THE HUMBLER POETS FIRST SERIES THE HUMBLER POETS: A COLLECTION OF NEWSPAPER AND PERIODICAL VERSE, 1870 TO 1885. Edited by Slason Thomp son. Eleventh Edition. Crown 8vo, gilt top $1.50 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS CHICAGO THE HUMBLER POETS (SECOND SERIES) A COLLECTION OF NEWSPAPER AND PERIODICAL VERSE 1885 TO 1910 BY WALLACE AND FRANCES RICE CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1911 COPYRIGHT A. C. McCLTJRG & CO. 1910 Published, March, 1911 THE- PLIMPTON PRESS [WD-O] NORWOOD MASS- U -B A ACKNOWLEDGMENT publishers and compilers are glad to acknowledge their obligations to Mr. Franklin P. Adams; to Mr. George Ade, for a football ballad written while he was in college; to Mr. Irving Bacheller, for the "Ballad of the Sabre Cross and 7," from "In Various Moods," copyrighted, 1910; to Miss Katherine Lee Bates; to Mr. Christopher Bannister; to Mr. James Barnes; to Mr. L. Frank Baum and Messrs, the Reilly & Britton Company; to Mr. Charles G. Blanden; to Mr. Louis James Block; to Mr. George E. Bowen; to Mrs. Grace Duffie Boylan; to Mr. Thomas H. Briggs, Jr.; to Doctor Almon Brooks, for the poems of the late Francis Brooks; to Doctor Richard Burton; to Mr. Charles J. Buell; to Mr. Bliss Carman; to Mrs. Willa Sibert Gather and the Gorham Press, Boston, for "Asphodels" and "L Envoi"; to Mr. Madison Cawein; to Mr. John Vance Cheney and Messrs. the Houghton Mifflin Company, for "San Francisco" and "The Man with a Hoe: A Reply"; to Mr. William Hamilton Cline and Messrs, the Franklin Hudson Publishing Company, for "The Glory of the Game," from "In Varying Moods"; to Mr. D. A. Clippinger and the Chicago Madrigal Club, for "I Know the Way of the Wild Blush Rose," by Mr. Willard E. Keyes; to Mr. Edmund Vance Cooke and Puck, for "The Third Person"; to Mr. Charles H. Crandall and Messrs. G. P. Putnam s Sons, for "The Cinder Path" and "The Call of the Stream," from "Wayside Music"; to Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company, for "Angelina" and "Discovered," by the late Paul Laurence Dunbar; to Miss Caroline Duer and Messrs. P. F. Collier s Sons, for "An International Episode"; to Doctor Charles S. Eldredge; to Mr. Horace Spencer Fiske; to Mr. Elliott Flower; to Messrs. Forbes & Company, for verses by the late Ben King; to Mr. Sam Walter Foss and Messrs, the Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company, for "When a Man s Out of a Job"; to Miss Evelyn Gail Gardiner; to Miss Beatrice Hanscom and Messrs, the Frederick A. Stokes Company, for " Procrustes Bed," from "Love, Laurels, and Laughter"; to fl/Iiss Frances Viola Holden; to Mr. John Jarvis Holden; to Messrs, the Houghton Mifflin Company, for "The Kearsarge," by the late James Jeffrey Roche; to the late Mary H. Hull; to Mr. Henry M. Hyde; to Mr. Charles James; to Miss Amanda T. Jones; to Mr. William F. Kirk; to Mr. Samuel Ellsworth Kiser; to Mr. Gustav Kobbe vi ACKNOWLEDGMENT and the New York Herald, for "Homeward"; to Mr. Louis Albert Lamb; to Mr. Walter Learned; to Mr. John McGovern; to Mr. Alexander Maclean; to Mr. Oliver Marble; to Miss Angela Morgan; to Mr. Allan Munier and the Atlantic Monthly, for "Beyond"; to Mr. Richard Kendall Munkittrick; to Mr. Wilbur Dick Nesbit; to Mr. John Myers O Hara; to Mr. Warren Pease; to Mr. Harry Thurston Peck, for "Heliotrope" and "Evolution," copyrighted 1905 and 1910; to Mr. William A. Phelon and the Chicago Journal, for "Paul Jones s Last Voyage"; to Mr. Frank Putnam; to Miss Lizette Wood worth Reese and Messrs, the Houghton Mifflin Company, for "Death s Guerdon" and "A Song"; to Mrs. Georgiana Rice; to Mr. Robert Cameron Rogers and Messrs. G. P. Putnam s Sons, for "Love s Cup," from "For the King, and Other Poems"; to Mr. Ray Clarke Rose; to Mr. Charles Edward Russell; to Mr. Edwin I. Sabin and Messrs, the Century Company, for "Mothers" and "The Poor Man s Automobile"; to Mrs. Margaret Elizabeth Sangster and Messrs. P. F. Collier s Sons, for "The Absent Boy"; to Mr. Clinton Scollard; to Mr. William Shattuck; to Mr. Ray D. Smith; to Mrs. Helen Ekin Sterrett, for the verses by the late Frances Ekin Allison; to Mr. Herbert Stuart Stone, for an inclusive permission to use verses from The Chap Book; to Mr. Ivan Swift; to Mr. Bert Leston Taylor; to Mrs. Caroline Twyman, for the verses of the late Joseph Twyman; to Clarence Urmy and Messrs, the Frank A. Munsey Company, for "The Judgment Book"; to Mr. Ernest L. Valen tine; to Mr. Culver Van Sly eke; to Mrs. Ellen Rolfe Veblen; to Mr. Nixon Waterman and Messrs. Forbes & Company, for "The Man in the Cab"; to Mr. William Wallace Whitelock and Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Company, for "There Were Giants in Those Days," from "When the Heart is Young"; to Miss Florence Wilkinson and Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Company, for "Boys and Girls," from "Kings and Queens"; to Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox and Messrs, the W. B. Conkey Company, for "True Charity," from "Poems of Power"; to Mr. Edward Winship; to Mr. Edward Ryan Woodle; to Mr. Clement V. Zane; and to the many more whose work, anonymous and other, has been taken from the columns of the daily newspapers through a series of many years, with all thanks for such verses, which have finally made this collection possible. INTRODUCTION "WHEN Longfellow wrote "The Day is Done" in 1844, with the line of advice, " Read from some humbler poet," from which the title of this volume and its pre decessor is derived, he left the meaning of the phrase quite clear in one respect: just before he says, specifi cally, that in so reading one is not to seek his consola tion "from the grand old masters, not from the bards sublime." So far, then, he evidently intends to include among the humbler poets all who do not fall within the select and august company designated, yet are indeed true poets within their smaller and nearer field. During the compilation of this volume many were asked exactly what the phrase signifies to them, and however various the answers, they are not irreconcilable with one another. To one, the humbler poet is he whose work is generally disregarded by the public. To a second, it signifies the writer of fugitive verse. To a third, he who writes occasionally, without being a pro fessed poet, either in his own estimation or that of others. A fourth takes it to mean the newspaper versifier, from him who fills the "Poet s Corner" in the rural weekly to the almost preposterously versatile person attached to the staff of a daily metropolitan journal. Still a fifth identifies, as Longfellow does, the word "humbler" with "minor." And Mr. Slason Thompson, in his explanatory note to the First Series of "The Humbler Poets," appears to cut the knot by making the demarcation "almost arbitrarily along the line of the collected works of the Lesser Poets. " In Vll viii INTRODUCTION other words, he included in the previous volume only such verses as had not been printed in other published books, giving his work thereby a value, as it had an originality, which leaves it at the end of a quarter of a century still popular, still filling a place not trespassed upon by any other collection of verse. Analysis will make it evident that all these defini tions, practical and theoretical, come to a single end, and that this is the end the Cambridge poet himself had in mind. Practically all contemporary poetry is disregarded by the public. In consequence it is, speak ing quite accurately, fugitive. Of necessity, verse writers to-day are, with few exceptions, not professed poets and will certainly admit themselves not to be bards sublime, whether their effusions are printed in the newspapers or in the magazines. All, therefore, are minor poets. Mr. Thompson s line of demarca tion, moreover, did not remain permanently drawn, for no small proportion of the verses he gathered with such discrimination have been included, during the twenty-five years which have since elapsed, in the col lected works of the lesser poets. All, it would seem, are in accord with Longfellow, with the exception of one verse writer who was vastly insulted at not being ranked with the bards sublime and grand old masters, and one magazine editor who exhibited a somewhat similar, vicarious, fear for a con tributor. That "humbler," "lesser," or "minor" carries with it any pejorative signification or is deroga tory to those whose work is included hardly requires denial. All, it will be noted, accord to them the supreme title of "poet," itself an appellation of such magnitude that it necessarily connotes the highest honor. More over, every bard sublime, every grand old master, whose works as a whole have survived, has been not only a major poet, but, since the greater includes the INTRODUCTION ix less, a minor poet as well. Certainly not in the works of the great men of the age just passed, of Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne, Arnold, and William Morris, of Bryant, Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Holmes, and Hovey, are there lacking numerous specimens of what, had their major poems remained unwritten, is in no way distinguishable from minor poetry. In fact, an arbitrary definition might almost be made between the two classes by regarding their respective produc tion in the heroic measure. If these achievements be set aside, the residue, however brilliant, inspired, and imperishable, is minor poetry in quite a real sense. Are not all lyrics essentially thus to be ranked? Is not all gnomic, narrative, and descriptive verse, if not of sustained flight, minor poetry? Is any sonnet achieve ment, even Wordsworth s or Longfellow s, taken by itself, sufficient to gain the greater title? By mere coincidence, the collection of verses upon which this Second Series of "The Humbler Poets" is founded began during the year in which Mr. Thomp son s First Series was published. Marching from the point where his ended, it has been steadily augmented year by year since. The larger share of it has been taken from newspapers, which accounts for so many specimens of needless anonymity. This has been sup plemented through the months by extensive and assidu ous reading of the collected works of the lesser poets, differing in this respect and differing only nominally, as has been shown from its predecessor. It includes the verses of many poets in England, Scotland, Ireland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the United States whose achievements are not within the knowl edge of the general public, but are treasured by those who believe, with the compilers, that the mighty arm of English poethood has not been shortened by the passing of the great men and women of the Victorian x INTRODUCTION era, but has rather indulged itself in a wider and more democratic distribution of the favors which lay on the knees of Apollo and the Muses. Not many realize, though the fact remains, that there are now publishing in English during every calendar year no fewer than a hundred volumes of significant and worthy verse, to which may be added two hundred volumes more which frequently contain passages of beauty. This implies that there are in the English-speaking world at least three hundred men and women who, already masters of an intricate and delightful technique, are inspired by sentiments lofty or tender, such as make for literary permanency. It is earnestly believed to be possible to compile every year from the verses given the light of print during that time an anthology of short poems and excerpts which will compare favorably with any collection thus chronologically delimited gathered during any period of English literary history. Such a collection, so we feel assured, would suffer little, if at all, by comparison with the most brilliant twelvemonth of either the Elizabethan or Victorian era. A curious analogy might be drawn between the literary situation to-day and that prevailing in the spacious days that saw the English settlement of America. In that earlier period the dominant form of expression was through the drama, and the great minds of the age, of which Shakespeare s is the im mortal master, gave to the stage the benefits of their inspiration. For a generation past it has been chiefly through the novel or romance that the literary genius of the age finds its expression. In both periods there exist songs and lyrics, fine flights of sympathy, and outbursts of religious and patriotic fervor, which are a perpetual glory and delight to those who have made them their own. Many of the Elizabethan dramatists INTRODUCTION xi sang the sweetest of lyrics, both in and out of their plays. Many of the novelists of the present age have exhibited a similar pleasant versatility. R. D. Black- more, George Meredith, Mr. Thomas Hardy, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Mr. Maurice Hewlett, in England, Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, Mrs. Edith Wharton, Miss Alice Brown, Mr. Owen Wister, and Mr. Meredith Nicholson, in America, may be cited as instances sufficiently confirmatory of this. Singular injustice would have been done our own age if contemporary odes and lyrics which are by true poets had not been incorporated here, though the intention has been to include the work of men and women less well known, even to instances of the poems produced by school-children, by clergymen, lawyers, and physicians in active practice of their professions, and by men in commercial business. Living newspaper poets are quite fully represented, men whose journalistic duties day by day have not stood in the way of their pursuit of the beautiful in phrase and sentiment. Nor are those excluded whose verses have found popular acceptance, as evidenced by their frequent citation in the daily press. Indeed, little or nothing is quoted here which has not withstood this test, and few, if any, of the poems in this book have not been clipped from journals at home or abroad. If any specific plan of exclusion has been kept in mind, the lines have been drawn against the work of persons well known in the United States, and against rhymes which have not been able to endure "the test of the market/ to use Professor Henry Augustin Beers s apt phrase, by com manding the attention of the press. And, as the press serves a vast and heterogeneous public, it is believed that there will be found something for every taste, from the most fastidious and refined to the least impressionable and reflective. Necessarily, in making xii INTRODUCTION so wide an appeal, material will be found for rejection by all save the completely omnivorous in literature. Necessarily, too, the book could have been almost indefinitely expanded without a lowering of the stand ard set for the series. As for the decadence in contemporary poetry of which too much is heard, complaints of this nature seem to be founded solely upon lack of knowledge. On one hand there is a lamentable ignorance of what is actually being done at the present moment in the absence of commanding names; on the other, a pitiful forgetfulness of the attitude of the reading public toward contemporary poets throughout the annals of literary history: Homer was a blind beggar, and Shakespeare an eager seeker after the favors of the nobility; instances are too familiar to require multi plication. The point is this: No one can assert ours to be an age in which poetry is lacking who has failed to read its own poets; no one can dismiss it as an unpoetic age because he, with the rest, pays no attention to its living singers, when this has been the attitude of every public in every age toward its bards, with remarkably few exceptions. Mrs. Browning notes that "poets e.vermore are scant of gold," and characterizes contemporary appreciation at its best when she writes: " I did some excellent things indifferently, Some bad things excellently. Both were praised, The latter loudest." Those who speak after full acquaintance with the poetry of to-day, and therefore with authority, have not hesitated at high praise. John Churton Collins, erudite scholar and astute critic, pronounces for them all when he says of the humbler poets of England: "Be tween 1860 and the present time talent has undoubtedly been more conspicuous than genius, but genius has not INTRODUCTION xiii been rare, and the talent displayed, the standard reached in taste, in receptivity, in technique, and in expression are truly wonderful. It would be no. exaggeration to say that many and very many of the minor poets of the last sixty years would, had they lived a century and a half ago, have become famous." In America one need not go back so far; more than half the poems in the lamented Stedman s " American An thology" are by his contemporaries and juniors, and in its introduction he says, and in such a case his judgment is final, "It will be long before our people need fear even the springtime enervation of their instinctive sense of beauty, now more in evidence with every year." Collins noted with approbation one of the satisfac tions resulting from a knowledge of contemporary minor poetry, when he dwelt upon the significant fact that the humbler poet now and again strikes a note which gives the key to efforts of supreme excellence at a later day. Keats wrote " La Belle Dame sans Merci " in a style so little his own, yet so anticipatory of a remarkable later development, that the poem seems justly attributable to any writer of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, rather than to its author; Macaulay sang the lay of "The Last Buccaneer" in a manner which leaves it unique among his ballads, and rather more Kiplingesque than most of Mr. Kipling s own work. It is quite possible that the years to come will find a similar prophecy in this very volume. To the rapid broadening of the field of poetry in the United States this collection also bears witness. Several chapters contain material not included in Mr. Thompson s earlier province, notably one dealing with the verses of athletics, and another voicing the social yearning for an economics founded on righteousness. In this latter field, even our humorous rhymesters have played a considerable part. xiv INTRODUCTION Since it has not been noted elsewhere, it deserves to be set down here that the Limerick, of which this book contains a few examples, has not previously been traced back of the nineteenth century. Yet it owes its form to rare old Ben Jonson, who anticipated modernity in this as in the form of the stanza of "In Memoriam." In Professor Edward Arber s "English Songs: Jonson and His Times" will be found the following perfect Limericks, written before the settle ment of Boston: "To the old, long life and treasure ! To the young, all health and pleasure ! To the fair, their face With eternal grace ! And the foul, to be loved at leisure ! "To the witty, all clear mirrors ! To the foolish, their dark errors ! To the loving sprite, A secure delight ! To the jealous, their own false terrors!" Summing up this volume, it epitomizes, however unworthily, the poetic sentiment of the quarter cen tury from which it derives its contents, and reflects back to the reader some small share of one of the most interesting periods in the history of civilization. It should arouse interest in the poetry of the day and in its poets; and if it remove by even a little the stigma that rests on ages past for their neglect of their singers, and leave one minstrel the less to perish for renown, it will not have failed entirely of its ultimate ideals. For, mark you well, "the weary toiling for a bitter bread" is ours to remedy, and the duty it implies not one to be honorably delegated. W. AND F. R. CHICAGO, January, 1911. CONTENTS PART I THE WORLD S SINGERS The Music-Makers . To a Violin .... Prophecy A New Poet .... A Song About Singing . My Wish The Price .... Aspiration .... To a Fashionable Poet The Poet s Prayer . . De Amicitiis .... Mutatis Mutandis . To a Belated Genius . The World s Way . . Ballade d Aujourd hui . Arthur Shaughnessy Bertha F. Gordon Leonora Pease William Canton . Anne Reeve Aldrich Warren Pease William Canton . C. E. D. Phelps . Frank Putnam Ivan Swift Eugene Field . Margaret Van S. Rice William Theodore Peters Anonymous Coates Chapman . PAGE 2 3 3 4 4 5 5 5 7 8 9 10 10 PART II IN CHILDHOOD S KINGDOM In the Garden Willow Ware Willie s Recitation . Granny s Little Flock . Children Our Little Daughter . . . Maxima Reverentia . . . . Father Goose Happiness The Dead Pussy Cat . . . Table Manners At Night Edelweiss To a Maid of Thirteen . . Laus Infantium Poppy-Land Express . . . Captain Bing A Horrible Example The Touch of Children s Hands A Real Boy Consoling Billy Queen of Her Heart . . . Boys and Girls . Put to Sleep . . A Sweet-Eyed Child . . My Little Dear . To a Child i A Mortifying Mistake . . . A Little Girl in School . . The Days of Sun Ernest Crosby .... 13 Anonymous 13 Anonymous 14 Charles J. Hanford ... 15 Madeline Bridges ... 16 Anonymous 16 F. B. Money-Coutts ... 16 L. Frank Baum .... 19 E. A. Brininstool ... 20 Anonymous 21 Oliver Marble 22 Mary Baldwin .... 22 Warren Pease .... 23 Christopher Bannister . . 23 William Canton .... 24 Edgar W. Abbot .... 24 L. Frank Baum .... 25 Oliver Marble 26 John Jarvis Holden ... 26 Wilbur D. Nesbit ... 26 Eva Steel 27 Elliott Flower 28 Florence Wilkinson ... 29 Richard Kendall Munkittrick 29 Agnes Lee .... 29 Dollie Radford ... 30 Frank Putnam ... 30 Anna M. Pratt ... 31 Frances Viola Holden . 32 Ernest L. Valentine . . 32 XV xvi CONTENTS PART III THE REALM OF FAERY The Dream of a Dreamer . Anonymous 35 The Were- Wolves .... William Wilfred Campbell . 35 Quatrains of Idleness Edwin Lefevre .... 37 The Seekers John Masefield .... 38 The Recall Frank Lillie Pollock . . 39 Castles in the Air .... William J. Lampton . . 39 The Fairy Thrall .... Mary C. G. Byron ... 40 A Sailor s Summons Flavia Rosser 41 The Phantom Liner Anonymous 41 All Souls Night Dora Sigerson .... 43 A. Legend Mav Kendall . 43 PART IV YULETIDE HAPPINESS Christmas Carol Phillips Brooks .... 46 The Christmas Tree of the Angels Angela Morgan .... 47 To an Old Fogy, who Contends that Christmas is Worn Out Owen Seaman .... 48 Recurring Yuletide .... Joseph Twyman .... 49 The Christmas Babe Katharine Tynan Hinkson . 49 Happy Christmastide Gertrude Eloise Bealer . . 50 In Christmas Land .... Anonymous 50 A Yuletide Tale Anonymous 51 Old Tom Tusser s Advice . Ernest L. Valentine ... 52 What the Three Little Stockings Said Alice J. Whitney .... 53 Christmas Bells Anonymous 54 The Best Tree Anonymous 55 Christmas Bells Anonymous 56 The New Christmas E. Nesbit 58 Christmas Shadows Anonymous 59 Christmas New Joseph Twyman .... 60 Old Year, Good-Night! . . Alexander Maclean ... 61 New Year, Good-Morning! Alexander Maclean ... 61 The Glad New Year . . . William Shattuck ... 62 PART V UNDER GOD S HEAVENS Wait Timothy Otis Paine ... 64 The First of April .... Mortimer Collins .... 65 A Vagabond Song . . John Northern Hilliard . . 65 Nature Winifred Lucas .... 66 The Song of the Wind in the Cloud Ellen Rolfe Veblen 67 Strayed C. E. S. Wood .... 67 The Orchard John Jarvis H olden . . . 68 A Gypsy Song ..... Anonymous 68 Swiss Mountains by Night F. B. Money-Coutts ... 69 Iris C. E. D. Phelps .... 69 The Prescience of the Rose Angela Morgan .... 70 The Rosy Musk-Mallow Alice E. Gillington ... 70 Wild Roses and Snow . Mackenzie Bell .... 71 The Blue-Bird Marion Thornton Egbert . 72 On the Prairie Herbert Bates 72 The Blue Gentians .... Edward Ryan Woodle . . 73 To a Flock of Geese . . . Clark McAdams .... 73 The Fall Wind John Stuart Thomson . . 74 To a Daisy . John Hartley .... 74 CONTENTS xvn A Song for October The First Bud o the Year . A Rose The Eagle PAGE T. A. Daly .... 75 Charles G. Blanden ... 76 Charles G. Blanden ... 76 Timothy Otis Paine . . 77 Ivan Swift . . 77 The Timber Wolves . . A Leaf John McGovern .... 79 Charles James .... 79 Theodore Roberts 80 W. P. Trent 80 John Jarvis H olden ... 81 John Davidson .... 82 Mary Baldwin .... 82 Anonymous 83 Edwin Arlington Robinson . 83 Oscar Williams .... 83 Herbert P. Home ... 84 Frank L. Stanton ... 84 George Herbert Clarke . . 85 William Shattuck ... 85 Edward Winship .... 86 IT IN THE OPEN Wallace Rice 88 Franklin P. Adams ... 89 F. V. N. Painter .... 90 Charles H. Crandall ... 90 Charles H. Crandall ... 91 William F. Kirk .... 92 Anonymous 92 Oliver Marble 93 George Ade 94 Ivan Swift 95 Anonymous 96 William Hamilton Cline . 96 Horace Spencer Fiske . . 97 Evelyn Gail Gardiner . . 98 Dorothy Allen .... 98 Louis Albert Lamb ... 99 Horace Spencer Fiske . . 99 C. P. McDonald .... 100 Where the Mountain Sips the Sea Socobie s Passing .... The New Aphrodite My Lady Anemone .... Harvest-Home Song Winter Where My Treasure Is ... The Torrent The Spirit of the North . . Amico Suo The Blessed Rain .... A Foretaste of Spring . Silver and Lavender Ei i th an asi a PART VI SPOI The College Athlete A Ballade of Lawn Tennis My Bicycle The Call of the Stream . . The Cinder Path .... Ballade of the Fan Baseball by the Old ... A Summer Sermon for Men . The Glorious Touchdown . Regatta Vive le Roi The Glory of the Game The Song of the Light Canoe With Gleaming Sail . . . Sailing Beth-el Olympian Victors . . . . The Slugger s Farewell to His War Club The Ski-Runner .... A Ballade of the Game PART VII THE C Love and a Day .... Afterglow .... Anonymous 101 Anonymous 101 JENTLER EMOTIONS Madison Cawein . . . . 104 Charles G. Blanden ... 105 Anonymous 105 Theodosia Garrison . . . 105 D. H. Ingham .... 106 Frank L. Stanton ... 106 Willard Emerson Keyes . 107 Gerald Gould 108 Angela Morgan . . . . 108 Walter Learned .... 108 To a Pair of Lovers Cupid His Mark .... Reciprocity ....... Wearyin for You .... I Know the Way of the Wild Blush Rose -Wanderlust Love s Telepathy .... The Prime of Life .... CONTENTS A Valentine Love, Youth, Song .... Beloved To God and Ireland True . Procrastination To My Fiancde Babette Inopportune I Think of Thee .... Over the Rose-Lea ves, Under the Rose The Table d Hote .... A Greeting Last Night Love s Secret Name Liking and Loving .... Spirit Bridal My Love for You .... A Reminiscence "Oh, See How Thick!" . . A Border Affair .... A Full Edition The Sliprails and the Spur Scheme Rothraut .... Doris Strawberries The Links of Love .... All That I Ask A Woman Asphodel Love s Cup Blanche Shadows . . .... Aucassin et Nicolete Memories A Blood-Red Ring Hung Round the Moon With You . . . . . . Love, O Love, How Long? Love and War A Prayer Philomel The Parting Love s Delay Had You Waited .... 1 Love My Love with a Kiss PAGE Joseph Twyman . . . . 109 John Jarvis H olden . . . 109 Mabel C. Anderson . . . 110 Ellen O Leary . . . . Ill George W. Markens . . . Ill Franklin P. Adams . . . 112 Anonymous 112 Thomas H. Briggs, Jr. . .112 Kate Goldsboro McDowell . 112 John Bennett . . . . 113 John Paul Bocock . . . 114 Joseph Twyman . . . . 115 Warren Pease . . . . 116 John Arthur Blaikie . . . 116 Oliver Marble 117 Jessie Storrs Ferris . . . 117 Angela Morgan . . . . 117 Oliver Marble 118 Alfred Edward Housman . 119 Charles B. Clarke, Jr. . .120 Joseph Lilienthal . . . 121 Henry Lawson . . . . 121 John Arthur Goodchild . . 122 Clarence S. Harper . . . 123 Richard Kendall Munkittrick 124 Owen Seaman . . . . 124 Bert Lesion Taylor . . . 125 Emily Huntington Miller . 125 Willa Sibert Gather . . . 126- Robert Cameron Rogers . . 126 A. Bernard Miall . . . 126 Victor Plarr 127 Grace Duffield Goodwin . . 128 Alexander Hay Japp . . 128 John E. Logan .... 129 Thomas H. Briggs, Jr. . . 129 Edward Cracroft Lefroy . . 129 Arthur Pachett Martin . . 130 Selwyn Image .... John Myers O Hara . . 131 Anonymous 133 Edward Cracroft Lefroy . . 134 Ernest Dowson .... 135 Alexander Maclean . . . 136 PART VIII DRAWING-ROOM AND BOUDOIR With a Diamond Fede Ring on an Old Venetian Mirror . The Larceny The Curling Tongs . Margery Maketh the Tea . The Leisure Classes Betty to Herself . Song of the Summer Girl . Grandmother s Valentine . A Geographic Question William Theodore Peters . 138 Elliott Flower 139 Anonymous 139 William Wilfred Campbell 140 Anonymous 141 Edward W. Bannard . . 141 Anonymous 142 Minna Irving 142 Anonymous 144 CONTENTS xix At the Concert An "Old Maid" Times Ain t What They Was . On the Way Home .... A Daughter of the Revolution After Reading a Chapter by Henry James A Lost Talisman Ray Clarke Rose Ray Clarke Rose Anonymous Chester Firkins ^Anonymous Anonymous Ray Clarke Rose 144 145 146 146 147 147 148 PART IX MAN S BROTHERHOOD Recessional Dat s Right, Ain t It? . . . Osman Aga s Devotion The Man with the Hoe The Man with the Hoe A Reply The Man without the Hoe The Contemptible Neutral The Unmercenaries .... Suffrage Marching Song Livingstone "As Thyself" A Cry from the Ghetto (from the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld) Revenge Christmas Outcasts The Poor Man s Automobile . Child Labor To Labor A .Political Character . Despoiled The Clerks Beyond the Bars .... The Wanderer Where Tyrants Perish . The Eagle and the Lion . To the Money-Getter . Piper, Play Arise, Ye Men of Strength and Might In Poverty Street .... St. Anthony s Sermon to the Fishes . . . New York Little Girl of Long Ago Rudyard Kipling . . . 151 Ben King 152 Clinton Scollard .... 152 Edwin Markham . . . . 153 John Vance Cheney . . . 154 Gordon Coogler . . . .156 Charlotte Perkins Stetson . 157 Anonymous 158 Louis J. Block .... 159 Francis Brooks .... 160 Anonymous 161 J. W. Linn 162 Charles Henry Webb . . . 162 Anonymous 163 Edwin L. Sabin .... 163 Anonymous 164 Charlotte Perkins Stetson . 165 Israel Zangwill .... 166 George E. Bowen . . . . 166 Edwin Arlington Robinson . 167 George E. Bowen . . . .168 William Canton .... 168 John Lancaster Spalding . 168 George Frederick .... 169 Anonymous 169 John Davidson . . . . 170 Charles James . . . . 171 Elliott Flower . ... 172 Anonymous 173 Richard Hovey . , . . 174 Joe Cone . 177 PART X THE LANDS OF LONG AGO The Shoogy-Shoo . . . In Calm Content Ballad of the Primrose Way A Recollection .... Success The Vagabonds . The Old House .... A Boy s Whistle You Have Forgotten Winthrop Packard ... 178 Anonymous ..... 178 Rose Edith Mills .... 179 Anonymous 180 May Kendall 180 E. Pauline Johnson . . . 182 Grace Duffie Boylan . . . 183 Judd Mortimer Lewis . . 183 Angela Morgan .... 184 CONTENTS PAGE In the Procession .... Anonymous 185 First Love Lizette Woodworth Reese 185 "There were Giants in Those Days " . William Wallace Whitelock . 185 Christmas Long Ago Anne H. Woodruff . . . 186 A School Companionship . Anonymous 187 The Chop-House in the Alley Henry M. Hyde . ". 188 In Days Gone By .... Lilla Cabot Perry . . . 189 An Old Picture Oliver Marble . . 189 Long Ago and Far Away . Culver Van Slycke . . . 190 PART XI BETWEEN DARK AND DAYLIGHT Crossing the Bar .... Alfred Lord Tennyson 192 Twilight . Olive Constance 193 Approach of Night .... Clarence Urmy . . . 193 Homeward Gustave Kobbe 194 A Twilight Song .... Edward Maslin Hulme . 194 The End of the Day . . . Duncan Campbell Scott . 195 The Evening Primrose . Timothy Otis Paine . . 196 The Two Twilights .... Anonymous .... 196 In the Convent Garden Edward Maslin Hulme . 196 At Twilight Peyton Van Rensselaer . 197 Twilight Cheer Clement V. Zane . 197 Twilight Terror Georgiana Rice 197 To a Water-Lily .... Anonymous .... 198 PART XII AROUND THE HEARTHSTONE The Home Port Edith Pratt Dickens . . . 200 Mothers Edwin L. Sabin .... 201 My Gentleman Anonymous 201 Yo Maw Lubs Yo All . . Florence Griswold Connor 202 What My Mother is to Me . David Stearns .... 203 The Light in Mother s Eyes . L. M. Montgomery , . . 204 Old Mothers Charles S. Ross . . . i 205 My Girl Anonymous 205 "She Made Home Happy" Henry Coyle 206 Mother Titus Lowe 207 A Ballade of Labor and Love Anonymous . . ... 207 Kiss the Dear Old Mother Josephine Pollard 208 The Home Express Horace Spencer Fiske 209 My Sister s Room . . . F. B. Money-Coutts . 210 Before It is Too Late . George Bancroft Griffith . 210 Homeward Bound .... E. B. S 211 Mother and Home .... John Jarvis Holden . 212 PART XIII ENCOURAGEMENT, SISTER OF HOPE Invited Guests Frances Ekin Allison 215 "I Grew Old the Other Day" Timothy Otis Paine . 215 To The Men Who Lose Anonymous .... 215 Which Path shall Yours Be? . Ray D. Smith . . . 216 Love and Hope Francis Brooks 217 Opportunity Talks W. J. Lampton 217 Be Thou a Bird, My Soul A.G.C 218 "Let Go!" W. A. Blackwell . . . 219 CONTENTS xxi PAGE Cherry Trees A-Bloom . . . Wallace Rice ..... 219 I m Glad ....... Anonymous ..... 220 How did You Die? .... Edmund Vance Cooke . .221 The Comforters ..... Lawrence Housman . . .221 God Bless You, Dear, To-Day John Bennett ..... 222 A Sigh ....... Timothy Otis Paine ... 223 Encouragement ..... Elizabeth Phelps Rounsevell . 223 The Blessing of a Smoke . . Ray D. Smith ..... 223 Refuge ....... Annie L. Muzzey . . . 224 From Altruria ..... Frances M. Milne . . . 224 Be Contented . . . . . Anonymous ..... 225 A Thought from Nietszche . Charles James ..... 225 A Recipe for Sanity .... Henry Rutherford Elliot . . 226 Four-Leaf Clovers .... Ella Higginson ..... 226 Hope ........ Martha J. Hadley .... 226 True Charity ...... Ella Wheeler Wilcox . . . 227 The Strength of Weakness . . M . Elizabeth Grouse . . . 227 Compensations ..... Christopher Bannister . . 227 Look Up! ....... John Jarvis H olden . . . 228 PART XIV IN THE MIDST OF LIFE L Envoi ........ Bliss Carman ..... 230 At the Top of the Road . . . Charles Buxton Going . . 231 From the Japanese .... Anonymous ..... 231 If We Only Knew .... Anonymous ..... 232 Lettice ........ Michael Field ... . . 232 Ballad of the Unsuccessful . . Richard Burton .... 233 A Cry for Conquest .... Angela Morgan . . . 234 Opportunity ...... John James Ingalls ... 235 Poem ........ John Davidson .... 235 Song ........ Beatrice Rosenthal . . . 235 The Reward ...... Ivan Swift ..... 236 Songs of Souls that Failed . . Marion Couthouy Smith . . 236 To be Old ....... Helen Eldred Storke ... 237 To be Young ...... Helen Eldred Storke ... 237 The Tree God Plants . . . Anonymous ..... 237 Some Time ...... May Riley Smith ... 238 The Purpose of Life .... Frank Putnam .... 239 Death s Guerdon ..... Lizette Woodward Reese . . 239 Vi et Armis ...... Andrew Downing . . 240 Sun or Satellite? ..... Mary H. Hull .... 240 Sunken Gold ...... Eugene Lee-Hamilton . . 241 Life ........ Belle R. Harrison . 241 The Feast of the Dead . . Charlotte Becker .... 241 To the Departed .... Anonymous .. . . . 242 A Song ....... Lizette Woodworth Reese . 243 There is a Music in the March f Stars ...... Herbert Bates ..... 244 When My Turn Comes . . Barrett Eastman . 244 The Dead Child .... George Barlow . 245 [f I Should Wake .... Emily Huntington Miller . 245 Beyond ....... Allan Munier .... 246 Beautiful Death ..... John Lancaster Spaldina 246 Earth to Earth ..... Michael Field 247 Widowhood ...... M . Elizabeth Grouse . 247 The Sad Mother .... Katharine Tynan Hinkson 247 L E nvoi ....... Willa Sibert Gather . . 248 My baint ....... Anne Devoore . 248 XX11 CONTENTS Remembrance Beneath the Wattle Boughs . Master Mirage Our Spiritual Strivings . The Judgment-Book . . . Light All Souls Day The Sheep and Lambs . The Starry Host .... Brief Life Jesus Wept A Battle-Cry Triolet . . .... The Things in the Children s Drawer Good-Night PAGE John H. Banner .... 249 Frances Tyrell Gill . . . 249 Sir Arthur Conan Doyle . 250 A. S. R 250 Arthur Symons .... 251 Clarence Urmy . . . .251 M. Elizabeth Grouse ... 251 Rosamond Marriott Watson 252 Katharine Tynan Hinkson . 252 John Lancaster Spalding . 253 Ernest Dowson .... 253 Frances Brooks .... 254 Lee Shippey . . . . . 254 Winifred Lucas .... 255 Anonymous 255 M. A. Sinclair 256 PART XV TALES IN THE TELLING The Rose s Philosophy . Procrustes Bed Heliotrope The Digger s Grave Forby Sutherland .... Chiquita: A Legend of the West ern Seas An International Episode . A Christmas Camp on the San Gabr el The Men of Monomoy City Blood and Country Jay . The Reverse of the Golden Shield The Strangers Rattlin Joe s Prayer An Incident of the West . Books of the Bible .... The Garden-Maker .... My Little Wife The Assayer s Story Abigail Becker The Man in the Cab . A Ballad of an Artist s Wife A Lesson of Mercy .... Anonymous 258 Beatrice Hanscom . . . 259 Harry Thurston Peck . . 260 Sarah Welch 261 George Gordon M Crae . . 262 Barrett Eastman .... 265 Caroline Duer .... 266 Amelia Barr 267 Joe Cone 269 Anonymous 270 Will M. Maupin ... 271 Nora Hopper 273 Capt. John Wallace Crawford 275 Anonymous 278 John Nelson Davidson . . 279 L. P. Morsbach .... 281 Anonymous 283 Anonymous 285 Amanda T. Jones . . . 287 Nixon Waterman . . . 292 John Davidson .... 292 George Murray .... 296 PART XVI THE POETRY OF EVERY DAY Knowledge Life s Common Things . Waiting Every-Day Heroes .... Preserving-Time .... The Midnight Mail .... A Board School Pastoral . The German Band .... "I Never Knowed" When a Man s Out of a Job Chrysalids Theodosia Garrison . Anonymous Edgar A. Post Bertrand Shadwell Anonymous William Hurd Hillyer May Kendall . Earl Derr Biggers . William T. Croasdale Sam Walter Foss . Anonymous 298 299 299 300 301 301 302 303 304 305 306 CONTENTS PAGE Only a Factory Girl C. J. Buell .... . .306 The American Fireman Christopher Bannister . 307 One Witness Anonymous .... . 309 Saturday Night Once in a While .... Mary Colburne Veel W. Francis Chambers . 309 . 310 PART XVII WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY How We Burned the Philadelphia Barrett Eastman . . 313 Mother West Arthur Chapman . ... . 315 The Pioneers Herbert Bates .... . 316 The Fight at the San Jacinto John Williamson Palmer . 317 Betsy s Battle Flag .... Minna Irving . 318 The Fighting Race .... Joseph /. C. Clarke . . . 319 The Kearsarge James Jeffrey Roche . . 321 Unreconstructed .... Innes Randolph . . 322 Ballad of the Sabre Cross and 7 Irving Bacheller . . 323 Strike the Blow .... Anonymous . 325 Chickamauga Anonymous . 326 The Rush of the Oregon . Arthur Guiterman . 327 The Sailing of the Fleet . Anonymous . 329 The Song of the Spanish Main John Bennett . 329 Our Soldiers Song .... David Graham Adee . . 330 Call to the Colors . . . . Arthur Guiterman . 331 To the Modern Battleship Robert James . . 332 At Last George E. Bowen . . 333 The Men Behind the Guns John J. Rooney . . 333 The Man Who Cooks the Grub S. E. Riser .... . 334 The Yankee Dude 11 Do S. E. Riser 335 The Stalking of the Sea Wolves Charles W. Thompson . 336 Porto Rico George E. Bowen . . 337 Bill Sweeny of the Black Gang James Barnes . 338 A Mother of 98 . . . . Marion Couthouy Smith . 340 The Absent Boy . Margaret Sangster . 340 The Soldier s Wife . . . . Elliott Flower .... . 341 The Price We Pay . . . . J. H. Stevens .... . 341 Returned from the Wars . Anonymous .... . 342 Jim George V. Hobart . 343 From Birth to Battlefield . Anonymous .... . 344 A War Echo Anonymous .... . 345 Telling Them of Tampa . Anonymous .... . 345 Mulvaney and Another John A. Moroso . . 346 In de Mawnin Anonymous 347 Figuring It All Up Anonymous 347 Our New Heroes .... Sydney Reid .... . 348 The Man Who Does the Cheering Anonymous .... . 349 The Battle of Dundee . . . Anonymous .... . 351 The Soldier s Song . . . . Herbert French . . . . 353 Paul Jones William A. Phelon . . . 353 A Song of Panama Alfred Damon Runyon . . 354 Panama Amanda T. Jones . 355 Our Twenty-Six Presidents in Rhyme John Nelson Davidson 356 Impromptu Lines on July Fourth Franklin P. Adams . . 358 Rataplan Edward Cracroft Lefroy . . 359 San Francisco John Vance Cheney . . 359 Peace . S. E. Riser 360 Angel of Peace Anonymous 361 The Ultimate North . . . Wallace Rice .... . 362 XXIV CONTENTS PART XVIII IN LIGHTER VEIN A Banjo Song Golf and Life The Chicken; or, My First Intro duction to the Ancient Game of Golf The Football Casabianca . Casey at the Bat .... A Ballad of the Champions . Question and Answer . Maud Muller A-Wheel . . . The Piker s Rubaiyat . . . A Sad Story The New Stenographer A Thought . . . . . . Cargoes The Rough Rider to His Girl . Troublous Times .... The Dance at the Little Gila Ranch Angelina Lines to a Garden Hose . Shindig in the Country The Flatter s Lament . . The Breakfast Food Family . The Third Person .... Evolution No Dyspeptics Need Apply Good News from Georgia . De Belle ob Ebonville . . . Hoch! Der Kaiser! . . An Epitaph Poor Mother What s in a Name? .... The Wreck of the Julie Plante The Fleeting Visitant . . . In a Quiet Neighborhood . If I should Die To-Night In Defence of the Advertising Muse My Rector The Trust and the Trustee . Bill s in Trouble .... A Ballad of Modern Fables . The Medical Tyro Waiting for Patients The Passing of Prestige Perseverance The Village Oracle .... Awful Hazardous Charge of the Rough Writers A Literary Miss Fame Discovered The Rhyme of the Kipperling Fame Fame Fame . . An Eskimelodrama .... Lay of Ancient Rome . To Miguel de Cervantes Saavadra A Very Nice Pair .... Paul Laurence Dunbar S. E. Riser S. F. Outwood . . Wilbur D. Nesbit . . Ernest Lawrence Thayer Anonymous Anonymous . . S. E. Riser . . . Franklin P. Adams . Anonymous . . Anonymous James Kenneth Stephen John Masefield Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Paul Laurence Dunbar . Anonymous D. A. Ellsworth .... Anonymous Bert Lesion Taylor Edmund Vance Cooke Harry Thurston Peck Anonymous Anonymous .... Henry Davis Middleton Rodney Blake Richard Kendall Munkittrick William Wallace Whitelpck Richard Kendall Munkittrick William Henry Drummond . Anonymous Anonymous Ben Ring Richard Kendall Munkittrick Anonymous Anonymous James Barton Adams . , Franklin P. Adams . . . C. S. Eldridge .... David Stearns .... Anonymous Joseph Lincoln .... Charles Irvin Junkin Harold MacGrath . . . Oliver Marble Anonymous Paul Laurence Dunbar . Owen Seaman .... W. Livingston Lamed Anonymous Thomas Ybarra .... Richard Kendall Munkittrick Anonymous PAGE 365 367 370 372 373 374 374 377 378 379 379 380 380 381 381 382 383 384 386 386 387 388 388 388 389 390 390 391 391 392 393 393 394 394 395 395 396 396 397 398 399 399 400 401 402 402 403 404 406 407 408 409 409 CONTENTS XXV PAGE The Young Man from Pall Mall Anonymous 410 On a Dull Dog Edward Cracroft Lefroy . . 410 Unsatisfied Yearning . . . Richard Kendall Munkittrick 410 Reptilian Anatomy .... Anonymous 410 Don t You See? Katherine Lee Bates . . .411 A Philistine Edward Cracroft Lefroy . . 411 A Song of the Season . . . Anonymous 412 The Book- Worm . . . . C. W. Pearson . . . . 413 Change Assured .... Anonymous 414 Relaxation Anonymous . ... 414 A Song of Summer .... Richard Kendall Munkittrick 415 A Climatic Madrigal . . . Wilbur D. Nesbit . . . 416 The Sum of Life .... Ben King 417 A Question Anonymous 418 Going to Her Head . . . Anonymous 418 Only Japanese Anonymous 418 No Seeking, No Losing . . Anonymous 418 Part J THE WORLD S SINGERS THE MUSIC-MAKERS WE are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams; Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world forever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world s great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire s glory ; One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown ; And three with a new song s measure Can trample an empire down. We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself with our mirth; And overthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world s worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth. ARTHUR O SHAUGHNESSY. THE HUMBLER POETS SECOND SERIES Part 31 THE WORLD S SINGERS TO A VIOLIN STRANGE shape, who moulded first thy dainty shell? Who carved these melting curves? Who first did bring Across thy latticed bridge the slender string? Who formed this magic wand, to weave the spell, And lending thee his own soul, bade thee tell, When o er the quiv ring strings, he drew the bow, Life s history of happiness and woe, Or sing a psean, or a fun ral knell? Oh come, beloved, responsive instrument, Across thy slender throat with gentle care I ll stretch my heart-strings; and be quite content To lose them, if with man I can but share The springs of song, that in my soul are pent, To quench his thirst, and help his load to bear. BERTHA F. GORDON. PROPHECY WHEN, formed by groping mind and tedious hand, The airy palaces of man shall stand, Substantialized, accomplished; when shall be The builded vision of humanity, The city of the centuries then know Some prophet heart divined it long ago; Some poet glimpsed it where the spirit gleamed; It is the city that the dead have dreamed. LEONORA PEASE. 3 THE HUMBLER POETS A NEW POET I WRITE. He sits beside my chair, And scribbles, too, in hushed delight; He dips his pen in charmed air: What is it he pretends to write? He toils and toils; the paper gives No clue to aught he thinks. What then? His little heart is glad; he lives The poems he cannot pen. Strange fancies throng that baby brain. What grave sweet looks! What earnest eyes! He stops reflects and now again His unrecording pen he plies. It seems a satire on myself, These dreamy nothings scrawled in air, This thought, this work! O tricksy elf, Wouldst drive thy father to despair? Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mind Persists in hoping, schemes and strives That there may linger with our kind Some memory of our little lives. Beneath his rock i the early world Smiling the naked hunter lay, And sketched on horn the spear he hurled, The urus which he made his prey. Like him I strive in hope my rhymes May keep my name a little while, O child, who knows how many times We two have made the angels smile? WILLIAM CANTON. A SONG ABOUT SINGING O NIGHTINGALE, the poet s bird, A kinsman dear thou art, Who never sings so well as when The rose-thorns bruise thy heart. But since thy agony can make A listening world so blest, Be sure it cares but little for Thy wounded, bleeding breast. ANNE REEVE ALDRICH. THE WORLD S SINGERS { MY WISH UNTO the world s great diadem Could I but add one simple gem Ere life were spent, One heart-sprung lay, whose softening chime Should echo through the halls of time, I d rest content. I ask no part with those who wrought The mighty pyramids of thought. Our heritage, Unshaken by the drifting sand Of endless change, serene they stand From age to age. If on the placid sea of time The zephyr of my simple rhyme Should ripple make, Which widening ever through the years Upon the distant misty shores At last should break, Then feeling that I have not been A borrower of the dust in vain, When life was spent, And that unto the crown of thought This simple jewel I had brought, I d rest content. WARREN PEASE. THE PRICE A MAN lived fifty years joy dashed with tears; Loved, toiled; had wife and child, and lost them; died; And left of all his long life s work one little song. That lasted nought beside. Like the Monk Felix bird, that song was heard; Doubt prayed, Faith soared, Death smiled itself to sleep; That song saved souls. You say The man paid stiffly? Nay. God paid and thought it cheap. WILLIAM CANTON. ASPIRATION Thousands upon their eager tiptoes stand Straining, and almost reach the Muse s hand. A few have touched it; never man had power To clasp and hold it for a single hour. C. E. D. PHELPS. THE HUMBLER POETS TO A FASHIONABLE POET Is the murmur of approval, high and higher, That the winds of favor waft you very sweet? Does your spirit know its old heroic fire That could scoff alike at failure or defeat? Is the olden inspiration in your lyre Now that Fashion scatters roses for your feet? Are you happy, say, or sorry, since the morning When, by Want and wily Patronage beset, You began, with silken sophistries adorning Greed s aggressions, the repayment of your debt? Was the offer fit for seizing or for scorning? Can they teach a living conscience to forget? You are silent is their scorn allied to pity? Do they give you leave of labor now and then To invent a gilded song or Bacchic ditty In the practice of a prostituted pen? Thou eunuch of the prosperous and pretty Who might have had dominion over men! FRANK PUTNAM. THE POET S PRAYER THY semblant beauty creeping through the world, I will to sing! Thou, Beauty, who art law, Religion, life, to me! I would withdraw Thee out the gaudy shroud in which thou rt furled, And let thy grain above the tide be hurled To deck the hills as that the ancients saw. O, fashion me thy viol of grace and awe! Despair not of the timber rough and knurled! Evangelist of this lone faith I d be To hold the slab and with us see men sign. Prophetic words or pictures more divine May not be theirs to give; but those who see And live and house thy grace, hold with us yet, And she who beauty is, I 11 not forget! IVAN SWIFT. THE WORLD S SINGERS DE AMICITIIS THOUGH care and strife Elsewhere be rife, Upon my word I do not heed em; In bed I lie With books hard by, And with increasing zest I read em. Propped up in bed, So much I ve read Of musty tomes that I ve a headful Of tales and rhymes Of ancient times, Which, wife declares, are "simply dreadful!" They give me joy Without alloy; And is n t that what books are made for? And yet and yet (Ah, vain regret!) I would to God they all were paid for! No festooned cup Filled foaming up Can lure me elsewhere to confound me; Sweeter than wine This love of mine For these old books I see around me! A plague, I say, On maidens gay; I 11 weave no compliments to tell em! Vain fool I were Did I prefer These dolls to these old friends in vellum! At dead of night My chamber s bright Not only with the gas that s burning, But with the glow Of long ago, Of beauty back from eld returning. Fair women s looks I see in books, I see them, and I hear their laughter, Proud, high-born maids, Unlike the jades Which silly men go chasing after! THE HUMBLER POETS Herein again Speak valiant men Of all nativities and ages; I hear and smile With rapture while I turn these musty, magic pages. The sword, the lance, The morris dance, The highland song, the greenwood ditty, Of these I read, Or, when the need, My Miller grinds me grist that s gritty! When of such stuff We ve had enough, Why, there be other friends to greet us; We 11 moralize In solemn wise With Plato or with Epictetus. Sneer as you may, I m proud to say That I for one am very grateful To Heaven that sends These genial friends To banish other friendships hateful! And when I m done, I d have no son Pounce on these treasures like a vulture; Nay give them half My epitaph, And let them share in my sepulture. Then, when the crack Of doom rolls back The marble and the earth that hide me, I 11 smuggle home Each precious tome, Without a fear my wife shall chide me! EUGENE FIELD. MUTATIS MUTANDIS BY care and strife The good housewife Has breakfast ready on the table; Where is her lord? THE WORLD S SINGERS Oh, vice abhorred His reason feasts upon a fable! What cares that sot For coffee hot Or that his little wife is fretting? He s drunk with wine Of books lang syne, The breakfast viands quite forgetting. She knows (dear soul!) The festive bowl Has never been his sin besetting; Nor does he roam Away from home, Nor cause her other vain regretting. So when at night His gas burns bright, And (book in hand) he s soundly sleeping, She looks at him From distance dim And, softly to his bedside creeping, She never wakes, But gently takes That little book that is not " paid for" Reads "Leaves of Grass" Turns out the gas, And is n t that what wives are made for? When "crack of doom" With thundering boom Calls forth this friend of bad Joe Miller, He 11 smuggle home Each precious tome From Gower and Chaucer down to Schiller. With these for fuel, A proper gruel Old Nick will brew for this newcomer; Then all shall know His tale of woe Down where (to say the least) it s summer. MARGARET VAN S. RICE. TO A BELATED GENIUS AND some of us arrive at dawn of day, With bounding step and singing like a lark; And some of us arrive at fervid noon; And some of us arrive long after dark. WILLIAM THEODORE PETERS. 10 THE HUMBLER POETS THE WORLD S WAY HE wrote his soul into a book. The world refused to turn and look. He made his faith into a rhyme, And still the world could spare no time. But on the day when, dumb and dazed, Despair-condemned, and blind and crazed, By means most weird his life he took, Behold, the world brought out his book! ANONYMOUS. BALLADE D AUJOURD HUI (a doublerefrain) BYGONE troubadours, grave and gay, Minstrels and jongleurs, high and low, Faith, you fill us with swift dismay, Dull old poets of long ago! Worn and threadbare your fancies show In the light of our modern way, Who hath a care for " last year s snow "? Here s to the Singer who sings To-day! Meek Griseldas no longer sway; Fawn-like Chloes how scarce they grow! Curious taste your rhymes display, Dull old poets of long ago! Does Leander drown for his Hero? No. She d pull him ashore without delay, Kate is a match for Petruchio, Here s to the Singer who sings To-day! Kerchiefs and zones are quite passes; Glycera s eyeglass bids you glow Lydia s gaiter, chaste and gray: Dull old poets of long ago, Julia s graces would bore one so! Sylvia s taken to cycling, nay, Pegasus now is a trifle slow, Here s to the Singer who sings To-day! Envoi Sweet, fling scorn at them, row on row; Dull old poets of long ago! Seek you a forehead to fit your bay? Here s to the Singer who sings To-day ! GOATES CHAPMAN. part JJ IN CHILDHOOD S KINGDOM THOU canst not have forgotten all That it feels like to be small; And Thou know st I cannot pray To Thee in my father s way When Thou wast so little, say, Couldst Thou talk Thy Father s way f So, a little child, come down And hear a child s tongue like Thy own; Take me by the hand and walk, And listen to my baby-talk. To Thy Father show my prayer (He will look, Thou art so fair), And say: "0 Father, I, Thy Son, Bring the prayer of a little one." And He will smile, that children s tongue Has not changed since Thou wast young ! FRANCIS THOMPSON. Part 3JJ IN CHILDHOOD S KINGDOM IN THE GARDEN I SPIED beside the garden bed A tiny lass of ours, Who stopped and bent her sunny head Above the red June flowers. Pushing the leaves and thorns apart She singled out a rose, And in its inmost crimson heart, Enraptured, plunged her nose. "O dear, dear rose, come, tell me true Come, tell me true," said she, "If I smell just as sweet to you As you smell sweet to me!" ERNEST CROSBY. WILLOW WARE ON Grandmamma s table is waiting for me A plate with gingerbread piled, Bread and milk and berries and cream, And the mug marked "For a Good Child." And I eat my supper and wonder where That wonderful land may be, Where the sky is white and the earth is blue That on my plate I see. Grandma, you know most everything Tell me a story about it all: Do the long-tailed birds know how to sing? 13 14 THE HUMBLER POETS Did a Princess live in that castle small? The Princess s hair in a fairy tale Is generally gold, but this is blue; How does the boat go without any sail? Tell me the story Grandma, do. So she tells me the legend centuries old, Of the mandarin, rich in lands and gold, Of Sichi fair and Chang the good, Who loved each other as lovers should; How they hid in the gardener s hut awhile, Then fled away to the Beautiful Isle, Though the cruel father pursued them there, And would have killed the helpless pair; But a kindly Power, by pity stirred, Changed each into a beautiful bird. Then Grandmamma puts her spectacles on And shows me on the plate The mandarin s house, the island home, The boat, the bridge, the gate; Here is the orange tree where they talked Here they are running away And over all at the top you see The birds making love alway. And the odd little figures seem to live, Strange fancies fill my head, Till Grandmamma tells me much too soon It & time to go to bed. But I dream of a land all blue and white I see the lovers take their flight; Over the arching bridge they go, One of the lover-birds flies below. From the little house with the turned-up edges Come tiny lords and ladies and pages, And the bedpost turns to a willow tree, And I myself seem at last to be An azure lassie wandering through That beautiful, queer, little land of blue. ANONYMOUS. WILLIE S RECITATION To DO what you can As well as you can, Is a mighty good plan For most any man. IN CHILDHOOD S KINGDOM 15 To work all the day, To work every day, Is the only sure way Of getting your pay. If I work all the day And give up my play, I surely shall climb To fortune some time. On that distant day I 11 not want to play; I 11 only keep climb ing all of the time. When fortune is ripe I 11 reap what I Ve sown: A column of type And another of stone. ANONYMOUS. GRANNY S LITTLE FLOCK THE lamp s dim, the fire s low, And from the fickle flame Shadows dancing to and fro All play a merry game. Grandma sits a-rocking, Her little flock is near, While her needles weave a stocking To the music of the chair: Click, click, click, Rock, rock, rock, While Grandma tells a pretty tale To her little flock. The fire s flame has settled down, No more the shadows creep; All within is growing brown, The little flock s asleep. Grandma still is sitting, There s music in the air, One half from the knitting And the other from the chair. Click, click, click, Rock, rock, rock, When Grandma tells a pretty tale, To her sleepy flock. CHARLES J. HANFORD. 16 THE HUMBLER POETS CHILDREN \ The Girl-Child GIVE her a flower to keep and hold, A waxen doll in a silken gown, A chain of coral with clasp of gold, A tiny kitten as soft as down; And sing, with your lips against her cheek, Love s dear lullaby, whispering, Till sleep comes over her eyelids meek, Sing for the girl-child mother, sing! The Boy-Child Show him the bird in its daring flight To the cloud s brown edge. Teach him to know The flag that spreads to winds wild night Sweep of the rain, and whirl of the snow Laugh with him, run with him, romp and leap, Give him his will of the noisy day But, when you pause at the gate of sleep, Oh, pray for the boy-child mother, pray! MADELINE BRIDGES. OUR LITTLE DAUGHTER OUR merry little daughter Was climbing out of bed "Don t you think that I m a good girl?" Our little daughter said, "For all day long this lovely day, And all day long to-morrow, I have n t done a single thing To give my mother sorrow!" ANONYMOUS. MAXIMA REVERENTIA QUENCH not the children s joy! Too soon these cavernous damps Will dim their fairy lamps, Too soon the haloes fall from girl and boy, That crown their brows so innocently bright; Too soon the garlands white Of all their inconsiderate employ Take sad infection from surrounding night. IN CHILDHOOD S KINGDOM 17 Too soon will life s amazement Encounter their advance, And dubious circumstance Make proof of their appraisement Of charity and judgment, truth and gain! Too soon anxiety s abhorrent shapes Will spread like vapor o er the splendid plain, And all its promise of unblemished grapes; The beckoning harvest-fields will suffer blight; And even the sunlit mountain s high domain The mist will stain Blurring its aspect of celestial light. Dim not the eyes of youth With shadowed sorrow and the ghosts of ruth; Soon when the tracks are tangled, And all emotion jangled, Will fade their blessed vision of the truth; Till then let sin and suffering keep aloof; But come, unfeigned delight, With music heralded, with blossom spangled! Cordial the heart with courage for the proof! Feed the fresh mind with mirth, the nurse of might! Far be the horrid sight Of lacerated souls and spirits mangled! Young souls should laugh before they laugh in vain; First let them learn of earth The mysteries of mirth, Before they learn the mysteries of pain; First let them be enriched with dance and song, That make men strong To face dull labor and endure the strain Of disappointed faith and fortune s wrong ! Not hermit hearts, that love alone to dwell In secret cell, But happy hearts, that like a hive of bees Hum, thick with busy hopes, Nerve the weak arms and knit the feeble knees, Winning from sunny slopes Of mountains, from the summer woods and leas, What sadness spends, gazing on wintry seas. Quench not the children s joy! Let no lugubrious fantasy or tale Their heart assail! No morbid mirror flout their guileless faces With hint of lurking furrows and grimaces! 18 THE HUMBLER POETS Though greed and shame hereafter may destroy The sensitive play Of mobile muscle, and the unconscious graces That soon with introspection pass away, Though they are destined to a sure decay, As are the lilies, yet their lucent clay Is offspring of the sunshine and the skies, And their immaculate eyes Fade at the sight of lethal miseries. With pulsing feet let children trip along In rhythmic tumult of the dance and song, With waving arms and cymbals held aloft, In strains repeated oft! Into the movement of the Doric mode Guide passionate impulse, guide Life s eagerness and pride! Lead the desire that none by lash or goad Can drive along the road! Give them fair meads for pastime, undistraught By ill-foreboding thought, With balls of flowers tossed up and hardly caught, And dells with rippling laughter overflowed! So let the muse indignant Drive doleful thrummers from her sacred mount! Her melodies benignant Let shepherds to the dancing children count! Who with their hands and feet Shall to the cadence beat, Beat to the jocund pipe and gentle lyre, Until the anguished earth Listens, as sick men listen to the choir Of warbling birds at eager morning s birth. For where shall perfect happiness be found If not in careless children? Like the birds, They pour through sullen woods a jocund sound, A language not of words, More native to the air than to the ground! Who can life s unreplenished channels fill, If children may not treasure The untaxed waters of a bounteous pleasure? If children may not guard the precious store Of natural mirth, and from their vantage hill Launch many a laughing rill Along the valley, where men labor sore To delve the golden ore, The barren sands of vanity to till? IN CHILDHOOD S KINGDOM 19 For of all creatures that on earth should be Devote to gaiety, Upon whose lips should oftenest be heard Laughter s melodious bubble, Within whose eyes should rareliest be stirred The bitter pools of trouble, Children to gladness are entitled most! For they alone amid the weary host Of warring men, that beat the phantomed air, Frenzied, and wound each other unaware, They only dare Feast and make merriment. Ah! let them be! Smirch not their white-winged hours! They are the vestal guardians of the flame Of happiness! Ah! sprinkle not your spice, Self-scorn and sacrifice, Nor pluck away their garlands of sweet flowers, With desecrating fingers, hinting blame! But watch with me and listen, By those enchanted bowers Where children dance with children, hand in hand; Their eyes with gladness glisten, Their laughter makes a marvel in the land; They imitate no code, They use no courtier mode Of pleasing God; they neither toil nor haste For righteousness; but dwell in Eden still; And who would tempt their taintless lips to taste The cheating fruit of conscious good and ill? Hail, fairy child, Not by dissimulation yet defiled! Hail, frolic elf, Not yet instructed to dissect thyself! Too soon to be beguiled Into the gilded cage, saint, devotee, I know not what thou It be, But nevermore the simple, fresh, and free! F. B. MONET-COUTTS. FATHER GOOSE OLD Mother Goose became quite new, And joined a woman s club; She left poor Father Goose at home To care for Sis and Bub. 20 THE HUMBLER POETS They called for stories by the score, And laughed and cried to hear All of the queer and merry songs, That in this book appear. When Mother Goose at last returned, For her there was no use; The goslings much preferred to hear The tales of Father Goose. L. FRANK BAUM. HAPPINESS THIS world of ours appears to me The heaven-land of places, When I can look about and see Wee, dimpled baby faces. The chubby cheeks and clinging hands, That climb about and over, And bind my heart with velvet bands, As dewdrops woo the clover. This world is just a place of rest, Where blossoms bend above me, And spill their petals on the breast Of little hands that love me. I can t see anything but skies That lean to kiss and bless me, As blue as are the azure eyes That bend down to caress me. This world is ever glad and gay, So bid farewell to sorrow, For Love illumes the lengthened way, And brightens up the morrow. There s happiness around me spread, With wee, soft hands to greet me, When Tousled Curls and Golden Head Run laughing out to meet me. This world is just a heaven-spot! You don t hear me complaining, , When clouds appear to be my lot, And it begins a-raining; Because the twinkling drops that glint And glisten in the clover Are just a diamond-jewelled hint Of lush fields brimming over. IN CHILDHOOD S KINGDOM 21 This world of ours is fair and sweet; It could n t well be brighter, With love a-running out to greet, And make each heart the lighter. And happiness alone is spread Around and all about me, With Tousled Curls and Golden Head To smile upon and love me! E. A. BRININSTOOL. THE DEAD PUSSY CAT You s as stiff an as cold as a stone, Little cat! Dey s done frowed out and left you alone, Little cat! I se a-strokin you fur, But you don t never purr, Nor hump up anywhere, Little cat W y is dat? Is you s purrin and humpin up done? An w y fer is you s little foot tied, Little cat? Did dey pisen you s tummick inside, Little cat? Did dey pound you wif bricks, Or wif big nasty sticks, Or abuse you wif kicks, Little cat? Tell me dat, Did they holler w enever you cwied? Did it hurt werry bad w en you died, Little cat? Oh! W y did n t you wun off and hide, Little cat? Tink of dat! I is wet in my eyes Cause I almost always cwies When a pussy cat dies, Little cat, An I s awfully solly besides! Dest lay still dere down in de sof gwown , Little cat, 22 THE HUMBLER POETS Wile I tucks de gween gwass all awoun , Little cat, Dey can t hurt you no more Wen you s tired an so sore Dest sleep twiet, you pore Little cat, Wif a pat, And forget all de kicks of de town. ANONYMOUS. TABLE MANNERS WHEN Teddy Bears are brought to table They do not clatter forks and knives; They act as well as they are able, And do so all their lives. They do not tip back in their chairs, Or leave the spoon within the cup, Or crook a finger for fine airs; They re very well brought up. They keep their mouths shut when they re chewing, Nor chew aloud, nor smack their lips; They re quite refined, whatever s doing They drink not gulps, but sips. They speak when they are spoken to; Their elbows are not up, but down; They say, "Yes, please," and "I thank you," As if they lived in town. OLIVER MARBLE. AT NIGHT MAMMA, at night, puts out my light, And leaves me in my bed; Then dreadful things with peaked wings, Go sailing round my head. I can espy a horrid eye That looks right through the sheet. Mamma tells me I only see The lamp upon the street. She says that guardian angels fair, With little children stay; But, when her step dies on the stair, I hear them go away. IN CHILDHOOD S KINGDOM 23 So, if God means to be good To little children in the night, I wish He d leave of course He could My own mamma and light. MARY BALDWIN. EDELWEISS CHILD of the snowdrift and the storm! In lands beyond the sea, Type of the gentle and the pure, My tribute is to thee. By mountain crag and glacier s edge, Thy presence seems to bring To those who toil along the steeps The promise of the spring. Thus, too, thou earnest, little one, Amid the winter s gloom, And then, beyond, the promise dwelt, Of bud and leaf and bloom. Fair as the blossom of the Alps, By weary pilgrims seen, Sweeter than all the flowers that blow, Is baby Madeleine. WARREN PEASE. TO A MAID OF THIRTEEN How blithe you are, and tall, And oh, so good to see! How eager with the ball And for its mastery! You rise, a laughing joy, Intent that all the day No rougher youngling boy A better game shall play. At tennis how you run The net is nought to leap! On your flushed cheek the sun, Your eyes brown-bright from sleep! At golf how free your arm; The waves know its caress. Grief takes a quick alarm At your sweet sprightliness! 24 THE HUMBLER POETS Your crown the mightiest queen Must envy, laughing maid: Who would not be thirteen, So tall, and unafraid! CHRISTOPHER BANNISTER. LAUS INFANTIUM IN praise of little children I will say God first made man, then found a better way For woman, but his third way was the best. Of all created things, the loveliest And most divine are children. Nothing here Can be to us more gracious or more dear. And though, when God saw all His works were good, There was no rosy flower of babyhood, T was said of children in a later day That none could enter Heaven save such as they. The earth, which feels the flowering of a thorn, Was glad, O little child, when you were born; The earth, which thrills when skylarks scale the blue, Soared up itself to God s own Heaven in you; And Heaven, which loves to lean down and to glass Its beauty in each dewdrop on the grass, Heaven laughed to find your face so pure and fair, And left, O little child, its reflex there. WILLIAM CANTON- POPPY-LAND EXPRESS THE first train starts at 6 P.M. For the land where the Poppy grows; The mother, dear, is the engineer, And the passenger laughs and crows. The palace-car is the mother s arms, The whistle a low, sweet strain, The passenger winks and nods and blinks, And goes to sleep in the train. At 8 P.M. the next train starts For the Poppy-land afar; The summons clear falls on the ear, "All aboard for the sleeping-car." IN CHILDHOOD S KINGDOM 25 " But what is the fare to Poppy -land? I hope it is not dear." The fare is this a hug and a kiss, And tis paid to the engineer. So I asked of Him who children took On his knees in kindness great, "Take charge, I pray, of the train each day That leaves between 6 and 8. "Keep watch o er the passengers," thus I pray, "For to me they are very dear; And special ward, O gracious Lord! O er the gentle engineer." EDGAR W. ABBOT. CAPTAIN BING CAPTAIN BING was a pirate king And sailed the broad seas o er; On many a lark he had sailed his bark Where none had sailed before, And filled his hold so full of gold That it would hold no more. The sea was smooth and so, forsooth, They took a bit of leisure. And all the crew, good men and true, A hornpipe danced for pleasure, And had their fling, while Captain Bing Kept watch above the treasure. The wind it blew, and all the crew Were sorry that it blew so; If they were wrecked they might expect To share the fate of Crusoe, And ride the spars like jolly tars All shipwrecked men must do so. The gale it roared, and all on board Began to say their prayers, And Captain Bing commenced to sing To drown his many cares; But when he found that he was drowned It took him unawares! L. FRANK BAUM. 26 , THE HUMBLER POETS A HORRIBLE EXAMPLE THERE was a man who put on airs, And said he loved not Teddy Bears; He said they were all folderol, And much preferred a pretty doll. That night he did not say his prayers The room grew full of Teddy Bears; They sat upon his neck and chest, And would not give him any rest. He thought the Dolls would be his friends, So to them cries for help he sends ; They would not come, for all he cried, Because they were too ladified. OLIVER MARBLE. THE TOUCH OF CHILDREN S HANDS OH, TOUCH of children s hands! And whether ta en Away from us in dearest feebleness, Or whether they work out their days of stress; Or whether, after longing years of pain, We follow them, if so be, ne er again Beyond the grave to know again and bless The baby fingers that with soft impress Blessed ours, unmindful of their sin and stain. Yet somewhere, somehow, in this universe We faintly call our own, survives and stands Some witness which forever must rehearse That thrill too holy for the mortal curse, We ve felt we feel at touch which e er demands Eternity oh, touch of children s hands! JOHN JARVIS HOLDEN. A REAL BOY THERE s a joy that is a joy In a boy that is a boy Just a romping, reckless tyke That the whole round world must like; Freckled, awkward, lank and slim, Hat that s minus band and brim, With a trailing dog, or pup, That betimes will trip him up. IN CHILDHOOD S KINGDOM 27 In the morning out and gone At the bugles of the dawn, Finding wondrous games to play In each nook along the way, Wading brooks and climbing trees, Pestering the honeybees Till they sting him in despair But what does a real boy care? In at noon to bolt his lunch, Then a run to join the "bunch"; Shouts and yells and battle-call Over strife with bat and ball, Or a make-believe affray With the pirates in his play; Blisters, stone-bruises on his heel, Scratches that his baths reveal. Crooning in a sing-song twang, Horrifying by his slang, Giving every one the shakes By his chumminess with snakes, Naming with a careless shrug Every beetle, bird, and bug, Ruminant upon the grass Watching all the clouds that pass. Coming home at fall of night, Grimed and marred from play and fight, Braggadocio, weary yes, With a wondrous weariness. Dreaming on with smiles and sighs After sleep has closed his eyes There s a joy that is a joy In a boy that is a boy! WILBUR D. NESBIT. CONSOLING BILLY THERE now, Billy, stop your crying, Tears won t bring Spot back to you; I don t blame you, dear, for sighing, Mamma s feeling sorry, too. Oh, I know your heart s most breaking, But the eight, when Billy cries, Starts his mamma s heart to aching; There now, honey, dry your eyes. 28 THE HUMBLER POETS Spot was such a dear old fellow, And a doggish heart true blue Beat neath that rough old coat of yellow, With a love, dear, all for you. Yes, I know you 11 miss him badly, But, son, don t take it so hard; We 11 get you a new dog, gladly, If you want one for your "pard." All through life you 11 meet with sorrow Sorrow that you 11 have to bear, But the sun will shine to-morrow, And again all will be fair. There now, Billy, stop your crying, Dry your tears and try to smile; Old Spot s gone there s no use sighing, You 11 forget him after a while. EVA STEEL. QUEEN OF HER HEART THE little rag doll is queen, Her realm is a maiden s heart, And there she will reign serene, And play her important part. A bundle of rags is she, With collar of scraggly fur; She s only a doll to me, But more than a doll to her. A doll that I thought a prize I gave to the little maid, That opened and shut its eyes, And beauty of face displayed; But somehow it seemed to me She never received the care I daily and hourly see Bestowed on a doll less fair. The doll that can really talk, The doll in the silken dress, The doll that is made to walk Lies lonely in some recess; Forgotten and pushed aside, It lies in the dust apart, While that of the rags, in pride, Is held to the maiden s heart. IN CHILDHOOD S KINGDOM 29 The doll is a doll to me, A bundle of rags and fur, And yet I am quick to see It s more than a doll to her; And so it maintains its place, Unrivalled it holds its own; In rags and a painted face It stands in her heart alone. ELLIOTT FLOWER. BOYS AND GIRLS "I M awful glad I m not a girl," Said John, "To wear a skirt and shake my curls, And tie pink ribbons on." "I m awful glad I am a boy," Said John, "To play baseball, be sensible, And have a gun." "Pshaw, I don t care!" Belinda said, "Maybe I ll wed an earl! Besides, it s much more ladylike To be a girl." FLORENCE WILKINSON. PUT TO SLEEP BACK and forth in a rocker, Lost in reverie deep, The mother rocked while trying To sing the baby to sleep. The baby began a-crowing, For silent he could n t keep, And after a while the baby Had crowed his mother to sleep. RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK. A SWEET-EYED CHILD A SWEET-EYED child Looked down and smiled, As to her breast Her doll she pressed, Then raised her head 30 THE HUMBLER POETS And softly said: "Mamma, when you Before you grew So tall wore frocks Above your knee And were like me A girlie small Was I your doll?" AGNES LEE. MY LITTLE DEAR MY little dear, so fast asleep, Whose arms about me cling, What kisses shall she have to keep While she is slumbering! Upon her golden baby-hair The golden dreams I ll kiss Which Life spread, through my morning fair, And I have saved, for this. Upon her baby eyes I 11 press The kiss Love gave to me, When his great joy and loveliness Made all things fair to see. And on her lips, with smiles astir, Ah me, what prayer of old May now be kissed to comfort her, Should Love or Life grow cold ? DOLLIE RADFORD. TO A CHILD THE years stretch far above thee, Thy past is but a day; Fair skies of Hope spread o er thee, Love watches by the way. As closely now I hold thee, Safe in father s arms, So may my prayers enfold thee Ever through life s alarms. The tasks of duty call thee, Youth has not long to dream; In whatsoe er befall thee Be thou the man thou seem. IN CHILDHOOD S KINGDOM 31 Hypocrisy will try thee With promises that shine, But keep thy honor by thee And happiness is thine. The gauds of life may pass thee And lowly be thy lot: The pen of Time may class thee With mortals soon forgot; Grim toil may long enslave thee Ere Nature claims her debt, But He, thy God, who gave thee His work will not forget. FRANK PUTNAM. A MORTIFYING MISTAKE I STUDIED my tables over and over, and backward and forward too; But I could n t remember six times nine, and I did n t know what to do, Till sister told me to play with my doll, and not to bother mv head; "If you call her Fifty-four for a while, you 11 learn it by heart," she said. So I took my favorite Mary Ann though I thought t was a dreadful shame To give such a perfectly lovely child such a perfectly horrid name And I called her my dear little "Fifty-four" a hundred times till I knew The answer of six times nine as well as the answer of two times two. Next day Elizabeth Wigglesworth, who always acts so proud Said "Six times nine is fifty-two," and I nearly laughed aloud! But I wished I hadn t when teacher said, "Now, Dorothy tell if you can." For I thought of my doll and sakes alive! I answered "Mary Ann!" ANNA M. PRATT. 32 THE HUMBLER POETS A LITTLE GIRL IN SCHOOL A LITTLE girl in school How merry were the days! So simple every rule, So easy to earn praise! Life was a sunlit pool, The hours were fairy fays; A little girl in school How merry were the days! Long years of glory? Who 11 Not deem them waifs and strays Compared with life all cool, And void of new dismays; A little girl in school How merry were the days! FRANCES VIOLA HOLDEN. THE DAYS OF SUN CHILDHOOD S days are days of sun And all their paths are bright with flowers, Wherethrough blithe footsteps skip and run; Long days when morning s never done, When never a morning heaven lowers, Childhood s days are days of sun. Mirth, mischief, and the merriest fun Spring freely from those vernal bowers Wherethrough blithe footsteps skip and run; Blithe feet, their dancing just begun In consciousness of growing powers Childhood s days are days of sun. Too late we know the sunlight spun Through those lost April days of ours Wherethrough blithe footsteps skip and run; Too late we know the storms they shun, Those dearly sweet and innocent hours: Childhood s days are days of sun Wherethrough blithe footsteps skip and run! ERNEST L. VALENTINE. Part 3J3 THE REALM OF FAERY OH! where do the fairies hide their heads When snow lies on the hills, When frost has spoiled their mossy beds, And crystallized their rills f Beneath the moon they cannot trip In circles o er the plain; And draughts of dew they cannot sip Till green leaves come again. When they return there will be mirth, And music in the air, And fairy wings upon the earth, And mischief everywhere. The maids, to keep the elves aloof, Will bar the doors in vain; No keyhole will be fairy-proof, When green leaves come again. THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. Part 333 THE REALM OF FAERY THE DREAM OF A DREAMER LAST night I dreamed that I Ruled over all the land Held all twixt earth and sky In the hollow of my hand; I dreamed I ruled the beasts, Likewise the birds in air Ships, mills and mines and men I governed everywhere. Kings yielded to my sway, And fawning princes came To ask my favor, and The whole world knew my name; My trains rushed o er the plains, My ships rode on the sea, The toiling millions all Paid tribute unto me. Yet woe was in my breast, For in my dream, alas! I sat and gazed upon My image in a glass, And saw that o er my face, Once boyish, there had spread The cold and ghastly look Of one whose soul is dead. ANONYMOUS. THE WERE-WOLVES THEY hasten, still they hasten, From the even to the dawn; And their tired eyes gleam and glistep Under the north skies white and 35 36 THE HUMBLER POETS Each panter in the darkness Is a daemon-haunted soul, The shadowy, phantom were-wolves, Who circle round the Pole. Their tongues are crimson flaming, Their haunted blue eyes gleam, And they strain them to the utmost O er frozen lake and stream; Their cry one note of agony, That is neither yelp nor bark, These panters of the northern waste, Who hound them to the dark. You may hear their hurried breathing, You may see their fleeting forms, At the pallid polar midnight When the north is gathering storms; When the arctic frosts are flaming, And the ice-fields thunder roll; These daemon-haunted were-wolves, Who circle round the Pole. They hasten, still they hasten, Across the northern night, Filled with a frighted madness, A horror of the light; Forever and forever, Like leaves before the wind, They leave the wan, white gleaming Of the dawning far behind. Their only peace is darkness, Their rest to hasten on, Into the heart of midnight, Forever from the dawn. Across the phantom ice-floes The eye of night may mark These horror-haunted were-wolves Who hound them to the dark. All through this hideous journey, They are the souls of men Who in the far-dark ages Made Europe one dark fen. They fled from courts and convents, And bound their mortal dust With daemon wolfish girdles Of human hate and lust. THEREALMOFFAERY 37 These who could have been god-like Chose, each a loathsome beast, Amid the heart s foul graveyards, On putrid thoughts to feast; But the great God who made them Gave each a human soul, And so mid night forever They circle round the Pole; A praying for the blackness, A longing for the night, For each is doomed forever By a horror of the light; And far in the heart of midnight, Where their shadowy flight is hurled, They feel with pain the dawning That creeps in round the world. Under the northern midnight, The white glint ice upon, They hasten, still they hasten, With their horror of the dawn; Forever and forever, Into the night away They hasten, still they hasten, Unto the judgment day. WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL. QUATRAINS OF IDLENESS WHEN angels walk across the sky On God-sent errands, near and far, To keep their golden sandals dry, They merely step from star to star! There is a grove where every breeze Is made of tender lovers sighs, And kisses blossom on the trees, And every leaf has loving eyes. The magic gardens of the night I know are very, very far; Because their dews are tears of light Shed by a mourning widowed star. If it had been my lot to be A moon to light the summer air, I think you would have been the sea I would have seen my image there! 58 THE HUMBLER POETS You must have climbed the sky last night, And reached the moon and sat you there, And bathed your soul in silver light So pure you look, so white and fair! The moon must be a well profound Whence flow the flood of limpid beams That, as they spill upon the ground, Make bathing-pools for souls of dreams! If all the stars should fall some night Upon the beach where I might be, I d build with them a road of light For you to walk across the sea! The moon Is but an icy jar Where angels cool their wine, I think In lieu of cups each has his star To use in case he has to drink. EDWIN LEFEVRE. THE SEEKERS FRIENDS and loves we have none, nor wealth, nor blest abode, But the hope, the burning hope, and the road, the lonely road. Not for us are content, and quiet, and peace of mind, For we go seeking cities that we shall never find. There is no solace on earth for us for such as we Who search for the hidden beauty that eyes may never see. Only the road and the dawn, the sun, the wind, the rain, And the watch-fire under stars, and sleep, and the road again. We seek the city of God, and the haunt where beauty dwells, And we find the noisy mart and the sound of burial bells. Never the golden city, where radiant people meet, But the dolorous town where mourners are going about the street. We travel the dusty road till the light of the day is dim And sunset shows us spires away on the world s rim. We travel from dawn to dusk, till the day is past and by, Seeking the Holy City beyond the rim of the sky. Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blest abode, But the hope, the burning hope, and the road, the lonely road. JOHN MASEFIELD. THE REALM OF FAERY THE RECALL AN ancient ghost came up the way (The western way, the windy way), Across a world of land and sea, With greeting from afar to me: "Hast thou forgot the open way (The winding way, the wandering way), With freedom of strong sun and rain To clear the roving heart of pain? "Yet still the long roads greet the sun, And glad wayfarers one by one Follow the gold day down the West, That once made part of thy unrest. "Hast thou forgot the ocean way (The thunderous way, the wondrous way), The fierce enchantment of the sea, The memory, the mystery? "Yet still the tall ships gather home From tropic worlds beyond the foam, And still the south-bound steamers go Down foreign seas thou once didst know. "Hast thou forgot the forest way (The shady way, the silent way), The thin blue camp-smokes in the dawn, The brave, bright fires when night came on? "Still the free forest glooms and shines With moonlight on the silvered pines, Although by hill and lonely shore Their noiseless trails know thee no more." So came an ancient ghost to me, Idling beside a winter sea The lost familiar of my breast, The spirit of the old unrest. FRANK LILLIE POLLOCK. CASTLES IN THE AIR I BUILDED a castle in the air, A vast and magnificent pile As the splendid temples of Karnak were By the thirsty shores of the Nile. 40 THE HUMBLER POETS Its glittering towers emblazoned the blue, Its walls were of burnished gold, Its base from the caverns of ocean grew Where pearls lay asleep in the cold. Its windows were jewels whose dazzling gleam Flashed back to the sun and the stars, Like the eyes of a god in a Brahmin s dream Of the land of the deodars. It stood as the work of a builder, alone, Whose wonderful genius played The music of heaven in mortar and stone With the tools of his earthly trade. I builded a castle in the air, From the base to its turret crown; I stretched forth my hand to touch it there, And the whole darn thing fell down. WILLIAM J. LAMPTON. THE FAIRY THRALL ON gossamer nights when the moon is low, And the stars in the mist are hiding, Over the hill where the foxgloves grow You may see the fairies riding. Kling! Klang! Kling! Their stirrups and bridles ring, And their horns are loud and their bugles blow, When the moon is low. They sweep through the night like a whistling wind, They pass and have left no traces; But one of them lingers far behind The flight of the fairy faces. She makes no moan, She sorrows in the dark alone, She wails for the love of humankind Like a whistling wind. "Ah! why did I roam where the elfins ride Their glimmering steps to follow? They bore me far from my loved one s side, To wander o er hill and hollow. Kling! Klang! Kling! Their stirrups and bridles ring, But my heart is cold in the cold night-tide, Where the elfins ride." MARY C. G. BYRON. THEREALMOFFAERY 41 A SAILOR S SUMMONS A SOMETHING white came up last night, It was the mist, I wist, or rain. It wheeled about, flashed in and out, And beckoned gainst the window-pane. It was a bird, no doubt, no doubt, And will not come again. And something beat with slow repeat, And heavy swell, the old sea-wall, And shrill and clear and piercing sweet, I thought I heard the boatswain s call. The sails were set and yet, and yet, It may have been no boat at all. But if to-night a sail should leap From out the dark and driving rain, You must not hold me back nor weep, For I must sail a trackless main, To find and have, to hold and keep, What I have sought so long in vain. I need no chart of sea nor sand, Nor any blazing beacon star. My prow against wild wlives shall stand Until it cuts the blessed bar, And I run up the shining strand Where my lost youth and Mary are. FLA VIA ROSSER. THE PHANTOM LINER THE fog lay deep on Georges Bank, Rolling deep fold on fold; It dripped and dripped from the rigging dank, And the day sank dark and cold. The watch stood close by the reeling rail And listened into the gloom; Was there a sound save the slatting sail And the creak of the swaying boom? Out of the dark the great waves crept And shouldered darkly by, Till over their tops a murmur crept That was neither of sea nor sky. 42 THE HUMBLER POETS "Is it the churn of a steamer s screw?" "Is it a wind that sighs?" A shiver ran through the listening crew, We looked in each other s eyes. No engines throbbed, no whistle boomed, No foam curled from her prow, But out of the mist a liner loomed Ten fathom from our bow. Ten fathom from our bow she grew, No man might speak or stir, As she leapt from the fog that softly drew Like a shroud from over her. We shut our teeth in grim despair, Then, like one under a spell, Right through her as she struck us fair I saw the lift of a swell. There was never a crash of splintered plank, No rush of incoming tide, There was never a tear in the mainsail dank As her hull went through our side. Unharmed we drifted down the night, On into the fog she drave, And through her as she passed from sight I saw the light of a wave. Was it some ship long lost at sea, Whose wraith still sails the main? Or the ghost of a wreck that is yet to be In some wild hurricane? Was it a warning to fishing boats Of what the fog may hold, As over their decks it drips and floats And swathes in its slinging fold? I cannot tell, I only know Our crew of eighteen men Saw the gray form come, and saw it go Into the fog again. ANONYMOUS. THEREALMOFFAERY 43 ALL SOULS NIGHT MOTHER, mother, I swept the hearth, I set his chair and the white board spread, 1 prayed for his coming to our kind Lady when Death s sad doors would let out the dead; A strange wind rattled the window-pane, and down the lane a dog howled on. I called his name and the candle flame burnt dim, pressed a hand to the door-latch upon. Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear. I called his name and the pale ghost came; but I was afraid to meet my dear. mother, mother, in tears I checked the sad hours past of the year that s o er, Till by God s grace I might see his face and hear the sound of his voice once more; The chair I set from the cold and wet, he took when he came from unknown skies Of the land of the dead; on my bent brown head I felt the reproach of his saddened eyes; 1 closed my lids on my heart s desire, crouched by the fire, my voice was dumb; At my clean-swept hearth he had no mirth, and at my table he broke no crumb. Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear: His chair put aside when the young cock cried, and I was afraid to meet my dear. DORA SIGERSON. A LEGEND AYE, an old story, yet it might Have truth in it who knows? Of the heroine s breaking down one night Just ere the curtain rose. And suddenly, when fear and doubt Had shaken every heart, There stepped an unknown actress out To take the heroine s part. But oh the magic of her face, And oh the songs she sung, And oh the rapture in the place, And oh the flowers they flung! 44 THE HUMBLER POETS But she never stooped: they lay all night As when she turned away And left them and the saddest light Shone in her eyes of gray. She gave a smile in glancing round, And sighed, one fancied, then But never they knew where she was bound, Or saw her face again. But the old prompter, gray and frail, They heard him murmur low: "It only could be Meg Coverdale, Died thirty years ago, "In that old part who took the town; And she was fair, as fair As when they shut the coffin down On the gleam of her golden hair; "And it was n t hard to understand How a lass as fair as she Could never rest in the Promised Land Where none but angels be." MAY KENDALL. Part JP YULETIDE HAPPINESS CHRISTMAS CAROL THE earth has grown old with its burden of care, But at Christmas it always is young. The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair And its soul full of music breaks forth on the air When the song of the angels is sung. It is coming, old earth, it is coming to-night ! On the snowflakes which cover thy sod The feet of the Christ child fall gentle and white, And the voice of the Christ child tells out with delight That mankind are the children of God. On the sad and the lonely, the wretched and poor, The voice of the Christ child shall fall, And to every blind wanderer open the door Of a hope that we dared not to dream of before, With a sunshine of welcome for all. The feet of the humblest may walk in the field Where the feet of the holiest have trod. This, this is the marvel to mortals revealed, When the silvery trumpets of Christmas have pealed, That mankind are the children of God. PHILLIPS BROOKS. Part TO YULETIDE HAPPINESS THE CHRISTMAS TREE OF THE ANGELS HAVE you seen God s Christmas tree in the sky, With its trillions of tapers blazing high, With its star-strung branches that reach so far Clear up through the spaces where angels are? Hush listen! If you look close with me I 11 show you this magical Christmas tree This tree of God, with its branches wide, The flame for the angels at Christmastide. Oh, its great, wide branches are powdered white With silver dust from the stars at night Branches laden with wealth untold Wreaths and ribbons and ropes of gold! Chain on chain of luminous things Suns and satellites moons and rings Hung high up where the angels are Can you trace the branches from star to star? And look hung low for our mortal sight, A luminous globe of silver white! And yonder sheer in the frosty air A dipper of diamonds dazzling fair! Oh, if you and I could look and see, With souls bared clear to its mystery This tree, with its millions of jewelled strands, And its tapers lighted by cherub hands Who knows what marvels might beam and blaze To thrill our souls with a rapt amaze! Who knows but the branches might part to view With the faces of angels shining through? 47 48 THE HUMBLER POETS Oh, the marvellous gifts of this tree divine Gifts that are yours gifts that are mine Dropped by the angels adown the sky From the great wide branches so high so high! There s a gift of peace and a gift of love, And a gift of faith from the spheres above; There s a gift of hope for those who mourn Whose homes are blighted, whose hearths are lorn. For high up there in God s love and light, Who knows but the ones we miss to-night Are hanging the tapers to guide our eyes To this tree of God in Paradise? ANGELA MORGAN. TO AN OLD FOGY, WHO CONTENDS THAT CHRISTMAS IS WORN OUT O FRANKLY bald and obviously stout! And so you find that Christmas as a fete, Dispassionately viewed, is getting out Of date. The studied festal air is overdone; The humor of it grows a little thin; You fail, in fact, to gather where the fun Comes in. Visions of very heavy meals arise That tend t/o make your organism shiver; Roast beef that irks, and pies that agonize The liver. Those pies at which you annually wince, Hearing the tale how happy months will follow Proportioned to the total mass of mince You swallow. Visions of youth whose reverence is scant, Who with the brutal nerve of boyhood s prime Insist on being taken to the pant omime. Of infants, sitting up extremely late, Who run you on toboggans down the stair, Or make you fetch a rug and simulate A bear. YULETIDE HAPPINESS 49 This takes your faultless trousers at the knees, The other hurts them rather more behind; And both affect a fracture in your ease Of mind. My good dyspeptic, this will never do; Your weary withers must be sadly wrung ! Yet once I well believe that even you Were young. Time was when you devoured, like other boys, Plum pudding sequent on a turkey hen; With cracker mottoes hinting at the joys Of men. OWEN SEAMAN. RECURRING YULETIDE How good our every festival appears How full of meaning as we learn to know! And as the mystery of childhood clears, See the Christ stand in purifying glow; His greater power and strength directing still The footsteps and the hand, the sight, the will; Each glad approach, regardful of the years, Foretells the presence better understood, And as the time of understanding nears, Maturer life appreciates the good In that great heart that taught us how to live And to receive in knowing how to give. JOSEPH TWYMAN. THE CHRISTMAS BABE ALL in the night when sleeping I lay in slumber s chain, The Christmas Babe came weeping Outside my window-pane. The Christmas Child whom faithless Men turn from their hearthstone My dream was dumb and breathless, The Christmas Babe made moan. The small hands beat impatient Upon my close-locked door, The small hands that have fashioned The world, the stars, and more. 50 THE HUMBLER POETS He heard no sound of coming, His cries broke wild and keen, The Christmas Babe went roaming For one to take Him in. A burning bush of splendor Enfolds the Christmas Child, Like some meek bird and tender, In gold thorns undefiled. I listen long to hear Him Come crying at my door. Voices of night I fear them, And He comes by no more. KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. HAPPY CHRISTMASTIDE HOLLY berries red and bright, Wealth of candles flickering light, Christmas in the air! Childish faces all aglow, Outside sleigh bells in the snow Banished is dull care. Older wiseheads for the time Join in sport and song and rhyme Happy Christmastide ! Memory brings back golden youth, Eyes then seeing only truth Ever at its side. Joy to-night is crowned the queen Of the festive Christmas scene. May her rule be long! None can claim a rebel heart With her followers forms a part Theirs a gladsome song! GERTRUDE ELOISE BEALER. IN CHRISTMAS LAND IN the beams and gleams came the Christmas dreams To the little children there, And hand in hand, to the Christmas land Neath the Christmas skies so fair, They went away on a magic sleigh That tinkled with silver bells, Over the white of the snow, one night, Where the king of the Christmas dwells. YULETIDE HAPPINESS 51 They saw him marshal his soldiers small, In beautiful, bright brigades; At the tap o the drum they saw them come With guns and glittering blades. The little soldiers were made of tin, With painted coats of red, And they drilled away, with their banners gay, By a cute little captain led. But alas! for the king o the Christmas band And the march that his soldiers made! For the dolls were dressed in their very best Oh, the dolls were on dress parade! And they smiled so sweet at the soldiers brave Each beautiful, fairy doll, They dropped their guns for a smile they gave, And ran away with them all! But such is the wonder of Christmas land When in the morning light The children woke from the Christmas dreams, There stood the soldiers bright; And the dolls were smiling their sweetest smiles, And they said, "From our land so true The soldiers brought us a thousand miles To the homes and hearts of you!" ANONYMOUS. A YULETIDE TALE T WAS on a merry Yuletide night An artless youth and maid Watched, while beneath the mistletoe Their gay companions played; And he looked quite disgusted, And she looked half afraid. "Such conduct," said the artless youth, "Most shocking seems to me!" "But neath the mistletoe, perhaps, T is different," murmured she. The artless youth he smiled a smile; "Pray look at this," quoth he. It was a sprig of mistletoe, With tiny leaves of green; Up rose that artless maiden, All with a solemn mien, And stealthily she led the youth Forth from the shocking scene. 52 THE HUMBLER POETS All silently she led him forth (That artless maiden fair) To the dim conservatory, Mid the palms and orchids rare; Then took that sprig of misletoe And put it in her hair. ANONYMOUS. OLD TOM TUSSER S ADVICE BACK mid the Baltic s sleet and snow When Viking days were in their prime They perceived the wisdom, long ago, Of Yuletide s coming in winter time, And said as much, in prose and rhyme; And old Tom Tusser s vision clear Went further, in a lilting chime : "At Christmas play, and make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a year." Just when the sun is cold and slow, Before he begins his upward climb, Is n t it wise to think and know Of Yuletide s coming in winter time? Forgot the season s mirk and grime, Forgot the sleet and north wind s fear For this good advice to gay pastime: "At Christmas play, and make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a year." What do we care for December s woe A frosty face indoors is crime When we are glad, in the log s bright glow, Of Yuletide s coming in winter time. There we know nothing of ice and rime, Fully assured when, now and here, We repeat, as at school a paradigm: "At Christmas play, and make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a year." L Envoi O Father Christmas, the thought s sublime Of Yuletide s coming in winter time; But there is another, quite as sincere: "At Christmas play, and make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a year! " ERNEST L. VALENTINE. YULETIDE HAPPINESS 53 WHAT THE THREE LITTLE STOCKINGS SAID TWAS the night before Christmas, and small stockings three Were hung where good Santa Glaus surely would see; Then three tired children went early to bed To dream of his coming with reindeer and sled. There was Bessie, the baby, with ringlets of gold, Who believed every word as the story was told, How when all were asleep and the house was quite still, He came down the chimney, the stockings to fill. Then Freddie, who hoped he would get a new sled, With shiny steel runners and top painted red; And Winnie, perplexed lest a stocking so small Could not hold what she wished for, a big jointed doll. The night had crept on to the hours which are wee, And the children were sleeping as sound as could be, When a figure came crouching, dark lantern in hand, But surely not he for whose visit they planned. For not down the chimney with presents came he, But through the front door with a skeleton key, Stole softly upstairs, and with quick, furtive glance, Straight into the children s room blundered by chance. He flashed the dark lantern, its circular glow Showed three tiny stockings hung up in a row; He stood as if dazed or transfixed by the sight, Then fled with swift footsteps back into the night. God s ways are mysterious, when dealing with men, And the means ofttimes used far beyond human ken; So in that quiet chamber a sermon was read, For this, to the robber, the three stockings said: "Look back on the farmhouse and hours filled with joy, Which blessed you in childhood, a free, happy boy; Mark the long years between, steeped in misery and crime! Will your heart let you steal in this glad Christmas time? "Aye! think of your mother, her head bowed in shame For the son she would give up her all to reclaim, Of your father, who sleeps neath the old churchyard sod, And reflect that your hand heaped the funeral clod! 54 THE HUMBLER POETS "Then your dear little sister, who left all below, While you were an innocent child, does she know? And your brother, who answered his country s loud call, In defence of "old glory," so early to fall. "You remember, on Christmas eve, long, long ago, How three little stockings hung, all in a row, While three merry elves watched the huge back-log blaze? How much would you give to bring back those glad days?" The children woke early, and ran, every one, To find good old Santa Glaus work was well done; They were so glad he found them, and, as for the rest, Not a trace was there left of the unbidden guest. The bold robber was whelmed in the same wave of love That compassed the children from heaven above; It awakened his conscience, on purpose, no doubt, That the three little stockings might put him to rout. When peace and good-will came to save men from sin, Through the babe in the manger in Bethlehem s inn, Love circled the earth with her chain strong and true, And on each merry Christmas she welds it anew. ALICE J. WHITNEY. CHRISTMAS BELLS THE years come not back that have circled away With the past of the eastern land, When he plucked the corn on the Sabbath day And healed the withered hand; But the bells shall join in a joyous chime For the One who walked the sea, And ring again for the better time Of the Christ that is to be! Then ring for earth s best promise dwells In ye, O joyous prophet bells! Ring out at the meeting of night and morn For the dawn of a happier day! Lo, the stone from our faith s great sepulchre torn The angels have rolled away! And they come to us here in our low abode, With words like the sunrise gleam Come down and ascend by that heavenly road That Jacob saw in his dream. Spirit of love, that in music dwells, Open our hearts with the Christmas bells! YULETIDE HAPPINESS 55 Help us to see that the glad heart prays As well as the bended knees; That there are in our own as in ancient days The scribes and the Pharisees; That the Mount of Transfiguration still Looks down on these Christian lands, And the glorified ones from the holy hill Are reaching their helping hands. These be the words our music tells Of solemn joy, O Christmas bells! ANONYMOUS. THE BEST TREE KARL lay on the floor by the firelight bright Thinking about the trees. "I love them all," he said to himself, As he named them over with ease; "The chestnut, ash, and oak so high, The pine, with its needle leaves, The spruce and cedar and hemlock green, And the maple with its keys. "The dainty willow, with pussies gray, The birch with bark so white, The apple tree with its blossoms sweet, And the fruit so red and bright. But the one I love the best of all Blooms and bears fruit together; It s sure to be filled at this time of the year, Whatever may be the weather. "Its blossoms are blue and yellow and red, All shining with silvery hue. There are stems of golden and silver thread, And candles that glisten like dew. With such wonderful fruit there s none can compare; From lowest to topmost bough Every sort of a toy is swinging in air Jumping frogs and cats that me-ow. "There are trumpets and balls and dolls that talk, And drums and whistles that blow, And guns and whips and horses that walk, And books, and wagons that go. There are musical tops and boats that sail, And puzzles and knives and games; There are Noah s arks and also a whale, And boxes and ribbons and reins. 56 THE HUMBLER POETS "There s candy and oranges, skates and sleds, And mugs for good little girls, And cradles and clothes for dollies beds, And dolls with hair in curls. There are fans for girls and tools for boys, And handkerchiefs, rattles, and ties, And horns and bells and suchlike toys, And tea-sets and candy pies. "Oh! what a sight is this wonderful tree, With its gifts that sparkle and hide! Other trees may be good, but there 7 s none for me In all the world beside Like the beautiful, merry Christmas tree With its branches spreading wide The merry, beautiful, sparkling tree That blossoms at Christmastide." ANONYMOUS. CHRISTMAS BELLS THERE are sounds in the sky when the year grows old, And the winds of winter blow When night and the moon are clear and cold, And the stars shine on the snow, Or wild is the blast and the bitter sleet That beats on the window-pane; But blest on the frosty hills are the feet Of the Christmas time again; Chiming sweet when the night wind swells, Blest is the sound of the Christmas bells! Dear are the sounds of the Christmas chimes In the land of ivied towers, And they welcome the dearest of festival times In this western world of ours! Bring on the holly and mistletoe bough, The English firelight falls, And bright are the wreathed evergreens now That gladden our own home walls! And hark! the sweet note that tells The welcome of the Christmas bells! The owl that sits in the ivy s shade, Remote from the ruined tower, Shall start from his drowsy watch afraid When the clock shall strike the hour. And over the fields in their frosty rhyme Cheery sounds shall go, YULETIDE HAPPINESS 57 And chimes shall answer unto chime Across the moonlit snow! How sweet the lingering music dwells The music of the Christmas bells. It fell not thus in the East afar Where the babe in the manger lay; The wise men followed their guiding star To the dawn of a milder day; And the fig and the sycamore gathered green, The palm tree of Deborah rose; Twas the strange first Christmas the world had seen And it came not in storms and snows. Not yet on Nazareth s hills and dells Had floated the sound of Christmas bells. The cedars of Lebanon shook in the blast Of their own cold mountain air; But nought o er the wintry plain had passed To tell that the Lord was there! The oak and the olive and almond were still In the night now worn and thin; No wind of the winter time roared from the hill To waken the guests at the inn; No dream to them the music tells That is to come from the Christmas bells! The years that have fled like the leaves on the gale Since the morn of the miracle birth Have widened the fame of the marvellous tale Till the tidings have filled the earth! And so in the chimes of the icy north, And the lands of the cane and the palm, By the Alpine cotter s blazing hearth, And in tropic belts of calm, Men list to-night the welcome swells, Sweet and clear, of Christmas bells. They are ringing to-night through the Norway firs, And across the Swedish fells, And the Cuban palm tree dreamily stirs To the sound of those Christmas bells! They ring where the Indian Ganges rolls Its floods through the rice fields wide; They swell the far hymns of the Lapps and Poles To the praise of the Crucified. Sweeter than the tones of the ocean s shells Mingle the chimes of the Christmas bells! ANONYMOUS. 58 THE HUMBLER POETS THE NEW CHRISTMAS IN the good old days, in the spacious days, when the Christmas feast began, There was good clean air between house and house, and good faith between man and man; To the lonely houses the men came home, and the doors were strong and stout To shut a man and his friend folk in and to shut the foeman out. They came from the swirl of the Spanish sea, from the clash of the Picard spear, To eat once more of English beef, to drink of the English beer; And the hate of the world lay light at their backs as the touch of the falling snow, And strong as ice were the bonds of blood in the days of long ago. The hall was hung with holly and yew fresh cut from the woods nearby; The long mince pies were baked in the shape of the cradle where Christ did lie; And knee to knee, at the rough hewn board, sat the men who must fight and roam, And the men who must tend the good home stock and plough the good fields of home. They drank their ale from the mazer bowl, they drank from the ten-hoop pot, From the silver cup with the rose-wrought edge and the legend, "Forget me not;" They drank to their king, they drank to their love, to their kinsmen far away In the lonely houses where, each with his own, men feasted on Christmas Day. Now the snow is trampled by million feet, the world is lighted and loud, And Christmas comes to a hurried host of neighborless men in a crowd; And round are the mince pies sold in the shops, and the holly and yew tree bough And the beef and the beer and the Christmas cheer are brought by the tradesfolk now. YULETIDE HAPPINESS 59 The wind no more between house and house blows free and freezing and sweet; The houses are numbered all in a row and squeezed in a narrow street. We know not the breed of our Christmas beef nor the brew of our Christmas beer, Yet we sit round a table and call our toast though it come but once a year. For the wind outside is still the wind that blows from the con quered sea, And the folks that hate us are still without, as God send they may always be; And we still make cheer in the English home, and its walls are strong and stout The walls of steel that keep England safe and that keep the nations out. So here s to our queen and here s to our love and our kinsmen on Christmas day. Though their lonely houses lie east and west and southward far away, Each scattered house of our empire is strong as the world is wide, To keep the foes of the English out and the English safe inside. So may each of our kin at Christmas time still keep good Christ mas cheer And drink to his brother far away, though it be but once a year; For strong as ice is the bond of blood and light is the whole world s hate As the snow a man shakes from his shoulders as he comes to his own front gate. E. NESBIT. CHRISTMAS SHADOWS THE needles have dropped from her nerveless hands, As she watches the dying embers glow; For out from the broad old chimney-place Come shadows of "long ago" Shadows that carry her back again To the time of her childhood s artless joy; Shadows that show her a tiny row Of stockings awaiting the Christmas toy. 60 THE HUMBLER POETS Shadows that show her the faces loved Of many a half-forgotten friend; And the Christmas eve, as it passing by, While Past and Present in shadows blend, Alone in the dear old homestead now, With only the shadows of Auld Lang Syne, The clock is ticking the moments on While tears in her aged eyes still shine. If only out from the silent world, The world of shadows which mock her so, One might return to his vacant chair, To sit with her in the firelight s glow! If only was that a white, white hand That seemed to beckon her out of the gloom? Or was it the embers last bright flash That startled the shadows round the room? The Christmas eve, it has passed at length; A glorious day from the night is born; The shadows are gone from earth away, And the bells are ringing for Christmas morn. But, ah! by the broad old chimney-place The angel of death keeps watch alone, For straight to the Christ-child s arms A longing spirit hath gladly flown. ANONYMOUS. CHRISTMAS NEW A STORY is told of three wise men who travelled over the plains In search of a great unnameable bliss Such as lifts the heart when the angels kiss And the joy they get for their pains. These three wise men, who travelled through faith by plain and hill and stream, Discovered their search by the aid of a star That brought them together and led them afar, Fulfilling the hopes of a dream. There are oft-told tales of wise men who work and discover and preach; And make themselves rich, or other men rich, With chattels or money, it matters not which, So long as it comes within reach. YULETIDE HAPPINESS 61 But these are the works the world can learn, the works that the world doth well: No listening ear to hear is made, Of a something done without parade, For the act itself to tell. And the greatest joy, since the one great search, is no more sought abroad, For the joy is found and daily reached Through the word that the founders daily preached And practised with one accord. So "peace on earth, good will to men," goes out in the thought to give, And the joy of the givers clears the way For the generous wise to bless the day They can live, and give, and live. JOSEPH TWYMAN. OLD YEAR, GOOD-NIGHT! OLD YEAR, good-night! A faithful friend You ve been to us, and Heaven send You peace, as through the noisy night You take your long and solemn flight Adown the path we all descend. You brought us merry hours to spend; In gratitude we would forf end From you the thought of parting-slight : Old Year, good-night! Good-night! and when we, too, must wend Our midnight way your path to attend, Come, good old Year, and bring a light To make our path a little bright; Not here, not now, let friendship end; Old Year, good-night! ALEXANDER MACLEAN. NEW YEAR, GOOD-MORNING! NEW YEAR, good-morning! Come and bring Us days that smile and days that sing Out from the drifts of swirling snow That through the mirky midnight blow And clutch with frosty hands and cling. 62 THE HUMBLER POETS Hark! how the joy-bells chime and ring Thy birth, and new hope set a-wing. With hands outstretched you come; and so New Year, good-morning! New courage greets their clamoring The thought of friends, the thought of spring, Of kindly solace for our woe, Of happiness we re still to know; We wait your accolade, O King! New Year, good-morning! ALEXANDER MACLEAN. THE GLAD NEW YEAR THERE s coming a year all mirth and joy With a wealth of gladness in every week, As gay as a girl and as blithe as a boy Maybe this is the year we seek, When a brightened eye and a mantling cheek Tell tales of happiness and cheer: Ho, young newcomer, up and speak! Are you that happy, glad New Year? There s a year all gold without alloy, With never a day that s chill and bleak, With never a storm to bring annoy Maybe this is the year we seek, With not one gale to shrill and shriek, No rain to wet, no heat to fear, No hail, no dust, no mud, no reek: Are you that happy, glad New Year? In that great year no sweet shall cloy, Nor darkling clouds our sky shall streak, Good fortune be no longer coy Maybe this is the year we seek, When all, like stars on a mountain-peak, See Heaven as clearer and more near, No hates to hoard nor wraths to wreak: Are you that happy, glad New Year? L Envoi O Stranger, hark to our prayer, and eke (Maybe this is the year we seek) Answer and tell us the word we d hear: Are you that happy, glad New Year? WILLIAM SHATTUCK. Part I? UNDER GOD S HEAVENS WAIT NATURE alway is in tune Nature alway hath a rune. Let it be an autumn day; Let it be a day in May: Nature alway hath a rune; Nature alway is in tune. Let it be in autumn late: There is music when we wait. Once I waited very long; But my life became a song. TIMOTHY OTIS PAINE. Part (P UNDER GOD S HEAVENS THE FIRST OF APRIL Now if to be an April-fool Is to delight in the song of the thrush, To long for the swallow in air s blue hollow, And the nightingale s riotous music-gush, And to paint a vision of cities Elysian Out away in the sunset-flush Then I grasp my flagon and swear thereby, We are April-fools, my Love and I. And if to be an April-fool Is to feel contempt for iron and gold, For the shallow fame at which most men aim And to turn from worldlings cruel and cold To God in his splendor, loving and tender, And to bask in his presence manifold Then by all the stars in his infinite sky, We are April-fools, my Love and I. MORTIMER COLLINS. A VAGABOND SONG IT S ho! for a song as wild and free As the swash of the waves in the open sea; It s ho! for a song as unconfined As the hawk that sails in the summer wind; A song for a vagabond s heart and brain, Refreshing and sweet as the roving rain That chants to the thirsty earth, Yoho! A song of rollicking mirth, Yoho! A song of the grass and grain! 65 66 THE HUMBLER POETS It e ho ! for a vagabond s life, say I, A vagabond live and a vagabond die; It s ho! to roam in the solitudes And chum with the birds in the vagrom woods, To sleep with flowers, and wash in dew, To dream of a love that is ever new, A love that never grows stale, Yoho! Like a cask of rum or ale, Yo ho! A love that is ever true. It s ho! for a stretch of the dusty road, Or here a meadow, or there a lode; It s ho! to hear in the early morn The yellow allegro of tasselled corn; To sail in fancy the golden main Where breezes billow the seas of grain, And the swallow that skims the tips, Yoho! Are richly cargoed ships, Yoho! Outbound for the ports of Spain! It s ho! for the smell of the sap that swims, When the maples sweat like an athlete s limbs; It s ho! for the joys that crowd the spring, The brawl of brooks, the birds that sing; To wander at will the summer through, Indifferent to blame, careless of due; In winter the kiss that slips Yoho! From a nut-brown naiad s lips, Yoho! And the love that lies in her eyes of blue! JOHN NORTHERN HILLIARD. NATURE SHE whom I loved, not human in degree, And so I deemed unchanging, is no more Worthy my trust, nor shall a thought restore This wistful heart its love; and Time shall see No mystic midnight draw her back to me, With whom my lovely sojournings are o er! Nay, of the very light she loves to pour Warm on the world, my spirit would be free! UNDER GOD S HEAVENS 67 For once, when she the whole day long had smiled, Tuning her murmurous insect strings, my ear Caught the swift sob of human anguish wild; When I besought her aid, and drew her near, Lo, she I dreamed omnipotent stood there Blind, deaf, and dumb, beside a moaning child. WINIFRED LUCAS. THE SONG OF THE WIND IN THE CLOUD ROCK, rock, my hollow boat! Sleepy, sighing, swinging boat ! Woven from the spray of ocean, Swan or seamaid taught thee motion! Wistfully earth s children muse On thy blithe and wayward cruise, All too far remote! Float, float, my cradle cloud ! Moonlit goes my pearly cloud; Tossing in the silvery spaces, Drifting in the dusky places, Smiling earth-children see How the night enchanteth thee For thy voyage proud. Sail, sail, my chiming shell! Murmuring flies my curving shell, Followed by the laughing star eyes Haste! my cavern home afar lies! Dreamily earth-children trace Mong the stars thine airy pace, Shiver by thy spell. ELLEN ROLFE VEBLEN. STRAYED SUNBURNED dryad of the lanes, In the city street you stare, Holding pensively the reins Of your rustic team, their manes Tawny as your breeze-blown hair Nut-brown hair with sunny stains. Far your thoughts are from this shock, Far from all this smoke and din, To your woolly bleating flock, 68 THE HUMBLER POETS To that nook where, doffed your frock, You do ripple to your chin Near the bubbled, gurgling rock. There beneath the beech you dream, Lie upon the grass so cool, Watch the honest, faithful team, Standing mid-leg in the stream, Lift their noses from the pool, Where the sky and shallows gleam. There the sounds of evening come As the hushing world grows dark; Night- jars croak, and like a drum, Heard afar, the beetles hum; Fireflies bear their fancy spark Till the night is deeply dumb. Dryad! brown as forest leaves, Fragrant is your loaded car, Melons covered o er with sheaves. Buyers crowd; but your heart grieves For the glades where cow-bells are, For the swallows in the eaves. C. E. S. WOOD. THE ORCHARD O PLEASANT orchard, emerald leaves And shining fruit the summer weaves Into a jewel of design Finer than man will e er refine; But not until the springtime shows Her beauty in the lovely blows Of pear and apple, peach and cherry, To prove the world at last is merry. JOHN JARVIS HOLDEN. A GYPSY SONG CAN tute rakker Romany? Then, hey! for the fields and the forests green Lawyer or banker or dominie, It does not matter what you have been. Rye, larishan! A greeting fair To all that live beneath the sun; To men, to birds, to stag, to hare, To all the things that creep or run. UNDER GOD S HEAVENS 69 Ah, I am in a gypsy mood, That comes from days of long ago! A subtle something in my blood, I cannot name, but only know. Rye, larishan! I may not give You formal greeting on a day like this; When all the things that move or live Thrill with the rapture of the spring sun s kiss. The scent of field and upturned sod; The gleam and flash of the blue jay s wing; The shimmer of leaves as they bend and nod; The perfume the hedge rows glad outfling. These beckon me, and I will not stay Here in the noisy man-cursed town. I am off to the road, to the scents of May, To my old sweetheart in her springtime gown. ANONYMOUS. SWISS MOUNTAINS BY NIGHT YE lonely peaks, with brows of ice! Ye lonely peaks, with breasts of snow! Like nuns remote from worlds below, Pale with the pain of sacrifice! Like novice clinging in a swoon Repentant of renounced love, Lies at your feet the lake; above Leans forth the white disdainful moon! F. B. MONEY-COUTTS. IRIS THOU knowest not the parching Of summer s cruel drought; Thou seest not the marching Of snows in winter rout; But thine the emerald sod is, And flowery cups that brim, O amaranthine goddess, Beneath the rainbow rim! For thee dusk sun-rays pencil The slopings of the wold, For thee fair lilies stencil The ancient cloth of gold. 70 THE HUMBLER POETS Of Tyrian hue thy bodice, Thy crown the dewdrops trim, O amaranthine goddess, Beneath the rainbow rim! The breezes all pursue thee, Moved by thy virgin pride. Great Pan himself doth woo thee, And seek thee for his bride. The spot where thou hast trod is A jewel cast to him, O amaranthine goddess, Beneath the rainbow rim! C. E. D. PHELPB. THE PRESCIENCE OF THE ROSE FROM out imprisoning petals velvet red Thy soul slips forth in fragrance wondrous sweet A silent subtle presence never fled, That makes thy mastery over me complete. How can I doubt God and eternal things When I look on thy beauty lovely rose? A sudden certainty within me springs The very gates of Heaven to me unclose! Hast thou, then, waited all this weary time From tiny bud to fullest crimson bloom With hope and patience wondrously sublime Through dismal, dreary months of cold and gloom? Hast waited for my sake heroic flower That this great secret hidden close with thee Should in the sacred silence of this hour Be all unfolded and revealed to me? ANGELA MORGAN. THE ROSY MUSK-MALLOW (Romany Love-Song) THE rosy musk-mallow blooms where the south wind blows, O my gypsy rose! In the deep dusk lanes where thou and I must meet; So sweet! Before the harvest moon s gold glints over the dawn, Or the brown-sailed trawler returns to the gray sea-town, The rosy musk-mallow sways, and the south wind s laughter Follows our footsteps after! UNDER GOD S HEAVENS 71 The rosy musk-mallow blooms by the moor-brook s flow, So daintily O! Where thou and I in the silence of night must pass, My lass! Over the stream with its ripple of song, to-night, We will fly, we will run together, my heart s delight! The rosy musk-mallow sways, and the moor-brook s laughter Follows our footsteps after! The rosy musk-mallow blooms within sound of the sea; It curtseys to thee, O my gypsy-queen, it curtseys adown to thy feet; So sweet! When dead leaves drift through the dusk of the autumn day, The rosy musk-mallow sways, and the sea s wild laughter Follows our footsteps after! The rosy musk-mallow blooms where the dim wood sleeps And the bind-weed creeps; Through tangled wood-paths unknown we must take our flight To-night! As the pale hedge-lilies around the dark elder wind, Clasp thy white arms about me, nor look behind. The rosy musk-mallow is closed, and the soft leaves laughter Follows our footsteps after! ALICE E. GILLINGTON. WILD ROSES AND SNOW How sweet the sight of roses In English lanes of June, Where every flower uncloses To meet the kiss of noon. How strange the sight of roses Roses both sweet and wild Seen where a valley closes Mid mountain heights up-piled. Upon whose sides remaining Is strewn the purest snow, By its chill power restraining The tide of spring s soft glow. Yet God, who gave the pureness To yon fair mountain snow, Gives also the secureness Whereby these roses blow. MACKENZIE BELL. 72 THE HUMBLER POETS THE BLUE-BIRD SUNSHINE, the bird, and the bended bough, Hushed and afar are life s troubles now When here I may feel the flying feet, The throb of the bird s heart flutter sweet, And all the unforgotten bliss That thrills her, when she sings like this, Upon yon bended bough. Oh to cling for a wild mad moment of bliss To a bended bough with a lover s kiss, To stay for an instant the flying feet, To know the pain of a joy complete, To waken Memory, to thrill anew At the ghost-spray s touch, O bird of blue, How I envy you! MARION THORNTON EGBERT. ON THE PRAIRIE BARE, low, tawny hills With bluer heights beyond, And the air is sweet with spring, But when will the earth respond? Prairie that rolls for leagues, Dusky and golden-pale, Like a stirless sea of waves, Unbroken by ship or sail. The hollows are dark with brush, And black with the wash of showers, And ragged with bleaching wreck Of the ranks of the tall sunflowers. No cloud in the blue, no stir Save the shrill of the wind in the grass, And the meadow-lark s note, and the call Of the wind-borne crows that pass. Bare, low, tawny hills, With bluer heights beyond, And the air is sweet with spring, But when will the earth respond? HERBERT BATES. UNDER GOD S HEAVENS 73 THE BLUE GENTIANS THE fairest blossoms ever bloom the last; For fleeting Summer, Mother of the flowers, Mindful her joyous, sunny reign will soon be past, Has deemed that, moved by beauties brighter, rarer, The Chill Destroyer of her happy hours Might step, perchance, aside and so would spare her. With fond, regretful eyes and saddened pride Upon her fragrant footprints back she looks Where bloomed the violets and the wild rose gleamed and died; And at the living gaze the murmurs run Through dells and vales, by rills and dancing brooks, Of blossoms laughing in the autumn sun. Their petals twist at morn and tipped with dew To warm noon yield and lift a fringe-lipped and Pure sapphired chalice of that deep and richer hue Than tint of sky or sea, beyond compare, That sprang to view when God first laid His hand Upon the cloud and left the rainbow there. They are the Gentians, left alone to face The unrelenting King of Snow and Rime By Summer fled and gone; these blossoms fit to grace The wondrous gardens washed by southern seas, Flung as a hostage to the Wintry Time, Bend, droop, and wither in the frosty breeze. EDWARD RYAN WOODLE. TO A FLOCK OF GEESE YE wild, free troopers of the skies That ride in wedged ranks the blue And unmarked roads of Paradise, Who else but God had tutored you That wind beset and tempest form To buffet you with mighty sledge, Ye still sweep onward through the storm With that unbroken wedge? Thrill me again, ye serried host, With that shrill challenge which defies The strength of whatsoever post Is set to guard the bending skies 74 THE HUMBLER POETS Against such rangers as ye are That dare with swift and rhythmic wings The night unlighted of a star To guide God s feathered things. Ye are the joy of being wild, The sign and symbol of a blest Estate so sweet and undefiled It breathes its spirit undistressed Adown the heights to which have soared Since Eden was our deepest sighs Thrill me again, ye clamant horde, With your wild-ringing cries. CLARK McAoAMS. THE FALL WIND THE wind has stalked adown the garden path, And blown the lights of all the poor flowers out; From maple wood I hear his stormy shout; The russet leaves take flight before his wrath; In stubble fields and clover-aftermath, The wreckage of the year is strewn around; The mottled asters he upon the ground. Of all the bloom, the tyrant north wind hath Left only golden-rod, in saffron rows, And these, with bulging cheeks, he blows and blows, Until they glow, and mingle with the west, When setting suns lean low upon the land, And songless birds, in cheerless plumage dressed, Wing south or somewhere; mute, discouraged band. JOHN STUART THOMSON. TO A DAISY AH! I m feared thou s come too sooin, Little daisy! Pray whativer wor ta doin ? Are ta crazy? Winter winds are blowin yet. Tha ll be starved, mi little pet! Did a gleam o sunshine warm thee; An deceive thee? Niver let appearance charm thee; Yes, believe me, Smiles tha lt find are oft but snares Laid to catch thee unawares. UNDER GOD S HEAVENS 75 An yet, I think it looks a shame To talk sich stuff; I ve lost heart, an thou It do t same, Ay, sooin enough! An if thou rt happy as tha art, Trustin must be t wisest part. Come! I ll pile some bits o stoan Round thi dwellin ; They may cheer the when I ve goan, Theer s no tellin ; An when Spring s mild day draws near I ll release thee, never fear! An then if thi pretty face Greets me smilin , I may come an sit by th place, Time beguilin , Glad to think I d paar to be Of some use if but to thee! JOHN HARTLEY. A SONG FOR OCTOBER FRUITFUL October! so fair and calm, Singing of God and his charity, Every note of thy joyous psalm Chords of my heart give back to thee. Joy for the riches thy bounty yields Over the breadth of our smiling fields ! Out of the months that have gone before, Gathering tribute from this thy store, E en from the torpid December moon, From the vernal rains and the heats of June, All that was good thou hast drawn and brought. Nothing a loss; E en from the dross, Alchemist marvellous, thou hast wrought Misted gold for thy noon s delights, Silver of frost for thy twinkling nights. Blest be thy blessing, all thy beauty now Glows as a diadem on thy brow, So, let me sing to thee, So, let me bring to thee Praise of the queen of my soul, for she, Bountiful bringer of joys to me, Wearing thy glory, is kin to thee. 76 THE HUMBLER POETS How hath she wrought with the passing years? All of their pleasures and pains and tears, All their rose hopes and their pallid fears, Through her sweet being have issued forth Fused into treasure of priceless worth. Look on the fruits of her alchemy, Lisping their music around her knee. Muse on the splendor of her sweet face, Motherly wisdom and maiden grace. Gold of your noon time is in her hair; Aye, and your silver of frost is there. Tell her, October, O, who so fair? Not even thou Weareth a brow Fuller of beauty or freer of care. O for the guerdon of quiet bliss, For the yet warm heart and the cool sweet kiss Of her perfect loving; for this, for this, Fruitful October, so fair and calm, Singing of God and His charity, Every note of thy joyous psalm Chords of my heart give back to thee! T. A. DALY. THE FIRST BUD THE YEAR THERE whispered in my ear A little tip-toe Wind: "I know where you may find The first bud o the year." I ran, outstripping Grief, And soon the bud I found Just peeping through the ground, Wrapt in last year s leaf. And so some hope may wend Perchance unto my tomb To find thereon a bloom That shall the old loss mend. CHARLES G. BLANDEN. A ROSE ALL day with bright, appealing face, Upon my study table, A red, red rose asked me to give What gods were quite unable - UNDER GOD S HEAVENS 77 Asked me to give it back again Into the garden s keeping, Where winds were low and there their tears The nightingales were weeping. Till eve I drank its wine perfume My soul the nectar needed; Alas, how impotent was I To do the thing it pleaded; I could but drink, and drinking know I was its endless debtor For who can pay the soul that heals His soul and breaks his fetter? CHARLES G. BLANDEN. THE EAGLE How the eagle does: Gathering up his might, Quitting where he was, Soars he in the height. But his aerie home Is not always grand: Now on mountain dome, Now in lowly land. In a rugged wold, Be it but apart, He shall build his hold, Take his mighty start. Where he makes his bed, Where he piles his lair, Turns his noble head, Tis the king that s there. Where he heaps his nest, Where he lies in state, Where he takes his rest, There the place is great. TIMOTHY OTIS PAINE. THE TIMBER WOLVES WE are the slaves of the timber land Me and the black and bay. We work by the day for a pittance of pay, Pork for the man and the horses hay! Slaves! I say? Of the skid and the sleigh? Twas the echoed word 78 THE HUMBLER POETS Of the world you heard, For the nags and me Are the wind and the tree And none so free! We re czars of the lumbering band! We sound for the sun his reveille, With the clang of the logging-chain, And the biting of the frost disdain! We warm to the work and won t complain. Ours the woods of Maine! (Shiver! ye fields of cane!) Hills of snow and a hammering bell! Four thousand scale as hard as hell! Get up, Jack! Together, Nell! Break your tugs! Shake your lugs! Your frozen steam Is a passing dream When you sleep in the straw with me! The slaves are rolling the logs of towns! Give em the lot they ve drawn! The blood and brawn, and the liquor of dawn Are enough for us! We re up and gone! A ten-league run Is a race with the sun! The horses keep, And a cave for sleep (Better a bear than a shivering sheep) Meat and bread, And a blanket-bed And the prayers for more we leave to clowns! To the hags of storm my song is hurled! My poem s the creak of the hickory rack! The lashes crack, in the woods rung back, Is a fire in the veins of the bay and black! How they dance, And heave and prance! O, wild and free, We re comrades three Born of the wind and wave! Little to lose or save What of the grave! The boss of care is the king of the world! IVAN SWIFT. UNDER GOD S HEAVENS 79 A LEAF FROM out the topmost bulb a budding sentry A leaflet spread its green against the blue; The songsters heralded its earthly entry And it was christened in the morning s dew. All through the summer, on an oak that towered, A stately captain of his lordly kind, It fanned the birdlings in their nest embowered, Or from their housing turned the churlish wind. Then autumn chanting came, in vestments sober, Bearing the cup of dissolution s lees; Forth in the majesty of hazed October, A withered leaf was hearsed upon the breeze. JOHN McGovERN. WHERE THE MOUNTAIN SIPS THE SEA WHERE the mountain sips the sea, By an ocean wild and free, On a shore of grass and tree, Shall my future dwelling be. There at Nature s very heart She should unto me impart All the secrets of her art. Then, awhile, I would depart. Seek the haunts of men again; Tell them how they can obtain Freedom from all fear and pain, So they list to this refrain: "Come to me, O child of mine! Why in misery repine When a happiness divine For the seeking can be thine?" Thus to children of her choice Constantly calls Nature s voice, Through the world s discordant noise. Heed it, and you will rejoice. CHARLES JAMES. 80 THE HUMBLER POETS SOCOBIE S PASSING SOCOBIE, aged and bent with pain, At the time of the year when the red leaves fly, Crawled from his tent door down to the river. "I will try my wrist and my skill again And sweep a paddle before I die." Time falls the wind falls the gray geese draw on. There is silence and peace on our mother Saint John. Socobie, once a king of his tribe, Once a lover, a poet, a man, Launched his sun-scarred craft to the river. " I will try my strength where the rapids jibe I will run her sheer, as a master can." At the time of the year when the pass is blue And the spent leaf falls in the empty wood, Socobie put out on the merry river; The brown blade lifted the white canoe The rapids shouted, the forests stood. Down in the village the hearths were bright, And the night-frost gleamed in the after-grass, And the farmers were homing up from the river, When out of the star-mist, slender and white A birch craft leaped and they watched it pass. Time falls the frost falls the great stars draw on. What voice cries "Farewell" to our mother Saint John? THEODORE ROBERTS. THE NEW APHRODITE OUT of the deep sea-stream, Into the light and the air, Rose like a gracious dream Venus the fair. How much of sorrow and rue, How much of joy and peace, Sprang that day from the blue Waters of Greece! Oh, from a Cyclad s verge, Or swift galley s prow, to have seen Her, the world s wonder, emerge, Veiled in the sheen UNDER GOD S HEAVENS 81 Of her glorious sea-dripping locks, Buoyant of limb, and as bright As the sole star that leads out the flocks Of the shepherdess Night! But what avails it to sigh For a glimpse of that day withdrawn? Not for long in the sky Stays the fair dawn. Ours the nobler lot Under the broad noon-tide, Gazing, to falter not, Till from the wide Ocean of life we behold Rising in splendor and might, Fairer than Venus of old, Calmer than Night, Purer than Dawn, or the blue Depths of ether untrod, Nature, the only, the true Daughter of God. W. P. TRENT. MY LADY ANEMONE BENEATH soft snows harsh winter lingering Takes stand, betimes, against th advancing spring To find itself betrayed before its flight Within their midst that daintiest eremite, Th anemone, dear April s solacing. Rare this, but rarer note doth nature ring When silvery locks, time s counterfeits, soft cling About a visage pink with vernal light Beneath soft snows! What lovelier fancy can she set a-wing? Here rifted age holds youth in th opening; Here wisdom s hoary poll, in sweet despite, Is set to crown a face of pure delight The wind-flower face I all too faintly sing Beneath soft snows. JOHN JARVIS HOLDEN. 82 THE HUMBLER POETS HARVEST-HOME SONG THE frost will bite us soon; His tooth is on the leaves: Beneath the golden moon We bring the golden sheaves: We care not for the winter s spite, We keep our Harvest-home to-night. Hurrah for the English yeoman! Fill full; fill the cup! Hurrah! he yields to no man! Drink deep; drink it up! The pleasure of a king Is tasteless to the mirth Of peasants when they bring The harvest of the earth. With pipe and tabor hither roam All ye who love our Harvest-home. The thresher with his flail, The shepherd with his crook, The milkmaid with her pail, The reaper with his hook To-night the dullest blooded clods Are kings and queens, are demigods. Hurrah for the English yeoman! Fill full; fill the cup! Hurrah! he yields to no man! Drink deep; drink it up! JOHN DAVIDSON. WINTER THE wind blows high, the wind blows low. The buried prairies in the snow Lie warm and deep. Safe under Winter s soft white wing A little seedling dreams of spring, Stirs in its sleep. The wind has gone, and softly come Small furry friends from drifted home, Hungry a-fright The marks of tiny footsteps show, Like frozen music-notes, on snow All silent, white. MARY BALDWIN. UNDER GOD S HEAVENS 83 WHERE MY TREASURE IS LORD of the living, when my race is run, Will that I pass beneath the risen sun; Suffer my sight to dim upon some scene Of Thy good green. Let my last pillow be the earth I love, With fair infinity of blue above; And fleeting, purple shadow of a cloud My only shroud. A little lark, above the Morning Star, Shall shrill the tidings of my end afar; The muffled music of a lone sheep-bell Shall be my knell. And where stone heroes trod the moor of old, Where bygone wolf howled round a granite fold, Hide Thou, beneath the heather s newborn light, My endless night. ANONYMOUS. THE TORRENT* I FOUND a torrent falling in a glen Where the sun s light shone silvered and leaf -split; The boom, the foam, and the mad flash of it All made a magic symphony; but when I thought upon the coming of hard men To cut those patriarchal trees away, And turn to gold the silver of that spray, I shuddered. But a gladness now and then Did wake me to myself till I was glad In earnest, and was welcoming the time For screaming saws to sound above the chime Of idle waters, and for me to know The jealous visionings that I had had Were steps to the great place where trees and torrents go. EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON. THE SPIRIT OF THE NORTH THE sea blood slumbering in our veins Through the life we ve led on hills and plains Has caught the sound of waves once more That break upon the northern shore. *From "Children of the Night." Copyright, 1905, by Charles Scribner s Sons. 84 THE HUMBLER POETS And a thousand years are swept away The Vikings time was yesterday We cannot live in land-locked bowers, The sea is ours! The sea is ours! And we 11 scour the seas in our ships of steam, And our merchantmen with their sails shall gleam, And it shall come to all men s ken That the old north spirit moves again. OSCAR WILLIAMS. AMICO SUO WHEN on my country walks I go, I never am alone: Though whom t were pleasure then to know Are gone, and you are gone; From every side discourses flow. There are rich counsels in the trees, And converse in the air; All magic thoughts in those and these Are what is sweet and rare; And everything that living is. But most I love the meaner sort, For they have voices too; Yet speak with tongues that never hurt, As ours are apt to do: The weeds, the grass, the common wort. HERBERT P. HORNE. THE BLESSED RAIN* DEAR heart, dost thou complain When the kind God sends rain? Think of the thirsting crops That drink the beady drops Think of the flowers, unfolding all their sweets The city s burning streets, The famished flocks upon the mountain tops The windless casements, where the sick in vain Cry for the cool, sweet rain! Think and thank God For every drop that quivers on a clod! FRANK L. STANTON. * Reprinted from Stanton s " Up from Georgia." Copyright, 1902, by D. Appleton and Company. UNDER GOD S HEAVENS 85 A FORETASTE OF SPRING SWEET and golden afternoon Of the infant summer, Joyous one! Merry trills of laughter soon Peep and tremble and embrace, Flee and turn again to race Through the sun; Morning, slow old nurse, is lost, Birds and souls and flowers are tost In the sunlit pentecost Winter s done! Birds are chirping melodies Made of clear notes vanishing In the sky! Yonder hum the yellow bees, Hither sway the tender branches, Mad young winds in avalanches Scurry by; All the flowers bloom a-blushing, Rapture through the soul is rushing, Suddenly there comes a hushing Night is nigh ! GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE. SILVER AND LAVENDER THE asters now put on the lavender Of grief remembered, yet grief half -assuaged The tender purple in the sky astir Upon the ground in little stars engaged: Tears have been shed, these tiny eyes declare; Tears shall be shed, but still is Heaven fair. Pale mourning for dead Summer clothes the silver-rod Those frosty flowers that still defy the frost Whose arms droop gently toward the crisping sod, Whose upward gaze bespeaks a hope not lost; White clouds reflect their beauties far on high: Silver and lavender clothes earth and sky. WILLIAM SHATTUCK. 86 THE HUMBLER POETS EUTHANASIA BEYOND the far horizon, many-hilled, There glows a rosy light upon the year A flashing message, and the woods have thrilled With the glad promise of long-looked-for cheer, Age-old, yet ever new as it draws near: A fluttering of soft wings the frost had chilled, A trumpeting within the gentling sky, A chanting in the meadows, many rilled By soft, sweet showers the heavens have distilled, As weary Winter lays him down to die. A dropping of brown leaves that autumn killed, A whisper of dry rushes at the weir, A murmurous rustle that has long been stilled, Where sibilant grasses lift their slender spear Some shrinking snow-bank now to fright and fleer; And all the embattled weeds that toiled and drilled Against the north winds that they durst not fly, Put down the arms through which the gales have shrilled, Leaving a nest whereon their children build, As weary Winter lays him down to die. Now doth the herald dandelion gild Some warm bright corner with his sunny gear; Now hath the robin joyous music trilled Upon the quickening branches, etched and clear Against a firmament clean stripped of fear; Now doth the fertile field, so long untilled, Grow tender* green with promise fine and high, Glistening with the dews soft clouds have spilled That earth s fair prophecy may be fulfilled As weary Winter lays him down to die. L Envoi O Nature, Mother Nature, sweetly skilled In life and love, let not sweet Spring go by Unheeding; hast thou not for me, too, willed An April soul, a heart with May-bloom filled, As weary Winter lays htm down to die? EDWARD WINSHIP. Part m SPORT IN THE OPEN THE COLLEGE ATHLETE STATUE-LIKE standeth he forth, quick, elate, Sculptured from living flesh, and closely planned As any marble from the sculptor s hand In poise and posture, stature, frame, and weight; Thoughtful months, too, are in his making: Fate, Win he or lose, here is not blind; command Is laid that sinew and brain understand: One fine tool, calculated, delicate. Yet art sufficeth not. To gain his end With glory soul must be; the selfishness Which bringeth sparks from Paradise to earth Muscle and mind to kindle and transcend; Some high ideal he will not confess, Such as hath given martyrs mortal birth. WALLACE RICE. SPORT IN THE OPEN A BALLADE OF LAWN TENNIS SOME gain a universal fame By dint of pugilistic might; To some all sports seem very tame Except a fierce and fistic fight; Some love the tourney, too, in spite Of ancient armor, helm, and crest, Where knights are smitten and do smite I like the Game of Tennis best. Some love to take a gun and aim At pretty birdlings in their flight; Some also think it is no shame To make poor trout and pickerel bite; Some chase the deer from morn till night I like not such a bloody quest, My sport is harmless, pleasant, light I like the Game of Tennis best. Some for the ancient, royal game Of golf. Arrayed in colors bright, They 11 play until they re sore and lame A frenzy without justice, quite. Baseball and football are all right, Polo and cricket and the rest Of sports too many to recite I like the Game of Tennis best. L Envoi Queen of the Court, my skill is slight In rhyming, but perhaps you ve guessed Why this ballade I thus indite I like the Game of Tennis best. FRANKLIN P. ADAMS. 89 90 THE HUMBLER POETS MY BICYCLE THE sun looks o er the mountain fair, Its smiles the landscape greet; The songs of birds are in the air, As I spring upon the seat: A quick press on the pedal strong And, like a bird, I skim along. Farewell to cares that may annoy, To toil that tires the brain; New vigor sends a thrill of joy Through every tingling vein, As on I swiftly speed my way Mid beauteous scenes of rising day. My soul responds to each appeal Of nature s varied grace; The charm of stream and wood I feel, Each lovely prospect trace, As swift and silent on I fly Mid rural scenes and azure sky. At length I stop beneath a tree Where wells a cooling spring, And drink, inclined on bended knee, Its waters murmuring; A moment on the grass I rest, My brow by grateful breeze caressed. Then homeward I as quickly fare, With heart and brain elate, To take again, with lightened care, The duties that await, Exulting that my wheel each hour Can bring me such a joy and power. F. V. N. PAINTER. THE CALL OF THE STREAM I AM sitting to-day at the desk alone, And the figures are hard to tame; I d like to shift to a mossy stone Nor bother with pelf and fame. I know a pool where the waters cool Rest under the brawling falls, And the song and gleam of that mountain stream Oh, it calls, and calls, and calls! SPORTINTHEOPEN 91 There are hooks and lines in a wayside store Where the grangers buy their plug, And the loggers swap their river-lore For a jag they can hardly lug. I wonder how long that tackle will he As useless as any dumb fool Unless I happen along to buy, And sneak for that mountain pool. Oh, bother the flies, I guess I ve enough, I know where the worms are thick By Billy s old barn Oh, they are the stuff You can dig a quart with a stick. The reel is all right and the line is tight, And if they should happen to fail There s little birch rods that are fit for gods When they follow the trout-brook trail. I jing! the demon has rung me up The "central" up in the woods Waders, and creel, and a pocket-cup ! I m after the only goods. Wire for Hank and the old buckboard The secret, I guess, is out Don t bother me now you 11 get in a row I m catching the train for trout. CHARLES H. CRANDALL. THE CINDER PATH THE start the strain the springing! The leap the flight the winging! The roll of footsteps spurning The footpath toward us turning! The white goal growing clearer, The huzzas sounding nearer, The spurt, the fierce contending The rush, the ease, the ending! The glow of victory feeling, The sounds of triumph pealing, The one fair face all beaming, With exultation gleaming; The breast so quickly heaving The wreath of her own weaving All make us greet our inning And make the race worth winning! CHARLES H. CRANDALL. 