Recitations for the Social Circle Part 34

LITTLE FEET.

Up from all the city's by-ways, From the breathless, sickening heat, To the wide-swung gate of heaven, Eager throng the little feet.

Not a challenge has the warder For these souls so sinless white; Round each brow the Saviour's blessing Circles like a crown of light.

See, the Lord Himself stands waiting, Wide His loving arms are spread; On his heart of hearts is pillowed Every weary baby's head.

But below, with tear-wet faces, And with hearts all empty grown, Stand the mourning men and women, Vainly calling back their own.

Upward floats the voice of mourning-- "Jesus, Master, dost thou care?"

Aye, He feels each drop of anguish-- "He doth all our sorrows bear."

Wipe thine eyes, O heavy laden; Look beyond the clouds and see, With your dear one on His bosom, Jesus stands and calls to thee.

Waits with yearning, all unfathomed-- Love you cannot understand, Lures you upward with the beckoning Of your buried baby's hand.

A RAINY DAY.

Patter, patter, patter, On the window-pane; Drip, drip, drip, Comes the heavy rain.

Now the little birdies Fly away to bed, And each tender blossom Droops its pretty head.

But the little rootlets, In the earth below, Open wide their tiny mouths Where the rain-drops flow;

And the thirsty gra.s.ses Soon grow fresh and green, With the pretty daisies Springing up between.

FAs.h.i.+ONABLE.

A fas.h.i.+onable woman In a fas.h.i.+onable pew; A fas.h.i.+onable bonnet Of a fas.h.i.+onable hue; A fas.h.i.+onable mantle And a fas.h.i.+onable gown; A fas.h.i.+onable Christian In a fas.h.i.+onable town; A fas.h.i.+onable prayer-book.

And a fas.h.i.+onable choir; A fas.h.i.+onable chapel With a fas.h.i.+onable spire; A fas.h.i.+onable preacher With a fas.h.i.+onable speech; A fas.h.i.+onable sermon With a fas.h.i.+onable reach; A fas.h.i.+onable welcome At the fas.h.i.+onable door; A fas.h.i.+onable penny For the fas.h.i.+onable poor; A fas.h.i.+onable heaven And a fas.h.i.+onable h.e.l.l; A fas.h.i.+onable Bible For this fas.h.i.+onable belle; A fas.h.i.+onable kneeling And a fas.h.i.+onable nod; A fas.h.i.+onable everything, But no fas.h.i.+onable G.o.d.

RESURGAM.

BY EBEN E. REXFORD.

"There is no G.o.d," he said, and turned away From those who sought to lead him to the light; "Here is a violet, growing for a day, When winter comes, and all the world is white, It will be dead. And I am like the flower, To-day, here am I, and to-morrow, dust.

Is life worth living for its little hour Of empty pleasure, if decay we must?"

The autumn came, and under fallen leaves The little violet was hid away.

"Dead! dead!" cried he. "Alas, all nature grieves For what she loves is destined to decay.

Soon like the violet, in soft, damp earth I shall be hidden, and above my head A stone will tell the record of my birth And of my nothingness when I am dead."

Spring came, and from the mold the little flower He had thought dead, sprung up to sweetest bloom.

He saw it, and his heart was touched that hour, And grasped the earth-old mystery of the tomb.

"G.o.d of the flower," he said, with reverent voice, "The violet lives again, and why not I?

At last my blind eyes see, and I rejoice.

The soul within me was not born to die!"

THE FAULT OF THE AGE.

BY ELLA WHEELER WILc.o.x.

The fault of the age is a mad endeavor To leap to heights that were made to climb; By a burst of strength or a thought that is clever We plan to outwit and forestall Time.

We scorn to wait for the thing worth having; We want high noon at the day's dim dawn, We find no pleasure in toiling and saving As our forefathers did in the good times gone.

We force our roses before their season To bloom and blossom that we may wear; And then we wonder and ask the reason Why perfect buds are so few and rare.

