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Show Expressed .in verse: : FICTION AND SENTIMENT i RECKONING. (Written for The Intermountain Catholic.) If you sit down- at set of sun And count the acts that you have done, And counting, tind One self-denying at-t. one word That eased the heart of him who heard, One Rlance most kind That fell like sunshine where it went. Then you may count that day well spent. But if through all the livelong day, You've cheered no heart by yea or nay. If through it all You've nothing done which you can trace. That brought the sunshine to one face. No act most small That helped some soul, and nothing cost. Then count that day as worse than lost. A MOTHER'S PRAYER. (Written for The Intermountain Catholic.) It rests like dew upon- the rose, . When life is young and fair; It softly kisses, ciown. the- lids, When night is in the air. All up' the rugged steeps of life, ; And in the sun's fierce glare. It covers him with angel's wings The saintly mother's prayer. And when he falls in life's vain strife, With none, to help or spare. It bearsi him to the sunlit ileitis The incense of a. mother's prayer. WHEN MOTHER TUCKED ME IN. Ah, the quaint and curious- carving On the posts, of that old bed; There were long-peaked, queer old griffins grif-fins Wearing crowns upon their heads. And they fiercely looked down on me , With, a cold, sardonic grin; I was not afraid of griffins When my mother tucked me in. I remember how it stood mere. With its headpiece backward .rollea. And its broad and heavy tester Lined with plaitings. tIue and gold. And- the great old-fashioned pillows Trimmed with ruffles, white and thin, And tho cover, soft and downy. When my mother tucked me in. What cared I for dismal shadows. Shifting up and down the floor. Or the bleak and gruesome wind gusts Beating 'gainst the close-shut door, Or the rattling of the windows. All the outside noise and din? I was safe and warm and happy When my mother tucked me in. Sweet and soft her gentle fingers, As they touched my sunburnt face; Sweet to me the wafted odor That enwrapped her dainty lace; Then a pat or two at parting. And a good-r.ight kiss between; All my troubles- were forgotten When my mother tucked me in. Now the stricken years have borne me Far away from love and home, Ah! no mother leans nfcove me In the nights that go and come. But it gives me peace and comfort, When mv heart is sore within. Just to lie right still and. dreaming. Think my mother tucked me in. Oh, the gentle gentle breathing To her dear heart's softer beat. And the quiet, quiet moving Of her soft-shod little feet: And Time, one boon I ask thee, W'hatso'er may be my sin. When in dying, let me see her, As she used to tuck me in. A LITTLE KING. He doesn't wield a sceptre And he doesn't wear a crown: He doesn't walk in stately robes About the pleasant town; But still he, is a monarch In the home on yonder street. Where the familv are the vassals Of the King of Pattering Feet. He's sometimes very cross indeed. Jus't like a really king: He often frets and worries When he doesn't want a thing, But then he's happy moments. When his laughter rings so sweet, And it's jovous just to wait upon The King of Pattering Feet. His crest is made of sunlight Woven into curls of goid. And he wields his wooden sabre Like the courtly knights of old; His realm is in love's keeping, And this, its ter.der law: To serve but not to tremble; Obey but not with awe. His mandates daily issue Through the kingdom known as? Play, And his subjects yield with pleasure To the edicts of his sway. His jewels are fancied treasures, And the diadems, that gleam Are the glorv lights of wonder . In the little world of dream. His sovereign will is granted. When the story hour draws near. And the mother-song srnmds softly In the little monarch's ear. The world were sad without him, In the home on yonder street. Where the family serve as vassals To the King of Pattering Feet. THE TEACHER TO A CHILD. rvmie wmlk with me. thou wonder eyed And silent little c-rea'ture. And we will winder side by side. Through all the haunts of nature. And tho-u shall marvel. I will muse, At thiir-v and that and t'other, Ard like two children we wiill use The eyes- of one another. Why grass can grow and violets, Why candeCion.? be yellow. And why the early robin pings So ric h a tune and melilow; And why the crystal water drops, Upon the petals pendant. So low bend down the lily tops And make them so ro-rl3nd;nt. And why tha ml glow pokes his head About him in demurei.y; As if the beittle. stx-ming dear, lis certainly and surely; Such ques':i-.jns pertinent and nice And suited to the season. We'll settle on our besi: advice1 Adjusting them to reason. What though philosophers and such Demur to our conelur"ons? We'll trust our own instinctive touch Nor care foT their-delusions. So thou shtuit marvel, I wi'l muse, At this and that and t'c'th"r. And like two children we will uife The eyes of one another. SMALL BEGINNINGS. A traveC'e.r through a duifty roiacl strewed acorns, on the lea: And one tr.ok root and sprouted up and grew in'to a tree. Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breathe its early -vows; And nge was pleased, in henis of noon, to bask beneath its bou&'hs; jine uo-rmouse love-a us wangling xwis. the birds swe-et mubfc bore: It sto-ad a glory in ita place, a blajslng evermore. A liittle spring hhd lost Its way amid the grass ar.d fern, A passing elcranger scooped a well. Where weary men mighi: turn; He washed it in, and hung with care a ludLe at ths brink; He thought not c the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink. He r-usised again, and 10! the well, by summetrs never dried. Had cooU'3 't;.n t'he-usawd parching t'ongucw, and saved a life beside. A dreamer drooped a random thought, 'twas old. and vet 'twas new: A simple fancy of tae brain, but strong !n being -taue. It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light becHime A lump of life, a beacon ray, a monvtory flame. The thought wvis smwil. its issue great, a watch fire on thi? hi'!, It s-hed its radiUnce far ad'ewn, and cheers the valley s'lill! A r.'arn-ef rrs man. amid a crowd 'that thronged the dally mart. Lcit fall a wo-rd of hone and love, un-s-'tudaed. from the he-art; A wh'ls'per en th tumult thrown a transitory trans-itory breath It raCsed a bncitiher from tihe dust; itsavt-d a. swul Troim deaith. O germ! O foumt! O word of lov: O thought ait random ca:-'t! Ye were but little at the first, -but uftgtuy at the last , THE VOICES OF THE PEOPLE. Oh. I hear the people calling through th, dav-time 'and the night-time. , They are calling, they are crying tor th - coming of the right time. It bvhooves. you. men and musters, n i..- hnoves vou to be hevuirur. For there lurk a note of m.-n'ice un-...T- neath-their plaintive pleading. Let the land us-urp-T. list en. let th-gne th-gne ly-hearted ponder. On th-. meaning of the murmur, r, -inhere and swelling yonder i Swelling louder, waxing strmger. 1;k-; a . storm-fed stream that courses Through the valleys, down aoyss-s, growing, grow-ing, gaining wi'h new lorcts. Day by day the river widens, that grtn; river of cminiion. And its torrent bt its and plunger at tn-i base of greed's (hmiwn. Though you iltim it by oppression and hi ns: gohb-n bridges or- ir. Yet the day and hour advanced when ia fright you llee before K. Yes. I heir the p-?ip-I-e culling through the iili-.ht-fjme and the duy-tim-. Wretch: fl toilers in "-'ife's autumn, we.iry younc ones in life's M'iy-time Thev tire crying, they are easing br tfv-Ir "su.neof work and pKa'sur.-: You nre heaHng high your eoff.--r.-s while vou give them .-i :in:y m-'fi..-ur. You have .stolen Ood's wideaens, jus: t , glut your swollen purs s Oh, restore them to h4s children ere th-ir Treading turns to enrs-s. Wli'a Whe Act Wilcox. THE OLD, OLD HOME. When I long for sainted memories, Like angel tronos t'hey ome, If 1 fold my arms to ponder On the old. w horn:'. The heart has many passages. Thr.Kigh which the fedings roam Pint its middle ai'.e it facrud TV 't'he U, old home. i Where Infancy was sheltered. Where hoyti 'nod's brief Hysiuru In joyousn -ss was rMss d; To that sweet (-rl)Ot forever. As to. some hallowed dome. Life's nil grim bends his vision "Pis his old, old home. A father sat. how proudly. F.y thut hearth stomas r?iys. And told his c-h'iMren st-nifs Of h'ls early manhoil d:iys: And one srf eye was heaminc. Kro.m child to child 'twould rn-nnT' Thus a m.ither counts hxr treasures In the eld, o'Vl home. The birthuay gifts and festivals. The bl-mlil vespers hymn (One dear one wh was swelling it Is- with the Sraphim. The fond "go.,d-night" at herl time. How quiet sleep would come. Aid hoOd us nil together. In the oJd, o4d home. 4 Like a wreath of scented flowers. Close inters win p erich. heart. Put time and change in concert Huve blown the wre'ath apart; But sa.intd memories. lAkf angels, ever e m. If I fold my arms ;i:iil p.mder I On the old, o,id home. THE BRITISH BUCCANEER. The bully Pritish Buccaneer is out fnp tight once more: Again h- seeks a weaker dog. as oft he diil before. Paul Kruger's wealth he covets now. he wants that golden spot. 1 Jlajuba's Hill is out of mind, Laing's Nek he's fllite forgot. The Transvaal Boer is now his1 prey, to crush him is his game. He's sick of spilling Indian blood, he's out for sport less tame. The Golden Plain of Johannesburg is no no too good for John. To grasp the shining nuggets he leada . now his hirelings on. His Irish slaves, his Scottish serfs, his British boasters all. Once more are on the rampage high T pillage Stad and Kraal. With sanguine expectations now he seeks , to climb the hills. May h" receive a bounteous dose of Kruger's "Mauser Fills." The Transvaal Boer can use his. tusks when pushed by robber horde: He proved himself a fighter when 31a- juba's hill he scored. And may he prove the same again to Kngland's hireling slaves. That he has never lost the art of filling British graves. Paul Kruger, may the God of war give strength to all your men; May he who watches English greed defend de-fend your land again. From Albion's hypocriric sway, whos-s sins are black as night; May he who ruleth rations show again i that Right is Might. S Oh. Irishmen ia Knsrlish ranks pray Where's your manhood now? Can you forget your Mother and to England's Eng-land's pleasures, bow. That she may crush out freedom's light and hold in bondage vile. As she has held for many years your poor old Mother Isle? A WAIL FOR DEWEY. "Oh. when Johnny comes marching home again. ' When Dewey comes sailing home again Hfniray. Hoorav.' Oh won t he learn to hate his mime' And well he ma v. The dogs will bark the cats will mew. The babies all will holler, too But it won't be gay. For they're all named Dewey! And he will not stav. Poor Admiral Dewey! |
