Every-dap Lights and Shadows.
NOTHING AT ALL IN THE PAPER TO-DAY.
NOTHING at all in the paper to-day!
Only a murder somewhere or other;
A girl who has put her child away,
Not being a wife as well as a mother;
Or a drunken husband beating a wife,
With the neighbors lying awake to listen,
Scarce aware he has taken a life,
Till in at the window the dawn rays glisten.
But that is all in the regular way
There's nothing at all in the paper to-day.
Nothing at all in the paper to-day!
To be sure, there's a woman died of starvation, Fell down in the street, as so many may
In this very prosperous Christian nation;
Or two young girls, with some inward grief
Maddened, have plunged in the inky waters;
Or father has learnt that his son's a thief,
Or mother been robbed of one of her daughters.
Things that occur in their regular way-
There's nothing at all in the paper to-day.
There's nothing at all in the paper to-day,
Unless you care about things in the city —
How great rich rogues for their crimes must pay
(Though all gentility cries out, " Pity!")
Like the meanest shop-boy that robs a till.
There's a case to-day, if I 'm not forgetting,
The lad only "borrowed" -as such lads will
To pay some money he lost in betting;
But there's nothing in this that 's out of the way
There's nothing at all in the paper to-day.
Nothing at all in the paper to-day
But the births and bankruptcies, deaths and marriages, But life's events in the old survey,
With Virtue begging, and Vice in carriages;
And kindly hearts under ermine gowns,
And wicked breasts under hodden gray;
For goodness belongs not only to clowns,
And o'er others than lords does sin bear sway.
But what do I read? "Drowned! wrecked!" Did I say There was nothing at all in the paper to-day?
A BAREFOOTED child on the crossing,
Sweeping the mud away,
A lady in silks and diamonds,
Proud of the vain display;
A beggar blind on the curbstone,
A rich man passing along;
A tiny child with a tambourine
Wailing out her life in song.
A pauper in lone hearse passing,
Hurried away to the tomb;
A train of carriages, music grand,
And the flutter of waving plume.
For the one there is never a mourner,
He cumbered the earth alway;
For the other the flags at half-mast droop,
And the city wears black to-day.
A soldier with one sleeve empty,
That sadly hangs by his side,
Another shuffling along the walk
In the flush of health and pride;
A cripple-girl slowly toiling
Through the vexed and crowded street,
And tearfully gazing at those who pass
With hearts as light as their feet.
A wreck of a woman flaunting,
As if proud of her very shame,
A purer sister whose modest cheeks
Would crimson e'en at the name;
A petty thief stealing in terror,
Afraid in your face to gaze,
And one who has robbed by thousands,
Courting the sun's broad blaze.
The millionnaire in his carriage,
The workman plodding along,
The humble follower of the right,
And the slave of the giant wrong;
The murderer seeking a refuge,
Looking ever wearily back,
And the sleuth-hounds of the broken law
Following silently in his track.
The judge, freed now of the ermine,
Pompous of place and power,
And the shivering wretch his word will doom
To prison within an hour;
The miser clutching his pennies,
The spendthrift squandering gold,
The meek-eyed Sister of Mercy,
And the woman brazen and bold.
The widow, in weeds of blackness,
Meets the bride at the church door-
The future for one holds nothing but tears,
But joy for the other in store.
A cradle jostles a coffin
Orange-flowers, with honeyed breath,
Are wove by the self-same fingers
That but now made a cross for death.
Dives and Lazarus elbow
Each other whene'er they meet,
And the crumbs from the rich man's table
Feed the beggar upon the street.
And penury crowdeth plenty,
And sin stalks boldly abroad,
And the infidel holds his head proudly
As the child of the living God.
The bee in its ceaseless searching
Finds sweets in each flower fair,
And the noisome spider, creeping up,
Finds nothing but poison there.
And so life is made up of contrasts
Rich and poor, coward and brave,
Virtue and vice, and all will find
Equality in the grave.
THE HUMMING OF THE WIRES.
OVER the telegraph wires
The wild winds sweep to-day,
And I catch a musical humming
As of harpers at their play,
As of distant bells slow ringing
At the dying of the day.
Many the messages shooting
Along the slender line,
And it seems as if every message
Must have left some voice behind, -
Must have set the bells to swinging,
That I hear in silvery chime.
Tidings of death are they sending ?
So hushed the sad refrain!
Now it quickens, merrily quickens,
And it peals a blither strain!
Of its joy some heart is telling,
Ring, O bells, glad bells, again!
Here by the track I am asking,
These varying sounds so blend,
Whether God, who wills for his children
All events toward good shall tend,
May not hear our joys and sorrows
In like harmony ascend.
Over the marsh by the railroad
The wild winds sweep to-day,
And they touch the telegraph wires,
And a strange, weird tune they play,
Till the air is sweet with harpings,
And with church-bells far away.
SITTING here by my desk all day,
Hearing the constant click
As the messages speed on their way,
And the call comes sharp and quick —
Oh, what a varied tale they tell
Of joy and hope and fear!
The funeral knell and the marriage bell
In their steady tick I hear.
"Mother is dying; come at once.”
And the tears will almost start,
For tender daughters and loving sons-
God pity each aching heart!
Ah! how the haunting memories press
Back to the mind once more,
Of the mother's unfailing tenderness,
That is now forever o'er.
“I am well; will come to-night."
How bright some eyes will glow
All day long with a happy light
As they watch the moments go.
"Have had no letters; is something wrong?"
Some heart is sad to-day,
Counting the hours that seem so long
For the sake of one away.
"Arthur Ross, by accident killed;
Tell his mother, am coming home."
Alas for the home with such sorrow filled,
When the bitter tidings come!
"Alice is better; gaining fast."
And hearts that have been bowed
Under their weight of fear, at last
Shall lose their weary load.
So over the wires the tidings speed,
Bitter and grave and gay;
Some hearts shall beat, and some shall bleed,
For the tale they have to say.
As I sit all day by my desk alone
I hear the stream go by,
And catch the wires' changeful tone,
With a smile and then a sigh.
GOING HOME IN THE MORNING.
A POOR little bird trilled a song in the west,
A poor little bird with a stain on its breast.
Beaten down by the rain and too weak for flight,
It fell in the city unseen in the night.
As it trilled its sad song, other birds of the air,
The respectable ones, wondered who could be there. Out in the darkness, while passing, I heard
The wail of the poor little vagabond bird.
Being homeless myself, I hunted and found
The weak little vagrant stretched out on the ground.
I raised it, and gave it of all I possessed,
A warm cosey shelter close up to my breast:
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