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WERNER'S 



Readings and Recitations 

No. 22 



COMPILED AND ARRANGED BY 




« » " * • 



» • « f 
. • • • » 

•••• ; *• •••• 



B4g9r S. Werner Publishing 8r Supply Co. 

(Incorporated) 

New York 



Copsrright, 1899, by Edgar S. Werner Publishing A Supply Ca 



> 

- « 



THE NEW YORkI 

PUBLIC LIBRARY 

431540 



ASTOR, LENOX AND 
TILDHN FOUNOATl^Mi. 



f 



• ••>•; ••• ••• 



• « 



■ «■ « • • ^« M 

• • • • « •- , 



« • • • • 

• »■ * m • 

• • * • «• 

w • * • 



'•' • 



PREFACE. 



T N arranging and compiling this book of recitations, my 

purpose has been to present a series of selections suitable 

not only for the platform but also for use in schools and in 

parlors. 

My experience as a teacher has been that it is especially 
difficult to find good orations for young men and boys. I 
have proved the value of those given in this volume at prize 
contests and at commencement exercises ot well-known 
schools. 

All of the larger prose articles have been cut and arranged 
by me in the way that has seemed most effective when T 
have either given them myself or watched them given before 
an audience. I beg pardon of the author and the public for 
passages where I have substituted words of my own in place 
of those originally printed. Often that which is perfectly 
clear when read is not so when spoken. 

My thanks are due to Charles Scribner's Sons, G. P. Put- 
nam's Sons, the Curtis Publishing Co., M. Witmark & Sons, 
Frank A. Munsey, George Munro, Hamlin Garland, Louise 
Imogen Guiney, Edmund Vance Cooke, and the many other 
authors and representatives of authors who have allowed 
me to reprint articles over which they4iold a copyright. In 
every case the permission asked for was most courteously 
granted. E. E. W. 



1 
X 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

After Grace i6 

All for a Man. — Helen M. Winslow. .;. ^ . i ...;......;..... i .;.. ^ . . 140 

Annunciata. — Mary Annable Fanton. 113 

Autograph Book of Blue, The.— H. W. Jakeway 126 ' 

Balcony Scene from " Cyrano de Bergerac," The. — Edmond Ros- 
tand ; 118 

Ballad of Sweet P, The. — Virginia Woodward Cloud 153 

Battle of Shrewsbury, The. — Elbridge S. Brooks 77 

Betrothed, The;— Rudyard Kipling. 166 

Bob. — ^Henry W. Grady 61 

„ _-Bob White. — Francis Charles McDonald. ... ......... ..... 106 

Brief Burlesque^ A .' • 73 

" Bud's Charge." — Louis E. Van Norman 82 

Capture of Major Andre, The. — Chauncey M. Depew. 48 

Character Sketch, A. 44 

Coon's Lullaby, The 28 

Cupid's Alley. — Austin Dobson 89 

Dat Gawgy Watahmillon. — Edmund Vance Cooke lizs 

Daughter of the Desert, The. — ^James Clarence Harvey 17 

Death of Harold. — Charles Dickens 142 

Dollar, The. — Walter S. Logan 23 

Elijah Brown i 81 

Festival of Mars, The. — Elbridge S. Brooks 25' 

Franz. — Wells T. Hawks , 107 

Garfield. — Hon. Frank Fuller 87 

Halliday Hunt Breakfast, The.— Alfred Stoddart 67 

House of Too Much Trouble, The. — Albert Bigelow Paine 15 

Informal Prayer, An 66 

In May. — Edwin M. Stern 85 

James Henry in School. — Emily Selingjer 98 

Jest of Fate, The. — Sam Walter Foss 59 

Katie an' Me. — Edmund Vance Cooke 134 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Keepsakes 47 

Linette. — Florence Folsom i33 

Missing Ships, The. — ^Albert Laighton 52 

Mr. Brown Has His Hair Cut 168 

My Childhood's Love. — Charles Kingsley 112 

Naughty Little Comet, A. — Ella Wheeler Wilcox 36 

Ole Bull's Christmas. — Wallace Bruce 171 

On Board the Victory. — Ednah Robinson 129 

On the Calendar 112 

Over the Hill.— E. H. Hastings... 80 

Patience 123 

Platonic Friendship, A. — ^James M. Barrie 29 

Price, The. — ^Tom Masson 35 

Prophecy. — Florence May Alt 124 

Race for Life, A. — ^J. Fenimore Cooper 74 

Rose of Rome, A. — George Henry Galpin 144 

Sally Ann's Experience. — Eliza Calvert Hall 156 

Scotch Witness, A 123 

Siege of Cuautla, The: The Bunker Hill of Mexico. — Walter S. 

Logan 95 

Slight Mistake, A. — ^Anthony Hope. .' loi 

Smith and the King, The. — Edward Carpenter 100 

Social Glass, A 24 

Song of the " Lower Qasses." — Ernest Jones 34 

Student-Heroes of Our War, The. — Charles W. Eliot 12I7 

Sunshine Johnson 135 

Tarpeia. — Louise Imogen Guiney 91' 

Ten-Hour Bill, The. — ^Thomas Babington Macaulay 45 

Trying the " Rose Act." — Marietta HoUey 54 

Two Gray Wolves. — Mary Annable Fanton 40 

Two Simple Little Ostriches. — ^Juliet W. Toqipkins 94 

Uncle Ethan Ripley's Speculation. — Hamlin Garland 9 

When George Was King. — Theodosia Pickering , 14 

Witch, The. — Virginia Woodward Cloud 148 

Young Lochinvar. — Emma Elisc West 37 



INDEX TO AUTHORS 



PACE 

Alt, Florence May 124 

Barrie, James M 29 

Brooks, Elbridge S 25, 7y 

Bruce, Wallace 171 

Carpenter, Edward lOO 

Cloud, Virginia Woodward 148, 153 

Cooke, Edmund Vance 125, 134 

Cooper, J. Fenimore 74 

Depew, Chauncey M 48 

Dickens, Charles 142 

Dobson, Austin : 89 

Eliot, Charles W 127 

Fanton, Mary Annable 40, 113 

Folsom, Florence 133 

Foss, Sam Walter 59 

FuMer, Hon. Frank 87 

Galpin, George Henry 144 

Garland, Hamlin 9 

Grady, Henry W 61 

Guiney, Louise Imogen 91 

Hall, Eliza Calvert 156 

Harvey, James Clarence 17 

Hastings, E. H 80 

Hawks, Wells T 107 

Holley, Marietta 54 

Hope, Anthony loi 

Jakeway, H. W 126 

Jones, Ernest 34 

Kingsley, Charles ♦ 112 

Kipling, Rudyard 166 

Laighton, Albert 52 

l-ogan, Walter S 23, 95 



INDEX TO AUTHORS, 

PAG£ 

Macatilay, Thomas Babington 45 

Masson, Tom 35 

McDonald, Francis Charles 106 

Paine, Albert Bigelow 15 

Pickering, Theodosia. , ., 14 

Robinson, Ednah 129 

Rostand, Edmond 1 18 

Selinger, Emily 98 

Stern, Edwin M 85 

Stoddart, Alfred 67 

Tompkins, Juliet W 94 

Van Norman, Louis E 82 

West, Emma Elisc .3, 37 

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler z'^ 

Winslow, Helen M 140 



WERNER'S 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS 



IMo. :2;2. 



UNOLB BTHAN BIPIiBY'S SPBOXJLATION. 



HAMLIN GARLAND. 



[A cutting from the original story, in revised edition, of ** Main-Traveled Roads/* 
MacMillan A Co., publishers, by permission of the author.} 

UNCLE ETHAN had a theory that a man's character 
could be told by the way he sat in a wagon seat. 

^' A mean man sets right* plump in the middle o' the seat, 
as much as to say, ' Walk, gol darn yeh, who cares ? ' But a 
man that sets in one corner o' the seat, much as to say, * Jump 
in — cheaper t' ride *n to walk,' you can jest tie to." 

Uncle Ripley was prejudiced in favor of the stranger, 
therefore, before he pulled up opposite the potato patch 
where the old man was bugging his vines. * * * 

" Good afternoon," said the stranger, pleasantly. 

''^Good afternoon, sir." 

" Bugs purty plenty ? " 

" Plenty enough, I gol ! " 

" Good piece of oats yonder." 

" That's barley." 

" So 'tis. Didn't notice." 

Uncle Ethan was wondering what the man was. He had 
some pots of black paint in the wagon and two or three 
square boxes. ♦ * * 

9 



lo WERNER'S READINGS 

" Is that your new barn acrost there? '' asked the stranger. 

** Yes, sir, it is,*' answered the old man, proudly. 

After years of planning and hard work, he had managed to 
erect a little wooden barn, in which he took a childish pride. 

" Couldn't think o' lettin' me paint a sign on that barn? " 
miised the stranger. * * * 

" What kind of a sign ? * * * s^e the darned 
things ! " rapping savagely on the edge of the pan to rattle 
the bugs back. 

" Dodd's Family Bitters. * * * The best bitters on 
the market. * * * Warranted to cure gout, fevers, 
colds, rheumatism, summer complaints, pulmonary difficul- 
ties, and many other diseases, and tone you up generally. 
Come now," said the stranger, speaking in a warmly gener- 
ous tone, *' ril give you twenty-five bottles of the bitters if 
you'll let me paint a sign on that bam." * * * 

" I guess I hadn't better," said Uncle Ripley, thinking of 
what his little old wife would say. 

" It simply puts a family bitter in your home that may save 
you fifty dollars this coming fall. * * * \{ jq^x don't 
want to use the whole twenty-five bottles y'self, why, sell it 
to your neighbors. The sign won't hurt the barn a bit, and 
if you like you can paint it out a year from date, and you can 
get twenty dollars easy out of the bitters." * * * 

It was this thought which consoled Uncle Ethan as the 
hideous black letters appeared under the agent's brush, and, 
in a short time, " Dodd's Family Bitters, Best in the 
Market " glared forth from the sweet-smelling pine boards. 

" Ethan Ripley, what have you been a-doin' ? " demanded 
Mrs. Ripley, when she returned home that afternoon. " Who 
painted that sign on there ? " * • * 

" A man come along an' he paid me twenty-five dollars 
for it." * * * 

"Did'e?" 

She was visibly aflfected by the news. 

" Well, it amounts to that ; he give me twenty-five bot- 
tles " 

Mrs. Ripley sank into a chair. 



a 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, 11 

" Well I swan to Bungay, Ethan Ripley, you git foc4er an' 
fooler every day you live, I do believe. Where is the stuff ? " 

" Down cellar, an' you needn't take on no airs, ol' woman. 
I've known you to buy things you didn't need time an' again, 
an' I guess you wish you had back that ten dollars you paid 
for that illustrated Bible." * * * 

" Go get it this minute." 

Unde Ethan tugged the two cases * * * into the 
kitchen. Mrs. Ripley opened a bottle and smelled of it cau- 
tiously. 

" Ugh ! Merciful sakes, what stuff f * * * What d' 
you think you was goin' to do with it ? " 

" I expected to tal^e it — ^if I was sick. Whaddy ye 
s'pose?" * * * 

The hull cart-load of it ? " 

No. I'm goin' to sell part of it, an' git me an overcoat — '' 
SeU it!" she shouted. " Nobudd[y'd buy that sick'nin' 
stuff. * * * Take it out this minute an' smash every 
bottle on the stones." • * * 

She subsided in a tumult of banging pans. 

Unck Ethan did not smash the medicine as commanded, 
because he had determined to sell it. The next Sunday 
morning he put on his best suit of faded diagonal and started 
out with four bottles of the bitters in a water pail. But he 
found that the agent had been to several of his neighbors, 
painting signs and giving the medicine for payment, so that 
the country had been practically canvassed. He disposed of 
one bottle on credit and came home, tired, dusty, and hungry. 

The evening passed in grim silence, and in sleep he saw 
that sign wriggling acros^^the side of the barn like boa-con- 
strictors hung on rails. / 

As he stepped into the yard the next morning, Mrs. Ripley 
came to the window/buttoning her dress at the throat. 

Ha Ha in I 

'* Lovely, am't it? An' Fve got to see it all day long. I 
can't look out the winder but that thing's right in my face." 
(It seemed to make her savage.) " I hope you feel satisfied 
with it." 

Ripley walked off to the barn. His pride in its clean 



1 2 WERNER'S READINGS 

sweet newness was gone. He slyly tried the paint to see if it 
could be scraped off, but it was dried in thoroughly. Whereas 
before he had taken delight in having his neighbors turn and 
look at the building, now he kept out of sight whenever he 
saw a team coming. * * * 

Mrs. Ripley held herself in check for several days, but at 
last she burst forth. 

" Ethan Ripley, I can't stand that thing any longer, an' I 
ain't goin' to, that's all ! You got to go an' paint that thing 
out or I will. I'm just crazy with it." 

'' But, mother, I promised — " 

" I don't care what you promised ; it's got to be painted 
out. I've got the nightmare now seein' it. I'm goin' to send 
for a pail of red paint, an' I'm goin' to paint that out if it 
takes the last breath I've got to do it." 

" I'll 'tend to it, mother, if you won't hurry me — " 

" I can't stand it another day. It makes me boil every time 
I look out the winder." 

Uncle Ethan hitched up his team and drove gloomily off 
to town, where he tried to find the agent. He lived in some 
other part of the country, however, and so the old man gave 
up and bought a pot of red paint, not daring to go back to his 
desperate wife without it. * * * 

After supper that night he went out to the bam, and Mrs. 
Ripley heard him sawing and hammering. 

" What y' been makin' ? " she inquired, when he came in. 

" I jest thought I'd git the stagin' ready for paintin'," he 
said, evasively. * * * 

When she got ready for bed he was still seated in his 
chair^ and after she had dozed off two or three times she be- 
gan to wonder why he didn't come. 

When the clock struck ten she began to get impatient, 

^' Come, are y' goin^ to sit there all night ? " 

There was no answer. She rose up in bed and looked 
about the room. The broad moon flooded it with light so 
that she could see that he was not in his chair. * * * 

" Ethan ! Ethan Ripley, where are you ? " * * * 

There was tio answer. She rose and looked distractedly 
about among the furniture; she went upstairs. All sorts 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, 13 

of vague horrors sprang unbidden into her brain. '^' * * 
She hurried out into the fragrant night. The ghastly story of 
a man who had hung himself because his wife had deserted 
him came into her mind and stayed there with frightful per- 
sistency. She felt a wild rush of loneliness. She had a sud- 
den realization of how dear that gaunt old figure was, with 
its grizzled face and ready smile. 

Her breath came quicker and quicker, and she was on the 
point of bursting into a wild cry, when she heard a strange 
creaking noise. She looked toward the barn and saw on the 
shadowed side a deeper shadow moving to and fro. * * * 

" Land of Bungay, if he ain't paintin' that barn like a per- 
fect old idiot, in the night." 

Uncle Ethan, working desperately, did not hear her. 

iK 3|C iK 

" Ethan Ripley, 'you come right straight to bed. What 
d' you mean by actin' so ? " * * * 

He made two or three slapping passes with the brush and 
then snapped: 

" You go back into the house an' let me be. I know what 
I'm a-doin'. You've pestered me about that sign jest about 
enough." * * * 

Working alone out there had made him savage. She knew 
by the tone of his voice he was not to be pushed any further. 
She slipped on her shoes and her shawl and came back where 
he was working and took a seat on a saw-horse. 

" I'm a-goin' to set right here till you come in, Ethan Rip- 
ley," she said, in a firm voice but gentler than usual. 

" Waal, you'll set a good while." * * * 

But each felt a furtive tenderness for the other. He 
worked on in silence. * * * 

At last Mrs. Ripley spoke, in a curious tone : 

" Well, I don't know as you was so very much to blame. I 
didn't want that Bible myself— I held out I did, but I didn't." 

Ethan worked on until the full meaning of the unprece- 
dented surrender penetrated his head, and then he threw 
down the brushes. 

" Wall, I guess I'll let 'er go at that. I've covered up the 
most of it anyhow. Guess we'd better go in." 



14 WERNEWS READINGS 



*WHBN QEORGE TVAS KING. 



THEODOSIA PICKERING. 



[Prom Munsey*s Magazine^ by permission of Frank A. Mnnsey.l 

A N ancient hallway, generous and square; 
*^ A drowsy fire ghostly shadows throwing; : 
An old clock ticking slowly on the stair, 

As one who tells a story worth the knowing; 
And prone upon the bearskin, showing dear 
In the red light, a sleeping cavalier. 

His listless fingers closed about a book. 
One red-sleeved arm above his head reposing, 

And on his rugged face the weary look 

He wore, perchance, before his eyes were closing; 

And one stands laughing eyed upon the stair. 

Half merry, half confused, to find him there. 

A maiden, rustling in her stiff brocade, 
A girlish bud fast blooming into woman. 

With the same face that Gainsborough oft made, 
Coquettish, most divine, and wholly human, 

Who watches the dark sleeper as he lies. 

With something more than mischief in her eyes ; 

And, step by step, comes down with bated breath, 
With lips half curled and yet not wholly smiling, 

And bends above him (as the old tale saith 
Dian above Endymion bent beguiling) 

And notes the gray streak in his dusky hair. 

And wonders timidly what brought it there. 

Then, as a sudden thought comes flashing red, 
All guiltily, as though the world knew it, •' 

She first inclines and then draws back her head. 
Though tlie old clock ticks : "Do it, do it, do it ! " 



AND RECITATIONS No. 99. 15 

And then, with hurried look, yet tender air. 
She drops a tiny kiss upon his hair. 

And, shamefaced, flies as some Titania might; 

And still about the room the shades are creeping. 
And the old clock looks down with steady sight 

To where he lies, still motionless and sleeping. 
And ticks, with all the denseness of a poet, 
" A secret, and I know it, know it, know it ! " 

Then suddenly wide open flash his eyes. 

And on the shaggy bearskin quickly turning, 

He glances round, half shamed, half laughing-wise. 
And, seeing nothing but the great logs burning 

And the old clock, he marks with stifled yawn 

How many hours since he slept have gone ; 

And, thinking, checks the smile upon his face ; 

For in his dreams he vaguely can remember 
He thought his mother from her heavenly place 

Stooped down and kissed him, lovingly and tender. 
And then, self-mocking, brushes off a tear. 
And strides away, this red-coat cavalier. 



THE HOnSB OF TOO MXJOH TROUBLE. 



ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE. 



I 



l9TOin.Munsey'*s Magazine^ by permission of Frank A. Munsey.} 

N the House of Too Much Trouble 

Lived a lonely little boy ; • 
He was eager for a playmate, 

He was hungry for a toy. 
But 'twas always too much bother. 

Too much dirt, and too much noise, 
For the House of Too Much Trouble 

Wasn't meant for little boys. 



i6 WERNER'S READINGS 

And sometimes the little fellow 

Left a book upon the floor, 
Or forgot and laughed too loudly, 

Or he failed to close the door. 
In a House of Too Much Trouble 

Things must be precise and trim ; 
In a House of Too Much Trouble 

There was little room for him. 

He must never scatter playthings. 

He must never romp and play ; 
Ev*ry room must be in order 

And kepi quiet all the day. 
He had never had companions, 

He had never owned a pet. 
In the House of Too Much Trouble 

It is trim and quiet yet. 

Ev'ry room is set in order. 

Every book is in its place, 
And the lonely little fellow 

Wears a smile upon his face. 
In the House of Too Much Trouble 

He is silent and at rest — 
In the House of Too Much Trouble, 

With a lily on his breast. 



AFTER GRACE. 



A CURATE once courted a nice little miss, — 
^ Grace by name, but by nature a sinner. 
He never dared ask for " just one little kiss," 

P'r'aps he thought by his preaching to win her. 
His most passionate speech, when they sat down together, 
Was " A very fine day," or " Most singular weather ! " 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22, 17 

^ Ah, me f He is vowed unto silence/*" she cried ; 

" 'Tis my mission to make him abjure it, 
Pa must ask him to dinner ; Fll sit by his side, 

And I really should think I could cure it ! " 

So he came, and they all tried their hardest to make 

Him feel really at home. To insure it, 
He was seated by Grace, and, his silence to break, 

Said her father (who couldn't endure it) — 
Forgetting the " blessing " — " Now what will you take? " 
" I should like to say — ^Grace — " said the curate. 



THB DAUGHTSR OF THB DE8EBT. 



JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. 



[By permission of the author.] 

A N opulent lord of Ispahan 
^ In luxury lolled on a silk divan, 
Dreaming the idle hours away 
In a cloud of smoke from his narghile. 
Weary with nothing to do in life, 
He thought, as he watched the smoky whirls, 
" 'Twill be diversion to choose a wife 
From my peerless bevy of dancing-girls." 
There are beauties fair from every land : 
Lustrous eyes from Samarcand ; 
Dusky forms from the Upper Nile ; 
Teeth that glisten when red lips smile ; 
Gipsy faces of olive hue, 
Stolen from some wild wandering clan ; 
Fair complexions and eyes of blue. 
From the sunny isles of Cardachan ; 
Regal beauties of queenly grace 
And sinuous sirens of unknown race. 
Some one among them will surely bless 
Hours that grow heavy with idleness. 



i8 WERNER'S READINGS 

Thm the $lave that waited his lightest need 
Fell on his knee, by the silk divan, 
And the swarthy, listening ear gave heed 
To the will of the lord of Ispahan. 

** Send hither my dancing-girls,'* he said, 

" And set me a feast to please the eye 
And tempt the palate ; for this shall be 
A wedding breakfast before us spread 
If the charm of beauty can satisfy 
And one of their number pleaseth me. 
I will wed no maiden of high degree. 
With the tips of her fingers henna-stained 
And the dew of youth from her life-blood drained. 
But a child of nature, wild and free." 
Then ithe slave bent low and said : " O sire, 
A woman lingers beside the gate. 
Her eyes are aglow like coals of fire 
And she mourns as one disconsolate ; 
And when we bid her to cease and go, 
Each eye grows bright, like an evening star. 
And she sayeth : * The master will hear my woe, 
For I come from the deserts of Khandakar.' " 

" Bid her to enter," the master said, 
And the frown from his forehead swiftly fled. 
The hasty word on his lip was stayed, 
As he thought of his youth, in the land afar. 
And the peerless eyes of a Bedouin maid. 
In the desert places of Khandakar. 
The woman entered and swift unwound 
The veil that mantled her face around, 
And in matchless beauty she stood arrayed. 
In the scant attire of a Bedouin maid. 
The indolent lord of Ispahan 
Started back on the silk divan. 
For in form and feature, in very truth. 



AMD RECITATIONS No. 2^, 19 

It seemed the love of his early youth. 
The almond eyes and the midnight hair, 
The rosebud mouth and the rounded chin, — 
Time had not touched them ; they still were fair. 
And the passion of yore grew strong within. 
Then she made him the secret Bedouin sign, 
Which only dishonor can fail to heed, — 
The solemn pact of the races nine 
To help each other in time of need. 
But her eyes beheld no answering sign. 
Though a crimson tide to his forehead ran, 
And the trembling maiden could not divine 
The will of the lord of Ispahan. 
With the sound of a rippling mountain brook, 
The voice of the woman her lips forsook ; 
And thus her tale of despair began 
In the lordly palace at Ispahan : 

On a stallion black as the midnight ^ies, 

From the desert I come, where my lover lies 

At death's dark verge, and the hostile clan 

That struck him down are in Ispahan 

With slaves to sell in the open street. 

And only because my steed was fleet 

Am I now free ; but here I bide. 

For this morning the hard-rid stallion died. 

Out of your opulence, one swift steed 

Only a drop from the sea will be, 

A grain of sand on the shore, in my need ; 

But the wealth of the whole wide world to me. 

My soul to the soul of my loved one cries, 

At dawn or in darkness, whatever betide, 

And the pain of longing all peace denies 

To the heart that strains to my lover's side." 

You shall mourn no more, but sit with me 

And rejoice in a scene of revelry ; 

For the pleasures of life are the rights of man," 

Said the indolent lord of Ispahan. 



8P WERNER'S READINGS 

The curtains parted and noiseless feet 

Of dusky slaves stole over the floor. 

Their strong arms laden with burden sweet, 

Of fruits and flowers, a goodly store : 

Luscious peaches and apricots, 

Plucked from the sunniest garden spots ; 

Syrian apples and cordials rare ; 

Succulent grapes that filled the air 

With heavy sweetness, while rivers ran, 

From beakers of wine from Astrakhan ; 

Cooling salvers of colored ice ; 

Almonds powdered with fragrant spice; 

Smoking viands on plates of gold. 

And carven vessels of price untold. 

Kindling the appetite afresh 

For dainty morsels of fowl and flesh. 

The musical notes of the mellow flute 

From a source remote rose higher and higher. 

With the quivering sounds from a hidden lute, 

The plaintive sweep of the tender lyre. 

Then a whirlwind of color filled the air, — 

A misty vapor of filmy lace 

With gleams of silk and of round arms bare, 

In a mazy whirl of infinite grace ; 

And the lustrous glow of tresses blent 

With the shimmer of pearls from the Orient. 

The half-sobbed, breathless, sweet refrain, 

A swelling burst of sensuous sound, 

Sank lower, to swell and sink again, 

Then died in silence most profound. 

The panting beauties, with cheeks aglow, 

Scattered about on the rug-strewn floor 

Like bright-hued leaves when the chill winds blow, 

Or tinted sea-shells along the shore. 

But the lord of the palace turned and cried : 

** Heavy and languid these maidens are ; " 
And he said, to the Bedouin at his side : 

" Teach them the dances of Khandakar." 



AND RECITATIONS No, ?2, zi 

Her dark eyes lit with the flash of fire, 
And she said : " You will pity my need most dire? 
You will give me a steed to fly afar, 
To my love in the deserts of Khandakar? " 
" Half that I own shall be yours/' he said, 
" If the love of my youth that was under ban 
Comes back to me like a soul from the dead, 
Bringing joy to the palace of Ispahan." 

She sprang to the floor with an agile bound. 
The music broke in a swirl of sound. 
Her hair from its fillet became unbound, 
And the dancing-girls that stood apart 
Gazed rapt and speechless, with hand to heart. 
At the wild, untrammeled curves of grace 
Of the dancing-girl from the desert race. 
Not one of them half so fair to see ; 
Not one as lithe in the sinuous twist 
Of twirling body and bending knee; 
Of supple ankle and curving wrist. 
The wilder the music, the wilder she, — 
It iseemed like the song of a bird set free 
To thrill in the heart of a cloud of mist 
And live on its own mad ecstasy. 
Spellbound and mute on the silk divan. 
Sat the lord of the palace at Ispahan. 

But the thoughts of the master were drifting far, 

To his youth in the deserts of Khandakar ; 

To the time when another had danced as well. 

And listened with tenderness in her eyes, 

To the burning words his lips might tell. 

With kisses freighting her soft replies. 

And he had thought that her smile would bless 

His roving life, in the land afar, 

And cheer him in hours of loneliness. 

In the tents of the deserts of Khandakar ; 

But the tribe had chosen the maid to wed 



ftd WERNER'S READINGS 

With the powerful chief of a hostile clan, 
And the flattered-w<iman had turned and fled 
From the pleading voice of a stricken man ; 
Then out of the desert the lover sped, 
To become a great lord of Ispahan, 
And now this child, with the subtle grace 
Of the mother that bore her, had come to him. 
With the desert's breath upon her face, 
Rousing within him a purpose grim. 
" By the beard of the Prophet ! but you shall be 
The light and the joy of my life to me ! 
As your mother was, you are to-day. 
Your lover, perchance, hath lived his span ; 
You shall dry your maidenly tears and stay. 
As the wife of the lord of Ispahan." . 

That night when the dusky shadows crept 

Across the tiles of the banquet room. 

They found the form of a man who slept 

On a silk divan, in the gathering gloom. 

The window screens were wide to the air. 

And the hedge, where the fragrant roses grew, 

Was cleft and trodden to earth, just where 

A frightened fugitive might pass through ; 

And the groom of the stables, heavy with wine, 

Wakened not at the prancing tread 

Of the milk-white steed, and made no sign 

As the Bedouin maid from the palace fled. 

And the indolent lord of Ispahan 

Seemed resting still on the silk divan. 

But his heart was beating with love no more ; 

In his eyes no light of passion gleamed ; 

His listless fingers touched the floor. 

Where the crimson tide of his life-blood streamed, 

And he slept the last, long, dreamless sleep ; 

For the end had come to life's brief span, 

And his jeweled dagger was handle deep 

In the heart of the lord of Ispahan. 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. %i 



THB DOLLAR. 



WALTER S. LOGAN. 

MAN is lazy and selfish. His indolence and his selfish- 
ness are the result of evolution as much as any other 
quality he has acquired. They are his salvation. Without 
them, he would bum himself out before he had fairly begun 
to live. We can not hope that he will ever grow out of his 
indolence or his egoism. He would die in the process. 

Being, then, forever destined to be lazy and selfish, he 
must have some incentive or he will not work and production 
will come to an end. The dollar has been that incentive. 
The dollar represents food, clothing, and shelter, — all the 
physical, and many of the social and the artistic, necessities 
of life. It has been around the^ dollar that civilization has 
developed. The hope of the dollar has inspired men of 
common clay to drudge and men of genius to become heroes 
of the ages. The peasant with his shovel has dug ditches 
for it, the sailor has met the relentless storms of the sea for 
it, the soldier has fought for it, the poet has sung for it, for 
it the orator has poured forth his words o^ resistless elo- 
quence, the adventurous discoverer has sought for it in 
every corner of the earth and the sea, for it the inventor has 
harnessed the powers of nature to man's car, for it Shake- 
speares and Macaulays have written books, and for it states- 
men have made history. 

But there is another side to the story. The dollar incites 
to production when men can get the dollar easiest by produ- 
cing it ; it incites also to crime when it is easier to take by 
force or by fraud another man's dollar than to earn one's 
own. It has built railroads that were needed and thus car- 
ried prosperity to the wilderness, but it has also paralleled 
them when the parallels were not needed and thus brought 
ruin instead of prosperity. It has inspired men to make 
fortunes by honest industry and it has inspired other men to 
wreck those fortunes that the wreckers might be enriched. 



24 WERNER'S READINGS 

For it the wilderness has been conquered and made to pro- 
duce the things man needs, and for it, also, unholy w»rs 
have been waged and continents desolated. It has been 
the incentive alike of the mariner of commerce, under whose 
flag were carried untold blessings, and of the pirate who 
sailed the main under the black flag and was the world's 
greatest enemy. It inspired alike Columbus and Pizarro, 
William Penn*and Hernando Cortez. It was the cause of 
the settlement of Massachusetts and of the atrocities of 
Weyler. Men have wrought for it and men have fought for 
it. Men have traded for it and stolen for it. Some men 
get it by doing good to their neighbors, others find it in the 
ruin of all around them. Somi^^get it by fair competition,; 
others by fraud and deception and treachery. On the Stock 
Exchange, the widow and the orphan find an opportunity 
safely to invest their accumulations; but the Stock Ex- 
change is also the theatre of. a system of gambling that gives 
the blush to Monte Carlo. Wall Street has two ends. At 
one is the noble spire of Trinity Church, which points high 
toward the sky. The other is the first station on the road to 
Greenwood. 

The love of money, if it is the cause of much that is 
good, is also the root of much, if not all, evil. It is respon- 
sible alike for the strength and the weakness, the virtue and 
the vice, of our civilization. It makes and it mars men. 



A SOOIAI. QLASa 



\]^ HAT makes one refuse a social glass? 
^^ Well, ril tell you the reason why: 
Because a bonnie blue-eyed lass 

Is ever standing by, 
And I hear her voice above the noise 

Of the jest and the merry glee, 
As with baby grace she kisses my face 

And says : " Papa, be true to me." 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 9$ 

Then what can I do to my lass to be true, 

Better than let it pass by? 
I know you think my refusal to drink 

A breach of your courtesy, 
But I hear her repeat in accents sweet, 

And her dear little form I see. 
As with loving embrace she kisses my face 

And says : " Papa, be true to me." 

Let me offer a toast to the one I love most, 

Whose dear little will I obey. 
Whose influence sweet is guiding my feet 

Over life's dark toilsome way. 
May the sun ever shine on this lassie of mine, 

From sorrow may she be free, 
For with baby grace she has' kissed my face 

And said : " Papa, be true to me." 



THB FBSTIVAXi OF MARa 



ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS. 



^Arranged from " Marcus of Rome/^ bv permission of 6. P. Putnam^s Sons, pvkh- 

lishertt.] 

THERE is a stir of expectation, a burst of trumpets from 
* the Capitol, and all along the Sacred Street and through 
the- crowded Forum goes up the shout of the watchers, 
** Here they come! " With the flutes playing, merrily; with 
swaying standards and sacred statues gleaming in silver and 
gold; with proud young cadets on horse and on foot; with 
priests in their robes and guards with crested helms; with 
strange and marvelous beasts led by burly keeper^; with a 
long string of skilled performers, restless horses, and gleam- 
ing chariots ; through the Forum and down the Sacred Street 
winds the long procession, led by the boy-magistrate, Marcus 
of Rome, the favorite of the Emperor. A golden chaplet 



36 WERNER'S READINGS 

wrought in crusted leaves circles his head; a purple toga 
drapes his trim young figure; while the flutes and the trump- 
ets play their loudest before him, and the stoat guards 
march at the heels of his bright-bay pony. So into the great 
circus passes the long procession, and, as it files into the 
arena, two hundred thousand people rise to their feet and 
welcome it with hearty hand-clapping. 

The trumpets sound the prelude, the. young magistrate 
flings the mappa, or white flag into the course as the signal 
for the start, and, as a ringing shout goes up, four glittering 
chariots, rich in their decorations of gold and polished ivory 
and each drawn by four plunging horses, burst from their 
arched stalls and dash around the track. Green, blue, red, 
white — the colors of the drivers — stream from their tunics. 
Around and around they go. Now one and now another is 
ahead. The people strain and cheer, and many a wager is 
laid as to the victor. Another shout ! The red chariot, turn- 
ing too sharply, grates against the meta, or short pillar that 
stands at the upper end of the track, guarding the low central 
wall. The horses rear and plunge, the driver struggles man- 
fully to control them, but all in vain ; over goes the chariot, 
while the now maddened horses dash wildly on until checked 
by mounted attendants and led off to their stalls. 

" Blue ! blue ! Green ! green ! " rise the varying shouts, 
as the contending chariots still struggle for the lead. White 
is far behind. Now comes the seventh or final round. Blue 
leads ? No, green is ahead ! Neck and neck down the home- 
stretch they go magnificently, and then the cheer of victory 
is heard, as, with. a final dash, the green rider strikes the 
white cord first and the race is won. 

Now, in the interval between the races, come the athletic 
sports: Foot-racing and wrestling, rope-dancing and high 
leaping, quoit-throwing, and javelin matches. One man 
runs a race with a fleet Cappadocian horse; another expert 
rider drives two bare-backed horses twice around the track, 
leaping from back to back as the horses dash around. 

Among the throng of " artists " there came a bright little 
fellow of ten or eleven years, — ^a rope-dancer and a favorite 



AND RECITATIONS No. J2, 97 

with the crowd. Light and agile, he trips along the slender 
rope that stretches high above the arena. Right before the 
magistrate's box the boy poises in mid-air, and even the 
thoughtful yoiing director of the games looks up at the 
graceful motions of the boy. Hark ! a warning shout goes 
up ; now, another ! The poor little rope-dancer, anxious to 
find favor in the eyes of the young noble, overexerts him- 
self, loses his balance on the dizzy rope and, toppling over, 
falls with a cruel thud to the ground and lies there before 
the great state box, with a broken neck — dead. Marcus 
hears the shout, he sees the falling boy. Vaulting from his 
canopied box, he leaps down into the arena, and, so tender is 
he of others. Stoic though he be, that he has the poor rope- 
dancer's head in his lap even before the attendants can reach 
him. But no life remains in that bruised little body and, as 
Marcus tenderly resigns the dead gymnast to the less sympa- 
thetic slaves, he commands that ever after a bed shall be laid 
beneath the ropes as a protection against such fatal falls. 
This became the rule, and, when next you see the safety-net 
spread beneath the rope-walkers, the trapeze performers, and 
those who perform similar " terrific " feats, remember that 
its use dates back to the humane order of Marcus, the boy- 
magistrate, seventeen centuries ago. 

But in those old days the people had to be amused, what- 
ever happened. Human life was held too cheaply for a 
whole festival to be stopped because a little boy was killed, 
and so the sports went on. Athletes and gymnasts did their 
best to excel; amid wild excitement the chariots whirled 
around and around the course; and then the arena was 
cleared for the final act — the wild beast hunt. 

The wary keepers raise the stout gratings before the dens 
and cages, and the wild animals, freed from their prisons, 
rush into the great open space, blink stupidly in the glaring 
light, and then with roar and growl echo the shouts of the 
spectators. Here are great lions from Numidia, and tigers 
from far Arabia, wolves from the Apennines and bears from 
Lib5ra; not caged and half-tamed as we see them now, but 
wild and fierce, loose in the arena. Now the hunters swarm 



2S WERNER'S READINGS 

in, oh horse and on foot, — trained and supple Thracian glad- 
iators, skilled Gaetulian hunters, with archers, and spearmen, 
and net-throwers. All around the great arena rages the cruel" 
fight. Here, a lion stands at bay ; there, a tigress crouches 
for the spring; a snarling wolf snaps at a keen-eyed Thra- 
cian ; or a bear with ungainly trot shambles away from the 
spear of his persecutor. Eager and watchful, the huntery 
shoot and thrust, while the vast audience, more eager, more 
relentless, more brutal, than beast or hunter, applaud and 
shout and cheer. But the young magistrate, who had, 
through all his life, a marked distaste for such cruel sport, 
turns from the arena and, again taking out his tablets, busies 
himself with his writing, unmoved by the contest and the 
carnage before him. 

The last hunted beast lies dead in the arena ; the last valor- 
ous hunter has been honored with his pdma or reward, as 
victor ; the slaves stand ready with hook and ropes to drag 
off the slaughtered animals ; the great crowd pours out of the 
vast three-storied buildings; the shops in the porticos arc 
noisy with the talk of buyers and sellers ; the boy-magistrate 
and his escort pass through the waiting throng; and the 
Festival Games are over. 



THE COON'S LULLABY. 



[Croon the last line of each stanza, also ** Po* lamb!" and "Yes, you!"] 



O EAH, yo' Rastus, shet yo' little sleepy haid. 

^ * Mammy gwine tu'h rock hu'h lamb tu'h res' — (Po' 

lamb! P(/ lamb!) 
Ebry little possum chile am dreamin' in its bed, 

Yo's my precious honey — ^yes, yo' am ! 
Swing, oh ! sing, ho ! Lucy, whar yo* bin so late? 

Lemme catch a niggah courtin' yo' — (Yes, you!) 
Hurry up, yo' rascals, 'fo' dere's co'n bread on de plate — 

Fo' mammy loves hu'h honeys, yes, she do ! 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22. 



29 



Lawts now, Rastus, I done gwihe tu'h swat yo' hard, 

Slap yo' tu'h a peak an' break it off — (Po' lamb! Pci' 
lamb!) 

Monst'ous drefful bogie man am waitin* in de yard- 
Mammy's only jokin', yes, she am! 

Swing, oh! sing, oh! Petah, yes, I see yo', git! 
Washington, FU cu'l yo' wool fo' yo' — ( Yes, you!) 

Neber in de whole roun wo'ld I seen sich chilluns yit — 
But mammy loves hu'h honeys, yes, she do ! 



A PLATONIO FRIENDSHIP. 



JAMES M. BARRIE. 



CHE was a very pretty girl — although that counted for 
*^ little with either of us — and her frock was yellow and 
brown, with pins here and there. Some of these pins were 
nearly a foot long, and when they were not in use she placed 
them in her hat, through which she stabbed them far down 
into her brain. This makes me shudder, but so is she con- 
structed that it doesn't seem to hurt, and in this human pin- 
cushion they remain until she is ready to put on her jacket 
again. She comes in here sometimes looking always as if she 
had been born afresh that morning, to sit in the big chair and 
discuss what sort of girl she is — ^and other subjects of mo- 
ment. 

When she clasps her hands over her knees and says ** Oh !" 
I know she has remembered something that must come out 
or endanger her health, and whether it be : "I don't believe 
in anything or anybody ! " or " Isn't life hard for girls ? " or 
" I buy chocolate drops by the half-pound," I am expected to 
regard it, for the time being at least, as one of the most im- 
portant events of the day. 

The reason we get on so well together is because I always 
treat her exactly as if she were a man. Ours is a platonic 






30 WERNER'S READINGS 

friendship, or at least it was, for she went off hsii an hour 
ago with her head in the air. The, way it all came about was 
like this : She had come in here one morning and after only 
one glaAce in the mirror had seated herself in the big chair, 
and then this jumped out : 

" And I thought you so trustworthy! '' 

She always begins in the middle. 
Why, what have I done? " I asked, though I knew. 
Yesterday when you put me in that cab— oh ! you didn't 
do it, but you tried to." 

" Do what? " 

She screwed her mouth, whereupon I smoked hard lest I 
might do it again. 

" Men are all alike—" 

" And you actually think, Miss Cummings, that if I did 
contemplate such a thing for a moment, that I did it from 
the wretched, ordinary motives that would move a common- 
place young man? Miss Cummings, do you know me no 
better than that ? " 

" I don't see what you mean." 

There ensued a pause, for I was not quite clear what I 
meant myself. 

" What do you mean ? " 

Then I laid my pipe on the mantlepiece and explained to 
her, though I forget now how I did it, that I had nothing in 
common with other young men, if I seemed to act as they 
did my motives were entirely different, and therefore I 
should be judged from an entirely different standpoint; then 
I said : 

" But, Miss Cummings, as you still seem to think I did it 
from wretched, ordinary motives — namely, because I wanted 
to — it is best for you and me to part. I have explained my- 
self, because it is painful for me to be misunderstood. Good- 
bye. Miss Cummings." 

Here, in spite of an apparent effort to control it, my voice 
broke, whereupon she placed her hand in mine and with tears 
in her eyes begged me to forgive her, which I did. 

This it was, you see, which proved to her that I had noth- 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 31 

ing in common with other young men, and which led to the 
drawing up of our platonic friendship. 

She was to come in here frequently and sit in the big 
chair and discuss various subjects for our mutual improve- 
ment. 

" I shall have to call you * Mary/ " I said. 

" ' Mary ! ' Well, I don't see that." 

" Oh, yes. You know among friends it's customary, — 
Mary dear/' 

" Dear? '' 

" That's what I said." 

She had laid her jacket upon the table, her gloves on the 
couch, her chocolate drops on the mantel, and I was holding 
her scarf — ^the room was full of her. 

" Mary, I walked down Regent Street behind you yester- 
day, and your back told me that you were vain." 

" Well, I'm not vain of personal appearance." 

" Well, Mary, how could you be ? " 

She looked at me sharply, but my face was quite expres- 
sionless. 

" Whatever my faults are, and I admit that they are many, 
vanity is not one of them." 

" Well, Mary, that's what you said when I told you that 
you had a bad temper, and when — " 

** That was last week, stupid. However, if you think me 

ugly—" 

" Why, Mary, if you think nothing of your personal ap- 
pearance, why blame me when I agree with you ? " 

She rose haughtily. 

