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CORRECTIONS 
 
 Page 3, (dedication), read period after last word. 
 
 Page 7, repeat next to last line after fourth. 
 
 Page 15, fourth line, read "to", "pedestrians", "aboard". 
 
 Page 17, read "C" as first letter. 
 
 Page 26, first line, read "whipt". 
 
 Page 53, line S, read "the"; line 20, "droopt". 
 
 Page 58. line 18, read "waiting"; after 19 read "Hang o'er the 
 plains of Alexico". In the next four, read so as to make con- 
 secfutive lines rhyme. 
 
 Page 61, seventh line, read "kist". 
 
 Page 71, title, read "Bernhardt". 
 
 Page 94, second line, second poem, read "prisoned". 
 
 Page 97, space after eighth line; exchange places of ninth 
 and tenth. 
 
 Page 100, fourth line, read "freshening". 
 
 Page 102, next to last and last lines, read "it", instead of 
 first "in". 
 
 Page 105, eighth line, read "mayst". 
 110, twelfth line, read "murmur". 
 Page 111, fifth line, read "apologizes". 
 
UNIVERSITY OF OKLAHOMA 
 BULLETIN 
 
 UNIVERSITY ANTHOLOGY 
 
 JOSEPH FRANCIS PAXTON, Editor 
 1921 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 This- little book is dedicated to my wife, Fantine Samuels Pax- 
 ton, the first woman to receive the A. B. from Oklahoma Univer- 
 "sity, to all those whose poems have made it possible, and to Strat- 
 ton Duluth Brooks, who suggested the collection. May they all, as 
 Rip would say, live long and prosper. 
 
 . JOSEPH FRANCIS PAXTON. 
 Norman, Oklahoma, 
 
 482594 
 
EXPLANATION AND GENERAL ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 
 
 Many moons ago President Brooks suggested to me that I 
 collect and edit such verse by students and teachers of the Univer- 
 sity of Oklahoma, past and present, as seemd in some degree 
 worth while. A considerable amount of my own verse would not 
 be inappropriate, he added. (Thus, gracefully, I transfer the re- 
 sponsibility. "Prexy" doesn't mind burdens.) The result is be- 
 fore you, gentle reader. I have no apology to make, but I know 
 you will use gentleness of judgment where that seems necessary. 
 
 Wherever specific acknowledgment is not made, thanks are 
 often due to various annuals put out at different times - "The 
 Mistletoe" and "The Sooner;" to "The University Oklahoman/' 
 "The University of Oklahoma Magazine," etc. My own verse 
 touching on the great war was, much of it, printed first in either 
 The Daily Oklahoman or in The Times of Oklahoma City, to 
 whose editors I make due acknowledgment. Some of my pieces 
 appear here for the first time. A few of the contributors did not 
 reveal where, if anywhere, their verse had first been printed. 
 Thanks are due a Los Angeles publication, name not now accessi- 
 ble, for Elizabeth Taylor's contributions. 
 
 Faculty members contributing to this collection are : 
 
 Theodore Hampton Brewer, Head of the Department and Pro- 
 fessor of English. 
 
 Louisa Brooke, sometime Adviser of Women and on the Eng- 
 lish teaching staff. 
 
 Walter Stanley Campbell, Assistant Professor of English. 
 
 John Begg Cheadle, Professor of Law. 
 
 Arthur R. Curry, Reference Librarian. 
 
 Edward Everett Dale, Assistant Professor of History. 
 
 Charles A. S. Dwight, Assistant Professor of Education (Re- 
 signd.) 
 
 Roy Hadsell, Professor of the English Language. 
 Roy Temple House, Professor of Modern Languages. 
 Josh Lee, Assistant Professor of Public Speaking. 
 John McClure, sometime an instructor in English and a mem- 
 ber of the Library staff. 
 
 Joseph Francis Paxton, Professor of Greek and Classical 
 Archeology. 
 
 William N. Rice, a member of the faculty in the school's earliest 
 days. 
 
 [5] 
 
Sandford Salyer, Assistant Professor of English. 
 
 Angelo C. Scott, Director of Extension Lectures. (Rank of 
 Professor). 
 
 Joseph Whitefield Scroggs, Director, Extension Division. 
 
 Dale, Hadsell, Lee and McClure are alumni of this Univer- 
 sity. McClure is fairly well known as a poet, and has several books 
 and collections of verse to his credit. Much of his poetry appeard 
 originally in The Smart Set, and the formidable H. L. Mencken 
 thinks highly of it as this writer and many others do. Roy 
 Temple House and Louisa Brooke, (Mrs. Catesby Jones), have 
 contributed poetry to a number of well known magazines and 
 newspapers, much of it of good quality. 
 
 Student contributors are the following: 
 
 Rose M. Belt, (Mrs. Crabbe), now deceast, B. A. '08. 
 
 Agnes Berrigan, B. A., M. A., '13. 
 
 Rolfe Engleman, a junior in 1920. 
 
 James J. Hill, B. A., M. A., '15. 
 
 Mark Hodgson, a junior when he quit school. 
 
 "Ella M. Jones" seems to be a misprint or a pseudonym. 
 
 Maurice W. Kelley is a sophomore at present. 
 
 Florence Monroe, (Mrs. Crow), was a junior when she dropt 
 out, as was 
 
 Walter Morrow, when he left the University. 
 
 Ruth Margaret Muskrat was a freshman in 1920-21. 
 
 R. Lynn Riggs, is now a sophomore. 
 
 Zoe A. Stratton, (Mrs. Tilghman), was a sophomore of very 
 high standing when she left us. 
 
 Elizabeth Taylor, was a summer student in 1918. 
 
 Benjamin H. West, B. A., '13. 
 
 Waldo Wettingell, a sophomore in 1920-21. 
 
 The College of Arts and Sciences is meant where the word 
 "alumni" is used, or the class of a student is given. 
 
 I regret that circumstances made it impossible, apparently. 
 to secure copies of any of Muna Lee's work. Much of it is good, 
 and has been printed in well-known magazines. 
 
 I did not hear from one or two persons to whom I wrote 
 more than once. 
 
 Inevitably, I have overlookt much good material, or have never 
 seen it. "Pardon, gentles all." This collection should be revised 
 and re-publisht from time to timq. 
 
 JOSEPH FRANCIS PAXTON. 
 September 21, 1921. 
 
 [6] 
 
TH1<: PRAVKR TO THE SPIDER. 
 
 It is in early May. 
 
 The odor of the May-apple blossom fills the \voocl >. 
 
 The dogwood breathes a breath of fragrance. 
 
 The sky is clear of drifting clouds. 
 
 I wait for his aid in silence. 
 
 The women have planted the corn. 
 
 The time of the hunt is almost past. 
 
 Soon the young men will go forih on the red path, 
 
 The chiefs sit long at the council. 
 
 I sent forth a prayer to the Great Spider last night 
 
 1 wait for his aid in silence. 
 
 James J. Hill. 
 
CHEYENNE WAR SONG. 
 
 Now the time of the snow is over, 
 The white frost comes not in the night. 
 The soft winds blow from the south-land, 
 And the green grass springs on the hills. 
 Bring your arrows, your sharp war-arrows. 
 That hang in the tee-pee. 
 
 Let the young men go forth to hunt, 
 
 That there may be meat in the wigwams. 
 
 The grass is green and the ponies eat and grow strong, 
 
 They grow strong and swift for the warriors. 
 
 Bring your bows and your sharp war-arrows; 
 
 Paint your faces with war paint. 
 
 The medicine men are singing, 
 
 They are making a mighty medicine; 
 
 They will make strong the warriors. 
 
 The grass grows tall ; it covers the hoofs of the ponies, 
 
 It is the sign for the war path. 
 
 The warriors ride far away to the place of the white man ; 
 
 They will burn his wigwams ; 
 
 They will bring scalps and ponies and captives. 
 
 Leave in the village the old men, the women and children. 
 
 Mount on your swift war ponies, 
 
 Bring many sharp war arrows. 
 
 The medicine men are singing; 
 
 The sign of the tall grass tells them 
 
 It is the time of the war path. 
 
 Zoe A. Tilghman. 
 (Miss Zoe A. Stratton) 
 
 [8] 
 
SENTENCED. 
 (A Dirge.) 
 
 They have come, they have come, 
 Ou: of the unknown they have come; 
 Out of the great sea have they come; 
 Dazzling and conquering the white man has conn- 
 To make this land his home. 
 
 We must die, we must die, 
 
 The white man has sentenced that we must die. 
 
 Without great forests must we die. 
 
 Broken and conquerd the red man must die, 
 
 He cannot claim his own. 
 
 They have gone, they have gone, 
 Our sky-blue waters, they have gone, 
 Our wild free prairies they have gone, 
 To be the white man's own. 
 
 They have won, they have won, 
 Thru fraud and thru warfare they have won, 
 Our council and burial grounds have they won, 
 Our birthright for pottage the white man has won. 
 And the red man must perish alone. 
 
 Ruth Margaret Muskrat. 
 
 [91 
 
HK;H NOON ON THK BORDKR. 
 
 (April 22, 1889) 
 
 Across the border for homes, 
 
 The wild throng flies at noon, 
 
 Like a stream that frets and foams 
 For ocean's bourne and boon. 
 
 Beyond the prairie's low rim 
 There lies a home for all ; 
 
 Thru dust clouds dry and dim 
 It sends its searching call. 
 
 With thudding of hoofs and feet, 
 
 With rattle of wheel and whip, 
 They rush the slow and the fleet, 
 
 With curses, and laugh, and quip. 
 
 A hazard of fortunes new, 
 A fling of dice with Fate 
 
 The past recedes from view 
 In the future's open gate. 
 
 Francis Paxtbn. 
 
WESTWARD. 
 
 A ragged rout of travelers, toil-worn 
 Athwart my window takes its westward way. 
 The creaking, sheeted wains the marks display 
 Of ruddy soil traverst from morn to morn. 
 The trailing hounds, the swinging pail forlorn, 
 The heavy-headed steeds, the disarray, 
 The pots and pans, my Muse dismay; 
 She views the struggling train with scorn. 
 
 Unfaltering moves the laboring caravan 
 
 From hill to hill toward the setting sir.-,, 
 
 From dawn till noon, from noon toward hastening night 
 
 And window-bound my spirit sees again 
 
 The white-bowed sunlit vans, a distant dun 
 
 Processional majestic in the waning light. 
 
 Roy Hadsell. 
 
 THE OLD DUG-OUTS. 
 
 Broken posts in little hollows, 
 Swept by Western winds at will, 
 Mark the sites of settlers' dug-outs 
 Once snug beneath the hill. 
 Winter snows come o'er them drifting, 
 Round about them cattle roam ; 
 Fearless haunt the quail and plover 
 What erewhile was "Home Sweet Home." 
 Richly speak they to the fancy- 
 Gripping tales their silence tells 
 Outposts these of days long faded, 
 Landmarks where a new race dwells. 
 
 Ella M. Jones. 
 (Slightly changed by the Editor.) 
 
 Hi) 
 
WIND SONG. 
 
 Oklahoma Anniversary, April 22. 
 
 Wind of the Prairie, sweeping adown from the hills, 
 Bending the upstarting grass of the early spring, 
 
 Tell me what you are singing. 
 Summers and winters uncounted, unknown, 
 Over the wilderness roaming, 
 So you have learnd if you will but tell, 
 All that in the long years befell; 
 
 Sing to me, then, of the Coming. 
 
 "Tread of the moccasind Indian, trailing the deer in the timber, 
 Stalking the bison and antelope grazing the open plains ; 
 Flying with stolen ponies snatcht from the Utes of the West ; 
 Plumes of the war-parties riding past, like the wind in the grass. 
 
 "Tramp of the cavalry horses, and gleam of the council fires 
 
 burning; 
 
 Sound of the axe and of hammer where forts arise at their bidding ; 
 Dim trails over the prairie where long-horns journey to northward 
 I lift the mists from the river, and these are gone as the vapors. 
 
 "Creaking of laden wagons in lonely and desolate places, 
 Ring of the wires drawn taut as the staples are driven home ; 
 Grazing herds in the pastures ; long lines winding down to the river ; 
 They drink, and I ripple the water, and these are gone like the 
 ripples. 
 
 "A'one in the smile of the springtide the land lies waiting before me. 
 The jackrabbit leisurely lopes on quest of his own, and the coyote 
 Howls in the night at the camp fires that gleam in the darkness 
 
 before him ; 
 
 Men and women and children about them gather d and waiting, 
 Faces and hearts alight with a wonderful hope and desiring; 
 Soldiers riding before them, as the sun climbs high in the heavens ; 
 I scatter the smoke of their guns, and the throngs are melted as 
 
 quickly. 
 
 "Over the land they are pourd, in a flood resistless, unyielding; 
 Toiling with stubborn patience, a winter light in their faces ; 
 
 [12] 
 
Steadfast thru days that are dark, till the first great struggle 
 
 is over; 
 
 Winter winds have they borne, but now the joy of the springtime 
 Wells in their hearts once more, as they who remain are fore- 
 
 gatherd : 
 Past on the breath of the wind, pioneers who blazed the way for 
 
 them. 
 But these are they who have conquerd and kept, the People of 
 
 Eighty-Nine." 
 
 Zoe A. Tilghman. 
 (From "The Romance of 
 
 THE URGK. 
 
 Hurry, hurry, breakers, beat against the land ; 
 Thus far and no farther is the law's demand. 
 Since every drop runs back, need you hurry so? 
 Yet a sea-wall crumbles weakend from below. 
 
 Hurry, hurry, Spirit, on your idle rounds; 
 Thus far and no farther likewise are your bounds. 
 Since these are your limits, what does haste avail? 
 Yet the world is chaos, Spirit, if you fail. 
 
