No rains had descended, the
fountains were dry,
The streamlets no water
afford;
No clouds thick and heavy
bespoke a supply,
When a voice to Elijah
descends from on high,
And spoke the commands of
the Lord.
Arise, O Elijah! to Zion
repair,
Awhile in Zarephath remain;
A poor widow woman will
welcome thee there,
To thee of her little a
portion will spare,
And with food and with water
sustain.
The Prophet arose at the
heav'nly desire,
His steps to Zarephath he
bound,
When lo! the poor widow in
humble attire,
And busied with gathering
sticks for her fire,
At the gates of the city he
found.
He said, "I have
travell'd a wearisome way,
"From Cherith to-day I
have hied;
"I have passed by no
fountain my thirst to allay,
"Then fetch me a
draught of cold water I pray,
"Lest I perish with
thirst at thy side."
She turned, when again to
the woman he spoke,
"A stranger am I in the
land,
"And since in
compassion my thirst thou wilt slake,
"Remember I also am
hunger'd, and take
"A morsel of bread in
thy hand."
She answered, "as
liveth thy Maker and Lord,
"No bread for thy
hunger have I;
"Of oil but a little my
cruise can afford,
"But an handful of meal
in my barrel is stor'd,
"And from none can I
ask a supply.
"For fuel to dress this
small portion to day,
"To the gates of the
city I hie,
"And now with these
sticks I return on my way,
"That my son and myself
may our hunger allay,
"Then calmly resign us
to die."
Then answer'd Elijah,
"as thou hast begun,
"Go on till thy home
shall appear;
"Make cakes of thy
meal, and first bake for me one,
"Then after another for
thee and thy son,
"And your hunger allay
without fear.
"For thus saith thy
Maker, the meal shall not waste,
"And the oil in the
cruise shall not fail,
"But thou and thy
household his bounty shall taste,
"Till the day when his
wrath and his anger is past,
"And showers of plenty
prevail."
No need had Elijah the words
to repeat, To the house of the widow he went;
Many days he sojourned in
the quiet retreat,
And she, and her son, and
the prophet did eat,
And the oil and the meal
were not spent.
Yet more would you hear how
this widow was bless'd,
How her son from the dead
was restor'd,
Go turn to the book where
the tale is express'd,
Of Elijah, belov'd of the
Lord.
What little smiling boys are
those,
Which hand in hand we see,
They are two brothers, I suppose;
How pleas'd they seem to be!
No, but those little happy
boys,
Are cousins to each other,
Though none could love more
than they,
A sister or a brother.
And Robert and his Cousin
play,
So prettily together;
Their friends delight to
take them out,
To walk in pleasant weather.
And when the steam-boat's
coming in,
'Tis grand-papa's delight,
To take the children to the
shore,
To see the pretty sight.
Is this new life so sweet to
thee, my little baby boy,
That thus thy minutes seem
to be a constant course of joy?
I gaze upon thy laughing
face, I hear thy joyous tone,
Till the glad feeling of thy
heart, oft passes to my own.
No titled infant for whose
brow, a coronet shines fair,
Is blest with better health
than thou, or nursed with tenderer care;
And be it prince or
peasant's child, the station high or low,
These blessings are the only
ones its earliest days can know.
I would not damp thy present
joy with tales of future care,
Nor paint the ills of life,
dear boy, which thou must feel and bear:
The early dew, is fair to
view, although it vanish soon,
And lovely is the morning
flower, that withers when 'tis noon.
Thy heavenly Father, by
whose will a living soul is thine,
By his good spirit visits
still, this heritage divine,
And children who in
innocence the path of life have trod,
Hear often in their tender
minds, the in-dwelling of God.
As reason dawns, as mind
expands, in childhood's opening day,
Thou oft will hear his high
commands, to shun the evil way:
And every evil thought
resign'd to this divine control
Will bring a sweetness to
thy mind, a blessing to thy soul.
Dear as thy welfare is to
me, I cannot frame a thought,
I cannot breathe a wish for
thee, with happiness more fraught,
Than that this heavenly
Friend may prove the ruler of thy way,
And thy young heart incline
to love, to hearken, and obey.
How dearly I love, how.
indulgent you are!
Little William one morning
said to his mamma;
If I had but money, whatever
you need,
Were it hundreds or
thousands, I'd give you with speed.
