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i"  1 

•UNIV 


Ml 


. 


"The  little  cares  that  fretted  me, 
I  lost  them  yesterday 


Out  in  the  fields  with  God. 


MORE  HEART  THROBS 

Contributed  by  the  People 

HEART 
THROBS 

Volume  Two 

IN  PROSE  AND  VERSE 

Ifear  to  %  Ammratt  Jfaipl* 

And  by  them  contributed  as  a 

Supplement  to  the  original 

$10,000  Prize  Book 

Heart  Throbs 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 
New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  Chappie  Publishing  Company.  Limited 
Copyright,  1911,  by  Chappie  Publishing  Company,  Ltd.,  Boston,  Mass. 

M.ido  in  the  United  States  of  America 


FOREWORD 


FOLLOWING  the  first  announcement  of  "Heart  Throbs"  six  years  ago  has  come  the 
most  fascinating  experience  ever  allotted  to'  publishers.  This  book,  containing  840 
selections  made  from  the  contributions  of  52,000  people,  has  become  a  classic  in  thousands 
of  homes  and  libraries.  The  simple  bringing  together  of  the  favorite  selections  of  the  people 
has  far  transcended  the  results  of  any  mere  literary  or  editorial  compilation.  It  has  been 
an  astonishing  revelation  to  litterateurs,  and  was  the  inception  of  a  series  of  volumes 
entitled  "Books  the  People  Built,"  which  have  met  with  nation-wide  favor  and  have 
extended  to  all  parts  of  the  globe  where  the  English  language  is  read.  The  thousands  of 
letters  received  after  the  publication  of  the  first  volume  of  "Heart  Throbs,"  asking  why 
this  or  that  favorite  was  not  included,  almost  demanded  the  compilation  of  a  second  volume 
to  include  favorites  which  were  advocated  with  enthusiastic  commendations  and  almost 
pathetic  pleadings. 

"Heart  Throbs  No.  II"  is  the  fitting  sequel  to  "Heart  Throbs  No.  I."  It  contains  the 
voluntary  contribution  of  thousands,  many  of  whom  participated  in  making  the  first 
"Heart  Throbs."  The  selections  have  been  made  upon  the  same  basis  as  before.  The 
judges  have  considered  not  only  the  number  of  times  each  selection  was  sent  in,  but  the 
letters  and  story  of  the  contribution  in  its  personal  aspect  as  presented  by  the  contributors. 
If  only  a  fraction  of  the  thousands  of  letters  that  have  been  received  with  these  "Heart 
Throbs"  could  here  be  reproduced,  it  would  reveal  something  of  the  great  welling  up  of 
heart  feeling  which  the  work  on  this  book  has  evoked. 

The  committee  have  stated  that  there  is  more  of  what  is  termed  "literature"  in  this 
second  volume  than  in  its  predecessor,  but  the  contents  have  come  through  the  same  chan- 
nels— the  estimates  of  the  people  themselves — from  the  small  boy  or  girl  in  school,  whose 
contribution  is  copied  off  with  a  dash  in  the  buoyant  hand  of  youth,  to  the  dear  old  grand- 
father and  grandmother  in  serene  old  age,  who  with  tremulous  hands  cut  from  their  treas- 
ured scrap-books  the  selection  that  is  to  them  a  real  "heart  throb"  fraught  with  tender 
memories.  It  was  noted  that  more  recent  prose  and  poetry  was  submitted  for  "Heart 
Throbs  No.  II"  than  for  the  first  volume.  This  fact  is  significant  of  the  increasing  influence 
of  newspapers  and  periodicals  in  attracting  literature  that  endures.  The  old  school-books, 
with  lines  that  ring  strangely  familiar,  were  consulted  by  some,  but  many  of  the  young 
people  who  have  participated  in  "Heart  Throbs  No.  II"  have  chosen  the  work  of  contem- 
porary authors  as  representing  their  "heart  throb."  The  active  co-operation  of  the  young 
indicates  a  healthful  and  wholesome  growth  of  heart  sentiment  among  the  people  of  all 
ages,  and  proves  conclusively  that  the  enduring  quality  of  all  effort  must  be  propelled  by 
the  vital  heart  power.  Favorite  selections  of  ambassadors,  senators,  governors,  diplomats 
and  public  men  are  again  included;  those  of  farmers,  laborers  and  workingmen — men  and 
women  in  all  walks  of  life  have  sent  in  the  bit  of  verse  or  prose  that  touched  the  heart. 

In  "Heart  Throbs  No.  II"  are  met  again  the  favorite  authors  of  the  first  volume.  There 
are  representative  lines  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  Joaquin  Miller,  Nixon  Waterman,  J.  W. 
Foley,  W.  D.  Nesbit,  Sam  Walter  Foss — and  it  may  be  interesting  to  know  that  the  selec- 
tion sent  in  the  greatest  number  of  times  was  Foss's  noble  poem  "The  House  by  the  Side 
of  the  Road."  What  tender  memories  are  recalled  of  that  dear,  good  man,  now  passed 
beyond,  who  only  a  few  months  ago  was  present  in  my  library  while  "Heart  Throbs  No.  II" 
was  being  discussed.  With  his  great,  dark  eyes  glowing,  he  read  the  tender  and  sweet 
tributes  paid  him  by  those  who  sent  in  contributions  from  his  graceful  pen.  Dear,  sweet 
soul,  how  delighted  he  would  be  to  know  that  the  dearest  child  of  his  brain  was  the  heart 
choice  of  the  thousands  who  made  up  this  book. 

II 


The  growth  and  tolerance  of  opinion,  religious,  racial  and  political,  wa9  never  more 
strongly  emphasized.  All  barriers  are  broken  down  in  the  sweet  fellowship  of  "Heart 
Throbs."  There  is  no  attempt  at  classification,  and  the  volume  comes  to  its  readers  as 
nearly  as  possible  in  the  same  form  as  sent  in  by  the  thousands  of  contributors  who  made 
the  book.  There  has  been  no  attempt  at  editing,  or  to  establish  any  "style"  or  literary 
standard.  The  book  represents  the  simple  onflow  of  human  sentiment  revealed  by  the 
people  when  they  wanted  their  favorites  in  the  scrap-book  at  home  preserved  by  "Heart 
Throbs"  in  permanent  book  form  for  all.  From  the  most  eminent  statesman  to  his  humblest 
constituent,  all  readers  have  lavished  upon  this  book  the  most  flattering  and  affectionate 
commendations  that  could  be  offered.  The  choicest  gleanings  of  the  harvest  of  contributions 
were  used.  There  are  speeches  of  departed  statesmen,  the  eloquence  of  divines  and  orators, 
the  priceless  treasure  trove  of  workbox  and  scrap-book  wherein  tbe  fugitive  gems  of  for- 
gotten poets  and  philosophers  have  been  safely  kept  to  receive  at  last  a  larger  recognition 
of  their  intrinsic  merit;  there  are  bits  of  wit,  humor  and  homely  philosophy; — in  these 
two  volumes  of  "Heart  Throbs"  it  would  seem  that  the  most  enduring  selections  of  English 
literature  can  be  kept  at  hand  for  immediate  reference  and  re-read  with  the  joy  and  pleasure 
that  recalls  the  memories  of  an  old  friend. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  "Heart  Throbs  No.  II,"  like  the  first  of  the  family  of  "books 
the  people  built,"  is  full  of  kindly,  human  association;  of  memories  of  great  and  powerful 
as  well  as  humble  and  loyal  friends;  of  the  joy  of  present  living  as  well  as  the  tenderness 
and  sweetness  of  memories  past — all  blending  in  one  great  symphony  of  "Heart  Throbs," 
which  make  the  reader  feel  that  he  is,  indeed,  one  of  a  great  and  universal  association  which, 
unhampered  by  ties  of  conventional  membership,  or  rite  or  ritual,  is  boundless  in  its  sweep, 
and  offers  sweet  communion  with  those  whose  hearts  are  still  in  touch  with  the  ties  of  home 
and  the  brotherhood  of  man. 


6 


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COPYRIGHT  COURTESIES 


In  preparing  for  publication  the  Second  Volume  of  "Heart  Throbs,"  as  a  companion 
book  to  the  original,  it  has  naturally  been  necessary  to  procure  of  authors  and  publishers 
permission  to  use  copyrighted  matter  to  a  much  greater  extent  than  in  its  predecessor; 
since  the  selections  embody  more  recent  masterpieces  of  contemporary  authors,  and  fewer 
of  the  fugitive  and  sometimes  anonymous  and  even  disputed  gems  of  bygone  generations. 

The  consent  of  both  authors  and  publishers  has  been  generously  and  promptly  given, 
and  quite  frequently  reflect  a  hearty  appreciation  of  the  love  and  honor  in  which  the  beauty 
p.nd  inspiration  of  their  works  are  held  by  their  fellow-citizens  and  even  aliens  whose  con- 
tributions and  requests  have  made  them  a  part  of  this  volume.  In  some  cases  to  willing 
consent  and  hearty  sympathy  in  the  purpose  of  producing  a  practical  and  condensed 
anthology  of  the  best  literature  has  been  added  an  evident  appreciation  of  the  indubitable 
fact  that  the  sale  and  lasting  availability  of  a  writer's  works  is  immensely  promoted  by  rea- 
sonable concessions  of  this  kind,  which  give  certain  selections  universal  currency,  and  inspire 
a  desire  to  possess  the  entire  works  of  the  writer. 

No  pains  have  been  spared,  not  only  to  secure  the  right  to  use  works  adequately  pro- 
tected, but  to  show  due  courtesy  to  the  interests  and  feelings  of  those  who  are  still  inter" 
ested  in  the  sale  of  standard  literature,  and  the  result  has  been  an  almost  uniform  reci- 
procity and  co-operation.  In  addition,  therefore,  to  the  more  formal  and  legal  credits 
attached  to  each  selection,  the  publishers  would  heartily  thank,  for  permission  given  and 
courtesies  rendered,  the  following  authors,  publishers  and  other  holders  of  literary  rights: 

HI 


The  Houghton-Mifflin  Company,  Boston,  Massachusetts,  permit  the  use  of  John  G. 
Whittier's  "Others  Shall  Sing,"  "The  Pumpkin"  and  selections  from  "Snowbound,"  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson's  "Good-bye,"  James  Russell  Lowell's  "Aladdin,"  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes' 
inimitable  "One-Hoss  Shay,"  Bret  Harte's  surprise  poem,  "The  Aged  Stranger,"  John  G. 
Saxe's  Anglo-German  and  witty  "The  Puzzled  Census  Taker,"  E.  C.  Stedman's  "The 
Discoverer,"  and  Thomas  B.  Aldrich's  dainty,  pathetic,  immortal  "Baby  Bell." 

Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  contribute,  with  good  wishes,  dear  Sam  Walter  Foss's  "The 
House  by  the  Side  of  the  Road." 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  City,  and  the  author,  W.  H.  Carruth,  "Each  in  His 
Own  Tongue." 

The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company,  of  Indianapolis,  second  the  ready  permission  of  James 
Whitcomb  Riley  to  use  the  original  verses  of  "Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's"  and  "A  Life 
Lesson,"  as  found  in  "Afterwhiles"  and  "Whatever  the  Weather  May  Be,"  from  "Songs 
o'  Cheer,"  and  also  permit  "Borrowin'  the  Baby"  and  "The  Motherlook"  from  W.  D. 
Nesbit's  "Trial  to  Boyland"  and  with  the  author  Robert  J.  Burdette's  "Alpha  and  Omega" 
from  "Chimes  from  a  Jester's  Bells,"  "The  Man  and  the  Picnic"  and  his  "Thirsty  Boy." 

Rosa  Hartwick  Thorpe  graciously  ratifies  the  use  of  "Curfew  Shall  Not  Ring  To- 
night," and  the  friendship  of  Nixon  Waterman  generously  concedes  the  use  of  "The  Break- 
ing Plow,"  "A  Morning  Prayer"  and  "Once  in  a  While." 

Tom  Masson  and  The  Life  Publishing  Company,  New  York  City,  contribute  "An 
Event";  Helen  Keller  and  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company  her  "I  Am  as  Happy  as  You  Are," 
and  Richard  Wightman  his  terse  sermonette  on  "You  Yourself." 

Sarah  K.  Bolton  contributes  willingly  her  poem  "Faith";  Margaret  E.  Sangster  her 
"Dear  Little  Heads  in  the  Pew"  and  "The  Average  Man";  Joaquin  Miller  and  his  San 
Francisco  publishers,  Whittaker,  Ray,  Wiggin  &  Company,  "The  Fortunate  Isles";  George 
M.  Cohan  of  Cohan  &  Harris,  the  great  theatrical  managers,  his  "Myself  and  Me";  Leslie's 
Weekly  and  Joseph  Mills  Hanson,  "The  Cowboy's  Song";  Miss  Mary  Boyle  O'Reilly,  the 
gifted  daughter  of  the  Irish  Patriot  and  poet,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  his  poem,  "What  is 
Good?";  E.  P.  Mitchell  of  the  New  York  Sun,  "Now"  and  "Is  There  a  Santa  Claus?"  and 
Mary  Louise  Peebles,  that  tenderest  and  sweetest  poem  of  the  Civil  War,  "Claribel's 
Prayer." 

James  W.  Foley  of  the  Bismarck,  North  Dakota,  Tribune,  consents  to  the  use  of  "The 
Echo  of  the  Song,"  "Daddy  Knows"  and  "Good-Morning,  Brother  Sunshine,"  and  Robert 
Loveman  his  dainty  "Song  for  April." 

Alice  Stone  Blackwell  grants  the  use  of  "The  Bond";  Cy  Warman  "Will  the  Lights  Be 
White?";  John  Burroughs  his  "Waiting";  W.  S.  Gillilan,  "I'm  Going  to  Anyway";  Rollin 
J.  Wells,  his  poems,  "Growing  Old"  and  "A  Lonesome  Place";  Charles  Winslow  Hall,  his 
Memorial  Day  poem,  "Who  Marches  Next  Memorial  Day?"  and  Herbert  Kaufman  "The 
Dreamers,"  a  great  favorite  with  modern  readers. 

George  H.  Murphy,  the  author,  and  The  Century  Company  permit  the  use  of  "If  I 
Were  You." 

Others  there  are  who  deserve  the  thanks  that  are  due  to  the  great  number  of  anonymous 
or  forgotten  authors,  who,  as  in  Buchanan's  "Siren,"  "heard  a  melody  across  the  sea,  a 
singing  far  away,"  and  in  the  divine  madness  of  that  inspiration  have  dreamed  of  fame, 
and  sung  at  least  one  song  "worthy  of  all  acceptation"  before  "the  poet's  dream"  was 
merged  in  the  sordid  struggle  for  bread  and  shelter,  or  faded  out  with  life  itself.  In  the  Far 
Beyond,  may  the  shades  find  consolation  or  added  happiness  in  beholding  that  their  work 
is  not  wholly  forgotten. 

These  thanks  to  the  dead  and  the  living  voice  the  esteem  in  which  the  selections  are  held 
by  the  people. 

THE  PUBLISHERS. 


IV 


HEART  THROBS 

Volume  Two 


THE  HEART  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

Here's  to  the  heart  of  friendship,  tried  and  true, 
That  laughs  with  us  when  joys  our  pathway  strew; 
And  kneels  with  us  when  sorrow,  like  a  pall, 
Enshrouds  our  stricken  souls ;  then  smiles  through  all 
The  midnight  gloom  with  more  than  human  faith. 
Here's  to  the  love  that  seeks  not  self,  and  hath 
No  censure  for  our  frailty,  but  doth  woo, 
By  gentle  arts,  our  spirits  back  into 
The  way  of  truth ;  then  sheds  upon  our  lives 
A  radiance  that  all  things  else  survives. 

Anon. 


WHAT  IS  SUCCESS? 

He  has  achieved  success,  who  has  lived  well,  laughed 
often,  and  loved  much;  who  has  gained  the  respect  of 
intelligent  men  and  the  love  of  little  children;  who  has 
filled  his  niche  and  accomplished  his  task,  whether  by 
an  improved  poppy,  a  perfect  poem,  or  a  rescued  soul; 
who  has  never  lacked  appreciation  of  earth's  beauty,  or 
failed  to  express  it;  who  has  always  looked  for  the  best 


HEART  THROBS 


in  others  and  given  the  best  he  had;  whose  life  was  an 
inspiration  and  whose  memory  a  benediction. 

Bessie  A.  Stanley. 


A  DEED  AND  A  WORD 

A  little  stream  had  lost  its  way 

Amid  the  grass  and  fern ; 
A  passing  stranger  scooped  a  well, 

Where  weary  men  might  turn; 
He  walled  it  in,  and  hung  with  care 

A  ladle  at  the  brink ; 
He  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did, 

But  judged  that  all  might  drink. 
He  passed  again,  and  lo!  the  well, 

By  summer  never  dried, 
Had  cooled  ten  thousand  parching  tongues, 

And  saved  a  life  beside. 

A  nameless  man,  amid  a  crowd 

That  thronged  the  daily  mart, 
Let  fall  a  word  of  hope  and  love, 

Unstudied,  from  the  heart; 
A  whisper  on  the  tumult  thrown, 

A  transitory  breath — 
It  raised  a  brother  from  the  dust, 

It  saved  a  soul  from  death. 
O  germ!    O  fount!     O  word  of  love! 

O  thought  at  random  cast! 

Ye  were  but  little  at  the  first, 

But  mighty  at  the  last.  ~,     ,     , ,    , 

b    J  Charles  Mackay, 


HEART  THROBS 


WAITING 

Serene  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  wind,  nor  tide,  nor  sea; 

I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  and  fate, 
For  lo!  my  own  shall  come  to  me. 

I  stay  my  haste,  I  make  delays; 

For  what  avails  this  eager  pace? 
I  stand  amid  the  eternal  ways, 

For  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 

Asleep,  awake,  by  night  or  day 
The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me ; 

No  wind  can  drive  my  bark  astray, 
Nor  change  the  tide  of  destiny. 

What  matter  if  I  stand  alone? 

I  wait  with  joy  the  coming  years; 
My  heart  shall  reap  where  it  has  sown, 

And  garner  up  its  fruit  of  tears. 

The  waters  know  their  own,  and  draw 
The  brook  that  springs  in  yonder  heights. 

So  flows  the  good  with  equal  law 
Unto  the  soul  of  pure  delights. 

The  stars  come  nightly  to  the  sky, 

The  tidal  wave  unto  the  sea; 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high, 

Can  keep  my  own  away  from  me. 

Bjr  permission.  John  Burroughs. 


HEART  THROBS 


OUT  IN  THE  FIELDS  WITH  GOD 

The  little  cares  that  fretted  me 

I  lost  them  yesterday, 
Among  the  fields,  above  the  sea, 

Among  the  winds  at  play; 
Among  the  lowirg  of  the  herds, 

The  rustling  of  the  trees, 
Among  the  singing  of  the  birds, 

The  humming  of  the  bees. 

The  foolish  fears  of  what  may  pass, 

I  cast  them  all  away 
Among  the  clover-scented  grass, 

Among  the  new-mown  hay; 
Among  the  rustling  of  the  corn, 

Where  drowsy  poppies  nod, 
Where  ill  thoughts  die  and  good  are  born, 

Out  in  the  fields  with  God. 

Author  unknown. 


IN  DEGREE 


Thy  lordly  genius  blooms  for  all  to  see 
On  the  clear  heights  of  calm  supremacy; 
My  humbler  dower  they  only  find  who  pass 
With  eyes  that  search  for  violets  'mid  the  grass. 

Paul  Hayne, 


HEART  THROBS 


GAINING  WINGS 

A  twig  where  clung  two  soft  cocoons 

I  broke  from  a  wayside  spray, 
And  carried  home  to  a  quiet  desk 

Where,  long  forgot,  it  lay. 

One  morn  I  chanced  to  lift  the  lid, 

And  lo!  as  light  as  air, 
A  moth  flew  up  on  downy  wings 

And  settled  above  my  chair! 

A  dainty,  beautiful  thing  it  was, 

Orange  and  silvery  gray, 
And  I  marvelled  how  from  the  withered  bough 

Such  fairy  stole  away. 

Had  the  other  flown?     I  turned  to  see, 

And  found  it  striving  still 
To  free  itself  from  the  swathing  floss 

And  rove  the  air  at  will. 

"Poor  little  prisoned  waif,"  I  said, 

"You  shall  not  struggle  more"; 
And  tenderly  I  cut  the  threads, 

And  watched  to  see  it  soar. 

Alas!  a  feeble  chrysalis 

It  dropped  from  its  silken  bed; 
My  help  had  been  the  direst  harm — 

The  pretty  moth  was  dead! 


6  HEART  THROBS 

I  should  have  left  it  there  to  gain 
The  strength  that  struggle  brings: 

'T  is  stress  and  strain,  with  moth  or  man, 
That  free  the  folded  wings! 

Edna  Dean  Proctor, 


THE  LIFE-  THAT   COUNTS 

The  life  that  counts  must  toil  and  fight; 
Must  hate  the  wrong  and  love  the  right; 
Must  stand  for  truth,  by  day,  by  night — 
This  is  the  life  that  counts. 

The  life  that  counts  must  hopeful  be; 
In  darkest  night  make  melody ; 
Must  wait  the  dawn  on  bended  knee — 
This  is  the  life  that  counts. 

The  life  that  counts  must  aim  to  rise 
Above  the  earth  to  sunlit  skies; 
Must  fix  its  gaze  on  Paradise — 
This  is  the  life  that  counts. 

The  life  that  counts  must  helpful  be ; 
The  cares  and  needs  of  others  see ; 
Must  seek  the  slaves  of  sin  to  free — 
This  is  the  life  that  counts. 

The  life  that  counts  is  linked  with  God; 
And  turns  not  from  the  cross — the  rod ; 
But  walks  with  joy  where  Jesus  trod — 

This  is  the  life  that  counts.  A.W.S. 


HEART  THROBS 


GOOD-BYE 

Good-bye,  proud  world!  I'm  going  home: 
Thou  art  not  my  friend,  and  I'm  not  thine. 

Long  through  thy  weary  crowds  I  roam ; 
A  river-ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 

Long  I've  been  tossed  like  the  driven  foam; 

But  now,  proud  world!  I'm  going  home. 

Good-bye  to  Flattery's  fawning  face ; 

To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace ; 

To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye; 

To  supple  Office,  low  and  high ; 

To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street; 

To  frozen  hearts  and  hasting  feet ; 

To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come; 

Good-bye,  proud  world!     I'm  going  home. 

I'm  going  to  my  own  hearthstone, 
Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills  alone, — 
A  secret  nook  in  a  pleasant  land, 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned; 
Where  arches  green,  the 'livelong  day, 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay, 
And  vulgar  feet  have  never  trod 
A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 

O,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  tread  on  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome ; 
And  when  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines, 
Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 


HEART  THROBS 


I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  the  pride  of  man, 
At  the  sophist  schools  and  the  learned  clan; 
For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet? 

By  permission  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


SONG 


When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress-tree; 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain; 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget. 

Christina  G.  Rossetti.  - 


HEART  THROBS 


BEETHOVEN'S   MOONLIGHT   SONATA 

It  happened  at  Bonn.  One  moonlight  winter's 
evening  I  called  upon  Beethoven,  for  I  wanted  him  to 
take  a  walk,  and  afterward  sup  with  me.  In  passing 
through  some  dark,  narrow  street,  he  paused  suddenly. 
"Hush!"  he  said — "what  sound  is  that?  It  is  from  my 
sonata  in  F!"  he  said  eagerly.  "Hark!  how  well  it  is 
played!" 

It  was  a  little,  mean  dwelling,  and  we  paused  out- 
side and  listened.  The  player  went  on ;  but  in  the  midst 
of  the  finale  there  was  a  sudden  break,  then  the  voice  of 
sobbing.  "I  cannot  play  any  more.  It  is  so  beautiful, 
it  is  utterly  beyond  my  power  to  do  it  justice.  Oh,  what 
would  I  not  give  to  go  to  the  concert  at  Cologne!" 

"Ah,  my  sister,"  said  her  companion,  "why  create 
regrets,  when  there  is  no  remedy?  We  can  scarcely  pay 
our  rent." 

"You  are  right;  and  yet  I  wish  for  once  in  my  life 
to  hear  some  really  good  music.    But  it  is  of  no  use." 

Beethoven  looked  at  me.     "Let  us  go  in,"  he  said. 

"Go  in!"  I  exclaimed.    "What  can  we  go  in  for?" 

"I  will  play  to  her,"  he  said  in  an  excited  tone. 
"Here  is  feeling — genius — understanding.  I  will  play 
to  her,  and  she  will  understand  it."  And  before  I  could 
prevent  him  his  hand  was  upon  the  door. 

A  pale  young  man  was  sitting  by  the  table  making 
shoes;  and  near  him,  leaning  sorrowfully  upon  an 
old-fashioned  harpsichord,  sat  a  young  girl,  with  a  pro- 
fusion of  light  hair  falling  over  her  bent  face.     Both 


10  HEART  THROBS 

were  cleanly  but  very  poorly  dressed,  and  both  started 
and  turned  toward  us  as  we  entered. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Beethoven,  "but  I  heard  music, 
and  was  tempted  to  enter!    I  am  a  musician." 

The  girl  blushed  and  the  young  man  looked  grave — 
somewhat  annoyed. 

"I — I  also  overheard  something  ot  what  you  said," 
continued  my  friend.  "You  wish  to  hear — that  is,  you 
would  like — that  is —     Shall  I  play  for  you?" 

There  was  something  so  odd  in  the  whole  affair, 
and  something  so  comic  and  pleasant  in  the  manner  of 
the  speaker,  that  the  spell  was  broken  in  a  moment,  and 
all  smiled  involuntarily. 

"Thank  you!"  said  the  shoemaker;  "but  our  harpsi- 
chord is  so  wretched,  and  we  have  no  music." 

"No  music!"  echoed  my  friend.  "How,  then,  does 
the  Fraulein — " 

He  paused  and  colored  up,  for  the  girl  looked  full 
at  him,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  blind. 

"I — I  entreat  your  pardon!"  he  stammered.  "But 
I  had  not  perceived  before.    Then  you  play  by  ear?" 

"Entirely." 

"And  where  do  you  hear  the  music,  since  you  fre- 
quent no  concerts?" 

"I  used  to  hear  a  lady  practicing  near  us,  when  we 
lived  at  Bruhl  two  years.  During  the  summer  evenings 
her  windows  were  generally  open,  and  I  walked  to  and 
fro  outside  to  listen  to  her." 

She  seemed  shy;  so  Beethoven  said  no  more,  but 
seated  himself  quietly  before  the  piano,  and  began  to 


HEART  THROBS  11 

■  ^- —  ■  ■ 

play.  He  had  no  sooner  struck  the  first  chord  than  I 
knew  what  would  follow — how  grand  he  would  be  that 
night.  And  I  was  not  mistaken.  Never,  during  all  the 
years  I  knew  him,  did  I  hear  him  play  as  he  then  played 
to  that  blind  girl  and  her  brother.  He  was  inspired; 
and  from  the  instant  when  his  fingers  began  to  wander 
along  the  keys,  the  very  tone  of  the  instrument  began 
to  grow  sweeter  and  more  equal. 

The  brother  and  sister  were  silent  with  wonder  and 
rapture.  The  former  laid  aside  his  work;  the  latter, 
with  her  head  bent  slightly  forward,  and  her  hands 
pressed  tightly  over  her  breast,  crouched  down  near  the 
end  of  the  harpsichord,  as  if  fearful  lest  even  the  beating 
of  her  heart  should  break  the  flow  of  those  magical, 
sweet  sounds.  It  was  as  if  we  were  all  bound  in  a  strange 
dream,  and  only  feared  to  wake. 

Suddenly  the  flame  of  the  single  candle  wavered, 
sank,  flickered,  and  went  out.  Beethoven  paused,  and 
I  threw  open  the  shutters,  admitting  a  flood  of  brilliant 
moonlight.  The  room  was  almost  as  light  as  before,  and 
the  illumination  fell  strongest  upon  the  piano  and  player. 
But  the  chain  of  his  ideas  seemed  to  have  been  broken 
by  the  accident.  His  head  dropped  upon  his  breast ;  his 
hands  rested  upon  his  knees;  he  seemed  absorbed  in 
meditation.    It  was  thus  for  some  time. 

At  length  the  young  shoemaker  rose  and  approached 
him  eagerly,  yet  reverently.  "Wonderful  man!"  he 
said,  in  a  low  tone,  "who  and  what  are  you?" 

"Listen!"  the  composer  said,  and  he  played  the 
opening  bars  of  the  sonata  in  F. 


12  HEART  THROBS 

A  cry  of  delight  and  recognition  burst  from  them 
both,  and  exclaiming,  "Then  you  are  Beethoven!"  they 
covered  his  hands  with  tears  and  kisses. 

He  rose  to  go,  but  we  held  him  back  with  entreaties. 

"Play  to  us  once  more — only  once  more!' 

He  suffered  himself  to  be  led  back  to  the  instrument. 
The  moon  shone  brightly  in  through  the  window  and 
lit  up  his  glorious,  rugged  head  and  massive  figure. 
"I  will  improvise  a  sonata  to  the  moonlight!"  looking 
up  thoughtfully  to  the  sky  and  stars.  Then  his  hands 
dropped  on  the  keys,  and  he  began  playing  a  sad  and 
infinitely  lovely  movement,  which  crept  gently  over  the 
instrument  like  the  calm  flow  of  moonlight  over  the 
dark  earth. 

This  was  followed  by  a  wild,  elfin  passage  in  triple 
time — a  sort  of  grotesque  interlude,  like  the  dance  of 
sprites  upon  the  sward.  Then  came  a  swift  agitato  finale 
— a  breathless,  hurrying,  trembling  movement,  de- 
scriptive of  flight  and  uncertainty,  and  vague,  impulsive 
terror,  which  carried  us  away  on  its  rustling  wings,  and 
left  us  all  in  emotion  and  wonder. 

"Farewell  to  you!"  said  Beethoven,  pushing  back 
his  chair  and  turning  toward  the  door — "farewell  to 
you!" 

"You  will  come  again?"  asked  they  in  one  breath. 

He  paused  and  looked  compassionately,  almost 
tenderly,  at  the  face  of  the  blind  girl.  "Yes,  yes,"  he 
said  hurriedly,  "I  will  come  again  and  give  the  Fraulein 
some  lessons.     Farewell!     I  will  soon  come  again!" 

They  followed  us  in   silence   more  eloquent   than 


HEART  THROBS  13 

words,  and  stood  at  their  door  till  we  were  out  of  sight 
and  hearing. 

"Let  us  make  haste  back,"  said  Beethoven,  "that  I 
may  write  out  that  sonata  while  I  can  yet  remember  it." 

We  did  so,  and  he  sat  over  it  till  long  past  day-dawn. 

And  this  was  the  origin  of  that  moonlight  sonata  with 

which  we  are  all  so  fondly  acquainted. 

Anon. 


SHOULD  YOU  FEEL  INCLINED  TO  CENSURE 

Should  you  feel  inclined  to  censure 
Faults  you  may  in  others  view, 

Ask  your  own  heart,  ere  you  venture, 
If  that  has  not  failings,  too. 

Let  not  friendly  vows  be  broken; 

Rather  strive  a  friend  to  gain; 
Many  a  word  in  anger  spoken 

Finds  its  passage  home  again. 

Do  not,  then,  in  idle  pleasure, 

Trifle  with  a  brother's  fame ; 
Guard  it  as  a  valued  treasure, 

Sacred  as  your  own  good  name. 

Do  not  form  opinions  blindly ; 

Hastiness  to  trouble  tends ; 
Those  of  whom  we  thought  unkindly, 

Oft  become  our  warmest  friends. 

Author  unknown. 


14  HEART  THROBS 


MY  SCRAP-BOOK 

I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  I  will  not  fret  and 
fume  over  the  trifling  things  of  life.  I  stop  and  ask 
myself  if  it  will  make  any  material  difference  in  a  week, 
a  month  or  a  year.  And  I  find  that  I  can  be  calm  when 
the  bread  will  not  come  up,  or  the  juice  is  boiling  out 
of  the  pies,  or  when  it  rains  on  wash-day,  or  the  thousand 
and  one  little  things  happen  that  used  to  worry  me. 

My  scrap-book  is  my  tonic  bottle.  I  save  all  of  the 
helpful  little  poems  and  prose  that  I  come  across,  and 
I  have  such  a  store  of  them  committed  to  memory  that 
I  can  take  a  dose  at  any  time  or  place. 

How  many  times,  when  in  a  melancholy  mood,  this 
little  verse  by  Harry  Chester  has  fallen  on  my  heart 
like  a  benediction: 

"The  Scripture  says  that  in  His  own  sweet  way 

If  we  but  wait, 
The  Lord  will  take  our  burdens  and  set 
Crooked  matters  straight." 

And  this  by  Frank  Stanton: 

"Where  the  rough  road  turns  and  the  valley  sweet 
Smiles  bright  with  its  balm  and  bloom, 
We'll  forget  the  thorns  that  have  pierced  the  feet 
And  the  nights  with  their  grief  and  gloom." 

Sometimes  our  cares  seem  to  hedge  us  in,  and  we 
become  so  self-centered  that  we  are  like  the  little 
grubs  in  the  wayside  pool  Mrs.  Gatty  tells  about  in  her 


HEART    THROBS 15 

"Parables  on  Nature,"  and  couldn't  see  out  of  their 
puddle  and  thought  there  was  nothing  beyond.  It  is  so 
much  better  to  be  thinking  of  something  beautiful  and 
helpful  than  to  be  thinking  that  we  are  hard-worked 
and  misused. 

"Tired,  yes,  often  body,  heart  and  brain — 
This  then  I  read:  'There  doth  a  rest  remain 
Unto  His  people,'  and  the  fatigue  grows  less, 
While  my  heart  thrills  for  very  thankfulness." 

Take    time    to    collect    a    storehouse    of    beautiful 
thoughts : 

"Meet  trials  with  smiles  and  they  vanish; 
Face  cares  with  a  song  and  they  flee." 

C.  L.  McK.,  Chicago,  III. 


THE  SCENT  OF  THE  ROSES 

Let  Fate  do  her  worst;  there  are  relics  of  joy, 
Bright  dreams  of  the  past,  which  she  cannot  destroy; 
Which  come  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care, 
And  bring  back  the  features  that  joy  used  to  wear. 
Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories  filled, 
Like  the  vase  in  which  roses  have  once  been  distilled— 
You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  the  vase  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still. 

Thomas  Moore. 


16  HEART   THROBS 


TODAY 

I'd  laugh  today,  today  is  brief, 
I  would  not  wait  for  anything; 

I'd  use  today  that  cannot  last, 
Be  glad  today  and  sing. 


Anon. 


IT   WILL   MEND 


Ex-Governor  Pennypacker,  in  an  address  that  was 
both  kind  and  witty,  said  in  Philadelphia  of  the  divorce 
evil: 

"There  would  be  less  divorce  if  there  were  more 
forgiveness.  We  forgive  our  enemies — would  it  be  so 
dreadful  to  forgive  our  husbands  and  our  wives? 

"I  have  been  reading  a  play  by  a  Frenchman — Her- 
vieu's  Connaistoi — I  wish  we  turned  out  such  plays  in 
this  country — and  in  the  last  act  of  this  play  an  old 
soldier  says  a  profoundly  beautiful  thing  about  those 
husbands  and  wives  who  forgive. 

"  'Happiness,'  he  says,  'is  so  precious  to  some  of  us 
that,  when  it  is  broken,  we  stoop  and  gather  up  the 

Selected. 


They  might  not  need  me ;  but  they  might. 
I'll  let  my  head  be  just  in  sight; 
A  smile  as  small  as  mine  might  be 
Precisely  their  necessity. 

Emily  Dickinson. 


HEART  THROBS  17 


HIS   RECOMPENSE 

He  was  a  middle-aged  clerk  in  a  large  wholesale 
house.  He  had  been  there  for  twenty-five  years,  and 
for  the  last  ten  had  occupied  the  first  chair  in  the  head 
office.  He  had  no  chums  and  no  amusements.  He  had 
a  cozy,  comfortable  room  in  a  boarding  house,  and  for 
a  quarter  of  a  century  that  had  been  home  to  him. 
During  all  these  years  he  had  been  happy  and  contented, 
giving  himself  fully  to  his  work  and  to  his  Church  and 
Sunday  School,  but  lately  a  restlessness  had  been  steal- 
ing into  his  heart  and  with  it  a  desire  for  change.  Some- 
thing seemed  to  tell  him  his  life  was  a  wasted  one  because 
it  had  not  been  wider  and  greater. 

The  other  clerks  had  all  left  the  warehouse,  so  he 
bent  his  head  upon  his  arms  and  when  he  lifted  it  there 
were  hot  tears  in  his  eyes.  His  was  the  burning  of  soul 
which  consumes  the  vital  energies  and  leaves  a  man 
powerless. 

He  started  as  someone  opened  the  outer  doors.  It 
was  the  postman  with  the  belated  mail.  Mechanically 
he  gathered  it  up.  There  were  two  letters  addressed 
to  himself,  one  from  the  city,  one  from  British  Columbia. 
He  opened  the  latter  first  and  glanced  at  the  signature. 
It  was  from  a  young  man  who  had  been  under  him  for 
five  years,  and  who  two  years  ago  had  left  for  the  West. 
It  ran  as  follows : 

"Dear  Mr.  G — :  I  am  writing  to  thank  you  for  all 
your  goodness  to  me  while  in  your  office.  I  am  succeed- 
ing   beyond    my    best    expectations    in    business,    and 


18  HEART  THROBS 


yesterday  I  became  a  member  of  the  Church,  having 
decided  for  Christ  two  months  ago.  For  these  two 
blessings  of  God  I  owe  all  to  you,  for  in  both  business 
and  religion  you  have  been  my  example.  I  hope  in  this 
new  land  to  help  others  as  you  helped  me." 

The  other  was  from  one  of  his  old  Sunday-school 
scholars,  and  read: 

"Dear  Sir:  I  have  taken  your  advice  and  once  more 
feel  a  free  man.  With  the  money  you  loaned  me  I 
have  paid  my  debts,  and  with  God's  help  and  yours 
will  redeem  the  past.  I  cannot  thank  you  as  I  ought; 
but  I  do  trust  I  will  be  worthy  of  your  confidence." 

A  new  light  came  into  his  face.  The  old  restlessness 
passed  forever.  He  walked  with  the  step  of  his  youth. 
God  had  held  the  goblet  of  life  to  his  lips,  and  he  had 
drunk  deep.  c  Q  Wyli^ 


LOVE 

To  keep  one  sacred  flame 

Through  life  unchilled,  unmoved, 
To  love  in  wintry  age,  the  same 

As  first  in  youth  we  loved, 
To  feel  that  we  adore 

Even  to  fond  excess 
That  though  the  heart  would  break  with  more, 

It  could  not  live  with  less. 

Thomas  Moore. 


HEART  THROBS  19 


THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind ; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms ; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed ; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 
The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 


20  HEART  THROBS 

The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 
The  din  and  shout,  are  past; 

Nor  war's  wild  note,  nor  glory's  peal 
Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 

Those  breasts  that  nevermore  may  feel 
The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  this  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  a  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "Victory  or  death!" 


Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field ; 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield; 
The  sunlight  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulcher. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead, 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave, 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave. 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 


HEART  THROBS  21 


Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 
Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell ; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb. 

Theodore  O'Hara. 


WITH  A  DIFFERENCE 

It  was  a  pretty  song  of  spring 

That  Tommy  Jones  had  learned  to  sing 

Before  the  school  on  closing  day — 

A  song  appropriate  and  gay. 

The  words  of  his  first  line  were  these: 

"The  buds  are  bursting  on  the  trees." 

But  when  that  day  Tom's  name  was  called, 

He  faced  his  audience  appalled; 

And  this,  alas!  was  what  he  sung, 

While  terror  twisted  up  his  tongue 

And  stage  fright  shook  his  voice  and  knees: 

"The  birds  are  busting  on  the  trees!" 

Caroline  Mischka   Roberts. 


22  HEART  THROBS 


FAMILY  FINANCIERING 

"They  tell  me  you  work  for  a  dollar  a  day; 
How  is  it  you  clothe  your  six  boys  on  such  pay?" 

"I  know  you  will  think  it  conceited  and  queer, 
But  I  do  it  because  I'm  a  good  financier. 

"There's  Pete,  John,  Jim,  and  Joe  and  William  and  Ned, 
A  half-dozen  boys  to  be  clothed  up  and  fed. 

"And  I  buy  for  them  all  good  plain  victuals  to  eat, 
And  clothing — I  only  buy  clothing  for  Pete. 

"When  Pete's  clothes  are  too  small  for  him  to  go  on, 
My  wife  makes  'em  over  and  gives  them  to  John. 

"When  for  John,  who  is  ten,  they  have  grown  out  of  date, 
She  justs  makes  'em  over  for  Jim,  who  is  eight. 

"When  for  Jim  they  become  too  ragged  to  fix, 
She  just  makes  'em  over  for  Joe,  who  is  six. 

"And  when  little  Joseph  can't   wear  them  no  more, 
She  just  makes  'em  over  for  Bill,  who  is  four. 

"And  when  for  young  Bill  they  no  longer  will  do, 
She  just  makes  'em  over  for  Ned,  who  is  two. 


"So  you  see,  if  I  get  enough  clothing  for  Pete, 
The  family  is  furnished  with  clothing  complete, 


»» 


HEART  THROBS  23 

'But  when  Ned  gets  through  with  the  clothing,  and  when 
He  has  thrown  it  aside,  what  do  you  do  with  it  then?" 

"Why,  once  more  we  go  around  the  circle  complete, 
And  begin  to  use  it  for  patches  for  Pete." 

Anon. 


BETWEEN  THE  LIGHTS 

Dear  heart,  come  closer,  while  the  light 

Dies  slowly  in  the  darkening  sky, 
And,  marshaled  at  the  call  of  night, 

The  twilight  shades  troop  softly  by. 

I  would  not  have  you  sorrow  so, 

Because  it  must  be,  soon  or  late, 
That  one  of  us,  alone,  will  go 

From  out  the  light  thro'  death's  dark  gate. 

For  life  at  best  is  all  too  short 
When  measured  by  a  love  like  ours, 

And  death  is  but  an  open  port 

To  broader  fields  and  fairer  flowers. 

So,  while  the  twilight  shades  troop  past, 
And  night  and  darkness  come  apace, 

We  know  the  dawn  will  break  at  last, 
And  always  there  is  light  some  place. 

Selected. 


24  HEART  THROBS 


THE  AVERAGE   MAN 

When  it  comes  to  a  question  of  trusting 

Yourself  to  the  risks  of  the  road, 
When  the  thing  is  the  sharing  of  burdens, 

The  lifting  the  heft  of  a  load, 
In  the  hour  of  peril  or  trial, 

In  the  hour  you  meet  as  you  can, 
You  may  safely  depend  on  the  wisdom 

And  skill  of  the  average  man. 

'Tis  the  average  man  and  no  other 

Who  does  his  plain  duty  each  day, 
The  small  thing  his  wage  is  for  doing, 

On  the  commonplace  bit  of  the  way. 
'Tis  the  average  man,  may  God  bless  him! 

Who  pilots  us,  still  in  the  van, 
Over  land,  over  sea,  as  we  travel, 

Just  the  plain,  hardy,  average  man. 

So  on  through  the  days  of  existence, 

All  mingling  in  shadow  and  shine, 
We  may  count  on  the  every -day  hero, 

Whom  haply  the  gods  may  divine, 
But  who  wears  the  swart  grime  of  his  calling, 

And  labors  and  earns  as  he  can, 
And  stands  at  the  last  with  the  noblest, — 

The  commonplace,  average  man. 

Margaret  E.  Songster, 

By  permission. 


HEART  THROBS  25 


EACH  IN  HIS  OWN  TONGUE 

A  fire-mist  and  a  planet, — 

A  crystal  and  a  cell, — 
A  jelly-fish  and  a  saurian, 

And  caves  where  the  cave-men  dwell; 
Then  a  sense  of  law  and  beauty, 

And  a  face  turned  from  the  clod, — 
Some  call  it  Evolution, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

A  haze  on  the  far  horizon, 

The  infinite,  tender  sky, 
The  ripe,  rich  tint  of  the  cornfields, 

And  the  wild  geese  sailing  high, — 
And  all  over  upland  and  lowland 

The  charm  of  the  goldenrod, — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Autumn, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

Like  tides  on  a  crescent  sea- beach, 

When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin; 
Into  our  hearts  high  yearnings 

Come  welling  and  surging  in, — 
Come  from  the  mystic  ocean, 

Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod, — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Longing, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

A  picket  frozen  on  duty, — 

A.  mother  starved  for  her  brood, — 


26  HEART  THROBS 

Socrates  drinking  the  hemlock, 

And  Jesus  on  the  rood; 
And  millions  who,  humble  and  nameless, 

The  straight,  hard  pathway  plod, — 
Some  call  it  Consecration, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

Copyright.  G.P.Putnam's  Sons.  W.  H.  CatfUth. 

By  permission. 


A   DAILY   MOTTO 

Verses  sent  Miss  Frances  Willard  by  a  devoted  friend. 

It's  curious  whut  a  sight  o'  good  a  little  thing  will  do; 
How  ye  kin  stop  the  fiercest  storm  when  it  begins  to  brew, 
An'  take  the  sting  from  whut  commenced  to  rankle  when 

'twas  spoke, 
By  keepin'  still  and  treatin'  it  as  if  it  wus  a  joke; 
Ye'U  find  that  ye  kin  fill  a  place  with  smiles  instead  o* 

tears, 
An'  keep  the  sunshine  gleamin*  through  the  shadows  of 

the  years, 

By  jes'  laughin'. 

Folks  sometimes  fails  ter  note  the  possibilities  that  lie 
In  the  way  yer  mouth  is  curvin'  an'  the  twinkle  in  yer  eye : 
It  ain't  so  much  whut's  said  that  hurts  ez  what  ye  think 

lies  hid. 
It  ain't  so  much  the  doin'  ez  the  way  a  thing  is  did. 
An'  many  a  home's  kep'  happy  an'  contented,  day  by  day, 
An'  like  ez  not  a  kingdom  hez  been  rescued  from  decay 
By  jes'  laughin'. 


HEART  THROBS  27 


HIS  LAST  REQUEST 

"Pat,"  said  the  priest,  "you're  drunk,  and  I'm  going 
to  make  you  stop  this  right  here.  If  you  ever  get  drunk 
again  I'll  turn  you  into  a  rat — do  you  mind  that?  If 
I  don't  see  you  I'll  know  about  it  just  the  same,  and  into 
a  rat  you  go.    Now  you  mind  that." 

Pat  was  very  docile  that  night,  but  the  next  evening 
he  came  home  even  worse  drunk  than  ever,  kicked  in 
the  door,  and  Biddy  dodged  behind  the  table  to  defend 
herself. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  darlint,"  said  Pat,  as  he  steadied 
himself  before  dropping  into  a  chair,  "I'm  not  going  to 
bate  ye.  I  won't  lay  the  weight  of  me  finger  on  ye. 
I  want  ye  to  be  kind  to  me  tonight,  darlint,  and  to  re- 
member the  days  when  we  was  swatehearts  and  when 
ye  loved  me.  You  know  his  riverince  said  last  night 
if  I  got  dhrunk  again  he'd  turn  me  into  a  rat.  He  didn't 
see  me,  but  he  knows  I'm  dhrunk,  and  this  night  into 
a  rat  I  go.  But  I  want  ye  to  be  kind  to  me,  darlint,  and 
watch  me,  and  when  ye  see  me  gettin'  little,  and  the 
hair  growin'  out  on  me,  and  me  whiskers  gettin'  long, 
if  ye  ever  loved  me,  darlint,  for  God's  sake  keep  yer 

eye  on  the  cat."  _  ,       , 

Selected. 


The  optimist  fell  ten  stories. 

At  each  window-bar 
He  shouted  to  his  friends : 

"All  right  so  far."  Anon. 


28  HEART  THROBS 


POSSESSION 

God  gave  me  thee,  nor  all  the  world's  alarms 
Shall  take  thee,  sweet,  one  moment  from  my  arms. 
He  tuned  our  souls  in  unison  divine. 
Through  Time,  Eternity,  did  name  thee  mine. 
Ne'er  fear  that  anything  on  earth  could  make 
Me  lose  the  heart  that  my  own  heart  did  wake. 

Thy  heart  is  mine,  and  thy  dear  self  I  hold 
Within  my  arms,  that  close  about  thee  fold; 
Nor  let  the  tempests  of  the  world  come  nigh, 
To  waft  across  thy  warm  red  lips  one  sigh. 
With  all  my  worldly  love,  I  thee  endow, 
We  are  no  longer  twain,  but  one;  and  now 

Give  me  thy  lips,  and  all  the  world  forget, 

Give  me  thine  eyes  that  like  twin  stars  are  set 

Beneath  the  fragrant  cloud  of  thy  soft  hair, 

Thine  eyes,  Dear  Heart,  that  all  the  world  calls  fair, 

Not  even  knowing  of  the  look  that  lies 

Within  their  depths,  for  me  alone,  nor  ever  dies. 

Selected. 


MORNING    PRAYER 

Now  I  get  me  up  to  work, 

I  pray  the  Lord  I  may  not  shirk. 

If  I  should  die  before  tonight, 

I  pray  the  Lord  my  work's  all  right.      j 


HEART  THROBS  29 


THE  BIBLE 

It  seems  as  if  to  the  feet  of  the  sacred  writers  the 
mountains  had  brought  all  their  gems,  and  the  sea  all 
its  pearls,  and  the  gardens  all  their  frankincense,  and  the 
spring  all  its  blossoms,  and  the  harvests  all  their  wealth, 
and  heaven  all  its  glory,  and  eternity  all  its  stupendous 
realities;  and  that  since  then  poets  and  orators  and 
painters  had  been  drinking  from  an  exhausted  fountain 
and  searching  for  diamonds  amid  realms  utterly  rifled 
and  ransacked. 

Oh!  this  book  is  the  hive  of  all  sweetness,  the  armory 
of  all  well-tempered  weapons,  the  tower  containing  the 
crown  jewels  of  the  universe,  the  lamp  that  kindles  all 
other  lights,  the  home  of  all  majesties  and  splendors, 
the  stepping-stone  on  which  heaven  stoops  to  kiss  the 
earth  with  its  glories,  the  marriage-ring  that  unites  the 
celestial  and  the  terrestrial,  while  all  the  clustering 
white-robed  multitudes  of  the  sky  stand  round  to 
rejoice  at  the  nuptials.  This  book  is  the  wreath  into 
which  are  twisted  all  garlands,  the  song  into  which  hath 
struck  all  harmonies,  the  river  of  light  into  which  hath 
poured  all  the  great  tides  of  hallelujahs,  the  firmament 
in  which  all  suns  and  moons  and  stars  and  constellations 
and  galaxies  and  immensities  and  universes  and  eternities 
wheel  and  blaze  and  triumph. 

Where  is  the  youth  with  music  in  his  soul  who  is  not 
stirred  by  Jacob's  lament,  or  Nathan's  dirge,  Habbak- 
kuk's  dithyrambic,  or  Paul's  march  of  the  resurrection, 
or  St.  John's  anthem  of  the  ten  thousand  times  ten 


30  HEART  THROBS 

thousand  doxology  of  elders  on  their  faces,  answering  to 
the  trumpet  blast  of  archangel,  with  one  foot  on  the  sea 
and  the  other  on  the  land,  swearing  that  time  shall  be 
no  longer? 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  Psalms  we  see  David  gather- 
ing together  a  great  choir,  standing  in  galleries  above 
each  other;  beasts  and  men  on  the  first  gallery;  above 
them  hills  and  mountains;  above  them  fire  and  hail 
and  tempest;  above  them  sun  and  moon  and  stars  of 
light;  until  on  the  highest  round  he  arrays  the  host  of 
angels.  And  there,  standing  before  this  vast  multitude, 
reaching  from  the  depths  of  earth  to  the  heights  of 
heaven,  like  the  leader  of  great  orchestra,  he  lifts  his 
hands,  crying:  "Praise  ye  the  Lord.  Let  everything 
that  hath  breath  praise  the  Lord." 

And  all  earthly  creatures  in  their  song,  and  moun- 
tains with  their  waving  cedars,  and  tempests  in  their 
thunder  and  rattling  hail,  and  stars  on  all  their  trembling 
harps  of  light,  and  angels  on  their  thrones  respond  in 
magnificent  acclaim ; 

"Praise  ye  the  Lord. 

"Let  everything  that  hath  breath  praise  the  Lord." 

Behold  in  this  book  faultless  rhythm  and  bold 
imagery  and  startling  antithesis  and  rapturous  lyric  and 
sad  elegy  and  sweet  pastoral  and  instructive  ballad  and 
devotional  psalm;  thoughts  expressed  in  style  more 
solemn  than  that  of  Montgomery,  more  bold  than  that 
of  Wordsworth,  more  impassioned  than  that  of  Pollok, 
more  tender  than  that  of  Cowper,  more  weird  than  that 
of  Spenser.  Rev.  T.  DeWitt  Talmage. 


HEART  THROBS  31 


THE  BROOK 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 


32 HEART  THROBS 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots; 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses ; 

I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars; 
I  loiter  round  my  cresses; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 


HEART  THROBS  33 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever.  A ,,    .  _, 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


OH,  SAY,  WHAT  IS  TRUTH? 

Oh,  say,  what  is  truth?     'Tis  the  fairest  gem 

That  the  riches  of  worlds  can  produce; 
And  priceless  the  value  of  truth  will  be,  when 
The  proud  monarch's  costliest  diadem 

Is  counted  but  dross  and  refuse. 

Yes,  say,  what  is  truth?     'Tis  the  brightest  prize 

To  which  mortals  or  gods  can  aspire ; 
Go  search  in  the  depths  where  it  glittering  lies, 
Or  ascend  in  pursuit  to  the  loftiest  skies ; 

'Tis  an  aim  for  the  noblest  desire. 

The  sceptre  may  fall  from  the  despot's  grasp, 
When  with  winds  of  stern  justice  he  copes, 
But  the  pillar  of  truth  will  endure  to  the  last, 
And  its  firm-rooted  bulwarks  outstand  the  rude  blast 
And  the  wreck  of  the  fell  tyrant's  hopes. 

Then,  say,  what  is  truth?     'Tis  the  last  and  the  first, 

For  the  limits  of  time  it  steps  o'er; 
Though  the  heavens  depart,  and  the  earth's  fountains 

burst, 
Truth,  the  sum  of  existence,  will  weather  the  worst, 
Eternal,  unchanged,  evermore. 

John  JaqueS 


34  HEART  THROBS 


CASEY  AT  THE  BAT 

It  looked  extremely  rocky  for  the  Mudville  nine  that  day; 
The  score  stood  two  to  four,  with  but  an  inning  left  to 

play. 
So,  when  Cooney  died  at  second,  and  Burrows  did  the 

same, 
A  pallor  wreathed  the  features  of  the  patrons  of  the 

game. 

A  straggling  few  got  up  to  go,  leaving  there  the  rest, 
With  that  hope  which  springs  eternal  within  the  human 

breast, 
For  they  thought,  "if  only  Casey  could  get  a  whack  at 

that," 
They'd  put  up  even  money  now,  with  Casey  at  the  bat. 

But  Flynn  preceded  Casey,  and  likewise  so  did  Blake, 
And  the  former  was  a  puddin',  and  the  latter  was  a  fake, 
So  on  that  stricken  multitude  a  deathlike  silence  sat, 
For  there  seemed  but  little  chance  of  Casey's  getting  to 
the  bat. 

But  Flynn  let  drive  a  "single,"  to  the  wonderment  of  all, 
And  the  much-despised  Blakey  "tore  the  cover  off  the 

ball." 
And  when  the  dust  had  lifted,  and  they  saw  what  had 

occurred, 
There  was  Blakey  safe  at  second,  and  Flynn  a-hugging 

third. 


HEART  THROBS  35 


Then,  from  the  gladdened  multitude  went  up  a  joyous 

yell, 
It  rumbled  in  the  mountain-tops,  it  rattled  in  the  dell; 
It  struck  upon  the  hillside  and  rebounded  on  the  flat ; 
For  Casey,  mighty  Casey,  was  advancing  to  the  bat. 

There  was  ease  in  Casey's  manner,  as  he  stepped  into 

his  place; 
There  was  pride  in  Casey's  bearing,   and  a  smile  on 

Casey's  face. 
And  when,  responding  to  the  cheers,  he  lightly  doffed 

his  hat, 
No  stranger  in  the  crowd  could  doubt  'twas  Casey  at 

the  bat. 

Ten  thousand  eyes  were  on  him  as  he  rubbed  his  hands 

with  dirt, 
Five  thousand  tongues  applauded  when  he  wiped  them 

on  his  shirt ; 
Then  while  the  New  York  pitcher  ground  the  ball  into 

his  hip, 
Defiance  gleamed  in  Casey's  eye,  a  sneer  curled  Casey's 

lip. 

And    now    the    leather-covered    sphere    came    hurling 

through  the  air, 
And  Casey  stood  a-watching  it  in  haughty  grandeur 

there. 
Close  by  the  sturdy  batsman  the  ball  unheeded  sped — 
"That  ain't  my  style,"  said  Casey.     "Strike  one,"  the 

umpire  said. 


36  HEART  THROBS 

From  the  benches,  black  with  people,  there  went  up  a 

muffled  roar, 
Like  the  beating  of  storm  waves  on  a  stern  and  distant 

shore. 
"Kill  him!     Kill  the  umpire!"  shouted  someone  on  the 

stand, 
And  it's  likely  they'd  have  killed  him  had  not  Casey 

raised  a  hand. 

With  a  smile  of  Christian  charity  great  Casey's  visage 

shone ; 
He  stilled  the  rising  tumult;  he  bade  the  game  go  en; 
He  signaled  to  Sir  Timothy,  once  more  the  spheroid  flew; 
But  Casey  still  ignored  it,  and  the  umpire  said,  "Strike 

two." 

"Fraud!"    cried    the    maddened    thousands,    and    echo 

answered  "Fraud!" 
But  one  scornful  look  from  Casey  and  the  audience  was 

awed. 
They  saw  his  face  grow  stern  and  cold,  they  saw  his 

muscles  strain, 
And  they  knew  that  Casey  wouldn't  let  that  ball  go  by 

again. 

The  sneer  is  gone  from  Casey's  lip,  his  teeth  are  clenched 

in  hate ; 
He  pounds  with  cruel  violence  his  bat  upon  the  plate. 
And  now  the  pitcher  holds  the  ball,  and  now  he  lets  it  go, 
And  now  the  air  is  shattered  by  the  force  of  Casey's 

blow. 


HEART  THROBS  37 

Oh,  somewhere  in  this  favored  land  the  sun  is  shining 

bright ; 
The  band  is  playing  somewhere,  and  somewhere  hearts 

are  light. 
And    somewhere    men    are    laughing,    and    somewhere 

children  shout ; 
But  there  is  no  joy  in   Mudville — mighty   Casey  has 

struck  out. 

Phineas  Thayer. 


DAVID'S  LAMENT  OVER  ABSALOM 

The  king  stood  still 
Till  the  last  echo  died;  then,  throwing  off 
The  sackcloth  from  his  brow,  and  laying  back 
The  pall  from  the  still  features  of  his  child, 
He  bowed  his  head  upon  him,  and  broke  forth 
In  the  resistless  eloquence  of  woe : — 

"Alas!  my  noble  boy!  that  thou  shouldst  die! 

Thou,  who  wert  made  so  beautifully  fair! 
That  death  should  settle  in  thy  glorious  eye, 

And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clustering  hair! 
How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent  tomb, 

My  proud  boy,  Absalom! 

"Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son!  and  I  am  chill, 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press  thee. 

How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 

Like  a  rich  harp-string,  yearning  to  caress  thee, 


38  HEART  THROBS 


And  hear  thy  sweet  'my  father,'  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom! 

"The  grave  hath  won  thee.     I  shall  hear  the  gush 

Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  young; 
And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling  blush, 

And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft  winds  flung; 
But  thou  no  more,  with  thy  sweet  voice  shall  come 

To  meet  me,  Absalom! 

"But  oh!  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart, 
Like  a  bruised  reed,  is  waiting  to  be  broken, 

How  will  its  love  for  thee,  as  I  depart 

Yearn  for  thine  ear  to  drink  its  last  deep  token  f 

It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom! 

"And  now  farewell!     'Tis  hard  to  give  thee  up, 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee: 

And  thy  dark  sin!— Oh!  I  could  drink  the  cup, 
If  from  this  woe  its  bitterness  had  won  thee. 

May  God  have  called  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  home, 
My  erring  Absalom!" 

He  covered  up  his  face,  and  bowed  himself 

A  moment  on  his  child;  then,  giving  him 

A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasped 

His  hands  convulsively,  as  if  in  prayer; 

And,  as  a  strength  were  given  him  of  God, 

He  rose  up  calmly,  and  composed  the  pall 

Firmly  and  decently,  and  left  him  there 

As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep.         Willis. 


HEART  THROBS  39 


MARCO  BOZZARIS,  THE  EPAMINONDAS  OF 
MODERN   GREECE 

His  last  words  were:  "To  die  for  liberty  is  a  pleasure  and  not  a 
pain." 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power. 
In  dreams  through  camp  and  court,   he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne — a  king 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  the  sentry's  shriek, 
"To  arms!  they  come!  the  Greek!  the  Greek!" 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre  stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain  cloud ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band : — 
"Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires, 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires, 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires, 

God — ancl  your  native  land!" 


40  HEART  THROBS 

They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well, 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain; 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death! 

Come  to  the  mother's  when  she  feels 
For  the  first  time  her  first-born's  breath! 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke! 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm. 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine! 
And  thou  art  terrible! — the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier, 
And  all  we  know  or  dream  or  fear 

Of  agony  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word, 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 
The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 


HEART  THROBS  41 


Bozzaris!  with  the  storied  brave 
Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 

Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 
Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 

We  tell  thy  doom  without  a  sigh ; 

For  thou  art  freedom's  now,  and  fame's — 

One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names 
That  were  not  born  to  die. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck. 


REMEDIES   FOR   TROUBLE 

If  you  are  down  with  the  blues,  read  the  twenty- 
third  Psalm. 

If  there  is  a  chilly  sensation  about  the  heart,  read 
the    third    chapter    of    Revelations. 

If  you  don't  know  where  to  look  for  a  month's  rent, 
read  the  twenty-seventh  Psalm. 

If  you  are  lonesome  and  unprotected,  read  the 
ninety-first  Psalm. 

If  the  stovepipe  has  fallen  down  and  the  cook  gone 
off  in  a  pet,  put  up  the  pipe  and  wash  your  hands  and 
read  the  first  chapter  of  St.  James. 

If  you  find  yourself  losing  confidence  in  men,  read 
the  thirteenth  chapter  of  I  Corinthians. 

If  people  pelt  you  with  hard  words,  read  the  fifteenth 
chapter  of  St.  John  and  the  fifty-first  Psalm. 

If  you  are  out  of  sorts,  read  the  twelfth  chapter  of 

Hebrews.  a  .       , 

Selected. 


42  HEART  THROBS 


THE   LEGEND   OF   THE   FORGET-ME-NOT 

When  to  the  flowers  so  beautiful 

The  Father  gave  a  name, 
There  came  a  little  blue-eyed  one — 

All  timidly  it  came — 
And  standing  at  the  Father's  feet, 

And  gazing  in  His  face, 
It  said  with  low  and  timid  voice, 

And  yet  with  gentle  grace, 
"Dear  Lord,  the  name  thou  gavest  me, 

Alas,  I  have  forgot." 
The  Father  kindly  looked  on  him 

And  said,  "Forget-me-not."  Anon. 


A  BIBLE  "HEART  THROB" 

"Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled;  ye  believe  in  God, 
believe  also  in  me. 

"In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions;  if  it  were 
not  so  I  would  have  told  you.  I  go  to  prepare  a  place 
for  you. 

"And  if  I  go  and  prepare  a  place  for  you,  I  will  come 
again,  and  receive  you  unto  myself,  that  where  I  am, 
there  ye  may  be  also. 

"Peace  I  leave  with  you,  my  peace  I  give  unto  you: 
not  as  the  world  giveth,  give  I  unto  you.  Let  not  your 
heart  be  troubled,  neither  let  it  be  afraid." 

John  xiv:  1,2,3,27. 


HEART  THROBS  43 


THE  MARINER'S  DREAM 

In  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor-boy  lay ; 

His  hammock  swung  loose  at  the  sport  of  the  wind ; 
But  watch-worn  and  weary,  his  cares  flew  away 

And  visions  of  happiness  danced  o'er  his  mind. 

He  dreamed  of  his  home  and  dear  native  bowers 
And  pleasures  that  waited  on  life's  merry  morn; 

While  memory  each  scene  gaily  covered  with  flowers, 
And  restored  every  rose,  but  secreted  its  thorn. 

Then  fancy  her  magical  pinions  spread  wide, 
And  bade  the  young  dreamer  in  ecstasy  rise ; 

Now  far,  far  behind  him  the  green  waters  glide 
And  the  cot  of  his  forefathers  blesses  his  eyes. 

The  jessamine  clambers  in  flower  o'er  the  thatch, 

And  the  swallow  chirps  sweet  from  her  nest  in  the  wall ; 

All  trembling  with  transport  he  raises  the  latch 
And  the  voices  of  loved  ones  reply  to  his  call. 

A  father  bends  o'er  him  with  looks  of  delight, 
His  cheek  is  bedewed  with  a  mother's  warm  tear, 

And  the  lips  of  the  boy  in  a  love-kiss  unite 

With  the  lips  of  the  maid  whom  his  bosom  holds  dear. 

The  heart  of  the  sleeper  beats  high  in  his  breast ; 

Joy  quickens  his  pulses,  his  hardships  seem  o'er; 
And  a  murmur  of  happiness  steals  through  his  rest — 

"O  God!  Thou  hast  blest  me ;  I  ask  for  no  more." 


44  HEART  THROBS 


Ah!  whence  is  that  flame  that  now  glares  on  his  eye? 

Ah!  what  is  that  sound  that  bursts  on  his  ear? 
'Tis  the  lightning's  gleam  painting  hell  on  the  sky, 

'Tis  the  crashing  of  thunder,  the  groan  of  the  sphere. 

He  springs  from  his  hammock,  he  flees  to  the  deck; 

Amazement  confronts  him  with  images  dire, 
Wild  winds  and  mad  waves  drive  the  vessel,  a  wreck; 

The  masts  fly  in  splinters,  the  shrouds  are  on  fire. 

Like  mountains  the  billows  tremendously  swell, 
In  vain  the  lost  wreck  calls  on  mercy  to  save. 

Unseen  hands  of  spirits  are  ringing  his  knell, 

And  the  death-angel  flaps  his  broad  wing  o'er  the  wave. 

O  sailor-boy!  woe  to  thy  dream  of  delight, 

In  darkness  dissolves  the  gay  frostwork  of  bliss ; 

Where  now  is  the  picture  that  fancy  touched  bright, 
Thy  parents'  fond  pressure,  thy  love's  honeyed  kiss? 

O  sailor-boy!  sailor-boy!  never  again 

Shall  love,  home  or  kindred  thy  wishes  repay; 

Unblessed  and  unhonored,  down  deep  in  the  main, 
Full  many  a  fathom,  thy  fame  shall  decay. 

No  tomb  shall  e'er  plead  in  remembrance  for  thee, 
Or  redeem  form  or  fame  from  the  merciless  surge; 

But  the  white  foam  of  waves  shall  thy  winding-sheet  be, 
And  the  winds  of  midnight  shall  winter  thy  dirge. 

On  a  bed  of  green  sea-flowers  thy  limbs  shall  be  laid> 
Around  thy  white  bones  the  red  coral  shall  grow; 


HEART  THROBS  45 


Of  thy  fair  yellow  locks  threads  of  amber  be  made, 
And  every  part  suit  to  thy  mansions  below. 

Days,  months,  years  and  ages  shall  circle  away, 
And  still  the  vast  waters  above  thee  shall  roll ; 

Frail,  short-sighted  mortals  their  doom  must  obey— 
O  sailor-boy,  sailor-boy!  peace  to  thy  soul. 

W.  Dimond. 


AN  ANTHEM 


A  sailor  who  had  been  to  a  church  service  where  he 
heard  some  fine  music  was  afterward  descanting  upon 
an  anthem  which  had  given  him  great  pleasure.  A 
listening  shipmate  finally  asked: 

"I  say,  Bill,  what's  a  hanthem?" 

"What!"  exclaimed  Bill,  "do  you  mean  to  say  you 
don't  know  what  a  hanthem  is?" 

"Not  me." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  tell  yer.  If  I  was  to  tell  yer,  "Ere, 
Bill,  give  me  that  'andspike,'  that  wouldn't  be  a  han- 
them. But  if  I  was  to  say:  'Bill,  Bill,  Bill,  give,  give, 
give,  give  me,  give  me  that,  Bill,  give  me,  give  me  that 
'and,  give  me  that  'andspike,  spike,  Bill,  give  me  that, 
that  'and,  'andspike,  'and,  'andspike,  spike,  spike, 
spike,  Ahmen,  Ahmen,  Bill,  give  me  that  'andspike, 
spike,  Ahmen,'  why,  that  would  be  a  hanthem." 

Selected. 


46  HEART  THROBS 

■  — -  "  — ■ *^™^ 

THE  ROCKY  HILL 

Oh,  Jack  and  Jill  went  up  the  hill.    They  had  with  them 
a  pail  to  fill 
With  water  from  the  bubbling  rill  that  from  the  top 
was  flowing. 
The  way  was  steep  and  hard  and  rough,  the  little  feet 
were  far  from  tough, 
But  Jack  was  stout  and  bold  enough  and  set  his  heart 
on  going. 

You  may  remember  how  they  fared,  that  little  couple 
sweetly  paired; 
What  he  would  do  she  gladly  dared.     No  tale  is  this 
for  laughter. 
For  Jack,  the  heedless,  tumbled  down  and  cracked  his 
little  curly  crown, 
And  Jill  she  tripped  upon  her  gown  and  went  a- 
tumbling  after. 

I  do  not  think  they  ever  tell  that  Jill  was  grieved  because 
they  fell, 
And  kissed  the  place  to  make  it  well  and  hurried  off 
for  plaster; 
But  never  doubt  the  little  maid  no  end  of  sympathy 
displayed 
And  did  her  very  best  to  aid  the  victim  of  disaster. 

I  have  a  rocky  hill  to  climb  and  I  may  reach  the  top  in 
time; 
My  little  Jill  has  faith  sublime  and  she  has  not  denied 
me; 


HEART  THROBS  47 

So  what  care  I  for  broken  crowns  or  fortune's  smiles  or 
fortune's  frowns, 
If  I  can  have  my  ups  and  downs  with  little  Jill  beside 

Kenneth  Harris. 


FAITH 


If  I  could  feel  my  hand,  dear  Lord,  in  Thine 

And  surely  know 
That  I  was  walking  in  the  light  divine 

Through  weal  or  woe ; 

If  I  could  hear  Thy  voice  in  accents  sweet 

But  plainly  say, 
To  guide  my  trembling,  groping,  wandering  feet, 

"This  is  the  way," 

I  would  so  gladly  walk  therein,  but  now 

I  cannot  see. 
Oh,  give  me,  Lord,  the  faith  to  humbly  bow 

And  trust  in  Thee! 

There  is  no  faith  in  seeing.    Were  we  led 

Like  children  here, 
And  lifted  over  rock  and  river-bed, 

No  care,  no  fear, 

We  should  be  useless  in  the  busy  throng, 

Life's  work  undone ; 

Lord,  make  us  brave  and  earnest,  true  and  strong, 

Till  heaven  is  won.  0      7    „    „  lA 

Sarah  K.  Bolton. 

By  permission. 


48  HEART  THROBS 


BILL'S   IN  TROUBLE 

I've  got  a  letter,  parson,  from  my  son  away  out  West, 
An*  my  ol'  heart  is  heavy  as  an  anvil  in  my  breast, 
To  think  the  boy  whose  future   I  had  once  so  nicely 

planned, 
Should  wander  from  the  path  of  right  and  come  to  such 

an  end. 
I  tol'  him  when  he  left  us,  only  three  short  years  ago, 
He'd  find  himself  a-plowin'  in  a  mighty  crooked  row. 
He's  missed  his  father's  counsel  and  his  mother's  prayers, 

too 
But  he  said  the  farm  was  hateful  and  he  guessed  he'd 

have  to  go. 
I  know  there's  big  temptations  for  a  youngster  in  the 

West, 
But  I  believed  our  Billy  had  the  courage  to  resist, 
An'   when  he  left   I   warned  him  of  the  ever  waitin' 

snares 
That  lie  like  hidden  serpents  in  life's  pathway  every- 

wheres ; 
But  Bill  he  promised  faithful  to  be  careful,  an'  allowed 
That  he  would  build  up  a  reputation  that  would  make 

us  mighty  proud. 
But  it  seems  as  how  my  counsel  sort  o'  faded  from  his 

mind, 
And  now  he's  got  in  trouble  of  the  very  worstest  kind. 
His  letters   came  so  seldom   that   I   somehow  sort  o* 

knowed 
That  Billy  was  a  trampin'  on  a  mighty  rocky  road, 


HEART  THROBS  49 

But  never  once  imagined  he  would  bow  my  head  in 

shame, 
And  in  the  dust'd  waller  his  old  daddy's  honored  name. 
He  writes  from  out  in  Denver,  and  the  story's  mighty 

short; 
I  jest  can't  tell  his  mother! — It'll  crush  her  poor  ol* 

heart! 
An*  so  I  reckoned,  parson,  you  might  break  the  news 

to  her — 
Bill's  in  the  Legislatur',  but  he  doesn't  say  what  fur! 

James  Barton  Adams. 


A  CHILD'S   LAUGH 

The  laugh  of  a  child  will  make  the  holiest  day  more 
sacred  still.  Strike  with  the  hand  of  fire,  O  weird  musi- 
cian, thy  harp  strung  with  Apollo's  golden  hair;  fill 
the  vast  cathedral  aisles  with  symphonies  sweet  and 
dim,  deft  toucher  of  the  organ  keys;  blow,  bugler,  blow, 
until  the  silver  notes  do  touch  and  kiss  the  moonlit 
waves  and  charm  the  lovers  wandering  'mid  the  vine- 
clad  hills.  But  know  your  sweetest  strains  are  discords 
all  compared  with  childhood's  happy  laugh — the  laugh 
that  fills  the  eyes  with  light  and  every  heart  with  joy. 
O  rippling  river  of  laughter,  thou  art  the  blessed  boundary 
line  between  beasts  and  men,  and  every  wayward  wave 
of  thine  doth  drown  some  fretful  fiend  of  care.  O 
laughter,  rose-lipped  laughter  of  joy,  there  are  dimples 
enough  in  thy  cheeks  to  catch  and  hold  and  glorify 
all  the  tears  of  grief.  Robert  G.  Ingersoll. 


50  HEART  THROBS 


GROWING  OLD 

A  little  more  tired  at  close  of  day, 
A  little  less  anxious  to  have  our  way, 
A  little  less  ready  to  scold  and  blame, 
A  little  more  care  for  a  brother's  name, 
And  so,  we  are  nearing  the  journey's  end, 
Where  time  and  eternity  meet  and  blend. 

A  little  less  care  for  bonds  and  gold, 
A  little  more  zest  in  the  days  of  old, 
A  broader  view  and  a  saner  mind, 
And  a  little  more  love  for  all  mankind, 
And  so,  we  are  faring  adown  the  way 
That  leads  to  the  gates  of  a  better  day. 

A  little  more  love  for  the  friends  of  youth, 
A  little  less  zeal  for  established  truth, 
A  little  more  charity  in  our  views, 
A  little  less  thirst  for  the  daily  news, 
And  so,  we  are  folding  our  tents  away, 
And  passing  in  silence,  at  close  of  day. 

A  little  more  leisure  to  sit  and  dream, 

A  little  more  real  the  things  unseen, 

A  little  nearer  to  those  ahead, 

With  visions  of  those  long-loved  and  dead, 

And  so,  we  are  going  where  all  must  go, 

To  the  place  the  living  may  never  know. 

