The Canadian Elocutionist

A >> Anna Kelsey Howard >> The Canadian Elocutionist

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In the rift of the rock Thou wilt cover me still,
When the glow of the sunset is low in the sky,
When the forms of the reapers are dim on the hill,
And the song dies away, and the end draweth nigh;
It will be but a dream of the ladder of light,
And heaven drawing near without terror or shock,
For the angels, descending by day and by night,
Will open a door through the rift of the rock.

_Annie Herbert._

* * * * *

THE SIOUX CHIEF'S DAUGHTER

Two gray hawks ride the rising blast;
Dark cloven clouds drive to and fro
By peaks pre-eminent in snow;
A sounding river rushes past,
So wild, so vortex-like, and vast.

A lone lodge tops the windy hill;
A tawny maiden, mute and still,
Stands waiting at the river's brink,
As weird and wild as you can think.

A mighty chief is at her feet;
She does not heed him wooing so--
She hears the dark, wild waters flow;
She waits her lover, tall and fleet,
From far gold fields of Idaho,
Beyond the beaming hills of snow.

He comes! The grim chief springs in air--
His brawny arm, his blade is bare.
She turns; she lifts her round, dark hand;
She looks him fairly in the face;
She moves her foot a little pace
And says, with coldness and command,
"There's blood enough in this lorn land.
But see! a test of strength and skill,
Of courage and fierce fortitude,
To breast and wrestle with the rude
And storm-born waters, now I will
Bestow you both.... Stand either side!
Take you my left, tall Idaho;
And you, my burly chief, I know
Would choose my right. Now peer you low
Across the waters wild and wide.
See! leaning so this morn, I spied
Red berries dip yon farther side.
See, dipping, dripping in the stream,
Twin boughs of autumn berries gleam!

"Now this, brave men, shall be the test.
Plunge in the stream, bear knife in teeth
To cut yon bough for bridal wreath.
Plunge in! and he who bears him best,
And brings yon ruddy fruit to land
The first, shall have both heart and hand."

Then one threw robes with sullen air,
And wound red fox tails in his hair.
But one with face of proud delight
Entwined a crest of snowy white.

She sudden gave
The sign, and each impatient brave
Shot sudden in the sounding wave;
The startled waters gurgled round,
Their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound.

O then awoke the love that slept!
O then her heart beat loud and strong!
O then the proud love pent up long
Broke forth in wail upon the air;
And leaning there she sobbed and wept,
With dark face mantled in her hair.

Now side by side the rivals plied,
Yet no man wasted word or breath;
All was as still as stream of death.
Now side by side their strength was tried,
And now they breathless paused and lay
Like brawny wrestlers well at bay.

And now they dived, dived long, and now
The black heads lifted from the foam,
And shook aback the dripping brow,
Then shouldered sudden glances home.
And then with burly front the brow
And bull-like neck shot sharp and blind,
And left a track of foam behind....
They near the shore at last; and now
The foam flies spouting from a face
That laughing lifts from out the race.

The race is won, the work is done!
She sees the climbing crest of snow;
She knows her tall, brown Idaho.

She cries aloud, she laughing cries,
And tears are streaming from her eyes:
"O splendid, kingly Idaho,
I kiss his lifted crest of snow;
I see him clutch the bended bough!
'Tis cleft--he turns! is coming now!

"My tall and tawny king, come back!
Come swift, O sweet; why falter so?
Come! Come! What thing has crossed your track
I kneel to all the gods I know.
O come, my manly Idaho!
Great Spirit, what is this I dread?
Why there is blood! the wave is red!
That wrinkled Chief, outstripped in race,
Dives down, and hiding from my face,
Strikes underneath!... He rises now!
Now plucks my hero's berry bough,
And lifts aloft his red fox head,
And signals he has won for me....
Hist softly! Let him come and see.

"O come! my white-crowned hero, come!
O come! and I will be your bride,
Despite yon chieftain's craft and might.
Come back to me! my lips are dumb,
My hands are helpless with despair;
The hair you kissed, my long, strong hair,
Is reaching to the ruddy tide,
That you may clutch it when you come.

"How slow he buffets back the wave!
O God, he sinks! O heaven! save
My brave, brave boy. He rises! See!
Hold fast, my boy! Strike! strike for me.
Strike straight this way! Strike firm and strong!
Hold fast your strength. It is not long--
O God, he sinks! He sinks! Is gone!
His face has perished from my sight.

