Recitations for the Social Circle. Selected and Original — Edition Insights

She was only one of the 'extra' girls, But you gave her a nickle to take the car, And said 'Heaven bless ye, my little one, Ye can pay me back ef ye ever star.'

"So you cast your bread on the waters then, And I pay you back, as my heart demands, And we're even now--no! not quite," she said, As she emptied her purse in his trembling hands. "And if ever you're needy and want a friend, You know where to come, for your little mite Put hope in my heart and made me strive To gain the success you have seen to-night."

Then the carriage stopped, at the old man's door, And the gas-light shone on him, standing there: And he stepped to the curb, as she rolled away, While his thin lips murmured a fervent prayer. He looked at the silver and bills and gold, And he said: "She gives all this to me? My bread has come back a thousandfold, God bless her! God bless all such as she!"

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE LANDLORD.

A shrewd and wealthy old landlord, away down in Maine, is noted for driving his "sharp bargains," by which he has amassed a large amount of property. He is the owner of a large number of dwelling-houses, and it is said of him that he is not over-scrupulous of his rental charges, whenever he can find a customer whom he knows to be responsible. His object is to lease his house for a term of years to the best tenants, and get the uttermost farthing in the shape of rent.

A diminutive Frenchman called on him last winter, to hire a dwelling he owned in Portland, and which had long remained empty. References were given, and the landlord, ascertaining that the tenant was a man "after his own heart," immediately commenced to "Jew" him. He found that the tenement appeared to suit the Frenchman, and he placed an exorbitant price upon it; the leases were drawn and duly executed, and the tenant removed into his new quarters.

Upon kindling fires in the house, it was found that the chimneys wouldn't "draw," and the building was filled with smoke. The window-sashes rattled in the wind at night, and the cold air rushed through a hundred crevices about the house until now unnoticed. The snow melted upon the roof, and the attics were drenched from the leakage. The rain pelted, and our Frenchman found a "natural" bathroom upon the second floor--but the lease was signed and the landlord chuckled.

"I have been vat you sall call 'tuck in,' vis zis _maison_," muttered our victim to himself a week afterwards, "but _n'importe_, ve sal se vat ve _sal_ see."

Next morning he arose bright and early, and passing down he encountered the landlord.

"Ah ha!--_Bon jour, monsieur_," said he in his happiest manner.

"Good day, sir. How do you like your house?"

"Ah monsieur--elegant, beautiful, magnificent. _Eh bien_, monsieur, I have ze one regret!"

"I sal live in zat house but tree little year."

"I have find by vot you call ze lease, zat you have give me ze house but for tree year, and I ver mooch sorrow for zat."

"But you can have it longer if you wish--"

"Ah, monsieur, sal be ver mooch glad if I can have zat house _so long as I please_--eh--monsieur?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly, sir."

"_Tres bien_, monsieur! I sal valk rite to your offees, and you sal give me vot you call ze lease for that _maison jes so long as I sal vant the house_. Eh, monsieur?"

"Certainly, sir. You can stay there your lifetime, if you like."

"Ah, monsieur--I have ver mooch tanks for zis accommodation."

The old lease was destroyed and a new one was delivered in form to the French gentleman, giving him possession of the premises for "such a period as the lessee may desire the same, he paying the rent promptly, etc."

The next morning our crafty landlord was passing the house just as the French-man's last load of furniture was being started from the door; an hour afterward, a messenger called on him with a legal tender, for the rent for eight days, accompanied with a note as follows:

"Monsieur--I have been smoke--I have been drouned--I have been frees to death, in ze house vat I av hire of you for ze period as I may desire. I have stay in ze house _jes so long as I please_, and ze bearer of zis vill give you ze key! _Bon jour_, monsieur."

It is needless to add that our landlord has never since been known to give up "a bird in the hand for one in the bush."

BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE, 1839.

Two low whistles, quaint and clear, That was the signal the engineer-- That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said-- Gave to his wife at Providence, As through the sleeping town, and thence Out in the night, On to the light, Down past the farms, lying white, he sped!

As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt, Yet to the woman looking out, Watching and waiting, no serenade, Love-song, or midnight roundelay Said what that whistle seemed to say; "To my trust true, So love to you! Working or waiting. Good night!" it said.

Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, Old commuters, along the line, Brakesmen and porters, glanced ahead, Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense, Pierced through the shadows of Providence,-- "Nothing amiss-- Nothing!--it is Only Guild calling his wife," they said.

Summer and winter, the old refrain Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, Pierced through the budding boughs o'er head, Flew down the track when the red leaves burned Like living coals from the engine spurned! Sang as it flew "To our trust true. First of all, duty! Good night!" it said.

And then, one night, it was heard no more From Stonington over Rhode Island Shore, And the folk in Providence smiled and said, As they turned in their beds: "The engineer Has once forgotten his midnight cheer." _One_ only knew To his trust true, Guild lay under his engine, dead.

MARK TWAIN AND THE INTERVIEWER.

The nervous, dapper, "peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and said he was connected with "The Daily Thunderstorm," and added,--

"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you."

"Ah! I see. Yes--yes. Um! Yes--yes."

I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been looking six or seven minutes, I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I said,--

"How do you spell it?"

"Oh, my goodness? What do you want to spell it for?"

"I don't want to spell it: I want to see what it means."

"Well, this is astonishing, I must say. _I_ can tell you what it means, if you--if you"--

"Oh, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too."

"In, _in_, ter, _ter_, _inter_"--

"Then you spell it with an _I_?"

"Oh, that is what took me so long!"

"Why, my _dear_ sir, what did _you_ propose to spell it with?"

"Well, I--I--I hardly know. I had the Unabridged; and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old edition."

"Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a _picture_ of it in even the latest e---- My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world; but you do not look as--as--intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm,--I mean no harm at all."

"Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter, and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes--yes: they always speak of it with rapture."

"I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious."

"Indeed! I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What do you do it with?"

"Ah, well--well--well--this is disheartening. It _ought_ to be done with a club, in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking questions, and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient points of your public and private history?"

"Oh, with pleasure,--with pleasure. I have a very bad memory; but I hope you will not mind. That is to say, it is an irregular memory, singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a great grief to me."

"Oh! it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can."

"I will! I will put my whole mind on it."

"Thanks! Are you ready to begin?"

_Question._ How old are you?

_Answer._ Nineteen in June.

_Q._ Indeed! I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were you born?

_Q._ When did you begin to write?

_Q._ Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now?

_A._ I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow.

_Q._ It does indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met?

_Q._ But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen years----

_A._ Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?

_Q._ Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to meet Burr?

_A._ Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day; and he asked me to make less noise, and----

_Q._ But, good heavens! If you were at his funeral, he must have been dead; and, if he was dead, how could he care whether you made a noise or not?

_A._ I don't know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way.

_Q._ Still, I don't understand it at all. You say he spoke to you, and that he was dead?

_A._ I didn't say he was dead.

_Q._ But wasn't he dead?

_A._ Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't.

_Q._ What do _you_ think?

_A._ Oh, it was none of my business! It wasn't any of my funeral.

_Q._ Did you--However we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask about something else. What was the date of your birth?

_A._ Monday, October 31, 1693.

_Q._ What! Impossible! That would make you a hundred and eighty years old. How do you account for that?

_A._ I don't account for it at all.

_Q._ But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy.

_A._ Why, have you noticed that? (_Shaking hands._) Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy; but somehow I couldn't make up my mind. How quick you notice a thing!

_Q._ Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have you, any brothers or sisters?

_A._ Eh! I--I--I think so,--yes--but I don't remember.

_Q._ Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard.

_A._ Why, what makes you think that?

_Q._ How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! Who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn't that a brother of yours?

_A._ Oh, yes, yes, yes! Now you remind me of it, that _was_ a brother of mine. That's William, _Bill_ we called him. Poor old Bill!

_Q._ Why, is he dead, then?

_A._ Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great mystery about it.

_Q._ That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then?

_A._ Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him.

_Q._ _Buried_ him! Buried him without knowing whether he was dead or not?

_A._ Oh, no! Not that. He was dead enough.

_Q._ Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you buried him, and you knew he was dead----

_A._ No, no! We only thought he was.

_Q._ Oh, I see! He came to life again?

_A._ I bet he didn't.

_Q._ Well. I never heard anything like this. _Somebody_ was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery?

_A._ Ah, that's just it! That's it exactly! You see we were twins,--defunct and I; and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. Some think it was Bill; and some think it was me.

_Q._ Well, that _is_ remarkable. What do _you_ think?

_A._ Goodness knows! I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will tell you a secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before. One of us had a peculiar mark, a large mole on the back of his left hand; that was _me_. _That child was the one that was drowned._

_Q._ Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery about it, after all.

_A._ You don't; well, _I_ do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But, 'sh! don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heart-breaking troubles enough without adding this.

_Q._ Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present; and I am very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good deal interested in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you mind telling me what peculiar circumstance it was that made you think Burr was such a remarkable man?

_A._ Oh, it was a mere trifle! Not one man in fifty would have noticed it at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start for the cemetery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery; and so he _got up, and rode with the driver_.

Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very pleasant company; and I was sorry to see him go.

BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

I read the sentence or heard it spoken-- A stalwart phrase and with meaning rife-- And I said: "Now I know, by youth's sweet token, That this is the time called the 'prime of life.'

"For my hopes soar over the loftiest mountain, And the future glows red, like a fair sunrise; And my spirits gush forth, like a spring-fed fountain, And never a grief in the heart of me lies."

Yet later on, when with blood and muscle Equipped I plunged in the world's hard strife, When I loved its danger, and laughed at the tussle, "Why _this_," I said, "is the prime of life."

And then, when the tide in my veins ran slower, And youth's first follies had passed away, When the fervent fires in my heart burned lower, And over my body my brain had sway,

I said: "It is when, through the veiled ideal The vigorous reason thrusts a knife And rends the illusion, and shows us the real, Oh! this is the time called 'prime of life.'"

Hut now when brain and body are troubled (For one is tired and one is ill, Yet my soul soars up with a strength redoubled And sits on the throne of my broken will), Now when on the ear of my listening spirit, That is turned away from the earth's harsh strife, The river of death sounds murmuring near it-- I know that _this_ "is the prime of life."

Did you ever see a battery take position?

It hasn't the thrill of a cavalry charge, nor the grimness of a line of bayonets moving slowly and determinedly on, but there is peculiar excitement about it that makes old veterans rise in the saddle and cheer.

We have been fighting at the edge of the woods. Every cartridge-box has been emptied once and more, and a fourth of the brigade has melted away in dead and wounded and missing. Not a cheer is heard in the whole brigade. We know that we are being driven foot by foot, and that when we break back once more, the line will go to pieces and the enemy will pour through the gap.

Down the crowded highway gallops a battery, withdrawn from some other position to save ours. The field fence is scattered while you could count thirty, and the guns rush for the hill behind us. Six horses to a piece, three riders to each gun. Over dry ditches where a farmer could not drive a wagon; through clumps of bushes, over logs a foot thick, every horse on the gallop, every rider lashing his team and yelling,--the sight behind us makes us forget the foe in front. The guns jump two feet high as the heavy wheels strike rock or log, but not a horse slackens his pace, not a cannoneer loses his seat. Six guns, six caissons, sixty horses, eighty men, race for the brow of the hill as if he who reached it first was to be knighted.

A moment ago the battery was a confused mob. We look again and the six guns are in position, the detached horses hurrying away, the ammunition-chests open, and along our line runs the command: "Give them one more volley and fall back to support the guns!" We have scarcely obeyed when boom! boom! boom! opens the battery, and jets of fire jump down and scorch the green trees under which we fought and despaired.

The shattered old brigade has a chance to breathe for the first time in three hours as we form a line of battle behind the guns and lie down. What grim, cool fellows these cannoneers are. Every man is a perfect machine. Bullets plash dust in their faces, but they do not wince. Bullets sing over and around them, but they do not dodge. There goes one to the earth, shot through the head as he sponged his gun. The machinery loses just one beat,--misses just one cog in the wheel, and then works away again as before.

Every gun is using short-fuse shell. The ground shakes and trembles--the roar shuts out all sounds from a battle-line three miles long, and the shells go shrieking into the swamp to cut trees short off--to mow great gaps in the bushes--to hunt out and shatter and mangle men until their corpses cannot be recognized as human. You would think a tornado was howling through the forest, followed by billows of fire, and yet men live through it--aye! press forward to capture the battery! We can hear their shouts as they form for the rush.

Now the shells are changed for grape and canister, and the guns are served so fast that all reports blend into one mighty roar. The shriek of a shell is the wickedest sound in war, but nothing makes the flesh crawl like the demoniac singing, purring, whistling grape-shot and the serpent-like hiss of canister. Men's legs and arms are not shot through, but torn off. Heads are torn from bodies and bodies cut in two. A round shot or shell takes two men out of the ranks as it crashes through. Grape and canister mow a swath and pile the dead on top of each other.

Through the smoke we see a swarm of men. It is not a battle-line, but a mob of men desperate enough to bathe their bayonets in the flame of the guns. The guns leap from the ground, almost, as they are depressed on the foe--and shrieks and screams and shouts blend into one awful and steady cry. Twenty men out of the battery are down, and the firing is interrupted. The foe accept it as a sign of wavering, and come rushing on. They are not ten feet away when the guns give them a last shot. That discharge picks living men off their feet and throws them into the swamp, a blackened, bloody mass.