THE MAN AND THE PICNIC Under the shellbark hickory tree The picnic man he stands; A woeful looking man is he, With bruised and grimy hands; And the soil that sticks to his trousers' knee, Is the soil of several lands. His hair is tumbled, his hat is torn, At early morn, all dressed in white, His face was clean, his heart was light, In joyous mood, at early morn, But soon, as though upon a thorn He sat, with mighty jump For lo, in hordes the big black ants, Went swiftly crawling up his pants, And made it warm for him; And through the woods they made him dance, With gasp, and groan, and vim. And when the rustic feast is spread, His wildwood garland on her head, He-woe, oh, woe! would he were dead- And now they send him up the tree And up the shellbark's scraggy side, They cannot hear the words he cried, And now he wisheth he were down, Just how the giggle, stare and frown. He knows he cannot scramble down Sobbing and sliding and wailing, Clay, pie, and grass stain on his clothes, And he vows that to any more picnics But the morning comes, and its rising sun R. J. Burdette. ANTONY IN ARMS Lo, we are side by side. One dark arm furls And thro' the chamber curtains, backward rolled To the brown banks of Nilus wrinkling red The West, low down beyond the river's bed, Grow sullen, ribbed with many a brazen bar, Lo, how her dark arm holds me!-I am bound Of her low voice, I turn-and she perceives Tears 'tis a hero's task to kiss away! And then she loosens from me, trembling still And her swart beauty whitens into snow; And lost to use of life and hope and will, I gaze upon her with a warrior's woe, And turn, and watch her sidelong in annoy Then snatch her to me, flushed with shame and joy. Once more, O Rome, I would be son of thine This constant prayer my chained soul ever saith, I thirst for honorable end-I pine Not thus to kiss away my mortal breath. Robert Buchanan. THE LORD'S PRAYER The following beautiful composition, the original of which is in the G.A. R. hall museum at the State House, Topeka, Kansas, was captured during the Civil War, at Charleston, South Carolina, by a brother of Mrs. S. B. Helmer of Kendallville, Indiana; it is printed on very heavy satin and is quite a literary curiosity. Thou to the Mercy-Seat our souls doth gather, Our Father, To Whom all praise, all honor should be given, Who art in heaven, Thou by Thy wisdom rul'st the world's whole frame. Forever, therefore, Hallowed be Thy name; Let never more delays divide us from Thy glorious grace, but let Thy kingdom come, Let Thy commands opposèd be by none, But Thy good pleasure and Thy will be done. And let our promptness to obey, be even The very same On earth as it is in heaven. Then for our souls, O Lord, we also pray, Thou wouldst be pleased to Give us this day The food of life, wherewith our souls are fed, Sufficient raiment, and Our daily bread; |