3^ 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 Shelf ..A..Q.R^ S 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
Extracts from the Writings 
 
 OF 
 
 YOOR Strooly," 
 
 Matt O'B. 
 
 Published for Private Distribution. 
 
 CHATTANOOGA, TENNESSEE 
 1895 
 
 
PS Z'^fg't 
 
 PRESS OF 
 
 S. C. TOOF & COMPANY 
 
 MEMPHIS, TENN. 
 
 
 
TO THOSE WHO KNEW AND LOVEB 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 THESE HASTY EMANATIONS FKOM THE HEART AND MIND 
 
 OF 
 
 MATT O'BRIEN 
 
 ARE GRATEFULLY DEDICATED. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The contents of this volume have been culled from a 
 "Scrap Book," containing some of the writings of Matt 
 O'Brien, and are published by those who hold his memory 
 dear, for private distribution among the many friends who 
 knew and loved him in life. 
 
 Matthew O'Brien or, as he was familiarly known, "Matt 
 O'B.," was born in "Old Town" Baltimore, Maryland, May 
 23d, 1835. -^^ ^^^ long an invalid, and died at his home 
 in Chattanooga, Tennessee, February 19th, 1895, in the 
 sixtieth year of his age. 
 
 A leading Southern journal contained the following 
 editorial, written by one who knew him well, and which 
 affords a brief index to the character of the author of the 
 pieces here published : 
 
 " Few men in the South were better known in express 
 and transportation circles for the past third of a century 
 than that genial, generous, golden - hearted genius, Matt 
 O'Brien. A native of Baltimore, but most of his life a 
 resident of Georgia, he was a pioneer in the express busi- 
 ness and the peer of any in all its intricate and important 
 functions. He was one of those marvels of fidelity and 
 zeal who never shirked a duty or neglected an opportunity 
 to prove his loyalty. Polite to his public, affectionate to 
 his friends, and free-hearted and full -handed to every 
 fellow -being in need, he was an unique trinity of courtesy, 
 conscience and courage, of love, labor and liberality, of 
 
wise head, helpful hand and happy heart ! To know him 
 was to love him, because he was scholar, wit, poet, and 
 artist. His eye was the camera of a comprehensive mind 
 and his tongue or hand could body forth in words or 
 sketches the inexhaustible riches and beauties of his men- 
 tal and moral treasuries. 
 
 " All over the sunny South no sunnier-spirited gentle- 
 man ever made his face a more universally favorite visitor, 
 and his popularity was equal with rich and poor, with 
 men of every race, and creed, and polity. He was too 
 generous to be rich and too self-sacrificing to his friends 
 to ever achieve power for his own uses. But he lived 
 fairly and happily before God and men, and over his tear- 
 bedewed casket to-day will fall the sincerest tears and the 
 most truthful tributes ever given to a simple, honest, 
 white - souled man ! 
 
 " He has crossed over the river and through the gates 
 of the City of God ! May those who loved him unto the 
 brink of the flood at last join him over there amid the 
 eternal hills that never echo a good-bye!" 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 A Close "Call," 95 
 
 A Comparison, 121 
 
 A Dialogue Overheard, 33 
 
 A Holiday Retrospect, 78 
 
 A Lesson All Should Learn, 120 
 
 A Maiden's Midnight Musing, 52 
 
 A Modern Magdalen, 23 
 
 A Moving Story, 123 
 
 An Appeal to the , 122 
 
 And Satan Smiled, 130 
 
 Anglo-Maniacs, - 61 
 
 An Old Man's Advice, 132 
 
 Answer to "A Doubter," 109 
 
 A Practical Sermon, 17 
 
 A Question, 79 
 
 A Verse to the Code, 40 
 
 A Wilde Discussion, 81 
 
 "Bitter Sweet" Says: 45 
 
 Bliggins' Truthful Story, 76 
 
 "Charity Begins at Home, 83 
 
 "Come, Send 'Round the "Wine," 75 
 
 Copy of "Impromptu," 49 
 
 Discontent, 99 
 
 Earth's Angels, 85 
 
 Father and Son, 28 
 
 Fiction and Fact, 93 
 
 Forgotten, 126 
 
 Found Dead, 22 
 
 "Hie Jacet," 29 
 
 His Answer, 128 
 
 His Evidence, 94 
 
 His Letter, 43 
 
 Homespun, 16 
 
 How He Wrote His Name in an Album, .... 124 
 
 How Much We Are Missed 116 
 
 How to be Happy Today, 125 
 
 Ingratitude, 105 
 
 In Memory of Horatio N. Latham, 73 
 
 Is Water Intoxicating ? 46 
 
 January 1st and January 2d, 12 
 
I'age 
 
 Judge Not, 9 
 
 Just Think ! 41 
 
 Justice Court Rehashed, 117 
 
 Lament of the Subscriber, 10 
 
 Lines "Written in Pencil on Piece of Foolscap Paper 
 
 Kept Wrapped Around the Photograph of his Wife, 82 
 
 Mistaltes 12 
 
 Move to the Seventh Ward, 71 
 
 My Dream, 34 
 
 My Wife's Comparative Statement, 62 
 
 Nommes de Plume ; or, Hugh Bedam, .... 44 
 
 Nothing So Rapid as Time, 48 
 
 Oh ! For Another Day 47 
 
 Only a Woman's Hair, 21 
 
 Post Bellum, 57 
 
 Put Yourself in His Place, 15 
 
 Queer, Isn't It? 65 
 
 Reason, Not Rhyme, 54 
 
 Reminders, 67 
 
 Saturday Night, ,. ... 112 
 
 "Short;" or, Pinkerton's Men, 100 
 
 Slander, 56 
 
 "Star and Critic;" or, "The Journalist's Death," . . 102 
 
 Straws, 86 
 
 Sunday vs. Monday, 115 
 
 The Bells of Columbus, 50 
 
 The Candidate 80 
 
 The Child and the Flower, 110 
 
 The Child's Contribution, 68 
 
 The Diflference, 55 
 
 The Gladiator's Sermon, 69 
 
 The Housekeeper's Lament, 84 
 
 The Hypocrite, 11 
 
 The End of the Season, 114 
 
 The Messenger's Child, 37 
 
 The Mischief Maker, 31 
 
 ''The Mother's Prayer," 131 
 
 The Now and Before The Then, 68 
 
 The Old Album, 66 
 
 " The Pick o' the Tiflfany's," 106 
 
 The Priest's Story, 77 
 
 The Separation, 51 
 
 The Watchman, 92 
 
 "Them Was Times, Them Was," 59 
 
 Thoughts, 27 
 
 Three Letters, 107 
 
 To A Skeleton Pocketbook— On Xmas Eve, ... 72 
 
 To Baby— Born on Christmas Eve 30 
 
Page 
 
 To Father Campbell, 97 
 
 To Edwin Booth, Ill 
 
 To Leila, and The Answer, 90 
 
 To Mark, on His 17th Birthday, 91 
 
 To My Dog, 87 
 
 To My Friend, 63 
 
 To the Cooks, 127 
 
 "Tom Collins," and "Collins Graves," .... 88 
 
 Try It, 36 
 
 Two Actresses, 70 
 
 Uncle Josh's Advice to John Henry, 42 
 
 What Experience Teaches, 64 
 
 When, 89 
 
 When I Marry, 129 
 
 When to "Kick," 74 
 
 Why? 14 
 
 Why I Like Firemen, 98 
 
 Why? 91 
 
JUDGE NOT. 
 
 TO MRS. M. B. D., OF MACON, GA. 
 (Accompanying my Scrap-Book.) 
 
 Ye who read this book 
 
 And fancy you will find, 
 By some selections it contains, 
 
 An index to the mind — 
 Remember, as you judge, 
 
 I did not write 'em ; 
 And, if disposed to criticise. 
 
 Find those who did, and fight 'em ! 
 They are the thoughts of others. 
 
 And, put in pretty rhymes, 
 Have struck a responsive chord 
 
 At different times. 
 As thus : One day, in harmony 
 
 With things here and above. 
 My fancy flights would be 
 
 On thoughts of " Love." 
 Again, some simple thing 
 
 Would make me almost hate ; 
 And then I'd clip such pieces 
 
 As spoke of "cruel fate;" 
 Then, maybe, I'd be lonesome, 
 
 And thoughts hard to unravel 
 Would make me fancy verses on 
 "The great delights of travel." 
 Again I'd change — 
 
 With no desire to roam, 
 I'd cut and paste in verses on 
 " Content to stay at home." 
 But if, as it may be. 
 
 You'd like to build 
 A judgment of me from some scrap 
 
 With which this book is filled, 
 
 9 
 
Take " Abou Ben Adhem," 
 
 And those lines closely scan 
 Where he says, " Write me down as one 
 
 Who loves his fellow-man ! " 
 For then you'd please me. 
 But I'd be better pleased 
 
 If, reading all the lot. 
 You'd remember my instructions — 
 
 And judge not ! 
 
 Columbus, Ga., November, 1879. 
 
 LAMENT OF THE SUBSCRIBER. 
 
 There's many a man who'd scorn to beg 
 
 An envelope or a wafer, 
 Who, day after day, will be sending in 
 
 And begging his neighbor's paper. 
 
 Do they ever think what a bother it is 
 
 To the people who have it to pay for, 
 To be stopped, as they reach the " Locals," with, 
 "Please, Mrs. Grummudge wants your paper"? 
 
 It's demoralizing, to say the least. 
 
 Loaning prayer-books is certainly safer ; 
 For a man'U lend them 'thout swearing, 
 
 And that's more'n he'll do with his paper. 
 
 Just imagine — a man begins reading : 
 "Horrible Accident Happened! Miss Gafer — " 
 The family listen, and the first thing they hear 
 Is, "Mr. Slompkins says send him your paper." 
 
 Then the head of the family says — grace. 
 
 And wishes Slompkins was Miss{ing) Gafer; 
 Or, that he'd write the editor, and say, 
 " For six months, sir, please send me your paper." 
 
 10 
 
THE HYPOCRITE. 
 
 A famous preacher whom I once heard 
 Had for his subject — well, 
 "Eternal Punishment;" and, of course, 
 Fearfully pictured — Hell. 
 
 His sermon so impressed me 
 
 That, after praying to be redeemed, 
 
 I went to bed in fear and dread, 
 And this is what I dreamed : 
 
 Satan sought me and did invite 
 
 Myself and a lot of ladies 
 To go on a tour of inspection 
 
 Of (in postele parlance) Hades. 
 
 The sights I saw there were enough 
 To make a sinner stop his capers ; 
 
 For among the many " At rest in Heaven " 
 (According to the city papers) 
 
 Was one old man, who, when alive. 
 
 Was a student of research. 
 And on week days as well as Sunday 
 
 Was always talking "church." 
 
 I asked the Devil why he was there, 
 
 This man of Holy Writ, 
 And Satan says, " He has outsinned all, 
 
 For he was a hypocrite." 
 
 Wilmington, Del., May 11, 1893. 
 
MISTAKES. 
 
 " I've paid out of my pocket today 
 
 Just two hundred dollars and a quarter." 
 And his wife did thus angrily say : 
 " Ton my word, dear, I don't think you oughter." 
 
 "Oh, you men! — oh, you men!" she exclaimed, 
 "Will you never your own interests see? 
 Don't you know you deserve to be blamed 
 For not giving that money to me ? 
 
 "With such an amount I'd 've bought 
 New dresses for me and the children. 
 And to think you didn't do as you ought ! 
 
 Oh, the thought — oh, the thought is bewilder'n'." 
 
 Said he then, " My darling, I would 
 Have saved it — ^just for your sakes — 
 
 That is, indeed, if I could ; 
 
 But, 'twasn't mine — I held it as 'stakes'." 
 
 JANUARY 1st AND JANUARY 2d. 
 
 " Carriage all ready ? 
 Well, let's get in. 
 Some style 'bout us — eh? 
 From toe to chin." 
 
 " Happy New Year, ladies ! 
 Ah!— Miss Rawl! 
 Assure you it's pleasure 
 To make this call. 
 
 "Yes, made seventeen; 
 
 Three more — then done ; 
 But none give such pleasure 
 As making this one." 
 
 12 
 
"Shappy N' Year, lades! 
 Calls ? Made twenty ! 
 But thish pleashantest. 
 No wine — had plenty." 
 
 "Lots fun — eh, boys? 
 Beat everyshing ! 
 Called twenty places ; 
 Shed shame sing ! 
 
 " All of us shober ; 
 
 Yard wide 'n all wool ! 
 No more to drink ? 
 
 Goo' night— I'm full ! " 
 
 JANUARY 2D. 
 " Great Geewilikins ! 
 
