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WORKS BY CLARENCE HAWKES. 
 
 PEBBLES AND SHELLS, verses by Clarence Hawkes, with eight illustrations 
 by Elbridge Kingsley. 207 pages. i2nio. Handsome cloth binding. 
 Price, $1.25. Picturesque Pub. Co., Northampton, Mass. 
 
 THREE LITTLE FOLKS, verses for children, by Clarence Hawkes, with 37 
 illustrations by R. Lionel De Lisser and Bessie W. Bell. 102 pages. 
 Printed upon heavy enameled paper with handsome cover design. 
 Price, $1.00. Picturesque Pub. Co., Northampton, Mass. 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND, by Clarence Hawkes, with 70 illustra- 
 tions by R. Lionel De Lisser and Bessie W. Bell. 154 pages. Ele- 
 gantly bound with cover design in gold. Price, $1.50. Half-morocco 
 with extra ornamentation on cover. Price, $2.50. Picturesque Pub. 
 Co., Northampton, Mass. 
 
T}IY RUGC.F.n MOUNTAIN CHAINS." 
 
Idyls of 
 eid t 
 l^eU) fete' 
 
 
 Clarence 1baw??e6. 
 
 tlKustrations 
 
 1R. ILlonel 2)e ILiseer ^ 
 
 an5 
 
 J6e36lc Tra. 36el[. 
 
 PICTURESQUE PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 NORTHAMPTON, MASS. 
 1897. 
 

 LIBRARY of C0N6RESS 
 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 on 30 1906 
 
 - CMyrieht Enjv ^ 
 
 COPY B. 
 
 Copyright, 1897, 
 By Clarence Hawkes. 
 
 SPRINGFIELD PRINTINO AND BINDINQ COMPANY. 
 
(K 
 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 TO MY 
 ESTEEMED FRIEND, 
 
 Mr. JOSEPH B. GLOVER, 
 
 IN RECOGNITION OF HIS LONG SERVICE IN THE 
 
 CAUSE OF THE BLIND, AND HIS DEVOTION 
 
 TO MY ALMA MATER. 
 
PROEM. 
 
 THE TEST OF LIVING. 
 
 If I have loved and striven for the race 
 Before God's throne I shall not hide my face; 
 But if my life hath centered in its own 
 /\t that stern glance m\- heart will turn to stone. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 About the Sweetest Time I Know, 3° 
 
 Atheism, 33 
 
 A Day in Spring, 40 
 
 A Bud, 5^ 
 
 6i 
 
 6i 
 
 6 1 
 
 A Discovery, 
 
 A New Flower, 
 
 A Mistake, 
 
 A Sign, 65 
 
 An Eye for Beauty, 9' 
 
 After the Leaves, 9i 
 
 A Law of Nater, '°^ 
 
 A Sigh From Nature, "7 
 
 A Spark, 131 
 
 An Ole Time Thanksgivin' Day, 138 
 
 A Rooster, '43 
 
 Blossom Time, 46 
 
 Beauty to a Farmer, 103 
 
 BiLiN' Sap, ^5° 
 
 Communion, 46 
 
 Consolation, "5 
 
 Chestnut Burrs, 9' 
 
 Compensation, 127 
 
 Change, 
 
 128 
 
 Courage, '3° 
 
 Consolation in December, i45 
 
 Crow Line, '5° 
 
 Dew of June, 7- 
 
 Danglin', 134 
 
 Earth's Angels, 24 
 
12 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Easter Morn , 68 
 
 Earth's Primal Color, loo 
 
 Footpaths, 46 
 
 Fine Feelin's, 9' 
 
 Finite and Infinite, 122 
 
 God in Nater, '. 23 
 
 God's Pruning Time, 81 
 
 God's Opulence, 9° 
 
 Gittin' Hum, 131 
 
 Gleaning From Others, 149 
 
 Hands That Toil, 23 
 
 Hearts are Trumps, 24 
 
 Human Flowers, 29 
 
 Hope is a Bird, 81 
 
 How Be Ver ? 89 
 
 Humility, 102 
 
 Imperfection, 127 
 
 Introduction, 17 
 
 If We But Knew, 130 
 
 June, Si 
 
 Keep Up Yer Fences, 99 
 
 Keep A-Peggin', 149 
 
 Love and Labor, 23 
 
 Love's Fastness, 78 
 
 Leetle Loves 144 
 
 Mysterious Moonlight, 39 
 
 Ma's Posy Bed, 57 
 
 Mill and Miller, 61 
 
 My Cathedral, 68 
 
 My Dog, 62 
 
 My Treasures, 78 
 
 Man's Destiny, 120 
 
 Make Friends, 145 
 
 Nater's Perfume, 32 
 
CONTENTS. 13 
 
 PAGE 
 
 New England, 43 
 
 Nater's Palaces, 46 
 
 Night Lullabies, 5 ' 
 
 Nater's Wine, 15° 
 
 Open-Hearted, 33 
 
 Our Little Lives, 49 
 
 Our Sins, 103 
 
 Our Moods, 109 
 
 Prodigality, 33 
 
 Praisin' God, 65 
 
 Plebeian Riches, 115 
 
 Pokin' Round,; 128 
 
 Plain Speakin', 129 
 
 Rowen, 34 
 
 Resistance, 117 
 
 Remembrance, i45 
 
 Song of the Ploughman, 52 
 
 Sunnin', 64 
 
 Song of the Thresher, 93 
 
 Since Hannah Answered " Yes ", 100 
 
 Sow 'Arly, 104 
 
 Seein' Hannah Hum, 104 
 
 Sympathy, 1 1 1 
 
 Success, 117 
 
 Sleepin' in the Barn, 129 
 
 Song of the Woodsman, 146 
 
 Soul- Fodder, •. 154 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers, 26 
 
 The Old Man's Burden, 28 
 
 The Siege of P^ate, 29 
 
 The Height of Fashion, 34 
 
 Tried and True, 39 
 
 True Blood is Blue Blood, 39 
 
 The Lily of the Valley, 40 
 
14 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Two Trees, 43 
 
 The Dial of Time, 47 
 
 The Oriole, 49 
 
 The Silent House, 50 
 
 Transformed, 64 
 
 The Nesting of the Birds, 7° 
 
 The Ole Meetin'-House, 73 
 
 The Last Sleep, Si 
 
 The Sunken Ship, 82 
 
 The Farmer's Alarm Clock, 82 
 
 The Deserted Homestead, 82 
 
 The Dude, 89 
 
 The Dandelion, 99 
 
 The Weather Vane, 102 
 
 To Wait, 109 
 
 The Ole Well Sweep, 109 
 
 The Unseen Strife, 117 
 
 The Farmer's Delight, 118 
 
 The Hearts of Heroes, 118 
 
 Two Dead, "9 
 
 The Old Stagecoach, 122 
 
 The Ole Waterin' Trough, 127 
 
 The Harvest Feast, 13° 
 
 To An Old Pine, 138 
 
 The Noblest Lives 138 
 
 Vanity, 102 
 
 Written on Hearing Handel's Creation, 4S 
 
 When Death is Fair, 69 
 
 When Fortune Smiles, 82 
 
 Welcome, 109 
 
 Wear Ver Mournin' in Ver Heart, no 
 
 What Air Our Statesmen Comin' Ter ? 1 1 1 
 
 Winter Music, i44 
 
 Youngsters, 150 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Ain't We Friends ?" 21 
 
 A Restin' Place," . . 35 
 
 A Day in Spring," 40 
 
 At Hum I Hear the Wind in Our Elm Tree," 51 
 
 Autumn," 64 
 
 After the Leaves," 92 
 
 A Leetle P^risky Caff," 103 
 
 An' Punkins Prophesy 'o Next Year's Pies," 1 iS 
 
 An' There Wuz Cattle in the Fields," 133 
 
 A Rustic Bridge, 
 
 137 
 
 A Heavy Load Bears the Evergreen," [47 
 
 Ai- the Sugarhouse, 153 
 
 Blossom Time," 47 
 
 Clover Scent," 32 
 
 Cherry Time, ^3 
 
 Friexdship with the Fields an' Mother Earth," 29 
 
 Forsaken," 12S 
 
 Hands That Toil," 23 
 
 Hannah's Parlor," ic6 
 
 Idyls of Old New England," 5 
 
 I See the Gable Roof," 85 
 
 I Went Down ter the City Once," 135 
 
 Keep Up Ver Fences," 99 
 
 Keep A-Peggin," [49 
 
 Like the Forests Rough an' Wild," 77 
 
 My Dog," 63 
 
 My Cathedral," 69 
 
 Nat'ral Like an' Free," 37 
 
i6 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 " Nater's Palace," 97 
 
 " Oh Come with Me O'er the Meadows Wide," 71 
 
 " Or Traced a Tiny Spark," 87 
 
 "O There's Many a Turn and the Way is Long," 123 
 
 " Ploughing the Daisies in," 55 
 
 " Queer Ole Cheers an' Cupboards Neat," 141 
 
 " Soft Sighs the Darkling Pine," 116 
 
 " Shall E'en Outlast Yon Granite Rocks," 121 
 
 " Silver Tinkle Underground," 144 
 
 "Thy Rugged Mountain Chains," — Frontispiece, 3 
 
 "They Love to Pick the Leetle Cats," 30 
 
 " Thy Waterfalls," 4' 
 
 " Thy Rock-Ridged Hills," 44 
 
 "Then Fr(jm the Grove Came Such a Burst of Cheer," 50 
 
 "The Patient Cattle Plod Along," 53 
 
 " The Country is the Place," 58 
 
 " The Ole Mill," 59 
 
 " The Mystery of Nature," 67 
 
 " The Ole Man's Meditation," 79 
 
 " The Ole Meetin'-House," 74 
 
 " To Some Secluded Spot, or Quiet Roof," 83 
 
 " The Mosses on a Fence," 90 
 
 " Then in July," 95 
 
 " The Hens Laid Eggs Enough Each Day," loi 
 
 " The Good Ole-fashioned Things," 114 
 
 "The Ole Waterin' Trough," 125 
 
 " Thanksgivin' in the Distance," 139 
 
 "The Snow Ain't Gone 'Cept Here an' There a Bit," 151 
 
 The Toll Gate, 1 54 
 
 " When I Grr Hum," 25 
 
 " What Lovk There Wus in them Log Huts! " 27 
 
 "When the Scythe and Sickle Came in Play," 96 
 
 "When I Come 'Round the Corner in the Road," 108 
 
 " Where the World is All Made Over," 112 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The name of Clarence Hawkes has often been found of 
 late in our best papers and magazines, associated with poems 
 that interpret life with those magic words that spring from 
 the heart. 
 
 His first volume of poems, " Pebbles and Shells," pub- 
 lished some two years ago, contained sonnets that may be 
 classed among the beautiful things of the language. A vol- 
 ume of children's verses, "Three Little Folks," followed soon 
 after this work, and lovers of true poetry began to ask about 
 the life and experience of one whose work represented such 
 beauty in the expression both of the inner life and its out- 
 ward forms. 
 
 The public was surprised to learn that the writer was at 
 that time scarcely more than a youth, and that he was blind. 
 In the beautiful things that he was giving to the world, he 
 was a follower of Blackmore and several of the minor poets of 
 England and Scotland, who, with lost or impaired vision, had 
 yet the clearest intuitive sight. 
 
 Clarence Hawkes was not born blind. His sight was 
 destroyed by an accident after he had for some twelve years 
 enjoyed the vision of the flower-strewn earth and the starlit 
 sky. The shutting out of the scenes of nature opened the 
 eye of his spiritual sense and imagination, and enabled him 
 
i8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 to see visions hidden to the material eye. It ga\e to him 
 the rare gift of the sympathetic sense. 
 
 He was born in the hill country of New England, near 
 the Connecticut valley, rich in historic legend and lore. To 
 him the founders of New England were prophets, and he 
 came to love the spirit of the prophets of the Mayflower, 
 men whom Macaulay says, "God sifted the nations of the 
 earth to find." To New England heroism, to the hills, 
 streams, and home life of that portion of his native land, he 
 has devoted the following pages. He has sought to do what 
 Burns so simply did with a master hand in his " Cotter's Sat- 
 urday Night." Such work as this is near to the people's 
 hearts; in such poems the old home, its elms, its purple 
 swifts, its flaming orioles, its orchards, meadows, and graves, 
 and all the sacred habitude of social and domestic affection 
 come back again. We hear in these poems the long gone 
 voices of childhood ; the natural story-teller lix'es again, 
 the pine logs light the hearth, and the tales of the heroes of 
 old cause a hush to fall on the candle-lighted room. But it 
 is the simplest forms of the hardy life of the New England 
 pioneers that make the picture most touching antl true. The 
 old oaken bucket, the red schoolhouse, the birds whose home 
 was in the door^-ard trees, the ancient clock, the wa)-side 
 orchards, the guidepost, — in such pictures his xolume is 
 happy; the incidents appear that make Old New England 
 live again. 
 
 There are patriotism and sacred influence in such work, and 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the public may well bless and make prosperous the pen that 
 brings out of the past such memories. We hope that a great 
 number of readers may take this "Blind Boet of New Eng- 
 land" to their hearts, and his books into their homes, and 
 that he whose work relights again the hearthstones of our 
 fathers may find a place by the hearths of the descendants of 
 the Pilgrims, with all those who love the service of liberty, 
 justice, and truth, as England and Scotland ha\'e cherished 
 the work of like poets of hidden gifts and visions. 
 
 - Hezekiah Butterwortii, 
 
 28 Worcester St., Boston. 
 August 17, 1S97. 
 
A IN' T \VK FRIKNDS 
 
" HANDS THAT TOIL. 
 
 GOD IN NA TER. 
 
 The further off we humans git 
 From nater an' her sod, 
 
 The further off we air from truth 
 An' hohness an' God. 
 
 HANDS THAT TOH.. 
 
 I ain't ashamed because my hands are rough, 
 The world 'ud starve ef it wa'n't for our farms. 
 
 It ain't no sign the heart inside is tough 
 Because the signs o' toil are on yer palms. 
 
 LOJ^E AND LABOR. 
 
 A little saved by hard and patient toil 
 
 Is worth an empire gotten as a spoil, 
 
 For labor savoreth the poor man's meat, 
 
 And love makes bread and water wondrous sweet. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 EA R TH' S A NGEL S. 
 
 I hold this true, ter be an an^^^el fair 
 
 Up yonder where they don't hev no despair, 
 
 Ain't half so big as 'tis ter be a man 
 
 Down on this earth where you must toil an' plan. 
 
 HEARTS ARE TRUMPS. 
 
 When eddycation makes a man 
 
 Git so etarnal wise 
 That he can't bear to walk about 
 
 In ordinary guise, 
 When he must wear a stovepipe hat 
 
 Ter keep his idees in, — 
 It seems ter me that larnin' is 
 
 A foil}' an' a sin. 
 
 I see the college chaps in town 
 
 A swellin' round in style, 
 A lookin' mighty dandified. 
 
 As though they knew a pile ; 
 An' then I read when I git hum 
 
 O' how they've done some trick 
 That would have put ter shame the brainr 
 
 ()' any lunatic. 
 
 An' then sometimes I see them all 
 
 A marchin' up an' down. 
 With nightdresses an' nightcaps on — 
 
 They call um " cap an' gown " ; 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 An' some o' um go in for sports, 
 
 An' some go in for canes; 
 It makes you feel real sorrowful 
 
 That more don't try for brains. 
 
 My notion is that heart an' head 
 
 Should both be uniform, 
 That when the head is made more wise 
 
 The heart should git more warm ; 
 An' eddycation should not make 
 
 A man stuck up so far 
 ^That he would turn his nose up at 
 
 His daddv or his ma. 
 
26 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 For " hearts are trumps," that's what I say, 
 
 An' though your head is full, 
 In heaven they won't take account 
 
 O' what is 'neath your wool; 
 An' ain't that jest about the size 
 
 O' what the world complains? 
 It wants for love an' tenderness 
 
 More than it lacks for brains. 
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 When I see modern gals an' boys 
 
 Not seem to know or care 
 About the Pilgrims an' their deeds. 
 
 It fills me with despair. 
 An' other feelin's that I guess 
 
 Perhaps I'd better hide. 
 For 'tis a tender spot with me, — 
 
 The Pilgrims are my pride. 
 
 An' this I hold as mighty sure — 
 
 The further we depart 
 From those stern-hearted Puritans, 
 
 Although we think we're smart. 
 The further off we'll git from right. 
 
 An' all that's brave an' true. 
 For they were made o' God's best ash; 
 
 Ef they were rather blue; 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 They were the embryo an' seed 
 
 From which our nation sprung, 
 An' our true metal of them came, ' 
 
 From out their- hardship wrung; 
 It makes my heart grow big inside 
 
 An' makes my cheek git warm, 
 Ter think how grand they hved an' died 
 
 That winter in the storm. 
 
 What principle their brave lives held — 
 
 It makes our own look sick. 
 When half our statesmen are a lie, 
 
 A livin' by a trick ; 
 What love there wuz in them log huts 
 
 That faults cannot condemn — 
 It makes me feel our mansions are 
 
 But hovels side o' them. 
 
28 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 They lived for freedom an' for truth, 
 
 In love they sought this sod ; 
 AVe live for culture and for art — 
 
 Which is the most ter God? 
 We cannot all be heroes grim, 
 
 But we can all be men ; 
 Let us git back the Pilgrim love 
 
 For simple truth again. 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S BURDEN. 
 
 When in his hour the old man falls asleep, 
 
 In rounded years and ripe in heart and brain, 
 
 Why do the tears above him fall like rain 
 
 And all of his beloved for him weep? 
 
 Is he not glorified in this last sleep? 
 
 What grief can break his heart or mad his brain 
 
 Now he is dead^ Has he not burst the chain 
 
 That galled his hands? Is he not in God's keep? 
 
 Life's jungle was so matted and so deep, 
 
 With such dark pitfalls for his weary feet 
 
 And such a labyrinth of unknown ways, 
 
 He could not walk, at best he could but creep. 
 
 But now the velvet paths of wisdom meet 
 
 His eyes, bright lit by truth's undying rays. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 29 
 
 HUMAN FLOWERS. 
 
 I love ter think we humans grow towards God 
 Jest as the Hly rises from the sod, — 
 That friendship with the fields an' mother earth 
 Give ter the human soul a w^ondrous worth. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF FA TE. 
 
 Lay siege unto the citadel of fate, 
 
 With shot and shell grind down its massive walls 
 By day and night, until the fortress falls, 
 
 And e'en thine enemies shall call thee great. 
 
 l-KU,MiMlli- Willi lllL l-lhl.lJSi AN MOTHER EARTl 
 
3° 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 )VE TO I' 
 I'LE CATS. 
 
 ABOUT THE SWEETEST TIME I KNOW. 
 
 About the sweetest time I know- 
 Is in the 'arly spring, 
 When we hev lost most all the snow, 
 An' birds begin ter sing; 
 Then 'tis that nater's tender things. 
 The cowslip an' the rest, 
 |. 7 ^V-^.' / -Z' Poke up their heads around the springs, 
 J^ J? Clad in their Sunday best. 
 
 // Then 'tis the bluebird struts about 
 Upon a leafless twig, 
 An' perks his lectle feathers out 
 
 An' tries ter look real big; 
 Then 'tis the robin follows him. 
 All nater gits real bold, 
 An' you can Rear his evenin' h}Mnn, 
 A leetle faint and cold. 
 
 Then 'tis yer see the wilier tree 
 
 A gittin' budded out. 
 Its bark as yaller's it can be. 
 
 That makes the children shout; 
 1 hey love ter pick the leetle cats. 
 
 As they have named the things. 
 An' wear um round upon their hats 
 
 Instead o' songbirds' wings; 
 
 K THE 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 That is one thing I cannot see, 
 
 Why women that hev souls 
 Can ever make sech misery, 
 
 Ter fillergree their polls ! 
 How men can take these leetle lives 
 
 That fill the world with song, 
 An' murder um ter deck their wives 
 
 An' then not think it wrong! 
 
 Then 'tis the butterflies an' bees 
 
 Come creepin' from the dark, 
 The sap goes stealin' up the trees, 
 
 An' nater's vital spark 
 Begins ter glow in bud an' leaf. 
 
 Though it has smouldered long, 
 An' all o' nater turns from grief 
 
 Ter sunshine an' ter song. 
 
 How that warm sunshine sends the blood 
 
 A coursin' through my veins; 
 Jest as it goes ter leaf an' bud, 
 
 It fills our hearts an' brains; 
 Then rheumertiz an' other ills 
 
 Forget ter make us fret. 
 An' every heart with gladness fills 
 
 As full as it can get. 
 
 O God be praised for all the days 
 
 O' 'arly smilin' Spring, — 
 For all the ole sun's cheerin' rays, 
 
 An' all the birds that sing, 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 For ev'ry tender sign o' love 
 Revealed in grass an' flower, 
 
 Which whispers to us from above 
 With wondrous truth an' power! 
 
 NATER'S PERFUME. 
 
 Some city folks put scent upon their clothes, 
 
 An' try ter vie with nater's sweet perfume, 
 But most o' it is grievous to the nose 
 
 An' not like clover scent or apple bloom ; 
 But ef they really want ter know what's good 
 
 I take 'em out into our ole back yard. 
 Where pinks an' roses are in tender bud, 
 
 An' they draw in their breath real hard. 
 An' then they 'low the stuff they hev is stale, 
 
 An' don't compare with nater's sweetest scent, 
 An' soon go nosin' round in lilies pale 
 
 An' roses fair — an' I am well content. 
 
 CLOVER SCENT.. 
 
A THEISM. 
 
 There ain't no man that watches plants an' flowers 
 All through the seasons as they come an' go, 
 From seed ter fruit, through tender leaf an' blow. 
 
 But learns ter know an' reverence God's power. 
 
 OPEN-HEARTED. 
 
 I like a man who stands up square an' says 
 Jest what he means, an' don't prevaricate, 
 
 But men who slip around with greasy lies 
 Ter ev'ry point o' view, I almost hate. 
 
 PRODIGALITY. 
 
 Ter spend a half a million on a tomb, 
 
 While countless freemen cry for bread an' meat. 
 Is somethin' that before the jedgment seat, 
 
 Ter Dives's ears '11 be the crack o' doom. 
 
34 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 RO WEN. 
 
 Some men don't git beyond the rowen state, - 
 They are kept down by envy, pride, an' hate, 
 Yet think for noble manhood they can pass 
 When they are really hidden by the grass. 
 
 THE HEIGHT OF FASHION 
 
 I'd heard so much on ev'ry hand 
 
 About the latest style, 
 And seen so much about it writ, 
 
 It seemed ter mean a pile; 
 
 I said I'd study into it. 
 
 Although I am a man. 
 An' see ef it wuz any part 
 
 O' nater or her plan ; 
 
 See ef it hed ter do with life. 
 
 Its sorrow or its joy. 
 Or ef it wuz a painted thing 
 
 Ter please a gal or boy. 
 
 I've studied long an' hard on it, 
 
 An' gut at some idees 
 That make me feel as touchy as 
 
 A hive o' swarmin' bees. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 We hed some city folks last year, 
 They came ter board a spell, 
 
 I gut a chance ter study um 
 An' larn mv lesson well. 
 
 35 
 
 IN PLACE. 
 
 The fust thing that impressed me wuz, 
 They didn't seem ter know 
 
 The primal law o' harmony 
 That all our pastur's show. 
 
36 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 They fussed an' furbelowed an' frilled 
 
 Until it made me faint, 
 For all the world like circus clowns, 
 
 Or warriors in their paint. 
 
 Now mind I don't set up agin 
 A dress that's gay an' bright, 
 
 Ef it is only worn with sense, 
 An' ev'rything is right. 
 
 But what ef nater turned about 
 
 An' grew a punkin vine. 
 When tender spring wuz pourin' out 
 
 Her pale ether'al wine? 
 
 An' what ef you should find a rose 
 
 Upon a chestnut tree — 
 Why don't you see how out o' place 
 
 The tender thing 'ud be ? 
 
 Another thing that strikes me queer, 
 Is why folks try for style. 
 
 An' leave their comfort out o' it — 
 When comfort helps a pile ; 
 
 Why they will pinch an' squeeze an' lace. 
 An' give umselves sech pains, 
 
 Ter change the form God made for um — 
 As though "he hed no brains. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Now there ain't nothin' in the world 
 
 So beautiful ter me 
 As grace that comes from bein' strong 
 
 An' nat'ral like an' free. 
 
 Another thing that puzzles me, 
 Is why they change about,— 
 
 One year they pull their dresses in. 
 An' then they puff 'em out. 
 
 An' when they git a thing that's right 
 
 Why not be satisfied? 
 The lily does not change its dress, 
 
 An' could not ef it tried. 
 
 37 
 
38 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Then why will people dye their hair 
 
 When it is gittin' gray ? 
 As though it wuz a dark disgrace 
 
 That they must put away. 
 
 It's my idee that silver locks, 
 Among the brown or gold, 
 
 Should fill the heart with reverence — 
 As full as it can hold ; 
 
 That youth should venerate the years 
 
 The foolish try ter hide. 
 An' look on wrinkled cheek an' brow 
 
 With reverence and pride. 
 
 Ter see an' aged grandmamma 
 
 A playin' twenty-three, 
 Is 'bout as pitiful a sight 
 
 As one 'ud want ter see. 
 
 I ain't a findin' fault with things 
 Because I love ter growl — 
 
 You must not take my preachin' for 
 The hootin' of an owl ; 
 
 But what I want is life that's sweet 
 An' wholesome like and pure, 
 
 An' so I try a mustard paste — 
 Perhaps ter work a cure. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 39 
 
 Ter stir your feelin's up a bit, 
 
 An' let yer see how small 
 A thing the " height o' fashion " is, 
 
 Although it seems so tall. 
 
 TRIED AND TRUE. 
 
 One self-made man who fights his way ter fame 
 Through poverty, whom only sin can shame. 
 Is worth a score o' those poor sycophants 
 That fortune rears like sickly hothouse plants. 
 
 TRUE BLOOD IS BLUE BLOOD. 
 
 One drop o' that heroic Pilgrim blood 
 
 That burned for truth, that hardship could not tame. 
 Is worth the whole Atlantic's boundless flood 
 
 From veins o' them who live without an aim. 
 
 M YS TERIO US MOON LI GH T. 
 
 Regent of night, fair Luna's silver arc 
 
 Glides through the vastness of the silent night, 
 
 With mellow moonbeams billowing the dark. 
 
 Flooding the fields and woods with amber light. 
 
1 
 
 40 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 Ladder to heaven, says a fable old, 
 By which the fairies climb to bliss untold ; 
 Ah! could dull mortals shake off life's despair 
 And climb to heaven on so rich a stair! 
 
 A DA Y IN SPRING. 
 
 A drowsy droning in the lilac bush, 
 Upon the sweet swamp pink a tender flush, 
 A gush of song from out the firmament. 
 And in the heart a sigh of deep content. 
 
 A DAY IN SPRING. 
 
TIIV W \IKKKAI 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 43 
 
 TWO TREES. 
 
 An acorn fell on warm and sunny land ; 
 There grew a slender tree with naught to stand. 
 Another fell where winter's fierce storms broke; 
 Pruned by the blast there grew a mighty oak. 
 
 NEIV ENGLAND. 
 
 Hail ! hail ! New England ! first the lands among 
 
 For freedom sought, when flashing broadswords rung, 
 
 By those whose souls could not endure the chains 
 
 By despots forged for human hearts and brains ; 
 
 Fond fatherland, where first the Pilgrims trod 
 
 And woke the forests with their hymns to God ; 
 
 Thy hills and vales are truly glorified 
 
 By these brave lives that here have lived and died, 
 
 And pomp of kings could not such wealth impart, — 
 
 For royalty is only of the heart. 
 