92 THE HUMBLER POETS BALLADE OF THE FAN MADLY I long for the day When I can sit in the sun Roasting each negligent play After the game has begun. This is the acme of fun, Other amusements seem flat; Ho for the corking home run, Ho for the crack of the bat! Now that the team is away, All other news do I shun; Closely I scan the array, Noting each promising one; All of my work is undone, Chaos presides neath my hat; Ho for the corking home run, Ho for the crack of the bat! Eagerly waiting the fray Much as old Attila, Hun, Waiting to pounce on his prey, Daily I m praying (no pun) Just for the opening gun, Nothing can stir me but that; Ho for the corking home run, Ho for the crack of the bat! L Envoi White Sox! Go after the bun; Pin them all down to the mat, Ho for the corking home run! Ho for the crack of the bat! WILLIAM F. KIRK. BASEBALL BY THE OLD THIS is the time of the year, my boys, When we all get out and make a noise To see the oldsters fall in line And act like boys in a baseball nine. Just see that fat man and his nerve, Who can t come near the simplest curve! Just see that man so lean and thin Who don t know if he s out or in! SPORT I NTHE OPEN 93 Observe that slide the ground uproot! See batsmen dodging at a shoot! See, waving wildly in the air, The strikes that should be home runs there! And when at last that game is done And ended the spectators fun, The sprains and woe that hold in thrall The gray-head who would play baseball! ANONYMOUS. A SUMMER SERMON FOR MEN "I HAVE fought a good fight," the Parson said, his weekly text declaring, "I have finished my course," he added, as St. Paul did, for good measure; "And, brethren, life a ball game is" the brethren all were staring "As I shall now proceed to prove to you at your good pleas ure. "The Soul stands up to bat, my friends; great Mammon is the catcher; St. Michael is the umpire, and so mighty is his stature There s not a dirty devil on the dark side of the bleachers Dare even curl in scorn at him his least conspicuous features; Red Satan is the pitcher, and his curves are simply wonders In and out, and snaked about, and swift as crushing thunders; And on the Bases, in the Field, the Deadly Sins, just seven, Stand guard to keep the Christian Soul from the Home Plate of Heaven. Greed stands at First, one hand, or both, the ball full sure to hold to; With Pride at Second, playing deep, and playing very bold, too; Black Hate s at Third, with grounders sure, good thrower, never swerving; And Lust is Short-Stop (handy man, with eyes too much ob serving) ; Old Envy s playing Left he s pulled sky-scrapers down by dozens; And Sloth at Centre, slow but sure, is backing up his cousins; While Jealousy, meanest of them all, about Right Field is slinking A Sin that s nipped too many lives ever to be caught blinking. The Recording Angel scores the game; the Guardian Angel coaches 94 THE HUMBLER POETS And coaches well, but always on his rights each Sin encroaches The wickedest lot, right on the spot, you ever saw of kickers, And every one profane, tobacco-using, full of liquors; Yet the best to play, and play to win, and ne er a one afraid is, And when he puts a Christian out he sends him straight to Hades. And it s you at bat, and you on deck, and you loud with the rooters, Or else you re eggshelled by these diabolical freebooters; Now there s no man in church to-day to whom this needs ex panding, So Onward, Christian Soldiers sing, the congregation standing." The morn was hot, depressing, and the ordinary sermon Would have set some sinners snoring, leaving Parson dis appointed; But to-day each brother, with his eyes bright as the dews of Hermon, Felt of his muscle on the sly and felt like God s anointed! OLIVER MARBLE. THE GLORIOUS TOUCHDOWN Published in THE SOUVENIR, Purdue University, 1890. WHEN the crisp autumnal zephyrs whistle through the leafless trees; When croquet is a sweet regret and tennis is non est; When the baseball player stays indoors for fear that he will freeze And the picnic trousers get a needed rest; When Mackinaws and yellow shoes are packed away with care, And the summer sash becomes a muffler gay, Then the college football specialist emerges from his lair, And buckles up his armor for the fray. He rises up at 4 A.M. and runs ten miles or more; A plunge in icy water then before he eats a bite; He breakfasts on raw steak and toast, and quaffs a pint of gore And works with clubs and dumb-bells until night. He dare not smoke a cigarette nor touch his meerschaum brown, And every night at eight o clock he tumbles into bed. No more with boon companions does he paint the college town, And fill the peaceful residents with dread. But out of all these hardships and this abstinence unwilling, There comes a day of triumph for the Rugby devotee, When on the frozen battlefield, unheeding winds so chilling, He scrimmages and tackles in the hope of victory. SPORT IN THE OPEN 95 What though he grinds his features to a pulp so raw and gory, While the strong and beefy opponents are seated on his frame? What though he never lives to tell his children of the story? Though death comes with the victory, the team must win the game. The college yell inspires him still, and though each bone is aching, And though the hazy landscape swims before his blinded eyes, The precious spheroid comes his way and through the rush line breaking, He s down within the goal line, and the team has won the prize. A ton or more of writhing flesh with him is mixed together, His leg is wrapped around his neck, four teeth cannot be found; But he has passed into the goal and hangs on to the leather; He is the hero of the day he s carried from the ground. With proper care and nursing he will soon return to college; A compound fracture of the leg, some cuts, a broken nose; In the meantime he is not acquiring literary knowledge, And the family physician to his bedside daily goes. When he resumes his studies he 11 recite each day at dinner, All the more exciting features of the memorable game; Next year, if he s recovered, he will make the team a winner By going into training the result will be the same. GEORGE ADE. REGATTA WE have heard the roll of the signal-gun! Our fleet is off in the race for a run With the gulls and the wind and the wave! The surf-nymphs rave At the prow and beckon us on On to the sea and the echoing buoy ! No landsman s coward "Ahoy" We 11 heed. We re off, and the mate is Joy! The halyards hiss and the sheets Outflate. The straining spar competes With the helmsman s ardor lent To the tug of the gale unspent! The deck is a desert, fore and aft, And the sailor s will is the will of the craft. Lie low! Sweep on! while high is the sun! We ; ve heard our signal-gun! IVAN SWIFT. 96 THE HUMBLER POETS VIVE LE ROI! ONE in a long dark pigtail cries, "Now to your places all." I hang my head; indeed I dread This game of basket ball. The ball it mounts up to the skies, We watch its sickening fall; Wildly we rush, each other push, And on the ground we sprawl. They jump upon us where we lie, They kick us where we fall; With groan of pain, we play again The noble game of basket ball. ANONYMOUS. THE GLORY OF THE GAME A SONG to the football players; A song to the men of might; To the winner or loser I sing it Of the battle that each must fight. T is the battle of brain and muscle, the contest of strength and skill; The impact of brawn and bulldog, the guidance of iron will; The rush and the counter-movement, the quickness of mind and eye; The crash in the centre scrimmage, that causes the blood to fly Through the veins of the many watchers, as the battle is gained or lost; Tis the winning the thing they strive for, whatever may be the cost. Tis the shout of the gazing thousands, the ringing of mighty cheers, As the roars of the sides commingle, to sound like the sea m your ears; While the floating colors of this crowd wave greeting in sweeping fold, To be answered in kind by the other, whose hues make its par tisans bold; Tis the screech and the blare of the trumpets, as they add to the hideous din, And the cries of the rival factions as they volley: "We win! We win!" SPORTINTHEOPEN 97 Tis the dash of the long-haired player, as he rushes adown the field; The snap of the interference, the forces that make him yield; The down and the wedge and the end play, the puzzles that all must know; And the varying tide of the contest, as the victories come and go; Tis the score standing even to even, and the weight of the solid whole, The grasp of the final touchdown, the kick of the winning goal Then, winner or loser, here s to him! For, winner or loser, who cares? Here s hurrah for the football player, And the honors and glories he bears! WILLIAM HAMILTON CLINE THE SONG OF THE LIGHT CANOE WHEN the dew is fresh and the grasses wet And the breeze is rippling bright, I shove from the shore without an oar In the gray of the morning light. And my heart leaps up at the paddle flash As my boat leaps on its way, And a song wells out as I look about On the sweetness of the day. When the river rests and the ripples sleep And the hills are tinged with red, I sail the sky that has fallen from high On the shining river-bed. And my soul drinks deep of the evening calm As the ends of my paddle play, And a song breathes soft to the sky aloft In the hush of the fading day: Oh, smooth and free is the boat for me That slides with a noiseless wake, Like a bird s free flight through the liquid light Or a swan s through the sky-filled lake; And the paddle-flash with never a plash, As the day fades from my eyes, Is sweet as a star that gleams afar When the flush of the sunset dies. HORACE SPENCER FISKE. 98 . THE HUMBLER POETS WITH GLEAMING SAIL SPEEDING before the gale Lightly with gleaming sail, Gaily the little boat skims o er the deep; Strikes she the waves abreast, Leaping from crest to crest, Bounding along with a rhythmical sweep. White-caps in firefly play Spangle the sparkling bay Streaked with long paths of smooth green, starred with foam. Clouds that in squadrons white Rush on in boisterous flight, Hide the sun s rays and the heavens blue dome. Waves are a-dashing in, Spray is a-splashing in, Cooling hot cheeks with a spattering mist. The wind with its thousand hands Catches soft hair in strands, Tossing and tangling t is vain to resist. Now as the breezes blow, Bends the boat starboard, low, Cutting a gurgling furrow of green. Hear the waves strike her prow, Thudding and splashing now, Rev ling like mischievous spirits unseen. What is all trouble worth? Is there a care on earth? Not while the winds and the waves are at play! Speeding before the gale Lightly with gleaming sail, Who would be other than gayest of gay? EVELYN GAIL GARDINER. SAILING SWIFTLY cutting through the water, Falling spray on either side, Coyly dipping, Rising, skipping, Borne along by wind and tide, Merrily my boat doth glide. SPORTINTHEOPEN 99 Oh, the sunlight, how it flickers, Showering diamonds on the way! Madly dancing, Shining, glancing, Slyly beckoning, come and play, Be, like us, bright, free, and gay. And I sing a song for gladness, Send it echoing toward the sea; I am happy, Happy, happy! Blow ye winds! Blow joyfully, Nor sigh; but sing and laugh with me. DOROTHY ALLEN. BETH-EL LOINWISE upgirded, with a leathern clout, All stript and weaponless, behold him go Over the barrier, vaulting, fit for his foe, A Man, unartificed, wide-stanced, and stout. He breathes him, for the Champion s coming out: Shrill sounds the signal : Springs he like a bow Scorning the arrow: See, his hold is low: Like Death his sinews grip: His is the bout! Thus, every man must do his fall with Fate Naked, unarmed, unchampioned, alone, The odds unweighed, the issue unforetold : Only for him doth Victory s paean wait, Who, in that day, shall marshal as his own All Valhall s virtue waxed a thousandfold. Louis ALBERT LAMB. OLYMPIAN VICTORS I STOOD on the slope of Kronos gray, above the Olympian plain, Where swift Alpheus still pursues his vanishing love in vain, And wondered deep at the picture rare revealed by the German spade A picture aglow on history s page with colors that never fade. For I saw below me the Stadium, alive with flying feet, And banked humanity gazing hard at the naked runners fleet; And every city s son at prayer that his own shall win the race, While a lifetime s ambition flushes warm on every athlete s face. 100 THE HUMBLER POETS And off toward the curve of the Cladeus, in. the sacred Altis walls, Rose the pillars of that temple vast whose god forever calls The victor to bend at his throne, and be crowned with Her cules olive bough, And go forth with the fame of his glory bound about his leafy brow. And then, methought, amid the throng the gray Herodotus read, As young Thucydides followed rapt his history s golden thread; And soft in the temple s shadow the high-browed Plato walked, While girt with a wondering multitude the sovereign Socrates talked. Then slow past my eye through the Altis a stately procession moved, With the psalm of the victor leading on the athletes that stood approved Up the steps of the temple and on to the feet of Zeus, Where the purpled judges placed the crowns Athena alone can produce. And up from the free-born races, the lovers of beauty and strength, From the trembling western river through the Altis sacred length, A tide of resounding plaudits swelled full to old Kronos feet And played in the porch of Echo with a murmur long and sweet. HORACE SPENCER FISKE. THE SLUGGER S FAREWELL TO HIS WAR CLUB FAREWELL, good old pal of the national pastime, From now on we travel our separate ways; We ve been on the field hand in hand for the last time And won our last volley of cheers and of praise. The ties that have bound us together are severed, Who knows what the Fates for the future portend? At all times to do our best we have endeavored, We ve grown old together, and now comes the end. How happy we were and how sad is the story That brings our companionship now to a close! How faithfully you have worked, winning a glory For one who henceforth as a has-been must pose! From minor to major, then back to the minor, And finally out altogether, you ve stuck. Responding to many a safety and liner Until well, I grew as slow as a truck. S P O R T I N T H E O V E N : -?,0 l And all the old friends that we laughed with and chaffed with Have journeyed before us some here and some there; And all the staunch rooters we loved and went daft with Whenever we boosted a pitcher in air; And all the great games we have pickled and salted Have long been forgotten as feats of a day; And though we attained a place truly exalted, Old age came along and has stowed us away. No more, bat of mine, shall we wallop a single, No more shall our prowess result in a run; No more shall the yells of the fans set a-tingle Our blood; for our days on the diamond are done. So fare thee well, pal of the sunshiny weather, We ve won our last volley of cheers and of praise; We ve romped o er the field for the last time together, And now we must travel our separate ways. C. P. MCDONALD. THE SKI-RUNNER ABOVE you burns a molten-copper sun, Before you hangs the imminent abyss, Flaring in white, a desperate game to run, This frozen speedway to the deeps of Dis! Now bend your heart and foot and spirit straight, That none may shrink, Then down, down, down the eagle takes his flight! Sailing an instant on the wings of Fate, An aeon poising on the utter brink, Then out! into a wilderness of light! ANONYMOUS. A BALLADE OF THE GAME TIER upon tier, through the stands are strown Faces fervid and faces fair Banners aloft in the breezes blown, Waving ribbons and wayward hair, Flushes the West with a crimson flare; Glimmers the East like a summer sky. Thunder of throngs in the frosty air Yale, old Yale, and a victory! Joy of battle and brawn of stone Pride of pain in the deed they dare Yard by yard they are struggling on, Backward the Crimson they bend and bear; Met with the strain of a strong despair, 102 THE HUMBLER POETS Into the strife again, do or die, Till the shouts to tatters the stillness tear Yale, old Yale, and a victory! Two long years o er our flag have flown Years of darkness and dismal care; Now the time of our time has known One short day shall our fate declare. Each in our sorrow has borne a share, Each has a share in the glad loud cry, Shaking the skies with a trumpet-blare Yale, old Yale, and a victory. L Envoi Queen of Violets, reigning there Spirit of strength in a violet eye Lend us the power of thy whispered prayer: "Yale, old Yale, and a victory!" ANONYMOUS. Part THE GENTLER EMOTIONS LOVE AND A DAY IN girandoles of gladioles The day had kindled flame; And Heaven a door of gold and pearl Unclosed when Morning like a girl, A red rose twisted in a curl Down sapphire stairways came. Said I to Love: "What must I do? What shall I do? What can I do ?" Said I to Love : " What must I do? All on a summer s morning" Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo" Said Love to me: "Go woo, If she be milking, follow, 01 And in the clover hollow, 01 While through the dew the bells clang clear, Just whisper it into her ear, All on a summer s morning." MADISON CAWEIN. THE GENTLER EMOTIONS AFTERGLOW I PRAY that Time full many years may bring And round about us heap his flowers and snow, That we adown the western slope may go Clasped hand in hand, as in that joyous spring When first together we did learn to sing The songs of youth beside the river s flow; The songs our hearts unto the end shall know, If now no more the woodlands with them ring. And we shall sit on many a golden eve Beside the fire and dream of other days When we were young, and laugh a wrinkled laugh, Nor mourn nor sigh that loud the winds do grieve, For thou shalt more than multiply the Mays, And I the long Decembers count by half. CHARLES G. BLANDEN. TO A PAIR OF LOVERS IF you only love each other, Never will your love be blessed. Those who love the world together Love each other best. ANONYMOUS. CUPID HIS MARK SHE had a dimple in her chin I read the sign like any sage, And knew where Cupid s lips had been She had a dimple in her chin. To follow suit is scarce a sin. Who wins a kiss may laugh at rage. She had a dimple in her chin Ah, Madame Grundy turn the page! THEODOSIA GARRISON. 105 106 THE HUMBLER POETS RECIPROCITY WITH the May blossoms, cheery and bold, Came the oriole s song to his mate; And he sang to her early and late The one theme that can never grow old; While after-notes too eager to wait, All regardless of measure and date, Were at any odd season outrolled, When she thought his whole story was told. Serene in her golden-hued gown sat she, With no sign of assent or demur To the rhapsodies showered upon her By the flamelet aloft in the tree. That her love was awake and astir With his jubilant music and whir, She could trust such a wooer to see. "Nothing sweeter than silence," sang he. D. H. INGHAM. WEARYIN FOR YOU JES a-wearyin for you All the time a-feelin blue; Wishin for you wonderin when You 11 be comin home agen. Restless don t know what to do. Jes a-wearyin for you. Room a so lonesome with your chair Empty by the fireplace there; Jes can t stand the sight of it! Go outdoors and roam a bit; But the woods is lonesome, too Jes a-wearyin for you! Comes the wind, with soft caress, Like the rustlin of your dress; Blossoms fallin to the ground Softly, like your footsteps sound; Violets like your eyes so blue Jes a-wearyin for you! Momin comes; the birds awake; Use to sing so for your sake! But there s sadness in the notes THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 107 That come trillin from their throats; Seems to feel your absence, too Jes a-wearyin for you! !>(!/. Evenin comes; I miss you more When the dark glooms in the door; Seems jes like you orter be There to open it for me! Latch goes tinklin ; thrills me through, Sets me wearyin for you! Jes a-wearyin for you All the time a-feelin blue; Wishin for you wonderin when You 11 be comin home agen. Restless don t know what to do Jes a-wearyin for you! FRANK L. STANTON. I KNOW THE WAY OF THE WILD BLUSH ROSE I KNOW the way of the wild blush rose That blooms in the coppice there The wild blush rose whose beauty glows . In the languid summer air. For, oh, she loves to be wooed and won, And she opes her heart to the ardent sun; And she tells her love while yet she may, For love doth last but a summer s day. I know the way of the nightingale In the dark green ilex tree. For each pure note from her pulsing throat Breathes love s wild ecstasy. She sings that her listening swain may know The tender rapture that moves her so. For soon, too soon, the leaf grows sere And love will pass with the passing year. But who can know the way of a maid When her heart is sweetly thrilled? Deep down in her eyes the secret lies And the song on her lips is stilled. But locked in love s first dear embrace, A new light shines on her upturned face; There s a song in her breast that shall ever stay, For the love of a maid is for aye and aye! WILLARD EMERSON KEYES. 108 THE HUMBLER POETS WANDERLUST BEYOND the East the sunrise, beyond the West the sea, And East and West the wanderlust that will not let me be; It works in me like madness, dear, to bid me say good-bye ! For the seas call and the stars call, and oh, the call of the sky! I know not where the white road runs, nor what the blue hills are, But man can have the sun for friend, and for his guide a star; And there s no end of voyaging when once the voice is heard, For the river calls and the road calls, and oh, the call of a bird! Yonder the long horizon lies, and there by night and day The old ships draw to home again, the young ships sail away; And come I may, but go I must, and if men ask you why, You may put the blame on the stars and the sun and the white road and the sky! GERALD GOULD. LOVE S TELEPATHY OH, you are near, my love, so near to-night, That sitting in the dusk and silence here With miles between I feel your spirit s might I know your heart s whole message to me, dear! The dark is golden with you music filled. My reaching thoughts have drawn you you are mine! So near you are I feel your touch love thrilled The magic of you makes the moments wine. Love you are here! Your arms about me fold Oh, blinding rapture of this certainty Oh, storm of stars oh, universe of gold Wherein I love my love and he loves me! ANGELA MORGAN. THE PRIME OF LIFE JUST as I thought I was growing old, Ready to sit in my easy chair, To watch the world with a heart grown cold, And smile at folly I would not share, Rose came by with a smile for me, And I am thinking that forty year Is n t the age that it seems to be When two pretty brown eyes are near. THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 109 Bless me, of life it is just the prime! A fact that I hope she will understand, And forty year is a perfect rhyme To dark brown eyes and a pretty hand. These gray hairs are by chance, you see Boys are sometimes gray I am told; Rose came by with a smile for me, Just as I thought I was growing old. WALTER LEARNED. A VALENTINE I HOLD no viol or ancient lute To make sweet music to thy praise, But, bending, plead a lover s suit Too deep for words, with music mute In lieu of lover s lays. I only ask wilt thou be mine And take mine heart for recompense, Invoking through Saint Valentine The worship at thy beauty s shrine With garlanded incense? JOSEPH TWTMAN. LOVE, YOUTH, SONG IT was a song of lustihood I sang in youth, My happy Maytime, As hand in hand she with me stood, As true as truth Through Love s own playtime; The world and we in lustihood. How young she was! How she was fair, With voice as sweet As any starling! I close my eyes and see her there, The song repeat: Ah, she was darling, And life was love, and youth was fair! We parted, as we met, with smiles; She that was mine Has not forgotten; But oh, how many weary miles Of days a-line Has Time begotten Since Youth and Love first met with smiles! 110 THE HUMBLER POETS Now in the lives where Spring once shone Sown is the seed Of branching sorrow, And gray my locks, the sun has gone. How small the need Of Life to sorrow When Love and Youth and Song were one! JOHN JARVIS HOLDEN. BELOVED Kiss me, beloved! Your loving arms about me close, Lips on lips, As the happy bee from heart of the rose Nectar sips! Press me, closer, loving arm, To his breast, Safely hid from grief and harm To rest, rest Kiss me, beloved! As you clasp these hands of mine, I whisper this, "Hands, lips, tresses, all are thine, To love and kiss." Ah, time goes on hastening wings, Fast, too fast; Though he steals all other things, Love will last Kiss me, beloved! May we ever be side by side, Loving still, Two full lives in love allied, One heart, one will! May love make sweet the hurrying years, Heart of my heart, And your kisses ever banish fears Till death us part. Kiss me, beloved! Hush, speak not! t is love s sweet hour All else above; And you are the bee and I the flower. Kiss me, love! MABEL G. ANDERSON. THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 111 TO GOD AND IRELAND TRUE I SIT beside my darling s grave, Who in the prison died, And though my tears fall thick and fast I think of him with pride : Ay, softly fall my tears like dew, For one to God and Ireland true. "I love my God o er all," he said, And then I love my land, And next I love my Lily sweet, Who pledged me her white hand: To each to all I m ever true, To God, to Ireland, and to you." No tender nurse his hard bed smoothed Or softly raised his head; He fell asleep and woke in Heaven Ere I knew he was dead; Yet why should I my darling rue? He was to God and Ireland true. Oh, t is a glorious memory! I m prouder than a queen, To sit beside my hero s grave And think on what has been; And, O my darling, I am true To God to Ireland and to you! ELLEN O LEARY. PROCRASTINATION WAIT not until my eyes are dimmed by everlasting night, To speed the glance that thrills the heart with ever radiant light, Nor wait until my voice is mute and stilled forevermore, To lisp the word that lends so much to friendship s cherished store. Wait not until my hands are cold and non-responsive lie, To stroke and soothe my troubled brow and calm the fretful sigh. Nor wait until my lips are sealed and closed to earthly bliss, To greet them with a fond caress or e en perchance a kiss. Wait not until my pulse has ceased to throb with joy or fear, To shower blossoms on my shroud or ornament my bier. For Now while life is young and sweet, nor all its lustre shed, Give me the tokens of your love; and not when I am dead. GEORGE W. MARKENS. 112 THE HUMBLER POETS TO MY FIANCEE WHY do I love you, dear? Because Your face is wondrous sweet and fair? Before we marry, you would pause.- You ask, before our lots we share: Why do I love you, dear? Because Your mind is bright your wit is rare. Away with reasons and with laws! This is the answer, I declare: Why do I love you, dear? Because! FRANKLIN P. ADAMS. / BABETTE THE dusk of the night is sweet, Babette, And the dreams in the twilight fair But sweeter the night when we meet, Babette, And the twilight dreams I shall not forget, With a rose in your dusky hair, Babette, With a rose in your dusky hair! ANONYMOUS. INOPPORTUNE He Too brief her sun of beauty glows; The bud with dews of dawn is wet, Some later day unfolds the rose Not now, not yet! She Too late his quickening passions plead, I may nor leave nor break my vow. Too late! no prayer may intercede Not now, not now! THOMAS H. BRIQGS, JR. I THINK OF THEE WHEN morning s jewelled fingers part The heavy shades of night, Waking the great world s pulsing heart To beauty, life, and light," Beloved one, each gleam of gold Your smiling image seems to hold. THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 113 Then when gray evening flutters down Like some soft-breasted dove, When dusky night receives her crown Of stars from skies above, Beloved one, each glowing star Reflects your image from afar. I think of you by night, by day, As one to me most fair; If you be near, if far away, My heart is with you there; No place has earth, no single spot, Where you may be and I am not. KATE GOLDSBORO McDowELL. OVER THE ROSE-LEAVES, UNDER THE ROSE One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown forever dies. OMAR KHAYYAM. WHY did you say you loved me then, If this must be the end? Can so much more than lover be So much less than friend? You say "Suppose we had not met " Beneath this Provence rose: Suppose we had not loved at all ! Suppose, dear heart, suppose ? Suppose beside some common road There bloomed a common rose, As this one crimsons all the air Within the garden close. Suppose you plucked it, passing by, And spread its petals wide, Until the sweetness of its heart Filled all the country-side. Suppose you wore it on your breast One careless summer day; Suppose you kissed it once or twice To pass the time away, Then tore it slowly leaf by leaf, As I have torn this rose, Until you bared its very soul. You would not f Well, suppose ! 114 THE HUMBLER POETS Suppose you stripped its very soul Down to life s golden core, Till heart and life and soul were yours, And there was nothing more A rose could give to please your sense Or win a passing smile; Then dropped it in the pathway thus No longer worth your while. And then suppose those scattered leaves Were days we two have shared You need not say you counted them; You need not say you cared Could all the counting, all the care, Or all my foolish pain Put that one rose together, dear, Or make it bloom again? JOHN BENNETT. THE TABLE D HOTE ; T is tune ah me! to change my coat And sally forth for a table d hote, Alone; although I d love a Sally, Alas, there is none in my alley. Beaux- Arts and bizarre, that s the kind Of cafe that I have in mind; En avant by Shank s cabriolet, One may meet Fortune on the way. So, carelessly, I pass along Musing, amid the bustling throng, Until I reach the open door Which welcomes me as oft before. Here s Louis, with his best salaam: "Bon soir, monsieur, et vous. madame! You walked, you say? Then you will be on Edge for the Saucisson de Lyon?" So, while the fair white board is spread With olives, radis, and French bread, A swift gargon, demure and neat, Shall bring us Blue Points, toute de suite, And, gargon, a thin potage bring Some sunshine bottled for a king: A Queen shall christen it this night With the red lips of love s delight. THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 115 A lobster, now, or else a fish, Done a la Russe, in some small dish, With truffles and a mayonnaise My love loved lobster in those days! Id, garqon an artichoke, Some reed-birds, or a ruddy duck Done to a turn, so that the knife Is followed by the stream of life. The bottle s done? Woe worth the day When sunshine slipped so fast away! Another bring us "Not too cold, Nor yet too slender, nor too old." That was the kind of girl who stole Hearts, years ago! Yes, escarole, And some cold chicken! sentiment And salad aye together went! A biscuit now; a demi-tasse, A cigarette; a parting glass, L addition! So from life and light, Alas, we pass into the night. For, O fair Love that came to me Out of the twilight, I shall be Alone for aye until thy hand Welcomes me into Shadow Land! JOHN PAUL BOCOCK. A GREETING To MY very best friend! to you, dear friend The very best friend I know; Without stint, without end, my very best friend Good wishes and greeting I cheerfully send, Young Eros for you, dear, will willingly lend His arrows of gold, and bow. Young Eros, t is said, has weapons of lead Both blunt and heavy to pull But his arrows of lead are for love that is dead, So I covet a quiver of gold instead, That love may all over the world be spread Till every heart is full. JOSEPH TWYMAN. 116 THE HUMBLER POETS LAST NIGHT LAST night where gladness reigned supreme, I saw thee standing fair; I saw thy white arm s rounded gleam, The rose within thy hair. Proud knees bent low, the prize to earn Fond lips with lips did strive, Whilst thou (large boon for small return) Thy careless smile didst give. Ah! love, I know t is passing sweet; Drink deep, the charm will die; While glide the hours on golden feet Thy Ganymede am I. But come when Sorrow casts its shade To arms that wait for thee; Let others have the smiles that fade, But save thy tears for me. WARREN PEASE. LOVE S SECRET NAME SIGH his name into the night With the stars for company, From thy lips t will take fair flight, Doing thee no injury, If by the sea or trysting-tree Thou breathe it in no company. Whisper it from thy full heart, Let none hear thy passion moan, Safe from cruel pang or smart, To the cold world unbeknown, By darkling tree or silent sea, With Love alone for company. In thy heart of hearts let sleep All thy rapture; and his name True in purity shall keep All its vital force and flame; Fickle speech and falsest jar Come from lips that loudest are. JOHN ARTHUR BLAIKIB. THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 117 LIKING AND LOVING POOR sad Strephon a been jilted by Phyllis, the jade; While Daphne for Mopsus her love has professed. Here the woodlands resound for the plaints of the blade, While the fields of the maiden in joy are arrayed. Till the wight all forlorn meets the maiden so blest: He, "I like liking better;" she, "I love loving best." With bold Mopsus our song is no further concerned; But sad Strephon his plight by his phrase has confessed (Though his life is a husk since by Phyll he was spurned), While the right of dear Daphne her sweet lips have learned: For, note ye the speech of the sad and the blest: When he likes liking better, she loves loving best! OLIVER MARBLE. SPIRIT BRIDAL SHE sleeps within a sheltered marbled close Amid her quiet kin of yesterday, And all the marvel of her beauty s rose Has vanished quite away. Far neath an alien sky his body lies That was so filled with blood of youthful pride, And all unmarked, unheeded of men s eyes, Where last he fought and died. Yet who shall say their spirits held not tryst In unapparent realms of Love s delight, And that their souls, earth-freed, clung not and kissed Beneath the moon to-night? JESSIE STORRS FERRIS. MY LOVE FOR YOU MY love for you is such a wondrous thing I dare not question how nor why t was sent. I only know it bids my soul to sing And so I fold it close and am content. My love for you makes all the moments rare With mem ries that are sweet as April showers; I sense your thoughts I feel your tender care Like breath of blossoms blown across the hours. 118 THE HUMBLER POETS My love for you is not the swift display Of mad infatuation not the flame That leaps to life and dies within a day Ah, such were never worthy of the name! My love for you doubt not is strong and sure How could I give a fickle love to you? Your own great heart so steadfast, brave, and true, Compels a love that ever must be true. ANGELA MORGAN. A REMINISCENCE T WAS long ago but I remember I met a maiden, quite by chance; A maid I judged as pretty, tender, And much inclined to cheap romance. And so I called, asked her politely, If she would to a German go, Expecting for she knew me slightly, Or not at all she d answer no; But who knows thoughts in women hid? She consented went, sir gad, she did! A very little while thereafter A letter wrote I, all in jest, A note, conceived in boyish laughter It surely s never marred my rest. I don t know why a lawyer fellow, All briefless then, and scant of means, Should try to raise a feeling mellow In silly school girl yet in teens. Ah, who knows thoughts in women hid? She corresponded gad, she did! She answered me I d several dozens Or more of letters from her hand I saw her four times at her cousin s, I met her once, as per demand. Her writing soon grew very eager; I humored her what man would not? Her hints were anything but meagre, And so I thought I had to pop; But who knows thoughts in women hid? She refused me flat, sir gad, she did! It did not leave me broken-hearted; I d held (and think I kissed) her hand T was somewhat soiled and, when we parted, THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 119 We met again by her command. But at that meeting you can t guess it, For but a week had intervened She sat by me must I confess it? She kissed me, she upon me leaned. Lord, who knows thoughts in women hid? She proposed to me, sir gad, she did! And thereupon, like all before us, We had a frightful dose of spoons. Just when she thought our hearts in chorus, She went away for some two moons. That summer through, she, at the seashore, Had flirted, danced, raised merry Ned; But just when I was sure I d see more In any other girl to wed Do you know thoughts in women hid? She cut me dead, sir gad, she did! I ve heard from her, but not directly; Within the past three years or so. I m sure t was told me quite correctly She had n t much good sense, you know. She d nothing much but passion, money, A horrid temper easy sketch. Her father sold her (thought it funny), An oldster took her nd what she d fetch. But who knows thoughts in women hid? She left him too, sir gad, she did! OLIVER MARBLE. "OH, SEE HOW THICK!" OH, see how thick the goldcup flowers Are lying in field and lane, With dandelions to tell the hours That never are told again. Oh may I squire you round the meads And pick you posies gay? T will do no harm to take my arm. "You may, young man, you may." Ah, spring was sent for lass and lad, T is now the blood runs gold, And man and maid had best be glad Before the world is old. 120 THE HUMBLER POETS What flowers to-day may flower to-morrow, But never as good as new. Suppose I wound my arm right round " T is true, young man, t is true." Some lads there are, t is shame to say, That only court to thieve, And once they bear the bloom away T is little enough they leave. Then keep your heart for men like me And safe from trustless chaps. My love is true and all for you. "Perhaps, young man, perhaps." Oh, look in my eyes then, can you doubt? Why, t is a mile from town. How green the grass is all about! We might as well sit down. Ah, life, what is it but a flower? Why must true lovers sigh? Be kind, have pity, my own, my pretty, "Good-bye, young man, good-bye." ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN. A BORDER AFFAIR SPANISH is the lovin tongue, Soft as music, light as spray; J T was a girl I learnt it from Livin down Sonora way. I don t look much like a lover, Yet I say her love-words over Often when I m all alone "Mi amor, mi corazon." Nights when she knew where I d ride She would listen for my spurs, Throw the big door open wide, Raise them laughin eyes of hers, And my heart would nigh stop beatin When I d hear her tender greetin Whispered soft for me alone "Mi amor, mi corazon!" Moonlight in the patio, Old Senora noddin near, Me and Juana talkin low So the "madre" could n t hear THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 121 How those hours would go a-flyin , And too soon I hear her sighin , In her little sorry-tone "Adios, mi corazon." But one time I had to fly For a foolish gamblin fight, And she said a swift good-bye On that black, unlucky night. When I d loosed her arms from clingin , With her words the hoofs kept ringin , As I galloped north alone "Adios, mi corazon." Never seen her since that night; I cain t cross the Line, you know. She was Mex and I was white; Like as not it s better so. Yet I Ve always sort of missed her Since that last wild night I kissed her, Left her heart and lost my own "Adios, mi corazon." CHARLES B. CLARKE, JR. A FULL EDITION "MAY I print a kiss on your lips?" I said, And she nodded her sweet permission; So we went to press and I rather guess We printed a full edition." JOSEPH LILIENTHAL. THE SLIPRAILS AND THE SPUR THE colors of the setting sun Withdrew across the Western land He raised the sliprails, one by one, And shot them home with trembling hand; Her brown hands clung her face grew pale Ah ! quivering chin and eyes that brim ! One quick, fierce kiss across the rail, And, "Good-bye, Mary!" "Good-bye, Jim!" Oh! he rides hard to race the pain Who rides from love, who rides from home: But he rides slowly home again, Whose heart has learnt to love and roam. 122 THE HUMBLER POETS A hand upon the horse s mane, And one foot in the stirrup set, And, stooping back to kiss again, With "Good-bye, Mary! don t you fret! When I come back" he laughed for her "We do not know how soon t will be; I 11 whistle as I round the spur You let the sliprails down for me." She gasped for sudden loss of hope, As, with a backward wave to her, He cantered down the grassy slope And swiftly round the dark ning spur. Black-pencilled panels standing high, And darkness fading into stars, And blurring fast against the sky, A faint white form beside the bars. And often at the set of sun, In winter bleak and summer brown, She d steal across the little run, And shyly let the sliprails down, And listen there when darkness shut The nearer spur in silence deep; And when they called her from the hut Steal home and cry herself to sleep. HENRY LAWSON. SCHONE ROTHRAUT TAKE as gold this old tradition Of the royal-rendered wage, Guerdon of love s mad ambition In the true heart of a page. He, his passion vainly hiding, Worn and pale with hopeless pain, Through the summer woods was riding Close beside his mistress rein. "Why so sad, my page?" and turning, Gazed she straight into his eyes. " T is thy thought my bosom burning With a flame that never dies." Flushed she then, but answered, "Carest Thou to feed the flame I bring? Look me full, and if thou darest, Kiss the daughter of the king." THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 123 Stark he stood, all wonders mingling, Then from heart to finger-tips Rushed the heated life-blood tingling As he seized upon her lips. Crushing new-born awe with laughter, Said she, "Thus must end thy pain; See thou never more hereafter Lookest for like grace again." Spake he glad: "Each leaf that glitters In the sun thy gift hath seen; Every bird that sings and twitters Knoweth where my lips have been. "And the winds from dawn to vesper, Blow they north or blow they south Softly in my ear shall whisper, Thou hast kissed Schone Rothraut s mouth/ "Every floweret of the meadow, Every bird upon the tree, In life s sunshine or its shadow, Shall bring back my joy to me." JOHN ARTHUR GOODCHILD. DORIS DOWN the lane and across the fields Doris and I were walking. Past bulging stacks that the harvest yields, Doris and I were talking. "The man I wed," said Doris fair (Doris did most of the talking), "Must be a multimillionaire," I only kept on walking. "His hair must be yellow, his eyes dark blue" ( T was Doris doing the talking), "And he must be a Yale man, too, Is n t it lovely walking?" Now I am poor and my hair is brown (I never was much at talking), And I came from Harvard, in Cambridge town (I m really quite good at walking). 124 THE HUMBLER POETS But I slipped my arm around Doris sweet (She suddenly stopped her talking), And I hugged her nearly off her feet, T was really a help to walking. And I said: "I m sorry I don t suit you." (Somehow we d stopped our walking). But, "Oh," said Doris, " I guess you 11 do." For Doris was only talking. CLARENCE S. HARPER. STRAWBERRIES WE wandered in the woodland dim, And there amid the leafy blue, I plucked, to please her airy whim, The fragile snow-white strawberry bloom. T was when the strawberries were ripe I wooed her by the sapphire sea, And heard the mating bluebird pipe A prescience full of joy to me. And when the wedding bells rang free, And all our thoughts flowed on like rhyme, The blush was on the strawberry The strawberry was in its prime. Two years have swiftly flown since then Two happy years once more the birds And strawberries are in the glen, That heard of love our whispered words. The honeysuckle freights the breeze, The garden blows rose-red with June, And on his plate of strawberries The baby s drumming with his spoon. RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK. THE LINKS OF LOVE MY heart is like a driver-club, That heaves the pellet hard and straight, That carries every let and rub, The whole performance really great; My heart is like a bulger-head, That whiffles on the wily tee, Because my love has kindly said She 11 halve the round of life with me. THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 125 My heart is also like a cleek, Resembling most the mashie sort, That spanks the object, so to speak, Across the sandy bar to port; And hers is like a putting-green, The haven where I boast to be, For she assures me she is keen To halve the round of life with me. Raise me a bunker, if you can, That beetles o er a deadly ditch, Where any but the bogey-man Is practically bound to pitch; Plant me beneath a hedge of thorn, Or up a figurative tree, What matter, when my love has sworn To halve the round of life with me? OWEN SEAMAN. ALL THAT I ASK ALL that I ask is but to stand Or sit and hold your burning hand. Ah, love, that would indeed be grand! All that I ask. All that I ask is but to hold You in embrace that s not too bold Just bold enough. Oh, joy, pure gold! All that I ask. All that I ask is but to seize Your lips and drain them to the lees. Would that not be, love, just the cheese? All that I ask. BERT LESTON TAYLOR. A WOMAN "I LOVE," she said, with her faint, sweet smile, "But I shall not narrow this life of mine; Or bid my spirit its thirst beguile With the joys that women still count divine. Why, I am a soul! I am part of God! I doubt, and question, have wings to mount; Do you think I shall only moil and plod, And fill my cup at the common fount? " 126 THE HUMBLER POETS That was only a year and a day Last night her fingers were softly pressed On the downy head of a babe, that lay With warm, wet mouth at her gracious breast. "Do you think," she said, " there is rarer bliss Where the long bright cycles of heaven unroll? Or any wonder more deep than this, To share with God in a human soul? " EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER. ASPHODEL As SOME pale shade in glorious battle slain, On beds of rue, beside the silent streams, Recalls outworn delights in happy dreams; The play of oars upon the flashing main, The speed of runners and the swelling vein, And toil in pleasant upland field that teems With vine and gadding gourd until he seems To feel wan memories of the sun again And scent the vineyard slopes when dawn is wet, But feels no ache within his loosened knees To join the runners where the course is set, Nor smite the billows of the fruitless seas So I recall our day of passion yet, With sighs and tenderness, but no regret. WlLLA SlBERT GATHER. LOVE S CUP LIFE S richest cup is Love s to fill Who drinks, if deep the draught shall be, Knows all the rapture of the hill Blent with the heart-break of the sea. O tired wings that trail the ground! O sudden flight to worlds above! O thorns among the roses bound About the brows of those who love! ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS. BLANCHE GOD did not make her very wise, But carved a strangeness round her mouth; He put great sorrow in her eyes, And softness for men s souls in drouth. And on her face, for all to see, The seal of awful tragedy. THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 127 God did not make her very fair, But white and lithe and strange and sweet; A subtle fragrance in her hair, A slender swiftness in her feet, And in her hands a slow caress God made these for my steadfastness. God did not give to her a heart, But there is that within her face To make men long to muse apart Until they goodness find and grace, And think to read and worship there All good yet she is scarcely fair. A. BERNARD MIALL. SHADOWS A SONG of Shadows: never glory was But it had some soft shadow that would lie On wall, on quiet water, on smooth grass, Or in the vistas of the phantasy : The shadow of the house upon the lawn, Upon the house the shadow of the tree, And through the moon-steeped hours unto the dawn The shadow of thy beauty over me. VICTOR PLARR. AUCASSIN ET NICOLETE SWEET his lady, fair of face, From the turret to the ground In a moment s breathless space Glad escape has found. Swift she takes her wilful way Past the blossoms drenched in dew; (What if Aucassin were I Nicolete were you!) Fair white daisies gainst her feet Show less white, less pure than they; Through the shadowy moonlit street Love has found a way. To the dungeon deep and chill Comes she where her lover lies, And the air is all a-thrill With his passion-cries. 128 THE HUMBLER POETS Sharp and bright her dagger gleams, As she cuts her yellow hair; Throws it him who oft in dreams Kissed and called it fair; Whispers, ere she turns to fly, All the old words dear and true; (Ah, that Aucassin were I Nicolete were you!) What is left to us to-day From that simple elder time? Just the half -forgotten way Of a captive s rhyme. Yet it breathes of courage high, Strong Love, swift to dare and do; (Ah, that Aucassin were I Nicolete were you!) GRACE DUFFIELD GOODWIN. MEMORIES MY love he went to Burdon Fair, And of all the gifts that he saw there Was none could his great love declare; So he brought me marjoram smelling rare Its sweetness filled all the air. Oh, the days I dote on yet, Marjoram, pansies, mignonette! My love he sailed across the sea, And all to make a home for me. Oh, sweet his last kiss on the lea, The pansies plucked beneath the tree, When he said, "My love, I ll send for thee!" Oh, the days I dote on yet, Marjoram, pansies, mignonette! His mother sought for me anon; So long my name she would not own. Ah, gladly would she now atone, For we together make our moan! She brought the mignonette I ve sown. Oh, the days I dote on yet, Marjoram, pansies, mignonette! ALEXANDER HAY JAPP. THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 129 A BLOOD-RED RING HUNG ROUND THE MOON A BLOOD-RED ring hung round the moon, Hung round the moon. Ah me! Ah me! I heard the piping of the Loon, A wounded Loon. Ah me! And yet the eagle feathers rare, I, trembling, wove in my brave s hair. He left me in the early morn, The early morn. Ah me! Ah me! The feathers swayed like stately corn, So like the corn. Ah me! A fierce wind swept across the plain, The stately corn was snapped in twain. They crushed in blood the hated race, The hated race. Ah me! Ah me! I only clasped a cold, blind face, His cold, dead face. Ah me! A blood-red ring hangs in my sight, I hear the Loon cry every night. JOHN E. LOGAN. WITH YOU OH, the blue, blue depths of the sky And the white of the clouds below, The tender green of the earth And the purl of the water s flow, The splendor of spring s full flower Bathed in the morning dew This, dear love, is heaven enough, Heaven on earth with you! THOMAS H. BRIGGS, JR. LOVE, LOVE, HOW LONG? THE tree that yearns with drooping crest O er some deep river s tranquil breast At length grows downward, and is blest O Love, O Love, how long? Belated birds at set of sun Go sailing homeward one by one, For sweets are earned when toil is done O Love, O Love, how long? 130 THE HUMBLER POETS The creeper through the tangled maze Of brushwood following lightless ways Shall some day reach the unclouded rays O Love, O Love, how long? The bark that strains with groaning mast Through troubled seas and skies o ercast Shall sight the wished-for port at last O Love, O Love, how long? The traveller spent by many a mile Plods grimly on, yet knows the while That all will end in one fond smile O Love, O Love, how long? The hope of pleasure softens pain, And if by suffering men attain, A present loss is future gain O Love, O Love, how long? EDWARD CRACROFT LEFROY. LOVE AND WAR THE Chancellor mused as he nibbled his pen (Sure no Minister ever looked wiser), And said, "I can summon a million of men To fight for their country and Kaiser; "While that shallow charlatan ruling o er France, Who deems himself deeper than Merlin, Thinks he and his soldiers have only to dance To the tune of the can-can to Berlin. "But as soon as he gets to the bank of the Rhine, He ll be met by the great German army." Then the Chancellor laughed, and he said, "I will dine, For I see nothing much to alarm me." Yet still as he went out he paused by the door (For his mind was in truth heavy laden), And he saw a stout fellow, equipped for the war, Embracing a fair-haired young maiden. "Ho! ho!" said the Chancellor, "this will not do, For Mars to be toying with Venus, When these Frenchmen are coming a rascally crew! And the Rhine only flowing between us," THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 131 So the wary old fox, just in order to hear, Strode one or two huge paces nearer; And he heard the youth say, "More than life art thou dear; But, O loved one, the Fatherland a dearer." Then the maid dried her tears and looked up in his eyes, And she said, "Thou of loving art worthy; When all are in danger no brave man e er flies, And thy love should spur on not deter thee." The Chancellor took a cigar, which he lit, And he murmured, "Here s naught to alarm me; By Heaven! I swear they are both of them fit To march with the great German army." ARTHUR PACHETT MARTIN. A PRAYER DEAR, let me dream of love, Ah! though a dream it be! I ll ask no boon, above A word, a smile, from thee: At most, in some still hour, one kindly thought of me. Sweet, let me gaze a while Into those radiant eyes! I 11 not scheme to beguile The heart that deeper lies Beneath them, than yon star in night s pellucid skies. Love, let my spirit bow In worship at thy shrine! I ll swear thou shalt not know One word from lips of mine, An instant s pain to send through that shy soul of thine. SELWYN IMAGE. PHILOMEL LISTEN, love! It is the nightingale s voice; Listen, love! He bids his true love rejoice; See, the dark glade Is a-pulse with his passion; See, the cascade That the moon is a-flash on Has joined in his hymn With a low intercession, 132 THE HUMBLER POETS Has drunken the vim Of his rapture s confession; As the tremolo sweet Of a silver pandore Sways in unison meet With the clink of a dance-girl s tambour. Listen, love! It is the nightingale s note; Listen, love! Its gushes of ecstasy float Down the blue gloom Of this odorous valley, Down the perfume Of this rose-girdled alley, Till they faint on the far Fragrant hill in the distance, Till they fade as a star In the morning s existence; Then pour down again In redoubled emotion Through the languorous glen, A rich wave from harmony s ocean. Listen, love! It is the nightingale s song; Listen, love! How its pure transports prolong As if his flame-soul Swooned away in the singing, As if his heart s roll Melted out in the ringing; As if he had borrowed The secret of gladness To draw those who sorrowed Away from their sadness; And in the dark hour, To brood, a bright spirit, Anear us to mark our Darkest foreboding and cheer it. Listen, love! It is the nightingale s tune; Listen, love! He is the spirit of June; He is the bright Irrepressible lover, Dismayed not by night THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 133 Or the shadows that hover Oh, why art thou bold When thy mates are unheard? Thou rt a seraph ensouled In the form of a bird; No other could fling Joy at grief that so bound him, No other could sing With such darkness depressing around him. Listen, love! It is the nightingale s rhyme; Listen, love! He is hid in the leaves of the lime; And it seems that the orbs Of yon heaven are nearer, When his trilling absorbs All the murmur of fear or Vague tones of unrest And longings fulfilled not, Unsatisfied quest And the doubts that are stilled not; All these pass away And dissolve in the chorus Of his notes, that now sway In rapture about us and o er us. JOHN MYERS O HARA. THE PARTING WITHOUT one bitter feeling let us part And for the years in which your love has shed A radiance like a glory round my head, I thank you, yes, I thank you from my heart. I thank you for the cherished hope of years, A starry future, dim and yet divine, Winging its way from heaven to be mine, Laden with joy, and ignorant of tears. I thank you, yes, I thank you even more That my heart learnt not without love to live, But gave and gave, and still had more to give From an abundant and exhaustless store. I thank you and no grief is in these tears ; I thank you not in bitterness but truth, For the fair vision that adorned my youth And glorified so many happy years. 134 THE HUMBLER POETS Yet how much more I thank you that you tore At last the veil that you had woven, away; I saw the thing I worshipped was of clay, And vain and false what I had knelt before. I thank you that you taught me the stern truth, (None other could have told and I believed), That vain had been my life, and I deceived, And wasted all the purpose of my youth. I thank you that your hand dashed down the shrine, Wherein my idol worship I had paid; Else had I never known a soul was made To serve and worship only the Divine. I thank you that the heart I cast away On such as you, though broken, bruised, and crushed, Now that its fiery throbbing is all hushed, Upon a worthier altar I can lay. I thank you for the lesson that such love Is a perverting of God s royal right, That is it made but for the Infinite, And all too great to live except above. I thank you for a terrible awaking, And if reproach seemed hidden in my pain, And sorrow seemed to cry on your disdain, Know that my blessing lay in your forsaking. Farewell for ever now; in peace we part; And should an idle vision of my tears Arise before your soul in after years Remember that I thank you from my heart! ANONYMOUS. LOVE S DELAY THEY sat they two upon the cliff together, And watched the moonlight dance along the swell, Till broke upon their pleasance, mid the heather, The midnight warning of the village bell. "Good-night, my love," he said; "we pass the measure Of blessing which in one day s lap can lie; To linger later were to weary Pleasure, And draw some brightness from To-morrow s eye." THE GENTLER EMOTIONS 135 They rose, and gave a last fond look at ocean, And then another, and again one more, And lingering thus, at every homeward motion They noted some delight unseen before. So waned the Night; and when young Morn upstarted And quenched pale Luna s lamp with ruddier glare, He found them parting yet, and yet unparted, Still pledged to move, and still love-anchored there. EDWARD CRACROFT LEFROY. HAD YOU WAITED You would have understood me, had you waited; I could have loved you, dear! as well as he: Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated Always to disagree. What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter: Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid. Though all the words we ever spake were bitter, Shall I reproach you dead? Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover All the old anger, setting us apart: Always, in all, in truth was I your lover; Always, I held your heart. I have met other women who were tender, As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare. Think you, I turned to them, or made surrender, I who had found you fair? Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited, I had fought death for you, better than he: But from the very first, dear! we were fated Always to disagree. Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses Love that in life was not to be our part: On your low-lying mound between the roses, Sadly I cast my heart. I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter; Death and the darkness give you unto me; Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter, Hardly can disagree. ERNEST DOWSON. 136 THE HUMBLER POETS I LOVE MY LOVE WITH A KISS OH, I love my love in the sunny summer-time With a kiss, or two, or three; Like a rose of June in the full of the moon She is lovely, my love, is she! So I hold her dear, and sing her a rhyme, With a kiss, or two, or three; Like the honey deep in the flower of the thyme So is my love sweet to me! Oh, I love my love in the happy autumn days With a kiss, or four, or five; She laughs like the trees in the swing of the breeze When the last warm breezes drive! So I hold her close, and hymn her praise, With a kiss, or four, or five; Like the golden-rod with its glorious rays, She s the sunniest thing alive! Oh, I love my love in the cheery winter-time With a kiss, or six, or seven; Like the reddening snow in the sunset glow Is her cheery cheek at even! It is all for her, the Christmas chime, With a kiss, or six, or seven; Like the stars of night on the sparkling rime Is my love, whose love is Heaven! Oh, I love my love in the merry vernal morn With a kiss, or eight, or nine; Like the apple bloom and its sweet perfume Is she pink in the sunshine! So she holds my heart when April s born, With a kiss, or eight, or nine; Like the thrush in song on the blossoming thorn Is the love I know is mine. ALEXANDER MACLEAN. Part p JJJ DRAWING-ROOM AND BOUDOIR WITH A DIAMOND FEDE RING ON AN OLD VENETIAN MIRROR WHAT time in front of this dim glass the Princess fair Was combing out her wealth of red-gold hair , The Prince down-stooping kissed her, while she raised much soft objection: The mirror took the whole scene in and made a sweet reflection. WILLIAM THEODOKE PETERS. Part DRAWING-ROOM AND BOUDOIR THE LARCENY "T WAS tempting, fat, and looked well filled; With joy the villain s heart it thrilled. "These women have no sense," he said, As he approached with stealthy tread. "They tempt us with their foolishness, And so I take that purse, I guess." A sudden grab, and then a scream, A cry, "Stop thief," and through the stream Of moving people quick there glides The man, and in an alley hides. There gloatingly he eyes the purse. "Oho!" he cries; "I 11 reimburse Myself for all the pains I took To get this well-filled pocketbook." T is open, and within he sees A yard of tape and two trunk keys, A postage stamp (he waxes wroth), A spool of thread, a piece of cloth; And, as reward for this bold crime, He finds at last one silver dime. ELLIOTT FLOWER. THE CURLING TONGS WHO can describe the dainty curls Rippling Marjorie s shapely head, Just as the wimpling brook that purls Down to the sea on a pebbly bed; Poets may prattle of nature s spells, Chanting its charms in their sickly songs, What makes Marjorie s hair rebel Art in the shape of a curling tongs. 139 140 THE HUMBLER POETS If but the day be dull and damp, Mistress Marjorie s locks are limp: Give her the chance of a tongs and lamp, Mistress Marjorie s locks are crimp. Is she, perchance, of a morning late, Deaf to the sound of a score of gongs, Blame not the maiden; only rate Mistress Marjorie s curling tongs. Mothers were wont to braid their hair, That was a mother s wish, we re told. Dimity made them debonair Once in the simpler days of old. Those were the times ere the sex could boast Mannish rights and a woman s wrongs. Now it must smoke and propose a toast; Now it s equipped with a curling tongs. Santa Glaus in the dear old times Sent it the "Keepsake" bound in calf; "Friendship s Offering," limping rhymes, Verse that the modern maid would chaff. Now it prefers a book that shocks, Yet to the friskily frizzed belongs; If you would give it a Christmas box, "Dodo" will do and a curling tongs. ANONYMOUS. MARGERY MAKETH THE TEA THE doors are shut, the windows fast, Outside the gust is driving past, Outside the shivering ivy clings, While on the hob the kettle sings. Margery, Margery, make the tea, Singeth the kettle merrily. The streams are hushed up where they flowed, The ponds are frozen along the road, The cattle are housed in shed and byre, While singeth the kettle on the fire. Margery, Margery, make the tea, Singeth the kettle merrily. The fisherman on the bay in his boat Shivers and buttons up his coat; The traveller stops at the tavern door, DRAWING-ROOM AND BOUDOIR 141 And the kettle answers the chimney s roar. Margery, Margery, make the tea, Singeth the kettle merrily. The firelight dances up the wall, Footsteps are heard in the outer hall, And a kiss and a welcome that fill the room, And the kettle sings in the glimmer and gloom. Margery, Margery, make the tea, Singeth the kettle merrily. WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL. THE LEISURE CLASSES THERE was a little beggar maid Who wed a king long, long ago; Of course the taste that he displayed Was criticised by folk who know Just what formalities and things Are due to beggar maids and kings. But straight the monarch made reply: " There is small difference, as I live, Between our stations! She and I Subsist on what the people give. We do not toil with strength or skill, And, pleasing Heaven, never will." ANONYMOUS. BETTY TO HERSELF How kind they have been to their Betty! What girl is so favored as I? The sum of my virtues is petty, But love sees the figures mile high. The pleasing array s almost endless, They ve humored my every whim, Yet I feel quite forsaken and friendless There s nothing from him! His income I know is a small one With which a great deal must be done; Forsooth, it s enough to appall one, His burden from sun unto sun. But surely I ve kept without reason, Expecting, by good will inspired, A greeting becoming the season It s all I desired! 142 THE HUMBLER POETS These verses I longed for so deeply Are puerile things after all; And none must discover how cheaply The strains of the rhapsody brawl ! But whose card is this with the roses? It a his and the line that I read Such a beautiful secret discloses My cup is o erflowing indeed! EDWARD W. BANNARD. SONG OF THE SUMMER GIRL You talk about some maiden fair, With alabaster brow, Her face like snowdrifts soft and rare As poets oft allow; Your parian, pentelic maid Admire her, ye who can; My choice is for a darker shade, The girl of healthy tan! The neck they liken to the swan, The goose has, quite as true; The maid with ivory forehead on May have a blockhead, too; But nut-brown damsels are the thing For me or any man; The summer girl s the one I sing, The girl with glowing tan! The snow-white pallor some admire Cold hands and feet foretell; The marble brows they so admire Mean marble hearts as well; Give me the warm, fresh blood that flows On nature s freest plan, The wholesome look, the eye that glows, The girl with summer tan! ANONYMOUS. GRANDMOTHER S VALENTINE THE branches creaked on the garret roof, And the snow blew in at the eaves, When I found a hymn-book, tattered and torn, And turned its mouldering leaves. And lo! in its yellow pages lay Grandmother s valentine tucked away. DRAWING-ROOM AND BOUDOIR 143 Hearts and roses together twined, And sweet little Cupids quaint, The gilt from the hearts was worn away, And the pink of the roses faint, And the Cupids faces were blurred and dim, But it marked the place of her favorite hymn. Before me rose on the dusty floor The ghost of a slender maid, Like the portrait hung on the parlor wall, In a gown of flowered brocade, And ivory laces, as fine as air, And a diamond star in her powdered hair. A handsome gallant beside her bent In the country dress of old, He wore a ring with a ruby set And a waistcoat flowered with gold, Ruffled wrists and a ribboned cue, Silver buckles and coat of blue. "What hast thou shut in thy lily hand With a tassel of azure tied?" "A valentine left on my window sill In the gray of the dawn," she cried, "And I love the lover who rode so far In the deep snows, under the morning star." Then he pressed his arm to her rounded waist And his lips to her rosy ear: "Oh, lean thy head to my breast, I pray, And I ll tell thee a secret, dear! It was I who rode with the valentine So fast and so far and thou art mine!" A mouse ran over the broken boards, Behold! when I looked again For the squire in the gay blue coat And the maid with the silken train, There was nothing there but the shadows tall And the cobwebs long on the windy wall. But I dropped a tear on the musty book And I tenderly laid it down With the treasure, deep in the cedar chest, In the folds of a faded gown, And left it there on the lavender leaves And ashes of roses, under the eaves. 144 THE HUMBLER POETS For I thought of a youth with soft brown eyes And how I had vexed him sore. The dim, dead lovers they touched my heart, And so I was cold no more; For love is the same as long ago, Grandmother s valentine told me so. MINNA IRVING. A GEOGRAPHIC QUESTION A MAIDEN once, with eyes of blue, And mischief a suggestion, Propounded all her friends unto A geographic question. "Why all degrees of latitude Were longer at th equator?" Their answers brought beatitude And highly did elate her: For Mr. Smithson talked to her With knowledge was he sated " T was due to a parabola," He wisely demonstrated; And Mr. Whyte, he murmured much Of "radial defections," While Robinson, with dainty touch, Discoursed of conic sections; Then Mr. Browning flowery grew, And filled himself with glory By telling much more than he knew It was a wondrous story! But all sit now disconsolate, And cut a woful figure They ve learned, when it was all too late, Degrees down there are n t bigger. ANONYMOUS. AT THE CONCERT THE leader waved his light baton; The frail bows of the players trembled; A flash! a flare! the height was won And all the hosts of song assembled! Resistlessly the overture Swept on and captured sense and reason; Then Chloe smiled success was sure For this first concert of the season. DRAWING-ROOM AND BOUDOIR 145 The chairs were filled with charming folk, And beauty vied with wealth and talent; The graciousness the music woke Was showered on some near-by gallant. The symphonies were often light, But Chloe s heart seemed ever lighter; Tschaikowsky s dancing themes were bright, But Chloe s eyes were always brighter. As on and on the music sped, Or paused in sombre note and measure, It seemed as if all sense had fled Save that of vague, ecstatic pleasure, Which held the nerves in rhythmic bonds; But Chloe stirred her golden tresses And then I thought of nought but blondes And scarlet plumes and silver dresses. RAY CLARKE ROSE. AN "OLD MAID" THERE s a spinster of thirty-some years whose abode Is at number some hundreds in Sheridan Road, And the peach-and-cream lassies who live thereabout Trip by in gay dresses with many a flout, And giggle and whisper they re " really afraid" This time-tempered lady will die an "old maid"! Great heavens! just think what a terrible fate To live and to die a forlorn celibate! Now, the worst of all this is the evident truth That this "lone" maiden lady keeps much of her youth, Seems ever contented and never to fret, And laughs and is gay as if free from regret! There are men at her elbow and men at her feet, And men in fine turn-outs wait out in the street; But, alas! this poor lady will certainly grow Much older, and she is unmarried, you know! Too bad! T is a pity! She s such a nice girl Or spinster a man must, indeed, be a churl Who would fail to discover her beauty and charm! Still, the oddest of all is she shows no alarm For this horrible fate that impends can it be That she ? d rather not marry? She said so to me This is quite confidential : I asked for her hand And she did n t seem just to well, you understand! RAY CLARKE ROSE. 146 THE HUMBLER POETS TIMES AIN T WHAT THEY WAS WHEN pa an ma was married in the days long gone and dead; The neighbors sorter run the house Mis Grundy was the law, When pa felt kinder bilious, the ol wood pile in the shed Was what he mostly needed, and he useter go an saw; An ma kep busy knittin , makin clothes an bread an pies, An Sis helped with the dishes an the baby an the rest, An Bub that s me did choring, early bed an early rise; The family was sleepin when the sun was in the west. I got a fam ly now f my own, built on a diff runt plan: A gas bill once a month instead o that ol hickory pile; Now when I wanter exercise, I take the hired man He ll do me for a caddy an I play my golf in style; An mother she n the hired help jest started off on a wheel, While sister whacks at tennis tendin baby ain t her song. An brother rows and kicks and swims, his muscle is like steel, They ain t no chores to keep him down he s too bejig- gered strong! I dunno what the baby does, but sorter spect the nurse Goes sprintin with policemen when she takes him out to walk. He certainly is lookin s if he oughter come in firs He s singin coon songs long before he s old enough to talk; Them good ol times wan t none too good they knew no better then, To work was pious an t was always wickedness to play; But now pur women s stronger an we re better lookin men, An boys an girls grow bigger an I m glad to see the day. ANONYMOUS. ON THE WAY HOME "Dm N T you like the party, dear, to-night?" (Silence. She turns her head the other way.) "What have I done? Is n t my tie on right?" (No answer but her eyes have things to say.) "Is it because I danced with Mrs. Chatt? Her husband made me, really." (She is dumb.) "Surely you can t be jealous that I sat Out with the silly Grimes girl?" (She is mum.) "I know I talked too much of me and mine Was that the reason?" (Perfect stillness reigns.) "But I was proud you simply looked divine! Can t you forgive me?" (Speechless she remains.) DRAWING-ROOM AND BOUDOIR 147 "Was it because I stumbled in that waltz? I always do some fool thing." (Not a word.) "I did n t mean to lose your smelling salts." ( T would seem the protestations were unheard.) "Oh, Mrs. Gad then told you that I said Her dress should have the prize? " (Hark! T is the wind.) "Or was it that I cut Ned Killer dead? He s a mere rake. Look at me, dear." (She s blind.) "Well, I confess I ought to be accursed For talking shop at dinner." (She is mute.) "I m sorry that I used the wrong fork first." (Her hush and nature s hush are absolute.) "Oh, very well, then, since you re bound to sneer, I can fight, too, if quarrelling s such fun." She speaks! She smiles! "Why, I m not angry, dear, I merely wished to know what you had done." CHESTER FIRKINS. A DAUGHTER OF THE REVOLUTION ARISING slowly in his place, Our gallant Washington Bowed to his host with courtly grace, His courtly visit done. The little daughter hastened o er, In service and in pride, Beside the narrow-panelled door And held it open wide. "A better office, little maid," He spoke, and touched her chin. She shyly raised her eyes, and said, "Please, sir, to let you in." ANONYMOUS. AFTER READING A CHAPTER BY HENRY JAMES AND after Angelina, laying down The book that is she often thought it so; Had recognized, as one might say, a frown (Could she translate the answer Yes and No?) Had taken up the, as it were, effect Of, Angelina s training had been such 148 THE HUMBLER POETS That yet, however harsh and circumspect Even her father deemed it overmuch One does these things unconsciously, I think, Thus in proportion as we don t we do; So pausing rather vaguely on the brink She wondered, was it by, and if so, to? For Angelina Hale was not that kind Of girl, and it would be unfair to say With such an intuition in her mind As to these, those does it matter either way? Which she had, of a purpose, I suppose; And they do have so many ways to choose, A point which she remembered, last arose The day she left her arctic overshoes, And then, of course, that does n t count for one Whose very instinct (is it wrong to try?) Since yes, what other, lesser souls have done, For which, with what, is oftenest done by. And thus reflecting, Angelina Hale Reviewed the thoughts that she had read about, Then with a smile triumphant, wan, and pale Sank back upon her pillows, quite fagged out. ANONYMOUS. A LOST TALISMAN AMONG the palms the Thing was lost That gilded circlet, rich embossed, And marked, " From Ned to Bessie." " A belt? " oh, no ! "A ring? " not yet ! An ample g oodness! In her set They re always swell and dressy. RAY CLARKE ROSE. Part 3% MAN S BROTHERHOOD I DWELL amid the city ever, The great humanity which beats Its life along the stony streets, Like a strong and unsunned river In a self-made course. I sit and hearken while it rolls, Very sad and very hoarse Certes is the flow of souls; Infinitest tendencies By the finite, pressed and pent, In the finite, turbulent; How we tremble in surprise When, sometimes, with an awful sound, God s great plummet strikes the ground! ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. MAN S BROTHERHOOD RECESSIONAL GOD of our fathers, known of old Lord of our far flung battle line Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget lest we forget. The tumult and the shouting dies, The Captains and the Kings depart, Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget! Lest we forget! Far called our navies melt away On dune and headland sinks the fire Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre ! Judge of the nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget lest we forget. If drunk with sight of power we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe, Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the law, Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget! Lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard All valiant dust that builds on dust, . And guarding, calls not Thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord ! RUDYARD KIPLING. 151 152 THE HUMBLER POETS DAT S RIGHT, AIN T IT? De rich am gettin richer An de po am gettin po rer. De mansion s gettin taller. But the shanty s gettin smaller. De market basket s small De po man am a-totin An hits all brought about By de way yo s been a-votin . Dat s right, Ain t it? De wood am gettin sca ce, An de coal am gettin higher, An day say dat ole Monopoly Is puttin out my fire. De wage am mighty small, Fo de plane, an saw, an mallet, An it s all brought about by De castin ob yo ballot. Dat s right, Ain t it? Den stop de emergrashun, Stop emergrants a-votin , An limitate de riches dat De millionaire am totin . Dat s right becase de po folks Am not er gwine to stand it, An by en by humanity Will rise up an demand it. Dat s right, Ain t it? BEN KING. OSMAN AGA S DEVOTION WHEN the sands of night are run And the toilers go their ways At the earliest peer of sun, Osman Aga kneels and prays. When the streets by noon are burned, And the rooftops scorch and blaze, With his brow toward Mecca turned, Osman Aga kneels and prays. MAN S BROTHERHOOD 153 At the purple shut of eve, When the pilgrim khanward strays, With the Faithful that believe, Osman Aga kneels and prays. But meanwhile this wag-beard gray Cheats the poor with spurious wares, So one scarce knows what to say In regard to Aga s prayers. CLINTON SCOLLARD. THE MAN WITH THE HOE (Written after seeing the painting by Millet.) God created man in His own image; in the image of God created He him. Genesis. BOWED by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world. Who made him dead to rapture, and despair, A thing that grieves not, and that never hopes, Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? Is this the thing the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over sea and land; To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of Eternity? Is this the Dream He dreamed, who shaped the suns, And pillared the blue firmament with light? Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this More tongued with censure of the world s blind greed More filled with signs and portents for the soul More fraught with menace to the universe. What gulfs between him and the seraphim! Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? What the long reaches of the peaks of song, The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; 154 THE HUMBLER POETS Time s tragedy is in that aching stoop; Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, Plundered, profane and disinherited, Cries protest to the Judges of the World, A protest that is also prophecy. O masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, Is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing, distorted and soul-quenched? How will you ever straighten up this shape; Touch it again with immortality; Give back the upward looking and the light; Rebuild in it the music and the dream; Make right the immemorial infamies, Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? O masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, How will the Future reckon with this Man? How answer his brute question in that hour When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? How will it be with kingdoms and with kings With those who shaped him to the thing he is When this dumb terror shall reply to God, After the silence of the centuries? EDWIN MARKHAM. THE MAN WITH THE HOE (A reply) Let us a little permit Nature to take her own way; she bet ter understands her own affairs than we. Montaigne. NATURE reads not our labels, "great" and "small"; Accepts she one and all Who, striving, win and hold the vacant place; All are of royal race. Him, there, rough-cast, with rigid arm and limb, The Mother moulded him, Of his rude realm ruler and demigod, Lord of the rock and clod. With Nature is no "better" and no "worse," On this bared head no curse. MAN S BROTHERHOOD 155 Humbled it is and bowed; so is he crowned Whose kingdom is the ground. Diverse the burdens on the one stern road Where bears each back its load ; Varied the toil, but neither high nor low. With pen or sword or hoe, He that has put out strength, lo, he is strong; Of him with spade or song Nature but questions, "This one, shall he stay?" She answers "Yea," or "Nay," "Well, ill, he digs, he sings;" and he bides on, Or shudders, and is gone. Strength shall he have, the toiler, strength and grace, So fitted to his place As he leaned, there, an oak where sea winds blow, Our brother with the hoe. No blot, no monster, no unsightly thing, The soil s long-lineaged king; His changeless realm, he knows it and commands; Erect enough he stands, Tall as his toil. Nor does he bow unblest: Labor he has, and rest. Need was, need is, and need will ever be For him and such as he; Cast for the gap, with gnarled arm and limb, The Mother moulded him, Long wrought, and moulded him with mother s care, Before she set him there. And aye she gives him, mindful of her own, Peace of the plant, the stone; Yea, since above his work he may not rise, She makes the field his skies. 156 THE HUMBLER POETS See! she that bore him, and metes out the lot, He serves her. Vex him not To scorn the rock whence he was hewn, the pit And what was digged from it; Lest he no more in native virtue stand, The earth-sword in his hand, But follow sorry phantoms to and fro, And let a kingdom go. JOHN VANCE CHENEY. THE MAN WITHOUT THE HOE IN a dingy little hovel Down beside a lonely meadow In the wet, There s a man that never hopes, Never thinks enough in life To forget. He s the owner of a cow, And a dog, In a log pen by his window There s a hog. He plants his corn beside the house, Near the door; Lets the weeds grow through the cracks On the floor. He lies upon his bunk at night Without fear; No matter how hard the wind blows, He does n t care. He s forty summers old, and is Strong and fat; His chin and forehead are alike, Dark and flat. His coat and pants are slick with age, And his hat; A collar ne er adorned his neck, Or cravat. MAN S BROTHERHOOD 157 To him the "rulers," "lords," and "kings" Are all dead; The weight of care has never fallen On his head. To ev ry question filled with hope, He answers, "No"; I m prone to think he s Markham s man Without the hoe. GORDON COOGLER. THE CONTEMPTIBLE NEUTRAL THE world was full of battle The whole world, far and wide; Men and women and children Were fighting on either side. I was sent from the hottest combat With a message of life and death, Black with smoke and red with blood, Weary and out of breath. Forced to linger a moment And bind a stubborn wound, Cursing the hurt that kept me back From the fiery battle ground When I found a cheerful stranger, Calm, critical, serene, Well sheltered from all danger, Painting a battle scene. He was cordially glad to see me The coolly smiling wretch And inquired with admiration : "Do you mind if I make a sketch?" So he had me down in a minute, With murmurs of real delight; My "color" was "delicious;" My "action" was "just right!" And he prattled on with ardor Of the moving scene below; Of the "values" of the smoke- wreaths, And the "splendid rush and go;" 158 THE HUMBLER POETS Of the headlong desperate charges Where a thousand lives were spent: Of the "massing" in the foreground With the " middle distance" blent. Said I: "You speak serenely Of the living death in view; These are human creatures dying Are you not human too? "This is a present battle Where all men strive to-day; How does it chance you sit apart? Which is your banner say?" His fresh cheek blanched a little, And he answered with a smile That he fought not on either side; He was watching a little while. "Watching," said I, "and neutral! Neutral in times like these!" And I plucked him off his sketching stool And brought him to his knees. I stripped him of his travelling cloak And showed him to the sky By his uniform a traitor! By his handiwork a spy! I dragged him back to the field he left To the fate he was fitted for. We have no place for lookers-on, While all the world s at war! CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON. THE UNMERCENARIES JOLLY good fellows who die for the death of it, Fight for the fun of it, live for the breath of it; Catch at the instant and drink of the minute, Thinking not, caring not what may be in it; Foolish good fellows (and all of us know it), Wasting their midnights in being a poet, Giving their lives to the life of humanity, Dreaming of fame that extreme of insanity; MAN S BROTHERHOOD 159 Silly good fellows who labor for science, Lighting the way for their race s reliance. Bearing their burdens with mien of a stoic, Dreaming of gratitude myth unheroic; All the good fellows who think not of wages, Foreign, in part, to the thing that our age is, Giving no heed to the weight of the coffer, Taking what Fate and not men have to offer; They and the like of them, here s a health to them! Taint of our lower aims never undo them, They will survive us all, passed through the portal; Life often jests at what death makes immortal! ANONYMOUS. SUFFRAGE MARCHING SONG (The suffrage song which won the Noble prize of $100) Lo! the nations have been toiling up a steep and rugged road, Resting oft by stream and mountain, bent beneath the heavy load, Gazing toward the coming freedom from the anguish and the goad, For the hope has led them on. Glory, glory, halleluia ! Glory, glory, halleluia! Glory, glory, halleluia! For the hope has led them on. In the western strong republic, under skies pierced through and through With a light of nobler foresight, life becomes more rich and true, And a mightier strength is given to the hands that strive and do, While the hope still leads men on. Mother, prophetess, and holy, through the ages of the clan, Uttering words of potent wisdom in the ear of struggling man, Woman rose and strode beside him mid the dangers of the van, Kindling hope that led him on. Now again that voice is ringing through the ever brightening air, And her wakened heart is calling unto labors, fine and fair, That shall weave the robes of beauty which mankind in peace shall wear, Since the hope is leading on. 160 THE HUMBLER POETS Forth they step and march together, forth the man and woman go, To the plains of vast achievement, where unfettered rivers flow, And their work shall stand exalted, and their eyes shall shine and glow, With the hope that led them on. Glory, glory, halleluia! Glory, glory, halleluia! Glory, glory, halleluia! For the hope still leads them on! Louis J. BLOCK. LIVINGSTONE ON dusky shoulders Ported through hot Afric fens, Where the slaver s victim moulders By the ugly Soko glens, Behold the man Within his stretcher lying, Body torn, Thin and worn, But hopefully defying Death! With feeble fingers Grasping still his honest pen, With a trust that never lingers Writes he midst the murky fen, Of what he sees And thinks and feels there lying, Body torn, Thin and worn, But hopefully defying Death! Though the miles before him Are a thousand dangerous, Though the sun, a furnace o er him, Burns his flesh all feverous, He presses on Within his stretcher lying, Body torn, Thin and worn, But hopefully defying Death! MAN S BROTHERHOOD 161 No white man near him As he breathes his last brave word, No loved voice to kindly cheer him, By immortal courage stirred, Unflinchingly He meets his fate there lying, Body torn, Thin and worn, But hopefully defying Death! The world B a debtor For his life of fortitude, For a million lives made better By his struggle with the brood Of Afric s ills, Within his stretcher lying, Body torn, Thin and worn, But hopefully defying Death! And beyond the present, When a people great as ours Fill that land with cities pleasant, Patriot bards will scatter flowers On Livingstone, Within his stretcher lying, Body torn, Thin and worn, But hopefully defying Death! FRANCIS BROOKS. "AS THYSELF" SEEST thou a fault in any other? Look in, not out; he is thy brother. Thou hast it too and yet another. Hear st thou a word against a woman? Stand out! how else canst thou be true man? Christ heard such word and Christ was human. Know st thou a life sans good and beauty? Hold not aloof! T will not pollute thee. God s in that life; this is His duty. ANONYMOUS. 162 THE HUMBLER POETS A CRY FROM THE GHETTO THE roaring of the wheels has filled my ears, The clashing and the clamor shut me in; My self, my soul, in chaos disappears, I cannot think or feel amid the din. Toiling and toiling and toiling endless toil, For whom? For what? Why should the work be done? I do not ask, or know. I only toil. I work until the day and night are one. The clock above me ticks away the day. Its hands are spinning, spinning, like the wheels. It cannot sleep or for a moment stay. It is a thing like me, and does not feel. It throbs as though my heart were beating there A heart? My heart? I know not what it means. The clock ticks, and below we strive and stare, And so we lose the hour. We are machines. Noon calls a truce and ending to the sound, As if a battle had one moment stayed A bloody field! The dead lie all around; Their wounds cry out until I grow afraid. It comes the signal ! See, the dead men rise, They fight again, amid the roar they fight, Blindly, and knowing not for whom, or why, They fight, they fall, they sink into the night. J. W. LYNN, from the Yiddish of MORRIS ROSENFELD. REVENGE REVENGE is a naked sword; It has neither hilt nor guard; Wouldst thou wield this brand of the Lord? Is thy grasp, then, firm and hard? - ^ But the closer thy clutch of the blade, The deadlier blow thou wouldst deal, Deeper wound in thy hand is made It is thy blood reddens the steel. And when thou hast dealt the blow When the blade from thy hand has flown Instead of the heart of the foe, Thou may st find it sheathed in thine own. CHARLES HENRY WEBB. MAN S BROTHERHOOD 163 CHRISTMAS OUTCASTS CHRIST died for all, and on the hearts of all Who gladly decorate their cheerful homes At Christmastide, this blessed truth should fall, That they may mix some honey with the gall Of those to whom a Christmas never comes. The poor are everywhere in nature s course, Yet they may still control some sweetened crumbs, No matter what they lack in hearts or purse; But there are those whose better fate is worse, To whom no day of Christmas ever comes. The man who wildly throws away his chance, An outcast from all cheerful hearts and homes, Who may not mingle where the happy dance, Nor gain from loving eyes one kindly glance, Is he to whom no Christmas ever comes. The man condemned in hidden ways to grope, At sight of whom each kindly voice is dumb, Or he whose life is shortened in its scope, Who waits for nothing but the hangman s rope, Is he to whom a Christmas cannot come. Christ died for all; he came to find the lost, Whether they hide in palaces or slums No matter how their lines of life are crossed. And they who love him best will serve him most By helping those to whom no Christmas comes. ANONYMOUS. THE POOR MAN S AUTOMOBILE WHEN the day s stint is finished, and master and man May find their enjoyment wherever they can; Ere the lamps are a-lit at the coming of night, And the freshness and coolness of even invite The heart to gain courage and concord anew By draughts of the gloaming perfumed by the dew, Then, skimming the pavements, the world is a-wheel And my wifie and I take our automobile. A nod to our buttoned, blue-girded chauffeur, And away we are flying, with none to demur Away through the thoroughfares, mile after mile, And turning the corners in dexterous style, 164 THE HUMBLER POETS With the voice of our watchful, imperious gong Proclaiming our nearness, and warning the throng; While leaning like monarchs, ensconced in our seat, We haughtily gaze at the sights of the street. Or, Sundays, when all of the city is out With bicycles, carriages, gliding about, We call for our auto, and entering in, Are off on a joyous, enrapturing spin (And who would forbid us an innocent lark!) For rest and for pleasure, to lake or to park, Our vehicle one which the lightnings equip, And a touch of the lever in place of a whip. Of course it may seem (as I do not deny) That we re rather extravagant, wifie and I, For people whose income, in dollars and cents, Is barely sufficient for needful expense. But, bless you, although so pretentious we are, When we re "taking our auto" we re boarding a car! And that is our horseless conveyance, you see But I doubt if a nabob is gayer than we. EDWIN L. SABIN. CHILD LABOR A CREATURE wan, of dwarfed physique, Lack-lustre eye, and shrunken limb, With frame bowed prematurely down, Age counterfeited in its frown, Denied the freedom of the sun, Robbed of fresh air and wholesome food; Of parents proper love bereft; Hands preternaturally deft, That dainty fabrics may be spun. In stature and in years a child, In pain s experience senile, Its heritage of childhood sold That its employer gather gold; Its thought the cunning of the wild. The thing that might have been a man Or woman, blessing all the race, Is made a criminal or bawd, For cost of yacht or jewel gawd, To mock creation s nobler plan. MAN S BROTHERHOOD 165 Between the thing that might have been And this the thing that greed has made, There lies the evil profit which Makes nations poor, and persons rich, The product of a gilded sin. Look on this creature, dour and grim, The winner of your luxury, Smug idler and your lady fair; This hostage God left to your care Behold your work and answer him! But ere He calls you to the bar Beyond the grave your tale to tell, You will be tried by fellow men, And so atone to them, that then You will not fear the threat of hell. ANONYMOUS. TO LABOR SHALL you complain who feed the world? Who clothe the world? Who house the world? Shall you complain who are the world, Of what the world may do? As from this hour You use your power, The world must follow you. The world s life hangs on your right hand, Your strong right hand, Your skilled right hand; You hold the whole world in your hand See to it what you do! Or dark or light, Or wrong or right, The world is made by you! Then rise as you ne er rose before, Nor hoped before, Nor dared before, And show as ne er was shown before, The power that lies in you! Stand all as one Till right is done! Believe and dare and do! CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON. 166 THE HUMBLER POETS A POLITICAL CHARACTER IN him the elements are strangely blent Two consciences he hath, two hearts, two souls, On double wrongs and errors he is bent, And ne er appears except in dual roles. He hears both sides, but t is with different ears; Sees both sides of the shield with different eyes; Between two rights with nice precision steers, This double-headed king of compromise. Not his to hold the scales of life and death Not his, this nebulous invertebrate, Who heeds and scorns at once the vulgar breath, Nor knows the fixity which stamps the great, The kingly souls with instinct for the right, Vibrant to conscience and her trumpet call, With clarity of vision, inward light, And strength to follow out their thought through all. ISRAEL ZANGWILL. DESPOILED IF I could read my title clear, among the wolves that yelp, To just the fulness of my day, without a statesman s help, I d gladly pay what taxes a simple state might need, Its honors well to shelter, its comfort well to feed. Nor would I for my portion a vast domain demand, Of either sky or water, or wide, unpeopled land. A cottage on a hillside, a garden and a spring, With many birds of welcome words, would be about the thing. But all my days are deeded to men of many fees, Who, of my loving labor, build their unlovely ease, And all my nights are mortgaged in dark, unhappy ways, To those who drive my drudging through all my deeded days. They taught me in the little school, whose memories are dear, To love the institutions I ve lately come to fear, For, said the teacher, guilelessly, "Our native land is free, And all our duty is to serve its progress loyally." But service is a stupid thing if service shall but gain From sore and shameful servitude but courage to complain. And if our famed "equality" one pocket fatly fills, And leaves a million empty, a nation s honor spills. MAN S BROTHERHOOD 167 They give us law for logic, made up of bonds and bribes, The kind some sleek attorney as " right divine" describes. But when our hunger happens its prior right to claim, They measure out, for trimmings, a year of ironed shame. There is n t much to trouble an opportunist now. They ve got the land allotted, and won t an inch allow; But if you want a mortgage to exercise your wit, And busy you, at cent-per-cent, they 11 gladly part with it. If I could read my title, in all the din and dust, I would n t want their millions, with human blood a-rust; Nor palaces, nor plunder, nor perquisites of pride, With all the things of manhood abandoned and denied. But what I seek forever, is, where the truth is kept, For all its holy guardians at lying are adept. It is n t legislated in any halls of state, And as for honest voting who pays the highest freight? If I could read my title what is a title, pray? Why, Fellow, they are holding it, and you re the stuff they weigh. A vineyard on the hillside, a sungleam in the spring Well, if you re not tight-muzzled, they re just a song to sing. GEORGE E. BOWEN. THE CLERKS* I DID not think that I should find them there When I came back again; but there they stood, As in the days they dreamed of when young blood Was in their cheeks and women called them fair. Be sure, they met me with an ancient air And yes, there was a shop-worn brotherhood About them; but the men were just as good, And just as human as they ever were. And you that ache so much to be sublime, And you that feed yourselves with your descent, What comes of all your visions and your fears? Poets and kings are but the clerks of time, Tiering the same dull webs of discontent, Clipping the same sad alnage of the years. EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON. *From "Children of the Night." Copyright, 1905, by Charles Scribner s Sons. 168 THE HUMBLER POETS BEYOND THE BARS WITHIN my cell are singing sounds a robin s call, afar. Within this gloom are glories white a light of sun or star. Within this death-hole breathes the air of clover-fields a-hum. What rare and radiant riches to the prisoned spirit come! Within my cell glows ruddy wine distilled of vineyards dear. Within this fear are lance and shield what valor gives me cheer. Within defeat pride will not yield a rebel heritage. And youth is armed with years forgot, to crush the force of age. Within my cell stands liberty with many a flag of joy. Within this death is freedom born its tyrant to destroy. Within this hush the bugles blow to stir the hearts of men. And still I muse, in chains that chafe: "Will there be prisons then?" GEORGE E. BOWEN. THE WANDERER I MET a waif i the hills at close of day. He begged an alms; I thought to say him nay. What was he? "Sir, a little dust," said he, "Which life blows up and down, and death will lay." I gave f or i ove O f beast and hill and tree, And all the dust that has been and shall be. WILLIAM CANTON. WHERE TYRANTS PERISH SAIL on, Columbus! sail right onward still, O er watery waste of trackless billows sail, Nor let a doubting race make thy heart fail Till a New World upglow beneath thy will. Let storms break forth and driving winds be shrill; But be thou steadfast when all others quail, Still looking westward till the night grow pale, And the long dreamed-of land thy glad eyes fill. Great world-revealer, sail! God leads the way Across the gloomy, fathomless dark sea, Of man unvisited until this day, But which henceforth for the whole world shall be The road to nobler life and wider sway, Where tyrants perish and all men are free. JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING. MAN S BROTHERHOOD 169 THE EAGLE AND THE LION ALONE on his rock nigh a hundred years He has drowsed with the sun in his eyes. Dumb watch o er the yellow sand was his care, Far west to the far sunrise. But now he stretches his tawny length There is stir in the dusk of the hundred years Distant the sounds and great his strength, So he dozes again with listening ears. Alone the young eagle above the rock Swings hither and thither, to and fro, Watching the smoke and the dust of the earth, Watching the free wind blow. Drowsed too but now he ruffles his crown, And the evening light in his eyes gloweth red As he mounts to mark the sun go down, A century s sun, neath the thunderhead. "Be we brothers or brothers be we not?" To him on the rock comes down the cry. And he answers, "Yea, we are kin and kin, Twain kings of the earth and the sky. Thou of the lightnings of heaven hast ward, I of the powers of God s great deep Gather the thunders. Bare men s children the sword? T is time that we rouse us from our sleep." Woe when the eagle sends cry to heaven And stoops to the cloud where the tempest lies! And woe when the lion shall rise on his rock, Storm-wind in his mane and wrath in his eyes! Then brother with brother and blood with blood We shall stand. Alien peoples, beware! Hold we the dread powers of fire and flood, Of earth, and of sea, and of air. GEORGE FREDERICK. TO THE MONEY-GETTER O MAN of morbid soul and small, Thou Dives, thing of wealth and hate! Think st thou this narrow world is all? And if it be, thou rt at the call, While here, of vice insatiate, O man of morbid soul and small! 170 THE HUMBLER POETS A vice that hath thee for a thrall Unmoved by love, accursed of fate Think st thou this narrow world is all? In letters hast thou naught withal In greed alone thy mind is great; O man of morbid soul and small! Art cannot move thee from thy stall; Thy piety s commensurate; Think st thou this narrow world is all? Alas, when Death shall lay his pall O er thee, and it is all too late! O man of morbid soul and small, Think st thou this narrow world is all? ANONYMOUS. PIPER, PLAY Now the furnaces are out, And the aching anvils sleep; Down the road the grimy rout Tramples homeward twenty deep. Piper, play! Piper, play! Though we be o erlabored men, Ripe for rest, pipe your best! Let us foot it once again! Bridled looms delay their din; All the humming wheels are spent; Busy spindles cease to spin; Warp and woof must rest content. Piper, play! Piper, play! For a little we are free! Foot it, girls, and shake your curls, Haggard creatures though we be! Racked and soiled the faded air Freshens in our holiday; Clouds and tides our respite share; Breezes linger by the way. Piper, rest! Piper, rest! Now, a carol of the moon! Piper, piper, play your best! Melt the sun into your tune! MAN S BROTHERHOOD 171 We are of the humblest grade; Yet we dare to dance our fill: Male and female were we made, Fathers, mothers, lovers still! Piper, softly; soft and low; Pipe of love in mellow notes, Till the tears begin to flow, And our hearts are in our throats! Nameless as the stars of night Far in galaxies unfurled, Yet we yield unrivalled might, Joints and hinges of the world ! Night and day! night and day! Sound the song the hours rehearse! Work and play! work and play! The order of the universe! Now the furnaces are out, And the aching anvils sleep; Down the road a merry rout Dances homeward, twenty deep. Piper, play! Piper, play! Wearied people though we be, Ripe for rest, pipe your best! For a little we are free! JOHN DAVIDSON. ARISE, YE MEN OF STRENGTH AND MIGHT ARISE, ye men of strength and might, Arise, ye bold and brave, Arise, for ending is the night, Who sleeps now is a slave Arise and view the glorious sight Of darkness yielding unto light, Arise, ye bold and brave! Arise, ye men of heart and brain Arise, ye heroes all A craven he who would abstain When soundeth freedom s call. Come, listen to the glorious strain, Join in and chant the grand refrain, Arise, ye heroes all! CHARLES JAMES. 172 THE HUMBLER POETS IN POVERTY STREET IT s dirty, ill-smelling, Its fellows the same, With hardly a dwelling Deserving the name; It s noisy and narrow, With angles replete Not straight as an arrow Is Poverty Street. Its houses are battered, Unheated and small, While children all tattered Respond to the call; There s nothing inviting That s likely to greet The stranger alighting In Poverty Street. But something redeeming Lies under it all; Ambition is dreaming In some little hall; Some mother is praying Successes may meet The boy who is playing In Poverty Street. Some fathers, depriving Themselves of all joys, Are valiantly striving For sake of their boys; Some sisters and brothers, In sacrifice sweet, Are living for others In Poverty Street. And ever and always Is charity shown, In alleys or hallways None suffer alone; For sorrow no blindness The suffering meet; There s millions in kindness - In Poverty Street. MAN S BROTHERHOOD 173 Though lacking in glory And lacking in art, There a many a story Appeals to the heart; And years that are blighting With tales of defeat Find heroes still fighting In Poverty Street. ELLIOTT FLOWER. ST. ANTHONY S SERMON TO THE FISHES ST. ANTHONY at church Was left in the lurch, So he went to the ditches And preached to the fishes; They wiggled their tails, In the sun glanced their scales. The carps, with their spawn, Are all hither drawn; Have opened their jaws, Eager for each clause. No sermon beside Had the carps so edified. Sharp-snouted pikes, Who keep fighting like tikes, Now swam harmonious To hear St. Antonius. No sermon beside Had the pikes so edified. And that very odd fish, Who loves fast-days, the codfish The stock-fish, I mean At the sermon was seen. No sermon beside Had the cods so edified. Good eels and sturgeon, Which aldermen gorge on, Went out of their way To hear preaching that day. No sermon beside Had the eels so edified. 174 THE HUMBLER POETS Crabs and turtles also, Who always move slow, Made haste from the bottom, As if the devil had got em. No sermon beside Had the crabs so edified. Fish great and fish small, Lords, lackeys, and all, Each looked at the preacher, Like a reasonable creature: At God s word, They Anthony heard. The sermon now ended, Each turned and descended; The pikes went on stealing, The eels went on eeling; Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way. The crabs are backsliders, The stock-fish thick-siders, The carps are sharp-set, All the sermon forget: Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way. ANONYMOUS. NEW YORK THE low line of the walls that lie outspread Miles on long miles, the fog and smoke and slime. The wharves and ships with flags of every clime, The domes and steeples rising overhead! It is not these. Rather is it the tread Of the million heavy feet that keep sad time To heavy thoughts, the want that mothers crime, The weary toiling for a bitter bread, The perishing of poets for renown, The shriek of shame from the concealing waves. Ah, me! how many heartbeats day by day Go to make up the life of the vast town! O myriad dead in unremembered graves! O torrent of the living down Broadway! RICHARD HOVEY. THE LANDS OF LONG AGO THE orchard lands of Long Ago!* O drowsy winds awake and blow The snowy blossoms back to me, And all the buds that used to be ! Blow back along the grassy ways Of truant feet, and lift the haze Of happy summer from the trees That trail their tresses in the seas Of grain that float and overflow The orchard lands of Long Ago! JAMES WHITCOMB RILET. *From "Farm Rhymes." Copyright, 1901. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Part % THE LANDS OF LONG AGO LITTLE GIRL OF LONG AGO LITTLE girl of Long Ago, Eyes of blue and hair of tow, Cheeks as red as sunset skies, Lighting up your laughing eyes, How I loved you, did you know? Little girl of Long Ago! I was shy and modest then, You were eight and I was ten; You were smaller, much, than I, But you towered, to the sky. You were far above me, far As the distant shining star; But I loved you, even so, Little girl of Long Ago. Little girl of Long Ago, We are older, as you know; Years have lengthened since we stood In the meadow near the wood, Where we quarrelled, you and I, O er a trifle, foolishly. And I left you sobbing so, Little girl of Long Ago. Love has brought me home again; We are more than eight and ten, And my heart longs for you so, Little girl of Long Ago! Here s the meadow and the wood, Here s the very spot we stood; Ah! What means that blushing brow? Little girl of Here and Now! JOE CONE. 177 178 THE HUMBLER POETS THE SHOOGY-SHOO I DO be thinking, lassie, of the old days now; For oh! your hair is tangled gold above your Irish brow; And oh! your eyes are fairy flax! no other eyes so blue; Come nestle in my arms, and swing upon the shoogy-shoo. Sweet and slow, swinging low, eyes of Irish blue, All my heart is swinging, dear, swinging here with you; Irish eyes are like the flax, and mine are wet with dew, Thinking of the old days upon the shoogy-shoo. When meadow-larks would singing be in old Glentair, Was one sweet lass had eyes of blue and tangled golden hair; She was a wee bit girleen then, dear heart, the like of you, When we two swung the braes among, upon the shoogy-shoo. Ah well, the world goes up and down, and some sweet day Its shoogy-shoo will swing us two where sighs will pass away; So nestle close your bonny head, and close your eyes so true, And swing with me, and memory, upon the shoogy-shoo. Sweet and slow, swinging low, eyes of Irish blue, All my heart is swinging, dear, swinging here, with you; Irish eyes are like the flax, and mine are wet with dew, Thinking of the old days upon the shoogy-shoo. WINTHROP PACKARD. IN CALM CONTENT A LITTLE smoke lazed slowly up from my big cigar, The club chair was both soft and warm, as club chairs sometimes are. The bottle hobnobbed with the glass just where my arm was bent, And there was naught for me to want unless it were content. For longingly I gazed away, all through a golden haze, Back to the time that comes but once back to my boyhood days; I closed my eyes to better see that happy land of charm, The long-lost days, when, free from care, I lived back on the farm. I slowly stretched my weary frame who knocked upon the door? "Get up! Get up! you lazybones, it s nearly half-past four!" The night before I d sparking been and reached home rather late THE LANDS OF LONG AGO 179 To-day I d plough the old stump lot through hours more than eight. The days went by and took their time, those "days of golden charm," And Satan found no mischief for me down there on the farm; And some days it was piping hot and some days it would rain, But always there was work to do of jobs an endless chain. I picked potatoes without stint the sun bored through my back; I swung the knife against the corn until my arm did rack; I sweated at the old grindstone, I cleaned the stable floors, And did some eight-and-forty things that lightly are called "chores." One blessed night, most tired to death, I tumbled into bed And woke to see an angel s face on Sambo s sable head; He brought another bottle in, relit my big cigar, And back I leant in calm content that things are as they are. ANONYMOUS. BALLAD OF THE PRIMROSE WAY LIFE, through the arc of a century Cronies two we have faced the road, Cheek by jowl since the first young day When the primrose path before us glowed; Mind you the wonders the vista showed? Cloth of gold where the sunlight lay Mind you the cowslip balls we stowed? Glinting guerdons of Primrose Way. Life, you re a faithful votary, Years and a day to keep the code; Yours was a rare knight-errantry, For hobble-de-hoy my fancy rode. But, then the cowslip crop we sowed! Crowfoot furrows we reap to-day; Carols have changed to a palinode, And lost forever is Primrose Way. UEnvoi Youth, of the morning sandals shod, List to a graybeard elegy: Man but once is a demigod Earth s Olympus is Primrose Way. ROSE EDITH MILLS. 180 THE HUMBLER POETS A RECOLLECTION OH, what B become of all those good old elocution days, We had before they introduced these dratted problem plays? Remember how we used to sit with slowly welling tears, A-listening bout the boy that lay a-dying in Algiers? Remember how they used to tell in low and saddened tone, About the world that shared your joy but let you weep alone? Remember how we used to wait in apprehensive fright Lest curfew might not, after all, omit to ring to-night? The story of the " Polish Boy," I seem to hear it yet As plain as when I heard it first, the while my cheeks were wet. Recall that tale beginning thus (it made us boys boo-hoo) : "Down in the Lehigh Valley, sir, me and my people grew"? "The Village Blacksmith" was a piece I thought was mighty good; Do you recall the bridge on which we once at midnight stood? Remember how the May Queen said, in accents soft, yet clear, "You must wake, and call me early; call me early, mother dear"? The recollection makes me gulp and fills my eyes with haze Oh, what s become of all those good old elocution days? ANONYMOUS. SUCCESS I DRINK the foaming chalice, The cup of earth s renown. I hear the people s plaudits, I wear the city s crown. And I look back, recalling The path whereby I came From the old dreams of boyhood, On to this goal of fame. The old, kind dreams of boyhood, So generous and brief: How long before the noonday They withered as a leaf! The dreams of eager service, Of perfect brotherhood, Of a vast people s freedom: A universal good! THE LANDS OF LONG AGO 181 A vain remembrance stirs me, A trouble alien I see the men and women Who lived and died for men. And on my life s achievement They look with steadfast eyes, Where dwells the deep compassion I bartered for earth s prize. They pass, a mighty army, From every race and age The just who died for justice And asked no other wage. The chivalrous, the loyal, Who drew diviner breath They whom the word dreamed conquered, Who conquered sin and death. And though the people s laurels About my brow I bind I know they sought a city That I shall never find. They sought a timeless city, From fear and hate withdrawn. Its light upon their faces Was dearer than the dawn. They climbed the large, steep pathway, By saints and heroes trod, To the home of the ideal, And to the mount of God. Peace ! t is the idlest vision That e er was deemed sublime; That spiritual city Shall ne er be reared in time. I face the glowing present, And all my sky is clear The story of my triumph The nations pause to hear. Only in dreams there rises The city alien, Where pass the men and women Who lived and died for men. MAY KENDALL. 182 THE HUMBLER POETS THE VAGABONDS WHAT saw you in your flight to-day, Crows a-winging your homeward way ? Went you far in carrion quest, Crows that worry the sunless west ? Thieves and villains, you shameless things ! Black your record as black your wings. Tell me, birds of the inky hue, Plunderous rogues to-day have you Seen with mischievous, prying eyes Lands where earlier suns arise ? Saw you a lazy beck between Trees that shadow its breast in green, Teased by obstinate stones that lie Crossing the current tauntingly ? Fields a-bloom on the farther side With purple clover lying wide, Saw you there, as you circled by, Vale-environed a cottage lie Girt about with emerald bands, Nestling down in its meadowlands ? Saw you this on your thieving raids ? Speak you rascally renegades. Thieved you also away from me Olden scenes that I longed to see ? If, O crows ! you have flown since morn Over the place where I was born, Forget will I, how black you were Since dawn, in feather and character; Absolve, will I, your vagrant band, Ere you enter your slumber-land. E. PAULINE JOHNSON. THE LANDS OF LONG AGO 183 THE OLD HOUSE COLD and cheerless, bare and bleak, The old house fronts the shabby street; And the dull windows eastward gaze, As their cobwebbed brows they raise, Just as though they looked to see What had become of you and me And all the other children. The dust drifts o er the garret floor, The little feet tread there no more ; But o er the stage, still standing there, The Muse first stalked with tragic air And whispered low to you and me Of golden days that were to be For us and all the children. Good-bye, old house ! Thy tattered cloak Is fringed with moss and gray with smoke; Within thy walls we used to see A gaunt old wolf named Poverty; Yet from thy rafters dingy bars A ladder stretched up to the stars For us and all the children. GRACE DUFFIE BOYLAN. A BOY S WHISTLE IF I could whistle like I used when I was just a boy, And fill the echoes just plumb full of that old-fashioned joy, I guess I would be willin then to turn my back on things An say farewell to scenes down here and try my angel wings; O just once more to pucker up an ripple soft an trill Until the music seemed to fall against the far-off hill Like dew falls on a half-blown rose, till it gets full an slips Like jewels twinklin , tinklin down from pink, bewitchin lips. Oh, yes, if I could whistle now like I could whistle then! Just pucker up these grim old lips an turn things loose again! I d like to sit up on the knoll where trees was all around, Just sit there punchin my bare toes into the smelly ground An trillin just the same old tune I used to trill of yore, With all the verve and ecstasy that won t come back no more, Until I d see old brown-throat thrush come stealin from his bush An look around, like he would say, say to the whole world: "Hush!" 184 THE HUMBLER POETS If I could whistle now I d like to go along the road Awakin with my whistle all the scenes that once I knowed; Just sendin ripplin music through the tamaracks an pines An stirrin all the blossoms on the mornin glory vines; Just go sendin all about me, all behind me an before, First loud an shrill as anything an then a-gittin lower, The same old whistle that was mine, the same old carol shrill That used to bid the day good-night an mock the whippoorwill. I saw a boy go past just now his cheeks was like balloons An oh, the air was rendered sweet by old remembered tunes! An oh, the world sat lightly on that childish happy imp! His trousers was all patched behind, his hat was torn an limp, While one big toe that had been stubbed was twisted in a rag; But oh, that imp stepped high an proud, with shoulders full of brag, An whistled in the same old way that I was wont to do, Till my old heart was in the tunes the little rascal blew. If I could whistle like he did but now there s something gone! The trill is gone, the skill is gone! Sometimes when I m alone I pucker an purse up my lips an try, an try, an try, An then the noise my old lips makes ain t nothin but a sigh. It ain t no thing of learnin , it can t be contrived by art, A boy must be behind it, an a great big boyish heart; A boy just out of heaven must go whistlin of the song; No use in tryin when we re old, we ve been away too long! JUDD MORTIMER LEWIS. YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN THERE s a hurt in the heart of the night, There s an ache where a song should be, At the core of the dawn is blight For you have forgotten me. O the weight of the dragging morn When my sorrow lifts its head O the curse of a day still-born With my soul s wound running red! O hours that are bitten through With the wormwood of memory When my sore heart calls for you Though yours has forgotten me! ANGELA MORGAN. THE LANDS OF LONG AGO 185 7N THE PROCESSION SPRING comes: and baseball, robust flower, in every meadow s seen; Summer: and tennis bourgeons white upon the shining green; Autumn: and football shakes at us chrysanthemum-like hair; Winter: and even ice is left a-bloom with skaters fair. Four times a year the earth is glad with miscellaneous joy; As often sighs the man who was and now is not a boy. ANONYMOUS. FIRST LOVE MY neighbor yonder, at her door, Looks out and sees the bloom, Turning the formal park before Into a fair white room. Of all her life or ill or good, This is remembered, An old house set by an old wood; The lad she did not wed. LlZETTE WOODWORTH REESE. "THERE WERE GIANTS IN THOSE DAYS" YES, yes, my son, I have no doubt They re wonderful, these boys Who play football, hockey, quoits, With such astounding noise; No doubt they re heroes just as great As any Homer sung I only say, you should have seen The boys when I was young. Our football team was formed of those Who averaged seven feet, And every one a Hercules In every way complete; While each could run a hundred yards In seven seconds flat, Although, of course, the backs, you know, Were fleeter far than that. To get upon our baseball nine You had to throw a ball Three hundred yards, though many held That nothing much at all; 186 THE HUMBLER POETS And many a time 1 7 ve seen the ball When batted go so high The batter made a home run first Before they caught the fly. And hockey well, we d skate so fast We could n t see our feet; While as for jumping, Henry Spring Jumped right across the street: No, no, I don t dispute the fact You boys are mighty fine, But then, of course, you did n t know The boys of Fifty-Nine. WILLIAM WALLACE WHITELOCK. CHRISTMAS LONG AGO LONG, long ago! oh, heart of youth unheeding, As speed the years with love and light aglow, And like a dream in memory receding, They swiftly, softly go. Ah! when the intervening clouds are lifted The misty veil that hides them from my sight! Then bygone scenes beneath the curtain rifted Gleam fair, as now to-night. There is the dear old room, the firelight shining On little stockings ranged in careful row; Hung by the anxious owners, hope inclining, On Christmas long ago. In trundle bed and cot each fitful sleeper Is dream-disturbed and tosses to and fro Till lost in slumber, sinking deeper, deeper, With happiness aglow. What gleeful shouts and laughter wake the morning! The "Merry Christmas" greetings linger sweet In heart and brain, the misty past adorning, The picture to complete. Each stocking yields its precious, trifling treasures, To curly pate and tot with hair of tow; Ah, happy days! that saw such simple pleasures Such happiness bestow. THE LANDS OF LONG AGO 187 With merry jest and quip and cheery chatter, In converse sweet and songs melodious flow, Till borne in state, embellishing the platter, The turkey enters slow. A glad home-coming time for ones world-weary, To feast beneath the mystic mistletoe, Where Love stood at the door with welcome cheery, On Christmas long ago. Oh, father, mother! names that leave me never, Thy faces follow me through weal and woe, As loving, sweet, and true as smiled they ever, On Christmas long ago. In vain I try the rising sobs to smother, My heart repressed so long asserts her right To tardy tears, to there await another, Another Christmas night. ANNE H. WOODRUFF. A SCHOOL COMPANIONSHIP SEVEN years, seven happy, careless years We sat together, you and I, Knew the same hopes, the self-same fears, Shared the same joys, shed the same tears, And were companions utterly. Who now can say what part of you Is mine, or yours what part of me, So long our comradeship, so true? One song, one book, one play, we grew Past brotherhood, so near were we. Now you are taken, I am left, And more than years between us roll; Yet am I not wholly bereft Too close our union to be cleft, Too single not to be one soul. A share of you lives on in me, A share of me is lost to view; Half of those seven years is free Beyond this life, a half I see Within my heart, still shared with you. ANONYMOUS. 188 THE HUMBLER POETS THE CHOP-HOUSE IN THE ALLEY TALK about old Roman banquets, Blow about old Grecian feeds, Where the ancient, paunchy warriors Toasted their heroic deeds! They were gustatory classics Still a longing I confess For the chop-house in the alley When the paper s gone to press. Peacock s tongues are very dainty, Served upon a golden plate, Crowns of roses for the victors, While the whipped barbarians wait! Let old Horace sing their praises Still a longing I confess For the chop-house in the alley When the paper s gone to press. There we sit for hours together, Wit and laughter never fail. Up from cellars dim and dusty Yellow Henry brings the ale. There we sit and chaff and banter Envy no old heathen s mess, At the chop-house in the alley, When the paper s gone to press. Delve in problems philosophic How did Adam lose his rib? What s the chance of war in Europe? Has the Herald scooped the Trib? Let the millionaire grow sadder, While my credit grows no less At the chop-house in the alley, When the paper s gone to press. Till, untimed by eyes that sparkle, From the lake the sun leaps up, And, mid many a roaring banter, Big Steve drinks his stirrup-cup! Those were days we all remember, Those were nights we all must bless, At the chop-house in the alley, When the paper s gone to press. HENRY M. HYDE. THE LANDS OF LONG AGO 189 IN DAYS GONE BY IN days gone by when you were here I little heeded what you said; I watched the skies above me clear, I listened to the thrush instead. To this same spot my feet are led By thoughts of you another year; The self-same pine tree rose o erhead In days gone by when you were here. Their slender forms to-day they rear Aloft in the same beauty spread, But ah! The thrush s song I fear! I little heeded what you said. And now, as starving man for bread, I d spring to catch one word of cheer, Yet when with love my heart you fed I watched the skies above me clear! Once more on the same pine leaves, sere And fragrant neath the summer s tread, I lie and think with many a tear, "I listened to the thrush instead!" I listened to the thrush instead, Yet could I now one accent hear Of that loved voice forever fled! . . . I knew not that you were so dear In days gone by! LILLA CABOT PERRY. AN OLD PICTURE THROUGH many a year a picture dear Hung just above my bed; It plainly showed a shady road That, curving gently, led Past shrub and tree, till I could see, Beside a blossoming vine, My mother stand, as once she stood When she was young, and I was good, In days all sun and shine. 190 THE HUMBLER POETS I saw her there, so sweet and fair, When I drove off to school; I knew the bliss of her fond kiss On that deep porch and cool; And every night the blessed sight Of her above my bed Consoled me for the boyish woes Of absence comforted I rose When my brief prayer was said, The little prayer she taught me there As I knelt in the room Beside her knee, while I could see The twining vine in bloom; And every night in that dim light I clambered o er my bed To kiss the picture and kiss her, As she d kissed her small traveller Leaving the old homestead. The change and strife of later life, The years that leave me gray, Have taken, too, that pictured view; But cannot take away The memory so dear to me, That fond and wistful joy: There stands my home, and mother s there, So young, so good, so sweet and fair, And I m her little boy. OLIVER MARBLE. LONG AGO AND FAR AWAY LOVELY the cheer of long ago Long ago and far away! Memories golden roses strow Lovely the cheer of long ago Over the dreams that rise and flow Far in the hills of yesterday. Lovely the cheer of long ago Long ago and far away! CULVER VAN SLYCKE. Part BETWEEN DARK AND DAYLIGHT CROSSING THE BAR SUNSET and evening star, And one clear call for me ! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems to sleep Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar. ALFRED LORD TENNYSON. Part BETWEEN DARK AND DAYLIGHT TWILIGHT SPIRIT of Twilight, through your folded wings I catch a glimpse of your averted face, And rapturous on a sudden, my soul sings, "Is not this common earth a holy place?" Spirit of Twilight, you are like a song That sleeps, and waits a singer, like a hymn That God finds lovely and keeps near Him long, Till it is choired by aureoled cherubim. Spirit of Twilight, in the golden gloom Of dreamland dim I sought you, and I found A woman sitting in a silent room Full of white flowers that moved and made no sound. These white flowers were the thoughts you bring to all, And the room s name is Mystery where you sit, Woman whom we call Twilight, when night s pall You lift across our earth to cover it. OLIVE CUSTANCE. APPROACH OF NIGHT BY the yellow in the sky, Night is nigh. By the murk on mead and mere, Night is near. By one faint star, pale and wan, Night comes on. By the moon, so calm and clear, Night is here. CLARENCE URMY. 193 194 THE HUMBLER POETS HOMEWARD CLOUDS crimson-barred Like the woods red-scarred On a hill-slope in the fall; A wild, shrill note From a sea-bird s throat And a heron s mournful call; A murmuring reach With a curving beach, Like an eyebrow of the sea; A prow up-curled, A sail half-furled, And the peace of a sheltered lee; A sudden hush And the last deep flush Of dusk in the swarthy west; A fringe of sedge Near the water s edge, And the cot where my loved ones nest; A sweet, low call, And a faint footfall, And a form as I swiftly come; Near mine a face, Then the tender grace Of a kiss. And I am home! GUSTAVB A TWILIGHT SONG WHEN swallows fly On wistful wings, And the rose-flushed sky The darkness brings, Sing, shadowy pines, Of the sail-winged sea, And sing, O day, Thy memory. When the salt sea tide Returns again, O er reaches wide, With its sad refrain, BETWEEN DARK AND DAYLIGHT 195 Sing, wailing tern, The day forget, To dreams return, Leave old regret. When ways to wander Allure no more, Stay, wind, to ponder Beside my door, As some sea-shell Sings of the sea With its deep swell, Sing thou to me. When twilight falls, And from afar A lone thrush calls The first pale star, Sing, wind of the shadows, Sing, wraith of the rain, In the quiet meadows, To me again. EDWARD MASLIN HULME. THE END OF THE DAY I HEAR the bells at eventide Peal slowly one by one, Near and far off they break and glide, Across the stream float faintly beautiful The antiphonal bells of Hull; The day is done, done, done, The day is done. The dew has gathered in the flowers Like tears from some unconscious deep, The swallows whirl around the towers, The light runs out beyond the long cloud bars, And leaves the single stars; T is time for sleep, sleep, sleep, J T is time for sleep. The hermit thrush begins again, Timorous eremite, That song of risen tears and pain, As if the one he loved was far away: "Alas another day "And now, Good-night, Good-night, "Good-night." DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT. 196 THE HUMBLER POETS THE EVENING PRIMROSE THE primrose blooms at eventide, And, where I go, the highway side It lights up with its yellow blow: What else it does I do not know Except, all day, with dust bestrown The leaves are gray, and, until blown, The bud is gray, with slight perfume, Till eve unfolds a clean sweet bloom. It grows there in the short green grass Between where foot and carriage pass: Where wheels might crush it, should one ride, And the horse startled sheer aside. It sprang up there, and there hath grown And made the narrow green its own: Chose not a place by nature fair, But made one so by growing there. TIMOTHY OTIS PAINE. THE TWO TWILIGHTS Two twilights come to man, His noon between: Just when his life began Its morning sheen; Just when his years run fast And faster down, Ere Evening brings at last Her starry crown. Twixt the eternities: Morn, Noon, and Night, And, lovelier far than these, The twinned Twilight. ANONYMOUS. IN THE CONVENT GARDEN WJ|HIN the convent garden, at the dusk Of day, when the pale yellow primrose blows, And mignonette and violets and musk Make fragrant all the garden s sweet repose, Near where a wild-rose, trained along the wall Of mossy stones, lets blossoms pink and sweet In tangled masses through a crevice fall, A nun reclines upon a carven seat. BETWEEN DARK AND DAYLIGHT 197 Her long white robes just touch the lavender That borders all the pathways, which the breeze Has carpeted with petals pale and fair, Blown like a petal snow from almond trees. And through the garden s hush there comes the song Of two gold-throated nightingales who seem , To sing their hearts out all the evening long, Near where the roses on the old wall dream. EDWARD MASLIN HULME,. AT TWILIGHT* THE roses of yester-year Were all of them white and red: It fills my heart with silent fear To find all their beauty fled. The roses of white are sere, All faded the roses of red; And one who loves me is not here, And one that I love is dead. PEYTON VAN RENSSELAER. TWILIGHT CHEER BETIMES, when evening lies In darkling skies, Their frowning masses part, And at their heart Insistently disclose A vein of rose: When lo! upon the lake Flake falls on flake, Until its sombre grays Tenderly blaze And weary earth grows bright With gracious light, So small a skyey cheer May greatly bless us here! CLEMENT V. ZANE. TWILIGHT TERROR EVENING comes with peace to some, Not so to me; Evening brings the husband home Not mine to me. * Copyright, 1891, by G. Schirmer, Boston. Used by permission. 198 THE HUMBLER POETS When the shadows creep and fall Darkling to me, Then come forth the eyes of all The lost to me. Saddest hour of all the day Is this to me Dying sun and twilight gray, Oh, comfort me! GEORGIANA RICE. TO A WATER LILY (After E. A. MacDoweWs Melody) DREAM, dream, Perfume-laden one! Twilight falls softly on thee; Dream, gleam, Shadows creep and run, Gloaming falls upon thee! Whence the charm born ere the night, White-robed, with heart gold-bright? Tell the secret of the glow The afterglow: Petals dimly pale still there, Gleaming faintly, waning fair, Vanished, all, all go! Still the flower asleep Rocked by wind and tide Dreams doth keep. Gleam, gleam, Fairy figures glide O er paths to starland; Gleam, dream, Shadow faces smile Fading the while Through the dusky twilight, Bringing love s own far land, Faintly bright, Drowsy in dream! ANONYMOUS. 3E33 AROUND THE HEARTHSTONE THE HOME PORT We have gone down to the sea With her brine on our fearless lips, From her grasp we have laughed us free When she raged for her tithe of ships; Unmoved at the feet of Death We have fought her seething foam; But now we choke with the quick-drawn breath; We are rounding in towards home! There s a glint of gold in the southern sky And the luring spice winds croon From lands in a zone o sun that lie In a golden afternoon; But far and away where the gray clouds frown There s a harbor for sails that roam; And sweeter than song the gulls scream down The brine-burned winds of home. EDITH PRATT DICKENS. Part AROUND THE HEARTHSTONE MOTHERS MOTHERS are just the queerest things! Member when John went away, All but mother cried and cried, When they said good-bye that day. She just talked and seemed to be Not the slightest bit upset Was the only one who smiled ! Others eyes were streaming wet. But when John came back again, On a furlough safe and sound, With a medal for his deeds, And without a single wound, While the rest of us hurrahed, Laughed and joked and danced about, Mother kissed him, then she cried Cried and cried like all git out! EDWIN L. SABIN. MY GENTLEMAN I OWN a dog who is a gentleman. By birth most surely, since the creature can Boast of a pedigree the like of which Holds not a Howard or a Metternich. By breeding. Since the walks of life he trod, He never wagged an unkind tail abroad, He never snubbed a nameless cur because Without a friend or credit-card he was. By pride. He looks you squarely in the face Unshrinking and without a single trace Of either diffidence or arrogant Assertion such as upstarts often flaunt. 201 202 THE HUMBLER POETS By tenderness. The littlest girl may tear With absolute impunity his hair, And pinch his silken, flowing ears the while He smiles upon her yes, I ve seen him smile. By loyalty. No truer friend than he Has come to prove his friendship s worth to me. He does not fear the master knows no fear But loves the man who is his master here. By countenance. If there be nobler eyes, More full of honor and of honesties, In finer head, on broader shoulders found Then I have never met the man or hound. Here is the motto on my lifeboat s log: "God grant I may be worthy of my dog!" ANONYMOUS. 70 MAW LUBS YO ALL DERE s allus joy when de chillen s home; Oh Lawdy, when a tinks! De teahs somehow dey allus come An blinds me when a winks. Dere s Gen l Grant he s like he s paw, (Go way, yo teahs, go way!) An Ann Jenette, she s like heh maw An Sam s like boff, dey say. An Abem Linkum, he s de boy Whah makes ma old heaht ache; He do so many cu us tings Dey keep his maw awake. But den dey is ma chillens An so de teahs mus fall, Do some is good, an some ah sho 7 Yo maw she lubs yo all. A hev to count ma ring-era To member ebry one; An den dere s not a nuff ob dem To count de ones dat s gone. Dere s little Pete, he ll nebbah come; (Go way, yo teahs, go way!) Fo he hab got a bettah home, An wid white chillens play. AROUND THE HEARTHSTONE 203 He 11 nebbah know he s black up dere; (Go way, yo teahs, go way!) Whah fo yo come?) t is bettah where De night am allus day. Dere s Queen, an she a mos forgot; Go way, yo teahs, yo make Me done forgot de berry one Dat bes de possum bake! Yo maw she s old, she sholy is! (Go way, yo teahs, go way!) Dey choke heh so, dey make heh miss Heh chillens bad to-day. Dere s Mandy, Jim, an Cyrus, too An Annie Belle she s gone; And Sairy Jane she s married so Has lots ob dem heh own. An some so young, dere paw he say Too small fo any name. Den how s de Lord to know dey s mine ,An call em jes de same? Somehow a tinks ob little Pete De mos ob ebry day; He was the leastest ob dem all (Go way, yo teahs, go way!) But dere 11 be joy when dey comes home De few dis wo ld can fin ; Fo mos has gone to jine dere paw An lef dere maw behin . FLORENCE GRISWOLD CONNOR. WHAT MY MOTHER IS TO ME ONCE I asked my mother why she wa n t a boy like me, So she could grow to be a man and sail upon the sea, And be a famous Commodore and have a lot of ships, "I would rather be your mother" these words fell from her lips. My childish mind knew little of the riches of that love Which fills a mother s heart with joy from that great heart above. God knew that mankind needed most a love that passes all, So like the love that fills the heart which marks the sparrow s fall. 204 THE HUMBLER POETS Poor is the man whose memory has lost, in the rush of greed, The magic of his mother s love and does not feel the need Of mother s kiss, of mother s hand, her soft and fond caress, And seeks to fill that sacred place with another s tenderness. From childhood s days to boyhood wild with careless heed of thought, Through manhood s years of joy and hope with disappointment fraught, With all the love vouchsafed to man of wife, and child, or friend, The love my mother gave to me must guide me, to the end. Without her love to start me right upon the road of life, I would have been a thoughtless husband, not so worthy of my wife; I could not have been a father in all that name implies, Without her love within my heart, that love which never dies. And now that years have carried me far out upon life s sea, My heart to-night is hungering for what my mother was to me. I know that she is waiting beyond that unknown way, That I shall have her love unchanged through God s eternal day. DAVID STEARNS. THE LIGHT IN MOTHER S EYES DEAR beacon of my childhood s day, The lodestar of my youth, A mingled glow of tenderest love And firm, unswerving truth, I Ve wandered far o er east and west, Neath many stranger skies, But ne er I ve seen a fairer light Than that in mother s eyes. In childhood when I crept to lay My tired head on her knee, How gently shone the mother-love In those dear eyes on me; And when in youth my eager feet Roamed from her side afar, Where er I went that light divine Was aye my guiding star. In hours when all life s sweetest buds Burst into dewy bloom, In hours when cherished hopes lay dead, In sorrow and in gloom; AROUND THE HEARTHSTONE 205 In evening s hush, or morning s glow, Or in the solemn night, Those mother eyes still shed on me Their calm, unchanging light. Long since the patient hands I loved Were folded in the clay, And long have seemed the lonely years Since mother went away; But still I know she waits for me In fields of Paradise, And I shall reach them yet, led by The light in mother s eyes. L. M. MONTGOMERY. OLD MOTHERS I LOVE old mothers mothers with white hair, And kindly eyes, and lips grown softly sweet, With murmured blessings over sleeping babes. There is a something in their quiet grace That speaks the calm of Sabbath afternoons; A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyes, That far outreaches all philosophy. Time, with caressing touch, about them weaves The silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age, While all the echoes of forgotten songs Seemed joined to lend sweetness to their speech. Old mothers! as they pass with slow-timed step, Their trembling hands cling gently to youth s strength. Sweet mothers! As they pass, one sees again, Old garden walks, old roses, and old loves. CHARLES S. Ross. MY GIRL A LITTLE corner with its crib, A little mug, a spoon, a bib; A little tooth so pearly white, A little rubber ring to bite. A little plate all lettered round, A little rattle to resound, A little creeping see! she stands! A little step twixt outstretched hands. 206 THE HUMBLER POETS A little doll with flaxen hair, A little willow rocking chair; A little dress of richest hue, A little pair of gaiters blue. A little school day after day, A little school-ma am to obey; A little study soon t is past, A little graduate at last. A little muff for winter weather, A little jockey hat and feather; A little sack with funny pocket, A little charm, a chain, a locket. A little while to dance and bow, A little escort homeward now; A little party somewhat late, A little lingering at the gate. A little walk in leafy June, A little talk while shines the moon; A little reference with papa, A little planning with mamma. A little ceremony grave, A little struggle to be brave; A little cottage on a lawn, A little kiss my girl is gone. ANONYMOUS. "SHE MADE HOME HAPPY" "SHE made home happy!" these few words I read Within a churchyard, written on a stone; No name, no date, the simple words alone, Told me the story of the unknown dead. A marble column lifted high its head Close by, inscribed to one the world has known; But ah! that lonely grave with moss o ergrown Thrilled me far more than his who armies led. "She made home happy!" through the long, sad years, The mother toiled and never stopped to rest, Until they crossed her hands upon her breast, And closed her eyes, no longer dim with tears. The simple record that she left behind Was grander than the soldier s, to my mind. HENRY COYLE. AROUND THE HEARTHSTONE 207 MOTHER NOT a great lady, this mother of mine, Easy through social graces, But her eyes oft shine with a light divine, As they gaze full of tenderness into mine, And her spirit is lucid, clear, and fine As angels in heavenly places. Delicate, fragile, weak she is not, Mother who has loved me long; Her strong back s bent leaning o er the cot As child after child there fell to her lot; And she thanked the good God for the children she got, And burdens she bore with a song. Not white nor tiny is mother s hand It s reddened and knotted with toil; But the gentlest zephyr from fairy s wand, Nor the softest snowflake in all the land, Is so gentle and soft as mother s hand When fevers begin to boil. I thank Thee, God, for her Thou hast given To me, a man of the sod; For me she has prayed and hoped and striven, For me her heart has oft been riven; O make me worthy of her and heaven, And count me a son of God! TITUS LOWE. A BALLADE OF LABOR AND LOVE IN the work-a-day world, with its woful greed, With its quarrel for power, its itch for gold, There is profit and loss, there is want and need, There is selfishness ever, there s bought and sold. But at home, when Dan Phoebus withdraws his light, With the jovial gods and their fond commune; When companions and kinsfolk make all things right, Then moveth the heart to its own sweet tune. When severe disappointments in well earned meed Have bedarkened the sun, made the moon grow old; Where the beauty of life s but a worthless weed, There is selfishness ever, there s bought and sold. 208 THE HUMBLER POETS But the turmoil well ended, and come the night, When with witty, wise words through the converse strewn, Thou art sitting apart with a maiden bright, Then moveth the heart to its own sweet tune. When old Mammon s thy master, and pelf the seed Thou art sowing to give thee on heav n a hold; When "thy left hand knoweth," t is there indeed There is selfishness ever, there s bought and sold. But whenever from loving blue eyes the sight Of a soul to a soul is flashed, ne er too soon, Then the blood courseth strong in very delight, Then moveth the heart to its own sweet tune. L Envoi When o ercovered with depth of Philistine mould, There is selfishness ever, there s bought and sold. But with friends and fair maidens and love s dear boon, Then moveth the heart to its own sweet tune. ANONYMOUS. KISS THE DEAR OLD MOTHER Kiss the dear old mother, her cheek is wan and wasted, Feeble are the footsteps that once were light and gay; Many a bitter cup of sorrow she has tasted, Borne unnumbered trials since her wedding day. Think of all the hours that she is sad and lonely, All her vanished pleasures living o er again; Cheerful and contented will she be if you will only Kiss the dear old mother now and then. In your childish troubles she was always near you; Oh, her very presence had a power to bless! Striving as a mother can to calm and cheer you, With her loving kisses and her soft caress. When the fever heat within your veins was burning, Cooling was the touch of her hand upon your brow; Never from your poisoned breath and kisses turning, Do you ever kiss your mother now? She is old and wrinkled; not a trace of beauty Lingers in the outlines of her face and form; Yet at sight of her, oh! what sweet thoughts of duty And of fond affection in your heart should swarm. AROUND THE HEARTHSTONE 209 For the comfort given in your hours of trial, For the love exceeding power of tongue or pen, Let her aching heart grieve not at Love s denial, Kiss the dear old mother now and then. When by Fame or Fortune you are proudly knighted, Let the dear old mother enter in your joy; See the aged pilgrim trembling and delighted, At the world s opinion of her boy! Think of all you owe her; seek to give her pleasure, Spite of cruel sneers from cold or careless men; While within your keeping you hold this precious treasure, Kiss the dear old mother now and then. JOSEPHINE POLLARD. THE HOME EXPRESS Bless me ! this is pleasant. Riding on a rail! JOHN A. SAXE. WHEN the city s rush is over, and the monthly ticket shown, And the platform s crowd has scattered like the leaves in autumn blown, Then the engine feels the throttle, as the racer feels the whip, And sends its drivers whirling for its little homeward trip. Oh, the home train and its quiver, and its shoot along the lake, And its gladness that the day is nearly done; And the tumbling of the wave crests as they flash and swiftly break In the last, low, level shining of the sun! The clean-cut man of business eyes his fresh-bought paper close, Culling out the world s wide doings from the padded news verbose; And the bargain hunter, sated, sits ensconced amid her gains, Complacent o er the patent fact of her superior brains. The trainman punches tickets with his swift and easy air, Like the man that knows his business of getting every fare; And he calls the Hyde Park station in the strong familiar ring As he inward thrusts his body through the car door s sudden swing. Meanwhile the conversation of the women from the clubs Increases with the train speed and the whirling cf the hubs; And the latest sociology or Kipling s virile verse, Or city art and garbage their gossip intersperse. 210 THE HUMBLER POETS And the judge of human nature, as he notes their faces fair, Knows these are they whose strenuous wills can strongly do and dare; And his inner eye sees visions of immortal Art s wide sway And clear-eyed Science gazing on a fairer, sweeter day. So the city s strong-faced thousands spin adown the steel-set bed, With the two red signals rearward and the yellow on ahead; Till the engine feels the throttle neath the station s glittering light, And gladdens waiting home-hearts at the gathering of the night. Oh, the home train and its quiver, and its shoot along the lake, And its gladness that the day is fairly done; And the tumbling of the wave crests as they flash and swiftly break In the twilight and the moonlight just begun! HORACE SPENCER FISKE. MY SISTER S ROOM SHE that dwells here her spirit doth transmit Into the very air; a calmness steals Upon me, sitting where she s wont to sit Or standing at the table where she kneels. Ah! Could I fancy what she feels When the near presence of her heavenly guide, The Man divine, her reverie reveals. Here are her books; and here her pen is plied In tasks of love; there through the window wide, From wood and meadow floats a summer sound; The thrushes pipe, the whispering waters glide; Crowned is the vale with peace, as she is crowned. O virgin spirit of this quiet place, Inform me with thy restf illness and grace! F. B. MONET-COUTTS. BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE IP you have a gray-haired mother In the old home far away, Sit you down and write the letter You put off from day to day. Don t wait until her weary steps Reach Heaven s pearly gate, But show her that you think of her, Before it is too late. AROUND THE HEARTHSTONE 211 If you have a tender message, Or a loving word to say, Don t wait till you forget it, But whisper it to-day. Who knows what bitter memories May haunt you if you wait? So make your loved one happy Before it is too late. The tender word unspoken, The letters never sent, The long forgotten messages, The wealth of love unspent; For these some hearts are breaking, For these some loved ones wait; Show them that you care for them Before it is too late. GEORGE BANCROFT GRIFFITH. HOMEWARD BOUND BETWEEN the hills, between the hills, Across wide fields just turning brown, With here and there a purling stream And here and there a quiet town, We rush along and rush along And never pause to wait and sleep, With one strong hand to guide us on, And one calm eye a watch to keep. And here a field of golden corn, And there a meadow rich with grass, And next a grove of trees that stand Like sentinels to watch us pass. A little rippling brook to cross, A towering field of stubble sod, And passing like a gleam of light A flaming field of golden-rod. We whirl along and whirl along, And leave the streams and vales behind, Till daylight dies beyond the hills And night comes swiftly on the wind. Then out from many a farm and town The home-lights twinkle, flash and glow, They smile a benediction sweet And gleam upon me as I go. 212 THE HUMBLER POETS Speed on, ye iron horse of might ! Ye cannot reach the goal too soon, Speed on, through darkness of the night, And pause not till the race is run. Until among the faces strange A dear familiar one I see, And all the journeying safely o er My own home-light shall shine for me. E. B. S. MOTHER AND HOME MOTHER! Home! that blest refrain Sounds through every hastening year: All things go, but these remain Held in memory s jewelled chain, Names most precious, names thrice dear: Mother! Home! that blest refrain. How it sings away my pain! How it stills my waking fear! All things go, but these remain. Griefs may grow and sorrows wane, E er that melody I hear: Mother! Home! that blest refrain, Tenderness in every strain, Thoughts to worship and revere; All things go, but these remain; Every night you smile again, Every day you bring me cheer: Mother! Home! that blest refrain: All things go, but these remain! JOHN JARVIS HOLDEN. Part 3OT3 ENCOURAGEMENT, SISTER OF HOPE IP I can stop one heart from breaking I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin Into his nest again, I shall not live in vain. EMILY DICKINSON. Part 3OT3 ENCOURAGEMENT, SISTER OF HOPE INVITED GUESTS A CROWD of troubles passed him by, As he with courage waited. He said: "Where do you troubles fly, When you are thus belated?" "We go," they said, "to those who mope, Who look on life dejected, Who weakly say good-bye to hope: We go where we re expected." FRANCES EKIN ALLISON. "/ GREW OLD THE OTHER DAY" I GREW old the other day And I waked uneasily. Then I thought: This need not be; By and by we shall not say, I grew old the other day. TIMOTHY OTIS PAINE TO THE MEN WHO LOSE HERE s to the men who lose! What though their work be e er so nobly planned And watched with zealous care, No glorious halo crowns their efforts grand, Contempt is failure s share. Here s to the men who lose! If triumph s easy smile our struggles greet, Courage is easy then; The king is he who, after fierce defeat, Can up and fight again. 