Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

Our Own

If I had known in the morningHow wearily all the dayThe words unkindWould trouble my mindI said when you went away,I had been more careful, darling,Nor given you needless pain;But we vex "our own"With look and toneWe may never take back again.For though in the quiet eveningYou may give me the kiss of peace,Yet it might beThat never for me,The pain of the heart should cease.How many go forth in the morning,That never come home at night!And hearts have brokenFor harsh words spokenThat sorrow can ne'er set right.We have careful thoughts for the stranger,And smiles for the sometime guest,But oft for "our own"The bitter tone,Though we love "our own" the best.Ah, lips with the curve impatient!Ah, brow with that look of scorn!'Twere a cruel fate,Were the night too lateTo undo the work of morn.Margaret E. Sangster.

How Salvator Won

The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone,More proud than a monarch, who sits on a throne.I am but a jockey, but shout upon shoutWent up from the people who watched me ride out.And the cheers that rang forth from that warm-hearted crowdWere as earnest as those to which monarch e'er bowed.My heart thrilled with pleasure so keen it was pain,As I patted my Salvator's soft, silken mane;And a sweet shiver shot from his hide to my handAs we passed by the multitude down to the stand.The great wave of cheering came billowing backAs the hoofs of brave Tenny ran swift down the track,And he stood there beside us, all bone and all muscle,Our noble opponent, well trained for the tussleThat waited us there on the smooth, shining course.My Salvator, fair to the lovers of horseAs a beautiful woman is fair to man's sight—Pure type of the thoroughbred, clean-limbed and bright—Stood taking the plaudits as only his dueAnd nothing at all unexpected or new.And then there before us as the bright flag is spread,There's a roar from the grand stand, and Tenny's ahead;At the sound of the voices that shouted, "A go!"He sprang like an arrow shot straight from the bow.I tighten the reins on Prince Charlie's great son;He is off like a rocket, the race is begun.Half-way down the furlong their heads are together,Scarce room 'twixt their noses to wedge in a feather;Past grand stand, and judges, in neck-to-neck strife,Ah, Salvator, boy, 'tis the race of your life!I press my knees closer, I coax him, I urge,I feel him go out with a leap and a surge;I see him creep on, inch by inch, stride by stride,While backward, still backward, falls Tenny beside.We are nearing the turn, the first quarter is passed—'Twixt leader and chaser the daylight is cast;The distance elongates; still Tenny sweeps on,As graceful and free-limbed and swift as a fawn,His awkwardness vanished, his muscles all strained—A noble opponent well born and well trained.I glanced o'er my shoulder; ha! Tenny! the costOf that one second's flagging will be—the race lost;One second's yielding of courage and strength,And the daylight between us has doubled its length.The first mile is covered, the race is mine—no!For the blue blood of Tenny responds to a blow;He shoots through the air like a ball from a gun,And the two lengths between us are shortened to one.My heart is contracted, my throat feels a lump,For Tenny's long neck is at Salvator's rump;And now with new courage grown bolder and bolder,I see him once more running shoulder to shoulder.With knees, hands and body I press my grand steed;I urge him, I coax him, I pray him to heed!O Salvator! Salvator! List to my calls,For the blow of my whip will hurt both if it falls.There's a roar from the crowd like the ocean in storm,As close to the saddle leaps Tenny's great form;One mighty plunge, and with knee, limb and hand,I lift my horse first by a nose past the stand.We are under the string now—the great race is done—And Salvator, Salvator, Salvator won!Cheer, hoary-headed patriarchs; cheer loud, I say;'Tis the race of a century witnessed to-day!Though ye live twice the space that's allotted to menYe never will see such a grand race again.Let the shouts of the populace roar like the surf,For Salvator, Salvator, king of the turf,He has rivaled the record of thirteen long years;He has won the first place in the vast line of peers.'Twas a neck-to-neck contest, a grand, honest race,And even his enemies grant him his place.Down into the dust let old records be hurled,And hang out 2:05 to the gaze of the world!Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

