SUGGESTIONS TO YOUNG SPEAKERS *

To paint the passion's force, and mark it well,
The proper action nature's self will tell:
No pleasing powers distortions e'er express,
And nicer judgment always loathes excess.
In sock or buskin, who o'erleaps the bounds,
Disgusts our reason, and the taste confounds.

The word and action should conjointly suit,
But acting words is labor too minute.
Grimace will ever lead the judgment wrong;
While sober humor marks the impression strong.
But let the generous actor still forbear
To copy features with a mimic's care!
'Tis a poor skill, which every fool can reach,
A vile stage custom, honor'd in the breach.
When I behold a wretch, of talents mean,
Drag private foibles on the public scene,
Forsaking nature's fair and open road,

To mark some whim, some strange peculiar mode;
Fired with disgust, I loathe his servile plan,
Despise the mimic, and abhor the man.
Go to the lame, to hospitals repair,
And hunt for humor in distortions there!
Fill up the measure of the motley whim
With shrug, wink, snuffle, and convulsive limb;
Then shame at once, to please a trifling age,
Good sense, good manners, and the stage!

*From an Old Reader.

'T is not enough the voice be sound and clear, 'Tis modulation that must charm the ear. When desperate heroines grieve with tedious moan, And whine their sorrows in a see-saw tone, The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes, Can only make the yawning hearers doze. The voice all modes of passion can express, That marks the proper word with proper stress. But none emphatic can that actor call, Who lays an equal emphasis on all.

Some o'er the tongue the labored measures roll,
Slow and deliberate at the parting toll:
Point every step, mark every pause so strong,
Their words, like stage processions, stalk along.
All affectation but creates disgust,

And e'en in speaking we may seem too just.
In vain for them the pleasing measure flows,
Whose recitation runs it all to prose;
Repeating what the poet sets not down,
The verb disjoining from its friendly noun,
While pause and break and repetition join
To make a discord in each tuneful line.

Some placid natures fill th' allotted scene
With lifeless drone, insipid, and serene;
While others thunder every couplet o'er,
And almost crack your ears with rant and roar.
More nature oft and finer strokes are shown,
In the low whisper, than tempestuous tone.
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixed amaze,
More powerful terror to the mind conveys,
Than he, who swollen with big, impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom off the stage.

He, who in earnest studies o'er his part,

Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all
In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
A single look more marks th' internal woe,
Than all the windings of the lengthened oh!
Up to the face the quick sensation flies,
And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes:
Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair,
And all the passions, all the soul is there.

MAKERS OF THE FLAG *

This morning, as I passed into the Land Office, The Flag dropped me a most cordial salutation, and from its rippling folds I heard it say: "Good morning, Mr. Flag Maker."

"I beg your pardon, Old Glory," I said, “are n't you mistaken? I am not the President of the United States, nor a member of Congress, nor even a general in the army. I am only a Government clerk."

"I greet you again, Mr. Flag Maker," replied the gay voice, "I know you well. You are the man who worked in the swelter of yesterday straightening out the tangle of that farmer's homestead in Idaho, or perhaps you found the mistake in that Indian contract in Oklahoma, or helped to clear that patent for the hopeful inventor in New York, or pushed the opening of that new ditch in Colorado, or made that mine in Illinois more safe, or brought relief to the old soldier in Wyoming. No matter; whichever one of these beneficent individuals you may happen to be, I give you greeting, Mr. Flag Maker.'

I was about to pass on, when The Flag stopped me with these words:

"Yesterday the President spoke a word that made happier the future of ten million peons in Mexico; but that act looms no larger on the flag than the struggle which the boy in Georgia is making to win the Corn Club prize this

summer.

* Delivered on Flag Day, 1914, before the employees of the Department of the Interior, Washington, D. C., by Franklin K. Lane, Secretary of the Interior.

"Yesterday the Congress spoke a word which will open the door to Alaska; but a mother in Michigan worked from sunrise until far into the night, to give her boy an education. She, too, is making the flag.

"Yesterday we made a new law to prevent financial panics, and yesterday, maybe, a school teacher in Ohio taught his first letters to a boy who will one day write a song that will give cheer to the millions of our race. are all making the flag."

We

"But," I said impatiently, "these people were only working!"

Then came a great shout from The Flag:

"The work that we do is the making of the flag.

"I am not the flag; not at all. I am but its shadow. "I am whatever you make me, nothing more.

"I am your belief in yourself, your dream of what a People may become.

"I live a changing life, a life of moods and passions; of heart breaks and tired muscles.

"Sometimes I am strong with pride, when men do an honest work, fitting the rails together truly.

"Sometimes I droop, for then purpose has gone from me, and cynically I play the coward.

"Sometimes I am loud, garish, and full of that ego that blasts judgment.

"But always, I am all that you hope to be, and have the courage to try for.

"I am song and fear, struggle and panic, and ennobling hope.

"I am the day's work of the weakest man, and the largest dream of the most daring.

"I am the Constitution and the courts, statutes and the statute makers, soldier and dreadnaught, drayman and street sweep, cook, counselor, and clerk.