 | City legends |  |
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Seventh Chain.
Scene, the cozy back parlor of a city residence. An old-fashioned grandmother is sitting in the most pleasant corner, with knitting-work on her lap. A lady teacher from some neighboring boarding-school sits near by, with a book in her hand. Subdued strains of music come from the front parlor, where Katherine, the good old lady's favorite granddaughter, is practising a brilliant overture.Grandmother.
I'm glad that it suited you, School-ma'am, to spend a few days here with Kate:
You're both of you fine-wove and crisp-like, an' take to each other first-rate.
When woman-hearts tangle together, they twist round again and again,
An' make up a queer sort o' love-match I never have noticed in men.
And, School-ma'am, I'm thriftily anxious about this smart gran'child o' mine,
An' want to talk candid about her, with present an' future design.
You're both of you fine-wove and crisp-like, an' take to each other first-rate.
When woman-hearts tangle together, they twist round again and again,
An' make up a queer sort o' love-match I never have noticed in men.
And, School-ma'am, I'm thriftily anxious about this smart gran'child o' mine,
An' want to talk candid about her, with present an' future design.
She's hungry for other folks' knowledge, an' never too full to be fed;
She's packed every book that I know of, all open-leaved, like, in her head;
The 'rithmetic makes its home with her; the grammar is proud of her tongue;
She spells words as if she had made 'em, 'way back when the language was young.
She knows all the g'ography found yet; she'd feel in a manner at home,
If dropped in the streets of J'rus'lem, or woke up some mornin' in Rome.
She's packed every book that I know of, all open-leaved, like, in her head;
The 'rithmetic makes its home with her; the grammar is proud of her tongue;
She spells words as if she had made 'em, 'way back when the language was young.
She knows all the g'ography found yet; she'd feel in a manner at home,
If dropped in the streets of J'rus'lem, or woke up some mornin' in Rome.
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She's studied the habits of planets—knows how to call names at a star—
She's traced their invisible railroads, an' tells what their time-tables are;
She's learnin' the language of heathens, that good-minded people abhorred—
A-thwartin' the old Tower of Babel—undoin' the work of the Lord.
Yes, Teacher, our dear, pretty Kath'rine is very sleek-minded an' smart;
But still I can't help but to worry concernin' the breadth o' her heart!
She's traced their invisible railroads, an' tells what their time-tables are;
She's learnin' the language of heathens, that good-minded people abhorred—
A-thwartin' the old Tower of Babel—undoin' the work of the Lord.
Yes, Teacher, our dear, pretty Kath'rine is very sleek-minded an' smart;
But still I can't help but to worry concernin' the breadth o' her heart!
Teacher.
Why! sympathies need not to narrow, because the brain clambers above;
The more that a genuine heart knows, the better it knows how to love.
A gem was all crowded with splendor, unseen in the gloom of the mines:
'Tis not now the less of a diamond because it is polished, and shines!
The flower that was hunted by wild weeds, thinks never to blossom less fair,
Because it is borne to a garden, and tended with wisdom and care.
A lamp in the sky had been tarnished by cloud-birds that flew from afar;
The wind swept the mist from its brightness—it gleamed, all the more of a star!
Whate'er is at fault in your grandchild, her learning makes easier withstood;
Whatever is good in your grandchild, her learning makes only more good.
Grandmother.
That's nice, soothin' sentiments, School-ma'am, an' helps all that works in your line;
It's one o' your golden opinions—I wish that it also was mine!
But, Teacher, suppose that she marries:—the knives of her brain bright an' keen—
An' knows all creation, excep' how to keep her house cozy and clean!
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She feeds him with steak that is soggy, an' tells him its meanin' in Greek?
Suppose that her coffee is muddy as if it was dipped from a trench:
Will that make his stomach less homesick, because she can tell it in French?
Suppose that her help is her master, along o' the things she don't know:
Can algebra make up the diff'rence, or grammar-books give her a show?
Oh, School-ma'am, those women keep house best (with nothin' to say ag'in you)
Who've learned to keep house o' their mothers, an' worked all its alphabet through!
Teacher.