I Got to Go to School

I'd like to hunt the Injuns 't roam the boundless plain!I'd like to be a pirate an' plow the ragin' main!An' capture some big island, in lordly pomp to rule;But I just can't be nothin' cause I got to go to school.'Most all great men, so I have read, has been the ones 'at gotThe least amount o' learnin' by a flickerin' pitch pine knot;An' many a darin' boy like me grows up to be a fool,An' never 'mounts to nothin' 'cause he's got to go to school.I'd like to be a cowboy an' rope the Texas steer!I'd like to be a sleuth-houn' or a bloody buccaneer!An' leave the foe to welter where their blood had made a pool;But how can I git famous? 'cause I got to go to school.I don't see how my parents kin make the big mistake.O' keepin' down a boy like me 'at's got a name to make!It ain't no wonder boys is bad, an' balky as a mule;Life ain't worth livin' if you've got to waste your time in school.I'd like to be regarded as "The Terror of the Plains"!I'd like to hear my victims shriek an' clank their prison chains!I'd like to face the enemy with gaze serene an' cool,An' wipe 'em off the earth, but pshaw! I got to go to school.What good is 'rithmetic an' things, exceptin' jest for girls,Er them there Fauntleroys 'at wears their hair in pretty curls?An' if my name is never seen on hist'ry's page, why, you'llRemember 'at it's all because I got to go to school.Nixon Waterman.

With Little Boy Blue

(Written after the death of Eugene Field.)Silent he watched them—the soldiers and dog—Tin toys on the little armchair,Keeping their tryst through the slow going yearsFor the hand that had stationed them there;And he said that perchance the dust and the rustHid the griefs that the toy friends knew,And his heart watched with them all the dark years,Yearning ever for Little Boy Blue.Three mourners they were for Little Boy Blue,Three ere the cold winds had begun;Now two are left watching—the soldier and dog;But for him the vigil is done.For him too, the angel has chanted a songA song that is lulling and true.He has seen the white gates of the mansions of rest,Thrown wide by his Little Boy Blue.God sent not the Angel of Death for his soul—Not the Reaper who cometh for all—But out of the shadows that curtained the dayHe heard his lost little one call,Heard the voice that he loved, and following fast,Passed on to the far-away strand;And he walks the streets of the City of Peace,With Little Boy Blue by the hand.Sarah Beaumont Kennedy.

The Charge of Pickett's Brigade

In Gettysburg at break of dayThe hosts of war are held in leashTo gird them for the coming fray,E'er brazen-throated monsters flame,Mad hounds of death that tear and maim.Ho, boys in blue,And gray so true,Fate calls to-day the roll of fame.On Cemetery Hill was doneThe clangor of four hundred guns;Through drifting smoke the morning sunShone down a line of battled grayWhere Pickett's waiting soldiers lay.Virginians all,Heed glory's call,You die at Gettysburg to-day,'Twas Pickett's veteran brigade,Great Lee had named; he knew them well;Oft had their steel the battle stayed.O warriors of the eagle plume,Fate points for you the hour of doom.Ring rebel yell,War cry and knell!The stars, to-night, will set in gloom.O Pickett's men, ye sons of fate,Awe-stricken nations bide your deeds.For you the centuries did wait,While wrong had writ her lengthening scrollAnd God had set the judgment roll.A thousand yearsShall wait in tears,And one swift hour bring to goal.The charge is done, a cause is lost;But Pickett's men heed not the dinOf ragged columns battle tost;For fame enshrouds them on the field,And pierced, Virginia, is thy shield.But stars and barsShall drape thy scars;No cause is lost till honor yield.

Hullo

W'en you see a man in woe,Walk right up and say "Hullo!"Say "Hullo" and "How d'ye do?How's the world a-usin' you?"Slap the fellow on the back;Bring your hand down with a whack;Walk right up, and don't go slow;Grin an' shake, an' say "Hullo!"Is he clothed in rags? Oh! sho;Walk right up an' say "Hullo!"Rags is but a cotton rollJest for wrappin' up a soul;An' a soul is worth a trueHale and hearty "How d'ye do?"Don't wait for the crowd to go,Walk right up and say "Hullo!"When big vessels meet, they sayThey saloot an' sail away.Jest the same are you an' meLonesome ships upon a sea;Each one sailin' his own log,For a port behind the fog;Let your speakin' trumpet blow;Lift your horn an' cry "Hullo!"Say "Hullo!" an' "How d'ye do?"Other folks are good as you.W'en you leave your house of clayWanderin' in the far away,W'en you travel through the strangeCountry t'other side the range,Then the souls you've cheered will knowWho ye be, an' say "Hullo."Sam Walter Foss.

