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JDLT 27 100
The Commoner.
VERSES WORTHY A PLACE IN SCRAP-BOOKS
ems of Heart Interest Written By The Poets of Today And Yesterday
Brotherhood
God, what a world! if men in street and mart
Felt that same kinship of the human heart
"Which makes them, in the face of flame and flood,
Rise to the meaning of true -brotherhood.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox in Everybody's Magazine
for July.
My Friend
If the realm of language a word might lend
To render immortal a verse or phrase;
'Twould be just this one little jewel, "Friend;"
Ever so ready to pity or praise. .
If the soul take with it into the light "
Of that afterglow, where our paths all trend,
One tender thought from this outer night,
'Twill be that of a true and trusted friend.
Margaret N. Goodnow.
i.
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An Angel in the House
How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,
An angel came to us, and we could boar
To see him issue from the silent air
"At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers
News of dear friends, and children who have never
Been dead indeed aa we shall know forever.
Alas! we think not what we daily see
About our hearts angels, that are to be,
Or may be if they will-, and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air;
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.
-- Leigh Hunt
My Little Doll
J. once had a sweet little doll, dears, ;
The prettiest doll in the world;
Her; cheeks were so red and so white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears, "'
As I played in the heath one day; -And
I cried for more than a week, dears,-
But I never could find where she lay.
I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day;
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away, -s
And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit curled;
Yet for old sakes sake she is still, dears, .
The prettiest doll in- the world.
r Charles Kingsley.
Why?
Why, muwer, why . -
Did God pin the stars up so tight in the sky?
"Why did the cow jump right over the moon?
An' why did the dish run away with the spoon? '?
Cause didn't he like It to see the cow fly? - -.,
"Why, muwer, why? ' .. J
Why, muwer, why
.Can't little boys jump to the moon if they try?
An' why can't they swim just like fishes and fings?
An' why does the little birdies have wings,
An' live little boys have to wait till they die? '
Why, muwer, why? v
Why, muwer, why ' i
- Was all of vose blackbirds all baked in a pie?."
Why couldn't we have one if I should say.
"Please?"
An' why does it worry when little boys tease?
An' why can't things never be now but bime-by?
Why, muwer, why?
Why, muwer, why
Does little boys' froats always ache when they
. cry?
An why does it stop when they're cuddled up
close?
An' what does the sandman do day3, do you
s s'pose?
,- An why do you fink he'll be soon comhV by?.
. Why, muyver, why? .' '
Century Magazine.
Little Tot of Somewhere
Dear little eyes, so heavy,
Dear little arms that twino;
Dear little lips that poutiugly como '
And tenderly cling to mine.
Dear little feet so weary,
That patter about all day
Dear little head on this rugged breast
When the twilight's falling gray.
Dear little tot, so noisy,
With a world of trouble and care, '
Come, and we'll rock to the far-off land
Where dreams will be ever fair.
4
Contentment
Dear little tot of Somewhere,
With heart that is purest gold,
Come, for my arms are empty
Come -for the world is old.
' s
,- ..
Will F. Griffin in Milwaukee Sentinel.,
The Music That Carries
I've tolled with the men the world has blessed.
As I've toiled with the men who failed;
I've toiled with the men who strove with zest,
And I've tolled with the men who wailed.
And this is the tale my soul would tell
As It drifts o'er the harbor bar:
The sound of a sigh don't carry well,
But the lilt of a laugh rings far.
The men who were near the grumbler's side, '
O, they heard not a word he said;
The sound of a song rang far and wide,
And they hearkened to that instead.
'Its tones were sweet as the tales they tell ' ' "
0f the rise of the Christmas star
The sound of a sigh don't carry well, ;JI ;
But the lilt of a laugh rings far. " ;V :;
Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content;
The quiet mind is richer than a crowno;
Swoet are the nights In careless slumber spent;
The poor estate acorns Fortuno's angrlo frowno';
Such sweet contout, such inlndos, such sloop, suc'p
blis
Doggers injoy, when princes oft do mis.
Tho homely house that harbours quiet rest;
Tho cottage that affoords no prldo nor care;
The incane that 'greos with countrlo muslclc best;
The sweet consort of mirth and muslclc faro;
Obscured life sets down a type of blis,
A mlnde content both crowne and kingdom Is.
Robert Greene (15G0-1592.)
;f Th'oughts of the Commandments
' "Love your neighbor as yourself,"
r' w So tho parson preaches;
That's one-half tho Decalogue
So tho prayer-book teaches.
Half my duty I can do
With but little labor,
. ' For with all my heart and soul
f I do love my neighbor.
Mighty little credit, that.
To my self-denial;
Not to love her, though, might be
Something of a trial.
Why, the rosy light, that peeps
Through the glass above her,-i . .
.Lingers round her lips you eo
E'en the sunbeams lovo her.
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If you would be heard, at all, my lad,
Keep a laugh in your heart and throat;
For those who are deaf to accents sad
Are alert to the cheerful note. , "
Keep hold of the cord of laughter's bell,
Keep aloof from the moans' that mar; '
The sound of a sigh don't carry carry well,
But the lilt of a laugh rings far.
" , Strickland W. Gillilan.
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So to make my merit more,
I'll go beyond the letter
Lovo my neighbor as myself?
Yes, and ten times better.
For she's sweoter than the breath
Of the Spring, that passes .-,
Through the fragrant, budding woods,)
O'er tho meadow-grasses.
And I've preached the word I know,
For it was my duty
To convert tho stubborn heart
Of the little beauty.
Once again success has crowned
Missionary labor,
For her sweet eyes own that she
Also loves her neighbor. .
George Augustus Baker
Coming Back
Lilting and laughing .,'.''
The summer days go by, ' ?-
The blossoms nod to every breeze'""
And laugh back td the sky;
The children laugh and romp and play
.As children always do,
And every laughing little girl
Reminds me, dear, of you.
Dancing and skipping
And playing in the sun;
Just living sunbeams clothed and curledt
And given legs to run!
And glad It seems that every one
Is glad as she can be,
And every one just walks right in -
Into the heart o' me.
Toiling and moiling,
And, oh, the days are hot!
And, oh, my heart is longing
For the lass I haven't got;
The little lass afar from me,
With windblown curls of gold,
Who's coming back to kiss her dad
When summer has grown old.
Lilting and laughing,
Arms outstretched and glad!
God bless the little girl who'll, run
With blowing curls to dadi
God keep each daddy safe from harm,
And babes with curls o' gold,
And bring them heart to heart again
When summer has grown old.
J. M. Lewis, In HoustaO Post
A
As Children Do
Sometimes, when night Is creeping down,
And all the world about is dim, . ,
And he must go to Sleepytown,
You He down at the side of him
And whisper soothing little things
In childish words, such as you frame
To tell the sound of beetle wings
And how the firefly gets Its flame.
And soon tho world grows darker yet
And to the little fellow's eyes
Strange, hidden dangers now beset
The shadow places In the skies;
But you speak low and comforting
And tell him none of them are there,
That near him Is not anything
But what is good and kind and fair.
Then trembling come his little hands
Out through the dark and find your face,
As thougli by touch he understands
That he is In the safest place;
And so with fingers on your cheek
He sighs contentedly to sleep
And you, you may not even speak,
So very, very still you keep.
Sometime you, as a little child,
Shall fare Into an unknown night
And shall yearn for the stars that smiled
With all their soothing, drows Usht;
And you, as little children do,
May grope out through the darks of space
And sigh in peace to sleep, when you
At last have touched your father's face.
Wilbur D. Nesbit in the Chicago Evening Post
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