THE HERITAGE

The rich man's son inherits lands,

The piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn,
A breath may burst his bubble shares,
And soft white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serve his turn;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,

His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy-chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned of being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

The world may sound no trumpet, ring no bells;
The book of life, the shining record tells.
Thy love shall chant its own beatitudes,
After its own life-working. A child's kiss

Set on thy singing lips shall make thee glad;
A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich;
A sick man helped by three shall make thee strong;
Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense

Of service which thou renderest.

-Robert Browning.

COLUMBUS DAY

OCTOBER TWELFTH

The program should consist mainly of stories told by the pupils of the conditions in Europe, ideas of the earth, knowledge of geography, commerce, and incidents in the life of Columbus.

COLUMBUS

What treasure found he? Chains and pains and sorrow-
Yea, all the wealth those noble seekers find
Whose footfalls mark the music of mankind!

'Twas his to lend a life: 'twas man's to borrow:
'Twas his to make, but not to share, the morrow.

-Theodore Watts-Dunton.

COLUMBUS

Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind the gates of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of shores,
Before him only shoreless seas.

The good mate said: "Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone;
Speak, Admiral, what shall I say?”
"Why say, sail on! and on!"

"My men grow mut'nous day by day;

My men grow gastly, wan and weak."
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave wash'd his swarthy cheek.
"What shall I say, brave Admiral,

If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
"Why, you shall say, at break of day:
'Sail on! sail on and on!"

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanch'd mate said;
"Why now, not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.

These very winds forget their way,
For God from these dread seas is gone.
Now speak, brave Admiral, and say-"
He said: "Sail on! and on!"

They sailed, they sailed, then spoke his mate:
"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night,
He curls his lip, he lies in wait,

With lifted teeth as if to bite!
Brave Admiral, say but one word;
What shall we do when hope is gone?"
The words leaped as a leaping sword:
"Sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,
And thro' the darkness peered that night.
Ah, darkest night! and then a speck-
A light! a light! a light! a light!

It grew a star-lit flag unfurled!

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn; He gained a world! he gave that world Its watch-word: "On! and on!"

THANKSGIVING DAY

LAST THURSDAY IN NOVEMBER

QUOTATIONS.

Let us give thanks to God upon Thanksgiving Day. Nature is beautiful, and fellow-men are dear, and duty is close beside us, and He is over us and in us.

-Phillips Brooks.

For the earth and all its beauty;
For the sky and all its light;
For the dim and soothing shadows,
That rest the dazzled sight;
For the tokens of Thy presence,
Within, above, abroad;

For Thine own, great gift of being
I thank Thee, oh, my God!

For mellow pears we have gathered in,
For rosy apples and well-filled bin,

That tell of a fruitful year;

For golden grain that is stored away,
For fragrant piles of the clover hay

Let us thank our Father dear.

For the year that is past, and the year to come,
For the grateful song of our Harvest Home,
For the home that we have here;

For the thoughts and fancies that round it cling,
For the hearts that love and the lips that sing,
Let us thank our Father dear.

-Dora Read Goodale.

It is a comely fashion to be glad;
Joy is a grace we say to God.

-Jean Ingelow.

It is the Puritan's Thanksgiving Day,

And gathered home from fresher homes around,
The old man's children keep the holiday,

In dear New England since the fathers slept,

The sweetest holiday of all the year.

-J. G. Holland.