" Sit down." 

" I won't. Give me my scarf." 

" Why, Mary, if you would really like to know what I 
think of your personal appearance — ^" 

" Well I wouldn't." 

I resumed my pipe. 

"Well?" 

" Well ? " 

" I thought you were going to say something." 




3ft 



WERNER'S READINGS 



" Oh, no, only your back pleased me in certain other re- 
spects — Why, Mary ! " 

It is a fact, she was crying. After I had made a remark 
or two, she said : 

** Well, I'm glad you think Fm pretty. Of course, I know 
I'm not pretty myself, but I like to have my friends think so. 
My nose is all wrong ; isn't it ? " 

''No!" 

" And you own now that you were wrong in thinking me 
vain ? " 

" Why, Mary, you have proved that I was." 

However, after she had put in all her pins, and gone out 
and shut the door, she came back and said : 

" Yes, I am horribly vain. I do up my hair every night 
before I go to bed, and I know I have a pretty nose, and I 
was sure you admired me the first time you saw me. Good 
afternoon." 

But to-day when she oune in, she looked very doleful; 
Ihe reason was that Mary had been reading a book entitled 
'* Why Do We Exist ? " Mary had stared at this problem 
with hard, unthinking eyes until I forced her to wink by 
placing another problem in front of her, namely, " Do We 
Exist ? " Mary thought there was little doubt of this at 
first, but after I lent her Bishop Berkeley upon the subject, 
she took to pinching herself on the sly to see if she was still 
there. 

"Mary!" 

"Yes?" 

" Dear! " 

" Yes, I'm listening." 

" You are a dear good girl." 

" No, I'm not ; it's all selfishness. Why, even my charities 
are a hideous kind of selfishness. You know that old man 
who sells matches on the corner — sometimes I give him a 
penny." 

" Why, Mary, surely that's not selfish." 

" Yes, it is. I never give him an3^hing because I see he 
needs it, I give it to him because I happen to be passing him 



AND RECITATIONS No, 2i. 33 

and feeling happier than usual. Oh, I should never think of 
crossing the street to give him anything. My ! I should need 
to be terrifically happy to do that." 

Up to this time you will please observe that neither by 
word, look, or manner had I in any way broken the compact 
which made our platonic friendship possible, and I would 
have continued* the same treatment to the present day had it 
not been for Mary's scarf. Her scarf was to blame for the 
whole of it. It was a strip of faded terra-cotta gauze, which 
Mary always wound about her mouth before going out into 
the fog. I could have managed to endure that had she not 
recklessly made farewell remarks through her scarf. I 
warned her: 

" Don't you come near me with that thing on your 
mouth." 

And she asked, *' Why? " through the scarf. 

" Don't speak to me with that thing on." 

And she said, " You think I can't because it's too tight." 
Go away." 

Why, you see it's quite loose — why, I think it's quite 
loose — why, I think I could whistle through it." 

She did whistle through it, and that ended our platonic 
friendship. 

I spoke wildly, fiercely, exultingly. 

" 1 don't care, Mary — I don't care anyway. I like to see 
you crying." 

'' Oh, I hate you! " 

" No you don't, Mary — don't screw your mouth ! " 

" Yes I will, too. You said—" 

*' It was a lie." 
Platonic friendship—" 

Platonic nonsense! I quarreled with you that time on 
purpose to be able to hold your hand when we made up." 
Give me my scarf." 

And all the time we were discussing the mystery of 
being I was thinking how I would like to put my finger under 
your chin and flick it." 

" Give me my scarf." 






it 



(t 



34 



WERNER'S READINGS 



'' And rd rather run my 6ngers through your hair than 
write the greatest poem — " 

But Mary had gone, leaving her scarf behind her. I flew 
to the window. Six hansoms came at my call and I could 
have dashed after her, but w^hat I saw made me chang^e my 
mind — Mary had crossed the street on purpose to give a 
penny to the man on the comer. 



SONG OF THE "LOWER OT.AflBTW.' 



ERNEST JONES. 



[This famous Chartist leader and poet was sentenced in 1848 to two 
years' imprisonment. This poem was written in 1849 while in the 

prison.] 

\A/ E plough and sow, we're so very, very low 
^^ That we delve in the dirty clay; 
Till we bless the plain with the golden grain 

And the vale with the fragrant hay. 
Our place we know, we're so very, very low, 

'Tis down at the landlord's feet. 
We're not too low the grain to grow, 

But too low the grain to eat. 

Down, down we go, we're so very, very low. 

To the hell of the deep sunk mines ; 
But we gather the proudest gems that glow 

When the crown of the despot shines ; 
And whene'er he lacks, upon our backs 

Fresh loads he deigns to lay. 
We're far too low to vote the tax. 

But not too low to pay. 

We're low, we're low, we're very, very low, 

And yet from our fingers glide 
The silken flow and the robes that glow 

Round the limbs of the sons of pride ; 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22. 

And what we get, and what we give, 
We know, and we know our share ; 

We're not too low the cloth to weave, 
But too low the cloth to wear. 

We're low, we're low, we're very, very low, 

And yet when the trumpets ring 
The thrust of a poor man's arm will go 

Through the heart of the proudest king. ■ 
We're low, we're low — we're rabble, we know. 

We're only the rank and file ; 
We're not too low to kill the foe, 

But too low to share the spoil. 



35 



THE PBIOB. 



TOM MASSON. 



IFrom Munsey^s Magazine^ by permission of Frank A. Munsey.] 

Y better half desired a wheel. 
I argued and I thundered. 
But yielded when she said to me 
'Twould only cost a hundred. 



M 



The price for so much pleasure seemed 
Quite small to me; I wondered 

Where else such joy could be obtained 
With but a paltry hundred. 

With it she ordered her a suit 
That half my income sundered; 

Yet pointed to her wheel with pride — 
That only cost a hundred. 

My market-bills began to rise. 

I thought someone had blundered; 
But no, 'twas due to that new wheel 

That only cost a hundred. 



36 WERNER'S READINGS 

Repair men came and " sundries '' men; 

My bank-account they plundered; 
And yet how glad I am to feel 

That wheel cost but a hundred ! 



A NAUGHTT LITTLB OOMBT. 



ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 

TTHERE was a little comet who lived near the Milky Way ; 
^ She loved to wander out at night, and jump about and 
play. 

The mother of the comet was a very good old star ; 

She used to scold her reckless child for venturing out too far. 

She told her of the ogre, Sun, who loved on stars to sup, 
And who asked no better pastime than gobbling comets up. 

But instead of growing cautious and of showing proper fear, 
The foolish little comet edged up nearer and more near. 

She switched her saucy tail along right where the Sun could 

see. 
And flirted with old Mars, and was as bold as bold could be. 

She laughed to scorn the quiet stars who never frisked 

about ; 
She said there was no fun in life unless you ventured out. 

She liked to make the planets stare, and wished no better 

mirth 
Than just to see the telescopes aimed at her from the Earth. 

She wondered how so many stars could mope through nights 

and days, 
And let the sickly-faced old Moon get all the love and praise. 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22, 



37 



And as she talked and tossed her head and switched her 

shining trail, 
The staid old mother star grew sad, her cheek grew wan 

and pale ; 

For she had lived there in the Skies a million years or more, 
And she had heard gay comets talk in just this way before. 

And by and by there came an end to this gay comet's fun, 
She went a tiny bit too far — ^and vanished in the Sun ! 

But quiet stars she laughed to scorn are twinkling every 

night. 
No more she swings her shining trail before the whole 

world's sight. 



YOX7KG LOOHINVAB. 



EMMA ELISE WEST. 



A Pantomimic Farce. 

Time : Half an hour. 
Music : Songs of Scotland. 

CHARACTERS : 

LocHiNVAR, tall, dark, dashing. 

Ellen, pretty, petite, fair. 

Bridegroom^ awkward, ridiculous, pigeon-toed. 

Ellen's Father, short, stout, excitable. 

Ellen's Mother, tall, thin, angular, and solemn. 

Little Sister, inquisitive, active. 

Priest, bridesmaids, groomsmen, relatives, etc. 

COSTUMES : 

All the men but the Priest wear plaid kilts to tHe knee, 
high boots, Tam o' Shanter caps with feather in front, short 
jackets with plaid sash over shoulder. Highland fashion. 



38 WERNER'S READINGS 

Ellen wears a simple white gown and a veil. 
The father carries a sword. 

The mother wears a purple silk dress with train, and 
white lace fichu about throat. 

Little Sister wears a short dress, and carries a large doll. 
Priest wears regulation attire. 
Bridesmaids wear fancy light dresses. 

Scott's poem, " Young Lo(ihinvar," should be read aloud 
before the curtain rises. 

SCENE I. THE WfeDDING CEREMONY. 

Music : " Scots wha hae," followed by " My heart is sair 
for somebody.'' 

Bridegroom and Ellen in centre, Priest behind them with 
hands over their heads in blessing. Father at left of bride ; 
mother right of groom. Little Sister clinging to the 
mother's hand and peeping over doll's head. Bridesmaids, 
groomsmen, etc., in background. 

SCENE II. THE ENTRANCE OF LOCHINVAR. 

Music: " Hail to the Chief." 

Lochinvar prances in on a broomstick, makes a sweeping 
bow to the mother, kisses Ellen's hand, explains by gesture 
to the father, who has drawn his sword, that he comes only 
for the pleasure of the wedding, and places broomstick in 
corner. The father in anger goes over to the mother and 
gesticulates his wrath. Bridegroom swings bonnet help- 
lessly. Ellen blushes and looks down. Lochinvar takes a tin 
dipper — a quart measure — from table, and hands it gallantly 
to Ellen. She kisses it. He takes a long draught, throws 
down dipper, waves Bridegroom to one side, and, taking 
Ellen's hand, with a deep bow motions for a dance. The 
mother meantime makes frantic efforts to control Little Sis- 
ter and engage Ellen's attention, but to no purpose. Sets 
begin to form for the minuet or the Virginia reel. 
The music of any minuet or Highland fling may be used. 
Couples form with Lochinvar and Ellen in one set. The 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22. 39 

father, the mother, Bridegroom, and Little Sister in the 
other. Latter set do as many comical things as possible. 
Former set dance as well as possible. All dance out, leaving 
Lochinvar and Ellen alone. 

SCENE III. THE LOVE-SCENE. 

Music : " Annie Laurie,'' or ** Comin' thro' the Rye." 
Lochinvar goes down on his knees, clasps his hands, and 
begs Ellen to elope with him. She at first refuses, but as 
he grows more and more ardent, she reluctantly consents. 
They embrace convulsively. Lochinvar gets broomstick. 
Ellen runs out and returns, laden with a dress-suit case, a 
bandbox, an umbrella and a cape and leading a small dog. 
Lochinvar refuses to take them and points sadly to the 
broomstick. Ellen pouts, pleads, cries, but he remains ob- 
durate. She puts down all but the dress-suit case. Still he 
refuses. She kisses the case, hugs it fondly, takes a final 
look at the room, and mounts behind him. 

SCENE IV. THE DEPARTURE. 

Music : " The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee." 

They ride off, waving bonnets and laughing together. 

SCENE V. THE DISCOVERY. 

Music : " The Blue Bells of Scotland." 

Wedding party come in. Little Sister discovers Ellen's 
things. Wild excitement ensues. The father summons the 
clan, sends one of the men for broomsticks, and denounces 
Ellen in pantomime. Men mount sticks and ride away. 
Women wave handkerchiefs and kiss hands to them, etc. 

SCENE VI. THE MOURNING. 

Music: " The Laird o' Cockpen." 

Women sit on floor, moaning and rocking to and fro 
and trying to comfort the mother. Wail in time to music. 



40 WERNER'S READINGS 

SCENE VII. — THE RETURN OF THE CLAN. 

Music: "Robin Adair." 

Men ride in sadly, heads bowed on broomsticks. Women 
rise to meet them, and all form a mournful tableau. 

CURTAIN. 



TWO GRAY WOLVBS. 



MARY ANNABLE FANTON. 



F 



[From The Voice^ by permission of tho author and the publisher.] 

OR miles and miles the prairie stretches in a long, monot- 
onous roll. There is not a sign of life ; the air of com- 
plete desolation is appalling, menacing. The wind springs up, 
warm and enervating, — ^a wind that, blowing thus for days, 
has melted snow-drifts, opened streams, and driven to the 
plains lean, hungry beasts. Deep in a cave-like recess under 
a jutting ledge of rocks are secluded two emaciated, raven- 
ous mountain wolves. With slow steps and yawning mouths 
they creep out into the light. The moon with its sudden 
white glare affrights them and with sullen snarls they start 
back. But the fierce pangs of hunger are unconquerable and 
with light, quivering steps they creep through the dried 
grass, guided by a savage instinct to the plains below. 



" It's a wild venture, Nancy girl, out on the prairie ten 
miles, a night like this, with the ground as soft as a sponge. 
Why, the road takes you directly under the bluff." 

" Yes, yes, I know, father. The ground is bad, but the 
road is safe enough. The last wolf was killed three winters 
ago. In any case it doesn't matter, for Jack has come for 
me and his mother is dying. She needs me and with Jack 
rU not be afraid." 

Hardwick, Nancy's father, was a genuine ranchman* He 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, 41 

loved the life well. It had brought him h^lth and home. 
Here, too, Nancy had grown from a grave, pretty child to 
a gentle, beautiful woman. 

Early in the previous summer. Jack Du Bois, Nancy's 
sweetheart, had come from the East with his invalid mother, 
whose physicians had ordered ranch-life in the West as the 
only remedy for her failing health. 

And now she was dying. When the doctor had delivered 
his final verdict Jack's first impulse was to go for Nancy. 
He would start at once and bring her back before sunset. 
But Nancy was away when he reached the ranch and did not 
return until the last ray of orange light had trailed down the 
horizon. 

Now she was begging her father to let her go with her 
lover, who was blind to all possibility of danger, knowing so 
well his own strength and courage. 

" You always were too much for me, little girl. It's 
always been ' Yea, yea,' when it should have been * Nay, 
nay.' You are all I have, Nancy child. There, there, no 
tears. I know you would be wretched not to go. God keep 
you safe, little girl. If aught happen her to-night. Jack Du 
Bois, remember my life ends with hers; both are in your 
keeping." 

" Father, don't speak so to Jack. He would give his life 
for mine." 

The frown that had deepened in Jack's forehead disap- 
peared at the girl's words. 

" Nancy has spoken the truth," he said, quietly. 

Jack had come over the mountain road in the morning 
and had not thought the lower one could be so bad. 
, It was slow work for anxious hearts. Half the distance 
was past and the shadow of the bluff over them, before a 
word was spoken. 

Suddenly Nancy's horse shied, nearly throwing her from 
the saddle, so unexpected was the lurch. Jack pulled the 
beast up sharply. 

" What happened him, Nancy ? " 

The girl made no response. With her body bent forward 



43 WERNER'S READINGS 

and her neck stretched, she scarcely seemed to breathe in her 
concentrated effort to hear. 

"Hush, Jack, listen!" 

Her lover leaned forward, but rather to be near her than 
to listen, smiling down at her. But as he listened the smile 
died away. 

First there came the soft thick sound of a padded foot- 
fall on the moist ground ; then the sharp, crackling noise of 
broken underbrush. A moment's silence was fpllowed by 
the shrill, savage yell of angry beasts. The wolves had 
scented their prey. 

" Nancy, Nancy, don't sit motionless like that. They are 
breaking through the brush ! They're almost upon us ! Use 
your whip. Strike Modoc square between the eyes." 

The horses quickly responded to the unaccustomed touch 
of the whip and broke into a smart gallop, in spite of burn- 
ing hoofs and quaking ground. 

At the sound of human voices the wolves settled into a 
steady trot in the horses' trail. They seemingly made no 
effort to lessen the distance between them, but followed like 
two mocking shadows. But the space grew less and less, for 
the horses were beginning to weaken. The whip, coaxing 
words, even caresses from Nancy's little hand, were of no 
avail. The oft-repeated cries of the wolves affected the 
horses like ague. 

As Jack watched Nancy's face, the pallor, the drawn lines 
at the comers of the sweet mouth, he knew there was no need 
to explain the situation to her ; but in the supple young body 
there was no trace of cowardly fear. What if she wouldn't 
let him save her ? She must, she should. 

" Nancy, do not stop ; give Modoc loose rein and plenty of 
whip and then, dear, listen to me. I will manage this way. 
I'll leave my horse and then I will keep up with Modoc. 
Nancy, for my sake, — for your father's." 

So earnestly was Jack pleading, he had forgotten how the 
distance was narrowing at every word. Now, as he jumped 
lightly to the ground, a yell of triumph arose almost at his 
very f ^t 



tt 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, 43 

" On, Modoc, on ! " he cried, striking the horse wildly on 

the neck and the flanks. The beast plunged furiously for a 

moment, then darted across the prairie, but unencumbered, 

for Nancy had dropped from the saddle to her lover*s side. 

Forgive me, Jack, I couldn't go." 

Shut your eyes, sweetheart." 

But he covered her face lest she should see that the horse 
had gone down before them. 

Jack stood with his back to the wolves, so that, to the last 
moment Nancy might be spared. 

As he stood looking down the road, he suddenly saw com- 
ing rapidly toward him a dark shape, — ^too large for a wolf; 
if a horse, riderless. 

" Nancy, look up, straight ahead ! Do you see any- 
.thing?" 

" A horse, Jack. Why, it's Modoc coming back to us ! " 

Suddenly Nancy grasped Jack's arm tightly and began to 
whistle soft and low. The horse broke into a gallop ; he had 
known the call since a pony. As he reached her, Nancy 
threw her arms around his foam-covered neck and Jack just 
heard her words : 

" Quickly — ^in the saddle pocket at the right — ^the pistol — I 
remember it's loaded," and Nancy fell motionless at Modoc's 
feet. 

. One of the wolves had crawled half over the prostrate 
horse, but the bullet from a clean, straight aim took him 
squarely between the eyes. The revengeful cry of his mate, 
as she bounded toward Jack, was cut in two By a second 
bullet, then a third and a fourth. Not until the revolver was 
empty and both wolves motionless did Jack throw it aside 
and turn to the living. 

It was past midnight when, with Nancy in his arms, he 
staggered into the door of the little cabin. The doctor 
grasped his hand and led him to the bedside. 

" My son, it's like a miracle. Twice to-day we thought 
her dying, but now there's hope. God has been very merci- 
ful to you this night." 

And Nancy crept to her lover's side as she said, "Amen." 



44 WERNER'S READINGS 



A OHARAOTBB 8KBTOB. 



UNCLE ABE an' Aunt Maria 
Felt real sorrowful Christmas eve, — 
Had no coal to make a fire. 

Uncle Abe he up an' grieve, 
Sayin' : " The good Lord must forgot us I 

What's de use to watch an' pray? 
We been good, an' now we're f reezin' I " 

Aunt Maria she up an' say : 
" Bress de Lord, He ain't forgot us. 

Lift yo' heart, chile ; don't you cry ! 
Put yo' trust in de good Lord Jesus. 

He ain't gwine to pass us by." 

By and by 'long came a coal-cart. 

Wheel came off, it went kerflop 
Right in front of Uncle Abram's. 

Driver ran for the blacksmith's shop. 
Uncle Abram 'lowed he warn't 

" A-goin' to let such blessin's lay." 
Hooked enough coal to last all winter. 

Aunt Maria she up an' say : 
** Bress de Lord ! He ain't forgot us. 

Lift yo' heart, chile, don't you cry ! 
Put yo' trust in de good Lord Jesus. 

He ain't never passed us by ! " 



Some say that kissin's a sin 

But I think it's nane at a'. 

For kissin' has ruled in this warl' 

E'er since that there was twa, 

O if it wasna' lawful, — ^lawyers wadna' allow it. 

If it wasna' holy — ministers wadna' do it. 

If it wasna' modest — maidens wadna' tak' it. 

And if it wasna' plenty — ^puir folks wadna' get it. 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22., 45 



THE3 TEN-HOHB BILL. 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 



[On April 29, 1846, Mr. Feldon moved the second reading of a bill 
limiting the labor of young persons in factories to ten hours a day. The 
following is an extract from a speech made by Lord Macaulay with ref- 
erence to the bill.] 

PXACTLY three hundred years ago, great religious 
^ changes were taking place in England. Much was said 
and written in that inquiring and innovating age as to 
whether Christians were under religious obligations to rest 
from labor one day in the week, and it is well known that 
the chief reformers denied the existence of such obligations. 

Suppose, then, that Parliament had made a law that there 
should henceforth be no distinction between Sunday and any 
other day. Our opponents, if they are consistent with them- 
selves, must hold that such a law would have immensely in- 
creased the wealth of the country and the remuneration of the 
working man. What an effect, if their principles be sound, 
must have been produced by the addition of one sixth to the 
time of labor ! What an increase of production ! What a 
rise of wages ! The Sundays of three hundred years make 
up fifty years of our working days. We know what the in- 
dustry of fifty years can do. We know what marvels the in- 
dustry of the last fifty years has wrought. The arguments 
of my honorable friend irresistibly lead us to this conclu- 
sion, that if, during the last five centuries, Sunday had not 
been observed as a day of rest, we should have been a far 
richer, a far more highly civilized, people than we are now, 
and the laboring class especially would have been far better 
off than at present. 

But would this have been the case? For my own part, I 
have not the slightest doubt that if we and our ancestors had, 
during the last three centuries, worked just as hard on Sun- 
day as on week days, we should have been at this moment 
a poorer and a less civilized people than we are. 



46 WERNER'S READINGS 

Of course, I do not mean to say that a man will not pro- 
duce more in a week by working seven days than by work- 
ing six days. But I very much doubt whether at the end of 
a year he will have generally produced more by working 
seven days a week than by working six days a week ; and I 
firmly believe at the end of twenty years he will have pro- 
duced much less by working seven days a week than by 
working six days a week. In the same manner, \ I do not 
deny that a factory child will not produce more in a single 
day by working twelve hours than by working ten hours, 
and by working fifteen hours than by working twelve hours. 
But I do deny that a great society in which children work 
fifteen or even twelve hours a day will in the lifetime of a 
generation produce as much as if those children had worked 
less. We do not treat a fine horse or a sagacious dog ex- 
actly as we would treat a spinning- jenny. Nor will any 
slave-holder who has the sense to know his own interests 
treat his human chattels exactly as. he treats his horses and 
dogs. Would you treat the free laborer of England like a 
mere wheel or pulley? 

Why is it that the Hindoo cotton manufacturer, close to 
whose door the cotton grows, can not, in the bazaar of his 
own town, maintain a competition with the English cotton 
manufacturer who has to send thousands of miles for the 
raw material and who has then to send the wrought ma- 
terial thousands of miles to market ? You will say it is ow- 
ing to the excellence of our machinery. And to what is the 
excellence of our machinery owing? How many of the im- 
provements which have been made in our machinery do we 
owe to the ingenuity and patient thought of the working 
man? How long will you wait before any negro working 
under the lash in Louisiana will contrive a better machinery 
for squeezing the sugar-cane? 

Is there anything in the earth or in the air' that makes 
Scotland more prosperous than Egypt ; that makes Holland 
more prosperous than Sicily? No; it was the Scotchman 
who made Scotland ; it was the Dutchman that made Hol- 
land. Look at North America. Two centuries ago the sites 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22, 47 

on which now arise mills and hotels and banks and colleges, 
and churches and the senate-houses of flourishing com- 
monwealths were deserts abandoned to the panther and 
the bear. What has made the change? Was it the rich 
mold or the redundant rivers ? No ; the prairies were as fer- 
tile, the Ohio and the Hudson were as broad and as full, 
then as now. Was the improvement the effect of some 
great transfer of capital from the Old World to the New? 
No; the emigrants carried with them no more than a pit- 
tance; but they carried out the English heart and head and 
arm, and the English heart and head and arm turned the 
wilderness into cornfield and orchard and the huge trees of 
the primeval forest into cities and fleets. Man, man, is the 
great instrument that produces wealth. Therefore, it is that 
we are not poorer but richer, because we have through many 
ages rested from our labors one day in seven. That day is 
not lost. While industry is suspended, while the plough is 
in the furrow, while the exchange is silent, while no smoke 
ascends from the factory, a process is going on quite as im- 
portant to the wealth of nations as any process which is 
performed on more busy days. Man, the machine of ma- 
chines, the machine compared with which all the contrivances 
of the Wattses and the Arkwrights are worthless, is repair- 
ing and winding up, so that he returns to his labors on Mon- 
day with clearer intellect, with livelier spirits, with renewed 
corporal vigor. 

KEEPSAKES 



P VERY lover has a keepsake 
^ To the memory of his love ; 
Some a curl or a ribbon. 
Some a flower or a glove. 

But I am rich in keepsakes. 

Three notes I treasure apart : 
Two, accepting my presents, 

And a third, declining my heart. 



48 WERNER'S READINGS 



THB CAPTURE OF MAJOR ANDRB. 



CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW. 



[From Mr. Depew^s ** Orations and Speeches/' Cassell Publishing Co., pub' 

Ushers, by permission of the author.] 



[It is with great pleasure that I include in this collection the following 
extract from Mr. Depew's oration at the centennial celebration of the 
capture of Major Andr6 at Tarrytown, N. Y., Sept. 23, 1880. A 
small child, 1 listened to the words as they fell from his lips on that 
memorable day, and I still recall the breathless attention and the cheers 
of the vast crowd surrounding the orator. In the rapid march of Ameri- 
can civilization, legends, traditions— historic facts even— become dim 
and forgotten, and I feel that the schoolboy of to-day owes a debt of 
gratitude to the man who has given him in a vivid, living form the ** one 
overmastering romance of the Revolution."] 

'T'HE happiness and the progress of mankind have as often 
* been advanced or retarded by small events as by great 
battles. If the 300 men with Leonidas stemmed the Persian 
torrent and made Thermopylae the inspiration of twenty 
centuries, in Tarrytown, N. Y., three plain farmers of West- 
chester preserved the liberties of the American people. 

September, 1780, was a gloomy and anxious time for 
Washington and Congress. Charleston had fallen, and 
Gates had been disastrously defeated. New Jersey was 
overrun, and twenty thousand men — -veterans of European 
battle-fields — ^were gathered in New York. The only Ameri- 
can force worthy the name of an army— numbering less 
than 12,000 men, suffering from long arrears of pay, with- 
out money to send their starving families, and short of every 
kind of supplies — was encamped at and about West Point. 

This critical moment was selected by Arnold, with devil- 
ish sagacity, to strike his deadly blow. The surrender of this 
post controlling the passes of the Hudson, with its war ma- 
terials vital to the maintenance of the patriot army and its 
gar^-ison of 4,000 troops, together with the person of Wash- 
ington, ended, in his judgment, the war. 

For eighteen months a correspondence opened by Arnold 
had been carried on between him and M^ijor Andre acting^ 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 49 

for Sir Henry Clinton. These letters, molded in the vocab- 
ulary of trade and treating of the barter and sale of* cattle 
and goods, were really haggling about the price of the be- 
trayal of the liberties of America and a human soul. The 
time had come for action, and the British must be satisfied 
as to the identity of their man and the firmness of his pur- 
pose and commit him beyond the possibility of retreat. The 
first meeting appointed at Dobbs Ferry failed and Arnold' 
came near being captured. 

Baffled but not disheartened, nine days after this failure 
Arnold, lurking in the bushes of the Long Clove below 
Haverstraw, sent a boat at midnight to the Vulture to bring 
Andre to the shore. The boatmen, roughly handled on the 
sloop of war for daring to approach her without a flag of 
truce, are hurried before Andre and explain their mission. 
He concealed his uniform by a cloak and determined to ac- 
company them. The danger, the disgrace, the prize, are be- 
fore him. If detected, a spy ; if successful, at the head of a 
victorious column upon Fort Putnam, receiving the sur- 
render of West Point, a general's commission, the thanks 
of Parliament, the knightly honors of his King. 

The dawn finds Arnold and Andre still in the thicket dis- 
puting about the terms. All the morning that fearful bar- 
gaining goes on, but at last it is settled. He receives the 
papers giving the plans, fortifications, armament, and troops 
at West Point and the proceedings of Washington's last 
council of war, and hides them between his stockings and his 
feet. He receives the assurance that the defenses shall be so 
manned as to fall without a blow and assures Arnold in re^ 
turn of a brigadier-generalship in the .British army and 
7,000 pounds in money, and bids him farewell until he meets 
him at the close of a sham combat to receive his surrender 
and sword. 

Those two men have determined the destinies of unborn 
millions. None share their secret; there is no one to betray 
them. Once safely back with those papers and America's 
doom is sealed. 

Still further disguised and armed with Arnold's pas^ in 



so 



WERNER'S READINGS 



the name of John Anderson, Andre crossed the river in the 
afternoon to Verplanck's Point and safely passed through 
Livingston's camp. Gaily he rides, accompanied by a man 
from Haverstraw named Smith, through the Cortlandt 
woods and over the Yorktown hills. He laughs as he passes 
the ancient guide-post bearing its legend : " Dishe his di 
Roode toe de Ksling's Farray," and his hair stood on end, 
he said, when he met Col. Webb of our army, whom he per- 
fectly knew, but who stared at him and went on. His plan 
is to strike the White Plains road and so reach his own 
lines. But at Crumpond Captain Boyd stops them. A most 
uncomfortable, inquisitive, vigilant and troublesome Yankee 
is this same Captain Boyd. Arnold's pass stuns him, but it 
requires all the versatility and adroitness of Andre to allay 
his suspicions. He so , significantly recommends their re- 
maining all night that they dare not decline. A Westchester 
farmer's bed never had two more uneasy occupants. At early 
dawn they departed. Andre's spirits rose. He had left dis- 
grace and a shameful death behind and saw only escape, 
glory and renown before. Hitherto taciturn and depressed, 
he now overwhelmed his dazed companion with a flood of 
brilliant talk. At Pine's Bridge, Smith's courage failed 
and he bade his companion good-bye. This was another of 
the trivial incidents that led Andre to his fate. Smith, with 
his acquaintance and ready wit, would have piloted him 
safely and satisfied the scruples of the yeomen who captured 
him. Andre, alone and free from care, decided to strike for 
the river; it was a shorter road, but it was only another link 
in the chain winding about him. 

He gallops along that most picturesque highway, recog- 
nizes the old Sleepy Hollow Church, and a half mile to the 
front sees the bridge over the brook which was to be for him 
a fatal Rubicon. On the south side of that stream, in the 
bushes playing cards, were three young farmers of that 
neighborhood — ^John Paulding, David Williams, and Isaac 
Van Wart. At the approach of the horseman Paulding steps 
into the road, presents his musket and calls a halt. Andre 
speaks first. 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 51 

" My lads, I hope you belong to our party." 

" Which party ? '' they said. 

** The lower party," he answered. 

" We do." 

" Then, thank God, I am once more among friends. I am 
a British officer out on particular business, and must not be 
detained a minute." 

Then they said : ** We are Americans and you are our 
prisoner and must dismount." 

" My God," he said, laughing, "a man must do anything 
to get along," and presented Arnold's pass. 

Had he presented it first, Paulding said afterward he 
would have let him go. 

They carefully scanned it, but persisted in detaining him. 
He threatened them with Arnold's vengeance for this disre- 
spect to his order; but, in language more forcible than po- 
lite, they told him they cared not for that, and led him to the 
great white-wood tree, under which he was searched. As 
the fatal papers fell from his feet, Paulding said : "Here it 
is," and as he read them he shouted in high excitement to his 
companions : " He is a spy ! " 

Now came the crucial moment. Andre had the day before 
bargained with and bought an American major general of 
the highest military reputation. Surely escape was easy 
from these three young men, only one of whom could read, 
and who were buttressed by neither name nor fortune. 

" If you will release me," said Andre, " I will give you a 
hundred guineas and any amount of dry goods. I will give 
you a thousand guineas," he cried, " and you can hold me as 
hostage till one of your number returns with the money." 

Then Paulding swore : " We would not let you go for ten 
thousand guineas ! " 

That decision saved the liberties of America. Arnold and 
Andre, Paulding, Williams and Van Wart, are characters in 
a drama that crystallizes an eternal principle : That our Re- 
publican institutions rest upon the integrity and the patriot- 
ism of the common people. The light that made clear to 
these men the priceless value of country atid liberty was but 



sa 



WERNER'S READINGS 



the glimmering dawn compared with the noonday glory of 
the full-orbed radiance in which we stand. Their monument 
is the Republic — its inscription, upon the hearts of its teem- 
ing and happy millions. 



THB MISSING SHIPS 







ALBERT LAIGHTON. 

THOU ever restless sea, 
** God's half-uttered mystery," 
Where are all the ships that sailed so gallantly away ? 
Tell us, will they never more 
Fold their wings and come to shore ? 
Eyes still watch and fond hearts wait ; precious freight had 

they. 

Precious freight ! ay, wealth untold. 

More than merchandise or gold. 
Did the stately vessels bear o'er the heaving main. 

Human souls are dearer far 

Than all earthly treasures are. 
And for them we weep and pray. Must it be in vain ? 

In the silence of the night, 

Did they, with a wild affright. 
Wake to hear the cry of " fire " echo to the stars? 

While the cruel, snakelike flame, 

Creeping, coiling, hissing, came 
O'er the deck and up the mast and out along the spars ! 

As the doomed ship swayed and tossed 

Like a mighty holocaust. 
Did they with despairing cries leap into the waves ? 

Or with folded hands and eyes 

Lifted to the peaceful skies 
Calmly ^o with pfayerful hearts to their nameless graves ? 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22. S3 

Did the black wings of the blast 

Poise and hover o'er the mast 
Till at last in wrath they swept o'er the crowded deck ? 

Leaving not a soul to tell 

How the long and awful swell 
Of the ocean's troubled breast bore a dismal wreck ; 

How, amid the thunder's crash 

And the lightning's lurid flash 
(Autograph the storm-king writes on his scroll of clouds), 

High above the deafening strife 

Piteous cries were heard for life, 
Fear-struck human beings seen clinging to the shrouds? 

Or with shattered hulk and sail. 

Riding out the stormy gale. 
Did the brave ship slowly sink deeper, day and night, 

Drifting, drifting wearily 

O'er the wide and trackless sea. 
Loved ones striving, dying there, with no sail in sight ? 

Or when winds and waves were hushed, 

While each cheek with joy was flushed, 
As they glided gently on, hope in every breast, 

With a sudden leap and shock 

Did they strike some hidden rock 
And go down, forever down to their dreamless rest ? 

Did the strange and spectral fleet 

Of the icebergs round them meet. 
Pressing closer till they sank crashing to the deep? 

Ek) these crystal mountains loom. 

Monuments of that vast tomb. 
In the ocean's quiet depths where so many sleep ? 

O thou ever surging sea. 
Vainly do we question thee. 
Thy blue waves no answer bring as they kiss the strand ; 
But we know each coral grave. 
Far beneath the rolling wave, 
Shall at last give up its dead, touched by God's right hand 



54 WERNER'S READINGS 



TRYING THE "ROSB AOT.' 



MARIETTA HOLLEY. 



[From the Ladies* Mome Journal, by permission of the author and the Curtis Pub 

lisning Co.] 

IT wuz a calm, fair morn. The sun streamed meller and 
^ golden into the buttery winder where I had been en- 
gaged in the hard and toilsome occupation of churnin'. 

Josiah would have helped me churn, he said he would 
have been glad to have done it all himself, but, unfortunately, 
the old harness wuz broke and he had to be out in the bam 
a'most all the mornin' a-mendin' it. It is a dreadful curious 
coincidence, but it almost always happened so, that old har- 
ness always breaks down on churnin' day, and, of course, 
he couldn't drive with a martingill broke into or a tug that 
wuzn't all right. 

Josiah had promised to carry the butter to Jonesville. 
Wall, I had got it all churned, and I s'pose Josiah had heard 
out to the barn that the dasher had ceased its heavy motion, 
and I s'pose he had got through with the harness at the same 
time, for he come in jest as I wuz a-workin' it over, and sot 
down in the kitchen jest as high-spirited and darin' as he 
wuz when he went out, and more, too. 

Wall, while I wuz a-workin' in the salt, Josiah took a old 
paper that I had brung down from the attick that momin', 
to put onto my buttery shelves, and ever and anon he would 
read out a paragraph to me. All to once he cried out : 

" Here, Samantha, is sunthin' that is worth reading Here 
is eloquence and hard horse sense. I feel that I love the man 
that wrote that, — I love him dearly." 

'* What is it ? " sez I. 

Sez he : " It is what a lot of big men say about wimmen, 
but this one beats all." Sez he : " Jest listen to it ' If I were 
a woman I would not do anything important. I would 
emulate the rose and its wisdom. I would charm and be 
silent. If I were a woman I would be just a woman and 
nothing more, for therein lies woman's greatest charm. 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 55 

Man was made to work for woman, woman to charm him in 
his hours of ease.' " Sez Josiah : "Do you hear that, Sa- 
mantha ? Do you hear that ?" 

" Yes," sez I, " I read them effusions when they first 
come out; it wuz when you wuz down to Uncle EUick's/' 

Sez Josiah : " That is why I missed seein' it. But why 
didn't you tell me about it, Samantha? I feel that I have 
lost two years of happiness in not knowin' such a piece wuz 
wrote. Oh, how I love them three men — I love them like 
brothers." 

I wuz still demute, a-leanin' on the heavy bowl, a-restin' 
my worn-out frame and a-contemplatin' the fact that I had 
to pack the butter in the tub, after it wuz lugged up out of 
the suller. 

Ag'in he sez: " What do you think of that noble piece, 
Samantha? " 

Sez I : ** There is some truth in most arguments, Josiah 
Allen; but these men go too fur in their idees, they hain't 
mejum enough." 

"Yes, they be," sez he, " they are jest exactly right, and 
they know it, and I know it, and every livin' man knows it. 
Oh, them men put men and wimmen in their own spears 
and keep 'em there so beautifully! If you would f oiler up 
them idees, Samantha Allen, I would be the happiest man in 
Jonesville or the world." 

" Well," sez I, " I would be willin' to charm you, Josiah 
Allen, but I don't see how I could allure and do housework 
at the same time." 

And then we had some words. 

And I sez : " This butter has got to be put down, and I 
would like to have you bring up the tub from the suller and 
help pack it. It is hard work fur a woman's arms when they 
are a'most broke off a' ready." 

** Wall," sez he, short and terse, " ef I go to Jonesville 
that democrat has got to be greased." 

And he ketched up his basin of wagon-grease from the 
suller-way, and started off, a'most on the run. And, if you'll 
believe it, that man slammed the door behind him. Whether 



56 WERNER'S READINGS 

it wuz that slam or whether it wuz his refusal to bring 
up that tub, or whether it wuz I wuz so tired out, or 
whether it wuz that piece he had read wuz a-gratin' 
on my nerve unbeknown to me, — ^whether it wuz any of 
these things or all on 'em put together, I don't know; 
but tenny rate, before the echo of that slam had died 
away, I jest dropped that butter ladle down, an' sez I to my- 
self, in the inside of my own mind, but firm and positive : 

" I'll take you at your word, Josiah Allen. I will do the 
* rose act,' and you may work for me while I allure and 
charm. I will emulate the rose and be silent." 

So I dropped everything right where it wuz, and retired 
into the parlor and turned all my attention to the job that 
wuz in front of me. 

I turned over in my mind all the pictures I had seen of 
females tryin' to allure and charm, and I recollected, as nigh 
as I could remember, that they had ginerally been in a settin' 
poster, so consequently I sot. I believe, too, it wuz proper 
for me to sort o' clasp my hands in a easy, graceful attitude 
and smile some, so consequently I smiled considerable. 

Wall, jest as I got my hands clasped in a very graceful 
and allurin' attitude, and my lips wreathed in a winsome 
smile, my pardner entered with his basin of wagon-grease 
in his hands. 

I set where I could see him plain. He glanced into the 
buttery, and sez he : 

" Gracious heavens ! Hain't that butter finished ? Nor 
the tea-kettle on at half-past eleven? What is the matter? " 
sez he, a-standin' in the doorway and glarin' at me. " What 
is the matter, Samantha ? " 

I smiled at him as sweet as I knew how, but kep' silent. 

Ag'in he yelled : " Why in the name o' the gracious Peter 
hain't dinner under way? " 

Ag'in I smiled, and ag'in I kept silent. 

And finally he sez, lookin' dost at me : " What are you 
a-tryin' to do, anyway ? " 

" Josiah Allen, I'm a-tryin' to allure and charm." 

Sez he : " You are ^-bein' a big goose, that's what you're 
a-bein\" 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22. 



S7 



But I still smiled and murmured, gently and tenderly : 

** Sweet pet" 

He yelled in nearly frenzied axents : " I shall lose the 
chance to sell that butter ! And I am starved I Twenty- four 
hours since I've eat a mouthful !" 

His axents wuz dreadful, — stormy and angry and voya- 
lant in the extreme. But like a still small voice after a 
tempest, I murmured to him in gentle and winnin' axents : 

" Men are made to work for wimmen," and I added, in 
still tenderer and sweeter tones, " You'll find the butter 
smasher in the buttery winder and the chicken to brile in the 
storeroom." 

And then I gin him about three full smiles an' sez : 

" The mop is a-hangin' up behind the back room door and 
the stove-brush and blackin' are in the suller-way, and the 
lamp-chimney cleaner is a-hangin' up over the kitchen sink." 

So arjous had been my work, a-doin' that immense 
churnin', that my usual mornin's work was neglected and 
ondone. 

What are you a-goin' to do? " he yelled. 
I am a-goin' to charm you, Josiah. * Wimmen are 
made to charm men.' They should do nothin' important. 
Eatin' is important; therefore, I will not cook. A dean 
house is important ; therefore, I will not clean. I will emu- 
late the rose in its wisdom. I will charm and be silent." 

" Are you a dumb lunatick? " sez he. " Or what does ail 
you ? " and he put on his glasses and looked closer at me. 
And anon as he looked I seen a change come over my pard- 
ner's face ! His angry mean subsided, and a look of intense 
and questionin' alarm swept over his eyebrow. And I see 
him glance at the camphire bottle. And anon he turned 
silently and reached up the stairway for -the soapstun, with 
his eye on me all the time. 

And he sez : " Don't you want to be rubbed, Samantha ? 
Where is your worst pain? Won't camphire relieve you? 
Shall I go after Miss Gowdy or the doctor ? " 

Sez I : "Josiah Allen, I don't want soapstuns or camphire. 
I want reason and common sense in my companion ; that is 






c8 WERNER'S READINGS 

what I want to relieve me. I have tried jest as faithful as 
ever a woman did to foUer after the rules you read this 
mornin'. You said you loved the men that wrote 'em, and 
if I would only foUer them rules you would be the happiest 
man in Jonesville or the world. I have foUered 'em faithful 
for about twenty minutes, and it has reduced you to' the con- 
dition of a lunatick. If twenty minutes of it has brought you 
to this state, what would hours and days of it do, and 
years?'* 

He stomped on the floor, he kicked; but I kept firm and 
smiled onto him, and ag'in I called him " sweet, darlin' pet." 

