1525 \2 BARE-FOOT DAY/ AND OTHER POEMS G. MADISON MAXWELL One Thousand Nine Hundred and Fourteen Copyright, 1914, BY G. Madison Maxwell JUL !6 1914 ©CI. A3 7668 i IN presenting this little volume to the public, the author does not claim any literary merit for the poems, but simply presents them as his random thoughts in verse, and hopes that those who read them will derive some pleasure therefrom. The Author. TO ALL THE MARYS IN GENERAL BUT TO THE ONE MARY IN PARTICULAR WHO WAS BRAVE ENOUGH TO CHANGE HER NAME TO THAT OF THE AUTHOR, THESE VERSES ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BARE-FOOT DAYS AND OTHER POEMS BARE-FOOT DAYS As I sit to-night I'm thinking of the days that used to be, Memory unto memory linking as it all comes back to me; How my thoughts to-night are rooted to the time of boyhood days When we always went barefooted and were fond of boyhood's ways. I remember well the front yard where the ball ground used to be, Where we played at fox and goose between the elm and cherry tree. I remember, too, the meadows where with Heck we chased the hare, And the woods all wrapt in shadows which to enter we'd not dare. I remember well the cow-house where on rainy days we played, Where we chased the rat and dormouse which behind the boxes stayed. Then, on bright days to the woodlands we would lengthy rambles take, Where we played that we were Indians and would burn our foes at stake ; There with feathers in our headgear and our hatchets in our belts, We would organize in parties and would hunt each other's pelts. Then with fishing hook and tackle to the creek we would repair, Where we mostly caught the minnow, though 't was said that eels were there. Then, when all besmirched and muddy, from the sole of foot to crown, But with faces bright and ruddy we would hurry back to town. How we'd gobble down the hot rolls with the butter melted in, And devour the little fishes, caring naught for bone or fin. Then, when evening's work was over and we all had gathered in, How we loved to sit by Mother as she'd mend our clothes, and spin [ 5 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems Yarns to us of old Br'er Rabbit and the many things he'd do; Or of Joseph's colored habit and of Daniel brave and true. Then, when little eyes were heavy and the evening prayer was said, We'd repair for dreamless slumber to our little trundle bed. Those were happy days and joyous, gone to come again no more, With no troubles to annoy us, but true happiness galore. So to-night my thoughts are rooted to the time of childhood days When we always went barefooted and were fond of boyhood's ways. [ 6 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems THE LAND OF MAKE-BELIEVE Have you ever gone a roamin' to the Land of Make-believe, Sat a while beneath its cloisters at the cooling of the eve, Drunk your fill out of the fountain springing from the charmed earth, Seen the little childish faces, full of laughter, romp, and mirth? 'T is a funny little kingdom, or republic, if you please, As the king who rules the people there is never at his ease ; To-day he holds a scepter and to-morrow he's a clown, And to-day he lives in mansions that to-morrow are torn down. 'T is a wild and woolly kingdom, full of lions, apes, and bears, Tho' the sofa is the lion and the apes are rocking chairs ; But the terror on their faces and the way they cry and squeal, Makes you know the little people think the awful things are real. 'T is a busy little hamlet, full of thrift and steady work, And the little men and women never will a duty shirk, Though the hobby is a plough horse and the poker is a plough, And although the floor is polished, they will break it up somehow. There the flower pot's a washtub, and no matter if it leaks, Leaving little streams of soap suds all about the floor in streaks ; Mother's dressing sack is dirty and the dirt just won't come out, And the little washer-woman keeps on rubbing it about. There a bottle is a little babe with a nipple for a cap, And the little mother sits and holds it gently on her lap, Pats it softly on the shoulder, as she hugs it to her breast, And e'er so softly humming sings the little babe to rest. T is a quiet little kingdom, when the evening shadows creep, For the little washer-woman and the nurse are both asleep ; The little ploughman rests his head upon the lion's mane, And there's perfect rest and quiet in this kingdom of the brain. [ 7 ) Barefoot Days; and Other Poems Come and go with me this evening to the Land of Make-believe, Put away your cares and troubles and Old Grouch behind you leave, Make believe your work is pleasure, and your wife a real queen, Make believe you're rich as Crcesus and are what you might have been. Just one evening in this country will refresh you, oh, so much, You'll be livened up and brightened by the little peoples' touch ; So, whene'er in life's great battle all your fondest hopes deceive, Drop it all, and go a roamin' to the Land of Make-believe. [ 8 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems WHEN I GO HOME When I go home, Oh ! will it not be joy To tread the ways I trod when but a boy, And see the old, old places in the town, With ivy growing 'round and fences down? When I go home, Oh! will it not be sweet To walk at leisure down the crooked street That winds all in and out among the trees, Where lazy cattle browse, so much at ease? When I go home, Oh! with what joy to greet The old familiar faces on the street, To feel the old hand-shake and word of cheer Of those old boyhood friends to me so dear! When I go home, Oh ! will it not be bliss To feel my mother's warm and welcome kiss, To sit down in the old split-bottom chair, And have a chat with all the loved ones there? When I go home, but Ah ! the fairy's flown, Though to have held her I'd give all I own. My fancy's dreams are foolish, every one, With crooked streets, and friends, and mother, gone. [ 9 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems THE CALL OF THE WILD Do you ever feel within That you really are akin To the bees and birds and squirrels in the wood? Feel the call to wander out To the woods and roam about, Come too strong to be resisted if you would? Do you ever seem to hear Voices whisper in your ear That the fish are waiting for you in the brock? And it's all that you can do, If to nature you are true, To let rest another day your line and hook? Does it ever seem to you That the world is very blue. And that life is not worth living, after all? And you'd give it all away For the pleasure of one day Just to list to nature's voice and hear her call? If you've had such thoughts as these Whispered to you by the breeze, And with them your lonely hours you have beguiled, Don't get worried, thinking you Have a brain not working true, For 't is nothing but the calling of the wild. 'T is the faint but sweet echo Of the days of long ago When your spirit, in another form than this, Wandered 'round upon the earth, Full of happiness and mirth, In a realm of perfect happiness and bliss ; E'er that sin had come with toil, Joy and happiness to spoil, And e'er the devil on the earth had trod; When man lived the simple life With no jealousy and strife, And communed with nature and with nature's God. [ 10 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems THE BLESSED GIFT Rest? Is it rest you seek, dear heart of mine; As daily toil and care make you to pine For easier things, and freedom from the care And trouble that surround you everywhere? Rest? Is it rest your tired body needs, As on the weary road you toil, that leads To nothing but more toil as you plod on Until your feeble strength is almost gone? Rest? Is it rest from daily care you crave; Rest, that your tired, wasted form will save From little cares and frets of daily life, And save you from life's noisy, bloody strife? Rest? Is it rest you seek? Rest from the load Which rests so heavy on you ; from the goad That spurs you on to greater toil and speed, Is rest from these the one good gift you need? Ah ! 'T is not rest you need, dear tired soul, But strength, to help along toward the goal Some feebler soul than thou, who needs a lift, And helping him you find the blessed gift. [ 11 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems NATURE'S BALM Are you tired or feeling lazy? Does your work most run you crazy? Do you have a kind of longing for the outdoor life and sports? Do your thoughts go wandering ever To the woods and to the river, And you try to do your work but can't because you're out of sorts ? Does your mind at times go wandering, As alone you're sitting, pondering O'er the many heavy trials that beset you in this life; And you wish that you had never Left your home up on the river, And come down into the city with its many ills and strife? Do you sit for hours blinking At your work, and idly thinking Of the dear old childhood days, when all alone with line and hook You'd go gladly out a fishing, And would sit for hours, wishing That an eel would come along and get the baits the crayfish took? Just quit work and wander out, All alone, and walk about, Catch a glimpse of nature in the garb she dons in early spring. Keep your mind prepared to feel All that nature may reveal, So, you're sure to catch the lesson that to you she wants to bring. She will meet you there in quiet, And will feed your soul on diet That is richer than the richest food to mortals ever given; She will soothe your troubled spirit With a draught of living spirit More refreshing than the water from the rock by Moses riven. You'll forget your care and sorrow, And feel better on the morrow, When again you take upon yourself the humdrum work of life; You'll feel bright instead of lazy, And your work be made more easy, By the time you've spent with nature, far away from noise and strife. [ 12 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS "Old Santa Claus is comin' here 'Fore long," my mama said, An' gave us all a hug an' kiss An' tucked us in the bed. She says his back is breakin' with The weight of sweets an' toys He every Christmas carries to The little girls an' boys Who always mind their mamas well, An' try hard to be good, An' help their mamas make the fires, An' carry in the wood; But, mama says, he never comes To see the boys that's bad; Because when we are naughty boys Old Santa Claus gets mad; An' when he sees our stockings hang, His mouth he kinder twitches To one side, an' says, "No sir ree !" Then fills 'em full of switches. So I am goner be real good An' do what mama says, An' keep my eye on little Sis As she crawls 'round and plays ; I'll carry in the stove wood, too, An' rock Sis when she cries, An' carry Grandma kindling wood, An' brush away the flies That always bother Grandma so Whene'er she goes to sup Her tea, an' then old Santa Claus Will fill my stocking up With every kind of sweets an' toys An' things you've ever seen ; Because my mama'll tell him what A good, good boy I've been. But after Christmas, I'll jes tell Mama that I was bluffin' Old Santa Claus, an' foolin' her, An' then I won't do nothin'. [ 13 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems CHRISTMAS DOUBTS If Santa Claus was what they say he is, Was on his job, and 'tended to his bis', There'd be no use of merchants buying toys An' dolls an' sleds for little girls and boys. You can't fool me or make me really think That any man who lives on food and drink Can squeeze himself into a chimney flue And bring a lot of sleds and trinkets, too. If I could somehow plan to keep awake, I'd sure find out if Santa was a fake, I'd sit all night and watch the chimney flue, And catch the sly old elf if he came through. But sure as Christmas comes my eyes are lead, And 'fore it's hardly dark I'm off to bed, And Christmas morn when I get out of bed All hangin' there's my ball and toys and sled. And how's a fellow ever goner know? So I say, after all, just "let her go," As long as I get sleds and toys enough I'll let Old Santa work his cunning bluff. [ 14 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems MOTHERHOOD A man may boast of mighty deeds From dawn to setting sun, And dream of war and prancing steeds, And battles nobly won, While woman, walking by his side, Boasts naught of worldly good, But wears upon her head with pride The crown of motherhood. Oh, diadem ! Oh, crown of crowns ! Oh, mingled joys and pains, What peace is thine, what wealth one owns, Who such an honor gains. Can worldly wealth or social stand, Or any earthly good, Such joy and peace and love command As simple motherhood? Ah, no, 't is not in pomp and war, Or mart or busy street, Nor in the pulpit, at the bar, The greatest joys we meet; But simply toiling in the home, Tho' oft misunderstood, 'T is there the sweetest joy will come — The joy of motherhood. I 15 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems TO A FLY ON MY WINDOW PANE What makes you crawl, you little thing, Straight up the window pane, Then circle round a tiny ring, And then crawl down again? What brought you from your winter's bed, Where snug and warm you've lain, And makes you fret and bruise your head Against my window pane? How know you 't is not cold outside As 'twas a month ago? How know you but there may betide You wintry winds or snow? You best had wait a while and see That spring has come, indeed ; Or else by cold benumbed you'll be And birds on you will feed. But no, you fuss and fume the more, And buzz and rear and pout, And lest you make yourself quite sore, I guess I'll let you out. You're gone ; as straight as arrow's flight You've pierced the balmy air, Until you've passed quite out of sight, And still go buzzing there. Had I the faith that you've displayed The call of God to hear, Had I your courage, undismayed To do and never fear; I'd triumph over every ill, And overcome each care, Peace would my troubled bosom fill And reign serenely there. [ 16] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems THE BOOK OF LIFE Such a wonderful book is the Book of Life, As we study it day after day; On its pages are written the annals of years, Now radiant with joy, now soiled with tears, As it tells of our hopes and our sorrows and fears, From our birth till our temples are gray. There's a chapter that tells us of our babyhood, And the mother who cared for us then; How she worked for us always and gave us our food, And would tell us great tales not as yet understood, Of how goblins would get us unless we were good, Ere that we became women and men. There's a chapter that tells of our romping school days, And our comrades who played with us there ; Of the boys who were older and rough in their plays, Of the fishing and hunting and gay holidays, Of our sweethearts so truthful and faithful always, With their curls and their soft wavy hair. There's a chapter comes next full of sorrow and gloom, And is not bright and gay as the rest; They are talking in whispers out in the next room, And are walking on tiptoe as softly they come, For a mother is taken in midst of life's bloom, And with sobbing and tears laid to rest. There's a chapter that tells of the gay college life, When we left the old home for a while; When with mischief and frolicsome fun we were rife, When our life was a mixture of school books and strife, With professors and fresh and the President's wife, Lonely hours with such pranks we'd beguile. [ 17 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems There's a chapter comes next full of grandeur and bliss, And it reads to us now like a dream ; We are strolling alone with a sweet little miss, Some soft words are spoken and sealed with a kiss, And we're sure that no others e'er loved like this, And our troubles as trifles now seem. Then the story runs on into busy mid-life, When the cares of the home weight us down; When our features are marred by the combat and strife, For the sake of the home and the child and the wife, And we think what monotonous drudge is our life, And our foreheads are furrowed with frown. There's a chapter that tells of the dear little boy Who was loaned to us just for a while; And our hearts were so merry and bursting with joy, And for his sole amusement our time we'd employ, But he's gone to where troubles and cares ne'er annoy, And we've nothing left now but his smile. But the years hasten on as a tale that is told, And the gray hairs appear on the brow ; The proud shoulders so straight and so manly of old, Have been drooped by the work in the heat and the cold, And with arms weak but loving our dear ones we hold, For we're slipping away from them now. The old grandfather sits by grandma as she knits, And they dream of the days past and gone; They are living again the old days as they sit, And their memories from present to olden scenes flit, As they place them together now little by bit, And forget that they're living alone. Then the last chapter tells of grim Death at the door, And he claims the frail forms as his own ; But the spirits immortal soar on to the shore Where the trials and cares ne'er molest any more, And the loved ones are waiting who've gone on before, There to place on our foreheads the crown. [ 18 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems A WORD TO THE WISE A lassie fair With golden hair, Sat on a rustic seat; The river bright With pale moonlight Rolled just beneath her feet. Then came a lad Who from his dad Had managed to escape, And asked this girl With golden curl If he might share her cape. "O yes," she said, All blushing red, For she was out for fun, The boy was, too, So objects two Soon changed to object one. The father old That night grew cold, And waked up from his dream, He thought he would, To warm his blood, Walk down and see the stream. With eyes a-glare And straightened hair, He then approached the seat, Where lad and lass, In fond embrace, Enjoyed communion sweet. [ 19 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems As to the end Of this, my friend, I know you have surmised; Suffice to say That to this day The lesson they have prized. Now all you girls With golden curls, And girls with auburn hair, Remember well This tale I tell, And never, never dare To let a lad Who from his dad By stealth at night escapes, Persuade you girls With flowing curls To let him share your capes. [ 20 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems SHADOW GOBLINS Ain't it snug an' warm an' restful When you're snugly tucked in bed, An' the cover's pulled up over, ('Cept there ain't none on your head), An' you feel so safe an' good-like 'Cause your prayers have done been said? But you don't want Ma to leave you; (Not because you're scared at all), 'Cause you see the big dark shadows Dancin' ghost-like on the wall, An' they look so much like goblins That they make your feelin's crawl. 'Course you know there ain't no goblins; 'Cause your ma she tells you so, As she smoothes down nice the cover An' turns aroun' to go, But, the cook says there is goblins, An' the cook she oughter know. So you lie an' watch the goblins As they run along the wall ; Some's as big as all creation, An' then some is very small, But they gather close an' closer As the blazes rise an' fall. Then the darkness gathers deeper An' the goblins closer creep, Until you cover up your head An' don't e'en dare to peep ; But 'fore you hardly know it, You have fallen off to sleep. [ 21 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems MONEY If I but had the money that is wasted every day, And thrown away for foolishness and every sort of way, I could use it in so many, many wiser, better ways, And could give the poor, downtrodden ones so many happy days. If I but had the money which is laid up in the banks, And hoarded, Oh, so carefully by all the moneyed cranks, I could use it in so many, many thousand little ways That would make the world go singing and its days all golden days. If I but had the money that is spent for useless things, Plumes for ladies' hats, and bracelets, and for diamond studs and rings, I could educate so many, many homeless little boys, And make the friendless ones to know a thousand little joys. No, if I had the money that is hoarded up or spent By those who deal in trifles and are on mere pleasure bent, I fear that I would spend as they or hoard it in my purse, And instead of bringing blessing, it would prove to me a curse. So I'll use to best advantage the little that I've got, And obey the wise injunction, "Be contented with your lot," Ne'er grieving at the proud and rich nor envying them a bit, For as sure as you love money, you'll be damned by means of it. [ 22] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems TO "LITTLE MOTHER" I think of you to-day; and thinking, Memory takes me, soaring on her wings, Back to bygone days ; and linking Little words and acts of kindness, brings Your face before me now as first I saw it, Clear and bright as artist pen could draw it, Bending o'er my mother's wasted form, Calmly resting there upon your arm. I think of you to-day; and thinking, Ah ! how many thousand little things, Passed long since, when I, a shrinking, Timid lad, first felt the aches and stings Of thoughtless words ; first knew the joy and gladness Of words of praise, dispelling all the sadness, Come to-day to make me think of you, Standing by your boys, as comrade true. I think of you to-day; and thinking, Autumn breezes whisper to me now Of crimsoned leaves of Fall; and drinking In the glory of it all, your brow Appears unto me now, with autumn's glory Stamped upon it, and your head, now hoary, Sheds its blessing still upon me here, As you linger till the frosts appear. [ 23 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems HARVEST HOME The autumn days are here again, with all their grand display Of chinquapins and chestnuts, and the leaves so bright and gay. The flowers are gone from hill and vale, and everywhere instead, Are swaying in the autumn breeze around and overhead, The yellow leaves of hickory trees, the crimson of the gum, The variegated maple leaves where shadows go and come, All blushing in their various tints where kissed by frosty breeze, And mingling all in harmony, the sense of sight to please. The flowers come to cheer our hearts with colors bright and gay, But even as we look at them we know they'll fade away; For they are but the heralds glad, who go before and sing Of all the pomp and grandeur of the noble Harvest King. What if the flowers are dead and gone ; why should we mourn for them, When hanging from the boughs we see on every leafy stem The beauteous fruit of every sort, the hungry world to cheer, And hanging in the harvest field the ripe corn in the ear? And then I think of one who reached her three score years and ten, And blossomed full of deeds of love, and bore full fruit, and then Was gathered by the reaper Death, and gently carried o'er, To mingle at the harvest feast with those who went before. I see her first in bloom of youth and then a fair young bride, And then in time of motherhood, and grandma full of pride ; 'T is not unfit that such an one should hear the Master's voice, And in her death we cannot weep, but only can rejoice. [ 24 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems GOLDENROD FRIENDSHIP Of all the flowers that scent the air, And raise their heads to God; To me the sweetest anywhere Is simple goldenrod. In early spring the violets And lilacs scent the air, And 'long the walks and parapets Are flowering everywhere. But when the autumn comes apace, And blows her chilling breath Upon these flowers, so full of grace, They lay them down in death. 