215 216 THE HUMBLER POETS Here B to the men who lose! The ready plaudits of a fawning world Ring sweet in victor s ears; The vanquished banners never are unfurled For them there sound no cheers. Here s to the men who lose! The touchstone of true worth is not success, There is a higher test Though fate may darkly frown, onward press, And bravely do one s best. Here s to the men who lose! It is the vanquished praises that I sing, And this is the toast I choose: "A hard-fought failure is a noble thing; Here s to the men who lose!" ANONYMOUS. WHICH PATH SHALL YOURS BE? WHAT is there in living when one has lost all, When Fortune, Friends, Happiness, go past recall? To the weak remain thoughts of a lovelier past, To the strong the delight of withstanding the blast, To rebuild and repair the destruction that s wrought By the chances of Fortune whose guerdon he sought. The weak man repines for the days that are gone, And lives in the light of the suns that have shone; Sees naught else in life that can better its plan, Devoid of the hope that should make up a man. Not so with true manhood! The battle afar Brings out latent energies, fits him for war. He marshals his force with a veteran s skill And the Fates lead him on, and lend purpose and will. His fortune retrieves in a triumph complete; Ambition and strength come the conqueror to greet, Victorious, again on the crest of the wave, He s a hope to the weak and a strength for the brave. Before you two paths lie; one broad and one long; Which of them shall yours be the weak or the strong? RAY D. SMITH. ENCOURAGEMENT 217 LOVE AND HOPE MY hope sprang like a fountain, in the night, And, lo! where on the yesterday The desert burned in arid sway, A refuge grassed and palmed for my delight. Thus, soon around me to the restful shade, Came travellers, who erst did speed The camel past in utmost need, And grateful sighs their parasangs delayed. It was thy love that made this oasis, Thy love that smote the wilderness, And like sweet angels came to bless My soul, and all my fears and doubts dismiss. FRANCIS BROOKS. OPPORTUNITY TALKS YES, I am Opportunity; But, say, young man, Don t wait for me To come to you; You buckle down To win your crown, And work with head And heart and hands, As does the man Who understands That those who wait, Expecting some reward from fate, Or luck, to call it so, Sit always in the way-back row. And yet You must not let Me get away when I show up; The golden cup Is not for him who stands, With folded hands, Expecting me To serve his inactivity. I serve the active mind, The seeing eye, The ready hand That me passing by, And takes from me 218 THE HUMBLER POETS The good I hold For every spirit Strong and bold. He does not wait On fate Who seizes me, For I am fortune, Luck, and fate, The corner-stone Of what is great In man s accomplishment, But I am none of these To him who does not seize; I must be caught, If any good is wrought Out of the treasures I possess. Oh, yes, I m Opportunity; I m great; I m sometimes late, But do not wait For me; Work on, Watch on, Good hands, good heart, And some day you will see Out of your effort rising Opportunity. W. J. LAMPTON. BE THOU A BIRD, MY SOUL BE thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar Out of thy wilderness, Till earth grows less and less, Heaven more and more. Be thou a bird, and mount, and soar, and sing, Till all the earth shall be Vibrant with ecstasy Beneath thy wing. Be thou a bird, and trust, the autumn come, That through the pathless air Thou shalt find otherwhere, Unerring, home. A. G. C. ENCOURAGEMENT 219 " LET GO!" "HOLD fast," that splendid motto has many battles won, When linked with noble purpose to earn the world s "well done," But one of equal import for all shrewd men to know Is where to quit and have the grit to then and there "Let Go." Have you lost your coign of vantage, have you slipped into a rut, It s no disgrace to change your base before the wires are cut; It bespeaks the wily general to outwit a stubborn foe Don t stand your ground when you have found t will pay you to let go. W. A. BLACKWELL. CHERRY TREES A-BLOOM rose-red bloom of the cherry, Did you come for pleasure or pain? KOMACHI, Sir E. Arnold s translation. WHEN the spring s elysian Vision Nacres with the earlier dawn, J T is the custom olden Holden Of the folks in fair Nippon, Woodlands o er to wander, Ponder On the web from May-day s loom, In delight inditing, Writing Of the cherry trees a-bloom. Every tree, a flowery Houri Rosy-white in azure air, Breathes its odor fragrant, Vagrant To the zephyrs idling there; All its boughs dew-wetted, Fretted, Dimple o er each petalled plume, Softly swaying, playing, Spraying In a radiant morn of bloom. 220 THE HUMBLER POETS Nature s self, another Mother, Takes her children to her arms As they trace her face s Graces In the cherry s glowing charms; Sets them a completer Metre; Send her very soul to illume; Till they clearly, cheerly, Dearly Hymn the shimmering trees a-bloom. Ah, that dainty haunting Chaunting Echoes joy-bells all the year, Though no bard rehearses Verses, Though no cherry tree s a-near; Holding e er that pleasant Present, Never seeking doubtful doom, They no morrow s sorrow Borrow For some bud not yet a-bloom. So, though world a-weary, Dreary Autumn rain and winter snow Leave the land a-lying Dying, Ne er a leaf nor cherry blow, Still their hearts go lightened, Brightened By the blossom, tint, perfume, By the slender, tender Splendor Of the cherry trees a-bloom. WALLACE RICE. I M GLAD I M glad the sky is painted blue, And the earth is painted green, With such a lot of nice fresh air All sandwiched in between. ANONYMOUS. ENCOURAGEMENT 221 HOW DID YOU DIE?* DID you tackle that trouble that came your way With a resolute heart and cheerful? Or hide your face from the light of day With a craven soul and fearful? O, a trouble s a ton, or a trouble s an ounce, Or a trouble s what you make it. And it is n t the fact that you re hurt that counts, But only, how did you take it? You re beaten to earth? Well, well, what s that? Come up with a smiling face. It s nothing against you to fall down flat, But to lie there, that s disgrace. The harder you re thrown, why the higher you bounce; Be proud of your blackened eye! It is n t the fact that you re licked that counts; It s how did you fight? and why? And though you be done to death, what then? If you battled the best you could; If you played your part in the world of men, W T hy, the Critic will call it good. Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, And whether he s slow or spry, It is n t the fact that you re dead that counts, But only, how did you die? EDMUND VANCE COOKE. THE COMFORTERS To Night the sleeper, The watcher Sorrow: " Be thy dreams deeper, So may I borrow Peace of thy peace, And rest to my sorrow!" "Peace, oh, peace!" Quoth Night. "Of to-morrow I am the keeper, O watcher, O Sorrow! *From "Impertinent Poems." Copyright, 1907, by Dodge Pub lishing Company. Used by permission of publishers. 222 THE HUMBLER POETS "Under my breast Its gold is moulden. Lay thee, and rest, To dreams beholden, Wherefrom of its nest The dawn goes golden!" To the dreamed Morrow, Sorrow the sleeper: "Where may I borrow New tears to my sorrow, To comfort my sorrow, Lest the wound grow deeper? Of sleep borne hither, Its well-springs wither." "Of me," quoth the Morrow, "O Sorrow the sleeper!" LAWRENCE HOUSMAN. GOD BLESS YOU, DEAR, TO-DAY IP there be graveyard in the heart From which no roses spring, A place of wrecks and old gray tombs From which no birds take wing, Where linger buried hopes and dreams Like ghosts among the graves, Why, buried dreams are dismal things, And lonely ghosts are knaves! If there come dreary winter days, When summer roses fall And lie, forgot, in withered drifts Along the garden wall; If all the wreaths a lover weaves Turn thorns upon the brow, Then out upon the silly fool Who makes not merry now! For if we cannot keep the past, Why care for what s to come? The instant s prick is all that stings, And then the place is numb. If Life s a lie and Love s a cheat, As I have heard men say, Then here s a health to fond deceit God bless you, dear, to-day. JOHN BENNETT. ENCOURAGEMENT 223 A SIGH MY wounded heart is sore And needs a gentle touch: I do not ask for much And cannot ask for more A gentle touch. TIMOTHY OTIS PAINE. ENCOURAGEMENT "I AM so tired! "I cried. Vainly I strive against The Giant Wrong. The world heeds not; still does The Wrong abide, More cruel and more strong. A thousand lives I d throw Into the fight and gladly yield them all, Counting each pang a blessing, could I know It helped The Wrong to fall. But oh, to toil so much, From weary year to weary year, and see My brothers in The Wrong s most cruel clutch, Far as before from free! A Spirit to my thought Whispers: "T is near The Wrong s sure overthrown. The world will indeed know not how you wrought, But you and I will know. ELIZABETH PHELPS ROUNSEVELL. THE BLESSING OF A SMOKE DID you ever invoke The assistance of smoke When the burdens of care seem to pall; When you tire of the strife And the boredoms of life, And care not for your rise or your fall? That s the time of all time When a smoke is sublime; It will lift from your mind every care; For your troubles and woes Will be lost in your doze, Dissolved in tobacco s bright glare. 224 THE HUMBLER POETS With each puff that you take And each ring that you make You 11 experience thrills of delight; Pleasant thoughts come and go Through the fragrant weed s glow And your heart s correspondingly light. The blue Devils of care Fade away in the air, And your gaze meets the Goddess of Fate Smiling down through the rings, And the message she brings, Makes the whole world look rosy again. RAY D. SMITH. REFUGE UPON the tumult of the toiling street A sudden hush of silence softly falls, And through the avenue of burning walls A cooling current wanders, fresh and sweet. Above me bend the deep eternal skies, To whose wide spaces my cramped thoughts may rise; Upon my face the mountain breezes blow; Through odorous woods the living waters flow; Far off I hear the organ of the sea, Chanting its psalm of power and peace to me; In soundless waves I plunge my fevered life, And rise refreshed, and freed from vexing strife. Back to the heat and burden of the day My soul comes, joyful that its human lot, Transformed and lifted by a winged thought, Becomes once more an upward shining way. ANNIE L. MUZZEY. FROM ALTRURIA A LITTLE glimpse of heaven upon our wearied earth; Like sunshine and like music of some remembered mirth, It lingers with my spirit, and gives our souls a claim Of sisterhood, though strangers we were in even name. Oh, beautiful uplifting above the narrow plane Of self and selfish striving, we count our living vain. I felt as if a gateway had opened, wide and free, To that bright land of "Nowhere," the poet showed to me. ENCOURAGEMENT 225 We drifted with Time s current that bore us far apart; But still that voice of kindness is pulsing in my heart. It kindles inspiration when hope is faint and wan Like the first fresh wind of morning that stirs before the dawn. A little glimpse of heaven upon our wearied earth; A sweet assurance given of days that shall have birth: When the plaint of helpless sorrow and the wild revolt of wrong Shall pass before the coming of the Loving and the Strong. When our souls shall learn the secret of the turmoil and the pain, And we know the tie that binds us is a tie for loss and gain, That time nor change can alter though blindly we withstood The law of life eternal the law of brotherhood. FRANCES M. MILNE. BE CONTENTED THE fish that gets away, my boy, The biggest seems to be; Likewise upon the topmost branch The choicest fruits we see. And yet the fish we catch are good, The fruit we pluck is fine, So be contented with your lot, T is idle to repine. Don t mourn the fish that gets away, But glory in your catch; The fruit upon the lower limb The highest ones may match. Waste neither time nor tears upon The things you fail to get, But make the most of what you have, And fame will find you yet. ANONYMOUS. A THOUGHT FROM NIETSZCHE I HAVE been dealt a cruel blow, And though it caused me pain, I was too strong to be laid low; I am but hurt, not slain. Therefore I have no cause to grieve, Nay, I rejoice, because A hurt that could not kill must leave Me stronger than I was. CHARLES JAMES. 226 THE HUMBLER POETS A RECIPE FOR SANITY ARE you worsted in a fight? Laugh it off. Are you cheated of your right? Laugh it off. Don t make tragedy of trifles, Don t shoot butterflies with rifles Laugh it off. Does your work get into kinks? Laugh it off. Are you near all sorts of brinks? Laugh it off. If it s sanity you re after, There s no recipe like laughter Laugh it off. HENRY RUTHERFORD ELLIOT. FOUR-LEAF CLOVERS I KNOW a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blooms burst with snow; And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow. One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, And one is for love, you know, But God put another in for luck If you search, you will find where they grow. But you must have hope, and you must have faith, You must love and be strong, and so, If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow. ELLA HIGGINSON. HOPE WHEN the dark shadows fall, Like some gloomy, great pall, On all around, And look which way we may, Night has usurped the day, And cares abound; Then heavenward we will turn, Till thoughts within us burn, That God is right; ENCOURAGEMENT 227 That whatsoever comes Is overruled alone By his great might; That justice shall prevail, And righteousness exhale Perfume complete; That Truth at last shall wield A sceptre and a shield With joy replete; And Honor firm shall stand, The nation s great right hand, Forevermore; While Faith and Hope shall hold Our country in the fold, As heretofore. MARTHA J. HADLEY. TRUE CHARITY I GAVE a beggar from my little store Of well-earned gold. He spent the shining ore And came again, and yet again, still cold And hungry as before. I gave a thought, and through that thought of mine He found himself, the man, supreme, divine! Fed, clothed, and crowned with blessings manifold; And now he begs no more. ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. THE STRENGTH OF WEAKNESS How often do the clinging hands, though weak, Clasp round strong hearts that otherwise would break. M. ELIZABETH GROUSE. COMPENSATIONS THE blackest clouds have suns beyond To touch them with a fairy s wand; And never was a cloud not one That has outlasted our good sun; If it s too sunny, t is allowed That hottest sun makes heaviest cloud. Never did the longest rain Fail to end in sun again; Mud has never yet been spied 228 THE HUMBLER POETS That, some day, did not get dried; Never was the dust so thick But a shower would lay it quick. If the winter is so chill, Summer heat is coming still; If the summer is too hot, Winter s coming, when it s not; And, between them, spring and fall Not too cold or hot at all. When night s blackest, twice as gay Is the dawn at break of day; If the noon hour is too bright, J T will not be so, late at night; And the stars and silver moon Gild December, more than June. Man may trudge the longest mile And, to the end, smile meets with smile; And on sunny days sit down And frown, till all around him frown; What you are will others be Smile for smile, and glee for glee. CHRISTOPHER BANNISTER. WOK UPl LOOK up, not down At all this little life s mistakes! Quick, smooth away that scornful frown There! Now a little smile awakes. Look up, not down; Good cheer brings back the old renown. Aye, when the light of morning breaks And saddened earth at last awakes, Where, think you, we shall wear our crown? Look up, not down! JOHN JARVIS HOLDEN. Part IN THE MIDST OF LIFE UENVOI HAVE little care that Life is brief, And less that Art is long. Success is in the silences Though Fame is in the song. II With the Orient in her eyes, Life my mistress lured me on. "Knowledge," said that look of hers, "Shall be yours when all is done." Like a pomegranate in halves, "Drink me," said that mouth of hers, And I drank who now am here Where my dust with bliss confers. BLISS CARMAN. Part IN THE MIDST OF LIFE AT THE TOP OF THE ROAD "BUT, lord," she said, "my shoulders still are strong I have been used to bear the load so long; "And see, the hill is passed, and smooth the road." "Yet," said the Stranger, "yield me now thy load." Gently he took it from her, and she stood Straight-limbed and lithe, in new-found maidenhood Amid long, sunlit fields; around them sprang A tender breeze, and birds and rivers sang. "My lord," she said, "the land is very fair!" Smiling, he answered: "Was it not so there?" "There?" In her voice a wondering question layj "Was I not always here, then, as to-day?" He turned to her, with strange, deep eyes aflame, "Knowest thou not this kingdom, nor my name?" "Nay," she replied, "but this I understand That thou art Lord of life in this dear land!" "Yes, child," he murmured, scarce above his breath: "Lord of the Land, but men have named me Death." CHARLES BUXTON GOING. FROM THE JAPANESE CHASER of the dragon-flies at play, O son, my son! 1 wonder where thy little feet to-day Have run! ANONYMOUS. 231 232 THEHUMBLERPOETS IF WE ONLY KNEW IF we only knew what the others know Who have trod life s path to the evening dew And the solemn dark of the closing night If we only knew! If we only knew, on the waking morn, Where the broad path leads, where the roses strew, Or the rocky road and the piercing thorn If we only knew! If we only knew t were weal or woe, If t were joy or pain in the parting view Of the things that are, as the soul takes flight If we only knew! ANONYMOUSc LETTICE LITTLE Lettice is dead, they say, The brown sweet child who rolled in the hay; Ah, where shall we find her? For the neighbors pass To the pretty lass, In a linen cere-cloth to wind her. If her sister were to search The nettle-green nook beside the church, And the way were shown her Through the coffin-gate To her dead playmate, She would fly too frightened to own her. Should she come at a noon-day call, Ah, stealthy, stealthy, with no footfall, And no laughing chatter, To her mother t were worse Than a barren curse That her little own wench should pat her. Little Lettice is dead and gone! The stream by her garden wanders on Through the rushes wider; She fretted to know How its bright drops grow On the hills, but no hand would guide her. IN THE MIDST OF LIFE 233 Little Lettice is dead and lost! Her willow-tree boughs by storm are tost Oh, the swimming sallows! Where she crouched to find The nest of the wind Like the water-fowls in the shallows. Little Lettice is out of sight! The river-bed and the breeze are bright: Aye me, were it sinning To dream that she knows Where the soft wind rose That her willow-branches is thinning? Little Lettice has lost her name, Slipt away from her praise and our blame; Let no love pursue her, But conceive her free Where the bright drops be On the hills, and no longer rue her! MICHAEL FIELD. BALLAD OF THE UNSUCCESSFUL WE are the toilers from whom God barred The gifts that are good to hold; We meant full well and we tried full hard, And our failures were manifold. And we are the clan of those whose kin Were a millstone dragging them down. Yea, we had to sweat for our brother s sin, And lose the victor s crown. The seeming able, who all but scored, From their teeming tribe we come; What was there wrong with us, O Lord, That our lives were dark and dumb? The men ten-talented, who still Strangely missed the goal, Of them we are; it seems Thy will To harrow some in soul. We are the sinners, too, whose lust Conquered the higher claims; We sat us prone in the common dust And played at the devil s games. 234 THE HUMBLER POETS We are the hard-luck folk who strove Zealously, but in vain; We lost and lost, while our comrades throve, And still we lost again. We are the doubles of those whose way Was festal with fruits and flowers; Body and brains we were sound as they, But the prizes were not ours. A mighty army our full ranks make, We shake the graves as we go; The sudden stroke and the slow heartbreak, They both have brought us low. And while we are laying life s sword aside, Spent and dishonored and sad, Our epitaph this, when once we have died: "The weak lie here, and the bad." We wonder if this can be really the close, Life s fever cooled by death s trance; And we cry, though it seem to our dearest of foes: "God, give us another chance!" RICHARD BURTON. A CRY FOR CONQUEST OH, let me out into the starlight night My soul is stifling and my thoughts need room! Away with petty aims that dwarf and blight And down with false desires that work for doom! Out here out here the wind is wondrous sweet, And cool caresses fan my fevered face; My gaze can reach where stars and stillness meet And vastness holds me in its wide embrace. Ah, here at last my sordid soul is pure Unworthy thoughts slip from me one by one, And naught but highest purposes endure With lower things I am forever done! Oh, may I but absorb within my life The purity and grandeur of this hour And so, mid days of tumult and of strife, Stand steadfast in the consciousness of power! ANGELA MORGAN. INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE 235 OPPORTUNITY MASTER of human destinies am I! Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait. Cities and field I walk; I penetrate Deserts and seas remote, and passing by Hovel and mart and palace soon or late I knock unbidden once at every gate! If sleeping, wake if feasting, rise before I turn away. It is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach every state Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, Seek me in vain and uselessly implore. I answer not, and I return no more! JOHN JAMES INQALLS. PROEM SOME said, "He was strong." He was weak; For he never could sing or speak Of the things beneath or the things above, Till his soul was touched by death or love. Some said, "He was weak." They were wrong. For the soul must be strong That can break into song Of the things beneath and the things above, At the stroke of death, at the touch of love. JOHN DAVIDSON. SONG AH me! How slow the sad years pass; What do the swallows say? "Only a flutter of leaves and grass Between the Spring and the Spring." Ah me! How sad the long nights seem; What do the children say? "Only a bridge of golden dream Between the Day and the Day." Ah me! How blank life s weary hours; What hath the mourner said? "Only a green mound strewn with flowers Between the Quick and the Dead." BEATRICE ROSENTHAL. 236 THE HUMBLER POETS THE REWARD WHAT boots my will to guide a gilded tongue To hope, or send the plenteous days to find New magic lamps? My childish trumpets wind But faint along the walls whose stones have rung, In older days, with echoes nobler sung! But worth is this my tender wreath to bind Or yet adorn? -Antiquity has twined Her hempen bands the moss of years among. We quit the shodden world, ambition stung, And toy with vibrant shafts in the open blue One with the careless cloud, nursed of dew! Upgathering sweets from ancient hills o erflung, We bud and bloom, and reach the lips of Love! And swing, a rattling vine, the autumn pyre above! IVAN SWIFT. SONGS OF SOULS THAT FAILED WE come from the war-swept valleys, Where the strong ranks clash in might, Where the broken rear guard rallies For its last and losing fight, From the roaring streets and highways, Where the mad crowds move abreast. We come to the wooded byways, To cover our grief, and rest. Not ours the ban of the coward, Not ours is the idler s shame; If we sink at last, o erpowered, Will ye whelm us with scorn or blame? We have seen the goal and have striven As they strive who win or die; We were burdened and harshly driven, And the swift feet passed us by. WTien we hear the plaudits thunder, And thrill to the victor s shout, We envy them not, nor wonder At the fate that cast us out; For we heed one music only, The sweet far voice that calls To the dauntless soul and lonely Who fights to the end and falls. INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE 237 We come outworn and weary The unmanned hosts of life; Long was our march and dreary, Fruitless and long our strife, Out from the dust and the riot From the lost, yet glorious quest, We come to the vales of quiet, To cover our grief and rest. MARION COUTHOUY SMITH. TO BE OLD AGAINST the quicksands of receding life to sink So broken, spent and wrenched t o face thy death, And then with sudden exaltation sweet to think, "The everlasting arms are underneath." HELEN ELDRED STORKE. TO BE YOUNG AMID the fresh salt surf one s bit of buoyant life to fling, To know the glad uplift of that endeavored best Which climbs above the undertow of life to bring One, face to face, the beauty of each wave s surmounted crest. HELEN ELDRED STORKE. THE TREE GOD PLANTS THE wind that blows can never kill The tree God plants; It bloweth east, it bloweth west, The tender leaves have little rest, But any wind that blows is best; The tree God plants Strikes deeper root, grows higher still, Spreads wider boughs, for God s good will Meets all its wants. There is no frost hath power to blight The tree God shields; The roots are warm beneath soft snows, And when Spring comes it surely knows, And every bud to blossom grows. The tree God shields Grows on apace by day and night, Till, sweet to taste and fair to sight, Its fruit it yields. 238 THE HUMBLER POETS There is no storm hath power to blast The tree God knows; No thunderbolt, nor beating rain, Nor lightning flash, nor hurricane, When they are spent it doth remain. The tree God knows Through every tempest standeth fast, And from its first day to its last Still fairer grows. If in the soul s still garden-place A seed God sows A little seed it soon will grow And far and near all men will know, For Heavenly lands He bids it blow. A seed God sows, And up it springs by day and night; Through life, through death it groweth right, Forever grows. ANONYMOUS. SOME TIME SOME time, when all life s lessons have been learned, And sun and stars for evermore have set, The things which our weak judgment here has spurned The things o er which we grieved with lashes wet Will flash before us out of life s dark night, As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God s plans were right, And how what seemed reproof was love most true. And we shall see, that while we frown and sigh, God s plans go on as best for you and me; How, when we called He heeded not our cry, Because His wisdom to the end could see; And e en as prudent parents disallow Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now Life s sweetest things, because it seemeth good. And if, some time, commingled with life s wine, We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine Pours out this potion for our lips to drink; And if some friend we love is lying low, Where human kisses cannot reach his face, Oh! do not blame the loving Father so, But bear your sorrow with obedient grace. IN THE MIDST OF LIFE 239 And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath Is not the sweetest gift God sends His friend, And that sometimes the sable pall of death Conceals the fairest boon His love can send. If we could push ajar the gates of life, And stand within, and all God s working see, We could interpret all this doubt and strife, And for each mystery could find a key. But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart! God s plans, like lilies pure and white, unfold; We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart; Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. And if, through patient toil we reach the land Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest, When we shall clearly know and understand, I think that we shall say that "God knew best." MAY RILEY SMITH. THE PURPOSE OF LIFE Do THE tears that arise in the heat of the strife Seem to hide from your vision the purpose of life? Do the myriad cares of laborious days Leave a doubt in your heart whether living them pays? Banish doubt and plod on. Life was given to man As a part of Creation s mysterious plan; Each must carry what burdens the years may bestow Until burdens and bearers alike are laid low. At the end of the road is a couch with a pall, And it may be the couch is the end of it all; Or it may be the spirit, released from the clod, Shares the freedom of Time with the infinite God. T is but folly to dig into moss-covered creeds; Let your life be a record of generous deeds. Not the wisest may fathom Futurity s plan, But the weakest may live as become th a man. FRANK PUTNAM. DEATH S GUERDON SECURE in death he keeps the hearts he had; Two women have forgot the bitter truth; To one he is but her sweet little lad; To one the husband of her youth. LlZETTE WOOD WORTH REESE. 240 THE HUMBLER POETS VI ET ARMIS T is an ancient Roman proverb: "Whoso braveth desperate odds, Wins the potent stars to aid him, And the favor of the gods!" Every brave and strong endeavor Helps heroic souls to rise Unto higher heights of triumph Nearer to the smiling skies. Life is but a broad arena But a mighty contest-ring, And the struggle, to the victor, Doth a glorious guerdon bring. Be the prize you seek, my brother, Where the battle-banners flame, Knowledge, wisdom, hand of woman, Power, or station, wealth, or fame, Be the first to join the onset, Though you traverse flood and fire; Smite, relentless, every foeman That would foil your heart s desire. Knightly faith, and Roman courage, Live, and hold the vantage still; Valor wins the victor s garland You can conquer if you will! ANDREW DOWNING. SUN OR SATELLITE? SHALL we walk by the stars instead of the sun? Falling down in the dark, never able to run? Shall Eternal Light more than plain daylight afford Us the knowledge we seek and the Spirit s strong sword? Nay and Yea! Fellow man! Neither light can we lose; But sea-captains know all is dark if we choose The wise compass to scorn; neither stars nor the sun Then avail; Inner Light, Love! doth light every one Whether running or walking or at play, Love-light, as the compass, is guide night and day. MARY H. HULL. INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE 241 SUNKEN GOLD IN dim green depths rot ingot-laden ships; And gold doubloons, that from the drowned hand fell, Lie nestled in the ocean-flower s bell With love s old gifts, once kissed by long-drowned lips; And round some wrought gold cup the sea grass whips, And hides lost pearls, near pearls still in their shell, Where sea-weed forests fill each ocean dell And seek dim sunlight with their restless tips. So lie the wasted gifts, the long-lost hopes Beneath the now hushed surface of myself, In lonelier depths than where the diver gropes, They lie, deep, deep; but I at times behold In doubtful glimpses, on some reefy shelf, The gleam of irrecoverable gold. EUGENE LEE-HAMILTON. LIFE BEHOLD us toiling up a mountain side, Its summit we attain; Then with increasing impetus descend, And breathless reach the plain. And so the steeps of life are slowly passed, Until, its zenith won, Adown its slopes we glide its years like trees Flit by and life is done. BELLE R. HARBISON. THE FEAST OF THE DEAD DOWN old ways the monks pass ringing Masses for the lost dead; bringing Strange white herds to join their singing Miserere, Domine. Hunted, lonely, waked from sleeping, In the haunted stillness creeping, Timid shadows linger weeping Miserere, Domine. From their tombs in grave-sheets mobbing, Listen to their heart-sick sobbing Through the mellow moonlight throbbing Miserere, Domine. 242 THE HUMBLER POETS Golden lilies, fragrance trailing, Shades of blood their fairness veiling, Tremble at the hopeless wailing Miserere, Domine. Cypress plumes in night-winds blowing, Wild white roses incense sowing, Stir the air to mystic knowing Miserere, Domine. Ever nearer, clearer, calling, On they sweep with shrieks appalling, Echoes from dark archways falling Miserere, Domine. Now at last they pause, slow kneeling, Silence softly on them stealing; Hark, the bells have ceased their pealing Miserere, Domine. Softly, softly, grave-stones closing, Shut the dead to mute reposing Back within the warm earth dozing Miserere, Domine. And the sun, glad day betraying, Down the paling highway straying, Only two brown monks finds praying Miserere, Domine. CHAKLOTTE BECKER. TO THE DEPARTED I KNOW thou hast gone to the place of thy rest, Then why should my soul be sad? I know thou hast gone where the weary are blest. Where the mourner looks up and is glad. Where Love casts aside, in the land of its birth, The stains that it gathered in this, And Hope, the sweet singer that gladdened the earth, Sits asleep on the bosom of Bliss. I know thou hast gone where thy forehead is starred With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul; Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred Nor thy heart be flung from its goal. INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE 243 I know thou hast drunk of the Lethe that flows In the land where they do not forget; That casts over memory only repose, And takes from it only regret. In thy far-away dwelling, wherever it be, I know thou hast glimpses of mine; And the Love that made all things as music to me, I have not yet learned to resign. In the hush of the night, on the waste of the sea, Or alone with the breeze on the hill, I have ever a presence which whispers of thee, And my spirit lies down and is still. This eye must be dark which so long has been dim, Ere again it can gaze upon thine; But my heart has revealings of thee and thy home, In many a token and sign. I never look up with a vow to the sky, But a light like thy beauty is there; And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply, When I pour out my spirit in prayer. And though, like a mourner that sits by the tomb, I am wrapped in a mantle of care, Yet the grief of my spirit oh! call it not gloom Is not the wild grief of despair. By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night, Far off a bright vision appears, And Hope, like the rainbow, a creature of light, Is born, like the rainbow, in tears. ANONYMOUS. A SONG ALL in an April wood, Met I with Grief; As I plucked violets And the young leaf. All in an April wood, Dark Grief I met; Dark Grief, now I am old, Bides with me yet. LlZETTE WOODWORTH REESE. 244 THE HUMBLER POETS THERE IS A MUSIC IN THE MARCH OF STARS THERE is a music in the march of stars, And song that fills the pulses of the sea, That whispers in the wind, and piteously Sobs in the rain, a chant that grates and jars In the dull thunder s heart that makes or mars The song of nature, the great world-song that we Hear loud above us, the great symphony That throbs from life against death s barrier bars. What is the music of the song of lif e ? What is its theme, of heaven or of hell? We know not: joy and grief and love and strife Are mingled there, nor shall the answer be Till the great trumpet of God s doom shall tell The thundered keynote to the land and sea. HERBERT BATES. WHEN MY TURN COMES WHEN my turn comes, dear shipmates all, Oh, do not weep for me; Wrap me up in a hammock tight, And put me into the sea; For it s no good weeping When a shipmate s sleeping, And the long watch keeping At the bottom of the sea. But think of me sometimes and say: " He did his duty right, And strove the best he knew to please His captain in the fight" ; But it s no use weeping When a shipmate s sleeping, And the long watch keeping Through the long, long night. And let my epitaph be these words: "Cleared for this port, alone, A craft that was staunch, and sound, and true Destination unknown" ; And there s no good weeping When a shipmate s sleeping, And the long watch keeping All alone, all alone. INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE 245 And mark this well, my shipmates dear, Alone the long night through, Up there in the darkness behind the stars I 11 look out sharp for you; So, there s no good weeping When a shipmate s sleeping, And the long watch keeping All the long night through. BARRETT EASTMAN. THE DEAD CHILD BUT yesterday she played with childish things With toys and painted fruit. To-day she may be speeding on bright wings Beyond the stars! We ask. The stars are mute. But yesterday her doll was all in all; She laughed and was content. To-day she will not answer if we call: She dropped no toys to show the way she went. But yesterday she smiled and ranged with art Her playthings on the bed. To-day and yesterday are leagues apart! She will not smile to-day, for she is dead. GEORGE BARLOW. IF I SHOULD WAKE IP I should wake, on some soft, silent night, When the west wind strayed from the garden s bloom, To creep, with fitful touches, through the room And see thee standing in the space of light, Making the dusk about thee faintly bright, With the old smile, like starlight in the gloom, Would my heart leap to claim thee from the tomb, Without a doubt to jar its full delight? Or should I wait, with longing arms stretched wide, And know, with sudden trembling and amaze, Some subtle change in all thy being wrought Since thou by death wast touched and glorified? Then come not back, lest I should go my ways Bereft anew of love s dear, changeless thought. EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER. 246 THE HUMBLER POETS BEYOND BEYOND the prison cell Release! Beyond the stormy passage Peace! Beyond the starless night The great Sun s rising Beyond these wilds a home Of Death s devising. After tumultuous years To creep Within a lonely room And sleep! After the exigence Of human hunger, Bread, and lodging, and wine To need no longer! How I have longed for this! And yet How can I go content Forget All that was dear in life Entwined about you? How can I pass Beyond In peace without you? ALLAN MUNIER. BEAUTIFUL DEATH O PAINTER, paint me autumn woods when now Yellow and green, russet and gold and red, And purple and brown, and all the glory shed Upon the world makes earth like heaven s brow; When every tree and every separate bough Glow like the sunset skies when day has fled, And mellow light with sense of peace is wed, While grateful hearts their love to God avow. O paint me this, that I may ever see The vision fair, where life in its decay Speaks not of death, but immortality; More richly glowing on its dying day Than when spring sang of beauty yet to be, And all the flowers close wrapped and hidden lay. JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING. IN THE MIDST OF LIFE 247 EARTH TO EARTH I STOOD to hear that bold Sentence of grit and mould, "Earth to earth"; they thrust On his coffin dust; Stones struck against his grave: Oh, the old days, the brave! Just with the pebble s fall, Grave-digger you turn all Bliss to bereaving; To catch the cleaving Of Atropos fine shears Would less hurt human ears. Live senses that death dooms! For friendship in drear rooms, Slow-lighting faces, Hand-clasps, embraces, Ashes on ashes grind: Oh, poor lips left behind! MICHAEL FIELD. WIDOWHOOD Now is she crowned with perfectness at last. She bends her head no more the soul hath passed That is a part of hers. Still in earth s strife She labors, knowing that Heaven hath her life. M. ELIZABETH GROUSE. THE SAD MOTHER WHEN the half-light weaves Wild shadows on the floor, How ghostly come the withered leaves Stealing about my door! 1 sit and hold my breath, Lone in the lonely house; Naught breaks the silence still as death, Only a creeping mouse. The patter of leaves it may be, But like a patter of feet, The small feet of my own baby That never felt the heat. 248 THE HUMBLER POETS The small feet of my son, Cold as the graveyard sod; My little, dumb, unchristened one That may not win to God. "Come in, dear babe," I cry, Opening the door so wide. The leaves go stealing softly by; How dark it is outside! And though I kneel and pray Long on the threshold-stone, The little feet press on their way, And I am ever alone. KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. L ENVOI WHERE are the loves that we loved before, When once we are alone, and shut the door? No matter whose the arms that held me fast, The arms of Darkness hold me at the last. No matter down what primrose path I tend, I kiss the lips of Silence in the end. No matter on what heart I found delight, I come again unto the breast of Night. No matter when or how Love did befall, T is loneliness that loves me best of all. And in the end she claims me, and I know That she will stay, though all the rest may go. No matter whose the eyes that I would keep Near in the dark, t is in the eyes of Sleep That I must look and look forevermore, When once I am alone and shut the door. WlLLA SlBERT GATHER. MY SAINT MY arms are empty, and my eyes, That cannot see her little face, Look on the world in dull surprise To find it such a dreary place. What wonder that her rosy feet Turned from the earthly path they trod, Faltered, and found the starry street, The rainbow way that leads to God? INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE 249 With smiling lips she tried to frame A word of parting or of prayer They only dimpled to my name, And smiled again, and rested there. Within the hollow of my breast, Where once my heart beat fervently, A chapel I have reared and blest And there enshrined her memory. Only white thoughts may enter here, To scatter incense sweet and faint, Kneel with the priest who worships near, Or serve the altar of my saint. Love is the priest, and night and day, With folded wings and drooping head, He kneels before the shrine to pray, And whisper masses for the dead. ANNE DEVOOBE. REMEMBRANCE I THINK that we retain of our dead friends And absent ones no general portraiture; That perfect memory does not long endure, But fades and fades until our own life ends. Unconsciously, forgetfulness attends That grief for which there is no cure, But leaves of each lost one some record sure, A look, an act, a tone, something that lends Relief and consolation, not regret. Even that poor mother mourning her dead child, Whose agonizing eyes with tears are wet, Whose bleeding heart cannot be reconciled Unto the grave s embrace, even she shall yet Remember only when her babe first smiled! JOHN H. BONNER. BENEATH THE WATTLE BOUGHS THE wattles were sweet with September s rain, We drank in their breath and the; breath of the spring: "Our pulses are strong with the tide of life," I said, "and one year is so swift a thing!" The land all around was yellow with bloom, The birds in the branches sang joyous and shrill, The blue range rose gainst the blue of the sky, Yet she sighed, "But death may be stronger still!" 250 THE HUMBLER POETS Then I reached and gathered a blossomy bough, And divided its clustering sprays in twain, "As a token for each" (I closed one in her hand) "Till we come to the end of the year again!" Then the years sped on, strung high with life; And laughter and gold were the gifts they gave, Till I chanced one day on some pale dead flowers, And spake, shaking and white, "One more gift I crave." "Nay," a shadow voice in the air replied, " Neath the blossoming wattles you 11 find a grave!" FRANCES TYRELL GILL. MASTER MASTER went a-hunting, When the leaves were falling; We saw him on the bridle path, We hear him gayly calling. "O master, master, come you back, For I have dreamed a dream so black!" A glint of steel from bit and heel, The chestnut cantered faster, A red flash seen amid the green, And so good-bye to master. Master came home from hunting, Two silent comrades bore him; His eyes were dim, his face was white, The mare was led before him. "O master, master, is it thus That you have come again to us?" I held my lady s ice cold hand, They bore the hurdle past her; Why should they go so soft and slow? It matters not to master. SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE. MIRAGE (Copied from an old fly-leaf) WE LL read that book, we 11 sing that song. But when? Oh, when the days are long; When thoughts are free, and voices clear Some happy time within the year. The days troop by with voiceless tread, The song unsung, the book unread. INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE 251 We 11 see that friend and make him feel The weight of friendship, true as steel; Some flower of sympathy bestow. But time sweeps on with steady flow. Until with quick, reproachful tear We lay our flowers upon his bier. And still we walk the desert sands, And still with trifles fill our hands; While ever, just beyond our reach, A fairer purpose shows to each. The deeds we have not done, but willed, Remain to haunt us unfulfilled. A. S. R. OUR SPIRITUAL STRIVINGS O WATER, voice of my heart, crying in the sand! All night long crying with a mournful cry, As I lie and listen and cannot understand The voice of my heart in my side, or the voice of the sea; O water, crying for rest, is it I, is it I? All night long the water is crying to me. Unresting water, there shall never be rest Till the last moon droop and the last tide fail, And the fire of the end begin to burn in the west; And the heart shall be weary, and wonder and cry like the sea All life long crying without avail, As the water all night long is crying for me. ARTHUR SYMONS. THE JUDGMENT-BOOK THE Book was opened! Men in wonder stood! No record kept of wrong! It told of good! Each deed of love! A Soul crept up in fright, Then passed into the dark his page was white! CLARENCE URMT. LIGHT THOU one all perfect Light, Our lamps are lit at Thine; And into darkness, as of night, We go, to prove they shine. M. ELIZABETH GROUSE. 252 THE HUMBLER POETS ALL SOULS DAY TO-DAY is theirs the unforgotten dead For strange and sweet communion set apart, When the strong, living heart Beats in the dissolute dust, the darkened bed, Rebuilds the form beloved, the vanished face, Relights the blown-out lamps o the faded eyes, Touches the clay-bound lips to tenderest speech, Saying, "Awake Arise!" To-day the warm hands of the living reach To chafe the cold hands of the long-loved dead; Once more the lonely head Leans on the loving breast, and feels the rain Of falling tears, and listens yet again To the dear voice the voice that never in vain Could sound the old behest. Each seeks his own to-day; but, ah, not I I enter not That sacred shrine beneath the solemn sky; I claim no commerce with the unforgot. My thoughts and prayers must be Even where mine own fixed lot hereafter lies, With that great company For whom no wandering breeze of memory sighs Through the dim prisons of imperial Death: They in the black unfathomed oubliette For ever and ever set They, the poor dead whom none remembered. ROSAMOND MARRIOTT WATSON. THE SHEEP AND LAMBS ALL in the April evening, April airs were abroad, The sheep with their little lambs Passed me by on the road. The sheep with their little lambs Passed me by on the road; All in the April evening I thought of the Lamb of God. The lambs were weary, and crying With a weak, human cry. I thought of the Lamb of God Going meekly to die. INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE 253 Up in the blue, blue mountains Dewy pastures are sweet, Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet, But for the Lamb of God, Up on the hilltop green, Only a cross of shame Two stark crosses between. All in the April evening, April airs were abroad, I saw the sheep with their lambs, And thought of the Lamb of God. KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. THE STARRY HOST THE countless stars, which to our human eye Are fixed and steadfast, each in proper place, Forever bound to changeless points in space, Rush with our sun and planets through the sky, And like a flock of birds still onward fly; Returning never whence began their race. They speed their ceaseless way with gleaming face As though God bade them win infinity. Ah, whither, whither is their forward flight Through endless time and limitless expanse? What Power with unimaginable might First hurled them forth to spin in tireless dance? What Beauty lures them on through primal night, So that, for them, to be is to advance? JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING. BRIEF LIFE THEY are not long, the weeping and the laughter, Love and desire and hate: I think they have no portion in us after We pass the gate. They are not long, the days of wine and roses: Out of a misty dream Our path emerges for a while, then closes Within a dream. ERNEST DOWSON. 254 THE HUMBLER POETS JESUS WEPT AT eve He rested there amidst the grass, And as the stars shone out He dreamed of God, His destiny, the kingdom all of glass And gold; He watched the reapers homeward plod; Became aware of strength for holy deeds Astir within Him; turned His eyes to where The Great Sea rolled a sight that ever breeds A hunger for deep powers; felt that there A symbol was of His far-spreading mind, His restless strong desire, and marked perchance The tiny specks of moving sail; divined Of time and space the secret circumstance, And when His gaze was wearied, softly wept And was consoled then to His shelter crept. FRANCIS BROOKS. A BATTLE-CRY GIVE me a battle to fight, Worthy of courage high, There let me prove my right Or let me striving die. What of the weak who fall? What of the danger rife? I am in love with it all I am in love with life! Heroes are common clay, Conquerors are but men; Courage has blazed their way, Courage will win again! Will makes the man a god Then shall I shirk the strife? Better beneath the sod I am in love with life! Weaklings the combat are fleeing, Cowardice leans on time; Strength is the glory of being, Love makes our strength sublime! On with the battle of might, Brave hearts for drum and fife! Glorious is the fight I am in love with life! LEE SHIPPEY. INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE 255 TRIOLET IT is so common to be dead, So rare to be alive. Lift up, lift up this drooping head: It is so common to be dead. Of millions death had banished Be royal, and survive! It is so common to be dead, So rare to be alive. WINIFRED LUCAS. THE THINGS IN THE CHILDREN S DRAWER THERE are whips and tops and pieces of strings, There are shoes which no little feet wear, There are bits of ribbon and broken rings, And tresses of golden hair; There are little dresses folded away Out of the light of the sunny day. There are dainty jackets that never are worn, There are toys and models of ships, There are books and pictures all faded and torn, And marked by the finger-tips Of dimpled hands that have fallen to dust; Yet I strive to think that the Lord is just. But a feeling of bitterness fills my soul Sometimes, when I try to pray, That a Reaper has spared so many flowers And taken mine away; And I almost doubt if the Lord cin know That a mother s heart can love them so. Then I think of the many weary ones Who are waiting and watching to-night For the slow return of faltering feet That have strayed from paths of right; Who have darkened their lives by shame and sin, Whom the snares of the Tempter have gathered in. They wander afar in distant climes, They perish by fire and flood, And their hands are black with the direst crimes That kindle the wrath of God; Yet a mother s song had soothed them to rest: She hath lulled them to slumber upon her breast. 256 THE HUMBLER POETS And then I think of my children two My babes that never grew old; To know they are waiting and watching for you, In the city with streets of gold! Safe, safe from the cares of the weary years, From sorrow and sin and war; And I thank my God with falling tears For the things in the bottom drawer. ANONYMOUS. GOOD-NIGHT "GOOD-NIGHT!" So, hand firm clasping hand, We meetly close the day, Unconscious that the angel band Bend down to hear us say "Good-night," In tender tones, or grave, or light; For in their Paradise all bright They never, never say "Good-night." "Good-night!" From cot and curtained bed The sweet child accents come, Tired sprites who love to tread Where daisies grow and brown bees hum "Good-night." In rosy dreams each past delight Again will bless their happy sight, So drowsily they lisp, "Good-night." "Good-night!" The silver stars proclaim In their own grand, soft speech, While woodland warblers frame And utter in the twilight, each, "Good-night." With sudden, daring, darting flight From blackthorn hedge to cedar height, They twitter, chirp, or trill, "Good-night." M. A. SINCLAIR. TALES IN THE TELLING THE ROSE S PHILOSOPHY WHEN red and white the rose of June Made merry all the morning air, A gardener, with many a tune, Went gathering the blossoms rare. His hands were bright as any bloom, All scratched and seamed with working there He minded but the mild perfume, Knew only that the work was fair. And when he spied the crimson dew Upon the hands with labor worn, He smiled with knowledge deep and true; "Who loves the rose must love the thorn." ANONYMOUS. TALES IN THE TELLING PROCRUSTES BED A GRECIAN myth tells of a giant grim Who treated all alike who came to him Beseeching shelter. Them the giant led And bade repose upon an iron bed. But when the weary traveller was at rest, Fast to the bed he bound the helpless guest; And as he woke alarmed, Procrustes said, His rule was fixed each guest must fit the bed. Off came his legs if he perchance were tall, Racked must he be had nature made him small. So, strained or maimed by this most ghastly jest, To fit his bed, was shaped each hapless guest. And so, methinks, by fickle fortune led, We must conform to Destiny s iron bed. Content is he whose limits are so near That he will never dream his way not clear. Accursed is he with stunted life and maimed, A slave by stern misfortune foully claimed. And what of him who racked neath duty s strain Grows into greater stature through his pain? So are we all by some grim sport of chance Fitted to fate by force of circumstance. BEATRICE HANSCOM. 259 260 THE HUMBLER POETS HELIOTROPE AMID the chapel s chequered gloom She laughed with Dora and with Flora, And chattered in the lecture-room The saucy little sophomora! Yet while, as in her other schools, She was a privileged transgressor, She never broke the simple rules Of one particular professor But when he spoke of varied lore, Paroxytones and modes potential, She listened with a face that wore A look half fond, half reverential. To her that earnest voice was sweet, And, though her love had no confessor, Her girlish heart lay at the feet Of that particular professor. And he had learned, among his books That held the lore of ages olden, To watch those ever-changing looks, The wistful eyes, the tresses golden, That stirred his heart with passion s pain And thrilled his soul with soft desire, And bade fond youth return again, Crowned with its coronet of fire. Her sunny smile, her winsome ways, Were more to him than all his knowledge, And she preferred his words of praise To all the honors of the college. Yet "What am foolish I to him?" She whispered to her heart s confessor. "She thinks me old and gray and grim," In silence pondered the professor. Yet once when Christmas bells were rung Above ten thousand solemn churches, And swelling anthems grandly sung Pealed through the dim cathedral arches; Ere home returning, filled with hope, Softly she stole by gate and gable, And a sweet spray of heliotrope Left on his littered study table. TALES IN THE TELLING 261 Nor came she more from day to day Like sunshine through the shadows rifting; Above her grave, far, far away, The ever-silent snows were drifting; And those who mourned her winsome face Found in its stead a swift successor, And loved another in her place All, save the silent old professor. But, in the tender twilight gray, Shut from the sight of carping critic, His lonely thoughts would often stray From Vedic verse and tongues Semitic, Bidding the ghost of vanished hope Mock with its past the sad possessor, Of the dead spray of heliotrope That once she gave the old professor. HARRY THURSTON PECK. THE DIGGER S GRAVE HE sought Australia s far-famed isle, Hoping that Fortune on his lot would smile, In search for gold. When one short year had flown, He wrote the welcome tidings to his own Betrothed; told how months of toiling vain Made tenfold sweeter to him sudden gain; With sanguine words, traced with love s eager hand, He bade her join him in this bright south land. Oft he sat, his long day s labor o er, In his bush hut, he dreamed of home once more; His thoughts to the old country home in Kent Returned. } T was Christmas Day, and they two went O er frost and snow; the Christmas anthem rang Through the old church, which echoed as they sang. That day had Philip courage gained to tell His tale of love to pretty Christabel; And she, on her part, with ingenuous grace, Endorsed the tell-tale of her blushing face. Dream on, true lover! never, never thou Shalt press the kiss of welcome on her brow. E en now a comrade, eager for thy gold, Above thy fond heart the knife doth hold One stroke, the weapon s plunged into his breast; So sure the aim that, like a child at rest, The murdered digger lies, a happy smile Parts the full manly bearded lips the while. 262 THE HUMBLER POETS Next day they found him. In his death-cold hand, He held his last home letter, lately scanned With love-lit eyes; and next his heart they found A woman s kerchief, which, when they unwound, Disclosed a lock of silken auburn hair And portrait of a girl s face, fresh and fair, Dyed with the life-blood of his faithful heart. To more than one eye, tears unbidden start; With reverent hands, and rough, unconscious grace, They laid him in his lonely resting-place. The bright-hued birds true nature s requiem gave, And wattle-bloom bestrews the digger s grave. SARAH WELCH. FORBY SUTHERLAND (A Story of Botany Bay, A.D. 1776} A LANE of elms in June; the air Of eve is cool and calm and sweet. See! straying here a youthful pair, With sad and slowly moving feet, On, hand in hand, to yon gray gate, O er which the rosy apples swing; And there they vow a mingled fate, One day when George the Third is king. The ring scarce clasped her finger fair, When, tossing in their ivied tower, The distant bells made all the air Melodious with the golden hour. Then sank the sun out o er the sea, Sweet day of courtship fond, . . . the last! The holy hours of twilight flee And speed to join the sacred Past. The house-dove on the moss-grown thatch Is murmuring love-songs to his mate, As lovely Nell now lifts the latch Beneath the apples at the gate. A plighted maid she nears her home, Those gentle eyes with weeping red; Too soon her swain must breast the foam, Alas! with that last hour he fled! TALES IN THE TELLING 263 And, ah! that dust-cloud on the road, Yon heartless coach-guard s blaring horn; But naught beside, that spoke or showed Her sailor to poor Nell forlorn. She dreams; and lo! a ship that ploughs A foamy furrow through the seas, As, plunging gayly, from her bows She scatters diamonds on the breeze. Swift, homeward bound, with flags displayed In pennoned pomp, with drum and fife, And all the proud old-world parade That marks the man-o -war man s life. She dreams and dreams; her heart s at sea; Dreams while she wears the golden ring; Her spirit follows lovingly One humble servant of the king. And thus for years, since Hope survives To cheer the maid and nerve the youth. "Forget-me-not!" how fair it thrives When planted in the soil of Truth! The skies are changed; and o er the sea, Within a calm, sequestered nook, Rests at her anchor thankfully The tall-sterned ship of gallant Cook. The emerald shores ablaze with flowers, The sea reflects the smiling sky, Soft breathes the air of perfumed bowers How sad to leave it all and die! To die, when all around is fair And steeped in beauty; ah! t is hard When ease and joy succeed to care, And rest, to "watch" and "mounted guard." But harder still, when one dear plan, The end of all his life and cares, Hangs by a thread; the dying man Most needs our sympathy and prayers! T was thus with Forby as he lay Wan in his narrow canvas cot; Sole tenant of the lone "sick bay," Though "mates" came round, he heard them not. 264 THE HUMBLER POETS For days his spirit strove and sought, But, ah! the frame was all too weak. Some phantom strange it seemed he fought. And vainly tried to rise and speak. At last he smiled and brightened up, The noonday bugle went; and he Drained ( t was his last) the cooling cup A messmate offered helpfully. His tongue was loosed "I hear the horn! Ah, Nell! my number s flying. See! The horses too; they ve had their corn. Alas, dear love! ... I part from thee!" He waved his wasted hand, and cried, "Sweet Nell! Dear maid! My own true Nell! The coach won t wait for me!" . . . and died This was Forby s strange farewell. Next morn the barge, with muffled oars, Pulls slowly forth, and leaves the slip With flags half-mast, and gains the shores, While silence seals each comrade s lip. They bury him beneath a tree, His treasure in his bosom hid. What was the treasure? Go and see! Long since it burst his coffin-lid! Nell gave to Forby, once in play, Some hips of roses, with the seeds Of hedgerow plants, and flowerets gay (In England such might count for weeds). "Take these," cries smiling Nell, "to sow In foreign lands; and when folks see The English roses bloom and grow, Some one may bless an unknown me." The turf lies green on Forby s bed, A hundred years have passed, and more, But twining over Forby s head Are Nell s sweet roses on that shore. The violet and the eglantine, With sweet-breathed cowslips, deck the spot, And nestling mid them in the shine, The meek, blue-eyed Forget-me-not! GEORGE GORDON M CBAE. TALES IN THE TELLING 265 CHIQUITA: A LEGEND OF THE WESTERN SEAS HER name? Chiquita. Ah, senor, See how the sea- weed winds around her! Dead? Yes; for many an hour before I came and found her. The gentle waves had laid her down Here on the sands, and heaped her over With soft, sweet-smelling foam, and brown Long-leaved sea clover. And hark! The sea-birds sing her dirge, And all the chorus of the ocean Makes mournful music, surge on surge, In sad devotion. Last night she lay within these arms Her mother s arms, senor, no other And in her sleep beheld the charms Of sleep s twin-brother. I know, for while I watched her, tears Gleamed in the low light of the embers; And then she sighed the sigh one hears And one remembers. From out her troubled lips words came Mixed with the sigh words wet with sorrow: "I die for thee!" and then a name, And then, "To-morrow" I did not understand, you see How could I tell her days were numbered? But God had willed this thing to be And I I slumbered. Well, now I find her dead and cold Senor, the story s old, but never Castilian blood grows cold or old It burns hot ever. Therefore I do not blame her no, Others have loved with song and laughter And then, through loving, learned to know What woe comes after. 266 THE HUMBLER POETS Love is a glorious thing, senor, When, in the dusk, guitars are playing And on the smooth adobe floor The dance is swaying But love is bitter when he goes And days pass on and leave one weeping The sun has blighted many a rose Given to his keeping. Well, so the world was made, and I Do not lament that darkness covers The shining brightness of the sky That smiles on lovers. To me night came long years ago Night in whose gloom I often stumbled But pride sustained me still, although My pride was humbled. Pride in Chiquita that was strong Pride in myself there s none remaining: This was my secret. Right or wrong, I m not complaining That so it is, nor that all pride Has left me now all things are seeming; And out there, rocking with the tide, There is no dreaming Chiquita, daughter! We shall be Racked by regret from henceforth never. I seek the silence of the sea Farewell forever! BARRETT EASTMAN. AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE WE were ordered to Samoa from the coast of Panama, And for two long months we sailed the unequal sea, Till we made the horseshoe harbor with its curving coral bar, Smelt the good green smell of grass and shrub and tree. We had barely room for swinging with the tide There were many of us crowded in the bay: Three Germans, and the English ship, beside Our three and from the Trenton, where she lay, Through the sunset calms and after, We could hear the shrill, sweet laughter Of the children s voices on the shore at play. TALES IN THE TELLING 267 We all knew a storm was coming, but, dear God! no man could dream Of the furious hell-horrors of that day: Through the roar of winds and waters we could hear wild voices scream See the rocking masts reel by us through the spray. In the gale we drove and drifted helplessly, With our rudder gone, our engine-fires drowned, And none might hope another hour to see; For all the air was desperate with the sound Of the brave ships rent asunder Of the shrieking souls sucked under, Neath the waves, where many a good man s grave was found. About noon, upon our quarter, from the deeper gloom afar Came the English man-of-war Calliope: "We have lost our anchors, comrades, and, though small the chances are, We must steer for safety and the open sea." Then we climbed aloft to cheer her as she passed Through the tempest and the blackness and the foam : Now, God speed you, though the shout should be our last, Through the channel where the maddened breakers comb, Through the wild sea s hill and hollow, On the path we cannot follow, To your women and your children and your home." Oh, remember it, good brothers. We two people speak one tongue, And your native land was mother to our land; But the head, perhaps, is hasty when the nation s heart is young, And we prate of things we do not understand. But the day when we stood face to face with death (Upon whose face few men may look and tell), As long as you could hear, or we had breath, Four hundred voices cheered you out of hell. By the will of that stern chorus, By the motherland which bore us, Judge if we do not love each other well. CAROLINE DUER. A CHRISTMAS CAMP ON THE SAN GABR EL LAMAR and his rangers camped at dawn on the banks of the San Gabr el, Under the mossy live oaks, in the heart of a lonely dell; With the cloudless Texas sky above and the mesquite grass below, And all the prairie lying still, in a misty, silvery glow. 268 THE HUMBLER POETS The sound of the horses cropping grass, the fall of a nut, full ripe, The stir of a weary soldier or the tap of a smoked-out pipe, Fell only as sounds in a dream may fall upon a drowsy ear, Till the captain said, " T is Christmas Day! so, boys, we ll spend it here. "For the sake of our homes and our childhood we 11 give the day its dues." Then some leaped up to prepare the feast and some sat still to muse, And some pulled scarlet yupon berries and wax-white mistletoe, To garland the stand-up rifles for Christmas has no foe. And every heart had a pleasant thought or a tender memory Of unforgotten Christmastides that nevermore might be; They felt the thrill of a mother s kiss, they heard the happy psalm, And the men grew still and all the camp was full of a gracious calm. "Halt!" cried the sentinel; and lo! from out of the brushwood near There came, with a weary, fainting step a man in mortal fear A brutal man, with a tiger s heart and yet he made this plea: "I am dying with hunger and thirst, so do what you will with me." They knew him well; who did not know the cruel San Sabatan The robber of the Rio Grande, who spared not any man? In low, fierce tones they spoke his name and looked at a coil of rope; And the man crouched down in abject fear how could he dare to hope? The captain had just been thinking of the book his mother read, Of a Saviour born on Christmas Day, who bowed on the cross His head; Blending the thought of his mother s tears with the holy mother s grief And when he saw San Sabatan he thought of the dying thief. He spoke to the men in whispers and they heeded the words he said, And brought to the perishing robber water and meat and bread. He ate and drank like a famished wolf, and then lay down to rest, And the camp, perchance, had a stiller feast for its strange Christmas guest. TALES IN THE TELLING 269 But as ever the morning dawned again the captain touched his hand, "Here is a horse and some meat and bread; fly to the Rio Grande! Fly for your life! We follow hard; touch nothing on your way Your life was only spared because twas Jesus Christ s birth day." He watched him ride as the falcon flies, then turned to the break ing day; The men awoke, the Christmas berries were quietly cast away; And, full of thought, they saddled away, and rode off into the west May God be merciful unto them as they were to their guest! AMELIA BARR. THE MEN OF MONOMOY TELL ye the story far and wide, Ring out ye bells with mournful toll For the valiant crew of Monomoy Who sleep on Handkerchief Shoal. Brave were the men of Monomoy Who went with a willing hand To bring their storm-wrecked fellow-men Through the angry seas to land. For the gale blew fierce, and the seas ran wild, And the crew were all but lost, But the boat sped on through the angry deep Like shell on the breakers tossed. True were the men of Monomoy, Each true to his duty s call; No thought of self, no dread of death, Eyes seaward, and that was all. And the wreck was made, and the boat turned back, When a monster wave swept o er And swallowed the boat of Monomoy, And the crew were seen no more. Dead are the men of Monomoy, They sleep in a watery grave; They rest upon the treacherous shoal With the men they sought to save. 270 THE HUMBLER POETS And the storms sweep down, and the seas roll in, And the ships their course pursue, But the sea holds fast to its noble sons, For it loves strong hearts and true. Great are the men of Monomoy, Men whose names shall never fade; No soldiers on the battlefield E er nobler sacrifice made. And proud are the wives of Monomoy, Sons proud of their valiant dead; And proud is the world of souls like theirs, Whose glory shall ever spread. Tell ye the story far and wide, Ring out ye bells with mournful toll For the valiant sons of Monomoy Who sleep on Handkerchief Shoal. JOE CONE. CITY BLOOD AND COUNTRY JAY CLARENCE Percy Smith De Vere Was a youth of high degree, City-bred and holding dear Questions of urbanity; In his clothing most precise, In his language very nice, Keen of wit, at business good. Fond of sport t was understood He was all he ought to be. Since the custom is to take Outings in the summer time, Spent near some sweet sylvan lake, Far from city soot and grime, Clarence chose a quiet place, Packed his trunk and dress-suit case, Paid his calls, his bills and so Found himself prepared to go To that cooler rural clime. On the morrow Clarence rose Early, with the summer sun; Donned his well-pressed outing clothes; Ate his breakfast; then, like one TALES IN THE TELLING 271 Who would condescend a while, Took his stick and forth in style Walked the village through and through; Saw some natives, just a few Trying hard a race to run. As they ran, these rustic youth, Clarence stood beside the place, Pitying them because, in sooth, He could set a better pace; When they saw him, "Come," they said Willingly was Clarence led Into simple country joys With those simple country boys, When they urged him, too, to race. Clarence lent his stick for goal And the last to touch it should Stand a treat for every soul Who took part; and seven stood Ready for the starter s word; "Go!" and Clarence fairly whirred, Flew with all his might and main, Reached the goal and touched the cane, Beat them all he thought he would. Soon his joy is turned to grief, Triumph frosted in the bud He to run who was so lief Feels the shame speed through his blood No one else would touch that stick First and last was he he s sick Standing treat for seven jays, Grinning, nudging as he pays Pays to learn his name is mud. ANONYMOUS. THE REVERSE OF THE GOLDEN SHIELD (An Easter Morning Reverie} ALONG the chancel rail, and on the altar stair, The sweetest lilies give their fragrance to the air. The deep-toned organ swells, And vested choir in richest, fullest chord, Sings songs of praises unto the risen Lord. Each ringing anthem tells That from the dark and dismal earthly prison The King of Kings and Lord of Lords is risen. 