 Elizabeth Taylor. 
 
 [13] 
 
THE COUNTRY SCHOOL 
 
 Sometimes 1 get to thinkin' about the country school, 
 And the little old brown school house whar I busted every rule, 
 And the gals and men who went there, and the games we used to play 
 About all I can remember is some of those games today. 
 
 The games wuz far more interestin' than the lessons in the books. 
 And I played 'em in the school time, spite of teacher's frownin' looks, 
 Studyin' Joggerfry and Grammar I was supposed to be. 
 But "running thru" in Blackmanr-Hhat's what captivated me. 
 
 "What'll y' do when the Blackman comes?" the old familiar cry. 
 "Run through like a Whiteman, run'er thru er die." 
 I did some brilliant playin' when my sweetheart'ud come thru. 
 And I'd pat her, oh so gently, whispering "One, two, three for you !" 
 
 Sometimes we'd get quarlin' as t' who should start the game 
 
 An' lose most of our recess time t' agitate the same, 
 
 Until some little feller who'd never quarrel a bit 
 
 Would step out on the playground with, "C'mon boys I'll be it." 
 
 1 suppose I've done some dodgin' since I left that school 
 To fight shy of the Blackman an' keep the Golden Rule, 
 An I've come to a conclusion that it took some worthy grit 
 To come out squar before the world and say 
 
 "Well, I'll be it." 
 
 Roy Had sell. 
 
 [14] 
 
CHRISTMAS.. 
 (With acknowledgments t<> \V. M.) 
 
 Oh Christmas is the time of year when all our grouches dis- 
 appear we dearly love our fellowman and do whatever good we 
 can we give our cash to feed the poor ' to keep the wolf outside 
 the door we stop our auto or our ford o take pedestrains abroad 
 we give rich presents to-, our friends for past neglect to make amends 
 oh yes when Christmas time comes near we smile on all from 
 ear to car we beam upon the grocer's boy and wish him lots of Christ- 
 mas joy the milkman too though very dear we send upon his 
 way with cheer we greet alike our friend and foe and speak to those 
 we do not know our wives present us silver spoons so useful for 
 our afternoons or else perchance a book of pomes to fumigate 
 our lofty domes oh brethren dear and sisters too how ripping it 
 would be for you and me and every other guy if only through the 
 year we'd try to be as good and brave and gay as we can be on 
 Christmas day. 
 
 Angelo C. Scott. 
 
 its] 
 
LIGHT AND SHADOWS. 
 
 The poets write of a wonderful light 
 
 Never on land or sea ; 
 How it glows and gleams in the rainbow dreams 
 
 Even of you and me. 
 I never have seen that wonderful sheen, 
 
 Never on land or sea, 
 But the light that lies in a girl's brown eyes 
 
 Is the light of the world for me. 
 I've heard men say at the close of day 
 
 When the long dark shadows fall 
 That over their souls a darkness rolls 
 
 As dark as a funeral pall. 
 In the shades of the night or the sunshine bright 
 
 Our hearts should be bright and free, 
 But a shadow that lies in a girl's brown eyes 
 
 O'ershadows the world for me. 
 
 Edward Everett Dale. 
 
 [16] 
 
BATEAU THIERRY AND AFTER. 
 (A doughboy speaks) 
 
 Yes, r.iany a fight has brought delight 
 
 To doughboys brave and merry, 
 
 But nary fight was quite so right 
 
 As that of Chateau Thierry. 
 
 Ah yes, my dearie, 
 
 Chateau, Chateau, Chateau, Chateau Thierry. 
 
 Them swift marines sure earn their beans, 
 
 And every plunk on payday; 
 
 For they've got grit, git-up-and-git. 
 
 And scraps to them are playday. 
 
 Ah yes, my lady, 
 
 The fights, the scraps, the rows, just playday. 
 
 Our sons-of-guns they beat the Huns 
 
 Up hill, then down the valley, 
 
 And climbd the crests and singed their nests, 
 
 And busted every rally. 
 
 Ah yes, ma cherie, 
 
 Chateau, Chateau, Chateau, Chateau Thierry. 
 
 That hot-foot day, so bright and gay 
 
 Cold steel, then rush and volley; 
 
 That Yankee bunch they had the punch. 
 
 And landed it, by golly, 
 
 Ah yes, trcs joli, 
 
 They landed, landed, landed it, by golly! 
 
 Francis Paxton. 
 
 [17] 
 
TH!v ; \V;HIP-POOR-\VILL. 
 
 Tho he only sang a love song 
 To his patient brooding mate, 
 In the fallen, tangld tree-tops, 
 Yet to me who wandered late 
 Still he seemd to speak of vengeance 
 Ko,r. the birds I'd, treated ill. 
 Vengeance mingld with compassion 
 He was judge and I was "Will". 
 And the thought that I was guilty 
 Would my heart with terror fill 
 As I pictured .ghosts and goblins 
 Marshaling to "Whip Poor Will, 
 "Whip poor Will, whip poor Will." 
 
 William N. Rice. 
 
 SURRENDER. 
 
 Friends, I must trust you ere the day departs. 
 
 I have grown weary of these odds and ends. 
 These broken scraps of love, these fits and starts. 
 
 That poison all the pleasure Heaven sends. 
 
 I must live nearer to your hearts, dear friends ; 
 And I will bare my bosom to your darts 
 
 And love you twice and thrice, to make amends 
 Oh, friends, I must live nearer to your hearts. 
 
 I have been like a savage, like a child, 
 
 And so have you, and so have many men. 
 
 We spoke of friends, and now and then we dreamd 
 Of friendship, feasted bidden guests, and smiled; 
 
 But 'n our hearts we sulkt, and curst, and schemed, 
 Hated and playd at loving now and then. 
 
 Roy Temple House, 
 (prom the Chicago Record-Herald.) 
 
 [18] 
 
NOCTURNE. 
 
 Star of the summer night, 
 The sheen of thy silver light 
 Shines not more pure from above 
 Than shines and beams my love. 
 
 Moon of the summer sky, 
 Alone, serene on high, 
 Thy faint beam soon expires 
 Like sound of smitten lyres. 
 
 But my love my love shines on, 
 Its light is never gone, 
 But beams fu 1 ! strong alway. 
 In night or fairest day. 
 
 Francis Paxton. 
 
 EVENING AND THE OLD MISSION. 
 
 Like silhouettes against the western sky, 
 
 I see them stand, a long low line of trees ; 
 Now barren of their summer dress they please 
 
 With grace of form where color charmd the eye ; 
 
 About the eaves the twittering sparrows fly ; 
 Across the busy town borne on the breeze 
 The evening bell calls men from work to case 
 
 With head bent low to send their thoughts on high. 
 
 And tho it call me not to prayer, 
 
 From out the past it is my vesper beH , 
 
 As mine the sweet spent incense from below ; 
 And mine the dim procession still to share 
 
 Of dark-robed nuns and hooded monks who tell 
 Their beads, and live Romance of long ago. 
 
 Elizab^l h Xny lor 
 
 [19] 
 
SUMMER IS PASS1NL 
 
 Summer is passing, 
 
 Bee-laden, grain-bearing summer; 
 
 Passing down a green and golden coast 
 
 Into autumnal seas of purple fire. 
 
 Dim shore lines of winter, 
 
 Studded with icy mile-stones of Death, 
 
 Crouch beyond the thinly rolling mists, 
 
 While rose-crownd summer, fragrant queen, 
 
 Sweeps heedless, fated, with her train 
 
 Of attendant heat dancing in the fields, 
 
 Breezes playing, green leaves fluttering, 
 
 Birds and locusts singing. 
 
 Summer is passing; 
 
 Mellow August in sweet stealth is slipping. 
 
 From a tower of green a red leaf signals; 
 
 Little mournful shifting winds arise, 
 
 Symbols of sly and wintry Death. 
 
 Men are passing, 
 
 Men in the joyous summer of life. 
 
 Strong, alert, with their gold and their flowers, 
 
 In processional pomp, proudly they step, 
 
 Over the hill and down by the bitter sea. 
 
 Bone and nerve are chilld, and frost 
 
 Bites at he heart, and giant strength wanes. 
 
 :'. Theodore Hampton Brewer. 
 
 [20] 
 
BALLAD OF THE UNIVERSITEE 
 
 It once befel, ye know it well, 
 A Sooner went to see 
 Red soil and sand, a famous land, 
 In a far counteree. 
 
 How can I come up ? How can I come up ? 
 
 How can I come up to thee? 
 How can I come up? How can I come up? 
 
 O Universitee! 
 
 He pitcht his camp in weather damp. 
 He stayd in weather dry. 
 He was a jewel, he built a schoo-el, 
 Under a wide-spread sky. 
 
 How can I come up? How can I come up? 
 
 O Universitee! 
 How can I come up?" How can I come up? 
 
 How can I come up to thee? 
 
 And now his sons, the story runs, 
 And now his daughters fair, 
 Injure their looks, with study-books, 
 When he doth send them there. 
 
 How can I come up? How can I come up? 
 
 From the red counteree, 
 
 How can I come up? How will I come up? 
 O Universitee! 
 
 Roy Hadsell. 
 
 [21] 
 
SOONERLANb. 
 
 There's a little patch of sunshine 
 
 In the old southwest; 
 There are youthful memories clinging 
 
 'Round the place I love the best. 
 Where I grew in strength and vision 
 
 Bound my heart in friendships true 
 As the golden days wingd gaily 
 
 In the life of old O. U. 
 
 Clio. For it's once Oklahoma, 
 And it's twice Oklahoma, 
 
 And it's always Oklahoma 
 If you're a Sooner true. 
 
 I've braved the wrath of Prexy 
 
 And the Council of the Deans, 
 For there's nothing very sacred 
 
 To a Sooner in his teens. 
 
 I've been wooed by college widows. 
 
 I've made love to maidens fair 
 Life holds no fonder memories 
 
 Than the ones that center there. 
 
 Cho 
 
 Oklahoma unforgotten 
 
 Ever mistress of my heart, 
 I am yet thy willing bondsman, 
 
 Still would do a Sooner's part. 
 When the gold has turnd to silver 
 
 And the years have passt me by, 
 I'll turn back to old O. U. then, 
 
 True to her I'll live and die. 
 
 For it's once Oklahoma, etc. 
 John Begg Cheadle. 
 
 [22] 
 
THE MISTLETOE BOUGH. 
 
 Xd more the fetish of the Druid's dream, 
 
 No longer shuddering with the victim's scream 
 
 The sportive magic of our childish play, 
 
 The peaceful plaything of a holiday. 
 
 Sacred to immemorial tyranny 
 Dim with the age-old worship of our race, 
 This waxen-fruited bough of cruelty 
 Within our breast of mercy finds a place. 
 
 Louisa Brooke. 
 
 (Mrs Catesby Jones.) 
 
 THE MOTHER SUPERIOR. 
 C'Jhr Gcsicht ylich cincm Codex Palimpsestus." Henrich Heine.) 
 
 Her face was like a palimpsest 
 
 Where pious monkish fingers trace 
 The legends of the somber blest : 
 
 Whose chiefest grace is Heaven's Grace : 
 
 "* : ( -. -..', 
 
 Those fresh black characters above, ' 
 And underneath them, half-descried, 
 Sweet pagan lines, a glow with Ibve 
 
 And golden, golden hopes that died! 
 Roy Temple House. 
 
 (From Poet-Lore.) ~ 
 
 [23] 
 
TAPS 
 
 Darkness covered heaven's dome. 
 Time for taps had slowly come. 
 My feet were sore, my strength was spent, 
 I stumbld to bed within my tent. 
 The bugler's notes were sweet and clear, 
 I thought of you, my mother dear, 
 I thought of God and His great Son 
 I fell asleep, for taps had blown. 
 
 Josh Lee. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 Your love is all so quiet 
 And solemn as the sea: 
 Like an old song at evening 
 It comforts me. 
 
 For all the merry mad loves 
 That wither and devour 
 Are paltry by the fire light 
 In the quiet hour. 
 
 Yea, all the merry mad loves 
 That I might have had 
 When they rise up like cymbals 
 Making me sad, 
 
 Your love is all so quiet 
 It comforts me then, 
 Like an old song at evening 
 Or books of dead men. 
 
 John McCIurc. 
 (From "Airs and Ballads/' Knopf. N. Y.) 
 
 [24] 
 
A FISHING SMACK! 
 
 They were fishing alone by the brook. 
 
 When she whisperd "Oh Reginald, look ! 
 
 In this tree we're below 
 
 Is some nice mistletoe:" 
 
 And the fish ran away with his hook. 
 
 Mark Hodgson. 
 
 A CYCLONE THAT DIDN'T. 
 
 One time it raind, it did 
 And home from church we slipt and slid ; 
 And all us folks and the folks about, 
 Just hustld into our old dug-out. 
 
 'Way in underneath the ground, 
 Where there's shadders all around, 
 Made by lanterns 'at some one whirls, 
 And spider things 'at scare the girls, 
 
 And when we'd been in there a spell 
 And told the tales there was to tell, 
 Folks scroocht around against the wall, 
 Why-then 't didn't 'Cyclone' at all! 
 
 Roy Hadsell. 
 
 [25] 
 
PEACH BLOSSOMS. 
 
 They flaunt from the wind-whispt hillsides 
 
 Where the earth is barren and brown ; 
 A mist of their wonderful pinkness 
 Transfigures the sordid town. 
 
 They flutter from ragged door-yards. 
 From orchards choked with grass ; 
 
 "It was here," each blossom is saying, 
 "The spirit of spring did pass." 
 
 The glory of youth is in them, 
 
 Its promise, its first wild joy- 
 Joy yet unflusht with passion, 
 
 Hopes with no dark alloy. 
 