"And did I dream, and do I wake?
Or did I wake and now but dream?
And what is this crawls from the stream?
O here is some mad, mad, mistake!
What you! The red fox at my feet?
You first and failing from a race?
What! you have brought me berries red?
What! You have brought your bride a wreath?
You sly red fox with wrinkled face--
That blade has blood, between your teeth!

"Lie still! lie still! till I lean o'er
And clutch your red blade to the shore....
Ha! Ha! Take that! and that! and that!
Ha! Ha! So through your coward throat
The full day shines!... Two fox tails float
And drift and drive adown the stream.

"But what is this? What snowy crest
Climbs out the willows of the west,
All weary, wounded, bent, and slow,
And dripping from his streaming hair?
It is! it is my Idaho!
His feet are on the land, and fair
His face is lifting to my face,
For who shall now dispute the race?

"The gray hawks pass, O love! two doves
O'er yonder lodge shall coo their loves.
My love shall heal your wounded breast,
And in yon tall lodge two shall rest."

_Joaquin Miller_.

* * * * *

I'LL TAKE WHAT FATHER TAKES.

'Twas in the flow'ry month of June,
The sun was in the west,
When a merry, blithesome company
Met at a public feast.

Around the room rich banners spread,
And garlands fresh and gay;
Friend greeted friend right joyously
Upon that festal day.

The board was filled with choicest fare;
The guests sat down to dine;
Some called for "bitter," some for "stout,"
And some for rosy wine.

Among this joyful company,
A modest youth appeared;
Scarce sixteen summers had he seen,
No specious snare he feared.

An empty glass before the youth
Soon drew the waiter near;
"What will you take, sir?" he inquired,
"Stout, bitter, mild, or clear?

"We've rich supplies of foreign port,
We've first-class wine and cakes."
The youth with guileless look replied,
"_I'll take what father takes_."

Swift as an arrow went the words
Into his father's ears,
And soon a conflict deep and strong
Awoke terrific fears.

The father looked upon his son,
Then gazed upon the wine,
Oh, God! he thought, were he to taste,
Who could the end divine?

Have I not seen the strongest fall,
The fairest led astray?
And shall I on my only son
Bestow a curse this day?

No; heaven forbid! "Here, waiter, bring
Bright water unto me;
My son will take what father takes,
My drink shall water be."

_W. Hoyle._

* * * * *

THE LITTLE HERO.

From Liverpool 'cross the Atlantic,
The good ship floating o'er the deep,
The skies bright with sunshine above us,
The waters beneath us asleep;
Not a bad-temper'd mariner 'mongst us,
A jollier crew never sail'd,
'Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage,
But good seaman as ever was hail'd.
One day he comes up from below deck,
A-graspin' a lad by the arm,
A poor little ragged young urchin,
As ought to bin home with his marm.
An' the mate asks the boy pretty roughly
How he dared for to be stow'd away?
A-cheating the owners and captain,
Sailin', eatin', and all without pay.

The lad had a face bright and sunny,
An' a pair of blue eyes like a girl's,
An' looks up at the scowling first mate, boys,
An' shakes back his long shining curls.
An' says he in a voice clear and pretty,
"My stepfather brought me a-board,
And hid me away down the stairs there,
For to keep me he could not afford.
And he told me the big ship would take me
To Halifax town, oh, so far;
An' he said, 'Now the Lord is your Father,
Who lives where the good angels are!'"
"It's a lie," says the mate,--"Not your father,
But some o' these big skulkers here,
Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor,
Speak up! tell the truth! d'ye hear?"

Then that pair o' blue eyes bright and winn'n',
Clear and shining with innocent youth,
Looks up at the mate's bushy eyebrows,
An' says he, "Sir, I've told you the truth!"
Then the mate pull'd his watch from his pocket,
Just as if he'd bin drawing his knife,
"If in ten minutes more you don't tell, lad,
There's the rope! and good-bye to dear life!"
Eight minutes went by all in silence,
Says the mate then, "Speak, lad, say your say!"
His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops,
He falteringly says, "May I pray?"
An' the little chap kneels on the deck there,
An' his hands he clasps o'er his breast,
As he must ha' done often at home, lads,
At night time when going to rest.

And soft came the first words, "Our Father,"
Low and clear from that dear baby-lip,
But low as they were, heard like trumpet
By each true man aboard o' the ship.
Every bit o' that pray'r then he goes through,
To "for ever and ever. A-men!"
An' for all the bright gold in the Indies,
I wouldn't ha' heard him agen!
Off his feet was the lad sudden lifted,
And clasp'd to the mate's rugged breast,
An' his husky voice muttered, "God bless you,"
As his lips to his forehead he press'd.
"You believe me now?" then said the youngster,
"Believe you!" he kissed him once more,
"You'd have laid down your life for the truth, lad;
I believe you! from now, ever-more."

