The Crowning Indignity

BY WILBUR D. NESBIT.

Just 'cause my brother Alfred, he
Is two years olderer 'an me,
W'y, ever'thing he gets 'at's new
They give to me when he gets through.
I try my best to not to grow
An' catch up with his old things so,
But when he gets too big for clo'es,
W'y, I'm growed just exackly so's
They'll do for me-an' then I've got
To keep on wearin' 'em a lot!

My brother Alfred's pants just wait
An 'never get tored on th' gate
Or ripped on nails, or wored out none
Until my catchin' up is done.
When he gets new ones, my ma, she
Says his old pants will do for me.
An' Alfred grins, an' looks so glad
It always makes me awful mad!
An' 'at's th' way it always goes-
I even get his underclo'es!

An' all th' boys at school they grin
At me when I come walkin' in,
An' whisper when they get th' chance,
"W'y, how-de-do to Alfred's pants!"
An' let on like 'at's all they see
An' like they never heard o' me.
W'y, when I'm little, Alfred's crib
Was give' to me, an' Alfred's bib,
An' Alfred's hobby-horse, an' swing,
An' caster oil, an' ever'thing!

But now it's worse 'an ever! I'm

Just mad clean through an' through this time.

It's got to more 'an I can stand

This gettin' his things secon'-hand!

An' I told ma 'at I think it

Is pretty near th' time to quit.

My brother Alfred, he's been sick
With measles-he was speckled thick,
But now he's through with them, you see,
He's gone an' give 'em all to me!

The Song of Peace

BY JOAQUIN MILLER.

The grass is green on Bunker Hill,
The waters sweet in Brandywine;
The sword sleeps in the scabbard still,

The farmer keeps his flock and vine;
Then who would mar the scene to-day
With vaunt of battlefield or fray?

The brave corn lifts in regiments
Ten thousand sabers in the sun;
The ricks replace the battle tents,

The bannered tassels toss and run.
The neighing steed, the bugle's blast,
These be but stories of the past.

The earth has healed her wounded breast, The cannons plough the field no more; The heroes rest! Oh, let them rest

In peace along the peaceful shore! They fought for peace, for peace they fell; They sleep in peace, and all is well.

The fields forget the battles fought,
The trenches wave in golden grain;
Shall we neglect the lessons taught,

And tear the wounds agape again?
Sweet Mother Nature, nurse the land,
And heal her wounds, with gentle hand.

Lo! peace on earth. Lo! flock and fold.
Lo! rich abundance, fat increase,
And valleys clad in sheen of gold!

Oh, rise and sing a song of peace!
For Theseus roams the land no more,
And Janus rests with rusted door.

Fulton*

BY JULIA WARD HOWE.

A river flashing like a gem,
Crowned with a mountain diadem,
Invites an unaccustomed guest
To launch his shallop on her crest-
A pilgrim whose exploring mind
Must leave his tardy pace behind:
"My bark creeps slow, the world is vast;
How shall its pace be overpassed?"

Responsive to his cry appears
A visionary, young in years,
Commissioned with prophetic brain
The mystic problem to explain:
"Where fire and water closest blend,
There find a servant and a friend."

Yet many a moon must wax and wane,
With sleepless nights and days of pain,
Pleading a monarch's Court before,
Shrewd processes and study sore,
Ere on the silver tide shall float,

Swifter than thought, young Fulton's boat.

And not alone for Hudson's stream
Avails the magic power of steam.

*Read by Mrs. Howe at a dinner given during the HudsonFulton Celebration in New York.

Blessings of unimagined worth
Its speed shall carry 'round the earth;
Knowledge shall on its pinions fly,
Nor land nor race in darkness lie;
Commerce her hoards shall freely bring
To many an urgent summoning,

And Want and Wealth, in sundered lands,
Shall closely clasp redeeming hands,
While master minds new gospels span,
The holy brotherhood of man.

Rest, Fulton, in thine honored grave,
Remembered with the wise and brave;
Thy message visits every sea,

Herald of benefits to be.

So nearly may our world relate
The mighty movements of her fate,
So Doom and Dangers wide apart
Appeal to every human heart.

And, as one sun doth compass all
That shall arise or may befall,
One fiat on creation's night

Bestowed the blessed boon of light,
So shall all life one promise fill

For Freedom, Justice, and Good-will.

Dot Long-handled Dipper

BY CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.

Der boet may sing off "Der Oldt Oaken Bookit," Und in schveetest langvitch its virtues may tell; Und how, vhen a poy, he mit eggsdasy dook it,

Vhen dripping mit coolness it rose vrom der vell. I don't take some schtock in dot manner off trinking! It vas too mooch like horses und cattle, I dink. Dhere vas more sadisfactions, in my vay off dinking, Mit dot long-handled dipper, dot hangs py der sink.

"How schveet vrom der green, mossy brim to receive it. Dot vould soundt pooty goot-eef it only vas true Der vater schbills ofer, you petter pelieve it!

Und runs down your schleeve, und schlops indo your shoe.

Dhen down on your nose comes dot oldt iron handle,
Und makes your eyes vater so gvick as a vink;
I dells you dot bookit it don't hold a candle

To dot long-handled dipper, dot hangs py, der sink.

How nice it musd been in der rough vinter veddher, Vhen it settles righdt down to a coldt, freezing rain, To haf dot rope coom oup so light as a feddher,

Und findt dot der bookit vas broke off der chain, Dhen down in der vell mit a pole you go fishing, Vhile indo your back cooms an oldt-fashioned kink; I pet you mine life all der time you vas vishing For dot long-handled dipper, dot hangs py der sink.

How handy it vas schust to turn on der faucet, Vhere der vater flows down vrom der schpring on der hill!

I schust vas der schap dot vill alvays indorse it

Oxsbecially nighdts vhen der veddher vas chill. Vhen Pfeiffer's oldt vell mit der schnow was all cofered, Und he vades droo der schnow-drifts to get him a trink,

I schlips vrom der hearth, vhere der schiltren vas hofered,

To dot long-handled dipper, dot hangs py der sink.

Dhen gife oup der bookits und pails to der horses; Off mikrobes und tadpoles schust gife dhem dheir fill! Gife me dot pure vater dot all der time courses

Droo dhose pipes dot run down vrom der schpring on der hill.

Und eef der goot dings off dis vorld I gets rich in,

Und frendts all aroundt me dheir glasses schall clink, I schtill vill rememper dot oldt coundtry kitchen,

Und dot long-handled dipper, dot hangs py der sink.