 And General Scott ! ! ! 
 Ring for some soda ! ! ! 
 
 O! what a head I've got! 
 It feels like I was hit — 
 
 Hit with several mauls. 
 And — where was I last night? 
 Oh, yes ! — New Year's calls ! 
 "What if the ladies noticed 
 Me being a little tight? 
 If they did — my case's cooked. 
 And exactly serves me right. 
 
 "How nice that soda tastes! 
 
 But, how my head does ache ! 
 Eyes all bloodshot and bleared! 
 
 And my hand ! — how it does shake ! 
 
 " Here, Sandy, hand me that Bible ! 
 Ye needn't to cough and cough. 
 I'm done with wine and whisky ! 
 Witness — now — I swear off." 
 
 Columbus, Ga., Jan. 3, 1881. 
 
 13 
 
WHY? 
 
 "Why don't he write?" 
 
 Cried a maiden fair, 
 As she toyed with her wealth 
 
 Of beautiful hair, 
 And gazed in the mirror 
 
 With a queenly air. 
 " Can he be faithless, 
 
 Or 've forgotten the night 
 When he vowed he would love me? 
 
 Why don't he write?" 
 
 "Why don't she write?" 
 
 Cried a handsome youth, 
 Whose face was an index 
 
 Of honor and truth ; 
 "She said she would. 
 
 And I, forsooth, 
 Have waited and waited. 
 
 Day and night. 
 But no letter comes. 
 
 Why don't she write?" 
 
 Two servants sat 
 
 In separate towns — 
 Two thievish, knavish, 
 
 Country clowns, 
 With unkempt hair 
 
 And untidy gowns ; 
 In fact, they looked 
 
 Like regular tramps ; 
 And they tore up some letters 
 
 To sell the stamps. 
 
 Columbus, Ga., October 19, 1880. 
 
PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE. 
 
 TO " MADELEINE." 
 
 'Tis easy to say, "Don't be sad;" 
 'Tis easy to console and advise ; 
 
 'Tis easy to say, " Bear your burden ; " 
 'Tis easy to sigh and look wise. 
 
 But while you're consoling, advising. 
 
 Look into the sad, sad face 
 Of the one who is heart-sore and weary, 
 
 And put yourself in his place. 
 
 Could you bear a loss like his 
 
 Without sorrow leaving its trace ? 
 
 Could you lose one you loved 'thout murm'ring? 
 Ah, no ! — put yourself in his place. 
 
 Could you bear to see, day after day, 
 Remembrances you could not displace, 
 
 Without giving a tear to the dead one? 
 Oh, no ! — put yourself in his place. 
 
 Why, even the efforts of loved ones 
 To recall all the pleasure that's fled. 
 
 Bears on its face a reminder 
 
 That will banish all else but the dead. 
 
 So, while you're consoling, advising. 
 
 Or chiding with sisterly grace, 
 Think of him heart-sore and weary. 
 
 And put yourself in my place. 
 
 Columbus, Ga., May 11, 1879. 
 
 15 
 
HOMESPUN. 
 
 DEDICATED TO THE COLLEGE GIRLS OF COLUMBUS, GEORGIA. 
 
 Sixty college girls, in homespun dresses. 
 
 Viewing Atlanta's far-famed fair, 
 With their lustrous eyes and handsome tresses. 
 
 Will prove " the fairest of the fair." 
 
 They will represent our youth and beauty ; 
 
 They will represent that teaching wise, 
 Which makes them feel it is their duty 
 
 To encourage all " home enterprise." 
 
 Go it, girls ! All men of sense 
 
 Will praise the example which instills 
 
 A pride of home, and its defense 
 Of dresses spun in our mills. 
 
 Others may array in foreign fashions — 
 In silks, and velvets, hats or hoods ; 
 
 But I'll bet the price of one week's rations 
 You'll look handsomer in our homespun goods. 
 
 Columbus brags of her cotton mills, 
 
 Which, Phcenix-like, from her ashes rose. 
 
 After war, and Wilson, and other ills 
 Left her minus of any clothes. 
 
 True, the mills are the pulse of the town. 
 And are managed by men, not churls ; 
 
 Yet they'd lose their wealth of renown 
 If it wasn't for the help of the girls. 
 
 So, you see, your excursion will aid 
 The progress of our city and State ; 
 
 And (who knows ?) your suit, home-made, 
 May make of your suitor — a mate ! 
 
 November 20, 1881. 
 
A PRACTICAL SERMON. 
 
 LADY GAY AND HER TALL-SPIRED CHURCH. 
 
 My Lady Gay had some money 
 
 Which was left, in her own right, 
 By her father, who'd struggled with fortune 
 
 And come out ahead in the fight. 
 She forgot her poor friends when she got it. 
 
 Married one of the world's millionaires ; 
 Complained of "the low people" greatly. 
 
 And put on a great many airs, 
 Such as having a crest on her carriage, 
 
 Acquaintances she'd call " Me Lud," 
 And regretted the village preacher 
 
 Was not a person " of blood." 
 She made herself quite disagreeable, 
 
 Had a page at her train down the aisle, 
 And wished other folks in the Church 
 
 Would assume a little more style. 
 She complained of the length of the sermons, 
 
 And all rules of propriety defied 
 By walking out of the church 
 
 When the parson preached on " pride." 
 At length she and the preacher quarreled; 
 
 In argument she was left in the lurch. 
 So she called together her friends, 
 
 And told 'em she'd build 'em a church — 
 The congregation to be very high-toned. 
 
 So as to keep out " the vulgar people." 
 The architect had his direction 
 
 In regard to a very high steeple, 
 So it could be seen at a distance. 
 
 And travelers coming that way 
 Would talk of the church and the spire 
 
 That was built by my Lady Gay. 
 
 17 
 
Meanwhile, it was well remembered 
 
 That her husband (called "old money-bags") 
 
 Had a little taint in his line, 
 
 And her father had made money in rags. 
 
 In time the church was completed, 
 
 'Twas a stately one, and, I'm told, 
 With all of the latest improvements. 
 
 Cost one hundred thousand in gold. 
 The pews were all cushioned in silk. 
 
 The carpets expensively soft, 
 And huge chandeliers in the center 
 
 Illumed e'en the organ loft. 
 The Rev. B. A. Toady was pastor. 
 
 And the first sermon preached was Charity, 
 But 'twixt preaching and practice, 'twas seen, 
 
 There was, to say least, some disparity ; 
 For a poor woman happening to come in 
 
 Crept into a pew in the rear. 
 And bowed down her head as in prayer, 
 
 Regardless of those who were near, 
 But soon an usher espied her. 
 
 And coming up, with consummate address, 
 Informed her she could not remain. 
 
 As she was not in full evening dress. 
 
 Each Sunday (when it was not raining) 
 
 Nearly all of the fashionables met, 
 And a sermon was given to suit 
 
 The most select of my Lady Gay's set. 
 He'd tell of my Lady Gay's worth 
 
 And how she would get her reward, 
 If not in this life, in the next, 
 
 And talked more of her than the Lord. 
 
 But one day there was grief simulated 
 
 By pastor and flock, as he read, 
 That the Church had lost its best friend — 
 
 My Lady Gay was dead ! 
 
 18 
 
The funeral was imposing, 'twas grand ; 
 
 All the papers were filled with her praise, 
 And enough money was wasted on flowers 
 
 To last a poor man all his days. 
 She was buried with a great deal of pomp ; 
 
 The undertaker sent in a large bill. 
 And those of her friends tried to cry 
 
 Who were remembered by her in her will. 
 
 Time passed ; the season began, 
 
 And Lady Gay was meanwhile forgot. 
 'Tis n't pleasant, you know, to remember 
 
 A thing that you know's gone to rot. 
 Spiritualism was then at its height — 
 
 A Prof. Sloppy and his fiance. 
 Who were known as very great mediums, 
 
 Were invited to give a seance. 
 All the beauty and fashion assembled — 
 
 Prof. Sloppy arose and said 
 He'd feel obliged if any of the audience 
 
 Would call up some friend who was dead. 
 A general titter pervaded the room 
 
 As one said in a whispered breath : 
 "The idea of thinking that friends 
 
 Are remembered after their death ! " 
 The professor waited awhile 
 
 To hear what name they would say. 
 And at last, in a spirit of fun, 
 
 One said: "Let's call Lady Gay; 
 She was such a good woman, you know, 
 
 Died one night at a quarter to seven, 
 Just as we were going to dinner ; 
 
 I'm sure she went straight to Heaven. 
 Let's call her and try to find out 
 
 The most direct route we can get 
 To reach Heaven ; but don't have it known 
 
 To any outside of our set." 
 
 "My Lady Gay! My Lady Gay!! 
 
 Does your spirit wish to converse? 
 19 
 
Here are friends who'd like to hear, 
 
 And all your story rehearse." 
 A moment's silence ; each one listened ; 
 
 Then a voice was heard in the room 
 Which sounded in its grave utterance 
 
 As though it came from a tomb. 
 
 "Yes! Listen, my friends, and I'll tell you: 
 
 When my spirit took its flight, 
 I was carried up by the angels 
 
 To a place where all was light ; 
 But I was stopped at a gate 
 
 And my entrance there debarred 
 By a saint with a big bunch of keys 
 
 Who stared at me quite hard. 
 
 "Who are you, madam?" he said. 
 "Who are you, indeed! Now, pray. 
 If, holding the gates of heaven. 
 
 You don't know My Lady Gay ! 
 I was the best known creature on earth. 
 
 Go where I would, they all would say, 
 As they gave me room to go by : 
 
 ' There goes My Lady Gay ! ' 
 I built a church in the town of A, 
 
 Which was known both far and near. 
 And though it cost me a great deal of money. 
 
 Yet I never once said it was dear. 
 We 'd a very select congregation ; 
 
 In fact it was known as the swell. 
 We always were praising heaven 
 
 And never made mention of hell. 
 I was mourned by all of our set ; 
 
 The funeral given was grand, 
 And a memorial was put up in the church 
 
 (Though I paid for it first, understand). 
 All the newspapers spoke in my praise ; 
 
 Not one of 'em made any complaints, 
 And the preacher I hired, he said : 
 
 'He was certain that I was a saint.' 
 20 
 
So don't stop me here — just think : 
 
 If friends knew it, what would they say ? 
 Earth has sent me to heaven ; 
 
 Don't stop me, for I'm Lady Gay ! 
 Then he spoke in a wild-mannered tone, 
 
 And told me in spite of my vow, 
 That he only had heard of me once. 
 
 And I never could enter now. 
 The reason was this, he said : 
 
 ' You reared a church, its finish was fine. 
 But the religion you worshiped was human, 
 
 And had nothing to do with the divine. 
 When your temple was first dedicated, 
 
 I sent an angel down in disguise ; 
 You turned the poor woman out ; 
 
 See there is the one you despised.' 
 There stood that woman — an angel now 
 
 In heaven, and I, oh ! cruel fate, 
 Got only a glimpse of heaven, 
 
 But could not pass the gate." 
 
 Oh ye, who have money and power, 
 
 Pity the poor while you may , 
 And, if shabbily dressed, they come into church, 
 
 Think of the angel — and Lady Gay. 
 
 ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR. 
 
 What mem'ries a little lock of hair 
 Will bring up from the vast. 
 
 Great, deep, pure heart of him 
 
 Who loves to ponder o'er the past ! 
 
 Nearer, dearer to our lips we press it, 
 And sweet, fond vows we utter ; 
 
 But all the sentiment dies out 
 When we find it in the butter! 
 
 21 
 
FOUND DEAD. 
 
 Found dead, 
 In his bed, 
 With a shot 
 Through his head ; 
 And the coroner said 
 He left a letter 
 Which read, 
 In its purport. 
 Something like this : 
 
 " I've reached my last cent ; 
 Life and it 
 Are near spent ; 
 I am hungry and weary, 
 
 Dejected, 
 And find when one spends 
 All he had, 
 Then, by ' friends,' 
 He is left, like me. 
 Neglected." 
 
 Papers published his name 
 
 And then all his "friends" came. 
 
 They brought flowers to place on his casket, 
 
 And enough money was spent 
 
 On a "grand monument" 
 
 To 've saved his life — 
 
 Given when asked it. 
 
 Such is life ; 
 It is rife 
 With the strife 
 
 In an effort to get money or bread. 
 And those who have both. 
 Are oftentimes loth 
 To share either — till the suppliant's 
 " Found dead! " 
 
 22 
 
A MODERN MAGDALEN. 
 
 Long years ago, there was a woman 
 
 The world called "bad" — of bad renown — 
 
 One of those public sinners, ycleped 
 
 " A woman of the town " — 
 
 But charitable : She'd given away 
 Nearly everything she owned, 
 
 Except her knowledge of men and women 
 Whose sins were secret, or else condoned. 
 
