Pieces People Ask For

SERIOUS, HUMOROUS, PATHETIC, PATRIOTIC,
AND DRAMATIC SELECTIONS IN
PROSE AND POETRY

FOR

READINGS AND RECITATIONS

EDITED BY
GEORGE M. BAKER

BOSTON

WALTER H. BAKER & CO.

1909

Pieces People Ask For

Copyright, 1885, by George M. Baker
(Reading Club, No. 16.)

Copyright, 1886, by George M. Baker
(Reading Club, No. 17.)

Copyright, 1908, by Walter H. Baker & Co.

Contents

Part I

The Reading-Club.

THE LIGHT FROM OVER THE RANGE.

“D’ye see it, pard?”

“See what, Rough?”

“The light from over the Range.”

“Not a bit, Rough. It’s not daybreak yet. Yer sick, an’ yer head bothers ye.”

“Pard, yer off. I’ve been sick, but I’m well again. It’s not dark like it was. The light’s a-comin’—comin’ like the boyhood days that crep’ inter the winders of the old home.”

“Ye’ve been dreamin’, Rough. The fever hain’t all outen yer head yet.”

“Dreamin’? ’Twa’n’t all dreams. It’s the light comin’, pard. I see ’em all plain. Thar’s the ole man lookin’ white an’ awful, just as he looked the mornin’ he drove me from home; and that woman behind him, stretchin’ out her arms arter me, is the best mother in the world. Don’t you see ’em, pard?”

“Yer flighty, Rough. It’s all dark, ’cepting a pine-knot flickerin’ in the ashes.”

“No—the light’s a-comin’ brighter and brighter. Look! It’s beamin’ over the Range bright and gentle, like the smile that used to be over me when my head lay in my mother’s lap, long ago.”

“Hyar’s a little brandy, Rough. Thar; I seen it though my eyes are dim—somehow—hyar, Rough.”

“Never, pard. That stuff spiled the best years of my life—it sha’n’t spile my dreams of ’em. Oh, sich dreams, pard! They take me to the old home again. I see the white house ’mong the trees. I smell the breath of the apple-blossoms, and hear the birds singin’ and the bees hummin’, and the old plough-songs echoin’ over the leetle valley. I see the river windin’ through the willers an’ sycamores, an’ the dear ole hills all around, p’intin’ up to heaven like the spires of big meetin’-houses. Thar’s the ole rock we called the tea-table. I climb up on it, an’ play a happy boy agin. Oh, if I’d only staid thar, pard!”

“Don’t, Rough; ye thaw me all out, talkin’ that. It makes me womanish.”

“That’s it, pard: we’ve kep’ our hearts froze so long, we want it allus winter. But the summer comes back with all the light from over the Range. How bright it is, pard! Look! How it floods the cabin till the knots an’ cobwebs are plainer than day.”

“Suthin’s wrong, Rough. It’s all dark, ’cept only that pine-knot in the chimbly.”

“No, it’s all right, pard. The light’s come over the Range. I kin see better’n I ever could. Kin see the moister in yer eyes, pard, an’ see the crooked path I’ve come, runnin’ clean back to my mother’s knee. I wasn’t allus called Rough. Somebody used to kiss me, an’ call me her boy: nobody’ll ever know I’ve kep’ it till the end.”

“I hev wanted to ax ye, mate, why ye never had any name but jist Rough?”

“Pard—it’s gettin’ dark—my name? I’ve never heard it since I left home. I buried it thar in the little churchyard, whar mother’s waitin’ for the boy that never come back. I can’t tell it, pard. In my kit you’ll find a package done up. Thar’s two picters in it of two faces that’s been hoverin’ over me since I took down. You’ll find my name thar, pard—thar with hers—an’ mother’s.”

“Hers? Will I ever see her, Rough?”

“Not till you see her by the light that comes over the Range to us all. Pard, it’s gettin’ dark—dark and close—darker than it ever seemed to me afore”—

“Rough, what’s the matter? Speak to me, mate. Can’t I do nuthin’ fer ye?”

“Yes—pard. Can’t ye—say—suthin’?”

“What d’ye mean, Rough? I’ll say any thing to please ye.”

“Say—a—pra’r, pard.”

“A pra’r! Rough, d’ye mean it?”

“Yes, a pra’r, pard. It’s the—last thing Rough’ll ever—ax of ye.”

“It’s hard to do, Rough. I don’t know a pra’r.”

“Think back, pard. Didn’t yer mother—teach ye—suthin’? One that begins—‘Our Father’—an’ then—somehow—says—‘forgive us’—”

“Don’t, Rough, ye break me all up.”

“The light’s a-fadin’—on the golden hills—an’ the night is comin’—out of the canyuns—pard. Be quick—ye’ll try, pard. Say suthin’—fer Rough”—

“I—Rough—Our Father, forgive us. Don’t be hard on Rough. We’re a tough lot. We’ve forgot ye, but we hain’t all bad. ’Cause we hain’t forgot the old home. Forgive us—be easy on Rough. Thy will be done”—

“It’s comin’ agin—pard. The light’s—comin’—over the Range”—

“Have mercy on—us, an’—an’—an’—settle with us ’cordin’ to—to the surroundin’s of our lives. Thy—Thy kingdom come”—

“Go on, pard. It’s comin’.”

“Now—I lay me down to sleep.”

“That’s—good—mother said that.”

“Hallowed be Thy name—pray—the Lord his soul to keep.”

“That’s good—pard. It’s all glory—comin’ over—the Range—mother’s face—her—face”—

“Thine is the glory, we ask—for Jesus’ sake—Amen.”

“Pard”—

“What, Rough? I’m all unstrung. I”—

“Fare”—

“Rough! Yer worse! What, dead?”

