PATRIOTISM OF AMERICAN WOMEN.
The maid who binds her warrior’s sash
With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash
One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,
Though heaven alone records the tear,
And fame shall never know her story,
Her heart has shed a drop as dear
As e’er bedewed the field of glory!
The wife who girds her husband’s sword,
Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word,
What though her heart be rent asunder,
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of death around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e’er
Was poured upon the field of battle!
The mother who conceals her grief
While to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief,
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,
With no one but her secret God
To know the pain that weighs upon her
Sheds holy blood as e’er the sod
Received on Freedom’s field of honor!
OUR COUNTRY’S CALL.
There is a strain of gladness, a tone of rejoicing in this selection,
which requires a spirited delivery and full volume of voice. Patriotic
emotions should always be expressed in an exultant, joyous manner by
voice, attitude and gestures.
The clouds grew dark as the people paused,
A people of peace and toil,
And there came a cry from all the sky:
“Come, children of mart and soil,
Your mother needs you—hear her voice;
Though she has not a son to spare,
She has spoken the word that ye all have heard,
Come, answer ye everywhere!”
They need no urging to stir them on.
They yearn for no battle cry;
At the word that their country calls for men
They throw down hammer and scythe and pen,
And are ready to serve and die!
From the North, from the South, from East, from West,
Hear the thrill of the rumbling drum!
Under one flag they march along,
With their voices swelling a single song,
Here they come, they come, they come!
List! the North men cheer the men from the South
And the South returns the cheer;
There is no question of East or West,
For hearts are a-tune in every breast,
’Tis a nation answering here.
It is elbow to elbow and knee to knee,
One land for each and for all,
And the veterans’ eyes see their children rise
To answer their country’s call.
They have not forgotten—God grant not so!
(Ah, we know of the graves on the hill.)
But these eager feet make the old hearts beat,
And the old eyes dim and fill!
The Past sweeps out, and the Present comes—
A Present that all have wrought!
And the sons of these sires, at the same campfires,
Cheer one flag where their fathers fought!
Yes, we know of the graves on the Southern hills
That are filled with the Blue and the Gray.
We know how they fought and how they died,
We honor them both there side by side,
And they’re brothers again to-day.
Brothers again—thank God on high!
(Here’s a hand-clasp all around.)
The sons of one race now take their place
On one common and holy ground.
THE STORY OF SEVENTY-SIX.
What heroes from the woodland sprung,
When, through the fresh awakened land,
The thrilling cry of freedom rung,
And to the work of warfare strung
The yeoman’s iron hand!
Hills flung the cry to hills around,
And ocean-mart replied to mart,
And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,
Pealed far away the startling sound
Into the forest’s heart.
Then marched the brave from rocky steep,
From mountain river swift and cold;
The borders of the stormy deep,
The vales where gathered waters sleep,
Sent up the strong and bold—
As if the very earth again
Grew quick with God’s creating breath,
And, from the sods of grove and glen,
Rose ranks of lion-hearted men
To battle to the death.
The wife, whose babe first smiled that day,
The fair fond bride of yestereve,
And aged sire and matron gray,
Saw the loved warriors haste away,
And deemed it sin to grieve.
Already had the strife begun;
Already blood on Concord’s plain
Along the springing grass had run,
And blood had flowed at Lexington,
Like brooks of April rain.
That death-stain on the vernal sward
Hallowed to freedom all the shore;
In fragments fell the yoke abhorred—
The footstep of a foreign lord
Profaned the soil no more.
THE ROLL CALL.
Speak the names of persons in this recitation, exactly as you would if
you were the orderly calling the roll, or the private in the ranks who is
answering. The general character of the selection is pathetic; recite it
with subdued and tender force.
“Corporal Green!” the orderly cried;
“Here!” was the answer, loud and clear,
From the lips of a soldier who stood near,
And “Here!” was the word the next replied.
“Cyrus Drew!”—then a silence fell—
This time no answer followed the call;
Only his rear man had seen him fall,
Killed or wounded he could not tell.
There they stood in the falling light,
These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books,
While slowly gathered the shades of night.
The fern on the hill-side was splashed with blood,
And down in the corn where the poppies grew,
Were redder stains than the poppies knew;
And crimson dyed was the river’s flood.
