How Accidents Become Habits

1901

As to our mannerisms, says a writer in the Baltimore Sun, at first they are accidents, and afterward they become habits. It is singular how easy it is to convince a credulous public that a misfortune is a gift, just as an eccentricity is a mark of genius.

Your correspondent knows a lady who was asked in marriage by several gentlemen (for where one pastures others will follow), although she was neither beautiful nor clever nor rich but because she was affected with a trembling of the lids. In her inmost heart she who addresses you believes the trembling began with nervousness, but it was universal, and after a little what was curious began to be regarded as fascinating.

At any rate I know a well established, portly lady, married to a man who secured her, not without difficulty, whose only sorrow is the necessity of keeping up the girlish habit which procured her a spouse. He is not a sentimentalist, but he wants what he paid for. He married her because her eyelids trembled, and not unnaturally he wishes to be possessed of the same treasure.

Jenny Lind's Great Triumph

1906

Won Jealous Rival by Sweetness of Simple Song

A beautiful little incident is told concerning Jenny Lind and Grisi, when they were rivals for popular favor in London. Both were invited to sing the same night at a court concert before the queen. Jenny Lind, being the younger, sang first, and was so disturbed by the fierce, scornful look of Grisi that she was at the point of failure, when suddenly an inspiration came to her. The accompanist was striking his final chords. She asked him to rise and took the vacant seat. Her fingers wandered over the keys in a loving prelude, and then she sang a little prayer which she had loved as a child. She hadn't sung it for years. As she sang she was no longer in the presence of royalty, but singing to loving friends in her fatherland.

Softly at first the plaintive notes floated on the air, swelling louder and richer every moment. The singer seemed to throw her whole soul into that weird, thrilling, plaintive "prayer." Gradually the song died away and ended in a sob. There was silence — the silence of admiring wonder. The audience sat spell-bound. Jenny Lind lifted her sweet eyes to look into the scornful face that had so disconcerted her. There was no fierce expression now; instead, a tear-drop glistened on the long, black lashes, and after a moment, with the impulsiveness of a child of the tropics, Grisi crossed to Jenny Lind's side, placed her arms about her, and kissed her, utterly regardless of the audience. — Exchange.

Comment: Maybe they ought to try that on American Idol. But you could say, 'Isn't it just like Grisi, stealing Jenny's moment and drawing attention to herself after such a tender moment?!' (The sentiment of this article is kind of sickening.)

The Lullaby Song Mother Used To Sing

1911

The Lullaby Song

Some time ago a western contemporary gave utterance to this practical, prosaic and unemotional declaration: "Another very pretty sentiment that should be exploded is the lullaby song. Did your mother rock you to sleep and sing while doing it, and you recall the song? As a rule, a woman has so many children they are hustled off to bed without being rocked, and what mother ever knew a lullaby from start to finish?"

There are some things that are too sacred for alleged humor or wit and the above is an instance in point, as there are many who will not accept it as either, for as observed by an exchange there are those whose years have exiled them to dreamland, who can call up tender recollections of childhood and remember the songs that mother used to sing.

There are plenty of old men living who had mothers who could sing in low, tender, though uncultivated, tones the lullaby song, and its melody is still enshrined in the heart and thrills in memory. The old man of German stock especially can remember the simple folk song of the Fatherland that his mother sang above his cradle. Long ago its music came from over the sea, and at last has incorporated in the runic rhymes the old colored nurse crooned or warbled to woo sleep to infantile eyelids.

It may be that in later years we have been privileged to hear the great voices of the day. But all their grand arias never so touched our hearts as when in an encore they gave us a melody that had been dedicated to babyland and which thousands of mothers had sung to the cradle's rocker beating time.

It is strange what a hold these simple melodies of childhood retain in a life, however long, however filled with changes and vicissitude. There is something in their joys though they be ever so fleeting, that remains indelible. Every now and then, in quiet hours, the heart will hark back over the intervening years and remember it with reverence. And who will say that we are not better men and women for such moments of reflection, even though they do bring back the sound of voices that have long been silent, and the touch of hands that are dust?

And can you recall the song? Of course! You hear the familiar notes again in the midst of other surroundings, and instantly the scene is changed about you. You are a child again, just for a moment, and you look up, as you did in days gone by, into a face you love — oh, it may be aged and wrinkled and homely now, but it's still to you the sweetest face in the world.

You look again into eyes that are eloquent with a mother's unspeakable love — the purest, sweetest, holiest feeling the human heart may know. You feel again the comforting presence of her who guided your first uncertain footsteps, who heard you lisp your first little words, and whose tender solicitude for you has never ceased in all these years.

Can you recall the song? A generation may have passed since you heard it. Perhaps, in the corner of some quiet churchyard the singer lies asleep. Years and experience may have come upon you since you heard it last from her dear lips. Scenes may have changed, and your feet have wandered far since then; but never, never have you forgotten.

Life has brought you discords, but they can't erase it. After it may have come the other songs of other days. but the echo of those earlier ones is with you always. Childhood can never die.

No, do not tell us that the lullabies have gone out of fashion, after all these ages in which they have been sung over cradle and couch, in hovel and palace, and been remembered by millions in whose hearts remained an echo and a light of other days. The childhood that never heard a mother's lullaby is not apt to have a manhood of wholesome sentiment or that reverence for womankind which ennobles the heart and uplifts the soul.

—The Mansfield News, Mansfield, Ohio, Feb. 28, 1911, p. 6.

Mother Love (poetry)

1888

Mother Love

Ah, babe, with feet so soft and pink,
How oft does mother sadly think
That you will walk, perchance may fall
On life's rough path, and to your call
Among the crowd — but mother's hand
Will raise you, soothe and help you stand.

Those baby feet, those little toes,
To tread a path that no one knows;
If mother only could — and knew,
She'd tread the path ahead of you,
And smooth it to the very end,
Till Heav'n and earth together blend.

Ah, babe, with feet now held and press'd,
To think that you have never guessed
That when your feet are aching sore,
A mother's heart is hurt much more,
And when the path's so rough to trod,
A mother knows they lead to God.

Ah, babe, with feet now soft and warm,
Full soon to meet life's calm and storm,
And 'mid the struggle not to know
That mother never'll let you go
From out her heart — until the call,
Then yields to God her child — her all.

—Alice S. Webber, in Good Housekeeping.

Grandmas

1920

Little boys and girls know that grandmas have the most comfortable laps of all the women in the world. And it is sad to think that some little boys and girls have never known what it means to "go down to grandma's house."

Grandma's house, sitting way-back in the yard, with the old-fashioned flower garden of hollyhocks and lavender, sweet peas and forget-me-nots, geraniums, pink and red, and the sweet-scented verbenas and sweet Williams, all so carefully tended. Grandma's house, where the cookie crock was never empty, where the attic was full of old books, old clothes and mystery. Grandma's house, where the yard was overgrown with untrimmed trees and lilac bushes, in which redbirds nested in the summer and jaybirds fought in the winter. Grandma and grandma's home are great institutions.

Grandma, thin and smiling, or jolly and fat, it was all the same. At the door to greet one when he arrived; there to bid him come again when he left, loaded down with childish treasures. When grandma laughed she shook, and so others laughed with her, too. What a wonderful, peaceful face, what beautiful, tapering fingers, grandma had!

—Appleton Post-Crescent, Appleton, Wisconsin, Feb. 9, 1920, p. 4.

Note: "Tapering fingers" is "taping fingers" in the original article. I can't find a definition for "taping" that would seem to fit. But peaceful and tapering sounds like the delicate, gentle image the author was going for there at the end.

Musicians of the Street — Picturesque New York Figures

1887

MUSICIANS OF THE STREET.

The Picturesque Figures Who Make Melody on the Sidewalk.

[Special Correspondence.]

NEW YORK, Nov. 15. — Street musicians in New York are not limited to the hand organ. Every portable instrument under the sun stops at times and tunes up under your windows. Yesterday two men, one with a bagpipe, the other with a pibroch, went through my street making music weird, wild and pathetically sweet. Here and there a nickel was thrown to them from the upper stories, and here and there fell a tear. The concert was musical. They had not the hackneyed, manners of hardened street musicians. Solicitation was new to them. But they woke the echoes with old Scottish airs that moved hearts and moistened eyes.

If one might judge of them and their history, one might say that they were Scotchmen, stranded in New York without money and took this simple plan of earning a little. Sometimes a man stops on a corner after nightfall and sings a song, not in the cracked and dreadful voice of the blind professional street singer, but in sweet and melodious notes. One by one the passing people halt to hear him, and a few remember to pay for the pleasure he has given. He is perhaps of higher station, and temporarily in distress, Possibly he does it for a lark, for the pleasure of giving pleasure to those whose pleasures are few.

Sometimes a very old man, dignified and patriarchal, plays upon a large clarionet, making such music as the souls of musicians love. It is evident that in this humble guise a master breathes upon the instrument. That he has descended from some height of talent, and perhaps fame, is evident. His garments, too, have come down. When he trembles during the pauses in his music his hearers feel their throats thicken and somehow their hands find their way to their pockets. The throng about him increases all the time. His selections are not the much harped upon airs from the popular operas; they are the classic airs of the past. And when he was applauded the pale, old face flushed up with pleasure, and he acknowledged the compliment with the grace of an artist.

Histories, forsooth, have the street musicians. They have lived romances and supped on tragedies. Poverty walks on one side of them and art on the other. The way has been long and up hill all the way, with here and there a light, a halt and a bit of joy. They suggest blind Homer. They do more. They keep our hearts tender. — G. G.

The Wonderful Tree – Story for Christmas

The Wonderful Tree
By Christopher G. Hazard
(1922, Western Newspaper Union)

It stood in the corner of a rather needy room. It was festooned with strings of popcorn and cables of cranberries. Wisps of tissue paper and tinsel ornaments were out upon the branches, and small candles stood ready to illuminate the occasion. There were many invisible things upon the tree, too. The imaginations of the children had been as busy as their dreams. Family resources may be limited, but there are no bounds in the realms of Santa Claus and hope. In the magical Christmas time the clouds of poverty are all as gilded and beautiful as any sunset can furnish. Anything may happen then. Cinderella is as hopeful as her more favored sisters; not an urchin but has an expectant eye. So the Tanner Christmas tree was as beautiful as a picture and as full of presents as a picture could be.

