our own beautiful land of the free? Has he never heard the tramp, tramp of that vast army of men who, unable to find work amid all these opportunities, are forced to beg, or steal, or starve? Has he never heard the cry of the children 'ere the sorrow years'? "The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in their nest, The comes with young fawns are playing with the shadows, They are weeping in the playtime of the others, "For the children who are weeping, and the fathers who are slaving, for the mothers who are mourning, we are pleading-pleading-for the homeless and the cheerless; for the overworked and for those who have no work to do; for the outcasts and the waifs; for the factory girls who never hear the words of honest praise; for children who never hear in happy mothers' arms the lullaby of love. "Oh, it is coming-coming! The republic of which Jefferson dreamed! The humanity for which Mrs. Browning hoped! Though others may reap where we sow, aye, though the fruits of our labor may fall upon our graves, those who live for humanity do not live in vain!" Stepping to the front of the platform, he continued in a low, plaintive voice of such indescribable beauty that it brought tears to the eyes of nearly all present: "Nearly thirty years ago I stood for the first time. beneath yonder dome, dreaming boyish dreams of wealth and power. There for the first time I looked into the eyes of a noble, loving woman who told me of the fireless homes and the homeless poor shadowed by that dome. It was then I met the original Commoners whose faces I see before me now-men and women whose hearts responded to the touch of human sympathy as the chords of the Eolian harp respond to the summer's breeze. These hearts may cease to beat their harmonies, but these zephyrs of human sympathy will swell and sweep until they become the unchained hurricane of the people's will." Who was the gray-haired, motherly old lady about whom so many gathered when Oliver had finished? He himself was the first to step to her side, and he still called her "Little Mutter." Well may the tears fill her eyes to-night. Well may she receive the congratulations of these enthusiastic, warm-hearted men and women, for it was she as well as Oliver Arkwright who had spoken in those soul-stirring words. The minister who had welcomed Oliver to-night? Yes, it was John White. And the two younger ladies? Pearl and Mollie. No longer "Little Mollie," but Mrs. White, though often with all the impulsiveness of her childhood she will throw her arms about Pearl's neck, kiss her forehead and say, "Precious Pearl." And then they will talk of the old man with gray hair who stood on the bridge at night, who said to Johnnie, "Be a preacher if you can, my boy." One face we do not see, one laughing voice we do not hear; for "Old Mortality" has put on immortality, and his mirthful, generous words are only in the memory of those who knew and loved him. We look again and see not now the large audience and the orator's flashing eye. Instead, as through a sacred mist, there glimmers on our vision the sacred hearth which Pearl and Oliver call home. Their faces are illumined with merry, loving light to-night, as on their ears there fall the playful voices from a distant room. It is a boy who is talking, and he is laughing at his companion, whom he calls "Little Grossmutter." Pearl smiles sweetly as she leans her head upon her husband's throbbing heart, for it was such a voice which years ago fell upon her ears so sweetly from her lover's lips. At last the merry voices die away, and Oliver's guitar gives out its harmonies softly, sweetly upon the air, more sweetly for its sacred recollections now. Dropping his guitar, and holding in his hand the hand of her he reverently loves, they watch the red coals turn to gray. 'Tis the old, old story. 'Tis love, 'tis love that makes the world go round. THE END. |