I would get you a house all
surrounded with green
And a garden, the prettiest
that ever was seen;
I would buy you a beautiful
carriage besides,
And two prancing horses to
take you to ride. His mother said kindly, your
love must be shown
By obedience at present, I'd
much rather own
A dear little fellow who
minds my commands,
Than carriage, or horses, or
houses, or lands. William wondered, but
merrily went to his play,
And nothing occurr'd to the
close of the day,
Shut the door little boy,
said his mother at night,
Yet off went the youngster,
unheeding her quite.
Come pick up my needle and
thread case my son;
Directly, mamma, when this
wagon is done,
When that was completed he
moved not a jot,
His mother's desires were
entirely forgot.
When absent a moment, she
left a command,
That William by all means
should keep from the stand,
She feared with the candles
her work might he burned,
Or by his quick motions the
whole overturned.
His wagon was loaded,
himself was the horse,
For a while he remember'd
the stand in his course
But forgetting at length in
his rapid career,
His mother's injunction,
approached it too near.
He stumbled and fell, but
alas! in his fall,
He overturned work-table,
candles and all.
When back came his mother,
her muslin was spoil'd,
The candles were broken, the
carpet was soiled. She looked much astonish'd,
yet nothing she said,
But took weeping William
directly to bed.
By the side of his pillow
some moments she staid,
And finding him penitent,
did not upbraid. But patiently showed him how
contrary quite,
His professions at morning
and practice at night.
And after, when feeling his
parents were dear,
He strove by obedience to
make it appear:
And always the maxim most
carefully heeds,
Professions are nothing till
proved by our deeds.
SUMMER
In Summer when the sun
shines warm,
And we forget the winter's
storm,
How pleasant 'tis to walk
without,
While flowers are blooming
all about,
The wind is mild, the air is
sweet,
The grass is green beneath
our feet.
WINTER
In Winter when snow blows
about,
We do not love to wander
out;
But choose within the house
to stay,
Where we can work, or read,
or play,
While sitting by the
fire-side warm,
We listen to the howling
storm. Then children shelter'd from
the street,
With clothing warm, and food
to eat,
Should never cry, be cross,
or fret,
And tease for what they
cannot get.
One morning over hill and
plain,
The sunbeams brightly fell,
And loudly from the steepled
fane,
Rung out the Sabbath bell.
And they who loved the day
of rest,
Went forth with one accord;
Each in the way he deem'd the best,
To wait upon the Lord.
But not with these in lane
or street,
Was Henry seen that day;
He had not learn'd to turn
his feet
To wisdom's pleasant way.
And he with boys of evil
make,
Had plann'd the woods to
rove,
And every tree for nuts to
shake,
Throughout the walnut grove.
With basket o'er his
shoulders thrown,
With garments soiled and
torn,
Young Henry saunter'd from
the town,
This pleasant Sabbath morn.
His widow'd mother, ill and
poor,
Had taught him better
things;
And thus to see him leave the door,
Her heart with sorrow
wrings.
She strove the holy book to
heed,
Which spread before her lay:
But often while she tried to
read,
Her thoughts were far away.
The sun his parting radiance
shed, Each hour increased her care,
When stranger's steps with
heavy tread,
Came up her narrow stair.
And in their arms her son
they bore,
Insensible and pale,
While many a stain of
crimson gore,
Revealed the hapless tale.
The day he'd spent amid the
wood,
In merriment and glee,
And near its close
triumphant stood,
Upon a lofty tree.
The bough, the very topmost
bough,
Beneath his weight gave way,
And senseless on the rocks below,
The unhappy Henry lay.
With mangled flesh and
lab'ring breath,
And sadly fractured limb,
For many a week he lay, till
death
A mercy seemed to him.
Yet ere its bonds the spirit
burst,
Deep penitence was given,
And thus for Jesus' sake, we
trust, Acceptance found in heaven.
A damsel, (it must be
confessed
'Twas many years ago,)
Had used be very plainly
dressed,
Nor ribbon, lace, or bow,
Ere'd been thought needful
to adorn
Young Hannah's cap of snowy
lawn.
Of those the world bath
Quakers named
The damsel's parents were,
And Hannah never was ashamed
Of her profession fair;
Yet sometimes in her bosom
rose,
A passing wish for finer
clothes.
A ribbon worn by neighboring
miss,
Had caught her youthful eye,
And much she longed for one
like this,
About her cap to tie;
And felt at length resolved
to be,
At the next visit, fine as
she.
'Twas bought, an invitation
too,
Received without delay,
And Hannah to her purpose
true,
Put on her best array;
And round her cap, with
ready hand,
Arranged the glossy silken
band.