A  little  more  laughter,  a  few  more  tears, 
And  we  shall  have  told  our  increasing  years; 


HEART  THROBS 


5i 


The  book  is  closed,  and  the  prayers  are  said, 
And  we  are  a  part  of  the  countless  dead. 
Thrice  happy,  if  then  some  soul  can  say, 
"I  live,  because  he  has  passed  my  way." 

Wells 


By  permission. 

noutn  . 

G.  W. 

/ 

n 

G.  W.'s 

Way  back. 

Birthday ; 

B.C., 

Great  man! 

Old  story, 

Hooray! 

Cherry-tree. 

in 

Small  boy, 

Sharp  hatchet ; 

Stern 

sire, 

"You'll  catch  it! 

IV 

V 

"Yes,  dad, 

Stern  sire 

I  did! 

Relents ; 

Can't  lie!" 

Gives  boy 

Brave  kid. 

Ten  cents. 

VI 

We  say 

Since  then, 
"G.  W.!    First  in 
War ;  first  in 
Peace ;  first  in 
The  hearts  of  his  countrymen!  !  !  !  !" 


Anon. 


52  HEART  THROBS 


HOHENLINDEN 

Hohenlinden  (two  German  words  meaning  high  lime  trees)  is 
the  name  of  a  village  in  Bavaria  near  wh  ch  the  Austrians,  under 
the  Archduke  John,  were  defeated  by  the  French  and  Bavarians,, 
under  General  Moreau,  December  3,  1800  A  snowstorm  had  fallen 
in  the  night  before  the  battle,  and  had  hardly  ceased  when  its  first 
movements  began.  It  is  only  by  virtue  of  a  poetical  license  that 
the  river  Iser  (pronounced  ezer)  is  made  a  part  of  the  scenery  of  the 
contest,  as,  in  point  of  fact,  it  is  several  miles  distant. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow; 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 


HEART  THROBS  53 


'Tis  morn ;  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.    On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave! 
Wave,  Munich!  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry! 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

Thomas  Campbell. 

THE  FAMILY 

The  family  is  like  a  book — 

The  children  are  the  leaves, 
The  parents  are  the  covers 

That  protecting  beauty  gives. 

At  first  the  pages  of  the  book 

Are  blank  and  purely  fair, 
But  Time  soon  writeth  memories 

And  painteth  pictures  there. 

Love  is  the  little  golden  clasp 

That  bindeth  up  the  trust ; 
Oh,  break  it  not,  lest  all  the  leaves 

Should  scatter  and  be  lost!  Anon. 


54  HEART  THROBS 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PICTURE 

"The  Story  of  the  Picture"  is  a  poem  that  was  written  concern- 
ing the  picture  "Breaking  Home  Ties"  by  Hovenden.     The  picture 
was  one  of  the  most  popular  in  the  art  exhibit  at  the  World's  , 
Columbian  Exposition  in  1893.     I  enclose  a  copy  as  I  have  never ' 
seen  this  poem  except  the  one  copy  cut  from  a  newspaper  and 
preserved. 

It  hangs  'mong  a  hundred  others 

And  many  grander  far, 
Yet  it  catches  the  eye  from  a  distance 

Like  a  luminous  guiding  star. 
And  I  feel  as  I  pause  before  it 

A  something  stir  in  my  heart, 
Then  I  know,  while  the  tears  are  starting, 

That  this  is  the  truest  art. 

To  show  the  world  how  lovelight 

Transfigures  the  human  face 
The  artist  chose  no  goddess 

With  a  form  of  perfect  grace, 
But  only  a  work-worn  mother 

Whose  boy  is  going  away, 
And  written  on  her  features 

Are  the  words  she  cannot  say. 

Her  lot  has  not  been  as  she  wished  it. 

Just  a  changeless  round  of  care, 
With  none  of  life's  refinements, 

With  hardly  time  for  prayer. 
She  is  anxious  he  should  escape  it, 

Yet  it  seems  that  her  very  heart 


HEART  THROBS  55 


Is  torn  by  the  bitter  trial, 

Now  the  time  has  come  to  part. 

The  boy  stands  in  awkward  silence, 

Ashamed  that  he  wants  to  cry, 
Nor  knows  the  depth  of  the  mother-love 

From  whose  shelter  he  would  fly. 
.  know  that  he  has  in  the  pockets 

Of  his  clothes  that  fit  so  ill, 
Money  she's  saved  and  hoarded 

As  only  a  mother  will. 

The  boy  will  find  in  his  future 

Many  hard  and  homesick  days, 
Ere  he's  fitted  to  new  surroundings, 

To  city  men  and  ways. 
But  I  feel  that  mother's  anguish 

When  at  last  the  time  shall  come 
That  the  lad  in  the  far-off  city 

Ceases  to  sigh  for  home. 

When,  his  horizon  broadened, 

He  feels  he  has  no  part 
In  the  narrow  life  of  the  farmhouse 

Which  used  to  fill  his  heart. 
Then  many  times  the  mother 

Will  watch  from  that  door,  I  trow, 
Hoping  to  see  her  absent  boy, 

Who  comes  so  seldom  now. 

Tonight  as  the  twilight  deepens 

They  will  sit  in  that  darkened  room, 


56  HEART  THROBS 

Each  thinking  of  the  future 

Of  him  who  has  gone  from  home. 

But  at  sunrise  on  the  morrow 
The  farm  work  must  be  done, 

And  there's  more  for  those  remaining, 
Now  that  this  one  is  gone. 

So  then  with  a  sigh  the  mother 

Will  turn  to  her  work  again, 
And  forget  in  the  long  day's  labor 

A  part  of  her  bitter  pain, 
And  the  thrush  will  sing  in  the  elm  tree 

Beside  the  kitchen  door 
Nor  miss  the  cheery  whistle 

Which  answered  her  before. 

Ah,  yes,  the  ties  now  broken 

When  he  starts  on  an  untried  way, 
No  power  can  ever  mend  them 

They  are  severed  now  for  aye. 
O  wizard  of  the  paint  brush, 

In  your  strangely  potent  spell, 
You  have  woven  more  than  fancy 

Or  it  were  not  done  so  well!  Anon. 


THE  IDEAL  LIFE 

.  .  .  "The  ideal  life  is  in  our  blood  and  never  will 
be  still.  We  feel  the  thing  we  ought  to  be  beating 
beneath  the  thing  we  are." 

Bishop  Phillips  Brooks. 


HEART  THROBS  57 

WHAT  IS  A  MINORITY? 

What  is  a  minority?  The  chosen  heroes  of  this  earth 
have  been  in  a  minority.  There  is  not  a  social,  political 
or  religious  privilege  that  you  enjoy  today  that  was  not 
bought  for  you  by  the  blood  and  tears  and  patient  suffer- 
ings of  the  minority.  It  is  the  minority  that  have  vindi- 
cated humanity  in  every  struggle.  It  is  a  minority  that 
have  stood  in  the  van  of  every  moral  conflict,  and 
achieved  all  that  is  noble  in  the  history  of  the  world. 
You  will  find  that  each  generation  has  been  always  busy 
in  gathering  up  the  scattered  ashes  of  the  martyred 
heroes  of  the  past,  to  deposit  them  in  the  golden  urn  of 
a  nation's  history.  Look  at  Scotland,  where  they  are 
erecting  monuments — to  whom? — to  the  Covenanters. 
Ah,  they  were  in  a  minority.  Read  their  history,  if  you 
can,  without  the  blood  tingling  to  the  tips  of  your  fingers. 
These  were  the  minority  that,  through  blood,  and  tears, 
and  bootings  and  scourgings — dyeing  the  waters  with 
their  blood  and  staining  the  heather  with  their  gore — 
fought  the  glorious  battle  of  religious  freedom.  Minor- 
ity! if  a  man  stand  up  for  the  right,  though  the  right  be 
on  the  scaffold,  while  the  wrong  sits  in  the  seat  of  govern- 
ment; if  he  stand  for  the  right,  though  he  eat,  with  the 
right  and  truth,  a  wretched  crust ;  if  he  walk  with  obloquy 
and  scorn  in  the  by-lanes  and  streets,  while  falsehood 
and  wrong  ruffle  it  in  silken  attire,  let  him  remember 
that  wherever  the  right  and  truth  are,  there  are  always 

"Troops  of  beautiful  tall  angels" 

gathered  round  him,  and  God  himself  stands  within  the 


58  HEART  THROBS 

dim  future,  and  keeps  watch  over  his  own:  If  a  man 
stands  for  the  right  and  the  truth,  though  every  man's 
finger  be  pointed  at  him,  though  every  woman's  lip  be 
curled  at  him  in  scorn,  he  stands  in  a  majority;  for 
God  and  good  angels  are  with  him,  and  greater  are  they 
that  are  for  him  than  all  they  that  be  against  him. 

/.  B.  Gough. 


THE  HOUSE  BY  THE  SIDE  OF  THE  ROAD 

"He  was  a  friend  to  man,  and  lived  in  a 
house  by  the  side  of  the  road." — Homer. 

This  selection  was  sent  in  by  a  larger  number  of  persons  than 
any  other  in  "Heart  Throbs,"  Volume  Two. 

There  are  hermit  souls  that  live  withdrawn 

In  the  peace  of  their  self-content ; 
There  are  souls,  like  stars,  that  dwell  apart, 

In  a  fellowless  firmament : 
There  are  pioneer  souls  that  blaze  their  paths 

Where  the  highways  never  ran ; — 
But  let  me  live  in  a  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

Let  me  live  in  a  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

Where  the  race  of  men  go  by — 
The  men  who  are  good,  and  the  men  who  are  bad, 

As  good  and  as  bad  as  I. 
I  would  not  sit  in  the  scorner's  seat, 

Or  hurl  the  cynic's  ban; 


HEART  THROBS 59 

Let  me  live  in  a  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 
And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

I  see  from  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

By  the  side  of  the  highway  of  life, 
The  men  who  press  with  the  ardor  of  hope, 

The  men  who  are  faint  with  the  strife. 
But  I  turn  not  away  from  their  smiles  nor  their  tears— 

Both  parts  of  an  infinite  plan; 
Let  me  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

I  know  there  are  brook-gladdened  meadows  ahead, 

And  mountains  of  wearisome  height ; 
That  the  road  passes  on  through  the  long  afternoon, 

And  stretches  away  to  the  night. 
But  still  I  rejoice  when  the  travelers  rejoice, 

And  weep  with  the  strangers  that  moan, 
Nor  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

Like  a  man  who  dwells  alone. 

Let  me  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

Where  the  race  of  men  go  by — ■ 
They  are  good,  they  are  bad,  they  are  weak,  they  are 
strong, 

Wise,  foolish — so  am  I. 
Then  why  should  I  sit  in  the  scorner's  seat, 

Or  hurl  the  cynic's  ban? — 
Let  me  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 


Sam  Walter  Foss. 


From  "  Dreams  in  Homespun,"  copyright. 

By  permission  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Company. 


60  HEART  THROBS 


WHAT   IS   HOME   WITHOUT  A  MOTHER? 

What  is  home  without  a  mother? 

What  are  all  the  loving  joys  we  meet? 
When  her  loving  smile  no  longer 

Greets  the  coming  of  our  feet. 
The  days  seem  long,  the  nights  seem  drear, 

And  time  rolls  slowly  on, 
And,  oh!  how  few  are  childhood's  pleasures 

When  her  gentle  care  is  gone. 

Things  we  prize  are  first  to  vanish, 

Hearts  we  love  to  pass  away; 
And  how  soon,  e'en  in  our  childhood, 

We  behold  her  turning  gray; 
Her  eye  grows  dim,  her  step  is  slow; 

Her  joys  of  earth  are  past; 
And  sometimes  ere  we  learn  to  know  her, 

She  hath  breathed  on  earth  her  last. 

Older  hearts  may  have  their  sorrows, 

Griefs  that  quickly  die  away, 
But  a  mother  lost  in  childhood, 

Grieves  the  heart  from  day  to  day; 
We  miss  her  kind,  her  willing  hand, 

Her  fond  and  honest  care; 
And,  oh,  how  dark  is  life  around  us! 

What  is  home  without  her  care? 

Alice  Hawthorne. 


HEART  THROBS  61 


THE  BATTLE  FLAG  OF  EARL  SIGURD 

Earl  Sigurd  fell  in  battle  against  Brian  Boru,  King  of  Ireland,  at 
Clontarf,  about  A.  D.  1011.  The  flag  bore  a  raven  and  was  believed 
to  ensure  victory  to  its  followers,  but  death  to  its  bearer.  The 
Earl  himself  was  its  last  standard  bearer  at  Clontarf,  where  he 
was  killed  with  a  great  following,  having  ever  before  been  victorious 
in  all  his  battles. 

I  have  no  folded  flock  to  show; 

Though  from  my  youth  I  have  loved  the  sheep 
And  the  lambs  as  they  fed  in  the  pastures  low, 

Or  climbed  the  mountain  pastures  steep; 

There  were  none  given  to  me  to  keep. 
I  stood  on  the  hill  when  the  morn  broke  red, 

Through  the  darkling  glen,  the  foe  drew  nigh; 
They  came  on  swift  with  a  stealthy  tread; 

I  gave  the  earliest  warning  cry. 
Then  fell  the  falchion,  the  arrow  flew; 

I  did  not  fight,  nor  yield,  nor  fly, 
But  held  up  the  flag  the  whole  day  through; 

Wrap  it  around  me  when  I  die. 

I  have  no  garnered  sheaf  to  show, 

Though  oft,  with  my  shining  sickle  bared, 

I  have  led  the  reapers,  row  on  row, 

And  joined  the  shout  as  we  homeward  fared — 
I  was  not  by  when  the  land  was  shared. 

I  saw  at  morn,  when  the  Maidens  Dread 

Came  forth  ere  the  battle  to  choose  the  slain, 

And  at  evening  the  raven's  beak  was  red, 

And  the  ravening  wolves  were  met  on  the  plain. 


62  HEART  THROBS 

Then  hewed  the  hanger,  the  sword  smote  sore, 
I  held  up  the  flag  till  the  day  went  by; 

It  was  glued  to  my  straining  clasp  with  gore — 
Wrap  it  around  me  when  I  die. 

I  have  no  gorgeous  spoil  to  show; 

No  torque  of  the  beaten  gold,  no  red, 
Rich,  broidered  garment,  wrung  from  the  foe, 

Or  flung  down  by  chief  as  the  vanquished  fled— • 

I  have  only  watched  and  toiled  and  bled. 
I  stand  at  eve  on  the  galley's  prow; 

My  side  is  wounded,  and  I  have  striven 
So  long  that  my  arm  is  wearied  now, 

And  the  flag  that  it  holds  is  stained  and  riven. 
The  night  winds  murmur,  the  dank  dews  fall 

On  a  sullen  sea  from  an  angry  sky; 
I  held  up  the  flag  in  the  sight  of  all; 

Wrap  it  around  me  when  I  die. 

Author  unknown. 


HOPE 


There  is  no  grave  on  earth's  broad  chart 

But  has  some  bird  to  cheer  it; 
So  hope  sings  on  in  every  breast, 

Although  we  may  not  hear  it; 
And  if  today  the  heavy  wing 

Of  sorrow  is  oppressing, 
Perchance  tomorrow's  sun  may  bring 

The  weary  heart  a  blessing.  Anon. 


HEART  THROBS  63 


GOOD-MORNING 

Good-morning,  Brother  Sunshine; 

Good-morning,  Sister  Song. 
I  beg  your  humble  pardon 

If  you've  waited  very  long. 
I  thought  I  heard  you  rapping; 

To  shut  you  out  were  sin. 
My  heart  is  standing  open ; 
Won't  you 
walk 
right 
in? 

Good-morning,  Brother  Gladness; 

Good-morning,  Sister  Smile. 
They  told  me  you  were  coming, 

So  I  waited  on  a  while ; 
I'm  lonesome  here  without  you; 

A  weary  while  it's  been. 
My  heart  is  standing  open; 
Won't  you 
walk 
right 
in? 

Good-morning,  Brother  Kindness; 

Good-morning,  Sister  Cheer. 
I  heard  you  were  out  calling, 

So  I  waited  for  you  here. 


84  HEART  THROBS 

Some  way  I  keep  forgetting 

I  have  to  toil  and  spin 
When  you  are  my  companions; 
Won't  you 
walk 
right 

m?  J.  W.  Foley. 

By  permission. 


HUNGERING   HEARTS 

Some  hearts  go  hungering  thro'  the  world 
And  never  find  the  love  they  seek. 

Some  lips  with  pride  or  scorn  are  curled 
To  hide  the  pain  they  may  not  speak. 

The  eyes  may  flash,  the  mouth  may  smile — 

And  yet  beneath  them  all  the  while 
The  hungering  heart  is  pining  still. 
// 

These  know  their  doom  and  walk  their  way 

With  level  steps  and  steadfast  eyes 
Nor  strive  with  fate,  nor  weep,  nor  pray, 

While  others  not  so  sadly  wise 
Are  mocked  by  phantoms  evermore 

And  lured  by  seemings  of  delight — 
P'vb:  to  the  eye  but  at  the  core 

Holding  but  bitter  dust  and  blight. 


HEART  THROBS  65 

/// 

I  see  them  gaze  from  wistful  eyes 

I  mark  their  sign  on  fading  cheeks 
I  hear  them  breathe  in  smothered  sighs 

And  note  the  grief  that  never  speaks. 
No  eye  with  pity  is  impearled, 

O  misconstrued  and  suffering  long, 
O  hearts  that  hunger  through  the  world! 

IV 

For  you  does  life's  dull  desert  hold 

No  fountain's  shade,  no  date  grove  fair, 
Nor  gush  of  waters  clear  and  cold, 

But  sandy  reaches  wide  and  bare, 
The  foot  may  fail,  the  soul  may  faint, 

And  weigh  to  earth  the  weary  frame, 
Yet  still  ye  make  no  weak  complaint 

And  speak  no  word  of  grief  or  blame. 


O  eager  eyes,  which  gaze  afar, 

O  arms  which  clasp  the  empty  air, 
Not  all  unmarked  your  sorrows  are, 

Not  all  unpitied  your  despair. 
Smile,  patient  lips,  so  proudly  dumb) — 

When  life's  tent  at  last  is  furled 
Your  glorious  recompense  shall  come, 

O  hearts  that  hunger  through  the  world! 

Author  unknown. 


66  HEART  THROBS 


THE  OLD  BACHELORS'  SALE 

I  dreamed  a  dream  in  the  midst  of  my  slumbers, 
And  as  fast  as  I  dreamed  it  was  coined  into  numbers, 
My  thoughts  ran  along  in  such  beautiful  meter, 
I'm  sure  I  ne'er  saw  any  poetry  sweeter. 

It  seemed  that  a  law  had  been  recently  made 
That  a  tax  on  old  bachelors'  pates  should  be  laid, 
And  in  order  to  make  them  all  willing  to  marry, 
The  tax  was  as  large  as  a  man  could  well  carry. 

The  bachelors  grumbled  and  said  'twas  no  use, 

'Twas  horrid  injustice  and  horrid  abuse, 

And  declared  that  to  save  their  own  hearts'  blood  from 

spilling, 
Of  such  a  vile  tax  they  would  not  pay  a  shilling. 

But  the  rulers  determined  them  still  to  pursue, 
So  they  set  all  the  old  bachelors  up  at  vendue ; 
A  crier  was  sent  through  the  town  to  and  fro, 
To  rattle  his  bell  and  his  trumpet  to  blow. 
And  to  call  out  to  all  he  might  meet  in  his  way: 
"Ho!  forty  old  bachelors  sold  here  today!" 

And  presently  all  the  old  maids  in  the  town 
Each  in  her  very  best  bonnet  and  gown, 
From  thirty  to  sixty,  fair,  plain,  red  and  pale, 
Of  every  description,  all  flocked  to  the  sale. 

The  auctioneer  then  in  his  labor  began, 
And  called  out  aloud,  as  he  held  up  a  man, 


HEART  THROBS  67 

"How  much  for  a  bachelor?    Who  wants  to  buy?" 

In  a  twinkle  every  lady  responded,  "I!     I!" 

In  short,  at  a  highly  extravagant  price, 

The  bachelors  were  all  sold  off  in  a  trice. 

And  forty  old  maids — some  younger,  some  older — 

Each  lugged  an  old  bachelor  home  on  her  shoulder. 

Anon, 


THE   OLD  SONG 

A  new  song  should  be  sweetly  sung, 

It  goes  but  to  the  ear; 
A  new  song  should  be  sweetly  sung, 

For  it  touches  no  one  near. 
But  an  old  song  may  be  roughly  sung; 

The  ear  forgets  its  art, 
As  rises  from  the  rudest  tongue 

The  tribute  to  the  heart. 

On  tented  fields  'tis  welcome  still; 

'Tis  sweet  on  the  stormy  sea, 
In  forests  wild,  on  lonely  hill, 

And  away  on  the  prairie  lea. 
But  dearer  far  the  old  sweet  song 

When  friends  we  love  are  nigh, 
And  well-known  voices,  clear  and  strong, 

Ring  out  the  chorus  cry. 

Quoted  by  Dr.  S.  Weir  Mitchell. 


68  HEART  THROBS 


THE   WANTS   OF   MAN 

"Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 
'Tis  not  with  me  exactly  so ; 

But  'tis  so  in  the  song. 
My  wants  are  many  and,  if  told, 

Would  muster  many  a  score ; 
And  were  each  wish  a  mint  of  gold, 

I  still  should  long  for  more. 


I  want  (who  does  not  want?)  a  wife 

Affectionate  and  fair; 
To  solace  all  the  woes  of  life, 

And  all  its  joys  to  share. 
Of  temper  sweet,  of  yielding  will, 

Of  firm,  yet  placid  mind, — 
With  all  my  faults  to  love  me  still 

With  sentiment  refined. 


I  want  a  warm  and  faithful  friend, 

To  cheer  the  adverse  hour ; 
Who  ne'er  to  flatter  will  descend, 

Nor  bend  the  knee  to  power, — 
A  friend  to  chide  me  when  I'm  wrong, 

My  inmost  soul  to  see ; 
And  that  my  friendship  prove  as  strong 

For  him  as  his  for  me. 


HEART   THROBS 69 

I  want  the  seals  of  power  and  place, 

The  ensigns  of  command ; 
Charged  by  the  People's  unbought  grace 

To  rule  my  native  land. 
Nor  crown  nor  sceptre  would  I  ask 

But  from  my  country's  will, 
By  day,  by  night,  to  ply  the  task 

Her  cup  of  bliss  to  fill. 

These  are  the  Wants  of  mortal  Man, — ■ 

I  cannot  want  them  long, 
For  life  itself  is  but  a  span, 

And  earthly  bliss — a  song. 
My  last  great  Want — absorbing  all — ■ 

Is,  when  beneath  the  sod, 
And  summoned  to  my  final  call, 

The  Mercy  of  my  God. 

John  Quincy  Adams. 
Washington,  August  31,  1841. 


THE   COMFORTS   OF   FRIENDSHIP 

Oh,  the  comfort,  the  inexpressible  comfort  of  feeling 

safe  with  a  person — having  neither  to  weigh  thought 

nor  measure  words,   but  pouring   them   all   right   out 

just  as  they  are,  chaff  and  grain  together;    as  certain 

that  a  faithful  hand  will  take  and  sift  them,  keep  what 

is  worth  keeping,  and  with  the  breath  of  comfort  blow 

the  rest  away.  A 

Anon. 


70  HEART  THROBS 


THE  DISCONTENTED  PENDULUM 

An  old  clock,  that  had  stood  for  fifty  years  in  a 
farmer's  kitchen  without  giving  its  owner  any  cause 
of  complaint,  early  one  summer's  morning,  before  the 
family  was  stirring,  suddenly  stopped.  Upon  this  the 
dial  plate  (if  we  may  credit  the  fable)  changed  counte- 
nance with  alarm;  the  hands  made  an  ineffectual  effort 
to  continue  their  course;  the  wheels  remained  motion- 
less with  surprise;  the  weights  hung  speechless;  each 
member  felt  disposed  to  lay  the  blame  on  the  others. 
At  length  the  dial  instituted  a  formal  inquiry  into  the 
cause  of  the  stagnation;  when  hands,  wheels,  weights 
with  one  voice  protested  their  innocence.  But  now  a 
faint  tick  was  heard  below,  from  the  pendulum,  who 
thus  spoke: 

"I  confess  myself  to  be  the  sole  cause  of  the  present 
stoppage;  and  am  willing,  for  the  general  satisfaction, 
to  assign  my  reasons.  The  truth  is,  that  I  am  tired  of 
ticking."  Upon  hearing  this,  the  old  clock  became  so 
enraged  that  it  was  on  the  point  of  striking. 

"Lazy  wire!"  exclaimed  the  dial  plate,  holding  up 
its  hands. 

"Very  good,"  replied  the  pendulum,  "it  is  vastly 
easy  for  you,  Mistress  Dial,  who  have  always,  as  every- 
body knows,  set  yourself  up  above  me — it  is  vastly 
easy  for  you,  I  say,  to  accuse  other  people  of  laziness! 
You  who  have  nothing  to  do  all  your  life  but  to  stare 
people  in  the  face,  and  to  amuse  yourself  with  watching 
all  that  goes  on  in  the  kitchen!    Think,  I  beseech  you, 


HEART  THROBS  71 

how  you  would  like  to  be  shut  up  for  life  in  this  dark 
closet,  and  wag  backwards  and  forwards  year  after 
year,  as  I  do." 

"As  to  that,"  said  the  dial,  "is  there  not  a  window 
in  your  house  on  purpose  for  you  to  look  through?" 

"For  all  that,"  resumed  the  pendulum,  "it  is  very 
dark  here;  and  although  there  is  a  window,  I  dare  not 
stop,  even  for  an  instant,  to  look  out.  Besides,  I  am 
really  weary  of  my  way  of  life;  and,  if  you  please,  I'll 
tell  you  how  I  took  this  disgust  at  my  employment. 
This  morning  I  happened  to  be  calculating  how  many 
times  I  should  have  to  tick  in  the  course  only  of  the  next 
twenty-four  hours;  perhaps  some  of  you,  above  there, 
can  tell  me  the  exact  sum?"  The  minute-hand,  being 
quick  at  figures,  instantly  replied,  "Eighty-six  thousand 
four  hundred  times." 

"Exactly  so,"  replied  the  pendulum;  "well,  I  appeal 
to  you  all  if  the  thought  of  this  was  not  enough  to 
fatigue  one?  And  when  I  began  to  multiply  the  strokes 
of  one  day  by  those  of  months  and  years,  really  it  is 
no  wonder  if  I  felt  discouraged  at  the  prospect;  so, 
after  a  great  deal  of  reasoning  and  hesitation,  thinks 
I  to  myself— 'I'll  stop!'  " 

The  dial  could  scarcely  keep  its  countenance  during 
this  harangue,  but  resuming  its  gravity,  thus  replied: 

"Dear  Mr.  Pendulum,  I  am  really  astonished  that 
such  a  useful,  industrious  person  as  yourself  should 
have  been  overcome  by  this  sudden  suggestion.  It  is 
true,  you  have  done  a  great  deal  of  work  in  your  time. 
So  have  we  all,  and  are  likely  to  do;    and  although 


72  HEART  THROBS 

this  may  fatigue  us  to  //jirc&  of,  the  question  is,  whether 
it  will  fatigue  us  to  do;  would  you  now  do  me  the  favor 
to  give  about  half  a  dozen  strokes,  to  illustrate  my 
argument?" 

The  pendulum  complied,  and  ticked  six  times  at 
its  usual  pace.  "Now,"  resumed  the  dial,  "may  I  be 
allowed  to  enquire  if  that  exertion  was  at  all  fatiguing 
or  disagreeable  to  you?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  replied  the  pendulum;  "it  is 
not  of  six  strokes  that  I  complain,  nor  of  sixty,  but 
of  millions.'' 

"Very  good,"  replied  the  dial;  "but  recollect,  that, 
although  you  may  think  of  a  million  strokes  in  an  instant, 
you  are  required  to  execute  but  one;  and  that,  however 
often  you  may  hereafter  have  to  swing,  a  moment  will 
always  be  given  you  to  swing  in." 

"That  consideration  staggers  me,  I  confess,"  said 
the  pendulum. 

"Then  I  hope,"  added  the  dial  plate,  "we  shall  all 
immediately  return  to  our  duty;  for  the  maids  will  lie 
in  bed  till  noon  if  we  stand  idling  thus." 

Upon  this  the  weights,  who  had  never  been  accused 
of  light  conduct,  used  all  their  influence  in  urging  him 
to  proceed;  when,  as  with  one  consent,  the  wheels 
,began  to  turn,  the  hands  began  to  move,  the  pendulum 
began  to  wag,  and,  to  its  credit,  ticked  as  loud  as  ever; 
while  a  beam  of  the  rising  sun,  that  streamed  through 
a  hole  in  the  kitchen  shutter,  shining  full  upon  the 
dial  plate,  it  brightened  up  as  if  nothing  had  been  the 
matter. 


HEART  THROBS  73 


When  the  farmer  came  down  to  breakfast,  he  de- 
clared, upon  looking  at  the  clock,  that  his  watch  had 
gained  half  an  hour  in  the  night.  Jane  Taylor. 


THE   ECHO   OF  A   SONG 

To  my  fancy,  idly  roaming,  comes  a  picture  of  the 
gloaming, 
Comes  a  fragrance  from  the  blossoms  of  the  lilac 
and  the  rose ; 
With  the  yellow  lamplight  streaming  I  am  sitting  here 
and  dreaming 
Of  a  half-forgotten  twilight  whence  a  mellow  memory 
flows ; 
To  my  listening  ears  come  winging  vagrant  notes  of 
woman's  singing; 
I've  a  sense  of  sweet  contentment  as  the  sounds  are 
borne  along; 
'Tis  a  mother  who  is  tuning  her  fond  heart  to  love  and 
crooning 
To  her  laddie  such  a 

Sleepy  little 

Creepy  little 

Song. 

Ah,  how  well  do  I  remember  when  by  crackling  spark 

and  ember 
The  old-fashioned  oaken  rocker  moved  with  rhythmic 

sweep  and  slow; 
With  her  feet  upon  the  fender,  in  a  cadence  low  and 

tender, 


74  HEART  THROBS 

, ■ 

Floated  forth  that  slumber  anthem  of  a  childhood 
long  ago. 
There  were  goblins  in  the  gloaming,  and  the  half-closed 
eyes  went  roaming 
Through  the  twilight  for  the  ghostly  shapes  of  bugaboos 
along ; 
Now  the  sandman's  slyly  creeping  and  a  tired  lad's  half 
sleeping, 
When  she  sings  to  him  that 
Sleepy  little 

Creepy  little 

Song. 

So  I'm  sitting  here  and  dreaming  with  the  mellow  lamp- 
light streaming 
Through   the   vine-embowered   window   in   a   yellow 
filigree, 
On  the  fragrant  air  come   winging   vagrant   notes  of 
woman's  singing, 
'Tis  the  slumber  song  of  childhood  that  is  murmuring 
to  me, 
And  some  subtle  fancy  creeping  lulls  my  senses  half  to 
sleeping 
As  the  misty  shapes  of  bugaboos  go  dreamily  along, 
All  my  sorrows  disappearing,  as  a  tired  lad  I'm  hearing 
Once  again  my  mother's 
Sleepy  little 

Creepy  little 

Song. 

By  permission.  •'•    "  .  POiey. 


HEART  THROBS  75 


A   NAME   IN   THE   SAND 

Alone  I  walked  the  ocean  strana, 

A  pearly  shell  was  in  my  hand, 

I  stooped,  and  wrote  upon  the  sand 

My  name,  the  year,  the  day. 
As  onward  from  the  spot  I  passed, 
One  lingering  look  behind  I  cast, 
A  wave  came  rolling  high  and  fast, 

And  washed  my  lines  away. 

And  so,  methought,  'twill  shortly  be 
With  every  mark  on  earth  from  me. 
A  wave  of  dark  oblivious  sea 

Will  sweep  across  the  place 
Where  I  have  trod  the  sandy  shore 
Of  time,  and  been  to  be  no  more; 
Of  me,  my  frame,  the  name  I  bore 

To  leave  no  track  nor  trace. 

And  yet,  with  Him  who  counts  the  sands, 
And  holds  the  waters  in  His  hands, 
I  know  a  lasting  record  stands 

Inscribed  against  my  name 
Of  all  this  mortal  part  has  wrought, 
Of  all  this  thinking  soul  has  thought, 
And  from  these  fleeting  moments  caught 

For  glory  or  for  shame. 

Hannah  Flagg  Gould 


76  HEART  THROBS 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 
"Drowned!  Drowned!" — Hamlet. 

One  more  Unfortunate, 

Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 

Gone  to  her  death! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care, — 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements ; 

Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing ; 

Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her. 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  undutiful: 


HEART  THROBS  77 


Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

•  •  •  • 

Who  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas!  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun! 
Oh!  it  was  pitiful! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 

•  •  •  • 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

•  •  •  • 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care; 


78  HEART  THROBS 


Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

•  •  •  • 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour! 

Thomas  Hood. 


LYRA   INCANTATA 

Within  a  castle  haunted, 
As  castles  were  of  old, 
There  hung  a  harp  enchanted, 
And  on  its  rim  of  gold 
This  legend  was  enscrolled : 
"Whatever  bard  would  win  me, 
Must  strike  and  wake  within  me, 
By  one  supreme  endeavor 
A  chord  that  sounds  forever." 

Three  bards  of  lyre  and  viol, 

By  mandate  of  the  king, 
Were  bidden  to  the  trial 
To  find  the  magic  string, 
(If  there  were  such  a  thing). 
Then,  after  much  essaying 
Of  tuning,  came  the  playing; 
And  lords  and  ladies  splendid 
Watched  as  those  bards  contended. 


HEART  THROBS  79 

The  first — a  minstrel  hoary, 

Who  many  a  rhyme  had  spun— • 

Sang  loud  of  war  and  glory — 
Of  battles  fought  and  won; 
But  when  his  song  was  done, 

Although  the  bard  was  lauded, 

And  clapping  hands  applauded, 

Yet,  spite  of  the  laudation 

The  harp  ceased  its  vibration. 

The  second  changed  the  measure 
And  turned  from  fire  and  sword 

To  sing  a  song  of  pleasure — 
The  wine-cup  and  the  board — 
Till,  at  the  wit,  all  roared. 

And  the  high  walls  resounded 

With  merriment  unbounded! 

The  harp — loud  as  the  laughter 

Grew  hushed  at  that,  soon  after. 

The  third,  in  lover's  fashion, 

And  with  his  soul  on  fire, 
Then  sang  of  love's  pure  passion — 

The  heart  and  its  desire! 

And,  as  he  smote  the  wire, 
The  listeners,  gathering  round  him, 
Caught  up  a  wreath  and  crowned  him, 
The  crown — hath  faded  never! 
The  harp — resounds  forever! 

Theodore  Tilton. 


80  HEART  THROBS 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE 

Circumstantial  evidence  caused  a  death  sentence 
to  be  pronounced  on  a  dog  at  a  west  side  truck  farm 
recently.  The  incident  only  goes  to  show  how  easy 
it  is  to  convict  even  the  innocent.  The  farmer  owned  a 
collie  named  Maje,  of  which  he  was  unusually  fond. 
For  some  weeks  he  had  been  missing  eggs  from  his 
henhouse,  but  could  not  discover  the  thief.  Egg  shells 
would  be  found  in  the  nests  every  day,  and  with  fresh 
eggs  bringing  forty  cents  a  dozen  the  farmer  realized 
his  loss  and  finally  suspected  Maje.  A  close  watch  was 
kept  on  the  chicken  house  and  one  day  the  farmer  saw 
the  dog  sneaking  stealthily  along  toward  the  half-open 
door  of  the  chicken  house.  In  a  few  minutes  it  came 
out  again. 

The  farmer  went  into  the  house  and  there  found 
many  egg  shells.  Evidence  was  indisputable,  and  the  pet 
collie  was  ordered  shot.  The  day  following  the  execu- 
tion every  egg  in  the  chicken  house  was  eaten.  The 
farmer  then  started  another  investigation.  Beneath 
the  floor  of  an  abandoned  smokehouse  he  discovered 
the  home  of  a  weasel  and  half  a  dozen  young  ones. 
A  trap  was  set,  the  mother  weasel  was  caught  and 
killed  and  the  young  ones  afterward  captured.  No 
eggs  have  since  been  missing,  and  the  farmer  grieves 
for  the  loss  of  his  dog. 

"Maje  never  touched  an  egg,"  said  the  farmer.  "He 
was  in  the  henhouse  trying  to  catch  that  weasel,  and 
the  poor  fellow  died  because  the  circumstantial  evidence 


HEART  THROBS  81 


against  him  was  positive.     It  would  never  do  for 
juror  to  try  a  man  for  murder  on  such  evidence." 

Chicago   News. 


THE  RELIGION  OF  THE  WORLD 

Two  Scots,  Donald  and  Duncan,  were  carried  out 
from  shore  in  a  sudden  storm,  and  lost  their  way  in  the 
swirling  waters.  When  the  waves  began  to  wash  over 
their  frail  little  boat,  Duncan  cried  out: 

"Donald,  you  maun  pray!" 

"I  cawn't  pray."     (Forcibly.) 

They  bent  to  the  oars,  but  failed  to  turn  the  boat 
against  the  blinding  waves,  and  Duncan  commanded 
fiercely: 

"Donald,  you  maun  pray!" 

"I  cawn't  pray!"     (With  awful  emphasis.) 

Then  Duncan's  voice  rose  above  the  storm. 

"Dom  it,  you've  got  to!" 

Then  Donald  got  to  his  knees  as  well  as  he  could  in 
the  rocking  boat,  and  raised  his  voice  to  a  shout. 

"O  Lord,  it  ha'  been  fifteen  year  sence  I  ha'  awsked 
anything  at  Thy  hands!  And,  if  thou  wilt  take  this 
boat  safe  to  shore,  it  will  be  fifteen  more  before  I  will 
pother  thee  again!" 

Just  then  the  boat  touched  the  shore,  and  Duncan 

called  out  to  him,  "There,  Donald,  that  will  do!    Don't 

ye  be  beholden  to  nobody.    The  boat's  already  to  the 

shore!" 

William  Black. 


82  HEART  THROBS 

A  WASTED  DAY 

The  day  is  done, 
And  I,  alas,  have  wrought  no  good, 

Performed  no  worthy  task  of  thought  or  deed, 

Albeit  small  my  power,  and  great  my  need, 
I  have  not  done  the  little  that  I  could. 
With  shame  o'er  forfeit  hours  I  brood — 

The  day  is  done. 

One  step  behind, 
One  step  through  all  eternity — 

Thus  much  to  lack  of  what  I  might  have  been, 

Because  the  temptress  of  my  life  stole  in, 
And  rapt  a  golden  day  away  from  me! 
My  highest  height  can  never  be — 

One  step  behind. 

I  cannot  tell 
What  good  I  might  have  done,  this  day, 

Of  thought  or  deed,  that  still,  when  I  am  gone, 

Had  long,  long  years  gone  singing  on  and  on, 
Like  some  sweet  fountain  by  the  dusty  way, 
Perhaps  some  word  that  God  would  say — 

I  cannot  tell! 

O  life  of  light, 
That  goest  out,  I  know  not  where, 

Beyond  night's  silent  and  mysterious  shore, 

To  write  thy  record  there  forevermore, 
Take  on  thy  shining  wings  a  hope,  a  prayer — 
That  henceforth  I  unfaltering  fare 

Toward  life  and  light.  James  Buckham. 


HEART  THROBS  83 


TWO   OF   THEM 

In  the  farmhouse  porch  the  farmer  sat, 
With  his  daughter  having  a  cozy  chat ; 
She  was  his  only  child,  and  he 
Thought  her  as  fair  as  a  girl  could  be. 
A  wee  bit  jealous  the  old  man  grew 
If  he  fancied  any  might  come  to  woo; 
His  one  pet  lamb  and  her  loving  care 
He  wished  with  nobody  else  to  share. 

"There  should  be  two  of  you,  child,"  said  he— 
"There  should  be  two  to  welcome  me 
When  I  come  home  from  the  field  at  night ; 
Two  would  make  the  old  homestead  bright. 
There's  Neighbor  Grey  with  his  children  four, 
To  be  glad  together.    Had  /  one  more 
A  proud  old  father  I'd  be,  my  dear, 
With  two  good  children  to  greet  me  here." 

Down  by  the  gate  'neath  the  old  elm  tree 
Donald  waited  alone ;  and  she 
For  whom  he  waited  his  love-call  heard, 
And  on  either  cheek  the  blushes  stirred. 
"Father,"  she  said,  and  knelt  her  down, 
And  kissed  the  hand  that  was  old  and  brown, 
"Father,  there  may  be  two,  if  you  will, 
And  I — your  only  daughter  still. 

"Two  to  welcome  you  home  at  night; 
Two  to  make  the  old  homestead  bright; 


84  HEART  THROBS 

I — and  somebody  else."     "I  see," 

Said  the  farmer;  "and  whom  may  'somebody'  be?'' 

Oh,  the  dimples  in  Bessie's  cheek, 

That  played  with  blushes  at  hide-and-seek! 

Away  from  his  gaze  she  turned  her  head, 

"One  of  Neighbor  Grey's  children,"  she  said. 

"H'm!"  said  the  farmer,  "make  it  plain; 
Is  it  Susan,  Alice,  or  Mary  Jane?" 
Another  kiss  on  the  aged  hand, 
To  help  the  farmer  to  understand  (?) 
"H'm!"  said  the  farmer,  "yes;  I  see — 
It  is  two  for  yourself  and  one  for  me." 
But  Bessie  said,  "There  can  be  but  one 
For  me  and  my  heart  till  life  is  done." 

Harper's  Weekly. 


EPITAPH 
Epitaph  placed  on  the  tomb  of  his  wife  by  Mark  Twain. 

Warm  summer  sun, 

Shine  kindly  here. 
Warm  southern  wind 

Blow  softly  here. 

Green  sod  above 

Lie  light,  lie  light. 
Good-night,  dear  heart, 

Good-night,  good-night. 


HEART  THROBS  85 


NEVER  GIVE  UP 

Never  give  up!  it  is  wiser  and  better 

Always  to  hope,  than  once  to  despair; 
Fling  off  the  load  of  Doubt's  cankering  fetter, 

And  break  the  dark  spell  of  tyrannical  Care. 
Never  give  up!  or  the  burden  may  sink  you; 

Providence  kindly  has  mingled  the  cup, 
And  in  all  trials  or  troubles,  bethink  you, 

The  watchword  of  life  must  be,  "Never  give  up!" 

Never  give  up!  there  are  chances  and  changes 

Helping  the  hopeful  a  hundred  to  one, 
And  through  the  chaos  High  Wisdom  arranges 

Ever  success, — if  you'll  only  hope  on: 
Never  give  up!  for  the  wisest  is  boldest, 

Knowing  that  Providence  mingles  the  cup, 
And  of  all  maxims  the  best,  as  the  oldest 

Is  the  true  watchword  of  "Never  give  up!" 

Never  give  up!  though  the  grapeshot  may  rattle, 

Or  the  full  thundercloud  over  you  burst, 
Stand  like  a  rock, — and  the  storm  or  the  battle 

Little  shall  harm  you,  though  doing  their  worst} 
Never  give  up!  if  adversity  presses, 

Providence  wisely  has  mingled  the  cup, 
And  the  best  counsel,  in  all  your  distresses, 

Is  the  stout  watchword  of  "Never  give  up!" 

Martin  Farquhar  Tupper. 


86  HEART  THROBS 


A   THIRSTY   BOY 

I  saw  the  boy  who  wanted  a  drink — a  restless, 
questioning,  uneasy,  thirsty  boy.  He  let  the  window 
fall  on  his  fingers  before  the  train  had  gone  a  mile.  He 
stood  out  on  the  platform  until  he  was  incrusted  two 
inches  deep  with  ashes  and  dust  and  cinders.  He  went 
to  the  water  cooler  and  got  a  drink ;  then  he  came  back 
and  told  his  mother  he  was  hot  and  went  back  and  got 
another  drink.  He  drank  about  four  times  per  mile, 
seldom  oftener,  unless  he  was  seized  with  a  sudden, 
uncontrollable  spasm  of  thirst,  If  he  was  drinking, 
and  somebody  else  came  after  a  drink,  the  boy  would 
suddenly  seize  the  cup  he  had  just  set  down  and  refill 
it,  and  drink  as  though  he  had  wrapped  his  stomach  in 
the  Desert  of  Sahara,  glaring  suspiciously  over  the  top 
of  the  cup  at  the  waiting  passenger  as  he  drank. 

When  he  was  in  his  seat  he  watched  the  aisle  nar- 
rowly, and  if  he  saw  any  passenger  get  up  and  move 
toward  the  water-cooler,  he  would  jump  up  and  race 
for  it.  If  he  got  there  first,  he  would  drink  and  snore 
over  the  cup  until  the  thirsty  traveller  forgot  what  he 
went  down  there  after.  People  began  to  wonder  how 
much  the  boy  was  gauged  for,  and  if  he  wasn't  rather 
straining  his  capacity.  The  remotest  hint  or  suggestion 
was  enough  to  send  him  back  to  the  cooler.  When  the 
train  ran  over  a  creek,  the  water  made  him  think  of 
his  thirst.  When  it  rattled  over  a  long  stretch  of  dry 
prairie,  the  absence  of  water  drove  him  mad.  I  was 
afraid  the  supply  of  water  would  give  out  before  the 


HEART  THROBS  87 

boy  was  filled  up,  and  he  was  rather  a  small  boy,  too. 
His  interior  circumference,  I  think,  must  have  enclosed 
an  area  double  in  extent  to  that  enclosed  by  the  exterior 
belt. 

Near  Waseca  we  ran  nearly  a  mile  without  the  boy 
making  a  stop  at  the  tank.  I  grew  very  nervous  now, 
for  I  was  fearful  that  during  such  an  unheard-of  absti- 
nence from  water  his  pumps  would  run  dry,  rust  out, 
and  he  might  blow  up.  So  I  leaned  over  the  edge  of  tht 
seat  and  said  carelessly: 

"By  George!  but  I  am  thirsty.  I  wonder  if  there  is 
any  water  in  this  car?" 

You  want  to  understand  me  now  as  recording  very 
plainly,  and  without  any  mental  reservation,  the  fact 
that  the  boy's  mother,  sitting  beside  him,  was  no  fool. 
Her  eyes  snapped  when  she  heard  my  careless  and  inno- 
cent remark;  she  took  in  every  syllable  of  it,  and  she 
turned  on  me  in  a  flash,  with,  "I  wish  you  would  mind 
your  own  business,  and  leave  my  boy  alone!" 

A  low,  mocking  murmur  of  applause  went  through 
the  car — a  little  of  it  for  the  indignant  mother,  some  of 
it  for  the  thirsty  boy,  but  most  of  it  for  me.  She  sup- 
pressed "yours  truly"  very  successfully,  but  it  was  too 
late.  Long  before  she  had  finished  that  brief  sentence 
her  boy  was  down  at  the  water-cooler,  holding  his  eyes 
tight  shut  to  keep  the  water  from  running  out  of  them, 
while  he  flooded  his  system  as  though  he  had  taken  a 
contract  to  keep  up  a  perennial  freshet  inside  of  himself. 

By  permission  R>  J'   BwdttU. 


88  HEART  THROBS 


TODAY 

Upon  the  threshold  of  "today"  I  stand, — 
It  lies  before  me,  fresh  from  God's  own  hand, 
Without  a  blemish — mine,  for  good  or  ill. 
But,  if  I  trust  to  self,  to  my  weak  will, 
To  keep  it  spotless,  I  shall  surely  fail; 
Thy  strength  and  guidance  can  alone  avail. 
So  now  my  heart  goes  out  in  earnest  plea, 
That,  for  today,  Thou  wilt  abide  with  me. 

Life's  yesterdays  forevermore  have  passed 
Beyond  my  reach;  and  now,  O  Lord,  Thou  hast 
Them  in  Thy  keeping.    Let  Thy  righteousness 
Hide  the  dark  stains  they  bear.     Help  me  to  press 
On  toward  the  mark.     Humbly,  dear  Lord,  I  pray, 
That,  as  each  "morrow"  merges  in  "today," 
I  may  surrender  all  I  am  to  Thee, 
And  that  Thy  presence  may  abide  with  me. 

For,  so  abiding,  doubt  and  strife  must  cease. 
With  Thee  to  lead  me  on,  the  perfect  peace 
That  passeth  understanding  I  shall  know; 
Alike  through  calm  and  gale  I  needs  must  go 
My  way  content.    Then,  on  that  morrow  fair 
Which  brings  deliverance,  grant  Thou  my  prayer,— 
That  immortality  my  part  may  be. 
So  shall  I  evermore  abide  with  Thee. 

J.  Hu 


HEART  THROBS  8§ 


DEAR   LITTLE  HEADS  IN  THE  PEW 

In  the  morn  of  the  holy  Sabbath, 

I  like  in  the  church  to  see 
The  dear  little  children  clustered 

Worshipping  there  with  me. 
I  am  sure  that  the  gentle  pastor, 

Whose  words  are  like  summer  dew, 
Is  cheered  as  he  gazes  over 

The  dear  little  heads  in  the  pew. 

Faces  earnest  and  thoughtful, 

Innocent,  grave  and  sweet, 
They  look  in  the  congregation 

Like  lilies  among  the  wheat. 
And  I  think  that  the  tender  Master, 

Whose  mercies  are  ever  new, 
Has  a  special  benediction 

For  the  dear  little  heads  in  the  pew. 

Clear  in  the  hymns  resounding 

To  the  organ's  swelling  chord, 
Mingle  the  fresh  young  voices 

Eager  to  praise  the  Lord. 
And  I  trust  that  the  rising  anthem 

Has  a  meaning  deep  and  true, 
The  thought  and  the  music  blended, 

For  the  dear  little  heads  in  the  pew. 

When  they  hear  "The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd,' 
Or  "Suffer  the  babes  to  come," 


90 HEART  THROBS 

They  are  glad  that  the  loving  Jesus 

Has  given  the  lambs  a  home. 
A  place  of  their  own  with  his  people, 

He  cares  for  me  and  for  you, 
But  close  in  his  arms  he  gathers 

The  dear  little  heads  in  the  pew. 

So  I  love  in  the  great  assembly 

On  the  Sabbath  morn  to  see 
The  dear  little  children  clustered 

And  worshipping  there  with  me; 
For  I  know  that  my  precious  Saviour, 

Whose  mercies  are  ever  new, 
Has  a  special  benediction 

For  the  dear  little  heads  in  the  pew. 

By  permission.  Margaret  E.  Sangster. 


MY   MOTHER 

If  I  were  asked  to  give  a  thought  which  in  one  word 

would  speak 
A  unity  of  brotherhood,  a  sympathy  complete, 
A  hundred  happy  cheery  ways,  a  mind  that  knows  its 

own, 
Contented  midst  a  throng  of  folk,  yet  peaceful  when 

alone, 
A  heart  that  sheds  its  silent  glow,  to  brighten  many 

another, 
Without  a  moment  of  'delay,  I'd  say,  "You  mean  my 

mother/'  Anon. 


HEART  THROBS  91 


THE  DEED  IS  THE  MAN 

The  Dream  is  the  babe  in  the  lovelit  nest, 

And  the  rollicking  boy  at  play; 
The  Dream  is  the  youth  with  the  old,  old  zest 

For  the  rare  romance  of  a  day. 
Then  the  Deed  strides  forth  to  the  distant  goal 

That  has  dazzled  since  life  began: 
For  the  Dream  is  the  child  of  the  rampant  soul, 

But  the  Deed  is  the  man. 

The  Dream  is  the  peak  that  is  seen  afar, 

And  the  wish  for  the  eagle's  wings; 
The  Dream  is  the  song  to  the  beck'ning  star 

That  the  world  waif  fondly  sings. 
Then  the  Deed  comes  crowned  with  the  strength  and 
skill 

That  doth  perfect  a  golden  plan; 
For  the  Dream  is  the  child  of  the  sovereign  will — 

But  the  Deed  is  the  man. 

The  Dream  is  the  mask  that  would  make  men  fair, 

And  the  boast  that  would  count  them  brave; 
The  Dream  is  the  honors  that  heroes  wear, 

And  the  glory  that  high  hearts  crave. 
Then  the  Deed  gives  battle  to  pride  and  pelf 

As  only  a  conqueror  can; 
For  the  Dream  is  the  child  of  the  better  self— 

But  the  Deed  is  the  man. 

No  song  was  so  sweet  and  no  star  so  bright 
As  the  Dream  of  the  Nazarene; 


92  HEART  THROBS 


From  Virgin's  bosom  to  Calvary's  height 
It  sang  and  it  shone,  serene. 

Then  the  Deed  proclaimed  Him  King  of  His  kind 
As  the  blood  of  the  Martyr  ran; 

For  the  Dream  was  the  Child  of  the  Mastermind- 
But  the  Deed  was  the  Man! 

James  C.  McNally. 


ENTHUSIASM 

Enthusiasm  is  the  greatest  business  asset  in  the  world. 
It  beats  money  and  power  and  influence.  Single- 
handed  the  enthusiast  convinces  and  dominates  where 
a  small  army  of  workers  would  scarcely  raise  a  tremor 
of  interest.  Enthusiasm  tramples  over  prejudice  and 
opposition,  spurns  inaction,  storms  the  citadel  of  its 
object,  and  like  an  avalanche  overwhelms  and  engulfs 
all  obstacles.  Enthusiasm  is  faith  in  action;  and  faith 
and  initiative  rightly  combined  remove  mountainous 
barriers  and  achieve  the  unheard  of  and  miraculous. 
Set  the  germ  of  enthusiasm  afloat  in  your  business; 
carry  it  in  your  attitude  and  manner;  it  spreads  like  a 
contagion  and  influences  every  fiber  of  your  industry; 
it  begets  and  inspires  effects  you  did  not  dream  of;  it 
means  increase  in  production  and  decrease  in  costs;  it 
means  joy  and  pleasure  and  satisfaction  to  your  workers; 
it  means  life  real  and  virile;  it  means  spontaneous  bed- 
rock results — the  vital  things  that  pay  dividends. 

Electrocraft. 


HEART  THROBS  93 


IN   THE   GLOW   OF   CHRISTMAS 

In  the  glow  of  Christmas  giving  and  merriment 
our  hearts  become  suffused  with  the  Christ-like  impulse 
of  kindly,  gentle  greeting,  and  respect  for  the  rights  of 
others,  obedience  to  the  most  lofty  ideals  of  human 
intercourse,  and  deference  to  our  fellow-beings  as  life 
seems  illumined  by  the  ineffable  and  softened  light  of  the 
Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Let  us  sit  down,  in  the  twilight,  by  the  nickering 

firelight,  and  think  over  for  a  moment  just  how  much 

we  owe  to  others  for  whatever   happiness  we  enjoy. 

Think   a   moment — think   reflectively,    as    did    Sidney 

Lanier  when  he  said: 

"I  shut  myself  in  with  my  soul, 
And  the  shapes  came  eddying  forth." 

Think  tenderly  and  lovingly — and  forms  and  faces 
crowd  upon  the  vision  that  perhaps  have  been  long 
forgotten  in  the  tumult  of  life.  Among  the  first  are 
those  of  mother  and  father,  from  whose  ideals,  years 
ago,  were  gained  the  impulses  that  led  to  honorable 
achievement.  Here  is  a  vision  of  the  passing  friend, 
whose  memory  is  only  preserved  in  a  yellow  bundle  of 
letters — letters  from  whose  fading  sentences  came  the 
inspiration  that  influences  a  life  career. 

Nor  are  all  faces  those  of  the  dead.  Many,  indeed, 
are  still  seen  in  everyday  life.  Our  friends — the  people 
we  meet  in  business  or  join  in  pleasure — how  many  have 
helped  to  mould  our  lives  as  we  reckon  them  up  in  the 
fading  light  of  the  dying  Christmas  fire! 


94  HEART  THROBS 

I  am  reminded  of  the  famous  painting  which  hangs 
for  universal  inspiration  in  Watts'  room  in  the  Wallace 
collection,  on  the  Thames  embankment  in  London. 
A  great  world  circling  through  infinite  space  is  repre- 
sented— surmounted  by  a  harp  with  but  one  string; 
but  that  string  vibrates  with  the  spirit  of  Hope,  and 
underneath    is    a    motto    especially     appropriate    for 

Christmas-tide — 

"To  give  is  to  gain." 

And  unless  Christmas  can  be  kept  as  a  time  of  giving; 
unless  that  giving  means  some  sacrifice  and  some  radiance 
of  joy  and  comfort  and  hope  to  a  human  being,  it  will 
indeed  be  a  dull  and  cheerless  Yuletide. 

Let  this  Christmas  be  one  of  happiness,  and  the  new 
year  will  be  radiant  with  hope  and  filled  with  the  im- 
pulse of  doing  something  for  somebody  every  day.  The 
books  will  balance  if  the  impulse  be  actuated  by  fair 
play — fair  play  to  every  fellow-being. 

With  this  sublimation  will  come  the  great  con- 
sciousness of  peace  and  benediction  from  Him  who 
having  lived  a  perfect  life  on  earth  now  reigns  over  that 
universal  kingdom  toward  which  the  heart  and  soul  of 
man  have  ever  turned  for  the  "peace  that  passeth 
understanding"  and  the  good  will  whose  primal  chord 
vibrates  the  harp-strings  of  Hope. 

Joe  Mitchell  Chappie. 


Blessed  is  he  who  has  found  his  work — let  him  ask 
no  other  blessedness.  Carlyle. 


HEART  THROBS  95 


PA  SHAVED  OFF  HIS  WHISKERS 

I  haven't  had  such  jolly  fun  for  forty  thousand  years, 
Jes'  laughed  until  I  thought  my  eyes  was  runnin'  out  in 

tears. 
An'  Ma  she  slapped  me  on  the  back  to  help  me  ketch  my 

breath, 
An'  said  she  couldn't  blame  me  if  I  laughed  myself  to 

death. 
My  ribs  got  sore  like  they  was  biles,  my  head  got  achin'. 

and 
My  inside  fixin's  hurt  like  they  had  more  than  thev 

could  stand. 
An'  every  time  I  see  him  yet  I  have  to  fetch  a  grin, 
Because  he  looks  so  awful  queer  with  nothin'  on  his  chin. 
There  never  was  a  father's  son 
That  had  such  jolly,  roarin'  fun 
As  me,  since  children  was  begun, 

Since  Pa  shaved  off  his  whiskers. 

He  blushed  jes'  like  a  giggly  girl  when  he  come  home 

that  night, 
An'  Ma,  she  met  him  at  the  door  an'  nodded  real  polite, 
An'  asked  him  if  he'd  not  come  in,  a-lookin'  of  him  o'er 
Jes'  like  she  was  a-wonderin'  where  she'd  seen  them 

clothes  before. 
She  offered  him  the  rockin'  cheer,  and  asked  him  fur  his 

hat, 
An'  when  she  hung  it  up,  she  looked  suspiciously  at  that, 
An'  him  a-grinnin'  all  the  time,  and  her  a-lookin'  skeered, 


96  HEART  THROBS 


An'  me  a-sizin'  of  him  up  an'  honestly  afeard! 
But  when  he  looked  almighty  shy 
At  me,  an'  winked  his  other  eye, 
I  yelled  to  bust:  "Why,  Ma,  the  guy 
Is  Pa;  shaved  off  his  whiskers." 

Pa  heaved  back  in  the  rockin'  cheer  an'  fetched  a  big 

"Haw,  haw." 
I  had  a  real  hysterics  fit,  an'  roared,  an'  squealed,  an'  Ma 
She  stood  like  she  was  paralyzed,  an' stared  in  stupid  way, 
Jes'  like  to  save  her  life  she  couldn't  think  of  what  to  say, 
An'  then  she  reached  her  fingers  out  and  rubbed  'em  on 

his  chin, 
An'  darned  if  either  one  of  'em  could  do  a  thing  but  grin. 
An'  then  she  stooped  and  tuk  a  kiss,  an'  say,  I'll  jes'  be 

blamed, 
That  orful  naked  mouth  of  Pa's  looked  like  it  was 
ashamed! 

'Twas  orful  mean  of  me,  I  know, 
But  I  jes'  had  to  laugh  or  go 
Insane,  it  paralyzed  me  so, 

When  Pa  shaved  off  his  whiskers. 

When  Ma  regained  her  consciousness,  I  heard  her  softly 

say, 
"Why,  Willyum,  you  hain't  looked  so  young  fur  many 

an'  many  a  day — 
Look  something  like  you  uster  look  them  times  when  me 

an'  you 
Was  courtin'  up  to  married  life,  indeed,  indeed  you  do." 


HEART  THROBS  97 

An'  then  she  sat  upon  his  knee  a-feelin'  of  his  chin, 
Jes'  like  they  was  a  lovin'  pair  that  wasn't  any  kin. 
An'  me  a-rollin'  on  the  floor,  jes'  like  a  dyin'  calf, 
Fur  every  time  I'd  take  a  peep  at  Pa,  I'd  have  to  laugh,  j 

But  now  he  doesn't  look  so  bad, 

An'  never  was  a  prouder  lad 

Than  me,  to  have  so  young  a  dad, 
Since  Pa  shaved  off  his  whiskers. 

Denver  Evening  Post. 


THE  DIRGE  OF  ALARIC,  KING  OF  THE 
VISIGOTHS 

When  I  am  dead,  no  funeral  train 
Shall  waste  their  sorrows  at  my  bier; 

Nor  worthless  pomp  of  homage  vain 
Stain  it  with  hypocritic  tear. 

For  I  will  die  as  I  did  live, 

Nor  take  a  boon  I  cannot  give. 

Ye  shall  not  rear  a  marble  bust 
Upon  the  spot  where  I  repose ; 

Ye  shall  not  fawn  before  my  dust, 
In  hollow  circumstance  of  woes ; 

Nor  sculptured  clay  with  lying  breath 

Insult  the  clay  that  moulds  beneath. 

Ye  shall  not  pile  with  servile  toil 
Your  monuments  upon  my  breast ; 


98  HEART  THROBS 


Nor  yet  within  the  common  soil 

Lay  down  the  wreck  of  power  to  rest 
Where  man  can  boast  that  he  has  trod 
On  him  who  was  "The  Scourge  of  God." 

But  ye  the  mountain  stream  shall  turn 
Back  from  its  secret  channel  bare, 

And  hollow  for  your  Sovereign's  urn 
A  resting  place  forever  there. 

And  never  be  the  secret  said 

Until  the  deep  give  up  its  dead. 

Across  the  everlasting  Alp 

I  poured  the  torrent  of  my  powers, 
And  feeble  Caesars  shrieked  for  help, 

In  vain  within  their  seven-hilled  towers. 
I  quenched  in  blood  the  brightest  gem 
That  glittered  in  their  diadem! 
I  struck  a  deeper,  darker  dye 
In  the  purple  of  their  majesty! 
I  bade  my  northern  banners  shine 
Upon  their  conquered  Palatine! 

My  course  is  run!  my  errand  done! 

I  go  to  Him  from  whom  I  came, 
But  nevermore  shall  set  the  sun 

Of  glory  that  adorns  my  name; 
And  Roman  hearts  will  long  grow  sick, 
When  men  shall  speak  of  Alaric. 


Anon. 


HEART  THROBS  99 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  GIRL 

She  was  on  the  platform  reading  her  essay.  She 
looked  as  if  she  had  just  stepped  out  of  a  flower  bed. 
In  her  cheeks  the  carnation  had  left  its  glow,  and  hei 
lips  had  robbed  the  roses.  She  was  a  healthy,  fragrant, 
glowing  American  girl,  of  a  type  that  we  love  and  pro- 
tect and  honor. 

Her  essay  or  oration?  Something  that  told  of 
throbbing  hope  and  ambition  and  rosy  skies.  Hard 
knocks  are  few  in  the  chrysalis  period.  Why  shouldn't 
this  graduation  girl  for  a  time  believe  in  the  entire  good- 
ness of  the  world;  believe  in  perpetual  sunshine?  The 
band  plays  raggy  music  for  her  now ;  her  pulses  quicken 
and  she  is  happy.  It  is  well.  Why  should  she  know  that 
further  down  the  path  there  are  no  flowers,  the  bands 
do  not  play  and  the  clouds  often  shut  out  the  sun? 

Let  her  have  her  good  times — this  Graduation  Girl. 
Let  her  glory  in  her  triumphs  and  be  proud  of  her  attain- 
ments. There  can  never  be  too  much  happiness  in  the 
world ;  there  is  always  too  much  sorrow. 

Down  in  the  front  row  are  father  and  mother — a  man 
and  a  woman  who  have  toiled  and  suffered  and  borne 
much.  It  is  the  common  lot.  It  puts  deep  care  lines 
into  faces,  and  sometimes  it  wrinkles  hearts,  but  not 
always. 

If  you  will  look  closely  you  will  see  that  that  old 
couple  have  just  one  object  in  life — the  girl.  She  is  of 
their  blood.  She  is  slipping  away  from  them  as  the 
years  go  by,  and  often  the  mother  cries  silently  because 


100  HEART  THROBS 

of  a  sorrow  that  is  too  deep  for  words.  She  is  p.  wTid 
of  her  Graduation  Girl,  but  her  arms  are  empty,  and 
there  is  an  ache  in  her  heart  for  the  baby  that  has  blos- 
somed into  a  woman.  Men  love  deeply  and  truly,  but 
there  is  a  holy  affection  that  is  denied  them.  Mothers 
know  it — mothers  only. 

The  essay!  To  those  old  folks  it  represents  the  climax 
of  wisdom,  the  culmination  of  learning.  The  words 
flow  like  music  and  there  is  a  hymn  in  every  paragraph. 
True  affection  wears  rose-colored  glasses,  you  know. 

And  then,  when  it  is  all  over,  a  queen  goes  to  her 
home.  She  seems  just  a  little  bit  higher  and  holier  than 
any  other  girl,  does  this  graduation  daughter,  and  she 
talks  to  father  about  it,  and  to  mother,  and  her  eyes 
shine,  there  is  a  sob  in  her  throat,  and  she  discovers,  all 
at  once,  that  it  wasn't  the  applause  of  the  great  world 
she  yearned  for,  but  the  grand  appreciation  of  an  old 
man  and  an  old  woman;  not  so  much  a  desire  for  fame 
and  a  career  as  to  justify  their  wonderful  faith  in  her 

ability-  Cincinnati  Post. 


DEEDS,   NOT  HEREDITY 

They  will  ask  you,  "What  have  you  done?" 
Not,  "Who  were  your  ancestors?" 
The  famous  veil  in  the  sanctuary 
Is  not  reverenced  by  the  faithful 
Because  it  came  from  the  silkworm. 

Saadi,  the  Persian  poet. 


HEART  THROBS  101 


A   CREED  FOR  THE   DISCOURAGED 

I  believe  that  God  created  me  to  be  happy,  to  enjoy 
the  blessings  of  life,  to  be  useful  to  my  fellow-beings, 
and  an  honor  to  my  country. 

I  believe  that  the  trials  which  beset  me  today  are 
but  the  fiery  tests  by  which  my  character  is  strengthened, 
ennobled  and  made  worthy  to  enjoy  the  higher  things 
of  life,  which  I  believe  are  in  store  for  me. 

I  believe  that  my  soul  is  too  grand  to  be  crushed  by 
defeat ;  I  will  rise  above  it. 

I  believe  that  I  am  the  architect  of  my  own  fate; 
therefore, 

I  will  be  master  of  circumstances  and  surroundings, 
not  their  slave. 

I  will  not  yield  to  discouragements,  I  will  trample 
them  under  foot  and  make  them  serve  as  stepping- 
stones  to  success.  I  will  conquer  my  obstacles  and  turn 
them  into  opportunities. 

My  failures  of  today  will  help  to  guide  me  on  to 
victory  on  the  morrow. 

The  morrow  will  bring  new  strength,  new  hopes, 
new  opportunities  and  new  beginnings.  I  will  be  ready 
to  meet  it  with  a  brave  heart,  a  calm  mind  and  an 
undaunted  spirit. 

In  all  things  I  will  do  my  best,  and  leave  the  rest 
to  the  Infinite. 

I  will  not  waste  my  mental  energies  by  useless  worry. 
I  will  learn  to  dominate  my  restless  thoughts  and  look 
on  the  bright  side  of  things. 


102  HEART  THROBS 

I  will  face  the  world  bravely,  I  will  not  be  a  cowaid.  I 
will  assert  my  God-given  birthright  and  be  a  man.  For 
I  am  Immortal,  and  nothing  can  overcome  me. 

Virginia  Opal  Myers. 


A  LIFE-LESSON 

There!  little  girl;  don't  cry! 

They  have  broken  your  doll,  I  know; 
And  your  tea-set  blue, 
And  your  play-house,  too, 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago; 
But  childish  troubles  will  soon  pass  by — 
There!  little  girl;  don't  cry! 

There!  little  girl;  don't  cry! 

They  have  broken  your  slate,  I  know; 
And  the  glad,  wild  ways 
Of  your  school-girl  days 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago ; 
But  life  and  love  will  soon  come  by — 
There!  little  girl;  don't  cry! 

There,  little  girl,  don't  cry! 

They  have  broken  your  heart,  I  know; 
And  the  rainbow  gleams 
Of  your  youthful  dreams 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago ; 
But  Heaven  holds  all  for  which  you  sigh. — 
There!  little  girl;  don't  cry! 

From  "Afterwhiles,"  copyright  1887.  JameS  WhitCOmb  Riley. 

Used  by  special  permission  of  the 
publishers.  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


HEART  THROBS  103 


THE   END   OF   IT  ALL 

Ah!  the  end  of  it  all — 

Of  this  life  that  we  live; 
Of  the  blows  that  we  get 

And  the  blows  that  we  give; 
Of  the  joys  and  the  griefs 

That  to  each  of  us  fall — 
Blind  humanity  dreams 

Of  the  end  of  it  all. 

The  lover  who  yearns 

For  affection  denied; 
The  prince  in  his  hall 

And  the  pauper  outside ; 
The  parent  whose  darling 

Lies  under  the  pall — 
Each  mournfully  dreams 

Of  the  end  of  it  all. 

Since  God  in  His  love 

For  His  children  denies 
This  glimpse  of  the  end 

To  humanity's  eyes, 
Let  each  bravely  answer 

Life's  manifest  call 
And  rely  on  the  Lord 

For  the  end  of  it  all. 


Frank  Putnam. 


104  HEART  THROBS 


THE    MEANING   OF   LIFE 

What  then  is  the  meaning  of  life — of  life  absolutely 
and  inevitably  bounded  by  death?  To  me  it  only  seems 
intelligible  as  the  avenue  and  vestibule  to  another  life. 
And  its  facts  seem  only  explainable  upon  a  theory 
which  cannot  be  expressed  but  in  myth  and  symbol, 
and  which,  everywhere  and  at  all  times,  the  myths 
and  symbols  in  which  men  have  tried  to  portray  their 
deepest  perceptions  do  in  some  form  express. 

The  scriptures  of  the  men  who  have  been  and  gone — 
the  Bibles,  the  Zend  Avestas,  the  Vedas,  the  Dham- 
mapadas,  and  the  Korans;  the  esoteric  doctrines  of 
old  philosophies,  the  inner  meaning  of  grotesque  reli- 
gions, the  dogmatic  constitutions  of  Ecumenical  Councils, 
the  preachings  of  Foxes,  and  Wesleys,  and  Savonarolas, 
the  traditions  of  red  Indians,  the  beliefs  of  black 
savages,  have  a  heart  and  core  in  which  they  agree — 
a  something  which  seems  like  the  variously  distorted 
apprehensions  of  a  primary  truth.  And  out  of  the 
chain  of  thought  we  have  been  following  there  seems 
vaguely  to  rise  a  glimpse  of  what  they  vaguely  saw — 
a  shadowy  gleam  of  ultimate  relations,  the  endeavor 
to  express  which  inevitably  falls  into  type  and  allegory. 
A  garden  in  which  are  set  the  trees  of  good  and  evil. 
A  vineyard  in  which  there  is  the  master's  work  to  do. 
A  passage — from  life  behind  to  life  beyond.  A  trial 
and  a  struggle,  of  which  we  cannot  see  the  end. 

Look  around  today.    Lo!  here,  now,  in  our  civilized 
society,  the  old  allegories  yet  have  a  meaning,  the  old 


HEART  THROBS  105 

myths  are  still  true.  Into  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of 
Death  yet  often  leads  the  path  of  duty,  through  the 
streets  of  Vanity  Fair  walk  Christian  and  Faithful, 
and  on  Greatheart's  armor  ring  the  clanging  blows. 
Ormuzd  still  rights  with  Ahriman — the  Prince  of  Light 
with  the  Powers  of  Darkness.  He  who  will  hear,  to 
him  the  clarions  of  the  battle  call. 

How  they  call,  and  call,  and  call,  till  the  heart  swells 
that  hears  them!  Strong  soul  and  high  endeavor,  the 
world  needs  them  now.  Beauty  still  lies  imprisoned, 
and  iron  wheels  go  over  the  good  and  true  and  beautiful 
that  might  spring-  from  human  lives. 

And  they  who  fight  with  Ormuzd,  though  they  may 
not  know  each  other — somewhere,  sometime,  will  the 
muster  roll  be  called. 

Henry  George,  in  "Progress  and  Poverty." 


THE  SMACK  IN  SCHOOL 

A  district  school  not  far  away, 
'Mid  Berkshire  hills,  one  winter's  day, 
Was  humming  with  its  wonted  noise 
Of  threescore  mingled  girls  and  boys — 
Some  few  upon  their  tasks  intent, 
But  more  on  furtive  mischief  bent ; 
The  while  the  master's  downward  look 
Was  fastened  on  a  copy-book — 
When  suddenly  behind  his  back, 
Rose,  loud  and  clear,  a  rousing  smack, 
As  'twere  a  battery  of  bliss 


106  HEART  THROBS 


Let  off  in  one  tremendous  kiss! 

"What's  that?"  the  startled  master  cries; 

"That,  thir,"  a  little  imp  replies, 

"Wath  William  Willith,  if  you  pleathe— 

I  thaw  him  kith  Thuthannah  Peathe!" 

With  frown  to  make  a  statue  thrill, 

The  master  thundered  "Hither,  Will!" 

Like  wretch  o'ertaken  in  his  track, 

With  stolen  chattels  on  his  back, 

Will  hung  his  head  in  fear  and  shame, 

And  to  the  awful  presence  came — 

A  great,  green,  bashful  simpleton, 

The  butt  of  all  good-natured  fun — 

With  smile  suppressed,  and  birch  upraised, 

The  threat'ner  faltered — "I'm  amazed 

That  you,  my  biggest  pupil,  should 

Be  guilty  of  an  act  so  rude! 

Before  the  whole  set  school  to  boot — 

What  evil  genius  put  you  to't?" 

"'Twas  she,  herself,  sir,"  sobbed  the  lad, 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  so  bad — 

But  when  Susannah  shook  her  curls, 

And  whispered  I  was  'feared  of  girls, 

And  dassn't  kiss  a  baby's  doll, 

I  couldn't  stand  it,  sir,  at  all! 

But  up  and  kissed  her  on  the  spot. 

I  know — boo  hoo — I  ought  to  not, 

But,  somehow,  from  her  looks — boo  hoo — 

I  thought  she  kind  o'  wished  me  to!" 

W.  P.  Palmer. 


HEART  THROBS  107 


THE  CONVICT'S  LITTLE  GIRL 

The  warden  of  a  state  prison  tells  the  following  pathetic 
incident  of  a  life  convict: 

"I  was  passing  out  of  the  prison- yard  one  bitterly  cold 
Christmas  morning. 

"Just  outside  the  gate  I  saw  a  thinly  clad  little  girl 
of  about  twelve  years,  her  face  and  hands  blue  with  cold. 
She  put  out  one  of  her  thin  hands  to  detain  me  as  I 
passed. 

'"What  is  it?' I  asked. 

"  'Well,  if  you  please,  sir,  I'd  like  to  know  if  I  can  go 
inside,  and  see  my — my  father?  His  name  is  Mister 
John  H y.' 

"I  recognized  the  name  as  that  of  a  life  convict,  a  man 
notoriously  bad. 

"Going  to  my  office,  I  sent  for  the  convict.  He  came, 
sullen  and  dejected;  in  his  face  was  the  look  of  utter 
hopelessness  the  faces  of  prisoners  for  life  so  often  wear. 

