Recitations for the Social Circle Part 10

Or if ever a painter, with light and shade, The dream of his inmost heart portrayed!

I wonder if ever a rose was found, And there might not be a fairer!

Or if ever a glittering gem was ground, And we dreamed not of a rarer!

Ah! never on earth do we find the best, But it waits for us in a Land of Rest, And a perfect thing we shall never behold, Till we pa.s.s the portals of shining gold.

A WOMAN'S POCKET.

BY JAMES M. BAILEY.

The most difficult thing to reach is a woman's pocket. This is especially the case if the dress is hung up in a closet, and the man is in a hurry. We think we are safe in saying that he always is in a hurry on such an occasion. The owner of the dress is in the sitting room serenely engrossed in a book. Having told him that the article which he is in quest of is in her dress pocket in the closet she has discharged her whole duty in the matter and can afford to feel serene. He goes at the task with a dim consciousness that he has been there before, but says nothing. On opening the closet door and finding himself confronted with a number of dresses, all turned inside out and presenting a most formidable front, he hastens back to ask "Which dress?" and being told the brown one, and also asked if _she_ has so _many_ dresses that there need be any great effort to find the right one, he returns to the closet with alacrity, and soon has his hands on the brown dress. It is inside out like the rest,--a fact he does not notice, however, until he has made several ineffectual attempts to get his hand into it. Then he turns it around very carefully and pa.s.ses over the pocket several times without knowing it. A nervous movement of his hands, and an appearance of perspiration on his forehead are perceptible. He now dives one hand in at the back, and feeling around, finds a place, and proceeds to explore it, when he discovers that he is following up the inside of a lining. The nervousness increases, also the perspiration. He twitches the dress on the hook, and suddenly the pocket, white, plump and exasperating, comes to view. Then he sighs the relief he feels and is mentally grateful he did not allow himself to use any offensive expressions. It is all right now. There is the pocket in plain view--not the inside but the outside--and all he has to do is to put his hand right around in the inside and take out the article. That is all. He can't help but smile to think how near he was to getting mad. Then he puts his hand around to the other side. He does not feel the opening. He pushes a little further--now he has got it; he shoves the hand down, and is very much surprised to see it appear opposite his knees. He had made a mistake. He tries again; again he feels the entrance and glides down it only to appear again as before. This makes him open his eyes and straighten his face. He feels of the outside of the pocket, pinches it curiously, lifts it up, shakes it, and, after peering closely about the roots of it, he says, "How funny!" and commences again. He does it calmly this time, because hurrying only makes matters worse. He holds up breadth after breadth, goes over them carefully, gets his hand first into a lining, then into the air again (where it always surprises him when it appears), and finally into a pocket, and is about to cry out with triumph, when he discovers that it is the pocket to another dress. He is mad now; the closet air almost stifles him; he is so nervous he can hardly contain himself, and the pocket looks at him so exasperatingly that he cannot help but "plug" it with his clenched fist, and immediately does it. Being somewhat relieved by this performance he has a chance to look about him, and sees that he has put his foot through a band-box and into the crown of his wife's bonnet; has broken the brim of his Panama hat which was hanging in the same closet, and torn about a yard of bugle tr.i.m.m.i.n.g from a new cloak. All this trouble is due directly to his wife's infatuation in hanging up her dresses inside out, so he immediately starts after her, and impetuously urging her to the closet, excitedly and almost profanely intimates his doubts of their being a pocket in the dress, anyway. The cause of the unhappy disaster quietly inserts her hand inside the robe, and directly brings it forth with the sought for article in its clasp. He doesn't know why, but this makes him madder than anything else.

MOTHER'S DOUGHNUTS.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

_El Dorado, 1851._

I've just been down ter Thompson's, boys, 'N feelin' kind o' blue, I thought I'd look in at "The Ranch,"

Ter find out what wuz new; When I seed this sign a-hangin'

On a shanty by the lake: "Here's whar yer get your doughnuts Like yer mother used ter make."

I've seen a grizzly show his teeth, I've seen Kentucky Pete Draw out his shooter, 'n advise A "tenderfoot" ter treat; But nuthin' ever tuk me down, 'N made my benders shake, Like that sign about the doughnuts That my mother used ter make.

A sort o' mist shut out the ranch, 'N standin' thar instead, I seen an old, white farm-house, With its doors all painted red.

A whiff came through the open door-- Wuz I sleepin' or awake?

The smell wuz that of doughnuts Like my mother used ter make.

The bees wuz hummin' round the porch Whar honeysuckles grew; A yellow dish of apple-sa.s.s Wuz settin' thar in view.

'N on the table, by the stove, An old-time "Johnny-cake,"

'N a platter full of doughnuts Like my mother used ter make.

A patient form I seemed ter see, In tidy dress of black, I almost thought I heard the words, "When will my boy come back?"

'N then--the old sign creaked: But now it was the boss who spake: 'Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts Like yer mother used ter make.

Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up, 'N ez I've "struck pay gravel,"

I ruther think I'll pack my kit, Vamoose the ranch, 'n travel.

I'll make the old folks jubilant, 'N if I don't mistake, I'll try some o' them doughnuts Like my mother used ter make.

LITERARY ATTRACTIONS OF THE BIBLE.

BY DR. HAMILTON.

G.o.d made the present earth as the Home of Man; but had he meant it as a mere lodging, a world less beautiful would have served the purpose. There was no need for the carpet of verdure, or the ceiling of blue; no need for the mountains, and cataracts, and forests; no need for the rainbow, no need for the flowers. A big, round island, half of it arable, and half of it pasture, with a clump of trees in one corner, and a magazine of fuel in another, might have held and fed ten millions of people; and a hundred islands, all made in the same pattern, big and round, might have held and fed the population of the globe.