She took her seat among the
rest,
But soon the conscious maid,
Thought a strange smile, but
ill suppress'd,
On every visage play'd;
And hand to head she oft
applied,
To feel if all were safely
tied.
Unto the distant mirror
then,
Full many a glance was
thrown,
Till came the thought, how
strange and vain
My friends will think me
grown,
And with this thought a
crimson glow
Came mantling o'er her cheek
and brow.
Hannah was famed above the
rest
In hours of social glee,
For pleasant tale, and
harmless jest,
And lively repartee;
But now unwonted decoration,
Took all her thoughts from
conversation.
And one remark'd her absent
look,
And eye that wandered still,
Another kinder interest
took,
And asked if she were ill,
Till vexed by all she sees
and hears,
The maid could scarce
refrain from tears.
At home, with readier hand
she drew
The ribbon from her head,
Each wish for novel fashion,
too, Had from her bosom fled;
Nor from that day was Hannah
deck'd
With aught unfitting for her
sect.
When age had made her visage
pale,
And furrowed deep her brow,
Her children's children heard the tale
Far better told than now,
And each young heart this
moral traced,
Nothing is beautiful,
misplaced.
THE APRON STRINGS
When Mary Ann was ten years
old,
So hardy she had grown,
That though the nights were
long and cold,
The damsel slept alone.
Save when her grandmother
was there,
Who dwelt some miles away,
And when the roads were
rough, to share
Her grand-child's bed would
stay.
Her failing strength, both
shaking head
And trembling hand betrayed,
And grandma often went to
bed
Before the little maid.
For Mary Ann till eight
would sit,
Beside the candle's beam,
And many a winter's stocking
knit, And sewed full many a seam.
The dame one night had gone
to bed,
And eight o'clock had
pass'd,
When Mary Ann wound up her
thread,
And stuck her needle fast.
She went up stairs with
footsteps fleet,
And placed the candle nigh,
And grandma from her
slumbers sweet,
Was not awaked thereby.
Her night cap on her brow
she brings,
Puts off her creaking shoes,
But knotted were her apron
strings,
Beyond her power to loose.
As she to break them oft
essayed, (No scissors were in view,)
The foolish thought came
o'er the maid, That she could burn them through.
So to the candle's blaze she
brings The knotted tape with speed,
Then seized the parted
burning strings,
To put them out with heed.
Then laid her down, and deep
repose
O'ercame her senses quite;
Such sleep as guileless
childhood knows,
Was Mary Ann's that night.
But ere the warning clock
had spoke,
With twelve repeated sounds,
Grandmother woke, and
stifling smoke
And smell of fire surrounds.
She waked the child, she
sought the stair,
She called each inmates
name;
The opened door let in the
air,
And fiercely rose the flame.
Up came the frighted
household band,
And pails of water threw,
But scarce, though laboured
every hand,
Could they the fire subdue.
This done at length, the
chamber shew'd
A mass of mud and cinder,
For many a garment stout and
good,
Was that night burnt to tinder.
Poor Mary's apron, frock and
all,
Had helped the fire to feed,
And woefully did she recall
Her own incautious deed.
And had she slept that night
alone,
Her usual situation,
The pangs of death she sure
had known,
By fire or suffocation
The lesson Mary ne'er
forgot,
While she on earth existed,
And never after burned a knot,
Howe'er it might be twisted.
Grandmother lived to go
abroad,
And make this full relation,
And telling, humbly thanked
the Lord
For Mary's preservation.
GOOD HEARTED NANCY
Who is this that we so often
do see,
With so many children
surrounded,
And when she can make for
them candy and cake,
Her pleasure is almost
unbounded.
O Robert can tell, for she
loves him so well,
And sends for him many a
day;
'Tis Nancy, whose joy is to
have this dear boy,
Come in her clean kitchen to
play.
Though dark is her face, of
the African race,
She is a most kind hearted
creature,
For 'tis well understood,
that all can be good,
Though diff'rent in color
and feature.
It was one pleasant summer
morn,
Soon after day began to
dawn,
Before the brilliant sun
arose,
Or children woke from sweet
repose;
When near the shore, upon a
green
Were many people to be seen,
Why do they thus assemble
round?
Alas! a little boy is
drown'd,
It was a little Irish boy,
His parent's only pride and
joy;
And they had sought for him
all night,
Nor found him until morning
light;
When his poor mother was the
one
To find her little lifeless
son,
She saw him in a watery bed,
With no soft pillow for his
head,
And O, she scream'd with
sorrow wild,
When thus she found her
darling child,
When craz'd with grief the
father ran,
All piti'd the poor frantic
man;
'Twas then the wife subdued
her grief,
And strove to give him some
relief.
