Recitations for the Social Circle Part 25

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest,--

We will be patient and a.s.suage the feeling We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way.

AN AFFECTIONATE LETTER.

_Tipperary, Ireland, September the ten._

MY DEAR NEPHEW:

I have not heard anything of you sens the last time I wrote ye. I have moved from the place where I now live, or I should have written to you before. I did not know where a letter might find you first, but I now take my pen in hand to drop you a few lines, to inform you of the death of your own living uncle, Kilpatrick. He died very suddenly after a long illness of six months. Poor man, he suffered a great deal. He lay a long time in convulsions, perfectly quiet and speechless, and all the time talking incoherently and inquiring for water.

I'm much at a loss to tell you what his death was occasioned by, but the doctor thinks it was caused by his last sickness, for he was not well ten days during his confinement.

His age ye know jist as well as I can tell ye; he was 25 years old last March, lacking fifteen months; and if he had lived till this time he would be just six months dead.

N. B. Take notis. I inclose to you a tin pound note, which ye father sends to ye unbeknown to me. Your mother often speaks of ye; she would like to send ye the brindle cow, and I would inclose her to ye but for the horns.

I would beg of ye not to break the sale of this letter until two or three days after ye read it, for thin ye will be better prepared for the sorrowful news.

PATRICK O'BRANIGAN.

To Michael Glancy, No. -- Broad Street, United States of Ameriky, State of Ma.s.sachusetts, in Boston.

THE WHISTLING REGIMENT.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

[In the recitation which follows, the effect can be heightened by an accompaniment of the piano and by the whistling of strains from Annie Laurie, adapting the style to the sentiment of the verses.

The melody should be played very softly, except where the battle is alluded to, and the whistling should be so timed that the last strain of Annie Laurie may end with the words, "would lay me down and die." The beat of the drums can be introduced with good effect, but it is better to omit it unless it can be done skilfully.

It is well to state before reciting, that the escape described is not entirely imaginary as many prisoners made their way through underground pa.s.sages from rebel prisons, during the Civil War. An asterisk (*) at the end of a line denotes where the whistling should commence, and a dagger (*t) where it should cease.]

When the North and South had parted, and the boom of the signal gun Had wakened the Northern heroes, for the great deeds to be done, When the nation's cry for soldiers had echoed o'er hill and dale, When hot youth flushed with courage, while the mother's cheeks turned pale, In the woods of old New England, as the day sank down the west, A loved one stood beside me, her brown head on my breast.

From the earliest hours of childhood our paths had been as one, Her heart was in my keeping, though I knew not when 'twas won; We had learned to love each other, in a half unspoken way, But it ripened to full completeness when the parting came, that day; Not a tear in the eyes of azure, but a deep and fervent prayer, That seemed to say: "G.o.d bless you, and guard you, everywhere."

At the call for volunteers, her face was like drifted snow, She read in my eyes a question and her loyal heart said, "Go."

As the roll of the drums drew nearer, through the leaves of the rustling trees,*

The strains of Annie Laurie were borne to us, on the breeze.

Then I drew her pale face nearer and said: "Brave heart and true, Your tender love and prayers shall bring me back to you."

And I called her _my_ Annie Laurie and whispered to her that I For her sweet sake was willing--to lay me down and die.

And I said: "Through the days of danger, that little song shall be Like a pa.s.s word from this hillside, to bring your love to me."[*t]

Oh! many a time, at nightfall, in the very shades of death, When the picket lines were pacing their rounds with bated breath,*

The lips of strong men trembled and brave b.r.e.a.s.t.s heaved a sigh, When some one whistled softly, "I'd lay me down and die."[*t]

The tender little ballad our watchword soon became, And in place of Annie Laurie, each had a loved one's name.

In the very front of battle, where the bullets thickest fly,*

The boys from old New England oftimes went rus.h.i.+ng by, And the rebel lines before us gave way where'er we went, For the gray coats fled in terror from the "whistling regiment."

Amidst the roar of the cannon, and the shriek of the sh.e.l.ls on high, Yon could hear the brave boys whistling: "I'd lay me down and die."[*t]

But, Alas! Though truth is mighty and right will at last prevail, There are times when the best and bravest, by the wrong outnumbered, fail; And thus, one day, in a skirmish, but a half-hour's fight at most, A score of the whistling soldiers were caught by the rebel host.

With hands fast tied behind us, we were dragged to a prison pen, Where, hollow-eyed and starving, lay a thousand loyal men.

No roof but the vault of Heaven, no bed save the beaten sod, Shut in from the world around us, by a wall where the sentries trod.

For a time our Annie Laurie brought cheer to that prison pen; A hope to the hearts of the living; a smile to the dying men.

But the spark of Hope burned dimly, when each day's setting sun Dropped the pall of night o'er a comrade, whose sands of life were run.

One night, in a dismal corner, where the shadows darkest fell, We huddled close together to hear a soldier tell The tales of dear New England and of loved ones waiting there, When, Hark! a soft, low whistle, pierced through the heavy air,*

And the strain was Annie Laurie. Each caught the other's eye, And with trembling lips we answered, "I'd lay me down and die."

