JJ^ THE HUMBLER POETS. THE HUMBLER POETS A COLLECTION OF NEWSPAPER AND PERIODICAL VERSE 1870 TO 1885 BY SLASON THOMPSON THIRTEENTH EDITION CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1911 9/1 T47C, COPYRIGHT, BY JANSEN, MCCLURG, & Co. A.D. 1885. EXPLANATORY. IT has been said that "he is no common benefactor who shrewdly gathers from the world's manifold literature its words of finest wit and maturest wis- dom for our entertainment, instruction, and inspiration." But it is not well at all times to partake of the richest dishes or to drink the rarest wines. The finest wit and the maturest wisdom may be read too oft. There come hours to every lover of poetry when he wishes for " some simple and heart-felt lay," something that shall speak from out a mind feeling the e very-day cares of life amid the multitude, and not from the heights to which the masters "proudly stooped." It was this feeling that, some fifteen years ago, led me, a prose-thinker, to begin collecting from newspapers and the ephemeral literature of the day such verses as suited my mood, or which seemed the utterance of a soul that had put its thoughts into song. Upon the fly-leaf of my first scrap-book, surrounded by some now faded natural leaves of oak, maple, bilberry, and Virginia creeper, and two withered sprays of trailing arbutus, I find the misquotation from Lovers Labor J s Lost^ " As though he had been at a feast of languages and stolen the scraps." The succeeding pages show that it was not from a feast of languages, but from the daily board of wayfaring humanity, that such scraps were gleaned. In the course of years, and dur- ing successive changes of residence from the extreme East to San Francisco and back, the collection grew until it contained over a thousand poems. A friend suggested the collocation of the most valuable into some permanent 6 EXPLANATORY. form. My sister, far removed from me as the crow flies, but near in sentiment and appreciation of the songs that "quiet the restless pulse of care," offered the use of her contemporaneous collection for the work. To her I am indebted for some eighty of the more truly poetical pieces included in this volume. Two friends in Chicago placed their collections at my disposal, from which I was able to add some twoscore poems to my store. These inde- pendent sources served a further purpose to establish the character and fairly exhaustive scope of my own collection. Then came the difficult task of selection. My scraps bore no patent of nobility, no royal stamp to show they came from the mint of poetic inspiration. Hundreds of them were without a sign to afford a clew to their parent- age. Where the estimate of time, popular favor, and literary criticism has served as a guide-post to other col- lectors, the very nature of this collection denied it to me; therefore I have been forced to fix an arbitrary standard of my own by which every separate piece was judged. The invariable question has been, " Does this poem or narrative in verse contain anything worth rescuing from oblivion ? " Under this rule it will readily be perceived I could not exact anything like the approach to perfection demanded in a collection making claim to represent the best specimens of English verse. I could not require that each piece should contain what was best worth pre- serving, but only that it should contain something worth preserving at all. The latitude admitted by such a prin- ciple of selection will account for the unevenness of this collection as a whole. Some of the pieces are full-fledged poems, complete in form, spirit, and finish, and undoubt- edly deserve to rank higher up than in The Humbler Poets. Some are mere snatches of song and story "wedded to rhyme," while others are little more than suggestions of beautiful ideas struggling through halting metre and homely jingles. Several are only the rude setting for one or two good lines or happy thoughts. Some of these hedgerow poems contain the germ for others by master hands. Who now can say that Long- fellow did not borrow the thought even some of the very words for his description of the baby, in The EXPLANATORY. 7 Hanging of the Crane, from as lowly a source as My Lost Baby, page 47, when he wrote, u He ruleth by the right divine Of helplessness, so lately born In purple chambers of the morn, As sovereign over thee and thine " ? It may be asked upon what principle I have drawn the line of exclusion from this volume. My answer is that it has been drawn almost arbitrarily along the line of the collected works of the Lesser Poets, as Bret Harte, R. H. Stoddard, Helen Hunt Jackson, Celia Thaxter, Austin Dobson, Frederick Locker, W. W. Story, R. W u Gilder, Mary Mapes Dodge, Theodore Tilton, Joaquin Miller, Louisa M. Alcott, Elizabeth Akers Allen, Paul H. Hayne, William Winter, Harriet Prescott Spofford, Ben- jamin F. Taylor, Lucy Larcom, Ella Wheeler, Louise Chandler Moulton, Dinah Mulock Craik, H. C. Bunner, Mary Clemmer, T. B. Aldrich, J. T. Fields, and others, may without offence be called. It is possible, and even probable, that this volume may contain some fugitives from between the covers of the works of these contributors to the periodical poetry of the day, or even from higher sources. But I have taken what the lawyers would call the reasonable care of a reasonable man to reduce the chances of such a fault. The range of poetry in the Eng- lish tongue is now so vast as to put it beyond the study of a lifetime to possess the memory of everything in it. That my rule has not been lived up to in one or two instances will find excuse, I trust, in the character of the pieces in whose favor the exceptions have been made. The selections credited to Francis W. Bourdillon are notable instances where I have let down the fence to admit poetry that found its way into my scrap-books before the author thought to call it within an enclosure of his own. Less than twenty selections found in the numerous standard collections, which have been consulted indus- triously, have been retained in this. No apology seems necessary for the retention of The Burial of Moses, Tired Mothers, The Blue and the Gray, Our Last 7*oast, Light, and The King's Picture. They fall naturally into the 8 EXPLANATORY. companionship of this volume, and are not generally ac- cessible to a large body of readers of poetry. Rain on the Roof is included for the reason assigned in an accom- panying note. The Water-Mill has been a fugitive without a father so long, that this opportunity was taken to name its author. William Cullen Bryant had the courage to give the Beautiful Snow a place in his Library of Poetry and Song, although denied sanctuary by Dana and other editors. As it appears in this volume the last verse has been restored. Some readers may be interested in comparing it with the Beautiful Snow written by Major Sigourney, who was long credited with the authorship of the more famous poem. As the reader comes to the end of poem after poem in this collection well worthy the pen of a master, but with- out a sign to show whence it came, he must remark the result of one of the most inexcusable faults of modern journalism. Some newspapers make it a rule not to publish the names of their own writers who contribute poetry, while others systematically reprint verses with only the name of the publication from which they are clipped, ignoring the signature appended to the original verse. From the blank spaces at the foot of the un- claimed poems in this volume there rises an appeal to the publishers of newspapers to do a small justice to the minor poets of the English tongue. It says with irre- sistible logic, " If a poem is worth publishing at all, its author is worthy of recognition." Little more remains to be said. It is not pretended that all the selections herein were written within the years mentioned on the titlepage. Indeed, some of them are " old vagrants," and the date of many more it is impossible to fix, for newspaper poetry travels in cycles, the same piece turning up in the same " Poet's Corner" about once in seven years. Unlike standard collections from the best authors, this volume contains a very small percentage of poems to be found elsewhere. It preserves many that would otherwise have perished by the wayside, lost for want of a collector. It is sui generis. Perhaps it may inspire future editions to which a more exacting standard of excellence can be applied. If in its pages there is shown the possession of a dis- EXPLANATORY. 9 criminating judgment regarding the treasures "more golden than gold, 57 irrespective of their lowly source, let it be attributed to an early study of Mr. Francis Turner Palgrave's Golden Treasury, which I regret to say some ill-equipped editor has attempted to gild with modern alloy. If the pleasure I have taken in collecting my scraps here, there, and everywhere, and the labor I have be- stowed in bringing them within the compass of this vol- ume, the doubting judgment respecting some and the regret of rejecting others, if this shall be the means of preserving many of the better fugitive verses of the period ; if to any man or woman, youth or maiden, it shall give a worthy book to take from the shelf when the tasks for the day are all done ; if any shall find herein some familiar but mislaid verse ; if its pages shall recall for- gotten scenes to some and whisper in the ear of "unevent- ful toil " some strains of the music that is everywhere ; if its leaves shall bring a balm of hope, encouragement, and sweet content to some despondent heart ; if its final moral shall teach some frail and weary wight that love, truth, and mirth are unfailing comforters, comrades, friends, I shall be satisfied. S. T. CHICAGO, October t 1885. CONTENTS. PAGE INDEX OF TITLES 13 PART I. OF POETS AND POETRY 23 II. AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK 37 III. FOR CHRISTMAS TIDE 77 IV. UNDER THE OPEN SKY 91 V. LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP .... 123 VI. ECHOES OF THE PAST 167 VII. IN THE TWILIGHT 199 VIII. HOME AND FIRESIDE 217 IX. HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, AND CONTENTMENT . 233 X. LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY . . 277 XI. WITH A STORY TO TELL 329 XII. PARTING AND ABSENCE 355 XIII. TRAGEDY AND SORROW 365 XIV. EVERY-DAY LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 381 XV. WAR AND PEACE 405 XVI. COMEDY, BURLESQUE, PARODY, AND EPITAPH . 421 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 453 INDEX OF TITLES. PAGE Accursed 366 " Across the Lot " C. S. 326 Afeared of a Gal 135 Aftermath, The James Hendry . . . 199 A Girl 's a Girl for A' That 445 Ah! Me 158 All the Same in the End .... Isaac Ross 450 Antony and Cleopatra Gen. W. H. Lytle . . 143 Any One Will Do 431 Ash Pool, The 365 Asking 152 As Pebbles in the Sea 263 Astronomical 437 At Home Bernard Barton . . . 217 At Last 410 At Sea P. W. Bourdillon . . 185 At the Court-House Door 392 At the Loom 285 At the Piano 212 Autumn 112 Baby in Church 70 Baby-Land George Cooper .... 37 Baby Over the Way, The .... Rev. Washington Gladden 61 Baby's Letter 46 Baby's Rattle, A 48 Bald-Headed Tyrant, The .... Mary E. Vandyne . . 43 Bar-Tender's Story, The .... David L. Proudfit . . 397 Bean-Blossoms 100 Beautiful Grandmamma 59 Beautiful Snow James W. Watson . . 371 Beautiful Snow Major Sigourney . .370 Before Sailing 357 Bertie's Philosophy Eva M. Tappan ... 66 Better to Climb and Fall 240 Beyond the Haze 266 "Bide a Wee, and Dinna Fret" . . S. E. G 261 Billy's Rose 330 Bird on the Telegraph Wire, The 96 Birthday Greeting, A M. E. F 162 Blue and the Gray, The Francis Miles Finch . 413 Blue and the Gray, The 412 14 INDEX OP TITLES. PAGE Boat-Horn, The 177 Bottom Drawer, The Mary A. Barr . . . 194 Boys' Rights ........ Carrie May .... 67 Brandy and Soda ....... Hugh Howard . . . 447 Bridge of Life, The 277 Brook Song, A Eugene Field .... 109 Burial of Moses, The ..... Mrs. C. F. Alexander . 310 By and By 241 By the Sea 291 Calumny Mrs. Frances Osgood . 367 Captive Humming-Bird, The . . . Joel T. Hart .... 94 Card Houses 65 Chalcedony Emma Pomeroy Greenough 123 Character and a Question, A 280 Cheerful Heart, The 233 Children's Bedtime, The 55 Children's Music, The P. M. Owen .... 