Class Book .S^g ■ ; Copyright^ : COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. THE OLD SCRAP BOOK THE OLD HOME The OLD SCRAP BOOK BY SUSAN M. SWALES (ERNEST BELL) SIPS NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY PUBLISHERS ?\< ^> Copyright, 1919 By GRACE S. ROLSHOVEN JUl 2y \,m A530462 M,r* Go THE GIRLS AND BOYS OF THE OLD HOME THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED FOKEWOKD Among the pear and apple trees stood the old home. Its windows and its porches were embowered in clematis and wild grape vines ; its walls were buried in ivy ; its rooms were large and lofty and filled with the happy laughter of boys and girls ; and now like last year's nest it is deserted. In the beautiful quiet of God's acre sleep the Father and Mother ; the boys and girls have gone to new homes ; business houses have crowded it to its very doors; automobiles and street cars rush by every minute; the beautiful old orchard is destroyed, and the house is abandoned. Among the accumulations of so many years an old trunk was found. In it, still in their time-stained old scrap-book, undis- turbed for nearly forty years were found many of these poems and stories. They were written when the clouds of war en- shrouded the land ; when fields were untilled and fruit ungath- ered ; when " the mourners went about the streets," and now with these added poems of later years like the fragrance of the old garden wafted to us by a gentle breeze may they pleasantly recall that vanished time of romance and of our old home. CONTENTS POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD PAGE Our Union of Brothers 3 The Dying Soldier 4 For 's Album 5 Forgetting He Is Dead 6 Suffer and Be Strong 6 The Catastrophe ... 8 The Graduates' Farewell 9 The Rain 10 In Memoriam 11 "Birdie" 12 Summer Morning 13 " Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep "... 14 Finem Respice 16 Tokens 18 Smiles and Tears 20 The Journey 21 To Gertrude 25 Flower Teachings 26 Having a Picture Taken 27 Little Flirt! 28 Vigils 29 Asking Alms 31 Dead and Gone 32 The Kingdom Under the Sea 33 Queries 35 Bud-Making 37 Cherie's Kiss 37 Making Ready for our Journey 39 To Kittie 40 CONTENTS PAGE Lines on the Death of Fannie Seward 41 Trip Lightly 43 Somebody's Darling 44 Ann Arbor 45 To C 46 A Valentine , . . 47 " Only a Woman's Footprint " 49 The Hearth and Home 50 Memories 51 Love's Halo 52 POEMS WRITTEN IN LATER LIFE The Winds 54 Turn, My Darling 55 Dedicated to the Home Guards 55 The Old Year 56 Our Little Angel 57 Good Night 58 " Be not ye Troubled " 58 Magdalene 59 Ailsinore 60 Graduating Song 61 On the Death of Mr. Legget 61 My Wish To-night 62 A King Uncrowned 63 The Sparrow's Complaint 64 Song for the G. A. R 65 Slumber Song on the St. Clair 66 Margaret 66 Under the Ivy 67 Out in that Unknown Country 68 Tolstoi Is Dead 69 Beside Her Mother's Knee 70 The Flower Girl 70 The New Woman 71 To Reverend and Mrs. S 72 Dedicated to the Old Horse 72 CONTENTS PAGE Housewife's Guide 73 Written for C. D. P 74 The Blue Iris 74 To a Ely Found Dead in a Sugar Bowl 75 The Clover and I 76 Somewhere 77 A Plea 78 To the Alumni of B. F. A 78 Pain 79 Spring Song 80 Partridge Song 80 Christmas Day 81 The Mystery of the Dawn 82 For Me 82 To " Vee " with a Pair of Slippers 83 How Quiet are the Works of God 84 My Youth's Farewell 84 The Mission of Pain 85 EARLY PROSE WORKS Our Language 86 Coronations 87 Seraphina Fairbanks 91 Almost Shipwrecked 95 Taken Prisoner 102 What's in a Voice 110 Poor Maggie McLain 120 My Darling 128 The Twin Spies 134 Ladies Promenade 141 Kittie Clyde's Hero 144 The Heroic Many 150 Chd3by, The Contraband 154 The Joke Turned 174 A Vision and its Lesson 181 The Gold Bracelet 186 Miscarried but Carried 195 CONTENTS PAGE Grace's Thanksgiving 204 Prue's Ruse 211 Renting a Husband 222 Ernest Bell's " Reasons " . . . . 238 Under the Hills 244 Over the River 251 The Graceful Pen of Ernest Bell thus Sketches our Street 259 My Troubadour 262 Fate 267 Tried 275 Down the Dee 283 Only Wait, Susie! .289 The Pillar of Cloud 296 Tiny Krook 303 Under the Falls 312 Katy's Romance 315 LATER PROSE WORKS Sunday School Convocation 322 Ghostly Visitants Dr. Henry's Story 325 Dr. Scott's Story 328 Janie's Tramp 333 Rosie and Her God-Mother 362 The Hermit of Ahwahna 364 The Cigarette Twins 466 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK THE OLD SCRAP BOOK POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD OUR UNION OF BROTHERS 'Neath the flag of Our Union for years we have rested, Together we've cherished each glorious star; Together the turmoils, the storms, we have breasted, Nor dreamed we that aught our fair Union could mar. One fair band of brothers — each other relieving, In troubles and trials, in dangers of war ; 'Neath the wide-waving banner each brother believing — And trusting so truly each bright-beaming star. Yet still wave these star-gems o'er scenes as endearing, O'er mountains and streamlets as lovely and fair, But a soft-gliding serpent our Eden is nearing, And longeth to bury his poisoned fangs there. Oh, unthinking brothers ! your troubles forgetting, Come join ye together, in heart and with hand, So ward off the serpent ; the danger besetting, And leave our fair Eden a holier land. Dear star-banded brothers, so rash and unthinking, Desert not thy posts as the danger draws nigh ; Stretch forth hands of friendship — now firm and unshrinking, In love and in unison, Conquer, or Die. 3 4 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK Our Father in Heaven will give us his blessings, The Star-spangled banner triumphantly wave; And each to the other his failures confessing We form a new league 'round our Washington's grave. January 20th, 1861. High School. THE DYING SOLDIER " Poor David Mercer — no man ever lived more brave, more generous, more devoted to his friends and his flag. His right arm was shot off about half way between the elbow and shoulder. He came to me in the woods im- mediately back of the firing, and whilst he held his musket and his right arm in his left hand, he begged me to cut it off, as it was so heavy he couldn't carry his musket, and when loss of blood forced him to drop his gun, he asked for a revolver to continue the fight. Just before his death, some one spoke of his dying in defense of the old flag, when he faintly at- tempted to sing ' The Star Spangled Banner.' One line was almost com- pleted, when his brave soul went to its God." (Captain J. C. Hazlett's letter. ) Upon the bloody battlefield — beneath a rugged tree, A noble-hearted soldier stood, reclining wearily; One arm, completely shattered, was hanging at his side, Yet still to hold his musket, the brave young soldier tried. And when the Captain saw him, amid the dark affray, He pointed to his severed arm, and faintly tried to say ; " Look here a moment Captain — cut off this useless arm, I cannot hold my musket to do the Rebels harm." Until his frame grew weary, and faintly came his breath, The soldier with his one brave arm dealt to the Rebels death ; And when the heavy musket fell from his nerveless hand, He asked for a revolver to fight the Rebel band. Amid the thickest of the fight the noble soldier stood, Until he fell from f aintness and heavy loss of blood ; And when his brow grew dewy, and the brightness left his eye, The soldiers gathered 'round him to see their comrade die. When someone spoke of Freedom's flag a faint glow flushed his cheek, POEMS WRITTEN I1ST GIRLHOOD 5 And his pale lips were parted, as if he fain would speak; And when the soldiers listened to catch the sound they gave, He faintly sung — " The Star Spangled Banner, long may it wave." Ah! when the cold lips trembled to form their farewell word, A blessing on our Banner, was all the soldiers heard; It was his dying whisper, and doubly blessed we know Is our Dear Flag since one brave heart has loved it so. And tho' to hear his voice, or clasp his hand is not given, Yet have we one more spirit now, before the throne of Heaven, And well we know that our lost Mercer, bravest of the Brave, Will call down blessings on the holy cause he died to save. July 17, 1861. EOR 'S ALBUM Darling — I would treasure Life's sweet roses all for thee, I would hope that paths of flowers Ever more thine own might be. But I know that God has ordered That which seemeth to Him best, Darkest clouds with sunlight bordered, Days of anguish, nights of rest. May He guard thee, may He guide thee, By His love in every ill, In thy joy be close beside thee In thy griefs be near thee still. His the strength that shall uphold thee Through this weary night of strife, His the arms that shall enfold thee In the morning dawn of life. October 10, 1862. THE OLD SCRAP BOOK FORGETTING HE IS DEAD I sit beside my casement To listen for his tread; To hearken to his merry tones, Forgetting he is dead, And at the close of even, I raise my humble prayer ; I pray kind Heaven to watch my boy, Forgetting he is there. And at first peep of dawning I hie to little bed, To kiss the slumber from his brow, Forgetting he is dead. And on last Christmas morning, Like frighten' d bird I fled, To wish him " Merry Christmas," Forgetting he is dead. But I think of him at even, When the long, long day has fled : Ah ! then I feel too truly Our darling boy is dead. The City Times, 1863. SUFFER AND BE STRONG Not always will the sunshine Of joys your pathway throng, But when you grope in darkness Oh, suffer and be strong. Not always will the shadow Envelope you in gloom, Beneath the deepest hedges The brightest violets bloom. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD From out the direst trials The soul comes forth again Not weary now, but stronger, And finer for the pain; And the strange fires of genius Grow yet more strangely bright, As stars show all their glory But in the darkest night. Our glorious bard of England His pinions never tried Till God had drawn a veil between His soul and all beside ; Till he had closed his eyelids And given a poet's heart, And through the world him, weary, led Of it, yet not a part. Though he but guessed the plumage Of birdlings from their song, Though for him the sun ne'er shone Yet suffering he was strong. And from his mind's dark prison He gave us gleams again Of light that lingered in his heart Thro' all those years of pain. And in these bitter trials When furious plagues were hurled He gave his hand to God who'd sealed Himself from all the world. So tenderly He guided him, A blind man through the throng That, mighty in his Father's might, He suffered, yet was strong. March, 1863. THE OLD SCRAP BOOK THE CATASTROPHE All Nature had in quiet wrapped Herself in peaceful sleep, And naught there seemed upon the Earth That would not silence keep. And Mr. Muggins, happy now, With bedspread wrapped around him Resigned himself with quiet joy To Morpheus' chains which bound him. But hark — a sound within his room, A sound yet faint — but dire, He started up — he clutched the clothes And drew them up yet higher. But all in vain those heavy clothes, The sound was still in hearing, Poor Muggins crept yet lower down Hid head and ears — so fearing — . Still came the sound — but nearer now — And with a fearful boldness, And Muggins felt adown his limbs A chill of bitter coldness. That sound again ! In desperate fear He brought himself to battle, But as the clothes were pushed away Each joint began to rattle. His right hand grasped a pistol found Beneath his weary head, He grasped — and then in trembling tones And halting accents said — " Who are you now ! Oh, please to leave For I don't want to shoot. So go, for if you don't you know 'Tis you that makes me do it." POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD He paused a moment — listened — then The sound was getting nearer; Cold blood stood still in all his veins His life appeared then dearer. He closed his eyes, drew in his breath And then — the pistol sounded — And in the moment's glare he saw A " skeeter " falling wounded ! June 28, 1863. THE GRADUATES' FAKE WELL i Gently as the stars of Heaven Vanish from the coming dawn, So the joys of childhood leave us As we journey, — one by one, — As we journey from the dawning Deep into the day of life, Leaving childhood's dewy morning, Entering woman's noon of strife. ii Linger, — linger, — let us linger, Ere the clouds of parting come, Shutting out the golden sun-light By the shadows of its gloom; Sadly, sadly now, and slowly, Must we hear the bitter knell, Flooding every heart with sorrow, Tolling forth its sad — " Farewell." in Oh, farewell ! farewell, dear schoolmates, Souls must cling the closer now, And this bitter hour of parting Leave its trace on lip and brow. 10 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK But in future fields Elysian Once again we hope to meet, And the links which here are severed, There shall a chain complete. June 25, 1863. THE KAIN Merrily, mournfully, pattering still, Falling like dew on the flowers, Singing, and sighing, and moaning at will, Falleth the rain all the hours; Dancing so merrily over the eaves, Falling like music's refrain, Hiding its gems in the heart of the leaves, Merrily falleth the rain. Falling and falling cheerily still, It kisses the lilies' white breast; Over the meadows it wanders at will, Lulling the blue-bells to rest. Merrily, cheerily falleth the rain Over the country and town, Like the soft murmur of music's refrain, The fairy-like rain cometh down. The rain, the rain, the beautiful rain, Sadly and sweetly it falls, To the souls of the dead, where the grass groweth green, In sweet spirit voices it calls; It makes, with its murmurs of grief, The flowers to blow o'er each head, And by its sweet treasures of rose-bud and leaf Makes lovely the homes of the dead, The rain, the rain, the beautiful rain, The merrily, mournfully falling, POEMS WRITTEN IN GIKLHOOD 11 The echo of footsteps that fall not again, Strange voices to earth ever calling; The whispers of magic that maketh the buds, In beauty and frailty to grow, The message of mercy to man from his God, Proclaiming " All peace be below." June 29, 1863. IN MEMOEIAM Charles E. Hazlett, 1st Lieutenant, U. S. A., commanding Battery D, 5th Corps, U. S. Artillery, was killed on Rock Hill, at the Battle of Gettysburg, Pa., on Thursday, July 2nd, 1863, in the 25th year of his age, struck by an unseen bullet in the forehead. He fell forward upon the breast of a dying friend to whom he was ministering, and breathed his life away without a word or groan. Weep for the lovely who've perished in beauty, Weep for the buds which have withered in bloom, But for the brave who have died doing duty Bear them in glory, thro' tears, to their tomb. One of our number — a brave hearted soldier, Left us in sorrow when danger appeared, In that brave army there was not a bolder, None lived more nobly, none died more revered. On the red plain of the dark field of battle Aiding a friend who was dying, he bent, Catching his words, 'mid the bullet's sharp rattle, When the death angel, to call him, was sent. He heard not the pinions, the angel was nearing, His labor accomplished — his life work was o'er, Fallen on the breast of the friend he was cheering He slumbered, to waken to toil never more. What needs of accents, shall the story's repeating, Bring to the fore-head its halo of light. 12 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK Start the still pulses that lately were beating, Make those glazed eyes once again brave and light? Gone from us ! gone from us ! this is the tolling, Gone, to return to the Earth, never more, This is the dirge that forever is rolling Up to our hearts from Eternity's shore. Aye but tho' angels sweet garlands are throwing Down from the gates of the city of love Garlands of hope and their perfume in flowing, Brings balm to the wounded, " Our Hazlett's above." July 29, 1863. " BIRDIE " Little birdie, list a moment Listen closely — don't you hear That the rushing, roaring river Of the past is drawing near ? Swift 'twill bear upon its bosom Present joys to which we cling, Little buds of purest pleasures And for these 'twill nothing bring. We must lose these, little Birdie, But my bird must fly to me Fold its weary wings, then gladly Cheer me with its pleasant glee. Little daisy, you will flourish Sweetly in my lowly home, Lily-of-the-valley — lily — Little daisy, won't you come? June 19, 1863. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 13 SUMMER MORNING Darling, the morn is bright Gleaming with softened light, Thro' silver clouds. Softly the wood birds drum, Laz'ly the insects hum, Wheeling in clouds. Softly the summer breeze Rustles the poplar trees Over the way. Touches the bird on nest Ruffles her downy breast Gently to-day. Even the languid air Seemeth too faint to bear Roses' perfume. And the sweet roses stand Half blown on every hand Too faint to bloom. See, borne along the sky Dreaming the light clouds lie Drifting away. All things are indolent All nature somnolent This summer's day. And in a languid sort Half earnest, half in sport Write I this rhyme. For every summer tone Brings back to me your own In vanished time. When you and I sat here Watching the poplars, dear, 14: THE OLD SCEAP BOOK Over the way. Talking in careless chime Yet loving all the time As I, today. Darling, best have a care My heart may faint to bear Your love's perfume. Yet weigh it down, my sweet, And for your love complete Make it a tomb. Drifting, I slowly sail Down thro' the azure pale Fearing no storm. As leaflets lie at rest Floating on streamlet's breast Restfully on, On to the ocean, wide Borne by the silver tide Surely tho' slow. So drift I to the sea Of love's infinity Loving thee so. Ernest Bell. From my window, July 2, 1864. " NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP See the battle rages 'round him, With the dead on every side; Loosed the silver chord which bound him, He is dying as they died, See the ruby life-blood gushing, Listen to the quick drawn breath, Even his great spirit hushing To the greater one of death. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 15 'Mid the groanings of the dying, 'Mid the shoutings of the fray; Boom of cannon, shriek and crying, Can you tell me what they say? Those poor lips were only saying Some sweet words which made him weep — Words his mother taught him, praying " Now I lay me down to sleep." Time had been when those rude fingers Close had clasped at mother's knee, And her presence-halo lingers Still around that infancy. Oh how kind she was, and tender, How she taught her boy to pray, Little dreaming he would send her Thanks for it on such a day. Coldly the death dew is pressing On the brow so often pressed By his mother's hand in blessing, Ere he sought his nightly rest, Oh that she cannot be near him, Though he calls her o'er and o'er, Oh that she can never hear him, Though he calls her ever more. Now the weak hands clasp each other, As they did long years ago, When he knelt beside his mother In the evening's firelight glow; And the eyes with tears are filling, Though they never more shall weep; Speak the lips, though coldly thrilling, " Now I lay me down to sleep." Softly, with a child's sweet trusting, 'Mid the dying and the dead, 10 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK Where the swords in blood were rusting, Sank the soldier's weary head. Guarded by the God of battles, Prayed the " Lord his soul to keep," 'Mid the roaring and the rattle, Then he " laid him down to sleep." And the God above him bending, Surely knew the voice again, Though this time it was ascending, From the battle on the plain. Knew — and for the Savior's glory, Whom he prayed his soul to keep — Let the soldier, brave and gory, Rest him in a quiet sleep. February 1865. FINEM RESPICE Once a fond eagle was building her nest, Said she, " I will have it dry," So she chose for its place a mountain crest That rose to the summer sky ; And she feathered it warm from her own tender breast, That her young might the softer lie. And the waves of a foreign sea dashed o'er Many a rock on the coral strand; And they lashed in their fury the out-stretched shore, Till the foam lay white on the glistening sand ; Still the eagle in peace unmolested could soar To her nest in its eyrie sagaciously planned. Then the rain poured down and the furious storm Broke over her nest in the mountain high; But she opened out her pinions so large and so warm, And kept her young eagles safe and dry ; And so they were guarded and shielded from harm By the One watching over who heareth their cry. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 17 By strange metamorphosis — one pitiful day The mother's pet eaglet was changed to a snake, And it coiled round the nest in a serpent-like way, Until the frail fabric was ready to break ; It seized the young eagles, its brothers, for prey, And its mother's own life attempted to take. Oh, she who had guarded her nestlings so well, That none of the elements boded them ill — The winds when they rose, or the storms when they fell — Had not thought to guard 'gainst her favorite's will, Yet more than all elements, hard to repel, Than winds or than waters more dangerous still. With kindness she pleaded, the fond mother bird ; These prayers he received with his ugliest hiss ; He struck with his fangs for the councils he heard; Then the way she resorted to conquer was this : She struck with her beak, which was sharp as a sword, She struck with her talons, which came not amiss. So the battle went on 'tween mother and son ; The serpent his venomous poison expressed; Of all her young nestlings this favorite one The mother had of tenest warmed at her breast ; And now she must conquer — the battle is done, But many young eagles are dead in the nest. And so she must conquer — our eagle must reign ; Be queen of her nest though the loved traitor die! Oh, would that such love could his passions restrain, And again in the nest he would lovingly lie ; But we know the serpent will not change again — As such he has lived, and as such he will die. Our Union must conquer — the rebel be hurled Away from the nest ; the snake must be dead, And the Star-spangled banner in glory unfurled. The bruise must be made in the serpent's head, 18 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK And the white doves of peace shall brood over the world, When traitors have perished and treason has fled ! March 16, 1865. New York Weekly. TOKENS There's a cap hanging up in the entry, An overcoat lies in the hall, And a sword with its scabbard blood-rusty, Hangs up by the cap on the wall. Oh, these saddest of tokens have borne me, Like the waves of the ocean, away, To the times that have come and have passed me And vanished this many a day. To the time when the cap sat so jauntily, On the short, sunny clusters of curls, And the eyes 'neath its brim grew so dusky. When saying " good-bye " to the " girls " ; When the overcoat held in its wrapping The dearest of forms to us all, And the sword then so bright in its scabbard, Was not hanging there on the wall. JSTow the autumn froze into the winter, And the winter soon melted to spring, And the mails brought us dearest of tidings, The rarest that letters could bring ; There were messages plenty for " mother," And kisses all 'round to the " girls," And once, lest the kisses be lonely, He sent us each one of his curls. Though the season passed brightly, it shadowed The brow of our mother with care ; And a few silver threads stole in softly To light up the dark in her hair ; POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 19 Though her smiles grew more patiently tender, She lovingly cheered up the " girls," For no letters came from the absent — No messages, kisses, or curls. But at last came a stranger to see us — A soldier in uniform too — He carried a sword and a package, And saddest of tidings, we knew. " With his last words he sent these to mother," The stranger said, brushing his eyes, " He fell in the heat of the battle, " And there on the battle-field lies." " He said : ' Tell the girls to love mother, And say that my last thought was pain For the dearest of dear ones I'm leaving, Though hoping to meet them again ! ' " Then the stranger put down on the table The sword and the package he bore, And went away, leaving night's darkness Where day shone a moment before. Oh, the brow with its beautiful whiteness, And clustering ringlets of hair, Cannot need, nor want for a shelter The cap which he used once to wear. Now the overcoat lies in the entry, For chrysalis-like, in its birth, The beautiful soul of our darling Has cast off the garments of earth. Oh, we know that he never will hasten To battle at bugle's loud call, And the sword which he grasped for his country May rust on its nail on the wall ; God grant that the lives he has taken, Since taken for country and right, May not count as a crime in the judgment, Or make his bright crown the less bright. 20 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK Oh, the dear dusty cap in the entry ! Oh, overcoat out in the hall ! And sword now useless in its scabbard, As it hangs by the cap on the wall. How they bring up the form of our darling, And the days which have vanished from me, As the shells, though removed from the ocean, Still murmur the sound of the sea ! March 25, 1865. SMILES AND TEARS Oh, I laugh and I sigh, and I weep awhile, Like the ficklest of April weather ; I chase off the tears with the sunniest smile, And I laugh and I cry both together ; For a blessing has come, and its beautiful price, Like a bird in my heart softly nestles ; But a trial has come, and low on my knees My heart in its agony wrestles. A blessing and trial ! one breath speaks them both, But Oh ! how they differ in feeling ! My soul bendeth down so reluctantly, loth To take up the sorrow with healing. Oh, my heart in its gratitude looketh above, Like lily-buds after the rain. ; lit it bendeth again 'neath the loss of its love, And almost courts death in its pain. The haughty are fallen — and conquers the right ; Joy rises sun-like o'er the nation, And every heart lifts its tribute to-night Of thanks for its country's salvation; But Oh ! from my heart and my hearth there is one That forever I know must be missing — The darlingest brother, the tenderest son That ever was barred in prison. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 21 So young and so handsome, so full of fresh youth, That his heart was forever out-singing ; His eyes looked in yours with an immortal truth, And his laugh filled your heart with its ringing. Oh, the close clinging curls on his beautiful head, We all were so fond of their beauty, That he took them to war, he laughingly said, To see that they did their whole duty. And the eyes, and the curls, and the laugh of our boy, They were all put in prison together, And his eyes, and his curls, and his laughter and joy, Faded out like stars in dark weather : And he died — he, our sunlight, our beautiful pride, Eor the love of his country and nation — By the slowest and sternest of all deaths he died — In prison — of utter starvation. Oh, my heart may weave out the bright woof of its joy, For our dear peace's happy returning, But the threads of deep sadness, in thought of our boy, Must change it somewhat into mourning. Oh, then here are smiles for my dear native land, And here are the tears for our losses : A grief and a joy must go hand in hand, And crowns only blossom near crosses. Ann Arbor, July 5, 1865. THE JOURNEY A wandering Honorary Member of the Nameless Club looking over a budget of old letters comes upon an extract from the chronicles of the nation of the De-ga-ya-yoh, setting forth that in the year of our Lord eighteen sixty-three on the twenty-third day of the seventh month " a stranger from the land which lyeth to the Southe " was adopted into the nation by the unanimous vote of its members. The quaint and genial chapter evokes from the buried past a memory of the few but pleasant occasions on which it was the stranger's happy fortune to meet the nation around the social board, and with it arise questions of the present — How is it with the nation ? Do its sons and daughters still 22 THE OLD SCBAP BOOK gather around the council fire? Who shall answer? Spirits of air, float- ing to the music of your own low song across the blue waves of Erie, can ye tell ? Low hanging clouds, white as the curtains which shut in a dream- ing angel, have you in your ever changing panorama no image of them? All are dumb. Avaunt, false Spirits! We will ourselves look into the matter. Fancy, prepare thy swift car We'll ride to-night, your lustrous star That in the east makes paler day Shall guide and light our pathless way. Away now joy-ful riding, Both time and space dividing So merrily we're gliding Away, away, away ! The bright waves kiss the glistening sand, Faint odors fill the autumn air ; I feel the night's magnetic hand Fall soft and cool on brow and hair. Now fade all sounds of Earth's poor strife, The restless heart forgets its pain And all the tangled ends of life Are knit in one harmonious chain. Up through the misty curtains dim Float liquid murmurs from the deep Like broken strains from some grand hymn Hummed by a dreamer in his sleep. And now we glide past dusky isles Whence summer lingeringly departs, Whose eager grapes have drunk her smiles And hold them prisoned in their hearts. In lake side towns the distant lights Make meteor gleams low down the sky, And beacons flash from friendly lights Their warning of a danger nigh. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 23 I know the tower on yonder pier, The light that gleams beyond, I know, Stop fancy, — now, my vision clear Descries the streets of Buffalo. I know a room in a building fair Not very far from the public square ; Choice old spirits are gathered there Having a jolly good time. I'll peep in at the window high, They'll never guess that I am by ; It's rare good fun to play Paul Pry, And peeping surely is no crime. Well, well it grows late, There is still the debate, But fancy is weary and home I must fly, Or I may run afoul Of some wandering owl And wreck my frail car in the deeps of the sky. It is the season of farewells, O'er lake and wood a chorus swells Oh, fairy voices, chanting low A refrain full of tender woe. Farewell, farewell, sweet summer lies With pale, dumb lips and veiled eyes ; The buds she latest kissed to bloom Woke only to adorn her tomb. To sweetest music in her praise The birds that sit the long bright days Refuse another love to woo, And bids the changing world " Adieu." Earewell, the battle clouds are riven, Peace lifts her radiant face to Heaven, And from the Southland voices come 24 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK Calling her banished children home. noble Northland, true as fair 1 go, but in my heart I wear Such pictures of thy regal grace As even death may not efface. And though, when next year's birds piping clear Wake to new life the 'tranced year, My feet shall tread the distant shores Where mighty Mississippi pours His amber tide ; my spirit, free Shall wander back to dwell with thee. To haunt again thy leafy glades Where all day long the bright cascades Lured by the river's witching call Go flashing down the rocky hall. Once more to dream the hours away On slopes where lights and shadows play, And drink with ever fresh delight The nectar of thy beauty bright. But not alone the mystic spell Which cunning nature weaves so well, Of emerald hills and water-falls And forest full of summer calls, Shall draw me back, true hearted band Who welcomed with free out-stretched hand The exile wandering far and alone, And wrote her name among your own, Your generous trust and kindness make A link that distance cannot break. Farewell, but when you keep your feast Think something of your spirit guest, And when you pledge the absent, feel, She pledges you with faith as leal. Farewell ! May every breeze that blows Shower blessings pure as winter snows, POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 25 And triumph crown your every aim Till " nameless " means " Success " and " Fame." Detroit, September 25, 1865. TO GERTRUDE Forty years ago, my darling, When the Christmas wreath was made, When beneath the snow-clad forest, Thou and I together strayed, Dost remember how we lingered From the cheerful Christmas band ? Each was all in all to other, As we wandered, hand in hand. Little Gertrude, let me call you By my favorite name of then ; Though that then so full of gladness Never more may come again. Dear, your eyes were full of laughter, Fairest were you of the girls ; And I know I thought the sunbeams Had got tangled in your curls. I remember well the evening — That same glowing Christmas night; Then I thought that life was perfect, And its skies forever bright. Little Gertrude, now the snow-flakes Time has scattered on each tress — Made your curls hold Christmas, darling, By his silvering caress. Forty years have we been parted — Forty years ! how long it seems, Since with many a ling'ring fondness, Learned we what departure means. 26 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK Parted, you so strong in duty, Aye, so saint-like in God's grace, That I looked to see a halo Shine about your holy face. Fare you well, my little Gertrude, We are on the ebbing tide ; On the shore of life, my darling, I will claim you for my bride. Now I say, " Good night," my darling, For the night's around our way; I will bid you sweet " Good morning," In the dawning of the day. New York Weekly, November 2, 1865. FLOWEK TEACHINGS Lowly bends the drooping lily To the fury of the blast ; Folds its petals, soft and pearly, And the rain-drops clasp them fast Clasp her cloak of fleecy velvet With a rain-drop diamond pin; Draws the folds about her bosom, Lest the cold should venture in. Shall not He who wraps the lily From the fury of the blast, Fold a cloak about thee, mortal, In his kindness clasp it fast, Shield thee from the raging tempest, Wrap thee in his arms awhile, Till, the fierce storm safely over, Thou mayest open in his smile ? Thou, O mortal, like the lily, Open sweet thy lily-cup ; Like the gentle air of Heaven Bear thy grateful incense up POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 27 From thy inmost heart, the sweetest, Purest perfume of thy love ; Prayer, and praise, and gentle actions — These will angels bear above. New York Weekly, November 23, 1865. HAVING A PICTURE TAKEN If you think you've seen a funny scene, I think you are mistaken; The funniest scene that ever was seen, Is " having your picture taken." The line of beauty we know isn't straight, But the line of your back must be, sir, And the opposite sides of your delicate head Are squeezed in the prongs of tweezer. Your eyes must be fixed in your head, sir, With a dire and deadly staring, And trying to get the mouth pursed up, Is sure to make it glaring. And then the hands — Oh dear ! Oh dear ! The fingers will keep a-twitching; And in the midst of it all, your nose Is sure to get itching. Oh, I often have noted with laughing eyes The victim being taken ; The angles formed by every limb Are not to be mistaken. The mouth drawn down at corners, with The nose in elevation, And all together the " picture scene," Is the drollest in creation. Talking of likenesses, we will append some witty verses from a favorite contributor, " Ernest Bell," descriptive of the actions of some persons when they are having a picture taken. New York Weekly, April 27, 1865. 28 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK LITTLE FLIKT! Haughty sunflower, bend your blossom — Let me find the culprit there, You have hidden in your blossom ; Is it just, or is it fair, That with swaying — softly swaying, You should lull him to repose, When the tender things he's saying, Are high treason to the rose ? Ah ! I spy the gay deceiver, Though you fold him up so sly, In your loving — poor believer ! — Who shall capture him but I ? For I see his yellow jacket, Laced with black, or deepest blue ; And I see the honey packet, Which I know he stole from you. And I hear him softly murmur Loving nothings, sweet and low. Silly flower ! Why, all this summer He's been coquetting just so ; Roses, lilies, blue-eyed pansies, Each he loved, and dearly too, While they pleased his idle fancies — Just as he is loving you. Then he left them. Ah ! proud flower ! - Of your amber and your gold Do not make a secret bower, That vain trifler to enfold. See, he's thinking now of parting — Plumes his wings for final flight — Takes his honey — says at parting : " I'm aweary — so, good night." POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 29 O, the little fickle lover! O, the busy buzzing bee ! Formed for ever more to love her, None should be so true as he. Haughty sunflower ! bend your blossom : He has left you long ago — He has flown from out your bosom — Ta'en your honey, too, you know. Ann Arbor, June 1, 1865. VIGILS In a kind of misty daylight, In the shadowy land of sleep, With the dead and the departed I my vigils often keep. And I cannot think I'm dreaming Tho' I know it is not real Tho' I know upon my eyelids God has set His silent seal. Shadowy faces crowd about me Smiling back the smile I give, And I cannot think them shadows Seeming so to love and live. Backward from my burdened shoulders Rolls the weight of weary years, There's no care upon my forehead, In my eye no trace of tears. Once again my ringlets cluster O'er a brow too young and fair Yet to have the seal of sorrow Or Time's signet printed there. Once again a child I wander 'Mid the flowers, thoughtless, free Dreaming not that life has sorrows And a crown of thorns for me. THE OLD SCKAP BOOK Once again I gather daisies In the sunlight 'neath the hedge, And my brother gets me lilies Clinging to the risky ledge. Clinging with one hand and reaching Just to show how brave was he, How he'd risk his boyish ringlets Getting lily cups for me. Once again I fish with pin hook Bent and baited by his hand. Toss my line with exultation Throw my prize upon the sand. Then, my childish heart nigh broken By its writhing and its pain, Weeping at his smiling — put it In the meadow brook again. O, the blessed hours of childhood How they throng about me, Tho' the snow lies on my tresses And the wrinkles on my brow. Tho' my brother lieth sleeping 'Neath the daisies' rosy snow, And we wept his going from us In the morning long ago. Father, mother, sister, brother, In the shadowy land of sleep Once again I meet and love you And with you my vigils keep. From the happy hours of childhood Coming back — the merry hours Make me in my pleasant vision Child again amid the flowers. March 12, 1866. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 31 ASKING ALMS I have stood before a picture Which an artist hand had wrought Such perfection that it needed Scarce the perfecting of thought. I have seen a marble statue Seeming scarce to need the prayer He of old sent up to Venus Since the life was truly there. But to-day I saw a picture Which has moved my heart and brain Tho' 'twas but a little maiden Standing in the driving rain, With a ragged gown of cotton Clinging to her shivering form, And a hat whose torn fragments Could not shield her from the storm. So the child stood in the shadow Of a dingy chilly wall, Asking alms of all who passed her Giving back a smile to all. Singing sometimes, clearly, sweetly, As her thanks a sweet refrain, Careless of the weather, singing As a bird sings in the rain. From the torn and dripping hat rim Rippled golden waves of hair, As thought sunbeams from the tempest Had securely hidden there. And from 'neath her heavy lashes Large blue eyes were raised to mine Full of innocent endurance And a holiness divine. 32 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK Ah, you frame your noble pictures In your frames of shining gold, But you let this living picture Shiver in the rain and cold. O Pygmalion, weep no longer That old wailing song of old Lest this statue now warm, living, Like your marble shall be cold. Lest the eyes shall lose their beauty, And the swiftly fleeting breath, And the golden waves of ringlets Shall be frozen all by death. But pray rather to kind Heaven, With uplifted heart and palms, That the gracious Christ shall cherish This pure infant, asking alms. May 6, 1866. DEAD AND GONE Dead and gone, dead and gone, The solemn bell is tolling, Passing on, passing on The funeral dirge is rolling. Mortal, think, on the brink Of the coming woe, You must drink — though you shrink — Of death's cup you know. Dead and gone, dead and gone, Comes that bell of warning By the moan in its tone Turning joy to mourning. Sadder lore than before Beads it to us ever, Like the roar on the shore Of death's turbid river. June, 1866. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 33 THE KINGDOM UNDER THE SEA I think till my head grows dizzy with thought Of the Kingdom under the Sea, And vaguely I wonder, but never decide What kind of a place it might be. Can it be there's another world like this With the dark blue waves for a sky, And deep in the hearts of the coral caves Are there beings like you and I ? Have they from the sinning of Adam been free So they know not humanity's bane, Nor Sacrifice dying, on shivering tree To restore perfect blessings again ? Have their brows never bent to the weight of a sin, Nor their hearts shrunk away from the right, Or have they the nature of downfallen men, As well as the blossom, the blight ? Or is it the summer resort of the Gods, And have they pearl palaces there Where Neptune and suite may sit at their board, And Hebes their jewelled cups bear? Do the mer-maidens gather their beautiful locks In fillets of pearl, seeded o'er, And float through the liquid blue streets of their town The same as the maidens on shore? Do they race with the dolphin and laugh at the fish In lovely sweet silvery tones ; Do they flirt with the men of the Sea, and enjoy Their jealous complainings and groans ? Do they gather the sea-weed to twine in their hair And make them anemone crowns, And woman-like, catching their hearts in the snare, Reward their devotions with frowns ? 34 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK Do the mer-men to please them take argonaut shells And make of them miniature sails. Or driven hy tempests beneath the rough wave Do they capture the violet snails ? Do they build up their palace of coral and shell Till the sunshine above strikes the dome, Do they carpet with jewels and curtain with mist, And have they the comforts of home ? And do they talk politics under the Sea, Or have they no choice of a king ; And when they have weddings (they surely must wed) Do they marry with Rector and ring? And when the brave sailor-boys crowd to the deck To look at the Sea in a glow, Have not the mer-men caught medusas, and formed A torch-light procession below ? Oh, marvels untold and wonders unsung Of the Kingdom under the Sea, Who will brave Neptune and bear back the news And tell it to you and to me ? Are the mer-men, real men, Oh, tell me who can ! Are the maidens so treacherously fair, Do they rest on the rocks as the sailors report And comb out their waving green hair ? Do they sing 'trancing songs in the still summer night When the moon in the heavens ride high, And woo on the sailors by face and by voice To seek their enchantments — and die ? And when our great Cable dropped in their sky Did they curl their bright hair in its bands, And then, lest the lightning should shiver their clouds, Did they snap it with mischievous hands ? Do they have any wonder when ships cross the sea Or alas ! when they sink to the caves, Do they gather around the dead forms, which have come POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 35 To the Ocean to find but their graves ? And filled with a wonder, and awe-struck surprise, Do they touch the cold strangers' stiff hands And lift up the ivory lids of their eyes To show them the coral-reefed strands? Do the mer-maidens robe them in innocent glee And try on the bracelets and rings, The dresses and jewels from over the Sea, Which the ship to the coral reef brings ? Or frighted by sight of a monster so rare, And of beings so icy and stark, Do they shiver and shudder in terrible fear And guard it with sea-dog and shark ? Oh, mightiest work of an Almighty hand, Oh, wonders and marvels untold, Who will go down to this unexplored land, And all its strange stories unfold? When the last trump shall sound, and the sea give its dead, His hand shall its wonders reveal ; When He shall throw open the Sapphire gates And shatter the Amethyst seal. When the sound of His voice shall go down to the deep, And the hosts shall arise at His call, Oh, then, when they all awaken who sleep We, trusting in Him, shall know all. May 25, 1866. Published in Godey's Ladies' Book. QUERIES Do you think if I'd a baby, That I'd let him pull my hair? Do you think I'd put on collars Just for him to soil and tear? 36 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK Do you think I'd call him pretty, When he bites his little toe ? Yet I've known some silly mothers, With their babies, do just so. Do you think I'd set him crying, Just to see his cunning frown ? Do you think I'd set him walking, Just to see him tumble down? Would I call my baby pretty, When he'd neither teeth nor hair ? Yet I've known some silly mothers, With their babies, think they are. Would I buy him drum and rattles, Just to hear him make a crash ? Would I watch him most delighted Break my mirror all to smash ? Would I smother him in flannels, Just because his voice was low ? Dose him up with belladonna? Silly mothers treat them so. Would I think his brow Byronic, Just because it was so bare? And his head Napoleonic In its shape — though minus hair ? Could I trace the marks of genius In the eyebrows, arched and low ? Yet I've known some silly mothers, With their babies, think just so. Would I think my baby destined To become a man of men, And to govern and control them By the might of sword or pen ? I dare say these noisy babies Play the very deuce — I know. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 37 And I've seen the wisest women, With their babies, think just so. Come to think of it, the writer of the above stinging verses can't be a bachelor either. They have a sound of feminine vivacity which assures us that " Ernest Bell " must be a lady ; nor are we the less pleased with them for that. May she visit our clubroom frequently. For the New York Mercury. March 31, 1866. BUD-MAKING I am trying to make a bud again Of this velvet-petaled rose, Which I hold in my hand press so close But the petals refuse to close. Alas, the purple-red lips have felt The burning kiss of the sun, And the beautiful bud cannot return When the rose has once been blown. O Sol, you should make your love to the stars, Or say tender things to the moon, But I really think that a god like you Should let a rose bud alone. You have stolen the dew from its fresh, young heart With your passionate kiss to-day, And I cannot make of the rose again The bud you lured away. The Peninsular Courier, Ann Arbor, May 3, 1866. CHERIE'S KISS Cherie, do you love me ? Answer, yes or no. Are you sure you love me ? Will you tell me so ? Ah, you need not flutter, I shall hold you here, 38 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK Till you tell me, birdie, Do you love me, dear ? Sweet are summer blossoms — Bright are summer birds ; Brighter are your rose-lips, Sweeter are your words. Do you love me, Cherie ? Nay, you shall not go Till you answer truly — Is it yes or no ? Then my Cherie, smiling Archly in my face, Presses down my eye-lids With a pretty grace — Bridges o'er the darkness With a warm, soft, snow Like to nothing earthly But her hands, I know. And was it but the fragrance Of a passing breeze Laden with the incense Of the orange trees ; Was it but the pressure Of a falling flower On my lips ? — or, think you - In that quiet bower — That beneath the orange, 'Twas not flower, nor breeze, But my darling's rose-lips, Underneath the trees ? Ah, the hands are vanished. And I dimly see That my Cherie left me Swiftly, silently. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 39 But I see her garments And I hear her feet, Falling on the gravel : Oh, my dear — my sweet! In your arms, acacias, Keep the secret well, And your mischief breezes Cannot try to tell Half the thrilling pleasure, Half the fragrant bliss Which was wafted to me In my darling's kiss. In the touch so dainty That I could not tell Whether 'twas her rose-lips Or a leaf which fell ; In a touch so fragrant That I thought the breeze Wafted to me incense From the orange trees. Ann Arbor, May 10, 1866. MAKING READY EOR OUR JOURNEY If I promise now to journey With you, dearest, side by side, You, your jealousy must bury, I, my pettishness and pride; You must put your angry passions In the grave as well, my dear, I will give my vain ambition And the yearnings of a year. We will bury all together, Make the grass an emerald door; 40 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK Lock them up with chains of daisies, Keep them locked forever more. For the rest, to love and patience, And a Father's tender hand We will trust, and so my dearest, Journey to the better land. December 6, 1866. TO KITTIE Do you love me, Kit tie Bartell, As you did ten years ago ? Do you love me, little Kittie ? You were younger then, you know. Ay, and you were gayer, Kittie, Blyther than any bee, Sweeter voice than woodland-singer, Though it still is sweet to me. Little Kittie, you have loved me, In the years agone, my sweet, When I thought the clover freshened 'Neath the touch of your quick feet. You have loved me, I repeat it, In a kind of happy strain, As one loves to hear old music, Which he once has loved, again. You have loved me, pretty Kittie, Do you know how those words thrill, How my heart, lest it should hush them, Stops its beating and is still ? Do you love me now, my darling, Just as well as you did then ? Did you love me then, my darling? And I'll ask the first again. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 41 We have lost our romance, Kittie, Years will take it off, you know, Just as surely as the sunshine Robs the flowers of their snow. But the fragrance, little Kittie, Never leaves the fading rose, Only gets the sweeter, darling, As the flower older grows. So our love shall grow the sweeter In the happy coming years, And we will in their dear sunshine Quite forget our griefs and fears. You a widowed wife, my Kittie, Ay, and children, mother, too, Leave for aye your life's sad darkness For the sunshine offered you. Poor young widow — sorrow's chalice You have drained with hitter tears ; And my heart was aching, Kittie, To be with you all those years. But you know that we were foolish, Ah, me ! let the past be past ! We have come into the sunshine, And to happiness at last. A curiosity among men appears — one who is content with one love in ten years. Why, there is time in that period to use up half a dozen loves, and to be left a widower with grown children several times. September 22, 1866. LINES ON THE DEATH OF FANNIE SEWARD Dedicated to Her Father Fanny Seward — angel daughter, Speak her name with bated breath, You who loved her, you who taught her, Know the mournfulness of death. 42 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK She who was so sweet and tender, Yet has cost you bitter tears, In that God could only lend her Unto you a few short years. Can you comprehend the story Tho' your lips its truth repeat, That an angel, now in glory, Knelt an infant at your feet? Up to things beyond her reaching You have lifted her you know. ~Now you listen to her teaching — She so high and you so low. Vain your prayers, and your caressing, Silken chords, they could not hold Her pure spirit upward pressing Though you wrought them many fold ; Tho' she loved you, tho' she offered Her sweet life in your defense, Yet she must accept the proffered Out-stretched hand of God. Did you dream that she, your baby Whom you stooped to, bye-and-bye Would out-grow her father, may-be, In the twinkling of an eye ? In a twinkling, she ascending, As you watched with quick drawn breath, Left you, scarcely comprehending Half the mystery of death. Left you standing, sadly gazing To the far-off shining shore Where are saints and angels, praising Christ the Lord, for ever more. Tho' the cross is heavy, bear it For the Comforter he brings, Binding up your bruised spirit With the healing of his wings. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 43 O'er the river that can never Be re-crossed, the angel barque Bore her from us, do not shiver, To her soul it was not dark ; On the shining shore she lingers, Looking backward with a smile Beckons you with loving fingers, You will follow after while. Father, bending 'neath the burden Of a long day's toil and heat, Even now the waves of Jordan Coolly lave your weary feet. Tho' men honor, tho' men love you, Such poor gifts no healing are, Lift your eyes up, look above you There behold your morning star. For the Courier and the Visitant, Ann Arbor, Dec, 6, 1866. TRIP LIGHTLY Trip lightly over trouble, Trip lightly over wrong, We only make grief double By dwelling on it long. Why clasp woe's hand so tightly? Wiry sigh o'er blossoms dead ? Why cling to forms unsightly ? Why not seek joy instead ? Trip lightly over sorrow, Though all the day is dark, The sun may shine to-morrow, And gaily sing the lark ; Fair hopes have not departed, Though roses may have fled; Then never be downhearted, But look for joy instead. 44 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK Trip lightly over sadness, Stand not to rail at doom; We've pearls to string of gladness, On this side of the tomb ; Whilst stars are nightly shining, And the Heaven overhead, Encourage not repining, But look for joy instead. City Times, Zanesville, Ohio. February 21, 1867. SOMEBODY'S DAKLING Flutter of ribbons and glamour of lace, Innocent sweetness of beautiful face, Flashing of jewels and brightness of eye Tell me that somebody's darling goes by. Somebody, thinking the red of her lips The richest of rubies can never eclipse ; Somebody loving, who knows how to prize More than rare diamonds the flash of her eyes. Somebody loves her — Oh, Somebody loves The light of her smile, the flash of her eye ; By flutter of ribbon and glamour of lace, Somebody's darling I know passeth by. Poorest of garments and baskets of lace, Life-wearied sadness and death-shadowed face, Want of all jewels and dimness of eye, Tell me that nobody's darling goes by. Nobody, seeing the white of her lips ; Nobody, fearing the coming eclipse, When Death sets his seal on the brow of his prize, And shuts out forever the light from her eyes. Nobody loves her — Oh, Nobody loves The light of her smile, the flash of her eye ; By poorest of garments and burdens of lace, Nobody's darling I know passeth by. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 45 Oh, by the light on her innocent face, A visible sign of an inward grace; Oh, by the softening smile in her eyes, Breaking in light though the shadow there lies — Surely I'm thinking that somebody knows The life which has shadowed her face with its woes ; Somebody, loving, who lightens the care Of the burden too heavy for her to bear. Somebody loves her, oh, Somebody loves The light of her smile, the glance of her eye ; By a beautiful peace on the death-shadowed face, The darling of God I know passeth by. Godey's Lady's Book, February, 1867. ANN ARBOR Emerald bending of shadowy hills, Linking green garlands around it, Tenderest droojung of golden-fringed clouds, Bluest skies, — these have bound it — These, and the silver-white ribbon which slips With scarcely a thrill through the grasses, These, and the sunshine which lingers, and dips In flowery cups as it passes. As one sang of England — God's finger has touched, When he molded this vale, never pressing; O'er the brim of the valleys the hills overflow In billows of verdure, expressing ; And here in the greenness our colleges stand, The pride of the West — our light burning — Which leadeth our heroes to rule in the land By force of mind and learning. Men, stronger of sight than their fellows, have seen At most through a glass ; but still, seeing Some tithe of the wonders an Almighty mind Conceived, and controlled into being; 46 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK And here, in the wide college halls, they have set The proofs of their daring researches, From the photographed moon and orbits of stars, To the scales of salmon and perches. Here JSTydia stands — the perfection of art = — Attesting the height of man's power ; Perfect in art — not more faulty, in truth, Than the whorl of a shell, or a flower. It moveth us strangely, a statue, no more The soul in 't forever upraising, Death wrought into life in the passionless stone Too natural far for the praising. Ann Arbor has more than her bowers to boast, And more than her silver-tongued river, Soft in the sunshine, and sweet in the rain, God bless her ever and ever. O city of colleges, pleasant retreat Prom the heat and the burden of day, May your pathway to science be cool to the feet, Of the travelers who throng on the way. Peninsular Courier, Ann Arbor, June 14, 1867. TO C- In the midst of darkness, In the midst of grief, Still, oh still remaineth Sure and safe relief. Still, oh still dear C Shines the sun to-day Though the clouds are lowering Cold, and chill and gray. Over all One guideth You and me, our way POEMS WRITTEN IN GIELHOOD 47 He can make most peaceful. Softly, low, I pray; Father, Father keep us 'Neath thy shadowing wing, To thy simple children Peace and comfort bring. In our hours of darkness Guide us to the light. Father, Savior, help us, Guide us to the right. Father, Savior, hear us pray Ere we seek our rest — Thy will be done — not ours — Thou knowest surely best. February 17, 1868. A VALENTINE On a dark and dreary evening when the winds blew cold and chill, when the side walks were ice-coated, and the gas burned faint and dim, Thro' the gloom and thro' the darkness, struggling forward, slipping back, yet again essaying progress for no weather daunted him, On that night so dark and dreary, on that night so cold and bleak, one, whom I wot of, with his great umbrella armed Dared the darkness, dared the raining, dared the slipping and the blowing, roughed his boots and set out bravely still undaunted, unalarmed. And he heard the shrill policeman, heard the dread policeman's whistle ; heard the whistling and the calling, but his heart was brave and strong yet ; Said he, " I will hurry onward, I will walk a little faster for the rain is beating sorely, and the way is very long yet." So he hurried, so he hastened and his feet were none too solid on the side walk cold and icy, but he stood on slippery places 48 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK With the ease of one accustomed, with the storm in all its phases, called the furies who assailed him with their whirlwinds " gentle graces." Called the wind " most pleasant zephyr," and the rain a sweet spring shower, called the North wind " sweetest Wabon," praised the beauty of the hour. So he toiled and travelled onward 'til he reached his destina- tion, and his weary boots were rested by this man of might and power. Rested, while he laughed and chattered, telling o'er his great adventures, all his perils on the journey, and his dangers, one by one, And I listened to his stories, to his terrible recitals, to his dan- gers and distresses, 'til the dreadful tale was done. Then we talked, this Hiawatha out in search of strange adven- tures and your very humble author, talked of valentines and writing. Said he, laughing, " I will give you so much money in a ' green- back,' for a yard of any poem, which must be of your indit- ing, And the poem it shall rhyme well, shall have sense and shall have measure, and the measure I will have it three feet long and broad sixteen. I will have it on next Monday when the clock is striking six, I will have a yard of poetry with the rhyming all mixed in. Then I straightway took the challenge, took it with its full conditions, took his offer as he made it, said I'd do my very best. Said I'd give him sense for dollars, said I'd write him such a poem he would gap and yawn half thro' it, yawn and dream and sleep the rest. For he meant the measure linear, I poetic feet employ, so I wrote it with the measure poets ever must employ, and I offer for acceptance full one yard of Valentine. Offer to you for your wishing, as an answer to your wishing, as a trial for your patience this extensive work of mine. POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 49 And I know your patient temper, know your courage and your bravery by the dangers you encountered as you came along the way. By the dangers you passed safely, all the charms and the en- chantments, all the pretty fascinations of St. Valentine's day, But you passed them, bravest warrior, vanquished them in sin- gle combat, and the hearts with darts transfixed failed to win you by their wiles. You, a modern Hiawatha, with the heart of that great Hero, now must find a Minnehaha whom the conquest shall com- plete. St. Valentine's Day, 1868. " ONLY A WOMAN'S FOOTPRINT Only a woman's footprint Slender and light and small, Leading down to the river, Eresh in the snow, that is all. In the eve, when lamps are lighted, The first soft flakes came down, And a chill white frost was over The hills and vales and town. Sometime in the night this impress Was made by a slender shoe; Out in the dark at midnight, What should a woman do? Childishly small, this footprint — Scarcely more than a child — Out all alone, and the snow In desolate drifts was piled. Down toward the river — how drear On her must have fallen that night — Daring her lonely journey When the stars were scarce alight ; 50 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK Weary of life and its coldness = — She was but a child, scarcely more — Did she set with trembling boldness Her light little feet on the shore ? The cold, cold heavens above her, The cold, cold drifts below, With none to shield and love her 7 And none to save from woe. With the swift, dark current wooing, O pitiless stars, could you light This pitiful child to her ruin In the chill and darkness of night % The gleam of a woman's tresses Lying upon the sand, Like glistening golden seaweed Cast by the waves to land ! The sorrowful, sad appealing, Of a young and pallid face, Washed by the waves, and drifted At last to a resting-place ! Over her eyes the fringes Droop in beautiful rest, And two cold hands lie lightly Over the pulseless breast. Heaven have mercy — and mortals — The world was so weary, cold ; God grant this straying lamb has found Her Savior's tender fold. June 13, 1868. THE HEARTH AND HOME Above may be clouds and thick darkness may hide My long weary way in its pitiless gloom, The tempest may lower, but oh, heart so tired, POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 51 An angel is standing for aye by thy side And bids thee remember thy hearth and thy home. Chorus Dear faces made bright in the glory, Dear love made immortal, I come, Tho' dreary the journey before me, The star in the east trembling o'er me Will lead me to hearth and home. Look up eager eyes in the deepening night ; The rainbow of promise is shining afar, The hearth stone is shedding its cheeriest light, The home faces beckon with welcoming bright — Rise up, lo, He bids thee ! — and follow the star. Erom sin and temptation, from sorrow and care Dear voices triumphant ye call me — I come, My brow is o'er shadowed and frosted my hair, The child smile is gone which my face used to wear Yet still ye will know me — my hearth and my home. I heed not the darkness for over the way A light shines for me as I wearily roam, I know that the angel who taught me to pray Will lead up my soul to the dawning of day, And soon I shall be with my dear ones at home. April 21, 1869. MEMORIES How bright is the sun on this beautiful lea And the breath of the briar-rose is sweetness to me, They glow with a glory one caught in her hair In the days long ago when I placed a bud there. When hand touching hand was delight for a day And eye meeting eye was a pure ecstasy. 52 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK Oh the beautiful hours of that promising day How blissful the moments, how transient their stay, Like the bright tinted bow in the cloud of the sky They gleamed but a moment, in glory to die. We may say the old pages forever are sealed, Old bruises we think may as surely be healed, How is it the sight of this same verdant lea And the scent of a rose has so brought back to me The olden old story, and once more is pressed The penitent's cross to my trembling breast? Ah, the pages once written can never be white, And sorrows once suffered will leave us their blight, The heart's inner chamber oft gives to the day The sweet, sacred memories treasured away, A look, or a smile as remembered of yore, Or even a fragrance may open the door And for a brief moment we live over again The joy of our life or we suffer its pain. The ages may come and the ages may go, And the waters of death may my soul overflow ; But out from its darkness, a star in the gloom, Unquenched and unquenchable e'en by the tomb ; Still, still, and forever that smile I shall see A light in the window of Heaven for me, And now in the fall of the evening there glows The faint setting sun on the breast of the rose. 1869 LOVE'S HALO One night, oh, well remembered night Through stained glass, and opened door The moonlight fell upon the floor In flickering shadows, wan and white. We stood within the pallid glow And said good night — good night again POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 53 With half of pleasure, half of pain, And then — and then he turned to go. But going turned — half unaware And let his hand fall on my brow So lightly, yet it thrills me now As if it still were resting there. The short, light curls his hand upraised With tender motion — half caress Most gentle in its tenderness, He spake no word — and yet he praised. There was no need of any word — I comprehended all he meant, For mute lips are most eloquent, The sweetest songs are never heard. And ever since upon my brow A tender halo seems to rest. I must be better than the best To lift me to his loving now. Jan. 29, 1869. POEMS WRITTEN IN LATER LIFE THE WINDS The winds were all abroad last night, They rooked us in our bed, And sang a fearful lullaby That filled our souls with dread. Like frightened children in the dark Afraid to sleep we lay, And listened to that dreadful hymn Till dawning of the day. The imploring trees reached out their arms Already chilled and bare In vain — they cracked, were bent and torn And carried through the air. The very cattle on the hills All shook and lowed with fright, From what wild cave — in angry mood Came up the winds to-night? " Where it listeth," whence or whither Thou canst never tell, Run the words — but He, the Giver, Knoweth, therefore all is well. The sunshine and the storm alike Are scattered from His hand, Who is the shadow of a rock Within a weary land. 54 LATEE POEMS 55 A very present help, a shield. Blow winds — and welcome storm — Since sent by Him — we're sheltered by The strength of His right arm. Dec. 5, 1873. TURN, MY DARLING Turn, my darling, smile and bless me Who was wont to smile on thee, Low I bend me, and confess me, At my own pure infant's knee. Little hands that I, upholding, Taught their pretty clasp of prayer Now have grown in their unfolding Strong enough mine own to bear. Little knees I taught to bending Kneel before the throne to-day, And the voice with angels' blending Is the voice I taught to pray. Now the soft loose curls are lying On the pillow as they were When my darling slept to dying Slipping Heavenward like a prayer. January, 1873. DEDICATED TO THE HOME GUARDS Guards of home we gladly meet you With the olive branch of peace ; In prosperity we greet you Hoping it may never cease ; But we know these hands we're clasping Should the time of danger come Will not be less quick in grasping Weapons that shall guard their home. 56 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK Now to-day our guests, God bless you, And to-morrow who shall say Whither friend or foe may press you, This to do, or that to stay Whether fields be green or gory, Or in peace or war you come — Our pride in peace — in war our glory Always welcome, Guards of Home. July 3, 1873. THE OLD YEAK Adown the dark heavens there trembles a star, Which late in the zenith had shown afar: But now through its own glowing pathway it flies, Trembles and vanishes — in darkness it dies. So this bright year which we hailed with acclaim, Christened so gayly with such a bright name, Shone in the zenith in glory: but now Trembles and vanishes, who shall say how. Blessed old year — though your shining be o'er, Your youth and your glory return never more Still, still with a grateful remembrance we'll drink To you, still gentle guardian ; fill up and drink to the brink. And may your successor prove only as true, As faithful and honest as we have found you, We cannot forget you, for with you, we know We've sorrowed and suffered — had weal and had woe. And woven with every smile and each tear Are memories of you — poor, dying old year. The pages ones written can never be white, And sorrows once suffered will leave us their blight. The heart\ mner chamber oft gives to the day The sweel wcred memories treasured away, LATER POEMS 57 A look or a smile as remembered of yore, Or even a fragrance may open the door. And for a brief moment we live o'er again The joys of the year, we suffer its pain You have blessed us, old year, in plentiful store JSTo dreadful disaster has come to us — more — . The white dove of peace hovers over the land The centenial is coming — old fellow your hand — May the lad in the long clothes, unknown and untried, Be a faithful follower of him who has died. But very young infants are doubtful at best, We only can hope this, and trust for the rest. How slowly you leave us, oh, blessed old year Here's a kind hand at parting and many a tear. 1875. OUR LITTLE ANGEL We have a child whose little feet Can never go astray, Whose hand will need no parent's clasp To guide it in the way. Dear little feet which knew but rest ; Sweet life scarce told by hours Wee little hands upon the breast And clasped by burial flowers. They only saw — those dear dark eyes - A father's tender face, Then softly closed — and paradise Dawned on them in its place. Tell me, oh dewy eyes, wilt know That face again — when he Ascending to thy higher sphere Gains immortality? 58 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK Dear little babe, so sadly missed, Altho' was scarce possessed — How vacant seems the little crib How empty now the breast On which we only dreamed he slept So swiftly passed his breath. Dear little lamb, his tender feet Were saved the weary way. He knew the early dawn of morn But not the heat of day, This weakling of our flock — the Lord Has taken to his breast, And in the Shepherd's bosom fold Our little lamb's at rest. Written on the death of little Alfred, June 18, 1876. GOOD NIGHT O little brown head nestled low mid the flowers O wee little hands clasped so tight ; God's precious new angel which might have been ours Good night, little darling, good night ! Dear, wee little feet never tired nor worn, Pure, pure, little soul sinless white : Christ's own little angel and ours newly-born, Good night, little darling, good night! June 23, 1876. "BE NOT YE TEOUBLED" Why are you troubled — the day is at hand : Look for the clouds though stars intervene. The billows ride high ; but yonder's the land And over the waters, the meadows are green. LATEE POEMS 59 Why are you troubled, O heart weary one Think of the blessings the future may bring, Back of the clouds still rideth the sun And under the snow is the thrill of the spring. Be not ye troubled, the Savior of men Blessing hath blessed you, and God's on his throne And the rose of this promise shall blossom again When by the still waters He leadeth you on. MAGDALENE Upon the step a woman stood Ragged and soiled and cold ; A woman lost to womanhood And yet in years not old. She begged but for her body's need Some clothes and food to eat, And as she spoke her downcast eyes Were cast upon her feet. Poor weary feet — how long astray Or why they went God knows ; Because they went — turn not away He cared for such as those. Draw thou not back — oh, I beseech Do thou not cast the stone Lest drifting far beyond thy reach This soul condemns thine own. " You seem quite well," the hearer said, " Why don't you work? "— " You see " - The woman lifted up her head — " No one would hire me." The voice was full of quiet scorn And deep humility. What sisters in the land were born To care for such as she? 60 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK She turned and slowly went her way To deeper woe and sin, Because no sister hand that day Took hers and led her in Away from all that she had known And back to purity. Another hand took up the stone To cast at such as she. And yet, upon the sand, one day ~No word of blame was penned ; But " Sin no more and go thy way," He said — the sinner's Friend. And women sisters of this land Will He not look to you To hold out such a helping hand As He was wont to do ? July 1, 1876. AILSINORE Gaily dawns the silver day, The singing lark soars high ; But my sad heart is cold and gray Like the depths of a winter sky. For I stand alone on Time's bleak shore And I dream of the golden days, When hand in hand with Ailsinore We went our pleasant ways. Then tho' the lark sings clear and loud, And tho' the sky's without a cloud, My sun of life is in the west, My singing birds have gone to rest. For I'm alone, and never more Upon this side of Time's dark stream Shall I behold my Ailsinore Save as the glory of a dream. LATEE POEMS 61 I sit and sigh As the days go by Alone on a foreign shore, And ever I dream of the moonlight gleam Of the eyes of Ailsinore. But my heart goes back to the silver days When I stood with Ailsinore, And I see again her tender ways My Queen from the Southern shore. GRADUATING SONG For The Silver Wedding of Alma Mater Alma Mater! Alma Mater! this glorious day With heart and song we repeat Good wishes and greetings, tho' now passed away, The time when we sat at thy feet, Tho' life has taught lessons we learned not of thee When sorrow and cares were unknown; Still, as to the sweetest of flowers, the bee, So turn we again to our own. Alma Mater ! Alma Mater ! long life and success Crown thee on this fair wedding day, Tho' silver's beginning to brighten each tress And thy fresh youth is passing away, Still, still, in our hearts and ever to be Unchanged and unchanging for aye, Enshrined in affection, a fair memory Too dear to grow old or to die. June, 1876. ON THE DEATH OF MR. LEGGET Speak softly, tread lightly, he lieth at rest, His beard like a snow wreath over his breast ; So pleasant his smile, so gracious his face We linger awhile loath to leave him a space. 62 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK For why should we grieve ? Only this and no more The bow of his boat has reached the far shore, And we who still sail on in darkness and woe Miss the light of his presence, his spirit's fine glow. For him life was kindly and Death soothed his touch As one does with a child one has humored o'er much, How generous, how gentle, how kindly was he To those whom he loved — only we Who knew him the longest can value him best, This heart of pure gold which lieth at rest. MY WISH TO-NIGHT If I could have my wish to-night And put these cares away, These many, wearing, precious cares That fret me day by day, Could I turn back from all the dross And all the gold of life, That form the crown and forge the cross Of motherhood and wife ? Here grief and joy go hand in hand, And both speed swiftly on, Sunshine and shadow — there's a land Which lieth in the sun. Nor sun nor shade, nor grief nor joy Can make my life more blessed ; But only this, the smile of Him Who giveth to us " rest." How sweet the word to tired ears, Dear Father, let me be Content to bear my joys and cares At rest — at peace with Thee. Thou knowest how weak and frail the feet That press the thorny road, Thou knowest how faltering the heart That reaches up to God. LATEK POEMS 63 And from thine own humanity Dear Savior, knowing all Its weakness and its vanity How prone to faint and fall, I need not fear Thy judgment, Lord, Since Love and Mercy plead, Shine Thou upon the darkest road And it is bright indeed. New Year, 1876. A KING TOnTCKOWNED Among us walked a King uncrowned A nobleman, we know it now When round his bier the wreaths are wound, And thousands o'er his ashes bow. For him the hushed and weeping throng, The poor, the rich are side by side, As they shall lie ere very long : To-day they wept for he has died. That kingly soul, thrice blessed now, O mourning wife, look up and smile See'st not the crown upon his brow Tho' tears may veil thy sight the while. The pure in heart — and who so pure As gently bow beneath the rod — Eor surely while the heavens endure He, pure in heart, shall see his God. His life was given to duties done, His place is vacant — let us weep ! His rest is come, his race is won, " He giveth his beloved sleep." Sleep thou, the people's comfort — rest, Thy life has rounded to its close Thy new life's dawning may be guessed — For him no longer pain or woes. 64 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK O radiant spirit upward soar Into the clearer air of Heaven ; The Lord has claimed his own once more His choicest jewel lent — not given. O tender spirit, earthward bend, Of mourning wife, and babes, and friends With thy celestial sympathy. Detroit, March, 1883. THE SPARROW'S COMPLAINT I wish, said the sparrow, my nest was made Of just one single feather, This flying about in sun and in shade, And carrying of sticks and of strings I'm afraid Will wear me out altogether. And I wish that my birds were born with wings. What good are these eggs I wonder ? They're easy to break, the brittle things, Or boys will reach them with ropes and strings Or else they're killed by the thunder. And I wish that cats would never grow But stay kittens forever and ever; That big fat worms would lie in a row Where I could get all I want, you know, Without any special endeavor. The sun in the east rose golden and round, Whilst the poor little bird was repining. Said she, I must work while the dew's on the ground, Or never a worm will be lying around And it's time my children were dining. May 11, 1886. T. B. S. LATEK POEMS 65 SONG FOE THE G. A. K. Skies are bright and hearts at rest Soft the breeze blows from the South, Little birds have built their nests In the dreadful cannon's mouth. Once again the drum and fife Greet again our eager listening ears, O'er again we live the strife Buried 'neath the bloom of years. Chorus Hurrah ! Hurrah for our boys in blue As they come with eager feet, And the tramp, tramp, tramp is sounding now As they march along the street. Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the boys in blue Hurrah for God and the Right ! The pulse of life beats strong and true And dawn has crowned the night. Eaces scarred by shot and shell, Feet that ran at Duty's cry, Hands that held the sabre well, Flags that saw our heroes die ; Heroes all, both friend and brother Clasping hands the Blue and Gray, Children of our common Mother Friends more steadfast from to-day. Chorus. Bend your heads, your colors furled, Soft your voices, slow your tread Some have reached another world Who beside you fought and bled. THE OLD SCEAP BOOK Gone, have they, through Heaven's portals They have reached the further shore, And have joined the Brave Immortals Soldiers, heroes ever more. June 22, 1891. SLUMBER SONG ON THE ST. CLAIR For the Republican Sleep, sleep while billows creep Over the slumbrous sands, And every breeze Blesses the trees With trembling, shadowy hands. Birds in their nests with heads in their breasts Murmur a lullaby, And the bright river gleams in its silver dreams Under the stars of the sky. Sleep, sleep, thy Father will keep Thee in his tenderest care, Until the pale dawn Of the rose-flushed morn Wakes thee to praise and to prayer. May 28, 1894. MARGARET Angels, have you seen my baby? She has left this shore to-day In her snowy scallop ; maybe She has sailed into your bay ; You will know her by the flowers Heaped within her tiny boat ; Scattered over her in showers When she left this port, afloat. LATEE POEMS 67 You will know her, Angels fairest, By the broad and lovely brow, By the sweet lips, palest, rarest, Smiling softly. Even now I can see her dreaming, dreaming, Angels brightest, still of you ; Did she see your pinions gleaming In the distance % — Would I knew. She was such a tiny creature That we feared to let her go Where no human arms could reach her : Yet the dear Lord willed it so. Thro' the darkness, drifting, drifting From our land of pain and care Toward the Heavenly shore, uplifting Golden banks to guide her there. Angels, have you seen my baby ? Flash some message back to me, W T hen I know she's landed, may-be I can trust her then with thee. Thro' some star the brighter beaming Thy sweet comfort, oh, impart, Through some lily's whiteness gleaming Bear a message to my heart. For The St. Clair Republican, May 28, 1894. UNDEK THE IVY Under the ivy, lying so still, With quiet hands folded, feeling no thrill Of the tense life that burned him — no will Guiding his actions or ruling his ways ; No longer an impulse to do or to dare, Only to slumber, as he lies there Under the sunshine so warm and so fair, These fancifully fleeting golden days. 68 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK What, then, is life which passes away, And what is this death, the autumn's decay. When Death conquers Life, and night conquers day, And living, or dying, we scarcely can tell. Is he asleep? That intelligent soul, Who struggled so hard to run his goal, And held all his powers beneath his control, To aid in the race, now finished so well ? Under the ivy ! Vain quest ; no reply Conies to our questions. God's beautiful sky Bends to us gently, and fairy leaves fly Over our feet, where lowly he lies. Under the ivy, in silence and peace, Enwrapped in God's mercy, which never can cease, Until that fair morning shall glow and increase In the glorious dawning of which he shall rise. November, 1900. OUT IN THAT UNKNOWN COUNTRY Out in that unknown country Whither you drifted, my dear, When the woods were brown and the leaves were down, And the meadows brown and sere. Out in the land which nobody knows Where they say are no pains nor tears, Where angel's feet press the golden street, You have been four weary years. Away from this land of shadows and sun, Away from its love and care, Oh, tell me, dear, are you happy as here Where we lovingly bore our share? Over there away from our life each day With never a kiss or caress, LATER POEMS 69 Does the heavenly joy have no alloy And the blessings always bless ? Oh, whisper it low, and they never will know, Are there times in that endless day When you yearn for the smile which blessed you erstwhile Before you had wandered away ? And the touch of a hand in that beautiful land, Can they give you the love that I gave, Don't you miss the old love in your heaven above And long to return from your grave ? August 29, 1904. TOLSTOI IS DEAD Tolstoi is dead. Above his head We'll heap the drifting snow, And o'er his bed the wild winds blow. The passers by will never know Tolstoi is dead. Tolstoi is dead When that is said, It voices all of Russia's woe. The poor man's friend — of vice the foe. Among the dead his head lies low Tolstoi is dead. Tolstoi is dead Yet on his head The victor's crown should now be placed. Here lies the man who gladly faced The direst need — who rank effaced To aid his kind. August 20, 1910. 70 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK BESIDE HEK MOTHEB'S KKEE The rose white dawn that flushed the morn Has passed away, the noon So swift to enfold its banners gold Has furled them now, the moon Is rising high in the evening sky, The stars I dimly see And such a shade is o'er the maid • Who sat at Mother's knee. Once more in dreams I sew my seams, Once more her voice I hear With kindness fraught as when she taught So patiently and dear. Thro' all the Years, and all my tears Her face I still can see As when she smiled upon the child Who sat at Mother's knee. My hair is gray, the passing day Is in its gloaming now, Bright youth has fled, high hopes are dead And sorrow crowns my brow. I would not sigh as they pass by If only I might be Once more the child who sat and smiled Beside her Mother's knee. January, 1911. THE ELOWEK GIKL Little pleader, battered hat crown With the golden fleece That would tempt a Jason Shining through the crease. Blue, blue eyes uplifted Sweeter than her posies, LATEK POEMS 71 Red, ripe lips half parted Redder than her roses. " Buy, oh buy/' she's pleading In the flute-like tones, " But a penny, see the vi'lets " All the earliest ones." The childish voice rings sweetly Thro' the crowded street, It fades away completely And lies a meadow sweet. The passers see the daisies That in fence corners grow, And all the shady places Their boyhood used to know, They pause with eyes grown misty Which are not used to tears, The violets and the daisies Have blotted out sad years. And still the childish crying " Please buy my flowers, please," And men not used to buying Pause here to purchase these. Again among the flowers In happy youth they roam, And spend the coming hours Care free, age free at home. Eebruary 11, 1911. THE NEW WOMAN Oh, where's the new woman ? I've hunted in vain This beautiful summer weather, On foot, on car, on steamer and train Eor the billycock hat and the miniature cane ; The collar and tie and the manly mien They seem to have vanished together. 72 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK The bicycle skirt, the leggins, the stride, And the hat with its one stiff feather, The stiff shirtwaist and sundry beside All seem to have vanished together. Or who is this being of frills and of lace And tresses so fluffy and golden, With innocent sweetness of beautiful face, And sweet girlish ways full of maidenly grace. Oh, back she has come with her ribbons and laces, This beautiful maiden — to stay. The awful New Woman she gently effaces With picturesque hat and gentlest of faces, Girlish attire and daintiest graces, God bless her— The Girl of To-day. TO EEVEEEND AND MES. S. May your sun be often shining And gently fall the dew : Your clouds have silver lining And love be strong and true. With a smile for every trouble And for every wrong a laugh, So your pleasures will be double And your grief will be but half. September 7, 1912. DEDICATED TO THE OLD HOESE The snow's on the ground and ice in the street, The air is so cold and so thin, There is no grass for your frozen feet, And the oats are gone out of the bin. LATER POEMS 73 But live, horse ! live, horse ! the winter will pass ; The robin will sing on the tree, And out in the pastures the tender green grass Will spring up in plenty for thee. Your barn is so cold and so lonely, I know, With never a friend around, But horses, I know, are out in the snow Where shelter is not to be found. Live, horse ! live, horse ! the spring time is near, And soon will the cold winter go. Birds will be singing and tender grass springing For thee — little horse — f roni the snow. March 4, 1912. HOUSEWIFE'S GUIDE If a hen is old and tough Her spurs are hard, her scales are rough, Her bill is stiff, you cannot bend her, Leave her for one more young and tender, With little spurs, comb smooth and thin ; Scales glossy smooth, claws will bend in, Comb thin and smooth, soft tender bill, Buy her, fry her, and eat your fill. A turkey hen when she is old Has scales so rough, claws long and bold, Long tuft or beard — a young one shows No beard, smooth legs and tender toes. A tender goose has smooth soft legs, Bend back the wing — the skin will break, And legs are smooth — the goose you'll take. And as for ducks the same rule goes, Smooth legs, soft skin and tender toes A pigeon when its legs are red, And down all dead is no use dead. 74 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK WRITTEN FOR C. D. P. " How do you do," said Mrs. Cat, Bowing very low ! " I'm very well," said Mr. Rat " You see I'm fine and plump and fat, But now I've got to go." " Stay, stay and talk," cried Mrs. Cat " You see, I love you so." " I know you do," said Mr. Rat, " You'd love to eat me up I know. Good-by, I've got to go." Little Miss Piggie sat in her sty, And wished for an opera hat And Master Pig was passing by And stopped for a little chat. " Under the acorn tree," said he, " The nuts are large and good, Come on and help me eat them up." Said Pig, " I wish I could." THE BLUE IRIS There's a blue iris not badly done On the papered wall of my cozy room, And as I sit in the early dawn What memories rush into bloom. The delicate blue of its fragile face Shines up from the brooklet's bank, At the base of the hill — the very place Where golden rod grew rank. And once again an untrained child I roam those emerald hills and vales, LATEE POEMS 75 I chase the lambkin, myself more wild, And float my tiny sails. I fish in the little brook and weep Because my treasures die, When I took the bottle to make them keep And hang on a branch up high. O blue-eyed iris, in your face I see The spring at the foot of the hill So clear and limpid — the striped love grass And maiden hair growing there still. The old gourd chained from which we drank, The milk house — log built — near — With pebbly bottom — the great crocks sank In its water running clear. The plum trees down in the hollow bloom And cover the hills with snow, As the blossoms fall — and now there is room For the fruitage crimson glow. Over the hill on a rocky ledge Great pine trees grow, I stand again Alone and awed on the precipice' edge And listen to their summer rain. Again I see the red bird flit From branch to branch a scarlet flame And hear him whistle loud and clear The iris brings these memories back. Of childhood vanished for many a year. TO A FLY FOUND DEAD IN A SUGAR BOWL Tired little feet upgathered Rainbow-tinted wings upcurled, Which were wont to aid thy journey Little Buzzer 'round the world. Captive here in sweetest prison Quite hemmed in by treasures sweet, 76 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK Did your eyes in triumph glisten And your heart responsive beat ? Standing on the edge — looking down Seeing sugar far beneath, Did you think those golden granules Worth to you the price of death ? Did you see in it — Elysian Great reward for doing, Fly — And encouraged by the vision Seek the goal to do or die — Never — never more to nutter On your iris-tinted wings ; Little feet in death are gathered Now have ceased their journeyings. Life for you has been the fleetest You have tasted it — completest And the verdict which is metest Died of all that's sweetest. Little type of mortal striving After pleasures manifold, Seeking — seeking — never giving Bartering life itself for gold ; Note the insect struggling, dying And the goal within its reach. Learn the lesson — man applying Which this little fly can teach. February 6, 1911. THE CLOVER AND I Down in the meadow the clover and I Used in the shimmering shadows to lie. If the sun went up or the sun went down The clover and I, we cared not a crown, LATEK POEMS 77 For the bee would hum and the lark would soar, And the grasshopper chirp at his emerald door As we drank to the full life's meadow lore, The clover and I. Down in the meadow the clover and I Learned of the breezes to mournfully sigh, The beautiful head of the clover grew brown And my own as white as the thistle's crown, And bees sought out the fairer flowers, And the chill rains beat our emerald bowers, And all was waste which once was ours, And life a sigh ! Down in the meadow the violet sprang And caught in her chalice the fragrance of song, Where golden gay dandelions lighted the grass, And the wood sorrel lifted its rosy glass. Down in the meadow the clover and I In the long bright days would coolly lie And smile at the clouds as wafting by They shadowed us. Down in the meadow there came one day A reaper, who carried my darling away. And never again was the sky so bright, The clover so red or the daisy so white For a cloud had fallen that would not pass, An invisible chill has shrivelled the grass. And alone in the meadow I linger at last Quite eager to go. SOMEWHEKE Somewhere in her bower of beauty With eyes as blue as the sea, The wonderful maid of my dreaming Is waiting and watching for me. 78 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK She comes with the gold in her tresses, And her fairy like dancing feet, With the smile of the spring she caresses, I know her, mj sweet, my sweet ! 1914. A PLEA Only a poor old man Asking a home, nothing more, Adrift in an alien sea Wrecked on your friendly shore. Once he was young and brave And his life loomed large and free, But now there seems but a grave Waiting for such as he. Only a poor old man Praying for daily bread, Asking of you some little space To rest his gray old head. Homeless and feeble and poor, Adrift on an alien sea, Brought by the tide to your friendly shore, Help for humanity ! San Francisco, 1913. TO THE ALUMNI OF B. F. A. Fifty years! and in the seeming Scarce a decade can have passed; But tonight I fall to dreaming, Once again I see the gleaming Of that time too fair to last. Back again to girlhood's pleasures And those early friends of mine ; LATEE POEMS 79 All the heart of woman treasures All the joy, that dear time measures Blessed days of Auld Lang Syne ! How many of you are gathered around the Board to-night? How many have passed into that silent land of which we have no data ? I do not know. To you assembled at this table I send greeting. We are still girls together. What matter if the hair is gray? What matter if the step is inelastic? and " Care and sorrow and childbirth pain Have left their trace on heart and brain," for to-night — only to-night — let us be girls together ; let us once more run the gauntlet of (supposed) tyrant teachers and smuggle oranges and eggs (tabooed) into the cottage; let us jump over the traces to-night, though most of us have learned long since to trot meekly enough, in double harness ; let us for- get life as it is and for one brief hour enjoy life as it was. ' O Girls ! Let's ! We are tired of care, let's rest ; we are weary of its duties, let's forget them ; of its fashions, let's ignore them. No hobble- skirt shall hobble us tonight. No militant suffragist shall throw a bomb. Nobody shall remember the " burning questions " of the day. Wireless shall not exist. The telephone shall be dis- connected. No automobile shall toot a horn. To-night — only to-night is our's ; and though I may not be with you in body, in heart and memory I am there; and to the Alumni of the never forgotten and always dear old school I send greeting. Tillie Beadshaw Swales. May 27, 1913. PAIN We walked together, Pain and I, For many a long and weary year ; " Oh, leave me, Pain," I oft would cry, And he would just as oft reply, " Not till you hold me dear." 80 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK And now 'tis so — for well I know He is God's teacher here below. We're comrades now, and walking so The Master draweth near. January 30, 1914. SPRING SONG Dedicated to the Detroit Free Press " The wind's in the south, and the wind's in the west ! " Oh, this is the story I hear, The robins have come — poor little red breast, And the dandelion's gold can easy be guessed Thro' the leaves and the muck of last year. For spring's in the air, and blue gleams the sky And his heart is aglow with hope, So he sings and he whistles a melody As he fumbles with book, rod, and fly And he gets out the towing rope. The wind's in the north, and the wind's in the east, The dust blows a cloud in my eyes: But the author of " Spring " may easy be Guest, The happy-go-lucky poet and pest, Who cares not a groat if he lies. My coat's buttoned tight, fur cap on my head In spite of the stories I hear, All the robins red, must be frozen dead And the dandelions never have lifted a head, To whisper that spring is near. 1914. PARTRIDGE SONG The woods are alight with the stars of the night, The flowers of spring 'neath my feet, And the grand old trees are kissed by the breeze Oh, come to me, Sweet, sweet, sweet ! LATEK POEMS 81 You are waiting, I know, where the wild roses blow, You are waiting and listening for me, And I'm longing for you, and I'm calling for you, As I drum on the old hollow tree. The sweet spring is here and the blood runs warm In beast, in bird, and in tree, And under the ferns where the columbine burns My love lies in ambush for me. 1914. CHKISTMAS DAY Oh, somewhere out in the land of love There's a light in the window for me, As bright as the moon that's shining above As tall as the tallest tree. Shine on, shine on, oh, light of love, Tho' I am so far away I'm coming, I'm coming, to find my love For this is Christmas Day. The candles are lighted, the tree is aglow, And the hearts are leal and true. Dear heart, cheer up, tho' your light burn low There's a light in the window for you. Shine on, shine on, O beautiful light, I'm coming, I'm on my way. Though rough the path and dark the night, Eor this is Christmas Day. O beautiful light that shines from afar And calls me, I'm on my way. It leads my heart like Bethlehem's star Eor this is Christmas Day. 82 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK THE MYSTEBY OF THE DAWN Between the dark and the daylight The earth is very still, And mists rise up so silver white Over each hamlet and hill. They rise, they march like sheeted ghosts And none may say them nay, Bank on rank, and hosts on hosts They pass their silent way. Up from the valley and over the hill These silent cohorts go, Whence they come — so strong and still Who can say, and who may know. Then in the east a shaft of light Pink as the heart of a shell ; Golden now where once 'twas white And the clouds come under the spell. The sheeted ghosts seem royal guests Clad in white, and purple, and fawn. Silently they march to the west, The mystery of the dawn. With colors furled in full retreat They rise o'er the shadowy lake, And then the dawn and the daylight meet And all the world is awake. December 13, 1915. FOE ME The russet and gold of the mountain, The silver and blue of the sea ; The rose-white dawn of the morning Are painted in glory for me. LATEE POEMS 83 The stars in the midnight are shining; The flowers abloom on the lea ; The rollicking birds in the branches, All — all are created for me. Then sing, oh, my soul, and be joyful, Oh, cheerily, cheerily sing, Come join the gay birds in their chorus To welcome the coming of Spring. Somewhere in her bower of beauty, With eyes as blue as the sea The wonderful maid of my dreaming Is waiting and watching for me. She comes with the gold in her tresses, Her brow like the foam of the sea ; With the smile of the Spring she caresses And she is the maid for me. Then sing, oh, my soul, and be joyful, Oh, cheerily, cheerily sing; Come join the gay birds in their chorus To welcome the coming of Spring. March, 1915. TO " VEE " WITH A PAIE OE SLIPPEES These are for the sweetest Baby With the very sweetest eyes ; Maybe they will fit — and maybe Santa didn't know the size. Eor you see there are so many Little feet that he must shoe, That you needn't wonder any If he didn't quite fit you. Xmas, 1915. 84 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK HOW QUIET ARE THE WORKS OF GOD How silently the full orbed moon Fulfils her appointed round, The bright eyed stars arise and shine In silence most profound. And the green grasses wave in time Where silent graves are made, Above the spot which may be mine When I to sleep am laid. Little birds in little nests, Little babes on mothers' breasts Finding there most precious rests Free from care and all life's quests, For the birds all skies are blue, For the babes all love is true. Ah ! if only I and you So could trust as life we view. January 25, 1916. MY YOUTH'S FAREWELL My youth, my youth with the shining hair And the clear bright eye, the dancing feet ; When all the days were passing fair, And all of life was good and sweet. Together we've wandered amid the flowers And danced through the sunny maze, For faith and truth and love were ours, And all the days were golden days. My youth, my youth, come with me rejoice, For the day is young and bright and gay, But back on the breeze came his laughing voice, " I've lingered too long, no longer I'll stay " LATER POEMS 85 And his tones are thrillingly sweet " For your step is slow and your head is gray And youth and age can never meet." Farewell, dear comrade, of so many years, As you dance away with your airy tread, I stand alone. Through a glimmer of tears I can see the halo around your head. March 16, 1916, Los Angeles, Cal. THE MISSION OF PAIN Through pain a child is born into the world, Unknowing and unknown is hurled Into the vortex we call life — His untried feet are set to tread the path his father trod Through storm and sunshine leading up to God. Through pain the shriven soul has flown Again into the great unknown, Upward, still up to the great white throne, Victorious over pain and strife. August 28, 1916. EAELY PEOSE WORKS OUE LANGUAGE (School Composition) It has been said that our English Language is not expressive. Linguists speak glowingly of heroic Greek, and majestic Latin whose rolling periods succeed each other in tones not unlike the stately notes of martial music; they revel in the sparkling vivacity of the French and the grand simplicity of the ancient Anglo-Saxon and yet say that the English, a compound of them all, is inexpressive. Surely not. It is a mountain of gems if one will only pause to brush aside the dust of prejudice that conceals them. It is a perfect picture gallery filled with grand, glowing scenes if one will only enter and view. From out this innumerable collection we may select a few paintings, bring them out into the light and note carefully their beauties. What a picture does our word 'patient present. A patient woman, and instantly before us arises a fair, sweet face with brown, wavy hair parted softly over a brow where shadows may once have rested, deep, earnest blue eyes which are no strang- ers to tears, and a sweet faint patient smile resting peacefully upon the lips. Such is patience. Such the picture hidden within the studio of one little word. Again we have the word holy — A holy Temple — Now is there an awe pervading the " holy ground." A silence that may be felt shadows all. Through the darkened windows steals the softened twilight — solemn music floods the church, swelling and sinking in unison with the emotions of hearts there " gath- ered together." Oh, how thrillingly fall the words — " The Lord is in His holy Temple," and there creeps over the heart the solemn, delicious yet awe-ful feeling of the presence of holi- ness. Surely there is a gem in the heart of that word holy. 86 EAKLY PKOSE WOKKS 87 There are other words equally rich in beauty. These two are not exceptions. How expressive is the word murmur, of gush- ing streamlets and the faint whisper of the wind through the trees, or the busy hum of bees, which one can hear ringing out from the flower bells. What a hidden picture in the word sublime. A picture of dark, lowering clouds, of flashing lightnings, and angry thun- ders ; of the mighty ceaseless voices that are uttered by Niagara u of all that awes and terrifies and yet subdues." Ah ! Latin may be majestic, French may be sparkling, Ancient Anglo full of simplicity, but the English, our own language, is the gallery in which are at once pictures of sparkling waters, and pleasant fields, of scenes that awe one's very soul, and of thoughts that lift the heart from Earth to Heaven. September 16, 1862. COKONATIONS Graduation Composition (Honorable, Mention) " A crown for the victor — a crown of light." In all ages men have chosen crowns for the emblems of honor. Crowns for the prince, crowns for the poet, crowns for all the world deems worthy. It is childhood's expression of love, manhood's of honor. Little children crown their queens with blossoms, men crown their monarchs with jewels. Christmas day in Rome! Came one, a haughty monarch, to worship in the Romish church. All was wealth and splendor. Golden candle-sticks held strangely fragrant tapers that shot up flames to glitter on the fretted ceiling, resounding deep-toned music rolled through the vaulted chapel, garlands of evergreen decked the church, the image of Mary and the Child rose in fair purity from the altar, the priests were performing their mystic rights, the mon- arch, kneeling with bowed head, on downy cushions at the altar. Then and there by sacred hands was he crowned — " Charle- magne, Emperor of the West." Everything of the crown was a jewel, every jewel shot forth myriad fires. And he, the favor- ite of the world arose, the haughty forehead shadowed by the 88 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK precious garland, arose to hear from every lip of that great multitude joyous congratulations and welcome. Not a voice was heard which did not ascribe to the new Em- peror. Not a knee was there which would not bow to do him homage. And why was he thus honored % As a king he reigned with a rigid rule. Thousands of his captives, in one short day, were destroyed by his commands. Yet Charlemagne, physically, mentally, and by his coronation in life was superior to them all, in strength a Samson, in intellect a prodigy, in condition a king, the people knew him for master and accepted him. Again, Eome gave a coronal. Not now was the scene at the altar of a splendid church, but at the throne of the Capitol ; not now was the honored one a king but a poet ; not now a son of wealth but of genius. A glad procession thronged to the Temple preceded by young nobles bearing garlands of flowers. Princes and nobles sur- rounded the throne. A senator assumed the exalted seat. " At the voice of a herald Petrarch came," knelt humbly before the throne and received a crown of laurel leaves with the more pre- cious words, " This is the reward of merit." Then the air trem- bles with the acclamations of the crowd, " Long life to the Capitol and the poet " ring out, and was echoed and re-echoed until the very clouds returned the happy refrain. " This is the reward of merit." For eighteen years had Petrarch striven for the glory of that honor. For eighteen years had he followed the Daphne of fame, and at last, after his weary race, when he would clasp her to his bosom, she " was not," and his arms, like Apollo's, encircled but the rugged trunk of the laurel tree. He had climbed the tree of ambition and grasped the glow- ing apples but to find them turned to bitter ashes, for his, a poet's soul, must have felt that half the shouting throng, wor- shipped only because the nobles did. And this is the bitter- sweet coronation of Intellect. Again a king was crowned. Not in the church, not in the capitol, but in the " judgment hall " of Jerusalem. Now no sol- emn music flooded the hall, no choral singing was heard, no fragment tapers were lighted, but, alone, a stranger in His own Kingdom stood the King. No garment glittering with gems and furred with ermine was his, but for a coronation robe " They EAKLY PROSE WORKS 89 took a scarlet robe and put it on him." No crown heavy with its wealth of diamonds, or green with the laurels of glory was placed by consecrated hands upon his head, but " when they had platted a crown of thorns they put it upon his head." No scep- tre gave they him but put a reed into his hand. Oh, that the Lord of Heaven and Earth should have had such a coronation ! Oh, that his crown should be of thorns, his sceptre a reed, his robe a robe of mockery. Exulting cries burst indeed from the multi- tude, cries of derision, " Hail, King of the Jews," and " they took the reed and smote him on the head." And this was the coronation of the Friend of man, the " Holy one of Israel." Man could bow with suppliant knee to the powerful " Emperor of the West," could shout exulting praise to the poet Laureate of Italy ; but to Christ the " Prince of Peace " he could give but scornful mockery. And so it is from age to age. To physical strength, to wealth and position man is ever ready to extend the eager idolatry, the crown and the sceptre of jewels. To a superior intellect he bows, as heathens do to stars, feeling that they are infinitely above him and worthy of adoration. To the king in intellect he offers a transient " In Memoriam " on the fickle tablets of his heart, a crown of fading leaves emblematic of short lived glory, and this is all. But to the " Pure in Heart," to those " who are in the world and yet not of the world " he has naught to offer but thorns and reeds and mockery, naught but a shame- ful cross of suffering. Greater heroes than the world ever crowned are daily in our paths. Their names are not men- tioned in honor, their brows have never borne the precious weight of a victor's coronal, yet forgiving the rest, in life, wearing patiently its crown of thorns, drinking cheerfully its cup of gall : " Though the trembling lips may shrink White with anguish as they drink, And the forehead sweat with pain Drops of blood like purple rain." Only the few in the little world of home think them worthy, and One other who in the future shall crown them " with glory and with honor." He who goes nobly forth to battle for his country and for 90 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK glory, is brave, but the one who stills his eager heart that fain would follow the glorious course of his country's emblem be- cause stern duty holds him with his rigid chain — is he not braver ? His is not the battle of a day but the battle of a lifetime, one constant struggle to stifle longings for the world's approbation, and to win Heaven's, And the World ! It crowns the one with glory and with jewels, the other with dishonor and thorns. The one it honors as a soldier, the other it brands as a coward. That fair woman who stood among the wounded and dying, careless of self, giving all of her care to them until her own frail life was almost sacrificed, was truly noble. The world for once in justice cherishes every syllable of her dear name, but were not those who sent forth the wounded ones in the full glory of manhood, sent them forth with their blessings and prayers, to death — were they not noble ? And yet we hear not of these heroic women, their noble hearts may break with grief, closely the painful thorns may clasp their brow, and that is all their glory. They are in our streets and alleys, in our factories and mills, these thorn crowned heroes and heroines ; daughters who give their young lives to labor for younger sisters and helpless guardians, forgetting self in love and duty; sons who yield up life's dearest hopes to guard, with patient tenderness, their parents' pathway for a little time until the angels shall relieve them of their charge. The good Samaritans who give their last morsel of bread to those they deem more needy. Are they not worthy of a corona- tion ? But does the world ever crown them ? Yes, with pierc- ing thorns, with poverty and sneers, or perhaps the cheap boon of pity. But is there no reward for those who tread with bleeding feet the rugged path of duty ? for those the world forgets, or if remembers, remembers but with scorn? On the last day each shall be crowned, not with thorns, not with fading leaves, nor yet with gems from the heart of the earth, but with a crown of immortality which " God the righteous judge shall give him at that day." " They too, though sojourning here, shall have their reward. Their coronation shall be in the Audience Chamber of the Eternal Heavens when God who seeth in secret but reward- eth openly shall place crowns upon their brows and palms in EARLY PROSE WOEKS 91 their hands, while an assembled universe from the heights above, and from the depths beneath, and from the wide circle of the dis- tant stars shall respond " Amen." Zanesville High School. May 16, 1862. SERAPHINA FAIRBANKS This namesake of the angels was born at Lowndes. I cannot tell how she became possessed of her Christian name. Perhaps, in her unfledged childhood, her tender mother may have de- tected some real or fancied resemblance to the higher powers in the little pink face and half-opened eyes, and in the plentitude of her happiness called her Seraphina. How it was I cannot say, but certain it is that so she was christened. It is due to truth that I confess, when I saw Seraphina, I could trace no like- ness to the inhabitants of Heaven ; but that may be owing to my notion of the angels being rather queer. This notion was formed in early childhood, and has " grown with my growth and strengthened with my strength " ; for even now, I can never think of an angel as other than some cloudy shape clothed in a white dress, with a " crown upon the forehead, and a harp within the hand," and they all stand in a row around the Throne. I do not speak irreverently ; I merely assert what is the idea of Heaven and its inhabitants which nine Sabbath scholars out of ten possess. But, as I said, Seraph didn't look like these. She always wore green, and never had a crown ; besides, she was never known to possess a harp, though she did sometimes indulge in a few plaintive strains from a guitar. In summer, a single white rose graced her rather thin hair, which she wore in little short curls ; and in winter, a piece of evergreen supplied the place of the rose; for Seraphina was sentimental. I won't say any more of her resemblance, real or fancied, but will describe her, and you can judge for yourselves. Seraph was very tall — stately, her mother said ; very thin — delicate that same partial judge affirmed ; her face was long 92 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK and sharp, mouth large, but which, when she laughed, and the thin lips were parted, revealed a fine set of even white teeth — Seraph's only beauty — eyes small, sharp and grey — " vivacious " her mother would have called them, but " prying " would be more true to nature ; and the one aim for which she lived was to find some kindred spirit which every one is said to possess. For this, she attended church night and morning; for this, she paid ten dollars for a false braid, used cosmetics, read poems, visited picture-galleries, attended soldier's aid so- cieties — in fact, did every thing else but propose. Well, leap-year had come, and brought with it Seraphina's thirtieth birthday — " not so old " Seraphina said, " but too old for a single lady " ; and, besides, she had found a silver thread lying in bold relief among her dark curls. Poor Seraph sat down and cried — not a stifled sob or two, but a real woman's cry. All the floodgates were opened, and the bitter fountain parted with some of its most bitter drops. That cry eased her heart wonderfully. She arose relieved, bathed her tear-stained face, and descended to the breakfast-room with the firm con- viction stamped on brain and heart that something must be done. " Seraph," said her mother, at the table, " will you pass the butter?" " Something must be done," answered Seraph, not hearing the question, and not looking up. " Why, daughter, what must be done ? I asked you to pass the butter. What ails you, dear ? " At this, Seraph started, colored, lifted the plate with a trembling hand ; and too trembling it proved to be, for the plate fell ; and, as a natural consequence, butter, knife, ice, and dish each took its separate way, trying to roll farther and do more damage than its neighbor. This crash aroused Seraph. The tears started, but by dint of biting her lips and clenching her hands she managed to restrain them; and the meal passed off without further accident, though Mrs. Fairbanks affirmed: " My goodness gracious ! Seraphina, you will kill me before the meal is over yet ! " Breakfast dispatched, and the dishes disposed of, Seraphina took off the great check apron, rolled down her sleeves, went EAELY PKOSE WOEKS 93 through some mysterious toilet, and finally emerged from the front door, rosy-cheeked and smiling, and took her way to the young doctor's office. Now, this young doctor, though not wealthy, was in com- fortable circumstances, and generally considered a " good catch." He was well known to be fond of practical jokes; and at the identical moment of Seraphina's emergence from her own door, was sitting at the window of his office with two confidential friends. They were smoking and having a fine time generally, when the Doctor spied Seraphina coming toward his office. He had just been talking of the kindness she had manifested frequently toward himself, persistently hanging on his arm at picnics, and keeping him near her at all social gatherings. " Jove ! " he ejaculated, with a prolonged whistle, " here is the angel herself. Now, boys, fun alive! She's had that anti- quated cap set for me these two years. There is the bell. Here," opening a door leading to a small room adjoining, " pitch in there. Baize thin — can hear every word. Mind you, keep your mouths shut, and we'll have some fun." Pell-mell the two friends tumbled in through the open door, which the Doctor closed ; then smoothed his face down, and at the time of his visitor's entrance was most diligently studying an intricate passage in anatomy, with the book upside down. " Good morning, Doctor," she exclaimed, blithely, when ush- ered into the sanctum, offering her hand. " A beautiful morn- ing, isn't it? I declare this weather makes me feel like a child. I know you'll laugh at me if I tell you, but I was out helping our neighbors' children make a snow man this morn- ing. Dear innocents, it makes my heart glad to see them so happy; and I feel as much a child as any of them, though to- day is my twentieth birthday." Here a suppressed giggle came from the green baize door; but the Doctor said gravely : " We are almost eaten up here by rats. They squeal dreadfully sometimes." " Eats ! " she responded, " oh, dear ! that's bad ! I must bring you a piece of toasted cheese and a trap to-night. My, how they act ! " as the giggle was heard again, and a slight scuffling. " Ain't you afraid, Doctor Gay ? By-the-way, I 94 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK said to-day was my birthday. Do you know at twenty years old I begin to feel ancient already, child as I am?" " I am twenty-five/' said the Doctor pleasantly, " and I don't feel old. But what's the matter, Miss Seraphina? Any one sick at your home ? " " Oh, no ! I wanted you to examine my teeth ; some of them must need attention before this time, surely." ~Now, considering that this same set of teeth had been ex- amined regularly every two weeks by the same physician, the examination was quickly finished, teeth pronounced perfect, and the Doctor stood as though awaiting the egress of his visitor. Still, Seraphina lingered. " How disordered your books are ! " she finally gasped, flush- ing scarlet. " You need some one to arrange them for you." " Yes, I know," returned the wicked doctor ; " but you never can know how it is, Miss Seraphina, I am alone in the world ; none feel enough interest to do it for me, and I do not like to place my books in servants' hands." Seraph advanced to his chair, and said, timidly yet eagerly: " I should love dearly to do it for you, dear Doctor Gay. But, seriously, don't you think you would be happier with a — ■ a — wife ? " " Undoubtedly I should," said the Doctor, putting his hand- kerchief to his mouth ; " but, dear Miss Seraphina, I cannot, dare not, hope. I cannot ask her I love, for she is five years younger than I, and I fear has never thought of me. I dare not risk." Seraphina advanced yet nearer to his chair. " Why not ? " she said, softly. " I am sure that no one could refuse you." " Do you really think there is hope ? " came from the depths of the handkerchief. " O Miss Seraphina, are you sure there is hope for me ? Are you not deceiving me ? " " Look in my eyes, dear Edward," returned the angel, taking his hand in both of hers, " and see if I am deceiving you. Do you see any doubt there? O my morning star — my kindred spirit ! " " ~No, no ! " said the Doctor, with lips nobly striving to be calm ; " you are goodness itself, Seraphina, but then — but then — " EAELY PKOSE WOKKS 95 " But what then, Edward ? It is foolish to be so fearful/' and Seraph pressed her lips to the hand her left one held. " So it is — so it is ! " said the Doctor. " I will be brave. Will you ask her for me, Seraphina ? " Seraph smiled. " You are joking, dear Edward. There is no use in asking her now, is there % Oh ! let these arms enfold you ! I have found you at last, my kindred spirit.' 7 The Doctor evaded the opened arms by grasping one of Seraph's hands and exclaiming with fervor: " How kind you are ! Eirst let me take that rose from your hair and fix your nubia. There, that is right. Miss Seraphina, will you bear my suit to Mary Lee ? " " Mary Lee ! O you perfidious man ; you wretch, you rascal ! Mary Lee ! Mary Lee ! " The screams rose higher and shriller, and Seraphina started for the door; but turning suddenly, she met the mischievous faces of the Doctor's friends, who were peering through the torn baize, and heard the uproarious laughter. " Stop, Miss Seraphina, here's your false hair; it came off when I fixed your nubia ! " cried the Doctor after her. But down the steps flew Seraphina, leaving the false braid in the Doctor's hand, hearing only the shouts of laughter from the Doctor's room. Out into the street — down to her own home — up to her room — slammed the door — and then gave wav to tears and answer. The next morning, a coil of hair was found twined around the bell-knob, and on it this significant couplet, carefully penned : " When maids embrace, they should be sure To have their hair pinned on secure! " Saturday, March 26, 1864. ALMOST SHIPWEECKED Grant Holmes, gay, impulsive, fascinating Grant Holmes, was married : and, what was of more consequence, had married from out of his " set " ; so said Rumor, so said Truth ; and the 96 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK " dear five-hundred " speculated and wondered, until their heads ached, as to the probable happiness or misery of the ill-assorted couple. Not that Clara Holman was unworthy the alliance personally — oh no. Everybody declared Clara " well enough/ 7 but then — but then — ah " there was the rub." Clara was the daughter of a mantua-niaker ; afar in the distance there was a sad, sad story, that Clara's blue eyes had not first opened in a palace, nor her first steps taken on velvet, but tot- tered upon the bare floors of a county-almshouse. Long before she could remember, her mother had become a successful woman, and Clara was reared in elegance — attending the finest schools, and finally emerging from them -a bright refined accomplished lady — to be seen, wooed, and won by Grant Holmes. He mar- ried her, well knowing all of her story, for she was too hon- orable to deceive him in the least; and if his proud blood did boil sometimes at the recollection, he only turned the more proudly and truly to his elegant, idolizing wife. Mrs. Grundy might fret and fume, but what cared he. For two years his wife was, indeed, " his moonlight, star- light, firelight," his " white rose of all the world." Then came a change ; and this is how it came about : — A second cousin of Grant's died, leaving an only child, a daughter, homeless, and made it her dying request that Grant should be guardian over the child, and take her to his home, which he accordingly did. Aline Grant was, generally, not even pretty, but she was petite, and had dark, flashing eyes, and glossy brown curls. She was, I said, generally not even pretty, but there were moments when she was more than pretty, when her whole face was alive with feeling, and her eyes gleamed passionately through the bright falling curls, and her full, clear tones rang out in liquid melody. Aline was a fine singer, and a good con- versationalist, and a sad flirt. She had been with Grant Holmes not quite a month, when a circumstance occurred which made her forever a bitter enemy to Clara. She had been out walking with Clara, and just as they were going into the front door, on their return, Aline heard a boy, standing near, say to another : " The tall one's the poor-house bird, but 'tother looks more like it." Here, then, was rivalry, between the well-born Aline Grant EARLY PEOSE WOEKS 97 and the " poor-house bird," Clara Holman, and Aline's eyes flashed at the degradation. She had not forgiven Clara for her impudence in accepting her cousin, nor for her haughty manners, and she never could. As far as she loved any one she loved Grant Holmes; and now her resolution was formed. " Are you tired to-night, Grantie ? " asked Aline, one evening when he was sitting unusually wearied in the gathering twilight, and she drew a low stool to his feet, and sat down there — her usual seat now — leaning her head upon his knees. " No, Lena," he answered, letting his hand fall caressingly upon her curls, and linger there, " I am not too tired to talk to you." " Aren't you, Cozzie. I am so glad. Did I tell you that we were down to the Infirmary to-day, and saw the woman who has been there nearly thirty years. She talked a great deal about those who were born there, and gave us quite an interesting ac- count of their changes of circumstances during that time. What ails you, cousin ? you shudder." " Nothing ails me, Lena ; I was slightly chilly, that is all ; go on." " Oh, I've no more to say ; but, Grantie, think of being an in- mate of that place! Oh, it is dreadful! I don't wonder the person has to bear the stigma through life. Surely no refined man could love a person born in such place ! " Grant Holmes was fearfully proud, and this seed of dis- content in his fortune, and contempt for his wife, was skillfully sown, and before he was aware that it had dropped, it was " bringing forth fruit." Months passed on, and Clara had grown accustomed to being left alone ; Aline and her husband rode, walked, and chatted to- gether all the time which could be spared from business. Of course, Clara was invited to join, but the invitation was so plainly complimentary that she invariably refused. She was not suspicious, but proud and sensitive, nor was she deceitful. There was something about Aline that she disliked excessively ; and though she was kind and ladylike always, she never caressed her or called her by the thousand diminutives which her hus- band so lavishly bestowed. They lived in an enduring com- panionship, and that was all. Now, Aline never left her room 98 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK when Grant was absent, and Clara was almost always alone. A great distance had come between those who so loved each other — a clond which threatened to separate them completely. One evening, Clara was going to the library, but she paused at the door, shuddered, and turned away. They were sitting upon a tete-a-tete, Grant and Aline, and Aline' s brown curls were on his shoulder. Clara saw him bend hastily and kiss her, and the words, " Why, little one, birdie, daisy, you jealous lit- tle darling, you know I love you/' smote her heart like lead. " What was that % " asked Aline, starting guiltily at the rustle of Clara's dress. " Nothing, darling," was the answer, " only the breeze lifting the curtains." Aline nestled closer to him. " I am safe where you are," she said simply; and then added with an arch look, " You don't love your little Aline." The eyes, half playful, half earnest, looking up in his face, were perfectly irresistible. Grant stooped suddenly toward her ; folded his arms closer about her, and whispered hoarsely, " Love you, no ! I idolize you — more than life — more than Heaven, my idol, my idol ! " Her heavy lashes fell to her crimsoning cheeks, and she lay passively in his arms, until he said fiercely: " Aline Grant, will you fly with me ? Will you ? Will you go to-night — in an hour from now ? You must, you shall." And Aline said softly : " If you wish it, Grantie, I will." And the compact was sealed by sinful words and kisses. In sinning thus, Grant Holmes was not to blame, perhaps, so much for being false to his wife as for allowing a deep, passionate nature to hurry him on to sin. He was so entirely a creature of impulse that he never stopped to think of the ter- rible consequences that might accrue from this action. He had but one thought, one desire, and that was — Aline. At heart, Clara was still his love ; but she had grown cold and reserved ; and it was not to be wondered at that Grant should love the passionate little Lena, at least, for a time, so that he should yield to this impulse of the moment. They parted, each to make the necessary preparations for EAKLY PROSE WOEKS 99 their sinful flight. Grant ran upstairs to his room, gave orders for the carriage to wait at a neighboring corner at midnight, packed his most-needed effects, and sat down to read, taking the hrst book that presented itself. It chanced to be a volume of Longfellow's poems, which his wife had given him, and on the fly-leaf was written: " Darling, your life is a poem more perfect than this, because God is the author — * a beautiful, perfect poem. Oh, see that you read it well." Grant dropped the book and fell into a dream of the past — of how he had loved Clara, and how she had cared for him — " but," he said, impatiently, " now it was different; Clara had no love for him; she was careless of him." Was she so? He glanced about the room. It was cheerful and bright. His dressing-gown and slippers were arranged for him; fresh flow- ers were under his picture ; and — ah ! he remembered now, it was his birthnight — on the stand by his side was a richly embroidered smoking-cap and a volume of poems, his wife's gift. Grant's eyes softened, filled, and he took the cap, rever- ently kissed it, and replaced it. Then he rose and went to his wife's room. He must see Clara once more before he went, and she would probably be asleep; there was little risk to run. He paused at the door. It was partly open; and in the faint star-light he could see a figure in white, and the faint, broken tones of a prayer reached his ears : " Father in Heaven, guide and guard him ; keep him from evil, O God, and I beseech Thee to ' hold him in the hollow of Thy hand.' It is I who have sinned in worshiping him. Pun- ish me, O God, but be merciful unto us." Silently, Grant glided in, knelt by that silent figure, put his arm about it, and said in his deep tones : " God, be merciful unto us, and bless us." For a few moments they knelt in silence after Grant's voice had broken the stillness ; and then, rising gently, Clara twined her arms about her husband, and said, placing her cheek against his in her touching, childlike way: " Thank God, for He has restored you to me." " Yes, darling," was the answer, " and thank you, his angel, who has led me from darkness into light. I will return to you in a moment, my wife." 100 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK Leaving a quiet, happy smile on Clara's lips, Grant went to the library, where, as he had promised, he found Aline awaiting him. She sprang forward at his entrance and clasped his arm, but he undid the clinging arms, and said gravely : " Aline, I have seen the glory of Heaven as Saul saw it, and I will not leave the Angel who will guide me. We must give this up. I do not love you as I do my wife, and this sin must be given up. God help us, Aline, you and me, in our great sin and trial." " And you are afraid, then/' hissed Aline, through clenched teeth. " That moon-faced girl upstairs has been chiding and scolding you, has she ? I am proud of you to be governed by a pauper — I am, indeed." The cutting irony of these words cut Grant to the quick ; and Aline's eyes flashed triumphantly, for he at once offered his arm, saying gravely: " The carriage is at the door; come, Aline." Quietly they threaded the broad halls and emerged from the door into the clear, calm night-air. A few steps brought them to the carriage. Aline's baggage was already there, and the driver was in his place. Grant opened the door, then paused, saying slowly: " Aline, will you not return ? This is very, very wrong. It is not too late yet. Come back, Aline." She laughed a short, scornful laugh, and said: " Coward ! I thought you brave enough ; do as you wish. Come, I could despise you if I did not love you ; but I do. Oh, Grant, I do love you." There was real feeling in the words ; and Grant grew a trifle paler as he unclasped the fingers which wound about his own so persistently ; and only God and the angels knew what it cost him to say : " Then, Aline, good-bye and God bless you. Jim will take you to a friend's house, where you will remain until I can make further provision for you." " What do you mean, Grant % Are you not going ? " " No, Aline, I am not. lly good angel has saved me ; but you must go, and may your good angel save you. Once more, good-by." EARLY PEOSE WOKKS 101 The carriage drove away, despite Aline's shrill " I won't go ! I'll never be duped in this way ! I'll kill you all ! " And Grant returned quietly to his wife, listened fondly to her lov- ing words, and returned her loving kisses, until she fell asleep with a smile of happiness wreathing her lips. " I wonder where Aline is," said Clara the next morning at breakfast. " She has gone to Mr. Bight's," said Grant coolly slicing his potato. " She took a notion to go after you retired, and so I called the carriage for her. I did not think it necessary to wake you before she left." " Certainly not ; but Grant, dear, I dread her return. There is such a cloud between us when she is here." Grant left his place, went behind Clara, and lifting her face up to him, said : " Clara, darling, Aline will not return here to live, and there shall never come another cloud between us if I can help it ; so help me God ! " And it was almost solemnly that his lips met hers after the earnest words. Years passed on, and Grant Holmes never faltered in his devotion to his wife ; and she had no need of pride and reserve ; for she was all his world to him. One day a note was brought to him. It was a formal an- nouncement of Aline's marriage to a banker of the city, and a card to himself bearing the words : " Aline Grant was yours — Aline Lincoln is your enemy." This latter Grant concealed, and a few months after came the tidings of Aline's death. She was drowned on her wedding- tour, and they said her last despairing cry was : " Grant ! Grant ! I wish you'd forgive me ! I wish you'd forgive me ! " Clara Holman never knew that her husband was almost ship- wrecked ; but that he had been turned from the fierce Scylla by the Pilot Prayer, and from the " sinfulness of sin " to the pure- ness of purity by her own dear, woman's voice. For the New York Mercury, December 24, 1864. 102 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK TAKEN PRISONER I, Clarabell Harding, sat down and cried; I, who did not remember having shed a tear since I had screamed for the moon, and papa had refused it, for the simple anjd only reason that neither love nor money could buy it, now was crying, scream- ing, stamping, because of the result of my own waywardness of temper. It was the old oft-repeated story ; Charlie Kambell and I had quarrelled, and he, in common with all the lovers of the present day, had enlisted out of pure revenge, and the news had just reached me an hour after the regiment had left the city. Of course, I was frantic. How could I help being, when every little brown curl on his handsome head was dearer than all the world to me? And yet, what was to be done? I knew that he would not desert ; and even supposing such a thing possible, if he should, he'd get shot for it. I couldn't prove him under age, for his tall, manly frame and dark mustache laughed at such an idea ; nor could I hope that he would be discharged for disability, for a stronger, healthier, handsomer specimen of manhood had never gone " off to the wars." What then ? It was a plain case of the non-curable ; and yet I was determined in some way or another to cure it. All that long, weary night I sat alone, listening to the soft patter of the rain upon the window-panes, and thinking, planning, rejecting plans, until just as the gray morning broke, a rift in the dark clouds, my heart grew lighter with the certainty that I had a plan at least worthy of the trial. I knew that Charlie's regiment was ordered to Fort , and near that place I had an aunt living — a plain, honest woman, loving me dearly for my mother's sake — and whom I could trust in time of need. Accordingly, having pro- cured of all the " needfuls " for a visit, I closed up house, kissed papa an affectionate good-by, and started for a visit to Aunt Jane, papa declaring " that the child was getting rather pale, and a change of air would do her good." In due time I found myself comfortably domiciled in Aunt Jane's pleasant old homestead, and in a fair way to be spoiled by the immense amount of petting which I received from auntie and her two sons, Sam and George. Uncle Reuben I have not EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 103 mentioned because no one else ever did. He was of so little consequence in the family, that I was barely conscious of his existence. Aunt Jane was the head of the family, and Uncle Eeuben had been the nurse of the small children; but since they had grown to years of maturity, he was very useful in feeding auntie's poultry. " Good at that," she asserted ; " at least better than anything else." As regarded politics, the whole family were, to use an expression more forcible than elegant, " on the fence " ; though I really think that at heart Aunt Jane was a " secesh." The boys had just returned from a Northern College, and very wisely kept a respectful distance from Jeff's auxiliaries. Upon these boys depended all my hopes of success, and, being a great favorite, I did not doubt their willingness to aid me. One day, a few weeks after I arrived at Aunt Jane's, I astonished that good lady by appear- ing before her shorn of my curls. " My goodness, Clarabell ! What's up now ? " she exclaimed. " Where's your hair, child ? " " I cut it off, auntie. " All those beautiful curls your papa was so proud of! I declare it's shameful! " " No, it isn't, auntie. Let me part them to one side — there ! Isn't that pretty ? " Aunt Jane's face softened a little. " Pretty, yes you are pretty ! You make me think of your dear mother when she was your age, with them little rings clustering over your head." I sat down at Aunt Jane's feet and put my head in her lap, then said, as I felt her hand caressing my forehead : " You loved my mother, auntie. Don't you love me ? " " Love you, yes ; as though you were my own daughter. Why, Bell, I love you every bit as much as I do Sam and George." " Then, auntie, you don't want me to be miserable, do you ? " " Who's going to make you miserable ? Has Sam, or George, or Uncle Eeub dared — " " No, none of them, auntie," I said, gently pushing her back to her seat from which she had started in her vehemence ; " sit still, and I'll tell you in a few words: I am engaged." " Humph! " ejaculated Aunt Jane, in a dubious tone. I went on, however : " Engaged to Charlie Kambell, or was, but we had a quarrel the other night, and he had to go and enlist out of sheer ugliness, and leave the city without seeing me. Now, 104 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK auntie, Charlie has an old mother who needs him at home. If it hadn't been for her, he would have gone long ago; besides, it is just killing me to have him in danger every minute, and I must get him home again." " But, my dear, foolish child, there's no way of doing it, that I can see; and I can't see what all this had to do with your cut- ting off all them curls I like so much." " Then, I'll tell you auntie ; there's one way of getting him home, but it is dangerous, and I shall need you, and Sam, and George, to help me." " What's the plan, Bell ? " " Auntie, we must take him prisoner, parole him, and send him home ; and I have cut off my curls because I intend to be a Confederate officer, at your service." Auntie began to look mournful. " Poor child ! has trouble turned your brain ? " How I laughed ; then I stopped and said : " Not a bit of it, auntie. Just listen to my plan, and you will see. I know Charlie well enough to know he'll struggle. He and a comrade or two will go into the neighborhood in search of luxuries which Uncle Sam don't provide. Now, auntie, we are to put on Con- federate uniforms (I've a beautiful officer's suit in my trunk), and during one of these excursions, we can easily capture them." Auntie actually whistled, then she called the boys in, and they declared it was " nonsense," " foolhardiness," etc. ; but, finally, both Aunt Jane and the boys were won over to be willing coad- jutors in my plot, " solely," they said, " because if I was deter- mined to get killed, they wished to see it." George was sent out as a spy, and Sam was directed to procure suitable uniforms for himself, Aunt Jane, and George. The uniforms were got- ten, and week after week slipped by before George could learn anything of Charlie. Finally, however he brought in the cheer- ing intelligence that he had overheard one soldier tell another that he and Kambell were going to have a roast-goose or two for dinner the next day, from Granny Kentwin's place, unless they were all " gobbled up by that time." " So," con- cluded George, " Miss Harebrains, we'll don our i secesh ' clothes, and see if we can't ' gobble up ' a goose or two and send EAELY PKOSE WOKKS 105 one man out of this inhuman slaughter, if we do no more good." Of course, I had too much tact to quarrel with George re- garding his sentiments in regard to the war-question at that time. On the contrary, I kissed him, called him a dear good cousin, and flew off to see if my uniform was complete. The next day — it was Sunday — rose clear and bright. The birds were all a-twitter on every branch; the bees kept up their continual hum of contentment among the flowers; and the pine-crowned mountains bathed their brows in all the glory of the spring-sunshine. It was a Sabbath kept by Nature. The very air seemed redolent of incense offered at the shrine of the Creator. It was with a light heart that I donned my uniform, parted my hair a la officer, stained my face to a healthy brown, darkened my brows by aid of burnt cork, and finally adjusted a dark mustache over my lips. " I'm afraid those girlish feet will betray you, General," laughed Sam; but when I cased them in boots I had no fear of betrayal, so completely was I metamorphosed. Aunt Jane, with her grizzled gray hair, made the roughest old Rebel I ever saw. She was tall and sinewy, and just suited for the character she assumed. Our arms were attended to carefully, lest there should be need of them. It was our intention to surprise and capture, if possible, be- fore our prisoners-expectant could have time to use their arms, for there was no probability of their venturing out unarmed in a country overrun by Rebels ; but if that failed, then we were to have recourse to arms, being careful to insure flesh-wounds only. Our horses were mounted and we started in great glee ; fol- lowed an unfrequented road for a mile or so, and then George led us off into a gorge completely filled by a growth of shrubs. Here we dismounted, hid our horses in the thicket, and pro- ceeded to Mrs. Kentwin's house. The old lady was alone, and being a staunch Rebel, joyfully admitted us, at the same time commiserating us upon our mis- erable garments (Sam had been compelled to get old suits), and offering us her choicest provisions. 106 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK We did not refuse, lest it should awaken her suspicions, and she began preparing dinner for us. Suddenly we heard steps distinctly upon the gravel walk. " It's the soldiers," she whispered, quickly and quietly push- ing me into the other room ; " go in there, all of you ; quiet now, and you can nab a couple of the rogues." She left the door a little ajar, and returned to her work as a tattoo of thundering raps was beaten upon the door. " Who is it ? " questioned the old lady. " Friends ! " was the answer ; " and some confounded hungry ones, too. Come, mother, we won't hurt you if you let us in and give us some dinner." Every word was accompanied by a fierce shake at the door, which bade fair to break it from its hinges. To prevent this, Mother Kentwin opened it, and we heard two pairs of feet stamping upon the floor. " That's right, mother," said the same voice. " Getting din- ner, eh ? Glad to see it. Ain't you hungry, Kambell ? " " Yes," was the answer, in the well-remembered voice which had often made my heart leap; " I can do full justice to Moth- er's goose, I can assure you." " Come, then ; hurry up, old woman," said the first voice ; and, applying my eye to the crevice of the door, I saw that Charlie and his comrade had seated themselves upon a bench directly opposite the door at which I stood, and had placed their guns in a corner near by. E"o chance there for a surprise but by a sudden rush, and that might endanger one or more lives. Granny Kentwin seemed to comprehend the dilemma in which we were placed for she put the table in the center of the floor, spread it, and placed chairs for them with their backs to the door at which we stood. The soldiers seated themselves, and I could have touched Charlie's brown curls by reaching out my hand, so near were we to them. Poor fellows! They were evidently hungry. How they did enjoy that meal; how they laughed and sang, and joked, and told rich stories, until, in the midst of their hilarity, Sam drew me gently back ! He and George took the lead, and Auntie and I brought up the rear. EARLY PKOSE WOKKS 107 George sprang behind Charlie's comrade, and had no diffi- culty in pinioning and securing his man; but Charlie heard the step, sprang to his feet, — upsetting the table — and fought so desperately that, had it not been for Auntie's strong sinewy arms assisting him, Sam must have been vanquished and my scheme a failure. As it was, however, Charlie was secured, deprived of his weapons, and placed on the bench beside his comrade. " Do you surrender ? " I inquired, bending my eyes sternly upon them. " You'd better have asked that before, you thief in the night," roared Charlie's choleric friend. " Ask a pair of bound men if they surrender, you murderous old owl, you." " Silence there," I commanded sternly. " You know what we do with Old Abe's minions when we want to put them out of the way," and I glanced menacingly at the branches of a nearby tree, " but you seem like good, well-meaning fellows, and I'll give you one chance for your lives. I can only hope that you'll be wise enough to accept it." " Name it," said Charlie — who had not spoken since his capture — in a low earnest tone. " You are both Union soldiers ? " "Yes," said Charlie. " From what state ? " " Regiment, Pennsylvania Volunteers." " Who are you ? " shouted Charlie's comrade to me. " An officer in the Confederate service, as you see," I returned loftily ; " and willing to do you a good turn, if you will only do me one." " What is our chance for life ? " asked Charlie, steadily, glanc- ing at his comrade. " This. We are sadly in want of information ; if you will im- part all that you can, Ave will give you freedom ; if you refuse, death." There was a moment of silence. Charlie started, and paled slightly. His companion did not show the least evidence of having heard. " Do you hear and accept ? " Then his comrade burst out like steam from an overcharged boiler, interspersing oaths very generously: 108 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK " Look here, you becurled, be-perfumed puppy of a chiv- alry — " Here George made a step forward to restrain him, but I com- manded him back and he went on : " I'm a rough Yankee, never owned a darned nigger in my life, and I reckon, savin' the fact, that I've been as bad as most men ; but I never was so confounded sneakin' as to lie to my mother, or peach on the old flag. If you want this old carcass you can jest take it, fur I'll never save it on them terms." " Nor I," answered Charlie, firmly ; " are there no other terms ? " " None." " Then Jim," turning to his fellow-prisoner, " we shall have to say good-by. If ever by any chance you get home, tell mother that I died true, and I'll say the same for you if I am spared." " General," suggested Sam, respectfully touching his cap to me, " these seem like honest fellows ; it's likely they'd keep an oath if 'twas to save their lives, and we've got that other job on hand to-night. Hang it, I don't like to string up two unarmed men. I can fight them in a hand-to-hand battle, but I don't like this work. Let's parole them ? " " What do you say, comrades ? " I asked, turning to George and Aunt. " String them up, root and branch," said the latter, in a voice so gruff that it came near upsetting my assumed gravity. " There will be plenty there to knock the Confederacy into a cocked hat ! " " That's a fact," emphasized Charlie's friend again. " For once you told the truth ; and for every drop of blood you spill, they'll take a thousand murdering traitors, that you are." " Hush ! " said Charlie, in a low tone ; " be quiet Jim, you sign your own death- warrant by that kind of talk." "Well, I can't help it," but he added in a softer tone: " Looky here you old (I mean Mister) Secesh, this chap here has an old mother to home and no one but him to support her ; and I've a sweetheart that I don't 'zactly like to leave on such short notice, so that if you'll give us our parole we'll take it and keep it ; or if you'll let one off if 'tother dies, why take me, EARLY PKOSE WOEKS 109 coz my girl can find some one else to take care of her, but his mother will never find another son." Charlie turned a grateful glance toward the noble-hearted fel- low, but said firmly: " I will not allow that." " Come, General, time goes ; let's parole them," suggested George, and I yielded. Judge of my surprise when Charlie refused to take the oath ; but on being assured that it was that or death ; at the solicitations of Jim, he yielded. The parole was made out (Sam had secured blanks from a Confederate officer whom I suspect was a friend of Aunt Jane's), a solemn oath was administered, both were deprived of their arms, released, and advised to go home. They thanked us for our leniency, Jim remarking by way of compliment: " That the Rebs were a sight better'n he thought ; but he couldn't make out what the deuce they wanted to split the Union for." After we thanked Mother K., who was highly indignant be- cause we had not hung them, we waited until our prisoners were out of sight, then found our horses and started for home. When once under shelter of Aunt Jane's friendly roof, how we laughed and shouted, and how happy I was! The following day, I went home and dispatched a letter to Charlie from there, begging him to return. He returned a joyful answer, saying that he had been released on parole and could come home. He did, the dear fellow, and is here yet. Charlie does not know to this day how he was taken prisoner, and I dare not tell him, lest his fine sense of honor would force him to return to the Army. So it is my own little pet secret ; and if he ever goes back to the war again, I'll don the Secesh garments and, aided by Aunt Jane, George, and Sam, again take him prisoner. Saturday, Jan. 14, 1865. For the New York Mercury. 110 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK WHAT'S IN A VOICE " He expressed a wish that he had a daughter to bestow upon my bachelorship. ' Thank you, Sir, I heartily wish you had,' I replied." The passage was nothing, but as the book fell from my hand, I let it lie, and sank into deep thought ; and this was the form my thoughts assumed: Don't they all wish so, every bachelor of them ? Did ever a man live who did not in his soul find that wish nestling warm and snug, like