One by one the stars came out, and with their
Angel eyes looked on the slumbering world-
It seemed with pitying gaze-and the warm dews,
From the pure azure, wept o'er the erring
Souls of frail, immortal men.
Within a bower enshadowed by the drooping
Plumes of the green sighing elm, and sheltered
By the myrtle's clinging tendrils, knelt a
Maiden. She was young, in the first blush of
Girlhood, and beautiful,-almost too fair
For earth to look upon.
Her golden hair fell in bright clouds of
Radiance round her face, on which distress
Had set his ashen seal with heaviness.
But yesterday she was the gayest, wildest,
Loveliest belle in her fair city; but
Now her flush of joy had fled,-her cheeks were
White and cold. Her ghastly eyes were fixed with
Intense interest on the book of God,
Which lay with open page before her. Her
Little hands were clasped as if in prayer, but
Words fell not from her pale, quivering lips.
No tears were in her eyes of "heaven's own blue;"
Her fearful agony could not flow forth in tears!
The morn of this fair eve was to have seen
Her wedded to the chosen one of her
Young heart, but Death arose from his pale,
Shadowy couch and bore the tender lover
To the silent halls where sleep the fair and
Young with those who peacefully went down the
"Vale of years" and laid them in the grave to
Rest from labors here.
With force as when the tornado uproots
The forest oak and bends the stately pine
Like osier-wood before its blast, this blow,
So dreadful, crushed the buoyant spirit of
The maiden to the dust! With weak and
Tottering steps she sought the trysting bower
To do what she had never done since a
Bright, smiling infant on her angel mother's
Knee,-uplift her heart and voice in prayer
To God. Humbly and feebly she unclosed
The flood-gates of her soul to Him, her long
Neglected, merciful Creator.
Hours sped on. The silver moon quenched her
Dim glory in the western wave, and the pale,
Silent stars grew weary of their watchings,
And hid themselves away in their empyrean robes,
And in the dim old forest faintly lisped
The feathered songsters' morning hymns of praise.
As day's red flush stole o'er the cold, gray sky,
She rose, her pure face calm, her sins forgiven!
"Twas morn in heaven! morn of a day
Which knows no weary night! Around the King
Stood angels crowned with crowns of burning light!
And in their hands were golden harps, whose sweet
Melodious tones enwrapped the listening soul
In seas of joy! Deep and thrilling melody
Arose on the ambrosial air of heaven,-the song
Of the angelic choir o'er a new repentant soul.
Soon a summons came to earth from heaven;—
The pale white angel bore the stricken flower
Beyond the shadows, into eternal light.
THE STATION-AGENT'S STORY.
ROSE HARTWICK THORPE.
Take a seat in the shade, here, lady,
It's tiresome, I know, to wait,
But when the train reaches Verona
It's always sure to be late;
'Specially when any one's waitin'.
Been gatherin' flowers, I see?
Ah, well! they're better company
Than a rough old fellow, like me.
You noticed the graves 'neath the willows,
Down there where the blossoms grew?
Well, yes, there's a story about them,
Almost too strange to be true;
Tis a stranger, sweeter story,
Than was ever written in books;
And God made the ending so perfect-
There, now I see by your looks
I will have to tell the story;
Let me see; 'twas eight years ago,
One blusterin' night in winter
When the air was just thick with snow,
As the freight came round the curve there,
They beheld a man on the track,
Bravin' the storm before him, but
Not heedin' the foe at his back;
And, ere a hand could grasp the bell-rope,
Or a finger reach the rod,
One sweep from the cruel snow-plow
Had sent the man's soul to its God!
They laid him out here in the freight-house,
And I stayed with him that night,―
He'd one of the pleasantest faces,
So hopeful and young and bright.
There was only a worn-out letter;
I know it by heart-it said:
"Dear John: baby May grows finely,
I send you this curl from her head.
We will meet at Brackenboro';
The grandfather's sad and lone,
But I read him your kind words, saying,
When we've a home of our own,
He shall sing the songs of old England
Beneath our own willow-tree."
That was all there was of it, lady,
And 'twas signed just "Alice Leigh."
