But each will mourn his own (she saith), I shall never hear her more Where the sunny Lindis floweth, From the meads where melick groweth, Onward floweth to the town. I shall never see her more Stand beside the sobbing river, Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed." 1 HOW DID YOU DIE?1 EDMUND VANCE COOKE Did you tackle that trouble that came your way Or hide your face from the light of day With a craven soul and fearful? Oh, a trouble is a ton, or a trouble is an ounce, Or a trouble is what you make it, And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, But only - how did you take it? You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that? Come up with a smiling face. It's nothing against you to fall down flat, But to lie there- that's disgrace. The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce; Be proud of your blackened eye! It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; It's how did you fight — and why? And though you be done to the death, what then? If you battled the best you could, If you played your part in the world of men, Why The Critic will call it good. Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, And whether he's slow, or spry, It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, But only - how did you die? By permission of Forbes & Co, publishers, and of the author. 1 THE INDIGO BIRD1 JOHN BURROUGHS Oh, late to come but long to sing, Thou comest with the orchard bloom, A winged gem amid the trees, When daisies come and brambles blow, But most I prize, past summer's prime, No brilliant bursts our ears enthrall That soothes the summer's pain. Where blackcaps sweeten in the shade, On breezy slopes where cattle graze, Oh, bird inured to sun and heat, The season's fret and urge are o'er, Make thy contentment mine! 1 By permission of Harper & Bros., publishers, and the author. THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS R. H. BARHAM The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! Many a knight, and many a squire, And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, Over comfits and cates, and dishes and plates, Of his Lordship's Grace, With a satisfied look, as if he would say, And the priests with awe, as such freaks they saw, Said, "The deuce must be in that little Jackdaw!" The feast was over, the board was cleared, In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles Marching that grand refectory through! A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Embossed and filled with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, One little boy more a napkin bore, Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight From his finger he draws his costly turquoise: Deposits it straight by the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; Till when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring! There's a cry and a shout, and a terrible rout, And nobody seems to know what they're about, But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out; The friars are kneeling, and hunting and feeling The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew off each plum-colored shoe, And left his red stockings exposed to the view; He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels; They turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates, They take up the poker and poke out the grates, They turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs; |