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In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat, with listening ear;

And gentle words that mother would give,

To fit me to die and teach me to live.

She told me that shame would never betide
With Truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer
As I knelt beside that old arm chair.

I sat and watched her many a day
When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered, my earth star fled!
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in her old arm chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now,
With quivering breath and throbbing brow;

'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear

My soul from my mother's old arm chair.

And we can still sing on, play on--but hush! we bid the strings of our instrument to pause, for here passes in review in our ears the sad, soft refrain of "Rock Me to Sleep, Mother," as played by Elizabeth Akers Allan; and as the sweet strains flow on we are carried back in remembrance of some mother "gone before," and waiting to welcome her child when this life is spent.

Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight
Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from that echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair,
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep!

Backward flow backward, O tide of years!
I am so weary of toils and of tears--
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain-
Take them and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,
Weary of flinging my soul wealth away,
Weary of sowing for others to reap;
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep!

Many of America's most celebrated and endearing lyrics were written just before or after the late four years' struggle between the North and South. Their authors have given expression to their genius in these pathetic ballads of folklore and songs of sentiment, which now bring to mind the vanished days of mirth and sorrow. Among such poets no name is honored more than that of Stephen Collins Foster. To him we are indebted for "My Old Kentucky Home." This famous old song, like most of his compositions written after his mother died, is tinged with melancholy. He was not born in the Blue Grass State, but came of Southern ancestry, and was in perfect touch with plantation life.

so well adapted to the natural pathos of the negro voice "Massa's in the Cold Ground," "Old Folks at Home," etc., but the "Old Kentucky Home" is, perhaps, the most popular of his compositions because it appeals to every heart that cherishes memories of the far away, old Southern plantation home of his boyhood, and to the author the writing of it must have been a labor of love inspired by not only the memories of his own boyhood passed with the beloved parents in the dear old home, but also by the exquisite beauty of the scene upon which his eyes rested as he wrote it.

The place where "My Old Kentucky Home' was written was known as ''Federal Hill," and was the residence of the Rowan family for almost a century. It was six or seven years before his death that Foster, who was then not in good health, came and paid a visit to the Rowans at the earnest solicitation of the family, and his sister Eliza accompanied him. That was away back in the fifties.

That extended visit was rendered beautiful to the celebrated composer by the worldfamed and proverbial graceful hospitality of one of the best families of the high bred South, and it made a deep impression on him at the time, as it recalled the sweet Southern home of his own boyhood to his mind, then rendered especially impressionable by ill health.

As his pen gave expression to the inspiration that gave birth to the words of the song, his genius wedded to them the melody that was most fitting to the theme.

It is not difficult to believe that his inspiration was the partial result of beautiful and luxurious surroundings, the golden sunshine of perfect dawns, the moonlight falling dreamily upon the waving grain and ripening corn, the idyllic hush of perfect days resting upon "Federal Hill," broken only by the happy songs of the darkies lazily performing their duties, or lolling in indolent ease around the cabins, and the mellow song of the thrush that sang to the morning.

The days are now past where on the old Kentucky home 'twas summer, and the darkies all were gay when the corn-top was ripe and the meadow in the bloom, and the birds making music all the day, but wherever there is a son or daughter of the sunny South the heart will thrill with sad regret at the sound of the old plantation melodies, and the tears will spring at the memories of the days that were, but that have passed "like a shadow

The sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home;
'Tis Summer, the darkies all are gay;
The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom,
While the birds are making music all the day;
The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,
All merry, all happy, all bright;

B-m-By hard times comes a-knocking at the door-
Then, my old Kentucky home, good night.
CHORUS.

Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day;
We'll sing you one song for the old Kentucky home;
For our old Kentucky home, far away.

They hunt no more for the possom and the coon,
On the meadow, the hill and the shore;
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
On the bench by the old cabin door;

The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart,
With sorrow where all was delight;

The time has come when the darkies have to part,
Then, my old Kentucky home, good-night.

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend,
Wherever the darkies may go;

A few more days and the trouble all will end,
In the fields where the sugar canes grow.

A few more days to tote the weary load-
No matter, it will never be light;

A few more days till we totter on the road;
Then, my old Kentucky home, good-night."

Following fast on "My Old Kentucky Home," there come the sad strains of the "Old Folks at Home," by the same author. We give it in the negro dialect:

OLD FOLKS AT HOME.

Way down upon de Swanee ribber,
Far, far away,

Dere's whar my heart is turning ebber,
Dere's war the old folks stay.

All up and down the old creation,
Sadly I roam,

Still longing for the old plantation,
And for the old folks at home.

CHORUS.

All de world am sad and dreary,

Ebery where I roam,

Oh! darkies, how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home.

All round de little farm I wandered,
When I was young.