So we made a grave in the morning
And buried the man out there
Alone, unmourned, in a stranger's land,
With only a stranger's prayer.
But when he'd slept in his lonely grave
Out there, nigh on to a year,
Ray's freight run into a washout
By the culvert, away down here;
There were only two passengers that night,— Dead, when we found them there
A sweet little English woman,
And a baby with golden hair.
On her breast lay the laughing baby,
With its rosy finger tips
Still warm, and the fair, young mother
With a frozen smile on her lips.
We laid them out here in the freight-house,
I stayed that night with the dead;
I shall never forget the letter
We found in her purse; it said:
"Dear Alice; praise God I've got here!
I'll soon have a home for you now;
But you must come with the baby,
As soon as you can anyhow.
Comfort the grandfather, and tell him
That by and by he shall come,
And sing the songs of old England,
'Neath the willows beside our home;
For, close by the door of our cottage
I'll set out a willow-tree,
For his sake and the sake of old England.
Lovingly yours. John Leigh."
The tears filled my eyes as I read it;
But I whispered" God is just !"
For I knew the true heart yonder-
Then only a handful of dust-
Had drawn this sweet little woman
Right here, and God's merciful love
Had taken her from the sorrow,
To the glad reunion above!
So, close by the grave of the other,
We laid her away to rest;
The golden-haired, English mother,
With the baby upon her breast.
I planted those trees above them,
For I knew their story, you see; And I thought their rest would be sweeter 'Neath their own loved willow tree.
Five years rolled along, and lady,
My story may now seem to you
Like a wonderful piece of fiction;
But I tell you it is true.
As true as-that God is above us!
One summer day, hot and clear,
As the train rolled into the station
And stopped to change engines here,
Among a company of Mormons
Came a tremblin', white-haired man.
He asked me, with voice very eager,
"Will you tell me, sir, if you can,
Of a place called Brackenboro'?
And how far have I got to go?"
"It's the next station north," I answered,
"Only thirteen miles below."
His old face lit up for a moment,
With a look of joy complete;
Then he threw up his hands toward heaven
And dropped down dead at my feet!
"Old Hugh Leigh is dead," said a Mormon,
And sights o' trouble he's be’n.
Nothin' would do when we started,
But that he must come with us then
To find Alice, John, and the baby;
And his heart was well nigh broke,
With waitin' and watchin' in England,
For letters they never wrote."
So we buried him there with the others,
Beneath the willow-tree.
Twas God's way of ending the story-
More perfect than man's could be!
THE BABIES.-S. L. CLEMENS.
Speech of Mark Twain at the banquet given in honor of Gen. Grant, by the Army of the Tennessee, at the Palmer House, Chicago, Nov. 14, 1879.
"The Babies-As they comfort us in our sorrows, let us not forget them in our festivities."
I like that. We haven't all had the good fortune to be ladies; we haven't all been generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast works down to the babies, we stand on common ground, for we have all been babies. It is a shame that for a thousand years the world's banquets have utterly ignored the baby-as if he didn't amount to anything! If you gentlemen will stop and think a minute,--if you will go back fifty or a hundred years, to your early married life, and recontemplate your first baby, you will remember that he amounted to a good deal, and even something over. You soldiers all know that when that little fellow arrived at family head-quarters you had to hand in your resignation. He took entire command. You became his lackey, his mere body-servant, and you had to stand around, too. He was not a commander who made allowances for time, distance, weather, or anything else. You had to execute his order whether it was possible or not. And there was only one form of marching in his manual of tactics, and that was the double-quick. He treated you with every sort of insolence and disrespect, and the bravest of you didn't dare to say a word. You could face the death-storm of Donelson and Vicksburg, and give back blow for blow; but when he clawed your whiskers, and pulled your hair, and twisted your nose, you had to take it. When the thunders of war were sounding in your ears, you set your faces toward the batteries and advanced with steady tread; but when he turned on the terrors of his war-whoop, you advanced in the other direction--and mighty glad of the chance, too. When he called for soothing syrup, did you venture to throw out any side remarks about certain services unbecoming an officer and a gentleman? No, you got up and got it. If he ordered his bottle, and it wasn't warm, did you talk back? Not you,-you went to work and warmed
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