Suffice it to say that at twelve o'clock (and he said he 
hadn't had a mouthful to eat in forty-eight hours) he 
capitulated with no terms. 

He said : " Dear Samantha, I have had enough of the 
* rose act.' I have had enough of allurin' and charmin'. 
Now I want some meat vittles, and I want 'em quick." 

So I got right up and got as good a dinner as hands ever 
got, but quick. And while I was a-gittin' the dinner I got 
time to finish that last layer o' butter, and imegiatly after 
dinner I put a snow-white cloth over it, sprinkled it with 
salt on top, and Josiah sot off in good season, after all, for 
Jonesville. And at his request, I put on my brown alpacky 
dress. And as we went along we visited very agreeable. 

He said : " That sweet flowery talk read well and made 
men feel kinder generous and comfortable to write it, and 
made men feel dretful sort o' patronizin' toward wimmen to 
read it; but it wouldn't work worth a cent." 

'* No," sez I. " And I felt like a fool, a-settin' there a-try- 
in' to allure and charm, a-smilin' stiddy when I knew 
everythin' wuz at loose ends m the kitchen. I wuz as happy 
ag'in when I wuz out a-gittin' your dinner." 

" And," sez he, " as I said, such talk reads well and it is 
a comfort to the men to write it and the men to read it. 
But," sez he, " come to crumple right down to real life, it 
won't work, and if it did^ men would git sick of it, — sick as 
a dog." 

And then we rode on blandly together. 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 



59 



THB JEST OF FATB. 



SAM WALTER FOSS. 

ONCE Fate, with an ironic zest, 
Made man, and made him quite in jest. 
*' From out the void I man evoke,'' 
Said Fate, " my best and latest joke, 
ril stand him on two slender props, 
Two pins on which the creature hops, 
ril watch the unbalanced, gawky sprawl,— 
Prong after prong behold him crawl ; 
And when a strong wind from the East 
Blows on this perpendicular beast, 
ril laugh to see him topple o'er, 
And all the gazing gods shall roar. 

** This mite shall feed the lion's maw 
And dangle from the tiger's paw, 
Shall be the sportive panther's prey, 
And flee from dragons night and day. 
This featherless bird of awkward mold 
Shall chatter through the winter's cold; 
No h^ir or wool to him I give, 
No turtle-shell in which to live, 
Nor can he like the bear," said Fate, 
" Dig holes in which to hibernate. 
Out in the universe I fling 
This naked, helpless, shivering thing. 
This is of all my jokes the best. 
This is my masterpiece of jest! " 

But Fate, in mixing man his brains. 
Forgot to take the usual pains, 
Dropped in — and made a fearful muss— 
An extra scoop of phosphorus. 



WERN£R*S READINGS 

Then man said slyly : " Just you wait 
And / will get a joke on Fate." 

He did not feed the lion's maw 

Nor dangle on the tiger's claw, 

But cut those creatures into steak, 

And from their hides warm clothes did niakc. 

The whirlwind from the East might blow, 

But still it could not overthrow 

This featherless biped, for, 'tis plain, 

This extra phosphorus in his brain 

Was just enough upon each limb 

To hold him up and balance him. 

And so, through all the years that come, 

He keeps his equilibrium. 

And thus this pronged and toppling thing 
Stood straight and made himself a king. 
This straddling biped did not fail 
To tame the elephant and whale, 
To hold the lightning in his hand 
And rule the elements at command, 
And, sheltered safe from wounds and scars. 
His thoughts went out beyond the stars 
And traveled o'er Time's shoreless sea 
And wandered through eternity. 
And baffled Fate said : " Well, I see 
This fellow's got the joke on me.'* 

But let not pride soar forth too high 
And gloat on our immensity, 
But think sometimes of what a flout 
And failure we had been, without 
Tha!t slip of Fate in making us, — 
That extra scoop of phosphorus I 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 61 



HENRY W. GKADY. 

YOU arc the no-countest, laziest, meanest dog that ever 
wore breeches! Never let me see you again! " 

Thus spoke Mrs. Tag to Mr. Tag, her husband ; she stand- 
ing in the door, her arms akimbo, and, cat-like, spitting the 
words at him. 

Mr. Tag made no reply. He stood dazed and bewildered, 
as one in a sudden shower; then turning, he pulled his old 
hat down over his ears, as if she was throwing rocks at 
him instead of words, and shambled off in silence to meet 
me on the top of the hill. 

"Ann was sorter rough to me, wam't she? " he said, with 
a chuckle of deprecation. 

I assented quietly to the lack of smoothness in Ann's rjC- 
marks. 

" You ain't, knowed me long," he said, with a sudden 
flicker of earnestness, " an' you've knowed the worst part of 
me. You've knowed the trouble and the fag-end. You 
warn't in at the good part of my life ! " 

I should think not, poor fellow. Ever since I had known 
him he had been the same shabby good-for-nothing that he 
is now. 

" I was a better man once ; not a better man, either, as I 
know of, but I had luck. When me an' Ann was married, 
there warn't a happier couple nowhere. I remember just 
as well when I courted her. She didn't think about me then 
as she does now. We had a buggy to ourselves, an' we 
turned down a shady road. It seemed like that road was 
the road to heaven, an' we was so happy that we warn't in 
no hurry to get to the end of it. Ann was handsome then. 
Oh, yes, she was ! " — as I winced at this — " an' at first as 
good a wife to me as ever a man had. 

" It may *a' been me that started the trouble. I was un- 



6s WERNER'S READINGS 

fortnit in everything I touched. My fingers slipped oflf of 
everything, an' everything slipped off of them. I could get 
•no grip on nothin'. I worked hard, but sumpin worked 
harder ag'in' me. Ann was ambitious an' uppish, an' I used 
to think when I come home at night, most tired to death, she 
was gittin' to despise me. She'd snap me up an' abuse me till 
actually I was afraid. I never misused her or give her a back 
word. I thought may be she warn't to blame, an' that what 
she said about me was true. Things kept a-gittin' worse, 
an' we sold off pretty much what we had. Five years ago 
a big surprise came to us. It was a baby — sl boy — him ! '* 
nodding toward the hut. 

" It was a surprise to both of us. We'd been married 
fourteen years. It made Ann harder on me than ever. She 
never let me rest; it was all the time hard words an' hard 
looks. I never raised even a look against her, of course. I 
thought she was right about me. Him an' me knowed each 
other from the start. We had a langwidge of our own. 
There warn't no words in it — ^just looks an' grunts. At last 
Ann commenced takin' in washin', an' one day she said I 
shouldn't hang around no more a-eatin' him an' her out of 
house an' home. That was more'n a year ago, an' I ain't 
seen him since to talk to him. Every time I go about she 
hustles me about as she did to-day. I never make no fuss. 
She's right about me, I reckon. I am powerful no 'count. 
But he has stirred things in me I ain't felt movin' for many 
a year ! " 

"What's his name. Bob?" 

" Got none. She never would let me talk to her about it, 
an' I ain't got no right to name him. I ast her once how 
it would do to call him * Little Bob,' an' she said I had better 
git him sumpin to eat; he couldn't eat a name, nor dress in 
it, neither, which was true. But he's got my old face on 
him an' my looks. I know that an' he knows it, too." 

I met Bob a few days after that in a state of effusive 
delight. 

" Had a picnic to-day." 

"A picnic! Who?" 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22. 63 

" Me an' him ! You don't know Phenice — the neighbor's 
gal as nusses him sometimes ? Well, I seed her out with him 
to-day, an' I tolled her off kinder, till she got beyant the hill, 
an' then I got an' purposed as how she should give me a little 
time with him. She sciddled off to town to git her quarter 
spent, an' I took him an' made for the woods, to meet her 
thar ag'in, by sun ! 

" He's a deep one, I tell you ! " he said, drawing a breath 
of admiration ; " as deep a one as ever I see. He'd never 
been in the woods before, but he knowed it all ! You orter 
see him when a jay-bird come an' sot on a high limb, an' 
flung him some sass, an' tried to sorter make free with him. 
The look that boy give him couldn't 'a' been beat by nobody. 
The jay tried to hold up to it an' chaffered a little, but he 
finally had to skip, the wust beat bird you ever saw ! " 

And so the old fellow went on, telling me about that won- 
derful picnic. 

It was late that night when I went home — ^after one 
o'clock— a fearful night, too. The rain was pouring in tor- 
rents and the wind howled like mad. Taking a near cut 
home, I passed by the hut where Bob's wife lived. Through 
the drifting rain I saw a dark figure against the side of the 
house. Stepping closer, I saw that it was Bob, mounted on 
a barrel, flattened out against the planks, his old felt hat down 
about his ears, and the rain pouring from it in streams, his 
face glued to the window, gazing Jn stealthily at the bed 
where the little one slept and warming his old heart up with 
the memory of that wondrous picnic. 

One morning, many months after the picnic, Bob came to 
me sideways. His right arm hung limp and inert by his side, 
and his right leg dragged helplessly after the left. The 
yielding muscles of the neck had stiffened and drawn his 
head awry. He stumbled clumsily to where I was standing, 
and received my look of surprise shamefacedly. 

" I've had a stroke," he said. " Paralysis! It's most used 
me up. I reckon I'll never be able to do anything for him ! 
It came on me sudden," he said, as if to say that if it had 
given him any sort of notice, he could have dodged it. 



64 IVERNER'S READINGS 

After that Bob went on from worse to worse. His face, 
all save that fixed in the rigid clasp of the paralysis, became 
tremulous, pitiful, and uncertain. He had lost all of the 
chirrupy good-humor of the other days, and became shy and 
silent. There was a wistfulness and yearning in his face 
that would have made your heart ache ; a hungry passion had 
struggled from the depth of his soul, and peered out of his 
blue eyes, and tugged at the corners of his mouth. There 
was, too, a pitiful, scary look about him. He had the air of 
one who is pursued. I learned that his wife had become 
even harder upon him since his trouble, and that he was even 
more than ever afraid of her. 

"Bob," I said to him, one morning, "you rascal, you 
are starving! " 

He couldn't deny it. He tried to put it off, but he 
couldn't. His face told on him. 

" Have you had anything to eat to-day? " 

" No, sir." 

" Nor yesterday?" 

" No, sir." 

I gave him a half-dollar. A wolfish glare of hunger shot 
into his eyes as he saw the money. He clutched it with a 
spasm of haste and started off. I watched his sidelong walk 
down the street, and then went to work, satisfied that he 
would go off and pack himself full. It was hardly an hour 
before he came back, his face brighter than I had seen it in 
months. He carried a bundle in his live hand. He laid it 
on my desk, and then fell back on his dead leg, while I 
opened it. I found in the bundle a red tin horse attached to 
a blue tin wagon, on which was seated a green tin driver. I 
looked up in blank astonishment. 

"' For him ! " he said, simply, and then he broke down. 

" Could vou send it to him? " he said, at last. " If she 
knew I sent it, she mightn't let him have it. He's never had 
nothin' of this kind, an' I thought it might pearten him up." 

" Bob, is this the money I gave you ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" And you were starving when you left here ? " 



it 



AND RECITATIONS No. 2^. 6$ 

Oh, I got some bread ! " 



I suppose every man, woman and child remembers that 
terrible night three years ago when we had lightning while 
the snow was on the ground. The flashes plowed great 
yellow seams through the gray of the day, and at night a 
freezing storm of sleet and rain came. Bob's wife slept un- 
easily that night. She rolled in her sleep a long time, and 
at last got up and went to the window and looked out. She 
shuddered at the sound of the whizzing sleet and the pitiless 
hum of the rain on the roof. Then she stumbled sleepily 
back to her couch and dreamed of a long shady lane, and a 
golden green afternoon in May and a bright-faced young 
fellow that looked into her heart and held her face in his 
soft fingers. How this dream became tangled in her 
thoughts, that night of all nights, she never could tell. But 
.there it was, gleaming like a thread of gold through the 
dismal warp and woof of her life. 

It was full day when she awoke. As she turned lazily 
upon her side, she started up in affright. There was a man, 
dripping wet, silent, kneeling by her bedside. An old felt 
hat lay upon the floor. The man's head was bowed deep down 
over the bed and his hands were bundled tenderly about one 
of the baby's fists that had been thrown above its head. 

The worn, weatherbeaten figure was familiar to her, but 
there was something that stopped her, as she started for- 
ward angrily. She stood posed like a statue for a moment, 
then bent down, curiously and tenderly, and with trembling 
fingers pulled the cover back from the bed, and looked up 
into the man's face steadily. Then she put her fingers on 
his hand, furtively and shrinkingly. Then a strange look 
crept into her face — ^the dream of the night came to her like 
a flash — and she sank back upon the floor, and dropped her 
head between her knees. 

Ah, yes. Bob had " come home to stay." 



66 WERNER'S READINGS 



AN INFORMAL PRAYER. 



• " 'THE proper way for a man to pray/' 

^ Said Deacon Lemuel Keys, 
" And the only proper attitude, 

Is down upon his knees." 
*' No ; I should say the way to pray," 

Said Rev. Dr. Wise, 
" Is standing straight, with outstretched arms 

And rapt and upturned eyes." 






Oh, no, no, no ! " said Elder Slow ; 
Such posture is too proud. 
A man should pray with eyes fast closed 

And head contritely bowed." 
" It seems to me his hands should be 

Austerely clasped in front. 
With both thumbs pointed toward the ground," 

Said Rev. Dr. Hunt. 

" Las' year I fell in Hodgkin's well. 

Head first," said Cyrus Brown, 
" With bothi my heels a-stickin' up, 

My head a-p'intin' down ; 
An' I made a prayer right then an' there — 

Best prayer I ever said — 
The prayin'est prayer I ever prayed, 

A-standin' on my head." 



In a railroad train in Scotland was an old lady with a 
large hand-satchel. She sat quietly looking out of the win- 
dow until the brakeman opened the door and called out: 
'* Any passengers for Doon ? " Then she looked up quickly, 
but said nothing. Shortly afterward the train stopped and 
the brakeman again opened the door and said : " Doon ! 
All this way for Doon." About two hours later the old lady 
leaned over and said confidentially to the person next her: 
" Ah'm for Doon, but ah'd no tell that man ma beezness." 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 67 



THB HATiTJDAY HUNT BBBAH:F AST. 



ALFRED STODDART. 



LProm the Criterion^ by permissioii of the publishers.] 

)V/l R. PERCIVAL SATTERLEE was anxiously consid- 
*^* ering a communication. It was an invitation— one 
which hundreds of young men in New York City would have 
given half they possessed to receive. Satterlee himself 
would not have parted with it. Yet the receipt of it had em- 
barrassed him not a little. It read as follows : 

" Halliday Hall, Long Island. 
'' Dear Mr, Satterlee: 

" We are down here for a few weeks of the fox-hunting 
season, and Mr. Halliday and I would be pleased to have you 
make one of our house-party for ten days from next 
Wednesday. Mr, Halliday desires me to add that the Mead- 
owmere hounds will meet at our house on Thursday, and 
that he has arranged to mount all his guests. 
" Hoping that you may be able to come, I am 

" Very sincerely yours, 

" Lavinia Halliday.^^ 

It was a poser. On the one hand was the undoubted op- 
portunity to meet again and make ardent love to the rich 
and beautiful Miss Halliday; on the other — Satterlee had 
dreadful doubts and misgivings as to his horsemanship, and 
the invitation seemed to threaten fox-hunting and hard 
riding between every line. Miss Halliday herself Satterlee 
knew to be an ardent sportswoman, who rode to hounds and 
was said to break her own horses ; while her father, who was 
celebrated in his youth as a gentleman jockey, was consid- 
ered one of the hardest riders of the Long Island hunting 
set. As Mr. Satterlee's experience in this direction had been 
limited to one ride in a riding-school, upon which occasion 



6g WERNER'S READINGS 

he had come dangerously near falling off, it was no wonder 
that the thought of the Halliday's house-party made his face 
pale and caused his hand to tremble. For, to tell the truth, 
Mr. Satterlee was desperately smitten with lovely Diana 
Halliday. She was indeed a charming bit of femininity — 
apart from the prospective thirty thousand a year — with the 
sweetest disposition in the world. Satterlee groaned. 

" I was just beginning to make some headway/' he mut- 
tered, " and now they must get up this precious scheme to 
compel me to make an ass of myself. One thing is very 
sure," he snapped, " if Diana ever marries me I'll soon put 
an end to this fox-hunting nonsense." 

At first he thought of going down to Halliday Hall and 
frankly acknowledging that he couldn't ride. Then he re- 
membered how frequently he had boasted of his horseman- 
ship to Miss Halliday at dinners and at dances. Clearly 
that would not do. Finally, he had almost decided to decline 
the invitation altogether, when Dick Middleton entered the 
room. 

'* Why, hello, Percy," cried Dick ; " you seem to have 
something on your mind. What's your trouble ? " 

** I've just had a line from Mrs. Halliday," said Satterlee, 
striving to conceal his triumph, for Middleton was one of his 
hated rivals for the favor of the fair Diana. " She wants 
me to join her house-party at Halliday Hall next week." 
Better go, old man," returned Middleton, promptly. 

Good house — good people — good sport — ^I'll be there," he 
added, by way of a final inducement. 

Satterlee gasped. It was a bitter blow, but it settled the 
question. Moved by a sudden inspiration, he hastily penned 
the following to Mrs. Halliday: 

" Club. 

'' My Dear Mrs, Halliday: 

" It gives me great pleasure to accept your very kind in- 
vitation for next Wednesday. I regret to say, however, that 
my part in the sport to follow will not be a conspicuous one, 
as I had the misfortune to sprain my bridle wrist badly while 






AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 69 

hunting in Pennsylvania recently. Perhaps the accident 
may prove a blessing, as I trust it will enable me to enjoy 
more of your society during my stay. 

** Very truly yours, 

*' Percival Satterlee.^' 

" That last is a fine stroke,'* said Satterlee to himself. 

Halliday Hall presented a spirited scene on the following 
Thursday. Extensive preparations had been made and were 
now being perfected for the hunt breakfast. 

Satterlee, his left arm supported in a sling, was almost the 
last member of the house-party to appear in the breakfast 
room. Most of the women wore habits. The weather was 
propitious and all the company were in high spirits with the 
prospect of a good run. Satterlee alone of all the men was 
not dressed for hunting, having donned a becoming golf- 
suit. Middleton, who had brought his own horses down 
with him, was eagerly talking horses and hounds with Fred 
Galloway. 

Satterlee was in a somewhat dismal humor, which he 
cleverly turned to good account by telling everyone it was 
because he couldn't ride. As a matter of fact, he shuddered 
to think of the opportunities Middleton might have out hunt- 
ing to say sweet nothings to Diana. Great was his sur- 
prise and delight, therefore, when that fair sportswoman 
came down, attired, not in a riding-habit, but in a long driv- 
ing coat, and informed him very graciously that she was not 
going to ride, as her favorite hunter was lame, and that she 
would be glad to drive Mr. Satterlee to the meet if he 
wished. 

" Just to •^ee them ' throw off,' you know," she said, with 
a smile and a flash of her beautiful eyes. 

Satterlee was beside himself with delight. Indeed, so 
elated was he that he could scarcely eat any breakfast, and 
to save himself he could not but dart one or two triumphant 
glances at Middleton. 

Presently there was a great bustle in the breakfast room, 
and eager sportsmen and sportswomen started out to look 



70 WERNER'S READINGS 

up their horses, which were being walked to and fro on the 
lawn. The hounds in charge of the huntsmen were already 
on the way to the covert, where a fox was reported to be in 
hiding. Soon the whole field was astir, and Miss Halliday 
sent for her horse. 

Satterlee^s heart sank within him, as he saw, instead of a 
lazy pony, a restless young thoroughbred between the shafts 
of a light game-cart, being led around to the door by a 
groom. Higgins, the coachman, had also accompanied the 
trap to the door, and Satterlee noted with a tremor the evi- 
dent anxiety in Higgins's face. There was none in Miss 
Halliday^s, however, as she stepped lightly into the cart and 
gathered up her reins, motioning Satterlee to follow. Just 
as he did so the horse, a handsome bay, reared violently, in 
spite of the efforts of both of the men to keep him down. 
Miss Halliday treated him to a cut from her whip, which 
only had the effect of making him rear again; then, as he 
lowered his head, she called to the men to stand clear, and 
away they bowled down the drive at a pace that made Satter- 
lee cling to the side of the cart and hold his breath in trepi- 
dation. 

"' You see," explained Miss Halliday, coolly, " he has only 
been in harness once before. Steady, my boy; steady. 
Rocket." 

Satterlee gasped. So his name was Rocket. A very ap- 
propriate one, too, he thought. He wondered how long it 
would be before he went off. 

They soon caught up with the hounds and the horsemen, 
and Miss Halliday managed to curb Rocket's ardent en- 
thusiasm sufficiently to keep him in the rear. 

" Look at the darling," she exclaimed, rapturously, " how 
he watches the hounds. I shouldn't be surprised if he 
wanted to follow them." 

Such, indeed, proved to be the case. No sooner had the 
hounds been thrown into covert than Rocket began to display 
unmistakable signs of restlessness, standing on his hind legs 
at one moment, lashing out vigorously with them the next, 
and at other times dancing gaily with all four feet at once. 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 71 

Satterlee, trembling in every limb, wished himself back at 
Halliday Hall — ^at his club — anywhere but where he was. 
Presently a shout was heard. The fox had broken cover, and 
the apparently listless band of horsemen settled themselves 
in the saddle and started off. 

Meanwhile, Rocket, with two men hanging on to his 
bridle, was making violent efforts to throw himself over 
backward, while Satterlee was vainly imploring Miss Halli- 
day to get out and save her life. She paid not the slightest 
attention to him. She took a firmer hold of the reins and 
called " Let go " to the two onlookers who had rushed to her 
assistance. With his head free, and encouraged by a light 
touch of the whip, Rocket sped along at a full gallop across 
the field, not far behind the horsemen. 

Miss Halliday's eyes were glowing. 

" Hurrah! '' she cried; '' we will have a run after all/* 

Fortunately, the field was a large one, but Satterlee's 
anxious eyes could see no way out of it. Hounds were run- 
ning at least three fields away, but the main body of horse- 
men were just clearing a low stone wall at the farther side 
of the field. 

" Good," cried Miss Halliday; " there's a gate," as stout 
old Henderson, who never was known to jump, managed 
to pull it open with his hunting crop. Seeing Miss Halliday 
and her galloping horse, he had just time to pull it wide open 
as Rocket galloped madly through, bumping the right wheel 
box severely on the gate-post. Satterlee sat muddled up in 
a heap, holding on frantically to the cart. 

They were now in the midst of the horsemen, and going 
hard. Suddenly a narrow brook loomed up before them, 
and several riders came to grief. 

" I wonder if the cart will get over? " mused Miss Halli- 
day. 

Satterlee did not feel that his opinion would matter. 

Miss Halliday applied her whip, which had the effect of in- 
creasing Rocket's speed considerably. He jumped, swish — 
there was a splash — then a jar which Satterlee thought 
would smash the cart to atoms — and they had cleared it. 



7« 



WERNER'S READINGS 



" Good boy. Rocket," cried Miss Halliday, encouragingly. 
" Steady, my boy." 

Satterlee had long since abandoned hope and resigned him- 
self to silence and his fate. He gripped the side of the cart 
determinedly, a hard, set look on his pale face. The pace 
was getting faster and faster, and many of the horsemen 
were dropping behind. Now a light post and rail fence 
loomed up, leading out into the road. One by one the horse- 
men, led by the huntsman, popped lightly over it. 

*' It looks pretty rotten," said Miss Halliday, cheerfully, 
and Satterlee closed his eyes. 

Smash, bang! Splinters flew in every direction and 
somehow or other they had gotten through it — Heaven 
knows how — ^and were galloping along a soft country road. 

By great good luck the hoimds, who were now closing 
rapidly upon their fox, had taken the same line and Satterlee 
breathed a shade easier. 

" Hurrah ! " cried Miss Halliday, looking around, " we 
are leading the field." 

True enough the hounds had made a turn, which g^ve 
them an advantage over the horsemen. Now they were al- 
most with the hounds, who were running in the field near the 
road, and Miss Halliday was standing up in the cart and 
cheering them. Rocket — ^big, slashing fellow that he was — 
began to show signs of fatigue, but still kept up a fast 
pace. 

" They're turning," cried Miss Halliday, as she pulled 
Rocket around sharply and entered a field through a gap in 
the fence. " There he goes — there's the fox. Don't you see 
him ? " she cried, excitedly. 

Away they went, bumping over tufts of grass, stones, and 
stumps of trees. Now a hedge with a small ditch presented 
itself and was negotiated in some miraculous way. 

They were now in the same field with the hounds and rey- 
nard was only a few yards ahead of them. The horsemen, 
who had lost ground by the turning of the scent, were gain- 
ing on them rapidly. 

" They will kill him in a minute. Go on, Rocket, go on," 



AND RECITATIONS Np. 22. 73 

cried Miss Halliday, and suddenly they came upon another 
post and rail fence. " We'll try it," she said, composedly. 

Satterlee closed his eyes. There was a shock, a tremen- 
dous jar, and he felt himself flying through space. Then 
came unconsciousness. 

When he came to, he found himself lying in the bottom of 
a light wagon, being driven back to Halliday Hall. 

" Where — where is Miss Halliday ? *' he asked, in a con- 
fused way. " Was she very much hurt ? " 

" Not a bit of it, old man," promptly returned Tom With- 
ers, a fellow-guest at Halliday Hall. " Far from it. She 
was given the brush, and is being driven home by Dick Mid- 
dleton, not a bit the worse for her adventure." 

At Halliday Hall that night an important announcement 
was made — the engagement of Miss Diana Halliday to 
Dick Middleton, and Percival Satterlee was the first to con- 
gratulate the lucky man. 



A BRIEF BtrBLESQUB. 



[From HiuHsey^s Magaxine^ by permission of Prank A. Munsey.) 

She. You love me? 

He. Aye, I do indeed! 

He. How can I prove it ? 

She. Is there need ? 

He. Nay, not for some, but you are cold. 

Ah, would our life were that of old, 

That I might prove, by feat of arms. 

My wish to shield you from all harms! 

As knight of thine I could not fail. 
She. There's safety in a coat of mail. 
He. True, so there is ; but take the case 

Of Orpheus — give to me his place; 

For Orpheus left this world above. 

At Pluto's throne he showed his loves — 
She. But that's mythology, you know — 
He. To Pluto would I go to show — 



74 WERNER'S READINGS 

She. Ah, thanks; but is it just to trace 
Comparisons between his Grace 
Of the Inferno and mon pire? 
You'd hardly find the latter there; 
But in that room with door ajar 
You'll see him deep in his cigar. 
Which after-dinner smoke, I find, 
Brings him a happy frame of mind. 
Go to him, therefore, and confess. 
Then I am yours if he says "" yes,'* 
[She watches him as he hurries awayJ\ 
Poor boy ! Without a single cent 
Upon an empty errand bent ! 



A RACE FOB LIFE. 



J. FENIMORE COOPER. 



Arranged from ''''The Last of the Mohicans, 

[The scene of this story is laid in the camp of the Htiron Indians in 
1757. The principal character is Uncas, a young Delaware chief, who 
has been trapped and captured by his enemies. Duncan, an English- 
man, the friend of Uncas, has come to the Huron camp disguised as a 
medicine-man, and is in the tent of the chief warrior.] 

A T that moment a low but fearful sound arose from the 
^ forest, and was immediately succeeded by a high, shrill 
yell. The sudden and terrible interruption caused Duncan 
to start from his seat, unconscious of everything but the ef- 
fect produced by so horrible a cry. The warriors glided in 
a body from the lodge, and the outer air was filled with 
shouts. Men, women and children, the aged, the infirm, the 
active and the strong, were alike abroad; some exclaiming 
aloud, others clapping their hands with a joy that seemed 
frantic, and all expressing their savage pleasure in some un- 
expected event. 

When at the distance of a few hundred feet from the 
lodges, they halted. One of their number now called aloud. 



i 



AND RECITATIONS, No. 22. 75 

It would be difficult to convey a suitable idea of the savage 
ecstasy with which the news, thus imparted, was received. 

The whole encampment in a moment became the scene of 
the most violent bustle and commotion. The warriors drew 
their knives and, flourishing them, arranged themselves in 
two lines, forming a lane that extended from the war-party 
to the lodges. The squaws seized clubs, axes, or whatever 
weapon of offense first offered itself to their hands, and 
rushed eagerly to act their part in the cruel game. Even 
the children would not be excluded ; but boys, little able to 
wield the insjtruments, tore the tomahawks from the belts of 
their fathers and stole into the ranks, apt imitators of the 
savage traits exhibited by their parents. 

Large piles of brush lay scattered about the clearing, and 
a wary and aged squaw was occupied in firing as many as 
might serve to light the coming exhibition. The whole scene 
formed a striking picture, whose frame was composed by the 
dark and tall border of pines. The warriors just arrived 
were the most distant figures. A little in advance stood a 
man, the principal actor in what was to follow. The light 
was not strong enough to render his features distinct, but 
he stood erect and firm, prepared to meet his fate like a 
hero. The high-spirited Duncan felt a powerful impulse of 
admiration and pity toward him. He watched his ^lightest 
movement with eager eyes ; and, as he traced the fine outline 
of his active frame, he endeavored to persuade himself that 
if the powers of man, seconded by such noble resolution, 
could bear one harmless through so severe a trial, the youth- 
ful captive before him might hope for success in the hazard- 
ous race he was about to run. Just then the signal yell was 
given, and the momentary quiet that had preceded it was 
broken by a burst of cries that far exceeded any before 
heard. The victim bounded from the place at the cry, with 
the activity and swiftness of a deer. Instead of rushing 
through the hostile lines as had been expected, he just en- 
tered the dangerous defile, and before time was given for a 
single blow, turned short and, leaping the heads of a row of 
children, he gained at once the exterior and safer side of 



76 WERNER'S READINGS 

the formidable array. The artifice was answered by a hun- 
dred voices raised in imprecations; and the whole excited 
multitude broke from their order, and spread themselves 
about the place in wild confusion. 

It will easily be understood that amid such a concourse 
of vindictive enemies no breathing-time was allowed the 
fugitive. There was a single moment when it seemed as if 
he would reach the forest, but the whole body of his captors 
threw themselves before him, and drove him back into the 
centre of his relentless persecutors. Turning like a headed 
deer, he shot with the swiftness of an arrow through a pillar 
of forked flame, and, passing the whole multitude harmless, 
he appeared on the opposite side of the clearing. Here, too, 
he was met and turned by a few of the older and more subtle 
of the Hurons. Once more he tried the throng, as if seeking 
safety in its blindness, and then several moments succeeded, 
during which Duncan believed the active and courageous 
young stranger was lost. 

Nothing could be distinguished but a dark mass of human 
forms, tossed and involved in inexplicable confusion. Arms, 
gleaming knives, and formidable clubs appeared above them, 
but the blows were evidently given at random. The awful 
effect was heightened by the piercing shrieks of the women, 
and the fierce yells of the warriors. Now and then Duncan 
caught a glimpse of a light form cleaving the air in some des- 
perate bound, and he rather hoped than believed that the cap- 
tive yet retained command of his wonderful powers of 
activity. Suddenly the multitude rolled backward and ap- 
proached the spot where he himself stood. The heavy body 
in the rear pressed upon the women and the children in front 
and bore them to the earth. The stranger reappeared in the 
confusion. 

Human power could not, however, much longer endure 
so severe a trial. Of this the captive seemed conscious. 
Profiting by the motnentary opening, he darted from among 
the warriors, and made a desperate and, what seemed to 
Duncan, a final effort to gain the wood. As if aware that no 
danger was to be apprehended from the young soldier, the 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, 77 

fugitive nearly brushed his person in his flight. A tall and 
powerful Huron, who had husbanded his forces, pressed 
close upon his heels, and with uplifted arm menaced a fatal 
blow, Duncan thrust forth a foot, and the shock precipitated 
the eager savage headlong, many feet in advance of his in- 
tended victim. Thought itself « is not quicker than was the 
motion with which the latter profited by the advantage; he 
turned, gleamed like a meteor again before the eyes of Pun- 
can and, at the next moment, was leaning against a small 
painted post that stood in the centre of the camp, — safe by 
the rules of Indian warfare. 



THE BATTLE OF SHRKWSBXTRY. 



ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS. 



[Arranged from ** Harry of Monmouth/* by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons, 

publishers.] 

t T is the morning of Saturday, the twenty-second of July, 
^ 1403. The camps of the Percies and of King Henry of 
England are astir, and in the gray light that precedes the 
dawn the preparation for battle is made. The sun lights up 
the alder-covered hills, the trumpet sounds to arms, the 
standards sway, the burnished armor gleams and rings as 
knights and squires fall into their appointed places, the cloth- 
yard shafts are fitted to the archers' bows, and then, up from 
a sloping field, sweet with the odor of the pea-blossoms that 
cover it, there comes in loud defiance the well-known war- 
cry of the Percies : '' Esperance! esperance! Percy, ho! A 
Percy !" and Hotspur with his Northumbrian archers sweeps 
to the attack amid a terrible flight of arrows and spears. 

"Play up, sir trumpeter!" shouted Harry of Monmouth, 
rising in his stirrups. " Play up your answering blast. Shake 
out our standard free. Now, forward, all ! Death to traitors ! 
St. George ! St. George for England ! " 

" St. George for England !" came the answering echo 
from King Henry's line ; " Esperance, Percy ! *' sounded 



78. tVERNER'S READINGS 

again from the rebel ranks, and ** in a place called Bullfield '* 
both armies closed in conflict. 

" So furiously the armies joined," runs the old chronicle, 
^* the arrows fell as fall the leaves on the ground after a 
frosty night at the approach of winter. There was no room 
for the arrows to reach the ground ; every one struck a mor- 
tal man." 

The first attack was against the King's own ranks. Hot- 
spur, with his Northumbrian arrows, and Douglas, with his 
Highland spears, pressed hotly upon them; while Worces- 
ter's Cheshire archers from a slope near by sent their whiz- 
zing messengers straight into the King's lines. Though an- 
swering valiantly, the terrible assault was too severe for the 
King's men. They wavered, staggered, swayed, and broke. 
A ringing cheer went up from the enemy, when, just at the 
critical moment, with an " indignant onset," Harry of Mon- 
mouth dashed to his father's aid. His resistless rush 
changed the tide of battle, and the King's line was saved. 

A sorry record is the story of that fearful fight. For three 
long hours the battle raged from Haughmond Abbey on to 
Berwick Bridge, and ere the noon of that bloody day, twelve 
thousand valiant Englishmen fell on the fatal field. 

The fire of passion and fight spread even to the youngest 
page and squire, and Lionel, the playmate of Prince Harry, 
pressed close after the ** gilded helmet and the three-plumed 
crest " of his brilliant young Prince, his face flamed with the 
excitement of the battle-hour. Again and again he saw the 
King unhorsed and fighting desperately for his crown and 
life; again and again he saw the fiery Hotspur and Douglas 
the Scot charge furiously on the King they had sworn to kill. 
Backward and forward the tide of battle rolls ; now royalist, 
now rebel, seems the victor. Hark ! what shout is that ? 

'' The King, the King is down ! " 

Where Hotspur and the Douglas fight around the hillock 
now known as the " King's Croft," Lionel misses the golden 
crest, he misses the royal banner of England. 

" Sir Walter Blount is killed ! The standard is lost ! " is 
now the sorry cry. 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 79 

But now the Prince and his hardy Welsh fighters charge 
to the rescue, and Lionel gave a cry of terror, as he saw a 
whizzing arrow tear into the face of his beloved Prince. 
Young Harry reeled with his hurt, and Lionel with other 
gentlemen of the guard caught him in their arms. There 
was confusion and dismay. 

" The Prince is hurt ! " cried Lionel, and almost as an echo 
rose those other shouts : 

"The King is slain!" 

" Long live the Percy ! " 

" Back, to the rear, my lord ! " pleaded Lionel, as he 
wiped the blood from the fair yoimg face of the Prince. 

" Back, back, my lord Prince. Back to my tent," urged 
the Earl of Westmoreland, and " Back, back, while there is 
yet safety," said the other knights, as the tide of battle 
surged toward the bleeding prince. 

" Stand off! " cried young Harry, springing to his feet. 
" Stand off, my lords ! Far be from me such disgrace as that, 
like a poltroon, I should stain my arms by flight. If the 
Prince flies, who will wait to end the battle? " 

Just then another shout arose — ^a joyous, ringing cry : 

" Ho, the King lives ! The standard is safe ! St. George 
for England ! " 
' The brave young Harry, turning to his guard, said : 

" What, my lords, to be carried back before the victory? 
Lead me, I implore you, to the very face of the foe." 

Then, as the royal standard waved once more aloft, he 
burst with his followers into the thick of the fight, his un- 
yielding valor giving new strength to all. 

And now the end is near. An archer's arrow, with un- 
erring aim, pierces the valiant Hotspur, and he falls dead 
upon the field. 

" Harry Percy is dead ! Victory ! victory ! St. George and 
victory ! " rings the cry from thousands of the loyal troops, 
and, like a whirlwind, a panic of fear seizes the rebel ranks. 
Douglas is a prisoner ; the Earl of Worcester surrenders ; the 
rout is general. 

So ended the "sad and sorry field of Shrewsbury," — a fit- 



8o WERNER'S READINGS 

ting prelude to that bloody era of strife known as the " Wars 
of the Roses," which, commencing in the said reign of the 
son of this boy-general, Harry of Monmouth, was to stain 
England with the blood of Englishmen through thirty year^. 



OVER THB HTTiTi. 



E. H. HASTINGS. 



A LL around our house, up adainst the sky, 
^ There's dreat bid hills, oh, ever so high ! 
An' mamma says, over apast the hills, , 
There's houses, an' peoples, 'z far 'z you can see ; 
An' dear little childrens there, just like me. 
I never been over the hill — I want to do over the hill. 
Last summer a dear little bird built its house 

In our apple-tree, an', 'z still 'z a mouse, * 

It sat till the wee little birdies peeped out. 

Then the mamma bird fed them until they all drew 

So bid an' so stron' they evvy one flew 

Away, right over the hill — I never been over the hill. 

So then I fought I would do over the hill. 

An' I crept out the door, dust as still, dust as still ; 

An' I walked, an' I walked, an' I walked, an' I walked ! 

Till my foots doubled up, an' I dust couldn't do ; 

An' my papa came an' foun' me, an' so 

I never been over the hill — I want to do over the hill. 

But I am drowin' 'z fast 'z I can, 

An' pretty soon I shall be a dreat man, 

As bid as my papa or Uncle Dosiah ; 

'Nen I'll buy me a dreat bid shiny hat, 

An' a watch that does " tick, tock," like that ; 

An' nen I'll do over the hill — I dust will do over the hill ! 



AND RECITATIONS, No. 22. Si 



BLIJAH BROWN. 



CLIJAH BROWN, the cobbler, was enamored of the 

^ muse, 

And all his tinie was given up to stanzas and to shoes. 

He scorned to live a tuneless life, ingloriously mute, 

And nightly laid his last aside to labor at his lute ; 

For he had registered an oath that lyrical renown 

Should trumpet to the universe the worthy name of Brown, 

And, though his own weak pinions failed to reach the heights 

of song, 
His genius hatched a brilliant scheme to help his oath along; 
And all his little youngsters, as they numerously came, 
He christened after poets in the pantheon of fame, 
That their poetic prestige might impress them, and inspire 
A noble emulation to adopt the warbling lyre. 
And Virgil Brown and Dante Brown and Tasso Brown ap- 
peared. 
And Milton Brown and Byron Brown and Shakespeare 

Brown were reared, 
Longfellow Brown and Schiller Brown arrived at man*s 

estate. 
And Wordsworth Brown and Groldsmith Brown made up the 

family slate. 
And he believed his gifted boys, predestined to renown. 
In time would roll the boulder from the buried name of 

Brown. 
But still the epic is unsung, and still that worthy name 
Is missing from the pedestals upon the hills of fame ; 
For Dante Brown's a peddler in the vegetable line. 
And Byron Brown is pitching for the Tuscarora nine ; 
Longfellow Brown, the lightweight, is a pugilist of note. 
And Goldsmith Brown's a deck-hand on a Jersey ferry- 
boat. 
In Wordsworth Brown Manhattan has an estimable cop, 
And Schiller Brown's an artist in a Brooklyn barber shop. 



S2 WERNER'S READINGS 

A roving tar is Virgil Brown upon the bounding seas, 
And Tasso Brown is usefully engaged in making cheese. 
The cobbler*s bench is Milton Brown's, and there he pegs 

away, 
And Shakespeare Brown makes cocktails in a Cripple Creek 

cafe! 



"BUD'S OHARQB. 



>f 



LOUIS E. VAN NORMAN. 



[Prom The Voice^ by permission of the author.] 

DUD was the blackest, fattest, and most contented little 
^ darkey I ever saw. " Mars " Rickaby and Missis and 
Miss Lilian were the kindest people in the world to him. 

Edward Rickaby was a rich plantation owner, a colonel in 
the Confederate army, and a typical Southern gentleman. 
And Lilian ! She was a little golden-haired, blue-eyed fairy 
of ten, the idol of her parents, and the object of almost reli- 
gious reverence on the part of the negroes. A delicate and 
beautiful little creature she was. As Bud put it : " Miss Lily, 
she shuly am an angel. I specs to see de wings come out 
'most any day." He himself almost literally worshipped her. 
At the time of my story, the colonel was away with his regi- 
ment in Virginia, under the great Stonewall Jackson, 
" beatin' de Yanks out ob deir boots/* according to Bud. 

It was a mild, quiet day in the first part of April. About 
eleven o'clock in the forenoon firing commenced near the vil- 
lage. The reports of the great guns and the rattle of the 
musketry echoed and reverberated, — now loud and sharp, as 
though the battle swayed nearer ; now dull and heavy, as 
though it was raging down at the river's bank, where the 
gunboats would chime in with their deep roar. The negro 
hands on the Rickaby plantation had collected in tlje great 
hall of the mansion, anxiously waiting for the return of Mrs. 
Rickaby, who was visiting a sick friend eight or ten miles 
away. Old Joe, who acted as a sort of superintenden^t on the 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 83 

plantation, was becoming almost helpless with fear, as he 
heard the tide of battle surge nearer. No one seemed to 
know just what to do, — no one but Bud. To him had been 
confided the care of Miss Lilian. 

" Don't let any harm come to Lilian, Bud," Mrs. Rickaby 
had said before leaving, and the little fellow's heart had 
swelled almost to bursting with delight at this confidence re- 
posed in him. 

While the other and older negroes were quaking with fear 
in the great hall. Bud was parading up and down the broad 
piazza, as a sentry, his small step invested with all the dig- 
nity of the guard of an emperor. Inside the parlor, Lily 
played and was happy, only now and then peeping out of the 
ig^reat oaken door and calling to Bud in her silvery voice: 

" Is mama come yet ? " 

Bud, stopping in his march to salute her as though she 
were a queen and he chief of body-guard, would answer : 

** No, Miss Lily, not yet. But yo' needn't fear, 'deed yo' 
needn't. Ef dem Yanks come heah, I'll pertect yo.' Don't 
yo' be afraid. Miss Lily.*' 

Then Lily would go back to her play and Bud to his faith- 
ful tramp again. 