For the foe had crossed from the other side,
That day in the face of a murderous fire,
That swept them down in its terrible ire;
And their life-blood went to color the tide.
“Herbert Kline!” At the call, there came
Two stalwart soldiers into the line,
Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,
Wounded and bleeding to answer his name.
“Ezra Kerr!”—and a voice answered “Here!”
“Hiram Kerr!”—but no man replied.
They were brothers, these two, the sad wind sighed,
And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.
“Ephraim Deane!”—then a soldier spoke;
“Deane carried our Regiment’s colors,” he said;
“Where our Ensign was shot, I left him dead,
Just after the enemy wavered and broke.
“Close to the roadside his body lies.
I paused a moment and gave him a drink.
He murmured his mother’s name I think,
And death came with it and closed his eyes.”
’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear—
For that company’s roll, when called at night,
Of a hundred men who went into the fight
The number was few that answered “Here!”
THE BATTLE-FIELD.
This striking poem is an American classic. Two lines alone, if there were
no others, are enough to give it immortal fame:
“Truth crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers.”
Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle cloud.
Ah! never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave,
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they sought to save.
Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine are heard.
Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who mightiest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year.
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot.
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may front—yet faint thou not.
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.
Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o’er thy grave.
THE SINKING OF THE MERRIMAC.
The sinking of the ship Merrimac at the mouth of Santiago harbor, by
Lieutenant Hobson, was one of the most daring exploits on record. It is
here told in his own words. Although this selection is simple narrative,
you should recite it in a spirited manner, with strong tones of voice,
and show by your demeanor and expression that you are relating an event
worthy of admiration.
The figures printed in the text refer you to the corresponding numbers
in “Typical Gestures,” near the beginning of Part II. of this volume.
Use other gestures that are appropriate, not in a stiff awkward way, but
gracefully, making them appear, not forced, but natural.
I did not miss the entrance to the harbor,
I turned east until I got my
bearings and then made6 for it, straight
in. Then came the firing. It was grand,11
flashing out first from one side of the harbor
and then from the other, from those big guns2
on the hills, the Spanish ship Vizcaya, lying
inside the harbor, joining in.
Troops from Santiago had rushed down
when the news of the Merrimac’s coming
was telegraphed and soon lined the foot of
the cliff, firing wildly across and killing each
other with the cross fire. The Merrimac’s
steering gear broke as she got to Estrella
Point. Only three of the torpedoes on her
side exploded when I touched the button.
A huge submarine mine caught her full amidships,
hurling the water high in the air and
tearing25 a great rent in the Merrimac’s side.
Her stern ran upon Estrella Point. Chiefly
owing to the work done by the mine she
began to sink slowly. At that time she was
across the channel, but before she settled the
tide drifted her around. We were all aft,
lying on the deck. Shells13 and bullets
whistled around. Six-inch shells from the
Vizcaya came tearing into the Merrimac,
crashing into wood and iron and passing
clear through while the plunging shots from
the fort broke through her decks.
“Not a man3 must move,” I said, and it was
only owing to the splendid discipline of the men
that we all were not killed, as the shells rained
over us and minutes became hours of suspense.
The men’s mouths grew parched, but we must
lie there till daylight, I told them. Now and
again one or the other of the men lying
with his face glued to the deck and wondering
whether the next shell would not come our
way would say: “Hadn’t3 we better drop off
now, sir?” but I said: “Wait12 till daylight.”
It would have been impossible to get the
catamaran or raft anywhere but to the shore,
where the soldiers stood shooting, and I
hoped that by daylight we might be recognized
and saved. The grand old Merrimac
kept sinking. I wanted to go forward and
see the damage done there, where nearly all
the fire was directed, but one man said that
if I rose it would draw all the fire on the rest.
So I lay motionless. It was splendid11 the way
these men behaved. The fire6 of the soldiers,
the batteries and the Vizcaya was awful.
When the water came up on the Merrimac’s
decks the raft floated amid the wreckage, but
she was still made fast to the boom, and we
caught hold23 of the edge and clung on, our
heads only being above water. One man
thought we were safer right6 there; it was
quite light; the firing had ceased, except
that on the launch which followed to rescue
us, and I feared20 Ensign Powell and his
men had been killed.
A Spanish launch2 came toward the Merrimac.
We agreed to capture her and run.