Your grandchild must choose for her husband, a man with an intellect wide,
Who makes of the well-guarded body a place for the soul to reside;
Whose home is a God-made cathedral, with heart-blessings clear-voiced and sweet;
Who comes back at night for soul-comfort—not simply for what he can eat.
Who thinks with her, feels with her, helps her—has patience, for both of their sakes;
Who celebrates all her successes, and takes stock in all her mistakes.
Who treasures her well-taught advantage o'er one who unstudied begins;
Who welcomes with sweet-whispered pleasure each step of the race that she wins.
Who leads her to minds that are kindled with brands from the watch-fires of fame;
Who's glad that her lamp has been trimmed well, to catch the clear sanctified flame.
Grandmother.
An' if she shouldn't find this cur'os'ty?
Teacher.
Then let her as single be known;
And thank God her training has taught her to work out life's problem alone!
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But, School-ma'am, admittin' your arg'ment (if one can “admit” what one don't),
We'll say that she'll marry an angel (though likelier 'twill happen she won't);
But s'posin' she does, an' her children are sent, same as others, to school:
I worry 'bout whether she'll let 'em be taught by the brain-stuffin' rule.
It hurts me to see 'em build over a child into somebody's “pride,”
Through givin' him heartaches each week-day, by poundin' his head from inside!
They make 'em bite books with their teethin'; grown studies run all through their play;
They're killin' the children by inches, with five or six studies a day.
They load 'em with large definitions—as big as the children are small;
Ah me! it's a wonder the poor things twist up into grown folks at all!
There's many a poor little cre'tur' with other folks' words over-filled,
Not only “made mad” by “much learning” but weakened an' sickened an' killed!
There's many a green little grass-mound, whose tenant would say, could it talk,
“I died by their tryin' to run me, before I was able to walk!”
Teacher.
A blessing's no less of a blessing, because by some one 'tis abused;
The air, fire, and water can murder—and yet they all have to be used.
The steed that we drive to the river, is tempted, not tortured, to drink;
The child should be given thought-burdens—but only to teach him to think.
Take comfort from now for the future; for Katherine, with all that she knows,
Is bright as a dollar just minted, and fresh as a new-blossomed rose.
Grandmother.
But, School-ma'am, I worry (you notice I'm built in a worryin' way,
And ne'er will learn how not to worry, clean up to my uttermost day)
'Bout whether my granddaughter Kath'rine will nourish her children to home,
Or let them run loose, so she sweetly through charity's pleasures can roam?
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I want my great-grandchildren cared for—so their children also will do.
Just read how three poor little creatur's, who—born too luxurious and high
To reach happy home and its comforts—were left by their mother to die!
Teacher
reads from a scrap-book:
KIDNAPPED IN MERCY.
I.
Through long, bright paths of The Gold Streeted Town,Three angels walked, one day, to make a tour
In the rude country districts of wide space.
They sped past mansions built of costly gems—
Past steeples, minarets, and spires of gold;
They crossed a coral bridge on silver wires,
Swinging above a clear-voiced stream; they walked
Through parks that in their laps held sweet bouquets,
And in their hands waved grand, immortal trees;
They passed through all heart-splendors realized—
Through every pure dream of their lives—come true!
Now, ere they stepped out into cold, wide space,
And turned the cloud-like hill that hid The Town,
They trained their eyes on the magnificence
Of the half-distant city, as if going
For many years—instead of one short day.
And turned the cloud-like hill that hid The Town,
They trained their eyes on the magnificence
Of the half-distant city, as if going
For many years—instead of one short day.
Along the dusty turnpikes of cold space,
These angels walked; they crossed wide avenues
That led to stars of various size and tint.
One there was, where a gilded finger-post
Said, “To the planet Venus.” There was one
That read, “This way to Neptune.”—All the stars
Were listed in the guideposts that they saw.
These angels walked; they crossed wide avenues
That led to stars of various size and tint.
One there was, where a gilded finger-post
Said, “To the planet Venus.” There was one
That read, “This way to Neptune.”—All the stars
Were listed in the guideposts that they saw.
