The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. 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 file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL [Illustration: Colophon: pine tree.] “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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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.” [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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_!” [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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.” [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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!” [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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_! [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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! [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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!_ [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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!” [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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! [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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! [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _’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! [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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? [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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.” [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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_! [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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_. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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.” [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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_! [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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! [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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! [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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!” [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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!_ [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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.” [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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_! [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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! [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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! [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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._ [Illustration: decorative bar.] _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. [Illustration: decorative bar.] *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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