But man is something more than the animal which wants lodging and food. He has a spiritual nature, full of keen perceptions and deep sympathies. He has an eye for the sublime and the beautiful, and his kind Creator has provided man's abode with affluent materials for these n.o.bler tastes. He has built Mont Blanc, and molten the lake in which its image sleeps. He has intoned Niagara's thunder, and has breathed the zephyr which sweeps its spray. He has s.h.a.gged the steep with its cedars, and be-sprent the meadow with its king-cups and daisies. He has made it a world of fragrance and music,--a world of brightness and symmetry,--a world where the grand and the graceful, the awful and lovely, rejoice together. In fashioning the Home of Man, the Creator had an eye to something more than convenience, and built, not a barrack, but a palace--not a Union work-house, but an Alhambra; something which should not only be very comfortable, but very splendid and very fair; something which should inspire the soul of its inhabitant, and even draw forth the "very good" of complacent Deity.

G.o.d also made the Bible as the guide and oracle of man; but had He meant it as the mere lesson-book of duty, a volume less various and less attractive would have answered every end. But in giving that Bible, its divine Author had regard to the mind of man. He knew that man has more curiosity than piety, more taste than sanct.i.ty; and that more persons are anxious to hear some new, or read some beauteous thing, than to read or hear about G.o.d and the great salvation. He knew that few would ever ask, "What must I do to be saved?" till they came in contact with the Bible itself; and, therefore, He made the Bible not only an instructive book, but an attractive one,--not only true, but enticing. He filled it with marvelous incident and engaging history; with sunny pictures from Old World scenery, and affecting anecdotes from the patriarch times. He replenished it with stately argument and thrilling verse, and sprinkled it over with sententious wisdom and proverbial pungency. He made it a book of lofty thoughts and n.o.ble images,--a book of heavenly doctrine, but withal of earthly adaptation. In preparing a guide to immortality, Infinite Wisdom gave, not a dictionary, nor a grammar, but a Bible--a book which, in trying to reach the heart of man, should captivate his taste; and which, in transforming his affection, should also expand his intellect. The pearl is of great price; but even the casket is of exquisite beauty. The sword is of ethereal temper, and nothing cuts so keen as its double edge; but there are jewels on the hilt, an exquisite inlaying on the scabbard. The shekels are of the purest ore; but even the scrip which contains them is of a texture more curious than any which the artists of earth can fashion. The apples are gold; but even the basket is silver.

The Bible contains no ornamental pa.s.sages, nothing written for mere display; its steadfast purpose is, "Glory to G.o.d in the highest," and the truest blessedness of man; it abounds in pa.s.sages of the purest beauty and stateliest grandeur, all the grander and all the more beautiful because they are casual and unsought. The fire which flashes from the iron hoof of the Tartar steed as he scours the midnight path is grander than the artificial firework; for it is the casual effect of speed and power. The clang of ocean as he booms his billows on the rock, and the echoing caves give chorus, is more soul-filling and sublime than all the music of the orchestra, for it is the music of that main so mighty that there is a grandeur in all it does,--in its sleep a melody, and in its march a stately psalm. And in the bow which paints the melting cloud there is a beauty which the stained gla.s.s or gorgeous drapery emulates in vain; for it is the glory which gilds beneficence, the brightness which bespeaks a double boon, the flush which cannot but come forth when both the sun and shower are there. The style of Scripture has all this glory. It has the gracefulness of a high utility; it has the majesty of intrinsic power; it has the charm of its own sanct.i.ty: it never labors, never strives, but, instinct with great realities and bent on blessed ends, it has all the translucent beauty and unstudied power which you might expect from its lofty object and all-wise Author.

THE CHRISTMAS BABY.

BY WILL CARLETON.

"Tha'rt welcome, little bonny brid.

But shouldn't ha' come just when tha' did: Teimes are bad."

_English Ballad._

Hoot! ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way, Crowdin' yerself amongst us this bl.u.s.terin' winter's day, Knowin' that we already have three of ye, an' seven, An' tryin' to make yerself out a Christmas present o' Heaven?

Ten of ye have we now, Sir, for this world to abuse; An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat, an' Nellie she have no shoes, An' Sammie he have no shirt, Sir (I tell it to his shame), An' the one that was just before ye we ain't had time to name!

An, all o' the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folk fall; An' Boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all; An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight, An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night;

An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somewhat to do, An' but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us through, An' but for your poor dear mother a-doin' twice her part, Ye'd 'a seen us all in heaven afore _ye_ was ready to start!

An' now _ye_ have come, ye rascal! so healthy an' fat an' sound, A-weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound!

With yer mother's eyes a flashin', yer father's flesh an' build, An' a big mouth an' stomach all ready for to be filled!

No, no! don't cry, my baby! hush up, my pretty one!

Don't get my chaff in yer eye, boy--I only was just in fun.

Ye'll like us when ye know us, although we're cur'us folks; But we don't get much victual, and half our livin' is jokes!

Why, boy, did ye take me in earnest? come, sit upon my knee; I'll tell ye a secret, youngster, I'll name ye after me.

Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play, An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day!

Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old, But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold; An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still, them's yer brothers, there, An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair!

Say! when ye come from heaven, my little name-sake dear, Did ye see, 'mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here?

That was yer little sister--she died a year ago, An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow!

Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew Came here with all their traps, boy, an' offered 'em for you, I'd show 'em to the door, Sir, so quick they'd think it odd, Before I'd sell to another my Christmas gift from G.o.d!