 Land of tradition and of glories won. 
 
 Where right is might, and justice, too, is done. 
 
 We scorn the titles emperor and king. 
 
 And to the world thy bold example fling. 
 
 We love to read the page of history o'er. 
 
 Of how thy orators in days of yore 
 
 Such brave words spake that freedom's sons awoke 
 
 On peak and plain, and galling fetters broke ; 
 
 We love to wander where these heroes fell. 
 
 And once again the brave old battles tell. 
 
 This is the heritage that freemen guard — 
 
 This is the song that so delights the bard. 
 
44 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 What wondrous truth thy gentle sage hath writ — 
 Thy Emerson ; and Lowell's kindly wit, 
 How it hath pierced dull ignorance and wrong 
 When truth seemed weak, and made it grandly strong 
 W'hen Bryant walked in leafy, sun-flecked ways, 
 Wliat sv/eet assurance filled his quiet lays; 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■HY ROCK-RIDGED HILLS. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 45 
 
 When bowed a slave beneath oppression's yoke, 
 To what stern wrath the Quaker bard awoke. 
 Philhps and Garrison are names we prize, 
 With Webster, Sumner, and the few that rise 
 Undimmed from out the past — those sons of fate 
 Who piloted our peerless ship of state. 
 Yet noblest heritage of mother earth, 
 Thy sons and daughters born of sterling worth ; 
 With stalwart limbs and bright, unclouded brains,— 
 This is the height to which our realm attains. 
 
 What storied land that proud patricians seek 
 Beyond the seas, whose vale or mountain peak 
 Can quite compare with thy dear hills and dells, 
 Where fondest nature lays her deepest spells? 
 Mount Washington, that bears our patriot's name. 
 Like him sublime, above reproach or shame ; 
 And that fair vale, in history and song, 
 Where sweeps the proud Connecticut along; 
 Thy rock-ridged hills, thy fertile, sunny plains, 
 Thy waterfalls, and rugged mountain chains. 
 Thy ferns and flowers, and e'en the verdant sod, 
 All give to life a deeper sense of God. 
 
 Hail! hail! New England! dwell in glory long, 
 Adown the ages may thy fame grow strong. 
 Thy sons be brave, thy daughters fair and true, 
 And fortune bring thee cloudless skies of blue. 
 
^6 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 FOOTPATHS. 
 A sidewalk alius makes yer walk jest so, 
 The Cop, he keeps yer ever on the go. 
 But cowpaths wind around by knoll an' tree, 
 Jest as my fancy kinder pulls on me. 
 
 NATER'S PALACES. 
 
 I've seen some palaces in Boston town, — 
 I 'low on um I really wouldn't frown. 
 But I could gaze a week an' then not see 
 All of the beauties in an ice-bound tree. 
 
 COMMUNION. 
 
 Sometimes out in the woods it is so still 
 
 Yer seem ter hear the ferns an' mosses grow : 
 
 An' in the silence unseen angels fill 
 
 Yer heart with love till it will overflow. 
 
 BLOSSOM TIME. 
 Soft as our fancies throng the winds at play 
 Are winnowing the orchard where in pride 
 Each tree is mantled, like a lovely bride 
 Beside the altar on her wedding day; 
 White are their gowns, with here and there a spray 
 Just tinged with pink or faint with crimson dyed. 
 Like lily cheeks that Cupid has espied 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 And softly tinted with the flush of May. 
 
 It is a day to idly sit and dream, 
 
 To float a silver skiff athwart the sky, 
 
 And like a lark be swallowed in the blue, 
 
 To drink the joy, the sun, the scent that streams 
 
 In all the wunds, with deep content to sigh 
 
 And in a day live half a lifetime through. 
 
 THE DIAL OF TIME. 
 Two slender hands upon time's dial plate 
 Go creeping round and mark the hours of man, 
 Unconscious of his momentary plan 
 In all the circling years of time's estate; 
 Nor fast, nor slow, nor pause for small or great, 
 An hour for Csesar or Napoleon, — 
 
 BLOSSOM TIME. 
 
48 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 And so it was since first time's march began. 
 The lover cries, " My soul, it cannot wait!" 
 The murderer, " That hour will bring my doom!" 
 The sick man sighs, " To-morrow and the tomb," 
 While empires crumble like the cliffs to sand 
 Before the waves of years, and planets cold 
 Are clothed with life, and virgin spheres grow old 
 Beneath the dial balanced in God's hand. 
 
 WRITTEN ON HEARING HANDEES CREATION. 
 
 Out on the hush steal little waves of sound, 
 Jagged and broken, sad and incomplete, - 
 And faintest melodies — not grand or sweet 
 But full of doubt, with minor chords around ; 
 Then to the ear there floats a deeper sound, 
 And flows the harmony with surer beat, 
 But, like poor human lives, ere half complete 
 It dies, and chaos reigns; again 'tis found, 
 And soar the strains to an elysian height, 
 Cleaving to form and harmony and law. 
 Rushing through years and aeons as a day. 
 It dies, — again 'tis found, " Let there be light!" 
 Loud swell the strains as hammer beats of Thor, 
 And on creation smiles the infant day. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 49 
 
 OUR LITTLE LIVES. 
 
 Like silent flakes of swiftly falling snow 
 
 That from the clouds drift downward to the earth, 
 
 Shifting and changing to the wild wind's mirth, — 
 
 Our little lives, that waver to and fro, 
 
 The sieve of years is sifting here below. 
 
 With scarce a day in which to prove their worth, 
 
 With scarce an hour unclouded quite from birth. 
 
 Our little lives take heart and try to grow. 
 
 And yet, they know, as all life needs must feel, 
 
 Each is a link within the chain complete 
 
 That binds creation to Jehovah's feet, 
 
 A little cog within a mighty wheel,— 
 
 And yet a part the rest must move upon. 
 
 And, feeling this, each little life strives on. 
 
 THE ORIOLE. 
 
 Flashes a flame of gold and crimson by, 
 Dazzling the vision with its wondrous hue. 
 As though a lens shot all the sunlight through 
 Upon that form and dimmed the summer sky; 
 Or like a smith, with mimic hammer high. 
 Of rubies made, who from a rainbow drew 
 Showers of sparks, thus when the oriole flew 
 His golden wings beat out such flames the eye 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Could only dream of it when he had flown; 
 Then from the grove came such a burst of cheer 
 It echoes still in crannies of my soul. 
 Ah! bit of heaven, if when my life moves on 
 From earth to air it needs must linger here 
 In other form, be mine the oriole. 
 
 THE SILENT HOUSE. 
 
 Pathetic windows, curtainless and blank. 
 The front door fastened by an ivy spray, 
 
 Each pathway choked by weeds and grasses rank. 
 These are the omens of a sure decay. 
 
 OF CHEER. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 NIGHT LULLABIES. 
 
 In Boston town at night I hear the cars 
 Or heavy trucks, an' how each echo jars 
 At hum I hear the wind in our elm tree, 
 An' never twice ahke it sounds ter me. 
 
 V k hi- 
 
 .'XKi^m 
 
 
 AT HUM I HEAR THE WIND IN OUR ELM TREE. 
 
52 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 A BUD. 
 
 The tender bursting bud upon the tree 
 Is but a symbol of the fruit to be, 
 And so each life that pure and free is given 
 In infancy, is but a type of heaven. 
 
 SONG OF THE PLOUGHMAN. 
 
 Bring forth the plough, the frost is out, 
 And spring is here without a doubt ; 
 Upon the cattle put their yoke, 
 The field and fallow must be broke. 
 For he who reaps in harvesting 
 Must sow his seeds in early spring. 
 
 The plough is brought from loft or shed. 
 Then forth the sturdy steers are led, 
 The yoke is placed upon their necks, 
 The plough is scoured all free from specks. 
 And Sam, the ploughboy, whip in hand, 
 Beside the cattle takes his stand. 
 
 Turn, turn, turn, empty are crib and bin, 
 Turn, turn, turn, ploughing the daisies in. 
 Turn, turn, turn, breaking the tufted sward, 
 Turn, turn, turn, reaping a rich reward. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 The patient cattle plod along, 
 Their necks are bent, the yoke is strong; 
 The gleaming ploughshare cleaves the earth, 
 The burning sunbeams dance in mirth. 
 And oft the farmer stops the plough 
 And wipes the sweat from off his brow. 
 
 At every turn the ploughboy's "Gee! 
 Across the field makes melody. 
 Full well the cattle know his whip. 
 They oft have felt its stinging tip. 
 Yet spite of muzzles, as they pass. 
 They stop to nip the tender grass. 
 
 THE PATIENT CATTLE PLOD ALONG. 
 
54 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Turn, turn, turn, empty are crib and bin, 
 Turn, turn, turn, ploughing the daisies in, 
 Turn, turn, turn, breaking the tufted sward, 
 Turn, turn, turn, reaping a rich reward. 
 
 The robin greets the farmer's toil 
 
 With notes of joy, and shares the spoil; 
 
 Across the fresh turned earth he hops, 
 
 Before a luscious worm he stops. 
 
 Then chirps, " This farmer's mighty good 
 
 To plough all day to find me food." 
 
 At noon the ploughboy thunders, " Whoa!' 
 A word that well the oxen know, 
 And one they always will obey. 
 And they are left to meal and hay; 
 Meanwhile the farm hands never fail 
 To empty clean the dinner pail. 
 
 Turn, turn, turn, empty are crib and bin, 
 Turn, turn, turn, ploughing the daisies in, 
 Turn, turn, turn, breaking the tufted sward, 
 Turn, turn, turn, reaping a rich reward. 
 
 The dinner done they're off again — 
 These farmers are no idle men. 
 He earns his bread who tills the soil 
 By honest sweat and patient toil ; 
 Still up and down with ceaseless tread, 
 This is the way his babes are fed. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 And when the ploughpoint strikes a rock 
 And sends it back with sudden shock, 
 To dig the farmer in the ribs, 
 He takes fresh hold upon the nibs. 
 And pulls the plough back into place. 
 And moves along with cheery face. 
 
 Turn, turn, turn, empty are crib and bin. 
 Turn, turn, turn, ploughing the daisies in. 
 Turn, turn, turn, breaking the tufted sward, 
 Turn, turn, turn, reaping a rich reward. 
 
 PLOUGHING THE DAISIES IN." 
 
56 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 The weary oxen reek with sweat, 
 The farmer's cotton shirt is wet, 
 Still up and down he patient goes, 
 Turning those narrow clean-cut rows, 
 Turning the furrows one by one 
 Until the long bright day is done. 
 
 Then toward the barn the cattle head. 
 Where they are stalled and groomed and fed ; 
 But still in sleep they hear the cracks 
 Of Sam's long whip across their backs, 
 And stir uneasy in their stalls 
 Until the new milch heifer bawls. 
 
 And e'en the farmer old and wise 
 
 Oft rises in his bed and cries — 
 
 " Whoa! Sam, look out, we've struck a rock! 
 
 And then he hears the kitchen clock 
 
 Just striking three, so down he lies 
 
 And sleep soon holds his tired eyes. 
 
 Turn, turn, turn, empty are crib and bin. 
 
 Turn, turn, turn, ploughing the daisies in. 
 
 Turn, turn, turn, breaking the tufted sward, 
 
 Turn, turn, turn, reaping a rich reward. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 57 
 
 MA'S POSY BEDS. 
 
 When I git hum from work at noon 
 
 As tired as I can be, 
 There is one mighty purty sight 
 
 It does me good ter see, 
 An' that is mother's posy beds, 
 
 A-blushin' fit ter kill, 
 With butterflies and bees around, 
 
 A-drinkin' o' their fill. 
 
 The air is brimmin' over with 
 
 A hundred different scents 
 That come from the syringa bush 
 
 Beside the garden fence, 
 An' roses fair an' lilacs tall 
 
 That grow along the walk, — 
 But they ain't none o' them so gay 
 
 As my ole hollyhock. 
 
 Somehow I like the good ole kinds 
 
 O' posies full as well, 
 (Instead o' those with Latin names 
 
 That nobody can spell,) 
 Like mirigold an' asterziz , 
 
 An' caliopsis fair. 
 An' bleedin' hearts an' arder tongues 
 
 An' ferns an' maidenhair. 
 
 Once when I's down ter Boston town, 
 
 I had some time ter pass. 
 So turned inter a posy place 
 
 Where everything wuz glass, 
 
58 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 An' all the posies looked so pale 
 As though they'd like ter die, 
 
 Jest like them little city waifs, — 
 It made me want ter cry. 
 
 I tell yer what, the country is 
 
 The place ter make things grow, 
 No matter what the crap may be. 
 
 The city hain't no show ; 
 An' as for raisin' human souls 
 
 An' givin' them a breath 
 O' God's free air, an' sunlight too. 
 
 We beat um all ter death. 
 
 •THE COUNTRY IS THE PLACE." 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 MILL AND MILLER. 
 
 A moss-grown wheel with all its grist well ground - 
 Threescore an' ten the years with sorrow crown'd ; 
 The toll is taken, an' the miller waits 
 For death a knockin' at the mill-yard gates. 
 
 A DISCOVERY. 
 
 A city cousin saw me salt the cow ; 
 She said, " I know just why you do it now, 
 You salt the cattle freely in the stall 
 And then the butter do not salt at all." 
 
 A NEW FLOWER. 
 
 Once pickin' wild flowers with my Cousin May, 
 A Boston gal, I chanced ter step one side, 
 "Ah! here's a woodchuck's hole," I said; she cried, 
 
 " O pick me some of it for my bouquet !" 
 
 A MISTAKE. 
 
 Our Cousin Jerry came from Boston town 
 In sugarin' an' helped the camp ter tap. 
 
 An' then in August when he happened down 
 He went out to the maples for some sap. 
 
62 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 MY DOG. 
 