 One day, whilst idly musing 
 
 O'er her ill-spent life — 
 Its cares, its crosses, its worries, 
 
 And its almost constant strife — 
 She rummaged 'mongst her "souvenirs of youth," 
 
 And found a tress of hair. 
 Pressed 'twixt the leaves 
 
 Of an old book of prayer. 
 
 Long she knelt and prayed ; 
 
 And, weeping o'er her great loss, 
 She read how e'en the thief 
 
 Was pardoned on the cross. 
 Despair at once was banished. 
 
 And, rising, she resolved. 
 If prayer and penitence availed. 
 
 She yet would be absolved. 
 
 She was sneered at by her companions, 
 
 Who advised her: "Take a tour! 
 Instead of sacrificing all, 
 
 And giving it to the poor. 
 Go away from here, as others have, 
 
 And in a far-off clime atone. 
 You'll get no mercy in this town, 
 
 For, alas ! you're too well known." 
 
 23 
 
She answered, " Providence will guide me ; 
 
 And, bending beneath His rod. 
 Where should I find a welcome 
 
 Save in the house of God ? " 
 She heeded not, but left them — 
 
 As they called — "in the lurch," 
 And turned her steps to what some called 
 "A fashionable (?) church." 
 
 She entered its holy portals, 
 
 And was stared at by the few 
 Who formed the congregation, 
 
 As she stepped in an empty pew. 
 There, bowing down her head, 
 
 She began earnestly to pray 
 God might so guide her life 
 
 As to fit her for Judgment Day. 
 
 But she was "judged" by the congregation. 
 Who met after church, and, consulting 
 
 Each with the other, agreed 
 
 That " her presence there was insulting." 
 
 A committee called on her next day. 
 
 And, after a stammer and stutter, 
 Said they were sent by the congregation, 
 
 Whom she had put in a flutter 
 By appearing in their grand church, 
 
 'Mongst men and women true ; 
 And not only that, but they heard 
 
 She had hired a prominent pew ! 
 
 And begged to add, in all kindness. 
 
 That she would only besmirch 
 The saintly reputation 
 
 Of our very fash'nable church 
 By being seen inside its portals. 
 
 Or even entering where 
 Only the goodly and god-like 
 
 Are (on Sunday) engaged in prayer. 
 
 24 
 
The sexton, you see, didn't know ye — 
 
 That is, when you applied — 
 And his hasty, unauthorized action 
 
 Has been, by the church, set aside. 
 For Madame Gush, and all of her set. 
 
 Pew-holders and wealthy neighbors. 
 Threaten to withdraw their subscription ; 
 
 And thus all our earnest labors 
 
 To keep it exclusively fashionable. 
 
 As well as out of debt, 
 Will — if you remain, you see, 
 
 (Beg pardon !) — be all upset. 
 So, won't you, for our sakes 
 
 And sake of peace, tell us to say 
 You'll seek some humbler church 
 
 Wherein to go and pray ? 
 
 Yes, we well know that you know us, 
 
 And, if you wanted could easily tear 
 The veil from our reputations. 
 
 Deemed so pure and fair ; 
 But you won't, dear, will you? Be generous- 
 
 Relieve our minds — say yes ! 
 That simple word from you'll 
 
 Get us out of a terrible mess. 
 
 We know, as you say, a woman 
 
 Should be defended 
 Before her pious accusers 
 
 By those she's often befriended. 
 But, ye see — such an awkward case, 
 
 And one that — Oh, please say 
 You'll pity us and our position, 
 
 And be generous, and stay away ! 
 
 In return, we'll sound your praises, 
 And we'll help you all we can. 
 
 But she answered: "I want no help 
 That is in the power of man. 
 
 25 
 
I take this as only a part 
 
 Of His dear chastening rod ; 
 And hereafter, learning His lesson, 
 
 I'll trust only in my God. 
 
 "Ye hypocrites! Out of my sight! 
 
 Our positions are now reversed — 
 I'm sincere ; you're playing a part, 
 
 And one ye haven't rehearsed ; 
 You worship the world — I've quit it; 
 
 Victory's not yours, but mine ; 
 You're guided by human laws, 
 
 I by laws divine ! 
 
 •* Don't fear ! I'll go there no more ! 
 
 I don't want to cause complaints, 
 Tho' I always believed the church 
 
 Was intended for sinners, not saints." 
 The committee bowed themselves out. 
 
 Saying, "You're awfully kind! 
 So good of you ! But you don't know 
 
 What a load is off our mind ! " 
 
 Laughed at by former companions. 
 
 Our Magdalen — left all alone 
 By those of the church, who, by right. 
 
 Ought t've helped her try to atone — 
 Fell on her knees, and, praying, 
 " Oh, God ! Thou whom I would adore, 
 Forsake me not in my grief!" 
 
 Fainting, fell to the floor. 
 
 Revived, she lay there in thought ; 
 
 And as, weeping, she rose with a shiver. 
 In her despair, her disordered mind 
 
 At once suggested the river ! 
 
 Dark was the night, and dreary. 
 As an old priest, tying his boat. 
 
 Heard a fearful scream and a splash 
 Near-by his monastic moat. 
 26 
 
To risk all to save a soul, 
 
 Tho' it be ever so steeped in crime, 
 Is part of a priest's (oath-bound) duty 
 
 In every age and clime. 
 She was saved ! not only from death — 
 
 Tho' dragged out senseless and dumb- 
 But in after years to fit her 
 
 For that eternal life to come. 
 
 * " * 
 Should you ever visit " Callabarra," 
 
 Or where Sisters of Mercy dwell, 
 And ask them of saint-like women, 
 
 They'll, maybe, the story tell 
 Of a woman saved from drowning — 
 
 Their servant ever since then ; 
 But known to the Christian world 
 
 As only Magdalen ! 
 
 Clayton House, October 10, 1892. 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 I wonder if she ever thinks of me 
 
 As more than friend — a something nearer? 
 
 'Twould be ecstacy to know, and yet 
 I could not love her dearer. 
 
 I wonder if he ever gives to me a thought? 
 
 Oh ! but did he know how dear he is to me 
 I would not be alone tonight. 
 
 Nor him across the sea. 
 
 Thus thoughts are sometimes breathed. 
 
 And the whispering wind seems to waft them away ; 
 But the echo comes back to the heart of each, 
 
 And they'll hear it again — some day. 
 
 Columbus, Ga., April 24, 1882. 
 27 
 
FATHER AND SON. 
 
 When you asked me that thar question, 
 
 As how some boys dressed so sleek, 
 Drove fast horses, and went to " Germans," 
 
 All on seven dollars a week, 
 I confess you kind o' stumped me, 
 
 And I've been thinking the matter o'er — 
 Have questioned some of " the boys," 
 
 And made inquiries at the store. 
 But I've come to the conclusion 
 
 (Whether it's right or no). 
 The boys could not explain it, 
 
 And the storekeeper didn't know. 
 It's a kind o' mysterious mathematics, 
 
 Which is multiplying now-a-days ; 
 And, in addition, is sort o' subtractin' 
 
 From the honesty of "city ways"; 
 And I don't want you to foller 'em. 
 
 Remember, the schoolmaster knows. 
 And he says " a man's no better 
 
 Just cause he wears better clothes." 
 Style's very nice in its way ; 
 
 Every man ought to try to dress well ; 
 But to buy everything that you want, 
 
 You've got to have something to sell. 
 Don't let it be your honor. 
 
 Your honesty, reputation, or sich ; 
 Hold to these as you would to life ; 
 
 And, in God's sight, you'll die rich. 
 Don't bet agin no man's "game"; 
 
 If he says you can't win, 'taint libel ; 
 You can't beat a lawyer at law. 
 
 Nor a preacher in preaching the Bible. 
 When you've learned the ways of the world, 
 
 You'll find at the end of the race 
 That it's easier to hold a plow 
 
 Than it is four kings and an ace. 
 
 28 
 
So, don't let " them other boys " bother you ; 
 
 They ain't in your set, so to speak; 
 Perhaps their parents are wealthy. 
 
 And their salary ten dollars a week. 
 Let 'em go to their "Germans" or "Irishes," 
 
 Drive fast horses, and win every purse ; 
 But I guess when the funeral's arranged, 
 
 Why, we can — keep up with the hearse. 
 
 Columbus, Ga., September, 1882. 
 
 "HIC JACET!" 
 
 An Irishman once in a graveyard was walking. 
 And with an old friend was earnestly talking 
 About the inscriptions he read on the stones 
 Atop o' the graves wherein lay the bones. 
 
 He remarked that on all of the tombs he had read 
 Not a word about sinners ever was said ; 
 And he wound up the lot of his curious complaints 
 By saying, " Those buried must all've been saints." 
 
 One of the inscriptions puzzled him much. 
 And he asked was it Spanish, or French, or Dutch. 
 It recounted great virtues — and says he: "As I trace it. 
 The line up atop reads thus: 'Hie Jacet.' 
 
 " Who was ' Hie Jacet,' and what did he do ? 
 
 'Pon my faith, it beats all o' the names I e'er knew ! 
 And see here! He's buried all over the yard! 
 That family is numerous, and one of regard! " 
 
 His friend, as interpreter, then quickly hies. 
 And explains that " Hie Jacet" just means " Here Lies." 
 " Oh! yes," says Paddy, "I heard that in my youth ; 
 But I think in a graveyard one ought to hear truth! " 
 
 29 
 
TO BABY-BORN ON CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Where did you come from, little one ? 
 
 Did God send you here to say : 
 " Peace and good will to men on earth ! " 
 
 And make merrier Christmas Day? 
 Did the angels know what delight you'd bring, 
 
 Before you bade them "good night," 
 And left their care for a mother's arms, 
 
 Or to gladden a father's sight? 
 If they did, then the joys of Heaven 
 
 Are greater, to say the least, 
 Than ever I learned from books 
 
 Or the lips of a loving priest. 
 For — next to the pleasure of pleasing — 
 
 Though I'm called, I know, erratic — 
 To dwell where one knows all the joys, 
 
 Is my idea of ecstatic. 
 But, did they speak ever of me, little one? 
 
 Did they ever tell you how I would love 
 And care for you while on earth, 
 
 Till you'd go back to the angels above ? 
 No? Well, maybe they kept it from you. 
 
 And, in sort of angelic mirth. 
 Waited to watch your surprise 
 
 When you'd meet me here on earth ; 
 For they know I never was taken 
 
 With a "baby" — that is, at first sight — 
 But you came so specially favored, 
 
 I can't help expressing delight. 
 And tell you, in giving you welcome, 
 "That if ever it lies in my power 
 To help — not only in sunshine. 
 
 But shield you from even a shower — 
 I'll do it, little one, sure ! 
 
 For I already feel a deal better, 
 Just in promising one so pure." 
 
 30 
 
So, little one, when the angels whisper. 
 As if asking "you'd drop them a line," 
 
 Won't you whisper back and ask them 
 To pray for me. Matt O'Brien ? 
 
 December 26, 1878. 
 
 THE MISCHIEF MAKER.* 
 
 Do I know her ? Oh, yes ! and I've heard — 
 
 But don't breathe I told ye 'twas so — 
 Shut the door — sit here by the heater — 
 
 Some one might hear us, you know. 
 Do I know her! Why, I'm her relation — 
 
 That is, by marriage, not blood; 
 Glad I'm not, for she's so stuck up 
 
 She avoids me as if I were mud. 
 Oh ! I know some folks call her pretty, 
 
 And say she has sweet-mannered ways ; 
 But, she's sly, she's sly — I know her. 
 
 And am watching her close these days. 
 No! she never complains, but she's cutting; 
 
 For, once when I got hold of her letters, 
 She said, "Yon can't understand them, 
 
 For the writers are much your betters." 
 But — "whisper, !" and gets lots o' presents! 
 
 Oh, yes ! both by mail and express. 
 She never tells me who sends 'em ; 
 
 But I don't want to know — I can guess. 
 No ! I've never seen anything wrong ; 
 
 And that's what makes me so mad! 
 For I'd give a year of my life 
 
 If I could only prove she was bad! 
 But she's sly ! she's sly ! and you know 
 
 How innocent and saint-like she looks 
 In her Sunday-school suit, goin' to church 
 
 With a couple o' gilt-edged books. 
 
 'Founded on facts. 
 
 31 
 
Oh, yes; she goes! I've followed her 
 
 For two or three Sundays to meeting, 
 And it made me as mad as a mule 
 
 To see the minister giving her greeting. 
 Proud? She's as proud as a peacock! 
 
