The Sandman
The rosy clouds float overhead,
The sun is going down,
And now the Sandman's gentle tread
Comes stealing through the town.
"White sand, white sand," he softly cries,
And, as he shakes his hand,
Straightway there lies on babies' eyes
His gift of shining sand.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close,
when he goes through the town.
From sunny beaches far away,
Yes, in another land,
He gathers up, at break of day,
His store of shining sand.
No tempests beat that shore remote,
No ships may sail that way;
His little boat alone may float
Within that lovely bay.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close,
when he goes through the town.
He smiles to see the eyelids close
Above the happy eyes,
And every child right well he knows—
Oh, he is very wise!
But if, as he goes through the land,
A naughty baby cries,
His other hand takes dull gray sand
To close the wakeful eyes.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close,
when he goes through the town.
So when you hear the Sandman's song
Sound through the twilight sweet,
Be sure you do not keep him long
A-waiting in the street.
Lie softly down, dear little head,
Rest quiet, busy hands,
Till by your bed when good-night's said,
He strews the shining sands.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close,
when he goes through the town.
Margaret Vandegrift.
Ring Out, Wild Bells
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
The Wishing Bridge
Among the legends sung or said
Along our rocky shore,
The Wishing Bridge of Marblehead
May well be sung once more.
An hundred years ago (so ran
The old-time story) all
Good wishes said above its span
Would, soon or late, befall.
If pure and earnest, never failed
The prayers of man or maid
For him who on the deep sea sailed,
For her at home who stayed.
Once thither came two girls from school
And wished in childish glee:
And one would be a queen and rule,
And one the world would see.
Time passed; with change of hopes and fears
And in the selfsame place,
Two women, gray with middle years,
Stood wondering, face to face.
With wakened memories, as they met,
They queried what had been:
"A poor man's wife am I, and yet,"
Said one, "I am a queen.
"My realm a little homestead is,
Where, lacking crown and throne,
I rule by loving services
And patient toil alone."
The other said: "The great world lies
Beyond me as it laid;
O'er love's and duty's boundaries
My feet have never strayed.
"I see but common sights at home,
Its common sounds I hear,
My widowed mother's sick-bed room
Sufficeth for my sphere.
"I read to her some pleasant page
Of travel far and wide,
And in a dreamy pilgrimage
We wander side by side.
"And when, at last, she falls asleep,
My book becomes to me
A magic glass: my watch I keep,
But all the world I see.
"A farm-wife queen your place you fill,
While fancy's privilege
Is mine to walk the earth at will,
Thanks to the Wishing Bridge."
"Nay, leave the legend for the truth,"
The other cried, "and say
God gives the wishes of our youth
But in His own best way!"
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The Things Divine
These are the things I hold divine:
A trusting child's hand laid in mine,
Rich brown earth and wind-tossed trees,
The taste of grapes and the drone of bees,
A rhythmic gallop, long June days,
A rose-hedged lane and lovers' lays,
The welcome smile on neighbors' faces,
Cool, wide hills and open places,
Breeze-blown fields of silver rye,
The wild, sweet note of the plover's cry,
Fresh spring showers and scent of box,
The soft, pale tint of the garden phlox,
Lilacs blooming, a drowsy noon,
A flight of geese and an autumn moon,
Rolling meadows and storm-washed heights,
A fountain murmur on summer nights,
A dappled fawn in the forest hush,
Simple words and the song of a thrush,
Rose-red dawns and a mate to share
With comrade soul my gypsy fare,
A waiting fire when the twilight ends,
A gallant heart and the voice of friends.
Jean Brooks Burt.
Mothers of Men
The bravest battle that ever was fought!
Shall I tell you where and when?
On the map of the world you will find it not,
'Twas fought by the mothers of men.
Nay, not with cannon or battle shot,
With sword or nobler pen,
Nay, not with eloquent words or thought
From mouths of wonderful men;
But deep in the walled-up woman's heart—
Of woman that would not yield,
But bravely, silently, bore her part—
Lo, there is that battle field!
No marshaling troup, no bivouac song,
No banner to gleam or wave,
But oh! these battles, they last so long—
From babyhood to the grave.
Yet, faithful as a bridge of stars,
She fights in her walled-up town—
Fights on and on in the endless wars,
Then, silent, unseen, goes down.
Oh, ye with banner and battle shot,
And soldiers to shout and praise,
I tell you the kingliest victories fought
Were fought in those silent ways.
Oh, spotless in a world of shame,
With splendid and silent scorn,
Go back to God as white as you came—
The kingliest warrior born!
Joaquin Miller.
Echo
"I asked of Echo, t'other day
(Whose words are often few and funny),
What to a novice she could say
Of courtship, love and matrimony.
