_The old banner lifted and faltering then In vague lisps and whispers fell silent again._

Old Glory: the story we're wanting to hear Is what the plain facts of your christening were,-- For your name--just to hear it, Repeat it, and cheer it, 's a tang to the spirit As salt as a tear;-- And seeing you fly, and the boys marching by, There's a shout in the throat and a blur in the eye, And an aching to live for you always--or die, If, dying, we still keep you waving on high.

And so, by our love For you, floating above, And the scars of all wars and the sorrow thereof, Who gave you the name of Old Glory, and why Are we thrilled at the name of Old Glory?

_Then the old banner leaped like a sail in the blast_ _And fluttered an audible answer at last._

And it spake with a shake of the voice, and it said: By the driven snow-white and the living blood-red Of my bars and their heaven of stars overhead-- By the symbol conjoined of them all, skyward cast, As I float from the steeple or flap at the mast, Or droop o'er the sod where the long gra.s.ses nod,-- My name is as old as the glory of G.o.d.

... So I came by the name of Old Glory.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

_From "Home Folks."_

INTERLEAVES

_In Merry Mood_

_"Then cast away care, let sorrow cease, A fig for melancholy."_

All rules are suspended, grave affairs of state are laid aside, and the Court Jester demands a hearing. Is it my fancy, or do young eyes brighten, rosy cheeks dimple, lips part a little when he approaches?

Clad all in gay motley, swinging his bauble, his cap and bells making merry music, he bounds upon the stage and bids us listen to his quips and jokes. He is by turns Puck and Ariel, Harlequin, Punchinello, and Court Fool. "Touchstone" we well may call him, this man of mirth, for when he tests the world's metal the pure gold of laughter shines out from the alloy. Seeing us smile even before he opens his lips he a.s.sumes a solemn att.i.tude and cries:

_"Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short It will not hold you long."_

Then hark how the "light-heeled numbers laughing go!" He tells us tales that smooth out the wrinkles of dull Care and provoke Laughter to hold both his sides, as well as others less jolly but full of wit and good cheer. A quaint, breezy moral, too, creeps in here and there, for the Court Fool, if you study him well, is sometimes a preacher; but whether frolicking or preaching or philosophizing, he brings with him, like Milton's nymph:

_"Jest and youthful jollity, Quips and cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods and Becks and Wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek."_

XII

IN MERRY MOOD

_On a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes_

'T was on a lofty vase's side Where China's gayest art had dyed, The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared: The fair, round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,-- She saw, and purred applause.

Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue, Through richest purple, to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize,-- What female heart can gold despise?

What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent, Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between,-- Malignant Fate sat by and smiled,-- The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in!

Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed to every watery G.o.d Some speedy aid to send: No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard,-- A favorite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived, Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts is lawful prize, Nor all that glitters gold!

THOMAS GRAY.

_The Priest and the Mulberry Tree_

Did you hear of the curate who mounted his mare, And merrily trotted along to the fair?

Of creature more tractable none ever heard; In the height of her speed she would stop at a word; But again with a word, when the curate said, "Hey,"

She put forth her mettle and gallop'd away.

As near to the gates of the city he rode, While the sun of September all brilliantly glow'd, The good priest discover'd, with eyes of desire, A mulberry tree in a hedge of wild brier; On boughs long and lofty, in many a green shoot, Hung, large, black and glossy, the beautiful fruit.

The curate was hungry and thirsty to boot; He shrunk from the thorns, though he long'd for the fruit; With a word he arrested his courser's keen speed, And he stood up erect on the back of his steed; On the saddle he stood while the creature stood still, And he gather'd the fruit till he took his good fill.

"Sure never," he thought, "was a creature so rare, So docile, so true, as my excellent mare; Lo, here now I stand," and he gazed all around, "As safe and as steady as if on the ground; Yet how had it been, if some traveller this way, Had, dreaming no mischief, but chanced to cry, 'Hey'?"

He stood with his head in the mulberry tree, And he spoke out aloud in his fond revery; At the sound of the word the good mare made a push, And down went the priest in the wild-brier bush.

He remember'd too late, on his th.o.r.n.y green bed, Much that well may be thought cannot wisely be said.

THOMAS LOVE PEAc.o.c.k.

_The Council of Horses_

Upon a time a neighing steed, Who graz'd among a numerous breed, With mutiny had fired the train, And spread dissension through the plain On matters that concern'd the state.

The council met in grand debate.

A colt whose eyeb.a.l.l.s flamed with ire, Elate with strength and youthful fire, In haste stept forth before the rest, And thus the listening throng address'd.

"Goodness, how abject is our race, Condemn'd to slavery and disgrace!

Shall we our servitude retain, Because our sires have borne the chain?

Consider, friends! your strength and might; 'Tis conquest to a.s.sert your right.

How c.u.mbrous is the gilded coach!

The pride of man is our reproach.

Were we design'd for daily toil, To drag the ploughshare through the soil, To sweat in harness through the road, To groan beneath the carrier's load?

How feeble are the two-legg'd kind!

What force is in our nerves combin'd!

Shall then our n.o.bler jaws submit To foam and champ the galling bit?

Shall haughty man my back bestride?

Shall the sharp spur provoke my side?

Forbid it, heavens! reject the rein; Your shame, your infamy, disdain.

Let him the lion first control, And still the tiger's famish'd growl.

Let us, like them, our freedom claim, And make him tremble at our name."

A general nod approv'd the cause, And all the circle neigh'd applause.