Elias Owen - "Welsh Folk Lore"

Rosa Mulholland - "Terry"

Huguette Bertrand - "Anatomie du Mouvement, poesie"

Various - "Georgian Poetry 1918 19"

Editorial
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Canadian Elocutionist

A >> Anna Kelsey Howard >> The Canadian Elocutionist




Begin with dignity; expound with grace
Each ground of reasoning in its time and place;
Let order reign throughout--each topic touch,
Nor urge its power too little, nor too much;
Give each strong thought its most attractive view,
In diction clear and yet severely true,
And as the arguments in splendour grow,
Let each reflect its light on all below;
When to the close arrived, make no delays
By petty flourishes, or verbal plays,
But sum the whole in one deep solemn strain,
Like a strong current hastening to the main.

_Judge Story._

* * * * *

THE FOOLISH VIRGINS.

Late, late, so late! and dark the night, and chill!
Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.--
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now!

No light had we--for that do we repent;
And learning this, the Bridegroom will relent.--
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now!

No light! so late! and dark and chill the night!
Oh, let us in, that we may find the light!--
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now!

Have we not heard the Bridegroom is so sweet?
Oh, let us in, though late, to kiss His feet!--
No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now!

_Tennyson._

* * * * *

SOMEBODY'S MOTHER.

The woman was old, and ragged, and grey,
And bent with the chill of the winter's day;

The street was wet with a recent snow,
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng

Of human beings who passed her by,
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street, with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of school let out,

Came the boys, like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep,

Past the woman so old and grey,
Hastened the children on their way,

Nor offered a helping hand to her,
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop--
The gayest laddie of all the group;

He paused beside her, and whispered low,
"I'll help you across if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong, young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,

He guided her trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.

Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's old, and poor, and slow;

"And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,

"If ever so poor, and old, and grey,
When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was--"God be kind to the noble boy,
Who is somebody's son, and pride, and joy!"

* * * * *

THE FAMINE.

O the long and dreary Winter!
O the cold and cruel Winter!
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker,
Froze the ice on lake and river;
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper,
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape,
Fell the covering snow, and drifted
Through the forest, round the village.
Hardly from his buried wigwam
Could the hunter force a passage;
With his mittens and his snow-shoes
Vainly walk'd he through the forest,
Sought for bird or beast and found none;
Saw no track of deer or rabbit,
In the snow beheld no footprints,
In the ghastly, gleaming forest
Fell, and could not rise from weakness,
Perish'd there from cold and hunger.

O the famine and the fever!
O the wasting of the famine!
O the blasting of the fever!
O the wailing of the children!
O the anguish of the women!
All the earth was sick and famished;
Hungry was the air around them,
Hungry was the sky above them,
And the hungry stars in heaven,
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them!

Into Hiawatha's wigwam
Came two other guests, as silent
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy,
Waited not to be invited,
Did not parley at the doorway,
Sat there without word of welcome
In the seat of Laughing Water;
Looked with haggard eyes and hollow
At the face of Laughing Water.
And the foremost said: "Behold me!
I am Famine, Bukadawin!"
And the other said: "Behold me!
I am Fever, Ahkosewin!"
And the lovely Minnehaha
Shudder'd as they look'd upon her,
Shudder'd at the words they uttered,
Lay down on her bed in silence,
Hid her face, but made no answer;
Lay there trembling, freezing, burning
At the looks they cast upon her,
At the fearful words they utter'd.

Forth into the empty forest
Rush'd the madden'd Hiawatha;
In his heart was deadly sorrow,
In his face a stony firmness,
On his brow the sweat of anguish
Started, but it froze and fell not.
Wrapp'd in furs and arm'd for hunting,
With his mighty bow of ash-tree,
With his quiver full of arrows,
With his mittens, Minjekahwun,
Into the vast and vacant forest,
On his snow-shoes strode he forward.

"Gitche Manito, the Mighty!"
Cried he, with his face uplifted
In that bitter hour of anguish,
"Give your children food, O Father!
Give us food, or we must perish!
Give me food for Minnehaha,
For my dying Minnehaha!"

Through the far-resounding forest,
Through the forest vast and vacant,
Rang that cry of desolation;
But there came no other answer
Than the echo of his crying,
Than the echo of the woodlands,
"MINNEHAHA! MINNEHAHA!"

