Poems
Date: 2017-08-09T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: American poetry

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems

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Title: Poems

Author: Clara A. Merrill

Release date: August 9, 2017 [eBook #55315]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

POEMS

BY
CLARA   A.   MERRILL

“Take me back to the home
Of my youth once again—
To the dear Pine Tree State—
The Old State of Maine.”

Copyrighted 1915
CLARA A. MERRILL

MERRILL & WEBBER CO. PRS., AUBURN

CONTENTS

The Old State of Maine | 5
All Things Speak of God | 7
Welcome to Summer | 9
Ode to the Northern Lights | 11
The Songs My Mother Sung | 13
In Memory of Appey M. Merrill | 15
God is Love and We shall Know | 18
A Winter Outing | 20
Home is Where the Heart Dwells | 24
The Mystic River | 26
Loved Ones Passed Away | 28
Adventure of a Lover | 30
As it Happened | 32
The Captive Butterfly | 34
What Would They Do? | 36
Courageousness | 39
Tales that were Told | 42
Bravery | 46
The Missing Link | 48
He Got Left | 50
The Jay and the Frog | 53
The Cottage by the River | 56
The Poet to the Artist | 59
The Tramp’s Story | 61
’Tis Easy to get Mistaken | 65
Song of a Suffragette | 68
Rural Delight | 70
Look Up | 72
The Burning of the Turner Mill | 74
Carpe Diem | 84
A Bachelor’s Comments on Women’s Rights | 85
Wealth vs Virtue | 88
Be Merciful | 91
Sunshine on the Hill | 93
Your Real Wealth | 95
Changeable | 97
Pleasure | 99
Time Brings Changes | 101
Mamma’s Story | 103
Every Cloud Hath Silver Lining | 106
Dennis O’Neil’s Dream | 108
A Lesson Well Taught | 110
Reminiscence | 114
Humorous | 116
Onward for Freedom and Right | 118
A Mystery Explained | 120
A Birthday Greeting | 122
All’s Well That Endeth Well | 123
A Tale from Mountain Grange | 124
Song of the Grangers’ | 131
Uncle Joe’s Soliloquy | 133
When Daddy Rocks the Kid | 136
Stop Talkin’ | 138
A Yule-Tide Missive | 140
The Hunter | 143
The Poetry Machine | 145
October | 147
To Mary | 148
The Winds do Blow | 149
Farewell to the San | 151
We Know Not Why | 153

To my Beloved Sister Appey
This little book is lovingly dedicated

The memory of her beautiful life, and of her deep and unchanging love for me,—together with the knowledge of the interest she felt in my writings, fills me with a longing to do that which I know would be pleasing to her.

For though the dear voice of her whom I so loved can no longer cheer and guide me on, yet in spirit I hear her gently whisper bidding me resume the work I had laid aside.

Thus from my writings I have selected a few poems which, though submitted with diffidence, I hope may be kindly received by my many friends; and accepted by them with such degree of generosity as will enable them to throw the mantle of charity over the many short-comings, and to see any good that may chance to exist.

And if from any of these poems there may perchance be found one little ray of sunshine—though it beams ever so faintly—that may radiate and give pleasure to even one appreciating heart, then surely I may feel that my labor will not have been wholly in vain.

Clara A. Merrill
The Author

The Old State of Maine

Sail on gallant bark, bearing onward your freight,
Ye breezes blow briskly! her sails to inflate,—
See how her staunch prow the green billows will break,
And the path of white foam that she leaves in her wake!
Speed onward, ye courses of iron!—Swiftly steals
Away the bright rails as they fly ’neath your wheels.
Bear me onward, fleet charger, nor yet me detain,
Oh take me back home to my Old State of Maine!

When twilight’s dark shade o’er the valley impends,
And the pale crescent moon its refulgence blends;
Then fancy reverts to the long agone days,
The sweet scenes of Childhood revisit our gaze;
And hill, vale and woodland our minds will employ,
Expanding the bosom with infinite joy.
Peal on, memory sweet! Let me hear thy glad strain,
Oh take me back home to my old Old State of Maine!

Tho’ I traverse at will Old Neptune’s domain,
Or by fair country-side bounding river and plain;
In dreams I can see,—in their places once more
Kind familiar faces, long since gone before,—
And I dwell once again in the days that are past,
Nor think, for the time, that naught earthly can last.
Dream on, faithful muse, I have long sighed in vain,—
Oh, take me back home to my Old State of Maine!

From Katahdin’s proud crest, to Atlantic’s blue verge,
New lights and new scenes in succession emerge;
Silver lakes and green meads, in confusion arise
In grand panorama to gladden our eyes.
I love the old ingle, each nook, rock and knoll,
And the country’s dear flag that waves over the whole;
Take me back to the home of my youth once again,
To the dear Pine Tree State,—the Old State of Maine.

ALL THINGS SPEAK OF GOD

The stars in their infinite beauty,
And the moon in yon azure deep;
All speak of some great Duty—
Of some tireless Watch to keep.
This beautiful, beautiful world so grand—
The trees, the birds and the flowers;
All point with a beckoning hand,
To a wisdom more potent than ours.

Hear ye the Ocean speaking—
Hear ye the surges roar!
As the wild-winged winds come shrieking
From some far distant shore.
Is there not something greater
Than the power of Man alone?
Aye, the power of the Creator
Is far greater than our own.

See ye the lightning flashing—
Now, as in anger comes
Booming, rolling, crashing
Like a hundred beating drums
Peals of terrific thunder—
We stand in silence, awed;
We can but pause and wonder
At the infinite power of God!

And thou, oh mighty torrent
Flowing on, and on, through time—
Tell us, who sends thy current
O’er the cataract sublime?
And thou, gigantic mountain—
Canst tell us whence thy birth—
Sprang thou from some living fountain—
How into existence came this earth?

Could we doubt for a single hour
That these marvelous works were lent
By the high and wondrous power
Of One Omnipotent?
Nay! tho’ we seek where man ne’er trod
And traverse sea or land;
It seems that all things speak of God—
And a Loving Father’s hand.

WELCOME TO SUMMER

The south wind returns, with a gentle caress
And it kisses the lakelets’ bright waves;
And softly it moans in low musical tones
As it sighs through the mystical caves.
Sweet Summer is waiting to welcome the rose,
Who is queen of the flowery band—
In regal robes new and jewels of dew
She with majestic grace will command.

Drowsy and low is the hum of the bees
As the nectar they sip from the bloom;
The rivulet courses, all nature rejoices,
For Winter is laid in the tomb.
Gaily among the green arches the birds
Pour forth their thanksgiving in song;
Their clear, mellow notes in pure cadence floats
As the echoing gale sweeps along.

The hillside with blushes lifts up its fair head
In its verdurous beauty so proud;
And the flower-faces gleam as a loving sunbeam
Wafts down from the light fleecy cloud.
The grand, lofty mountain where hangs the white mist
Tells the brooklets of Summer’s warm glow;
And they in turn hail each glen, woodland and vale
Where the soft willow catkins bend low.

The flowerets join the harmonious strain
With the cricket, the bird and the bee;
And the rippling rill the sweet chorus will trill
On its clear winding way to the sea.
’Neath the gnarled oak tree by the silvery lake
Are the fairies all robed in white;
Awaiting their queen, for they dance at e’en
By the fireflies magical light.

Then come to the country so grand—
O come to the old oaken tree
Where mystical notes on the gentle breeze floats
And the fays dance so gay on the lea.
O come to the old oak tree
Where the ivy so lovingly twines,
And Zephyr’s warm kiss so freighted with bliss
Is perfumed by the evergreen pines.

ODE TO THE NORTHERN LIGHTS

Aurora-borealis:—Thy secret vast
Hast ne’er by Man been found—
As, through the Ages of the Past
From Times remotest bound
When Night her sable curtains fold
O’er all the earth, then high
’Mid star-gemmed canopy—behold
Thy rays illume the sky!

Canst tell—ye ice-bergs of the North—
Whence comes these waves of light
Whose golden splendor shimmers forth
To greet the Queen of Night—
Dost power that welds thy icy chain
And casts thy fetters strong
Ere thus make radiant thy domain
As the ages creep along?

Ye wavering light!—Afar on high
Shines forth, like chastening rod
That Power, reflecting on the sky
The mighty Hand of God!
Then bow, ye mortal monarchs brave
Before thy crumbling throne!
Aurora’s beams shall deck thy grave
When a hundred years are flown.

THE SONGS MY MOTHER SUNG
(Dear Mother)

Round the homestead old I wandered,
Slowly, and with silent tread;
And at last I turned my footsteps
To the chamber overhead.
There, among the broken rubbish,
Where the cobwebs thickly hung;
Something sent my thoughts far backward
To the songs my mother sung.

That old fashioned, wooden cradle
Which I slept in when a child;
As my mother sat beside me
Singing ever low and mild.
With her foot upon the rocker,
To and fro the cradle swung;
Peacefully I lay and listened
To the songs my mother sung.

Long ago was that old cradle
Banished to the dust and gloom
’Neath the dark and musty rafters
Of that unused lumber room.
Long had it remained forgotten,—
Yet fond memory quickly sprung
As I view’d the dear old relic—
To the songs my mother sung.

Oft I’ve roamed in distant places,
I have traveled far and wide;
And I know the hours most care-free
Were those spent by mother’s side.
While the bell of Time is tolling
With its harsh unfeeling tongue;
In my memory I shall cherish
All the songs my mother sung.

IN MEMORY OF APPEY M. MERRILL
Who Died Nov. 20th, 1903

Softly, sweetly she is sleeping
Where the slender grasses wave;
Daisies bright, their vigil keeping
O’er her calm and peaceful grave.
Naught can e’er disturb her slumber—
Passed all pain—from sorrow free;
Gone from earth, to join the number
O’er the silent, mystic sea.

Sweetly sleep, dear, gentle sister,
Tranquil ever be thy rest,—
Yet, ah yet, how we have missed her—
Gone from those she loved the best.
Gone from the home—and o’er her pillow
Strewn with flowers, so fair and white
Fell tears, and grief like surging billow
Touched the heart with withering blight.

Time can ne’er efface our sadness—
Still the heart’s filled with despair
For the loved one, who in gladness
Made the earth-home bright and fair.
Sad the way seems now, and lonely,
As we journey day by day
Paths through which she wandered, only
Scattering brightness o’er the way.

Memory points with beckoning finger
Through the mists of long ago
To her songs, which sweetly linger
In the hush of twilight’s glow—
Points to words of comfort, spoken
By those lips so good and true—
Tells of her love, so true, unbroken,
And we weep in grief anew.

For the gentle hands lie folded,
And the pure heart now is still;
And the brow, in beauty molded
By the Hand of Death, so chill
Is now at rest.—Yet visions brightly
Through the misty haze will bring
A joy, like whispered promise, lightly
Wafted as on Zephyr’s wing.

Visions of that promised splendor
Of a mansion fair, on high;
Where, with welcome warm and tender
She will greet us by and by.—
By and by—sweet hope, elating—
When the Voice that bid dear Appey sleep
Shall call us forth, where she is waiting,
Ne’er to part, no more to weep.

GOD IS LOVE AND WE SHALL KNOW

When the darkness seems to gather
O’er the dawn of hope and peace;
Like the storm-cloud towering upward
Which the wild winds e’er increase,—
And, like angry ocean billows
Fainting soul is fraught with woe;
And we’re longing for our loved ones—
Does the Heavenly Father know?

Though He notes the fallen sparrow—
Does He heed the child who weeps—
Does He see my tears fast falling
O’er the grave where Sister sleeps?
When the bitter sob of anguish
Mingles with the earnest prayer;
Pleading for His love and comfort
Does the Heavenly Father care?

Will He in His loving wisdom
Send that sweet peace bye and bye—
When the eye can gaze far upward
To the brighter realms on high?
As the way-worn, weary pilgrim
Turns his footsteps toward the grave;
And ’neath load of sin he falleth—
Will the Heavenly Father save?

