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 Reviewing Childhood Days 
 at 75 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES HUTCHISON\KERR 
 
 COLORADO SPRINGS 
 1912
 
 CAJORI 
 
 NOTE 
 
 This Review of Childhood Days was written 
 without one thought of its ever being published. 
 But showing it to a few friends, they insisted, and 
 insisted, whether wisely or not, that I publish it, 
 as showing a happy home, o'er sixty years ago. I 
 disclaim all pretense of its being anything more 
 than a memory love-recall, for the private use of 
 a beloved brother. 
 
 JAMES HUTCHISON KERR.
 
 "PS 
 352.1 
 Reviewing Childhood Days 
 
 at 75 
 
 GLOCKNER SANATORIUM, 
 
 COLORADO SPRINGS, COLO., 
 
 August 30, 1912. 
 
 Dear Brother George, 
 
 Today 'tis true 
 
 I'm seventy-five, and still years due. 
 "I took a thocht no lang sin syne 
 Aboot a place we baith ken fine," 
 Where happy early years we spent 
 And where we lived in wild content. 
 A country home on rocky hill, 
 Not far above McHenry's mill, 
 In sight of waters sweet and clare 
 In foaming haste to ocean fair; 
 In sight of Nebo's stony height, 
 Where many a tribe in fortune's flight 
 Took counsel of the lesser clans 
 And paved the way for grander plans. 
 In sight of ridge, across the dam 
 Which held its waters strong and calm, 
 Where chestnut, oak and laurel grew, 
 And choicest huckleberries, too, 
 With thirty thousand ticks abush, 
 More brave than kin of Hindu Kush. 
 And then there was, just east of road, 
 A pasture fair, with foxy grapes 
 And chicken grapes, as Georgie knew; 
 Blackberries for the picker brave, 
 Raspberries in abundance, too. 
 On west of road an orchard lay, 
 With rambos, russets, romanites, 
 Pears, quinces, other fruits. 
 Beyond the orchard other fields, 
 Where grew the wheat, the corn, the oats, 
 Potatoes, beans and peas and sich, 
 And clover red and timothy, 
 Which filled the barn, in autumn time, 
 For horses, cattle, sheep and hogs, 
 On cold and stormy winter days. 
 You do remember, Georgie, well, 
 
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 How oft we pickt the growing stones 
 
 And wondered how they grew and thrived ; 
 
 Of carrying drink to harvest field, 
 
 And how you broke the water jug 
 
 And told your father "not to grieve, 
 
 For, tho the bottom's out, the spout 
 
 And handle sure are good and strong." 
 
 You well remember, Georgie boy, 
 
 When measles thought to curb your youth, 
 
 And how you sought relief and cure 
 
 Out near the end of blacky's tail, 
 
 Through fields of knee-high, dew-wet grass, 
 
 With speed so fast you touched the ground 
 
 By leaps and bounds. When chided, said : 
 
 "My mother dear, it was not fast." 
 
 And mother said: "Why, Georgie dear, 
 
 Where are your clothes?" "This little shirt 
 
 Was all I had. It was too short 
 
 For wetting. Feel it, mother. It is dry." 
 
 Now, Georgie boy, you well recall 
 
 The day you bravely fought the beast, 
 
 Near by the kitchen door, and fell, 
 
 Heart-crushed and sorely rent with pain 
 
 So much that far and near you made 
 
 The welkin ring with horrid yells 
 
 Which hastened mother to inquire : 
 
 "Oh, what has hurt our Georgie dear?" 
 
 To which you bravely did reply: 
 
 "Your Georgie dear the goosie kicked." 
 
 And, Georgie, you remember, too, 
 
 When sent to grandpapa's in haste 
 
 And charged to go not in the water ; 
 
 And when on dot you did return, 
 
 Your mother said : "Why, Georgie dear ! 
 
 Ah, shame ! You did go in to swim." 
 
 "Why, mother dear, just feel my hair. 
 
 How can you make that cruel charge?" 
 
 "Because your shirt is wrong side out." 
 
 I oft go 'round the grand old lawn, 
 
 Among the trees, and shrubs, and vines, 
 
 And see, it seems, the same old roses 
 
 And dahlias, honeysuckles, rich 
 
 In scent and food for humming birds, 
 
 Just as o'er sixty years ago. 
 
 I oft go through the great brick house 
 
 And walk her porches beautiful,
 
 On which we used to walk and run ; 
 And mark the places where we sat 
 On this and that occasion, when, 
 With neighbors, kin and maidens fair, 
 We sang our songs and played our games, 
 And talked of trifles, then quite pleasing. 
 But when I ask where th' neighbors are? 
 And kin and maidens fair ? Alas ! 
 I'm told some sleep in London town, 
 Some sleep beneath cold slabs at Oxford. 
 In every state a chosen few 
 Have cast their waiting lot of life, 
 While others lie beneath the flags 
 The nation's flags at Arlington, 
 Or loyal flags of Gettysburg. 
 Enough. Enough. Just let me live 
 The younger years, when we were boys 
 When Lizzie kist us all good-night, 
 And bade us say our prayers in peace, 
 That Sabbath morn we might awake 
 As children free to serve our God, 
 In family worship, and at church, 
 Then held among the chestnut sprouts, 
 Where our fathers long had worshiped. 
 No cushions then to soften seats, 
 And backs were high to keep us in. 
 A little ten-plate stove for fire 
 Sat in the rear (I know not why, 
 For seldom did it send us heat). 
 Our heat came from the pulpit height, 
 As soon the preacher raised the lid 
 And made us smell the surplus gas, 
 And told us what he saw below. 
 Well, Lizzie was for you and me 
 And Sadie, ever true and kind. 
 'Twas she who drest you year by year, 
 And taught you "Now-I-lay-me" prayer; 
 Received your arms around her neck 
 And blest you with her kisses royal. 
 Your name was only Georgie then ; 
 But mother called you "Georgie dear." 
 Most happy years indeed were those, 
 When Sadie came and took our arms, 
 A princess, stately, bright and fair, 
 With cheeks the angels kist with pride, 
 With eyes that spoke in terms of love, 
 That purified the life for all,
 
 Enriched the world, endowed her home 
 With songs and cheer and royal hope 
 That often made her brother's hearts 
 To burn with holy love and thought. 
 
