“No woman yet of our proud race Lived to her fourteenth year unwed; The brazen churl that eyed a girl Bought her the ring or paid his head-- So ninna and anninia! “But once came spies (I know the thieves!) And brought disaster to our race; God heard us when our fifteen men Were hanged within the market-place-- But ninna and anninia! “Good men they were, my babe, and true,-- Right worthy fellows all, and strong; Live thou and be for them and me Avenger of that deadly wrong-- So ninna and anninia!” LITTLE HOMER’S SLATE After dear old grandma died, Hunting through an oaken chest In the attic, we espied What repaid our childish quest; ’Twas a homely little slate, Seemingly of ancient date. On its quaint and battered face Was the picture of a cart, Drawn with all that awkward grace Which betokens childish art; But what meant this legend, pray: “Homer drew this yesterday”? Mother recollected then What the years were fain to hide-- She was but a baby when Little Homer lived and died; Forty years, so mother said, Little Homer had been dead. This one secret through those years Grandma kept from all apart, Hallowed by her lonely tears And the breaking of her heart; While each year that sped away Seemed to her but yesterday. So the homely little slate Grandma’s baby’s fingers pressed, To a memory consecrate, Lieth in the oaken chest, Where, unwilling we should know, Grandma put it, years ago. [Illustration] End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of With Trumpet and Drum, by Eugene Field