Recitations for the Social Circle Part 21

"I did it on purpose! You know, Charles, it's so long ago, and I thought you might not exactly remember how you fell in love with me at first sight; how papa and mamma objected, and how, at last, we ran away together; and it seemed to me if we could bring it back all plainly to you as it was then, we might let Lucilla marry the man she loves, who is good, if he is not rich. I do not need to be brought back any plainer myself; women have more time to remember, you know. And we've been very happy--have we not?"

And certainly Mr. Richmond could not deny that. The little ruse was favorable to the young music teacher, who had really only been sentimental, and had not gone one half so far as an elopement; and in due course of time the two were married with all the pomp and grandeur befitting the nuptials of a wealthy merchant's daughter, with the perfect approbation of Lucilla's father.

A ROMAN LEGEND.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

Hour by hour, with skillful pencil, wrought the artist, sad and lone, Day by day, he labored n.o.bly, though to all the world unknown; He was brave, the youthful artist, but his soul grew weak and faint, As he strove to place before him, the fair features of a saint; Worn and weary, he strove vainly, for the touch of Heavenly grace, Till, one day, a radiant sunbeam fell upon the up-turned face, And the very air was flooded with a presence strangely sweet, For the soul, within the sunbeam, seemed to make the work complete; Swift as thought the artist's pencil deftly touched the features fair, Night came down, but one bright sunbeam left its soul imprisoned there; And around his dingy garret gazed the artist, wondering, For the work sublime illumed it like the palace of a king; And within the artist nature flamed his first fond love divine, Which bewildered all his senses, as with rare, old, ruby wine.

Yearningly, he cried: "I love thee," to the radiant saintly face, But the never-ceasing answer was a look of Heavenly grace.

Out into the world he wandered, questioning, searching everywhere, And the stars above, full often, heard his soul burst forth in prayer: "G.o.d in Heaven, in mercy, hear me! Hear thy suppliant's pleading cry, Lead, oh lead! my footsteps to her. Grant but this, or let me die."

Friends forsook and want pursued him, still he struggled on alone, Till, at last, outworn and trembling, reason tottered on its throne, And he seemed the helpless plaything of some mad, relentless fate, Till the Sisterhood of Mercy found him lying at their gate; Made him welcome, gave him shelter and with ever-patient care Bathed his brow and brushed the tangled, matted tresses of his hair.

Long he lingered on the borders of the holy-land of death, One fair Sister, by his bedside, counting low each fluttering breath.

Softly fell the evening shadows, shutting out the golden glow, Of a gorgeous, lingering sunset, gilding all the earth below, When, upon his pillow turning, swift came to him hope's bright gleams, For the anxious face above him was the loved one of his dreams.

But her life was one of mercy, and the band across her brow, Gave the spotless testimony of a maiden's holy vow.

"Is this Heaven? Are you an angel?" swift he questioned her, the while She smoothed back his wavy tresses, only answering with a smile; "Tell me truly, couldst thou love me, since thou wouldst not let me die?"

But she pointed to the band about her brow and breathed a sigh.

In her hours of patient watching, she had learned the bitter truth, That the Sisterhood of Mercy has its anguish and its ruth; Nevermore she came, well-knowing, from temptation se must fly, For his eager, tender questions in her heart had found reply.

Every morning he would question: "Will she come to me to-day?"

And the tender, truthful Sisters shook their heads and turned away, For adown his cla.s.sic features pa.s.sed the shadow of his pain, As he closed his eyes and murmured: "She will never come again."

In his dreams, one night, he fancied she had bent above his bed, And his loving arms reached upward, but the vision sweet had fled.

Hopeless, in his great heart-hunger, through a storm of wind and rain, To his picture turned the artist, bowing low with grief and pain; Open wide he threw the shutters of his garret cas.e.m.e.nt high, Heeding not the vivid lightning, as it flashed athwart the sky.

On his lowly couch reclining, soon in weariness he slept, While the storm clouds o'er him thundering, long and loud their vigils kept.

Wilder grew the night and fiercer blew the winds, until at last, Like a bird of prey or demon, through the shattered cas.e.m.e.nt, pa.s.sed The old shutter, rending, tearing every wondrous touch and trace Of the artist's patient labor, from the radiant, saintly face; And the jagged bands of lightning, as they flashed along the floor, Lit the crushed and crumpled canvas, worthless now forevermore.

And the artist, slowly rising, groped his way across the room, Feeling, knowing he had lost her, though enshrouded in the gloom.

Then besought his couch and murmured: "It is well, G.o.d knoweth best."

And the sunbeams of the morning found a weary soul--at rest.

A FRIEND OF THE FLY.

With a fly-screen under one arm and a bundle of sticky fly-paper under the other, an honest agent entered a grocery store one day in the summer and said: "Why don't you keep 'em out?"

"Who vash dot?" asked the grocery-man.

"Why, the pesky flies. You've got 'em by the thousand in here, and the fly season has only begun. Shall I put fly-screens in the doors?"

"What for?"

"To keep the flies out."

"Why should I keep der flies oudt? Flies like some shance to go aroundt und see der city de same ash agents. If a fly ish kept out on der street all der time he might ash vh.e.l.l be a horse."

"Yes, but they are a great nuisance. I'll put you up a screen door there for three dollars."

"Not any for me. If a fly vhants to come in here, und he behaves himself in a respectable manner, I have notings to say. If he don't behave, I bounce him oudt pooty queek, und don't he forget her!"

"Well, try this fly-paper. Every sheet will catch five hundred flies."

"Who vhants to catch 'em?"

"I do--you--everybody."

"I don't see it like dot. If I put dot fly-paper on der counter somebody comes along und wipes his nose mit it, or somebody leans his elbow on her und vhalks off mit him. It would be shust like my boy Shake to come in und lick all der mola.s.ses off, to play a shoke on his fadder."

"Say, I'll put down a sheet, and if it doesn't catch twenty flies in five minutes I'll say no more."

"If you catch twenty flies I have to pry 'em loose mit a stick und let 'em go, und dot vhas too much work. No, my agent friendt; flies must have a shance to get along und take some comfort. I vhas poor once myself, und I know all about it."

"I'll give you seven sheets for ten cents."

"Oxactly, but I won't do it. It looks to me like shmall beesness for a big agent like you to go around mit some confidence games to shwindle flies. A fly vhas born to be a fly, und to come into my shtore ash often ash he likes. When he comes I shall treat him like a shentleman. I gif him a fair show. I don't keep an axe to knock him in der headt, und I don't put some mola.s.ses all oafer a sheet of paper und coax him to come und be all stuck up mit his feet till he can't fly away. You can pa.s.s along--I'm no such person like dot."

ANSWERED PRAYERS.

BY ELLA WHEELER WILc.o.x.

I prayed for riches, and achieved success,-- All that I touched turned into gold. Alas!

My cares were greater, and my peace was less When that wish came to pa.s.s.

I prayed for glory; and I heard my name Sung by sweet children and by h.o.a.ry men.

But ah! the hurts, the hurts that come with fame!

I was not happy then.

I prayed for love, and had my soul's desire; Through quivering heart and body and through brain There swept the flame of its devouring fire; And there the scars remain.

I prayed for a contented mind. At length Great light upon my darkened spirit burst.

Great peace fell on me, also, and great strength.

Oh! had that prayer been first!

G.o.d IN THE AMERICAN CONSt.i.tUTION.

BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE.