Time was when the little toy dog was new And the soldier was passing fair, And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there. "Now don't you go till I come," he said, And as he was dreaming, an angel song Oh, the years are many, the years are long, Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face. And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue, EXERCISES 1. Under what circumstances was this poem written? 2. Why should the toys remain untouched? 3. Who is speaking the first lines of the second stanza? 4. In what manner was he saying these words? 5. To whom are the years many and long? 6. What in the father's heart leads him to imagine that these silent toys are waiting faithfully for their little master's return? 7. What comfort comes to the father in the scenes and reminiscences recounted? 8. What has touched the heart of the father so sympathetically? 9. What infinite hope is suggested to the grief-stricken father? 10. Wherein lies the chief charm of this little poem? ADDITIONAL READINGS GILDER: A Child. FIELD: The Lyttel Boy. RILEY: Bereaved. Leonainie. The Lost Kiss. A. C. SWINBURNE: The Salt of the Earth. EMMON A. BROWN: Measuring the Baby. LOWELL: The First Snowfall. The Changeling. HARRY R. SMITH: The Long Night. FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT: Van Elsen. LONGFELLOW: The Reaper and the Flowers. The Children's Hour. ELLEN HOWARTH: "Tis But a Little Faded Flower. STEPHEN HENRY THAYER: The Waiting Choir. GERALD MASSEY: Christie's Portrait. Little Willie. JOHN PIERPONT: My Child. WILLIAM C. BENNETT: Baby Shoes. WORDSWORTH: Lucy Gray. SWIMMERS IN A SEA For we are all, like swimmers in a sea, Back out to sea, to the deep wave of death- -Matthew Arnold. HOW THE BOYS OW much of inspiration we owe to those with whom we come in close personal contact! Sometimes it takes a long separation from our friends to give us the proper appreciation and the true estimate of the value of their lives. One of the keenest of the pleasures of a college man is that of the class reunions that occur after the regular college course has been completed. Then notes are compared, successes and failures are canvassed, and the value of classmates to themselves and to the world is estimated. Most colleges base much of their prestige upon the record of their alumni. Harvard College is no exception and points with much pride to the Class of 1829, of which Oliver Wendell Holmes was a member. He was regularly appointed class poet at the annual reunions for many years. On the occasion of the thirtieth anniversary of the graduation of this class, he wrote the following poem. Its quaint humor, graceful style, and touching pathos make it unique. Not less remarkable is the work of his classmates as enumerated in the lines. THE BOYS* Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? If there has, take him out, without making a noise. Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite! Old Time is a liar! We're twenty to-night! We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? He's tipsy, young jackanapes!-Show him the door! "Gray temples at twenty?"—Yes! white, if we please; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze! Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! Look close, you will see not a sign of a flake! We want some new garlands for those we have shed, And these are white roses in place of the red. We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old: That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;" It's a neat little fiction, of course it's all fudge. That fellow's the "Speaker,"—the one on the right; "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? *Used by permission of, and by special arrangement with, the authorized publishers, Houghton Mifflin Company. That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend"-what's his name?-don't make me laugh! That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book, And the Royal Society thought it was true! So they chose him right in; a good joke it was too! There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, That could harness a team with a logical chain; When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, We called him the "Justice," but now he's the "Squire." And there is a youngster of excellent pith,- thee!" of You hear that boy laughing?—You think he's all fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all! Yes, we're boys,—always playing with tongue or with pen; |