Twilight Stories Part 9

If I had a horse I would call him "Gay,"

Feed and curry him well every day, Hitch him up in my cart and take a ride, With Baby Brother tucked in at my side.

LITTLE BROWN THRUSHES.

Little brown thrushes at sunrise in summer After the May-flowers have faded away, Warble to show unto every new-comer How to hush stars, yet to waken the Day: Singing first, lullabies, then, jubilates, Watching the blue sky where every bird's heart is; Then, as lamenting the day's fading light, Down through the twilight, when wearied with flight, Singing divinely, they breathe out, "good-night!"

Little brown thrushes with birds yellow-breasted Bright as the sunshine that June roses bring, Climb up and carol o'er hills silver-crested Just as the bluebirds do in the spring, Seeing the bees and the b.u.t.terflies ranging, Pointed-winged swallows their sharp shadows changing; But while some sunset is flooding the sky, Up through the glory the brown thrushes fly, Singing divinely, "good-night and good-by!"

BY Mrs. WHITON-STONE.

This tall Giraffe, Measures ten feet and a half, And I wonder if his neck Of rubber is made.

Out of the sun He thinks he has run But only his feet Are in the shade.

THE STORY OF THE EMPTY SLEEVE.

Here, sit ye down alongside of me; I'm getting old and gray; But something in the paper, boy, has riled my blood today.

To steal a purse is mean enough, the most of men agree; But stealing reputation seems a meaner thing to me.

A letter in the Herald says some generals allow That there wa'n't no fight where Lookout rears aloft its s.h.a.ggy brow; But this coat sleeve swinging empty here beside me, boy, to-day, Tells a mighty different story in a mighty different way.

When sunbeams flashed o'er Mission Ridge that bright November morn, The misty cap on Lookout's crest gave token of a storm; For grim King Death had draped the mount in grayish, smoky shrouds-- Its craggy peaks were lost to sight above the fleecy clouds.

Just at the mountain's rocky base we formed in serried lines, While lightning with its jagged edge played on us from the pines; The mission ours to storm the pits 'neath Lookout's crest that lay; We stormed the very "gates of h.e.l.l" with "Fighting Joe" that day.

The mountain seemed to vomit flames; the boom of heavy guns Played to Dixie's music, while a treble played the drums: The eagles waking from their sleep, looked down upon the stars Slow climbing up the mountain side, with morning's broken bars.

We kept our eyes upon the flag that upward led the way Until we lost it in the smoke on Lookout side that day; And then like demons loosed from h.e.l.l we clambered up the crag, "Excelsior," our motto, and our mission, "Save the flag."

In answer to the rebel yell we gave a ringing cheer; We left the rifle-pits behind, the crest loomed upward near; A light wind playing 'long the peaks just lifted death's gray shroud; We caught the gleam of silver stars just breaking through the cloud.

A shattered arm hung at my side that day on Lookout's crag, And yet I'd give the other now to save the dear old flag.

The regimental roll when called on Lookout's crest that night Was more than doubled by the roll Death called in realms of light.

Just as the sun sank slowly down behind the mountain's crest, When mountain peaks gave back the fire that flamed along the west, Swift riding down along the ridge upon a charger white, Came "Fighting Joe," the hero now of Lookout's famous fight.

He swung his cap as tears of joy slow trickled down his cheek, And as our cheering died away, the general tried to speak.

He said, "Boys, I'll court-martial you, yes, every man that's here; I said to take the rifle pits," we stopped him with a cheer, "I said to take the rifle pits upon the mountain's edge, And I'll court-martial you because--because you took the ridge"

Then such a laugh as swept the ridge where late King Death had strode!

And such a cheer as rent the skies, as down our lines he rode!

I'm getting old and feeble, I've not long to live, I know, But there WAS A FIGHT AT LOOKOUT. I was there with "Fighting Joe."

So these generals in the Herald, they may reckon and allow That there warn't no fight at Lookout on the mountain's s.h.a.ggy brow, But this empty coat-sleeve swinging here beside me, boy, to-day Tells a mighty different tale in a mighty different way.

