r 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 C/LiFORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO
 
 -S4-9-f&"if9-ftt*T9*f& r ***$JirtMT&ft 
 
 : Sirhari (5. 
 
 
 1905
 
 Copyright 1904 by JAMES W. FOLEY 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 The greater part of the verses contained in this vol 
 ume originally appeared in the BISMARCK TRIBUNE, the 
 NEW YORK TIMES, and the CENTURY MAGAZINE, to whose 
 editors and proprietors the author presents his compli 
 ments and thanks for permission to use the same. 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 BOSTON, U. S. A.
 
 TO MY WIFE
 
 (Eotttottfi 
 
 A TOAST TO MERRIMENT .... 9 
 
 WHY THE JURY DISAGREED 10 
 
 A MIDWINTER PASTORAL . . . . 13 
 
 A VERSE TO MEMORY . . . . 15 
 
 A CHRISTMAS GREETING 16 
 
 SOME POINTERS FROM GRUM 18 
 
 JUST How IT WAS ..... 19 
 
 FORSAKEN ...... 21 
 
 ON MODERN Music ..... 21 
 
 GOLDEN DAYS IN SLOWVILLE ... 23 
 
 BALLAD OF THE RAIN .... 25 
 
 OLD FRIENDS ...... 27 
 
 THE LEPER AND THE BELL ... 28 
 
 A CHILD S ALMANAC .... 29 
 
 YESTERDAY ...... 30 
 
 IN A LITTLE WHILE ..... 30 
 
 A MISTAKEN IMPRESSION ... 31 
 
 A REMINISCENCE OF THE LONE PINE TRAIL 32 
 
 FAMILY RESEMBLANCES .... 34 
 
 THE BEREAVEMENT ..... 35 
 
 A GENEALOGICAL HOMILY ... 36 
 
 IF HE ONLY HAD A MIND ... 38 
 
 POOR JIM ....... 41 
 
 POET AND PEASANT ..... 43 
 
 SONG ....... 44 
 
 LIFE, LOVE, AND DEATH .... 45 
 
 WINTER ....... 46 
 
 THE CYNIC S FRIENDS .... 46 
 
 AN UP-COUNTRY FEUD .... 47 
 
 Miss TABBY TATTLE READS THE WEEKLY 
 
 PAPER ...... 50 
 
 THE LOVABLE LASS OF THE GROUCHY OLD 
 
 MAN ...... 52
 
 Page 
 
 A CRITICISM 53 
 
 PERSEVERANCE ... -54 
 A VISION OF THE LITTLE COUNTRY TOWN 57 
 
 FROM THE COURT RECORDS . . 59 
 
 DON WANT TO STAY ... 62 
 
 DROPPING PEBBLES IN THE STREAM . 63 
 
 GIVE ME CONTENT .... 65 
 
 IN CHILDHOOD TIME . . 65 
 
 THE POWER OF LOVE ... 66 
 
 A HUMAN LIFE . . 67 
 
 WINTER AND SUMMER . . 68 
 
 WHERE? .... 68 
 
 THE PARTED THREADS . . 69 
 
 AT THE WAR OFFICE ... 7 
 
 INDESTRUCTIBLE ... 7 1 
 
 THE VILLAGE CHURCH . . 7 2 
 
 CONTENTMENT ... .74 
 
 A HORSE TRADE ... 74 
 
 THE INEXORABLE ... 75 
 
 THE MORTGAGED FARM ... 76 
 
 A GOOD DEED DONE . 7 8 
 
 NOUGH FOR ME 78 
 
 TAPS . 80 
 
 SONG OF ENDEAVOR ... 81 
 
 OUT OVER THERE . . 82 
 
 LOOK UP ... 84 
 
 THE DEAD . 85 
 
 WRITING A LETTER HOME 
 
 THE CUP WILL PASS ... 86 
 
 STUBBED HIS TOE 
 
 FORGETFULNESS 
 
 AN ART CRITICISM . 
 
 THE ARCHER S SHAFT . . 9 
 
 FRIENDS ..... 9 
 
 VANITIES ... 9 1 
 
 THE LOST HEART 9 2
 
 Page 
 
 COMPENSATION . 94 
 
 THE UNSOUNDED DEPTHS ... 94 
 
 A PARTING 95 
 
 THE LOST CHANCE . ... 96 
 
 VERSES TO A LITTLE CHILD ... 97 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE 9& 
 
 GLADNESS BY THE WAY . . . 98 
 
 LOST OPPORTUNITIES .... 100 
 BENEATH THE SNOWS .... 101 
 A LADY S LETTER OF REGRET . . .102 
 THE EVIL OF WISHING . . . .103
 
 A QJnaat to Hforrimntf 
 
 Make merry ! Though the day be gray 
 
 Forget the clouds and let s be gay! 
 How short the days we linger here: 
 A birth, a breath, and then the bier ! 
 
 Make merry, you and I, for when 
 
 We part we may not meet again ! 
 
 What tonic is there in a frown? 
 You may go up and I go down, 
 
 Or I go up and you who knows 
 
 The way that either of us goes? 
 Make merry ! Here s a laugh, for when 
 We part we may not meet again. 
 
 Make merry ! What of frets and fears ? 
 There is no happiness in tears. 
 
 You tremble at the cloud and lo! 
 
 Tis gone and so tis with our woe, 
 Full half of it but fancied ills. 
 Make merry ! Tis the gloom that kills. 
 
 Make merry! There is sunshine yet. 
 
 The gloom that promised, let s forget. 
 The quip and jest are on the wing, 
 Why sorrow when we ought to sing? 
 
 Refill the cup of joy, for then 
 
 We part and may not meet again. 
 
 A smile, a jest, a joke alas ! 
 
 We come, we wonder, and we pass. 
 The shadows fall ; so long we rest 
 In graves, where is no quip or jest. 
 
 Good day ! Good cheer ! Good-bye ! For then 
 
 We part and may not meet again !
 
 I am an honest man, I am ; ez fair ez a man kin 
 
 be; 
 Fer anything that s on th square, I m willin to 
 
 agree ; 
 But when I m right, no set o men kin argify with 
 
 me. 
 
 I heerd th witnesses myself an I heerd th law 
 yers, too; 
 
 I heerd th j edge s charge, V jing, that some of 
 em slept right through, 
 
 An that man, he wa n t guilty, sir, no more n me 
 er you. 
 
 Now, what s th use t argify when y know right 
 
 where ye re at? 
 If my mind s made up, y jing, I ll stay, y kin bet 
 
 yer Sunday hat; 
 When y can t git nothin in th draw, my doctern 
 
 is, stand pat. 
 
 Ten of em stood for th feller s guilt on th fust 
 
 vote, instantly; 
 One of em voted his ballot blank an th other one 
 
 was me, 
 An of all th stubborn, senseless mules, I swan I 
 
 never see! 
 
 I low I know what s evidence an I got some 
 
 slight idee 
 Of law myself, though I don t perfess to be no 
 
 LL.D. 
 But th ain t no leven men on airth kin bulldoze 
 
 Silas Lee. 
 
 10
 
 They argified an argified, with now an then a. 
 swear ; 
 
 I set an listened to em talk an never turned a 
 hair, 
 
 Fer when I tired o hearin em, I jes played soli 
 taire. 
 
 Thank Heaven I ain t no stubborn fool; I got 
 
 some common sense; 
 I take my law fr m th jedge, y jing, an I sift 
 
 th evidence; 
 But when it comes to my idees, wal, I ain t on th 
 
 fence. 
 
 They all got middlin temperish when th court 
 house clock struck nine; 
 
 But nary a one of em guv in, clear down th stub 
 born line; 
 
 They jes adhered to their idees an I adhered t 
 mine. 
 
 John Scruggs, he lowed t calcalate the jury orto 
 
 rise; 
 He had some chores t do at hum an he said he d 
 
 compermise ; 
 An I said I d stay till they let him off er th 
 
 stars fell fr m th skies. 
 
 Twas long bout midnight time, I guess ; I d beat 
 
 my sixteenth game 
 O solitaire, an th light burned dim with a sickly 
 
 sort o flame, 
 When Jason Benson up an lowed how I was all 
 
 t blame! 
 
 ii
 
 I riz right up fr m off my cheer an fetched him 
 
 one so free 
 That I low y couldn t count th stars that Jason 
 
 Benson see ; 
 An Jason s cousin (through his first wife) he tuk 
 
 a smash at me ! 
 
 We mixed it purty middlin warm; Wash Jen 
 kins, he struck out 
 
 At Jason s cousin (through his first wife) an 
 fetched him sech a clout 
 
 That his nose was flatter n griddle-cakes, an th 
 blood jes spurted out. 
 
 Hamp Hawkins slid down underneath th table 
 
 Hamp was slim 
 But someone guv th lamp a shove an overturned 
 
 th glim. 
 Hamp s clothes tuk fire fr m th kerosene an durn 
 
 nigh finished him. 
 
 Win Watson mounted of a cheer an jes begin t 
 
 shout 
 " Peace ! Peace ! " when Jason Benson he fetched 
 
 him a rousin clout 
 That laid Win len thwise on th floor, knocked 
 
 plumb, completely out! 
 
 Then Scruggs he laid a-holt o me, an Jason 
 
 grabbed my throat, 
 Both holdin on so cussed tight I couldn t peel my 
 
 coat, 
 An Jason s cousin (through his first wife), he 
 
 says : " Let s take a vote ! " 
 
 12
 
 Then all of em voted fer his guilt every las 
 
 one but me ; 
 
 They never had no notion t all of tryin to agree, 
 So I went back t solitaire, fer y can t bluff Silas 
 
 Lee. 
 
 Now that s th livin , gospel truth, fer any man 
 
 t read, 
 It ain t fixed up t favor me, an it ain t no lyin 
 
 screed ; 
 Ez fur ez I m consarned, y jing, th jury was 
 
 agreed ! 
 
 A 
 
 The frost gleams thick on the window pane, 
 The cart wheels creak down the frozen lane ; 
 High from the chimneys, everywhere 
 Rise threads of smoke to the biting air; 
 The barn door creaks with a plaintive twinge, 
 Where the glistening frost tints the rusted hinge. 
 
 The old pump cries a shivering cry ; 
 
 While " Crunch ! Crunch ! Crunch ! " tramp the 
 
 horses by. 
 
 The chore boy shivers as he stands 
 And beats his sides with his mittened hands ; 
 While the ice forms thick on the old pump spout, 
 As the glistening water gushes out. 
 
 There s hoarfrost deep on the great ox yoke, 
 And the breath of the oxen comes like smoke ; 
 The clothes hang stiff on the swaying line, 
 And the house dog stands with a piteous whine 
 At the closed storm door ; and the milk cows wait 
 With huddled bulks at the barnyard gate.
 
 The prying youngster, unafraid, 
 
 Dares tip his tongue to the frosted blade 
 
 Of the axe that lies at the chopping-block ; 
 
 The erstwhile strut of the barnyard cock 
 
 Is only a stiff and stilted round 
 
 As he picks his toes from the frozen ground. 
 
 There s snow inch-deep where the cows once 
 
 browsed, 
 
 There s frost nail-thick on the beasts unhoused. 
 The chore boy stamps in the drifted snows 
 To coax the warmth to his tingling toes, 
 As he drives his fork in the sodden hay, 
 And the day is gray in a gloomy way. 
 
 There s a " Crunch ! " and " Crunch ! " as foot 
 steps stalk 
 Down the sounding length of the pine board 
 
 walk. 
 
 The well wheel squeaks with a frosty note 
 And the well rope s stiff with an icy coat; 
 The gathered oxen drink their fill 
 With updrawn backs, and a shiver chill. 
 
 The shed door creaks with a shivering sound, 
 As the soapsuds splash on the frozen ground 
 Where a pail from the half-bared arms is swung 
 Of the kitchen maid, who gives quick tongue 
 In a treble " B-r-r-r-h-h ! " and a grateful change 
 Soon finds at the glow of the kitchen range. 
 
 The chore boy beds his beasts, and then 
 Shoos back to its perch a vagrant hen ; 
 The sodden snow from his feet he knocks 
 Ere he piles the depths of the great wood-box 
 With snowy sticks; and when tis laid 
 He steals a kiss from the kitchen maid.
 
 The fields are white and the earth is dead ; 
 The frost snaps time to the chore boy s tread, 
 Stands thick, like snow, on the window pane, 
 And the cart wheels creak down the frozen lane. 
 While rise from the chimneys everywhere 
 Thin threads of smoke on the frosty air. 
 
 A Hrrae to 
 
 Now Memory, like a little child, 
 
 Takes me by one soft hand. 
 By dreams of keen delight beguiled 
 
 We stray through Flowerland ; 
 And like the child, sweet Memory 
 
 By many a byway strays, 
 Plucks flowers and bears them back to me 
 
 To fashion my bouquets. 
 
 By many sweet, secluded ways 
 
 She wanders, far or near; 
 A rose upon my garland lays 
 
 Bejeweled with a tear: 
 The rose of some far-flown ideal, 
 
 A fragrance, ah, how rare ! 
 My fingers close but to reveal 
 
 The ashes crumbling there. 
 
 Now tinkling laughter ripples clear 
 
 As some new flower she spies, 
 Some far- forgotten joys appear 
 
 As fairy faces rise. 
 My thoughts in revel, flower-wreathed, 
 
 Heart-full, my garlands lie, 
 While on the scented air is breathed 
 
 A greeting and good-bye.
 
 Come, Child, away ! The frolic ends, 
 
 The flower in ashes, dead ; 
 The perfume with the air that blends 
 
 We ll bear away instead. 
 Here at the hedge we kiss and part, 
 
 Some sterner duties find. 
 Bear all the sweetness in the heart 
 
 But leave the flowers behind. 
 
 Thank God, thank God for Memory, 
 
 Half smile and half a tear; 
 The flowers are there eternally, 
 
 And when the days are drear, 
 In through the tangled hedge of days 
 
 We wander, hand in hand, 
 And I may dream, while Memory strays, 
 
 A child in Flowerland. 
 
 A OIljrtBtmaa 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! " Wishin it 
 
 Earnest; ain t no hypocrite. 
 
 Got no sort o axe to grind, 
 
 Jes feel sort o so inclined. 
 
 Heart so full o happiness 
 
 Wish et I c d call an bless 
 
 Everyone, an so I say: 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! Bless th day ! " 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! " Savin it 
 Honest like, an heart t fit. 
 Wishin everyone c d share 
 Happiness, an some t spare. 
 
 16
 
 Turkey smokin hot an brown, 
 Old an young folks settin roun , 
 Holly twined with mistletoe, 
 "Merry Christmas!" Jes feel so! 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! " Frosty air 
 
 Echoin it everywhere. 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! " That s what tells 
 
 In th chime o th church bells. 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! " Prose er rhyme 
 
 Can t do justice to th time. 
 
 Can t find language t express 
 
 What it holds o happiness. 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! " Want t pray 
 
 F r em all jes thataway. 
 
 Ain t no highfalutin prayer 
 
 As I know of can compare 
 
 With that simple wish o mine: 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! " snow er shine, 
 
 Heart beats happy either way, 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! " Bless th day. 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! " Me an you 
 
 An th whole world, through an through. 
 
 Ain t no language can express 
 
 What it means o happiness. 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! " Prose er rhyme 
 
 Can t do justice to th time. 
 
 Jes ain t nothin else t say : 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! Bless th day ! "
 
 from drum 
 
 " Now I vum," 
 
 Said old Grum, 
 " Y sh d keep gals t hum 
 Till they re twenty er thirty 
 Ez tight ez a drum. 
 
 Y sh d 1 arn 
 Em t am 
 
 What they git an consarn 
 Themselves with the r chores, 
 That s my doctern, by darn! 
 
 An th boys 
 Y sh d lick 
 
 Every day with a stick, 
 Till they come when y call em 
 An come mighty quick ! 
 
 Y sh d teach 
 
 Em that speech 
 Is f r grown folks an sich; 
 We got youngsters t work, 
 We got preachers t preach. 
 
 An this dum 
 
 Go an come 
 Is all nonsense, I vum. 
 In all my born days 
 
 Ain t been five mile fr m hum. 
 
 Oh, I got 
 
 Some idees 
 How t raise familees, 
 How I m goin t raise mine; 
 You can do as y please. 
 
 18
 
 An f r clo es, 
 Do y s pose 
 That my spondulix goes 
 F r Paris creations 
 
 An gowns an silk hose? 
 
 Why, say! 
 This old plum 
 Colored suit here, I vum, 
 I was married in that 
 
 An it s good now, by gum ! 
 
 Oh, I got 
 Some idees 
 
 How t raise familees. 
 I was raised thataway 
 
 An by gum look at me ! " 
 
 Jitat Ifotu 3ft Was 
 
 " Now, just let me see : 
 
 Seems to me that twas she 
 
 Objected to something 
 
 That he did. Or he 
 
 Objected to her having 
 
 Someone to tea. 
 
 No ! Now isn t that queer ? 
 
 I know I did hear 
 
 Just the way that it was, 
 
 But it s left me, I fear. 
 
 " No ! It comes to me now 
 It seems this was the how 
 Of it: Something he did 
 That she wouldn t allow. 
 
 9
 
 Or was it her old folks 
 That started the row? 
 No! Now that isn t right, 
 I know that s not quite 
 The way that Miss Gadaround 
 Told me last night. 
 
 "Ah ! Now I recall 
 The gossip and all: 
 It seems that one night 
 When he went there to call 
 Twas last Spring, I think, 
 Or was it this Fall? 
 Oh, well, anyway 
 What I started to say 
 Was that she well, 
 My memory s awful today ! 
 
 " Now, how did she tell 
 
 Me that? Well, well! W r ell! Well!! 
 
 You know she got her story 
 
 Right straight from Nell. 
 
 But I can t quite recall now 
 
 Just what she did tell 
 
 Me last night. Anyway, 
 
 Whichever it may 
 
 Be, the wedding is off, 
 
 As I started to say ! " 
 
 20
 
 High in the tree is an empty nest 
 
 Whence the fledgelings of yesterday are flown ; 
 Hovers a bird in a vague unrest, 
 
 Wondering, it may be, and all alone. 
 
 Wondering, it may be, or East or West 
 
 Or South or North swept the wings untried, 
 
 Wondering over an empty nest 
 
 And the blue of the infinite sky, so wide. 
 
 High in the attic s a trundle bed 
 
 Whence the child of a Yesterday is flown; 
 Hovers a woman, with tears unshed, 
 
 Wondering, it may be, and all alone. 
 
 Wondering, it may be, or East or West 
 
 Or South or North roams the youth untried, 
 
 Wondering over an empty nest, 
 
 And an empty heart ; and the world so wide ! 
 
 She s been to masters French and Greek, Italian 
 
 and Dutch, 
 She s put in years on technique and she s put in 
 
 years on touch, 
 She s long on Dago music, she knows all the 
 
 rhapsodies, 
 She s got a pile o nocturnes like a haystack, if 
 
 y please; 
 She simply dotes on Vogner ; he s the daddy of 
 
 em all, 
 
 21
 
 To hear her rave about him when th women 
 
 come t call. 
 But with all her fuss an notions, sir, I wouldn t 
 
 give a prune 
 T hear her play she don t know how t play 
 
 one goldurned tune! 
 
 She sits down at th bench an draws a mighty, 
 
 innard breath, 
 Then slams both hands down this way like t 
 
 scare a man t death ! 
 That s the prelude, so she tells me; then it s too- 
 
 dle-oodle-oo, 
 Tweedle, tweedle, toodle, toodle, rattle, tittle, 
 
 tattle, too ! 
 Then she climbs up in the treble and she teeters 
 
 on th keys, 
 Like a bird upon a limb when heavy winds is in 
 
 th trees ! 
 
 Down she slides into the bass part an she ham 
 mers it like sin, 
 While I sit there waitin , waitin f r th music t 
 
 begin. 
 
 Purty soon she strikes up somethin like an old, 
 familiar air, 
 
 Sort o sweet an full o comfort, an I tilt back 
 in my chair, 
 
 Feelin glad th noise is over an th music has 
 begun, 
 
 But she only plays a note or two an then th 
 music s done. 
 
 Bang! She strikes a bunch o discords an she 
 races down th course, 
 
 One hand a-follerin t other like an old, string- 
 halted horse ; 
 
 22
 
 An she murmurs : " Daddy, Daddy, ain t that 
 harmony jist grand? 
 
 Oh, Daddy, how it thrills you if you only under 
 stand ! " 
 
 Now I got my own opinion of what music orto 
 be, 
 
 An it ain t no bunch o fingers teeterin on a sin 
 gle key. 
 
 It s got some order to it, an y hear it in y r ears 
 
 F r days an months, an sometimes, if it s extry 
 sweet, f r years ! 
 
 Y kin gi me Annie Laurie, played th good, ol - 
 fashioned way 
 
 Without no frills or furbelows jes sit down 
 there an play, 
 
 An I don t ask nothin sweeter; f r me it s twict 
 as grand 
 
 As any furrin rhapsody I never understand ! 
 
 iagfi ttt &UrotttiU? 
 
 These are golden days in Slowville ; there is glad 
 ness up and down; 
 
 For they re sticking circus posters round the 
 little country town. 
 
 Flaming sheets of red and yellow on its every 
 barn and fence 
 
 Tell of wonders aggregated disregardful of ex 
 pense. 
 
 Tell of wildernesses threaded for the fierce Big- 
 rigmajig; 
 
 Tell of jungle-beasts made captive and of marvels 
 small and big, 
 
 " In a most stupendous spectacle of splendor and 
 renown,"
 
 Say the flaming circus posters in the little country 
 town. 
 
 They have wielded monster brushes from the 
 
 dewy hours of morn, 
 They have covered half of Jones s barn with 
 
 grandeur heaven-born ; 
 They have pictured fluffy ladies on the backs of 
 
 dashing steeds, 
 They have ornamented Slowville with a wealth of 
 
 daring deeds; 
 They have left a Ripperumptus on the back of 
 
 Robbin s fence, 
 
 Captured in the wilds of Africa at marvelous ex 
 pense ; 
 They ve a retinue of big-eyed lads as they move 
 
 up and down 
 When they put up circus posters in the little 
 
 country town. 
 
 Oh! the multicolored marvels done in wonder- 
 rousing haste 
 
 With a broad red barn for background and no 
 means but brush and paste. 
 
 " Hi, there. Jimmy ! See the monkeys ! " All 
 the air is shrill with cries 
 
 As the myriads of wild beasts are upreared in 
 gorgeous dyes ; 
 
 There s the fierce Ornithorinktus and the dread 
 ful Whatisnot, 
 
 The blood-sweating Crinklawoozum and the 
 awful Bingleswat. 
 
 Tent and sideshow, flag and streamer, elephant, 
 parade, and clown 
 
 Oh ! they re sticking circus posters round the 
 little countrv town. 
 
 24
 
 These are sleepless nights in Slowville ; sleepless 
 nights and anxious days; 
 
 There s a hoarding of stray pennies got in half 
 a hundred ways ; 
 
 There are lads in wonder raptured; open- 
 mouthed with bulging eyes, 
 
 Where the marvelous menageries from gorgeous 
 posters rise; 
 
 Oh! there s glory, glory, glory in the chariots 
 arrayed, 
 
 There s rapture in the promise of the splendorous 
 parade ; 
 
 And new life has come to Slowville and is surg 
 ing up and down 
 
 Since they put up circus posters in the little 
 country town. 
 
 lallafc nf tlje Uattt 
 
 Puddles and pools in the village street, 
 
 Dripping eaves, where the swallows hide ; 
 The splash and splash of horses feet 
 
 Down the muddy lane, and the trees beside, 
 Sodden and soaked till the raindrops fall, 
 
 Like tears, and the twigs with jewels set 
 Of limpid water, and over all 
 
 A haze of mist, like a cloak all wet. 
 
 Under the boughs of the great oak tree 
 The glistening bulks of the huddled kine, 
 
 Driven from the pasture and rhythmically 
 
 Munching their cuds, and their broad backs 
 shine, 
 
 Drenched and matted with pelting rain. 
 Plaintively sounding a lowing wail;
 
 A passing team in the muddy lane 
 And a muffled and melancholy hail. 
 
 Blinding sheets of the driven rain ; 
 
 Mist over hollow and plain and hill ; 
 Splashing drops on the misted pane 
 
 That trickle down to the window sill; 
 Beaten fowls, with their ruffled crests, 
 
 Crowding close to the sheltering wall ; 
 Dripping orchards and sodden nests, 
 
 With mist like a wet cloak over all. 
 
 The herdsman lowers his broad hat brim 
 
 To a sheltering slant, and the raindrops fall 
 From the beaded edge of the lowered rim 
 
 To the oilskin coat that envelopes all 
 His length ; the guiding collie stops 
 
 From gathering in the grazing flocks 
 To shake from his sides the glistening drops 
 
 That mat the mass of his silken locks. 
 
 The eave spout gushes its frothy streams, 
 
 Whence the rain barrel fills and overflows 
 Its sides, and the slate roof blacker gleams 
 
 Through the murk and mist; the housewife 
 
 goes 
 From room to room, lest the windows be 
 
 Unshut, and peers through the sodden pall 
 Without, and the rain beats endlessly, 
 
 With mist like a wet cloak over all. 
 
 Sullen and sodden and soaked and splashed 
 With pelting drops lies the distant field ; 
 
 The roads lie heavy, and wet steeds, dashed 
 With mud, where a carriage, muddy-wheeled, 
 
 26
 
 Rolls down the road, and the drear day long 
 The weeping clouds no comfort hold. 
 
 The pelting rain dins a sullen song 
 And the day is gloomy, gray, and cold. 
 
 IO A. M. 
 
 "Well! Well! Good mornin ! Howdy do! 
 I never dreamed o seein you. 
 Jes come back, huh ? Been away 
 Since way las June or was it May? 
 Glad to see you ? Well, I swan 
 I missed ye since y hev been gone ! 
 Huh? Well, I don min if I do. 
 I don care, seein how it s you. 
 
 10.15 O CLOCK 
 
 " Well ! Well ! It does me good t see 
 Y back again ! Hev one with me. 
 Yep. Fillemup again, ol fel . 
 Coin t stay, too ? Well, well, well ! 
 I m glad t hear it. Make a strike? 
 Ten thousand, huh ? That s somethin like ! 
 Le s see how long y been away ? 
 Since way las June or was it May ? 
 
 10.30 O CLOCK 
 
 " Le s see how long y been away? 
 Since way las June or was it May? 
 Well, shay, ol chap, come up to tea 
 Tomorrow mornin ; you an me, 
 
 27
 
 We re glad to shee each ozzer hey? 
 I m glad t hear ye re goin t shtay, 
 Le s see how longsh y been away ? 
 Was it nex June or way las May? 
 
 ii O CLOCK 
 
 " Come on, le s have annuzzer. Shay, 
 How longsh shay y been away? 
 Le s see how longsh y been away ? 
 Or las June ? An ye re goin t shtay ? 
 Shay ! Le s go home. M wife, she ll be 
 Awful gladsh shee you an me. 
 " Le s see how long y been away ? 
 Since way nex June or wash t May ? 
 
 NOON 
 
 " Si down, si down ! Shay ! Did y shay 
 How longsh wash y been away? 
 Wash t nex June or wash t May? 
 We re glad t shee each ozzer hey? 
 Shay ! Never min , now ! Thash all right, 
 We ll have breakfas togezzer t night, 
 An supper t morrer mornin . Shay! 
 How longsh shay y been away ? " 
 
 And as the leper with the bell, 
 
 So some men through their lives must bear 
 Faces that serve the world as well 
 
 To tell the unclean hiding there. 
 And though the leper, shunned, conceals 
 
 His bell, and quiets its shrill stroke, 
 Some quick, unthinking step reveals 
 
 Its jingling presence, neath his cloak. 
 
 28
 
 itti B Almatrar 
 
 My Mamma says at w en it rains 
 Ey re washin Heaven s window-panes 
 An careless angels ist do fill 
 Eir pails too full an atway spill 
 Some water down on us. At s w y 
 It rains some days w en maybe I 
 Would like to play. An en she says 
 It s ist em angels carelessness 
 At makes em raindrops fall at way 
 At picnics an on circus day. 
 
 My Mamma says at w en it snows 
 
 Ey re angels pickin geese, she knows, 
 
 An stead o usin em t stuff 
 
 Eir pillow cases, ey ist puff 
 
 An blow an don t clear up eir muss 
 
 Till all em feathers fall on us. 
 
 An she says ey ist pick atway 
 
 Cuz ey want geese f r Tris mus day, 
 
 An at s w y ere s e mostes snow 
 
 Right close t Tris mus time, you know. 
 
 My Mamma says w en wind ist roars 
 An blows, at s w en e angels snores, 
 But w en it lightnings, she says, w y, 
 Ey re scratchin matches on e sky. 
 An w en it rumbles bove our heads 
 Ey re movin furniture an beds 
 Up ere, an cleanin house an shakes 
 Eir moth balls out an at s w at makes 
 It hail. An weather, she ist clares 
 Is ist w at angels does upstairs. 
 
 29
 
 The light that s lost, no eye shall find ; 
 No hand shall stay the joys that wind 
 Through the long corridors of Time, 
 Or lure with lute or tempt with rhyme. 
 No cry, no prayer, no agony 
 Shall stay the tread of Time for thee, 
 Or call from dust and doom away 
 The flown delights of Yesterday. 
 
 3ht a CittU 
 
 Tis only for a little while, 
 
 This life, a mingled sob and smile ; 
 
 The heart that throbs so warm today 
 
 Tomorrow ebbs its life away. 
 
 A moment hums life s busy loom, 
 
 Then hushed and silent in the tomb ; 
 
 And wields the sceptre, sob or smile, 
 
 For such a little, little while. 
 
 Youth rears in hope a castled pile 
 To rise for such a little while ; 
 Fate lays in dust its tow ring walls, 
 Ambitious spires and gilded halls; 
 Pride s swelling crest, now plumed high, 
 Now stricken low, prays God to die ; 
 Time leads the saddened heart to smile 
 In such a little, little while. 
 
 Life s little candle feebly glows, 
 Life s little current quickly flows, 
 A moment heaves the troubled breath, 
 The candle finds its socket, Death.
 
 The flushing cheek, the radiant eye, 
 Dim, lustreless, and cold shall lie, 
 And yet those pallid lips shall smile 
 With God in such a little while. 
 
 A iltslafott impression 
 
 She was kissing a picture I saw her, I saw her, 
 She sat at her desk and the door was flung 
 
 wide ! 
 She was kissing a picture Oh, horror ! Oh, 
 
 horror ! 
 
 Oh, Woman, must faithlessness with thee 
 abide ? 
 
 She was kissing a picture, I know it, I know it ! 
 The love light upon it glanced bright from her 
 
 eyes ! 
 Oh, Traitress, I ll face thee ! Thou lt show it ! 
 
 Thou lt show it ! 
 
 Aye, front her I will with the deed ! Then she 
 dies! 
 
 She was kissing a picture! She hides it! She 
 
 hides it ! 
 
 Down deep in a drawer and she s turning a key. 
 Now death and destruction betides it, betides it ! 
 And woe whom it pictures when he shall face 
 me! 
 
 She was kissing a picture ! She s going ! She s 
 
 going ! 
 
 I ll bide till she s gone and I ll steal it away ! 
 Oh, jealousy s fury that s glowing, that s glowing 
 Within me ! Oh, doom that has found me this 
 day!
 
 She was kissing a picture ! I ll take it, I ll take it 
 And flash in her face this damned image she 
 
 loves ! 
 The desk! It is locked! Well, I ll break it, I ll 
 
 break it 
 
 And find me this card that her faithlessness 
 proves ! 
 
 She was kissing a picture! I ve found it, I ve 
 
 found it! 
 
 (Be quiet my heart and be silent this moan !) 
 With letters and flowers around it, around it ! 
 Why! What! ! Well, I m jiggered! ! ! The 
 picture s my own ! 
 
 A Uemmtamtr? nf tlj? lOnn* pn* (Trail 
 
 Dead o th night an th moon rose pale 
 As th face o th man we led along, 
 
 Over the hills th long-drawn wail 
 Of a coyote-cry, like a funeral song. 
 
 Never a man of us spoke a word 
 
 As we tramped th trail t th Lone Pine tree, 
 But a wind rose out o th dark an stirred 
 
 Th grass o th prairies mournfully. 
 
 Mile an a half fr m th ol log jail 
 
 T th Lone Pine tree at th Devils Bend, 
 
 But a man don t speed on his final trail, 
 With a tree an a rope at th other end. 
 
 Two in front as we lef th jail, 
 
 Two behind an two at th side ; 
 Then forward march f r th Lone Pine trail 
 
 Th last this side o th Great Divide.
 
 He walks along an he knows th plan, 
 An seems resigned as a man can be ; 
 
 F r a life s a life, an a man s a man. 
 A rope s a rope an a tree s a tree. 
 
 Give him a plenty o time t walk, 
 
 Don hurry a man on his final track; 
 
 Plenty o room if he wants t talk, 
 
 F r he stays thar when th rest come back. 
 
 Stan back, an give him a chance t pray, 
 He needs God s help in th by an by ; 
 
 F r a man will sin an a man mus pay, 
 But a man can t do no more n die. 
 
 Grit yer teeth f r th struggle, Pard, 
 We ll make it quick as it can be made. 
 
 Down, down on th other end thar! Hard! 
 A man has sinned an a man has paid ! 
 
 Th hills are grim an th mornin s gray, 
 Thar s somethin thar twixt th sod an sky. 
 
 A man will sin an a man mus pay, 
 But a man can t do no more n die ! 
 
 33
 
 " He sort o 1 favors the Sykeses," 
 
 Says Ma. lookin closely at me, 
 An she looks up at Pa as if layin th law 
 
 An a-\vaitin fer him to agree. 
 (The Sykeses. you know, was Ma s people.) 
 
 " Jes see that small mouth an small chin, 
 I don t want to brag but he s jes his Aunt Mag 
 
 I tell ye, right over agin." 
 
 " Walks jes like his Uncle Cornelius ! " 
 
 (" He couldn t walk straight if he tried, 
 An I had him to bail leven times out o jail," 
 
 Says Pa, in a sorter aside.) 
 " Swings along jes like him," Ma says, smilin . 
 
 (" He orter have swung! " Pa mos chokes, 
 Fer it always makes him jes a-bilin 
 
 When Ma claims I favor her folks.) 
 
 " Got the reg lar Sykes disposition." 
 
 ("An a devil s own temper it is," 
 Says Pa down beneath his breath, grittin his 
 teeth, 
 
 And his dander beginnin to sizz.) 
 "An his hair, well, it s jes like Aunt Sary s, 
 
 Thet married Lige Jenks from the Mills, 
 An his nose is the picter o Mary s, 
 
 An his brow is th image o Will s." 
 
 "An his voice, he gits that from th Joneses, 
 
 They re cousins, you know, down in Kent ; 
 An I guess it mus be from his Aunt Cicely 
 
 That he s gittin his musical bent ! " 
 An Pa, well, he gits mad as thunder 
 
 An s\vears like a pirate at sea, 
 An says : " Thank the Lord that he s gittin his 
 board 
 
 And his clothes and his lodgin from me ! " 
 
 34
 
 Sty? Hm afamettt 
 
 We re all alone, ist Pop an me, 
 
 Cuz Mamma s gone away somew eres 
 T stay th longest time ; an we 
 
 Are all alone; an Pop ist stares 
 A-past me an he never hears 
 
 Me when I ast w ere she could be, 
 An both his eyes are full o tears 
 
 Wen we re alone, ist Pop an me. 
 
 An after w ile I ast him w y 
 
 She don t come back; but he don t know; 
 An en some way he starts t cry 
 
 Till I say, " Please, Pop, don t cry so." 
 An put my arms part way around 
 
 His neck an hug him, ist cuz we 
 Are lonesome ; he don t make a sound ; 
 
 An we re alone, ist Pop an me. 
 
 An he ist hugs me up so tight 
 
 An sez my Mamma s gone so fur 
 She won t come back, but sez we might 
 
 1st some day, maybe, go to her. 
 An I ast w y can t we go now 
 
 Cuz we re so lonesome here; but he 
 Don t seem to hear me ast, somehow, 
 
 An we re alone, ist Pop an me. 
 
 An en I ist fergit she s gone 
 
 An think it s almos time fur her 
 T come an put th supper on, 
 
 But w en Pop s eyes are all a blur 
 I member at s she s gone away 
 
 An can t git supper; Pop sez he 
 Ain t hungry, an I ain t, I say ; 
 
 An we re alone, ist Pop an me. 
 
 35
 
 An en Pop rocks me in his lap 
 
 An rubs my head, ist soft an kind, 
 An asts me if I ll take a nap 
 
 If he pulls down th parlor blind. 
 An in a little w ile I fall 
 
 Asleep an he ist rocks; but he 
 Don t never go t sleep at all, 
 
 An we re alone, ist Pop an me. 
 
 A (SFtmdngiral ifamilg 
 
 You may believe tis true that your coursing 
 
 blood is blue, 
 But science stern assures us that all healthy 
 
 blood is red ; 
 And the longest pedigree that grows on a family 
 
 tree 
 Isn t half as beneficial as a good, long head. 
 
 You may refer with pride to your ancestors, be 
 side 
 Whose fame your light is dim, for letters, art, 
 
 or pelf, 
 
 But I trust you will believe it is nobler to achieve 
 Enough that you may be some time an ancestor 
 yourself. 
 
 The watch dog well who serves and who care 
 fully observes 
 The strangers who approach and wakes the 
 
 family with his bark, 
 
 Tho he had no pedigree is a better dog for me 
 Than the dog that sleeps, e en tho his ancestors 
 were in the Ark.
 
 It is right that you admire, and admiring, you 
 
 aspire 
 
 To trace a noble pathway in your genealogy, 
 But permit me to assure that no person, rich or 
 
 poor, 
 
 Ever plucked a plum of greatness off the 
 grandest family tree. 
 
 The man who is a king, duke, or lord, or anything 
 That s noble, tho his ancestors were cobblers 
 
 at the last, 
 Has a much more honored way in this little world 
 
 today 
 
 Than the cobbler whose ancestors governed 
 kingdoms in the past. 
 
 And full many a man today, to whom honor we 
 
 might pay, 
 
 Has been overcome in living up to a proud an 
 cestry ; 
 And full many a man been laid in an everlasting 
 
 shade 
 
 By the branches of a towering, spreading, an 
 cient family tree. 
 
 So don t take it much to heart when a man takes 
 
 you apart 
 And tells you he was bred mid aristocracy s 
 
 environs ; 
 Tho his ancestors came o er in the Mayflower to 
 
 this shore, 
 
 The log book, still, may show that every one 
 came o er in irons. 
 
 37
 
 3lf f * (nlg ^ah a 
 
 You ve seen him course you have the man 
 
 who might have been so great, 
 If he d had the inclination and could only struck 
 
 his gait; 
 Who s afeard to work in summer when the tem- 
 
 per ture is riz, 
 And who can t work in the winter, cause he s got 
 
 the rheumatiz ; 
 Who goes through life complainin , cause the 
 
 good things pass him by, 
 An a-tellin what he could do, if he d only half 
 
 way try; 
 The man that in the race of life is joggin way 
 
 behind, 
 But who might a led the winners, if he d only 
 
 had a mind. 
 
 When I hear a feller tellin bout the great things 
 
 he could do, 
 If he felt like, allus makes me think of our old 
 
 Bobby Blue; 
 A great, big, strappin feller, but at workin he 
 
 was slack, 
 Cause he had a sunstroke once and was afeard 
 
 he d bring it back. 
 But Lor! I guess there s nothin that was ever 
 
 yet to do, 
 But Bobby could a done it, if he d really wanted 
 
 to. 
 You d have to scour the universe with fine toothed 
 
 combs to find 
 A man to beat him workin if he d only had a 
 
 mind.
 
 I ve seen him sittin evenin s on an old three- 
 legged chair, 
 His pants all rags and patches and with both his 
 
 elbows bare, 
 
 A-scrapin an old fiddle till he d allus weary us, 
 Screw up the pegs, an cross his legs, an look 
 
 mysterious. 
 Then, winkin confidential like, he d say : " Don t 
 
 say a word. 
 But I got the greatest idee that you ever seen or 
 
 heard. 
 It s for a patent right; you boys jest keep still 
 
 and you ll find 
 I kin make it worth a million if I only got a 
 
 mind." 
 
 Again I ve seen him sittin , with the people passin 
 
 by, 
 
 A-chewin cheap tobacco and a-spittin at a fly ; 
 And he d point ovit the rich merchant that he 
 
 might a had as clerk, 
 And the house he might a lived in, if he d had a 
 
 mind to work ; 
 And the girls he might a married, if he d had a 
 
 mind to try; 
 And the teams he might a driven, that went 
 
 swif ly steppin by ; 
 And the gems he might a sparkled, and the way 
 
 he might a shined, 
 With an independent fortune if he d only had 
 
 a mind. 
 
 One night we went together to th op ry-house 
 to hear 
 
 A way-up concert company that was goin to ap 
 pear. 
 
 39
 
 They had the finest fiddler there that ever tuned 
 a string, 
 
 An the noises that he imitated jest beat every 
 thing. 
 
 At first he had us laughin , an next time he made 
 us cry, 
 
 An he player! bird songs so life-like you could 
 almost see em fly ; 
 
 An Bobby sit and yawned and blinked, and fi 
 nally opined 
 
 He could beat him all to thunder if he only had 
 a mind. 
 
 Th last time I saw Bobby he was purty nigh the 
 
 end, 
 A-sufFrin from the fever an he didn t seem to 
 
 mend. 
 The doctor gave him pills and things, but didn t 
 
 do no good. 
 He said he d never get well and old Bobby swore 
 
 he would. 
 Doc was a-feelin of his pulse twas beatin 
 
 mighty slow, 
 Says he : " It s only forty, and that s runnin 
 
 mighty low." 
 An Bobby says, says he: "It may be runnin 
 
 way behind, 
 But I could run her up to ninety if I only had 
 
 a mind." 
 
 I can see him standin , peerin at the gates of 
 
 Paradise, 
 With a sort o leerin , sneerin -like expression in 
 
 his eyes. 
 I can see him sizin up the gate, an then I see 
 
 him feel 
 The gold an pearly trimmin s and a-wonderin 
 
 if they re real ; 
 
 40
 
 I can see him steppin through an takin in the 
 
 sights inside ; 
 I can hear him tellin Peter what he could do if 
 
 he tried ; 
 An his drawlin voice a-sayin that, while things 
 
 was mighty fine, 
 He could build a blame sight better if he only 
 
 had a mind. 
 
 In a New England commonwealth, while knock 
 ing round for strength and health, 
 
 I boarded with a widow dame (of course I can t 
 disclose her name), 
 
 An acid creature, gaunt and grim, who lived 
 alone with one son, Jim. 
 
 A freckled, awkward, red-haired chap, not reared 
 exactly in the lap 
 
 Of luxury, or taught to know affection s honeyed 
 overflow. 
 
 And oft my rose-hued fancy s dreams were rudely 
 shattered by the screams 
 
 Wild from the wood-shed forth which came. And 
 then my stern, ascetic dame, 
 
 Smoothing the wrinkles from her lap and waving 
 high a leathern strap, 
 
 Emerged, and said in accents grim : " Feel better 
 now, I ve paddled Jim." 
 
 Day in, day out, that same assault, whate er the 
 
 wrong or whose the fault. 
 If any boarder sought by night to liquidate his 
 
 debt in flight, 
 My acid widow from her grief in flogging Jim 
 
 found swift relief.
 
 Whene er in anger, twas her wont to strap that 
 
 awkward little runt. 
 The beef was tough, the bread was burned at 
 
 once my lady quickly turned, 
 Until she spied the trembling Jim ; her claw-like 
 
 fingers gobbled him, 
 Swift to the wood-shed bore him out, aloft she 
 
 swung her leathern knout, 
 And then emerged, tall, sour, and grim : " Feel 
 
 better now, I ve paddled Jim." 
 
 Poor Jim, a child of sores and salve, served as a 
 constant safety valve. 
 
 Perhaps my lady angered came from quarrel with 
 some neighbor dame ; 
 
 Or worsted in some church debate ; arose, per 
 chance, a little late ; 
 
 The butcher s bill was deemed too large ; the gro 
 cer s trifling overcharge 
 
 Conspired to rouse my lady s ire; her lips were 
 drawn, her eyes flashed fire ; 
 
 Straightway the luckless Jim was sought, the 
 strap from out the kitchen brought, 
 
 Jim laid across his mother s lap; shrill whistled 
 then the leathern strap. 
 
 Until she breathed in accents grim: " Feel bet 
 ter now, I ve paddled Jim." 
 
 But once my lady s accents shrill were silenced ; 
 
 she was stricken ill. 
 Her lungs distressed, she strove for breath, and 
 
 hovered between life and death. 
 The doctors pondered in dismay; they held no 
 
 hope and saw no way 
 To save my lady s life. More grim and gaunt 
 
 she grew, and little Jim 
 Was called to say his last good-bye. She spied 
 
 him with a brighter eye, 
 
 42
 
 Swift seized him, drew him cross her lap, and 
 called the nurse to bring the strap. 
 
 At eve the doctor, calling round, miraculous im 
 provement found. 
 
 " I feel," she whispered low to him, " much bet 
 ter since I paddled Jim." 
 
 JJoet atth fbaaant 
 
 He was a simple countryman, a genial soul and 
 kind. 
 
 The evening was poetic, and to imagery inclined, 
 
 I gazed out o er the stream and field. " How 
 musical the leaves ! " 
 
 I cried. " What web of melody their subtle rus 
 tling weaves ! 
 
 The crystal waters murmur down the banks of 
 moss and fern, 
 
 Adown the vale the sombre wail of lingering 
 loon or hern. 
 
 Shrill, shrill the cry of night birds high, forth- 
 floating in the air, 
 
 And fairy footfalls trip and tinkle where the fleece 
 floats there, 
 
 In boundless billows of the unflecked, azure sea 
 of blue. 
 
 I listen. Aye, I hear them, nearly ! Nay, and 
 do not you ? " 
 
 " I b lieve I do hear suthin ," he replied, " down 
 
 in the bogs ; 
 An mebbe it is fairies, but mos likely it is hogs." 
 
 43
 
 " See ! See ! " I cried. " The streaming splendor 
 
 streaking o er the sky, 
 Where chariots of cloud on starry wheels are 
 
 rolling by. 
 See the auroral beams that stream from zenith 
 
 to the sea, 
 Where dies away the twilight gray and Xight 
 
 reigns full and free. 
 The yellow moonlight s misty glow gilds all the 
 
 scene around, 
 Her jeweled rays fall now ablaze the hills the 
 
 Night is cro\vned 
 
 With her own queenly diadem ; the bright, au 
 roral light 
 Is Splendor s gorgeous setting for the sable cloak 
 
 of Night. 
 In thy mind s eye canst not descry the picture as 
 
 I call : 
 The Queen of Night, the crown of light, the sable 
 
 cloak, and all?" 
 
 The night s own splendor dazzled him. His 
 
 sleepy eye he rolled. 
 " Doggone them sun dogs ! " then he said. 
 
 " They re alwus bringin cold ! " 
 
 Not the mysterious music of the heights, 
 The grandeur of harmony whose eagling flights 
 \Ving us to clouds dim, distant, dark, and dull. 
 Give us the simple songs that, free and full, 
 Find echo in our hearts, as when we lift 
 The lattice, that through all the house may drift 
 The red-robed robin s twittering song, that wings 
 Its flight by the vined window as it sings. 
 
 44
 
 ifr, 0ti?, anil 
 
 Living and loving and dying, 
 
 Life is complete in the three. 
 Smiling or sobbing or sighing, 
 
 Which is for you or for me? 
 Hoping and struggling and striving, 
 
 Dreaming success by and by; 
 But whether we re driven or driving, 
 
 We live and we love and we die. 
 
 Aiming and hitting and missing, 
 
 Life is complete in the three. 
 The fickle world praising or hissing, 
 
 Which is for you or for me? 
 Striding or limping or creeping, 
 
 Time drives us heartlessly by; 
 Meeting and parting and weeping, 
 
 We live and we love and we die. 
 
 Yearning, rejoicing, and mourning, 
 
 Life is complete in the three. 
 Sackcloth or garland adorning, 
 
 Which is for you or for me? 
 The web of our little day, stretched, 
 
 Meshes a sob or a sigh; 
 Joyful or joyless or wretched, 
 
 We live and we love and we die. 
 
 Wishing and fearing and fretting, 
 
 Life is complete in the three. 
 The world s remembrance or forgetting, 
 
 Which is for you or for me? 
 Gnarled and knotted and tangled 
 
 The skeins of our little lives lie; 
 Mud-spattered or jewel-bespangled, 
 
 We live and we love and we die. 
 
 45
 
 Gutter 
 
 Grieve ye not. The flowers are not dead, 
 Their beauty fades but for a little while. 
 
 Grieve ye not. The leafless branches spread, 
 The Mother, Spring, shall waken with her 
 smile. 
 
 Grieve ye not. Tho still the fettered lake, 
 Ice-locked and silent, voiceless, cold, and gray. 
 
 The Spring again its melody shall wake. 
 And all its waves shall whisper to the day. 
 
 Grieve ye not. If from the sea and sky 
 
 From earth and air a whisper wings to thee, 
 
 And tells thee thou asleep in Death shalt lie, 
 Spring smiles and teaches thee Eternity. 
 
 5fy* GJgtnr 
 
 Friends are but bubbles in a bowl, 
 Mere empty things, devoid of soul, 
 Reflecting but what shines upon; 
 A puff of wind and pish ! They re gone. 
 
 Now see ! So carefully I ve wrought 
 To raise and fashion one from naught. 
 A passing gust ! A zephyr veers ! 
 My bubble bursts and disappears. 
 
 I sit and gaze at one I ve made 
 Reflecting gems of light and shade, 
 When, lo, it bursts! The friendship flies 
 And leaves but soap dust in my eyes. 
 
 46
 
 So thick they cluster, bright they shine, 
 
 So delicate, clear-hued, and fine, 
 
 So fair, so fine to look upon, 
 
 But brush so lightly puff ! They re gone ! 
 
 An $p-OImmtrg 
 
 I ain t on good terms ith Wilson; he ain t on 
 
 good terms ith me. 
 Neighbored fer nigh onto ten years, friendly as 
 
 friendly could be, 
 An then fell out over a horse trade, crooked as 
 
 ever you see. 
 
 Wilson, he owned a big ches nut trotter a 
 spankin fine horse. 
 
 Used to go splittin th breezes long of a quar 
 ter-mile course, 
 
 Fine lookin animal, Stranger; plenty o gimp, 
 speed, and force. 
 
 I had a pacer could go some; bright bay, almost 
 
 a blood-red, 
 Nobby an stylish fer light work, groomed to 
 
 a shine, an well fed, 
 But a durn nasty habit o balkin , when th notion 
 
 got into her head. 
 
 Wilson druv over one mornin ; sez t me, sez 
 
 he : " Say, Win, 
 Wisht y d come long ith yer stop-watch, held 
 
 fer a quarter-mile spin." 
 Had th big ches nut hitched up t a road-cart an , 
 
 sez he : " Jump in ! " 
 
 47
 
 Say! He showed speed fer that quarter! Fast 
 as I ever see made! 
 
 "Wilson," sez I, "he s a winner; puts my bay 
 horse in th shade." 
 
 He sez to me, sez he : " Winston, how d y con 
 sider a trade? 
 
 " I ain t a fast-horse man, Winston ; I ain t jes 
 
 nachelly fit 
 T own sech a stepper as this is ; that is th reason 
 
 of it." 
 He talked so almighty hones I thought that he 
 
 was an I bit ! 
 
 Seemed like a sin when I guv him some cash an 
 
 that balky ol bay ; 
 Sort o like robbin th feller giving him 
 
 swamp-grass fer hay ; 
 But tradin of horses is tradin an that s about 
 
 all there s t say. 
 
 It happened in county-fair season ; I druv over 
 there th same day, 
 
 Entered my horse in th races, chucklin th whole 
 of th way, 
 
 An found when I got there that Wilson had en 
 tered th race ith my bay. 
 
 He grinned when he see me a-comin a-drivin 
 
 his ches nut, an I 
 Fer th life o me couldn t help laughin t think 
 
 o th fun, by an by, 
 When he druv that ol bay in th races an found 
 
 out her weakness ! My, my !
 
 Nex day when th free-for-all started, my ches - 
 
 nut shot into fust place, 
 Went t th quarter like lightnin th wa n t 
 
 nothin else in th race, 
 Went at a two minute clip, sir, but couldn t stand 
 
 up t th pace. 
 
 Fer when we got up t th quarter, my ches nut 
 went down on his knees, 
 
 Gaspin fer breath ev ry minute, with an on- 
 healthy sort of a sneeze. 
 
 Wind-broken ! Yes, sir, by thunder ! Had a 
 regular wind-broken wheeze ! 
 
 Mad ! I was mad as a hatter ! Mad till I jes 
 
 couldn t talk. 
 But I looked down th track at th starters, an 
 
 there stood th bay at a balk, 
 While a crow-bait from down in th country was 
 
 winnin th race in a walk. 
 
 I ain t on good terms ith Wilson; he ain t ith 
 
 me, as y see. 
 Neighbored fer nigh onto ten years, friendly as 
 
 friendly could be. 
 He says I done him dirt in a horse trade; I say 
 
 that he done it t me. 
 
 49
 
 JitHB ofabbg Saitl* 
 
 " So Lidy Thomas wants a girl f r housework ! 
 
 Well, I do declare 
 That woman never keeps one more n two weeks ! 
 
 Somethin wrong up there ! 
 I heerd her las girl tellin how she didn t git 
 
 enough to eat, 
 But that was only servants talk sech gossip 
 
 as I won t repeat! 
 An Lucy Brown is gone to teachin music down 
 
 at Bridger s Dell 
 An quit the church as organist! Well, I allow 
 
 it s just as well, 
 From what I ve heerd about her bein mighty 
 
 sweet on Parson Brooks ; 
 An him a married man ! I say there s danger in 
 
 too much good looks ! 
 
 " Joe Gudger s married ! Well, I vow if sech 
 
 rapscallious folks as him 
 Can find a partner f r their joys my chances ain t 
 
 so mighty slim ! 
 Close ! Why, his first wife s sister says she ll 
 
 swear it with her dyin breath 
 Joe Gudger was so stingy that his first wife sim 
 ply starved to death ! 
 Another party up at Blake s! My, how some 
 
 folks can put on airs 
 An snub their betters puzzles me ! Why, Toby 
 
 Toser s clerk declares 
 They owe f r three months groceries they 
 
 never pay and never will ; 
 An Toby s wore a pair o shoes out goin up to 
 
 git th bill !
 
 " Jane Hitchcock an that gawky Burns hev gone 
 
 an married ! Well, I do 
 
 Declare it s time he popped to her if ever he in 
 tended to ! 
 He s been her stiddy beau eight years an but f r 
 
 Jim Burns I allow 
 She might a been a happy wife an had a family 
 
 by now ! 
 An Ezry Cowles s got th grip ! Well, if it cost 
 
 a cent t git 
 Y can mark down that Ezry Cowles d be a long 
 
 time gittin it ! 
 There s only one thing that would tempt that man 
 
 t quit this life o sin, 
 An that would be a cut-rate sale on coffins, with 
 
 a hearse throwed in. 
 
 " Lem Wilson s addin to his house ! I wonder 
 
 where poor Lem ll git 
 Th cash. Ain t got th mor gage paid he had to 
 
 put on t other, yit. 
 Now that s what comes fr m weddin style ; Lem 
 
 was a thrifty, savin soul 
 Until he married that Sue Clay, an she s just 
 
 goin through him whole ! 
 Tod White is dead. Poor Tod ! His chance o 
 
 reachin Heaven s mighty slim. 
 But bein as he s dead I won t be one to say no 
 
 bad of him. 
 
 Th paper s sort o runnin down, at least accord- 
 in to my views; 
 I don t know as I ever see th Weekly with so 
 
 little news."
 
 QJJj* loroabl? ICass of % (groudtg G-Hh f&m 
 
 A grouchy and crotchety, fussy old man, 
 
 Whose stick on the walk beats a rat-a-tat-tat, 
 The cut of his coat on an old-fashioned plan, 
 
 A shiny red nose and a worn beaver hat. 
 A blare of defiance, he trumpets his nose, 
 
 He clears his hoarse throat with a he-he-he- 
 hem ! 
 But the girl on his arm, she s as fair as a rose, 
 
 How grew such a flower on such a gnarled 
 stem? 
 
 He bushes his eyebrows and scowls upon me, 
 
 His stick with a click beats the walk as we pass, 
 His scowl wastes the bloom of a smile that I see 
 
 And freezes it stiff on the lips of the lass. 
 He raises his hat with a Chesterfield air, 
 
 The sweep of his arm is chill courtesy s sign ; 
 But his eyes pass me by with an unseeing stare. 
 
 If blood were for spilling, he d dabble in mine. 
 
 There s pride in the white crest, uplifted so high, 
 
 Defiant the tilt of the old beaver hat. 
 Contempt in the stare of the unknowing eye, 
 
 And the click of his stick \vith its rat-a-tat-tat. 
 He spurns me, he scorns me, he hates me, he 
 knows 
 
 I m nursing in secret some pilfering plan 
 To pluck from its parental arbor the rose 
 
 That rests on the arm of this fussy old man. 
 
 So he passes me by with an unseeing stare, 
 His cane beats defiantly rat-a-tat-tat. 
 
 He trumpets his nose with a furious blare, 
 There s pride in the tilt of his worn beaver 
 hat.
 
 Love may laugh at locksmiths, nor hazard a care 
 In bridging most gulfs of despair with a span, 
 
 But Love needs more courage than mine has, I 
 
 swear, 
 To laugh at this crotchety, fussy old man. 
 
 A Qlrttirtam 
 
 A damsel stood upon the stage, 
 
 A stage-worn damsel she. 
 A critic sat and heard her sing, 
 
 A world-worn critic he. 
 
 " I m saddest when I sing," she sang, 
 
 A tear stood in her eye. 
 He sighed, the wretch, and murmured to 
 
 Himself: "And so am I." 
 
 " I cannot sing the old songs," 
 
 She sang. Sighed he " Tis true, 
 
 Two kinds of songs you cannot sing, 
 The old ones and the new." 
 
 " Oh, for a thousand tongues to sing 
 
 I d give my eyes," he hears. 
 "And I," he murmured, " had you them, 
 Would give away my ears." 
 
 " Had I the wings of any dove," 
 
 She sang, " I would rejoice." 
 He muttered : " You could make them from 
 
 The feathers in your voice." 
 
 53
 
 Says he to me, says he, one night, 
 A-shiverin with mortal fright, 
 An twistin of his handkerchief, 
 A-tremblin , shakin like a leaf, 
 
 Says he to me, says he : 
 " Maria," sort o halted then, 
 An coughed, an then began again, 
 " Maria, I ve got somethin here 
 That for as much as leven year 
 
 I ve tried t say t ye." 
 
 My! My! My heart jes beat an beat, 
 When he come up an took his seat 
 Right nex t me an took my hand, 
 An when he squeezed it Oh, my land ! 
 
 I was jes all unstrung. 
 So then I says to him, says I 
 To him, says I : " What is it, Si ? " 
 An I jes set an set an set 
 An sort o fearful like, an yet 
 
 So glad he d found his tongue. 
 
 An then he says to me, says he, 
 A-sort o sof an tremblin ly, 
 " Maria " an I set an set, 
 A-wonderin if he d never get 
 
 Aroun t any more. 
 N then I says to him, says I 
 To him, I sa ys : " What is it, Si ? 
 I b lieve you were addressin me ? " 
 An Si he set there silently, 
 
 As bad off as before. 
 
 An then I says to him, says I, 
 "A lovely evenin , ain t it, Si? 
 Jes seems to sort o lift ye bove 
 Yerself an make ye think o love." 
 
 54
 
 My! I was gettin bold! 
 An Si, he got so mortal fraid, 
 I thought he d run, but, no, he staid, 
 An then he says : " My hens they lay 
 Nigh fifteen dozen eggs today." 
 
 An that was all he told. 
 
 My! My! My blood run hot an cold, 
 T think that he could sit an hold 
 My hand, an be so mortal fraid 
 He d talk bout eggs his hens had laid. 
 
 So then I says, says I, 
 "If that is what ye ve tried to tell 
 For leven years, ye ve told it well." 
 An Si, he says : " How could ye say 
 That, when them eggs only today 
 
 Was laid. Taint that," says Si. 
 
 So there we set an set an set 
 Till I jes got so desperate 
 My nerves was all a-flutterin 
 To see him set a-stutterin 
 
 An me in sech suspense. 
 An then I says to him, says I, 
 " Was it somethin about me, Si ? " 
 An he said : " Yep ! I wonder how 
 That everlastin brindle cow 
 
 Broke through my pasture fence?" 
 
 An then I says, an sort o slow : 
 " Si, was that leven years ago, 
 An hev ye been so mortal fraid 
 To tell me that before ? " I said, 
 Somewhat sarcastic ly. 
 
 55
 
 An Si, he says : " Why, course it wa n t, 
 I jes chanced to be thinkin on t, 
 An wonderin how that critter got 
 Through that fence, when them posts was sot 
 So tarnal deep," says he. 
 
 My goodness me! I never see 
 A man need help so much as he, 
 But I kep patient, an says I : 
 "Is it somethin ye re wantin , Si?" 
 
 An he says : " Yep. It be ! " 
 I knew my chance was mighty slim 
 If I sh d set an wait for him, 
 An so I jes cast all aside 
 My nat ral modesty an pride, 
 
 An says: " Si, was it me? " 
 
 Well, say ! If ye could see Si throw 
 
 His arms bout me ! " How did ye know ? " 
 
 Says he. An then he says to me 
 
 Oh, jes as sweet an lovin ly, 
 
 With sech a happy smile : 
 " Maria, jes as sure as fate, 
 I knew that if I d only wait, 
 Xo odds how many times I d flunk, 
 Thet some time I d jes get up spunk 
 
 To tell ve after while."
 
 A Htaton nf % ICtttI* (Emmtnj (Zfaimt 
 
 lie sits there at the fireside, where the mellow 
 
 light is gleaming 
 O er the columns of the little country paper 
 
 that he holds, 
 And something he has read there seems to set 
 
 his fancy dreaming, 
 While memory s panorama of forgotten days 
 
 unfolds. 
 Its quaint and homely phrases all incline him to 
 
 reflection ; 
 Some sweetness of enchantment as he lays the 
 
 paper down 
 Strips the bitter peel of sorrow from the fruit of 
 
 recollection, 
 
 He tastes the mellow sweetness of the little 
 country town. 
 
 He sees, at even, a cottage where the lamplight s 
 
 dimly straying 
 Through the window, thickly bowered with the 
 
 honeysuckle vine ; 
 To his ears come strains of music there s a 
 
 sound of someone playing 
 On a little cottage organ and the notes of Auld 
 
 Lang Syne. 
 He hears the tea things clatter, sees a woman s 
 
 figure flitting 
 Here and there, belike some fairy, and the 
 
 shimmer of her gown ; 
 And longing leads his fancy to the place where 
 
 he is sitting 
 
 Just across from her at table in the little coun 
 try town. 
 
 57
 
 What spell lies on its columns? There rise lusty 
 
 tones and laughing, 
 A rioting of young folks through the open 
 
 parlor door, 
 The place resounds with revelry and badinage 
 
 and chaffing; 
 Someone has brought his fiddle from the little 
 
 country store. 
 The merry songs from lad and lass in lusty tones 
 
 are swelling, 
 The sparkling cider passes in the earthen jug 
 
 and brown ; 
 What silver-throated eloquence of memory is 
 
 telling 
 
 The story of the glory of the little country 
 town? 
 
 Yet he sits here alone, where all the dreamy 
 
 shadows dancing, 
 And silent, save for voices that his memory 
 
 may hear; 
 The eyes that o er the columns of the little paper 
 
 glancing, 
 Like violets, dew-misted, in the passing of a 
 
 tear. 
 For some, as he, are missing from the circle once 
 
 unbroken, 
 
 And one he knows lies sleeping where the au 
 tumn leaves are brown; 
 His hair is white, like silver, yet in fancy he has 
 
 spoken 
 
 With all those lads and lasses of the little 
 country town. 
 
 The misty eye of sorrow at the bush of dreams 
 
 is seeking 
 
 The rose of recollection with the fragrance of 
 its morn, 
 
 58
 
 And in the ear of memory the voice of grief is 
 
 speaking 
 The hand that plucks the blossom knows the 
 
 sharpness of the thorn. 
 His dreams die with the embers at the fireplace 
 
 ah, the pity ! 
 The paper falls from listless hands and idly 
 
 flutters down. 
 How lonely, lonely, lonely is the sullen, smokj 
 
 city, 
 
 When the heart has come from straying in the 
 little country town ! 
 
 tlj? (Start 
 
 Young Silas Watkins stole a ham a theft most 
 reprehensible, 
 
 And then engaged a counselor (which certainly 
 was sensible). 
 
 They plunged him in a dungeon deep, a dungeon 
 grim and terrorful, 
 
 The while his lawyer went to court upon a mis 
 sion errorful. 
 
 And when he found at once the whole proceed 
 ing could be " busted," he 
 
 Sued out a habeas corpus and took Silas out of 
 custody. 
 
 In court his learned counsel urged with dignified 
 
 suavity 
 The dangers of unseemly haste in matters of such 
 
 gravity. 
 
 The prosecution s bitterness he held unjustifiable, 
 " Tis Justice, with her blinded eyes, before whom 
 
 we are triable ! " 
 
 59
 
 And after hours of argument, with growing heat 
 
 and frictional, 
 He took a change of venue on a question juris- 
 
 dictional. 
 
 Whereat the counsel got a stay of trial for a year 
 or two, 
 
 To find a missing witness (who was dead, I have 
 a fear or two). 
 
 The years rolled on, they tried him, and unmer 
 cifully depicted him 
 
 The commonest of larcenists; the jury then con 
 victed him. 
 
 " No chance for Silas ! " cried his lawyer. " Yes, 
 I say, indeed he has ! " 
 
 Upon the which he went to court and got a super- 
 sedeas. 
 
 " Good cheer ! " said he to Silas. " You will 
 soon be on your feet again." 
 
 While Silas gave a bail bond and was straight 
 way on the street again. 
 
 A monstrous abstract then they filed, the lawyer 
 made a noise and fuss, 
 
 Until, within a year or two, the court gave them 
 a syllabus, 
 
 Which, stripped of all its verbiage and law and 
 technicality, 
 
 But reaffirmed the verdict based on Silas proved 
 rascality. 
 
 " Odds blood ! " cried Silas counsel to his client, 
 
 " When I ve read you this, 
 You ll see the entire finding simply reeks with 
 
 flaws and prejudice. 
 To jail shall any citizen for stealing of a hock be 
 
 sent?" 
 
 60
 
 Straightway the which he went to court and 
 filed another document. 
 
 " No sheriff shall arrest him, sir, on any legal 
 sham as grim 
 
 As this, and if a sheriff tries, I ll certainly man 
 damus him ! " 
 
 Again upon the solemn court, with masterful 
 urbanity, 
 
 He urged a close inquiry by an expert on in 
 sanity. 
 
 Who felt the bumps on Silas head, who found 
 profound rascality, 
 
 Who in a year made his report of " obvious nor 
 mality." 
 
 Long Silas counsel studied it, by methods not 
 revealable, 
 
 And finally concluded the decision was appeal 
 able. 
 
 Good Silas gave another bond to stay his jail 
 processional ; 
 
 Good Silas counsel labored with an ardor quite 
 professional, 
 
 Until he got an order from the highest court 
 available, 
 
 " (That, as the statutes read, there was a ques 
 tion if twas jailable,) 
 
 The court below should try again, and though 
 they might acquit it, or 
 
 Convict it, they must try again " so stated the 
 remittitur ! 
 
 The witnesses, those gray old men, recalled the 
 
 ancient history 
 Of Silas crime with halting speech, and deep 
 
 and dark the mystery 
 
 61
 
 To them of why they were recalled ; with quaver 
 ing tones, in truthfulness 
 
 They told again the old, old tale of Silas erring 
 youthfulness. 
 
 The jurors held he could not change his spots, 
 but like the leopard he; 
 
 So Silas counsel straightway held he had been 
 twice in jeopardy. 
 
 Alas ! So intricate a case, with all the points in- 
 
 volvable ! 
 When Death took Silas and to dust found him 
 
 to be resolvable. 
 Took him for reasons, good, perhaps, but which 
 
 were not revealable, 
 And Silas counsel found, alack, the judgment 
 
 not appealable ! 
 But back to court he strode when sure that 
 
 Charon o er had ferried him, 
 And cried : " I want a nol. pros, for my client 
 
 we have buried him ! " 
 
 Wmt to 
 
 Jes don seem I want to stay 
 Sence she went away. 
 Jes don seem as if I care ; 
 Everything seems bare 
 An empty now, an so I say 
 Jes don seem I want to stay. 
 
 Sun shines, bird songs in th air, 
 Jes don seem I care. 
 All th music o th spring 
 Don seem anything. 
 
 62
 
 Used to love it, but today 
 Jes don seem I want to stay. 
 
 Walkin roun th field today, 
 
 Don look th same way ; 
 
 Cattle lowin , crop to spare, 
 
 Jes seems I don care. 
 
 Scent o flowers an new cut hay, 
 
 Jes don seem I want to stay. 
 
 Used to like to hear th breeze 
 Rustlin through th trees ; 
 Thought th grass a-growin green 
 Prettiest thing I seen. 
 All changed sence she went away, 
 Jes don seem to want to stay. 
 
 Jfcbblesi in tty Istoam 
 
 Drop a pebble in the water jes a splash an 
 it is gone, 
 
 But th s half a hundred ripples circlin on, an 
 on, an on, 
 
 Spreadin , spreadin from the center, flowin on 
 out to the sea, 
 
 An th ain t no way o tellin where th end is 
 goin to be. 
 
 Drop a pebble in the water in a minute ye for 
 get, 
 
 But th s little waves a-flowin an th s ripples cir 
 clin yet ; 
 
 All th ripples flowin , flowin , to a mighty wave 
 hev grown, 
 
 An ye ve disturbed a mighty river jes by 
 droppin in a stone.
 
 Drop an unkind word or careless in a minute 
 
 it is gone, 
 But th s half a hundred ripples circlin on, an on, 
 
 an on. 
 Th keep spreading spreadin , spreadin from th 
 
 center as th go, 
 An th ain t no way to stop em, once ye ve 
 
 started em to flow. 
 Drop an unkind word or careless in a minute 
 
 ye forget, 
 
 But th s little waves a-flowin an th s ripples cir 
 clin yet; 
 An perhaps in some sad heart a mighty wave of 
 
 tears ye ve stirred, 
 An disturbed a life et s happy when ye dropped 
 
 an unkind word. 
 
 Drop a word o cheer an kindness jes a flash 
 
 an it is gone, 
 But th s half a hundred ripples circlin on, an 
 
 on, an on, 
 
 Bearin hope an joy an comfort on each splash- 
 in , dashin wave, 
 Till ye wouldn t b lieve the volume o th one kind 
 
 word ye gave. 
 Drop a word o cheer an kindness in a minute 
 
 ye forget, 
 But th s gladness still a-swellin an th s joy a- 
 
 circlin yet; 
 An ye ve rolled a wave of comfort whose sweet 
 
 music can be heard 
 Over miles an miles o water jes by droppin 
 
 a kind word.
 
 Content 
 
 Give me Content, all else is vain. 
 Nor Power nor Majesty may gain 
 The prize. And yet in me are blent 
 All these, the while I have Content. 
 
 Hark ! I hear the happy laughter that from chil 
 dren s voices rings, 
 
 Swelling out like some vast golden harp with 
 half a thousand strings, 
 
 Every one vibrating grandly in an ecstatic ac 
 claim, 
 
 In a medley of sw r eet melodies that set the birds 
 to shame ; 
 
 On the harp of childhood s happiness each note 
 rings clear and true, 
 
 For the heart is pure and perfect and each quiv 
 ering string is new, 
 
 And it tells and swells like bells afar that ring 
 and rhyme and chime 
 
 The sweetest music ever told in note or tune or 
 time. 
 
