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Other documents randomly have
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Pieces People
Ask For
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
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laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: Pieces People Ask For

Editor: George M. Baker

Release date: April 21, 2018 [eBook #57018]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Paul Marshall and the

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PIECES PEOPLE

ASK FOR ***
Pieces People Ask For
SERIOUS, HUMOROUS, PATHETIC, PATRIOTIC,
AND DRAMATIC SELECTIONS IN
PROSE AND POETRY

FOR

READINGS AND RECITATIONS

EDITED BY
GEORGE M. BAKER

BOSTON

WALTER H. BAKER & CO.

1909

Pieces People Ask For

Copyright, 1885, by George M. Baker

(Reading Club, No. 16.)
 Copyright, 1886, by George M. Baker
(Reading Club, No. 17.)
Copyright, 1908, by Walter H. Baker & Co.

Contents
PART I
“Bay Billy” Frank H. Gassaway 98
Because Boston Transcript 33
The Book Canvasser 78
Casabianca (Colored) 43
A Centre-board Yacht-race George A. Stockwell 67
The Christening E. T. Corbett 37
The Coming Wave Oliver Optic 82
Counting Eggs Texas Siftings 64
Cut, Cut Behind Charles Follen Adams 45
The Deacon’s Ride Mary C. Huntington 59
The Death of D’Assas Mary E. Vandyne 24
Decoration Day Mary Bassett Hussey 54
The Driver of Ninety-three Sarah K. Bolton 8
The Engineer’s Story Eugene J. Hall 81
The Fall Thomas Hood 66
Filling His Place Maria L. Eve 40
The Flag James Jeffrey Roche 32
The Heritage James Russell Lowell 42
Hiring Help Mrs. S. E. Dawes 102
The House in the Meadow Louise Chandler Moulton 15
How the Ransom was Paid W. R. Rose 10
Jem’s Last Ride Mary A. P. Stansbury 88
The Labor Question Wendell Phillips 29
The Light from Over the Range 5
A Little Peach 17
A Lost Child Anna F. Burnham 86
Love and Philosophy Geo. Runde Jackson 30
Malaria 74
Mary’s Lamb on a New Principle 44
The Man with the Musket H. S. Taylor 27
Metamora to the Council 9
Missing 53
The Mississippi Miracle Irwin Russell 70
Mr. Pickwick’s Romantic Adventure
with a Middle-aged Lady in
Yellow Curl-Papers Dickens 18
Over the Crossin’ Springfield Republican 92
Puzzled 76
The Rajah’s Clock Theron Brown 57
Re-enlisted Lucy Larcom 11
Sir Thomas Noon
Scene from “Ion” 46
Talfourd
She Stood on the Stair Puck 13
The Silver Bell Mrs. Julia D. Pratt 63
Somehow or Other 94
The Story of Sir Arnulph Gerald Massey 85
Taters W. O. Eaton 96
Together on the Stairs Andrew G. Tubbs 35
A Tough Customer William L. Keese 28
“An Unknown Man, Respectably
Helen Jackson 97
Dressed”
The Village Choir Audre’s Journal 39
Wendell Phillips John Boyle O’Reilly 72
When Greek met Greek 56
When McGue puts the Baby to Sleep 87

PART II
After “Taps” Horace B. Sargent 78
At Arlington James R. Randall 15
At the Rising of the Moon Leo Casey 12
Aunt Parson’s Story Presbyterian Journal 48
Aunt Sophronia Tabor at the Opera 36
Biddy’s Philosophy R. H. Stoddard 102
The Bravest Boy in Town Emma H. Nason,
in Wide Awake 23
Brer Rabbit and the Butter Harris 26
Cicely and the Bears Lilliput Levee 64
The “Course of Love” Too “Smooth” 97
The Drummer’s Betrothed M. Cecile Brown,
from Victor Hugo 5
The Dutchman’s Serenade 57
Dyin’ Vords of Isaac Anonymous 99
A Fight with a Trout Charles D. Warner 40
Forcible Entry J. M. Bailey 45
Grant’s Strategy Judge Veazey 85
He Never Told a Lie 82
A Howl in Rome Bill Nye 67
Indian Names L. H. Sigourney 80
Jamie Douglas 70
John Leland’s Examination 8
A Laughing Philosopher 17
A Leak in the Dike Phœbe Cary 93
Lessons in Cookery Detroit Free Press 107
A Lesson to Lovers 83
A “Love” Game T. Malcolm Watson 86
The Loves of a Life Mazzini 29
“Magdalena” Puck 75
The Menagerie J. Honeywell 100
Nebulous Philosophy J. Edgar Jones 14
Never Too Late Earnest McGaffey 39
No! Hood 100
The Old Canteen 34
An Old Man’s Prayer George M. Baker 88
On the Shores of Tennessee E. L. Beers 103
An Order for a Picture Alice Cary 42
An Original Idea George M. Baker 110
Over the Left W. C. Dornin 56
Paddy’s Dream Anonymous 106
Pat’s Reason 109
The Prisoner 31
Raking the Meadow-Lot Ruth Revere 77
The Saddest Sight 13
Scene from “Ingomar” Maria Lovell,
from the German 59
The Seminole’s Reply 56
The September Gale O. W. Holmes 11
The Soldier’s Dream C. G. Fall 53
The Song of the Drum I. E. Diekenga 20
Story of a Bedstead San Fransisco Wasp 72
Wendell Phillips Henry W. Beecher 46
 Part I

