Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

Christmas Day in the Workhouse

 
It is Christmas day in the workhouse,
And the cold bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight:
For with clean-washed hands and faces,
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the tables,
For this is the hour they dine.
 
 
And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Put pudding on pauper plates,
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They've paid for—with the rates.
 
 
Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's";
So long as they fill their stomachs,
What matter whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
"Great God!" he cries; "but it chokes me;
For this is the day she died."
 
 
The guardians gazed in horror,
The master's face went white:
"Did a pauper refuse their pudding?"
"Could their ears believe aright?"
Then the ladies clutched their husbands
Thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.
 
 
But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose 'mid a silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter,
And trembled in every limb.
He looked at the guardians' ladies,
Then, eyeing their lords, he said:
"I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red,
 
 
"Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dark unhallowed graves."
"He's drunk!" said the workhouse master,
"Or else he's mad, and raves."
"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper,
"But only a hunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture's feast.
 
 
"I care not a curse for the guardians,
And I won't be dragged away.
Just let me have the fit out,
It's only on Christmas day
That the black past comes to goad me,
And prey on my burning brain,
I'll tell you the rest in a whisper,—
I swear I won't shout again,
 
 
"Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end,
You come here to see how paupers
The season of Christmas spend.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watch the captured beast,
Hear why a penniless pauper
Spits on your palfry feast.
 
 
"Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action
With the parish's meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors—
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above us,
My Nance was killed by you!
 
 
"Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish,—
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For, ere the ruin came.
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.
 
 
"I came to the parish, craving
Bread for a starving wife,
Bread for the woman who'd loved me
Through fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief?
That 'the House' was open to us,
But they wouldn't give 'out relief.'
 
 
"I slunk to the filthy alley—
'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve—
And the bakers' shops were open,
Tempting a man to thieve:
But I clenched my fists together,
Holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed
And mournfully told her why.
 
 
"Then I told her 'the House' was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
And up in her rags she sat,
Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John,
We've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger,—
The other would break my heart.'
 
 
"All through that eve I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord, and weeping
Till my lips were salt as brine.
I asked her once if she hungered,
And as she answered 'No,'
The moon shone in at the window
Set in a wreath of snow.
 
 
"Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling's eyes
The far-away look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went,
For she raved of our home in Devon
Where our happiest years were spent.
 
 
"And the accents, long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more,
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo'd by the Devon shore.
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, 'Give me a crust—I'm famished—
For the love of God!' she groaned.
 
 
"I rushed from the room like a madman,
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying 'Food for a dying woman?'
And the answer came, 'Too late.'
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street,
And tore from the mongrel's clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.
 
 
"Back, through the filthy by-lanes!
Back, through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush.
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill,
For there in the silv'ry moonlight
My Nance lay, cold and still.
 
 
"Up to the blackened ceiling
The sunken eyes were cast—
I knew on those lips all bloodless
My name had been the last:
She'd called for her absent husband—
O God! had I but known!—
Had called in vain, and in anguish
Had died in that den—alone.
 
 
"Yes, there, in a land of plenty,
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
For a loaf of the parish bread.
At yonder gate, last Christmas,
I craved for a human life.
You, who would feast us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!
"There, get ye gone to you dinners;
Don't mind me in the least;
Think of the happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast;
And when you recount their blessings
In your snug, parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day."
 

George R. Sims.

Our Presidents—A Memory Rhyme

 
First on the list is Washington, Virginia's proudest name;
John Adams next, the Federalist, from Massachusetts came;
Three sons of old Virginia into the White House go—
'Twas Jefferson, and Madison, and then came James Monroe.
 
 
Massachusetts for one term sent Adams called John Q.,
And Tennessee a Democrat, brave Jackson staunch and true.
Martin Van Buren of New York, and Harrison we see,
And Tyler of Virginia, and Polk of Tennessee.
 
 
Louisiana Taylor sent; New York Millard Fillmore;
New Hampshire gave us Franklin Pierce; when his term was o'er
The keystone state Buchanan sent. War thunders shook the realm
Abe Lincoln wore a martyr's crown, and Johnson took the helm.
 
