Banker Green got off a speech;

Told 'em how I bore the flag,
Fust man through the shattered breach-

Set me blushin' with his brag.
Then he said: “I have a place

Saved for Sergeant Jim to fill,
When he gets his health an' grace"-
Say I nearly had a spill

On crutches.
Parson, too, on Sunday night,

Almos' 'shamed me to the ground;
Called me hero of the fight,

Asked 'em all to wait around.
Chris’mas, how they stayed an' shook!

But ye see, I didn't care
When I caught Myrtilly's look
As I stood a-swayin' there

On crutches.
Somehow we were 'neath the stars,

'Cross the field a-walkin' slow,
When Myrtilly dropped the bars-

“ Lean on me,” she whispered low.
Lordy, but my heart went fast!

Side by side with 'Tilly there,
Life seemed too dern good to last.
'Cross that field I stumped on air,

Not crutches.



[From the Criterion, by permission of the publishers.)

[blocks in formation]

She wears jes' the finest clothes

Cost a lot, I guess-
While the bestest gown I has

Is a gingham dress.

She has the most b'u'ful hats

My! but they is fine;
An' her shoes—I guess they cost

A dollar more 'n mine.

She has ponies 'at she drives

Almost ev'ry day,
An' they goes so fast-00-00-ooh!

Takes your bref away.

She is rich, but I jes' bet

'At she envies me, 'Cause her name is Maggie Smif

An' mine is Althea Penelope d'Arcy Lee.




(From the New England Magazine, by permission of the publishers.)

ARRY him out and put him away.

Reveille no more wakes him now;

We've sounded his last lights out to-day, And the dust has fallen on lips and brow. So leave him there, leave him there, resting still,

With hced no more for retreat or drill.

Lead his horse back to the camp again.

Lead the beast kindly, for, don't you see, He frets at the guidance of other men.

He misses th press of familiar knee, So lead him back ver the glarirg sand

Kindly for saka och oth hand.

Three volleys over the trooper's grave,

And he moved no eyelid at noise of the three. "Ave" the first, to the soul of the brave,

And the second “God speed” from the Company, And the last said “Vale," and then we turned

And left him waiting the peace he had earned. We shed no tear and we make no moan

For the man who has left us, to rest awhile.
We pity him lying there all alone,

We recall old gesture and quiet smile;
But why should we weep for him now, when he

Wanted "lights out" through eternity?




HAT'S the good o' shinglin'

When there ain't no rain ?

What's the good o'pleasin' folks When 't's easier ter complain?

What's the good o' shoveling

When the sun'll melt the snow ?
What's the good ter go yerself

When someun else'll go?

What's the good o' splittin' wood


wife can use the axe? What's the good o' tellin' truth

When 't's easier stretchin' facts?

What's the good o' ridin'

When cheaper 'tis ter walk?
What's the good o' writin'

When there's no charge for talk?

What's the good o' keepin' house

When ye can bum a meal?

What's the good o' earnin' cash

When easier 'tis ter steal?

What's the good o' breathin'

When it only saves yer life?
Why not have a funeral

An' charge it ter yer wife?



[The incident

upon which the following recitation is founded occurred in Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, on Sunday, June 1, 1856. The story and the reason of the sale are given in Mr. Beecher's own words: There was a girl named ' Pinky,' a fair and beautiful child, who was about to be taken from her grandmother, an old slave that had bought her freedom. Those interested in the girl wrote to me to see if I could purchase her. I replied, 'I can not unless you send her north.' So she was brought here and placed upon this platform. The scene was one of intense enthusiasm, and the child was bought and over-bought. The collection taken on the spot was more than enough to purchase her. It so happened that a lady known to literary fame as Rose Terry was present; and as, like many

others, she had not with her as much money as she wanted to give, she took a ring from her hand and threw it into the contribution-box. That ring I took and put on the child's hand and said: Now, remember that this is your free

' dom ring.' Eastman Johnson, the artist, was so interested that he painted her looking at her freedom ring. So the girl was redeemed. I lost sight of her until 1864, when she was at ChiefJustice Chase's, and I received word that she wished to see me. She had changed her name, taking 'Rose,' Miss Terry's first name, and 'Ward,' my middle name, which combined made a very nice name. She wished to become a missionary among her own people, so Plymouth Church raised enough to send her to school at Lincoln University, Washington.”]



UNDAY morning in Plymouth Church,

A rustle of silk or a whispered word,

Though thousands thronged the sacred fane, Were the only sounds that could be heard.


And heads were bowed in silent prayer,

And a solemn hush fell on them all,
As the preacher mounted the pulpit stair,

And by his side a slave girl, tall.

A quadroon girl, with olive cheek

And a wavy mass of jet-black hair, Clothed in white, with her hands crossed, meek,

And her bosom heaving as if in prayer.

She was told to loosen the coils of jet,

And her hair fell down like a glittering veil; A very Venus, she stood as fair

As sculptured marble, though not so pale.

They stood a moment in silence there;

The congregation held their breath. Crammed to the doors, the house of prayer

Was as quiet as a house of death.

This happened in the slavery days,

When women were sold in public day, Before the noble president

Had dashed the negroes' chains away.

The preacher spake in gentle tone:

“This girl you see was bought and sold, Made of your selfsame flesh and bone,

Traded with, bartered, for yellow gold.

God made of one blood all the earth,

All tribes of men to him belong!
Why should the weak, e'en from their birth,

Be trampled downward by the strong?

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