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Hush, my darling, and listen,
Then pay for the story with kisses; Father was lost in the pitch black night, In just such a storm as this is,
High up on the lonely mountains,
Where the wild men watched and waited; Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, And I on my path belated.
The rain and the night together
Came down, and the wind came after, Bending the props of the pine tree roof, And snapping many a rafter.
I crept along in the darkness,
Stunned, and bruised, and blinded— Crept to a fur with thick set boughs, And sheltering rock behind it.
There, from the blowing and raining, Crouching, I sought to hide me: Something rustled; two green eyes shone, And a wolf lay down beside me.
Little one, be not frightened;
I and the wolf together,
Side by side, thro' the long, long night
His wet fur pressed against me;
And when the falling forest
No longer crashed in warning,
Each of us went from our hiding place
Darling, kiss me in payment!
Hark, how the wind is roaring;
BY JAMES G. PERCIVAL.
[In a stirring, bold manner.]
At the heart of our country the tyrant was leaping,
When Washington sprang from the watch he was keeping,
Was a legend that told
The brightness that circled our Washington's name.
Long years have roll'd on, and the sun still has brighten'd
And still on its fold
Shine in letters of gold
The glory and worth of our Washington's name.
And pauses to tread in the footsteps of Time;
They are careless and cold,
In the glory that circles our Washington's name.
"HOLD FAST WHAT I GIVE YOU."
[Recite in a simple manner, pressing the palms together in speaking the "Hold fast what I give you."]
Molly, and Maggie, and Alice,
Three little maids in a row,
At play in an arbor palace,
Where the honeysuckles grow.
Six dimpled palms pressed together,
Bonny brown eyes and blue.
Which shall it be, O you charmers?
I, a hard hearted old hermit,
Who the question am set to decide.
Molly, the spirited, the darling,
Shaking her shower of curls;
Whose laugh is the brook's own ripple,
Maggie, the wild little brownie,
Who leads me a chase thro' the garden
Or Alice? Ah! shy eyed Alice,
And hair so golden brown.
Alice, who talks with the flowers,
And says there are none so wise,
For hasn't she seen their bright eyes?
There, there, at last I am ready
To go down the bright, eager row;
Hold fast what I give you, Molly;
Hold fast what I give you, Alice;
But do you know, sweet Alice,
You, a glad little maiden.
How old are you? Only nine;
No matter, you'll be my true love,
THE OLD BACHELOR.
THE MAD POET.
[With liveliness and vim.]
In the vast flower field of human affection there is not a more miserable being than the old bachelor. He is the very scarecrow of human happiness. He scares away the little birds of love that come
to steal the hemlock seeds of loneliness and despair. See him come home to-night, wet and hungry; he finds a cold hearth, a barren table, and a lonely pillow that looks like the white urn of earthly enjoyment.
See him in the afternoon of his days, when his life is sinking to its sundown. Not a solitary star of memory gleams over the dusk of his opening grave. No devoted wife to bend like a blessing over his dying bed; no lovely daughter to draw his icy hand into the fond embrace of hers, and warm his freezing heart with the reviving fires of filial affection; no manly boy to link his breaking name with the golden chain of honorable society, and bind his history in the vast volume of the world he must soon leave forever.
It will soon be said that he has eat, and drank, and died; and earth is glad it is rid of him, for he has done little else than cram lis soul into the circumference of a sixpence, and no human being but his washerwoman will breath a sigh at his funeral.
THE OCEAN STORM.
[Vigorously and with force.]
The storm is dreadful! The heavens are one vast black cloud. The sheeted rain comes down in torrents. The fair earth is deluged. The sea-the broad-breasted sea-is tossed in terrible commotion, and the whole round world seems wrapped in eternal midnight. God reigns! Let all the earth stand in awe of Him! Hark! it is His voice-the rolling thunder. See, it is His eye-the fearful lightning. The smitten rock declares His power, and the monarch oak, rent from the adamantine hills, proclaims His might!
Alas! on such a night for the poor sea boy. No friendly star lights his dread course. The wind-spirit howls. Wild raves the maddened ocean. The demons of the storm make merry o'er his fate. Look! now tossed on mountain billows, the frail bark hurries to destruction. Oh, God have mercy on the poor sailor boy!