 But I'll pull her down, you bet ! 
 I'll make her humble herself — 
 
 In a way she won't likely forget. 
 I'm tired of hearing her praises! 
 
 I'm tired of hearing my husband prate 
 'Bout Ethel being unlike me, 
 
 Saying " she's quiet, content and sedate ! " 
 The proud little upstart ! She thinks 
 
 'Cause she's traveled an' mixed with the best, 
 That she's somewhat better'n me ! 
 
 But I'll put her soon to a test. 
 I'm going to — " But she stopped. 
 
 For there Ethel stood, nodding her head 
 And saying, "I sat by the register; 
 
 I've heard every word you said ! 
 And I've only come down stairs to say 
 
 I'm not going to scold or upbraid you. 
 But help you to ' find me out,' 
 
 By praying the good God to aid you ; 
 For He only knows my heart ; 
 
 He only knows my ways, 
 And He only knows how I try 
 
 To prove myself worthy of praise. 
 Such women as you do more harm 
 
 Than the vilest who walk the street ; 
 For you secretly slander the good. 
 
 Then smile and kiss when you meet. 
 I will never repeat your words ; 
 
 But I beg you to bend and pray. 
 Lest our Lord and His mighty angels 
 
 Repeat them on Judgment Day!" 
 
 Poland Spring, Me., August, 1893. 
 
 32 
 
A DIALOGUE OVERHEARD. 
 
 " To me it seems mighty queah, 
 Dat 'bout dis yah time o' yeah 
 
 Us colored people cuts ' a important figger ; ' 
 And, wedder wrong or right, 
 Some folks call us ' good as white,' 
 
 Who used to call us nothin' but 'a nigger.' " 
 
 "Now, Clem, you think it strange, 
 And wonder at de change, 
 
 'Specially in de politiceans of note ; 
 But ef you'll jis' remember 
 Dar's an election in December, 
 
 And dem candidates is a-playin' for yo' vote. 
 
 " Da are ebery one alike — 
 Da want to make a strike ; 
 
 And, to git in de man of dar selection. 
 Da will talk as sweet as honey. 
 And gib you pocket money. 
 
 From now out till de day of de election. 
 
 "Now, you take my advice: 
 Dem white men all talk nice, 
 And will promise — if in trouble go yo' bail ; 
 But when da take de oath 
 'To do justice unto both,' 
 Why, de one dat's in de wrong he go to jail. 
 
 "So you vote as you think right. 
 But don't git into a fight, 
 
 'Cause ef you do yo' eyes're gwine to stare, 
 And de sentence dat you meets 
 Will be ' hard work on de streets,' 
 
 No matter who is alderman or mayor." 
 
 November 25, 1881. 
 
 33 
 
MY DREAM. 
 
 If I should die tonight, 
 
 I wonder what'd be said, 
 When the town was told on the morrow 
 
 '* is dead ! " 
 
 Thinking thus, " I lay me down," 
 
 And, praying, "my soul to keep," 
 Though not on a bed of down, 
 
 I soon was sound asleep. 
 
 I dreamed — oh ! such a dream ! 
 
 I dreamed that I was dead ! 
 And Rumor, with a scream, 
 
 Ran out the news to spread. 
 
 Charity was the first she met. 
 
 And Charity wiped her eye. 
 Saying, " I much regret 
 
 That he so soon should die." 
 
 Religion next was told. 
 
 And was asked if I were known. 
 Religion her arms did fold. 
 
 And answered, with a moan : 
 •'We had missed him for many years. 
 
 And our hearts with sorrow burned ; 
 But joy took the place of tears 
 
 When at last he repented — returned." 
 
 Society next was informed. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders and said : 
 "To our rules he never conformed; 
 
 Still I'm sorry — yes, I'm sorry he's dead." 
 
 Art was sorry — but "she'd no acquaintance 
 With the party that Rumor had missed ; 
 
 And though he'd tried to scrape an acquaintance, 
 She could not at the grave assist." 
 
 34 
 
Business was next interviewed ; 
 
 And, when told of my loss of breath, 
 Said, "Though 'twixt us always a feud, 
 
 We had nothing to do with his death." 
 
 To Music Dame Rumor went next, 
 
 Thinking, "There he'll sympathy find!" 
 But he answered (not one bit perplexed) : 
 "Ah! I've thousands alive of his kind!" 
 
 When to Riches the old dame went. 
 
 She said that "She didn't care; 
 She was busy (with her per cent.)," 
 
 And bowed Rumor out with a stare. 
 
 When Pleasure was told of his fate, 
 
 She stopped for a moment her smile. 
 And said: "Though not with us of late, 
 
 He served many an hour to beguile. 
 We'd like to show our respect 
 
 For one that we knew well and hearty ; 
 But to go to his grave you couldn't expect — 
 
 Besides, tonight we give a big party." 
 
 Then to Poverty's dwelling she went ; 
 
 But so poor were the people in there 
 That to grief they couldn't give vent. 
 
 And only one or two offered a prayer. 
 
 When the Drama was told "He's dead!" 
 
 The manager gave quite a start ; 
 Then turned to his prompter and said : 
 " Well, we've plenty can play his part ! " 
 
 Then next 'twas told to each city. 
 
 And called "one of those telegraph capers!" 
 People read, and quick said, " 'Twas a pity 
 
 They put such trash in the papers!" 
 
 a5 
 
The funeral came off in the morning. 
 
 The mourner was solemn and grave — 
 Only Trouble was there and in mourning, 
 
 And he followed me down to the grave. 
 
 The first clod of potter's field dirt 
 Hardly struck on the pine box head, 
 
 When I awoke with a feeling of pain. 
 And found I had fallen out o' bed ! 
 
 But I could not help thinking right there 
 
 How life-like it all did seem ! 
 We may think the world will miss us; 
 
 But the world is just like my dream ! 
 
 TRY IT. 
 
 Say— 
 
 "I like your friend! 
 I hold him dear ! 
 Won't you whisper it. 
 So he may hear ? 
 
 Or— 
 
 " I love that woman, 
 
 And wish she could hear 
 From other lips 
 
 That I hold her dear ! " 
 
 And — 
 
 As silent as graves 
 
 Will be each to the other ; 
 Tho' the ones you meant 
 
 Were your brother and mother. 
 
 But — 
 
 Say something in secret 
 
 You wouldn't have leak. 
 And it'll be "all over town" 
 
 In less than a week ! 
 
 36 
 
THE MESSENGER'S CHILD. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS STORY. 
 
 Within a Southern office 
 
 Expressmen worked away, 
 As only they can do it, 
 
 When nearing Christmas Day ; 
 When clear above the noises 
 
 That buzzed around my ear, 
 I heard a little toddler's voice 
 
 Ring out sweet and clear: 
 
 "Please, Mister, will 'oo send it?" 
 
 She said, with upturned face. 
 As timidly she handed 
 
 A box, with childish grace. 
 " I made 'e letters on it 
 
 Wif papa's pencil blue. 
 'Oo know it is for papa ; 
 
 I hope he'll get it, too. 
 A messenger, they call him ; 
 
 'Oo know him, too, I dess ; 
 He runs 'tween here and somewhere : 
 
 He's on the Southern 'Spress. 
 'Oo wants to know what's in it? 
 
 Well, listen ! Don't 'oo tell — 
 It's sumtin for his birfday. 
 
 Now teep my seekweet well ! " 
 She raised her tiny finger, 
 
 Then clapped her hands with glee. 
 A sweeter, prettier picture 
 
 You would not wish to see. 
 
 " Do 'oo know where to find him ? 
 He's done away so long ! 
 And mamma's always cryin'. 
 Don't let my box dow wong ! " 
 
 37 
 
I tried to check the moisture 
 
 That gathered in my eyes. 
 She little dreamed that papa 
 
 In death now mangled lies. 
 Clerks, drivers, for a moment, 
 
 Their gaze upon her turned. 
 And murmured, "Poor Ned's baby!" 
 
 To help whom each one yearned. 
 All hands were in their pockets. 
 
 And stealthily they spread 
 Their glittering coins before her. 
 
 In memory of the dead. 
 For long we'd known and loved him — 
 
 The generous, true and brave — 
 Who'd found, in doing duty, 
 
 A sad, untimely grave. 
 He was a general favorite. 
 
 And all lamented "Ned," 
 When soon the news was brought us 
 
 That he was 'mong the dead. 
 It was the old, old story — 
 " Collision on the road." 
 The messenger, so trusty. 
 
 Was crushed beneath the load. 
 His saddened widow knew it. 
 
 But kept it from the child, 
 Who, wondering at his absence, 
 
 Had now grown almost wild. 
 
 * No one knows I bringed this ; 
 
 It's doan to be a s'prise 
 For papa. When he dets it — 
 
 My! won't he ope his eyes! 
 I know the fings'll bring him 
 
 What's in his birfday box ; 
 'Cause I tut off and sent him 
 
 My londest, dolden locks — 
 The werry ones he fondled 
 
 And twisted 'round his hand 
 
When he turn home of evenin's, 
 
 And by his knee I'd stand. 
 Oh ! why doan papa hurry ? 
 
 I fink he'd weely twy ; 
 'Cause I'm so tired watchin', 
 
 And it makes mamma cry ! 
 And then, too, it's near Trismas, 
 
 And there's my Trismas tree ! 
 No one but papa fixed it 
 
 For most two years, or free." 
 
 There in the great, wide ofiice 
 
 The blue-eyed tot brave stood; 
 Unheeding all its gazers, 
 
 As back she pushed her hood 
 To show me where the tresses 
 
 Of silken, golden hair 
 Her tiny hands had severed, 
 
 And packed away with care. 
 
 The stoutest heart that saw her 
 
 Soon brushed away a tear; 
 And had not the courage 
 
 To waken e'en a fear 
 Within her heart so hopeful ; 
 
 So, stooping, I kissed her face. 
 And told her, for her papa. 
 
 That I would take his place ; 
 I'd get her tree for Christmas, 
 
 And see that Santy'd bring 
 The biggest, prettiest dolly. 
 
 And, for her hand, a ring. 
 
 My word I kept e'er faithful ; 
 
 A happier day, in truth, 
 I never spent than Christmas 
 
 With my adopted Ruth. 
 
 39 
 
A VERSE TO THE CODE. 
 
 Take that thar challenge back, 
 
 And say to the man what sent it 
 That if I said he war no gentleman 
 
 I reckon I must a meant it. 
 Still I won't fight no duel, 
 
 'Cause I don't think its right ; 
 But, if he insists on satisfaction, 
 
 I'm in for a good, square fight. 
 "Society'll call me a coward?" 
 
 Well, they might, as you say, squire ; 
 But I'd bring up a Virginia brigade 
 
 That'd call Society a — sir? 
 No, sir ; of course, no hard names ; 
 
 But it kind o' made me sore. 
 And — excuse me for the askin' — 
 
 But was "Society" in the war? 
 Well, sir, I merely asked, 
 
 To find out by what right 
 They could call a man a coward 
 
 Who fought out that four-year fight. 
 No, sir ; I don't fear death ; 
 
 I have risked it in the good cause ; 
 But I honestly believe that dueling 
 
 Is murder under God's laws. 
 True, ** Society " may support it. 
 
 But do you think, if I lost my life 
 That " Society" 'd attempt to support 
 
 Either my little child or my wife ? 
 No ! no ! At home they'd call me a murderer ; 
 
 In public, "Society's" demands 
 Would, perhaps, make them treat me politely. 
 
 But they'd whisper : " There's blood on his hands ! 
 Well, suppose that I killed him — 
 
 Could I honestly hold up my head? 
 Would not clouds come 'twixt me and the sunshine 
 
 Whenever I thought of the dead? 
 
 40 
 
I don't mean to be rough on you, sir, 
 
 But 't seems to me when dueling's praised, 
 If it fails to show anything else, sir, 
 
 It shows how a man was raised. 
 I believe liquor's the cause of it all ; 
 
 I had drank to the health of the bride, 
 And your friend he said I was drunk, 
 
 And I up and told him he lied. 
 That article may be in the "Code," sir. 
 
 But the pint at which I would arrive 
 Is one in the Ten Commandments — 
 
 You'll find it in article five. 
 So, take your challenge back. 
 
 And say to the man that sent it 
 That if I said he was no gentleman. 
 
 That perhaps at the time I meant it. 
 But I will not fight a duel. 
 
 For I honestly don't think it right ; 
 Still, if he insists on "satisfaction," 
 
 I'm in for a fair, square fight. 
 
 JUST THINK. 
 
 Some day 
 We '11 say : 
 " Good-bye ! " 
 And you and I 
 Be tearful. 
 Fearful 
 Lest we never meet again. 
 
 Some night 
 
 We '11 say : 
 
 " Good night! " 
 
 As idly as we say it now, 
 Without a thought of sorrow. 
 And one of us be dead 
 ' Ere comes the morrow. 
 
 Columbus, Ga., October 17. 
 
 41 
 
UNCLE JOSH'S ADVICE TO JOHN HENRY. 
 
 Uncle Josh, seems mighty queer, 
 
 Dat 'bout dis time o' year 
 De white folks, from massa down to diggers, 
 
 Take sech intress in us 
 
 And ober us make a fuss, 
 While at udder times day only call us niggers. 
 
 In de papah, wha' I take out, 
 
 De ed'tor he make out 
 Dat de cullud man he jis now rule de roost ! 
 
 An' wha' I wants to know 
 
 Is, wedder dis is so, 
 An' wha' makes him gi' us such a boost ? 
 
 Jawn Hennery ! you is young ! 
 
 An' all dese praises sung 
 Are apt to make yo' head light as any wafers ! 
 
 But doan believe half is said. 
 
 Or anything dat's read 
 In wha' we call dese one-sided papahs ; 
 
 'Cause 'lection time's comin'. 
 
 And politicians dey go " slummin'," 
 From de lowest to de highest men o' note ; 
 
 And all dis sort o' taffy 
 
 Is given to make yo' happy, 
 Until dey kin kinder corall yo' vote. 
 
 Den, when 'lection's ober. 
 
 And de pol'ticians is sober, 
 You'll find dem white folks flockin' all togedder ! 
 
 An' tho' we rule de c-o-o-p, 
 
 Dey all go on a whoop — 
 Eat all de meat, and give us each a fedder. 
 
 De gang wid which you'se goin' 
 
 Is doin' a heap o' blowin'. 
 An' ain't doin' you de littlest bit o' good. 
 
 Dey only wants to 'muse you 
 
 Till de time when dey kin use you, 
 An' couldn't git you in office if dey would. 
 
 42 
 
Jawn Hennery ! lissee me — 
 
 Can't yo' plainly see ? — 
 A pol'tician's what our preacher calls a " guUer." 
 
 You are young and sort o' 'sceptible — 
 
 Why doan you be 'spectable? — 
 Mix only wid de best o' yo' own color ? 
 
 When white gemmen hires help — 
 
 You know dat fo' yo'self — 
 Ef he wants yo' charaacter, he doan ask no pol'tician ; 
 
 He ask some 'spectable man ; 
 
 And, be he white or tan, 
 He'd take it, ef he only lived by fishin'. 
 
 Well, s'pose dat referee 
 
 Yo' boss 'd go to see — 
 Should tell of you 'lectioneerin' wid a mighty tough gang- 
 
 Wouldn't he be apt to say, 
 " I ain't hirin' yo' kind today " ? 
 Wouldn't it hit you sort o' slippetee-wich-ker-bang? 
 
 I tell yo' it doan pay ! 
 
 You'll find it out some day. 
 Quit it ! Imitate some cullud man o' note ! 
 
 Doan be depennant ! 
 And scorn de man who tries to buy yo' vote ! 
 
 Clayton House, Oct. 9, 1892. 
 
 HIS LETTER. 
 
 Dear Love, your letter came to hand. 
 And near my heart doth rest ; 
 
 But the postage stamp I chewed all up. 
 For it your lips had pressed. 
 
 HER ANSWER. 
 Your note, my darling, made me sad ; 
 
 Its perusal made me sob ; 
 For the postage stamp which you chewed up 
 
 Was put on by our servant Bob. 
 
 43 
 
NOMMES DE PLUME, OR "HUGH BEDAM." 
 
 I'm a mild-mannered sort of a man ; 
 
 As a rule, am opposed to swearing, 
 And the same I'll try to adhere to 
 
 While giving my feelings an airing. 
 
 I subscribed to " Our Expressman ; " 
 
 I take an interest in them all ; 
 But why I should be cussed by Expressmen, 
 
 Is what I can't understand at all. 
 
 Last month I was in Cincinnati — 
 
 Shook Henderson, palm to palm ; 
 Asked him who wrote the most for his paper. 
 
 And he answered me, "Oh, Hugh Bedam ! " 
 
 I left, and went to Louisville ; 
 
 Rose was singing what I thought a psalm ; 
 But when I asked him why he was laughing, 
 
 He stopped, and said, "Oh, Hugh Bedam!" 
 
 Met St. John on the way down to Nashville ; 
 
 Like a saint, he was quiet and calm, 
 'Til I asked him what he was reading. 
 
 Then he looked up, and said, "Hugh Bedam! 
 
 Astounded, I turned for relief 
 
 To my traveling companion, "Sam;" 
 "Strange talk for a saint," I remarked; 
 Then Sam said, "Oh, Hugh Bedam!" 
 
 Next morning, when nearing Nashville, 
 
 A lady friend — week as a lamb — 
 Says, " I like to read in Our Expressman." 
 
 Says I, "What?" Says she, "Hugh Bedam!" 
 
 I left her and went to the office ; 
 
 Met Thatcher, and tried to be calm ; 
 When he said, "Don't mind it, my boy! 
 
 Don't mind her; she meant Hugh Bedam!" 
 
Says I, "Yes, and that makes me mad! 
 
 And the very next man I'll embalm 
 Who makes use of any such language ; 
 
 Especially, ' Oh, Hugh Bedam ! ' " 
 
 Then he said 'twas a nom de plume ; " 
 
 But I told him that wouldn't ram 
 Down any such throat as mine ; 
 
 And then Thatcher says, "Oh, Hugh Bedam!" 
 
 Says I, "Peel!" Says he, "Matt, you're wrong! 
 
 Don't you know now who I am? 
 I write for Our Expressman, 
 
 And sign myself ' Hugh Bedam.' " 
 
 I'm a mild-mannered sort of a man. 
 
 And, as a rule, am opposed to swearing ; 
 
 Which the same I hope I've adhered to 
 In thus giving my feelings an airing. 
 
 But I'm still inclined to the opinion 
 
 That it's hard to tell the sham 
 From the real, downright "cuss word," 
 
 Which sounds like "Oh, Hugh Bedam!" 
 
 "BITTER SWEET" SAYS: 
 
 "This world's filled with folly and sin, 
 And Love must cling where it may 
 And Beauty's easy to win. 
 
 But one isn't loved all the day ! " 
 
 Bitter's the thought! 
 
 And, as you say. 
 One may not be loved — 
 
 That is, all of the day ! 
 But sweet is the solace. 
 
 So filled with delight, 
 That what we lose in the day 
 
 We can make up at night ! 
 
 New York, December, 1893. 
 
 4.5 
 
IS WATER INTOXICATING? 
 
 A friend of mine I met one night, 
 *'As full as a tick," or, as some say, "tight;" 
 And when I asked what put him in that plight, 
 He merely muttered — (hie) 
 
 Wa-orter ! 
 
 Concluding then that he was dry, 
 I turned away with a heavy sigh. 
 And from a bucket which was nigh, 
 I handed him some — 
 
 Water. 
 
 "Take it away," he fairly yelled, 
 And as from my hand the glass he felled, 
 His stomach sort o' then rebelled. 
 And he said (hie) "Oh — c-u-r-s-ed 
 
 Wa-orter ! " 
 
 He staggered sideways to his bunk. 
 
 And as he stumbled o'er a trunk, 
 
 He said: "I never would o'bin (hie) drunk 
 
 If it hadn't o'bin for — (hie) — 
 
 Wa-orter ! 
 
 " I drank tonight (hie) three whisky skins, 
 Two tips o' sherry (hie) and (hie) four of gin. 
 And I'd been able to (hie) wipe off my chin 
 If it hadn't 've been (hie) for — 
 
 Wa-orter ! 
 
 "I'd ordered brandy smash (hie), I think. 
 When some feller give a man th' wink. 
 And th' barkeeper he put into (hie) my drink, 
 A tumbler (ugh) full o' — 
 
 Wa-orter ! 
 
 "Scon's I drank it (hie) I kind o' found 
 My head was reelin' (hie), room going round, 
 And I'd still been sober (hie), I'll be bound. 
 If I hadn't o' drank that (ugh) — 
 
 Wa-orter. 
 
•So, youngster, here take my (hie) advice, 
 If you want grow up sobern' (hie) nice, 
 Don' you nevetr put in nothin' but (hie) ice 
 Whenever you drink (goo' night) — 
 
 Wa-orter." 
 
 OH! FOR ANOTHER DAY. 
 
 Oft a traveler going upon a journey 
 Will make his preparation for the day 
 Which has been fixed upon to go away, 
 And find, when at the depot, about to part, 
 A something he'd neglected ere the start ; 
 His pleasure — in a measure — marred 
 By thought of what he'd left undone. 
 
 Or not done as he ought ; 
 And he would give — yea — anything 
 Could he defer departure 
 Even for one short day. 
 
 And so 'twill be, methinks, with some of us. 
 When starting for " that bourne 
 From which," as Shakespeare says, 
 
 " No traveler e'er returns." 
 Upon our deathbeds we will remember 
 
 Things left undone, 
 The which we had the time to do. 
 
 But left neglected ; 
 Making our last moments sad, 
 
 Our mind dejected ; 
 While on our bed of pain 
 We'll wish, yet wish in vain. 
 
 For more time for preparation ; 
 And we'd give up the world, 
 
 And plead, and pray, and say. 
 Oh, for more time ! 
 
 Oh, for another day ! 
 
 En route from New Orleans, February, 1882. 
 ■17 
 
NOTHING SO RAPID AS TIME. 
 
 I heard an aged priest once, 
 
 Preaching in a Southern clime, 
 Say, 'mongst other wise things : 
 "There is nothing so rapid as Time." 
 
 I doubted him then — I was young — 
 
 And thought, "Why, he's surely in fun; 
 
 Else the day would draw near much faster 
 That would make me twenty-one ! " 
 
 But now, as I look "away back" — 
 Back to e'en my earliest rhyme — 
 I find what he said was true : 
 "There is nothing so rapid as Time." 
 
 For it seems to me 'twas but yesterday 
 
 That I was a rolicksome boy. 
 Trundling a hoop on the street. 
 
 Or pleased with a top or a toy. 
 
 But this morning, o'er the electric wires. 
 My children and grandchildren say, 
 "We wish you much joy, old man — 
 Many happy returns of the day ! " 
 
 If the old saying's true, "that the good die young," 
 
 I'm losing my chance for Heaven ; 
 As I find, by referring to dates, 
 
 That today I'm fifty-seven. 
 
 Fifty-seven seems old to the young ; 
 
 But, by that same rule or measure, 
 It's reversible when one like me 
 
 Has led a life only marked by pleasure. 
 
 Every age, as you know, hath its troubles, 
 
 And youth along with the rest; 
 But they'll lighten, if you believe with me, 
 
 That "what happens is for the best." 
 
 ■48 
 
1892. 
 
 Thus believing, I've looked on life 
 As guided by the Great One above, 
 
 And its joys as its ills were as welcome 
 As the sunshine or clouds of love. 
 
 Friends of my youth have been faithful ; 
 
 Those of my manhood the same ; 
 And if ever an unhappy moment, 
 
 I've only myself to blame. 
 
 So, thinking of earlier birthdays, 
 And of friends in every clime, 
 I agree with the dear old priest — 
 "There's nothing so rapid as Time." 
 
 CC^PY OF "IMPROMPTU." 
 
 FOUND IN THE ORGAN LOFT OF ST. PETER'S CATHEDRAL, 
 SATURDAY, SEPT. 3, 1 892. 
 
 I stood in this organ-loft at noon 
 
 And to God gave sincere praise. 
 And thought of the singers, long since dead, 
 
 Who sang with me in "ye olden days." 
 
 I could hear Cowardin, Pizzini, and Roork, 
 Miss Barratta, Denison, and the rest, 
 
 Whose singing on Sundays, with Bishop McGill, 
 Made listeners appear at their best. 
 
 I prayed for the dead who sang with me then. 
 
 And, as a grateful thanksgiving. 
 Prayed for the singers I hope to hear 
 
 In this church tomorrow, if living. 
 
 God bless this old church and its memories ! 
 
 God bless the choir and its praise ! 
 God bless all who remember the singers 
 
 Who sang with me in "ye olden days!" 
 
 ■19 
 
THE BELLS OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 ' For some must work and some must play ; 
 Thus runs the world away ! " — Shakespeare. 
 
 "We were seated in the office 
 
 At an early hour yestermorn — 
 The floor all strewn with papers, 
 
 Some "scissored" and some torn — 
 When a very large bell sounded ; 
 
 And a friend, who was sitting nigh, 
 Said, "There's a many a one who will hear that 
 
 And waken with a sigh." 
 Curious, we questioned him 
 
 And asked him to explain. 
 Said he, " I'll do it— listen ! 
 