All day long roved Hiawatha
In that melancholy forest,
Through the shadow of whose thickets,
In the pleasant days of summer,
Of that ne'er forgotten summer,
He had brought his young wife homeward
From the land of the Dakotahs;
When the birds sang in the thickets,
And the streamlets laugh'd and glisten'd,
And the air was full of fragrance,
And the lovely Laughing Water
Said with voice that did not tremble,
"I will follow you, my husband!"

In the wigwam with Nokomis,
With those gloomy guests that watch'd her,
With the Famine and the Fever,
She was lying, the beloved,
She the dying Minnehaha.
"Hark!" she said, "I hear a rushing,
Hear a roaring and a rushing,
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha
Calling to me from a distance!"
"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,
"'Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!"
"Look!" she said; "I see my father
Standing lonely in his doorway,
Beckoning to me from his wigwam
In the land of the Dakotahs!"
"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,
"'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!"

"Ah!" she said, "the eyes of Pauguk
Glare upon me in the darkness,
I can feel his icy fingers
Clasping mine amid the darkness!
Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"
And the desolate Hiawatha,
Far away amid the forest,
Miles away among the mountains,
Heard that sudden cry of anguish,
Heard the voice of Minnehaha
Calling to him in the darkness,
"HIAWATHA! HIAWATHA!"

Over snow-fields waste and pathless,
Under snow-encumber'd branches,
Homeward hurried Hiawatha,
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted,
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing;
"Wahonowin! Wahonowin!
Would that I had perish'd for you,
Would that I were dead as you are!
Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"
And he rush'd into the wigwam,
Saw the old Nokomis slowly
Rocking to and fro and moaning,
Saw his lovely Minnehaha
Lying dead and cold before him,
And his bursting heart within him
Utter'd such a cry of anguish
That the forest moan'd and shudder'd,
That the very stars in heaven
Shook and trembled with his anguish.

Then he sat down still and speechless,
On the bed of Minnehaha,
At the feet of Laughing Water,
At those willing feet, that never
More would lightly run to meet him,
Never more would lightly follow.
With both hands his face he cover'd,
Seven long days and nights he sat there,
As if in a swoon he sat there,
Speechless, motionless, unconscious
Of the daylight or the darkness.
Then they buried Minnehaha;
In the snow a grave they made her,
In the forest deep and darksome,
Underneath the moaning hemlocks;
Cloth'd her in her richest garments:
Wrapp'd her in her robes of ermine,
Cover'd her with snow like ermine:
Thus they buried Minnehaha.
And at night a fire was lighted,
On her grave four times was kindled.
For her soul upon its journey
To the Islands of the Blessed.
From his doorway Hiawatha
Saw it burning in the forest,
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks;
From his sleepless bed uprising,
From the bed of Minnehaha,
Stood and watch'd it at the doorway,
That it might not be extinguish'd,
Might not leave her in the darkness.

"Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha!
Farewell, O my Laughing Water!
All my heart is buried with you,
All my thoughts go onward with you!
Come not back again to labour,
Come not back again to suffer,
Where the Famine and the Fever
Wear the heart and waste the body.
Soon my task will be completed,
Soon your footsteps I shall follow
To the Islands of the Blessed,
To the Kingdom of Ponemah,
To the Land of the Hereafter!"

_H. W. Longfellow._

* * * * *

A SLIP OF THE TONGUE.

It chanced one day, so I've been told
(The story is not very old),
As Will and Tom, two servants able,
Were waiting at their master's table,
Tom brought a fine fat turkey in,
The sumptuous dinner to begin:
Then Will appeared--superbly cooked,
A tongue upon the platter smoked;
When, oh! sad fate! he struck the door,
And tumbled flat upon the floor;
The servants stared, the guests looked down,
When quick uprising with a frown,
The master cried, "Sirra! I say
Begone, nor wait a single day,
You stupid cur! you've spoiled the feast,
How can another tongue be dressed!"
While thus the master stormed and roared,
Will, who with wit was somewhat stored
(For he by no means was a fool
Some Latin, too, he'd learned at school),
Said (thinking he might change disgrace
For laughter, and thus save his place),
"Oh! call me not a stupid cur,
'Twas but a _lapsus linguae_, sir."
"A _lapsus linguae_?" one guest cries,
"A pun!" another straight replies.
The joke was caught--the laugh went round;
Nor could a serious face be found.
The master, when the uproar ceased,
Finding his guests were all well pleased,
Forgave the servant's slippery feet,
And quick revoked his former threat.
Now Tom had all this time stood still;
And heard the applause bestowed on Will;
Delighted he had seen the fun
Of what his comrade late had done,
And thought, should he but do the same,
An equal share of praise he'd claim.
As soon as told the meat to fetch in,
Bolted like lightning to the kitchen,
And seizing there a leg of lamb
(I am not certain, perhaps 'twas ham,
No matter which), without delay
Off to the parlour marched away,
And stumbling as he turned him round,
Twirled joint and dish upon the ground.
For this my lord was ill-prepared;
Again the astonished servants stared.
Tom grinned--but seeing no one stir,
"Another _lapsus linguae_, sir!"
Loud he exclaimed. No laugh was raised.
No "clever fellow's" wit was praised.
Confounded, yet not knowing why
_His_ wit could not one laugh supply,
And fearing lest he had mistook
The words, again thus loudly spoke
(Thinking again it might be tried):
"'Twas but a _lapsus linguae_," cried.
My lord, who long had quiet sat,
Now clearly saw what he was at.
In wrath this warning now he gave--
"When next thou triest, unlettered knave,
To give, as thine, another's wit,
Mind well thou knowest what's meant by it;
Nor let a _lapsus linguae_ slip
From out thy pert assuming lip,
Till well thou knowest thy stolen song,
Nor think a leg of lamb a tongue,"
He said--and quickly from the floor
Straight kicked him through the unlucky door.

MORAL.

Let each pert coxcomb learn from this
True wit will never come amiss!
But should a borrowed phrase appear,
Derision's always in the rear.

* * * * *

THE MODERN CAIN.

"Am I my brother's keeper?"
Long ago,
When first the human heart-strings felt the touch
Of Death's cold fingers--when upon the earth
Shroudless and coffinless Death's first-born lay,
Slain by the hand of violence, the wail
Of human grief arose:--"My son, my son!
Awake thee from this strange and awful sleep;
A mother mourns thee, and her tears of grief
Are falling on thy pale, unconscious brow;
Awake and bless her with thy wonted smile."

In vain, in vain! that sleeper never woke.
His murderer fled, but on his brow was fixed
A stain which baffled wear and washing. As he fled
A voice pursued him to the wilderness:
"Where is thy brother, Cain?"

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

O black impiety! that seeks to shun
The dire responsibility of sin--
That cries with the ever-warning voice:
"Be still--away, the crime is not my own--
My brother lived--is dead, when, where,
Or how, it matters not, but he is dead.
Why judge the living for the dead one's fall?"

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

Cain, Cain,
Thou art thy brother's keeper, and his blood
Cries up to Heaven against thee; every stone
Will find a tongue to curse thee; and the winds
Will ever wail this question in thy ear:
"Where is thy brother?" Every sight and sound
Will mind thee of the lost.

I saw a man
Deal death unto his brother. Drop by drop
The poison was distilled for cursed gold;
And in the wine cup's ruddy glow sat Death,
Invisible to that poor trembling slave.
He seized the cup, he drank the poison down,
Rushed forth into the streets--home had he none--
Staggered and fell and miserably died.
They buried him--ah! little recks it where
His bloated form was given to the worms.
No stone marked that neglected, lonely spot;
No mourner sorrowing at evening came,
To pray by that unhallowed mound; no hand
Planted sweet flowers above his place of rest.
Years passed, and weeds and tangled briers grew
Above that sunken grave, and men forgot
Who slept there.

Once had he friends,
A happy home was his, and love was his.
His Mary loved him, and around him played
His smiling children. Oh, a dream of joy
Were those unclouded years, and, more than all,
He had an interest in the world above.
The big "Old Bible" lay upon the stand,
And he was wont to read its sacred page
And then to pray: "Our Father, bless the poor
And save the tempted from the tempter's art,
Save us from sin, and let us ever be
United in Thy love, and may we meet,
When life's last scenes are o'er, around the throne."
Thus prayed he--thus lived he--years passed,
And o'er the sunshine of that happy home,
A cloud came from the pit; the fatal bolt
Fell from that cloud. The towering tree
Was shivered by the lightning's vengeful stroke,
And laid its coronal of glory low.
A happy home was ruined; want and woe
Played with his children, and the joy of youth
Left their sweet faces no more to return.
His Mary's face grew pale and paler still,
Her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soul
Went out through those blue portals. Mary died,
And yet he wept not. At the demon's call
He drowned his sorrow in the maddening bowl,
And when they buried her from sight, he sank
In drunken stupor by her new-made grave!
His friend was gone--he never had another,
And the world shrank from him, all save one,
And he still plied the bowl with deadly drugs
And bade him drink, forget his God, and die.