But, however pictured by fancy and made of good wishes, the presents were all invisible. No one could see what was in the heads of the dreamers and the hearts of the anxious but needy providers. For weeks the mill had been closed, and now the family pocketbook was about empty. Father Tanner looked at the tree, could not see a gift on it, and shook his head. Mother Tanner was inclined to make the best of it.

Yes, the tree was one of the family. It had been the tree of last year's Christmas and the tree of the year before that. It was a tree that kept its evergreen habit and that did not seem to grow old. It was like a living tree, made to bring forth its fruit every year. It had been so good to them that they had named it Bounty. And now it stood there in the dark, all dressed up, but with nothing but blossoms, without any fruit. It could see the hurrying children running to their morning disappointment. It could hear their cries of surprise and chagrin. Silly Sam, more needy of amusement than the others, would look in vain for his expected go-cart; Sue would miss the two dress patterns for her big doll, her new hat and high chair for her little doll; Bill Tanner would not get his skates; Dick would still need a sled. It was anything but a merry tree.

But it was a wonderful tree. It had a power of making itself felt all over a neighborhood. It could summon Santa Claus by a kind of wireless message that went through walls and everything. It reached as far as the folks who were having a Christmas eve party two blocks away and made them think of Mr. Folsom's mill boss and Mrs. Folsom's laundry woman. They had been wishing for some new fun for their party that day and now it came into their heads to go over and be Santa for the Tanners. So the tree drew a very silent but very busy company to the Tanners' back door.

As the children had left directions for Santa on the table it was easy to find out what the tree was expected to do, so, presently, it did it. There was more, too, than orders for the wanted things; the merrymakers had brought with them enough to satisfy any reasonable tree; there were picture books, picture puzzles, games, a scissors grinder that could make the sparks fly, a train of cars that could go, a doll that could say "mama," and candy enough to go round. For Father and Mother Tanner there was a pocketbook with gold in it, and a note of good cheer that was better than the gold.

So the wonderful tree spent the rest of the night in trembling joy. It could not sleep for thinking of the friendly love that had provided such a happy morning to come. And when the first of the morning light brought all the Tanners downstairs the tree fairly shook with pleasure, amid the wonder and the glee of that Christmas day.

As for the servants of Santa Claus, they had never had such a merry Christmas before. Their hearts were so warm that they did not mind the frost. They sang over the pleasure of giving pleasure and relief. They said they knew that Santa Claus had to live up North so that he could cool off after his warm interest in the happiness of others. They addressed him in verses that must have made him jollier than ever, calling him:

THE MAGIC MAN
There is a man who lives up north
All clad in robes and furs,
And every year he sallies forth
As love his going spurs.

He mitigates the winter's cold
That otherwise would freeze,
And keeps himself from growing old
By tending Christmas trees.

The children for his coming wait,
So do the old folks, too;
Unhappiness goes out the gate
When Santa comes to you.

And their own presents never seemed so large and good before.

The Dying Wife (poetry)

1878

The Dying Wife.

Lay the gem upon my bosom,
Let me feel her warm breath,
For a strong chill o'er me passes,
And I know it is death.
I would gaze upon the treasure—
Scarcely given ere I go—
Feel her rosy, dimpled fingers
Wander o'er my cheek of snow,

I am passing through the waters,
But a blessed shore appears;
Kneel beside me, husband, dearest,
Let me kiss away thy tears;
Wrestle with thy grief, my husband,
Strive from midnight unto day;
It may leave an angel's blessing
When it vanishes away.

Lay the gem upon my bosom,
'Tis not long she can be there,
See! how to my heart she nestles,
'Tis the pearl I love to wear.
If in after years beside thee,
Sits another in my chair,
Though her voice be sweeter music,
And her face than mine more fair;

If a cherub call thee "Father,"
Far more beautiful than this,
Love thy first-born, oh! my husband!
Turn not from the motherless;
Tell her something of her mother—
You may call her by my name!
Shield her from the winds of sorrow!
If she errs, oh! gently blame.

Lead her sometimes, where I am sleeping
I will answer if she calls,
And my breath will stir her ringlets,
When my voice in blessing falls;
Then her soft black eyes will brighten,
And shall wonder whence it came;
In her heart when years pass o'er her
She will find her mother's name.

It is said that every mortal
Walks between two angels here;
One records the ill, but blots it,
If before the midnight drear
Man repenteth — if uncancelled,
Then the right-hand angel weepeth,
Bowing low with veiled eyes.

I will be her right hand angel,
Sealing up the good for Heaven;
Striving that the midnight watches
Find no misdeeds unforgiven.
You will not forget me, husband,
When I am sleeping 'neath the sod;
Oh, love the jewel to us given
As I love thee — next to God!