It was now three o'clock in the afternoon, and for the last 
hour or so the fire had gradually slackened until it had al- 
most entirely ceased. The poor blacks were commencing to 
pick up courage again. But all at once Bud thought he heard 
drums in the distance. He began to grow uneasy. 

" Ef dem Yanks do come," he hiuttered, " dose niggers'll 
run. I know dey will. An' mebbe I couldn't get away wif a 
hull lot ob Yanks." 

Away up the wide road a great cloud of yellow dust soon 
appeared, a cloud through which gleamed bright steel points. 
Then one could see the troops on their march. A dark figure 
flew past Bud, and then another and another. Ah, Bud, 
" dose niggers " are indeed running away. Soon he felt 
rather than saw that they all had fled. Then he went inside, 
barred the great oak doors and windows, and barricaded 
them with large chests, chairs, — anything not too heavy for 



84 WERNER'S READINGS 

him to movCy stationing Lily in the centre of the room, and 
himself as near the door as he could get, to listen. Nearly 
ten minutes passed. Then he could see men in blue uniforms 
swarming over the grounds. Heavens ! they surrounded the 
house ! Presently there came a thundering blow at the door. 

** Let us in ; we won't hurt you, but we must have some- 
thing to eat," the " must " emphasized by another crash on 
the oaken panels, as though the butt-end of a heavy musket 
had been driven against them with tremendous force. 

Bud gathered up his small strength and said — ^he tried to 
say it gruffly and impressively : 

" Dis am Kunnel Rickaby's place, an' he am away to de 
wah. Yo' can't get in heah, an' yo'd bettah not try." 

" Don't care who it belongs to. Open that door ! We 
won't hurt you, I say. If you don't open the door we'll break 

m. 

Bud did not answer this time. Poor little fellow, he fully 
believed that if the " Yanks " got in they would kill his 
young mistress without the slightest compunction. So he did 
not answer, but devoted himself to trying to persuade Lilian 
to go upstairs and lock herself in one of the bed-rooms. 

" Fo' de Lawd's sake. Miss Lily," he said, " fo' yo' mam- 
my's sake, go up to dat room. Dey'll kill yo' fo' shuah, ef dey 
get in. Please, Miss Lily, ef dey done kill me tain't nothin'. 
I'se only a po' nigger, but yo' — Miss Lily, oh, please go." 
(He was almost crying now.) "Go, jess fo' Bud'§ sake." 

But Lily would not move. She was very much frightened, 
but had an idea that she 'shouldn't leave Bud to face those 
awful Yankees alone. So the two waited in childish terror. 

There came another crash against the door. It was evi- 
dently yielding. In his eager haste Bud had dragged a large, 
massive ebony case — it was a wonder he had been able to 
move it at all — to the door. It was so heavy, however, that 
he could not pull it far, and so a corner just touched the pan- 
els, and the great mirror on top was bent forward at a 
threatening angle. Under the repeated blows the door shook 
and strained. Lily was too near that door. Bud called to her 
to come nearer the centre of the room. Just then there came 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 85 

a tremendous blow. The panel gave way, the massive mir- 
ror tottered — ^and Lily right beneath ! One of the men said 
afterward that through the broken door he saw the figure of 
a beautiful little girl with golden hair and the falling mirror. 
Then a small black figure dashed toward the door and pushed 
the little blue-eyed fairy back into the room, just as the heavy 
wood and glass came crashing down. The blue-coats climbed 
through the shattered door and slowly lifted the heavy piece 
of furniture. There was a small, limp black form beneath. 
It was trying to speak. One of the big-hearted troopers 
leaned down and put his ear to the poor mouth. It was gasp- 
ing painfully. Little Lily kneeled at the side and soaked her 
small handkerchief in the crimson stream oozing from the 
poor mangled temples. 

" Doan cry — Miss Lily," for the child was rocking herself 
to and fro, sobbing frantically, and shrinking for fear of the 
soldiers, who were vainly endeavoring to pacify her. " I — 
kep' — my promise — Miss Lily — I'm goin' — ^but — I'm only 
— a po' nigger — dey's comin'---dey is — ^angels — ^jess like yo' 
— Miss Lily — I — " but the poor tongue never finished that 
sentence, for the life-blood had all gone. 

Not long afterward an Ohio regiment fired a, salute over 
a small grave near the turnpike on the yellow road. The 
true-hearted soldiers honored the last resting-place of a 
slave. 



IN MAT. 



EDWIN M. STERN. 



(By permission of the author and M. Witmark ft Sons, publishers of the song.] 

'T' WO lovers were strolling in May, 
^ In May, in May; 

His glance full of joy and of love, 
She just as demure as a dove. 
" Oh, will you be mine, dearest May? 
Oh, May! Oh, May! 



S6 WERNER'S READINGS 

Dear heart, come, have no fear, 
I'll make you happy, dear, 

In May, in May." 

She loved him so dearly, did May, 

Did May, did May ; 
Yet, thinking to tease him, said : " Nay, 
YouVe not quite my style, sir, nay, nay," 
And laughingly nodded good day. 

Good day, good day ! 
" If you should come you'll find 
May be Til change my mind 

Next May, next May." 

Twelve months past, the twain met one day, 

In May, in May. 
" You asked me a question," said May, 
" You surely remember — last May." 
He looked up in wonder at May, 

At May, at May. 
"Have you not heard, my dear, 
That I was wed last year. 

In May, in May ? " 

Now, girls, take example from May, 

Poor May, poor May, 

And if he e'er asks you, I pray. 

Do hastily answer him " Aye," 

And don't put him off till next May, 

Ne^ct May, next May. 

In his arms quickly lurch, 

Say, "Love, let's go to church 

To-day, in May." 



w«. 



'TwAS the night before Christmas and, all through the house, 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. 
And this was the reason, no cause for regret : 
The house was a damp one, and labeled " To Let." 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 87 



GABFUSIiD. 



HON. FRANK FULLER 

YOU:aIl have seen the picture of that wonderful sculpture 
* representing the giant Atlas, bearing in grand equipoise 
the world upon his bowed back. Lo ! what was sometime a 
fable has become a prophecy ! I have delineated before you 
a boy who was carried to his first school on flie shoulders of 
his good sister, because his feet were shoeless ; a lad who 
chopped wood and worked at the carpenter's bench to help 
his mother; a youthful rider of a canal-boat horse; a young 
student, paying his expenses by lowly offices/working his 
way through college and graduating with high honor, be- 
coming a college professor and a president, a leading lawyer, 
a State senator, a soldier, a brigadier-general, a major-gen- 
eral, a representative in Congress, a United States senator, 
and, finally, president of the grandest republic of the world ; 
a poor, barefoot boy, the boy of the log-cabin and the log 
schoolhouse, of the tow-path and the carpenter's bench, ris- 
ing majestically to the sublime stature of a grand, symmet- 
rical, and athletic manhood, who by the simple power of an 
honest purpose earnestly pursued at last balanced the world 
and held it locked in equilibrium ! 

And now, what is the lesson of this symmetrical life ? It 
is, as I read it, unselfishness, the doing of right because it is 
right, regardless of its effects upon personal popularity, upon 
future hopes, upon present fortunes. I know how excellent 
he was in public and in private life. His life before the world 
was but a continuation of his life at honte with the best of 
mothers, the best of wives. The sweet and holy influence that 
he carried with him from his home each morning abided with 
him till his return. On the battle-field, under the iron rain 
and leaden h&iJ of Middle Creek, through the insufferable 
and lurid hell of Chickamauga, it was that gentle influence 
that intensified his love of country and made all labor and 
all sacrifice sweet. It, was the mother-love that nerved him 



88 WERNER'S READINGS 

for duty all through the toil and struggles of boyhood, amid 
his laborious student life, through college, to the professor's 
and the president's chair, and when to this was added the 
love of wife and children, the circle was rounded, and life be- 
came a thing of beauty. Love of country, love of family, love 
of duty, — these three carried him bravely onward to ever 
higher and higher endeavors, to ever greater and greater 
honors. At last he stood as one of the grandest figures in 
American society. To me who watched him narrowly for 
sixteen years, he was the ideal man, the ideal statesman ; as 
he was clearly the ideal soldier during his soldier days. To 
my mind, not more clearly do the writings of Dante signalize 
him as the poet ordained by high Heaven to bridge with un- 
dying song the chasm that separates the middle age from 
modern civilization ; not more obviously did the character of 
Washington denote him as the man for the critical period in 
which he lived; not more absolutely did the peculiar gifts, 
the large sincerity, the sterling honesty, the childlike sim- 
plicity, of Abraham Lincoln establish him in all human 
hearts as the one man on earth for the trying events of his 
latest years; than the mind, the manner, the physical and the 
spiritual gifts, the sweet sincerity, the boundless generosity, 
the frank sunny-heartedness, the fervent religious faith, the 
incorruptible integrity, of James A. Garfield proclaim him 
in his day and generation the chief, magistrate, man of 
America^ 

And if you and I have learned the supreme lesson of life, 
to do daily and reverently, in the best way, the nearest duty, 
forgetful of self and mindful only of our responsibility to 
God and to our fellow-men, then have we entered into the 
spirit, and caught the divine impulse that actuated the life 
and controlled the conduct of James Abram Garfidd. 



Deep in each artist's soul some picture lies 
That he will never paint for mortal eyes; 
And every author in his heart doth hold 
Some sad, sweet tale that he will leave untold. 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 89 



OXJPnyS ALLEY. 



AUSTIN DOBSON. 

r\ LOVE'S but a dance 

^^ Where Time plays the fiddle ! 

See the couples advance ! 

O Love's but a dance ! 

A whisper, a glance, — 

" Shall we twirl down the middle ? '' 
O Love's but a dance 

Where Time plays the fiddle ! 

It runs (so saith my chronicle) 

Across a smoky city ; 
A Babel filled with buzz and whirr, 

Huge, gloomy, black and gritty ; 
Dark-lowring looks the hillside near. 

Dark-yawning looks the valley, — 
But here 'tis always fresh and clear. 

For here is Cupid's Alley. 

And, from an arbor cool and green. 

With aspect down the middle, 
An ancient fiddler, gray and lean. 

Scrapes on an ancient fiddle ; 
Alert he seems, but aged enow 

To punt the Stygian galley ; 
With wisp of forelock on his brow. 

He plays in Cupid's Alley. 

And here, for ages yet untold. 
Long, long before my ditty. 

Came high and low and young and old. 
From out the crowded city ; 



90 



WERNER'S READINGS 

And still to-day they come, they go, 

And just as fancies tally, 
They foot it quick, they foot it slow, 

All day in Cupid's Alley. 

Strange pairs ! To laughing, fresh Fif teea 

Here capers Prudence thrifty ; 
Here Prodigal leads down the green 

A blushing maid of fifty ; 
Some treat it as a serious thing, 

And some but shilly-shally ; 
And some have danced without the ring 

(Ah, me !) in Cupid's Alley. 

And sometimes one to one will dance 

And think of one behind her ; 
And one by one will stand, perchance, 

Yet look all ways to find her. 
Some seek a partner with a sigh. 

Some win him with a sally. 
And some, they know not how or why; 

Strange fate of Cupid's Alley ! 

And some will dance an age or so. 

Who came for half a minute ; 
And some, who like the game, will go 

Before they well begin , it ; 
And some will vow they're ** danced to death," 

Who (somehow) always rally; 
Strange cures are wrought (mine author saith) 

Strange cures ! — in Cupid's Alley. 

For till that city's wheel-narls vast 
And shuddering beams shall crumble. 

And till that fiddler lean at last 
From off nis seat shall tumble ; 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 91 

• 

Till then (the civic fecords say) 

This quaint, fantastic ballet 
Of go-and-stay, of yea and nay, 

Must last in Cupid's Alley. 



TARPBIA. 



LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 



[From Seribmr^s Magauine^ by permiBslon of the author and Charles Scribner^s 

Sons.] 

Revised by the author ^ especially for this collection, 

y\7 OE ! lightly to part with one's soul as the sea with his 
^ ^ foam ! 
Woe to Tarpeia, Tarpeia, daughter of Rome ! 

Lo! now it was night, with the moon looking chill as she 

went ; 
It was morn when the innocent stranger strayed into the 

tent. 

The hostile Sabini were pleased, as one meshing a bird ; 
She sang for them there in the ambush ; they smiled as they 
heard. 

Her sombre hair purpled in gleams as she leaned to the 

light ; 
All day she had idled and feasted, and now it was night. 

The chief sat apart, heavy-browed, brooding, elbow on knee ; 
The armlets he wore were a wonder, and royal to see : 

Gold spiral and coil, and the glimmering fringes from them 
Fell over, an opulent tangle of gem upon gem. 



9* 



WERNER'S READINGS 



And the glory thereof sent fever and fire to her eye. 
*' I had never such trinkets ! " Like any broke string was 
her sigh : 

" Were they mine at the plea, were they mine for the token 

all told. 
Now the citadel sleeps, now my father, the keeper, is old. 



"If I go by the way that I know, and thou followest hard, 
If yet by the touch of Tarpeia the gates be unbarred ? " 



The chief shook a little for joy, then drew rein on his soul : 
" Of all this arm beareth, I swear I will cede thee the whole. 



ti 



And up from the nooks of the camp, with hoarse plaudit out- 
dealt, 
The bearded Sabini came hotly, and vowed, as they knelt, 

Bare-stretching the wrists that bore also the coveted boon : 
" Yea ! surely as over us shineth the lurid low moon, 

" Not alone of our lord, but of each of us, take what he hath ! 
Too poor is the guerdon, but if thou wilt but show us the 
path." 

Her nostrils upraised, as a fawn's on the arrowy air, 
She sped, in a serpentine gleam, to the precipice stair. 

They climbed in her traces, they closed on their evil quick 

star. 
She bent to the latches and swung the great portal ajar. 

Repulsed as they passed, and half-tearful for wounded be- 
lief, 

'* The bracelets ! " she pleaded. Then faced her the lion-like 
chief. 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, 



93 



And answered her : " Even as I promised, maid-merchant, I 

do!" 
Down from his dark shoulder the baubles he sullenly drew. 

" This left arm shall nothing begrudge thee. Accept. Find 

it sweet ! 
Give, too, O my brothers ! " The jewels he flung at her 

feet, — 

The jewels hard, heavy. She stooped to them, flushing with 

dread, 
But the shield he flung after ; it clanged on her beautiful 

head. 

Like the Appenine bells when the villagers' warnings begin, 
Along the first lull broke the ominous gathering din : 

With a " Hail, benefactress ! " upon her they heaped, in their 

zeal. 
Death, — ^agate and iron; death,— chrysoprase, beryl, and 

steel; 

A mountain of shields ! and a glisten of gradual links, 
In torrent-like gush, pouring out on the grass from the 
chinks. 

Inordinate gold ! the sumptuous monument won 
By the deed they had loved her for, doing, and loathed her 
for, done. 

Such was the wage that they paid her, such the acclaim. 
All Rome was aroused with the thunder that buried her 
shame. 

On surged the Sabini to battle. O ye that aspire ! 
Tarpeia the traitor had fill of her woman's desire. 

Woe ! lightly to part with one's soul as the sea with his foam ! 
Woe to Tarpeia, Tarpeia, daughter of Rome ! 



94 WERNER'S READINGS 



TWO SIMPLE LITTLE OSTRICHES. 



JULIET W. TOMPKINS. 

MOW we can talk. Thank goodness, that old bore 

^ ^ Who took me out is talking business o*er 

With someone else. The roses were so sweet, 

You reckless fellow. It's such fun to meet 

Like ordinary friends while no one knows ' 

Our precious secret. Do you like my clothes ? 

They're new. You dear ! Tm really looking well ? 

Why don't you like my sleeves? They're very swell. 

" They're more offensive than my buzz-saw hat? " 

What do you mean ? O Jack ! How simply flat ; 

They shan't keep you away, dear. Now take care ! 

No, keep your hands at home. You've seen the Fair, 

Of course? They're listening, Jack. Do try to talk. 

I'm glad they didn't have it in New York, 

Aren't you? Two weeks of it was quite enough. 

The Ferris Wheel? You wretch ! 'Twas rather rough 

To make me do it all, while you sat back 

And howled at me. When we are married, Jack — 

O dearest, please be careful ! They will guess 

If you don't look less interested. Yes, yes, 

You know I do. Oh, dearly ! By and by 

I'll give you three, — well, four. Will Congress try 

To introduce new silver laws? Don't laugh! 

/ wish they could do something in behalf 

Of all the hungry people out of work. 

You make me do it all, you wretched shirk. 

Now I must leave you, dearest. Au revoir ! 

Don't stay forever over your cigar. 

{Their vis-ii'Vis:'\ 

It's not announced, but then we know it's on. 

It's simply low — ^another good man gone ! 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, 95 



THB SlSas OF CtJAXTTL A : THB BUNKBB Hn.Ti OF 

MBXIOO. 



WALTER S. LOGAN. 



Arranged by the author esj^cially for this collection. 

PVERY race that ever has been has had to stand the bap- 
^ tism of fire. Probably every race that ever is to be must 
go through the same experience. For nearly three hundred 
years, the Mexican race had been growing and multiplying. 
Now the supreme moment had come. It must live or die, ac- 
cording as it stood this test of tests. It certainly had a leader 
worthy of the occasion. It has been said that whenever a 
great commander is wanted, he alw^ays appears at the right 
moment. I am inclined to think that this is more poetry than 
fact. We sometimes have to wait long and patiently for the 
right man to come, but the hour of supreme trial, when the 
fate of a nation hangs in the balance, is the hour that will dis- 
cover and disclose the hero if the hero is there. 

M6relos is our hero. Hidalgo, the leader of the Mexican 
revolution against Spain, had been killed. Morelos, a parish 
priest on the Pacific coast, heard of this and the blood stirred 
in his veins. He started from his own parish with a force 
of twenty-five men, a few of them armed with guns, some 
with lances and the rest with sticks ; but it was the germ of 
the army which shook the Spanish power in Mexico to its 
foundations and finally won- the liberty of its country. 

Calleja, the Spanish general, was in the North with his 
triumphant army. It was the best equipped and best disci- 
plined body of soldiers that had ever been on American soil. 

Viceroy Venegas sat in his vice-regal palace, and, as he 
heard of the progress of Morelos, he trembled, not only for 
the power of Spain in Mexico but for his own safety. Mes- 
senger after messenger was despatched for the great army of 
Calleja to come and save them from this little parish priest 
and his force of rude rustics. Calleja came. He was to'crush 
Morelos as you would crush an egg-shell in your hand ; but 



96 WERNER'S READINGS 

although against him was coming all the power of Spain, 
with the best general, the best army and the best equipments 
of every kind that Spain and Mexico could furnish, Morelos 
with his little band was undaunted and unterrified, and at 
Cuautla in the South he calmly awaited the approach of the 
royalist hosts. 

Wellington once asked of a Mexican he met in Europe, 
'' Where was this Cuautla? '' and he was answered that it 
was a small open city upon a level plain. Wellingtoh re- 
plied : " This shows the sagacity of Morelos." The place 
was in fact selected with rare judgment and discrimination 
by our little priest-commander for his desperate stand. No 
mountain fortress could have answered his purpose half so 
well. He attempted no exterior fortifications whatsoever, but 
inside the town he showed that the parish cura was no mean 
military engineer. He walled up the doors and the lower 
windows of the houses, cut inside communications through 
the walls from one house to another, barricaded the streets in 
some places and dug deep trenches in others, hoarded his am- 
munition and provisions, drilled his men night and day, and 
waited for Calleja. Calleja came and immediately stormed 
the place in four columns, one on each side, confident of im- 
mediate success. The Mexicans allowed them to come within 
a hundred yards of their intrenchments. Morelos had told 
them to wait until they could aim at the eyes of their oppo- 
nents. They did. Then they opened so tremendous and per- 
sistent a fire that the best troops of Spain and all the world 
fell back in wild disorder. 

Time and again Calleja led his cohorts against this army 
of liberty, but in vain. A final attempt was made to decoy 
the forces of Morelos from his intrenchments, by pretending 
to abandon his artillery ; but Morelos was not to be caught. 

Time and again Calleja was urged and entreated by Vice- 
roy Venegas to make another assault upon Cuautla, but he 
steadfastly refused. Nothing could induce him to try it 
again. He sent to Mexico for long siege guns and attempted 
to batter down the town, but again it was in vain. There was 
nothing left for Calleja to do but to blockade the town and 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, 



97 



try to starve it out. Morelos knew that if he could only hold 
out until the rainy season commenced, Calleja would have to 
raise the siege, — for Cuautla is in the Tierra Calliente — 
fevers come with the rain, and the European troops would be 
lost. If the rainy season had come as usual, this is what 
would have happened. But this time, the Lord seemed to be 
fighting on the side of the royalists, and the rains this year 
were two months lat^. 

Not all the troops of the royalists, gathered from all Mex- 
ico and all Spain, could dislodge Morelos from Cuautla. The 
weapons of human foes could not prevail against him. But 
he was finally driven out by an enemy stronger and more ir- 
resistible than mortal power. It was hunger. Their food 
gave out. They stood it like heroes day after day, waiting 
for relief, but none came. Morelos saw that he must evacu- 
ate Cuautla. One dark night, the troops were marshaled 
silently, and the order to proceed was given. Silently they 
marched out, passing right under the guns of the enemy, and 
so skilfully was it all planned, and so superb was the disci- 
pline, that they were not discovered till they had crossed the 
river, got beyond the intrenchments of the enemy, and the 
open country was before them. Then, too late, the Spanish 
camp was aroused and an attack on all sides was ordered. 
But Morelos was prepared for this. He gave the precon- 
certed signal, and that army of five thousand men melted 
away as if by magic and disappeared into the darkness, over 
the plains and into the mountains, where no enemy could 
follow. When the Spanish forces came from each direction 
to where the army of Morelos ought to be all ready to be 
closed upon and crushed, they saw, through the darkness, 
only the dim figure of their own battalions, and mistaking 
friends for enemies, fired upon one another. Morelos had ar- 
ranged that, when he gave the order for dispersion, the 
troops should scatter and meet again as soon as possible at 
Izucar, some twenty miles away. Two days afterward they 
were there, and it is said that of this whole army only seven- 
teen were missing. 

There is nothing in all the heroic records of history that 



9S WERNER'S kEADINCS 

compares with the retreat, dispersion and reassembling of 
this army of Morelos. Without a single desertion, these five 
thousand men scattered over the plains and the mountains 
and came together again at the call of their leader, preferring 
rather to die for liberty than to live without it ; and these men 
were of a race that had never before known war and they 
themselves had had no previous civil or military experience. 
When Morelos took them, they were simply uneducated, un- 
trained, undisciplined rustics and clodhoppers. But the magic 
power of a great cause and the resistless enthusiasm of a no- 
ble leader had transformed them into heroes. A race had 
been baptized and a nation was born. 



JAMES HBNK7 IN SOHOOL. 



EMILY SELINGER. 



^ [By permission of the author ] 

\]17ISH I didn't hev ter set all day in school, 

^^ Studyin* spellin', grammar, jografy an* sums. 

There's always obsticles ter bar the way 

Ter progress, speshly when the spring-time comes. 

Don't mind winter ef there's lots o' snow an' ice — 
Drifts, es high's the fence ur roof of our back shed 

An' froze so glazed that slidin' down is nice 
An' smooth, not gittin' balled up on yer sled, 

Nur hubbly on the pond when skatin's prime. 

Ter set in school an' study ain't much fun 
Ef you've hed bran'-new skates at Chris'mus-time 

An' when the sun mos' sets 'fore school is done. 

Can't bear ter hear birds singin' in the trees 
An' see um feed the'r young ones in the nes* 

An' smell the clover-blooms where bumblebees 
An' honey-bees an' biitterflies air jes' 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 99 

Ez free ez air an' don't hev sums ter do ; 

An' what's the use o' water in the brooks 
Runnin' like big Niagry Falls ef you 

Can't set up mill-wheels stidder studyin' books. 

An' things you plant all comin' up so fas' 

Ez ef they knew they'd got ter hurry out 
'F they didn't want ter be the very las' 

O' peas an' corn an' tother things thet sprout. 

An' everything is green an' tain't too hot 
Ter lie down in the orchard's wavin' grass 

An' watch the flowers in the garden-plot 

An' wish thet spring an' fall would never pass, 

Coz in the summer-time it's awful warm 
So thet you wouldn't mind ter set in school 

An' study stidder workin' on the farm. 
Nen in the fall it's mos'ly nice an' cool ; 

An' apples everywhere, — green, yaller an' red,- — 

Windfalls a-waitin' fer the cider-press 
Ur hangin' thick ez sparrers overhead; 

An' ches'nuts, more 'n ever you could guess, 

Jes' peekin' slyly out the prickly burrs 

Ez ef beggin' ter be shakened off the trees ; 
An' hick'ry 'n butter nuts when Jack Fros' stirs, 

A-waitin' fur us boys ur fur a breeze; 
« 
An' partridges a-whirrin' in the wood ; 

An' squirrels lookin' wise from every rail, 
Ez ef they knew it wasn't any good 

Fur me ter want ter shoot at 'em ; an' quail, 

An' crows, an' woodchucks ; an' our fields is full. 

Nen when I think 'bout all these things in school, 
The teacher says I'm either bad ur dull, 

An' never will be nothin' but a fool. 



A C\ ^4 P" A i\ 



loo WERNER'S READINGS 



THB SMITH AND THE KING. 



EDWARD CARPENTER. 



A SMITH Upon a summer's day 
^ Did call upon a king. 
The king exclaimed : " The queen's away ; 
Can I do anything? " 



I pray you can," the smith replied ; 
" I want a bit of bread." 
Why ? " cried the king. The fellow sighed ; 
Fm hungry, sire," he said. 






" Dear me ! I'll call my chancellor ; 

He understands such things. 
Your claims I can not cancel or 

Deem them fit themes for kings. 

" Sir chancellor, why here's a wretch, 
Starving — like rats or mice ! " 

The chancellor replied : " I'll fetch 
The first lord in a trice." 

The first lord came, and by his look 
You might have guessed he'd shirk. 

Said he: "Your Majesty's mistook; 
This is the chief clerk's work." 

The chief clerk said the case was bad 

But quite beyond his power, 
Seeing it was the steward had 

The keys of cake and flour. 

The steward sobbed : " The keys I've lost ! 

Alas ! but in a span 
I'll call the smith. Why, heavens above! 

Here is the very man ! " 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22. lox 

" Hurrah! hurrah I " they loudly cried; 

" How cleverly we've done it ! 
We've solved this question deep and wide, 

Well-nigh ere we begun it." 

" Thanks," said the smith. " O fools and vile, 

Go rot upon the shelf ! 
The nect time I am starving I'll 

Take care to help myself." " 



A SLIQSr MISTAKZr. 



ANTHONY HOPE. 



[Mr. Carter, the man of the story » has been in love with Dolly (Lady 
Mickleham) for many years. She married Lord Mickleham and is per- 
fectly true to him, but she still likes to know that Mr. Carter is her slave, 
and has strong objections to his devoting himself to any other woman. 
Mrs. Hilary is a good friend of Mr. Carter's, and the matron in the story, 
who has never seen Mr. Hilary, mistakes Carter for him.] 

" T DON'T ask you for more than a guinea," said Mrs. 

* Hilary. 

" It would be the same," I replied, " if you asked me for a 
thousand ; " with which I handed her half-a-crown. 

She regarded it scornfully. 

" Yes," I continued, " I feel that pecuniary gifts — ^" 

" Half-a-crown ! " 

" Are a poor substitute for personal service. May I not ac- 
company you to the ceremony ? " 

" I dare say you spent as much as this on wine with your 
lunch!" 

" I was in a mad mood to-day," I answered, apologet- 
ically. " What are they taught at the school ? " 

" Above all, to be good girls," said Mrs. Hilary, earnestly. 
" What are you sneering at, Mr. Carter ? " 

" Nothing," said I, hastily ; and I added with a sigh, " I 
suppose it's all right" 






a 
a 
it 
it 



loa WERNER'S READINGS 

" I should like," said Mrs. Hilary, meditatively, " if I had 
not other duties, to dedicate my life to the service of girls." 

" I should think twice about that, if I were you," said I, 
shaking my head. 

" By the way, Mr. Carter, I don't know if I've ever spoken 
unkindly of Lady Mickleham. I hope not.*' 
Hope," said I, "is not yet taxed." 

If I have, I'm very sorry. She's been most kind in un- 
dertaking to give away the prizes to-day. There must be 
some good in her." 

Oh, don't be hasty ! " I implored. 
I always wanted to think well of her." 
Ah ! Now I never did." 

And Lord Mickleham is coming, too. He'll be most use- 
ful." 

" That settles it," I exclaimed. ** I may not be an earl, but 
I have a perfect right to be useful. I'll go, too." 

" I wonder if you'll behave properly," said Mrs. Hilary, 
doubtfully. 

I held out a half-sovereign, three half-crowns and a 
shilling. 

" Oh, well, you may come, since Hilary can't," said Mrs. 
Hilary. 

" You mean he won't," I observed. 

" He has always been prevented hitherto," said she, with 
dignity. 

So I went, and it proved a most agreeable expedition. 
There were 200 girls in blue frocks and white aprons (the 
girl three from the end of the fifth row was decidedly 
pretty), a nice lot of prize books, the Micklehams (Dolly in 
demure black), ourselves and the matron. All went well. 
Dolly gave away the prizes ; Mrs. Hilary and Archie made 
little speeches. Then the matron came to me. I was sitting 
modestly at the back of the platform, a little distance behind 
the others. 

" Mr. Hilary," said the matron to me, "we're so glad to 
see you here at last. Won't you say a few words ? '* 



AND RECITATIONS No. 2i. 103 



ii 



it 
it 



" It would be a privilege," I responded, cordially, " but 
unhappily I have a sore throat." 

The matron, who was a most respectable woman, said: 
" Dear, dear ! " but did not press the point. 

Evidently, however, she liked me, for when we went to 
have a cup of tea, she got me in a corner and began to tell me 
all about the work. It was extremely interesting. Then the 
matron observed : 

And what an angel Mrs. Hilary is ! " 

Well, I should hardly call her that," said I, with a smile. 

" Oh, you mustn't depreciate her — you, of all men ! " cried 
the matron, with a somewhat ponderous archness. '' Really 
I envy you her constant society." 

I assure you," said I, " I see very little of her." 
I beg your pardon? " 

I only go to the house about once a fortnight — Oh, it's 
not my fault. She won't have me there oftener." 

" What do you mean? I beg your pardon. Perhaps I've 
touched on a painful — " 

" Not at all, not at all," said I, suavely. ** It is very natural. 
I'm neither young nor handsome, Mrs. Wiggins. I am not 
complaining." 

The matron gazed at me. 

" Only seeing her here," I pursued, " you have no idea of 
what she is at home. She has chosen to forbid me to come to 
her house — " 

"Her house?" 

'* It happens to be more hers than mine," I explained. 
" To forbid me, I say, more than once to come to her house. 
No doubt she had her reasons." 

" Nothing to justify it," said the matron, directing a won- 
dering glance at Mrs. Hilary. 

" Do not let us blame her," said I. " It is just an unfortu- 
nate accident. She is not as fond of me as I could wish, Mrs. 
Wiggins, and she is a great deal fonder than I could wish 
of—" 

I broke off. Mrs. Hilary was walking toward us. I think 
she was pleased to see me getting on so well with the matron, 



I04 



WERNER'S READINGS 



for she was smiling pleasantly. The matron wore a bewil- 
dered expression. 

" I suppose/' said Mrs. Hilary, " that you'll drive back 
with the Micklehams? '' 

" Unless you want me/' said I, keeping a watchful eye on 
the matron. 

" Oh, I don't want you," said Mrs. Hilary, lightly. 

" You won't be alone this evening? " I asked, anxiously. 

Mrs. Hilary stared a little. 

" Oh, no ! " she said. " We shall have our usual party." 

" May I come one day next week? " I asked, humbly. 

Mrs. Hilary thought for a moment. 

" I'm busy next week. Come the week after," said she, 
giving me her hand. 

" That's very unkind," said I. 

" Nonsense ! " said Mrs. Hilary, and she added : " Mind 
you let me know when you're coming." 

** I won't surprise you," I assured her, with a covert glance 
at the matron. 

The excellent woman was quite red in the face, and could 
gasp out nothing but " Good-bye," as Mrs. Hilary affection- 
ately pressed her hand. 

At this moment Dolly came up. She was alone. 

" Where's Archie ? " I asked. 

" He's run away ; he's got to meet somebody. I knew 
you'd see me home. Mrs. Hilary didn't want you, of 



course r 



?" 



Of course not," said I, plaintively. 

"Besides, you'd rather come with me, wouldn't you?" 
pursued Dolly, and she added pleasantly to the matron : 
" Mrs. Hilary's so down on him, you know." 

" I'd much rather come with you," said I. 

" We'll have a cozy ride all to ourselves," said Dolly, 
" without husbands or wives or anything horrid. Isn't it- nice 
to get rid of one's husband sometimes, Mrs. Wiggins ? " 

" I have the misfortune to be a widow, Lady Mickleham," 
said Mrs. Wiggins. 

Dolly's eyes rested upon her with an interested expression. 



AND RECITATIONS No. it. 



los 



ii 
ii 
it 






I knew that she was about to ask Mrs. Wiggins whether she 
liked the condition of life, and I interposed hastily, with a 
sigh : 

" But you can look back on a happy marriage, Mrs. Wig- 
gins ? '* 

" I did my best to make it so,'* said she, stiffly. 

" You're right," said I. " Even in the lace of unkindness 
we should strive — " 

My husband's not unkind," said Dolly. 
I didn't mean your husband," said I. 
What your poor wife would do if she cared a button for 
you, I don't know," observed Dolly. 

" If I had a wife who cared for me, I should be a better 
man," said I, solemnly. 

" But you'd probably be very dull," said Dolly. " And you 
wouldn't be allowed to drive with me." 

Perhaps it's all. for the best," said I, brightening up. 

Good-bye, Mrs. Wiggins." 

Dolly walked on. Mrs. Wiggins held my hand for a mo- 
ment. 

" Yoimg man," said die, sternly, " are you sure it's not 
your own fault ? " 

" I'm not at all sure, Mrs. Wiggins," said I. " But don't 
be distressed about it. It's of no consequence. I don't let 
it make me unhappy. Good-bye ; so many thanks. Charming 
girls you have here, especially that one in the fifth — I mean, 
charming all of them. Good-bye." 

I hastened to the carriage. Mrs. Wiggins stood and 
watched. I got in and sat down by Dolly. 

"Oh, Mrs. Wiggins," said Dolly, dimpling; "don't tell 
Mrs. Hilary that Archie wasn't with us, or we shall get into 
trouble." And she added to me : " Are you all right ? " 

" Rather ! " said I, appreciatively, and we drove off, leav- 
ing Mrs. Wiggins on the door-step. 

A fortnight later I went to call on Mrs. Hilary. After 
some conversation she remarked : 

" I am going to the school again to-morrow." 

"Really! "said I. 



io6 WERNER'S READINGS 

" And rm so delighted — IVe persuaded Hilary to come.*' 

She paused, and then added : " You really seemed inter- 
ested last time." 

" Oh, I was." 

** Would you like to come again to-morrow? " 

" No, I think not, thanks," said I, carelessly. 

" That's just like you," said she, severely. " You never do 
any real good, because you never stick to anything." 

" There are some things one can't stick to," said I. 

" Oh, nonsense ! " said Mrs. Hilary. 

But there are — ^and I didn't go. 



BOB WHITB. 



FRANCIS CHARLES MPDGNALD 

A T morn, when first the rosy gleam 
^^ Of rising sun proclaimed the day, 
There reached me, through my last sweet dream, 
This oft-repeated lay 

(Too sweet for cry^ 

Too brief for song, 

'Twas borne along 
The reddening sky) : 

" Bob White ! 
Daylight, Bob White! 

Daylight ! " 



At eve, when first the fading glow 
Of setting sun foretold the night. 

The same sweet call came, soft and low, 
Across the dying light 

(Too sweet for cry, 
Too brief for song, 
'Twas but a long. 



\ 



AND RECITATIONS No. 29. 107 

Contented sigh) : 

*'Bob White! 
Good night, Bob White I 

Good night ! " 



FRANZ. 



WELLS T. HAWKS. 



LFrom MuHsey^s Magaxine^ by permissioii of Prank A. Munsey.] 

IT was the stormiest rehearsal of the season. Everybody's 
temper was rough edged, from the leader of the orches- 
tra down to the jolly little drummer who played zylophone 
solos while the comic man was doing his dance. The slender 
baton which the professor held tightly in his nervous hand 
had beaten a continuous tattoo on the music-rack. The stage- 
manager's voice seemed harsher than ever, and his com- 
mands all the more dictatorial. 

Perhaps it all never would have happened but for the care- 
lessness of several of the chorus girls, whose groupings and 
poses at the last few performances had been worse than the 
tableaux at a car-drivers* ball. The star had noticed this 
shirking, and, with commendable ambition to make the New 
York run a series of brilliant hits, had conferred with the 
stage-manager; a call for a dress rehearsal posted in the 
wings was the result. Of course, it had made everybody 
mad. 

" To think of it," said the man who played the part of a 
fat, awkward old prince, who was always getting a laugh for 
the way he trod on the trains of the court ladies, " it is simply 
provoking that with the work of a hard performance on us, 
we've got to . rehearse and rehearse, just because a cheap 
chorus can't do its work." 

"And the day before a matinee, too," said the tenor, 
whose chief ambition was to saVe his voiice for his duet with 
the prima donna. 



to8 WERNER'S READINGS'' 

Such remarks were being made on all sides, and they only 
ceased when the cues carried the talkers to the stage. The 
leader of the orchestra, whom everyone feared, and whose 
remarks and criticisms were cuttingly sarcastic, had the 
fiercest temper of all. He had said all he could to the mem- 
bers of the orchestra, and everyone expected to see him throw 
his chair at some discordant player at any moment. 

He rapped his baton again, and the sweet, restful air of a 
lullaby floated up from reed and string. It had a quieting 
effect, but not half so much as the presence of the beautiful 
woman whose soft, rich voice was mingling with its notes 
in exquisite harmony. Though they had heard tlie song a 
hundred times and more, all listened, so sweet was its mel- 
ody. With perfect ease and enchanting expression she 
touched her highest notes, until they sounded through the 
vacant theatre like the tinkling of some sweet-toned bell. 
Her face, fair and serene, was as beautiful as the song she 
sang, and each note found a responsive chord in the hearts oi 
those around her; for in the company of threescore there was 
not one who did not love her. She was the prima donna,, 
the one particular star of the cast. To her singing, thou- 
sands had listened spellbound, only to break forth in raptur- 
ous applause — ^yet she was so lovable, so companionable, so 
kind and willing to help those below her. 

Presently there was a fearful discord in the orchestra. 
It came from one of the violins. The singer ceased, and 
the music stopped. With anger in his eyes, and lips quiver- 
ing with rage, the leader turned toward a crouching figure 
in a chair beneath the stand. 

" What do you mean? What do you mean, I say? Have 
you not played that bar a thousand times ? " 

There was no reply, but a boyish face, with anguish in 
every feature, was uplifted toward the angry man. 

" Do not look at me in that stupid way. Have I not 
taught you better ? " 

" But, sir," pleaded the boy, " it was all a mistake." 

" Bah, a mistake, indeed ! It was all your careless—" 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 109 

" Never mind/' said the prima donna ; " he could not help 
it. I will sing it again." 

" Madame, I will attend to this part of the company. 
Franz, leave the place. Anton, you take the second violin." 

The boy, for that was all he was, picked up his instru- 
ment, and looked up over the lights. His eyes met those of 
the singer. She smiled, and he, brushing a tear from his 
blue eyes, opened the door and went down into the musicians' 
room beneath the stage. 

" I will sing no more to-day," said the prima donna, and 
she left the stage. 

Poor Franz ! He threw himself down on an old property 
bench, and, burying his face in his hands, cried as only a 
heart- wounded boy can. Poor little fellow ! Fourteen years 
old, and his father, an old instrument-maker, had died, leav- 
ing Franz and a widowed mother, with but little to support 
them. His little heart had leaped with joy when the pro- 
fessor consented to place him in the orchestra, for it was his 
life's ambition to become a virtuoso like those of whom his 
father had talked so often. But the professor had not always 
been kind, and the tender feelings had been cut more than 
once. As he sobbed, he was wondering if he would be sent 
back home, — a failure. 

The idea sickened him, and tears were fast returning, 
when a gentle hand touched his pulsing forehead. He raised 
his tear-stained face timidly, thinking the time for the 
drekded scolding had come. But instead of seeing the cold, 
hard features of the professor, he saw the gentle face of the 
prima donna. He had never seen her so close before, and 
her countenance seemed to him like that of an angel. 

" Don't cry, dear," she said, as she brushed back the hair 
from his forehead. " Don't cry, for my sake, and you shall 
play for me to-night." 

His face lighted up, and the great choking lumps in his 
throat melted away under the caresses of that comforting 
hand. 

" Go home now," she said, " and come back to-night No 
one shall scold you." 



no fVBRNER'S READINGS 

Then she handed him a flower, and left the room. He 
could say nothing, he was so happy. His eyes, beaming with 
joy, followed her to the door ; and when it closed, the sound 
of her footsteps on the narrow staircase was like the sweet- 
est music to him. 

In the evening he took his place in. the orchestra, and 
played as he never had played before. When the time for 
the lullaby came, and his " beautiful friend," as he had de- 
scribed her to his mother, came on the stage, he bowed his 
head down over his violin, and the music that rose from that 
one instrument alone was in itself a symphony. Then came 
the applause, and as it died away in echoes, she looked down 
at him and smiled. 



Days had passed since the unpleasant rehearsal, and it had 
almost been forgotten. One night there was a stir behind 
the curtain when the stage-manager, after reading a note 
brought by a messenger, had called for the prima donna* s 
understudy. It was not long before the news spread to the 
dressing-rooms, and every heart was saddened, for the note 
had brought the tidings of the illness of the loved singer. 
Franz missed her, too; and when the curtain had dropped 
on the last act, he put his violin under his arm, and went up 
the dark, winding steps to the stage. 

The " light " man, who had always been kind to Franz, 
was shutting off the circuit for the house lights. Franz 
asked him about the prima donna's absence, and was told 
that she had been taken suddenly ill. He started home 
with his heart heavy. He stopped for a moment before the 
window of a music-store, and his eyes fell upon the score of 
the lullaby his friend had sung. With a sudden impulse he 
started off in a different direction. 

He walked on for many blocks, and came finally "to a 
brightly-lighted apartment-house. A hall boy opened the 
door for him. With a tremor in his voice, Franz asked if the 
boy could tell him if Mme. Cantori was very ilL The boy 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 11 1 

simply replied, " Second story front," and taking this as an 
invitation, Franz passed in and up the broad stairs. 

He was just turning the landing, when he met a man 
coming down. Franz stopped him and politely asked if he 
could direct him to the singer's room. The man was a 
physician. He stopped, looked at the boy, and said that 
madame was very,very ill, and could not see him. What 
was the matter ? the boy asked. An attack of the heart had 
stricken her down, the man replied, and life was only hang- 
ing by a thread. 

Tears came into the boy's eyes, and a sob passed his lips. 
He went on, and stopped before the door. It was as quiet 
as death within. He waited there a long time. The phys- 
ician came and went again, but only shook his head sadly 
and meaningly, and went on. 

Franz knelt down, noiselessly unlocked the case, and took 
out his violin. He raised the bow, and placing the instru- 
ment against his face, began to play. It was the soft, sweet 
notes of the lullaby that floated through the quiet building, 
and into the room where the singer lay. 

Life was ebbing fast, but as the music reached her ears, 
her eyes opened and a smile of ineffable sweetness came to 
the beautiful face. The watchers leaned over her couch. 

"Hear, hear," she murmured; ** it is Franz, dear little 
Franz ! " 

Still the music kept on, sweeter and softer, as each note 
was played. The singer tried to rise, and loving hands sup- 
ported her. 

" Listen ! the lullaby ! " she whispered. 
^ Not another sound disturbed the scene, so solemn and sad. 
But just as the closing notes of the music were being played, 
a string on the violin snapped. 

The singer opened her eyes, and faintly breathed : " God 
bless little Franz." 

The eyes closed again, and her head sank back on the pil- 
low. A voice, rich and beautiful, was hushed, and the soul 
of the singer had passed into that chorus whose melodies 
ring on through eternity. 



iij WERNBI^S READINGS 



ICY OHILDHOOiyS IiOVB. 



CHARI^S KINGSLEY. 

T ONCE had a sweet little doll, dears, 

* The prettiest doll in the world; 

Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, 

And her hair was so charmingly curled. 
But I lost my poor little doll, dears, 

As I played in the heath one day ; 
And I cried for her more than a week, dears, 

But I never could find where she lay. 

I found my poor little doll, dears, 

As I played in the heath one day. 
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears. 

For her paint is all washed away, 
And her arm trodden oflf by the cows, dears. 

And her hair not the least bit curled ; 
Yet for old sake's sake she is still, dears, 

The prettiest doll in the world. 



ON THB OALBNDAR. 



TT was down by Santiago. The rations had been long 
^ coming and the troops were hungry. One of the Seventy- 
first boys sauntered carelessly into the colonel's tent and 
said: 

" Good morning, colonel. Got a calendar about any- 
where ? " 

" Why, I don't know. Jack. Guess there's one some- 
where. What d' you want a calendar for? " 

*' Just wanted to eat the dates off it, colonel." 



AND RECITATIONS No. Mi. 113 



ANNUNOIATA. 



MAftY ANNABLE FANTOI*. 



[By permiaeion of the atitbor.] 

[This selection is very effective if given in the costume of a Spanish 
peasant girl, with red roses in the hair.] 

CHIME ! chime ! The bells are calling for matin service, 
and the monks, sallow and lean, glide past over the 
worn pathway. The deep tones of the organ and the sullen 
roar of the sea meet, blend, and melt away together. 

Outside the gate, on the narrow highway, stands a man 
gaily clad in the Portuguese sailor colors. The melodious 
Latin chants reach him, the twitter of birds is all about him, 
and waves of sunlight gleam in his tangled curls ; but he sees 
and hears only Annunciata. Slowly she is coming down the 
mountain-side laden with roses of gorgeous hue and wild 
hill-flowers of tropical splendor. As she nears, the man 
bounds lightly to her. 

" Annunciata ! querida mia! Ws Juan, thy brother. But 
thou art weary, little one, and white — white as thy name- 
sake lilies. 'Tis but two years that I saw thee dance el sol on 
the Plaza, and kissed thy coral lips adios." 

" But two years, en verdad, Juan, and now I am old and 
waiting for death. Hush ! Juan mio, weep not, and I will 
tell thee all — ^all — ^just as it came from day to day. I will 
tell it to thy heart and then thou wilt marvel not that I am 
weary and longing for the endless sleep." 

The dark eyes of the Portuguese sailor gleamed fiercely 
and his hands clenched as he said in a harsh, strained voice : 

" Tis true, then, what they said in the port : Twas a lover 
who took from thee thy beauty and color and left thee 
thus." 

The dreamy look in the girl's eyes does not change. She 
* feels the truth, not the scorn, in her brother's words. 

" 'Tis true, Juan; my beauty and strength are buried 



1 14 WERNER'S READINGS 

yonder in thfe grave with my lover — my lover/' and the 
words are broken into many syllables by little quivering sobs. 

" He was a grand hidalgo, and lived in the great Castillo 
in the city, but his heart was mine — mine. First, Juan, I saw 
him in the Plaza. I was dancing, with red roses in my 
hands, in my hair. 'Twas el sol, the dance you loved. As I 
danced My Lord rode by. But once our eyes met, and I 
laughed aloud for joy. And then he came often. Where'er 
I danced, there, surely. My Lord rode by, until we loved each 
other. Hush, Juan, if thou but sayest one word ill of him it 
is the last between us. Dost remember the good padre who 
confessed our mother ? 'Twas he who married us, secretly, 
under the oath of the crucifix. 

'' Madre de DiosI what life, what love, was ours ! 
Naught was ever like it, naught in the world save the sun- 
light there on the sea — 3, glory ! a radiance ! See, Juan, how 
the waters creep up high in the light, to bathe in its beauty 
and glisten and sparkle. But a cloud passes by and the 
ocean is dead. 

" In a little time the old priest sickened unto death, and 
with cowardly fear confessed our marriage; and when La 
Senora — My Lord's stepmother — heard, she vowed fearful 
vengeance, for she longed for the goodly heritage for her 
own young son. So little had Don Carlos sought for women, 
so strong his love of Church, that she had grown to dream 
the land her own. 

" Merrily My Lord laughed at her threats; but I — I could 
not sleep for remembering and fearing her. 

" All through the carnival we laughed and danced ; laugh- 
ter set to music, and dances swaying to the rhythm of love ; 
all joy supreme, save at night, the crawling, choking fear of 
La Senora. 

" Twas the last day of the carnival, the day when My 
Lord came not, — that terrible day that seems beaten out 
into centuries. Never, since the day I laughed in his eyes, 
had I danced without him. With a heart afar off I sang, 
waiting. I danced till I was cold and faint, danced till the* 
earth reeled. 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. , 115 

** Carmen, the singer, caught me in her arms and gave me 
water, but not for love. 

" With a smile she whispered : * Thy lover is gone ; thou 
wilt dance vainly to-morrow and forever/ 

" With fierce words I pushed her from me. 

" * Thou liest, Carmen. If my lover were gone forever I 
should be dead-' 

" Carmen laughed loudly ; * Yet he is gone, Annunciata. 
Through iron bars thou mayest seek him, for he has repented 
his evil life with thee and prays yonder in the monastery.' 

" Ah ! Juanito, 'twas true. La Senora had kept her vow, 
and hatred had proven stronger than love. 

" For days afterward I lived here on the hillside, always 
in sight of the great gray walls, praying and fasting. 

" At last, one night, I crept up close to the barred gates. 
There, when the sea was not too bold, I could hear the mur- 
mured prayers and, Dios mio! afar off the moaning of a tor- 
tured Tsoul ! 

" As the Latin hymns ceased gradually, the moaning 
grew louder, harsher, filling the air about me and chilling 
my heart, for, Juanito, 'twas the voice of my beloved. One 
of the bars of the great gate had loosened. Through it I 
slipped easily, for I had grown very thin, and fled swiftly, 
noiselessly, over the stone courts, beckoned on by the thick, 
gasping sound of a strong man's agony. At his window I 
stooped, throwing myself against the bars, tearing at them 
wildly, begging, pleading, moaning in answer to his cries. 
I forgot all but our love and the cruel bars that held us apart. 

" I heeded not the approaching footsteps, nor the heavy 
hands laid upon me. I fought with them when they carried 
me away. I held my breath as I heard their malignant whis- 
pers : ' 'Tis the dancer, his sweetheart ; his vow is broken. 
He shall suffer again.' Over the stone court they dragged 
me, through a dark, long passage and into a square dungeon 
full of strange, black objects that cast awful shadows in the 
thin, trembling light. 

" I strove to think, to make myself known ; for they talked 
of Carlos. Together they whispered, and as they sat in the 



1 6 WERNER'S READINGS 

pale light, with sallow faces resting on their crooked bony 
hands, I fell to shivering and trembling, so dire were their 
Ipoks and words, 

" They told, hermano mio, how, if they could keep My 
Lord to the vow they had wrung from him on the rack, a 
part of the lands and the wealth of his great estate would 
by and by come into the Church. La Senora would have 
much; but the Church far more. And, then, they added 
quite loudly that I might hear, * We will test him through 
her. She shall dance, dance as she did on the Plaza, dance 
while he lies on the rack, dance with his moan filling her 
ears. If it be that she can do this lightly, then it were best 
to consider, — ^not judge too severely. La Senora may have 
been rash in her solicitude for his spiritual welfare. 

" And I believed them, Juan ! I believed them ! How 
could I know that their words were spoken but to deceive 
and make me seem light in the eyes of my lover ? 

" While I yet dreamed of his freedom, the door swung 
back and, between them, the monks carried a long, heavy, 
black box. They passed near me that I might better see the 
burden within. 

" There, white and still, lay My Lord. Fast were his teeth 
shut, as though locked with inner bolts, his yellow hair 
cropped close, and the fair skin drawn tightly. 

" His hands — ^the hands that had blown me kisses and 
lifted my hair to see the sunbeams drift through — were 
scarred and twisted — not like human hands. 

''And I was to dance for him! 

" Tis naught, Juan ; I am but dizzy in the sunlight. 
Plainly I see them now : The older monk standing by the 
narrow, black box, with his hands resting on the wooden 
handles at the side, and next, smiling at me, — ^a cruel, sensu- 
ous smile — the younger blue-eyed brother, with a tiny silver 
flute in his hand. 

" Words of prayer were on my lips : ' Madre de DiosI 
Madre de Jesus! ' But I remembered that I was not to pray, 
only to dance for them. 

" Though my heart beat until my bodice moved, I vowed 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 117 

the dance should be a brave one — a brave, merry one for the 
sake of my lover. 

" Lightly I threw my hands over my head and leaned 
toward the priests, smiling, waiting for the first note from 
the silver flute. As the fine, shrill melody of the tiny instru- 
ment floated through the room, the older monk, without 
taking his eyes from my face, slowly moved the wooden 
handles of the box. God of mercy and of love ! what a cry 
smote my heart ! Forgetting my vow, forgetting all but My 
Lord's agony, I knelt at their feet, begging for mercy, — 
mercy for my beloved. Gladly would I suffer in his place. 
Misericordia! Misericordia! I wept before them, kissing 
their hands, their robes, — ^the very floor of the cell. 

" But the cruel, strong hand of the monk was once more 
laid on the rack. As I saw it I sprang from the ground, 
striking to the wall the crucifix he held. With the strength 
of fury I broke in twain the hideous wooden handles and 
flung them through the bars. 

" As if in craven fear the monks stood by, while I lifted 
gently, tenderly, the wasted, twisted hands. 

" Softly, lest he should rouse, to fresh pain, I smoothed 
back the damp hair, and wiped the flecks of foam from the 
sweet curved lips. There was no sound in the cell, only the 
far-off sea, wailing and moaning in the starless night. 

" Truly, I mourned not as other women ; I feared only 
that My Lord was not dead. I tremMed only lest again his 
brave heart should beat with the anguish of living. Even 
while I dreamed thus, the drawn lips quivered, weakly as 
the lips of a shadow. Stooping close, I listened, every nerve 
straining until the very silence seemed alive. 

" The monks stirred not. Well thev knew their work was 
finished ! 

" So loudly my heart beat that it seemed the echo of the 
tossing sea ; yet I moved not nor spoke. 

" Then from that far-away land, where the white spirit 
of My Lord had gone, he whispered to me faintly his fare- 
well : 

** Annunciaiat Querida ntia! Adios! '' 



ii8 WERNER'S READINGS 



THE BALOONY SOBNB FROM "OTRANO DB BERGBB AO." 



EDMOND ROSTANDl 



[By permiMion of George Munro's Sons.] 
Drtmsiated from the Frtnch by Gladys Tkowuu and Mary F, Gmilemard. 

( Cyran^. 
Characters -j Christian. 
I Roxane. 



[Cyran 
of nis wil 



[Cyrano de Bergerac is a poet, soldier, and philosopher who, because 
wit and his sword, is admired and feared by all. He has a gro- 
tesque physical deformity, — an enormous nose. The *' shadow of his 
profile on the wall " keeps him from seeking the society of women and, 
though he loves his cousin, Roxane, he dare not try to win her. Rox- 
ane thinks she loves Christian, a handsome young man who is as stupid 
as he is handsome. Cyrano, learning of their interest in each other, 
offers to coach Christian so he can play the part of lover acceptably. 
Christian accepts the offer and all goes well until one evening, in Rox- 
ane*s garden, when Christian, growing tired of ** borrowed love-ma- 
kings," decides to speak for himself without the aid of Cjrrano. He offends 
Roxane deeply by his rude, unpolished speech, so different from that to 
which she had grown accustonied. She tells him, ** I hoped for cream 
— you give me gruel," and leaving him, she goes into her house. 
Christian begs Cyrano, who has been an unseen spectator, to come 
once again to his assistance.] 

Cyrano. The night is dark. All can be repaired, 

Although you merit not. Stand there, poor 
wretch, 

Fronting the balcony. I'll go beneath 

And prompt your words to you. 

Call her! 
Christian. Roxane! 

Roxane [half opening the casement]. Who calls me? 
Chris. I ! Christian ! I would speak with you. 
Cyr. [under the balcony, to Christian]. 

Good. Speak soft and low. 
Rox, - ' No, you Ipeak stupidly ! : 
Chris. Oh, pity me ! 

Rox. No ! you love me no more ! 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22, 



119 



Chris, [prompted by Cyrano]. 

You say — Great Heaven! 

I love no more ? — when — I — love more and more ! 
Rox. [about to shut the casement, but pausing] . 

Hold ! Tis a trifle better ! ay, a trifle ! 
Chris, [same play] . 

Love grew apace, rocked by the anxious beating — 

Of this poor heart, which the cruel wanton boy — 

Took for a cradle ! 
Rox. [coming out on balcony]. That is better! But 

An if you deem that Cupid be so cruel, 

You should have stifled baby-love in's cradle ! 
Chris, [same play]. 

Ah, madame, I assayed but all in vain 

This — new-bom babe is a young — Hercules f 
Rox. Still better. 
Chris. Thus strangled he in my heart 

The — serpents twain, of — Pride — and Doubt! 
Rox. [leaning over the balcony]. Well said! 

But why so faltering? Has mental palsy 

Seized on your faculty imaginative ? 
Cyr. [drawing Christian under the balconv 
ping into his place] , 

Give place ! This waxes critical ! 
Rox. ^ 

Your words are hesitating. 
Cyr. [imitating Christian^ in a 

In the dusk they grope th 
Rox. But my words find no s- 
Cyr. They find their way at 

For 'tis within my he 

Bethink hoiv large rr 

And, from fair heig 

But mine must mo 
Rox. Meseems that yc 

climb. 
Cyr. With practice sur 



ISO WERNER'S REZiDINGS 

Rox. In truth, I seem to speak from distant heights f 
Cyr, True, far above ; at such a height 'twere death 

If a hard word from you fell on my heart. 
Rox. I will come down. 

Cyr. No ! Stay awhile ! Tis sweet. 

The rare occasion, when our hearts can speak, 
Ourselves unseen, unseeing! 
Rox. Why — unseen ? 

Cyr. Ay, it is sweet ! Half hidden, — ^half revealed — 
You see the dark folds of my shrouding cloak. 
And I, the glimmering whiteness of your dress ; 
I but a shadow — ^you a radiance fair ! 
Know you what such a moment holds for me ? 
If ever I were eloquent — 
Rox. You were ! 

Cyr. Yet never till to-night my speech has sprung 
Straight from my heart as now it springs. 
^x. ' Why not? 

Till now I spoke haphazard — 

What? 

Your eyes 
^s that turn men dizzy ! But to-night 
'hall find speech for the first time ! 
"Voice rings with a tone that's new. 
Passionately^ . 
"n tl;ie tender, sheltering dusk 
* ^^ for once, — ^at last ! [Stops ^ 

"ot ! — Oh, pardon me — 
*,et, so novel. 

How? 

?nrf the thread of his sen- 

^. sincere. 

''/^ aring to be mocked — 

ting ! Ay 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, lai 

My heart has clothed itself with witty words 
To shroud itself from curious eyes — impelled 
At times to aim at a star, I stay my hand 
And, fearing ridicule, — cull a wild flower ! 

Rox. A wild flower's sweet. 

C YR, Ay ! but to-night — the star ! 

Rox. Oh, never have you spoken thus before ! 

Cyr. At last the moment comes inevitable ! — 

Oh, woe for those who never know that moment ! 
When feeling love exists in us, ennobling. 
Each well-weighed word is futile and soul-sad- 
dening ! 

Rox. Well, if that moment's come for us — suppose it ! — 
What words would serve you ? 

Cyr. All, all, all, whatever 

That came to me, e'en as they came, I'd fling them 
In a wild cluster, not a careful bouquet. 
I love thee ! I am mad ! I love, I stifle ! 
Thy name is in my heart as in a sheep-bell. 
And as I ever tremble, thinking of thee. 
Ever the bell shakes, ever thy name ringeth ! 
All things of thine I mind, for I love all things. 
I know that last year on the twelfth of May-month, 
To walk abroad, one day -^^u changed your hair- 
plaits ! 
I am so used to take your ha'jr for daylight 
That, — like as when the eye stares on the sun's disk. 
One sees long after a red blot on all things — 
So, when I quit thy beams, nty dazzled vision 
Sees upon all things a blonde stain imprinted. 

Rox. [agitated] . Why, this is love indeed ! 

Cyr. • Ay, true, the feeling 

Which fills me, terrible and jealous, truly 
Love, — which is ever sad amid its transports ! 
Love, — and yet, strangely, not a selfish passion ! 
I for your joy would gladly mine a:^'^n down, — 
E'en though you never were to know it, — never ! — 
• If but at times I might — far off and lonely — 



122 WERNER'S READINGS 

Hear some gay echo of the joy I brought you 1 
Each glance of thine awakes in me a virtue, — • 
A novel, unknown valor. Dost begin, sweet, 
To understand? So late, dost understand me? 
Feel'st thou my soul, here, through the darkness 

mounting ? 
Too fair the night ! Too fair, too fair the moment ! 
That I should speak thus, and that you should 

hearken ! 
Too fair ! In moments when my hopes rose proudest, 
I never hoped such guerdon. Naught is left me 
But to die now ! Have words of mine the power 
To make you tremble, — throned there in the 

branches ? 
Ay, like a leaf among the leaves, you tremble ! 
You tremble! for I feel — an if you will it. 
Or will it not — ^your hand's beloved trembling 
Thrill through the branches, down your sprays of 

jasmine ! 
[He kisses passionately one of the hanging tendrils.] 
Rox. Ay ! I am trembling — weeping ! I am thine ! 

Thou hast conquered all of me ! 
Cyr. Then let death come ! 

'Tis I, tis I myself, who conquered thee ! 
. . . And when some night 
I enter Christ's, fair courts, and, lowly bowed. 
Sweep with dolfed casque the heaven's threshold 

blue. 
One thing is le^t, that, void of stain or smirch, 
I'll bear away despite of fate's endeavor 
This moment infinite. 



I WANT some bach'lor buttons, two cards of white and blue, 

A paper of pin needles, assorted sizes, too, 

A dinner-set of china (china asters) painted pink, 

One dozen tea-cups (buttercups filled with dew to drink), 

Some pep'mint drops (the red grow here), to keep the 

children still. 
And here's the money (marigolds) to pay the little bill. 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 123 



PATIBNOB. 



D E patient, O be patient ! Put your ear against the earth ; 
^ Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed has 

birth. 
How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little way 
Till it parts the scarcely broken ground and the blade stands 
up in day ! 

Be patient, O be patient ! The germs of mighty thought 
Must have their silent undergrowth, must underground be 

wrought ; 
But as sure as there's a Power that makes the grass appear, 
Our land shall be green with liberty, the blade-time shall be 

here. 

Be patient, O be patient! Go and watch the wheat-ears 

grow. 
So imperceptibly that you can mark nor change nor throe; 
Day after day, day after day, till the ear is fully grown ! 
And then again day after day till the ripened field is brown. 

Be patient, O be patient ! Though yet our hopes are green 
The harvest fields of Freedom shall be crowned with sunny 

sheen. 
Be ripening ! be ripening ! mature your silent way 
Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on Freedom's 

harvest-day ! 

A SOOTOH WITNESS. 



A SMALL Scotch boy was summoned to give evidence 
^^ against his father, who was accused of making a dis- 
turbance in the streets. Said the bailie to him : 

• " Come, my wee man, speak the truth, an' let us hear all 
ye ken about this affair." 



IS4 WERNER'S READINGS 



^ Weel, sir/' said the lad, " d'ye ken Inverness Street ? " 

'" I do, laddie," replied the magistrate. 

" Weel, ye gang along it and turn into the square, and 
cross the square " 

"Yes, yes," said the bailie, encouragingly. 

"And when ye gang across the square ye turn -to the 
right, and up the High Street, and keep up High Street till 
ye come to a pump." 

" Quite right, my lad; proceed," said the magistrate. "I 
know the old pump well." 

** Weel," said the boy, with the most infantile simplicity, 
" ye may gang and pump it, for ye'll no pump me.** 



FLORENCE MAY ALT. 

I TPON his wooden hobby-horse 
^ He galloped to the fray, 
The sunlight in his ruffled curls. 

His laughter ringing gay. 
And she who watched that reckless ride 

Across the nursery floor, 
And smiled upon .the paper hat 

And the wooden sword he wore, 
Yet saw, through mist of sudden tears, 

A vision strange and new, 
Her little lad a soldier grown, — 

The prophecy come true. 

Years after, when the play was real. 
And through the crowded square 

Brave men to battle marched away 
Amid the trumpet's blare, 

One watched with all a mother's pride 
Their captain strong and tall. 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 125 

Y6t, as she looked with loving eyes, 

The pageant faded all ! 
She only saw a fair-haired child 

Who galloped to the war 
Upon his wooden hobby-horse, 

Across the nursery floor. 



DAT GAWGT WATAHMILLON. 



EDMUND VANCE COOKE. 



[From " Rimes to Be Read,*' W. B. Conkey, publisher, by permission of the 

author.] 

ODAT Gawgy watahmillon, an' dat gal ob Gawgy wif 
'im! 
She foun' 'm an' she poun' 'm an' he ripe enough to lif ' 'm. 
I take 'm to de well an' den we cool 'm in de watah, 
An' we bress de Lawd for libin' ! like a Gawgy niggah ought 
to. 
She pat him an' she punk him, like ol' mammy wif de 

chillun, 
An' ma haht it done keep punkin' ev'y time she punk de 
millon. 

I look into huh yaller eyes an' feel that I can trus' 'm, 
An' den I take de millon an' I drop 'm down an' bu's' 'm. 
O dat Gawgy watahmillon wif de sweet an' coolin' flowin' ! 
Poke youah face deep down, ma honey, an' jes' keep youah 

mouf a-goin'. 
Dar ain't* no use ob talkin', but I 'clar to Gord I'se willin' 
Foh to nebah hab no heab'n 'cept dat Gawgy gal an' millon ! 

Foh dey filled de haht an' stomach ob dis happy Gawgy 

niggah, 
An' he couldn' be no fullah, 'less de Lohd done make him 

biggah. 



136 WERNER'S READINGS 

Foh dy Lohd ! I'se done been dreamin' an' my haht is mos' 

a-breakin' 
An' ma lips dey is a-burnin', an' ma stomach is a-achin'. 
I been dreamin' ob de summah, an' ma mouf is jis a-fiUin' 
Foh dat honey gal ob Gawgy an' dat Gawgy watahmillon. 



THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF BLUE. 



H. W. JAKEWAY. 



TFrom the Ladies* Honu Journal^ by permission of the author and the Curtis Pub- 
lishing Co.] 

C HE gave him her book to write in — 

*^ The autograph book of blue — 

And she said : " Write it straight, now, Tommy, 

And something nice and true." 
Stiffly and squarely he wrote a line 

For his queen with the eyes of blue — 
Proudly, and signed it *' Tommy " — 

" Maggie, I love you true." 



A youth came home from a college — 

A student, grave and wise. 
He looked at the little old autograph book; 

He looked at her true blue eyes, 
And he scrawled, with cynical smiling, 

In the old, old book of blue, 
Of the folly of love, and signed it 

" Thomas Reginald Hugh." 

A man came from his labors 

Learned in the school of years, , 

Gazed at the little blue book and dreamed, 

And gazed, as he dreamed, through tears. 
Then he looked and saw her smiling, 

With tears in her eyes of blue, 
And he wrote and signed it " Tommy " — 

" Maggie, I love you true." 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, jay 



THB STUDBNT-HBBOBS OF OUR WAB. 



CHARLES W. ELIOT. 



[At a mass meeting of the members of Harvard University to consider 
the erection of some memorial for the students who had died in the 
Hispano-American war, President Eliot made an address, which we 
reprint with some account of its reception by the audience. The address 
was preceded by the reading of a letter from Colonel Theodore Roose- 
velt, of the class of 1880. Great applause greeted the reading of this 
letter, and was continued and prolonged as President Eliot ^as intro- 
duced and rose to speak. But at his first words an intense hush fell 
over the assemblage, and grew deeper as he proceeded, until, when he 
ended, the audience seemed too profoundly moved to break it. It was 
only when he turned, took his hat, and started to leave the hall, that the 
spell of his splendid eloquence was broken. Then a mighty outburst of 
applause rang out until the hall echoed again. President Eliot said :] 

DROTHER ROOSEVELT'S phrase, *' gave their young 
^ lives," is a common one enough; but how much it 
means! These youths who died in this Cuban war have 
given what you all are looking forward to with intense hope, 
expectation, delight, satisfaction, and joy. Life is over with 
them. For you it is just opening. Imagine for an instant 
what they have given. They can not experience the joys, 
the delights, the hopes, which fill your hearts with anticipa- 
tion. Human life is gone for them. 

What did they give their lives for ? We have been asking 
that question, and sometimes we get an adverse answer. We 
all have seen the sentiment that this war was not worth fight- 
ing for, that this war will bring upon the country unforeseen 
evils, that the young men had no cause to go to this war, that 
educated young men in particular ought to have known bet- 
ter than to have gone to such a war. I do but repeat what I 
hear. These views seem to me unsound ; but, if sound, irrele- 
vant. 

What does this building teach ? What has it been teach- 
ing to the youth of Harvard for thirty years? What does it 
say to the men who have gone in and out here during their 
whole college lives? Has it not said to them : " It is noble to 
die for your coimtry ? " Has it not said to them : " If you 



138 WERNER'S READINGS 

die for your country, your name shall be written up some- 
where on the grounds* of the college ? " I, for one, feel that 
Memorial Hall has said just that to all those who went to 
this Cuban war. It has said to theni : ** You shall be remem- 
bered here, if you fall." 

Now was there anything about the moral quality of this 
war that should lead to the disappointment of this hope, to 
thebreakingof that promise? I can not think so. We do not 
know to-day what the issues of this war are to be. How 
much did those young men know about the issues of this war 
when they went ? How much can any generation of young 
men probably know about the issues of any war to which 
they may be summoned by the government of their country ? 
I am sure the young men of 1861 did not know an3^ing 
about the issues of the Civil war. They went because they 
loved their country and because the existence of their coun- 
try seemed to be threatened. They went because they loved 
the Union, and thought that that Union was in danger. 

Again, what is the real strength of this country among the 
nations of the earth, when we keep a small standing army 
and but a small navy ? Why Ijave the opinion and the word 
of the United States been respected among the nations of the 
earth when, to all appearances, we were without the means 
of physically enforcing them ourselves ? Is it not because in 
this free country, when our government needs the force, the 
..)?Gung men spring to arms. The very reason why we have 
been able to get on with a standing army of 25,000 men 
among 70,000,000 people is that foreign nations and our 
own people believe that, when our government calls for 
troops, the troops will be forthcoming, and that quickly and 
without much stopping to reason or to anticipate the issues 
of the threatening strife. 

If in the future this country shall be able to get on well, 
and hold a strong place among the nations of the earth with- 
out maintaining such armies and navies as have burdened 
the nations of Europe, it will be because the other nations, 
and we ourselves, believe that, when the government of this 
country makes its appeal to battle, the youth will come. Now 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 129 

this is just what our comrades who have died in this Cuban 
war did, and I beUeve that they should be lastingly com- 
memorated on these grounds. But I would not advise that 
any hasty action be taken with regard to the form of the me- 
morial. On looking back on Memorial Hall, I see that it was 
several years after the close of the Civil war before this 
building began to rise on this spot ; and there were good rea- 
sons for the delay. 

We do not yet know how many graduates and sons of 
Harvard were enlisted in this war. Let us not be too quick 
to imagine what form of memorial shall be raised to these 
friends of ours whose lives have been given in this war. Let 
us declare here that so far as in us lies they shall be worthily 
commemorated ; but let us wait until we know how many are 
to be commemorated. Let us wait until we know more than 
we now do about the issues of this war. 

It is true that the memory of those who fall in any war is 
affected by the issues of the war. There is no doubt that men 
hold in remembrance longer and more dearly those who 
. fought in a war that turns out to be a war for civilization, 
for the progress of mankind. Let us wait, then, until we 
know something more than we now know about the ulti- 
mate issues of the strife in which our comrades fell ; but let 
us absolutely determine that they shall be affectionately and 
honorably remembered here. 



ON BOARD THE VICTORY. 



EDNAH ROBINSON. 



[Prom the Criterion^ by permission of the publishers.] 

T'HE Victory had been out ten days. Into a fog of sea and 
* sky she had swept out through the Golden Gate. 

Victory ! an omen of good fortune. In the North a golden 
Aurora had arisen and on this first trip of the Victory, 
her passenger-list was compressed and overflowing. The 



13© WERNER'S READINGS . 

miner is a product of luck and stakes his faith on lucky 
names and numbers and the Victory allured. 

It was an unassorted jumble of humanity with a com- 
mon impulse; their nature and destinies diverse; the prize, 
a chance at fortune, the same. 

Down in the dining-saloon the ivory chips clinked all 
night long. Jack Androus and Silent Sam, his partner, ran 
a game there between meals, beginning as soon as the tables 
were cleared, and it could not be doubted that between them 
would be divided one of the largest fortunes to come out of 
the frozen treasure-house. Among the passengers was a 
woman called Madge, traveling alone; Bill Terrill and wife, 
who affixed without consciousness their profession to their 
signatures, — ^gamblers; Mrs. Donahue and her coquettish 
daughter, Mamie, w^ho had been tempted from their routine 
of feeding 'men in Arizona to a more lucrative post in 
Alaska ; miners ; a few isolated reporters ; cooks. 

There was but one child on board. She discouraged all 
advances, especially the women's. Her shy manner did not 
hint of her world-washed vision, dragged about from camp 
to camp. A motherless girl, she had studied human nature 
when other children of her age were learning their alphabet. 

Not even to her father was Polly a taking child. He 
thought her sullen and disliked the frightened look her wide 
eyes perpetually were. MacLean, who was returning to his 
claims on the Yukon, took a puzzled fancy to Polly and he 
was the only one she did not repel. He tried to rouse her 
ambition by prophesying the fortune to be hers, but Polly's 
eyes never glistened, and MacLean often caught himself 
wondering what went on in that quiet little head. 

The tenth morning out, off the coast of Unalaska, a storm 
came up that drove the passengers for warmth and entertain- 
ment into the social hall where the women always congre- 
gated. There was a high sea on and the winds were threat- 
ening destruction to the dauntless little ship whose creaking 
timbers buffeted grimly with the huge waves that washed 
up over the hurricane deck. Polly's wide, terrified eyes had 
drawn MacLean from the smoking-room, and he had gone 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, 131 

in search of her. The Victory was pitching and rolling, and 
he had to grope his way by the rail, a heavy wave breaking 
over him as he opened the door. 

He was wiping the salt from his eyes and beard when a 
string of oaths greeted him. He turned to Polly, who was 
in her accustomed place, and her apathy again struck him. 
Scenes like this were nothing to him, but what was her father 
thinking of ? A fresh arrival stimulated the conversation 



** The only gentleman is the gambler,'* was Jack An- 
drous's unprejudiced challenge. 

" Did you ever hear of a gambler refusing to succor dis- 
tress? " asked Mrs. Terrill. " Where are ministers that can 
be said the same of ? Keep your ministers and give me the 
gamblers, say I." 

The applause was punctuated by oaths. Mamie Donahue 
enlisted : 

" The minister is a hypocrite who makes his bread out 
of what he professes, but the gambler is what he says he is 
and no more. I have never had a friend who was not a 
gambler or an atheist, and I never want any other. They are 
the only gentlemen." 

Mrs. Donahue seized the staff: 

" I know a case. A poor man got into trouble. Who 
came forward to help him? Ministers? Parsons? No, the 
gamblers ! If I need help, I'd turn to my own kind. Don't 
talk to me of your parsons " 

" Who's going to ? " interrupted Mrs. Terrill, her voice 
pitched high above the tempest. " Not I for one. I've been 
a gambler's wife for twenty years and I know ! The parsons 
are hjrpocrites ! " 

Jack Androus raised his glass. 

" We're all with you, — atheists ! Mrs. Terrill leads. 
Here, you fellows, hold up your hands ! This world, death, 
and f orgetf ulness ! Who believes in a fairy tale fit for 
women and children ? " 

There was a hurried rally round the colors. 



13a 



WERNER'S READINGS 



" Death and forgetf ulness ! " 
" Nothing beyond ! " 



MacLean alone was silent; but sharp eyes marked him. 

" How about you, MacLean ? " 

He smiled an evasion, but something impelled him to drag 
in Polly. 

" And you, Polly, what do you beliefve? " 

It was as if a clarion had sounded. A thrill ran through 
her frame and crimsoned her face. She gave a frightened 
glance around the press of quizzical faces and helplessly back 
to MacLean, who regretted the panic in that shy breast and 
would have retracted the question but it was too late. The 
trumpet call shook her to her feet. She tried to spedc, but 
the frightened voice stuck in her throat ; another effort and 
the voice, fearful of its own temerity, broke through its 
sheath, clear as a bell : 

" I believe in God, the Father Almighty^-^" 

MacLean caught his breath. She had responded. 

" Maker of heaven and earth — " 

Outside the Victory was tossing helplessly, but Polly's 
voice rose triumphantly above the storm. 

" And in Jesus Christ, our Lord ! " 

A boyish scene unrolled before MacLean and the neglected 
words came back. His voice self-consciously joined Polly's, 
and he felt rather than heard a reenf orcement from the other 
side of the room. 

" On the right hand of God—'' 

The voices now rang out clear, and two men stood up. 
There was a sudden awed hush as the Victory shuddered 
tremulously to the crest of a watery mountain, and then 
sank into an abyss-like trough that threatened to swallow 
its victim. In the dining-saloon there was a crash of broken 
china and some women screamed. The thickening darkness 
added to the panic, but a young voice broke through : 

" He shall come to judge the quick and the dead — " 

The woman called Madge broke into hysterical sobbing, 
but the chorus swept on to " the forgiveness of sins." All 
of the chorus were standing now. Down-stairs the clink of 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22, 133 

chips had stopped, the waiters. stood by the steps, the stew- 
ard's cap was off. The hard crowd had remembered its 
childhood and stood in spirit hy its mother's knee. In triumph 
the chorus rang to a close : 

" The Resurrection of the body and the Life Everlasting. 
Amen ! " 



lilNBTTBl 



FLORENCE FOLSOJ^ 



[By pennission of the iiuthor.] 

'TO-DAY we are poor; 
* But I buy Linette 
A crystal and silver 
Vinaigrette ! 

To the woods we go 

For our holiday, 
But the homeward ride 

I can not pay. 

I am not ashamed 

To be so poor ; 
When my coin is gone 

My thoughts endure. 

The vinaigrette 

She may always keep ; 
And her limbs will rest 

In a long night's sleep f 

• * * 

To-day we are rich 
With a poem's wage. 

As a bird from the door 
Of his opened cage, 



1 



IJ4 WERNER'S READINGS 

I rush from our garret 
And buy Linette 

Violets blue. 

With white dew wet 1 

Music and perfume. 
Color and light, 

Are Linette's and mine 
Until falls the night. 

Poor as before, 

To our nest we creep, 

But we have each other 
And youth and sleep. 



KATIB AN* VOL 



EDMUND VANCE COOKE. 



[Prom ^ Rimes to Be Read," W. B. Conkey, publisher, by permission of the 

author.] 

KATIE an' me a'n't ingaged anny moor. 
Och, but the heart of me's breakin' f er sure ! 
The moon has turned grane an' the sun has turned yallow. 
An' Oi am turned both an' a different fallow. 
The poipe of me loiftoime is losin' its taste; 
Some illigant whiskey is goin' to waste ; 
Me heart is that impty an' also me arrum, 
Pertaities an' bacon have lost all their charrum. 
An' Oi feel like a tombstone, wid crape on the dure, 
Since Katie an' me a'n't ingaged anny moor. 

Yit most of the world is a-movin' alang 
As if there was nawthin' at all goin' wrang. 
Oi notice the little pigs lie in the mud, 
An' the fool of a cow is still chewin' her cud ; 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22. 

The sky is still blue an' the grass is still bright; 
The stars shine in hivin in pacef ul delight ; 
The little waves dance on the brist of the lake; 
Tim Donnelly's dead an' they're havin' a wake, 
An' the world's rich in joy ! an' it's only me poor, 
Since Katie an' me a'n't ingaged anny moor. 

She was always that modest an' swate, Oi declare 

She w'u'd blush full as rid as her illigant hair 

At the t'ought of another man stalin' the taste 

Of her lips or another man's arrum round her waist. 

An' now — och, McCarney, luk out, or Oi'll break 

Yer carcass in fragmints an' dance at yer wake, 

As you're dancin' at Donnelly's! What sh'u'd Oi fear? 

Purgutory? Not mooch, fer the same is right here, 

Wid me heart on the briler, an' niver a cure, 

Since Katie an' me a'n't ingaged anny moor. 



135 



SUNSHINE JOHNSON. 



O EEING the two men together and knowing that one of 
*^ them was a murderer, there was one chance in a thou- 
sand that you would have chosen the right man for the 
criminal. * 

The white man was seated on an easy canvas camp-chair ; 
he was a tall, thin man, with a stern, forbidding look upon 
his face that might have been caused by remorse. There 
were certain inflexible lines about his mouth that showed 
him to be a man of great force of character. He was an un- 
erring judge of human nature and had come to believe that 
he could not make a mistake. Nevertheless, he trusted peo- 
ple whom no one else would think of trusting, and his trust 
was seldom misplaced. 

The black man who stood before him, receiving some in- 
structions, had the simple, good-natured expression so often 
found in the negro race. It seemed all he could do to keep 
his broad mouth from relaxing into a smile, and only the fact 



tg( WERNER'S READiNGS 

that he was talkitig to the superintendent of the penitentiary 
would keep down his exuberant good nature. This man 
was known throughout the camp as Sunshine Johnson, — a 
murderer in for Hfe. Yet in his arms rested Jackson Flint's 
fair-haired little daughter ; her face pressed close against his 
dusky one, her arms around the negro's neck. This was one 
of the men Jackson Flint trusted. 

If visitors, attracted by. his name or by his beaming coun- 
tenance, questioned Sunshine about his crime, he would 
stand first on one foot and then on the other, while a dazed, 
hopeless look grew in his eyes. 

" Well, you see, massa, I s'pec' I done killed de man — ^he 
dead anyhow an' I s'pec' I killed him — ^but you see, sah, I 
don't recollect nufin' tall about it, sah, for I was drunk at de 
time, sah. I'se powerful sorry I done it, if I did done it," 
and Sunshine would look appealingly at the questioner. 

People visiting this penitentiary for the first time were 
surprised to find how little the place was protected. Here 
and there were tall board erections, in which were stationed 
men with rifles or shotguns. There was no wall about the 
camp; its only protection was a picket fence, which might 
easily have been leaped. But although a man might have 
leaped the fence, and though he might have escaped die shots 
from the towers, his escape was well-nigh impossible ; he had 
to cross the mountains in order to get away and a telegraph 
station in the convict settlement quickly apprized all civiliza- 
tion that such and such a man had escaped. It usually hap- 
pened that about a week or ten days after an attempt to es- 
cape, a gaunt, starved man came out of the wilderness and 
gave himself up at the first place where he could find some- 
thing to eat. 

On the day of my story there had been a fierce storm 
among the mountains. The clouds seemed to become en- 
tangled with the peaks until they, like the prisoners, could nrt 
get away, but poured themselves down on the little valley un- 
til the little river became a roaring torrent and gleamed white 
amid the trees. Toward evening the clouds parted, and liie 
pale sickle of a moon hung its light over the quiet valley. 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22, 137 

Jaekson Flint wa? sitting on his veranda smoking his 
cprn-co^ pipe, when a ^urst of childiah laughter fell upon his 
ears, and, looking round, he s^w his little 4augl;iter lashing 
Sunshine as if he were a horse, while that good-natured indi- 
vidual trotted up and down patiently. 

*' Hello, Sunshine ! What are you doing with Dorothy at 
this hour of the night? " 

At the sound of th^ master's voice they came to an im- 
mediate pause and even the child hushed its laughter. 

" Well you see, massa — little Dot, sah, had to stay indoors 
all day on account of the rain and her ma thought as how she 
might come out a little while to-night, and if you please, 
Massa Flint, little Dot would like to stay up very much and 
see the midnight express." 

" Nonsense, Dorothy, you don't want to stay up as late as 
that, do you ? " 

The child made no answer ; but leaned over and whispered 
in Sunshine's ear. 

" If you please, little Dot would like it very much, sah.'* 

'* Did Dorothy tell you to say that. Sunshine? Well, it's 
all right if her mother says so." 

The midnight express was a great sight tp see on a dark 
night. It came in view from out; 21 tvinnel, then disappeared 
and came in yiew again and the long line of lights seemed 
to climb the mountains. 

It was almost time for the train, ^hen Jackson Flint was 
startled by a shrill cry f rqm \i\% child, and, turning round, the 
sight he saw the next moment simply paralyzed him. Sun- 
shine had snatched a lantern from the steps of his quarters 
and, shouting to Dorothy : " Run into de house, honey, run 
into de house," he had leaped the picket fence and made oflf 
toward the wood. 

The child clung, frightened and crying, to the palings, but 
the hoarse voice of Jackson Flint awoke the whole camp : 

" Come back here, you black rascal ! " 

But Sunshine only waved his lantern ^nd went on. Flint 
felt for his six-shooter and the next instant the 3h*rp click 
of a revolver rang out on the midnight air. 



138 WERNER'S READINGS 

'* Run into de house, honey, run into de house," shouted 
Sunshine, at the top of his voice, and then FHnt saw that his 
own little curly4iaired girl was in a direct line between him 
and the escaping convict. 

As a general thing, he was an unerring shot, but his hand 
trembled, as he shot six times over Sunshine's head and then 
flung the empty revolver to the ground. Each time he shot. 
Sunshine waved the lantern and went on. 

Flint called to the men in the towers : 

" Why don't you shoot? " 

Three shots rang out. This time Sunshine uttered a cry 
of pain, but he went on and the next instant he was out of 
sight. 

Pale-faced men came up from eve^ direction. 

" Who's escaped, sir? " 

" Johnson." 

** Not Sunshine?" 

** What other Johnson is there here ? " 

'• Shall we send ^ guard out, sir ? " 

''No. Go to bed." 

Flint paced back and forth for over an hour, muttering 
under his breath : 

" He's sure to be caught." 

The bitterness of it all was that everybody knew he had 
trusted Sunshine and now his trust had been betrayed. At 
last he sat down and buried his face in his hands. Suddenly 
a soft voice close to his elbow made him spring to his feet. 

" Massa Flint ! " 

There, torn by the brambles and bushes, his clothes in 
rags, the lantern still on his arm, stood Sunshine. 

" You scoundrel ! What did you do it for ? " 

" You didn't hear it, did you, Massa Flint ? " 

"Hear it? hear what?" 

" De landslide, massa. I heerd it a-comin' 'way down de 
mountain, an' I knowed I had to run if I was to sabe dat 
train. But I did sabe it, Massa Flint." 

A great lump came in Flint's throat and he couldn't speak, 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, 139 

and he reached down both his hands and put them on Sun- 
shine's shoulders. 

" So you saved the train, did you, Sunshine? " 

" Yes, Massa Flint. Dey want a shublin' gang directly. 
De conductor am a-comin' right up." 

" All right. Sunshine. Why, what's the matter with your 
arm ? " for, as the light from the lantern flashed on it, Sun- 
shine's left arm hung limp and helpless and Flint could see 
the blood trickle down the fingers. 

" It got hit a little wid de shotgun. 'Tain't no matter." 

" Go into the house, Sunshine. I'll send a doctor directly." 

" Hello," called the conductor, coming up just then, 
" what are you trying to do with us down here ? Are you 
trying to smash us up? " 

" Well, you might have been smashed up if it hadn't been 
for one of my niggers." 

"Yes, I know," said the conductor; but he didn't know 
the risk Sunshine had run. 

" How long do you think it'll take us to get away ? The 
Governor of North Carolina is on board, and he's a bit im- 
patient at the delay." 

" So. The Governor's on board, is he ? Well, I'm glad 
of that, for I want him to pardon a lifer." 

" Yes ? Well, I wouldn't ask him just now if I were you. 
He's not in the best of humors." 

" He'll never be in a better humor than he is this minute, 
for what I want him to do, for if it hadn't, been for my lifer, 
he and his private car would be at the bottom of the nearest 



ravine." 



And the Governor pardoned Sunshine Johnson. 



Tying her shoe, I knelt at Daphne's feet. 
My fumbling fingers found such service sweet, 
And lingered o'er the task till, when I rose, 
Cupid had bound me captive in her bows. 



140 WERNER'S READINGS 



AIJL FOB A MAN. 



HELEN U. WlKSLOWo 



(.By permission of the author.] 

E had flirted at Bar Harbor and at Narrj^gansett Pier, 
^^ He had thoroughly '' dcme Europe," and at last J)^an 

to fear 
That life was after all to prove a horrid, beastly bore 
And love — as 'tis in novels, and young visions- were no more. 
When by the merest circumstance he took a sudden fancy 
To go to Pottstown Comers and visit old Aunt Nancy; 
And never dreamed that Pottstdwn oped into Paradise 
Or that his Eve was singing there, with modest, shining 

eyes, 
** Oh ! for a man — oh ! for a man — a mansion :in the 

skies ! " 

The mischief happened this way: In Pottstown etiquette 
To stay away from meeting is a sin they can't forget. 
So when Aunt Nancy asked him and he set out to refuse. 
Her look oi horror silenced him, he muttered : " Ah — 
excuse — 

1 mean, Fll go,'- — ^and meekly walked, with all his best attire. 
The mile-long dusty street ; then slept, until the village choir 
Aroused him with the closing hymn and, much to his sur- 
prise, 

A sweet- voiced angel seemed to lead with pure, uplifted eyes, 
" Oh ! for a man — oh ! for a man — a mansion in the 
skies ! " 

And when the congregation, in that honest way they love. 
Faced straight about and gazed into the singing-loft above. 
He turned and stared, enchanted, at a girl who seemed to lack 
Naught but a tarnished golden frame and canvas at her back 
To make her some old picture from Florence or Munich 



^ND RECITATIONS N,o, 22, 141 

(An illusion carried out by her hat and her white tunic). 

He stared, enraptured, in a way that hymn don't authorize. 

She knew, and blushed, and sang again, with shy and down- 
cast eyes 

" Oh ! for a man — oh ! for a njfUi — a mansion in the 
skies ! " 

I blush to tell — but after that no deacon in the church 
More constant was at meeting, more eager in the search 
Apparently for Scripture lore ; and although he had been 
A worshipper of Wagner — Valkyrie — Lohengrin, 
He sat in adoration while that village choir sang ** Mere," 
And cherubim and seraphim seemed singing in his ear. 
Old " China," " Webb," and '' Lenox " were choicest har- 
monies. 
But best of all was when she sang with sweet and drooping 

eyes 
" Oh ! for a man — oh ! for a man — a mansion in the 
skies!" 

But why prolong the story, since love will find a way? 
'He lingered with Aunt Nancy for many and many a day. 
And spite of saintly likeness to Madonnas she was human 
And with a heart that could be won like any other woman ; 
So now he roves no longer but is quite the business man 
And likes when evening comes to sit and look on — when he 

can — 
While she bends o'er the cradle with its silken draperies 
And croons in low and hushing voice, with happy love-lit 

eyes: 
" My little man, my little man, must shut his sleepy ^yes." 



No way has been found for making heroism easy even for 
the scholar. Labor, iron labor, is for him. The world was 
created as an audience for him, the atoms of which it is made 
are opportunities. 



142 IVnRNER'S READINGS 



DEATH OF HAROLD. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 

TN the middle of the month of October, in the year 1066, 
^ the Normans and the English came front to front. All 
night the armies lay encamped before each other, in a part of 
the country then called Senlac, now called (in remembrance 
of the event) Battle. With the first dawn of day they arose.. 
There, in the faint light, were the English on a hill, a wood 
behind them, in their midst a royal banner representing a 
fighting warrior woven in gold thread and adorned with 
precious stones. ' 

Beneath the banner, as it rustled in the wind, stood King 
Harold on foot, with two of his remaining brothers by his 1 
side ; around them, still and silent as the dead, clustered the 
whole English army, every soldier covered by his shield, and 
bearing in his hand his dreaded English battle-ax.- On an 
opposite hill, in three lines — archers, foot-soldiers, horse^ 
men — was the Norman force. Of a sudden, arose a great 
battle-cry: "God's Rood! Holy Rood!" The Normans 
then came sweeping down the hill to attack the English. 

The English, keeping side by side in a great mass, cared 
no more for the showers of Norman arrows than if they h^d ' 
been showers of Norman rain. When the Norman horsemen 
rode against them with their battle-axes they cut men and 
horses down. The Normans gave way. The English pressed 
forward. A cry went forth among the Norman troops that 
Duke William was killed. Duke William took off his hel- 
met in order that his face might be distinctly seen, atxj rode 
along the line before his men. This gave them courage^ 

As they turned again to face the English, some of tieir J 
Norman horses divided the pursuing body of the Eng-ld^ I 
from the rest, and thus all that foremost part of the Eng-li^ J 
army fell, fighting bravely. The main body still rediainini%^ 
firm, heedless of the Norman arrows, and with their battle^ 






/ 



^ 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, 143 

axes cutting down the crowds of horsemen, when they rode 
up, like forests of young trees, Duke William pretended to 
retreat. The eager English followed. The Norman army 
closed again, and fell upon them with great slaughter. 

" Still," said Duke William, " there are thousands of the 
English firm as rocks around their king. Shoot upward, 
Norman archers, that your arrows may fall upon their 
faces ! " 

The sun rose high and sank, and the battle still raged. 
• Through all the wild October day the clash and din re- 
sounded in the air. In the red sunset, in the white moon- 
light, heaps upon heaps of dead men lay strewn, a dreadful 
spectacle, all over the ground. 

King Harold, wounded with an arrow in the eye, was 
nearly blind. His brothers were already killed. Twenty 
Norman knights, whose battered armor had flashed fiery 
and golden in the sunshine all day long, and now looked sil- 
very in the moonlight, dashed forward to seize the royal 
banner from the English knights and soldiers, still faithfully 
collected around their blinded king. The king received a 
mortal wound and dropped. The English broke and fled as 
the Normans rallied, and the day was lost. 
j Oh, what a sight beneath the moon and the stars, when 
lights were shining in the tent of the victorious Duke Wil- 
liam — ^which was pitched near the spot where Harold fell — 
and he and his knights were carousing within! Soldiers 
with torches, going slowly to and fro without, sought for 
the corpse of Harold among the piles of dead ; and the war- 
rior worked in golden thread and precious stones lay low, 
all torn and soiled with blood ; and the three Norman Lions 
kept watch over the field. 



Po' li'r feller, los' in de snow, 

En nowhar's ter go — en nowhar's ter go ! 

But a light is shinin' fer de feet dat roam. 

En someone's a-callin' : " Come home — come home ! " 

En some er dese times — when de Lawd think bes' — 

Dey'U all come home ter His lovin' bre's' ! 



144 WUkNkR'S kBAoiffUS 



A BOSS Ot BOMB. 



GEORGE HENRY GAlPIN. 



[Prom " Threads from the Woof," by permission of the author.] 

IT was the day of the great games in Rome. The long, 
curving sides of the amphithfeatre seemed like huge mo- 
saics with the different colors of the rugs and robes throwrr 
over them. Here a dull, gray cloak was cast loosely over a 
jutting cornice, the ends dragging in the sand. There a rich, 
crimson scarf threw into strong relief the fair white arm 
resting upon it. The colors and the shadows sefetned to the 
observer to be blended into a ^eat, beautiful web, which 
appeared to undulate from time to time as the people moved 
forward or rose in their seats to cheer the entrance of some 
patrician or renowned soldier. Just over the east gate a pure 
white scarf caught the eye, as it floated out, in strong con- 
trast to its gayer neighbors. Plucking at the scarf with 
nervous fingers, that now and then clenched themselves un- 
der the folds, was a young girl of pierhaps twenty years of 
age. Her dress and manner told of patrician blood. Her po- 
sition would have led one to think that it had been chosen 
out of a desire to see and enjoy, to the fullest extent, all that 
passed in the fatal ring below. A look at her eyes and the 
tense lines about her mouth would have quickly shown how 
utterly she abhorred it all. A reader of human nature might 
have said that some vital issue was to come, and that she was 
there to share it. The clanging of the great bronze gate be- 
neath aroused her, and at the braying of the trumpets, which 
announced the coming of the emperor, she half turned as if 
to flee, but, after a second's hesitation, she again faced 
toward the arena and remained standing, motionless. The 
train of the emperor passed slowly in and around toward the 
imperial box. A pause, followed by a shout of " Long live 
the emperor," announced that the rabble had caught sight of 
him for whom the games waited, the young emperor of 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 145 

Rome, and in a moment more he had stepped from beneath 
the shadow of the gate out into the sunlight. 

The carriage of the man commanded the homage of all, 
and yet there was a sensual, domineering look in his face, 
which prevented his subjects from giving him their respect 
or trust. He ruled by cruelty and fear, and, like all despots, 
was most cordially hated in return for it. A wreath fluttered 
down from a point just above the head of the young girl and 
struck the emperor's shoulder. He turned and saw, not the 
donor of the wreath but the fair vision of the girl — just out 
of reach, — ^a vision of purity and grace which would have 
compelled respect from any other man. An eager, gloating 
look came into his eyes, but it was met with a glance so fear- 
less and scornful that he turned with a muttered oath and, 
amid the huzzas and cheers, took his seat beneath the purple 
and gold canopy at the side of the oval. As many knew, it 
was not the first repulse that the Roman emperor had re- 
ceived at the hands of the beautiful Nadia. 

And now the games commenced. The pageants came and 
went, the sham fights passed, the runners gained the goal in 
turn, and through it all the white figure over the great gate 
sat motionless, unheeding. At last came the gladiators, with 
muscles playing and sinews trembling like the strings of 
some fine instrument under the touch of a master hand, their 
eagerness to be conquerors overcoming their fear of death. 
Three contests had been fought, and the fourth begun, when 
the figure of a man in the dress of a gladiator was seen walk- 
ing rapidly toward the east gate. A glad light leaped into 
the girl's eager eyes as she watched him approach, and, as 
he came within hearing, she leaned far out and spoke : 

" Ah, the gods are good ! You have come, my Glaucus." 

" Aye, Nadia ; to gain my prize ! Give me a token, sweet 
one, to wear next my heart and guide me on to triumph." 

The girl unfolded her scarf and took from it a great white 
rose, heavy with the sacred oils and scented ointments from 
the temple, and tossed it gently down to him. 

" Here ! I brought it for you. But see ! It is your turn. 
Nay, go. You see I am quite calm. I do not even tremble. 



146 WERNER'S READINGS 

Ah, love, the gods will not desert us ; I know they will not. 
But go, go ! Mars guide thy hand to victory ! " 

A look of love — a smile — ^and he turned to meet his adver- 
sary, a deep-chested, brawny Gaul. 

The signal came, and with eyes that watched the other's 
slightest movement the two men moved gradually nearer to 
each other. A stroke from the Gaul was parried and re- 
turned without effect. Another — and a third — and still no 
vantage ground was gained by either. The breath of both 
combatants came long and full, their breasts heaved steadily, 
their muscles grew tense, their eyes burned. At length the 
Gaul, in desperation, struck a blow which told, and for a mo- 
ment the victory seemed gained ; but at the shock of the blow 
a white rose fell from the bosom of his opponent, and the 
sight of this poor, bruised flower there on the sands of the 
arena seemed to imbue the owner with the strength of Mars. 
He rallied. The blows came thick and fast. The swords 
rang out. It was a fight for life as well as honor, and always 
the two struggling, panting men circled around the flower 
upon the ground. At last the Roman gained advantage ; he 
tired the Gaul, parried, never seeming to lose strength or 
vigor, and, breathing the name ** Nadia, Nadia,'' struck hard 
and fast. Again the Gaul gained ground, but only to lose it, 
for Glaucus forced him back, back, and still back, w^hen by 
chance the metal sole of the Gaul's sandal came in contact 
with the anointed flower; he slipped, fell, and was at the 
mercy of the Roman, who stood with uplifted eyes, his 
sword at the throat of his fallen foe. The emperor slowly 
turned his thumb down and the knife did its work. 

It was the last contest of the day, and the victors marched 
around the arena singing the hymn of triumph, and halted 
in front of the royal dais. As they stood there, Nadia slipped 
along unnoticed in the shadow of the wall and joined them. 
She singled Glaucus out, and stood proudly by him. At last 
his name was called, and he stepped forward to ask his boon. 

" Well," the emperor said, coldly, " what is thy wish ? It 
is our will to-day that ye who have fought well shall choose 
your own reward, excepting life and death. Name yours." 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, 147 

" A small thing to you, my emperor, do I ask : Permission 
to marry my chosen love and go back to my native hills, leav- 
ing the arena to more ambitious ones than I." 

" An easy gift. Tis yours. You have my word." 

The victor bowed, then staggered. Nadia darted to his 
side like a flash of light, calling to him to speak to her. 

" Glaucus ! Ah, you are wounded. Speak to me ! Speak ! " 

" Nay. 'Tis but exhaustion, Nadia : I " 

Before he could finish, the emperor, who had been a most 
astonished and unwilling witness to the scene, stepped for- 
ward. 

*' What means this? Slave, what meanst thou by aspiring 
to the fairest daughter of patrician Rome ? Away with him. 
I revoke my word. Bring the girl here. Away, I say ! " 

Glaucus sprang forward and confronted him, towering as 
though he were emperor instead of supplicant. The lictors, 
few in number compared to the gladiators/ stood back. Glau- 
cus turned to his comrades and spoke, his voice ringing 
boldly and fearlessly throughout the amphitheatre : 

" Men of Rome, — or Sparta, — your emperor has given his 
word, — that word to which all men bow and hold as sacred. 
Never yet has a Roman ruler broken that word when once 
'twas given. Witness me, I have won my contest and asked 
my boon. 'Twas granted, but the lust of your emperor 
proves stronger than his honor." 

Warned by the ominous looks of the populace that he had 
gone too far, the emperor broke in : 

" Hold ! Enough ! Take her. 'Twas but a jest to prove 
thy loyalty to her. Ho, guards ! Proceed, I have enough of 
this." 

Again the glittering train filed slowly out through the 
bronze doors. As the emperor neared the gate, a white 
scarf slipped from the seat above and fell upon him as 
though in mute benediction. A moment he paused, then, 
tearing the scarf from him with a gesture of hatred, he 
passed on and out. The gladiators followed, one by one, each 
giving the couple standing there in the glow of the sunset a 



148 WERNERS READINGS 

look of sympathy and triumph, not daring to show before 
the royal guards too much elation at their ruler's def-eat 

At last Glaucus turned, and, looking into the sweet, pure 
face beside him, said : 

" Mars gained a victory to-day, sweet one." 

But the girl, looking back to him, said in a voice full of 
love and trust : 

" Nay, Glaucus, 'twas a victory of love." 



I I >i <<»r^i^^ 



THE WlTOii. 



VIRGI2^IA WQOD)V»AJ?D Ct-O^D. 



[Prom the Ladies' Bi9meJ<mrnal^ by neraii3^on4>f the^Attior. A|id tUe Onrtia Pub- 

ItshiBg Co.] 

A ND was it I, long, long ago, who sat within the door and 
^ spun ? 
I mind the hazel wands ablow waved yellow in the setting 

sun; 
And my blind mother's voice within : " Come, daughter, 

put aside thy wheel ; 
Methinks the darkness doth begin, or muttering of storm I 

feel. 

" 'Twould seem the Bird of Fear somewhere doth spread its 

wings upon the skies." 
" A thrush, my mother, sings in air, and to our elm the 

swallow flies." 
'Twas I spake to her — ^alack ! — while, reaching straight unto 

our sill. 
The shadows of three crosses black stretched down from 

Gallows Hill. 

*' Daughter, I hear the tramp of feet, that draw them slowly, 
strangely nigh." 

"The wind, my mother, stirs the wheat, and yonder mill- 
stream rusheth high." 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 149 

'TwaS/thus, aye, it was thus I spake, 'Whilst barkening a far- 

oflF-sound 
Like to: a mighty wave; that brake and beat upon the ground. 

Nearer and. still more near it drew: A darkly threatening, 

muttering throng; 
Louder the direful puq)ose.grew which swept their steps 

along — 
" The Witch I The Witch! Let her come hence! Accuse her, 

ye who will! 
Yon cross' shadow marks her, whence it falls from. Gallows 

Hill!'' 

Yet at the sill my wheel it turned, my fingers flew and spun 

apace ; 
But from the west the sunset burned iibove a watching face. 
" Daughter, thy wheel I harken well; methinks 'twere time 

thy work were o'er. 
Alack, mine ears can not foretell whose steps approach the 

door ! " 



"Mother, our neighbors halt and pass. I bid them all a 
right good day." 

** Nay, other feet are on the grass ; and storm is threatening 
far away." 

Without that door they gathered round — it were full strange 
a sight, I ween ; 

The murmuring of gloomy sound, the rope they bare be- 
tween ! — 

And one stepped forth and raised his hand, and held a writ- 
ten paper high, 

Pointing to where that cross did stand against a darkening 
sky. 

Then twirled my ^ wheel, and, singing, I did close the door, 
the latch let fall, 

And past the hazel, waving higii,. went down to meet them 

51II. 



V, 



I50 WERNER'S READINGS 

The faces stern, the bitter will, their menace ofttimes yet I 

see! — 
And 'twixt us, from the darkening hill, shadows of crosses 

three ; 
And in mine ears, as far away, where dusk crept gentler, 

softlier dim 
My mother's voice, at close of day, crooning an evening 

hymn. 

Then spake the first, full harsh and stem : *' The Council 

hath adjudged it right 
That ere yon sun to rest shall turn, and ere another night, 
That ere again disaster dire shall terror spread by land or 

sea, 
From evil spell, by rope or fire, our soil shall now be free." 

" Good sirs," quoth I, " 'twere right and well, if sin or mis- 
chief have been done. 

But they who in this cottage dwell have taken and have 
asked of none. 

My mother she is blind and old, of gentle will and kindly 
deeds, 

Her draught of herbs, that asks not gold, is balm for many 
needs. 

" Well versed in wind and tide is she, as the good sailor-folk 

maintain. 
And woe unto that boat at sea which she hath bade remain ! " 
" Enough! The maiden hath confessed! " '' To death with 

evil! " " Triumph right!' 
Now God have mercy for the thing that smote my brain and 

sight I 

The coiling rope — the cross of black — ^upon my soul they 

broke them plain, 
One bearing fagots in their track— the angry cries that rose 

again — 



AND RECITATIONS N(p\ 22, . 151 

'' The mtck! The witch! '' ''She dweUethherel '' ". The 
woman with the evil eye! '* 



No more unrighteous power we'll fear! ''.^'^ Now bring 
her forth, and let her die! " 



" What mean ye, men ? No witch is h^re ! . What came ye 

hitbferward to find? 
None save my mother, threescore year — 3, Wonjan old and 

blind- 
Is 'neath yon roof! If on her name some idle tongue hath 

cast a slur 
Let him come forth, and, to his shame, learn of the fair 

deeds done by her ! " 

** Silence ! " spake ohe. " No more will we be wrought upon 

by evil might. 
On yonder hill shall judgment be before another night. 
She did predict the storm which wrought disaster sore on 

land and sea! 
Her hazel is with magic fraught! To death with such as 

she!'' 

*' Away! ye know not what ye do! It is my mother sits 

within. 
Stricken and old ! Now whence come you to reckon where 

there be no sin ? 
Aye, blind is she, yet knoweth well of weather and of tide, 

indeed. 
And to the sailor- folk can tell when they should stay or 

speed ! " 

'Twas thus I cried in terror sore. Two stepped them forth 

and drew anigh, 
Bearing a rope. They muttered o'er: ''Perish the Evil 

Eye!" 
Back to the threshold straight I sprang, mine arms thrown 

out across the door ; 
Within, my mother softly sang a homely tune of yore. 



iS« 



WERNER'S READINGS 



The hazel rods were torn aside^ and hands tinptljring fell on 

mine. 
" Now, God above! " I madly cried) " a sign! Send down a 

sign! " 
And if the woe of one maid's cry pierced to high heaven, 'tis 

God t«^ho knows. 
A crash of thunder smote the sky, and lo, a mighty storm 

arose ! 



Furious and frenzied, lashed and tore the smitten branches 
to the ground. 

The faces turned unto the door grew ashen at the awesome 
sound ; 

A writhing tongue of livid flame, a cry that rent a fiery 
cloud, 

A roar, a mighty crash there came, then darkness in a smok- 
ing shroud. 



'Mid silence strange, the rain beat down; strangely the 

darkness brake away 
And rolled from off the hilltop's crown, pierced by the sun's 

last ray ; 
And lo, across the door was cast, with mighty arms flung 

out to save. 
The elm tree, smitten by the blast, rooted from out its grave. 

And they whose purpose had been set to a fell deed, a 

work of woe? 
(Aye, in my dreams I see them yet, when stormy wind doth 

blow!) 
Forth from that place, in mortal dread, as though death 

hunted in their track, 
That dark, accusing throng had fled, nor stayed to look them 

back. 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22, 153 

And when at early day I urged my mother's steps with eager 

will, 
Fragments of crosses strewed our way, washed downward 

from that hilL 
As the years passed gently o'er her, little recked she what 

befell ; 
Nay, when at last so peacefully her blind eyes closed, her 

hand sought mine, 
She knew not of that dark even wlaen God in mercy sent a 

sign. 



TUB B AliLAiD OF SWBBT P. 



II i» < ti 



VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD 



[Prom the Ladies^ Hom§ Journal^ by permission of the author and the Curtis Pub< 

liahios: Co.] 

MISTRESS PENELOPE PENWICK, she, 
Called by her father " My Sweet P," 
Painted by Peale, she won renown 
In a clinging, short-waited satin gown ; 
A red rose touched by her finger-tips 
And a smile held back from her roguish lips. 

Thus, William Penwick, the jolly wight. 

In clouds of smoke, night after night, 

Would tell a tale in delighted pride, 

To cronies, who came from far and wide ; 

Always ending (with candle, he) 

'* And this is the picture of my Sweet P ! '* 

The tale ? Twas how Sweet P did chance 
To ^ve to the British a Christmas dance. 
Penwick's house past the outpost stood, 
Flanked by the ferry and banked by the wood. 
Hessian and British quartered there 
Swarmed through chamber and hall and stair. 



154 WERNER'S READINGS 

Fires ablaze and candles alight, 

Soldier and officer feasted that night. 

The enemy ? Safe, with a river between, 

Black and deadly and fierce and keen; 

A river of ice and a blinding storm ! — 

So they made them merry and kept them warm. 



But while they mirth and roistering made, 

Up in her dormer window stayed . . 

Mistress Penelope Penwick apart. 

With fearful thought and sorrowful heart. 

Night by night had her candle's gleam 

Sent through the dark its hopeful beam. 

But the nights they came and they passed again, 

With never a sig^ from her countrymen ; 

For where beat the heart so brave, so bold, 

Which could baffle that river's bulwark cold ? 

Penelope's eyes and her candle's light 

Were mocked by the storm that Christmas night. 

But lo, full sudden a missile stung 

And shattered her casement pane, and rung 

At her feet ! 'Twas a word from the storm outside. 

She opened her dormer window wide. 

A wind-swept figure halted below — 

The ferryman, old and bent and slow. 

Then a murmur rose upward — only one. 

Thrilling and powerful — " Washington! " 

With jest and laughter and candles bright, 
'Twas two by the stairway clock that nighty 
When Penelope Penwick tripped her down, 
Dressed in a short-waisted satin gown, 
With a red rose (cut from her potted bush). 
There fell on the rollicking crowd a hush. 



ii 



AND RECITATIONS No: 22, ^55 

She stood in the soldiers' midst, I Ween, 

The daintiest thing they e er had seen ! 

And swept their gaze with her eyes most sweet, 

And patted her little slippered feet. 

** Tis Christmas night, sirs," quoth Sweet P, 

*' I should like to dance ! Will you danee with me? '* 

Oh, but they cheered ; ran to and fro, 
And each for the honor bowed him low. 
With smiling charm and witching grace 
She chose him pranked with officer's lace 
And shining buttons and dangling sword ; 
No doubt he strutted him proud as a lordl 

Doffed was enhiity, donned was glee,- — 

Oh, she was charming, that Sweet P ! 

And when it was over, and blood aflame, 

Came an eager cry for " A game ! " " A game I ** 

" We'll play at forfeits," Penelope cried. 

" If one holdeth aught in his love and pride, «^ 



" Let each lay it down at my feet in turn, 

And a fine from me shall he straightway learn I " 

What held they all in their love and pride? 

Straight flew a hand unto every side; 

Each man had a sword, and nothing more, 

And the swords they clanged in a heap on the floor. 

Standing there, in her satin gown, 

With candlelight on her yellow crown 

And at her feet a bank of steel 

(Fll wager that look ^as caught by Peale!) — 

Penelope held her rose on high — 

" I fine each one for a leaf to try ! " 



She plucked the petals and blew them out, 
A rain of red they fluttered about. 



156 WBRNl^^S REAlXINGSr 

Over the floor and through the air 
Rushed the-officers, here and there; 
When lo ! a cry ! The* door burst in f 
*' The enemy!'' Tumult, terror and din! 



Flew a hand unto every side, — 
Swords ? — Penelope, arms thrown wide. 
Leapt that heaf> of steel before; 
Sword«t behind her upon the floor; 
Facing; her countrymen staimch and bold, 
Who dared the river of death and cold. 
Who swq)t them down on a rollicking horde^ 
And! found. th^ never a man with sword! 

And so it happened (but not by chance). 
In '76* there was given a dance 
By a witch with a rose, and a satin gown 
(.Painted in Philadelphia town), 
Mistress Penelope Penwick, she 
Called by her father " My Sweet P." 



SALLT AlfN*S BXFBBIBNOB. 



ELIZA CALVERT HALL. 



[From MiA Cosmopoh'tan^ by permission of the pubiishers.] 

r^ OME right in an' set down. I was jest wishin' I had 

^^ somebody to talk to. Take that chair right by the 
door so's you can get the breeze," and Aunt Jane beamed at 
me over her silver-rimmed spectacles. 

It was June in Kentucky, and clover and bluegrass were 
running sweet riot over the face of the earth. 

" Yes, Fm a-piecin' quilts again," she said. " I did say 
I was done with that sort o' work ; but this mornin' I was 
rummagin' around up in the garret, a-n' I come across this 
bundle o' pieces, an', thinks I, I reckon it's intended for 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 157 

me to pkce otte mare quilt before I die. I must 'a' put 'em 
there thirty years ago an' clean forgot 'em, an' I've been 
settin' here all the evenin' cuttin' 'em an' thinkin' about old 
times. Jest fed o' that," she continued, tossing some scraps 
mto my lap. " They ain't no such caliker nowadays. That 
blue^flowered piece was a dress I got the spring before 
Abram died. That one with the green ground an' white 
figger was my niece Rebecca's. She wore it for the first 
time to the County Fair the year I took the premium on my 
salt-risin' bread an' sponge-cake. This black an' white 
piece Sally Ann Flint give me. 

" Did I ever tell you about Sally Ann's experience ? No ? 
Well, 'twas forty years ago, an' the way of it was this : Our 
church needed a new roof. Some o' the winder lights was 
out, an' the floor was as bare as your hand, an' always 
had been. The men-folk managed to git the roof shingled 
an' the winders fixed, an' us women in the Mite Society 
concluded we'd git a cyarpet. We'd been savin' up our 
money for some time, an' we had about twelve dollars. 
Well, one day we held a meetin' to app'int a committee to 
go to town an' pick out the cyarpet, an' when we was all 
a-talkin' about the color wef'd have, all at once 'Lizabeth 
Taylor — she was our treasurcr^ — she spoke up, an' says she : 
* They ain't no use app'intin' that committee. The money's 
gone,' she says, sort o' short an' quick. * I kep' it in my 
top bureau drawer, an' when I went for it yistiddy, it was 
gone. 1*11 pay it back if I'm ever able, but I ain't able now.' 
With that she got up an' walked out o' the room, before 
anyone could say a word, an' we seen her goin' down the 
road lookin' straight before her an' walkin' right fast. 

" An' we — ^we set there an' stared at each other in a sort 
o' dazed way. I could see that everybody was thinkin' the 
same thing, but nobody said a word, till our minister's wife, 
she says, * Judge not! 

" An* them two words was jest like a sermon to us. Then 
Sally Ann spoke up an' says : ' For the Lord's sake, don't 
let the men-folks know anything about this. They're al- 
ways sayin' that women ain't fit to handl<j money, an' I for 



158 WERNER'S READINGS 

one don't want to give 'em. no more ground to stand on 
then they've already got/ 

** So we agreed to say nothin' about it, an' all of us kept 
our promise except Milly Amos. She had mighty little 
sense to begin with, an' havin' been married only about 
two months, she'd about lost that little. So next mornin' 
I happened to meet Sam Amos an' he says to me : * Aunt 
Jane, how much money have you v/omen got to'rds the new 
cyarpet for the church ? ' I looked him square in the face, 
an' I says : ' Are you a member o' the Ladies' Mite Society 
of Goshen Church, Sam Amos? 'Cause if you are, you 
already know how much money we've got, an' if you ain't, 
you've got no business knowin'. An' furthermore,' says I, 
' there's some women that can't keep a secret an' a promise, 
an' some that can, an' / can/ An' that settled him. 

" Well, 'Lizabeth never showed her face outside her door 
for more'n a month afterwards, and then one night she 
come out to prayer-meetin'. She set 'way back in the 
church, an* she was as pale an' peaked as if she had been 
through a siege of typhoid. We sung * Welcome, Sweet 
Hour,' an' Parson Page prayed a pra'r, an' then called on 
the brethren to say anything they might feel called on to 
say concemin* their experience in the past week. Before 
anyone got started, here come 'Lizabeth walkin' down the 
side aisle an' stopped right in front o' the pulpit. 

" * I've somethin' to say,' she says. * It's been on my 
mind till I can't stand it any longer. It was me that took 
that cyarpet money. I only meant to borry it. I thought 
sure I'd be able to pay it back before it was wanted; but 
things went wrong, an' I ain't known a peaceful minute 
since, an' never shall again, I reckon. I took it to pay my 
way up to Louisville, the time I got the news that Mary was 
dyin'.' 

" Mary was her daughter by her first husband, you see. 

** *I begged Jacob to give me the money to go on,' says she, 
' an' he wouldn't do it. I tried to give up an' stay, but I jest 
couldn't. Mary was all the child I had in the world; an' 
may be you that has children can put yourself in my place, 



AND RECITATIONS No: 22, 159 

an' know what it would be to hear your only child callin' 
to you from her death-bed, an' you not able to go to her. 
I asked Jacob three times for the money/ she says, ' an' 
when I found he wouldn't give it to me, I said to myself, 
" I'm goin' anyhow." I got down on my knees,' says she, 
* an' asked the Lord to show me a way, an' I felt sure he 
would. As soon as Jacob had gone out on the farm, I 
dressed myself, an' as I opened the top bureau drawer I 
saw the missionary money. It come right into my head 
that may be this was the answer to my prayer; I could 
borry this money, an' when I went down into the sittin'- 
room to get Jacob's cyarpetsack to carry a few things in, 
I happened to look up at the mantelpiece, an' saw the brass 
candlesticks With prisms all round 'em that used to belong 
to my mother ; an' all at once I seemed to see jest what the 
Lord intended for me to do. You know I had a boarder 
from Louisville summer before last, an' she wanted them 
candlesticks the worst kind, an' offered me fifteen dollars 
for 'em. I wouldn't part with 'em then^ but she said if ever 
I wanted to sell 'em, to let her know, an' she left her 
name an' address on a cyard. I got out the cyard, an' I 
packed the candlesticks in the cyarpetbag, an' put on my 
bonnet. When I opened the door I' looked up the road, 
an' the first thing I saw was Dave Crawford comin' along 
in his new buggy. I went out to the gate an' he drew up 
an' asked me if I was goin' to town, an' said he'd take me. 
I got to Mary just two hours before she died, an' she looked 
up in my face an' says: "Mother, I knew God wouldn't 
let me die till I'd seen you once more." As soon as the 
funeral was over, I set out to find the lady that wanted the 
candlesticks. She wasn't at home, but her niece was there, 
an' said she'd heard her aunt speak o' the candlesticks often, 
an' she'd be home in a few days an' would send me the 
money right off. I kept expectin' the money every day, 
but it never come till day before yesterday. She had just 
got home, she said, an' hoped I hadn't been inconvenienced 
by the delay. She wrote a nice, polite letter an' sent me a 
check for fifteen dollars, an' here it is. Somehow I couldn't 



i6d WBRNB^S RE4PIN(^S * 

confess till I hsid tfee money right in my hand to pay back. 
I reckon it's a judgment on me for meddlin' with the 
Lord's money, an' God only knows what I've suffered, 
but if I had to do it over again, I believe I'd do it. I've 
been a member o' this church for twenty years, but I reckon 
you'll have to turn me out now.' 

" The pore thing stood there, tremblin' an' holdin' out 
the check as if she expected somebody to come an' take it. 
Old Silas Petty was glowerin' at her from under his eye- 
brows, an' it put me in mind o' the Pharisees an' the woman 
they wanted to stone, an' I ricollect thinkin', * Oh, if the 
Lord Jesus would jest come in an' take her part ! ' An' 
while we all set there like a passel o' mutes, Sally Ann 
got up an' marched down the middle aisle an' stopd right 
by 'Lizabeth. 

" Well, Sally Ann looked all around a$ compQSed ag you 
please an' says she : * I reckon if anybody's turnecj out 
o' this church on account o' that miserable little money, it'll 
be Jacob an' not 'Lizabeth. A man that won't give his wife 
money to go to her dyin' child is too mean to stay in a 
Christian church anyhow; an' things is come to a pretty. 
pass in this State, when a woman that had eight hundred 
dollars when she married has to go to her husband an' git 
down on her knees an' beg for what's her own. Where's 
that money 'Lizabeth had when she married you ? ' says 
she, turnin' round an' lookin' Jacob in the face. ' Down 
in that ten-acre medder lot, ain't it ? — an' in that new b^m 
you built last spring. A pretty elder you are, ain't you? 
Elders don't seem to have improved much since Susannah's 
times.' 

*' Gk)odness knows what she would 'a' said, but jest here 
old Deacon Petty rose up. An' says he : 

" ' Brethren' — ^and he spread his arms out an' waved 
'em up an' down like he was goin' to pray — ' brethren, this 
is awful! If this woman wants to give her religious ex- 
perience, why,' says he, very kind an' condescendin', 'o' 
course she can do so. But when it comes to a woman 
standin' up in the house o' the Lord an' revilin' an elder 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 161 

as this woman is doin', why, I tremble/ says he, ' for the 
church o' Christ. For don't the Tostle Paul say, *' Let 
your women keep silent in the church ? " ' 

" As soon as he named the Tostle Paul, Sally Ann give 
a kind o' snort. She jest squared herself like she intended to 
stand there till jedgment-day, an' says she : 

" ' The Tostle Paul has been dead ruther too long for me 
to be afraid o' him. An' I never heard o' him app'intin' 
Deacon Petty to represent him in this church. If the 
'Postle Paul don't like what Fm sayin', let him rise up 
from his grave in Corinthians or Ephesians, or wherever 
he's buried, an' say so. I've got a message from the Lord 
to the men-folks o' this church, an' I'm goin' to deliver it, 
Paul or no Paul,' says she. ' An' as for you, Silas Petty, 
I ain't forgot the time I dropped in to see Maria one Sat- 
urday night an' found her washin' out her flannel petticoat 
an' dryin' it before the fire. An' every time I've had to 
hear you lead in prayer since then, I've said to myself, 
" Lord, how high can a man's prayers rise toward heaven 
when his wife ain't got but one flannel skirt to her name? 
No higher than the back o' his pew, if you'll let me tell 
it." I knew jest how it was,' said Sally Ann, ' as well as 
if Maria'd told me. She'd been havin' the milk an' butter 
money from the old roan cow she'd raised from a little 
heifer, an' jest because feed was scarce, you'd sold her off 
before Maria had money enough to buy her winter flan- 
nels. I can* give my experience, can I ? Well, that's jest 
what I'm a-doin', an' while I'm about it, I'll give in some 
experience for 'Lizabeth an' Maria an' the rest o' the women 
who betwixt their husbands an' the 'Postle Paul have about 
lost all the gumption an' grit that the Lord started them 
out with. If the 'Postle Paul has got anything to say about 
a woman workin' like a slave for twenty-five years an' 
then havin' to set up an* wash out her clothes Saturday 
night so's she can go to church clean Sunday mornin', I'd 
like to hear it. But don't you dare to say nothin' to me 
about keepin' silence in the church. There was times when 
Paul says he didn't know whether he had the spirit o' 



i«j WERNER'S READINGS 

God t>r not, an' I'm certain that when he wrote that text 
he wasn't no more inspired than you are, Silas Petty, when 
you tell Maria to shut her mouth.' 

" Job Taylor was sett in' right in front o' Deacon Petty, 
an' I reckon he thought his time was comin' next; so he 
gets up, easy-like, with his red bandanna to his mouth, an* 
starts out. But Sally Ann headed him oflf before he'd gone 
six steps, an' says she: 

" * There ain't nothin' the matter with you. Job Taylor ; 
you set right down an' hear what I've got to say. I've 
knelt an' stood through enough o' your long-winded pray- 
ers, an' now it's my time to talk an' yours to listen. I 
reckon you're afraid I'll tell some o' your meanness, ain't 
you? An' the only thing that stands in my way is that 
there's so much to tell I don't know where to begin. There 
ain't a woman in this church,' says she, ' that don't knc-v 
how Marthy scrimped an' worked an' saved to buy her a 
new set o' furniture, an' how you took the money with you 
when you went to Cincinnati the spring before she died, 
an' come back without the furniture. An' when she asked 
you for the money, you told her that she an' everything she 
had belonged to you, an' that your mother's old furniture 
was good enough for anybody. It's my belief that's what 
killed Marthy. Women are dyin' every day, an' the doctors 
will tell you it's some new-fangled disease or other, when, 
if the truth was known, it's nothin' but wantin' somethin' 
they can't get, an' hopin' an' waitin' for somethin' that 
never comes. I've watched 'em an' I know. The night 
before Marthy died she says to me, " Sally Ann," says 
she, "I could die a heap peacefuller, if I jest knew the 
front room was fixed up right with a new set o' furniture 
for the funeral," ' an' Sally Ann p'inted her finger right 
at Job an' says she: ' I said it then, an' I say it now to your 
face. Job Taylor, you killed Marthy the same as if you'd 
taken her by the throat an' choked the life out o' her.' 

" I heard Dave Crawford shufilin' his feet an' clearin' his 
throat while Sally Ann was talkin' to Job.- Dave's farm 
j'ined Sally Ann's, an' they had a lawsuit once about the 



AND RECITATIONS No, 22. 163 

way a fence ought to run, an' Sally Ann beat him. He 
always despised Sally- Ann after that, an' used to call her 
a * he-woman/ Sally Ann heard the shufHin', an' as soon 
as she got through with Job, she turned around to Dave, 
an' says she : * Do you think your hemmin' an' scrapin* 
ib goin' to stop me, Dave Crawford? You're one o' the men 
that makes me think that it's better to be a Kentucky horse 
than a Kentucky woman. Many's the time I've seen pore 
July with her head tied up, crawlin' around try in' to cook 
for sixteen harvest hands, an' you out in the stable cos- 
setin' up a sick mare, an' rubbin' down your three-year- 
olds to get 'em in trim for the fair. July's found rest at 
last, out in the graveyard ; an' every time I pass your house 
1 thank the Lord that you've got to pay a good price for 
your cookin' now, as there ain't a woman in the country 
fool enough to step into July's shoes.* 

" But, la! what's the use o' me tellin' all this stuff? The 
long an' the short of it is that Sally Ann had her say about 
nearly every man in the church. She told how Mary Embry 
had to cut up her wedding-skirts to make clothes for her 
first baby; an' how John Martin stopped Hannah one day 
w^hen she was carryin' her mother a pound o' butter, an' 
made her go back an' put the butter down in the cellar; 
an' how Lije Davison used to make Ann pay him for every 
bit o' chicken feed, an' then take half the ^g^ money be- 
cause the chickens got into his garden; an' how Abner 
Page give his wife twenty-five cents for spendin' money 
the time she went to visit her sister. 

" Sally Ann always was a masterful sort o' woman, an' 
that night it seemed like she was possessed. The way she 
talked made me think o' the Day o' Pentecost an' the gift 
o' tongues. Finally she got to the minister! I'd been 
wonderin' all along if she was goin' to let him off. She 
turned around to where he was settin' under the pulpit, 
an' says she : ' Brother Page, you're a good man, but you 
ain't so good you couldn't be better. It was jest last week 
that the women came around beggin' money to buy 3rou a 
new suit o' clothes to go to Presbytery in; an' I told 'em 



264 WERNER'S READINGS 

if it was to get Mrs. Page a new dress, I was ready to give. 
]*in tired o' seein' the ministers walk up into the pulpit 
in their slick black broadcloths, an' their wives sittin' down 
in the pew in an old black silk that's been turned upside 
down, wrong side out, an' hind part before, an' sponged, 
an' pressed, an' made over, till you can't tell whether it's 
silk or caliker or what.' 

" Well, I reckon there was some o' the women that ex- 
pected the roof to fall down on us when Sally Ann said 
that right to the minister. But it didn't fall, an' Sally Ann 
went straight on. 

" * An' when it comes to the perseverance o' the saints 
an' the decrees o' God,' says she, ' there ain't many can 
preach a better sermon; but there's some o' your sermons 
that ain't fit for nothin' but kindlin' fires. There's that 
one you preached last Sunday on the twenty-fourth verse 
o' the fifth chapter of Ephesians. I reckon I've heard^bout 
a hundred an' fifty sermons on that text, an' I reckon I'll 
keep on hearin' 'em as long as there ain't nobody but men 
to do the preachin'. Anybody would think that you 
preachers was struck blind every time you git through with 
the twenty-fourth verse, for I never heard a sermon on the 
twenty-fifth verse. I believe there's men in this church 
that thinks the fifth chapter of Ephesians hasn't got but 
twenty-four verses, an' I'm goin' to read the rest of it to 
'em for once anyhow.' 

" An' if Sally Ann didn't walk right up into the pulpit 
same as if she'd been ordained, an' read what Paul said 
about men lovin' their wives as Christ loved the church, 
an' as thev loved their own bodies. 

" * Now, if Brother Page can reconcile these texts with 
what Paul says about women submittin' an' bein' subject, 
he's welcome to do it. But if I had the preachin' to do, I 
wouldn't waste no time reconcilin'. I'd jest say that when 
Paul told women to be subject to their husbands in evervV- 
thing, he wasn't inspired; an' when he told men to lov^ 
their wives as their own bodies, he was inspired; an' I'd 
like to see the Presbytery that could silence me from 



AND RECITATIONS. No. 22. 165 

preachin' as long as I wanted to preach. As for turnin' 
out o' the church, Fd like to know who's to do the turnin' 
out. When the disciples brought that woman to Christ, 
there wasn't a man in the crowd fit to cast a stone at her; 
an' if there's any man nowadays good enough to set in judg- 
ment on a woman, his name ain't on the rolls o' Goshen 
Church. If 'Lizabeth had as much common sense as she's 
got conscience, she'd know that the matter o' that money 
didn't concern nobody but our Mite Society, an' we women 
can settle it without any help from you deacons an' elders.' 
" " Well, I reckon Parson Page thought if he didn't head 
Sally Ann oflf some way or other she'd go on all flight ; so 
V'hen she kind o' stopped for breath an' shut up the big 
Bible, he grabbed a h)ann-book an* says : . 
" \ Let us sing " Blest be the tie that binds." ' 
"He struck up the tune himself; an' about the middle 
o' the first verse Mis' Page got up an' went over to where 
'Lizabeth was standin', an' give her the right hand o' fel- 
lowship, an' then Mis' Petty did the same ; an' first thing 
^e knew we was all around her shakin' hands an' huggin' 
her an' cry in' over her. 'Twas a reg'lar love-feast; an' 
w^ went home feelin' like we'd been through a big pro- 
tracted meetin' an' got religion over again." 



The hen that cackles loudest 

Doesn't lay the largest eggs; 
The mule that kicks the hardest 

Hasn't got the neatest legs; 
And the waves that toss the wildest 

Are not of the deepest sea; 
The fruit that is the sweetest 

Isn't on the tallest tree; 
The dog whose bark is fiercest 

Doesn't always know the most; 
And the man who is the bravest 

Isn't always on the boast. 



i66 WBRNEffS JtEAMNGS 



RUDYARD KIPUlf G. 



" Yau must cho0$e between me trndyomr cigttr,^* 

i^PEN the old cigar box, get me a Cuba stout, 
^^ For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I 
are out. 

Wc quarrekd about Havanas; we fought o'er a good che- 
root, 
And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. 

Open the old cigar box, let me consider a space ; 

In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on Maggie's face. 

Maggie is pretty to look at, Maggie's a loving lass, 
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves 
must pass. 

There's peace in a Laranaga, there's cahn in a Henry Clay, 
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away, — 

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown. 
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear of the talk of 
the town. 

Maggie, my wife at fifty, gray and dour and old ! 
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold ! 

And the light of the days that have been, the dark of the 

days that are, 
And love's torch stinging and stale, like the butt of a dead 

cigar,— 

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your 

pocket, 
With never a new one to light though it's charred and black 

to the socket. 



AND RECITATIONS Nb, ?/. (67 

Open the old cigar box, let me consider awhile ; 
Here is a mild Manila, here is a wifely smile! 

Which is the better portion, bondage bought with a ring, 
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string ? 

Counselors cimning and silent, comforters true and tried. 
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride. 

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, 
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids cloje— 

This will the fifty give me, asking naught in return, 

With only a Suttee's passion, but to do their duty and bum. 

This will fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, 
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead. 

The furrows of far-oflf Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, 
When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides 
again. 

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their 

mouths withal. 
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall. 

I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper 

their hides. 
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the 

tale of my brides. 

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice be- 
tween 

The wee little whimpering love-god and the great god Nick 
OTeen ; 

And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth 

clear. 
But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven jrear ; 



,^68 WERNER'S READINGS 

And the glo6m of my bachelor days is flecked with the 

cheery- light 
Of stumps that I burned to friendship and pleasure and 

work and figfht. 

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must 

prove ; 
But the only light on the marshes is the will-o'-the-wisp of 

Love. 

Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave me bogged 

in the mire? 
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful 

fire? 

Open the old cigar box, let me consider anew ; 

Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you ? 

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke ; 
And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke. 

Light me another Cuba ; I hold to my first-sworn vows. 
If Maggie will have no rival, Fll have no Maggie for spouse ! 



MR. BROWN HAS HIS HAIR OUT. 



IV/I R. BROWN is one of our most enterprising merchants. 
' ^ * He is voted among his friends as being of a very inde- 
pendent disposition — in fact, in some matters this independ- 
ence of spirit might be said to amount to eccentricity. One of 
his striking peculiarities used to be that of wearing his hair 
very long. His wife had frequently remonstrated with him 
on his unfashionable appearance, and his daughter had ven- 
tured to inquire two or three times when he was going to 
visit the barber, while some of his more intimate acquaint- 
ances had even gone so far as to ask, " Brown, why don't 
you get your hair cut? '' \ \ 



AND RECITATIONS Nol 2i, ^69 

He had borne these questions and comments for some 
time in dignified silence, but, at last, feeling that patience 
had ceased to be a virtue, and also being warned by the 
singing of the birds and the blossoming of the trees and 
the uncomfortable feeling of his winter overcoat that spring 
,was at hand, he determined, one morning on his way down- 
town to his place of business, to drop in arid have his hair 
cut, which he accordingly did. After this he repaired to 
the warehouse, entered his private office, and sat down to 
look over his mail. Presently Mr. Thompson, the senior 
partner, came in with a budget of papers. 

" Ah ! good morning, Mr. Brown, if you are at leisure 
I would like you to look over this invoice of goods. Here 
are two or three items that — " then suddenly glancing up — 
" why, Mr. Brown, you've been getting your hair cut; really 
it is a great improvement.'*. 

" Ah ! thank you,'' replied Mr. Brown, with a satisfied 
smile. 

- They proceeded with their business, and in a few min- 
utes the junior partner entered. 

"Here is a letter inquiring about goods that were or- 
dered last week. Now, don't you think there has been — 
: Why, Mr. Brown, you've had your hair cut." 

" Yes," said Mr. Brown, in a rather more dignified tone 
than that in which he had responded to Mr. Thompson, " I 
have been getting my hair cut." 

Presently the head-clerk entered the office. 

" Mr. Adams is out in the store and would like to see you 
a few minutes if it is — Oh, why, Mr. Brown, you've had 
your hair cut ! " 

Yes," said Mr. Brown, in an exceedingly dignified tone, 

I have had my hair cut." 

He went out into the store to see Mr. Adams. As he 
passed by the desk, he heard the head-bookkeeper whisper 
to another : " Brown has been to the barber's ; " while an 
errand boy who was dangling his legs from the top of a 
high stool called in a stage-whisper to a boy several feet 
away : " Hey, Tommy, git on ter de boss, he's had his hair 






I70 WERNER'S READINGS 

cut!'* By this time Mr. Brown's temper was slightly ruf- 
fled. But Mr. Adams is one of those gtm^l men who always 
have a smile on their countenance, and he advanced to meet 
Mr. Brown with extended hand. 

" Good morning ; this is delightful spring weather, isn't 
it? Winter has — Well, I do declare. Brown, you've had 
your hair cut." 

Mr. Brown's reply was short but to the point. 

" Yes — I — ^have — ^had — ^my — ^hair— cut." 

Every word was emphatic, and Mr. Adams felt that, al- 
though it was spring weather outdoors, the inside tempera- 
ture had suddenly fallen below freezing-point. Without 
further preliminaries they proceeded at once to business. 
Just as Mr. Adams was leaving, Mr. Brown's daughter en- 
tered. She was evidently in a hurry, and told her errand 
without delay. 

" Ma has just had a telegram from Mr. Allen, and he 
and Mrs. Allen will be out to lunch, and ma wants you to 
come right home and order the carriage and go to the depot 
to— O pa ! you've really had your hair cut ! I'm so glad/* 
she exclaimed, delightedly, clasping her hands. 

Mr. Brown waited to hear no more, but pushing his hat 
down as far as possible on his head, he rushed out and 
boarded the first car that came along. It was quite a dis- 
tance to his home, and by the time he reached there his feel- 
ings were somewhat soothed. He put his latch-key in the 
door, but before he had time to turn it, the door was opened 
from within, and his wife threw her arms about his neck. 

" Oh, I am so glad you've come. I want you to take the 
carriage and go right down to meet Mr. and Mrs. Allen. 
I should be so mortified to have them come and not find 
you there to — ^Why, my dear, you've had your hair cut, 
haven't you ? " she said, in her sweetest tones. 

Mr. Brown glared at her so wildly that she was fright- 
ened. 

'' Yes, I've had my hair cut ! " he growled out, as he 
rushed through the house and out to the stable. '* Patrick, 
put the gra3rs to the large carriage as soon as possible." 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22, 171 

** Yis, SOT ; they'll be ready in fifteen mintstes ;" then, as 
a smile overspread his features, he said, in his broadest 
brogue : " Och, sure, and yi've been havin' your hair cut." 

By this time Mr. Brown's feelings were too deep for ut- 
terance. A hen was standing near, looking at him out of 
one eye in a meditative manner. As a slight relief he gave 
her a kick, which she immediately resented by flying on top 
of a barrel and giving utterance to one loud, prolonged 
" cut-de-cut-cut-got-your-hair-cut-t-t-t." 



OLB BULL'S OHBISTMA8. 



WALLACE BRtJCE. 



My Landlord's Prairie Story. 

CFifitlg d ttmf m i gttam, by permiMtomof tteptitliters.] 

[It is very effective to introduce a violin solo of ** Home, Sweet 
Home/' irotn the ivords *' Neirer sHU ^nd ever nearer " to the end of 
the selection. If the reciter wishes^ the lines enclosed in brackets may 
be omitted.] 

-IVA OVE aktng a trifle^ $trsmger, just a little; don't you see 
*^^ On the floor that hieroglyphic, something like the 

letter Bf 
Right there, close to where you're standing, sort of sacred 

spot we keep; 
And we always touch it gmitly, wlien we scrub up once a 

week. 
[Riecent ? Yes, sometinie last August, but I put it on to stay; 
And the yellow pine will hold it after we are laid away. 
No one seta his chair upon it or he's straightway tcdd to 

shove; 
For the hoys, you see, won't stand it; that's a plairic the 

neighbors love.] 



X7a WERNER'S READINGS 

" Somewhat of a Poet's Corner," once a high-toned traveler 

said. 
They corrected him politely as they showed him up to bed. 
He explained about an Abbey, I don't quite recall the name, 
With a chapel full of dead folks that had found their way to 

fame. 
But, they said, this is no graveyard; here's the spot where 

Ole stood. 
When he told his Christmas story right before the blazing 

wood. 
Never heard him? Never saw him? Stranger, you don't 

mean to say 
That you never heard the master, Ole Bull, the fiddler, play ? 

Talk of classic art in music ! What was that to Ole Bull, 

When his blood with life was tingling and his eyes were 
brimming full ? 

I have thought his heart in rapture sent its pulses all the 
way 

Through the bit of seasoned timber that against his bosom 
lay; 

Till the fiddle seemed a fixture, part and parcel of the man, 

And the trembling strings a network over which his feelings 
ran. 

He would shake your sides with laughter, make you weep 
as by a look. 

And between the bits of music he could talk just like a book. 

Fluent speakers ! We have had 'em, noted men from for- 
eign parts; 

But, for eloquence, I tell you, Ole held the ace of hearts. 

• 

[He was not the man to filter idle jests through wabbKn' 

lips; 
Bom somehow to talk all over from his toes to finger-tips; 
Just a sort of natural battery filled the room with life and 

joy. 
Beaming face, with locks of silver, bright and chipper as a 

boy.] 



AUD RECITATIONS No. 2 J. 173 

He would sit here of an evening, reeling off the slickest 

thread; 
And the hour-hand wasn't heeded or the horses in the shed. 
'* Let 'em whinner," said the deacon, " they can stand it 
• once a year; 
And our wives — ^they don't expect us, when they know that 

Ole's here." 

We were all a bit Norwegian, and he seemed to feel at home ; 
Said no hearth shone bright as this one from Christiania 

down to Rome, 
He would tell us his adventures in those cities old and gray; 
How he struggled, toiled, and suffered when he first began to 

play^ 
Of his failures and successes, praise and honor won at last 
From patrician, prince, and peasant, wheresoe'er his lot was 

cast. 
But of all his greatest triumphs, he regarded this the best. 
How he won a gjay-haired hermit on the prairies of the 

West. 

It was on a Christmas evening, well-nigh fifty years ago — 
None who heard him can forget it. Lost in sleet and blind- 
ing snow, 
Fifteen miles from any farmhouse, twenty from the nearest 

town, 
Ole Bull had missed the guide-board, for the storm had 

hurled it down. 
Stumbling, floundering in the snowdrifts, onward pressed 

his noble gray, 
Led by instinct and devotion; Ole let him have his way. 
Many a trail they'd tried together, but he deemed this trip 

the last. 
Horse and rider both must perish in that wild and howling 

blast. 
Hope had died and life was ebbing, when, from out the 

cruel night, 
Far across the fenceless prairie faintly shone a twinkling 

light. 



174 WERNER'S READINGS 

[Many a time I've heard him tell it, as he let his fancy play. 

Till you heard the storm about you, saw the distant flicker- 
ing ray; 

Felt your nerves and hair a-tinghng, all Jftttimed to passion's 
key;— • 

There it glimmers like a lighthouse just above the blinding 
sea; 

Fainter now: O bitter darkness! idle vision of the brain; 

Joy ! Behold the ruddy firelight streaming through the win- 
dow-pane.] 

** Steady, one more drift, my bonnie! Bravely done! All 
danger past ! " 

What ! No word or sign of welcome ? tried the door and 
found it fast. 

Near at hand a ruined shelter, remnant of a cattle-shed; 

Safe within, the gray was grateful, pawing gently to be fed. 

Soon a lantern, then a shadow, and within the creaking door 

Stood a being such as mortal never saw on earth before. 

Fierce his bitter imprecation : " Get you out, whoe'er you 
be! 

I have sealed an oath in heaven never human face to see ; 

[Heart and soul to hate abandoned, love by cruel fortune 
wronged, 

I've renounced for years, forever, all that to my life be- 
longed.] 

Take your way! Begone! Ay, perish in yon wild, de- 
moniac yeast; 

For the wrongs that I have suffered I will have revenge at 
least." 

" Fiend or madman ! " Ole answered, seized his shoulder 

in a trice, 
Led him straight into the cabin, for his grip was like a vice, 
'* I am here to stay till daylight, asking neither food nor 

grace. 

Sit you here within the shadow, and I charge you keep your 
place." 



AND RECITATIONS No. 22. 



^5 



Hour by hour went by in silence, till the hermit, crooning 

low. 
Took a fiddle from a cupboard, woke the airs of long ago. 
Ole, wondering, looked and listened; though his touch 

showed little art. 
He could feel the deeper music sweetly welling from his 

heart; 
All perhaps to him remaining of a brighter, happier morn. 
Ere his heart became a desert, and his curse was yet unborn. 
Long he played his old-time music, as unconscious of his 

guest; 
Then with cold and feigned politeness turned and spake in 

bitter jest. 
In a tone of well-bred irony, telling of a better day, 
" Will the stranger who is with us lay aside his cloak and 

play?'' 

Ole rose and took the fiddle; said he never felt before 
All the conscious power within him as upon that cabin floor ; 
Saw in vision panoramic circling galleries of acclaim, 
With the flush of joy ecstatic and with beauty's light aflame; 
Felt the glowing tide of transport swelling from a thousand 

hearts. 
And the thrill of deep emotion when the tear in rapture 

starts; 
Ah, but that was gilded pageant, this was more than stately 

dome. 
To a lonely heart in exile he is playing " Home, Sweet 

Home." 

* . 

Nearer still and ever nearer, all entranced the listener drew. 

Gazed with open eyes of wonder through his lashes wet with 
dew ; 

Thought his midnight guest an angel come unto him un- 
awares, 

As the music softly stealing brought again his mother's 

prayers; 



176 WERNER'S READINGS 

[Long-pent tears, their barriers bursting, coursed his care- 
worn furrows free. 

In that far-off, storm-swept prairie, where God's eye alone 
might see : 

Desolate his heart and harder than the rock by Judah's fold, 

Smote by Ole's rod of magic, woke like Meribah of old. 

Miracle of love eternal ! Ever still life's mystic bowl. 

Touched by human kindness, bubbles in the desert of the 
soul. 

Then, ere morning dawned, like brothers he and Ole, side 
by side. 

Shared the narrow cot between them, made by faith and 
friendship wide;] 

** Saved ! ay, saved ! " the hermit murmured. " I have 
found my life again; 

Learned a truer, deeper meaning in the words, * my fellow- 
men.' " 

Then they took their way together when the storm was over- 
past; 

In the crowded city parted, journeying on to meet — at last. 

[This was Ole's favorite story, which we always liked to 

hear. 
As he stood before the fireplace, so the spot, you see, is 

dear; 
And at evening in the winter when I hear the village bell 
Ole's music floats about me, all the room seems in a spell; 
And again I hear him saying : " That one hermit to enthrall 
Stands amongst my proudest triumphs, sweetest, grandest 

of them all."] 




AA^ERNER'S 

Readings and Recitations. 

ALPHABETICAL LIST OF CONTENTS. 



Ka 1.— ENQLIBH CLASSICS. COMPILED BT SARA. SIOOURNET EICOL 



Adolphus, Duke of Ouelders. Owen Mere- 
dith. 

Adventure, An. Amelia B. Edwards. 

Amy Bobsart and Lord Leicester at Kenil- 
worth, Intnnriew Between. Scott 

Armada, The. Macaulay. 

Aylmer's Field. Alfred Tennyson. 

Begsrar'8 Daughter of Bednall Qreen, The. 
Percy Keliquea. 

Buildinfi: of tne House, The. Chas. Mackay. 

Charlotte Corday. Thomas Carlyle. 

Church of Brou, The. Matthew Arnold. 

Oonstanoe do Beverly. Walter Scott. 

Count Albert and Fair Rosalie. Scott. 

Death of Rowland, The. Robert Buchanan. 

Death of Mary Stuart, The. James Anthony 
Froude. 

Donald and the Stag. Robert Browning. 

Duchess May. Elizabeth B. Browning. 

Echo and the Ferry. Jean Ingelow. 

Elaine. Alfred 'Tennyson. 

Bnid. Alfred Tennyson. 

Flood on the Floss, The. Geora:e Eliot. 

Golden City, Th& Frederick Tennyson, 

Golden Supper, The. Alfred Tennyson. 

Guinevere. Alfred Tennyson. 

Heart of Bruce, Th^. William £. Ajrtoun. 

Hugh Sutherland's Pansies. R. Buchanan. 

Ivan Ivanovitch. Robert Brow ning. 

Kine and the Nightingales, The, Charles 
Mackay. 

King John and the Abbot of Canterbury. 

King Sheidad's Paradise. Edwin Arnold. 

Lady in Comus, The. John Milton. 

Legend of St. Christopher, Tha Maiy 
Fletcher. 



Little Blue Ribbons. 

Little Grand Lama, The. Thomas Moor* 

Lurline : or/The Knight's Visit to the Mi^i 

maids. Kichard n. Barham. 
Marie Antoinette. Thomas Carlyle. 
Maypole, The. 
Miss Pinkerton's Academy for Yoar« 

Ladies. W. M. Thackeray. 
Mohammed. Owen Meredith. 
Mrs. Leo Hunter. Charles Dickens. 
Old Sedan Chair, The. Austin Dobson. 
Old Slave's Lament, The. 
Origin of Roast Pig, The. Charles Lamb 
Owa Roa. ■ Alfred Tennyson. 
Parrot and the Cuckoo, The. 
Peacock on the Wall, The. 
Pedler and his Trumpet, Tba Thomai 

Hood. 
Fheidippides. Robert Browning. 
Plain Direction, A. 
Bevels of the Csesan, The. Amelia B. 

Edwards. 
Saint Elizabeth. Charles Eingsley. 
Shakespeare's Dream« AirangedbySaraa 

Rice. 
Snow Storm. Tba R. P. Blackmore. 
Streets of London, The. Owen Meredith. 
Sultan and the Potter, The. Edwin Arnold 
Swanage Bay, In. Dinah Mulock Craik. 
Turtles. The. Thomas Hood. 
Veronica. Dinah Mulock Craik. 
Vision of Poets, A. Elizabeth Barrett 

Browning. 
Vivien. Alfred Tennyson. 
White Ship, The. Dante G. Rosettl. 
Witches' Frolic, The. Richard H. Bftrhanv 



Ko. 8.- COMPILED BY EI^IE M. WILBOR. 



Agatha. Will Hubbard Kdfpan 
A Xia Mode. Clara Marcelle Greene. 
Amateur Phototrraphy. Nachan H. Dole. 
Arizona Jim. Ohanes F. Jjiimmis. 
Army overcoat. The. Mrs. G. Archibald. 
Aunt Peggy and High Art. Mary K. Dallas. 
£lf-Child and the Minister, The. N. 

Hawthorne. 
Ballad of splendid Sileoce. Th& E. Nesbit. 
Ballad of the Were* Wolf. A. Graham R. 



Tomson. 



Before the Gate. WiUiaiD Dean BawdSa^ ^ 

Before the Mirror. 

Mad Marie. 

El Camilo. Minna Irving. 

Dot's Version of the Text. A. M. Kellogg. 

Boys Mercy, j\. Bessie G. Hart. 

Canary at the Farm, A. James W. Riley. 

Within the Gates. Clay Clement. 

Christmas Camp on the San Gabriel, A. 

Amelia E. Barr. 
Christmas Treasures. Eugeni* Field. 



Any nambor, 35 ots. in paper ; 60 cts. in cloth. Edgar S. Werner* PubUsheii 

New York 



rbinbioa, A. 



List o( CoikCenM of W«nier'i lleadlnst and Beeltstloaa* 

Bfad Actor, The. Frederick O. Webb. 
Man in the Fustian Jacket, The. Goorn 

Mofm*idffo. 
Maiy^s^nKmg Leflson. 
Miggles. BretHarte. Arr. by E. M. Wiit« . 
Mother's Lullaby. Mamie T. Short. 
My Editing. Mark Twahi. 
My Fiddle. James Whitcomb Riley. 
Nothing and Something. D. S. T. Butter- 

baufi:h. 
Old-Fasnioned Roses. James W. Riley. 
Old School Clock, The. John Boyle O'ReiUy 
Oversight of Make-up, An. 
Playing for Keeps. Nettie H. Felham. 
Plumber's Revenge. 
Poor Jack. Samuel K. Oowen. 
Reciproci^. 

Road to Heaven, The. George R. Sim& 
Saint Oedlia. Lewis Morris. 
Scarecrow, The. Wallace E. Mather. 
Seaside Incident, A. Marc Cook 
Skylark, The. Miller Hageman. 
So I got to Thinkin' of Her. J. W. Riley. 
Soldier and the Pard, The. Bayard Tftykv 

Arr. by Elsie M. Wilbor. 
Sorrow. 0. Wilster. Trans, by John Volk. 
Tale of the Crimean War. F. G. Webb. 
Taming an Alligator. 
Tell Her So 

Tomb of Charlemagne, The. Bayaxtl Taylor. 
Too-Too Serenade, A. 
Uncle Dick's Version. 
WaiUn' fer the Cat to Die. J. W. Riley. 
What Old Mrs. Ember Said. 
What Should a Toung Maid do ? B. W. K3ng 
When I am Married. 
Whisperin' Bill. Irving Bacheller. 
Why don't you Tell me Yes f Mrs. George 

Archibald. 
Widow Brown^s Christmas. J. T. Tlraw- 

bridge. 
Wild Oats. Charles Kingsley. 
Woman's Way. 

Wooden Leg, The. MaxAdler. 
Yankee ana the Butter, The. 
I Young Donald. George Rcqr. 



Mazurka of Chopln^B, A. C. F. RiohardaoiL 

Cow ThflL 

Dasi for the Colors, The. F.G.Webb. 

Death of Montezuma, The. Gen. L. Wallace. 
Arr. by Laura Taylor. 

Demetrius. Constance F. Le Roy Runde. 

Demon of the Mirror, The. Bayard T«ylor. 

Dreams for Sale. S. Walter NchtIs. 

Bl Canalo. Bayard Taylor. 

Empty Pocket, The. CharleB F. TiUmmifc 

Evangelical Osculation. 

False, Fickle Man. 

Farewell, A. Charles Kingsl^. 

Fight of Paso del Mar, The. Bayard Taylor. 

Francesca da Rimini. G. H. Boker. Arr. \iy 
Elsie M. Wilbor. Recitation Leeion- 
Helps by F. Townsend Southwick. 

French with a Master. Theodore Tiltoo. 

Going Away. Thomas Frost. 

Going Home in the Morning. W. Doug]a& 

Heart's-Ease. 

He Kissed Me. 

Her First Shot 

Her Laugh in Four Flta^ 

Her Lover. Mrs. & a Hadett. 

Hour of Trial. An. 

In Bay Chaleur. Hesekiah Butterworth. 

Incccsolable Husband. The. 

Iridignant Polly Wog. Margaret I^nga 
^ the Hospital Ward. 

Ipsissimus. Eugene Lee Hamilton. 

TVs Hard to be Good. 

Jail-Bird' Story, A. 

Jennie. Fred Emerson Brooks. 

Joaquin Miller's Bear Story. J. Miller. 

Kitty Clover. Carrii^ W. Thompson. 

Known Unto God. C. F. Le Roy Runde. 

Lady of Gedd, The. Trans, by M. J. Safford. 

Lassie's Decision, Tha H. D. McAthoL 

Last of the Light Brigade, The. R. Kipling. 

Last String, The. Gustav Hartwig. 

Solomon and the Sparrow. C. Joachimsen. 

Losers of Money. 

Lost James whitcomb Bfleiy. 



Ka ^.-ORIGINAL CHARACTER SKETCHES. Bt Gborok Ktlb and Mart Ktlb Daulma 



Alphabetical Sermon. George Kyle. 
Anatomical Tragedian, The George Kylfr 
At the Altar. Mary Kyle Dallas. 
At the Rug Auction. 

Aunt Betsy on Marriage. Ma^ Kyle Dallas. 
Aunty Doleful's Visit Blary Kyle Dallaa 
AureUa's Valentine. Blary Kyle Dallas. 
Bessie's Dilemma. Mary Kjle Dallaa 
Billy's Pets. George Kyla 
Broken Dreams. MaryKyle Dallaa 
Burglars Grievances, The. George Kyle. 
Catching the Cat Margaret Vandegrftt 
Caught K. E. Barry. 
Classical Music. Geoi^ Kyle. 
Cleopatra's Protest Edward L. Keyes. 
Corianna's Wedding. Mary Kyle Dallas. 
Dawn on the Irish Coast. John Locke. 
Delanoey Stuyvesant and the Horse-Car. 

George Kyle. 
Dentist and Patient George Kyle. 



Different Ways of SayingYes. 
Difficult Love-Making. will Carleton. 
Dream, A. Maiy Kyle Dallas. 
DunderburgJenkins's " Forty-Graff '^ Album 

Geoige^rle. 
Dutifuls, The. Mary Kyle Dallas. 
Father Paul. Mary Kyle Dallas. 
Fashionable Hospitality. Mary ^le Dallas 
Fashionable Vacation, A. Mary ^le Dallas 
Felinaphone, The. George Kyle. 
Fireman, The. R. T. Conrad. 
Fisherman's Wife, The. 
Fortune-Teller and Maiden. Mrs. Mary L 

Gaddess. ^ 

Frightened Woman, A. Mary Kyle Dalkia. 
Good Little Boy and the Bad Little Boy, Tha 

George Kyle. 
Great Man, A . Mary ^le Dallas. 
Her Fifteen Minutes. Tom Massoo. 
Her First Steam-Engine. Mary Kyle Dallas 



Any number, 85 ots. In paper; 60 eto. In cloth. Edr-ar S. Werner, Pabllsher» 

New York. 



LUi of Contents of Werner's fteadlngs and lt««itAttoMb 



Her Heart was False and Mine was BrosuD. 

Mary Kyle Dallas. 
Her Preference. 

High Art and Economy. George Kyle. 
Hoolahan on Education. George I^le. 
How Salvator Won. Ella WheelerWiloox. 
In Aniitv of Soul. Maiy Kyle Dallas. 
Innocent Drummer, The. Redtatiou LeesoD- 

Helps by F. W. Adam& 
Jiiegier, The. Geonre Kyle. 
Knight and the Lady, The. B. Trowbridge. 
Legend of Arabia. A. 
ie^rend of the Willow Pattern Plata 
*" MajTais Larron. Qrahani R. Tomaon. 
.ove"* Reminiscences. Maty Kyle Dallas. 
Viiaouletta. Mary Kyle Dallas. 
Mothers and Fatbera. Two Pictiuwa Marj 

Kyle Dallas. 
Mr. and Mrs. Popperman. 
Mrs. Bntzenhoefler's Troubles. Geo. Kyle. 
Mrs. Pickles Wants to be a Man. M . K. Dallas. 
Mrs. Slowly at the Hotel Manr Kyle DaUas. 
Mrs. Smith Improves her Mind. Mary Kyle 

Dallas. 
Mrs. Tubbs and Political Economy. Maiy 

Kyle Dallas. 
Mrs. Winkle's Qrandsoa. Mary Kyle Dallas. 
My First School 
My Love. 

My Sweetheart's by Brother. M.K. Dallas 
for Nannie and **B^' for Sen. Mmt 

KyleDallaft 



».jj. 



Nettie Budd before her Seoood BalL Mju^ 

Kyle Dallas. 
New version of a Oertafai Historical Dia 

Iqgue, A. Robert J. Burdette. 
Old, did Story, The. Mary Kyle Dallas. 
On the Beach. 

Out of the Bottle. Mary Kyie Dallas. 
Pat's Perplexity. 

Paying her Fare. Mary Kyle Dallas. 
Profeei^or Gunter cm Marriage. Geo. Kyla 
Rebecca's Revenue. Mary Kyle Dallas. 
Sad Fate of a Policeman, The. 
Scene in a Street Car. Mary Kyle Dallas. 
Shnon Solitary's Ideal Wife. Al. K. Dallas. 
Slowhrs at the Photographer's, The. Mary 

KyleDaUas. 
Slowlys at the Theatre, The. M. K. Dallas. 
Statue's Story, The. Maiy Kyle Dallas. 
Street Cries. 

Suppose. T. H. Robertson. 
Thikhed's New Year's Call. 
Thoughts at a Party. Mary Kyle Dallas. 
To A. M. Olar; An Old Man's Memories 

Mary Kyle Dallas. 
Tragedy at Dodd's Place, Tha M K.DaUas 
Tried. Lulah Ragsdala 
Twilight Pastoral, A 

Two Opinions of Oue House. M. K. Dallas. 
War's Sacrifice. 
What He Would Give Up. 
What the Oricketo Said. M «L Dallas. 
"You Git Up I" ** Joe "Kerr. 



No. 4.— COkPILEP BY ELSIS M. WILBOR. 



A bandoDed Troop Horse, Tha M. A. Rocka 

Abraham Lincoln. Tom Taylor. 

Afeared of a Gal. 

All Mankind are Trees. 

Annihilation. George Chinn. 

Archie's Mother. Rose Hartwick Thorpe. 

Baby's Correspondenca Alice P. Carter. ' 

Birds' Departure, The. 

Blind-Man 's-Buff. Gertrude Hall. 

Boum-Boum. Jules Clar^iia Arr. by Elsie 
M. Wilbor. 

Boy's Composition on Physiology, A. 

Brave Love. , . 

Bundle of Loves, A. BIrs. Mary L. Gaddess. 

Changing Color. Hattie G. Canfield. 

Cleanng up Technicalities. 

Concert in the Wood, The. 

Coward, The. James Newton Matthews. 

Danger Signal, The. 

Decoration Day. Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox 

Defense of the 3ride. Tha Mrs. Anna Kath- 
arine Green Rohlfa 

DifFerence, A. 

Does a Two-Year-Old Bal^ Pay t 

Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge, Tha Kate 
Brownlee Sherwood. 

Glder Lamb's Donation. Will Carlaton. 

Encore. 

Family Drum Corps. A. Malcolm Douglaa 

Father's Way. Eugene Fidd. 

Fearful Fright, A. 

Fishing Partar, The. Jas. Whttcomb Rfley. 

FTy, The. Monologue for a man. 

r^ift that None Could See, The. Mary E. 
Wilkins. 



Going Down to Mary'a 

Grandma's Garden. 

Guido Ferranti. Oscar Wflda Arr by 

Elsie M. Wilbor. 
Hans Vogel. Robert Buchanan. 
Hippodrome Race. The. G. Morltz Ebers. 

Arr. by Elsie M. Wilbor. 
How Tom Saved the Train. George Birdseye. 
How the Organ was Paid for. K. A. Bradley. 
I Love You. Monologue for a lady. 
Indecision. 
In November. 
Jewels She Lacked, The. 
Jinity. Mrs. Eva Wilder McGlasson. 
Joan of Arc in Prison. Mrs. L. J. B. Case 
Knitting. J. S. Cutter. 
Lady of Shalott. The. Mrs, E. S. P. Ward. 
Legeud of Ogre Castle, The T. D English. 
Love-Making. Mrs. Rebecca M. Reavis. 
Love and Tmology. 
Mabel. 

Martiiy Virginia's Hand. G. P. Lathropi 
Mattie's Retort 
Mind Your P'a 
Mistakes Will Occur. 
Mrs Brindle'a Music Lesson. 
Mrs. Greylock Tells about the Play. 
My Dog and I. Mrs. Marie More Marsh. 
My Grandmother's Fan. Samuel M. Peck. 
My Little Bo-Peep. F^ank E. Holliday. 
My Neighbor Jim. O. F. Pearre. 
My Rival. Rudyard KfpHng. 
New-Fashioned Singin\ Henry B. Smith. 
Not Willing. 
Obstinate Old Man, An. George Horton. 



jxy uumbmt, 85 ets. In paper ; 



60-ctft. In oloth« 
New "Xork. 



Sdgsr S. Werner, Publisher. 






OUA 



Fred E. BrookB. 



OM Cradle, The. E, M, OrUnth. 

OMBxretheartaf Mine, An. J.W. Mky. 

One-Leggnl Oooae, The. F. R. Bmltli. 

Only Jon. Jamca Sowan Baed. 

•.lalr Odos. 

Palestine. Fred Fmeraon BroofaB. 

Pvlor lAmp, Tbs. HhuriceE. Hct/w^illn. 

PusIde Bhow, Th . ChorieB Hnii? Luden. 

FlaotaOoD Pioturea. Andrews WlIlirnBOD. 

PlADtiDK ot the Apple-Tree, The William 

Cuden liryant. 
Fust Tlist Pitted, The. Kodyard £lpling. 
RepmilADCe. 

Reproach, A. Fta*el Scott MltiM. 
" y. The James Whitcomb Bllay. 



Ted^^Ttourka Malootai T>anglu. 

TeUlSK Fortunca. Oeorce H. Jewip. 

Tooooa, Oie BeaulltiiL Hn. I. K. Rogen. 

ToVlbytbeHoapltalNura. S. B. UcSealL 

"Twinkle, TvhiEle, UtUeStar." 

Taluablo Fostcrlpt, A. 

What ' Fai. I J H. Stedmao. 

When FaUier Carua the Cuok. S. « 

Wright. 
WbeDlha.ammockSwtngi; E.A.01dhain 
" Wht'-paor-WfU." Clarence Beniiett 

Why the Cowi Ooow lAbe. Jabit Boynton. 
Wlllo— -Tree. Th«, VnVam X. Thackeray 



Ho. S.--AJIEBICIAIT CLASSICS. CtamLaO BT Saka I 



Bucephalus Oecrge 



Hjorth 1_, „ 

■. XBeWfttl 

Oec^re P. Lathrop. 
jv WIDlam W"-" 



1 tbeNewWOTld. W. 



nEUerrC 



ami. ., 

Counten Lajira, George Hetiry Baker. 
Courage, Wllllar- "■" — "^ — ' — 
Culprit FV, The. 
ETBDKelliM. HeDrrWi 

F^ryoftbeDell,llie. 

Fallow ileld. The. JuUa C. B. Dorr. 
Farewell Addrew. Geone Waahlustoii. 
Ptre. The. Uarftaret Defied. 
Forest Hymn, A. WfUiam CuUeD Biyaot. 
Fountain, The. WilllBm CuHen nyaor. 
Four Aeea ot Man. The. Anne Bradatreet. 
fnlic or the Carnival. A. N. Eawthoroe. 
Oallop of Three. Thp. Theodore WIntbrop. 
"Advance." Frank H. Oasssway. 
Ks Valentine. Jennie I^ HopUns. 
OSoet Stin, A. Mark Twain, 
no^ and Bad SpelUnK. Benjamin Fraoklln. 
UATlQlUtA. Ella 8. CuXDmlDB. 

RauaewlthtlwCKMa,Tbe. F.W ' 
HowIWaaBoU. Harit Twain. 



IsrafeL Edgar Allen Foe. 

Jeannie Hanh. Q« ■" — 

Knbleh. Bayard Ti 

Uttle Orator, Tt- 

Love ts Blind. 

I^maa Beeoher'B Fint Home. L. Beech 

JUuuiaa. fiahib Waldo EmerKKL 

HarKOOite. Jbhn Qreenleaf Whlttler. 

UouDtaln Tragedy. A. Charlea D. Warner. 

Ura.FartlD{;ton'aReIlr-" " — '^ — '- 

IN^. BoijBinin Fl 
OM Quurel, An. F! — 



■a AellectlonB ou New Tear'i 



fioiowned Wouter van T 

Ington Intns. 
Bomaii Father. The. John Howard F^ne. 
Soow-etonn. Tba. Balph Waldo E mer aou. 
Song ot Bebeccs, the Jewess. 
Btand I The GrDund'a Your Own. John 

Btonn-%e King. Franda Ulles Flikcb. 

Story otan AnBuscade.The. F.H.Ht^ne. 

Soldier's Retroepect, A. K. B. Slwrwood. 

Btory ot Echo, Ttie. 

Susan's Ewoit. Edward Everett Hale. 

Three BuDdays In a Week, Edgar A. Foe. 

Three Vlsl tors. Lucy B. Hooper. 

Transferred Qhost, Tba. F. B. Sto 

True to Lite. Atuia F. Bumham. 

TuDkuntel, The. 

Two Pictures. Marlon Douglas. 



Ho. a.-CO»lPILBD 
AnnnnctatloD, Uml Adelaide Anne Procter. 
Arnold at Btltiwater. Thomas Dunn *>'E'"'''- 
BMtle ol Lepantu, The. 
Becalmed aCSea. Samuel K. Cowan. 
Bee-B BenniKi. The, 
Uoy'B Composition on Breathing, A. 
CaiuatCy, A. 

— e. The. Soger Atkinson FrTW. 




30 ets. ia clvth. Bdnr B. Weroari rabUakan 
Maw York. 



LU't of Ooatents of Werncr^s Re«4llas« •nil Rcoltatlon* Xo. 6.— Coatlaued. 



Day Too Late, A. Kagdolen Bock. 

December. Rt Rev. w. C. Doane. 

Down in the Strawberry Bed. 

Drummer Boy of Kent, The. 

Elizhr of Life, The. Wm. McQill. 

Encore. 

FViar Servetus. Clifford Lanier. 

Funeral of the Mountains, The. F. E. Brooks. 

Harvest DriU. Arr. by Sara S- Bice. 

How They Caught the Panther. A. J. Hough. 

Ivory Crucifix, The. O. H. Miles. 

Japanese Parasol and Fan Drill. Mrs. Maiy 

L. Qaddess. 
King's BelL The. 

King's Joy Bells, Tha Mr& K. A. Bradley, 
Lady Hildeearde, The. 
Lass Dorothy. 
Legend of the Heather. 
L^end of the Lily, The. Annie Wall. 
Legend of the Missions, The. Lee C. Harby. 
Lesson in Weighing, A. Charles B. Talbot. 
Life's Day. Tableau Bedtation. Mrs. Mary 

L. Qaddess. 
Little Pilgrim, A. 

Little Tin Cup, The. Thomas Frost 
Long Ago. Mrs. Libbie O. Baer. 
May Days 

Man cs' Magnificat, The. E. Nesbit. 
My Ttventieth Birthday. M. K. 
Nightingale, The. Louis E. Van Norman 
No. 

Orphan's Dream of Christmas, The. 
Paloier's Vision, The. Josiah O. Holland. 
Uabbi and the Prince, The. J. C. Harvey. 
Rescued. 

Rodney's Ride. Elbridge S. Brooks. 
Saint Anthony. Mrs. £. W. Latimer. 
Saint Patrick and the Impostor. A. DeVers. 



Saint Ursula. JohnSusUn. 

Santa Claus. 

Shakespearean Perversion, A. 

Sicilian Captive, The. Mrs. Felida 

Somebody^ Boy. 

Somethinig^ Great. F. Tyler. 