"The  child  sprang  forward  to  meet  him,  the  hot  tears 
streaming  over  her  white  face. 

"He  stepped  back,  sullen  and  seemingly  angry.  No 
word  of  welcome  came  from  his  lips  for  the  ragged, 
trembling  little  creature  who  stood  crying  before  him  with 
something  clasped  close  in  her  hand. 

"  'I — I — came  to — say  "Merry  Christmas,"  father,'  she 
faltered.  'I — I — thought  maybe  you'd  be  glad  to  see  me.' 

"The  convict's  head  drooped.  The  hard  look  was 
going  out  of  his  face,  his  eyes  were  moistening.  His 
little  girl  went  on,  tremblingly  and  tearfully: — 


108  HEART  THROBS 

"  'And  I — I — brung  you  something,  father.  It  was 
all  I  could  think  of,  and  all  I  could  get.  I  live  to  the 
poorhouse  now.' 

"Her  trembling  fingers  began  unwrapping  the  bit  of 
soft  white  paper  in  her  hand,  and  she  held  out  a  short, 
shining  curl  of  yellow  hair  carefully  tied  with  a  bit  of 
old  ribbon. 

"  'I  wouldn't  give  this  to  anybody  on  earth  but  you, 
father.  You  used  to  really  and  truly  love  little  Johnnie ; 
mother  said  you  did ;  and  so' — 

"The  man  fell  to  his  knees  with  both  hands  clasped 
over  his  face. 

"  'I  did  love  him,'  he  said  hoarsely.  'I  lov«  him  still; 
bad  as  I  am,  I  love  him  still.' 

"  'I  knew  it,'  said  the  child,  going  closer,  'and  I  knowed 
you'd  like  this,  now  that  Johnnie's  dead.' 

"  'Dead!'  cried  the  man,  rocking  to  and  fro,  still  on 
his  knees  with  his  hands  over  his  face.  'My  little  boy!' 
!  "  'Yes,'  said  the  child,  'he  died  in  the  poorhouse  only 
last  week,  and  there's  no  one  left  but  me,  now;  but  I 
ain't  goin'  to  forgit  you,  father.  I'm  going  to  stick 
right  by  you,  spite  of  what  folks  say,  and  some  day 
maybe  I  can  get  you  out  of  here;  I'm  going  to  try' 

"He  put  out  one  arm,  drew  the  child  toward  him  and 
kissed  her  again  and  again.  I  silently  left  the  room, 
and  they  were  together  alone  for  half  an  hour.  Then  the 
child  came  out,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

"  'Mind,'  she  said,  before  closing  the  door,  'I'll  never 
forgit  you,  father,  never.'  " 
By  permission.  Youth's  Companion. 


HEART  THROBS  109 

THE   LADIES 

(Mark  Twain's  response  to  the  toast) 

I  have  in  mind  a  poem  which  is  familiar  to  you  all, 

familiar  to  everybody.     And  what  an  inspiration  that 

was  (and  how  instantly  the  present  toast  recalls  the 

verses  to  all  our  minds)  when  the  most  noble,  the  most 

gracious,  the  purest  and  sweetest  of  all  poets,  says: 

"Woman!  O  Woman! — er — er— 
Worn—" 

However,  you  remember  the  lines ;  and  you  remem- 
ber how  feelingly,  how  daintily,  how  almost  impercep- 
tibly the  verses  raise  up  before  you,  feature  by  feature, 
the  ideal  of  a  true  and  perfect  woman;  and  how,  as 
you  contemplate  the  finished  marvel,  your  homage 
grows  into  worship  of  the  intellect  that  could  create  so 
fair  a  thing  out  of  mere  breath,  mere  words.  And  you 
call  to  mind  now,  as  I  speak,  how  the  poet,  with  stern 
fidelity  to  the  history  of  all  humanity,  delivers  this 
beautiful  child  of  his  heart  and  his  brain  over  to  the 
trials  and  sorrows  that  must  come  to  all,  sooner  or  later, 
that  abide  in  the  earth,  and  how  the  pathetic  story 
culminates  in  that  apostrophe — so  wild,  so  regretful,  so 
full  of  mournful  retrospection.    The  lines  run  thus: 

'  'Alas ! — alas ! — a — alas ! 
Alas! Alas!" 

— and  so  on.  I  do  not  remember  the  rest;  but,  taken 
altogether,  it  seems  to  me  that  poem  is  the  noblest 
tribute  to  woman  that  human  genius  has  ever  brought 
forth.     I  feel  that  if  I  were   to  talk  hours,   I  could 


110  HEART  THROBS 

■ ■»» 

not  do  my  great  theme  completer  or  more  graceful 
justice  than  I  have  now  done  in  simply  quoting  the 
poet's  matchless  words. 

The  phases  of  the  womanly  nature  are  infinite  in 
their  variety.  Take  any  type  of  woman,  and  you  shall 
find  in  it  something  to  respect,  something  to  admire, 
something  to  love.  And  you  shall  find  the  whole  joining 
you,  heart  and  hand.  Who  was  more  patriotic  than 
Joan  of  Arc?  Who  was  braver?  Who  has  given  us  a 
grander  instance  of  self-sacrificing  devotion?  Ah!  you 
remember,  you  remember  well,  what  a  throb  of  pain, 
what  a  great  tidal  wave  of  grief  swept  over  us  all  when 
Joan  of  Arc  fell  at  Waterloo.  Who  does  not  sorrow  for 
the  loss  of  Sappho,  the  sweet  singer  of  Israel?  Who 
among  us  does  not  miss  the  gentle  piety  of  Lucretia 
Borgia?  Who  can  join  in  the  heartless  libel  that  says 
woman  is  extravagant  in  dress,  when  he  can  look  back 
and  call  to  mind  our  simple  and  lowly  mother  Eve 
arrayed  in  her  modification  of  the  Highland  costume? 
Sir,  women  have  been  soldiers,  women  have  been  paint- 
ers, women  have  been  poets.  So  long  as  language  lives, 
the  name  of  Cleopatra  will  live.  And,  not  because  she 
conquered   George   III,   but   because  she  wrote  those 

divine  lines: 

"Let  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite, 
For  God  hath  made  them  so." 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  LIPS 

Old  Joe  Ouar  was  very  deaf,  but  he  got  the  idea  into 
his  head  that  he  could  understand  perfectly  whatever 


HEART  THROBS  111 


was  said  to  him  by  simply  noticing  the  lips  of  the  person 
addressing  him.  He  and  his  hired  man  Jake  were  chop- 
ping a  well-pole,  and  looking  up  the  road  they  saw  a  man 
coming  toward  them.  Old  Joe  grasped  the  opportunity 
to  give  an  exhibition  of  his  wonderful  faculties,  so  ad- 
dressing Jake,  he  said:  "See  that  man  coming  down  the 
road?  Well,  I  just  know  what  he  is  going  to  say.  He  is 
going  to  ask  me  what  I  am  chopping,  and  I'm  going  to 
say  'well-pole.'  He's  going  to  ask  me  how  far  down  I'm 
going  to  chop  it,  and  I'm  going  to  say  'Right  down  to 
that  knot-hole.'  Then  he's  going  to  ask  me  how  much  I 
want  for  it,  and  I'm  going  to  say,  'Two  dollars  and  a  half.' 
Then  he's  going  to  say  he  won't  give  it,  and  I'm  going  to 
tell  him  if  he  don't,  somebody  else  will.  Now  just  watch 
and  see  if  I  ain't  right." 

In  a  short  time  the  stranger  drove  up. 

Stranger — "Good-morning." 

Old  Joe— "Well-pole." 

Stranger — "How  far  is  it  to  the  nearest  hotel?" 

Old  Joe — "Right  down  to  that  there  knot  hole." 

Stranger — "You  talk  like  a  fool.  What's  the  matter 
with  you?" 

Old  Joe— "Two  dollars  and  a  half." 

Stranger — "I've  got  a  good  mind  to  get  down  and 
knock  your  blamed  head  off." 

Old  Joe — "Well,  if  you  don't,  somebody  else  will." 

The  stranger  moved  on,  leaving  Old  Joe  serenely 
happy  with  the  consciousness  that  he  struck  it  right. 
Meanwhile  Jake  was  behind  a  stump  in  a  fit. 

Charles  C.  Yeager. 


112  HEART  THROBS 


FOR  A'  THAT  AND  A'  THAT 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 

Wha  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by; 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that  and  a*  that, 

Our  toil's  obscure,  and  a*  that; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp — 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a'  that? 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine— 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that; 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that — 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that; 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 
A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that; 


HEART  THROBS  113 


But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might — 

Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that; 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may — 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that — 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that — 
When  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that! 

Robert  Burns. 


A  LITTLE  SHOE 

There  it  lies,  a  little  shoe — 

Only  that,  at  least  to  you. 

Just  such  others,  six  or  more,. 

Patter  on  the  nursery  floor. 

And  your  heart  and  lips  are  smiling, 

Some  sweet  thought  is  you  beguiling, 

Of  one  little  pair  of  feet 

That  will  hurry  out  to  meet 

Mother.  .  .  .  And  when  they  have  found  you. 

Chubby  arms  will  cling  around  you. 


114  HEART  THROBS 


You  will  have  no  need  to  call  him : 
Neither  sleep  nor  death  enthrall  him. 
Tou  will  hold  him  to  your  breast 
With  an  utter  sense  of  rest, — 
All  your  own  within  your  grasp. 
At  your  neck  the  baby  clasp. 

And  to  me  a  tearless  weeping, 
And  a  hunger  never  sleeping, 
As  I  stand,  my  heart  outleaping, 
Knocking,  knocking  at  the  door, 
Where  God  stands  forevermore. 
For  He  holds  the  wee  one  who 
Once  did  wear  this  little  shoe. 
And  the  tender  little  voice, 
That  did  make  my  heart  rejoice, 
Maybe  He  has  taught  another 
Language,  and  the  childish  clinging, 
Has  died  out  in  his  upbringing, 
And  he  will  not  know  his  mother. 

Not  the  shoe,  but  what  was  in  it, 

As  the  cage  that  holds  the  linnet, 

Did  I  love;  but  Christ  bereft  me. 

And  the  husk  alone  is  left  me ; 

On  my  dead  heart  let  it  lie. 

I  could  leave  it,  if  on  high 

My  lost  little  one  should  meet  me, 

Tottering,  hurrying  up  to  greet  me.  .  .  . 

This  you  know  not — only  you 

See  a  little  common  shoe.  Anon. 


HEART  THROBS  115 


A  MOTHER-HUBBARD   SERMON 

The  following  parodies  the  method  upon  which  some  parsons 
are  said  to  construct  their  discourses. 

"Brethren,  the  words  of  my  text  are: 

"  'Old  Mother  Hubbard,  she  went  to  the  cupboard 
To  get  her  poor  dog  a  bone; 
But  when  she  got  there  the  cupboard  was  bare, 
And  so  the  poor  dog  had  none. ' 

"These  beautiful  words,   dear  friends,   carry  with 

them  a  solemn  lesson.    I  propose  this  evening  to  analyze 

their  meaning,  and  to  apply  it,  lofty  as  it  may  be,  to 

our  everyday  life. 

"  'Old  Mother  Hubbard,  she  went  to  the  cupboard 
To  get  her  poor  dog  a  bone.' 

"Mother  Hubbard,  you  see,  was  old;  there  being 
no  mention  of  others,  we  may  presume  she  was  alone; 
a  widow — a  friendless,  old,  solitary  widow,  yet  did 
she  despair?  Did  she  sit  down  and  weep,  or  read  a  novel, 
or  wring  her  hands?  No!  She  went  to  the  cupboard. 
And  here  observe  that  she  went  to  the  cupboard.  She 
did  not  hop,  or  skip,  or  run,  or  jump,  or  use  any  other 
peripatetic  artifice;  she  solely  and  merely  went  to  the 
cupboard. 

"We  have  seen  that  she  was  old  and  lonely,  and  we 
now  further  see  that  she  was  poor.  For,  mark,  the  words 
are  'the  cupboard.'  Not  'one  of  the  cupboards,'  or  the 
'right-hand  cupboard,'  or  the  'left-hand  cupboard,'  or 
the  one  above,  or  the  one  below,  or  the  one  under  the 
floor;  but  just  the  cupboard — the  one  humble  little 
cupboard  the  poor  widow  possessed.    And  why  did  she 


116  HEART  THROBS 

go  to  the  cupboard?  Was  it  to  bring  forth  golden  gob- 
lets, or  glittering,  precious  stones,  or  costly  apparel,  or 
feasts,  or  any  other  attributes  of  wealth?  It  was  to  get 
her  poor  dog  a  bone!  Not  only  was  the  widow  poor,  but 
her  dog,  the  sole  prop  of  her  age,  was  poor,  too.  We  can 
imagine  the  scene.  The  poor  dog  crouching  in  the  cor- 
ner, looking  wistfully  at  the  solitary  cupboard,  and  the 
widow  going  to  the  cupboard — in  hope,  in  expectation, 
may  be — to  open  it,  although  we  are  not  distinctly  told 
that  it  was  not  half  open  or  ajar — to  open  it  for  that 
poor  dog. 

"  'But  when  she  got  there  the  cupboard  was  bare, 
And  so  the  poor  dog  had  none.' 

"  'When  she  got  there!'  You  see,  dear  brethren, 
what  perseverance  is.  You  see  the  beauty  of  persistence 
in  doing  right.  She  got  there.  There  were  no  turnings 
and  twistings,  no  slippings  and  slidings,  no  leaning  to 
the  right,  or  faltering  to  the  left.  With  glorious  sim- 
plicity we  are  told  'she  got  there.1 

"And  how  was  her  noble  effort  rewarded? 

"  'The  cupboard  was  bare!'  It  was  bare!  There 
were  to  be  found  neither  oranges,  nor  cheese-cakes,  nor 
penny  buns,  nor  gingerbread,  nor  crackers,  nor  nuts, 
nor  lucifer  matches.  The  cupboard  was  bare!  There 
was  but  one,  only  one  solitary  cupboard  in  the  whole 
of  that  cottage,  and  that  one — the  sole  hope  of  the  widow, 
and  the  glorious  loadstar  of  the  poor  dog — was  bare! 
Had  there  been  a  leg  of  mutton,  a  loin  of  lamb,  a  fillet 
of  veal,  even  an  'ice'  from  Gatti's,  the  case  would  have 
been  different,  the.  incident  would  have  been  otherwise. 


HEART  THROBS  117 


But  it  was  bare,  my  brethren,  bare  as  a  bald  head,  bare 
as  an  infant  born  without  a  caul. 

"And,  O  dear  friends!  keeping  in  recollection  what  we 
have  learned  this  day,  let  us  avoid  keeping  dogs  that 
are  fond  of  bones.  But,  brethren,  if  we  do,  if  Fate  has 
ordained  that  we  should  do  any  of  these  things,  let 
us  then  go,  as  Mother  Hubbard  did,  straight,  without 
curveting  or  prancing,  to  our  cupboard,  empty  though 
it  be — let  us,  like  her,  accept  the  inevitable  with  calm 
steadfastness;  and  should  we,  like  her,  ever  be  left  with 
a  hungry  dog  and  an  empty  cupboard,  may  future 
chroniclers  be  able  to  write  also  of  us  in  the  beautiful 
words  of  our  text — 'And  so  the  poor  dog  had  none.'  " 

Anon. 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  WEST 

What  is  the  voice  I  hear 

On  the  wind  of  the  Western  Sea? 
Sentinel,  listen  from  out  Cape  Clear, 

And  say  what  the  voice  may  be. 
'"Tis  a  proud,  free  people  calling  loud 

To  people  proud  and  free. 

"And  it  says  to  them,  'Kinsmen,  hail! 

We  severed  have  been  too  long ; 
Now  let  us  have  done  with  a  wornout  tale, 

The  tale  of  an  ancient  wrong, 


118  HEART  THROBS 

And  our  friendship  last  long  as  love  doth  last, 
And  be  stronger  than  death  is  strong.' " 

Answer  them,  sons  of  the  selfsame  race, 

And  blood  of  the  selfsame  clan, 
Let  us  speak  with  each  other,  face  to  face, 

And  answer  as  man  to  man. 
And  loyally  love  and  trust  each  other, 

As  none  but  free  men  can. 

Now  fling  them  out  to  the  breeze, 

Shamrock,  thistle  and  rose, 
And  the  Star-Spangled  Banner  unfurl  with  these, 

A  message  to  friends  and  foes, 
Wherever  the  sails  of  peace  are  seen, 

And  wherever  the  war  wind  blows. 

A  message  to  bond  and  thrall  to  wake, 

For  wherever  we  come,  we  train, 
The  throne  of  the  tyrant  shall  rock  and  quake 

And  his  menace  be  void  and  vain. 
For  you  are  lords  of  a  strong  young  land, 

And  we  are  lords  of  the  main. 

Yes,  this  is  the  voice  on  the  bluff  March  gale, 

"We  severed  have  been  too  long; 
But  now  we  have  done  with  a  wornout  tale, 

The  tale  of  an  ancient  wrong ; 
And  our  friendship  last  long  as  love  doth  last, 

And  be  stronger  than  death  is  strong." 

Alfred  Austin,  Poet-Laureate  of  England, 


HEART  THROBS  119 


CHRISTMAS 

While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night, 

All  seated  on  the  ground, 
The  angel  of  the  Lord  came  down, 

And  glory  shone  around. 

"Fear  not,"  said  he,  for  mighty  dread 

Had  seized  their  troubled  mind; 
"Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  I  bring 

To  you  and  all  mankind. 

"To  you,  in  David's  town,  this  day 

Is  born,  of  David's  line, 
A  Saviour,  who  is  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  this  shall  be  the  sign: 

"The  heavenly  Babe  you  there  shall  find, 

To  human  view  displayed, 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  swathing  bands, 

And  in  a  manger  laid." 

Thus  spake  the  seraph,  and  forthwith 

Appeared  a  shining  throng 
Of  angels,  praising  God,  and  thus 

Addressed  their  joyful  song: 

"All  glory  be  to  God  on  high, 

And  to  the  earth  be  peace ; 
Good  will,  henceforth,  from  heaven  to  men, 

Begin  and  never  cease." 

Nahum  Tate. 


120  HEART  THROBS 


THE   FORTUNATE   ISLES 

You  sail  and  you  seek  for  the  Fortunate  Isles, 
The  old  Greek  isles  of  the  yellow-bird's  song, 

Then  steer  straight  on  through  the  watery  miles, 
Straight  on,  straight  on,  and  you  can't  go  wrong. 

Nay,  not  to  the  left,  nay,  not  to  the  right, 
But  on,  straight  on,  and  the  isles  are  in  sight, 
The  Fortunate  Isles  where  the  yellow-birds  sing 
And  life  lies  girt  with  a  golden  ring. 

These  Fortunate  Isles,  they  are  not  so  far, 
They  lie  within  reach  of  the  lowliest  door; 

You  can  see  them  gleam  by  the  twilight  star, 
You  can  hear  them  sing  by  the  moon's  white  shore. 

Nay,  never  look  back!  Those  leveled  gravestones 
They  were  landing  steps,  they  were  steps  unto  thrones 
Of  glory  for  souls  that  have  sailed  before, 
And  have  set  white  feet  on  the  fortunate  shore. 

And  what  are  the  names  of  the  Fortunate  Isles? 

Why,  Duty  and  Love  and  a  large  Content ; 
Lo,  these  are  the  isles  of  the  watery  miles 

That  God  let  down  from  the  firmament. 

Lo5  Duty  and  Love  and  a  true  man's  Trust; 
Your  forehead  to  God,  though  your  feet  in  the  dust; 
Lo,  Duty  and  Love  and  a  sweet  babe's  smiles, 
And  these,  O  friend,  are  the  Fortunate  Isles. 

tiy  permission  T  •        ,..„ 

fhittaker.  Ray.  Wiggins  &  Co.  JOaqUtfl    MtUef, 


HEART  THROBS  121 


THE  DISCOVERER 

I  have  a  little  kinsman 

Whose  earthly  summers  are  but  three, 

And  yet  a  voyager  is  he 

Greater  than  Drake  or  Frobisher, 

Than  all  their  peers  together! 

He  is  a  brave  discoverer, 

And,  far  beyond  the  tether 

Of  them  who  seek  the  frozen  Pole, 

Has  sailed  where  the  noiseless  surges  roll. 

Ay,  he  has  travelled  whither 

A  winged  pilot  steered  his  bark 

Through  the  portals  of  the  dark, 

Past  hoary  Mimir's  well  and  tree, 

Across  the  unknown  sea. 

Suddenly,  in  his  fair  young  hcur, 
Came  one  who  bore  a  flower, 
And  laid  it  in  his  dimpled  hand 
With  this  command: 
"Henceforth  thou  art  a  rover! 
Thou  must  make  a  voyage  far, 
Sail  beneath  the  evening  star, 
And  a  wondrous  land  discover." 
— With  his  sweet  smile  innocent 
Our  little  kinsman  went. 

Since  that  time  no  word 

From  the  absent  has  been  heard 

Who  can  tell 


122  HEART  THROBS 


How  he  fares,  or  answer  well 

What  the  little  one  has  found 

Since  he  left  us,  outward  bound? 

Would  that  he  might  return! 

Then  should  we  learn 

From  the  pricking  of  his  chart 

How  the  skyey  roadways  part. 

Hush!  does  not  the  baby  this  way  bring, 

To  lay  beside  this  severed  curl. 
Some  starry  offering 

Of  chrysolite  or  pearl? 

Ah,  no!  not  so! 

We  may  follow  on  his  track, 

But  he  comes  not  back. 

And  yet  I  dare  aver 

He  is  a  brave  discoverer 

Of  climes  his  elders  do  not  know. 

He  has  more  learning  than  appears 

On  the  scroll  of  thrice  three  thousand  years. 

More  than  in  the  groves  is  taught, 

Or  from  furthest  Indies  brought ; 

He  knows,  perchance,  how  spirits  fare, — 

What  shapes  the  angels  wear, 

What  is  their  guise  and  speech 

In  those  lands  beyond  our  reach, — 

And  his  eyes,  behold 
Things  that  shall  never,  never  be 

To  mortal  hearers  told. 

By  permission  E.  C.  Stedmatl. 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


HEART  THROBS  123 


BEAUTIFUL  SNOW 

Oh!  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow, 
Filling  the  sky  and  the  earth  below; 
Over  the  house-tops,  over  the  street, 
Over  the  heads  of  the  people  you  meet; 
Dancing, 
Flirting, 

Skimming  along, 
Beautiful  snow!  it  can  do  no  wrong. 
Flying  to  kiss  a  fair  lady's  cheek; 
Clinging  to  lips  in  a  frolicsome  freak. 
Beautiful  snow,  from  the  heavens  above, 
Pure  as  an  angel  and  fickle  as  love! 

Oh!  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow! 
How  the  flakes  gather  and  laugh  as  they  go! 
Whirling  about  in  its  maddening  fun, 
It  plays  in  its  glee  with  everyone. 
Chasing, 
Laughing, 
Hurrying  by, 
It  lights  up  the  face  and  it  sparkles  the  eye ; 
And  even  the  dogs,  with  a  bark  and  a  bound. 
Snap  at  the  crystals  that  eddy  around. 
The  town  is  alive,  and  its  heart  in  a  glow 
To  welcome  the  coming  of  beautiful  snow. 

How  the  wild  crowd  goes  swaying  along, 
Hailing  each  other  with  humor  and  song! 


124  HEART  THROBS 

•  — — — — — 

How  the  gay  sledges  like  meteors  flash  by — 
Bright  for  a  moment,  then  lost  to  the  eye, 
Ringing, 
Swinging, 

Dashing  they  go 
Over  the  crest  of  the  beautiful  snow : 
Snow  so  pure  when  it  falls  from  the  sky, 
To  be  trampled  in  mud  by  the  crowd  rushing  by: 
To  be  trampled  and  tracked  by  the  thousands  of  feet, 
Till  it  blends  with  the  filth  in  the  horrible  street. 

John  W.  Watson. 


TO  THE  BOYS  OF  AMERICA 

Of  course  what  we  have  a  right  to  expect  from  the 
American  boy  is  that  he  shall  turn  out  to  be  a  good 
American  man.  Now,  the  chances  are  strong  that  he 
won't  be  much  of  a  man  unless  he  is  a  good  deal  of  a 
boy.  He  must  not  be  a  coward  or  a  weakling,  a  bully, 
a  shirk  or  a  prig.  He  must  work  hard  and  play  hard. 
He  must  be  clean-minded  and  clean-lived,  and  able 
to  hold  his  own  under  all  circumstances  and  against 
all  comers.  It  is  only  on  these  conditions  that  he  will 
grow  into  the  kind  of  a  man  of  whom  America  can 
really  be  proud.  In  life,  as  in  a  football  game,  the 
principle  to  follow  is :  Hit  the  line  hard ;  don't  foul  and 
don't  shirk,  but  hit  the  line  hard. 

Theodore  Roosevelt. 


HEART  THROBS  125 


APOSTROPHE  TO  JESUS 

Repose  now  in  thy  glory,  noble  founder.  Thy  work 
is  finished;  thy  divinity  is  established.  Fear  no  more 
to  see  the  edifice  of  thy  labors  fall  by  any  fault.  Hence- 
forth beyond  the  reach  of  frailty,  thou  shalt  witness 
from  the  heights  of  divine  peace,  the  infinite  results  of 
thy  acts.  At  the  price  of  a  few  hours  of  suffering,  which 
did  not  even  reach  thy  grand  soul,  thou  hast  bought 
the  most  complete  immortality.  For  thousands  of 
years  the  world  will  depend  on  thee:  Banner  of  our 
contests,  thou  shalt  be  the  standard  about  which  the 
hottest  battle  will  be  given.  A  thousand  times  more 
alive,  a  thousand  times  more  beloved,  since  thy  death 
than  during  thy  passage  here  below,  thou  shalt  become 
the  corner-stone  of  humanity  so  entirely,  that  to  tear 
thy  name  from  this  world  would  be  to  rend  it  to  its 
foundations.  Between  thee  and  God,  there  will  be  no 
longer  any  distinction;  complete  conqueror  of  death, 
take  possession  of  thy  Kingdom,  whither  shall  follow 
thee,  by  the  royal  road  which  thou  hast  traced,  ages  of 
worshippers. 

Ernest  Renan. 


THE    BLUE  AND  THE    GRAY 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 

Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of _ the  dead; — 


126  HEART  THROBS 


Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day;— 

Under  the  one,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet; 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew 

Waiting  the  judgment  day: — 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe; — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day;— 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So  with  an  equal  splendor 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all; — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day;— 


HEART  THROBS  127 

Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So  when  the  summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain; — 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; — 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done; 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading, 
No  braver  battle  was  won; — 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; — 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 
Or  the  widening  rivers  be  red; 
Our  anger  is  banished  forever 

When  are  laureled  the  graves  of  our  dead! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; — 
Love  and  tears,  for  the  Blue; 
Tears  and  love,  for  the  Gray. 

F.  M.  Finch. 


128  HEART  THROBS 


THE  CONQUEROR 

It's  easy  to  laugh  when  the  skies  are  blue 

And  the  sun  is  shining  bright ; 
Yes,  easy  to  laugh  when  your  friends  are  true 

And  there's  happiness  in  sight; 
But  when  hope  has  fled  and  the  skies  are  gray, 
And  the  friends  of  the  past  have  turned  away, 
Ah,  then  indeed  it's  a  hero's  feat 
To  conjure  a  smile  in  the  face  of  defeat. 

It's  easy  to  laugh  when  the  storm  is  o'er 

And  your  ship  is  safe  in  port ; 
Yes,  easy  to  laugh  when  you're  on  the  shore 

Secure  from  the  tempest's  sport; 
But  when  wild  waves  wash  o'er  the  storm-swept  deck 
And  your  gallant  ship  is  a  battered  wreck, 
Ah,  that  is  the  time  when  it's  well  worth  while 
To  look  in  the  face  of  defeat  with  a  smile. 

It's  easy  to  laugh  when  the  battle's  fought 

And  you  know  that  the  victory's  won; 
Yes,  easy  to  laugh  when  the  prize  you  sought 

Is  yours  when  the  race  is  run ; 
But  here's  to  the  man  who  can  laugh  when  the  blast 
Of  adversity  blows;  he  will  conquer  at  last, 
For  the  hardest  man  in  the  world  to  beat 
Is  the  man  who  can  laugh  in  the  face  of  defeat. 

Emil  Carl  Aurin. 


HEART  THROBS  129 


A    COMMERCIAL    TRAVELER'S    VACATION 

"I  have  taken  my  last  order.  I  am  going  home," 
he  said  as  the  clock  struck  the  midnight  hour. 

The  nurse  looked  at  the  doctor  with  a  significant 
glance  and  whispered: 

"His  mind  wanders." 

Presently  he  lifted  his  feverish  head  from  its  pillow. 
"Any  letters  from  the  house?"  he  inquired.  "There 
ought  to  be  letters  here." 

Then  he  slept,  and  in  his  sleep  he  was  a  boy  again — 
babbled  of  fishing  streams  where  the  trout  played — 
of  school  hours  and  romps  with  his  mates.  At  twelve 
he  suddenly  awakened. 

"All  right,"  he  called  in  a  strong  voice,  "I'm  ready!" 

He  thought  the  porter  had  called  him  for  an  early 
train.  The  doctor  laid  a  soothing  hand  on  him  and  he 
slept.     In  his  sleep  he  murmured: 

"Show  you  samples  of  our  goods.  I'm  going  off 
the  road  now.  This  order  closes  me  out.  The  House 
has  called  me  in.  Going  to  have  my  first  vacation, 
but  I  shall  lose  time — time — time!" 

He  drowsed  off  and  the  doctor  counted  his  pulse. 
Suddenly  the  sick  man  started  up. 

"Give  me  a  letter  from  home.  Ellen  always  writes 
to  me  here.  Dear  girl,  she  never  disappointed  me  yet — 
and  the  children.  They  will  forget  me  if  my  trips  are 
too  long.  I  have  only  a  few  more  towns  to  sell — I 
promised  to  be  home  Christmas — I  promised  to  be 
home — promised — ' ' 


130  HEART  THROBS 

He  slept  again  and  again  awakened  with  a  start. 

"No  word  from  the  House  yet?" 

He  was  going  fast  now.  The  doctor  bent  over  him 
and  repeated  in  a  comforting  voice  the  precious  words 
of  promise: 

"In  my  Father's  House  are  many  mansions.  If  it 
were  not  so  I  would  have  told  you." 

"Yes — yes,"  said  the  dying  traveler  faintly.  "It 
is  a  clear  statement.  It  is  a  good  House  to  travel  for. 
It  deals  fair  and  square  with  its  men." 

The  chill  December  morning  dawned — the  end  was 
very  near.  The  sick  man  was  approaching  the  undis- 
covered land  from  whose  bourne  no  traveler  returns. 

"I've  changed  my  route,"  he  murmured  faintly.  "The 
house  is  calling  me  in — write  to  Ellen  and  the  children 
that  I'm — on — my — way — Home — it's  in  my  sample 
case — without  money  and  without  price — a  good  House 
— fills  all  its  orders  as  agreed.  Call  me  for  the  first 
train — I  am  going  to  make  the  round  trip  and  get  Home 
for  Christmas." 

They  laid  his  head  back  on  the  pillow.  He  had  made 
the  round  trip.    He  had  gone  Home  for  Christmas. 

Detroit  Free  Press. 


PLAYING   HOOKEY 

I  remember  when  in  boyhood, 
Just  a  step  advanced  from  toyhood, 
When  in  through  the  schoolroom  window  floated  sweet 
the  wild  birds'  call, 


HEART  THROBS  131 

I  would  close  my  desk  at  dinner 
Like  a  hardened  little  sinner, 
And  the  afternooning  found  me  playing  hookey  from  it  all. 

What  to  us  the  far-off  sorrow 
Of  the  whipping  on  the  morrow, 
For  the  day  seemed  all  the  future — 'twas  a  hundred 
hours  long, 

And  each  hour  we  were  enjoying 
By  the  wood  and  pool — just  boying, 
While  the  wild  birds  caught  our  laughing  tones  and  wove 
them  into  song. 

And  today  a  robin  twittered 
Through  the  window  and  my  littered 
Desk  became  the  ink-bespattered  one  my  school  days 
used  to  know, 

When  the  voice  of  summer  crying 
And  some  voice  in  me  replying 
To  its  very  note  and  echo — and  some  yearning  bade 
me  go. 

But  a  sterner  duty  fetters 
Me  to  these  unanswered  letters 
While  through  half-opened  shutters  the  wild  birds  cry 
and  call, 

And  I'm  wishing,  wishing,  wishing, 
I  might  steal  off  somewhere,  fishing, 
Lock  up  every  care  and  worry — just  play  hookey  from 
it  all. 

New  York  Times. 


132  HEART  THROBS 


THE   FAMILY   MEETING 

We  are  all  here, 

Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother, 
All  who  hold  each  other  dear. 
Each  chair  is  filled;  we're  all  at  home! 
Tonight  let  no  cold  stranger  come. 
It  is  not  often  thus  around 
Our  old  familiar  hearth  we're  found. 
Bless,  then,  the  meeting  and  the  spot; 
For  once  be  every  care  forgot ; 
Let  gentle  Peace  assert  her  power, 
And  kind  Affection  rule  the  hour. 

We're  all — all  here. 
.         .         .         •         •        • 

We  are  all  here, 

Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother, 
You  that  I  love  with  love  so  dear. 
This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said ; 
Soon  must  we  join  the  gathered  dead, 
And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round 
Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 
Oh,  then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a  life  of  peace  below! 
So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this, 
May  each  repeat  in  words  of  bliss, 

We're  all — all  here! 

Charles  Sprague. 


HEART  THROBS  133 

BLAIR,  THE  REGULAR 

(An  incident  of  the  Battle  of  San  Juan,  July  1,  1898) 

Blair,  the  regular,  wounded  lay 

On  the  slope  of  San  Juan  hill ; 
Near  by  were  two  of  the  volunteers, 

Bleeding  and  faint  and  still; 
And  farther  up,  in  a  palm-tree  hid, 

A  Spaniard  with  deadly  gun 
Took  cruel  aim  at  the  men  below, 

Dropping  them  one  by  one. 

One  volunteer,  with  a  feeble  hand, 

Fought  with  the  plaguing  flies ; 
It  told  the  fact  of  lingering  life 

To  the  Spaniard's  watchful  eyes. 
He  r.aised  his  gun  to  his  shoulder  then, 

And  a  builet  sang  afar ; 
It  hit  the  hat  of  the  wounded  man, 

Who  lay  on  the  left  of  Blair. 

Another!    The  boy  on  the  right  hand  winced, 

And  uttered  a  moan  of  pain ; 
Another!     Blair  looked  at  his  reddened  blouse 

And  muttered,  "I'm  hit  again, 
But  there's  one  more  load  in  my  old  gun" — 

His  brow  grew  black  with  a  frown — 
"And  I  vow  I'll  shoot  that  Spanish  brute, 

Who  fires  on  men  that  are  down." 


134  HEART  THROBS 


Weak  were  his  hands  as  he  raised  his  gun, 

But  steady  his  eye  and  aim; 
Soon,  round  the  trunk  of  the  shielding  palm, 

The  head  of  the  Spamard  came. 
Then  up  from  the  slope  the  Springfield  spoke 

And  answered  the  Mauser  well ; 
Blair,  the  regular,  grimly  smiled 

As  the  Spaniard  shrieked  and  fell. 

The  volunteer  who  lay  on  the  left 

Moaned  "Water!"  again  and  again. 
Said  Blair,  "By  making  a  double-quick 

I  may  capture  a  full  canteen." 
So,  firmly  shutting  his  whitening  lips, 

He  crept  where  the  Spaniard  lay, 
Secured  the  prize  and  crawled  slowly  back; — 

Ah,  painful  and  long  seemed  the  way! 

"You  first,"  said  both  of  the  volunteers, 

As  he  handed  out  the  full  canteen ; 
They  saw  his  blood-stained  blouse,  and  they  knew 

Right  well  what  its  cost  had  been ; 
Blair  could  but  whisper  to  answer  them, 

One  hand  on  his  bleeding  side, 
"You  fellows  have  homes  somewhere,"  said  he, 

"I'm  a  regular."     Then  he  died. 

Sidney  of  England,  make  room!     Make  room 

In  thy  niche  of  courtly  fame, 
While  side  by  side  with  thine  own  we  write 

Another  nobleman's  name! 


HEART  THROBS  135 


Blair,  the  regular!     Homeless  no  more 

Since  thy  death's  heroic  day. 
Thy  name  and  the  fame  of  thy  gallant  deed 

Are  homed  in  our  hearts  for  aye. 

Ida  Reed  Smith. 


FORGET   IT 

If  you  see  a  tall  fellow  ahead  of  the  crowd, 
A  leader  of  music,  marching  fearless  and  proud, 
And  you  know  of  a  tale  whose  mere  telling  aloud 
Would  cause  his  proud  head  to  in  anguish  be  bowed, 
It's  a  pretty  good  plan  to  forget  it. 

If  you  know  of  a  skeleton  hidden  away 
In  a  closet,  and  guarded  and  kept  from  the  day 
In  the  dark;  whose  showing,  whose  sudden  display 
Would  cause  grief  and  sorrow  and  lifelong  dismay, 
It's  a  pretty  good  plan  to  forget  it. 

If  you  know  of  a  spot  in  the  life  of  a  friend 
(We  all  have  spots  concealed,  world  without  end) 
Whose  touching  his  heartstrings  would  play  or  rend, 
Till  the  shame  of  its  showing  no  grieving  could  mend, 
It's  a  pretty  good  plan  to  forget  it. 

If  you  know  of  a  thing  that  will  darken  the  joy 
Of  a  man  or  a  woman,  a  girl  or  a  boy, 
That  will  wipe  out  a  smile  or  the  least  way  annoy 
A  fellow,  or  cause  any  gladness  to  cloy, 

It's  a  pretty  good  plan  to  forget  it. ,  Anon. 


136  HEART  THROBS 


THE  PARTING  OF  LEE  AND  HIS  GENERALS 

The  final  parting  was  in  front  of  Lee's  mansion  in 
Richmond,  two  days  after  Appomattox.  Lee's  house 
was  an  ordinary  square  brick,  standing  alone  on  Franklin 
Street,  one  square  from  the  Capitol.  All  the  other  houses 
on  the  square  are  connected. 

Upon  the  afternoon  of  the  secord  day  after  the  sur- 
render, people  in  that  vicinity  were  surprised  to  see 
come  riding  up  the  street  from  the  south  a  company  of 
Confederate  horsemen.  They  were  unarmed,  their 
gray  uniforms  were  worn,  soiled  and  often  tattered, 
their  trappings  old  and  patched,  they  wore  slouch  hats, 
and  here  and  there  was  a  feather  remaining  of  the  once 
smart  and  jaunty  drooping  plume  of  the  Confederate 
Cavalrymen.  They  were  bronzed,  browned  and  bearded. 
They  sat  erect  and  came  on  with  the  splendid  horseman' 
ship  for  which  they  were  noted.  Upon  the  collars  of 
some  of  the  gray  jackets  could  still  be  seen  the  faded 
and  tarnished  gilt  stars,  the  emblems  of  the  wearer's 
rank. 

In  front  of  them  rode  Lee.  His  two  hands  held  the 
loosely  swinging  reins  and  rested  upon  the  pommel. 
His  head  was  bent  and  his  eyes  were  looking  straight 
'ahead  from  under  his  downcast  brow,  but  they  seemed 
to  see  nothing. 

As  the  troops  cantered  up  to  his  old  home  his  horse 
stopped  at  the  gate  and  he  aroused  himself  suddenly, 
as  from  a  dream,  and  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  familiar 
windows,  and  then  around  over  the  group  of  gallant 


HEART  THROBS  137 

mm  ■      - '  ■  ■    ■  ■  —- — — —  ■  —       i       i      ...      .,      —..I, 

soldiers  who  had  followed  his  fortunes  for  four  bloody 
years  and  gone  down  in  defeat  under  his  banner. 

The  end  of  it  all  had  come  at  last.  He  threw  him- 
self from  his  horse,  and  all  of  his  companions  followed  his 
action.  They  stood,  hat  in  hand,  with  an  arm  through 
the  bridle  rein,  while  Lee  went  from  man  to  man,  grasp- 
ing each  hand,  looking  intently  into  each  face,  as  though 
he  would  impress  it  upon  his  memory  forever.  Then  he 
turned  and  walked  through  the  gate  and  up  the  steps 
to  his  door.  As  a  servant  opened  the  door  he  paused, 
with  his  left  foot  upon  the  veranda,  his  right  upon  the 
last  step,  and  looked  back  for  the  last  time.  Not  a 
word  had  been  spoken,  not  a  good-bye  uttered.  There 
was  no  sound  heard  but  that  of  sobs,  as  these  unkempt 
and  grizzled  heroes  of  a  hundred  battles  leaned  their 
heads  against  the  shoulders  of  their  horses  and  wept. 

Lee  gave  one  look  and  broke  down  at  last.  His 
hands  were  over  his  eyes,  his  frame  shook  with  sobs,  as 
he  turned  quickly  and  disappeared  into  his  lonely  house. 

With  the  closing  of  the  door  behind  him  ended  forever 
the  dream  of  the  Southern  Confederacy. 

Cincinnati  Commercial  Gazette. 


YOU  WILL  NEVER  BE  SORRY 

For  living  a  white  life;  for  doing  your  level  best;  for 
your  faith  in  humanity ;  for  being  kind  to  the  poor ;  for 
looking  before  leaping;  for  hearing  before  judging;  for 
beinp  candid  and  frank;  for  thinking  before  speaking. 

Anon. 


138  HEART  THROBS 


THE  CHILDLESS 

From  the  calm,  almost  stern  face,  you  would  have 
mentally  measured  him  as  a  man  devoid  of  emotion. 
In  the  lines  about  his  mouth;  in  the  squareness  of  his 
jaw;  in  the  way  his  eyelids  narrowed  at  times,  he  showed 
poise.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  gray  about  his  temples 
and  a  promise  of  additional  avoirdupois  about  his  waist 
in  the  near  future;  but,  somehow,  I  knew  he  would 
grow  old  with  dignity.  And  when  the  time  came  for 
the  last  card  to  be  played  in  the  Great  Game,  he  would 
accept  either  defeat  or  success  as  calmly  as  he  turned 
homeward  now. 

A  woman  awaited  his  home-coming:  a  gentle,  sweet- 
faced  fatalist,  with  a  constant  longing  in  her  eyes  that 
hurt  him  ever  to  see.  For  many  years  they  had  gone 
the  way  together;  the  twain,  no  more.  At  first,  life 
had  swung  them  further  apart,  through  a  mutual 
disappointment,  and  now,  closer  together  by  the  same 
compelling  force.  (I  question  whether  adversity's  uses 
are  really  sweet  enough  to  balance  the  pain;  but  there 
is  no  avoiding  them  and  through  her  sorrow  he  had 
taught  himself  to  hide,  if  he  could  not  bury,  his  own.) 

At  the  corner  there  came  upon  him,  breathless, 
bubbling  with  health,  a  tiny  ragamuffin,  soiled  face, 
hands  and  clothes,  but  the  embodiment  of  joy.  Arms 
outstretched,  head  back,  eyes  almost  closed,  the  child 
blew  into  the  grave  man's  arms,  like  a  wind-driven 
bird,  athrob  with  life.  The  grave,  immaculately  clad 
man  hesitated,   stooped,   picked  up  the  tiny  stranger 


HEART  THROBS  139 

from  another  strata  of  life,  and  suddenly  kissed  the 
sticky  lips  and  cheeks  and  hair  hungrily — hungrily! 

The  baby,  awake  to  his  mistake,  kicked  himself 
out  of  the  arms  that  held  him  so  awkwardly — and  was 
gone.  The  grave  man,  his  chin  a  bit  lower,  turned 
homeward. 

Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  Fate  were  blindfold  rather 
than  consciously  cruel.     I  wonder — I  wonder. 

Cincinnati  Times  ^tar. 


FATE 

Two  shall  be  born,  the  whole  wide  world  apart. 

And  speak  in  different  tongues,  and  have  no  thought 

Each  of  the  other's  being;  and  have  no  heed; 

And  these,  o'er  unknown  seas  to  unknown  lands 

Shall  cross,  escaping  wreck;  defying  death; 

And,  all  unconsciouslv,  shape  every  act  to  this  one  end 

That,  one  day,  out  oi  darkness,  they  shall  meet 

And  read  life's  meaning  in  each  other's  eyes. 

And  two  shall  walk  some  narrow  way  of  life 

So  nearly  side  by  side,  that,  should  one  turn 

Ever  so  little  space,  to  right  or  left, 

They  needs  must  stand  acknowledged,  face  to  face, 

And  yet,  with  wistful  eyes  that  never  meet, 

Calling  in  vain  to  ears  that  never  hear, 

They  seek  each  other  all  their  weary  days 

And  die  unsatisfied — and  that  is  fate. 

Susan  Marr  Spaulding. 


140  HEART  THROBS 


MA'S  TOOLS 

At  home  it  seems  to  be  the  rule 

Pa  never  has  "the  proper  tool" 

Or  knack  to  fix  things.     For  the  stunt 

That  stumps  ma,  though,  you'll  have  to  hunt. 

The  caster  on  the  table  leg 
Fell  out.     Pa  said  a  wooden  peg 
Would  fix  it  up.     But  ma  kep'  mum 
An'  fixed  it  with  a  wad  of  gum. 

We  could  scarce  open  our  front  door, 
It  stuck  so  tight.     An'  pa,  he  swore 
He'd  "buy  a  plane"  as  big  as  life — 
Ma  fixed  it  with  the  carving  knife. 

The  bureau  drawer  got  stuck  one  day, 
An',  push  or  pull,  'twas  there  to  stay. 
Says  pa,  "Some  day  'twill  shrink,  I  hope." 
Ma  fixed  it  with  a  piece  of  soap. 

The  window-shade  got  out  of  whack, 
'Twould  not  pull  down,  nor  yet  roll  back. 
Pa  says,  "No  one  can  fix  that  thing." 
Ma  fixed  it  with  a  piece  of  string. 

I  broke  the  stove-door  hinge  one  day. 
('Twas  cracked  before,  though,  anyway.) 
Pa  said  we'd  put  a  new  door  in. 
Ma  grabbed  her  hair  an'  got  a  pin. 


HEART  THROBS  Ml 


The  bath-tub  drain  got  all  clogged  up. 
Pa  bailed  the  tub  out  with  a  cup — 
He  had  a  dreadful  helpless  look. 
Ma  cleaned  it  with  a  crochet-hook. 

One  day  our  old  clock  wouldn't  start. 
Pa  said  he'd  take  it  all  apart 
Some  day  an'  fix  the  ol'  machine. 
Ma  soused  the  works  in  gasoline. 

The  garden-gate  latch  broke  one  day, 
Cows  ate  our  sweet  corn  up.     An',  say, 
Pa  scolded  like  a  house  afire! 
Ma  fixed  the  latch  up  with  hay  wire. 

So  when  my  things  gets  out  of  fix 
Do  I  ask  pa  to  mend  'em?     Nix! 
But  ma  just  grabs  what's  near  at  hand 
An'  togs  things  up  to  beat  the  band. 

Anon. 


THE  ONE 


I  knew  his  face  the  moment  that  he  passed 

Triumphant  in  the  thoughtless,  cruel  throng — 
Triumphant,  though  the  tired,  quiet  eyes 

Showed  that  his  soul  had  suffered  overlong. 
And  though  across  his  brow  faint  lines  of  care 
Were  etched,  somewhat  of  Youth  still  lingered  there. 
I  gently  touched  his  arm — he  smiled  at  me — 
He  was  the  Man  that  Once  I  Meant  to  Be! 


142  HEART  THROBS 


Where  I  had  failed,  he'd  won  from  life  Success; 

Where  I  had  stumbled,  with  sure  feet  he  stood; 
Alike — yet  unalike — we  faced  the  world, 

And  through  the  stress  he  found  that  life  was  good. 
And  I?     The  bitter  wormwood  in  the  glass, 
The  shadowed  way  along  which  failures  pass! 
Yet  as  I  saw  him  thus,  joy  came  to  me — 
He  was  the  Man  that  Once  I  Meant  to  Be! 

I  knew  him!     And  I  knew  he  knew  me  for 

The  man  he  might  have  been.     Then  did  his  soul 
Thank  silently  the  gods  that  gave  him  strength 

To  win,  while  I  so  sorely  missed  the  goal? 
He  turned,  and  quickly  in  his  own  firm  hand 
He  took  my  own — the  gulf  of  Failure  spanned.  .  .  • 
And  that  was  all — strong,  self-reliant,  free, 
He  was  the  Man  that  Once  I  Meant  to  Be! 

We  did  not  speak.     But  in  his  sapient  eyes 
I  saw  the  spirit  that  had  urged  him  on, 

The  courage  that  had  held  him  through  the  fight 
Had  once  been  mine.     I  thought,  "Can  it  be  gone?' 

He  felt  that  unasked  question — felt  it  so 

His  pale  lips  formed  the  one-word  answer,  "No!" 


Too  late  to  win?     No!     Not  too  late  for  me — 
He  is  the  Man  that  Still  I  Meant  to  Be! 


i» 


Cincinnati  Times-Star. 


HEART  THROBS  i<*3 


HOW  THE  GATES  CAME  AJAR 

'Twas  whispered  one  morning  in  heaven, 

How  the  little  white  angel,  May, 
Sat  ever  beside  the  portal 

Sorrowing  all  the  day. 
How  she  said  to  the  stately  warden — 

He  of  the  golden  bar — 
"O  angel,  sweet  angel,  I  pray  you, 

Let  the  beautiful  gates  ajar! 
Only  a  little,  I  pray  you, 

Let  the  beautiful  gates  ajar." 

"I  can  hear  my  dear  mother  there,  weeping; 

She  is  lonely ;  she  cannot  see 
A  glimmer  of  light  in  the  darkness 

Since  the  gates  closed  after  me. 
One  gleam  of  the  golden  splendor, 

O  warden,  would  shine  so  far." 
But  the  angel  whispered,  "I  dare  not 

Let  the  beautiful  gates  ajar." 
Spoke  low  as  he  answered,  "I  dare  not 

Let  the  beautiful  gates  ajar." 

Then  up  rose  Mary,  the  blessed, 
Sweet  Mary,  the  mother  of  Christ, 

Her  hand  on  the  hand  of  the  angel 
She  laid,  and  her  touch  sufficed. 

Then  turned  was  the  key  in  the  portal, 
Fell  ringing  the  golden  bar ; 


144 HEART  THROBS        

And  lo!  in  the  little  child's  fingers 
Stood  the  beautiful  gates,  ajar! 

Yes,  lo!  in  the  child's  angel  fingers, 
Stood  the  heavenly  gates  ajar. 

"And  this  key  for  no  further  using, 

To  my  blessed  Son  shall  be  given," 
Said  Mary,  the  mother  of  Jesus, 

Tenderest  heart  in  heaven. 
Now  never  a  sad-eyed  mother 

But  may  catch  the  glory  afar, 
Since  safe  in  the  Lord  Christ's  bosom 

Are  the  keys  of  the  gates  ajar. 
Safe  hid  in  the  dear  Christ's  bosom 

And  the  gates  forever  ajar. 

Helen  L.  Bostwick. 


HYMN  OF  WORLD  PEACE 

Two  empires  by  the  sea, 
Two  nations  great  and  free, 

One  anthem  raise. 
One  race  of  ancient  fame, 
One  tongue,  one  faith,  we  claim, 
One  God,  whose  glorious  name 

We  love  and  praise. 

What  deeds  our  fathers  wrought, 
What  battles  we  have  fought, 
Let  fame  record. 


HEART  THROBS  145 

Now,  vengeful  passion,  cease, 
Come,  victories  of  peace, 
Nor  hate,  nor  pride's  caprice, 
Unsheath  the  sword. 

Though  deep  the  sea,  and  wide, 
'Twixt  realm  and  realm,  its  tide 

Binds  strand  to  strand. 
So  be  the  gulf  between 
Gray  coasts  and  islands  green 
With  bonds  of  peace  serene 

And  friendship  spanned. 

Now,  may  the  God  above 
Guard  the  dear  land  we  love, 

Both  east  and  west. 
Let  love  more  fervent  glow, 
As  peaceful  ages  go, 
And  strength  yet  stronger  grow, 

Blessing  and  blest. 

Prof.  George  Huntington. 


INDECISION 


The  sun  rose;  it  rose  upon  no  sadder  sight  than  the 
man  of  good  abilities,  and  good  emotions,  incapable  of 
their  directed  exercise,  incapable  of  his  own  help  and  his 
own  happiness,  sensible  of  the  blight  upon  him,  and 
resigning  himself  to  let  it  eat  him  away. 

Dickens'  "Tale  of  Two  Cities." 


146  HEART  THROBS 


A  LAST  WILL 

He  was  stronger  and  cleverer,  no  doubt,  than  other 
men,  and  in  many  broad  lines  of  business  he  had  grown 
rich,  until  his  wealth  exceeded  exaggeration.  One 
morning,  in  his  office,  he  directed  a  request  to  his  con- 
fidential lawyer  to  come  to  him  in  the  afternoon.  He 
intended  to  have  his  will  drawn. 

A  will  is  a  solemn  matter,  even  with  men  whose 
life  is  given  up  to  business,  and  who  are  by  habit  mind- 
ful of  the  future.  After  giving  this  direction,  he  took 
up  no  other  matter,  but  sat  at  his  desk  alone  and  in 
silence. 

It  was  a  day  when  summer  was  first  new.  The  pale 
leaves  upon  the  trees  were  starting  forth  upon  the  still 
unbending  branches.  The  grass  in  the  parks  had  a 
freshness  in  its  green  like  the  freshness  of  the  blue  in 
the  sky  and  of  the  yellow  of  the  sun — a  freshness  to 
make  one  wish  that  life  might  renew  its  youth.  The 
clear  breezes  from  the  south  wantoned  about,  and  then 
were  still,  as  if  loath  to  go  finally  away. 

Half  idly,  half  thoughtfully,  the  rich  man  wrote 
upon  the  white  paper  before  him,  beginning  what  he 
wrote  with  capital  letters,  such  as  he  had  not  made 
since,  as  a  boy  at  school,  he  had  taken  pride  in  his  skill 
with  the  pen: 

"In  the  name  of  God,  amen:  I,  Charles  Lounsbury, 
being  of  sound  and  disposing  mind  and  memory  [he  lin- 
gered on  the  word  memory],  do  now  make  and  publish 
this,  my  last  will  and  testament,  in  order,  as  justly 


HEART  THROBS  147 


as  I  may,  to  distribute  my  interests  in  the  world  among 
succeeding  men. 

"And  first,  that  part  of  my  interests  which  is 
known  in  the  law  and  recognized  in  the  sheep-bound 
volumes  as  my  property,  being  inconsiderable  and  of 
none  account,  I  make  no  account  of  it  in  this  my  will. 

"My  right  to  live,  it  being  but  a  life  estate,  is  not  at 
my  disposal,  but,  these  excepted,  all  else  in  the  world 
I  now  proceed  to  devise  and  bequeath. 

"Item — And  first,  I  give  to  good  fathers  and  mothers, 
but  in  trust  for  their  children,  nevertheless,  all  good 
little  words  of  praise  and  all  quaint  pet  names,  and  I 
charge  said  parents  to  use  them  justly,  but  generously, 
as  the  needs  of  their  children  shall  require. 

"Item — I  leave  to  children  exclusively,  but  only 
for  the  life  of  their  childhood,  all  and  every,  the  dande- 
lions of  the  fields  and  the  daisies  thereof,  with  the  right 
to  play  among  them  freely,  according  to  the  custom  of 
children,  warning  them  at  the  same  time  against  the 
thistles.  And  I  devise  to  children  the  yellow  shores  of 
creeks  and  the  golden  sands  beneath  the  waters  thereof, 
with  the  dragon-flies  that  skim  the  surface  of  said 
waters,  and  the  odors  of  the  willows  that  dip  into  said 
waters,  and  the  white  clouds  that  float  high  over  the 
giant  trees. 

"And  I  leave  to  children  the  long,  long  days  to  be 
merry  in,  in  a  thousand  ways,  and  the  Night  and  the 
Moon  and  the  train  of  the  Milky  Way  to  wonder  at, 
but  subject,  nevertheless,  to  the  right  thereinafter  given 
to  lovers;  and  I  give  to  each  child  the  right  to  choose 


148  HEART  THROBS 


a  star  that  shall  be  his,  and  I  direct  that  the  child's 
father  shall  tell  him  the  name  of  it,  in  order  that  the 
child  shall  always  remember  the  name  of  that  star 
after  he  has  learned  and  forgotten  astronomy. 

"Item — I  devise  to  boys  jointly  all  the  useful  idle 
fields  and  commons  where  ball  may  be  played,  and  all 
snow-clad  hills  where  one  may  coast,  and  all  streams 
and  ponds  where  one  may  skate,  to  have  and  to  hold 
the  same  for  the  period  of  their  boyhood.  And  all 
meadows,  with  the  clover  blooms  and  butterflies  thereof; 
and  all  woods,  with  their  appurtenances  of  squirrels  and 
whirring  birds  and  echoes  and  strange  noises:  and  all 
distant  places  which  may  be  visited,  together  with  the 
adventures  there  found,  I  do  give  to  said  boys  to  be 
theirs ;  and  I  give  to  said  boys  each  his  own  place  at  the 
fireside  at  night,  with  all  the  pictures  that  may  be  seen 
in  the  burning  wood  or  coal,  to  enjoy  without  let  or 
hindrance,  and  without  any  incumbrance  of  cares. 

"Item — To  lovers  I  devise  their  imaginary  world, 
with  whatever  they  may  need,  as  the  stars  of  the  sky, 
the  red,  red  roses  by  the  wall,  the  snow  of  the  hawthorn, 
the  sweet  strains  of  music,  of  aught  else  they  may  de- 
sire to  figure  to  each  other  the  lastingness  and  beauty 
of  their  love. 

"Item — To  young  men  jointly,  being  joined  in  a 
brave,  mad  crowd,  I  devise  and  bequeath  all  boisterous, 
inspiring  sports  of  rivalry.  I  give  to  them  the  disdain 
of  weakness  and  undaunted  confidence  in  their  own 
strength.  Though  they  are  rude  and  rough,  I  leave  to 
them  alone  the  power  of  making  lasting  friendships  and 


HEART  THROBS  149 

^  ■  ■   "  ....-■  -  i      ■  ...  ..  .  ^     ■    ■- —    ■—— 

of  possessing  companions:  and  to  them  exclusively  I 
give  all  merry  songs  and  brave  choruses  to  sing,  with 
smooth  voices  to   troll   them  forth. 

"Item — And  to  those  who  are  no  longer  children  or 
youths,  or  lovers,  or  young  men,  I  leave  a  memory,  and 
I  leave  to  them  the  volumes  of  the  poems  of  Burns  and 
Shakespeare,  and  of  other  poets,  if  there  are  others,  to 
the  end  that  they  may  live  the  old  days  over  again 
freely  and  fully,  without  tithe  or  diminution:  and  to 
those  who  are  no  longer  children  or  youths  or  lovers  I 
leave,  too,  the  knowledge  of  what  a  rare,  rare  world 

tt  is/'  Williston  Fish. 


A  HAPPY  DAY 

A  heart  full  of  thankfulness, 

A  thimbleful  of  care; 
A  soul  of  simple  hopefulness, 

An  early  morning  prayer. 

A  smile  to  greet  the  morning  with; 

A  kind  word  as  the  key 
To  open  the  door  and  greet  the  day, 

Whate'er  it  brings  to  thee. 

A  patient  trust  in  Providence, 

To  sweeten  all  the  way, 
All  these,  combined  with  thoughtfulness, 

Will  make  a  happy  day. 

Christian  Advocate, 


150  HEART  THROBS 


MIZPAH 

Go  thou  thy  way,  and  I  go  mine; 

Apart,  yet  not  afar; 
Only  a  thin  veil  hangs  between 

The  pathways  where  we  are. 
And  "God  keep  watch  'tween  thee  and  me" 

This  is  my  prayer, 
He  looks  thy  way,  He  looketh  mine, 

And  keeps  us  near. 

I  know  not  where  thy  road  may  lie, 

Or  which  way  mine  may  be ; 
If  mine  shall  be  through  parching  sands 

And  thine  beside  the  sea. 
Yet  "God  keep  watch  'tween  thee  and  me." 

So  never  fear. 
He  holds  thy  hand,  He  claspeth  mine, 

And  keeps  us  near. 

Should  wealth  and  fame  perchance  be  thine, 

And  my  lot  lowly  be; 
Or  you  be  sad  and  sorrowful 

And  glory  be  for  me. 
Yet  "God  keep  watch  'tween  thee  and  me.** 

Both  be  His  care. 
One  arm  round  thee,  and  one  round  me 

Will  keep  us  near. 

I  sigh  sometimes  to  see  thy  face, 
But  since  this  may  not  be, 


HEART  THROBS  151 

I'll  leave  thee  to  the  care  of  Him 

Who  cares  for  thee  and  me. 
"I'll  keep  you  both  beneath  my  wings" — 

This  comforts,  dear, 
One  wing  o'er  thee  and  one  o'er  me. 

So  we  are  near. 

And  though  our  paths  be  separate 

And  thy  way  is  not  mine, 
Yet,  coming  to  the  mercy  seat, 

My  soul  will  meet  with  thine. 
And,  "God  keep  watch  'tween  thee  and  me." 

I'll  whisper  here, 
He  blesseth  thee,  He  blesseth  me, 

And  we  are  near.  Julia  A .  Baker. 


THE  RESPONSIVE  CHORD 

In  the  early  spring  of  1863,  when  the  Confederate 
and  Federal  armies  were  confronting  each  other  on  the 
opposite  hills  of  Stafford  and  Spottsylvania,  two  bands 
chanced  one  evening,  at  the  same  hour,  to  begin  to 
discourse  sweet  music  on  either  bank  of  the  river.  A 
large  crowd  of  the  soldiers  of  both  armies  gathered  to 
listen  to  the  music,  the  friendly  pickets  not  interfering, 
and  soon  the  bands  began  to  answer  each  other.  First 
the  band  on  the  northern  bank  would  play  "Star  Spangled 
Banner,"  "Hail  Columbia,"  or  some  other  National 
air,  and  at  its  conclusion  the   "boys  in  blue"  would 


152  HEART  THROBS 


cheer  most  lustily,  and  then  the  band  on  the  southern 
bank  would  respond  with  "Dixie"  or  "Bonnie  Blue 
Flag,"  or  some  other  Southern  melody,  and  the  "boys 
in  gray"  would  attest  their  approbation  with  an  old 
"Confederate  yell."  But  presently  one  of  the  bandf 
struck  up, in  sweet  and  plaintive  notes,  which  were  wafted 
across  the  beautiful  Rappahannock,  were  caught  up  at 
once  by  the  other  band  and  swelled  into  a  grand  anthem 
which  touched  every  heart,   "Home,  Sweet  Home." 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  piece  there  went  up  a  simul  • 
taneous  shout  from  both  sides  of  the  river — cheer  followed 
cheer,  and  those  hills,  which  had  so  recently  resounded 
with  hostile  guns,  echoed  and  re-echoed  the  glad  acclaim. 

A  chord  had  been  struck  responsive  to  which  the 
hearts  of  enemies — enemies  then — could  beat  in  unison  \ 
and,  on  both  sides  of  the  river, 

Something  down  the  soldiers'  cheek 

Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

J.  William  Jones. 

BEING   CONTENT 

As  God  leads,  I  am  content, 

He  will  take  care, 
All  things  by  His  will  are  sent, 

That  I  must  bear, 
To  Him  I  take  my  fear, 
My  wishes,  while  I'm  here, 
The  way  will  all  seem  clear, 

When  I  am  "There."  Anon. 


HEART  THROBS  153 


CASABIANCA 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 
Whence  all  but  him  had  fled; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck 
Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm; 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud,  though  child-like  form. 

The  flames  rolled  on — he  would  not  go 

Without  his  father's  word; 
That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud,  "Say,  father,  say, 

If  yet  my  task  is  done?" 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"Speak,  father,"  once  again  he  cried, 

"If  I  may  yet  be  gone!" 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied, 
And  fast  the  flames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 
And  looked  from  that  lone  post  of  death 

In  still,  yet  brave  despair. 


154  HEART  THROBS 


And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"My  father,  must  I  stay?" 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud, 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendor  wild, 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 
And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder-sound — 

The  boy! — oh,  where  was  he? 
Ask  of  the  winds  that  far  around 

With  fragments  strewed  the  sea! — 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 

That  well  had  borne  their  part, — 
But  the  noblest  thing  which  perished  there 

Was  that  young,  faithful  heart! 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


BURY  YOUR  WRONGS 

In  the  very  depths  of  yourself  dig  a  grave.  Let  it 
be  like  some  forgotten  spot  to  which  no  path  leads; 
and  there,  in  the  eternal  silence,  bury  the  wrongs  that 
you  have  suffered.  Your  heart  will  feel  as  if  a  weight 
had  fallen  from  it,  and  a  divine  peace  come  to  abide 

Charles  Wagner. 


HEART  THROBS  155 


AMERICA  TO  ENGLAND 

Read  at  the  Lotos  Club  dinner  to  Whitelaw  Reid 

The  youngest  of  the  nations, 

Grown  stalwart  in  the  West, 
Yearns  back  to  where  each  morning 

Glows  o'er  the  ocean's  crest, 
And  cries:  "O  Mother  Country, 

Ours  is  your  ancient  pride, 
And,  whate'er  may  befall  you, 

Our  place  is  at  your  side." 

"Ours  are  the  old  traditions 

Of  Saxon  and  of  Kelt ; 
We  visit  rare  Westminster, 

And  kneel  where  you  have  knelt. 
Your  restful  country  places, 

Hills,  lakes,  and  London  town — 
Their  memories  we  inherit 

And  share  in  their  renown. 

"Your  Avon  is  our  Avon; 

Song  knows  no  border  line; 
The  stars  their  radiance  mingle 

Which  in  one  heaven  shine. 
Within  your.  'Poet's  Corner* 

Longfellow's  gentle  grace 
With  all  the  august  shadows 

Is  given  a  welcome  place. 


156  HEART  THROBS 


"Your  mighty  men  of  science 

Who've  made  the  world  anew, 
Transforming  earth  and  heaven, 

Wrought  not  alone  for  you. 
From  Newton  up  to  Darwin 

Each  from  his  truth-built  throne, 
Nods  greeting  to  our  homage — 

We  claim  them  for  our  own. 

'You  fought  the  fight  for  freedom 
And  taught  mankind  the  creed; 

Long  ere  our  'Declaration,' 
There  was  a  Runnymede. 

We  won  at  Appomattox, 
But  you  had  won  before; 

Our  Bunker  Hill  and  Yorktown 
Look  back  to  Marston  Moor — 

"Our  Washington  and  Lincoln 

Were  of  your  sturdy  stock — 
Cut  out  of  Milton's  quarry, 

One  piece  with  Cromwell's  rock. 
Our  Pilgrims  learned  the  lesson 

That  English  means  the  free, 
And  through  the  wintry  weather 

They  brought  it  over  sea. 


"Then  let  this  glorious  vision 
Along  our  pathway  gleam 


HEART  THROBS  15? 


As  up  the  future  leads  us 

The  Seer's,  the  Poet's  dream. 

One  race  and  one  tradition, 
English,  American. 

And  one  high  inspiration — 
The  destiny  of  man!" 


M.  J.  Savage. 


UNHEARD 


All  things  are  wrought  of  melody, 
Unheard,  yet  full  of  speaking  spells; 

Within  the  rock,  within  the  tree, 
A  soul  of  music  dwells. 

To  harmony  all  growth  is  set ; 

Each  seed  is  but  a  music  note, 
From  which  each  plant,  each  violet 

Evolves  its  purple  note. 

Compact  of  melody,  the  rose 

Woos  the  soft  wind  with  strain  on  strain 
Of  crimson ;  and  the  lily  blows 

Its  white  stars  to  the  rain. 

The  trees  are  paeans,  and  the  grass 

One  long,  green  fugue,  beneath  the  sun; 

Song  is  his  life,  and  all  shall  pass, 
Shall  cease  when  song  is  done. 

Madison  Cawein. 


158  HEART  THROBS 

PACE  IMPLORA 

Better  it  were  to  sit  still  by  the  sea, 

Loving  somebody  and  satisfied ; 
Better  it  were  to  grow  babes  on  the  knee, 
To  anchor  you  down  for  all  your  days, 
Than  wander  and  wander  in  all  these  ways, 

Land  forgotten  and  love  denied. 

Better  sit  still  where  born,  I  say, 

Wed  one  sweet  woman  and  love  her  well, 
Laugh  with  your  neighbors,  live  in  their  way, 

Be  it  ever  so  simple.     The  humbler  the  home 
The  nobler,  indeed,  to  bear  your  part. 
Love  and  be  loved  with  all  your  heart, 
Drink  sweet  waters  and  live  in  a  spell, 

Share  your  delights  and  divide  your  tears ; 
Love  and  be  loved  in  the  old  east  way, 

Ere  men  knew  madness  and  came  to  roam 
From  the  west  to  the  east  and  the  whole  world  wide— 
When  they  lived  where  their  fathers  lived  and  died— 

Lived  and  so  loved  for  a  thousand  years. 

Better  it  were  for  the  world,  I  say — 

Better,  indeed,  for  man's  own  good — 
That  he  should  sit  down  where  he  was  born, 
Be  it  land  of  sands  or  of  oil  and  corn, 
Valley  of  poppies  or  bleak  northland, 

White  sea  border  or  great  black  wood, 
Or  bleak  white  winter  or  bland  sweet  May, 
Or  city  of  smoke  or  plain  of  the  sun, 
Than  wander  the  world  as  I  have  done.  Anon. 


HEART  THROBS  159 


THE  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  JUSTICE 

"The  snow  is  deep,"  the  Justice  said; 
"There's  mighty  mischief  overhead." 
"High  talk,  indeed!"  his  wife  exclaimed; 
"What,  sir!  shall  Providence  be  blamed?" 
The  Justice,  laughing,  said,  "Oh,  no! 
I  only  meant  the  loads  of  snow 
Upon  the  roofs.     The  barn  is  weak; 
I  greatly  fear  the  roof  will  break. 
So  hand  me  up  the  spade,  my  dear, 
I'll  mount  the  barn,  the  roof  to  clear." 
"No!"  said  the  wife;  "the  barn  is  high, 
And  if  you  slip,  and  fall,  and  die, 
How  will  my  living  be  secured? 
Stephen,  your  life  is  not  insured. 

"But  tie  a  rope  your  waist  around, 
And  it  will  hold  you  safe  and  sound." 
"I  will,"  said  he.     "Now  for  the  roof, 
All  snugly  tied,  and  danger-proof! 
Excelsior!  Excel —    But  no! 
The  rope  is  not  secured  below!" 
Said  Rachel,  "Climb  the  end  to  throw 
Across  the  top,  and  I  will  go 
And  tie  that  end  around  my  waist." 
"Well,  every  woman  to  her  taste; 
You  always  would  be  tightly  laced. 
Rachel,  when  you  became  my  bride, 
I  thought  the  knot  securely  tied; 


160  HEART   THROBS 

But  lest  the  bond  should  break  in  twain, 
I'll  have  it  fastened  once  again." 

Below  the  arm-pits  tied  around, 
She  takes  her  station  on  the  ground. 
While  on  the  roof,  beyond  the  ridge, 
He  shovels  clear  the  lower  edge, 
But,  sad  mischance!  the  loosened  snow 
Comes  sliding  down,  to  plunge  below. 
And  as  he  tumbles  with  the  slide, 
Up  Rachel  goes  on  t'other  side. 
Just  half-way  down  the  Justice  hung : 
Just  half-way  up  the  woman  swung. 
"Good  land  o'  Goshen!"  shouted  she; 
"Why,  do  you  see  it?"  answered  he. 

The  couple,  dangling  in  the  breeze, 

Like  turkeys  hung  outside  to  freeze, 

At  their  rope's  end,  and  wit's  end,  too, 

Shout  back  and  forth  what  best  to  do. 

Cried  Stephen,  "Take  it  coolly,  wife; 

All  have  their  ups  and  downs  in  life." 

Quoth  Rachel,  "What  a  pity  't  is 

To  joke  at  such  a  time  as  this! 

A  man  whose  wife  is  being  hung 

Should  know  enough  to  hold  his  tongue." 

"Now,  Rachel,  as  I  look  below, 

I  see  a  tempting  heap  of  snow. 

Suppose,  my  dear,  I  take  my  knife, 

And  cut  the  rope  to  save  my  life." 

She  shouted,  "Don't!  't  would  be  my  death; 


HEART   THROBS 161 

I  see  some  pointed  stones  beneath. 
A  better  way  would  be  to  call, 
With  all  our  might,  for  Phebe  Hall." 
"Agreed!"  he  roared.     First  he,  then  she 
Gave  tongue:  "O  Phebe!  Phebe!  Phe-e 
be  Hall!"  in  tones  both  fine  and  coarse, 
Enough  to  make  a  drover  hoarse. 

Now  Phebe,  over  at  the  farm, 
Was  sitting  sewing  snug  and  warm; 
But  hearing,  as  she  thought,  her  name, 
Sprang  up,  and  to  the  rescue  came, 
Beheld  the  scene,  and  thus  she  thought: 
"If  now  a  kitchen  chair  were  brought, 
And  I  could  reach  the  lady's  foot, 
I'd  draw  her  downward  by  the  boot, 
Then  cut  the  rope,  and  let  him  go; 
He  cannot  miss  the  pile  of  snow." 
He  sees  her  moving  toward  his  wife, 
Armed  with  a  chair  and  carving  knife, 
And,  ere  he  is  aware,  perceives 
His  head  ascending  to  the  eaves; 
And,  guessing  what  the  two  are  at, 
Screams  from  beneath  the  roof,  "Stop  that! 
You  make  me  fall  too  far,  by  half!" 
But  Phebe  answers,  with  a  laugh, 
"Please  tell  a  body  by  what  right 
You've  brought  your  wife  to  such  a  plight!" 
And  then,  with  well-directed  blows, 
She  cuts  the  rope  and  down  he  goes. 


162  HEART  THROBS 

The  wife  untied,  they  walk  around, 

When  lo!  no  Stephen  can  be  found. 

They  call  in  vain,  run  to  and  fro; 

They  look  around,  above,  below; 

No  trace  or  token  can  they  see, 

And  deeper  grows  the  mystery. 

Then  Rachel's  heart  within  her  sank; 

But,  glancing  at  the  snowy  bank, 

She  caught  a  little  gleam  of  hope, — 

A  gentle  movement  of  the  rope. 

They  scrape  away  a  little  snow; 

What's  this!    A  hat!    Ah!  he's  below. 

Then  upward  heaves  the  snowy  pile, 

And  forth  he  stalks  in  tragic  style, 

Unhurt,  and  with  a  roguish  smile; 

And  Rachel  sees,  with  glad  surprise, 

The  missing  found,  the  fallen  rise.  Anon. 


GRIEF  AND  JOY 

It  takes  two  for  a  kiss, 
Only  one  for  a  sigh ; 

Twain  by  twain  we  marry, 
One  by  one  we  die. 

Joy  is  a  partnership, 
Grief  weeps  alone; 

Many  guests  had  Cana, 
Gethsemane  had  one. 


Frederic  Lawrence  Knottlex. 


HEART  THROBS  163 


QUATRAINS  FROM  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread — and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow! 

Some  for  the  Glories  of  This  World ;  and  some 
Sigh  for  the  Prophet's  Paradise  to  come ; 

Ah,  take  the  Cash,  and  let  the  Credit  go, 
Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  Drum! 

Look  to  the  blowing  Rose  about  us — "Lo, 
Laughing,"  she  says,  "into  the  world  I  blow, 

At  once  the  silken  tassel  of  my  Purse 
Tear,  and  its  Treasure  on  the  Garden  throw." 

And  those  who  husbanded  the  Golden  grain 
And  those  who  flung  it  to  the  winds  like  Rain 

Alike  to  no  such  aureate  Earth  are  turned 
As,  buried  once,  Men  want  dug  up  again. 

Think,  in  this  battered  Caravanserai 
Whose  Portals  are  alternate  Night  and  Day, 

How  Sultan  after  Sultan  with  his  Pomp 
Abode  his  destined  Hour,  and  went  his  way. 