57 Chimes of Old England, The . . . Bishop Coxe .... 294 Chimney Nest, The Mary B. Dodge ... 93 Christmas Bells 82 Christmas Camp on the San Gabr'el Amelia Barr . . . 79 Christmas Outcasts 82 Christmas Shadows 84 Christinas Song, A Mrs. Hattie S. Russell . 78 Christmas Treasures Eugene Field .... 81 Church Steps, The George T. Poster . . 320 Churning Song, The ...... Silas Dinsmore . . . 391 Cigarette Vagary, A Camilla K. von K. . . 421 City Contrasts 382 Cleopatra's Dream J. J. Owens .... 147 Cleopatra's Soliloquy Mary Bayard Clark . 146 Cleopatra to Antony Sarah Doudney . . . 144 Cloud, The 120 Clover, The JamesWhitcomb Riley . 105 Cob House, The Kate Putnam Osgood . 64 Cockney Wail, A 426 "Coming Man," The 41 Compensation 258 Conceit, A Mortimer Collins . . 136 Conquered at Last Maria L. Eve . . . 416 Constant Friend, The E. F. Ware . . . . 160 Content 267 Contentment Will S. Hayes . . . 267 Contentment 266 Conversational 438 Could n't Keep a Secret 126 Countersign was Mary, The . . . Margaret Eytinge . . 407 Court of Berlin, The 351 Creeping Up the Stairs Rev. W. S. McFetridge 57 Curtain Falls, The Joseph Verey . . . . 341 Dan's Wife Mrs. Kate Tannatt Woods 224 Darwinism in the Kitchen 425 Days That Are No More, The 168 Dead in His Bed A. L. Ballou .... 387 Deed and a Word, A Charles Mackay ... 29 Delights of Camp Life 439 Deserted 368 Dolce Far Niente Charles Graham Halpine 161 INDEX OP TITLES. 15 PAGE Do Something Lucy Larcom .... 253 Dreams 175 Drifted out to Sea Rosa Hart-wick Thorpe . 348 Driving Home the Cows .... Kate Putnam Osgood . 405 Duty's Reward 399 Eliab Eliezer James Roann Reed . . 292 Elswitha Mary Barry .... 203 Encore 228 " En Voyage " Caroline A. Mason . . 271 Exiles, The 222 Explanation, An Walter Learned . . . 154 Failure 242 Fairy Faces 78 Fallen Geo. Edgar Montgomery 250 False and True 264 Fate 360 Father John 401 Fifty Years Apart 211 Firelight, In the Eugene Field .... 54 Fisherman Job James Roann Reed . . 330 Flotsam and Jetsam 290 Flower from the Catskills, A . . . E. W. 101 Fool's Prayer, The E. R. Sill 300 Forever 180 For Life and Death 346 Fortune My Foe Alfred P. Graves . . 217 Fred Englehardt's Baby Charles Pollen Adams . 62 French with a Master Theodore Tilton . . . 134 Friend or Foe? F. E. Weatherly . . . 129 Friendship 160 Friendship, Love, and Truth 161 Frivolous Girl, The 153 Gentleman Jim Daniel CPConnell . . 400 Give Me Rest 322 " Give Thanks for What ?" 256 Going Home in the Morning . . . Wayne Douglas . . . 385 Going Softly 271 Golden Side, The 254 Gone 184 "Good-by" Grace Denio Litchfield . 355 Goodest Mother, The 63 Good-Night Hester A. Benedict . . 358 Gran'ma Al'us Does 52 Green Grass under the Snow, The . Annie A. Preston . . 255 Growing Old Margaret E. Sangster . 208 Guilty, or Not Guilty ? 388 Hardest Time of All, The .... Sarah Doudney ... 262 Haunted Chambers 171 Hawthorn 190 Heads, Hearts, and Hands .... George W. Bungay . . 247 Heart's-Ease 103 Heliotrope 104 Her Name 72 Highway Cow, The Eugene J. Hall . . . 440 Hindoo Sceptic, The 303 Hindoo's Death, The George Birdseye . . . 442 Hint, A 44 His Messenger 361 1 6 INDEX OP TITLES. PAGE Home-Coming 218 Home is Where the Heart is 218 Hope Deferred 360 Humming of the Wires, The . . . Edward A. Rand . . 384 Hymn to Santa Rita Aluey A. Adee . . . 154 Ideal Future, An T. A. Harcourt . . . 317 If I Should Die To-night .... Arabella E. Smith . . 309 If We Knew ; or, Blessings of To-day Mrs. May Riley Smith 207 If You Want a Kiss, Why, Take It 423 Improved " Enoch Arden " 443 In a Graveyard 319 In Bay Chaleur Hezekiah Butterworth . 343 In Praise of Wine 421 In Snow-Time 118 In the Hammock 150 Indecision 133 Interrogation Mark (?) P.A.LeH. . . . . 286 Invocation to Poesy, An .... Charles Mackay ... 23 It is Common 32 I Wud Knot Dye in Wintur 427 oy of Incompleteness, The 238 ubilate 158 udge Not 294 Cing's Picture, The Helen B. Bostwick . . 30 King's Ships, The Caroline Spencer . . 322 Kiss in the Rain, A 138 Last and Worst Prances Ekin Allison . 376 Last Arrival, The George W. Cable ... 41 Late October D.M.Jordan, . . . 116 Lavender 192 Lay Me Low 313 Learn to Wait 240 Leedle Yawcob Strauss Charles Pollen Adams . 62 L'Envoy Randolph . . . 136 Lesson in Mythology, A .... Eliza C. Hall .... 434 Life 279 Life 279 Life (A Literary Curiosity) . . . Mrs. H. A. Deming . 283 Life and Death 288 Life or Death E. B . 314 Life's Triumph Thomas S. Collier . . 236 Light F. W. Bourdillon . . 125 Light and Love 129 Like His Mother Used to Make . . James Whitcomb Riley 227 Lily and the Linden, The .... Dr. Pred Crosby . . . 106 Lines by an Old Fogy 437 Lines on a Grasshopper 438 Little Church Round the Corner, The A. E. Lancaster ... 305 Little Conqueror, The 69 Little Goldenhair P. Surge Smith ... 58 Little Peach, The Eugene Field .... 428 Little Phil Mrs. Helen Rich . . 329 Little Stitches 226 Living 289 Lost Babies, The 182 Lost Letter, A Clement Scott .... 378 Lost Sheep, The Sally Pratt McLean . 205 Love and Labor 236 INDEX OP TITLES. 17 PAGE Love and Pity 125 Love of the Past, The 167 Love's Belief 128 Love's Life, A 124 Love's Logic 130 Love's Transfiguration 127 u Lulu " Carrie IV. Thompson . 69 Mad, Mad Muse, The James Whitcomb Riley 445 Magdalena 244 March 444 Mattie's Wants and Wishes 51 Memories 169 Memory 168 Merry Christmas 77 Message of the Rose, The 99 Message of Victory, The .... Augusta Webster . .415 Meteors Anna Ph. Eichberg . 109 Midges in the Sunshine 290 Miller and the Maid, The . . . . F. N. Scott .... 137 Model Church, The John H. Yates ... 299 Moon and Dawn 117 Mother 185 Mother's Blessing, The 202 Music in the Soul 140 My Aim G. Linnceus Banks . . 277 My Cigarette C.F. Lummis . . . 214 My Daughter Louise Homer Greent . . . 356 My Josiar 159 My Lost Baby 47 My Lost Love 186 My Mother's Hands Ellen M. H. Gates . . 221 Narrow House, The 316 Nearing Port C. P. R 321 Near the Dawn 243 Nelly Tells How Baby Came . . . Thomas S. Collier . . 38 Nestlings F. C. A 92 New Baby, The 45 New Magdalen, The R. L. Cary, Jr. ... 345 New Year, A 86 Night and Morning 307 Ninety-Nine in the Shade .... Rossiter Johnson . . 426 Nocturne 24 No Sect in Heaven . . . Mrs. Cecelia Jocelyn Cleveland 296 Nothing at all in the Paper To-day 381 " Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep " 53 October D. M. Jordan ... 115 October 115 Old Deacon's Lament, The . . . Mrs. E. T. Corbett . . 178 Old Fiddling Josey Irwin Russell .... 435 Old Friends 162 Old Rhyme, An 153 Old Song, An 176 Old Time and I Mark Lemon .... 440 One by One 170 Only 356 Only a Baby 39 Only a Bit of Childhood Thrown Away Maud Moore .... 74 Only a Woman Hester A. Benedict . . 370 2 1 8 INDEX OP TITLES. PAGE Only Joe James Roann Reed . . 335 Orchard-Lands of Long Ago, The . J 'antes Whit comb Riley 191 Our Childhood's Home R. S. 172 Our Darling 44 Our Last Toast Bartholomew Dow ling . 409 Our Own Margaret E. Sangster . 223 Outcast, The Mary L. Ritter ... 364 Outcast's Dream, The Olive Bell 336 Outwards or Homewards . . . . F. W. Bourdillon . . 238 Out West 446 "Owed" to My Pocket-Book 430 Pansies Sarah Doudney ... 96 Parson's Comforter, The .... Frederick Langbridge . 323 Parting Coventry Pat more . . 355 Pastor's Reverie, The .... Rev. Washington Gladden 188 Patient 265 Pat's Letter Queerquill 429 Pessimism 251 Phantom of the Rose, The .... Jerome A. Hart ... 98 Plea for "Castles in the Air," A . . Jacob Gough .... 239 Poetic Mystery, The 24 Poetry and the Poor W. Wai sham Stovue . 25 Poker 449 Poor Little Joe 340 Prairie Path, The no Prince of Peace, The 308 Promise 108 Pull-Back, A 433 Query, A 287 Rabbi's Present, The . . 432 Rain 108 Rain in the Heart 256 Rain on the Roof Coates Kinney ... 27 Rain upon the Roof, The .... Mrs. F. B. Gage . . 26 Rainy Day, A 173 Recipe for a Poem 32 Rest 319 Rest 182 Rest at Eventide Thomas D*Arcy Me Gee 312 Rest in the Grave 315 Retribution David L. Proud/it . . 334 Retrospection Garnet B. Freeman . 270 Retrospection 187 Reunited Love R. D. Blackmore . . 131 Right and Wrong 260 Ring's Motto, The 151 Robin 's Come William W. Caldwell . 91 Rocking the Baby Madge Morris . . . 229 Rock of Ages Ella Maud Moore . . 305 Roll-Call N. G. Sh&pard ... 406 Romance, A Eugene Field .... 439 Rosebud's First Ball 68 Rose-Bush, The 97 Sabbath Bells, The 296 Saddened Tramp, A 439 Saddest Fate, The 259 Sad Ventures 359 Satisfied Hester A. Benedict . . 269 INDEX OP TITLES. 19 PAGE Scandal-Mongers 390 Seaside Incident, A ...... Marc Cook 436 Sea's Love, The P. E. Weatherly ... 132 Sermon in a Stocking, The 220 Shadows 284 Silence Lynch .... 238 Silence of Love, The Hamilton Drummond . 157 Sister Madeleine Clare Everest .... 373 Slander 367 Somehow or Other 249 Some Sweet Day Lewis J. Bates . . . 304 Sometime Mrs. May Riley Smith 234 Sometimes Louisa F. Story . . . 163 Song for the Girl I Love, A ... Frederick Langbridge . 156 Song for the Hot Winds, A ... Harriet M. Davidson . 219 Songs in Sleep Rev. Wm. C. Richards 211 'Specially Jim B. M. 433 Stone the Woman, Let the Man Go Free 396 Story of the Gate Harrison Robertson . 149 Such a Duck 431 Summer Picture, A in Telegraph Clerk, The 384 Tete-a-Tete 138 That Amateur Flute 449 That Boy 54 Thine Eyes John F. Ballantyne . 154 This Year Next Year 124 Though Lost to Sight, to Mem'ry Dear 361 Through Life 280 Through Toil A. L. Hinds .... 248 "Time to Me" 248 Tired 204 Tired Mothers Mrs. May Riley Smith 225 Tired Out 272 Told at the Tavern Theo. F. Havens . . 332 To-morrow 348 Too Great a Sacrifice 430 To Thine Own Self be True . . . Pakenham Beatty . . 302 Trailing Arbutus Henry Abbey .... 101 Trout-Brook, The Carl Waring . . . . 119 Trust 393 Turned Out for Rent M. L. S. Burke ... 391 Turning Over the New Leaf 87 Twilight Dreams 200 Twilight Reverie, A 213 Twilight's Hour W. F. E. L . . . . 199 Two 350 Two Men I Know 424 Two Pictures 281 Two Robbers F. W. Bourdillon . . 313 Undowered Harriet McEwen Kimball 157 Unfinished Prayer, The 53 Unfinished Still 174 Unspoken Words 31 Upon the Threshold G. E 85 Vagrant, A Josephine Pollard . . 175 Vanquished Francis F. Browne . 415 20 INDEX OP TITLES. PAGE Violet's Grave, The Vicortari 105 Wabash Violets Earl Marble .... 394 Waiting John Burroughs . . . 255 Waiting 246 Wanderer, The John C. Fremont . . 180 Wanderer, The Eugene Field . . . . 108 Washing-Day 46 Watching for Papa 50 Water-Lily, The Mary Frances Butts . 97 Water-Mill, The Sarah Doudney ... 395 Wedded 140 Welcome, Little Stranger .... Charles Fallen Adams . 39 We Love but Few 156 We Shall be Satisfied S. K. Phillips . ... 325 What Have I Done ? Lillian Blanche Fearing 283 What House to Like 272 What is His Creed ? 301 What Life Hath Sarah Doudney ... 235 What My Lover Said Homer Greene . . . 126 What of That? 260 What They Dreamed and Said . . M . E 108 When My Ship Comes In . . . . Robert J. Burdette . . 237 When the Cows Come Home . . . Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell 205 " When the Frost is on the Punkin " James Whit comb Riley 117 W T hen Will Love Comp ? . . . . Pakenham Beatty . . 123 Where Ignorance is Bliss 153 While We May Susan Coolidge ... 193 Who Gather Gold Andrew B. Saxton . . 290 Who '11 Tend Baby? E. E. 72 Why ? Maud Moore .... 73 Why Drink Wine Dr. Henry Aldrich . . 442 Why Is It So ? 282 Why Truth Goes Naked 422 Winter 113 Winter 113 With the Tide 281 Woman's Complaint, A 210 Woman's Wish, A Mary A. Townsend . 212 Work 261 World and I, The Nelly M. Hutchinson . 268 Yearning 202 Yellow-Hammer's Nest, The . . . John W. Chad-wick . 95 "Yes" R. D. Blackmore . . 130 Yes ? H. C. Bunner ... 141 Yes ! George H. Jessop . . . 142 Zoology 435 PART I. anti If to embody in a breathing "word Tones that the spirit trembled -when it heard; To fix the image all unveiled and warm. And carve in language its ethereal form. So pure ', so perfect, that the lines express No meagre shrinking, no unlaced excess ; To feel that art, in living truth, has. taught Ourselves, reflected in the sculptured thought ; - If this alone bestow the right to claim The deathless garland and the sacred name; Then none are poets, save the saints on high, Whose harps can murmur all that "words deny. So every grace that plastic language knows To nameless poets its perfection owes. The rough-hewn words to simplest thoughts confined Were cut and polished in their nicer mind ; Caught on their edge, imagination's ray Splits into rainbows, shooting far away ; From sense to soul, from soul to sense, it flies, And through all nature links analogies ; He who reads right will rarely look upon A better poet than his lexicon. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES- THE HUMBLER POETS. PART I. anli AN INVOCATION TO POESY. STAY with me, Poesy ! playmate of childhood ! Friend of my manhood ! delight of my youth ! Roamer with me over valley and wildwood, Searching for loveliness, groping for Truth. Stay with me, dwell with me, spirit of Poesy ; Dark were the world if thy bloom should depart ; Glory would cease in the sunlight and starlight, Freshness and courage would fade from my heart. Stay with me, comfort me, now more than ever, When years stealing over me lead me to doubt If men, ay, and women, are all we believed them When we two first wandered the green earth about ! Stay with me, strengthen me, soother, adorner, Lest knowledge, not wisdom, should cumber my brain, And tempt me to sit in the chair of the scorner, And say, with sad Solomon, all things are vain. Stay with me, lend me thy magical mirror, Show me the darkness extinguished in light ; Show me to-day's little triumph of Error Foiled by to-morrow's great triumph of Right I Stay with me, nourish me, robe all creation In colors celestial of amber and blue ; Magnify littleness, glorify commonness, Pull down the false and establish the true. 24 THE HUMBLER POETS. Stay with me, Poesy ! Let me not stagnate I Despairing with fools, or believing with knaves, That men must be either the one or the other, Victors or victims, oppressors or slaves ! Stay with me, cling to me, while there is life in me I Lead me, assist me, direct and control ! Be in the shade what thou wert in the sunshine, Source of true happiness, light of my soul ! Belgravia. CHARLES MACKAY. THE POETIC MYSTERY. (SUGGESTED BY "ALICE IN WONDERLAND.") " POET, sit and sing to me ; Sing of how you make your rhymes, Tweedledum and tweedledee, I have tried it fifty times. When I have a perfect sense, Then I have imperfect sounds ; Vice versa ! Tell me whence You get both, I neither/' " Zounds 1 " Cried the poet, " Don't you see Easy 't is as rolling log, Holding eel or catching flea, Meeting friend or leaving grog I No such matter should annoy, Deep the poet never delves ; Take care of the sense, my boy, And the sounds care for themselves." NOCTURNE. (AN ECHO OF CHOPIN.) "When we seek to explain our musical emotions, we look about for images calculated to excite similar emotions, and strive to convey through these images to others the effect produced by music on ourselves." HAWEIS, Music and Morals. WIND, and the sound of a sea Heard in the night from afar, Spending itself on an unknown shore, Feeling its way o'er an unseen floor Lighted by moon nor star ; OF POETS AND POETRY. 25 Telling a tale to the listening ear Of wounds and woes that the rolling year Hath brought to the human heart ; Telling of passion and innermost pain, Sinking and swooning, and growing again, As the wind and the waves take part ; Lifting a voice to the voiceless skies, Tender entreaties that faint for replies, Pauses of sorrow that pass into sighs Born of a secret despair ; Fluttering back on the clear tide of tone, Gathering in force till the melody 's grown Strong to interpret the accents unknown Haunting the dark fields of air ; Speaking the longings of life, the full soul's Hidden desires in music that rolls Wave-like in search of a shore ; Eddies of harmony, floating around, Widen in circles of lessening sound, Die in the distance, till silence is found And earth redemands us once more. All the Year Round. POETRY AND THE POOR. " THE world is very beautiful ! " I said, As, yesterday, beside the brimming stream, Glad and alone, I watched the tremulous gleam Slant through the wintry wood, green carpeted With moss and fern and curving bramble spray, And bronze the thousand russet margin-reeds, And in the sparkling holly glint and play, And kindle all the brier's flaming seeds. " The world is very horrible ! " I sigh, As, in my wonted ways, to-day I tread Chill streets, deformed with dim monotony, Hiding strange mysteries of unknown dread, The reeking court, the breathless fever-den, The haunts where things unholy throng and brood : Grim crime, the fierce despair of strong-armed men, Child infamy, and shameless womanhood. And men have looked upon this piteous thing, Blank lives unvisited by beauty's spell, And said, " Let be : it is not meet to bring Dreams of sweet freedom to the prison cell ; Sing them no songs of things all bright and fair, Paint them no visions of the glad and free, Lest with purged sights their miseries they see, And through vain longings pass to blank despair." 2 6 THE HUMBLER POETS. O brother, treading ever-darkening ways, O sister, whelmed in ever-deepening care, Would God we might unfold before your gaze Some vision of the pure and true and fair ! Better to know, though sadder things be known, Better to see, though tears half blind the sight, Than thraldom to the sense, and heart of stone, And horrible contentment with the night. Oh, bring we then all sweet and gracious things To touch the lives that lie so chill and drear, That they may dream of some diviner sphere, Whence each soft ray of love and beauty springs I Each good and perfect gift is from above, And there is healing for earth's direst woes ; God hath unsealed the springs of light and love, To make the desert blossom as the rose. The Spectator. W. WALSHAM STOWE, Bishop of Bedford. THE RAIN UPON THE ROOF. LONG ago a poet dreaming, Weaving fancy's warp and woof, Penned a tender, soothing poem On the " Rain upon the Roof." Once I read it, and its beauty Filled my heart with memories sweet ; Days of childhood fluttered round me, Violets sprang beneath my feet. And my gentle, loving mother Spoke again in accents mild, Curbing every wayward passion Of her happy, thoughtless child. Then I heard the swallows twittering Underneath the cabin eaves, And the laughing shout of Willie Up among the maple leaves. Then I blessed the poet's dreaming Blessed his fancy's warp and woof, And I wept o'er memories treasured, As the rain fell on the roof. Years ago I lost the poem, But its sweetness lingered still, As the freshness of the valley Marks where flowed the springtime rill. Lost to reach, but not to feeling ; For the rain-drop never falls OF POETS AND POETRY. 27 O'er my head with pattering music, But it peoples memory's halls With the old familiar faces Loved and treasured long ago, Treasured now as in life's springtime, For no change my heart can know. And I live again my childhood In the home far, far away ; Roam the woodland, orchard, wildwood, With my playmates still at play ; Then my gray hairs press the pillow, Holding all the world aloof, Dreaming sweetly as I listen To the rain upon the roof. Every pattering drop that falleth Seemeth like an angel's tread, Bringing messages of mercy To the weary heart and head. Pleasant thoughts of years departed, Pleasant soothings for to-day, Earnest longings for to-morrow, Hoping for the far away ; For I know each drop that falleth Comes to bless the thirsty earth, Making seed to bud and blossom, Springing all things into birth. As the radiant bow that scattereth All our faithlessness with proof Of a seedtime and a harvest, So the rain upon the roof. MRS. F, B. GAGE. RAIN ON THE ROOF. WHEN the humid shadows hover Over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness Gently weeps in rainy tears, What a joy to press the pillow Of a cottage-chamber bed, And to listen to the patter Of the soft rain overhead ! Every tinkle on the shingles Has an echo in the heart, And a thousand dreamy fancies Into busy being start ; 28 THE HUMBLER POETS. And a thousand recollections Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof. Now in memory comes my mother As she used in years agone, To survey her darling dreamers Ere she left them till the dawn : Oh ! I see her leaning o'er me, As I list to this refrain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. , Then my little seraph sister, With her wings and waving hair, And her bright-eyed cherub brother A serene, angelic pair ! Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur Of the soft rain on the roof. And another comes to thrill me With her eyes* delicious bluej And forget I, gazing on her, That her heart was all untrue : I remember that I loved her As I ne'er may love again, And my heart's quick pulses vibrate To the patter of the rain. There is nought in art's bravuras That can work with such a spell In the spirit's pure deep fountains, Whence the holy passions swell, As that melody of Nature, That subdued, subduing strain, Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. COATES KlNNEY. NOTE. This charming poem was so long a vagrant that its text became very much corrupted until the author furnished a version for publication in which the last verse read as follows : Art hath nought of tone or cadence That can work with such a spell In the soul's mysterious fountains, Whence the tears of rapture well, As that melody of Nature, That subdued, subduing strain, Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. OF POETS AND POETRY. 29 It also contained several minor differences in reading from the original. Where considered improvements, they have been adopted ; but as a poet's first thoughts are often his best thoughts, I have taken the liberty to follow original "copy" where it seemed to chime best with the patter of the rain. I was the more emboldened to do this by the fact that poets are proverbially unsafe revisers of their own work. 1 William Cullen Bryant edited the life out of many of his younger passages, while Tennyson i later days has retouched the spirit and force out of some of his earlier work. A DEED AND A WORD. A LITTLE stream had lost its way Amid the grass and fern ; A passing stranger scooped a well, Where weary men might turn ; He walled it in, and hung with care A ladle at the brink ; He thought not of the deed he did, But judged that all might drink. He passed again, and lo 1 the well. By summer never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, And saved a life beside. A nameless man, amid a crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of hope and love, Unstudied, from the heart ; A whisper on the tumult thrown, A transitory breath It raised a brother from the dust, It saved a soul from death. O germ ! O fount 1 O word of love ! O thought at random cast ! Ye were but little at the first, But mighty at the last, CHARLES MACKAY. 1 Here, on reading the note in manuscript, Mr. Francis F. Browne inter- jected the query, "Is it a fact?" and quoted the following verses from Gamier, as translated by Austin Dobson: " O Poet ! then forbear The loosely-sandalled verse; Choose rather thou to wear The buskin, straight and terse. " Leave to the tyro's hand The limp and shapeless style ; See that thy form demand The labor of the file." 30 THE HUMBLER POETS. THE KING'S PICTURE. THE king from the council chamber Came, weary and sore of heart ; He called to Iliff, the painter, And spoke to him thus apart : I 'm sickened of the faces ignoble, Hypocrites, cowards, and knaves ; I shall shrink in their shrunken measure, Chief slave in a realm of slaves. Paint me a true man's picture, Gracious, and wise, and good, Dowered with the strength of heroes And the beauty of womanhood. It shall hang in my inmost chamber, That, thither when I retire, It may fill my soul with its grandeur, " And warm it with sacred fire." So the artist painted the picture, And it hung in the palace hall ; Never a thing so lovely Had garnished the stately wall. The king, with head uncovered, Gazed on it with rapt delight, Till it suddenly wore strange meaning Baffled his questioning sight. For the form was the supplest courtier's, Perfect in every limb ; But the bearing was that of the henchman Who filled the flagons for him ; The brow was a priest's, who pondered His parchment early and late ; The eye was the wandering minstrel's, Who sang at the palace gate. The lips, half sad and half mirthful, With a fitful trembling grace, Were the very lips of a woman He had kissed in the market-place; But the smiles which her curves transfigured, As a rose with its shimmer of dew, Was the smile of the wife who loved him, Queen Ethelyn, good and true. Then, " Learn, O King," said the artist, " This truth that the picture tells That in every form of the human Some hint of the highest dwells; OP POETS AND POETRY. 31 That, scanning each living temple For the place that the veil is thin, We may gather by beautiful glimpses The form of the God within." HELEN B. BOSTWICK. UNSPOKEN WORDS. THE kindly words that rise within the heart, And thrill it with their sympathetic tone, But die ere spoken, fail to play their part, And claim a merit that is not their own. The kindly word unspoken is a sin, A sin that wraps itself in purest guise, And tells the heart that, doubting, looks within, That not in speech, but thought, the virtue lies. But 't is not so ; another heart may thirst For that kind word, as Hagar in the wild Poor banished Hagar ! prayed a well might burst From out the sand to save her parching child. And loving eyes that cannot see the mind Will watch the unexpected movement of the lips. Ah ! can you let its cutting silence wind Around that heart and scathe it like a whip ? Unspoken words like treasures in a mine Are valueless until we give them birth ; Like unfound gold their hidden beauties shine, Which God has made to bless and gild the earth. How sad 't would be to see the master's hand Strike glorious notes upon a voiceless lute ! But oh, what pain when, at God's own command, A heart-string thrills with kindness, but is mute ! Then hide it not, the music of the soul, Dear sympathy expressed with kindly voice, But let it like a shining river roll To deserts dry to hearts that would rejoice. Oh, let the symphony of kindly words Sound for the poor, the friendless, and the weak, And He will bless you ! He who struck the chords Will strike another when in turn you seek. 32 THE HUMBLER POETS. IT IS COMMON. So are the stars and the arching skies, So are the smiles in the children's eyes : Common the life-giving breath of the spring; So are the songs which the wild birds sing, Blessed be God, they are common. Common the grass in its glowing green ; So is the water's glistening sheen : Common the springs of love and mirth ; So are the holiest gifts of earth. Common the fragrance of rosy June ; So is the generous harvest moon, So are the towering, mighty hills, So are the twittering, trickling rills. Common the beautiful tints of the fall ; So is the sun which is over all : Common the rain, with its pattering feet ; So is the bread which we daily eat, Blessed be God, it is common. So is the sea in its wild unrest, Kissing forever the earth's brown breast ; So is the voice of undying prayer, Evermore piercing the ambient air. So unto all are the " promises " given, So unto all is the hope of heaven : Common the rest from the weary strife ; So is the life which is after life, Blessed be God, it is common. RECIPE FOR A POEM. TAKE for your hero some thoroughbred scamp, Miner, or pilot, or jockey, or tramp, Gambler (of course), drunkard, bully, and cheat, Facile princeps^ in way of deceit ; So fond of the ladies, he 's given to bigamy (Better, perhaps, if you make it polygamy) ; Pepper his talk with the raciest slang, Culled from the haunts of his rude, vulgar gang ; Seasoned with blasphemy lard him with curses ; Serve him up hot in your " dialect " verses Properly dished, he'd excite a sensation, And tickle the taste of our delicate nation. OF POETS AND POETRY. 33 Old Mother English has twaddle enough ; Give us a language that 's ready and tough ! Who cares, just now, for a subject Miltonian? Who is n't bored by a style Addisonian ? Popular heroes must wear shabby clothes ! What if their diction is cumbered with oaths I That 's but a feature of life Occidental, Really, at heart, they are pious and gentle. Think, for example, how solemn and rich is The sermon we gather from dear " Little Breeches " I Is n't it charming that sweet baby talk Of the urchin who " chawed " ere he fairly could walk ? Sure, 't is no wonder bright spirits above Singled him out for their errand of love ! I suppose I 'm a " fogy/' not up to the age, But I can't help recalling an earlier stage, When a real inspiration (divinus afflatus] Could be printed without any saving hiatus ; When humor was decently shrouded in rhyme, As suited the primitive ways of the time, And we all would have blushed had we dreamed of the rules Which are taught us to-day in our " dialect " schools. It may be all right, though I find it all wrong, This queer prostitution of talent and song ; Perhaps, in our market, gold sells at a loss, And the public will pay better prices for dross, Well 1 't were folly to row 'gainst a tide that has turned, And the lesson that 's set us has got to be learned ; But I '11 make one more desperate pull to be free Ere I swallow the brood of that " Heathen Chinee." New York Evening Post. PART II. Sfimong t\yt Eittle f olfe. So every little child f see. With brow and spirit undefiled. And simple faith and frolic glee. Finds still in me another child. J. G. HOLLAND. PART II. 3Hmon0 tfje Eittle f olfc. BABY-LAND. " How many miles to Baby-land?" " Any one can tell ; Up one flight, To the right; Please to ring the bell." w What can you see in Baby-land ? " " Little folks in white Downy heads, Cradle-beds, Faces pure and bright ! " " What do they do in Baby-land ?" " Dream and wake and play, Laugh and crow, Shout and grow ; Jolly times have they ! " What do they say in Baby-land ? " " Why, the oddest things ; Might as well Try to tell What a birdie sings ! " " Who is the Queen of Baby-land ? " Mother, kind and sweet ; And her love, Born above, Guides the little feet." GEORGE COOPER. 38 THE HUMBLER POETS. NELLY TELLS HOW BABY CAME. THERE 's no use of your talking, for mamma told me so, And if there 's any one that does, my mamma ought to know ; For she has been to Europe and seen the Pope at Rome, Though she says that was before I came to live with her at home. You see we had no baby, unless you call me one, And I have grown so big, you know, t would have to be in fun, When I went to see grandma, about two weeks ago, And now we 've one, a little one, that squirms and wiggles so. And mamma says an angel came down from heaven above, And brought this baby to her for her and me to love ; And it 's got the cunningest of feet, as little as can be, And shining eyes and curly hair, and hands you scarce can see. And then it never cries a bit, like some bad babies do ; And papa says it looks like me I don't think so, do you? For I 'm a girl and it 's a boy, and boys I can't endure ; Unless they 're babies like our own, they '11 plague and tease you, sure. But you say the angel did n't come : now you just tell me why ; The Bible says there 's angels in heaven, and that 's up in the sky; And Christ loves little babies, and God made everything, And if the angels didn't, who did our baby bring ? You can't tell : no, I guess you can't, but mamma ought to know, For it 's her baby hers and purs and mamma told me so ; And they don't make any cunning things like him on earth, you see, For no wax doll, with real hair, is half so nice as he. I know an angel brought him, and I think one brought me too ; Though I don't just now remember, and so can't tell, can you ? But mamma knows; and this I know, the baby was n't home When I went away, and now he is. If you want to see him, come. For mamma says if I am good I can kiss him every day, And we '11 kiss him now, and then go out and have a nice long play; And if anybody asks you how babies come and go, Why, tell them it 's the angels, for mamma told me so. THOMAS S. COLLIER* AMONG THE LITTLE POLK. 39 WELCOME, LITTLE STRANGER. (Bv A DISPLACED THREE-YEAR-OLD.) MOZZER bought a baby, 'Ittle bitsey sing ; Sinks I mos' could put him Frou my yubber ying. Ain't he awful ugly ? Ain't he awful pink ? " Just come down from heaven " Yat 's a fib, I sink. Doctor tol' anozzer Great big awful lie ; Nose ain't out o' joint, zen, Yat ain't why I cry. Mamma stays up in bedroom Guess he makes her sick. Frow him in the gutter, Beat him wiz a stick. Cuddle him and love him ! Call him " Blessed sing " I Don't care if my kite ain't Got a bit of string ! Send me off with Bridget Every single day, " Be a good boy, Charley, Run away and play." Said " I ought to love him " I No, I won't I no zur ! Nassy cryin' baby, Not got any hair. Got all my nice kisses, Got my place in bed, Mean to take my drumsticks And beat him on the head. CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. ONLY A BABY. (To A LITTLE ONE JUST A WEEK OLD.) ONLY a baby 'Thout any hair, 'Cept just a little Fuzz here and there. 40 THE HUMBLER POETS. Only a baby, Name you have none, Barefooted and dimpled, Sweet little one. Only a baby, Teeth none at all ; What are you good for, Only to squall ? Only a baby, Just a week old ; What are you here for, You little scold ? BABY'S REPLY. Only a baby I Whatsoodlbe? Lots o' big folks Been little like me. Ain't dot any hair ? 'Es I have, too ; S'pos'n'Ihadn't, Dess it tood drow. Not any teeth Would n't have one ; Don't dit my dinner Gnawin' a bone. What am I here for ? 'At 's petty mean ; Who 's dot a better right 'T ever you 've seen ? What am I dood for, Did you say ? Eber so many sings Ebery day. Tourse I squall at times, Sometimes I bawl ; Zey dassn't spant me, Taus I 'm so small. AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 41 Only a baby ! 'Es, sir, 'at 's so ; 'N* if you only tood, You M be one, too. 'At 's all I 've to say, You 're mos' too old ; Dess I '11 det into bed, Toes dettin' cold. THE LAST ARRIVAL. THERE came to port last Sunday night The queerest little craft, Without an inch of rigging on ; I looked and looked and laughed I It seemed so curious that she Should cross the unknown water And moor herself within my room My daughter 1 oh, my daughter 1 Yet by these presents witness all She 's welcome fifty times, And comes consigned in hope and love And common-metre rhymes. She has no manifest but this ; No flag floats o'er the water ; She 's rather new for our marine My daughter 1 oh, my daughter I Ring out, wild bells, and tame ones too ! Ring out the lover's moon ! Ring in the little worsted socks ! Ring in the bib and spoon ! Ring out the muse ! Ring in the nurse ! Ring in the milk and water ! Away with paper, pen, and ink I My daughter I oh, my daughter 1 GEORGE W. CABLE. THE "COMING MAN." A PAIR of very chubby legs Encased in scarlet hose ; A pair of little stubby boots With rather doubtful toesj 42 THE HUMBLER POETS. A little kilt, a little coat, Cut as a mother can, And lo ! before us strides in state The Future's " coming man." His eyes, perchance, will read the stars, And search their unknown ways ; Perchance the human heart and soul Will open to their gaze ; Perchance their keen and flashing glance Will be a nation's light, Those eyes that now are wistful bent On some " big fellow's " kite. That brow where mighty thought will dwell In solemn, secret state ; Where fierce ambition's restless strength Shall war with future fate ; Where science from now hidden caves New treasures shall outpour, 'T is knit now with a troubled doubt, Are two, or three cents, more ? Those lips that, in the coming years, Will plead, or pray, or teach ; Whose whispered words, on lightning flash, From world to world may reach ; That, sternly grave, may speak command, Or, smiling, win control, Are coaxing now for gingerbread With all a baby's soul ! Those hands those little busy hands So sticky, small, and brown, Those hands, whose only mission seems To pull all order down, Who knows what hidden strength may lie Within their future grasp, Though now 't is but a taffy-stick In sturdy hold they clasp ? Ah, blessings on those little hands, Whose work is yet undone ! And blessings on those little feet, Whose race is yet un-run ! And blessings on the little brain That has not learned to plan ! Whate'er the Future hold in store, God bless the " coming man " 1 AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 43 THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT OH ! the quietest home on earth had I, No thought of trouble, no hint of care ; Like a dream of pleasure the days flew by, And peace had folded her pinions there. But one day there joined in our household band A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. Oh the despot came in the dead of night, And no one ventured to ask him why ; Like slaves we trembled before his might. Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry ; For never a soul could his power withstand, That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. He ordered us here, and he sent us there, Though never a word could his small lips speak, With his toothless gums and his vacant stare, And his helpless limbs so frail and weak ; Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, " Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's-land 1 " But his abject slaves they turned on me ; Like the bears in Scripture they 'd rend me there, The while they worshipped on bended knee The ruthless wretch with the missing hair ; For he rules them all with relentless hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. Then I searched for help in every clime, For peace had fled from my dwelling now, Till I finally thought of old Father Time, And now before him I made my bow : " Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land ? " Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, And a smile came over his features grim : " I '11 take the tyrant under my care ; Watch what my hour-glass does for him. The veriest humbug that ever was planned Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land ! " Old Time is doing his work full well : Much less of might does the tyrant wield ; But, ah ! with sorrow my heart will swell And sad tears fall as I see him yield. Could I stay the touch of that shrivelled hand, I would keep the bald-head from No-man's-land. 44 THE HUMBLER POETS. For the loss of peace I have ceased to care ; Like other vassals I 've learned, forsooth, To love the wretch who forgot his hair And hurried along without a tooth ; And he rules me too with his tiny hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. MARY E. VANDYNE. A HINT. OUR Daisy lay down In her little nightgown, And kissed me again and again, On forehead and cheek, On lips that would speak, But found themselves shut to their gain. Then foolish, absurd, To utter a word, I asked her the question so old, That wife and that lover Ask over and over, As if they were surer when told. There, close at her side, " Do you love me ? " I cried ; She lifted her golden-crowned head, A puzzled surprise Shone in her gray eyes " Why, that 's why I kiss you 1 " she said. OUR DARLING. BOUNDING like a football, Kicking at the door ; Falling from the table-top, Sprawling on the floor ; Smashing cups and saucers, Splitting dolly's head ; Putting little pussy cat Into baby's bed ; Building shops and houses, Spoiling father's hat ; Hiding mother's precious keys Underneath the mat ; AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 45 Jumping on the fender, Poking at the fire ; Dancing on his little legs,- Legs that never tire ; Making mother's heart leap Fifty times a day ; Aping everything we do, Every word we say ; Shouting, laughing, tumbling, Roaring with a will, Anywhere and everywhere, Never, never still ; Present bringing sunshine ; Absent leaving night ; That 's our precious darling, That 's our heart's delight THE NEW BABY. I 'SE a poor little sorrowful baby, For Bidget is way down tairs, The titten has statched my finder, And dolly won't say her payers. Ain't seen my bootiful mamma Since ever so long adoe, And I ain't her tunningest baby No longer, for Bidget says so. My mamma 's dot a new baby ; Dod dived it, he did, yesterday ; And it kies, and it kies, so defful, I wish he would tate it away. Don't want no sweet little sister, I want my dood mamma, I do, I want her to tis me, and tis me, And tall me her pessus Lulu. Oh, here turns nurse wis the baby I It sees me yite out of its eyes ; I dess we will keep it, and dive it Some tandy whenever it kies ; I dess I will dive it my dolly To play wis 'most every day ; And I dess, I dess say, Bidget, Ask Dod not to tate it away. 46 THE HUMBLER POETS. WASHING-DAY. WHILE mother is tending baby We '11 help her all we can ; For I 'm her little toddlekins, And you 're her little man. And Nell will bring the basket, For she 's the biggest daughter, And I '11 keep rubbing, rubbing, And you '11 pour in the water. And now we '11 have to hurry, Because it 's getting late ; Poor dolly is n't dressed yet, But dolly '11 have to wait. I '11 pour, and you can rub 'em, Whichever you had rather ; But seems to me, if I keep on, We '11 get a quicker lather. Maybe when mother sees us Taking so much troubles, She '11 let us put our pipes in And blow it full of bubbles. But now we '11 have to hurry, Because it 's getting late; And dolly is n't dressed yet, But dolly '11 have to wait. Hearth and Home. BABY'S LETTER. DEAR ole untie, I dot oor letter : My ole mammy, she ditten better. She every day little bit stronger, Don't mean to be sick berry much longer. Daddy 's so fat, can't hardly stagger ; Mammy says he jinks too much lager. Dear little baby had a bad colic, Had to take tree drops nassy paleygolic. Toot a dose of tatnip, felt worse as ever. Sha'n't take no more tatnip, never 1 Wind on stomit, felt pooty bad, Worse fit of sickness ever I had I Ever had belly-ate, ole untie Bill ? ^ 'T ain't no fun now, say what oo will. I used to sleep all day and cry all night ; Don't do so now, 'cause 't ain't yite. AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 47 But I 'm growin', gettin' pooty fat, Gains 'most two pounds, only tink o' datl Little flannen blankets was too big before, Nurse can't pin me in 'em no more. Skirts so small, baby so stout, Had to let the plaits in 'em all out. Got a head of hair jes' as black as nite; And big boo eyes, yat ook mighty bite. My mammy says, never did see Any ozzer baby half as sweet as me. Grandma comes often, Aunt Sarah too ; Baby loves yem, baby loves oo. Baby sends a pooty kiss to his unties all, Aunties and cousins, big folks and small. Can't yite no more, so dood-by, Bully ole untie with a glass eye. MY LOST BABY. COMES little Maud and stands by my knee, Her soft eyes filled with a troubled joy ; And her wondering heart is perplexed to sec Her babyhood lost in our baby boy. For Maud was a babe but a week ago, A gentle, lovable, clinging thing ; Now we are saddened but pleased to know The queen is dethroned and there reigns a king, A tiny king, with a cheek like down ; With dark, indefinite-colored eyes ; With hair of the softest satiny brown ; Who doubles his fists and hiccoughs and cries ; Who groans, grimaces, and paws the air, And twists his mouth in a meaningless smile ; Who fixes his eyes in a winkless stare, And seems in the deepest thought the while ; A wee small king with a comical face, Whom one moment we laugh at, the next caress ; A little monarch who holds his place By the wondrous might of his helplessness. THE HUMBLER POETS. Come hither, my Maud, with your wistful eyes ; Come hither, I '11 lay the small tyrant down ; I '11 gather you up in a glad surprise, And press to my bosom your head of brown. Nestle down close to your mother's breast, Poor little babe of a week gone by ; Find for a moment a haven of rest, Clasping my neck with a satisfied sigh. Alas ! I have lost her, she is no more The baby girl that I loved to press Close to my heart ; she 's a woman before This animate atom of helplessness. My heart is sad for my girl to-day ; In a moment babyhood's privileged years Have passed from her life forever away, We see them vanish through misty tears. Farewell, sweet babe of a week agone ! Thou hast reached the land of the nevermore, And Maud's little feet are standing on The perilous heights of childhood's shore. A BABY'S RATTLE. i. ONLY a baby's rattle, And yet if you offered me gold More than my heart could dream of, Or jewels my hand could hold, For that worthless toy, I should answer, You cannot buy the tears Of love and joy, the remembrance Of all that it means for all years. The old associations Of the years that have waned and fled Lie there with the childish token That was clasped by a hand that is dead. And beyond all earthly treasures That prowess or brain could win, I prize that worn old plaything For the memories shrined therein. AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 49 There may be hope in the future With its dreams too bright to last, But they lack the consecration That clings round thoughts of the past. II. She came when the May-time scattered May-buds upon holt and lea : And the glint of the sunshine seemed sweeter. And a new song was sung by the sea. T was a page from the book of Creation, With an imprint I knew was divine, And I felt the infinite yearning For the new life sprung from mine. Ah me ! how we loved our blossom ! And it scarce seems days ago That she crowed and laughed in the summer, And faded in winter snow. It seems like a vision remembered Of a death in unrestful sleep, When fearsome thoughts come upon you As storms brood over the deep. And whenever I hear the laughter That rings from a child at play, I think of our dear dead snowdrop, And it seems but yesterday. III. The May-time had changed to summer, And the roses of autumn come, The birds sung blithe in the branches, But blither the birdie at home. The cynic may sneer at the feeling, For a cold, hard creed is rife ; But I know that my love for my darling Was my purest thought in life. She grew with the summer's fruitage, But in warm autumnal days, She faded, it seemed like the leaflets That strewed the woodland ways. 4 50 THE HUMBLER POETS. It was hard to mark, and still harder To think that the hopes we kept Must be buried away with old fancies, And dreams that in silence slept. Were we never to see her joyous In childhood's innocent play ? Ah, no ! she was called, and left us And it seems but yesterday. IV. At last how well I remember The long and lingering night, When we watched by the tiny cradle Till the morning's earliest light ; And then when the desolate morning Shone cold through the winter bars, Lo ! God had taken our snowdrop To blossom beyond the stars. It was hard to bow in submission When we thought of the vacant place, And there within the cradle The white little baby face. Only one thought could comfort, The echo of words divine, That, tender as any mother, By the waters of Palestine, He spake, who bade the children Draw near on the sacred sod, When he stretched out hands of blessing, - "Of such is the kingdom of God." WATCHING FOR PAPA. SHE always stood upon the steps Just by the cottage door, Waiting to kiss me when I came Each night home from the store. Her eyes were like two glorious stars, Dancing in heaven's own blue " Papa," she 'd call like a wee bird, " I's looten out for oo / " AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 51 Alas ! how sadly do our lives Change as we onward roam ! For now no birdie voice calls out To bid me welcome home. No little hands stretched out for me, No blue eyes dancing bright, No baby face peeps from the door When I come home at night. And yet there 's comfort in the thought That when life's toil is o'er, And passing through the sable flood I gain the brighter shore, My little angel at the gate, With eyes divinely blue, Will call with birdie voice, " Papa, f's looten out for oo I " MATTIE'S WANTS AND WISHES. I WANTS a piece of talito To make my doll a dress ; I does n't want a big piece A yard '11 do, I guess. I wish you 'd fred my needle, And find my fimble, too I has such heaps o' sowin', I don't know what to do. My Hepsy tored her apron A tum'lin' down the stair ; And Caesar 's lost his pantaloons, And needs anozzer pair. I wants my Maud a bonnet, She has n't none at all ; And Fred must have a jacket, His uzzer one 's too small. I wants to go to grandma's, You promised me I might ; I know she '11 like to see me I wants to go to-night. She lets me wash the dishes, And see in grandpa's watch Wish I 'd free, four pennies, To buy some butter-scotch. 