Poems Teachers Ask For. Various

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Of recitations in his head And still kept learning more. Now this it is what happened: He was called upon one week And totally forgot the piece He was about to speak. His brain he vainly cudgeled But no word was in his head, And so he spoke at random, And this is what he said; My beautiful, my beautiful, Who standest proudly by, It was the schooner Hesperus The breaking waves dashed high. Why is the Forum crowded? What means this stir in Rome? Under a spreading chestnut tree There is no place like home. When Freedom from her mountain height Cried, "Twinkle, little star," Shoot if you must this old gray head, King Henry of Navarre. If you're waking, call me early To be or not to be, Curfew must not ring to-night, Oh, woodman, spare that tree. Charge, Chester, Charge! On, Stanley, on! And let who will be clever, The boy stood on the burning deck But I go on for ever.

The Kid Has Gone to the Colors

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The Kid has gone to the Colors

And we don't know what to say;

The Kid we have loved and cuddled

Stepped out for the Flag to-day.

We thought him a child, a baby

With never a care at all,

But his country called him man-size

And the Kid has heard the call.

He paused to watch the recruiting,

Where, fired by the fife and drum,

He bowed his head to Old Glory

And thought that it whispered: "Come!"

The Kid, not being a slacker,

Stood forth with patriot-joy

To add his name to the roster—

And God, we're proud of the boy!

The Kid has gone to the Colors;

It seems but a little while

Since he drilled a schoolboy army

In a truly martial style,

But now he's a man, a soldier,

And we lend him a listening ear,

For his heart is a heart all loyal,

Unscourged by the curse of fear.

His dad, when he told him, shuddered,

His mother—God bless her!—cried;

Yet, blest with a mother-nature,

She wept with a mother-pride,

But he whose old shoulders straightened

Was Granddad—for memory ran

To years when he, too, a youngster,

Was changed by the Flag to a man!

W.M. Herschell.

Kentucky Belle

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Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away—

Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay—

We lived in the log house yonder, poor as ever you've seen;

Roschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.

Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle.

How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell—

Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave her to me

When I rode north with Conrad, away from the Tennessee.

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