The Women of Mumbles Head

Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen!And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead,Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head!Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south;Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth;It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way,And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone,In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone;It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled,or whenThere was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men.When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he!Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea,Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said,Had saved some hundred lives apiece—at a shilling or so a head!So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar,And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar,Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons!Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns;Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love;Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above!Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed,For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew!And it snapped the' rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew;And then the anchor parted—'twas a tussle to keep afloat!But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat.Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high!"God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye"!Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves,But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,And saw in the boiling breakers a figure—a fighting form;It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath;It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death;It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lipsOf the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships.They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and more,Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore.There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand,Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land,'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave,But what are a couple of women with only a man to save?What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven menWho stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir—and thenOff went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent,Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls, come back!"As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack."Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea,"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!""Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale,"You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!""Come back!" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town,We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!""Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand!Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land!Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more,And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore."Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest—Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed,And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head!"Clement Scott.

The Fireman's Story

"'A frightful face'? Wal, yes, yer correct;That man on the enjine tharDon't pack the han'somest countenance—Every inch of it sportin' a scar;But I tell you, pard, thar ain't money enoughPiled up in the National BanksTo buy that face, nor a single scar—(No, I never indulges. Thanks.)"Yes, Jim is an old-time engineer,An' a better one never war knowed!Bin a runnin' yar since the fust machineWar put on the Quincy Road;An' thar ain't a galoot that pulls a plugFrom Maine to the jumpin' off placeThat knows more about the big iron hossThan him with the battered-up face."'Got hurt in a smash-up'? No,'twar doneIn a sort o' legitimate way;He got it a-trying to save a galUp yar on the road last May.I heven't much time for to spin you the yarn,For we pull out at two-twenty-five—Just wait till I climb up an' toss in some coal,So's to keep old '90' alive."Jim war pullin' the Burlin'ton passenger then,Left Quincy a half an hour late,An' war skimmin' along purty lively, so's notTo lay out No. 21 freight.The '90' war more than whoopin' 'em upAn' a-quiverin' in every nerve!When all to once Jim yelled 'Merciful God!'As she shoved her sharp nose 'round a curve."I jumped to his side o' the cab, an' ahead'Bout two hundred paces or soStood a gal on the track, her hands raised aloft,An' her face jist as white as the snow;It seems she war so paralyzed with the frightThat she couldn't move for'ard or back,An' when Jim pulled the whistle she fainted an' fellRight down in a heap on the track!"I'll never forgit till the day o' my deathThe look that cum over Jim's face;He throw'd the old lever cl'r back like a shotSo's to slacken the '90's' wild pace,Then let on the air brakes as quick as a flash,An' out through the window he fled,An' skinned 'long the runnin' board cla'r in front,An' lay on the pilot ahead."Then just as we reached whar the poor creetur lay,He grabbed a tight hold, of her arm,An' raised her right up so's to throw her one sideOut o' reach of danger an' harm.But somehow he slipped an' fell with his headOn the rail as he throw'd the young lass,An' the pilot in strikin' him, ground up his faceIn a frightful and horrible mass!"As soon as we stopped I backed up the trainTo that spot where the poor fellow lay,An' there sot the gal with his head in her lapAn' wipin' the warm blood away.The tears rolled in torrents right down from her eyes,While she sobbed like her heart war all broke—I tell you, my friend, such a sight as that 'arWould move the tough heart of an oak!"We put Jim aboard an' ran back to town,What for week arter week the boy layA-hoverin' right in the shadder o' death,An' that gal by his bed every day.But nursin' an' doctorin' brought him around—Kinder snatched him right outer the grave—His face ain't so han'some as 'twar, but his heartRemains just as noble an' brave."Of course thar's a sequel—as story books say—He fell dead in love, did this Jim;But hadn't the heart to ax her to haveSich a batter'd-up rooster as him.She know'd how he felt, and last New Year's dayWar the fust o' leap year as you know,So she jist cornered Jim an' proposed on the spot,An' you bet he didn't say no."He's building a house up thar on the hill,An' has laid up a snug pile o' cash,The weddin's to be on the first o' next May—Jist a year from the day o' the smash—The gal says he risked his dear life to save hers,An' she'll just turn the tables about,An' give him the life that he saved—thar's the bell.Good day, sir, we're goin' to pull out."

