little poem, from the pen of my amiable friend, Prof. W. M. Nevin. I was still a timid Preparatorian. Just at that time of life and study, when a student is the most busily engaged in gathering the autographs of his Professors and fellow-students in his album. I still re member with what a pleasing smile he acceded to my request for this little favor. And how proud I felt with this fine little poem, for he was then as he still is, the most genial poet of our Alma Mater. To my knowledge it has never appeared in print. I deem this a very fitting place for it, right in connection with our talk of these beech tree carvings: "Carve not your name on rind of aspen tree With careless, easy hand, as you are wont, Write me your autograph. No envious growth Of years will spread its lines, but still as writ, Though changed ourselves the while, it will remain; And to my pensive, retrospective eye, By some peculiar dash, or thought encouched, Old thoughts 'twill raise, old pranks, old saws and old, Familiar faces; not antique nor cold By quivering aspen or umbrageous beech." "A righteous man is merciful to his beast," and why not to the fish. Angling is cruel sport, at best. It may be fun for those at one end of the rod, but not to those at the other. Besides, it is acting deceitfully, indeed acting an untruth. Treat your fellow-man as an angler treats the fish, and you will be censured as a tricky man, a liar. Or is it perhaps no sin to lie to an irrational animal? At all events, we did little harm to the poor fish this day. Albeit, we tried hard to catch some. The first pantaloons and the first ride a horseback are great events in the life of a farmer's boy. My first lessons in riding were taken on old, worn-out horses. Nothing gives farmer boys more amusement than an old horse, good-natured, patient, and kindly, allowing children to crawl about on him at pleasure without throwing them off. "Old Jin," taught me the A, B.C,'s in riding. Far back as memory reaches she was a very old mare. Black as a raven, with a hairless tail, somewhat short of breath and weak kneed. She was the mother and grandmother of a tribe of plump, jet-black horses, which did faithful service on our farm many years thereafter. "Tom" taught us to drive the cart to the mill. Of the same color, and of a like tail, strong in limb and trusty. How proud a boy feels when he holds the lines for the first time. He had a way of laying his ears back, and snapping at us, when teased. Pulling a load up a long hill set him to wheezing and coughing. For old horses, like old people do not retain the active breathing of their younger years. Great fun would it afford us to ride him to water or pasture. His hard trotting would greatly bounce the juvenile riders, and test their skill. Very nervous, too, did he become, and somewhat hard of hearing. Of which afflictions the mischievous boys sometimes took cruel advantage. The report of a gun, or a stone thrown against a barn-door near by, would throw him on his knees in a nervous fright. One moonlight night we took him on a hill, back of the barn. One of the men had a gun with a heavy load in it. Around him stood the boys. One held him, the other shot off the gun. Poor "Tom" fell on his knees as if the ball had gone through his heart. "Pete" came somewhat later. Lighter and lithe of limb, but as black as the others. He had more refined qualities, and was honored with the lead in the wagon. Full well I remember with what an arched neck and a proud swing of his head, chafing his bit, he would trot along in the chaise or gig. In summer, instead of a fly-net, his silver-mounted harness was adorned with long branches of asparagus. In the two-seated gig there was only room for father and mother, and little me. He was always rea. dy for a little run on the road. An at tempt of other horses to pass would start him. He would lower his body and stretch his limbs to their utmost capacity. How it used to amuse my father, and frighten his little boy. In harness he was a graceful trotter, and took good care not to hurt the people he had in charge. My first lessons in churchgoing are associated with "Pete." In his old age he taught me the more advanced lessons in horse-back riding Unfortunately for him we boys found out that in spots he was ticklish. The touch of the hand between his hips or of the heels at his flank set him to violent kicking. High into the air would he fling his hind legs. The poor old horse was much annoyed in this way, and vainly tried to pitch his persecutors off his back. I am writing for boys, who know the value of an old and trusty horse to amuse and train the young body and mind. With kindly and grateful feelings I cherish the memory of these faithful servants of my boyhood. A great pleasure would it afford to pat and caress them, to stuff their rack with good hay and give them double measure with the oats-box. When the little boy could not reach up to the head, they would