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[[page]] 296 THE CRISIS really love for love's sake and not because of worldly reasons." The poor little fairy sighed deeply, for she knew that she could not perform these tasks in the three days that Grafter had allowed her. She talked to the children, but they were being dazzled by Grafter since he had become so handsome. Goodwilla continued to work though, and had just commenced to open men's eyes to Grafter as he really was, when the three days expired. She was immediately whisked off by the wicked old fellow, who chuckled with glee. He did not know that there were many people in whose hearts a seed had been planted (which would grow) by this good little fairy and that she herself had a plan for helping all when she was released. Grafter, after having locked her up, departed on his way rejoicing. He had been prosperous for a long, long time, but the seven hundred years are almost up now, and soon Goodwilla will come forth stronger and more beautiful than ever with the children as her soldiers. [[image: photo of child, captioned: "Frederick Douglass III. A Great-Grandfather's Great Grandson. The Son of Joseph and Fanny Howard Douglass age Seven Months"]] A LULLABY BY CORA J. BALL MOTEN Dusky lashes droop and fall, Night-winds whisper, night-birds call. Close your tired sleepy eyes, Earth is singing lullabies. Kindly twilight shadows creep O'er a world that longs for sleep. Little dusky babe of mine Close those sleepy eyes of thine. Mother's love will softly keep Watch above you while you sleep. Cruel hate and dead deadly wrong Cannot silence mother's song Though against thy soft brown cheek She may hide her face and weep. Sleep, brown baby, while you may Peacefully, at close of day. Oh, that mother's love could guard, Keep thee safe 'neath watch and ward From the cruel deadly things That await thee while she sings. Prejudice and cold white hate: These, my baby, these, thy fate, Little, gentle, trustful thing, Thus, these sobs, the while I sing. WAR Said the Lord of Hosts: I am weary of this multitude of prayers. They ascend to me through the sound of the cannon And the sharp sound of the bullet. The petitions of the warriors greet me, They disturb me not at all; But to-day came the prayer of a child, A little child, a daughter. She turned her face to the sky, And held up her hands to heaven; She cried: Give me back my father! Descend though, therefore, to the earth, And tell me of the battle. Then the seraphim, his two wings outspread, dropped from the celestial heights. When he returned, the odor of smoke was upon his hair. I have seen the desolation of Russia, oh, Master, and have heard the cries of its women as alone they garner the grain. I have passed over the Emperor's dominion, he who calls upon Thy name; Thy name is continually in his mouth, and boys are left to stand guard at the city gates. In the land of the Flemmings are smoking houses and ravished daughters. The cannon thunders at the gateway of France, and Saxon and Gaul fall like nuts in an October storm. Desolation is in the East and the West is desolate. The pyres of the dead burn on the hillside where the violets bloomed, and the dead cover the meadows once azure with the forget-me-not. Then the Lord of Hosts entered into His temple and rested for a while in thought. And beneath His feet slowly the earth turned on its appointed round. And again He called to Him the seraphim, and said: The prayers of the mothers and the children Shall be answered. The cannon shall cease and the rifles. Again shall man rise in the morning To till the soil. He shall listen to the song of the Lark, And shall watch the low flight of the swallow. But the seraphim, raised his eyes to his Master, and answered: I have visited the earth again, oh, Lord, and the face she now turns is full of gladness. The people cry, Rejoice, for the Lord of Battle hath revenged us on our enemies! Ethiopia holds up her hacked limbs. They gathered our hands in their baskets, and now their dead hands rest on their cold hearts. The Arab stands by the vast inland sea and joy lights his face. Our fathers were slain by the invaders, and to-day an invader's steel strikes down our enemy upon his own sod. In the east are great multitudes calling. We remember! We remember! We rebelled, and they came and slew and tied our men to the cannon's mouth. And low the cannon cut them down as the knife cuts the fodder for the cattle. To the north men call gleefully, The Cossack! The Cossack! They who beat and tortured themselves fall under the rod. And on Thy most lovely island in the western ocean, men and women sit by their scarred hill, and remember the palms and the song and the gay dance, and weep for the multitudes who died that the greed of the Teuton might flourish. But anon they rise and give praise that the string is broken and the feet are still in the house of their enemy. Then the Lord of Hosts moved out of the temple and looked down upon the earth. As they have sowed So shall they reap. Let it go on, He said. M. W. O.
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