Little Willie's Hearing

Sometimes w'en I am playin' with some fellers 'at I knows,My ma she comes to call me, 'cause she wants me, I surpose:An' then she calls in this way: "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!"An' you'd be surprised to notice how dretful deef I be;An' the fellers 'at are playin' they keeps mos' orful still,W'ile they tell me, jus' in whispers: "Your ma is callin', Bill."But my hearin' don't git better, so fur as I can see,W'ile my ma stan's there a-callin': "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!"An' soon my ma she gives it up, an' says: "Well, I'll allowIt's mighty cur'us w'ere that boy has got to, anyhow";An' then I keep on playin' jus' the way I did before—I know if she was wantin' much she'd call to me some more.An' purty soon she comes agin an' says: "Willie! Willee-e-ee!"But my hearin's jus' as hard as w'at it useter be.If a feller has good judgment, an' uses it that way,He can almos' allers manage to git consid'ble play.But jus' w'ile I am playin', an' prob'ly I am "it,"They's somethin' diff'rent happens, an' I have to up, an' git,Fer my pa comes to the doorway, an' he interrup's our glee;He jus' says, "William Henry!" but that's enough fer me.You'd be surprised to notice how quickly I can hearW'en my pa says, "William Henry!" but never "Willie, dear!"Fer though my hearin's middlin' bad to hear the voice of ma,It's apt to show improvement w'en the callin' comes from pa.

The Service Flag

Dear little flag in the window there,Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer,Child of Old Glory, born with a star—Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!Blue is your star in its field of white,Dipped in the red that was born of fight;Born of the blood that our forebears shedTo raise your mother, The Flag, o'er-head.And now you've come, in this frenzied day,To speak from a window—to speak and say:"I am the voice of a soldier son,Gone, to be gone till the victory's won."I am the flag of The Service, sir:The flag of his mother—I speak for herWho stands by my window and waits and fears,But hides from the others her unwept tears."I am the flag of the wives who waitFor the safe return of a martial mate—A mate gone forth where the war god thrives,To save from sacrifice other men's wives."I am the flag of the sweethearts true;The often unthought of—the sisters, too.I am the flag of a mother's son,Who won't come home till the victory's won!"Dear little flag in the window there,Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer,Child of Old Glory, born with a star—Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!William Herschell.