kindly hold it down low and help him, in their own way, to put the bridle on. And before my feet could reach the stirrup, or leap on a horse without it, I would climb on the top rail of a fence, when the old horses would kindly come right close aside of it so as to help me to mount them. In man beast I have a heart to feel grateful for or a kind act. And as one advances in life he turns with growing interest and affection not only to his early play, and school-mates, but even to the dumb animals which bore him company on the old camping ground of his boyhood. Very pleasant it is to revisit the once familiar haunts of one's childhood. Much of its scenery has inwoven itself with his life and memory. And as he returns to familiar spots he lives over the innocent feats and fun of his early years. Yonder is the coasting hill, adown which, in coldest days and moonlight nights our rude home-made little sled bore us with great speed. Many an upset did we have, midway down its slopes, such as now would skin and break one's older limbs. Then it added to the sport. Under yon cedar tree was a small fish pond, whose inmates afforded us boys a world of amusement. With noiseless footsteps we stole to the bank, and watched their playful gambols, now poising themselves in graceful reose, then darting hither and thither, ploughing up the mud to hide them selves from our view. There at the open window of this bedchamber I have been sitting every night for weeks, just as I do this last evening of my visit, with unusual tenderness of heart. It is night, the silent, solemn night. I am sitting, if not under the same roof, on the same spot where I was born. All around me save one, are hushed in sleep. The Katydids sing me their ill-timed songs, just as they did when I was a boy. And as then, their music awakens feelings of pleasant sadness. In the midst of this great peace, the stars look down from heaven, the bright, twinkling stars; grouped together just as of yore. Up there is the "milky way," "Jacob's ladder, as it used to be named for us children. This peaceful little world around me is peopled with the past. The dead and the living again move around me. Hardworking men drive their teams up yonder lane. The ringing voice of merry children swells around me, through the night air. My heart beats with thankfulness. I mutter prayer and praise to God. Right below this open window I took mother. It is now just thirty years ago. my first parting from my now sainted I had never been from home. After much meditation and prayer I started for College. None but a pious mother knows what it means to send her boy away for the first time from her maternal care. For weeks previous she prepared a multitude of such articles, great and small, as a boy away from home might need. A trunk was bought. Every corner of it was packed with boxes and packages. I can still see her stooping over this open trunk. Around her are spread out all manner of goods. Surely no one can compress all these into so small a space. One by one she packs them away. Then unpacks and re-arranges certain parts. Looking at her from this open window, in this still, starry night, I hear her whispering prayers for her boy. Into every little package she puts part of her heart. And thus among the many valuable articles, the most valuable were the prayers put into the trunk with them. At length it is locked. The direction is labelled on the lid. The carriage is waiting before the door. She presses my hand, and sobs her blessing upon me. I still see her standing on the porch weeping, and looking after us until the carriage disappears beyond the top of the hill. I have carefully preserved the old trunk. Sometimes I open the lid, and pass my hand through the several departments, and realize the blessings once stored away in it. In reverently bending over it I feel that the God of my mother is still answering her prayers in my behalf. It is only an old trunk, to be sure. But, dear reader, $100 could not buy it. I am not superstitious, but I confess to a high appreciation of ohjects consecrated by a mother's love. To me it has become a shrine. Though seemingly empty, it is filled with the associations of a mother's prayers. I fain would sit longer at this open window. But it is growing late. To all the people whom fond memory has brought around me to-night, and to all my readers I bid a cordial good-night. hope to meet in the morning. Corn Song. BY J. G. WHITTIER. Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard: Let other lands exulting glean The apple from the pine, We better love the hardy gift To cheer us when the storm shall drift Through vales of grass and flowers Our plows their furrows made, While on the hills the sun and showers Of changeful April played. We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, Beneath the sun of May, And frightened from our sprouting grain The robber crows away. We All through the long bright days of June And now with autumn's moonlit eyes, Then richer than the fabled gifts Let vapid idlers roll in silk, Around the coastly board; Then shame on all the proud and vain, But let the good old corn adorn The hills our fathers trod; Still let us for His golden corn Send up our thanks to God. The World in a Nutshell. BY THE EDITOR. We will approach it by way of this rustic ravine. Here we turn off the main street, to the left along this stream. How wild and winding this shaded path up toward the Centennial buildings! And the music of the stream is pleasant to hear, as its waters roll on their way down the hill. We will begin with the building representing our own Government. For after all, the most wonderful of all this world of assembled wonders, is the young nation, which has just closed its 100th year. Every week-day, from morning to night, you can see a crowd hanging around yonder glass-cases, and examining their unattractive contents with rapt interest. For there are many newer and prettier articles than these to be seen in this building, but none associated with such important historical events. Here is an old compass and other instruments used by Washington in his early youthful soldier-adventures. This antiquated mahogany table and chair belong to his home-furniture. Here is a faded set of porcelain, of seventy-five pieces. Some of it is broken, but good Mrs. Washington kept the broken pieces with the rest. It is the costliest French China, which General Lafayette presented to Martha Washington. In its time it doubtless was the best which France could furnish; for no other would the refined, heroic friend of America consider worthy of the wife of Washington. A good housewife she must have been, saving even her broken China. I confess that next to Washington, I have a greater and more grateful admiration for Lafayette than for any other officer or friend of our cause during the Revolution. A young French nobleman, of great wealth and brilliant prospects at home, leaves for a season his charming family whom he loved with a truly French ardor, and his fascinating social surroundings, and imperils his valuable life in the great struggle for American Independence. He sided with the weak against the strong, with the right against the wrong. It was a glorious act of unselfish devotion to principle. An act of heroism which was rarely equalled in those heroic days. He loved Washington with filial tenderness. In presenting him with the captured key of the Bastille, he calls himself "the son of my adopted father, aid-de-camp to my general, as missionary of liberty to its patriarch." When Lafayette was about to sail for France, Washington attended him to Annapolis. After the affecting parting of the two heroes, Washington sadly returned to Mount Vernon, and poured out his heart afresh in the following letter to his friend : "In the moment of our separation, upon the road as I have traveled, and every hour since, I have felt all that love, respect and attachment for you, with which length of years, close connection and your merits have inspired me. I often asked myself, as our carriages separated, whether that was the last sight I ever should have of you. And though I wished to answer no, my fears answered yes. I called to mind the days of my youth, and found they had long since fled to return no more; and that I was now descending the hill I had been fifty-two years climbing, and that, though I was blessed with a good constitution, I was of a short-lived family, and might soon expect to be entombed in the mansion of my fathers. These thoughts darkened the and consequently, to my prospect of ever shades, and gave a gloom to the picture, seeing you again." At a sale of second-hand furniture, without knowing to whom it once belonged, this faded China set would sell at a merely nominal price. But as a token of Lafayette's affection for the family of Washington, none but the great nation whose liberty he helped to achieve, is wealthy and worthy enough to own it. There lies a flag-the first American flag ever hoisted. That is a noteworthy flag. The forerunner of all the countless flags that have been hoisted since. Often when sadly roaming in foreign lands, without a personal acquaintance or friend near, the sight of our flag at some mast-head, or waving over a consular office fired me with an enthusiasm which no American can ordinarily feel at home. "That flag represents a mighty nation, whose protecting arms reach around the globe, and care for its children in every country." So I often felt and muttered to myself, as I proudly saw it waving in the ports of other nations. Once I came near losing my life in one of the harbors of Sicily. It set me to thinking what would have become of my remains in the event of my death, and who would have apprized my friends at home of my fate. With that I saw the flag of my country waving from the mast-head of an American frigate. There is the kind