 Far dearer these pale, cool blossoms, 
 
 Than the roses that June will bring ; 
 The roses tell life's fulfilment, 
 3.ut these are the promise of spring. 
 
 Rose M. Belt 
 (Mrs. T. B. Grabbed 
 
 [26J 
 
THE OLD GUITAR. 
 
 What do you dream of, old guitar. 
 
 Unused there in your place? 
 Is it of days and lands afar, 
 
 Of visiond, vanisht grace? 
 
 Do fingers once that toucht your strings 
 Come oft in dreams until 
 You fancy yet they're living things 
 And yet have power to thrill? 
 
 There hang about you when you're moved 
 
 The heavy, faint perfumes 
 Of some dead Spanish girl who loved 
 
 The tropic Spanish blooms. 
 
 Do you dream the song she thought most dear, 
 
 When summer nights were long? 
 Is it the wind on your strings I hear 
 Or the ghost of that dead song? 
 
 Florence Monroe. 
 
 (Mrs. Crow/) 
 
 [27] 
 
I AM A-WEARY. 
 
 I am a-weary of high loves, 
 
 A-weary of high desire, 
 Now I would nod in the evening 
 Beside a quiet fire. 
 
 When once a man has taken in 
 High love into his breast 
 His heart becomes a crazy wind 
 That halteth not for rest. 
 
 His soul becomes a thunderstorm, 
 His heart a hurricane, 
 And he is but a wind-blown leaf 
 That will not rest again. 
 
 Ay, there is thunder on the land 
 And lightning on the sea, 
 And thunderwrack within their hearts 
 For them that lovers be. 
 
 So I am a-weary of high loves, 
 A-weary of high desire; 
 Now I would nod in the evening 
 Beside a quiet fire. 
 
 John McClure. 
 ("Airs and Ballads," Knopf, N. V.) 
 
 [28] 
 
THE SPRING BURNING. 
 
 All day in the grassy bottoms 
 
 The dim blue smoke hung low, 
 
 And here and there where it thickly rose 
 
 Shone the fire's dull orange glow, 
 
 The darkness comes and the heavens 
 
 Are flusht with the rosy light, 
 
 As the flames keep up and onward, 
 
 Through the stillness of the night. 
 
 For now on the rocky hillsides 
 The slow fires climb and crawl 
 Till they come to the level uplands 
 Where the grass grows thick and tall. 
 And there on the heights they hold revel 
 Till famine their ardor chills, 
 For the last of the grass is burning, 
 As they dance all night on the hills. 
 
 Of old the fierce Fire-spirit 
 
 Claimd all these lands for his home, 
 
 And gatherd his grassy harvest 
 
 Wherever he listed to roam. 
 
 But now he may wander only 
 
 Where the new conqueror wills, 
 
 And this is his death-dance tonight up there 
 
 On the height of the distant hills. 
 
 Zoe A. Tilghman. 
 
 [29] 
 
THE YOUTHFUL TYRANT. 
 
 A youthful Tyrant rules the house 
 
 In true barbaric style; 
 He shouts, he weeps, he storms amain, 
 
 He's changing all the while. 
 
 His laugh of truly frantic glee 
 
 Pours like an April rain, 
 And then to anger's sudden heat 
 
 Is quickly changed again. 
 
 Oh happy Tyrant he whose thralls 
 
 Obey without repine 
 The more he rules, the more I love 
 
 That little boy of mine. 
 
 John Begg Cheadle. 
 
 [30] 
 
THE DINNER PAIL. 
 (The foreman speaks.) 
 
 When the air is crimpy cool 
 And the clouds a-hangin' low, 
 Then I take my dinner pail 
 And straight to work I go. 
 
 Dinner, dinner, dinner pail; 
 
 How I hope you never fail. 
 When the air is heap much hot, 
 And the clouds are scatterd far, 
 Then I take my dinner pail 
 And mount my Lizzie car ; 
 
 Dinner, dinner, dinner pail, 
 
 You will keep me outa jail. 
 Rollin' down the street I go 
 To the jobs that's never done ; 
 Foreman of the gang am I 
 To boss is lots o' fun. 
 
 Dinner, dinner, dinner pail, 
 
 Best thing bought with good old kale. 
 Dinner pail, and strong old pipe, 
 Burnt by many a baccy wad, . 
 You're two friends of long ago- 
 Best this side the sod. 
 
 Dinner, dinner, dinner pail, 
 
 You will keep me outa jail ! 
 
 Francis Paxton 
 
 [31] 
 
ANTIPHONY. 
 
 I. 
 The Dead of the Titanic to the Dead of the Lusitania. 
 
 Who visits our dim and desolate plain when the waves are calm 
 
 above, 
 When the winds fare soft and the winter is gone and the sun 
 
 smiles peace and love? 
 It was storm and ice and the wrath of the sea that widend our 
 
 ranks before 
 Who is this company, clad like ours, that halts between shore and 
 
 shore? 
 
 No matter. The past is always past and the future is nothing, here. 
 Hail, band so strangely like our band ! 'Tis little we have of 
 
 cheer ; 
 
 But the ocean's bed is a delicate bed, and sleep is a merciful state, 
 Whether you died by the hand of God or the hideous hand of hate. 
 
 II 
 The Dead of the Lusitania to the Dead of the Titanic. 
 
 We come from a world that is not your world of a few short 
 
 months ago, 
 For force and wrath are more than pain, and spite is blacker than 
 
 woe. 
 Your names have livd in the hearts of men, writ lovingly large 
 
 and plain, 
 
 But ours are lost in a million more of the deftly, hellishly slain. 
 We come from a world that is not your world; we have that in our 
 
 frozen eyes 
 That we yearn for the waves to wash upon till the day when the 
 
 dead shall rise. 
 There is warmth in the chill of the ghastly sea and the touch of a 
 
 dead host's hand, 
 And we share your rest with a deep relief you never can urider- 
 
 stand ; 
 
 For the ocean's bed is a delicate bed, and death is a blissful state, 
 Whether we die by the hand of God or the hideous hand of hate. 
 
 Roy Temple House. 
 
 [32] 
 
THE PASSING OF LOVE. 
 
 To know the warmth of love, 
 
 And then the chill 
 That comes with love's decline, 
 
 So wan and still, 
 
 To know the depth of love, 
 
 And then to stand 
 Where idle shallows drift 
 
 Upon the sand, 
 
 To know the faith of love, 
 
 And then to doubt; 
 To find at last the truth, 
 
 Love's lights are out, 
 
 To know the crown of love, 
 
 When love is won, 
 And then the thorns that pierce, 
 
 When love is done, 
 
 This is the bitter cup 
 
 That love must drain, 
 For love forever walks 
 
 Along with pain. 
 
 Angelo C. Scott. 
 
 TO JOHN HARLEY. 
 
 Lives of football men remind us 
 
 We can write our names in blood ; 
 
 And departing leave behind us 
 Half our faces in the mud. 
 
 ("The Sooner," 1911.) 
 
 [33] 
 
"AWEARY OF THE SUN." 
 
 Beneath the stars I stand at eventide; 
 1 send my thought far out to their confines. 
 The universe so great, the skies so wide 
 My world-crampt spirit sadly now repines. 
 
 Yon distant star which twinkles in the West 
 May be a world where every man is true 
 Where days are, like this night, with quiet blest 
 And morning brings God's pleasant task to do. 
 
 Roy Hadsell. 
 
 [34] 
 
WE SAID IT TOO! 
 
 "The time has come," the Stewdent cried. 
 "To speak of many things, 
 Of campus dates and football, 
 And why dad's check has wings." 
 
 "And don't the campus look just swell?" 
 
 "What did you do this summer?" 
 "It looks like Bennie's got the stuff, 
 The squad's an up-and-comer." 
 
 "We ought to get enrolld, I think, 
 Sometime, perhaps, next June." 
 "Have you seen Jimmie yet? He said, 
 That he'd get in at noon." 
 
 "I think I knew that girl somewhere 
 
 She lookt at me. But say 
 I'd like to see a Podunk Times, 
 They knew I went away." 
 
 "Let's move this seat back in the shade." 
 
 "Guess I'll have to blow." 
 "Mj have a coke? Well, I should say." 
 
 "Some cherry in it, bo." 
 
 Rolfe Engleman. 
 
 [35] 
 
PREPAREDNESS 1917. 
 
 We arm for Peace. 
 
 We thought the world had grown so old and, good 
 
 That we could go our way untroubld, since 
 
 We bear no lust of conquest, seek no spoils, 
 
 Nor covet any kingdoms, ports, or bounds. 
 
 But now, reluctant, we awake and brush. 
 
 The dream aside, and arm but arm for Peace 
 
 We wage no self-sought war; we own no foe 
 
 Except the enemy of peace ; we ask 
 
 No friend except the enemy of war ; 
 
 We lift no hand but to defend our own, 
 
 To make our country's name a name to love. 
 
 To honor, and to fear where fear is best 
 
 Thruout the earth; to put behind our word 
 
 The force to make it good. And that is all. 
 
 And thus the shatterd dream 
 May come again, and men may see the dawn 
 Of days when armed righteousness shall stand 
 The arbiter and guardian of Peace. 
 
 Angelo C. Scott. 
 
 [36] 
 
THE SONG 'OF THE COLLEGE DAYS. 
 
 Sing me the song of the college days 
 
 The days of the long ago; 
 Picture to me the old main hall 
 
 And the faces I used to know. 
 
 Mine be the light of the foot-ball stars, 
 Their battles and victories be mine, 
 
 Where youth and joy and love and corne back 
 Like the taste of a rare old wine. 
 
 Oh, sing me the song of the college days 
 
 And the shrill of the foot-ball cry, 
 And may I wake in those dear old days, 
 'Stead o' heaven when I die! 
 
 C. W. Fowler. 
 ("The Mistletoe,"" 1907) 
 
 ST. ANTHONY'S AT LONG BEACH. 
 
 The church was very still ; 
 
 Rosaries tapt the backs of the polisht pews 
 
 Mary and the Apostles lookt down from the walls, 
 
 The people were upon their knees ; 
 
 I alone croucht in the corner of a seat upright. 
 
 The church was very still ; 
 Music soft as air floated down upon us- 
 In one visual moment I saw us all, the kneeling people and myself 
 "Here we are," I said. 
 
 The church was very still ; 
 
 Sudden sorrow filld my heart for the kneeling people 1 
 
 And when sorrow filld my heart, I saw the heart of God. 
 
 Seeing the heart of God to be very pitiful, 
 
 I cried, "Have mercy, Lord, on me!" 
 
 Elizabeth Taylor. 
 
 [37] 
 
EPITAPH. 
 
 Morning of life and you 
 The tinted dawn for me ; 
 
 Sunset and twilight's hue 
 Star-set eternity. 
 
 Still hands, unseeing eyes 
 Below the dew-wet sod; 
 
 Yet memory survives 
 
 Thy hand, Almighty God. 
 
 Walter Morrow. 
 
 SUMMER DAY. 
 
 I walkt upon a little hill 
 Where the wind came running by 
 With quick march-music in my feet 
 And a dream before my eye 
 
 I walkt among the slender flowers 
 That nodded from the grass, 
 I heard them laugh like city folks 
 To see a poet pass. 
 
 And I laught to the laughing flowers 
 And the white clouds in the sky, 
 And I dreamd a dream and forgot it, 
 While the wind went running by. 
 
 John McClure. 
 ("Airs and Ballads," Knopf, N. Y.) 
 
 [38] 
 
DOWN IN OUR WELL. 
 
 Away down in our well it is 
 As black as my Pa's hat, or his 
 New coat he wears to church, 
 And if the bucket rope should lurch 
 I might fall in as my Ma said, 
 And get myself all wet, or dead. 
 
 I look down in it every day 
 
 Most, when my Ma's away, 
 
 And wonder if that's where Fairies live 
 
 And things that folks make stories wiv. 
 
 I guess there's elephants down there too, 
 
 And Squidgicum Squees and Wunks, don't you? 
 
 I hollerd once down in our well 
 
 Just to see if I could tell 
 
 What was in there. I tell you that 
 
 Something answered quicker'n scat ; 
 
 I said Hello, and it said "Hell-11 :" 
 
 They's an Echo-thing down in our well. 
 
 Roy Hadsell. 
 
 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 "Go on," my warm blood urges ; " 'tis but sin." 
 
 " Tis death," my cowld confessor warns; "come back." 
 Ah, soul of mine at hazard ; who's to win 
 
 This breathless game between the Red and Black? 
 
 Roy Temple House. 
 (From the Smart Set.) 
 
 [39] 
 
OKLAHOMA. 
 
 The South has its blossoms 
 
 Of fair jessamine, 
 The West has its mountains 
 The Northland its pine. 
 The East boasts its forests 
 
 Its hills and its streams, 
 But for me, Oklahoma, 
 
 The land of my dreams. 
 
 The pride of 'the South 
 
 Here mingles and thrills 
 With blood of the East 
 
 From New England hills, 
 The thrift of the North 
 
 With the strength of the West 
 Unite to make fair Oklahoma 
 
 Oklahoma the best. 
 
 There's a song in the wind 
 
 A smile in the air 
 A thrill in the sunshine 
 
 Like old wine so rare 
 Her sky line an in 
 
 Finite tender caress 
 The glow of the sunset 
 That crimsons her west ! 
 
 Fair Oklahoma, 
 Land of the strong, 
 Cradle of Legend 
 And story and song, 
 Brave heart of the nation 
 Soul of the West, 
 Thy children acclaim thee 
 America's best. 
 
 John Begg Cheadle. 
 
 [40] 
 
WHEN IT'S DARK. 
 
 When the old clock's strikin' 'leven 
 
 An' the lights are all put out, 
 An' the stars up in the heaven 
 
 Chase the shadders all about, 
 Then's when I start feelin' shaky, 
 
 An' wishin' I'd been good, 
 That I hadn't teased the baby 
 
 An' had carrid in the wood. 
 
 When the house is dark an' still-like 
 An' the clock ticks right out loud, 
 
 An' it's sorter cold an' chill-like 
 
 An' the moon's hid by a cloud ; 
 
 Then's when a feller's wishin' 
 
 That he hadn't been so bad ; 
 
 Hadn't run away a-fishin' 
 
 Ner had sasst-back at his dad. 
 
 When the old screech owl's a cryin' 
 
 By the winder on the south, 
 Then there comes a lump a-pryin' 
 
 Right up in a feller's mouth ; 
 An' the dark gits full o' goblins 
 
 Where the door-post allus stood, 
 Then a feller 'gins resolvin' 
 
 That from this on, he'll be good. 
 
 Ruth Margaret Muskrat. 
 
 [41] 
 
COME AND BIDE A WEE. 
 
 Come and bide with me, my love, 
 
 Come and bide a wee ; 
 An hour away from you, my love 
 
 Is half eternity. 
 
 The stars grow dim when you're away, 
 The sunlight pales, and skies turn grey, 
 Yet all would be so bright and gay 
 
 If you would bide a wee. 
 
 Come and bide with me, my love, 
 
 Come and bide a wee ; 
 The days are long and dreary, love, 
 
 When you're away from me. 
 My heart with love is all aflame, 
 Each beat's a whisper of your name, 
 And every throb rings loud acclaim 
 
 For you to bide a wee 
 
 Come and bide with me, my dear, 
 
 Come and bide a wee ; 
 The place is waiting for you here, 
 
 Come and bide with me. 
 It's lonely here without you, 
 Yet I could never doubt you 
 Nor would my love e'er flout you 
 
 If you'd ne'er bide a wee. 
 
 Ruth Margaret Muskrat 
 
 142] 
 
WALLEAH. 
 
 Light and airy are the footsteps 
 
 Of Walleah of my squaw; 
 And her laugh is like the gurgling 
 Of the crystal Spavinaw. 
 And her smile is like the blessing 
 
 Of the Master Manitou, 
 But her frown is like the vengeance 
 
 To the sinful he doth shew. 
 
 Black as night, in heavy tresses 
 
 Falls her long and braided hair ; 
 
 Swimming pools of midnight blackness 
 Are her eyes that dance and dare ; 
 
 And her cheeks with red are glowing 
 
 Like the wild bronze turkey's wing ; 
 
 And her voice is gay and lilting 
 
 Like the songs the bluebirds sing. 
 
 Gentle moon, shine on caressing 
 
 While Walleah sweetly sleeps, 
 Lullabies the leaves are singing 
 
 And the shy doe softly creeps 
 Through the trees a fleeting shadow 
 
 Lest she break stern silence's law 
 And disturb the pleasant dreaming 
 
 Of Walleah, of my squaw. 
 
 Ruth Margaret Muskrat. 
 
 [43] 
 
APRIL'S FOOL. 
 
 I loved a lady once 
 Tweedlc-dum, tweedle-di; 
 Ah, what a merry dunce 
 In the mad world was I. 
 
 Love was a fairyland. 
 Life was to me 
 All playing of fiddles, 
 And minstrelsy. 
 
 All the mad world was fair, 
 All the trees green, 
 I was a jester there 
 To a gay queen. 
 
 I was a knight-at-arms, 
 I was a king, 
 
 I would brave death for her, 
 Caper or sing. 
 
 Tweedle-dum, tweedle-di ; 
 What a mad fool was I ! 
 
 John McClure. 
 ("Airs and Ballads," Knopf, N. Y.) 
 
 [44] 
 
AS I LAY DREAMING ABED. 
 
 As I lay dreaming abed 
 
 Between the night and day 
 It suddenly enterd my head 
 
 How all folk are fey. 
 
 It suddenly enterd my head 
 
 How he and I and she 
 Would suddenly pass away 
 And vanish utterly. 
 
 John McClure. 
 ("Airs and Ballads," Knopf, N. Y.) 
 
 [451 
 
THE WOMAN WHEN SHE'S MAD. 
 
 I'm fond of shrapnel and of bombs 
 Worse things than wounds I've had, 
 
 But please excuse me when it comes 
 To a woman if she's mad. 
 
 1 would not shun a duel with swords 
 
 Football's a harmless fad, 
 But I'll ne'er engage in a war of words 
 
 With a woman when she's mad. 
 
 1 used to think death out of grace 
 
 Was well not quite so bad, 
 Till I learnd that Satan kept the place 
 
 Where the Women all were mad. 
 
 But when the tantrum's over quite 
 
 And everything is said, 
 A lovely sylph all smiles and light 
 
 Is the woman who was mad. 
 
 And, on the whole, I'll not complain 
 
 Nor wish I were a shad 
 I think I'll try my luck again 
 With the woman who was mad! 
 
 John Begg Cheadle. 
 
 [46] 
 
TO A DEAD MOUSE IN A TRAP. 
 
 We are born short of sight ; but some of us, 
 Some who are human, grow to presbyopes 
 And set lack-luster eyes on distant stars 
 And infinite impersonals ; the children 
 Who worship gilt and sugar, break their gods, 
 (Breaking their hearts with every bitter blow), 
 And pin their faith to others; till at last, 
 Finding this life a plated thing, they turn 
 To Heaven, to a listless second choice. 
 
 Happy the scatterd, joyous polytheists, 
 Who, loving. God and gossip, prayers and gold, 
 Float smoothly here and yonder, like the bee 
 Who, finding this bloom dry, falls into that one ; 
 And, failing of such versatility, 
 I have been tempted now and then to call 
 Happy a young lieutenant I have known, 
 Who held both arms out to the Long-desired 
 "And claspt the bloody earth with those two arms, 
 
 Yes as I drop you on the garbage-heap, 
 Tiny crusht glutton, I half envy you. 
 
 Roy Temple House. 
 
 (From .Poetry.) 
 
 [47] 
 
WHEN YOU ARE OLD. 
 
 Mayhap, when you are old and grey 
 You will remember me, 
 And nod your white head and say : 
 "A quaint lean fellow, he. 
 
 "I remember the tricks of his speech, 
 The snatches he used to sing. 
 I think he said that he loved me 
 Better than anything." 
 
 John McClure. 
 (From "Airs and Ballads," Knopf, N. Y.) 
 
 GOOD-BYE. 
 
 I've heard men say that they want no moaning of the bar 
 
 Nor sadness of farewell when they depart; 
 They hope their going no one's happiness will mar 
 
 Nor sorrow bring to any tender heart. 
 F'or me, I don't subscribe to any such, 
 
 I'd just's well admit it, for it's true, 
 For I want folks to miss me mighty much 
 When I cash in, don't you? 
 You see, I hope that when I reach the end 
 
 Of this long journey thru this world below 
 That every kid in town will feel he's lost a friend 
 
 And every man I've fought, a worthy foe. 
 And when I'm gone I hope that comrades call my name 
 And say mid scenes of laughter and good cheer 
 "He had his faults ; he had his virtues just the same ; 
 
 He was a bully chap ; I wish he were here." 
 
 Edward Everett Dale. 
 
 [48] 
 
LIFE'S GOAL. 
 
 Getting the good of God, 
 
 Making the most of man ; 
 Climbing to cloud from clod 
 
 This is life's primal plan. 
 
 Thinking now of the "then," 
 
 Living for "there" while here ; 
 
 Siding with angels when 
 
 Beasts in us fawn and leer. 
 
 'Mid all the tiresome strife 
 
 Of queries, questings, and greeds, 
 
 Finding the meaning of life 
 
 In the deeper depths of the creeds ; 
 
 Sinking the self out of sight 
 
 In the good of the larger whole ; 
 
 Seeking but one thing, the right 
 This is thy life, my soul ! 
 
 Charles A. S. Dwight. 
 
 149] 
 
OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 Over the sea go the ships 
 
 Far on their venturesome trips, 
 
 Out to the sky-brim wide; 
 
 Over the deep so dark and green, 
 
 Forward to far shores all unseen, 
 
 With a reckless, trackless course between, 
 
 And only a star for a guide. 
 
 Out over life goes my dream, 
 Out to Hope's Islands that seem 
 Sea-girdld in beauty afar. 
 What is my purpose to fare there, 
 What are the dangers to dare there, 
 What is the cargo I bear there, 
 \nd where, Oh, where is my star? 
 
 Sandford Salyer. 
 
 [50] 
 
ME AND PEG AND JERRY. 
 
 What ties are formd in gay youth-time, 
 
 When life is free from troubles, 
 When cares that age those in their prime, 
 
 To youth are floating bubbles. 
 My thoughts go roaming thru the years, 
 
 To days all bright and merry ; 
 Three pals that laught away their fears, 
 
 Just me, and Peg, and Jerry. 
 She was our queen, we were her knights, 
 
 Our trophies were her treasure, 
 She helpt us make and fly our kites, 
 
 And shard each childish pleasure. 
 We built huge castles in the air, 
 
 To house our pretty fairy, 
 We vanquisht foes that fought us there, 
 
 Just me, and Peg and Jerry. 
 And then when courting days arrived, 
 
 We three still clung together; 
 Each evening found us side by side, 
 
 In fair or wintry weather. 
 Our twenties brought a new affright; 
 
 We vowd we'd never marry ; 
 We tried to win the losing fight, 
 
 Just me, and Peg, and Jerry. 
 But years that soon rolld by made clear, 
 
 That she could hold one only; 
 One laddie won the girl so dear, 
 
 And left the other lonely. 
 Two of the three are life pals now. 
 
 With kiddies, Jim and Mary; 
 The other dreams with shadowd brow, 
 Just me, not Peg and Jerry. 
 
 Waldo Wettened 
 
 [51] 
 
DEUS IRRISUS* 
 
 God was disturbd in Heaven, 
 Up rose to Him again 
 The thunder of a million guns 
 And curses of mad men. 
 
 God leand Him from His house of peace, 
 He saw a vast combat, 
 A million in the Valley of Death 
 And all hell glad thereat. 
 
 God said "Let this damnd slaughter cease." 
 
 But from his valley grim 
 
 Death with cackles of musketry, 
 
 Laught long and loud at Him. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 (University Oklahoman, September 25, 
 "Title by the Editor. 
 
 |52| 
 
THE HIKE. 
 
 They hiked four days 
 
 Through heat and haze 
 
 And sand and sun a-burning. 
 
 All tired out 
 
 They faced about, 
 
 And homeward came returning. 
 
 The thornd mesquite 
 
 It snaggd their feet 
 
 That beat the burning desert ; 
 
 But lizards lean 
 
 By yuccas keen 
 
 Enjoyd the scorching desert 
 
 The miles draggd by, 
 
 The cans went dry, 
 
 The soldiers swore and stumbld. 
 
 A thread of smoke 
 
 A ray of hope, 
 
 "For there's the camp," they mumbld. 
 
 The sun turnd red, 
 
 And dropt his head, 
 
 And dipt beneath the purple ; 
 
 The star-bright eyes 
 
 Began to rise 
 
 To brighten heaven's circle. 
 
 The soldier men 
 
 Came marching in, 
 
 Amid a cloud that stifles. 
 
 With weary tramp 
 
 They reacht the camp, 
 
 And stackt their dusty rifles. 
 
 All wringing wet 
 
 With salty sweat, 
 
 They loost their galling sandals, 
 
 And dropt their packs 
 
 From aching backs 
 
 And lit their thousand candles. 
 
 Josh Lee. 
 
 [53] 
 
THE ANSWER. 
 
 Filld with a world-old madness. 
 The lust to slay and rule, 
 Grinning their devil's gladness. 
 Drooling their "kultur" drool, 
 Forth they fared with their legions, 
 All honor they trampM in mire, 
 Filling the earth's fair regions 
 With stench of hell's foul sire. 
 
 Under the seas went they, questing 
 Like sharks to maim and kill 
 Mothers and babes a-breasting 
 To work their wicked will. 
 Death raind down from the heavens 
 On harmless age and youth ; 
 Far flasht the pit's red levins- 
 No mercy, no qualm, no ruth. 
 
 So when they pause to parley, 
 To bargain and balance their gain 
 As measures of wheat or barley 
 To a world that's mad with pain, 
 "No" should the answer thunder ; 
 "We shall not rest or quail 
 Till the dragon is rent asunder 
 And shatterd his hellish mail." 
 
 --Francis Pax ton. 
 
 [54] 
 
HEARTS AFLAME. 
 
 Hearts aflame with freedom's passion, 
 
 Waken now to duty stern! 
 Dream no longer craven fashion 
 
 Strike, and let your anger burn. 
 
 Yonder stand your brothers bleeding, 
 Stricken, spent in freemen's cause! 
 
 Bitter wrongs and pity's pleading 
 Give us now nor rest nor pause. 
 
 Go in Christ's name ! Strike and spare not. 
 
 Smite the spoiler, lay him low! 
 Men must go where cowards dare not 
 God's poor bruisd ones need the blow. 
 
 Banner bright to free hearts given, 
 Streaming fair beneath our sky, 
 
 Where the black war clouds are driven 
 WE can dare, and WE can die! 
 
 Francis Paxton. 
 
 [55] 
 
"GOD BLESS YOU, MY SON." 
 
 There's a little woman with heart so brave, 
 That when to the army her son she gave, 
 She bade him farewell without a tear, 
 And whisperd these words into his ear: 
 "You'll come home when the war is won; 
 Be a brave boy ; God bless you, my son." 
 Her farewell sentence rang in my head 
 As over the waves the convoy sped. 
 