He died.
Cain! Cain! where is thy brother now?
Lives he still--if dead, still where is he?
Where? In Heaven? Go read the sacred page:
"No drunkard ever shall inherit there."
Who sent him to the pit? Who dragged him down?
Who bound him hand and foot? Who smiled and smiled
While yet the hellish work went on? Who grasped
His gold--his health--his life--his hope--his all?
Who saw his Mary fade and die? Who saw
His beggared children wandering in the streets?
Speak--Coward--if thou hast a tongue,
Tell why with hellish art you slew A MAN.

"Where is my brother?"
"Am I my brother's keeper?"

Ah, man! A deeper mark is on your brow
Than that of Cain. Accursed was the name
Of him who slew a righteous man, whose soul
Was ripe for Heaven; thrice accursed he
Whose art malignant sinks a soul to hell.

_E. Evans Edwards._

* * * * *

OCEAN.

_In Sunshine._

My window overlooks thee,--and thy sheen of silver glory,
In musical monotony advances and recedes;
Till I dimly see the "shining ones" of ancient song and story,
With aureoles of ocean-haze invite to distant meads,

Where summer song and sunshine on placid waters play;--
Drifting dreamily, insensibly, on fragrance-laden breeze--
Floating onward on the wavelets, without hurry or delay,
I reach some blissful haven in the bright Hesperides.

_Overcast._

How wearily and drearily the mist hangs over all!
And dismally the fog-horn shrieks its warning o'er the wave!
How sullenly the billows heave, beneath the funeral pall!
An impenetrable solitude!--a universal grave!

_In Storm._

O! measureless and merciless! vindictive, wild, and stern!
Fire, Pestilence and Whirlwind all yield the palm to thee!
Roar on in bad pre-eminence--a worse thou canst not earn,
Than clings in famine, wreck, and death, to thee, O cruel Sea!

_Ocean's Lessons._

I have seen thee in thy gladness, thy sullenness and wrath--
What lesson has thou taught, O Sea! to guide my daily path?
I hear thy massive monotone, to me it seems to say,
"When summer skies are over thee, dream not thy life away.

"In days of dark despondency, when either good or ill
"Seems scarcely worth the caring for, then wait and trust Him still;
"Though mist and cloud surround thee, thou art safe by sea or land,
"For thy Father holds the waters in the hollow of His hand.

"Perchance a storm in future life thy fragile bark may toss,
"And every struggle, cry, or prayer, bring nought but harm and loss,
"O tempest-tossed and stricken one! He comes His own to save,
"For not on Galilee alone, did Jesus walk the wave."

_W. Wetherald._

* * * * *

THE LITTLE HATCHET STORY.

And so, smiling, we went on.

"Well, one day, George's father--"

"George who?" asked Clarence.

"George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just like you. One day his
father--"

"Who's father?" demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of
interest.

"George Washington's; this great man we are telling you of. One day George
Washington's father gave him a little hatchet for a--"

"Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear child interrupted, with a gleam of
bewitching intelligence. Most men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of
impatience, but we didn't. We know how to talk to children. So we went on:

"George Washington. His--"

"Who gave him the little hatchet?"

"His father. And his father--"

"Whose father?"

"George Washington's."

"Oh!"

"Yes, George Washington. And his father told him--"

"Told who?"

"Told George."

"Oh, yes, George."

And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. We
took up the story right where the boy interrupted, for we could see he was
just crazy to hear the end of it. We said:

"And he was told--"

"George told him?" queried Clarence.

"No, his father told George--"

"Oh!"

"Yes, told him he must be careful with the hatchet--"

"Who must be careful?"

"George must."

"Oh!"

"Yes, must be careful with his hatchet--"

"What hatchet?"

"Why, George's."

"Oh!"

"With the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the cistern,
or leave it out in the grass all night. So George went round cutting
everything he could reach with his hatchet. And at last he came to a
splendid apple-tree, his father's favourite, and cut it down, and--"

"Who cut it down?"

"George did."

"Oh!"

