Successful Recitations Part 59

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur; A dogrose blus.h.i.+n' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A1, Clean grit an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton, Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-- All is, he wouldn't love 'em.

But 'long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple; The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir: My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it.

That night, I tell ye, she looked _some!_ She seemed to've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heerd a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-rasping on the sc.r.a.per; All ways at once her feelin's flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' loitered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle; His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But her'n went pity Zekle.

An yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?"

"Wal--no--I come dasignin'--"

"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin."

To say why gals act so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebbe to mean _yes_ an' say _no_ Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin;"

Says she, "Think likely, Mister;"

Thet last word p.r.i.c.k'd him like a pin, An'--wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips, An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snow-hid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy; An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

THE HERITAGE.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

The Rich Man's Son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold; And he inherits soft white hands And tender flesh that fears the cold-- Nor dares to wear a garment old: A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce could wish to hold in fee.

The Rich Man's Son inherits cares: The bank may break--the factory burn; A breath may burst his bubble shares; And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn.

The Rich Man's Son inherits wants: His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds, with brown arms bare-- And wearies in his easy-chair.

What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit?

Stout muscles, and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art: A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit?

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things; A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labour sings!

What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit?

A patience learnt of being poor; Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it: A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the Outcast bless his door.

Oh! Rich Man's Son, there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten soft white hands-- This is the best crop from thy lands.

A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee.

Oh! Poor Man's Son, scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to s.h.i.+ne, And-makes rest fragrant and benign!

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both children of the same great G.o.d!

Prove t.i.tle to your heirs.h.i.+p vast By record of a well-spent past.

A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

LADY CLARE.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn; Lovers long betroth'd were they They two will wed the morrow morn; G.o.d's blessing on the day!

"He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, "Who was this that went from thee?"

"It was my cousin," said Lady Clare; "To-morrow he weds with me."

"O G.o.d be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse, "That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare."

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse,"

Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?"

"As G.o.d's above," said Alice the nurse, "I speak the truth: you are my child.

"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth as I live by bread!

I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead."

"Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother," she said, "if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife."