Cole's Funny Picture Book No. 1
And o'er the dim and faded lines
My tears are falling fast;
I deem'd not there was a power yet,
In these few simple words,
To stir within my quiet heart
Such old familiar chords.
Ye bring me back mine early dreams--
Oh, but to dream them now,
With childhood's fresh, unwearied heart,
And pure unsadden'd brow!
The loved--the lost--the changed--
The dead--all these we conjure up,
And mingled in the draught
That lies in memory's magic cup.
Old letters--sad mementoes ye,
Of friendship's shatter'd chain,
Oh! that the hand these pages traced,
My own might clasp again.
They tell me yet of early love,
Of feelings glad and gay,
Of childhood's April hopes and fears--
The writers, where are they?
Time's changes are for deeper things
Than folly's vain pursuit,
Spring blossoms fade, to leave a place
For autumn's ripen'd fruit.
Look back upon the buried past,
But not with vain regret,
Be grateful for the many joys
That bloom around thee yet.
Bend heavenward thine onward course,
That years of coming age
May leave an impress in life's book,
Pure as its opening page!
Papa's Letter
I was sitting in my study,
Writing letters, when I heard:
"Please, dear mamma, Mary told me
That you mustn't be disturbed.
But I'se tired of the kitty,
Want some ozzer thing to do.
Writing letters is 'ou mamma?
Tan't I write a letter, too?"
"Not now, darling, mamma's busy;
Run and play with kitty now."
"No--no mamma; me wite letter,
Ten you will show me how."
I would paint my darling's portrait,
As his sweet eyes searched my face--
Hair of gold and eyes of azure,
Form of childish witching grace.
But the eager face was clouded,
As I slowly shook my head,
Till I said: "I'll make a letter,
Of you, darling boy, instead."
So I parted back the tresses
From his forehead high and white,
And a stamp in sport I pasted,
'Mid its waves of golden light.
Then I said: "Now, little letter,
Go away and bear good news,"
And I smiled as down the staircase
Clattered loud the little shoes.
Leaving me, the darling hurried
Down to Mary in his glee:
"Mamma's witting lots of letters;
I'se a letter, Mary, see."
No one heard the little prattler,
As once more he climbed the stair.
Reached his little cap and tippet,
Standing on the table there.
No one heard the front door open,
No one saw the golden hair,
As it floated o'er his shoulders
On the crisp October air.
Down the street the baby hastened,
Till he reached the office door:
"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman,
Is there room for any more?
'Cause this letter's going to papa;
Papa lives with God, 'ou know:
Mamma sent me for a letter;
Does 'ou fink at I tan do?"
But the clerk in wonder answered,
"Not to-day, my little man;"
"Den I'll find anozzer office,
'Cause I must go if I tan."
Fain the clerk would have detained him,
But the pleading face was gone,
And the little feet were hastening,
By the busy crowd swept on.
Suddenly the crowd was parted,
People fled to left and right,
As a pair of maddened horses
At that moment dashed in sight.
No one saw the baby figure,
No one saw the golden hair,
Till a voice of frightened sweetness
Rang out on the autumn air.
'Twas too late: a moment only
Stood the beauteous vision there:
Then the little face lay lifeless
Covered o'er with golden hair.
Rev'rently they raised my darling,
Brushed away the curls of gold,
Saw the stamp upon the forehead
Growing now so icy cold.
Not a mark left the face disfigured,
Showing where a hoof had trod;
But the little life was ended--
"Papa's letter" was with God.
Bessie's Letter
I have got a letter,
A letter of my own,
It has my name upon it,
Miss Bessie L. Stone.
My papa sent it to me,
He's away from home--you see
I guess the postman wondered
Who Bessie Stone could be.
I'd like to send an answer,
But I don't know how to spell;
I'll get mamma to do it,
And that will do as well.
A Little Boy's Valentine
Little girl across the way,
You are so very sweet,
I shouldn't be a bit surprised
If you were good to eat.
Now what I'd like if you would too,
Would be to go and play--
Well, all the time, and all my life,
On your side of the way.
I don't know anybody yet
On your side of the street,
But often I look over there
And watch you--you're so sweet.
When I am big, I tell you what,
I don't care what they say,
I'll go across--and stay there, too,
On your side of the way.
Letter Writing
Heaven first taught letters
For some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover,
Or some captive maid.
They live, they speak,
They breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul,
And faithful to its fires;
The virgin's wish
Without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush,
And pour out all the heart--
Speed the soft intercourse
From soul to soul,
And waft a sigh
From Indus to the pole.
Boil it Down
Whatever you have to say my friend,
Whether witty, grave, or gay,
Condense as much as ever you can,
And that is the readiest way;
And whether you write of rural affairs,
Or particular things in town,
Just take a word of friendly advice--
"Boil it down."
Letters from Home
Letters from home! How musical to the ear
Of the sailor-boy on the far-off main,
When, from the friendly vessel drawing near,
Across the billow floats the gentle strain,
The words the tear-drops of his memory move;
They tell a mother's or a sister's love;
And playmates, friends, and sweetheart to him come
Out to him on the sea, in letters from his home.
How warmly there the tender home-light shines!
What household music lives in those dear tender lines.
[Page 94--Writing Land]
Polly's Letter to Brother Ben
Dear Brother Ben,
I take my pen
To tell you where,
And how, and when,
I found the nest
Of our speckled hen.
She would never lay,
In a sensible way,
Like other hens,
In the barn or the hay;
But here and there
And everywhere,
On the stable floor,
And the wood-house stair,
And once on the ground
Her eggs I found.
But yesterday
I ran away,
With mother's leave,
In the barn to play.
The sun shone bright
On the seedy floor,
And the doves so white
Were a pretty sight
As they walked in and out
Of the open door,
With their little red feet
And their features neat,
Cooing and cooing
More and more.
Well, I went out
To look about
On the platform wide,
Where side by side
I could see the pig-pens
In their pride;
And beyond them both,
On a narrow shelf,
I saw the speckled hen
Hide herself
Behind a pile
Of hoes and rakes
And pieces of boards
And broken stakes.
"Ah! ha! old hen,
I have found you now,
But to reach your nest
I don't know how,
Unless I could creep
Or climb or crawl
Along the edge
Of the pig-pen wall."
And while I stood
In a thoughtful meed,
The speckled hen cackled
As loud as she could,
And flew away,
As much as to say,
"For once my treasure
Is out of your way."
I did not wait
A moment then:
I couldn't be conquered
By that old hen!
But along the edge
Of the slippery ledge
I carefully crept,
For the great pigs slept,
And I dared not
even look to see
If they were thinking
Of eating me
But all at once,
Oh, what a dunce!
I dropped my basket
Into the pen,
The one you gave me,
Brother Ben;
There were two eggs in it,
By the way,
That I found in the manger
Under the hay.
Then the pigs got up
And ran about
With a noise between
A grunt and a shout.
And when I saw them,
Rooting, rooting,
Of course I slipped
And lost my footing,
And tripped,
And jumped,
And finally fell
Right down among
The pigs pell-mell.
For once in my life
I was afraid;
For the door that led
Out to the shed
Was fastened tight
With and iron hook,
And father was down
In the fields by the brook,
Hoeing and weeding
His rows of corn,
And here was his Polly
So scared and forlorn,
But I called him, and called him,
As loud as I could.
I knew he would hear me--
He must and he should.
"O father! O father!
(Get out, you old pig).
O father! oh! oh!"
For their mouths are so big.
Then I waited a minute
And called him again,
"O father! O father!
I am in the pig pen!"
And father did hear,
And he threw down his hoe,
And scampered as fast
As a father could go.
The pigs had pushed me
Close to the wall,
And munched my basket,
Eggs and all,
And chewed my sun-bonnet
Into a ball.
And one had rubbed
His muddy nose
All over my apron,
Clean and white;
And they sniffed at me,
And stepped on my toes,
But hadn't taken
The smallest bite,
When father opened
The door at last,
And oh! in his arms
He held me fast.
E. W. Denison
Writing
Little pens of metal,
Little drops of ink,
Make the wicked tremble,
And the people think.
Value of Writing
Blest be that gracious power
Who taught mankind
To stamp a lasting image
On the mind:
Beasts may convey,
And tuneful birds may sing
Their mutual feelings
In the opening spring;
But man alone has skill
And power to send
The heart's warm dictates
To the distant friend:
Tis his also to please,
Instruct, advise,
Ages remote,
And nations yet to rise.
Crabbe
Use the Pen
Use the pen! there's magic in it,
Never let it lag behind;
Write thy thought, the pen can win it
From the chaos of the mind.
Many a gem is lost forever
By the careless passer-by,
But the gems of thought should never
On the mental pathway lie.
Use the pen! reck not that others
Take a higher flight than thine.
Many an ocean cave still smothers
Pearls of price beneath the brine.
So thy words and thoughts securing
Honest praise from wisdom's tongue,
May, in time, be as enduring
As the strains which Homer sung.
J. E. Carpenter
Power of the Pen
Beneath the rule of men entirely great,
The pen is mightier than the sword.
Lord Lytton
Letters
Such a little thing--a letter,
Yet so much it may contain:
Written thoughts and mute expressions
Full of pleasure, fraught with pain.
When our hearts are sad at parting,
Comes a gleam of comfort bright,
In the mutual promise given:
"We will not forget to write."
Plans and doings of the absent;
Scraps of news we like to hear,
All remind us, e'en though distant,
Kind remembrance keeps us near.
Yet sometimes a single letter
Turns the sunshine into shade;
Chills our efforts, clouds our prospects,
Blights our hopes and makes them fade.
Messengers of joy or sorrow,
Life or death, success, despair,
Bearers of affection's wishes,
Greetings kind or loving prayer.
Prayer or greeting, were we present,
Would be felt, but half unsaid;