'T is then that 'long the paths and lanes, Where men and beasts have trod, And scattered o'er the breezy plains We see the goldenrod, In all her beauty shining out, Defying wintry air; Her petals waving in and out, A golden harvest, rare. And so our friendships strong and true And registered with God, Are never chilled by autumn wind, But like the goldenrod, Are only fanned to blossom bright By autumn's chilling breath, And blossom fuller in the light Beyond the vale of death. [ 25 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems -LIZA MAY AND BEN We've got no chillun of our own, We lost the one we had, And so we got this little un To try and make us glad. We got him from the orphans' home, And almost every day My Liza sends for me to come And watch the young un play. She says he looks like Liza May, And plays just like her, too, And clings around her neck the way That Liza May would do. She sets and looks at him each day, And cries and laughs by turns, As he runs 'round about his play And she sets by and churns. He has a cunnin' little way O' rollin' up his eyes, And comes a runnin' from his play And hugs her when she cries. He's twined his-self around her heart Just like he was a vine, And like a donkey to a cart, He's hitched his-self to mine. Of course we love our Liza May Just like we used to do ; But in our hearts, some sort of way, There's room enough for two ; And when we meet upon that shore, We four, I think that then We'll love our Liza May the more For having loved our Ben. [ 26 ] Barefoot Da y s; and Other Poems ON TO RICHMOND! On to Richmond ! On to Richmond ! Sounds the call now as of yore; On to Richmond ! On to Richmond ! See, she stands with open door. Not by hostile bands surrounded, Nor by enemies oppressed, But mid peace and joy unbounded She awaits the coming guest. On to Richmond! There you're welcome, Soldiers of the cause that lost, Welcomed there by sons and daughters Of your still unconquered host. On to Richmond ! There are waiting Comrades dear of long ago, All your deeds of might relating As they're strolling to and fro, Arm in arm as in the sixties, When you walked the sentry's beat, Proud, erect, as faithful sentries, Disregarding cold and heat. On to Richmond ! There are waiting, Silently, your comrades brave, Who have fallen in the conflict, In the hero's honored grave. On to Richmond! On, ye veterans, Hoary headed, battle scarred, Wearing still your stripes and chevrons, Won in sixties when ye warred. On to Richmond ! Hear the yelling ! Give again the "Rebel shout," Cheer your comrades in the marching, One by one they're falling out; Joining Lee, and Hill, and Jackson, Where the strife is ever o'er; Where the bugle call and tocsin Silenced are forever more. [ 27 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems TO THE "UNKNOWN" DEAD IN EAST HILL CEMETERY You who so peacefully repose beneath this hallowed sod, While gently waves above you here the fluffy goldenrod, Can anything that I may do Bring back the bloom of youth to you, Or wipe away death's chilling dew, As on my way I plod? How gladly would I share with you the joys I have each day, And give you back the fresh young life our country took away, With you I suffer, bleed, and die, And flowing tears bedim my eye E'en yet, when I see marching by The men who wore the gray. You once enjoyed, as I do now, the bloom and strength of youth, And stood for what you knew was right, freedom of thought and truth ; But now o'er you the grass has grown, On your tomb the word "Unknown," And this is all the wealth you own, Who died for our own South. Perhaps as you lie sleeping here, in some far distant state A sister and a sweetheart sit and wait, and wait, and wait ; Yet hear no word of cheer from you, Who wore the gray, and were so true To sister and to sweetheart, too, Still watching at the gate. But now, as loved ones far away still wait for you in vain, As one by one the years roll on in one continuous chain; I'll shed a sympathizing tear With them, for you who slumber here, Who fought and died and knew no fear, Though racked with mortal pain. [ 28 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems WHO? WHO? The reason, you see, The owl in the tree Is thought to be wondrous wise, As he mopes all day With nothing to say, Is not all from the look in his eyes. For, when you're asleep, Keenest watch he'll keep On the chickens all housed and fed; Next day, think of that, He's grown very fat On your breakfast while you were in bed. You may how and why, As you whimper and cry, While the owl says nothing but who? With him it's not how, Nor why just now, But who will this tiresome task do? You'll learn, take my word, From this wise old bird Much of wisdom as years go by. Like him, so will you Learn to say who, who? And stop saying how, when, and why. [ 29 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems A TOAST— DEAR OLD VIRGINIA Here's to Virginia, dear Old Virginia, Who cultivates all the best within you, But drops you at once if she's aught "agin" you That's any way shady at all. Here's to the country of Jackson and Lee, The land of the brave and true and free, The birthplace and homeland of you and me, Protector of one and all. Here's to the land of "The Old Dominion," The dearest old land to the native Virginian, No matter at all what the other's opinion, She stands as the foremost State. Here's to the land where maidens are fair, Where hearts are the lightest and know no care, Where bright smiles are freest and frowns are rare, On the faces of small and great. Here's to Virginia, the grand old State, Whose portals are open early and late To welcome the stranger within the gate, From whatever land they come. Here's to Virginia, the land so fair, With lakes and forests and peaks in air, The best old land that's anywhere — Virginia ! The ideal home ! [ 30 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems OUT TO OLD BELLE AIR Spring In spring when balmy breezes blow, To melt away the winter's snow, 'T is O, so pleasant then to go Out to Old Belle Air ; To walk beside the babbling brook With fishing rod and line and hook, Or in the shade with some good book, To spend the hours there. Summer When summer's heat has parched the ground, And clouds of dust go floating 'round, There's not a place that can be found To vie with Old Belle Air ; Where ever blows the cooling breeze Among the hillocks and the trees ; Where sing the birds and hum the bees, Among the blossoms rare. Autumn When autumn breezes chill the air, And trees are flecked with colors rare, There's not a place that can compare With dearest Old Belle Air; Where glows the cheering firelight, Dispelling gloomy shades of night, And beam the kindly faces bright Of friends and dear ones there. Winter When comes at last the winter's snow, And sharp and strong the chill winds blow, 'T is still so pleasant then to go Out to Old Belle Air ; [ 31 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems Where burn the cheerful fires still, To drive away the winter's chill, And all your soul with comfort fill And put contentment there. No matter what the season be, 'T is always very sweet to me From daily toil and care to flee Out to Old Belle Air; Where always hangs the old latch string Outside the door, from Spring to Spring, And all year long the glad hearts sing, Out to Old Belle Air. OLD RAG DOLL I love to play with Mary Jane, who has a curly head, I love to cut out paper dolls from paper blue and red, But when the shadows gather and the slumber goblins call, The closest friend I have then is my old rag doll. She has no curls upon her head, her face is dirty, too, And yet she has a curious way of getting close to you, And when it comes to good looks, she isn't there at all, But for real downright lovin', give me my old rag doll. She's got no use for frills and lace and all those sort of things, She never cracks her head and feet and tears of sorrow brings, But simply dressed in calico, she calmly watches all, And nothing ever seems to fret my old rag doll. I love Old Santa when he brings me china dolls and beds, And lots of little wax dolls with eyes and curly heads, But, after all, I'm sure I love Old Santa best of all Because he brought me Christmas my old rag doll. [ 32 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems "LOVE" What makes me smile whene'er I meet A certain maiden on the street, As hastily she passes on, And in a moment she is gone, Escaping through the door? What makes me sit for hours at night Before the fading firelight, And count the sparks, as one by one They flicker up and then are gone? What is it, I implore? Then, when with her I sit and chat, What makes my heart go pit-a-pat, My brain go swimming like a leaf, Or wavelets breaking on a reef Along the rocky shore? What is this feeling so divine, Which makes my heart for her heart pine, And makes me feel when her I see That Heaven is very close to me? T is love, and nothing more. [ 33 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems AT EVENTIDE Hast ever stood in quiet mood Out in a garden fair, When sinking low, the sun's bright glow Shed radiance everywhere? Hast seen the rose as red it glows, The violets and pinks, Reflecting aye the sun's bright ray As night about them sinks? Hast stood upon the sandy beach And watched the coming tide, And seen as far as eye could reach The wavelets side by side? Each one reflecting from within The light upon it shed, And making all a glorious sheen Of pink and green and red? Just so our lives, as here we go, Reflect the light of love Shed on us mortals here below From heaven's bright dome above ; Until at eventide we may A purer light behold ; The bright and all-celestial ray Of pure and burnished gold, Reflecting from the calm, still face Of Him, our Lamp and Guide, Still beaming out His love and grace To us at eventide. [ 34 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems YOKED WITH THE MASTER 'Come unto Me," the Master's voice is calling, 'All ye that labor," 'neath sin's yoke so galling, 'And heavy laden are, and sore oppressed, Come unto Me, and I will give you rest. 'Take my yoke upon your shoulders torn By Satan's cruel yoke, you long have borne, And learn of Me the way to wear aright The yoke, and make the burden seem so light. 'My yoke is easy and I walk beside You, and your erring steps will always guide, So that, although the road be rough and steep, We'll never wander into darkness deep. 