 There it is again ! 
 Nearly three thousand men and women — 
 
 Yes, and little children, too — 
 Are roused up by its sounding, 
 
 Saying, ' Wake, ye've work to do ! ' 
 Imagine them now awaking, 
 
 To dress by candle light — 
 A hurried breakfast eaten, 
 
 Aye, before the sun gives light ! 
 Then slowly out they wander — 
 
 Out in the dimly lighted street. 
 And a smile illumines their features 
 
 As they each other greet. 
 Let's watch them where they go ! 
 
 See ! all go in one gate ! 
 And the last ones they are hurrying — 
 
 Perhaps for them 'tis late. 
 
 "Then everything is quiet; 
 
 The street resumes its gloom ; 
 The bell sounds out again 
 
 With its reverberating boom ! 
 Then such a noise, and such a rattle ! 
 
 50 
 
Such a din ! — as if in battle 
 The cavalry of the world were charging in a run ! 
 
 Such a hurly-burly clatter! 
 
 Till you, in asking 'What's the matter?' 
 Learn the Eagle and Phenix work's begun. 
 
 "Amazed, one turns in wonder. 
 And thinks, as he hears the thunder 
 Of machinery high above the Chattahoochee's roar. 
 That, as it grows or dwindles, 
 There's near fifty thousand spindles 
 Being run by those who were sleeping just an hour 
 and a half before." 
 
 Oh, ye who sleep in bed 
 
 Until the sun has lost its red. 
 And even then get up as one would do in stealth, 
 
 Whene'er that bell you hear ! 
 
 As its tones strike on your ear. 
 Think! it wakens those who make this city's wealth ! 
 
 THE SEPARATION. 
 
 The bride of an hour stood smiling; 
 
 Her mother in tears was near by ; 
 For the pet of her life, so beguiling," 
 
 Was soon to bid her good-bye. 
 
 Fond friends tried vainly to cheer her. 
 To stop up the tears that fast fell. 
 
 As she clasped her daughter still nearer 
 And in agony uttered, Farewell ! 
 
 The groom with his bride had departed. 
 To journey far off in strange lands. 
 
 And the mother cried out, broken-hearted: 
 Well! I'm glad that gal's off my hands!" 
 
 Augusta, Ga., July 24, 1869. 
 
 51 
 
A MAIDEN'S MIDNIGHT MUSING. 
 
 If the par-tic-u-lar one 
 
 Each wishes were here 
 Only knew how lonesome, 
 
 How bleak and how drear 
 Every place seems without them, 
 
 They'd say, or they ought, 
 " I believe I am loved 
 
 A deal more than I thought." 
 Very strange, is it not ? 
 
 But when they're away. 
 We think. Oh, what nice things 
 
 We'd voluntarily say, 
 If he — or she, as the case may be- 
 
 Could only come — come in now ! 
 Just think of it, Nell ! 
 
 I honestly vow 
 I'd lay my heart bare ; 
 
 I'd go on ray knees ; 
 I'd — ah ! yum-yum ! 
 
 I'd do anything to please. 
 
 But — pshaw! — two to one. 
 
 When we met, why I 
 Would scarce say a word — 
 
 Perhaps give a glad sigh. 
 And say, "Glad to see ye; 
 
 When'd you arrive? 
 Been well ? Sit down ! 
 
 Oh, you got here at five ! 
 Nice weather? Oh, yes. 
 
 But I think it's colder." 
 (Same time each wishes 
 
 The other were bolder.) 
 
Meanwhile every subject 
 
 Save the one dear to heart 
 Is talked of tediously 
 
 Till the time comes to part ; 
 Then stand at the door, 
 
 And risk catching a cold, 
 To steal a short kiss. 
 
 As the good-nights are told. 
 
 Then each goes apart 
 
 To a cold, cheerless room, 
 With a feeling of hopefulness. 
 
 Not unmixed with gloom, 
 To sigh and to dream ; 
 
 Then drive away sorrow 
 With a resolve to talk plainer 
 
 Next time — say tomorrow. 
 Ah, me! who knows? 
 
 Perhaps it is best 
 They can't come when they're called 
 
 To be put to the test ; 
 For if man, in addition 
 
 To his power, had wings, 
 There'd be lots of elopements, 
 
 But few wedding rings. 
 
 Still, it's awfully pleasant, 
 
 When one's all alone, 
 To wish for the loved one. 
 
 And think how you'd atone 
 For all your past coldness. 
 
 It's a sort of relief 
 That cheers one up, 
 
 And adds to the belief 
 That you're really in love ; 
 
 And so, feeling better, 
 You wind up the night 
 
 By — writing a letter. 
 
 53 
 
REASON, NOT RHYME. 
 
 After Harrison's inauguration 
 
 I met a very verdant man, 
 With whom I talked in Washington, 
 
 And thus his story ran : 
 
 "Yes! Kem here to git a office, 
 And you kin bet I'll git it, too! 
 For I'm backed by our delegation 
 And even old Judge Hoodoo. 
 
 " Our Sen'tor — he's all-pow'ful. 
 
 An' our Congs'man, when he signed 
 My petition, said: 'You'll git it — 
 Soon's the other man's resigned.' 
 
 "I used to keep Cross Roads grocery, 
 Where politicians got their beer ; 
 An' soon's I said I wanted a office, 
 
 They says, says they, ' Come right here, 
 
 " An' we'll all use our inflooence.' 
 An' them fellers kep th'er word; 
 But — costs a heap more money 
 Than 'twould to keep a herd 
 
 Of other cattle in eatin', 
 
 Jis fer what they spend in drinkin' 
 And payin' lot o' lobbyists 
 
 To learn what some one's thinkin'." 
 
 I met him often after that. 
 
 Looking a picture of sorrow ; 
 And, answering my question, said : 
 "I'm to git my place tomorrow!" 
 
 That "morrow" never came, poor man! 
 
 For, from what the coroner said, 
 I learned he went to pawn his coat, 
 
 And, suddenly, dropped dead. 
 
 54 
 
At Cleveland's inauguration 
 
 I met brainy city men, 
 Who were as full of faith and promise 
 
 As my country friend was then. 
 
 And I heard the same old story 
 
 Of " having the inside track," 
 And how Congress and Senate and friends 
 
 Were, every one, at their back. 
 
 And I thought to myself. What fools ! 
 
 They'll stay here and their money spend, 
 Until, some day, they'll find they're broke; 
 
 And then — Hoop-la! exit "friend." 
 
 Then they'll learn their "backers" signed. 
 
 Of rival petitions, a score ; 
 And, bitterly disappointed. 
 
 They'll go back to the farm or store. 
 
 Ah ! ye pleaders for place and position, 
 Stay where ye are ; and, where'er you be, 
 
 Remember, this is not poetry. 
 
 But truth— from Yoor Strooly, Matt O'B. 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE. 
 
 A well-known archbishop of England,* 
 
 Called by some "the world's benefactor," 
 In conversation one day 
 
 With Betterton (the famous actor), 
 Said: "How is it, when you are acting. 
 
 You can move your audience into tears, 
 While I — who preach truth to mine — 
 
 Excite neither their hopes nor fears?" 
 
 "I will tell you," Betterton said. 
 
 "The fault lies in your diction! 
 I act fiction as if it were fact, 
 
 Whilst you preach fact as if fiction ! " 
 
 'Archbishop of Canterbury. 
 
 55 
 
SLANDER. 
 
 (SUGGESTED BY READING AN EDITORIAL IN COLUMBUS 
 ENQUIRER-SUN, APRIL 7TH.) 
 
 This is her grave, the sexton said. 
 
 As he knelt and bowed his whitened head, 
 
 And pushed back the flowers which overgrew 
 
 The mound which covered the friend I once knew. 
 
 She, sir, was murdered ! No, not by a man, 
 But by seeming friends, who tried to scan 
 In her innocent actions, thoughtless and free, 
 A something in which they guilt could see. 
 
 Failing in this, they began to talk. 
 
 Wink, and insinuate, where'er she'd walk, 
 
 And say, '"Tis strange!" and, "One so winning — 
 
 To be so sought after, must be sinning ! " 
 
 Thus the gossips gossiped, 'til it reached her ears ; 
 But none would own, as she asked, thro' her tears. 
 To point to a single act in her life 
 That was not in accord with a blameless life. 
 
 They "had heard," they said, but "they didn't know where, 
 
 And exactly what, they didn't care 
 
 To be catechised in by the "likes of her;" 
 
 Tho' they "didn't believe she'd exactly err." 
 
 The poison worked — she drooped, and died. 
 
 And some of these same " friends " came here and cried. 
 
 But I thought, as I saw some try to weep. 
 That the Recording Angel in his book doth keep 
 The names and the sins of those who pander 
 To Heaven's arch enemy — and that is, Slander! 
 
 Columbus, Ga., April 12, 1878. 
 
 56 
 
POST BELLUM. 
 
 A stranger, aged, came up to a crowd, 
 
 Which in every city, it seems, is allowed 
 
 To stand on the corners and laugh and talk. 
 
 And criticise passers-by as they walk. 
 
 And he said, " Young men, I've a story to tell. 
 
 To which, if you will listen, '11 serve you well. 
 
 " It's about a young man whose parents were pore — " 
 " Excuse me," said one, "was this 'fore the war?" 
 " Don't interrupt me until I'm through ! 
 
 This story's a good one, and somethin' new. 
 
 " As I was remarkin', this here young man 
 With werry fine promise his life began ; 
 And was always known from his earliest youth 
 To be like G. Washington in speaking the truth." 
 
 With eyes wide agasp, then cried out one, 
 "Why, who in thunder was G. Washington?" 
 " My friend, I'll explain," said this garrulous man ; 
 
 And, clearing his throat, in these words began : 
 
 " G. W. was, when quite a small boy, 
 The pride of his parents — his father's joy. 
 A favorite cherry tree the red fruit bore — " 
 
 " And excuse me," said another, "was this 'fore the war?" 
 
 " Why, of course it was ! But why do you ask ? 
 These here interruptions makes talking a task ! " 
 And they answered, " Our question has this amount : 
 If 'twas 'fore the war, that story don't count!" 
 
 Then that aged man, with tears in his eyes, 
 Told a story that took them all by surprise. 
 He said he had been on each battlefield 
 Where the South had an arm, a sword to wield ; 
 And as he stopped talking there was a look of dejection ; 
 Then one of the crowd took up a collection ; 
 But, as the man took thfc money, he made these boys sore. 
 Saying, "I went on them battlefields after the war!" 
 57 
 
THE CHILD'S CONTRIBUTION.* 
 
 •'What is it you read in the papers, papa, 
 'Bout ' fever ' and ' great distress,' 
 And about people sending off money 
 To sufferers, thro' the express?" 
 
 I explained, as well as I could, 
 
 To a child not yet in her teens, 
 About the fever, and how they need money 
 
 In Memphis, Grenada and 'Orleans. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" she said. "Now, look here, papa, 
 'Mongst the money that I got today 
 Are three new, bright silver quarters, 
 Which I want you to send right away. 
 
 "Send one of 'em out to Memphis, 
 And one to — Gernady, I guess ; 
 Send the other to New Orleans, 
 And the rest will buy a new dress. 
 
 "Will they take it, papa, d'ye think?" 
 
 Said I, "Oh, yes, my child;" but she wondered 
 When I told her God would reward her 
 
 More than some one who had sent out a hundred. 
 
 That night when the express came in, 
 
 Came a package for little May, 
 And in it a silk suit marked 
 "For May, on her seventh birthday." 
 
 "Why, papa!" she cried; "just to think! 
 When I sent the three quarters by express 
 You said God would reward me, and now 
 God has sent me a pretty silk dress ! " 
 
 But, childlike, this beautiful speech 
 
 In the next did its poetry lose, 
 For she said, "Now I'll send on a nickel. 
 
 And then maybe He'll send me new shoes ! " 
 
 ■■ A fact. 58 
 
"THEM WAS TIMES, THEM WAS." 
 
 THE OLD agent's LAMENT. 
 
 Pshaw ! Expressin' ain't what 't used to be 
 
 Away back in — say '59. 
 Them was times — them was — 
 
 When Expressmen used to shine ! 
 Then the Agent was boss; and Mess'gers! 
 
 Well, you'd think they owned creation, 
 The way they used to be waited on 
 
 By hotel men at the station. 
 Everythin' was free for them. 
 