Yes, the wanderings were over. Ended with a prayer, rough and sincere, like the heart that had ceased to throb; a prayer and a few real tears, even in that lone cabin in the cañon; truer than many a death scene knows, although a nation does honor to the dying; a prayer that pleased Him better than many a prayer of the schools and creeds. A rough but gentle hand closed the eyes. The first rays of the morning sun broke through a crevice in the little cabin, and hung like his mother’s smile over the couch of the sleeping boy. Only one mourner watched with Rough as he waited for the new name which will be given to us all, when that light comes to the world from over the Range.

THE DRIVER OF NINETY-THREE.

Street-car driver, “Ninety-three!” Very weary and worn was he, As he dragged himself to his little home; Long, long hours from year to year, Never a day for rest, no cheer, In the woods or meadows in joy to roam.

All day through in tiresome round, Wages scanty, and prospects bound In a treadmill life from sun to sun, Facing the winter’s cold and sleet, Facing the summer’s burning heat, With little to hope and little won.

The clothing was poor of “Ninety-three,” And poor as well for the family; But the wife was patient with gentle grace. “I’ve watched all day by the baby’s bed; I think he is going, John,” she said, With an anxious look on her pallid face.

He gazed with pride on his baby boy. “He is handsome, wife!” and a look of joy Just for a moment dried the tears. “How does he look in the glad daylight? I have never seen him, except at night;” And he sighed as he thought of the weary years.

Labor the blessing of life should be, But it seemed like a curse to “Ninety-three,” For twice too long were the toiling hours; Never the time to improve the mind, Or joy in his little ones to find: Grasping and thoughtless are human powers.

All night long did the driver stay By the beautiful child, then stole away, Hoping, still hoping that God would save; But when the sun in the heavens rose high, The time had come for the baby to die, And the mother had only an open grave.

“I must take a day,” said “Ninety-three” To the wealthy railroad company; “I shall see the face of my child,” he said. Oh, bitter the thought to wait till death Has whitened the cheek and stopped the breath, Before we can see our precious dead!

With many a tear and half-moaned prayer, With apple-blossoms among his hair, They buried the child of their fondest love; And the man went back to the treadmill life With a kindlier thought for his stricken wife. Ah, well, there’s a reckoning day above! Sarah K. Bolton.

METAMORA TO THE COUNCIL.

You sent for me, and I’ve come: if you have nothing to say, I go back again. How is it, brothers? The doubt seems on all your faces, and your young warriors grasp their fire-weapons, as if they waited the onset of the foe. You were like a small thing upon the great waters; you had no earth to rest upon; you left the smoke of your father’s wig-wam far in the distance, when the lord of the soil took you as little children to his home; our hearths were warm, and the Indian was the white man’s friend. Your great Book tells you to give good gifts. The Indian needs no book: the Great Spirit has written with his finger on his heart. Wisconego here? let me see his eye! Art thou not he whom I snatched from the war-club of the Mohegan, when the lips of the foe thirsted for thy blood, and their warriors had sung thy death-song? Say unto these people that they have bought thy tongue, and that thy coward heart has uttered a lie. Slave of the whites, go! (stabs him) follow Sassawan! White man, beware! the wrath of the wronged Indian shall fall on you like a mighty cataract that dashes the uprooted oak down its mighty chasm; the dread war-cry shall start you from dreams at night, and the red hatchet gleam in the blaze of your burning dwellings. Tremble, from the east to the west, from the north to the south, till the lands you have stolen groan beneath your feet! (Throws hatchet on stage.) Thus do I smite your nation, and defy your power!

HOW THE RANSOM WAS PAID.

1598.

On the helpless Flemish village Cruel Alva swooped and fell; And the peace of trade and tillage Turned to martial clank and yell. In the town-house, tall and handsome, Stood the great duke looking down On the burghers proffering ransom For the safety of the town.

O’er his brow gray locks were twining, For his casque was laid aside, And his good sword carved and shining From the sword-belt was untied. Prince he seemed of born commanders; Pride and power each gesture told; As he cried, “Ye men of Flanders, Bring me twenty casks of gold!”

Then upon them fell a sadness, And a shadow like a pall, While they murmured, “’Tis rank madness Such a sum from us to call!” And the spokesman of the village Murmured feebly, “Sure you jest.” Answered Alva, “Gold or pillage, Choose whichever may suit you best!”

Faint and stunned they turned despairing, When arose a laugh of joy, And before their startled staring In there pranced a little boy; On his curls the duke’s helm rested, As with noisy glee he roared, And his good steed mailed and crested Was great Alva’s mighty sword!

Round about the room he gambolled, Peeping through the helmet bars; Now he leaped, and now he ambled, Like a Cupid mocking Mars. Then he stayed his merry prancing, And of Alva’s knees caught hold, Where a ray of sunlight glancing Turned his sunny curls to gold.

Swift the mother, sorely frightened, Strove to take the cherub wild; But the duke’s stern features lightened As he kept her from the child; And he drank the pretty prattle— For the baby knew no fear— Till his eye, so fierce in battle, Softened with a pearly tear.

For a babe arose before him In fair Spain, ere war’s alarms,— Thus his father’s sword upbore him. Alva caught the boy in arms, And, the pretty forehead baring, Cried, “A kiss!” The child obeyed; Then unto those men despairing Alva said, “Your ransom’s paid.” W. H. Rose, in Texas Siftings.

RE-ENLISTED.

Oh did you see him in the street, dressed up in army blue, When drums and trumpets into town their storm of music threw,— A louder tune than all the winds could muster in the air,— The Rebel winds, that tried so hard our flag in strips to tear?

You didn’t mind him? Oh, you looked beyond him, then, perhaps, To see the mounted officers rigged out with trooper caps, And shiny clothes, and sashes, and epaulets and all. It wasn’t for such things as these he heard his country call.

She asked for men; and up he spoke, my handsome, hearty Sam,— “I’ll die for the dear old Union, if she’ll take me as I am.” And if a better man than he there’s mother that can show, From Maine to Minnesota, then let the nation know.

You would not pick him from the rest by eagles or by stars, By straps upon his coat-sleeve, or gold or silver bars, Nor a corporal’s strip of worsted; but there’s something in his face, And something in his even step, a-marching in his place,—

That couldn’t be improved by all the badges in the land: A patriot, and a good, strong man; are generals much more grand? We rest our pride on that big heart, wrapt up in army blue, The girl he loves, Mehitabel, and I, who love him too.

He’s never shirked a battle yet, though frightful risks he’s run, Since treason flooded Baltimore, the spring of sixty-one; Through blood and storm he’s held out firm, nor fretted once, my Sam, At swamps of Chickahominy, or fields of Antietam.

Though many a time he’s told us, when he saw them lying dead, The boys that came from Newburyport, and Lynn, and Marblehead, Stretched out upon the trampled turf, and wept on by the sky, It seemed to him the Commonwealth had drained her life-blood dry.

“But then,” he said, “the more’s the need the country has of me: To live and fight the war all through, what glory it will be! The Rebel balls don’t hit me; and, mother, if they should, You’ll know I’ve fallen in my place, where I have always stood.”

He’s taken out his furlough, and short enough it seemed: I often tell Mehitabel he’ll think he only dreamed Of walking with her nights so bright you couldn’t see a star, And hearing the swift tide come in across the harbor bar.

The stars that shine above the stripes, they light him southward now; The tide of war has swept him back; he’s made a solemn vow To build himself no home-nest till his country’s work is done: God bless the vow, and speed the work, my patriot, my son!

And yet it is a pretty place where his new house might be,— An orchard-road that leads your eye straight out upon the sea. The boy not work his father’s farm? it seems almost a shame; But any selfish plan for him he’d never let me name.

He’s re-enlisted for the war, for victory or for death; A soldier’s grave, perhaps! the thought has half-way stopped my breath, And driven a cloud across the sun. My boy, it will not be! The war will soon be over, home again you’ll come to me.

He’s re-enlisted; and I smiled to see him going too! There’s nothing that becomes him half so well as army blue. Only a private in the ranks! but sure I am, indeed, If all the privates were like him, they’d scarcely captains need.

And I and Massachusetts share the honor of his birth,— The grand old State! to me the best in all the peopled earth! I cannot hold a musket, but I have a son who can; And I’m proud, for Freedom’s sake, to be the mother of a man. Lucy Larcom.

SHE STOOD ON THE STAIR.

She stood at the turn of the stair, With the rose-tinted light on her face, And the gold of her hair gleaming out From a mystical billow of lace.

And I waited and watched her apart, And a mist seemed to compass my sight; For last year we were nearer than friends, And to me she was nothing to-night.

And the jasmine she wore at her throat Was heavy with fragrance, and cast The sorrowful present away, And carried me back to the past.

Yes, her face is as proud and as sweet, And the flowers are the same as of old. Is her voice just as gentle and low? Is her heart just as cruel and cold?

Does she dream of one summer ago, As she stands on the rose-tinted stair? Does she think of her Newport romance, While she buttons her long mosquetaire?

And some one is singing a song, And high o’er the music it rings, And she listens and leans from the stair, For these are the words that it sings:—

“Oh, love for a month or a week, Oh, love for a year or a day; But, oh for the love that will live— That will linger forever and aye!”

There’s a stillness—the music has stopped, And she turns with an indolent grace: Am I waking, or still do I dream, Or is there a tear on her face?

Then I step from the shadow apart, Till I stand by her side on the stair: One step to the flowers and light From the darkness and gloom of despair.

And I take both her hands in my own, And I look in her eyes once again,— And I shiver and tremble and shake When I think what a fool I have been.

And I stamp and I claw at the air, And rave at myself for a spell; For it isn’t the girl, after all, That I met at the Newport hotel. Puck.

THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW.

It stands in a sunny meadow, The house so mossy and brown, With its cumbrous old stone chimneys, And the gray roof sloping down.

The trees fold their green arms round it,— The trees a century old; And the winds go chanting through them, And the sunbeams drop their gold.

The cowslips spring in the marshes, The roses bloom on the hill, And beside the brook in the pasture The herds go feeding at will.

Within, in the wide old kitchen The old folks sit in the sun That creeps through the sheltering woodbine Till the day is almost done.

Their children have gone and left them; They sit in the sun alone, And the old wife’s ears are failing As she harks to the well-known tone

That won her heart in her girlhood, That has soothed her in many a care, And praises her now for the brightness Her old face used to wear.

She thinks again of her bridal,— How, dressed in her robe of white, She stood by her gay young lover In the morning’s rosy light.

Oh, the morning is rosy as ever, But the rose from her cheek is fled; And the sunshine still is golden, But it falls on a silvered head.

And the girlhood dreams, once vanished, Come back in her winter-time, Till her feeble pulses tremble With the thrill of springtime’s prime.

And, looking forth from the window, She thinks how the trees have grown Since, clad in her bridal whiteness, She crossed the old door-stone.

Though dimmed her eye’s bright azure, And dimmed her hair’s young gold, The love in her girlhood plighted Has never grown dim or old.

They sat in peace in the sunshine Till the day was almost done. And then, at its close, an angel Stole over the threshold stone.

He folded their hands together, He touched their eyelids with balm, And their last breath floated outward, Like the close of a solemn psalm.

Like a bridal pair they traversed The unseen, mystical road That leads to the Beautiful City Whose Builder and Maker is God.

Perhaps in that miracle country They will give her lost youth back, And the flowers of the vanished springtime Will bloom in the spirit’s track.

