Down to the land of sleep.
Contributed by Bertha Mifflin Blow
ers, of Hood River.
"E. R. C." sends the following old
song, which will be remembered by
many:
OH. DEAR! WHAT CAN THE MATTER
BET
(An Old English Song.)
Oh. dear! What can the matter be?
Dear, dear! What can the matter be?
Oh. dear! What can the matter be?
Johnny's so long at the fair.
He promised he'd bring me a faJriag
should please me.
And then for a kiss, oh ha vowed he
-would tease me!
He promised he'd bring me a bunch of
blue ribbons.
To tie up my bonny brown hair.
He promised he'd bring me a basket of
posies.
A garland of lilies,
A garland of roses.
A litle straw hat to set off the blue
ribbons
That tie up my bonny brown' hair.
Oh. dear! What can the matter be?
Dear, dear! What can the matter be?
Oh. dear! What can the matter be?
Johnny's so Ions: at the fair.