 Down in the hull of a mighty ship, 
 Smackt by the kiss of the ocean's lip, 
 As night came down with a blackend dome, 
 My thoughts flew back to mother and home. 
 Her farewell sentence occurd to me, 
 Rockt in the arms of the restless sea. 
 
 I felt the pulse of the engine's throb, 
 
 I heard the pumps with their squeaking sob, 
 
 I heard the hideous siren blow, 
 
 And thought of the liquid depths below. 
 
 I felt so lonely and half afraid, 
 
 That I raisd my thoughts to Him and prayd, 
 
 And thru my head these words did run 
 
 "Be a brave boy; God bless you, my son!" 
 
 And then one time when off on a leave, 
 
 I went to the town they call Le Neive 
 
 And this is the part I blush to tell. 
 
 My soul was tried by the powers of hell; 
 
 The temptress beckond, I followed on, 
 
 For I am human subject to wrong. 
 
 Devils then whisperd into my ear: 
 
 "No one will know; you've nothing to fear." 
 
 I was yielding myself unto sin, 
 
 Which is an enemy forever to men. 
 
 My soul was losing its fight with hell, 
 
 When into my ear as clear as a bell, 
 
 Rang the last words from my mother's tongue 
 
 "Be a brave boy; God bless you, my son!" 
 
 [56] 
 
I turnd in my tracks and clencht my hand; 
 I said to myself : "I'll be a man !" 
 Those words had servd me wonderfully well ; 
 My soul had won its fight with hell. 
 Oh, what a help that sentence has been 
 It rings in my ar with powerful din : 
 "You'll come home when the war is won ; 
 Be a brave boy; God bless you, my son!" 
 
 Josh Lee. 
 
 WHEN WE "WENT IN." 
 
 Yonder where the drum-fires roll 
 Lives or dies fair freedom's soul; 
 Only cowards' lips can shrink, 
 War's cup to drink. 
 
 Wake my brothers ; Wake and hark 
 Where the war clouds drift so dark 
 
 How the bruisd hearts cry and call 
 As bond slaves all ! 
 
 God's the glory, God's the praise, 
 Who the dead to life can raise, 
 
 That He prickt and pierced our hearts 
 With shame's sharp darts ! 
 
 Wakg and smite now, smite and kill 
 Serfs who work their master's will, 
 
 Then a fairer freedom springs 
 From graves of kings ! 
 
 Francis Paxton. 
 
 [57] 
 
CAMP CODY. 
 
 Out on the plains of Mexico, 
 West from the town of El Paso, 
 Stretching for miles and great in host, 
 Quietly lies a training post, 
 
 Where the sun frowns down, 
 
 And the sage turns brown, 
 
 And the snow it snows, 
 
 And the wind it blows. 
 
 Far to the North and even West 
 Tranquilly sleeps a mountain crest. 
 Dim in the air of miles between 
 Ragged and rough the peaks are seen, 
 
 Where the low clouds skim 
 
 On the blue sky's rim, 
 
 And the red streaks fade 
 
 In the black night's shade. 
 
 Ravens of carrion, soaring high, 
 Lazily wait while the dogies die, 
 Sail o'er the plains of Mexico, 
 
 Where the dog-owls screech, 
 
 And the .cactus curls, 
 
 And the dry bones bleach, 
 
 And the whirlwind whirls. 
 
 Out in the sun the soldiers drill; 
 Stalwart and grim they train to kill ; 
 Drilling in cold and training well, 
 Drilling in heat as hot as Hell, 
 
 For the sun beats down, 
 
 And the men turn brown, 
 
 And the coyotes wail, 
 
 And the sandstorms sail. 
 
 Out on the plains the men grow strong, 
 Marching in columns the whole day long 
 Working away with a silent grin, 
 Sv/eating the sweat of brawny men, 
 And the days they dawn, 
 
 [58] 
 
And the men march on, 
 And the cactus curls, 
 And the whirlwind whirls. 
 
 Josh Lee. 
 
 GALLIA 1NV1CTA. 
 
 Yonder on the hills of France 
 
 And in her smitten vales 
 Death still leads his devil's dance, 
 
 But courage never fails. 
 
 Land of Jeanne, age on age 
 Thy valor rare shall praise; 
 
 Thou dost breast the heathen's rage 
 Thru length of weary days. 
 
 Soul of France! thy Roland yet 
 
 Is riding through thy land; 
 Trumpet-lips his lips have met, 
 
 On sword-hilt set his hand! 
 
 Francis Paxton. 
 
 [59] 
 
BING! 
 
 With smashing swing Sir Julian Byng 
 
 Has bifft the Bodies' line, 
 And Fritz has fled like anything 
 
 Gone where the woodbines twine ! 
 
 'Twas British pluck, and no good luck, 
 That crumpld Fritzy's cellars ; 
 
 Pitch in, Sir Byng, you good old buck, 
 And biff him till he bellers ! 
 
 Oh ! Tommy's there, and on a tear 
 
 He "carries on" like thunder ; 
 He's here and there, and everywhere 
 Where will he stop? I wonder. 
 
 Francis Paxton. 
 Nov. 25, 1917. 
 
 TO BELGIUM. 
 "The bravest of all are the. Belgians." Caesar. 
 
 Brave little nation of toilers, 
 
 Bravest of all the brave, 
 Trodden by reptile spoilers, 
 
 Triumphing over the grave ! 
 Drag now the days so bitter 
 
 (Grinds the gods' great mill!) 
 Spoilers shall vanish as litter 
 
 Abides thy godlike will! 
 None shall station deny thee, 
 When strikes the hour of fate; 
 None but madmen decry thee, 
 
 Warder of freedom's gate ! 
 
 Francis Paxton. 
 
 [60] 
 
THE ALLIED AIRFLEETS. 
 
 Aloft thru heaven's high halls 
 The airplanes dip and plunge ; 
 
 Where morn or even's breath calls 
 They leap and loop and lunge. 
 
 Thru opalescent mist, 
 
 In clouds that melt and roll, 
 Thru smoke by sunlight kiss, 
 
 Dealing to Death his dole. 
 
 Pilots of courage rare, 
 
 Daredevils grim and grave, 
 Gunners who do and Sare, 
 Keep you God, and save ! 
 
 Yours the high endeavor 
 
 Chimera-beast to smite ; 
 Yours the glory forever 
 
 Of courage stainless, bright. 
 
 Yours the glad elation 
 
 To drink high heaven's wine ; 
 Yours the consecration 
 
 Of Love well-nigh divine. 
 
 Francis Paxton. 
 
 [61] 
 
GO TO IT!' 
 
 Smite them, Ferdinand, 
 
 Ferdinand Foch; 
 O what a guerdon grand, 
 
 Smashing the boche ! 
 
 Hip and thigh, smite 'em, 
 
 Generalissimo. 
 Seventy-fives, bite 'em 
 
 Nowise miss 'em, tho ! 
 
 Go to it cheerily, 
 
 Man-size Commander 
 Mightily, merrily, 
 
 Turn on your dander ! 
 July 19, 1918. Francis Paxton. 
 
 *"Six Miles In And Going On!" in "box-car" letters topt the 
 front page of the TIMES of Oklahoma City on which these 
 verses appeard. 
 
 [62] 
 
TO OUR DEAD. 
 
 Soldier or sailor, nurse or doctor, or airman brave, 
 You who softness scorning servd and died to save, 
 You there follows across the sullen and sluggish stream 
 The hope of hopes that falters but follows forever the gleam ! 
 You we send our prayers, our tributes of love and tears - 
 You shall lend us scorn for sluggard's or coward's fears. 
 (From "The Victory Sooner," 1919) Francis Paxton. 
 
 [63] 
 
THE CHRIST. 
 
 (After Maurice Donnay.) 
 
 Above the lonely washing of the tide, 
 
 Where sea-gulls wing their way, a pillar stands, 
 Bearing a Christ with bleeding feet and hands, 
 
 A pious artist fancy crucified. 
 
 Time goes ; and storms have hurst and raged and dit:c! 
 The noon sun burns; the moonlight's silver bands 
 Draw coolness; and beyond the silent sands 
 
 The restless waves are never pacified. 
 
 Against the dazzling sunset's bloody gold; 
 
 In silver dawns ; for months and years untold ; 
 In happy springtimes, summertimes of flame, 
 
 In gentle autumns, winter's rough alarms, 
 With wasted feet that cold wave-kisses maim, 
 
 The stone Redeemer opens .his black arms. 
 (From The Craftsman) Roy Temple House. 
 
 |64] 
 
SONG. 
 
 Tell me not how loveliness 
 
 Brightens and flies; 
 Life is a chameleon 
 
 Of all changing dyes, 
 
 "Beauty, beauty perishes," 
 
 Loveliness must pass? 
 Even so; yet life is still 
 
 Lovely as it was. 
 
 Beauty begets beauty, 
 
 Tho all beauty fades ; 
 Life is a chameleon 
 Of all changing shades. 
 
 John McClure. 
 (By Permission. Copyright, 1919, Smart Set Co., Inc.) 
 
 65 1 
 
WITCHERY, 
 
 Sparkling eyes, whose witching glance 
 Looks out in mischief so serenely, 
 Whose -drooping lashes so enhance 
 Your beauty, felt so keenly, 
 
 I cannot lose your haunting spell, 
 The glamor of your brightness; 
 I cannot know and may not tell 
 Your charm and fire and lightness. 
 
 Into your depths I cannot look, 
 Nor fathom sure your meaning, 
 But could I read you as a book 
 I'd be forever gleaning ! 
 
 This much I know, this much I vow 
 And swear it all sincerely, 
 I cannot tell the "why"I trow, 
 I love you love you dearly. 
 
 Francis Paxton. 
 
 [66] 
 
THE PROMENADE. 
 (Adapted from Edmond Rostand) 
 
 The broad and cheerful features of die moon, 
 Framed in a collarette of cloudy white, 
 
 Peerd down upon us, roguish Pantaloon, 
 
 Twixt two old poplars dozing thru the night. 
 
 The sky afar had half the tints of noon; 
 
 The lake drew out in bands of trembling light 
 The broad and roguish features of the moon. . 
 
 Framed in a collarette of cloudy white. 
 
 Adown the path our pulses beat in tune ; 
 
 Two walls of fragrance rose to left and right ; 
 And riding up the sky with importune 
 
 Assurance, round and insolent and bright, 
 We saw the roguish features of the moon. 
 (From Moods.) Roy Temple House. 
 
 [67] 
 
AN ANGELUS. 
 
 Yellow arc the fields, as gold; 
 And yellow is the harvest sun 
 Low-bending o'er the stubbld wold 
 That reaches yon far horizon. 
 
 The ragged shocks with tanned thatch 
 Extend like huts upon a plain ; 
 The reaper's rolling reel^doth catch 
 The bending ranks of ripening grain. 
 
 The sunlight dies to live again; 
 The corn unreapt would -die indeed. 
 Thus fields are won with toil and pain 
 That bread be promist as we need. 
 
 Here Thestylis and Corydon 
 Beneath the sky's low hemisphere 
 Move slowly forward on and on 
 To garner sheaves of a new year. 
 
 A benediction, in its march 
 The evening breeze bears with a kiss 
 Beneath the heaven's shining arch, 
 Blue as the eyes of Thestylis. 
 
 Roy Hadsell. 
 
 168] 
 
EGO. 
 
 My members wither like weeds 
 
 Yea, as all matter must, 
 
 My blood and my hair and my tender eyes, 
 
 And my heart, are coming to dust. 
 
 And the trees and the hills and the flowers, 
 And the planets that sail the skies, 
 The worlds, with the years and the hours, 
 Wither to wind likewise. 
 
 These make my visible garment, 
 And go fast fleeting away. 
 But I am not startld or daunted, 
 Who know I am greater than they. 
 
 John McClure. 
 (Airs and Ballads, Knopf, N. Y.) 
 
 MEADOW LARK 
 
 Chill January day, and snow in the hollows, 
 The bare brown prairies lifting away to the sky; 
 Lonely the wind amid the wide desolation 
 Where, percht on a shivering weed by the roadside, 
 Fronts he the world with his breast of the sun's own gold. 
 Two simple notes his song, yet all his heartae music 
 Thrills in the flute-sweet tones as over and over 
 Cheerly he sounds them. Just a common meadow lark, 
 Brave-hearted singer of the golden days to be! 
 
 Zoe A. Tilghman. 
 
 [69] 
 
THE OPTIMIST. 
 
 Far down the lane where blew the wind so bold, 
 
 And crisply cool upstird the drifted leaves, 
 
 The lark there poisd his breast of black and gold 
 
 Against the sunlight golden web God weaves 
 
 And preend his wings with dainty touch of bill. 
 
 His voice was mute, as if his heart were stird 
 
 By songs unsung his throat could never trill 
 
 When lo! the far, faint note of brother bird 
 
 A challenge to the morning's chorus rang. 
 
 He oped his beak in merry, madcap glee 
 
 Full-hearted rondels sounded as he sang 
 
 A world where pain and sorrow scarce could be 
 
 If like this lilting bard, the meadow lark, 
 
 We to the whispering voice of cheer would hark. 
 
 Francis Paxton. 
 
 [70] 
 
SARAH BENHARDT. 
 (After Edmond Rostand) 
 
 In these dull decades, you alone, O fair, 
 
 Pale Princess, Queen of attitude, have skill 
 To wear a lily, wield a sword, and still 
 
 The heart a moment, treading a broad stair. 
 
 You rave and stifle in our heavy air, 
 
 You poetize, and die of love, and kill, 
 
 And dream and suffer, working your hot will 
 
 On helpless hearers, bound with your bright -hair. 
 
 Avid of suffering, you wound us all; 
 
 Your plaints are echoed through a troubld hall, 
 
 And down your cheeks, 'tis our salt tears that steal. 
 