And yet they turned not, right nor left; although
Their passports, sealed in Heaven, would shelter them
Where'er they willed to go; they could have known
Where queenly Saturn found her diamond rings;
How the striped juggler, Jupiter, can toss
Four worlds as playthings round his stalwart form;
They could have seen th' attendants of the sun
Feed full each hour his hot electric fires;
Their passports, sealed in Heaven, would shelter them
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Where queenly Saturn found her diamond rings;
How the striped juggler, Jupiter, can toss
Four worlds as playthings round his stalwart form;
They could have seen th' attendants of the sun
Feed full each hour his hot electric fires;
They passed all these, and came to a small lane,
Barred by a gate, sagging on one weak hinge,
With slats part stained and rusted o'er with blood,
But now and then a wire of pure bright gold;
Whose latch was set with bright bewildering gems,
One view of which built passion's wildest fire;
But with sharp, gleaming knives concealed within,
That cut the hand that lifted up the latch.
This was a road to Earth; and here they paused,
Raised the bright, treacherous bolt, and entered through.
Earth once had been their own sweet, bitter home,
And still they sadly loved to visit here.
Barred by a gate, sagging on one weak hinge,
With slats part stained and rusted o'er with blood,
But now and then a wire of pure bright gold;
Whose latch was set with bright bewildering gems,
One view of which built passion's wildest fire;
But with sharp, gleaming knives concealed within,
That cut the hand that lifted up the latch.
This was a road to Earth; and here they paused,
Raised the bright, treacherous bolt, and entered through.
Earth once had been their own sweet, bitter home,
And still they sadly loved to visit here.
Through flowers almost as sweet as Heaven could grow,
Through loathsome, bad-faced weeds that bit and stung,
Past silver-throated birds that made the trees,
Even, seem to sing—o'er serpents coiled and fierce—
Past wild brutes that would tear the world in two,
And white, sweet lambs that loved their angel guests,
And journeyed after them, and kissed their hands—
Down this long, crookèd, sharp-contrasted lane,
These angels walked: they were upon The Earth.
Through loathsome, bad-faced weeds that bit and stung,
Past silver-throated birds that made the trees,
Even, seem to sing—o'er serpents coiled and fierce—
Past wild brutes that would tear the world in two,
And white, sweet lambs that loved their angel guests,
And journeyed after them, and kissed their hands—
Down this long, crookèd, sharp-contrasted lane,
These angels walked: they were upon The Earth.
No scenery here, but was each hour surpassed
In their new home; no architecture grand,
More than a feeble parody on Heaven.
What walked they here to see?—They came to help.
In their new home; no architecture grand,
More than a feeble parody on Heaven.
What walked they here to see?—They came to help.
In a rough city road, they met with three
Small children, wandering desolate about,
Searching for something that would feed their minds,
And please their fancies; searching wistfully,
And weariedly, and with sad countenance,
For something that would cheer their desolate hearts.
Small children, wandering desolate about,
Searching for something that would feed their minds,
And please their fancies; searching wistfully,
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For something that would cheer their desolate hearts.
One was a tiny warrior: he had fought
With coarser urchins, till his chubby face
Was scratched and bruised;—one was a pretty girl,
Who made herself believe that rows of stones
Were mansion walls; she had her little rooms,
Each with the sky for ceiling. In one nook,
She kept a homely, patched-up doll, and oft
Above it crooned, and kissed it with love-looks.
Another little girl, with dark, weird eyes,
Was gazing at the clouds, as if she longed
To fly with them. But all looked desolate;
And near to them, three loathsome shadow-fiends
Laughed with each other—at the children leered—
And whispered, “They are certain to be ours.”
With coarser urchins, till his chubby face
Was scratched and bruised;—one was a pretty girl,
Who made herself believe that rows of stones
Were mansion walls; she had her little rooms,
Each with the sky for ceiling. In one nook,
She kept a homely, patched-up doll, and oft
Above it crooned, and kissed it with love-looks.
Another little girl, with dark, weird eyes,
Was gazing at the clouds, as if she longed
To fly with them. But all looked desolate;
And near to them, three loathsome shadow-fiends
Laughed with each other—at the children leered—
And whispered, “They are certain to be ours.”