 When the heart is growing older and the harp of 
 
 laughter rings, 
 There s a false note clashing somew r here in the 
 
 swelling of the strings ; 
 There s a chord that strikes imperfect, where 
 
 some sorrow echoes through 
 The melody, and grief has warped the strings 
 
 to strains not true.
 
 Sometimes there s brilliant music that rings from 
 an empty heart, 
 
 But it s not the melodious laughter of the child, 
 that knows no art, 
 
 But just flows full and free, for Nature s teach 
 ings, undefiled, 
 
 Make music that is heart-true in the sweet voice 
 of a child. 
 
 Could I gather every note that floats and rings 
 
 and swells and tells 
 The gladness of the child s heart, true as any 
 
 chime of bells 
 May tell the passing hour, and fashion them into 
 
 a song, 
 Twould thrill and fill the air with melody as 
 
 though a throng 
 Of seraphim, as tinkling cymbals struck the 
 
 twinkling stars 
 
 In heaven s perfect music, where no din or dis 
 cord mars. 
 And a myriad strings would mingle in a melody 
 
 sublime, 
 The rhyme and chime of laughter gathered from 
 
 all Childhood s Time. 
 
 (EIj* gororr of 
 
 The thunder of Hate may be lost on the gale. 
 May be stilled in the storm, in the tempest may 
 
 fail, 
 
 But the whisper of Love wings unerring its way 
 From a star to a star, through the ages for aye. 
 
 66
 
 A Ijttmatt 
 
 A ship that throbs along in dire distress 
 Till lost in oceans of forgetfulness. 
 A tangle of sweet flowers whose petals turn 
 To ash of unfulfillment in an urn. 
 
 A wisp of tangled threads, whose parted ends 
 No deft hand joins, no endless effort mends. 
 A play whose fickle players merely greet 
 And go and leave the story incomplete. 
 
 A bud that opens brilliant at the dawn, 
 Flings sweet perfume a moment and is gone. 
 A breath between a cradle and a bier, 
 The blending of a smile, a sob, a tear. 
 
 A book whose pages turn with each new day, 
 Till Time has read the tale and cast away. 
 A mask worn till a passing play is done, 
 To cloak a wraith and hide a skeleton. 
 
 A lie, whose ghostly semblance is concealed 
 Till in a shroud its untruth lies revealed. 
 A thing that shapes the sod for a brief day 
 And dies and leaves its faithful slave more clay. 
 
 A story that is told ere tis begun, 
 
 A song that only whispers and is done ; 
 
 A thing that chains the lightnings and that stirs 
 
 The deep the elements its messengers. 
 
 Lord of the sea and sky, a ruler proud 
 That quakes at storms and trembles at a cloud ; 
 That comes and goes on wings unseen a germ 
 That grows to fill a grave and feed a worm. 
 
 67
 
 Mutter 
 
 Snow on the hilltops, drear and bleak, 
 Snow in the vales where the shrill winds speak 
 In mournful tones ; but deep and deep 
 Down, down, beneath, the flowers sleep. 
 
 Green are the hilltops, fresh and fair. 
 Sweet is the breath of the scented air, 
 Loosed the chains of the ice-locked lake. 
 And the sad earth smiles and the flowers wake. 
 
 Snow on the heart that is riven and bleak, 
 Snow on the heart where voices speak, 
 Voices of grief that is deep and deep, 
 Yet still in the heart the flowers sleep. 
 
 A whisper of hope on the scented air, 
 Flown is the snow and the bleak heart fair ; 
 Dull Grief s grim fetters break and break, 
 And the sad heart smiles and the flowers wake. 
 
 "Where lies the town of Happiness?" 
 Cried the youth to the wrinkled sage, 
 
 As they met one day on the weary way 
 That lies twixt Youth and Age. 
 
 The gray haired wise man shook his head 
 Tis a little farther on," he said. 
 
 " Where lies the town of Happiness ? 
 
 I pray we reach it soon ; " 
 For risen high in the molten sky 
 
 Was the sun that marked Life s noon. 
 But again the wise man shook his head : 
 " Tis a little farther on," he said. 
 
 68
 
 " Where lies the town of Happiness ? " 
 
 The youth was old and gray, 
 With shoulders bent, and eyes intent 
 
 Where the road stretched forth, away. 
 The wise man sadly shook his head : 
 " Tis a little farther on," he said. 
 
 "Where lies the town of Happiness?" 
 Down, down in the dust he fell ; 
 
 His voice was shrill and the death films fill 
 His eyes. Mused the sage : " Tis well." 
 
 And there gleamed in his eye a tear unshed 
 
 " For me, tis farther on," he said. 
 
 If he came back, I wonder would he know 
 The voices whispering of the long ago? 
 If he came back, I wonder would he see 
 The beauties, buried now, that used to be? 
 If he came back, back from the dust and dead, 
 I wonder would he seek the broken thread, 
 And follow on, o er sod and o er the sea, 
 Until it led him back to youth and me? 
 
 If he came back, I wonder would he share 
 My dreams? Or would the roses in my hair 
 Be but dull, voiceless flowers of the spring, 
 Speechless and silent, mute, nor whispering 
 The secrets once they told ? Or would they glow 
 With the sweet memories of long ago, 
 Where every petal quivered with the weight 
 And grandeur of a rapture passionate? 
 
 If he came back, I wonder would he feel 
 The rapture of the hopes that used to steal 
 From out the tinted twilight as we stood 
 Beneath the boughs in the thick, leafy wood, 
 
 69
 
 Thrilled with the song whose silent melody 
 None heard in all its ecstasy but we? 
 Would he now hear that whispered song and low 
 If he came back, who went so long ago? 
 
 Where ends the song that is yet half unsung? 
 In the still mound, where the green turf upflung? 
 Dies all the music, or but hid in air, 
 Trembling, yet mute, in that vast Otherwhere? 
 The threads now parted, who shall mend again, 
 Weld broken links, restore the chain ? And then 
 When they come back, who have been gone so 
 
 long, 
 I wonder will they know the old, sweet song? 
 
 At 
 
 A woman poor and a peeress proud, 
 A dingy room and a crushing crowd, 
 The gloom of death and grave and shroud, 
 A stifled cry and a sob, aloud. 
 
 A heart has heard and an eye has read ; 
 A soul has writhed, and a lowered head 
 Is bowed, and a trembling tongue has said : 
 " My God ! My God ! And he is dead ! " 
 
 A wail, a sob, and a bitter cry ; 
 
 An anguished tear in a woman s eye ; 
 
 A peeress face where agony 
 
 Is carved, and a mutely murmured " Why? " 
 
 A woman stares and a peeress starts. 
 Without, the din of traffic s marts 
 Throbs in the streets. Lie far apart 
 Their lives; but close, so close their hearts. 
 
 70
 
 A wreath of roses hung upon a stone, 
 Above me, this alone. 
 
 A sob that floats, and falling tear on tear 
 Descending here. 
 
 Some soul in sorrow kneeling at the tomb, 
 And in the gloom, 
 
 Pouring above me to the silent air 
 Its deep despair. 
 
 Though cold the pulseless clay and deaf the ear, 
 Yet I shall hear. 
 
 Though the thick shadows endlessly shall flow, 
 Still shall I know. 
 
 Though from the dumb, dead tenement in flight 
 Wing life and light, 
 
 Yet not deserted lies the silent clay, 
 For Love shall stay. 
 
 Crumble the stone and in the dust shall lie, 
 Yet Love not die. 
 
 Through the long night when the dark shadows 
 creep, 
 
 Not even sleep, 
 
 But whisper from the silence of the bier : 
 " Lo ! I am here."
 
 We re off for the village church today Mother 
 
 an Moll an me, 
 
 Come fr m th city, a hundred miles, to go, es 
 pecially. 
 Been goin to 1:r-->wnstone gospel shops, imposin 
 
 an grand an swell, 
 But I don t feel that hankerin there for heaven 
 
 or that proper fear o hell 
 That I allus did in th little church in th village 
 
 we used to tend, 
 Where th green woodbine an tlr ivy twine, an 
 
 the songbirds voices blend 
 With th village choir, an the gospel hymns rang 
 
 out on th summer air. 
 An th Lord sort o seemed to come right down 
 
 an sit among us there. 
 
 Off for th village church today there s a tear 
 
 in Mother s eye, 
 An another one in my own, I guess, but I couldn t 
 
 tell ye w T hy; 
 Mebbe it s cause we was married there, so many 
 
 years ago. 
 An our boy lies there in his grave, asleep, an 
 
 th music seems to flow 
 Out through the vine-clad window in a sort o 
 
 lullaby, 
 As th breath o God might kiss th sod where 
 
 the souls all sleeping lie. 
 Th air s so still an the sweet hymns fill our 
 
 hearts with peace today, 
 An th Lord sort o seems to come right down 
 
 an kiss our tears awav. 
 
 72
 
 There s a somethin grand bout the village 
 
 church I can t jes tell ye why, 
 But ye seem to get right close to God, an ye 
 
 stand there silently, 
 Breathin a prayer so earnest like, yer eyes all 
 
 blurred an dim, 
 As though He was standin there an ye was 
 
 whisperin to Him. 
 An th little organ s mellow tones, an th music 
 
 seems so grand, 
 Because it tells a tale of love that yer heart can 
 
 understand. 
 An yer heart feels warm with love that ye want 
 
 the world to know an share, 
 An th Lord sort o seems to come right down 
 
 and sit among us there. 
 
 I got to live in th city, cause I got my int rests 
 
 there, 
 But Mother an me, when we come to die, are 
 
 both a-goin to share 
 A lot in the village churchyard, where our lost 
 
 boy lies asleep; 
 An though our lives is happy, sometimes we sit 
 
 an weep, 
 An sort o yearn for th time to come when th 
 
 Lord s own lullaby 
 Floats through th vine-clad window above us as 
 
 we lie ; 
 When our boy shall wake and we shall take his 
 
 hand at th Judgment day, 
 Rise from th sod, in th steps o God we three 
 
 an go away. 
 
 73
 
 Live in Today, nor count the Future s sorrow ; 
 
 Live in Today, nor dream the Future s pain ; 
 Live in Today, there may be no Tomorrow. 
 
 Today s delights thou mayst not know again. 
 
 Smile in Today ; whate er the morrow brings 
 thee, 
 
 Smile in Today, while yet thy heart is glad ; 
 Be thou the songster that in gladness sings free ; 
 
 Today is bright ; Tomorrow may be sad. 
 
 Today Life s harp is tuned to notes of gladness, 
 Deft Happiness the sweetest notes may raise. 
 
 Tomorrow strikes its wailing strings to sadness, 
 And Memory only mournful music plays. 
 
 "Hello!" says I. 
 
 " Hello ! " says he. 
 I never see the man afore. 
 
 " Swap? " says I. 
 
 " Dunno," says he. 
 " Mebbe, mebbe I ain t shore." 
 
 "Th bay?" says I. 
 
 Th gray ? " says he. 
 " Swap ! " says we, an both unhitched. 
 
 " Fine horse," says I. 
 
 " O course," says he ; 
 An in a minute we had switched. 
 
 " Git up ! " says I. 
 " Git up ! " says he. 
 An both them horses stood stock still ! 
 
 74
 
 "Balk?" says I. 
 
 " Yep ! " says he. 
 " Mine too ! " s I, laughin . fit to kill. 
 
 " Say ! " says I. 
 
 "Hey?" says he. 
 " Guess that s horse apiece," says we. 
 
 " Good day ! " says I. 
 
 " Good day ! " says he. 
 Best joke, b gosh, I ever see ! 
 
 Seek not to fathom Fate s decree ; 
 Whatever has been was to be. 
 Not all the sighs of Time could stay 
 The heavy hand she seeks to lay ; 
 Not all the tears of all the years 
 Could blot one page from yesterday. 
 
 Seek not to see beyond the cloud, 
 To fathom depths beneath the shroud ; 
 Thy little knowledge soars in vain, 
 To beat its wings in dust again. 
 It is thy doom to dwell in gloom 
 Till Death shall see thee rest or reign. 
 
 Thou canst alone hope some wise plan 
 Pervades the destiny of man ; 
 That purposes divine are blent 
 With what seems chance or accident. 
 That out afar, the falling star 
 Sees purpose to its mission bent. 
 
 Thou art a prisoner here, alone, 
 And helpless as the sod or stone ; 
 
 75
 
 Small as on greatness lay st thou stress, 
 Great as thou know st thy littleness. 
 A child of Chance and Circumstance, 
 God s infant in thy helplessness. 
 
 Goin , goin , goin gone ! Mother, dear, don t 
 
 cry; 
 Th old home s passed t other hands, but mebbe, 
 
 by an by, 
 We may save an buy another, though no place ll 
 
 ever be 
 As dear as this one that we ve lost has been t 
 
 you an me. 
 
 Goin , goin , goin gone ! Mother, come away ; 
 Th ol farm s been knocked down an sold it 
 
 does no good t stay; 
 
 We ve tried our best t save it, but it wasn t or 
 dered so. 
 It ain t our home no longer Mother, dear, le s 
 
 go! 
 
 I don t know as I ever see th ol farm look so 
 
 fine. 
 Never see a deeper green on every shrub an 
 
 vine; 
 Clover blossoms never smelled so fresh an sweet, 
 
 somehow, 
 Lilacs never grew so thick, it seems, as th do 
 
 now. 
 The ol white house with its green blinds, the 
 
 woodbine creepin on, 
 Twon t do no harm, I guess, t take a las look 
 
 fore we re gone. 
 
 76
 
 Tried our best t pay th debt, we did, th Lord 
 
 mus know, 
 But somehow couldn t make it quite Mother, 
 
 dear, le s go. 
 
 Coin , goin , goin gone ! I seem t hear it yet ; 
 Seem t hear the auctioneer my eyes somehow 
 
 get wet; 
 Gone t pay th mor gagee, an we are crowded 
 
 out. 
 Gone ! So many things are gone that folks don t 
 
 think about. 
 
 Every blade o grass an tree, every foot o ground 
 Has some hauntin memory, some sweetness 
 
 clingin round, 
 Some memory for you an me, that other folks 
 
 don t know ; 
 It seems somehow the re speakin now Mother, 
 
 dear, le s go. 
 
 Goin , gone ! We couldn t save it, Mother, dear ; 
 
 we tried, 
 But everything went criss-cross th cows took 
 
 sick an died. 
 We had to sell th horses th farmin didn t 
 
 pay, 
 
 An troubles sort o double-quicked sometimes 
 the come that way. 
 
 Goin , gone ! The pasture lands ; th dairy house 
 beside 
 
 Th brook; the first house that we built, where 
 Sue and Johnny died. 
 