 
Then U.S. Grant of Illinois who ruled with sword and pen;
And Hayes, and Garfield who was shot, two noble Buckeye men.
Chester Arthur from New York, and Grover Cleveland came;
Ben Harrison served just four years, then Cleveland ruled again.
 
 
McKinley—shot at Buffalo—the nation plunged in grief,
And "Teddy" Roosevelt of New York served seven years as chief.
Taft of Ohio followed him. Then Woodrow Wilson came—
New Jersey's learned Democrat; war set the world aflame;
 
 
And when the tide of strife and hate its baneful course had run,
The country went Republican and Warren Harding won.
No duty would he shirk,—he died while on a western trip;
Coolidge of Massachusetts then assumed the leadership.
 

Isabel Ambler Gilman.

Annie and Willie's Prayer

 
'Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good night" had been said,
And Annie and Willie had crept into bed;
There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes,
And each little bosom was heaving with sighs,
For to-night their stern father's command had been given
That they should retire precisely at seven
Instead of at eight; for they troubled him more
With questions unheard of than ever before;
He had told them he thought this delusion a sin,
No such being as Santa Claus ever had been,
And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear
How he scrambled down chimneys with presents, each year,
And this was the reason that two little heads
So restlessly tossed on their soft downy beds.
 
 
Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten;
Not a word had been spoken by either till then;
When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep,
And whispered, "Dear Annie, is oo fast asleep?"
"Why, no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies,
"I've tried it in vain, but I can't shut my eyes;
For somehow, it makes me so sorry because
Dear papa has said there is no Santa Claus;
Now we know there is, and it can't be denied,
For he came every year before mamma died;
But then I've been thinking that she used to pray,
And God would hear everything mamma would say;
And perhaps she asked him to send Santa Claus here
With the sacks full of presents he brought every year."
"Well, why tant we pray dest as mamma did then,
And ask Him to send him with presents aden?"
"I've been thinking so, too," and, without a word more,
Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor,
And four little knees the soft carpet pressed,
And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast.
"Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe
That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive;
You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen,'
And by that you will know that your turn has come then.
Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me.
And grant as the favor we are asking of Thee!
I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring,
And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring.
Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see
That Santa Claus loves us far better than he;
Don't let him get fretful and angry again
At dear brother Willie, and Annie, Amen!"
"Peas Desus 'et Santa Taus tum down to-night,
And bing us some pesents before it is 'ight;
I want he should div me a nice ittle sed,
With bight, shiny unners, and all painted yed;
A box full of tandy, a book and a toy—
Amen—and then Desus, I'll be a dood boy."
Their prayers being ended they raised up their heads,
And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds;
They were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep,
And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.
 
 
Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten
Ere the father had thought of his children again;
He seems now to hear Annie's half suppressed sighs,
And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes.
"I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said,
"And should not have sent them so early to bed;
But then I was troubled,—my feelings found vent,
For bank-stock to-day has gone down ten per cent.
But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this,
And that I denied them the thrice asked-for kiss;
But just to make sure I'll steal up to their door,
For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before."
So saying, he softly ascended the stairs,
And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers.
His Annie's "bless papa" draws forth the big tears,
And Willie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears.
"Strange, strange I'd forgotten," said he with a sigh,
"How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh.
I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said,
"By answering their prayers, ere I sleep in my bed."
 
 
Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down,
Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown;
Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street,
A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet,
Nor stopped he until he had bought everything,
From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring.
Indeed he kept adding so much to his store
That the various presents outnumbered a score;
Then homeward he turned with his holiday load
And with Aunt Mary's aid in the nursery 'twas stowed.
Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine-tree,
By the side of a table spread out for a tea;
A work-box well filled in the centre was laid,
And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed;
A soldier in uniform stood by a sled
With bright shining runners, and all painted red;
There were balls, dogs and horses, books pleasing to see,
And birds of all colors—were perched in the tree,
While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top,
As if getting ready more presents to drop.
And as the fond father the picture surveyed,
He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid;
And he said to himself as he brushed off a tear,
"I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year,
I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before—
What care I if bank-stocks fall ten per cent more.
Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe,
To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas eve."
So thinking he gently extinguished the light,
And tripped down the stairs to retire for the night.
 
