THE DROWNING SINGER

The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea,
The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly,
And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted
west,

And they hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed boon of rest.

But they looked across the waters and a storm was raging there;

A fierce spirit moved above them-the wild spirit of

the air;

And it lashed and shook and tore them, till they thun

dered, groaned and boomed,

And alas for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed.

Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of

Wales,

Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales,

When the sea had spent its passion, and should cast upon the shore

Bits of wreck and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore.

With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strained her eyes,

And she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and

rise.

Oh! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be,

For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such

a sea.

Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach,

Oh! for power to cross the waters and the perishing to reach!

Helpless hands were wrung for sorrow, tender hearts grew cold with dread,

And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal rock shore sped.

"She has parted in the middle! Oh, the half of her goes down!

God have mercy! Is heaven far to seek for those who drown?"

Lo! When next the white, shocked faces looked with terror on the sea,

Only one last clinging figure on the spar was seen to be.

Nearer the trembling watchers came the wreck, tossed by the waves,

And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could save,

"Could we send him a short message? Here's a trumpet. Shout away!"

'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say.

Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah, no!

There was but one thing to utter in the awful hour of

woe;

So he shouted through the trumpet, "Look to Jesus! Can you hear?"

And "Aye, aye, sir!" rang the answer o'er the waters loud and clear.

Then they listened. He is singing "Jesus, lover of my soul!"

And the winds brought back the echo, "While the nearer waters roll!"

Strange, indeed, it was to hear him, "Till the storm of life is past."

Singing bravely from the waters, "Oh, receive my soul at last!"

He could have no other refuge! "Hangs my helpless soul on thee,

Leave, ah, leave me not!" The singer dropped into the tossing sea.

And the watchers, looking homeward, through their eyes with tears made dim,

Said, "He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn."

Selected.

"All one's life is Music, if one touched the notes rightly and in tune."

Ruskin.

THE MOTHERLOOK

You take th' finest woman, with th' roses in her cheeks, An' all th' birds a-singin' in her voice each time she

speaks;

Her hair all black an' gleamin', or a glowin' mass o' goldAn' still th' tale o' beauty isn't more th'n half way told. There ain't a word that tells it; all description it defiesTh' motherlook that lingers in a happy woman's eyes. A woman's eyes will sparkle in her innocence an' fun, Or snap a warnin' message to th' ones she wants to shun. In pleasure or in anger there is always han'someness, But still there is a beauty that was surely made to blessA beauty that grows sweeter an' that all but glorifies— Th' motherlook that sometime comes into a woman's

eyes.

It ain't a smile, exactly--yet it's brimmin' full o' joy, An' meltin' into sunshine when she bends above her boy Or girl when it's a-sleepin', with its dreams told in its face;

She smooths its hair, an' pets it as she lif's it to its place. It leads all th' expressions, whether grave, or gay, or wise

Th' motherlook that glimmers in a lovin' woman's eyes.

There ain't a picture of it. If there was they'd have to paint

A picture of a woman mostly angel an' some saint, An' make it still be human-an' they'd have to blend the whole.

There ain't a picture of it, for no one can paint a soul. No one can paint th' glory comin' straight from Paradise

Th' motherlook that lingers in a happy woman's eyes.

From "The Trail to Boyland," copyright 1904. W. D. Nesbit. Used by special permission of the publishers

The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

DAD

Dad never had much to say;
Jogged along in his quiet way
Contentedly smoking his old dudeen

As he turned the soil to the golden sheen.
Used to say as he slapped the mare,

One horny hand in his tangled hair,
"Rest is joy when your work's well done,
So pitch in, son."

Sometimes he an' I'd not hitch;

Couldn't agree as to which was which.

Fought it out on the same old lines

As we grubbed an' hoed 'mong the runnin' vines;

And his eyes would light with a gentle quiz,

And he'd say in that old soft way of his,

As he idly stroked his wrinkled chin,

"All right, son, you win."

Dad was never no hand to fuss;
Used to hurt him to hear us cuss;
Kind o' settled in his old ways,
Born an' raised in the good old days