Quoth Echo plainly,—'Matter-o'-money!'
"Whom should I marry? Should it be
A dashing damsel, gay and pert,
A pattern of inconstancy;
Or selfish, mercenary flirt?
Quoth Echo, sharply,—'Nary flirt!'
"What if, aweary of the strife
That long has lured the dear deceiver,
She promise to amend her life.
And sin no more; can I believe her?
Quoth Echo, very promptly;—'Leave her!'
"But if some maiden with a heart
On me should venture to bestow it,
Pray should I act the wiser part
To take the treasure or forgo it?
Quoth Echo, with decision,—'Go it!'
"But what if, seemingly afraid
To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,
She vow she means to die a maid,
In answer to my loving letter?
Quoth Echo, rather coolly,—'Let her!'
"What if, in spite of her disdain,
I find my heart entwined about
With Cupid's dear, delicious chain
So closely that I can't get out?
Quoth Echo, laughingly,—'Get out!'
"But if some maid with beauty blest,
As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,
Will share my labor and my rest
Till envious Death shall overtake her?
Quoth Echo (sotto voce),-'Take her!'"
John G. Saxe.
Life, I Know Not What Thou Art
Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me's a secret yet.
Life! we've been long together
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear—
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;
Then steal away; give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not Good Night, but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good Morning.
Anna L. Barbauld.
Autumn Leaves
In the hush and the lonely silence
Of the chill October night,
Some wizard has worked his magic
With fairy fingers light.
The leaves of the sturdy oak trees
Are splendid with crimson and red.
And the golden flags of the maple
Are fluttering overhead.
Through the tangle of faded grasses
There are trailing vines ablaze,
And the glory of warmth and color
Gleams through the autumn haze.
Like banners of marching armies
That farther and farther go;
Down the winding roads and valleys
The boughs of the sumacs glow.
So open your eyes, little children,
And open your hearts as well,
Till the charm of the bright October
Shall fold you in its spell.
Angelina Wray.
A Message for the Year
Not who you are, but what you are,
That's what the world demands to know;
Just what you are, what you can do
To help mankind to live and grow.
Your lineage matters not at all,
Nor counts one whit your gold or gear,
What can you do to show the world
The reason for your being here?
For just what space you occupy
The world requires you pay the rent;
It does not shower its gifts galore,
Its benefits are only lent;
And it has need of workers true,
Willing of hand, alert of brain;
Go forth and prove what you can do,
Nor wait to count o'er loss or gain.
Give of your best to help and cheer,
The more you give the more you grow;
This message evermore rings true,
In time you reap whate'er you sow.
No failure you have need to fear,
Except to fail to do your best—
What have you done, what can you do?
That is the question, that the test.
Elizabeth Clarke Hardy.
Song of the Chattahoochee
Out of the hills of Habersham,
Down the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover's pain to attain the plain
Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall.
All down the hills of Habersham,
All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried "Abide, abide,"
The wilful waterweeds held me thrall,
The laving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said "Stay,"
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed "Abide, abide
Here in the hills of Habersham,
Here in the valleys of Hall."
High o'er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
O'erleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said, "Pass not, so cold, these manifold
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall."
And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brookstone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
And many a luminous jewel lone
—Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet, and amethyst—
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone,
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.
But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
And oh, not the valleys of Hall
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call—
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main.
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
Calls through the valleys of Hall.
Sidney Lanier.
Used by special permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons
Courting in Kentucky
When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay
I was glad, fer I like ter see a gal makin' her honest way,
I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high,
Tew high for busy farmer folks with chores ter dew ter fly;
But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell
She come in her reg-lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell.
My Jake an' her has been cronies ever since they could walk,
An' it tuk me aback ter hear her kerrectin' him in his talk.
Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work;
But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!"
Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way,
He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay.
I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns,
An' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones.
Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long,
Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong.
One day I was pickin' currants down by the old quince tree,
When I heerd Jake's voice a-sayin', "Be ye willin' ter marry me?"
An' Mary Ann kerrectin', "Air ye willin', yeou sh'd say."
Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum decided way.
"No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me,
Hereafter I says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.'
Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say;
But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay;
I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' to marry me?'"
An' Mary Ann sez, tremblin', yet anxious-like, "I be."
God's Will is Best
Whichever way the wind doth blow,
Some heart is glad to have it so;
Then blow it east, or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.
My little craft sails not alone,—
A thousand fleets, from every zone,
Are out upon a thousand seas,
And what for me were favoring breeze
Might dash another with the shock
Of doom upon some hidden rock.