By toil, and pain, and many a prayer to God,
The angels dressed themselves in mortal shape,
And kindly called the children.—They all came,
With tears of pleasure framed in eager eyes,
And hunger in their hearts. 'Twas many a day
Since they had had such restful, loving words.
The angels dressed themselves in mortal shape,
And kindly called the children.—They all came,
With tears of pleasure framed in eager eyes,
And hunger in their hearts. 'Twas many a day
Since they had had such restful, loving words.
“Where is your mother, little one?” was asked.
“Oh, she is at a grand reception, ma'am.”
“Where was she yesterday?” “At some great feast,
With many other ladies.”—“Day before?”
“Out at the Home for Helpless Children, ma'am.”
“When does she let you see her?”—“Only just
Once in a while. But Nurse is good to us,
And goes and visits with another nurse,
And lets us run about, and play alone.”
“Oh, she is at a grand reception, ma'am.”
“Where was she yesterday?” “At some great feast,
With many other ladies.”—“Day before?”
“Out at the Home for Helpless Children, ma'am.”
“When does she let you see her?”—“Only just
Once in a while. But Nurse is good to us,
And goes and visits with another nurse,
And lets us run about, and play alone.”
“Where is your father, little ones?” was said.
“Why, Papa?—let me see;—we have one yet—
He lives in town, but stays at our house nights.
I saw him, only just a month ago.
He's very large and pretty—but—he scowls.
He's getting rich, or something of that kind.”
“Why, Papa?—let me see;—we have one yet—
He lives in town, but stays at our house nights.
I saw him, only just a month ago.
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He's getting rich, or something of that kind.”
And still the shadow-fiends together laughed,
And whispered to each other, “They are ours.”
And whispered to each other, “They are ours.”
II.
Once more through paths of The Gold Streeted Town,These angels walked; and at Heaven's outer gate,
Another angel joined them—dressed in black.
Far in the country districts of wide space,
Again they journeyed.—When, this time, was reached
The gate of Earth—Night stood there, dark and cold.
Again they journeyed.—When, this time, was reached
The gate of Earth—Night stood there, dark and cold.
Through the long, winding lane they walked; and then,
On silent streets, by Earth's great shadow hushed.
On silent streets, by Earth's great shadow hushed.
Through thrice-locked doors, up lofty velvet stairs
Of a great mansion, crept the silent four.
Three children lay upon luxurious cots,
Restlessly sleeping;—one, with tear-stained face,
Mourned the lost, threadbare doll she loved so well;
Another curved his brow and shook his fist
Against some foe he had in Dream-land met;
The third lay sleeping, with a pretty smile,
Half hoping and half sure her dreams were true;
But all looked piteous, sad, and desolate.
And over them the loathsome shadow-fiends
Laughed with each other—at the children leered—
And whispered, “They are certain to be ours.”
Of a great mansion, crept the silent four.
Three children lay upon luxurious cots,
Restlessly sleeping;—one, with tear-stained face,
Mourned the lost, threadbare doll she loved so well;
Another curved his brow and shook his fist
Against some foe he had in Dream-land met;
The third lay sleeping, with a pretty smile,
Half hoping and half sure her dreams were true;
But all looked piteous, sad, and desolate.
And over them the loathsome shadow-fiends
Laughed with each other—at the children leered—
And whispered, “They are certain to be ours.”
Softly the angel clothed in black, bent down,
And kissed the little sleepers; a slight pang
Vexed each pale face, and then three forms emerged
From the frail bodies, looking like to them,
But purer far, and sweeter. With a smile,
They gazed up at the looks of love they saw,
And trembling with the first pure heart-delight
They ever yet had known, soft kissed the lips
That bent to them and whispered, “Come with us.”
And then they walked to The Gold Streeted Town.
And kissed the little sleepers; a slight pang
Vexed each pale face, and then three forms emerged
From the frail bodies, looking like to them,
But purer far, and sweeter. With a smile,
They gazed up at the looks of love they saw,
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They ever yet had known, soft kissed the lips
That bent to them and whispered, “Come with us.”
And then they walked to The Gold Streeted Town.
Then Faith, one of the angels, said, “Right true
We were to these sweet colonists of ours;
And it has been as God said it must be.”
And Hope replied, “The lives we have just saved,
Will learn to help and pity other lives.”
And Charity—chief of the three—exclaimed,
“Poor parents! when they find their little ones
Sleeping so cold, with Death's thin covering,
They will remember all the sad neglect
Their careless selfishness around them threw,
And some time will be richer for their loss.”
We were to these sweet colonists of ours;
And it has been as God said it must be.”
And Hope replied, “The lives we have just saved,
Will learn to help and pity other lives.”
And Charity—chief of the three—exclaimed,
“Poor parents! when they find their little ones
Sleeping so cold, with Death's thin covering,
They will remember all the sad neglect
Their careless selfishness around them threw,
And some time will be richer for their loss.”
And Death said, “Farewell; I can only go
Far as the gates; I ne'er can enter in;
I do God's work, but never see His home;”
And wrapped his black cloak round him, and was gone.
Far as the gates; I ne'er can enter in;
I do God's work, but never see His home;”
And wrapped his black cloak round him, and was gone.
Grandmother.
Now s'p'osin' that Kath'rine should turn out a mother like that one, some day,
An' let my great-gran'childr'n suffer till Heaven had to take 'em away?
Suppose, that in holdin' together outside homes that pull at her heart,
She lets her own fam'ly run helpless, an' sees her own home fall apart?
She's al'ays herself sacrificin' for others; which, when people do,
They'll sacrifice, if they ain't careful, the ones that is nearest 'em too.
Teacher.
If love and not pride is the reason our good deeds about us are strown,
They help us be true to our loved ones—they make us more fond of our own.
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'Twill care first for those who are nearest, and lead them the same lofty way.
True charity comes from the heart-depths, and not from pride's glittering foam;
Remember—“the light that shines farthest, shines always the brightest at home!”
Grandmother.
But, Teacher, I worry 'cause Kath'rine—of nothin' partic'l'r afraid—
Gets humbugged, annoyed, an' imposed on, by those she is tryin' to aid;
The folks that she lends, never pay her; the gratitude does not come roun';
I b'lieve that that girl has been humbugged by half of the beggars in town!
Teacher.
Life throngs with experiments; most things we do, are the planting of grain:
Perhaps we are building gold harvests—perchance we may fruitless remain.
On ruins of many a century the edifice stands as we gaze;
A splendid success, loved of Heaven, full many a failure repays.
[Turns a few leaves of the scrap-book, and reads:
LADY BOUNTIFUL'S TRIUMPH.
She was modestly winsome, and stylishly fair,And the sunbeams had spun the rich skeins of her hair,
And her eyes were as bright as pure diamonds be,
And her form had the grace of a zephyr-tossed tree;
She was “pretty,” some whispered, and “handsome,” some said,
And “beautiful” others described her instead;
And covetous glances were after her sent,
And flattery followed wherever she went.
And her heart was as soft as her ribbons were gay,
And she loved all the world, in a general way
(For the hard jailer Fashion, with all of his art,
Can not chain up a really generous heart),
And her white hand was open, to prince or to boor,
If he only was ragged, and wretched, and poor.
And she loved all the world, in a general way
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Can not chain up a really generous heart),
And her white hand was open, to prince or to boor,
If he only was ragged, and wretched, and poor.
And her husband coined lucre from day unto day,
And she faithfully struggled to give it away;
For if he from the world to win gold had a knack,
She esteemed it her part to pay some of it back!
And Charity knows very well how it thrives,
When 'tis zealously managed by rich people's wives;
There's many a lady, whose alms would ill fare,
If it wasn't for a selfish old husband somewhere!
And she faithfully struggled to give it away;
For if he from the world to win gold had a knack,
She esteemed it her part to pay some of it back!
And Charity knows very well how it thrives,
When 'tis zealously managed by rich people's wives;
There's many a lady, whose alms would ill fare,
If it wasn't for a selfish old husband somewhere!
And he smiled on her giving (she gave, as he knew,
A dollar, where he made a thousand or two);
But his smile had the feel of a good-natured sneer;
For he fought with the world, and approached it more near;
And he noticed that all is not Want that complains,
And that Charity often is scorned for its pains;
That the unctuous asking of alms is a gift,
And that Poverty, sometimes, itself, is a thrift;
And that he who will carelessly bounties accord,
Oft is lending to Satan, instead of the Lord.