 Be it canvas-back or red-heads ; 
 They'd call for the list, from soup to nuts, 
 
 And was allers welcome deadheads. 
 Why, papers published their arrival 
 
 'Long with Buffalo Bill's "from the ranges"; 
 For you see, they brought lots o' papers 
 
 As was too high-toned for " exchanges." 
 We used to beat the mail in them days, 
 
 And was pop'lar 'long with the " Press," 
 'Cause we'd get ther papers early 
 
 And rush 'em right through by Express. 
 I was sort o' Big Ike then. 
 
 And one ed'tor used to say 
 Ef I was to resign the business 
 
 Couldn't continue another day ! 
 I used to send them papers to New York, 
 
 So's Dinsmore 'n Adams 'n Hoey 
 Might see for themselves my standin', 
 
 And how I was a bully boy ! 
 Oh, them was times — them was ! 
 
 There was only one train come this way, 
 And that give us time for picnics. 
 
 Pitch quoits, or play checkers all day. 
 There was no Route Agent a rootin' around 
 
 For ther darned old "Overs and Shorts"; 
 
 59 
 
Nor no Auditors sayin' by telegraph, 
 "Why don't you send in your reports?" 
 I used to keep '' Cash on hand," 
 
 Or in " Sumfoney Bank," in my name. 
 And send in 'bout first o' the month, 
 
 'Cept when 'twas delayed by — the game. 
 Each town had a R. R. then, 
 
 And as each had a different gauge. 
 Why, transfers was frequent, and sometimes 
 
 What got left was sent on by the stage. 
 Ah ! them was times — them was ! 
 
 Why, when I was Agent at Sumfoney, 
 As we hadn't no regular tariff, 
 
 I used to make as much as the comp'ny. 
 
 Yes, things is difterent now, 
 
 And a man's got to have the right metal ; 
 For he don't know what minute the Supt.'s 
 
 Goin' to walk in and suggest that you " settle. 
 Why, in the old days, when I was Agent 
 
 In the town where I was resident, 
 I used to think if Dinsmore 'd resign, 
 
 I'd be appinted President ! 
 I's like a great many others 
 
 That 've lived since Peter and Paul — 
 I got so puffed up by the papers 
 
 That I thought I "knew it all." 
 No, I'm not Agent no more. 
 
 Superintendent said, "responsibility 
 Was not important enough 
 
 For a man of my great ability." 
 So he had me sent on yer. 
 
 Where, he said, with all due deference 
 To my age and great experience, 
 
 He'd keep me as sort of a reference ; 
 But, somehow, he doesn't refer. 
 
 He comes yer, and has his say ; 
 And, while he applauds my suggestions. 
 
 He does things just t'other way. 
 
 60 
 
So, I just don't say nothin' now ; 
 
 I feel my importance is lost ; 
 Been so long since my 'pinions was "called for," 
 
 That I kind o' guess I'm " Old Hossed." 
 
 April, 1890. 
 
 ANGLO-MANIACS. 
 
 On the steamship "City of Paris," 
 
 I think in the year '89, 
 Was the truest crowd, and the largest. 
 
 Ever carried by the Inman Line. 
 
 We'd the American Minister to England, 
 His family, and all the Legation ; 
 
 Some members of Congress and Senate, 
 And other big guns of this nation — 
 
 Men of letters, actors and artists ; 
 
 Belles and beaux, all putting on airs ; 
 Commercial men, dukes and earls. 
 
 And a job-lot of old millionaires. 
 
 As usual, when the " concert " came off, 
 All joined in "God Save the Queen!" 
 
 Which brought out the following suggestion 
 From a man with a military mien : 
 
 " Inasmuch as we are Americans, 
 
 It behooves us to sing, in a manner 
 That would do credit to us and our country, 
 The glorious ' Star-Spangled Banner.' " 
 
 After loud applause, they were as quiet 
 
 As a nest of sleeping birds ; 
 They couldn' sing the song. 
 
 For not one of them knew the words. 
 
 61 
 
MY WIFE'S COMPARATIVE STATEMENT. 
 
 If a man wants to know how much money 
 
 He foolishly spends in a year, 
 Let him lecture his wife on " extravagance," 
 
 And she'll very soon make it clear. 
 
 We'd been talking of "household expenses," 
 And how I thought we ought to retrench — 
 
 How I thought 'twas a wasting of money, 
 Taking lessons in Music and French. 
 
 I mildly suggested that she take her book 
 And quietly run over the accounts, 
 
 And find, by comparative statement. 
 The difference in this year's amounts. 
 
 I advised that if she could curtail 
 
 To do so, and suit her own taste 
 In cutting off any expenditure 
 
 She thought could be called a waste. 
 
 She smiled sweetly, and, saying " I'll do it," 
 
 Handed me a cigar and a light- 
 Asked a question or two about billiards. 
 
 And remarked 'twas a beautiful night. 
 
 I came home from the club about twelve, 
 
 (Where we'd an argument on its abatement), 
 
 And found on the table a paper 
 
 Marked " Your Wife's Comparative Statement." 
 
 I felt pleased that she'd been so prompt. 
 "She calculates quickly," I said; 
 But I dropped my cigar in amazement, 
 For here's how her statement read : 
 
 "You spend thirty-six fifty for tobacco. 
 One hundred and four for cigars. 
 Fifty-two dollars for billiards. 
 
 And sixty for ' drinks ' at the bars ! 
 
 62 
 
"This would buy us twelve pairs of shoes! 
 And the children six suits of clothes ! 
 And leave seventy dollars for schooling, 
 And two fifty for ribbons and bows ! 
 
 "I'm glad, dear, 'twas you first suggested 
 That we now economize ; 
 I've cut off all my ' extravagance ; ' 
 See now that ye go and do likewise." 
 
 It seems, in running over "expenses," 
 She got my papers mixed up with hers ; 
 
 For she makes no showing of " extras," 
 
 And says, "I guess that's the way it occurs." 
 
 I guess I won't lecture again ! 
 
 I'm satisfied now — got my fill ! 
 And feel there are much greater wastes 
 
 Than can be found in a milliner's bill. 
 
 August 25, 1877. 
 
 TO MY FRIEND. 
 
 Welcomed by the wealthiest. 
 
 He was happiest in the hovel, 
 Reading life's tragedy 
 
 As if it were a novel. 
 To him the world a stage, 
 
 His most welcome "cue" 
 Was to " enter " into a charity, 
 
 Known only to a few. 
 He was "The Heir at Law" 
 
 To Ezekiel Homespun's part 
 Of God's great gift to man — 
 
 An honest, noble heart. 
 Modest, kind, benevolent ; 
 
 With a natural abhorrence 
 For ostentatious charity — 
 
 Such was "Billy" Florence. 
 
 Clayton House, Nov. 19, 1891. 
 
 03 
 
WHAT EXPERIENCE TEACHES. 
 
 RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO REESE CRAWFORD, ESQ. 
 
 When I concluded to send my wife 
 
 To spend a month or two at the springs, 
 
 I fancied 'twould be only fun 
 
 To keep house and attend to things. 
 
 I thought it a good chance to show 
 
 That half the complaints were all fudge 
 
 About housekeeping being a bother 
 And the work of it being a drudge. 
 
 I resolved to put into practice 
 
 A theory I thought was wise. 
 Which would give me time to spare 
 
 And the expenses economize. 
 
 I got along fine the first week ; 
 
 The pantry was pretty well stocked, 
 And, as I didn't want any bother, 
 
 Why, of course, I left it unlocked. 
 
 Meals were promptly served — " on time," 
 And only two complaints to mutter ; 
 
 One was the weakness of the tea. 
 
 And the other the strength of the butter. 
 
 I'd've gotten along "just as easy" 
 
 As a cat can creep on its toes. 
 If it hadn't 've been for the washing 
 
 And my having to count out the clothes. 
 
 I tried it one time and got — tired ; 
 
 The lists would never agree ; 
 So I just let the laundress count 'em ; 
 
 She said she was used to it — see ? 
 
 64 
 
But my hand'kfs, collars — and et ceteras 
 Are growing consumptively thin ; 
 
 And how they get lost is a mystery, 
 For I count them — when they come in. 
 
 And, somehow or other, I find 
 That my groceries go very quick. 
 
 While the amount of the bill for their cost 
 Is gradually making me — sick ! 
 
 Perhaps my system ain't right ; 
 
 You see, I'm not used to these things ! 
 So I think I'll just shut up the house 
 
 And join my wife at the springs. 
 
 MORAL : 
 
 A man may be a giant ; 
 
 A woman as weak as a mouse ; 
 But she's got more strength than he has 
 
 When it comes to keeping house. 
 
 Columbus, Ga., August 20. 
 
 QUEER, ISN'T IT? 
 
 Why is it one can't have a friend — 
 That is, one of the opposite sex — 
 
 'Thout every one being suspicious, 
 And asking questions that vex ? 
 
 Say one should meet a strange girl — 
 On the level, or below, or above — 
 
 And show just the ordinary civilities — 
 They'll call that a " case of love." 
 
 Now, let the same man be married. 
 And try to show, in public, how dear 
 
 He values his wife as a joy of his life, 
 And they'll call it a "case of beer!" 
 
 65 
 
THE OLD ALBUM. 
 
 I've been looking over an old album today, 
 
 And, upon my word, had to laugh ; 
 For I find what I once thought sincerity 
 
 Today is the veriest chaff. 
 
 For instance, there are verses signed "Vernon," 
 
 Vowing love to the end of his life ; 
 Yet Vernon, to my certain knowledge, 
 
 Last week wed, I think, his third wife ! 
 
 Then there's a page and a half signed "Albert," 
 On which he swears to love no one but me ; 
 
 Now " Albert's " " married and settled," 
 And I doubt if he e'er thinks of me. 
 
 John raves in a couple of verses 
 
 How his love for me never should fail ; 
 
 Yet John, I believe, committed bigamy. 
 And for two or three months was in jail ! 
 
 Then there's "Julian," and " Thomas," and " George,' 
 
 Every one of them vowing to die 
 If ever they'd cease to remember me — 
 
 Pshaw ! they're not worth even a sigh ! 
 
 Of course, I encouraged them all — 
 
 (To write in my album, you know), 
 For girls, when talking of beaux. 
 
 Like to have something to show. 
 
 Sometimes I laugh when the children, 
 Wanting something to read, or to tease. 
 
 Will pore o'er the book, and say " Mamma, 
 Did papa write you all of these?" 
 
 Then "papa" he'll put on his specs. 
 
 Take a look at the book, and then — crash ! 
 He'll throw it aside and exclaim, 
 "D'ye think I'd write any such trash?" 
 
 66 
 
He forgets the leaf I cut out, 
 
 On which he wrote, "Think of me as a friend, 
 Who feels that his life, without you, 
 
 Would be one he'd soon want to end ! " 
 
 Tax him with it, he laughs loud and says, 
 "I believed then without you I'd die; 
 But now my belief has all changed, 
 For, with you, I oft wish to die ! " 
 
 Ah, me ! but it's funny to read 
 
 Vows we made and believed in our youth. 
 To find in the long after years 
 
 How widely they differ from truth ! 
 
 Columbus, Ga., September, 1877. 
 
 REMINDERS. 
 
 Tan-colored shoes, and complexion 
 
 Looking faded, worn and torn. 
 And a slouchy appearance of dress, 
 
 Which makes the ensemble more forlorn. 
 
 White flannel suits looking dingy. 
 
 Or as though they needed some soap ; 
 
 While the elegant sash I "sported" 
 
 Has the appearance of a hand-made rope 
 
 Outing shirts shrunken and faded, 
 
 While here and there some white chips 
 
 In the tray of my trunk, with some tickets- 
 The result of the race " touter's " tips. 
 
 My pockets are sadly depleted. 
 
 And a desire to get back on the " ranch,' 
 Remind me the season is over 
 
 At Holly Wood down at Long Branch. 
 
 67 
 
THE NOW AND BEFORE THE THEN. 
 
 " Mysella ! " he cried, "I've a question 
 I've wfanted to ask you long; 
 And if your answ^er is as I want it, 
 It shall be the burden of my song. 
 
 "So that lovers, in after years, 
 
 When they meet vi^ith maidens fair. 
 Shall sing of your truthful answer, 
 When caught in Cupid's snare." 
 
 Blushing, the maiden held down her head ; 
 
 For, with all this preface, she knew 
 The question he'd ask would require 
 
 An answer honest and true. 
 
 He gazed in her large blue eyes. 
 
 The while he held her hand. 
 And, toying with it, warmly said. 
 
 In a way she'd understand : 
 
 " Pardon my seeming boldness, 
 Your beauty has so upset me ; 
 But, do you love me as much as you did 
 The day before you met me ? " 
 
 The maid gave a sigh of relief. 
 
 And said, "Oh, you truest of men! 
 