The Reading-Club.
 THE LIGHT FROM OVER THE RANGE.
“D’ye see it, pard?”
“See what, Rough?”
“The light from over the Range.”
“Not a bit, Rough. It’s not daybreak yet. Yer sick, an’ yer head
bothers ye.”
“Pard, yer off. I’ve been sick, but I’m well again. It’s not dark like
it was. The light’s a-comin’—comin’ like the boyhood days that crep’
inter the winders of the old home.”
“Ye’ve been dreamin’, Rough. The fever hain’t all outen yer head
yet.”
“Dreamin’? ’Twa’n’t all dreams. It’s the light comin’, pard. I see
’em all plain. Thar’s the ole man lookin’ white an’ awful, just as he
looked the mornin’ he drove me from home; and that woman behind
him, stretchin’ out her arms arter me, is the best mother in the
world. Don’t you see ’em, pard?”
“Yer flighty, Rough. It’s all dark, ’cepting a pine-knot flickerin’ in
the ashes.”
“No—the light’s a-comin’ brighter and brighter. Look! It’s beamin’
over the Range bright and gentle, like the smile that used to be over
me when my head lay in my mother’s lap, long ago.”
“Hyar’s a little brandy, Rough. Thar; I seen it though my eyes are
dim—somehow—hyar, Rough.”
“Never, pard. That stuff spiled the best years of my life—it sha’n’t
spile my dreams of ’em. Oh, sich dreams, pard! They take me to the
old home again. I see the white house ’mong the trees. I smell the
breath of the apple-blossoms, and hear the birds singin’ and the
bees hummin’, and the old plough-songs echoin’ over the leetle
valley. I see the river windin’ through the willers an’ sycamores, an’
the dear ole hills all around, p’intin’ up to heaven like the spires of
big meetin’-houses. Thar’s the ole rock we called the tea-table. I
climb up on it, an’ play a happy boy agin. Oh, if I’d only staid thar,
pard!”
“Don’t, Rough; ye thaw me all out, talkin’ that. It makes me
womanish.”
“That’s it, pard: we’ve kep’ our hearts froze so long, we want it
allus winter. But the summer comes back with all the light from over
the Range. How bright it is, pard! Look! How it floods the cabin till
the knots an’ cobwebs are plainer than day.”
“Suthin’s wrong, Rough. It’s all dark, ’cept only that pine-knot in
the chimbly.”
“No, it’s all right, pard. The light’s come over the Range. I kin see
better’n I ever could. Kin see the moister in yer eyes, pard, an’ see
the crooked path I’ve come, runnin’ clean back to my mother’s knee.
I wasn’t allus called Rough. Somebody used to kiss me, an’ call me
her boy: nobody’ll ever know I’ve kep’ it till the end.”
“I hev wanted to ax ye, mate, why ye never had any name but
jist Rough?”
“Pard—it’s gettin’ dark—my name? I’ve never heard it since I left
home. I buried it thar in the little churchyard, whar mother’s waitin’
for the boy that never come back. I can’t tell it, pard. In my kit you’ll
find a package done up. Thar’s two picters in it of two faces that’s
been hoverin’ over me since I took down. You’ll find my name thar,
pard—thar with hers—an’ mother’s.”
“Hers? Will I ever see her, Rough?”
“Not till you see her by the light that comes over the Range to us
all. Pard, it’s gettin’ dark—dark and close—darker than it ever
seemed to me afore”—
“Rough, what’s the matter? Speak to me, mate. Can’t I do nuthin’
fer ye?”
 “Yes—pard. Can’t ye—say—suthin’?”
“What d’ye mean, Rough? I’ll say any thing to please ye.”
“Say—a—pra’r, pard.”
“A pra’r! Rough, d’ye mean it?”
“Yes, a pra’r, pard. It’s the—last thing Rough’ll ever—ax of ye.”
“It’s hard to do, Rough. I don’t know a pra’r.”
“Think back, pard. Didn’t yer mother—teach ye—suthin’? One
that begins—‘Our Father’—an’ then—somehow—says—‘forgive us’—”
“Don’t, Rough, ye break me all up.”
“The light’s a-fadin’—on the golden hills—an’ the night is
comin’—out of the canyuns—pard. Be quick—ye’ll try, pard. Say
suthin’—fer Rough”—
“I—Rough—Our Father, forgive us. Don’t be hard on Rough.
We’re a tough lot. We’ve forgot ye, but we hain’t all bad. ’Cause we
hain’t forgot the old home. Forgive us—be easy on Rough. Thy will
be done”—
“It’s comin’ agin—pard. The light’s—comin’—over the Range”—
“Have mercy on—us, an’—an’—an’—settle with us ’cordin’ to—to
the surroundin’s of our lives. Thy—Thy kingdom come”—
“Go on, pard. It’s comin’.”
“Now—I lay me down to sleep.”
“That’s—good—mother said that.”
“Hallowed be Thy name—pray—the Lord his soul to keep.”
“That’s good—pard. It’s all glory—comin’ over—the Range—
mother’s face—her—face”—
“Thine is the glory, we ask—for Jesus’ sake—Amen.”
“Pard”—
 “What, Rough? I’m all unstrung. I”—
“Fare”—
“Rough! Yer worse! What, dead?”
Yes, the wanderings were over. Ended with a prayer, rough and
sincere, like the heart that had ceased to throb; a prayer and a few
real tears, even in that lone cabin in the cañon; truer than many a
death scene knows, although a nation does honor to the dying; a
prayer that pleased Him better than many a prayer of the schools
and creeds. A rough but gentle hand closed the eyes. The first rays
of the morning sun broke through a crevice in the little cabin, and
hung like his mother’s smile over the couch of the sleeping boy. Only
one mourner watched with Rough as he waited for the new name
which will be given to us all, when that light comes to the world
from over the Range.
THE DRIVER OF NINETY-THREE.
 Street-car driver, “Ninety-three!”
Very weary and worn was he,
As he dragged himself to his little home;
Long, long hours from year to year,
Never a day for rest, no cheer,
In the woods or meadows in joy to roam.

All day through in tiresome round,

Wages scanty, and prospects bound
In a treadmill life from sun to sun,
Facing the winter’s cold and sleet,
Facing the summer’s burning heat,
With little to hope and little won.

The clothing was poor of “Ninety-three,”

And poor as well for the family;
But the wife was patient with gentle grace.
“I’ve watched all day by the baby’s bed;
I think he is going, John,” she said,
With an anxious look on her pallid face.

He gazed with pride on his baby boy.

“He is handsome, wife!” and a look of joy
Just for a moment dried the tears.
“How does he look in the glad daylight?
I have never seen him, except at night;”
And he sighed as he thought of the weary years.

Labor the blessing of life should be,

But it seemed like a curse to “Ninety-three,”
For twice too long were the toiling hours;
Never the time to improve the mind,
Or joy in his little ones to find:
Grasping and thoughtless are human powers.

All night long did the driver stay

 By the beautiful child, then stole away,
Hoping, still hoping that God would save;
But when the sun in the heavens rose high,
The time had come for the baby to die,
And the mother had only an open grave.

“I must take a day,” said “Ninety-three”

To the wealthy railroad company;
“I shall see the face of my child,” he said.
Oh, bitter the thought to wait till death
Has whitened the cheek and stopped the breath,
Before we can see our precious dead!

With many a tear and half-moaned prayer,

With apple-blossoms among his hair,
They buried the child of their fondest love;
And the man went back to the treadmill life
With a kindlier thought for his stricken wife.
Ah, well, there’s a reckoning day above!
Sarah K. Bolton.
 METAMORA TO THE COUNCIL.
You sent for me, and I’ve come: if you have nothing to say, I go
back again. How is it, brothers? The doubt seems on all your faces,
and your young warriors grasp their fire-weapons, as if they waited
the onset of the foe. You were like a small thing upon the great
waters; you had no earth to rest upon; you left the smoke of your
father’s wig-wam far in the distance, when the lord of the soil took
you as little children to his home; our hearths were warm, and the
Indian was the white man’s friend. Your great Book tells you to give
good gifts. The Indian needs no book: the Great Spirit has written
with his finger on his heart. Wisconego here? let me see his eye! Art
thou not he whom I snatched from the war-club of the Mohegan,
when the lips of the foe thirsted for thy blood, and their warriors had
sung thy death-song? Say unto these people that they have bought
thy tongue, and that thy coward heart has uttered a lie. Slave of the
whites, go! (stabs him) follow Sassawan! White man, beware! the
wrath of the wronged Indian shall fall on you like a mighty cataract
that dashes the uprooted oak down its mighty chasm; the dread
war-cry shall start you from dreams at night, and the red hatchet
gleam in the blaze of your burning dwellings. Tremble, from the east
to the west, from the north to the south, till the lands you have
stolen groan beneath your feet! (Throws hatchet on stage.) Thus do
I smite your nation, and defy your power!
HOW THE RANSOM WAS PAID.
 1598.

On the helpless Flemish village

Cruel Alva swooped and fell;
And the peace of trade and tillage
Turned to martial clank and yell.
In the town-house, tall and handsome,
Stood the great duke looking down
On the burghers proffering ransom
For the safety of the town.

O’er his brow gray locks were twining,

For his casque was laid aside,
And his good sword carved and shining
From the sword-belt was untied.
Prince he seemed of born commanders;
Pride and power each gesture told;
As he cried, “Ye men of Flanders,
Bring me twenty casks of gold!”

Then upon them fell a sadness,

And a shadow like a pall,
While they murmured, “’Tis rank madness
Such a sum from us to call!”
And the spokesman of the village
Murmured feebly, “Sure you jest.”
Answered Alva, “Gold or pillage,
Choose whichever may suit you best!”

Faint and stunned they turned despairing,

When arose a laugh of joy,
And before their startled staring
In there pranced a little boy;
On his curls the duke’s helm rested,
As with noisy glee he roared,
And his good steed mailed and crested
 d s good steed a ed a d c ested
Was great Alva’s mighty sword!

Round about the room he gambolled,

Peeping through the helmet bars;
Now he leaped, and now he ambled,
Like a Cupid mocking Mars.
Then he stayed his merry prancing,
And of Alva’s knees caught hold,
Where a ray of sunlight glancing
Turned his sunny curls to gold.