The father's arms his child
enfold,
Tho' it was wet, and stiff,
and cold;
When on the grass his son he
laid,
The mother knelt beside and
pray'd,
But ah, her prayers were all
in vain
To call his spirit back
again:
Perhaps she pray'd for
strength to be
Resign'd to His all-wise
decree,
Who took the treasure He had
given,
That they might look for it
in heaven—
And hope to meet his spirit
there
When they should quit this
world of care.
Who morn and eve is sure to
come,
And drive the cows from
pasture home,
When milk'd, he drives them
down again,
Through scorching heat, or
wind, or rain;
And ne'er neglects his sole
employ,—
Alas! 'tis a poor Idiot Boy.
He seems more happy than a
king,
As tho' in want of no one
thing;
And as he passes thro' the
streets,
He smiles at every one he
meets:
No sorrow e'er disturbs the
joy
Of this poor harmless Idiot
Boy. Unconscious of his humble
lot,
The wisest head he envies
not;
And children who with sense
are blest,
Should never dare this boy
molest,
Or ever any way annoy
This inoffensive Idiot Boy.
"Dear Aunt," one
evening Thomas said,
"Of all the stories you
have read, I pray you tell me one;
But not of people old or
sick,
Or naughty boys, but tell me
quick
Some dog, or cat, or monkey's trick,
That made a deal of
fun!"
Now to this Aunt, full many
a rhyme
And story of the olden time,
Had oft been said or sung;
She paus'd a while, the fire
she stirr'd,
And then repeated word for
word,
This tale, which she in
prose had heard,
When she was very young.
THE SAILOR AND THE MONKEYS
Once, in the hope of honest
gain, From Afric's golden store,
A brisk young sailor cross'd
the main
And landed on her shore.
And leaving soon the sultry
strand,
Where his fair vessel lay,
He travell'd o'er the
neighboring land,
To trade in peaceful way.
Full many a toy had he to
sell, And caps of scarlet dye,
All such things as he knew
full well,
Would please the native's eye.
But as he travell'd through
the woods,
He long'd to take a nap,
And opening there his pack
of goods,
Took out a scarlet cap.
And drew it on his head,
thereby
To shield him from the sun,
Then soundly slept, nor
thought an eye
Had seen what he had done.
But many a monkey dwelling
there,
Though hidden from his view,
Had closely watched the whole affair,
And long'd to do so too.
And while he slept did each
one seize
A cap to deck his brows,
Then climbing up the highest
trees, Sat chattering on the boughs.
The sailor wak'd, his caps
were gone,
And loud and long he
grieves,
Till looking up with heart forlorn,
He spied at once the
thieves.
With cap of red upon each
head,
Full fifty faces grim,
The sailor sees amid the
trees,
With eyes all fix'd on him.
He brandish'd quick a mighty
stick,
But could not reach their
bower,
Nor yet could stone, for
every one
Was far beyond his power.
Alas! he thought, I've
safely brought
My caps far over seas,
But could not guess it was
to dress
Such little rogues as these.
Then quickly down he threw
his own,
And loud in anger cri'd,
Take this one too, you
thievish crew,
Since you have all beside.
But quick as thought the
caps were caught
From every monkey's crown,
And like himself, each
little elf
Threw his directly down
He then with ease did gather
these,
And in his pack did bind,
Then through the woods
convey'd his goods,
And sold them to his mind.
THE INDIAN AND THE BASKET*
Among Rhode Island's early
sons,
Was one whose orchards fair,
By plenteous and
well-flavoured fruit,
Rewarded all his care.
For household use they
stored the best,
And all the rest conveyed
To neighboring mill, were
ground and press'd,
And into cider made.
The wandering Indian oft
partook
The generous farmer's cheer;
He liked his food, but better still
His cider fine and clear.
And as he quaff'd the
pleasant draught,
The kitchen fire before,
He long'd for some to carry
home,
And asked for more and more.
The farmer saw a basket new
Beside the Indian bold,
And smiling said, "I'll
give to you "As much as that will hold."
Both laugh'd, for how could
liquid thing
Within a basket stay;
But yet the lest
unanswering,
The Indian went his way.
When next from rest the
farmer sprung,
So very cold the morn,
The icicles like diamonds
hung,
On every spray and thorn.
The brook that babbl'd by
his door,
Was deep, and clear, and
strong,
And yet unfetter'd by the
frost,
Leap'd merrily along.
The self-same Indian by this
brook
The astonish'd farmer sees;
He laid his basket in the stream,
Then hung it up to freeze.
And by this process oft
renewed,
The basket soon became
A well glazed vessel, tight
and good,
Of most capacious frame.
The door he entered
speedily,
And claim'd the promis'd
boon,
The farmer laughing
heartily,
Fulfilled his promise soon.
Up to the basket's brim he
saw
The sparkling cider rise,
And to rejoice his absent
squaw,
He bore away the prize.
Long lived the good man at
the farm,
The house is standing still,
And still leaps merrily
along,
The much diminish'd rill.
And his descendants still
remain, And tell to those who ask it,
The story they have often heard,
About the Indian's basket.
* The danger of the drink
habit was not realized in that day.
The picture reminds us that
when this book was written there were no steel pens to write with. Every
teacher then must have a penknife and know how to make pens for his pupils out
of goosequills. There are many persons still living who learned how to write
with a quill pen. In those days it was a familiar sound in the schoolroom.
"Teacher, please to mend my pen."
THE STAGE
The Stages go a rapid pace,
To carry folks from place to
place;
When people only ride for
pleasure,
They choose to go more at
their leisure,
Though when they go to see
their friends,
Care not how soon their
journey ends,
Horses many miles can go,
They are so very strong;
But sometimes they will
weary grow,
And slowly move along:
Then drivers change them at
a stable,
For those that are more
strong and able,
On Sabbath-days the horse is
seen
Unshackled on the meadow
green,
THE MILL
I Love to see the pretty
Mill,
That stands so high up on
the hill,
And listen to the pleasing
sound,
When the wind blows the
sails around.
The farmer's boy will early
rise,
Before the sun ascends the
skies,
And mounting on old Dobbin's
back,
He takes to mill the great
corn sack;
As carelessly he jogs along,
We often hear his merry
song. Who would not be a farmer's
boy,
In such an honest safe
employ!
His bag of corn the miller
takes,
And all into the hopper
shakes,
Which comes out meal both
fine and sweet,
To make good bread for all
to eat.
IDLE GEORGE
There was a little idle
shirk,
Who neither lov'd to read or
work,
And nothing would he do all
day,
But saunter through the
streets and play,
And sleep in stables on the
hay,
Till to the work-house he
was sent,
Where quite reluctantly he
went;
And many a one was glad the
day
That lazy George was sent
away. For well they knew that he
must mind
His master, who was good and
kind,
But now his father hears with
joy,
That he's a good industrious
boy.
REDWOOD LIBRARY, NEWPORT.
JAMES FRANKLIN'S PRINTING
PRESS.
"The first newspaper
published in Newport, R, I,, was issued in 1732 by James Franklin, It was the
size of the large letter paper used at that time,"
A REMINISCENCE
By M. C. W.
Some wee little girls, 'twas
a long time ago,
Were very desirous of
learning to sew,
Or perhaps they thought they
already knew
As such very small
dressmakers often do. That the dolls needed
garments was real to them,
There were seams to sew up
and borders to hem,
One trouble they had in
their doll sewing play;
The needles they used went
so often astray.
And those that were bent or
too crooked to use
Were thought just as well
for the children to lose,
And that sort, we have
heard, with care were laid by,
That the little ones,
always, might have a supply.
But the stock got exhausted,
all the needles were straight,
And it would likely for
more, be a long while to wait,
A sorry time, to be sure, it
must have been,
To have their work stop,
just for one little thing.
Well, in this dilemma it
still is told,
For, as I have said, the
story is old,
Little Julia, more
thoughtful than all the rest,
It seems, went to her mother
with this request:
That the first time she
drove to town for more
Of other things, she would
go to the store
Where they sold crooked
needles; dear innocent face!
"The crooked needle
store," she said, was the place.
This artless appeal, as we
all might expect,
Touched a tender chord that
had its effect,
For a crookedT needle she
had not to wait,
But went back to her play
with one that was straight.
'Tis pleasant in a little
boat,
To sail when winds are mild;
But who would wish to be
afloat,
When storms are raging wild.
And little boys should never
dare
To sail in one alone,
For all who do not sail with
care,
Are in the water thrown,
But men can manage them with
ease,
And sail large ships across
the seas,
Some men delight to sail
away,
And visit distant lands,
While others choose at home
to stay
And labour with their hands,
There is a Power above can
keep,
Mankind from danger on the
deep.
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