Recitations for the Social Circle Part 9

The years flew by and the children began With longing to think of the world outside; And as each, in his turn, became a man, The boys proudly went from the father's side.

The girls were women so gentle and fair That lovers were speedy to woo and win; And with orange blossoms in braided hair, The old home was left, the new home to begin.

So, one by one, the children have gone,-- The boys were five and the girls were three; And the big brown house is gloomy and lone, With but two old folks for its company.

They talk to each other about the past, As they sit together in eventide, And say, "All the children we keep at last Are the boy and the girl who in childhood died."

AMERICA FOR G.o.d.

BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE.

But now what are the weapons by which, under our Omnipotent Leader, the real obstacles in the way of our country's evangelization, the ten thousand mile Sebastopols, are to be leveled? The first columbiad, with range enough to sweep from eternity to eternity, is the Bible, millions of its copies going out, millions on millions. Then there are all the Gospel batteries, manned by seventy thousand pastors and home missionaries, over the head of each one of whom is the s.h.i.+eld of Divine protection, and in the right hand of each one the gleaming, two-edged sword of the Infinite Spirit! Hundreds of thousands of private soldiers for Christ, marching under the one-starred, blood-striped flag of Emanuel! On our side, the great and mighty theologians of the land the heavy artillery, and the hundreds of thousands of Christian children the infantry. They are marching on!

Episcopacy, with the sublime roll of its liturgies; Methodism, with its battle-cry of "The sword of the Lord and John Wesley;" the Baptist Church, with its glorious navy sailing up our Oregons and Sacramentos and Mississippis; and Presbyterians, moving on with the battle-cry of "The sword of the Lord and John Knox." And then, after awhile will come the great tides of revival, sweeping over the land, the five hundred thousand conversions in 1857 eclipsed by the salvation of millions in a day, and the four American armies of the Lord's host marching toward each other, the Eastern army marching west, the Western army marching east, the Northern army marching south, the Southern army marching north; shoulder to shoulder! Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! until they meet mid-continent, having taken America for G.o.d!

The thunder of the bombardment is already in the air, and when the last bridge of opposition is taken, and the last portcullis of Satan is lifted, and the last gun spiked, and the last tower dismantled, and the last charger of iniquity shall have been hurled back upon its haunches, what a time of rejoicing!

OUR OWN.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

If I had known, in the morning, How wearily all the day The words unkind would trouble my mind That I said when you went away, I had been more careful, darling, Nor given you needless pain; But--we vex our own with look and tone We might never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening You may give me the kiss of peace, Yet it well might be that never for me The pain of the heart should cease; How many go forth at morning Who never come home at night, And hearts have broken for harsh words spoken That sorrow can ne'er set right.

We have careful thought for the stranger, And smiles for the sometime guest, But oft for our own the bitter tone, Though we love our own the best.

Ah, lip with the curve impatient, Ah, brow with the shade of scorn, 'T were a cruel fate were the night too late To undue the work of morn.

BEHIND TIME.

BY FREEMAN HUNT.

A railroad train was rus.h.i.+ng along at almost lightning speed. A curve was just ahead, and beyond it was a station, at which the cars usually pa.s.sed each other. The conductor was late, so late that the period during which the down train was to wait had nearly elapsed; but he hoped yet to pa.s.s the curve safely. Suddenly a locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. In an instant there was a collision. A shriek, a shock, and fifty souls were in eternity; and all because an engineer had been _behind time_.

A great battle was going on. Column after column had been precipitated for eight mortal hours on the enemy posted along the ridge of a hill. The summer sun was sinking to the west; re-inforcements for the obstinate defenders were already in sight; it was necessary to carry the position with one final charge, or everything would be lost. A powerful corps had been summoned from across the country, and if it came up in season all would yet be well. The great conqueror, confident in its arrival, formed his reserve into an attacking column, and ordered them to charge the enemy.

The whole world knows the result. Grouchy failed to appear; the imperial guard was beaten back; Waterloo was lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at St.

Helena because one of his marshals was _behind time_.

A leading firm in commercial circles had long struggled against bankruptcy.

As it had enormous a.s.sets in California, it expected remittances by a certain day; and, if the sums promised arrived, its credit, its honor, and its future prosperity would be preserved. But week after week elapsed without bringing the gold. At last came the fatal day on which the firm had bills maturing to enormous amounts. The steamer was telegraphed at daybreak; but it was found, on inquiry, that she brought no funds, and the house failed. The next arrival brought nearly half a million to the insolvents, but it was too late; they were ruined because their agent, in remitting, had been _behind time_.

A condemned man was led out for execution. He had taken human life, but under circ.u.mstances of the greatest provocation, and public sympathy was active in his behalf. Thousands had signed pet.i.tions for a reprieve; a favorable answer had been expected the night before; and, though it had not come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet arrive in season.