One draught from the living waters Shall call back his manhood’s prime; And eternal years shall measure The love that outlasted time.

But the shapes that they left behind them, The wrinkles and silver hair,— Made holy to us by the kisses The angel had printed there,—

We will hide away ’neath the willows, When the day is low in the west, Where the sunbeams cannot find them, Nor the winds disturb their rest.

And we’ll suffer no telltale tombstone, With its age and date to rise O’er the two who are old no longer, In the Father’s house in the skies. Louise Chandler Moulton.

A LITTLE PEACH.

A little peach in an orchard grew,— A little peach of emerald hue; Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, It grew.

One day, passing the orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue. Them two.

Up at the peach a club they threw: Down from the stem on which it grew Fell the little peach of emerald hue. Brand New!

She took a bite, and John a chew; And then the trouble began to brew,— Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue. Too true!

Under the turf where the daisies grew, They planted John and his sister Sue, And their little souls to the angels flew. Boo-hoo!

But what of the peach of emerald hue, Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew? Ah, well, its mission on earth is through. Adieu!

MR. PICKWICK’S ROMANTIC ADVENTURE WITH A
MIDDLE-AGED LADY IN YELLOW CURL-PAPERS.

“Dear me, it’s time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick!”

At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang the bell for the chambermaid; and the striped bag, the red bag, the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, having been conveyed to his bedroom, he retired in company with a japanned candlestick to one side of the house, while Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned candlestick, were conducted through a multitude of tortuous windings to another.

“This is your room, sir,” said the chambermaid.

“Very well,” replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a tolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire; upon the whole, a more comfortable-looking apartment than Mr. Pickwick’s short experience of the accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect.

“Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half-past eight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to-night.”

“Yes, sir.” And bidding Mr. Pickwick good-night, the chambermaid retired, and left him alone.

Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into a train of rambling meditations. First he thought of his friends, and wondered when they would join him; then his mind reverted to Mrs. Martha Bardell; and from that lady it wandered, by a natural process, to the dingy counting-house of Dodson and Fogg. From Dodson and Fogg’s it flew off at a tangent, to the very centre of the history of the queer client; and then it came back to the Great White Horse at Ipswich, with sufficient clearness to convince Mr. Pickwick that he was falling asleep; so he roused himself, and began to undress, when he recollected he had left his watch on the table down-stairs.

Now, this watch was a special favorite with Mr. Pickwick, having been carried about, beneath the shadow of his waistcoat, for a greater number of years than we feel called upon to state at present. The possibility of going to sleep unless it were ticking gently beneath his pillow, or in his watch-pocket over his head, had never entered Mr. Pickwick’s brain. So as it was pretty late now, and he was unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, of which he had just divested himself, and, taking the japanned candlestick in his hand, walked quietly down-stairs.

The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed to be to descend; and again and again, when Mr. Pickwick got into some narrow passage, and began to congratulate himself on having gained the ground-floor, did another flight of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. At last he reached a stone hall, which he remembered to have seen when he entered the house. Passage after passage did he explore; room after room did he peep into; at length, just as he was on the point of giving up the search in despair, he opened the door of the identical room in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property on the table.

Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to retrace his steps to his bed-chamber. If his progress downwards had been attended with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely more perplexing. Rows of doors garnished with boots of every shape, make, and size, branched off in every possible direction. A dozen times did he softly turn the handle of some bedroom door which resembled his own, when a gruff cry from within, of “Who the devil’s that?” or “What do you want here?” caused him to steal away, on tiptoe, with a marvellous celerity. He was reduced to the verge of despair, when an open door attracted his attention. He peeped in—right at last! There were the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire still burning. His candle, not a long one when he first received it, had flickered away in the draughts of air through which he had passed, and sunk into the socket just as he closed the door after him. “No matter,” said Mr. Pickwick, “I can undress myself just as well, by the light of the fire.”

The bedsteads stood, one on each side of the door; and on the inner side of each was a little path, terminating in a rush-bottomed chair, just wide enough to admit of a person’s getting into or out of bed on that side, if he or she thought proper. Having carefully drawn the curtains of his bed on the outside, Mr. Pickwick sat down on the rush-bottomed chair, and leisurely divested himself of his shoes and gaiters. He then took off and folded up his coat, waistcoat, and neck-cloth, and, slowly tying on his tasselled nightcap, secured it firmly on his head, by tying beneath his chin the strings which he had always attached to that article of dress. It was at this moment that the absurdity of his recent bewilderment struck upon his mind; and throwing himself back in the rush-bottomed chair, Mr. Pickwick laughed to himself so heartily, that it would have been quite delightful to any man of well-constituted mind to have watched the smiles which expanded his amiable features as they shone forth from beneath the nightcap.

“It is the best idea,” said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he almost cracked the nightcap strings,—“it is the best idea, my losing myself in this place, and wandering about those staircases, that I ever heard of. Droll, droll, very droll.” Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader smile than before, and was about to continue the process of undressing, in the very best possible humor, when he was suddenly stopped by a most unexpected interruption; to wit, the entrance into the room of some person with a candle, who, after locking the door, advanced to the dressing-table, and set down the light upon it.

The smile that played on Mr. Pickwick’s features was instantaneously lost in a look of the most unbounded and wonder-stricken surprise. The person, whoever it was, had come in so suddenly and with so little noise, that Mr. Pickwick had no time to call out, or oppose their entrance. Who could it be? A robber! Some evil-minded person who had seen him come up-stairs with a handsome watch in his hand, perhaps. What was he to do?

The only way in which Mr. Pickwick could catch a glimpse of his mysterious visitor, with the least danger of being seen himself, was by creeping on to the bed, and peeping out from between the curtains on the opposite side. To this manœuvre he accordingly resorted. Keeping the curtains carefully closed with his hand, so that nothing more of him could be seen than his face and nightcap, and putting on his spectacles, he mustered up courage, and looked out.

Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before the dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in brushing what ladies call their “back hair.” However the unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear that she contemplated remaining there for the night; for she had brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was glimmering away like a gigantic light-house in a particularly small piece of water.

“Bless my soul,” thought Mr. Pickwick, “what a dreadful thing!”

“Hem!” said the lady; and in went Mr. Pickwick’s head with automaton-like rapidity.

“I never met any thing so awful as this,” thought poor Mr. Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon his nightcap. “Never. This is fearful.”

It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was going forward. So out went Mr. Pickwick’s head again. The prospect was worse than before. The middle-aged lady had finished arranging her hair, and carefully enveloped it in a muslin nightcap with a small plaited border, and was gazing pensively on the fire.

“This matter is growing alarming,” reasoned Mr. Pickwick with himself. “I can’t allow things to go in this way. By the self-possession of that lady, it’s clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. If I call out, she’ll alarm the house; but if I remain here, the consequence will be still more frightful!”

Mr. Pickwick, it is quite necessary to say, was one of the most modest and delicate-minded of mortals. The very idea of exhibiting his nightcap to a lady overpowered him; but he had tied those confounded strings in a knot, and, do what he would, he couldn’t get it off. The disclosure must be made. There was only one other way of doing it. He shrunk behind the curtains, and called out very loudly,—

“Ha—hum.”

That the lady started at this unexpected sound, was evident by her falling up against the rushlight shade; that she persuaded herself it must have been the effect of imagination, was equally clear, for when Mr. Pickwick, under the impression that she had fainted away, stone dead from fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire as before.

“Most extraordinary female this,” thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in again. “Ha—hum.”

These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the ferocious giant Blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion that it was time to lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible to be again mistaken for the workings of fancy.

“Gracious Heaven!” said the middle-aged lady, “what’s that?”

“It’s—it’s—only a gentleman, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick from behind the curtains.

“A gentleman!” said the lady with a terrific scream.

“It’s all over,” thought Mr. Pickwick.

“A strange man!” shrieked the lady. Another instant, and the house would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door.

“Ma’am”—said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head, in the extremity of his desperation, “ma’am.”

Now, although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object in putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good effect. The lady, as we have already stated, was near the door. She must pass it to reach the staircase; and she would most undoubtedly have done so, by this time, had not the sudden apparition of Mr. Pickwick’s nightcap driven her back, into the remotest corner of the apartment, where she stood staring wildly at Mr. Pickwick, while Mr. Pickwick in his turn stared wildly at her.

“Wretch,” said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, “what do you want here?”

“Nothing, ma’am,—nothing whatever, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick earnestly.

“Nothing!” said the lady looking up.

“Nothing, ma’am, upon my honor,” said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head so energetically, that the tassel of his nightcap danced again. “I am almost ready to sink, ma’am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady in my nightcap (here the lady hastily snatched off hers), but I can’t get it off, ma’am (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug in proof of the statement). It is evident to me, ma’am, now, that I have mistaken this bedroom for my own. I had not been here five minutes, ma’am, when you suddenly entered it.”

“If this improbable story be really true, sir,” said the lady, sobbing violently, “you will leave it instantly.”

“I will, ma’am, with the greatest pleasure,” replied Mr. Pickwick.

“Instantly, sir,” said the lady.

“Certainly, ma’am,” interposed Mr. Pickwick, very quickly. “Certainly, ma’am. I—I—am very sorry, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, making his appearance at the bottom of the bed, “to have been the innocent occasion of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry, ma’am.”

The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr. Pickwick’s character was beautifully displayed at this moment, under the most trying circumstances. Although he had hastily put on his hat over his nightcap, after the manner of the old patrol; although he carried his shoes and gaiters in his hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his arm, nothing could subdue his native politeness.

“I am exceedingly sorry, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low.

“If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room,” said the lady.

“Immediately, ma’am; this instant, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, opening the door, and dropping both his shoes with a loud crash in so doing.

“I trust, ma’am,” resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and turning round to bow again, “I trust, ma’am, that my unblemished character, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead as some slight excuse for this”—But before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and bolted the door behind him.

Dickens.

THE DEATH OF D’ASSAS.

[In the autumn of 1760, Louis XV. sent an army into Germany. They took up a strong position at Klostercamp, intending to advance on Rheinberg. The young Chevalier D’Assas was sent out by Auvergne to reconnoitre. He met a party advancing to surprise the French camp. Their bayonets pricked his breast, and the leader whispered, “Make the least noise, and you are a dead man.” D’Assas paused a moment, then cried out as loud as he could, “Here, Auvergne! here are the enemy!” He was immediately cut down, but his death had saved the French army.—History of France.]

There’s revelry at Louis’ court. With, joust and tournament, With feasting and with laughter, the merry days are spent; And midst them all, those gallant knights, of Louis’ court the boast, Who can compare with D’Assas among the brilliant host? The flush of youth is on his cheek; the fire that lights his eye Tells of the noble heart within, the spirit pure and high. No braver knight holds charger’s reign, or wields the glittering lance. Than proud and lordly D’Assas, bold chevalier of France.

The sound of war strikes on the air from far beyond the Rhine, Its clarions ring across the fields, rich with the purple vine. France calls her best and bravest: “Up, men, and take the sword! Of German vales and hillsides, Louis would fain be lord; Go forth, and for your sovereign win honor and renown; Plant the white flag of Ivry on valley and on town. The green soil of the Fatherland shall see your arms advance, The dull and stolid Teuton shall bend the knee to France.”