Den many happy days I squandered,
Many de songs I sung.

When I was playing with my brudder,
Happy was I,

Oh! take me to my kind old mudder,
Dere let me live and die.-Chorus.

The story of "The Lost Chord," a song that has been sung in every quarter of the globe, is one that will live forever. If there ever was such a thing as inspiration this song was inspired. Concerning its origin a celebrated traveler and musician, Colonel R. E. L. Wentling, gives us the following description:

"It was while visiting the house of a noble in England that I first heard the story of the birth of 'The Lost Chord.'

"There are few Englishmen who do not remember Fred Sullivan, the great comic star and brother of the late Sir Arthur SulliHe played in all the original Gilbert and Sullivan operas and has never been equaled.

van.

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"One day Sir Arthur Sullivan was notified that his brother Fred was very ill. He made every effort to reach the house where his brother was lying at the point of death, but arrived too late to see him alive. The two brothers were devoted to each other and the blow was a bitter one to Sir Arthur. He was closeted with the body of his brother for two hours, at the expiration of which time he came down stairs and went to the piano. Throwing the instrument open, he began to play, and bar by bar, "The Lost Chord' was evolved. The composer sadly put his new composition on paper and stored it away.

"The song is the wail of a throbbing heart, the grief of desolation. All through its beautiful harmony can be heard the strain of grief. So profound an impression did the association of the song with the death of his brother make on Sir Arthur that even to the day of his death, he had an aversion to hearing it played."

chord again,

It may be that Death's bright angel will speak in that It may be that only in Heaven, I shall hear that grand Amen.

Following closely in the footsteps of "The Lost Chord," we consider the following poem is a perfect facsimile in its purpose to speak from a heart that has suffered in solitude and silence; when cut off from association with the human family.

It is supposed to have been written by Alexander Selkirk, the shipwrecked sailor, the famous "Robinson Crusoe" of our boyhood days, during his solitary abode, two centuries ago, on the Island of Juan Fernandez, west of Chili, South America. It is entitled:

12

I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Oh, solitude! where are the charms,
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone; Never hear the sweet musick of speech; I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship and love,

Divinely bestow'd upon man, Oh, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth; Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly world! More precious than silver or gold,

Or all that this earth can afford. These vallies and rocks never heard; Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell, Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial, endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compar'd with the speed of its flight:
The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-wing'd arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
But, alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy-encouraging thought-
Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

WHITTIER AND HIS LOVE:

There have been in all ages and all countries men who have loved and suffered for that love, when some unforeseen event occurred to blast their hopes and caused them to lead a single life. The late venerable Quaker poet, John G. Whittier, was one of the unfortunates of this class.

Whittier never married, and anyone who realized the deep loving nature of the poet, whoever looked at the passion shining in his dark, intense eyes, and the tenderness that showed itself around the closely shut lips, could not fail to ask himself what bitter memory made him lead a single life.

In his youth the poet loved and suffered, and the painfulness of his experience shut up his heart and made him live a single life.

When a boy at school he fell in love with a blushing, brown-eyed maiden, and used to carry spelling book and geography back and forth for her from school. As the future poet grew older his attachment deepened, but the young girl, when just on the verge of womanhood, sank into a decline and died.

It is this love of his early youth that years afterward the poet immortalized in the following beautiful verses, that are known to the girls and boys of this and foreign countries:

Still sits the school house by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning;

Around it still the sumachs grow,

And blackberry vines are running.

Within the master's desk is seen,

Deep scarred by raps official;

The warping floor, the battered seat,
The jacknife's carved initial.

The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door's worn sil betraying

The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out in playing.

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting,
Lit up its western window panes
And low eave's icy fretting.

It touched the tangled, golden curls
And brown eyes full of grieving
Of one who still her steps delayed,
When all the school were leaving.
For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled,

His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered,

As restlessly her tiny hand
The blue checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand's light caressing.
And felt the trembling of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word;
I hate to go above you.

You see"-the brown eyes lower fell,-
"You see, because I love you.'

Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child face is showing.
Dear girl, the grasses on her grave

Have forty years been growing.

He lives to learn in life's hard school
How few who pass above him,
Lament their triumph and his loss

Like her because they love him.

Another touching poem by the late George P. Morris, is that entitled "My Mother's Bible," and is one of touching and tender pathos:

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

This book is all that's left me now!
Tears will unbidden start-
With faltering lip and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart.

For many generations past,

Here is our family tree: My mother's hands this Bible clasp'd; She, dying, gave it me.

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Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear,
Who round the hearth-stone used to close
After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said,
In tones my heart would thrill!
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book

To brothers, sisters dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who lean'd God's word to hear!

Her angel face--I see it yet!

What thronging memories come!

Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,

Thy constancy I've tried;

Where all were false I found thee true

My counselor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasure give

That could this volume buy:

In teaching me the way to live
It taught me how to die.

For a rattling, jingling old poem, relating to old reminiscences and reminders of "days gone by," we cannot select a better one than that composed by the late Oliver Wendell Holmes, and entitled "Bill and Joe:"

Come, dear old comrade, you and I
Will steal an hour from days gone by-
The shining days when life was new
And all was bright as morning dew-
The lusty days of long ago

When you were Bill and I was Joe.
Your name may flaunt a titled trail,
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail,
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam o' Shanter's luckless mare;
Today, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and you are Bill.

You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With H ON and L L D

In big, brave letters, fair to see

Your fist, old fellow! Off they go!
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You've worn the judge's ermined robe;
You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;
You've made a dead past live again-
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.

*

*

No matter; while our home is here

No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares for what pompous tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.

A few years ago while wandering over the scenes of our boyhood days, and viewing places where years ago were passed some of the most pleasant hours of our life, the following lines of a distinguished poet flashed through our mind, and we cannot better express our feelings than to give expression to them in the sad little ballad of "Twenty Years Ago."

TWENTY YEARS AGO.

I have wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree

Upon the school house playground, which sheltered you and me;

But none are left to know me, Tom, and few are left to know

That played upon the green just twenty years ago.

The grass is just as green, dear Tom; barefooted boys at play

Are sporting just as we were then, with spirits just as gay;

But the master sleeps upon the hill, all coated o'er with snow,

That afforded us a sliding place, just twenty years ago.

The following lines were found upon the body of a poor tramp near Lexington, Va., and bore every indication of a past that had been one of sorrow and grief, are very suggestive, and will cause a feeling of sympathy in his behalf and other unfortunates of a like class:

Ah, the hour is cold and dreary,
And the snow is falling fast;
O'er the city falls the twilight,
O'er my form the chilling blast.
Ah, my heart is almost breaking,
And my limbs are numb with cold;
I have neither home nor kindred,
And my days are almost told.

As I walk the crowded pavements, Gay with wealth and mirth and joys, As I see the happy faces

And windows full of toysBack my memory goes; yes, backward To a time long, long gone by, When I was a trusted, loved one,

And my hopes were soaring high.

There is a certain class of verse which, be it approved or not by the critics, always touches the popular heart. A dainty bit of sentiment, a touching experience, a trifle of pathos, when given in a little poem or song consisting of a few stanzas, often warms the gentler feelings and finds a lasting place where far more pretentious pieces are born and die comparatively unnoticed.

What is here given to the public, are not, all taken together, the works of masters and geniuses, but they are poems of the heart and have awakened in the human breast many a chord of sympathy, and are gathered together under the title of the old

verses:

THE SONGS WE LOVED IN INFANCY.

When our lives are full of brightness,
Before we catch the gloom;
When our hearts are full of lightness,
Before the achings come;

When our feet have not grown weary
In the long and dusty road,
And the pathway is not dreary
Which leads us up to God-
How like the angel melody
The songs we loved in infancy.

When the hopes of life are glowing;
When the dreams of life are dear;
When the joys of life are flowing
In a river, calm and clear;
When smiles, and love, and kindness,
Make all our pathway bright,
And we see not-in our blindness-
The coming of the night-

Oh, then how sweet, how dear must be
The songs that we loved in infancy!

T

HE name of Mt. Vernon is an historic one in the United States. Nationally it represents one of the oldest points of interest in the entire country, and about it cling memories of revolutionary times. The name is also a sturdy one, and in the Buckeye State it represents the home of men who for a century past have taken active part in national affairs, both while the dove of

more & Ohio Railway System. In size it is outdone by a few stations in the larger cities, but in beauty of architectural design, in its general interior plan and finish its provisions for the comfort of the traveling public it stands alone. The new structure is the pride of the officials of the Baltimore & Ohio Railway Company, of every employe of the company and of every citizen of Mt. Vernon. The exterior walls of the structure are of mottled gray pressed brick. The roof is of red tiling. The interior, embracing a

peace hovered above the Nation, and when the cloud of war seemed certain to tear the states asunder. Mt. Vernon, Ohio, is in nowise a city of magic growth, but is one of long and steady progressiveness. To-day it is one of the more important of the smaller cities of Ohio.

The city now lays claim to added distinction in possessing the prettiest and most modern passenger station of any of the many divisions that are included in the mighty Balti

women's rest room, with toilet, a spacious general waiting room, a gentlemen's smoking room with toilet, a commodious office for telegraphers and the ticket department, is finished in quarter-sawed golden oak, which, like the hardwood floors, is in the natural color and highly polished. The building is steam-heated and is lighted with electricity, the lamps being arranged with an eye to decorative effect. The baggageroom is reached by way of a hall from the