In that home where friends await us
Shall we know them when we meet—
Will they seem the same dear loved ones
That on earth we used to greet?—
Mystic thoughts—Ah! who can tell us
All that Fancy fain would know?
“God is Love” and “We shall know then”
Faith responds in answer low.

A WINTER OUTING

Get up Sam, ’n’ harness Nancy,
Shake the hayseed from yer head;
We are goin’ on a ’s’cursion,
Goin’ on the old bob-sled;
Won’t the folks think we are handsome,
As we pass the village street;
With the old horse-blanket round us,
And a bed-quilt at our feet!

Won’t they stare with mouths wide open,
When they see our fine turn-out?
Stare away, ye duck-leg’d dandy—
Guess we know what we’re about!
Won’t they think that Sam’s a daisy,
Settin’ there so grand ’n’ straight—
Wonder what they’ll think of Phoebe
With her sleepy-lookin’ pate?

Have yer got the harness mended?
Well, go tie it with a string!
Fix it so’s ’twill hold together;
Take a rope, or anything!
Drive a nail into the fender!
It won’t wobble then, I hope,—
The thill is broken in two places?
Here—come get this other rope!

Then go brush old Nancy’s foretop,
From her mane pick off the hay;
In a knot then tie her tail up
So it won’t be in the way.
Tie a greased rag round her spavin!
To let ’er hurt it won’t be right,—
Say! d’ye spose we’ll want the larntern,
When we’re comin’ home tonight?

Wish we had a nigger driver,
Then I guess we’d go in style;
We’d make the people gaze before
We’d been a half a mile!
Come now, hurry, Jake and Lydia,—
Have ye washed yer? where’s the comb?
Come now, hurry,—let’s start early,
So we’ll find the folks at home.

Hope Aunt Hulda’ll bile some ’taters;
Won’t we ply the knife and fork?
Hope she’ll have a Injun pudd’n!
Hope she’ll have a hunk of pork!
Marm, bring out that bag o’ apples!
See them youngsters fight ’n’ scratch!
Shut the door ’n’ crawl out o’ the winder!
Stick the scissors in the latch!

Now we’re off, as sure as preachin’
Sun is in the eastern sky,—
Nancy! Nancy! don’t git frisky!
My! but aint the critter high!
Phoebe, tuck that blanket round yer,
Have ye got yer gaiters on?
Gosh—I’ve left my pipe ’n’ barker,
Clean forgot ’em sure’s yer born!

Sam, set over side of Lydia—
Marm ’n’ me will set in front,—
Thought I’d get a jug o’ ’lasses,
But I swan, I guess I won’t.
Got to stop ’n’ buy some barker—
Can’t git through the day without.
Double up yer long legs, Sammy—
Stop yer sprawlin’ like a lout!

Hold on Bill! ye’ll git a tumble—
Ye’ll be slidin’ on yer head!
Jake, SET DOWN! or I shall send ye
To the other end o’ the sled!
There, now see if ye’ll keep quiet—
Billy, Sh! shut up yer beak!
Mustn’t holler by the houses,—
Bad enough to look ’n peek.

Without a squallin’ like a ’n Injun!
Guess yer mammy was a squaw,—
What! he keeps his chin a goin’
Just the image of his Pa?
Get up Nancy! Show yer sperit!
Whoop-along thar, Nancy—climb!
Durn ye, git a wiggle on ye—
We sha’n’t be back ’fore milkin’ time.

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART DWELLS

Would I leave my home—my native hills
For the city by the sea—
Or leave the lane where the woodbine swings
And all is dear to me?
Would I leave my birds for the stately ships
That sail in the harbor blue—
Leave the flowers, fresh from the hand of God
And kissed by the morning dew?

Would I leave my cot for a mansion grand
In the city by the sea,—
Or leave the friends whom I long have loved
Who are so dear to me?
Would I leave my bower mid the roses sweet
Where the sun shines bright and fair—
Leave my pleasant strolls in the forest glade
In the country’s fragrant air?

Nay, I’d not leave my peaceful hill
For the city by the sea—
Here earliest recollection clings
And all is dear to me.—
I’d not leave my cot where the willows wave
For the city’s proudest dome!
Where e’er the heart in fondness dwells
To me is “Home Sweet Home.”

THE MYSTIC RIVER

We are sailing down Life’s river—
Sailing onward day by day,
Onward, through the misty shadows
That, so dark, obscure the way.
Soon we shall be beckoned homeward,
There to meet with those we know
In that grand and glorious city
Where no sorrows ever go.

We are drifting with the ripples,—
As they bear our barque along
We can catch in fitful accents
Echoes from the angels song.—
And we see the dim reflection
Of that bright celestial strand;
Where the bowers are ever blooming
In that peaceful, happy land.

We know not how soon we’ll anchor
Where bright gems adorn the shore—
Where the living waters murmur,
And the breakers moan no more.—
But we’ll reach the pearly portal
And we’ll lay our armor down;
Casting all our burdens from us
’Neath the shelter of a crown.

Near the Throne of Love e’er dwelling,
Sheltered safe from every woe;
No more sorrow, no more weeping,
Naught but glory shall we know.
There we shall be ever happy
In the mansion of the blest;
Blessed be the peace eternal—
Blessed is the sweet word—Rest.

LOVED ONES PASSED AWAY

Within our home so cheerful
Where all is warm and bright;
Sometimes our hearts grow tearful,
And to darkness turns the light.
We see not the joys that surround us—
We heed not our friends bright and gay;
For memories, come crowding around us
Of loved ones passed away.

Without, the old home is the same,
Yet within, there is a change;
And feelings which we cannot name
Steal o’er us, sad and strange.
We see the dear forms of long ago,
Illume the twilight gray,—
Yet the darksome silence whispers low
Of loved ones passed away.

We see them as we did of yore
In the dear old days long past;
Ere they were called to the other shore,—
But those fancies cannot last.
And though the heart in fondness seeks
To bid them longer stay—
Yonder grim churchyard mutely speaks
Of loved ones passed away.

ADVENTURE OF A LOVER

’Twas Saturday eve.—The love-lorn swain
Was hastening toward Jennie’s house;
His mien indicative of fear
For neither man nor mouse.

But ere he reached the farmhouse gate
An object he chanced to spy.—
’Twas only a table-cloth Jennie had washed
And hung on the line to dry.

But he knew it not, so there he stood
Deciding what to do,—
He dare not venture too near the spook,—
Yet the gate he must go through!—

The white cloth flapped in the gentle breeze—
’Twas too much for Jennie’s beau;
He turned and ran off down the hill
As fast as he could go!

He imagined that footsteps were following fast,—
So away like a gale ran he;
Nor did he stop, till he reached the top
Of Squire Pettigrew’s crab-apple tree!

———

Just then the moon, with a bright smiling face,
Came out from behind a black cloud,—
Little Nell, at the window, stood watching the moon,
And she uttered a cry long and loud.—

“Oh! Mamma!—come look at this queer looking bird—
An owl is perched up in our tree!—
Or is it a night-hawk just taking a rest—
What kind of a bird can it be?”

Miss Jennie came tripping along down the street,
In the hope of meeting her lover;—
Then he quietly let himself down from the tree
Before she had time to discover.

Then arm in arm they returned to the gate,—
And he blushed, as in silence stood he
And saw the white spectre, which drove him in fright
To the top of the crab-apple tree!

AS IT HAPPENED

As the circus train passed through the street
An Elephant caught the eye
Of a “rural duffer,” who remarked
As the creature lumbered by,—
While a wondering look stole o’er his phiz—
(No artist’s hand could paint it;)
“Wa-al neow, Maria,—I swan to man
That’s quite an insect, aint it?”

A city swell heard the remark,
And quickly turned his nose
Up, with an air that plainly said:
“Such horrid folks as those
May go their way—for they’ll pollute
The very atmosphere
With their uncouth ways and ignorance—
We can’t endure them here!”

———

The time rolled on,—and the city swell
Was brought to account one day
For the many bills and debts he owed—
He had not a cent to pay.
His creditors gobbled all his goods
And set them up for sale;
But the cash they brought did not suffice
So they marched him off to jail.—

———

The “duffer” shook his jolly sides
With a hearty, merry laugh;
And recalled the time when he “so shocked
The insipid city calf.”
“I pay my bills as I go along—
I owe no man,” said he;
“There’s no insect born that can compete
With a biped such as he!”

THE CAPTIVE BUTTERFLY
(A true tale)

One morn as I walked in the meadow
Where flooded the sun’s golden light
Athwart tree and shrub—mid the grasses
A butterfly gorgeous and bright

Was caught in a web which a spider
Had deftly and craftily wrought;
Aloft as a snare she had placed it
And the unwary butterfly caught.

Vainly the poor insect fluttered
To be freed from the web’s fleecy fold;
But its wings were caught fast in its meshes
And its fate could be plainly foretold.

It appealed to my heart so pathetic
Ne’er thought I to ignore its strife
It was one of God’s own little creatures
And it had a good right to its life.

So I knelt there beside the small captive
And gently the fine web I tore;
Then away on glad wings it bounded,
Rejoicing in freedom once more.

It was only a poor lowly insect,
Yet perchance, does the Good Father see
Small deeds that are wrought in the spirit of love
He would say “Ye did this unto Me.”

In the Book where all works are recorded—
In that Haven up yonder so fair;
Who knows but one mark bright and shining
Now illumines my name “over there.”

WHAT WOULD THEY DO?

’Tis true that the city is pleasant,
With its scenes ever varied and new;
But if it were not for the country
Oh, what would the city folks do?
Soon plenty would be superseded
By dearth with its train of distress;
The gaunt wolf would roam by the once happy home
Though riches untold you possess.

True, this may seem strangely in error,
But doubtless, if you will take heed
You’ll find that the sources are rural
Of that which supplies every need,
You say there are great mills and factories
By whose process rich fabrics are made;
But pause for a moment and ponder
How the material first came into trade.

Of Fashion’s apparel so dainty,
Of which our great stores are so full;
Whence comes that from which they were made—
The cotton, the silk and the wool?
’Tis not from the city—no, never!
But from the free sunshine and air
On the broad, verdant acres extending
O’er the glorious country so fair.

Tis true that the city has pleasures,
And aspirants to fashion and fame,—
But yet, should you search the world over
You’ll find it is ever the same.
’Tis the toil-harden’d hand of the farmer
By which are the multitude fed,—
Yea, the farmer—the “hard-handed” duffer,
Who supplies the vast cities with bread.

’Tis the farmer who toils on, unheeding
The mid-summer sun and the rain,
Who with diligence plucks the tares from the wheat
And garners the golden grain.
From the forests afar down the valley
Or up over mountainous height
Is sent timber for use in the city,
And fuel to make the hearths bright.

The orchards, the fields and the mead lands
Fraught with richness from West to the East
Send forth to the homes in the city
Rich viands and fruits for the feast.
True, the brilliant paved streets are abounding
With wonders and charms ever new—
But, if from the country excluded
Oh! what would the city folks do?

Then have praise and respect for the farmer—
Be cordial to him when you meet—
Ne’er pass him with countenance scornful
Or gaze at the “old codger’s” feet,
Though he has not the costly apparel
Which you wear with such elegant grace—
Remember, you can’t live without him
Nor can aught in the world fill his place.

COURAGEOUSNESS

The house-wife came with smiling face,
Bearing in her hand a broom;
With thoughts intent, and purpose bent
On clearing up the room.
She spied an object on the floor,
Ne’er dreaming what it was;
But close inspection soon revealed
Its tail and head and claws!

What was the sound that pierced the air—
Was it an Indian’s yell?
Or a wandering note from some demon throat
From amidst the depths of—somewhere?
Oh, no! of a different origin
Were the tones that smote the air,—
’Twas only a frightened woman’s scream
As she mounted on a chair.

