Each of the Four Numbers of

"100 Choice Selections" contained in this volume is paged separately, and the Index is made to correspond therewith. See EXPLANATION on first page of Contents.

The entire book contains nearly

1000 pages.

100

CHOICE SELECTIONS

No. 35.

WASHINGTON.-HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

Arise-'tis the day of our Washington's glory,
The garlands uplift for our liberties won,
And sing in your gladness his echoing story,
Whose sword swept for freedom the fields of the sun.
Not with gold, nor with gems,

But with evergreens vernal

And the banners of stars that the continent span,
Crown, crown we the chief of the heroes eternal
Who lifted his sword for the birthright of man!

He gave us a nation to make it immortal,

He laid down for Freedom the sword that he drew,
And his shade leads us on to the radiant portal
Of the glory of peace and the destinies new.
Not with gold, nor with gems,

But with evergreens vernal

And the flags that the nations of liberty span,

Crown, crown him the chief of the heroes eternal Who laid down his sword for the birthright of man.

Lead, Face of the Future, serene in thy beauty,

Till o'er the dead heroes the Peace-star shall gleam,
Till right shall be might in the counsels of duty
And the service of man be life's glory supreme.
Not with gold, nor with gems,

But with evergreens vernal

And the flags that the nations in brotherhood span,
Crown, crown we the chief of the heroes eternal
Whose honor was gained by the service of man!

Youth's Companion.

DEAD MAN'S GULCH.-GEORGE M. VICKERS.*
By permission of the Author.

It happened 'way back in the fifties
When the country was crazy on gold,
When the gulches and hills near 'Frisco
Were yielding their wealth untold;
It happened when men and women.
Of every manner and kind,
Came seeking the yellow nuggets
That the thrifty diggers mined.

The camp was of rambling shanties,
With a single narrow street,

And a tall tree shaded the tavern

And the crowd from the noon-day heat;
In a circle the miners were seated,
A jury of fifty or more,

And the prisoner sat in a wagon

In front of the bar-room door.

She was one of those wretched creatures
Whose lives are made up of sin,

Whose crimes are all seen on the surface,
But none of the good within.

Tom Scott was the judge and spokesman,
And he briefly lined out his case
That the woman was guilty of murder,
Cowardly, cruel and base:

A man had been found in a thicket

With a bullet-hole through his head;
Still the blood from the wound was flowing
But the spark of his life had filed:
While the party that found him wondered
Who fired the fatal shot,

This woman was silently stealing

Away from the dreadful spot.

No doubt she'd have robbed the body,
But, hearing them, took alarm;
In her hand she still held this pistol,
It was empty, the barrel was warm.

*Author of " Buzzard's Point," "The Cobbler of Lynn," "Tribulations of Biddy Malone," "The Pilot's Bride," "Little Fritz," and other favorite readings in previous Numbers. Also the beautiful Temperance Melodrama, "Two Lives," in No. 8, and the very amusing Farce, "The Public Worrier," in No. 27.

When the witnesses asked why she did it, She uttered a piercing shriek,

But in spite of their threats and questions
Not a word would the woman speak.

An old man, pale and grizzled,
Then pushed to the open place
In the circle of angry miners,

And glanced at each threatening face.
"Let me speak, for I am a witness,
And my strength is failing fast,
Let me speak for the sake of justice
Ere the power to speak is past.
"Stop! Let us look behind us,
Through the mist of time and tears,
Till we view the golden sunlight
That in by-gone days appears:
Far away in the past, a maiden,
The pride of her happy home,
Sings only of love's devotion,

Dreams only of joys to come.

"Her heart has been won by a stranger,
Who calls her his love, his life,
And vows that he woos with honor,
That he'll make her his darling wife;
But the old folks' hearts are heavy,
For they see that he seems not true;
In spite of his words soft spoken,

They fear that their child will rue.

"One morning they found a letter,
On the open Bible it lay;
It asked for their kind forgiveness
And told that she'd gone away.
The mother was broken-hearted,

And the grief of them both was wild; But the father kneeled down by the Bible, And swore that he'd find his child.

""Twas the old, oft-told sad story

Of a woman's unbounded love,

A tale of a cruel deception,

Of a fiend that no tears could move. At last she was left to wander

Thousands of miles away