* * * * *

WANTED.

The world wants men--light-hearted, manly men--
Men who shall join its chorus and prolong
The psalm of labour and the song of love.

The times wants scholars--scholars who shall shape
The doubtful destinies of dubious years,
And land the ark that bears our country's good,
Safe on some peaceful Ararat at last.

The age wants heroes--heroes who shall dare
To struggle in the solid ranks of truth;
To clutch the monster error by the throat;
To bear opinion to a loftier seat;
To blot the era of oppression out,
And lead a universal freedom in.

And heaven wants souls--fresh and capacious souls,
To taste its raptures, and expand like flowers
Beneath the glory of its central sun.
It wants fresh souls--not lean and shrivelled ones;
It wants fresh souls, my brother--give it thine!

If thou, indeed, wilt act as man should act;
If thou, indeed, wilt be what scholars should;
If thou wilt be a hero, and wilt strive
To help thy fellow and exalt thyself,
Thy feet at last shall stand on jasper floors,
Thy heart at last shall seem a thousand hearts,
Each single heart with myriad raptures filled--
While thou shalt sit with princes and with kings,
Rich in the jewel of a ransomed soul.

* * * * *

GOD, THE TRUE SOURCE OF CONSOLATION.

O Thou, who driest the mourner's tear,
How dark the world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!
The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal the broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And e'en the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimmed and vanished, too!
Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not Thy wing of love
Come brightly wafting through the gloom
Our peace-branch from above!
Then, sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray,
As darkness shews us worlds of light,
We never saw by day.

_Moore._

* * * * *

SANTA CLAUS IN THE MINES.

In a small cabin in a Californian mining town, away up amid the snow-clad,
rock-bound peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, sat a woman, in widow's
weeds, holding upon her knee a bright-eyed, sunny-faced little girl, about
five years old, while a little cherub of a boy lay upon a bear-skin before
the open fireplace. It was Christmas Eve, and the woman sat gazing
abstractedly into the fireplace. She was yet young, and as the glowing
flames lit up her sad face they invested it with a wierd beauty.

Mary Stewart was the widow of Aleck Stewart, and but two years before they
had lived comfortably and happy, in a camp on the American River. Aleck was
a brawny miner; but the premature explosion of a blast in an exploring
tunnel had blotted out his life in an instant, leaving his family without a
protector, and in straitened circumstances. His daily wages had been their
sole support, and now that he was gone, what could they do?

With her little family Mrs. Stewart had emigrated to the camp in which we
find them, and there she earned a precarious livelihood by washing clothes
for the miners. Hers was a hard lot; but the brave little woman toiled on,
cheered by the thought that her daily labours stood between her darling
little ones and the gaunt wolf of starvation.

Jack Dawson, a strong, honest miner, was passing the cabin this Christmas
Eve, when the voice of the little girl within attracted his attention. Jack
possessed an inordinate love for children, and although his manly spirit
would abhor the sneaking practice of eavesdropping, he could not resist the
temptation to steal up to the window just a moment to listen to the sweet,
prattling voice. The first words he caught were:

"Before papa died we always had Christmas, didn't we, mamma?"

"Yes, Totty, darling; but papa earned money enough to afford to make his
little pets happy at least once a year. You must remember, Totty, that we
are very poor, and although mamma works very, very hard, she can scarcely
earn enough to supply us with food and clothes."

Jack Dawson still lingered upon the outside. He could not leave, although
he felt ashamed of himself for listening.

"We hung up our stockings last Christmas, didn't we, mamma?" continued the
little girl.

"Yes, Totty; but we were poor then, and Santa Claus never notices real poor
people. He gave you a little candy then, just because you were such good
children."

"Is we any poorer now, mamma?"

"Oh! yes, much poorer. He would never notice us at all now."

Jack Dawson detected a tremor of sadness in the widow's voice as she
uttered the last words, and he wiped a suspicious dampness from his eyes.

"Where's our clean stockings, mamma? I'm going to hang mine up anyhow;
maybe he will come like he did before, just because we try to be good
children," said Totty.

"It will be no use, my darling, I am sure he will not come," and tears
gathered in the mother's eyes as she thought of her empty purse.

"I don't care, I'm going to try, anyhow. Please get one of my stockings,
mamma."

Jack Dawson's generous heart swelled until it seemed bursting from his
bosom. He heard the patter of little bare feet upon the cabin floor as
Totty ran about hunting hers and Benny's stockings, and after she had hung
them up, heard her sweet voice again as she wondered over and over if Santa
really would forget them. He heard the mother, in a choking voice; tell her
treasures to get ready for bed; heard them lisp their childish prayers, the
little girl concluding: "And, O, Lord! please tell good Santa Claus that we
are very poor; but that we love him as much as rich children do, for dear
Jesus' sake--Amen!"

After they were in bed, through a small rent in the plain white curtain he
saw the widow sitting before the fire, her face buried in her hands, and
weeping bitterly.

On a peg, just over the fire-place, hung two little patched and faded
stockings, and then he could stand it no longer. He softly moved away from
the window to the rear of the cabin, where some objects fluttering in the
wind met his eye. Among these he searched until he found a little blue
stocking which he removed from the line, folded tenderly, and placed in his
overcoat pocket, and then set out for the main street of the camp. He
entered Harry Hawk's gambling hall, the largest in the place, where a host
of miners and gamblers were at play. Jack was well known in the camp, and
when he got up on a chair and called for attention, the hum of voices and
clicking of ivory checks suddenly ceased. Then in an earnest voice he told
what he had seen and heard, repeating every word of the conversation
between the mother and her children. In conclusion he said:

"Boys, I think I know you, every one of you, an' I know jist what kind o'
metal yer made of. I've an idee that Santy Claus knows jist whar thet
cabin's sitiwated, an' I've an idee he'll find it afore mornin'. Hyar's one
of the little gal's stock'n's thet I hooked off'n the line. The daddy o'
them little ones was a good, hard-working miner, an' he crossed the range
in the line o' duty, jist as any one of us is liable to do in our dangerous
business. Hyar goes a twenty-dollar piece right down in the toe, and hyar I
lay the stockin' on this card table--now chip in much or little, as ye kin
afford."

Brocky Clark, a gambler, left the table, picked the little stocking up
carefully, looked at it tenderly, and when he laid it down another twenty
had gone into the toe to keep company with the one placed there by Dawson.

Another and another came up until the foot of the stocking was well filled,
and then came the cry from the gambling table:

"Pass her around, Jack."

At the word he lifted it from the table and started around the hall. Before
he had circulated it at half a dozen tables it showed signs of bursting
beneath the weight of gold and silver coin, and a strong coin bag, such as
is used for sending treasure by express, was procured, and the stocking
placed inside of it. The round of the large hall was made, and in the
meantime the story had spread all over the camp. From the various saloons
came messages saying:

"Send the stockin' 'round the camp; boys are a-waitin' for it!"

With a party at his heels, Jack went from saloon to saloon. Games ceased
and tipplers left the bars as they entered each place, and miners,
gamblers, speculators, everybody, crowded up to tender their Christmas gift
to the miner's widow and orphans. Any one who has lived in the far Western
camps and is acquainted with the generosity of Western men, will feel no
surprise or doubt my truthfulness, when I say that after the round had been
made, the little blue stocking and the heavy canvas bag contained over
eight thousand dollars in gold and silver coin.

Horses were procured, and a party despatched to the larger town down on the
Consumnes, from which they returned near daybreak with toys, clothing,
provisions, etc., in almost endless variety. Arranging their gifts in
proper shape, and securely tying the mouth of the bag of coin, the party
noiselessly repaired to the widow's humble cabin. The bag was first laid on
the steps, and other articles piled up in a heap over it. On the top was
laid the lid of a large pasteboard box, on which was written with a piece
of charcoal:

"Santy Clause doesn't allways Giv poor Folks The Cold Shoulder in This
camp."

Christmas day dawned bright and beautiful.

Mrs. Stewart arose, and a shade of pain crossed her handsome face as the
empty little stockings caught her maternal eye. She cast a hurried glance
toward the bed where her darlings lay sleeping, and whispered:

"O God! how dreadful is poverty!"

She built a glowing fire, set about preparing the frugal breakfast, and
when it was almost ready she approached the bed, kissed the little ones
until they were wide awake, and lifted them to the floor. With eager haste
Totty ran to the stockings, only to turn away sobbing as though her heart
would break. Tears blinded the mother, and clasping her little girl to her
heart, she said in a choking voice:

"Never mind, my darling; next Christmas I am sure mamma will be richer, and
then Santa Claus will bring us lots of nice things."

"O mamma!"

The exclamation came from little Benny, who had opened the door and was
standing gazing in amazement upon the wealth of gifts there displayed.