'My burden, too, is light, because the yoke Fits snugly, and the roughnesses are broke By leaning hard against your comrade nigh, As thus we pull together, you and I." [ 35 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems "CONSIDER THE LILIES" "Consider the lilies, how they grow," They labor not nor spin ; And yet your Father them doth clothe The freshest garments in ; So that with kings and princes they In dress may well compare, Although they never worry them Nor fret themselves with care. If God so clothes the lilies fair That grow out in the field ; If He their every cry doth hear And them from harm doth shield, Shall He not clothe your form and mine, And raiment fit provide For those who on His bosom lean Or walk close by His side? "Consider the lilies, how they grow," When earthly cares molest; God watches o'er you and should know All that for you is best ; And if you on His goodness lean, Just as the lilies do, Like them He'll make you white and clean, And pure, and care-free, too. [ 36 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems PEACE "Not as the world giveth Give I to you peace," For while the world liveth Strife shall never cease. But they who live by sword and gun Shall perish thereby one by one, Yet think when every battle's won They at last have peace. "Not as the world giveth Give I to you peace," But my home in Glory Holds for you surcease Of strife. With all in glory there You shall your robes of whiteness wear, And there with joyful songs appear With the Prince of Peace. "Not as the world giveth Give I to you peace," But who by Me liveth Lives in joy and ease; And though by Satan wounded sore, Shall triumph o'er him more and more, And win when every battle 's o'er, Heavenly, perfect peace. [ 37 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems WHERE JESUS WALKED IN GALILEE Were I in Galilee to-day Where Jesus used to be, And Jesus in America, The land of liberty; Would I do now as He did then, And He as I do now? Would I trust all God's promises And to His wisdom bow? Or would I there still wayward be, Where Jesus walked in Galilee? Could I dwell in the cottage there Where Jesus used to dwell, And sit upon His mother's knee As she to me would tell, Just as in olden times she told To Him, God's wondrous love, Would those sweet words of hers so true My life to great things move? Or would I there a sluggard be, Where Jesus walked in Galilee? Is it the place that one is born That makes a life like His? Or is it how a man is raised? No, this is what it is : 'T is God that dwells within the man And forms His image there, And living thus within his soul, Transforms the character; And this is why, it seems to me, Christ lived so pure in Galilee. So, if I'd live as Jesus lived, From sin entirely free, I only have to let His God Come down and dwell in me; [ 38 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems So day by day I'll stronger be And more like Jesus grow, Until with love and joy and peace My heart will overflow, And so my land like that will be, Where Jesus walked in Galilee. A TOAST TO THE VIRGINIAN RAILROAD Here's to that double Band of Steel Which 'merging from the wave-washed shore Of our own State, now seems to feel Itself with vigor running o'er, And mounting up, and higher still, Speeds ever onward through our State, Now dodging 'round the small foothill, Now piercing through the mountain great, Until itself is lost to view Among the mountain fastnesses, But ever tells to me and you Of their great wealth. How vast it is ! Then gliding from their summits high, Speeds ever onward in its zest, And forms another stronger tie To bind together East and West. I 39 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems THE YOUNG MINISTER'S PRAYER Guide me, O Lord, as Thou didst guide The three wise men of old ; That naught of ill my steps betide, As I lead to the fold The lambs o'er which Thou placest me, And give me power and might That I may lead them safe to Thee And save them from the night. Help me, Lord, to fix mine eye Upon that radiant star That shines above Thy holy head And sheds its radiance far Out o'er the path my feet may tread, As home I lead Thy sheep ; And when within the fold they're safe, Lord, do Thou by them keep. Teach me, O Lord, Thy way to know So simply and so well, That when my feet too feeble grow To lead, I then may tell To younger shepherds of the way, And with them in Thy fold, Lay precious jewels at Thy feet, As wise men did of old. [ 40 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems "THY WILL BE DONE" Were it to come to pass that I should find My Father's hand, that always was so kind, Turned dead against me, cruel in His might, I'd not believe myself, but pray for light. That I might be empowered to look beyond The human pale, and see Him far too fond Of all His creatures here to cause one pain, Unless it were some noble end to gain. And so I shut my mind against the thought That any dispensation by Him wrought Could be a mere display of power and might, And close my eyes, and pray for light. O, give me light, that I may learn to know That He, from whom all earthly blessings flow, Brings mighty tempests that the sailors dread, Yet watches o'er a sparrow when it's dead. And with that light will come the power to see A hand of love, in all Thou sendest me, And power to help me when the battle's won With self, to say, "Thy will be done." [ 41 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems OUR LITTLE MAN Calm as in sleep, your little face Lies wreathed in its cap of lace, And o'er your features not a trace Of any care or sorrow; No fear of death can there be found, Nor horror of the chilly ground, And little flower-covered mound Where you will lie to-morrow. Can there be in your little mind Some knowledge of the care and grind That you've escaped or left behind, Which makes you seem contented? Or can it be that you were made, Like some fair flower, to bloom and fade, And leave us, in your little glade By your sweet fragrance scented? We built great castles in the air For you, our little darling fair, As sleeping in your cradle there You rocked away and grew ; And little garments made and pressed Were laid together in the chest, By many mother-kisses blest, All waiting there for you. But God is good and God is true, And we know that His great mind knew What destiny He'd planned for you In His all-glorious plan ; And so, with hearts full to the brim, And eyes with many teardrops dim, We simply give you back to Him, Our precious Little Man. [ 42 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems SHUT IN I often think of you, as onward goes The tide of years, And struggling with the surf of human woes, To me appears Your smiling face, set like a beacon guide, And then all fears Are buried as the wreckage by the tide. I often think of you, as by me throng The sorrow free, The aged joining gaily with the young In Christmas glee, And then your smiling face, ne'er free from pain, Points out to me The road to Bethlehem and makes it plain. I often think of you, as there shut in Your little sphere, You bear the pain the Master sends and then Dispense good cheer ; And with the thought will come the strength to win The coming year Some greater victory o'er the power of sin. There's ne'er a sorrow, however great, But humbly borne will bless us, soon or late, And seldom joy shed by the morning light But brings a flood of tears before the night. I 43 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems HE LEADETH ME He leadeth me! O blessed thought is this; That as I travel o'er life's rugged road And stagger oft beneath its heavy load, He holds my hand and keeps it safe in His. He leadeth me — in pastures green perhaps; And as I roam beside the waters still He comforts me with cheering words, until He all my heart and soul with love enwraps. He leadeth me, when doubts and fears assail Me, on the upward climb of life's dark path, And cloud and tempest pour their meed of wrath Upon me, and in agony I quail. He leadeth me, when through death's vale I go ; And as I feel the chilling waters creep Upon me, then I ask Him please to keep My hand in His, and lead me ever so. He leadeth me, till Heaven's bright gate I see ; And as we pass the angel sentry by, He'll never stop to ask me how and why I go within; because, He leadeth me. [ 44 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems PASSING We are strong and full of vim, Fleet of foot and lithe of limb, But alas! The years, like fleeting sparks, Leave upon us little marks As they pass. Days of joy and love and hope Hand us out our little dope, Which we quaff. Then we run and jump and spring Till a care's a trifling thing At which we laugh. So the vim and strength of youth Bear us on until, forsooth, Ere we think, We have reached the border land, Where we stand with trembling hand On the brink. Just a little breath of wind, That in youth we wouldn't mind, Strikes us then, And a little mound of grass Marks the spot to those who pass Where we've been. Yet, this world is not our home, And we only go and come As the snow ; We are simply pilgrims passing, And there's joy all else surpassing Where we go. [45 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems A BABE— A METEOR Whence came your form and feature, You little dimpled creature? And whence the radiant smile Our laughter to beguile? The form is by some angel given, The feature by thy God was graven, The smile is but a ray from heaven To bless us for a while. But why our hopes thus blighted, As if by Heaven slighted? And why so soon away, You little heavenly ray? Like meteor from the heavens you came To light us by your little flame, And passing, left us but a name And memories of your stay. But would we, had we power, Detain you for an hour? Or would we check your flight Out through the realms of night? There, twinkling as a little star, Up in the heavenly depths you are, Your radiance beaming from afar To guide our steps aright. [ 46 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems JUST A WORD 'T is in my heart to say some word to ease The burden that I know so heavy rests Upon you now, as to your lips is pressed The cup of sorrow, and to bring surcease Of pain and anguish as you struggle on Until your failing strength is almost gone. 'T is in my heart to whisper in your ear Some little word of sympathy and love, Which, falling like a blessing from above, May fill your heart with joy and hope and cheer, And send you on along life's changing road, Singing a song as on you rests the load. 'T is in my heart to sing some little song Of by-gone days, some song with mem'ries rife Of youth and courting days, of martial strife, Of married bliss and home, and thus to throng Your mind with all of these enchanting thoughts And banish all your pain and care and doubts. 'T is in my heart to whisper just one word, So full of love and joy and peace and rest, So full of hope, so full of power and zest, That sorrow flees whene'er that name is heard, And carries with it all our load, and frees us — The hallowed, ever blessed name of Jesus. [ 47 ] Barefoot Days; and Other Poems DEVELOPMENT Hiding in the seeping cave, Stranger to hair-cut or shave, Fearing storm or ocean wave; Ape-like beings here have trod, All of man and none of God. Dwelling in the open field, Tilling land that it may yield Food to eat and cloth to shield; Thrifty beings homeward plod, Less of man and more of God. Dwellings built of stone or wood, Bidding ships convey his food, Striving for his brother's good, Neatly clothed and neatly shod ; Still less man and still more God. Dwelling in the palace still, Bidding engines do his will, Helping on his brother, till Burying self beneath the sod; None of man and all of God. [ 48 ] V.UHHj|-ltSS 015 909 341 4