 T other folks it s simply losin of a bit o land, 
 
 But the s a loss t you an me that they can t un 
 derstand. 
 
 77
 
 Coin , goin , goin gone ! I wonder what s th 
 
 use 
 Twinin heartstrings round an round jes t 
 
 tear em loose. 
 Goin , gone ! Th way o life ; why, th good Lord 
 
 knows ; 
 Buildin up for years an years, an then away she 
 
 goes! 
 Hopes or homes, it s jes th same what we 
 
 build about, 
 Other hands mus reap th fruits an we are 
 
 crowded out; 
 
 Story always jes th same, fr m th light o dawn 
 T th twilight s mist an shade hopes goin , 
 
 goin , gone. 
 
 I know one deed in kindness done 
 More glory brings, more fame has won. 
 Than countless good we would have wrought 
 To all the world if we had thought. 
 
 fnr 
 
 Sometimes I think I ll thrash him, good, 
 
 He needs it bad, I m sure ; 
 An sometimes well, I b lieve I would, 
 
 N then I can t endure 
 T tech th musin little kid, 
 
 For when he smiles, y see, 
 He looks jes like his mother did, 
 
 An that s enough for me.
 
 I guess a hundred times or more 
 
 I ve taken him inside 
 Th bedroom there, an closed th door 
 
 An tried an tried an tried 
 T bring myself to strike him, once, 
 
 Jes once an then I see 
 His mother s smile on his wet face, 
 
 An that s enough for me. 
 
 First thing I know I m sittin there 
 
 Pettin th little chap, 
 An strokin of his curly hair, 
 
 Holdin him in my lap, 
 An dreamin of her seein her 
 
 Jes as she used to be, 
 An somethin makes my eyes t blur, 
 
 An me cry silently. 
 
 He s got the same brown eyes she had, 
 
 An the same silky hair; 
 Looks so like her, th little lad, 
 
 That well, I jes don dare 
 To lay a finger rough on him; 
 
 T d almos seem as though 
 I was a-bein harsh to her, 
 
 An so I let him go. 
 
 He ain t a bad boy no, he ain t, 
 
 Jes mischievous, that s all. 
 In all his makeup th ain t a taint 
 
 O meanness an I call 
 T mind when things she used to do 
 
 Exactly like he does, 
 I thought was jes th cutest an 
 
 Th dearest ever was. 
 
 79
 
 Y know sometimes he ll come t me, 
 
 An say to me : " Say, Dad, 
 Y ain t goin t whip me, now, are ye? 
 
 I ain t been very bad." 
 An then he ll twist, an sort o smile ; 
 
 My eyes get blurred and dim : 
 Th ain t enough gold in th world 
 
 T hire me t tech him. 
 
 Folks say I m spoilin him ; may be 
 
 I am, but I don t dare 
 T tech him rough he looks like she 
 
 Did, an so I don t care. 
 He puts his little arms aroun 
 
 My neck, an I can see 
 Her in his eyes, so big an brown, 
 
 An that s enough for me. 
 
 Saps 
 
 Lights out ! and darkness brooding deep around 
 Thee, soldier; not the trembling bugle s sound 
 Nor volley thrice repeated o er the mound 
 
 Shall waken thee. 
 
 Lights out! Not where the flag of battle flies, 
 Nor here, where the sad, silent shadow lies, 
 Shall drumbeat call or bugle bid thee rise, 
 
 But silently, 
 
 Thy duty done, thou sleepest. Rest thee well; 
 Nor any rude alarm shall strike and swell 
 To rouse thee Glory stands thy sentinel. 
 
 Good night to thee ! 
 
 80
 
 of 
 
 Tis not by wishing that we gain the prize, 
 
 Nor yet by ruing, 
 But, from our fallings, learning how to rise, 
 
 And tireless doing. 
 
 The idols broken, not our tears and sighs 
 
 May yet restore them. 
 Regret is only food for fools; the wise 
 
 Look but before them. 
 
 Nor ever yet Success was wooed with tears ; 
 
 To notes of gladness 
 Alone the fickle goddess turns her ears, 
 
 She hears not sadness. 
 
 The heart thrives not in the dull rain and mist 
 
 Of gloomy pining. 
 The sweetest flowers are the flowers sun-kissed, 
 
 Where glad light shining. 
 
 Look not behind thee; there is only dust 
 
 And vain regretting. 
 The lost tide ebbs ; in the next flood thou must 
 
 Learn, by forgetting. 
 
 For the lost chances be ye not distressed 
 
 To endless weeping; 
 Be not the thrush that o er the empty nest 
 
 Is vigil keeping. 
 
 But in new efforts our regrets today 
 
 To stillness whiling, 
 Let us in some pure purpose find the way 
 
 To future smiling. 
 
 81
 
 (ut for 
 
 I see the transport s here at last ; the soldier boys 
 
 have come. 
 I hear the bugles brayin an the beatin o the 
 
 drum ; 
 I can see the flags a-flyin and the bands begin to 
 
 play, 
 An it seems to me they sailed from Frisco only 
 
 yesterday. 
 I d like to join the shoutin , but I couldn t cheer 
 
 a note; 
 There s a lump that s always risin and a-chokin 
 
 in my throat. 
 They re marchin down the street by twos; I m 
 
 watchin every pair, 
 But I know my boy ain t with em they have 
 
 left him over there. 
 
 I know a fellow ought to try to put aside his 
 
 tears, 
 An he ought to join the shoutin an the ringin , 
 
 rousin cheers. 
 But say ! It s hard to stand here an to see em 
 
 marchin on, 
 An to know that my boy s missin from them 
 
 marchin ranks, an gone. 
 Say, if I could only see him, with his head erect 
 
 an high, 
 An if he could know I was a-watchin of him 
 
 passin by! 
 An know that in that cheerin he was gettin of 
 
 his share ! 
 But he can t the Lord saw fit to muster him 
 
 out over there. 
 
 82
 
 There s so many, Lord, so many ; an my boy was 
 
 all I had, 
 An it seems you might a left him to his poor 
 
 old lovin Dad. 
 His mother died so long ago ; he never knew her 
 
 face, 
 An Daddy s breast in childhood was his only 
 
 restin place. 
 An when the call for volunteers was made, he 
 
 come to me, 
 An he pleaded to go with em, an he begged so 
 
 earnestly, 
 An I says : " He s all I ve got, Lord, an I know 
 
 you ll surely spare 
 My boy, an let him come back." An he s lyin 
 
 over there. 
 
 An I thought to go to Frisco, an to greet him 
 
 when he come ; 
 An to stay till he was mustered out, an then to 
 
 bring him home. 
 An so I m here to see the boys, to hear the 
 
 shouts an cheers ; 
 A poor old father watchin em through eyes 
 
 that s blurred with tears. 
 I know he s not among em, but it sort o seems 
 
 to me, 
 That he can t be lyin out there dead, across the 
 
 sobbin sea. 
 There s so many boys, so many, that the Lord 
 
 was good to spare, 
 That I can t believe my boy is in his grave out 
 
 over there.
 
 Hook lip 
 
 Each little day 
 
 That slips away 
 And finds for thee no pleasure, 
 
 That steals along 
 
 Without a song, 
 Is just a wasted treasure. 
 
 The sands that pass 
 
 Through the hour glass 
 And find thee in repining, 
 
 Mark the lost hours. 
 
 The freshest flowers 
 Blow when the sun is shining. 
 
 Thou shalt not grope 
 
 For the lost hope 
 Through darkness dim, unending. 
 
 Ne er vain regret 
 
 Succeeded yet 
 A broken thread in mending. 
 
 The chance that s lost, 
 
 Let not the cost 
 Be flowing tears and sighing, 
 
 When countless more 
 
 From life s vast store 
 Are to be had for trying. 
 
 So put away 
 
 Thy cares today, 
 And cease thy fate reviling; 
 
 For Chance eludes 
 
 The soul that broods, 
 And courts the soul that s smiling.
 
 Some sleep under the sighing pine, 
 
 And some sleep under the snow; 
 Some where flowers toss and twine, 
 
 And some where oceans flow. 
 Some where the glacier growls and grinds, 
 
 And some neath the cool, green sod ; 
 But all sleep the same sleep, and waking finds 
 
 Each one in the arms of God. 
 
 Writing a Setter Sjom* 
 
 He wrote home : " Mother, dear, I have 
 
 A place that will not fail. 
 I m working for the Commonwealth." 
 
 ( Twas true he was in jail.) 
 
 " I board and lodge at my employer s 
 House." ( Twas so, you see.) 
 
 " I have a private room, that has 
 Been set apart for me. 
 
 " My habits are quite regular. 
 
 I do each bidden task. 
 My food " ( Twas bread and water, lone;) 
 
 " Is all that I can ask. 
 
 " I m held above my fellow men 
 
 And my companions here." 
 (He was the only prisoner 
 
 Kept in the upper tier.) 
 
 " I had some hope that I might come 
 
 To see you Christmas Day; 
 But as it is, I do not see 
 
 How I can get away. 
 
 85
 
 " I am to make a journey soon," 
 (He was condemned, you know, 
 
 For murder,) "but I cannot say 
 Yet, just where I will go." 
 
 The sheriff wrote, after twas done : 
 
 " Your son died suddenly. 
 Twas just this morning he dropped off " 
 
 (The gallows, don t you see.) 
 
 " Your son stood high among us here," 
 (The gallows was quite tall.) 
 
 "And hundreds gathered at the last " 
 (They did to see him fall.) 
 
 The dear old lady read the news, 
 
 And said, wiping her eye: 
 "Ah, well since he must be cut down, 
 
 I m glad he stood so high." 
 
 (Eup Utli 
 
 The cup will pass, 
 
 How bitter may it be ; 
 Though thou mayst drain 
 
 Its deepest dreg and lee, 
 A sweeter wine 
 
 Some day will brim the glass, 
 The draught be thine ; 
 
 The bitter cup will pass. 
 
 86
 
 Did ye ever pass a youngster et d been an 
 
 stubbed his toe. 
 An was cryin by the roadside sort o quiet like 
 
 an slow ; 
 A-holdin of his dusty foot, all hard an brown 
 
 an bare, 
 An tryin to keep fr m his eyes th tears that s 
 
 gatherin there ? 
 Ye hear him sort o sobbin like, an snufflin of 
 
 his nose, 
 Ye stop an pat his head an some way try t ease 
 
 his woes; 
 Ye treat him sort o kind like, an th fust thing 
 
 that y know, 
 He s up an off an smilin clean forgot he 
 
 stubbed his toe. 
 
 Long th road o human life ye see a fellow trav- 
 
 elin slow, 
 An like as not ye ll find he s some poor chap 
 
 that s stubbed his toe. 
 He was makin swimmin headway, but he 
 
 bumped into a stone, 
 An his friends kep hurryin onward an they 
 
 left him here alone. 
 He ain t sobbin er ain t snifflin he s too old 
 
 for tears an cries, 
 But he s grievin jes as earnest, ef it only comes 
 
 in sighs ; 
 An it does a heap o good, sometimes, to go a 
 
 little slow, 
 To say a word o comfort to th man that s 
 
 stubbed his toe.
 
 Ye re never sure yerself, an th ain t no earthly 
 
 way t know 
 Jes when it s goin t come yer time t trip an 
 
 stub yer toe ; 
 Today ye re smilin , happy, in th bright sun s 
 
 heat an glow, 
 Tomorrow ye re a shiverin as ye re trudgin 
 
 through th snow. 
 Jes when ye think ye got th world th fastest in 
 
 yer grip 
 Is th very time, ye ll find, et ye re th likeliest t 
 
 slip; 
 N it s mighty comfortin t have some fellow 
 
 stop, I know, 
 An speak t ye an kind o help ye when ye ve 
 
 stubbed ver toe. 
 
 Today, bestrewn the troubled way 
 With fears, as saints we kneel to pray. 
 The way tomorrow unbeset, 
 Self-proud we rise and we forget. 
 
 An Art Qlrtttriam 
 
 A ragged kid in a torn straw hat, 
 
 With his hair stuck through, an a sassy smile, 
 An one suspender crost, like that 
 
 Wai it may be art, but it ain t my style. 
 
 Diggin th sand with his bare big toe, 
 An a big loose patch sewed to his knee; 
 
 Shovin his hands in his pockets so ; 
 Why they call that art, dogged ef I see. 
 
 88
 
 Why, th little runt et s painted there, 
 
 With his eyes half closed, an winkin down, 
 
 Th sassy little rat, I swear 
 
 I ve seen him, right in my own town. 
 
 Them funny freckles, big an brown, 
 
 N them ragged pants an that torn straw hat 
 
 I bet I kin find, right in our town, 
 A dozen kids et look like that. 
 
 Why, sho ! I ve caught more kids like that 
 In th limbs o my own apple tree, 
 
 Lookin out under that ol straw hat, 
 An winkin sassy down at me. 
 
 Th little scamp ! I kin almost hear 
 
 Him say : " Hev an apple, Dad," an throw 
 
 One down an ketch me on th ear ! 
 
 Why they call that art, dogged ef I know. 
 
 An th goldarned thing ! A city chap 
 Come along an paid five hundred cold 
 
 Fer it, an thought he had a snap. 
 I had t laugh t how he got sold. 
 
 A ragged kid in a torn straw hat, 
 
 Like I ve seen a hundred times, I bet; 
 
 An payin out that much fer that ! 
 B gosh, th fools ain t all dead yet ! " 
 
 89
 
 W& Arrlpr a 
 
 A feathered arrow to his bow 
 The archer Hatred fitted taut, 
 
 Drew tight the bowstring, kneeling low, 
 And forth a venomed message shot. 
 
 So full his quiver he forgot, 
 
 Ere died the twang of his bowstring, 
 
 The poisoned shaft that forth he shot, 
 The venomed message set a-wing. 
 
 Until, as through the wood he sped 
 Another day, he found it where 
 
 A heart, fell stricken, lying dead, 
 
 The shaft had pierced and quivered there. 
 
 The s a little touch o winter in th air, 
 The s leaves a-droppin , droppin everywhere, 
 The s gusts o snow a-blowin , 
 But the s evergreen a-growin , 
 Lookin fresher n brighter n ever, 
 Jes to show et th ain t never 
 Any time when all th trees is stripped an bare. 
 
 The s a little touch o trouble in th air, 
 The s friends a-droppin , droppin everywhere, 
 But the s some et s clingin faster, 
 Even when ye ve met disaster, 
 Jes to show et th ain t ever 
 Any trouble et can sever 
 
 Friends et s evergreen th kind o friends et s 
 rare. 
 
 90
 
 " Give me Fame," cried the genius. 
 