Oh dear! Oh dear! she had seen a mouse!
And it entered not her head
It would never, never do more harm
For the poor little thing was dead.
It seems the cat, in hunting, had
Caught more than she could master;
Of course old pussy never guessed
That it would cause disaster.

The mouse was in mischief, so old Puss
Had caught him in the night;
But the lady never paused to think
Whether it was wrong or right.
She knew ’twas a mouse—a horrid mouse,
And there she stood, dismayed;
What could she do, with no one near
To whom to appeal for aid?

She stood for what seemed hours to her,—
(Her weapon was the broom;)
Waiting in vain for some one to come
And take her from the room.
At last she thought of a beautiful plan,
And making good her aim;
Jumped, and landed two yards the other side
Of the animal’s prostrate frame!

———

A short time thence her hubby came.—
He saw the signs of storm;
And to his brawny bosom close
He drew her fainting form.
When he had searched, and found the cause—
So motionless and stark;
Then to himself in undertone
He ventured this remark:—

“Women may talk about their rights
And wish for a chance to vote;
Put on the airs of a gentleman
And don the vest and coat,—
They’d better be content to wait
Until it can be said
That they are brave enough to fight
A mouse when it is dead!”

TALES THAT WERE TOLD

A decanter and a crystal cup
Met in a banquet hall;
The rosy light of the sparkling wine
Shed radiance over all.
Ah, ha! old friend—and how is this—
What is your mission here?
“A pure, sweet spirit bid me come,”
Replied the water clear.

“So we have met,” said the ruby wine,
“Now let us social be,—
Let’s see who holds the greater power
O’er the nation, you or me.”
“I can boast” said he, “of mighty deeds—
I can tell you many a tale
Of woe, and folly, sin and crime,—
Can you, my friend so frail?

I have caused Old Age to droop and die—
I have caused fair Youth to fade;
I have blighted lives, and hopes destroyed,—
When I strike there is no aid.
I have hurled men down from their high estate—
Remorseful I’m not in the least,—
I have dragged them down, and down, until
They were level with the beast.

I have happy homes made desolate
Ha, ha! I laugh with glee
As I see the babes every comfort denied,
While the money is wasted on me!
Tell me, my friend, Oh tell me I pray,
Of a power that is greater than mine—
Not yours—No! you are but water weak,
While I am the fiery wine!

And though I am classed in the bar-room
Under many a different name,—
No matter what liquor they call me,
My spirit is always the same.
I have sunk big ships—Yes, sank them down
In the depths of the briny deep;
And for the loved who perished there
Their kindred e’er may weep.

I have wrecked the train—I have mansions burned
—’Neath my power man’s senses flee—
I have cast proud monarchs from their throne,—
Behold! this wrought by Me!
And this I say is not the half
Of the great success I win—
But I’ll no longer take the time
So you, pale friend, begin.”

*   *   *

“I do not boast” the water said,
Though my power is as potent as yours;
For to all who freely drink of me
It health and strength insures.
I gently sooth the sick and the faint,
I new life in the weary imbue;
And even the roses smile sweetly and bright
As I touch them with kisses of dew.

I turn the mill which grinds the grain—
I strengthen, I cleanse, I heal;
All things rejoice with grateful breath
When my cool hand they feel.
I send the brooklet on its way—
I lift the drooping vine,—
I make all vegetation grow—
Can you do that, Sir Wine?

Of our might and power we’ll not dispute—
(The result of our deeds will show;)
For the worth of me and the curse of you
All noble minded know.
No, no! Sir Wine, Your path is death,
While mine is safely trod;
You are cursed by a demon’s hand—
I, blessed by the hand of God.

BRAVERY

A youth once went to a party
Whose sweetheart was there with the rest;
The moments that flew on swift pinions
Were enjoyed with great fervor and zest.
’Til at length came the time for dispersing,
When each went their various ways—
This fond youth escorting his sweetheart—
His heart with emotion ablaze.

On his sleeve her hand trustingly rested
As they wended their way through the wood,—
When lo! a white spectre before them
Appeared.—In their pathway it stood
Like a Goblin, with long arms extended
It swayed, while a wild, weird note
Like the wail of a disparing spirit
Came issuing from the Ghost’s throat.

’Twas too much for our hero—and turning
He ran in the wildest alarm;
And left his companion in terror—
But a word from Sir Ghost made her calm.
The echoing footsteps grew fainter
’Til at last in the distance they fade—
The rival then threw off the mystic
And boldly walked home with the maid!

THE MISSING LINK

The theory of Darwin
With evidence was bound;
But when the chain was broken
One link could not be found
Connecting Man and Monkey,—
Yet Modern Science shows
Advancement which may nearly
That missing link disclose.

The “Telephonic System”
Has spread near and afar;
Until the Way-Back County
And Town connected are.
Thus, sturdy “country Jamie,”
With hands and cheeks so brown
And heart so true and loyal,
Can call up Reg. in town—

“Dude Reggie” with the eyeglass,
And hair in “done up” curls;
With brain so weak he scarcely
Can think of aught but “Girls,”—
As at the ’phone they linger,
The line does then, I think;
Connect the Man and Monkey
And forms The Missing Link!

HE GOT LEFT

“I swan!” said farmer Joe one morn,—
“Them pesky crows shan’t have my corn!”
So he went to work, and soon he found
Two stakes, which he drove into the ground.
Then he brought to light some ragged pants
And a tattered coat soon found a chance;
While an old felt hat was perched for show
Upon the head of the old scare-crow.

One arm reached out while the other one
Held to his breast a rusty gun.
“There it is done, and now,” quoth he—
“See which will beat—them crows or me!”
So in the house the whole day he spent,
Feeling at ease and well content,—
While a broad grin o’er his features strayed
As he tho’t of the trick on the crows he’d played.

Meanwhile, two crows sat on a tree—
The young said to the old one:—“See
That horrid thing that’s standing yonder—
What is he doing here I wonder?
If he stays here what’s to be done?
For Mother, look, he’s got a gun!
Here in this tree all day I’ve stayed—
Oh, Mother! are you not afraid?

What shall we do? it takes my breath—
Must we stay here and starve to death—
Do you s’pose that old thing will hurt me?
I’m just as hungry as I can be!
But to get my grub I don’t know how—
For see, he’s looking at us now!
And what oh earth are we to do—
Oh, Mother! I’m afraid, aren’t you?”

“You foolish child,” the old crow said,
“Fret not your silly little head—
That is our Corn King good and true,
He came and stayed here last year, too.—
He has come to us, armed with a gun;
To tell us when the planting’s done.
He tells us that we need not fear,
He’ll protect us as long as he is here.

He tells us—as he did before:—
‘Fear not the farmer any more!’
Our honest Corn-King tells us right,—
Come, let us go and have a bite!
Let’s pay our respects to the Corn-King true”—
Then to the field of corn they flew.
And the rest of the crows they did invite—
Not a hill of corn was left in sight!

THE JAY AND THE FROG

A blue-jay sat on a hickory limb,
And a bullfrog sat below
On a tuft of grass, where rushes green
Were waving to and fro.
While near him lay the glassy pool
Where the tad-poles leap’d in play;
But the old frog’s face wore a troubled frown
As he thus addressed the jay:—

“Did I wear your dress of brilliant hue
Instead of this coat of green;
I could have the best the world affords,
And always live serene.
You fly away to the fields of grain
Or feast on the cherries high;
While I sit here ’neath the rushes cool,
And snap at a wary fly.”

“Then why,” said the jay, “If you wish to rise
Do you not ascend this limb?”
“I will! I will!” cried the silly frog,
I’m tired of folks that swim!”
So he hopped from the tuft of grass to the tree,
Then up where the branches divide;
Then with a grin he crawled along
And perched by the blue-jay’s side.

“I’m big as you, I’m big as you,”
Cried the frog in greatest glee;
“I wish my friends could see me now—
In this high society!”—
But his joy waned.—As a flock of jays
With one accord did rise
And, swooping down, they pecked at him
With harsh and jeering cries.

’Till he was forced to quick retreat.—
As the rushes green he seeks
He said, as he leaped in the quiet pool
And escaped their cruel beaks:—
If this is the way the ‘high class’ treats
The lowly ones, ’tis clear
’Tis best that we should be content
To stay in our native sphere!

Moral

When proud Ambition seeks to rise
From its accustomed ways;
Oft jealousies will jeer and peck,
As did the haughty jays.

*   *   *

To all who chance to read this tale,
Its simple warning speaks,—
“Ye who aspire to sphere’s aloft—
Beware of vicious beaks!”

THE COTTAGE BY THE RIVER
(Lines on a very old house situated on the west shore of the Nezinscot river, and some distance from any other dwelling.)

On the bank of Old Nezinscot,
Where the sparkling waters flow
Down this sea-ward course, as freely
As the roving winds that blow,
Stands a cottage by the river—
(Built upon the side-hill plan;—
Think it was a blacksmith built it
Else it was a crazy man!

Must have been an awful ship wreck
Once, upon Nezinscot’s waves;
When a score or more of sailors
Went down to their watery graves—
All except old Robinson Crusoe,
Guess he landed on a scow;
And this fact seems most emphatic
For man “Friday” lives there now!

Probably, from out the wreckage
They contrived to save their goods,—
Then, with jack-knife and a hatchet
Built this cottage in the woods—
Must have been some ship-wreck’d sailor
By the angry tempest tossed—
Or an aeronaut that landed
Who with his balloon was lost.

Doubtless, then, this lonely exile
Fought the wild-cat and the bear—
Else he’d not have pitched his cabin
Forty miles from any where—
Far away from habitation—
Neither do we often find
Houses that are built like this one
With the front door on behind!)

Though in this salubrious climate
Often lurks the river fogs;—
Yet the sweet, halcyon chorus
Of the whip-poor-wills and frogs
When the twilight shadows gather
And the sun sinks in the west—
Calms and sooths the fever’d pillow,
Lulls the weary into rest.

Then all hail—all hail to Crusoe
(Or what ever was his name)
Who discovered this fair haven,
And in reverence we’ll proclaim
That to him who built this cottage
We should ever give our thanks
For the hours we’ve spent in pleasure
On Nezinscot’s mossy banks!

THE POET TO THE ARTIST
(To E. A. M.)

You painted a beautiful picture
And sent it a gift to me;
So I will write you a poem,—
But what shall the poem be?
Your picture, like beautiful sunset
So brilliant, will ever be praised,—
But my poem will be like a cipher
That some rude, reckless hand has erased!

Your picture seemed “Tidings of Gladness,”
—As the beautiful rainbow will cast
Its bright, glowing tints on the billows
Of clouds when the tempest is past.
Like the unbounded depth of the Ocean
Is the gratitude felt.—for your gift
Was like rending dark storm-clouds asunder
When a sunbeam shines bright thro’ the rift.

Your picture was eagerly welcomed,
—As the first rosy tints of the dawn
Are welcomed by vigilant watchers
When the curtains of Night are withdrawn.
—As the rose hails the dew of the evening
When parched by the heat of the sun;
—As the hand, that with toil has grown weary
Welcomes rest when the day’s work is done—

—So thus, for your picture a welcome
Most fervent will e’er be secure
But my poem—Ah! what of my poem?
—There can scarcely be aught to endure.
Tho’ your picture’s like beauteous landscape
That by Artists will ever be praised;
—Yet my poem will be like a cipher
That some rude, reckless hand has erased!

THE TRAMP’S STORY

Any work for me? No? I am sorry—
For I’m weary, and hungry and cold;
You’re wishing to hear my life’s story?
’Tis the first time it ever was told.
Yes, friend, I will tell you. A sorrow
Extinguished the flame from life’s lamp;
Which made me a wanderer—an outcast—
And why I am now called—a tramp.

Well friend, I once was as happy
As that little boy over there,—
My cheeks were as rosy and chubby,
And my soft, golden curls just as fair.
But I then knew the care of a mother—
A mother as noble and good
As God ever gave to a fellow,
And she did just the best that she could,

To show me the path straight and narrow,
And I never once wanted to stray
Away from her side, where she taught me
Each morning, and evening, to pray.
At length, when I attained manhood,
The crowning joy came to my life;
And never was husband more happy
Than I, with my sweet little wife.

And she loved me so fondly and truly,
It made all my toil seem like play;
I was working for her, and for baby—
Baby Charlie I call him alway.
Well, I got a snug home for my loved ones.
And a good sum of money to spare;
’Twould have been like the Garden of Eden
Had the Serpent not gained entrance there.

But I had a dear friend—Jim Daley,
The chum of my boyhood and youth;
And true, like a brother I loved him—
For I thought him the ideal of Truth.
At school we were always together,
E’er shared with each other our joy;
And only God knows how I loved him—
This handsome, and proud, winsome boy.

And I trusted him, friend, I trusted him
With all that was sacred and dear
To my heart, Yes, I trusted him fully—
Nor dreamed I could have aught to fear.
But one day he complained of reverses—
Said his money just then was not free—
There were bills he must pay on the morrow—
And he wanted to borrow of me.

So I loaned him all of the money
I had saved for some chance rainy day,—
And in less than a month I was homeless—
My family were kidnapped away!
What inducement he tendered, I know not,
Or whether ’twas mesmeric power
Which lured my poor, true-hearted girlie
From me and our beautiful bower.

Were he here now, ah, could I forgive him—
Would duty, and right, say I must?
Could I extend the hand-grasp of friendship
To him who has broken that trust?
I can only pray God to forgive him—
And me. For with memory’s stamp
Comes the knowledge of why I am needy—
And why people call me—a tramp.

I sold our dear cot mid the roses,
And stealthily set out to trace
The whereabouts of my dear loved ones,
And I wandered from place to place
At last came the sorrowful tidings
Of a ship going down in a gale,—
Their names, on the list of the lost ones!
And this is the end of the tale.

From my great sorrow then I sought refuge,
And I drifted from east to the west;
In my young days I worked hard and steady,
In every place doing my best.
But now there ’s no work,—I’m heart broken.—
Alone, in the cold and the damp,—
To my poor heart it seems—save in Heaven
There’s no room for the poor, aged tramp.

’TIS EASY TO GET MISTAKEN

In a cozy cot, mid bloom and leaf,
There dwelt a woman very deaf,—
If anything special she wished to hear
She’d put a trumpet to her ear.
Without the instrument, she could at best
But hear some—and guess the rest.

One day she laid it on a chair—
Got up, and left it lying there—
And went to work sweeping the floor
Just as a peddler reached the door.
And to the man it did occur
That he might sell some goods to her.

“Good morning Marm, fine day,” quoth he—
“I thought I’d just call, and see”—
“Just come from sea! is that what ye say?
Well, and who are ye any way?”
“Oh, pray excuse me marm! I said—
I simply called to sell some thread”—

“Swell on the head? well there I vow—
What you been up to any how?”
“Beg pardon marm!”—at her he stared,
“But is your hearing not impared?”
“My herrings pared? Yes, scraped off the scales
And then cut off the heads and tails!”

The peddler’s voice grew loud and louder:—
“Say marm! don’t you want to buy some powder?
Here is one dozen shell hair pins”—
“What! want to sell a pair of twins?
Why man, you make a body laugh,
I’d rather buy a Jersey calf—

Me! buy them twins!”—“Madam, your wrong!
Have been mistaken all along!”—
“Didn’t take ’em along? it’s just as well,
For twins ain’t very good to sell.”
“Excuse me marm—but my belief
Is that you must be a little deaf!”

“A little beef?—for dinner—hey?
Beef and herrings did you say?”
“I didn’t say so!” he loudly roar’d—
But his voice took wing and upward soar’d.
“Don’t worry—you won’t have to wait,
I’ll get your dinner before ’tis late.”

“Don’t want no dinner!” he yelled in her ear,—
“Gal darn ye! can’t I make ye hear?”
“Hain’t got no beer for you,” said she,
“You needn’t get mad and swear at me!”
“Beg pardon!” he yelled with voice immense,
“But I certainly mean’t you no offence”—

“Fence? you’ll find out if there’s a fence or not
If you don’t get out—now! on the spot!
All you know is to make comments—
Great pile you know about our fence!”
“To sell you something was my plan—
Here Madam! don’t you want a fan?”

“Me want a man! how could you guess?
Of course my answer must be yes.
Me! want a man! what’s that I hear?”
And she put the trumpet to her ear.
“Don’t shoot! don’t shoot!” the peddler said,
And instantly turned on his heel and fled.

SONG OF A SUFFRAGETTE
With apologies to A. P. S.

This world would be happy, and lovely indeed,
If the men were banished, of them there’s no need;
Now the ambitious women must fight for their due—
With the pesky men-folks we’ll have no more to do!

Chorus

They don’t like to work, Oh no!
(Men and work don’t agree you know.)

With mouth full of Tobacco, at ease near the grate.
They’ll sit and vehemently expectorate;
And the women are lucky if they can keep out
Of the streaks of tobacco-juice flying about!

Chorus

And tobacco-smoke fragrant will flow
In beautiful wreaths, you know!

The women, poor things, must wash, mend and bake,
And should there occur the slightest mistake
The men-folks will growl, and help things along
And emphasize things with language strong!

Chorus

Their masculine nature they show—
(Rather growl than work, you know!)

’Tis predicted the time is not far away
When the men-folks, cast down, let the women hold sway;
The men will be piled in one gigantic heap,
Then Perfection’s sweet presence the women will keep!

Chorus

For the women will work, and so
They’ll manage things nicely, you know!

RURAL DELIGHT

The farmer in the early spring
Plants fields of yellow corn—
How cheerily we hear him sing
While out in the dews of morn!
All thro’ the long, bright Summer
He works among the grain;
And sees the tender corn blades grow
Strengthen’d by sun and rain.

He sees with pride the yellow silk
Around the corn-cob curled,—
Oh, the jolly, jolly farmer
Is the happiest chap in the world.
How the cows do love, at supper time
To eat the sweet corn meal!
How eager are they for their share
As the farmers dip and deal.

The dairy maid with honest pride
Beams, as with joy she sees
The shelves that she with skill has piled
With butter and with cheese.
When Autumn comes and big tall stalks
With golden ears are laden;
In order comes the “husking bee,”
For merry Youth and Maiden.

And when the ripe “red ear” is found
By some pretty winsome miss
The swain, “Old Customs” will observe
And steal the wonted kiss.
The music and the laughter soars
To the rafters overhead;
As they trip the “light fantastic toe”
With an airy, fairy tread.

Then the Pumpkin Pie and Doughnuts come.—
At the close of the mazy dance
Each swain escorts his sweetheart home
(If he can get the chance!)
Thus joy and love will enter in
The lot with honest toil;
As the farmer reaps his rich reward
From tilling of the soil.

LOOK UP
(Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.)

’Tis dreary now, a snowy shroud
Lies white upon the ground;
While fierce and wild the piercing blast
With chilling notes resound.

No songs of birds—No crickets chirp.
No busy hum of bees
Ere floats aloft.—The Wood-nymphs sleep
Within the leafless trees.

All Nature’s works now dormant lie
’Neath pure, white cover lid;
The violets nestle snug and warm
From harm securely hid.

List! Spring has sent her harbinger—
And laden with garlands, she brings
Perfumes that are sweet as the breath of the dawn
On the sheen of her beautiful wings.

Soft winds will follow in her wake
And put to flight the snow—
The bird-songs sweet will soon be heard
In cadence soft and low.

Then do not e’er grieve for adverse
Conditions that exist,—
The sun will show its sovereign power
And drive away the mist!

Why reck we then tho’ storms assail
And winds hold wild career?
Look up! and feel within your heart
That Summer now is here.

Dispel the morbid sense of gloom!
The bleak earth soon anew
Shall bloom again, like flowerets fair
Kissed by the summer dew.

THE BURNING OF THE TURNER MILL

Calmly dawned the Sabbath morning
O’er Turner’s hills and moors;
And peaceful lay the village—
By fair Nezinscot’s shores.

Rich and abundant blessings
Seemed showering o’er the land
Like dews of Heaven, diffusing
As by some unseen Hand.

A verdant, fertile valley
That spread afar was seen;
With anon interspersing
The river’s azure sheen.

And on the green banks, winding
In gentle, graceful curve;
Where rank, tenebrous foliage
The feather’d nestlings serve.

Stood giant oaks primeval,
Which thrust their branches wide
Where dancing ripples sparkled
Upon the eddying tide.

Bright spires, ever gleaming
From tall majestic domes
Like sentinels seemed guarding
The scores of happy homes.

A picture fair and lovely
The landscape lay that morn,—
As tho’ by seraph painted
Upon the wings of dawn.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

The first chimes from the steeples
Rang out in accents clear;
And like accordant music
Fell on the listening ear.—

As yet no note of sorrow
Was mingled in their tone;
They seemed like benedictions
Descending from the Throne.

No thought had the good people
Of shadows hovering near—
No thought that ere the noon-tide
Full many a bitter tear
Would fall.—(Oh! all-wise Father—
By thy supernal power
Revert the pending danger
Ere falls the fatal hour!

Ah! why?—our hearts may question,—
Ye mortals!—none can tell!
’Tis meet, on Him relying
Who doeth all things well.)—

Once more the bells’ sweet music
From all the belfrys rang;
Bidding the folk to gather
For worship.—Praise they sang.

And as they turned their footsteps—
Each toward his wonted church;
All was serene and peaceful
As far as eye could search.

But hark! What meant the tumult
Arising in yon street—
And why disperse those people
With swiftly hurrying feet?—

And why that shrill voice shouting
As if in dire alarm—
Did’st know ’twas misdemeanor
To break the Sabbath calm?—

As onward sped the herald,
With face the hue of death
And wild-bright eyes, an instant
He paused to regain breath,—

Then quick, in tones reverberant
That pealed from spire to spire
Rang out the cry of terror:—
“The mill! The mill’s on fire!”

(Thro’ the surrounding valley,
And o’er adjacent hill;
The echoes oft repeated:—
“There’s fire in the mill!”)

Amazed were all the people—
No word their lips could frame
As on the breeze’s soft pinions
Again the wild cries came:—

“The mill! The mill is burning!”
At last, as if from sleep
They wakened to the danger,—
Beheld a bright flame leap!—

Ascending and expanding,
Columns of smoke arose
As from volcanic crater
Where molten lava flows.—

Again the cry resounded:—
“The mill is all on fire!”—
And catching up the tidings
The bells ’neath every spire

Tolled franticly the warning.—
With clanging, vibrant tongue
They sent abroad the message
The village folk among!

Lo! Turner’s happy village—
That peaceful, pleasant scene
Transformed in one brief moment
To one of sorrow keen.—

The smoke grew darker, denser,
Fierce flames leaped high and higher,—
“Oh for Niagarian torrent
To quench the cruel fire!”

Red tongues from every window
Shot forth.—As fortress gray
Shoots flame from belching cannon
In battle’s grim array.—

As pillar after pillar
Of smoke arose, which claimed
The attention of the people
As high the rafters flamed—

As stood they mute, and helpless,
While cinders rose and fell
’Mid the crackling and roaring
No mortal power could quell

A cry to Heaven ascended—
(Thro’ bravest hearts a thrill
Of horror crept:)—The proprietor
Is in the burning mill!”

Then stood aghast the people,
Astounded, stricken, dazed.—
While in that glowing furnace
The timbers cracked and blazed.

