Standard Selections Part 15

"'Tis train time, ma'am. Come!"

A look of joy came over her face.

"I am ready," she whispered.

"Then give me your pa.s.s, ma'am."

She reached him a worn old book, which he took, and from it read aloud:--

"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest."

"That's the pa.s.s over our road, ma'am. Are you ready?"

The light died away, and darkness fell in its place. My hand touched the stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start and s.n.a.t.c.hed his lantern. The whistle sounded down brakes; the train was due. He ran to the corner and shook the old woman.

"Wake up, marm; 'tis train time."

But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white set face, and, dropping his lantern, fled.

The up train halted, the conductor shouted "All aboard," but no one made a move that way.

The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he found her frozen to death. They whispered among themselves, and the coroner made out the verdict "apoplexy," and it was in some way hushed up.

But the last look on the sweet old face, lit up with a smile so unearthly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurrence of that night, I know she went out on the other train, that never stopped at the poorhouse.

THE PANSY

ANONYMOUS

Of all the bonny buds that blow, In bright or cloudy weather, Of all the flowers that come and go, The whole twelve moons together, This little purple pansy brings, Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.

I had a little lover once, Who used to give me posies; His eyes were blue as hyacinths, His lips were red as roses; And everybody loved to praise His pretty looks and winsome ways.

The girls that went to school with me Made little jealous speeches, Because he brought me royally His biggest plums and peaches, And always at the door would wait, To carry home my books and slate.

They couldn't see--with pout and fling-- "The mighty fascination About that little snub-nosed thing, To win such admiration; As if there weren't a dozen girls With nicer eyes and longer curls!"

And this I knew as well as they, And never could see clearly Why, more than Marion or May, I should be loved so dearly.

So once I asked him, why was this; He only answered with a kiss;

Until I teased him: "Tell me why, I want to know the reason."

Then from the garden-bed close by (The pansies were in season) He plucked and gave a flower to me, With sweet and simple gravity.

"The garden is in bloom," he said, "With lilies pale and slender, With roses and verbenas red, And fuchsias' purple splendor; But over and above the rest, This little heart's-ease suits me best."

"Am I your little heart's-ease, then?"

I asked with blushing pleasure.

He answered "Yes!" and "Yes!" again-- "Heart's-ease and dearest treasure;"

That the round world and all the sea Held nothing half so sweet as me!

I listened with a proud delight, Too rare for words to capture, Nor ever dreamed what sudden blight, Would come to chill my rapture.

Could I foresee the tender bloom Of pansies round a little tomb?

Life holds some stern experience, As most of us discover, And I've had other losses since I lost my little lover; But still this purple pansy brings Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.

"THE REVENGE"

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET, 1591

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!"

Then spake Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore G.o.d I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick, We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.

But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ash.o.r.e; I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."

So Lord Howard pa.s.sed away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford and Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight With his huge sea castles heaving upon the weather bow.

"Shall we fight or shall we fly?

Good Sir Richard, let us know, For to fight is but to die!

There'll be little of us left, by the time this sun be set."

And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen; Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turned my back upon Don or Devil yet."

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so The little "Revenge" ran on, sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck and her ninety sick below; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little "Revenge" ran on, thro' the long sea-lane between.

Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laugh'd, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay'd By their mountain-like "San Philip," that, of fifteen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails and we stay'd.

And while now the great "San Philip" hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

And the sun went down, and the stars came out, far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.

Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame, For some were sunk, and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more-- G.o.d of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

For he said: "Fight on! fight on!"

Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be dressed, he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again, in the side and the head, And he said: "Fight on! fight on!"

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet, with broken sides, lay round us, all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting, So they watched what the end would be.

And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maim'd for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife.

And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride: "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again!