"But his father came home and saw it the first thing, and--"

"Saw the hatchet?"

"No, saw the apple-tree. And he said, 'Who has cut down my favourite apple-
tree?'"

"What apple-tree?"

"George's father's. And everybody said they didn't know anything about it,
and--"

"Anything about what?"

"The apple-tree."

"Oh!"

"And George came up and heard them talking about it--"

"Heard who taking about it?"

"Heard his father and the men"

"What were they talking about?"

"About this apple-tree."

"What apple-tree?"

"The favourite tree that George cut down."

"George who?"

"George Washington"

"Oh!"

"So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he--"

"What did he cut it down for?"

"Just to try his little hatchet."

"Whose little hatchet?"

"Why, his own, the one his father gave him."

"Gave who?"

"Why, George Washington."

"Oh!"

"So, George came up, and he said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I--'"

"Who couldn't tell a lie?"

"Why, George Washington. He said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie. It was--'"

"His father couldn't?"

"Why, no; George couldn't?"

"Oh! George? oh, yes!"

"'It was I cut down your apple tree; I did--'"

"His father did?"

"No, no; it was George said this."

"Said he cut his father?"

"No, no, no; said he cut down his apple-tree."

"George's apple-tree?"

"No, no; his father's."

"Oh!"

"He said--"

"His father said?"

"No, no, no; George said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I did it with my
little hatchet.' And his father said, 'Noble boy, I would rather lose a
thousand trees than have you tell a lie.'"

"George did?"

"No, his father said that."

"Said he'd rather have a thousand apple-trees?"

"No, no, no; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple-trees than--"

"Said he'd rather George would?"

"No, said he'd rather he would than have him lie."

"Oh! George would rather have his father lie?"

We are patient and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers hadn't come and
got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington
could have pulled us out of the snarl. And as Clarence Alencon de
Marchemont Caruthers pattered down the stairs, we heard him telling his ma
about a boy who had a father named George, and he told him to cut down an
apple-tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one
apple-tree.

_R. N. Burdette._

* * * * *

TRUSTING.

I do not ask that God will always make
My pathway light;
I only pray that He will hold my hand
Throughout the night.
I do not hope to have the thorns removed
That pierce my feet,
I only ask to find His blessed arms
My safe retreat.

If He afflict me, then in my distress
Withholds His hand;
If all His wisdom I cannot conceive
Or understand.
I do not think to always know His why
Or wherefore, here;
But sometime He will take my hand and make
His meaning clear.

If in His furnace He refine my heart
To make it pure,
I only ask for grace to trust His love--
Strength to endure;
And if fierce storms beat round me,
And the heavens be overcast,
I know that He will give His weary one
Sweet peace at last.

* * * * *

THE LAST HYMN.

The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea,
The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly,
And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing lighted West
And then hasten to their dwellings for God's blessed boon of rest.
But they looked across the waters and a storm was raging there.
A fierce spirit moved above them--the wild spirit of the air,
And it lashed, and shook, and tore them till they thundered,
groaned, and boomed,
But alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed.
Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales,
Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales,
When the sea had spent its passion, and should cast upon the shore
Bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore.
With the rough winds blowing round her a brave woman strained her eyes,
And she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise.
Oh! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be,
For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea.
Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach.
Oh, for power to cross the waters, and the perishing to reach.
Helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts grew cold with dread,
As the ship urged by the tempest to the fatal rock-shore sped.
She has parted in the middle! Oh, the half of her goes down!
God have mercy! Is His heaven far to seek for those who drown?
So when next the white shocked faces looked with terror on the sea,
Only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be.
Nearer the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed by the wave,
And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could save.
"Could we send him a short message! Here's a trumpet, shout away!"
'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say.
Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah, no.
There was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of woe.
So he shouted through the trumpet, "Look to Jesus! Can you hear?"
And "Aye, aye, sir!" rang the answer o'er the waters loud and clear,
Then they listened, "He is singing, 'Jesus, lover of my soul,'"
And the winds brought back the echo, "While the nearer waters roll."
Strange indeed it was to hear him, "Till the storm of life is past."
Singing bravely o'er the waters, "Oh, receive my soul at last."
He could have no other refuge, "Hangs my helpless soul on thee;",
"Leave, oh, leave me not!"--the singer dropped at last into the sea.
And the watchers looking homeward, through their eyes, by tears made dim,
Said, "He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn."

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