Recitations for the Social Circle Part 38

This book is all that's left me now!

Tears will unbidden start,-- With faltering lip and throbbing brow I press it to my heart.

For many generations past, Here is our family tree: My mother's hand this Bible clasped; She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those Whose names these records bear, Who round the hearthstone used to close After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said, In tones my heart would thrill!

Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters, dear; How calm was my poor mother's look, Who leaned G.o.d's word to hear.

Her angel-face--I see it yet!

What thronging memories come!

Again that little group is met Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I've tried; Where all were false I found thee true, My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasure give That could this volume buy: In teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die.

AFTER-DINNER SPEECH BY A FRENCHMAN.

"Milors and Gentlemans--You excellent chairman, M. le Baron de Mount-Stuart, he have say to me, 'Make de toast.' Den I say to him dat I have no toast to make; but he nudge my elbow ver soft, and say dat dere is von toast dat n.o.body but von Frenchman can make proper; and, derefore, wid your kind permission, I vill make de toast. 'De brevete is de sole of de feet,' as you great philosophere, Dr. Johnson, do say, in dat amusing little vork of his, de p.r.o.nouncing Dictionaire; and, derefore, I vill not say ver moch to de point.

"Ah! mes amis! ven I hear to myself de flowing speech, de oration magnifique of your Lor' Maire, Monsieur Gobbledown, I feel dat it is von great privilege for von etranger to sit at de same table, and to eat de same food, as dat grand, dat majestique man, who are de tereur of de voleurs and de brigands of de metropolis, and who is also, I for to suppose, a halterman and de chief of you common scoundrel. Milors and gentlemans, I feel that I can perspire to no greatare honueur dan to be von common scoundrelman myself; but, helas! dat plaisir are not for me, as I are not freeman of your great cite, not von liveryman servant of von you compagnies joint-stock. But I must not forget de toast.

"Milors and Gentlemans! De immortal Shakispeare he have write, 'De ting of beauty are de joy for nevermore.' It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is more entrancing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, de vinking eye of de beautiful lady! It is de ladies who do sweeten the cares of life. It is de ladies who are de guiding stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do cheer but not inebriate, and, derefore, vid all homage to dere s.e.x, de toast dat I have to propose is, 'De Ladies! Heaven bless dem all!'"

THE WHIRLING WHEEL.

BY TUDOR JENKS.

Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind!

We rise in the morning only to find That Monday's but Tuesday, and Wednesday's the same, And Thursday's a change in nothing but name; A Friday and Sat.u.r.day wind up the week; On Sunday we rest, and attempt to look meek.

So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel!

The mill that we're grinding Works for our weal.

And although the dull round is a kind of a grind, It has compensations that we may find.

Famine and slaughter and sieges no more Are likely to leave their cards at the door.

Let others delight in adventurous lives-- We read their sore trials at home to our wives.

So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel!

The mill that we're grinding Works for our weal.

The regular round, though a kind of a grind, Brings thoughts of contentment to quiet the mind: The babies sleep soundly in snug little beds; There's a tight little roof o'er the ringletted heads; The wife's welcome comes with the set of the sun, And the worker may rest, for the day's work is done.

So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel!

The mill that we're grinding Works for our weal.

Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind, But the world's scenes are shifted by workmen behind.

The star who struts central may show no more art Than the st.u.r.dy "first citizen" filling his part.

When the king to our plaudits has graciously bowed, The crowd sees the king, while the king sees the crowd.

So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel!

The mill that we're grinding Works for our weal.

When the great mill has stopped, and the work is complete, And the workers receive the reward that is meet, Who can tell what the Master shall say is the best?

We but know that the worker who's aided the rest, Who has kept his wheel turning from morning to night, Who has not wronged his fellow, is not far from right.

So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel!

The mill that we're grinding Shall work out our weal.

THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER.

BY CHARLES SHEPPARD.

It was the seventh of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky was cloudless; the foliage of the wood scarce tinged with purple and gold; the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of legions shook the ground; from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel; on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet.

Gates was sad and thoughtful as he watched the evolutions of the two armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground, and a chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart.

Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which they stood came a rider, upon a black horse, rushing toward the distant battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and his rider that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the sharp blade quivers through the air--he points to the distant battle, and, lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains.

Wherever the fight is the thickest, there, through intervals of cannon smoke, you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a magnificent sight to see that strange soldier and that n.o.ble black horse, dashing like a meteor, down the long columns of battle? Let us look for a moment into those dense war clouds. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of American militiamen, their rude farmer coats stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee before that company of redcoat hirelings, who come rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. In this moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches right in the path of a broad-shouldered militiaman. "Now! cowards! advance another step and I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the unknown, extending a pistol in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you down." This appeal was not without its effect. The militiaman turns; his comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. "Now, upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer. They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider is heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. "Club your rifles and charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then a confused conflict--a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers.

Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemiss' Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep--that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and, as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he seized his rifle and started toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that Black Steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on toward the fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men of Quebec! come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. Now British cannon pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry if you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the Black Horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred b.a.l.l.s; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent, "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg shattered by a cannon-ball. Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you shall see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the storming of Quebec. That rider of the Black Horse was Benedict Arnold.

SHE CUT HIS HAIR.

You can always tell a boy whose mother cuts his hair. Not because the edges of it look as if it had been chewed off by an absent-minded horse; but you can tell it by the way he stops on the streets and wriggles his shoulders.

When a fond mother has to cut her boy's hair she is careful to guard against any annoyance and muss by laying a sheet on the carpet. It has never yet occurred to her to set him over a bare floor and put the sheet around his neck. Then she draws the front hair over his eyes, and leaves it there while she cuts that which is at the back; the hair which lies over his eyes appears to be surcharged with electric needles, and that which is silently dropping down over his shirtband appears to be on fire. She has unconsciously continued to push his head forward until his nose presses his breast, and is too busily engaged to notice the snuffling sound that is becoming alarmingly frequent. In the meantime he is seized with an irresistible desire to blow his nose, but recollects that his handkerchief is in the other room. Then a fly lights on his nose, and does it so unexpectedly that he involuntarily dodges and catches the points of the shears in his left ear. At this he commences to cry and wish he was a man.

But his mother doesn't notice him. She merely hits him on the other ear to inspire him with confidence and goes on with the work. When she is through she holds his jacket-collar back from his neck, and with her mouth blows the short bits of hair from the top of his head down his back. He calls her attention to this fact, but she looks for a new place on his head and hits him there, and asks him why he didn't use a handkerchief. Then he takes his awfully disfigured head to the mirror and looks at it, and, young as he is, shudders as he thinks of what the boys on the street will say.

AN APPEAL FOR LIBERTY.

BY JOSEPH STORY.

I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors--by the dear ashes which repose in this precious soil--by all you are, and all you hope to be--resist every object of disunion, resist every encroachment upon your liberties, resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, or smother your public schools, or extinguish your system of public instruction.

I call upon you, mothers, by that which never fails in woman, the love of your off-spring; teach them, as they climb your knees, or lean on your bosoms, the blessings of liberty. Swear them at the altar, as with their baptismal vows, to be true to their country, and never to forget or forsake her.