52 THE HUMBLER POETS. I wants some newer mittens, I wish you 'd knit me some, 'Cause 'most my fingers freezes, They leak so in the fum. I wored it out last summer A-pullin' George's sled ; I wish you would n't laugh so It hurts me in my head. I wish I had a cooky I 'm hungry 's I can be ; If you has n't pretty large ones, You 'd better bring me free. GRAN'MA AL'US DOES. I WANTS to mend my wagon, And has to have some nails ; Just two, free will be plenty; We 're goin' to haul our rails. The splendidest cob fences We 're makin' ever was ! I wis' you 'd help us find 'em Gran'ma al'us does. My horse's name is " Betsey ; " She jumped and broke her head, I put her in the stable And fed her milk and bread ; The stable 's in the parlor, We didn't make no muss ; I wis' you 'd let it stay there Gran'ma al'us does. I 's goin 1 to the cornfield To ride on Charlie's plough, I spect he 'd like to have me I wants to go right now. Oh, won't I " gee-up " awful, And " whoa " like Charlie whoas I I wis' you would n't bozzer Gran'ma never does. I wants some bread and butter, I 's hungry worstest kind ; But Freddy must n't have none 'Cause he would n't mind. Put plenty of sugar on it ; I '11 tell you what I knows : It 's right to put on sugar Gran'ma al'us does. AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 53 THE UNFINISHED PRAYER. " Now I lay," repeat it, darling. " Lay me," lisped the tiny lips Of my daughter, kneeling, bending O'er her folded finger-tips. " Down to sleep " " To sleep," she murmured, And the curly head bent low ; " I pray the Lord," I gently added ; You can say it all, I know. u Pray the Lord" the sound came faintly, Fainter still " My soul to keep ; * Then the tired head fairly nodded, And the child was fast asleep. But the dewy eyes half opened When I clasped her to my breast, And the dear voice softly whispered, " Mamma, God knows all the rest" Oh, the trusting, sweet confiding Of the child heart ! Would that I Thus might trust my Heavenly Father, He who hears my feeblest cry. "NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP." GOLDEN head so lowly bending, Little feet so white and bare, Dewy eyes, half shut, half opened, Lisping out her evening prayer. Well she knows when she is saying, " Now I lay me down to sleep," 'T is to God that she is praying, Praying him her soul to keep. Half asleep, and murmuring faintly, " If I should die before I wake," Tiny fingers clasped so saintly, " I pray the Lord my soul to take." 54 THE HUMBLER POETS. Oh the rapture, sweet, unbroken, Of the soul who wrote that prayer ! Children's myriad voices floating Up to heaven record it there. If, of all that has been written, I could choose what might be mine, It should be that child's petition, Rising to the throne divine. IN THE FIRELIGHT. THE fire upon the hearth is low, And there is stillness everywhere ; Like troubled spirits, here and there The firelight shadows fluttering go. And as the shadows round me creep, A childish treble breaks the gloom, And softly from a further room Comes : " Now I lay me down to sleep." And, somehow, with that little prayer And that sweet treble in my ears, My thought goes back to distant years, And lingers with a dear one there ; And as I hear the child's amen, My mother's faith comes back to me, Crouched at her side I seem to be, And mother holds my hands again. Oh for an hour in that dear place ! Oh for the peace of that dear time ! Oh for that childish trust sublime ! Oh, for a glimpse of mother's face ! Yet, as the shadows round me creep, I do not seem to be alone, Sweet magic of that treble tone And " Now I lay me down to sleep ! " EUGENE FIELD. THAT BOY. Is the house turned topsy-turvy ? Does it ring from street to roof ? Will the racket still continue, Spite of all your mild reproof ? Are you often in a flutter ? Are you sometimes thrilled with joy ^ Then I have my grave suspicions That you have at home that Boy. AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 55 Are your walls and tables hammered ? Are your nerves and ink upset ? Have two eyes, so bright and roguish, Made you every care forget ? Have your garden beds a prowler Who delights but to destroy ? These are well-known indications That you have at home that Boy. Have you seen him playing circus With his head upon the mat, And his heels in mid-air twinkling For his audience, the cat? Do you ever stop to listen, When his merry pranks annoy, Listen to a voice that whispers, You were once just like that Boy ? Have you heard of broken windows, And with nobody to blame ? Have you seen a trousered urchin Quite unconscious of the same ? Do you love a teasing mixture Of perplexity and joy ? You may have a dozen daughters, But I know you 've got that Boy. THE CHILDREN'S BEDTIME. THE clock strikes seven in the hall, The curfew of the children's day, That calls each little pattering foot From dance and song and livelong play; Their day, that in our wider light Floats like a silver day-moon white, Nor in our darkness sinks to rest, But sinks within a golden west. Ah, tender hour that sends a drift Of children's kisses through the house, And cuckoo-notes of sweet " Good-night," And thoughts of home and heaven arouse ; And a soft stir of sense and heart, As when the bee and blossom part; And little feet that patter slower, Like the last droppings of the shower. 56 THE HUMBLER POETS. And in the children's rooms aloft What blossom shapes do gayly slip Their dainty sheaths, and rosy run From clasping hand and kissing lip. A naked sweetness to the eye Blossom and babe and butterfly In witching one so dear a sight I An ecstasy of life and light. And, ah, what lovely witcheries Bestrew the floor, an empty sock, By vanished dance and song left loose As dead bird's throat ; a tiny smock That, sure, upon some meadow grew, And drank the heaven-sweet rains ; a shoe Scarce bigger than an acorn-cup ; Frocks that seem flowery meads cut up. Then lily-drest in angel-white To mother's knee they trooping come ; The soft palms fold like kissing shells, And they and we go shining home, Their bright heads bowed and worshipping As though some glory of the spring, Some daffodil that mocks the day, Should fold his golden palms and pray. And gates of Paradise swing wide A moment's space in soft accord, And those dread angels, Life and Death. A moment veil the flaming sword, As o'er the weary world forlorn From Eden's secret heart is borne That breath of Paradise most fair, Which mothers call the " children's prayer." Ah, deep, pathetic mystery ! The world's great woe unconscious hung, A rain-drop on a blossom's lip, White innocence that woos our wrong, And love divine that looks again, Unconscious of the cross and pain, From sweet child-eyes, and in that child Sad earth and heaven reconciled. Then, kissed, on beds we lay them down, As fragrant-white as clover's sod ; And all the upper floors grow hushed With children's sleep, and dews of God. And as our stars their beams do hide, The stars of twilight, opening wide, Take up the heavenly tale at even, And light us on to God and heaven. AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 57 THE CHILDREN'S MUSIC. WE asked where the magic came from That made her so wondrous fair, As she stood with the sunlight touching Her gloss of golden hair. And her blue eyes looked toward heaven As though they could see God there. " Hush ! " said the child, " can't you hear it, The music that 's everywhere ? " God help us ! we could not hear it, Our hearts were heavy with pain ; We heard men toiling and wrangling. We heard the whole world complain ; And the sound of a mocking laughter We heard again and again, But we lost all faith in the music, We had listened so long in vain. " Can't you hear it ? " the young child whispered, And sadly we answered, " No. We might have fancied we heard it In the days of long ago ; But the music is all a delusion, Our reason has told us so, And you will forget that you heard it, When you know the sound of woe." Then one spoke put from among us Who had nothing left to fear ; Who had given his life for others, And been repaid with a sneer. And his face was lit with a glory, And his voice was calm and clear ; And he said, " I can hear the music Which the little children hear." F. M. OWEN. CREEPING UP THE STAIRS. IN the soft falling twilight Of a weary, weary day, With a quiet step I entered Where the children were at play ; I was brooding o'er some trouble Which had met me unawares, When a little voice came ringing : " Me is creeping up the stairs." 58 THE HUMBLER POETS. Ah, it touched the tenderest heart-strings With a breath and force divine, And such melodies awakened, As no wording can define. And I turned to see our darling, All forgetful of my cares, When I saw the little creature Slowly creeping up the stairs. Step by step she slowly clambered On her little hands and knees, Keeping up a constant chatter, Like a magpie in the trees, Till at last she reached the topmost, When, o'er all her world's affairs, She, delighted, stood a victor After creeping up the stairs. Fainting heart, behold an image Of man's brief and struggling life, Whose best prizes must be captured With a noble, earnest strife ; Onward, upward, reaching ever, Bending to the weight of cares, Hoping, fearing, still expecting, We go creeping up the stairs. On their steps may be no carpet, By their side may be no rail, Hands and knees may often pain us And the heart may almost fail ; Still above there is the glory Which no sinfulness impairs, With its rest and joy forever, After creeping up the stairs. Burlington Hawkeye. REV. W. S. McFETRiDGE, LITTLE GOLDENHAIR. GOLDENHAIR climbed upon grandpapa's knee! Dear little Goldenhair ! tired was she All the day busy as busy could be 1 Up in the morning as soon as 't was light Up with the birds and butterflies bright, Skipping about till the coming of night. Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head ; *' What has my darling been doing ? " he said, " Since she rose, with the sun, from her bed ? " AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 59 " Pitty much ! " answered the sweet little one ; " I cannot tell so much things I have done: Played with my dolly and feeded my bun. " And then I jumped with my little jump-rope, And I made bubbles out of some water and soap Bootiful worlds ! mamma's castles of hope 1 " I afterwards readed in my picture-book ; And Bella and I we went out to look For the smooth little fishes by the side of the brook. " And then I came home and eated my tea, And climbed up on grandpapa's knee ; And I jes as tired as tired can be I " Lower and lower the little head pressed, Until it had dropped upon grandpapa's breast 1 Dear little Goldenhair! sweet be thy rest ! We are but children ; the things that we do Are as sports of a babe to the Infinite view, That marks all our weakness, and pities it, too. God grant that when night overshadows our way, And we shall be called to account for our day, He shall find us as guileless as Goldenhair lay 1 And oh ! when aweary, may we be so blest As to sink like the innocent child to our rest, And to feel ourselves clasped to the Infinite breast ! F. BURGE SMITH. BEAUTIFUL GRANDMAMMA. GRANDMAMMA sits in her quaint arm-chair, Never was lady more sweet and fair ! Her gray locks ripple like silver shells, And her brow its own calm story tells Of a gentle life and a peaceful even, A trust in God and a hope in heaven ! Little girl Mary sits rocking away In her own low seat, like some winsome fay; Two dolly babies her kisses share, And another one lies by the side of her chair- Mary is fair as the morning dew Cheeks of roses and ribbons of blue 1 60 THE HUMBLER POETS. " Say, grandmamma," says the pretty elf, " Tell me a story about yourself. When you were little what did you play ? Was you good or naughty, the whole long day ? Was it hundreds and hundreds of years ago ? And what makes your soft hair as white as snow ? " Did you have a mamma to hug and kiss? And a dolly like this, and this, and this ? Did you have a pussy like my little Kate ? Did you go to bed when the clock struck eight? Did