hand of my native land, said I, even in this remote southern island. Living or dead, the flag of my country follows and protects me all the world over. God bless the dear old flag, and the dear land and principles which it represents. On that table lies the gold-headed cane which Franklin bequeathed to Washington, in his will; and two swords once carried by the great Commander. The tea-board, imported from France at the close of the war, is a relic of his home furniture. In this next case is a collection of plain and well-worn articles. Age and use impart to them a more common appearance than they possessed in their be without Washington and Lafayette? They wrought at its foundation. And a grateful tribute do the nations of the earth pay to their memory as they linger around these faded and time-worn relics of their affection, heroism and daily life. Some of them I have seen at Mount Vernon. Many who cannot visit the home of Washington can see them in the Government building of the Centennial. plow successfully himself, which some think he did, he performed a feat of no ordinary kind. The following extract from one of his letters to a friend leads me to suspect that it took four yoke of oxen to pull it: earlier years. Here is the frail, movable house of the great warrior; the tent-poles, tent-pins and canvas. On his narrow bed lie sheets and a blanket. But why not put up his tent here just as it stood at Valley Forge, and elsewhere? Put it up, gentlemen of the Centennial Commission, and let all the world see the tent in its entire form, in which Washington ate, prayed and slept, during the Revolution. Here lie his old-fashioned, clumsy horse pistols, used before revolv- It may seem strange to you that I ers were in vogue, and his plain, straight, should look at this rude plow, in the silver-handled sword, in a green leather, Agricultural Building. It is the most steel-ribbed sheath, just as he used rudely-constructed article in this departthem in the great battles of the nation. ment, about as large as six ordinary And his buckskin vest and breeches, plows. It has never had any paint on in shape somewhat out of fashion it. The handles are eight feet four in these days,hung at the end of the case. inches in length, and the weight of the For the rough, hard wear of his cam- whole would suit some rustic Goliath. paigns, doubtless, of good service. Here It is Daniel Webster's plow, with which is the old camp-chest, often packed with the rough new ground of his father's all manner of soldier-necessities. And farm or of Marshfield was broken. If the pewter camp-plates-hard-looking the young Daniel ever handled this plates for Washington to eat from. And two-pronged forks and bone-handled knives. Such as one now finds in some pauper houses. From these he ate his frugal camp-meals, himself eating the plainest kind of food, which he cheerfully shared with his suffering soldiers. He never ate without first offering a short prayer, and these old knives and plates saw him do it. And that too is something worth thinking about. See this tin coffee-pot with a wooden handle at the side. Such as the plainest and poorest people now use. A glass salt-cellar and pepper-box. And his iron traveling secretary, divided off into many This is a truly Websterian feeling, little compartments, the whole of the to which many of our present style of size of a large hand-trunk. The mili-statesmen are strangers. Webster may tary coat of fine blue cloth, with pol- well call the successful breaking of new ished flat brass buttons, and the buck- ground an "achievement." Now the skin pants and vest, which he wore at plow strikes a root or rock, and the the close of the war, must have set off handle strikes the breath out of the his tall, graceful form grandly. His plowman, and lays him flat on his back. bed-curtain was worked by the busy Meanwhile, the team moves on without hands of Martha Washington, who was him. He limps after the plow, pulls famous among the matrons of her day and worries to bring it to where it left for her skill in knitting and fine needle- the furrow. Most likely the team will work. be slow to obey him. Limb-sore, nervous and weary, he strikes another concealed root, which throws him on the earth again. Reader, if you have never broken new ground with a balky, stubborn team, you know nothing of one kind of life's vexations. The man who These two cases, like the Roman Forum, are strewn with history. I love to ponder over these venerable remains. Many of the fruits of American ingenuity and progress are treasured up in this building. Butwhat would our nation "When I have hold of the handles of my big plow, with four yokes of oxen to put it through, and hear the roots crack, and see the stumps all go under the furrow out of sight, and observe the clear mellow surface of the plowed land, I feel more enthusiasm over my achievements than comes from my encounters in public life at Washington." |