 
As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun
Put the darkness to flight, and the stars, one by one,
Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide,
And at the same moment the presents espied;
Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound,
And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found;
They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee,
And shouted for papa to come quick and see
What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night
(Just the things that they wanted) and left before light;
"And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low,
"You'll believe there's a Santa, Clans, papa, I know";
While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee,
Determined no secret between them should be,
And told in soft whispers how Annie had said
That their blessed mamma, so long ago dead,
Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair,
And that God, up in heaven, had answered her prayer!
"Then we dot up, and payed dust as well as we tould,
And Dod answered our payers; now wasn't he dood?"
 
 
"I should say that he was if he sent you all these,
And knew just what presents my children would please.
Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf,
'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself."
 
 
Blind father! who caused your proud heart to relent,
And the hasty word spoken so soon to repent?
'Twas the Being who made you steal softly upstairs,
And made you His agent to answer their prayers.
 

Sophia P. Snow.

Trailing Arbutus

 
I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made
Against the bitter East their barricade,
And, guided by its sweet
Perfume, I found, within a narrow dell,
The trailing spring flower tinted like a shell
Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet.
 
 
From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines
Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines
Lifted their glad surprise,
While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees
His feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze,
And snow-drifts lingered under April skies.
 
 
As, pausing, o'er the lonely flower I bent,
I thought of lives thus lowly clogged and pent,
Which yet find room,
Through care and cumber, coldness and decay,
To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day
And make the sad earth happier for their bloom.
 

J.G. Whittier.

When the Light Goes Out

 
Tho' yer lamp o' life is burnin' with a clear and steady light,
An' it never seems ter flicker, but it's allers shinin' bright;
Tho' it sheds its rays unbroken for a thousand happy days—
Father Time is ever turnin' down the wick that feeds yer blaze.
So it clearly is yer duty ef you've got a thing to do
Ter put yer shoulder to ther wheel an' try to push her through;
Ef yer upon a wayward track you better turn about—
You've lost ther chance to do it
When the
Light
Goes
Out.
 
 
Speak kindly to the woman who is working fer yer praise,
Ther same way as you used ter in those happy courtin' days;
She likes appreciation just the same ez me an' you,
And it's only right and proper that yer give her what is due.
Don't wait until her lamp o' life is burnin' dim an' low,
Afore you tell her what you orter told her long ago—
Now's ther time ter cheer her up an' put her blues to rout—
You've lost ther chance to do it
When the
Light
Goes
Out.
 
 
Don't keep a-puttin' matters off an' settin' dates ahead—
To-morrow's sun'll find a hundred thousand of us dead;
Don't think because yer feelin well you won't be sick no more—
Sometimes the reddest pippin has a worm-hole to the core.
Don't let a killin' habit grow upon you soft and still
Because you think thet you ken throw it from you at your will—
Now's ther time ter quit it when yer feelin' brave an' stout—
You've lost ther chance to do it
When the
Light
Goes
Out.
 
 
I'd rather die with nothin' then ter hev ther people say
That I had got my money in a robbin', graspin' way;
No words above my restin' place from any tongue or pen
Would hev a deeper meanin' than "He helped his fellow-men."
So ef you hev a fortune and you want to help the poor,
Don't keep a-stavin' off until yon get a little more;
Ef yer upon a miser's track you better turn about—
Yer record keeps on burnin'
When the
Light
Goes
Out.
 

Harry S. Chester.

Prayer and Potatoes

 
An old lady sat in her old arm-chair,
With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair,
And pale and hunger-worn features;
For days and for weeks her only fare,
As she sat there in her old arm-chair,
Had been potatoes.
 
 
But now they were gone; of bad or good.
Not one was left for the old lady's food
Of those potatoes;
And she sighed and said, "What shall I do?
Where shall I send, and to whom shall I go
For more potatoes?"
 
 
And she thought of the deacon over the way,
The deacon so ready to worship and pray,
Whose cellar was full of potatoes;
And she said: "I will send for the deacon to come;
He'll not mind much to give me some
Of such a store of potatoes."
 
 
And the deacon came over as fast as he could,
Thinking to do the old lady some good,
But never thought of potatoes;
He asked her at once what was her chief want,
And she, simple soul, expecting a grant,
Immediately answered, "Potatoes."
 