R. L. CARY, JR.

A race! A race! Which will win, Thin little Harold or chubby Jim?

Surely not Harold for there he goes Down so flat he b.u.mps his nose, While Jimmy stops short.

The fat little elf, Says he can't run a race all by himself.

FACING THE WORLD.

"Glad I am, mother, the holidays are over. It's quite different going back to school again when one goes to be captain--as I'm sure to be.

Isn't it jolly?"

Mrs. Boyd's face as she smiled back at Donald was not exactly "jolly."

Still, she did smile; and then there came out the strong likeness often seen between mother and son, even when, as in this case, the features were very dissimilar. Mrs. Boyd was a pretty, delicate little English woman: and Donald took after his father, a big, brawny Scotsman, certainly not pretty, and not always sweet. Poor man! he had of late years had only too much to make him sour.

Though she tried to smile and succeeded, the tears were in Mrs. Boyd's eyes, and her mouth was quivering. But she set it tightly together, and then she looked more than ever like her son, or rather, her son looked like her.

He was too eager in his delight to notice her much. "It is jolly, isn't it, mother? I never thought I'd get to the top of the school at all, for I'm not near so clever as some of the fellows. But now I've got my place; and I like it, and I mean to keep it; you'll be pleased at that, mother?"

"I should have been if--if--" Mrs. Boyd tried to get the words out and failed, closed her eyes as tight as her mouth for a minute, then opened them and looked her boy in the face gravely and sadly.

"It goes to my heart to tell you--I have been waiting to say it all morning, but, Donald, my dear, you will never go back to school at all."

"Not go back; when I'm captain! why, you and father both said that if I got to be that, I should not stop till I was seventeen--and now I'm only fifteen and a half. O, mother, you don't mean it! Father couldn't break his word! I may go back!"

Mrs. Boyd shook her head sadly, and then explained as briefly and calmly as she could the heavy blow which had fallen upon the father, and, indeed, upon the whole family. Mr. Boyd had long been troubled with his eyes, about as serious a trouble as could have befallen a man in his profession--an accountant--as they call it in Scotland. Lately he had made some serious blunders in his arithmetic, and his eyesight was so weak that his wife persuaded him to consult a first-rate Edinburgh oculist, whose opinion, given only yesterday, after many days of anxious suspense, was that in a few months he would become incurably blind.

"Blind, poor father blind!" Donald put his hand before his own eyes. He was too big a boy to cry, or at any rate, to be seen crying, but it was with a choking voice that he spoke next: "I'll be his eyes; I'm old enough."

"Yes; in many ways you are, my son," said Mrs. Boyd, who had had a day and a night to face her sorrow, and knew she must do so calmly. "But you are not old enough to manage the business; your father will require to take a partner immediately, which will reduce our income one-half.

Therefore we cannot possibly afford to send you to school again. The little ones must go, they are not nearly educated yet, but you are. You will have to face the world and earn your own living, as soon as ever you can. My poor boy!"

"Don't call me poor, mother. I've got you and father and the rest. And, as you say, I've had a good education so far. And I'm fifteen and a half, no, fifteen and three-quarters--almost a man. I'm not afraid."

"Nor I," said his mother, who had waited a full minute before Donald could find voice to say all this, and it was at last stammered out awkwardly and at random. "No; I am not afraid because my boy has to earn his bread; I had earned mine for years as a governess when father married me. I began work before I was sixteen. My son will have to do the same, that is all."

That day the mother and son spoke no more together. It was as much as they could do to bear their trouble, without talking about it, and besides, Donald was not a boy to "make a fuss" over things. He could meet sorrow when it came, that is, the little of it he had ever known, but he disliked speaking of it, and perhaps he was right.

So he just "made himself scarce" till bedtime, and never said a word to anybody until his mother came into the boys' room to bid them good-night. There were three of them, but all were asleep except Donald.

As his mother bent down to kiss him, he put both arms round her neck.