Song of the LocomotiTe, The. 

Song of the Wind. The. 

Tale of the Terrible Fire. 

Telemachus. O. M. Sheldon. 

Tennis Drill. Mrs. Mary Drew Wilaoo. 

Thanksgiving Eve. 

Three Uttie Kittens. 

Three Miiwions. The. Mrs. L. K. Rogers. 

TIntamarre, The. Julia M. Ryan. 

Tree-Tise on Nature. A. Itouis H. Levin. 

Turn of the Tide, The. Rose Kavanagh. 

Two Brothers, The. 

Two Chimneys, The. Philip B. Strong. 

Uu8een Tet Seen. 

Vesper Bt* II, The. Eusene Davis. 

Virgin with the Bells, The. Austin Dobson. 

Vision of St. Dominic, The. 

Visioh of Handel, The. P. L. Blaichf ord. 

Way, The. William Steele Shurtleft. 

What Echo Said. 

What is To-morrow ? 

What Lottie Saw. E. L. Brown. 

When Old Jack Died. Janoes W. Riley. 

White Hearse, The. 

Why the Robin's breast is Red. James R 

RandalL 
*'Wm My Soul Pass Through Ireland?'* 

Dennis O'Sulllvan. 
William Tell and His Son. Martha J. Nott 
Work That is Best, The. Carlotta Perry. 
Wreck of the Solent, The. Frederick lister. 
Writing on the Image, The. William Morris. 



No. 7.— COMPILED BT ELSIE M. WILBOR.' 



About Barbers. 

After Frost 

Alice Maude. 

Ambitious Marguerite, Tha Agnes Carr 
Sage. 

Ancient Spanish loric. 

Appeal, An. 

At a Dinner Party. 

At the Book Counter. 

At the Restaurant. 

Bachelor's Love Song, A. J. H. Ryan. 

Ballad of East and West, A. Rudyard 
Kipling. 

lef ore ana After School. 

Billy Snip. 

Bivouac oy the Rappahannock. Grace Duf- 
fle Roe. 

Boblink's Song, The. Stanley Waterloo. 

But . Belle Hunt. 

Cautious Wooer, A. Miller Vinton. 

Christmas Repentance, A. (In French and 
in English.) Sarah Bernhardt 

City Mystery, A. Amy Randolph. 

Conductor's Story, The. Maurice £. Mc- 
Loughlin. 

Convict and Soldier. 

Corsican Vendetta; or Love's Triumph, The. 

Croquet. 

I>**^Qoing in the Flat Creek Quaiters. John 
A. Macon. 



Daniel O'Connell's Humor. 

Day Before Thanksgiving, Thew Frank 8. 

Pixley. 
Dead Love. 

Drug Clerk's Trials, A. 
Ebo. A. C. Gordon. 
Two Girls of 1812. 

Enl'yin' Poor Health. George Horton. 
Fairy BelL Marion Short. 
Fan Brigade, The. Ella Sterling Ciunmina 
Fireman's Prize, The. 
Flat Story, A. 
From a Future Novel. 
Genius, A. James Noel Johnson. 
Ghost of Lone Rock. Clara M. Howard. 
Girl that I Didn't Get, The. 
Girl's Essay on Boys, A. 
Grandma**^ Wedding-Day. T. C. Harbaugh. 
Her Name was SmiuL 
Our Heroes. O. F. Pearre. 
His Oath. 

How Grandpa Proposed. 
How I Kissed Her. G. M. Ritchie. 
How to Eat a 'Possuul 
How We Hung Red Shed. Joaquin MQler. 
Idyl, An. C. G. Buck. 
In Terror of Death. Pedro de Alaroon. 
Jasmine Flower, The. Monologue for a 

Man. Saint Juirs. 
Jenny's White Rose. Mrs. H. E. M. Alien. 



Any |ifiiii1»9r» 3S cts* In paper ; 60 ct^ in cl^th. Edgar S. Werner, Publisher, 

Ifew York. 



list ^f CoaUnta »f W«»rt>er*» KaMUii^ and Ft^^ftfir^t 



Jepfathali'i Daughter. Bsr. W. W Hanh. 
Kmgfat of TcKgenborg, The. Jobana C. P. 

vonSchilfor. 
Ladr with a lYain, The. 
Last Redoubt, The. Alfred Ausdn. 
Last BoU-CoU, The. H.Quad. 
Legeod of the True, ▲. Marietta F. Ckwd. 
Lenora. Gottfried August BOrger. Trans. 

by Alfred Ayres. 
Little Paul's ThanlcqgiTlmr. 
Lord Uffin'B Daughter. Thomas CampbeU. 
Lore Strooger than Locks. 
Man Wants but Little Here Belofr. 
Match-Making Mamma, The. 
Me an^ Jim. 

Modem EUJah, A. Blcfaard Toike. 
Moose Hunt, The. 

Mj Chillun's Pictyah. Anne V. Culbertson. 
New Tear's Stonr, A. James Challen. 
Not all Imagination. 

Ode to a Sl^lark. Percy Bysshe Shelley. 
Of the i'hikl with the Bird at the Bush. 

John Bunyan. 
Old City Churdi, The. Frederic £. 

Weatherly. 
Old Fire-Dog, The. Thomas Frost 
Our Drummer Boy. Fred HUdreth. 
Our Heroes. O. F. Pearre. 
Papa and the Boj, J. L. Harbour. 



Passed Off'flie fage. Jivnea Buckbam. 

Phenomenal Baby, A. 

pickaninny. The. 

Prophetic Mirror, A. Oariisle Smith. 

Quiet Evening at Cards, ▲. 

Bepentir de N06L Saiah Bernhardt. 

Resurrected Hearts, The. Joeie fVazae Oafv 

pieman. 
"RockofAges.'' Frank L. Stanton. 
School Episode, A. 
She Wouldn't Listen 
Songs My Mother Sung, The. Edgar L. 

^XTjalr Ann Ofl 

Supposin\ Eva Wilder McOlasson. 

Taking the Veil. Tom Masson. 

Telephone at Home, The. Monologue for a 

num. 
That Boy Jhn. Frank L. Stanton. 
Then and Now. 

Treasures. Katie H. Kavanagh. / 

Two Girls of 181«. / 

Waterloo. Douglas Sladen. 
What the Lord Had Done for EDm. 

Findley Braden. 
What's the Difference? O. F. Bearre. 
Why They Dklnt Bow. 
Wife's Ck>nfe8Sion, A. Violet Fane. 
With aearer Vision. Oarlotta Perry. 
Woman's Hate, A. 



No. a— FHIST PRIZE, PART L C!oMPtx«D bt Jkan CARBUTHxaa. 



Avenging GhUde, The. J. G. Lockhart. 
Bard and the Cricket, The. Robert Brown- 
ing 
Bazaar Girl, The. Sir Edwin Arnold. 
Black Veil, The. Charles Dickens 
Cavalier's Choice, The. Johann Wolfgang 

von Goethe. 
Christmas Guests. Lindsay Duncan. 
Cid and the Leper, The. J G. Lockhart. 
Count Ludwig and the Wood-Spirit. Dinah 

M. Craik. 
Dancing-GirLThe. Sir Edwin Arnold. 
Day-Dream, The. Alfred Tennyson. 
Dead Letter, A. Austin Dobson. 
Death of Cleopatra, The Horace— Ode 1 . 
Dog of Flanders, A. Louise de la Ram6. 
Execution of Sydney Carton, The. Charles 

Dickens. 
Festival of the Supreme Being, The. Ivan 

TourgeniefT. 
Fra Luin's Marriage. H. H. 
French Market, The. W. P. J. 
Girl with the Thirty-Nine Lovers, The. 
Hunting Tower. 
Inkerman. Charles Mackay. 
Jarl Sigrurd's Christmas Eve. iijalmar 

HJorth Boyesen 
Joan of Arc Jules Michelet. 
Jock of Hazeldean. 6h* Walter Scott. 
SJng is Dead, Long Live the KiUb, The. 

Louise Chandler Moulton. 
Kittg'ft wooing, The. Edward Renaud. 
Letter of Advice. A. Winthrop M. Praed. 
Little Sigrid.^ HJahnar E^orth Boyesen. 
Lord Thomasfne and Fair Bllinnor. 
Love. Samuel T.Coleridge. 



Mascha. Ivan Tourgenieff. 

Mr. Copernicus and the Proletariat. H. C. 

Buimer. 
Of Course They Met 
On the Brink. C. S. Calverly. 
One Way of Love. Uobert Browning. 
One Word. Wallace Bruce. 
Only a Soldier. 
Page and the Maid ot Honor, Thd. Johann 

Wolfgang von Goethe 
Pilgrimage to Kevlar. The Helnrich Heine. 
Scene from ''Fleurange." Mme. Augustua 

Craven. 
Scene from "The Honeymoon.^* Act n. 

Scene 2. John Tobin. 
Scene from "The Hunchback.'*' Act FV.. 

Scene 1. James Sheridan Knowles 
Seven Sleepan of Ephesus, The. Johann 

Wolfgang von Goethe. 
Souf of the Marketplace, The. James 

Buckham. 
Spectre of the Rose, The Th6ophile Gau- 

tier. 
Staff and Scrip, The Dante Gabriel Roa- 

setti 
Stage Adventuress, The. Jerome K. Jerome. 
Stage Detective and Peasants The. Jerome 

K. Jerome. 
Stage Heroine, The. Jerome K. Jerome. 
Statue and the Bust, The. Robert Browning 
Tenor, The. H. C. Bunner. 
Tittlebat Titmouse's Ezpe*iment. Samuel 

Warren. 
Zaire. Voltaire. 
Zamora, Scene from "The Honqrmoon.*^ 

Act!., Scene 1. John Tobin. 



Any number, 35 cts. In paper 



60 cts. In cloth. 



Bdgar S. Wemar, Publisher, 






4LU«*e Du Go*. Samuel T. Co]6ri4ge. 

Alms, An. Ivan TourgeneW. 

AnMbno, the Priest. OoDsUnoe Fmnt XiS 

Boy Runde. 
April Day, An. Helen E. Brown. 
BayLo|^. Helen M. Winslow. 
Bristol FWure, A. Oomno tfookhoqse. 
Bush StSdy. a la Wattean, ▲. Axtbur 

Fatchett Martin. 
Casket Scene, The. "The tferchant of 

Venice.** wOliam Shakespeare. 
Dea^of EUsabeth, The. .John Btdiard 

Qreen 
Dorothy *s Auction. A. O. Plrnrnton. 
Enchanted Oak, Ibe. O. Hertora. 
Flilrest Flower, The. Jobann W<atg^»g 

von Goethe. 
First Quarrel, Hie. Alfred Tennyson. 
Flowers Name, The. Bohert Browniuf . 
Goldsmith's Daughter, The. Johann Lod- 

wigUhland. 
Gonello. 

Good Deeds. Sir Edwin Arnold. 
Oultare. Victor Hu|;a 
H anglnffa Picture. Jerome K. Jerome. 
Happy Beauty and the Blind Slave, The. 

Edward Bulwer-Iortton. 
Herr Sloesenn Boschen^ Sonf . Jerome K. 

Jerome. 
Hugo Grotius. August fViedrieh Ferdinand 

^Kotsebue. 
Hunchback, The. Act I., Scene t. Jiamea 

Sheridan Knowlee. 
Hush. Adelaide Anne Proeter. 
In a Garden. Louise Chandler Moulton. 
Josiah at the Various QpriDgB. Karietta 

HoUey. 
Jubilee of the Flowers, The. Sarah E. 

Howard. 
King Lear. Act L, Scene 1. WilHam Shake- 
speare. 
Laboratoiy, The. Robert Browning. 



Lad; Qen ^dine^g Courtship. Elizabeth 
TStt Bfowntngr. 
tona 
Iwytton. 



Barnstt nmwuing. 
Ififtd Ronald's Brioe. Edwaixl Buhrer 



Lord Walter's Wifa Elisaheth Bawett 

Browniiv. 
Mr. Harris*^ Comic Song. Jeronoe K. 

Jeffome. 



[odestHaid, Itie. A. H. Morris. 
Moees andtlie Ansel. Sir Edwin Arnold. 
Negro Derm on onMemory, A. 
Nine Cent Girls, The. H. C. Bunner. 
Nine Graves in Edinboro. Irwin Russell. 
Notes of a Honeymoon. Austin Dobson 
Obstructive Hat in the Pit, The. F Ansfcey- 
Orphan Maid, The. Sir Walter Scott. 
Pariah. The. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. 
Persephone. Jean Ingelow. 
Pidcwickians Taken for Informers, but Res 

cued by the Stranger, The. Charleti 

Dickens. 
Poor Irish Boy, The. Eliza Cook. 
Regulus. Emibr A. Braddock. 
Revenge.- Annie R. Blount. 
Bingers Vengeance, The. Henry Abber. 
Romeo and Juliet. Act II., Scene 5. William 

Shakespeare. 
Rosicrucian, The. Dinah M. Craik. 
Stage Hero, The. Jerome K. Jerome. 
Btanaas to My Nose. 
Stoiy of a Short Life, The. Juliana Horatia 

Ewlng. 
StQTy of Fifty-Two Prayer-Meettogs. 
Ktory of Rosfna, The. Austin Dobson. 
Talented Man, The. Winthrop M Praed. 
TruH Boetonian, A. 
Twa Sisters o' Binnorie, Tbe. 
W«B WiUie Winkle. Rudyard Kipling. 
WOliam the Conqueror. Edward A Free- 



NO. 10.— COMPILED BY CAROLINE B. LE ROW. 



America. WilUani OoUen Bryant. 
America to Great Britain. W. AUston. 
American Flag, Tlie. Henry W. Beecher. 
Battle aboye the Clouds, The. T. Brown. 
Battle of Lookout Mountain, The . Georire 

H. Boker. 
Battle of the Cowpena, Tbe. Thomas D. 

English. 
Battle of Tippecanoe, The. 
Battle Poem, A. Benjaialn F. Taylor. 
Bay Fight, The. Henry H. BrowneU. 
Bell of liberty. The. J.T. Headtoy. 
Bethel. A. J. H. Doganne. 
Birthday of the Republic, The. T. Paine. 
Boy Britton (August, 1814). F. Wlllaon. 
Bdl Run (Sunday, July si). A. B. HaveiL 
Bunker HilL George H. OalYert. 
Bnnker^s HiU. John Neal. 
Captain Molly at Monmouth. W. CoUins. 
CSapture of (Quebec. The. W. Warburton. 
Capture of Ticonderoga, The. £. Allen. 
Cl^assy. Harriet Beecher Stowe. 
Cavalry Scout, The. Edmundus Sootos. 



Centennial of 1876, The. William Evarts. 
Change of Base, A. Albion W. Tourgde. 
Charter Oak, The. George D. Prentice. 
ChrLstopher C. 

Colonization of America The. Prescott. 
Columbia and Liberty. Robert T. Paine. 
Colombia's Emblem. Edna D. Proctor. 
Columbus. Aubrey De Vere. 
Columbus. James Russell Lowell. 
Colambns. Joaquin Miller. 
Columbus. I^dia H. Sigourney. 
Columbus. Thomas C. Adams. 
Columbus to Ferdinand. J. Mason. 
Cruise of the Monttor, The. G. M. Baker. 
Dangers to Our Republic. Horace Mann. 
Death of Harrison. N. P. Willis. 
Death of King Philip. W. Irving. 
Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776. 
Declaration of Independence, The. Cari 

Schurz. 
Discovery of America, The. W. Irving. 
Discovery of the Hudson River, The. W. 

Irving. 



85 eta* In paper; 60 eta. In elotli* 
PuDlIalier, Ffeur TorM* 



Edcar S* Werner. 



Boqnence of B0T(iliitlaur7 FedoOa. TIM. 



>%.1 



rwar.Tbe. Inac XgIaDmi, A. 

nter kod Dnuiiiiier of ScftoMe, nw. a. 

H-FsUrs;. 
right ot Lookout, Tbe. B.L.CBi7,Jr. 
— — " — - — ISdiu Daan Proctor. 



1 Worid 

Hadler. 
Qnr RutM Ei«le, m*. AUndRBtlMt. 
Hlgb TUe M OM^abiiTK. W. B. TbMV 

HIMoT7 0f Onrnu. Bar. A. B. PntBWBL 
In Hemoiy of tbe POgrlniA. 8. MeDeD. 
Indian Unnter, Tlie. B. W. Longfellow. 
Indian Names. Lfdla H. Sigonrnar. 
Indian Warriar'B lAot Strng, Tbe. J. H. 

Indian*, The. Joseph Stoir. 
Joahna ol IITB, The. W. RRoea. 



aI11TB,Tha 
e o( AboUtl 



^mgton. Proaper U. Vetmore. 

Uttie OUTen. Dr. Fnada O. Ttcknor. 
Lost War-nbm), na. rnio Watp, 1814.) 
Edoa Dean Procter. 



Nation Bom In altar. A. J. g. aumou. 
National Bjnm. T. Ibuloii OnMtatO. 
MflwEnglODd. Jamea OaUe PerolnL 



Panl Hamlllon Hafsa. 



niAibnTs. Panl, 
VUonotlilMTCT,' 
WaaklnctooatTaL., . . 
WattdncUKi'a nu«weii v. 
What WalMd tbe World. 
WoatMtofUieBaTalnUui. -— «^ 
Wood of GhaoodlonTlUa, TIm. I 



NO. 11.— COHPILED BT BABA BIQOUBIIBT BIOIL 



BlrdfcTho. 

Boad Icea. WiUlam Cowpar. 
ComtHit hetween Paris and 

Comedy of Brrora. Sliakeepa«r«. 
Council of the Bal», Tbe. Jean de la 
FoDtolne. 

DestrnotlonofTroy, The. Virgil.' 
Dhoulkarnaln. From tho " Koran," 
Don QuUou and tbe Hontreaa. Oer- 

DorCBS aiid Qregory. Moll^re. 
Edward II. ChrlBUipher Marloire. 
Enoch Arden. Alfred TennvBon. 



babeiia^orthePotot Baaii. Jo 
LadTWraiD IM4^ The. O.f 
Legond of Albo, The. rrom U 

Tala." 
HarrStnart. SobfUer. 
Oak and (be Brieie, Tha. B.8 



BacOiTbe. LyotTolMoL 

Rape of ttie Look, The. All 

Rlcnellea. Balwer-LyttOD. 
Scrlptnre Etchings fw Arbor Day. 
BtieiAerd's Song, The. Tasao. 
BleawofCorlotb.The. Byron. 
EOege of Zamora, The. From the " 



Abt nnmbcr, 8S eta. to P>P«r} «0 eta. la elolk. Bdsw B. ITwwMh 



Usf or CoBtont* of W«ra«r>0 Ke»4lBca an4 ReeltatlQiiA, 



fl(nMrftMr8tOeeIlla*BDa(y,l097,A. Dryden. 
AMpbroolaandOUiula From '* Jenualem 

Deliyered.** Tassa 
Itee of Ltf 6,The. Blbla 
Ttiumpli of Hector, The. Homer. 



UnA and the Bed Cross Knight iMmgpi^ 

Spenser. 
Who'll Buy My Love Knots r T. Moora 
WoolnflT of the Maid of Beauty. From the 

'"Kaleyala." 



No. l&-<X)MPIUa> BY ELSIE M. WILBOa. 



^bont CpntrtlmtionB. 

After a Dance.->John Xoran. 

AUnlnrAnn. 

Ann Bafferty's Evidence.— A. S. Shields. 

Bahy Loeic— Elizabeth W. Bellainy. 

Bachelors Dream, The.— Hiomas Hood. 

Bnylnff and Shopping. 

Cause lor Compuunt. 

Children of the Lord's Sapper, The.— Long- 
fellow. 

Columbian Legend, A.— Walt Mason. 

Consensus of the Competent, A.— Dorothea 
Lunmls. 

Corregio.— " Kmna.** 

Crucifi^on, The.— Lew WallaM. 

Cruel Deception, A. 

Dad's Little Fiddle.— Fred Warner Cttbley. 

Dog Partnership Case, A. 

Domestic Episode, A. 

Farewell, The. 

Farmer's Song-Bird, The.— George Hdrton. 

Fatal Arrow, The. 

Fire-Bells.— M. R. Johnson. 

Flossie.— L. R. Hamberlin. 

Glaucus and the Lion.— Bulwer-Lytton. 

Good Measure. 

Great Bell of Pddn, The.— Jessie F. O'Don- 
neU. 

Guest, The.— Harriet McEwen KimbaU. 

Gydaof Yarsland.— Anne Y. Culbertson. 

He Had to Speak. 

Hero of the Bank and FQe, The.— M. Scan- 
Ian. 

How the Revival Came.— M. J. BidweU. 

rm Glad He Knows.— Tom Brown. 

I^ Not a Single Man.— Thomas Hood. 

In PittL— Louise de la Ram6. 

IS It Love r 

lerry an' Me. 

Ifister Tho 

looylty Pa^ the Parson.— S. Blair Mc 



Journey to What's Its Name, A.-^Monmogiie 

for a man. 
Kiss, A. 

Knitting.— Mary Kyle Dallas. 
Last Night, Tlhe.— vima Woods. 
Laura^s Composition on the Cow. 
Little Boy Blue. 

Little Cookie-Hookie.— H. L. Finer. 
Little Lady-Bird, The.— C. A. Southey. 
Mary's Story of the Crucifixion.- Arnold. 
May Bug, The.— Annette von Brandis. 
Men Who Wore the Shield, The.— Kate 

Brownlee Sherwood. 
Mickey Coaches His Father.— Jarrdd. 
My Aunt Maria.— Elsie Maione McCoUum. 
No Royal Boad to Victory.— Irving Glen. 
Orgaiust, The.— Matthias Barr. 
Our Christmas. 

Quaker Boy, The.— Brummell Jones. 
Receipt for a Backet, A.— M. E. V. 
Remarkable Case, A. 
Reporter's Prayer, A.-nj. A. Fraser, Jr., 
Rivals, The.— H. Greenhough Smith. 
Running a Race.— C. W. F. 
St. Valentine's Day.— Helen W. Clark. 
Santa Claus and the Mouse. 
Sara.— George D. Sutton. 
Secrets of the Heart, The.— A. Dobson. 
Stealing Roses.— Mary L. Gaddess. 
Sun-DlaL The.— Austin Dobson. 
Sunday Talk in the Horse Sheds.— Burdettei 
Telephone Conversation, A.— H. A. Gregg. 
Two Old Soldiers, The.— J. C. Macy. 
Two Professions.— G. E. Throop. 
Uncle Bob's Story of Daniel. 
Violin Fantasy, A.— Genevieve C. Fletcher 
Voyage of M^ldune, The.— Tennyson. 
Waitmg Juliet, The.— Arthur Q. Couch. 
Womenrs Rights. 
Tear's Twelve Children, The. 
Zenobia.— Mrs. W. B. Jones. 



NO. 18.-O0MPILED BY FRANCIS P. RICHARDSON. 



At the Cedars. Duncan C. Scott. 
Avenged! Alfred Beriyn. 
Beneath the Beam. w. E. Manning. 
Bess. Alfred T. Chandler. 
Choice of Arms. The. Mara. De Leuvllle. 
CUto's Address to the Men (^ Athens. 
*'Ctock at Berne, The." Sidney Grundy. 
Clowp's Lament, The. Clement Scott. 
Curse from " Claudian," The. 
Dannness. Arthur Weir. 
"District No. 9." Frank Morgan Imbrle. 
Eulogy <>f Walt Whitman. R. 5. IngersolL 
Fate. Siiisan Spaulding. 



Fawcett'sFame. Campbell Rae-Brown. 

Francesca. W. Savile Clark. 

Francesco's Angel. Florence May Alt. 

Frank, the Fir^ian. Thomas Frost. 

His Guiding Star. Francis W. Moore. 

Homeward Bound. Adelaide A. Pi-octer 

How Gavin Blrse Put it to Mag Lownie. 
J. M. Barrie. 

How We Beat the Captain's Colt. Camp- 
bell Rae-Brown. 

How We Beat the Favorite. A. L. Gordon. 

'* I Know a Maiden, Fair to See." Francis 
W. Moore. 



Any number, 85 eta. In 



In p«per; 60 ctiu In clotli* 
PuDUUier} Neiv York* 



Bdgar S. irerneri 



KlMlBtbeDaik,A. JotmaWM. 

nSvitfA. ClenMDtSoott. 
Uv Of tM OoDHal(«l0D, A. 

iitUei%iFiM«.A. OaniatWalA. 
LMtLMter.A. ClemHttSMtt, 
Lere^LMur-Bn. Hikn J. lAod. 
IbnIrnMnin. catisteTflAtaHk 



Notbni 
OKkbi 

Mor: 



nnnpS^nr 



ItEvHBDIT' 



TUatnOsBMili. J.H.Tnaer. 

TarM,Ae. J.J.ncr, 
DDcdBdaL K. NeoliK. 

murMTbaiiM^ Dn«m. 
** wni Truk BnctMoan ~*~' 
m«ek«CHMaoi>tch 8 



illtt 



Ka H^-OOHPILB) BT L KA.T HUjaBWOOT. 
lb. St 

itrOtt 




FlAML^£ 

Foarfcil*.j 

PiirtraU<«Kl«dr. 

IUMrtalUnB«lle<L_ 

pTtnMa BabMinl, A. 

B>MforUte.A. 

BMribUlcQ. 

Bonud-iit, A. H. 0. BnniMr. 

nrnniinmm ^tn'r finnrrTTn fhihi 



ao. u^'COitFnja} bt OAsoum zabnzst lacKtamoii, 



&nn JiUiel HottMT at a ClM*3«l OovMvt. 



_3B«lle. ATiI»n B. FIteh. 

BMa' OoDTentlon, Tbe. Miller L^-,^ 

Blahopdiden&li Tomb, The. BrownlnK. 
Boy KDd GtrL Mary E. Bradler. 
Bufioir a Feller. Uariatta BoUey. 
CBrmenta. JtUb Hilts Dunn. 
CbMum Her Hind. _ 

CbliilMid UnHier. Eomne Plead. 

Child's LanfftiHr, A. X G. BwbiMlnM. 
OoemopoUtan Wonuui, A. B. W. Teas. 
Country Conrtahip. w D. SeUj. 
I>eMbOtOnlnevei«,Tlie. B. !•■ Koopman. 
Demon Kittens, 'Hie. 
DfsoouUnt. Sarah Ome J«w«n. 
IhWBsed. r. H. CnitlBB. 
FrogSton''. A. 

OtreMeBeet. Oeorse Edgar Orlatutm. 
(Hen AUeo'BSauSbter. 
aradiuitingXaaay, A. E. O. Dodss. 
Ctoandmaimiia'BFan. tMltli a, An>ar. 
Orandma'aAncceL Sydney Dayre. 
Granny. Junee Whltcomb Riley. 
OrB»iT<neBwUic,The. vunael M. Feck. 
HeMiiDDtHearu, areTmmps. K.Fleld. 



HUler'a IMO, The. r.B.BMetai. 



Browalne. 
tlie Pleaim. 



HmMr'aChtl'ren. JwausOUa. 

My LMtDoebeaa. Bobert Biawiilnc. 

NewBatT.lbe a M. Snyder. ^^ 

Not WilUn'. 

Ootober's Partr- George Cwxm. 

Old, Old Btory, The. 

(M time M^ro, An. BOlArp- 

Onoe. W. L, UunplraL 

On^ One Kind Word. KUa Dare. 

Onr aired QtrL mmk &. " — "- 

Ferlton's BlriB. lUller ~ 

Pleoing th« Fraacher'a < 

Po'UttleJnda. B. "" 



Sa 1B.-C01IPIi:.ED BT FOWLBE VEBBITT. 



BlJBh. CharlM H. Lawii. 

Butierllv'B Ball. The. Hra. Bentr Boaeoe. 

Chvlot-Bao- la the Ttane of Chrlat, a. 

Edgar BaltuB. 
Cairtmnaa-Ere Bedetnption, A, Hamilton 






CupH'B Arrows. Kudyard Kipling. 
Daughter ot Herodlae, The. 
Deacon's ConCeealon. The. I>. 8. EmerMn. 
Death ot Arakel. The. Eilmand Qoaae. 
Death of Uncle Tom, The. Harriet Beechei . 

Dilemma, The. OUrer Wendell Holmes. 



lalst Of Contents of Worner** BanAlnffs nnd BoeltntioiMu 



Dr. Ijan70D*B Btory. Robert Louis SteTen- 
son 

Egyotian Bllppert. Edwin Arnold. 

Fainee, The. William Allincrbam. 

Faithful unto Death, Clifford Harrison. 

Falstaff and Prince Hal. Shakespeare. 

Fiery Ordeal, The. 

Filee-on- Parade. Budyard Kipling. 

*' Good Enough fer Me.^* 

Hagar. Eliza Poitevent Nicholson. 

Hostage, The. Frederick Schiller. 

House on the Hill, The. Edgar Fawcett. 

How Dot Heard **The Messiah." Heze- 
klah Butterworth. 

In the Children's Hospital Alfred Tenny- 
son. 

In the Nursery. Jean Ingelow. 

In the Royal Academy. Austin Dobson. 

Japanese Lullaby. Eugene Field. 

Last Time I Met Lady Ruth, The. Owen 
Meredith. 

Lost Leader, The. Robert Browning. 



Matrimonii^ OontroTersy* A. 

Mountain Tragedy, The. Charles 1>16ken& 

Mr. Winkle's AdTentore. Charles DickenB. 

Nellie Walsh. Charles Barnard. 

Paddy Moore. Fred Emerson Brocdor. 

Rhyn^e of Jennie Eaglehart, The. 

Ride of Ichabod Crane, The. Waflihington 
Inring. 

Sohrab and Rnstum. Matthew Arnold. 

Story of Ruth Bonython, The. John Green- 
leaf Whittler. 

Surgeon's Child, The. Frederic E. Westh- 
erly. 

Tears of TnUla, The. Edgar Fawoett. 

To-morrow. Alfred Tennyson. 

" Too Many Ohlllun, Par 

Tricksey'SMlng. Alice Cary. 

Uncle Eph's Heayen. Fred l^merson 
Brooks. 

Unrest in Paradise. 

When Sparrows Build. Jean IngQlow.. 

Youth and Art. Robert Brownmg. 



NO. 17.-^F0R CHILDREN OF THE PRIMARY GRADES. 



AH Ending in ** O." A. F. CaldweU. 

Am erican Flag, The. Lena E. Faulds. 

American Flag, The. Charles Sumner. 

Apples, The. 

Arithmetic Lesson, The. 

At Bedtime. 

At Boarding-SchooL Mary Chahoun. 

Aunty's Lesson. 

Baby, The. Elizabeth W. Townsend. 

Bamboozling Grandma. 

Be a *' Try " Boy. 

Beautiful Feet. 

Benny's Questions. 

Better Whistle than Whine. 

Book of Thanks, The. 

Boy's Idea of Girls, A. G. L. Durkee. 

Boys Wanted. 

Brave Little Sister, The. 

Bug-a-Boo, The. 

Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not. Eugene 

Field. 
Butterfly and the Bee. The. 
Cakes and Pies. Emeroy Hayward. 
Captured Bumble Bee, The. Nellie Wood. 
Cat-Tails. 
Charlie Boy. 

Cherished Names. Samuel Francis Smith. 
Children's Vow, The. Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
Child's Good-bye to the Old Year, A. 
Choosing Occupations. 
Cob Honnea, The. Kate Putnam Osgood. 
Daisy Drill. Jean Halifax. 
Daugh tt^rs of the Regiment Drill. Mrs. A. 

G. Lewis. 
Deadly Cup, The. 
Delsarte Entercainment, A 
Deisartlan t*hysical Drill. Lizzie White. 
Difference, The. 



Dog's Confession, The. Frederic X. 
Weatherly. 

Doll's Lullaby, The. 

Dolly's WedcUnigr. 

Eastern Legend, An. Grace Duflleld Good- 
win. 

Edith's Complaints. 

Flag Day. Martha Burr Banks. 

Flowers^ Sleep, The. Annie Moore. 

For Decoration Day. C. Phillips. 

Four- Year-Old, A. 

Fred's Experiment. 

Frightened Birds. 

Frogs at SchooL 

Game of Tag, A. 

Gathering Grasses. 

Gentle Child. The. 

Good-bye to Dolly. * 

Good for Eyil. 

Good Rule, A. 

Gossips, The. 

Gossips, The. Ella Wheeler Wlloox. 

Grandma That's Just Splendid, A. Bmnin 
A. Opper. 

Grandpapa. Dinah C. Mulo6h. 

Hang Up the Baby's Stocking. 

Hard to Please. 

Hard Word, A. 

Have You Pli:nted a Tree? Henry Abbey. 

Helping Mamma 

How Soap Was First Made. 

How to Make a Whistle. 

I Wonder. 

Johnny's Confession. 

Johnnys Lesson. 

Johnny's Opinion of Grandmothers. 

JoUy Old St. Nicholas. 

Katy Didn't. 



nnniber» 85e* eta. In paper; 60 ete. In eloth« 

Pnblisber^ New Tork* 



Bd^ar •• Werneri 



litat of Comtemts of Weraor** B««dliic« and Beettatloiu, 



iMKm Everything You Can. 

Learnlfig to Sew. 

Uttle Bluebeard. 

Little Bfiy's Artniment, ▲. 

I4ttle Boy'R Rf^asons. ▲. 

Little Boy Who Ban Away, The. Sosan 

Teall Perry. 
Little Brother. 
Little Dreamer, The. 
Little Girl's Wish. A. Libbie C. Baer. 
Little Orooer That Failed, The. 
Little Mary and Her Birdie. 
Little Motners. The. May Floyd. 
Little Seamstress, The. 
Little Teacher, The. Sophie E. Eastman. 
Little Thingrs. 
Little Voices. 
Love Wins Loye. 
May- Day. 

Memorial Day. Samuel Francis flmith. 
Merrv Autumn Days. Charles Dickens. 
Mimlckintr Others. 
Mother's Hired Man. F. M. Baker. 
Mother's Way. 

Mud Cakes. Ethel E. Sleeper. 
My Composition about Pins. 
My Grandpa. 
NauKhty Little Fred. 
Naugrlity Words. 

NellM*s uecoratlons. Winifred Davis. 
New Moon. The . Mrs. FoUen. 
Noble Answer, A. 

Nursery Rhymes Drill. Mary L. Gaddess. 
Obedience. 
Obeyintr Pleasantly. 
Old Doll to the New One, The. Fdlx 

Lelsrh. 
Old Rat's Tale, An. 
Orders Not to Go. 
Our Baby. 
Our Flag. 

Our Flag. Henry Ward Beecher. 
Out Flag Is There. 

Our Garden. Juliana Horatia Ewlng. 
Pantomime of ''Lead, Kindly Light.*' 

Lucy Jenkins. 
Philosopher and the Ferryman, The. 
Piggy and the Crows. 
PlayingSchool. 
Please l>o Not Speak So. 
Precious Lives . Samuel Francis Smith. 
Price of Truth, The. 
Proving the Quest ion. 
Qoarrel of fhe Flowers, The. 
Rag Babies. 

Rainbow Drill. C H. Sherman. 
Rosebud's First Ball. 
Santa Claus's Reception. Jean Halifax. 



Schoolroom I Love the Best, The. Kath- 

erine Lee Bates. 
School Time. 
September. 

September. Adelaide V. Finch. 
Sick Kitty, The. 
Sky Is a Drinking-Cup, The. Richard 

Henry Stoddard. 
Sleigh-Ride, The, 

Small Beginnings. Charles Mackay. 
Small Things. 
So Little. 

Song of the Wind. 
Spring Has Come, The. Oliver Wendell 

Holmes. 
Spring Is Coming. 

Sun and the Violet, The. Amelie V. Petit 
Surprise, The. Ida Fay. 
Sweet Answer, A. 
Tableaux Vivants. John Ford. 
Take Courage. 
Teaching Dolly to Walk. 
Temperance Alphabet. 
There's a Boy in the House. 
There Was a Little Boy. 
Till Christmas. 
Tummy's Essay on Breath. 
Too Big to Be Rocked. Ella Wheeler Wll 

cox 
Troublesome Caller, A. 
True Manliness. 

Two Runaways, The. Mary EQ wards. 
Very Little Boy, A. 
Violet's Victory, The. Dixie Wolcott 
Voice of the Grass, The. 
Voice The. 

Washington. W. W. Caldwell. 
Way to Speak a Piece, The. 
We Can Do So Little. George Dn HaurtoR 
Wee-Waw Land, rhe. H. T. Hollands. 
What a Little Girl Can Do 
What I Would Be. D. A. Heywood. 
What the Clock Says. 
What Tommy Dislikes. 
When I Am a Man. 

When I Am a Man* Nellie R. Cramer. 
When Jimmy Comes from SchooL James 

Newton Matthews. 
When Mamma Was a Little GirL 
White Kitten, The. Mnrian Douglas. 
Who Made the Speech? 
Why Do They Ever Begint 
Wilful Little Mouse, The. 
Will. Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
Willie'R Breeches. Etty G. Saulsbury. 
Will's Desire. Mary Pettus Thomas. 
Winifred Waters. 
Work and Play. 



NO. 1&— FRANCES E. WILLARD RECITATION ROOK. 



American Home, The. George W. Bain. 
Archfiend of the Nations, The. Rev. T. 

Dewitt Talmage. 
Banish the Snakes. 
Before and Behind. Abbott Lawrence. 



Break the Bottle. John G. WooUey. 

Cassio's Lost Reputation. William Shake- 
speare. 

Churches and Saloons. Bishop John F. 
Hurst. 



numlMrf 85 cts. in paper; 60 eta* In eloUi. Bdc«r >• W«mer( 

Pnbliflbart Hew Tork« 



tittit ^f C<»ateiit« of WenMir^s ncs^nig^s muA 



C^tiEen and the Saloon System, The. 

Samael Dickie. 
"Come Out ^m among Them." Mrs. 

Mary T. iiatbrap. 
Conscience in Politics. Dr. I. K. Fonk. 
Constitational Prohibition. J. B. Finch. 
Cup of Water, A. Julia H. Bennett. 
Curse of Drink, The. Talmage. 
Deacon Giles's Distillery. G. B. Cheever. 
Deadly Cup, The. , 
Death of King Bdmnnd« The. Mrs. I^dia 

H. Stgourney. 
Dragon Drink, The. E. Murray. 
Dramshop or the Republic, The. Mrs. 

Mary T. Lathrap. 
Drunkard's Dream, The. 
Drunkard's Bepentance, A. W. W. Pratt. 
Fallacy of High License, TLe. Frances £. 

WiUard. 
Fought and Won. M. A. Maitland. 
Fountain of Crime, The. Judge Horton. 
Frances E. Willard. May P. Slosson. 
Frances E. Willard Exercise. Bev. W. O. 

Phillips. 
''Get Out of My Shop I" Jennie E. 

Munson. 
Girls, Don't Marry a Drunkard. 
God in Government. Mrs. M. T. Lathrap. 
God's Clock Strikes I Rev. G. F. Pentecost. 
Go Forward to Victory. Dr. I. K. Funk. 
Good, Great Name, A. F. E. WiUard . 
Greatest Party, The Frances E. Willard. 
High License. Mrs. Clara Hoffman. 
Home Protection. Frances E. Willard. 
How to Succeed. T. 0. Richmond. 
I Have No Influence ? 
Individuality of Conscience in the Voter. 

Frances E. Willard. 
In Hatan's Council- Cbamher. Frances E. 

Willard. 
" I Will Not Drink." J. Wrigglesworth. 
Keep the Record Clean! Mrs. Harriet W. 

Requa. - 
King Alcohol's Soliloquy. Harriet Adams 

Sawyer. 
Lament of the Widowed Inel>rtate. A. H. 

J Dunganne 
La^t Drunkard, The. 
i^w of Uablt. The. Frances E. Willard. 
Legitimate** Strike," A. F. E. Willard. 
'Lijah's Call to Preach. Molly E. Seawell. 
Liquor or Liberty? Rev. Wilbur F. Crafts. 
Mother's Prayer. Captain Jack Crawford. 
National Constitution and Rum, The. A. 

Willey. 
Need for a Prohibition Party, The. John 

B. Gough. 
Ne^d of Heroism To-Day. Rev. A. Mc- 

Elroy Wylie. 
New Party Needed, A . John B. Finch. 
New Slavery, The. 

On Heights of Power. F. E Willard. 
On Which Side Are Youf F. £. Willard. 



Our Duty. Rev. Joseph Cook. 
Parties. Frances E. WHlard. 
Paving the Streets. Mrs. L. G. McVean. 
Price of High License, The. A. J. Water 

house. 
Prohibition in Kansas. Hon. J. J. Ingalls. 
Prohibition Party a Necessity, A. Rev. 

A. B. Leonard. 
Prohibition Song of Gk>od Fellowship. 

Mrs. Lydia H. Sigoumey 
Prohibition's Bugle Call. Mrs. Lide Meri- 

\7AfchAP 

Prohibition's Might. R. L. Bruce. 
Promises and Perils of Temperance Re- 
form, The. Rev. Joseph Cook. 
Reason Off Duty. E. S. Loomis. 
Reveler's Dream, The. Charles Hackay. 
Rum Everywhere. 

Saloon in Politics, The. General Flsk. 
Saloon in Relation to Morals, The. Rev. 

George F. Pentecost. 
Saloons Must Go. Frances E. Willard 

Music by Charies T. Kimball. 
Some Delusions of High License. Rev 

Herrick Johnson. 
Spare the Youth. Letttia W. Brosins. 
Spider and the Fly, The. 
Tarn OHShanter. Robert Bums. 
Temperance Alphabet. 
Temperance Enlightening the Woiid. 

Rev. George Lansing Taylor. 
Temperance Pledge. The. T. F. Marshall. 
Three Topers. Hyde Parker. 
*" Thy Kingdom Come." Lady Somerset. 
Toast, The. Mary Kyle Dallas. 
Toast-Master, The. 
Two Armies, The. E. A. Hughes. 
Two Glasses, The . Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
Union of North and South, The. Franctse 

E. Willard. 
Upas Tree, The. Mrs. L. H. Sigoumey. 
Verdict, The. Mrs. J. P. Ballard. 
Vice of Intemperance. The. Everett. 
Voter's Responsibility, The. W. Jennir gs 

Demorest. 
Vote the Traffic Down. Hon. John P. St. 

John. 
Water-Drinker, The. Edward Jehnson. 
Wbat Intemperance Does. Bev. H. M. 

Scudder. 
What Is Temperance ? L. B. Coles. 
White Ribbon, The. Uattie F. Croclm-. 
Why I Object tu High License. Bev. J. B. 

Turner. 
Why Should I Sign the Pledge? Mrs. 

S. M. I. Henry. 
Why Woman wants the Ballot. Marie G. 

Brehm. 
Widening Horizon, The. F. E. WDIanl. 
Will It Pay? Mrs. Mary T. Lathraik 
Woman in Temperance . F . E. Willard . 
World's Problem, The. Mrs. M. C. Leavltt 
Worn-out Parties, The. F. E. Willard. 



A'nf Btunbery S4» cUi« In paper ; OO cts* in eloUi* Bdgar 8* 

PnbU0ber« N«w York. 



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