THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED

BY CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES SOUTHEY

Tread softly, bow the head,

In reverent silence bow,

No passing-bell doth toll,

Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,

With lowly reverence bow; There's one in that poor shedOne by that paltry bedGreater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state.

Enter, no crowds attend;

Enter, no guards defend

This palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold,
No smiling courtiers tread;

One silent woman stands,
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound,
An infant wail alone;

A sob suppressed, — again

That short deep gasp, and then —

The parting groan.

THE BOYS THAT RUN THE FURROW
BY FRANK L. STANTON

You can write it down as gospel,
With the flags of peace unfurled,
The boys that run the furrow

Are the boys that rule the world!

It is written on the hilltops,

In the fields where blossoms blend:
Prosperity is ending

Where the furrow has an end!

The glory of the battle,

Of clashing swords blood-red,

Is nothing to the warfare

Of the battle-hosts of bread!

The waving banners of the fields

O'er the broad land unfurled

The boys that run the furrow

Are the boys that rule the world!

A LITTLE HAND

BY FRANK L. STANTON

Perhaps there are tenderer, sweeter things
Somewhere in this sun-bright land;

But I thank the Lord for His blessing,
And the clasp of a little hand.

A little hand that softly stole
Into my own that day,

When I needed the touch that I loved so much,
To strengthen me on the way.

Softer it seemed than the softest down
On the breast of the gentlest dove;
But its timid press and its faint caress
Were strong in the strength of love!

It seemed to say in a strange, sweet way,
"I love you and understand,"

And calmed my fears as my hot heart tears
Fell over that little hand.

Perhaps there are tenderer, sweeter things
Somewhere in this sun-bright land;
But I thank the Lord for His blessing,
And the clasp of a little hand.

THE DOORSTEP

BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN

The conference-meeting through at last,
We boys around the vestry waited
To see the girls come tripping past
Like snowbirds willing to be mated.

Not braver he that leaps the wall
By level musket-flashes litten,
Than I, who stepped before them all,
Who longed to see me get the mitten.

But no; she blushed and took my arm!
We let the old folks have the highway,
And started towards the Maple Farm
Along a kind of lovers' by-way.

I can't remember what we said,

'Twas nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a glory.

The snow was crisp beneath our feet,

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,

Her face with youth and health was beaming.

The little hand outside her muff

O sculptor, if you could but mould it!

So lightly touched my jacket-cuff,
To keep it warm I had to hold it.

To have her with me there alone,

'T was love and fear and triumph blended. At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks, too, were almost home;
Her dimpled hand the latches fingered,
We heard the voices nearer come,

Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.

She took her ringlets from her hood,

And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled;

But yet I knew she understood

With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud past kindly overhead,

The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said,

Come, now or never! do it! do it!"

My lips till then had only known

The kiss of mother and of sister,

But somehow full upon her own

Sweet, rosy, darling mouth I kissed her!

Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still,
O, listless woman! weary lover!

To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill

I'd give but who can live youth over?