Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
Далее
По всем вопросам обращайтесь на: info@litportal.ru
(©) 2003-2024.
✖
Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two
Настройки чтения
Размер шрифта
Высота строк
Поля
And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell,
Our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to see
Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of Battery B.
Frank H. Gassaway.
The Wood-Box
It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide,
And the poker hung above it and the shovel stood beside,
And the big, black cookstove, grinnin' through its grate from ear to ear,
Seemed to look as if it loved it like a brother, pretty near.
Flowered oilcloth tacked around it kept its cracks and knot-holes hid,
And a pair of leather hinges fastened on the heavy lid,
And it hadn't any bottom—or, at least, it seemed that way
When you hurried in to fill it, so's to get outside and play.
When the noons was hot and lazy and the leaves hung dry and still,
And the locust in the pear tree started up his planin'-mill,
And the drum-beat of the breakers was a soothin', temptin' roll,
And you knew the "gang" was waitin' by the brimmin' "swimmin' hole"—
Louder than the locust's buzzin,' louder than the breakers' roar,
You could hear the wood-box holler, "Come and fill me up once more!"
And the old clock ticked and chuckled as you let each armful drop,
Like it said, "Another minute, and you're nowheres near the top!"
In the chilly winter mornin's when the bed was snug and warm,
And the frosted winders tinkled 'neath the fingers of the storm,
And your breath rose off the piller in a smoky cloud of steam—
Then that wood-box, grim and empty, came a-dancin' through your dream,
Came and pounded at your conscience, screamed in aggravatin' glee,
"Would you like to sleep this mornin'? You git up and 'tend to me!"
Land! how plain it is this minute—shed and barn and drifted snow,
And the slabs of oak a-waitin!, piled and ready, in a row.
Never was a fishin' frolic, never was a game of ball,
But that mean, provokin' wood-box had to come and spoil it all;
You might study at your lessons and 'twas full and full to stay,
But jest start an Injun story, and 'twas empty right away.
Seemed as if a spite was in it, and although I might forgit
All the other chores that plagued me, I can hate that wood-box yit:
And when I look back at boyhood—shakin' off the cares of men—
Still it comes to spoil the picture, screamin', "Fill me up again!"
Joseph C. Lincoln.
Inasmuch
Good Deacon Roland—"may his tribe increase!"—
Awoke one Sabbath morn feeling at peace
With God and all mankind. His wants supplied,
He read his Bible and then knelt beside
The family altar, and uplifted there
His voice to God in fervent praise and prayer;
In praise for blessings past, so rich and free,
And prayer for benedictions yet to be.
Then on a stile, which spanned the dooryard fence,
He sat him down complacently, and thence
Surveyed with pride, o'er the far-reaching plain,
His flocks and herds and fields of golden grain;
His meadows waving like the billowy seas,
And orchards filled with over-laden trees,
Quoth he: "How vast the products of my lands;
Abundance crowns the labor of my hands,
Great is my substance; God indeed is good,
Who doth in love provide my daily food."
While thus he sat in calm soliloquy,
A voice aroused him from his reverie,—
A childish voice from one whose shoeless feet
Brought him unnoticed to the deacon's seat;
"Please mister, I have eaten naught to-day;
If I had money I would gladly pay
For bread; but I am poor, and cannot buy
My breakfast; mister, would you mind if I
Should ask for something, just for what you call
Cold pieces from your table, that is all?"
The deacon listened to the child's request,
The while his penetrating eye did rest
On him whose tatters, trembling, quick revealed
The agitation of the heart concealed
Within the breast of one unskilled in ruse,
Who asked not alms like one demanding dues.
Then said the deacon: "I am not inclined
To give encouragement to those who find
It easier to beg for bread betimes,
Than to expend their strength in earning dimes
Wherewith to purchase it. A parent ought
To furnish food for those whom he has brought
Into this world, where each one has his share
Of tribulation, sorrow, toil and care.
I sympathize with you, my little lad,
Your destitution makes me feel so sad;
But, for the sake of those who should supply
Your wants, I must your earnest plea deny;
And inasmuch as giving food to you
Would be providing for your parents, too,
Thus fostering vagrancy and idleness,
I cannot think such charity would bless
Who gives or takes; and therefore I repeat,
Our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to see
Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of Battery B.
Frank H. Gassaway.
The Wood-Box
It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide,
And the poker hung above it and the shovel stood beside,
And the big, black cookstove, grinnin' through its grate from ear to ear,
Seemed to look as if it loved it like a brother, pretty near.
Flowered oilcloth tacked around it kept its cracks and knot-holes hid,
And a pair of leather hinges fastened on the heavy lid,
And it hadn't any bottom—or, at least, it seemed that way
When you hurried in to fill it, so's to get outside and play.
When the noons was hot and lazy and the leaves hung dry and still,
And the locust in the pear tree started up his planin'-mill,
And the drum-beat of the breakers was a soothin', temptin' roll,
And you knew the "gang" was waitin' by the brimmin' "swimmin' hole"—
Louder than the locust's buzzin,' louder than the breakers' roar,
You could hear the wood-box holler, "Come and fill me up once more!"
And the old clock ticked and chuckled as you let each armful drop,
Like it said, "Another minute, and you're nowheres near the top!"
In the chilly winter mornin's when the bed was snug and warm,
And the frosted winders tinkled 'neath the fingers of the storm,
And your breath rose off the piller in a smoky cloud of steam—
Then that wood-box, grim and empty, came a-dancin' through your dream,
Came and pounded at your conscience, screamed in aggravatin' glee,
"Would you like to sleep this mornin'? You git up and 'tend to me!"
Land! how plain it is this minute—shed and barn and drifted snow,
And the slabs of oak a-waitin!, piled and ready, in a row.
Never was a fishin' frolic, never was a game of ball,
But that mean, provokin' wood-box had to come and spoil it all;
You might study at your lessons and 'twas full and full to stay,
But jest start an Injun story, and 'twas empty right away.
Seemed as if a spite was in it, and although I might forgit
All the other chores that plagued me, I can hate that wood-box yit:
And when I look back at boyhood—shakin' off the cares of men—
Still it comes to spoil the picture, screamin', "Fill me up again!"
Joseph C. Lincoln.
Inasmuch
Good Deacon Roland—"may his tribe increase!"—
Awoke one Sabbath morn feeling at peace
With God and all mankind. His wants supplied,
He read his Bible and then knelt beside
The family altar, and uplifted there
His voice to God in fervent praise and prayer;
In praise for blessings past, so rich and free,
And prayer for benedictions yet to be.
Then on a stile, which spanned the dooryard fence,
He sat him down complacently, and thence
Surveyed with pride, o'er the far-reaching plain,
His flocks and herds and fields of golden grain;
His meadows waving like the billowy seas,
And orchards filled with over-laden trees,
Quoth he: "How vast the products of my lands;
Abundance crowns the labor of my hands,
Great is my substance; God indeed is good,
Who doth in love provide my daily food."
While thus he sat in calm soliloquy,
A voice aroused him from his reverie,—
A childish voice from one whose shoeless feet
Brought him unnoticed to the deacon's seat;
"Please mister, I have eaten naught to-day;
If I had money I would gladly pay
For bread; but I am poor, and cannot buy
My breakfast; mister, would you mind if I
Should ask for something, just for what you call
Cold pieces from your table, that is all?"
The deacon listened to the child's request,
The while his penetrating eye did rest
On him whose tatters, trembling, quick revealed
The agitation of the heart concealed
Within the breast of one unskilled in ruse,
Who asked not alms like one demanding dues.
Then said the deacon: "I am not inclined
To give encouragement to those who find
It easier to beg for bread betimes,
Than to expend their strength in earning dimes
Wherewith to purchase it. A parent ought
To furnish food for those whom he has brought
Into this world, where each one has his share
Of tribulation, sorrow, toil and care.
I sympathize with you, my little lad,
Your destitution makes me feel so sad;
But, for the sake of those who should supply
Your wants, I must your earnest plea deny;
And inasmuch as giving food to you
Would be providing for your parents, too,
Thus fostering vagrancy and idleness,
I cannot think such charity would bless
Who gives or takes; and therefore I repeat,
Другие электронные книги автора Various
Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
Далее