GIFT OF 
 Class of 1900 
 
Uittlr f ilia 
 
ffitttl? fills 
 
 Published by the Guild of First Congregational Church, Oakland. California. 
 Christmas, 1920 
 
-xi&i* &.w / 
 
making no claim to being poetry, are the output of idle 
 but profitable hours, some written on the summer slopes of 
 Mount Rainier some on a dusty transcontinental train. 
 
 They have only one merit sincerity on the part of one 
 
 "Who, in the love of nature, 
 
 Holds communion with her visible forms." 
 
THE LITTLE HILLS 
 
 He made the hills, the little hills, 
 
 I praise His name for that; 
 The hill of Zion, that He wjlls 
 
 As much as Ararat! * , * " * 
 
 For this I see; -that, mountains, .high . t 
 Are stern arid .epic) jan^jgr'ay'V'? ; 
 
 The little hills are soft and shy, 
 They bid me come and play. 
 
 The mountains have their crowns of snow, 
 
 Their ice-fields dazzling bright; 
 On little hills the poppies grow, 
 
 And fields of daisies white. 
 
 On mountain tops I see the storm, 
 The rough winds rage aloft; 
 
 On little hills the showers form, 
 And breezes whisper soft. 
 
 On mountain peaks where all things freeze 
 
 There grows scarce anything; 
 But on the hills are noble trees 
 
 Where all the birds may sing. 
 
 The mountains are so high and rough, 
 They fill my heart with fear; 
 
 The little hills are near enough 
 To make them very dear. 
 
 I would not be a mountain proud, 
 
 Above the hills below; 
 Nor have my head above the cloud, 
 
 In wind and cold and snow. 
 
 I'd rather be a tiny hill, 
 
 Not far from any one, 
 Where lambs might play at their sweet will, 
 
 And little rivers run. 
 
 Dear Lord, give me a lowly heart, 
 
 Content to do Thy will; 
 Let me not play a mountain's part, 
 
 Make me a liittle hill! 
 
A SONG OF THE INDIAN SUMMER 
 
 I sing a song of the Indian summer, 
 
 Of the gladsome, sad-some Autumn weather, 
 
 Of the gray-gold, brown-gold gay October, 
 O come, let us sing and shout together! 
 
 I sing a song of the Indian summer, 
 
 Of the crackling, snapping, frosty weather, 
 
 Of the hazy, lazy, sweet October, 
 O come, let us run and play together! 
 
 Of the fruit trees, nut trees, chestnut, pippin, 
 Of the russet fields where the lambs are skippin', 
 
 Of prickly burr and glossy fur, 
 O come, let us skip and dance together! 
 
 Of the star-ful, joyful, silvery moonlight, 
 Of the ghostly, shivery, quivery twilight, 
 Of fog and mist, of paths that twist, 
 O come, let us clasp our hands together! 
 
 Of the mournful, tuneful, minor weather, 
 Of the crying, dying, dead October, 
 
 Of the winds that creep as soft as a feather, 
 O come, let us weep and smile together! 
 
 Of the gifts of God and the crimson glory, 
 Of the closing year and the finished story, 
 
 Of hope and love, and the stars above, 
 O come, let us kneel and pray together! 
 
AUTUMN HYMN 
 
 1 see the golden glory of the fading autumn leaf, 
 A Hand Divine is painting them in hues beyond belief, 
 In crimson, brown and purple like trappings of a chief; 
 For Time is rolling on. 
 
 The New Year found us frozen, every tree was bare and 
 
 chill, 
 
 And the icy swords of winter flashed aloft on every hill. 
 But the spark of hope within us bade us battle witti good 
 
 will; 
 For Time was rolling on. 
 
 In the springtime earth was bursting with the thrill of new- 
 born life, 
 
 Hushed were all the echoes of the winter's cruel strife, 
 With the promise of the harvest every new-plowed field was 
 
 rife; 
 For Time was rolling on. 
 
 Then summer, royal summer, all her baskets filled with store, 
 Warmed us, charmed us, then alarmed us, tho her bounty 
 
 more and more, 
 
 For "the summer soon is ended, and the harvest quickly o'er," 
 As Time goes rolling on. 
 
 Thus I round the year with goodness and with mercy find 
 
 it crowned, 
 
 Every season sings His kindness all the shining year around, 
 Let praises fill His temple and thro all the world resound, 
 As Time goes rolling on. 
 
MOUNTAIN VOICES 
 
 Far, far away, their snowy peaks I see, 
 Far, far away, their voices call to me, 
 
 And in my soul the echoes surge and roll, 
 I hear the mountain voices calling 
 Softly to me. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 I'm coming, I'm coming. 
 
 And my heart is light and free, 
 I hear the mountain voices calling 
 Softly to me. 
 
 Nearer I come to where the snow fields gleam, 
 Higher I climb, my mate the singing stream, 
 
 And as I rise close to the azure skies, 
 My heart leaps high at voices calling 
 Softly to me. 
 
 Now over crags, still up I press and on, 
 Still step by step where icy dangers yawn, 
 
 Where glistening slopes like shining blessed hopes 
 Invite and lure, their voices calling 
 Softly to me. 
 
 On till at last I stand on topmost tip. 
 
 Ah then my song bursts forth from joyful lip; 
 
 And kin with cloud, my soul with rapture bowed, 
 I hush my heart to hear God calling 
 Softly to me. 
 
Photomount 
 
 Pamphlet 
 
 Binder 
 
 Gay lord Bros., Inc., 
 
 Mafeers 
 Stockton, Calif. 
 
 PAT. JAN. 2). 1908 
 
 886381 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY