INTRODUCTION This syllabus, or finding-list, is offered to lovers of folk-literature in the hope that it may not be without interest and value to them for purposes of comparison and identification. It includes 333 items, exclusive of 114 variants, and embraces all popular songs that have so far come to hand as having been "learned by ear instead of by eye," as existing through oral transmission—song-ballads, love-songs, number-songs,... more...

INTRODUCTION Because man is both militant and pacific, he has expressed in literature, as indeed in the other forms of art, his pacific and militant moods. Nor are these moods, of necessity, incompatible. War may become the price of peace, and peace may so decay as inevitably to bring about war. Of the dully unresponsive pacificist and the jingo patriot, quick to anger, the latter no doubt is the more dangerous to the cause of true freedom, yet... more...

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;The children were nestled all snug in their beds,While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap—  ... more...

  I. The Old Woman  (A Morality Play)   The Old Woman  (A Morality Play)   Characters:  The Woman  The House  The Doctor  The Deacon  The Landlady   Doctor:  There is an old woman  Who ought to die—   Deacon:  And nobody knows  But what she's dead—... more...

A Dream. I stood far off above the haunts of menSomewhere, I know not, when the sky was dimFrom some worn glory, and the morning hymnOf the gay oriole echoed from the glen.Wandering, I felt earth's peace, nor knew I soughtA visioned face, a voice the wind had caught. I passed the waking things that stirred and gazed,Thought-bound, and heeded not; the waking flowersDrank in the morning mist, dawn's tender showers,And looked forth for the... more...

ABRAHAM LINCOLN: Born, Feb. 12th, 1809. Assassinated, Good-Friday, April 14th, 1865. "Confusion now hath made his masterpiece!Most sacrilegious murder hath broke opeThe Lord's anointed temple, and stole thenceThe life o' the building. * * * * * * * * * * "Approach the chamber, and destroy your sightWith a new Gorgon:—Do not bid me speak;See, and then speak yourselves.—Awake! awake!Ring the alarum-bell:—Murder! and treason!... more...

My readers, would you like to go abroad, for just an hour or so, With little friends of different ages? Look at them in these pictured pages— Brothers and sisters you can see,—all children of one family. Their father, too, you here will find, and good Miss Earle, their teacher kind. Three years ago their Mother died, and ever since has Father tried To give his children in the Spring some tour, or... more...

ACROSS THE SEA. I.—CHILDHOOD. Ah! who can speak that country whence I fled?None but a lover may its beauty know,None but a poet can its rapture sing;And e'en his muse, upborne on Fancy's wing,Will grieve o'er beauties still unnoticed,O'er raptures language is too poor to show. Fore'er remains the land where children dwell,Earth's fairest mem'ry and its Palestine;Tho' years have passed since on my forehead thereWere graven lines of... more...

Proem Where are they— the Afterwhiles—Luring us the lengthening milesOf our lives? Where is the dawnWith the dew across the lawnStroked with eager feet the farWay the hills and valleys are?Were the sun that smites the frownOf the eastward-gazer down?Where the rifted wreaths of mistO'er us, tinged with amethyst,Round the mountain's steep defiles?Where are the afterwhiles? Afterwhile— and we will goThither, yon, and too and... more...

A GENTLEMAN OF THE HIGHWAYS By KATHRYN JARBOE Since early morning nothing but sunshine had entered the hospitable doorway of The Jolly Grig, a tavern not a dozen miles from the outer edge of London town. Across the white, sanded floor golden patches of light had moved with measured tread, and merry motes had danced in the golden beams, but nothing else had stirred. On the deep hearth were piled huge logs, ready to spring into a flashing... more...