Just as she came close the Spaniards saw us,
and a half-dozen marines jumped up and
pointed2 their rifles at our heads. “Is there
any officer in that boat to receive a surrender
of prisoners of war?” I shouted. An old man
leaned out under the awning and held out6 his
hand. It was the Spanish Admiral Cervera.
THE STARS AND STRIPES.
The following glowing tributes to our American Flag afford excellent
selections for any patriotic occasion. They make suitable recitations for
children at celebrations on the Fourth of July, Washington’s birthday,
etc.
NOTHING BUT FLAGS.
Nothing but flags! but simple flags!
Tattered and torn, and hanging in rags;
And we walk beneath them with careless tread,
Nor think of the hosts of the mighty dead
Who have marched beneath them in days gone by
With a burning cheek and a kindling eye,
And have bathed their folds with their young life’s tide,
And dying blessed them, and blessing died.
OUR BANNER.
Hail to our banner brave
All o’er the land and wave
To-day unfurled.
No folds to us so fair
Thrown on the summer air;
None with thee compare
In all the world.
STAINED BY THE BLOOD OF HEROES.
Around the globe, through every clime,
Where commerce wafts or man hath trod,
It floats aloft, unstained with crime,
But hallowed by heroic blood.
THE TATTERED ENSIGN.
We seek not strife, but when our outraged laws
Cry for protection in so just a cause,
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky.
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the God of storms,
The lightning and the gale!
THE FLAG OF OUR UNION.
The union of lakes, the union of lands,
The union of States none can sever;
The union of hearts, the union of hands,
And the flag of our Union forever.
FLAG OF THE FREE.
When freedom from her mountain height
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night
And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light.
Flag of the free hearts’ hope and home!
By angel hands to valor given!
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet,
Where breathes the foe, but falls before us,
With freedom’s soil beneath our feet,
And freedom’s banner streaming o’er us.
STAND BY THE FLAG.
Stand by the flag! on land and ocean billow;
By it your fathers stood, unmoved and true;
Living, defended; dying, from their pillow,
With their last blessing, passed it on to you.
The lines that divide us are written in water,
The love that unite us is cut deep as rock.
Thus by friendship’s ties united,
We will change the bloody past
Into golden links of union,
Blending all in love at last.
Thus beneath the one broad banner,
Flag of the true, the brave, the free,
We will build anew the Union,
Fortress of our Liberty.
FREEDOM’S STANDARD.
God bless our star-gemmed banner;
Shake its folds out to the breeze;
From church, from fort, from house-top,
Over the city, on the seas;
The die is cast, the storm at last
Has broken in its might;
Unfurl the starry banner,
And may God defend the right.
Then bless our banner, God of hosts!
Watch o’er each starry fold;
’Tis Freedom’s standard, tried and proved
On many a field of old;
And Thou, who long has blessed us,
Now bless us yet again,
And crown our cause with victory,
And keep our flag from stain.
RODNEY’S RIDE.
On the third day of July, 1776, Cæsar Rodney rode on horseback from St.
James’s Neck, below Dover, Delaware, to Philadelphia, in a driving rain
storm, for the purpose of voting for the Declaration of Independence.
This is an excellent reading for quick changes of voice and manner. To
render it well will prove that you have genuine dramatic ability. You
should study this selection carefully and practice it until you are the
complete master of it. It requires a great deal of life and spirit, with
changes of voice from the low tone to the loud call. For the most part
your utterance should be rapid, yet distinct.
In that soft mid-land where the breezes bear
The North and South on the genial air,
Through the county of Kent, on affairs of State,
Rode Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.
Burly and big, and bold and bluff,
In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,
A foe to King George and the English State,
Was Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.
Into Dover village he rode apace,
And his kinsfolk knew from his anxious face,
It was matter grave that brought him there,
To the counties three upon the Delaware.
“Money and men we must have,” he said,
“Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead,
Give us both and the King shall not work his will,
We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill.”
Comes a rider swift on a panting bay;
“Ho, Rodney, ho! you must save the day,
For the Congress halts at a deed so great,
And your vote alone may decide its fate.”
Answered Rodney then: “I will ride with speed;
It is Liberty’s stress; it is Freedom’s need.”
“When stands it?” “To-night.” “Not a moment to spare,
But ride like the wind from the Delaware.”