They  say  the  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 

The  Courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and  drank  deep : 

And  Bahram,  that  great  Hunter — the  wild  Ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  Head,  but  cannot  break  his  Sleep. 


164  HEART  THROBS 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  blows  so  red 
The  Rose  as  where  some  buried  Caesar  bled; 

That  every  Hyacinth  the  Garden  wears 
Dropt  in  her  Lap  from  some  once  lovely  Head. 

And  this  reviving  Herb  whose  tender  Green 
Fledges  the  River-Lip  on  which  we  lean — 
Ah,  lean  upon  it  lightly!  for  who  knows 
From  what  once  lovely  Lip  it  springs  unseen! 

Ah,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  Cup  that  clears 
Today  of  past  Regrets  and  Future  Fears : 
Tomorrow!— -Why,  Tomorrow  I  may  be 
Myself  with  absterday's  sev'n  thousand  Years. 

For  some  we  loved,  the  loveliest  and  the  best 
That  from  his  Vintage  rolling  Time  hath  prest, 

Have  drunk  their  Cup  a  Round  or  two  before, 
And  one  by  one  crept  silently  to  rest. 

And  we,  that  now  make  merry  in  the  Room 
They  left,  and  Summer  dresses  in  new  bloom, 

Ourselves  must  we  beneath  the  Couch  of  Earth 
Descend — ourselves  to  make  a  Couch — for  whom? 

Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  Dust  descend ; 

Dust  unto  Dust,  and  unto  Dust  to  lie, 
Sans  Wine,  sans  Song,  sans  Singer,  and — sans  End! 

Ah,  with  the  Grape  my  fading  Life  provide, 
And  wash  my  Body  whence  the  Life  has  died, 


HEART  THROBS  165 

And  lay  me,  shrouded  in  the  living  Leaf, 
By  some  not  unfrequented  Garden-side.  .  .  .  , 

Yon  rising  Moon  that  looks  for  us  again — 
How  oft  hereafter  will  she  wax  and  wane ; 

How  oft  hereafter  rising  look  for  us 
Through  this  same  Garden — and  for  one  in  vain! 

And  when  like  her,  O  Saki,  you  shall  pass 
Among  the  Guests  star-scattered  on  the  Grass, 

And  in  your  joyous  errand  reach  the  spot 
Where  I  made  One — turn  down  an  empty  Glass! 

From  translation  by  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


A  LITTLE 


A  little  work,  a  little  play 
To  keep  us  going — and 
So  good-day! 

A  little  warmth,  a  little  light 
Of  love's  bestowing — and 
So,  good-night! 

A  little  fun,  to  match  the  sorrow 
Of  each  day's  growing — and 
So,  good-morrow! 

A  little  trust  that  when  we  die 
We  reap  our  sowing — and 
So,  good-bye! 


Du  Maurier. 


166  HEART  THROBS 


BINGEN  ON  THE  RHINE 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 

There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was  dearth  of 

woman's  tears, 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while  his  life-blood 

ebbed  away, 
And  bent,  with  pitying  glances,  to  hear  what  he  might 

say. 
The  dying  soldier  faltered  as  he  took  that  comrade's 

hand, 
And  he  said,  "I  never  more  shall  see  my  own,  my  native 

land; 
Take  a  message  and  a  token  to  some  distant  friends  of 

mine, 
For  I  was  born  at  Bingen — at  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"Tell  my  brothers  and   companions,  when  they  meet 

and  crowd  around 
To  hear  my  mournful  story  in  the  pleasant  vineyard 

ground, 
That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when  the  day 

was  done 
Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale  beneath  the  setting 

sun. 

"And  'mid  the  dead  and  dying  were  some  grown  old 

in  wars, 
The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts,  the  last  of 

many  scars; 


HEART  THROBS  167 

But  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld  life's  morn 

decline, 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen,  fair  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine. 

"Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  sons  shall  comfort  her 

old  age, 
For  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his  home  a 

cage, 
For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a  child 
My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of  struggles  fierce 

and  wild ; 
And  when  he  died  and  left  us  to  divide  his  bcanty  hoard, 
I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would,  but  kept  my  father's  i 

sword, 
And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  bright  light 

used  to  shine 
On  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingen — calm  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine. 

"Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with  drooping 
head, 

When  the  troops  come  marching  home  again  with  glad 
and  gallant  tread, 

But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and  stead- 
fast eye, 

For  her  brother  was  a  soldier,  too,  and  not  afraid  to 
die. 

And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her  in  my  name 

To  listen  to  him  kindlv.  without  regret  or  shame, 


168  HEART  THROBS 


And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place   (my  father's 

sword  and  mine) , 
For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen — dear  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"There's  another — not  a  sister:  in  the  happy  days  gone 

by, 
You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that  sparkled 

in  her  eye ; 
Too  innocent  for  coquetry,  too  fond  for  idle  scorning, 

0  friend,  I  fear  the  lightest   heart  makes   sometimes 

heaviest  mourning; 

"Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  (for  ere  the  moon  be 

risen 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain — my  soul  be  out  of  prison) , 

1  dreamed  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the  yellow  sunlight 

shine 
On  the  vineclad  hills  of  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on  the 
Rhine. 

"I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along — I  heard,  or  seemed 
to  hear, 

The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in  chorus  sweet  and 
clear, 

And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting  hill, 

The  echoing  chorus  sounded  through  the  evening  calm 
and  still ; 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me  as  we  passed  with 
friendly  talk 

Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well-remem- 
bered walk, 


HEART  THROBS  169 


And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly  in  mine; 
But  we'll  meet  no  more  at  Bingen — loved  Bingen  on  the 
Rhine." 

His  trembling  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarse, — his  grasp 

was  childish  weak — 
His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look — he  sighed  and  ceased  to 

speak ; 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of  life  had 

fled— 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  is  dead! 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she  looked 

down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with  bloody  corses 

strown; 
Yea,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light  seemed 

to  shine. 
As  it  shone  on  distant  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

Caroline  Norton. 


INFECTION 


A  baby  smiled  in  its  mother's  face ; 

The  mother  caught  it,  and  gave  it  then 
To  the  baby's  father — serious  case — 

Who  carried  it  out  to  the  other  men ; 
And  every  one  of  them  went  straight  away 
Scattering  sunshine  thro'  the  day. 

Louis  de  Louk. 


170  HEART  THROBS 


WILL  THE  LIGHTS  BE  WHITE? 

Oft,  when  I  feel  my  engine  swerve, 

As  o'er  strange  rails  we  fare, 
I  strain  my  eye  around  the  curve 

For  what  awaits  us  there. 
When  swift  and  free  she  carries  me 

Through  yards  unknown  at  night, 
I  look  along  the  line  to  see 

That  all  the  lamps  are  white. 

The  blue  light  marks  the  crippled  car, 

The  green  light  signals  show; 
The  red  light  is  a  danger  light ; 

The  white  light,  "Let  her  go." 
Again  the  open  fields  we  roam, 

And,  when  the  night  is  fair, 
I  look  up  in  the  starry  dome 

And  wonder  what's  up  there. 

For  who  can  speak  for  those  who  dwell 

Behind  the  curving  sky? 
No  man  has  ever  lived  to  tell 

Just  what  it  means  to  die. 
Swift  toward  life's  terminal  I  trend, 

The  run  seems  short  tonight ; 
God  only  knows  what's  at  the  end — 

I  hope  the  lamps  are  white. 

Cy  Warman. 

From  "Songs  of  Cy  Warman." 

By  permission  Rand-Avery  Co.,  Publishers. 


HEART  THROBS  171 


AUTUMN  THOUGHTS 

There  can  be  nothing  sadder  than  the  solemn  hush 
of  nature  that  precedes  the  death  of  the  year.  The 
golden  glory  of  Autumn,  with  the  billowy  bronze  and 
velvet  azure  of  the  skies  above  the  royal  robe  of  oak 
and  maple,  bespeak  the  closing  hour  of  nature's  teeming 
life,  and  the  silent  farewell  to  humanity's  gauze 
underwear. 

Thus,  while  nature  dons  her  regal  robes  of  scarlet 
and  gold,  in  honor  of  the  farewell  benefit  to  autumn, 
the  sad-eyed  poet  steals  swiftly  away  to  the  neigh- 
boring clothesline,  and  in  the  hour  of  nature's  grand 
blow-out  dons  the  flaming  flannels  of  his  friend  out 
of  respect  for  the  hectic  flush  of  the  dying  year. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall,  and  so  has  the  price 
of  coal.  And  yet  how  sadly  at  variance  with  decaying 
nature  is  the  robust  coal  market. 

Another  glorious  summer  with  its  wealth  of  pleasant 
memories  is  stored  away  among  the  archives  of  our 
history.  Another  gloomy  winter  is  upon  us.  These 
wonderful  colors  that  flame  across  the  softened  sky  of 
Indian  Summer  like  the  gory  banner  of  a  royal  con- 
queror come  but  to  warn  us  that  in  a  few  short  weeks 
the  water-pipe  will  be  "busted"  in  the  kitchen,  and  the 
decorated  wash-bowl  will  be  broken. 

We  flit  through  the  dreamy  hours  of  summer  like 
swift-winged  bumble  bees  amid  the  honeysuckle  and 
pumpkin  blossoms,  storing  away  perhaps  a  little  glucose 
honey  and  buckwheat  pancakes  for  the  future;  but  all 


172  HEART  THROBS 

at  once,  like  a  newspaper  thief  in  the  night,  the  king  of 
frost  and  ripe,  mellow  chilblains  is  upon  us,  and  we 
crouch  beneath  the  wintry  blast,  and  hump  our  spinal 
column  up  into  the  crisp  air  like  a  Texas  steer  that  has 
thoughtlessly  swallowed  a  raw  cactus. 

Life  is  one  continued  round  of  alternate  joys  and 
sorrows.  Today  we  are  on  the  top  wave  of  prosperity, 
and  warming  ourselves  in  the  glad  sunlight  of  plenty, 
and  tomorrow  we  are  cast  down  and  depressed  finan- 
cially, and  have  to  stand  up  the  washerwoman  for  our 
clean  shirt  or  stay  at  home  from  the  opera. 

The  October  sky  already  frowns  down  upon  us,  and 
its  frozen  tears  begin  to  fall.  The  little  birds  have 
hushed  their  little  lay.  So  have  the  fatigued  hens.  Only 
a  little  while  and  the  yawning  chasm  in  the  cold,  calm 
features  of  the  Thanksgiving  turkey  will  be  filled  with 
voluptuous  stuffing  and  then  sewed  up.  The  florid 
features  of  the  polygamous  gobbler  will  be  wrapped 
in  sadness,  and  cranberry  pie  will  be  a  burden,  for  the 
veal  cutlet  goeth  to  its  long  home,  and  the  ice-cream 
freezer  is  broken  in  the  wood-house. 

O  time!  thou  bald-headed  pelican  with  the  vener- 
able corn-cutter  and  the  second-hand  hourglass,  thou 
playest  strange  pranks  upon  the  children  of  men.  No 
one  would  think,  to  look  at  thy  bilious  countenance 
and  store  teeth,  that  in  thy  bony  bosom  lurked  such 
eccentric  schemes. 

The  chubby  boy,  whose  danger-signal  hangs  sadly 
through  the  lattice- work  of  his  pants,  knows  that  Time 
who  waits  for  no  man,  will  one  day,  if  he  struggles 


HEART  THROBS  173 

heroically  on,  give  him  knowledge  and  suspenders, 
and  a  solid  girl,  and  experience,  and  a  soft  white  mous- 
tache, and  eventually  a  low  grave  in  the  valley,  beneath 
the  sighing  elms  and  the  weeping  willow,  where,  in  the 
misty  twilight  of  the  year,  noiselessly  upon  his  breast 
shall  fall  the  dead  leaf,  while  the  silent  tear  of  the  gray 
autumnal  sky  will  come  and  sink  into  the  yellow  grass 

above  his  head.  „.„    ,T 

Bill  Nye. 

By  permission.  


A  BEAUTIFUL  ALLEGORY 

J.  J.  Crittenden,  Kentucky's  most  eminent  lawyer 
sixty  years  ago,  it  was  said,  never  lost  a  case  he  pleaded 
before  a  jury. 

In  defense  of  a  poor  person  of  feeble  mind  he  used 
the  following  allegory: 

"When  God  conceived  the  plan  of  creating  man  he 
called  the  three  angels  that  waited  on  His  throne, 
Justice,  Truth  and  Mercy,  and  said,  'Shall  we  make 
man?' 

"Justice  said,  'Make  him  not,  O  God,  he  will  trample 
upon  thy  laws.'  Truth  also  answered,  'Make  him  not, 
0  God,  he  will  pollute  your  sanctuaries.'  Mercy, 
kneeling  and  looking  up  through  her  tears,  said,  'Make 
him,  O  God,  and  I  will  watch  over  him  in  the  dark 
hours  of  his  life.' 

"So  God  made  man  and  said,  'O  Man,  thou  art  the 
child  of  Mercy;    go  out  and  live  with  thy  brother. 

Portland,  {Me.)  Transcript,  i8$i. 


i  ti 


174  HEART  THROBS 


THE  BABY 

inhere  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  here. 

Where  did  you  get  those  eyes  of  blue? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 

What  makes  the  light  in  them  sparkle  and  spin? 
Some  of  the  starry  twinkles  left  in. 

Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear? 
I  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and  high? 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 

Whence  that  three-cornered  smile  of  bliss? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  ear? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands? 
Love  made  itself  into  bonds  and  bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  darling  things? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs'  wings. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to  you? 
God  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear? 
God  thought  about  you,  and  so  I  am  here. 

George  MacDonald, 


HEART  THROBS  175 


A  BOY   I   KNOW 

He's  not  a  witty  boy,  nor  wise, 
He  has  not  much  of  outward  grace; 

And  yet  the  sparkle  of  his  eyes, 
The  morning  sunshine  of  his  face, 

Oft  make  a  little  glow  of  cheer, 

Whenever  he  is  passing  near. 

I  hear  his  whistle  up  the  street, 
I  hear  his  merry  laugh  ring  out ; 

I  hear  the  rush  of  sturdy  feet, 

I  hear  his  free  and  boyish  shout — 

And  then  I  smile  and  straight  forget 

My  newest  care,  my  latest  fret. 

His  hands  are  rough,  but  they  are  strong, 
And  never  have  been  known  to  shirk ; 

And  blithe  and  cheery  is  the  song 
He  hums  when  at  his  daily  work; 

For  any  task  seems  well  worth  while 

To  him  who  takes  it  with  a  smile. 

Those  hands  are  very  tender,  too, 

And  gentle  with  the  maimed  and  weak, 

And  oft  a  kindly  service  do 

Of  which  the  boy  will  never  speak* 

God  bless  this  modest,  manly  boy, 

Who  makes  all  duty  but  a  joy! 

And  when  he  reaches  man's  estate, 
God  keep  him  good  and  sweet  as  now, 


176  HEART   THROBS 

For  then  no  adverse  stroke  of  fate 

Shall  cloud  that  fair  and  open  brow; 
The  manly  boy  can  only  grow 
To  manly  manhood — this  I  know! 

Anon. 

SHUT  IN 

Shut  in,  God  knoweth  why, 
That  days  and  weeks  and  months  pass  by 
And  still,  shut  in. 

The  busy  rush  of  life  goes  on, 
The  New  Year  comes,  the  Old  Year  gone, 
And  still,  shut  in. 

Shut  in,  still  there  comes  love, 
And  peace,  and  joy  down  from  above, 
While  thus  shut  in. 

Flowers,  fruits  and  books 
From  friends  so  true, 
And  letters,  papers,  bright  and  new, 
For  me,  shut  in. 

Shut  in;  so  may  it  be, 
Until  the  hour  He  saith  to  me 
"It  is  enough — go  forth  to  service  with  thy  might, 
Either  in  earthly  ways  or  fields  of  light, 
No  more  shut  in!" 

Arranged  from  poem  of  Sarah  M.  Dunham. 


HEART    THROBS  177 


WHO  MARCHES  NEXT  MEMORIAL  DAY? 

Who  marches  next  Memorial  Day? 
Speak  up,  brave  comrades:  let  men  say 

"The  Post  turns  out  in  force  this  year" — 
Grant's  veterans,  Sherman's  infantry, 
Sheridan's  tireless  cavalry, 

Farragut's  sea-dogs  without  peer; 
Tireless  and  fearless  in  the  past, 
Bear  yourselves  proudly  to  the  last, 

Though  years  fly  fast  and  death  draws  near. 

Who'll  bear  the  dear  old  Flag — the  bright 
Tri-colored  banner,  red  and  white 

As  sunset's  glory,  spotless  snow, 
On  whose  broad  field  of  heavenly  blue 
The  golden  stars  of  statehood  true 

Like  bivouac  fires  divinely  glow? 
'Tis  but  a  wisp  of  silk:  the  staff 
Light  as  a  boy's  slight  wand.     You  laugh — 

They  seemed  so,  forty  years  ago. 

Not  the  old  colonel  tried  and  true, 
Nor  his  stout  major;  in  review 

Or  march  they'll  lead  us  nevermore. 
Some  captains  brave,  lieutenant  gay, 
Or  sergeant  proved  in  march  and  fray, 

Succeeds  to  the  command  they  bore: 
When,  waking  from  the  spell  of  peace, 
In  memories  proud  we  felt  surcease 

Of  pain  and  donned  the  blue  once  more. 


178  HEART  THROBS 

Whom  shall  we  greet  Memorial  Day? 
Old  friends,  and  old  foes  too,  for  they 

Fought  as  befits  men  of  our  race, 
Against  all  odds  and  sturdily ; 
No  braver  men  on  earth  there  be 

Than  those  who  met  us  face  to  face, 
Until  at  Appomattox  Ford 
Grant  scorned  to  take  Lee's  stainless  sword. 

God  send  them  all  His  gifts  and  grace. 

Whom  shall  we  miss  Memorial  Day? 
Well  is  it  that  long  years  allay 

The  burdens  of  the  laboring  heart 
In  joy  or  sorrow,  for  the  list 
Is  long  of  loved  ones  we  have  missed 

From  camp  and  banquet,  field  and  mart: 
In  ancient  foray,  field  or  fray, 
And  peaceful  deathbeds  passed  away, 

They  from  our  hearts  were  torn  apart. 

What  shall  we  say  Memorial  Day? 
That  we  tread  fearlessly  the  way 

From  Manhood's  prime  to  Age's  frost; 
As  in  the  grand,  grim  past  we  trod 
The  wine-press  of  the  Wrath  of  God 

Regardless  of  the  pain  or  cost ; 
That  still  we  prize  o'er  wealth  and  power 
Our  fatherland,  and  Freedom's  dower, 

For  which  such  precious  lives  were  lost. 

Charles  Winslow  Hall. 


HEART  THROBS  179 


CUDDLE  DOON 

The  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht 

Wi'  muckle  faucht  an'  din. 
"Oh,  try  and  sleep,  ye  waukrife  rogues; 

Your  faither's  comin'  in." 
They  never  heed  a  word  I  speak. 

I  try  to  gie  a  f roon ; 
But  aye  I  hap  them  up,  an'  cry 

"Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon!" 

Wee  Jamie  wi'  the  curly  heid — 

He  aye  sleeps  next  the  wa' — 
Bangs  up  an'  cries,  "I  want  a  piece" — 

The  rascal  starts  them  a'. 
I  rin  an'  fetch  them  pieces,  drinks — 

They  stop  awee  the  soun' — 
Then  draw  the  blankets  up,  and  cry, 

"Noo,  weanies,  cuddle  doon!" 

But  ere  five  minutes  gang,  wee  Rab 

Cries  oot,  frae  'neath  the  claes, 
"Mither,  mak'  Tam  gie  ower  at  ance; 

He's  kittlin'  wi'  his  taes." 
The  mischief's  in  that  Tam  for  tricks ; 

He'd  bother  half  the  toon. 
But  aye  I  hap  them  up,  and  cry, 

"Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon!" 

At  length  they  hear  their  faither's  fit; 
An',  as  he  steeks  the  doof 


180  HEART  THROBS 


They  turn  their  faces  to  the  wa\ 

While  Tarn  pretends  to  snore. 
"Hae  a'  the  weans  been  gude?"  he  asks, 

As  he  pits  aff  his  shoon. 
"The  bairnies,  John,  are  in  their  beds, 

An'  lang  since  cuddled  doon." 

An'  just  afore  we  bed  oorsels, 

We  look  at  oor  wee  lambs. 
Tarn  has  his  airm  roun'  wee  Rab's  neck, 

An'  Rab  his  airm  roun'  Tarn's. 
I  lift  wee  Jamie  up  the  bed 

An'  as  I  straik  each  croon, 
I  whisper,  till  my  heart  fills  up 

"Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon!" 

The  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht 

Wi'  mirth  that's  dear  to  me; 
But  sune  the  big  warl's  cark  an'  care 

Will  quaten  doon  their  glee. 
Yet,  come  what  will  to  ilka  ane, 

May  He  who  sits  aboon 
Aye  whisper,  though  their  pows  be  bauld, 

"Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon!" 

Alexander  Anderson. 


LOST 
A  precious  moment  set  with   gclden  opportunities. 
No  reward  offered,  for  it  is  lost  forever.  Anon. 


HEART  THROBS  181 


WHAT  IS  A  BABY? 

A  two-guinea  prize  for  "The  best  definition  of  a 
baby"  has  been  awarded  by  London  Tid-Bits  to  Miss 
Nellie  Braidwood  of  Girvan,  England,  who  sent  in 
this  answer: 

"A  tiny  feather  from  the  wing  of  love  dropped  into 
the  sacred  lap  of  motherhood." 

The  following  is  a  selection  from  some  of  the  best 
definitions  submitted: 

The  bachelor's  horror,  the  mother's  treasure,  and 
the  despotic  tyrant  of  the  most  republican  household. 

A  human  flower  untouched  by  the  finger  of  care. 

The  morning  caller,  noonday  crawler,  midnight 
brawler. 

The  magic  spell  by  which  the  gods  transform  a 
house  into  a  home. 

A  stranger  with  unspeakable  cheek  that  enters 
a  house  without  a  stitch  to  his  back  and  is  received  with 
open  arms  by  everyone. 

A  bursting  bud  on  the  tree  of  life. 

The  only  precious  possession  that  never  excites  envy. 

The  latest  edition  of  humanity  of  which  every 
couple  think  they  possess  the  finest  copy. 

A  native  of  all  countries  who  speaks  the  language 
of  none. 

The  unconscious  mediator  between  father  and 
mother  and  the  focus  of  their  hearts. 

About  twenty- two  inches  of  coo  and  wriggle,  writhe 


182  HEART  THROBS 

and  scream,  filled  with  suction  and  testing  apparatus 
for  milk,  and  automatic  alarm  to  regulate  supply. 

A  quaint  little  craft  called  Innocence,  laden  with 
simplicity  and  love. 

A  curious  bud  of  uncertain  blossom. 
A  thing  we  are  expected  to  kiss,  and  look  as  if  we 
enjoyed  it. 

The  smartest  little  craft  afloat  in  home's  delightful 
bay. 

A  mite  of  humanity  that  will  cry  no  harder  if  a  pin 
is  stuck  into  him  than  he  will  if  the  cat  won't  let  him 
pull  her  tail. 

A  little  stranger,  with  a  free  pass  to  the  heart's 
best  affections. 

The  most  extensive  employer  of  female  labor. 
The  pupil  from  which  the  leaves  of  life's  book  are 
made. 

A  padlock  on  the  chain  of  love. 

A  soft  bundle  of  love  and  trouble  which  we  cannot 
do  without. 

It's  a  sweet  and  tiny  treasure, 

A  torment  and  a  tease. 
It's  an  autocrat,  an  anarchist, 
Two  awful  things  to  please. 
It's  a  rest  and  peace  disturber, 

With  little  laughing  ways 
It's  a  wailing  human  night  alarm, 
And  terror  of  your  days. 
A  necessity — in  order  to  keep  up   the  supply  of 
readers  in  the  future. 


HEART  THROBS  183 


The  sweetest  thing  God  ever  made  and  forgot  to 
give  wings  to. 

A  pleasure  to  two,  a  nuisance  to  every  other  body  and 
a  necessity  of  the  world. 

An  inhabitant  of  Lapland. 

That  which  makes  home  happier,  love  stronger, 
patience  greater,  hands  busier,  nights  longer,  days  shorter, 
purses  lighter,  clothes  shabbier,  the  past  forgotten,  the 
future  brighter. 


A  SONG  FOR  APRIL 

It  isn't  raining  rain  to  me, 

It's  raining  daffodils; 
In  every  dimpled  drop  I  see 

Wild  flowers  on  the  hills. 
The  clouds  of  gray  engulf  the  day, 

And  overwhelm  the  town ; 
It  isn't  raining  rain  to  me, 

It's  raining  roses  down. 

It  isn't  raining  rain  to  me, 

But  fields  of  clover  bloom, 
Where  every  buccaneering  bee 

May  find  a  bed  and  room ; 
A  health  unto  the  happy! 

A  fig  for  him  who  frets! — 
It  isn't  raining  rain  to  me, 

It's  raining  violets. 
By  permission.  Robert  Loveman, 


184  HEART  THROBS 


ALADDIN 

When  I  was  a  beggarly  boy, 

And  lived  in  a  cellar  damp, 
I  had  not  a  friend  nor  a  toy, 

But  I  had  Aladdin's  lamp; 
When  I  could  not  sleep  for  the  cold, 

I  had  fire  enough  in  my  brain, 
And  builded,  with  roofs  of  gold, 

My  beautiful  castles  in  Spain! 

Since  then  I  have  toiled  day  and  night, 

I  have  money  and  power  good  store, 
But  I'd  give  all  my  lamps  of  silver  bright 

For  the  one  that  is  mine  no  more; 
Take,  Fortune,  whatever  you  choose, 

You  gave,  and  may  snatch  again; 
I  have  nothing  'twould  pain  me  to  lose, 

For  I  own  no  more  castles  in  Spain! 

By  permission  Lowell. 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


EPITAPH  ON  THE   COUNTESS  OF   PEMBROKE 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother; 
Death!  ere  thou  hast  slain  another, 
Learn'd  and  fair  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

Ben  Jonson. 


HEART  THROBS  185 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 

She  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt!" 

"Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work — work — work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It's  oh!  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save. 

If  this  is  Christian  work! 

'  'Work — work — work ! 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim; 
Work — work — work ! 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream! 

"O  men,  with  sisters  dear! 
O  men,  with  mothers  and  wives! 


186  HEART  THROBS 


It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once  with  a  double  thread. 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt! 

"But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death, 

That  Phantom  of  grisly  bone? 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fast  I  keep : 
O  God!  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap! 

1 '  Work — work — work ! 

My  labor  never  flags; 
And  what  are  its  wages?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread,  and  rags. 
A  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there! 

'  'Work — work — work ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 
Work — work — work — 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 


HEART  THROBS  187 


Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumbed. 
As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

1  'Work — work — work 

In  the  dull  December  light, 
And  work — work — work 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright- 
While  underneath  the  eaves, 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

"Oh,  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet; 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal! 

"Oh!  but  for  one  short  hour! 

A  respite  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread!" 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 


188  HEART  THROBS 


A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch,— 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich! — 

She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt." 

Thomas  Hood. 


MUD  PIES 


Down  in  a  little  back  garden, 

Under  a  sunny  sky, 
We  made  mud  pies  together — 

My  little  sweetheart  and  I. 
Stained  was  the  little  pink  apron, 

Muddy  the  jacket  blue, 
As  we  stirred  and  mixed  and  tasted, 

Out  in  the  sun  and  dew. 

Why  do  I  dream  of  that  garden, 

I  who  am  old  and  wise? 
Why  am  I  longing,  longing, 

For  one  of  those  old  mud  pies? 
Oh,  for  the  little  pink  apron, 

Oh,  for  the  jacket  blue, 
For  the  blessed  faith  of  childhood 

When  make-believes  are  true. 


Florence  A.  Jones. 


HEART   THROBS  189 


DADDY  KNOWS 

Let  us  dry  our  tears  now,  laddie, 

Let  us  put  aside  our  woes ; 
Let  us  go  and  talk  to  daddy, 

For  I'm  sure  that  daddy  knows. 
Let  us  take  him  what  we've  broken, 

Be  it  heart  or  hope  or  toy, 
And  the  tale  may  bide  unspoken, 

For  he  used  to  be  a  boy. 

He  has  been  through  all  the  sorrows 

Of  a  lad  at  nine  or  ten ; 
He  has  seen  the  dawn  of  morrows 

When  the  sun  shone  bright  again; 
His  own  heart  has  been  near  breaking, 

Oh,  more  times  than  I  can  tell, 
And  has  often  known  the  aching 

That  a  boy's  heart  knows  so  well. 

I  am  sure  he  well  remembers, 

In  his  calendar  of  days, 
When  the  boy-heart  was  December's, 

Though  the  sun  and  flowers  were  May's. 
He  has  lived  a  boy's  life,  laddie, 

And  he  knows  just  how  it  goes ; 
Let  us  go  and  talk  to  daddy, 

For  I'm  sure  that  daddy  knows. 

Let  us  tell  him  all  about  it, 
How  the  sting  of  it  is  there, 


190  HEART   THROBS 


And  I  have  not  any  doubt  it 

Will  be  easier  to  bear; 
For  he's  trodden  every  byway, 

He  has  fathomed  every  joy, 
He  has  traveled  every  highway 

In  the  wide  world  of  a  boy. 

He  will  put  aside  the  worries 

That  his  day  may  follow  through, 
For  the  great  heart  of  him  hurries 

At  the  call  of  help  from  you. 
He  will  help  us  mend  the  broken 

Heart  of  ours  or  hope  or  toy, 
And  the  tale  may  bide  unspoken — 

For  he  used  to  be  a  boy. 

By  permission.  J-  W.  Foley. 


BECAUSE  OF  SOME  GOOD  ACT 

Let  me  today  do  something  that  shall  take 
A  little  sadness  from  the  world's  vast  store, 

And  may  I  be  so  favored  as  to  make 
Of  joy's  too  scanty  sum  a  little  more. 

Let  me  tonight  look  back  across  the  span 

'Twixt  dawn  and  dark,  and  to  my  conscience  say 

Because  of  some  good  act  to  beast  or  man — 
The  world  is  better  that  I  lived  today. 

Anon. 


HEART  THROBS  191 


THE   PAUPER'S   DEATHBED 

Tread  softly — bow  the  head — in  reverent  silence  bow. 
No  passing  bell  doth  toll;  yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

Stranger!  however  great,  with  lowly  reverence  bow; 
There's  one  in  that  poor  shed — one  by  that  paltry  bed- 
Greater  than  thou. 

Beneath  that  beggar's  roof,  lo!     Death   doth  keep  bis 

state ; 
Enter — no  crowds  attend;  enter — no  guards  defend 
This  palace-gate. 

That  pavement  damp  and  cold  no  smiling  courtiers  tread; 
One  silent  woman  stands,  lifting  with  meagre  hands 
A  dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound — an  infant  wail  alone ; 
A  sob  suppressed — again  that  short  deep  gasp,  and  then 
The  parting  groan. 

O  change — O  wondrous  change!     Burst  are  the  prison 

bars: 
This  moment  there,  so  low,  so  agonized,  and  now 
Beyond  the  stars. 

O  change — stupendous  change!     There  lies  the  soulless 

clod: 
The  sun  eternal  breaks — the  new  immortal  wakes — 
Wakes  with  his  God. 

Caroline  Anne  Bowles, 


192  HEART  THROBS 


THE  DROWNING  SINGER 

The  Sabbath  day  was  ending  in  a  village  by  the  sea, 
The  uttered  benediction  touched  the  people  tenderly, 
And  they  rose  to  face  the  sunset  in  the  glowing,  lighted 

west, 
And  they  hastened  to  their  dwellings  for  God's  blessed 

boon  of  rest. 

But  they  looked  across  the  waters  and  a  storm  was  raging 
there; 

A  fierce  spirit  moved  above  them — the  wild  spirit  of 
the  air; 

And  it  lashed  and  shook  and  tore  them,  till  they  thun- 
dered, groaned  and  boomed, 

And  alas  for  any  vessel  in  their  yawning  gulfs  entombed. 

Very  anxious  were  the  people  on  that  rocky  coast  of 
Wales, 

Lest  the  dawns  of  coming  morrows  should  be  telling 
awful  tales, 

When  the  sea  had  spent  its  passion,  and  should  cast 
upon  the  shore 

Bits  of  wreck  and  swollen  victims,  as  it  had  done  here- 
tofore. 

With   the   rough   winds   blowing    round   her,   a   brave 

woman  strained  her  eyes, 
And  she  saw  along  the  billows  a  large  vessel  fall  and 

rise. 


HEART  THROBS  193 


Oh!  it  did  not  need  a  prophet  to  tell  what  the  end  must 

be, 
For  no  ship  could  ride  in  safety  near  that  shore  on  such 

a  sea. 

Then  the  pitying  people  hurried  from  their  homes  and 

thrqnged  the  beach, 
Oh!    for  power  to  cross  the  waters  and  the  perishing  to 

reach! 
Helpless  hands  were  wrung  for  sorrow,  tender  hearts 

grew  cold  with  dread, 
And  the  ship,  urged  by  the  tempest,  to  the  fatal  rock 

shore  sped. 

"She  has  parted  in  the  middle!    Oh,  the  half  of  her  goes 

down! 
God  have  mercy!    Is  heaven  far  to  seek  for  those  who 

drown?" 
Lo!    When  next  the  white,  shocked  faces  looked  with 

terror  on  the  sea, 
Only  one  last  clinging  figure  on  the  spar  was  seen  to  be. 

Nearer  the  trembling  watchers  came  the  wreck,  tossed 
by  the  waves, 

And  the  man  still  clung  and  floated,  though  no  power 
on  earth  could  save, 

"Could  we  send  him  a  short  message?  Here's  a  trumpet. 
Shout  away!" 

'Twas  the  preacher's  hand  that  took  it,  and  he  won- 
dered what  to  say. 


194  HEART  THROBS 

Any  memory  of  his  sermon?    Firstly?    Secondly?    Ah, 

no! 
There  was  but  one  thing  to  utter  in  the  awful  hour  of 

woe; 
So  he  shouted  through  the  trumpet,  "Look  to  Jesus! 

Can  you  hear?" 
And  "Aye,  aye,  sir!"  rang  the  answer  o'er  the  waters  loud 

and  clear. 

Then  they  listened.     He  is  singing  "Jesus,  lover  of  my 

soul!" 
And  the  winds  brought  back  the  echo,  "While  the  nearer 

waters  roll!" 
Strange,  indeed,  it  was  to  hear  him,  "Till  the  storm  of 

life  is  past." 
Singing  bravely  from  the  waters,  "Oh,  receive  my  soul 

at  last!" 

He  could  have  no  other  refuge!    "Hangs  my  helpless  soul 

on  thee, 
Leave,  ah,  leave  me  not!"    The  singer  dropped  into  the 

tossing  sea. 
And  the  watchers,   looking  homeward,   through  their 

eyes  with  tears  made  dim, 
Said,  "He  passed  to  be  with  Jesus  in  the  singing  of  that 

Selected. 


"All  one's  life  is  Music,  if  one  touched  the  notes 
rightly  and  in  tune."  „     ,  • 


HEART  THROBS  195 


THE    MOTHERLOOK 

You  take  th'  finest  woman,  with  th'  roses  in  her  cheeks, 
An'  all  th'  birds   a-singin'  in  her  voice  each  time  she 

speaks ; 
Her  hair  all  black  an'  gleamin',  or  a  glowin'  mass  o'  gold— 
An'  still  th'  tale  o'  beauty  isn't  more  th'n  half  way  told. 
There  ain't  a  word  that  tells  it ;  all  description  it  defies — 
Th'  motherlook  that  lingers  in  a  happy  woman's  eyes. 

A  woman's  eyes  will  sparkle  in  her  innocence  an'  fun, 
Or  snap  a  warnin'  message  to  th'  ones  she  wants  to  shun. 
In  pleasure  or  in  anger  there  is  always  han'someness, 
But  still  there  is  a  beauty  that  was  surely  made  to  bless — 
A  beauty  that  grows  sweeter  an'  that  all  but  glorifies — 
Th'  motherlook  that  sometime  comes  into  a  woman's 
eyes. 

It  ain't  a  smile,  exactly — yet  it's  brimmin'  full  o'  joy, 
An'  meltin'  into  sunshine  when  she  bends  above  her  boy 
Or  girl  when  it's  a-sleepin',  with  its  dreams  told  in  its 

face ; 
She  smooths  its  hair,  an'  pets  it  as  she  lif's  it  to  its  place. 
It  leads  all  th'  expressions,  whether  grave,  or  gay,  or 

wise — 
Th'  motherlook  that  glimmers  in  a  lovin'  woman's  eyes. 

There  ain't  a  picture  of  it.    If  there  was  they'd  have  to 

paint 
A  picture  of  a  woman  mostly  angel  an'  some  saint, 
An'  make  it  still  be  human — an'  they'd  have  to  blend 

the  whole. 


196  HEART  THROBS 


There  ain't  a  picture  of  it,  for  no  one  can  paint  a  soul. 
No  one  can  paint  th'  glory  comin'  straight  from  Para- 
dise— 
Th'  motherlook  that  lingers  in  a  happy  woman's  eyes. 

From  "The  Trail  to  Boyland,"  copyright  1904.  W.D.    NesMt. 

Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


DAD 

Dad  never  had  much  to  say ; 
Jogged  along  in  his  quiet  way 
Contentedly  smoking  his  old  dudeen 
As  he  turned  the  soil  to  the  golden  sheen. 
Used  to  say  as  he  slapped  the  mare, 
One  horny  hand  in  his  tangled  hair, 
"Rest  is  joy  when  your  work's  well  done, 
So  pitch  in,  son." 

Sometimes  he  an'  I'd  not  hitch; 

Couldn't  agree  as  to  which  was  which. 

Fought  it  out  on  the  same  old  lines 

As  we  grubbed  an'  hoed  'mong  the  runnin'  vines; 

And  his  eyes  would  light  with  a  gentle  quiz, 

And  he'd  say  in  that  old  soft  way  of  his, 

As  he  idly  stroked  his  wrinkled  chin, 

"All  right,  son,  you  win." 

Dad  was  never  no  hand  to  fuss; 
Used  to  hurt  him  to  hear  us  cuss; 
Kind  o'  settled  in  his  old  ways, 
Born  an'  raised  in  the  good  old  days 


HEART  THROBS  197 


When  a  tattered  coat  hid  a  kindly  heart, 
An'  the  farm  was  home,  not  a  toilin'  mart, 
An'  a  man  was  judged  by  his  inward  self; 
Not  his  worldly  pelf. 

Seems  like  'twas  yesterday  we  sat 

On  the  old  back  porch  for  a  farewell  chat 

Ere  I  changed  the  farm  and  the  simple  life 

For  the  city's  roar  an'  bustle  an'  strife. 

While  I  gaily  talked  of  the  city's  charm 

His  eyes  looked  out  o'er  the  fertile  farm 

An'  he  said  as  he  rubbed  where  the  hair  was  thin, 

"All  right,  son,  you  win." 

'Member  the  night  I  trudged  back  home, 
Sinkin'  deep  in  the  fresh  turned  loam; 
Sick  an'  sore  for  the  dear  old  place, 
Hungerin'  most  for  a  loved  old  face. 
When  I  had  climbed  the  hilltop  o'er, 
There  stood  dad  in  the  kitchen  door, 
An'  he  says  in  a  voice  from  deep  within, 
"Hello,  son,  come  in." 

One  winter's  day,  the  first  of  snow, 

He  went  the  way  that  we  all  must  go ; 

An'  his  spirit  soared  to  the  realms  above 

On  the  wings  of  a  simple-hearted  love. 

An'  I  know  that  when  I  cross  the  bar 

I'll  find  him  there  by  the  gates  ajar, 

An'  he'll  say,  as  he  idly  strokes  his  chin, 

"Hello,  son,  come  in."  Txr-77-        t>j       j  t> 

W\lliam  Edward  Ross. 


198  HEART  THROBS 


THE  TRAVELLING  MAN 

Could  I  pour  out  the  nectar  the  gods  only  can, 

I  would  fill  up  my  glass  to  the  brim 
And  drink  the  success  of  the  Travelling  Man, 

And  the  house  represented  by  him ; 
And  could  I  but  tincture  the  glorious  draught 

With  his  smiles,  as  I  drank  to  him  then, 
And  the  jokes  he  has  told  and  the  laughs  he  has  laughed-, 

I  would  fill  up  the  goblet  again — 

And  drink  to  the  sweetheart  who  gave  him  good-bye 

With  a  tenderness  thrilling  him  this 
Very  hour,  as  he  thinks  of  the  tear  in  her  eye 

That  salted  the  sweet  of  her  kiss; 
To  her  truest  of  hearts  and  her  fairest  of  hands 

I  would  drink,  with  all  serious  prayers, 
Since  the  heart  she  must  trust  is  a  Travelling  Man's, 

And  as  warm  as  the  ulster  he  wears. 

I  would  drink  to  the  wife,  with  the  babe  on  her  knee, 

Who  awaits  his  returning  in  vain — 
Who  breaks  his  brave  letters  so  tremulously 

And  reads  them  again  and  again! 
And  I'd  drink  to  the  feeble  old  mother  who  sits 

At  the  warm  fireside  of  her  son 
And  murmurs  and  weeps  o'er  the  stocking  she  knits, 

As  she  thinks  of  the  wandering  one. 
I  would  drink  a  long  life  and  a  health  co  the  friends 

Who  have  met  him  with  smiles  and  with  cheer — 
To  the  generous  hand  that  the  landlord  extends 

To  the  wayfarer  journeying  here: 


HEART  THROBS  199 


And  I  pledge,  when  he  turns  from  this  earthly  abode 

And  pays  the  last  fare  that  he  can, 
Mine  Host  of  the  Inn  at  the  End  of  the  Road 

Will  welcome  the  Travelling  Man! 

James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

F:  om  Home  Folks,  by  James  Whitcomb  Riley.     Copyright  1897. 

Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers.  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 


DAD'S  OLD   BREECHES 

When  dad  has  worn  his  trousers  out, 

They  pass  to  brother  John. 
Then  mother  trims  them  round  about, 

And  William  puts  them  on. 

When  William's  legs  too  long  have  grown, 

The  trousers  fail  to  hide  'em, 
So  Walter  claims  them  for  his  own 

And  stows  himself  inside  'em. 

Next  Sam's  fat  legs  they  close  invest, 
And,  when  they  won't  stretch  tighter, 

They're  turned  and  shortened,  washed  and  pressed 
And  fixed  on  me — the  writer. 

Ma  works  them  into  rugs  and  caps 

When  I  have  burst  the  stitches. 
At  doomsday  we  shall  see  (perhaps) 

The  last  of  dad's  old  breeches. 

New  York  Weekly. 


200  HEART  THROBS 


AN  EVERY-DAY  CREED 

I  believe  in  my  job.  It  may  not  be  a  very  important 
job,  but  it  is  mine.  Furthermore,  it  is  God's  job  for 
me.  He  has  a  purpose  in  my  life  with  reference  to  His 
plan  for  the  world's  progress.  No  other  fellow  can 
take  my  place.  It  isn't  a  big  place,  to  be  sure,  but  for 
years  I  have  been  molded  in  a  peculiar  way  to  fill  a 
peculiar  niche  in  the  world's  work.  I  could  take  no 
other  man's  place.  He  has  the  same  claim  as  a  specialist 
that  I  make  for  myself.  In  the  end  the  man  whose 
name  was  never  heard  beyond  the  house  in  which  he 
lived,  or  the  shop  in  which  he  worked,  may  have  a 
larger  place  than  the  chap  whose  name  has  been  a  house- 
hold word  in  two  continents.  Yes,  I  believe  in  my  job. 
May  I  be  kept  true  to  the  task  which  lies  before  me — 
true  to  myself  and  to  God,  who  intrusted  me  with  it. 

I  believe  in  my  fellow-man.  He  may  not  always 
agree  with  me.  I'd  feel  sorry  for  him  if  he  did,  because 
I  myself  do  not  believe  some  of  the  things  that  were 
absolutely  sure  in  my  own  mind  a  dozen  years  ago. 
May  he  never  lose  faith  in  himself,  because,  if  he  does, 
he  may  lose  faith  in  me,  and  that  would  hurt  him  more 
than  the  former,  and  it  would  really  hurt  him  more 
than  it  would  hurt  me. 

I  believe  in  my  country.  I  believe  in  it  because  it 
is  made  up  of  my  fellow-men — and  myself.  I  can't  go 
back  on  either  of  us  and  be  true  to  my  creed.  If  it 
isn't  the  best  country  in  the  world  it  is  partly  because 
I  am  not  the  kind  of  a  man  that  I  should  be. 


HEART  THROBS  201 


I  believe  in  my  home.  It  isn't  a  rich  home.  It  wouldn't 
satisfy  some  folks,  but  it  contains  jewels  which  cannot 
be  purchased  in  the  markets  of  the  world.  When  I 
enter  its  secret  chambers,  and  shut  out  the  world  with 
its  care,  I  am  a  lord.  Its  motto  is  Service,  its  reward  is 
Love.  There  is  no  other  spot  in  all  the  world  which 
fills  its  place,  and  heaven  can  be  only  a  larger  home, 
with  a  Father  who  is  all-wise  and  patient  and  tender. 
I  believe  in  today.  It  is  all  that  I  possess.  The  past 
is  of  value  only  as  it  can  make  the  life  of  today  fuller 
and  freer.    There  is  no  assurance  of  tomorrow.    I  must 

Reverend  Charles  Stelzle. 


CALLING  THE  ROLL 

"Corporal  Greene!"  the  orderly  cried: 
"Here!"  was  the  answer,  loud  and  clear, 
From  the  lips  of  a  soldier  standing  near; 

And  "Here!"  was  the  word  the  next  replied. 

"Cyrus  Drew!"  and  a  silence  fell; 
This  time  no  answer  followed  the  call ; 
Only  his  rear-man  saw  him  fall, 

Killed  or  wounded,  he  could  not  tell. 

There  they  stood  in  the  failing  light, 

These  men  of  battle,  with  grave,  dark  looks, 
As  plain  to  be  read  as  open  books, 

While  slowly  gathered  the  shades  of  night. 

The  fern  on  the  slope  was  splashed  with  blood, 
And  down  in  the  corn,  where  the  poppies  grew, 


202  HEART  THROBS 

» , —  ^~j 

Were  redder  stains  than  the  poppies  knew, 
And  crimson-dyed  was  the  river's  flood. 

For  the  foe  had  crossed  from  the  other  side, 
That  day,  in  the  face  of  a  murderous  fire 
That  swept  them  down  in  its  terrible  ire; 

And  their  life-blood  went  to  color  the  tide. 

4 'Herbert  Cline!'      At  the  call  there  came 
Two  stalwart  soldiers  into  the  line, 
Bearing  between  them  Herbert  Cline, 

Wounded  and  bleeding,  to  answer  his  name. 

"Ezra  Kerr!"  and  a  voice  said  "Here!" 

"Hiram  Kerr!"  but  no  man  replied; 

They  were  brothers,  these  two;  the  sad  wind  sighed, 
And  a  shudder  crept  through  the  cornfield  near. 
"Ephraim  Deane!"     Then  a  soldier  spoke: 

"Deane  carried  our  regiment's  colors,"  he  said, 

"When  our  ensign  was  shot.     I  left  him  dead, 
Just  after  the  enemy  wavered  and  broke. 

"Close  to  the  roadside  his  body  lies; 

I  paused  a  moment,  and  gave  him  to  drink; 

He  murmured  his  mother's  name,  I  think; 
And  death  came  with  it  and  closed  his  eyes." 
'Twas  a  victory — yes ;  but  it  cost  us  dear ; 

For  the  company's  roll,  when  called  at  night, 

Of  a  hundred  men  who  went  into  the  fight 
Numbered  but  twenty  that  answered  "Here!" 

Sheppard. 


HEART  THROBS  203 

A  VOCABULARIC   DUEL 
Turning  the  Tables 

A  Kentucky  lawyer  was  standing  on  the  steps  of 
the  Covington  post-office  the  other  day,  when  an  old 
colored  man  came  up  and,  touching  his  hat,  asked: 

"Kin  you  tell  me,  is  dis  de  place  where  dey  sells 
postage  stamps?" 

"Yes,  sir;  this  is  the  place,"  replied  the  lawyer, 
seeing  a  chance  for  a  little  quiet  fun;  "but  what  do 
you  want  with  postage  stamps,  uncle?" 

"To  mail  a  letter,  sah,  of  course." 

"Well,  then,  you  needn't  bother  about  stamps; 
you  don't  have  to  put  any  on  this  week." 

"I  don't?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Why— for  not?" 

"Well,  you  see,  the  conglomeration  of  the  hypothe- 
nuse  has  differentiated  the  parallelogram  so  much  that 
the  consanguinity  don't  emulate  the  ordinary  effer- 
vescence, and  so  the  government  has  decided  to  send 
letters  free." 

The  old  man  took  off  his  hat,  dubiously  shook  his 
head,  and  then  with  a  long-drawn  breath,  slowly 
remarked : 

"Well,  boss,  all  dat  may  be  true,  an'  I  don't  say  it 
ain't ;  but  just  sposen  dat  de  ecksentricity  of  de  aggre- 
gation tarnsubstanshuates  de  ignominiousness  of  de 
puppindickeler  and  sublimites  de  puspicuity  of  de  con- 
sequences— don't  you   qualificate   dat    de    government 


204  HEART  THROBS 

would  confisticate  dat  dare  letter?     I   guess   I'd  jest 
better  put  some  stamps  on  anyhow,  fer  luck!" 

And  the  old  man  passed  solemnly  down  the  street. 

Cincinnati  Commercial. 
i 

THE   UNDER   DOG 

(Ben  Butler's  favorite  poem) 

I  know  that  this  world — that  the  great  big  world — 

From  the  peasant  up  to  the  king, 
Has  a  different  tale  from  the  tale  I  tell, 

And  a  different  song  to  sing. 

But  for  me,  and  I  care  not  a  single  fig 

If  they  say  I  am  wrong  or  I'm  right; 
I  shall  always  go  in  for  the  weaker  dog, 

The  under  dog  in  the  fight. 

I  know  that  the  world — that  the  great  big  world- 
Will  never  a  moment  stop 

To  see  which  dog  may  be  in  fault, 
But  will  shout  for  the  dog  on  top. 

But  for  me — I  never  shall  pause  to  ask 

Which  dog  may  be  in  the  right ; 
For  my  heart  will  beat,  while  it  beats  at  all, 

For  the  under  dog  in  the  fight. 

Perchance  what  I've  said  were  better  not  said, 

Or  'twere  better  I  said  it  incog ; 
But  with  heart  and  with  glass  filled  chock  to  the  brim, 

Here  is  luck  to  the  bottom  dog.  . 


HEART  THROBS  205 


BALLADE   OF   RICHES 

What  care  I  for  the  treasure  isles 

Enskyed  where  purple  oceans  are? 
I  have  the  sunlight's  golden  smiles; 

I  have  the  silvery  gleam  of  star ; 

Daily*  beside  the  pasture  bar 
The  daisies  flash  me  radiance  free — ■ 

Poets  are  rich,  or  near  or  far, 
For  wealth  abides  with  poverty! 

Roses  have  I  for  daily  bread : 

Why  should  I  crave  a  richer  fare? 
Who  eats  of  beauty,  he  is  fed ; 

Who  drinks  a  draught  of  sweet  pure  air. 

He  has  wine  of  a  vintage  rare. 
Yea,  naught  have  I  but  youth  and  glee, 

Yet  always  I  have  joy  to  spare — ■ 
For  wealth  abides  with  poverty! 

Science  shines  like  moon  on  the  mind; 

The  soul  is  thrall  to  starry  art ; 
I  covet  not  their  cold  unkind 

Splendor  of  death  in  whole  or  part. 

I  have  love  in  a  true,  pure  heart, 
And  nevermore  on  land  or  sea 

Can  summer  from  my  life  depart — 
For  wealth  abides  with  poverty! 

Edward  Wilbur  Mason. 


206  HEART  THROBS 


MY  KING 

You  are  all  that  I  have  to  live  for — 

All  that  I  want  to  love, 
All  that  the  whole  world  holds  for  me 

Of  a  faith  in  the  world  above! 
You  came — and  it  seemed  too  mighty 

For  my  humble  heart  to  hold ; 
It  seemed,  in  its  sacred  glory, 

Like  a  glimpse  through  the  Gate  of  Gold, 
Like  life  in  the  perennial  Eden, 

Created,  formed  anew — 
This  dream  of  perfect  manhood 

That  I  realize  in  you. 

God  created  me  a  woman, 

With  a  nature  just  as  true 
As  the  blue,  eternal  ocean — - 

As  the  sky  that  is  over  you, 
And  you  are  mine  until  your  maker  calls  you — 

Your  soul  and  your  body,  sweet! 
Your  breath,  and  the  whole  of  your  being, 

From  your  kingly  head  to  your  feet — 
Your  eyes,  and  the  light  that  is  in  them — 

Your  lips,  with  their  maddening  wine — 
Your  arms,  with  their  passionate  clasp,  my  king- 

Your  body  and  soul  are  mine. 

No  power  whatsoever, 

No  will  but  God's  alone, 
Can  take  you  from  my  keeping; 

You  are  his  and  mine  alone! 


HEART  THROBS  207 


I  know  not  where,  if  ever — 

I  know  not  when  or  how 
Death's  hands  may  try  the  fetters 

That  bind  us  here  and  now ; 
But  some  day,  when  God  beckons, 

Where  rise  His  fronded  palms, 
My  soul  shall  cross  the  River 

And  lay  you  in  His  arms ; 
Forever  and  forever. 

Beyond  the  Silent  Sea, 
You  will  rest  in  the  Arms  Eternal, 

And  still  belong  to  me.  Boston  Times. 


A  PRAYER   FOR   EVENING 

"Lord,  receive  our  supplication  for  this  house, 
family  and  country.  Protect  the  innocent,  restrain  the 
greedy  and  the  treacherous,  lead  us  out  of  our  tribu- 
lation into  a  quiet  land. 

"Look  down  upon  ourselves  and  upon  our  absent 
dear  ones.  Help  us  and  them,  prolong  our  days  in  peace 
and  honor.  Give  us  health,  food,  bright  weather  and 
light  hearts.  In  what  we  meditate  of  evil,  frustrate 
our  will;  in  what  of  good,  further  our  endeavors.  Cause 
injuries  to  be  forgotten  and  benefits  to  be  remembered. 

"Let  us  lie  down  without  fear  and  awake  and  arise 
with  exultation.  For  His  sake,  in  whose  words  we  now 
conclude."  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


208  HEART  THROBS 


"I'M  GOING  TO,  ANYWAY" 

When  you've  set  your  head  to  do  it, 

When  your  judgment  says  you're  right, 
When  your  conscience  gives  its  sanction, 

Then  pitch  in  with  all  your  might. 
Don't  let  anything  prevent  you, 

Though  the  odds  seem  big  and  strong ; 
Every  obstacle  must  vanish 

As  the  swift  days  roll  along — 
If  you  set  your  jaw  and  say: 
"Well,  I'm  going  to,  anyway!" 

While  the  whole  world  loves  a  lover, 

Yet  it  loves  a  winner  best ; 
Loves  the  man  who,  till  he  conquer, 

Stops  not  e'en  for  sleep  or  rest. 
Oft  he  may  be  worn  and  haggard, 

Often  he  may  weary  be ; 
Yet  the  lion  heart  within  him 

Has  been  firm  as  rock  since  he 
Set  his  quiet  jaw  to  say: 
"Well,  I'm  going  to,  anyway!" 

Oh,  the  loose-hung  jaws  encountered 

In  the  course  of  but  a  day! 
Oh,  the  lives  devoid  of  purpose, 

That  we  find  along  the  way! 
They  the  weaklings  are,  who  know  not 

What  strong  faith  and  will  may  do ; 


HEART  THROBS  209 

Know  not  that  the  world's  a  servant 

To  the  man  who's  game  and  true — 
And  who  sets  his  jaw  to  say: 
"Well,  I'm  going  to,  anyway!" 

By  permission. S.  W.  GilUlafU 

THE   BLESSED 

1.  And  seeing  the  multitudes,  he  went  up  into  a  moun- 
tain; and  when  he  was  set,  his  disciples  came  unto  him: 

2.  And  he  opened  his  mouth,  and  taught  them, saying, 

3.  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit:  for  theirs  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven. 

4.  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn:  for  they  shall  be 
comforted. 

5.  Blessed  are  the  meek:  for  they  shall  inherit  the 
earth. 

6.  Blessed  are  they  which  do  hunger  and  thirst  after 
righteousness:   for  they  shall  be  filled. 

7.  Blessed  are  the  merciful:  for  they  shall  obtain 
mercy. 

8.  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart:  for  they  shall  see 
God. 

9.  Blessed  are  the  peacemakers:  for  they  shall  be 
called  the  children  of  God. 

10.  Blessed  are  they  which  are  persecuted  for  right- 
eousness' sake:   for  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

11.  Blessed  are  ye,  when  men  shall  revile  you,  and 
persecute  you,  and  shall  say  all  manner  of  evil  against 
you  falsely,  for  my  sake.,  The  Bibkm 


210  HEART  THROBS 


HAVE  COURAGE,  MY  BOY,  TO  SAY  NO 

Written  by  a  devoted  mother,  to  be  given   to  her  son  upon 
his  entrance  into  business. 

You're  starting  today  on  life's  journey, 

Alone  on  the  highway  of  life. 
You'll  meet  with  a  thousand  temptations, 

Each  city  with  evil  is  rife. 
This  world  is  a  stage  of  excitement, 

There's  danger  wherever  you  go, 
But  if  you  are  tempted  in  weakness, 

Have  courage,  my  boy,  to  say  no. 

The  siren's  sweet  smile  may  allure  you, 

Beware  of  her  cunning  and  art. 
Whenever  you  see  her  approaching, 

Be  guarded  and  haste  to  depart. 
The  billiard  saloons  are  inviting, 

Decked  out  in  their  tinsel  and  show. 
Should  you  be  invited  to  enter, 

Have  courage,  my  boy,  to  say  no. 

Be  careful  in  choosing  companions, 

Seek  only  the  brave  and  the  true; 
And  stand  by  your  friends  when  in  trial, 

Ne'er  changing  the  old  for  the  new; 
And  when  by  false  friends  you  are  tempted, 

The  taste  of  the  wine  cup  to  know, 
With  firmness,  with  patience  and  kindness, 

Have  courage,  my  boy,  to  say  no! 


HEART  THROBS  211 


The  bright  sparkling  wine  may  be  offered, 

No  matter  how  tempting  it  be. 
From  poison  that  stings  like  an  adder, 

My  boy,  have  the  courage  to  flee. 
The  gambling  halls  are  before  you, 

Their  lights,  how  they  dance  to  and  fro; 
You  may  be  invited  to  enter, 

Do  have  courage,  my  boy,  to  say  no. 

In  courage  alone  lies  your  safety, 

When  you  the  long  journey  begin, 
And  trust  in  your  heavenly  Father 

Will  keep  you  unspotted  from  sin. 
Temptations  will  go  on  increasing, 

As  streams  from  a  rivulet  flow. 
But  if  you  are  true  to  your  manhood, 

You'll  have  courage,  my  boy,  and  say  no. 


GRANDFATHER'S  CLOCK 

My  grandfather's  clock  was  too  large  for  the  shelf, 

So  it  stood  ninety  years  on  the  floor ; 
It  was  taller  by  half  than  the  old  man  himself, 

Though  it  weighed  not  a  pennyweight  more. 
It  was  bought  on  the  morn  of  the  day  that  he  was  born 

And  was  always  his  treasure  and  pride. 
But  it  stopped  short — never  to  go  again — 

When  the  old  man  died. 

Ninety  years  without  slumbering 
Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick. 


212  HEART  THROBS 

His  life-seconds  numbering 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick. 
It  stopped  short — never  to  go  again — 

When  the  old  man  died. 

In  watching  its  pendulum  swing  to  and  fro 

Many  hours  had  he  spent  while  a  boy; 
And  in  childhood  and  manhood  the  clock  seemed  to  know 

And  to  share  both  his  grief  and  his  joy, 
For  it  struck  twenty-fcur  when  he  entered  the  door 

With  a  blooming  and  beautiful  bride, 
But  it  stopped  short — never  to  go  again — 

When  the  old  man  died. 

My  grandfather  said  of  those  he  could  hire, 

Not  a  servant  so  faithful  he  found, 
For  it  wasted  no  time  and  had  but  one  desire — 

At  the  close  of  each  week  to  be  wound. 
And  it  kept  in  its  place — not  a  frown  upon  its  face, 

And  its  hands  never  hung  by  its  side ; 
But  it  stopped  short — never  to  go  again — 

When  the  old  man  died. 

It  rang  an  alarm  in  the  dead  of  night — 

An  alarm  that  for  years  had  been  dumb. 
And  we  knew  that  his  spirit  was  pluming  for  flight 

That  his  hour  for  departure  had  come. 
Still  the  clock  kept  the  time  with  a  soft  and  muffled  chime 

As  we  silently  stood  by  his  side ; 
But  it  stopped  short — never  to  go  again — 

When  the  old  man  died.  Selected. 


HEART  THROBS  213 


SOMEBODY'S  DARLING  l/ 

Into  a  ward  of  the  whitewashed  walls, 

Where  the  dead  and  dying  lay, 
Wounded  by  bayonets,  shells  and  balls — 

Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one  day, 
Somebody's  darling!     So  young  and  so  brave, 

Wearing  still  on  his  pale,  sweet  face, 
Soon  to  be  hid  by  the  dust  in  the  grave, 

The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's  grace. 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold 

Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  young  brow; 
Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mould — 

Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 
Back  from  the  beautiful,  blue- veined  face 

Brush  every  wandering  silken  thread; 
Cross  his  hands,  a  signal  of  grace — 

Somebody's  darling  is  still  and  dead. 

Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake, 

Murmur  a  prayer  soft  and  low, 
One  bi4ght  curl  from  the  cluster  take — 

They  were  somebody's  pride,  you  know. 
Somebody's  hand  hath  rested  there; 

Was  it  a  mother's,  soft  and  white? 
And  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 

Been  baptized  in  the  waves  of  light? 

God  knows  best.    He  was  somebody's  love; 
Somebody's  heart  enshrined  him  there ; 


214  HEART  THROBS 


Somebody  wafted  his  name  above, 

Night  and  morn  on  the  wings  of  prayer. 

Somebody  wept  when  he  marched  away, 
Looking  so  handsome,  brave  and  grand; 

Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay, 
Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand. 

Somebody's  waiting  and  watching  for  him, 

Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  her  heart; 
There  he  lies — with  his  blue  eyes  dim, 

And  smiling,  childlike  lips  apart. 
Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead, 

Pausing  to  drop  on  his  grave  a  tear; 
Carve  on  the  wooden  slab  at  his  head — 

"Somebody's  darling  lies  buried  here." 

Marie  Lacost. 

A  COMMONPLACE  LIFE 

"A  commonplace  life,"  we  say  as  we  sigh. 

But  why  should  we  sigh  as  we  say? 

The  commonplace  sun  in  the  commonplace  sky 

Makes  up  the  commonplace  day. 

The  moon  and  stars  are  commonplace  things, 

And  the  flower  that  blooms  and  the  bird  that  sings. 

But  dark  were  the  world  and  sad  our  lot 

If  the  flowers  failed  and  the  sun  shone  not. 

And  God,  who  studies  each  separate  soul, 

Out  of  commonplace  lives  makes  His  beautiful  Whole. 

Anon. 


HEART  THROBS  215 


THE  HAPPIEST  TIME  OF  A  WOMAN'S  LIFE 

What's  the  happiest  time  of  a  woman's  life? 

Is  it  her  schoolgirl  days 
When  thoughts  and  hopes  half -formed  are  rife 

Amid  her  glad  wild  ways? 
Ah!     No,  not  then. 
The  happiest  time  is  yet  to  come — but  when? 

What's  the  happiest  time  of  a  woman's  life? 

Is  it  her  virgin  prime, 
When  love  awakes,  ere  she's  a  wife, 

Is  it  that  golden  time? 
Ah!     No,  not  then. 
A  happier  time  is  coming  yet — but  when? 

What's  the  happiest  time  of  a  woman's  life? 

Is  it  her  wedding  day, 
When  vows  are  pledged,  and  as  a  wife 

She's  bound  to  him  for  aye? 
Say,  is  it  then? 
Ah!     No,  not  yet;  the  time  is  coming.     When? 

The  happiest  time  of  a  woman's  life? 

Ah!    It  has  come  at  last; 
For,  hark!     I  hear  a  little  voice, 

And  footsteps  toddling  fast; 
And  the  happiest  hours,  I  know,  are  these, 
When  the  children  are  playing  about  her  knees. 

Frances  H.  Lee 


216  HEART  THROBS 


ONWARD,  UPWARD 

This  verse,  addressed  to  the  young  gentlemen  leaving  Lenox 
Academy,  Lenox,  Massachusetts,  was  sent  in  by  Mr.  John  Wana- 
maker  as  his  favorite  selection. 

A  sacred  burden  is  this  life  ye  bear, 
Look  on  it,  lift  it,  bear  it  solemnly; 
Stand  up  and  walk  beneath  it  steadfastly ; 
Fail  not  for  sorrow;  falter  not  for  sin; 
But  onward,  upward,  till  the  goal  ye  win. 

Frances  Anne  Kemblt. 


SONNET 


When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  Heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 

And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 

Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possessed, 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope, 

With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 

Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state 
(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 

From  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate: 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered  such  wealth  brings, 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

William  Shakespeare, 


HEART  THROBS  217 


HOMEWARD!   THE  EVENING  COMES 
The  Province  Herd  Girl  to  Her  Cows 

(Contributed  by  the  Hon.  James  Bryce,  English  Ambassador) 

The  skies  have  sunk,  and  hid  the  upper  snow, 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie!) 
The  rainy  clouds  are  filing  fast  below, 
And  wet  will  be  the  path,  and  wet  shall  we. 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie!) 

Ah  dear!  and  where  is  he,  a  year  agone, 

Who  stepped  beside  and  cheered  us  on  and  on? 

(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie!) 

My  sweetheart  wanders  far  away  from  me 

In  foreign  land  or  on  a  foreign  sea. 

(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie!) 

The  lightning  zigzags  shoot  across  the  sky, 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie!) 
And  through  the  vale  the  rains  go  sweeping  by ; 
Ah  me!  and  when  in  shelter  shall  we  be? 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie!) 

Cold,  dreary  cold,  the  stormy  winds  feel  they 
O'er  foreign  lands  and  foreign  seas  that  stray. 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie!) 
And  doth  he  e'er,  I  wonder,  bring  to  mind 
The  pleasant  huts  and  herds  he  left  behind? 

And  doth  he  sometimes  in  his  slumbering  see 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie!) 
The  feeding  kine,  and  doth  he  think  of  me, 


218 HEART  THROBS 

My  sweetheart  wandering  wheresoe'er  it  be? 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie! 

The  thunder  bellows  far  from  snow  to  snow, 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie!) 
And  loud  and  louder  roars  the  flood  below. 
Heigh-ho!  but  soon  in  shelter  shall  we  be: 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie! 

Or  shall  he  find  before  his  term  be  sped 
Some  comelier  maid  that  he  shall  wish  to  wed? 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie!) 
For  weary  is  work,  and  weary  day  by  day 
To  have  your  comfort  miles  on  miles  away. 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie!) 

Or  may  it  be  that  I  shall  find  my  mate, 
And  he,  returning,  see  himself  too  late? 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie!) 
For  work  we  must,  and  what  we  see,  we  see, 
And  God  he  knows,  and  what  must  be  must  be, 
When  sweethearts  wander  far  away  from  me. 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie! 

The  sky  behind  is  brightening  up  anew, 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La  Palie!) 
The  rain  is  ending,  and  our  journeys  too; 
Heigh-ho!  aha!  for  here  at  home  are  we: — 
In,  Rose,  and  in,  Provence  and  La  Palie! 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough, 


« 


HEART  THROBS  219 

THE  PUZZLED  CENSUS-TAKER 
'Nein"  (pronounced  nine)  is  the  German  for  "No." 

"Got  any  boys?"  the  marshal  said 

To  a  lady  from  over  the  Rhine; 
And  the  lady  shook  her  flaxen  head, 

And  civilly  answered,  "  Nein!" 

"Got  any  girls?"  the  marshal  said 

To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine; 
And  again  the  lady  shook  her  head, 

And  civilly  answered,  "  Nein!" 

"But  some  are  dead?"  the  marshal  said 

To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine ; 
And  again  the  lady  shook  her  head, 

And  civilly  answered  "  Nein!" 

"Husband,  of  course,"  the  marshal  said 

To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine ; 
And  again  she  shook  her  flaxen  head, 

And  civilly  answered,  "  Nein!" 

"The  devil  you  have!"  the  marshal  said 

To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine; 
And  again  she  shook  her  flaxen  head, 

And  civilly  answered  "  Nein!" 

"Now,  what  do  you  mean  by  shaking  your  head, 

And  always  answering  'Nine?'  " 
"Ich  kann  nicht  Englisch!"  civilly  said 

The  lady  from  over  the  Rhine. 

John  G.  Saxe. 


220  HEART  THROBS 


THE   WILL  AND   THE   WAY 

The  marriage  ceremony  of  the  Friends  is  unique. 
No  minister  or  third  party  of  any  kind  is  required. 
The  couple  must  marry  themselves.  All  preliminary 
legal  forms  are  complied  with,  and  on  the  day  ap- 
pointed the  marriage  is  solemnized  in  a  public  meeting 
in  the  presence  of  hundreds  of  witnesses.  The  bridal 
party  is  seated  facing  the  main  part  of  the  audience, 
where  for  an  hour  they  are  the  cynosure  of  perhaps  a 
thousand  curious,  relentless  eyes.  When  the  "head" 
of  the  meeting  announces  that  the  time  for  the  marriage 
has  arrived,  the  groom  and  bride  stand,  join  hands, 
and  the  man  repeats  this  simple  and  impressive  vow: 

"Friends,  in  the  presence  of  the  Lord  and  before 
this  assembly,  I  take  A.  B.  to  be  my  wife,  promising 
with  divine  assistance  to  be  unto  her  a  faithful  and  loving 
husband  until  death  shall  separate  us." 

With  a  proper  change  of  name  and  pronoun,  the 
same  formula  is  spoken  by  the  woman,  and  the  ordeal 
is  over. 

The  truth  of  the  following  story  can  be  vouched  for 
by  more  than  one  living  witness,  although  it  occurred 
many  years  ago. 

An  ancient  beau,  at  the  ripe  age  of  threescore  and 
ten,  led  his  third  bride  to  the  altar.  Twice  had  he  glibly 
repeated  the  beautiful  ceremony,  but  on  the  third  oc- 
casion his  memory  failed  him  utterly.  He  began  with 
confidence,  "Friends,  in  the  presence — "  but  could  go 
no  further.     The  promptings  of  the  clerk  seemed  only 


HEART  THROBS  221 


to  add  to  his  confusion.  He  repeated  and  stammered, 
and  stammered  and  repeated,  but  the  words  would  not 
come.  Not  to  be  defeated  in  the  purpose  of  accomplish- 
ing his  marriage,  he  finally  arose  to  a  supreme  effort  and 
found  a  tongue  for  the  following  improvised  deliverance : 
"Friends,  I  love  this  woman,  I'll  be  good  to  her,  and 

I'll  have  her  anyhow."  T  .  „  , 

Linnaeus  Roberts. 


LIFE  IN  THE  SPIRIT 
Sincerity 

To  be  sincere.    To  look  Life  in  the  eyes 
With  calm,  undrooping  gaze. 

Always  to  mean 
The  high  and  truthful  thing. 

Never  to  screen 
Behind  the  unmeant  word,  the  sharp  surprise 
Of  cunning,  never  tell  the  little  lies 
Of  look  or  thought.    Always  to  choose  between 
The  true  and  small,  the  true  and  large,  serene 
And  high  above  Life's  cheap  dishonesties. 

The  soul  that  steers  by  this  unfading  star 

Needs  never  other  compass.    All  the  far 

Wide  waste  shall  blaze  with  guiding  light,  tho'  rocks 

And  sirens  meet  and  mock  its  straining  gaze. 
Secure  from  storms  and  all  Life's  battle-shocks 

It  shall  not  veer  from  any  righteous  ways. 

Maurice  Smiley. 


222  HEART  THROBS 


THE   KING'S  PICTURE 

"There  is  in  every  human  being,  however  ignoble,  some  hi  of 
perfection;  some  one  place  where — as  we  may  fancy — the  vt  is 
thin  which  hides  the  divinity  behind  it." — Confucian  Classics. 

The  king  from  his  council  chamber 

Came  weary  and  sore  of  heart; 
He  called  for  Iliff ,  the  painter, 

And  spake  with  him  thus  apart ; 
"I  am  sickened  of  faces  ignoble, 

Hypocrites,  cowards,  and  knaves! 
I  shall  shrink  to  their  shrunken  measure, 

Chief  slave  in  a  realm  of  slaves! 

"Paint  me  a  true  man's  picture, 

Gracious  and  wise  and  good; 
Endowed  with  strength  of  heroes, 

And  the  beauty  of  womanhood. 
It  shall  hang  in  my  inmost  chamber, 

That  thither  when  I  retire, 
It  may  fill  my  soul  with  grandeur 

And  warm  it  with  sacred  fire." 

So  the  artist  painted  the  picture, 
And  hung  it  in  the  palace  hall; 

Never  a  thing  so  goodly 

Had  garnished  the  stately  wall. 

The  King,  with  head  uncovered, 
Gazed  on  it  with  rapt  delight, 


HEART  THROBS  223 

Till  it  suddenly  wore  strange  meaning, 
And  baffled  his  questioning  sight. 

For  the  form  was  his  supplest  courtier's, 

Perfect  in  every  limb ! 
But  the  bearing  was  that  of  the  henchman 

Who  filled  the  flagons  for  him ; 
The  brow  was  a  priest's  who  pondered 

His  parchments  early  and  late ; 
The  eye  was  a  wandering  minstrel's 

Who  sang  at  the  palace  gate. 

The  lips,  half  sad  and  half  mirthful, 

With  a  flitting,  tremulous  grace, 
Were  the  very  lips  of  a  woman 

He  had  kissed  in  the  market  place ; 
But  the  smile  which  her  curves  transfigured 

As  a  rose  with  its  shimmer  of  dew, 
Was  the  smile  of  the  wife  who  loved  him, 

Queen  Ethelyn,  good  and  true. 

Then  "Learn,  O  King,"  said  the  artist, 

''This  truth  that  the  picture  tells — 
How,  that  in  every  form  of  the  human, 

Some  hint  of  the  highest  dwells ; 
How,  scanning  each  living  temple 

For  the  place  where  the  veil  is  thin, 
We  may  gather,  by  beautiful  glimpses, 

The  form  of  the  God  within." 

Helen  B.  Bostwick. 


224  HEART  THROBS 


LOVE   ME   LITTLE,   LOVE   ME   LONG 

Love  me  little,  love  me  long, 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song : 
Love  that  is  too  hot  and  strong 

Burnetii  soon  to  waste. 
I  am  with  little  well  content, 
And  a  little  from  thee  sent 
Is  enough,  with  true  intent, 

To  be  steadfast  friend. 
Love  me  little,  love  me  long, 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 

Say  thou  lov'st  me  while  thou  live, 
I  to  thee  my  love  will  give, 
Never  dreaming  to  deceive 

While  that  life  endures : 
Nay,  and  after  death  in  sooth, 
I  to  thee  will  keep  my  truth, 
As  now  when  in  my  May  of  youth, 

This  my  love  assures. 
Love  me  little,  love  me  long, 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 

Constant  love  is  moderate  ever, 
And  it  will  through  life  persever, 
Give  to  me  that  with  true  endeavor. 

I  will  it  restore : 
A  suit  of  durance  let  it  be, 
For  all  weathers,  that  for  me. 


HEART  THROBS  225 


For  the  land  or  for  the  sea, 

Lasting  evermore. 
Love  me  little,  love  me  long, 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 

Anonymous,  originally  printed  in  i$6q. 


HE  EDUCATED   THE  JUDGE 

This  anecdote  is  told  of  Chief  Justice  John  Marshall. 
Returning  one  afternoon  from  his  farm  near  Richmond, 
Virginia,  to  his  home  in  that  city,  the  hub  of  his  wheel 
caught  on  a  small  sapling  growing  by  the  roadside.  After 
striving  unsuccessfully  for  some  moments  to  extricate 
the  wheel  he  heard  the  sound  of  an  ax  in  the  woods  and 
saw  a  negro  man  approaching. 

Hailing  him,  he  said,  "If  you  will  get  that  ax  and 
cut  down  this  tree  I'll  give  you  a  dollar." 

"I  c'n  git  yer  by  'thout  no  ax,  ef  dat's  all  yer  want." 

"Yes,  that's  all,"  said  the  judge. 

The  man  simply  backed  the  horse  until  the  wheel 
was  clear  of  the  sapling  and  then  brought  the  vehicle 
safely  around  it. 

"You  don't  charge  a  dollar  for  that,  do  you?"  asked 
the  astonished  chief  justice. 

"No,  massa;  but  it's  wuf  a  dollar  to  learn  some  folks 
sense." 

The  darkey  got  his  dollar  without  further  questioning. 

Atlanta  Constitution. 


226  HEART  THROBS 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  ROAST  PIG 

Mankind,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript,  which  my 
friend  M.  was  obliging  enough  to  read  and  explain  to 
me,  for  the  first  seventy  thousand  ages  ate  their  meat 
raw,  clawing  it  or  biting  it  from  the  living  animal. 

The  art  of  roasting,  or  rather  broiling  (which  I  take 
to  be  the  elder  brother),  was  accidentally  discovered 
in  the  manner  following: 

The  swine-herd,  Ho-ti,  having  gone  out  into  the 
wood  one  morning,  as  his  manner  was,  to  collect  food 
for  his  hogs,  left  his  cottage  in  the  care  of  his  eldest 
son,  Bo-bo,  a  great  lubberly  boy,  who,  being  fond  of 
playing  with  fire,  as  younkers  of  his  age  commonly  are, 
let  some  sparks  escape  into  a  bundle  of  straw,  which, 
kindling  quickly,  spread  the  conflagration  over  every 
part  of  their  poor  mansion,  till  it  was  reduced  to  ashes. 
Together  with  the  cottage,  what  was  of  much  more 
importance,  a  fine  litter  of  new-farrowed  pigs,  no  less 
than  nine  in  number,  perished. 

While  he  was  thinking  what  he  should  say  to  his 
father,  and  wringing  his  hands  over  the  smoking  rem- 
nants of  one  of  those  untimely  sufferers,  an  odor  assailed 
his  nostrils  unlike  any  scent  which  he  had  before  expe- 
rienced. What  could  it  proceed  from?  Not  from  the 
burnt  cottage — he  had  smelt  that  smell  before;  indeed, 
this  was  by  no  means  the  first  accident  of  the  kind 
which  had  occurred  through  the  negligence  of  this  un- 
lucky young  firebrand — much  less  did  it  resemble  that 
of  any  known  herb,  weed,  or  flower.    A  premonitory 


HEART  THROBS  227 


moistening  at  the  same  time  overflowed  his  nether 
lip  He  knew  not  what  to  think.  He  next  stooped 
down  to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  were  any  signs  of  life  in 
it.  He  burnt  his  fingers,  and  to  cool  them  he  applied 
them,  in  his  booby  fashion,  to  his  mouth.  Some  of  the 
crumbs  of  the  scorched  skin  had  come  away  with  his 
fingers,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  (in  the  world's 
life,  indeed,  for  before  him  no  man  had  known  it)  he 
tasted — crackling ! 

Again  he  felt  and  fumbled  the  pig.  It  did  not  burn 
him  so  much  now,  still  he  licked  his  fingers  from  a  sort 
of  habit.  The  truth  at  length  broke  into  his  slow  under- 
standing that  it  was  the  pig  that  smelt  so,  and  the  pig 
that  tasted  so  delicious;  and,  surrendering  himself 
up  to  the  new-born  pleasure,  he  fell  to  tearing  up  whole 
handfuls  of  the  scorched  skin  with  the  flesh  next  it, 
and  was  cramming  it  down  his  throat  in  his  beastly 
fashion,  when  his  sire  entered  amid  the  smoking  rafters, 
armed  with  retributory  cudgel;  and,  finding  how 
matters  stood,  began  to  rain  blows  upon  the  young 
rogue's  shoulders  as  thick  as  hailstones. 

"You  graceless  whelp!  What  have  you  got  there 
devouring?  Is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  burnt  me 
down  three  houses  with  your  dog's  tricks,  and  be  hanged 
to  you,  but  you  must  be  eating  fire,  and  I  know  not 
what?    What  have  you  got  there,  I  say?" 

"O  father,  the  pig — the  pig!  Do  come  and  taste  how 
nice  the  burnt  pig  eats!" 

Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was  wonderfully  sharpened 
since  morning,  soon  raked  out  another  pig,  and  fairly 


228  HEART  THROBS 

rending  it  asunder,  thrust  the  lesser  half  by  main  force 
into  the  fists  of  Ho-ti,  still  shouting  out,  "Eat,  eat,  eat 
the  burnt  pig,  father;  only  taste!  O  Lord!"  with  such- 
like barbarous  ejaculations,  cramming  all  the  while 
as  if  he  would  choke. 

Ho-ti  trembled  in  every  joint  while  he  grasped  the 
abominable  thing,  wavering  whether  he  should  not 
put  his  son  to  death  for  an  unnatural  monster,  when 
the  crackling  scorching  his  fingers  as  it  had  done  his 
son's,  and  applying  the  same  remedy  to  them,  he  in  his 
turn  tasted  some  of  its  flavor.  In  conclusion  both  father 
and  son  fairly  sat  down  to  the  mess,  and  never  left  off 
till  they  had  despatched  all  that  remained  of  the  litter. 

It  was  observed  that  Ho-ti's  cottage  was  burnt  down 
now  more  frequently  than  ever.  Nothing  but  fires 
from  this  time  forward.  Some  would  break  out  in  broad 
day,  others  in  the  night-time.  As  often  as  the  sow 
farrowed,  so  sure  was  the  house  of  Ho-ti  to  be  in  a 
blaze,  and  Ho-ti  himself,  which  was  the  more  remarkable, 
instead  of  chastising  his  son,  seemed  to  grow  more 
indulgent  to  him  than  ever. 

At  length  they  were  watched,  the  terrible  mystery 
discovered,  and  father  and  son  summoned  to  take  their 
trial  at  Pekin,  then  an  inconsiderable  assize-town. 
Evidence  was  given,  the  obnoxious  food  itself  produced 
in  court,  and  verdict  about  to  be  pronounced,  when  the 
foreman  of  the  jury  begged  that  some  of  the  burnt  pig, 
of  which  the  culprits  stood  accused,  might  be  handed 
into  the  box.  He  handled  it,  and  they  all  handled  it, 
and,  burning  their  fingers  as  Bo-bo  and  his  father  had 


HEART  THROBS 229 

done  before  them,  and  nature  prompting  to  each  of- 
them  the  same  remedy  against  the  face  of  all  the  facts 
and  the  clearest  charge  which  judge  had  ever  given — 
to  the  surprise  of  the  whole  court,  townsfolk,  strangers, 
reporters,  and  all  present — without  leaving  the  box, 
or  any  manner  of  consultation  whatever,  they  brought 
in  a  simultaneous  verdict  of  Not  Guilty. 

The  thing  took  wing,  and  now  there  was  nothing  to 
be  seen  but  fires  in  every  direction.  Fuel  and  pigs  grew 
enormously  dear  all  over  the  district.  The  insurance 
offices  one  and  all  shut  up  shop.  People  built  slighter 
and  slighter  every  day,  until  it  was  feared  that  the 
very  science  of  architecture  would  in  no  long  time  be 
lost  to  the  world.  Thus  this  custom  of  firing  houses 
continued,  till  in  process  of  time,  says  the  manuscript, 
a  sage  arose,  like  our  Locke,  who  made  the  discovery 
that  the  flesh  of  swine,  or  indeed  of  any  other  animal, 
might  be  cooked  (burnt,  as  they  called  it)  without  the 
necessity  of  consuming  a  whole  house  to  dress  it.  Then 
first  began  the  rude  form  of  a  gridiron.  Roasting  by 
the  string,  or  spit,  came  in  a  century  or  two  later — I 
forget  in  whose  dynasty.  By  such  slow  degrees,  concludes 
the  manuscript,  do  the  most  useful  and  seemingly  the 
most  obvious  arts  make  their  way  among  mankind. 

Charles  Lamb. 


Labor  and  trouble  one  can  always  get  through  alone, 
but  it  takes  two  to  be  glad. 

Ibsen. 


230  HEART  THROBS 


ONCE   IN   A  WHILE 

Once  in  a  while  the  sun  shines  out, 

And  the  arching  skies  are  a  perfect  blue; 

Once  in  a  while  'mid  clouds  of  doubt 

Hope's  brightest  stars  come  peeping  through 

Our  paths  lead  down  by  the  meadows  fair, 
Where  the  sweetest  blossoms  nod  and  smile, 

And  we  lay  aside  our  cross  of  care 
Once  in  a  while. 

Once  in  a  while  within  our  own 

We  clasp  the  hand  of  a  steadfast  friend; 

Once  in  a  while  we  hear  a  tone 

Of  love  with  the  heart's  own  voice  to  blend; 

And  the  dearest  of  all  our  dreams  come  true, 
And  on  life's  way  is  a  golden  mile; 

Each  thirsting  flower  is  kissed  with  dew 
Once  in  a  while. 

Once  in  a  while  in  the  desert  sand 
We  find  a  spot  of  the  fairest  green; 

Once  in  a  while  from  where  we  stand 
The  hills  of  Paradise  are  seen ; 

And  a  perfect  joy  in  our  hearts  we  hold — 
A  joy  that  the  world  cannot  defile — ■ 

We  trade  earth's  dross  for  the  purest  gold 
Once  in  a  while. 

n„  ™~r,;c=?r.„  Nixon  Waterman. 

By  permission. 


HEART  THROBS  231 


COWBOY  SONG 

We  are  up  in  the  morning  ere  dawning  of  day 
And  the  grub  wagon's  busy  and  flapjacks  in  play; 
While  the  herd  is  astir  over  hillside  and  swale 
With  the  night-riders  rounding  them  into  the  trail. 

Come,  take  up  your  cinchas 
And  shake  up  your  reins; 
Come,  wake  up  your  broncho 
And  break  for  the  plains ; 
Come  roust  those  red  steers  from  the  long  chaparral, 
For  the  outfit  is  off  for  the  railroad  corral! 

The  sun  circles  upward,  the  steers  as  they  plod 

Are  pounding  to  powder  the  hot  prairie  sod 

And,  it  seems,  as  the  dust  turns  you  dizzy  and  sick 

That  you'll  never  reach  noon  and  the  cool,  shady  creek. 

But  tie  up  your  kerchief 
And  ply  up  your  nag ; 
Come,  dry  up  your  grumbles 
And  try  not  to  lag ; 
Come,  larrup  those  steers  from  the  long  chaparral, 
For  we're  far  on  She  way  to  the  railroad  corral! 

The  afternoon  shadows  are  starting  to  lean 
When  the  grub  wagon  sticks  in  a  marshy  ravine, 
And  the  herd  scatters  further  than  vision  can  look, 
For  you  bet  all  true  punchers  will  help  out  the  cook! 

So  shake  out  your  rawhide 
And  snake  it  up  fair; 


232  HEART  THROBS 


Come,  break  your  old  broncho 
To  taking  his  share! 
Come,  now  for  the  steers  in  the  long  chaparral, 
For  it's  all  in  the  drive  to  the  railroad  corral! 

But  the  longest  of  days  must  reach  evening  at  last, 
When  the  hills  are  all  climbed  and  the  creeks  are  all  passed 
And  the  tired  herd  droops  in  the  yellowing  light; 
Let  them  loaf  if  they  will,  for  the  railroad's  in  sight! 

So  flap  up  your  holster 

And  snap  up  your  belt ; 
Come,  strap  up  the  saddle 
Whose  lap  you  have  felt; 
Good-by  to  the  steers  and  the  long  chaparral! 
There's  a  town  that's  a  trump  by  the  railroad  corral! 

c^Vyn^iiuS^&pany.  Joseph  Mills  Hanson. 


NIAGARA 


Flow  on  forever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty.    God  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead,  and  the  cloud 
Mantles  around  thy  feet,  and  he  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder  power  to  speak  of  him 
Eternally,  bidding  the  lip  of  man  keep 
Silence,  and  on  thy  rocky  altar  pour 
Incense  of  sweet  praise. 

Mrs.  L.  H.  Sigourney, 


HEART  THROBS  233 


'EVEN  THIS  SHALL  PASS  AWAY' 


There  appeared  in  the  public  prints  many  years  ago  a  beautiful 
poem,  the  title  of  which,  "Even  This  Shall  Pass  Away,"  counted 
with  the  complete  adaptability  of  the  sentiment  expressed  to  human 
life,  rendered  it  immediately  popular  and  doubtless  into  thousands 
of  scrap  books  it  went.  All  through  the  day,  the  week,  the  month, 
the  year,  we  find  ourselves  beset  with  trouble,  sorrow  and  care,  and  if 
at  such  times  we  could  only  reflect  "Even  This  Shall  Pass  Away,"  how 
wonderfully  lighter  would  our  burden  become.  Then,  too,  in 
moments  of  revelry  and  gaiety,  when  all  the  world  seems  a  vast 
flower  garden  and  we  have  never  a  thought  for  the  more  serious  side 
of  our  lives,  what  a  reminder  then  would  be  the  reflection  "Even 
This  Shall  Pass  Away." 

Then,  when  in  our  home  circle  and  our  loved  ones  are  gathered 
about  us  and  there  comes  that  quiet,  peaceful  hour  when  the  fact 
of  God's  goodness  in  giving  us  such  environments  is  forced  upon 
us,  what  an  incentive  to  greater  kindness  and  gentleness  there  is 
in  the  same  reflection,  "Even  This  Shall  Pass  Away."  Then  all 
through  life,  in  every  period,  under  all  circumstances,  the  sentiment 
"Even  This  Shall  Pass  Away,"  should  enable  us  to  so  conduct 
ourselves  and  our  affairs  that  when  the  time  does  come  for  us,  as 
it  did  for  the  Persian  king,  "to  pass  away,"  the  same  solace  that 
was  his  in  the  last  dark  hour  will  be  ours. 


Once  in  Persia  reigned  a  king 
"Who  upon  his  signet  ring 
Graved  a  maxim  true  and  wise, 
Which  if  held  before  his  eyes, 
Gave  him  counsel  at  a  glance 
Fit  for  every  change  and  chance, 
Solemn  words,  and  these  are  they: 
"Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

Trains  of  camels  through  the  sand 
Brought  him  gems  from  Samarcand; 


234  HEART  THROBS 

Fleets  of  galleys  through  the  seas 
Brought  him  pearls  to  match  with  these, 
But  he  counted  not  his  gain 
Treasures  of  the  mine  or  main ; 
"What  is  wealth?"  the  king  would  say: 
"Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

In  the  revels  of  his  court, 
At  the  zenith  of  the  sport, 
When  the  palms  of  all  his  guests 
Burned  with  clapping  at  his  jests, 
He,  amid  his  figs  and  wine, 
Cried,  "0  loving  friends  of  mine! 
Pleasures  come,  but  not  to  stay: 
'Even  this  shall  pass  away.'  " 

Fighting  on  a  furious  field, 
Once  a  javelin  pierced  his  shield, 
Soldiers,  with  a  loud  lament, 
Bore  him  bleeding  to  his  tent. 
Groaning  from  his  tortured  side, 
"Pain  is  hard  to  bear,"  he  cried, 
"But  with  patience,  day  by  day, 
'Even  this  shall  pass  away.'  " 

Towering  in  the  public  square, 
Twenty  cubits  in  the  air, 
Rose  his  statue,  carved  in  stone. 
Then  the  king,  disguised,  unknown, 
Stood  before  his  sculptured  name, 
Musing  meekly,  "What  is  fame? 


HEART  THROBS  233 

Fame  is  but  a  slow  decay — 
'Even  this  shall  pass  away.'  " 

Struck  with  palsy,  sere  and  old, 
Waiting  at  the  Gates  of  Gold, 
Said  he  with  his  dying  breath, 
"Life  is  done,  but  what  is  death?" 
Then,  in  answer  to  the  king, 
Fell  a  sunbeam  on  his  ring, 
Showing  by  a  heavenly  ray : 
"Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

Theodore  Tilton. 


HOPE   SEES  A  STAR 

Life  is  a  narrow  vale  between  the  cold  and  barren 
peaks  of  two  eternities. 

We  strive  in  vain  to  look  beyond  the  heights. 

We  cry  aloud — and  the  only  answer  is  the  echo  of 
our  wailing  cry. 

From  the  voiceless  lips  of  the  unreplying  dead  there 
comes  no  word. 

But  in  the  night  of  death  Hope  sees  a  star,  and 
listening  Love  can  hear  the  rustling  of  a  wing. 

He  who  sleeps  here,  when  dying,  mistaking  the 
approach  of  death  for  the  return  of  health,  whispered 
with  his  latest  breath,  "I  am  better  now." 

Let  us  believe,  in  Gpite  of  doubts  and  fears,  that 
these  dear  words  are  true  of  all  the  countless  dead. 

Robert  G.  Ingersoll,  at  his  brother's  grave,  June  2, 1870. 


236  HEART   THROBS 


CURFEW   MUST   NOT   RING  TONIGHT 

Slowly  England's  sun  was  setting  o'er  the  hilltops  far 

away, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  beauty  at  the  close  of  one  sad 

day; 
And  the  last  rays  kissed  the  forehead  of  a  man  and 

maiden  fair, 
He  with  footsteps  slow  and  weary,  she  with  sunny, 

floating  hair; 
He  with  bowed  head,  sad  and  thoughtful,  she  with  lips 

all  cold  and  white, 
Struggling  to  keep  back  the  murmur,   "Curfew  must 

not  ring  tonight!" 

"Sexton,"  Bessie's  white  lips  faltered,  pointing  to  the 

prison  old, 
With  its  turrets  tall  and  gloomy,  with  its  walls  dark, 

damp,  and  cold — 
"I've  a  lover  in  that  prison,  doomed  this  very  night  to 

die 
At  the  ringing  of  the  curfew,  and  no  earthly  help  is  nigh. 
Cromwell  will  not  come  till  sunset;"  and  her  face  grew 

strangely  white 
As  she  breathed  the  husky  whisper,  "Curfew  must  not 

ring  tonight!" 

"Bessie,"    calmly   spoke   the   sexton — and   his   accents 

pierced  her  heart 
Like  the  piercing  of  an  arrow,  like  a  deadly  poisoned 

dart — 


HEART   THROBS  237 

"Long,  long  years  I've  rung  the  curfew  from  that  gloomy 

shadowed  tower; 
Every  evening,  just  at  sunset,  it  has  told  the  twilight 

hour; 
I  have  done  my  duty  ever,  tried  to  do  it  just  and  right, 
Now  I'm  old,  I  still  must  do  it:  Curfew,  girl,  must  ring 

tonight!" 

Wild  her  eyes  and  pale  her  features,  stern  and  white 

her  thoughtful  brow, 
And  within  her  secret  bosom  Bessie  made  a  solemn 

vow. 
She  had  listened  while  the  judges  read,  without  a  tear 

or  sigh, 
"At  the  ringing  of  the  curfew,  Basil  Underwood  must 

die." 
And  her  breath  came  fast  and  faster,  and  her  eyes  grew 

large  and  bright, 
As  in  undertone  she  murmured,  "Curfew  must  not  ring 

tonight!" 

With  quick  step  she  bounded  forward,  sprang  within 

the  old  church  door, 
Left  the  old  man  threading  slowly  paths  he'd  trod  so 

oft  before; 
Not  one  moment  paused  the  maiden,  but  with  eye  and 

cheek  aglow 
Mounted  up  the  gloomy  tower,  where  the  bell  swung  to 

and  fro: 
As  she  climbed  the  dusty  ladder,  on  which  fell  no  ray 

of  light, 


238  HEART  THROBS 

Up  and  up,  her  white  lips  saying,  "Curfew  shall  not  ring 
tonight!" 

She  has  reached  the  topmost  ladder,  o'er  her  hangs  the 

great  dark  bell, 
Awful  is  the  gloom  beneath  her  like  the  pathway  down 

to  hell ; 
Lo,  the  ponderous  tongue  is  swinging,  'tis  the  hour  of 

curfew  now, 
And  the  sight  has  chilled  her  bosom,  stopped  her  breath, 

and  paled  her  brow, 
Shall  she  let  it  ring?     No,  never!    Flash  her  eyes  with 

sudden  light, 
And  she  springs  and  grasps  it  firmly:    "Curfew  shall 

not  ring  tonight!" 

Out  she  swung,  far  out;  the  city  seemed  a  speck  of  light 

below; 
She  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  suspended  as  the  bell  swung 

to  and  fro ; 
And  the  sexton  at  the  bell-rope,  old  and  deaf,  heard  not 

the  bell, 
But  he  thought  it  still  was  ringing  fair  young  Basil's 

funeral  knell. 
Still  the  maiden  clung  more  firmly,  and,  with  trembling 

lips  and  white, 
Said,  to  hush  her  heart's  wild  beating,  "Curfew  shall 

not  ring  tonight!" 

It  was  o'er;    the  bell  ceased  swaying,  and  the  maiden 
stepped  once  more 


HEART  THROBS  239 

(^  -■.—  ■!  ■ — -^— —  ■■■■—■  I  -      _  ,  —     ■ 

Firmly  on  the  dark  old  ladder,  where  for  hundred  years 

before 
Human  foot  had  not  been  planted;   but  the  brave  deed 

she  had  done 
Should  be  told  long  ages  after : — often  as  the  setting  sun 
Should  illume  the  sky  with  beauty,  aged  sires,  with  heads 

of  white, 
Long  should  tell  the  little  children,   "Curfew  did  not 

ring  that  night." 

O'er  the  distant  hills  came  Cromwell;    Bessie  sees  him, 

and  her  brow, 
Full  of  hope  and  full  of  gladness,  has  no  anxious  traces 

now. 
At  his  feet  she  tells  her  story,  shows  her  hands  all  bruised 

and  torn; 
And  her  face  so  sweet  and  pleading,  yet  with  sorrow 

pale  and  worn, 
Touched  his  heart  with  sudden  pity — lit  his  eye  with 

misty  light ; 
"Go,  your  lover  lives!"  said  Cromwell;    "curfew  shall 

not  ring  tonight!" 

By  permission.  RoSd   Hartwick    Thorpe. 


I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER 

I  remember,  I  remember, 
The  house  where  I  was  born, 

The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn: 


240  HEART  THROBS 


He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  bonre  my  breath  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

The  roses,  red  and  white; 
The  violets  and  the  lily-cups, 

Those  flowers  made  of  light! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday, — 

The  tree  is  living  yet! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing; 
And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing : 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

The  fir  trees  dark  and  high ; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky: 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 
To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy.         rWf  H^ 


HEART  THROBS  241 

"MY  NEIGHBOR  JIM" 

Everything  pleased  my  neighbor  Jim, 

When  it  rained 

He  never  complained, 
But  said  wet  weather  suited  him. 
"There's  never  too  much  rain  for  me, 
And  this  is  something  like,"  said  he. 

When  earth  was  dry  as  a  powder  mill, 

He  did  not  sigh 

Because  it  was  dry, 
But  said,  "If  he  could  have  his  will, 
'Twould  be  his  supreme  delight 
To  live  when  the  sun  shone  day  and  night." 

When  winter  came,  with  its  snow  and  ice, 

He  did  not  scold 

Because  it  was  cold, 
But  said,  "Now  this  is  real  nice! 
If  ever  from  home  I'm  bound  to  go, 
I'll  move  up  North  with  the  Esquimaux!" 

A  cyclone  whirled  along  its  track* 

And  did  him  harm ; 

It  broke  his  arm 
And  stripped  the  coat  from  off  his  back. 
And  "I  would  give  another  limb 
To  see  such  a  blow  again,"  said  Jim. 

And  when  at  last  his  days  were  told, 
His  body  bent, 
And  strength  all  spent. 


242 HEART  THROBS 

And  Jim  was  growing  weak  and  old, 
"I  long  have  wanted  to  know,"  he  said, 
"How  it  feels  to  die!"  and  Jim  was  dead! 

The  angel  of  death  had  summoned  him 

To  heaven  or — well, 

I  cannot  tell! 
But  I  know  that  the  climate  suited  Jim, 
And  cold  or  hot,  it  mattered  not, 
It  was  to  him  the  long-sought  spot.  Anon. 


A  SLIGHT  MISTAKE 

The  editor  of  a  weekly  journal  lately  lost  two  of  his 
subscribers  through  accidentally  departing  from  the 
beaten  track  in  his  answers  to  correspondents.  Two  of 
his  subscribers  wrote  to  ask  him  his  remedy  for  their 
respective  troubles.  No.  1,  a  happy  father  of  twins, 
wrote  to  inquire  the  best  way  to  get  them  carefully  over 
their  teething,  and  No.  2  wanted  to  know  how  to  pro- 
tect his  orchard  from  the  myriads  of  grasshoppers. 

The  editor  framed  his  answers  upon  the  orthodox 
lines,  but  unfortunately  transposed  their  two  names, 
with  the  result  that  No.  1 ,  who  was  blessed  with  the  twins, 
read  in  reply  to  his  query:  "Cover  them  carefully 
with  straw  and  set  fire  to  them,  and  the  little  pests  after 
jumping  about  in  the  flames  a  few  minutes  will  speedily 
be  settled."  Whilst  No.  2,  plagued  with  grasshoppers, 
was  told  to  "Give  a  little  castor  oil  and  rub  their  gums 
gently  with  a  bone  ring." 


HEART  THROBS  243 


JACK  AND  JILL  IN  VARIATIONS 

While  on  soldier  duty  in  the  Philippine  Islands,  Professor  O. 
W.  Coursey  clipped  from  a  United  States  newspaper  furnished  by 
the  Red  Crosa  Society  the  following  account  of  "Jack  and  Jill." 
Whoever  the  author  of  it,  "C.  N.,"  is,  we  do  not  know,  but  we  take 
off  our  hats  to  his  or  her  mastery  of  style. 

Jack  and  Jill  went  up  the  hill 

To  get  a  pail  of  water. 
Jack  fell  down  and  broke  his  crown  " 

And  Jill  came  tumbling  after. 

It  is  all  a  matter  of  temperament.  Mother  Goose 
was  not  given  to  sentiment,  and  so  could  report  with 
coolness  this  great  tragedy.  The  same  sad  sight  wit- 
nessed by  another  might  have  been  the  occasion  for 
awful  warning,  for  philosophic  speculation,  for  mournful 
story  long  drawn  out. 

Milton,  indeed,  used  it  as  the  theme  for  an  immortal 
epic,  and  with  his  weary  head  upon  his  hand  he  wrote: 

Of  Jack's  great  fall  from  that  high  eminence, 
From  which  fell  also  his  companion  Jill, 
While  they  were  climbing  hither  to  a  spring 
In  hope  that  they  might  dip  one  sparkling  cup 
Of  water,  and  so  quench  their  parching  thirst, 
Sing,  heavenly  muse. 


Whittier,  with  honest  sorrow,  would  have  sung: 

Alas  for  Jack!  alas  for  Jill! 

That  fateful  quest  for  mountain  rillS 


244  HEART  THROBS 


And  alas  for  any  whom  ills  betide, 
Upon  a  treacherous  mountain  side! 
For  of  all  hard  trials,  the  hardest  lies 
In  slipping  when  so  near  our  prize. 


Mrs.  Hemans  would  have  pointed  the  moral  in  this 
way: 

The  boy  stood  there  with  his  happy  face 

Beside  his  sweetheart  Jill. 
Within  his  bucket  was  no  trace 

Of  water  from  the  hill. 
The  father's  unexpected  call 

Alarmed  the  pretty  Jill, 
And  in  their  haste  to  answer  him 

Both  tumbled  down  the  hill. 


Tennyson  would  have  sighed  as  he  sung: 

Rich  sunshine  fills  the  vale  and  hills, 

Two  tender  children,  girl  and  brother, 
Start  out  to  bring  from  the  high  spring 

A  cup  of  water  to  their  mother. 
"Hie,  children,  hie!"  we  hear  her  faint  voice  crying, 
"Yes,  mother,  yes,"  the  children  answer,  hieing,  hieing, 

hieing. 
O  fate,  O  death!    They  feel  my  breath, 

For  as  they  climb  the  rocky  slope 
The  brother  slips,  the  sister  trips, 

And  shattered  is  the  mother's  hope. 
"Come,  children,  come,"  we  hear  her  sad  voice  crying, 


HEART  THROBS  245 

"Come,  children,  come,"  the  echo  answers,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 


And  poor  Robert  Burns,  with  a  heart  full  of  sorrow, 
would  have  said  with  touching  tenderness: 

Ye  birds  that  sing  sae  merrily, 

And  bitterly  bid  me  sweet  good  morrow, 
Wi'  ye  nae  breathe  some  sadder  note? 

Oh,  ken  ye  not  some  sang  o'  sorrow? 
'Twi'  break  my  heart,  unless  thou'll  cease 

To  warble  thus  thy  mirth  and  gladness* 
For  my  twa  e'en  are  fu'  o'  tears, 

And  i'  my  heart  is  muckle  sadness. 
Oft  gaze  I  on  the  quiet  hill, 

And  see  my  bairns,  my  lass,  my  daughter, 
And  her  fair  brother,  gae  to  bring 

From  yonder  spring  a  cup  of  water. 
O  birds,  wi'  ye  nae  mourn  wi'  me, 

O'er  these,  my  bonnie  girl  and  brother? 
Wi'  ye  nae  bring  me  flowers  and  leaves, 

And  help  these  hands  their  graves  to  cover? 


Wordsworth  would  have  been  pleased  with  the 
simplicity  of  this  story,  though  it  would  have  troubled 
him  to  have  ended  it  so  tragically.  Doubtless  he  would 
have  said  something  like  this: 

He  dwelt  within  a  lowly  cot, 
Beside  a  towering  hill ; 


246  HEART  THROBS 

A  boy  who  shared  his  simple  lot 
With  his  loved  sister  Jill. 

One  day  they  wandered  forth  full  gay, 
To  find  a  mountain  rill, 

At  eventide  they  made  their  grave 
By  this  unfriendly  hill. 


Had  he  witnessed  such  a  scene  as  this,  dear  Will 
Shakespeare  would  have  fallen  into  a  reverie: 

Was  it  Jack  or  was  it  Jill?    That  is  the  question. 

Could  it  be  Jill  who  pushed  her  brother  down 

And  caused  that  pail  of  water  to  be  spilled, 

And  that  poor  skull  to  crack  in  such  a  way 

And  work  such  inconvenience?    Oh,  yes,  'twas  Jill! 

No  other.    She  only  thought  that  she  would  end 

Those  ills  which  at  that  instant  did  confront  her 

And  stir  her  spirit — 'twas  a  consummation 

Devoutly  to  be  wished.    To  give  one  push! 

To  push!    Perchance  to  fall  herself!    Ay,  there's  the  rub. 

But  in  that  deed  she  saw  no  cause  of  fear, 

Which  to  an  act  so  treacherous  and  unwise, 

Should  give  a  pause. 


Longfellow  would  have  made  a  kind  of  melodrama, 
something  on  this  order : 

And  the  setting  sun  descending 
Threw  its  light  upon  the  mountain, 


HEART  THROBS  247 

To  this  slope  went  boy  and  maiden, 
Traveling  toward  a  pool  of  water. 
Oh,  the  hard  and  treacherous  hillside! 
Oh,  the  slippery,  stony  pathway! 
Fatal  'twas  to  many  a  brave  one, 
Fatal,  too,  unto  our  hero. 
'Neath  his  feet  a  trembling  boulder 
Moved  a  little  toward  the  valley; 
To  the  valley  fell  our  hero. 
Quick  the  maiden's  heart  was  beating, 
And  without  a  moment's  pausing, 
Thus  aloud  she  spoke,  declaring, 
"I  will  go  where'er  thou  goest!" 
Then  from  off  the  selfsame  boulder 
Down  the  maiden  cast  her  body. 
Thus  departed  girl  and  lover; 
In  their  death  they're  not  divided. 


Poe  would  never  have  taken  this  accident  to  Jau;k 
and  Jill  so  much  to  heart,  but  in  a  half  reckless  mood 
he  would  have  written: 

Once  upon  a  morning  merry,  Jack  and  Jill  felt  quite 
contrary, 
As  they  wandered  forth  together  to  fetch  water  from 
the  hill. 
As  they  sauntered,  acting  badly,  Jack  began  to  speak 
most  madly, 
And  his  temper  was  most  sadly  patterned  after  sister 
Jill; 


248  HEART  THROBS 


For  his  tasting  she  chastised  him,  gave  a  push  and  lost 
her  balance, 
And  both  tumbled  down  the  hill. 

C.  N.,  in  Vermillion  Republic,  Buffalo,  i88g. 


A  RECIPE  FOR  A  SALAD 

To  make  this  condiment,  your  poet  begs 

The  pounded  yellow  of  two  hard-boiled  eggs ; 

Two  boiled  potatoes,  passed  through  kitchen  sieve, 

Smoothness  and  softness  to  the  salad  give ; 

Let  onion  atoms  lurk  within  the  bowl, 

And,  half  suspected,  animate  the  whole ; 

Of  mordant  mustard  add  a  single  spoon, 

Distrust  the  condiment  that  bites  so  soon ; 

But  deem  it  not,  thou  man  of  herbs,  a  fault 

To  add  a  double  quantity  of  salt ; 

Four  times  the  spoon  with  oil  from  Lucca  crown. 

And  twice  with  vinegar  procured  from  town; 

And,  lastly,  o'er  the  flavored  compound  toss 

A  magic  soupcon  of  anchovy  sauce. 

Oh,  green  and  glorious!  oh,  herbaceous  treat! 

'Twould  tempt  a  dying  anchorite  to  eat : 

Back  to  the  world  he'd  turn  his  fleeting  soul, 

And  plunge  his  fingers  in  the  salad-bowl! 

Serenely  full,  the  epicure  would  say, 

"Fate  cannot  harm  me,  I  have  dined  today!" 

Sidney  Smith, 


HEART  THROBS  249 


THE  BOND 
(From  the  Armenian  of  Archag  Tchobanian) 

All  things  are  bound  together  by  a  tie 

Finer  and  subtler  than  a  ray  of  light. 
Color  and  sound  are  fleeting  fragrances, 

The  maiden's  smile,  the  star  beams  sparkling  bright, 
Are  knit  together  by  a  secret  bond 

Finer  and  subtler  than  a  ray  of  light. 

Sometimes  an  urn  of  memories  is  unsealed 

Just  by  a  simple  tune,  or  sad  or  gay. 
Part  of  the  past  with  every  quivering  note 

From  its  dark  sleep  awakens  to  the  day, 
And  we  live  o'er  again  a  long  past  life, 

Just  through  a  simple  tune,  or  sad  or  gay. 

Flowers  call  back  men  and  women  to  our  thoughts; 

A  well-known  face  smiles  on  us  in  their  hue ; 
Their  bright  cups,  moved  by  the  capricious  wind, 

Can  make  no  dream  of  eyes,  black  eyes  or  blue. 
We  in  their  fragrance  feel  a  loved  one's  breath ; 

Flowers  call  back  men  and  women  whom  we  knew. 

The  summer  sea  recalls  fond,  happy  hours; 

We  in  the  sunset  see  our  dead  once  more; 
In  starlight  holy  loves  upon  us  smile ; 

With  our  own  griefs  the  stormy  thunders  roar; 
The  zephyr  breathes  to  us  a  name  adored ; 

We  in  the  sunset  see  the  dead  once  more. 


250  HEART  THROBS 

All  things  are  bound  in  closest  unison 

Throughout  the  world,  by  many  a  mystic  thread. 
The  flower  and  love,  the  breeze  and  reverie, 

Nature  and  man,  and  things  alive  and  dead, 
Are  all  akin,  and  bound  in  harmony 

Throughout  the  world  by  many  a  mystic  thread. 

By  permission.  Alice  Stone  Blackwell. 


WHAT  WOULD  YOU  TAKE? 

What  would  you  take  for  that  soft  little  head 
Pressed  close  to  your  face  at  time  for  bed; 

For  that  white,  dimpled  hand  in  your  own  held  tight, 
And  the  dear  little  eyelids  kissed  down  for  the  night? 
What  would  you  take? 

What  would  you  take  for  that  smile  in  the  morn, 
Those  bright,  dancing  eyes  and  the  face  they  adorn: 

For  the  sweet  little  voice  that  you  hear  all  day 
Laughing  and  cooing — yet  nothing  to  say? 
What  would  you  take? 

What  would  you  take  for  those  pink  little  feet, 

Those  chubby  round  cheeks,  and  that  mouth  so  sweet; 

For  the  wee  tiny  fingers  and  little  soft  toes. 

The  wrinkly  little  neck  and  that  funny  little  nose? 
Now,  what  would  you  take? 

Good  Housekeeping, 


HEART  THROBS  251 


THE  PUMPKIN 

Ah!  on  Thanksgiving  Day,  when  from  East  and  from 

West, 
From  North  and  from  South  come  the  pilgrim  and  guest, 
When  the  gray-haired  New  Englander  sees  round  his 

board 
The  old  broken  links  of  affections  restored, 
When  the  care-wearied  man  seeks  his  mother  once  more 
And  the  worn  matron  smiles  where  the  girl  smiled  before, 
What  moistens  the  lip  and  what  brightens  the  eye? 
What  calls  back  the  past  like  the  rich  pumpkin-pie? 

O  fruit  loved  of  boyhood! — the  old  days  recalling, 
When  wood-grapes  were  purpling  and  brown  nuts  were 

falling! 
When  wild,  ugly  faces  we  carved  in  its  skin, 
Glaring  out  through  the  dark  with  a  candle  within! 
When  we  laughed  round  the  corn-heap,  with  hearts  all 

in  tune, 
Our  chair  a  broad  pumpkin, — our  lantern  the  moon, 
Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  traveled  like  steam 
In  a  pumpkin-shell  coach,  with  two  rats  for  her  team! 

Then  thanks  for  thy  present — none  sweeter  or  better 
E'er  smoked  from  an  oven  or  circled  a  platter! 
Fairer  hands  never  wrought  at  a  pastry  more  fine, 
Brighter  eyes  never  watched  o'er  its  baking  than  thine! 
And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is  too  full  to  express, 
Swells  my  heart  that  thy  shadow  may  never  be  less, 


252  HEART  THROBS 

That  the  days  of  thy  lot  may  be  lengthened  below, 
And  the  fame  of  thy  worth  like  the  pumpkin-vine  grow, 
And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last  sunset  sky 
Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own  pumpkin-pie! 
By  permission  Jo/m  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company.  J 


THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise ; 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

And  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak 

To  bear  an  untried  pain, 
The  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break, 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 

No  offerings  of  my  own  I  have, 

No  works  my  faith  to  prove; 
I  can  but  give  the  gifts  He  gave, 

And  plead  His  love  for  love. 

And  so,  beside  the  silent  sea, 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 

I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air; 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 

Beyond  His  love  and  care. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier, 


HEART  THROBS  253 


THE   MAN  AND   THE   PICNIC 

Under  the  shellbark  hickory  tree 

The  picnic  man  he  stands ; 
A  woeful  looking  man  is  he, 

With  bruised  and  grimy  hands; 
And  the  soil  that  sticks  to  his  trousers'  knee, 

Is  the  soil  of  several  lands. 

His  hair  is  tumbled,  his  hat  is.  torn, 
His  clothes  are  like  the  ground; 

He  wishes  he  had  ne'er  been  born, 
Or  born,  had  ne'er  been  found. 

He  glares  and  scowls  in  wrathful  scorn 
As  oft  he  looks  around. 

At  early  morn,  all  dressed  in  white, 

He  sought  the  picnic  park; 
His  face  was  clean,  his  heart  was  light, 

His  loud  song  mocked  the  lark. 
But  now,  although  the  day  is  bright, 

His  world,  alas!  is  dark. 

In  joyous  mood,  at  early  morn, 

He  sat  upon  the  stump, 
But  soon,  as  though  upon  a  thorn 

He  sat,  with  mighty  jump 
He  leaped  aloft,  and  all  forlorn 

In  haste  he  did  crump. 

For  lo,  in  hordes  the  big  black  ants,, 
With  nippers  long  and  slim, 


254  HEART  THROBS 


Went  swiftly  crawling  up  his  pants, 

And  made  it  warm  for  him ; 
And  through  the  woods  they  made  him  dance 

With  gasp,  and  groan,  and  vim. 

And  when  the  rustic  feast  is  spread, 
And  she  is  sitting  by. 

His  wild  wood  garland  on  her  head, 
The  lovelight  in  her  eye, 

He — woe,  oh,  woe!  would  he  were  dead- 
Sits  in  the  custard  pie. 

And  now  they  send  him  up  the  tree 

To  fix  the  picnic  swing. 
And  up  the  shellbark's  scraggy  side, 

They  laugh  to  see  him  cling ; 
They  cannot  hear  the  words  he  cried, 

"Dat  fetch!  dog  gone!  dat  bing!" 

And  now  he  wisheth  he  were  down, 

And  yet  he  cannot  see, 
Just  how  the  giggle,  stare  and  frown 

Escaped  by  him  may  be ; 
He  knows  he  cannot  scramble  down 

With  his  back  against  the  tree. 

Sobbing  and  sliding  and  wailing, 

Homeward  alone  he  goes ; 
Clay,  pie,  and  grass  stain  on  his  clothes. 

More  and  more  plainly  shows; 


HEART  THROBS  255 

And  he  vows  that  to  any  more  picnics 
He  never  will  go,  he  knows. 

But  the  morning  comes,  and  its  rising  sun 

Brings  balm  to  his  tattered  breeks ; 
He  thinks,  after  all,  he  had  lots  of  fun, 

And  hopefully,  gayly  he  speaks ; 
And  he  goes  to  picnics  one  by  one, 

Nine  times  in  the  next  five  weeks. 

R.  J.  Burdette. 


ANTONY  IN  ARMS 

Lo,  we  are  side  by  side.     One  dark  arm  furls 
Around  me  like  a  serpent,  warm  and  bare; 

The  other,  lifted  'mid  a  gleam  of  pearls, 
Holds  a  full  golden  goblet  high  in  air; 

Her  face  is  shining  through  her  cloudy  curls 
With  light  that  makes  me  drunken  unaware, 

And  with  my  chin  upon  my  breast  I  smile 

Upon  her,  darkening  inward  all  the  while. 

And  thro'  the  chamber  curtains,  backward  rolled 
By  spicy  winds  that  fan  my  fevered  head, 

I  see  a  sandy  flat  slope,  yellow  as  gold, 

To  the  brown  banks  of  Nilus  wrinkling  red 

In  the  slow  sunset;  and  mine  eyes  behold 
The  West,  low  down  beyond  the  river's  bed, 


256  HEART  THROBS 

Grow  sullen,  ribbed  with  many  a  brazen  bar, 
Under  the  white  smile  of  the  Cyprian  star. 

Lo,  how  her  dark  arm  holds  me! — I  am  bound 
By  the  soft  touch  of  fingers,  light  as  leaves; 

I  drag  my  face  aside,  but  at  the  sound 

Of  her  low  voice,  I  turn — and  she  perceives 

The  cloud  of  Rome  upon  my  brow  and  round 
My  neck  she  twines  her  odorous  arms  and  grieves, 

Shedding  upon  a  heart  as  soft  as  they 

Tears  'tis  a  hero's  task  to  kiss  away! 

And  then  she  loosens  from  me,  trembling  still 
Like  a  bright  throbbing  robe,  and  bids  me  "Go!" 

When  pearly  tears  her  drooping  eyelids  fill, 
And  her  swart  beauty  whitens  into  snow; 

And  lost  to  use  of  life  and  hope  and  will, 
I  gaze  upon  her  with  a  warrior's  woe, 

And  turn,  and  watch  her  sidelong  in  annoy — 

Then  snatch  her  to  me,  flushed  with  shame  and  joy. 

Once  more,  O  Rome,  I  would  be  son  of  thine — 
This  constant  prayer  my  chained  soul  ever  saith,  > 

I  thirst  for  honorable  end — I  pine 

Not  thus  to  kiss  away  my  mortal  breath. 

But  comfort  such  as  this  may  not  be  mine. 
I  cannot  even  die  a  Roman  death ; 

I  seek  a  Roman's  grave,  a  Roman's  rest — 

But,  dying — I  would  die  upon  her  breast! 

Robert  Buchanan. 


HEART  THROBS  257 


THE  LORD'S  PRAYER 

The  following  beautiful  composition,  the  original  of  which  is  in 
the  G.  A.  R.  hall  museum  at  the  State  House,  Topeka,  Kansas,  was 
captured  during  the  Civil  War,  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  by 
a  brother  of  Mrs.  S.  B.  Helmer  of  Kendallville,  Indiana;  it  is  printed 
on  very  heavy  satin  and  is  quite  a  literary  curiosity. 

Thou  to  the  Mercy-Seat  our  souls  doth  gather, 
To  do  our  duty  unto  Thee, 

Our  Father, 
To  Whom  all  praise,  all  honor  should  be  given, 
For  Thou  art  the  Great  God 

Who  art  in  heaven, 
Thou  by  Thy  wisdom  rul'st  the  world's  whole  frame. 
Forever,  therefore, 

Hallowed  be  Thy  name; 
Let  never  more  delays  divide  us  from 
Thy  glorious  grace,  but  let 

Thy  kingdom  come, 
Let  Thy  commands  opposed  be  by  none, 
But  Thy  good  pleasure  and 

Thy  will  be  done. 
And  let  our  promptness  to  obey,  be  even 
The  very  same 

On  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven 
Then  for  our  souls,  O  Lord,  we  also  pray, 
Thou  wouldst  be  pleased  to 

Give  us  this  day 
The  food  of  life,  wherewith  our  souls  are  fed, 
Sufficient  raiment,  and 

Our  daily  bread; 


258  HEART  THROBS 


With  every  needful  thing  do  Thou  relieve  us, 
And  of  Thy  mercy,  pity 

And  forgive  us 
All  our  misdeeds,  for  Him,  Whom  Thou  didst  please 
To  make  an  offering  for 

Our  trespasses, 
And  for  as  much,  0  Lord,  as  we  believe 
That  Thou  wilt  pardon  us 

As  we  forgive 
Let  that  love  teach,  wherewith  Thou  dost  acquaint  us, 
To  pardon  all 

Those  who  trespass  against  us; 
And,  though,  sometimes,  Thou  find'st  we  have  forgot 
This  love  to  Thee,  yet  help 

And  lead  us  not 
Through  soul  or  body's  want  to  desperation, 
Nor  let  earth's  gain  drive  us 

Into  temptation, 
Let  not  the  soul  of  any  true  believer 
Fall  in  the  time  of  trial, 

But  deliver 
Yea,  save  them  from  the  malice  of  the  devil, 
And  both  in  life  and  death,  keep 

Us  from  evil; 
Thus  pray  we,  Lord,  for  that  of  Thee  from  whom 
This  may  be  had, 

For  thine  is  the  kingdom, 
This  world  is  of  Thy  work,  its  wondrous  story 
To  Thee  belongs. 

The  power  and  the  glory 


HEART  THROBS  259 


And  all  Thy  wondrous  works  have  ended  never, 
But  will  remain  forever  and 

Forever. 
Thus  we  poor  creatures  would  confess  again, 
And  thus  would  say  eternally 

Amen. 

Charleston,  South  Carolina,  July  4,  1823. 


Anon. 


WHAT  TO   FORGET 

If  you  would  increase  your  happiness  and  prolong 
your  life,  forget  your  neighbor's  faults.  Forget  all  the 
slander  you  have  ever  heard.  Forget  the  temptations. 
Forget  the  fault  finding,  and  give  a  little  thought  to 
the  cause  which  provoked  it.  Forget  the  peculiarities 
of  your  friends,  and  only  remember  the  good  points 
which  make  you  fond  of  them.  Forget  all  personal 
quarrels  or  histories  you  may  have  heard  by  accident, 
and  which,  if  repeated,  would  seem  a  thousand  times 
worse  than  they  are.  Blot  out  as  far  as  possible  all  the 
disagreeables  of  life:  they  will  come,  but  will  only  grow 
larger  when  you  remember  them,  and  the  constant 
thought  of  the  acts  of  meanness,  or,  worse  still,  malice, 
will  only  tend  to  make  you  more  familiar  with  them. 
Obliterate  everything  disagreeable  from  yesterday, 
start  out  with  a  clean  sheet  today,  and  write  upon  it 
for  sweet  memory's  sake  only  those  things  which  are 
lovely  and  lovable.  Claremont  Herald. 


260  HEART  THROBS 


HERE  SHE  GOES,  AND  THERE  SHE  GOES 

Two  Yankee  wags,  one  summer  day, 

Stopped  at  a  tavern  on  their  way, 

Supped,  frolicked,  late  retired  to  rest, 

And  woke,  to  breakfast  of  the  best. 

The  breakfast  over,  Tom  and  Will 

Sent  for  the  landlord  and  the  bill: 

Will  looked  it  over: — "Very  right — 

But  hold!  what  wonder  meets  my  sight! 

Tom!  the  surprise  is  quite  a  shock!" 

"What  wonder,  where?"     "The  clock,  the  clock!" 

Tom  and  the  landlord  in  amaze 
Stared  at  the  clock  with  stupid  gaze, 
And  for  a  moment  neither  spoke; 
At  last  the  landlord  silence  broke, — 

"You  mean  the  clock  that's  ticking  there! 

I  see  no  wonder,  I  declare! 

Though  maybe,  if  the  truth  were  told, 

'Tis  rather  ugly,  somewhat  old; 

Yet  time  it  keeps  to  half  a  minute; 

But,  if  you  please,  what  wonder  in  it?'* 

"Tom,  don't  you  recollect,"  said  Will, 

"The  clock  at  Jersey,  near  the  mill, 

The  very  image  of  this  present, 

With  which  I  won  the  wager  pleasant?" 

Will  ended  with  a  knowing  wink; 

Tom  scratched  his  head  and  tried  to  think. 


HEART  THROBS  261 

"Sir,  begging  pardon  for  inquiring," 
The  landlord  said,  with  grin  admiring, 
"What  wager  was  it?" 

"You  remember 
It  happened,  Tom,  in  last  December: 
In  sport  I  bet  a  Jersey  Blue 
That  it  was  more  than  he  could  do 
To  make  his  finger  go  and  come 
In  keeping  with  the  pendulum, 
Repeating,  till  the  hour  should  close, 
Still — ' Here  she  goes,  and  there  she  goes* 
He  lost  the  bet  in  half  a  minute." 

"Well,  if  I  would,  the  deuce  is  in  it!" 
Exclaimed  the  landlord;  "try  me  yet, 
And  fifty  dollars  be  the  bet." 
"Agreed,  but  we  will  play  some  trick, 
To  make  you  of  the  bargain  sick!" 
"I'm  up  to  that!" 

"Don't  make  us  wait,— - 
Begin, — the  clock  is  striking  eight." 
He  seats  himself,  and  left  and  right 
His  finger  wags  with  all  its  might, 
And  hoarse  his  voice  and  hoarser  grows, 
With — "Here  she  goes,  and  there  she  goes!" 

"Hold!"  said  the  Yankee,  "plank  the  ready!" 
The  landlord  wagged  his  finger  steady, 
While  his  left  hand,  as  well  as  able, 
Conveyed  a  purse  upon  the  table. 


262  HEART  THROBS 

"Tom!  with  the  money  let's  be  off!" 

This  made  the  landlord  only  scoff. 

He  heard  them  running  down  the  stair, 

But  was  not  tempted  from  his  chair; 

Thought  he,  "The  fools!  I'll  bite  them  yet! 

So  poor  a  trick  sha'n't  win  the  bet." 

And  loud  and  long  the  chorus  rose 

Of — "Here  she  goes,  and  there  she  goes!" 

While  right  and  left  his  finger  swung, 

In  keeping  to  his  clock  and  tongue. 


His  mother  happened  in  to  see 
Her  daughter:  "Where  is  Mrs.  B- 


"When  will  she  come,  do  you  suppose? 
Son?—". 

"Here  she  goes,  and  there  she  goes'.' 
"Here! — where?" — the  lady  in  surprise 
His  finger  followed  with  her  eyes; 
"Son!  why  that  steady  gaze  and  sad! 
Those  words, — that  motion, — are  you  mad? 
But  here's  your  wife,  perhaps  she  knows, 
And—" 

"Here  she  goes,  and  there  she  goes!" 

His  wife  surveyed  him  with  alarm, 
And  rushed  to  him  and  seized  his  arm; 
He  shook  her  off,  and  to  and  fro 
His  finger  persevered  to  go, 
While  curled  his  very  nose  with  ire 
That  she  against  him  should  conspire; 


HEART  THROBS  263 


And  with  more  furious  tone  arose 

The — "Here  she  goes,  and  there  she  goes!" 

"Lawks!"  screamed  the  wife,  "I'm  in  a  whirl! 
Run  down  and  bring  the  little  girl; 
She  is  his  darling,  and  who  knows 
But—" 

"Here  she  goes,  and  there  she  goes!" 
"Lawks!  he  is  mad!    What  made  him  thus? 
Good  Lord!  what  will  become  of  us? 
Run  for  a  doctor, — run,  run,  run, — 
For  Doctor  Brown  and  Doctor  Dun, 
And  Doctor  Black  and  Doctor  White, 
And  Doctor  Gray,  with  all  your  might!" 

The  doctors  came,  and  looked,  and  wondered, 

And  shook  their  heads,  and  paused  and  pondered. 

Then  one  proposed  he  should  be  bled, — 

"No,  leeched,  you  mean,"  the  other  said, — 

"Clap  on  a  blister!"  roared  another, — 

"No!  cup  him," — "No!  trepan  him,  brother." 

A  sixth  would  recommend  a  purge, 

The  next  would  an  emetic  urge; 

The  eighth,  just  come  from  a  dissection, 

His  verdict  gave  for  an  injection. 

The  last  produced  a  box  of  pills, 

A  certain  cure  for  earthly  ills: 

"I  had  a  patient  yesternight," 

Quoth  he,  "and  wretched  was  her  plight, 

And  as  the  only  means  to  save  her, 

Three  dozen  patent  pills  I  gave  her; 


264  HEART  THROBS 


And  by  to-morrow  I  suppose 
That—" 

"Here  she  goes,  and  there  she  goes!" 

"You  are  all  fools!"  the  lady  said, — 

"The  way  is,  just  to  shave  his  head. 

Run!  bid  the  barber  come  anon." 

"Thanks,  mother!"  thought  her  clever  son; 

"You  help  the  knaves  that  would  have  bit  me, 

But  all  creation  sha'n't  outwit  me!" 

Thus  to  himself,  while  to  and  fro 

His  finger  perseveres  to  go, 

And  from  his  lips  no  accent  flows 

But — "Here  she  goes,  and  there  she  goes!" 

The  barber  came — "Lord  help  him!  what 

A  queerish  customer  I've  got; 

But  we  must  do  our  best  to  save  him, — 

So  hold  him,  gemmen,  while  I  shave  him!" 

But  here  the  doctors  interpose, 

"A  woman  never — " 

"There  she  goes!" 

"A  woman  is  no  judge  of  physic, 

Not  even  when  her  baby  is  sick. 

He  must  be  bled," — "No,  no,  a  blister," — 

"A  purge,  you  mean," — "I  say  a  clyster," — 

"No,  cup  him,"— "Leech  him,"— "Pills!  pills!  pills!" 

And  all  the  house  the  uproar  fills. 

What  means  that  smile?  what  means  that  shiver? 
The  landlord's  limbs  with  rapture  quiver, 


HEART  THROBS  265 


And  triumph  brightens  up  his  face, 
Kis  finger  yet  shall  win  the  race; 
The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  nine, 
And  up  he  starts, — "Tis  mine!  'tis  mine!" 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  the  fifty; 
I  never  spent  an  hour  so  thrifty. 
But  you  who  tried  to  make  me  lose, 
Go,  burst  with  envy,  if  you  choose! 
But  how  is  this?  where  are  they?" 

"Who?" 

"The  gentlemen, — I  mean  the  two 
Came  yesterday, — are  they  below?" 
"They  galloped  off  an  hour  ago." 
"Oh,  purge  me!  blister!  shave  and  bleed! 
For,  hang  the  knaves,  I'm  mad  indeed!" 

James   Nack. 


WORLD  WITHOUT   MEN 

Aunt  Samantha  was  visiting  at  a  house  in  Buffalo.  She 
is  an  old  maid  and  very  devout,  always  concluding  her 
prayers  with  the  gloria. 

"Why  does  she  say  such  funny  things  in  her  prayers?" 
asked  the  little  daughter  of  the  house. 

"Why,  what  does  she  say?"  replied  the  fond  mamma. 
"I  don't  remember  all  she  says,  but  she  always  ends 

with  'World  without  men,  ah,  me.'  " 

Selected. 


266  HEART  THROBS 


JUST  SO 

When  everything  goes  crooked 

And  seems  inclined  to  rile, 
Don't  kick,  nor  fuss,  nor  fidget 

Just — you — smile ! 

It's  hard  to  learn  the  lesson, 

But  learn  it  if  you'd  win; 
When  people  tease  and  pester, 

Just — you — grin ! 

When  someone  tries  to  "do"  you 

By  taking  more  than  half, 
Be  patient,  firm  and  pleasant; 

Just — you — laugh ! 

But  if  you  find  you're  stuffy 

(Sometimes,  of  course,  you  will) 

And  cannot  smile  nor  grin  nor  laugh, 
Just — keep — still ! 

Woman's  Home  Companion. 


SORROW 


Who  never  ate  his  bread  in  sorrow, 
Who  never  spent  the  darksome  hours 

Weeping,  and  watching  for  the  morrow, 
He  knows  ye  not,  ye  gloomy  powers. 

Goethe. 


HEART  THROBS  267 


BURY  ME  IN  THE  MORNING 

This  beautiful  poem  I  have  cherished  many  years  in  my  scrap- 
book  and  it  always  gave  me  pleasure  to  read  it  and  imagine  what 
the  author,  whose  name  is  seldom  connected  with  anything  outside 
the  political  arena,  might  have  been  had  he  been  spared. 

Bury  me  in  the  morning,  mother, 

Oh,  let  me  have  the  light 
Of  one  bright  day  on  my  grave,  mother, 

Ere  you  leave  me  alone  with  the  night. 
Alone  in  the  night  of  the  grave,  mother, 

Tis  a  thought  of  terrible  fear — 
And  you  will  be  here  alone,  mother, 

And  stars  will  be  shining  here. 
So  bury  me  in  the  morning,  mother, 

And  let  me  have  the  light 
Of  one  bright  day  on  my  grave,  mother, 

Ere  I'm  alone  with  the  night. 

You  tell  of  the  Saviour's  love,  mother, 

I  feel  that  it  is  in  my  heart, 
But,  oh!  from  this  beautiful  world,  mother, 

'Tis  hard  for  the  young  to  part; 
For  even  to  part,  when  here,  mother, 

The  soul  is  fain  to  stay; 
For  the  grave  is  deep  and  dark,  mother, 

And  heaven  seems  far  away. 
Then  bury  me  in  the  morning,  mother, 

And  let  me  have  the  light 
Of  one  bright  day  on  my  grave,  mother, 

Ere  I'm  alone  with  the  night. 

Stephen  A.  Douglas. 


268  HEART  THROBS 


THE  BEWITCHED  CLOCK 

About  half -past  eleven  o'clock  on  Sunday  night  a 
human  leg,  enveloped  in  blue  broadcloth,  might  have 
been  seen  entering  Cephas  Barberry's  kitchen  window. 
The  leg  was  followed  finally  by  the  entire  person  of  a 
lively  Yankee,  attired  in  his  Sunday  go-to-meetin' 
dothes.  It  was,  in  short,  Joe  Mayweed,  who  thus 
burglariously,  in  the  dead  of  night,  won  his  way  into  the 
deacon's  kitchen. 

"Wonder  how  much  the  old  deacon  made  by  orderin' 
me  not  to  darken  his  door  again?"  soliloquized  the  young 
man.  "Promised  him  I  wouldn't,  but  didn't  say  nothin' 
about  winders.  Winders  is  just  as  good  as  doors,  if 
there  ain't  no  nails  to  tear  your  trousers  onto.  Wonder 
if  Sal  '11  come  down?  The  critter  promised  me.  I'm 
afraid  to  move  here,  'cause  I  might  break  my  shins  over 
sumthin'  or  'nother,  and  wake  the  old  folks.  Cole1 
enough  to  freeze  a  polar-bear  here.  Oh,  here  comes 
Sally!" 

The  beautiful  maiden  descended  with  a  pleasant 
smile,  a  tallow  candle,  and  a  box  of  matches. 

After  receiving  a  rapturous  greeting,  she  made  up  a 
roaring  fire  in  the  cooking-stove,  and  the  happy  couple 
sat  down  to  enjoy  the  sweet  interchange  of  views  and 
hopes.  But  the  course  of  true  love  ran  no  smoother  in 
old  Barberry's  kitchen  than  it  did  elsewhere,  and  Joe, 
who  was  making  up  his  mind  to  treat  himself  to  a  kiss, 
was  startled  by  the  voice  of  the  deacon,  her  father, 
shouting  from  her  chamber  door: 


HEART  THROBS  269 

"Sally,  what  are  you  getting  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  for?" 

"Tell  him  it's  most  morning,"  whispered  Joe. 

"I  can't  tell  a  fib,"  said  Sally. 

"I'll  make  it  a  truth,  then,"  said  Joe,  and  running  to 
the  huge  old-fashioned  clock  that  stood  in  the  corner, 
he  set  it  at  five. 

"Look  at  the  clock  and  tell  me  what  time  it  is," 
cried  the  old  gentleman  upstairs. 

"It's  five  by  the  clock,"  answered  Sally,  and,  corrob- 
orating the  words,  the  clock  struck  five. 

The  lovers  sat  down  again,  and  resumed  the  conver- 
sation.    Suddenly  the  staircase  began  to  creak. 

"Good  gracious!  it's  father." 

"The  deacon,  by  thunder!"  cried  Joe.  "Hide  me, 
Sal!" 

"Where  can  I  hide  you?"  cried  the  distracted  girl. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  said  he;  "I'll  squeeze  into  the  clock- 
case." 

And  without  another  word  he  concealed  himself  in 
the  case,  and  drew  to  the  door  behind  him. 

The  deacon  was  dressed,  and,  sitting  himself  down  by 
the  cooking-stove,  pulled  out  his  pipe,  lighted  it,  and 
commenced  smoking  very  deliberately  and  calmly. 

"Five  o'clock,  eh?"  said  he.  "Well,  I  shall  have  time 
to  smoke  three  or  four  pipes;  then  I'll  go  and  feed  the 
critters." 

"Hadn't  you  better  go  and  feed  the  critters  first, 
sir,  and  then  smoke  afterward?"  suggested  the  ever 
dutiful  Sally. 


270  HEART  THROBS 

"No;  smokin'  clears  my  head  and  wakes  me  up," 
answered  the  deacon,  who  seemed  not  a  whit  disposed  to 
hurry  his  enjoyment. 

Bur-r-r-r — whiz — z — ding — ding!  went  the  clock. 

"Tormented  lightning!"  cried  the  deacon,  starting 
up,  and  dropping  his  pipe  on  the  stove.  "What  in 
creation  is  that?" 

Whiz!  ding!  ding!  ding!  went  the  old  clock  furiously. 

"It's  only  the  clock  striking  five,"  said  Sally,  trem- 
ulously. 

"Powers  of  mercy!"  cried  the  deacon,  "striking  five! 
It's  struck  a  hundred  already." 

"Deacon  Barberry!"  cried  the  deacon's  better  half, 
who  had  hastily  robed  herself,  and  now  came  plunging 
down  the  staircase  in  the  wildest  state  of  alarm,  "what 
is  the  matter  of  the  clock?" 

"Goodness  only  knows,"  replied  the  old  man. 

"It's  been  in  the  family  these  hundred  years,  and 
never  did  I  know  it  to  carry  on  so  before." 

Whiz!  bang!  bang!  bang!  went  the  clock. 

"It's  burst  itself!"  cried  the  old  lady,  shedding  a 
flood  of  tears,  "and  there  won't  be  nothing  left  of  it." 

"It's  bewitched,"  said  the  deacon,  who  retained  a 
leaven  of  New  England  superstition  in  his  nature. 
"Anyhow,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  advancing  resolutely 
toward  the  clock,  "I'll  see  what's  got  into  it." 

"Oh,  don't!"  cried  the  daughter,  affectionately  seizing 
one  of  his  coat-tails,  while  his  faithful  wife  hung  to  the 
other. 

"Don't,"  chorused  both  the  women  together. 


HEART  THROBS  271 


"Let  go  my  raiment!"  shouted  the  deacon;  "I  ain't 
afraid  of  the  powers  of  darkness." 

But  the  women  would  not  let  go;  so  the  deacon 
slipped  off  his  coat,  and  while,  from  the  sudden  cessation 
of  resistance,  they  fell  heavily  on  the  floor,  he  darted 
forward  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  door  of  the  clock-case. 
But  no  human  power  could  open  it.  Joe  was  holding 
it  inside  with  a  death-grasp.  The  deacon  began  to  be 
dreadfully  frightened.  He  gave  one  more  tug.  An  un- 
earthly yell,  as  of  a  fiend  in  distress,  came  from  the 
inside,  and  then  the  clock-case  pitched  headforemost  on 
the  floor,  smashed  its  face,  and  wrecked  its  proportions. 

The  current  of  air  extinguished  the  light;  the  deacon, 
the  old  lady  and  Sally  fled  upstairs,  and  Joe  Mayweed, 
extricating  himself  from  the  clock,  effected  his  retreat 
in  the  same  way  that  he  had  entered.  The  next  day 
all  Appleton  was  alive  with  the  story  of  how  Deacon 
Barberry's  clock  had  been  bewitched;  and  though  many 
believed  its  version,  some,  and  especially  Joe  Mayweed, 
affected  to  discredit  the  whole  affair,  hinting  that  the 
deacon  had  been  trying  the  experiment  of  tasting  frozen 
cider,  and  that  the  vagaries  of  the  clock-case  existed 
only  in  a  distempered  imagination. 


THERE'S   A   CROSS   FOR   ME 

Must  Jesus  bear  the  cross  alone, 

And  all  the  world  go  free? 
No,  there's  a  cross  for  everyone, 

And  there's  a  cross  for  me. 

Rev.  Thomas  Shepherd. 


272  HEART  THROBS 


THE  WASHERWOMAN'S   SONG 

Ex-President  Roosevelt  appointed  Eugene  F.  Ware  Pension 
Commissioner,  it  is  believed,  because  he  loved  Mr.  Ware's  poetry. 
Several  years  ago  Ex-President  Roosevelt  read  and  admired  "The 
Washerwoman's  Song,"  by  Mr.  Ware,  and  when  he  went  West  to 
attend  the  reunion  of  the  Rough  Riders,  he  asked  to  meet  the 
author.  The  two  rode  half  way  across  Kansas  together  and  became 
very  good  friends.    The  poem  reads: 

/ 

In  a  very  humble  cot, 
In  a  rather  quiet  spot, 
In  the  suds  and  in  the  soap, 
Worked  a  woman  full  of  hope; 
Working,  singing,  all  alone, 
In  a  sort  of  undertone : 
"With  the  Savior  for  a  friend, 
He  will  keep  me  to  the  end." 

// 
Not  in  sorrow  nor  in  glee, 
Working  all  day  long  was  she, 
As  her  children,  three  or  four, 
Played  around  her  on  the  floor; 
But  in  monotones  the  song 
She  was  humming  all  day  long; 
"With  the  Savior  for  a  friend, 
He  will  keep  me  to  the  end." 

/// 
It's  a  song  I  do  not  sing, 
For  I  scarce  believe  a  thing 
Of  the  stories  that  are  told 
Of  the  miracles  of  old; 


HEART  THROBS  273 

But  I  know  that  her  belief 
Is  the  anodyne  of  grief, 
And  will  always  be  a  friend 
That  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 

IV 

Just  a  trifle  lonesome  she, 
Just  as  poor  as  poor  could  be, 
But  her  spirits  always  rose, 
Like  the  bubbles  in  the  clothes, 
And,  though  widowed  and  alone, 
Cheered  her  with  the  monotone 
Of  a  Savior  for  a  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 


I  have  seen  her  rub  and  scrub 
On  the  washboard  in  the  tub, 
While  the  baby  sopped  in  suds, 
Rolled  and  tumbled  in  the  duds ; 
Or  was  paddling  in  the  pools, 
With  old  scissors  stuck  in  spools ; 
She  still  humming  of  her  Friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

VI 

Human  hopes  and  human  creeds 
Have  their  root  in  human  needs, 
And  I  should  not  wish  to  strip 
From  that  washerwoman's  lip 


274 HEART  THROBS 

Any  song  that  she  can  sing, 
Any  hope  that  song  can  bring ; 
For  the  woman  has  a  Friend 
Who  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 

By  permission.  Eugene  F.  WaTt> 


ORIGIN   OF  SCANDAL 

Said  Mrs.  A. 

To  Mrs.  J., 
In  quite  a  confidential  way, 

"It  seems  to  me 

That  Mrs.  B. 
Takes  too  much — something — in  her  tea." 

And  Mrs.  J. 

To  Mrs.  K. 
That  night  was  overheard  to  say — 

She  grieved  to  touch 

Upon  it  much, 
But  "Mrs.  B.  took — such  and  such!" 

Then  Mrs.  K. 

Went  straight  away 
And  told  a  friend,  the  selfsame  day, 

"  'Tis  sad  to  think—" 

Here  came  a  wink — 
"That  Mrs.  B.  was  fond  of  drink." 

The  friend's  disgust 

Was  such,  she  must 


HEART  THROBS  275 

Inform  a  lady,  "which  she  nussed," 

That  Mrs.  B. 

At  half-past  three 
Was  "that  far  gone,  she  couldn't  see!" 

This  lady  we 

Have  mentioned,  she 
Gave  needlework  to  Mrs.  B., 

And  at  such  news 

Could  scarcely  choose 
But  further  needlework  refuse. 

Then  Mrs.  B., 

As  you'll  agree, 
Quite  properly — she  said,  said  she, 

That  she  would  track 

The  scandal  back 
To  those  who  made  her  look  so  black. 

Through  Mrs.  K. 

And  Mrs.  J. 
She  got  at  last  to  Mrs.  A., 

And  asked  why, 

With  cruel  lie, 
She  painted  her  so  deep  a  dye. 

Said  Mrs.  A., 

In  sore  dismay, 
"I  no  such  thing  could  ever  say: 

I  said  that  you 

Had  stouter  grew 
On  too  much  sugar — which  you  do!" 

Catholic  Times. 


276  HEART  THROBS 


IT'S  A   GAY  OLD   WORLD 

It's  a  gay  old  world  when  you're  gay 
And  a  glad  old  world  when  you're  glad; 

But  whether  you  play 

Or  go  toiling  away 
It's  a  sad  old  world  when  you're  sad. 

It's  a  grand  old  world  if  you're  great 
And  a  mean  old  world  if  you're  small; 

It's  a  world  full  of  hate 

For  the  foolish  who  prate 
Of  the  uselessness  of  it  all. 

It's  a  beautiful  world  to  see 
Or  it's  dismal  in  every  zone. 

The  thing  it  must  be 

In  its  gloom  or  its  glee 
Depends  on  yourself  alone. 


Anon. 


HENRY  W.   LONGFELLOW'S   FUNNIEST  POEM 

Longfellow  wrote  this  funny  little  poem  for  Blanch  Rosevelt. 

There  was  a  little  girl,  she  had  a  little  curl 

Right  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead; 
And  when  she  was  good,  she  was  very,  very  good, 

And  when  *>he  was  bad,  she  was  horrid. 


HEART  THROBS  277 


A  WOMAN'S  PRAYER 

O  Lord,  who  knowest  every  need  of  mine, 
Help  me  to  bear  each  cross  and  not  repine; 
Grant  me  fresh  courage  every  day, 
Help  me  to  do  my  work  alway 
Without  complaint! 

0  Lord,  Thou  knowest  well  how  dark  the  way, 
Guide  Thou  my  footsteps,  lest  they  stray; 
Give  me  fresh  faith  for  every  hour, 
Lest  I  should  ever  doubt  Thy  power 
And  make  complaint! 

Give  me  a  heart,  0  Lord,  strong  to  endure, 
Help  me  to  keep  it  simple,  pure, 
Make  me  unselfish,  helpful,  true 
In  every  act,  whate'er  I  do, 
And  keep  content! 

Help  me  to  do  my  woman's  share, 
Make  me  courageous,  strong  to  bear 
Sunshine  or  shadow  in  my  life! 
Sustain  me  in  the  daily  strife 

To  keep  content!  Anon. 


Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

Tennyson. 


278  HEART  THROBS 


"I  AM  AS  HAPPY  AS  YOU  ARE" 

Helen  Keller,  though  born  deaf,  dumb  and  blind,  has  astonished 
the  world  by  acquiring  a  complete  education,  despite  her  handicap. 

My  story  is  now  told,  and  I  hope,  kind  reader,  you 
are  convinced  how  little  able  I  was  to  write  it.  I  live 
in  my  own  way  the  life  that  you  do,  and  I  am  as  happy 
as  you  are.  The  outward  circumstances  of  our  lives  are 
but  the  shell  of  things.  My  life  is  pervaded  by  love  as 
a  cloud  by  light.  Deafness  is  a  barrier  against  intrusion, 
and  blindness  makes  us  oblivious  to  much  that  is  ugly 
and  revolting  in  the  world.  In  the  midst  of  unpleasant 
things,  I  move  as  one  who  wears  an  invisible  cap. 

Sometimes,  it  is  true,  a  sense  of  isolation  infolds  me 
like  a  cold,  white  mist  as  I  sit  alone  and  wait  at  Life's 
shut  gate.  Beyond  there  is  light  and  music  and  sweet 
companionship;  but  I  may  not  enter.  Fate,  silent, 
pitiless,  inexorable,  bars  the  way.  Fain  would  I  question 
his  imperious  decree;  for  my  heart  is  still  undisciplined 
and  passionate ;  but  my  tongue  will  not  utter  the  bitter 
futile  words  that  rise  to  my  lips,  and  they  fall  back  into 
my  heart  like  unshed  tears.  Silence  sits  immense  upon 
my  soul.  Then  comes  Hope  with  sweet,  sad  smile  and 
whispers,  "There  is  joy  in  self-forgetfulness."  So  I 
try  to  make  the  light  in  others'  eyes  my  sun,  the  music 
in  others'  ears  my  symphony,  the  smile  on  others'  lips 
my  happiness.  Hdm  Kelleu 

From  "  The  Story  of  My  Life,"  copyright. 
By  permission  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company. 


Not  failure,  but  low  aim  is  crime.  Lowell. 


HEART  THROBS  279 


A  LONESOME  PLACE 

When  you  are  away  with  the  children, 

The  house  is  a  lonesome  place, 
And  in  every  nook  and  corner, 

I  fancy  I  see  a  face, 
While  I  hear  with  a  thrill  the  laughter, 

That  comes  from  the  happy  boys 
Who  are  fighting  aloft  with  the  pillows, 

And  making  a  dreadful  noise. 

And  over  the  arm  of  my  rocker 

Is  peering  a  rosy  face 
That  is  dimpled  with  smiles,  and  whispers, 

"Please,  papa,  take  little  Grace." 
And  I  lay  down  my  unread  paper, 

To  answer  the  little  prayer, 
And  find  it  a  foolish  fancy 

That  fades  into  empty  air. 

I  vow  I  will  never  be  crabbed, 

Nor  growl  at  the  dreadful  noise 
That  grumbles  beneath  the  arches, 

And  comes  from  those  boisterous  boys, 
Nor  forget  to  bring  home  the  dolly 

That  the  dear  little  maid  admired, 
Nor  be  tempted  to  say,  "My  dear,  go  away, 

For  papa  is  dreadful  tired." 

The  time  is  so  surely  coming, 
Alas,  it  will  come  too  soon! 


280  HEART  THROBS 


When  we  will  be  old  and  feeble, 

And  sit  in  our  easy  shoon; 
Then  the  house  will  be  lone  and  silent 

From  the  morn  till  the  evening  gray, 
And  no  one  will  break  that  silence, 

For  the  children  are  gone  away. 

By  permission.  Rollitl    J.    Wells. 

SOMETIME— SOMEWHERE 

You  gave  on  the  way  a  pleasant  smile, 

And  thought  no  more  about  it. 
It  cheered  a  life  that  had  been  dark  the  while, 

Which  might  have  wrecked  without  it. 
And  so  for  that  smile  and  fruitage  rare, 
You'll  reap  a  crown  sometime — somewhere. 

You  spoke  one  day  a  cheering  word, 

And  passed  to  other  duties. 
It  cheered  a  heart ;  new  promise  stirred, 

And  painted  a  life  with  beauties. 
And  so  for  that  word  of  golden  cheer, 
You'll  reap  a  talent  sometime — somewhere. 

You  lent  a  hand  to  a  fallen  one, 

A  lift  in  goodness  given. 
You  saved  a  soul  when  help  was  rare, 

And  won  an  honest  heart  forever. 
And  so,  for  that  help  you  proffered  there, 
Kind  friend,  you'll  reap  a  joy — sometime — somewhere. 

Auburn  No.  2Q768. 


HEART  THROBS  281 


THE    MAKER'S   IMAGE 

Crowned  with  the  culture  of  the  centuries 
With  honest  mien  and  noble,  manly  pride, 
He  gazes  fearless  back  across  the  Past, 
Triumphant  o'er  the  forces  of  the  world 
Fired  by  wisdom's  sacred  heritage, 
Imbued  with  ardent  trust  and  sanguine  hope, 
Strong  driver  of  Progression's  potent  plow, 
He  presses  onward,  certain  of  success — 
Upon  his  brow  serene  intelligence 
Reigns  sovereign  consort  of  integrity. 

This  is  the  thing  the  Lord  God  made  and  gave 
To  have  dominion  over  land  and  sea ; 
This  is  the  Maker's  image,  this  the  Man, 
Evolved  in  somber  eons  dead  and  gone, 
That  phenix-risen  from  the  forge  of  Time, 
In  grandeur  marches  on  to  victory. 
Yon  clod  is  but  the  relic  of  the  Past, 
And  burdened  by  the  centuries  that  lie 
Long-buried  in  a  now-forgotten  tomb, 
Whence  empty  ages  nevermore  may  rise. 

So  has  God-given  labor  raised  the  Man, 
That,  chaos-conquering,  his  mighty  arm 
Now  reaches  proudly  round  the  globe, 
In  signal  triumph  over  Time  and  Space. 
The  gulf  between  him  and  the  seraphim 
Is  straitly  narrowed  to  a  single  step ; 
Toil-lifted  from  the  gloom  of  ignorance. 


282  HEART  THROBS 


He  holds  the  key  to  solemn  mystery 

And  with  unclouded  eyes  perceives  God's  dream 

In  all  its  glory  and  its  melody. 

Say,  where  exists  more  splendid  prophecy? 

"Masters  and  rulers  in  all  lands" — forsooth, 

Who  are  the  masters,  and  whose  is  the  sway 

Of  sceptered  power  o'er  the  universe? 

Whose  hand  is  on  the  throttle  of  Advance 

Save  his  upon  whose  sturdy  open  brow 

There  gleams  the  sweat  of  strong  productive  toil? 

He  is  the  lord  and  ruler  in  all  lands, 

Whose  lightest  word  commands  the  elements, 

Who  summons  Nature  to  his  beck  and  call, 

And  whose  most  faithful  servitor  is  Truth — 

Who  labors,  labors  to  a  noble  end. 

And  so  the  Future  shall  be  satisfied; 

The  world's  last  reckoning  shall  place  this  Man 

Upon  the  pinnacle  he  shall  deserve ; 

And  he  who  shaped  himself  shall  reap  the  rest 

His  being  promises,  led  on  by  faith 

Undaunted  in  the  goodness  of  the  Plan, 

The  want  insatiate  of  higher  things — 

The  plain  impulse  of  immortality. 

Albert  Charlton  Andrews. 


Alas!  to  think  how  many  people's  creeds  are  con- 
tradicted by  their  deeds. 

Anon. 


HEART   THROBS  283 

THE  ONE-HOSS  SHAY;  OR,  THE  DEACON'S 

MASTERPIECE 

A  Logical  Story 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And  then  of  a  sudden,  it — ah,  but  stay, 

I'll  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits, — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five, 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive- 


Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon  town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 

There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot — 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace — lurking  still, 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without — 


284  HEART  THROBS 

And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
A  chaise  breaks  down,  but  doesn't  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  "I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "I  tell  yeou,") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun'; 
— "Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "'t's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 

Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 

That  couldn't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke — 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees; 

The  panels  of  whitewood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "Settler's  ellum,"— 

Last  of  its  timber — they  couldn't  sell  'em, 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 

Spring,  tire,  axle  and  linchpin,  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue; 

Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 


HEART  THROBS  285 

Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  he  "put  her  through." — 
"There!"  said  the  Deacon,  "naow  she'll  dew!" 

Do!  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 

Deacon  and  deaconness  dropped  away, 

Children  and  grandchildren, — where  were  they? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake  day! 

Eighteen  hundred; — it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten; — 
"Hahnsum  kerridge"  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came; — 
Running  as  usual;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large; 

Take  it.    You're  welcome.     No  extra  charge.) 

First  of  November — the  Earthquake  day — 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 


286  HEART  THROBS 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 
But  nothing  local  as  one  may  say. 
There  couldn't  be — for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back  crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five! 
This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 
"Huddup!"  said  the  parson. — Off  went  they. 
The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text- 
Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the — Moses — was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 
Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 
— First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 
At  half-past  nine  by  the  meetin'-house  clock-^ 
Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock! 


HEART   THROBS  287 


— What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once — 
All  at  once  and  nothing  first — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That's  all  I  say. 

0.  W.  Holmes. 


TO    MY   SON 


Do  you  know  that  your  soul  is  of  my  soul  such  a  part, 
That  you  seem  to  be  fiber  and  core  of  my  heart? 
None  other  can  pain  me  as  you,  dear,  can  do; 
None  other  can  please  me  or  praise  me  as  you. 

Remember  the  world  will  be  quick  with  its  blame, 
If  shadow  or  stain  ever  darken  your  name. 
"Like  mother,  like  son,"  is  a  saying  so  true, 
The  world  will  judge  largely  of  mother  by  you. 

Be  yours,  then,  the  task,  if  task  is  should  be, 
To  force  the  proud  world  to  do  homage  to  me. 
Be  sure  it  will  say  when  its  verdict  you've  won, 
She  reaped  as  she  sowed,  Lo!    This  is  her  son. 

Margaret  Johnstone  Graflin. 


288  HEART  THROBS 


LINES  TO  A  SKELETON 

The  mss.  of  this  poem  was  found  in  the  Museum  of  the  Royal 
College  of  Surgeons,  London,  near  a  perfect  human  skeleton.  It 
was  first  published  in  the  Morning  Chronicle. 

Behold  this  ruin!  'Twas  a  skull, 
i  Once  of  ethereal  spirit  full. 

This  narrow  cell  was  life's  retreat, 
This  space  was  thought's  mysterious  seat. 
What  beauteous  visions  filled  this  spot, 
What  dreams  of  pleasure  long  forgot? 
Nor  hope,  nor  joy,  nor  love,  nor  fea*-. 
Have  left  one  trace  of  record  here. 

Beneath  this  moldering  canopy 

Once  shone  the  bright  and  busy  eye; 

But  start  not  at  the  dismal  void; 

If  social  love  that  eye  employed, 

If  with  no  lawless  fire  it  gleamed, 

But  through  the  dews  of  kindness  beamed,— 

That  eye  shall  be  forever  bright 

When  stars  and  sun  are  sunk  in  night. 

Within  this  hollow  cavern  hung 
The  ready,  swift  and  tuneful  tongue ; 
If  falsehood's  honey  it  disdained, 
^nd  when  it  could  not  praise  was  chained; 
.if  bold  in  virtue's  cause  it  spoke, 
Yet  gentle  concord  never  broke, — 
This  silent  tongue  shall  plead  for  thee 
When  time  unveils  eternity! 


HEART  THROBS  289 

Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine, 
Or  with  the  envied  rubies  shine? 
To  hew  the  rock  or  wear  a  gem 
Can  little  now  avail  to  them. 
But  if  the  page  of  truth  they  sought, 
Or  comfort  to  the  mourner  brought, 
These  hands  a  richer  meed  shall  claim 
Than  all  that  wait  on  wealth  and  fame. 

Avails  it  whether  bare  or  shod 
These  feet  the  paths  of  duty  trod? 
If  from  the  bowers  of  ease  they  fled, 
To  seek  affliction's  humble  shed ; 
If  grandeur's  guilty  bribe  they  spurned, 
And  home  to  virtue's  cot  returned, — 
These  feet  with  angel  wings  shall  vie, 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky. 

Author  unknown. 

MY   CREED 

I  would  be  true,  for  there  are  those  that  trust  me; 

I  would  be  pure,  for  there  are  those  who  care; 
I  would  be  strong,  for  there  is  much  to  suffer; 

I  would  be  brave,  for  there  is  much  to  dare. 
I  would  be  friend  of  all — the  foe — the  friendless ; 

I  would  be  giving,  and  forget  the  gift, 
I  would  be  humble,  for  I  know  my  weakness; 

I  would  look  up — and  laugh — and  love — and  lift. 

Harold  Arnold  Walters. 


290  HEART  THROBS 


THE  AGED  STRANGER 

"I  was  with  Grant — "  the  stranger  said; 

Said  the  farmer,  "Say  no  more, 
But  rest  thee  here  at  my  cottage  porch, 

For  thy  feet  are  weary  and  sore." 

"I  was  with  Grant — "  the  stranger  said; 

Said  the  farmer,  "Nay,  no  more, — 
I  prithee  sit  at  my  frugal  board, 

And  eat  of  my  humble  store. 

"How  fares  my  boy, — my  soldier  boy, 
Of  the  old  Ninth  Army  Corps? 

I  warrant  he  bore  him  gallantly 

In  the  smoke  and  the  battle's  roar!" 

"I  know  him  not,"  said  the  aged  man, 

"And,  as  I  remarked  before, 
I  was  with  Grant — "    "Nay,  nay,  I  know," 

Said  the  farmer,  "say  no  more. 

"He  fell  in  battle?— I  see,  alas! 

Thou'dst  smooth  these  tidings  o'er — 
Nay,  speak  the  truth,  whatever  it  be, 

Though  it  rend  my  bosom's  core. 

"How  'ell  he, — with  his  face  to  the  foe, 

Upholding  the  flag  he  bore? 
Oh,  say  not  that  my  boy  disgraced 

The  uniform  that  he  wore!" 


HEART  THROBS  291 


"I  cannot  tell,"  said  the  aged  man, 
"And  should  have  remarked  before, 

That  I  was  with  Grant — in  Illinois — 
Some  three  years  before  the  war." 

Then  the  farmer  spake  him  never  a  word, 

But  beat  with  his  fist  full  sore 
That  aged  man,  who  had  worked  for  Grant 

Some  three  years  before  the  war. 

By  permission  Bf6t   H&TtC* 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


OTHERS  SHALL  SING 

Others  shall  sing  the  song, 
Others  shall  right  the  wrong, 
Finish  what  I  begin, 
All  I  fail  of,  win. 
What  matter  I  or  they, 
Mine  or  another's  day, 
So  the  right  word  is  said, 
And  life  the  sweeter  made? 
Hail  to  the  coming  singer! 
Hail  to  the  brave  light-bringer! 
Forward  I  reach  and  share 
All  that  they  sing  and  dare. 
I  feel  the  earth  move  sunward, 
I  join  the  great  march  onward, 
And  take,  by  faith  while  living, 
My  freehold  of  thanksgiving. 
By  permission  John  Greenleaf  Whittier, 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company 


292  HEART  THROBS 


THE  LAWYER'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS  MUSE 

Written  by  Sir  William  Blackstone,  Knt.,  at  the  age  of  18  years, 
when  about  to  commence  the  study  of  law. 

As  by  some  tyrant's  stern  command, 
A  wretch  forsakes  his  native  land, 
In  foreign  climes  condemned  to  roam, 
An  endless  exile  from  his  home ; 
Pensive  he  treads  the  destined  way, 
And  dreads  to  go,  nor  dares  to  stay; 
Till  on  some  neighboring  mountain's  brow 
He  stops  and  turns  his  eyes  below; 
There,  melting  at  the  well-known  view, 
Drops  a  last  tear,  and  bids  adieu : 
So  I,  thus  doomed  from  thee  to  part, 
Gay  queen  of  fancy  and  of  art, 
Reluctant  move  with  doubtful  mind, 
Oft  stop,  and  often  look  behind. 

Companion  of  my  tender  age, 

Serenely  gay,  and  sweetly  sage, 

How  blithesome  were  we  wont  to  rove 

By  verdant  hill  or  shady  grove, 

Where  fervent  bees  with  humming  voice 

Around  the  honeyed  oak  rejoice, 

And  aged  elms,  with  awful  bend, 

In  long  cathedral  walks  extend, 

Lulled  by  the  lapse  of  gliding  floods, 

Cheered  by  the  warbling  of  the  woods, 

How  blessed  my  days,  my  thoughts  how  free, 

In  sweet  society  with  thee! 


HEART  THROBS  293 


Then  all  was  joyous,  all  was  young, 
And  years  unheeded,  rolled  along, 
But  now  the  pleasing  dream  is  o'er, 
These  scenes  must  charm  me  now  no  more; 
Lost  to  the  field,  and  torn  from  you, 
Farewell!  a  long  and  last  adieu! 

Then  welcome  business,  welcome  strife, 
Welcome  the  cares,  the  thorns  of  life, 
The  visage  wan,  the  pore-blind  sight, 
The  toil  by  day,  the  lamp  by  night, 
The  tedious  forms,  the  solemn  prate, 
The  pert  dispute,  the  dull  debate, 
The  drowsy  bench,  the  babbling  hall, 
For  thee,  fair  Justice,  welcome  all! 

Thus,  though  my  noon  of  life  be  past, 
Yet  let  my  setting  sun  at  last 
Find  out  the  still,  the  rural  cell 
Where  sage  Retirement  loves  to  dwell! 
There  let  me  taste  the  home-felt  bliss 
Of  innocence  and  inward  peace ; 
Untainted  by  the  guilty  bribe, 
Uncursed  amid  the  harpy  tribe; 
No  orphan's  cry  to  wound  my  ear, 
My  honor  and  my  conscience  clear; 
Thus  may  I  calmly  meet  my  end, 
Thus  to  the  grave  in  peace  descend! 


The  opportunity  is  often  lost  by  deliberation.         Anon. 


2?4  HEART  THROBS 


'TIS  THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer 

Left  blooming  alone; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rosebud  is  nigh 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh! 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one! 

To  pine  on  the  stem; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them; 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  I  follow 

When  friendships  decay, 
And  from  Love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away! 
When  true  hearts  lie  withered, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh,  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone? 

Thomas  Moore, 


HEART  THROBS  295 


JUST  A  BOY 

With  all  the  comedy  there  is  about  a  boy's  life  there 
is  a  deep  philosophy  running  through  it  all.  Flashes  of 
wisdom,  too,  deeper  and  more  varied  than  the  diamond's 
gleam.  The  world  is  full  of  knowledge  and  wisdom  and 
erudition.  The  ages  of  research,  investigation  and  ex- 
ploration illumine  the  well-trodden  path  of  the  genera- 
tions, but  every  baby  boy  that  comes  into  the  world 
finds  out  that  fire  is  hot  and  water  wet  by  taking  hold 
of  one  and  falling  into  the  other,  the  same  old  way  we 
all  found  them  out.  But  it  is  the  grand  old  school  of 
experience;  the  only  school  men  will  learn  at,  each  for 
himself. 

You  look  at  them,  the  boys  of  appetite  and  noise, 
with  their  careless,  easy  ways,  their  natural  manners 
and  movements  on  the  baseball  ground,  their  marvellous, 
systematic,  indescribable,  inimitable,  complex,  angular 
awkwardness  in  your  parlors,  and  do  you  ever  dream, 
looking  at  these  sturdy  young  engines  of  energy,  of  the 
overshadowing  destinies  awaiting  them;  the  mighty 
struggles  mapped  out  for  their  earnest  lives ;  the  thrilling 
experiences  in  the  world  of  arms ;  the  grander  triumphs 
of  patient  toil  in  the  fields  of  science,  art  and  philosophy, 
to  the  fadeless  laorels  in  the  empire  of  letters?  Why, 
the  world  is  at  a  boy's  feet.  Work,  energy,  conquest, 
leadership  and  statesmanship  slumber  in  his  arms  and 
carefree  heart. 

Hannibal,  standing  before  the  Punic  altar  fires,  and 
in  lisping  accents  of  childhood  swearing  eternal  hatred 


295  HEART  THROBS 

to  Rome,  was  Hannibal  at  twenty-four  commanding 
the  army  that  swept  down  upon  Italy  like  a  mountain 
torrent,  shook  the  power  of  the  mistress  of  the  world, 
and  bade  her  defiance  at  her  own  gates,  while  fear- 
stricken  her  warriors  and  populace  huddled  and  cowered 
behind  her  protecting  walls. 

Napoleon  in  infancy  spearing  flies  with  a  pin,  build- 
ing snow  forts  at  school  and  planning  mimic  battles 
with  his  playfellows,  was  lieutenant  of  the  artillery  at 
sixteen,  general  and  victor  at  Toulon  at  twenty-four,  and 
at  last  Emperor.  However  unworthy,  it  was  by  his 
manhood  and  the  grace  of  his  own  right  arm,  his  own 
brain,  his  own  courage  and  dauntless  ambition. 

And  the  fair-faced  soldiers  of  the  empire,  they  who 
rode  down  upon  the  English  squares  at  Waterloo,  while 
the  earth  rocked  beneath  their  feet,  and  the  incense 
smoke  from  the  altars  of  the  battle-god  shut  out  the 
sun  and  sky  above  their  heads,  who,  with  their  young 
lives  streaming  from  their  gaping  wounds,  opened  their 
pallid  lips  to  cry,  "Vive  L'Empereur,"  as  they  died  for 
honor  and  France,  were  boys — schoolboys — the  boy 
conscripts  of  France,  torn  from  their  homes  and  their 
schools  to  stay  the  failing  fortunes  of  the  last  grand 
army  and  the  reeling  empire.  You  do  not  know  how 
soon  these  rollicking,  happy-go-lucky  fellows,  making 
summer  hideous  with  their  baseball  slang,  may  hold 
the  state  and  its  destinies  in  their  grasp ;  how  soon  they 
alone  may  shape  events  and  guide  the  current  of  public 
action. 

Anon. 


HEART  THROBS  297 


DAFFODILS 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cl  >ud 

That  floats  on  high  o'ei   vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  hcst  of  golden  daffodils, 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay; 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee; 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  a  jocund  company; 

I  gazed,  and  gazed,  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought. 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

Wordsworth. 


298  HEART  THROBS 

SOMEBODY'S   MOTHER 

The  woman  was  old,  and  ragged  and  gray 
And  bent  with  the  chill  of  the  winter  day; 
The  street  was  wet  with  the  recent  snow, 
And  the  woman's  feet  were  aged  and  slow. 

She  stood  at  the  crossing  and  waited  long, 
Alone,  uncared-for,  amid  the  throng 
Of  human  beings  that  passed  her  by, 
Not  heeding  the  glance  of  her  anxious  eye. 

Down  the  street  with  laugh  and  shout, 
Glad  in  the  freedom  of  "school  let  out," 
Came  the  boys  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 
Finding  the  snow  piled  white  and  deep. 

Past  the  old  woman,  so  old  and  gray, 
Hastened  the  children  on  their  way, 
Nor  offering  a  helping  hand  to  her, 
So  meek,  so  timid,  afraid  to  stir, 

Lest  the  carriage  wheels  or  the  horses'  feet 
Should  crowd  her  down  in  the  slippery  street; 
At  last  came  out  of  the  merry  troop 
The  gayest  laddie  of  all  the  group. 

He  paused  beside  her  and  whispered  low, 
"I'll  help  you  across,  if  you  wish  to  go." 
Her  aged  hand  on  his  strong  young  arm 
She  placed,  and  without  hurt  or  harm 


HEART  THROBS  299 

He  guided  the  trembling  feet  along, 
Proud  that  his  own  were  firm  and  strong, 
Then  back  again  to  his  friends  he  went, 
His  young  heart  happy  and  well  content. 

"She's  somebody's  mother,  boys,  you  know, 
For  all  she's  aged,  and  poor,  and  slow, 
And  I  hope  some  fellow  will  lend  a  hand, 
To  help  my  mother,  you  understand, 

"If  ever  she's  poor  and  old  and  gray, 

When  her  own  dear  boy  is  far  away!" 

And  somebody's  mother  bowed  her  head 

In  her  home  that  night,  and  the  prayer  she  said 

Was,  "God  be  kind  to  that  noble  boy 

Who  was  somebody's  son,  and  pride,  and  joy." 

Selected. 


A  GREAT  COMPLIMENT 

"I  met  a  man  on  the  street  yesterday,  and  he  took 
me  for  Admiral  Dewey." 

"That's  nothing,  a  man  took  me  for  something  higher 
last  week." 

"Did  he  take  you  for  Theodore  Roosevelt?" 

"No.     Up  higher." 

"For  the  President  himself?" 

"No,  he  tapped  me  very  kindly  on  my  shoulder  and 

said,  'Mein  Gott!  is  it  you?'  "  A 

J  Anon. 


300  HEART  THROBS 


AN   ADVENTURE   ON   WHEELS 

Three  smart  young  men  and  three  nice  girls 

All  lovers  true  as  steel — 

Decided  in  a  friendly  way, 

To  spend  the  day  awheel. 

They  started  in  the  early  morn, 

And  nothing  seemed  amiss ; 

And  when  they  reached  the  leafy  lanes, 

They  in  like 

rode  twos  this! 

They  wandered  by  the  verdant  dale, 

Beside  the  rippling  rill ; 

The  sun  shone  brightly  all  the  while ; 

They  heard  the  songbird's  trill. 

They  sped  through  many  a  woodland  glade, 

The  world  was  full  of  bliss — 

And  when  they  rested  in  the  shade, 

They  sat  in  twos  like  this! 

The  sun  went  down  and  evening  came, 

A  lot  too  soon,  they  said; 

Too  long  they  tarried  on  the  way, 

The  clouds  grew  black  o'erhead. 

Down  dashed  the  rain!     They  homeward  flew, 

Till  one  unlucky  miss 

Slipped  sideways — crash!     Great  Scott! 

The  lot 

Wereallmixeduplikethis!  Anon. 


HEART  THROBS  301 


THE  PAST  RISES  BEFORE  ME  LIKE  A  DREAM 

Extract  from  a  speech  delivered  at  the  soldiers'  reunion  at 
Indianapolis,  Indiana,  September  21,  1876. 

The  past  rises  before  me  like  a  dream.  Again  we 
are  in  the  great  struggle  for  national  life.  We  hear 
the  sounds  of  preparation — the  music  of  boisterous 
drums — the  silver  voices  of  heroic  bugles.  We  see 
thousands  of  assemblages,  and  hear  the  appeals  of 
orators;  we  see  the  pale  cheeks  of  women  and  the 
flushed  faces  of  men;  and  in  those  assemblages  we  see 
all  the  dead  whose  dust  we  have  covered  deep  with 
flowers. 

We  lose  sight  of  them  no  more.  We  are  with  them 
when  they  enlist  in  the  great  army  of  freedom.  We  see 
them  part  with  those  they  love.  Some  are  walking  for 
the  last  time  in  quiet,  woody  places  with  the  maidens 
they  adore.  We  hear  the  whisperings  and  the  sweet  vows 
of  eternal  love  as  they  lingeringly  part  forever.  Others 
are  bending  over  cradles,  kissing  babes  that  are  asleep. 
Some  are  receiving  the  blessings  of  old  men.  Some  are 
parting  with  mothers  who  hold  them  and  press  them 
to  their  hearts  again  and  again,  and  say  nothing.  Kisses 
and  tears,  tears  and  kisses — divine  mingling  of  agony 
and  love!  And  some  are  talking  with  wives  and  endeav- 
oring with  brave  words,  spoken  in  the  old  tones,  to 
drive  from  their  hearts  the  awful  fear.  We  see  them 
part.  We  see  the  wife  standing  in  the  door  with  the 
babe  in  her  arms — standing  in  the  sunlight  sobbing — 
at  the  turn  of  the  road  a  hand  waves — she  answers  by 


302  HEART  THROBS 

holding  high  in  her  loving  arms  the  child.  He  is  gone, 
and  forever. 

We  see  them  all  as  they  march  proudly  away  under 
the  flaunting  flags,  keeping  time  to  the  grand,  wild 
music  of  war — marching  down  the  streets  of  the  great 
cities — through  the  towns  and  across  the  prairies — 
down  to  the  fields  of  glory,  to  do  and  to  die  for  the 
eternal  right. 

We  go  with  them,  one  and  all.  We  are  by  their  side 
on  the  gory  fields — in  all  the  hospitals  of  pain — on  all 
the  weary  marches.  We  stand  guard  with  them  in  the 
wild  storm  and  under  the  quiet  stars.  We  are  with 
them  in  ravines  running  with  blood — in  the  furrows  of 
old  fields.  We  are  with  them  between  contending  hosts, 
unable  to  move,  wild  with  thirst,  the  life  ebbing  slowly 
away  among  the  withered  leaves.  We  see  them  pierced 
by  balls  and  torn  with  shells,  in  the  trenches,  by  forts, 
and  in  the  whirlwind  of  the  charge,  where  men  become 
iron,  with  nerves  of  steel. 

They  sleep  beneath  the  shadows  of  the  clouds,  care- 
less alike  of  sunshine  or  of  storm,  each  in  the  windowless 
palace  of  Rest.  Earth  may  run  red  with  other  wars — 
they  are  at  peace.  In  the  midst  of  battle,  in  the  roar 
of  conflict,  they  found  the  serenity  of  death.  I  have 
one  sentiment  for  soldiers  living  and  dead:    Cheers  for 

the  living;  tears  for  the  dead.  „  ,        _     T 

Robert  G.  Ingersoll. 


God  could  not  be  everywhere,  so  He  made  mothers. 

Selected. 


HEART  THROBS  303 


HIS  DAD 

My  dad,  he  makes  the  slickest  kite 

That  ever  was,  by  jing! 
Why,  it  will  sail  clean  out  of  sight, 

When  I  let  out  the  string. 
The  other  kids  they  come  to  me 

To  get  kite  pointers  now; 
An'  they're  as  glad  as  they  can  be 

That  my  dad  knows  just  how. 

My  dad  kin  take  two  wheels  an'  make 

A  coaster  that  is  fine ; 
The  other  kids  all  want  to  take 

Their  pattern  now  from  mine ; 
An'  when  we  all  slide  down  a  hill, 

Why,  I  kin  pass  by  each 
As  though  they  all  was  standin'  still! 

Say,  ain't  my  dad  a  peach? 

My  dad  kin  make  a  bow  that  sends 

A  arrow  high! 
You  oughter  see  it  when  it  bends 

An'  watch  that  arrow  fly! 
An'  now,  why,  every  kid  you  see 

Tries  hard  to  make  a  bow 
As  good  as  what  dad  made  fer  me, 

But  they  can't  do  it,  though! 

My  dad  kin  take  a  wilier  stick 
Before  the  bark  is  dry, 


304  HEART  THROBS 

An'  make  a  whistle  jest  as  slick 

As  any  that  you  buy. 
Gee,  but  the  kids  are  jealous  when 

I  blow  it  where  they're  at! 
They  all  commence  a-wishin'  then 

They  had  a  dad  like  that! 

They's  nothin'  much  my  dad  can't  do 

If  he  makes  up  his  mind ; 
An'  he  is  mighty  chummy,  too, 

One  of  the  bully  kind. 
Some  dads  would  yell,  "Oh,  go  and  play; 

I'm  busy  as  kin  be!" 
But  my  dad,  he  ain't  built  that  way, 

Not  on  your  life,  by  gee! 

E.  A.  Brininstool. 


THE   CHEERFUL  WAY 

Life!  we've  been  long  together 

Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather; 

'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear, 

Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear. 

Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time : 

Say  not  "Good-night,"  but  in  some  brighter  clime 

Bid  me  "Good-morning." 

Mrs.  Barbauld. 


HEART  THROBS  305 


MR.  PICKWICK'S   ROMANTIC  ADVENTURE 

"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  best  possible 
humor,  when  he  was  suddenly  stopped  by  a  most  un- 
expected 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  upstairs 
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  manoeuvre  he  accordingly  resorted. 
Keeping  the  curtains  carefully  closed  with  his  hand,  so 
that  nothing  more  of  him  could  be  seen  than  his  face  and 


306  HEART  THROBS 

nightcap,  and  putting  on  his  spectacles,  he  mustered 
up  courage,  and  looked  out. 

Mr.  Pickwick  almost  fainted  with  horror  and  dis- 
may. Standing  before  the  dressing-glass  was  a  middle- 
aged  lady  in  yellow  curl-papers,  busily  engaged  in  brush- 
ing 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  lighthouse,  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  with  anything  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  on 
in  this  way.  By  the  self-possession  of  that  lady,  it's 
clear  to  me  that  I  must  have  come  into  the  wrong  room. 


HEART  THROBS  307 


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  unnecessary  to  say,  was  one 
of  the  most  modest  and  delicate-minded  of  mortals. 
The  very  idea  of  exhibiting  his  nightcap  to  a  lady  over- 
powered him,  but  he  had  tied  these  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  ^cream. 


308  HEART  THROBS 

"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  toward  the  door. 

"Ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  thrusting  out  his  head, 
in  extremity  of  his  desperation, — "ma'am." 

Now  although  Mr.  Pickwick  was  not  actuated  by 
any  definite  object  in  putting  out  his  head,  it  was  in- 
stantaneously 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  un- 
doubtedly 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.  Pick- 
wick 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.  Pick- 
wick, 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  nighccap"  (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 


HEART  THROBS  309 

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  of  pleasure,"  re- 
plied 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  night- 
cap, 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 


310  HEART  THROBS 

trust,  ma'am,  that  my  unblemished  character,  and  the 
devoted  respect  I  entertain  for  your  sex,  will  plead  as 
".ome  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. 

"Sam,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  suddenly  appearing  before 
him,  " where's  my  bedroom?" 

Mr.  Weller  stared  at  his  master  with  the  most 
emphatic  surprise;  and  it  was  not  until  the  question 
had  been  repeated  three  several  times,  that  he  turned 
round,  and  led  the  way  to  the  long-sought  apartment. 

"Sam,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  as  he  got  into  bed,  "I 
have  made  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  mistakes 
tonight  that  ever  were  heard  of." 

"Wery  likely,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Weller  dryly. 

"But  of  this  I  am  determined,  Sam,"  said  Mr. 
Pickwick;  "that  if  I  were  to  stop  in  this  house  for  six 
months,  I  would  never  trust  myself  about  it,  alone, 
again." 

"That's  the  very  prudentest  resolution  as  you  could 
come  to,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Weller.  "You  rather  want 
somebody  to  look  arter  you,  sir,  wen  your  judgment 
goes  out  a  wisitin'!" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Sam?"  said  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. He  raised  himself  in  bed,  and  extended  his  hand, 
as  if  he  were  about  to  say  something  more;  but,  suddenly 
checking  himself,  turned  round  and  bade  his  valet 
"Good-night." 


HEART  THROBS  311 

"Good-night,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Weller.  He  paused 
when  he  got  outside  the  door — shook  his  head — walked 
on — stopped — snuffed  the  candle — shook  his  head 
again — and  finally  proceeded  slowly  to  his  chamber, 
apparently  buried  in  the  profoundest  meditation. 

Charles  Dickens. 


BECAUSE  YOU  LOVE  ME 

Because  you  love  me,  I  have  found 

New  joys  that  were  not  mine  before ; 
New  stars  have  lightened  up  my  sky 

With  glories  growing  more  and  more. 
Because  you  love  me  I  can  rise 

To  the  heights  of  fame  and  realms  of  power; 
Because  you  love  me  I  may  learn 

The  highest  use  of  every  hour. 

Because  you  love  me  I  can  choose 

To  look  through  your  dear  eyes  and  see 
Beyond  the  beauty  of  the  Now 

Far  onward  to  Eternity. 
Because  you  love  me  I  can  wait 

With  perfect  patience  well  possessed; 
Because  you  love  me  all  my  life 

Is  circled  with  unquestioned  rest ; 
Yes,  even  Life  and  even  Death 

Is  all  unquestioned  and  all  blest. 

Pall  Mall  Magazine. 


312  HEART   THROBS 

THE  BELLS 

/ 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 
Silver  bells! 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  swells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

// 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 
Golden  bells! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight! — 
From  the  molten  golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon! 
Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells' 


HEART   THROBS 313 

How  it  swells 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future ;  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells! 

/// 
Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 
Brazen  bells! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells; 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire. 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 

And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon, 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  Despair! 
How  they  clang,  and  crash,  and  roar! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 


314  HEART   THROBS 


On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air, 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells! 

IV 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 

Iron  bells! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  melody  compels! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone. 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 


HEART    THROBS  315 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 
They  are  Ghouls; 

And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 

And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls 

A  paean  from  the  bells! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 
With  the  paean  from  the  bells! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells; 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells. 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells — 
To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells; 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 

In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells — 
To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells — 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


316  HEART  THROBS 


OUT  TO  OLD  AUNT  MARY'S 

Wasn't  it  pleasant,  O  brother  mine, 

In  those  old  days  of  the  lost  sunshine 

Of  youth — when  the  Saturday's  chores  were  through, 
And  the  "Sunday's  wood"  in  the  kitchen,  too, 
And  we  went  visiting,  "me  and  you," 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's? 

It  all  comes  back  so  clear  today! 

Though  I  am  as  bald  as  you  are  gray — 
Out  by  the  barn-lot,  and  down  the  lane 
We  patter  along  in  the  dust  again, 
As  light  as  the  tips  of  the  drops  of  the  rain, 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's. 

We  cross  the  pasture  and  through  the  wood, 
Where  the  old  gray  snag  of  the  poplar  stood, 

Where  the  hammering  "red-heads"  hopped  awry, 
And  the  buzzard  "raised"  in  the  "clearing"  sky, 
And  lolled  and  circled,  as  we  went  by 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's. 

Ana  then  in.  the  dust  of  the  road  again, 
And  the  teams  we  met,  and  the  countrymen; 
And  the  long  highway,  with  sunshine  spread 
As  thick  as  butter  on  country  bread, 
Our  cares  behind,  and  our  hearts  ahead 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's. 

And  the  romps  we  took,  in  our  glad  unrest! 
Was  it  the  lawn  that  we  loved  the  best. 


HEART  THROBS  317 


With  its  swooping  swing  in  the  locust  trees, 
Or  was  it  the  grove,  with  its  leafy  breeze, 
Or  the  dim  hay-mow  with  its  fragrancies — 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's? 

Why,  I  see  her  now,  in  the  open  door 

Where  the  little  gourds  grew  up  the  sides  and  o'er 

The  clapboard  roof!    And  her  face — ah,  me! 

Wasn't  it  good  for  a  boy  to  see — 

And  wasn't  it  good  for  a  boy  to  be 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's? 

For,  O  my  brother  so  far  away, 

This  is  to  tell  you — she  waits  today 
To  welcome  us.     Aunt  Mary  fell 
Asleep  this  morning,  whispering,  "Tell 
The  boys  to  come."  .  .  .  And  all  is  well 
Out  to  old  Aunt  Mary's. 

Prom  "Afterwhiles."  copyright  1887.         James  WhitCOtnb  Riley, 
Used  by  permission  of  the  publishers 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


BUT  ONLY   ONE   MOTHER 

Most  of  all  the  other  beautiful  things  in  life  come 
by  twos  and  threes,  by  dozens  and  hundreds.  Plenty 
of  roses,  stars,  sunsets,  rainbows,  brothers  and  sisters, 
aunts  and  cousins,  but  only  one  mother  in  the  whole 

•world. 

Kate  Douglas  Wi-ggin. 


318  HEART  THROBS 


WHEN   MOTHER  SCRUBS 

When  mother  scrubs  us  Sunday  morn, 

There's  lively  times,  you  bet; 
There's  faces  wry,  with  howl  and  cry 

To  keep  out  of  the  wet. 
There's  argument  and  weak  excuse 

And  faces  full  forlorn 
When  mother  scrubs  and  digs  and  rubs 

Us  every  Sunday  morn. 

When  mother  scrubs  us,  there's  a  glow 

Of  white  comes  o'er  the  scene, 
A  shedding  of  the  old  and  new, 

Comes  where  the  old  has  been; 
A  shrinkage  in  more  ways  than  one, 

A  wish  we'd  ne'er  been  born, 
When  mother  scours  with  all  her  powers 

On  every  Sunday  morn. 

When  mother  scrubs  us  Sunday  morn, 

She  gets  all  out  of  breath; 
She  pants  and  sweats  and  sighs  and  frets 

And  scrubs  us  most  to  death. 
She  scrubs  our  backs  till  they  are  sore, 

Till  skin  and  flesh  are  gone, 
Then  wonders  why  we'd  rather  die 

Than  wake  on  Sunday  morn. 

No  wonder  Billy  Buzzey  says 
That  I'm  a  thin-skinned  jay. 


HEART  THROBS  s\9 


I've  got  to  be,  'cuz  ma,  you  see, 

Has  scrubbed  it  all  away. 
Oh,  won't  we  be  a  happy  lot, 

The  wildest  ever  born, 
When  we're  too  big  for  ma  to  dig 

And  scrub  on  Sunday  morn? 

New  York  Herald. 


'TIS  LIFE  BEYOND 

watched  a  sail  until  it  dropped  from  sight 
Over  the  rounding  sea.     A  gleam  of  white, 
A  last  far-flashed  farewell,  and,  like  a  thought 
Slipt  out  of  mind,  it  vanished  and  was  not. 

Yet  to  the  helmsman  standing  at  the  wheel 
Broad  seas  still  stretched  beneath  the  gliding  keeL 
Disaster?     Change?     He  felt  no  slightest  sign, 
Nor  dreamed  he  of  that  far  horizon  line. 

So  may  it  be,  perchance,  when  down  the  tide 
Our  dear  ones  vanish.  Peacefully  they  glide 
On  level  seas,  nor  mark  the  unknown  bound. 
We  call  it  death — to  them  'tis  life  beyond. 

Author  unknown. 


Flowers  are  the  sweetest  things  God  ever  made  and 
forgot  to  put  a  soul  in. 

H.  W.  Beecher. 


320  HEART  THROBS 


WHERE  THE   SPANKWEED   GROWS 

There's  a  corner  in  our  garden,  but  our  nurse  won't  tell 

me  where, 
That  little  boys  must  never  see,  but  always  must  beware. 
And  in  that  corner,  all  the  year,  in  rows — and  rows — and 

rows, 
A  dreadful  little  flower  called  the 
Spankweed 

Grows! 

My  nursie  says  that  if  a  boy  who  doesn't  wash  his  face, 
Or  pulls  his  sister's  hair  should  ever  find  that  place, 
The  spankweed  just  would  jump  at  him  and  dust  his 

little  clothes, 
Oh,  it's  never  safe  for  fellers  where  the 
Spankweed 

Grows! 

Some  day  I'll  get  the  sickle  from  our  hired  man,  and  then 
I'll  go  and  find  the  spankweed  place — it's  somewhere  in 

the  glen. 
And  when  I  get  a  swingin'  it  an  puttin'  in  my  blows, 
I  bet  there'll  be  excitement  where  the 
Spankweed 

Grows! 

.ife  Publishing  Company.  Paul   West. 


Words  break  no  bones ; 
Hearts  though  sometimes. 

Robert  Browning. 


HEART  THROBS  321 


SENT  TO  HEAVEN 

I  had  a  message  to  send  her, 

To  her  whom  my  soul  loves  best; 
But  I  had  my  task  to  finish, 

And  she  had  gone  to  rest ; 
To  rest  in  the  far  bright  heaven — 

Oh!  so  far  away  from  here! 
It  was  vain  to  speak  to  my  darling, 

For  I  knew  she  could  not  hear. 

I  had  a  message  to  send  her, 

So  tender  and  true  and  sweet, 
I  longed  for  an  angel  to  bear  it, 

And  lay  it  down  at  her  feet. 
I  placed  it,  one  summer's  evening, 

On  a  little  white  cloud's  breast; 
But  it  faded  in  golden  splendor, 

And  died  in  the  crimson  west. 

I  gave  it  the  lark  next  morning, 

And  I  watched  it  soar  and  soar; 
But  its  pinions  grew  faint  and  weary, 

And  it  fluttered  to  earth  once  more. 
I  cried,  in  my  passionate  longing, 

Has  the  earth  no  angel  friend 
Who  will  carry  my  love  the  message 

My  heart  desires  to  send? 

Then  I  heard  a  strain  of  music, 
So  mighty,  so  pure,  so  dear, 


322  HEART  THROBS 

That  my  very  sorrow  was  silent, 
And  my  heart  stood  still  to  hear. 

It  rose  in  harmonious  rushing 
Of  mingled  voices  and  strings, 

And  I  tenderly  laid  my  message 
On  Music's  outspread  wings. 

And  I  heard  it  float  farther  and  farther, 

In  sound  more  perfect  than  speech, 
Farther  than  sight  can  follow, 

Farther  than  soul  can  reach. 
And  I  know  that  at  last  my  message, 

Has  passed  through  the  golden  gate; 
So  my  heart  is  no  longer  restless, 

And  I  am  content  to  wait. 

Adelaide  Ann  Proctor. 


CHICKEN  ON  THE  BRAIN 

Near  Erie  there  lives  a  colored  person  by  the  name  of 
James  Stewart,  whom  the  community  by  common  con* 
sent  have  dubbed  Commodore  Stewart.  He  is  a  tal- 
ented but  eccentric  individual,  and  has  a  weakness  for 
chickens.  On  one  occasion,  being  found  near  a  poultry 
yard  under  suspicious  circumstances,  he  was  interro- 
gated rather  sharply  by  the  owner  of  the  premises  as 
follows : 

"Well,  Jim,  what  are  you  doing  here?" 
"Oh,  nuffin',  nuffin'!  jes'  walkin'  roun'." 
"What  do  you  want  with  my  chickens?" 


HEART  THROBS  323 


"Nuffin'  at  all.  I  was  only  lookin'  at  'em,  day  looks 
so  nice." 

This  answer  was  both  conciliatory  and  conclusive, 
and  would  have  been  satisfactory  had  it  not  been  for 
Jim's  hat.  This  was  a  rather  worn  soft  felt,  a  good  deal 
too  large  for  its  wearer's  head;  and  it  seemed  to  have  a 
motion  entirely  unusual  in  hats,  and  manifestly  due  to 
some  remarkable  cause.  It  seemed  to  contract  and 
expand  and  move  of  itself,  and  clearly  without  Jim's 
volition.     So  the  next  inquiry  was, — 

"What  is  the  matter  with  your  hat?" 

"My  hat?     Dat's  an  ole  hat.     Fse  fond  of  dat  hat." 

"Well,  take  it  off  and  let's  look  at  it." 

"Take  off  dis  hat?  No,  sah.  I'd  ketch  cold  in  my 
head,  sartin.  Always  keep  my  hat  on  when  I'm  out 
o'  doors." 

And  with  that  Jim  was  about  beating  a  hasty  retreat 
when,  at  his  first  step,  a  low  "kluk,  kluk,  kluk,"  was 
heard  coming  only  too  clearly  from  the  region  of  his 
headgear.  This  was  fatal,  and  Jim  was  stopped  and 
forced  to  remove  his  hat,  when  a  plump,  half-grown 
chicken  jumped  out  and  ran  hastily  away.  The  air 
with  which  the  culprit  gazed  after  it  was  a  study  for  a 
painter;  it  expressed  to  a  perfection  wonder  and  per- 
plexity blended,  but  not  a  trace  of  guilt.  Slowly  he 
spoke,  as  though  explaining  the  matter  to  himself,  and 
accounting  for  so  remarkable  an  incident. 

"Well,  if  dat  ain't  de  funniest  t'ing  I  ebber  did  see. 
Why,  dat  dar  chicken  must  have  clum  up  de  leg  of  my 
pantaloons." 


324  HEART  THROBS 


THE   DESERTED   VILLAGE 

Sweet  Auburn!  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring  swain; 

Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visits  paid, 

And  parting  summer's  lingering  bloom  delayed; 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please! 

How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene; 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm — 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never- failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill, 

The  hawthorn-bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made! 

How  often  have  I  blessed  the  coming  day , 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree: 

While  many  a  pastime,  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contended  as  the  old  surveyed; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round; 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired ; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down; 

The  swain,  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place; 


HEART  THROBS  325 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 
The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove. 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village!  sports  like  these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please; 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed, 
These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


YOU  YOURSELF 

Your  greatest  problem  is  yourself.  You  are  also 
your  greatest  treasure.  If  you  can  get  yourself  deter- 
mined upon — find  out  what  you  are  and  what  you  are 
for — and  if  you  can  discover  and  develop  the  elements  of 
value  in  your  nature,  your  life  will  take  on  the  beauty 
of  orderliness  and  your  need  of  the  savings  bank  will  be 
less  and  less,  for  you  will  be  your  own  riches.  I  say  if 
you  can,  for  this  procedure  takes  wisdom,  and  wisdom 
is  a  fruit  which  ripens  slowly.  Perhaps  you  are  not  yet 
wise;  perhaps  you  are  still  incapable  of  self-analysis; 
perhaps  you  are  confused  amid  the  surfaces  and  ap- 
pearances of  life;  perhaps  your  code  of  conduct  is  based 
upon  the  customs  of  the  times  and  the  sayings  of  the 
alleged  sages;  perhaps  you  are  disheartened  and  dis- 
couraged— even  in  frenzy  of  retreat  before  the  things 
in  your  life  which  seem  to  oppose  you  and  beat  you  back. 
But  even  so,  this  is  but  a  condition  or  mood  which  is 
not  final.     The  condition  will  right  itself,  the  mood  will 

pass. 

By  permission.  Richard  Wightman. 


326  HEART  THROBS 


WHEN  ALL  IS  DONE 

To  anyone  who  viewed  the  face  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar, 
after  the  long,  hard  race  was  done,  there  could  but  come  the 
memory  of  this  poem  and  one  could  not  but  be  grateful  to  him  for 
having  said  these  so  plainly  and  in  such  a  simple  way. 

There  was  no  trace  of  pain  upon  his  features,  naught  that 
could  suggest  anything  but  peace  and  deep  content.  Those  who 
loved  him  could  not  keep  back  the  tears  because  of  their  loss,  but 
no  one  who  saw  him  at  the  last  feared  that  he  was  otherwise  than 
gloriously  at  rest!  He  had  indeed  "greeted  the  dawn,"  though  it 
was  near  the  hour  of  the  setting  of  an  earthly  winter's  sun  that  he 
broke  the  last  of  his  prison  bars,  and  freedom  found  at  last. 

When  all  is  done,  and  my  last  word  is  said, 
And  ye  who  loved  me  murmur,  "He  is  dead," 
Let  no  one  weep,  for  fear  that  I  should  know, 
And  sorrow  too  that  ye  should  sorrow  so. 

When  all  is  done  and  in  the  oozing  clay, 
Ye  lay  this  cast-off  hull  of  mine  away, 
Pray  not  for  me,  for,  after  long  despair, 
The  quiet  of  the  grave  will  be  a  prayer. 

For  I  have  suffered  loss  and  grievous  pain, 
The  hurts  of  hatred  and  the  world's  disdain, 
And  wounds  so  deep  that  love,  well-tried  and  pure, 
Had  not  the  power  to  ease  them  or  to  cure. 

When  all  is  done,  say  not  my  day  is  o'er, 
And  that  through  night  I  seek  a  dimmer  shore; 
Say  rather  that  my  morn  has  just  begun, — 
I  greet  the  dawn  and  not  a  setting  sun, 
When  all  is  done. 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar. 


HEART  THROBS  327 


WE   PARTED   IN   SILENCE 

We  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  by  night, 

On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river; 
Where  the  fragrant  limes  their  boughs  unite 

We  met — and  we  parted  forever! 
The  night-bird  sung,  and  the  stars  above 

Told  many  a  touching  story 
Of  friends  long  passed  to  the  kingdom  of  love, 

Where  the  soul  wears  its  mantle  of  glory. 

We  parted  in  silence — our  cheeks  were  wet 

With  the  tears  that  were  past  controlling; 
We  vowed  we  would  never,  no,  never  forget, 

And  those  vows,  at  the  time,  were  consoling; 
But  those  lips  that  echoed  the  sounds  of  mine 

Are  as  cold  as  that  lonely  river ; 
And  that  eye,  that  beautiful  spirit's  shrine, 

Has  shrouded  its  fires  forever. 

And  now  on  the  midnight  sky  I  look, 

And  my  heart  grows  full  of  weeping; 
Each  star  is  to  me  a  sealed  book, 

Some  tale  of  that  loved  one  keeping. 
We  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  in  tears, 

On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river ; 
But  the  odor  and  bloom  of  those  bygone  years, 

Shall  hang  o'er  its  waters  forever. 

Crawford. 


328  HEART  THROBS 


COUSIN  JOHN 

A  gray  Thanksgiving  morning, 

In  the  farmhouse  on  the  hill, 
Looked  soberly  down  on  the  deacon, 

More  gray  and  more  sombre  still; 

As  he  sat  in  his  armchair  musing 

By  the  fire  that  wouldn't  go, 
While  his  good  wife,  brisk  and  cheerful, 

Was  bustling  to  and  fro; 

And  once  she  paused  in  passing 

To  touch  him  on  the  head, 
"We  mustn't  forget  what  day  it  is; 

Father,  give  thanks,"  she  said. 

"Give  thanks,"  the  deacon  answered, 

In  a  slow  uncertain  way — 
"Give  thanks  that  the  farm  is  mortgaged, 

And  our  son  has  gone  astray? 

"No  matter  whose  fault  begun  it, 
The  thing  was  done  somehow, 

And  everything's  gone  ag'in'  us 
From  that  time  up  to  now. 

"I've  heard  the  neighbors  talking, 
When  I'd  just  catch  'Deacon  Brown*; 

And  'driving  away  that  boy  of  his,' 
And  'the  farm  a-running  down.' 


HEART  THROBS  320 


"It's  true  enough,  too,  Abby, 

Leastways  the  latter  part; 
It's  queer  how  things  will  slide  sometimes 

With  mighty  little  start. 

"I  know  He's  just  and  righteous, 

But  one  thing  I  must  say; 
The  things  I've  mostly  prayed  for 

Have  gone  the  other  way." 

The  deacon  paused  a  moment 
For  his  handkerchief,  just  here, 

While  the  patient  wife  sighed  softly 
And  brushed  away  a  tear; 

Then  looked  up  as  her  husband 

Tossed  something  square  and  white. 

"Here,  wife,  just  read  this  letter, 
It  came  to  me  last  night." 

A  puzzling  letter  surely, 

There  was  scarcely  more  than  a  line: 
"Be  sure  and  kill  the  turkey; 

A  friend  is  coming  to  dine." 

"Well,  that  strikes  me,"  said  the  deacon, 
"As  cool  for  this  time  o'  year." 

But  his  wife  said,  "Oh,  it  is  Cousin  John! 
You  know  he  was  always  queer. 

"This  is  just  his  way  of  saying 
He  means  to  give  us  a  call; 


330  HEART  THROBS 

So,  father,  I  guess  we'll  have  to  keep 
Thanksgiving,  after  all." 


In  proper  time  the  turkey, 

With  goodies  on  each  side, 
Lay  smoking  on  the  table, 

Quite  calm  and  satisfied. 

And  the  deacon  mused  in  silence, 
With  his  shabby  best  coat  on, 

While  his  wife  was  hurrying  to  the  door 
To  welcome  Cousin  John. 

But  what,  in  the  name  of  wonder, 
Are  the  sounds  the  deacon  hears? 

He  rises,  and  follows  after, 
For  he  cannot  trust  his  ears. 

Then  stops  in  blank  amazement 

At  the  sight  he  looks  upon, 
"Here  is  Abigail  clean  gone  crazy, 

A  huggin*  and  kissin'  John." 


No — it  is  not  John  who  is  saying, 

In  a  voice  of  long  ago, 
"So  you've  killed  the  turkey,  father? 

And  "I  am  the  friend,  you  know." 


n 


In  a  dream  the  deacon  listens 
While  the  voice  goes  on  until 


HEART  THROBS  331 


It  says,  "I've  paid  the  mortgage, 
And  the  homestead  is  ours  still. 


That  evening  when  the  deacon 

Knelt  down  beside  his  chair 
The  spirit  of  Thanksgiving 

Would  overflow  his  prayer. 

And  at  its  close  he  added, 

"And,  O  Lord,  from  this  day, 
No  matter  what  I  ask  for 

Just  do  the  other  way." 

C.  T.  B. 


A  GEM   IN   TRIBUTE 

Those  who  deem  it  a  sin  to  print  obituary  verse  will  forgive  us 
for  reproducing  from  the  Salem  Pioneer-Register  this  gem  in  memory 
of  a  little  child. 

Only  a  baby's  grave — 
A  foot  or  two  at  the  most 

Of  tear-dewed  sod ; 

But  a  loving  God 
Knows  what  the  little  grave  cost. 

Only  a  baby's  life, — 
Brief  as  a  perfumed  kiss. 

So  fleet  it  goes; 

But  our  Father  knows 
We  are  nearer  to  Him  for  this. 


332  HEART  THROBS 


WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree, 

Touch  not  a  single  bough! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I'll  protect  it  now: 
'Twas  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea — 

And  would'st  thou  hack  it  down? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke, 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties. 
Oh,  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Now  towering  to  the  skies! 

When  but  an  idle  boy, 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy, 

Here,  too,  my  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  me  here; 

My  father  pressed  my  hand- 
Forgive  the  foolish  tear; 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand. 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling, 
Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend; 


HEART  THROBS  333 


Here  shall  the  wild  birds  sing, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree!  the  storm  still  brave, 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot! 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 

George  P.  Morris 


TWINKLE,  TWINKLE,  LITTLE  STAR 

Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star! 
How  I  wonder  what  you  are, 
Up  above  the  world  so  high, 
Like  a  diamond  in  the  sky. 

When  the  glorious  sun  is  set, 
When  the  grass  with  dew  is  wet, 
Then  you  show  your  little  light, 
Twinkle,  twinkle  all  the  night. 

In  the  dark  blue  sky  you  keep, 
And  often  through  my  curtains  peep. 
For  you  never  shut  your  eye, 
Till  the  sun  is  in  the  sky. 

As  your  bright  and  twinkling  spark 
Guides  the  traveller  in  the  dark, 
Though  I  know  not  what  you  are, 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  little,  little  star. 

Selected. 


334  HEART  THROBS 


THE  TELEPHONE— A   MEMORY 

The  last  heavy  moving  van  had  driven  away.  The 
owner  of  the  house,  a  stern-faced  man,  had  watched  it 
out  of  sight,  then  turned  back  for  one  last  glance  about 
the  familiar  rooms  to  see  that  nothing  had  been  for- 
gotten. His  tread  sounded  hollow  in  the  deserted  rooms; 
an  air  of  loneliness  filled  the  bare  house,  and  something 
of  its  chill  struck  to  his  empty  heart  and  made  him 
shudder.  With  a  sigh  that  was  almost  a  groan,  he 
returned  to  the  hallway,  when  suddenly,  near  the 
telephone,  he  caught  sight  of  a  little  sheet  of  paper, 
pinned  to  the  wall,  and  covered  with  different  names, 
some  written  carefully  in  violet  ink — they  were  for  con- 
stant reference — others  were  scribbled  hastily  in  pencil, 
toward  the  last. 

There  it  was  before  him,  alive  and  tangible  almost — 
the  beautiful  page  of  life  that  had  been  his  for  a  few 
short  years.  All  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
forget  was  there — a  fragment  of  human  life  on  half  a 
sheet  of  paper!  With  tender  care,  the  man  removed  the 
thumb-pin  and  took  the  paper  from  the  wall.  It  was 
a  bright  yellow  color  and  as  he  stepped  into  the  empty 
parlor  the  light  seemed  strangely  reflected  v  hen  he 
carried  it  to  the  window  to  read  it. 

At  the  top,  her  name  was  written:  Louise,  the  most 
beautiful  name  he  knew,  for  it  was  that  of  his  beloved, 
and  the  number  beside  it,  105-08  Orange,  was  a  veritable 
song  of  triumph.  That  was  the  beginning;  she  was  in 
the  country  then,  while  he  was  working  jn  the  city 


HEART  THROBS  335 

and  planning  this  home  that  was  to  be  their  heaven; 
how  often  had  he  called  that  number  to  tell  her  of  the 
progress  that  he  was  making,  and  to  invite  her  to  run 
in  and  see  how  he  was  getting  on ;  what  delightful  little 
surprises  he  had  arranged  each  time  and  how  over- 
joyed she  had  been  with  his  thoughtfulness!  Several 
erasures  followed.  Then  came  the  number  of  the 
florists,  and  the  livery  stable.  Then  there  were  several 
furniture  stores;  that  was  when  he  was  gradually  build- 
ing their  home.  Then  there  followed  T.  Cook  &  Son, 
Florida;  that  stood  for  their  honeymoon  journey.  Next 
there  came  Met.  O.  H.;  newly  married,  they  went  to 
the  opera  every  Friday  evening.  This  was  their  happiest 
time,  for  they  recognized  their  own  love  in  the  com- 
munion of  beauty  and  harmony  in  the  country  of  dreams, 
in  the  land  that  lay  back  of  the  curtain. 

Directly  below  was  the  number  of  his  bank.  That 
was  his  work,  the  vital  power  which  gave  him  bread  and 
the  means  to  create  a  fireside  and  a  home,  the  very  base 
of  existence  and  its  foundation.  The  number  had  been 
crossed  out,  for  the  bank  had  failed.  Finally  he  had 
found  another  position  in  a  bank,  but  only  after  a  long 
interval,  after  months  of  care  and  anxiety;  several 
names  and  numbers  were  written  in  on  the  edge  as  of 
temporary  importance. 

Then  a  man's  name,  struck  through  with  a  pencil, 
recalled  one  of  their  friends  of  high  social  standing, 
sudderdy  ruined  and  obliged  to  leave  the  city,  so  fragile 
vid  unstable  is  the  wealth  of  this  world. 

Immediately  below,  the  lines  of  hasty  pencil  scribbling 


336  HEART  THROBS 


commenced.  The  violet  ink  ceased  abruptly.  First  came 
the  name  of  the  doctor;  and  then  the  simple  word, 
mother.  That  was  the  mother-in-law's  number,  the 
gentle  lady  who,  keeping  discreetly  on  one  side  not  to 
trouble  the  happiness  of  the  new  household,  came  so 
quickly,  so  quickly  when  appealed  to  in  the  time  of 
sickness,  so  glad  to  be  with  thern  and  to  help  them. 

Rougher  and  more  hasty  grew  the  writing.  The 
number  of  an  employment  agency;  that  was  to  engage 
the  nurse.  The  druggists  .  .  .  things  were  more  serious 
then  .  .  .  the  dairy  .  .  .  only  pasteurized  milk  was 
to  be  used.  Then  the  names  of  the  grocer,  the  butcher 
and  the  baker.  The  household  seemed  run  entirely  by 
the  telephone.  That  was  because  the  mistress  of  the 
house  was  no  longer  in  her  accustomed  place.  She  was 
in  bed  sick. 

What  followed,  the  man  could  but  dimly  see.  A 
mist  had  gathered  before  his  eyes.  He  grew  paler  still 
and  the  hand  that  held  the  papei  tightened  until  the 
knuckles  showed  white. 

There  was  a  blank  space  and  below,  written  in  tremb- 
ling letters,  the  name  of  the  funeral  director,  and  a 
number  now  illegible  as  though  blotted  out  by  the  stain 
of  a  tear,  and  beside  it;  "two  coffins,  one  small,  one 
large." 

^hen — nothing. 

Only  dust — the  end  of  all  things  in  this  world!  The 
man  looked  pitifully  at  the  paper  for  a  moment,  then 
kissing  it,  put  it  in  his  pocket.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
had  relived  years  of  his  life. 


HEART  THROBS  337 

He  went  out,  his  head  held  high,  carrying  with  him 

a  heart  full  of  sorrow  and  tender  memories.     In  his 

agony  he  thought  to  himself:    "I  have  had  all  that  is 

best  on  earth,  a  wife,  a  fireside,  and  my  work!    What 

is  there  left?"  ~    „     ,    , 

D.  R.  Anderson. 


WHAT  IS  GOOD? 

"What  is  the  real  good?" 

I  asked  in  musing  mood, 
"Order,"  said  the  law  court; 

"Knowledge,"  said  the  school* 
"Truth,"  said  the  wise  man; 

"Pleasure,"  said  the  fool; 
"Love,"  said  the  maiden; 

"Beauty,"  said  the  page; 
"Freedom,"  said  the  dreamer; 

"Home,"  said  the  sage; 
"Fame,"  said  the  soldier; 

"Equity,"  the  seer. 
Spake  my  heart  full  sadly 

"The  answer  is  not  here." 
Then  within  my  bosom 

Softly  this  I  heard: 
"Each  heart  holds  the  secret, 

Kindness  is  the  word." 

By  permission  John  Boyle  O'Reilly. 


338  HEART    THROBS 


MYSELF   AND    ME 

I'm  the  best  pal  that  I  ever  had, 

I  like  to  be  with  me ; 
I  like  to  sit  and  tell  myself 

Things  confidentially. 

I  often  sit  and  ask  me 
If  I  shouldn't  or  I  should, 

And  I  find  that  my  advice  to  me 
Is  always  pretty  good. 

I  never  got  acquainted  with 

Myself  till  here  of  late ; 
And  I  find  myself  a  bully  chum, 

I  treat  me  simply  great. 

I  talk  with  me  and  walk  with  me, 
And  show  me  right  and  wrong ; 

I  never  knew  how  well  myself 
And  I  could  get  along. 

I  never  try  to  cheat  me; 

I'm  as  trustful  as  can  be 
No  matter  what  may  come  or  go, 

I'm  on  the  square  with  me. 

It's  great  to  know  yourself  and  have 
A  pal  that's  all  your  own; 

To  be  such  company  for  yourself, 
You're  never  left  alone. 


HEART  THROBS  339 


You'll  try  to  dodge  the  masses, 
And  you'll  find  the  crowds  a  joke, 

If  you  only  treat  yourself  as  well 
As  you  treat  other  folk. 

I've  made  a  study  of  myself, 

Compared  with  me  the  lot, 
And  I've  finally  concluded 

I'm  the  best  friend  I've  got. 

Just  get  together  with  yourself 
And  trust  yourself  with  you, 

And  you'll  be  surprised  how  well  yourself 
Will  like  you  if  you  do. 


George  Cohan, 


LIFE 

Man's  life  means 

Tender  'teens, 

Teachable  Twenties, 

Tireless  Thirties, 

Fiery  Forties, 

Forcible  Fifties, 

Serious  Sixties, 

Sacred  Seventies, 

Aching  Eighties, 

Shortening  Breath, 

Death, 

The  Sod, 

God.  Joseph  Cook. 


340  HEART  THROBS 


IT  SINGETH  LOW  IN  EVERY  HEART 

It  singeth  low  in  every  heart, 

We  hear  it  each  and  all — 
A  song  of  those  who  answer  not, 

However  we  may  call ; 
They  throng  the  silence  of  the  breast, 

We  see  them  as  of  yore — 
The  kind,  the  brave,  the  true,  the  sweet 

Who  walk  with  us  no  more. 

'Tis  hard  to  take  the  burden  up 

When  these  have  laid  it  down; 
They  brightened  all  the  joy  of  life, 

They  softened  every  frown ; 
But,  oh,  'tis  good  to  think  of  them 

When  we  are  troubled  sore! 
Thanks  be  to  God  that  such  have  been, 

Although  they  are  no  more. 

More  homelike  seems  the  vast  unknown 

Since  they  have  entered  there; 
To  follow  them  were  not  so  hard, 

Wherever  they  may  fare ; 
They  cannot  be  where  God  is  not, 

On  any  sea  or  shore ; 
Whate'er  betides,  Thy  love  abides, 

Our  God,  forevermore. 

John  W.  Chadwick. 


HEART  THROBS  341 


A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION 

Do  you  know  you  have  asked  for  the  costliest  thing 

Ever  made  by  the  Hand  above — 
A  woman's  heart  and  a  woman's  life, 

And  a  woman's  wonderful  love? 
Do  you  know  you  have  asked  for  this  priceless  thing 

As  a  child  might  ask  for  a  toy? 
Demanding  what  others  have  died  to  win, 

With  the  reckless  dash  of  a  boy. 

You  have  written  my  lesson  of  duty  out, 

Manlike,  you  have  questioned  me ; 
Now  stand  at  the  bar  of  my  woman's  soul 

Until  I  shall  question  thee. 
You  require  your  mutton  shall  always  be  hot, 

Your  socks  and  your  shirt  shall  be  whole ; 
I  require  your  heart  shall  be  true  as  God's  stars, 

As  pure  as  heaven  your  soul. 

You  require  a  cook  for  your  mutton  and  beef; 

I  require  a  far  better  thing ; 
A  seamstress  you're  wanting  for  stockings  and  shirts- 

I  look  for  a  man  and  a  king. 
A  king  for  a  beautiful  realm  called  Home, 

And  a  man  that  the  maker,  God, 
Shall  look  upon  as  He  did  the  first, 

And  say  "It  is  very  good." 

I  am  fair  and  young,  but  the  roses  will  fade 
From  my  soft  young  cheek  one  day ; 


342  HEART  THROBS 

Will  you  love  me,  then,  'mid  the  falling  leaves. 
As  you  did  'mid  the  bloom  of  May? 

Is  your  heart  an  ocean  so  wide  and  deep 
I  may  launch  my  all  on  its  tide? 

A  loving  woman  finds  heaven  or  hell 
On  the  day  she  is  made  a  bride. 

I  require  all  things  that  are  grand  and  true, 

All  things  that  a  man  should  be ; 
If  you  would  give  this  all,  I  would  stake  my  life 

To  be  all  you  demand  of  me. 
If  you  cannot  do  this,  a  laundress  and  cook 

You  hire  with  little  pay ; 
But  a  woman's  heart  and  a  woman's  life 

Are  not  to  be  won  that  way. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


THE  FINISH   OF  THE   RACE 

It  is  the  finish  that  is  the  win  or  lose  of  the  race. 
Despair  not  then,  nor  let  oft-repeated  falls  discourage 
thee.  Rise  up  quickly  from  every  defeat,  and  go  bravely 
forward,  keeping  thine  eyes  and  thy  heart  steadfastly 
fixed  upon  the  goal:  "He  that  overcometh  shall  inherit 
all  things."  Never  give  up  the  battle,  but  renew  it 
day  by  day,  and  thou  shalt  be  numbered  with  the 
"overcomers"  at  the  "finish"  of  the  race. 

Author  unknown. 


HEART  THROBS  345 


THE  IVY  GREEN 

Oh!  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green, 

That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old! 
Of  right  choice  food  are  his  meals,  I  ween, 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 
The  walls  must  be  crumbled,  the  stones  decayed, 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim ; 
And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have  made 

Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Fast  he  stealeth  on,  though  he  wears  no  wings, 

And  a  staunch  old  heart  has  he! 
How  closely  he  twineth,  how  tight  he  clings 

To  his  friend,  the  huge  oak  tree! 
And  slyly  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 

And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves, 
And  he  joyously  twines  and  hugs  around 

The  rich  mould  of  dead  men's  graves. 
Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works  decayed, 

And  nations  scattered  been ; 
But  the  stout  old  Ivy  shall  never  fade 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 
The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days 

Shall  fatten  upon  the  past : 


344  HEART  THROBS 


For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise 
Is  the  Ivy's  food  at  last. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Charles  Dickens. 

NOT   KNOWING 

I  know  not  what  shall  befall  me, 
God  hangs  a  mist  o'er  my  eyes, 

And  at  each  step  of  my  onward  path 
He  makes  new  scenes  to  rise, 

And  every  joy  he  sends  me  comes 
As  a  sweet  and  glad  surprise. 

I  see  not  a  step  before  me, 

As  I  tread  on  another  year; 
But  the  past  is  still  in  God's  keeping, 

The  future  His  mercy  shall  clear, 
And  what  looks  dark  in  the  distance 

May  brighten  as  I  draw  near. 

For  perhaps  the  dreaded  future 

Has  less  bitter  than  I  think ; 
The  Lord  may  sweeten  the  waters 

Before  I  stoop  to  drink; 
Or,  if  Marah  must  be  Marah, 

He  will  stand  beside  its  brink. 

It  may  be  He  keeps  waiting 
Till  the  coming  of  my  feet 
Some  gift  of  such  rare  blessedness, 


JEART  THROBS  345 


Some  joy  so  strangely  sweet, 
That  my  lips  shall  only  tremble 

With  the  thanks  they  cannot  speak. 

0  restful,  blissful  ignorance! 
Tis  blessed  not  to  know; 

It  holds  me  in  those  mighty  arms 

Which  will  not  let  me  go, 
And  hushes  my  soul  to  rest 

On  the  bosom  which  loves  me  so! 

So  I  go  on  not  knowing ; 
I  would  not  if  I  might ; 

1  would  rather  walk  in  the  dark  with  God 
Than  go  alone  in  the  light ; 

I  would  rather  walk  with  Him  by  faith 
Than  walk  alone  by  sight. 

My  heart  shrinks  back  from  trials 

Which  the  future  may  disclose, 
Yet  I  never  had  a  sorrow, 

But  what  the  dear  Lord  chose, 
So  I  send  the  coming  tears  back 

With  the  whispered  word,  "He  knows!" 

Mary  G.  Brainard. 


THE  COPY  OF  A  GREAT  MAN'S  THOUGHTS 

Oh,  conceive  the  happiness  to  know  some  one  person 
dearer  to  you  than  your  own  self — some  one  breast  into 
which  you  can  pour  every  thought,  every  grief,  every  joyi 


346  HEART  THROBS 

One  person  who,  if  all  the  rest  of  the  world  were 
to  caluminate  or  forsake  you,  would  never  wrong  you 
by  a  harsh  thought  or  an  unjust  word,  who  would  cling 
to  you  the  closer  in  sickness,  in  poverty,  in  care;  who 
would  sacrifice  all  things  to  you,  and  for  whom  you 
would  sacrifice  all;  from  whom,  except  by  death,  night 
or  day,  you  may  never  be  divided;  whose  smile  is  ever 
at  your  hearth;  who  has  no  tears  while  you  are  well 
and  happy  and  your  love  the  same. 

Such  is  marriage  if  they  who  marry  have  hearts  and 
souls  to  feel  that  there  is  no  bond  on  earth  so  tender 
and  so  sublime.  Anon. 


THE  ZIGZAG  BOY  AND  GIRL 

I  know  a  little  zigzag  boy, 

Who  goes  this  way  and  that; 
He  never  knows  just  where  he  puts 

His  coat,  or  shoes,  or  hat. 

I  know  a  little  zigzag  girl, 

Who  flutters  here  and  there; 
She  never  knows  just  where  to  find 

Her  brush  to  fix  her  hair. 

If  you  are  not  a  zigzag  child, 

You'll  have  no  cause  to  say 
That  you  forgot,  for  you  will  know 

Where  things  are  put  away. 

Selected. 


HEART  THROBS  347 


JERUSALEM  THE  GOLDEN 

Jerusalem  the  golden, 

I  languish  for  one  gleam 
Of  all  thy  glory  folden 

In  distance  and  in  dream. 
My  thoughts  like  palms  in  exile 

Climb  up  to  look  and  pray 
For  a  glimpse  of  that  dear  country 

That  lies  so  far  away. 

Jerusalem,  the  golden, 

When  suns  set  in  the  west, 
It  seems  the  gate  of  glory, 

Thou  city  of  the  blest! 
And  midnight's  starry  torches, 

Through  intermediate  gloom, 
Are  waving  with  their  welcome 

To  thy  eternal  home. 

Jerusalem,  the  golden, 

When  loftily  they  sing 
O'er  pain  and  sorrow  olden 

Forever  triumphing ; 
Lowly  may  be  the  portal 

And  dark  may  be  the  door, 
The  mansion  is  immortal — 

God's  palace  for  his  poor. 

Jerusalem,  the  golden, 

There  all  our  birds  that  flew, 


348  HEART  THROBS 


Our  flowers  but  half  unfolden, 

Our  pearls  that  turned  to  dew 
And  all  the  glad  life  music 

Now  heard  no  longer  here 
Shall  come  again  to  greet  us 

As  we  are  drawing  near. 

Jerusalem,  the  golden, 

I  toil  on  day  by  day, 
Heartsore  each  night  with  longing, 

I  stretch  my  hands  and  pray 
That  midst  thy  leaves  of  healing 

My  soul  shall  find  her  nest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Translation  of  an  old  Latin  hymn. 


MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky ; 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began, 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man, 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die! 
The  child  is  father  of  the  man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

Wordsworth. 


HEART  THROBS  349 


THE    DREAMERS 

They  are  the  architects  of  greatness.  Their  vision 
lies  within  their  souls.  They  never  see  the  mirages  of 
Fact,  but  peer  beyond  the  veils  and  mists  of  doubt  and 
pierce  the  walls  of  unborn  Time. 

The  world  has  accoladed  them  with  jeer  and  sneer 
and  jibe,  for  worlds  are  made  of  little  men  who  take 
but  never  give — who  share  but  never  spare — who  cheer 
a  grudge  and  grudge  a  cheer. 

Wherefore,  the  paths  of  progress  have  been  sobs 
of  blood  dropped  from  their  broken  hearts. 

Makers  of  empire,  they  have  fought  for  bigger 
things  than  crowns  and  higher  seats  than  thrones. 
Fanfare  and  pageant  and  the  right  to  rule  or  will  to 
love,  are  not  the  fires  which  wrought  their  resolution 
into  steel. 

Grief  only  streaks  their  hair  with  silver,  but  has 
never  grayed  their  hopes. 

They  are  the  Argonauts,  the  seekers  of  the  price- 
less fleece — the  Truth. 

Through  all  the  ages  they  have  heard  the  voice  of 
destiny  call  to  them  from  the  unknown  vasts.  Thev 
dare  uncharted  seas,  for  they  are  makers  of  the  charts. 
With  only  cloth  of  courage  at  their  masts  and  with  no 
compass  save  their  dreams,  they  sail  away  undaunted 
for  the  far,  blind  shores. 

Their  brains  have  wrought  all  human  miracles. 
In  lace  of  stone  their  spires  stab  the  Old  World's  skies 
and  with  their  golden  crosses  kiss  the  sun. 


350  HEART  THROBS 


The  belted  wheel,  the  trail  of  steel,  the  churning 
screw,  are  shuttles  in  the  loom  on  which  they  weave 
their  magic  tapestries. 

A  flash  out  in  the  night  leaps  leagues  of  snarling 
seas  and  cries  to  shore  for  help,  which,  but  for  one  man's 
dream,  would  never  come. 

Their  tunnels  plow  the  river-bed  and  chain  the 
islands  to  the  Motherland. 

Their  wings  of  canvas  beat  the  air  and  add  the 
highways  of  the  eagle  to  the  human  paths. 

A  God-hewn  voice  swells  from  a  disc  of  glue  and 
wells  out  through  a  throat  of  brass,  caught  sweet  and 
whole,  to  last  beyond  the  maker  of  the  song,  because 
a  dreamer  dreamt. 

What  would  you  have  of  fancy  or  of  fact  if  hands  were 
all  with  which  men  had  to  build? 

Your  homes  are  set  upon  the  land  a  dreamer  found. 
The  pictures  on  its  walls  are  visions  from  a  dreamer's 
soul.    A  dreamer's  pain  wails  from  your  violin. 

They  are  the  chosen  few — the  Blazers  of  the  way — 
who  never  wear  doubt's  bandage  on  their  eyes — who 
starve  and  chill  and  hurt,  but  hold  to  courage  and  to 
hope,  because  they  know  that  there  is  always  proof  of 
truth  for  them  who  try — that  only  cowardice  and  lack 
of  faith  can  keep  the  seeker  from  his  chosen  goal,  but 
if  his  heart  be  strong  and  if  he  dream  enough  and  dream 
it  hard  enough,  he  can  attain,  no  matcer  where  men 
failed  before. 

Walls  crumble  and  the  empires  fall.  The  tidal 
wave  sweeps  from  the  sea  and  tears  a  fortress  from  its 


HEART  THROBS  351 

rocks.    The  rotting  nations  drop  from  off  Time's  bough, 

and  only  things  the  dreamers  make  live  on. 

They    are    the    Eternal    Conquerors — their    vassals 

are  the  years.  rr    ,         ^     ., 

Herbert  Kaufman. 


TINY   THINGS 

The  murmur  of  a  waterfall  a  mile  away, 

The  rustle  when  a  robin  lights  upon  the  spray, 

The  lapping  of  a  lowland  stream  on  dipping  boughs, 

The  sound  of  grazing  from  a  herd  of  gentle  cows, 

The  echo  from  a  wooded  hill  of  a  cuckoo's  call, 

The  quiver  through  the  meadow  grass  at  evening  fall ; 

Too  subtle  are  these  harmonies  for  pen  or  rule, 

Such  music  is  not  understood  by  any  school, 

But  when  the  brain  is  overwrought,  it  hath  a  spell 

Beyond  all  human  skill  and  power  to  make  it  well. 

The  memory  of  a  kindly  word  far  long  gone  by, 

The  fragrance  of  a  fading  flower  sent  lovingly, 

The  gleam  of  a  sudden  smile  or  sudden  tear, 

The  warmer  pressure  of  the  hand,  the  tone  of  cheer, 

That  hush  that  means :  I  cannot  speak  but  I  have  heard 

The  note  that  bears  only  a  verse  from  God's  own  Word. 

Such  tiny  things  we  hardly  count  as  ministry, 

The  givers  deeming  they  have  shown  scant  sympathy, 

But  when  the  heart  is  overwrought,  oh,  who  can  tell 

The  power  of  such  tiny  things  to  make  it  well! 

Scranton  Truth. 


352  HEART  THROBS 


GOD   KNOWS   BEST 

Whichever  way  the  wind  doth  blow, 
Some  heart  is  glad  to  have  it  so ; 
Then  blow  it  east  or  blow  it  west, 
The  wind  that  blows,  that  wind  is  best. 

My  little  craft  sails  not  alone ; 

A  thousand  fleets  from  every  zone 

Are  out  upon  a  thousand  seas ; 

What  blows  for  one  a  favorite  breeze 

Might  dash  another,  with  the  shock 

Of  doom,  upon  some  hidden  rock, 

And  so  I  do  not  dare  to  pray 

For  winds  to  waft  me  on  my  way, 

But  leave  it  to  a  Higher  Will 

To  stay  or  speed  me,  trusting  still 

That  all  is  well,  and  sure  that  He 

Who  launched  my  bark  will  sail  with  me 

Through  storm  and  calm,  and  will  not  fail, 

Whatever  breezes  may  prevail, 

To  land  me,  every  peril  past, 

Within  His  sheltering  heaven  at  last. 

Then,  whatsoever  wind  doth  blow, 
My  heart  is  glad  to  have  it  so ; 
And  blow  it  east  or  blow  it  west, 
The  wind  that  blows,  that  wind  is  best, 

Caroline  A.  Mason. 


HEART  THROBS  353 

HOW  SLEEP  THE  BRAVE 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there. 

William  Collins. 

ABIDE  WITH   ME 

Abide  with  me!    Fast  falls  the  eventide, 
The  darkness  deepens — Lord,  with  me  abide! 
When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  oh,  abide  with  me! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life's  little  day; 
Earth's  joys  grow  dim,  its  glories  pass  away; 
Change  and  decay  in  all  around  I  see ; 
O  Thou  who  changest  not,  abide  with  me! 

Hold  Thou  Thy  cross  before  my  closing  eyes; 
Shine  through  the  gloom  and  point  me  to  the  skies; 
Heaven's  morning  breaks,  and  earth's  vain  shadows  flee; 
In  life,  in  death,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me! 

W.  H.  Monk. 


354  HEART  THROBS 


ODE  TO  MY  LITTLE  SON 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf! 
(But  stop — first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear)— 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself! 
(My  love,  he's  poking  peas  into  his  ear!) 
Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite! 
With  spirits  feather-light, 
Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin — 
(Good  heavens!  the  child  is  swallowing  a  pin!) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck! 
With  antics  toy  so  funnily  bestuck, 
Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air — 
(The  door!  the  door!  he'll  tumble  down  the  stair!) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire! 
(Why,  Jane,  he'll  set  his  pinafore  afire!) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy! 
In  love's  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a  link, 
Thou  idol  of  thy  parents — (Drat  the  boy!     There  goes 
my  ink!) 

Thou  cherub — but  of  earth ; 
Fit  playfellow  for  fays,  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth — 
(That  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  its  tail!) 

Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows, 

Singing  in  youth's  elysium  ever  sunny — 
(Another  tumble! — that's  his  precious  nose!) 


HEART  THROBS  355 

Thy  father's  pride  and  hope! 
(He'll  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping-rope!) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  Nature's  mint— 
(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint?) 

Thou  young  domestic  dove! 
(He'll  have  that  jug  off,  with  another  shove!) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  Hymeneal  nest! 

(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best?) 

Little  epitome  of  man! 
(He'll  climb  upon  the  table,  that's  his  plan!) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life— 

(He's  got  a  knife!) 

Thou  enviable  being! 
No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 

Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John! 
Toss  the  light  ball — bestride  the  stick — 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick!) 
With  fancies,  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down, 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk, 

With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk — 
(He's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown!) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose! 
(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose!) 
Balmy  and  breathing  music  like  the  south — 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth!) 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star — 
(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar!) 


356  HEART  THROBS 


Bold  as  a  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove — 

(I'll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write,  unless  he's  sent  above!) 

Thomas  Hood. 

THE  THREE  FISHERS 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west, 
Out  into  the  west  as  the  sun  went  down; 
Each  thought  of  the  woman  who  loved  him  the  best; 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the 
town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower, 

And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down; 

They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the  shower, 
And  the  night  wrack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and  brown! 

But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  water  deep, 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 

In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  handr 

For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep. 

And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 

Charles  Kingsley. 


HEART  THROBS  357 


A   GRATEFUL  PATIENT 

An  eminent  physician  of  New  York  City,  during  one 
of  his  frequent  "runs"  to  Ulster  county,  related  a 
pathetic  little  incident  that  came  under  his  knowledges 
a  year  or  so  ago.  The  doctor  was  in  the  country  en- 
joying a  rest.  During  a  ramble  one  day  he  noticed  a 
sickly  looking  boy  of  about  eight  years  of  age  resting 
by  the  roadside.  Near  the  child,  and  gazing  tenderly 
at  him,  was  a  sweet-faced  old  lady,  whom  he  called 
"Granny."  The  child  touched  his  cap  politely  to  the 
doctor,  and  the  little  wan  face  lit  up  at  a  few  kindly 
remarks  that  were  made  by  the  stranger.  A  day  or 
two  afterward  the  doctor  was  told  that  an  old  lady  and 
a,  little  boy  wished  to  see  him. 

"I  could  do  nothing  at  all  to  stop  his  coming,"  ex- 
claimed the  woman.  "He  says  over  an'  over,  ever  since 
the  day  he  saw  you,  that  you  can  make  him  well  an' 
like  other  boys.  He  gives  me  no  peace,  night  or  day, 
an'  so  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  bringing  him  here  to 
you  to  cure." 

"The  faith  of  the  old  lady  and  her  little  grandchild 
was  so  touching,"  said  the  doctor,  "that  I  resolved  to 
do  my  very  best  to  effect  a  cure,  and,  in  time,  the 
youngster  was  running  about,  strong  and  well  as  his 
companions."  Last  Thanksgiving  day  a  home-made  box 
was  delivered  by  express  at  Dr.  Shrady's  home  in  New 
York  City.  The  box  contained  a  turkey  and  a  little 
note,  written  in  a  boyish  hand,  which  said: 

"Dear  docipr  this  is  from  the  boy  what  you  made 


358  HEART  THROBS 

well  i  know  the  turkey  is  young  and  tender  for  i  raised 
him  from  the  egg  myself." 

"I  have  often  received  munificent  fees  from  grateful 
patients  that  my  skill  has  helped  relieve,"  said  the 
doctor,  "but  I  was  never  more  touched  by  a  gift  in  all 
my  professional  experience  than  when  that  little  country 
chap's  turkey  in  the  rough  little  box  with  the  words 
'expresses  all  pade'  written  on  every  side,  was  delivered 

Kingston  (N.  Y.)  Freeman. 


A  MORNING  PRAYER 

Oh,  may  I  be  strong  and  brave  today, 

And  may  I  be  kind  and  true ; 
And  greet  all  men  in  a  gracious  way, 
With  frank  good  cheer  in  the  things  I  say 

And  love  in  the  deeds  I  do. 

May  the  simple  heart  of  a  child  be  mine, 

And  the  grace  of  a  rose  in  bloom ; 
Let  me  fill  the  day  with  a  hope  divine 
And  turn  my  face  to  the  sky's  glad  shine, 

With  never  a  cloud  of  gloom. 

With  the  golden  levers  of  love  and  light 

I  would  lift  the  world  and  when 
Through  a  path  with  kindly  deeds  made  bright 
I  come  to  the  calm  of  the  starlight  night, 

Let  me  rest  in  peace.     Amen. 

By  permission.  Nixon  Waterman. 


HEART  THROBS  359 


SOMETIME,  SOMEWHERE 

Unanswered  yet?  the  prayer  your  lips  have  pleaded 

In  agony  of  heart  these  many  years? 
Does  faith  begin  to  fail?     Is  hope  departing? 

And  think  you  all  in  vain  those  falling  tears? 
Say  not  the  Father  hath  not  heard  your  prayer; 
You  shall  have  your  desire,  sometime,  somewhere. 

Unanswered  yet?  though  when  you  first  presented 
This  one  petition  at  the  Father's  throne, 

It  seemed  you  could  not  wait  the  time  of  asking, 
So  urgent  was  your  heart  to  make  it  known. 

Though  years  have  passed  since  then,  do  not  despair; 

The  Lord  will  answer  you  sometime,  somewhere. 

Unanswered  yet?  nay,  do  not  say  ungranted, 
Perhaps  your  part  is  not  wholly  done; 

The  work  began  when  your  first  prayer  was  uttered, 
And  God  will  finish  what  he  has  begun. 

If  you  keep  the  incense  burning  there, 

His  glory  you  shall  see,  sometime,  somewhere. 

Unanswered  yet?     Faith  cannot  be  unanswered; 

Her  feet  are  firmly  planted  on  the  rock, 
Amid  the  wildest  storms  she  stands  undaunted, 

Nor  quails  before  the  loudest  thunder  shock, 
She  knows  Omnipotence  hath  heard  her  prayer, 
And  cries,  "It  shall  be  done,  sometime,  somewhere." 

Ophelia  G.  Browning* 


360  HEART  THROBS 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE 
AT  CORUNNA,  1809 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note 

As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot, 

O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly,  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him ; — 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on, 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 


HEART  THROBS  361 


But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory! 

Charles  Wolfe. 


GENTLE   LIFE 

This  fair  tree  that  shadows  us  from  the  sun  hath 
grown  many  years  in  its  place  without  more  unhappiness 
than  the  loss  of  its  leaves  in  winter,  which  the  succeed- 
ing season  doth  generously  repair,  and  shall  we  be  less 
contented  in  the  place  where  God  has  planted  us? 
Or  shall  there  go  less  time  to  the  making  of  a  man  than 
to  the  growth  of  a  tree?  This  stream  floweth  dimpling 
and  laughing  down  to  the  great  sea  which  it  knoweth 
not,  yet  it  doth  not  fret  because  the  future  is  hidden; 
and  it  were  doubtless  wise  in  us  to  accept  the  mysteries 
of  life  as  cheerfully  and  go  forward  with  a  merry  heart, 
considering  that  we  know  enough  to  make  us  happy 
and  keep  us  honest  for  today.  A  man  should  be  well 
content  if  he  can  see  so  far  ahead  of  him  as  the  next 
bend  in  the  stream.  What  lies  beyond  let  him  trust  in 
the  hand  of  God. 
By  penman.  Henry  Van  Dyke. 


362  HEART  THROBS 


THE   VOICE   IN   THE   TWILIGHT 

I  was  sitting  alone,  toward  the  twilight, 

With  spirit  troubled  and  vexed, 
With  thoughts  that  were  morbid  and  gloomy. 

And  faith  that  was  sadly  perplexed. 

Some  homely  work  I  was  doing 
For  the  child  of  my  love  and  care, 

Some  stitches  half  wearily  setting, 
In  the  endless  need  of  repair. 

But  my  thoughts  were  about  the  "building," 

The  work  some  day  to  be  tried ; 
And  that  only  the  gold  and  the  silver 

And  the  precious  stones  should  abide. 

And  remembering  my  own  poor  efforts. 

The  wretched  work  I  had  done, 
And,  even  when  trying  most  truly, 

The  meager  success  I  had  won; 

"It  is  nothing  but  'wood,  hay  and  stubble,'  ** 

I  said;   "It  will  all  be  burned — 
This  useless  fruit  of  the  talents 

One  day  will  be  returned. 

"And  I  have  so  longed  to  serve  Him, 
And  sometimes  I  know  I  have  tried; 

But  I'm  sure  when  he  sees  such  building, 
He  will  never  let  it  abide." 


HEART  THROBS  363 

Just  then,  as  I  turned  the  garment, 
That  no  rent  should  be  left  behind, 

My  eye  caught  an  odd  little  bundle 
Of  mending  and  patchwork  combined. 

My  heart  grew  suddenly  tender, 

And  something  blinded  my  eyes, 
With  one  of  those  sweet  intuitions 

That  sometimes  make  us  so  wise. 

Dear  child!  She  wanted  to  help  me, 
I  knew  'twas  the  best  she  could  do ; 

But,  oh,  what  a  botch  she  had  made  it — 
The  gray  mismatching  the  blue. 

Then  a  sweet  voice  broke  the  silence, 

And  the  dear  Lord  said  to  me 
"Art  thou  tenderer  for  the  little  child 

Than  I  am  tender  for  thee?" 

Then  straightway  I  knew  His  meaning, 

So  full  of  compassion  and  love, 
And  my  faith  came  back  to  its  Refuge 

Like  the  glad  returning  dove. 

For  I  thought,  when  the  Master-Builder 

Comes  down  His  temple  to  view, 
To  see  what  rents  must  be  mended 

And  what  must  be  builded  anew, 

Perhaps  as  he  looks  o'er  the  building 
He  will  bring  my  work  to  the  light, 


364  HEART  THROBS 


And  seeing  the  marring  and  bungling, 
And  how  far  it  all  is  from  right, 

He  will  feel  as  I  felt  for  my  darling, 

And  will  say,  as  I  said  for  her, 
"Dear  child!  She  wanted  to  help  me, 

And  love  for  me  was  the  spur." 

So  my  thoughts  are  never  more  gloomy 

My  faith  no  longer  is  dim, 
And  my  heart  is  strong  and  restful 

And  my  eyes  are  turned  toward  Him. 

Mrs.  Herrick  Johnson. 


THE  LONG  WAIT 

Bill  Nye,  when  a  young  man,  once  made  an  engage- 
ment with  a  lady  friend  of  his  to  take  her  driving  of  a 
Sunday  afternoon.  The  appointed  day  came,  but  at 
the  livery  stable  all  the  horses  were  taken  out  save  one 
old,  shaky,  exceedingly  bony  horse. 

Mr.  Nye  hired  the  nag  and  drove  to  his  friend's 
residence.  The  lady  let  him  wait  nearly  an  hour  before 
she  was  ready,  and  then  on  viewing  the  disreputable 
outfit,  flatly  refused  to  accompany  Mr.  Nye. 

"Why,"  she  exclaimed  sneeringly,  "that  horse  may 
die  of  age  any  moment." 

"Madam,"  Mr.  Nye  replied,  "when  I  arrived  that 
horse  was  a  prancing  young  steed." 

Harper's  Weekly. 


HEART  THROBS  365 


TRANSFIGURED 

To  careless  eyes  she  is  not  fair: 
This  verdict  careless  lips  declare, 
And  wonder  why,  against  the  charm 
Of  beauty,  vivid,  rich  and  warm 
The  face  they  deem  so  cold  and  dull 
To  him  should  be  so  beautiful. 

Are  they  too  dull  to  see  aright? 
Hath  he  a  quicker,  keener  sight? 
Or  is  it  that  indifference 
Than  love  hath  clearer,  truer  sense? 
Now,  is  he  right  or  wrong?     Oh,  say, 
Doth  he  behold  her  face,  or  they? 

Her  eyes  into  his  own  eyes  shine 
With  strange  illumining;  a  sign 
Is  on  her  brow;  a  palimpsest 
To  his  own  gaze  alone  confessed; 
On  him,  in  gravely  gracious  mood, 
She  smiles  her  soul's  beatitude. 

This  is  the  face  she  turns  to  him, 
Oh,  say  not  'tis  a  lover's  whim 
That  finds  it  fair;  nor  are  they  dull 
Who  say  she  is  not  beautiful. 
For  strangest  of  all  mysteries, 
They  never  see  the  face  he  sees — 
That  face  no  artist's  skill  can  limn 
The  love-fair  face  she  turns  to  him. 

Carlotta  Perry. 


366  HEART  THROBS 


IMMORTALITY 

Critics  pronounce  this  one   of  the  daintiest  productions  of  itl 
kind  in  existence. 

Two  caterpillars  crawling  on  a  leaf, 

By  some  strange  accident  in  contact  came; 

Their  conversation,  passing  all  belief, 

Was  that  same  argument,  the  very  same, 

That  has  been  "proed  and  conned"  from  man  to  man, 

Yea,  ever  since  this  wondrous  world  began. 
The  ugly  creatures, 

Deaf  and  dumb  and  blind, 
Devoid  of  features 
That  adorn  mankind, 

Were  vain  enough,  in  dull  and  wordy  strife, 

To  speculate  upon  a  future  life. 

The  first  was  optimistic,  full  of  hope; 

The  second,  quite  dyspeptic,  seemed  to  mope. 

Said  number  one,  "I'm  sure  of  our  salvation." 

Said  number  two,  "I'm  sure  of  our  damnation; 

Our  ugly  forms  alone  would  seal  our  fates 

And  bar  our  entrance  through  the  golden  gates. 

Suppose  that  death  should  take  us  unawares, 

How  would  we  climb  the  golden  stairs? 

If  maidens  shun  us  as  they  pass  us  by, 

Would  angels  bid  us  welcome  in  the  sky? 

I  wonder  what  great  crimes  we  have  committed, 

That  leave  us  so  forlorn  and  so  unpitied. 

Perhaps  we've  been  ungrateful,  unforgiving; 

'Tis  plain  to  me  that  life's  not  worth  the  living.'* 


HEART  THROBS  367 

"Come,  come,  cheer  up,"  the  jovial  worm  replied, 

"Let's  take  a  look  upon  the  other  side; 

Suppose  we  cannot  fly  like  moths  or  millers, 

Are  we  to  blame  for  being  caterpillars? 

Will  that  same  God  that  doomed  us  crawl  the  earth, 

A  prey  to  every  bird  that's  given  birth, 

Forgive  our  captor  as  he  eats  and  sings, 

And  damn  poor  us  because  we  have  not  wings? 

If  we  can't  skim  the  air  like  owl  or  bat, 

A  worm  will  turn  for  a'  that." 

They  argued  through  the  summer;  autumn  nigh, 

The  ugly  things  composed  themselves  to  die; 

And  so  to  make  their  funeral  quite  complete, 

Each  wrapped  him  in  his  little  winding  sheet. 

The  tangled  web  encompassed  them  full  soon, 

Each  for  his  coffin  made  him  a  cocoon; 

All  through  the  winter's  chilling  blast  they  lay 

Dead  to  the  world,  aye,  dead  as  human  clay. 

Lo,  spring  comes  forth  with  all  her  warmth  and  love; 

She  brings  sweet  justice  from  the  realms  above; 

She  breaks  the  chrysalis,  she  resurrects  the  dead; 

Two  butterflies  ascend,  encircling  her  head. 

And  so  this  emblem  shall  forever  be 

A  sign  of  immortality. 

Joseph  Jefferson. 


Laugh  and  the  world  laughs  with  you;  weep  and 
you  weep  alone. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 


368  HEART  THROBS 


WEIGHING  THE  BABY 

Starr  was  the  outgrown  baby  now ;  there  was  a  new 
baby  in  the  nursery  —  a  very,  very  new  one.  He  was  so 
new  that  Starr  was  sure  he  could  not  feel  much  acquainted 
yet  with  anybody,  and  that  was  why  he  cried  so  often. 

"He's  kind  of  homesick,  I  guess,"  Starr  said.  "Course 
he  cries!  I  cried  that  time  I  was  at  my  grandfather's 
'thout  my  mother.  Folks  always  cry  when  they're 
homesick." 

There  were  so  many  beautiful  things  about  that  new 
baby!  Starr  haunted  the  nursery  all  day  long,  to  make 
sure  of  not  missing  any  of  them.  He  watched  Nurse 
Mary  wash  and  dress  the  baby  every  morning  in  front 
of  the  open  fire.  That  was  the  most  beautiful  thing  of 
all!  Such  round,  dimply  little  elbows  and  knees!  curly, 
curly  little  legs!  Such  a  soft  little  fuzz  on  the  small, 
round  head  that  Nurse  Mary  insisted  was  hair! 

Every  week  they  weighed  the  new  baby,  and  every 
week  he  had  gained  about  half  a  pound.  It  surprised 
Starr  a  little,  and  made  him  rather  uncertain  about  the 
homesick  theory. 

"I  didn't  gain  half-pounds  when  I  was  homesick," 
he  reflected.  "I  got  just  as  unfat,  an'  he  keeps  a-gettin' 
fatter!     Maybe  that  isn't  the  reason  he  cries." 

The  eighth  week  the  new  baby  weighed  fifteen 
pounds,  and  Starr  was  very  proud  indeed — as  proud, 
Nurse  Mary  said,  as  if  he  weighed  fifteen  pounds  him- 
self. He  got  his  slate  and  pencil  and  "reduced"  the 
fifteen  pounds  to  ounces,  to  make  it  sound  still  more 


HEART  THROBS  369 


splendid.  Starr  was  "in"  denominative  numbers  now, 
in  his  'rithmetic,  so  he  could  do  a  little  sum  like  that  as 
easy  as  anything. 

"One  hundred  'n'  eighty,"  he  announced,  looking 
up  from  his  slate.  Then  he  hurried  back  to  the  nursery 
to  tell  Nurse  Mary. 

"The  baby  weighs  a  hundred  'n'  eighty  ounces," 
he  said,  triumphantly;  "twelve  times  fifteen,  you  know 
— that's  the  way  you  do  it.  There's  twelve  ounces  in 
a  pou" — 

"Twelve,"  exclaimed  Nurse  Mary  in  surprise,  "I 
thought  in  my  time  sixteen  ounces  made  a  pound." 

"Avoirdupois  weight,"  Starr  said,  looking  scornful, 
"but  the  baby's  Troy  weight." 

"Troy  weight?"  Nurse  Mary  looked  up  over  the 
new  baby's  little  bald  head  in  more  surprise  still.  The 
scorn  on  Starr's  face  grew  and  grew  till  it  covered  up 
all  his  little  gold-brown  freckles. 

"Course,  Troy  weight!"  he  cried.  "I  hope  you 
don't  s'pose  we'd  weigh  the  baby  avoirdupois,  same  as 
coal  and  flour  and — and  butter!  It's  Troy  weight  you 
weigh  precious  things  by — gold  and  silver  and  di'monds 
— and  the  baby."  And  Starr  dropped  a  kiss  into  the 
little,  warm,  sweet  well  of  the  baby's  neck. 

Sunday  School  Visitor. 


All  places  that  the  eye  of  Heaven  visits, 
Are  to  the  wise  man  ports  and  happy  havens. 

Shakespeare. 


370  HEART  THROBS 


WE  ARE  COMING,  FATHER  ABRAHAM 

These  lines  were  written  in  response  to  President  Abraham 
Lincoln's  call  for  volunteers  for  three  year's  service,  issued  July 
2,  1862. 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 
more, 

From  Mississippi's  winding  stream  and  from  New  Eng- 
land's shore; 

We  leave  our  ploughs  and  workshops,  our  wives  and 
children  dear, 

With  hearts  too  full  for  utterance,  with  but  a  silent  tear; 

We  dare  not  look  behind  us,  but  steadfastly  before; 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand more! 

If  you  look  across  the  hilltops  that  meet  the  northern 
sky, 

Long  moving  lines  of  rising  dust  your  vision  may  descry ; 

And  now  the  wind,  an  instant,  tears  the  cloudy  veil 
aside, 

And  floats  aloft  our  spangled  flag,  in  glory  and  in  pride, 

And  bayonets  in  the  sunlight  gleam,  and  bands  brave 
music  pour; 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand more! 

If  you  look  all  up  our  valleys  where  the  growing  har- 
vests shine, 

You  may  see  our  sturdy  farmer  boys  fast  forming  into 
line; 


HEART  THROBS  371 

And  children  from  their  mothers'  knees  are  pulling  at 
the  weeds, 

And  learning  how  to  reap  and  sow  against  their  country's 
needs. 

And  a  farewell  group  stands  weeping  at  every  cottage 
door; 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand more! 

Author  unknown. 


TO  MY  FRIEND  ON   HER  EIGHTY-FIRST 

BIRTHDAY 

Transpose!  hey,  presto!  it  is  done! 

Eighteen  is  changed  to  eighty-one! 

How  much  such  trifling  change  may  mean. 

A  woman's  lifetime  lies  between, 

With  all  she's  thought  and  done  and  seen. 

Twixt  81  and  young  18. 

Would  she  again  the  figures  change? 
I  doubt.    If  so,  her  feet  might  range 
Some  path  that  led  not  near  that  friend, 
Lover  and  husband  to  the  end, 
Who  walked  with  her  toward  set  of  sun 
From  nigh  18  to  81. 

Each  thinks  he  would  have  changed  his  lot, 
But  so,  believe  me,  would  he  na& 


372  HEART  THROBS 


No  path  like  that  which  winds  and  bends, 
Marked  by  the  milestones  of  our  friends, 
O'er  arid  spaces  and  o'er  green 
From  81  back  to  18. 

What  mean  the  phrases  "young  and  old'*? 

Just  arbitrary  terms,  I  hold. 

Dull  spirit,  unresponsive  heart, 

No  throb  for  friends,  or  books,  or  art. 

This  is  old  age  wherever  seen, 

In  81  or  in  18. 

Old  Time  can  change  the  husk  alone, 
Within  unchanged  is  she  we've  known. 
Warm  heart,  free  hand  and  open  mind, 
A  gracious  mien,  a  manner  kind, 
All  these  the  years  have  not  undone, 
Betwixt  18  and  81. 

Eighteen  years  old  was  once  her  boast, 
Now  "eighty-one  years  young"  we  toast, 
For  who  shall  dare  to  gauge  the  soul 
By  years?     'Tis  not  in  Time's  control. 
As  young  in  heart  is  she  I  ween, 

Ann  Virginia  Culbertson. 


BE  SURE 

Be  sure  that  on  Life's  common  street 
Are  cross  ways,  where  God's  chariots  meet. 

Frank  W.  Gunsaulus,  D.D, 


HEART  THROBS  373 


LITTLE   HAL 

Old  Ironsides  at  anchor  lay, 

In  the  harbor  of  Mahon; 
A  dead  calm  rested  on  the  bay — 

The  waves  to  sleep  had  gone — 
When  little  Hal,  the  captain's  son, 

A  lad  both  brave  and  good, 
In  sport  up  shroud  and  rigging  ran, 

And  on  the  main-truck  stood! 

A  shudder  shot  through  every  vein; 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  high ; 
There  stood  the  boy,  with  dizzy  brain, 

Between  the  sea  and  sky. 
No  hold  had  he  above,  below; 

Alone  he  stood  in  air; 
To  that  far  height  none  dared  to  go — 

No  aid  could  reach  him  there. 

We  gazed,  but  not  a  man  could  speak! 

With  horror  all  aghast, 
In  groups,  with  pallid  brow  and  cheek, 

We  watched  the  quivering  mast. 
The  atmosphere  grew  thick  and  hot, 

And  of  a  lurid  hue, 
As,  riveted  unto  the  spot, 

Stood  officers  and  crew. 

The  father  came  on  deck.    He  gasped 
"O  God,  thy  will  be  done!" 


374  HEART  THROBS ^^ 

Then  suddenly  a  rifle  grasped 

And  aimed  it  at  his  son ; 
"Jump — far  out,  boy,  into  the  wave, 

Jump,  or  I  fire,"  he  said; 
"That  only  chance  your  life  can  save! 

Jump!  Jump,  boy!"     He  obeyed. 

He  sank — he  rose — he  lived — he  moved, 

And  for  the  ship  struck  out ; 
On  board  we  haled  the  lad  beloved 

With  many  a  manly  shout. 
His  father  drew,  in  silent  joy, 

Those  wet  arms  'round  his  neck, 
And  folded  to  his  heart  his  boy — 

Then  fainted  on  the  deck.  Colton. 


WHATEVER  THE  WEATHER  MAY  BE 


"Whatever  the  weather  may  be,"  says  he — 
"Whatever  the  weather  may  be, 
It's  plaze,  if  ye  will,  an'  I'll  say  me  say, — 
Supposin'  today  was  the  winterest  day, 
Wud  the  weather  be  changing  because  ye  cried, 
Or  the  snow  be  grass  were  ye  crucified? 
The  best  is  to  make  yer  own  summer,"  says  he, 
"Whatever  the  weather  may  be,"  says  he — 
"Whatever  the  weather  may  be! 

"Whatever  the  weather  may  be,"  says  he — 
"Whatever  the  weather  may  be, 


HEART  THROBS  375 

it's  the  songs  ye  sing,  an'  the  smiles  ye  wear, 
That's  a-makin'  the  sun  shine  everywhere ; 
An*  the  world  of  gloom  is  a  world  of  glee, 
Wid  the  bird  in  the  bush,  an'  the  bud  in  the  tree, 
An'  the  fruit  on  the  stim  o'  the  bough,"  says  he, 
"Whatever  the  weather  may  be,"  says  he — 
"Whatever  the  weather  may  be! 

"Whatever  the  weather  may  be,"  says  he — 
"Whatever  the  weather  may  be, 
Ye  can  bring  the  Spring,  wid  its  green  an*  gold, 
An'  the  grass  in  the  grove  where  the  snow  lies  cold ; 
An'  ye'll  warm  yer  back,  wid  a  smiling  face, 
As  ye  sit  at  yer  heart,  like  an  owld  fire-place, 
An'  toast  the  toes  o'  yer  sowl,"  says  he, 
"Whatever  the  weather  may  be,"  says  he — 
"Whatever  the  weather  may  be!" 

From  "Songs  o'  Cheer."  copyright  1905.        JameS   WhitCOmb   Riley. 
Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers 
The  Bobbs-Mernll  Company. 


EVER  TRUE 


Ah!  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 

The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 

The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we  hear, 

Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear!      _  ,       , 
J  J  Selected. 


376  HEART  THROBS 


IS  THERE  A  SANTA  CLAUS  ? 

We  take  pleasure  in  answering  at  once  and  thus 
prominently  the  communication  below,  expressing  at 
the  same  time  our  great  gratification  that  its  faithful 
author  is  numbered  among  the  friends  of  The  Sun: 

Dear  Editor, — I  am  eight  years  old.  Some  of  my  little  friends 
say  there  is  no  Santa  Claus.  Papa  says  "If  you  see  it  in  The  Sun, 
it's  so."    Please  tell  me  the  truth;  is  there  a  Santa  Claus? 

Virginia  O'Hanlon. 
115  West  Ninety-fifth  St. 

Virginia,  your  little  friends  are  wrong.  They  have 
been  affected  by  the  scepticism  of  a  sceptical  age. 
They  do  not  believe  except  they  see.  They  think  that 
nothing  can  be  which  is  not  comprehensible  by  their 
little  minds. 

All  minds,  Virginia,  whether  they  be  men's  or  chil- 
dren's, are  little.  In  this  great  universe  of  ours  man 
is  a  mere  insect,  an  ant,  in  his  intellect,  as  compared 
with  the  boundless  world  about  him,  as  measured  by 
the  intelligence  capable  of  grasping  the  whole  of  truth 
and  knowledge. 

Yes,  Virginia,  there  is  a  Santa  Claus.  He  exists 
as  certainly  as  love  and  generosity  and  devotion  exist, 
and  you  know  that  they  abound  and  give  to  our  life  its 
highest  beauty  and  joy.  Alas!  how  dreary  would  be 
the  world  if  there  were  no  Santa  Claus.  It  would  be 
as  dreary  as  if  there  were  no  Virginias.  There  would 
be  no  childlike  faith  then,  no  poetry,  no  romance,  to 
make  tolerable  this    existence.      We    should  have  on 


HEART  THROBS  377 

enjoyment,  except  in  sense  and  sight.  The  eternal 
-tight  with  which  childhood  fills  the  world  would  be 
Extinguished. 

Not  believe  in  Santa  Claus!  You  might  as  well 
.lot  believe  in  fairies!  You  might  get  your  papa  to  hire 
men  to  watch  in  all  the  chimneys  on  Christmas  Eve 
to  catch  Santa  Claus,  but  even  if  they  did  not  see 
Santa  Claus  coming  down,  what  would  that  prove? 
Nobody  sees  Santa  Claus,  but  that  is  no  sign  there  is 
no  Santa  Claus. 

The  most  real  things  in  the  world  are  those  that 
neither  children  nor  men  can  see.  Did  you  ever  see 
fairies  dancing  on  the  lawn?  Of  course  not,  but  that's 
no  proof  that  they  are  not  there.  Nobody  can  co.ticeive 
or  imagine  all  the  wonders  there  are  unseen  and  unsee- 
able in  the  world. 

You  may  tear  apart  the  baby's  rattle  and  see  what 
makes  the  noise  inside,  but  there  is  a  veil  covering  the 
unseen  world  which  not  the  strongest  man,  nor  even 
the  united  strength  of  all  the  strongest  men  that  ever 
lived,  could  tear  apart.  Only  faith,  fancy,  poetry,  love, 
romance,  can  push  aside  that  curtain  and  view  and 
picture  the  supernal  beauty  and  glory  beyond.  Is  it  all 
real?  Ah,  Virginia,  in  all  this  world  there  is  nothing 
else  real  and  abiding. 

No  Santa  Claus!  Thank  God!  he  lives,  and  he  lives 
forever.  A  thousand  years  from  now,  Virginia,  nay, 
ten  times  ten  thousand  years  from  now,  he  will  continue 
to  make  glad  the  heart  of  childhood. 

By  permission.  Casual  Essays  of  the  Sun. 


378  HEART  THROBS 


GARFIELD   ON   THE   DEATH   OF   LINCOLN 

Ah,  sir,  there  are  times  in  the  history  of  men  and 
nations  when  they  stand  so  near  the  veil  that  separates 
mortals  and  immortals,  time  from  eternity,  and  men 
from  their  God,  that  they  can  almost  hear  the  breathings 
and  feel  the  pulsations  of  the  heart  of  the  Infinite. 
Through  such  a  time  has  this  Nation  passed.  When 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  brave  spirits  passed 
from  the  field  of  honor  through  that  thin  veil  to  the 
presence  of  God,  and  when  at  last  its  parting  folds  ad- 
mitted the  martyred  President  to  the  company  of  the 
dead  heroes  of  the  Republic,  the  Nation  stood  so  near  the 
veil  that  the  whispers  of  God  were  heard  by  the  chil- 
dren of  men.  Awe-stricken  by  his  voice,  the  American 
people  knelt  in  tearful  reverence  and  made  a  solemn 
covenant  with  God  and  each  other  that  this  Nation 
should  be  saved  from  its  enemies;  that  all  its  glories 
should  be  restored.  It  remains  for  us,  consecrated  by 
that  great  event,  and  under  that  covenant  with  God, 
t  keep  the  faith,  to  go  forward  in  the  great  work  until 
it  shall  be  completed.  Following  the  lead  of  that 
great  man,  and  obeying  the  high  behests  of  God,  let 
us  remember: 

He  has  sounded  forth  his  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  retreat; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment  seat; 
Be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him;  be  jubilant,  my  feet 
For  God  is  marching  on. 


For  an  hundred  that  can  bear  adversity,  there  is 
b^rdly  one  that  can  bear  prosperity.  Carlyle. 


HEART  THROBS  379 

—  I,  i - 

THE  VERACIOUS  HUNTING  STORIES  OF 
BARON  MUNCHAUSEN 

"It  was  several  months  before  I  could  obtain  a 
commission  in  the  army,  and  for  several  months  I  was 
perfectly  at  liberty  to  sport  away  my  time  and  money 
in  the  most  gentlemanlike  manner.  You  may  easily 
imagine  that  I  spent  much  of  both  out  of  town,  with 
such  gallant  fellows  as  knew  how  to  make  the  most  of 
an  open  forest  country. 

"The  very  recollection  of  these  amusements  gives 
me  fresh  spirits,  and  creates  a  warm  wish  for  a  repe- 
tition of  them.  One  morning  I  saw  through  the  windows 
of  my  bedroom  that  a  large  pond  not  far  off  was  covered 
with  wild  ducks.  In  an  instant  I  took  my  gun  from 
the  corner,  ran  down  stairs  and  out  of  the  house  in 
such  a  hurry  that  I  imprudently  struck  my  face  against 
the  door-post.  Fire  flew  from  out  of  my  eyes,  but  it 
did  not  prevent  my  intentions;  I  soon  came  within 
shot,  when  levelling  my  piece,  I  observed  to  my  sorrow 
that  even  the  flint  had  sprung  from  the  cock,  by  the 
violence  of  the  shock  I  had  just  received. 

"There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  I  presently  remem- 
bered the  effect  it  had  on  my  eyes,  therefore  opened  the 
pan,  leveled  my  piece  against  the  wild  fowl,  and  my 
fist  against  one  of  my  eyes.  (The  Baron's  eyes  have 
retained  fire  ever  since,  and  appear  particularly  illu- 
minated when  he  relates  this  anecdote.)  A  hearty 
blow  drew  sparks  again;  the  shot  went  off,  and  I  killed 
fifty  brace  of  ducks,  twenty  widgeons  and  three  couple 


380  HEART  THROBS 

of  teals.  Presence  of  mind  is  the  soul  of  manly 
exercises.  

"You  have  heard,  I  dare  say,  of  the  hunter's  and 
sportsman's  saint  and  patron,  St.  Hubert,  and  of  the 
noble  stag  that  appeared  to  him  in  the  forest  with  the 
holy  cross  between  its  antlers.  I  have  paid  my  homage 
to  that  saint  every  year  in  good  fellowship  and  seen 
this  stag  a  thousand  times,  either  painted  in  churches 
or  embroidered  on  the  stars  of  his  knights;  so  that 
upon  the  honor  of  a  good  sportsman,  I  hardly  know 
whether  there  may  not  have  been  formerly,  or  whether 
there  are  not  such  crossed  stags  even  at  the  present  day. 

"But  rather  let  me  tell  what  I  have  seen  myself. 
Having  one  day  spent  all  my  shot,  I  found  myself 
unexpectedly  in  presence  of  a  stately  stag,  looking  at  me 
as  unconcernedly  as  if  he  had  known  of  my  empty 
pouches.  I  charged  immediately  with  powder,  and 
upon  it  a  good  handful  of  cherry-stones,  for  I  had  sucked 
the  fruit  as  far  as  the  hurry  would  allow.  Thus  I  let 
fly  at  him  and  hit  him  just  on  the  middle  of  forehead 
between  his  antlers;  it  stunned  him — he  staggered — 
yet  he  made  off.  A  year  or  two  after,  being  with  a 
party  in  the  same  forest,  I  beheld  a  noble  stag  with  a 
fine,  full-grown  cherry-tree  above  ten  feet  high  between 
his  antlers.  I  immediately  recollected  my  former 
adventure,  looked  upon  him  as  my  property,  and  brought 
him  to  the  ground  with  one  shot,  which  at  once  gave 
me  the  haunch,  and  cherry  sauce;  for  the  tree  was 
covered  with  the  richest  fruit,  the  like  of  which  I  had 
never  tasted  before." 


HEART  THROBS  381 


THE   BATTLE   OF   WATERLOO 

Had  it  not  rained  on  the  night  of  the  17th  of  June, 
1815,  the  future  of  Europe  would  have  been  changed. 
A  few  drops  of  water,  more  or  less,  prostrated  Napoleon. 
That  Waterloo  should  be  the  end  of  Austerlitz,  Provi- 
dence needed  only  a  little  rain;  and  an  unseasonable 
cloud  crossing  the  sky  sufficed  for  the  overthrow  of  a 
world! 

Had  the  ground  been  dry  and  the  artillery  able  to 
move,  the  action  would-  have  been  commenced  at  six 
©'clock  in  the  morning.  The  battle  would  have  been 
won  and  finished  at  two  o'clock,  three  hours  before  the 
Prussians  turned  the  scale  of  fortune. 

The  Emperor  rose  and  reflected.  Wellington  had 
fallen  back.  It  remained  only  to  complete  this  repulse 
by  a  crushing  charge.  Napoleon,  turning  abruptly,  sent 
off  a  courier  at  full  speed  to  Paris  to  announce  that  the 
battle  was  won. 

Napoleon  was  one  of  those  geniuses  who  rule  the 
thunder.  He  had  found  his  thunderbolt.  He  ordered 
Milhaud's  cuirassiers  to  carry  the  plateau  of  Mont 
Saint- Jean.  They  were  three  thousand  five  hundred. 
They  formed  a  line  of  half  a  mile.  They  were  gigantic 
men  on  colossal  horses.  They  were  twenty-six  squad- 
rons, and  they  had  behind  them  a  strong  support. 

Aide-de-camp  Bernard  brought  them  the  Emperor's 
order.  Ney  drew  his  sword  and  placed  himself  at  their 
head.  The  enormous  squadrons  began  to  move.  Then 
was  seen  a  fearful  sight.    All  this  cavalry,  with  saber. 


382  HEART  THROBS 

drawn,  banners  waving,  and  trumpets  sounding,  formed 
in  column  by  division,  descended  with  even  move- 
ment and  as  one  man — with  the  precision  of  a  bronze 
battering  ram  opening  a  breach. 

An  odd  numerical  coincidence — twenty-six  battal- 
ions were  to  receive  these  twenty-six  squadrons.  Behind 
the  crest  of  the  plateau,  under  cover  of  the  masked 
battery,  the  English  infantry  formed  in  thirteen  squares, 
two  battalions  to  the  square,  and  upon  two  lines — seven 
on  the  first,  and  six  on  the  second — with  musket  to  the 
shoulder,  and  eye  upon  their  sights,  waiting,  calm,  silent, 
and  immovable. 

They  could  not  see  the  cuirassiers,  and  the  cuiras- 
siers could  not  see  them.  They  listened  to  the  rising  of 
this  tide  of  men.  They  heard  the  increasing  sound  of 
three  thousand  horses,  the  alternate  and  measured 
striking  of  their  hoofs  at  full  trot,  the  rattling  of  the 
cuirasses,  the  clinking  of  the  sabers,  and  a  sort  of  fierce 
roar  of  the  coming  host. 

There  was  a  moment  of  fearful  silence;  then,  sud- 
denly, a  long  line  of  raised  arms  brandishing  sabers 
appeared  above  the  crest,  with  casques,  trumpets  and 
standards,  and  three  thousand  faces,  with  gray  mous- 
taches, crying  "  Vive  V Empereur!"  All  this  cavalry 
debouched  on  the  plateau,  and  it  was  like  the  beginning 
of  an  earthquake. 

All  at  once,  tragic  to  relate,  at  the  left  of  the  English, 
and  on  our  right,  the  head  of  the  column  of  cuirassiers 
reared  with  a  frightful  clamor.  Arrived  at  the  cul- 
minating point  of  the  crest,  unmanageable,  full  of  fury. 


HEART   THROBS  383 

and  bent  upon  the  extermination  of  the  squares  and 
cannons,  the  cuirassiers  saw  between  themselves  and  the 
English  a  ditch — a  grave.  It  was  the  sunken  road  of 
Ohain. 

It  was  a  frightful  moment.  There  was  the  ravine, 
unlooked  for,  yawning  at  the  very  feet  of  the  horses, 
two  fathoms  deep  between  its  double  slopes.  The  second 
rank  pushed  in  the  first,  the  third  pushed  in  the  second; 
the  horses  reared,  threw  themselves  over,  fell  upon 
their  backs,  and  struggled  with  their  feet  in  the  air, 
piling  up  and  overturning  their  riders;  no  power  to 
retreat.  The  whole  column  was  nothing  but  a  projectile. 
The  force  acquired  to  crush  the  English  crushed  the 
French.  The  inexorable  ravine  could  not  yield  until  it 
was  filled ;  riders  and  horses  rolled  in  together  pell-mell, 
grinding  each  other,  making  common  flesh  in  this  dread- 
ful gulf ;  and  when  the  grave  was  full  of  living  men,  the 
rest  rode  over  them  and  passed  on.  Almost  a  third  of 
Dubois'  brigade  sank  into  this  abyss.  Here  the  loss  of 
the  battle  began. 

A  local  tradition,  which  evidently  exaggerates,  says 
that  two  thousand  horses  and  fifteen  hundred  men  were 
buried  in  the  sunken  road  of  Ohain.  This  undoubtedly 
comprised  all  the  other  bodies  thrown  into  this  ravine 
on  the  morrow  after  the  battle. 

Napoleon,  before  ordering  this  charge  of  Milhaud's 
cuirassiers,  had  examined  the  ground,  but  could  not 
see  this  hollow  road,  which  did  not  make  even  a  wrinkle 
on  the  surface  of  the  plateau.  Warned,  however,  and 
put  on  his  guard  by  the  little  white  chapel  which  marks 


384  HEART  THROBS 


its  junction  with  the  Nivelles  road,  he  had,  probably 
on  the  contingency  of  an  obstacle,  put  a  question  to 
the  guide  Lacoste.  The  guide  had  answered  "No." 
It  may  almost  be  said  that  from  this  shake  of  a  peasant's 
head  came  the  catastrophe  of  Napoleon. 

The  cuirassiers,  relatively  few  in  number,  lessened 
by  the  catastrophe  of  the  ravine,  had  to  contend  with 
almost  the  whole  of  the  English  army;  but  they  multi- 
plied themselves — each  man  became  equal  to  ten. 
Nevertheless,  some  Hanoverian  battalions  fell  back. 
Wellington  saw  it,  and  remembered  his  cavalry.  Had 
Napoleon,  at  that  very  moment,  remembered  his  in- 
fantry, he  would  have  won  the  battle.  This  forgetful- 
ness  was  his  great,  fatal  blunder. 

Suddenly  the  assailing  cuirassiers  perceived  that 
they  werft  assailed.  The  English  cavalry  was  upon  their 
back.  Before  them  the  squares,  behind  them  Somerset — 
Somerset,  with  the  fourteen  hundred  dragoon  guards. 
Somerset  had  on  his  right  Domberg,  with  his  German 
light-horse;  and  on  his  left  Trip,  with  the  Belgian  car- 
bineers. The  cuirassiers,  attacked  front,  flank,  and  rear, 
by  infantry  and  cavalry,  were  compelled  to  face  in  all 
directions.  What  was  that  to  them?  They  were  a 
whirlwind.     Their  valor  became  unspeakable. 

The  cuirassiers  annihilated  seven  squares  out  of 
thirteen,  took  or  spiked  sixty  pieces  of  cannon,  and  took 
from  the  English  regiments  six  colors,  which  three 
cuirassiers  and  three  chasseurs  of  the  guard  carried  to 
the  Emperor  before  the  farm  of  La  Belle  Alliance.  The 
situation  of  Wellington  was  growing  worse.    This  strange 


HEART  THROBS  385 

m      m  .i—  -  —  —....        —  ■    -,.   ■■■-  .        ,,   —     —  .  ■  ■-,  ■■_■■■ _ _ —    .. ,     -■     — 

battle  was  like  a  duel  between  two  wounded  infuriates, 
who,  while  yet  fighting  and  resisting,  lose  all  their  blood. 
Which  of  the  two  shall  fall  first? 

At  five  o'clock  Wellington  drew  out  his  watch,  and 
was  heard  to  murmur  these  sombre  words,  "Blucher, 
or  night!"  It  was  about  this  time  that  a  distant  line  of 
bayonets  glistened  on  the  heights  beyond  Frichemont. 
Here  is  the  turning-point  in  this  colossal  drama. 

The  rest  is  known:  the  irruption  of  a  third  army; 
the  battle  thrown  out  of  joint;  eighty-six  pieces  of  ar- 
tillery suddenly  thundering  forth;  a  new  battle  falling 
at  nightfall  upon  our  dismantled  regiments;  the  whole 
English  line  assuming  the  offensive,  and  pushing  for- 
ward; the  gigantic  gap  made  in  the  French  army;  the 
English  grape  and  the  Prussian  grape  lending  mutual 
aid;  extermination,  disaster  in  front,  disaster  in  flank; 
the  Guard  entering  into  line  amid  the  terrible  crumbling. 

Each  battalion  of  the  Guard,  for  this  final  effort,  was 
commanded  by  a  general.  When  the  tall  caps  of  the 
grenadiers  of  the  Guard,  with  their  large  eagle-plates, 
appeared,  symmetrical,  drawn  up  in  line,  calm,  in  the 
smoke  of  that  conflict,  the  enemy  felt  respect  for  France. 
They  thought  they  saw  twenty  victories  entering  upon 
the  field  of  battle,  with  wings  extended,  and  those  who 
were  conquerors,  thinking  themselves  conquered,  recoiled; 
but  Wellington  cried,  "Up,  Guards,  and  at  them!" 

The  red  regiment  of  English  Guards,  lying  behind 
the  hedges,  rose  up.  A  shower  of  grape  riddled  the 
tri-colored  flag  fluttering  about  our  eagles;  all  hurled 
themselves  forward,  and  the  final  carnage  began.     The 


386  HEART  THROBS 

Imperial  Guard  felt  the  army  slipping  away  around 
them  in  the  gloom  and  in  the  vast  overthrow  of  the 
rout:  they  heard  the  "Sauve  qui  pent!"  which  had 
replaced  the  "  Vive  V  Empereurl"  and,  with  flight  behind 
them,  they  held  on  their  course,  battered  more  and 
more,  and  dying  faster  and  faster,  at  every  step. 

The  Prussian  cavalry,  just  come  up,  spring  forward, 
fling  themselves  upon  the  enemy,  saber,  cut,  hack, 
kill,  exterminate.  Teams  rush  off;  the  guns  are  left  to 
the  care  of  themselves;  the  soldiers  of  the  train  unhitch 
the  caissons,  and  take  the  horses  to  escape;  wagons 
upset,  with  their  four  wheels  in  the  air,  block  up  the 
road,  and  are  accessories  of  massacre. 

They  crush  and  they  crowd;  they  trample  upon 
the  living  and  the  dead.  Arms  are  broken.  A  multi- 
tude fills  roads,  paths,  bridges,  plains,  hills,  valleys, 
woods,  choked  up  by  the  flight  of  forty  thousand  men. 
Cries,  despair;  knapsacks  and  muskets  cast  into  the 
growing  rye;  passages  forced  at  the  point  of  the  sword: 
no  more  comrades,  no  more  officers,  no  more  generals; 
inexpressible  dismay. 

In  the  gathering  night,  on  a  field  near  Genappe, 
Bernard  and  Bertrand  seized  by  a  flap  of  his  coat  and 
stopped  a  haggard,  thoughtful,  gloomy  man,  who, 
dragged  thus  far  by  the  current  of  the  rout,  had  dis- 
mounted, passed  the  bridle  of  his  horse  under  hisarm, 
and,  with  bewildered  eye,  was  returning  alone  toward 
Waterloo.  It  was  Napoleon,  endeavoring  to  advance 
again — mighty  somnambulist  of  a  vanished  dream. 

Victor  Hugo. 


HEART  THROBS  387 


THE   MINUET 

Grandma  told  me  all  about  it ; 
Told  me  so  I  couldn't  doubt  it — 
How  she  danced — my  grandma  danced- 

Long  ago. 
How  she  held  her  pretty  head, 
How  her  dainty  skirt  she  spread, 
How  she  turned  her  little  toes, 
Smiling  like  a  human  rose! 

Long  ago. 

Grandma's  hair  was  bright  and  sunny, 
Dimpled  cheek,  too — oh,  how  funny! 
Really,  quite  a  pretty  girl, 

Long  ago. 
Bless  her!     Why,  she  wears  a  cap, 
Grandma  does,  and  takes  a  nap 
Every  single  day ;  and  yet 
Grandma  danced  the  minuet 

Long  ago. 

Now  she  sits  there  rocking,  rocking, 
Always  knitting  grandpa's  stocking, 
(Every  girl  was  taught  to  knit 

Long  ago.) 
Yet  her  figure  is  so  neat, 
And  her  smile  so  kind  and  sweet, 
I  can  almost  see  her  now, 
Bending  to  her  partner's  bow, 

Long  ago. 


388  HEART  THROBS 


Grandma  says  our  modern  jumping, 
Hopping,  rushing,  whirling,  bumping, 
Would  have  shocked  the  gentle  folk, 

Long  ago. 
No — they  moved  with  stately  grace, 
Everything  in  proper  place, 
Gliding  slowly  forward,  then 
Slowly  curtsying  back  again, 

Long  ago. 

Modern  ways  are  quite  alarming, 
Grandma  says ;  but  boys  were  charming- 
Girls  and  boys,  I  mean,  of  course — 

Long  ago. 
Bravely  modest,  grandly  shy — 
What  if  all  of  us  should  try 
Just  to  feel  like  those  who  met 
In  the  graceful  minuet 

Long  ago. 

With  the  minuet  in  fashion, 

Who  could  fly  into  a  passion? 

All  would  wear  the  calm  they  wore 

Long  ago. 
In  time  to  come,  if  I  perchance 
Should  tell  my  grandchild  of  our  dance, 
I  should  really  like  to  say, 
"We  did,  my  dear,  in  some  such  way, 

Long  ago." 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


HEART  THROBS  389 


IF  I  WERE  YOU 

If  I  were  you,  I  often  say- 
To  those  who  seem  to  need  advice, 

I'd  always  look  before  I  leaoed ; 
I'd  always  think  it  over  twice. 

And  then  I'd  heave  a  troubled  sigh — 

For,  after  all,  I'm  only  I. 

I'd  ne'er  discuss,  if  I  were  you, 
The  failings  of  my  fellow-men; 

I'd  think  of  all  their  virtues  first, 

And  scan  my  own  shortcomings  then. 

But  though  all  this  is  good  and  true, 

I  am  but  I ;  I  am  not  you. 

If  I  were  you  and  half  so  vain, 
Amidst  my  folly  I  would  pause 

To  see  how  dull  and  light  a  fool 
I  was  myself.    I  don't,  because — 

(And  here  I  heave  a  pitying  sigh) 

I  am  not  you;  I'm  only  I. 

If  I  were  you,  no  selfish  care 

Should  chase  my  cheery  smile  away; 
I'd  scatter  round  me  love  and  hope: 

I'd  do  a  kindness  every  day. 
But  here  again  I  find  it  true 
That  I  am  I,  and  you  are  you. 

I  would  not  be  so  very  quick 
To  take  offence,  if  I  were  you; 


390  HEART  THROBS 


I  would  respect  myself,  at  least, 

Whatever  others  say  or  do. 
Alas!  can  no  one  tell  me  why 
I  am  not  you,  instead  of  I? 

In  short,  if  I  were  only  you 

And  could  forget  that  I  was  I ; 
I  think  that  little  cherub  wings 

Would  sprout  upon  me,  by  and  by. 

George  H.  Murphy. 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  CHARLES  DICKENS 

Her  majesty  the  queen  of  Roumania  ("Carmen  Sylva")  has 
written  the  following  verses  in  commemoration  of  the  establishment 
of  the  "Tiny  Tim"  Cot  in  the  Royal  Portsmouth  Hospital  of  London: 

I  love  him  so  for  all  the  good 

His  soul  was  wont  to  see 
In  wretched,  torn,  misunderstood, 

Unknown  humanity. 

In  the  darkness  he  found  light;  in  pain 

And  error  love  divine. 
He  taught  sad  hearts  to  laugh  again, 

And  hidden  gold  to  shine. 

He  heard  the  Christmas  carols  ring, 

He  pitied  moth  and  snake, 
And  had  a  song  for  ev'ry  wing, 

And  balm  for  ev'ry  ache! 

Carmen  Sylva* 


HEART  THROBS  391 


LIBERTY   OR    DEATH! 

The  following  speech,  delivered  by  Patrick  Henry  March  23, 
1775,  in  the  Convention  of  Delegates  of  Virginia,  sounded  the  death 
knell  of  British  rule  in  the  Colonies: 

Mr.  President:  It  is  natural  to  man  to  indulge  in 
the  illusions  of  hope.  We  are  apt  to  shut  our  eyes  against 
a  painful  truth,  and  listen  to  the  song  of  that  siren,  till 
she  transforms  us  into  beasts.  Is  this  the  part  of  wise 
men,  engaged  in  a  great  and  arduous  struggle  for  lib- 
erty? Are  we  disposed  to  be  of  the  number  of  those 
who,  having  eyes,  see  not,  and  having  ears,  hear  not, 
the  things  which  so  nearly  concern  their  temporal 
salvation? 

For  my  part,  whatever  anguish  of  spirit  it  may 
cost,  I  am  willing  to  know  the  whole  truth — to  know 
the  worst,  and  to  provide  for  it.  I  have  but  one  lamp 
by  which  my  feet  are  guided,  and  that  is  the  lamp  of 
experience.  I  know  of  no  way  of  judging  of  the  future 
but  by  the  past;  and,  judging  by  the  past,  I  wish  to 
know  what  there  has  been  in  the  conduct  of  the  British 
ministry  for  the  last  ten  years  to  justify  those  hopes  with 
which  gentlemen  have  been  pleased  to  solace  themselves 
and  the  House. 

Let  us  not,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  deceive  ourselves 
longer.  Sir,  we  have  done  everything  that  could  be 
done  to  avert  the  storm  that  is  now  coming  on.  We  have 
petitioned;  we  have  remonstrated ;  we  have  supplicated; 
we  have  prostrated  ourselves  before  the  throne,  and 


392  HEART  THROBS 


have  implored  its  interposition  to  arrest  the  tyrannical 
hands  of  the  ministry  and  Parliament. 

They  tell  us,  sir,  that  we  are  weak — unable  to  cope 
with  so  formidable  an  adversary;  but  when  shall  we 
be  stronger?  Will  it  be  the  next  week,  or  the  next  year? 
Will  it  be  when  we  are  totally  disarmed,  and  when  a 
British  guard  shall  be  stationed  in  every  house?  Shall 
we  gather  strength  by  irresolution  and  inaction?  Shall 
we  acquire  the  means  of  effectual  resistance  by  lying 
supinely  on  our  backs,  and  hugging  the  delusive  phantom 
of  hope,  until  our  enemies  shall  have  bound  us  hand  and 

foot? 

Sir,  we  are  not  weak  if  we  make  a  proper  use  of 
those  means  which  the  God  of  nature  hath  placed  in 
our  power.  Three  millions  of  people,  armed  in  the  holy 
cause  of  liberty,  and  in  such  a  country  as  that  which  we 
possess,  are  invincible  by  any  force  which  our  enemy  can 
send  against  us. 

Besides,  sir,  we  shall  not  fight  our  battles  alone; 
there  is  a  just  God  who  presides  over  the  destinies  of 
nations,  and  who  will  raise  up  friends  to  fight  our  battles 
for  us.  The  battle  is  not  to  the  strong  alone:  it  is  to 
the  vigilant,  the  active,  the  brave. 

Besides,  sir,  we  have  no  election.  If  we  were  base 
enough  to  desire  it,  it  is  now  too  late  to  retire  from  the 
contest.  There  is  no  retreat,  but  in  submission  or  slav- 
ery! Our  chains  are  forged!  Their  clanking  may  be 
heard  on  the  plains  of  Boston!  The  war  is  inevitable, 
and  let  it  come!    I  repeat  it,  sir;   Let  it  come! 


HEART  THROBS  3£3 


It  is  in  vain,  sir,  to  extenuate  the  matter.  Gentle- 
men may  cry  "Peace!  peace!"  but  there  is  no  peace. 
The  war  is  actually  begun!  The  next  gale  that  sweeps 
from  the  north  will  bring  to  our  ears  the  clash  of  resound- 
ing arms!  Our  brethren  are  already  in  the  field!  Why 
stand  we  here  idle? 

What  is  it  that  gentlemen  wish?  What  would  they 
have?  Is  life  so  dear,  or  peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be  pur- 
chased at  the  price  of  chains  and  slavery?  Forbid  it, 
Almighty  God!  I  know  not  what  course  others  may  take, 
but,  as  for  me,  give  me  liberty,  or  give  me  death. 


WHEN  TIME  COMES  CREEPING 

When  I  noticed  your  ad  in  the  Fra,  asking  for  selections  for 
your  edition  of  "Heart  Throbs"  Volume  Two,  there  came  to  my 
mind  lines  written  long  ago  by  Elizabeth  Gould,  which  appealed  to 
me  because  they  are  so  pathetic  and  so  true,  for  we  forget  that  the 
inward  craving  of  old  age  conceives  of  no  apology  and  knows  no 
reason  why  the  old  time  caress  should  be  a  thing  of  the  past.  I 
recall  the  lines,  but  do  not  remember  that  there  was  any  title  to  the 
same. 

Put  your  arm  around  me — 

There,  like  that; 

I  want  a  little  petting,  at  life's  setting, 

For  'tis  harder  to  be  brave, 

When  old  time  comes  creeping, 

And  finds  us  weeping, 

Loved  ones  gone; 

Just  a  little  petting,  at  life's  setting, 

For  I'm  old,  alone,  and  tired, 

And  my  long  life's  work  is  done. 

Elizabeth  Gould. 


394  HEART  THROBS 


NOW 

If  you  have  hard  work  to  do, 

Do  it  now. 
Today  the  skies  are  clear  and  blue, 
Tomorrow  clouds  may  come  in  view, 
Yesterday  is  not  for  you; 

Do  it  now. 

If  you  have  a  song  to  sing. 

Sing  it  now. 
Let  the  notes  of  gladness  ring 
Clear  as  song  of  bird  in  Spring, 
Let  every  day  some  music  bring; 

Sing  it  now. 

If  you  have  kind  words  to  say, 

Say  them  now. 
Tomorrow  may  not  come  your  way. 
Do  a  kindness  while  you  may, 
Loved  ones  will  not  always  stay; 

Say  them  now. 

If  you  have  a  smile  to  show, 

Show  it  now. 
Make  hearts  happy,  roses  grow, 
Let  the  friends  around  you  know 
The  love  you  have  before  they  go; 

Show  it  now. 

Anon 


HEART  THROBS  395 


RECIPE  FOR  A  HAPPY  NEW  YEAR 

Take  twelve  fine,  full-grown  months,  see  that  these 
are  thoroughly  free  from  all  old  memories  of  bitterness, 
rancor,  hate  and  jealousy;  cleanse  them  completely 
from  every  clinging  spite ;  pick  off  all  specks  of  pettiness 
and  littleness;  in  short,  see  that  these  months  are  freed 
from  all  the  past — have  them  as  fresh  and  clean  as 
when  they  first  came  from  the  great  storehouse  of  Time. 

Cut  these  months  into  thirty  or  thirty-one  equal 
parts.  This  batch  will  keep  for  just  one  year.  Do  not 
attempt  to  make  up  the  whole  batch  at  one  time  (  so 
many  persons  spoil  the  entire  lot  in  this  way),  but 
prepare  one  day  at  a  time,  as  follows: 

Into  each  day  put  twelve  parts  of  faith,  eleven  of 
patience,  ten  of  courage,  nine  of  work  (some  people 
omit  this  ingredient  and  so  spoil  the  flavor  of  the  rest), 
eight  of  hope,  seven  of  fidelity,  six  of  liberality,  five  of 
kindness,  four  of  rest  (leaving  this  out  is  like  leaving  the 
oil  out  of  the  salad — don't  do  it) ,  three  of  prayer,  two  of 
meditation,  and  one  well-selected  resolution.  If  you  have 
no  conscientious  scruples,  put  in  about  a  teaspoonful  of 
good  spirits,  a  dash  of  fun,  a  pinch  of  folly,  a  sprinkling 
of  play,  and  a  heaping  cupful  of  good  humor. 

Pour  into  the  whole  love  ad  libitum  and  mix  with  a 
vim.  Cook  thoroughly  in  a  fervent  heat;  garnish  with 
a  few  smiles  and  a  sprig  of  joy;  then  serve  with  quiet- 
ness, unselfishness,  and  cheerfulness,  and  a  Happy 
New  Year  is  a  certainty. 

H.  M.  S. 


396  HEART  THROBS 


LINES  ON  BACK  OF  A  CONFEDERATE  NOTE 

Representing  nothing  on  God's  earth  now, 

And  naught  in  the  waters  below  it, 
As  a  pledge  of  a  Nation  that's  dead  and  gone, 

Keep  it,  dear  friend,  and  show  it ; 
Show  it  to  those  who  will  lend  an  ear 

To  the  tale  that  this  trifle  can  tell, 
Of  a  liberty  born  of  a  patriot's  dream, 

Of  a  storm-cradled  nation  that  fell. 
Too  poor  to  possess  the  precious  ores, 

And  too  much  of  a  stranger  to  borrow, 
We  issued  today  our  promise  to  pay, 

And  hoped  to  redeem  on  the  morrow. 
The  days  rolled  by  and  weeks  became  years, 

But  our  coffers  were  empty  still ; 
Coin  was  so  rare,  that  the  treasury'd  quake 

If  a  dollar  should  drop  in  the  till. 
But  the  faith  that  was  in  us  was  strong  indeed, 

And  our  poverty  well  we  discerned, 
And  this  little  check  represented  the  pay 

That  our  suffering  veterans  earned. 
We  knew  it  had  hardly  a  value  in  gold, 

Yet  as  gold  each  soldier  received  it — 
It  gazed  in  our  eyes  with  a  promise  to  pay, 

And  each  Southern  patriot  believed  it. 
But  our  boys  thought  little  of  price  or  of  pay, 

Or  of  bills  that  were  overdue ; 
We  knew  if  it  brought  us  our  bread  today, 

'Twas  the  best  our  poor  country  could  do. 


HEART  THROBS  397 


Keep  it ;  it  tells  all  our  history  over, 

From  the  birth  of  the  dream  to  the  last; 

Modest,  and  born  of  the  angel  Hope, 
Like  our  hope  of  success,  "it  passed." 

Major  S.  A .  Jones. 


WHICH  LOVED  BEST? 

"I  love  you,  mother,"  said  little  John; 
Then,  forgetting  his  work,  his  cap  went  on, 
And  he  was  off  to  the  garden  swing, 
And  left  her  wood  and  water  to  bring. 

"I  love  you,  mother,"  said  rosy  Nell; 
"I  love  you  better  than  tongue  can  tell." 
Then  she  teased  and  pouted  full  half  the  day, 
Till  her  mother  rejoiced  when  she  went  to  play. 

"I  love  you,  mother,"  said  little  Fan; 
"Today  I'll  help  you  all  I  can; 
How  glad  I  am  that  school  doesn't  keep!" 
So  she  rocked  the  baby  till  it  fell  asleep. 

Then  stepping  softly  she  fetched  the  broom, 
And  swept  the  floor  and  tidied  the  room; 
Busy  and  happy  all  day  was  she, 
Helpful  and  happy  as  child  could  be. 

"I  love  you,  mother,"  again  they  said — 
Three  little  children  going  to  bed. 
How  do  you  think  that  mother  guessed 
Which  of  them  really  loved  her  best?         Selected. 


398  HEART  THROBS 


MY  LITTLE  SON 

My  little  son,  my  little  son,  he  calls  to  me  forever 

Across  the  gulfs  and  through  the  mists  which  shroud 
him  from  my  sight ; 

I  hear  him  in  the  noonday,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  turmoil, 
I  hear  him,  oh,  so  plainly,  in  the  silence  of  the  night. 

My  son,  my  little  son,  I  see  in  clearest  vision 
The  merry  face,  the  deep,  clear  eyes,  the  crown  of 
golden  hair. 
But  these,  ah,  these  are  sleeping  where  the  hillside  glows 
with  sunset. 
And  the  little  boy,  my  darling  that  I  loved  so,  is  not 
there. 

My  little  son,  my  little  son,  there  are  starry  paths  at 
night-time, 
Above  the  swaying  tree-tops  where  the  birds  are  fast 
asleep ; 
Does  he  wander  up  and  down  them  with  the  winds  in 
endless  play- time? 
Does  he  read  in  sudden  manhood  all  the  wonders  of 
the  deep? 

My  little  son,  my  little  son,  he  hovers  ever  near  me, 
I  meet  him  in  the  garden  walks,  he  speaks  in  wind  and 
rain; 

He  comes  and  nestles  by  me  on  my  pillow  in  the  darkness, 
Till  the  golden  hands  of  sunrise  draw  him  back  to  God 

George  Frederick  Scott. 


HEART  THROBS  399 


YOUR   FIRST   SWEETHEART 

You  never  can  forget  her.  She  was  so  very  young 
and  innocent  and  pretty.  She  had  such  a  way  of  look- 
ing at  you  over  her  hymn  book  in  church.  She  alone,  of 
all  the  world,  did  not  think  you  a  boy  of  eighteen,  but 
wondered  at  your  size,  and  your  learning,  and  of  your 
faint  foreshadowing  of  a  sandy  moustache,  and  believed 
you  every  inch  a  man.  When  at  those  stupid  evening 
parties,  when  boys  who  should  have  been  in  the  nursery 
and  girls  who  should  have  eaten  suppers  of  bread  and 
milk  and  gone  to  sleep  hours  before,  waltzed  and  flirted, 
and  made  themselves  ill  over  oysters  and  late  suppers, 
you  were  favored  by  a  glance  of  her  eye  or  a  whisper 
from  her  lip,  you  ascended  to  the  seventh  heaven  im- 
mediately. When  once  upon  a  certain  memorable  eve 
she  polkaed  with  the  druggist's  clerk,  and  never  looked 
at  you,  how  miserable  you  were.  It  is  funny  to  think 
of  now,  but  it  was  not  so  funny  then,  for  you  were 
awfully  in  earnest. 

Once,  at  a  picnic,  she  wore  a  white  dress,  and  had 
roses  twined  in  her  black  hair,  and  she  looked  so  like 
a  bride  that  you  fairly  trembled.  Some  time,  you 
thought,  in  just  such  snowy  costume,  with  just  such 
blossoms  in  her  hair,  she  might  stand  beside  the  altar, 
and  you,  most  blessed  of  all  mortals,  might  place  a 
golden  ring  upon  her  finger;  and  when  you  were  left 
alone  with  her  for  a  moment  some  of  your  thoughts 
would  form  themselves  into  words,  and  though  she 
blushed  and  ran  away,  and  would  not  let  you  kiss  her, 


400  HEART  THROBS 

she  did  not  seem  angry.  And  then  you  were  parted, 
somehow,  for  a  little  while,  and  when  you  met  again 
she  was  walking  with  a  gentleman  of  twenty-eight  or 
thirty,  and  had  neither  word  nor  smile  for  you.  Shortly 
after  this  some  well-meaning  gossip  informed  you  that 
she  was  engaged  to  the  tall  gentleman  and  that  it  was 
a  "splendid  match."  It  was  terrible  news  to  you,  and 
sent  you  off  to  the  great  city,  where,  after  a  good  deal 
of  youthful  grief,  and  many  resolutions  to  die  and  haunt- 
her,  you  recovered  your  equanimity,  and  began  to  make 
money  and  to  call  love  stuff  and  nonsense. 

You  have  a  rich  wife  of  your  own  now,  and  grown 
children — aye,  even  two  or  three  toddling  grand- 
children about  your  hearth;  your  hair  is  gray,  and  you 
lock  your  heart  up  in  the  fireproof  safe  at  your  counting- 
house  when  you  go  home  at  night.  And  you  thought 
you  had  forgotten  that  little  episode  of  your  nineteenth 
year,  until  the  other  day  when  you  read  of  her  death. 
You  know  she  had  come  to  be  a  rather  stout  matron 
who  wore  glasses,  but  your  heart  went  back  and  you 
saw  her  smiling  and  blushing,  with  her  golden  hair, 
dreaming  of  wedding  robes  and  rings,  and  you  laid 
your  gray  old  head  upon  your  office  desk  and  wept 
for  the  memory  of  your  first  sweetheart. 

From  an  Old  Scrapbook. 


The  shallows  murmur 
But  the  deeps  are  dumb. 

Ascribed  to  Goethe. 


HEART  THROBS  401 


BABY  BELL 

Have  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar: 
With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 

Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even,— ■ 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white- winged  angels  go, 

Bearing  the  holy  dead  to  heaven. 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers, — those  feet, 
So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels, 
They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers : 
Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet! 
And  thus  came  dainty  Baby  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours. 

She  came,  and  brought  delicious  May. 

The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves; 

Like  sunlight,  in  and  out  the  leaves, 
The  robins  went  the  livelong  day ; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell ; 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 

Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine. 
How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell! 
Oh,  earth  was  full  of  singing  birds 


402  HEART  THROBS 


And  opening  spring-tide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 

Came  to  this  world  of  ours! 

Oh,  Baby,  dainty  Baby  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day! 
What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes, 
What  poetry  within  them  lay! 
Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 

So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 

As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise. 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more: 
Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 

Was  love  so  lovely  born: 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn; 
And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 
The  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Baby  came  from  Paradise), — 
For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 
We  said,  Dear  Christ! — our  hearts  bent  down 

Like  violets  after  rain. 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 
And  red  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 
Were  rich  in  autumn's  mellow  prime  • 


HEART  THROBS  403 


And  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame, 
The  soft-cheeked  peaches  blushed  and  fell, 
The  ivory  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 
The  grapes  hung  purpling  in  the  grange; 
And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 

In  little  Baby  Bell. 
Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 
And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 
In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face. 
Her  angel-nature  ripened  too: 
We  thought  her  1-ovely  when  she  came, 
But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now: — 
Around  her  pale,  angelic  brow 
We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame! 

God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 

That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech; 

And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 

Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 

She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 

We  never  held  her  being's  key; 

We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things: 
She  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees, 

We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell, — 

The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 

His  messenger  for  Baby  Bell. 

We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 

And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears. 


404  HEART  THROBS 


And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 

Like  sunshine  into  rain. 
We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 
"Oh,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God! 
Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 
And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 
Ah,  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell; 
Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 

Our  hearts  are  broken,  Baby  Bell! 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands: 
And  what  did  dainty  Baby  Bell? 

She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair! 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair, 
We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow, — 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow,— 
Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers! 
And  thus  went  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours! 

By  permission  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company.  •' 


A  LITTLE   PRAYER 

Give  me  a  calm,  a  thankful  heart, 

From  every  murmur  free ; 
The  blessings  of  Thy  grace  impart, 

And  make  me  live  to  Thee.       Anne  Steele. 


HEART  THROBS  405 

AND  THESE  WORDS  WERE   CARVED  OVER 

HIS   MANTEL 

"I  am  an  old  man  and  have  had  many  troubles,  but 
most  of  them  never  happened." 

When  the  world  seems  dark  and  you  seem  to  see 
trouble  ahead — read  the  above. 