A dollar, where he made a thousand or two);
But his smile had the feel of a good-natured sneer;
For he fought with the world, and approached it more near;
And he noticed that all is not Want that complains,
And that Charity often is scorned for its pains;
That the unctuous asking of alms is a gift,
And that Poverty, sometimes, itself, is a thrift;
And that he who will carelessly bounties accord,
Oft is lending to Satan, instead of the Lord.
And the first piteous mortal she happened to meet,
Was a woe-begone beggar, who crept thro' the street;
With face properly sad and form carefully bent,
And a mien that strewed sorrow wherever he went.
And she wondered what terrible lot could be worse,
And gave him such cash as she had in her purse;
And then went home at once, with a face like the sun,
With her husband to share the good deed she had done.
But he laughingly said, when she pictured her friend,
“That poor scamp has a bank-book, and money to lend.”
And she wept with vexation; and vowed not to give
To a beggar again, long as Heaven let her live.
Was a woe-begone beggar, who crept thro' the street;
With face properly sad and form carefully bent,
And a mien that strewed sorrow wherever he went.
And she wondered what terrible lot could be worse,
And gave him such cash as she had in her purse;
And then went home at once, with a face like the sun,
With her husband to share the good deed she had done.
But he laughingly said, when she pictured her friend,
“That poor scamp has a bank-book, and money to lend.”
And she wept with vexation; and vowed not to give
To a beggar again, long as Heaven let her live.
And a little while after, it chanced to befall,
That a sad-looking gentleman made her a call;
With late news from her pastor; which bade her extend
To this brother afflicted, the hand of a friend.
And the sad-looking man drew a picture of gloom
Of a sick, wretched wife, in a comfortless room;
Of the bad luck around him accustomed to lurk,
And the way he had worked, that he might obtain work;
And he made her believe, that if help were not found,
He would starve, ere another bright Sabbath came round.
Then he offered for sale—sadly resolute still—
A small one-dollar book for a ten-dollar bill.
And sweet sympathy warmed up her heart, through and through,
And instead of one book, she invested in two;
And she waited her husband's home-coming, to run
And share with his heart the good deed she had done.
But the afternoon paper contained a hot sketch
Of this scamp, whom it called “an unprincipled wretch,”
Informing an oft-told community how
He had swindled for months, and was swindling them now;
And it gave a long history, gloomy with fact,
And a full-length description, absurdly exact.
So her husband she met with a pain-chastened grace,
And a queer look of innocent shame in her face;
And instead of her setting his heart all astir,
He employed the whole evening in comforting her.
And she vowed, if she lived to be ninety years old,
Of no agent again would she buy, and be sold.
That a sad-looking gentleman made her a call;
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To this brother afflicted, the hand of a friend.
And the sad-looking man drew a picture of gloom
Of a sick, wretched wife, in a comfortless room;
Of the bad luck around him accustomed to lurk,
And the way he had worked, that he might obtain work;
And he made her believe, that if help were not found,
He would starve, ere another bright Sabbath came round.
Then he offered for sale—sadly resolute still—
A small one-dollar book for a ten-dollar bill.
And sweet sympathy warmed up her heart, through and through,
And instead of one book, she invested in two;
And she waited her husband's home-coming, to run
And share with his heart the good deed she had done.
But the afternoon paper contained a hot sketch
Of this scamp, whom it called “an unprincipled wretch,”
Informing an oft-told community how
He had swindled for months, and was swindling them now;
And it gave a long history, gloomy with fact,
And a full-length description, absurdly exact.
So her husband she met with a pain-chastened grace,
And a queer look of innocent shame in her face;
And instead of her setting his heart all astir,
He employed the whole evening in comforting her.
And she vowed, if she lived to be ninety years old,
Of no agent again would she buy, and be sold.
And the next case of pity her heart chanced to greet,
Was a hand-organ woman who sat in the street;
Who, old and unfeminine, said not a word,
And played a queer tune that could scarcely be heard.