 Then, in the years, we can't forget 
 
 When Susie sat upon our laps 
 
 And talked of chickens, geese and ducks, 
 
 Repeated words most musical, 
 
 And sang such songs as she could sing, 
 
 To hypnotize us into sleep. 
 
 How oft she placed her tiny hands 
 
 Upon our eyes, and placed a kiss 
 
 Upon our lips and made us say : 
 
 "My mother kist me. It was sweet" ! 
 
 How oft she curled our hair and said : 
 
 "I wish that mine were curly, too" ! 
 
 But soon as father came, her game 
 
 With us was ended with a leap; 
 
 Into her father's bidding arms, 
 
 Who pressed his kindly lips on hers 
 
 And called her "darling Sweetest-sweet." 
 
 Few fathers were more kind than ours, 
 
 And few were more correct in things 
 
 They knew. He gave me all the names, 
 
 Characteristics, foods and life 
 
 Of trees and plants and weeds and grasses, 
 
 Of stones and rocks and soils and waters, 
 
 And insects, birds and animals 
 
 Of southeast Pennsylvania. 
 
 And never have I proved him wrong. 
 
 And yet his education ended 
 
 With preparation for West Point; 
 
 As eight months typhoid fever closed 
 
 The door of higher learning hope, 
 
 And forced upon him out-door life, 
 
 Which brought him health and slavish work- 
 
 A work his sons refused, with thanks. 
 
 His strictness was a care in love 
 
 The burdens of a bigot creed 
 
 Delusions of a narrow age. 
 
 But "what is home without a mother?" 
 
 For us, a body, less the soul. 
 
 Ours kist away our little ills; 
 
 Ours dried our tears, when rivers flowed;
 
 Ours soothed our hearts, when they were broken ; 
 
 Ours cared for us, when ills befell; 
 
 Ours taught us how to help ourselves, 
 
 Assured us life was more than meat 
 
 And drink, more than things bought with gold; 
 
 Ours led us first to Father God, 
 
 Proclaimed the richness of the Christ; 
 
 Ours said, our love of self is measure 
 
 Of love to neighbor fellowmen; 
 
 Ours outlined lives of service, rich 
 
 In love and hope and peace with God, 
 
 And joys that come of duty done, 
 
 In lifting up the fainting hearts, 
 
 Where hopes are crushed, where goods are gone ; 
 
 Ours led us into nature's fields, 
 
 Where stand the \noblest shops of God, 
 
 In which creation's work is ever 
 
 In process of a new becoming. 
 
 The gold is in the making here, 
 
 And there the silver, iron and tin 
 
 And all the radium series. 
 
 'Tis surely true, my brother George, 
 
 Whate'er we are in life and thought, 
 
 We owe to mother's love and word. 
 
 A thousand thoughts rush into mind, 
 
 Of the golden, younger, blessed years. 
 
 " 'Twas unco simple country joys, 
 
 That brocht sic pleasure to us boys. 
 
 Tho maybe memory has its share 
 
 In making things all bright and fair. 
 
 The sorrows of our youth get faint, 
 
 While joys in radiant hues we paint." 
 
 So, ere concluding, all together 
 We send our love to Sister Carrie, 
 And Minnie love and husband, too, 
 And Sue, and Hugh, and Eleanore, 
 And Kay and all the other kin. 
 Just tell them we in health are blest, 
 According to our needs and years. 
 Just say the world's a world of beauty, 
 E'er calling us to work and duty. 
 We hope in peace and joy to live 
 With men our fellows and with God. 
 Don't think, my brother, 'cause I spoke 
 Of comic scenes that I forgot 
 Your noble, hopeful, youthful traits,
 
 Your loyal deeds, your loving ways. 
 For from your earliest thoughtful hours 
 You gave the world a living pledge 
 "I'll be an honest, noble man." 
 And with that pledge, at seventy-one 
 Your record's fixed, your honor's safe. 
 Your worthy life may well bespeak 
 A long and happy eveningtide. 
 
 In years of which these stories tell, 
 Our father, mother, sisters, all, 
 In heart beat daily true with ours. 
 So true we never took their measure, 
 Or thought of golden privileges, 
 Or thought of coming empty chairs. 
 Our days and years were then to spend. 
 They often seemed so long and dreary 
 We wished for days when we'd be men. 
 But now the days and years have fled, 
 And days remaining fast are fleeing. 
 Our lives are now at eveningtide. 
 How beautiful the passing hours ! 
 The clouds are changing fast their forms 
 And taking on a splendor royal, 
 Revealing hope's realities, 
 Of grander lives, beyond, beyond. 
 
 Your affectionate brother, 
 
 JAMES HUTCHISON KERR. 
 
 To George Kerr, M. D., A. M., Ph. D. 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
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