you have long curls and beads like mine ? And a new silk apron, with ribbons fine ? " Grandmamma smiled at the little maid, And laying aside her knitting, she said: " Go to my desk and a red box you '11 see ; Carefully lift it and bring it to me." So Mary put her dollies away and ran, Saying, " I '11 be as careful as ever I can." Then grandmamma opened the box : and lo 1 A beautiful child with throat like snow, Lips just tinted like pink shells rare, Eyes of hazel and golden hair, Hands all dimpled, and teeth like pearls Fairest and sweetest of little girls 1 " Oh, who is it ? " cried winsome May ; " How I wish she was here to-day ! Would n't I love her like everything, And give her my new carnelian ring ! Say, dear grandmamma, who can she be ? " " Darling," said grandmamma, " that child was me 1 " May looked long at the dimpled grace, And then at the saint-like, fair old face. " How funny ! " she cried, with a smile and a kiss, " To have such a dear little grandma as this I Still," she added, with a smiling zest, " I think, dear grandma, I like you best I " So May climbed on the silken knee, And grandma told her her history What plays she played, what toys she had, How at times she was naughty, or good, of sad. " But the best thing you did," said May, " don't you see? Was to grow a beautiful grandma for 'me 1 " AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 6 1 THE BABY OVER THE WAY. ACROSS in my neighbor's window, With its drapings of satin and lace, I see, 'neath a crown of ringlets, A baby's innocent face. His feet in their wee red slippers Are tapping the polished glass, And the crowd in the street look upward, And nod and smile as they pass. Just here in my cottage window, In the rays of the noonday sun, With a patch on his faded apron, Stands my own little one. His face is as pure and handsome As the baby's over the way, And he keeps my heart from breaking At my toiling every day. Sometimes when the day is ended, And I sit in the dusk to rest, With the face of my sleepy darling Hugged close to my lonely breast, I pray that my neighbor's baby May not catch heaven's roses, all ; But that some may crown the forehead Of my loved one as they fall. And when I draw the stockings From his little tired feet, And kiss the rosy dimples In his limbs so round and sweet, I think of the dainty garments Some little children wear, And frown that my God withholds them From mine, so pure and fair. May God forgive my envy, I knew not what I said ; My heart is crushed and humbled : My neighbor's boy is dead. I saw the little coffin As they carried it out to-day ; A mother's heart is breaking In the mansion over the way. The light is fair in my window, The blossoms bloom at my door ; My boy is chasing the sunbeams That dance on the cottage floor; 62 THE HUMBLER POETS. The roses of health are blushing On my darling's cheek to-day ; But baby \sgone from the window Of the house that 's over the way. REV. WASHINGTON GLADDEN. FRED ENGLEHARDT'S BABY. DRU as I leev, most efry day I laugh me wild to saw der way My schmall young baby dries to play Dot funny leetle baby. When I look of dem leetle toes, Und saw dot funny leetle nose, Und hear der way dot rooster crows I schmile like I vas grazy. Sometimes der comes a leetle shquall, Dots ven der vindy vind does crawl Right in his leetle shtomach schmall Dot 's too bad for der baby. Dot makes him sing at night so shweet, Und gorryparric he must eat, Und I must chump shpry on my feet To help dot leetle baby. He bulls my nose und kicks my hair, Und crawls me ofer everywhere, Und schlobber me but what I care ? Dot vas my schmall young baby. Around my head dot leetle arm Vas shquozh me all so nice und warm. Oh, may dere never come some harm To dot schmall leetle baby. CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS. I HAF a vunny leedle poy Vat gomes schust to my knee ; Der queerest schap, der greatest rogue As efer you did see. He runs und jumps und smashes dings In all parts of der house, But what of dot ? He vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 63 He get der measles und der mumbs, Und eferyding dot 's out ; He spills mine glass of lager beer, Puts schnuff into mine kraut ; He fills mine pipe with Limburg cheese Dot vas der roughest chouse ; I 'd dake dot from no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss. He dakes der milkpan for a drum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo, To make der shticks to beat it mit Mine cracious, dot vas drue ! I dinks mine head vas schplit abart, He kicks up such a touse, But nefer mind, der poys vas few Like dot schmall Yawcob Strauss. He asks me questions sooch as dese ; Who baints mine nose so red ? Who vas it cut dot schmoot blace oudt Vrom der hair upon my head ? Und vere der plaze goes vrom der lamp Vene'er der glim I douse ? How gan I all dese tings eggsblain To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ? I somedimes dink I schall go vild Mid sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest Und beaseful dimes enshoy ; But ven he vas aschleep in bed, So quiet as a mouse, I brays der Lord, " Dake anydings, But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss/' Indianapolis Sentinel. CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. THE GOODEST MOTHER. EVENING was falling, cold and dark, And people hurried along the way As if they were longing soon to mark Their own home candle's cheering ray. Before me toiled in the whirling wind A woman with bundles great and small, And after her tugged, a step behind, The Bundle she loved the best of all. 64 THE HUMBLER POETS. A dear little roily-poly boy With rosy cheeks, and a jacket blue, Laughing and chattering full of joy, And here 's what he said I tell you true : " You 're the goodest mother that ever was." A voice as clear as a forest bird's ; And I 'm sure the glad young heart had cause To utter the sweet of the lovely words. Perhaps the woman had worked all day Washing or scrubbing ; perhaps she sewed ; I knew, by her weary footfall's way, That life for her was an uphill road. But here was a comfort. Children dear, Think what a comfort you might give To the very best friend you can have here, The lady fair in whose house you live, If once in a while you *d stop and say, In task or play for a moment pause, And tell her in sweet and winning way, " You 're the GOODEST mother that ever was." THE COB HOUSE. WILLY and Charley, eight and ten, Were under the porch in the noonday heat ; I could see and hear the little men, Unseen, myself, in the window-seat. Will on a cob house was hard at work, With a zeal that was funny enough to me. At eight one has hardly learned to shirk ; That comes later, as you will see. For Charley, by virtue of riper age, Did nothing but stand and criticise ; His hands in his pockets, stage by stage He watched the tottering castle rise. " And now, after all your fuss," says he, " S'posin' it tumbles down again ? " " Oh," Will answers as cool as could be, " Of course I should build it better then." Charley shook sagely his curly head, Opened his eyes of dancing brown, And then for a final poser said, " But s'posin' it always kept tumblin' down ? ' AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 65 Will, however, was not of the stuff At a loss to be taken so. " Why, then,'* he answered ready enough, " I should keep on building it better, you know." And, seeing the wise world's wisest knot Cut at a stroke with such simple skill, Older people than Charley, I thought, Might learn a lesson of Master Will. KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. CARD HOUSES. MY little niece and I I read My Plato in my easy-chair ; And she was building on the floor A pack of cards with wondrous care. We worked in silence, but alas ! Among the cards a mighty spill, And then the little ape exclaimed, " Well I Such is life ! Look, Uncle Will I " I gave a start and dropped my book, It was the " Phaedo " I had read, A sympathetic current thrilled Like lightning through my heart and head. I eyed with curious awe the child, The unconscious Sibyl, where she sat, Whose thoughtless tongue could babble forth Strange parables of life and fate. Yet such is life ! a Babel house, A common doom hath tumbled all, King, queen, and knave, and plain and trump, A motley crew in motley fall ! We rear our hopes, no Pharaoh's tomb, Nor brass, could build so sure a name, But, soon or late, a sad collapse, And great the ruin of the same. Ah, such is life ! Oh, sad and strange That love and wisdom so ordain ! Some ere the builder's hands have yet One card against another lain ; 5 66 THE HUMBLER POETS. Some when the house is tiny still ; Some when you 've built a little more ; And some when patience hath achieved A second, third, or higher floor. Or should you win the topmost stage, Yet is the strength but toil and pain And here the tiny voice rejoined, " But I can build it up again." My height of awe was reached. Can babes Behold what reason scans in vain ? Ah, childhood is divine, I thought, Yes, Lizzie, build it up again. New York Graphic. BERTIE'S PHILOSOPHY. SMALL boy Bertie, Drumming on the pane, Looking at the chickens Draggled with the rain. Little philosopher Wrinkles his brow, Says, " I wonder I don't see how. " Where do chickens come from ? Mamma, please to tell. Yes, I know they come from eggs, Know that very well. " Course the old hen hatched 'em, I know that; but then Won't you tell me truly, Where 'd they get the hen ? '* S'posin' you were my boy, All the one I had, And big folks would n't tell you things, Should n't you feel bad ? " Every single thing you say I knew years ago ; Where that first hen came from, Is what I want to know." Providence Journal. EVA M. TAPPAN. AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 67 BOYS' RIGHTS. I WONDER now if any one In this broad land has heard In favor of downtrodden boys One solitary word ? We hear enough of " woman's rights," And " rights of workingmen," Of " equal rights," and " nation's rights," But pray just tell us when Boys 1 Rights were ever spoken of ? Why, we Ve become so used To being snubbed by every one, And slighted and abused, That when one is polite to us, We open wide our eyes, And stretch them in astonishment To nearly twice their size ! Boys seldom dare to ask their friends To venture in the house ; It don't come natural at all To creep round like a mouse. And if we should forget ourselves And make a little noise, Then ma or auntie sure would say, " Oh, my ! those dreadful boys I " The girls bang on the piano In peace, but if the boys Attempt a tune with fife and drum, It 's " Stop that horrid noise ! " "That horrid noise ! " just think of it, When sister never fails To make a noise three times as bad With everlasting "scales." Insulted thus, we lose no time In beating a retreat ; So off we go to romp and tear And scamper in the street. No wonder that so many boys Such wicked men become ; 'T were better far to let them have Their plays and games at home. Perhaps that text the teacher quotes Sometimes, "Train up a child," Means only, train the little girls, And let the boys run wild. But patience, and the time shall come When we will all be men, And when it does, I rather think Wrongs will be righted then. CARRIE MAY, 68 THE HUMBLER POETS. ROSEBUD'S FIRST BALL. " T is really time you were out, I think," Said Lady Rose to her daughter small ; " So I '11 send my invitations round, And give you, my dear, a splendid ball. " We 'd best decide on your toilet first ; Your sister Jacqueminot wore dark red ; But you are so much smaller than she, I think you must wear pale pink instead. " Then, whom to invite : we can't ask all, And yet it 's hardest of all to tell The flowers from weeds. Indeed, last year I snubbed Field Daisy, and now she 's a belle. " We '11 ask the Pansies, they 're always in The best society everywhere ; The Lilies, Heliotropes, and Pinks, Geraniums, Fuchsias, must sure be there. " Miss Mignonette is so very plain, A favorite, though, I '11 put her down ; The Violets, I think, are away ; They 're always the first to leave for town. " The Larkspurs are such old-fashioned things It 's not worth while asking them to come ; The Zinnias are