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ALONE she bears the mystic flame,

A torch that like a star doth gleam; A leader, she, without a name:

Alone she bears the mystic flame.

In rain or shine, through peace an' war,

It's still been, as appears,
A member of our family, for

Some five an' fifty years; It's stood right there, through thick an' thin,

An' kep' track of the sun, An' raked its own opinions in

'Bout what we mortals done; It's hed good watch o'young an' old

(An' looked so mild an' meek!) Some anecdotes ther' would be told,

If our old clock could speak!

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It's stood aroun' at every meal,

Mid clash o'plate an' cup,
An' heard us our ide's reveal,

An' size the neighbors up;
It's traced our little bickerin's, too,

An seemed to sympathize,
A squintin' softly at us through

Them solemn key-hole eyes;
It's umpired many a lively game

O'social hide-an' seek; 'Twould score a number o' the same,

Providin' it could speak!


Unto his parching lips a cup
Brimming with wine the hills hold up,
Fresh with the breath of bud and bloom,
Cooled in the caves of purple gloom.
One long, deep draught he takes, and then
Into his saddle leaps again,
Scatters the gold coins left and right
And speeds beyond the gates of night:
The Years are at his heels,-away!
The Sun still leads them by a day.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. The Critic, June 29, 1889.

How our folks drove to town one day,

An' lef' us chil'run free
With self-protectin' things to play,

“But let the ol' clock be;" An' though we young 'uns (never still)

Hadn't thought o' that before We now couldn't let it ’lone, until

It crashed down on the floor! We tremblin' set it up again,

Half-runnin', with a squeak; 'Twas lucky for our jackets, then,

The critter couldn't speak!



1. It isn't a scrumptious thing to see

It's rather short o' paintIt's brow will al’ays wrinkled be

It's tick is growin' faint;
The circulation's noways good

The j'ints too stiffly play-
It some 'at of 'ner than it should,

Forgits the time o' day;
'Twill stop an' try to recollect

Fur somethin' like a week; But there'd be music, I suspect,

If our ol' clock could speak!

How ol' folks went to church, one night,

An' left us all-sly elves-
If we'd conduct there-good an' right-

A meetin' by ourselves;
But neighbor gals an' boys in teens

Walked in-an' first we knew,
We fell to playin' “ Oats peas beans,"

'Snap up and catch 'em," too;
We scattered, when, by good ear-luck

She heard the big gate creak: The ol'clock frowned an' ticked an' struck

But couldn't make out to speak!

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Hypocrisy will count not, nor loud vaunts. What canst thou do? What hast thou done for God?" ""Not much, thou holy one; only by every road That dirt may be kept from us; from every nook I thrust it forth-then I'm an accomplished cook! • Cleanliness, O, Saint! we're told in the good


Ah me! the facts 't would just let fly,

Suppose it had the power!
Of courtin' chaps, when on the sly,

They turned it back an hour;
Of weddin's-holdin' tender yet,

The bride's last virgin grace;
Of fun'rals—where it peeped to get

A good look at The Face;
It knows the inside-out o' folks-

An' Nature's every freak;
I'd write a book, if I could coax
That wise ol' clock to speak!

Still straight as any gun it stan's

Ag'in the kitchen wall;
An' slowly waves its solemn han's

Outlivin' of us all!
I venerate some clocks I've seen,

As e'en a’most sublime:
They form revolvin' links between

Etarnity an' time.
An' when you come to take the pains

To strike a dreamy streak,
The figurative fact remains,
That all the clocks can speak.

WILL CARLETON. - Ladies' Home Journal, September, 1889.


Is next to godliness—one must be clean to cook
Food that will nourish body, mind and soul:
I labor Saint, that I may do the whole!"
"And is this all to write within the book?"
“Yea, holy one, pray write me down a cook!"
St. Peter vanished not, but with his holy key
He opened wide the book. “Thy virtue pleases me!
Deeds and not words thou givest to the Lord;
Enter his palace gates; with one accord
Shall mankind bless thee; thou savest more
From sin and faithlessness than many saints be-

Body and mind and soul! the very trinity of man!
To make all clean is noble; there are few who can,
Even amongst the best, do more; all goodness

strives To banish taint, impurity, untidiness and pride; But to make clean without, keep the soul free

from stain, Embue the mind with purity, a constant guard

mantain 'Gainst all polluting influences of body, mind and

soul! Sin is a moral filthiness! thou'rt right, cleanse

well the whole; Saint, preacher, missionary, sure art thou; Naught is too good for thee; the angels bow Before thy cleanly usefulness, and every man Approaches nearer God; if clean, he can Behold His brightness; if, while on earth, Man gives not way to impious thoughts; if mirth Instead of sulkiness cheers his clean table; Saint, thou'st done much to humanize; thou'rt able To open wide the gates of Paradise ;—there look! See mankind worshiping the cleanly cook!" “Nay, Saint; forgive, I cannot enter in, Save with my husband; e'en Paradise without

him Would not be perfect; ope again thy book; I will go back to earth, and there will cook Food fit for angels, better than erst the gods On high Olympus feasted!” “Nay child, these

moods Are needless; has he not freely shared with thee All that thou art, and did? Why, then, he's free To enter Paradise! read in this book: 'Safe is the man who's wife's the best of cooks.'"


To Lucullus, the Patron Saint of Cooks, who was wise

enough to feed his Singers on Vightingales' Tongues. "I never expect any sense worth listening to from a man who

never dares talk nonsense."


My blessed wife! (and may her kind increase)
Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace,
Thinking some better way to bless mankind;
To give them healthful bodies, strength and mind;
To have them loving, patient, thoughtful, kind;
To make men love their homes; firmer bind
The wife and husband; home to make so good
That nothing 's wanted but the daily food.
Again she slept; then saw within her room
A clean, neat, cook-stove, and a fire in bloom,
Near which Saint Peter stood, with book of gold.
Exceeding neatness made Frou Percy bold,
And to the Saint within the room she said:
“What writest thou ?" Saint Peter raised his head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
He said: “The names of those who best do serve

the Lord. Deeds, and not words, the Heavenly Master


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'Twas God who in the olden time

Fashioned a silver moon. "And this," He said, “shall be the eye That, when the midnight of the sky

Has overwhelmed the noon, Shall search the earth for love or crime."

Broad wave on wave of scarlet, fleck'd with gold,

Outstretched beneath an opalescent sky,

Wherein pale tints with glowing colors vie; From their birthplace within the sea are rolled Sweet perfumes by the sea-breeze, strong and cold. There white sails gleam, and soft cloud

shadows lie, And isles are kissed by winds that wanton by, Or rocked by gales, in unchecked passion bold.

Locked in by swelling, fir-clad hills, it liesOne stretch of purpling, heaving gold; serene,

It laughs and dimples under sunset skies, Toward which the chaste Olympics, snow-girt,

And, bathing in that flood of glory, make
Fit setting for that burnished ocean lake.

ELLA HIGGINSON. - Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, Aug. 10,1889.

And all obedient to His word,

But with a pallid fear
Of what the dreadful night would bring,
When every fierce and hidden thing

Might suddenly appear,
The blanching moon looked forth and heard.

And what she saw we do not know,

Or whether 'twas the sight Of Abel lying stiff and cold, Half trodden in the trampled mould,

That filled her with affright, Until she feared her face to show.

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