On Klostercamp the morning sun is glancing brightly down. Auvergne has ranged his forces within the ancient town. From thence on Rheinberg shall they move: that citadel so grim Shall yield her towers to Auvergne, shall ope her gates to him. His warriors stand about him, a bold and gallant band, No general e’er had truer men to follow his command. He seeks the best and bravest; on D’Assas falls his glance,— On brave and lordly D’Assas, bold chevalier of France.

“Advance, my lord,” cried Auvergne; D’Assas is at his side. “Of all the knights who form my train, who ’neath my banner ride, None hold the place of trust the king our sovereign gives to thee,— Wilt thou accept a fearful charge that death or fame shall be? Wilt thou, O D’Assas! ride to-night close to the foemen’s line, And see what strength he may oppose to these proud hosts of mine?” Then D’Assas bows his stately head. “Thy will shall soon be done. Back will I come with tidings full e’er dawns the morning sun.”

’Tis midnight. D’Assas rideth forth upon his well-tried steed. Auvergne hath made a worthy choice for this adventurous deed. But stop! what means this silent host? How stealthily they come! No martial music cleaves the air, no sound of beaten drum. Like spectre forms they seem to glide before his wondering eyes; Well hath he done, the wary foe, to plan this wild surprise. Back D’Assas turns; but ah! too late,—a lance is laid in rest: The knight can feel its glittering point against his corselet prest.

“A Frenchman! Hist!” A heavy hand has seized his bridle-rein. “Hold close thy lips, my gallant spy; one word, and thou art slain. What brought thee here? Dost thou not know this is the Fatherland? How dar’st thou stain our righteous earth with thy foul Popish band? Wouldst guard thy life, then utter not one sound above thy breath; A whisper, and thy dainty limbs shall make a meal for Death. Within thy heart these blades shall find the black blood of thy race, And none shall ever know or dream of thy last resting-place.”

Calm as a statue D’Assas stands. His heart he lifts on high. “The God of battles! help me now, and teach me how to die. A weeping maid will mourn my fate, a sovereign holds me dear; Be to them ever more than I who perish sadly here.” No word has passed his pallid lips, no sound his voice has made. ’Twas but the utterance of his heart, this prayer the soldier prayed. But then? ah, then! No voice on earth e’er rang more loud and clear: “Auvergne!” he cried, “Auvergne, Auvergne! Behold! the foe is here!”

The forest echoes with the shout. Appalled his captors stand. The courage of that dauntless heart has stayed each murderous hand. A moment’s pause,—then who can tell how quick their bayonets’ thrust Reached D’Assas’ heart, and laid him there, a helpless heap of dust! The bravest chevalier of France, the pride of Louis’ train,— His blood bedews that alien earth, a flood of crimson rain. But Auvergne—Auvergne hears the cry; his troops come dashing on: Ere D’Assas’ spirit leaves its clay, the victory has been won. Mary E. Vandyne, in Good Cheer.

THE MAN WITH THE MUSKET.

Soldiers, pass on from this rage of renown, This ant-hill commotion and strife, Pass by where the marbles and bronzes look down With their fast-frozen gestures of life, On, out to the nameless who lie ’neath the gloom Of the pitying cypress and pine; Your man is the man of the sword and the plume, But the man of the musket is mine.

I knew him! by all that is noble, I knew This commonplace hero I name! I’ve camped with him, marched with him, fought with him too, In the swirl of the fierce battle-flame! Laughed with him, cried with him, taken a part Of his canteen and blanket, and known That the throb of this chivalrous prairie boy’s heart, Was an answering stroke of my own.

I knew him, I tell you! And, also, I knew When he fell on the battle-swept ridge, That the poor battered body that lay there in blue Was only a plank in the bridge Over which some should pass to fame That shall shine while the high stars shall shine. Your hero is known by an echoing name, But the man of the musket is mine.

I knew him! All through him the good and the bad Ran together and equally free; But I judge as I trust Christ will judge the brave lad, For death made him noble to me. In the cyclone of war, in the battle’s eclipse, Life shook out its lingering sands, And he died with the names that he loved on his lips, His musket still grasped in his hands. Up close to the flag my soldier went down, In the salient front of the line: You may take for your hero the men of renown, But the man of the musket is mine. H. S. Taylor, in The Century.

A TOUGH CUSTOMER.

Let me tell you a tale that was once told to me; And although it was told me in prose at the time, I will give it a metrical dressing, and see If the story will lose any reason by rhyme.

There came to the store in a village, one day, A long and lank stranger in homespun arrayed; And “Good-mornin’,” said he in a diffident way, “I’ve jes’ come up to town for a bit of a trade.”

The proprietor nodded, and cheerily spoke,— “Well, what can I do for you, neighbor, and how?” “Wal, one of wife’s knittin’-needles ez broke, An’ she wants me to git one—how much be they, now?”

“They’re two cents apiece.”—“Wal, say, mister, look here: I’ve got a fresh egg, an’ my wife sez to me, ‘Swap the egg for the needle;’ it seems a bit queer. But the thing’s about even—it’s a big un, yer see.”

Said the storekeeper presently, “Well, I don’t mind.” He laid down the needle, and put the egg by— When the countryman blurted out, “Ain’t yer inclined To treat a new customer? Fact is, I’m dry.”

Though staggered a little, it must be confessed, By the “customer” coming it rather too free, Yet, smilingly granting the modest request, The dealer responded, “Well, what shall it be?”

“Wal, a drop of Madairy I reckon ’ul pass: I’ve been used ter thet, see, ever since I was born.” The storekeeper handed a bottle and glass, And his customer poured out a generous horn.

For a moment he eyed the gratuitous dram With the air of a man who must something resign; Then blandly remarked, “Do you know that I am Very partial to mixing an egg in my wine?”

“Oh, well, let us finish this matter, I beg: You’re very particular, though, I must say,” The storekeeper muttered, and handed an egg— The identical one he had taken in pay.

On the rim of the tumbler the man broke the shell— “It’s cert’inly handsome, the way yer treat folk:” He opened it deftly, and plumply it fell With a splash, and no wonder—it held double yolk!

The customer saw, and a long breath he drew: “Look, mister, that egg has two yolks, I declare! Instead of one needle, I’ve paid yer for two, So hand me another, an’ then we’ll be square!” William L. Keese, in Our Continent.

THE LABOR QUESTION.

Let me tell you why I am interested in the labor question. Not simply because of the long hours of labor; not simply because of a specific oppression of a class. I sympathize with the sufferers there: I am ready to fight on their side. But I look out upon Christendom, with its three hundred millions of people; and I see, that, out of this number of people, one hundred millions never had enough to eat. Physiologists tell us that this body of ours, unless it is properly fed, properly developed, fed with rich blood and carefully nourished, does no justice to the brain. You cannot make a bright or a good man in a starved body; and so this one-third of the inhabitants of Christendom, who have never had food enough, can never be what they should be. Now, I say that the social civilization which condemns every third man in it to be below the average in the nourishment God prepared for him, did not come from above: it came from below; and, the sooner it goes down, the better. Come on this side of the ocean. You will find forty millions of people, and I suppose they are in the highest state of civilization; and yet it is not too much to say, that, out of that forty millions, ten millions at least, who get up in the morning and go to bed at night, spend all the day in the mere effort to get bread enough to live. They have not elasticity enough, mind or body, left, to do any thing in the way of intellectual or moral progress.

I believe in the temperance movement. I am a temperance man of nearly forty years’ standing; and I think it one of the grandest things in the world, because it holds the basis of self-control. Intemperance is the cause of poverty, I know; but there is another side to that: poverty is the cause of intemperance. Crowd a man with fourteen hours’ work a day, and you crowd him down to a mere animal life. You have eclipsed his aspirations, dulled his tastes, stunted his intellect, and made him a mere tool, to work fourteen hours, and catch a thought in the interval; and, while a man in a hundred will rise to be a genius, ninety-nine will cower down under the circumstances.

That is why I say, lift a man, give him life, let him work eight hours a day, give him the school, develop his taste for music, give him a garden, give him beautiful things to see, and good books to read, and you will starve out those lower appetites. Give a man a chance to earn a good living, and you may save his life.

If you want power in this country; if you want to make yourselves felt; if you do not want your children to wait long years before they have the bread on the table they ought to have, the leisure in their lives they ought to have, the opportunities in life they ought to have; if you don’t want to wait yourselves,—write on your banner, so that every political trimmer can read it, so that every politician, no matter how short-sighted he may be, can read it, “We never forget! If you launch the arrow of sarcasm at labor, we never forget; if there is a division in Congress, and you throw your vote in the wrong scale, we never forget. You may go down on your knees, and say, ‘I am sorry I did the act;’ and we will say, ‘It will avail you in heaven, but on this side of the grave never.’” So that a man, in taking up the labor question, will know he is dealing with a hair-trigger pistol, and will say, “I am to be true to justice and to man: otherwise I am a dead duck.”

Wendell Phillips.

LOVE AND PHILOSOPHY.

’Twas a maiden full of knowledge, Though she’d scarcely passed eighteen; She was lovely as an angel, Though of grave and sober mien;

A sweet encyclopædia Of every kind of lore; And love looked coyly from behind The glasses that she wore.

She sat beside her lover, With her elbow on his knee, And dreamily she gazed upon The slumbering summer sea.

Until he broke the silence, Saying, “Pray inform me, dear, What people mean when speaking Of the Thingness of the Here.

“I know you’re just from Concord, Where the lights of wisdom be; Your head crammed full to bursting, love, With their philosophy,—

“Those grave and reverend sages, And maids of hosiery blue. Then solve me the conundrum, dear, That I have put to you.”

The maid replied with gravity,— “The Thingness of the Here Is that which lies between the past And future time, my dear.”

“Indeed,” the maid continued, with A calm, unruffled brow, “The Thingness of the Here is just The Thisness of the Now.”

The lover smiled a loving smile, And then he fondly placed A manly and protecting arm Around the maiden’s waist;

And on her rosebud lips impressed A warm and loving kiss, And said, “That’s what I call, my dear, The Nowness of the This.” Geo. Runde Jackson.

THE FLAG.

AN INCIDENT OF STRAIN’S EXPEDITION.

I never have got the bearings quite, Though I’ve followed the course for many a year, If he was crazy, clean outright, Or only what you might say was “queer.”

He was just a simple sailor man. I mind it as well as yisterday, When we messed aboard of the old “Cyane.” Lord! how the time does slip away! That was five and thirty year ago, When ships was ships, and men was men, And sailors wasn’t afraid to go To sea in a Yankee vessel then. He was only a sort of bosun’s mate, But every inch of him taut and trim; Stars and anchors and togs of state Tailors don’t build for the likes of him. He flew a no-account sort of name, A reg’lar fo’castle “Jim” or “Jack,” With a plain “McGinnis” abaft the same, Giner’ly reefed to simple “Mack.” Mack, we allowed, was sorter queer— Ballast or compass wasn’t right; Till he licked four juicers, one day, a fear Prevailed that he hadn’t larned to fight. But I reckoned the captain knowed his man, When he put the flag in his hand the day That we went ashore from the old “Cyane,” On a madman’s cruise for Darien Bay.

Forty days in the wilderness We toiled and suffered and starved with Strain. Losing the number of many a mess In the Devil’s swamps of the Spanish Main. All of us starved, and many died. One lay down, in his dull despair; His stronger messmate went to his side,— We left them both in the jungle there.