272 THE HUMBLER POETS The nodding plumes on heads bowed down in prayer; The incense of sweet blossoms on the quiet air, The flashing gems and gold; The soft and silken rustle, the content On every face for richest blessing sent On these within the fold All these amidst the Easter lilies fragrant bloom Drive care away and glorious light drives out the gloom. But what of those for whom no blooming lilies fair Shed richest fragrance on the Easter morning air? God s poor, to whom content Means but a crust, a rag for shivering forms, A hovel as a home from all life s storms In filth-strewn tenement. Souls seared by sin because God s holy word As taught in yon great church is never heard. The children of the sweat-shop, starving, sunken-eyed! Was t not for such as these the Gentle Master died? Have they no place and part? Hopeless, soul-starved, with blank and tear-stained face, Have they, in all this Easter pomp and pride, no place? Can there be contrite heart Within the breast of one who midst the lilies kneels And for these little ones no touch of pity feels? The perfumed flowers upon your corsage white Would mean to starving children food and clothes and light. Each diamond-studded ring Upon your hand, unmarked by toil or care, Would give a thousand children God s fresh air, And richest roses bring Back to their sunken cheeks. You think God ever hears The empty prayers above the children s falling tears? Loud ring the Easter bells; the solemn anthems rise Through nave and church the while the child slave starves and dies Within their glorious sounds. Grim Death stalks round, with misery, want, and woe To mark the path where Death walks sentry-go. "The Lord is risen Love abounds!" But thousands of His loved ones of such is the Kingdom they Starve, and within the shadow of His church to-day. WILL M. MAUPIN. TALES IN THE TELLING 273 THE STRANGERS THEY bought her, not with Irish knife, But with their Danish gold: They brought her, from her father s hall, From faces kind to faces cold In her new lord s hold. They laid strange hands on her joyous life, And bade the bird in her breast to sing An altered song with a folded wing: And the Irish maid was a Danish wife In the Strangers Forts (and she heard, she heard All night the cry of an alien bird That sang with an alien call, But would not sing for the Strangers Who dwelt in Donegal). They took her over running water, And loosed our kindly chain: And Danish son and Danish daughter She bare unto her Dane. She sang their songs, and in the singing Her childish tunes forgot : And she remembered not The kindlier hearts that years were bringing Joy and pain That were none of hers, though deep the gladness And keen the pain For she knew no grief but the near-hand sadness That vexed the Dane: And her joy was the joy of an out land lord, And gay she sat at the outland board In the highest hall, (But it would not sing for a Danish call, The bird in her breast That must make its nest In the Strangers Forts, with the Strangers That dwelt in Donegal). She bore him three fair daughters, And one tall son, whose name The Danish minstrels lifted up, Even as one lifts a golden cup Filled to the lips with fame. Then over the shadowy waters She saw Hy-Brasail gleam And she laid her down on her carven bed, 274 THE HUMBLER POETS Most white, and fair, and sweet to see As a dream remembered piteously When we grow too old to dream. And "Being but dead" She said, "I bid you carry me Like a maiden back to my own country, Not like a wife long wed. Take off my girdle and jewels all, My shining keys, and my Irish knife: Bid my maids go at my daughter s call, And my heathen thrall May serve my son, For my toils are done, And no other care I have save this, that ye bare me back On the homeward track, With a straight blue gown for my only wear, With folded fingers and unbound hair, As I was ne er a wife, For I cannot sleep, being dead, In the Strangers Forts, with the Strangers That dwelt in Donegal." (And dead she lay, and above her bed A bird s voice cried, till the light overhead Grew dark to the evenfalL And its cry was the cry of the Strangers That dwelt in Donegal.) Now, her alien kin, and her alien mate, We held deep in hate: We that were once her own, We from whose griefs her heart had grown, And whose joys, mavrone, Passed by her door and she had not known. We that by cold hearths sat alone When her threads were shorn By envious hands of a Danish Norn. And, mavrone, mavrone, but we liked it ill That they did her dying will: And bore her homewards as she had said With empty hands and unveiled head, Like a maiden still. And we hated more when they raised no wail Above her cairn, Standing dumb and stern, Drinking "Godspeed" in her burial-ale While our women shrieked; and with faces pale Stood and cursed our mountain ferae. TALES IN THE TELLING 275 And now we are sad, for our hate is shed Abroad on the wings of the wind, and dead As Eivir, as Eivir. And home to his hall Scathlessly goes the Dane. And the cock we had reared, the cock that s red, Crows not on his castle-wall. (But the bird, the bird we loved best of all, It sits and sings in his lonely hall, Mavrone! for her bosom-bird And its singing voice we have not heard O er her grave in the Holy Isle: Nor yet in the dusk o er her maiden bed, In the hold where she was born, It sings, by night or morn. But it sings most sweet and clear For her Danish kin to hear: And its song is sad, And its song is glad, Like a sigh that grows to a smile.) For she loved us both, but death turns love cold, And they bring us back our dead to hold, So they loved her best, the Strangers That dwell in Donegal. NORA HOPPER. R ATT LIN JOE S PRAYER JIST pile on some more o them pine knots, An squat yoursel s down on this skin, An , Scotty, let up on yer growlin The boys are all tired o yer chin. Alleghany, jist pass round the bottle, An give the lads all a square drink, An as soon as yer settled I 11 tell ye A yarn as 11 please ye, I think. T was the year eighteen hundred an sixty, A day in the bright month o June, When the Angel o Death from the Diggin s Snatched "Monte Bill" known as M Cune. Wai, Bill war a favorite among us, In spite o the trade that he had, Which are gamblin ; but don t you forget it He often made weary hearts glad; An , pards, while he lay in that coffin, Which we hewed from the trunk o a tree, His face war as calm as an angel s An white as an angel s could be. 276 .THEHUMBLER POETS An thar s war the trouble commenced, pards; Thar war no Gospel sharps in the camps, An Joe said, "We can t drop him this way, Without some directions or stamps." Then up spoke old Sandy M Gregor: "Look ee yar mates, I m reg lar dead stuck, I can t hold no hand at religion, An I m feared Bill s gone in out o luck. If I knowed a darned thing about prayin , I d chip in and say him a mass, But I ain t got no show in the lay-out. I can t beat the game, so I pass." Rattlin Joe war the next o the speakers, An Joe war a friend o the dead; The salt water stood in his peepers, An these are the words as he said : "Mates, you know as I ain t any Christian, An I 11 gamble the good Lord don t know That thar lives sich a rooster as I am; But thar once war a time long ago, When I war a kid, I remember, My old mother sent me to school, To the little brown church every Sunday Whar they said I war dumb as a mule, An I reckon I ve nearly forgotten Purty much all thet ever I knew. But still, if ye 11 drop to my racket, I ll show ye jist what I kin do. "Now I ll show you my Bible," said Joseph "Jist hand me them cards off that rack; I ll convince ye that this are a Bible"; An he set to work shufflin the pack. He spread out the cards on the table, An begun kinder pious-like: "Pards, If ye 11 jist cheese yer racket an listen, I 11 show ye the Pra ar Book in cards. "The ace that reminds us of one God, The deuce of the Father an Son, The tray of the Father an Son, Holy Ghost, For, ye see, all them three are but one. The four-spot is Matthew, Luke, Mark, an John, The five-spot the Virgins who trimmed Thar lamps while yet it was light o the day, And the five foolish Virgins who sinned. The six-spot in six days the Lord made the world, TALES IN THE TELLING 277 The sea, an the stars in the heaven; He saw it war good w at He made, then He said, I ll jist go the rest on the seven. The eight-spot is Noah, his wife an three sons, An Noah s three sons has their wives; God loved the hull mob, so bid em embark In the freshet He saved all their lives. The nine war the lepers of Biblical fame, A repulsive and hideous squad The ten are the holy Commandments, which came To us perishin creatures from God. The queen war of Sheba in old Bible times, The king represents old king Sol. She brought in a hundred young folks, gals an boys, To the King in his Government hall. They were all dressed alike, an she axed the old boy (She d put up his wisdom as bosh) Which war boys an which gals. Old Sol said, By Joe, How dirty their hands! Make em wash! And then he showed Sheba the boys only washed Their hands and a part o their wrists, While the gals jist went up to their elbows in suds. Sheba weakened, an shook the king s fists. Now, the knave, that s the devil, an , God, ef ye please, Jist keep his hands off n poor Bill. An now, lads, jist drop on yer knees for a while Till I draw, and perhaps I kin fill; An hevin no Bible, I 11 pray on the cards, Fur I ve showed ye they re all on the squar , An I think God 11 cotton to all that I say, If I m only sincere in the pra ar. Jist give him a corner, good Lord not on stocks, Fur I ain t such a durned fool as that, To ax ye fur anything worldly fur Bill, Kase ye d put me up then fur a flat. I m lost on the rules o yer game, but I 11 ax Fur a seat fur him back o the throne, And I 11 bet my whole stock that the boy 11 behave If yer angels jist lets him alone. Thar s nothin bout him unless he gets riled, The boys 11 all back me in that; But if any one treads on his corns, then, you bet, He 11 fight at the drop o the hat. Jist don t let yer angels run over him, Lord, Nor shut off all t once on his drink; Break him in kinder gentle an mild in the start, An he 11 give ye no trouble, I think. An could n t ye give him a pack of old cards, 278 THE HUMBLER POETS To amuse himself once in a while? But I warn ye right hyar, not to bet on his game, Or he 11 get right away with yer pile. An now, Lord, I hope thet ye ve tuck it all in, An listened to all that I ve said. I know thet my prayin is jist a bit thin, But I ve done all I kin fur the dead. An if I hain t troubled yer Lordship too much So I ll cheese it by axin , again, Thet ye won t let the knave git his grip on poor Bill. Thet s all, Lord yours truly Amen." Thet s "Rattlin Joe s prayer," old pardners, An what! you all snorin ? Say, Lew, By thunder! I ve talked every rascal to sleep, So I guess I hed best turn in too. CAPTAIN JOHN WALLACE CRAWFORD. AN INCIDENT OF THE WEST MORE annoyed than for many a week before, We looked on Bill whar he lay, He had got down sick an the livelong day Had groaned an babbled an maybe swore. An did n t he look as he tumbled thar , As big as a boss, as strong as a b ar, His face as red as the leaves out whar The sun fell last on the canyon. Old Bill was a brick wild, full of his pluck; But somehow deep in his bosom yit He d a feelin fer man that wuz down hard hit By the graceless thing that we call bad luck, An to hear him there with his eyes shet fast, Blabbin of things that belonged to the past, His mother an sisters we jest had to ast: "Turned baby, Bill, in the canyon?" We had no fire; it was fall of the year; An the moon shined fair on the bowlders A white shawl hangin over the shoulders Of the mountains that stretched out fer an near. Fer an hour then, not a sound from Bill. No snarl of wolf, an no streamlet s spill; It seemed God s step, ef you d be right still, Mought be heard even down in the canyon. TALES IN THE TELLING 279 "Yes, mother, I m ready to say my prayer," He murmured then in a voice now faint, A look on his face no bresh could paint, So drawn, yit soft in the midnight air: "Now I lay me down * then we all drawed near, An the rest of the words fell plain on our ear The sweet old prayer God loves most to hear, Went up with his soul from the canyon. Jest plain rough scouts, half-feelin our way On the borders of hell for the pioneers, We had little time fer sighs and tears As we laid Bill under the grass next day. But we b lieved as we turned and left him alone, His childish plea reachin up to the throne, Fer his mother s sake might somewhat atone For the faults of the dead in the canyon. ANONYMOUS. BOOKS OF THE BIBLE THE OLD TESTAMENT GENESIS tells of creation; of Abraham s call and migration; Of Isaac and Jacob; and Joseph, once slave and then proud Egypt s ruler. Exodus tells us how Israel s children went forth from their bond age. Next is Leviticus, book of the service by priests at the altar. Numbers had wonderful blessing, and story of Balak and Balaam. Then Deuteronomy, rich in the words of the great leader Moses. Joshua tells of the conquest of Canaan. The book of the Judges Int rests with stories of Israel s chieftains and one was a woman. Ruth and her faithfulness charm us; then Samuel s words and his warnings Give his great name to the two books that tell of Saul and of David. Next are two books of the Kings; they tell us of Solomon s wisdom (Builder was he of the temple); they tell of his riches and folly; Tell of the famed queen of Sheba; tell also of strife and of ruin. Two books of Chronicles sum up the story from Adam to Cyrus. Ezra the scribe tells his people s return to the home of their fathers. Distant, far distant, was Shushan in Persia, but thence Nehemiah Brought to the hearts of the Jews few and feeble new hope and fresh courage. 280 THE HUMBLER POETS Next is the book of Queen Esther. A wonderful poem or drama Bearing Job s name tells his suff ring, his patience and just vindication. Then come the Psalms, rich in praises; and Proverbs, abounding in wisdom. Mournful and almost despairing the Preacher, or Ecclesiastes. Next is a song Song of Songs a drama of love and of wooing. Great is Isaiah the wonderful prophet, and blessed his message. Sad Jeremiah hath this for his sorrow: Jerusalem s downfall. "How doth the city abide as a widow!" thus cry Lamentations. Whirlwind and fire with wonders infolded and visions on vision; Wonders are these that the prophet Ezekiel saw and recorded. Daniel of earth s greatest kingdoms destruction and overthrow telleth. "Turn thou to God," saith Hosea, "keep mercy, keep mercy, and judgment." Joel hath story of wasting and famine, yet trusts in God s pity. "Ye who turn judgment to wormwood" have warning from Amos the herdman. "Pride of thine heart hath deceived thee, O Edom!" said just Obadiah. Nineveh called to repentance and pardon the theme this of Jonah. " Bethlehem-Ephratah, from thee shall come forth a ruler," saith Micah. Nahum on Nineveh uttereth judgment; on Nineveh, ancient and mighty. Habbakuk tells of the dreadful Chaldeans; of God come to judg ment. "Seek ye the Lord ere the day of his anger," thus warns Zepha- niah. Haggai pleads for the temple, and tells to its builders his message; Then Zechariah speaks sevenfold, vision, and promise of bless ing. Malachi saith that the hearts of the fathers shall turn to the children. Thus with a word rich in promise he ends the Old Testament record. THE NEW TESTAMENT FOUR are the men who tell of the life of pur Saviour and Master: Matthew (or Levi) the first, then Mark who writes like a sol dier; Luke the beloved physician, and John once imprisoned on Patmos. Luke writes again (as before to Theophilus) telling the story, Wonderful story of parting when Jesus returned to the Father; TALES IN THE TELLING 281 Telling the story of Pentecost, telling of Peter s strange vision; Telling of brave Stephen s death, of Paul and his hardships and journeys. This is the book of the Acts, and next are the thirteen epistles Written by Paul the Apostle. The first is the one to the Romans. Two next to dwellers in Corinth (but one is for all the Achaians). Then comes the one that was written to all the Galatian churches. Ephesus gives its proud name to the book that comes next in due order. Find then the letter of praise that Paul wrote to saints at Phil- ippi. Then comes the warning he sent to the faithful who dwelt at Colossse. Brethren in Thessalonica had two books he wrote for their comfort. Timothy two for his guidance, and Titus had one for the Cre tans. Who but admires the wonderful letter Paul wrote to Philemon? Read the epistle by whom was it written? addressed to the Hebrews. James to the twelve tribes scattered abroad sends lesson and greeting. Two are the letters of Peter, and three are by John the Apostle. Next is the letter by Judas, and last is the great Revelation. JOHN NELSON DAVIDSON. THE GARDEN-MAKER AN old slat bonnet hid her face; A faded print that had no grace Hid sharp shoulders and broad flat waist; Weeding the bed where the beets were placed. The Spring breeze gently stirred the reeds As she pulled her garden free of weeds, Then loosened up the good, rich sod Along the rows of pease in pod. And where her brown hands touched the earth The thrifty, green shoots soon had birth; She understood the plants like friends On this a garden much depends. The weatherbeaten paling fence, The garden s trusty old defence, Was softened by a row of flowers, They helped her through hard morning hours. 282 THE HUMBLER POETS A climbing white rose waved its arm In bride-like welcome to the farm; She loved to see it all a-blow It minded her of the long ago. She hoed the rows of shooting corn Till she heard a neighbor s dinner-horn; With cruel longing she saw the face Of the dead and gone in empty space. And the time when her table had been well spread With her own good making of pies and bread, And her loved ones gathered about the board Touched not the food till they thanked the Lord. Tears filled a furrow on her cheek, The rising sobs made her bend and weep, But the spring breeze helped to dry her eyes, And she cut rhubarb for a batch of pies. She was very weary and sat to rest Beside the flowers she loved the best; The bitter memories would not depart, So she prayed for balm for a stricken heart. There was crying need that the work be done Before the set of the present sun. Old and lonely, her thoughts were drear, Her strength had passed with the passing year. For now the vigor left her stroke And the poor old bended back seemed broke; She paused and rested on her hoe And saw her garden wreathed aglow. She hung upon the fence her hoe, And took within the house her woe, And soon there was a row of pies To gladden any urchin s eyes. And this they did; for down the lane A truant playing fisher came, Who traded off a two-pound fish For one tremendous toothsome dish. And from the gossip of the lad She learned that old Mis Beggs was bad, And after Master Tommy s lunch Of her white roses made a bunch ; TALES IN THE TELLING 283 And sent them down to Widow Beggs Along with three brand-new-laid eggs; And then put on fresh calico And hunted up more seeds to sow. Tears oft dimmed her fading sight: Her garden healed her bitter plight, Inhaled with sighs its sweet perfume, Renewed her faith in God each June. For though her heart with pain was racked She never had for mercies lacked; Her losses paid with grief and pain In other ways came back again. The flowers looked up and asked for rain And bowed in thanks whene er it came In all her garden the grateful sod Gave gladly back the smile of God. L. D. MORSBACH. MY LITTLE WIFE MY little wife s a world too sweet For such a man as I am: But she s a Trojan hard to beat As Hector, son of Priam! A winsome, wilful morsel she: Brought up to grace a palace, She ran away to marry me, Half love, half girlish malice. She never has repented, though: We built a cot in Jersey: She wore delaine and calico, And I wore tweed and kersey. So great our love it bridged across Whatever might divide us. However went the gain or loss We felt as rich as Midas. I helped her with the brush and broom, Her morning labors aiding: She followed to the counting-room, Made out my bills of lading. 284 THE HUMBLER POETS And once, when sick of chills I lay, She balanced up the pages; Did all my work from day to day, And brought home all my wages. Then I was but a shipping clerk, Of firm of Graves & Gartner: Till, after long and weary work, They took me in as partner. So year on year went gayly round While we grew rich and richer, Until, in every spring we found, We dipped a golden pitcher. When Gartner left, grown old and lame, I bought him out completely; Made wife a partner; changed the name To Wheatly, Graves & Wheatly. A silent partner? Not at all! With genius more than Sapphic, She improvised that lady small The poetry of traffic. And, flitting through our offices, With work and smile admonished: "We 11 work no metamorphoses To make a lie look honest." Meantime the business grew and grew With not a cloud to daunten: Till wife, who wanted tea like dew, Sent me adrift for Canton. No sooner was I well at sea, Than with a whirl insanic, Down came that flood of seventy-three, And shook the world with panic. Then many a house as strong as life Was caught and torn asunder: Till Graves came trembling to my wife And said: "We re going under!" Wife saw the gulf but kept her poise; Disposed of plate and raiment, Sold all her jewels (but the boy s!), And met the heaviest payment. TALES IN THE TELLING 285 So Graves and she, with work and wit, With care and self-denial, Upheld the firm, established it The surer for the trial. Through all the strife they paid the hands Full price, none saw them falter, And now the house, rock-founded, stands As steady as Gibraltar. But wife keeps with us, guards us through Like Miriam watching Moses; She drinks her tea as pure as dew And sells it fresh as roses! Yes, she s a Trojan! Hard to beat As all the sons of Priam: But bless you! she s a world too sweet For such a man as I am! ANONYMOUS. THE ASS AVER S STORY "GENTLEMEN," said the assay er, "you may talk all you want to, I knew a case where four aces were beaten by three of a kind, sir!" "Three of a kind and a gun!" retorted a listening comrade. "Not a bit of it, sir; the winner played perfectly fairly." Nudging up nearer the fire they heard this remarkable story: " Way out in Arizona, that land of coyotes, jack-rabbits, Greasers, Apaches, and such, with a sprinkling of mining fron tiersmen Lending tone to the whole and keeping them all from damnation, Lies the scene of my tale mid men of quick minds and quick action; Chivalrous when they d occasion, eager with knife and revolver, Gen rally quiet when sober, outrageously brash when in liquor, Brave as but few men are brave, and strong with the vigor of morning I could say more for the men, but hardly so much for the coun try. "There in Red Gulch, where it happened, progress had planted her footsteps; Churches and schools were a-building, horse thieves and thugs had been fired; 286 THE HUMBLER POETS Everything pointed a future, not so productive of story, Not filled with animal spirits, but doubtless a blamed sight more decent. Yet, as might be expected, it was a time of transition; Men who for years had been drunk continued to gaze on the serpent; Those with the natures of snakes never grew harmless and dove- like; All who had been walking arsenals kept their accoutrements handy; None who had gambled a lifetime turned out Methodist preachers. "So it happened one day that the newly elected officials Held their first annual meeting in the big room in the feed store, Used for a court-house pro tern., and settled affairs of the county; Argued it was n t respectable, hanging a man without trial, Fixed on the site of the jail and hired a tenderfoot teacher. Satisfied, then, with their labor and feeling entitled to pleasure, Coroner, sheriff, and judge adjourned, with the clerk of the county, Over to Kelley s back room for a period of solid enjoyment; Entered and called for some cards, procured irrigating mate rials, Shuffled and cut and straightway were deep in the science of poker. "There they dallied some hours, assisted by liquid refreshments; Nothing particular happened till somebody started a jack-pot; All of them passed three times, till several hundreds of money Piled itself up in the middle and lay there, embodied tempta tion! Twenty-five dollars it cost when the clerk had looked over his fistful; Twenty-five more was the straddle when the matter got round to the sheriff; All of them looked kind of nervous, sort o conscious of something impending; But when the judge, too, came in and raised that there bet a full fifty, All set their molars together and humped themselves ready for combat. "Meanwhile, the coroner, pale, but brimful of cool self-pos session, Saw all the bets of the others, until, on the table before them, Lay near the fortune of each, then broke the ominous silence, Noting the fact that the crowd had just about sized his whole pile up, TALES IN THE TELLING 287 So it behooved him to call. Straightway the clerk, all tri umphant, Showed down four kings and an ace as a very good thing to fall back on. " Not yet, ole hoss, said the sheriff, and gave a king and four aces Forth to their wondering eyes, while the judge amid general confusion Made a quick motion behind, saying: / hold a straight flush, ace high, sir! "After the smoke cleared away, the coroner, slowly emerging Out from under the table, pocketed all of the money, Saying, in tones of unprejudiced candor :/ 7 hold three INQUESTS ! ANONYMOUS. ABIGAIL BECKER Wreck of the Schooner Conductor, off Long Point Island, Canada West, near Buffalo, November, 1853. THE wind, the wind where Erie plunged Sou west, blew, blew from land to land. The wandering schooner dipped and lunged, Long Point was close at hand. Long Point a swampy island-slant, Where, busy in their grassy homes, Woodcock and snipe the hollows haunt And muskrats build their domes. Where gulls and eagles rest at need; Where, either side, by lake or sound, Kingfishers, cranes, and divers feed, And mallard ducks abound. The lowering night shut out the sight: Careened the vessel, pitched and veered; Raved, raved the wind with main and might, The sunken reef she neared. She pounded over, lurched and sank: Between two sand-bars settling fast Her leaky hull the waters drank, And she had sailed her last. Into her rigging, quick as thought, Captain and mate and sailors sprung, Clambered for life, some vantage caught, And there all night they swung. THE HUMBLER POETS And it was cold, oh, it was cold! The pinching cold was like a vise; Spoondrif t flew freezing, fold on fold It coated them with ice. Now when the dawn began to break, Light up the sand-path drenched and brown, To fill her bucket from the lake Came Mother Becker down. From where her cabin crowned the bank Came Abigail Becker, tall and strong. She dipped and lo! a broken plank Rode rocking close along. She poised her glass with anxious ken: The schooner s top she spied from far; And there she counted seven men That clung to mast and spar. And oh, the gale! the rout and roar! The blinding drift, the mounting wave! A good half-mile from wreck to shore With seven men to save! Sped Mother Becker: "Children! wake! "A ship a gone down! they re needing me! Your father s off on shore! the lake Is just a raging sea! "Get wood, cook fish, make ready all!" She snatched her stores, she fled with haste, In cotton gown and tattered shawl, Barefoot across the waste. Through sinking sands, through quaggy lands, And nearer, nearer, full in view, Went shouting through her hollowed hands: "Courage! we 11 get you through!" Ran to and fro, made cheery signs, Her bonfire lighted, steeped her tea, Brought driftwood, watched Canadian lines Her husband s boat to see. Cold, cold it was, oh, it was cold! The bitter cold made watching vain: With ice the channel laboring rolled, No skiff could stand the strain. TALES IN THE TELLING 289 On all that isle, from outer swell To strait, between the landings shut, Was never place where man might dwell Save trapper Becker s hut. And it was twelve and one and two And it was three o clock and more: She called: "Come on! there s nought to do But leap! and swim ashore!" Blew, blew the gale; they did not hear. She waded in the shallow sea, She waved her hands, made signals clear: "Swim, swim! and trust to me!" "My men," the captain cried, "I ll try: "The woman s judgment may be right; For swim or sink, seven men must die If here we swing to-night." Far out he marked the gathering surge; Across the bar he watched it pour; Let go and on its topmost verge Came riding in to shore. It struck the breaker s foamy track: Majestic wave on wave up-hurled, Went grandly toppling, tumbling back As loath to flood the world ! There blindly whirling, shorn of strength, The captain drifted, sure to drown; Dragged seaward half a cable s length, Like sinking lead went down. Ah, well for him that on the strand Had Mother Becker waited long! And well for him her grasping hand And grappling arm were strong! And well for him that wind and sun And daily toil for scanty gains Had made such daring blood to run Within such generous veins. For what to do but plunge and swim? Out on the sinking billow cast, She toiled, she dived, she groped for him, She found and clutched him fast. 290 THE HUMBLER POETS She climbed the reef, she brought him up, She laid him, gasping, on the sands, Built high the fire and filled the cup, Stood up and waved her hands! Oh, life is dear! The mate leaped in: "I know," the captain said, "right well, "Not twice can any woman win A soul from yonder hell!" "I ll start and meet him in the wave." "Keep back ! " she bade. "What strength have you? " "And I shall have you both to save, Must work to pull you through!" But out he went. Up shallow sweeps Raced the long white- caps, comb on comb: The wind, the wind that lashed the deeps, Far, far it blew the foam. The frozen foam went scudding by, Before the wind, a seething throng, The waves, the waves came towering high! They flung the mate along. The waves came towering high and white, They burst in clouds of flying spray; There mate and captain sank from sight And clinching, rolled away. O, Mother Becker, seas are dread, Their treacherous paths are deep and blind! But widows twain shall mourn their dead If thou art slow to find! She sought them near, she sought them far; Three fathoms down she gripped them tight: With both together, up the bar She staggered into sight. Beside the fire her burdens fell: She paused the cheering draught to pour, Then waved her hands: "All s well! all s well! "Come on! Swim ! swim ashore!" Sure life is dear and men are brave: They came, they dropped from mast and spar; And who but she could breast the wave And dive beyond the bar! TALES IN THE TELLING 291 Dark grew the sky from East to West And darker, darker grew the world: Each man from off the breaker s crest To gloomier deeps was hurled. And still the gale went shrieking on; And still the wrecking fury grew, And still the woman, worn and wan Those gates of death went through! As Christ were walking on the waves And heavenly radiance shone about, All fearless trod that gulf of graves And bore the sailors out! Down came the night, but far and bright, Despite the wind and flying foam, The bonfire flamed to give them light To trapper Becker s home! Oh, safety after wreck is sweet, And sweet is rest in hut or hall! One story Life and Death repeat: God s mercy over all! Next day men heard, put out from shore, Crossed channel-ice, burst in to find Seven gallant fellows sick and sore, A tender nurse and kind; Shook hands, wept, laughed, were crazy glad! Cried: "Never yet on land or sea "Poor, dying, drowning sailors had A better friend than she! "Billows may tumble, winds may roar, Strong hands the wrecked from death may snatch, But never, never, nevermore This deed shall mortal match!" Dear Mother Becker dropped her head; She blushed as girls when lovers woo: "I have not done a thing," she said, "More than I ought to do!" AMANDA T. JONES. 292 THE HUMBLER POETS THE MAN IN THE CAB SAFE and snug in the sleeping-car Are father and mother and sleeping child; The night outside shows never a star, For the storm is thick and the wind is wild. The frenzied train in its all-night race Holds many a soul in its fragile walls, While in his cab, with a smoke-stained face, Is the man in the greasy overalls. Through the firebox door the heat glows white, The steam is hissing at all the cocks; The pistons dance and the drivewheels smite The trembling rails till the whole earth rocks. But never a searching eye could trace Though the night is black and the speed appals A line of fear in the smoke-stained face Of the man in the greasy overalls. No halting, wavering coward he, As he lashes his engines around the curve, But a peace-encompassed Grant or Lee, With a heart of oak and an iron nerve. And so I ask that you make a place In the Temple of Heroes sacred halls Where I may hang the smoke-stained face Of the man in the greasy overalls. NIXON WATERMAN. A BALLAD OF AN ARTIST S WIFE " SWEET wife, this heavy-hearted age Is naught to us; we two shall look To Art, and fill a perfect page In Life s ill-written doomsday book." He wrought in color; blood and brain Gave fire and might; and beauty grew And flowered with every magic stain His passion on the canvas threw. They shunned the world and worldly ways: He labored with a constant will; But few would look, and none would praise, Because of something lacking still. TALES IN THE TELLING 293 After a time her days with sighs And tears o erflowed; for blighting need Bedimmed the lustre of her eyes, And there were little mouths to feed. "My bride shall ne er be commonplace," He thought and glanced; and glanced again: At length he looked her in the face; And, lo, a woman old and plain! About this time the world s heart failed The lusty heart no fear could rend; In every land wild voices wailed, And prophets prophesied the end. "To-morrow or to-day," he thought, "May be Eternity; and I Have neither felt or fashioned aught That makes me unconcerned to die. "With care and counting of the cost My life a sterile waste has grown, Wherein my better dreams are lost Like chaff in the Sahara sown. "I must escape this living tomb! My life shall yet be rich and free, And on the very stroke of Doom My soul at last begin to be. "Wife, children, duty, household fires For victims of the good and true! For me my infinite desires, Freedom and things untried and new! "I would encounter all the press Of thought and feeling life can show, The sweet embrace, the aching stress Of every earthly joy and woe; "And from the world s impending wreck And out of pain and pleasure weave Beauty undreamt of, to bedeck The Festival of Doomsday Eve." He fled, and joined a motley throng That held carousal day and night; With love and wit, with dance and song, They snatched a last intense delight. 294 THE HUMBLER POETS Passion to mould an age s art, Enough to keep a century sweet, Was in an hour consumed; each heart Lavished a life in every beat. Amazing beauty filled the looks Of sleepless women; music bore New wonder on its wings; and books Throbbed with a thought unknown before. The sun began to smoke and flare Like a spent lamp about to die; The dusky moon tarnished the air; The planets withered in the sky. Earth reeled and lurched upon her road; Tigers were cowed, and wolves grew tame; Seas shrank, and rivers backward flowed, And mountain-ranges burst in flame. The artist s wife, a soul devout, To all these things gave little heed; For though the sun was going out, There still were little mouths to feed. And there were also shrouds to stitch, And chores to do; with all her might, To feed her babes, she served the rich, And kept her useless tears till night. But by and by her sight grew dim ; Her strength gave way; in desperate mood She laid her down to die. "Tell him," She sighed, "I fed them while I could." The children met a wretched fate; Self-love was all the vogue and vaunt, And charity gone out of date; Wherefore they pined and died of want. Aghast he heard the story: "Dead! All dead in hunger and despair! I courted misery," he said; "But here is more than I can bear." Then, as he wrought, the stress of woe Appeared in many a magic stain; And all adored his work, for, lo, Tears mingled now with blood and brain! TALES IN THE TELLING 295 "Look, look!" they cried, "this man can weave Beauty from anguish that appals"; And at the Feast of Doomsday Eve They hung his pictures in their halls, And gazed; and came again between The faltering dances eagerly; They said, "The loveliest we have seen, The last, of man s work, we shall see!" Then there was neither death nor birth; Time ceased; and through the ether fell The smoky sun, the leprous earth, A cinder and an icicle. No wrathful vials were unsealed; Silent, the first things passed away: No terror reigned; no trumpet pealed The dawn of Everlasting Day. The bitter draught of sorrow s cup Passed with the seasons and the years: And Wisdom dried for ever up The deep, old fountainhead of tears. Out of the grave and ocean s bed The artist saw the people rise; And all the living and the dead Were borne aloft to Paradise. He came where on a silver throne A spirit sat forever young; Before her Seraphs worshipped prone, And Cherubs silver censers swung. He asked, "Who may this martyr be? What votaress of saintly rule?" A Cherub said, "No martyr; she Had one gift: she was beautiful." Then came he to another bower Where one sat on a golden seat, Adored by many a heavenly Power With golden censers smoking sweet. "This was some gallant wench who led Faint-hearted folk and set them free? " "Oh, no, a simple maid!" they said, "Who spent her life in charity." 296 THE HUMBLER POETS At last he reached a mansion blest Where, on a diamond throne, endued With nameless beauty, one possessed Ineffable beatitude. The praises of this matchless soul The sons of God proclaimed aloud; From diamond censers odors stole; And Hierarchs before her bowed. " Who was she? God Himself replied : "In misery her lot was cast; She lived a woman s life, and died Working My work until the last." It was his wife. He said, "I pray Thee, Lord, despatch me now to Hell." But God said, "No; here shall you stay, And in her peace forever dwell." JOHN DAVIDSON. A LESSON OF MERCY BENEATH a palm-tree by a clear cool spring God s Prophet, Mahomet, lay slumbering, Till, roused by chance, he saw before him stand A foeman, Durther, scimitar in hand. The chieftain bade the startled sleeper rise; And with a flame of triumph in his eyes, "Who now cansave thee, Mahomet?" he cried. "God," said the Prophet, "God, my friend and guide." Awe-struck, the Arab dropped his naked sword, Which, grasped by Mahomet, defied its lord: And, "Who can save thee now thy blade is won?" Exclaimed the Prophet. Durther answered, "None!" Then spake the victor: "Though thy hands are red With guiltless blood unmercifully shed, I spare thy life, I give thee back thy steel: Henceforth, compassion for the helpless feel." And thus the twain, unyielding foes of yore, Clasped hands in token that their feud was o er. GEORGE MURRAY. Part THE POETRY OF EVERY DAY KNOWLEDGE I HAVE known sorrow therefore I May laugh with you, friend, more merrily Than those who never sorrowed upon earth And know not laughter s worth. I have known laughter therefore I May sorrow with you far more tenderly Than those who never knew how sad a thing Seems merriment to one heart suffering. THEODOSIA GARRISON. Part THE POETRY OF EVERY DAY LIFE S COMMON THINGS THE things of every day are all so sweet, The morning meadows wet with dew; The dance of daisies in the moon, the blue Of far-off hills where twilight shadows lie, The night with all its tender mystery of sound And silence, and God s starry sky! Oh! life the whole life is far too fleet, The things of every day are all so sweet. The common things of life are all so dear, The waking in the warm half-gloom To find again the old familiar room, The scents and sights and sounds that never tire, The homely work, the plans, the lilt of baby s laugh, The crackle of the open fire; The waiting, then the footsteps coming near, The opening door, the hand clasp and the kiss Is Heaven not, after all, the Now and Here, The common things of life are all so dear? ANONYMOUS. WAITING I COULD say nice things about him; I could praise him if I would; I could tell about his kindness, For he s always doing good. I could boost him as he journeys O er the road of life to-day; But I let him pass in silence And I Ve not a word to say : For I m one of those now waiting Ere a word of praise is said, Or a word of comfort uttered Till the friend we love lies dead. 299 300 THE HUMBLER POETS I could speak of yonder brother As a man it s good to know; And perhaps he d like to hear it, As he journeys here below. I could tell the world about him And his virtues all recall, But at present he is living, And it would n t do at all: So I m waiting, yes, I m waiting, Till the spark of life is fled; Ere I raise my voice to praise him I must know that he is dead. I appreciate the kindness That he s often shown to me, And it will not be forgotten When I speak his eulogy. I should like to stand in public And proclaim him "friend of mine." But that is n t customary, So I give the world no sign Of my love for yonder brother, Who has often helped me here; I am waiting, ere I praise him, Till I stand before his bier. EDGAR A. POST. EVERY-DAY HEROES I LL sing you a song with a full, deep breath For my blood runs fast by its artery walls Of strong men brave in the presence of death, And quick and quiet when duty calls. Of a foot that is firm on the brink of the pit, Of a hand with a grip that can never tire, Of a will as strong as a Spanish bit, And a heart that s been tried by fire. I honor the men who have fought and died For the sake of the land which they loved, but still, Alas! for the courage of homicide, Condemned by God s edict, "Thou shalt not kill!" But the men who jump at the ring of the bell And harness the horses, strong and fleet, Each strap in its place and buckled well, And in fifteen seconds are in the street; THE POETRY OF EVERYDAY 301 Who climb through the smoke and the fire s fierce roar, Though the blazing roof may come crashing through Those are the men that I honor more, For they are both brave and human, too. And when I read how one more has tried To save a life, and has paid the price Which our Lord paid once, and has nobly died, And has climbed on his ladder to Paradise; And I know that his comrades had done the same Had they been where he was my pulses thrill, And I humbly say, "I am much to blame, In this sordid world there are heroes still." BERTRAND SHADWELL. PRESERVING-TIME ALL over the land there s a savory smell, You meet it abroad or at home; The days of your childhood come back for a spell, No matter how far you may roam T is the scent of preserving the strawberry red, The pineapple, raspberry, plum; That the gooseberry, currant, and cherry must shed When the jelly and marmalade come. For the kitchen s a sight in these summery days, As the kettles all simmer or steam; The mountains of sugar we view with amaze, And the fruits are an epicure s dream; Abroad through the land goes the savory scent Made by nieces of good Uncle Sam; And prosperity s balm with th odor is blent Of marmalade, jelly, and jam. ANONYMOUS. THE MIDNIGHT MAIL RESONANT, full, and deep Is the voice of the Midnight Mail; It rolls through the shadowy realms of sleep When the high moon gleams on the rail. It startles the drowsing oak, And the clustered pines reply, And the gray battalions of goblin smoke Hang moveless under the sky. 302 THE HUMBLER POETS But, oh, not the lordly notes That waken the dreaming hill, Nor the cloud-white plume that backward floats, Nor the clamor that warns, "I kill" Not the drifting smoke above, Nor the transient furnace-glare, But the freightage of sorrow and joy and love Which the Midnight Mail doth bear! The great, swift wheels the long Yellow chain of squares agleam It is not for these that the poet s song Is blent with the roar of steam. Not the triumph of splendid arts, Nor the prince of the passionless rail, But the anxious eyes and the beating hearts That wait for the Midnight Mail! WILLIAM HURD HILLTEB. A BOARD SCHOOL PASTORAL ALONE I stay; for I am lame, I cannot join them at the game, The lads and lasses; But many a summer holiday I sit apart and watch them play, And well I know: my heart can say, When Ella passes. Of all the maidens in the place, T is Ella has the sunniest face, Her eyes are clearest. Of all the girls, or here or there, T is Ella s voice is soft and rare, And Ella has the darkest hair, And Ella s dearest. Oh, strong the lads for bat or ball, But I in wit am first of all The master praises. The master s mien is grave and wise; But, while I look into his eyes, My heart, that o er the schoolroom flies, At Ella gazes. And Hal s below me every day; For Hal is wild, and he is gay, He loves not learning. THE POETRY OF EVERYDAY 303 But when the swiftest runners meet, Oh, who but Hal is proud and fleet, And there s a smile I know will greet His glad returning. They call me moody, dull, and blind, They say with books I maze my mind, The lads and lasses; But little do they know ah me! How with my book upon my knee I dream and dream, but ever see Where Ella passes. MAT KENDALL. THE GERMAN BAND JUST a German band a-playing in a narrow alley-way But the mind of him who hears it travels back to yesterday Back across the years of hustle to the homely little town Where, the village trombone player, in his youth he won renown; The grimy city fades from sight, while down a village street He sees the town band coming hears the melodies so sweet "Ole Black Joe" and "Swanee River" and "Since Nellie Went Away" Just a German band a-playing in a narrow alley-way. Just "Die Wacht Am Rhein" a-mingling with the city s heat and noise. But the man who hears goes marching marching once more with the "boys." Now his patriotism s red-hot in a "Glorious Fourth" parade Now they play beneath her window a soft "Lover s Serenade"; The wind is in the maples tall that line the street; the moon Shines down upon the old Town Band, a-winking at the tune, And in the lull of melody they hear her laughter gay Just a German band a-playing in a narrow alley-way. Just the blare of brass a-crashing up the gloomy heights of brick, Where the green grass is as rare as grimy little kids are thick, Where all is rush and rattle, dirt and greed and ceaseless din, And there s no old-fashioned garden for a man to linger in Just "A Hot Time" badly rendered, but the man who s listening The great crowds gathering in the grove beneath the arching trees, For the old-time "Voters Rally," where the band so liked to play- Just a German band perspiring in a narrow alley-way. 304 THE HUMBLER POETS Just a comic opera chorus rendered for the loafers jeers, But the man up in the window shuts his weary eyes and hears The old Town Band in action how they glittered in the sun! The buttons on those uniforms that by hard work they d won; He hears "Sweet Alice," "Nancy Lee," "My Old Kentucky Home," He sees himself there marching with that shiny new trombone, And on the curb a pretty face a girl of yesterday Just a German band a-playing in a narrow alley-way. EARL DERR BIGGERS. "/ NEVER KNOWED" OLD Billy B. was a pious man, And Heaven was his goal; For, being a very saving man, Of course, he d save his soul. But even in this, he used to say: "One can t too careful be!" And he sang with a fervor unassumed, "I m glad salvation s free." But the "means of grace" he had to own Required good, hard-earned gold, And he took ten pews, as well became The richest of the fold. "He s a noble man!" the preacher cried, "Our Christian Brother B." And Billy smiled as he sublet nine, And got his own pew free. In class meeting next, our Billy told How Heaven had gracious been, Yea, even back in the dark days when He was a man of sin. "I was buildin a barn on my river farm All I then had," he said, "I d run out o boards, and was feedin hands On nothin but corn bread. "I ll tell ye, bretherin, that I felt blue, Short o timber and cash, And thought I d died when the banks then bust, And flooded all my mash. But the Lord was merciful to me, And sent right through the rift The tide had made in the river banks, A lumber raft adrift. THE POETRY OF EVERYDAY 305 "Plenty o boards was there for the barn, And on top was a cheese. And a bar l o pork as sound and sweet As any one ever sees. Then I had bread and meat for the men, And they worked with a will, While I thanked God, who d been good to me, And 1 mdoin of it still." A shrill-voiced sister cried, "Bless the Lord," The whole class cried, "Amen." But a keen-eyed man looked at Billy B. In thoughtful way, and then Asked, "Brother B., did you ever hear Who lost that raft and load? " And Billy wiped his eyes and said, "Bretherin, I never knowed." WILLIAM T. CROASDALE. WHEN A MAN S OUT OF A JOB ALL Nature is sick from her heels to her hair, W en a feller is out of a job; She is all out of kilter and out of repair, W en a feller is out of a job; Ain t no juice in the earth an no salt in the sea, Ain t no ginger in life in this land of the free, An the Universe ain t what it s cracked up to be, W en a feller is out of a job. W at s the good of blue skies, an of blossoming trees, W en a feller is out of a job? W en your boy hez large patches on both of his knees, An a feller is out of a job? Them patches, I say, look so big in your eye That they shut out the lan scape an cover the sky, An the sun can t shine through em the best it can try, W en a feller is out of a job. W en a man has no part in the work of the earth, W en a feller is out of a job, He feels the whole blundering mistake of his birth, W en a feller is out of a job; He feels he s no share in the whole of the plan, That he s got the mitten from Natur s own hand, That he s a rejected and left-over man, W en a feller is out of a job. 306 THE HUMBLER POETS For you ve jest lost your holt with the rest of the crowd, Wen a feller is out of a job; An you feel like a dead man with nary a shroud, Wen a feller is out of a job. You re crawling around, but you re out of the game; You may hustle about, but you re dead just the same You re dead with no tombstone to puff up your name, Wen a feller is out of a job. SAM WALTER FOBS. CHRYSALIDS HER gaze meets his as he looks down Within the turmoil of the street; And all the clattering of the town Fails, and is silent at their feet. They move to music, with the trill Of birds where skyey orchards blow; And far from them the winter chill, The smoke-stained clouds, and drabbled snow. Well lost, the granite street and walls, The laden wains, the shouts and stirs, In that revealing glance which falls From his dear eyes quick into hers. Unreal these firmly factful things: The traffic, barter, busy schemes; For all earth s strifes and bargainings Are chrysalids of winged dreams. ANONYMOUS. ONLY A FACTORY GIRL Dedicated to the millions of self-supporting young women of America. ONLY a factory girl, And she works in the noisy mill, But her hands are deft, and her arms are strong, And she sings at her work the whole day long, And she works with a right good will; For mother at home is growing old, And mother s house is poor and cold, And the wintry winds are chill; And she longs for the day to quickly come When mother may have a better home, And so she toils in the mill. THE POETRY OF EVERY DAY 307 Only a factory girl, And the hours of her toil are long, But her mind is clear and her soul is free, And her heart is glad as glad can be, As she sings her cheerful song; For every day in plainer view Comes mother s home so bright and new, As the time speeds quick along; So again her heart leaps forth in glee, And her good pure soul is again more free, As she sings a sweeter song. Only a factory girl, Her mother s hope and stay, But her love is strong for every one, Like the glowing beams of the morning sun As he ushers in the day. Her flowers she gives to the sick and poor, And she always keeps an open door For all who come that way. And for air who live by constant toil, In mill or mine or on the soil, She hopes for a better day. C. J. BUELL. THE AMERICAN FIREMAN A CLAMOR and clatter of galloping hoofs With their rhythm of granite and steel, A clangor of gongs resounding along From beetling block to block, And out of the dark with many a spark Great engines rush and reel, The wagons with hose, the ladders and hooks, And ever the sudden shock That the shout of "Fire!" thrills into the night, That the burning pine and the eddying light Bring home to the heart to make it leap, To the feet to make them race Wherever the cries and confusion arise And the crowds press on apace. Enveloping every darkling height Which the storeyed canyons lift, From the seething caldron underneath, The billowing vapors swirl; On the shrinking crowd with a jangling loud The hose-carts sway, and swift 308 THE HUMBLER POETS At the corners drop the lengthening bands, And on to the burning whirl; But the engine ends its fiery trail With the hose made fast and an answering wail As the helmeted Chief in shadowy white Through the glooming trumpets, "Play!" And the pipemen grip at the golden lip Where the gushing waters spray. Through pillared smoke from the windows a-row Huge flashes shimmer and sweep To redden the faces of men in the street And the face of the clouds in the sky; There s a clashing of glass, and the lanterned men pass As the arrowy fountains leap, And hoarsening, echoing noises go up Where the cornices smoulder on high; While over the din with a pulsing hum The thunder and purr of the engines come, And the meteors rise from their quivering throats To fall by their vibrant frames, Till the murkiest gleam turns pallid with steam As their showers drown the flames. On the roofs around in the tremulous light There are dusky shapes discerned; There are those who haul great ribands of pipe Aloft by the sheerest strength; There are glimpsing forms in the midst of storms By flickering fire-gusts burned; There are mighty ladders alive with men Uplifting their fathoms of length; And by them all and over them all Was the staunch old Chief with his cheer and call, With a wit that made this machine of men And engines a living whole, With a quick resource and an undrained force That gave it responsive soul. All this the gathering throng below Can see through the glimmer afar; With a shout outflung for each fiery tongue, They cheer as it were at a game; They sigh for the black of the night brought back; Nor think of the desperate war, Of the maddening toil, and the reek to breathe, And the garments of shuddering flame: THE POETRY OF EVERY DAY 309 For if ever they reckoned the direful harm And the seething fate and the long alarm That the firemen fends from all they love By his duty simply done, No warrior a-stain with the blood of his slain Had half such a guerdon won. CHRISTOPHER BANNISTER. ONE WITNESS THE Secretary was a presence grim, Moody and cold, and full of cares of state; But one there was who, mute, defended him His little dog watched for him at the gate. The Secretary, he became a clod, Pomp and funereal honors, hearse ornate; No friends, no tears but in the sight of God His little dog watched for him at the gate. ANONYMOUS. SATURDAY NIGHT SATURDAY night in the crowded town; Pleasure and pain going up and down. Murmuring low on the ear there beat Echoes unceasing of voice and feet. Withered age with its load of care, Come in this tumult of life to share, Childhood glad in its radiance brief, Happiest-hearted or bowed with grief, Meet alike, as the stars look down Week by week on the crowded town. And in a kingdom of mystery Rapt from this weariful world to see Magic sights in the yellow glare, Breathing delight in the gas-lit air, Careless of sorrow, of grief or pain, Two by two, again and again, Strephon and Chloe together move Walking in Arcady, land of love ! What are the meanings that burden all These murmuring voices that rise and fall? Tragedies whispered of, secrets told, Over the baskets of bought and sold; Joyous speech of the lately wed; 310 THE HUMBLER POETS Broken lamen tings that name the dead: Endless runes of the gossip s rede; And, gathered home with the weekly need, Kindly greetings, as neighbors meet There in the stir of the busy street. Then is the glare of the gaslight ray Gifted with potency strange to-day. Records of time-written history Flash into sight as each face goes by. There as the hundreds slow moving go, Each with his burden of joy or woe, Souls, in the meeting of strangers eyes Startled this kinship to recognize, Meet and part, as the stars look down Week by week on the crowded town. And still, in the midst of the busy hum, Rapt in their dreams of delight they come. Heedless of sorrow, of grief or care, Wandering on in enchanted air, Far from the haunting shadow of pain; Two by two, again and again, Strephon and Chloe together move, Walking in Arcady, land of love. MARY COLBURNE VEEL. ONCE IN A WHILE ONCE in a while the skies seem blue, The way grows pleasant for a mile; Fair blossoms spring where no flowers grew Once in a while. We leave the road and mount the stile, And hear the throstles anew An anthem in a vaulted aisle. Grief loses somewhat of its hue, Tired, tear-worn eyes look up and smile, When God s sweet sunshine stealeth through, Once in a while. W. FRANCIS CHAMBERS. Part WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY Is it not well, my brethren ? There is made One song through all the land, Before one light old doubts and shadows fade, With old lines drawn in sand. The past lies dead. New sight, a broader view, For the Republic sees a purpose new Of boundless scope. While like a sun that burns with clearer flame Sweeps rising through the sky her spotless fame, And lights a land that knows one love, one aim, One flag, one faith, one hope. CHARLES E. RUSSELL. Part WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY HOW WE BURNED THE PHILADELPHIA BY the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore He would scourge us from the seas; Yankees should trouble his soul no more By the Prophet s beard the Bashaw swore, Then lighted his hookah, and took his ease, And troubled his soul no more. The moon was dim in the western sky, And a mist fell soft on the sea, As we slipped away from the Siren brig And headed for Tripoli. Behind us the bulk of the Siren lay, Before us the empty night; And when again we looked behind The Siren was gone from sight. Nothing behind us, and nothing before, Only the silence and rain, As the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows And cast us up again. Through the rain and the silence we stole along, Cautious and stealthy and slow, For we knew the waters were full of those Who might challenge the Mastico. But nothing we saw till we saw the ghost Of the ship we had come to see, Her ghostly lights and her ghostly frame Rolling uneasily. And as we looked, the mist drew up And the moon threw off her veil, And we saw the ship in the pale moonlight, Ghostly and drear and pale. 313 314 THE HUMBLER POETS Then spoke Decatur low and said: "To the bulwarks shadow all! But the six who wear the Tripoli dress Shall answer the sentinel s call." "What ship is that?" cried the sentinel. "No ship," was the answer free; "But only a Malta ketch in distress Wanting to moor in your lee. "We have lost our anchor, and wait for day To sail into Tripoli town, And the sea rolls fierce and high to-night, So cast a cable down." Then close to the frigate s side we came, Made fast to her unforbid Six of us bold in the heathen dress, The rest of us lying hid. But one who saw us hiding there "Americano" cried. Then straight we rose and made a rush Pell-mell up the frigate s side. Less than a hundred men were we, And the heathen were twenty-score; But a Yankee sailor in those old days Liked odds of one to four. And first we cleaned the quarter deck, And then from stern to stem We charged into our enemies And quickly slaughtered them. All around was the dreadful sound Of corpses striking the sea, And the awful shrieks of dying men In their last agony. The heathen fought like devils all, But one by one they fell, Swept from the deck by our cutlasses To the water, and so to hell. Some we found in the black of the hold, Some to the fo c s le fled, But all in vain; we sought them out And left them lying dead; WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 315 Till at last no soul but Christian souls Upon that ship was found; The twenty-score were dead, and we, The hundred, safe and sound. And, stumbling over the tangled dead, The deck a crimson tide, We fired the ship from keel to shrouds And tumbled over the side. Then out to sea we sailed once more With the world as light as day, And the flames revealed a hundred sail Of the heathen there in the bay. All suddenly the red light paled, And the rain rang out on the sea; Then a dazzling flash, a deafening roar, Between us and Tripoli! Then nothing behind us, and nothing before, Only the silence and rain; And the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows And cast us up again. By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore He would scourge us from the seas; Yankees should trouble his soul no more By the Prophet s beard the Bashaw swore, Then lighted his hookah and took his ease, And troubled his soul no more. BARRETT EASTMAN. MOTHER WEST THERE is a mother, legend runs, Of mothers quite the best, Who boasts ten million sturdy sons Twixt plain and mountain crest; She gives of wealth in goodly store, She gives abounding health and, more, She opens wide Contentment s door Her name is Mother West. Beneath the blazing stars, low-swung, Where eagles make their nest, Her hardy boys to crags have clung And faced death with a jest; 316 THE HUMBLER POETS And on the cattle-dotted plain, Where ranch lights now gleam through the rain, Right cheerily her sons have lain And died for Mother West. For she a mystic spell has laid Upon the human breast; To break her bonds men have essayed, But well they stand the test; For every pulsing heart she claims, And every mind, with all its aims, Once yielding to her sunset flames Belongs to Mother West. O thou, whose bounties never fail, We are thy children blest; To foreign shores we may set sail, Our pilot strange unrest; But still thy nestlings turn to thee Thy hills, thy plains, thy mystery And, at the last, from oversea Come home to Mother West. ARTHUR CHAPMAN. THE PIONEERS PALE in the east a filmy moon Creeps up the empty sky, And the pallid prairie rounds bleak below, And we wonder that we are here; and the thin winds sigh Through the broken stalks of the sunflowers that wait to die, And the sun is gone, and the darkness begins to grow, And out on the shadowy plains we hear the coyote s cry. Out of the dark of the prairie plains What lurks in the darkened plains? It is there that the coyote howls, It is there that the Indian prowls, Sinewy-footed, alert, Watching to do us hurt; And the sombre buffalo Pace, ominous and slow, With their black beards trailing low Over the sifting snow. And we, we cower and shake, Lying all night awake, We in our little sod-built hut in the heart of the plain. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 317 God guard us, and make vain The wiles of the Indian foe; God show us how to go, And lead us in again Out of the dread of the plain, Home to the mountains and hills that our childhood knew, Where over the sombre pine trees the sea shines blue. HERBERT BATES. THE FIGHT AT THE SAN JACINTO "Now for a brisk and cheerful fight!" Said Harman big and droll, As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light, And puffed at his cold clay bowl; "For we are a skulking lot," says he, "Of land-thieves hereabout, And these bold senores, two to one, Have come to smoke us out." Santa Anna and Castrillon, Almonte brave and gay, Portrilla red with Goliad, And Cos with his smart array. Dulces and cigaritos, And the light guitar, ting-turn! Sant Anna courts siesta And Sam Houston taps his drum. The buck stands still in the timber "Is t the patter of nuts that fall?" The foal of the wild mare whinnies Did he hear the Comanche call? In the brake by the crawling bayou The slinking she- wolves howl; And the mustang s snort in the river sedge Has started the padding fowl. A soft, low tap, and a muffled tap, And a roll not loud or long We would not break Sant Anna s nap, Nor spoil Amonte s song. Saddles and knives and rifles! Lord! but the men were glad When Deaf Smith muttered "Alamo!" And Karaes hissed "Goliad!" 318 THE HUMBLER POETS The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt, And the fifer gripped his gun. Oh, for one free, wild, Texan yell, As we took the slope in a run! But never a shout nor a shot we spent, Nor an oath nor prayer, that day, Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye, And then we blazed away. Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam, And the glory that Travis made, With Bowie s lunge, and Crockett s shot, And Fannin s dancing blade; And the heart of the fighter, bounding free In his joy so hot and mad When Millard charged for Alamo, Lamar for Goliad. Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur, Into the shock and rout: "I ve hacked and burned the bayou bridge; There s no sneak s back-way out!" Muzzle or butt for Goliad, Pistol and blade and fist! Oh, for the knife that never glanced, And the gun that never missed! Dulces and cigaritos, Song and the mandolin! That gory swamp is a gruesome grove To dance fandangos in. We bridged the bog with the sprawling herd That fell in that frantic rout; We slew and slew till the sun set red, And the Texan star flashed out. JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER. BETSY S BATTLE FLAG Betsy Ross made the first flag with the stars and stripes in Philadelphia during June, 1775, at the instance of General Washington. FROM dusk till dawn the livelong night She kept her tallow dips alight, And fast her nimble fingers flew To sew the stars upon the blue. With weary eyes and aching head WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 319 She stitched the stripes of white and red, And when the day came up the stair Complete across a carven chair Hung Betsy s battle flag. Like shadows in the evening gray The Continentals filed away, With broken boots and ragged coats, With hoarse defiance in their throats; They bore the marks of want and cold, And some were lame and some were old, And some with wounds untended bled, But floating bravely overhead Was Betsy s battle flag. When fell the battle s leaden rain, The soldier hushed his moans of pain And raised his dying head to see King Geoge s troopers turn and flee. Their charging column reeled and broke, And vanished in the rolling smoke, Before the glory of the stars, The snowy stripes, and scarlet bars Of Betsy s battle flag. The simple stone of Betsy Ross Is covered now with mould and moss, But still her deathless banner flies, And keeps the color of the skies. A nation thrills, a nation bleeds, A nation follows where it leads, And every man is proud to yield His life upon a crimson field For Betsy s battle flag. MINNA IRVING. THE FIGHTING RACE "READ out the names!" and Burke sat back, And Kelly dropped his head. While Shea they called him Scholar Jack Went down the list of the dead, Officers, seamen, gunners, marines, The crews of the gig and yawl, The bearded man and the lad in his teens, Carpenters, coal-passers all. Then, knocking the ashes from out his pipe, Said Burke in an off-hand way: 320 THE HUMBLER POETS "We re all in that dead man s list, by Gripe! Kelly and Burke and Shea." "Well, here s to the Maine, and I m sorry for Spain," Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. "Wherever there s Kelly there s trouble," said Burke. "Wherever fighting s the game, Or a spice of danger in grown man s work," Said Kelly, "you 11 find my name." "And do we fall short," said Burke, getting mad, "When it s touch and go for life?" Said Shea, "It s thirty-odd years, bedad, Since I charged to drum and fife Up Marye s Heights, and my old canteen Stopped a rebel ball on its way; There were blossoms of blood on our sprigs of green Kelly and Burke and Shea And the dead did n t brag." "Well, here s to the flag! " Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. "I wish t was in Ireland, for there s the place," Said Burke, "that we d die by right, In the cradle of our soldier race, After one good stand-up fight. My grandfather fell on Vinegar Hill, And fighting was not his trade; But his rusty pike s in the cabin still, With Hessian blood on the blade." "Aye, aye," said Kelly, "the pikes were great When the word was clear the way ! We were thick on the roll in ninety-eight Kelly and Burke and Shea." "Well, here s to the pike and the sword and the like!" Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. And Shea, the scholar, with rising joy, Said: "We were at Ramillies, We left our bones at Fontenoy And up in the Pyrenees. Before Dunkirk, on Landen s plain, Cremona, Lille, and Ghent, We re all over Austria, France, and Spain, Wherever they pitch a tent. We ve died for England, from Waterloo To Egypt and Dargai; And still there J s enough for a corps or crew Kelly and Burke and Shea." "Well, here s to good honest fighting blood!" Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 321 "Oh, the fighting races don t die out, If they seldom die in bed, For love is first in their hearts, no doubt," Said Burke, then Kelly said: "When Michael, the Irish archangel, stands, The angel with the sword, And the battle-dead from a hundred lands Are ranged in one big horde, Our line, that for Gabriel s trumpet waits, Will stretch three deep that day, From Jehosaphat to the Golden Gates Kelly and Burke and Shea." "Well, here s thank God for the race and the sod!" Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE. THE KEARSARGE The Kearsarge, which destroyed the Confederate cruiser Alabama off Cherbourg, France, was wrecked on Roncador reef, in the Caribbean Sea, February 2, 1894. IN the gloomy ocean bed Dwelt a formless thing and said, In the dim and countless aeons long ago, "I will build a stronghold high, Ocean s power to defy, And the pride of haughty man to lay low." Crept the minutes for the sad, Sped the cycles for the glad, But the march of time was neither less nor more; While the formless atom died, Myriad millions by its side, And above them slowly lifted Roncador. Roncador of Caribee, Coral dragon of the sea, Ever sleeping with his teeth below the wave; Woe to him who breaks the sleep! Woe to them who sail the deep! Woe to ship and man that fear a shipman s grave! Hither many a galleon old, Heavy-keeled with guilty gold, Fled before the hardy rover smiting sore; But the sleeper silent lay Till the preyer and his prey Brought their plunder and their bones to Roncador. 322 THE HUMBLER POETS Be content, O conqueror! Now the bravest ship-of-war, War and tempest who had often braved before, All her storied prowess past, Strikes her glorious flag at last To the formless thing that builded Roncador. JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. UNRECONSTRUCTED For the benefit of those whose sense of humor goes into eclipse when serious matters are treated lightly, it is to be observed that this stirring ballad was written by one of the younger generation in Virginia to satirize the attitude of certain of his elders. I AM a good old rebel Yes; that s just what I am And for this land of freedom I do not give a dam . I m glad I fit agin em, And I only wish we d won; And I don t ax any pardin For anything I ve done. I hate the Yankee nation Hate everything they do; I hate their Declaration Of Independence, too: I hate their pesky eagle With all its brag and fuss the lyin , thievin Yankees, I hate em wuss and wuss! 1 fit with ol Mars Robert For four years tharabout; Got wounded in three places And starved at Point Lookout; I cotched the rheumatizzum A-campin in the snow; But I killed a chance o Yankees And I wish I d killed some mo . Three hundred thousand Yankees Lie stiff in Southern dus . We killed three hundred thousand Before they conquered us. They died of Southern fever, Of Southern shell and shot An I wish it had been three million Instid o what we got. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 323 I cain t take up my musket To fight em any mo ; But I ain t a-gwine to love em, And that is sartain sho . I don t ax any pardin For what I was or am, For I won t be reconstructed, And I don t give a dam . INNES RANDOLPH. BALLAD OF THE SABRE CROSS AND 7 A TROOP of sorrels led by Vic and then a troop of bays; In the backward ranks of the foaming flanks a double troop of grays; The horses are galloping muzzle to tail, and back of the waving manes The troopers sit, their brows all knit, a left hand on the reins. Their hats are gray, and their shirts of blue have a sabre cross and 7, And little they know, when the trumpeters blow, they 11 halt at the gates of Heaven. Their colors have dipped at the top of the ridge how the line of cavalry waves! And over the hills, at a gallop that kills, they are riding to get to their graves. "I heard the scouts jabber all night," said one; "they peppered my dreams with alarm. That old Ree scout had his medicine out an was trying to fix up a charm." There are miles of tepees just ahead, and the warriors in hollow and vale Lie low in the grass till the troopers pass, and then they creep over the trail. The trumpets have sounded the General shouts! He pulls up and turns to the rear; "We can t go back they ve covered our track we ve got t fight em here." He rushes a troop to the point of the ridge where the valley opens wide, And Smith deploys a line of the boys to stop the coming tide. There s a fringe of fire on the skirt of the hills; in every deep ravine The savages yell, like the fiends of hell, behind a smoky screen. 324 THE HUMBLER POETS "Where s Reno?" said Custer, "Why don t he charge? It isn t time to dally!" And he shouts for help, and he waves his hat to the men across the valley. There s a wild stampede of horses; every man in the skirmish line Stands at his post as a howling host rush up the steep incline. Their rifles answer the deadly fire and they fall with a fighting frown, Till two by two, in a row of blue, the skirmish line is down. A trooper stood over his wounded mate, "No use o you tryin t fight, Blow .out yer brains you 11 suffer hell-pains when ye go to the torture to-night. We tackled too much; t was a desperate game I knowed we never could win it. Custer is dead they re all of em dead an I shall be dead in a minute." They re all of them down at the top of the ridge; the sabre cross and 7 On many a breast, as it lies at rest, is turned to the smoky heaven. The wounded men are up and away; they re running hard for their lives, While the bloody corse of rider and horse is quivering under the knives. Some troopers watch from a distant hill with hope that never tires; As the shadows fall on the camp of Gall they can see its hun dred fires. And phantoms ride on the dusky plain and the troopers tell their fears; As the bugle rings, the song it sings they hope may reach his ears. There s a reeling dance on the river s edge; its echoes fill the night; In the valley dim, the shadows swim on a lengthening pool of light. On the Hill of Fear the troopers stand and listen with bated breath, While the bugle strains on lonely plains are searching the valley of death. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 325 "What is that like tumbled gravestones on the hilltop there ahead?" Said the trooper peering through his glass, "My God! sir, it s the dead! How white they look! How white they look! they ve killed em every one ! An they re stripped as bare as babies an they re rotting in the sun." And Custer back of the tumbled line on a slope of the ridge we found him; And three men deep in a bloody heap, they fell as they rallied round him. The plains lay brown like a halted sea held firm by the hand of God; In the rolling waves we dug their graves and left them under the sod. IRVING BACHELLER. STRIKE THE BLOW THE four-way winds of the world have blown, And the ships have ta en the wave; The legions march to the trumps shrill call Neath the flag of the free and brave. The hounds of the sea Have trailed the foe, They have trailed and tracked him down, Then wait no longer, but strike, O land, With the dauntless strength of thy strong right hand, Strike the blow! The armored fleets, with their grinning guns, Have the Spaniard in his lair; They have tracked him down where the ramparts frown, And they 11 halt and hold him there. They have steamed in his wake, They have seen him go, They have bottled and corked him up; Then send him home to the under-foam, Till the wide sea shakes to the far blue dome; Strike the blow! The Cuban dead and the dying call, The children starved in the light Of the aid that waits till the hero deed Breaks broad on the tyrant s might. The starved and the weak 326 THE HUMBLER POETS In their hour of woe Are calling, land, on thee; Then why delay in thy dauntless sway? On, on, to the charge of the freedom- way! Strike the blow! They have ta en the winds of the Carib seas, Thy fleets that know not fear; Their ribs of steel have yearned to reel In the dance of the cannoneer. Thy sons of the blue That wait to go Would leap with a will to the charge, Then send them the word so long deferred; They have listened late, but they have not heard; Strike the blow! They have listened late in the desolate land, They have looked through brimming eyes, And starving women have held dead babes To their hearts with a thousand sighs. On, on, to the end, O land, the foe Beneath thy sword shall fall; Thy ships of steel have tracked them home, Ye are king of the land and king of the foam. Strike the blow! ANONYMOUS. CHICKAMAUGA THEY are camped on Chickamauga! Once again the white tents gleam On that field where vanished heroes Sleep the sleep that knows no dream. There are shadows all about them Of the ghostly troops to-day, But they light the common campfire Those who wore the blue and gray. Where the pines of Georgia tower, Where the mountains kiss the sky, On their arms the nation s warriors Wait to hear the battle-cry. Wait together, friends and brothers, And the heroes neath their feet Sleep the long and dreamless slumber Where the flowers are blooming sweet. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 327 Sentries, pause, yon shadow challenge! Rock-ribbed Thomas goes that way He who fought the foes unyielding In that awful battle fray. Yonder pass the shades of heroes, And they follow where Bragg leads Through the meadows and the river, But no ghost the sentry heeds. Field of fame, a patriot army Treads thy sacred sod to-day! And they ll fight a common foeman, Those who wore the blue and gray, And they 11 fight for common country, And they 11 charge to victory Neath the folds of one brave banner Starry banner of the free! They are camped on Chickamauga, Where the green tents of the dead Turn the soil into a glory Where a nation s heart once bled; But they re clasping hands together On this storied field of strife Brothers brave who meet to battle In the freedom-war of life! ANONYMOUS. THE RUSH OF THE OREGON THEY held her South to Magellan s mouth, Then East they steered her, forth Through the farther gate of the crafty strait, And then they held her North. Six thousand miles to the Indian Isles! And the Oregon rushed home, Her wake a swirl of jade and pearl, Her bow a bend of foam. And when at Rio the cable sang, "There is war! grim war with Spain!" The swart crews grinned and stroked their guns And thought on the mangled Maine. In the glimmering gloom of the engine room There was joy to each grimy soul, And fainting men sprang up again And piled the blazing coal. 328 THE HUMBLER POETS Good need was there to go with care; But every sailor prayed Or gun for gun, or six to one To meet them, unafraid. Her goal at last! With joyous blast She hailed the welcoming roar Of hungry sea-wolves curved along The strong-hilled Cuban shore. Long nights went by. Her beamed eye, Unwavering, searched the bay Where trapped and penned for a certain end The Spanish squadron lay. Out of the harbor a curl of smoke A watchful gun rang clear. Out of the channel the squadron broke Like a bevy of frightened deer. Then there was shouting for "Steam, more steam!" And the fires gleamed white and red; And guns were manned, and ranges planned, And the great ships leaped ahead. Then there was roaring of chorusing guns, Shatter of shell, and spray; And who but the Oregon Was fiercest in chase and fray! For her mighty wake was a seething snake; Her bow was a billow of foam: Like the mailed fists of an angry wight Her shot drove crashing home! Pride of the Spanish navy, ho! Flee like a hounded beast! For the Ship of the Northwest strikes a blow For the Ship of the far Northeast! In quivering joy she surged ahead, Aflame with flashing bars, Till down sunk the Spaniard s gold and red And up ran the Clustered Stars. "Glory to share?" Aye, and to spare; But the chiefest is hers by right Of a rush of fourteen thousand miles For the chance of a bitter fight! ARTHUR GUITERMAN. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 329 THE SAILING OF THE FLEET Two fleets have sailed from Spain. The one would seek What lands uncharted ocean might conceal. Despised, condemned, and pitifully weak, It found a world for Leon and Castile. The other, mighty, arrogant, and vain, Sought to subdue a people who were free. Ask of the storm-gods where its galleons be, Whelmed neath the billows of the northern main! A third is threatened. On the western track, Once gloriously traced, its vessels speed, With gold and crimson battle-flags unfurled, On Colon s course, but to Sidonia s wrack, Sure fated, if so need shall come to need, For Sons of Drake are lords of Colon s world. ANONYMOUS. THE SONG OF THE SPANISH MAIN OUT in the south, when the day is done, And the gathered winds go free, Where golden-sanded rivers run, Fair islands fade in the sinking sun, And the great ships stagger, one by one, Up from the windy sea. Out in the south, when a twilight shroud Hangs over the ocean s rim, Sail on sail, like floating cloud, Galleon, brigantine, cannon-browed, Rich from the Indies, homeward crowd, Singing a Spanish hymn. Out in the south, when the sun has set And her lightning flickers pale, The cannon bellow their deadly threat, The ships grind, all in a crimson sweat, And hoarse throats call, "Have you stricken yet?" Across the quarter-rail. Out in the south, in the dead of night, When I hear the thunder speak, T is the Englishmen in their pride and might, Mad with glory and blind with fight, Locked with the Spaniards, left and right, Fighting them cheek and cheek; 330- THE HUMBLER POETS Out in the south, when the dawn s pale light Walks cold on the beaten shore, And the mists of night like clouds of fight, Silvery violet, blinding bright, Drift in glory from height to height Where the white-tailed eagles soar; There comes a song through the salt and spray, Blood-kin to the ocean s roar; "All day long down Florez way Richard Grenville stands at bay. Come and take him if ye may!" Then, hush, forevermore. JOHN BENNETT. OUR SOLDIERS SONG When the destruction of Cervera s fleet became known before Santiago, the soldiers cheered wildly, and, with one accord, through miles of trenches, began singing " The Star Spangled Banner." SINGING "The Star Spanged Banner" In the very jaws of death! Singing our glorious anthem, Some with their latest breath! The strains of that solemn music Through the spirit will ever roll, Thrilling with martial ardor The depths of each patriot soul. Hearing the hum of the bullets! Eager to charge the foe! Biding the call to battle, Where crimson heart streams flow! Thinking of home and dear ones, Of mother, of child, of wife, They sang "The Star Spangled Banner" On that field of deadly strife. They sang with the voices of heroes, In the face of Spanish guns, As they leaned on their loaded rifles, With the courage that never runs. They sang to our glorious emblem, Upraised on that war-worn sod, As the saints in the old arena Sang a song of praise to God. DAVID GRAHAM ADEE. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 331 CALL TO THE COLORS "ARE you ready, O Virginia, Alabama, Tennessee? People of the Southland, answer! For the land hath need of ye. " "Here!" from sandy Rio Grande, Where the Texan horsemen ride; "Here!" the hunters of Kentucky Hail from Chatterawah s side; Every toiler in the cotton, Every ragged mountaineer, Velvet-voiced and iron-handed, Lifts his voice to answer "Here!" Some remain who charged with Pickett, Some survive who followed Lee; They shall lead their sons to battle For the flag, if need there be. "Are you ready, California, Arizona, Idaho? Come, oh, come, unto the colors! Heard you not the bugle blow!" Falls a hush in San Francisco In the busy hives of trade; In the vineyards of Sonoma Fall the pruning knife and spade; In the mines of Colorado Pick and drill are thrown aside; Idly in Seattle harbor Swing the merchants to the tide; And a million mighty voices Throb responsive like a drum, Rolling from the rough Sierras, "You have called us, and we come." O er Missouri sounds the challenge O er the great lakes and the plain; "Are you ready, Minnesota? Are you ready, men of Maine?" From the woods of Ontonagon, From the*farms of Illinois, From the looms of Massachusetts, "We are ready, man and boy." Axemen free, of Androscoggin, Clerks who trudge the cities paves, Gloucester men who drag their plunder From the sullen, hungry waves, 332 THE HUMBLER POETS Big-boned Swede and large-limbed German, Celt and Saxon swell the call, And the Adirondacks echo: "We are ready, one and all." Truce to feud and peace to faction! Hushed is every party brawl, When the warships clear for action, When the battle-bugles call. Europe boasts her standing armies, Serfs who blindly fight by trade; We have seven million soldiers, And a soul guides every blade. Laborers with arm and mattock, Laborers with brain and pen, Railroad prince and railroad brakemen, Build our line of fighting men. Flag of righteous wars! close mustered Gleam the bayonets, row on row, Where thy stars are sternly clustered, With their daggers toward the foe! ARTHUR GUITERMAN. TO THE MODERN BATTLESHIP OH, men have fought with arrows, And men have fought with swords, And the deadly spit from the musket s mouth Has withered its countless hordes. But not for these would I sing a song, Nor raise the glass to my lip. Stand up! Now all! I pledge a health To the modern battleship! Here s to the graceful battleship, Beautiful in her strength, As she lies at rest on the harbor s breast, Swinging an idle length; A giantess slumbering the hour away, A tigress at rest in her den; At rest till the word of the order is heard, "Go, shatter the works of men." Here s to the deadly battleship, Terrible in the fight; With each dragon s breath see her belch forth death, Glorying in her might. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 333 Her eye is keen for an enemy s hull, And she misses never a one, Till each finds its grave in the shuddering wave To the knell of a twelve-inch gun. Then here s to the laurelled battleship, Conqueror over all; We may safely sleep while she rides the deep, Ready at danger s call. We have tried her again and we know she s true, And we 11 trust her another trip. Her health first, boys, and then, with a noise, Three cheers for the battleship! ROBERT JAMES. AT LAST GAZE through the opal mist across the main On ancient walls that rear their grandeur high Unto the kiss of a Castilian sky. Golden the glory of that storied Spain, Heavy with conquest and its dazzling gain; Valiant the pride that only dared to die For honor s sake never to question why; Mighty her prowess, its resistance vain. Gaze yet again through sulph rous mist and fire, Another Spain yields up her helpless wrecks Of stubborn pride to Freedom s last desire. No tyrant heel again shall tread their decks, And as they moulder on surrendered strands Spain s castles crumble into desert sands. GEORGE E. BOWEN. THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS A CHEER and salute for the admiral, and here s to the captain bold, And never forget the commodore s debt when the deeds of might are told! They stand to the deck through the battle s wreck, when the great shells roar and screech And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they preach ; But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia s true- blue sons, The men below who batter the foe the men behind the guns! 334 THE HUMBLER POETS Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more, When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," they start for their leave-o -shore; And you d think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some "mustache" to eat Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys, the lads who serve the guns. But say not a word till a shot is heard that tells the fight is on, Till the long deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and "Don," Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell, And the very air is a mad despair in the throes of a living hell; Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the mid day suns, You 11 find the chaps who are giving the raps, the men behind the guns! O, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of wrath, And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-inchers saith! The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil, And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for its spoil, But not till the foe has gone below, or turns his prow and runs, Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns! JOHN J. ROONEY. THE MAN WHO COOKS THE GRUB WE have read in song and story Of "the man behind the gun," He is given all the glory Of the battles that are won; They are filling up the papers With his apotheosis And they tell about his capers While the shells above him hiss; But behind the grimy gunner, Steadfast through the wild hubbub, Stands the greater god of battles T is the man who cooks the grub. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 335 When the sky is rent with thunder And the shell screams through the air, When some fort is rent asunder And Destruction revels there, When the men in line go rushing On to glory or to woe With the maddened charges crushing Heroes who are lying low, There is one but for whose labors There could be no wild hubbub, And the greatest god of battles Is the man who cooks the grub. What of ships with armor plating? What of castles on the heights? What of anxious captains waiting While the careful gunner sights? What of all the long-range rifles? What of men with valiant hearts? These were but impotent trifles, But inconsequential parts Of the whole, without the fellow Who must scour, scrape, and scrub For the greatest god of battles Is the man who cooks the grub. S. E. RISER. THE YANKEE DUDE LL DO WHEN Cholly swung his golf stick on the links, Or knocked the tennis ball across the net, With his bangs done up in cunning little kinks When he wore the tallest collar he could get, O, it was the fashion then To impale him on the pen To regard him as a being made of putty through and through; But his racquet s laid away, He is roughing it to-day, And heroically proving that the Yankee dude 11 do When Algy, as some knight of old arrayed, Was the leading figure at the "fawncy ball," We loathed him for the silly part he played; He was set down as a monkey that was all! % O, we looked upon him then As unfit to class with men As one whose heart was putty and whose brains were made of glue; 336 THE HUMBLER POETS But he s thrown his cane away, And he grasps a gun to-day, While the world beholds him, knowing what the Yankee dude 11 do. When Clarence cruised about upon his yacht, Or drove out with his footman in the park, His mamma, it was generally thought, Ought to have him in her keeping after dark! O, we ridiculed him then, We impaled him on the pen, We thought he was effeminate, we dubbed him "Sissy," too; But he nobly marched away, He is eating pork to-day, And heroically proving that the Yankee dude 11 do. How they hurled themselves against the angry foe In the jungle and the trenches on the hill! When the word to charge was given every dude was on the go He was there to die, to capture, or to kill! O, he struck his level when Men were called upon again To preserve the ancient glory of the old red, white, and blue! He has thrown his spats away, He is wearing spurs to-day, And the world will please take notice that the Yankee dude 11 do! S. E. KISEB. THE STALKING OF THE SEA WOLVES THEY had come from out of the East To ravage and burn and kill, And they stopped for a moment to rest and wait In a landlocked harbor still. But a grim sea dog there was Who had stalked them through spray and foam: And he came, and he looked, and he smiled, and said: "They 11 never get home!" Then another old sea dog came, And they sat them down to wait, Untiring, stern, through long, dry days, At the harbor s frowning gate. Under the hot, fierce sun, Under the still, blue dome, The sea dogs waited, and watched, and growled: "They 11 never get home!" WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 337 And the wolves came forth at last, And the grim sea dogs closed in, And the battle was won, and the Old Flag waved Where the banner of Spain had been. The colors of blood and gold Sank deep in the churning foam, And the sea dogs growled: " We have kept our word; They 11 never get home!" Cheers for the vow well kept! To the sea dogs twain a toast! From our land s birth-throes have our sea dogs been Our glory, pride, and boast. Whatever our perils be In the unseen years to come, Our trust is in men like the man who said: "They 11 never get home!" CHARLES W. THOMPSON. PORTO RICO OH, the soft blue waves of the southern sea Are laughing beneath the stars, And the moonlight whitens the shining sands Tossed upon the coral bars; But the sentry shivers with righteous dread, As he stands in the frowning tower And measures the time, as the night wears on, With the wasting of Spanish power. And the soft blue waves of the southern sea Laugh merrily as they feel The throbbing caress of a swift young fleet And the force of its arms of steel; But the quivering form of the sentry sways In the grip of the mighty fear, And the frowning granite grows ashen gray As the hurrying morn draws near. Oh, the soft blue waves of the southern sea Are flashing with glad, white stars That are dashing their luminous purity O er silver and crimson bars; And the sentry reads on the rising tide, As it lashes the groaning walls, The message of angered Destiny, Condemning the pride that falls. 338 THE HUMBLER POETS And the soft blue waves of the southern sun Shall reach, with their kind embrace, And wash from the ruins of tyranny Forever each cruel trace. And the sentry gone from his ghastly watch In penitent dreams shall see The flowers of freedom enwreathing the isle That is what it seems to be. GEORGE E. BOWEN. BILL SWEENY OF THE BLACK GANG The "Black Gang" is the fire-room force firemen, oilers, water-tenders, coal-passers, and so on.<K****t" THER s a feller in the Black Gang Aboard the Ampertrite; Bill Sweeny is the feller s name, You can bet that Bill s all right. He s seen a heap o the world, has Bill, He s fired all there is to fire, From a lime-juicer tramp To a brand-new Cramp With a stack like Trinity spire. Bill Sweeny is a feller With stars agin his name; But Bill he gets his liberty When any gets the same. He stands right in with them all, does Bill, And they lets him go ashore, Though he d smuggle a swig To a lad in the brig And he s sure to smuggle in more. Bill Sweeny is a feller You won t back on his looks, He s pitted up with small-pox And he ain t much read in books; But he s got a laugh that you like, has Bill, (I likes to hear him laught,) No matter where, You can swear Bill s there, Consumin his own forced draught. Bill Sweeny is the feller When the starboard engine s broke, He stays below in the scalding steam Where a man was like to choke; WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 339 And he dodges the flying cranks, does Bill, And he climbs past that hammerin rod; The rest all run, But that son-of-a-gun He shuts her off, b God! Bill Sweeny is the bully lad I likes to see around. I d rise to take a drink with Bill Though six foot under ground. But Bill, he s soft as a goil, is Bill, I mind the night he cried, When he come away From that hot sick bay, And told us old Tom had died. Bill Sweeny is a fighter Of the rough and tumble kind, He laughts when he fights, but he shows his teeth, I ve seen him at it, mind; He was one of the Baltimore s crew, was Bill, When we had the row down there. Valparaiso? Say! Don t ferget that day, Weren t Bill in thet fight for fair? Say! Did y hear Bill Sweeny? He says one night, says he : "I ve got a chanst for a good land job, But I guess I 11 stick to the sea. I knows meself and me work," says Bill, "And I m going to sign once more I m safe all right On the Ampertrite, AndjTm all at sea, ashore." Bill Sweeny of the Black Gang He s a first-class fireman now, He entered water-tender But if we had a row, We lads at the guns has a chanst but Bill And the Jacks o the Dust below, A-feedin the flame, Fights just the same If they don t say! I d like to know! JAMES BARNES. 340 THE HUMBLER POETS A MOTHER OF 98 MY gallant love goes out to-day, With drums and bugles sounding gay; I smile to cheer him on his way Smile back, my heart, to me! The flags are glittering in the light; Is it their stars that blind my sight? God, hold my tears until to-night Then set their fountains free! He takes with him the light of May; Alas! it seems but yesterday He was a bright-haired child at play, With eyes that knew no fear; Blue eyes true eyes! I see them shine Far down along the waving line Now meet them bravely, eyes of mine! Good cheer, my love, good cheer! Oh, mother-hearts, that dare not break! That feel the stress, the long, long ache, The tears that burn, the eyes that wake, For these our cherished ones And ye, true hearts not called to bear Such pain and peril for your share Oh, lift with me the pleading prayer, God save our gallant sons! MARION COUTHOUY SMITH. THE ABSENT BOY THEY miss him in the orchard, where the fruit is sunning over, And in the meadow where the air is sweet with new-mown hay, And all about the old farm which knew him for a lover, From the early seedtime onward till the crops were piled away. They miss him in the village where nothing went without him, Where to-day the young folks parties are dull and incomplete. They cannot just explain it, there was such a charm about him, The drop of cheer he always brought made common daylight sweet. And now he s gone to Cuba, he a righting for the nation, He s charging with the others, a lad in army blue. His name is little known yet, but at the upland station They all are sure you 11 hear it before the war is through. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 341 And when you talk of battles, and scan the printed column, His regiment s the one they seek, his neighbors think and care; The more they do not speak of it their look grows grave and solemn, For somewhere in the thick of strife they know their boy is there MARGARET SANGSTER. THE SOLDIER S WIFE HE offered himself for the land he loved, But what shall we say of her? He gave to his country a soldier s life; T was dearer by far to the soldier s wife. All honor to-day to her! He went to the war while his blood was hot, But what shall we say of her? He saw for himself through the battle s flame A hero s reward on the scroll of fame; What honor is due to her? He offered himself, but his wife did more, All honor to-day to her! For dearer than life was the gift she gave In giving the life she would die to save; What honor is due to her? He gave up his life at his country s call, But what shall we say of her? He offered himself as a sacrifice, But she is the one who pays the price; All honor we owe to her. ELLIOTT FLOWER. THE PRICE WE PAY YES, he was the only one killed Not a battle, of course, with only one dead But that one was my all. And the pages were blurred as I read, "Killed at the front, Tom Burton"; One man, "not much of a loss," it said, But t was all that I had, And more than they knew When they buried my hope with my dead, 342 THE HUMBLER POETS In his blood-stained battle shroud. Died that his country might live, That a people oppressed might be free. It made him a hero, you say; Perhaps, but he was always a hero to me, For I knew him and loved him. Dead, dead, now at the front, And he was only a lad. Only one life for a victory, But that life was all that I had. J. H. STEVENS. RETURNED FROM THE WARS MY pa a a great Rough Rider, He was one of Teddy s men, And he fought before El Caney In the trenches and the fen. He came home sore and wounded, And I wish you d see him eat; He s got an appetite, I guess, Is pretty hard to beat. It s eat, and eat, and eat, And it s sleep, and sleep, and sleep, For ma won t let us make no noise, And so we creep and creep. Oh, we bade him welcome home, And we re glad he was n t killed But, gee! he s got an appetite That never will be filled. My pa was in the racket, He heard the Mauser s ring, And he says there s something awful In the music of their ping. He fought the fight with Teddy, But he s glad he s home again From the trenches and the trochas, From the hills and from the fen. But it s eat, eat, eat, And it s sleep, sleep, sleep; He s kind o stricken hungry With an awful sort of sweep. But we re glad to have him home, And we re glad he was n t killed, But, gee! that awful appetite, It never will be filled. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 343 He says he caught the fever, And he had the ague, too, And he kind o got the homesicks, And the waitin made him blue. But when he reached the station And we saw him from the gate We were the happiest family You could find in all the state. But it s eat, eat, eat, And it s sleep, sleep, sleep; His hunger is abidin And it s lastin and it s deep. For he lived so long on bacon, And he slept so long on mud, I guess it a kind o filled him Full o hungry, sleepy blood. My pa s come home from fighting, Which he says was mighty hot; And we re glad to have him home again, And glad he was n t shot. My pa s a great Rough Rider, And he helped to hold the line When the Mauser balls were leapin From most every tree and vine. But it s eat, eat, eat, Since he came home to stay; And it s sleep, sleep, sleep, Bet he 11 sleep hisself away! But we re happy that he came. And we re glad he wasn t killed, But, gee! that awful appetite, It never will be filled. ANONYMOUS. JIM I HEAR the drum roll, rub-a-dub, dub And the piccolo s shrill refrain; The boys in blue with hearts so true Are marching home again. I hear the drum, but it beats for me Despair and grief s tattoo; I d be so glad if our only lad Our Jim poor Jim marched too! 344 THE HUMBLER POETS I hear the tramp, the tramp, tramp, tramp Of the army marching by; Brave soldiers all, at their country s call They went to fight and die. Their task is done, with heads erect They pass there in review; Instead of tears I d give them cheers If Jim poor Jim marched, too! I hear the clank, the clank, clank, clank Of the swords of captains gay; But my worn eyes rest on the blood-stained crest Of a hill far, far away. They left him there where the weeping winds Sing dirges faint and few They re home God s light! How grand the sight If Jim poor Jim marched, too! GEORGE V. HOBABT. FROM BIRTH TO BATTLEFIELD A CHILD is born it gasps and cries, And claps its wee fists to its eyes; It stares at those who stand around, And sleeps, a stranger unto care, While she that smiles o er joys new-found, Prays for him ere he needs for prayer. A hundred childish ills he worries through, A thousand times his life hangs by a thread; He falls, when there is nothing else to do, From some high perch and strikes upon his head Ah, who shall say God keeps him not in sight, Nor hears the prayers she offers up at night? Toil and hope and despair, Grieving and doubting and joy; Days that were dark and days that were fair For those who love the boy; Years that have wearily dragged, Years that have flown and griefs that have lagged lagged To make him a man at last. Hark to the summons that comes! Hear the merciless roll of the drums! The man for whom plans were made, He for whom schemes were laid, WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 345 Must brush them aside, for somewhere Somebody has wronged someone Let the banners wave high in the air, There is soul-stirring work to be done! Down through the valley and over the slope, A regiment sweeps to the fray! What of the prayers, the toil, the hope, And the lofty plans of yesterday? An angry shot, A crimson clot, And the smiles and tears Of twenty years End in a lump of lifeless clay. ANONYMOUS. A WAR ECHO WAKE up early, chillun! Day is long and bright; Sun is workin overtime To give us lots o light. So jers is a fightin An we must n t stop to play, Ev ry minute s precious, Ca se we got dat tax to pay. Bees is makin honey An de hoss he pull de plough. De corn s a-raisin tassels Jes as fast as it knows how. De pigs is eatin faster An de hens is cacklin gay, Am no time foh loafin , Ca se we got dat tax to pay. ANONYMOUS. TELLING THEM OF TAMPA WEARY months I ve spent in Tampa, where the luscious hard tack grows; T is a wondrous fruit, dear sister, which fact every soldier knows. And it grows please pass the butter! grows in Tampa as I said Sister! just a few potatoes! Mother, won t you pass the bread! Tell you all about our camp life? Certainly please pass the bread! Well, we got up in the morning and at night we went to bed. 346 THE HUMBLER POETS Then, sometimes, we Sister! help me to another piece of steak! Yes, and then, again, we Mother! what fine gravy you can make! Did we have good meals at Tampa? Yes, indeedy in a horn! Best the land afforded Sister! give me one more ear of corn! Meals down there were so delightful that I Mother! pour the tea! So delightful that Say, sister! is that succotash I see? Well, as I was saying, camp life is Say, sister! pass the slaw! Camp life is Say, mother! just a bit more steak er medium raw! To go back to camp life Will I have some chicken salad, say! Will I? Well, you try me! Sister! won t you pass the bread this way! Down at Tampa what s that, mother? Did I hear you men tion pie? Ice cream, too! and apple dumplin s! this must be heaven in the sky! Down to Tampa easy, mother! just two lumps is all I take! Down at O! confound old Tampa. Sister! won t you pass the cake! ANONYMOUS. MULVANEY AND ANOTHER MARY ANN swabbed down the stairs With a cold, wet rag And a tired drag Of the arms and feet, so tired And a face so hot and fired With the pent-up, burning tears. For her beau was a soldier man; A private, he, In the cavalry, Of the common name, Mulvaney, His address it was "El Caney, On the fighting line," it ran. Mary Ann poured out her woe As she swabbed the stairs With her salty tears, And her mistress inside As bitterly cried For a brave lad killed by the foe. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 347 For her boy was a soldier man; Whatever his name The cause was the same, Yes, the same as the cause of Mulvaney. He had died by the side at El Caney Of him who had loved Mary Ann. JOHN A. MOROSO. IN DE M AWN IN DE good Lawd hide me out er sight, Fer dey got a ship th ows dynamite, En blows you up lak a streak er light; En der war won t end in de mawnin ! De good Lawd keep me day an night Fum de ship dat comes wid de dynamite, Or I 11 go ter glory on a streak er light, En de war won t end in de mawnin ! ANONYMOUS. FIGURING IT ALL UP THE Captain strode the quarter deck; The crews were at the guns; The powder flames leaped fiercely out, Like as the lightning runs. Afar the fortress rose, all grim, And bellowed in reply, Till smoke and fire and thunder sound Shook both the sea and sky. And the Captain took His little book, And figured away, while his fingers shook: "2 into 10 goes 16 times, And the square of 12 is 4; 79 is the cube of 6, And my deck is wet with gore. 53 is the G. C. D., And 7 plus 2 is 5 And my ship is shot to a battered hulk, And I have n t a man alive!" The other Captain, in the fort, Stood sadly on parade; The gatlings, siege, and other guns A fearsome racket made. They boomed across the troubled waves, Against the swooping ships, 348 THE HUMBLER POETS And as their echoes thrilled the air The Captain bit his lips. And he also took His little book, And figured it out with a worried look: "6 per cent of a dozen men, And the sine of 18 more, All bisected by 25, And the arc of 34; 3 plus 8, to the decimal, And the tare and tret," he said, " Combined with the subdivided sum, Shows all my men are dead." Thus each side lost and each side won, And each side fought the fray, And now they re figuring upon The powder bills to pay. Grim war is awful, at its best, But who will lose or lick If he relies entirely on The old arithmetic? ANONYMOUS. OUR NEW HEROES THEY VE half inch thick of tan upon their faces, And some of them have freckles on their toes, They Ve scars and bandages in sundry places As proof of the attentions of their foes. There are some who really ought to see the barber Their tailors surely never earned their pay But we d know them anywhere as our new heroes The men the nation honors Hip, hooray! Chorus They re coming home together To meet us all again, The men the nation honors, The men who conquered Spain; And when they march down Broadway We 11 tear the sky with cheers For Army and for Navy, And gallant volunteers. There s Dewey, whom Augustin swore to murder, To hang upon the trees with all his men; But Dewey did n t understand the programme And so he smashed Montojo in his den. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 349 There is Hobson earned the foeman s admiration; He bottled up poor Cervera so tight That when the Spaniard fled in desperation He had to make his dash in broad daylight. Chorus. They re coming home, &c. There s the men who caught the Spanish ships escaping And sent them all to Davy Jones domain; He kept the word he gave when first he saw them "Not one," he said, " would e er get back to Spain." There s Shafter and his men from Santiago, They drew the lines so close about the town That all the brave defenders there surrendered And twenty thousand stand of arms laid down. Chorus. They re coming home, &c. SYDNEY REID. THE MAN WHO DOES THE CHEERING THIS war with Spain reminds me o the Spring o 61, About the time or jist afore the Civil War begun; A certain class o heroes ain t remembered in this age, Yit their names in golden letters should be writ on history s page, Their voices urged on others to save this ol country s fall; I admit they never listened when they heerd Abe Lincoln call; They never heerd a eagle scream er heerd a rifle crack, But you bet they done the cheerin When the Troops Come Back. O course it s glorious to fight when freedom is at stake, I low a feller likes to show that he hez helped to make Another star in freedom s sky the star o Cuby free! But still another feelin creeps along o that when he Gits to thinkin o the home he left en seein it at night Dancin slowlike up aroun him in a misty maze o light, En a-ketchin fleetin glimpses of a crowd along the track En the man who does the cheerin When the Troops Come Back. 350 THE HUMBLER POETS O course, a soldier hez got feelin s, en his heart begins to beat Faster, ez ol Reckollection leads him down some shady street Where he knows a gal s a-waitin underneath a creepin vine, Where the sun is kinder cautious bout combatin with the shine In her eyes en jist another thing that nuther you er I Could look at with easy feelin is a piece of pumpkin pie That hez made our mothers famous but down there along the track Is the man who does the cheerin When the Troops Come Back. There s times o course when ev ry soldier gits to thinkin left en right, He kin hear the oF bells ringin in the middle o the night; He kin hear the whistles blowin , see the G. A. R. march through Streets with houses fairly kivered with the ol red, white, and blue, En kin hear the band a-playin in a dreamy jubilee, En he hears a fife a-pipin "From Atlanty to the Sea," Echoin down to the depot, where the man along the track Is gettin ready for the cheerin When the Troops Come Back. It s jist the same in war times ez in common ev ry day, When a feller keeps a-strugglin en a-peggin on his way, He likes to hev somebody come and grab him by the hand En say: "OF boy, you 11 git there yit; you ve got the grit en sand." It does him good, en I low that it does a soldier, too; So even if the feller at the track don t wear the blue, He s helped save bleedin Cuby from the tyrants en their rack By leadin in the cheerin When the Troops Come Back. ANONYMOUS. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 351 THE BATTLE OF DUNDEE The yearning desire of the Irish to fight sometimes leads to curious situations. This ballad is entirely authentic and the anonymous author has not exaggerated. The Irish Transvaal Bri-gade fighting for the Burghers met the Royal Irish Fusileers under the British flag at Dundee, and what happened, happened. ON the mountain-side the battle raged, there was no stop nor stay; Mackin captured Private Burke and Ensign Michael Shea; Fitzgerald got Fitzpatrick, Brannigan found O Rourke; Finnigan took a man named Fay and a couple of lads from Cork; Sudden they heard McManus shout, "Hands up, or I ll run you through!" He thought he had a Yorkshire "Tyke" twas Corporal Donoghue! McGarry took O Leary, O Brien got McNamee, That s how the "English fought the Dutch" at the Battle of Dundee. Then some one brought in Casey, O Connor took O Neill; Riley captured Kavanaugh, while trying to make a steal. Hogan caught McFadden, Corrigan found McBride, And Brennan made a handsome touch while Kelly tried a slide. Dacey took a lad named Welsh; Dooley got McQuirk; Gilligan turned Fahey s boy for his father he used to work. They had matched to fight the English but Irish were all they could see That s how the "English fought the Dutch" at the Battle of Dundee. Spillane then took O Madigan; Shannahan took Magee. While chasing Jerry Donovan, Clancy got shot in the knee. He cursed the Queen s whole army, he cursed the English race, Then found the man who fired the shot, t was a cousin Martin Grace. Then McGinnis caught an A. O. H. who came from Limerick town; But Sullivan got an Orangeman from somewhere in County Down. Hennessey took O Hara Hennigan took McFee. That s how the "English fought the Dutch" at the Battle of Dundee. The sun was sinking slowly; the battle rolled along; The man that Murphy handed in was a cousin of Maud Gonne. Then Flannigan dropped his rifle, shook hands with Bi& McGuire, DftN 352 THE HUMBLER POETS For both had carried a piece of turf to light the schoolroom fire. Then Rafferty took in Flaherty; O Connell got Major McCue; O Keefe got hold of Sergeant Joyce and a Belfast lad or two. Some swore that "Old Man" Kruger had come down to see the fun; But the man they thought was "Uncle Paul" was a Galway man named Dunn. Though war may have worse horrors, t was a frightful sight to see The way the "English fought the Dutch" at the Battle of Dundee. Just when the sound of firing in the distance fainter grew, Ryan caught McCloskey, and Orderly Donegon, too. O Toole he found McCarthy; O Mahoney got Malone. Duffy got a pair of lads from Connaught, near Athlone. Then Dineen took O Hagan; Phelan got Kehoe. Dempsey captured Callahan, but Gallagher let him go. You d have thought that "Belfast Chicken" had tackled the "Dublin Flea," The way the "English fought the Dutch" at the Battle of Dundee. Then Powers began to intervene, the Waterford Powers, I mean, And took a lad named Keenan and a captain named Mulqueen. Then Brady captured Noonan; Maher got Mcldoo; McGovern got O Hanlon and Colonel McLoughlin, too. T was now the hour of sunset, the battle was nearly o er, When McCormick came in with Hoolan and Lieutenant Roger Moore. But t was a great day for Ireland, as you can easily see; That s how the "English fought the Dutch" at the Battle of Dundee. They marched them all to Kruger s town for supper and a bed, O Halloran was the rear guard; the way, McNulty led. When they got them to the race-course the Boers were full of While Kruger never expected "so many Englishmen to see." They told him they were Irish; it puzzled the old man s head, For the Irish he d seen were dressed in green, while these were togged in red; But tis a passing story; on history s page you ll see, That " twas the English fought the Dutch" at the Battle of Dundee. ANONYMOUS. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 353 THE SOLDIER S SONG I HEARD a soldier sing some trifle Out in the sun-dried veldt alone; He lay and cleaned his grimy rifle Idly, behind a stone: "If, after death, love comes a-waking, And in their camp so dark and still The men of dust hear bugles breaking Their halt upon the hill, "To me the slow and silver pealing That then the last high trumpet pours Shall softer than the dawn come stealing, For with its call, comes yours!" What grief of love had he to stifle, Basking so idly by his stone, That grimy soldier with his rifle Out on the veldt alone! HERBERT FRENCH. PAUL JONES ONCE more the favoring breezes blow In briny piping gales Housed in a warship as of old Once more the hero sails. With bended head and lifted cap They raised him from his grave And placed him where he loved to rest Upon the white-topped wave. The night came down upon the deep, The warship calmly rides, And proudly on the quarter-deck The sailor s spirit strides. "These turrets and these iron plates Seem more than strange to me For walls of oak were fort enough When I was on the sea! These throbbing engines, and the lack Of sail to dare the blast All strange and new but what care I? My pennon crowns the mast! The flag first danced above a ship I sailed amid the foam And now floats high above the craft That bears me back to home!" 354 THE HUMBLER POETS The mist grows thicker, and the night Is black with heavier clouds A crew of ghosts glides down the deck, Or clambers up the shrouds. A phantom shape, a phantom ship, Looms grimly through the shade And George s cross above the peak Gleams spectrally displayed! The rusty cannon flash and flame, And through the haunted night Rings out that old defiance "I Have just begun to fight!" With grisly yard-arms lashed they strive Smoke-palled each reeling wreck, The ghostly hero leads his tars Upon the wan-lit deck! A deadly struggle in the murk The stars flash up in pride, And through the reek the George s cross Goes fluttering o er the side! The smoke-clouds pass the parting night Gives way before the dawn The ship of steel swings on her way The phantom crew is gone! Once more the favoring breezes blow In briny piping gales Housed in the warship as of old Once more the hero sails. With bended head and lifted cap They wait upon the shore To greet him from his final cruise He voyages no more! WILLIAM A. PHELON. A SONG OF PANAMA "CHUFF! chuff! chuff!" an a mountain bluff Is moved by the shovel s song; "Chuff! chuff! chuff!" Oh, the grade is rough A-liftin the landscape along! We are ants upon a mountain, but we re leavin of our dent, An our teeth-marks bitin scenery they will show the way we went; We re a-liftin half creation, an we re changin it around, Just to suit our playful purpose when we re diggin in the ground. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 355 "Chuff! chuff! chuff!" Oh, the grade is rough, An the way to the sea is long; "Chuff! chuff! chuff!" an the engines puff In tune to the shovel s song! We re shif tin miles like inches, an we grab a forest here Just to switch it over yonder so s to leave an angle clear; We re a-pushin leagues o swamps aside so s we can hurry by An if we had to do it we could probably switch the sky! "Chuff! chuff! chuff!" Oh, it s hard enough When you re changin a job gone wrong; "Chuff! chuff! chuff!" an there s no rebuff To the shovel a-singin its song! You hear it in the mornin an you hear it late at night It s your battery keepin action with support o dynamite; Oh, you gets it for your dinner, an the scenery skips along In a movin panorama to the chargin shovel s song! "Chuff! chuff! chuff!" an it grabs the scruff Of a hill and boosts it along; "Chuff! chuff! chuff!" Oh, the grade is rough, But it gives to the shovel s song! This is a fight that s fightin , an the battle s to the death; There ain t no stoppin here to rest or even catch your breath; You ain t no noble hero, an you leave no gallant name You re fightin Nature s army, an it ain t no easy game! "Chuff! chuff! chuff!" Oh, the grade is rough, An the way to the end is long, "Chuff! chuff! chuff!" an the engines puff As we lift the landscape along! ALFRED DAMON RUNYON. PANAMA (Home of the dove-plant or Holy Ghost flower) WHAT time the Lord drew back the sea And gave thee room, slight Panama, "I will not have thee great," said He, "But thou shalt bear the slender key Of both the gates I builded me, And all the great shall come to thee For leave to pass, O Panama!" (Flower of the Holy Ghost, white dove, Breathe sweetness where he wrought in love.) 356 THE HUMBLER POETS His oceans call across the land: "How long, how long, fair Panama, Wilt thou the shock of tides withstand, Nor heed us sobbing by the strand? Set wide thy gates on either hand, That we may search through saltless sand May clasp and kiss, O Panama!" (Flower of the deep-embosomed dove, So should his mighty nations love.) Outpeal His holy temple-clocks; It is thine hour, glad Panama. Now shall thy key undo the locks; The strong shall cleave thy sunken rocks; Swung loose and floating from their docks, The world s white fleets shall come in flocks To thread thy straits, O Panama! (Flower of the tropics, snowy dove, Forbid, unless they come in love.) How beautiful is thy demesne! Search out thy wealth, proud Panama: Thy gold, thy pearls of silver sheen, Thy fruitful palms, thy thickets green; Load thou the ships that ride between; Attire thee as becomes a queen: The great ones greet thee, Panama! (Flower of the white and peaceful dove, Let all men pass who come in love.) AMANDA T. JONES. OUR TWENTY-SIX PRESIDENTS IN RHYME FIRST is a name the world reveres, He led through years of hopes and fears, Our Washington, of wondrous fame. Then Adams came, of humbler name. He first Vice-President had been, And mid war s din had helped to win In kings courts place for nations new. His heart was true when friends were few. Four years he steered the ship of state Through danger great, for France so late Our country s friend had foe become. "The warships come!" men said, while some As sentinels upon the land WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 357 From him so grand await command, From Washington, the army s chief. Whose service brief (as seemed to grief) Had end amid this vexing strife, Had end with life while tears of wife And nation followed to his rest The one called best. He stood life s test. Mark this of Adams: First was he To dwell where we by wise decree Built our new nation s capital, That pride of all; may it never fall! Two terms, you know, had Washington, Adams but one; his service done Plain Thomas Jefferson held sway. This we may say, he had his way, In adding to our nation great A realm where state is piled on state : What was to France, land of romance, He bought, thus showed prophetic glance. Eight years had passed; and war-cloud dark, With lightning s spark for all to mark, Hung over our Atlantic seas. The realm to please, her fears to ease, James Madison his duty found. Soon came war s sound and deadly wound. Monroe next ruled; our land was blest. Great grew the West; as honored guest Came Lafayette the land to see He helped to free, for you and me! Another Adams next held sway, Then one grown gray in war s fierce way: The sturdy Jackson whose command Smote treason s hand in erring land. Van Buren next was nation s guide, Then one who died while yet untried In his great office Harrison. Soon set his sun, his duty done. Then Tyler served; next, James K. Polk, When war awoke with deadly stroke. Next, dying in his well-won fame, Brave Taylor came, of honored name. 358 THE HUMBLER POETS Then Fillmore served: next Franklin Pierce. Alas for Pierce! When strife was fierce He ruled; and then Buchanan came. Next, greatest name and purest fame Since Washington our Lincoln earned. Right he had learned and wrong he spurned. By fearful deed, the nation s woe, Crime laid him low. Next, Johnson know. Then came the unboasting soldier Grant, So free from cant and silly rant. Next Hayes the exalted office filled. Then voters willed (who soon were thrilled Once more with tale of crime s wild thrust) To give the trust to Garfield just. Then Arthur President became. This roll of fame next bears the name Of Cleveland. Then in filial pride Called to preside as nation s guide We find a younger Harrison. Twice Cleveland won; his service done McKinley took the helm of state When, dark and great, war s cloud and fate Broke peace with Spain. With grief deep-felt McKinley passed. Then Roosevelt Was long our chief and steered our craft Full well, till William Howard Taft Took up the helm. And now t is time To end our rhyme. JOHN NELSON DAVIDSON. IMPROMPTU LINES ON JULY FOURTH BEHOLD from the brow of the mountain advancing, The Goddess of Freedom appears to our view; On the breath of the zephyr her tresses are dancing, And the sunbeams illumine each spangle of dew; Full gladly she welcomes the morn of her glory, Serenely she smiles at the land of the free; With rapture retraces the page of her story, And laughs with the veterans she nursed on her KD6 O fair is the land that our fathers defended, And brilliant the era of Liberty s birth; And blest are the chieftains whose valor is blended With virtue and wisdom, true honor and worth. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 359 Here plenty and peace bless the toil of the peasant, The smile of sincerity beams on his cot His offspring are healthy, good-natured, and pleasant, And gratitude s tribute is never forgot! Then lift the full goblet, and drink to the glory Of those who are lost in the night of the tomb, Whose names are enrolled on the record of story, Whose honor and valor unfadingly bloom. Lift, lift the full goblet away with all sorrow The circle of friendship what freedom would sever? To-day is our own, and a fig for to-morrow Here s to the Fourth and our country forever. FRANKLIN P. ADAMS. RATAPLAN "O RATAPLAN! It is a merry note, And, mother, I m for listing in the morn"; "And would ye, son, to wear a scarlet coat, ^ Go leave your mother s latter age forlorn?" "O mother, I am sick of sheep and goat, Fat cattle, and the reaping of the corn; I long to see the British colors float; For glory, glory, glory, was I born!" She saw him march. It was a gallant sight. She blest herself, and praised him for a man. And straight he hurried to the bitter fight, And found a bullet in the drear Soudan They dug a shallow grave t was all they might; And that s the end of glory. Rataplan! EDWARD CRACROFT LEFROY. SAN FRANCISCO* (April, 1906) WHO more shall trust thee, Nature; who so dare Of all remembering what she was to thee To u . 8 th e bodied brightness of the air, Blithe San Francisco, of the sun and sea? Mate of the sun, the sea-wind, free as fair Dear to the day, the darling of the night Running with laughter, and with golden hair Blown back - but yesterday her heart so light! o-day, the sea is sobbing her sweet name; Gate " F " A Stokes 360 THE HUMBLER POETS The morning sorrows, and the stars of rest, For her with that mad craft of shock and flame Flung, in her sleep, from thy forgetting breast. Our San Francisco, child of the sea and sun, Thine own, yet ours Mother, what hast thou done ? II (October, 1909) Shadows and vanities, blind to the light, Too wise to know, too proud to understand; Mortals, of brittle trust and thickened sight, Undone by the well-doing of my hand, Can ye not see I did it for her sake, High as her place was, willed to set her higher ? Under her feet the beams of earth must shake, Suck there the hungry gurge of wind and fire. Mine own had need of this, she of my bone, Whose blood I pulsed, and her safe beauty charmed; The world must know that she, and she alone, Could stand, hell-breath full in her face, unharmed. Behold her risen, the jewels on her brow, Proved Empress of the Western Garden, now. JOHN VANCE CHENEY. PEACE LET the reign of Hate cease; Let the white lily blow where the thistle stood; Sing a psean of peace And a song of hope unto God s brotherhood! The foe that we smote Is constrained to bow Loose the grip on his throat, Let us succor him now. O Angel of Peace, in thy garments of white, The war dogs are leashed we have led them away; Thou returnest to witness the triumph of Right And the dawn of a glorious day! We have held the red hand of the Demon of Hate, We have heard the hoarse cries of the minions of Might; We have threaded the paths where the imps of hell wait We have safely emerged from the perilous night; We have plunged through the flame where the godless are burned, Where the shrieks of the lost and the hopeless are blent We have tasted War s poisonous potion and learned How sweet is the cup that thou hast to present. WAR, PEACE, AND HISTORY 361 We have culled the red flower Of glory that grew From the sod which the shower Of blood made to bear; We have followed where Justice hath led the way through, And planted the seeds of enlightenment there! We have trod on the tares that sprang up by the way, We have cut down the thorns we have sown God s crops in the fields that were waste yesterday, And given them back to their own. O Angel in White, Sing the paean of hope; The dawn s welcome 1 ght Breaks across the red slope! Let the clash of arms cease Twixt the Wrong and the Strong Let the new reign of Peace Be unclouded and long! S. E. RISER. ANGEL OF PEACE ANGEL of Peace, thou hast wandered too long! Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love! Come while our voices are blended in song, Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten dove! Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove, Speed o er the far-sounding billows of song, Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland of love, Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long. Brothers we meet, on this altar of thine Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee, Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine, Breeze of the prairie and breath of the sea, Meadow and mountain and forest and sea! Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and pine, Sweetest the incense we offer to thee, Brothers once more round this altar of thine! Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain! Hark! a new birthsong is filling the sky! Loud as the storm-wind that tumbles the main Bid the full breath of the organ reply, Let the loud tempest of voices reply, Roll its long surge like the earth-shaking main! Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky! Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain! ANONYMOUS. 362 THE HUMBLER POETS THE ULTIMATE NORTH Now doth the North his inmost secret yield; Now is there nothing more beyond; we know The Thule Ultima. The final woe Of the vast frozen zone, though triple-steeled With cold and storm, lays off the decent shield Granted it an eternity ago Among great gales, and silence, ice, and snow, When pallid Hela s horrors stalked afield. No more the lure of the North s hidden things Tempts man to pay the last and awful price; For secret was there none. Long wanderings Have proved again what trifles may entice Mankind; if but denied, the spirit springs Even at a flock of palseocrystic ice! II Yet has the frosty deed full excellence. It is no barren thing to set a goal High and afar, and strive with iron soul, Throwing aside despair as vain pretence, Facing the terrors of the elements, Discarding failure, till, beside the Pole One s name is set, as on the eternal scroll Of those who win from Earth s own dissidence. Praise to the victor! Yet let laurels rest As well upon the still undaunted brow Of each who sought and won not from the rime The final triumph; these are not unblest, Though to a single soul the Norns allow This blending of Valhall and Niffleheim. WALLACE RICE. Part 3EPJJ3 IN LIGHTER VEIN LAUGHTER lurking in the eye, sir, Pleasure foots it frisk and free; He who frowns or looks awry, sir, Faith, a witless wight is he ! CLINTON SCOLLARD. att IN LIGHTER VEIN A BANJO SONG OH, dere s lots o keer an trouble In dis world to swaller down; An ol Sorrer s purty lively In her way o gittin roun . Yet der s times when I furgit em, Aches an pains an troubles all, An it s when I tek at ebenin My ol banjo from the wall. Bout de time dat night is fallin An my daily wu k is done, An above de shady hilltops I kin see de settin sun; When de quiet, restful shadders Is beginnin jes to fall, Den I tek de little banjo F om its place upon de wall. Den my fam ly gadders roun me In de fadin o de light, Ez I strike de strings to try em Ef dey all is tuned er-right, An it seems we re so nigh Heaben We kin hyeah de angels sing When de music o dat banjo Sets my cabin all er-ring. An my wife an all de othahs, Male and female, small an big, Even up to gray-haired granny, Seem jes boun to do a jig; Twell I change de style o music, Change de movement an de time, An de ringin little banjo Plays an ol hea t-feelin hime. 365 366 THE HUMBLER POETS An somehow my th oat gits choky, An a lump keeps trin to rise Lak it wan ed to ketch de water Dat was flowin to my eyes; An I feel dat I could sorter Knock de socks clean off o sin Ez I heah my po ol granny Wif huh tremblin voice jine in. D en we all th ow in our voices Fu to h ep de chune out too, Lak a big camp-meetin choiry Tryin to sing a mou nah th oo. An our th oahts let out de music, Sweet an solemn, loud an free, Twell de raftahs o my cabin Echo wif de melody. Oh, de music o de banjo, Quick an deb lish, solemn, slow, Is de greates joy an solace Dat a weary slave kin know! So jes let me heah it ringin , Dough de chune be po an rough, It s a pleasure; an de pleasures O dis life is few enough. Now de blessed little angels Up in Heaben, we are told, Don t do nothin all dere lifetime Ceptin play on ha ps o gold. Now I think Heaben d be mo homelike Ef we s hyeah some music fall F om a real ol -fashioned banjo, Like dat one upon de wall. PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR. GOLF AND LIFE LIFE s but a game of golf; At first the tee Catnip, perchance, or some such sort And then we see The bunkers that obtrude themselves Before each green We strive with eager strokes to gain! The ruts unseen IN LIGHTER VEIN 367 That everywhere abound to foil To bring dismay To spoil the gains good strokes have brought, And drive our hopes away. There are the foozles that Bring grief or shame! The getting out of bounds the quest For things to blame The lasting supposition of What " might have been" The "galleries" for those alone That chance to win! The striving on to beat the score Of foe and friend, And, after all the struggles, just To "hole down" at the end. . S. E. RISER. THE CHICKEN; OR, MY FIRST INTRODUCTION TO THE ANCIENT GAME OF GOLF ONCE upon a day most dreary, I was wandering weak and weary, Thinking I had seldom seen so drear a looking moor; For the stillness was unbroken by a single sign or token That a voice had ever spoken; when I felt upon my jaw Something hit me without warning, nearly breaking through my jaw, And from pain I knew no more. Ah, distinctly I remember, that it was a chill November When I stood thus watching faintly divers sparks to Heaven soar; Then two awful men came stealing, while with pain I still was reeling, Plainly I recall the feeling, as they kept on shouting "Fore!" But I moved not in my horror, while they still kept shouting "Fore!" Feeling pain and nothing more. But fierce danger still was pending, for I, still with anguish bending, Heard the sound of ether rending, as an object through it tore, And beside me there alighted something that was round and whited, Looking like a star affrighted that had shone in days of yore. There it lay, a grim and ghastly whitewashed wreck of days of yore, Round and white and nothing more. 368 THE HUMBLER POETS Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer, "Sirs," said I, to these two strangers, "tell me this I do implore, By the red coats ye are wearing, by the weapons ye are bearing, Know ye whence these things come tearing are they me teoric ore? One has wounded me severely, and seems hard as any ore." But they laughed and nothing more. Then, into their faces peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing; Fighting frantic fears no mortal ever had to fight before; They had laughed when I had spoken, and I guessed by this same token They were idiots who had broken, doubtless, through the asylum door. Idiots who d escaped from Earlswood, having broken through the door. This, alas! and nothing more. But while I, half bent on flying, still within my mind was trying To think out how them in safety to their home I might restore; One man broke the pause by saying that t was cussed nonsense playing If fools would continue staying even when they halloed "Fore!" Staying mooning on the hazard while four lungs were bellowing "Fore!" Then he swore and said no more. Now through all my mind came stealing quite a different kind of feeling, As I thought I d heard some speaking of a game like this before; So, by way of explanation, I delivered an oration Of a suitable duration, which I think they thought a bore; And I said, "I ll watch your playing," but they muttered "Cussed bore!" Just these words and nothing more. Then I seemed to see quite plainly two boys near in clothes ungainly, Waiting by us bearing weapons such a curious, endless store! And I said, "You 11 be agreeing that no earthly living being Ever yet was blest by seeing such queer things as these before? Hooks and crooks of all descriptions such as ne er were seen before." "Clubs be they, and nothing more." Thus spoke one they called a caddie, though he spoke more like a Paddy, IN LIGHTER VEIN 369 And I said whilst slowly following, " Tell their names, I do im plore!" Then these words he seemed to utter in a most uncivil mutter, "Driver, cleek, spoon, brassey, putter," till he reached about a score, Muttering thus he still continued, till he reached at least a score, Or maybe a trifle more. Soon the boy, when some one hallooed, went ahead while still I followed, Wondering much to see how quickly he across the bracken tore: Faster still he flew and faster to his most unhappy master, Who had met with some disaster, which he seemed to much deplore, For his ball was in a cart-rut, this alone he did deplore, Only this and nothing more. Here he cried, "Do try and be quick! don t you see I want my niblick? Curse these deep and muddy places, which one s balls will quite immure." Then the mud so fierce did lash he, that his garments soon were splashy And he called out for his mashie, and he very loudly swore, Mashing, splashing, did not aid him, nor did all the oaths he swore, The ball sank in and nothing more. Whilst I was engaged in thinking how deep down the thing was sinking, Listening to the flow of language that from out his lips did pour; Suddenly he dived and sought it, and from out the mud he brought it, Tossed it to the boy, who caught it, then he counted up his score, Said if he at first had tee d it, he d have saved quite half his score, Now he d try the hole no more. So I thought the game was ended, but their talk was so much blended With a language unfamiliar which I had not heard before; For in argument quite stormy they disputed about "dormie," And the word it clean did floor me, though I thought it deeply o er. Tried to sift its derivation, but while still I thought it o er It perplexed me more and more. 370 THE HUMBLER POETS "Players," said I, "sure I m dying just to send that ball a-flying, Let me show you how I J d make it up into the heaven soar!" And one answered, "Come, and try it! we should like to see you sky it! Here s a club, six bob will buy it, I have plenty at the store." T was the man who teaches golfing, and who keeps clubs in store, Just himself and nothing more. Then the other, who was playing, said he did not mind delaying Just to see me make a something of a record of a score. So unto the tee they led me, and of six good bob they bled me, And with flattery they fed me, but the ball it would not soar; So they said I must "address" it, but no language made it soar, It just rolled and nothing more. "Ball," I said, "thou thing of evil! Emblem of a slippery devil! White thou seemest, yet I reckon thou art black right to the core; On thy side I see a token of the truth that I have spoken, And a gash, that I have broken, shows thee to be whitened o er; Shows thy true self neath the varnish with which thou art cov ered o er, Only black and nothing more!" Then with rage I took my driver, smiting at this foul survivor Of the devil very fiercely, but the turf, alas! I tore, And an awful crash resounding as of splintered timber sounding Heard I, as the head went bounding, and my club broke to the core; Just a stick I held all broken, broken right across the core, But a stick and nothing more. And the ball, no thought of flitting, still was sitting, still was sitting Quietly on its little sandheap, just as it had sat of yore; I was greatly aggravated and I very plainly stated That the game was overrated, as I ve heard men say before; So I swore I d chuck the game up, as some others have before, And would play it never more! S. F. OUTWOOD. THE FOOTBALL CASABIANCA THE boy stood on the football field Whence all but him had fled. The rooter s shoutings echoed o er The dying and the dead. IN LIGHTER VEIN 371 His hair hung down into his eyes Such of it as was left For, sad to state, at one fell swoop Of it he d been bereft. One arm hung limply at his side And fluttered as he reeled; His teeth, like snowflakes in the wind, Were scattered o er the field. His shirt was torn across the chest, His pants ripped at the knees, His shoes clung sadly to his feet, Like mistletoe to trees. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, While all around, alack! Were fragments of the centre rush, The half and quarter back. The tackles on the goal posts hung, The guards were borne away In ambulances which were called Quite early in the fray. And here and there lay shoulderblades, And ears on every side, With fingers, feet, and locks of hair All unidentified. But still he stood amid this wreck. O, that this tongue could tell How bravely he essayed to speak And give his college yell! His father called him from the box; His mother, from the stand; Yet ever nobly stood he there, A football in his hand. The other side was lining up, With husky boast and scream. "Come on!" he mumbled, toothlessly, "I ll buck the entire team!" They formed a flying wedge, and hurled The gallant lad on high, And when they downed him, shoes and legs Were waving in the sky. 372 THE HUMBLER POETS Therd came a burst of thunder sound. The boy O, where was he? Ask of the other team, that left With college chant and glee. Ask of the other team, and learn: "He has not yet been seen. They don t expect to find him, till They get some gasoline!" WILBUR D. NESBIT. CASEY AT THE BAT IT looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day;/!: The score stood four to six with just an inning h ft to play,; ./ And so, when Cooney died at, first,| and Burrows did the same] A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game. ( A straggling few got up to go j leaving there the rest | With that hope that springs eternal within the human breast; They thought if only Casey could get one whack, at that} They d put up even money,! with Casey at the bat. L But Flynn preceded Casey, fand so And the former was a pudding [and the latter was a fake, f So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat,| For there seemed but little chance of Casey s getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single,! to the wonderment of all,! And the much despised Blaikie tore the cover off the ball;/ . And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred^ There was Blaikie safe on second and Flynn a-hugging thirol. Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell; It bounded from the mountain-top, and rattled in the dell; j It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat, For Casey, | mighty Casey, (was advancing to the bat. il There was ease in Casey s manner as he stepped into his place; \ There was pride in Casey s bearing|and a smile on Casey s facejj And when, | responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubtj t was Casey at the bat.(, \ Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt; / Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt./" Th en ,f while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,) Defiance gleamed in Casey s eye,|a sneer curled Casey s lip. IN LIGHTER VEIN 373 And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, / And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there, j Close by the sturdy batsmen the ball unheeded sped j "That ain t my style/ fsaid Casey Jj "Strike one,"|the umpire said. /[ From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore, f. ^ "Kill him! fKill the umpire ! "^shouted some one en the stand; / And it s likely they d have killed him,} had not Casey raised his hand/ / With a smile of Christian charitwgreat Casey s visage shone; \ He stilled the rising tumult | he tame the game go on; / He signalled to the pitcher, {and once more the spheroid flew;/ But Casey still ignored ilMnd the umpire said :|" Strike two."// "Fraud! "(cried the maddened thousands,! and the echo answered "Fraud!"! But the scornful look from Casey, jand the audience was awed. // They saw his face grow stern and cold,lthey saw his muscles strain, j And they Knew that Casey would n t let that ball go by again. |) The sneer is gone from Casey s lip \ his teeth are clenchecjLm hate; J He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. . And now the pitcher holds the ball,|and now he lets it go, j And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey s blow.\ \ Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere.) and somewhere hearts are light,, And somewhere men are laughing, fand somewhere children shout; | But there is no joy in Mudville -* mighty Casey has struck out.)| ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER. r A BALLAD OF THE CHAMPIONS DEAR little Willie takes the ball And lightly lays it on the tee; They say he was thirteen last fall, But oh, to putt as well as he! His face from whiskers still is fr^e He drives! Behold the gutty go! It was a man s game once ah me, The*boys are laying Bogie low. 374 THE HUMBLER POETS There s Eddie, whose brown arms are small, Whose shoulders barely reach your knee, Whose rocking-horse stands in the hall, Who has just learned his A, B, C He has a stroke that all agree Is better than the experts show; He drives the ball far o er the lea The boys are laying Bogie low. They Ve left their marbles, tops, and all The other toys that used to be So dear to boyish heart; they sprawl No more beneath the greenwood tree; But each child takes a gallery, Applauding, round the course they know The royal game from A to Z The boys are laying Bogie low. L Envvi t Friend, are no glories left that we May claim who use the razor? Oh, Hark to their childish shouts of glee The boys are laying Bogie low! ANONYMOUS. QUESTION AND ANSWER WHAT is that, mother? A man, my child. See, there he goes, with gait and aspect mild. But see what he s got on, my mother dear But listen, and that coat you 11 plainly hear, Though he s a block away! Yet, yet, my boy, He does not wear that jacket to annoy; For how could we both know, if it was off, That he is swell enough to play at golf? ANONYMOUS. MAUD MULLER A-WHEEL MAUD MULLER, on a summer s day, Mounted her wheel and rode away. Beneath her blue cap glowed a wealth Of large red freckles and first-rate health. IN LIGHTER VEIN 375 Single she rode, and her merry glee Frightened the sparrow from his tree. But when she was several miles from town Upon a hill-slope, coasting down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a sort of terror filled her breast A fear that she hardly dared to own; For what if her wheel should strike a stone! The Judge scorched swiftly down the road Just then she heard his tire explode! He carried his wheel into the shade Of the apple tree to await the maid. And he asked her if she would kindly loan Her pump to him, as he had lost his own. She left her wheel with a sprightly jump And in less than a jiffy produced the pump. And she blushed as she gave it, looking down At her feet, once hid by a trailing gown. Then said the Judge as he pumped away, " J T is very fine weather we re having to-day." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of twenty-mile rides and centuries; And Maud forgot that no trailing gown Was over her bloomers hanging down. But the tire was fixed, alack-a-day! The Judge remounted and rode away. Maud Muller looked and sighed, "Ah me!" That I the Judge s bride might be! " My father should have a brand new wheel Of the costliest make and the finest steel. "And I d give one to ma of the same design So that she d cease to borrow mine." 376 THE HUMBLER POETS The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill And saw Maud Muller standing still. "A prettier face and a form more fair I ve seldom gazed at, I declare! "Would she were mine and I to-day Could make her put those bloomers away!" But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And shuddered to think how they would scold If he should, one of these afternoons, Come home with a bride in pantaloons! He married a wife of the richest dower, Who had never succumbed to the bloomers power; Yet oft, while watching the smoke wreaths curl, He thought of that freckled bloomer girl; Of the way she stood there pigeon-toed, While he was pumping beside the road. She married a man who clerked in a store. And many children played round her door. And then her bloomers brought her joy! She cut them down for her oldest boy. But still of the Judge she often thought, And sighed o er the loss her bloomers wrought. Or wondered if wearing them was a sin, And then confessed: "It might have been." Alas for the Judge! Alas for the Maid! Dreams were their only stock in trade. For of all wise words of tongue or pen, The wisest are these: "Leave pants to men." Ah, well! For us all hope still remains, For the bloomer girl and the man of brains. And, in the hereafter, bloomers may Be not allowed to block the way! S. E. KISER. IN LIGHTER VEIN 377 THE PIKER S RUBAIYAT WAKE! For the Sun is out with all his might And o er the Paddock sheds a stream of light. Ah, that a man might know at one o clock What he will know by six o clock to-night. Before the Phantom of Last Evening died I said: "Alas! if I could but decide To pick the Winner what a Peach I d be!" (The Wisdom of which cannot be denied.) Now, Hiram bets a wad on David Rose And Joseph s Sev n-Bone Bet on Highball goes, But still a Reuben plays the Winter Book And many a Scad upon the Bookie Blows. Come, fill the Stand and with the Clothes of Spring Your summer garments from the Tailor bring. If you would take a little Tip from me You d get a piece of gold on Flower King. Whether at Harlem or at Washington Park or where er the prancing Ponies run, The odds upon the Equines always drop The Mortal Cinches vanish one by one. Each Car a thousand Pikers brings, you say, Yes, but who Dreamed the Dope of Yesterday And some poor Shipping Clerk who wagered Ten May take about a thousand bones away. Well, let him take them, what have you to do With Copperfield or Proceeds or Bran New? It looks as though that English Lad would win, But then the odds are only five to two. Some advertise their Dope and some keep Mum, And others say, "I told you so, by gum!" Ah, take the Cash and let the Credit Go! To have some coming that is going some. The worldly Dope men bet their Cash upon Turns ashes or it prospers; and anon I heard one say, "By Heck, what Rotten Luck, I could n t get a piece of money on." 378 THE HUMBLER POETS They say Prince Silverwings is going cheap; That Buccaneer amounts to quite a heap; And also that Fort Hunter mark my words Is not the Pony that will go to sleep. I sometimes think that never looks so Black The Race as when I see the awful Track In Sunday s Paper with the winner s name In great, big Letters. O, Alas! Alack 1 This favorite who prances on the Green Is just about the best I ve ever seen. Ah, gaze upon him lightly, for who knows? He may not come in One, Two, Seventeen. Ah, my Beloved, wise he who Forgets To hold Post-Mortem, full of vain Regrets. The Bet you placed to-day at ten o clock Is gone with Yesteryear s Sev n Thousand Bets. Myself when young did frequently frequent The Track where myriad Ponies came and went. I never picked a Winner in my Life. I don t believe I ever Cashed a Cent. Strange, is it not, that of the thousands who Before us passed this Race Track entrance through Not one returns to tell us of the Race? Nobody s ever seen it yet. Have YOU? What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke Another bet? Oh, no; it is no Joke. What unpermitted pleasures do you dream But what s the good of anything, if broke. And when, O Derby Winner, you shall pass Among the other Ponies on the Grass, Give me a passing thought nay, neigh for me Who never won a single bet. Alas! FRANKLIN P. ADAMS. A SAD STORY THERE were two young ladies from Birmingham, And this the sad story concerning em: They stuck needles and pins In the right reverend shins Of the bishop while he was confirming em. ANONYMOUS. IN LIGHTER VEIN 379 THE NEW STENOGRAPHER I HAVE a new stenographer she came to work to-day, She told me that she wrote the latest system. Two hundred words a minute seemed to her, she said, like play, And word for word at that ! she never missed em! I gave her some dictation a letter to a man And this, as I remember it, was how the letter ran: "Dear Sir: I have your favor, and in reply would state That I accept the offer in yours of recent date. I wish to say, however, that under no condition Can I afford to think of your free lance proposition. I shall begin to-morrow to turn the matter out; The copy will be ready by August 10th, about. Material of this nature should not be rushed unduly. Thanking you for your favor, I am, yours, very truly." She took it down in shorthand with apparent ease and grace; She did n t call me back all in a flurry. Thought I: "At last I have a girl worth keeping round the place"; Then said: "Now write it out you needn t hurry." The typewriter she tackled now and then she struck a key, And after thirty minutes this is what she handed me: "Deer sir, I have the Feever, and in a Pile i Sit And I except the Offer as you have reasoned it, I wish to see however That under any condition can I for to Think of a free lunch Preposishun? I Shal be in tomorrow To., turn the mother out, The cap will be red and Will costt, $10, about. Mateeriul of this nation should not rust N. Dooley, Thinking you have the Feever I am Yours very Truely." ANONYMOUS. A THOUGHT IF all the harm that women have done Were put in a bundle and rolled into one, . Earth would not hold it, The sky. could not enfold it, It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun; Such masses of evil Would puzzle the devil And keep him in fuel while Time s wheels run. 380 THE HUMBLER POETS But if all the harm that s done by men Were doubled and doubled and doubled again, And melted and fused into vapor and then Were squared and raised to the power of ten, There would n t be nearly enough, not near, To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year. JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN. CARGOES QUINQUIREME of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smokestack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road-rails, pig-lead, Firewood, ironware, and cheap tin trays. JOHN MASEFIELD. THE ROUGH RIDER TO HIS GIRL I AM lying in my tent, Sweet Marie, And my soul with rage is pent up in G; For I know almighty well you have caught another fel, And your thoughts no longer dwell, love, with me. When we kissed a last good-by tearfully You but worked a girlish guy off on me. O you sweet, bewitching jade, what a clever game you played, For your tears were ready made, Sweet Marie. When I donned the soldier blue, Sweet Marie, Like a picnic woodtick you stuck to me; And the smile you used to wear was as full of gleaming glare As a sunbeam on a tear, Sweet Marie. How your cunning head you d lay lovingly On my bosom, while you d say things to me; There you d rest in loving pose, right beneath my very nose, Swiping buttons from my clothes, Sweet Marie. IN LIGHTER VEIN 381 To the Cuban isle I go, Sweet Marie, Where the tropic sun will glow over me; And I 11 wander through the dells with the dusky Cuban belles, Who are dressed in beads and shells, scantily. There your face I 11 soon forget, Sweet Marie I 11 be frisky, you can bet, as a flea I 11 be giddy, I 11 be gay, I will sing the hours away Ta-ra-ra-ra boom de-ay! Hully Gee! ANONYMOUS. TROUBLOUS TIMES WE VE had a social squabble down to Pohick on the crick. It s goin to smash the town, unless it s settled purty quick. It were an ice cream festival as started all the strife, Twas Mrs. Jabez Jopples who exclaimed, "To save my life I can t see how it was that Sallie Swoggins come to be Picked out to have the ice cream helped to her ahead o me, When everybody livin in the county shorely knows That we could buy and sell the Swoggins family, if we chose!" Now, Jabez and Sam Swoggins has been friends for many a year; An they re cut up bout this quarrel; but they re skeered to interfere. An all the other women folks are started that s the wust! Whenever there s a party each one wants her victuals first. An the men folks, they are gettin so uneasy bout the fray They dass n t stop a minute, jes to pass the time o day. This "social precedence" has got us worried till we re sick, An there ain t no joy in livin up to Pohick on the crick. ANONYMOUS. THE DANCE AT THE LITTLE GIL A RANCH GIT yo little fillies ready; Trot em out upon the floor Line up there, you cusses! Steady! Lively now! One couple more. Shorty, shed that ol sombrero! Bronco, douse that cigarette! Stop yer cussin , Casinero, Fore the ladies! Now, all set! Salute yer ladies; all together! Ladies opposite the same; Hit the lumber with yer leather! Balance all an swing yer dame! Bunch the heifers in the middle! Circle, stags, an do-se-do . 