 The wizard s smile was grim ; 
 His arm stretched forth and a tasteless fruit 
 
 Plucked from a rotten limb. 
 " I seek, sir, Fame," cried the genius, 
 
 " Ye have given me instead 
 A rotten fruit." The wizard spoke: 
 
 " This is Fame," he said. 
 
 " Give me Power," cried the monarch. 
 
 The wizard smiled again. 
 A crown of thorns he gave to him 
 
 And a sword with a bloody stain. 
 " But I seek Power," cried the monarch, 
 
 " What have ye given instead ? " 
 The wizard spoke : " I tell thee, Sire, 
 
 These are Power," he said. 
 
 " Give me Love," cried the maiden. 
 
 The wizard sadly smiled ; 
 A bleeding heart he gave to her, 
 
 And the form of a cold, dead child. 
 " I asked for Love," mused the maiden, 
 
 " Ye have given me Grief instead." 
 The wizard sighed and softly spoke: 
 
 " Love is Grief," he said. 
 
 " Give me Peace," cried a weary soul. 
 
 The wizard laughed aloud, 
 Drew forth from his store of treasure 
 
 And gave to him a shroud. 
 " I asked for Peace," he shuddered, 
 
 " Ye give me Death, instead." 
 The wizard mused. " I tell thee 
 
 That this is Peace," he said.
 
 Back among the trees and trellises, along the 
 leaf-strewn lane, 
 
 Sitting on the bank of the mill stream and dream 
 ing dreams again, 
 
 Drinking water sweet as nectar from the bucket 
 at the well, 
 
 In the orchard s leaf and silence, watching wind 
 falls as they fell, 
 
 Trying here, at five and thirty, just to be a boy 
 again, 
 
 To recall the joys of boyhood and forget the 
 cares of men ; 
 
 But I listen to a lesson in the twitter of the wren : 
 
 When the boy s heart turns to man s it never 
 throbs the same again. 
 
 Once the sun marks noon of lifetime, once the 
 
 morning steals away, 
 Once the shadows growing shorter and then fall 
 
 the other way, 
 Once the play time ends at manhood, once the 
 
 frolicking is done, 
 
 Once the face is turned from dawning to the set 
 ting of the sun, 
 You may sit among the flowers that you plucked 
 
 and threw away, 
 Turn the leaves of Time all backward, try to read 
 
 them as you may, 
 You may kindle fires of Memory, you may sit 
 
 and watch the flame, 
 But there s something changed within you that 
 
 can never be the same. 
 
 92
 
 You may la} aside the burden of your troubles 
 
 as you will, 
 But the bent and sunken shoulders tell the story 
 
 to you still ; 
 The story of the troubles and the trials that are 
 
 sealed 
 From the simple hearts of children, and to men 
 
 alone revealed. 
 The sorrow dulls, the sigh is stilled, the sore 
 
 hearts soothed are, 
 The smarting wound is healed again, but always 
 
 leaves a scar, 
 The fire of youth burns only once, and dies in 
 
 its dead flame, 
 The simple heart of boyhood that can never be 
 
 the same. 
 
 So I sit among the trellises and trees and wonder 
 
 why: 
 Clear the air as in my boyhood and as blue the 
 
 unflecked sky, 
 Full the leaves as ever blowing, sweet the bird 
 
 songs and as free, 
 
 But the boy s heart that throbbed to them is un 
 tuned and dead in me. 
 There s a longing, longing, longing, speaking in 
 
 a deep-drawn sigh, 
 For the heart that throbbed in boyhood, cloudless 
 
 as the azure sky; 
 For the heart that was the sunlight and the air 
 
 that tongue nor pen 
 Can ever paint or picture that I cannot know 
 
 again. 
 
 93
 
 Had we not met we had not known these sighs, 
 These heartaches and these leaden-winged 
 years, 
 
 The sorrows speaking in these grief-wet eyes ; 
 Had we not met we had not known these tears. 
 
 And yet, had we not met, we had not known 
 The bliss of gladness in those other whiles, 
 
 Ere the gay-plumaged yesterday had flown. 
 Had we not met we had not known those 
 smiles. 
 
 Htumwtfoo 
 
 The sweetest song is the unsung, 
 Unspoken is the kindest word, 
 
 The clearest chime the heart s unrung, 
 The grandest music the unheard. 
 
 Nor singer grand, nor bard with lyre, 
 Within his sweetest song may hold 
 
 The fullness of the flaming fire 
 That leaps within, but is not told. 
 
 There is a grandeur and sublime 
 That lingers hidden in the heart; 
 
 That will not speak in note or rhyme, 
 The fire, unseen, that flames apart. 
 
 The grandest deed is that, undone, 
 
 Whose endless promptings veer and roll 
 
 But take no shape the rayless sun 
 That shines unseen within the soul. 
 
 94
 
 And, deed or song or rhyme or word, 
 That soul may stir, or heart may fill, 
 
 There is a sweeter far, unheard, 
 An unseen beauty, grander still. 
 
 No tongue may tell the deepest roll, 
 Where, all unfathomed, sweep apart 
 
 The ocean waters of the soul, 
 
 The depths unseen, within the heart. 
 
 A Jfarttttg 
 
 " Don go, Bill, don go ! 
 
 I know it mus seem slow 
 
 Here on th farm fer a boy like you ; 
 
 I know the s many a chore to do; 
 
 Not much in th way o company, 
 
 Cept what ye git from Ma an me; 
 
 An it s temptin to think o th world so wide, 
 
 An all o th pleasures o life outside 
 
 Our quiet little home life here; 
 
 But, Bill, it ll seem so hard an queer 
 
 Fer Ma an me, as we allus do, 
 
 Not to sit an feel so proud o you 
 
 When we see you roun . I know it s slow, 
 
 But, Bill, I wisht you wouldn t go ! 
 
 " Don go, Bill, don go ! 
 Ma s tears jes flow an flow 
 When she s packin up yer trunk an I 
 Well, Bill, I ain t much on th cry, 
 But th ol man s heart is heavy, Bill, 
 The s an achin there that won t be still. 
 Jim s gone, an though a year s gone by, 
 It don seem right he had to die ; 
 
 95
 
 Then Jack lef home, an Lou is wed, 
 An mebbe even Jack is dead, 
 Per we haven t heard a word from him. 
 Bill ! Bill ! Our flock has grown so slim, 
 Ye re all we ve got now, Bill, an so 
 I jes can t bear to let ye go ! 
 
 " What d ye say, Bill ? Ye won t go ! 
 
 Boy, boy, ye ll never know 
 
 What a load ye ve raised fr m th ol folks heart, 
 
 Fer we couldn t bear to see ye start. 
 
 Come, here, Bill, let me hug ye once ; 
 
 Well, drat me fer a sneakin dunce, 
 
 If my blame ol eyes ain t filled with tears, 
 
 When I feel like whoopin up with cheers. 
 
 An Bill, let s go tell Mother so, 
 
 That her boy says he ain t goin to go." 
 
 Upon the stream of Life we see 
 
 The ship of Opportunity 
 Cast loose from wharf and pier, 
 
 And slip to sea; alone we stand, 
 Forsaken in a lonely land, 
 
 Beset with fear on fear. 
 Across the wave we crv and call : 
 
 "Ho! Wait! Ho! Wait! Ho! Wait! 
 The mocking echoes fly and fall: 
 
 " Too late ! Too late ! Too late ! " 
 
 96
 
 to a IGtitb 
 
 Never a care as she lies asleep, 
 
 Dear little lassie with red-brown hair ; 
 Angels of Light a sweet vigil keep, 
 
 Keep for the little one slumbering there. 
 Never a dream as she lies so still, 
 
 Never a dream but of Fairyland, 
 Fairyland and the flowers that fill 
 
 Her bed, and the lilies within her hand. 
 
 Never a tear as she lies at rest, 
 
 Now or ever or evermore ; 
 Never a sorrow to bruise her breast, 
 
 Ever the gladness of fairylore. 
 Never the rough way to bruise her feet, 
 
 Never or ever a discord sound, 
 Only the murmur of music sweet, 
 
 And the laughing of Cherubim, all around. 
 
 Never a sigh from the silent lips, 
 
 For the dollies all carefully laid away; 
 Only the music of laughter slips 
 
 Out of the realm of the sunlit day. 
 Never or ever a thought or care, 
 
 For the little hat with its flowered wreath, 
 Bearing a vision of red-brown hair 
 
 Flying in tangled curls beneath. 
 
 Dead? Ah, no! She is just asleep, 
 
 Asleep where the dreams and daisies are ; 
 Angels of Light a sweet vigil keep, 
 
 Keep in the light of a twinkling star. 
 Asleep, and the odors of flowers fill 
 
 Her bed, and the lilies within her hand ; 
 Asleep, and the whispering angels still 
 
 Her sighs with the dreams of Fairyland. 
 
 97
 
 QJfj? Siffrmtr? 
 
 Sometimes when Pa gets mad because 
 I bust some of his household laws, 
 He says: "Look here, you rascal, you, 
 I ll whale you. sir, that s what I ll do." 
 An Ma, she just turns up her nose, 
 An sits there in refined repose. 
 An higher still her nose she tilts ; 
 An Pa don t lick me he just wilts. 
 
 When Ma gets mad because I do 
 
 Some little thing she said not to, 
 
 She don t talk loud and wild like Dad, 
 
 But just says: " Will, come here, my lad. 
 
 An Pa don t get no chance to tilt 
 
 His nose an Ma, well, she don t wilt ; 
 
 She just leads Willie boy away 
 
 Out to the shed and makes him lay 
 
 Acrost her lap seems just like play, 
 
 Cept Willie don t sit down that day. 
 
 iBij tlj? 
 
 Let us smile along together, 
 Be the \veather 
 
 W r hat it may. 
 
 Through the waste and wealth of hours, 
 Plucking flowers 
 
 By the way. 
 
 Fragrance from the meadows blowing, 
 Naught of heat or hatred knowing, 
 Kindness seeking, kindness sowing, 
 
 Not tomorrow, but today. 
 
 98
 
 Let us sing along, beguiling 
 Grief to smiling 
 
 In the song. 
 
 With the promises of heaven 
 Let us leaven 
 
 The day long. 
 
 Gilding all the duller seemings 
 With the roselight of our dreamings, 
 Splashing clouds with sunlight s gleamings, 
 
 Here and there and all along. 
 
 Let us live along; the sorrow 
 Of tomorrow 
 
 Never heed. 
 
 In the pages of the present 
 What is pleasant 
 
 Only read. 
 
 Bells but pealing, never knelling, 
 Hearts with gladness ever swelling, 
 Tides of charity upwelling 
 
 In our every dream and deed. 
 
 Let us hope along together, 
 Be the weather 
 
 What it may, 
 
 Where the sunlight glad is shining, 
 Not repining 
 
 By the way. 
 
 Seek to add our meed and measure 
 To the old Earth s joy and treasure, 
 Quaff the crystal cup of pleasure, 
 
 Not tomorrow, but today. 
 
 99
 
 Sweet songs, half whispering to me in the soli 
 tude 
 
 Of sweeter melody they might have sung, 
 And phantom flowers that scent for me the leafy 
 
 wood 
 With wraiths of the perfume they might have 
 
 flung. 
 Sweet faces smiling dimly through the shadowy 
 
 light, 
 
 Ghosts of the full perfection that had shown, 
 Had not the sun gone down ere it was night. 
 Leaving but shadows of the unfulfilled, alone. 
 
 100
 
 There are flowers of good cheer growing close 
 
 by the way 
 
 That stretches from dark to the dawn ; 
 Full wreathed in the green leaves of smiles, so 
 
 they say. 
 
 And never or ever are gone. 
 The snows of misfortune deep mantling the 
 
 ground, 
 
 The blasts from the Northland grow shrill, 
 Beneath we may find them full blooming around, 
 And pluck them whenever we will. 
 
 There are ripples of laughter down deep in the 
 heart, 
 
 As flowers that bloom neath the snows ; 
 Though fettered with ice there is water apart, 
 
 That tinkles and trills as it flows. 
 The breath of Misfortune may strew its hoar 
 frost, 
 
 The moan of the winter be chill, 
 The music of joy be afar but not lost, 
 
 And we may still hear, if we will. 
 
 There are songs of Delight on the wings of the 
 
 wind, 
 
 Though hoarser the tempest we hear; 
 Though fierce in its raging the wild storm has 
 
 dinned 
 
 Its discord of strife on the ear. 
 The deep diapason, the storm s sullen roar, 
 
 Shall sink to a murmur, be still ; 
 And songs that are sweeter shall tremble once 
 
 more, 
 The songs we may hear, if we will. 
 
 101
 
 A Ula&g a ICrtter of 
 
 " Indeed, I regret that I cannot accept," 
 
 (Oh, Lord, what a whopper was that!) 
 " Poor writing is weak ; if I only could speak," 
 
 (Yes, if I could speak through my hat!) 
 " I feel that you d know that it just grieves me 
 so." 
 
 (If I went I just know I should die.) 
 " For it s always a treat at your dear house to 
 meet ! " 
 
 (Oh, yes, it s a treat in your eye!) 
 
 " Your at-home cards enclosed found me quite 
 
 indisposed " 
 
 (To accept but I don t write it so.) 
 "And I really don t dare yet to risk the night air." 
 
 (And your airs would kill me, I know!) 
 " I would come and right quick if I weren t so 
 
 sick " 
 
 (Of the trashy amusements you shower!) 
 " You dear soul, you don t know how much I d 
 
 like to go " 
 (Before I d been there half an hour!) 
 
 " I m sure that each guest will with pleasure be 
 
 blessed." 
 
 (I m blessed if I envy their lot!) 
 " I d give anything to hear dear Clara sing ! " 
 
 (How thankful I am that I ll not!) 
 " I know I will hear from my friends just how 
 
 dear 
 
 Was your function" (if any endure), 
 "And I know tis a fact twill be nice as your 
 
 tact." 
 (I pity it if tis as poor!) 
 
 102
 
 Stril of 
 
 To his young wife he said: 
 
 " Could I 
 But taste again my 
 
 Mother s pie, 
 I would be willing, quite, 
 
 To die." 
 
 They rode out to the 
 
 Farm one day, 
 A week or so with 
 
 Ma to stay; 
 He stowed a whole 
 
 Mince pie away. 
 
 Now that for which he 
 
 Long had sighed 
 Lay like a lump of 
 
 Lead inside 
 His stomach ; he lay 
 
 Down and died. 
 
 The man who craves youth s 
 
 Pies, tis true, 
 If he would eat them and 
 
 Not rue, 
 Should have his boyhood s 
 
 Stomach, too. 
 
 103
 
 9 9 /t 
 
 C- j :s
 
 THERNREGI NAL LIBRARY FAC L,Y . 
 
 A 000676183 7