 And sometimes, Sarah, when your fervent lips 
 
 Spell endless magic, furtively you feel 
 The kiss of Shakespeare on your finger-tips. 
 
 Roy Temple House. 
 (From The Theater Magazine.) 
 
LONE TREE. 
 
 Oh Lone Elm Tree on the rocky hill, 
 The winds blow thru you; the winds are still, 
 And you are alone with the stars to-night 
 To keep the vigil from light to light. 
 
 Oh Lone Elm Tree on the rocky heights 
 Sweet the winds whisper o'summer nights, 
 And could I but sit at your feet again, 
 Perchance their sweetness would ease my pain. 
 
 Twisted and gnarld by many a blast, 
 Bravely, you stand 'neath the stars steadfast, 
 Teach me, tho alone, to be steadfast and brave, 
 For the stars look down on a new-made grave. 
 
 Zoe A. Tilghman. 
 
 |72| 
 
WHEN LORENA BUYS A HAT. 
 
 Before Lorena buys a hat, 
 A gown, or anything like that, 
 She hunts a mirror, then and there, 
 And tries it on with anxious care; 
 And even brings a friend or two 
 To study every point of view, 
 To see if it's becoming. 
 
 But I was wondering today 
 If, when she has a word to say 
 Or something she would like to do, 
 She studies every point of view 
 This side and that, in front, behind 
 Before the mirror of her mind, 
 To see if it's becoming. 
 
 Roy Temple House. 
 (From The Ladies Home Journal.) 
 
THE LOT. 
 
 Farther and farther from my birth I fled 
 
 The Self which hounded me, and* lookt aside 
 
 Before men's eyes like one who will not own 
 
 The cur that fawns and follows at his heels. 
 
 I fled the haunting presence to my friends 
 
 And stood with them to humble it, and "Down!" 
 
 I cried; but yet it would not down. 
 
 I ran to find a refuge in old art 
 "Here in the shadow of the ancient works 
 Of other men he cannot find me now." 
 Again the presence patterd at my back, 
 And all the thoughts and fingers of the dead 
 Were but the food of Self. I rose and ran. 
 
 I hid me in society with men 
 
 Which hung me round with curtains strong and fair- 
 
 Which seemd to say, "Rest here. He will not come.' 
 
 So rested I, but felt the eyes of Self 
 
 Upon me thru the texture of the cloth. 
 
 Then all enraged and fearful I presst on 
 And found a love, and turnd about and laught 
 Into the straining face of Self, and said 
 "Go thou! I have another, fairer self. 
 I am done with thee! I have no use for thee." 
 Then for a time his panting pace was stayed; 
 He lingerd on the outskirts of my joy, 
 Then came once more, and I again before 
 Fled on unholpen by that other soul. 
 
 At length I took a cup and pourd and drank 
 And made my Self a fool, laught at him; 
 Laught "What have I to do with such as thou?" 
 Yet still, with wistful and uncertain step, 
 Reproach and shame, my Self sped after me. 
 
 I dropt the cup. Thru pages of the past 
 And probings for the future thru the dreams 
 Of other men, and lands of other folk 
 Still, still he came and gaind upon me still. 
 
 [74] 
 
Aghast, I built a daily barricade 
 Of weariness, and sameness, and hard work; 
 But when he came he climbd with hasty feet 
 And lolling tongue above my muniment. 
 
 I bade him go. I said "Come not too near! 
 I would not have men know me by thy name, 
 By thy foul face!" And yet my words were vain. 
 
 Then in despair, without a refuge left, 
 
 Alone and empty-handed I remaind 
 
 To fight the fight. In me there was no strength. 
 
 And now no more I flee along my life 
 
 While he pursues; but as one hound we hunt 
 
 Men, thoughts, and things our universal prey. 
 
 Walter Stanley Campbell. 
 (In University of Oklahoma Magazine, February 1916.) 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES. 
 
 The tinkling stars of heaven 
 
 They jingle as they run 
 On seventy-and-seven 
 
 Mad race-ways round the sun. 
 
 The racing winds of heaven 
 
 With singing laughter chase 
 Those seventy-and-seven 
 
 Mad ne'er-do-wells thru space. 
 
 John McClure. 
 (By Permission. Copyright, 1919, New Fiction Publishing Co.) 
 
 [75] 
 
SONG. 
 
 Tell me not how loveliness 
 
 Brightens and flies: 
 Life is a chameleon 
 Of all changing dyes, 
 
 "Beauty, beauty perishes," 
 
 Loveliness must pass? 
 Even so: yet life is still 
 
 Lovely as it was. 
 
 Beauty begets beauty, 
 
 Though all beauty fades: 
 Life is a chameleon 
 
 Of all changing shades. 
 
 John McClure. 
 (By Permi-ssion. Copyright, 1919, Smart Set Co., Inc.) 
 
 BUDDHA. 
 
 There's a little china paper-weight before me on my desk, 
 A tiny heathen deity, ill-favord and grotesque, 
 All staind and crackt and batterd in the most outrageous style; 
 But his one redeeming feature is his bright and sunny smile. 
 
 My wife is fond of using him on hazel-nuts and tacks, 
 My children smear his cheerful face with sweets and chewing wax; 
 He tumbld off the window-ledge and lost us once, awhile, 
 But nothing can attenuate his bright and sunny smile. 
 
 O poor, maltreated heathen with obliterated eyes, 
 How oft for lesser wrongs than yours our angry passions rise! 
 We need to learn, as you have learnd, that men of brains beguile 
 The pains and ills of living with a bright and sunny smile. 
 
 Roy Temple House. 
 
 (From The Nautilus.) 
 
 [76] 
 
WIND ON THE SOUTH CANADIAN 
 
 Murky red, with tortuous tread, 
 A lawless, bedless, homeless river 
 Dips its head in skulking dread; 
 And sand-whirls rising quiver, 
 Madly race, and quake, and shiver, 
 Goaded like fiery snakes and blind, 
 By the ruffian roaring wind. 
 
 Over the bridge and up the ridge, 
 The ruffian jeers at .the red man's steers; 
 The red man's hat, like a whirling midge, 
 Darts through the gale above the piers; 
 The tumble-weed tacks and veers, 
 In antic haste like a thing insane 
 With shambling legs all crookt by pain. 
 
 Rides on high thru a dust-clad sky, 
 The ceaseless,- deathless, soulless wind. 
 Hurls the stinging sand in the eye 
 Of the sun, the sun now dim behind 
 The scraggy trees that fret and grind, 
 Like faltering men who strain at a task 
 More than a lord has a right to ask. 
 
 Speeding night soon drowns the light 
 Of the sand-coated sun in the west; 
 But ever the wind in its frenzied might, 
 Drives thru the dark without stop or rest, 
 A tireless, shrieking, scourging pest, 
 Dashing, crashing, on sand-hill and tree, 
 In wave upon wave like the waves of the sea. 
 Theodore Hampton Brewer. 
 
 [77] 
 
TO A FRYING-PAN. 
 
 Steel-staunch comrade of my wanderings, strange 
 
 Magician, alchemist, that so couldst change 
 
 Untempting viands to ambrosial fare, 
 
 Fit for the gods themselves, had they been there 
 
 Better, to me, thy unpretentious "eats" 
 
 Than chef's most costly gastronomic feats. 
 
 Grimy and black, thou still to me art dear, 
 
 Nor sweeter music never charmd my ear 
 
 Than thy resounding clangor when my pard 
 
 With his knife-handle smiting thee full hard, 
 
 Beat the tattoo that summoned me to "chuck." 
 
 In days auspicious, or in hardest luck 
 
 Thru desert sand and heat, or mountain snows, 
 
 Thru all, the memory of thy service glows. 
 
 Be with me till I cross the great divide 
 
 Shall I not miss thee on the other side? 
 
 Blest comforter of my faint inner man, 
 
 Thou, tried by fire my faithful Frying-pan. 
 
 Zoe A. Tilghman. 
 (From Adventure, 1919; permission of the Ridgeway Company.) 
 
 |78J 
 
GREETING AFTER ABSENCE 
 
 Where the incessant sweet odor of roses 
 
 Perfumes the sunny days from end to end, 
 
 And the polisht leaves of the poplar 
 
 Shake in the wind; where the opulent ocean 
 
 Lies immense and uplifted under the sun: 
 
 Where the tip of the upright sequoia 
 
 Sways to and fro against the blue sky: 
 
 Where the immaculate dawn of the mountains 
 
 Ushers the changeful day, and the down-going sun 
 
 Gathers unto himself all the day's wonders 
 
 To fling back in one accumulate wonder 
 
 Over the earth: where the faint flower, 
 
 Pendulent over the pebbld and musical brook, 
 
 Blooms in its deep and unfrequented covert: 
 
 Where the dissonant solitude quenches the spirit 
 
 In clamorous cities: 
 
 There have I walkt with blithe or failing steps, 
 
 An*d these things have I lookt upon 
 
 With eager and with languid eyes. 
 
 And now I turn me Home. That star 
 
 Hath risen and hath gone to rest 
 
 In one sole spot. It hath seemd faint and far, 
 
 Impossible. But I have lookt to it 
 
 By day and night, and now 
 
 Its rising and its setting give me peace. 
 
 Angelo C. Scott. 
 
 179] 
 
THE OTHER SIDE OF IT. 
 
 Said Jones of Smith: "I'm sure you can't 
 Conceive a man more ignorant. 
 He'd win a prize, I'd go his bail: 
 The ninny calls a bucket 'pail'." 
 
 Said Smith: "I hope I'll never see 
 More utter, dense stupidity. 
 For simple brainlessness he's struck it. 
 The blockhead calls a pail a 'bucket'." 
 
 Oh, Smith and Jones! Oh, Whig and Tory! 
 Oh, feudists turning green fields gory! 
 Why will it never dawn on you 
 A pail might be a bucket, too? 
 
 Roy Temple House. 
 
 (From Success Magazine.) 
 
 YOU KINDLY PEOPLE. 
 
 You kindly people that may read 
 
 I pray you overlook 
 All indiscretions I have made 
 
 In this or any book. 
 
 And pray your everlasting God 
 
 So be it please His whim 
 To show some mercy to my soul 
 
 If it have angered Him. 
 
 And pray those little gnomes and sprites, 
 
 And ghouls and goblins foul of name, 
 To leave my body be o'nights 
 And pinch it not, for shame! 
 
 John McClure. 
 (Permission. Copyright, 1919, Smart Set, Inc.) 
 
 [80] 
 
*THE LABORER AND HIS HIRE. 
 
 It once was the fashion to weep and to sigh 
 
 For the down-trodden laborer who livd in a sty 
 
 No bread in the cupboard, no flour in the bin, 
 
 The children all hungry and dad full of gin. 
 
 His wages one dollar or maybe a pair, 
 
 And oft out of work he livd on thin air; 
 
 Such was the life of the suffering Wop 
 
 But the turn of the wheel has brought him to the top. 
 
 Now it's the preacher, professor or clerk 
 Who can't make a living tho' hard he may work. 
 He wears his old clothes and his old over-coat 
 And he walks where he used to take trolley or boat. 
 He scours the cheap markets for cabbage and bones 
 To fill the kids' stomachs and still their weak moans; 
 He dodges the plumber and runs from his bills 
 And the first of the month he takes to the hills. 
 
 The price of potatoes and butter and milk, 
 The cost of broadcloth and sugar and silk 
 Are out of his range, and he passes them by, 
 And he munches a cracker where once he ate pie. 
 His sons and his daughters are working for wage 
 They're sporting the styles that are now all the rage; 
 They snicker at dad and they smile on the Wop 
 For dad's at the bottom and t' other's on top. 
 
 John Begg Cheadle. 
 ^Written when prices were at their peak. 
 
 [81] 
 
o.\ 1'EERING INTO A CHURCH AS I PASSED BY. 
 
 Alone in the cathedral's vacancy 
 
 She knelt at prayer, her pallid face divine 
 Set saint-like 'gainst the window's tracery 
 
 Which blent her beauty with its dim design. 
 Ah, what a face, tortured with pain's wan smile! 
 
 I lookt, then turnd away for heart's relief, 
 Leaving her praying all her weary while, 
 
 Lost in the cloister silences of grief. 
 Soft closed the door upon her; it was well 
 
 Silent I stole out to the market place, 
 Who has seen angels has no word to tell; 
 
 But pray I that I may no moment's space 
 In all forgetful hours prove infidel 
 
 Unto the high religion of that face. 
 
 Sandford Salyer. 
 
 THE MADMAN'S DEATH. 
 
 At last he dies, in that shrill plasterd cell 
 He dies again, who died long years before, 
 Like the young fruit that rotted round the core 
 
 But clung a time and witherd, ere it fell. 
 
 Who knows what tales the ashy lips could tell 
 Had they but spoken when the dull eyes wore 
 A dreamy ecstasy that comes no more, 
 
 Or his ears beat to some far battle-swell? 
 
 His life was like a bell whose tone is thin 
 And false and broken, since the fatal day 
 
 When the* brute casters reveld at the inn. 
 Now all the dissonance has died away; 
 
 His ear is careless of the mad-house din. 
 
 His dust is quiet, and his soul is gay. 
 
 Roy Temple House 
 (From the New York Times.) 
 
 [82] . 
 
LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 All is seeming; nothing is 
 You are not, you only seem; 
 I am not, I only dream. 
 Much I've learnd 
 When I've learnd 
 Only seeming is. 
 Then let seeming be our guide; 
 Let me always seem to kiss you; 
 Let my love always caress you; 
 Let me seem forevernear you, 
 Since only seeming is. 
 
 E. T. 
 The Mistletoe, 1908 
 
 183] 
 
HEART O'DREAMS. 
 
