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"And, if ever you're needy and want a friend,

You know where to come, for your little mite Put hope in my heart and made me strive

To gain the success you have seen to-night.”

Then the carriage stopped at the old man's door,

And the gas-light shone on him standing there; And he stepped to the curb as she rolled away,

While his thin lips murmured a fervent prayer. He looked at the silver and bills and gold,

And he said: “She gives all this to me? My bread has come back a thousand-fold,

God bless her! God bless all such as she.'



Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Time is still a' flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,

The higher he's a getting,
The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.

The age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse and worst

Time still succeed the former.

Then he not coy, but use your time,

And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime,

You may forever tarry.


(In Army and Navy Journal.) It is just beyond the sky-line

With its poppy-fields of rest Where day's storm-bewildered shallop

Drops its anchor in the west, Where a silent sea of saffron

Stretches inland toward the streams That go glimmering down the valleys

Of the purple port o' dreams.

In the far-off gloom behind it

Earth's dusky bound'ry lies, And a step beyond its outpost

The hills of heaven rise;

So near that in the glory

Of their mystic haze it seems That the dear dead walk beside us

In the peaceful port o' dreams.

Oh, strange and wondrous country,

Hiding close the goals of life, Who wins to thee brings courage

For the long, dull march's strife, And the prisoner of living

Hope's freedom pledge redeems In thine endless, boundless radiance,

Oh, the blissful port o' dreams.

We have called thee Heart's Desire,

Or the Island of the Blest, And the Land of Finished Stories,

Oh, dreamland in the west. Yet every heart's the bound'ry

Of thy soul-reposing beams, Art thou hope or love or heaven,

Oh, happy port o' dreams?

Sail away, oh, weary-hearted,

To the bayous of release, Leave the drums o' life behind you

At the harbor bar of peace.

Come to anchor off the headlands

Where the light of heaven gleams In the haven where ye would be

Past the purple port o' dreams.



(In Youth's Companion.) The little country schoolhouse-you Remember it; of course you do! Within the angle snugly set, Where two long yellow highways met, And saplings planted here and there About the yard, and boxed with care As if to typify, in turn, The youngsters caught and caged, to learn. Around, the rolling pastures spread, With woodland patches garlanded, From which the breezes gladly bore Sly invitations to the door. Across the sills the bees' soft hum Was mingled with the muttered sum, And from their covert in the vale In plaintive pleading piped the quail.

With basket and with pail equipped,
Clear-eyed, tan-cheeked and berry-lipped,
Athwart the pastures, down the road,
They trudged to learning's poor abode;
The pink sunbonnet, broad-brimmed straw;
The bare brown feet that knew no law
Of fashion's last; the bundled forms
That laughed aloud at cold and storms.

What tales the scarred desks might relate
Of triumphs gained with book and slate!
What lore the clapboards loose possess
Of feats at noontime and recess!
And doomed how oft the panes to see,


the road, and o'er the lea, Haste boy and girl, new worlds to find, The little schoolhouse left behind.

O little country school! In vain
May critics hold you in disdain.
The greatest lessons that you taught
Were not by chalk and pencil wrought.
As oped your door on fields and sky,
So, likewise just as wide and high,
You opened to the eyes of youth
The principles of love and truth.

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