Bear Our Bead Gently. 
by Mrs. m. j. smith. 
Out through the door-way wide, 
Through the verandah low, 
Under the trailing vine, 
Steadily, softly go 
Bearing our dead. 
Hearse, there is none to wait, 
Plumed at the open gate; 
Close where the woodbine nestles, 
Standeth the long-used trestles — 
Lay ye her there in state 
Gently, oh! bearers now, 
Breaking hearts follow here. 
Jostle not rudely, friends. 
Coffin and well-worn bier, 
Holding our dead. 
Lift ye the carved lid, now, 
Tenderly off from her brow; 
Lay back the snowy fold 
Hiding the clustering gold 
And face now grown so dear. 
How can she lie so still 
In the warm sunlight’s glow? 
Strange that her cheek is cold 
And her dear hands folded so — 
Ah! she is dead. 
On to the church-yard go 
Softly, gently, slow. 
Crushing the flowers and grasses, 
Heeding them not she passes 
On to the sod below. 
The Yankee School Master. 
On “Miller’s Hill” a farm-house stood, a 
lowly structure built of wood, whose clap¬ 
boards, weather-worn and gray, were fall¬ 
ing into slow decay; whose mossy wooden 
rain troughs swung from rusty irons rudely 
hung, whose curling shingles here and 
there betrayed the need of good repair; 
whose ancient chimney, capped with stone, 
with lichens partly overgrown above the 
sagging roof, looked down upon the spires 
of Brandon town. 
An old gray barn was built near by, with 
heavy girths and scaffolds high, and solid 
sills and massive beams, and through the 
cracks and open seams the slanting sun¬ 
light used to play in golden gleams upon 
the hay, where oft, with many a shout, the 
children jumped and played about at hide 
and seek, or looked with care for hidden 
nests in corners there; where oft at morn 
they used to hear the cackling hen and 
chanticleer; where, by the broad floor 
’neath the mows, were cribs and stanchions 
for the cows, and strong plank stalls where 
horses stood to eat their hay from racks of 
wood, and, in a corner stowed away, a fan¬ 
ning mill and old red sleigh; where jolly 
farm-boys husked at night the golden ears 
by candle-light, and hung their lanterns by 
the bay, on pitchforks thrust into the hay; 
where, sheltered from the autumn rain, 
with thundering flails they threshed the 
grain. 
• Each year the hum of honey bees was 
heard amid the apple trees; the lilacs 
bloomed, the locusts fair with their sweet 
fragrance filled the air; the stubble fields 
were plowed and sown; the warm rain fell; 
the bright sun shore; the robins sang; the 
green grass grew; the roses blossomed in 
the dew; the tall red hollyhock once more 
bloomed brightly by the farm-house door; 
the sun-flower bent its gaudy head, the cat¬ 
tle in the pasture fed, the crickets chirped 
in meadows near, glad sounds were wafted 
to the ear o’er waving fields of tasseled 
corn, of clattering scythe and dinner horn. 
The reapers reaped their golden sheaves; 
the swallows left the stuccoed eaves; the 
apples in the autumn breeze grew ripe and 
mellow on the trees; the leaves were swept 
about the air; the fields were brown, the 
wood-land bare; the snowflakes fell; the 
air grew chill; the sleighbells rang on “Mil¬ 
ler’s Hill.” 
The winter sky was overcast, the snow 
and sleet were falling fast. ’Twas Christ¬ 
mas eve; the air was cool; the children 
hastened home from school; with laughter 
loud and outcries shrill they reached the 
farmhouse on the hill; they came across 
the kitchen floor, nor stopped to shut the 
entry door; all, striving first the news to 
tell, exclaimed in concert, with a yell: “The 
teacher’s cornin’ here to stay; he’s up the 
road a little way; he stopped to talk with 
Susan Stow, an’ we run home to let you 
know.” 
The mother stopped her spinning wheel, 
and put away her creaking reel, swept up 
the dusty hearth with care, rolled down 
her sleeves and brushed her hair, smoothed 
out her rumpled gingham gown, and in her 
