parts of Santiago, and its echoes, borne upon the wings of morning, come rolling back from far-away Manila; the soldier's message to the soldier; the hero's shibboleth in battle; the patriot's solace in death! Even to the lazy sons of peace who lag at home-the pleasure seekers whose merry-making turns the night into day-those stirring strains come as a sudden trumpet-call, and above the sounds of revelry, subjugate for the moment to the stronger power, rises wave upon wave of melodious resonance, the idler's aimless but heartfelt tribute to his country and his country's flag

""Tis the Star-Spangled Banner, O, long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!"



Home! Upon that word there drop the sunshine of boyhood and the shadow of tender sorrows and the reflection of ten thousand fond memories. Home! When I see it in book or newspaper, that word seems to rise and sparkle and leap and thrill and whisper and chant and pray and weep. It glitters like a shield. It springs up like a fountain. It trills like a song. It twinkles like a star. It leaps like a flame. It glows like a sunset. It sings like an angel. And if some lexicographer, urged on by a spirit from beneath, should seek to cast forth that word from the language, the children would come forth and hide it under garlands of wild flowers, and the wealthy would come forth to cover it up with their diamonds and pearls; and kings would hide it under their crowns, and after Herod had hunted its life from Bethlehem to Egypt, and utterly given up the search, some bright, warm day it would flash from among the gems, and breathe from among the coronets, and the world would read it bright and fair, and beautiful, and resonant, as before,-Home! Home Home!

John Anderson, My Jo.


John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And monie a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:

Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

The Bells of Shandon.


With deep affection and recollection,

I often think of those Shandon bells,

Whose sound so wild would, in the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle their magic spells.

On this I ponder where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee,With thy bells of Shandon, that sound so grand, on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine;

While at a glib rate, brass tongues would vibrate;
But all their music spoke naught like thine.

For memory dwelling, on each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon sound far more grand, on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican;
And cymbals glorious swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turret of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly.

Oh! the bells of Shandon sound far more grand, on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee

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(Sec Tone Drills No. 46 and 26.)

[The tone of Command manifests authority. It indicates finality. "Ask no questions, but do."]

It says,

The Bended Bow.


There was heard the sound of the coming foe, there was sent through the land a Bended Bow; and a Voice was poured on the free winds far, as the land rose up at the sign of war. "Heard ye not the battle horn? Reaper! leave thy golden. corn! leave it for the birds of heaven,-swords must flash, and shields be riven! leave it for the winds to shed:-arm!

ere stone and turf grow red!" And the Reaper armed like a foeman's son, and the Bended Bow and the Voice passed on!

"Hunter! leave the mountain chase; take the falchion from its place; let the wolf go free to-day, leave him for a nobler prey! let the deer ungalled sweep by:-arm thee! freedom's foes are nigh!" And the Hunter armed ere his chase was done, and the Bended Bow and the Voice passed on!

"Chieftain quit the joyous feast,-stay not till the song. hath ceased! though the mead be foaming bright, though the fires give ruddy light, leave the hearth and leave the hall:arm thee! freedom's foes must fall." And the Chieftain armed, and the horn was blown, and the Bended Bow and the Voice passed on!

"Prince! thy father's deeds are told in the bower, and in the hold! where the goat-herd's lay is sung, where the minstrel's harp is strung! foes are on thy native sea-give our bards a tale of thee!" And the Prince came armed like a leader's son, and the Bended Bow and the Voice passed on!

"Mother! stay thou not thy boy! he must learn the battle's joy; Sister! bring the sword and spear, give thy brother words. of cheer; Maiden! bid thy lover part, freedom calls the strong in heart!" And the Bended Bow and the Voice passed on,— and the bards made song for a battle won!


(See Tone Drill No. 36.)

[The tone of Calmness manifests serenity, poise, and restfulness. It is akin to Solemnity, and there is, at times, a tinge of Awe.]



There is an even-tide in the day, an hour when the sun retires, and the shadows fall, and when nature assumes the appearance of soberness and silence. It is an hour from

which everywhere the thoughtless fly, as peopled only in their imagination with images of gloom :-it is the hour, on the other hand, which, in every age, the wise have loved, as bringing with it sentiments and affections more valuable than all the splendors of the day.

Its first impression is to still all the turbulence of thought or passion which the day may have brought forth. We follow, with our eye, the descending sun,-we listen to the decaying sounds of labor and of toil,-and, when all the fields are silent around us, we feel a kindred stillness to breathe upon our souls, and to calm them from the agitations of society.

From this first impression, there is a second which naturally follows it;-in the day we are living with men,—in the eventide we begin to live with nature;-we see the world withdrawn from us, the shades of night darken over the habitations of men; and we feel ourselves alone. It is an hour fitted, as it would seem, by Him who made us, to still, but with gentle hand, the throb of every unruly passion, and the ardor of every impure desire; and while it veils for a time the world that misleads us, to awaken in our hearts those legitimate affections which the heat of the day may have dissolved.

The Day of Rest.


How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed
The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with faded flowers,
That yester morn bloomed waving in the breeze;
Sounds the most faint attract the ear,-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,

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