"So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely; "but poor Bennie was so tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it was Jemmie's night, not his; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never thought about himself, that he was tired, too."
"What is this you say, child? Come here; I do not understand," and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a
justification of an offense.
Blossom went to him; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and turned up the pale, anxious face toward his. How tall he seemed, and he was President of the United States, too! A dim thought of this kind passed for a moment through Blossom's mind; but she told her simple and straightforward story, and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to read.
He read it carefully; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty lines, and rang his bell. Blossom heard this order given: "Send this dispatch at once."
The President then turned to the girl and said: "Go home, my child, and tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's sentence, even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln thinks the life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or--wait until to-morrow; Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely faced death; he shall go with you."
[Pg 123]"God bless you, sir," said Blossom; and who shall doubt that God heard and registered the request?
Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the White House with his little sister. He was called into the President's private room, and a strap fastened upon the shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said: "The soldier that could carry a sick comrade's baggage, and die for the act so uncomplainingly, deserves well of his country." Then Bennie and Blossom took their way to the Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered at the Mill Depot to welcome them back; and as Farmer Owen's hand grasped that of his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks, and he was heard to say fervently, "The Lord be praised!"
THE SONG[15] Walter Scott
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
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Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveille;[Pg 124] Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye Here no bugles sound reveille. FOOTNOTE:
[15] From "Lady of the Lake."
THE STIRRUP CUP[16]
John Hay
My short and happy day is done; The long and lonely night comes on And at my door the pale horse stands To carry me to distant lands.
His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof, Sounds dreadful as a gathering storm; And I must leave this sheltering roof And joys of life so soft and warm. Tender and warm the joys of life-- Good friends, the faithful and the true; My rosy children and my wife,
>So sweet to kiss, so fair to view. So sweet to kiss, so fair to view,
The night comes on, the lights burn blue; And at my door the pale horse stands
To bear me forth to unknown lands. FOOTNOTE:
[16] By permission of Mrs. Hay.
[Pg 125]
THE SWAN-SONG Katherine R. Brooks
The great old-fashioned clock struck twelve, but as yet not one of the boys had stirred. All were listening too intently to what Carl von Weber was saying to notice the time. Around one of the grand pianos a group of boys was gathered. Perched on the top of it was a bright, merry-looking boy of fourteen. By his side sat a pale, delicate little fellow, with a pair of soft, dark eyes, which were fixed in eager attention upon Carl's face. Below, and leaning carelessly upon the piano, was Raoul von Falkenstein, a dark, handsome boy of fifteen.
"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, scornfully, after Carl had finished. "Is that all? just for a few paltry thalers and a beggarly violin, to work
myself to death? No! I don't think I shall trouble myself about it."
"Oh, Raoul!" cried Franz, the little fellow who sat by Carl, "you forget that it is to be the most beautiful violin in Germany, and to be given to us by the Empress herself. And the two hundred thalers--just think of that!" and Franz's dark eyes grew bright to think what he could do with them.
"Really," returned Raoul, insolently, "you don't mean to say that you are going to try! Why, the last time you played you broke down
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entirely!"
The color mounted into Franz's face, and the tears came into his eyes; and Carl cried out, angrily: "For shame! you know very well that it was only fright that made Franz fail.
"Don't mind him," he said, putting his arm around his friend's neck, "he is only hateful, as he always is. Let us go and see who is to be chosen for the concert. Come, Franz!"
"No, Carl," said his friend, quietly; "I would rather stay here. You go and find out, and then come and tell me."
The Empress once a year gave a prize to the school, but this[Pg 126] year it was to be finer than usual, and her Majesty had sent to Herr Bach and requested him to choose five of his best boys, each of whom was to compose a piece of his own. No one was to see it until the end of three weeks, when they were to play it at a grand concert, which the imperial family were to attend with the whole court. Franz was very anxious to be chosen, for he wanted the prize very much. He thought how pleased the mother would be, and he thought how hard she worked to give her little boy a musical education, and how many comforts the thalers would buy. Oh, he would work hard for it. The dear mother would be so surprised. And he fell into a brown study, from which he was awakened by feeling a pair of strong arms around him, and being frantically whirled around the room, while a voice shouted in his ear:
"We've got it! We're chosen--you, Gottfried, Johann, old hateful Raoul, and I!"
The boys worked very hard, for there was only a short time given them. Franz put his whole soul into his composition, and made himself almost sick over it. Raoul went about declaring, in his usual contemptuous manner, that he did not intend to kill himself over it, but secretly he worked with great industry.
One lovely moonlight night, as he sat by his window composing, for the moon was so bright he could see very well, he impatiently flung his pen down and muttered, "There is no use; I can never do it; this will never do!" and began angrily to tear up one of the music sheets, when suddenly he stopped and raised his head and listened intently. Such a lovely melody, so soft and clear, rising and falling in the sweetest cadences, now growing louder and louder in a wild, passionate crescendo, and then dying slowly away!
For a moment, the boy remained silent; then, suddenly springing to his feet, he cried:
"It is Franz! I know it, for no one but he could write any[Pg 127]thing so beautiful. But it shall be mine, for it is the piece that will gain the prize! Ah, Franz, I play before you, and what I play shall be--"
He stopped, and the moonlight streaming in at the window glanced across the room, and revealed a look of half triumph, half shame on his dark, haughty face. Why had he stopped? Perhaps his guardian angel stood behind him, warning him against what he was about to do. For a moment, a fierce struggle seemed to take possession of the boy, between his good and his evil spirit. But, alas! the evil conquered, and, sitting down, he wrote off what he had heard, aided by his wonderful