We crave the gain, but despise the getting; We want wealth, not as reward, but dower; And the strength that is wasted in useless fretting Would fell a forest or build a tower.

To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning; To thirst for glory, yet fear the fight-- Why, what can it lead to at last but sinning, To mental languor and moral blight?

Better the old slow way of striving And counting small gains when the year is done, Than to use our forces all in contriving And to grasp for pleasures we have not won.

THE BOOK CANVa.s.sER.

BY MAX ADELER.

He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was positively gloomy, he said: "Mr. ----, I'm canva.s.sing for the National Portrait Gallery; splendid work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains pictures of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to the present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can't take your name.

"Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his book and pointing to an engraving, "That's--lemme see--yes, that's Columbus, perhaps you've heard sumfin' about him? The publisher was telling me to-day before I started out that he discovered--No; was it Columbus that dis--Oh! yes.

Columbus, he discovered America--was the first man here. He came over in a s.h.i.+p, the publisher said, and it took fire, and he stayed on deck because his father told him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain't it? Taken from a photograph, all of 'em are; done especially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd but they say that's the way they dressed in them days. Look at this one. Now isn't that splendid? William Penn, one of the early settlers.

I was reading t'other day about him. When he first arrived he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and when they shook some apples down, he set one on top of his son's head, and shot an arrow plump through it and never fazed him.

They say it struck them Indians cold; he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance, hasn't he? Face shaved clean; he didn't wear a mustache, I believe, but he seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is, that every man ought to have a picture of that Patriarch so's to see how the fust settlers looked and what kind of weskets they yoused to wear. See his legs; too! Trousers a little short maybe, as if he was going to wade in a creek; but he's all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see.

Subscription list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you? There's something nice. That I think, is--is--that's a--a--yes, to be sure, Was.h.i.+ngton--you recollect him, of course? Some people call him Father of his Country, George--Was.h.i.+ngton. He had no middle name, I believe. He lived about two hundred years ago and he was a fighter. I heard the publisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yer at Trenton, and seems to me, if I recollect right, I've read about it myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights to see her when the old man was asleep. The girl's family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man to do that, don't he? He's got it in his eye.

If it'd been me I'd gone over on a bridge, but he probably wanted to show off afore her; some men are so reckless, you know. Now, if you'll conclude to take this I'll get the publisher to write out some more stories about him, and bring 'em round to you, so's you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other things, but I've forgot 'em; my memory's so awful poor.

"Less see! Who have we next? Ah! Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He was one of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what he is celebrated for, but I think it was a flying a--oh! yes, flying a kite, that's it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying a kite, you know, like boys do now-a-days, and while she was a flickering up in the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a tree and hit him on the head;--then he discovered the attraction of gravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn't it? Now, if you or me'd a been hit, it'd just a made us mad like as not and set us a ravin'. But men are so different. One man's meat's another man's pison. See what a double chin he's got. No beard on him, either, though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round face. He hasn't got on a sword and I reckon he was no soldier;--fit some when he was a boy, maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I ain't one, myself, and I think all the better of him for it. Ah, here we are! Look at that! Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith! Isn't that gorgeous? See, how she kneels over him, and sticks out her hands while he lays on the ground, and that big fellow with a club tries to hammer him up. Talk about woman's love! There it is for you. Modocs, I believe, Anyway some Indians out West there, somewheres; and the publisher tells me that Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his name is there, was going to bang old Smith over the head with a log of wood, and this here girl she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke loose, and jumped forward and says to the man with the stick, 'Why don't you let John alone? Me and him are going to marry, and if you kill him I'll never speak to you as long as I live,' or words like them, and so the man he give it up, and both of them hunted up a preacher and were married and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful story, isn't it? A good wife she made him, too, I'll bet, if she was a little copper-colored. And don't she look just lovely in that picture? But Smith appears kinder sick, evidently thinks his goose is cooked, and I don't wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a discouraging club.