And 'twas plainly apparent, and hard not to see,
There were two wooden stumps where her feet ought to be.
And our sweet Lady Bountiful's heart nestled near
This sister, so palpably wretched and drear;
And she gave her enough, moved by Charity's call,
To buy the dame out—legs, hand-organ, and all.
And she went home at night with her heart all aglow
With the help she had given to this daughter of woe;
And this sweet-bread of deeds,—like a generous child
She shared with her best friend—who praised her, and smiled;
For he knew all the time, and so, shortly, did she,
That this pauper of streets was as rich as need be;
And had married a daughter, with splendor quite rare,
And had given to her jewels a duchess could wear.
And our dear Lady Bountiful drooped with dismay,
At having been tricked in this high-handed way,
And vowed none again with her bounty to greet,
Unless blessed with the requisite number of feet.
Was a hand-organ woman who sat in the street;
Who, old and unfeminine, said not a word,
And played a queer tune that could scarcely be heard.
And 'twas plainly apparent, and hard not to see,
There were two wooden stumps where her feet ought to be.
And our sweet Lady Bountiful's heart nestled near
This sister, so palpably wretched and drear;
And she gave her enough, moved by Charity's call,
To buy the dame out—legs, hand-organ, and all.
And she went home at night with her heart all aglow
With the help she had given to this daughter of woe;
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She shared with her best friend—who praised her, and smiled;
For he knew all the time, and so, shortly, did she,
That this pauper of streets was as rich as need be;
And had married a daughter, with splendor quite rare,
And had given to her jewels a duchess could wear.
And our dear Lady Bountiful drooped with dismay,
At having been tricked in this high-handed way,
And vowed none again with her bounty to greet,
Unless blessed with the requisite number of feet.
And the next, and the next, and the next, and the next
Of the times she was tricked, made her almost as vexed;
But there came, one dark evening, a gleam of surprise,
From a woman whose heart had a home in her eyes;
Whose words sweetly warmed her fair friend; for they burned
With gratitude true, that had truly been earned.
And she murmured, “To me you are dearer than breath;
You snatched me from sorrow, and suffering, and death;
You lifted a burden my soul could not bear;
You tided me over the rocks of despair.
You saved me my daughter—my husband—my son;
God bless you and yours, for the deeds you have done!”
Of the times she was tricked, made her almost as vexed;
But there came, one dark evening, a gleam of surprise,
From a woman whose heart had a home in her eyes;
Whose words sweetly warmed her fair friend; for they burned
With gratitude true, that had truly been earned.
And she murmured, “To me you are dearer than breath;
You snatched me from sorrow, and suffering, and death;
You lifted a burden my soul could not bear;
You tided me over the rocks of despair.
You saved me my daughter—my husband—my son;
God bless you and yours, for the deeds you have done!”
And the lady's tired heart on this gratitude fed,
For her husband had happened to hear what was said;
And the man of the world—as a tear graced his eye—
Felt as if he had news from the world in the sky;
And he said to his wife, as her gemmed hand he pressed,
“This transaction defrays the expense of the rest.”
For her husband had happened to hear what was said;
And the man of the world—as a tear graced his eye—
Felt as if he had news from the world in the sky;
And he said to his wife, as her gemmed hand he pressed,
“This transaction defrays the expense of the rest.”
Grandmother.
But, Teacher, I'll tell my main trouble (though less than the ones I have said);
I'm gettin' behind the times daily, while Kate keeps a-gettin' ahead.
She'll grow a fine lady, and nothin' between us in common there'll be;
Now don't you think, some time or other, that Kate'll be 'shamed, like, of me?
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(entering and kissing Grandmother).
Ashamed of you? Never!—I'd give more for one silver hair of your head,
Than all of the studies I know of, and all of the authors I've read!
Do you know, you absurd dear old grandma', your heart and your brain are more aid,
Than all of the sciences heard of, and all of the books ever made!
No process that man has discovered, will act out affection's pure part;
The brain of the head is a failure, compared to the brain of the heart!
Ashamed of you? Let your grand life-work an answer unqualified be!
Pray God that my life may be lived so you'll never be “'shamed like” of me!
| City legends | |