■ choestePrairie 
 
 PS 3521 
 
 Harriet Loretta Knapp 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 
 
 » COPYRIGHT OFFICE. 
 
 No registration of title of this 
 article as a preliminary to copyright 
 protection has been found. 
 
 Forwarded to ] M««ic f Division c<5e< - 50 /^oS 
 (Pmts J (bate/"" 
 
 (1, iii, 1906—5,000.) ^T^^*' 
 
Ctijoeg from tfjc prairie 
 anb tl)e ^iU& 
 
 BY 
 HARRIET LOR ETTA KNAPP 
 
I wo lioilies HtCiavt:.: | j^C^ *V C *\ l 
 
 OCT l«<Jtt I ' -* -J^ «<'i 
 
 Copyrighted, September, 1908 
 
 BY 
 
 Harriet Loretta Knapp 
 
 Copyright C 
 
 $ dm 
 
 The Wichita Publishing Company 
 Wichita, Kansas 
 
TO MY NIECE 
 
 l^amet Ctnapp "Bafeer 
 
 I DEDICATE 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUMN 
 
 OF POEMS 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 A Christmas Carol 20 
 
 A Christmas Hymn 44 
 
 A Day With Natiire 10 
 
 A Friend 18 
 
 An Easter Legend 26 
 
 An Appeal to Nature — Translated From the French 
 
 of Victor Hugo 15 
 
 A Petition 54 
 
 A Preimere Communicante — Translated From the 
 
 French of Henri Arnold 37 
 
 A Spring Poem 30 
 
 A Spring Shower 22 
 
 At the Setting of the Sim 68 
 
 A Valentine 21 
 
 A Vision 72 
 
 Brierhurst Glen 32 
 
 Bring Flowers, Bright Flowers 45 
 
 Chrysanthemum 56 
 
 Consider the Lilies 38 
 
 Desir — Translated From the French 63 
 
 Down by the Sea 14 
 
 Dreaming of the Past 66 
 
 Dreamland 53 
 
 Dreams 40 
 
 Drifting 25 
 
Farewell, Old Year 52 
 
 Flowers and Mosses 25 
 
 Friendship 63 
 
 Gates Ajar 41 
 
 Glimpses Beyond 31 
 
 Guilt 41 
 
 He Slumbers Not 49 
 
 If a Magic Wand Were Mine 59 
 
 In Memoriam 48 
 
 In the Years Gone By 19 
 
 It is Not a Myth 59 
 
 Just Over There 24 
 
 Little White Rosebud 33 
 
 Love 26 
 
 Love is Life 16 
 
 My Bonny Bird 46 
 
 My Dream Child 34 
 
 My Lady 11 
 
 My Prairie Home 74 
 
 No Limitations for the Heart 58 
 
 One Easter Mom 13 
 
 On Either Side 67 
 
 Peace 31 
 
 Remenyi's Violin 17 
 
 She is not Dead 19 
 
 Sunny Slope 42 
 
 Sweet Faith This Message Brings 39 
 
 That Little Pictured Face 57 
 
 The Baby We Love 21 
 
 The Brook 50 
 
The Christmas Time 61 
 
 The City by the Lake 69 
 
 The Cottonwood Trees 43 
 
 The Days That Follow 70 
 
 The Garden of the Gods 23 
 
 The Homes of the Flowers 29 
 
 The Maple Woods 36 
 
 The Myth of the Sunflower 7 
 
 The Passing of a Soul 66 
 
 The Poet — Translated From the French of Victor 
 
 Hugo 27 
 
 The Shadow of the Sun 28 
 
 The Spark Divine 38 
 
 The Transplanted Rose 12 
 
 The Withered Rose 57 
 
 The World is Growing Better 71 
 
 The World Will Never Know 55 
 
 They Were but Dreams 61 
 
 Three Score Years and Ten 42 
 
 Two Little Mice 35 
 
 Woman — Translated From the French of Victor 
 
 Hugo 47 
 
THE MYTH OF THE SUNFLOWER Echoes from 
 
 ■f-Vig Pr3.iric 
 The Sunflower, so we learn through mythic lore, 
 
 Was once a nymph who roamed the woodland o'er, 
 And played in the streams that cooled its sylvan shade. 
 She loved the wild-wood flowers and trailing vines, 
 The spreading elms, the oaks, the stately pines, 
 And all the laughing sunbeams of the glade. 
 
 At night she sought a cool, secluded dell, 
 Where, on a mossy bed, she rested well; 
 Soothed by the gentle voices of the wood. 
 Those strange, mysterious voices mortals hear 
 But cannot comprehend, to her were clear, 
 Their sweet, caressing words she understood. 
 
 And smiled and murmured softly in reply. 
 Through interlacing boughs the moonlit sky 
 Looked down on Clytie, watching as she slept. 
 The nightingale sang blythely o'er her head; 
 The gods of night stood guard around her bed. 
 And all night long the stars their vigil kept. 
 
 When Morpheus withdrew his magic spell. 
 On silvery feet she glided from the dell. 
 Then, like a deer, went bounding on her way 
 To where the waters flowing from a spring 
 Fill a shallow pool, then gaily fling 
 Against a grassy bank their shining spray. 
 
 This pool was Clytie's mirror, and the place 
 That she loved best, disporting there for hours, 
 Her lovely face and rosy limbs like flowers. 
 Charmed all the woodland with their wondrous grace. 
 
 She was the fairest of Diana's train; 
 
 The daintiest little nymph that danced the green; 
 
 A merrier little sprite was never seen 
 
 And none could sing in such entrancing strain. 
 
Echoes from CLYTIE'S SONG. 
 
 the Prairie 
 
 and the Listen birdlings to my song: 
 
 Hills My heart is so happy, my heart is so gay, 
 
 I will sing you a little roundelay. 
 
 Listen zephyrs, while I sing. 
 
 The breezes are cool and the sun shines bright, 
 And the songs of the forest are ray delight. 
 
 Listen flowerets, to my song, 
 
 The birds sing sweetest and the flowers 
 Bloom the brightest in woodland bowers. 
 
 Listen squirrels, while I sing. 
 Ah ! the shy little beasts, I love them well. 
 And here together, in peace, we dwell. 
 
 Listen brooklet, to my song, 
 
 I love the sweet music of the stream, 
 I love to catch the glint and gleam 
 Of the brook as it winds through its mossy bed. 
 Reflecting the sunbeams over my head. 
 
 O, the earth is bright, the earth is fair. 
 
 There is joy and gladness everywhere. 
 
 But the nymphs and fairies and all the rest 
 Love the woodland shades the best. 
 
 To the pool in the glen, I must hie me away, 
 
 So this is the end of my roundelay. 
 
 Happy the nymph until Apollo came. 
 
 Then her tender heart burst into sudden flame. 
 
 And neither gods nor nymphs could quench its fire 
 When she had heard the music of his voice, 
 
 No other music could her heart rejoice. 
 
 To win his love, that was her fond desire. 
 
When she had looked upon his matchless face Echoes from 
 
 All other objects lost their former grace, the Prairie 
 
 "Love me, fair god!" she cried, "or let me die." and the 
 
 She left the wild-wood where she loved to dwell; Hills 
 She left the streamlets that she loved so well; 
 She had no dwelling place beneath the sky. 
 
 But wandered, ever wandered, on the plains; 
 
 Her voice could there be heard in mournful strains, 
 
 Calling, ever calling, for her love.]§ 
 But Apollo loved her not, so day by day. 
 Disconsolate, '^she grieved her life away, 
 
 But the sun was watching Clytie from above. 
 
 And pityingly, great Sol, with magic power, 
 Transformed the weeping nymph into a flower, 
 
 That ever turns her face toward the sun. 
 Down through the years, constant and true is she 
 This sturdy flower, emblem of constancy, 
 
 Of all that radiant throng, she sees but one. 
 
 This happened in the mystic days of yore 
 But still the Sunflower decks the prairies o'er, 
 
 Its stately stalks above the grasses tower, 
 When I look into the Sunflower's golden face 
 I remember gentle Clytie's winsome grace, 
 
 And know her spirit dwells within the flower. 
 
Echoes ^rom A DAY WITH NATURE 
 
 the Prairie 
 
 and the \ perfect day arched o'er with cloudless blue; 
 
 Hill? xhe air is hea-\^ with the fragrance of the pines 
 
 And mountain daisies wet with morning dew, 
 
 And o'er the rocks trail wild clematis vines, 
 Whose feathery blooms give perfume to the an-. 
 Deep and intense^ blue, the soft, far sky, 
 'Tis joy to live! for all the world is fair. 
 
 Within the circle of the mountain's toweruig high. 
 
 A shady path beside the dancing brook 
 
 Leads through mazy windings to a sylvan glen. 
 This spot is wayward Nature's fairy nook. 
 
 From gnarled trees she hangs her purple grapes, then 
 Drapes her glossy vines o'er rugged stones; 
 
 'Tis thus repentant for her partial gifts, 
 In tender moods, so sweetly she atones; 
 
 Her daintiest flowers she plants on barren cliffs. 
 
 In this wild glen, in many a tangled mass, 
 
 She crowds her shrubs, her clinging vines, and trees. 
 Close to a velvet stretch of waving grass 
 
 Where the violets lend their perfume to the breeze. 
 The rippling stream winds like a silver thread 
 
 O'er its golden sands, by rustic bridges spanned, 
 This laughing, sparkling, murmuring stream is fed 
 
 From mountain springs, by icy breezes fanned. 
 
 Along its banks the tall brown rushes grow, 
 
 And each little willow bends her graceful form 
 To view her image in the depths below. 
 
 We fain would linger; but the dewy morn 
 Has brightened into noon, and other sights 
 
 Await our longing eyes. The noonday sun 
 Reveals the splendor of the distant heights, 
 
 Our eyes are feasted, but our lips are dumb. 
 
Throbbing with music was the perfumed air, Echoes from 
 
 The song of birds, and insect's drowsy hum, the Prairie 
 
 The whispering pmes and singing brook. These rare and the 
 
 Sweet strains from Nature's joyful clioir come Hills 
 
 Echoing through her grand cathedral aisles, 
 
 Thrilling with melody the heart's quivering strings. 
 Now music reigns supreme and gently beguiles 
 
 Our souls to realms of song on melody's soft wings. 
 
 The simset hour draws near, we turn our eyes 
 
 Toward the western sky; O, wondrous sight! 
 We seem to catch a glimpse of paradise. 
 
 With stately towers and parapets aglow with golden light 
 As the sun sinks behind the snowy peaks, we feel the chill 
 
 Of the purple mists that gather where the sun forsook 
 The shining heights. The stars come out, and all is still 
 
 Save the never-ceasing music of the brook. 
 
 MY LADY 
 
 My Lady, she is tall and fair, 
 With long, bright braids of golden hair; 
 Her starry eyes are dark as night: 
 Her velvet skin is pink and white. 
 
 My Lady's voice is low and sweet. 
 Her hands are small; her tiny feet 
 I love to watch, tripping so light 
 In sandals tied with pink and white. 
 
 Her room is such a dainty place, 
 The ivory couch is draped in lace; 
 Soft creamy curtains shade the light: 
 The walls are hung in pink and white. 
 
Echoes from I saw her standing in the door, 
 
 the Prairie Her silken robe trailed on the floor; 
 
 and the Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, 
 
 Hills And the robe she wore was pink and white. 
 
 My Lady has a sunny bower, 
 She knows and loves each fragrant flower, 
 Which seems to bloom for her delight; 
 And all the flowers are pink and white. 
 
 My Lady rides a snow-white steed 
 Of dainty step and gentle breed, 
 Her, habit, gray, is soft and light ; 
 Her hat has plumes of pink and white. 
 
 Her slender form has all of grace, 
 I've never seen a sweeter face; 
 She is my joy and my delight, 
 This lady, fair, in pink and white. 
 
 Sometimes I think she loves me well, 
 But she is so shy I cannot tell; 
 And if I ask, she takes her flight; 
 A fleeting dream of pink and white. 
 
 THE TRANSPLANTED ROSE 
 
 I found a rose blooming alone, 
 
 Oustide my garden wall; 
 But soon it graced a favored spot. 
 
 Where the golden sunbeams fall; 
 A bhght had touched its buds and leaves, 
 
 But through my tender care 
 At last I saw new leaves appear. 
 
 And blossoms sweet and rare. 
 
This alien rose grew dear to me. Echoes from 
 
 Dearer than all the rest; the Prairie 
 
 My other flowers were just as fair, and the 
 
 I loved them none the less; Hills 
 
 But I had saved my sweet red rose; 
 
 Its pressing needs supplied ; 
 With joy I watched its buds unfold, 
 
 Its blossoms were my pride. 
 
 But, alas: my red rose hid a thorn, 
 
 Beneath its leaves so fair; 
 And when I culled a few sweet buds 
 
 Upon my breast to wear, 
 The cruel thorn wounded my heart 
 
 Ah: still I feel the sting; 
 But the rose blooms on in the sunny spot 
 
 Where the wild birds love to sing. 
 
 As I stroll along the shady paths, 
 
 I breathe its rare perfume 
 And often gaze with longing eyes 
 
 Upon each perfect bloom, 
 But remembering the cruel thorn, 
 
 I touch not its blossoms fair; 
 But sadly wander on my way 
 
 And gather flowers elsewhere. 
 
 ONE EASTER MORNING 
 
 A fair Easter morn with the sun shining bright 
 In a summer blue sky, putting winter to flight. 
 The air is replete with the sweet breath of spring, 
 And the brook is unloosed, and the birds on the wing. 
 The violets and buttercups, both are in bloom. 
 And the white Easter lilies send forth their perfume 
 Unstinted and sweet, on the quivering breeze 
 That is kissing the buds into life on the trees. 
 
 THIRTEEN 
 
Echoes from On the hedge rows and banks of the brook there's a hint 
 the Prairie Of dehcate green, and I caught just a glint 
 
 and the Of the bluebird's bright breast in a sycamore tree, 
 Hills And the robin is here and how joyous and free 
 
 From out his red throat he drops his sweet notes; 
 
 And across the blue heavens a fleecy cloud floats 
 
 In the form of an angel, ethereal and white, 
 
 But with arms reaching earthward it fades from the sight. 
 
 Then the church bells peal forth in a joyful refrain, 
 "Christ is risen, is risen, the Lamb that was slain 
 For the sins of the world." Through His infinite love 
 He met death on the cross, but fair mansions above 
 He has gone to prepare for the souls that He bought 
 With His own precious blood. Oh, what hath He wrought 
 For Himself and the sorrowful world He would save 
 A glorious victory o'er death and the grave. 
 
 Hear the bells ! Hear them ring 
 
 And peal forth, as they swing 
 
 In wavelets of sound, to the breezes unfurled, 
 
 Christ is risen, is risen, Oh, joy to the world! 
 
 Christ is risen, is risen. Oh, joy to the world! 
 
 DOWN BY THE SEA 
 
 She stood and gazed across the glittering snnd; 
 Her eyes, responsive to her heart's demand, 
 Beheld, afar, beyond the surging tide, 
 Her lover standing on the other side. 
 His form outlined against the purple skies; 
 His radiant face, the love light in his eyes; 
 His white hands beckoning her across tlie deep; 
 When cold gray mists across the waters creep, 
 
 FOURTEEN 
 
And the form, she loves, fades slowly from her sight, Echoes from 
 
 It was but a vision of the waning light. the Prairie 
 
 No more will she behold that form of grace; and the 
 
 Nor feast her loving eyes upon his face. Hills 
 Calmly he sleeps, deep in his coral bed; 
 Asleep, until the sea gives up its dead. 
 
 AN APPEAL TO NATURE 
 
 (Translated from the French of Victor Hugo.) 
 
 Oh, sun! oh, shining face divine! 
 Oh, wild flowers of the leafy passes 
 Grottos full of murmuring voices 
 Perfumes hidden in the grasses, 
 
 Woods, where grow the thorn and vine. 
 
 Sacred mountains, grand, sublime; 
 White like temples in their glory; 
 Ancient rocks, oaks, rugged, hoary, 
 When I read your wondrous story 
 
 Then your great soul enters mine. 
 
 Oh, virgin forests, pure, benign; 
 
 Oh, limpid lake where shadows quiver; 
 
 Mirror of skies, oh, shining river! 
 
 To nature I my thoughts deliver; 
 This artist can my thoughts define. 
 
Echoes from LOVE IS LIFE 
 
 the Prairie 
 
 and the He came last night. 
 
 Hills To-day my heart is like a singing bird; 
 
 A tender note his each remembered word, 
 
 The world is bright — 
 Oh, how bright and fair! To live is bliss; 
 Still on my cheek I feel his goodnight kiss. 
 
 If he fails to come, 
 This earth is bleak and drear 
 No matter if the sky be gray or clear 
 
 Hidden is my sun. 
 My little heart bird folds his wings 
 When I am sad, and never sings. 
 
 Burst not your chain, 
 Sweet singing bird within my heart, 
 For you and I must never part; 
 
 Love is your name; 
 Love, to me is life, 
 Some day, I shall be his wife. 
 
 His loving wife, 
 To share his pleasures and his pain. 
 And in his heart supremely reign, 
 
 Ah, that is life. 
 Love shall rule at our hearth stone. 
 How fair and sweet I'll make his home. 
 
 His home and mine; 
 Where I shall see his dear face every day; 
 I'll care not if the skies be blue or gray; 
 
 My sun will ever shine 
 My nights with radiant stars will gleam, 
 Oh, how beautiful my dream. 
 
'Tis not a dream Echoes from 
 
 Love is real. In the silence of the night the Prairie 
 
 When I awake, a radiance bright and the 
 
 A Tender beam Hills 
 Illumes my soul, as from above 
 It is the wondrous power of love. 
 
 I would not give this earth for realms above; 
 I pity those winged beings of the skies 
 Sweeping their golden lutes in Paradise, 
 For they can never know an earthly love 
 
 A tender human love like mine; 
 
 Love is immortal; 'tis divine. 
 
 Divine, because no change can be, 
 Love — true love can never die; 
 But, like a star in yonder sky, 
 'Twill shine through all eternity; 
 Love rules below, and reigns above; 
 "God is Love." 
 
 REMENYI'S VIOLIN 
 
 He swept the strings with his magic bow. 
 
 And imprisoned music burst upon the air, 
 Impassioned, wildly sweet, tender and low. 
 
 Then swelling into melody so rare 
 That angels might gladly tune their harps, 
 
 To catch the strains that thrilled our quivering hearts. 
 
 Again he draws his bow across the strings. 
 
 And we hear the zephyrs sighing through the trees 
 
 And in their boughs a little blue bird sings 
 A love song to his mate, then on the breeze 
 
 Is borne the lark's glad song, thrilling and high 
 As he wings his flight toward the azure sky. 
 
 SEVENTEEN 
 
Echoes from Now all is hushed, it is the twilight hour, 
 the Prairie In yonder balcony a dark-eyed maid 
 
 and the Listens, breathless, to the sweet guitar, 
 
 Hills And her lover singing in the deepening shade, 
 
 Then one by one the silent stars appear; 
 And distant bells are ringing soft and clear. 
 
 Then falls upon our listening ears a strain 
 Of mournful music, and sobs and moans 
 
 From broken hearts, mingle with the sad refrain, 
 The world is full of tears and sighs and groans, 
 
 Then a wild, glad cry rings out upon the air 
 
 And joyous laughter. Now all the world is fair. 
 
 And O, the gentle ripple and the sheen 
 Of the lake reflecting the blue skies! 
 
 O, how the fairies danced upon the green! 
 And the air was full of yellow butterflies, 
 
 While in the branches of a linden tree 
 The little birds were holding jubilee. 
 
 A FRIEND 
 
 Last summer time, it was my lot, 
 
 To wander far away from home 
 In search of health, that precious boon, 
 
 While in a fair sequestered si)ot, 
 I found a priceless jewel rare. 
 
 In all the earth, there's none more fair, 
 A kind and sympathetic friend, 
 
 I never saw her face before. 
 Her smile may greet me nevermore, 
 
 I may not hear her voice again, 
 But she and I will never part, 
 
 For she dwells securely in my heart, 
 And I in her's, I trust. 
 
SHE IS NOT DEAD Echoes from 
 
 They tell me she is dead. Ah! can it be the Prairie 
 
 That one so youno;, so fair, so sweet as she ^^ 
 
 Hills 
 Is taken in the spring-time of her life, 
 
 When her pure soul and tender heart were rife 
 
 With joy, and hope, and bright expectancy? 
 
 The earth is not so fair since she has left. 
 But heaven has gained where earth has been bereft 
 The hearts that loved her here are sick and sad, 
 While her sweet presence makes the angels glad. 
 
 She is not dead. We'll clasp her form once more. 
 I caught fair glimpses of that other shore, 
 A sweet, familiar form in shimmering white; 
 Her tender face o'erspread with heavenly light. 
 And from the shining depths of her soft eyes 
 Her pure, white soul looked forth in glad surprise. 
 
 Oh Death! couldst thou not wait until the snow 
 
 Had covered all the verdure here below? 
 
 She loved the spring-time, with its flowers, so well. 
 
 Not even joyous spring, witli magic spell 
 
 Could stay thy cruel hand. Oh, Azrael! 
 
 IN THE YEARS GONE BY 
 
 I stood on the rustic bridge, Marie, 
 Where you and I, in the years gone by 
 Stood and dreamed as we gazed at the Peak, 
 Or watched the waters dance and leap 
 Over the pebbles, beneath our feet. 
 
 I plucked the flowers and vines, Marie, 
 Where you and J, in the years gone by. 
 Gathered flowers in the sylvan glen. 
 Oh, how the years have flown since then! 
 Gone with the beautiful miglit-have-been. 
 
 NINETEEN 
 
Echoes from It seems but yesterday, Marie, 
 
 the Prairie Since you and I, 'neath the blue, blue sky, 
 
 and the Strolled through the winding paths between. 
 
 Hills The vine draped trees and the silvery stream. 
 
 Ah, was it real, or only a dream? 
 
 I wonder, Marie, if ever again 
 
 You and I will stroll through the beautiful glen 
 
 And wile away the golden hours; 
 
 Crossing the bridges, and gathering flowers, 
 
 And watching the waters ripple and flow 
 
 As we did in the years of long ago? 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL 
 
 It is Christmas morn ! It is Christmas mom ! 
 Is the song, the song, that the snow birds sing, 
 'Tis the day 'tis the day, that Christ was born 
 Is the lay, is the lay that the church bells ring; 
 And peal after peal rings out on the air 
 It is Christmas morn ! It is Christmas morn ! 
 O, the earth is white, and the earth is fair 
 As the day, as the day when Christ was born. 
 
 As the night comes on, all the shining stars 
 
 Sing together, together, up there, up there; 
 
 Sing and sing as they sweep the silver bars, 
 
 O, the earth is white and the earth is fair; 
 
 As white, sings a star, and as fair as when 
 
 In the early dawn of that wondrous morn, 
 
 I stood o'er the manger at Bethlehem, 
 
 Where the Christ was born; where the Christ was born. 
 

THE BABY WE LOVE Echoes from 
 
 » ■„ . • . , th* Prairie 
 
 A silken fringe of golden hair j ^j^ 
 
 Above a forehead, smooth and fair; 2ills 
 
 A little nose, and two dark eyes 
 As softly bright as starry skies. 
 
 Two velvet cheeks, where dimples play 
 In such a sly bewitching way; 
 A rosy mouth, made to be kist. 
 Ah, who such sweetness could resist? 
 
 A dimpled chin, as smooth as silk. 
 Above a neck as white as milk; 
 Two clinging arms, so soft and warm; 
 Two dainty hands, a fairy form. 
 
 That nestles sweetly, when 'tis prest, 
 Close to the mother's loving breast. 
 Two rosy limbs, two tiny feet, 
 And ten small toes all pink and sweet. 
 
 A little heart, so glad and light; 
 A little soul, so pure and white, 
 A cherub strayed from realms above. 
 This is the baby that we love. 
 
 A VALENTINE 
 
 Cupid, come ! O, come and bear 
 A message to my lady, fair. 
 
 My lady, sweet. 
 You will know her by her wondrous grace 
 And the beauty of her bonny face 
 
 And footsteps fleet — 
 
 TWENTT-ONB 
 
Echoes from Ah, far too fleet! She will not wait 
 
 the Prairie For me to speak, not if my gait 
 
 and the Was like the wind 
 
 Hills Could I, in wild pursuit, get near 
 
 To whisper in my lady's ear 
 What's m my mind. 
 
 She may not know I love her well, 
 As I cannot get a chance to tell 
 
 What's in my heart. 
 Now, Cupid, take a message sweet. 
 And kneeling at my lady's feet 
 
 These words impart. 
 
 "I worship you, yes, I adore; 
 No one could love a maiden more; 
 
 You must be mine. 
 I would care for nothing else beside 
 If I could win you for my bride. 
 
 Sweet Valentine." 
 
 A SPRING SHOWER 
 
 Merrily, merrily, patters the rain. 
 Just a moment ago the sun was shining. 
 Oh, hear how it beats on the window pane! 
 But tell me, tell me, why are you repining 
 Up there in the tree top, robin red-breast? 
 
 'Tis only a shower, the spring blossoms bringing; 
 Very soon you can gather dry twigs for your nest. 
 
 List! List to the blue birds merrily singing, 
 Every day, rain or shine, they sing as they flit 
 
 Past my window, so gay, and never complaining. 
 Now I hear a new voice, 'tis the wren's twitter twit. 
 
 TWENTY-TWO 
 
Look! Look little birds, it has nearly stopped raining. Echoes from 
 
 In the west all is golden, and amber, and red; the Prairie 
 
 Through a rift in the clouds the sunlight is shining, and the 
 
 Rosy clouds that a moment ago were like lead. Hills 
 
 Look! Look! A rainbow the heavens is spanning 
 And the rose tinted clouds with the rain drops have fled. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF THE GODS 
 
 There's a garden where no flowers bloom, 
 
 No fountains play o'er velvet sods; 
 No graveled walks nor trellised vines: 
 
 The far famed "Garden of the Gods." 
 Fashioned by an unseen hand, 
 Tall columns, and great statues stand 
 In groups, or stately and alone 
 Mid'st crouching beasts of dull red stone. 
 
 The mountains, in their majesty, 
 
 Look down upon this wondrous spot; 
 
 On grotesque shapes, and forms of grace; 
 On sculptured cliff, and pictured rock. 
 
 And Fancy, with her magic wand. 
 
 Can trace strange foot-prints in the sand 
 
 Where, with majestic mien, trod 
 
 The splendid figure of a god. 
 
 Two lofty cliffs arise and form 
 
 An open gateway to the west. 
 
 Their massive walls in grandeur stand; 
 
 Strange forms upon their summits rest 
 
 And through their portals bursts to view 
 
 The Peak, out-lined against the blue 
 
 Of skies that rival Italy's own; 
 
 Fit back-ground for the snow-capped cone. 
 
 TWENTT-THREE 
 
Echoes from Upon the crimson crags appear 
 
 the Prairie Rugged forms of bird and beast, 
 
 and the And neath the shade of fragrant pines 
 
 Hills Weird figures stand, of "Maid and Priest." 
 
 The cliffs are draped with clinging vines, 
 From creviced rocks grow stunted pines, 
 Their roots are laved by hidden springs 
 That murmur sweet, like living things. 
 
 Standing alone, in stately pride, 
 
 Tower the grand "Cathedral spires." 
 The ruins of some ancient pile 
 
 Where the gods built their altar fires 
 That left the red glow on rocks and sands. 
 On shapes that were fashioned by giant hands 
 In that far away, mystical age. 
 Only remembered by poet and sage. 
 
 JUST OVER THERE 
 
 Everything seems changed since she has gone, 
 
 Oh, how we miss her as the days slip by, 
 Forgetting she is dead, we often long. 
 
 To see the face we love, and wonder why. 
 We do not hear her voice, in accents sweet. 
 
 Alas! alas! no more will we rejoice. 
 To clasp her hand. Still are her willing feet: 
 
 And hushed, forever, is her pleasant voice. 
 
 In my dreams I saw her face, last night; 
 
 With tender eyes, she gazed through portals fair 
 Her slender form, was clad in shining white. 
 
 A halo rested on her soft, white hair. 
 She smiled on me; and oh! the heavenly grace 
 
 The sweet contentment and the perfect peace. 
 That dwelt serene, in her enraptured face. 
 
 Oh, blessed state! whose joys will never cease. 
 
 TWENTT-FOUB 
 
DRIFTING Echoes from 
 
 We meet and look into each other's eyes 
 
 And heart speaks to heart, 
 E'er we recover from the sweet surprise 
 
 It is time to part. 
 Ships meet and pass in the soft twilight, 
 We catch a glimpse of sails and shining spars. 
 Dim forms and lights that glimmer like the stare 
 As in the purple mists they fade from sight. 
 
 Though drifting apart, 
 The picture leaves its impress on the heart 
 
 Though drifting afar. 
 Together we will cross the harbor bar. 
 
 FLOWERS AND MOSSES 
 
 We will smile and not repine. 
 Though the sun refuse to shine 
 
 Across our way. 
 
 Day after day; 
 The years that bring us trials and crosses, 
 Sweetly give us flowers and mosses — 
 Fragrant flowers and velvet mosses. 
 
 Though some days are cold and dreary, 
 And our feet are oft' times weary, 
 
 Though life's sea 
 
 Tempestuous be, 
 And cruel waves our frail bark tosses. 
 Along the shore are flowers and mosses — 
 Fragrant flowers and velvet mosses. 
 
 Oh, how we long to have our measure 
 Of life's fleeting joy and pleasure, 
 
 To cast our lot, 
 
 In some fair spot, 
 
 TWENTT-nVE 
 
Echoes fl-om Where there are no griefs and losses, 
 
 the Prairie Where fadeless grow the flowers and mosses- 
 
 and the Fragrant flowers and velvet mosses. 
 Hills 
 
 LOVE 
 
 Love is the spark divine ; 
 
 Fanned to life, its altar fires, 
 Quenchless, deathless, sublime. 
 
 Lift higli, tlieir flaming spires, 
 Above the realms of time. 
 
 AN EASTER LEGEND 
 
 I have heard that in legends of old, 
 Is a story the shepherds had told 
 
 Of the birth of a wonderful flower 
 In the dawn of that memorable morn 
 Near the manger where Jesus was born 
 
 Transforming the shed to a bower. 
 
 How tliey gathered these blossoms so sweet 
 And laid them all white at his feet; 
 
 While their perfume like incense arose. 
 The fragrance so balmy and rare. 
 Of tliese blossoms exquisitely fair; 
 
 Soothed the Virgin to blissful repose. 
 
 She dreamed and awoke at midnight. 
 And searched neath the stars, tender light 
 
 For the bulb which she clasped to her breast 
 And murmured, the flower is a sign 
 That the babe I have borne is divine; 
 
 Then stole softly back to her rest. 
 
 TWENTy-srx 
 
In a garden in fair Galillee, Echoes from 
 
 Within sound of the murmuring sea the Prairie 
 
 Mary planted her bulb 'neath the trees, and the 
 
 And nourished it year after year Hills 
 Ever watching for blooms to appear; 
 
 But it gave her nothing but leaves. 
 
 The child grew in stature and grace, 
 With a dreamy rapt look in his face. 
 
 And prophetic light in his eyes 
 As he watched the bright leaves unfold 
 From this plant of which Mary had told 
 
 While he listened in wondering surprise. 
 
 In that season of anguish and pain, 
 When the Son of the Virgin was slain; 
 
 Forgotten was garden and flower, 
 But 'neath skies ever sunny and blue 
 In richest profusion it grew 
 
 Seeming fraught with mystical power. 
 
 Then dawned that glorious morn 
 
 When this song on the glad air was borne 
 
 "Christ is risen; O joy to the world!" 
 Then the lily buds burst into bloom 
 And whispered, while yielding perfume, 
 
 "Christ has risen; O joy to the world!' 
 
 THE POET 
 
 (Translated from the French of Victor Hupo. 
 
 The poet as he wanders through the fields, 
 
 Listens to the music from within; 
 While his soul to adorations yields, 
 
 And the fair flowers beholding him, 
 Bow their graceful heads and sweetly smile, 
 
 TWENTY-SEVEN 
 
Echoes from Those who in color make the rubies pale 
 
 the Prairie Toss their bright heads the poet to beguile 
 
 and the And those who eclipse the peacocks tail 
 
 Hills Strive to attract him with coquettish air; 
 
 The blue and golden blossoms softly sigh, 
 Droop their heads and blushingly declare 
 Ah! 'Tis our lover who is passing by. 
 
 Full of shadows and of whispering voices, 
 
 The monarchs of the forest, the ancient trees, 
 The graceful elms, laden with their mosses, 
 
 The yews, the lindens, with their shimmering leaves,. 
 The maples, the oaks and the wrinkled willows 
 
 All to the poet bow their lofty plumes. 
 As their beards of ivy wave in leafy billows, 
 
 Like the Ulema when the Mufti comes, 
 They all sulute him, low before him bending 
 
 Seeing the look serene in the poet's eye 
 The trees exclaim, their mossy arms extending 
 
 It is the dreamer who is passing by. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE SUN 
 
 In majesty mount Herman rears its peak, 
 
 Calm and serene, in sunlight and in storm. 
 Above the ancient city at its feet ; 
 
 Oh: lovely vision of the blushing morn; 
 When roseate clouds appear the peak to veil. 
 
 And silvery mists hang low, to cheat the eye 
 That longs to pierce the misty clouds that trail 
 
 Their rosy banners 'neath a sapphire sky. 
 
 At close of day the mists have purple grown; 
 
 The lights and shadows 'round the summit play,. 
 The rosy clouds across the sky have flown; 
 The rugged mountain softens into gray. 
 
 TWENTT-KIOHT 
 
Then creeps a shadow down the mountain side; Echoes from. 
 
 Creeps slowly to the distant horizon; the Prairie 
 
 The city in the gloom its turrets hide — and the 
 
 It is the shadow of the setting sun. Hills 
 
 Thus o'er the human heart a shadow creeps 
 
 When'er the sun of righteousness has set 
 Behind the soul's bleak heights, while calmly sleeps 
 
 The watchman at the city gate, and yet, 
 While sleeping at his post, he feels the chill 
 
 The stealthy shadow carries as it throws 
 Its blackness o'er the city cold and still, 
 
 But as the orb of day each morn arose, 
 Flooding the lofty heights, so may this sun — 
 
 This sun of righteousness — with splendor rife. 
 Arise with shining banners widely flung. 
 
 At the fair dawning of a better life. 
 
 THE HOMES OF THE FLOWERS 
 
 Each blossom has its own appointed place, 
 A favored spot no other flower could grace, 
 The rose prefers a sunny garden plot. 
 Near the pansy, tulip and forgetmenot. 
 
 The honeysuckle and the columbine 
 Around an airy trellis choose to twine; 
 The dainty water lily loves to rest 
 Upon the silver lakelet's quiet breast. 
 
 Blooming alone, upon some cold, bleak height, 
 A little waxen blossom, pure and white, 
 Raises its tiny face above the snow. 
 While its brilliant sisters deck the vales below. 
 
 TWENTY-NINE 
 
Echoes from In the shelter of the woods the violets hide; 
 
 the Prairie The nodding daisies are the meadow's pride; 
 
 and the The yellow johnqviill blooms beside the stream; 
 
 Hills The pink azalia is the woodland's queen. 
 
 On the window sill the hyacinth will bloom; 
 Filling all the house with rich perfume; 
 While the lingering snow is still upon the ground, 
 And all the garden flowers are slumber bound. 
 
 The goldenrod prefers the sun- lit plains; 
 The primrose 'mong the hills, in beauty reigns; 
 The purple daisy decks the mountain side, 
 And the stately sunflower is the prairie's pride. 
 
 A SPRING POEM 
 
 It really is a curious thing, 
 
 The way the rhymesters rave of spring, 
 
 One day I heard a robin sing, 
 
 And saw a swallow on the wing, 
 
 And heard the solemn church bell ring 
 
 Ding dong ding, ding dong ding; 
 
 And then I saw a motley ging 
 
 Pass by, made up of everything. 
 
 I have never seen a king 
 
 But I saw two children in a swing. 
 
 And I saw a boy play with a string. 
 
 And then I watched the urchin fling 
 
 A stone into a bubbling spring. 
 
 And kill a sparrow with a sling. 
 
 I saw a maid her white hands wring 
 
 Because she lost her diamond ring. 
 
 I thuik a vine is made to cling, 
 
I think a bee is made to sting Echoes from 
 
 And to the hive sweet honey bring. the Prairie 
 
 Now does'nt it beat anything and the 
 
 The way a rhymester raves of spring? Hills 
 
 PEACE 
 
 In a quiet lovely spot, where our brave dead lie sleeping; 
 And o'er their graves, the stately trees, a silent watch are keeping; 
 I strolled along a shady path, one bright summer day. 
 To where, half buried in the grass, a rusty cannon lay. 
 
 Exquisite flowers, with fragrance rare, were blooming all around it 
 
 Lovingly, a glossy vine, with tendrils fair, had bound it; 
 
 It was fanned by gentle breezes, from the balmy south; 
 
 And a little bird had built her nest within the cannon's mouth. 
 
 GLIMPSES BEYOND 
 
 There are moments, rare, when we almost see 
 
 Through golden mist, by sunlight kist, 
 The wonderful city beyond the sea. 
 
 Fair, faint glimpses of stately towers, 
 And the fitful gleam of a silvery stream 
 
 That winds, and winds, through perennial bowers; 
 Through fields, elysian, and meadows, sweet: 
 
 Past mansions, fair that await us there. 
 Winding beside the gold paved street 
 
 In the shade of the palms that never fade, 
 'Neath arches of beryl, and bridges of pearl; 
 
 On, on, until lost in the glimmering shade 
 Of the beautiful groves in the sylvan glade. 
 
 THIRTY-ONE 
 
Echoes from BRIERHURST GLEN 
 
 the Prairie 
 
 and the Just below the smiling village is a cool and shady glen 
 
 Hills Where trailing vines and rocks and flowers in sweet confusion 
 blend. 
 The sunbeams and the shadows make a witching light and shade 
 And touch the silvery, winding brook that wanders through the 
 glade. 
 
 While strolling down a shady path upon my vision burst 
 The fair enticing beauty of lovely Brierhurst, 
 A quaint, yet perfect structure fashioned from the native stone, 
 In the midst of flowers and fountains standing stately and alone. 
 
 Music floated through the casement out upon the soft, cool air. 
 And graceful, white-robed figures were flitting here and there. 
 The velvet lawns were dotted o'er with many a lovely flower — 
 Oh! had I words to picture the beauty of this bower. 
 
 This picture has a background most sublimely grand, 
 Fashioned in the ages past by the great Master's hand. 
 The everlasting rock-bound hills, where the sunbeams kiss 
 The flowers that deck their rugged heights, crowned by the 
 towering cliffs. 
 
 Every tree and every shrub and all the rocky ledges. 
 The keeper's lodge, the arbors and the rustic bridges 
 Are draped with glossy ivy and sweet clematis vine — 
 Whate'er their tender arms can reach they lovingly entwine. 
 
 I found a lovely astor-bed of every shade and hue — 
 Bright pink and richest purple and all the tints of blue 
 Pure white, soft shades of yellow, and dark, voluptuous red — 
 I shall ne'er forget the beauty of this brilliant astor bed. 
 
 THIRTT-TWO 
 
Pansies and sweet, old-fashioned pinks border a winding path Echoes from 
 That leads down to an arched bridge 'neath which the waters the Prairie 
 
 laugh and the 
 
 And dance and toss their silvery spray over the mossy stones, Hills 
 Singing a sweetest lullaby in tender, soothing tones. 
 
 Upon this bridge so picturesque there is a rustic seat 
 
 Where you may sit and muse, or gaze upon the hoary peak 
 
 That rises in its majesty before our wondering eyes 
 
 With its snow-capped, shining crest piercing the western skies. 
 
 LITTLE WHITE ROSEBUD 
 
 A little white rose-bud is faded and dead; 
 No more, on the breeze, will its fragrance be shed; 
 No more will it charm, with its beauty so rare, 
 The spot it made lovely is cheerless and bare. 
 
 In the place where it bloomed, 'twas perpetual spring. 
 Fair garden of love, where the birds sweetly sing, 
 And the leaves, the grasses, the flowers and the trees. 
 All join in the chorus, that's borne on the breeze. 
 
 The garden is dreary; the birds will not sing; 
 The bee and the butterfly droop on the wing; 
 The blue of the heavens has faded to gray; 
 The rill and the fountain refuses to play. 
 
 The stars have grown dim, and the moon has grown pale; 
 There is snow on the mountains, and mist in the vale; 
 The low hanging clouds are all heavy with rain; 
 And the sad little brook sings a mournful refrain. 
 
 As the Christmas-tide came the white lilies were glad, 
 In this garden of love, but they drooped and grew sad; 
 And the hearts of the roses in sympathy bled 
 For the httle white rose-bud, now faded and dead. 
 
 THIRTY-THREE 
 
Echoes from But what is that vision, I see over there, 
 
 the Prairie Beyond the cold mists, through the portals so fair? 
 
 and the A gUmpse of the beautiful river that flows 
 
 Hills By the flowery banks, where the tree of life grows. 
 
 And a garden of wonderful beauty and grace; 
 The flowers are immortal, that fill every space, 
 Exquisite and fadeless, but none are so fair 
 As our little white rose-bud, now blossoming there. 
 
 MY DREAM CHILD 
 
 It was in my dreams that I first saw her face, 
 As she came dancing down the sunlit street, 
 
 A little fairy form of matchless grace 
 
 Dark laughing ej^'es and lips so red and sweet; 
 
 Above her bent the blue caressing sky 
 
 And each fair blossom smiled as she passed by. 
 
 Her little dimpled hand she placed in mine; 
 
 The music of her voice fell on my ear; 
 The perfumed air, the glittering toss and shine 
 
 Of golden hair and laughter sweet and clear 
 As little silver bells in perfect tune. 
 
 Sweet dream of fairy child and flowery June. 
 
 From out my window in the silent night, 
 
 How oft I've seen her with the moonbeams playing; 
 A flitting airy form in silvery white, 
 
 The zephyrs through her shining tresses straying. 
 And in the shadowy, dreamy twilight hour 
 
 How oft, how oft, I've felt her witching power. 
 
 Last night her face smiled into mine again. 
 
 From out the glowing embers of the hearth, 
 Her golden tresses mingling with the flame, 
 
 THIRTY-FOUR 
 
Her eyes like stars, her face dimpling with mirth. Echoes from 
 
 In the violet depths, beneath the flame's red light, the Prairie 
 
 The laughing face soon vanished from my sight. and the 
 
 Hills 
 
 0, little spirit child! where is your home, 
 
 What bright realm does your sweet presence grace? 
 
 When from its sylvian bowers, your footsteps roam 
 Is it to seek a fairer, brighter place? 
 
 Trust not this earth; its pleasures will not last; 
 Its fairest blossoms perish in the blast. 
 
 Would you give celestial peace for earthly bliss? 
 
 O, little spirit fold your restless wings! 
 This earth is fair, but the sweetest kiss 
 
 May come from false, false lips, whose cruel stings 
 Can wound — yea kill, the tender, trusting heart; 
 
 Sunshine and shadow each, have here a part. 
 
 TWO LITTLE MICE 
 
 I will tell you a tale of two little mice, 
 
 They were not sister and brother; 
 Though both were gray and sleek and nice, 
 
 And very fond of each other. 
 
 One little mouse found a piece of cheese 
 
 Of most delicious flavor; 
 He smiled and said, I'm sure it will please 
 
 My dainty little neighbor. 
 
 You should have seen them that very night, 
 
 Eating the cheese together; 
 Their teeth were sharp and their hearts were light 
 
 As the down of a linnet's feather. 
 
 THIRTY-FIVE 
 
Echoes fft)m Said he, we will eat cheese every day, 
 
 the Prairie Just you and I together; 
 
 and the Do you hear little sweet-heart, what I say? 
 
 Hills Just you and I forever. 
 
 But soon he carried the cheese to an upper shelf; 
 
 Beyond reach of his little neighbor; 
 And as she eats dry crumbs, all by herself 
 
 She can scent its pleasant flavor. 
 
 So he gnaws his crust, and she eats her crumb, 
 While the cheese to learn is striving. 
 
 Why to bring it down he does not come, 
 When 'tis plain that both are starving. 
 
 THE MAPLEWOODS 
 
 They came by mail — two little cakes 
 Of maple sugar, sweet and brown — 
 
 What memories this gift awakes. 
 I seem again to hear the sound 
 Of laughter echoing through the woods. 
 
 The maple woods in early spring, 
 
 When wooden pails hang on the trees, 
 
 While o'er the fire the kettles swing, 
 Whose nectar scents the passing breeze. 
 The tricksey breezes of the woods. 
 
 The firelight plays upon the snow. 
 And casts weird shadows aU around, 
 
 The sap drops in the pails below, 
 I seem to hear the dripping sound, 
 And scent the fragrance of the woods. 
 
 THIHTT-SIX 
 
Oftinies, in spite of watchful care, Echoes from 
 
 The bubbling sweets will overflow, the Prairie 
 
 Their pungent scent filling the air and the 
 
 While simmering in the coals below; Hills 
 The vapor floating through the woods. 
 
 The dear old woods, where long ago 
 
 The friend who sent this gift and I 
 Sipped nectar in the firelight's glow. 
 
 Oh! how the fleeting years slip by! 
 
 To change all but the maple woods. 
 
 A PREIMERE COMMUNICANTE 
 
 Translated from the French of Henri Arnold. 
 
 In the dim old church, above ancestral tombs. 
 At the alter where a thousand sparks leap high 
 
 And light the ghttering stones and sombre glooms, 
 She stands and dreams whilst gazing at the sky. 
 
 What are her thoughts? maiden with pallid lips. 
 By incense soothed, she closes her soft eyes; 
 
 Aglow, her praying hands, with opal tints, 
 Crystal reflections of the holy skies. 
 
 What secret prayer is to the Virgin sent 
 From her, sad young heart? A weary time 
 
 Her fair grave head in silent prayer is bent. 
 For some endearing past, does she repine? 
 
 When from the priest she has received the veil. 
 Will all her griefs and longings have an end. 
 
 Her heart no longer throb nor cheeks grow pale 
 At some sweet memory of the "might have been?" 
 
 THIRTY-SEVEN 
 
Echoes from THE SPARK DIVINE 
 
 the Prairie qj^, ^^ ^^ ^^^^ 'twould blessed be 
 
 ^^^ *^® If I could stand alone with thee 
 
 Hills 
 
 Outside the bounds of time. 
 One moment of eternity, 
 One glimpse into thy heart for me, 
 
 That cruel heart of thine. 
 
 I'd read the secrets hidden there, 
 That fill my heart with mute despair, 
 
 This wounded heart of mine. 
 As miners seardi for hidden gold 
 That glance would search thy inmost soul 
 
 To find the spark divine. 
 
 Then I would fan that little spark 
 Till it would flame within thy heart 
 
 And burn away the dross. 
 My soul, with torch of flaming light, 
 Would burn into its tablets white 
 
 The impress of the cross. 
 
 CONSIDER THE LILIES 
 
 'Twas thus the lily spake: "He who hath power 
 And cares to form a little perfect flower. 
 To him this blossom is a precious thing 
 To keep within the shadow of his wing. 
 
 "Oft times the ground is cold beneath my feet, 
 And weeds grow near instead of blossoms sweet, 
 But I see them not when I keep my eyes 
 Fixed on the sunlit glory of the skies. 
 
 "I trust and am contented with my lot; 
 The blush of the red rose I envy not, 
 Yon airy trellis, I care not to climb. 
 For I am not a rose nor clinging vine. 
 
 THIRTY-EIGHT 
 
I envy not the happy birds'that sing, Echoes from 
 
 And cleave the bahiiy air with glancing wing; the Prairie 
 
 God made me not a brilHant bird of flight, and the 
 
 But just a fragrant lily, pure and white. Hills 
 
 'An Easter lily — emblem of the time, 
 When this glad cry rang out, 'Christ is divine!' 
 And as He burst the confines of the tomb 
 The lily buds burst forth in fragrant bloom." 
 
 SWEET FAITH THIS MESSAGE BRINGS 
 
 Your darling is not dead; 
 'Twas only the casket fair. 
 That you left buried there, 
 
 In that cold, narrow bed. 
 
 Look up to the shining heights: 
 Just beyond the harbor-bar. 
 Where the gates were left ajar. 
 
 He is sharing Heaven's delights. 
 
 A little welcome guest, 
 He wanders hand in hand, 
 With a white-robed cherub band, 
 
 Through the city of the blest. 
 
 Listenmg with pleased surprise. 
 To sweet strains from golden lyres. 
 While the glint of silvery spires. 
 
 Meets his wondering eyes. 
 
 And where the white lilies gleam. 
 The little tireless feet, 
 Roam through pastures sweet, 
 
 Beside the living stream. 
 
 THIRTY-NINE 
 
llchoes froih He knows and loves you there; 
 
 the Prairie No earthly love so sweet, 
 
 and the So perfect, so complete. 
 
 Hills He slipped from your tender care. 
 
 But folded in soft white wings, 
 The little form is prest, 
 To a loving angel's breast. 
 
 Sweet Faith this message brings. 
 
 DREAMS 
 
 In dreams our spirit eyes are opened wide; 
 
 We see with vision clear. 
 The angels come and linger at our side: 
 
 The demons, too, appear, 
 But not to deceive, for our unclouded eyes 
 
 Can penetrate the most subtle disguise. 
 
 When the tired frame sinks to rest at close of day, 
 
 The spirit slumbering not, 
 Unfolds its wings, bursting these bonds of clay 
 
 To seek some holy spot. 
 Where in the solemn stillness of the night 
 
 Familiar spirits wing their noiseless flight. 
 
 In dreams, our ears attuned, can understand 
 
 What our good angels say; 
 We feel the pressure of a spirit hand, 
 
 That guides us not by day, 
 Our waking visions are but the ideal 
 
 Visions of night — our spirit dreams, the real. 
 
THE GATES AJAR Echoes from 
 
 the Prairie 
 
 O, gates of pearl, that stand ajar and the 
 
 Through sunny days and chilling storms! Hills 
 
 Waiting, waiting for the forms 
 
 That enter not but stand afar, 
 
 Unmindful that their paradise 
 
 Is just beyond the vine-draped walls. 
 
 Where the golden fruitage falls, 
 Ungathered, dying where it lies. 
 
 These gates on golden hinges swing; 
 
 And softly close without a sound; 
 
 When the frost has touched the ground. 
 And lonely birds refuse to sing. 
 
 The king delayed to enter in. 
 
 Alas, alas! sweet paradise 
 
 Unclaimed, each lovely blossom dies 
 And all is cold and dead within. 
 
 GUILT 
 
 A swift look of surprise, 
 Then Fear crept to her eyes. 
 
 And pulled down the white sashes, 
 
 With their fringe of dark lashes, 
 Which swept the red glow 
 From the cold cheeks below; 
 
 And the chilled blood retreating 
 
 Left her heart scarcely beating. 
 
 FORTY-ONE 
 
Hills 
 
 Echoes from SUNNY SLOPE 
 
 the Fraine ^ ^^-^^ draped cottage on a grassy lawn, 
 
 ^^Z^.« I s^^ this lovely scene at early dawn; 
 
 The rosy sun-light flooded hill and vale, 
 And flushed with tender pink the blossoms pale; 
 The dainty things that bloomed beside the door, 
 And spread with ruddy hght the meadows o'er. 
 And crimsoned the fruit upon the orchard trees 
 Waving so gently in the summer breeze 
 Throbbing with music was the scented air, 
 God's little birds were singing every where. 
 
 The breeze was laden with the sweet perfume 
 
 Of ripening fruit and flowers in perfect bloom. 
 
 The vineyards sparkled with the sun-kissed dew, 
 
 The purple fruitage caught a brighter hue. 
 
 The daisied fields were rich with golden grain. 
 
 And tlie dark-eyed mistress of this fair domain 
 
 Stood on the vine-clad porch with smiling face. 
 
 In her hand she held a flower filled vase, 
 
 On her shoulder perched a snow-white dove 
 
 With peaceful, folded wings and eyes of love. 
 
 Her face was turned toward the sun-lit skies, 
 
 Peace, hope, and joy looked forth from her calm eyes. 
 
 THREE SCORE YEARS AND TEN 
 
 How gracefully she wears her crown of years, 
 Well spent years, all fraught with noble deeds; 
 
 Unselfish years, responsive to the needs 
 Of those who know less joy than pain and tears. 
 
 These checkered years, so full of ceaseless care. 
 Sit lightly on her brow and supple form; 
 
 Her bright, unclouded face is like the morn, 
 The evening shades have cast no shadows there. 
 
 FORTY-TWO 
 
May many golden years slip gently by Echoes from 
 
 I^efore we miss from off the l^usy street the Prairie 
 
 The pleasant echo of her willing feet, and the 
 
 The cheerful voice and glance of her bright eye. Hills 
 
 Before this life for her shall have an end, 
 
 May all for which she strives be fully done; 
 
 May all her noble victories be won, 
 And may she count her years — four score and ten. 
 
 THE COTTONWOOD TREES 
 
 O, the beautiful cottonwood trees! 
 
 How they murmur and quiver, 
 And wave their arms in the cooling breeze 
 
 While they whisper and shiver. 
 
 Telling their tale of woe 
 
 To the listening flowers below. 
 
 "We were once your pride," moan the cottonwood trees, 
 "O, those palmy days! 
 When our stately forms and silvery leaves 
 Won nothing but praise. 
 Now, each shining leaf 
 Is a quiver with grief." 
 
 In the shade of the cottonwood trees 
 
 The children play. 
 A fair city has grown 'neath their sheltering leaves, 
 
 And lovers stray 
 
 Where the branches grow 
 
 O'er the walks below. 
 
 FORTY-THREE 
 
Echoes from* When the moonhght falls on the Cottonwood trees, 
 
 the Prairie At the close of day, 
 
 and the And touches with silver their glossy leaves. 
 
 Hills How the shadows play 
 
 Where the branches meet 
 O'er the moonlit street. 
 
 "O, spare our homes in the cottonwood trees," 
 
 The little birds say; 
 "Our dainty nests mids't their shimmering leaves 
 
 Where our birdlings stay 
 
 And where all the day long 
 
 We cheer you with song." 
 
 "O, spare the shady cottonwood trees," 
 The grasses implore. 
 And myriad voices, borne on the breeze. 
 Repeat o'er and o'er, 
 "Spare the trees!" 
 "Spare the trees!" 
 
 A CHRISTMAS HYMN 
 
 Oh, listen to the story 
 
 Of that triumphant morn; 
 That dawned in matchless glory. 
 
 The day that Christ was born. 
 Let me repeat the story. 
 
 So beautiful and true; 
 The sweet and sacred story; 
 So old, yet ever new. 
 
 Oh, listen to the story; 
 'Tis fraught with mystic glory 
 This wonderful old story 
 About the child divine. 
 
 FORTT-FOUE 
 
Within the manger lowly, Echoes from 
 
 Among the gentle kine, the Prairie 
 
 Born of the Virgin, holy, and the 
 
 A child that is divine. Hills 
 
 Oh, wondrous, wondrous story! 
 
 Oh, blessed, blessed morn! 
 Repeat, repeat the story, 
 
 On earth a Saviour 's born! 
 
 The angels, swiftly winging 
 
 Swept in, on pinions white; 
 The heavenly anthems singing. 
 
 In rapturous delight. 
 Then came the wise men, bringing 
 
 Their gifts of spices sweet. 
 And 'neath the censers swinging, 
 
 They laid them at His feet. 
 
 Oh, Thy compassion, tender. 
 
 That ransomed dying men! 
 Oh, Thy radiant splendor, 
 
 Sweet star of Bethlehem! 
 Oh, happy Christmas morning! 
 
 I hear the angels sing; 
 At thy glorious dawning; 
 
 Fair birth-day of our King. 
 
 BRING FLOWERS, BRIGHT FLOWERS 
 
 Bring flowers, bright flowers, none are too sweet 
 To deck the graves where our brave soldiers sleep, 
 O, tender blossoms, yield richest perfume, 
 As fondly you twine around each sacred tomb. 
 
 rORTT-FIVE 
 
Echoes from^ Ring out, sweet bells, upon the scented breeze, 
 
 the Prairie In praise of our brave dead, and from the trees, 
 
 and the Ye little birds, chant a soft refrain 
 
 Hills Above the graves where rest our noble slain. 
 
 Bring, O bring your garlands, fragrant, rare. 
 Of beauty unsurpassed; none are too fair 
 To drape o'er the marbles gleaming crest 
 
 That marks the spot where heroes are at rest. 
 
 O come, ye cooling breezes from the north. 
 And balmy zephyrs from the south come forth; 
 Mingle, and breathe a requiem o'er each grave 
 Where 'neath the grasses calmly sleep the brave. 
 
 MY BONNY BIRD 
 
 Years ago, one sunny clay, through my casement open wide, 
 A little bird flew in and perched upon an easel at my side; 
 It was a bonnj'' bird with plumage glossy as a raven's wing; 
 It thrilled my soul and filled my heart with ecstasy to hear him 
 sing. 
 
 I had not thought this bonnj^ bird would be content to stay 
 
 with me; 
 I left my window open wide so he might know that he was free, 
 But he lingered near me, always happy as the years slipped by; 
 I never caged my singing bird, so he was ever free to fly. 
 
 I often smoothed and fondled him, but never with detaining 
 hand; 
 
 And I thought my little warbling bird could not fail to under- 
 stand. 
 
 That 'twas only love that held him, and not that against his will; 
 
 But within my heart there was a place that none but he could fill. 
 
 FORTY-SIX 
 
Still through my open casement each fair day he came and went; Echoes from 
 
 But through his song I heard with sadness, notes of discontent; the Prairie 
 
 And when I stroked his glossy wings, he would peck my hand and the 
 
 and fly Hills 
 But not in a merry, playful mood as in the days gone by 
 
 One day without one farewell note, he swiftly took his flight; 
 I watched him, with a breaking heart, till sad tears dimmed 
 
 my sight. 
 And through the long and dreary days no more his song I 
 
 heard; 
 My room was empty, as my heart, without my singing bird. 
 
 I never closed my casement, as he might return some day; 
 While I watched and listened for him the summer slipped away. 
 When the autumn leaves had fallen how I scanned each naked 
 
 tree; 
 And from out the storm, one winter's day my bird came back to 
 
 me. 
 
 'Tis sweet again to see him perched in his accustomed place. 
 As he flies by I love to feel his soft wings fan my face. 
 'Tis joy to feel his dainty claws around my finger clasped; 
 'Tis very sweet to know that he came back to me unasked. 
 
 When to my ears, upon the breeze, the old song sweetly floats, 
 I love to listen, but alas! I miss some tender notes; 
 And I dare not caress him, as of yore with loving hand, 
 For fear again, my bonny bird, might fail to understand. 
 
 WOMAN 
 
 Translated From tlie French of Victor Hugo. 
 
 Woman was placed upon the earth 
 To idealize the universe; 
 The mystery of life we feel 
 Only her kisses can re-v'eal. 
 
 FORTY-SEVEN 
 
Echoes from Love fills all the spaces, low and high; 
 
 the Prairft Its limitations sea and sky; 
 
 and the To its shrine the fairest gifts are sent; 
 
 Hills All nature is love's ornament. 
 
 Appealing to the soul, each bloom 
 Steeps all our senses in perfume; 
 God did not let the flowers appear 
 Till he had placed the woman here. 
 
 Blue sapphires, useless is your gleam 
 Till woman's soft eyes on you beam, 
 And diamonds glittering there alone, 
 Without her glance a worthless stone. 
 
 All things that fill our hearts with bliss 
 Spring forth from woman's loveliness; 
 Without fair Eve, the snowy pearl — 
 Without your smile, my sweet, sweet girl, 
 
 The pearl would lose its beauty rare, 
 As love despised will grow less fair 
 And love from thee taking its flight 
 Is a wounded bird lost in the night. 
 
 IN MEMORIUM 
 
 Two noble souls have crossed the great divide. 
 And joined their loved ones on the other side; 
 Together here, they trod life's rugged way. 
 And filled with kindly deeds each passing day. 
 
 Upon a higher plane, with gracious mein, 
 These noble spirits walked, calm and serene; 
 For good, a lofty purpose to command. 
 And ever ready with a helping hand. 
 
 FOHTT-EIGHT 
 
And 'neath their standards, on a shining height, Echoes from 
 
 Fearless they strove and battled for the right. the Prairie 
 
 Alas! We'll see their faces nevermore and the 
 
 Until they greet us on that other shore. Hills 
 
 Oh, Death, where is thy victory, thy sting? 
 Unto these earth-bound souls thou givest wing; 
 Thou flingest open wide the portals fair 
 Of stately mansions waiting over there 
 
 Or, grave, thou hast no victims in thy grasp, 
 'Tis but the casket that lies in thy clasp; 
 An empty casket, for the jewels bright 
 Now add their luster to the realms of light. 
 
 HE SLUMBERS NOT 
 
 He slumbers not, His watchful eye 
 With tender glance sweeps earth and sky; 
 
 No grief-tossed soul, no breaking heart 
 Escapes our Father's loving glance. 
 
 Anxious He waits, glad to impart 
 
 The healing balm to every wound; 
 But oft times 'tis the glittering lance 
 
 His hand must use instead of balm; 
 The blade that stings but probes to cure. 
 
 'Tis thus we learn the depths to sound 
 Of His great love infinite, pure; 
 
 As changeless as the stars of night 
 
 As deep, as silent, and as calm 
 As lakes upon some snow capped height 
 
 His ears, attuned, catch every cry 
 
 Of anguish wrung from bleeding hearts; 
 
 And every moan, and every sigh 
 From lonely ones, bereft of love. 
 Who look with pleading eyes above, 
 
 FOBTT-NINB 
 
Echoes from He hears the hum of poisoned darts 
 
 the Prairi^ Before they reach the victim's breast ; 
 
 and the He hears the throbbing of the pain 
 
 Hills That wracks the sufferer on his bed. 
 
 He feels the grief, the wild unrest 
 When hope, and peace, and joy have fled; 
 
 He hears the mournful, sad refrain 
 Of stricken ones, beside their dead. 
 
 The faintest prayer that e'er was breathed 
 
 Cannot escape His listening ear. 
 With prayer the great white throne is wreathed 
 
 Transformed to fragrant, fadeless flowers 
 
 Fairer than those that bloom beside 
 The living streams in Eden's bowers, 
 
 To Him, no flowers are half so dear 
 As those that spring from human hearts, 
 
 Watered by tears, swept by the tide • 
 
 Of sorrow or of sudden bliss 
 So strangely sweet that it imparts, 
 
 Both pain and rapturous happiness. 
 
 He slumbers not. His watchful eye 
 With tender glance sweeps earth and sky, 
 His wondrous love fills everj' space; 
 No cloud can hide His shining face 
 From those who know His saving grace 
 
 THE BROOK 
 
 We found a shady nook, 
 
 Down by the singing brook. 
 
 Sweet Miriam and I. 
 
 Where the waters dance and leap 
 
 O'er the pebbles at our feet 
 
 As we watch the changing of the sky. 
 
On in dreamy mood we sit, Echoes from 
 
 While the sunbeams round us flit, the Prairie 
 
 And o'er our heads the waving branches meet and the 
 
 Or read some tender poem. Hills 
 While the brook is ever flowing. 
 Making sweetest music at our feet. 
 
 Italian skies stretch far above us; 
 Stately trees are bending o'er us; 
 Round their roots the water dances, 
 And between the twining branches 
 We can see the snow-capped peak. 
 From whose springs the waters leap 
 O'er the rocks between the ridges, 
 Down beneath the rustic bridges, 
 Through the parks and shady glens. 
 Flowing o'er its golden sands. 
 Ever restless, glad to roam 
 Far from its mountain home, 
 Dancing, singing merrily 
 On its journey to the sea. 
 
 When the twilight hour has found us. 
 
 When the mountains darken round us. 
 
 And the sun has left no traces in the West; 
 
 We hear the chime bells ringing; 
 
 And voices sweely singing; 
 
 But 'tis the music of the brook that I love best. 
 
 As out on the night I look 
 
 I see the spirit of the brook. 
 
 And feel its tender soothing power. 
 
 As the stars their vigils keep 
 
 The sweet brook sings me to sleep 
 
 In the darkness of the cjuiet midnight hour. 
 
 FIFTY-ONE 
 
HUls 
 
 rEchoes'from FAREWELL, OLD YEAR 
 
 — '^ Farewell, old year, thy memories dear, 
 
 Still linger like the sweet perfume 
 Of dying flowers in faded bowers, 
 
 When the frost has spoiled the bloom. 
 
 O, fair new year, with joy and fear. 
 
 With smiles and tears we welcome thee; 
 
 Bring us sweet peace may truth increase; 
 Let sunshine stay, and shadows flee. 
 
 O, could each life be freed from strife. 
 
 And hopes deferred, like stars appear, 
 
 Whose tender light illumes the night; 
 
 And may love reign through this fair year. 
 
 In vision bright I "^eem to see 
 
 The year stretch out before my view 
 
 The shadows come, the shadows flee: 
 The skies are gray, the skies are blue. 
 
 Some hearts are gay and some are sad, 
 I hear the laughter and the sighs; 
 
 Some homes are dark and some are glad, 
 How swift the moving picture flies. 
 
 I hear the sweet toned marriage bell, 
 I hear the sound of joy and pain; 
 
 I hear, I hear, the funeral knell; 
 I hear the wedding chimes again. 
 
 The people come, the people go; 
 
 They pass along the busy street ; 
 Some faces bear the print of woe 
 
 While other faces, calm and sweet, 
 
 Mirror the heart that knows no fear, 
 To the old year they bid adieu, 
 
 Though sacred are the memories, dear, 
 With joy they welcome in the new. 
 
 FIFTT-TWO 
 

DREAMLAND Echoes from 
 
 the Prairie 
 I dreamed of a beautiful isle of the sea, and the 
 
 On its shining cliffs the waves toss in their glee Hills 
 
 But no storms ever beat on its silvery strands. 
 The shells gleam like pearls on its glittering sands, 
 And strange tropic flowers, exquisitely fair, 
 Fadeless and thornless, are blooming there. 
 
 The beings who dwell on this wonderful isle 
 
 Never weep, save for joy; On each face rests a smile. 
 
 Through each heart flows sweet peace, like a beautiful river, 
 
 And troth plighted once is plighted forever. 
 
 Two wise, gentle, rulers reign here supreme; 
 
 Truth is king, and Love is queen. 
 
 Through the sylvan shades they all wander together, 
 Wondrous wise, wondrous fair, ever true to each other. 
 There's no malice or greed, no striving for gain; 
 No cruelty, wrongs, or hearts quivering with pain: 
 Hate, envy, and strife on this isle are not seen, 
 Where Truth is king, and Love is queen. 
 
 There's no waiting for footsteps that never come. 
 
 No longing for songs that are left unsung; 
 
 No watching for forms that never appear. 
 
 No aching hearts, or cheeks blanching with fear 
 
 Of the desolation that broken vows bring, 
 
 For Love is queen, and Truth is king. 
 
 The luminous stars look down from above 
 
 Into luminous eyes, ever tender with love. 
 
 And the fronded palms, on the breeze, send caresses 
 
 To kiss the soft cheeks and play with the tresses 
 
 Of these beings who dwell on this isle of my dream, 
 
 Where Truth is king, and Love is queen. 
 
 FIFTY-THREB 
 
Echoes from 
 the Prairie 
 
 and the A PETITION 
 
 Hills 
 
 Oh Lord, hear Thou my prayer! 
 
 Let me Thy mercies share, 
 As with a lighted candle search my heart. 
 
 If there be found distrust, 
 
 Suspicion, or the lust 
 For worldly honors, bid it all depart, 
 
 I would be pure within; 
 
 Be free from willful sin; 
 Be strong to battle bravely for the right. 
 
 Love truth for truth's sweet sake; 
 
 All selfishness forsake, 
 And reflect Thy glory as the stars the light. 
 
 Help me to know myself. 
 
 And, dear Lord, give me wealth — 
 Oh give me of Thy jewels, chaste and fair, 
 
 Love and Humility, 
 
 Faith and sweet Charity, 
 Within my breast I would these jewels wear. 
 
 Oh let there ever be 
 
 A flower of sympathy 
 Blooming, and yielding perfume in my heart. 
 
 Oh let Hope's shining star 
 
 Shed cheerful rays afar, 
 And in Thy kingdom, Lord, give me a part. 
 
 Oh teach my tongue to speak, 
 
 In accents pure and sweet. 
 Kind words to those who falter by the way, 
 
 And let my heart, like Thine 
 
 Be filled with love divine; 
 Help me to grow more hke Thee day by day. 
 
 FIFTY-FOUR 
 
Echoes from 
 the Prairie 
 THE WORLD WILL NEVER KNOW and the 
 
 The world will never know for history wiU not speak, 
 Of the heroes and heroines that walk upon our street. 
 Battles are fought each day, and glorious victories won. 
 Without the sound of clashing steel, or noisy beat of drum. 
 "Still waters run deepest." Heart beats are never heard; 
 The stricken soul is oft-times soothed by one tender word. 
 
 Of the beautiful unselfish lives, ever kind and true 
 "Letting not the left hand know, what the right hand finds to do 
 Of the happiness and sweet content within humble cottage 
 
 walls, 
 Of the misery and secret woe that lurks in marble halls; 
 The anguish of a broken heart, that the proud face will not 
 
 show ; 
 Of the silent prayers, the unshed tears, the world will never 
 
 know. 
 
 A man walks forth with smiling face upon the busy street. 
 While his victim 's drooping, dying in some lonely retreat; 
 The people pass unmindful of her loneliness and woe; 
 Of his cruelty and broken vows, the world will never know. 
 Proud spirits are crushed, and hearts break without a sound, 
 And the "mills of God" are silent as the grist is slowly ground. 
 
 The grave holds many secrets that will never be revealed; 
 The human heart holds secrets, from all the world concealed. 
 White hands shapely and jeweled, might show a crimson stain, 
 The merriest laughter often hides a deep and deadly pain; 
 Many a life has been condemned, as pure as driven snow; 
 Ah! much of joy and much of grief, the world will never know. 
 
 FIFTT-FIVB 
 
 Hills 
 
Echoes from 
 
 the Prairie 
 
 and the 
 
 Hills 
 
 CHRYSANTHEMUM 
 
 The rose is called the queen of flowers, 
 Surrounded by her sisters fair, 
 A lovely throng of beauties rare. 
 
 She holds her court midst summer bowers 
 'Neath smiling skies of sunny blue, 
 Gayly they bloom the summer through, 
 
 Brightening all the golden hours, 
 
 But when the autumn days have come 
 Then blooms our sweet Chiysanthemum. 
 
 As we watch the summer days depart 
 And the painted leaves in silence fall; 
 And the vines are dead upon the wall; 
 
 A dreamy sadness fills each heart. 
 Our garden seems a dreary place. 
 No brilliant flowers its borders grace, 
 
 Save in a sheltered nook apart. 
 
 Where gay beneath the autumn sun 
 Blooms our own Chrysanthemum. 
 
 Ah! she is not a "Summer Friend." 
 She stays when all the rest have flown, 
 And left us flowerless and alone, 
 
 No singing birds, or blooms to lend 
 Their brightness to the autumn haze, 
 
 'Tis she who cheers the dreary days, 
 
 'Tis joy to know so sweet a friend: 
 
 No fairer flower blooms 'neath the sun 
 Than autumn's queen Chrysanthemum. 
 
 rlFTT-SIX 
 
THAT LITTLE PICTURED FACE Echoes from 
 
 the Prairie 
 
 O, the charm, the witching grace . .j^ 
 
 Of that little pictured face Hills 
 
 That smiles on us from out the frame. 
 
 Above her forehead, smooth and fair, 
 
 Are little rings of golden hair 
 Like yellow silk of ripening grain. 
 
 Her laughing face seems to caress 
 The dimpled arm, her cheek doth press 
 
 Those perfect arms, like snow flakes gleam 
 Twin stars, her eyes, so clear and bright 
 No lovlier stars illume the night 
 
 Than those dark orbes that softly beam. 
 
 As I gaze upon her face so sweet, 
 I seem to hear her dancing feet; 
 
 And press her cheeks where roses bloom 
 While softly falls upon my ear. 
 The sound of laughter sweet and clear 
 
 As warbljng birds in leafy June. 
 
 O, may life's path be smooth and bright! 
 May shadows flee before the Hght, 
 
 That brightly shines along thy way; 
 May friendship ever faithful be 
 May love be always true to thee. 
 
 As stars that shine through endless day. 
 
 THE WITHERED ROSE 
 
 O, sweet white rose! how perfect was thy blooming, — 
 How pure and dainty were thy petals rare; 
 
 Thy fragrant breath the grateful air perfuming, 
 Thy winsome grace that made the earth more fair. 
 
 FIFTY-SEVEN 
 
Echoes from ^ I loved to gaze upon that perfect flower; 
 
 the Prairie Though the garden where it bloomed was not my own 
 
 and the A bUght has fallen on that fragrant bower; 
 
 Hills The rose is dead; the singing birds have flown. 
 
 . The grasses and the leaves seem to be weeping; 
 No more this lovely rose delights our eyes; 
 Yet we know that it is safe in God's own keeping, — 
 Transplanted to His garden in the skies. 
 
 NO LIMITATIONS FOR THE HEART 
 
 This earth of ours is but a little place, 
 We cannot drift so very far apart; 
 The intervening hills may hide the face, 
 But there are no limitations for the heart. 
 
 It cannot be confined in forms of clay, 
 But spreads its unseen wings in noiseless flight 
 To seek familiar haunts — not far away. 
 For love that travels swifter than the light. 
 
 The little birds that warble in the trees. 
 Will take their flight when summer days are o'er 
 Leaving their empty nests midst fading leaves; 
 But we know they're singing on some distant shore. 
 
 This sweet assurance cheers the lonely heart; 
 They are not dead, but in some flowery glen 
 They linger — yet are eager to depart, 
 The spring will bring them back to us again. 
 
 FIFTT-EIOHT 
 
IT IS NOT A MYTH Echoes from 
 
 the Prairie 
 
 Hills 
 
 There is a man I know quite well, , ,. 
 
 But ask me not his name to tell; 
 A man most pleasant, kind, and wise, 
 But it would fill you with surprise 
 To hear him talk with scorn supreme, 
 Of love, sweet love, " 'Tis but a dream, 
 A fallacy," said this young man, 
 'I fail," said he, "to understand 
 How clever people with good sense 
 (I know that he meant no offence) 
 Could believe in such a senseless thing. 
 Poets may rave and bards may sing, 
 And still the fact remains the same, 
 Love is a myth; I will proclaim 
 It t'o the world because 'tis true." 
 Ah! Cupid has his eye on you 
 My friend, he has a special dart 
 Prepared to penetrate your heart; 
 He told me so with twinkling eyes. 
 And said your heart would be a prize 
 When he had shot the crust away; 
 You may expect him any day. 
 
 IF A MAGIC WAND WERE MINE 
 
 I wish I had a magic wand 
 To drive grim trouble from the land, 
 I'd wave it first o'er you, sweetheart, 
 Then all your sorrows would depart; 
 You would be happy all day long, 
 And laugh, and sing a joyful song. 
 All your grief and trials would flee. 
 Nemesis, would an angel be. 
 
 FIFTT-NINB 
 
Echoes from You would grow younger every day, 
 
 the Prairie For joy would chase the lines away. 
 
 and the In your dark eyes a light divine, 
 
 Hills The star of hope, would softly shine; 
 
 In some fond heart you'd reign supreme 
 Your life would be a pleasant dream, 
 With sweet realities to give 
 A zest to every hour you live. 
 
 Oh, ye gods! I pray, I pray 
 
 Send me that wand without delay. 
 
 A magic wand, with wondrous power 
 
 To change a hovel to a tower; 
 
 And change the den, where hides the snake, 
 
 Into a little placid lake 
 
 Where golden fish and lihes white. 
 
 May float upon its waters bright. 
 
 And change the thistle to a flower. 
 And change the swamp into a bower; 
 And change the false into the true. 
 To doubting ones, their faith renew, 
 And change the slums, where evil breeds, 
 Into a place where holy deeds 
 Can raise the fallen, and can give 
 These hopeless ones a wish to live. 
 
 A magic wand will ne'er be mine. 
 But I know there is a power, divine. 
 That rules our lives and shapes our ends 
 And if the helpless soul depends 
 Upon this power with faith and hope. 
 Our souls in darkness will not grope, 
 A light, divine, will guide our way 
 By shining paths, through endless day. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS TIME Echoes from 
 
 the Prairie 
 The snow queen came with garlands white, and the 
 
 And hung them upon the trees last night. Hills 
 
 The frost king came with jewels rare, 
 And left them sparkling everywhere. 
 
 And before the dawn, an artist came 
 And painted flowers on the window pane. 
 
 The king, the queen, the artist combined 
 To deck the earth for Christmas time. 
 
 THEY WERE BUT DREAMS 
 
 I dreamed three times about my friend; 
 
 At first she was a little child 
 
 With tearful eyes and tresses wild. 
 She begged of me that I would lend 
 
 My aid, to help her to secure 
 
 A lovely doll, she was quite sure 
 She could not live without the toy; 
 
 The doll they would not give or sell; 
 
 (Remember, as this tale I tell, 
 'Twas but a dream) I hired a boy 
 To go and steal the doll, one night 
 
 And when I saw the perfect bliss 
 
 Of that sweet child, and got my kiss, 
 I felt that I had done just right. 
 I dreamed again; the child had grown 
 
 Into a maiden, wondrous fair; 
 
 With starry eyes and raven hair 
 I saw her standing all alone 
 
 She said "I want a string of pearls 
 
 To twine among my long dark curls; 
 
 8IXTT-ONE 
 
Echoes from Without the pearls I cannot live" 
 
 the Prairie I had no gold; I could not buy 
 
 and the The pearls, and must the maiden die? 
 
 Hills I asked them if they would not give 
 
 The pearls to me, and told them why, 
 They only looked at me and laughed; 
 They seemed to think that I was daft 
 
 (Remember please 'twas but a dream). 
 One, dark, dark night I stole the pearls 
 And twined them in her raven curls 
 
 And when I saw her dark eyes beam 
 And shared the joy of that fair maid 
 And felt that I was well repaid. 
 
 Last night I dreamed of her again: 
 She was a sad-faced woman now 
 With mournful voice and pallid brow, 
 
 She had lost a priceless gem 
 
 For which she mourned, a gem called love, 
 Her eyes sought mine, In mute appeal; 
 This gem no one could buy nor steal. 
 
 She raised her weeping eyes above 
 No words escaped her lips, so white. 
 Dense, black clouds obscured the light — 
 
 Low hanging clouds heavy with rain, 
 From out the gloom, I heard her cry, 
 "Sweet Love is dead; O, let me die!" 
 
 And at her feet lay Cupid slain; 
 I saw him in the lightning's gleam; 
 And all the earth was filled with sighs; 
 And I awoke with tearful eyes. 
 
 So glad, so glad, 'twas but a dream. 
 
 alXTT-TWO 
 
FRIENDSHIP Echoes from 
 
 Sweet boon of love! unselfish, passionless . ,., 
 
 a • ■ • 1 4. \ ■ ^"d the 
 
 buspicion IS unknown; trust reigns supreme „.,, 
 
 In Friendship's breast. There is no weariness 
 
 In loving deeds performed; and like a stream 
 Flowing through pastures where the cattle lie 
 
 Refreshed upon its banks, so cool and green; 
 It gives and gives and yet is never dry. 
 
 'Tis like a lake reflecting the blue sky. 
 
 And wondrous sunset clouds, where at night 
 The jeweled stars upon its bosom lie; 
 
 And midst its isles are lilies, pure and white, 
 It reflects not the storm that o'er it flies, 
 
 But in sympathy, beats its shores, and throws 
 Its mists in tears of sorrow to the skies, 
 
 Tossing its arms, as it moans o'er nature's woes. 
 
 'Tis like the dew that at the close of day, 
 
 Gently falls upon the drooping flowers; 
 Or like the evening breezes as they play 
 
 Among the leaves to cool our fading bowers. 
 Like love, it is enduring as the stars 
 
 That never fail us when we look above. 
 No envy or distrust its beauty mars. 
 
 True friendship is as changeless as God's love. 
 
 DESIRE 
 
 Translated From the French of Victor Hugo. 
 
 Oh! if I had words or symbols. 
 
 For expressing what I feel; 
 If my tongue could form the syllables 
 
 That would my thoughts reveal. 
 
 SIXTY-THREE 
 
Echoes from ^ I would tell of laws mysterious, 
 the Prairie That animate the universe; 
 
 and the And of these laws imperious, 
 
 Hills I would smg in lofty verse. 
 
 Each soul has its melodies. 
 
 With no imperfect bar; 
 Each being has its harmonies, 
 
 Each life its guiding star. 
 
 Man can be strong, like nature. 
 
 Like God, pure and sublime; 
 Holy and grand, the creature, 
 
 Might mirror the Divine. 
 
 When the restless waves roll high, 
 
 And from the clouds the lightnings gleam, 
 
 When the winds complain and sigh. 
 Hark! it is the Voice supreme. 
 
 We are thrilled with its magnificence. 
 
 With its immensity of power; 
 Losing the grand significance, 
 
 In the wonder of the hour. 
 
 But he who understands the voice Divine, 
 Has but words, without life or wings. 
 
 To express immortal thoughts sublime; 
 Lost like an echo is the song he sings. 
 
 He can only hide his face low in the turf, 
 And softly say — His shadow passeth by; 
 
 Be silent. Heaven and Earth! 
 
 Be mute, ye clouds, and trouble not the sky. 
 
 His restless soul is like the storm, 
 
 That rolls and murmurs in the clouds. 
 
 And like the captive billow, whose white form. 
 Harms not the rock its misty wave enshrouds. 
 
 SIXTY-FOUR 
 
Or like on eaglet whose unfledged wings, Echoes from 
 
 Refuse to bear it where its eager eyes the Prairie 
 
 Behold, far out of reach, fair shining things, and the 
 
 As it flutters earthward longing for the skies. Hills 
 
 Of the angels, I ask not eternal life. 
 
 Nor do I crave their glorious destiny; 
 But music divine, that drowns all earthly strife. 
 
 And fills the soul with heavenly ecstasy. 
 
 Something within me whispers, soft and low, 
 
 As the sweet zephyr in the silent night; 
 Or like the gentle waves, that ebb and flow. 
 
 Silent, I listen, thrilled with strange delight. 
 
 Wild ocean, give to me your sounding voice, 
 
 O, if the voices of the woods were mine; 
 Your song, sweet brook, would make my heart rejoice, 
 
 For with these tongues, I'd reach the heart Divine, 
 
 O, my soul! if thou could'st understand, 
 
 This God whose fires within thee burn; 
 If in the darkness thou could'st feel His hand. 
 
 His love thou would'st return 
 
 O weary soul! longing for love divine, 
 
 Thy wavering zeal loves not the flame; 
 But fans it into ecstasy sublime; 
 
 But gives no word that can express His name. 
 
 Veiled by the dawn, murmuring near and far, 
 
 I hear the echo of a sweet refrain; 
 These rapturous songs that roll from star to star. 
 
 Are but the melodies that praise His name. 
 
 The tempest, the thunder and the sea, 
 
 Enraptured to hear this wondrous song; 
 Awe struck, subdued, silent would be. 
 
 While listening to the heavenly throng. 
 
 SrXTT-FIVE 
 
Echoes from Jlepeated without ceasing, His name alone 
 the Prairie My sadness would dispel, and I would cry, 
 
 and the Valley of tears farewell! all doubts have flown, 
 Hills I have expressed His glory; let me die. 
 
 THE PASSING OF A SOUL 
 
 Why toll, sweet bells, she is not dead; why toll? 
 'Tis but the passing of a ransomed soul; 
 
 A strong, white soul, freed from its bonds of clay, 
 'Twas like the closing of a perfect day, 
 
 When the evening sun, so calmly sinks to rest, 
 
 Into the misty splendor of the west; 
 
 But leaves the afterglow 
 To light the sky until the stars appear. 
 All is not dark below; 
 
 HOPE'S radiant star dispels the shadows drear. 
 
 Toll not, sweet bells, her life is just begun; 
 
 Upon that other shore, the glorious Sun 
 
 Of her grand earthly life again will rise, 
 
 To shine through endless day, beyond the skies, 
 
 Sweet FAITH, strong and serene. 
 With ears attuned, and calm unclouded eyes, 
 
 Beholds a Wondrous scene; 
 And hears a new voice chanting the songs of paradise^ 
 
 DREAMING OF THE PAST 
 
 Dreaming, dreaming of the winding river; 
 Where we sailed, my Love and I together; 
 Gliding, gliding o'er the gentle billows. 
 In the shadow of the waving willows. 
 How oft we watched the stars sinking to rest. 
 Like gems, upon the river's placid breast — 
 Upon the shining river's placid breast. 
 
 SIXTY-SIX 
 
Drifting, drifting, oh, how sad and lonely! Echoes from 
 
 Of thee, my love, I have a vision only; the Prairie 
 
 A form beside me veiled in misty splendor; and the 
 
 A voice that whispers low, in accents tender. Hills 
 
 But oh, my love, my love, alas! alas! 
 'Tis but a vision of the vanished past, 
 
 A fair, sweet vision of the vanished past. 
 
 ON EITHER SIDE 
 
 Along a broad highway the people strolled; 
 
 Day by day I watched them passing by. 
 On one side was a wood, mossy and old, 
 
 On the other side, 'neath the sunlit sky 
 Stretched a flowery park. A rippling stream 
 
 Wound like a silver thread, lost in the grass 
 To re-appear and catch the lilies gleam; 
 
 The flowers claimed it for their looking glass. 
 
 A low, white wall, carved and vine-draped, 
 
 Enclosed the park, and here and there 
 Among- the vines appeared an unbarred gate, 
 
 That seemed to wait for forms, restless and fair 
 To enter in; but I saw many pass. 
 
 Heeding not the flowers by sunlight kissed, 
 Nor ripening fruit, nor singing birds; alas! 
 
 They never knew the Eden they had missed. 
 
 Some lingered in the dim stillness of the wood; 
 
 Content with pale and scentless flowers; 
 And tasteless berries gathered they for food, 
 
 When just across the way were sunny bowers, 
 Where fountains played among the fragrant blooms, 
 
 And golden fruits hung low upon the trees, 
 Their rich scent mingling with the rare perfumes 
 
 Floating Hke incense on the balmy breeze. 
 
 SIXTY-SEVEN 
 
Echoes from Others heard the sound of music from afar, 
 
 the Prairie And caught the glimmer of the fountains spray, 
 
 and the Gladly they came, unmindful of the jar 
 
 Hills Of discontent along the broad highway; 
 
 With joyful hearts they opened wide the gate 
 
 And entered in, eager to claim their own. 
 But alas, alas! for careless ones who wait 
 'Till flowers are dead and singing birds have flown. 
 
 I watched one form that wandered to and fro 
 
 With hesitating steps, looking on either side, 
 Now in the shadow, then in the sunlight's glow, 
 
 Like an oarless bark, tossed on the restless tide. 
 But when from the park, a wild sweet strain 
 
 Of music floated out upon the air. 
 He listened, with rapt look, then quickly came. 
 
 Entered the gate, and found his Eden there. 
 
 AT THE SETTING OF THE SUN 
 
 When the evening shades draw near and the weary day is'done, 
 
 And all is ended here, then life is just begun. 
 
 Live immortal, life celestial, just beyond the open gate. 
 
 This earth is not our home. It is the station where we wait 
 
 For the boatman who will come at the setting of the sun. 
 
 We will see his white boat gliding through the jeweled gate 
 Out upon the silent bosom of the tideless lake. 
 Gliding just a little nearer, a little nearer to the shore 
 We have joy, as well as sadness, when our last farewell is o'er 
 For we know our friends will come, just a little later, at the 
 setting of the sun. 
 
 SIXTT-EIGHT 
 
When we enter the white boat all our griefs, and doubts, and Echoes from . 
 
 fears the Prairie 
 
 All our suffering is ended and our ej^es are free from tears ; and the 
 
 Undimmed, they catch fair glimpses of the City's shining spires; Hills 
 Attuned, our ears will hear the music of celestial choirs, 
 And when on our enraptured sight, bursts a flood of heavenly 
 
 hght. 
 We will see the welcoming angels that around the portals wait 
 As we glide into the harbor, just beyond the jeweled gate. 
 
 THE CITY BY THE LAKE 
 
 O, fair "White City" by the sounding lake! 
 
 O, visions of delight ! Still in my dreams 
 I wander where the laughing waters break 
 
 Around thy shining feet, while sunbeams 
 Play on palace walls, and glittering domes 
 
 And round gleaming turrets pointing to the skies. 
 And marble forms, serene on lofty thrones. 
 
 Look down on this fair scene in mute surprise. 
 
 Thou miracle of beauty unsurpassed ! 
 
 Exquisite jewel of the crystal sea; 
 As memory holds this picture in her grasp, 
 
 That scene of matchless grace comes back to me. 
 The fantastic arches, stately colonades 
 
 Are brightly mirrored in the calm lagoons, 
 And along the broad and sunny esplanades, 
 
 The fovmtains play, in gardens sweet with blooms. 
 
 O, soft enchantment of the twilight hour! 
 
 The "Dream City" is of purest marble now. 
 The pinnacles, each pediment and tower 
 
 Stand serene and white; the statues seem to bow 
 
 SIXTT-NINB 
 
Echoes from Their heads and Usten to the bell's sweet chimes, 
 
 the Prairie The mists float across the lake to enfold 
 
 and the And soften this fair scene; we think of other climes, 
 
 Hills And catch the glint of silvery spires, o'er streets of gold. 
 
 Through colunms, marble white, gleams calm and clear 
 
 The lakes' fair breast, by gentle zephyrs kist; 
 The white skiffs like phantom sails appear, 
 
 Then fade away, lost in the pvirple mist. 
 O, exquisite Peristyle! thy sculptured forms 
 
 Stand transfigured in the fading light, 
 Like guardian angels stretching out their arms 
 
 To shield this Eden through the silent night. 
 
 This tender scene, as by a magic wand, 
 
 Is changed to dazzling splendor; beads of fire 
 Trace each graceful shape; 'tis fairy land; 
 
 The colored fountains toss their gems, sapphire, 
 Rubies, pearls, toward the darkening sky, the night imfolds 
 
 This radiant vision to our wondering eyes. 
 O, fair conception of immortal souls; 
 
 Through thee we caught a glimpse of Paradise. 
 
 THE DAYS THAT FOLLOW 
 
 When the bullet, with unerring aim. 
 
 Strikes a vital part, 
 There is numbness and a crimson stain. 
 
 And after that the smart. 
 Then follow dreary days and nights of pain 
 
 'Tis then the suffering heart 
 Needs most, some kind power to sustain. 
 
The wild tempest comes; our stately towers Echoes from 
 
 And palaces are gone; the Prairie 
 
 Kind friends mingle their tears with ours; and the 
 
 But we walk alone. Hills 
 
 In the days that follow, among the ruins drear 
 And make our moan, 
 
 With none but the pitying Christ, to hear. 
 
 We grieve because the birds have flown away 
 
 And for our sweet dead flowers. 
 The fountains no longer toss their spray 
 
 To cool our faded bowers: , 
 
 The golden fish are dead; O dreary day, 
 
 Call back those happy hours ! 
 Grim specters from our gardens flee away ! 
 
 O cruel ball, did you not feel the smart! 
 In the agony you wrought, have you no part? 
 O heedless wind, do you not breathe a sigh 
 When you see our Castles fair in ruins lie? 
 O careless frieiids, O hearts that are untrue! 
 In the days that follow is there no pain for you? 
 
 THE WORLD IS GROWING BETTER 
 
 The world is growing better; there is less greed for gain, 
 More seeking for a better life and less for empty fame, 
 Less shams and Judas kisses, and more unselfish lives; 
 Less following giddy fashion, more love for sweet home ties. 
 
 Sweet charity walks forth at morning, noon and night, 
 Clasped to her loving breast a mantle of pure white 
 Ever ready to enfold some weak, erring one. 
 Or shield some drooping form from the noon-day sun. 
 
 SEVENTY-ONE 
 
Echoes from The worTd is growing better, all nature to me proclaims, 
 the Prairie The bright birds flit on lighter wing and sing in merrier strains 
 and the Because there are less cruel darts to wound their tender breasts 
 Hills Because there are less ruthless hands to rob the sweet home 
 nests. 
 
 The flowers proudly lift their heads and wear a brighter bloom; 
 They seem to have an added grace and yield richer perfume, 
 Because there are less careless hands to pluck them from the 
 
 stems. 
 And rudely tear them leaf from leaf and scatter to the winds. 
 
 The purple hills and grassy slopes have gained a richer hue, 
 The peaceful skies that o'er us bend, seem a more heavenly 
 
 blue. 
 The moon looks down, with smiling face, from out the starry 
 
 dome. 
 Charmed with the beauty and the grace of our fair earthly home 
 
 I know that this earth is not a paradise. 
 
 For hearts are breaking every day through cruelty and vice; 
 
 I know sin ever lies in wait, our soul to fetter, 
 
 But I believe, that year by year, the world is growing better. 
 
 A VISION 
 
 The night was not dark, but O so calm and still; 
 Moonlight streamed in across my window sill 
 And flooded half the room with its soft ray. 
 The other half in darksome shadows lay. 
 
 Suddenly, gliding in from out the gloom, 
 A radiant figure stood within my room; 
 It was my girlhood's friend, in robes of white 
 As I had seen her on her bridal night. 
 
 SEVENTT-TWO 
 
Before the year was gone, cold and white she lay Echoes from 
 
 In her bridal robes, a lovely, hfeless clay, the Prairie 
 
 This fair ghost lingered in the pale moonlight, and the 
 
 Gave me one sweet smile, then vanished from my sight. Hills 
 
 Soon other forms appeared, of airy lightness. 
 Their faces glowing with celestial brightness; 
 A faint, sweet fragrance filled the dreamy air, 
 No flower of earth distills perfume so rare. 
 
 Lo! shining forms filled all the moonlit spaces. 
 As enraptured I gazed in their famiUar faces; 
 I recognized in each sweet, welcome ghost 
 Some dear friend of the past that I had lost. 
 
 Among them was my own beloved dead; 
 This blest assurance in each face I read, 
 As they smiled and gazed on me so tenderly, 
 That love is not quenched by immortahty. 
 
 A dark cloud, silver-lined, obscured the moon, 
 Shutting off the brightness from my room; 
 When the cloud passed by my spirit guest had flown 
 Through the silvery mists, into the fair unknown. 
 
 SEVENTY-THREE 
 
Echoes from "• MY PRAIRIE HOME 
 
 the Prairie 
 
 J ., I love the mountains, with their peaks piercing the azure sky, 
 
 TT... And I love the placid lakes that in their basins lie; 
 
 Each beetling crag, each towering cliff and pine-clad cone 
 
 Has a wild and rugged beauty all its own. 
 
 The beach, with the tide's ebb and flow, has a strange charm 
 
 for me; 
 I love to sit upon the sands and watch the restless sea 
 And dream of other shores its briny waters lave 
 * Of ruins, ivy-grown, o'er which the palm trees wave. 
 
 The snow drifts and the jingling bells, the frost work on the panes; 
 The sweet scent of the sugar groves, and April's sun and rain; 
 The hills the vales and scented woods; the pools and rushing 
 
 streams 
 Of my happy childhood's home come back like pleasant dreams . 
 
 But there is a favorite spot, more beautiful to me 
 
 Than the mountains, rushing streams, scented woods or restless 
 
 sea; 
 It is my sunlit prairie home, where breezy, fertile plains 
 Are ever green and golden with grass and waving grains. 
 
 Here the springtime is a poem, with its flowers and budding trees, 
 And the summer heat is tempered by a never failng breeze. 
 The autumn days are perfect, lingering till the year is done, 
 And the breath of spring has touched our cheeks e'er the winter 
 has begun. 
 
 The ripening fruit hangs heavy on the bending orchard trees, 
 And the hives, beneath, are swarming with honey-laden bees. 
 The fragrance of the prairie flowers, and of the new-mown hay. 
 Fills all the air with sweetness this balmy summer day. 
 
 Vineyards clothe the southern slopes, and from each fruitful vine 
 Hang the purple clusters, rich with imprisoned wine. 
 Oh the beauty of its azure skies no pen of mine could tell. 
 And 'neath its smiling, sunny arch. Peace and Plenty dwell. 
 
 BEVENTY-FOtIR 
 
A sunset on the prairie ! Oh what a glorious sight, Echoes from 
 
 When the western sky and drifting clouds are ablaze with golden the Prairie 
 
 light. and the 
 
 The leaves shine like emeralds and the silvery church spires gleam Hills 
 As the sun sinks like a golden ball into a sea of billowy green. 
 
 While the echo of the bison's tread still lingered in the air, 
 From the prairie sprang, like magic, a city passing fair. 
 In the valley where our Nile and the Little River meet 
 You will find this magic city, once the Indian's retreat. 
 
 'Tis like a city in the forest, the trees reach out and meet 
 Adown the narrowing vista of each broad and level street. 
 Stately mansions rise in beauty from the flower-decked, velvet 
 
 lawns. 
 And the fountains play to music of the wild birds' merry songs. 
 
 The grandeur of the mountains, the vastness of the sea, 
 The hills, the vales, the dancing rills, are beautiful to me; 
 But I love the balmy breezes of my prairie home the best, 
 The city where the rivers meet; the jewel of the west. 
 
 SEVENTY-FIVE 
 
THE MC CORMICK PRESS, WICHITA. 
 
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 HARRIET LORETTA KNAPP 
 
 author of 
 
 Miriam's Tower 
 
 Echoes of the Prairie and the Hills 
 
 THE WICHITA PUBLISHING CO. 
 Wichita, Kansas 
 
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OCT 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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 015 973 875 9 #