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OUR HONORED DEAD

HENRY WARD BEECHER

OW bright are the honors which await those who, with sacred fortitude and patriotic patience, have endured all things that they might save their nation from division and from the power of corruption! The honored dead! They that die for a good cause are redeemed from death; their names are gathered and garnered, their memory is precious; each place grows proud for them who were born there. There is in every village, and in every neighborhood, a glowing pride in its martyred heroes; tablets preserve their names; pious love shall renew the inscriptions as time and the unfeeling elements efface them. And the national festivals shall give multitudes of precious names to the orator's lips. Children shall grow up under more sacred inspirations, whose elder brothers, dying nobly for their country, left a name that honored and inspired all who bore it.

Oh, tell me not that they are dead, that generous host, that army of invisible heroes! Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society and inspire the people with noble motives and more heroic patriotism?

Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears; he was your son, but now he is the nation's; he made your household bright, now his example inspires a thousand households; dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now brother to every generous youth in the land; before, he was narrowed, appropriated, shut up to you, now he is

augmented, set free, and given to all; before, he was yours, now he is ours; he has died to the family that he might live to the nation.

Not one name shall be forgotten or neglected, and it shall by and by be confessed of our modern heroes, as it is of an ancient hero, that he did more for his country by his death than by his whole life.

O mother of lost children! sit not in darkness, nor sorrow for whom a nation honors. O mourners of the early dead! they shall live again, and live forever; your sorrows are our gladness; the nation lives because you gave it men that loved it better than their lives. And when the nation shall sit in unsullied garments of liberty, with justice upon her forehead, love in her eyes, and truth on her lips, she shall not forget those whose blood gave vital currents to her heart, and whose life given to her shall live with her life till time shall be no more.

Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured name, every river shall keep some solemn title, every valley and every lake shall cherish its honored register; and, till the mountains are worn out and the rivers forget to flow, till the clouds are weary of replenishing springs and the springs forget to gush and the rills to sing, shall their names be kept fresh with reverent honors which are inscribed upon the book of national remembrance.

THERE'S A WEDDING IN THE ORCHARD

MARY MAPES DODGE

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, daughter of Pro fessor J. J. Mapes, was born in New York City. In 1873 she became the editor of "St. Nicholas," a position she has since held. She has written several volumes of poems, among the number being “Rhymes and Jingles " and " Along the Way," the latter volume being the one from which this poem is taken. Her most noted book is "Hans Brinker or the Silver Skates." "Donald and Dorothy" is also very popular.

THERE's a wedding in the orchard, dear,
I know it by the flowers;

They're wreathed on every bough and branch,
Or falling down in showers.

The air is in a mist, I think,

And scarce knows which to be -
Whether all fragrance, clinging close,
Or bird song, wild and free.

And countless wedding jewels shine,
And golden gifts of grace;

I never saw such wealth of sun
In any shady place.

It seemed I heard the fluttering robes
Of maidens clad in white,

The clasping of a thousand hands
In tenderest delight;

While whispers ran among the boughs

Of promises and praise;

And playful, loving messages

Sped through the leaf-lit waves.

Then were there swayings to and fro;
The weeds a-tiptoe rose;

And sang the breeze a sudden song

That sank to sudden close;

And just beyond the wreathèd aisles
That end against the blue,

The raiment of the wedding choir
And priest came shining through.

And though I saw no wedding guest,
Nor groom, nor gentle bride,

I know that holy things were asked,
And holy love replied.

Soon will the lengthening shadows move

Unwillingly away,

Like friends who linger with adieux

Yet are not bid to stay.

I follow where the bluebird leads,
And hear its soft "good night,"
Still thinking of the wedding scene
And aisles of flowery light.

HOME, SWEET HOME

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. —John Howard Payne was born in New York City in 1792. Both as boy and man he exhibited remarkable qualities. Distinguished as author and actor, it is in the latter field that he was best known in his day, though now generally known only as the author of the following song. It was always very popular. The original publishers sold over one hundred thousand copies of it, a great number for that day.

'MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it never so humble, there's no place like home; A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.

Home, home,

Sweet, sweet home!

There's no place like home

There's no place like home.

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain,
Oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds singing gayly that came at my call
Give me these, and the peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home, home, etc.

BEN BOLT

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH

OH! don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?

Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,

She wept with delight when you gave her a smile,