Part 33 (1/2)

Freedom's Silent Host.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

There are many silent sleepers In our country here and there, Heeding not our restless clamor, Bugle's peal nor trumpet's blare.

Soft they slumber, Past forever earthly care.

O'er their beds the gra.s.ses creeping Weave a robe of royal fold, And the daisies add their homage, Flinging down a cloth of gold.

Soft they slumber, Once the gallant and the bold.

Oft as Spring, with dewy fingers, Brings a waft of violet, Sweet arbutus, dainty primrose, On their lowly graves we set.

Soft they slumber, We their lives do not forget.

Childish hands with rose and lily Showering the furrows green, Childish songs that lift and warble Where the sleepers lie serene (Soft they slumber) Tell how true our hearts have been.

Wave the dear old flag above them, Play the sweet old bugle call, And because they died in honor O'er them let the flowerets fall.

Soft they slumber, Dreaming, stirring not at all.

Freedom's host of silent sleepers, Where they lie is holy ground, Heeding not our restless clamor, Musket's rattle, trumpet's sound.

Soft they slumber, Ever wrapped in peace profound.

Presence of Mind.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

Such a forlorn little sunbonnet bobbing here and there among the bean poles in the garden back of Mr. Mason's house! It seemed as if the blue gingham ruffles and the deep cape must know something about the troubled little face they hid away, for they hung in a limp fas.h.i.+on that was enough to tell anybody who saw them just how badly the wearer of the sunbonnet was feeling. She had, as she thought, more than her share of toil and trouble in this busy world, and to-day she had a specially good reason to carry a heavy heart in her little breast.

All Morningside was in a perfect flutter of antic.i.p.ation and excitement.

There had never been a lawn party in the little village before, and Effie Dean, twelve years old to-day, was to have a lawn party, to which every child for miles, to say nothing of a gay troop of cousins and friends from the city, had been invited. Everybody was going, of course.

The Deans had taken for the season a beautiful old homestead, the owners of which were in Europe. They were having gala times there, and they managed to draw all the young folks of the village in to share them.

All, indeed, except one little girl. Cynthia Mason did not expect to go to many festivities, but with her whole heart she longed to see what a lawn party might be. The very name sounded beautiful to her, and she said it over and over wistfully as she went slowly down the door-yard between the tigerlilies and the hollyhocks, through the rough gate which hung so clumsily on its leathern hinges, and, with her basket by her side, began her daily task of picking beans.

Cynthia Mason had no mother. Her father loved his little daughter and was kind to her, but he was a silent man, who was not very successful, and who had lost hope when his wife had died. People said he had never been the same man since then. His sister, Cynthia's Aunt Kate, was an active, stirring woman, who liked to be busy herself and to hurry other people. She kept the house as clean as a new pin, had the meals ready to the moment, and saw that everybody's clothing was washed and mended; but she never felt as if she had time for the kissing and petting which is to some of us as needful as our daily food.

In her way she was fond of Cynthia, and would have taken good care of the child if she had been ill or crippled. But as her niece was perfectly well, and not in want of salts or senna, Aunt Kate was often rather tried with her fondness for dreaming in the daytime, or dropping down to read a bit from the newspaper in the midst of the sweeping and dusting.

There were, in truth, a good many worries in the little weather-beaten house, and Miss Mason had her own trouble in making both ends meet. She was taking summer boarders now to help along, and when Cynthia had asked her if she might go to Effie's party, the busy woman had been planning how to crowd another family from New York into the already well-filled abode, so she had curtly replied:

”Go to a lawn party! What nonsense! Why, no child. You cannot be spared.” And she had thought no more about it.

”Step around quickly this morning, Cynthy,” she called from the b.u.t.tery window. ”Beans take for ever and ever to cook, you know. I can't imagine what's got into the child,” she said to herself. ”She walks as if her feet were shod with lead.”

The blue gingham sunbonnet kept on bobbing up and down among the bean poles, when suddenly there was a rush and a rustle, two arms were thrown around Cynthia's waist, and a merry voice said:

”You never heard me, did you, till I was close by? You're going to the party, of course, Cynthy?”

”No, Lulu,” was the sad answer. ”There are new boarders coming, and Aunt Kate cannot do without me.”