 Tell me, Heart o'Dreams, 
 
 When will you come to me? 
 
 Meet my face in the day's full light, 
 Greeting me? 
 
 Where, oh Heart of Dreams 
 Did you first come to me? 
 
 Perhaps from out the shadows, 
 Of some forgotten dawn 
 
 I felt your presence calling 
 Ere the night was gone. 
 
 Or half waking from my rest 
 
 Felt you leaning over me. 
 Felt soft hands upon my breast, 
 
 When the waning moon was low, 
 Sinking dimly in the west. 
 
 Go, my Heart of Dreams, 
 
 Back thru the Ivory gate, 
 
 Come no more thru the radiant door; 
 Let me wait! 
 
 Wait, oh Heart of Dreams, 
 
 Till you may come to me, 
 Free from bonds of the spirit world; 
 
 Since I am earthly born, 
 Come the path of dreams that are true, 
 
 Thru the Gate of Horn. 
 
 You my visions shall fulfill, 
 
 And the throbbing heart of me 
 
 Your soft hands shall touch and still; 
 As I felt you long ago, 
 
 One with me in heart and will. 
 
 Haste, oh Heart of Dreams! 
 
 Will you come soon to me? 
 Long the day and long the night, 
 
 Waiting thee! 
 
 Zoe A. Tilghman. 
 
 [84] 
 
BALLAD-OLD STYLE. 
 
 There was three maidens in one bower, 
 
 Rede this riddle if so ye can, 
 Of all fair maids they was the flower, 
 
 And the devil is a gentleman. 
 
 There was three maidens from dawn to gloom 
 Span in a bower upon the loom. 
 
 There was three maidens from dawn till night 
 Span in a bower for their delight. 
 
 Gay Thomas he was dresst in silk, 
 His fingers was as white as milk. 
 
 Gay Thomas wore a golden ring, 
 He was handsome abune a' thing. 
 
 Gay Thomas came with staff and scrip 
 And kisst these maidens upon the lip. 
 
 Gay Thomas he came ower the sea 
 And kisst these maidens abune the bree, 
 
 Gay Thomas fisht for the golden minnows 
 Gay Thomas was the prince of sinners. 
 
 There was three vixens in one bower, 
 Rede this riddle if so ye con, 
 
 There was three vixens from that hour, 
 And the devil is a gentleman. 
 
 John McClure. 
 (By Permission. Copyright, 1919, Smart Set Co., Inc.) 
 
 [85] 
 
SONG OF THE MAD PARSON. 
 
 A-passing down by Bugnall Brig 
 
 Below the Devil's Perch 
 I met the fairies dancing 
 
 As I went home from church: 
 
 Wee Mab of ghostly beauty 
 
 (Of all earth's queens most sweet!), 
 Her maids that know no duty 
 
 But that of dancing feet, 
 
 Her maids in gauze and gossamer 
 
 And elfin diadems 
 Weaving in faery circles there 
 
 The witchery of dreams. 
 
 And I forgot the Eucharist 
 
 And I forgot the day 
 For Mab, the Beautiful Unkisst, 
 
 And slim Titania. 
 
 Among the moonbeams glancing 
 Like arrows from the snow 
 I saw the fairies dancing 
 
 On twinkling heel and toe. 
 
 John McClure. 
 (By Permission. Copyright, 1919, by Smart Set Co., Inc.) 
 
 [86] 
 
BRICK DUST. 
 
 It's just a heap of ruin, 
 
 A drunken brick carouse 
 This thing my spirit grew in 
 
 That once was called a house. 
 
 An attic where I scribld 
 
 Thru baking summer days, 
 While street-pianos nibbld 
 
 At the patient Marseillaise. 
 
 The spider-landlord squatted 
 
 In a web of dinner-smells, 
 And people slowly rotted 
 
 In little gossip-hells. 
 
 I hated all I learnd there 
 
 And yet I could have cried 
 For a little oil I burnd there, 
 A little dream that died. 
 
 Louisa Brooke. 
 
 (From Poetry.) 
 
 [871 
 
WHERE HAVE YOU BUILT YOUR FIRES? 
 
 Where have you built your fires, 
 By roadside bridge or stream? 
 What satisfied desires 
 Have smolderd with their gleam? 
 
 What woodland patches brown 
 What hillocks, vales, or meadows, 
 Have drawn you from the town 
 To meet the evening shadows? 
 
 Do frogs and crickets cry 
 Where wide the river bends, 
 Do ribbons thread the sky 
 Where your white smoke ascends? 
 
 Does darkness cross the world 
 As twilight colors go? 
 Do winds with flags unfurld 
 Yet fan your coals aglow? 
 
 W T here have you built your fires 
 Your wayside shrines to raise, 
 Where have you built your fires 
 To glow as in God's praise? 
 
 Roy Hadsell. 
 
 [88] 
 
THE SONG OF THE POLLIWOG. 
 
 Sing we now a song of science 
 
 All about the polliwog; 
 And the changes that befall him . 
 Until he becomes a frog. 
 
 Cho. Co-ca-che-lunk-che-lunk-che-lay-ly 
 
 Co-ca-che-lunk-che-lunk-che-lay; 
 Co-ca-che-lunk-che-lunk-che-lay-ly 
 
 Heigh-ho, chick-a-che-lunk-che-lay. 
 
 First the polliwog is a worm, sir, 
 
 And he has no legs at all; 
 Neither eyes nor ears nor nostrils 
 
 And must on his stomach crawl. 
 
 Cho. 
 
 Next he gets a tiny mouth, sir, 
 
 Branching gills and a finny tail; 
 
 And with legs, sir, only starting 
 He's a fish, sir, without fail. 
 
 Cho. 
 
 But the tail soon wears away, sir, 
 
 And the legs still longer grow; 
 And with lungs replacing gills, sir 
 
 He begins his breath to blow. 
 
 Cho. 
 
 Respiration and digestion 
 
 Are begun on a new plan; 
 This is how the polliwog changes 
 
 Into a batrachian. 
 
 Cho. 
 
 Joseph Whitefield Scroggs. 
 
 [89] 
 
POET AND PEASANT. 
 
 Aloft on a swaying spray sits he 
 And chants the wood's full minlstrelsy, 
 While I dig deep in my garden plot 
 To make spuds grow where they did not. 
 Poet and peasant we. Full well he knows 
 That poems are needed as well as prose. 
 Francis Paxton. 
 
 CHRISTMAS, 1900. 
 
 (Dec. 21-3 are the shortest days in the year; Dec. 25 is the 
 first day that is always longer.) 
 
 Tomorrow shall be longer than today; 
 And each succeeding day shall longer be 
 Until the spring and glorious summer come 
 Again, and flowers shall bloom and corn shall wave 
 And apples ripen in the sun. And tho 
 The darkest, bleakest, coldest days are yet 
 To come, the length'ning days our hearts assure 
 That warmth and life and joy and harvest time 
 Shall come again to earth and to the lives 
 Of men. 
 
 And so it was when Jesus came. 
 For tho long ages, dark with woe and sin 
 And ignorance and cruelty, were yet 
 To come, and justice, right and truth and faith 
 In God and man were yet to fail the hearts 
 Of men. yet still each passing century 
 Doth show the progress of that kindly reign 
 Whose advent told of peace on earth to those 
 Of kindly will, till men shall hate and hurt 
 No more, and earth's long summer time shall come, 
 And peace and love and kindly deeds shall make 
 The earth as heaven is. Till then we pray 
 Each Christmas time, "God bless us every one" 
 
 Joseph Whitefield Scroggs. 
 
 [90] 
 
MEDEN AGAN. 
 (In Nothing Too Much.) 
 
 There is a freedom that makes free. 
 
 Another freedom binds. 
 There is a light by which we see, 
 
 Another light that blinds. 
 
 Arthur R. Curry. 
 
 "CITY". 
 
 The tawdriness of all that cheap array 
 Brought back a longing for his home once more. 
 The carts on pavement at the break of day 
 Made a rattle like a dead mans' throat before 
 The fleeing soul is gone. The distant roar 
 Of engines coming in, the newsboy's call, 
 The drab cold room with splintery unclothed floor 
 Contrasted to a peaceful farm in fall 
 Made him rise from a cold hard bed and curse it all. 
 
 Maurice W. Kelley. 
 
 [91] 
 
SASSOOX. 
 
 Bleak pictures were the scenes I saw 
 Of war without the trumpet's blare. 
 No green fields dotted here and there 
 With struggling knights in bright array 
 No drum's long roll, no loud hurrah 
 As brightly colored flags advance 
 There were no men with sword and lance 
 Who singing went into the fray. 
 
 I saw the dead men's glassy stares 
 Peer fixt at me in dim and white 
 Uneasy light of -ghostly flares. 
 Out in the wires, caught unawares 
 In some uncounted hour of night, 
 They died like birds in trapper's snares. 
 Maurice W. Kelley. 
 
 [92] 
 
THE JEWELER. 
 
 The jeweler put out a velvet pad, 
 Pleasing to touch and yellow as pure gold. 
 Thereon he placed a row of glowing rubies; 
 Then, nearer me, a row of cold, white diamonds; 
 And last, a row of tranquil amethysts. 
 Then, looking up to catch my admiration, 
 "These," he said, pointing, "are erotic sonnets; 
 
 And these are poems of the intellect 
 
 And these are of devotion and the spirit. 
 Some lapidary, taking stones of value, 
 Has made them into gems of sparkling beauty. 
 But see you this," he said, the while withdrawing 
 A purple pad whereon a necklace lay, 
 A coil of lucent pearls. He raised them up 
 And fondld them between us and the light. 
 "No lapidary, friend, is vain enough 
 To touch an instrument to one of these. 
 These are the lovely thoughts that move in beauty 
 Like maidens sporting in a lily pond." 
 He coiled the necklace on the purple pad; 
 Then, looking up, but pointing while he spoke: 
 "This is the poetry that needs no art 
 But that inherent in the form God gave it. 
 We make our diamonds, but we search for pearls." 
 
 Arthur R. Curry. 
 
 (Texas Review.) 
 
 [93] 
 
JOHN KEATS. 
 
 His was a tale that none might laugh and tell, 
 Spent passion on a blind, unfeeling wall, 
 A flickering flame that struggld in a squall 
 With none to trim its wick. A rose that fell 
 Too rich with beauty suckt from wind and sky. 
 He gazed on lambent starlight, tinted dawn, 
 Death came, a blighting breeze, and he was gone. 
 Oh beauty masked by somber things that die. 
 
 Maurice W. KeHey. 
 
 YOU. 
 
 It used to be my eyes saw but the dark 
 
 And I was priosnd in a monotone 
 
 Of dull and sweating grayness where I cried 
 
 And thought no ears had heard it but mine own. 
 
 I heard a voice like silver singing flutes, 
 And felt your vibrant presence ere you came. 
 You found me strangely sullen, saw I had no light, 
 Tore off the blind and gave to me the flame. 
 
 Maurice W. Kelley. 
 
 [94] 
 
IN THE LIBRARY. 
 
 Not on immediate entrance do we find 
 
 The sacred spirit that abideth here. 
 
 The beauty and power of thought do not appear 
 Thru backs of books. But when the mind meets mind 
 Across the centuries we stand resigned 
 
 To feelings unexpresst. Then are we near 
 
 To all the ancient worthies we hold dear. 
 Here are their spirits truly best enshrined. 
 
 Succesive triumphs of devoted thought, 
 
 The forms of fancy, and emotion's power, 
 The full achievement that the mind has wrought 
 
 The centuries present us at this hour. 
 But greater glory than the past has brought 
 
 Shall, let us trust, become the future's dower. 
 
 Arthur R. Curry. 
 (Indianapolis Star.) - 
 
 195] 
 
ORCHESTRA. 
 
 Low and alone, as if it feard to wake 
 
 From sleep that monstrous slumbering orchestra, 
 
 The timid hautboy 'gan its haunting wail. 
 
 Pale tones were some that came from out its bell 
 
 But reedy, sharp, and high were all the rest. 
 
 Its halting courage seemed to rise as it 
 
 Climbd up the scale. Nor did it pause until 
 
 The dizzy heights of sound were reacht. 
 
 With one quick flight of melody back down 
 
 It came to lower tones and richer voice 
 
 To chant a sing-song strain. A blasting blare 
 
 And brasses drownd its feeble piteous song. 
 
 Slow was the strong majestic sounding hymn 
 
 And rich in timbre were the tones they got. 
 
 Then all died out save one lone instrument, 
 
 Coild like a serpent 'round the player's throat. 
 
 Far down the scale it went until it came 
 
 To tones that blended with the kettledrums. 
 
 A muffled roll, a distant, low fanfare, 
 
 And soldiers seemd to march before my eyes. 
 
 Maurice W. Kelley. 
 
 [96] 
 
A PRAYER. 
 
 For time, O Lord, to live for this I pray. 
 
 I would not be forever presst and driven. 
 
 Sometime, I trust, the leisure shall be given 
 
 To every man to sit at close of day 
 
 With carefree mind and watch his children play 
 
 About the hearth. Let there be time to read 
 
 The longer poems, such as meet the need 
 
 Of deep emotion, bringing thoughts that stay. 
 
 But let it be reward for righteous toil. 
 
 I do not ask that this be given free; 
 
 Thou, Lord, must find no sadder sight to see 
 
 Than souls retarded by the strain and moil 
 
 Of competition, lifting up to I'hee 
 
 Hands witherd serving in the fight for spoil. 
 
 Arthur R. Curry. 
 
 SONNET. 
 (A musician is about to lose his arm.) 
 
 Oh how I love to tuck it 'neath my chin 
 
 And make my bow dance on the vibrant strings. 
 A single touch and all my sufferings 
 
 Have fled from consciousness. Then I begin 
 
 To coax from out that box the moods of men. 
 