coarse, Bergamots stiff, The Marigolds better off at home. " Miss Morning Glory I 'd like to ask, But then, she never goes out at night ; She 's such a delicate thing, she says, She scarce can bear a very strong light. " The Verbenas, I know, will be put ont If we don't ask them ; the Petunias, too. They are not quite aufait, but then, my dear, They 're such near neighbors, what 's one to do ? " I '11 make out my list at once, for there A butterfly is coming this way ; I '11 send my invitations by him, He '11 go the rounds without delay. " Dear ! dear ! to think that to-morrow night You '11 really be out. Now listen, my child : Don't go much with your cousin Sweet Brier ; He 's very nice, but inclined to be wild." New York Star. AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 69 THE LITTLE CONQUEROR. " 'T WAS midnight ; not a sound was heard Within the " " Papa, won't 'ou 'ook An* see my pooty 'ittle house ? I wis' 'ou would n't wead 'ou book " " Within the palace where the king Upon his couch in anguish lay n " Papa, pa-pa, I wis' 'ou 'd turn An' have a 'ittle tonty play " " No gentle hand was there to bring The cooling draught, or cool his brow ; His courtiers and his pages gone " " Turn, papa, turn ; I want 'ou now " Down goes the book with needless force, And with expression far from mild ; With sullen air and clouded brow I seat myself beside my child. Her little trusting eyes of blue With mute surprise gaze in my face, As if in its expression stern Reproof and censure she could trace. Anon her little bosom heaves, Her rosy lips begin to curl ; And with a quivering chin she sobs, " Papa don't love his 'ittle dirl ! " King, palace, book, are all forgot ; My arms are round my darling thrown, The thundercloud has burst, and lo I Tears fall and mingle with her own. " LULU." " MIDGET, gypsy, big-eyed elf, little Kitty Clover, What have you been playing at for this hour and over ? Where have you been wandering, in the name of wonder ? Were n't you frightened at the wind ? Are you fond of thunder ? Were you in a fairies' cave while the rain was falling, With your ears sewn tightly up, not to hear me calling ? Who has taught your hair to curl ? Where 's your apron, dirty girl ? " 70 THE HUMBLER POETS. " Now my brains is all mussed up, got too big a headful ; Fifteen questions at a time mixes me up dreadful. Course 1 been a visiting, me and Rainy Weather, Sure to find the birds at home when we go together ; Guess my ears was full of songs so I did n't hear you, Else because you stayed at home I got too far from near you. Once some little thing said low, * Mamma wants you, Lu, I know.' " 'Spect it was that funny bird that kept and kept a singing, While the rain was coming down and thunder-bells was ringing. ' Oh, you goosie-bird/ I said, * rains like sixty-seven, And your song '11 get so wet it can't fly up to heaven ; Did you swallow it one day when you was a drinking ? Is it all the talk you 've got, or only just your thinking ? Or do songs come up and sprout, And rain makes 'em blossom out ? ' " Then the bird came close to me, mamma, he did, truly, Said, ' I never told before, but I '11 tell you, Luly : One day God got tired of heaven and the angels' singing, Thought their harps were out of tune, made such awful dinging ; So he sang a piece of song, put some feathers round it, Then he threw it in a tree, where some bird's name found it ; And he mixed the song and name Till they grew the very same.' " Mamma, what you smiling at ? Had n't you better hold me ? I '11 be tired a saying through what the birdie told me : God sends word down by the rain when he wants to hear him, That is why the whisper-drops tinkle by so near him. Should you think his song would lose ? I can tell you better ! It don't have so far to go as my grandma's letter ; Earth and heaven 's so close apart, God can catch it in his heart. " 'T was the wind that curled my hair, didn't he fix it funny ? Combed and twisted it like this 'thout a spec' of money ; Where 's my apron ? Let me see ! I must think it over 'Fraid you J ve got a naughty girl for your Kitty Clover, 'Cause I gave that to the brook with the big stones in it, Where it has to run across every little minute ; Covered 'em all dry and neat, So my brook won't wet its feet ! " CARRIE W. THOMPSON. BABY IN CHURCH. AUNT NELLIE had fashioned a dainty thing Of hamburg and ribbon and lace, And mamma had said, as she settled it round Our Baby's beautiful face, AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. Where the dimples play and the laughter lies Like sunbeams hid in her violet eyes, " If the day is pleasant, and Baby is good, She may go to church and wear her new hood." Then Ben, aged six, began to tell, In elder-brotherly way, How very, very good she must be If she went to church next day. He told of the church, the choir, and the crowd, And the man up in front who talked so loud ; But she must not talk, nor laugh, nor sing, But just sit as quiet as anything. And so, on a beautiful Sabbath in May, When the fruit-buds burst into flowers (There was n't a blossom on bush or tree So fair as this blossom of ours), All in her white dress, dainty and new, Our Baby sat in the family pew. The grand, sweet music, the reverent air, The solemn hush, and the voice of prayer, Filled all her baby soul with awe, As she sat in her little place, And the holy look that the angels wear Seemed pictured upon her face. And the sweet words uttered so long ago Came into my mind with a rhythmic flow, Of such is the kingdom of heaven," said He, And I knew He spake of such as she. The sweet-voiced organ pealed forth again, The collection-box came around. And Baby dropped her penny in, And smiled at the chinking sound. Alone in the choir Aunt Nellie stood, Waiting the close of the soft prelude, To begin her solo. High and strong She struck the first note ; clear and long She held it, and all were charmed, but one Who, with all the might she had, Sprang to her little feet and cried, " Aunt Nellie, you 's being bad ! " The audience smiled, the minister coughed, The little boys in the corner laughed, The tenor shook like an aspen-leaf, And hid his face in his handkerchief. 72 THE HUMBLER POETS. And poor Aunt Nellie could never tell How she finished that terrible strain, But says nothing on earth could tempt Her to go through the scene again. So we have decided, perhaps 't is best, For her sake, and ours, and all the rest, That we wait, may be a year or two, Ere our Baby re-enter the family pew. WHO'LL TEND BABY? " WHO 'LL take care of the baby ? " Says Joe to Sam, in fierce debate Upon the woman question ; a You Ve answered well all other points, Now here 's my last suggestion : When woman goes to cast her vote, Some miles away, it may be, Who, then, I ask, will stay at home To rock and tend the baby ? " Quoth Sam : " I own you Ve made my case Appear a little breezy ; I hoped you 'd pass this question by, And give me something easy. But since the matter seems to turn On this one as its axis, Just get the one who rocked it when She went to pay her taxes I " E. E, HER NAME. IN search from " A " to " Z " they passed, And " Marguerita " chose at last; But thought it sounded far more sweet To call the baby " Marguerite." When grandma saw the little pet, She called her " darling Margaret." Next Uncle Jack and Cousin Aggie Sent cup and spoon to " little Maggie." And grandpapa the right must beg To call the lassie " bonnie Meg ; " (From " Marguerita " down to " Meg ") And now she 's simply " little Peg." AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 73 WHY? WHAT did the baby come for ? That was the question trite The neighbors asked of each other That stormy winter night. What was the need of children ? 'T was hard enough before To keep care out of the window, The gray wolf from the door. Out of the wintry barren, Over the sleeping town, Out of the cold, dark heaven Drifted the snow-flakes down. Within the low, old cottage Flickered the candle's flame In the dusk of the early dawning, But never an answer came. What did the baby come for ? A woman's heart could tell : At touch of the tiny fingers, Like to a fairy spell, A heart that was hard with doubting, A soul that was barred with sin, Opened a tide from God's ocean, The mother-love swept in. What did the baby come for ? A strong man's heart had grown, Through poverty's constant grinding, As hard as the nether stone. Only a baby's prattle, And yet, O wonderful song That made a man's heart grow lighter, Made a man's hands grow strong 1 Was ever a spring or summer That vanished on wings so fleet ? Ah ! 't was a joy to labor, When living had grown so sweet ! Care never came near the window, And poverty, gaunt and grim, Never stepped over the threshold, There was no place for him. MAUD MOORE. 74 THE HUMBLER POETS. "ONLY A BIT OF CHILDHOOD THROWN AWAY." WHAT did the baby go for ? Softly the summer night Fell like a benediction On the baby, shrouded white. Only two golden summers 1 'T was not a life, we say, " Only a bit of childhood The great God threw away." Out on the dusky meadow, Over the slumbering town, Out of the silent heaven Brightly the stars looked down. What did the baby go for ? Flickered the dawning's flame Into the cottage window, But never an answer came. What did the baby go for ? Oh, thou shadow of death I Oh, thou angel ! thou demon Icy of touch and breath ! We cry to the sunlit heavens, And no voice answereth. Will there ever come a morning When, with our tears all dried, Resting in fair green pastures The river of life beside, We shall know, beyond all doubting, Just why the baby died ? Oh, thank God for the children ! Ay, give thanks, though we lay Under the " sod of the valley " The fairest of all away. Thank Him for those that leave us, Thank Him for those that stay. MAUD MOORE. PART III for Ring out, ye crystal spheres^ Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so ; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time, And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow ; And with your ninefold harmony, Make up full consort to angelic symphony. MILTON. PART III. for MERRY CHRISTMAS. IN the rush of the merry morning, When the red burns through the gray, And the wintry world lies waiting For the glory of the day ; Then we hear a fitful rushing Just without upon the stair, See two white phantoms coming, Catch the gleam of sunny hair. Are they Christmas fairies stealing Rows of little socks to fill ? Are they angels floating hither With their message of good-will ? What sweet spell are these elves weaving, As like larks they chirp and sing ? Are these palms of peace from heaven That these lovely spirits bring ? Rosy feet upon the threshold, Eager faces peeping through, W T ith the first red ray of sunshine, Chanting cherubs come in view; Mistletoe and gleaming holly, Symbols of a blessed day, In their chubby hands they carry, Streaming all along the way. Well we know them, never weary Of this innocent surprise ; Waiting, watching, listening always With full hearts and tender eyes, While our little household angels, White and golden in the sun, Greet us with the sweet old welcome, " Merry Christmas, every one ! " THE HUMBLER POETS. FAIRY FACES. OUT of the mists of childhood, Steeped in a golden glory, Come dreamy forms and faces, Snatches of song and story ; Whispers of sweet, still faces ; Rays of ethereal glimmer, That gleam like sunny heavens, Ne'er to grow colder or dimmer : Now far in the distance, now shining near, Lighting the snows of the shivering year. Faces there are that tremble, Bleared with a silent weeping, Weird in a shadowy sorrow, As if endless vigil keeping. Faces of dazzling brightness, With childlike radiance lighted, Flashing with many a beauty, Nor care nor time had blighted. But o'er them all there 's a glamour thrown, Bright with the dreamy distance alone. Aglow in the Christmas halo, Shining with heavenly lustre, These are the fairy faces That round the hearthstone cluster. These the deep, tender records, Sacred in all their meetness, That, wakening purest fancies, Soften us with their sweetness ; As, gathered where nickering fagots burn, We welcome the holy season's return. A CHRISTMAS