Mrs. Stewart sprang to his side and looked in speechless astonishment. She
read the card, and then, causing her little ones to kneel down with her in
the open doorway, she poured out her soul in a torrent of praise and
thanksgiving to God.

Jack Dawson's burly form moved from behind a tree a short distance away,
and sneaked off up the gulch, great crystal tears chasing each other down
his face.

The family arose from their knees, and began to move the stores into the
room. There were several sacks of flour, hams, canned fruit, pounds and
pounds of coffee, tea and sugar, new dress goods, and a handsome, warm
woollen shawl for the widow, shoes, stockings, hats, mittens, and clothing
for the children, a great big wax doll that could cry and move its eyes for
Totty, and a beautiful red sled for Benny. All were carried inside amidst
alternate laughs and tears.

"Bring in the sack of salt, Totty, and that is all," said the mother. "Is
not God good to us?"

"I can't lift it, mamma, it's frozen to the step!"

The mother stooped and took hold of it, and lifted harder and harder, until
she raised it from the step. Her cheek blanched as she noted its great
weight, and breathlessly she carried it in and laid it upon the breakfast
table. With trembling fingers she loosened the string and emptied the
contents upon the table. Gold and silver--more than she had ever thought of
in her wildest dreams of comfort, and almost buried in the pile of treasure
lay Totty's little blue stocking.

We will not intrude longer upon such happiness; but leave the joyful family
sounding praises to Heaven and Santa Claus.

_Anon._

* * * * *

A LEGEND OF BREGENZ.

Girt round with rugged mountains
The fair Lake Constance lies;
In her blue heart reflected
Shine back the starry skies;
And, watching each white cloudlet
Float silently and slow,
You think a piece of Heaven
Lies on our earth below!

Midnight is there: and Silence,
Enthroned in Heaven, looks down
Upon her own calm mirror,
Upon a sleeping town:
For Bregenz, that quaint city
Upon the Tyrol shore,
Has stood above Lake Constance
A thousand years and more.

Her battlements and towers,
From off their rocky steep,
Have cast their trembling shadow
For ages on the deep:
Mountain, and lake, and valley,
A sacred legend know,
Of how the town was saved, one night,
Three hundred years ago.

Far from her home and kindred,
A Tyrol maid had fled,
To serve in the Swiss valleys,
And toil for daily bread;
And every year that fleeted
So silently and fast,
Seemed to bear farther from her
The memory of the Past.

She served kind, gentle masters,
Nor asked for rest or change;
Her friends seemed no more new ones,
Their speech seemed no more strange
And when she led her cattle
To pasture every day,
She ceased to look and wonder
On which side Bregenz lay.

She spoke no more of Bregenz,
While longing and with tears;
Her Tyrol home seemed faded
In a deep mist of years;
She heeded not the rumours
Of Austrian war and strife;
Each day she rose, contented,
To the calm toils of life.

Yet, when her master's children
Would clustering round her stand,
She sang them ancient ballads
Of her own native land;
And when at morn and evening
She knelt before God's throne,
The accents of her childhood
Rose to her lips alone.

And so she dwelt: the valley
More peaceful year by year;
When suddenly strange portents
Of some great deed seemed near.
The golden corn was bending
Upon its fragile stalk,
While farmers, heedless of their fields,
Paced up and down in talk.

The men seemed stern and altered--
With looks cast on the ground;
With anxious faces, one by one,
The women gathered round;
All talk of flax, or spinning,
Or work, was put away;
The very children seemed afraid
To go alone to play.

One day, out in the meadow
With strangers from the town,
Some secret plan discussing,
The men walked up and down.
Yet now and then seemed watching
A strange uncertain gleam,
That looked like lances 'mid the trees
That stood below the stream.

At eve they all assembled,
Then care and doubt were fled;
With jovial laugh they feasted;
The board was nobly spread.
The elder of the village
Rose up, his glass in hand,
And cried, "We drink the downfall
Of an accursed land!

"The night is growing darker,
Ere one more day is flown,
Bregenz, our foemens' stronghold,
Bregenz shall be our own!"
The women shrank in terror
(Yet Pride, too, had her part),
But one poor Tyrol maiden
Felt death within her heart.

Before her stood fair Bregenz;
Once more her towers arose;
What were the friends beside her?
Only her country's foes!
The faces of her kinsfolk,
The days of childhood flown,
The echoes of her mountains,
Reclaimed her as their own.

Nothing she heard around her
(Though shouts rang forth again),
Gone were the green Swiss valleys,
The pasture, and the plain;
Before her eyes one vision,
And in her heart one cry,
That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz,
And then, if need be, die!"

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