Thus the morning pa.s.sed without the appearance of the messenger. The last moment had come. The prisoner took his place on the drop, the cap was drawn over his eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung revolving in the wind. Just at that moment a horse-man came into sight, galloping down hill, his steed covered with foam. He carried a packet in his right hand, which he waved rapidly to the crowd. He was the express rider with the reprieve. But he had come too late. A comparatively innocent man had died an ignominious death, because a watch had been five minutes too slow, making its bearer arrive _behind time_.

It is continually so in life. The best-laid plans, the most important affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the weal of nations, honor, happiness, life itself, are daily sacrificed because somebody is "behind time." There are men who always fail in whatever they undertake, simply because they are "behind time." There are others who put off reformation year by year, till death seizes them, and they perish unrepentant, because forever "_behind time_."

Five minutes in a crisis is worth years. It is but a little period, yet it has often saved a fortune or redeemed a people. If there is one virtue that should be cultivated more than another by him who would succeed in life, it is punctuality; if there is one error that should be avoided, it is being _behind time_.

KITTENS AND BABIES.

BY LIZZIE M. HADLEY.

There were two kittens, a black and a gray, And grandmamma said, with a frown, "It never will do to keep them both, The black one we'd better drown."

"Don't cry, my dear," to tiny Bess, "One kitten's enough to keep; Now run to nurse, for 'tis growing late And time you were fast asleep."

The morrow dawned, and rosy and sweet Came little Bess from her nap.

The nurse said, "Go into mamma's room And look in grandma's lap."

"Come here," said grandma, with a smile, From the rocking-chair where she sat, "G.o.d has sent you two little sisters; Now! what do you think of that?"

Bess looked at the babies a moment, With their wee heads, yellow and brown, And then to grandma soberly said, "_Which one are you going to drown_?"

AN UNACCOUNTABLE MYSTERY.

BY PAUL DENTON.

Intemperance is the strangest and most unaccountable mystery with which we have to deal. Why, as a rule, the human soul is pa.s.sionately jealous of its own happiness, and tirelessly selfish as to its own interest. It delights to seek the suns.h.i.+ne and the flowers this side the grave: ardently hopes for heaven in the life to come. It flashes its penetrating thought through the dark chambers of the earth; or lighted by the lurid flames of smouldering, volcanic fires, wings them through buried ovens. It lights up the ocean's bed, melting its mysteries into solution, detecting its coral richness, and causing its buried pearls, which have rested for long centuries beneath the black waves, to glow with their long-h.o.a.rded beauty.

It holds converse with the glittering planets of the skies and compels them to tell it of their mountain ranges, their landscapes, and their utility.

It toys with the mad lightnings which break from the darkness, and guides death and destruction through the earth, until it allures the impetuous element into docility and subserviency. It bids the panting waters breathe their hot, heavy breath upon the piston-rod and make the locomotive a beautiful thing of life, majestically thundering its way over continents, screaming forth the music of civilization in the midst of wild forests and the heat of burning deserts, beneath scorching, torrid suns. It leaps over burning plains and scalding streams; restless and daring, it lights its casket over arctic zones and seas; and perhaps tiring of such inc.u.mbrance, deserts it in the cold shade of the ice mountain and speeds on untrammeled and alone. Franklin followed the beckonings of his tireless spirit until worn out and weary, his body laid down on the cold ice and slept. Kane coaxed himself home to the old churchyard, and then bade his spirit drop the machine it had so sadly wrenched and fly through earth or the eternities, as G.o.d might will. Livingstone marched through the jungles and cheerless forests of uninviting Africa, but his limbs were too feeble to keep up with his hungry soul, which tore itself from its burden and left it to crumble beneath the burning sun. And thus the soul flies from zone to zone and from world to world, sipping the sweets of wisdom, as the bee sucks honey from the flowers; reading lessons from the leaflet on the tree, studying the language of the soft whispering zephyr, and of the hurricane which springs from nothing into devastating power; and it is ever restless in its researches, for it seeks its own happiness and improvement in its new discoveries, and in a better knowledge of G.o.d's creation. Speak to the human soul of liberty, and swell it with grat.i.tude, and, beaming with smiles, it will follow whereever you lead. Speak to it of its immortality and of the divine grandeur of its faculties, and, warmed by your appreciation, it will strive harder for a fuller development and brighter existence. Lead it among the roses, and it will seldom fail to light your pathway with smiles and to remind you of its grat.i.tude. It loves to be noticed; loves to be a.s.sisted; loves to be made happy; loves to be warned of danger, and yet, with reference to that which pierces it with the most bleeding wounds, which more than anything else bars from it the sunlight and robs it of happiness--Intemperance--IT IS AS HEEDLESS AS THE STONE.

IMPERFECTUS.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

I wonder if ever a song was sung, But the singer's heart sang sweeter!

I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung, But the thought surpa.s.sed the meter!

I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought, Till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought!