•4"^ -7=: 'jf<^ :-M .i-^-'. €b« Kismet poems by frank )VI» frissellc ^ Being a collection of the wracs written for the jVIancbester Daily Union in the summer and winter of 1897 and the spring of ij ^H JMancbestcr, f^^. B. prtfltcd by the lobn B. CUrhe Co. 1898 f'3-bS' K^. ^''S'^^ 16287 COPYRIGHT, July, 1898 TM/Q COPIES R£CtlV£0. 18S»3. Co My fcUow-worhcrs of the dnioti, who toil in the midnight hours, and who keep the weary vigils while humanity sleeps, are these verses dedicated, trusting that my comrades will be as hindly in their criticism as they arc ever courteous in all that tends to mahe life worth living. Note to the Reader* With exceeding hesitation, the writer of the verses contained in this volume essays to place them in the hands of his friends in published form. They were originally written for the Manchester (N. H.) "Union," and in obedience to requests from a few admirers they are pre- sented in the shape here seen. The verses were prepared, in almost everj^ instance, in the still, small hours of the night, after the wide-awake printer had received his last supply of news manuscript for the morning edition of a large daily paper. In no sense does the author lay claim to any poetical talent, nor does he for one moment expect that his modest verses will dis- place any of the writings of the poets who have come and gone. The following verses were written for amusement and recreation, and not with the intention of clinging closely to the rules laid down by the critics. If these lines afford pleasing thoughts for those who peruse them, the mission of "Kismet" will perhaps not have been in vain. F. M. F. Manchester, N. H., June 30, 1898. Contents. I. Songs of the Heart 17 II. Songs of the Soul 71 III. Songs of the Home 105 IV. Songs for the Children 113 V. Stories in Song 137 VI. Songs of the Seasons 153 VII. Songs of War 183 VIII. Songs of the Campaign 197 IX. Miscellaneous Poems 211 X. Lines TO Kismet 291 Table of Contents. Songs of the Heart. Another Man 27 Blame Her Not 61 Blanchette 68 Blue-Black Idyll, A 42 Blue-Eyed Boy, The 69 Bunch of Violets, The 46 Calla 22 Chestnut Curl, The 23 Don't You Remember 45 Down the Lane 33 Dried Grasses 20 Geraldine 56 Honeysuckle Land, The 19 Love's Bouquet 49 Love's Changes 34 Mabelle 43 Maid Across the Sea, The 54 Maiden's Prayer, The 28 Message, The 30 Miss Velvet 25 My Garden 40 :\Iy Valentine 51 Old Letters 24 On the Beach 58 One I Love, The 53 Paradise 38 Pedler Man, The 41 Rejected 32 Reminder, A 35 Rosalind 48 TABLE OF CONTENTS. Rose, The 50 Rosie 29 Silver Stream, The 37 Solamanchus 63 Song of June, A 64 Sweet Sadie 26 Taffy Hair 36 Tarn o' Shanter Girl, The 66 Tea Rose, The 57 To a Kerchief 59 To the Bachelor 52 To the Unsatisfied 47 Trinkets 65 'Twas Always Thus 39 'Twas Yours, Bernice 60 Velvet Hand, The 44 Violets 21 Songs of the Soul. And More's the Pity 94 Bells, The...., 88 Bend Ye Low 102 Between the Lines 82 Charity 78 Consolation 100 Epitaph, An 87 Faith 75 Forlorn Virtue, A 92 Hope 77 Leaf, The 102 Liebestraume 86 Life's Springtime 97 Love Him a Little 103 Midnight 96 Old Daguerreotype, An 84 Old Days, The 93 Reveries of the Past 73 10 TABLE OF CONTENTS. Sister Casimir 98 Smiles Count 76 Some of the Good Things 80 Song of To-day, A 101 Songs 91 Sunshine Morning, A 104 Sweetest Day, The 99 To the Future 81 Troubles of Our Own 90 Songs op the Home. Husking, The Ill Julie's Songs 108 Katie 107 Little Old Home, The 109 Songs for the Children. Arbella 119 Authentic Version, The 117 Before and After 135 Dreamland 126 Golden-Headed Bug, The 132 .Johnny's Noah's Ark 121 Little Green Apple 133 Little Johnnie 128 Little Petey 120 Lullaby Song, A 129 Marguerite 116 Rainbow Land, The 115 Saucy Flake, The 124 Sawdust Doll, The 118 Signer Lum Bago 131 Vain Caterpillar, The 134 What the Pansy Said 125 Whistling Boy, The 130 11 TABLE OF CONTENTS. Stories in Song. Educated Blacksmith, The 149 Glory of the West, The 148 Loon Island's Priest 142 Rock Rimmon, Ballad of 139 Shipwreck, The 145 Songs of the Seasons. Arbutus, The 181 Autumn Time 165 Beneath the Ice 166 Brown and Gold 159 Bugs Are Here, The 178 Bumblebee, The 167 Buzzing Bug, The 173 Christmas Bells, The 156 Dame of Ninety-Eight, The 176 Forebodings 157 He's Coming 163 If This Be June 178 January 1 171 Jasmine, The 155 Jovial Junkman, The 169 July's Here 180 June Bug Resteth, The 174 New Year's Thoughts 162 Robin Fiend, The 168 Sadder Days 161 Signs of Fall 160 Sing, Juauito 179 Spring Is Here 177 Strawberries 179 Summer's Coming 158 Summer Day, The 174 Sun Beats Down, The 180 Tea in the Jug, The 172 12 TABLE OF CONTENTS. Tepid Day, The 175 Thanksgiving Time 170 They Are Coming 181 Whistling AVinds, The 164 Songs of War, Buena Ventura, The 190 Farmer on Deck, The 192 Havana Bay 191 Maine Disaster, The 186 Old Glory 185 Soldier's Sweetheart, The 194 Subdued Patriot, The 187 Volunteer, The 195 What Would He Say 188 Windy Chap, The 193 Songs op the Campaign. Candidates, The 210 He Has the Floor 205 Hoodoo in the Air, A 206 Metamorphosis 199 Oh, Why Is It 201 Seasonable Hints 203 Timely Valentines 208 What the Robin Said 200 Miscellaneous Poems. Acrobatic Corner, The 221 Amoskeag 217 Awakenings 224 Birthdays 266 Boom the Celebration 268 By the Mountain Side 234 Calm Down, My Honey 280 13 TABLE OF CONTENTS. Chaperone, The 251 City Comforts 238 Declined with Thanks 214 De Coon Gal's Wink 237 Divided by Two 267 Easter Chick, The 231 Elastic Fish, The 232 Flower Girl, The 244 Friend Who Sticks, The 279 Friend's Advice, A 245 Fussy Old Maid, The 223 Gallant Capt'in 278 Gas Meter, The 236 Giddy Scorcher, The 230 Granite State, The 213 Grind of the Mills 235 He Loved Her 243 Land Beyond the Sky 219 Life 285 Lochinvar up to Date 290 Mary Jane's Advice 258 Mercenary 277 Minister's Wife, The 253 Model, The 242 Narcissus, The 272 New Woman, The 260 No Parting There 215 Only a Hair 263 Pattering Rain, The 264 Pine Needles 220 Plain Dog 261 Proof Reader, The 254 Rabbit's Foot, The 246 Sentimental Bill 228 Something Wrong 271 Soon 283 Spark Is There, The 259 Sun Glints 216 14 TABLE OF CONTENTS. Sure Thing, A 257 Sweetly Graduated, The 282 Telephone Girl, The 252 Then and Now 273 There Are Others 239 Those Babies 250 To a Young Man 286 To My Paperweight 274 To My Pencil 222 To My Pipe 270 To Robert 275 Trouble's Recipe 227 Trusted, Busted 218 Tumble Away, Red Clouds 247 Twinkling Star, The 284 Two Snowflakes 226 Veteran Fireman, The 240 Week of Salt, A 276 What's the Use 248 Why Do They 281 Your Silver Wedding 255 Lines to Kismet. Envious Heart, The 301 Firstly (S. F. Claflin) 296 Kismet to Tancred 294 Tancred to Kismet 293 To Kismet (Anon.) 300 To Kismet (H. M. G. Colby) 299 15 SONGS OF THE HEART. THE HONEYSUCKLE LAND. The Honeysuckle Land. From the land of the dear honej^suckle Came the scent of the new-mown hay, Eeealling the scenes of the far long-ago, When life was but pleasure and play. For the time that we passed in the meadows. As the tree toad was singing his lay, Were the days when no flavor of trouble Filled the hearts of our j'outh with dismay. From the land of the dear honej^suckle Comes the whisper of promises made, When you and I knelt in the shadow, In the summer where soft breezes played. Do you think that I cease to remember How often it was that we prayed That nothing might e'er come between us To give us the cause to upbraid? From the land of the dear honeysuckle Come the echoes of sweetest refrain, The sigh of the breeze and the tree toad's lay Breathe the song that will ever remain. And the long-ago seems not so far after all. If your troubles you cease to retain, And think of the times of the old summer days. When we knew not the sorrow and pain. 19 SONGS OF THE HEAET, Dried Grasses. On the corner of a mantel, With the blades a-lowly bending-, Are the dried and withered grasses With their memories unending. Although the dust has settled O'er the brown and yellow plume, This bunch of withered grasses Brings a shadow from the tomb. How dear the recollection Of the frag'rant summer-tide, As I. sauntered through the meadow With Perdita by my side. We talked of all the pretty things That lovers' tongues coiild utter, Her eyes were like the beaming stars. My heart was in a flutter. We pushed aside the buttercui:)s And revelled in the clover. Picked our way through daisy beds, And told our stories over. We plucked the lowly grasses That bent beside the stream. And put them on the mantel. So graceful did they seem. 20 VIOLETS, And now Perdita's left me. No more I'll see the smile That lighted np a dreary life Or did a heart beguile. 'Twas hard to find a sweeter face Among the country lasses. Perdita's soul has flown away, And I — I have the grasses. Violets, The tale is told, perhaps 'tis true, That once an ang-el wept. And all the teardrops earthward flew While men and w^omen slept. And then the story plainly tells What fate the teardrops met, For in the shady woodland dells We found the violet. And ever since, when lovers tried To prove that they were true. They'd send a token, silken-tied, A bunch of flowers blue. Sweetly, and with drooping- head, That sparkled with the dew, This is what the violet said: "My love is all for you!" 21 SONGS OF THE HEART. Calla. Oh, Calla, you're a corker, yes — A lily of the dale; Although you've crossed the Eubicon, Your charms can never fail. The years have taught you many things That lend you winning* grace; Oh, Calla, you can fascinate, No matter where the place. Oh, Calla, in your winding train. You've numbered many beaux, The long and short, and fat and lean, Have told you of their Avoes, But, Calla, they have disappeared. Like mist before the sun. No doubt they still remember you. When thoughts the sweetest run. Oh, Calla, it is often said. That when the fragrant rose Has spread its velvet petals wide, Its greatest beauty shows. And, Calla, this is true of you. In senses more than one. That you are still the shining light. More glowing than the sun. THE CHESTNUT CURL. And what care we, oh, Calla, fair, That others saw in you The virtues that appeal to us Like morn's ref resiling* dew; For, Calla, it is plain to us They showed a judgment keen, In that they bowed the knee to one With graces of a queen. Oh, Calla, years may still mount on, And grind their weary way; We still will bless the moment that We fell beneath your sway; For, Calla, if you listen well, You'll hear our soft refrain, We sing" to you our fond regard For charms that still remain. The Chestnut CurL The chestnut curl of the summer girl Droops gently in the breeze. She sweetly sings of the joy it brings As she strolls by the foamy seas. Some daring boy will fondly toy With the curl of the brown-eyed maid. And hearts may ache, and maybe break, When the sad good-bj'es are said. SONGS OF THE HEART. Old Letters. She promised many, many times, In words of warm affection, Slie'd marrj^ all the spooney ehax)s Who wrote in her direction, The3^ called her "Queen" and "Lilj^" too, And wasted quarts of ink, She swore she'd be as true to them As any one could thinlv. She kej)t their letters twenty years, In biindles nicely tied, They came from almost every town — From places far and wide. x\nd when an idle hour came on, She'd read these letters o'er, And smiled to think she led them on To sai)py stuff outpour. And really, now, she only cared (Since she had met her fate) To save the brown and j^ellow stamps Which j)aid the i)ostal freight. For after all she ^iledged her hand To one whose loving fist Had not inscribed a single line Of all this tender grist. 24 MISS VELVET. The essence of the scorching- words And vows of lasting- love Went up in smoke one cleaning- day To cloudless realms above. For opening- up the furnace door, She dumped the letters in, And not a salty tear was shed For those who didn't win. Miss Velvet* The lig-ht g-leams dance across the path And webs of spiders g-listen; Softlj^ sig-hs the summer wind, The crickets stop to listen. Throug-h the meadows, g'olden-kissed. With buttercups ag'low. Miss Velvet g-lides with all the grace A queen could ever show. She plucks the dainty marg'uerite, And breathes the sweet refrain, "He loves me" and "he loves me not" — The birds take up the strain. Back and forth the petals fly, On breezes perfume-scented, "He loves me" is the message dear — Miss Velvet is contented. SONGS OF THE HEAET. Sweet Sadie. Oh, well do I remember her, Sweet Sadie o'er the way! Her gentle style and winning- smile Were x^resent all the day. And now I've reached the ^vhitened age, When no one cares for me, And all that I take pleasure in — Is Sadie's memory. And how I used to worship her. Sweet Sadie o'er the way! My burning' heart would swiftly start At all she chose to say. And roses that she liked to wear, Thoug-h withered they may t)e, Are sacred treasures — fragrant, too. Of Sadie's memorj^ The sun was in her honey eyes. Sweet Sadie o'er the way! My soul's forlorn, that she has g'one, And I am old and grey. No lilies in the valley grow. No vines around the tree. That fresher in their greenness seem Than Sadie's memory. 26 ANOTHER MAN. Most i^leasant would the trial be, Sweet Sadie o'er the way! CoiTldst thou replace the dainty face That held me in its sway. I'll not forget that age has taught To hold tenaciously The thoug-hts of her that now are but ]\Iy Sadie's memory. I The strain comes faintly down to me — Sweet Sadie o'er the way! The song- of love from far above — That voice of youthful day. I listen, dear, with bounding- soul. As thou art calling* me; And, waiting", I shall oft revere My Sadie's memory. Another Man. A lover's dream — Letters, a ream — A fine engag-ement ring. Murmuring's low: "I love you so!" In happiness they sing. The morning tide By the ocean side Tells quite another story. Another man Has just began To set his cap for Rosie. SONGS OF THE HEART. The Maiden's Prayer. Whisper, little maid, With sun-kissed hair. Do you love me as I love you? Speak, little maid, And have a care. Are you just as good and true? Flutter, the roses. Kissed by the bees. But the rose retains its red. Tossing', the lily, Swayed by the breeze. Yet poised is the lily's head. And so, little maid, When kissed by me. Will your heart be as sweet and true As when, gentle maid. Your heart was free. And lover ne'er came to woo? Dear, like the rose, Are you, little maid, Fairest are your peach-down cheeks^ You're like the lily. Growing- in the g-lade. You're just what the fond heart seeks. 28 ROSIE. The sky shows clear O'er you, little maid. You're sweet as the scented flower, INIay the days be bright, Your soul not afraid. And love fill your sunshine bower. Rosie. It is Rosie in the morn and it's Eosie in the eve, And it's Rosie all the time I do believe, For Rosie is my girl. She's a shining" little pearl, With Rosie I'll my jollity retrieve. As she wanders in the garden, and she plucks the stately bloom. In her tender eyes I read my early doom. For my Rosie has a way That's delightful all the day. She's the ra^' of sun that drives awaj^ the gloom. So I give my love to Rosie, and I clasp the gentle hands, And I'm willing to cement the golden bands. She's the sweetest of them all. And my Rosie has the call, And she leads me o'er the wild and burning sands. 29 SONGS OF THE HEART. The Message* Though I travel o'er the mountains And 1 sail across the seas, I know that thou art true, my love. My heart is quite at ease. Thy hazel ej^es are flashing-, love, A lig-ht divinely clear. It flashes o'er the sea to me, A message sweet and dear. It tells me that thy memory Reverts to friends afar. And that thy soul is truthful, love. And pure as distant star. I see thy image, graceful like. Thy voice I think I hear; My heart. receives most gratefully Thy message sw^eet and dear. No matter where I roam, my love, My blood most warmly flows. Because I know that faithful lives A maiden like the rose. Miles may come 'tween you and me, No other friend be near, But still thy heart extends to me A message sweet and dear. JO THE MESSAGE. Thono-h heavens fall and tidal waves Go surging- o'er the land, I still can feel thy softened gaze And toneh of tender hand. And when my eyes refuse to close In midnight's hour of fear, I hear the words thou whisperest A message sweet and dear. I wander 'neath the tropic palms And through the shaded groves, Along- the sand that golden gleams Where swarthy Arab roves, And, bending o'er the silver pool To quaff the sparkling cheer, I hear thy soothing accents, love, A message sweet and dear. I long to speed the journey home And walk once more with thee Through meadow paths and o'er the hills, And bid my sorrows flee. 'Tis there I'd kiss the marbled brow% Repress the stealing tear. And hear repeated o'er and o'er Thy message sweet and dear. 31 SONGS OF THE HEART. Rejected* In the gloaming", We were roaming", Friends Ave'd been for many j^ears, Hoi^e was fleeting, Love retreating, Eves were filled with blinding tears. Still the singing Birds were ringing Out their notes of Paradise, And the crying And the sighing Of the breeze was sweet with spice. She was saying". That in lading ISIy devotion at her shrine, I was falling Down in calling Her my treasure — always mine. And in parting I was starting To reflect upon the i)ast, But refusing" And excusing, She declared the die was cast. 32 DOWN THE LANE. Down the Lane* A pink most sweetly scented was the blossom I x)resented To the maiden who was waiting in the lane. Then she took the blossom fair, and she placed it in her hair, While she softly hummed a tender-like refrain. At first she couldn't see whj' she should marry me, When she knew I didn't figure in her set; But she took the pretty' pink, with a merry smile and wink, And she said she didn't want a lover yet. She wore the little flower, though it faded in an hour. And we sauntered down the crooked country lane. But before the hour was up she had filled my loving cup With the joy that I had hardly hoped to gain. Hand in hand we travel, as life's problems we unravel. For "Yes" is what my little maid declared. And the saucj^ little pink, and the merr\' smile and wink, Were the causes of my hapi^iness unspared. 33 SONGS OF THE HEAET. Lovers Changes. 'Twas eight o'clock and more and I rapped upon the door. As I called to see a lovely little maid, And her sunnj^ braids of hair and her rosy cheeks and fair Were as pretty as the lilies in the glade. At nine I braver grew and I told her what I'd do If she'd condescend to i^lace her hand in mine, For I swore eternal love, by the blessed saints above, And she sweetly gave an answer most benign. And at ten o'clock the ringing of the bells in steeples winging- Told me plainly that the time had come to go, So we pledged our vows again, at this fleeting hour of ten, And stronger did affection seem to grow. I will ne'er forget the night, for the moon was shining bright, As I strolled toward my domicile of rest, And I pictured in my dream how my future life would seem, With the beaming little maid I had caressed. 34 A REMINDER. That was manj^ years ag'o, and my love has ceased to flow, For the fairy with the sunny braids of hair, She is married to another, and the other is my brother — She has little ones with rosy cheeks and fair. A Reminder. I can see reflected in your face divinely fair The virtues and the g'races that we think the ang-els bear. For your eyes of melting- brownness tell a story of their own. And if your charms were fewer I would wor- ship them alone. For your flutt'}' hair is flying like the spider's silken strands. And I long- to press the ringlets that compose the golden bands. And your brow, as smooth as marble, is as free from worldly care As the nightingale cavorting in the balmy country air. Should I meet you in the gloaming, as the chirping cricket sings, 'Twould remind me of the summer and the joy- ousness it brings. 35 SONGS OF THE HEAET. Taffy Hair. Hear the merry birds a-singing- In a way that's superfine, And the butterfly is cling-ing To the morning-glory vine. For the silken skirts a-swishing Send their music through the air, And my heart is fondly wishing For the girl with taffy hair. She's a dream, a little trinket, And a jewel quite alone, And my fortune I would sink it. Would she be my very own. Like the fragrance of the roses That she dearly loves to wear. She's the pink of all the posies, Is my girl with taffy hair. She's as dainty as a feather. With her blushes like the dawn. When the sun and clouds together Paint the roses of the morn. See! She lifts her taper fingers And she calls me over there — Now I know that Cupid lingers Where he finds the taffy hair. 30 THE SILVER STREAM. The Silver Stream, Through the woodland, gliding on, 'Tween mossy banks, and green, Flows the winding stream along, 'Xeath trees of stately mien. Everj' ripple tells the tale Of pools and shady places, As circling down the mountain side, To sea the streamlet races. In many ways the silver stream, If guided by a mind, Could tell us much of love and hate — The spool of life unwind. Yet the lily, brightly red, And drooping in the breeze. Is voucher that the secrets held, Xo mortal e'er can seize. Maids and men in summer days Have strolled along the stream, Pledging softly whispered vows. Which now are but a dream. 'Twould never do to give away The tricks that Cupid played. The silver brook will never tell Of lovers' debts unpaid. SONGS OF THE HEART. Paradise^ Flowers twining, hedges green, Fragrant is the breeze; Konnding paths and yelvet sheen, Blossoms on the trees. See the song birds sail along. Hear their trilling notes; Tree toads join the merrj^ song, Soft the music floats. That's Paradise. Place within the g'arden fair The maid with dimpled cheeks, Give her smiles and golden hair, And loveliness that speaks. Let her heart with goodness flow. Her mind should brilliant be — Garden, girl, and all will show What we would like to see. That's Paradise. Give us, then, unending life, With joyousness and bliss; Banish even thotights of strife With lover's honeyed kiss. Give us blossoms all the years. Songs of birds eternal; Little need there'll be for tears, In regions so supernal. That's Paradise. 38 'TWAS ALWAYS THUS. 'Twas Always Thus* Oil, wh}^ do lovers pledg-e their words That they will stick tog-ether, Through thick and thin and blinding storm • And all such troublous weather? Exchang'ing vows with many sig'hs, They swear they'll never part, And glances shot from eye to eye Betray the fluttering heart. She firmly stamps her little fooi^ Declares she'll never change. That she could ever love again Would be most passing strange. She never knew another man, Said she with beaming smile, Who ever filled the bill so well. Or had such princely stj'le. The lover rolled his eyes to heaven, And praised her face and hair, He said her eyes were like the stars — Her lips beyond comi^are. He swore no woman ever lived Who could touch her for a minute^ No need to fight the Trojan war, For Helen wasn't in it. 39 SONGS OF THE HEABT. How frail, indeed, are human vows. No matter how emphatic, These lovers fought like cats and dogs In a manner most erratic. She said he was a cruel thing, He swore she wasn't true, They cut the twine that bound them Both — to other partners flew. My Garden* In my garden are roses so velvety soft. That they drop with the fluttering breeze, So fragrantly sweet that the senses are fraught With the odor of tropical seas. The hollyhock bends with its powdery blooms, And yellow the marigold's head, The bumblebee kisses the dear marguerite, And dew to the jDansy is fed. But naught in my garden more beautiful seems Than the girl with the silken hair. Who lingers along by the violet bank, And i^raises the flowers there. Sweeter than roses and hollyhock blooms. And pansies and marguerites, too. Is the coy little maiden who gathers the buds, Whose heart is so tenderly true. 40 THE PEDLER MAN. The Pedler Man. Elsie smiles at the garden g-ate (Her love was the pedler man). The little maid didn't have long to wait (Her love was the pedler man). Elsie watches for the little red cart (Her love was the pedler man). The tin i)ans beat to her throbbing heart (Her love was the pedler man). Elsie looks out for the brooms and mops (Her hubby's the pedler man). She watches the horse when the little cart stops (Her hubby's the pedler man). And little tin pedlers are playing about (She married the pedler man). At the little red cart they set up a shout (Their dad is the pedler man). And the roses bloom by the garden gate (They thrive for the pedler man), And the little maid blesses the kindh' fate (That gave her the pedler man). 41 SONGS OF THE HEART, A Blue-Black IdylL Give me thy hand — thy velvet hand, Oh, maid of the blue-blaek hair. We'll travel along- through Love-lit land And pick of the blossoms there. And sorrow and care we'll throw away. Oh, maid of the blue-black hair, And welcome the morn of the Sunshine day, While tasting- the mountain air. List to the song- of the swelling' frog. Oh, maid of the blue-black hair. He's singing away in the ooz^^ bog, Of trouble he hasn't a care. And the tree toad throbs in the oaken grove, Oh, maid of the blue-black hair, Perhaps he is telling a story wove Of things that the woods declare. The cricket chirps in the dusky eve. Oh, maid of the blue-black hair. He biddest me trust and truly believe That thou art beyond comptare. So we'll travel along in the Love-lit land. Oh, maid of the blue-black hair, I'll follow the lead of the velvet hand To the town of Anywhere. 42 MABELLE. Mabelle. The idealistic maid is she, Whose mind is iinai¥ected — Who blesses her affinity With wishes well selected. She knows his faults and sweetly tries To abolish melancholy. She scorns all other worldlj' ties And lifts him from his folly. From crown of head to finger tips Divine is her condition. And i)early words from rosj^ lips Sx^eak gentle admonition. For Mabelle is a lady bred. No queen has e'er excelled her. In dainty poise of lovely head, No princess can approach her. No breath can harm this jewel rare — This gem of purest water. Whose truth is quite beyond compare, Whose faith will never falter. Farewell to gloom, and hail! Mabelle! Your love has won the day. We'll walk beneath the magic spell, United we will stay. 43 SONGS OF THE HEART. The Velvet Hand* Still do we think of the sunny days, The garden of youth was bright, When lover of old sang* sweetest laj^s In the dusk of the summer night. The petal of rose kissed climbing vine, Bj^ fragrant zephyrs fanned. But sweetest of all I claim as mine Was the touch of the velvet hand. Oh. dearest of all the maidens fair, The girl of mj^ boyhood time. No lily with thee could e'er compare- No truer in any clime. Still do I dream of tender maid, The dearest of angel band, And think of the time the pulse obeyed The touch of the velvet hand. Nearer the tomb, and cold and gray, Is life at the set of sun. Weaker and weaker the slanting ray, As the deeds of life are done. Tho' curled is the leaf of the ivy vine. And swift is the shifting sand, I feel that I still can claim as mine. The touch of the velvet hand. 44 DOX T YOU REMEMBER' Don^t You Remember* Don't 3-0U remember the smile of the girl You met in the summer of old. When out of the g-ay and maddening- whirl You gathered her into the fold? Don't you remember? Don't you remember the flower she gave, Fresh from the g'arden plot, And how you became her bending slave The moment your heart was caught? Don't you remember? Don't you remember the strolls of night, And the moon in shining splendor, And the little soft nothings that took their flight From the lips of lovers tender? Don't you remember? And don't j'ou remember when winter came, Her carriage was haughty, indeed? For nothing to her was the summer-time flame, And the flowers have gone to seed. Don't vou remembei? 45 SONGS OF THE HEART. The Bunch of Violets* Oh, give ine back the sweetened days, The time of brimming measure, When no^v but faintest shadow plays Of mem'ry give the x^leasnre. The taste of youth the tongue receives, The soul unrest ful gets At sight of ■withered buds and leaves Of the bunch of violets. What story tell these faded flowers? Who g'ave them, and to whom? Did once they brighten saddened hours, And lift a heart from gloom? Quite still they lie. so crisp and dry, Their fragrance love begets, Perhaps that's why we softly sigh O'er the bunch of violets. Oh, years and years have come and gone, And suns have fast declined; And manj" souls await the ]\Iorn To lasting glory find. But peaceful-like there still remains The thought that never sets — The loving kiss one bud retains In the bunch of violets. 46 TO THE U^^SATISFIED. To The Unsatisfied. Why weepest thou, O maiden? Why this overwhelming- gloom? Have thy roses dropped their j)etals, Or thy lilies failed to bloom? Unsig'hth' seem thy sorrows, When the sun is shining- bright, In a world where other roses May be found to thj^ delight. Thou canst never count the pebbles On the shore beside the sea, Xor raindrops that are falling From the clouds that darkened be. Should the roses shed their petals. And thou understandest not. Just try to count the pebbles. Or the falling- water drop. So sorrow not, O maiden, If the lily fails to grow; 'Tis not for thee to understand What others may not know. Just take the good that comes along, Xo matter where the spot; Thou canst not count the pebbles, dear, Nor the falling- water drop. SONGS OF THE HEART. Rosalind ♦ Oh, Eosalind, fair Rosalind, Please turn thy face to me. Wherefore dost thou repudiate The love we send to thee? Art thou a gilded butterfly. That touches every flower And in an instant soars away For another fragrant bower? Oh, Rosalind, fair Rosalind, Our hearts revert to thee; We fain would know if constancy With thee would disagree. 'Tis hard to think the sweetest face We ever chanced to kiss Would hide beneath its rosy masque The thoughts that seem amiss. Oh, Rosalind, fair Rosalind, We'll keep thee out of mind. The poisoned lih% red and gold. In darkest swamps we find. As butterflies are seldom seen Except in sunny weather. We'll seek the friend who faithful stands In sun and storm tog-ether. 48 LOVE S BOUQUET. Love's Bouquet. Like a lily art thou! Because thou art fragrant and g-listening white, And proud in thy queenly grace, Bending whenever the zephyr's kiss Fondles thy pollened face. Like a rose art thou! Because thou art sweeter than honey distilled In the garden of Goldenland, And blushing whenever the humming bird flips Thy petals far over the sand. Like a pink art thou! Because thou resemblest the isles of spice, With cinnamon-scented breeze. Thj' beauties are varied and lasting, too, And yearnings of hearts appease. Like a pansy art thou! Because thou makest the thoughts to come Of honor and virtues rare. Because the face of each flow'ret shows The contentment all should bear. Like a violet art thou! Because thou dost shine in morning dew — The dew that refreshes mind, Because thou art tender, pure, and true, And at every moment kind. 3 49 SONGS OF THE HEART. The Rose* You are queen, dear rose, And every one knows That nothing- more dainty In my garden grows. Velvet petals bending-. Heaven's j)erfume sending-, Note the bloom Dispels the gloom. Sun-kissed colors blending-. You are queen, dear rose. You'd never suppose That anything- sweeter In my garden grows. But a fairy most alluring, And with manners quite assuring- Is the maid, I am afraid. Who has graces more enduring. You were queen, dear rose. But Cux)id shows You cannot rule As the love-light glows. "The maiden's eyes a-glancing JIas set my heart a-dancing — She gave to me The rose you see. So she's the more entrancing. 50 MY VALENTINE. My Valentine* Wilt thoii be my loving- one, The frnit of my desire? Wilt thou be the warming sun When hearts need passion's fire? Wilt thou walk the path with me, And place thy hand in mine? Wilt thou, dear, agree to be My sweet-eyed valentine? Dost thou mean thy g-entle smile For me, and me alone? Is thy mind quite free from guile, And ready to condone? Can I trust that sunny face Which seemeth to refine? Wilt thou, oh, thou queen of grace, Be mine — my valentine? Just as true as roses breathe Their fragrance in the night, I'll wind affection's tender wreath Around thy tresses bright. And all the sw^eets that come to me Are thine, as well as mine, I only ask that thou wilt be JSIy own — my valentine. 51 SONGS OF THE HEART. To the Bachelor* One may scent the fragrance of the roses o'er the wall, And then bej'ond his reach may see the velvet petals fall. The perfnme counts but naught to him who looks with wistful eyes. As long- as roses ne'er can be the gazer's law- ful prize. And thus it is the bachelor goes j)lodding through the years, Resisting charms of womankind and all that love endears. An ideal once he had in mind, and chased it all his life. But ideals ne'er were known to make a model of a wife. And as his hair more whitened grows, he's peering o'er the wall, To scent the fragrance from the rose, and watch the petals fall. The smoke is curling from his pipe — his hopes are ashes, too; His wasted life well teaches him that ideals can't be true. 52 THE OXE I LOVE. The One I Love* She has her faults — the one I love — But I'll forget them all; She has her traits of gentleness, "Which answer memory's call. The thought of her — the one I love — Like rippling of the sun Cheers up the way of daily toil, And helps in battles won. She has a smile — the one I love — That thrills one through and through, Expressing much of tenderness, Whene'er she thinks of you. And then she knows — the one I love— ^ If clouded in the mind, That giving smiles as sweet as hers Makes one to troubles blind. Her eyes are bright — the one I love — They float in limpid dew; Her glances pierce my verj' soul, To find if I am true. If tears she shed — the one I love — I grant her least request. Somehow, those pearlj^ drops that fall Forgive the faults confessed. 53 SONGS OF THE HEART. And all in all — the one I love Appears the best to me, And charms that others seem to have With her do not ag-ree. And so I love the one I love Far more than she supposes, And np and down the road of life I'll strew her path with roses. The Maid Across the Sea* I am thinking of the roses And the fragrance that they throw; I am thinking' of the posies And the g'arden where they g'row. I am thinking' of the maiden Who has pledged herself to me. And I think of breezes laden. Where she is — across the sea. I am thinking' of the letter That is coming with the tide; I am thinking 'twould be better W>re she sitting by my side. I am thinking of the smiling And the dimples meant for me — Perhaps they are beguiling Some one else across the sea. 54 THE MAID ACROSS THE SEA. I am thinking- of the beating- Of the surf upon the sands; I am thinking* of the greeting* From the maid in other lands. I am thinking- of the pleasure That there is in store for me, When I'll g-et a heaping- measure From my love across the sea. I am thinking- of the blueness Of the balmy southern skies; I am thinking- of the trueness Of the maiden's g-leaming- eyes. I am thinking- of the shining- Of the tresses fair to see; And I cannot help the j)ining- For the maid across the sea. I am thinking-, I am waiting-, And the days will not be long-; I am thinking- of the mating- And the thrill of happy song-. For no more M^e'll know the sighing-. And the aching- heart is free, When I know my love is flying From her home across the sea. SONGS OF THE HEABT. Geraldine* There'll come a time, Geraldine, When you'll be queen no long'er. Some other dame With another name Will wield a mag-net stronger, Geraldine ! There'll come a time, Geraldine, When you're not so entrancing, You'll wonder why You didn't die Before you ceased romancing, Geraldine I There'll come a time, Geraldine, When 3'ou can't spin a thread. In sorrow, then, You'll wish that men Would let themselves be led, Geraldine! There'll come a time, Geraldine, When roses will be ashes, When flaunted glove At honest love Means tears upon your lashes, Geraldine! 56 THE TEA EOSE. The Tea Rose. A vision fair to gaze ux^on Was the girl in lilac shade — A combination rarely sweet. Was the tea rose and the maid. The maiden danced the hours away, And ting-a-ling went the band; The twinkling" gleams of colored lights Made the scene a fairy land. Beneath the flush of maiden's face The tea rose nodded, too. As if in time with the minuet Tripped by the merry crew. A gallant youth who knew no fear, And stirred by Cux^id's dart, With eager hand the tea rose plucked. And stole the maiden's heart. And time rolled on its weary path. The tea rose drooped away — Likewise the dancing maid forg'ot The love of the other day. Across the sea to distant clime, The fearless youth did wander, And married a girl who never saw A tea rose in its sjDlendor. SONGS OF THE HEART. The maid who danced the hours away Beneath the g'leaming" lights, Has cut her hair and trots about Debating- woman's rights. Withered, dry, and lost to sight, In a ponderous, yellow book, The tea rose wishes back the joj's Of which it once partook. On the Beach* The summer girl has left the whirl Of city far behind her, She sweetly smiles At all the g-uiles With which they trj^ to blind her. This summer girl, with twisty curl. And damask cheeks of rose, Walks uj) and down In silken gown To captivate the beaux. The summer girl, with teeth of j)earl, And beauty over nice. Would have you think That she's the link That binds to Paradise. TO A KERCHIEF. Oh, summer girl, your sails you furl When beach is far behind you. Your presence bright Has g'one from sig'ht^ — We know not where to find 3-ou. My summer girl to whom I hurl The meed of honest praise, Is not the girl Who seeks the whirl Of fashion's giddy maze. My summer girl has chestnut curl And wears a x^inafore, And on the farm Her rounded arm Makes bread for twenty-four. To a Kerchief* A filmy, lacy little thing — No spider's web is lig'hter; Spotless, clinging, there it lies, No driven snow is whiter. Just the faintest trace of rose Like incense fills the air. Intoxicating, sweet perfume — Reminder of the fair. 59 SO?sGS OF THE HEART. The nionogramic tracery Betrays a gentle name; In truth she must have been An aristocratic dame. Dainty threads perhaps can tell Whose face the kerchief fanned. Some modern knig-ht would give his all To kiss the owner's hand. A filmj^ lacy little thing — Ko spider's web is lig'hter; Spotless, clinging, there it lies. No driven snow is whiter. 'Twas Yours, Bernice* 'Twas yours, Bernice — Don't you recall The sun-bright day. As in shady woodland grove We chose to stay? And when I whispered burnings words To music of the singing birds, You gave me this — Your glove, Bernice! 60 BLAME HER XOT. Pray tell, Bernice — What did j'ou mean By such a gift? Was this the sign that j'ou and I Apart should drift? Eeg-retful, then, the days we passed In woodland grove. The die was cast When I took this— Your glove, Bernice! You sigh, Bernice — And well you may Uefuse to smile. Perhaps it's just a way you have — A woman's wile. But where the ivy doth entwine. You broke your heart, as w^ell as mine. And gave me this — Your glove, Bernice! Blame Her Not* 'Tis vain with hearts in love contending, No reason soars above. Her passion she is not defending-, She only knows her love. She offered no extenuation. Her folly here she frankly owns; She could not help her adoration, She worshiped him and him alone. 61 SONGS OF THE HEART. Other eyes perhaps were gleaming, But none her heart could stir, Other li^Ds more sweetly seeming. But no other lips for her. His voice appealed to her alone, His honej'ed accents thrilled; She lived upon its lightest tone — Her i^aradise fidiilled. So blame her not because she dared To banish loneliness. Blame her not because she cared To "welcome happiness. Blame her not because she sought For love's conii)anionship. Blame her not if once she thought The cup would never slip. Perhaps a broken heart was mended When sorrow flew av\^ay. Perhaps a dismal night had ended When love began the day. PerhaiDS you did not know the i^ain INIore bitter-like than gall — And if you did you might refrain From blaminq- her at all. 62 SOLAMANCHUS. Solamanchus, Every morning- bright and early, In the slanting- ra^'s of sun, By my shop there feebh^ wended One whose years were nearly spun — Solamanchus, with his spirit Faintly trembling- in its shell. Calmly waiting- for the tolling- Of the peace-bestowing- bell. Solamanchus, gray and grizzled. Paid no heed to passing- man. For the years he represented Seemed to bar him from the clan. No one knew his heart was beating For the face of long ago; He had lost the love he hoped for In the passing- of the show. Oh, Solamanchus, weary, No one g-rudges you the peace That will greet you in the moments When the beating heart will cease. Withered flowers seem the saddest. For they bring to heavy mind Just a little of the loving That old age can seldom find. 03 SO]N"GS OF THE HEART. A Song: of June* Oh, list to the lark in the lilv-sweet morn, And the chirp of the chickadee bird, And the twit of the jay in the jigg'ly tree, As they chant to the browsing* herd. Oh, blue are the hills in the hazy day, We find in the month of June, And sweet the scent of wayside rose — Incomparable Nature's boon. And, what does the whispering maiden say, To the lad with the flaxen hair, As he bends at the side of the country lane And plucks at the roses fair? Ah, none but the quiet zephyr knows What the heart of the maiden feels. And the breeze won't tell of the compact made, That the kiss of the lover seals. The song- of the lark in the azure height. And the chirp of the chickadee. Unite with the twit of the blue jay bird. As the man and the maid agree. And June is the month of the winding year When Cupid is found at his best. And little he recked of mischief done. When the man to the maid confessed. 64 TRINKETS. Trinkets. 'Mid the dust and gTimy cobwebs, In a little leather case, With its brassy, hairy trimmings, And its rusty key in place. If my memory serves me rightly. It's the box I used to see When I sang the songs of childhood On the banks of the Manatee. As one gently lifts the cover, Emotion fills the mind, As we view the withered petals And the faded letters find. For they tell the sweetest story Of the lovers' fancy free, When the burning vows were plighted On the banks of the Manatee. Who knows Avhat words were spoken Where the orange blossoms grow, When our mother was a lassie In the days of long ago. For the bunch of withered flowers And the letters that jou see May have brought two hearts together On the banks of the Manatee. 65 SONGS OF THE HEART. And the glamour of the evening, In the fragrant southern clime, Still softens all the senses, As in days of youthful time. While she closes down the cover And slowly turns the key, No doubt her mind is far away On the banks of the Manatee. The Tarn o^ Shanter GirL You're dashing and you're artless, Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! Your ways are rather heartless. Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! And everywhere we see you. Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 'Tis pleasant to be near you. Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! Of course we'll have to stand it. Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! If you'll wear it like a bandit, Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! Slap it on in any way. Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! Stick a pin, and let it stay, Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! 66 THE TAM O SHANTER GIRL. And if your hair is streaming-, Oh, Tarn o' Shanter girl! And in the sun is gleaming', Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! No fairy's more entrancing, Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! You set our hearts a-dancing, Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! With a bow or two together, Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! And a saucy, little feather, Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! You ride along the highway, Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! The beauty of the by-way. Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! Your dimpled cheeks are rosy, Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! You're a charming little posy, Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! You've all our fond protection, Oh, Tam o' Shanter girl! And much of our affection. Oh, Tam o' Shanter sirl! 67 SONGS OF THE HEART. Blanchette* Petite and dainty, Little maid, May you never, Never fade. Blanchette, divine! A posy, you — As sparkling- as The morning" dew. With merry eyes And golden hair, Flitting' here and Flying there. Blanchette, my dear, A little kiss From rosy lips You'll never miss. No? Blanchette! You'll be obeyed. Although you're but A lady's maid. THE BLUE-EYED BOY. The Blue-Eyed Boy. The blue-eyed boy Was only nine, And Katie only eight. Said blue-ej^ed boy, "Will you be mine?" To Katie, only eight. "Yes, I'll be yours," Sweet Katie said; "A blue-eyed boy I'd like to wed." The blue-eyed boy Of ten and eight Loved Katie, sweet sixteen. Said blue-eyed boy, "I love you, Kate," And she but sweet sixteen. She hesitated. Then opined, "You're blue eyed, but — I'm color blind!" 69 SONGS OF THE HEAKT. The blue-eyed boy A journey made — Katie clung- to mother. The blue-eyed boy, A lively blade, Was married to another. This goes to show 'Tis hard to find A partner when One's color blind. 70 SONGS OF THE SOUL. REVERIES OF THE PAST. Reveries of the Past* Oh, sing" of t"he fragrant days, Of the golden-tinted clime, When youthful hours In Nature's bowers Made earthly life sublime. For those were the days, the joyous days, The time of the dew-di^^ped rose, When little we knew of the bitter fraj^s And ang'uish of human woes. Then were the blithesome birds Sweet in their soft refrain, The murmuring- breeze Through blossomed trees. Echoed the tender strain. Then was the sun at its dizzy heig-ht, And dulled the hidden sorrow; The pansy smiled at the lily bright, And no one cared for the morrow. And cool was the silver pool, Kissed by the sunlig-ht gleam. And timorous shade Of darkened glade Fondled the golden beam. SONGS OF THE SOUL. 'Twas then that we lived as the angels do, Who kneel by the radiant throne — Singing- the songs of lovers true, And calling the world our own. Beautiful are the storm clouds Racing across the sky. O'er mountains steep And valleys deep The winds went whirling by. Well we remember the passionate joy And surge of the welling* heart, When taking the kiss from the maiden coy- We promised we ne'er would part. List! From o'er the moorland, We hear the convent bell; The day is done. And dying sun Goes out with distant knell. Melting away, the dreams take flight, The flowers by the wayside fall. And youthful days and prospects bright Have flown beyond recall. FAITH. Faith* What subtle force is that which moves The soal to mig-hty deeds — That brings to surface all the good, And strengthens all the creeds? First it seems we've naught to do But fold our hands and wait, And then the shadows fade away — We see beyond the Gate. By faith alone we find the j)ath That leads to shadowland. And things appear in clearer light Now that we understand. 'Tis Faith that melts the winding mist That clouds the human brain. And puts us back on firmer ground Beyond the touch of pain. And when you feel that you have lost A tried and loving friend, In whom you placed your sacred trust Till life was at an end — How sweet the thought that gently sings Of friendship reunited, That somewhere in the far beyond Your sorrows will be righted! SONGS OF THE SOUL. 'Tis then that Faith, on mercy bent, Comes softly to your aid. And lifts your soul to higher realms Beyond this gloomy shade; And were it not that you possessed This angel's guiding hand, There'd be no hope of better life And peace would never stand. And so it is, in life and death, In love and sore aflfliction. That Faith steps in and intercedes With gracious benediction. Worlds may come and worlds may go, In countless alternation. But Faith remains to cheer us on To ultimate salvation. Smiles Count. Did you ever stop to think, my friend, Of the good that you might do, By smiling at the bitter deeds That others do to you? One by one these smiles you'll find In the book the angels keep, And in your life's declining hours, A sweet reward you'll rea]3. HOPE. Hope* And Hope! The thought that lingers last To soothe the dee^Dest sorrow, And gives delight in that we would See sunshine on the morrow — How sw^eet the comfort you extend When burdens are oppressing! How restful to the Aveary mind When Hope confers her blessing! As shadows cross your winding path And fortune seems forgetful, Hope, in never-ending kindliness, Makes life seem less regretful. And then it is to waking mind The lesson comes quite plainly, That all the good things we receive Are gained through troubles, mainly. No patriot yet has fought the tight That won emancipation. Unless his strength obtained support Through Hope's affiliation, And countless people live to-day In bonds that none can sever. And all because in early years Sweet Hope was at the lever. SONGS OF THE SOUL. And what, indeed, would lovers do If Hope were not their friend? All pledges, vows, and kindred words, Wonld find a sp)eedy end. Hearts that throb in fond attune Would beat in keen dismay, And bleed, perhaps, in sore distress If Hope declined to stay. In all we think and all we do, No matter what the action. We needs must count on better things For f>resent satisfaction. Skies are clear and dawn is here, Burdens seem the lighter. Laughing" ej'es supplant the tears. The world, through Hope, is brighter. Charity. Blessed is he who gives away A portion of his goods, Eelieving thus the weary chap Who's stumbling through the woods. According- to the saying true, 'Tis better than receiving. And living deeds have proved it well That this is worth believing. 78 CHAKTTY, Heroes in a battle's storm Most daring" chances take; The roll is called, and then 'tis found They died for country's sake. Glory's laurels they deserve, But few are better fitted To wear the crown than those who stoop To help the one unpitied. For all around us, day by day, Is sorrow, grief, and pain — Thing's iDersist in going wrong And won't come right again. Not alwaj's do the scalding tears Describe the tortured heart, And that's the time that you and I Should do our humble part. A cheery word at just the time That words would stop the tears, More good will do than all the books You've read in twenty j^ears. The clasp of hand and breezy smile Might straighten out the line, iVnd just the smallest piece of gold Might cause the sun to shine. SONGS OF THE SOUL. You and I should not forget 'Tis many times the ease That kindly acts wipe oiit the pain And are never out of place. And often, too, a silent deed, That helps along- your neig-hbor, Assists you in your daily work, And makes it lighter labor. Some of the Good Things* It's a solace that you never know ^Vliat's coming' on the morrow; It's a solace that the stormy clouds Show silver after sorrow. It's a solace when you have a friend Who pats you on the back; It's a solace if you keep your head When gossips loudly clack. It's a solace that some happiness Is granted now and then; It's a solace that the world contains More maidens than the men. It's a solace that the narrow path Will lead away from strife; It's a solace that in living well We'll find a better life. 80 TO THE FUTUEE. To the Future ♦ Oblivion, happiness, or rest — What does the parting' mean? They say 'tis for the very best That death should come between. Hard it- seems, when we've attained The joys that life can give, That we should lose the vantage gained When we have ceased to live. The tender stalk grows on apace, And knows its proper season; The little leaf fills in its place, And queries not the reason. Behold the blossom! Fragrant! Sweet! Its petals tipped with dew — In modesty — refined, discreet. — Its beauties ever new. Yet the scholar most profound Knows not the source of power That in the plant made life abound And blessed the scented flower. There's the rose, with velvet glow, It spreads before the eye, And something caused the plant to grow, A fact you can't deny. SI SONGS OF THE SOUL. And if there is a Mighty Hand That cares for little things, A way for you no doubt is planned That sure protection brings. So let your grievance slide away, Don't fill your head with bubbles, The world is turning every day. Regardless of your troubles. Between the Lines* Sometimes the jest is written, And the funny side you see, Though the story's not exalting You betray the wildest glee. And when you stop to ponder Over all the outward signs. You wonder if you really read The thoughts between the lines. There's the letter from the mother That is written from the heart. And the teardrops on the pages Tell the story from the start; And her gentle admonition Is the kind that oft refines, If you'll only give attention To the thousfhts between the lines. BETWEEN THE LINES. 'Tis not always on the surface That you find the richest ore; You must dig- beyond the strata If 3'ou want the g'olden store. Purple grapes in ripened clusters Can be reached upon the vines — If you'll profit by the wisdom That you read between the lines. See the roses and the lilies And the dear forget-me-not; You can have them if j'ou seek them In the fragrant garden spot. And the trailing orange blossom For the happy man entwines, If he'll only heed the precepts That he finds between the lines. On a placid lake we're sailing, O'er a smooth and glassy floor, And the sun is surely crowded By the shadows from the shore. And we're constantly reminded By the whisper of the pines, That our troubles are the mildest When w^e read between the lines. S3 SONGS OF THE SOUL. An Old Dagfuerreotype* One day I found a faded glass Enclosed in g-ilded frame, And showing faintly in the light— A face without a name. For many years the velvet case Beneath the dust reposed, And no one knew the maid of old Whose book of life was closed. No ringlets did the lady wear, Her hair was smoothly laid; Around her neck were golden beads That glistened in the shade. No mouth was e'er more sweetl}^ formed, Her dimj)led cheeks were round, And never could such brimming eyes In modern days be found. The pictiire seemed to take me back To days of poppy vines, When grandma led the minuet In sweeping crinolines. And, dreaming, I could plainlj' see The maids just like the face I found upon the faded glass Within the velvet case. AX OLD DAGUEEEEOTYrE. Who knows but that the owner of This face of gentle mien Once graced a hamlet on the hill — A rose that blushed unseen? And then, perhaps, she mig'ht have been A leader in the set That reigned in gilded palaces By rules of etiquette. Perhaps she was a noble wife Of some one kind and true. And when the skj^ was overcast She knew just w^hat to do; And when the end of life had come Her children mourned the day That took her from the noisy Avorld To the land of Far Away, The ashes of my memory Are bitter sweet indeed, As gazing at thy lineaments, Thy name I long to read. But recollection serves me not — Forgotten is the face I found upon the faded glass Within the velvet case. 85 SONGS OF THE SOUL. Liebestraume* Oh, what longings in the song* That ripples through the measures! Smooth cadences! Sing-ing" sorrow O'er the loss of human treasure. Dost thou tell of sighing* lover, Who, desponding, murmureth oft. That the one he once had worshiped Vanished like the zephj'r soft? Oh, the pain of severed heartstring, And the moan of riven breast, And the shudder and the flutter — Love repulsed when once confessed. Eoses plucked and cast aside Hold their fragrance but an hour; Then, like leaves in autumn scattered, Wither, crumble^ — lose their power. And the rhythm of the music. As it steals along the keys, Tells of thoughts akin to sadness — Of the face one never sees. And the music blossoms dropping With the touch of human hand, Lend us sweet anticipation Of the song of Heavenland. 86 AX EPITAPH. An Epitaph. Eeader, as you X3ass along, Your life with vigor filled, Gaze upon the earthly mound My body helped to build. It hardly seems a day to me Since I like you appeared, When life was just as sweet and dear And death I little feared. Cut here I am, beneath the sod, My body naught but clay. My soul has flown to other lands, Although I longed to stay. 'Tis not for me to whisjier low And tell you where I've gone. It would not help you on in life, Nor make you less forlorn. My heart once throbbed as fast as yours In love and warm affection; I smoothed the tresses, golden-like — The maid had no objection; But when she rudely cast me down. And others got the smiles, I felt the same as you, mj' friend, When woman soft beguiles. 87 SONGS OF THE SOUL. Ambition, too, once filled my breast, And spurred to brighter thing's; I thought, perhaps, before I left I'd stand among the kings. But now the lilies, bending low, Perfumes above me throw, And all the friends I counted on Forgot me years ago. And while the Hand of Mystery Permits me not to speak Of knowledge that I have attained, And that which mortals seek — I fain would warn thee, passing friend, Be careful of thy life; Be wise, be patient, virtuous — Avoid unseemly strife. The Bells. Ringing out in dead of night, The bells with brazen sound Tell frequently of danger near, When men are heroes crowned. And clanging out in ringing tones. We seem to hear them say, "Save your brother's life to-night, Though flame be in the way." THE BELLS. And, then, again the pealing- bells A peaceful message send, And serve to warn the youthful mind To studies early bend. 'Tis then the playful antics cease And earnest deeds come in, The boy resents the swing-ing- bell Whene'er the sounds begin. Mournful tolls the muffled bell; Its measured tones imply That shorter grows this weary life — We're here to do and die. Perhaps the bell the story tells The loss of dearest friend. And bids us plan to meet the time When life is at an end. Our lives are governed by the bells That ring from mom to night, That start us in our daily toil And ring at fading light. Oh, listen to the chiming bells That bid us worship Him Who finally will pull the cord When djang eyes are dim. 89 SONGS OF THE SOUL. Troubles of Our Own. On every hand you'll find them, They are crowding at the door — The weary and the friendless, And those Avhose hearts are sore. For not all are over happy When they're reaj^ing what they've sowm. And at times we give our pit}', Though we've troubles of our own. . When our sun is shining brightly And we feel like righting wrongs. We are prone to think that others Like ourselves are singing songs. Though we cannot pick the roses That are blooming all alone. We should help the fallen comrade. Though we've troubles of our own. All we need is little i^atience, And a cheery smile or two, And our sorrow will diminish With the good we find to do. Let's extend the hand of friendship And our brother's faults condone — It will ease the heavy burdens When we've troubles of our own. 90 Son§;s» Let's sing" the songs — The old songs! Of the days when hearts were lightest. When the blossoming trees And the tiitting bees Made the thoughts of j^outh the brightest. Let's sing' the songs — The dear songs! Of the time when we little ones wept, When the tick of the clock Kept time with the rock Of the cradle in which we slept. Let's sing- the songs — The merry songs! Of the days when the children played In the dancing ring With shout and fling, When time in its flight was stayed. Let's sing the songs — The sweet songs! Of the days of love-warmed bliss, When vows were given And hearts were riven, And troths were sealed with a kiss. 91 SONGS OF THE SOUL. Let's sing the song's — The new songs! In the midst of the present battle, And stand for the right In the thick of the fight, And scorn the worry and tattle. A Forlorn Virtue* When He who made the snn and earth, The sea and all that's in it, And from the rib a woman made (A deed of just a minute), He gave the man nobilitj^ The woman lovely grace. And all the things that go to make This i^atched-up human race. In mixing up the good and bad, One virtue was neglected. Sweet "Gratitude" was quite forgot, And what could be expected? The world has turned a million times, And men have come and gone, Yet "Gratitude" remains the same — Deserted, sad, forlorn. 92 TIIFO OLTt DAYH. The Old Days. In iho old-fiinc (hiys ol" loiij^ -a'^o VVIien \\i\\ seemed ()iil\' pl.iv, I mi^lit li;i\(' said "I love \«)ii so!" Had I Ied to pare the corns of Deacon Johnson's horse, He talked religion by the yard without the least remorse. He criticised the preacher man, because the parson said We couldn't get to heaven till we'd sought the fountain head. 149 STORIES IN SdNG. What he didn't know about the octopus of rum Wasn't worth a pinch between your finger and your thumb. When the country bumjokin said 'twas wrong to drink a thing, The blacksmith laid his hammer down, and clipped the bumi)kin's wing. And when the s^Darks were showering around the anvil base, He'd lecture on society — contempt was on his face; The way he trimmed aristocrats and hoed the dandies down. Evoked the admiration of the people of the town. Alas! One day a little squirt, with glasses on his nose, Loitered 'round the grimy shox^ and watched the sturdy blows; And when the blacksmith wiped his brow and saw the stranger there. He opened up an argument, unmindful of a snare. For such a chance the little man was very much elated. For in the days of college life, for prizes he'd debated. 150 THE EDUCATED BLACKSMITH. He met the blacksmith fair and square, and won at every turn; 'Twas then the son of Yulcan found he'd very much to learn. The blacksmith took his apron off, and vowed that he'd been beat. And up and down the villag'e spread the news of his defeat; And oft it is when oracles have fallen from their perch, That those who took the wisdom in, defy your earnest search. Down the road beneath the elms, beyond the pair of bars. No more you'll find the flying sparks a-falling like the stars. The wind is shrilly whistling and the shop's gone up the flume. And the blacksmith man's a-sleeping in the silence of the tomb. 151 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. THE JASMINE. The Jasmine* [A Manchester lady recently received a letter from a friend in the South, describing the great luxuriance of the golden jasmine, which, in certain sections, completely smothers the swamps, woods, and hedgerow. The jasmine vine in its na- tive element is very beautiful, and has a subtly sweet odor.] Thou art wanton! Thou art wilful! Thou art curving like a bell. See the jasmine tassels hanging- In the fragrant southern dell. Like the gold of dying day, As the sun is sinking low, Is the lovely, gentle jasmine. As the summer zephj^rs blow. Running wild along the edges Of the far-away lagoon. In the lonely woods and sloping, Thou art nature's fairest boon. Unobtrusive, yet convincing, Is the odor of the bower, Where the yellow of the jasmine Is the feast of idle hour. And the blooms are ever graceful, As they tremble in the breeze, And the blossom gives the nectar For the southern winter bees. Thou art climbing like the smilax, O'er the saplings and the pines; There is nothing like the jasmine. And its wildly climbing vines. 155 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. The Christmas Bells* [Anthem written at Christmas-tide, 1897, and published in "The Manchester Union," to music composed by Walter U. Lewis.] Bright the Star of Bethlehem Glistens o'er the land, Leading- on the princes fair O'er the desert sand. Lowly in the mang-er bed, Babe of Holy Name Smiles the sweetest welcome to The king's of worldlj^ fame. Eefbain — Chimes are giadly ringing-! Soft the voices! Heart rejoices! Peace the dawn is bringing. Sweet the laj Of Christmas day — Hear the angels singing! Glorious Sun of Righteousness Lights us on the way; Christ has come to rule mankind; Praise Him while ye may. Heed the bells that chiming tell Christmas day is here! '■ Angels join in holy song — ! Their Gracious Lord revere. 156 FOREBODIXGS. Eefeain — Chimes are gladly ringing! Soft the voices! Heart rejoices! Peace the dawn is bringing-. Sweet the lay Of Christmas day — Hear the angels singing! Forebodings* The budding trees are here, Likewise the crocus. We have no need to fear Spring-'s hocus i)ocus. Balmy soon will be the air, Sweet-perfumed ; Warmer than beyond compare, Heat-consumed. Up and down the country, too, Bug's and flies Make your language somewhat blue, We should surmise. All the money saved with care In winter days, You will throw it here and there In lots of ways. When drowsy fall once more is here, With painted leaf, Thin the purse will be, we fear. Oh, time of grief! 157 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. Summer's Coming:* Summer's coming', sure as fate, Birds and g'rass and flowers, Sticky days and sultry nig-hts. And softly falling- showers. Winter seems eternal like; The ice keeps hanging on; Just the same, it's got to g'o, As sure as you are born. Soon we'll have the panama, Russet shoes and crash, Buzzing bugs and bicj'cles, And golfing balderdash. Up will go the mercury, Dust will fill the streets. Then we'll long for snow again, And winter's cold retreats. Summer's coming, sure as fate, Flies and 'skeeters, too; We'll have to have the heated term As soon as winter's through. After all, we ought to feel That winter's not so bad, And wishing for the summer time Is just the same old fad. 158 BROWN AND GOLD. Brown and Gold. Brown and gold, the autumn lig^hts Are taken bj^ the trees; The finest of the yearly sights Is nature's tinted frieze. A little storj' once was told By soft-eyed Indian maid, Of how the prettj^ brown and gold Were on the foliage laid. All summer long the sun had tried To make the transformation, For green the sun could not abide Without much perturbation. 'Twas only on a certain day Old Sol could end the wrangle, And onlj^ when the yellow ray Should take a certain angle. Somehow, it always happened so — (And this jon should remember!) The day the green was forced to go Was reckoned in September. And then the yellow autumn lights Pervaded all the trees And nowhere were there finer sights Than the brown and golden frieze. 159 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. Sigfns of Fall. The fiend who asked with joy sublime: "Is it hot enough for you?" Is fig-uring- hard at the present time, With an overcoat in view. The cheese-cloth suit must take a rest. And the shirt of red-ink cast, And the jDolka-dotted velvet vest Is a thing- of the musty past. The clank of the ice tongs dieth out, The ice man counts his g"old; The coal rolls doAvn the tin-pan spout. And the iDlumber g-roweth bold. The flies are turning up their toes. The screens w^ill soon come out, The football chap in fighting clothes Sets up a savage shout. With shorter days and longer nights The gas bill's on a tear; The farmer takes in all the sights At the same old country fair. The leaves are getting tender-like; They'll soon begin to fall. The eighteen ninety-seven bike Is not in the race at all. 160 SADDEE DAYS. The curtain's up, the show is on* The band begins to play; The minstrel smiles and jokes upon The topics of the day. All this and more is but to tell That autumn days are near, And some one's pulling at the bell That tolls o'er summer's bier. Sadder Days* You have heard them tell it often Of the sad November days, When the mind begins to soften And we're singing dismal lays. True, we find that in November It is neither warm nor cold, And if you'll but remember. It's the time you're feeling old. But sadder than November days Are these at present time, When snippy storms the senses phase And frigid is the clime. Zero is the fatal mark. And nipping is the breeze, And ice adorns the summer park — To live is but to freeze. 161 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. New Year's Thougfhts* The old year melts aAvay and dies, And the new one takes its place. We hear the plaintive, distant cries Of the weakest in the race. Perhaps they started when the year, Now dying', was the brig-htest; Perhaps the weakest cry you hear Was then with joy the lightest. Thus it is, as years roll on. And plans are smoothly made. That ere the next new year is born, The dream becomes a shade. We think we see the shining- way To all that's g-ood in life — A few^ short months, perhaps a day, Will turn the peace to strife. We strugg-le on, and softly bless The moments that are g-olden, And in forgetting" stern decrees Our souls we thus embolden. And if we'd harbor just the thought Of seeking- better things. And count the bitter ones for naught, There'd be the fewer stings. 162 he's coming. He's Comm§:« The sprig-htly man will soon be here With wheels of ninety-eight; He'll tell yon all about the gear And other makes berate. He'll make j^ou think you never had A wheel that rode so well, And all the others must be bad — Too bad for him to tell. He'll stick a knife into the tires To show they cannot leak; Bend, and twist, and pound the wires A thousand times a week. He'll let you see some funnj^ scheme To stop the wheel from running, And talk and talk a steady stream Of other things more cunning. Fare ye well! Old Ninety-seven, For which we paid a hundred; We cannot see how under heaven We boug'ht you and so blundered. They told us when we took you in, You couldn't be outclassed. We thought the statement rather thin- Your iisefulness has passed. 163 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. The Whistling Winds* The whistling- winds! Oh, what do they say, As they're singing their sad refrain? List to the sound, As, whisking around. The breezes are howling their strain. Fresh from the sea. Perhaps they are telling Of mariners strapped to the mast, Awaiting the dawn, With hope nearly gone. With death in the ice-laden blast. How do we knoAv? These cyclonic winds May have harried the burning sands, And helped to its doom Old Ptolemy's tomb. On the j)lains of the iiyramid lands. It wouldn't be strange If the blizzards that blow And give us a shiver or two. May have tenderly kissed The ebony wrist Of a maid in the Timbuctoo. 164 AUTUMN TIME. The tranquil airs Of the soft-hued night In the land of the g-ondolier, Have changed a bit In their rapid flit To this frozen-up hemisphere. The whistling" winds! No matter their course, Are slamming and banging still, And giving the snow A toss and a throw And shrieking a frigid trill. Autumn Time* The moonlig'ht rippled Through the trees, The leaves were turning gold. And lovers walked And sweetly talked Of the memories of old. The autumn breeze Its perfume sent To make the night sublime, And burning vows Did love arouse — The hour was Cupid's time. 165 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. The shadow cast By stately pine Across the needles lay; All was still But the whip-poor-will, Who sang- in his dismal way. And waters dashed O'er mossy stones As the river rolled along*; The pledge was given And hearts were riven, To the sound of the cricket's song. As over again They walk the path That follows the winding stream, The lonely trill Of the whip-poor-will Brings back the autumn dream. Beneath the Ice* Oh, where are the flowers that blossom in spring, To whose velvet petals sweet fragrances cling? Curled up in a ball, 'neath the ice and the snow, The flowers are waiting for winter to go. Then gorgeous in glory — in color aflame, They'll greet you in May-time — their perfume the same. 166 THE BUMBLEBEE. The Bumblebee. The sweetest song* in summer time Is heard in idle hours; 'Tis the music of the bumblebee Cavorting o'er the flowers. He gathers up the nectarine. And with it flies away — A pirate is the busy bee, Who bumbles all the daj'. Your garden is the one, perhaps. Where daffodils and roses Invite this buzzing autocrat To rob your laden posies. It matters not a bit to him Whatever you may say — A pirate is the busj' bee, Who bumbles all the day. Oh, where is now this lively chap, In time of snow and ice. When roses and the daffodil Are worth a pretty price? He's tiling up his stinger end, And planning for the fray— A pirate is the busy bee, W^ho bumbles all the day. 167 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. The Robin Fiend ♦ Sing ho! The all-absorbing man, Who preaches on the weather, Expects to see the robin soon, And birds of kindred feather. His eagle eye is taking in The meadow at a glance; He'll tell yon when the robin comes, With smile of broad expanse. And shortly, with his ulster on — His collar 'round his ears, He'll come upon you sudden-like, Like all these weather seers. He'll tell 3^ou that he's seen the bird- The harbinger of spring, — That he was first to see him come, The robin on the wing. And soon a tale in type is told; His legend greets the sight; You'll find his name above them all, Made famous in a night. And science by her mystic arts Has yet to find a cure For him who sees the robin first — And him we must endure. 168 THE JOVIAL JUNKMAN. The Jovial Junkman* The jovial junkman's cheery smile Lights lip his honest face: He's cutting' coupons carefully, In this particular case. March and Aj)ril are to him When wealth and ease abide; His men are busy, gathering- in The diaries cast aside. "Fie! Fie!" The merry junkman said, "I know a thing or two; On human nature let me trade And gold my x^ath will strew." The junkman walked about the shop, His chest was filled with j)ride, His storeroom overflowing with The diaries cast aside. The junkman owned a block or two And rode behind a span; He went to Euroj)e every year — His coin in rivers ran. "Self-made was he!" the i^apers said. When the junkman up and died; But after all his pile was made From the diaries cast aside. 169 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. Thanksgivingf Time* Homeward speeding, o'er the land, Come father, son, and brother, Eejoicing- that once more they meet Fond sister and the mother. Thanksgiving-'s here, and praise is due To Him who grants the day; The flames within the ehimnej^-pieee Now sing- a merry lay. And in the oven, toasting- brown, The turkey groans and flutters. For well he knows his time has come — No wonder that he sputters. Eight beside him, flaky white. The chicken pie is steaming-; As mother tries the creamy crust, Tommy's eyes are gleaming. So g'ather 'round the festive board; 'Tis time to start the feast — Nell and Susan, Johnnie, too, And Tommy's not the least. Bring on the pudding, piping hot, With x^lums in great array; Dish out the gravy quickly now. And pass your plate this way. 170 JANUARY 1. And pumpkin pie, so g-olden brown, So luscious-like and slick, And mother's just the only one Who can do the little trick. Grandpa takes his seat in time To fill the polished glasses With cider from the cellar bin — 'Tis sweeter than molasses. Hear the din the baby makes! He knows a thing" or two. Thanksgiving means a lot to him. No matter what you do. Let all your faces brightly shine, Be cheerful while you may, And make the feast a royal one On this Thanksgiving Day. January i* The 3'outh will get his diary out To scribble all he knows, And strive his best to write about His hapj)iness and woes. The fit will last a week or so — He'll write his final line, And not resume another throe Till eighteen ninety-nine. 171 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. The Tea in the Jug. The heated sun of old July Will soon be streaming- down; The farmer man will wield the scythe With freckled hands and brown. All throng-h the livelong summer day The farmer man will plug- — And down in the bushes, shaded well, There's tea in the g-allon jug-. The g-rass will lie in even row^s Along- the sizzling- field. And fragrance sweet as any rose The new-mown hay will yield. When the farmer's throat is somewhat parched, And yearns for cooling- slug, He makes a dive for the shady bush — For the tea in the gallon jug. Swishety-swish! One almost hears The whetstone 'gainst the blade; The tox)S of clover soon will fall, When July fodder's made. The farmer man will mop his brow And give his sleeves a tug — He'll not forget the loving swig Of the tea in the gallon jug. 172 THE BUZZING BUG. The July sun may stream away And drive the cows to shade, And scorch a bit the farmer man Who wields the trusty blade. But little he'll care for burning ray As long- as he thinks to lug To meadows fair the timelj^ draught Of the tea in the gallon jug". The Buzzing Bug* The June bug's fixing up his wings, And oiling- his creaking joints; He's patching up his brown-hued shell And sharp are his horn}^ points. When merrilj^ peep the wall-eyed frogs, In the 3'oung and tender night, This horny bug will fly within. And buzz around the light. Oh, where has this antlered insect been In the nights of ice and snow? A g-rub was he when the north wind blew And the cold was ten below. But soon will this noisy, ugly bug Come out in his raiment fine — W^hen pussy-willows have dropped away. And the leaves come out on the vine. 173 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. The Summer Day« Oh, give us the song' of the blue jay bird And the chirp of the chick-a-dee, The hymn of the frog- in the bulrush pool, And the buzz of the bumblebee. For nothing-'s so nice as the swishety-swish Of the zephyrs in daisy fields. Or the nostrils filled with the 'livening' scent Of the essence the g-rapevine yields. Oh, g-ive us ag-ain the humming-bird. As he hovers o'er opened flowers, And the song of the cricket at eventime. In his cheering of shadow hours. And the drippety-drip of the sunshine shower Is cooling to fevered brain. Oh, give us the time of the summer day. And the stroll in the shadv lane. The June Bug: Resteth^ The June bug rustles his wings And sings: "Heigho! To the maiden fair!" He whirls 'round the light. And stops in his flight, With his feet in my little girl's hair! 174 THE TEPID DAY. The Tepid Day, The tepid swash of yesterday Made matters worse. No heat abatement came therefromi; The farmer did not want that storm His crops to nurse. The raindrops fell without reserve On weak humanity. The leaky clouds could not withstand The sun that swelled our own hat band And caused profanity. The dude with crash and colored shirt Was to be pitied. The girl who sported filmy lace Wore consternation on her face As she flitted. Humid, sticky, — million flies! What a day! Was there no comfort anywhere In breathing furnace-heated air? We should say nay! 175 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. The Dame of Ninety-ei§:ht* Dame Fashion has decreed this year — - Dear woman must obey — That big- balloons no more appear — Tig'ht sleeves have come to stay. And Paris styles are upside down, The queerest e'er were seen — Those monstrous hats have come to town, In yellcw, red, and green. The waj^ the dears must wear them now Is o'er the side to flop — So far indeed they don't allow A ribbon on the top. No circus man, ^vith finest nerve, Could balance them at all, And if he could, he'd then deserve The biggest pay on call. Another thing- the eye will greet Will be the queerest g-own — Which runs from chin to dainty feet In a panel up and down. 176 SPEING IS HERE. Two buttons hitch the thing' at top, Two buttons down below — These buttons form the latest crop Of the big'g'est kind that gro"w. In picking- out her hosiery, The Dame of Ninety-eight Will find but little jDoetry In keeping" up to date. Of j)laids and stripes, and little checks. And crocks of fine design, With polka-dots and snowy flecks — The styles are superfine. Imbued in dainty mystery, The sweetest of the fair. Will revel in her lingerie Of silks and laces rare. Such a cinch no lady had In old Parisian state, That's seen in nearly every fad Of the Dame of Ninety-eight. Spring is Here* Trees are budding, yellow-green^ And gentle spring is here. The June bug sings And spreads his wings — He's getting into gear. 177 iSOXGS -OF THE SEASONS. The Bug:s are Here* The farmer's crops are on the wane; The bugs have come to staj^ These horny, antlered little things Are working all the day. They're striped bugs, with many legs, Some red and gold all over, And some have sixteen longing eyes, And dote on fields of clover. And there's the bug with sets of teeth To rip things. well asunder; He chews the leaves of every plant. And eats like very thunder. Every man has dismal days — The farmer's no excefition. ; Because the bugs are hard at work He's driven to distraction. If This Be June. If this be June, give us no more Of poet's song of roses. For all we've had is what is bad For colds in heads and noses. 178 SING, JUANITO. Strawberries. Strawberries j)rinie in suminer time, Red as the crimson wine, A juicy treat and taste as sweet, As friTit from the winding vine. All hail to the day in balmy June When butterflies spread their wings; There will we stay in close attune With the joy that the strawberry brings. In days of ice and lack of spice, The maid with rosy cheeks Invokes the dream of berries and cream, And she blushes as she speaks. So sing to the maid of winter time, The queen of the frigid zone; The strawberries fade in icy clime In the warmth of my beauty's throne. Singf^ Juanito* Radiant summer, angel queen! Time of fragrant rose, and sheen! Sing, Juanito! Buzz, and jump, with sharpened bill! Working while all else is still! Bite, Mosquito! SONGS OF THE SEASONS. The Sun Beats Down* The sun beats down On all the town, And sizzles on the XDlains. We rave and tear For breezy air, And board the seashore trains. Straw hats are here, And foaming" beer. Likewise pink lemonade; And now we yearn For cash to burn On the seashore's summer maid. July's Here* July's here! Let's drojD a tear O'er memories of June roses, Whose petals dropped Whene'er we stopped To gather fragrant posies. July's here! The Fourth is near! We'll soon forget the roses, In blowing horns When daylight dawns, And raising Holy Moses! 180 THE ARBUTUS. They Are Comingf* Blossoms, blossoms everywhere! There'll be blossoms in the air! Snowy petals on the trees, Fragrance wafted by the breeze-— By the breeze! By the breeze! Birds will sing- throug-hout the day, Telling" us they've come to stay; These to us a message bring. Thou art coming, lovely spring — Lovely sx3ring! Lovely spring! The Arbutus* Down the sides of shady dells Early spring is fragrant made, By the blossoms sweetly scented Of the vines along the glade. Oh, Arbutus! Soft appealing To the sorrow-laden wind, Bringing thoughts of tropic summer- Of the joys we'd like to find. 181 SONGS OF WAR. OLD GLORY. Old Glory* O'er land and sea the Stars and Stripes, The emblem of the free, Are welcomed bj^ the shackled slave, Wherever he may be. The flag" that curls in tropic breeze, The grandest sight to all, Is waving that the tyrant's throne Maj' totter to its fall. And gleams the sword beneath the flag. That strikes for helpless ones, And on to battle thousands move To free fair Cuba's sons. No matter where the colors wave. No matter when the time. They float for rights to every man, In every zone and clime. So, up and cheer the flaming red, The white and bonnj^ blue — The flag that cruel foemen hate — The emblem of the true. And as the Stars and Stripes unfurl, They tell the sweetest story Of freedom, life, and equal rights Made surer by Old Glory. 185 SONGS OF WAR. The Maine Disaster* Across the dingy, murky flood Havana's lights were g'leaming. On board the noble battleship The sailors brave were dreaming. The guards who paced the upper deck Saw naught but peaceful seas, And o'er their heads the Stars and Stripes Were flaunting in the breeze. ******* A flash! A roar! Volcanoes free! The gates of hell were shaken; Fire belched forth in seething streams, And souls from earth were taken. Three hundred patriotic hearts Were stilled in awful death — The pride of all the country's fleet Demolished in a breath! ******* Woe to Sj)ain, if treachery Has done this frightful deed! She'll pay the debt with interest; Her fate will be decreed. For every drop of blood that stained The shark-infested water, Spain will feel the penalty And know the jiain of slaughter. 186 THE SITBDUED PATEIOT. We breathe for those who passed away A benison of rest, And know that they have found at last The harbor of the blest. They died for country just as sure As those in battle's feud — A nation mourns her honored dead, And gives her gratitude. The Subdued Patriots A year ago he loudly howled That Cuba might be free; He longed to take a hand himself In eager jamboree. He'd leave his home and fireside, His dearest friends and all, He chafed for oi^portunity To answer duty's call. But now that war is really on And Cuba may be free, You'll find our friend in Montreal, As jDcaceful as can be. Urgent business called him there; He had to go, you know; He moved his blazing fireside A week or so ago. 187 SONGS OF WAR. What Would He Say? If a ghost should crawl to the tip of beam Of the wreck that lies in Havana's stream— What would old Weyler say? If the ghost should part his matted hair, And then with a frozen, deathly stare, Ask the butcher what he did there — What would old Weyler say? And then, again, if the Spanish scows Should run up against the Yankee's bows — What would old Weyler say? And the Yankee boys should rip and tear, Sending the shot through the smoky air, Smashing the Spaniards here and there — What would old Weyler say? Supposing, too, that General Lee Should hel^D to make those Cubans free — What would old Weyler say? If Lee should sit in the palace chair, And, gazing out on Havana square, Smile as he sees Old Glory there — What w^ould old Wej^ler say? 188 WHAT WOULD HE SAY? If a score or two of Gomez' men Should open the gates of Morro's pen — What would old Weyler say? Taking- the guards, desiDite their squalls, Throwing' them over the bolstered w^alls. Breaking them up like saw^lust dolls — What would old Weyler saj^? And what if a cruising boat or two Should hustle across the ocean blue — What would old Weyler say? And batter along the Spanish coast. Living a while on Spanish toast, And taking a nibble of Spianish roast — What would old Wej'ler say? And then when the snarling' fuss is o'er. And the Lone Star flag is over the door — What will old Weyler say? And the blazing torch is out at last. And Spanish rule is a thing of the past, And Cuba's freedom's firm and fast — What will old Weyler say? SONGS OF WAR. The Buena Ventura* He sat upon a shingle bunch, His pipe was in his hand; The Spaniard little dreamed that war Had struck his native land. And while the Buena Ventura Was speeding o'er the crest, A cruiser came along and put The Spanish shix3 to rest. He sat upon a shingle bunch, On lumber-laden ship; The cruiser fired a bounding ball To interrupt the trip. The Spaniard dropx^ed his stubby pipe, And rubbed his blinking e3''es. "Oh, ho!" The Spanish sailor said, "We're taken by surprise!" He sat upon a shingle bunch, On Spanish decks was he; Along the cruiser's whaleboat came; No longer was he free. They towed the ship to Florida, And tied her to the dock. "Oh, ho!" The Spanish sailor said, "They gave us quite a shock!" 190 HAVANA BAY. Havana Bay* Oh, the moon is rising o'er Havana bay, And the waves are splasliing- up against the quays. See, the lights along the shore begin to play, And the sighs of Cuba float upon the breeze. But the stillest are the waters over there, "Where sleeping sailors passed away from life, And no more will thej^ receive the tender care Of the mourning mother, sister, and the wife. Oh, the moon is rising o'er Havana bay. And the murky waters cover those who died. Though falling not while fighting in the fray, They were bravest for the dangers they defied. And although we'll never see them any more, ' We shall place the ivy wreath upon the grave, And remember what they did and what thej^ bore — They were heroes and the bravest of the brave. 191 SOXGS OF WAE. The Farmer on Deck* Needn't slice no more of 'taters, Not ez fer ez I'm consarned, Fer, Letitia, I'm a-goin' Ter the war, or I'll be darned. There are folks who know it all, Who think us farmers slow. An' who believe, Letitia, dear, Thet we're afraid ter g-o. An' so ternight I'm goin' ter milk Once more them Jersey cows. An' then, Letitia, some one else Can work beneath the mows. Fer jes' ez sure ez grass is green, An' the bloom is on the trees, I'm goin' ter take this homespun off, An' sail the Cubian seas. The only fun I've seen around The village streets fer years Is when old Darby tried ter j^oke Two bran' new kickin' steers. But now, Letitia, cast your eye Along the city papers; You'll read about some lively work, An' Dewej'^ cuttin' capers. 192 THE WINDY CHAP, An' SO I think I'll take er turn Et sojer life awhile, An' show them chaps with gilded braid Er bit of farmer's stj'le. I'm goin' ter join the town brigade, An' sling my trusty gun, An' show them Spanish jumj)in' jacks Er farmer's kind of fun. The Windy Chap* Ye'd think ter hear these galoots talk 'Bout war and bluddy scrappin', Thet all ye hed ter do wuz walk To where the tight 'ud happin. An' smile an' show yer sojer clothes Ter those whose skelps yer ^vant, An' they'd forgit they wuz yer foes An' run at speedy jaunt. 'Most allers them's ther chaps who howl 'Bout fightin' ev'ry buddy Who never, with er fightin' jowl. Gave face ter matters bluddy. I've never seed er sojer yit Whose bin all through sech trouble, Ter lose his hed an' throw er fit Et ev'ry burnin' stubble. 193 SONGS OF WAR. An' ten ter one the chaps thet scream Ter see sum shootin' cum, ■'Ud ne'er be missed, 'cej)t in er dream, By those they'd leave ter hum. An' those whose thoughts 'er serus-like, An' love ther wife an' child, IVhen forced ter raise an arm ter strike, Wunt strike er blow thet's wild. Don't mind ther chap whose buzzin' brain Sees daggers ev'ry minnit, Fer Avhen ther bombs an' bullets rain, This windmill wun't be in it. An' ef, bj^ chance, 'gin S^Dain we bump, Ther man whose done ther thinkin' Will bravely tight. Ther windy chump Ter Canada'll be slinkin'. The Soldier^s Sweetheart* Down the street. The tramping feet Keep pace to squeaking fife. The flag unfurled, By breezes curled, Will float above the strife. And rousing cheers Disperse the fears, As friends breathe out 'Adieu." Oh, raw recruit. In dusty suit. Your sweetheart weeps for you. 191 THE VOLUNTEER. And when asleep, In cannon's sweep, In land where fever reigns, You'll softly dream Of how things seem Way back in country lanes. When letters sweet, With love replete. Go down to Boys in Blue, They'll tell of tears And lonely fears, When sweethearts weep for you. The Volunteer* Head up! Shoulders squared And martial tread! To the war He's gone, 'Midst flying lead. Eyes right! Flag unfurled And prancing steed! Braving shot, Yellow fever, And the centipede. 195 SONGS OF WAR. Leaves behind A mouriiing' maid, With breaking heart. In fateful war And carnag'e hot She has no part. All she does Is stay at home And sob awaj^ In Cuban land Her volunteer Is in the fray. Ten to one When back he comes His cheeks will sallow be. And limping- gait Will tell the tale Of Spanish cruelty. All the same, This grinding down Of Cubans on the isle Must cease. Or Uncle Sam Will Spanish grinders file. 196 SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGN. METAMORPHOSIS. Metamorphosis ♦ And his mother didn't know him When she saw his picture there; He was candidate for something-; 'Twas an aldermanic chair. With his physog in the paper, He was cutting- quite a dash; He would make the bosses quiver When he swung- his little lash. For his hair is smoothly plastered O'er his alabaster brow, And his nose is Bonapartic; He has brains you will allow. And his moustache is a beauty; Great refinement it denotes, For his picture in the paper Is the thing to bring- the votes. But, alas! This politician Is a weazened little man. And is lifting- foaming- schooners. And a-filling- uj) the can. His saloon's around the corner, And he cannot write his name. But his picture in the paper Is a corker just the same. 199 SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGjST. What the Robin Said* What do you think the robin said, As he twittered among the trees? Eight from the south the robin came, From the land of the balmy seas. ''Surprised am I at the Ajiril snows, And the north winds blowing free, And food is as scarce as angel cake — Surprised am I," says he. ^'Another thing I fail to see," Said the red-breast, robin bird, **Why temperance folks can't win a case Before a jury heard. But juries are funny things, indeed, And wiser than I may be; If they should refuse a nip or two — Surprised I'd be," says he. *'When I went away in days of fall," And the robin winked his eye, *"Twas solemn-like and quiet here; If it wasn't, I hope to die. But since I have been in the sunny south, There's many a buzzing bee In the bonnets of men, for f)ostmaster — Surprised I am!" says he. 200 OH, WHY IS IT/ "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" and the robin hopped To the top of a picket fence. "I think I'll g-ather my baggag-e np. And get me a few miles hence, For all I can see are candidates. And they are too much for me; If I'm not away in a week or two, Surprised I'll be!" says he. Oh, Why Is It? Sometimes we see some funny things In local daily walks — 'Tis then the hungry poet sings. Of funny things he talks. He wonders how the wily man Who wears the mayor's crown Can steer the ship and wiselj' jDlan For other jobs in town. Or how it is some aldermen Can hold an office clear, And carry on our business when They're living miles from here. Who can tell the thoughts that ran Through politicians' minds. When those at Washington began To break the tie that binds. 201 SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGN. And queer it is to see the chaps, With faces lengthened out, Who sought reward in office snaps For stumping roundabout. Those who've paid the sewer fees, And lost the old receipt, Protest against the city's squeeze. In words we can't repeat. Can some one tell why rosy maids Who prize their reputations. Should watch and wait for actor blades, With throbbing palpitations? Or why is it that people throng To see the cheapest play, And spurn the show that comes along To higher art portray? And still we laugh and pass them by — And while the poet sings. We cannot keep from asking why There are such funny things. 202 SEASONABLE HINTS. Seasonable Hints, If we could have our gentle way in this the Christmas season, We'd give some handsome gifts away, or else we'd know the reason. The mayor wants the postal job — he's a lap ahead of Knox, And hopes to stamp the letters that we slip into the box. To Harring-ton, the debonair, whose taste is superfine, We'd give a contract, seal and all, with Sara, the divine. We'd seek to XDlease McFadden, too, a favor we'd be serving, In giving him the document that brings him Henry Irving. To Sulloway, who cries aloud for things beyond his reach. We'd give a berth for e\ery man who ever heard him preach. 203 SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGN. The men who have the streets in charge we'd give a little token, — A tract that tells them how to mend the streets with stones unbroken. The boss who runs the water-works with auto- cratic sway, We'd give the earth, a fence or two, and a promise to obey. And Wiggin, with his gentle smile, we'd give a big balloon. And ticket that would take him to the craters of the moon. And not the least upon the list is he from Antrim town, We'd give him keys to all the bars, and let him shut them down. To Henrj' Fife, the portly one, the man of chowders hot. We'd give a gun, with which, 'tis said, his big- gest clams are shot. And just to please the gay "Mel" Hall, we'd give him all the coons That he could shoot in all the nights for forty- 'leven moons. 204 HE HAS THE FLOOR. To Sheriff Neal of Auburn fame, we'd give a written scroll, Depicting- all the deeds he's done — 'twould make a pretty roll. Thus we'd sj)read the presents out (we spurn the proffered thanks). To every chap we'd give a j)i'ize — there'd be no Christmas blanks. He Has the Floor* Pull the throttle! Let 'er sliver! Take the tag from off the door! See the office holders shiver! Mayor Barry has the floor! And the cuckoo clock's a-raving% As it did in days of yore. And the palm is gently waving — Mayor Barry has the floor! In the storm he's never quailing, And unmindful of the roar. See the city ship's a-sailing! Mayor Barry has the floor! Piles of letters he is writing — Sort of diplomatic lore — No communication slighting. Mayor Barrj^ has the floor! 205 SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGN. Will we get some decent ]3aying, That is solid to the core? For that's Avhat we are craving — Mayor Barry has the floor! Eained the honors in profusion, Still a smile he calmlj^ wore, For the honor's no delusion — Mayor Barry has the floor! In his sanctum he will greet you. And not treat you as a bore; He'll be more than glad to meet you- Maj^or Barry has the floor! In a way he's quite a rustler; He's alive in every pore; He has shown himself a hustler — Mayor Barry has the floor! A Hoodoo in the Air. There's disorder in the camj)s of the local Sairy Gamps; Eepublicans are very much oppressed; It is patent every minute that New Hampshire isn't in it, And neither is Mark Hanna in the West. 206 A HOODOO IN THE AIR. Since McKinley took the chair, he has whitened all the hair Of office-holders dwelling hereabouts, For they can't begin to see what is called pros- peri tee, And they're choking- with their agonizing doubts. And Sulloway has risen, like a shaggy-headed bison. And tries to keep his district in the swim. While he's busy raising Cain, he can see but little gain, And McKinley doesn't hear his little hymn. It is tough to be forgotten, and quite positively rotten, That not a soul can find us on the map. You can safely win the bet that the plums he was to get Are not falling in the politician's lap. When promises are made, it is sad to see them fade Like the mist that melts away before the sun. There's a hoodoo in the air, with his wooly bunch of hair, And Sulloway is loading up his gun. 207 SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGN. Timely Valentines* [The following political verses accompanied a series of car- toons, drawn by John Edward Coffin, the versatile artist of the "Manchester Union." They were published February 14, 1898. J The Siren's Voice, [Mayor William C, Clarke.] Willie C, you'd happy be, With either dainty dame, If you could only now foretell The one who's worth the g-ame. So stick to both till something drops To help you in your choice; Unwise is he who always stops At every siren's voice. First and Only. [Henry M. Putney.] For you, the first McKinley man. The public drops a tear, To see you thus beneath the ban, And trudging in the rear. You and Percy figured well To give us each a plum. But why it is — we cannot tell — The plums have yet to come. 208 TIMELY VALENTINES. Cyrus the Blessed. [Congressman Cyrus A. Sulloway.] Oh, Cj^rus, with your flowing- locks, And free and airy ways, If you could hold the money box, You'd hallelujah raise. The gold and silver dollars, too. In mighty streams w^ould flow. And every one, no matter who. Would have some cash to blow. Ode to Percy. [Ex-Governqr P. C. Cheney .J How hard it is, my Percy, dear. That things you tried to get Are distant now — when once so near- 'Tis tough, my boy, you bet! The oflice went across the line. Where greenest mountains growj We scribble on your valentine,, The words, "I told you so.'* The Antrim Statesman. [Ex-Governor David H. Goodell.} Oh, Antrim never saw the day When men of great renown Before went forth with least delay To put the liquor down. 209 SONGS OF THE CAMPAIGN. A smile lights up his countenance, Kig-ht merry does he feel, If only he bj^ lightning- glance Can make the rummies squeal. The Modern Alexander. [Ex-Governor Charles A. Busiel.] Alexander cried for more, When worlds were scarce to get, But you, kind sir, can see in store Much more to conquer yet. You've sharpened up the rusty ax. The octopus to chop — The B. & M. would feel the whacks If you could run the shops. The Candidates* They are coming! They are coming! They are twentj^ thousand strong; They have money and they'll spend it. As they send the boom along. They have barrels and they'll break 'em, 'Twill be gold and silver, too. For it matters not the color; Any kind of cash will do. 210 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE GRANITE STATE. The Granite State^ We love our noble Granite State, Its rivulets and rills, Its rushing, g'usliing-, silver streams, That flow beneath the mills. The mountains kiss the golden clouds, Their peaks are standing guard, And down below the valley winds — Dame Nature's boulevard. We breathe the sparkling air that gives Eefreshing" life to all; No other state in all the land Can give our own the call. And see! The lakes are shimmering Beneath the noonday sun; They stretch from curving shore to shore And skirt the wooded run. Oh, keep your Indie's coral strand, Your canons and your plains; Switzerland is not for us; 'Tis nothing for your pains. Killarney's lakes mere puddles are, The Alps are in the shade — But let us keep the Granite State, The finest land that's made. 213 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Declined with Thanks. The midnight oil he wasted, As he wrote his merry lay, And the poet in the garret Labored on till break of day. He was dashing off the verses, While the muse was over-bold, And the frost upon the windows Made him shiver with the cold. Twenty sheets or more he covered With his burning words of love — 'Twas the poet's warmest handiwork, Inspired from above. When the day had fairly broken, With a twine of tender red, He tied the priceless pages, And to sell the poem sped. But, alas! The world's unfeeling. And the long-haired poet wept. For the critics said his verses Had propriety o'erstepped. And the tickets in life's lottery That day were virgin blanks; What the genius of the garret heard Was this: "Declined with thanks!" 214 NO PARTING THEEE. No Par tin §f There. Down the front he's always there; The big" bass drum is near; He smiles whene'er the dancer tries To kick the chandelier. His polished crown reflects the lig'ht. And shines with blinding- glare, And every one behind him notes There is no jiarting there. The missionary, sleek and fat. Went down to southern seas. And tried to win the cannibals With orthodoxal pleas. One day they placed the kettle on, For missionary fare; They didn't want to lose him and There was no parting there. He sat within his lonely cell. When some one handed in A little saw, with which he mig-ht His way to freedom win. He sawed with all his energy; 'Twas his to do and dare, But through the bars he couldn't cut — There was no parting there. 215 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. He wrote her many loving notes, And styled her "dove" and "pet," He longed to call her 'Vifey dear," On her his heart w^as set. But suddenly he changed his mind; She vengeance did declare; The court decreed, with damages, There'd be no parting there. The monkey climbed the waterspout, A cord tied to his belt; He tumbled o'er a cornice high — The tug his master felt. Dangling there, the monkey smiled. Though treading on the air; The cord Avas taut, and well he knew There'd be no parting there. Sun Glints. Said Peter Snooks to Mrs. Snooks: "I vow the sun's come out." Said Mrs. Snooks to Peter Snooks: "Of that there's not a doubt." Then Peter Snooks and INIrs. Snooks Forgot the rainy weather. And jumped aboard their shining wheels And scorched in finest feather. 216 AMOSKEAG. Amoskeag* Dear Amoskeag-! Little place of rest! Nestling by the placid stream Beneath the setting- sun, Blest the orchards, sweet they seem, Where youthful days were run. Fair Amoskeag! Place of shady trees! How cool the lanes in summer time. How broad the winding street, The fairest nook e'er sung in rhyme, The place of calm retreat. Old Amoskeag! The mem'ries you could tell! In days of Passaconnawaj^ The chief who ruled the hosts, 'Twas there he held the iron sway. And made his warring boasts. True Amoskeag! Where virtue was the queen! How many look to thee in tears. And bless the olden ways, When happiness repulsed the fears That came in later days. 21^ MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Peaceful Amoskeag! She lies there undisturbed! No spot conveys a sweeter thought Of old-time maidens fair, And in the shades were often sought The loves we liked to share. Trusted^ Busted* She was trusted! And she knew it! So she lived a happy life! And, disgusted. She did rue it — That she wasn't some one's wife. He was trusted! And he knew it! Manj^ bills occasioned strife. He was busted! They did do it— These collectors with a knife! They were flustered! And they knew it! When the maid became his wife! Both were trusted! Ne'er outgrew it! Trusted, busted— all thro' life. 218 THE LAND BEYOND THE SKY. The Land Beyond the Sky. You mustn't think I'm dreaming, Or my thoughts are flying- high — When I say there's gold a-gleaming In the land beyond the sky. See! The sun is soft reclining Down between the western hills, And the yellow shafts are shining While your soul with glory fills. And the clouds that once w^ere whiter Than the snow before the blast, Are in gold and silver brighter Than the ore in mountain fast. It looks as though 'twould easy be To step from off the sphere, And sail across the limpid sea That seems so very near. In the rounded hills and valleys Of the brilliant western sky, Not a yearning mortal dallies Till he finds the way to die. >10 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Then his soul may be will wander In the realms of fairest light, Throug-h the valleys over yonder, That are g-ladsonie to the sight. And you mustn't think I'm dreaming. Or my thoughts are flying high — When I say there's gold a-gleaming In the land beyond the sky. Pine Needles. You maj tell us of the cactus And the palm in southern clime, Of the blooming orange blossom And the lemon and the lime. You may talk about your lilies Of the river Amazon, And the roses of the tropics That are sweetest in the morn. But w^e care not for the roses And the lemon and the lime, Or the swinging orange blossom Of the wild and torrid clime. We envj^ not the gardens, Or the creeping jasmine vine; We are richer in the fragrance Of the needles of the pine. 220 THE ACROBATIC CORNER. The Acrobatic Corner. Now is the time of the rub-a-dub-dub Of the orchestra's acrobat man, Who jumps from the drum to the tinkle-dum.- dee, And makes all the noise that he can. The rat-a-tat -tat of the Castanet Makes music when he takes a hand, The flappety-tlap of the swishety-swash Is much like the jig* on the sand. Once in a while there's a slammety-bang As the cymbals come down with a crash, And shutting" your eyes, 'tis easy to hear The snap of the thunder-storm's lash. And funny indeed is the rud-a-dud-dud Of the bald-headed musical moke. Who rattles out tunes on pieces of wood With many a lightning- stroke. No minstrel is quicker than he with the bones, And he dotes on the tambourine. He flippety-flops all over the lot — He's the boss of the whole machine. 221 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. To My PenciL If all the secrets that you know Were told for publication, And all the deeds you noted down Had really some foundation, How widely read your tracks would be — No novel more entrancing — How many'd tremble, turn and flee At your savag-e necromancing. Perhaps in burning words you've said A hundred things or more To just as many pretty maids Who ne'er were loved before. And then you've jotted down the notes Of life's regretful side, And did the best your jDoint could do To tender secrets hide. In treating of a spoiled career Great favors you have shown, By leaving out the crooked part And thus the faults condone. You've glided through some wretch's name, To save some other's honor — Refrained from writing out at all The deeds of some dark corner. 222 THE FUSSY OLD MAID. In fact you've been the greatest friend To rich, the poor, and humble. You wrote the song- that soothed distress Or made the haughty tremble. Though worn at last to tiny stub You still have iDower behind you; I'll keej) you in some chosen siDot Where quicklj' I can find you. The Fussy Old Maid. The poplar's straight, and so is she, In body and soul alike. And also, too, the path she walks Is a straight and narrow pike. She neither turns her haughty face From one to the other side; She's fussy in all she undertakes, A fact she won't deride. But what would the crooked planet be With the fussy old maid awaj'? Although she's straight as the ijojplar tree She's comforting in her way. Her heart's as warm as the summer sun, Her kindness just as wide — The fussy old maid's the girl for me, A fact I can't deride. 223 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Awakeningfs* She walked a ducal palace, She wore a jewelled crown, She drove a span of horses, All around the town. O'er her silken corsage Gems were all agleam — But soon she was awakened, To find it but a dream. The sailor was a pirate. He shot across the main; Bigger'n Monte Christo, Riches were his bane. His vessel was the finest From masthead to the beam — But soon he was awakened To find it but a dream. She jumped upon the platform, Hurrahed for woman's rights, Called the man a tyrant. In oratory's flights. She pounded on the table; "Vengeance!" did she scream — But soon she was awakened To find it but a dream. 224 AWAKENIXGS. Soft the youthful lover Eeceived the answer "Yes," Pressed her to his bosom — The bonny, blue-eyed Bess. Her father g-ave his sanction. And blessings in a stream — But soon he was awakened To find it but a dream. She dwelt in crag-gy castles Along- the river Ehine; The sky was blue above her,, The air was superfine. All day she read a novel. With romance did it teem — But soon she was awakened To find it but a dream. And really when you've sifted An ordinary life — Treasured up the peaceful, Thrown away the strife — Of all the fleeting- moments Most painful you will deem — Are those when you're awakened To find it but a dream. 225 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Two Snowflafces* Two little snowflakes, Crj'stals and all, Came floating- along Quite late in the fall. Said one little flake: "I've just been a-wondering If in showing up early We haven't been blundering. "We're the first to arrive In this dreary old town, And everything here Is dirty and brown." The other flake said: "Well, what do you care? Let's rest from our journey- It don't matter where. "Now that we've started, Together we'll stay, So don't borrow trouble Thus early, I pray," A warm little chimney Loomed up in the night, And the feather3^ visitors There did alight. 226 trouble's eecipe. You hardly would think it, In this frosty weather, Those two little flakes Were melted together. And here lies a lesson For friends who confide, Stick close to each other When troubles abide. Trouble's Recipe* May be there's trouble in your soul — But why should you repine? Whj^ sip at all at worry's bowl — To drink the bitter wine? Just take a thought that cheers, With an ounce of don't-you-care, And smiles instead of salty tears — 'Twould clear the troubled air. Gray hairs come fast enough, my friend, Why help old age along? It lies with you to put an end To sorrow's mournful song. The past jou would not resurrect — You cannot reach ahead; The present time should not affect The rosy path you tread. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. If everybody dropped their work, And magnified their trouble, This life would be an endless shirk — A dismal, dreary bubble. So fill up the glass of contentment — Better than crying is kissing; Away with your bitter resentment^ — Think of the fun that you're missing. Sentimental Bill* "Sez I ter Mary Ann, sez I, 'Them fellers are a-smilin' Jes' becus I write a verse When sentiment's a-bilin', An' so I've laid awake a night An' started up ther mill. To scribble of my Mary Ann,' " Said Sentimental Bill. "She's jes' the craft that them galoots Don't find on every sea. My Mary Ann's a corker, an' She suits me to a T. I'll keep a punchin' up the muse, An' stick ter writin' till My Mary Ann is advertised," Said Sentimental Bill. 228 SENTIMENTAL BILL. "Sez I ter Mary Ann, sez I, 'You'll never wear a crown For bein' called a han'som' gal Or queen above renown. You're fat and freckled, Mary Ann, But jes' enough ter fill The achin' void I've lug-ged aroun',' " Said Sentimental Bill. "Them fellers don't begin to know Wot you ken do fer me. In runnin' things about ther house No better ken ther be, An' if I hev a spell er two An' try a fancy frill, Ther writin's fer my Mary Ann," Said Sentimental Bill. "Sez I ter Mary Ann, sez I, 'When these ere chaps began Ter have some fun at my expense, They had no Mary Ann. An' if they hed, jou bet yer life, They'd all be writin' still.' " And here he filled his pipe and puffed, Did Sentimental Bill. 229 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Giddy Scorcher. 'Tis now the giddy little girl, With checkered waist and all, Gets out the bike she put away In frosty days of fall. She'll take her Tarn o' Shanter hat From off the kitchen nail. And mount the speedy nickel steed And on the highways sail. Before another fall has come. And leaves begin to curl, She'll cultivate the lengthened pace, She will — the giddy girl! At scorching she may beat them all, With gear of ninety-eight; That she will ride two thousand miles We here prognosticate. So let her swizzle down the road, She knows what she's about; She's going to show the neighbors how She'll put her friends to rout. For just as sure as summer comes, This giddy little thing Will break her neck in beating out The scorcher on the wing. 230 THE EASTER CHICK. The Easter Chick. [During Eastertide, 1898, someone sent Kismet an "Easter chick," a diminutive souvenir of the season in yellow.] Everywhere the human eye Goes glancing- o'er the way, It sees the queerest chickens that Were born on Easter clay. Red and yellow, blue and white, Of cotton, wool, and paint — You'll find these chickens everywhere In form and manner quaint. Some have wooden beaks, and eyes Like little beads that shine, And splashing spots of black and white, Along the feathered spine. And little splinters, painted red, Make u^) their spindle legs — Such indeed the chicken is That springs from Easter eggs. For 'tis a fad, j^ou well must know, To send them through the mail, To friends who cannot help themselves — To whom a chicken's stale. For you'll confess, if fair you are, No truly hen could lay The funnj^ chicks we all have seen On the blithesome Easter day. 231 MISCELLANEOUS POEMis The Elastic Fish. [Dedicated to Harry C, Morrill, Fred S. Morrill, Bart N.Wilson' G. B. Little, and Oscar P. Stone, who visited Lake Winnipesau" kee, N. H., February 24, 1893, and experienced most remark" able luck.] No bolder men e'er left the town Than those who sallied forth To pull the trout from out the lake Some sixtA' miles due north. 'Twas frig-id when they started out To find the icy shore; The figures went below the notch To twenty-three or four. The lines were set and juicj^ bait Was dangling' at the end, And finny prizes soon were caught, More quickh' than 'tis penned. And one of them (now hold your breath) Was four feet long- and more, And weighed (they swore it did) Some twenty pounds or more. And all night long the jubilee In honor of the fish Aroused the echoes miles around — 'Twas hot as one could wish. But when thej' saw the trout again, On the keen and frosty morn, It didn't look quite half so large, And many pounds w^ere gone. 282 THE ELASTIC FISH. And on the day they started home, By cannon ball express, They looked ag-ain, and strange to say, The pounds were even less. And when they reached the citj^ streets And showed their finny prize. The speckled fish had drojjped away To an ordinarj^ size. And when they weighed the pesky trout To ascertain the truth. All this famous fish would stand Was just two pounds, forsooth. The spots were there, and flabby fins, The head, and eyes, and tail. But all the weight they figured on Was then of no avail. But still they tell the story o'er, Nor change a single word, About the biggest fish they caught, And how the thing occurred. They never get below the v»'eight They guessed the fish to be, When first they pulled the monster out And smiled in ecstasy. 233 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. By the Mountain Side* There's nothing- that can take the place (And the fact you'll not deride) Of the sparkling water, cold and pure, Of the spring- by the mountain side. And it trickles, trickles, trickles! Through a narrow rock divide, And moves along- the little trough To the spring by the mountain side. And 3'ou always find it happens That shady trees abide Where traveler stoops to quench his thirst At the spring by the mountain side. No throne has homage more devout. More love has not the bride. Than the patient stream that flows along To the spring by the mountain side. No secret does this little stream To you and me confide; We query not as we lowly bend At the spring bj'' the mountain side. At the music of its waters. The soul is satisfied. And daily sings the praises Of the spring by the mountain side. 234 GRIND OF THE MILLS. Grind of the Mills* The mills of the gods are slowly ground, The poets have opined, But what's the odds If mills of the gods Are slow in their daily grind? Some wheels go 'round with rapid pace; They're plaj'ing every prank; They alwaj^s squeak Whene'er a freak Is at the turning crank. Our little mills need patience oil To keep the wheels a-going. At any rate We've but to wait To see the grist a-flowing. The miller who re^Dineth not, Who sings throughout the day, Has sense enough To take the "stuff" Whene'er it comes his way. MISCELLAlNTEOX^S POEMS. The Gas Meter* See the spiteful hands a-jumping, Quite erratic in their dance, And the figures are a-humping — In the thousands they advance. And I wouldn't have believed it, If my mother'd told me so, That the bill, when I received it. Could have dealt me such a blow. And I fumed and gTCAv jpathetic At the meter's awful pace; I was gloomy and splenetic. As I scanned the dial face. And it passed my understanding. When I cut the burners down. As I found the thing demanding Everything I owned in town. I have come to this conclusion — That we cannot help the things That cause us great confusion When the meter gaily sings. And the gear is something frightful That revolves the stubby hands- Six months would be delightful — Just a day in Arctic lands. 236 DE COOX GAL S WINK. De Coon GaFs Wink* I'se a-lookin' fer de gal Who winked at me! Sweeter dan de sunrise — A-smilin' so free! Mah honey bloss'm! Fer de j-allar gal wid polka dots Uj) an' down her dress Is a posey, an' I knows it — Xo need ter have ter guess. 'Taint ev'ry coon gal A-winkin' at me! I'se a hallelujah niggah — Jes' what I be! Oh, mah chillun! Fer I'd hoe pertaters all de day, Keep a-weedin' at de co'n, If de yaller gal 'ud tote along Befo' de day is gone. Eyes of de coon gal Winkin' hard at me! So like de silver stars A-shinin' o' de sea! She's mah baby! Fer dis niggah's heart's a-bustin' An' I'se deader dan a mink. If I'se don't find de yaller gal Wot's a-givin' me de wink. 237 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. City Comforts* At first the water does a trick — It breaks rig-lit tliroug-h the pipe — Heaves up the street For many feet — And paving- bills are ripe! Then some one wants a sewer in — Tom Jones or Peter Hackett — Up comes the street For many feet^ — The city stands the racket. The smell of gas pervades the air, The pipes have rusted through — Then tear the street For many feet — We pay the bills when due. Additions to the trolley line Are always in demand — Oh, tear the street For many feet^ — 'Tis we who hire the band. And poles go up, and then come down, And poles go here and there. Eip up the street For many feet — The people pay the fare. 238 THEEE ARE OTHERS. Then dig it up, and up, and up! Don't hesitate at all To slash the street For many feet — We'll settle when you call. There Are Others. Our neighbor thinks he's just the chap To fill a certain place, That no one else on all the map Can beat him in the race. There are others! And Nifty Jones thinks all the votes Are being thrown for him, That aJl his friends take off their coats To keep him in the swim. There are others! If Klondike passage you have bought — The gold you try to reach — Don't claim it all, for you are not The only pebble on the beach. There are others! You seek a summer resting spot, A place where no one went, But quite beyond j^our fondest thought, A score that way are bent. There are others! 239 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Don't think because the gay soubrette Looks smilingly your way, That she's entangled in your net, And ne'er can say you nay. There are others! You may be of inventive mind — Your ideas more than latent, But don't you grumble when you find Some dutfer's got your patent. There are others! Just keep your head and plod along, To do your level best. And spurn the thought that you belong Away above the rest. There are others! The Veteran Fireman* [Dedicated to the Manchester Veteran Firemen's Association, band of tried and true fire fighters.] He ain't much use? Those words are pretty strong. We've seen the time He'd run and climb The best of all the throng. Just because he's grayer grown, And somewhat grizzled-like. You think his courage long has flown, To do with ax and pike. 240 THE VETERAN FIREMAN. You don't think? Ah, now you're talking, friend! In days g'one by We found him sjDry In battling to the end. He always braved the smoke and flame In day or deepest night; Call him now, he'll be the same. And fight with all his might. Think it over! Not long ago was Varick's fire. The grizzled vet Was out, you bet, To helj) in danger dire. Eemember how he offered, sir. To yank the old machine From out the shed and start the fur A-flying' on the green. And even now. In case our troubles come — You'll find him there To do and dare — The brakes will quickly hum. You'll find the stream is just as wet> The old machine will throw; There's muscle in the fireman yet. Who ran long, long ago. 241 MISCELLANEOL'S POEMS. Give him a chance! He'll show his head is calm — That blood will tell When steeple bell Eings out the wild alarm. Though hair is gray and grizzle, too, His eye is keen and bright; You'll find him when there's work to do In the thickest of the fight. The ModeL Golden tresses, laughing eyes. Blushes 'neath the curl, Dimf)les in the rosy cheeks, Teeth of brightest pearl. Taper fingers, rounded arm, Shoulders of a queen; Every move is symmetry. Goddess-like her mien. All she gets is ten a week, This bit of rare mosaic. Trying on the ladies' cloaks, A model quite prosaic. All the day she turns about Patient in her duty. Not a dame of upper ten Can beat her in her beauty. 212 HE LOVED HER. He Loved Her, He loved her, oh, he loved her, But not for wealth alone; He loved her through the speedy mails, And o'er the telephone. He loved her for her golden hair And eyes of swimming blue; He loved her, too, because she said She'd be forever true. He loved her, oh, he loved her, And worried all the day, Because he thought some other chap Would steal his love away. He swore he'd be her humble slave As long as breath was in him; He loved her, oh, he loved her, But fate was dead agin' him. He started out one night to call, And roses did he bring, But at the gate he met the purp, Who didn't do a thing. He chewed the chap who loved so much. And chased him from the door, And all the neighbors round about Ne'er saw the lover more. 243 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Flower GirL The day is not far distant — She'll be a shining* queen; As a leader in society, She'll beat the whole machine. But now she's there a-smiling-, And she reaches up her arm, For she's pinning' on the roses In a way that has a charm. We can see the time approaching, When the dimes are hard to get. And we'll wish we had a nosegay, When our sun begins to set. Her merry eyes are twinkling*, Her smile's the sweetest balm, While she's pinning on the roses As she stands beneath the palm. Perhaps she'll not forget us In the days that are to come, While she's flying in society — A-making- matters hum. May be when she's a-dreaming. And everything is calm, She would like to pin the roses As she stands beneath the palm. 244 A FRIEND'S ADVICE. A Friend^s Advice. [The fall of 1897 and spring of 1898 saw a great rush to Alaska and the Klondike regions in search of gold and many perished en route.] 'Twas nineteen hundred eighty-two, Some hundred years ahead, A Klondike tourist, keen of sight, Was through the countrj^ led. He pushed along for miles and miles, Right through the Chilkoot way, And when he'd tramped for fourteen weeks, He stopped to rest one day. At early morn he spied a block Of ice of queerest mold. He straightway smashed the chunk into A thousand bits, all told. • Quite ossified, a man rolled out — He couldn't say a word, But in his hand a scrawl was found, This message long deferred: "In eighteen hundred ninety-eight ('Twas in the month of May) I came out here to look for gold, And here I think I'll stay. 245 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. "Quite warm I've been and cosy-like, For food I ne'er have pined; These Arctic nights are great for sleep; Much quiet you will find. "Pray tell the friends I've left behind — When once you've read this paper — For frigid peace and solid rest, The Klondike's just the caper." The Rabbit's Foot. He wore the lucky rabbit's foot; It was a potent charm; It drove away the goblins and Protected him from harm. He hung it on his plated chain, And wore it night and day, For many moons when trouble came. With him 'twould never stay. Alas! One day a cyclone came And showed its angry teeth, It toppled o'er a granite block — The man was underneath. And when they cleared the wreck away The sight was sad indeed; Rabbit's foot and man were ground As fine as mustard seed. 246 TUMBLE AWAY, EED CLOUDS. Tumble Away, Red Clouds* Tumble away, Red clouds! You have no business here! Quickly flee Behind the sea; Your presence g-iveth fear. Tumble away. Red clouds! Soft background to the sun! The shining light, And brightened sight Make spirits lightly run. Tumble away, Red clouds! The sunset's reddened cast In colors flying Reflect the dying Of the gloomy day that's past. Tumble away, Red clouds! There's no more use for you. We've the warning That the morning With blessings God will strew. 24'] MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Tumble away, Eed clouds! Go bless the antipodes! For other ruen Will see you when You rise bej^ond the seas. Tumble away, Eed clouds! Quite well we've learned your story. You've taug-ht us how To meekly bow Before His tinted glory. Whafs the Use! In hot July you cry for snow — What's the use! In winter time you'd summer know — What's the use! If dry, you'd rather have the rain, If wet, you want it dry again. Oh, what's the use! Your coffers filled, you praise the poor- What's the use! And poverty you can't endure! What's the use! If rich, a cottage life will do. Penniless, the opposite is true. Oh, what's the use! 24% what's the use! Sing-le, you hail the married state. What's the use! Married, 'tis such a dreadful fate. What's the use! You swear to cling- to her forever, Then you haste the bonds to sever. Oh, what's the use! *Tis yearning-, Avishing all the time — W^hat's the use! Now 3^ou're foolish, then sublime! What's the use! First you're up and then you're down, Now a smile and then a frown. Oh, what's the use! There's little use in repining. What's the use! Gold is better in refining! What's the use! Worry trebles all your fears, Makes you older than your years. Oh, what's the use! 249 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Those Babies* There are babies always squealing In the block across the way — The music's o'er me stealing, And their songs have come to stay. And their little fists are pounding, A la Corbett in the ring; I can hear their cries resounding As the little devils sing. Oh, those babies, how they prattle, In a language of their own, And you can't withstand the rattle Of an alphabet unknown. And the racket is appalling, Such a din you never heard; Oh, the bawling and the squalling. And you say a naughty word. But the subject is a sticker. Now that you're upon the shelf. You were once a squalling kicker, And a noisy kid yourself. 250 THE CHAPERONE. The Chaperone* There she sweeps along the hall, Curt's'ing- here and there, Shoulders gleam beneath the shawl, Jewels in her hair. In her train are angels three, Fairy eyes and all; As thej^ pass, they gaze at me, And then their lashes fall. And oh, that I were in her place, And just a chaperone, Time would fly at rapid pace, And I'd not be alone. Dancing with those angels three. Would be my fond delight — Happy would yours truly be All through the merry night. Strange it seems that fevered dames. Who've been through battles many. Should first inspect our modest claims, If we, poor men, had any. But after all, perhaps 'tis true. The chaperone's all right. Because she's had so much to do With everything in sight. 251 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Telephone GirL What maiden in all history (Name her if you can!) Could sit all day and listen To the twittering's of man? The follies and the jollies Which begin at early morn — Like the g-irl who sits and listens When the telejihone is on. Her voice — is like an angel's; She is patient all the day; While you mutter and you sputter, She has fewest "words to say. She answers you so sweetly When your soul is boiling- o'er, As when she says "Connected," And your wrath flies out the door. Do you ever stop to ponder On the iDCople she must greet? That no introduction aids her With the ones she has to meet? She must be most diplomatic With all kinds of cranky men. Let's remember and be kindly When we si^eak to her again. 252 THE MINISTER S WIFE. So, "Hello," my iDatient maiden, May you ever liaf)py be; May no "crosses" e'er disturb you, And to you we bend the knee. May your voice grow ever sweeter. And your labors lig-hter, too; May we all be quite considerate When with vou — we have to do. The Minister's Wife. In daily life she always smiles. Brimful her voice with cheer; The softened tones do much to heal The pain and dry the tear. Xo sermons does she try to preach, No other doctrines mock — She's sweet — that's all — this loving wife Of him who guides the flock. And after all, perhaps 'tis she Whose inspiration leads The man of cloth to save the world By planting- gospel seeds. No D. D.'s tacked upon her name, Quite humble is her station, But what she does in quiet way Invites our admiration. 253 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Proof reader. Fat and hearty, there he sits, A king- upon his throne, And dashes here, and scratches there He makes with heart of stone. A streak of gray is in his hair, And lines upon his face; A smile is there, you'd think that he Sat in a happy place. Alas! He's troubled all the time, And worried beyond measure. Not beneath that sunny smile Is much of honeyed pleasure. Ads. and all he reads the same, The sentiment is wanting-; He knows just how the thing should be, And commas he is flaunting. And when mistakes are often made, The cause we little reck. We jump upon this knowing chap. And land him in the neck. 254 YOUR SILVER WEDDING. Your Silver Wedding. [Dedicated to Mr. and Mrs. J, H. Bartlett, East Manchester, June 30, 1898.] Years have passed — just twenty-five, Since God hath bound together Man and maid in love's estate, In niatrinion3''s tether. Kind fortune never once has failed To bless these smiling- friends. And g-ifts she showered now and then Were used to wisest ends. Many suns have soft declined Behind the western hills. And ushered in the restful night. When sleep its measure fills. Days of sorrow, — sunshine, too. Have been their lot to bear, And each has borne the burdens well, Their just and equal share. The world has seen most rapid change, As history's pages turned; Men have come and men have gone. And lessons have been learned. Some survived the battle's din. And won eternal fame. Others failed to help themselves And gave to others blame. 255 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But sweet it is to meet j^ou here, With friends who know you well, Who like you for your mental worth, Who loud 3^our praises swell. You've fought the fight of many years; Your patience is rewarded; We join with j'ou in praising Him In blessings He's accorded. And there are those who'll ne'er forget That day in Barnstead fair, When blithesome maid; and rosy cheeked, Breathed out the marriage prayer. She trusted all to whom she gave Her hand in wedded state, And he has proved beyond a doubt A sturdy, helping mate. She does not weep in vain regret That choice was rudely placed, And he has not a word to say That time should be effaced. For man and wife have sweetly lived In harmony and bliss, And love has grown more fragrant, too, Since first they gave the kiss. We give to thee our boundless love. Our hopes for brightest days. We pledge our friendship, warm and true. No matter where thy ways. 256 A SUHE THING. We trust that fortune, once so kind, May shine in future years, And bring to thee the best of all, — The faith that covers fears. A Sure Thingf* I left a maid behind me — The girl with the twinkling eye, With tresses so bright That they shone in the night, And she breathed a sigh. For she told me how she loved me, And her manner was a treat; She smiled and smiled And my heart beguiled. With her glances sweet. Her siDirit's always near me — This maid I left behind. Her smile I feel From head to heel, With joy that's unconfined. And the maid I left behind, The girl with twinkling eye, May safely bet My love she'll get, Or I'll know the reason why. 257 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Mary Jane's Advice* In the flicker of the firelight Sot Mary Jane an' me, A-talking' o'er the olden time, From A to crooked Z. We talked about our Samuel, Fer I couldn't understand Why he roved an' spent his earnin's In a way to beat the band. "You know," sez I ter Mary, "I trained him fer to be A man of much distinction, An' a source of pride ter me. An' here he's been a sportin' An' a sorter flyin' high, An' a-spendin' all his monej^ — Ef he hain't I hope ter die." Now, Mary alius hed a heart. An' a heart that alius bled, Ef I criticized our Samuel, No matter what wuz sed. An' her smile wuz kinder lovin' As she put her face to mine; 'Twas alius sorter wonderful The way her eyes did shine. 258 THE SPARK IS THERE. "Now, Eben," sed my Maiy, '"Twuzn't many years ago, When you sailed around the county In a way that wuzn't slow. Ther man he wuz a g-ood one Who could lead you in the dance, So, Eben, hold your hosses, An' give our Sam a chance." An' I sorter thought it over, As mj' eyes began ter dim, Thet Mary knew a thing or two Ef she was a little prim. An' so I hev concluded Ter let our Sammy be, In hopes he'll be successful, An' a source of pride ter me. The Spark is There. Don't light 3'our fire with kerosene — This oil is no illusion. For rich and poor, the good and mean, It stirs up much confusion. For you can bet the spark is there That sets the flame a-prancing. A whiff and bang! Up in the air Goes maid and can a-dancing. 259 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The New Woman* Tyrolean hat and Collars and cuffs She wears with the greatest ease; And Annabelle dotes On tailor-made coats With pockets and all, if you please. No terrors have fences For dear Annabelle — Over she goes with a smile; She tackles the gym With a rush and a vim In keeping with masculine style. She boxes and fences, Punches the bag, And ventures the rowing machine; Hangs by her knees To the flying trapeze. And rivals the aerial queen. She swims like a duck And runs like a deer; No jockey can ride a horse faster; The scorcher must bend And race to the end If his mind is made up to go past her. 260 PLAIN DOG. But when the new woman Tries throwing a stone — The gods never saw such a sight; And betting is safe No masculine waif Can tell where that stone will alight. Plain Dog. Only a dog! And yellow at that, With matted and shaggy hair — He scratched and scratched And scratched and scratched — Much trouble he had to bear. Only a dog! With short, stumpy tail, And as dirty as he could be — He whined and whined And whined and whined Whenerer he couldn't agree. Onlj' a dog! Like beads his eyes, They glittered from morn till night — He barked and barked And barked and barked, But never was known to bite. 261 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Only a dog! And a measly purp — One of the smallest fry. He sniffed and snuffed And sniffed and snuffed And clipped at a blue bottle fly. Only a dog! And lie wiggled along For the eat on the backyard fence. He scurried and scurried And scurried and scurried — The little dog lost his sense. Only a dog! And a no-account cur! Oh, why was he put here at all? He sleeps and sleeps And sleeps and sleeps, Like a tangled up, yellow-brown ball. Only a dog! But more lucky he Than many a loving swain would be; He's petted and petted And petted and petted By the fairest maid you ever did see! 262 ONLY A HAIR. Only A Hain 'Twas one of a bunch Of golden locks — Only a single hair! It placed my friend In a frightful box — Yet only a single hair! On the wings of the wind It may have come — This innocent little hair! But no matter how, It made things hum — And only a single hair! He carried it home On his coat lapel — Only a single hair! The more he explained The less he could tell Of the little strand of hair! The trouble it caused Was simply immense — Yet only a single hair! Tears and reproach And long arguments Concerning this little hair! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. My friend has become Most carefully neat, And looks for the little hair! He brushes his clothes From head to his feet, His eye on the single hair! While none Avill deny That manj' a life Is saved by a single hair! Yet many a chap Falls out with his wife On account of a single hair! The Pattering: Rain. How oft in the night You are softly awakened By jingle of sash and -pane — The music is clear, As it comes to the ear, Of the sound of the i)attering rain. The twinkle of stars In the fine summer eve Told not of the storm in the main, But the noise in the night, Though ever so slight, Was the sound of the jDattering rain. 264 THE PATTERING RAIN. The tin roof rumbled And grumbled and groaned, The wind whistled doleful refrain, And purely in pique, The blind gave a squeak At the sound of the pattering rain. And over you rolled In the tumbled-up bed — The hours you counted in vain; You juggled for sleep. And curses were deep, For the sound of the pattering rain. It pelted and splashed And spattered the earth- Squeak went the blind again! And above all the rattle And din of the bat.tle Was the sound of the pattering rain. The break of the day Saw the rays of the sun. And Nature did innocence feign. But a pert little puddle Told her of the muddle Which came of the pattering rain. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Birthdays, What! A birthday? Sixteen, or twenty, thirty-eight, Or fifty-two! But you're a girl! To tell the years you've wrestled fate Would never do! A secret of your own? Very well, my dear, tell it not To any one. I need not guess? Just let me try a fancy shot^ — It's only fun. Your eyes seem twenty! I'd swear those ruby lips were Sixteen fair. Tassels on the corn. Which the summer breezes stir. Are like j'our hair. A mind of forty Scintillates like moonlight rays Across the sea. And, indej)endent like, Tells me that in many ways We can't agree! 266 DIVIDE BY TWO. Add the given figures! And seventj'-six the fleeting years Count up. Saucy man, am I? Pray don't let your angry fears Mount up. You're only twenty-two? So, after all, perhaps I've been A cruel bore, For girls like you Often know much more than men Of sixtv-four! Divide by Two. If all you hear were really true. You might have cause to feel That life indeed had pleasures few And w'ounds would never heal. No story told in all the years Since time was first allotted, But what the plot somehow appears A little bit distorted. So, what's the use of losing sleep O'er what the gossips say; Divide by tw^o — the balance keep — And truth will win the day. 267 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Boom the Celebration. [For many years it had been customarv for the Man- chester, N. H., Board of Trade to coaduct a celebration each fall, known as "Merchants' Week." In 1897, the board ofifered prizes for ideas for Merchants' week features.] Merchants' week will soon be here; We need your close attention; What ^ve want is a good idea To boom the celebration. And fear not that your little scheme Will meet with quick rejection; Turn on the valve and raise the steam, And g'ive us some selection. A diamond stud is a beauty prize For the man who jumps the river — A piarachute for the chap who flies To the lake without a quiver. If a thousand pounds some youth will raise And thus outdo his neighbor, His prize will be just thirty days At Grasmere, with hard labor. And scientific burg-lars, keen, With little perturbation, Could crack a safe, and do it clean, And win our approbation. BOOM THE CELEBRATION. The g-ay and festive city dad, Who has no ax to grind, Would make a show that's not so bad, Because he's hard to find. The Leag-ue mig-ht into favor climb. And gfive a sundry quarter To the chump who drinks in quickest time A gallon or so of water. A scheme that takes its place in front. In which we might embark, Would be a red-hot lion hunt, In the famous West Side park. A chariot race on Hanover hill — A slide from the highest steeple — And other things would till the bill For the g'reat and only j)eople. As Merchants' week will soon be here, We need your close attention. What we want is a good idea To boom the celebration. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. To My Pipe. I caress you in m^'^ day-dreams For the blessings that you give, And the soothing of your incense Makes it worth the while to live. Though you're black from constant usage, And your bowl is burned awaj^ You have been my dear companion In the thickest of the fray. Though you're scarred and somewhat dingy, You are worth your weight in gold, Just because j'ou've shared mj' sorrows In the hardened days of old. I'll not see you badly treated, But I'll place you in your nest, 'Tween the covers lined with velvet, Where you'll find a needed rest. And quite well do I remember, As I toiled in midnight hours, When my brain seemed over-splitting, And my troubles came in showers, That j'ou brought me solace tender, And dispelled my anxious fears, In a way that earned my blessing, And repulsed the crowding tears. 270 SOMETHING WRONG. When the storm was angry, howling, And the wind was over-bold. When the rafters were a-creaking, In the dead of winter, cold, You and I beside the mantel, As contented as could be, Bade defiance to the raging Of the swirling jamboree. To my pipe I pay devotion, As a friend of truest steel. And I won't forget your comfort When you answer my appeal. For you've lightened all my labors, And removed the grinding" pain, So I place you with my treasures, As I murmur this refrain. Something Wrong* There's something wrong with you, my friend, When you begin to think That from the cup of keen regret You only are to drink. There's something wrong, you can't deny. When you are wony's prey. And when you think that no one else Has sorrows to allay. 271 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. There's something- wrong about your life Whene'er your mind reverts To thoughts that all the world should bow Whene'er your pride asserts. There's something wrong when you believe You are the only chajp Who should receive the best of all That drops from Fortune's lap. The Narcissus^ Her dainty hand had pinned it there, And, bending low, she smiled, — Narcissus, golden, sweet-perfumed, Whose fragrance soft-beguiled. He wore it in his buttonhole, And everywhere he went He thought of her who pinned it there, And wondered what she meant. But sentiment was lacking there. She didn't care a thing; She only pinned the flower there For what the bud would bring. From noon till night she stayed behind The counter in the store. And pinned the buds upon the coats Of masculines galore. 272 THEN AND NOW. Then and Now. Softlj^ stealing- o'er the flood, the music of the night Enthralled the senses, stifled grief, and put the pain to flight. Silver ripples kept the time, the strains grew softly sweeter; Twinkling stars seemed brighter as we listened to the metre. And as we paused on moonlit shores, beneath the silent skies, I asked her for her j)lighted love — she answered with her eyes. And then the music glided on from o'er the distant water. And as I heard the dulcet tones I knew that I had caught her. That was very long ago, when we were both romantic ; Now we live in city flats beside the old Atlantic. The hurdy-gurdy's all we hear — the dago's at the crank — 'Tis then we wish that we were back on the moonlit, lakeside bank. 273 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. To My Paper- Weight. Days and days j^ou've rested there Upon my block of paper; All 3^ou do is but to stare When pen nibs cut a caper. Were you blessed with s^Deaking tones And read what's underlined, I pity all the little thrones That would be undermined. You have seen the crooked tracks That pen and ink have rolled; Well you know the stacks and stacks Of secrets thej^ have told. And if your lips could softened be, And you would tell my story, Ink would cease to run so free, And dimmed would be your glory. I'd gently take you far away, And drop you in the stream, Where you should ever, ever stay — A faded, shattered dream. A weighty thing you are, indeed, And that's your only virtue; I onl}' ask that you shall heed My secrets or — I'll hurt you. 274 TO EGBERT. To Robert* A little mound now marks the place Where darling- Eobert's sleeping. Eolling" time cannot efface Our cause for tender weeping. The roll of drum could not be heard— No XDomjD was shown the dead, And well it might be here inferred No eulogy was said. The wind is whistling o'er the main, 'Tis rustling through the reeds; I feel the trace of sorrow's pain, My heart for Robert bleeds. For when I knew the gay deceased, He revelled in the night, While I enjoyed his vocal feast And swore a mig-htv sig'ht. A bottle laid i)oor Eobert low, A target did I make him; He never knew who gave the blow, And music did forsake him. We gently lifted Robert up — He lies beneath the mound; O'er him bends the buttercup And rest has Robert found. 275 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A Week of Salt. [During our particularly frigid season in Manchester, the street department sprinkled salt on the public sidewalks to melt the ice. The results were astonishing in all walks of life.] There was salt upon the crossing" and upon the gutters tossing, And salt we found upon the office floor, For it ate our winter rubbers, and we cursed the careless lubbers Who threw salt in quantities galore. On the sidewalk brightly gleaming, see the snow and ice a-steaming, As the salt is getting* in its deadly work. How we wallowed in the slush and cavorted in the mush, And everywhere the salty brine did lurk. Sing, ho! The sloppy messes, that disfigured ladies' dresses, As the angels picked their way along the street, For the bug from Buffalo and the moth that's on the go Couldn't make the damage any more complete. For wherever we'd be roaming, in the morning or the gloaming, There was salt in every corner in the town — In the office and the store, where it never was before, And the salty paths go running up and down. 276 MEKCENARY, If all you want is salt, you can find but little fault, For the stuff is staying- by you all the day. You can find it in the nig-ht, like the yellow fever blight. In the cosy home, the church, or at the play. Mercenary* I stroked the silken tresses, and I peered into her eyes. And rog-uish-like she gave me such a smile. I ventured to remind her that she was a dainty prize For the fellow who was smitten by her style. She tossed her head away from me, her eyes were flashing fire, And I plainly saw she couldn't take a hint. "I'll have you understand," said she, "you'll have to see my sire, And prove to him you run a private mint." MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Gallant Capt'in* O'Malley, raise the windy, Look out upon the say, The waves are bilin' over. The storm is on the bay. I see a ship a-lurehin' Furninst the pointed rocks; Upon me sowl, O'Mallej', The capt'in's in a box. You hear the sails a-flappin' Agin the crakin' mast; A sixpence is me wager The ship has seen its last. Two hundred feet'll bring her A-crashin' on the shore; Me heart is heavy batin' It trembles to the core. Upon me sowl, O'Malley, An' do me eyes desave? That capt'in is a dandy; No lion is as brave. He's sent the ship a-whirlin' Her bow divides the gale; She's puttin' out to seaward And layin' on the sail. O'Malley, shl^t the windy; Let's take a warmin' nip. An' praise the gallant capt'in For savin' of his ship. 278 THE FEIEND WHO STICKS. The Friend Who Sticks. Hail the clay that brings the gladness Of a friend M'ho's newly found, If in him you find the virtue Of devotion true and sound. And the friend who throws the scandal To the winds that distant blow- He's the friend to cherish always In the summer time and snow. Eare they are, and wide apart, The friends wiiom yo\i may trust; Never let them go at all, And value them you must. He's the friend who sticks it out And backs you when in need; Such a friend is just the man Who's always kind in deed. Such a friend is w^orth his weight In purest kind of gold. And don't forget to keep him with The tightest kind of hold. 279 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Calm Down, My Honey* If a friend should i^ass you bj^ And he didn't tell you ^vhJ^ Calm down, my honey! For x^erhajjs he didn't know That you were So-and-so, Calm down, my honey! The girl you love, i^erhaps, May smile on other chaps, Calm down, my honej'! Her heart may still be true And she may be trying- you, Calm down, my honejM When the sun is seldom shining And there is no silver lining. Calm down, my honey! There are burdens quite enough — Though the path of life be rough, Calm down, my honey! 280 WHY DO THEY Why Do They? Whj' does the woman coax the man With fascinating- smiles, And then berate him just because He yielded to her wiles? Why does the faded, yaller purp Persist in running- out, And barking, biting, stir the wrath Of wheelmen round about? Why does the chap on ten a week. And scarcely out of debt. Buy flowers and present them to The flaxen-haired soubrette? Why does the maid with straightened bangs And thin, cadaverous face, Go scorching up and down the street At the warmest kind of pace? Why does the man of shaggy beard And manners quite passe. Think every girl who comes along Is looking just his way? 281 MISCELLANEOUS POE^klS. Why does the artist on the bike, Without the least cessation, Proclaim his wheel to be the best There is in all creation? Why do the lover's mellow eyes Discern with adulation Much beauty in the homely one To whom he pays devotion? The Sweetly Graduated* 'Tis now the time of prose and rhyme, When girls in pink and white Prepare to read their little screed And set the w^orld aright. The manly boy is now to toy With problems that beset us — He'll let us know that he can show The plan that will relieve us. It's well, perhaps, that all the raps With which our lives are freighted, Will not be found, till years come 'round, To the sweetly graduated. 282 SOON. Soon* Soon will melt the muddy ice Before the noonday sun; Soon will all the city streets Like rivers swiftly run. Soon will overshoes be thrown Away for russet ties; Soon will marbles please the boys, And bats knock out the flies. Soon will all arbutus fiends 0'ertrami3 the hill and dale; Soon will bock and other stuff Eeplace the bitter ale. Soon will dust before the wind Close up each open eye; Soon will awning-s touch the hat Of him who's six feet high. Soon will men of many mills Behold the river rise; Soon will weakened bridges know The blow that will surprise. Soon will artful candidates Surround you with their claims, Soon will circus bills go uj), As lurid as the flames. MISCELLANEOt^S POEMS. Soon will silk and cotton take The place of flannel shirts; Soon will polka clots and stripes Bedeck the dandy squirts. Soon will maidens disappear To sands of cooling seas; Soon will summer boarders throw Their money to the breeze. Soon will Spain repent the crime That killed the boys in blue; Soon will Uncle Sam wake up To what he ought to do. Soon the Stars and Stripes will fly Above Castilian lands; Scon will all the world applaud The way this country stands. The Twinkling: Star. Twinkle, twinkle, little star! Now you're in your glory. Through your advertising man We've heard your pretty story. All the summer you have been Through trials that are frightful; You've lost your jewels many times- The ad. was most delightful. LIFE. For all the narrow squeaks you've had, It must be understood, That many go to see you act Who never thought you could. Life. Dreaming, Seeming, By the way, Hoping, Groping, All the day. Pleading, Bleeding, Dodging strife. Slaving, Saving, That is life. Ailing, Failing, Never mend. Crying, Dying, That's the end. 285 MISCELLAXEOUS POEMS. Lines to a Youngf Man, [In the latter part of January, 1898, Col. Harry B. Cilley left for the Pacific slope. On the evening preceding his departure, a number of the members of the Derryfleld Club tendered Mr. Cilley a banquet at the club rooms, and one of the features of the exercises was the reading of these "Lines to a Young Man," designed to comfort Mr. Cilley on his long trip to the West.] Long, long ago we heard it said, that empire westward goes, And where it rests is golden wealth and liquid honey flows; And now we're told that one of us, of whom we're over-fond, Is soon to turn his collar up, and leave for parts beyond. O'er rivers, bridges high, and canons and cre- vasses. Brother Cilley soon will flit through snowy mountain passes; Then bej^ond the Eockj^ peaks, he'll sail to balmj^ coasts, And Californy'll have the chap who now re- ceives our toasts. He's soon to leave a mother dear, and father, kind, protecting. Whose whitened hairs, paternal like, are times of frost reflecting. The Audubons of local fame who love the plumaged bird. Will lose the one who tames them all — No mat- ter what's inferred. 286 LINES TO A YOUNG MAN. We'd like to offer just a word to him who now departs — Advice that comes from, surging- brains and overloaded hearts. Eemember, friend, away from home, tempta- tions may beset jon, And knowing this, we'll tell you now, in prayers we'll not forget you. Cigarettes, the noxious things, bring youth to early grave, And when the habit's once begun, said youth is hard to save. We know you never use the weed, and caution may be wasted. But still, advice we'd like to give before the things are tasted. O'er the mountains, near the sea, along the golden slope. We're told that maidens, liquid-eyed, are prone to oft elope. Their sunny hair, and rounded cheeks, and shoulders passing fair. Are charms that blind the strangers' eyes and drag them to the snare. Of all the trials known to man, the siren's art's the worst, And if our brother Cilley falls, perhajDs he's not the first. 287 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Full well we know the Golden Gate has seldom seen a man Whose gallantry outshines them all — he loves whene'er he can. In military form and code, the western state will gain A stickler with the sword and gun, and sol- dier without stain. In golden laces, buttons bright, and rigid etiquette, We feel our friend is just the one to lead the social set. In club affairs he's had his hand upon the steering wheel, And oftentimes reproved the boys — but not with iron heel. We'd take his warning sober-like — our punish- ment like men. But when our brother's back was turned, we'd break the rules again. Now, when you cross the great divide and settle on your claim. We wish you'd use your silver tongue — uphold industry's name. Wicked men have tried to say that why the mills were stopped Was just because the people turned and to McKinlej^ flopped. 288 LINES TO A YOUNG MAN. That this is false, we need not say, you know the East too well; The reason why the mills were stopped, takes us much time to tell. We'd like to have you spread the news that we are here to stay; We hope to see, at early date, a new and brighter day. We have told you what to do, when at your journey's end; We know Dame Fortune, softly wooed, will many blessings send. We see you now amid the groves, with fragrant blossoms o'er you; We know you'll own the state in time — the world is now before you. 289 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Lochinvar up to Date* Gay Loehinvar came 'round the bend And steam came from his wheels; Hot love his heart did sadly rend — You know just how that feels. Gay Loehinvar! No horse for him! No kingdoms would he trade; He'd sooner trust his life and limb To bikes of standard grade. Gay Loehinvar, no fear had he, As he landed at the gate; He grabbed his wheel, and — Gracious me! How Loehinvar did skat-e! 290 LINES TO KISMET. TO KISMET. To Kismet* Like Proteus in thy changes, in thy rich and endless ranges, Chameleon-like in hue! In thy weird and oft fantastic, seldom dull, nor yet bombastic. Plow of rhyme and reason true, Thou has set us all a-pond'ring, o'er thy laby- rinthal wand'ring. Whence thou art and who. Not a sombre, solemn raven, vainly searching for a haven When the storms begin to brew; Seeking vainly and despairing, in desperation then repairing To the musty, dusty shelter of a night re- porter's room. Sure the rustle and the bustle, the hustle and the tussle With manuscript and contents, would dull thy spirit soon. Whence then comes this inspiration? On whose silent meditation Fall these bright and fairy fancies, so remark- ably rare, LINES TO KISMET. Touched at times with the poetic, graced again with the aesthetic, And at all times energetic, with the stamp of "do or dare"? Is thy soul so nobly fashioned and thy heart so deep impassioned As to sympathize with every human woe? Wouldst thou share thy cheer with sorrow, and lend to him who'd borrow, And forget it on the morrow? I think, no! — Tancred. To Tancred* See the sloping hills and mountains! Hear the gurgle of the fountains! Dost thou scent the fragrant flowers? Is not Nature quite inspiring, in her changes quite untiring, As she leads thee to her bowers? Wouldst thou banish all the beauty that is helpful in thy duty, And changeless wish the hours? Didst thou ever see a raven, but a thieving bird and craven, And a coward at the coming of the storm? Was not Tancred in his might a "perfect, gentle knight," 294 TO TANCEED. Fighting bravely in the East to relieve a sacred land? Had he figured in the bustle of the night re- j)orter's hustle Victory would have rested with the old Cru- sader band. 'Tis a weakened inspiration that depends on meditation, When broken hearts around us cause us sympa- thetic tears; He who meditates — delays, and neglects the thousand ways Of relieving all the throbbings, and the griev- ings and the fears. show the gleaming Of the love that tends to human beings bless. Wouldst thou lend thy cheer to sorrow, and expect it back to-morrow, And chasten him who'd borrow? I think, yes! — Kismet. 295 LINES TO KISMET. Firstly. I'm deeply interested, as I read the morning' news, In the Cuban situation and the leading coinag'e views, The dismemberment of China and Africa's sad fate, And the rocks that seem to threaten the good old ship of state. I want to know the weather and the latest Klondike bluff, And about those office seekers who never get enough; The doings of "sassiety" of high and low degree, And the chronic labor troubles mostly always trouble me. But the thing I look for firstly, I don't mind telling you, Is the modest poet's corner, and T have to read it through Just to satisfy myself that Kismet's shining- still, Then I know that everything is going well, or will. —Sumner F. Claflin. Manchester, February 1, 1898. 296 TO KISMET. To Kismet. [Suggested by reading his poems in the Daily "Union."] I am no gifted poet To mount Pegasus fleet, And cantering and fljdng Go scale Parnassus steep. A shaky piebald hack is all The steed I have to ride, So please excuse my verses — Don't say, "Why have you tried?" My sphere is somewhat circumscribed. My pen is weak and tame; I do not write for money, Nor yet for dearer fame. For 'tis not in my usual line To cut up such a caper; Give him the praise whose num'rous lays Light up our daily paper. For whether it is Cuba's war, Or Klondike's golden grain, Our "Kismet" takes his fountain pen And off he goes again. And should you ask "Oh, ^Vhy Is It?" Or say, there's "Something Wrong," Just listen to our fair "Rosie," Or "Sweet Sadie's" gentle song. 297 LINES TO KISMET. I like to hear you tell about The funny "Coon Gal's Walk," And in "My Garden" pleasant Pluck "The Tea Kose" from its stalk, Or meet our "Signor Lum Bago" Beside "The Silver Stream," Who'll tell a tale of "'Magog Lak'," As one who's in a dream. And now we see "'The Flower Girl," With "Some of the Good Things," With which our beloved poet So softly, sweetly sings. And take "The Sawdust Doll" to walk In peaceful "Amoskeag," Or follow for sweet "Charity" "Miss Velvet's" stately lead. The buzzing of "The Buzzing Bug" From gardens "O'er the Way," Will bring to mind "The Whistling Winds*' As leafy branches sway. The bumble of "The Bumblebee" Makes day dreams more than sunny. If you have seen "The Kobin Fiend," Calm down, "Calm down. My Honey." "The Minister's Wife" may early call, Her husband "Soon" will follow. And don't forget "Love's Changes," Nor the "Jasmine" in the hollow. 298 TO KISMET. The "Educated Blacksmith" May keep the forge a-humming, Still, never mind "The Saucy Flake," I'm sure "The Summer's Coming." "The Jovial Junkman's" call Brings visions of the spring; We gather wp our "Trinkets," Give "The Golden Bug" a fling. "The Candidates" are waiting Fat office to secure; "Life's Spring-time" will have vanished Ere they get it, I am sure. Still, "Kismet," we'll forgive you much Who wrote "The Eainbow Land," And many other pleasant things We do not understand. And if we never meet on earth, We hope that by-and-by. We shall gather all together In "The Land Beyond the Sky." —H. M. G. Corny. Warner, N. H., March 26, 1898. 299 LINES TO KISMET. To Kismet. [From an anonymous reader. Published March 3, 1898.] Oh, Kismet, maker of the songs, Also the ballads now in fashion. To read where breakfast sugar tongs Are nudging toast that has the hash on. Oh, Kismet, singer of the lays. Lacklike they circle from earth off, eh? We drink 'em in, the morning's praise, Imbibed with pleasure with our coffee. Oh, Kismet, drops of many quills. The palace high, or e'en the low hut, The love of harmony each fijls, Yea, as the filling joy, the doughnut. Oh, Kismet, bard of breakfast time, 'Mongst the poets filling thine the luck seat, And just to close this a. m. rhyme. You take the cake, the cake that's buckwheat. 300 THE ENVIOUS HEART. The Envious Hearts Oh! That the heavenly muse Into thy mind her graces would infuse, And from thy poetic soul, behold Strange and marvelous wonders unfold Of mj'^steries yet untold. Like unto the bard divine of old. On the Rialto of our quiet little town, Thou mightst see a face and form That wouldst madly lure thee on To achieve a greatness most profound. Each maiden heart with envy sown. In rivalry into a monster grown, Would aspire to be the heroine unknown Of that {fin de siecle) poem. — Maiden. Manchesteb, February 16, 1898. 301 OCT \ \ti98 /^Tt'^ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 897 154 9 • ».>iK-'.i' ••■■-.a./' '■'>''l X ,0, 'M-^^y^ :. X *^.. Wki^k