I leave it to a higher Will
To stay or speed me, trusting still
That all is well, and sure that He
Who launched my bark will sail with me
Through storm and calm, and will not fail,
Whatever breezes may prevail,
To land me, every peril past,
Within His Haven at the last.
Then blow it east, or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.
Caroline H. Mason.
The School-Master's Guests
I
The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk,
Close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and grotesque.
As whisper the half-leafless branches, when autumn's brisk breezes have come,
His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum.
There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding a drouth.
And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth;
There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that could bloom,
And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room,
With a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a pin,
Queer-bent on a deeply-laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin.
There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into their brain,
Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting its train;
There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his slate,
And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate;
And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short twist,
As to say, "I could whip you, confound you! could such things be done with the fist!"
There were two knowing girls in the corner, each one with some beauty possessed,
In a whisper discussing the problem which one the young master likes best;
A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult pains,
How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins;
And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood,
Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the scene all he could.
II
Around were the walls, gray and dingy, which every old school-sanctum hath,
With many a break on their surface, where grinned a wood-grating of lath.
A patch of thick plaster, just over the school-master's rickety chair,
Seemed threat'ningly o'er him suspended, like Damocles' sword, by a hair.
There were tracks on the desks where the knife-blades had wandered in search of their prey;
Their tops were as duskily spattered as if they drank ink every day.
The square stove it puffed and it crackled, and broke out in red flaming sores,
Till the great iron quadruped trembled like a dog fierce to rush out-o'-doors.
White snowflakes looked in at the windows; the gale pressed its lips to the cracks;
And the children's hot faces were streaming, the while they were freezing their backs.
III
Now Marco Bozzaris had fallen, and all of his suff'rings were o'er,
And the class to their seats were retreating, when footsteps were heard at the door;
And five of the good district fathers marched into the room in a row,
And stood themselves up by the fire, and shook off their white cloaks of snow.
And the spokesman, a grave squire of sixty, with countenance solemnly sad,
Spoke thus, while the children all listened, with all of the ears that they had:
"We've come here, school-master, in-tendin' to cast an inquirin' eye 'round,
Concernin' complaints that's been entered, an' fault that has lately been found;
To pace off the width of your doin's, an' witness what you've been about,
An' see if it's paying to keep you, or whether we'd best turn ye out.
"The first thing I'm bid for to mention is, when the class gets up to read
You give 'em too tight of a reinin', an' touch 'em up more than they need;
You're nicer than wise in the matter of holdin' the book in one han',
An' you turn a stray
g
in their
doin's
, an' tack an odd
d
on their
an'
;
There ain't no great good comes of speakin' the words so polite, as I see,
Providin' you know what the facts is, an' tell 'em off jest as they be.
An' then there's that readin' in corncert, is censured from first unto last;
It kicks up a heap of a racket, when folks is a-travelin' past.
Whatever is done as to readin', providin' things go to my say,
Shan't hang on no new-fangled hinges, but swing in the old-fashioned way."
And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,
And nodded obliquely, and muttered: "Them 'ere is my sentiments tew."
"Then as to your spellin': I've heern tell, by the mas has looked into this,
That you turn the
u
out o' your
labour
, an' make the word shorter than 'tis;
An' clip the
k
off yer
musick
, which makes my son Ephraim perplexed,
An' when he spells out as he ought'r, you pass the word on to the next.
They say there's some new-grafted books here that don't take them letters along;
But if it is so, just depend on 't, them new-grafted books is made wrong.
You might just as well say that Jackson didn't know all there was about war,
As to say that old Spellin'-book Webster didn't know what them letters was for."
And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,
And scratched their heads slyly and softly, and said: "Them's my sentiments tew."
"Then, also, your 'rithmetic doin's, as they are reported to me,
Is that you have left Tare an' Tret out, an' also the old Rule o' Three;
An' likewise brought in a new study, some high-steppin' scholars to please,
With saw-bucks an' crosses and pothooks, an'
w's, x's, y's
an'
z's
.
We ain't got no time for such foolin'; there ain't no great good to be reached
By tiptoein' childr'n up higher than ever their fathers was teached."
And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,
And cocked one eye up to the ceiling, and said: "Them's my sentiments tew."
"Another thing, I must here mention, comes into the question to-day,
Concernin' some things in the grammar you're teachin' our gals for to say.
My gals is as steady as clockwork, and never give cause for much fear,
But they come home from school t'other evenin' a-talking such stuff as this here:
'I love,' an' 'Thou lovest,' an' 'He loves,' an' 'We love,' an' 'You love,' an' 'They—'
An' they answered my questions: 'It's grammar'—'twas all I could get 'em to say.
Now if, 'stead of doin' your duty, you're carryin' matters o