 Come in, old beggar, whining at the door. 
 Come in, old Gip, and lie upon the floor, 
 And rest your faithful head upon my knee 
 And deem it joy to be alone with me; 
 My dear old dog, unto creation's end 
 Of all the world thou art my truest friend. 
 
 Thou dost not ask if I be rich the while, 
 
 Or if my coat is shabby or in style, 
 
 Or if the critics call me small or great, 
 
 Whether my life be full of joy or hate, 
 
 Or if my purse be over-lean or fat, — 
 
 All through and through thou art a democrat. 
 
 Thou dost not ask that I be good to thee, 
 
 It is enough that thou dost care for me; 
 
 And if this hand could beat thee from my door, 
 
 Thou wouldst come back at night and A\hine once more 
 
 To lick the hand that made thy body smart. 
 
 And love me still deep in thy doggish heart. 
 
 Thou dost not ask for dainty bread and meat 
 
 Ikit lovest best the food I will not eat. 
 
 And sweet the bit, if looks I understand, 
 
 That thou canst eat from out thy master's hand, 
 
 And while wise men to thank the Lord may fail 
 
 Old Gip says " Thank you " with his wagging tail. 
 
 And if my dog is sleeping in the hall 
 I have no fear that danger will befall, 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 For thieves would find that passage doubly barred, 
 
 A truer soldier never mounted guard, 
 
 And lasting is a dog's fidelity 
 
 To those he loves as man's can ever be. 
 
 What love is beaming in those two brown eyes — 
 When chidden, too, what sorrow in them lies, 
 And how they follow me from place to place 
 As though they tried to read their master's face; 
 And how he springs and barks when I am glad, 
 How soon his tail will droop if I am sad. 
 
 63 
 
 And when I die, if friends forget to pine 
 There'll be one faithful dog to howl and whine, 
 To bark impatient at my bedroom door. 
 To search the meadow and the woodland o'er 
 And watch and whine for master who is late, 
 And die at last still waiting at the gate. 
 
64 
 
 IDVLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 sunnin: 
 
 In 'arly Spring the sunbeams are like wine— 
 I love ter sit jest where they sof'ly shine 
 An' drink um in an" feel the warm blood creep 
 Along my veins, an' then ter fall asleep. 
 
 TRANSFORMED. 
 
 In Autumn when Dame Nater kind o' grieves 
 Oyer her wasted beauties, an' the leaves 
 Are thick upon the ground, how sweet the scent, 
 As though the richness was in perfume spent. 
 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 65 
 
 PRAISIN' GOD. 
 
 At morn I think when all the woods are ringin' 
 The birds are praisih' God for warmth an' light, 
 
 An' then ag'in at night when they're a singin' 
 
 They're askin' him ter keep um through the night. 
 
 A SIGN. 
 
 The one idee that God has shaped a flower 
 Jest like the planets round the sun, each hour 
 That it might git the sun's most smilin' glance. 
 Is proof ter me that things don't go by chance. 
 
 CONSOLA riON. 
 
 When God in that last translation 
 
 Lifts the veil before our eyes. 
 And we vaew the vast creation 
 
 Of the world beyond the skies, 
 And the Judge in glory rises 
 
 To pronounce each sentence then, 
 O there'll be some great surprises 
 
 In the deeds and hearts of men. 
 
 Things that seemed to us exalted 
 Will become as commonplace. 
 
 And the sinner where he halted 
 Mav have seen his Saviour's face; 
 
66 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 While the glory and the splendor 
 That surrounded some high saint, 
 
 When all sham is rent asunder 
 May become as merest paint. 
 
 Lives that seemed to us so lowh' 
 
 During their existence here 
 May become sublime and holy 
 
 In a higher, broader sphere; 
 While the hand that held the rudder 
 
 Of the mighty ship of state 
 May appear an empty shadow 
 
 In the judgment of the great. 
 
 Hearts that long in pain have anguished 
 
 And with sorrow made their bed 
 Shall forget that they have languished 
 
 And with rapture will be fed; 
 While the beggar, left to shiver 
 
 And to hunger at man's door, 
 Will taste life beyond the river 
 
 And shall never hunger more. 
 
 O, the hearts that here are broken 
 
 By a sorrow worse than death, 
 When the magic word is spoken 
 
 Heaven healeth in a breath ; 
 There all dross is turned to treasure, 
 
 And the love earth could not give 
 Shall be ours in fullest measure 
 
 When we first begin to live. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 67 
 
 Friends that long for friends have waited 
 
 Shall behold them (Mice again, 
 In a land that is not fated 
 
 To have rapture linked with pain, 
 And the cadence of their pleasure 
 
 Shall go ringing up the aisles 
 Of the city, in sweet measure, 
 
 Where God's every creature smiles. 
 
 Then the mystery of nature 
 
 Will be open to our eyes, 
 And we'll see in each new feature 
 
 Some new lessons for surprise; 
 
 THE MYSTERY OK NATURE. 
 
6S IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 And Jehovah will watch o'er us 
 In the city built sublime, 
 
 Where the years shall be a chorus 
 In the harmony of time. 
 
 EASTER MORN. 
 
 Over the eastern hills the day god swung 
 And night rolled back before his fulgent fire; 
 Then Nature's hand took up her matchless lyre 
 And every living thing to joy gave tongue, 
 And e'en the rocks and massive mountains sung; 
 Thus broke the morn when all creation's Sire 
 Bent low in love and o'er the broad empire 
 Of direst dark a benediction flung, 
 And from his tomb, while countless angels sung. 
 The Saviour rose and smote the gates of death 
 E'en with the bolts of God's eternal wrath. 
 Till sun and moon and constellation rung 
 And hallelujahs from the heavens above 
 Proclaimed man's freedom, and Omniscient love. 
 
 MY CATHEDRAL. 
 
 My grand cathedral is the universe. 
 
 That boundless dome no architect e'er drew. 
 
 With frescoed clouds that let the sunshine through, 
 
 And brighter gold than ever gleamed in purse ; 
 
 Great mountains rising where the clouds disperse 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 69 
 
 Uphold the arch with pillars time did hew, 
 And from the mold sweet flowers and grasses grew 
 And carpets made, while birds did stay their course 
 To chant the anthems of this solitude 
 Till pseans rang from every field and wood, 
 While purling brook and sound of wind and rain. 
 Voices of God that soothe the heart's dull fear, 
 Such discourse spake of tender love and cheer. 
 Poor weary lives forgot one hour their pain. 
 
 MY CATHEDRAL. 
 
 WHEN DEATH IS FAIR. 
 
 When the heart is numb with achir 
 
 And a sickness fills the brain, 
 And the spirit's nigh to breaking 
 
 With the endless round of pain, 
 Then it is the dread death angel, 
 
 With his icy, numbing breath, 
 Seems to us a sweet evangel 
 
 And we shudder not at death. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 But we listen for his coming 
 And his knocking at the gate, 
 
 Like the children at the lattice 
 For the father who is late. 
 
 THE NESTING OE THE BHiDS. 
 
 Oh come with me o'er the meadows wide, 
 Where wondrous grasses grow. 
 
 And the fairest flowers on every side 
 Their tinted petals show. 
 
 Where skies are soft as a maiden's eyes 
 
 When love-light lingers there. 
 And the balmy air and the sunny skies 
 
 Will lift your heart's dull care. 
 
 Oh, there's a song on the fragrant breeze 
 
 From every bird that sings, 
 And the rapture of their melodies 
 
 Through all the welkin rings. 
 
 For 'tis to nest that the birds are here. 
 
 In every breast is song, 
 And each troubadour to his lady dear 
 
 Is singing all day long. 
 
 And soon with slender sticks and straws, 
 
 All seeming without plan. 
 They will build a nest that will baffle laws 
 
 And architects of man. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 With three warm eggs "neath the mother's breast, 
 
 What joys the days will bring; 
 From his perch in the leaves, by her looks caressed, 
 
 Oh, how the mate will sine! 
 
 on COME WITH ME O ER THE MEADOWS WIDE. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 What love will brood o'er these little homes 
 
 Deep hid in trees or grass; 
 How their hearts will beat when a danger comes, 
 
 What rapture if it pass! 
 
 What lessons here for our higher life 
 
 Are taught us by the birds, 
 With their simple ways for our complex strife, 
 
 And sones instead of words ! 
 
 DEJV OF JUNE. 
 
 The " Dew of June," an Indian name, you see. 
 Yet to the senses beautiful and sweet, 
 With poetry and music most replete; 
 And what could be more holy, pure, and free 
 Than this moss altar 'neath the greenwood tree? 
 Beside a mountain torrent flowing fleet 
 We christened her, it was a strange conceit. 
 But from the scene the sweet name came to me. 
 
 And grew the maiden wondrous tall and fair. 
 Her eyes were deep as mountain lakes and springs 
 Her form the willow that the breezes swa}-, 
 Her locks the jet that sleekest sables wear. 
 Her laugh the song that blithest skylarks sing. 
 And in her heart were truth and joy alway. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 THE OLE MEETIN -HOUSE. 
 
 On the hill jest over yender 
 
 Is a sacred spot I know, 
 Where the meetin'-house was planted 
 
 Mor'n a century ago; 
 
 Now the place is quite forsaken, 
 But my thoughts go strayin' there. 
 
 An' agin I hear the church bell 
 At the solemn hour o' prayer. 
 
 Long an' low an" rather squatty, 
 Built o' timbers roughly hewn. 
 
 So that it gave scurce no echo, 
 Nor resounded to a tune; 
 
 But I've heard them rafters ringin' 
 When we rose ter sing God's praise, 
 
 For the people all were singers 
 In them good ole-fashioned days, 
 
 W'hat a row of han'some faces 
 Formed the circle o' that choir! 
 
 How that tender Sunday pictur' 
 Fills my heart with youthful fire! 
 
 On the right were all the basses 
 
 An' the tenors in a row, 
 On the left a score o' lasses — 
 
 Not fixed up ter make a show. 
 
IDVLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 But each dressed in simple oarments 
 
 ■ That ter beauty gave a power, 
 As the lea\'es around a hly 
 
 But the better show the flower. 
 
 There across the way each lover 
 
 Saw his sweetheart's wondrous face 
 
 An' though levity an' sparkin' 
 Were considcied out o' place, 
 
 HE OLE MEETIN'-IIOTISE." 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 75 
 
 Yet in prayer, with covert glances 
 
 Frequently the lovers met, — 
 Eyes spoke love in shy advances 
 
 That the heart could not forget. 
 
 There wuz Eben with his fiddle. 
 How he dashed the bow about! 
 
 An' the viol, that wuz Caleb's, 
 How he'd drown the basses out! 
 
 I played flute, an' Peleg Winters 
 Played the tenor on his horn ; 
 
 When we all were in commotion 
 It wuz like the jedgment morn. 
 
 Parson Bumshell wuz the fust one 
 That I seem ter recollect ; 
 
 "Woe ter sinners " wuz his war cry 
 An' he kept us circumspect; 
 
 For the youth wuz sure o' heaven, 
 Or in sin beyond his years. 
 
 Who could hear his awful warnin's 
 An' not quake with in'ard fears. 
 
 Parson Bumshell gave um doctrin', 
 Preached from Genesis an' Job, 
 
 Pictur'd hell an' all its torments, 
 An' the saint in spotless robe; 
 
76 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 There we listened ter his preachin' 
 Ev'ry Sunday in the year; 
 
 In the mornin' and the evenin' 
 Dwelt he on our hope an' fear. 
 
 Say you that he wuz too narrer, 
 
 That he preached too much on hell? 
 
 Wal ! I hardly dare ter jedge him, — 
 God could do that full as well. 
 
 An' besides I am not sartin 
 
 That he did not fill our needs, 
 
 For it wuz a rugged gospel 
 
 That inspired our noblest deeds; 
 
 An' the times were full o' hardships, 
 Like the forests rough an' wild ; 
 
 An' I dare say human nater 
 
 ]>red this rudeness in each child. 
 
 An' perhaps this gineration 
 • Hez gone jest as far astray 
 From their narrerness ter freedom 
 That diverges from God's way ; 
 
 For we humans are but ripples 
 On the mighty sea o' time, 
 
 An' God knows the things agin us, 
 An' the height ter which we climb. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 77 
 
 An' each gineration changes, 
 
 One goes up an' one goes down, 
 
 One is born for blood an' fightin', 
 One is made for larnin's crown; 
 
 LIKE THE FORE^ 
 
 ROUGH AN WII 
 
78 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 An' the Lord who watches o'er us 
 Mebbe takes a thousan' years 
 
 Ter work out some mighty purpose, 
 Through our heartaches an' our tears. 
 
 How this ole church starts me thinkin', 
 Sets my heart an' brain afire, 
 
 Brings me back ter hum an' mother. 
 An' the gray head o' my sire ! 
 
 An' I'm sure for heartfelt worship 
 That the splendor o' St. Paul's 
 
 Never saw sech true devotion 
 As we felt within them walls. 
 
 LOJ'E'S FAS7\\7{SS. 
 
 There are some walks in life by reason sought 
 To which the feelings only can aspire, 
 But that the mind afar must needs admire, 
 
 Yet cannot touch ; thev arc too high for thought. 
 
 MV TREASURES. 
 
 My treasures are not wealth of hoarded gold. 
 
 Nor plaudits from the world that swell the skies, 
 But mine the vision of two wondrous eyes 
 
 Aelow with love, and two small hands to hold. 
 
F. OLE MAN S MKDIIA TION. 
 
I 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 HOPE IS A BIRD. 
 
 Hope is a bird that levies the free blue sky, 
 And soareth up from sordid things and low; 
 Fate is an archer fitting in his bow 
 
 The cruel shaft, — alas! that hope should die. 
 
 THE LAST SLEEP. 
 
 As tranquil as a babe that falls asleep 
 
 Upon its mother's knee, 
 Without a sigh or an}- cause to weep 
 
 May thy last slumber be. 
 
 GOnS PRUNING TIME. 
 
 The hour of sorrow is God's pruning time — 
 Grief cleaves a branch that other parts may climb 
 To clearer sky, and though the wound may bleed 
 The vital sap some other shoot will feed. 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 The Goddess Nature spread a feast one day. 
 From all her fairest flowers she took a spray, 
 And festoons made and hung around the board. 
 When all had supped, rich wine the Goddess poured 
 And smiling said, " This is my greatest boon, 
 Quaff deep and long, it is the month of June." 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 THE SUNKEN SHIP. 
 
 Five hundred fathoms deep the vessel hes, 
 Upon the bottom of the cruel sea, 
 And all the love that ever cared for me 
 
 Was at the helm, and it will never rise. 
 
 WHEN FORTUNE SJIHLES. 
 
 W'hen fortune smiles spread all her canvas wide 
 And loose thy ship for action strong and grand, 
 Or fate will pass and leave upon the sand 
 
 A shipwrecked life forever cast aside. 
 
 THE FARMERS ALARM CLOCK. 
 
 There is one clock I never hev ter wind. 
 
 It runs month in, month out, all through the year 
 
 Each morn at four I'm alius brought ter mind 
 By cock-a-doodle-doo, from chanticleer. 
 
 THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD. 
 
 Poor are the pilgrims on life's stony way 
 
 Who, turning from the beaten track astray, 
 
 To some secluded spot, or quiet roof, 
 
 Where once perchance they spent their happy youth. 
 
 Who ne'er have felt at each familiar turn, 
 
 With eyes that fill and hearts that throb and burn. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 83 
 
 ^r?^j;»^^^^ 
 
 
 VO SOME SECl.UDEli M 
 
 K ijl IKl' Kc 
 
84 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 The quiet charms of dear famihar ways, 
 The half forgotten joys of other days. 
 
 How well do I recall that happy day 
 
 When turning from the noisy world away, 
 
 By quiet lanes that never failed to charm, 
 
 I sought my home, the old deserted farm. 
 
 It was a winsome day in early fall, 
 
 A time when nature broodeth over all 
 
 Her broad domain of fruitful fields and woods, 
 
 And wooes the wand'rer in her gayest moods. 
 
 I heard the south wind whisper to the corn, — 
 
 Its pennons streamed and rustled back in scorn ; 
 
 Each grain field caught the sunbeams in their flight 
 
 And shot them back in mellow, amber light ; 
 
 In deeper shades the birches' silver sheen 
 
 Shed softest rays the emerald boughs between ; 
 
 The distant hills were robed in gold and dun 
 
 And hazy skies subdued the summer sun; 
 
 And as I journeyed through that pleasant lane 
 
 Where peace and plenty seemed to ever reign, 
 
 I thought how sordid is our bitter strife 
 
 For gold, beside this quiet country life. 
 
 But now the dear old homestead comes in sight 
 Upon the hill above me, on the right, — 
 Ah! can it be the same, the grand old place. 
 The mansion on the hill, that oft my face 
 In childhood's happy days so eager spied. 
 The home that was our father's joy and pride, 
 That kin had held two hundred years and more, 
 Since first the Pilgrims landed on this shore? 
 
IDVLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 85 
 
 Or is it that a flood of blinding tears 
 And all the growth and change of many years 
 Have come between me and the dear old scene, 
 And made my youthful palace seem so mean? 
 O gold ! that robs this world of half its wealth, 
 O lore! that cheats the soul of joy and health, 
 I'd blot these weary years from heart and brain 
 To live that sweet delusion o'er again. 
 
 'Tis clearer now, I see the gable roof 
 Look outward from the elm tree's verdant woof 
 Like some familiar face, and lower still 
 The friendly wild-rose on the window sill. 
 Where oft I sat when day and toil were o'er, 
 And longed to roam the world on sea and shore. 
 And dreamed of love and fame and cruel wars. 
 Awhile the night wind whispered to the stars. 
 
 )/ M ^^ 
 
 
 SEE THE GABLE ROOF. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Ah, yes! I see the woodbine on the ell, 
 The towering well sweep that I knew so well, 
 And on the barn the same old weather vane 
 That told of yore of sunshine and of rain. 
 
 But half the quaint old roof has fallen in 
 And winter blasts have worn the shingles thin, 
 While each dejected window sash complains 
 That storms and stones have robbed it of its panes. 
 Upon one hinge the front door grinds and squeaks; 
 Like some poor human thing it plainly speaks 
 Of sad neglect and changing heat and cold 
 That fill its joints with pains and make it old. 
 
 Here is the ancient fireplace, broad and tall. 
 
 How cheerful was its firelight on the wall I 
 
 Here oft I sat on stormy winter nights 
 
 And watched the restless ever-changing lights 
 
 Upon the logs, or traced a tiny spark 
 
 Far up the dingy flue into the dark; 
 
 Some prudent squirrel leaves his winter store 
 
 Upon the landing of my chamber door, 
 
 And rude rats scamper o'er the floor and hide 
 
 Behind the dingy walls that were my pride ; 
 
 For vermin comes to gloat o'er man's decay, 
 
 And haunt his home when he has passed away. 
 
 Here is the barn, — ah! what a place to play 
 When mow and loft are filled with new-mown hay, 
 And all the air is sweet \\ith clox'er scent — 
 To climb the beams and jump from bent to bent. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 87 
 
 Or search the haymows for a stolen nest ; 
 
 Of all the play-rooms known this is the best. 
 
 And when I gaze adown yon winding lane, 
 
 My age departs and youth comes back again. 
 
 I see a barefoot boy in homely dress, 
 
 The prince of that rich kingdom, happiness; 
 
 A brimless palm leaf is his regal crown, 
 
 His ruddy cheeks are tinged with russet brown, 
 
 His sunny face could never wear a cloud, 
 
 No rich estates could make him half so proud, 
 
 His scepter is a leafless maple browse, 
 
 His Majesty is driving home the cows. 
 
 What pain would fill his heart if father knew 
 
 That witch grass claimed the fields where clover grew, 
 
 That all the meadow hay was filled with swale, 
 
 His cherished wood-lot stripped for tie and rail. 
 
 That all the pasture lots were choked with brush. 
 
 )R TRACED A TINY SPARK." 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 The meadow lowlands grown to reed and rush ; 
 
 If he could see the ancient orchard's rows 
 
 Of stately trees uprooted by the blows 
 
 That strip the rotting shingles from the shed 
 
 And shake the crazy rafters overhead, 
 
 That raze the gates and fences to the ground, 
 
 And scatter direst desolation round ! 
 
 Ah! well for him his humble life was taken 
 
 Before New England homesteads were forsaken. 
 
 'Tis eventide, the shades of night draw near 
 
 And one by one the silent stars appear. 
 
 Those silver tapers that the angels hold 
 
 Above the clouds to view the sleeping wold ; 
 
 The night winds faintly whisper as they pass, 
 
 A cricket chirps beside me in the grass. 
 
 The elm tree gently stirs its countless leaves, 
 
 And over all a benediction breathes 
 
 More deep than sleep, more tranquil than the calms 
 
 Of some fair oasis with breathless palms. 
 
 Farewell ! farewell ! fair haven of my youth. 
 
 Thou sweet abode of innocence and truth. 
 
 And though my feet may leave thee far behind. 
 
 No chance or change shall blot thee from my mind. 
 
 And when at eve the city streets are hot 
 
 Fond memory shall lead me to this spot. 
 
 Then for the din, the rumble, and the grind, 
 
 Mine ears shall hear the murmur of the wind ; 
 
 And when at last life's little day is spent 
 
 And death shall claim this form, infirm and bent. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 I beg some friend to whom I once was dear, 
 To break the turf and lay the poet here. 
 Here 'neath the ehii where every idle breath 
 Shall murmur low a requiem for death, 
 Where f^rst in spring the lilac sheds its bloom 
 And last in fall the verdure gathers gloom; 
 That men may know of all the classic ground 
 Where poets sleep, the leagued world around, 
 I place New England high above the rest, 
 I hold this spot the fairest and the best. 
 
 HO IV BE YER.' 
 
 I don't gin much for city ways 
 
 O' ginnin' a hand shake, 
 This takin' hold o' people's hands 
 
 As though you thought they'd break 
 I like to hev um grip my hand 
 
 Like 'twas an ax or plow. 
 An' gin my arm a wrench an' say, 
 
 How be yer anyhow ? 
 
 So 
 
 THE DUDE. 
 
 The man whose heart is wholly bound up in 
 A new cravat, or how his trousers fit, 
 
 Who cannot bear ter soil his lily skin 
 
 Ain't worth a fling, so I won't waste my wit. 
 
9° 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 GOD'S OPULENCE. 
 What a world there is of beauty 
 
 In th 
 
 e mosses on a 
 
 fenc 
 
 How it magnifies our duty 
 To behold God's opulence 
 
 
 im:-::^^^ 
 
 HE MOSSIiS ON A FENCE. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 91 
 
 CHESTNUT BURRS. 
 
 Some folks are jest like prickly chestnut burrs, 
 They are so techy an' so easy crost, 
 They ain't no 'arthly good until the frost 
 
 O' some great grief the goodness in um stirs. 
 
 AN EYE EOR BEAUTY. 
 
 Some people think a farmer hain't no eye 
 For beauty, an' Dame Nater's wondrous art 
 
 But gazin" on the flowers, an' field, an' sky 
 Is half o' life ter one old hayseed's heart. 
 
 ELXE EEEL/N'S. 
 
 Fine feel'n's ain't a thing that comes with gold 
 Or larnin', or with livin' grand an' free; 
 
 For high-up folks are often hard an' cold 
 
 While low-down folks are full of sympathy. 
 
 AFTER THE LEAVES. 
 
 There is a beauty in the naked trees, 
 
 A tenderness in faded leaf and flower, 
 
 A store of thought in each dull, withered thing, 
 
 That summer's lavish richness does not hold 
 
 Though gilded by the sun's divinest rays; 
 
IDVLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 As though the reveler with empty cup 
 
 Still in his hand had paused a moment ere 
 
 He drank again, to taste awhile the draught 
 
 That he had drained. We who have quaffed the wine 
 
 Of flowery months, deep, warm, delicious draughts 
 
 Of life and light, pause on the brink of dearth 
 
 To dream again the joy of summer days. 
 
 And are these leaves not like our silver hairs, 
 
 Or like the wrinkles on a careworn face, 
 
 Symbols of age, of beauty that has been, 
 
 Of days and years gone by, and us grown old? 
 
 And how are we more vital than the leaves 
 
 Were it not for the soul that burns within? 
 
 In springtime all the wood is merriment, 
 
 Song-full with chirp and carol everywhere; 
 
 HE LEAVES. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 But now is solemn stillness over all — 
 This too is proper setting for our years, 
 With somber coloring of gray and brown, 
 And mosses wrinkled like an old man's skin, 
 And leaves that tremble as with palsied age. 
 Each spring I hasten forth to drink its wine, 
 Attend the sounds of revelry and youth. 
 And in that transport am a child again ; 
 But in the autumn forth with solemn steps 
 I wander to the woods to sit and brood, 
 To note how time and I are getting on, 
 To think how few the years that intervene 
 Between me and that last mysterious change. 
 When like the leaves that crumble in my hand 
 My form will crumble in the hand of death 
 And I shall know the meaning of these tears. 
 
 93 
 
 SONG OF THE THRESHER. 
 
 In the autumn time when the barn is sweet 
 With the scent of hay and the fragrant wheat, 
 When corn and rye and the slender oats 
 Are lying still in their autumn coats, 
 When loft and mow and the broad deep bay 
 Are brimming o'er with the grain and hay, 
 Then the farmer takes from a dusty nail 
 In the barn or shed his well worn flail: 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 He oils the joint and he makes it tight, 
 Then swings it 'round with a boy's dehght. 
 Ah ! yes, 'twill do, 'tis the same old stick, 
 It hangs so neat and it swings so slick, 
 He must be off to the barn and try 
 His hand once more at the oats and rye; 
 And so he stands on the well filled floor 
 And swings his flail by the big barn door. 
 
 Whack, whack, swing, swing, 
 
 How the oat straws dance and the rafters ring! 
 
 Swing, swing, whack, whack, 
 
 Shelling the grain for the empty sack. 
 
 Though the back may ache and the muscles crack, 
 
 Swing, swing, whack, whack. 
 
 Shelling the grain for the empty sack. 
 
 He remembers how in the early spring 
 
 When the slender sprouts had begun to fling 
 
 The crusted dirt from their tender heads 
 
 He had watched them there in their lowly beds. 
 
 As faithfully as a father would, 
 
 As tenderly as a mother could, 
 
 He watched them grow in the fertile field. 
 
 From blight and plague he was their shield. 
 
 Then in July when the air was hot 
 
 He saw them grow with a sudden start ; 
 
 They seemed to lengthen and swell each day — 
 
 " I can hear um grow," the farmer would say; 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 95 
 
 The merry wind with an elfin glee 
 Said, " This is a field that was made for me," 
 And the ripening heads of the grain he tossed 
 Till they rose and fell like a marching host. 
 
 Whack, whack, swing, swing. 
 
 How the oat straws dance and the rafters ring! 
 
 Swing, swing, whack, whack. 
 
 Shelling the grain for the empty sack, 
 
 Though the back may ache and the muscles crack. 
 
 Swing, swing, whack, whack. 
 
 Shelling the grain for the empty sack. 
 
 A joy it was to recall the day 
 When the scythe and sickle came in play. 
 And the reaper, too, like a chariot bold 
 Laid the golden grain in the binder's fold, 
 And gleamed the shocks in the setting sun 
 Like an army's tents when the march is doiie ; 
 Then came the teams with their mighty racks 
 And bore them away to be laid in stacks. 
 
 ?^^^ 
 
 4 ^V -S'- J^'-"'' 
 
 "THEN IN JULY." 
 
96 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Now dance the sheaves on the floor of oak 
 While the grain is shelled with each heavy stroke ; 
 The flail goes up,- then it swings around 
 And swift descends with a rhythmic sound. 
 Here is a vision of groaning boards, 
 Of the attic's store and the pantry's hoards ; 
 So while the flail with a will he swings, 
 The joyous farmer a chorus sings. 
 
 Whack, whack, swing, swing. 
 
 How the oat straws dance and the rafters ring! 
 
 Swing, swing, whack, whack, 
 
 Shelling the grain for the empty sack. 
 
 Though the back may ache and the muscles crack 
 
 Swing, swing, whack, whack, 
 
 Shelling the grain for tho cmi^tv ^ack. 
 

IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 THE DANDELION. 
 
 Some people call this flower a humbly thing, 
 Jest suited ter adorn a countr}^ clod ; 
 Ter me it is the tender smile o" God 
 
 That April brings ter cheer the 'arly spring. 
 
 99 
 
 KEEP UP YER EENCES. 
 
 Don't let no hole git in yer moral fence, 
 But keep it jest above Temptation's nose, 
 For if one little peccadillo goes 
 
 Ter tother side a score will follow hence. 
 
 L.OFC 
 
 KEEP UP YER FENCES." 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 EARTH'S PRIMAL COLOR. 
 
 Yer'd hardly think when natcr's scenes unfold, 
 The leetle spears o' grass would be so bold 
 That they would spread themselves on ev'ry hand 
 Until their green should cover all the land. 
 
 SLWCE HANNAH ANSWERED ''YES: 
 
 I 'low a change has come my way, 
 The wind has kind o' shifted. 
 
 Life didn't hardly seem ter pay 
 Afore the shadow lifted. 
 
 The farm wuz all a runnin' down, 
 
 The craps wuz gittin' bad, 
 There wa'n't no market in tlie town 
 
 For anything 1 had ; 
 
 The pigs looked runty, an' the cows 
 
 Were all a goin' dry. 
 There wa'n't much clover in the mows, 
 
 An' provender wuz high; 
 
 An' somehow, too, the dear ole sk}^ 
 
 Looked duller ev'ry day, — 
 Perhaps 'twas somethin' in my eye 
 
 That made it seem that way. 
 
 But one dark night there came a change 
 There! now, I've let it out; 
 
 It seemed ter me so very strange 
 That it should come about. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 This night I saw a dear girl hum ; 
 
 Nor dreamed that she would bless 
 My lonely life, yet told her all, 
 
 An' Hannah answered "Yes." 
 
 Why ! what a change came over things ! 
 
 The pigs began ter fat ! 
 The hens laid eggs enough each day 
 
 Ter more than fill my hat ! 
 
 The weeds got scurser, an' the craps 
 
 Began to grow like mad, 
 An' ev'ry day wuz bright enough 
 
 Ter make a stun wall glad ! 
 
 All nater seemed ter jine right in! 
 
 Perhaps you'll think it chaff, 
 But true's I'm born that very night 
 
 Ole Brindle hed a caff ! 
 
 '-> 
 
 , Wm^ 
 
 SK\^r'^^^^ 
 
 THE HENS LAID EGGS ENOUGH EACH DAY. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 THE WEATHER VANE. 
 
 I plan my fannin' by the weather vane — 
 When due northwest I say it will not rain 
 But in our human lot there ain't no sign 
 To tell ver if the da^''ll be foul or fine. 
 
 HUMnJTV. 
 
 Jack knew he wuz a dunce, an' so he tried 
 Ter fill the void ; a learned man he died. 
 Tom thought that he could for a genius pass, 
 Yet when he died men voted him an ass. 
 
 A LAW OF NATER. 
 
 Yer can't plant cabbage seed an' git a tater, 
 Not in my garden patch, an' that ain't nater 
 An' he who goes around a-sowin' evil, 
 Will reap a crap o' pigweeds from the devil. 
 
 l^ANITY. 
 
 When I see a feller round a-blowin' 
 About how much he knows, a kinder crowin' 
 Over the saints, an' over all creation, 
 I'm mighty glad he ain't o' my relation. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 103 
 
 OUR SINS. 
 
 Our sins are like the weeds we see a-growin' 
 Down in the medder lot when we're a-mowin' 
 For if there's one a-noddin' in the clover 
 There's almost sartin sure to be another. 
 
 BEAUTY rO A FARMER. 
 
 There is beauty to a farmer — 
 Now you people needn't laff - 
 
 In the antics an' the capers 
 O' a leetle frisky caff. 
 
 
 A I.EETl.K FRISKY CAFF. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 SO IV 'ARLV. 
 
 Git in yer seed as 'arly as yer can. 
 In oats or deeds don't wait ter be a man ; 
 Sow gentle deeds and honesty in youth 
 An' then in age reap tenderness an' truth. 
 
 SEEIN' HANNAH HUM. 
 
 'Twas in the forties, an' I guess 
 
 Nigh fifty year ago, 
 When this here incident occurred — 
 
 I swow ! how time does go! 
 
 That winter we hed spelHn' schools 
 
 An' ev'ry kind o' fun 
 That took us young folks 'arly out. 
 
 An' kep' us out till one ! 
 
 This night it wuz a parin' bee 
 Ter which the crowd hed come. 
 
 An' When the rest were matin' up 
 I asked dear Hannah hum. 
 
 I tell yer what ! I did feel proud 
 A trudgin' hum with her; 
 
 I wouldn't 'a' cared ef it hed been 
 A hundred times as fur. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 105 
 
 The" moon wuz full, the stars aglow, 
 
 The snow all gleamin' bright ; 
 I don't believe there ever wuz 
 
 Another sech a nieht. 
 
 There wuz one drawback that we hed 
 The snow wuz mighty deep, 
 
 We hed ter walk in dif runt paths 
 Or else in file like sheep. 
 
 It wuz too fur apart ter be 
 
 When we were opposite, 
 So by-and-by we jined our hands 
 
 An' they were jest a fit. 
 
 This made me walk upon the core, 
 
 Above my ladylove, 
 An' ev'ry now an' then I'd slip. 
 
 An' give the snow a shove. 
 
 But Hannah didn't seem ter mind 
 
 Ef it got in her shoe, 
 An' ef I filled my overshoes 
 
 I do not think I knew. 
 
 When I stepped down inter a hole, — 
 
 I couldn't alluz tell, — 
 I would give Hannah's hand a yank. 
 
 An' maybe she, too, fell. 
 
io6 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 But then I helped her up each time 
 Whenever she went down, 
 
 An' jest about that time I wuz 
 The biggest chap in town. 
 
 I tried ter talk a little bit, 
 
 But didn't do it slick, 
 For wlien it came around my turn 
 
 My tongue 'd alluz stick. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 But I did manage in a way 
 Ter tell about our cow, 
 
 An' politics, an' keepin' hens, 
 Which wasn't much I 'low. 
 
 I longed ter speak dear Hannah's name, 
 
 But it wuz alluz Miss; 
 I wondered ef she cared for me, 
 
 Or ef she'd stand a kiss. 
 
 I've faced a bull when he wuz mad 
 
 An' not felt half so scat ! 
 An' takin' wildcats out o' traps 
 
 Ain't nothin' side o' that ! 
 
 I might hev been a bachelor 
 
 Ter this here blessed day, 
 Ef somethin' hedn't happened then 
 
 That kind o' cleared the way. 
 
 We hed got down inter the woods 
 
 Where it wuz mighty dark, 
 I hed ter kinder feel my way 
 
 An' didn't try ter spark ; 
 
 For here the road went dif'runt ways. 
 
 The left wuz twice as fur. 
 So I gave Hannah's hand a squeeze 
 
 An' jokin' said ter her. 
 
loS 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 " Here is the place ter make a change 
 
 In spite o' nippin' weather 
 Lets you an' I walk on an' on 
 
 The longest way together." 
 
 Then Hannah gave my arm a squeeze, 
 It made my heart stan' still, — 
 
 An' said, " You mean I be your wife- 
 Yes, Jonathan, I will." 
 
 An' that is all there is ter tell 
 Save that I claimed my own. 
 
 An' fifty year love's radiance 
 Upon our path hez shone. 
 
 WHEN I COME 'round THE CORNER IN THE ROAD. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 WELCOME. 
 
 When I come 'round the corner in the road 
 An' see the smoke out of the chimbly blow'd, 
 Or git a squint at our ole weather vane, 
 An' hear the cattle lowin' in the lane, 
 An' Ponto barkin' jest because I've come. 
 Seems mighty good ter be a gittin' hum. 
 
 OUR MOODS. 
 Our moods ter me are like the swallow's flight, 
 Now slow an' dull, then airy, swift, an light. 
 Now mountin' up inter the zenith sky. 
 Then sinkin' down ter depths o' misery. 
 
 109 
 
 TO WAIT. 
 'Tis not the shock of arms, the shattered steel. 
 That makes the heart grow sick, the brain to reel 
 It is to sit within the courts of fate, 
 Uncertain of your doom, and silent wait. 
 
 THE OLE WELL SWEEP. 
 
 Yes, when I wuz a boy it seemed so high 
 I thought the top of it jest teched the sky 
 But now it ain't so grand a sight ter see— 
 I wonder ef it is the sweep or me. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 WEAR YER MO URN IN' IN YER HEART 
 
 Wear yer mournin' in yer heart 
 
 An' not upon yer sleeve, 
 As though it wuz a kinder sign 
 
 Ter let folks know yer grieve. 
 For mournin' really should go deep, — 
 
 Beyond my power to tell, — 
 So don't make it a circus bill 
 
 That ev'ry boy can spell. 
 
 Besides, the sorrow that a man 
 
 Can wear upon his hat, 
 A kind o' flauntin' it about. 
 
 Is jest a leetle flat. 
 An' I should say it did not go 
 
 Much deeper than the skin ; 
 For men o' feelin' close their hearts 
 
 When vulgar eyes look in. 
 
 An' ain't our grief a sacred thing 
 
 That we must bear alone. 
 That we can only talk about 
 
 Ter God afore His throne? 
 An' don't it kind o' tarnish grief 
 
 Ter hev ter trot it out 
 An' let the world examine it, 
 
 An' turn it inside out? 
 
 Now mind, — I ain't agin a bit 
 
 O' somethin' worn apart 
 From all this show, a symbol o' 
 
 The erief that's in the heart ; 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 But wear it sacredly an' hide 
 It from all vulgar eyes; 
 
 Jest as the mystery o' God 
 Is hidden by the skies. 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 Humanity is God's great harp of hearts, 
 
 Each soul a string — a note in life's strange key 
 
 Attuned to all earth's joy and misery; 
 
 Strike one lone string and through the whole there start; 
 
 A sympathetic strain and all the parts 
 
 Will weep with woe or laugh with ecstasy; 
 
 There is no note that truly should not be 
 
 A part of all the rest, and pain ne'er darts 
 Into one life or sorrow clouds one brain 
 But that another's soul is touched with pain ; 
 Love-linked, life-wed with one another's grief 
 Is all the world, and every human heart 
 Must weep with grief and laugh with joy apart 
 And find in sympathy its own relief. 
 
 WHAT AIR OUR STATESMEN COMIN' TER ? 
 
 What air our statesmen comin' ter — 
 
 Does any mortal know? 
 I mean while they are with us here — 
 
 We all know where they go. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Yer see it at election time 
 When candidates come roun' 
 
 An' stamp an' shout from A ter Z 
 Ter prove that black is brown. 
 
 Yer see it when the tables turn 
 An' parties change about, 
 
 With new officials hustled in 
 An' ole ones hustled out. 
 
 Yer see it when the state convenes 
 
 At its proud capital 
 An' sends a man ter Washington — 
 
 "Because he helped last fall." 
 
 LD IS ALL MADE OVER. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Yer see it when our leetle towns 
 Know all the shams and tricks 
 
 For lobbyin' a measure through 
 By peanut politics. 
 
 Yer see it when a tariff bill 
 Goes fiound'rin' on its way; 
 
 'Tis then each patriot citizen 
 For Uncle Sam should pray. 
 
 It made me almost want ter swear, 
 
 A readin' t'other day 
 'Bout one o' our cheap demagogs, 
 
 The things he hed ter say; 
 
 Right in the dear ole Senate, too, 
 Where Webster used ter fence 
 
 With John Calhoun and Henry Clay, 
 An' men that hed some sense ; 
 
 An' here this sycophant upriz 
 
 Ter feather his own nest, 
 An' howled at his constitooents, 
 
 An' told us what was best ; 
 
 An' called gray-headed statesmen fools, 
 
 A blattin' like a caff, 
 He vilely slandered Uncle Sam 
 
 An' made the gallery laff ; 
 
114 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 While all the government stood stil 
 
 A waitin' in suspense, 
 Until this new-made senator 
 
 Should air his ignorance. 
 
 An' he a sowin' anarchy 
 
 An' talkin' discontent, 
 A say in' how he wuz a saint 
 
 Upon a mission sent. 
 
 THE GOOD OLE-FASHIONED THINGS. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Wal, yes, he's on a mission there — 
 
 I guess he sent himself, 
 An' he is lookin' for a chance 
 
 Ter git a leetle.pelf. 
 
 It ain't so much the people's fault, 
 
 For they are jest as brave 
 As when they trained with Washington, 
 
 Or fit ter free the slave. 
 
 But all the nation's politics 
 Is full of dirt an' chaff. 
 
 An' we hev got ter winnow it 
 With winds of righteous wrath 
 
 An' stir our Congress up a bit 
 An' find what it's about. 
 
 An' bury demagogs so deep 
 That they won't even sprout. 
 
 PLEBEIAN RICHES. 
 
 Truth hath no clique, her beauties will not shun 
 The humblest heart e'en though patricians glare ; 
 
 Love hath no caste, for like the morning sun 
 Its radiance the lowly life may share. 
 
ii6 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 SOFT SIGHS THK DARKLINC. I'lNK. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 A SIGH FROM NA TURE. 
 
 Is it the woe inherent in all mirth, 
 
 The finite Hfe that craves a higher birth, 
 
 That nature feels, e'en like your heart and mine, 
 
 When on the air soft sighs the darkling pine? 
 
 THE UNSEEN STRIFE. 
 
 Down in the dregs and wretchedness of life. 
 
 Where right from wrong the angels scarce can see, 
 The fiercest fight 'gainst human destiny 
 
 That souls can wage, is but man's daily strife. 
 
 RESISTANCE. 
 
 The eagle deems that air retards his flight, 
 Yet without atmosphere in vain his might; 
 So human souls are seeming balked by fate 
 With obstacles that serve to make them great. 
 
 SUCCESS. 
 
 Success oft dulls the very edge of life, 
 
 And gold breeds poverty ; 
 Only the soul that lives in endless strife 
 
 Is all that it should be. 
 
ii8 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 THE FARMERS DELIGHT. 
 
 It does me good ter hear the corn a-growin', 
 And see the taters from the brown 'arth rise, 
 
 Ter see the buckwheat nod an' look real knovvin', 
 An' punkins prophesy o' next year's pies. 
 
 THE HEARTS OF HEROES. 
 
 The lap of luxury will not breed men. 
 
 Remember how when Xerxes' army poured 
 Through mountain pass Athena; plied her pen 
 
 And brush, the while she smote them with her sword. 
 
 Remember how that Rome in days of yore 
 Drew finest form, and noblest epic sung. 
 
 While with her sword she drank barbaric gore, 
 And Alp and Apennine with battle rung. 
 
 
 - — - nU'^---^^ 
 
 ■AN PUNKINS PROPHESY O NKXT YEAR S PIES. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Remember how old ocean's dark waves tost, 
 
 And how the winter woods did shriek and moan 
 
 When first the Pilgrims landed on this coast 
 And laid in blood Columbia's corner stone. 
 
 Stern souls have those who mold the lives of men, 
 With hearts like cliffs that cannot shaken be. 
 
 Yet full of noble tenderness, and then 
 
 They win from fate man's highest destiny. 
 
 TWO DEAD. 
 
 A soldier falls in the battle's brunt 
 
 Where manly forms are strewn around. 
 And the rest sweep on to the very front, 
 
 And leave him lying on the ground. 
 He hears the sound of their rushing feet. 
 
 But still above the battle's roar 
 He hears the voice of his true love sweet 
 
 As she says good-by at her father's door. 
 
 The hot sun beats on his throbbing brow. 
 
 And yet his anguish is unguessed ; 
 Of that distant home he is dreaming now, 
 
 With her dear head upon his breast. 
 He feels no pain, though the end is near. 
 
 For he is turning home once more. 
 And he hears the voice of his true love dear 
 
 As she says good-by at her father's door. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 The sun goes down on a victory 
 
 That does not seem to bear alloy, 
 And the good news speeds over land and sea, 
 
 And fills the nation's heart with joy, 
 And yet a girl by her father's door 
 
 Was standing when the fight was done; 
 In her loving heart was the wound he bore, 
 
 And two were dead instead of one. 
 
 MAN'S DESTINY. 
 
 The day's last smile illumes the distant hill, 
 
 The golden glory of the matchless scene 
 Maketh my heart with ecstasy to thrill. 
 
 And yet a shade of sadness falls between. 
 Wherefore such glory for a rhortal eye, 
 
 Such majesty of mountain and of plain. 
 Such heavenly hope in earth and sea and sky. 
 
 If man must lose in death his heart and brain? 
 And this the creed the hills declared to me : 
 
 Yea! truth and beauty live eternally, 
 And all there is of good enthroned in man, 
 
 Of love and truth and holy ecstasy. 
 Shall e'en outlast yon granite rocks, and be 
 
 A part o' God, when earth hath lost its plan. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 ALL K L.N (iriLA^L V«.IN C.KANLLL Ki 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 FINITE AND INFINITE. 
 
 When A\ill the weight}- secret of that pain 
 
 That fills my heart with each new sense of truth, 
 
 Fall like a meteor through the fragile roof 
 
 Of e'en the grandest thought man doth attain? 
 
 When will this life give to the heart and brain 
 
 A draught so deep that man will cry enough? 
 
 When from himself will man be held aloof 
 
 By such a power that sin shall cease to reign? 
 
 WHien will he rise triumphant like a star 
 
 Out of his groove into the trackless sky 
 
 And circumscribe the utmost thought of God? 
 
 When he has grown in wisdom on a par 
 
 E'en with the thought of God ; then will he die 
 
 Like flowers in seed that turn again to sod. 
 
 THE OLD STAGECOACH. 
 
 I've crossed the plains in a flying train 
 That thundered along in high disdain 
 By city street and country lane; 
 
 I've sailed the seas in a stately ship 
 
 And felt the billows rise and dip 
 
 When the wind of the waves had made a whip: 
 
 Hut the joUicst ride that ever I had, 
 The one that made my heart full glad. 
 Was in a coach, and I a lad. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 123 
 
 The winds are soft, the skies are fair, 
 
 In nature's heart is no despair, 
 
 For bud and bloom are everywhere ; 
 
 So hurry along with rattle and song, 
 
 The wheels are stout, the axles strong, 
 
 O there's many a turn and the way is long 
 
 Over the hills to Nowhere. 
 
 The yellow coach — how grand it seemed — 
 The horses champed, and their trappings gleamed, 
 And over all the sunlight streamed. 
 
 MANY A TURN AM 
 
 \ IS LONG. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 We clambered in with laugh and shout, 
 When once inside we nestled about, 
 Till at the hills we all got out ; 
 
 Picking the flowers that grew by the way, 
 Watching the birds and squirrels at play, 
 These were the joys of that coaching day. 
 
 The winds are soft, the skies are fair. 
 In nature's heart is no despair, 
 For bud and bloom are everywhere ; 
 So hurry along with rattle and song. 
 The wheels are stout, the axles strong, 
 O there's many a turn and the way is long 
 Over the hills to Nowhere. 
 
 The peaceful herds of grazing kine, 
 The valleys green and the river's shine. 
 The distant hills in a martial line, 
 
 The changing earth and firmament ; 
 These were the scenes that came and went 
 Whenever the roadway sudden bent. 
 
 It was a grand kaleidoscope 
 
 Of river, field, and mountain slope, 
 
 With which our sense could feebly cope. 
 
 The winds are soft, the skies are fair. 
 
 In nature's heart is no despair. 
 
 For bud and bloom are evcrvwhere ; 
 
Aiyiiii'i'liir 
 
 'i 
 
 1 
 
 
 iJ 
 
 -^^4 
 
 ''0 
 
 r ;v.« 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 So hurry along with rattle and song, 
 The wheels are stout, the axles strong, 
 O there's many a turn and the way is long 
 Over the hills to Nowhere. 
 
 THE OLE WATERIN' TROUGH. 
 
 Beside the roadway in a shady nook, 
 
 Its sparklin' water from a mountain brook, 
 
 The ole trough stands; here steeds o' low degree 
 
 May slake their thirst with those of pedigree. 
 
 For at this bar the drinks ter all are free. 
 
 COMPENSA TION. 
 
 Farmin' is hard, but I hev alluz felt 
 
 It brung me near ter nater an' her ways. 
 An' in the joy o' sunny, smilin' days, 
 
 My troubles alluz seem ter kinder melt. 
 
 IMPERFECTION. 
 
 Why weren't we humans made without a flaw, 
 Jest like the lily or the apple blow? 
 
 Perhaps it is a part o' nater's law 
 
 That perfect things from imperfection grow. 
 
128 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 CHANGE. 
 
 In nater all things travel round an' round, 
 From seed ter fruit, an' then inter the ground. 
 Jest as the water in the great sea goes 
 From cloud ter earth, an' then ter ocean flows. 
 
 POKIN' ROUND. 
 
 Pokin' round in ferns an' mosses 
 
 Like a hop-toad or a snail 
 Kinder seems ter lighten crosses 
 
 Where my heart would elsewise fail. 
 
 I'i'hiS^^k::^ ''■'■■ ''"^'■'"' 
 
 FORSAKEN. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 PLAIN SPEAKLV. 
 
 A lie's a lie, although we say o' late 
 The person will sometimes prevaricate ; 
 An' slander's pison, in life's every walk, 
 Although we say the person likes ter talk. 
 
 S LEE PIN IN THE BARN. 
 
 There ain't much comfort in a springy bed 
 Where it will always give a trifle more, 
 
 An' ver must ev'ry minute hev a dread 
 That it will bust an' spill yer on the floor. 
 
 The real ole-fashioned cord bed is my ch'ice, 
 There I can feel that I hev come ter stay, 
 
 But if yer really want for somethin' nice 
 Jest take a turn upon a mow o' hay. 
 
 There yer can feel there's somethin' under yer. 
 An' it will cuddle yer jest like a ma, 
 
 An' ef the winders are not off too fur 
 
 Yer see the sky an' here an' there a star. 
 
 Then from the stable comes the pleasant sound 
 Of bosses chawin' on their oats an" hay ; 
 
 The sniffin' o' the watchdog on his round, 
 An' twit'rin- swallows jest above the bay. 
 
13° 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 An' there's a kind o' somethin' in the hay 
 
 That soothes the sense an' leads the soul ter dreams, 
 
 An' almost 'fore yer think yer on the way 
 
 The mornin' sunlight through the winder streams. 
 
 THE HARVEST FEAST. 
 
 A long, low kitchen where the rafters show. 
 With burnished andirons where the embers glow 
 A groaning board, keen appetites to stay, 
 A row of faces, grave or bright and gay. 
 
 CO [/RAGE. 
 
 With adamantine nerves and heart like stone, 
 
 With courage blazoned on its war-scarred shield, 
 
 The life that wins success must stand alone. 
 
 And strive from dawn till dark, and never yield. 
 
 IE WE BUT KNEW. 
 
 The voice of God that thunders in the wave 
 And is so terrible in wind and storm. 
 If we but saw our loved ones' radiant form, 
 
 Would seem all sweetness by the new made grave. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 A SPARK. 
 
 Man's thought is but a segment of the arc 
 
 That spans infinity; 
 So when he sees the \\hole how Hke a spark 
 
 His Httle hsht will be! 
 
 G/TTLT HU.M. 
 
 There air some mighty purty sights 
 
 Ter see upon a farm, 
 An' there ain't nothin' in the tow n 
 
 Ter my idee ter charm 
 Yer like them humly kentry scenes, 
 
 With all their quiet ways, 
 Instead o' everything agog, 
 
 An' everything ablaze. . 
 
 I went down ter the city once 
 
 Ter see what I could see. 
 An' got alfired lonesome like 
 
 An' blue as I could be ; 
 I didn't see a bit o' grass, 
 
 Or any kind o' land. 
 Or anything but bricks and stun 
 
 An' houses built-so grand 
 
 You'd hardly dast ter look at 'em, 
 
 An' made so tarnal high 
 You'd kinder have ter hold yer breath 
 
 Whenever yer went by. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 The folks all looked so worried like, 
 
 An' never stop ter talk, 
 An' don't say nuthin' "bout the craps, 
 
 An' gallup when they walk. 
 
 The furniture is all so soft, 
 
 Made out o' plush an" hair. 
 It kinder seemed ter say ter yer. 
 
 Set down on me with care. 
 I didn't set down good an' hard 
 
 The whole time I wuz there — 
 I tell yer what, I longed sometimes 
 
 Fur my ole straight-backed chair. 
 
 My cousins were so tarnal p'lite 
 
 An" made so many bones 
 T^out hevin' me come down ter town. 
 
 An' called me Mr. Jones, 
 An' axed sech funny questions, too, 
 
 They made me want ter run ; 
 l"d gi'n a V ter heard um say, 
 
 " H(nv be yer, Jonathan?" 
 
 I shook the dust off o" my feet 
 
 When I had stayed a week. 
 An" got out o" that Babylon, 
 
 Where everything wuz Greek, 
 An* homes were kept so mighty f^ne 
 
 You"d think um made fur kings. 
 With beds that wouldn"t let yer sleep 
 
 For fear you'd bust their springs. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 133 
 
 When I got hum "twuz harvest time, 
 
 An" there wuz golden corn 
 A-standin' waitin' in the shocks, 
 
 An' mother's dinner horn 
 Came ringin' cheery down the road ; 
 
 It sounded mighty sweet, 
 It seemed ter say, " Cum hum, ole man, 
 
 An' cfit somethin' ter eat." 
 
 An' there \\uz cattle in the fields. 
 
 An' punkins on the vines, 
 An' flamin' maples in the woods 
 
 Among the spruce and pines. 
 
 
134 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 An' squirrels jumped from limb ter limb 
 Where there wuz nuts ter spare, 
 
 An' autumn's haze wuz on the hills, 
 An' peace wuz in the air. 
 
 An' when I saw our little hum 
 
 A-nestlin' in the trees, 
 Jest in the sunshine an' the shade 
 
 With jest a bit o' breeze ; 
 I'll 'low my heart swelled up a bit 
 
 An' kep' a-swellin' more, 
 Until it fairly bust itself 
 
 With Hannah at the door. 
 
 An' when she hugged me roun' the neck, 
 
 An' kissed me on the cheek, 
 An' said, " How be yer, Jonathan? " 
 
 I swow, I couldn't speak, — - 
 'Twuz worth a year o' city life, 
 
 An' more than kingdom come ; 
 'Bout all the fun o' goin' off 
 
 Is jest a-gittin' hum. 
 
 DANG LI N\ 
 
 Danglin' yer feet jest off a rustic bridge, 
 
 Tossin' bright pebbles down inter the brook, 
 Watchin' the fishes, longin' for a hook, 
 
 Not tumblin' in, but jest upon the edge. 
 
IK rir\ OXCK 
 
IDVLS OF OLD NEW KNGLAND. 
 
 '37 
 
 
 
 Si£^ 
 
 "A Kl'STK" liRIDC.K. 
 
[38 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGI>AND. 
 
 TO AN OLD PINE. 
 
 Dark silent pine, that standest here so grim, 
 What mystery dost hang upon thy form, 
 Of Hfe and death, of sunny days, and storm 
 
 Of icebound months, in years that now are dim? 
 
 THE NOBLEST LIVES. 
 
 The noblest lives are reared in poverty. 
 Where early struggles teach the soul to see 
 That life is strife, and it is nature's plan 
 That in the very struggling is the man. 
 
 AN OLE TIME THANKSGIVIN' DA Y 
 
 There ain't no other holiday 
 That sets my heart aglow, 
 
 That turns my feelin's inside out, 
 An' stirs me all up so ; 
 
 For I have seen a lot o' um. 
 An' they are jest as bright, 
 
 An' stand out full as clear ter me 
 As this 'ere one ter night. 
 
 But in the ones we hed v,a}" back 
 We went in more for fun. 
 
 An" didn't try so much for style 
 As in this modern one. 
 
IDYLS OF cnA) NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 (39 
 
 Don't I remember those times wel 
 
 Especially one day — 
 How all the leetle memories 
 
 Like fire lit^ht round it play 1 
 
 Jest let me sketch it for you now. 
 
 'Twuz fifty year ago, 
 An' there are forty-nine between. 
 
 A-standin' in a row. 
 
 hanksgivin' in i-uf. distanck. 
 
IDVLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Pale dawned the moniin' luinc;' with mist, 
 
 The sun a-peepin' through 
 A splendid arch o' somber gray 
 
 With jest a bit o' blue. 
 
 But as the hours drew on ter noon 
 
 The azure turned ter gray, 
 An' leetle snowflakes filled the air — 
 
 It alluz snows that day. 
 
 The dinner hour wuz set for two. 
 
 When folks began ter come, 
 How grandpa 'n' grandma hurried round 
 
 An' how the tongues did hum I 
 
 The uncles, aunts, an' cousins came. 
 
 An' all their gals an' boys, 
 A score o' young folks full o' life 
 
 An' eager for its joys. 
 
 An' all the leetle children, too, — 
 
 A-hevin' heaps o' fun, 
 A-peekin' roun' an askin' ef 
 
 The turkey wasn't done. 
 
 Then by an' by we all went out 
 
 Inter the kitchen cpiaint — 
 With polished walls o' han'some oak 
 
 Not cox'ered up with p;vnt. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 But with the beams a-showin' through, 
 
 Each in its nat'ral wood; 
 An' queer ole cheers an' cupboards neat 
 
 An' fire logs snappin' good. 
 
 QUEER OLE CHEERS AN' CUPBOARDS NEA 
 
IDYLS OF (^I.D NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 The table spread with heaps o' things 
 That caught the young folk's eyes. 
 
 The turkey fust, of course, an' then 
 The plum duff an' the pies. 
 
 l^ig punkin pies an' berry pies 
 
 An' pies o' peach an' pear. 
 An' all the finest kin's o' cake 
 
 Hed sonieho\\- gotten there. 
 
 It makes mc hungr)- now, I \um ! 
 
 An' though a man is rich 
 The farmers' livin' beats him clean, 
 
 For gold won't buy no sich. 
 
 Then grandpa, he would say the grace 
 An' we young scamps would grin, 
 
 An' kind o' chuckle as he did, 
 An' each would stroke his chin. 
 
 Then ht)vv the merr)' jest did fly I 
 An' how the tongues did go ! 
 
 The ole folks seemed quite satisfied, 
 Jest lookin" down the row . 
 
 Then each would tell the thing that he 
 
 Was truly grateful for. 
 ( )ne little chap would thankful be 
 
 I^f he could <7o ter war. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. Mj 
 
 Then in the evenin' there wuz games, 
 
 An' hick'ry nuts an' jokes; 
 Snapdragon made a pile o' fun 
 
 For bicf an' leetle folks ; 
 
 An' grandpa told us thrillin' tales • 
 About King Philip's braves, 
 
 An' burnin' towns, an' scalpin' folks. 
 An' findin' Injuns' graves. 
 
 We never knew how 'twuz the clock 
 Got round that night so late. 
 
 But there it wuz, a-pintin' twelve 
 Afore we thought 'twuz eight. 
 
 How hard it was ter say good-by 
 Ter all that warmth an' cheer. 
 
 An' know Thanksgivin' day hed past 
 Until another year! 
 
 A ROOSTER. 
 
 How proud the rooster stalks along the lane, 
 Stepping from right to left in high disdain ; 
 Like many a man he tries to make a show 
 With gaudv crest, and loud and frequent crow. 
 
144 
 
 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 LEETLR LOVES. 
 
 It ain't so much great thunder showers o' love 
 W'e humans crave, as leetle drops Hke dew, 
 
 That silent, unseen, through the ether move. 
 An' ev'ry cvenin' faintin' hearts renew. 
 
 WINTER MUSIC. 
 
 The sweetest \\inter music ter my ear 
 Is not the harmon}' o' mighty sound. 
 It is the silver tinkle underground 
 
 O' leetle streams that hide away in fear 
 
 SILVER TINKI.K U NDERGROU N O . 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 145 
 
 MAKE FRIENDS. 
 
 Make not an enemy o' man or beast 
 When thou art strong, an' master o' the feast ; 
 For times may come through providence o' God 
 When thou shalt serve and they will hold the rod. 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 Do human lives such sweet remembrance give 
 As do the leaves, when they have ceased to live? 
 So sweet the scent of dead leaves on the mold 
 We deem their life not dearly hath been sold. 
 
 CONSOLA TION IN DECEMBER. 
 
 Autumnal days have fully passed, 
 And chill December's stinging blast 
 
 Has blown its icy breath ; 
 The fallen leaf, the faded flower, 
 The somber fields, the skies that lower, 
 
 All mourn the summer's death. 
 
 And now the wild wind, in its mirth, 
 Sweeps o'er the sorrow-stricken earth 
 
 And scours each hill and dale, 
 While silently the falling snow 
 Sifts down upon the fields below 
 
 And spreads its fleecy veil. 
 
146 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 But keep thy heart, — autumnal hope^ 
 Have not been buried on these sh;)pes 
 
 To sleep for aye and aye ; 
 The leafy bowers, the happy birds, 
 The verdant fields, the lowing herds, 
 
 Will all come back in May. 
 
 In dark December look to spring 
 And learn to hear the robin sing 
 
 Upon the unbuilt nest; 
 In sorrow teach thy lips to say, — 
 I know this pain will pass away, 
 
 And I shall see "twas best. 
 
 SONG OF THE WOODSMAN. 
 
 I hie me away to the forest old 
 
 ()n a winter's morn when the air is cold 
 
 yVnd the \\'hite snow gleams in the morning sun 
 
 And every twig is a diamond ; 
 
 The trees are bending beneath the snow 
 
 That falls in showers as the cold winds blow. 
 
 A heavy load bears the evergreen 
 
 And scarce a leaf of the laurel is seen. 
 
 I take my stand by the lordlx' tree 
 
 That now hath stood full a centur)- 
 
 And raised on high its majestic form 
 
 In the summer's breeze and the wintei''s storm; 
 
IDVI.S OF OLD NP:W ENGLAND. 
 
 147 
 
 I measure it with a ^\ oodsnian's c)x\ 
 Its towering form 'gainst the winter sk\-, 
 And choose the spot where the tree must fall 
 \\'ith a deafening crash, at the woodsman's cal 
 
 With a steady stroke at the tallest oak 
 The forest ever grows, 
 
 I'll lay it low in the gleaming snow- 
 To music of my blows; 
 
 Then gayly sing while the woodlands ring 
 With echoes of the a.v; 
 
 Though the trees are tall I'll conquer them all 
 And break their sturdv backs. 
 
 IKAVV lUAli IIKAKS IIIK KVKKCIKKK 
 
148 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 The bright ax gleams as it goes up slow 
 
 And then it falls with a ringing blow; 
 
 The sharp blade sinks in the tender sap, 
 
 And falling chips leave a bleeding gap, 
 
 And wide and deep gro\\s the woodsman's cut 
 
 As he hews away at the royal butt. 
 
 And one by one through the yearly rings 
 
 The bright ax sinks while he gayly sings. 
 
 And soon the woodsman with cautious eye 
 
 Will view the top in the steel-blue sky 
 
 To see if the tree has begun to lean. 
 
 Or if a stir in its twigs is seen; 
 
 Then comes a quake through the noble tree. 
 
 As though it writhed at its destiny, 
 
 And then a creak as the strong wood breaks. 
 
 And the monarch falls and the firm earth shakes. 
 
 With a steady stroke at the tallest oak 
 
 The forest ever grows, 
 I'll lay it low in the gleaming snow 
 
 To music of my blows; 
 Then gayly sing while the woodlands ring 
 
 With echoes of the ax; 
 Though the trees are tall I'll conquer them all 
 
 And break their sturdy backs. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 KEEP A-PEGGIN\ 
 
 Yis! keep a-peggin, don't git riled or blue; 
 Thy heart ter duty as the sun keep true ; 
 Then all the changin' winds an' waves o' fate 
 Will buoy thee up, and help to make thee great. 
 
 GLEANING FROM OTHERS. 
 
 Each man yer meet, git all his new idees, 
 His hard-gained wisdom, and the truth he sees. 
 His noblest traits an' all that he has shown 
 That is o' worth an' shape um for yer own. 
 
 KEEl- A-PEGGIN 
 
I50 IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 CROW LINE. 
 
 Crow line is jest about the only way 
 Ter git through life, for ef yer stop ter play 
 An' fuss about, the Lord won't stop the sun 
 An' you'll git left afore the journey's done. 
 
 NATERS WINE. 
 
 Some poets sing o' foreign wines, an' tell 
 About the vintage from across the sea; 
 But clear cold water is the stuff for me 
 
 Out o' the northeast corner o' our well. 
 
 YOUNGSTERS. 
 
 How these green leaves a-gro\vin' by the bars 
 Hev brung me back ter days when I's a boy 
 A-pickin' youngsters an' a-havin' joy, 
 
 A fairly treadin' round upon the stars. 
 
 BILIN SAP. 
 
 You boys all know how in the airly spring — 
 Wal, say about the time the bluebird comes — 
 How 'tis the groun' begins ter thaw an' freeze 
 Along the sunn)- slopes beside the woods. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 An' how the sap goes creepin' up by day 
 Inter the hmbs an' shoots upon the trees, 
 An' how the cold at night will send it back 
 Agin a-racin' down into the roots 
 Ter keep all snug an' warm till mornin' comes; 
 The snow ain't gone 'cept here an' there a bit 
 Upon the hills that look all bare an' burnt — 
 Wal, jest about this time it gits ter look 
 Like sugarin'. So when the wind comes right, 
 An' it will freeze by night an' thaw by day. 
 Then boys look out fur jest a rush o' sap. 
 'Tis then we git the spouts an' buckets out, 
 An' set the camp. I tell you what, 'tis fun 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 This tappin' trees, sendin' the gleamin' bit 
 
 Inter the wood, seein' the shavin's creep 
 
 Out on the steel, an' fall upon the snow, 
 
 Wet with the lifeblood o' the mighty tree ; 
 
 An' then ter see the sap come spurtin' out 
 
 As bright an' sparklin' as the mornin' dew. 
 
 An' then ter hear it drop inter the pail 
 
 As stiddy as an old-time wooden clock — 
 
 A kinder sayin', drink, drink, drink. 
 
 When sap has been a-runnin" for a week 
 
 Right smart — that is, it does not run much nights 
 
 The storage tubs an' pans git brimmin' full 
 
 An' runnin' over, too, an' then the boys 
 
 Go up ter camp ter bile the sap at night. 
 
 They git a peck o' apples from the bin, 
 
 Some but'nuts an' some ches'nuts from upstairs, 
 
 An' then they start up to the sugarhouse. 
 
 The moon is mebbe three hours high by then 
 
 An' jest a-smilin' out her purtiest, 
 
 Turnin' the snow to sparklin' diamonds 
 
 An' makin' gloomy shadows 'hind the trees. 
 
 The sugarhouse looks cheerfuller than home 
 
 With its great fire a-glowin' in the arch, 
 
 An' steam a-streamin' out through every crack. 
 
 Wal, fust they set ter work ter fill the pan 
 
 An' git the fire to goin' good an' hot, 
 
 An' then they spread some blankets on the fioor 
 
 Before the glowin' arcli where it is warm. 
 
 An' set down for a feast an' stor}- tell. 
 
 An' sech tales as them country bo\-s can tell I 
 
 Stories of Injun fightin' on the plains. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 An' huntin' grizzlies on the mountain wilds, 
 An' trackin' antelopes across the snow, 
 With jungle tales an' stories o' the East, 
 Of buried treasures in the mountain side. 
 An' pirate raids upon the open sea. 
 An' all the while the fitful fire light gleams 
 An' dances in the arch, sendin' its glow- 
 Far out inter the gloom, then sinkin' low 
 Leaves all the scene in dark, mysterious shade. 
 An' ev'ry now an' then the howlin' wind 
 Shrieks in the trees like witches ridin' by. 
 Or makes the big old maple limbs ter squeak 
 An' groan; then, in some sudden lull, the crust 
 Will crack an' snap like ter the sharp report 
 O' that dread rifle that the red man bears, 
 An' owls with hideous hoots fill up the gaps. 
 
 AT THE SUGARHOUSE. 
 
IDYLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 An' as each tale grows skeerier than the last 
 The boys draw nearer to the cheerful fire 
 An' peer inter the gloom with frightened eyes 
 An' so they pass the cold un'arthly night 
 A-chankin' apples an' a-spinnin' yarns, 
 An' skeerin' one another nigh ter death, 
 Until the gleamin' stars begin ter fade, 
 An' in the east there comes a yarler streak. 
 An" then they pour the sirup in a tub, 
 Then hitch it tight upon the ole hand sled. 
 An' draw it home jest as the breakin' day 
 Begins ter chase the shadows o'er the snow. 
 
 • SOUL-FODDER. 
 
 It ain't so much the things we do or see 
 That is the essence o' the verb " ter be " 
 It is the truth we feel, the lo\'e we give, 
 That makes a human bein' truly live. 
 
OCT 30 W» 
 
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