And, as the smoke ascended
In black, dense, billowy waves;
Each heart cried out in anguish:—
“Oh Father, God who saves

Look down in thy compassion!”—
The mad flames dart and sway
Like ruddy, fork-tongued dragons
That swift devour their prey.—

The winds sang a requiem,
And many a silent prayer
Arose. As smoke and flame illumined
The sky with lurid glare.—

Oh! friends and loving kindred—
Your hearts in grief must bow;
The proprietor of the factory
Needs not your pity now!

An Angel came and bore him
To that celestial shore
Where all from earthly trials
Shall triumph evermore.
*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *
Once more the scene is pleasant
O’er Turner’s hills and moors;
And peaceful lies the village
By fair Nezinscot’s shores.

Green meadows ever rolling
The pine-clad hills between
With anon interspersing
The river’s azure sheen.

And on its pebbly beaches,
Where winds the glistening curve,
Still soft, pendulous verdure
The feathered nestlings serve.

The lofty oaks primeval
Still thrust their branches wide;
Where silvery wavelets sparkle
Upon the bounding tide.

Yet by the rushing waters
That sweep adown the strand;
A silent, rugged spectre
The grim old ruins stand.

The bleak walls, rent and jagged,—
As mountain walls might frown
That thro’ convulsive earthquake
Its crest had swallowed down.

The winds, thro’ crevice wailing
In sweetly plaintive air,
A perpetual dirge descanteth
For him, who perished there.

Thro’ all the years now vanished,
Neglected and forlorn;
It stands alone, and mutely
Bespeaks of days agone.

No loom or wheel is busy—
Revolving band ne’er whirrs—
No “Factory bell” each morning
The village folk bestirs.

No structure supersedeth
Where flow these waters free;—
Tho’ none can e’er determine
What may in future be.

Yet now, as rubious sunset
In splendor gilds the waves;
And sweet, naiadic music
Is wafting from the caves—

Oft in disconsolation
The zephyrs whisper still
This tragic tale:—relating
The burning of the mill.

CARPE DIEM

Pray, never search for hidden woes,
Or grievous troubles borrow;
Nor cloud the sun today—in fear
Lest it may rain tomorrow.
God makes the sunshine and the rain—
Then, if today is pleasant
Why worry o’er tomorrow’s storm—
Why not enjoy the present?

It will not make the verdant hills
Put on a brighter hue;
Nor will the canopy above
Ere be a lesser blue
If all our hours are spent in tears,—
Then let us strive alway
To see our many blessings, and
Enjoy the present day.

A BACHELOR’S COMMENTS ON WOMEN’S RIGHTS

’Tis said the time is close at hand
Which earnest thought invites—
We’ll take up this expansive theme
And speak on “Women’s Rights.”
Methinks there’s many a questions, now,
Which worthy seems of note;
What say we, then: Will all things change
When the women have power to vote?

Will they exchange places with the men—
Tread where have trod their feet—
And dig and delve all day, to get
Things for the men to eat?
Will the men folks stay in the house all day
Dressed in their silks and laces—
Their soft white hands bedecked with rings,
And powder on their faces?

Will they play the piano, with no thought
To the morrow ever giving—
While the woman goes, and tries to find
Some way to get a living?
Will she be a carpenter,
And build houses tall and grand;
And scale with might the dizzy height
With hammer and saw in hand?

Will she be a soldier true
And fight in uniform—
Or will she be a sailor bold
And brave the tempestuous storm?
Will she like to make the mines
Down underneath the ground
And bring to light the precious gems
In those dark and deep caves found?

Will she like to dig for ore
Where the hidden metals are?
Will she take her place on a railway train
Or drive an electric car?
How many will learn the dentist’s trade?
For they must learn it when
The good new time comes—and the ladies
Change places with the men.

Can she build the massive bridges
That the rushing waters span—
Can she smoke and chew tobacco
And do it like a man?
Can she even be a farmer—
Hold plow and drive the horse?
Should she change places with the men
Why, then she can of course!

Then the liege lords will realize
As darksome fears encroach;
Why the once fair sex in timidity
Shrank from a mouse’s approach
Yes, the time is drawing nearer,—
Yet one question still remains
Will the world be any better
When the women hold the reins?

WEALTH vs VIRTUE

By devious ways and endeavors, afar
I sought, ascertaining if Gold
And Virtue—that fairest of gems—were at par
And in the same rank were enrolled.

And, viewed with zest keen and undaunting,
Often Gold has been found to out-weigh;
And the measure of Virtue? Found wanting!
For gold hath power mighty to sway.

For instance: Go mingle with people of style
In church—you can easily note
The smile and the shrug, as you pass down the aisle
With frayed hat and a patch on your coat.

Tho’ your heart may be kindest of any,
Time has flown since your clothing was new;
You are lacking in Wealth—ah! how many
Will bid you to enter their pew?

While precedes you a lady,—so haughty and grand,
Gaily trips she along down the aisle;
Her rosy lips wreathed in smiles sweet and bland—
She is clad in the most approved style.

You gaze on her features. Deceiver—
Is stamped plainly there on her face,—
Yet how eager are all to receive her—
How quick to share with her their place!

Go e’en on the street in your sorrow—
The wealthy and grand pass you by
In comfort, No trouble they borrow,
They see not the tear in your eye.

Were you dressed in fine raiment so neatly,
Your friendship would surely be theirs;
But now you are ignored completely,
They heed not your pleadings or prayers.

Often Riches will seek only Wealth’s favored lot
While Virtue seeks Virtue, abroad—
Or in humble seclusion—In palace or cot,
Knowing all are the children of God.

Down the turbulent River of Life, ever move
Misfortunes sad waifs, far from shore;
Whose struggles avail not.—Then doth it behoove
Us to cast the Life Line to the poor.

If, as it may, circumstances reverse,
And we find ourselves level with men
Who have seen, thro’ affliction, their riches disperse,—
Would we wish them to turn from us then?

Jesus the Saviour has taught us the way,
We will err not by following thus:
“Do unto others” as near as we may
“As we wish them to do unto us.”

BE MERCIFUL

Have mercy for the poor aged horse
That has served you so faithful and true;
Be to him gentle, and treat him with care,
He can feel just as keenly as you.
Don’t try to get speed when your horse is half starved,
But let the poor creature alone;
He is patient, submissive, a slave to your will,
And obeys you with never a moan.

So eager, and willing, yet feeble and lame,
Mayhap is worn out with disease;
He is toiling along, his breath nearly gone,
He is dreadfully weak in the knees.
The harness, replete with prominent knots
E’er galls him on shoulder and breast;
His bright mournful eyes ask in vain for relief,
His anguish is mutely expressed.

You ignore his pleadings, you heed not his pain,
Nor endeavor to lighten the load
By using your own locomotion to take
Yourself up the steep rocky road.
Oh! would that the spirit of pitying love
Into these thoughtless hearts might instill,—
There’s many a man can dance all night—
But ’twould harm him to walk up a hill!

SUNSHINE ON THE HILL

In the low-land where the shadows
Gather at the close of day;
When the sky in all its beauty
Turns from blue to sombre grey,—
Voices of the day are ceasing,
Plaintively the night-birds trill,—
In the distance, like a halo—
Lo! the sun shines on the hill!

When, like Wings of Night unfolded
Sorrow casts its chilling shade;
Causing all our joy to vanish
And our cherished hopes to fade—
When Oppression’s hand shall smite us
With a wrath that bodeth ill—
Look beyond the vale’s dark shadows
To the sunshine on the hill!

Like a whispered benediction
From the Realm of Light, so blest;
Steals those sacred words, in accents
Sweet: “And I will give thee rest.”—
Would we feel that peace and comfort
In our drooping hearts instill,—
Look beyond Life’s fitful shadows
To the Sunshine on the Hill.

YOUR REAL WEALTH

Brethren, as you down life’s pathway
Pass with firm and stately tread
When success shall crown your efforts
And its glories round you shed—
There’s a truth that e’er existeth,—
Though of high or lowly birth—
When death’s Angel for you calleth
You’ll own just “six feet of earth.”

Though you’re rich in lands and mansions,—
Though you’ve gold and jewels rare—
Though your life is bright and sunny
Never knows a want or care.—
Though a brother’s life of sorrow
Different is from yours of mirth;
Yet some day he’ll be your equal—
Both will own “six feet of earth.”

Turn your gaze to scenes Immortal—
Is your chance of Heaven more sure
Than the lowly one, possessing
Naught of fame, but heart most pure?
Nay, your riches ne’er can save you,
Virtue is the Gem of Worth;
You your wealth can not take with you
To the last “six feet of earth.”

Jesus once was poor and lowly,
And His crown held many a thorn;
Yet His heavenly Father loved Him
As He suffered grief and scorn.—
If your soul is pure and stainless
You have Wealth,—there’ll ne’er be dearth;
When at last the clay is sleeping
In your own “six feet of earth.”

CHANGEABLE

Beneath an apple tree she sat
Amid bright leaf and flower,
Telling of what she would do,
Were it within her power:
She’d civilize the heathen poor,—
She’d meet the wary foe,
And drive them till their trackless paths
Were through eternal snow.

With strong nerve she would care for those
Who are stricken down in war
And cheer the sick and suffering ones
Without a bit of awe.
She’d soothe the fevered ones to rest
And bathe each aching head,—
And never would she shrink from pain,
But bravely work, instead.

But ah! what caused her cheek to pale
Ere she had ceased to speak—
What made her start, with fingers clenched,
And give that awful shriek?
Where is the maiden, once so brave?
Ah! nothing now can still her,—
For lo! upon her sleeve there lay
A little caterpillar!

PLEASURE

’Twas a calm, still night and the big full moon
Looked down with smile serene;
And his watchful eye observed all things,
And he called it a curious scene.
All agreed ’twas a fine night for the dance,—
We all were so light-hearted;
Light-headed? No! but we wished to go
And dance, so off we started.

The night was fair and the watchful moon
Shone almost bright as day;
So Jack, he harnessed the old white mare
And hitched her to the sleigh.
The old horse clipped a lively time
Over the snow so cold,
Like a frisky colt,—though the old horse
Was twenty-five years old.

Oh, the pure delight of that moon-lit drive
As we dashed the plains across,—
And chung, chung, chung, went the merry bells,
The while the old white horse
Kept merry time to the tuneful bells
As over the snow we sped;
And the soft and gentle zephyrs blew,
And the moon its radiance shed.

The time flew by on rapid wings,
As it does when on pleasure bent;
And it was in the “wee small hours”
Before we homeward went.
’Twas a beautiful, beautiful, evening,
And the moon looked down so kind;
The world seemed full of music
And poetry combined.

TIME BRINGS CHANGES

She sat down by the kitchen fire,
While munching bread and cheese;
With now and then a pancake hot,
Her hunger to appease.

“Ah me! how good this is,” she sighed
As a cookie she stowed away;
“I would that I a lunch could have
Like this one every day!”—

Next day her beau on her did call
To take her for a ride;
’Twas getting late—’twas nearly noon
When the mother her espied.

And, anxious as all mammas are,
As to how her daughter fared;
Cried, “Just you wait a moment dear—
I’ve dinner all prepared.”

“Oh! mercy! no,”—it was no use,
She could not eat a mite
She hardly ever cared for much—
She had no appetite!—

Strange, wasn’t it? that one day she
Could eat a slice of steak,
Potatoes, and a ham sandwich,
With coffee, pie and cake,—

Yet the next day, when her beau was nigh
What changes it did bring!
She was so dainty and so frail
She could not eat a thing!

MAMMA’S STORY

Come hither my children, Sue, Archie, and Nell
And listen to me as a story I tell
How “once on a time,” in the mist and the fog
Was a poor ragged boy, and a little brown dog.
The dog, while at play, fell from a high bank
Into a dark pool—and down, down it sank.
To escape it endeavor’d, but slow was its speed,
For the treacherous mud did its progress impede.

But the folks passing by took no heed of him
Excepting to say—“Just see the pup swim!”
Or, regardless of all save their own worldly pelf—
“It is only a dog—Let it care for itself.”
’Till a poor ragged urchin with pitying eye
In passing that way the poor dog chanced to spy.—
Quickly thrusting a stick within reach of its jaws
It clung to it, and, with the aid of its paws

Reached the top of the bank, with a loud joyous yelp—
Ah! none but this boy had offered it help!
Then he took it up kindly, ’neath his jacket to hold
To protect the poor creature, now shivering with cold.
As snugly it nestled ’neath the boy’s ragged frock
It said (as plainly as a poor dog can talk)
I love you, dear friend—I’ll help you if I can;
For in all this vast throng there’s but you that’s a man!

Then came the dog’s master, who found it so wet,
And he sought now to fondle his dearly loved pet
In a loving embrace.—but it clung to the boy
With many plain manifestations of joy.
While its glance towards its master said plain as it could:—
“I’ll stay with this laddie because he is good.”
“Oh! my little pet knows you are honest and true;
The dog ’s name is Gipsy, and well he loves you.

But say, little man, how came you to save
‘A poor little cur’ from a watery grave?”
“I know what it is to be friendless,” he said,—
“I’ve no friends, or home, now since Mother is dead—
I know what it is to be hungry—forlorn—
I’ve not tasted food, sir, since yesterday morn.
And at night I must sleep where I happen to be—
And I thought this poor doggie was friendless like me.

The gentleman’s head was bowed low.—And he thought
Of his sister, who married a poor drunken sot,—
Ten years it had been since he last saw her face—
And five it had been since of her he lost trace.
For a moment he prayed—with heart beating wild:
“Have mercy on her, as I pity this child!”
Then aloud he said—as they moved through the throng—
“My dog will not come unless I take you along.

So come home with me, ’Tis not good you should roam”—
And he treated him kindly, and gave him a home.
Then he sought the boy’s kindred—here fate on him smiled,—
The lad was his nephew,—his lost sister’s child!
And now in his prayers he forgets not his joy—
He thanks the kind Father for sending the boy.
Now children, who think you ’twas, out in the fog?
My dears, ’twas your Grandpa who saved the brown dog!

EVERY CLOUD HATH SILVER LINING
(In response to “Pennies In The Box” by R. F. D. carrier No. 1, Buckfield.)

It is said that there are sunbeams
Shining in the distant blue;
Tho’ the dark and angry storm-clouds
May obscure them from our view,
Thus, mayhaps, the seeming hardships
Of the rural carrier’s lot
Are but shadows, merely flitting
Lest the sunbeams get too hot.

Though at times, the mailman’s fingers
Are half frozen, and he talks
Language of his own invention,—
Cursing “pennies in the box.”—
Though obliged to doff his mittens
In the zero wind, intent
On opening an icy mail-box—
Struggling with a wayward “cent.”

He should ne’er let angry passions
Vex his spirit—cloud his brow,—
For, beyond the sombre cloudlet
There are sunbeams shining now!
He can breathe “health-giving ozone”
With no doctor’s fees to pay—
All distructive germs dispelling
By “Fresh-air-cure” every day!

He should count the many blessings
That around his pathway creep—
No matter if the path’s blockaded
By a snow drift hard and deep,—
He should cultivate his patience
With a fortitude most rare;
Ne’er should frown beset his features—
Never even wish to swear!

These R. F. D. chaps should be happy,
But, alas, contentment damps
When they worry that “we patrons”
Don’t lay in a stock of stamps,—
If they’d gather up our pennies
And not grumble, they would see
Each and every patron murmur
Blessings on the R. F. D.!”

DENNIS O’NEIL’S DREAM

Dennis O’Neil fell asleep one day
And he dreamed from this life he had passed away
And went to Heaven, where, at the Gate
’Mong other pilgrims, he had to wait
’Till came his turn to ask for grace
To pass through the gates of that Holy place.
At length the vast throng ceased to flow—
A few entered the gate—the rest went below—
And he found himself waiting where others had been
’Till St. Peter should come and usher him in.
Soon he heard the sound of hurrying feet
Echoing out from the pearly street;
And, looking up, his eyes behold
Not the Saint—but a friend of the days of old.
With joyful smile they meet, embrace,
And tenderly gaze in each others face.
“Why Pat, old friend, so it appears
You, too, have left the ‘Vale of Tears’
No more to dwell mid scenes of woe
And the din and strife of the World below.
How is it, then, do you think that I
Can gain admittance if I try?
A plea for me of course you’ll make
In my behalf for friendship’s sake.
What must I do—if there should be
A vacant place in there for me—
Tell me now, I ask of you
What is the first thing I must do?”
“First,” then said Pat, “Inside the gates
A pure and spotless Book awaits
Where you—like each and every one
Must write your name, What you have done,
Your faults, your sins, every time you have lied,
That you can recall till the day that you died.—
Every dishonest act write out plainly and bold—
For your chances are lost if one thing you withhold!
“And how long is it, I’d like to know
Pat, since you left the world below?”—
“If I mistake not, it is ten
Years I’ve with patience held the pen.”—
“What errand calls you forth this morn?”
“More ink,” said Pat, “I must hasten on.”
“Ten years since you’ve been in this clime—
And you’ve been writing all the time!
Begorry then, its more than ’tis worth—
And I think, on the whole, I’ll go back to the Earth.
—For really, you see, ’tis not worthy the strife—
Sure, ’twould kape me at work all the days of me life!”

A LESSON WELL TAUGHT

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *
Along down the street walked a dandy
Who sported more beauty than brain;
He was dressed in an elegant fashion
And carried a gold headed cane.
With nothing to do, he was strolling—
Just seeking amusement and fun.—
But his practical joke caused him sorrow,
And this is the way it was done.

“Bah jove! here comes an old crone—
Now excitement I anticipate!”
And his vest was pulsative with laughter
Thus causing his cheeks to inflate.
With a jug in her hand, and a basket,
She was wending her way from the store,—
A powerful woman from Erin’s fair isle
Weighing two hundred and ninety—or more.

As she with quick footsteps approaches
This intrigue he hastily planned:—
To jostle against her, in passing,
And knock the things out of her hand.
And alas for the basket she cherished—
He had planned but too wisely, and well,—
The jug for an instant went whizzing—
Then, broken to atoms, it fell.

But she had him fast by the collar—
She shook him, then flung him down flat;
His legs broad-cast on the pavement
Were thrown, and down on them she sat!
He writhed like a fish out of water—
But in vain, for she held him down tight,—
“Ah, me honey, I have the advantage
An’ I’m thinkin’ ye’ll stay here tonight!

What ye doin’, ye black-hearted black-guard
That ye can’t let an ould leddy alone?
Are ye meddlin’ wid business of others
Because ye have none of yer own?
Ye have broken me jug—an’ molasses
Is spattered all over me dress—
But, begorra! ’fore wid ye I’m done
Ye’ll be lookin’ like me I guess!”

She arose—and both his feet seizing
Walked on, while he struggled and yelled;
But the more he struggled and shouted—
So much the more firmly she held!
Through the pool of molasses she dragged him
Until his immaculate shirt,
His trousers, and coat of fine broad-cloth
Was a mixture of molasses and dirt.

“Ye blear-eyed spalpeen! A lesson
I’ll larn ye afore I’m content—
Ye’ll not trouble agin an ould leddy
Because she’s of Irish descent!!!
Arrah—but ye don’t get away aisy!
Will ye be done wid yer pratin’, yer jokes?
Shure there’s no more honor about yer
Than to any ould bullfrog that croaks!

An’ a right sorry figure I’m thinkin’
Ye look fer a “swate bloomin’ youth!”
Will ye show yerself to the fellers?
Will ye tell yer ould Mither the truth?
Will ye tell her ye spilled me molasses—
If ye do, will she say it was right
To deprive an ould woman of somethin’
To eat on her cold bread to night?

An’ now, me molasses-cheeked dandy—
Ye may let this yer feelin’s console:—
If ye ever agin let me ketch ye
I’ll thrash ye! I will, by me soul!!!
My advise ye had better be takin’
If ye’ve got a shmall mind of yer own,—
When ye meet an ould woman that’s Irish
Her ye’d better be lettin’ alone!”

REMINISCENCE

Tonight, of the Past I am thinking—
Of one of the Autumn’s bright days
When the beautiful hills of old Hartford
Were covered with October haze,—
When the leaves, all russet and golden
Came rustling down, and the breeze
Seemed bent upon mischief, dispelling
The radiant garb of the trees.

Where the Oak and the Elm stand, defying
The wrath of the tempest’s fierce blast—
Through the thicket, where warble the wild-birds
And the chipmunk goes scurrying past.—
To the brilliant-hued, picturesque landscape
No color could artist e’er lend
On this day, when o’er hill and thro’ valley
I wandered in search of a friend.

In search of a dear loved one, dwelling
In a quiet, suburban retreat—
The friend whose kind manner e’er charmed me—
Whom I long had been hoping to greet.
And I found her at last, my friend Emma!
As at last thro’ the garden I walk.
She was sitting quite close by the window—
And I found her there—mending a sock!

HUMOROUS

“Oh!” said the chick
To the white hen, “Run, quick!”
(They stood in the garden patch;)
“Here’s a woman coming
Who will send us ahumming—
She’s determined she’ll not let us scratch!”

“Now if ’twere a man
That yonder I scan”
And her eyes she opened wide,—
“And a rock he should throw
We’d know where ’twould go
And could easily dodge it one side,—

But this is a Woman—
A terror uncommon,
What to do I’m sure I can’t see;
If a missile she throws
It will veer, and, who knows?
May by accident hit you or me!”

“You silly chick,”
Said the white hen quick—
“Much wiser I hope you’ll soon be,—
Just stand in your track
When she makes an attack
And your safety I will guarantee!”

When, as it chanced,
She firmly advanced,
Hen and chicken with diligence scratched;
No verbal command
Availed, so her hand
A stone from the dusty loam snatched.

To Southward she aimed—
And hostilely proclaimed!
(’Twas just as the white hen said—)
The pebble flew forth,
And, sailing due North,
It struck her old man on the head!

ONWARD FOR FREEDOM AND RIGHT
(Written at the time of the Spanish-American War.)

“All that there is in Cuba’s lands
Is ours, and we shall reign;
Or we will fight them till they die!”
Thus comes the cry from Spain.
“They never shall their freedom have—
We will rule with iron hand;
They shall bow to us, they shall heed our laws
Or we’ll drive them from the land!”

“Ye cruel tyrants! Are ye men?”
(’Twas ‘Uncle Sam’ who spoke.)
“Desist, or ye shall see this end
In cannon roar, and fire, and smoke
Ye worse than tyrants! what have ye done?
Ye have pillaged, burned and destroyed—
Ye have starved helpless men and women to death
And the wailing of children enjoyed.

Ye have tortured them with fiendish delight,
And hundreds of people have slain;
Ye caused the death of our brave, noble men,
Who went down in the wreck of the “Maine.”
Ye can come to me if ye want to fight,—
Ye can come with your jeer and taunt;
And ye can fight to your hearts’ content.
If fighting is what ye want.

Our boys so brave, when duty calls,
Will all their strength unite;
And fight as long as there is need
For freedom and for right.
May the curse forever be wiped out
That now the country mars;
And peace restored in this fair land
Where float the stripes and stars.”

A MYSTERY EXPLAINED

Hi Sambo—don’ yo’ talk dat way—
Aint yo’ a silly coon!
A talkin’ ’bout de mystery
Ob de man dats in de moon!
I tell yo’ ’taint no mystery
’Bout de moon, or how it acts,
I reckon ef yo’d like to know
I kin tell yo’ all de facts.

’Tis dis:—Yo’ see when de world was new
De moon was roun’ an’ clear;
An’ kep’ a shinin’ ebery night
Jus’ so, year arter year.—
’Till dis man he done some drefful t’ing—
He ran, but dey cotched him soon
An’ widout no odds dey banished him
An’ sent him to de moon.

Dey see’d him lookin’ down to earth
Whar dey wouldn’t let him stay;
Den solemn like, an’ bery slow
He turn he face away.—
An’ arter dat de moon was new—
Den half a moon dar’ll be;
Den de moon am roun’, an’ de man looks down
On de lan’ an’ on de sea.

An’ he gazes ober all de earth
’Til he wants to see no more—
Den he slowly turn he face away
Jus’ as he did before.
Dese am de facts ob what yo’ call
De “Mystery profound”—
When de moon keeps changing as yo’ see
’Tis de man a turnin’ round!

A BIRTHDAY GREETING

Your natal anniversary
Once more around has crept;
And, as a token of respect
Will you these flowers accept

From all your friends? And we do hope
That they may bring delight;
And shed abundant cheer and joy
From every petal bright.

And as another year speeds on
To swell the list of Time;
We truly wish that each day may
Be filled with Peace sublime.

And may the Heavenly Father’s grace
Be with you on your way;
And keep you safely ’till returns
Another glad Birth-day.

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDETH WELL

The robins and the blue-birds sing
In tones so sweet and clear;
“Cheer up dear, Annie dear, ’tis spring
And Summer time is near.”

The crocus soon will wake from sleep
And lift its dainty head;
The trailing arbutus will peep
Out from its leafy bed.

Dame Nature soon will deck the hills
And vales in verdant clothes;
While ’neath the oak the brooklet trills
Where blooms the blushing rose.

Fair daisy sweet and buttercup
The breeze will softly kiss;
Then do not pine, dear friend, cheer up
And share with them their bliss.

Let not your heart be troubled dear,
The birds this message tell,—
Ye faint at heart, be of good cheer,
“All’s well that endeth well.”

A TALE FROM MOUNTAIN GRANGE
[This poem was written for, and read at the first meeting held after the completion of the new grange hall at North Buckfield, Nov. 1st, 1904. The poem was founded on facts, but in order to be more amusing for the occasion the incidents were, of course, somewhat exaggerated by the author, who was also a member of Mountain Grange.]

Patrons and Friends:

Within the annals of this Grange
A circumstance occurred—
And, be it true—Or otherwise,
I’ll give it as ’twas heard.
When last winter’s icy breezes
Brought the welcome news, so strange
That the ever staunch, and loyal
Patrons of this Mountain Grange

Decided to erect their temple
Ere the coming of the Fall
In the village of North Buckfield,—
There to locate their new hall.—
Ere the last glad trump had sounded
Thro’ the vales, and o’er the plain—
Ere the zephyrs bore the echo
To the rugged hills of Maine—

Ere the last faint notes were wafted
To “Old Shack’s” most distant peak—
There a brave, and loyal patron
Thus to himself did speak:—
“I, Lucius Record, patron, member
Of this Grange, a vow do make
That I the very first will be
The foundation ground to break.

For I have read of honors great
To “lay the corner stone,”
I’ll be the first to break the ground
And do it all alone!
And so, for months, this patron brave
Did cherish in his breast
A longing for the time to come
Which gave him much unrest.

“Old Father Time” moved slowly on—
The snow began to melt—
The bleak earth showed in tiny spots
Where Lucius Record dwelt.
For aught else in the world, just then
He neither cared nor feared;
But watched those patches grow, until
The snow had disappeared.

To all who anxiously await
Time slowly wears away;
But at last—at last there came the eve
Ere the eventful day.
That night no sweet dreams came to him,
No sleep his pillow sought;
But listened he to every sound
With nerves most tensely wrought.

And ere the sun’s first rays arose
To gild yon distant domes;
And shed their radiance upon
These fair North Buckfield homes
Arose he from his downy couch—
And with his gleaming spade
Proceeded he to carry out
The plans which he had made.

In silence marched he by Fred Heald’s,
Slow, stealthy as a mouse;
With bated breath, on tiptoe went
Past Celia Dunham’s house
Lest she or Fred should be awake
And chance to hear his step,—
And thus—with soft, and cat-like tread
He past the school house crept
And reached the spot where stands this hall
When lo! in yonder field
He spied a form approaching near,
And found ’twas Brother Heald
And on the self same purpose bent!
Lute straightway feared the worst;
It but remained now to be seen
Which one would get there first!

Lucius quickened up his pace
Nor stopped for rocks or planks,
’Tis said his record equaled then
The far-famed Nancy Hanks!
He nearly now his courage lost,
The way seemed not so clear
To be the first to break the ground
With tother feller near.

So in the road the spade he dropped
And scooped it full of earth
Then sprang with all his wondrous might
And ran for all he’s worth
And dumped that sand upon the spot,
And made a little mound—
“Ah, ha!” quoth he, “I am the first
To break the Grange Hall ground!”

Then with a sigh both turned away—
They felt somewhat—perhaps
One like the ‘Russians’ at bay—
The other like the ‘Japs.’—
The morning dawned with azure skies,
And then the workmen came;
Brad Damon and another man
Sir William Brown by name.

They saw the sand, and then one spoke—
(The other followed suit,)
“What tarnal fool done this, d’ye spose?
I vum, I’ll bet ’twas Lute!”
The other answered, “I’ve no doubt
’Twas him, but see these tracks—
Now you don’t spose dew ye, they
Resemble Danville Jack’s?”

“Oh, no, taint Dan—I know ’tis Lute—
To reason this appeals:—
These tracks look like an Elephant
While Dan’s got Nigger heels!”
Then exclamations volleyed forth,
With laughter long and loud;
Just then Geo. Record’s silvery voice
Came ringing through the crowd:

“I say there, Bill! Tim Jones’n me
Will give fifty cents in change
To whom will write this story up
And read it in the Grange!”
Five poetic pencils glibly glide—
Low bends each thoughtful head—
Presented for inspections, thus
Brad Damon’s poem read:—

Lucius Record
Sat up late,—
Broke the ground—
Honor great.

Road to fame—
Show’s us how,—
Pile of dirt—
Big’s a cow.

Danville Jack—
Gloomy feels—
Awfully fat—
Nigger heels.

Awfully solemn—
Awfully mute—
Sadly feels—
Beat by Lute!

Walls of fame—
Got Lute’s name on—
Poem complete—
Bradbury Damon.

“By Gum! he’s beaten us all!” they cried
Between their tight—shut teeth;
Then brushed away that pile of sand
And saw what lay beneath!
They cried “Let’s give three cheers for Lute!
Of him we have learned this day
If we can’t succeed just as we wish
We’ll do it as we may.”

Patrons, Friends:—

Should aught arise within this Grange
Which we don’t understand;
Let’s look beneath the surface then,
Let’s clear away the sand.

SONG OF THE GRANGERS’
(Written for Mountain Grange)

Away o’er the hills, or thro’ valleys,
Wherever I happen to be;
’Tis wafted along by the breezes,
And comes like sweet music to me,
As on, by the wayside I wander
A Brother I happen to meet,—
The hand-grasp is ever most cordial
And this is the way that we greet,—
Goin ’t the Grange?

I stroll mid the tall waving grasses
Where the laurel and sweet brier springs—
Thence on, to the deep-shadow’d woodland
Where the brooklet so merrilly sings—
How lulling the chirp of the cricket—
How drowsy the hum of the bees.—
I start.—for a voice speaking near me
In deep tones utters words such as these—
Goin ’t the Grange?

Oh! the tables so loaded with dainties
We hail with the keenest delight;
The fruit, pies, and cake, we all welcome
With faces so happy and bright.
There’s naught like the rich, amber coffee
Great fervor and zest to impart—
While the savory baked beans and brown bread
E’er touch a deep chord in the heart—
Goin ’t the Grange?

Grange!—— name so laden with beauty
I hail with the greatest of glee;
I love it, our dear banded Order—
And ever a Granger I’ll be!
Oft I long as the season approaches
The time for a “meeting” again
To hear from the tumult of voices
Re-echo this gladsome refrain:—
Goin ’t the Grange?

And may the bright Star of the Heavens
Ever guard and guide us aright—
May we all many times be permitted
To meet here in ardent delight.
May we ever be true to our Master—
Prove faithful and honest in all;
And be ready to answer the summons
When the One great Master shall call
To a higher and nobler Grange.

UNCLE JOE’S SOLILOQUY

Talk about your new inventions
And the wonders of the age;
I think the pesky foolishness
Has reached the topmost stage!
The news that this here world is round
Comes from some great man’s mouth—
And that ’tis hung onto a pole
That goes from North to South.

And I suppose that this here way
Is the way to solve the riddle—
Just take an apple up, and thrust
A needle through the middle.
And what is it they won’t do next?
For now, Why, ’pon my soul
They say that larn’ed folks have tried
To find the great North Pole!

I’d rather stay upon the land
Than sail upon the sea;
Why can’t them folks just stay at home
And let the North Pole be?
Now I am kind of worried like
For fear some of those men
That’s sailing round and round the airth
Will find the pole and then

Some of them chaps who thoughtlessly
At common sense will scoff
Will take it into their wise heads
To cut the North Pole off!
And then what would become of us?
I’m sure I haint no notion—
I spose that we, the world and all
Would fall into the Ocean!

And what a bad thing that would be—
How dreadful is the sound—
To let the world fall in the sea
And all the good folks drown’d!
I wish that them ere pesky folks
Would let the pole alone;
I think that they had better find
Some business of their own!

I wish some one would find them folks
And try and make them see
That they had better stay at home
And let the North Pole be!
If I should ever see them men
As sure’s my name is Joe
They’ll find what my opinion is
And I shall tell them so!

WHEN DADDY ROCKS THE KID

Little daughter, fair and sweet
With dainty baby charms;
Making every joy complete
As from mamma’s arms
Very tenderly she’s laid;—
(Mamma’s smiles are hid—
Sees the queer maneuvers made
When daddy rocks the kid!)

Darling, winsome as can be—
Blossom sweet and rare;
Hears the tuneful melody
From the rocking chair.
Never heard such songs before,—
(And guess he never did—)
Language new—and tunes galore,
When daddy rocks the kid!

Though forty times, ere day is done,
From work he homeward comes;
To hold his precious little one
And see it suck its thumbs—
Mamma, e’er with loving glance
Sees new charms amid
The beauties, Which the joys enhance
When daddy rocks the kid!

When daddy rocks the kid to sleep
He banishes all care;
And o’er his visage smiles will creep—
Contentment’s written there.
No worldly sorrows cast their shade
But vanish as they’re bid.—
A pleasing picture thus is made
When daddy rocks the kid!

STOP TALKIN’

When a feller gets his back up
And his temper’s in a muss;
If he keeps a peckin’ at ye—
Tryin’ hard to pick a fuss.—
Jest ye go about yer bis-ness.
‘Course its aggravatin’—but
Half the row will be averted
If ye’ll keep yer talker shut!

Shut yer lips together firmly—
Let the “other feller” groan,—
Soon ye’ll find the ranch deserted,
For he will not fight alone.
Ferocious bully’ll prove a coward,—
If ye swerve not from the rut
Of yer staunch determination
That ye’ll keep yer talker shut!

Talkin’ makes a heap o’ trouble
Out o’ nothin’, scandals great,—
As one gossip, then another
From the truth will deviate
’Till the color of the story
Darker grows—I tell ye what,
Wouldn’t be so many heartaches
If they’d keep their talkers shut!

Talkin’s right, if they would only
Try to smooth the weary way
Of some poor, lone, ship wrecked brother
And a word of comfort say
To the sick and weepin’ dweller
Of the rude and lowly hut.—
Then, yes, then, the time is for ye
Not to keep yer talker shut!

If ye try to see the many
Virtues of yer feller men—
And yer kindly acts uplift him—
Ye are doin’ nobler, then
When to some heart yer words so cruel
Gives a deep malicious cut.—
If ye can’t speak words of kindness
Better keep yer talker shut!

A YULE-TIDE MISSIVE
To my dear friend:—E. L. F.

As onward Old Time is e’er rolling,
And Summer again has gone by;
The sweet bells of Christmas are ringing,
And wafting their music on high—
Telling the same sweet old story,
That ever emotion awakes;
Of Him who was born in a manger
And Who suffered and died for our sakes.

My wish is, that this day may bring you
Very rich and abundant good cheer;
May yours be a bright happy Christmas,
With friends that are ever sincere.
It is willed that I cannot be with you—
As you still linger “down by the sea;”
But my wish is—and may it be granted—
That one thought-wave may reach you from me,

Ere the bells have ceased ringing the tidings
Of Peace and Good Will to all men,
Old Santa will wake from his slumbers
And, hobbling forth from his den
He will harness his fleet footed reindeer
To the sleigh, and away he will flee,—
And eagerly on, he will hasten
To bring you this message from me!

Though this has no value, excepting
The love it contains in its fold,—
Yet, love that is true and unfading
To me is more precious than gold.
So, when you shall weigh in Worth’s balance
The gifts you receive on this day;
Surely mine will not be found wanting,
For Love will be sure to out-weigh.

Were I sure, that, receiving this missive
You should feel just one pang of regret
That I cannot be with you this evening,
It would fully repay me, and yet
I know you’ll transmit one thought message
To me, from afar o’er the plain;
While the sweet bells of Christmas are ringing
And telling their story again.

While the sweet bells of Christmas are ringing
In accents of joy and of praise;
For the Babe in the manger, so blessed,
As they rang in the dear by-gone days,—
May they ring as of yore,—And the blessing
Of “Peace and Good Will” which they gave
In the ringing descend o’er our Spirits,—
Like music which wafts o’er the wave.

Buckfield, Me., 1911.

THE HUNTER

Traditions of a hunter tells—
A hardy man, and stout;
Who ne’er used snow-shoes—for his feet
Were large enough without!
With dog and gun, across-lots, he
Would roam ’mong bush and stump;
Nor swerved he from the snow-drifts deep,—
He’d very seldom slump!

But once, ’tis said, he sank far down
While crossing o’er a field;
The damp snow caved upon his feet
And there he stuck—and squealed!
Then, standing like a statue
Beneath the sun’s warm glow—
His feet, like steamship’s anchor
Fast pinioned under snow.

He one mighty effort made—
He gave a piercing yell,—
The language wafted far and wide
E’en Echo ne’er would tell!
His pleading tones reached listening ears
And help soon reached the spot.—
And altho’ more we fain would know
Tradition telleth not.

THE POETRY MACHINE

Pray, have you ever heard about—
Or have you ever seen
That Pearl of Ingenuity—
A Poetry Machine?
The wonderous thing is fashioned
With most exquisite skill;
Designed precisely to obey
The operator’s will.

When touched by “Muse’s” magic wand
The thought-waves throb and spout;
Then, by the turning of the crank
It grinds the verses out.—
The sweet, poetic stanzas
Of equal length will be;
Then, clipping off the ragged lines
It makes a poem.—See?

And ’tis an elegant thing to have
When you’re “down in luck” you think—
(And the only cost is a trivial sum
Of some of your mental chink.)
When e’er the world seems going wrong
And you your courage lose;
Get out your “Poetry Machine”
And drive away the “blues.”

Just turn the crank—Sad thoughts will flee
As the cog-wheels whirr and buzz,—
There’s naught can raise one’s spirits up
Like the “Verse Mill” always does!
Let the rippling, rollicking rhymes roll out
With a clamor, a clash, and a clang;
Then punctuate each line with a laugh—
Be one of the “Jolly Gang!”

There will steal a soothing sense supreme
As we linger ’neath the spell,—
As steal sweet strains from Seraphic Song
Far o’er the Ocean’s swell
Or like soft breezes whispering
O’er the sun-kissed, mossy bank,—
With sweet, poetic fancies rife
If we but turn the crank!

OCTOBER

Down, the faded leaves are drifting,
From grey branches overhead;
All summer birds have taken flight,
The grass is sere and dead.—
The brown earth tells us Summer’s gone—
The frost lies white at early morn.
October

See! now is yon distant landscape
Clothed in warm and purple haze;
Redolent with ripen’d harvests
Of the Indian Summer days.
Bright—ye golden days—and glad,
Beautiful, yet erstwhile sad
October

Now the corn, no longer waving,
Shocked, stands waiting for the bin;
Choice fruit and garden products
Soon will all be gathered in.
Golden pumpkins, piled up high,—
Indicative of luscious pie!
October!

TO MARY

Dear Mary: The sweet bells of Christmas
Are ringing out vibrant and true,—
As I list to their music in gladness
I am thinking of Danville and you.

So Sister, I’m sending this picture—
You will see at the Ward at the right
A little X marked o’er the window,
Where a star peeps in at me at night.

You know where my cot is, you fancy—
Tho’ your vision of me is not clear;
Yet you know on that cot I am lying—
You have Faith to believe I am here!

Then now, as the sweet chimes are pealing
In accents so joyous and rare;
Look, in Faith, towards the window of Heaven
And believe that our Saviour is there!

THE WINDS DO BLOW

[Written while the author was a patient at the Maine State Sanatorium, Hebron, Me.]

There’s danger that some of these gales
Will lay this Cottage level—
For every other day, at least,
The wind blows like the—— deuce.
Should it occur, the chances are
That all the fields and lawns
From here down to “West Minot” will
Be scattered o’er with “Cons.”
Then Dr. Garrison, Dr. Knowles
And Dr. Nichols, too,
Will have to search o’er hill and dale
To find which way we blew!—
And all the nurses, too, will run
As fast as e’er they can
And help to bring “us patients” back
To this gale-stricken San!
Sure, if the wind strikes “Greenwood Hill”
With such an awful boom
We shall go sailing through the air
Like Witches on a broom!—
Whiz-Zip-Crash-Bang-Oh, Ugh!—My face
Is full of whirling snow!!—
It’s blown the coverings off my bed!!!—
Ah yes, “the winds do blow!”

Jan. 1913.

FAREWELL TO THE SAN

To Dr. N.:—

My stay here has been quite extended,
And many long months now are gone;
But soon my sojourn must be ended,
For now I’m not sick with the “Con.”
My heart may have an “affection”—
Yet do not imagine I’m ill,—
For I’m sure that, in case of detection
It would baffle your medical skill.

The “Microbe” lies hidden, tho closely you scan,
Yet it lives! Now, sad to relate;
One grievance exists which I owe to the San—
Oh dear, I have gained so in weight!
No more like a fairy am I.—Yet ’tis true
It is lovely to come here and rest,—
It’s a fine place to thrive—For see, even you
Are not very small round the vest!

Oh no! and if ever I meet with a friend
Who is built on the skeleton plan
And wishes some fat on the ribs, I intend
To tell him to come to the San!
I’m sorry to leave Greenwood Mt. so fair
And the scenes I’ve so long dwelt amid,—
I know I have been an annoyance and care
Like a naughty refractory kid.

But vain are regrets.—So why let them tend
Toward the past?—Let ill memories flee!
Yet this will I say: Dr. Nichols—Kind friend
I thank you for your kindness to me.
And I hope the Good Father who rules over all
By an all-wise and infinite plan
May guide and bless you, what e’re may befall—
And rich blessings send down to the San.

The San Poetess.

WE KNOW NOT WHY

’Tis true, to some
Good luck will come
As we go life’s path along;
While to others here
There’s naught of cheer,
And every thing goes wrong.

Yet we cannot know
Why it is so—
For a few there is peace complete;
The while for some
There is not a crumb
From the loaf of comfort sweet.

Some know not the turmoil
Of struggle and toil—
Yet there’s enough and to spare for those
Who can live at their ease
And do as they please—
And their crown is entwined with the rose.

While others there are
From near and afar
Who by “sweat of the brow” earn their bread;
And ’tis very sweet
To those who may eat
Who by their own efforts are fed.

As God made the rich
And poor alike which
Will be guarded and led not astray?
And which, do you ween,
Will wear the bright sheen
When they get to the end of the way?

To some he sends woe—
We know not why ’tis so—
But he chasteneth all more or less;
Where sorrow and strife
And burdens are rife,
These will He especially bless.

When o’er trials we sigh
To Him we should fly
Who doeth all things for the best;
When comes the release
There’ll be eternal peace
In that beautiful Haven of Rest.

Let the rich help the poor,—
Drive the wolf from the door—
In the sorrows of others take part;
And He will receive
All “ye who believe”
And come with a pure sinless heart.

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Table of Contents

- POEMS

- CONTENTS

- To my Beloved Sister Appey This little book is lovingly dedicated

- The Old State of Maine
- ALL THINGS SPEAK OF GOD
- WELCOME TO SUMMER
- ODE TO THE NORTHERN LIGHTS
- THE SONGS MY MOTHER SUNG (Dear Mother)

- IN MEMORY OF APPEY M. MERRILL Who Died Nov. 20th, 1903

- GOD IS LOVE AND WE SHALL KNOW
- A WINTER OUTING
- HOME IS WHERE THE HEART DWELLS
- THE MYSTIC RIVER
- LOVED ONES PASSED AWAY
- ADVENTURE OF A LOVER
- AS IT HAPPENED
- THE CAPTIVE BUTTERFLY (A true tale)
- WHAT WOULD THEY DO?
- COURAGEOUSNESS
- TALES THAT WERE TOLD
- BRAVERY
- THE MISSING LINK
- HE GOT LEFT

- THE JAY AND THE FROG

- Moral

- THE COTTAGE BY THE RIVER (Lines on a very old house situated on the west shore of the Nezinscot river, and some distance from any other dwelling.)

- THE POET TO THE ARTIST (To E. A. M.)
- THE TRAMP’S STORY
- ’TIS EASY TO GET MISTAKEN

- SONG OF A SUFFRAGETTE With apologies to A. P. S.

- Chorus
- Chorus
- Chorus
- Chorus

- RURAL DELIGHT

- LOOK UP (Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.)

- THE BURNING OF THE TURNER MILL
- CARPE DIEM
- A BACHELOR’S COMMENTS ON WOMEN’S RIGHTS
- WEALTH vs VIRTUE
- BE MERCIFUL
- SUNSHINE ON THE HILL
- YOUR REAL WEALTH
- CHANGEABLE
- PLEASURE
- TIME BRINGS CHANGES
- MAMMA’S STORY

- EVERY CLOUD HATH SILVER LINING (In response to “Pennies In The Box” by R. F. D. carrier No. 1, Buckfield.)

- DENNIS O’NEIL’S DREAM
- A LESSON WELL TAUGHT
- REMINISCENCE
- HUMOROUS

- ONWARD FOR FREEDOM AND RIGHT (Written at the time of the Spanish-American War.)

- A MYSTERY EXPLAINED
- A BIRTHDAY GREETING
- ALL’S WELL THAT ENDETH WELL

- A TALE FROM MOUNTAIN GRANGE [This poem was written for, and read at the first meeting held after the completion of the new grange hall at North Buckfield, Nov. 1st, 1904. The poem was founded on facts, but in order to be more amusing for the occasion the incidents were, of course, somewhat exaggerated by the author, who was also a member of Mountain Grange.]

- SONG OF THE GRANGERS’ (Written for Mountain Grange)

- UNCLE JOE’S SOLILOQUY
- WHEN DADDY ROCKS THE KID
- STOP TALKIN’

- A YULE-TIDE MISSIVE To my dear friend:—E. L. F.

- THE HUNTER
- THE POETRY MACHINE
- OCTOBER
- TO MARY
- THE WINDS DO BLOW
- FAREWELL TO THE SAN
- WE KNOW NOT WHY
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE