The diamond drill. (Crystal Falls, Iron County, Mich.) 1887-1996, 1890-08-23

THE mothers OF to-day do not sing
as the mothers did In lang syne." said
man whose business cares have never
overcome aud crowded out the soul Of
poetry and the memory Of happy boy
hood. "You seldom hear a woman
singing about tho house now"
$50 Il is. The modern mother does
not sing as our dear 3ld-fashioned
mothers used 10 sing. She has little
time to herself. and IL she didn't have
the advantages OF musical education
she saws she cannot sing.
Then. too. the songs OF to-day are
not like and never will be like those
old songs. They do not touch the
heart and give the hearts feeling utter
auce through the lips There arc
beautiful songs set TO music. OF course.
aud wonderful voices sing them on the
stage aud In the drawing-room. but
how seldom it is we hear song that
thrills and charms us and brings tho
pearls of feeling" TO our eyes. A
voice pleases MS and we bear home the
satisfaction of having heard an artist of
artists. but we will forget the singer
aud the song long before we forget one
word or note of the one who sang
'.Bonnie Doom" aud Annie Laurie"
There are those OF ms who will never
forget the summer evenings. the ripple
of the brook In the distance. the stir OF
the woodbine leaves around tho win
dow. the sweet fragrance OF the "birk"
from the neighboring wood, when tho
mother sang ALTON Water and rocked
her baby 10 sleep.
"A ~ a. al.
stirred our childish hearts. The
Soldiers Dream:
Our bugles sung truce, for the night cloud had
And the sentinel stars set their watch In tho
sky.
when thousands had sunk TO tho ground over
The weary TO sleep and the wounded TO die
Reposing that night on my pallet OF straw.
by the wolf-scariny faggot that guarded tho
In the dead OF the night n sweet vision ] saw,
And thrice ere tho morning l dreamed ID
again.
Our childish Imagination could
picture the soldier always handsome.
in his uniform lying down on the field
of battle TO sleep under the stars. tho
pine knots blaze soaring away the
prowling wolves. and he dreaming OF
hearing his Gown mountain goats
bleating aloof." and of hearing the
sweet song that the corn rcapers sung"
There was another song. DID, very
old: ION the Lake Where Dropped tho
Willow" the story of a girl who died
In autumn. And: iii Hang My Harp
on the Willow Tree which later-day
acknowledgements tell us was dedi-
Gated to her Majesty. Victoria. There
was 'Jeannetto and Jcanot" ''Old
Kentucky Home and 'Suwanee
River" and to-day wo cannot listen to
q, take me To my kind old mother,
There let me live and die.
whether sung in soft. weird tones of a
jubilee singer. the pathetic ones of
little Kavanagh or the everyday street
Arab. without rush of tender feeling.
There was another song. regular
bedtime song in its wooing sweetness.
Ii was The Cnckoo":
When winter comes the woods Ii my homo.
In summer sing In the meadows.
How we liked TO hear about the little
bird that hid itself away in the brush in
the winter, and in the springtime it's
plaintiff cuckoo" cuckoo" was the
sure harbinger of south winds aud warm
showers.
And last and best of all was that song
OF "Clari. the Maid of Milan:
Mid pleasures and palaces though We may
roam,
BE IL ever 80 humble, there's no place liko
home.
No, there Is no place like home. and
there are no songs like those OF the old
time. and there Is no music half SO
sweet as the memory of those tender
notaQ - uUs,fn Np,no