From the earth, near the wall behind us, a hand came struggling through, With a crumpled bit of paper for the captive boys in blue.

And the name! My G.o.d! 'Twas Annie, my Annie, true and brave, From the hills of old New England she had followed me to save.[*t]

"Not a word or a sign, but follow, where'er you may be led, Bring four of your comrades with you," was all hat the writing said.

Only eight were left of the twenty and lots were quickly thrown, Then our trembling fingers widened the s.p.a.ce where the hand had shown.

With a stealthy glance at the sentries, the prisoners gathered round, And the five whom fate had chosen stole silent underground, On, on, through the damp earth creeping, we followed our dusky guide, Till under a bank o'erhanging we came to the river side: "Straight over," a low voice whispered, "where you see yon beacon light,"

And ere we could say, "G.o.d bless you," he vanished into the night.

Through the fog and damp of the river, when the moon was hid from sight, With a fond, old, faithful negro, brave Annie had crossed each night; And the long, dark, narrow pa.s.sage had grown till we heard close by The notes of the dear old pa.s.s-word: "I'd lay me down and die."

With oarlocks m.u.f.fled and silent, we pushed out into the stream, When a shot rang out on the stillness. We could see by the musket gleam, A single sentry firing, but the b.a.l.l.s pa.s.sed harmless by, For the stars had hid their faces and clouds swept o'er the sky.

O G.o.d! How that beacon burning, brought joy to my heart that night,*

For I knew whose hand had kindled that fire to guide our flight.

The new-born hope of freedom filled every arm with strength, And we pulled at the oars like giants till the sh.o.r.e was reached at length.

We sprang from the skiff, half-fainting, once more in the land of the free, And the lips of my love were waiting to welcome and comfort me.

In my wasted arms I held her, while the weary boys close by Breathed low, "For Annie Laurie, I'd lay me down and die."[*t]

THE MINISTER'S GRIEVANCES.

"Brethren," said the aged minister, as he stood up before the church meeting on New Year's Eve, "I am afraid we will have to part. I have labored among you now for fifteen years, and I feel that that is almost enough, under the peculiar circ.u.mstances in which I am placed. Not that I am exactly dissatisfied; but a clergyman who has been preaching to sinners for fifteen years for five hundred dollars a year, naturally feels that he is not doing a great work when Deacon Jones, acting as an officer of the church, pays his last quarter's salary in a promissory note at six months, and then, acting as an individual, offers to discount it for him at ten per cent if he will take it part out in clover seed and pumpkins.

"I feel somehow as if it would take about eighty-four years of severe preaching to prepare the deacon for existence in a felicitous hereafter.

Let me say, also, that while I am deeply grateful to the congregation for the donation party they gave me on Christmas, I have calculated that it would be far more profitable for me to shut my house and take to the woods than endure another one. I will not refer to the impulsive generosity which persuaded Sister Potter to come with a present of eight clothes pins; I will not insinuate anything against Brother Ferguson, who brought with him a quarter of a peck of dried apples of the crop of 1872; I shall not allude to the benevolence of Sister Tynhirst, who came with a pen-wiper and a tin horse for the baby; I shall refrain from commenting upon the impression made by Brother Hill, who brought four phosph.o.r.escent mackerel, possibly with an idea that they might be useful in dissipating the gloom in my cellar. I omit reference to Deacon Jones' present of an elbow of stove-pipe and a bundle of tooth-picks, and I admit that when Sister Peabody brought me sweetened sausage-meat, and salted and peppered mince-meat for pies, she did right in not forcing her own family to suffer from her mistake in mixing the material. But I do think I may fairly remark respecting the case of Sister Walsingham, that after careful thought I am unable to perceive how she considered that a present of a box of hair-pins to my wife justified her in consuming half a pumpkin pie, six b.u.t.tered m.u.f.fins, two platefuls of oysters, and a large variety of miscellaneous food, previous to jamming herself full of preserves, and proceeding to the parlor to join in singing 'There is rest for the weary!' Such a destruction of the necessaries of life doubtless contributes admirably to the stimulation of commerce, but it is far too large a commercial operation to rest solely upon the basis of a ten-cent box of hair-pins.

"As for matters in the church, I do not care to discuss them at length. I might say much about the manner in which the congregation were asked to contribute clothing to our mission in Senegambia; we received nothing but four neckties and a bra.s.s breast-pin, excepting a second-hand carriage-whip that Deacon Jones gave us. I might allude to the frivolous manner in which Brother Atkinson, our tenor, converses with Sister Priestly, our soprano, during my sermons, and last Sunday he kissed her when he thought I was not looking; I might allude to the absent-mindedness which has permitted Brother Brown twice lately to put half a dollar on the collection-plate and take off two quarters and a ten-cent piece in change; and I might dwell upon the circ.u.mstance that while Brother Toombs, the undertaker, sings 'I would not live alway' with professional enthusiasm that is pardonable, I do not see why he should throw such unction into the hymn 'I am unworthy though I give my all,' when he is in arrears for two years' pew-rent, and is always busy examining the carpet-pattern when the plate goes round. I also----"