 
But the deacon's religion didn't lie that way;
He was more accustomed to preach and pray
Than to give of his hoarded potatoes;
So, not hearing, of course, what the old lady said,
He rose to pray with uncovered head,
But she only thought of potatoes.
 
 
He prayed for patience, and wisdom, and grace,
But when he prayed, "Lord, give her peace,"
She audibly sighed "Give potatoes";
And at the end of each prayer which he said,
He heard, or thought that he heard in its stead,
The same request for potatoes.
 
 
The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do;
'Twas very embarrassing to have her act so
About "those carnal potatoes."
So, ending his prayer, he started for home;
As the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan,
"Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!"
 
 
And that groan followed him all the way home;
In the midst of the night it haunted his room—
"Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!"
He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed;
From his well-filled cellar taking in haste
A bag of his best potatoes.
 
 
Again he went to the widow's lone hut;
Her sleepless eyes she had not shut;
But there she sat in that old arm-chair,
With the same wan features, the same sad air,
And, entering in, he poured on the floor
A bushel or more from his goodly store
Of choicest potatoes.
 
 
The widow's cup was running o'er,
Her face was haggard and wan no more.
"Now," said the deacon, "shall we pray?"
"Yes," said the widow, "now you may."
And he kneeled him down on the sanded floor,
Where he had poured his goodly store,
And such a prayer the deacon prayed
As never before his lips essayed;
No longer embarrassed, but free and full,
He poured out the voice of a liberal soul,
And the widow responded aloud "Amen!"
But spake no more of potatoes.
 
 
And would you, who hear this simple tale,
Pray for the poor, and praying, "prevail"?
Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds;
Search out the poor, their wants and their needs;
Pray for peace, and grace, and spiritual food,
For wisdom and guidance,-for all these are good,—
But don't forget the potatoes.
 

J.T. Pettee.

The Parts of Speech

 
Three little words you often see
Are articles a, an, and the.
A noun's the name of anything,
As house or garden, hoop or swing.
Instead of nouns the pronouns stand—
Her head, your face, his arm, my hand.
Adjectives tell the kind of noun,
As great, small, pretty, white or brown.
Verbs tell something to be done—
To read, count, sing, laugh or run.
How things are done the adverbs tell,
As slowly, quickly, ill or well.
Conjunctions join the words together,
As men and women, wind or weather.
The preposition stands before
A noun, as in or through a door.
The interjection shows surprise,
As oh! how pretty, ah! how wise.
The whole are called nine parts of speech,
Which reading, writing, speaking teach.
 

A New Leaf

 
He came to my desk with, quivering lip—
The lesson was done.
"Dear Teacher, I want a new leaf," he said,
"I have spoiled this one."
I took the old leaf, stained and blotted,
And gave him a new one all unspotted,
And into his sad eyes smiled,
"Do better, now, my child."
 
 
I went to the throne with a quivering soul—
The old year was done.
"Dear Father, hast Thou a new leaf for me?
I have spoiled this one."
He took the old leaf, stained and blotted,
And gave me a new one all unspotted,
And into my sad heart smiled,
"Do better, now, my child."
 

Carrie Shaw Rice.

The Boy With the Hoe

 
How are you hoeing your row, my boy?
Say, how are you hoeing your row?
Do you hoe it fair?
Do you hoe it square?
Do you hoe it the best that you know?
Do you cut out the weeds as you ought to do?
Do you plant what is beautiful there?
For the harvest, you know,
Will be just what you sow;
Are you working it on the square?
 
 
Say, are you killing the weeds, my boy?
Are you hoeing your row neat and clean?
Are you going straight
At a hustling gait?
Are you cutting out all that is mean?
Do you whistle and sing as you toil along?
Are you finding your work a delight?
If you do it this way
You will gladden the day,
And your row will be tended right.
 
 
Hoeing your row with a will, my boy,
And giving it thought and care,
Will insure success
And your efforts bless,
As the crop to the garner you bear;
For the world will look on as you hoe your row,
And will judge you by that which you do;
Therefore, try for first prize,
Though your utmost it tries,
For the harvest depends on you.
 

T.B. Weaver.