 Their joys with soft and flute-like tones it sings, 
 But other days their grating murmurings 
 
 Are shrilly high, incisive, hard, and thin. 
 
 And must I lose this all? No more to mould 
 Its plastic soul in shapes or make those bold 
 
 Strong tones that seem too large for its small size. 
 Oh how I'll miss that blissful wonderment 
 Remaining after all my strength is spent. 
 Oh Lord take not my arm instead my eyes. 
 
 Maurice W. Kelley. 
 
 [97] 
 
THE MOURNER. 
 (Italia Dolorosa, 1909) 
 
 Leave me awhile alone to dwell apart, 
 
 Let me a space upon mine anguish think, 
 Till I shall learn this fearful cup to drink, 
 
 Till I shall raise this burden on my heart. 
 
 Summon me not to council or to mart, 
 
 In schemes of gain my careful soul to sink. 
 How shall I, who have trod the timeless brink, 
 
 So soon in fleeting glories take my part? 
 
 For I have stood in the presence of the King, 
 And I have felt his dreadful shadow near, 
 And I have seen the mightiest bow in fear, 
 
 And all my sons with terror shuddering. 
 
 And all my ancient heritage decay, 
 My glorious years in ruin pass away. 
 
 Louisa Brooke. 
 
 |98| 
 
SLEEPER. 
 
 His ears were soothed by the rhythm of his breath 
 And racing thoughts died down within his brain. 
 Cool finger-tips of breezes brusht his brow 
 And lagging limbs were freed of numbing pain. 
 
 He heard night breezes whispering in the trees 
 And listened to nocturnal insect-hums. 
 Then all grew calm until a throbbing pulse 
 Beat in his ears like the thump of muffled drums. 
 
 Awareness came and fled like ebbing tides. 
 An easing sigh and tenseness passt from him; 
 Down dropt a veiling mantle over all 
 And held him in a calmness, cool and dim. 
 
 Maurice W. Kelley. 
 
 IN PULVERE STELLA. 
 
 Ages come and go; 
 
 The tireless, endless flow 
 Of thought's swift pulses knowledge brings 
 Of all deep buried, hidden things 
 
 But man's elusive self alone; 
 
 A fiery star dust sown, 
 To earth's dead clay it lendeth wings! 
 
 Francis Paxton. 
 
 [99] 
 
WHEN MAPLE-BUDS ARE BORN. 
 
 There's golden glimmer in the air, 
 
 A tender twittering in the eaves, 
 And all the tufted green of leaves 
 Is dewy in the freshing morn 
 The sweetest time in all the year, 
 
 The time when maple-buds are born. 
 
 The fair tree-tracery, cool and sere, 
 Is hidden in a mist of green, 
 
 Where yet the clear, true lines are seen, 
 Like lover's thoughts in veil of scorn 
 This sweetest time in all the year, 
 
 The time when maple-buds are born. 
 
 And will not you, my very dear, 
 
 Receive the Whisper of the Spring, 
 And hear my throbbing pulses sing 
 Of life and love this lusty morn? 
 This sweetest time in all the year, 
 
 The time when maple-buds are born. 
 
 Louisa Brooke. 
 
 1)00] 
 
EULOGY OF A UNIVERSITY STUDENT. 
 
 Good Students all, of every sort, 
 
 Give ear unto my spiel; 
 For if it be some merits short, 
 
 You'll find, at least, 'tis real. 
 
 There is a man in Okla. U. 
 
 Quite faithful (in his way); 
 He never cuts a class, 'tis true, 
 
 But when he is away. 
 
 For studiousness he's surely blest, 
 There's wisdom in his looks; 
 
 He always has his lessons best 
 When he looks on his books. 
 
 Examinations come, and then 
 
 He's always strictly fair, 
 And never tries to cheat, but when 
 
 He has a pony there. 
 
 The highest grades he always hails, 
 When standing on third floor, 
 
 He ne'er in any courses fails, 
 
 But those which he takes o'er. 
 
 Should he continue noble deeds, 
 We need not feel surprise; 
 
 He'll never fail when he succeeds, 
 He'll live until he dies. 
 
 Benjamin H. West. 
 
 1101] 
 

 TO A PESSIMIST. 
 
 Dost pleasure take in constant whining, 
 In tiresome grumbling and repining? 
 Why, man alive, though "cakes and ale" 
 Are not life's program, sometimes fail, 
 Are now and then, methinks their flavor 
 Is better hath a sweeter savor, 
 Because these days of humbler fare 
 Secure a relish fine and rare. 
 Then cheer up, friend, and banish gloom; 
 Go pluck the flower that's now in bloom. 
 Who doth not so is surely grooming 
 Himself to be an idiot blooming. 
 
 Francis Paxton. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 And this is truth: Although the way be long, 
 The immortal Rose of Beauty shall not die. 
 Yest're'en in blossomd in the sunset sky, 
 
 To-night in bloomd within the poet's song. 
 
 Louisa Brooke. 
 
 [102] 
 
\ 
 
 CORONA ABDICATA. 
 
 A maiden fair, with lots of hair, 
 
 A "woman's crown of glory", 
 Retires; a bedroom chair supports her hair 
 
 That is another story ! 
 She doft that crown and laid it down 
 Because "Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. ' 
 
 Francis PaxUi, 
 
 UNIVERSITY RUBAIYAT. 
 
 Come, get to work, and by the lamps of night 
 Just cram, with little thought for more delight. 
 Your mind has such a little time to work, 
 For those examinations are in sight 
 
 In dreary round of I's or. flunk and fail, 
 Whose music is alternate sigh and wail, 
 
 Each class abode its day and passed away, 
 And now we live nor do we change the tale. 
 
 While quizz draws nearer and more near, 
 When all the rest are trembling now with fear, 
 
 Beware, and do thou study too, 
 Or days will come when there is less of cheer. 
 
 Here with a book of Greek in some dim hall, 
 A fountain pen, a book of notes, and all 
 
 Alone with thee, dear pony all alone 
 Methinks that even I there could not fall. 
 
 Ah me! could students do as they desire, 
 And change this system of exams entire, 
 
 How soon we'd show them just what we could do; 
 We'd go right down and set the town afire. 
 
 Agnes Berrigan. 
 
 [103] 
 
SONNET TRIAD. 
 
 Fancies. 
 
 I drink from many fountains cool and bright, 
 
 With little thought of how they come and go ; 
 
 I see a tiny portion of their flow, 
 
 Then thru the wood their streams are lost to sight. 
 
 What hidden truths their waters may enfold ! 
 
 Perhaps from summits of eternal snow 
 
 They come ; and far beneath, for aught we know, 
 
 May course their silvery way through veins of gold. 
 
 These runnels dance along through day and night, 
 
 In moonlight spaces merging into dreams. 
 
 We often come to drink of them by day, 
 
 But seldom do we linger as we might 
 
 And watch the evening sunlight's threaded gleams 
 
 Or hear what all the little ripples say. 
 
 II. 
 Thoughts. 
 
 A thought developt is a mighty stream; 
 Beginning with the fountain at its source, 
 It changes charm and melody for force. 
 No merging now into a flitting dream ; 
 No dalliance now with any sunset gleam ; 
 But with its eddies and its grindings hoarse, 
 By thwartless laws it finds its destined course, 
 And cuts its way through many a granite seam. 
 
 As time goes on, new stages will appear, 
 
 A vanishing of falls and sudden turns, 
 
 A broadening valley and a peneplain. 
 
 But still the world is young, and far and near 
 
 The torrents writhe and roar as each one yearns 
 
 To find its way its level with the main. 
 
 [104] 
 
. III. 
 
 Truth. 
 
 And that vast ocean with its constant tide, 
 Eternal Truth, where streams and runnels rest, 
 Combining force and beauty at their best, 
 And giving them extent both deep and wide 
 Ah, well may force and beauty here abide ! 
 Thou hast thy bounds, O Sea, but thou art blest 
 With perfect unity from East to West, 
 And may rejoice with unoffending pride. 
 
 The fountain knows itself akin to thee ; 
 
 The runnel sings to thee its hopeful song ; 
 
 The river cleaves the mountain to be free 
 
 To come. And though their ways be hard and long, 
 
 They know thy peace and unity shall be 
 
 The heritage of both the weak and strong. 
 
 Arthur R. Curry. 
 
 1 105) 
 
SONNET TETRAD. 
 
 Mirage 
 
 I. 
 
 Beyond the sand of desert days appear 
 Cities and palm trees, glittering and green, 
 Cushiond in excellence ; no hovering fear 
 Threatens the brightness of these visions clean. 
 But when the sun has flamed and falterd down 
 Receding pathways to an endless night, 
 Afloat before the wavering palm and town 
 Comes your dim face uncertainly alight. 
 It is not fraught with loveliness, and brings 
 No balm of healing out of Eastern wells ; 
 Eternal blackness round its radiance clings; 
 The eyes are avenues to nameless hells. 
 But I, fool like, foredoomd to play the clown, 
 
 Choose this dark splendor over palm and town. 
 
 II. 
 
 Being unburdend with a definite 
 Straight-laced existence, love, you are inconstant ; 
 New moods outweigh your reason as you flit ; 
 Your spirit's utterant of a single instant. 
 You are a heathen harem sylph, a Pole, 
 A Carmen carved in ivory from old Spain, 
 Your dark eyes glitter like an envious coal 
 And you become a summer child of rain. 
 How can I bind you, how entrap the rich 
 Unsullid beauty of your changefulness? 
 Your look destroys all incantations which 
 Seek to ensnare by stealth your artlessness. 
 Well, since I love you, be what you will be: 
 Mine is a love that loves inconstancy. 
 
 III. 
 
 This is a changing age O be not chary 
 Of your divergent personalities ! 
 Be Rosalind for me when I am merry, 
 And Desdemona when my laughter flees. 
 Wear the stiff hoops and rose-embosst brocades 
 That Raleigh lookt on and found captivating; 
 
 [106] 
 
Be Helen for my bliss when goodness fades, 
 And stately Portia for the time of mating. 
 Be all women for my ungovernd mood, 
 I am in love with all your easy graces. 
 You are a frenzied fever in my blood. 
 I seek you in a million lovely faces. 
 Be Portia, Helen, Rosalind, and be 
 Changeless and constant as the eternal sea ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 You are not here, vou are not anvwhere 
 Save in the haunted groping of the mind 
 Toward some far beauty, fatuous and fair, 
 Unseen, remote, unguesst by humankind. 
 What is the love I flourish but a shield 
 To hide the bareness of a dismal plain, 
 Whereon propitious suns are far afield 
 And pale, moist-hungry seedlings, but no rain? 
 But lo, I bring you nearer to this parent 
 Uncomfortable barrenness of self ; 
 Trimly in gauzes, ruffles newly starcht, 
 You stand and stare, a moist unmasked elf 
 Prating of coolness ; thus I love you near, 
 For bud and blossom, leaf and bough appear. 
 
 R. Lynn Riggs. 
 
 |107] 
 
OLD MASTER. 
 (A Portrait of E. P. A.) 
 
 Why, sir, I'll do her portrait eagerly 
 If you'll but give consent. There'll be no cost, 
 For hours I spend at painting such a face 
 I count as golden moments never lost. 
 
 But, sir, that face with all the depth it shows 
 
 Would lose that strength by backing it with blue. 
 
 It needs some subtle motive full of force 
 
 An ancient war-scard shield of brazen hue 
 
 Where swords and eagle claws loom dimly thru 
 
 Her hair that hangs like sunbronzd morning mist. 
 
 I'll paint those long black lashes, drooping lids, 
 
 Her half hid eyes and lips that must have kisst 
 
 Red poppies Night had drencht with perfumed dew. 
 
 Those bared white shoulders more than common clay 
 
 Are subtile music made of line and curve. 
 
 Oh Master, thou who lovest all beauteous things, 
 
 Guide well my hand and do not let it swerve. 
 
 When I am long since dead they'll view this then 
 And marvel at the softness of her throat. 
 Slowly from out awed silence there shall come, 
 "I wonder what those deep brown eyes connote?" 
 
 Maurice W. Kelley. 
 
 [108] 
 
AT EVENING. 
 
 Her silhouet was black against the pane 
 
 Made dully golden by the candle light. 
 
 She let her fingers wander, falling as they might 
 
 And sang a song that I would hear again. 
 
 Each modulation was unconscious art 
 
 So soft and pleasing like the mellow rays. 
 
 Fled from my brain were thoughts of bitter days 
 
 And a calm and peaceful quiet filled my heart. 
 
 -Maurice W. Kelley. 
 
 [109 J 
 
FINIS 
 
 I have fought no mighty 'fight , 
 I have not affronted Fate ; 
 
 I have kept no fire alight 
 
 Pale within no temple-gate. 
 
 I have not done anything 
 
 That is noble, brave or true ; 
 
 Nay, I cannot even sing 
 
 Rondels beautiful or new. 
 
 I have not been worth my bread. 
 
 Yet thus much I beg in fee, 
 When I lie among the dead 
 
 Fo!ks may murmer this o' me; 
 
 "Here lies one within the tomb 
 
 Pencil stilld and parchment furld 
 
 Who was somewhat overcome 
 
 By the beauty of the world." 
 
 John McClure 
 
 ("Airs and Ballads," Knopf, N. Y.) 
 (THE END.) 
 
 [110] 
 
The Editor has introduced certain unusual spellings into verse 
 printed in this book. He deems these departures from common 
 usage sound in themselves, but if any person directly interested 
 should regard them as unwarranted liberties the editor heartily 
 apologies, as far as changes in that material are concernd. Again, 
 "Pardon, gentles all" 
 
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