CLARIBEL'S  PRAYER 

The  day  with  cold  gray  feet  clung  shivering  to  the  hills, 
While  o'er  the  valley  still  night's  rain-fringed  curtains 
fell, 

But  Waking  Blue  Eyes  smiled,  "  'Tis  ever  as  God  wills; 
He  knoweth  best;  and  be  it  rain  or  shine,  'tis  well. 
Praise  God!"  cried  always  little  Claribel. 

Then  sank  she  on  her  knees,  with  eager,  lifted  hands; 

Her  rosy  lips  made  haste  some  dear  request  to  tell : 
"O  Father,  smile,  and  save  this  fairest  of  all  lands, 

And  make  her  free,  whatever  hearts  rebel. 

Amen!  Praise  God!"  cried  little  Claribel. 

"And  Father," — still  arose  another  pleading  prayer — 
"Oh,  save  my  brother,  in  the  rain  of  shot  and  shell, 

Let  not  the  death-bolt,  with  its  horrid,  streaming  hair, 
Dash  light  from  those  sweet  eyes  I  love  so  well. 
Amen!  Praise  God!"  wept  little  Claribel. 

"But,  Father,  grant  that  when  the  glorious  fight  is  done, 
And  up  the  crimson  sky  the  shouts  of  Freedom  swell. 


406  HEART  THROBS 

Grant  that  there  be  no  nobler  victor  'neath  the  sun 
Than  he  whose  golden  hair  I  love  so  well. 
Amen!  Praise  God!"  cried  little  Claribel. 

When  gray  and  dreary  day  shook  hands  with  grayer 
night 
The  heavy  air  was  thrilled  with  clangor  of  a  bell. 
"Oh,  shout!"  the  herald  cried,  his  worn  eyes  brimmed 
with  light; 
"  'Tis  victory!     Oh,  what  glorious  news  to  tell!" 
"Praise  God!     He  heard  my  prayer,"  cried  Claribel. 

"But,  pray  you,  soldier,  was  my  brother  in  the  fight? 
And  in  the  fiery  rain ?     Oh ,  fought  he  brave  and  well  ?' ' 

"Dear  child,"  the  herald  cried,  "there  was  no  braver 
sight 
Than  his  young  form,  so  grand  'mid  shot  and  shell." 
"Praise  God!"  cried  trembling  little  Claribel. 

"And  rides  he  now  with  victor's  plumes  of  red, 

While    trumpets'    golden    throats    his    coming    steps 
foretell?" 

The  herald  dropped  a  tear.  "Dear  child,"  he  softly  said, 
"Thy  brother  evermore  with  conquerors  shall  dwell." 
"Praise  God!     He  heard  my  prayer,"  cried  Claribel. 

"With  victors  wearing  crowns,  and  bearing  palms,"  he 
said. 
A  snow  of  sudden  fear  upon  the  rose-lips  fell. 


HEART  THROBS  407 


Oh,  sweetest  herald,  say  my  brother  lives,"  she  plead 
Dear  child,  he  walks  with  angels,  who  in  strength 
excel. 
Praise  God,  who  gave  this  glory,  Claribel." 

The  cold  gray  day  died  sobbing  on  the  weary  hills, 
While  bitter  mourning  on  the  night-wind  rose  and  fell. 

"O  child,"  the  herald  wept,  "  'tis  as  the  dear  Lord  wills: 
He  knoweth  best,  and,  be  it  life  or  death,  'tis  well." 
"Amen!     Praise  God!"  sobbed  little  Claribel. 

Lynde  Palmer. 


REAL  VICTORY 

To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  and  night ; 
To  suffer  woes  that  hope  thinks  infinite; 
To  love  and  bear;  to  hope  till  hope  creates 
From  her  own  wrecks  the  thing  she  contemplates; 
Never  to  change,  nor  falter,  nor  repent, 
This,  like  thy  glory,  Titan,  is  to  be 
Good,  brave  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free; 
This  above  life,  love,  empire  and  victory. 

Shelley. 


Of  speech  unguarded 
Man  doth  oft  repent 
But  not  of  keeping  silence. 

King  Robert  of  Jerusalem. 


408  HEART  THROBS 


TRUE 

The  following  poem  is  noteworthy  not  only  for  its  beauty,  but 
for  the  remarkable  fact  that  its  252  words  are  all  monosyllables. 
The  poem  appears  to  have  been  written  without  a  thought  of  its 
structural  peculiarity. 

The  fair  frail  blooms  which  loved  the  sun 

Grew  faint  at  touch  of  cold, 
And  chilled  and  pale,  fell  one  by  one, 

Dead  in  the  dust  and  mold. 

In  yon  tall  tree,  now  bleached  and  thinned. 

A  nest  swings  frayed  and  lone. 
All  soaked  with  rain  and  rent  by  wind, — 

Its  fair  freight  fledged  and  flown. 

Where  are  the  birds,  the  moths,  the  bees, 

And  scores  of  glad  free  things 
Which  thronged  the  ground,  the  grass,  the  trees, 

Or  thrilled  the  air  with  wings? 

Gone  with  the  warmth,  and  bloom  and  l?ght 

Born  of  the  sun  and  sky, 
Ere  yet  there  fell  this  grief  and  blight, 

And  the  chill  night  drew  nigh. 

On  the  low  bough  that  arched  the  gate 

When  days  were  warm  and  long, 
A  wren,  that  has  no  nest  or  mate, 

Droops,  all  too  sad  for  song. 

Shorn  of  its  fruit,  still  clings  the  vine, 
Its  fair  robes  torn  and  sere ; 


HEART  THROBS  409 


No  tint  is  left,  nor  sound,  nor  sign, 
Of  all  that  June  held  dear. 

But  here,  where  down  the  dim,  wet  walks 
The  blanched  leaves  whirl  and  beat, 

One  rose  looks  through  the  bare  brown  stalks, 
And  charms  the  air  with  sweet, — 

As  one  brave  heart,  when  all  the  truth 

On  earth  seems  dead  or  lost, 
Still  keeps  the  faith  and  fire  of  youth, 

And  smiles  in  spite  of  frost. 

Ah,  though  the  friends  I  once  held  dear 

Are  far,  or  talse,  or  flown, 
I  need  not  grieve,  for  you  are  here, 

My  hope,  my  love,  my  own! 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen, 


LITTLE   THINGS 

Little  drops  of  water, 

Little  grains  of  sand, 
Make  the  mighty  ocean 

And  the  pleasant  land. 

Thus  the  little  minutes, 

Humble  though  they  be, 
Make  the  mighty  ages 

Of  eternity. 

Frances  S.  Osgood. 


410  HEART  THROBS 


SWEETHEARTS  ALWAYS 

If  sweethearts  were  sweethearts  always, 

Whether  as  maid  or  wife, 
No  drop  would  be  half  as  pleasant 

In  the  mingled  draught  of  life. 

But  the  sweetheart  has  smiles  and  blushes 
When  the  wife  has  frowns  and  sighs, 

And  the  wife's  have  a  wrathful  glitter 
For  the  glow  of  the  sweetheart's  eyes. 

If  lovers  were  lovers  always — 
The  same  to  sweetheart  and  wife, 

Who  would  change  for  a  future  of  Eden 
The  joys  of  this  checkered  life? 

But  husbands  grow  grave  and  silent, 

And  care  on  the  anxious  brow 
Oft  replaces  the  sunshine  that  perished 

With  the   words  of  the  marriage  vow. 

Happy  is  he  whose  sweetheart 

Is  wife  and  sweetheart  still — 
Whose  voice,  as  of  old,  can  charm; 

Whose  kiss,  as  of  old,  can  thrill ; 

Who  has  plucked  the  rose  to  find  ever 
Its  beauty  and  fragrance  increase, 

As  the  flush  of  passion  is  mellowed 
In  love's  unmeasured  peace. 

Daniel  O'ConnelL 


HEART  THROBS  411 

LINCOLN'S  HEART  THROBS 

(From  speech  by  Chauncey  Depew  at  centenary  celebration.) 

President  Lincoln  rarely,  with  all  his  wit,  humor 
and  faculty  for  apt  illustration,  said  anything  which 
would  hurt  the  feelings  of  his  hearer.  He  cared  little 
for  poetry,  but  in  early  youth  he  had  found  in  an  old 
almanac  a  poem  which  he  committed  to  memory  and 
repeated  often  all  through  his  life.  It  was  entitled 
"Mortality,"  and  the  first  verse  was: 

"Oh!  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud? 
Like  a  fast-flitting  meteor,  a  fast-flying  cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave, 
He  passes  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave." 

He  reverenced  the  sentiment  of  that  poem.  Prob- 
ably reminiscent  of  the  loved  and  lost  he  often  repeated 
this  verse  from  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes: 

"The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom; 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb." 

"With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity  for  all." 
This  line,  in  one  of  his  inaugurals,  summed  up  the 
philosophy  of  his  life.  He  was  six  feet  four  inches  in 
height,  with  muscles  of  steel,  and  in  early  life  among 
the  rough,  cruel,  hard-drinking  youth  of  the  neighbor- 
hood was  the  strongest  of  them  all,  but  his  strength 
was  always  used  to  protect  the  weak  against  the  strong, 
and  to  humble  the  bully,  who  is  the  terror  of   such 


412  HEART  THROBS 


communities.  During  his  youth  and  early  manhood  he 
lived  where  drinking  was  so  common  it  was  the  habit, 
and  the  young  men  were  all  addicted  to  whiskey  and 
tobacco  chewing,  but  the  singular  purity  of  his  nature 
was  such  that  notwithstanding  the  ridicule  of  his  sur- 
roundings, he  never  used  either  alcohol  or  tobacco.  He 
is  our  only  President  who  came  to  that  great  office  from 
absolutely  original  American  frontier  conditions. 

I  first  saw  Mr.  Lincoln  when  he  stepped  off  his  car 
for  a  few  minutes  at  Peekskill,  while  on  his  way  to 
Washington  for  his  inauguration.  He  was  cheerful 
[and  light-hearted,  though  he  traveled  through  crowds, 
many  of  whom  were  enemies,  part  of  the  time  in  secret 
and  all  the  time  in  danger  of  assassination.  I  met  him 
frequently  three  years  afterward  when  care,  anxiety 
and  long-continued  overwork  had  made  him  look 
prematurely  aged. 

I  was  one  of  the  committee  in  charge  of  the  funeral 
train  which  was  bearing  his  body  to  his  home  while 
on  its  way  through  the  state  of  New  York.  The  hostile 
hosts  of  four  years  before  were  now  standing  about 
the  roadway  with  bared  heads,  weeping.  As  we  sped 
over  the  rails  at  night  the  scene  was  the  most  pathetic 
ever  witnessed.  At  every  crossroads  the  glare  of  innum- 
erable torches  illumined  the  whole  population,  from 
age  to  infancy,  kneeling  on  the  ground  and  their  clergy- 
men leading  in  prayers  and  hymns.  The  casket  was 
placed  in  the  Capitol  at  Albany  that  we  all  might  have 
a  farewell  look  at  the  great  President.  The  youthful 
confidence  of  my  first  view  was  gon^,  also  the  troubled 


HEART  THROBS  413 


and  worn  look  of  the  closing  years  of  his  labors,  but 
there  rested  upon  the  pallid  face  and  noble  brow  an 
expression  in  death  of  serenity,  peace  and  happiness. 

We  are  celebrating  within  a  few  months  of  each 
other  the  tercentenary  of  Milton  and  the  centenaries 
of  Poe  and  Darwin.  Our  current  literature  of  the  daily, 
weekly  and  monthly  press  is  full  of  eulogy  of  the  Puritan 
poet,  of  his  influence  upon  English  literature  and  the 
English  language,  and  of  his  immortal  work,  "Paradise 
Lost."  There  are  not  in  this  vast  audience  twenty 
people  who  have  read  "Paradise  Lost,"  while  there  is 
scarcely  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the  United  States 
who  has  not  read  Lincoln's  speech  at  Gettysburg. 
Few  gathered  to  pay  tribute  to  that  remarkable  genius, 
Edgar  Allan  Poe,  and  yet  in  every  schoolhouse  in  the 
land  today  the  children  are  reciting  or  hearing  read 
extracts  from  the  address  of  Lincoln.  Darwin  carved 
out  a  new  era  in  scientific  research  and  established  the 
truth  of  one  of  the  most  beneficent  principles  for  the 
progress  and  growth  of  the  world.  Yet  Darwin's  fame 
and  achievements  are  for  the  select  few  in  \ht  higher 
realms  of  liberal  learning.  But  for  Lincoln  the  acclaim 
goes  up  today  to  him  as  one  of  the  few  foremost  men 
of  all  the  ages,  from  statesmen  and  men  of  letters  of 
every  land,  from  the  halls  of  Congress  and  of  the  legis- 
latures, from  the  seats  of  justice,  from  colleges  and  uni- 
versities, and  above  and  beyond  all,  from  the  home? 
of  the  plain  people  of  the  United  States. 


Chauncey  Depew. 


414  HEART  THROBS 


BORROWIN'  THE  BABY 

Good  mornin'.    My  ma  sent  me 

To  ast  you  how  you  was, 
An'  hope  you're  well — you  know  'at  is 

Th'  way  she  alius  does. 
My  ma,  she  sez  you're  strangers, 

But  then  she  kind  o'  thought 
She'd  like  to  borry  th'  baby 

'At  you  folkses  has  got. 

My  ma  sets  by  th'  window 

An'  watches  you  an'  him, 
An'  kind  o'  smiles  an'  cries  at  onct, 

'Cause  he's  like  baby  Jim. 
Who's  Jim?    He  was  our  baby — 

We  named  him  after  pa. 
Say,  can  we  borry  your  baby 

A  little  while  for  ma? 

My  ma,  she  sez  she  wouldn't 

Mind  if  your  baby  cried — 
She  sez  'at's  music  in  her  ears 

Since  little  Jim  has  died. 
She  sez  she'll  be  good  to  him, 

An'  she'd  like  a  whole  lot 
If  we  can  borry  th'  baby 

'At  you  folkses  has  got. 

Wilbur  D.  Nesbit. 

From  "The  Trail  to  Boyland."     Copyright  1904. 

By  special  permission  of  the  publishers.  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


HEART  THROBS  415 


THE  CHARACTER   OF   A   HAPPY   LIFE 

(Senator  Elihu  Root's  favorite  selection) 

How  happy  is  he  born  or  taught 

That  serveth  not  another's  will ; 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought 

And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 

Untied  unto  the  world  by  care 
Of  public  fame  or  private  breath ; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise 

Nor  vice ;  hath  ever  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise ; 

Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good : 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed, 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 

Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  His  grace  than  gifts  to  lend ; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend ; 

— This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bonds 

Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands; 

And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


216  HEART  THROBS 


OLD   GRIMES 

Old  Grimes  is  dead ;  that  good  old  man- 
We  ne'er  shall  see  him  more : 

He  used  to  wear  a  long  black  coat, 
All  buttoned  down  before. 

His  heart  was  open  as  the  day, 

His  feelings  all  were  true ; 
His  hair  was  some  inclined  to  gray, 

He  wore  it  in  a  queue. 

Whene'er  he  heard  the  voice  of  pain, 
His  breast  with  pity  burned ; 

The  large,  round  head  upon  his  cane 
From  ivory  was  turned. 

Kind  words  he  ever  had  for  all ; 

He  knew  no  base  design: 
His  eyes  were  dark  and  rather  small, 

His  nose  was  aquiline. 

He  lived  at  peace  with  all  mankind, 

In  friendship  he  was  true : 
His  coat  had  pocket-holes  behind, 

His  pantaloons  were  blue. 

Unharmed,  the  sin  which  earth  pollutes 

He  passed  securely  o'er; 
And  never  wore  a  pair  of  boots 

For  thirty  years  or  more. 


HEART  THROBS  417 

But  good  old  Grimes  is  now  at  rest, 

Nor  fears  misfortune's  frown ; 
He  wore  a  double-breasted  vest ; 

The  stripes  ran  up  and  down. 

He  modest  merit  sought  to  find, 

And  pay  it  its  desert; 
He  had  no  malice  in  his  mind, 

No  ruffles  on  his  shirt. 

His  neighbors  he  did  not  abuse, 

Was  sociable  and  gay ; 
He  wore  large  buckles  on  his  shoes, 

And  changed  them  every  day. 

His  knowledge,  hid  from  public  gaze, 

He  did  not  bring  to  view  — 
Nor  make  a  noise  town-meeting  days, 

As  many  people  do. 

His  worldly  goods  he  never  threw 

In  trust  to  Fortune's  chances; 
But  lived  (as  all  his  brothers  do) 

In  easy  circumstances. 

Thus,  undisturbed  by  anxious  cares, 

His  peaceful  moments  ran; 
And  everybody  said  he  was 

A  fine  old  gentleman. 

Albert  G.  Grtent. 


418  HEART  THROBS 


OUR  COUNTRY 

Our  Country!  whose  eagle  exults  as  he  flies 
In  the  splendor  of  noonday  broad-breasting  the  skies, 
That  from  ocean  to  ocean  the  Land  overblown 
By  the  winds  and  the  shadows  is  Liberty's  own — 
We  hail  thee!  we  crown  thee!     To  east  and  to  west 
God  keep  thee  the  purest,  the  noblest,  the  best, 
While  all  thy  domain  with  a  people  He  fills 
As  free  as  thy  winds  and  as  firm  as  thy  hills! 

Our  Country!  bright  region  of  plenty  and  peace, 
Where  the  homeless  find  refuge,  the  burdened  release, 
Where  Manhood  is  king,  and  the  stars  as  they  roll 
Whisper  courage  and  hope  to  the  lowliest  soul — 
We  hail  thee!  we  crown  thee!  To  east  and  to  west 
God  keep  thee  the  purest,  the  noblest,  the  best, 
While  all  thy  domain  with  a  people  He  fills 
As  free  as  thy  winds,  and  as  firm  as  thy  hills! 

Our  Country!  whose  story  the  angels  record — 

Fair  dawn  of  that  glorious  day  of  the  Lord 

When  men  shall  be  brothers,  and  love,  like  the  sun, 

Illumine  the  earth  till  the  nations  are  one — 

We  hail  thee!  we  crown  thee!     To  east  and  to  west 

God  keep  thee  the  purest,  the  noblest,  the  best, 

While  all  thy  domain  with  a  people  He  fills 

As  free  as  thy  winds  and  as  firm  as  thy  hills! 

Edna  Dean  Proctor. 


HEART  THROBS  419 


ALPHA  AND    OMEGA 
Alpha 

Night.     Silence.     A  struggle  for  the  light. 

And  he  did  not  know  what  light  was.  An  effort  to 
cry.    And  he  did  not  know  that  he  had  a  voice. 

He  opened  his  eyes  "and  there  was  light." 

He  had  never  used  his  eyes  before,  but  he  could  see 
with  them. 

He  parted  his  lips  and  hailed  this  world  with  a  cry 
for  help. 

A  tiny  craft  in  sight  of  new  shores;  he  wanted  his 
latitude  and  longitude.  He  could  not  tell  from  what 
port  he  had  cleared;  he  did  not  know  where  he  was. 
He  had  no  reckoning,  no  chart,  no  pilot. 

He  did  not  know  the  language  of  the  planet  upon 
which  Providence  had  cast  him.  So  he  saluted  them  in 
the  one  universal  speech  of  God's  creatures — a  cry. 
Everybody,  every  one  of  God's  children,  understands 
that. 

Nobody  knew  whence  he  came.  Someone  said: 
"He  came  from  heaven."  They  did  not  even  know 
the  name  of  the  little  life  that  came  throbbing  out  of 
the  darkness  into  the  light.  They  had  only  said:  "If 
it  should  be  a  girl." 

And  the  baby  himself  knew  as  little  about  it  as  did 
the  learned  people  gathered  to  welcome  him.  He  heard 
them  speak.  He  had  never  used  his  ears  until  now,  but 
he  could  hear  them.  "A  good  cry,"  someone  said.  He 
did  not  understand,  but  he  kept  on  crying. 


420  HEART  THROBS 


Possibly  he  had  never  entertained  any  conception 
of  the  world  into  whose  citizenship  he  was  now  received, 
but  evidently  he  did  not  like  it.  The  noises  of  it  were 
harsh  to  his  sensitive  nerves.  There  was  a  man's  voice 
— the  doctor's,  strong  and  reassuring.  And  one  was  a 
mother's  voice.  There  was  none  other  like  it.  It  was 
the  first  music  he  had  heard  in  this  world.  And  the 
sweetest. 

By  and  by  somebody  laughed  softly  and  said,  in 
coaxing  tones: 

"There — there — there — give  him  his  dinner." 

His  face  was  laid  close  against  the  fount  of  life,  warm 
and  white  and  tender.  Nobody  told  him  what  to  do. 
Nobody  taught  him.  He  knew.  Placed  suddenly  on 
the  guest  list  of  this  changing  old  caravansary,  he 
knew  his  way  at  once  to  two  places — his  bedroom  and 
the  dining-room. 

He  looked  young,  but  made  himself  at  home  with 
the  easy  assurance  of  an  old  traveler.  Knew  the  best 
room  in  the  house,  demanded  it,  and  got  it.  Nestled 
into  his  mother's  arms  as  though  he  had  been  measured 
for  them. 

Found  that  "gracious  hollow  that  God  made"  in 
his  mother's  shoulder  that  fit  his  head  as  pillows  of 
down  never  could.  Cried  when  they  took  him  away 
from  it  when  he  was  a  tiny  baby  "with  no  language 
but  a  cry." 

Cried  once  again,  twenty-five  or  thirty  years  after- 
ward, when  God  took  it  away  from  him.  All  the 
languages  he  had  learned,  and  all  the  elegant  phrasing 


HEART  THROBS  421 


the  colleges  had  taught  him,  could  not  then  voice  the 
sorrow  of  his  heart  so  well  as  the  tears  he  tried  to  check. 

Poor  little  baby!  Had  to  go  to  school  the  first  day- 
he  got  here.  He  had  to  begin  his  lessons  at  once.  Got 
praised  when  he  learned  them.  Got  punished  when  he 
missed  them. 

Bit  his  own  toes  and  cried  when  he  learned  there 
was  pain  in  this  world.  Studied  the  subject  forty  years 
before  he  learned  how  many  more  ways  suffering  can 
be  self-inflicted. 

Reached  for  the  moon  and  cried  because  he  couldn't 
get  it.  Reached  for  the  candle  and  cried  because  he 
could.  First  lessons  in  mensuration.  Took  him  fifty 
or  sixty  years  of  hard  reading  to  learn  why  God  put  so 
many  beautiful  things  out  of  our  longing  reach. 

By  and  by  he  learned  to  laugh.  That  came  later 
than  some  of  the  other  things — much  later  than  crying. 
It  is  a  higher  accomplishment.  It  is  much  harder  to 
learn  and  much  harder  to  do.  He  never  cried  unless 
he  wished  and  felt  just  like  it.  But  he  learned  to  laugh 
many,  many  times  when  he  wanted  to  cry. 

Grew  so  that  he  could  laugh  with  a  heart  so  full  of 
tears  they  glistened  in  his  eyes.  When  people  praised  his 
laughter  the  most — "it  was  in  his  very  eyes,"  they  said. 

Laughed,  one  baby  day,  to  see  the  motes  dance  in 
the  sunshine.  Laughed  at  them  once  again,  though 
not  quite  so  cheerily,  many  years  later,  when  he  discov- 
ered they  were  only  motes. 

Cried,  one  baby  day,  when  he  was  tired  of  play  and 
wanted  to  be  lifted  in  the  mother  arms  and  sung;  to 


422  HEART  THROBS 

sleep.  Cried  again  one  day  when  his  hair  was  white 
because  he  was  tired  of  work  and  wanted  to  be  lifted 
in  the  arms  of  God  and  hushed  to  rest. 

Wished  half  his  life  that  he  was  a  man.  Then  he 
turned  around  and  wished  all  the  rest  of  it  that  he  was 
a  boy. 

Seeing,  hearing,  playing,  working,  resting,  believing, 
suffering  and  loving,  all  his  life  long  he  kept  on  learning 
the  same  things  he  began  to  study  when  he  was  a  baby. 

Omega 

Until  at  last,  when  he  had  learned  all  his  lessons 
and  school  was  out,  somebody  lifted  him,  just  as  they 
had  done  at  first.  Darkened  was  the  room  and  quiet 
now,  as  it  had  been  then.  Other  people  stood  about 
him,  very  like  the  people  who  stood  there  at  that  other 
time. 

There  was  a  doctor  now,  as  then;  only  this  doctor 
wore  a  grave  look  and  carried  a  book  in  his  hand.  There 
was  a  man's  voice — the  doctor's,  strong  and  reassuring. 
There  was  a  woman's  voice,  low  and  comforting. 

The  mother  voice  had  passed  into  silence.  But  that 
was  the  one  he  could  most  distinctly  hear.  The  others 
he  heard,  as  he  heard  voices  like  them  years  ago.  He 
could  not  then  understand  what  they  said;  he  did  not 
understand  them  now. 

He  parted  his  lips  again,  but  all  his  school-acquired 
wealth  of  many-syllabled  eloquence,  all  his  clear,  lucid 
phrasing,  had  gone  back  to  the  old  inarticulate  cry. 

Somebody  at  his  bedside  wept.  Tears  now,  as  then. 
But  now  they  were  not  from  his  eyes. 


HEART  THROBS  423 


Then  someone  bending  over  him  said,  "He  came 
from  heaven,"  Now  someone,  stooping  above  him, 
said,  "He  has  gone  to  heaven."  The  blessed,  unfaltering 
faith  that  welcomed  him  now  bade  him  godspeed,  just 
as  loving  and  trusting  as  ever,  one  unchanging  thing 
in  this  world  of  change. 

So  the  baby  had  walked  in  a  little  circle  after  all, 
as  all  men,  lost  in  a  great  wilderness,  are  said  always 
to  do. 

As  was  written  thousands  of  years  ago:  "The  dove 
found  no  rest  for  the  sole  of  her  foot,  and  she  returned 
unto  him  in  the  ark." 

He  felt  weary  now,  as  he  was  tired  then.  By  and 
by,  having  then  for  the  first  time  opened  his  eyes,  now 
for  the  last  time  he  closed  them.  And  so,  as  one  who 
in  the  gathering  darkness  retraces  his  steps  by  a  half- 
remembered  path,  much  in  the  same  way  as  he  had 
come  into  this  world  he  went  out  of  it. 

Silence.    Light.  R.  J.  Burdette. 

From  "  Chimes  From  a  Jester's  Bells,"  copyright  1897. 

Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


I  am  not  bound  to  win,  but  I  am  bound  to  be  true. 
I  am  not  bound  to  succeed,  but  I  am  bound  to  live  up 
to  what  light  I  have.  I  must  stand  with  anybody  that 
stands  right;  stand  with  him  while  he  is  right,  and  part 
with  him  when  he  goes  wrong. 

Abraham  Lincoln. 


424  HEART  THROBS 


THE  BREAKING  PLOW 

I  am  the  plow  that  turns  the  sod 

That  has  lain  for  a  thousand  years ; 
Where  the  prairie's  wind-tossed  flowers  nod 

And  the  wolf  her  wild  cub  rears, 
I  come,  and  in  my  wake,  like  rain, 

Is  scattered  the  golden  seed ; 
I  change  the  leagues  of  lonely  plain 
To  fruitful  gardens  and  fields  of  grain 

For  men  and  their  hungry  breed. 

I  greet  the  earth  in  its  rosy  morn, 

I  am  first  to  stir  the  soil, 
I  bring  the  glory  of  wheat  and  corn 

For  the  crowning  of  those  who  toil ; 
I  am  civilization's  seal  and  sign 

Yea,  I  am  the  mighty  pen 
That  writes  the  sod  with  a  pledge  divine, 
A  promise  to  pay  with  bread  and  wine 

For  the  sweat  of  honest  men. 

I  am  the  end  of  things  that  were, 

And  the  birth  of  things  to  be, 
My  coming  makes  the  earth  to  stir 

With  a  new  and  strange  decree; 
After  its  slumbers,  deep  and  long, 

I  waken  the  drowsy  sod, 
And  sow  my  furrow  with  lifts  of  song 
To  gladden  the  heart  of  the  mighty  throng 

Slow  feeling  the  way  to  God. 


HEART  THROBS  425 

■  —  --  — i^ 

A  thousand  summers  the  prairie  rose 

Has  gladdened  the  hermit  bee, 
A  thousand  winters  the  drifting  snows 

Have  whitened  the  grassy  sea; 
Before  me  curls  the  wavering  smoke 

Of  the  Indian's  smoldering  fire, 
Behind  me  rise  — was  it  God  who  spoke?— 
At  the  toil -enchanted  hammer's  stroke, 

The  town  and  the  glittering  spire. 

I  give  the  soil  to  the  one  who  does, 

For  the  joy  of  him  and  his, 
I  rouse  the  slumbering  world  that  was 

To  the  diligent  world  that  is ; 
Oh,  seer  with  vision  that  looks  away 

A  thousand  years  from  now, 
The  marvelous  nation  your  eyes  survey, 
Was  born  of  the  purpose  that  here,  today, 

Is  guiding  the  breaking  plow. 

By  permission.  Nixon  Waterman, 


JUDGE   NOT 

In  men  whom  men  condemn  as  ill, 

I  find  so  much  of  goodness  still ; 

In  men  whom  men  pronounce  divine, 

I  find  so  much  of  sin  and  blot, 
I  hesitate  to  draw  a  line 

Between  the  two,  where  God  has  not. 

By  permission.  Joaquin  MUlef. 


426  HEART  THROBS 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE  OCEAN 

It  was  in  description  and  meditatioi.  that  Byron  excelled. 
.  .  t  (Yet).  His  descriptions,  great  as  was  their  intrinsic  merit, 
derived  their  principal  interest  from  the  feeling  which  always 
mingled  with  them.  He  was  himself  the  beginning,  the  middle  and 
the  end  of  all  his  own  poetry,  the  hero  of  every  tale,  the  chief  object 
in  every  landscape.  Harold,  Lara,  Manfred  and  a  crowd  of  other 
characters  were  universally  considered  merely  as  loose  incognitos 
of  Byron;  and  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  meant  them 
to  be  so  considered.  The  wonders  of  the  outer  world,  the  Tagus 
with  the  mighty  fleets  of  England  riding  on  its  bosom,  the  towers 
of  Cintra  overhanging  the  shaggy  forest  of  cork  trees  and  willows, 
the  glaring  marble  of  Pentelicus,  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  the 
glaciers  of  Clarens,  the  sweet  lake  of  Leman,  the  dell  of  Egeria, 
with  its  summer  birds  and  rustling  lizards,  the  shapeless  ruins  of 
Rome  overgrown  with  ivy  and  wallflowers,  the  stars,  the  sea,  the 
mountains,  all  were  mere  accessories,  the  background  to  one  dark 
and  melancholy  figure. — Macaulay. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature  more 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  universe  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 
Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  roll! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore ;  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 


HEART  THROBS  427 

He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths — thy  fields 

Are  not  a  spoil  for  him — thou  dost  arise 

And  shake  him  from  thee;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 

For  earth's  destruction,  thou  dost  all  despise, 

Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 

And  send'st  him  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 

And  howling,  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 

His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 

And  dashest  him  to  earth  again — there  let  him  lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee  and  arbiter  of  war; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave  or  savage ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts — not  so  thou 
Unchangeable,  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play. 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow; 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 


428  HEART  THROBS 


Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 

Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time, 

Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale  or  storm, 

Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 

Dark-heaving;  boundless,  endless  and  sublime; 

The  image  of  eternity — the  throne 

Of  the  Invisible;  e'en  from  thy  slime 

The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 

Obeys  thee;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean;  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward;  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror,  'twas  a  pleasing  fear; 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do  here. 

Byron. 

FORGET  THEE? 

"Forget  thee?" — If  to  dream  by  night  and  muse  on  thee 

by  day, 
If  all  the  worship,  deep  and  wild,  a  poet's  heart  can  pay, 
If  prayers  in  absence  breathed  for  thee  to  Heaven's 

protecting  power, 
If  winged  thoughts  that  flit  to  thee — a  thousand  in  an 

hour, 


HEART  THROBS  429 


If  busy  Fancy  blending  thee  with  all  my  future  lot — 
If  this  thou  call'st  "forgetting,"  thou  shalt  be  forgot! 

"Forget  thee?" — Bid  the  forest-birds  forget  their 
sweetest  tune; 

"Forget  thee?" — Bid  the  sea  forget  to  swell  beneath 
the  moon; 

Bid  the  thirsty  flowers  forget  to  drink  the  eve's  refreshing 
dew; 

Thyself  forget  thine  "own  dear  land,"  and  its  "moun- 
tains wild  and  blue;" 

Forget  each  old  familiar  face,  each  long-remembered 
spot ; — 

When  these  things  are  forgot  by  thee,  then  thou  shalt 
be  forgot! 

Keep,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  maiden  peace,  still  calm  and 

fancy-free, 
For  God  forbid  thy  gladsome  heart  shall  grow  less  glad 

for  me ; 
Yet,  while  that  heart  is  still  unwon,  O  bid  not  mine  to 

rove, 
But  let  it  nurse  its  humble  faith  and  uncomplaining 

love; 
If  these,  preserved  for  patient  years,  at  last  avail  me 

not, 
Forget  me  then; — but  ne'er  believe  that  thou  canst  be 

forgot! 

John  Moultrie. 


430  HEART  THROBS 


JOSH  BILLINGS  ON  GONGS 

Josh  Billings  relateth  his  first  experience  with  the 
gong  thusly: 

I  never  can  erradicate  holi  from  mi  memory  the 
sound  ov  the  fust  gong  I  ever  herd.  I  was  settin  on  the 
front  steps  ov  a  tavern  in  the  sitty  of  Buffalo,  pensively 
smokin.  The  sun  was  goin  to  bed,  and  the  hevins  for 
an  hour  was  blushin  at  the  performance.  The  Ery 
knal,  with  its  golden  waters,  was  on  its  way  to  Albany, 
and  I  was  perusin  the  line  botes  a  flotin  by,  and  thinkin 
ov  Italy  (where  I  usen  to  liv),  and  her  gondolers  and 
gallus  wimmin.  My  entire  sole  wuz,  as  it  were,  in  a 
swet.    I  wanted  to  klime,  I  felt  grate,  I  actually  grew. 

There  are  things  in  this  life  tu  big  tu  be  trifled  with; 
there  are  times  when  a  man  breakes  luce  from  hisself, 
when  he  sees  sperrets,  when  he  can  almost  tuch  the 
mune,  and  feel  as  tho  he  kud  fill  both  hands  with  the 
stars  uv  hevin,  and  almost  sware  he  was  a  bank  presi- 
dent.   That's  what  ailed  me. 

But  the  korse  of  true  luv  never  did  run  smoothe 
(this  is  Shakespeare's  opinion,  too).  Just  as  I  was  duin 
my  bes  — dummer,  dummer,  spat,  bang,  beller,  crash, 
roar,  ram,  dummer,  dummer,  whang,  rip,  rare,  rally, 
dummer,  dummer,  dum — with  a  tremenjus  jump  I 
struck  the  center  ov  the  sidewalk,  with  another  I  cleared 
the  gutter,  and  with  another  I  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  street  snortin  like  an  Indian  pony  at  a  band  of 
music. 

I  gazed  in  wild  despair  at  the  tavern   stand,  mi 


HEART  THROBS  431 

hart  swelling  up  as  big  as  a  outdoor  oven,  my  teeth 
was  as  luce  as  a  string  of  bedes,  I  thot  all  the  crockery 
in  the  tavern  had  fell  down,  I  thot  of  fenomenons,  I 
thot  of  Gabrel  and  his  horn;  I  was  jest  on  the  pint  ov 
thinken  ov  somethin  else  when  the  landlord  kum  out 
on  the  frunt  stupe  ov  the  tavern,  holdin  by  a  string  the 
bottom  ov  a  old  brass  kettle.  He  kawled  me  gently 
with  his  hand.  I  went  slola  and  slola  up  to  him,  he 
kammed  my  fears,  he  said  it  was  a  gong,  I  saw  the 
kussed  thing,  he  said  supper  was  ready,  and  axed  me 
ef  I  wud  have  black  or  green  tee,  and  I  sed  I  wud. 


THE  FUTURE 

'Tis  well  that  the  future  is  hid  from  our  sight, 
That  we  walk  in  the  sunshine,  nor  dream  of  the  cloud, 

We  cherish  a  flower,  think  not  of  the  blight, 

And  dream  of  the  loom  that  may  weave  us  a  shroud. 

It  was  good,  it  was  kind  in  the  Wise  One  above 
To  fling  Destiny's  veil  o'er  the  face  of  our  years, 

So  we  see  not  the  blow  that  shall  strike  at  our  love, 
And  expect  not  the  beam  that  shall  dry  up  our  tears. 

Though  the  cloud  may  be  dark,  there  is  sunshine  beyond 
it, 

Though  the  night  may  be  long,  yet  the  morning  is  near ; 
Though  the  vale  may  be  deep,  there  is  music  around  it, 

And  hope  'mid  our  sorrow,  bright  hope  is  still  near. 

Anon. 


432  HEART  THROBS 


SEVEN  TIMES  THREE 
Love 

I  leaned  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the  white  clover, 
Dark,  dark  was  the  garden,  I  saw  not  the  gate; 
"Now,  if  there  be  footsteps,  he  comes,  my  one  lover- 
Hush;  nightingale,  hush!  O  sweet  nightingale,  wait 
Till  I  listen  and  hear 
If  a  step  draweth  near, 
For  my  love  he  is  late! 

"The  skies  in  the  darkness  stoop  nearer  and  nearer, 

A  cluster  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  in  the  tree, 
The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter,  comes  clearer; 
To  what  art  thou  listening,  and  what  dost  thou  see? 
Let  the  star-clusters  glow, 
Let  the  sweet  waters  flow, 
And  cross  quickly  to  me. 

"You  night-moths  that  hover  where  honey  brims  over 

From  sycamore  blossoms,  or  settle  or  sleep; 
You  glow-worms,  shine  out,  and  the  pathway  discover 
To  him  that  comes  darkling  along  the  rough  steep. 
Ah,  my  sailor,  make  haste, 
For  the  time  runs  to  waste, 
And  my  love  lieth  deep — 

"Too  deep  for  swift  telling;  and  yet,  my  one  lover, 
I've  conned  thee  an  answer,  it  waits  thee  tonight." 

By  the  sycamore  passed  he,  and  through  the  white  clover, 
Then  all  the  sweet  speech  I  had  fashioned  took  flight; 


HEART  THROBS 433 

But  I'll  love  him  more,  more 
Than  e'er  wife  loved  before, 
Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 

Jean  Ingel&w* 

PET'S  PUNISHMENT 

Oh,  if  my  love  offended  me, 

And  we  had  words  together, 
To  show  her  I  would  master  be, 

I'd  whip  her  with  a  feather! 

If  then  she,  like  a  naughty  girl, 

Would  tyranny  declare  it, 
I'd  give  my  pet  a  cross  of  pearl, 

And  make  her  always  bear  it. 

If  still  she  tried  to  sulk  and  sigh, 

And  threw  away  my  posies, 
I'd  catch  my  darling  on  the  sly, 

And  smother  her  with  roses. 

But  should  she  clench  her  dimpled  fists, 

Or  contradict  her  better? 
I'd  manacle  her  tiny  wrists 

With  dainty  jeweled  fetters. 

And  if  she  dared  her  lips  to  pout, 

Like  many  pert  young  misses, 
I'd  wind  my  arm  her  waist  about, 

And  punish  her — with  kisses! 

/.  Ashby-Sterry. 


434  HEART  THROBS 


THE  LAW  OF  OBEDIENCE 

The  first  item  in  the  common -sense  creed  is 
obedience. 

Do  your  work  with  a  whole  heart!  Revolt  is  some- 
times necessary,  but  the  man  who  mixes  revolt  and 
obedience  is  doomed  to  disappoint  himself  and  everybody 
with  whom  he  has  dealings.  To  flavor  work  with 
protest  is  to  fail  absolutely. 

When  you  revolt,  why,  revolt — climb,  get  out, 
hike,  defy — tell  everybody  and  everything  to  go  to 
limbo!  That  disposes  of  the  case.  You  thus  separate 
yourself  entirely  from  those  you  have  served — no  one 
misunderstands  you — you  have  declared  yourself. 

But  to  pretend  to  obey,  and  yet  carry  in  your  heart 
the  spirit  of  revolt,  is  to  do  half-hearted  and  slipshod 
work. 

If  revolt  and  obedience  are  equal,  your  engine  will 
stop  on  the  center  and  you  benefit  nobody,  not  eveo 
yourself. 

The  spirit  of  obedience  is  the  controlling  impulse 
of  the  receptive  mind  and  the  hospitable  heart. 

There  are  boats  that  mind  the  helm  and  boats  that 
don't.  Those  that  don't  get  holes  knocked  in  them 
sooner  or  later. 

To  keep  off  the  rocks  obey  the  rudder. 

Obedience  is  not  to  lavishly  obey  this  man  nor  that, 
but  it  is  that  cheerful  mental  condition  which  responds 
to  the  necessity  of  the  case  and  does  the  thing. 

Obedience  to  the  institution — loyalty!    The  man  who 


HEART  THROBS  435 

has  not  learned  to  obey  has  trouble  ahead  of  him  every 
step  of  the  way — the  world  has  it  in  for  him  because 
he  has  it  in  for  the  world. 

The  man  who  does  not  know  how  to  receive  orders 
is  not  fit  to  issue  them.     But  he  who  knows  how  to 
execute  orders  is  preparing  the  way  to  give  them,  and 
better  still — to  have  them  obeyed. 
By  permission.  Elbert  Hubbard. 


AN  EVENT 


You  see  him  strut  along  the  streets 

His  head  is  in  the  air ; 
A  wondrous  thing  has  just  occurred, 

And  he  has  time  to  spare 
In  which  to  tell,  with  much  detail  - 

This  great  event  to  you. 
"Last  night,"  he  whispers,  "just  at  eight 

My  baby  said,  'Ah  goo!'" 

Kingdoms  may  totter  on  their  base 

And  in  some  deep  abyss 
Kings  fall,  but  all  things  else  are  naught 

Compared  with  news  like  this. 
The  household  gods  are  upside  down 

And  there  is  more  ado 
Than  moving  time  or  cleaning  time 

When  baby  says,  "Ah  goo!" 

By  permission  Life  Publishing  Compe  Tottl  Mas  SOU. 


436  HEART  THROBS 


OLD   FRIENDS 

There  are  no  friends  like  old  friends, 

And  none  so  good  and  true ; 
We  greet  them  when  we  meet  them, 

As  roses  greet  the  dew ; 
No  other  friends  are  dearer, 

Though  born  of  kindred  mold; 
And  while  we  prize  the  new  ones, 

We  treasure  more  the  old. 

There  are  no  friends  like  old  friends, 

Where'er  we  dwell  or  roam, 
In  lands  beyond  the  ocean, 

Or  near  the  bounds  of  home; 
And  when  they  smile  to  gladden, 

Or  sometimes  frown  to  guide, 
We  fondly  wish  those  old  friends 

Were  always  by  our  side. 

There  are  no  friends  like  old  friends. 

To  help  us  with  the  load 
That  all  must  bear  who  journey 

O'er  life's  uneven  road; 
And  when  unconquered  sorrows, 

The  weary  hours  invest, 
The  kindly  words  of  old  friends 

Are  always  found  the  best. 

There  are  no  friends  like  old  friends, 
To  calm  our  frequent  fears, 


HEART  THROBS  437 


When  shadows  fall  and  deepen 
Through  life's  declining  years; 

And  when  our  faltering  footsteps 
Approach  the  Great  Divide, 

We'll  long  to  meet  the  old  friends 
Who  wait  the  other  side. 

David  Banks  Sickles. 


UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE 

Under  the  greenwood  tra 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 

And  tune  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither; 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun, 

And  loves  to  lie  i'  the  sun, 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats 

And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither; 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Shakespeare. 


438  HEART  THROBS 


SNOWBOUND 

O  Time  and  Change! — with  hair  as  gray 

As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day, 

How  strange  it  seems  with  so  much  gone 

Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on! 

Ah,  brother!  only  I  and  thou 

Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now, — 

The  dear  home  faces  whereupon 

That  fitful  firelight  paled  and  shone. 

Henceforward,  listen  as  we  will, 

The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still; 

Look  where  we  may  the  wide  earth  o'er 

Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more. 

We  tread  the  paths  their  feet  have  worn, 

We  sit  beneath  their  orchard  trees, 

We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees 

And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn; 

We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read, 

Their  written  words  we  linger  o'er, 

But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 

No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made, 

No  step  is  on  the  conscious  floor! 

Yet  Love  will  dream,  and  Faith  will  trust 

(Since  He  who  knows  our  needs  is  just) 

That  somehow,  somewhere,  meet  we  must. 

Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 

The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress  trees! 

Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away, 

Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day» 


HEART  THROBS  439 

Across  the  mournful  marbles  play! 
Who  hath  not  learned  in  hours  of  faith, 
The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 
That  life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 
And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own! 

By  permission  W  ntUXCf, 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


WHAT  WAS   HIS   CREED? 

"Religion  relates  to  life,  and  the  life  of  religion  is  to  do  good.*'— » 
Swedenborg. 

He  left  a  load  of  anthracite 

In  front  of  a  poor  woman's  door 
When  the  deep  snow,  frozen  and  white, 

Wrapped  street  and  square,  mountain  and  moor. 
That  was  his  deed;  he  did  it  well. 
What  was  his  creed?     I  cannot  tell. 

"Blessed  in  his  basket  and  his  store" 

In  sitting  down  and  rising  up 
The  more  he  got,  the  more  he  gave, 

Withholding  not  the  crust  and  cup. 
He  took  the  lead  in  each  good  task 
What  was  his  creed?     I  do  not  ask. 

His  charity  was  like  the  snow 

Soft,  white  and  silent  as  its  fall 
Not  like  the  noisy  winds  that  blow 

From  shivering  trees  the  leaves  a  pall 


440  HEART  THROBS 


For  flowers  and  weed  drooping  below, 
What  was  his  creed?     The  poor  may  know. 

He  had  great  faith  in  loaves  of  bread, 
For  hungry  people,  young  and  old, 

Hope  he  inspired;  kind  words  he  said 
To  those  he  sheltered  from  the  cold. 

For  we  should  feed  as  well  as  pray, 

What  was  his  creed?     I  cannot  say. 

In  words  he  did  not  put  his  trust 
His  faith  in  words  he  never  writ, 

He  loved  to  share  his  cup  and  crust 
With  all  mankind  who  needed  it. 

In  time  of  need  a  friend  was  he. 

What  was  his  creed?     He  told  not  me. 

He  put  his  faith  in  goodness,  and  he 
Worked  well  with  hand  and  head, 

And  what  he  gave  in  charity 

Sweetened  his  sleep  and  daily  bread. 

Let  us  take  heed,  for  life  is  brief. 

What  was  his  creed?     What's  his  belief? 

Author  uk known. 


REMEMBER 


You  do  not  have  to  fight — 
You  do  not  have  to  struggle — 
You  only  have  to  know. 

Author  unknown. 


HEART  THROBS  441 


HANNAH  JANE 

She  isn't  half  so  handsome  as  when  twenty  years  agone, 
At  her  old  home  in  Piketon,  Parson  Avery  made  us  one; 
Th'  great  house  crowded  full  of  guests  of  every  degree, 
The  girls  all  envying  Hannah  Jane,  the  boys  all  envying 
me. 

Her  fingers  then  were  taper,  and  her  skin  as  white  as 

milk, 
Her  brown  hair — what  a  mess  it  was!  and  soft  and  fine 

as  silk; 
No  wind-moved  willow  by  a  brook  had  ever  such  a  grace, 
The  form  of  Aphrodite,  with  a  pure  Madonna  face. 

She  had  but  meager  schooling ;  her  little  notes  to  me 

Were  full  of  crooked  pothooks,  and  the  worst  orthog- 
raphy; 

Her  "dear"  she  spelled  with  double  e,  and  kiss  with  but 
one  5, 

But  when  one's  crazed  with  passion,  what's  a  letter  more 
or  less? 

She  blundered  in  her  writing,  and  she  blundered  when 

she  spoke, 
And  every  rule  of  syntax  that  old  Murray  made  she 

broke ; 
But  she  was  beautiful  and  fresh,  and  I — well,  I  was 

young; 
Her  form  and  face  o'er  balanced  all  the  blunders  of  her 

tongue. 


442  HEART  THROBS 

I  was  but  little  better.     True,  I'd  longer  been  at  school; 
My  tongue  and  pen  were  run,  perhaps,  a  little  more  by 

rule; 
But  that  was  all.     The  neighbors  round,  who  both  of  us 

well  knew, 
Said — which  I  believed — she  was  the  better  of  the  two. 

All's  changed ;  the  light  of  seventeen's  no  longer  in  her 

eyes; 
Her  wavy  hair  is   gone — that   loss   the   coiffeur's   art 

supplies ; 
Her  form  is  thin  and  angular;  she  slightly  forward  bends; 
Her  fingers  once  so  shapely  now  are  stumpy  at  the  ends. 

She  knows  but  very  little,  and  in  little  are  we  one; 
The  beauty  rare  that  more  than  hid  that  great  defect  is 

gone. 
My  parvenu  relations  now  deride  my  homely  wife, 
And  pity  me  that  I  am  tied  to  such  a  clod  for  life. 

I  know  there  is  a  difference ;  at  reception  and  levee, 
The  brightest,  wittiest  and  most  famed  of  women  smile 

on  me; 
And  everywhere  I  hold  my  place  among  the  greatest  men, 
And  sometimes  sigh  with  Whittier's  judge,  "Alas!    it 

might  have  been." 

When  they  all  crowd  around  me,  stately  dames  and 
brilliant  belles, 

And  yield  to  me  the  homage  that  all  great  success  com- 
pels, 


HEART  THROBS  443 

Discussing  art  and  statecraft,  and  literature  as  well, 
From  Homer  down  to  Thackeray,  and  Swedenborg  on 
"Hell," 

I  can't  forget  that  from  these  streams  my  wife  has  never 

quaffed, 
Has  never  with  Ophelia  wept,  nor  with  Jack  Falstaff 

laughed ; 
Of  authors,  actors,  artists — why,  she  hardly  knows  the 

names ; 
She  slept  while  I  was  speaking  on  the  Alabama  Claims. 

I  can't  forget — just  at  this  point  another  form  appears — 
The  wife  I  wedded  as  she  was  before  my  prosperous  years; 
I  travel  o'er  the  dreary  road  we  traveled  side  by  side, 
And  wonder  what  my  share  would  be,  if  Justice  should 
decide. 

She  had  four  hundred  dollars  left  her  from  the  old  estate ; 
On  that  we  married,  and  thus  poorly  armored,  faced  our 

fate. 
I  wrestled  with  my  books ;  her  task  was  harder  far  than 

mine — 
'Twas  how  to  make  two  hundred  dollars  do  the  work  of 

nine. 

At  last  I  was  admitted;  then  I  had  my  legal  lore, 

An  office  with  a  stove  and  desk,  of  books  perhaps  a  score ; 

She  had  her  beauty  and  her  youth,  and  some  housewifely 

skill, 
And  love  for  me,  and  faith  in  me,  and  back  of  that  a  will. 


444  HEART  THROBS 


Ah!  how  she  cried  for  joy  when  my  first  legal  fight  was 

won, 
When  our  eclipse  passed  partly  by,  and  we  stood  in  the 

sun! 
The  fee  was  fifty  dollars — 'twas  the  work  of  half  a  year — 
First  captive,  lean  and  scraggy,  of  my  legal  bow  and 

spear. 

I  well  remember  when  my  coat  (the  only  one  I  had) 
Was  seedy  grown  and  threadbare,  and  in  fact,  most 

"shocking  bad." 
The  tailor's  stern  remark  when  I  a  modest  order  made ; 
"Cash  is  the  basis,  sir,  on  which  we  tailors  do  our  trade." 

Her  winter  cloak  was  in  his  shop  by  noon  that  very  day; 
She  wrought  on  hickory  shirts  at  night  that  tailor's  skill 

to  pay ; 
I  got  a  coat  and  wore  it;  but  alas!  poor  Hannah  Jane 
Ne'er  went  to  church  or  lecture  till  warm  weather  came 

again. 

Our  second  season  she  refused  a  cloak  of  any  sort, 
That  I  might  have  a  decent  suit  in  which  t'  appear  in 

court; 
She  made  her  last  year's  bonnet  do,  that  I  might  have 

a  hat; 
Talk  of  the  old-time,  flame-enveloped  martyrs  after  that! 

No  negro  ever  worked  so  hard,  a  servant's  pay  to  save, 
She  made  herself  most  willingly  a  household  drudge  and 
slave. 


HEART   THROBS  445 

What  wonder  that  she  never  read  a  magazine  or  book, 
Combining  as  she  did  in  one,  nurse,  housemaid,  seam- 
stress, cook! 

What  wonder  that  the  beauty  fled  that  I  once  so  adored! 
Her  beautiful  complexion  my  fierce  kitchen  fire  devoured ; 
Her  plump,  soft,  rounded  arm  was  once  too  fair  to  be 

concealed ; 
Hard  work  for  me  that  softness  into  sinewy  strength 

congealed. 

I  was  her  altar,  and  her  love  the  sacrificial  flame; 
Ah!  with  what  pure  devotion  she  to  that  altar  came, 
And,  tearful,  flung  thereon — alas!     I  did  not  know  it 

then — 
All  that  she  was,  and  more  than  that,  all  that  she  might 

have  been! 

At  last  I  won  success.     Ah!  then  our  lives  were  wider 

parted ; 
I  was  far  up  the  rising  road;   she,  poor  girl,  where  we 

started. 
I  had  tried  my  speed  and  mettle,  and  gained  strength 

in  every  race; 
T  was  far  up  the  heights  of  life — she  drudging  at  the  base. 

She  made  me  take  each  fall  the  stump;   she  said  'twas 

my  career; 
The  wild  applause  of  list'ning  crowds  was  music  to  my 

ear. 
What  stimulus  had  she  to  cheer  her  dreary  solitude? 
For  me  she  lived  on  gladly  in  unnatural  widowhood. 


446  HEART  THROBS 

She  couldn't  read  my  speech,  but  when  the  papers  all 

agreed 
'Twas  the  best  one  of  the  session,  those  comments  she 

could  read; 
And  with  a  gush  of  pride  thereat,  which  I  had  never  felt, 
She  sent  them  to  me  in  a  note  with  half  the  words 

misspelt. 

At  twenty-eight  the  State  House ;  on  the  bench  at  thirty- 
three  ; 

At  forty  every  gate  in  life  was  opened  wide  to  me. 

I  nursed  my  powers  and  grew,  and  made  my  point  in 
life,  but  she — 

Bearing  such  pack-horse  weary  loads,  what  could  a 
woman  be? 

What  could  she  be?     Oh,  shame!     I  blush  to  think  what 

she  has  been, 
The  most  unselfish  of  all  wives  to  the  selfishest  of  men. 
Yes,  plain  and  homely  now  she  is;    she's  ignorant,  'tis 

true; 
For  me  she  rubbed  herself  quite  out — I  represent  th« 

two. 

Well,  I  suppose  that  I  might  do  as  other  men  have  done — 

First  break  her  heart  with  cold  neglect,  then  ihove  her 
out  alone. 

The  world  would  say  'twas  well,  and  more,  would  give 
great  praise  to  me, 

For  having  borne  with  "such  a  wife"  so  uncomplain- 
ingly. 


HEART   THROBS  447 

And  shall  I?     No!  the  contract  'twixt  Hannah,  God  and 

me, 
Was  not  for  one  or  twenty  years,  but  for  eternity. 
No  matter  what  the  world  may  think,  I  know,  down  in 

my  heart, 
That,  if  either,  I'm  delinquent;  she  has  bravely  done  her 

part. 

There's  another  world  beyond  this;  and  on  the  final  day, 
Will  intellect  and  learning  'gainst  such  devotion  weigh? 
When  the  great  one,  made  of  us  two,  is  torn  apart  again, 
I'll  yield  the  palm,  for  God  is  just,  and  he  knows  Hannah 
Jane. 

Petroleum  V.  Nasby  (D.  R.  Locke), 


INDEX 


TITLES  AND  AUTHORS 


■ibide  with  Me.    W.  H.  Monk 353 

adventure  on  Wheels,  An.    Anon 300 

Aged  Stranger,  The.    Bret  Harte 290 

Aladdin.     Lowell 184 

Alpha  and  Omega.    R.  J.  Burdette 419 

America  to  England.    M.J.  Savage 155 

And  These  Words  Were  Carved  over  His 

Mantel    405 

Anthem,  An.    Selected 45 

Antony  in  Arms.    Robert  Buchanan 255 

Apostrophe  to  Jesus.    Ernest  Renan.  . . .   125 

Autumn  Thoughts.    Bill  Nye 171 

Average  Man,  The.    Margaret  E.Sangster     24 

Baby  Bell.    Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 401 

Baby,  The.   George  MacDonald 174 

Ballade  of  Riches.  Edward  Wilbur  Mason  205 
battle  Flag  of  Earl  Sigurd,  The.  .4  non . .  61 
Rattle  of  Waterloo.  The.  Victor  Hugo.  .  381 
Beautiful  Allegory,  A.     Portland   (Me.) 

Transcript.  1851 173 

Beautiful  Snow.    John  W.  Watson 123 

Because  of  Some  Good  Act.    Anon 190 

Because  You  Love  Me.  Pall  Mall  Maga- 
zine      311 

Beethoven's  Moonlight  Sonata.    Anon..       9 

Being  Content.    Anon 152 

Bells,  The.   Edgar  Allan  Poe 312 

Be  Sure.   Frank  W.Gunsaulus,  D.D 372 

Between  the  Lights.    Selected 23 

Bewitched  Clock,  The.    Anon 268 

Bible  "Heart  Throb,"  A.    John  xiv:  1,  2, 

3  27  42 

Bibie,  The. '  Rev.t.  DeWitt '  Talmage .'.'.'.  29 
Bill's  in  Trouble.  James  Barton  Adams.  48 
Bingen  on  the  Rhine.  Caroline  Norton .  .  166 
Bivouac  of  the   Dead,   The.     Theodore 

O'Hara   19 

Blair  the  Regular.    Ida  Reed  Smith 133 

Blessed,  The.    The  Bible 209 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  The.   F.  M.  Finch ...   125 

Bond,  The.   Alice  Stone  Blackwell 249 

Borrowin'  the  Baby.    Wilbur  D.  Nesbit.  414 

Boy  I  Know,  A.    Anon 175 

Breaking  Plow,  The.  Nixon  Waterman.  424 
Bridge  of  Sighs,  The.    Thomas  Hood. ...     76 

Brook,  The.    Alfred  Tennyson 31 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  at  Corunna, 

1809.    Charles  Wolfe 360 

Bury  Me  in  the  Morning.    Stephen  A. 

Douglas 267 


Bury  Your  Wrongs.   Charles  Wagner  . . .  la> 
But  Only  One  Mother.      Kate  Douglas 

Wiggin    31t 

Calling  the  Roll.    Sheppard 201 

Casabianca.    Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans..  153 

Casey  at  the  Bat.    Phineas  Thayer 34 

Character  of  a  Happy  Life.The.  Sir  Henry 

Wotton 415 

Cheerful  Way,  The.    Mrs.  Barbauld 304 

Chicken  on  the  Brain.    Anon 322 

Childe  Harold's  Address  to  the  Ocean. 

Byron 426 

Childless,  The.    Cincinnati  Times  Star. .  138 

Child's  Laugh,  A.     Robert  G.  Ingersoll  . .  49 

Christinas.      Nahum  Tate 119 

Circumstantial  Evidence.    Chicago  News    80 

Claribel's  Prayer.    Lynde  Palmer 405 

Comforts  of  Friendship,  The.    Anon.. . .  69 
Commercial     Traveler's     Vacation,     A. 

Detroit  Free  Press 129 

Commonplace  Life,  A.    Anon 214 

Conqueror,  The.   Emil  Carl  Aurin 128 

Convict's    Little    Girl,    The.       Youth's 

Companion   107 

Copy  of  a  Great  Man's  Thoughts,  The. 

Anon 345 

Cousin  John.    C.T.B 328 

Cowboy  Song.    Joseph  Mills  Hanson .  . .  231 
Creed  for  the  Discouraged,  A.    Virginia 

Opal  Myers 101 

Cuddle  Doon.  Alexander  Anderson 179 

Curfew  Must  Not  Ring  Tonight.    Rosa 

Hartwick  Thorpe 236 

Dad.    William  Edward  Ross 196 

Daddy  Knows.    J.  W.Foley 189 

Dad's  Old  Breeches.    New  York  Weekly .  199 

Daffodils.    Wordsworth 297 

Daily  Motto,  A.    Anon 26 

David's  Lament  over  Absalom.    Willis..  37 
Dear  Little  Heads  in  the  Pew.    Margaret 

E.  Songster  89 

Deed  and  a  Word,  A.   Charles  Mackay  . .  2 
Deed  is  the  Man,  The.    James  C.  Mc- 

Nolly 91 

Deeds,  not  Heredity.    Saadi 100 

Deserted  Village,  The.    Oliver  Goldsmith .  324 
Dirge  of  Alaric,  King  of  the  Visigoths, 

The.    Anon 97 

Discontented  Pendulum,  The.   Jane  Tay- 
lor   ,-■  - 70 


INDEX   OF    TITLES   AND   AUTHORS 


Discoverer.  E.  C.  Stedman 121 

Dreamers,     Herbert  Kaufman  ....  349 

Drowning  ',  The.    Selected.  .    192 

Each  in  I  n  Tongue.     W.  H.  Car- 
ruth    25 

Echo  of  affile.   J.W.Foley 73 

End  of  It  ie.    Frank  Putnam 103 

Enthusiasec/rocra/l 92 

Epitaph,   rwain 84 

Epitaph  c  Countess  of  Pembroke. 

Ben  Jon 184 

Eternal  Gs,  The.     John  Greenleaf 

Whittiei 252 

Event,  Ar  Masson 435 

"Even  Tb  Pass  Away."    Theodore 

Tillon 233 

Ever  Irmled 375 

Kverv-da'l,    An.       Rev.    Charles 

Stelzle 200 

Faith.    5  Bolton 47 

Family  Fng.    Anon 22 

Family  NThe.      Charles  Sprague  132 

Family,  '*ow 53 

Fate.     S^r  S Paulding 139 

Finish  of  e.  The.     Anon 342 

For  A' Tl.' That.    Robert  Burns.  112 

Forget  It 135 

forget  T  n  Moultrie 428 

Fortunafhe.    Joaquin  Miller  . .  120 

Future,  'on 431 

Gaining  7dna  Dean  Proctor ....  5 

Garfield  onh  of  Lincoln 378 

Gem  in  Trib^lem  pioneer  Reg- 
ister   ■  ••■•"« 331 

Gentle  Life.     H'-vke 361 

Glory  of  the  Girl,  ;nnati  Post.  99 

God  Knows  Best.      Mason.  .  .  352 

Good-bye.    Roll*      on 7 

Good-morning.   J-     63 

Grandfather  s  Clo.     211 

Grateful  Patient,  i      (iV_  Y.) 

Freeman •    357 

Great  Compliment      299 

Green  Mountain  J      Anon.  .    159 
Grief  and  Joy-     *     nCe 

Knowles.. .  ■  ■■■    162 

Growing  Old.    Roll 50 

G.  W.     Anon...- 51 

Hannah  Jane,    rpjasby 441 

Happiest  Tune  of  Lif     The> 

Frances  H.Lee 215 

Happy  Day-  "-.dvocate  ....    149 
Have    Courage  to   Say    No. 

Anon .- 210 

Heart  of  Fn.    Anon 1 

He  Educa*-;.      Atlanta  Con- 

st;'-     225 

Henry  w's  Funniest  Poem .  .   276 
Here  id    There   She    Goes. 
Jar 260 


His  Dad.   S.  A .  Brininslool 30c- 

His  Last  Request.    Selected 27 

His  Recompense.    C.  C.  Wylie 1  / 

Hohenlinden.    Thomas  Campbell 52 

Homeward!    The  Evening  Comes.     Ar- 
thur Hugh  Clough 21 1 

Hope.    Anon 

Hope  Sees  a  Star.    Robert  G.  IngersoU . .  .  ' 
House  by  the  Side  of  the  Road.    Sam 

Walter  Foss 

How  Sleep  the  Brave.    William  Collins. .  3 
How  the  Gates  Came  Ajar.      Helen  L. 

Bostwick    

Hungering  Hearts.    Anon 

Hymn   of   World   Peace.      Prof.  George 

Huntington 

"I  am  as  Happy  as  You  Are."     Helen 

Keller    

Ideal  Life,  The.     Phillips  Brooks 56 

If  I  Were  You.   George  H.  Murphy 389 

"I'm  Going  to.  Anyway."    5.  W.  GiUilan 

Immortality.    Joseph  Jefferson 36!) 

Impossibility    of    Conquering    America. 

Earl  of  Chatham 

Indecision.     Dickens 145 

In  Degree.    Paul  Hayne 

Infection.    Louis  de  Louk 

In  the  Glow  of  Christmas.    Joe  Mitchell 

Chappie 

I    Remember,    I    Remember.      Thomas 

Hood 239 

Is  There  a  Santa  Claus?    Casual  Essays 

of  the  Sun 

It's  a  Gay  Old  World.     Anon 

It  Singeth  Low  in  Every  Heart.   John  W. 

Chadwick 

It  Will  Mend.    Selected 

Ivy  Green,  The.    Charles  Dickens o4'5 

Jack  and  Jill  in  Variations.    C.  N 

Jerusalem,  the   Golden.     Translation  of 

an  old  Latin  Hymn 34" 

Josh  Billings  on  Gongs.    Josh  Billings. . . 

Judge  Not.    Joaquin  Miller 

Just  a  Boy.    Anon 

Just  So.     Woman's  Home  Companion.  . . 
King's  Picture,  The.     Helen  B. Bostwick. 

Ladies,  The.    Mark  Twain 

Language  of  the  Lips,  The.     Charles  C. 

Y eager  

Last  Will,  A.     Williston  Fish 

Law  of  Obedience,  The.    Elbert  Hubbard'^ 
Lawyer's   Farewell   to   His    Muse,   The. 

Sir  William  Blackstone,  Knt 

Legend    of    the    Forget-Me-Not,    The. 

Anon 

Liberty  or  Death!    Patriik  Henry 

Life.    Joseph  Cook 

Life  in  the  Spirit.    Maurice  Smiley 

Life-Lesson,  A.    James  Wiilcomb Riley..   102 
Life  that  Counts,  The.    A.W.S 


INDEX   OF    TITLES    AND   AUTHORS 


Lincoln's  Heart  Throbs.    Chauncey  De- 
pew    411 

Lines  on  Back  of  a  Confederate  Note. 

Major  S.  A .  Jones 396 

Lines  to  a  Skeleton.    Anon 288 

Little,  A.    Du  Maurier 165 

Little  Hal.    Collon 373 

Little  Prayer,  A.    Anne  Steele 404 

Little  Shoe,  A.    Anon 113 

Little  Things.   Frances  S.  Osgood 409 

Lonesome  Place,  A.    RollinJ.  Wells 279 

Long  Wait.  The.     Harper's  Weekly 364 

Lord's  Prayer,  The.    Anon 257 

Lost.    Anon 180 

Love.    Thomas  Moore 18 

Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long.    Anon..  224 

Lyra  Incantata.    Theodore  Tilton 78 

Maker's   Image,   The.     Albert  Charlton 

Andrews    281 

Man  and  the  Picnic,  The.     R.  J.  Bur- 

dette  253 

Marco   Bozzaris,   The   Epaminondas  of 

Modern  Greece.    Filz-Greene  Halleck. .     39 
Mariner's  Dream,  The.    W.  Dimond.  ...     43 

Ma's  Tools.    Anon 140 

Meaning  of  Life,  The.    Henry  George 104 

Minuet,  The.     Mary  Mapes  Dodge  ....   387 

Mizpah.    Julia  A.  Baker 150 

Morning  Prayer,  A.     Nixon  Waterman. .   358 

Morning  Prayer.    Anon 28 

Mother-Hubbard  Sermon,  A.    Anon....   115 

Motherlook,  The.     W.  D.  Nesbil 195 

Mr.    Pickwick's    Romantic    Adventure. 

Charles  Dickens  305 

Mud  Pies.    Florence  A.  Jones 188 

My  Creed.     Harold  Arnold  Wallers 289 

My  Heart  Leaps  Up.    Wordsworth 348 

My  King.    Boston  Times 206 

My  Little  Son.   George  Frederick  Scott  .. .  398 

My  Mother.    Anon 90 

"My  Neighbor  Jim."    Anon 241 

My  Scrap-Book.   C.L.McK 14 

Myself  and  Me.   George  Cohan 338 

Name  in  the  Sand,  A.      Hannah  Flagg 

Gould  75 

Never  Give  Up.    MartinFarquharTupper    85 

Niagara.    Mrs.  L.  H.  Sigourney 232 

Not  Knowing.    Mary  G.  Brainard 344 

Now.    A  non 394 

Ode  to  My  Little  Son.    Thomas  Hood. .  .  354 
Oh,  Say,  What  is  Truth?    John  Jaques. .     33 

Old  Bachelors' Sale,  The.    Anon 66 

Old  Friends.    David  Banks  Sickles 436 

Old  Grimes.    Albert  G.Greene 416 

Old  Song.  The.    Quoted  by  Dr.  S.  Weir 

Mitchell 67 

Once  in  a  While.     Nixon  Waterman 230 

One-Hoss  Shay;   or,  the  Deacon's  Mas- 
terpiece, The.    O.  W.  Holmes 233 

One,  The.    Cincinnati  Times-Star 141 


Onward,  Upward.  Frances  Anne  KembU  216 
Origin  of  Roast  Pig,  The     Charles  Lamb.   226 

Origin  of  Scandal.    Catholic  Times 274 

Others  Shall  Sing.    John  Greenleaf  Whit- 
tier 291 

Our  Country.   Edna  Dean  Proctor 418 

Out  in  the    Fields   with    God.     Author 

Unknown  4 

Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's.    James  Whit- 
comb  Riley 316 

Pace  Implora.    Anon 158 

Parting  of  Lee  and  His  Generals,  The. 

Cincinnati  Commercial  Gazette 136 

Pa   Shaved    off   His   Whiskers.      Denver 

Evening  Post 95 

Past  Rises  before  Me  like  a  Dream,  The. 

Robert  G.  Ingersoll 301 

Pauper's  Deathbed,  The.    Caroline  Anne 

Bowles   191 

Pet's  Punishment.  J.  Asliby-Slerry  ....  433 
Playing  Hookey.     New  York  Times  ....    130 

Possession.    Selected 28 

Prayer  for  Evening,   A.     Robert  Louis 

Stevenson 207 

Pumpkin,  The.  John  Greenleaf  Whitlier .  251 
Puzzled    Census-Taker,    The.     John  G. 

Saxe 219 

Quatrains  from  Omar  Khayyam.    From 

Translation  by  Edward  Fitzgerald 163 

Real  Victory.    Shelley 407 

Recipe  for  a  Happy  New  Year.  H.  M.  S.  395 
Recipe  for  a  Salad,  A.  Sidney  Smith  ....  248 
Religion  of  the  World,   The.      William 

Black   81 

Remedies  for  Trouble.    Selected 41 

Remember.    Anon 440 

Responsive    Chord,    The.      J.    William 

Jones  151 

Rocky  Hill,  The.    Kenneth  Harris 46 

Scent  of  the  Roses,  The.  Thomas  Moore.  15 
Sent  to  Heaven.    Adelaide  Ann  Proctor.  .   321 

Seven  Times  Three.    Jean  Ingelow 432 

Should  You  Feel  Inclined  to  Censure. 

Anon 13 

Shut  In.     Arranged  from  Poem  of  Sarah 

M.  Dunham 176 

Slight  Mistake,  A 242 

Smack  in  School,  The.    W.  P.  Palmer  . .    105 

Snowbound.    Whitlier 438 

Somebody's  Darling.    Marie  Lacosl  ....   213 

Somebody's  Mother.    Selected 298 

Sometime,    Somewhere.      Auburn     No. 

29768 280 

Sometime,  Somewhere.  OpheliaG. Brown- 
ing    359 

Song.    ChristinaG.  Rosselli 8 

Song  for  April,  A.    Robert  Loveman 183 

Song  of  the  Shirt,  The.    Thomas  Hood  .  .    185 

Sonnet.     William  Shakespeare 216 

Sorrow.    AfcOR.   .. ,.266 


INDEX   OF    TITLES   AND   AUTHORS 


Story  of  the  Picture,  The.    Anon 54 

Sweethearts  Always.    Daniel  O'Connell  .   410 
Telephone-  -A    Memory,    The.      D.    R. 

Anderson 334 

There's  a  Cross  for  Me.     Rev.  Thomas 

Shepherd 271 

Thirsty  Boy,  A.    R.  J.  Burdette 86 

Three  Fishers,  The.    Charles  Kingsley  . .   356 

Tiny  Things.   Scranton  Truth 351 

'Tis  Life  Beyond.    Anon 319 

TTis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer.     Thomas 

Moore 294 

Today.    Anon 16 

Today.    J.  H 88 

To  My  Friend  on  Her  Eighty-First  Birth- 
day.   Ann  Virginia  Cnlbertson 371 

TolMy  Son.    Margaret  Johnstone  Graflin .   287 
Tojthe  Boys  of  America.    Theodore  Roose- 
velt    124 

Transfigured.     Carlolta  Perry 365 

Travelling  Man,  The.     James  Whitcomb 

1    Riley 198 

Tribute  to  Charles  Dickens,  A.    Carmen 

Sylva 390 

True.    Elizabeth  Akers  Allen 408 

Twinkle,  Twinkle,  Little  Star.  Selected .  .   333 

Two  of  Them.     Harper's  Weekly 83 

Under  Dog,  The.    A  rum 204 

Under    the    Greenwood    Tree.      Shakes- 

Peare    437 

Unheard.    Madison  Cawein 157 

Veracious    Hunting    Stories    of    Baron 

Munchausen,  The.     Anon 379 

Vocabularic  Duel,  A.  Cincinnati  Commer- 
cial     203 

Voice  from  the  West,  A.    Alfred  Austin.  .    117 
Voice  in  the  Twilight,  The.     Mrs.  Her- 

rick  Johnson 362 

Waiting.    John  Burroughs . .       3 

Wants  of  Man,  The.    JohnQuincy  Adams     68 
Washerwoman's  Song,  The.    Eugene  F. 
Ware  272 


Wasted  Day,  A.    James  Buckham 82 

We  Are  Coming,  Father  Abraham.  Anon.  370 
Weighing  the  Baby.    Sunday-School  Visi- 
tor    36$ 

We  Parted  in  Silence.    Crawford 327 

Whatever  the  Weather  May  Be.    James 

Whitcomb  Riley 374 

What  is  a  Baby? .  °    igi 

What  is  a  Minority?  J.  B.  Gough  .......     57 

What  is  Good?    John  Boyle  O'Reilly 337 

What  is  Home  without  a  Mother?    Alice 

Hawthorne    69 

What  is  Success?    Anon 1 

What  to  Forget.    Claremont  Herald  .  ..  .   259 

What  Was  His  Creed?    Anon 439 

What  Would  You  Take?    Good   House- 
keeping       250 

When  All  is  Done.    Paul  Laurence  Dun- 
bar   326 

When  Mother  Scrubs.     New  York  Her- 
ald     318 

When  Time  Comes  Creeping.    Elizabeth 

Gould   393 

Where    the    Spankweed    Grows.      Paul 

Westf 320 

Which  Loved  Best?    Selected 397 

Who    Marches    Next     Memorial    Day? 

Charles  Winslow  Hall 177. 

Will  and  the  Way,  The.  Linnaeus  Roberts  220 
Will  the  Lights  Be  White?  Cy  Warman.  170 
With   a    Difference.     Caroline   Mischka 

Roberts    21 

Woman's  Prayer,  A.    Anon 271 

Woman's  Question,  A.    Elizabeth  Barrett 

Browning 341 

Woodman,  Spare  That  Tree.    George  P. 

Morris 332 

World  without  Men.    Selected 265 

You  Will  Never  Be  Sorry.    Anon 137 

Your  First  Sweetheart.    Old  Sera pbook.  .   399 

You  Yourself.    Richard  Wightman 32S 

Zigzag  Boy  and  Girl,  The.   Selected 346 


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