“Ho, saddle the black! I’ve but half a day,
And the Congress sits eighty miles away—
But I’ll be in time, if God grants me grace,
To shake my fist in King George’s face.”
He is up; he is off! and the black horse flies
On the northward road ere the “God-speed” dies,
It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,
And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.
It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs fling
The Fieldsboro’ dust with a clang and a cling,
It is three; and he gallops with slack rein where
The road winds down to the Delaware.
Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,
From his panting steed he gets him down—
“A fresh one quick! and not a moment’s wait!”
And off speeds Rodney, the delegate.
It is five; and the beams of the western sun
Tinge the spires of Wilmington, gold and dun;
Six; and the dust of Chester street
Flies back in a cloud from his courser’s feet.
It is seven; the horse-boat, broad of beam,
At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream—
And at seven fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,
He flings his rein to the tavern jock.
The Congress is met; the debate’s begun,
And Liberty lags for the vote of one—
When into the hall, not a moment late,
Walks Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.
Not a moment late! and that half day’s ride
Forwards the world with a mighty stride;
For the act was passed; ere the midnight stroke
O’er the Quaker City its echoes woke.
At Tyranny’s feet was the gauntlet flung;
“We are free!” all the bells through the colonies rung,
And the sons of the free may recall with pride,
The day of Delegate Rodney’s ride.
A SPOOL OF THREAD.
The last battle of the Civil War was at Brazos, Texas, May 13, 1865,
resulting in the surrender of the Texan army. Recite this in a
conversational tone, as you would tell any story.
Well, yes, I’ve lived in Texas, since the spring of ’61;
And I’ll relate the story, though I fear, sir, when ’tis done,
’Twill be little worth your hearing, it was such a simple thing,
Unheralded in verses that the grander poets sing.
There had come a guest unbidden, at the opening of the year,
To find a lodgment in our hearts, and the tenant’s name was fear;
For secession’s drawing mandate was a call for men and arms,
And each recurring eventide but brought us fresh alarms.
They had notified the General that he must yield to fate,
And all the muniments of war surrender to the State,
But he sent from San Antonio an order to the sea
To convey on board the steamer all the fort’s artillery.
Right royal was his purpose, but the foe divined his plan,
And the wily Texans set a guard to intercept the man
Detailed to bear the message; they placed their watch with care
That neither scout nor citizen should pass it unaware.
Well, this was rather awkward, sir, as doubtless you will say,
But the Major who was chief of staff resolved to have his way,
Despite the watchful provost guard; so he asked his wife to send,
With a little box of knick-knacks, a letter to her friend;
And the missive held one sentence I remember to this day:
“The thread is for your neighbor, Mr. French, across the way.”
He dispatched a youthful courier. Of course, as you will know,
The Texans searched him thoroughly and ordered him to show
The contents of the letter. They read it o’er and o’er,
But failed to find the message they had hindered once before.
So it reached the English lady, and she wondered at the word,
But gave the thread to Major French, explaining that she heard
He wished a spool of cotton. And great was his surprise
At such a trifle sent, unasked, through leagues of hostile spies.
“There’s some hidden purpose, doubtless, in the curious gift,” he said.
Then he tore away the label, and inside the spool of thread
Was Major Nichols’ order, bidding him convey to sea
All the arms and ammunition from Fort Duncan’s battery.
“Down to Brazon speed your horses,” thus the Major’s letter ran,
“Shift equipments and munitions, and embark them if you can.”
Yes, the transfer was effected, for the ships lay close at hand,
Ere the Texans guessed their purpose they had vanished from the land.
Do I know it for a fact, sir? ’Tis no story that I’ve read—
I was but a boy in war time, and I carried him the thread.
THE YOUNG PATRIOT, ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
One Fourth of July, when Abraham
Lincoln was a boy, he heard an oration
by old ’Squire Godfrey. As in
the olden days, the ’Squire’s oration
was full of Washington; inspiring in the heart
of young Lincoln an enthusiasm that sent him
home burning with a desire to know more of
the great man who heretofore had seemed
more of a dream than a reality. Learning
that a man some six miles up the creek
owned a copy of Washington’s life, Abraham
did not rest that night until he had footed
the whole distance and begged the loan of
the book.
“Sartin, sartin,” said the owner. “The book
is fairly well worn, but no leaves are missin’,
and a lad keen enough to read as to walk six
miles to get a book, ought to be encouraged.”
It was a much-worn copy of Weem’s “Life
of Washington,” and Abe, thanking the
stranger for his kindness, walked back under
the stars, stopping every little while to catch
a glimpse of the features of the “Father of
his Country” as shown in the frontispiece.
After reaching home, tired as he was, he
could not close his eyes until, by the light
of a pine knot, he had found out all that was
recorded regarding the boyhood of the man
who had so suddenly sprung into prominence
in his mind. In that busy harvest season he
had no time to read or study during the day,
but every night, long after the other members
of the family were sleeping peacefully, Abe
lay, stretched upon the floor with his book
on the hearth, reading, reading, reading, the
pine knot in the fireplace furnishing all the
light he needed, the fire within burning with
such intense heat as to kindle a blaze that
grew and increased until it placed him in the
highest seat of his countrymen.
What a marvelous insight into the human
heart did Abraham Lincoln get between the
covers of that wonderful book. The little
cabin grew to be a paradise as he learned
from the printed pages the story of one great
man’s life. The barefooted boy in buckskin
breeches, so shrunken that they reached only
halfway between the knee and ankle, actually
asked himself whether there might not be
some place—great and honorable, awaiting
him in the future.
Before this treasured “Life of Washington”
was returned to its owner, it met with
such a mishap as almost to ruin it. The
book, which was lying on a board upheld by
two pegs, was soaked by the rain that dashed
between the logs one night, when a storm
beat with unusual force against the north
end of the cabin. Abraham was heartbroken
over the catastrophe, and sadly carried the
book back to its owner, offering to work to
pay for the damage done. The man consented,
and the borrower worked for three
days at seventy-five cents a day, and thus
himself became the possessor of the old,
faded, stained book—a book that had more
to do with shaping his life, perhaps, than any
one other thing.
Abe had not expected to take the book
back with him, but merely to pay for the
damage done, and was surprised when the
man handed it to him when starting. He
was very grateful, however, and when he
gave expression to his feelings the old man
said, patting him on the shoulder: “You
have earned it, my boy, and are welcome to
it. It’s a mighty fine thing to have a head
for books, just as fine to have a heart for
honesty, and if you keep agoin’ as you have
started, maybe some day you’ll git to be
President yourself. President Abraham Lincoln!
That would sound fust rate, fust rate,
now, wouldn’t it, sonny?”
“It’s not a very handsome name, to be
sure,” Abe replied, looking as though he
thought such an event possible, away off, in
the future. “No, it’s not a very very handsome
name, but I guess it’s about as handsome
as its owner,” he added, glancing at the
reflection of his homely features in the little
old-fashioned, cracked mirror hanging opposite
where he sat.
“Handsome is that handsome does,” said
the old farmer, nodding his gray head in an
approving style. “Yes, indeedy; handsome
deeds make handsome men. We hain’t a
nation of royal idiots, with one generation
of kings passin’ away to make room for another.
No, sir-ee. In this free country of
ourn, the rich and poor stand equal chances,
and a boy without money is just as likely to
work up to the Presidential chair as the one
who inherits from his parents lands and stocks
and money and influence. It’s brains that
counts in this land of liberty, and Abraham
Lincoln has just as much right to sit in the
highest seat in the land as Washington’s
son himself, if he had had a son, which he
hadn’t.”
Who knows but the future War President
of this great Republic received his first aspirations
from this kindly neighbor’s words?
COLUMBIA.
Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise;
The queen of the world, and the child of the skies;
Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold,
While ages on ages thy splendors unfold.
Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time,
Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime;
Let the crimes of the east ne’er encrimson thy name,
Be freedom, and science, and virtue, thy fame.
To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire,
Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire;
Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,
And triumph pursue them, and glory attend.
A world is thy realm—for a world be thy laws—
Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause;
On freedom’s broad basis thy empire shall rise,
Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.
Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display,
The nations admire, and the ocean obey;
Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold,
And the east and the south yield their spices and gold.
As the day-spring, unbounded, thy splendor shall flow,
And earth’s little kingdoms before thee shall bow,
While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled,
Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world.
Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o’erspread,
From war’s dread confusion, I pensively strayed,
The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired;
The winds ceased to murmur; the thunder expired;
Perfumes, as of Eden, flowed sweetly along,
And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung,
“Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise;
The queen of the world, and the child of the skies.”
