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The "time for honest folks to be in bed"
Thomson, who sung about the "Seasons," said
At 10 o'clock A. M.-the very reason
Awake to duty and awake to truth-
Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth,
'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile
For the soft visions of the gentle night,
So, let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.
I like the lad who, when his father thought
THE TRUE GENTLEMAN.
[Boldly and with energy.]
The true gentleman is above a mean ng. He cannot stoop to a mean fraud. He invades no secret in the keeping of another.
He betrays no secrets confided to his own keeping. He never struts in borrowed plumage. He never takes selfish advantage of our mistakes. He uses no ignoble weapons in controversy. He never stabs in the dark. He is ashamed of innuendoes. He is not one thing at a man's face and another behind his back. If by accident he comes in possession of his neighbor's counsels, he passes upon them an act of instant oblivion. He bears sealed packages without tampering with the wax. Papers not meant for his eye, whether they flutter in at his window or lie open before him in unguarded exposure, are sacred to him. He invades no privacy of others, however sound the sentry sleeps. Bolts and bars, locks and keys, hedges and pickets, bonds and securities, notice to trespassers, are none of them for him. He may be trusted himself out of sight anywhere. He buys no office, he sells none, he intrigues for none. He would rather fail of his rights than win them through dishonor. He will eat honest bread. He tramples on no sensitive feeling. He insults no man. If he has rebuke for another, he is straightforward, open, manly. He cannot descend to scurrility. In short, whatever he judges honorable he practices towards every man.
MUSIC OF LABOR.
[To be given in a stirring manner.]
The banging of the hammer,
The whirling of the plane,
The clipping of the tailor's shears
The driving of the awlThese sounds of industry
I love I love them all.
The clinking of the magic type,
The scratching of the pen,
The tinkling of the scales, The whistling of the needle
(When no bright cheek it pales), The humming of the cooking stove, The surging of the broom, The pattering feet of childhood,
The housewife's busy hum, The buzzing of the scholars,
The teacher's kindly callThese sounds of active industry I love-I love them all.
I love the ploughman's whistle,
Spurring his stock along,
As the ripened fruit comes down, The busy sound of threshers
As they clean the ripened grain, The husker's joke and catch of glee
'Neath the moonlight on the plain, The kind voice of the dairyman, The shepherd's gentle call— These sounds of pleasant industry I love I love them all.
[Simply and tenderly.]
I had told him, Christmas morning,
Stuffed as full as full could be,
With a face demure and mild, That old Santa Claus, who filled them, Did not love a naughty child.
"But we'll be good, won't we, moder ?"
Where the tempting goblet stood,
But the kitten, there before me,
Slapping off the shining froth; And, in not the gentlest humor
At the loss of such a treat, I confess, I rather rudely
Thrust poor pussy in the street.
Then how Benny's blue eyes kindled! Gathering up the precious store
He had busily been pouring
In his tiny pinafore,
With a generous look, that shamed me,
"Come back, Harney," called he loudly,
Bent on me and on the door.
Then, as by some sudden impulse,
Watched the flames go higher and higher, In a brave, clear key he shouted,
Like some lordly little elf,
"Santa Kaus, come down the chimney— Make my moder 'have herself!"
"I will be a good girl, Benny,"
Laughter chased away the frown,
Harney purred beneath my chair,
Knelt to say his evening prayer: "God bess fader, God bess moder,
God bess sister "--then a pauseAnd the sweet young lips devoutly
Murmured, "God bess Santa Kaus!"
He is sleeping; brown and silken
Lie the lashes, long and meek, Like caressing, clinging shadows,
On his plump and peachy check.