382 THE HUMBLER POETS Pay attention to the fiddle! Swing her round an off you go! First four forward! Back to places! Second follow! Shuffle back! Now you ve got it down to cases! Swing em till their trotters crack! Gents all right a heel an toein ! Swing em; kiss em if you kin! On to the next an keep a-goin ! Till yo hit yer pards agin ! Gents to centre; ladies round em, Form a basket; balance all! Whirl yer gals to where yo found em! Promenade around the hall! Balance to yer pards an trot em Round the circle double quick! Grab and kiss em while you ve got em! Hold em to it if they kick! Ladies, left hand to yer sonnies! Alaman! Grand right an left! Balance all an swing yer homes Pick em up an feel their heft! Promenade like skeery cattle! Balance all an swing yer sweets! Shake yer spurs an make em rattle! Keno! Promenade to seats. ANONYMOUS. ANGELINA WHEN de fiddle gits to singing out a ole Vahginny reel, An you mence to feel a ticklin in yo toe an in yo heel; Ef you t ink you got u ligion an you wants to keep it too, You jes bettah tek a hint an git yo se f clean out o view. Case de time is mighty temptin when de chune is in de swing, Fu a darky, saint or sinner man, to cut de pigeon-wing, An you could n t he p f om dancin ef yo feet was boun wif twine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin down de line. Don t you know Miss Angelina? She s de da lin of de place. W y, dey ain t no high-tone lady wif sich mannahs an sich grace. She kin move across de cabin wif its planks all rough an wo Jes de same s ef she was dancin on ol Mistus ball-room flo Fact is, you don see no cabin, evaht ing you see look grand, An dat ol squeaky fiddle soun to you jes lak a ban ; Cotton breeches looks lak broad-clof an a linsy dress look fine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin down de line. IN LIGHTER VEIN 383 Some folks say dat dancin s sinful, an de blessed Lawd, dey say, Gwine to purnish us fu steppin when we hyeah de music play. But I tell you, I don b lieve it, fu de Lawd is wise an good, An He made de banjo s metal an He made de fiddle s wood, An He made de music in dem, so I don quite t ink He 11 keer Ef our feet keeps time a little to de melodies we hyeah. Wy dey s somef n downright holy in de way our faces shine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin down de line. Angelina step so gentle, Angelina bow so low, An she lif huh sku t so dainty dat huh shoe-top skacely show; An dem teef o huh n a-shinin , ez she tek you by de ban Go way, people, dain t anothah sich a lady in de Ian ! When she s movin thoo de figgers er a dancin by huhse f, Folks jes stan stock-still a-sta in , an dey mos nigh hoi s dey bref; An de young mens, dey s a-sayin , "I s gwine mek dat damsel mine," When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin down de line. PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR. LINES TO A GARDEN HOSE SPRINKLE, sprinkle, little hose (You can t help it, I suppose) ; The unsodded, fruitful dirt Sodden with thy sudden squirt! Squirt and sprinkle, gentle hose, Drowning less torrential woes; Giving merry worms their drink, Softly squirtle, sweetly sprink! As in other, larger floods Rainbows glint thy fertile muds, So, assured of final calm, Through thy nozzle pour thy balm! Make the sidewalk and the street Moist for parched and weary feet; Keep thy rivulets a-flow, Tripping each fantastic toe; Seek thy brethren on the limb, Fetching them into the swim; Till, as each doth pass the fence Scattering his eloquence, 384 THE HUMBLER POETS TJttereth each a single note, Like thee, from his liquid throat, And the idlest, as she goes, Darns the customary hose! Then, thy simple duty done, Quit, as erstwhile quits the sun, With the other hoes to bed, Coiling in thy shadowy shed! Gardeners proclaim thy praise, Children love thy childlike ways: May we, like them, learn from thee Irresponsibility! ANONYMOUS. SHINDIG IN THE COUNTRY SHINDIG in the country, "Git your places all!" Nothin been doin Since way last fall. Children on the stairway, Fiddler on the box, Caller in the middle, Yelpin like a fox. "Shanghai, git your Banty Lordy, but you re tall Swing em to their places An balance All!" Soon as it is over, Partners for a waltz! Half a dozen couples, Fiddler never halts. Partners for a shottish, Time a little fast, Collars gittin hottish, Doubt if they 11 last. Handkerchiefs inside em, Nex is Ladies Choice That s the thing that makes a Feller s heart rejoice. "Bluebird in the centre n Seven han s round, Swing em to their places n Everybody pound! IN LIGHTER VEIN 385 Balance to your Honey, Alaman, I say Run an git your Guinny, An all Chaw Hay! Come ahead, my Lady, That s the proper thing On to the next, balance All Cheat or Swing!" Now the older people, Have their set alone; Show young folks some things That they ve never known. Gran pap s carpet slippers Gratin as they go, Gran ma doesy-doin Same as long ago. Young folk all a-gigglin , Children snickerin , too; Gran pap cuts the pigeon-wing, Sorry when they re through! Supper now is ready, Coffee float a stone, Ham and bread an butter, Best you ve ever known. Punkin pie and pickles, Jelly cake in layers Nothin any better n Country bill-o -fares. Cider jug a passin , Kind o bitey, too Candy hearts, with somethin Like, "I Love You!" Now for "Old Dan Tucker," Young an old an small, Everybody singin , Dancin one an all. Gran pap with a youngin, Gran ma with one, too; Everybody cuttin up Monkey shinin you! Then a waltz an shottish, Polka, toe-an -heel, One more just to close with Ole Virginny reel! 386 THE HUMBLER POETS Drivin home a-flyin , Singin as they go; Holler to each other Hear the Roosters Crow! Drivin past the Parson s, Wonder what he 11 say? All be out to meetin , Hear it anyway! Home at last, an sleepy, Puttin in the rig Nothin in the city Like the Old Shin-dig! D. A. ELLSWORTH. THE FLATTER S LAMENT SEARCH, search, search For a flat that s fit for me That s not too high nor yet too low I would that one I d see! From early Monday morn Till late on Saturday night I walked and talked and booked and looked And nothing has come right! They won t take children here; Some bedrooms have no air; This one s too large and that too small There are no set tubs there. So, it s search, search, search In mute expectancy, But the house I had with the big front yard Will never come back to me. ANONYMOUS. THE BREAKFAST FOOD FAMILY JOHN SPRATT will eat no fat, Nor will he touch the lean, He scorns to eat of any meat; He lives upon Foodine. But Mrs. Spratt will none of that; Foodine she cannot eat. Her special wish is for a dish Of Expurgated Wheat. IN LIGHTER VEIN 387 To William Spratt that food is fat On which his master dotes. His favorite feed his special need Is Eata Heapa Oats. But sister Lil can t see how Will Can touch such tasteless food. As breakfast fare it can t compare, She says, with Shredded Wood. Now none of these Leander please; He feeds upon Bath Mitts. While sister Jane improves her brain With Cero-Grapo-Grits. Lycurgus votes for Father s Oats; Proggine appeals to May; The junior John subsists upon Uneeda Bayla Hay. Corrected Wheat for little Pete, Flaked Pine for Dot; while "Bub," The infant Spratt, is waxing fat On Battle Creek Near-Grub. BERT LESTON TAYLOR. THE THIRD PERSON I KNOW a man (accounted wise) Who thinks himself an ancient make Of musket. Breakfast food supplies His powder, and a Hamburg steak The bullet, while a flannel-cake Acts as the wadding. Then away He shoots for all that fighting day; Shoots to his car, shoots to his work, Shoots here, shoots there, Shoots everywhere A dollar may be thought to lurk; Shoots out to luncheon, shoots to drink, Shoots home at night, too tired to think, Shoots through the news, and, spent at last, Drops, thankful that the day is past. For all this stress from dawn to sleep He gets his victuals, clothes, and keep. Ho! Ho! A foolish man is he. (And very much like you and me.) EDMUND VANCE COOKE. 388 THE HUMBLER POETS EVOLUTION FRESH from the griddle s warm embrace It smokes before the ravished sight, A dash of Indian in its face, All golden brown, all liquid light, While from a hundred tiny cells The sirup glints in amber foam, And forth the melting butter wells As honey oozing from the comb. Each morsel, like a Houri s kiss, Melts at the lip a fairy flake To grace thine apotheosis, Ambrosial vision buckwheat cake! HARRY THURSTON PECK. NO DYSPEPTICS NEED APPLY IT s late, perhaps, for cherry pie, But just in time for berry pie, For goose, and rasp, and huckleberry temptingly in reach; And on the vines now flowing free Are squash and pumpkins growing free; And now pan-dowdies are in style, and cobblers made of peach. The radiant fruits so fair to see, The flaky crust that s there to see, Afford a luscious spectacle most fair to mortal eyes; But better worth the taking there Than all the pastry baking there And sweeter far is Mary in the kitchen making pies. ANONYMOUS. GOOD NEWS FROM GEORGIA YASSIR, I m a northern coon, But wate million s jus mah size What s de news from Georgy? Ripe in de sun an ripe in de moon, Oh, Lo dy, how dat fruit I prize What s de news from Georgy? An it may be no th an it may be south, But dey s one thing stops de bigges mouth, An de crop am good an de price am low An al de cullud folks dey know Dat dat s de news from Georgy. IN LIGHTER VEIN 389 I am black an so s de seed; Mah gal s sweet, de million s sweet What s de news from Georgy? Flash so red it like to bleed But no gal s good enough to eat What s de news from Georgy? Oh, I 11 sing mah song an smoke mah pipe, An summer s come when de million s ripe; Dey s ripe and plenty down below An all de cullud folks dey know Dat dat s de news from Georgy. ANONYMOUS. DE BELLE OB EBONVILLE I AIN T no tantalizin brown, I se jest as black es I kin be; But yet de boys all hangs aroun Somehow dey likes to visit me. Sometimes es hlsjh es two and three, Besides ma bestes feller Bill, Calls roun at once, bekase, yo see, I is de belle ob Ebonville. I cain t play notes lak Mandy Brown Ef I should touch an organ key I would n t know what note hit soun , I don t keer bout no harmony; Yet all de boys roun heah agree Dat I se de only gal kin fill De de-mands ob sassiety; I is de belle ob Ebonville. Night time I allus kin be foun A-fixin fo ma company; All drest up in ma gingham gown I settles down to po de tea; Ob nice hot chicken fricassee Dey all sits down an eats to kill, An den we has a jubilee; I is de belle ob Ebonville. L Envoi Gals, you might hab mo pedigree Dan I has ever seed, but still Since you just kinnot cook like me I is de belle ob Ebonville. HENRY DAVIS MIDDLETON. 390 THE HUMBLER POETS HOCHl DER KAISER! DER Kaiser of dis Fatherland Und Gott on high all things command, Ve two ach! Don t you understand? Myself und Gott! Vile some men sing der power divine Mein soldiers sing "Die Wacht am Rhein," Und drink der health in Rhenish wine Of Me und Gott! Dere s France, she swaggers all aroundt, She s ausgespielt, of no account. To much we think she don t amount; Myself und Gott! She vill not dare to fight again, But if she shouldt, I 11 show her blain Dot Elsass und (in French) Lorraine Are mein by Gott! Dere s Grandma dinks she s nicht small beer, Midt Boers und such she interfere! She 11 learn none owns dis hemisphere But me und Gott! She dinks, good frau, some ships she s got Und soldiers midt der scarlet goat. Ach! We could knock dem! Pouf! Like dot, Myself mit Gott! In dimes of peace brebare for wars, I bear der spear und helm of Mars, Und care not for den thousand Czars, Myself mit Gott! In fact, I humor efery vhim, With aspect dark and visage grim; Gott pulls mit Me und I mit him, Myself und Gott! RODNEY BLAKE. AN EPITAPH BENEATH this quiet, turfy, And flower-scented green Lies Arabella Murphy, As usual Kerosene. RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK. IN LIGHTER VEIN 391 POOR MOTHER* WHEN Mother was a little girl, Now many years ago, She had to mind her P s and Q s, She had to walk just so; And if her mother said, "Be quiet!" She did n t dare say "Booh!" For fear they d send her off to bed, Without her supper, too. When Mother grew to womanhood, And got her children, then She found the fashion turned around, She had to mind again: To-day it s Margaret, Jean, and Jane Who do the talking, and Poor Mother does n t dare say "Booh!" Except upon command. WILLIAM WALLACE WHITELOCK. WHAT S IN A NAME? IN letters large upon the frame, That visitors might see, The painter placed his humble name: O Callaghan McGee. And from Beersheba unto Dan, The critics with a nod Exclaimed: "This painting Irishman Adores his native sod. "His stout heart s patriotic flame There s naught on earth can quell; He takes no wild romantic name To make his pictures sell." Then poets praised in sonnets neat His stroke so bold and free; No parlor wall was thought complete That had n t a McGee! All patriots before McGee Threw lavishly their gold; His works in the Academy Were very quickly sold. : Published in The National Magazine, Boston, for August, 1902. 392 THE HUMBLER POETS His "Digging Clams at Barnegat," His "When the Morning Smiled," His "Seven Miles from Ararat," His "Portrait of a Child," Were purchased in a single day And lauded as divine. That night as in his atelier The painter sipped his wine, And looked upon his gilded frames, He grinned from ear to ear : "They little think my real name s V. Stuyvesant De Vere!" RICHARD KENDALL MTJNKITTRICK. THE WRECK OF THE JULIE PLANTE ON wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre, De win she blow, blow, blow, An de crew of de wood-scow Julie Plante Got scar t an run below; For de win she blow lak hurricane, Bimeby she blow some more, An de scow bus up on Lac St. Pierre, Wan arpent from de shore. De Captinne walk on de fronte deck, An walk de hin deck, too He call de crew from up de hole He call de cook also. De cook she is name Rosie, She come from Montreal, Was chambre maid on lumber barge, On de Grande Lachine Canal. De win she blow from nor eas wes De sout win she blow, too, W en Rosie cry "Mon cher Captinne, Mon cher, w at I shall do?" Den de Captinne t row de big ankerre, But still de scow she dreef, De crew he can t pass on de shore, Becos he los hees skeef . De night was dark, lak one black cat, De wave run high an fas , W en de Captinne tak de Rosie girl IN LIGHTER VEIN 393 An tie her to de mas ; Den he also tak de life preserve, An jomp off on de lak , An say, "Good by, ma Rosie dear, I go drown for your sak ." Nex morning very early, Bout ha f-pas two free four De Gaptinne, scow, an de poor Rosie Was corpses on de shore; For the win she blow lak hurricane Bimeby she blow some more, An the scow bus up on Lac St. Pierre, Wan arpent from de shore. Moral Now, all good wood-scow sailor man Tak warning by dat storm, An go an marry some nice French girl An leev on wan beeg farm; De win can blow lak hurricane, An s pose she blow some more, You can t get drown on Lac St. Pierre, So long you stay on shore. WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND. THE FLEETING VISITANT THESE parting words we have to say Are painful to endure; Each dollar bill that comes my way Seems on its farewell tour. ANONYMOUS. IN A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD I WAS not well the other day, And therefore thought at home to stay I live upon a quiet little street And there in peaceful calm remain Until I felt quite strong again My daily tasks to undertake and meet. I d lain down half a minute, when A pair of vegetable men Began explaining what they had to sell; And then the cry of "Rags!" was heard, "Old iron!" all my nerves bestirred, "Umbrellas here to mend!" "Fresh fish!" they yell. 394 THE HUMBLER POETS Somebody with a clarinet, A dinner gong I can t forget, Ten million motors on the boulevard, The parrot of the neighborhood, A load of coal, a load of wood, And then the girl who s taking "vocal" hard! And so, poor I, who d thought to rest Within a home by quiet blest, Arose, still feeling indisposed and ill, And just to get an hour s peace Went where those city noises cease Back to my labor in the rolling-mill. ANONYMOUS. IF 1 SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT IP I should die to-night, And you should come to my cold corpse and say, Weeping and heartsick, o er my lifeless clay . If I should die to-night, And you should come in deepest grief and woe, And say, "Here s that ten dollars that I owe," I might arise in my large white cravat, And say, "What s that?" If I should die to-night, And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel, Clasping the bier to show the grief you feel; I say, if I should die to-night, And you should come to me, and there and then, Just even hint bout paying me that ten, I might arise the while, but I d drop dead again. IN DEFENCE OF THE ADVERTISING MUSE Shakespeare speaks: SOMETIMES when I m not at work on a play Historic and full of warfare, I try my hand, in a casual way, At an ad. to keep me in carfare. Why should n t I praise the bilious pill And in loftiest numbers chirrup, And make the popular heartstrings thrill With a poem on soothing syrup? IN LIGHTER VEIN 395 Why should n t I cleave the cloudless dome Through the billow of light that s polar, To rhapsodize on Excelsior Foam That preserves the fleeting molar? Sing ho! for the laurels won by me On the lotion prepared for freckles! My harp sha n t hang on the willow tree While the soap muse brings me shekels. For I know in a general sort of way, While with laughter I m sorely shaken, That the critics will rise in their might and say That they all were written by Bacon. RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK. MY RECTOR I NEVER see my rector s eyes; He hides their light divine; For, when he prays, he shuts his own, And, when he preaches, mine. ANONYMOUS. THE TRUST AND THE TRUSTEE (A Song for the Time) IF a trustee in trusting doth trust him a trust, In trusting the trust thus three things he intrusts: The truster, thing trusted, and cestui que trust Two trusts, too, he s trusting in trusting this trust With those three things intrusted in trust to the trust, The trust in him trusted and the trust he intrusts. Now those three things he s trusted and these two things in trust By the trustee intrusted through trust in the trusts That most trusters in trusting trust their trustees to trust, Are in trust because trusty, trustworthy this trust Or through other trusts trusted by trustees in trust And trustworthily treated by the trusts that they trust. But if trustless, untrusty, trustworthless this trust That the trustee trusts trusts to through too trusting a trust In the trusts he s intrusted to trust with a trust, Then the truster, things trusted, and the cestui que trust, And the trust in trusts trusted, and the too trusting trust, And the trust that he trusted, and the trustee they bust. ANONYMOUS. 396 THE HUMBLER POETS BILL S IN TROUBLE I VE got a letter, parson, from my son, away out west, An my ol heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast, To think the boy whose futur I had once so proudly planned Should wander from the path o right an come to sich an end. I told him when he started out toward the settin sun He d find the row he had to hoe a mighty rocky one, He d miss his father s counsel an his mother s prayers, too, But he said the farm was hateful an he guessed he d have to go. I know there s big temptation for a youngster in the West, But I believed our Billy had the courage to resist, An when he left I told him of the ever-waitin snares That lie like hidden serpents in life s pathway everywheres. But Bill he promised faithful to be keerful an allowed He d build a reputation that d make us mighty proud, But it seems as how my counsel sort o faded from his mind, And now the boy s in trouble of the very wustest kind. His letters come so seldom that we somehow sort o knowed That Billy was a-trampin in a mighty rocky road, But never once imagined he would bow my head in shame An in the dust d waller his ol daddy s honored name. He writes from out in Denver, an the letter s mighty short I just cain t tell his mother. It will break her poor ol heart. An so I reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her Bill s in the legislatur, but he does n t say what fur. JAMES BARTON ADAMS. A BALLAD OF MODERN FABLES ALL ye who read of lovers lore Of Abelard and Heloise How Aucassin in days of yore His Nicolette sought sore to please How various other hes and shes For Love their very lives have paid; Put by your tearful threnodies And read the Fables of George Ade. And ye who read of joust and war How "Gude King Arthure wonne ye grees" How "Launcelot wolde fayn spill gore On hym that Tristram night" how " these Wight knightes wolde then drayne to ye lees Ye stirrup-cup." O story frayed ! O Malory, to yon tall trees And read the Fables of George Ade! IN LIGHTER VEIN 397 And ye who read how men explore And sail the frigid Northern Seas: (I deem such stuff an awful bore I let em drown! I let em freeze!) And Doctors who read of Disease; Professors who through theses wade: Cut Latin, Hebrew, Greek, Chinese, And read the Fables of George Ade. L Envoi Go all: from Deuce Spot to Main Squeeze Wife, Husband, Bachelor, and Maid Stand in the salty, slangy breeze And read the Fables of George Ade. FRANKLIN P. ADAMS. THE MEDICAL TYRO WAITING FOR PATIENTS THE young doctor sits through his advertised hours In a well-equipped office perfumed with flowers, Longing and praying for patrons to come, For a fee to receive as a comforting crumb. Yet the bell tinkles not, nor a patient appears In search of his skill, born of studious years; He listens intently through long office hours, And daily the news of the journals devours. Thus day after day passes most of his time, Though skill he has much, and ambition sublime; He s opinions of value, and books by the score, Yet e en not a " charity" enters his door. He writes his indulgent, venerable sire Of money exhausted and rents that are higher, And dozes and dreams of the riches of others, Of sons who have wealthy fathers and mothers. He wonders how long he must patiently wait For patients to come and his sorrows abate; He sees Dr. Doe sporting satisfied airs With a balance in bank and penates and lares. And queries if fate with an infamous plot Be the cause of his sad and most desolate lot; He wonders if Smith, and Johnson, and Jones, Could have thus ever lived as professional drones; 398 THE HUMBLER POETS Could have been so discouraged when seeking a start, As to palsy their nerves and sadden the heart; And lastly he wonders how long he must live Withholding the blessings physicians would give. When deepest in gloom o er his lack of success, With little of hope and courage still less, The bell sounds aloud in the midst of the night And call number one he hails with delight. C. S. ELDRIDGE. THE PASSING OF PRESTIGE BY JOHN BULL HIT s hastonishing to see the way Hamerica has grown, She hoccupies ha heminence in commerce all er hown, Hit seems like Hinglish prestige, hupon the land and sea, Is something like that little boy oo clim d igh hup a tree To see wat was the matter hupon the bother shore, Hand saw ha lot a bloomin things ee d never seen before, Ha lot a uman beings oo was busy has a hant, A-makin Hingland s commerce look ghostlike thin and gaunt. They was buildin locomotives hand hevery bloomin thing That Hingland used to make halone an halways ad full swing, Huntil Yankee hingenuity hand ther heverlasting pluck Laid hancient Hingland on the shelf an sent our trade hamuck. Hit s simply most houtrageous that ha Wade & Butcher blade Should be crowded hout of market by one those Yankees made. Hit s a bloomin , blawsted, bloody shame it s orrid, don t cher know That Hingland s name and prestige as dwindled down so low. The blawsted, bloomin tin plate trust as almost ruined Wales, An they re a beatin hus in heverything from ships clean down to nails, Er navy is magnificent, a honor to the sea, An becomes a hawful menace to Hingland s majesty. And those beastly, blawsted, bloody Boers took the Yankee as a guide, An ave got the most of Johnny Bull exceptin tail an hide. Sir Thomas Lipton s yacht disgraced by a losin of the cup, Hi think we better itch to them fore the bloomin game is hup. DAVID STEARNS. IN LIGHTER VEIN 399 PERSEVERANCE THERE was a young maid who said: "Why Can t I look in my ear with my eye? If I give my mind to it I m sure I can do it. You never can tell till you try." ANONYMOUS. THE VILLAGE ORACLE* OLD Dan l Hanks he says this town Is jest the best on earth; He says there ain t one up nor down, That s got one half her worth; He says there ain t no other state That s good as ourn, nor near; And all the folks that s good and great Is settled right round here. Says I: "D jer ever travel, Dan?" "You bet I ain t !" says he; "I tell you what! the place I ve got Is good enough fer me!" He says the other party s fools, Cause they don t vote his way; He says the "feeble-minded schools" Is where they ought ter stay; If he was law their mouth he d shut, Or blow em all ter smash; He says their platform s nawthin but A great big mess of trash. Says I: "D jer ever read it, Dan?" "You bet I ain t!" says he; "And when I do, well, I tell you, I ll let you know, by gee!" He says that all religion s wrong, Cept just what he believes; He says them ministers belong In jail, the same as thieves; He says they take the blessed Word And tear it all ter shreds; He says their preachin s jest absurd; They re simply leatherheads. * Reprinted from Lincoln s " Cape Cod Ballads," by permission of D. Appleton & Company. 400 THE HUMBLER POETS Says I: "D jer ever hear em, Dan?" "You bet I ain t!" says he; "I d never go ter hear em, no; . They make me sick ter see!" Some fellers reckon, more or less, Before they speak their mind, And sometimes calkerlate or guess But them ain t Dan l s kind. The Lord knows all things, great or small, With doubt He s never vexed; He, in His wisdom, knows it all But Dan l Hanks comes next. Says I: "How d yer know you re right?" "How do I know? 11 says he; "Well, now, I vum! I know, by gum! I m right because I be!" JOSEPH LINCOLN. AWFUL HAZARDOUS IT S easy sellin taters An other things at grows, Fer folks is allus hungry, Ez everybody knows, An farmers work is steady, The biggest cinch they is; But sellin ile, I tell ye, Is a mighty risky biz ! Of course the ile is handy, An folks hev got t buy, But wells is mighty freaky An frequently goes dry, An when they s ile a plenty An prices good an steep, They s lots of other fellers At wants t sell it cheap! An when y try t crowd em, Er push em t the wall, They says y re awful greedy, An says y wants it all; An when y don t say nothin , It makes em bilin mad, An then they says y re graspin , An crooked, too, an bad! IN LIGHTER VEIN 401 An when y re doin business, An sellin all the ile, Some feller reads yer letters, An things begins t bile, An folks begins a talkin , An things begins t sizz, An sellin ile, I tell ye, Is a mighty risky biz ! CHARLES IRVIN JUNKIN. CHARGE OF THE ROUGH WRITERS PENS by the hundred Volleyed and thundered And blundered, Always reported Facts that were distorted, And wondered Who had blundered! Pens to the right of us, Pens to the fright of us, Pens to the blight of us, Sputtered and scratched! Pens there behind us, Certain to find us, Ever remind us That we were matched! Messengers ran about, Waking the air with a shout, Every line weighed with a doubt; Wondering faces! Davis and Creelman and Crane Scoured o er the Cuban plain, Looking for gore and for gain, Hot were the races! Ah! how they lied to us! Babbled and cried to us, Showing each side to us, Evils and graces! Davis with "I" in his pocket, Creelman with "I" in his locket, Crane with "I" in his docket Ego was ever there! Nothing e er mattered How they bespattered Truth, how they battered 402 THE HUMBLER POETS That face once so fair! "Cash!" was the yell of them, That was the spell of them, That was the knell of them! What did they care? Oh, the Rough Writers, Our fiction delighters! The moral enlighters In the big magazines! Resume your old diction, Return to true fiction, Where there s no restriction, And leave the poor soldier His frail pork and beans! His embalmed pork and beans! Chorus Davis: "I I I I!" Creelman: "I I I I!" Crane: "I I I I!" L Env&i Oh, ye reporters all unknown Who wrote the war in the proper tone, A nameless grave is your only hope, While Davis-Creelman-Crane stand on the slope Of Parnassus, and smoke their dope! HAROLD MACGRATH. A LITERARY MISS THERE once was a lit rary miss; And all that she needed for bliss Was some ink and a pen, Reams of paper, and then Thirty days to describe half a kiss. OLIVER MARBLE. FAME WHEN a man becomes a hero all the world is standing round, In waiting for a chance to share his glory. From shore to shore innumerable voices will resound, All eager to add something to the story. "We used to know him in his youth!" "We said he was a wonder!" "He was a genius; that s the truth. You could n t keep him under!" IN LIGHTER VEIN 403 "He was the catcher on our nine!" "His sharpness beat the weasel s." "That six-foot oldest boy of mine From him once caught the measles!" And the anecdotes come rushing, in bewildering array, From folk of every station and complexion, For there s always ambition, which no wisdom can allay, To revel in some brilliant man s reflection. "His family we ve visited!" "We were his next-door neighbors!" "Kind words of hope we ve often said To cheer him at his labors!" "My father told him he might call On our folks to assist him!" And (loudest chorus of them all) "We are the girls who ve kissed him." ANONYMOUS. DISCOVERED SEEN you down at chu ch las night, Nevah min , Miss Lucy. What I mean? oh, dat s all right, Nevah min, Miss Lucy. You was sma t ez sma t could be, But you could n t hide f om me. Ain t I got two eyes to see? Nevah min , Miss Lucy. Guess you thought you s awful keen; Nevah min , Miss Lucy. Evahthing you done, I seen; Nevah min , Miss Lucy. Seen him tek you ahm jes so, When he got outside de do Oh, I know dat man s yo beau! Nevah min , Miss Lucy. Say, now, honey, wha d he say? Nevah min , Miss Lucy! Keep yo secrets dat s yo way Nevah min, Miss Lucy. Won t tell me an I m yo pal I m gwine tell his othah gal, Know huh, too, huh name is Sal; Nevah min , Miss Lucy! PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAK. 404 THE HUMBLER POETS THE RHYME OF THE KIPPERLING (After R. K.) [N. B. No nautical terms or statements guaranteed.] AWAY by the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo, Where the Yuletide rolls cold gin, And the rollicking sign of the Lord Knows Who Sees mariners drink like sin; Where the Jolly Roger tips his quart To the luck of the Union Jack; And some are screwed on the foreign port, And some on the starboard tack; Ever they tell the tale anew Of the chase for the kipper ling swag; How the smack Tommy This and the smack Tommy That They broached each other like a whiskey-vat, And the Fuzzy-Wuz took the bag. Now this is the law of the herring fleet that harries the northern main, Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the brand of Cain: That none may woo the sea-born shrew save such as pay their way With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of day. It was the woman Sal o the Dune, and the men were three to one, Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper and Sam the Son of a Gun, And the woman was Sal o the Dune, as I said, and the men were three to one. There was never a light in the sky that night of the soft mid summer gales, But the great man-bloaters snorted low, and the young uns sang like whales; And out laughed Sal (like a dog-toothed wheel was the laugh that Sal laughed she): "Now who s for a bride on the shady side of up ards of forty- three?" And Neddy he swore by butt and bend, and Billy by bend and bitt, And nautical names that no man frames but your amateur naut ical wit; IN LIGHTER VEIN 405 And Sam said, "Shiver my topping-lifts and scuttle my foe Vie yarn, And may I be curst, if I m not in first with a kipperling slued astarn!" Now the smack Tommy This and the smack Tommy That and the Fuzzy-Wuz smack, all three, Their captains bold, they were Bill and Ned and Sam respect- tivelee. And it s writ in the rules that the primary schools of kippers should get off cheap For a two-mile reach off Foulness beach when the July tide s at neap; And the lawless lubbers that lust for loot and filch the yearling stock They get smart raps from the coastguard chaps with their blun derbuss fixed half-cock. Now Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper could tell green cheese from blue, And Bill knew a trick and Ned knew a trick, but Sam knew a trick worth two. So Bill he sneaks a corporal s breeks and a belt of pipeclayed hide, And splices them on to the jibsail boom like a troopship on the tide. And likewise Ned to his masthead he runs a rag of the Queen s, With a rusty sword and a moke on board to bray like the Horse Marines. But Sam sniffs gore and he keeps off-shore and he waits for things to stir, Then he tracks for the deep with a long fog-horn rigged up like a bow-chaser. Now scarce had Ned dropped line and lead when he spots the pipeclayed hide, And the corporal s breeks on the jibsail-boom like a troopship on the tide; And Bill likewise, when he ups and spies the slip of a rag of the Queen s, And the rusty sword, and he sniffs aboard the moke of the Horse Marines. So they each luffed sail, and they each turned tail, and they whipped their wheels like mad, When the one he said, "By the Lord, it s Ned!" and the other, "It s Bill, by Gad!" 406 THE HUMBLER POETS Then about and about, and nozzle to snout, they rammed through breach and brace, And the splinters flew as they mostly do when a Government test takes place. Then up stole Sam with his little ram and the nautical talk flowed free, And in good bold type might have covered the two front sheets of the P. M. G. But the fog-horn bluff was safe enough, where all was weed and weft, And the conger-eels were a-making meals, and the pick of the tackle left Was a binnacle-lid and a leak in the bilge and the chip of a cracked sheerstrake And the corporal s belt and the moke s cool pelt and a portrait of Francis Drake. So Sam he hauls the dead man s trawls and he booms for the harbor-bar, And the splitten fry are salted dry by the blink of the morning star. And Sal o the Dune was wed next moon by the man that paid his way With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of day; For such is the law of the herring fleet that floats on the north ern main, Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the brand of Cain. And still in the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo Ever they tell the tale anew Of the chase for the kipperling swag; How the smack Tommy This and the smack Tommy That They broached each other like a whiskey- vat, And the Fuzzy-Wuz took the bag. OWEN SEAMAN. FAME FAME FAME IT s a fad of my own, that I d like to be known As a person of infinite Fame. Be it Author of books or a Student of crooks, There is much to be earned with a Name. Through a lifetime of days, there are dozens of ways That a genius can push to the front, And I d like to be classed with the chaps who will last, For some smart little story or "stunt." IN LIGHTER VEIN 407 No statesman am I, with a good reason why, For my brain is not measured by "Chin." Invention, land sakes! gives my inner self aches, And a cog fills my conscience with din; As a poet my themes are a matter of dreams, And I shudder when pondering rhyme; Then this Scientist plan is a wear on a man, And it occupies bushels of time. No pen that I shove soars to regions above, Where the author is reckoned to dwell; I am sore on the strife of this wild Public Life, There is never a battle to quell; When I look through the sheets every item repeats All the glory and fame of the few; They just seem to crop from the soil without stop, And they re born with a mission to do. Now, why, may I ask, may a fellow not bask In the sunshine of Fame, who, like me, Is a straight normal chap with no ideals on tap, And no race and no theme to set free? I d like to go out and dispel all this doubt By proclaiming the fact to the earth, That a straight, simple "mut" some example can cut On the strength of his health and his mirth. W. LIVINGSTON LARNED C AN ESKIMELODRAMA Mm Greenland s polar ice and snow, Where watermelons seldom grow (It s far too cold up there, you know), There dwelt a bold young Eskimo. Beneath the self -same iceberg s shade, In fur of seal and bear arrayed (Not over cleanly, I m afraid), There lived a charming Eskimaid. Throughout the six months night they d spoon (Ah, ye of Sage, think what a boon), To stop at ten is much too soon Beneath the silvery Eskimoon. The hated rival now we see! (You spy the coming tragedy, But I can t help it; don t blame me.) An Eskimucker vile was he, 408 THE HUMBLER POETS He found the lovers there alone. He killed them with his axe of bone. (You see how fierce the tale has grown) The fond pair died with an Eskimoan. Two graves were dug, deep in the ice, Were lined with furs, moth balls, and spice; The two were buried in a trice, Quite safe from all the Eskimice. Now Fido comes, alas, too late! (I hope it s not indelicate These little incidents to state) The Eskimurderer he ate. L Envoi Upon an Eskimo to sup Was too much for an Eskipup He died. His Eskimemory Is thus kept green in verse by me. ANONYMOUS. LAY OF ANCIENT ROME OH, the Roman was a rogue, He erat was, you bettum; He ran his automobilis And smoked his cigarettum; He wore a diamond studibus And elegant cravattum, A maxima cum laude shirt, And such a stylish hattum! He loved the luscious hic-haec-hoc, And bet on games and equi; At times he won; at others, though, He got it in the nequi; He winked (quo usque tandem?) At puellas on the Forum, And sometimes even made Those goo-goo oculorum! He frequently was seen At combats gladitorial, And ate enough to feed Ten boarders at Memorial; He often went on sprees And said, on starting homus, "Hie labor opus est, Oh, where s my hie hie domus? " IN LIGHTER VEIN 409 Although he lived in Rome Of all the arts the middle He was (excuse the phrase) A horrid individ l; Ah! what a diff rent thing Was the homo (dative, hominy) Of far-away B.C. From us of Anno Domini. THOMAS YBARRA. TO MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVADRA A BLUEBIRD lives in yonder tree, Likewise a little chickadee, In two woodpeckers nests rent free I There, where the weeping willow weeps, A dainty house-wren sweetly cheeps From an old oriole s nest she peeps. I see the English sparrow tilt Upon the limb with sun begilt His nest an ancient swallow built. So it was one of your old jests, Eh, Mig. Cervantes, that attests "There are no birds in last year s nests"? RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK. A VERY NICE PAIR Two magpies sat on a garden wall, As it might be Wednesday week; And one little magpie wagged his tail In the other little magpie s beak. And doubling like a fist his little claw-hand, Said this other: "Upon my word, This is more than flesh and blood can stand, Of magpie or any other bird." So they picked and they scratched each other s little eyes, Till all that was left on the rail Was the beak of one of the little magpies, And the other little magpie s tail. ANONYMOUS. 410 THE HUMBLER POETS THE YOUNG MAN FROM PALL MALL THERE was a young man from Pall Mall Who went to a fancy dress ball. Just for the fun He dressed up as a bun; And was eat by a dog in the hall. ANONYMOUS. ON A DULL DOG THIS dog was dull. He had so little wit That other dogs would flout him, nose in air. But was he therefore wretched? Did he care How dogdom snarled, or even think of it? He thought of nothing, but all day would sit Warm in the sun, with placid, vacant stare, Content, at ease, oblivious, unaware; And all because he had so little wit! O happy dulness which is dull indeed, And cannot hear the critic-world s "Go hang!" Small bliss we get from our too conscious breed, We semi-dullards of the middle gang! To mark the rose, and know one s self a weed, And know the others know, there lies the pang! EDWARD CRACROFT LEFROY. UNSATISFIED YEARNING DOWN in the silent hallway Scampers the dog about, And whines, and barks, and scratches, In order to get out. Once in the glittering starlight, He straightway doth begin To set up a doleful howling In order to get in. RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK. REPTILIAN ANATOMY "BED AD, that hurt!" and Patrick held A bleeding ringer up to view. Erstwhiles he d poked up shrimps and such To see just what the things would do. IN LIGHTER VEIN 411 The Irishman s patrons gathered round; But not with sympathy they laughed At Paddy s little turtle scrape And, while the reptile crawled, they chaffed. "Howld on, I want to know pf where is "His head," says Paddy s Irish tongue, "And pfwhere s his tail?" "Why so?" says one. "To know if I am bit or shtung!" ANONYMOUS. DON T YOU SEE? THE day was hotter than words can tell, So hot the jelly-fish would n t jell. The halibut went all to butter, And the catfish had only force to utter A faint sea-mew aye, though some have doubted, The carp he carped and the horn-pout pouted. The sardonic sardine had his sly heart s wish When the angel fish fought with the paradise-fish. T was a sight gave the bluefish the blues to see, But the seal concealed a wicked glee The day it went from bad to worse, Till the pickerel picked the purse-crab s purse. And that crab felt crabbeder yet, no doubt, Because the oyster would n t shell out. The sculpin would sculp, but had n t a model, And the codfish begged for something to coddle. But to both the dolphin refused its doll, Till the whale was obliged to whale them all. KATHERINE LEE BATES. A PHILISTINE YESTER EN while strolling through a marish dale I marked a thistle-feeding ass, and said: "Poor patient drudge, how will thy worth avail To lift thy name, while thou art thistle-fed? See, here are cytisus and galingale Blooms of Theocritus; crop these instead: So haply may some Genius in thy head Throb gloriously and tingle through thy tail. 412 THE HUMBLER POETS "Then would men credit thee with breadth of brain Beyond thy race, and thou mong all that dwell In British donkey dom shouldst bear the bell." He paused; I showed the sacred food; in vain! His lumpish nose turned thistlewards again. "Thou wast foredoomed," I murmured; "fare thee well!" EDWARD CRACROFT LEFROY. A SONG OF THE SEASON I AM a moth bali And (literally) There are no flies on me Or any insect life at all. The wicked flea, The rambunctious roach, And the exuberant bug All view me with reproach And promptly, lug Themselves over to the next flat. And moths In cloths? Well, I stand pat And they go almost anywhere Else and stay there. All summer long I live Done up in wool and furs And overcoats and winter wear That are his or hers; And all that time I give Myself assiduously to making things smell And never say a word And, well, Say, Do I get there? And then there comes a day When my environment is bestirred And I emerge from my lair, I and this odor I have a patent on And it is n t sweet violet Or heliotrope or mignonette, You bet! It s a sort of gone Last rose of summer scent That was n t really meant In the first place To please the animal race Or any one else regardless IN LIGHTER VEIN 413. Of creed, color or previous condition of servitude; But just to brood And send out a ball-bearing, multiple horsepower Smelliness That can do more in an hour To make itself known Than a presidential candidate Can in a lifetime Working early and late. For one small dime I can show more scents At less expense And more strength At greater length Than anything you ever saw. And can you lose me? Naw! I come forth gay and free Over musk or patchouli Or ylang-ylang or night-blooming cereus Or jockey club or any other odorous Preparation that any one ever did ring The changes on for money or love. And when I sing My voice sounds above All the rest, because I keep to the bass clef And warble fff. I am a moth ball And I have the call At this time of the year; And if you don t like the perfume When I loom Up in a car or theatre or drawing room Or other place and begin to shout, There is nowhere to go And the poet once told us so But out! ANONYMOUS. THE BOOK-WORM To HEROES who on battlefields win fame We do not grudge the lordly lion s name; Those who, insensible to others cares, Are always rough and surly, we call bears; To those who learn no lesson from what passes, The ever dull and stupid, we call asses. All claim to be a lion I resign, 414 THE HUMBLER POETS And shun all bearish traits and asinine; Nature has cast me for another part, And I embrace my lot with all my heart; To satisfy an ever-craving need, All day upon the leaves of books I feed, And by night I find a resting-place In what by day appears of books a case; Thus day and night I think my title firm To be that busy idler a book-worm. C. W. PEARSON. CHANGE ASSURED THIS world it is a pleasant place Where none need vainly yearn. You get precisely what you want If you will wait your turn. For if you like not ice and snow And winter s prowling storm, You need but wait till summer time When it will be too warm. ANONYMOUS. RELAXATION I ALWAYS like the freakish verse, The kind that runs downstairs; The kind that circles round the page, Or does its turn in squares. It a fun to see the poets stunts, Helped by the typo men; Just see again. the way runs up this runs and then down hill I do not think that people ought To keep the same old gait; They ought to break loose now and then And keep an evening "late." A long, straight line, without a break, Is bad for verse or men; up hill this runs and then the way runs down Just see again. ANONYMOUS. IN LIGHTER VEIN 415 A SONG OF SUMMER OH, the swish and the swash of the blue summer sea Is the music of music that ripples through me. Oh, I list to its saline soblet As the blue gulls about me skim, And I m certain my mental goblet Is full to the fragile brim, As I flounder about on the crest of the wave While it rolls o er the mermaiden s musical cave. Oh, the wave with the symphony swirl on it, And the glamour of glittering pearl on it, And the tresses of red All attached to the head Of the lithe Summer, blithe Summer girl on it! Oh, the cloudland I note As I tumble and toss On the billow afloat Like the swift albatross; On a fairyland shore With red lilies abeam, Amid Houris galore Do I linger and dream Of the bough with the blossom of pink on it, Of the twig with the gay bobolink on it, And a fair, witching face, With its dimples of grace And the bar with ripe rosy drink on it. Oh, these are the visions that people my brain As I turn somersaults in the riotous sea, As I caper about on the wind-rippled main, While I duck neath the shaft of the swift stingaree. O, I think of the city s sizzle And the roast, and the fry, and the frizzle, With not a cool raindrop to drizzle; Where the gin fizz is now a gin fizzle. Aloft upon the breaker I lose all sense of care While I m thumping, And a-bumping Most serenely here and there. Out of happy dreams a waker From the deep I now emerge, 416 THE HUMBLER POETS And I listen to the rumpty Tumpty tumpty Of the surge. And I make a line instanter For the arabesque decanter. Yes, I fly on a straight Indian arrow line, On a bee line, and not on a sparrow line; And I gather the drink From the plump, peachy pink Little hand of my own little Caroline. And it a then that I fly, like a gull, fancy free, To the table where glimmers the gem of the sea. Oh, it s there, with a heart full of joy, I salaam To the fish-ball s twin sister, the fragrant fried clam. RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK. A CLIMATIC MADRIGAL IT is time to go a-Maying When the frost is in the air, When the snowy boughs are swaying And the fields are white and fair; It is joy, indeed, to wander Through the bosky dells and glades, For it makes a man grow fonder Of the snow through which he wades. Tis particularly pleasing Maying with your fingers freezing. Hear the robins merry chatter, Hark the songs that they repeat While they wonder what s the matter As they nurse their frozen feet! See the butterflies leap gayly As they dance adown the breeze They must exercise thus daily Or with asthma they will wheeze. O t is joyous to go Maying When the world about is playing. See the lambkin as it gambols On the hillside near its dam, How on the frozen slopes it scrambles Cunning, gentle, frigid lamb! How the honeybees are humming, Droning music as they go IN LIGHTER VEIN 417 See, a few of them are coming Coasting on the flakes of snow! How the tender leaves are shaking As from the boughs they re breaking. Come, we 11 share our joys together; Welcome spring with hearts elate, Fare forth in the balmy weather We can either stroll or skate. Going Maying thus is joyous In our furs and overshoes, With no sunstrokes to annoy us Who another mood would choose? It is pleasant to go Maying When we have such splendid sleighing! WILBUR D. NESBIT. THE SUM OF LIFE NOTHING to do but work, Nothing to eat but food, Nothing to wear but clothes To keep one from going nude. Nothing to breathe but air, Quick as a flash t is gone; Nowhere to fall but off, Nowhere to stand but on. Nothing to comb but hair, Nowhere to sleep but in bed, Nothing to weep but tears, Nothing to bury but dead. Nothing to sing but songs, Ah, well, alas! alack! Nowhere to go but out, Nowhere to come but back. Nothing to see but sights, Nothing to quench but thirst, Nothing to have but what we Ve got; Thus through life we are cursed. Nothing to strike but a gait; Everything moves that goes. Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes. BEN KING. 418 THE HUMBLER POETS A QUESTION A LITTLE bird sat on a telegraph wire, And said to his mates: "i declare, If wireless telegraphy comes into vogue, We 11 all have to sit on the air." ANONYMOUS. GONE TO HER HEAD THERE was a young lady, quite rich, Who heard funny noises, at which She took off her hat, And found that her rat Had fallen asleep at the switch. ANONYMOUS. ONLY JAPANESE THOUGH to talk too much of Heaven Is not well, Though agreeable people never Mention Hell; Yet the woman who betrayed me, Whom I kissed, In that bygone summer taught me Both exist. I was ardent, she was always Wisely cool; So my lady played the traitor, I the fool. Oh, your pardon! but remember If you please, I m translating; this is only Japanese. ANONYMOUS. NO SEEKING, NO LOSING AN old philosopher in China Spent all his life in angling; He thought that there was nothing finer Than having his line dangling: He used no bait, he caught no fish Early or late t was not his wish. ANONYMOUS. INDEX OF FIRST LINES INDEX OF FIRST LINES A blood-red ring hung round the moon A bluebird lives in yonder tree . A cheer and salute for the ad miral, and here s to the cap tain bold A child is born it gasps and cries A clamor and clatter of galloping hoofs A creature wan, of dwarfed phy sique A crowd of troubles passed him by A Grecian myth tells of a giant grim A lane of elms in June ; the air A little bird sat on a telegraph wire A little corner with its crib . . A little girl in school .... A little glimpse of heaven upon our wearied earth .... A little smoke lazed slowly up from my big cigar .... A maiden once, with eyes of blue A man lived fifty years joy dashed with tears .... A something white came up last night A song of Shadows: never glory was A song to the football players . A story is told of three wise men who travelled over the plains . A sweet-eyed child .... A troop of sorrels led by Vic and then a troop of bays . Above you burns a molten- copper sun Against the quicksands of re ceding life to sink .... Ah! I m feared thou s come too sooin Ah me! How slow the sad years 129 409 333 344 307 164 215 259 262 418 205 32 224 178 144 41 127 96 323 101 237 74 235 PAGE All day with bright, appealing face 76 All in an April wood .... 243 All in the April evening . . . 252 All in the night when sleeping . 49 All Nature is sick from her heels to her hair 305 All over the land there s a savory smell 301 All that I ask is but to stand . 125 All ye who read of lover s lore . 396 Alone I stay; for I am lame . 302 Alone on his rock nigh a hundred years . 169 Along the chancel rail, and on the altar stair 271 Amid the chapel s chequered gloom 260 Amid the fresh salt surf one s bit of buoyant life to fling . 237 Among the palms the Thing was lost 148 An ancient ghost came up the way 39 An old philosopher in China . 418 An old slat bonnet hid her face . 281 And after Angelina, laying down 147 And some of us arrive at dawn of day . . .... 9 Angel of Peace, thou hast wan dered too long 361 "Are you ready, O Virginia" . 331 Are you worsted in a fight . . 226 Arise, ye men of strength and might 171 Arising slowly in his place . . 147 As some pale shade in glorious battle slain 126 At eve He rested there amidst the grass 254 Away by the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo 404 Aye, an old story, yet it might . 43 Back and forth in a rocker . . 29 Back mid the Baltic s sleet and snow 52 Bare, low, tawny hills ... 72 421 422 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar .... 218 "Bedad, that hurt! " and Patrick held 410 Behold from the brow of the mountain advancing . . . 358 Behold us toiling up a mountain side 241 Beneath a palm-tree by a clear cool spring 296 Beneath soft snows harsh winter lingering 81 Beneath this quiet, turfy . . 390 Betimes, when evening lies . 197 Between the hills, between the hills 211 Beyond the East the sunrise, beyond the West the sea . . 108 Beyond the far horizon, many- hilled 86 Beyond the prison cell . . . 246 Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans 153 "But, lord," she said, "my shoulders still are strong . . 231 But yesterday she played with childish things 245 By care and strife .... 8 By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore 313 By the yellow in the sky . . 193 By-gone troubadours, grave and gay 10 Can tute rakker Romany? . . 68 Captain Bing was a pirate king . 25 Child of the snowdrift and the storm 23 Childhood s days are days of sun 32 Christ died for all, and on the hearts of all 163 "Chuff! chuff! chuff!" An a mountain bluff .... 354 Clarence Percy Smith De Vere . 270 Clouds crimson-barred . . . 194 Cold and cheerless, bare and bleak 183 De good Lawd hide me out er sight 347 De rich am gettin richer . . 152 Dear beacon of my childhood s day 204 Dear heart, dost thou complain . 84 Dear, let me dream of love . . 131 Dear little Willie takes the ball . 373 Der Kaiser of dis Fatherland . 390 Dere s allus joy when de chil- len s home 202 Did you ever invoke . . . 223 Did you tackle that trouble that came your way .... 221 PAGE "Didn t you like the party, dear, to-night?" .... 146 Do the tears that arise in the heat of the strife .... 239 Down in the silent hallway . . 410 Down old ways monks pass ringing ....... 241 Down the lane and across the fields 123 Dream, dream 193 Evening comes with peace to some 197 Farewell, good old pal of the National pastime .... 100 First is a name the world reveres 356 Fresh from the griddle s warm embrace 388 Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth, nor blest abode . 38 From dusk till dawn the livelong night 318 From out imprisoning petals velvet red 70 From out the topmost bulb a budding sentry .... 79 Fruitful October! so fair and calm 75 Gaze through the opal mist across the main .... 333 Genesis tells of creation; of Abraham s call and migra tion 279 "Gentlemen," said the assayer, " you may talk all you want to 285 Git yo little fillies ready ... 381 Give her a flower to keep and hold 16 Give me a battle to fight . . 254 God did not make her very wise 126 God of our fathers, known of, old 151 "Good-night" 256 Have little care that Life is brief 230 Have you seen God s Christmas tree in the sky 47 He offered himself for the land he loved 341 He sought Australia s far-famed isle 261 He wrote his soul into a book . 10 Her gaze meets his as he looks down 306 Her name? Chiquita. Ah, senor 265 Here s to the men who lose . 215 Hit s hastonishing to see the way Hamerica has grown . . 398 "Hold fast," that splendid motto has many battles won . . 219 Holly berries red and bright . 50 How blithe you are, and tall . 23 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 423 How good our every festival appears 49 How kind they have been to their Betty 141 How often do the clinging hands, though weak 227 How sweet the sight of roses . 71 How the eagle does .... 77 I ain t no tantalizin brown . 389 I always like the freakish verse . 414 I am a good old rebel ... 322 I am a moth ball .... 412 I am lying in my tent, Sweet Marie 380 I am sitting to-day at the desk alone 90 "I am so tired! "I cried ... 223 I builded a castle in the air . . 39 I could say nice things about him 299 I did not think that I should find them there .... 167 I do be thinking, lassie, of the old days now 178 I drink the foaming chalice . . 180 I dwell amid the city ever . . 150 I found a torrent falling in a glen 83 I gave a beggar from my little store 227 I grew old the other day . . 215 I have a new stenographer she came to work to-day . . . 379 I have been dealt a cruel blow . 225 "I have fought a good fight," the Parson said, his weekly text declaring 93 I have known sorrow there fore I 298 I hear the bells at eventide . . 195 I hear the drum roll, rub-a-dub, dub 343 I heard a soldier sing some trifle 353 I hold no viol or ancient lute . 109 I know a man(accounted wise) . 387 I know a place where the sun is like gold 226 I know the way of the wild blush rose 107 I know thou hast gone to the place of thy rest .... 242 I love old mothers mothers with white hair .... 205 "I love," she said, with her faint, sweet smile 125 I met a waif i* the hills at close of day 168 I never see my rector s eyes . 395 I own a dog who is a gentleman . 201 I pray that Time full many years may bring 105 PAGE I sit beside my darling s grave . Ill I spied beside the garden bed . 13 I stood on the slope of Kronos gray, above the Olympian plain 99 I stood to hear that bold . . 247 I studied my tables over and over, and backward and for ward, too 31 I think that we retain of our dead friends 249 I was not well the other day . 393 I write. He sits beside my chair 4 If a trustee in trusting doth trust him a trust 395 If all the harm that women have done 379 If I can stop one heart from breaking 214 If I could read my title clear, among the wolves that yelp . 166 If I could whistle like I used when I was just a boy . . . 183 If I should die to-night . . . 394 If I should wake, on some soft, silent uight 243 If there be graveyard in the heart 222 If we only knew what the others know 232 If you have a gray-haired mother 210 If you only loved each other . 103 I 11 sing you a song with a full, deep breath 300 " I m awful glad I m not a girl " 29 I m glad the sky is painted blue . 220 In a dingy little hovel . . . 156 In days gone by when you were here 189 In dim green depths rot ingot- laden ships 241 In girandoles of gladioles . . 104 In him the elements are strangely blent .... 196 In letters large upon the frame . 361 In praise of little children I will say 24 In the beams and gleams came the Christmas dreams . . 50 In the gloomy ocean bed . .321 In the good old days, in the spacious days, when the Christmas feast began . . 58 In the work-a-day world, with its woful greed 207 Is it not well, my brethren? There is made 312 Is the murmur of approval, high and higher 6 424 INDEX OF FIRST LINES It is so common to be dead . It is time to go a-Maying . It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day . It was a song of lustihood . It s a fad of my own, that I d like to be known .... It s dirty, ill-smelling . . . It s easy sellin taters . . . It s ho! for a song as wild and free It s late, perhaps, for cherry pie I ve got a letter, parson, from my son, away out west . Jes a-wearyin for you . Jist pile on some more o them pine knots John Spratt will eat no fat . Jolly good fellows who die for the death of it Just a German band a-playing in a narrow alley-way . Just as I thought I was growing old Karl lay on the floor by the fire light bright Kiss me, beloved Kiss the dear old mother, her cheek is wan and wasted . Lamar and his rangers camped at dawn on the banks of the San Gabr el Last night I dreamed that I . Last night where gladness reigned supreme .... Laughter lurking in the eye, sir . Let the reign of Hate cease . Life, through the arc of a cen tury Life s but a game of golf . Life s richest cup is Love s to fill Listen, love . . . ... Little girl of Long Ago . Little Lettice is dead, they say . Lo! the nations have been toil ing up a steep and rugged road Loinwise upgirded, with a leath ern clout Long, long ago! oh, heart of youth unheeding .... Look up, not down .... Lord of the living, when my race is run Lovely the cheer of long ago . Madly I long for the day . Mamma, at night, puts out my light Mary Ann swabbled down the stairs 255 416 372 109 406 172 400 65 396 106 275 386 158 303 108 55 110 208 267 35 116 364 360 179 126 131 177 232 159 99 186 228 83 190 92 22 346 PAGE Master of human destinies am I 235 Master went a-hunting . . . 250 Maud Muller, on a summer s day 374 "May I print a kiss on your lips?" I said 121 Mid Greenland s polar ice and snow 407 More annoyed than for many a week before 278 Mother! Home! that blest re frain 212 Mothers are just the queerest things 201 My arms are empty, and my eyes 248 My gallant love goes out to-day 340 My heart is like a driver-club . 124 My hope sprang like a fountain, in the night 217 My little dear, so fast asleep . 30 My little wife s a world too sweet 283 My love for you is such a won drous thing 117 My love he went to Burdon Fair ..." 128 My neighbor yonder, at her door 185 My pa s a great Rough Rider . 342 My wounded heart is sore . . 223 Nature alway is in tune ... 64 Nature reads not our labels, "great" and "small" . . . 154 New Year, good-morning ! Come and bring 61 Not a great lady, this mother of mine 207 Nothing to do but work . . . 417 Now doth the North his inmost secret yield 362 "Now for a brisk and cheerful fight 317 Now is she crowned with per- fectness at last 247 Now if to be an April-fool . . 65 Now the furnaces are out . . 170 O chaser of the dragon-flies at play 231 O frankly bald and obviously stout 48 O man of morbid soul and small 169 O mother, mother, I swept the hearth, I set his chair and the white board spread ... 43 O nightingale, the poet s bird . 4 O painter, paint me autumn woods when now .... 246 O pleasant orchard, emerald leaves 68 "O Rataplan! It is a merry note 356 INDEX OF FIRST LINES O water, voice of my heart, cry ing in the sand 251 O when the half-light weaves . 247 Oh, dere s lots o keer an trouble 36 Oh, I love my love in the sunny summer-time 136 Oh, let me out into the starlight night 234 Oh, men have fought with arrows 332 Oh, see how thick the buttercup flowers 119 Oh, the blue, blue depths of the sky 129 Oh, the Roman was a rogue . . 408 Oh, the soft blue waves of the southern sea 337 Oh, the swish and the swash of the blue summer sea . . . 415 Oh, touch of children s hands! And whether ta en ... 26 Oh, what s become of all those good old elocution days . . 180 Oh! where do the fairies hide their heads 34 Oh, you are near, my love, so near to-night 108 Old Billy B was a pious man . 304 Old Dan l Hanks he says this town 399 Old Mother Goose became quite new 19 Old Year, good-night! A faith ful friend 61 On dusky shoulders . . . . 160 On gossamer nights when the moon is low 40 On Grandmamma s table is waiting for me 13 On the mountain-side the battle raged, there was no stop nor stay 351 On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre 392 Once I asked my mother why she wa n t a boy like me . . 203 Once in a while the skies seem blue 310 Once more the favoring breezes blow 353 Once upon a day most dreary, I was wandering weak and weary 367 One in a long dark pigtail cries . 96 Only a factory girl .... 306 Our merry little daughter . . 16 Out in the south, when the day is done 329 Out of tie deep sea-stream . . 80 Pale in the east a filmy moon . 316 Pens by the hundred . Poor sad Strephon s been jilted by Phyllis, the jade . . . Quench not the children s joy Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir "Read out the names!" and Burke sat back Resonant, full and deep . Revenge is a naked sword Rock, rock, my hollow boat Safe and snug in the sleeping-car Sail on, Columbus! sail right on ward still St. Anthony at church . Saturday night in the crowded town Search, search, search Secure in death he keeps the hearts he had Seen you down at chu ch las night Seest thou a fault in any other? . Seven years, seven happy, care less years Shakespeare speaks: "Sometimes when I m not at work on a Play Shall we walk by the stars in stead of the sun .... Shall you complain who feed the world She had a dimple in her chin She made home happy!" these few words I read .... She sleeps within a sheltered marbled close She that dwells here her spirit doth transmit She whom I loved, not human in degree . Shindig in the country . Sigh his name into the night Singing "The Star Spangled Banner" Socobie, aged and bent with pain Some gain a universal fame . Some said, "He was strong." He was weak Some time, when all life s lessons have been learned .... Jpanish is the lovin tongue . Speeding before the gale . Spirit of Twilight, through your folded wings Spring comes: and baseball, ro bust flower, in every meadow s Sprinkle, sprinkle, little hose 425 PAGE 401 117 16 380 319 301 162 67 292 168 173 309 386 239 403 161 187 394 240 165 105 206 117 210 384 116 330 89 235 238 120 193 185 383 426 INDEX OF FIRST LINES Statue-like standeth he forth, quick, elate ..... 88 Strange shape, who moulded first thy dainty shell ... 3 Sunburned dryad of the lanes . 67 Sunset and evening star . . . 192 Sunshine, the bird, and the bended bough ..... 72 Sweet and golden afternoon . . 85 Sweet his lady, fair of face . . 127 "Sweet wife, this heavy-hearted age 292 Swiftly cutting through the water ....... 98 Take as gold this old tradition . 122 Talk about old Roman banquets 188 Tell ye the story far and wide . 269 The asters now put on the lavender ...... 85 The blackest clouds have su-ns beyond ...... 227 The Book was opened! Men in wonder stood ..... 251 The boy stood on the football field ....... 370 The branches creaked on the garret roof ...... 142 The Captain strode the quarter deck ....... 347 The Chancellor mused as he nibbled his pen .... 130 The colors of the setting sun . 121 The countless stars, which to our human eye ...... 253 The day was hotter than words can tell ....... 411 The doors are shut, the windows fast ........ 140 The dusk of the night is sweet, Babette ...... 112 The earth has grown old with its burden of care ..... 46 The fairest blossoms ever bloom the last ....... 73 The first train starts at 6 p. m. . 24 The fish that gets away, my boy 225 The fog lay deep on Georges Bank ....... 41 The four-way winds of the world have blown .... 325 The frost will bite us soon . . 82 The lamp s dim, the fire s low 15 The leader waved his light baton 144 The little rag doll is queen . . 28 The low line of the walls that lie outspread ...... 174 The needles have dropped from her nerveless hands ... 59 The orchard lands of Long Ago . 176 The primrose blooms at eventide 196 PAGE The roaring of the wheels has filled my ears 162 The roses of yester-year . . . 197 The rosy musk-mallow blooms where the south wind blows . 70 The sea blood slumbering in our veins 83 The Secretary was a presence grim 309 The start the strain the springing 91 The sun looks o er the mountain fair 90 The things of every day are all so sweet 299 The tree that yearns with droop ing crest 129 The wattles were sweet with September s rain .... 249 The wind blows high, the wind blows low 82 The wind has stalked adown the garden path 74 The wind that blows can never kill 237 The wind, the wind where Erie plunged 287 The world was full of battle . 157 The years come not back that have circled away .... 54 The years stretch far above thee 30 The young doctor sits through his advertised hours . . . 397 Ther s a feller in the Black Gang 338 There are sounds in the sky when the year grows old . . 56 There are whips and tops and pieces of strings .... 255 There is a mother, legend runs . 315 There is a music in the march of stars 244 There now, Billy, stop your cry ing 27 There once was a lit rary miss . 402 There was a little beggar maid . 141 There was a man who put on airs 26 There was a young lady, quite rich 418 There was a young maid who said: "Why 399 There was a young man from Pall Mall 410 There were two young ladies from Birmingham . . . 378 There whispered in my ear . . 76 There s a hurt in the heart of the night 184 There s a joy that is a joy . . 26 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 427 PAGE There s a spinster of thirty- some years whose abode . . 145 There s coming a year all mirth and joy 62 These parting words we have to They are camped on Chicka- mauga 326 They are not long, the weeping and the laughter .... 253 They bought her, not with Irish knife 273 They had come from out of the East 336 They hasten, still they hasten . 35 They held her south to Magel lan s mouth 327 They miss him in the orchard, where the fruit is sunning over 340 They sat they two upon the cliff together .... 134 They ve half inch thick of tan upon their faces .... 348 This dog was dull. He had so little wit 410 This is the time of the year, my boys 92 This war with Spain reminds me o the Spring o 61 . . 349 This world it is a pleasant place 414 This world of ours appears to me 20 Thou canst not have forgotten all .12 Thou knowest not the parching 69 Thou one all perfect Light . .251 Though care and strife ... 7 Though to talk too much of Heaven 418 Thousands upon their eager tip toes stand 5 Through many a year a picture dear 189 Thy semblant beauty creeping through the world .... 6 Tier upon tier, through the stands are strown .... 101 T is an ancient Roman proverb 240 T is time ah me! to change my coat 114 To do what you can .... 14 To heroes who on battlefields win fame 413 To my very best friend! to you, dear friend 115 To Night the sleeper . . . .221 To-day is theirs the unfor- gotten dead 252 Too brief her sun of beauty glows 112 T was long ago but I remem ber 118 T was on a merry Yuletide night 51 T was tempting fat, and looked well filled 139 T was the night before Christ mas, and small stockings three 53 Two fleets have sailed from Spain. The one would seek . 329 Two magpies sat on a garden wall 409 Two twilights come to man . 196 Unto the world s great diadem . 5 Upon the tumult of the toiling street 224 Wake! For the Sun is out with all his might 377 Wake up early, chillun . . . 345 Wait not until my eyes are dimmed by everlasting night . Ill We are the music-makers . . 2 We are the slaves of the timber land 77 We are the toilers from whom God barred 233 We come from the war-swept valleys 236 We have gone down to the sea . 200 We have heard the roll of the signal-gun 95 We have read in song and story . 334 We wandered in the woodland dim 124 We were ordered to Samoa from the coast of Panama . . . 266 Weary months I ve spent in Tampa, where the luscious hard-tack grows .... 345 We 11 read that book, we 11 sing that song 250 We ve had a social squabble down to Pohick on the crick . 381 What boots my will to guide a gilded tongue 236 What is that, mother? . . . 374 What is there in living when one has lost all 216 What saw you in your flight to-day 182 What time in front of this dim glass the Princess fair ... 138 What time the Lord drew back the sea 355 When a man becomes a hero all the world is standing round . 402 When angels walk across the sky 37 When Cholly swung his golf stick on the links 335 When de fiddle gits to singing out a ole Vahginny reel . . 382 428 INDEX OF FIRST LINES When, formed by groping mind and tedious hand .... When Morning s jewelled fingera part When mother was a little girl . When my turn comes, dear ship mates all When on my country walks I go When pa an ma was married in the days long gone and dead . When red and white the rose of June When swallows fly .... When Teddy Bears are brought to table When the city s rush is over, and the monthly ticket shown When the crisp autumnal zephyrs whistle through the leafless trees When the dark shadows fall . When the day s stint is finished, and master and man . When the dew is fresh and the When the sands of night are run When the spring s elysian . Where are the loves that we loved before Where the mountain sips the sea PAGE 3 112 391 244 84 146 258 194 22 209 94 226 163 97 152 219 248 79 PAGE Who can describe the dainty curls 139 Who more shall trust thee, Nature; who so dare . . . 359 Why did you say you loved me then 113 Why do I love you, dear? Be cause 112 With the May blossoms, cheery and bold 106 Within my cell are singing sounds a robin s call, afar . 168 Within the convent garden, at the dusk 196 Without one bitter feeling let us part 133 Yassir, I m a no thern coon . 388 Ye lonely peaks, with brows of ice 69 Ye wild, free troopers of the skies 73 Yes, he was the only one killed . 341 Yes, I am Opportunity . . . 217 Yes, yes, my son, I have no doubt 185 Yester en while strolling through a marish dale 411 You talk about some maiden fair 142 You would have understood me, had you waited 135 You s as stiff an as cold as a stone 21 MAR 22 1934 MAY 31934 DEC ~6 1934 NOV 19 1937 DEC 6 JAN 4 1939 JUL 5 1939 ( UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY