Not only because of the kindness of G.o.d to this nation in the past should such a reverential insertion be made, but because of the fact that we are going to want Divine interposition still further in our national history.
This gold and silver question will never be settled until G.o.d settles it.
This question of tariff and free trade will never be settled until G.o.d settles it. This question between the East and the West, which is getting hotter and hotter, and looks toward a Republic of the Pacific, will not be settled until G.o.d settles it. We needed G.o.d in the one hundred and twenty years of our past national life, and we will need Him still more in the next one hundred and twenty years. Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates of our glorious Const.i.tution, and let the King of Glory come in! Make one line of that immortal doc.u.ment radiant with Omnipotence! Spell at least one word with Thrones! At the beginning, or at the close, or in the centre, recognize Him from whom as a nation we have received all the blessing of the past and upon whom we are dependent for the future. Print that one word "G.o.d," or "Lord," or "Eternal Father," or "Ruler of Nations,"
somewhere between the first word and the last. The Great Expounder of the Const.i.tution sleeps at Marshfield, Ma.s.sachusetts, the Atlantic Ocean still humming near his pillow of dust its prolonged lullaby; but is there not some one now living, who, in the white marble palace of the nation on yonder hill, not ten minutes away, will become the Irradiator of the Const.i.tution by causing to be added the most tremendous word of our English vocabulary, the name of that Being before whom all nations must bow or go into defeat and annihilation,--"G.o.d?"
THE ENCHANTED SHIRT.
BY JOHN HAY.
The king was sick. His cheek was red, And his eye was clear and bright; He ate and drank with a kingly zest, And peacefully snored at night.
But he said he was sick--and a king should know; And doctors came by the score; They did not cure him. He cut off their heads, And sent to the schools for more.
At last two famous doctors came, And one was poor as a rat; He had pa.s.sed his life in studious toil And never found time to grow fat.
The other had never looked in a book; His patients gave him no trouble; If they recovered, they paid him well, If they died, their heirs paid double.
Together they looked at the royal tongue, As the king on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find.
The old sage said, "You"re as sound as a nut."
"Hang him up!" roared the king, in a gale, In a ten-knot gale of royal range; The other grew a shadow pale;
But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, And thus his prescription ran: "The king will be well if he sleeps one night In the shirt of a happy man."
Wide o"er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran, And many they saw, and to many they spake, But they found no happy man.
They found poor men who would fain be rich, And rich who thought they were poor; And men who twisted their waists in stays, And women that short hose wore.
They saw two men by the roadside sit, And both bemoaned their lot; For one had buried his wife he said, And the other one had not.
At last they came to a village gate; A beggar lay whistling there; He whistled and sang and laughed, and rolled On the gra.s.s in the soft June air.
The weary couriers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay, And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend, Yon seem to be happy to-day."
"Oh yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad; "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad."
"This is our man," the courier said, "Our luck has led us aright.
I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night."
The merry blackguard lay back on the gra.s.s And laughed till his face was black; "I would do it, G.o.d wot," and he roared with fun, "But I haven"t a shirt to my back."
Each day to the king the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes Pa.s.sed daily under his eyes.
And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened the windows, and let in the air Of the free heaven into his room;
And out he went in the world, and toiled In his own appointed way, And the people blessed him, the land was glad, And the king was well and gay.
PRAYING FOR PAPA.
A man who had been walking for some time in the downward path, came out of his house and started down town for a night of carousal with some old companions he had promised to meet. His young wife had besought him with imploring eyes to spend the evening with her, and had reminded him of the time when evenings pa.s.sed in her company were all too short. His little daughter had clung about his knees and coaxed in her pretty, wilful way for "papa" to tell her some bedtime stories, but habit was stronger than love for wife and child, and he eluded their tender questioning by the special sophistries the father of evil advances at such times from his credit fund, and went his way.
But when he was a few blocks distant from his home, he found that in changing his coat he had forgotten to remove his wallet, and he could not go out on a drinking bout without money, even though he knew his family needed it, and his wife was economizing every day more and more in order to make up his deficits, and he hurried back and crept softly past the windows of the little house, in order that he might steal in and obtain it without running the gauntlet of either questions or caresses.
But something stayed his feet; there was a fire in the grate within--for the night was chilly--and it lit up the little parlor and brought out in startling effects the pictures on the wall. But these were as nothing to the pictures on the hearth. There, in the soft glow of the fire-light knelt his child at the mother"s feet, its small hands clasped in prayer, its fair head bowed; and as its rosy lips whispered each word with distinctness, the father listened, spell-bound to the spot:
"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."
Sweet pet.i.tion! The man himself, who stood there with bearded lips shut tightly together, had said that prayer once at his mother"s knee. Where was that mother now? The sunset gates had long ago unbarred to let her through.
But the child had not finished; he heard her say "G.o.d bless mamma, papa, and my ownself"--and there was a pause, and she lifted her troubled blue eyes to her mother"s face.
"G.o.d bless papa," prompted the mother, softly.
"G.o.d bless papa," lisped the little one.
"And--please send papa home sober"--he could not hear the mother as she said this, but the child followed in a clear, inspired tone:
"G.o.d--bless--papa--and--please--send--him--home--sober. Amen."
Mother and child sprang to their feet in alarm when the door opened so suddenly, but they were not afraid when they saw who it was, returned so soon. That night, when little Mamie was being tucked up in bed after such a romp with papa, she said in the sleepiest and most contented of voices:
"Mamma, G.o.d answers most as quick as the telegraph, doesn"t he?"
BECALMED.
BY SAMUEL, K. COWAN.
It was as calm as calm could be; A death-still night in June; A silver sail on a silver sea, Under a silver moon.
Not the least low air the still sea stirred; But all on the dreaming deep The white ship lay, like a white sea-bird, With folded wings, asleep.
For a long, long month, not a breath of air; For a month, not a drop of rain; And the gaunt crew watched in wild despair, With a fever in throat and brain.
And they saw the sh.o.r.e, like a dim cloud, stand On the far horizon-sea; It was only a day"s short sail to the land, And the haven where they would be.
Too faint to row--no signal brought An answer, far or nigh.
Father, have mercy; leave them not Alone, on the deep, to die.
And the gaunt crew prayed on the decks above; And the women prayed below: "One drop of rain, for Heaven"s great love!