Flying Jim's Last Leap

(The hero of this tale had once been a famous trapeze performer.)Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen. Helped by Bridget's willing hands,Bustled Hannah, deftly mixing pies, for ready waiting pans.Little Flossie flitted round them, and her curling, floating hairGlinted gold-like, gleamed and glistened, in the sparkling sunlit air;Slouched a figure o'er the lawn; a man so wretched and forlore,Tattered, grim, so like a beggar, ne'er had trod that path before.His shirt was torn, his hat was gone, bare and begrimed his knees,Face with blood and dirt disfigured, elbows peeped from out his sleeves.Rat-tat-tat, upon the entrance, brought Aunt Hannah to the door;Parched lips humbly plead for water, as she scanned his misery o'er;Wrathful came the dame's quick answer; made him cower, shame, and startOut of sight, despairing, saddened, hurt and angry to the heart."Drink! You've had enough, you rascal. Faugh! The smell now makes me sick,Move, you thief! Leave now these grounds, sir, or our dogs will help you quick."Then the man with dragging footsteps hopeless, wishing himself dead,Crept away from sight of plenty, starved in place of being fed,Wandered farther from the mansion, till he reached a purling brook,Babbling, trilling broken music by a green and shady nook,Here sweet Flossie found him fainting; in her hands were food and drink;Pale like death lay he before her, yet the child-heart did not shrink;Then the rags from off his forehead, she with dainty hands offstripped,In the brooklet's rippling waters, her own lace-trimmed 'kerchief dipped;Then with sweet and holy pity, which, within her, did not daunt,Bathed the blood and grime-stained visage of that sin-soiled son of want.Wrung she then the linen cleanly, bandaged up the wound againEre the still eyes opened slowly; white lips murmuring, "Am I sane?""Look, poor man, here's food and drink. Now thank our God before you take."Paused he mute and undecided, while deep sobs his form did shakeWith an avalanche of feeling, and great tears came rolling downO'er a face unused to showing aught except a sullen frown;That "our God" unsealed a fountain his whole life had never known,When that human angel near him spoke of her God as his own."Is it 'cause my aunty grieved you?" Quickly did the wee one ask."I'll tell you my little verse then, 'tis a holy Bible task,It may help you to forgive her: 'Love your enemies and thoseWho despitefully may use you; love them whether friends or foes!'"Then she glided from his vision, left him prostrate on the groundConning o'er and o'er that lesson—with a grace to him new found.Sunlight filtering through green branches as they wind-wave dance and dip,Finds a prayer his mother taught him, trembling on his crime-stained lip.Hist! a step, an angry mutter, and the owner of the place,Gentle Flossie's haughty father, and the tramp stood face to face!"Thieving rascal! you've my daughter's 'kerchief bound upon your brow;Off with it, and cast it down here. Come! be quick about it now."As the man did not obey him, Flossie's father lashed his cheekWith a riding-whip he carried; struck him hard and cut him deep.Quick the tramp bore down upon him, felled him, o'er him where he layRaised a knife to seek his life-blood. Then there came a thought to stayAll his angry, murderous impulse, caused the knife to shuddering fall:"He's her father; love your en'mies; 'tis 'our God' reigns over all."At midnight, lambent, lurid flames light up the sky with fiercest beams,Wild cries, "Fire! fire!" ring through the air, and red like blood each flame now seems;They faster grow, they higher throw weird, direful arms which ever leanAbout the gray stone mansion old. Now roars the wind to aid the scene;The flames yet higher, wilder play. A shudder runs through all around—Distinctly as in light of day, at topmost window from the groundSweet Flossie stands, her golden hair enhaloed now by firelit air.Loud rang the father's cry: "O God! my child! my child! Will no one dareFor her sweet sake the flaming stair?" Look, one steps forth with muffled face,Leaps through the flames with fleetest feet, on trembling ladder runs a raceWith life and death—the window gains. Deep silence falls on all around,Till bursts aloud a sobbing wail. The ladder falls with crashing sound—A flaming, treacherous mass. O God! she was so young and he so brave!Look once again. See! see! on highest roof he stands—the fiery waveFierce rolling round—his arms enclasp the child—God help him yet to save!"For life or for eternal sleep,"He cries, then makes a vaulting leap,A tree branch catches, with sure aim,And by the act proclaims his name;The air was rent, the cheers rang loud,A rough voice cried from out the crowd,"Huzza, my boys, well we know him,None dares that leap but Flying Jim!"A jail-bird—outlaw—thief, indeed,Yet o'er them all takes kingly lead."Do now your worst," his gasping cry,"Do all your worst, I'm doomed to die;I've breathed the flames, 'twill not be long";Then hushed all murmurs through the throng.With reverent hands they bore him whereThe summer evening's cooling airCame softly sighing through the trees;The child's proud father on his kneesForgiveness sought of God and Jim,Which dying lips accorded him.A mark of whip on white face stirredTo gleaming scarlet at his words."Forgive them all who use you ill,She taught me that and I fulfill;I would her hand might touch my face,Though she's so pure and I so base."Low Flossie bent and kissed the brow,With smile of bliss transfigured now:Death, the angel, sealed it there,'Twas sent to God with "mother's prayer."Emma Dunning Banks.