Swift the mother, sorely frightened,

Strove to take the cherub wild;
But the duke’s stern features lightened
As he kept her from the child;
And he drank the pretty prattle—
For the baby knew no fear—
Till his eye, so fierce in battle,
Softened with a pearly tear.

For a babe arose before him

In fair Spain, ere war’s alarms,—
Thus his father’s sword upbore him.
Alva caught the boy in arms,
And, the pretty forehead baring,
Cried, “A kiss!” The child obeyed;
Then unto those men despairing
Alva said, “Your ransom’s paid.”
W. H. Rose, in Texas Siftings.
RE-ENLISTED.
Oh did you see him in the street, dressed up in army blue,
When drums and trumpets into town their storm of music threw,—
A louder tune than all the winds could muster in the air,—
The Rebel winds, that tried so hard our flag in strips to tear?

You didn’t mind him? Oh, you looked beyond him, then, perhaps,
To see the mounted officers rigged out with trooper caps,
And shiny clothes, and sashes, and epaulets and all.
It wasn’t for such things as these he heard his country call.

She asked for men; and up he spoke, my handsome, hearty Sam,—

“I’ll die for the dear old Union, if she’ll take me as I am.”
And if a better man than he there’s mother that can show,
From Maine to Minnesota, then let the nation know.

You would not pick him from the rest by eagles or by stars,
By straps upon his coat-sleeve, or gold or silver bars,
Nor a corporal’s strip of worsted; but there’s something in his face,
And something in his even step, a-marching in his place,—

That couldn’t be improved by all the badges in the land:

A patriot, and a good, strong man; are generals much more grand?
We rest our pride on that big heart, wrapt up in army blue,
The girl he loves, Mehitabel, and I, who love him too.

He’s never shirked a battle yet, though frightful risks he’s run,
Since treason flooded Baltimore, the spring of sixty-one;
Through blood and storm he’s held out firm, nor fretted once, my
Sam,
At swamps of Chickahominy, or fields of Antietam.

Though many a time he’s told us, when he saw them lying dead,
The boys that came from Newburyport, and Lynn, and Marblehead,
Stretched out upon the trampled turf, and wept on by the sky,
It seemed to him the Commonwealth had drained her life-blood dry.

“B t th ”h id “th ’ th d th t h f
“But then,” he said, “the more’s the need the country has of me:
To live and fight the war all through, what glory it will be!
The Rebel balls don’t hit me; and, mother, if they should,
You’ll know I’ve fallen in my place, where I have always stood.”

He’s taken out his furlough, and short enough it seemed:

I often tell Mehitabel he’ll think he only dreamed
Of walking with her nights so bright you couldn’t see a star,
And hearing the swift tide come in across the harbor bar.

The stars that shine above the stripes, they light him southward
now;
The tide of war has swept him back; he’s made a solemn vow
To build himself no home-nest till his country’s work is done:
God bless the vow, and speed the work, my patriot, my son!

And yet it is a pretty place where his new house might be,—
An orchard-road that leads your eye straight out upon the sea.
The boy not work his father’s farm? it seems almost a shame;
But any selfish plan for him he’d never let me name.

He’s re-enlisted for the war, for victory or for death;

A soldier’s grave, perhaps! the thought has half-way stopped my
breath,
And driven a cloud across the sun. My boy, it will not be!
The war will soon be over, home again you’ll come to me.

He’s re-enlisted; and I smiled to see him going too!

There’s nothing that becomes him half so well as army blue.
Only a private in the ranks! but sure I am, indeed,
If all the privates were like him, they’d scarcely captains need.

And I and Massachusetts share the honor of his birth,—

The grand old State! to me the best in all the peopled earth!
I cannot hold a musket, but I have a son who can;
And I’m proud, for Freedom’s sake, to be the mother of a man.
Lucy Larcom.