It was hard to part with shipmates so; But standing by would have done no good. We heard them moaning all day, so slow We dragged along through the weary wood. McGinnis, he suffered the worst of all; Not that he ever piped his eye, Or wouldn’t have answered to the call If they’d sounded it for “All hands to die.” I guess ’twould have sounded for him before, But the grit inside of him kept him strong, Till we met relief on the river shore; And we all broke down when it came along.

All but McGinnis. Gaunt and tall, Touching his hat, and standing square: “Captain, the flag” ... And that was all. He just keeled over and foundered there. The flag? We thought he had lost his head,— It mightn’t be much to lose at best,— Till we came, by and by, to dig his bed, And we found it folded around his breast. He lay so calm and smiling there, With the flag wrapped tight around his heart— Maybe he saw his course all fair, Only we couldn’t read the chart. James Jeffrey Roche.

BECAUSE.

“Now, John,” the district teacher says, With frown that scarce can hide The dimpling smiles around her mouth Where Cupid’s hosts abide; “What have you done to Mary Ann, That she is crying so? Don’t say ’twas nothing,—don’t, I say, For, John, that can’t be so.

“For Mary Ann would never cry At nothing, I am sure; And if you’ve wounded justice, John, You know the only cure

Is punishment. So come, stand up; Transgressions must abide The pain attendant on the scheme That makes it justified.”

So John steps forth, with sunburnt face And hair all in a tumble, His laughing eyes a contrast to His drooping mouth so humble. “Now, Mary, you must tell me all,— I see that John will not,— And if he’s been unkind or rude I’ll whip him on the spot.”

“We—we were playin’ p-prisoners’ base, An’ h-he is s-such a t-tease, An’ w-when I w-wasn’t l-lookin’, ma’am, H-he kissed me—if you please!” Upon the teacher’s face the smiles Have triumphed o’er the frown, A pleasant thought runs through her mind, The stick comes harmless down.

But outraged law must be avenged: Begone, ye smiles, begone! Away, ye little dreams of love! Come on, ye frowns, come on! “I think I’ll have to whip you, John: Such conduct breaks the rule; No boy, except a naughty one, Would kiss a girl—at school.”

Again the teacher’s rod is raised, A Nemesis she stands: A premium were put on sin, If punished by such hands! As when the bee explores the rose We see the petals tremble, So trembled Mary’s rosebud lips; Her heart would not dissemble.

“I wouldn’t whip him very hard,”— The stick stops in its fall, “It wasn’t right to do it, but It didn’t hurt at all.” “What made you cry, then, Mary Ann?” The school noise makes a pause, And out upon the listening air From Mary comes, “Because.” Boston Transcript.

TOGETHER ON THE STAIRS.

They sat together on the stairs, Far up where there was shade: ’Twas not because there were no chairs To sit on, I’m afraid.

Some time they had been sitting there Alone, while others danced, And people, coming out for air ’Tween dances, often glanced

Up at them, while they seemed to be Oblivious of remark, And sat like two birds in a tree, Within a shady park.

To eyes that saw them from below, They looked a loving pair: The many signs which lovers show They seemed to show up there.

At least, that is the way, to chaps Who sauntered in the hall, Things looked; but then, of course, perhaps, ’Twas nothing after all.

For, though on spooning they seemed bent, Regardless how time flew, ’Twas possible that “distance lent Enchantment to the view.”

His face bent down until her brow Seemed touched by his mustache, While she smiled on him—well, just how A girl smiles on her mash.

He whispered something low and sweet, And pointed down to where Two little blue-silk-slippered feet Were making people stare.

She blushed, and thrust one farther out, As if for him to see; A look of pain o’er came her pout: What ever could it be?

“Sure, never did a girl with man So brazenly coquette In public,” said, behind her fan, Each other girl you met.

I’ll own appearances, indeed, Were much against the maid; But, as in many things we heed, Of harm there was no shade.

How this I know, I’ll tell to you: I chanced to stand quite near Upon the stairs, behind the two, And then to overhear.

A long time passed, while neither spoke, And then at last said he,— “I’m sick of this: I’m sure you joke; Your foot’s quite well, I see.

“You could, if you but cared to try, With me come down and dance.” Now, notice how her quick reply Destroys the scene’s romance.

“Perhaps you think my foot’s all right; But, sure as you are born, I wish you wore my slippers tight, And had—just there—that corn.” Andrew G. Tubbs.

THE CHRISTENING.

No, I won’t forgive our parson—not down to my dyin’ day. He’d orter waited a minnit; that’s what I’ll allers say; But to christen my boy, my baby, with such an orful name! Why, where’s the use o’ talkin’? I tell you he was to blame.

You see, it happened in this way: There was father, an’ Uncle Si, An’ mother, an’ each one wantin’ a finger in the pie,— Each with a name for baby, as ef I hadn’t no voice; But the more they talked an’ argied, the more I stuck to my choice.

“Semanthy”—this was father—“you’d best take pattern by mother, For she named thirteen children, ’thout any such fuss or bother: As soon as she diskivered that family names was too few, Why, she just fell back on the Bible, as perfessers air bound to do.”

“Semanthy”—this was Reuben—“most any one else could see, That, bein’ as I’m his father, he orter be named for me. You say my name’s old-fashioned; well, I’m old-fashioned too: Yet ’twarn’t so long ago, nuther, that both of us suited you.”

Then there was Uncle Silas: “Semanthy, I tell ye what: Just name him Silas. I’ll give him that hundred-acre lot. I’ll make out the deed to-morrer; an’ then, when I’ve gone to my rest, There’ll be a trifle o’ money to help him feather his nest.”

But the worst of all was mother. She says, so meek an’ mild,— “I’d love to call him Jotham, after my oldest child; He died on his second birthday. The others are grown-up men, But Jotham is still my baby: he has never grown since then. His hair was soft and curlin’, eyes blue as blue could be, An’ this boy of yours, Semanthy, jest brings him back to me.”