One glorious day in the balmy spring
John Dorr was out with his new horse King.
Though both were rich, it was his design
To buy him a faster horse than mine.
By his side the sweetest girl in the town,
Of handsome features and eyes so brown,
That gazing in where the lashes curled
Was like a view of another world
Where the angel lives and the angel sings;
And she was one that had dropped her wings
And come to earth just to let men see
How sweet the angels in heaven may be!
I envied the breeze its constant bliss
Of passing her cheek to steal a kiss!
I loved the girl when we both were young,
But getting older I'd lost my tongue.
I learned in college Latin and Greek,
But Cupid's language I could not speak.
While Jack was perfect in Cupid's art,
The only language he knew by heart.
I envied John in his ride that day,
And jogged old Spot in a leisure way,
That two-mile drive to the sulphur spring,
To test the speed of his new horse King.
John took the lead and it touched his pride;
For the fastest horse and the fairest bride
Had been his boast! Did I pass him by?
My heart, I reckon, could answer why-
I'm almost certain I lost the race
By lagging behind to look at Grace!
Jack seemed more proud of his horse that day Than he was of Grace, which made me say: "Be sure of your game before you boast; From dead defeat there may rise a ghost! I'll race you back to the town," said I, "For Gracie's glove!" But he made reply: "What use to you is the senseless glove
From the soft white hand of the girl I love?
Suppose you win,” he laughed in my face, "You get the mitten and I get Grace!"
Said I: "No trophy I would so prize-"
And I caught a look from her soft brown eyes
That drove the rest of it out of my head-
I don't remember just what I said!
John laughed away till his eyes were wet;
"Increase the wager; I'll take the bet!"
"My glove," said Grace, "and the hand within,
Shall be the prize of the one to win!"
I looked at John, but he didn't chaff,
He didn't smile and he didn't laugh!
"Must I, then, race you for such a bride,"
Said John, "and carry the load beside?"
"I'll carry," said I, "the precious load!"
Her bright eye flashed and her fair cheek glowed!
She took her seat with little ado;
I tucked the robe and my heart in too!
Said I: "Old Spot!" as I stroked his neck,
And rubbed his nose and loosened his check,
"She's Bob's own Grace, if you do your best!"
He pricked his ears just as if he guessed
The time had come when his master's need
Had staked all happiness on his speed.
When all was ready Grace shouted "Go!"
A word both horses seemed to know.
You heard the hoof with its measured sway
Pacing along the great highway.
You saw the swell of the panting side,
The pink that glows in the nostril wide.
I knew old Spot, if he kept that pace,
Would win my
choice of the human race.
No word was spoken between us two;
The tongue is silent when hope is new.
A mile, a mile and a half we sped,
And still old Spot was a neck ahead.
Jack touched his horse with the tasseled whip;
Then Gracie, pursing her rosy lip,
Uttered a sound like a lover's kiss-pss-ss! pss-ss!
The world is ruled by a sound like this!
To urge a horse a capital plan,
And often used to encourage man;
But she never dreamed she had let me in
To her heart's fond wish that I should win.
The only time in the race she spoke
Was when, over-urged, Jack's trotter broke.
"He's running his horse, and that's not fair!"
And blushing up to her auburn hair,
She grabbed the whip from my willing hand—
A move that John seemed to understand-
For she raised it high as much as to say,
Well, running's a game that two can play!
So he brought him down to an honest trot,
But couldn't keep up with dear old Spot,
Who forged ahead when he saw the whip
And passed the stake with never a skip.
On through the village he kept his speed,
For I was too happy to mind the steed;
He would not stop when the race was done,
But started home with the prize he'd won!
Nor stopped till he reached the farm-house gate,
Where good old mother was sure to wait.
I know the horse is a trifle old,
But you can't buy him with all your gold!
My Gracie loves him and pats his neck,
And says he's the best card in the deck!
And rubs his nose till he kisses her face;
She has changed his name to dear old Ace,
And smiling says: "It's the proper thing,
For it takes the Ace to beat the King!"
As she purses her lips for the well-known smack,
"I'm glad the Queen didn't take the Jack!"
Grandma sits in her easy chair,
Knitting a stocking for baby May; Slipping the stitches with loving care, Knitting and dreaming the time away; Thinking of other little feet,
Cold and silent, at rest so long;
And, as she dreams of the old times sweet,
Her heart runs over in simple song:
Narrow, and widen, and slip, and bind!
Swift and silent the needles run;
Hands are willing and heart is kind;
Honest workers are hard to find;
Baby's stocking begun!
Grandma dreams of a glad spring day,
Years and years and years ago,
When her hair was gold, now so thin and gray,
And her faded cheeks wore a rosy glow;
And Robin comes to the farm-yard gate,
And tells his love in his bashful way;
And grandma sings, while the hour grows late,
The song she sung on her wedding-day:
Narrow, and widen, and slip, and bind!
Click the needles and sing the song!
Swift and silent the skeins unwind;
Hands are willing and heart is kind;
Baby's stocking grows long!
Grandma thinks of the children three-
Bob, and Charlie, and little Bess-
Lisping prayers at her mother-knee,
Making music her life to bless.
O'er her face comes a shade of pain,
Brought by thoughts of the long ago;
Trembling voice breaks forth again,
The song runs on while the tear-drops flow;
Narrow, and widen, and slip, and bind!
Work and trust while the moments run;
Eyes with tears are often blind;
Hands are willing and heart is kind;
Baby's stocking half done!
Grandma's hands have tired grown;
Poor old hands, that have worked so long!
Daylight swift from the earth has flown;
Almost silent has grown the song;
Still she knits, as she sits and dreams,
Hurrying onward to reach the toe;
Deftly turning the even seams,
While she murmurs in accents low:
Narrow, and widen, and slip, and bind!
Hands grow tired at set of sun;
Hands are willing and heart is kind;
Life grows short while the skeins unwind;
Baby's stocking most done!
Grandma stops, and her knitting falls
Idly down on the sanded floor;
Shining needles and half-wound balls;
Grandma's knitting, alas! is o'er.
So we found her at close of day,
White head resting upon her breast;
Knitting finished and laid away;
Loving fingers for aye at rest.
Narrow, and widen, and slip, and bind!
Skein at last to the end has run;
Heart stops beating that once was kind;
Hands are folded that ne'er repined;
Baby's stocking is done!
How is the boy this morning? Why do you shake your head? Ah! I can see what's happened-there's a screen drawn round the bed.
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