“Last to fly and first to rally, Rode he of whom I speak, When, groaning in his bridle-path, Sank down a wounded Greek.--
“With the rich Albanian costume Wet with many a ghastly stain, Gazing on earth and sky as one Who might not gaze again!
“He looked forward to the mountains, Back on foes that never spare; Then flung him from his saddle, And placed the stranger there.
“‘Alla! hu!’ Through flashing sabres, Through a stormy hail of lead, The good Thessalian charger Up the slopes of olives sped.
“Hot spurred the turbaned riders,-- He almost felt their breath, Where a mountain stream rolled darkly down Between the hills and death.
“One brave and manful struggle,-- He gained the solid land, And the cover of the mountains And the carbines of his band.”
“It was very brave and noble,” Said the moist-eyed listener then; “But one brave deed makes no hero; Tell me what he since hath been?”
“Still a brave and generous manhood, Still an honor without stain, In the prison of the Kaiser, By the barricades of Seine.
“But dream not helm and harness The sign of valor true; Peace hath higher tests of manhood Than battle ever knew.
“Wouldst know him now? Behold him, The Cadmus of the blind, Giving the dumb lip language, The idiot clay a mind;
“Walking his round of duty Serenely day by day, With the strong man’s hand of labor, And childhood’s heart of play;
“True as the knights of story, Sir Lancelot and his peers, Brave in his calm endurance As they in tilt of spears.
“As waves in stillest waters, As stars in noon-day skies, All that wakes to noble action In his noon of calmness lies.
“Wherever outraged nature Asks word or action brave; Wherever struggles labor, Wherever groans a slave;
“Wherever rise the peoples, Wherever sinks a throne,-- The throbbing heart of Freedom finds An answer in his own!
“Knight of a better era, Without reproach or fear! Said I not well that Bayards And Sidneys still are here?”
Once upon a time, in a great house standing at the corner of Bond Street and Broadway, New York city, there lived a little girl. She was named Julia, after her lovely young mother; but as she grew she showed no resemblance to that mother, with her great dark eyes and wealth of black ringlets. This little girl had red hair, and that was a dreadful thing in those days. Very fine, soft hair it was, thick and wavy, but--it was red. Visitors, coming to see her mother, would shake their heads and say, “Poor little Julia! what a pity she has red hair!” and the tender mother would sigh, and regret that her child should have this misfortune, when there was no red hair in the family so far as one knew. And the beautiful hair was combed with a leaden comb, as one old lady said that would turn it dark; and it was soaked in honey-water, as another old lady said that was really the best thing you could do with it; and the little Julia felt that she might almost as well be a hunchback or a cripple as that unfortunate creature, a red-haired child.