Which draws all things to thee unwittingly The Future lies within thy loins, and all the Days to be, To thee time giveth to beget, The Thought that shall redeem and lift man higher yet. B UT lo! another form appears Maidenhood. Upon the glass. Oh, pure and white: Oh, delicate and bright! Oh, primal growth of time! Sweet maidenhood! that to a silvery chime Of music, and chaste fancies undefiled, And modest grace and mild, Comest, best gift of God to men, As fair to-day as when The first man waking from his deep Found his strength spent, and at his side His fair dream glorified; High-soaring note, keeping the eternal song Oh, lily of life's garden! fair of hue And sweet of scent, watered with heaven's own dew, Fair being, that holdest hidden motherhood And undeveloped good Implicit in thee, even as white blooms hold Their fragrant globes of gold. Men know no praise they can withhold from thee, Oh, sweet virginity! Since Artemis first trod the youngling earth Theu glorious and surpassing birth! The vestal fires were thine, the convents cold Are thine as those of old. To thee, when strong sweet flowers of Life and Sense, For sure it is indeed Two streams through life's ground flow, and both are good The one whose goal is gracious motherhood, The other in the cloister pale and dim Finding sufficient meed In pure observance, rite, and soaring hymn. We may not blame nor hold them wrong Thine it is, even in youth's hot sun to keep I see thy fair expanding mind, A precious blossom parcel-blown, Dear flower, and fair to mortal eye, The ages kneel to thy eternal Truth, Thy pure and spotless innocence, And free from stain of Time and Sense, White flower of Life's tree Love like a wanton bee, Shall fly to thee, and from thy deep cold cells That from the chill heart of the untrodden snow, A warm and rapid torrent strong, 'HO shall guess what I may be? Ardor of Youth. For bravest and brightest that ever was sung May be and shall be the lot of the young. Hope, with her prizes and victories won, All my meadows and hills are green, My heart, my heart within me swells, Rich in the present, though poor in the past, I yearn for the future, vague and vast; Pleasures are there like dropping balms, Away with your counsels, and hinder me not, THE Calling a Boy in the Morning. HE Connecticut editor who wrote the following evidently knew what he was talking about: Calling a boy up in the morning can hardly be classed under the head of "pastimes,” especially if the boy is fond of exercise the day before. And it is a little singular that the next hardest thing to getting a boy out of bed is getting him into it. There is rarely a mother that is a success at rousing a boy. All mothers know this; so do their boys. And yet the mother seems to go at it in the right way She opens the stair door and insinuatingly observes, "Johnny." There is no response. "Johnny." Still no response. Then there is a short, sharp "John," followed a moment later by a long and emphatic "John Henry." A grunt from the upper regions signifies that an impression has been made; and the mother is encouraged to add, "You'd better be getting down here to your breakfast, young man, before I come up there an' give you something you'll feel." This so startles the young man that he immediately goes to sleep again. And the operation has to be repeated several times. A father knows nothing about this trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a soda bottle ejects its cork, and the "John Henry" that cleaves the air of that stairway goes into that boy like electricity, and pierces the deepest recesses of his nature. And he pops out of that bed and into his clothes, and down the stairs, with a promptness that is commendable. It is rarely a boy allows himself to disregard the paternal summons. About once a year is believed to be as often as is consistent with the rules of health. He saves his father a great many steps by his thoughtfulness. O! for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools: Of the wild bees' morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole digs his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Part and parcel of her joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy. O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for! I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming birds and honey bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade, For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight, Through the day and through the night; Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, O, for festal dainties spread, Of the pied frogs' orchestra; I was monarch; pomp and joy Cheerily, then, my little man! Quick and treacherous sands of sin. -John G. Whittier. WE The School Boy. E bought him a box for his books and things, And he looked the brightest and best of kings We handed him into the railway train |