 I love you as much in the now 
 As I did before the then ! " 
 
 Love's Guardian Angel smiled. 
 
 And, recording it, said: "Of course. 
 
 This beats a conventional lie. 
 
 And a suit in the courts for divorce." 
 
 Clayton House, April 14, 1892. 
 
THE GLADIATOR'S SERMON. 
 
 Men called me strong, and boasted — 
 
 When they told of some athletic feat 
 In which I was always the winner — 
 
 That I ne'er had met with defeat ; 
 Yet the little world in which I lived 
 
 Would have wondered had it known 
 How seemingly worse than weak I was 
 
 Whenever I was alone ; 
 For remembrance then would bind me 
 
 With thoughts I could not displace, 
 And hold for my view, framed in flowers, 
 
 The picture of a dead child's face. 
 Why was it? Can scientists tell? 
 
 The world called me strong and brave. 
 Yet the sight of these few scentless flowers 
 
 Carried me to my little boy's grave. 
 And thoughts of him ever took me up 
 
 To the Throne I knew he was near, 
 And I found that a child in Heaven 
 
 Had more strength than the giants here. 
 I was vanquished (first time in my life), 
 
 And I prayed good and hard that night 
 That He would give me a trainer 
 
 Who would make me win the great fight ; 
 And that's what I'm here to tell ye. 
 
 Be my "backers," and the "seconds" of "time" 
 Which serve to build up a life 
 
 Will make the victory mine. 
 And, some day, when the good fight's over, 
 
 And you preach, let 'em sing this song : 
 " The weakest being on earth is a man ; 
 
 Only God and his children are strong." 
 
 Columbus, Ga., August, 1879. 
 
TWO ACTRESSES. 
 
 In fancy I was in Heaven, 
 
 And saw a woman refused 
 Admittance by St. Peter, 
 
 Whom she roundly accused 
 Of showing favoritism. " For," said she, 
 " You can all the records search. 
 And I doubt if you'll find a woman 
 
 Stood higher in our church ; 
 For I not only built it, 
 
 But, when in dire distress, 
 I gave it large sums of money. 
 
 And was praised by pulpit and press. 
 Yet I see in there a creature 
 
 Who from youth to old age 
 Was banned by all our set ; 
 
 For she acted on the stage. 
 Why's the likes of her let in, 
 
 And I — of the church — debarred? 
 Is a wealthy woman of Society 
 
 To meet with less regard 
 Than she — an actress — in Heaven ; 
 
 While I, when on earth. 
 Was looked on as her superior 
 
 In wealth, position and birth ? 
 A pretty example you set. 
 
 In thus ignoring a benefactress. 
 And giving Heaven's best seat 
 
 To such creatures as an actress ! " 
 
 "Cease, woman, cease!" St. Peter said. 
 "Were you not an actress, too? 
 You played a part — a wicked one — 
 
 And on God's altar, too! 
 You made a theater of the church. 
 
 Wherein to gain the world's applause ; 
 And, posing as a saint. 
 
 Sinned 'gainst Heaven's holiest laws ! 
 
 70 
 
While this poor woman you so deride 
 
 (Nay! nay! suppress your rage!) 
 Was true to herself and her God — 
 
 On and off the mimic stage. 
 And when, at times, she sought 
 
 Your church to kneel in prayer, 
 You rudely thrust her forth, 
 
 As having no right in there ! 
 Where was your 'charity' then? 
 
 Know ye, the humblest in all lands 
 Have just as much right as the richest 
 
 To beg mercy at His hands ! 
 She came with a contrite heart, 
 
 Filled with penitence and prayer. 
 God heard her, and He knew 
 
 She was not ' acting ' there ! 
 Go ! woman, go ! and sadly learn 
 
 Tho' God is merciful. He is exacting. 
 And knows when prayer is real 
 
 Or whether one's only acting." 
 
 MOVE TO THE SEVENTH WARD. 
 
 Deaths bv Wards— First, 2; Tbird, 4; Fourth, 2; Filth, 7; 
 
 Sixtb, 4; Seventh, 1; Eighth, 1; Ninth, 1; Tenth, 2. 
 Births by Wards— First, 3; Second, 1; Third, 1; Fourth, 3; 
 
 Fifth, 7; Sixth, 2; Seventh, 24; Eighth, 11; Ninth, 4; 
 Tenth, 11 ; Eleventh, 1 ; Twelfth, 1. 
 
 They were childless. 
 
 He read in the "Journal" 
 The statistics as published above ; 
 
 When his wife, who was nigh, 
 
 Gave vent to a sigh, 
 And said, "Listen, and look at me, love: 
 
 " While I know, as you say. 
 That the deaths and the births 
 Are all controlled by our Lord ; 
 Still, if — I — were — you, 
 D'ye know — what — I'd — do ? 
 I'd — move — to — the — Seventh — Ward ! 
 71 
 
TO A SKELETON POCKETBOOK-ON XMAS EVE. 
 
 O ! thou receptacle of wealth ! 
 Whose leathern sides were lined, 
 E'en this rosy morn, with notes — 
 Notes for any situation — 
 Which made thee rotund 
 And me joyous ! 
 
 I note thy thinness now, and ask, 
 Where are the greenbacks gone ? 
 Where now the V's, 
 And X's double 
 I did delight to fill thee with? 
 Where the shiny silver, 
 The glittering gold, 
 I'd hoped to aid me with 
 When I grew old ? 
 Thou'rt like this verse : 
 Thou'rt growing thin ! 
 Thinner, 
 Yea, than tramp 
 Who wants 
 A dinner ! 
 Thou'rt shriveled. 
 Shrunken ! 
 The attraction gone 
 Which made me joke. 
 And every feature says : 
 "Old man, yer broke!" 
 
 THE SKELETON SPEAKS. 
 
 " Told you not to take me with ye ; 
 
 Told you you would sure repent ; 
 Told you you needn't cuss and blame me 
 
 When your money was all spent — 
 Buying toys and Xmas presents. 
 
 Rings and dolls, clothes and chains. 
 Now your money's gone, what have ye — 
 
 What've ye got for all yer pains?" 
 
 72 
 
Just then my youngest child 
 
 Leaped out of bed, 
 And, creeping up to where I sat 
 
 With my skeleton book, she said, 
 "Oh, Papa! see! look there! 
 
 What good things Santa Claus has sent ! 
 And as she yelled in childish joy 
 
 I thought — "that money was well spent.' 
 I put my pocketbook aside, 
 
 And, kissing the little fairy May, 
 Said, " Darling, for such delight as this 
 
 I'm willing to go broke any day!" 
 
 December 24, 1880. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF HORATIO N. LATHAM. 
 
 DIED IN AIKEN, S. C, AUGUST, 1879. 
 
 As a son — devoted; 
 
 As a brother — a bond; 
 As a husband — loving; 
 
 As a father — fond. 
 
 Thus, mother and sisters, 
 
 Wife and child 
 Mourn the one 
 
 Whom their lives beguiled. 
 
 As a soldier — brave ; 
 
 As a civilian — kind; 
 
 As a minstrel — sweet; 
 
 As a friend — to bind. 
 
 Thus, those who knew him 
 Always found him ; 
 
 Thus, those who love, 
 Will always mourn him. 
 
 73 
 
 Columbus, Ga. 
 
WHEN TO "KICK." 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK CLIPPER. 
 
 It was in Atlanta, Georgia, 
 
 In eighteen sixty-eight. 
 That the incidents occurred 
 
 Which I will now relate. 
 
 In large letters, on a " dodger," 
 
 I read: "Be sure to go 
 And see the Blank Combination 
 
 Tonight play ' Fazio ! ' " 
 
 'Twas long since I had seen it — 
 Some thirty years or more — 
 
 And I said, "I'll go tonight, 
 And revive the days of yore." 
 
 I went. The play was well performed ; 
 
 At times I'd bow my head; 
 For it brought back to my mind 
 
 Old actors, long since dead. 
 
 At the close I left the theater, 
 
 Resolved to call next day 
 And tell Blank, of the " Combination," 
 
 How I was pleased with the play. 
 
 But I said, " He'll not appreciate 
 
 The thoughts that through me welled ; 
 
 Besides, in seeing him off the stage, 
 The illusion would be dispelled." 
 
 So I went to the hotel and to bed, 
 And thought, with a tearful eye, 
 
 Of the time when I first "Fazio" saw, 
 In " the happy days gone by." 
 
I resolved that I would link these two 
 
 In my memory ever after ; 
 But they were dissevered very soon 
 
 By uncontrollable laughter. 
 
 For, next day, going up the street. 
 Was a sight that made me hum — 
 "The Great Combination" was parading, 
 And Fazio beating the drum! 
 
 MORAL: 
 In a "combination" play well your part; 
 
 Play all that they may pick ; 
 But when you're asked to play the drum. 
 
 Why, I think it's time to "kick." 
 
 Columbus, Ga., November, 1879. 
 
 "COME, SEND 'ROUND THE WINE." 
 
 — Tom Moore. 
 
 Come, send 'round the beer, and leave such a thought 
 
 To rust in the head of the dude who designed it. 
 This life is so brief that when pleasure is sought 
 
 We'd spoil every bit if we attempted to mind it. 
 Your "boss" may be blonde and mine a brunette. 
 
 And opposed to each other in a business plan ; 
 But it doesn't follow that we should forget 
 
 The courtesies due as from man to man. 
 
 Shall I shun the employe I meet in a city 
 
 'Cause his company's methods and "ours" don't agree? 
 Shall I give up a friend, tried, true and gritty, 
 
 If he work not in the same office with me ? 
 Shall acquaintance be dropped, or coldly passed by, 
 
 Because 'twixt all "heads" there's not perfect bliss? 
 No! perish such thoughts! and the rulers that try 
 
 Truth, Friendship and Manhood by a standard like this. 
 
 75 
 
BLIGGINS' TRUTHFUL STORY. 
 
 The lamp burned low at midnight, 
 
 And Mrs. Bliggins lay wide awake, 
 To hear, when her husband came in, 
 
 What kind of excuse he would make. 
 She mused, "Well, there is no meeting 
 
 Of what he calls ' the Lodge ; ' 
 So there'll be no use in his trying 
 
 To gull me with that old dodge. 
 I know he has no ' sick friend,' 
 
 Nor is he 'taking stock;' 
 And he can't get in without rapping, 
 
 For today I changed the lock. 
 I'll stay awake until morning, 
 
 Or at least till he comes in ; 
 And if he don't tell me truly, 
 
 Oh, won't I raise a din ! 
 Just to think ! — the clock striking one. 
 
 And he hasn't come home yet! 
 Oh! but I'll make it lively 
 
 Whenever he does — you bet!" 
 She thought over all his excuses, 
 
 Or ones he'd be likely to make, 
 And she said, " If he tells me truly, 
 
 I'll forgive him, just for Truth's sake ! " 
 She dozed off, and dreamed she was single. 
 
 And had wealthier chances to wed ; 
 But she was wakened by a loud rapping, 
 
 And hurriedly jumped out of bed. 
 She opened the door, and retreated 
 
 To her room, from which she could see 
 Her husband staggering stupidly 
 
 And anathematizing his key. 
 'What! sitting up yet, ' Ducksy Wuxey'?" 
 
 Quoth he ; but she answered with force : 
 ' I want — you — to — answer — me — truly. 
 
 Or — tomorrow — I'll get a divorce ! 
 
 76 
 
This ' Ducksy Wuxey' is played out; 
 
 And I want you — truly — to state 
 To me — your wife — Jennie Bliggins — 
 Why you have come home so late ! " 
 (a pause.) 
 "Well, (hie) I'll tell you, my ducky (hie)— truly. 
 And I'm sorry to have kept you up (hie) ; 
 But the reason I came home so late (hie) is, 
 All the other places (hie) — shut up!" 
 
 THE PRIEST'S STORY. 
 
 " I sometimes, when the mass is o'er. 
 
 Wander about the church, and, looking 'round 
 Among the empty pews, do search to see 
 
 If therein any trace of sermon may be found." 
 
 At this I marvelled much, and asked his meaning. 
 
 As to how he e'er could find 
 The evidence he looked for. 
 
 And he answered: "In my mind; 
 As thus, when congregation's gone 
 
 And closed the ponderous door, 
 I look into the cushioned pews of fashion. 
 
 And, in fancy, find my sermon on the floor. 
 Midway in the church I look, and lo ! 
 
 A perfume fills the very book of prayer ; 
 Yet scattered all about upon the seats 
 
 I find some traces of my sermon there. 
 But in the pews far back. 
 
 Where the poor do kneel and pray, 
 I find no vestige of the sermon 
 
 Delivered — any day. 
 Why ? Because from fashion's follies they are free ; 
 
 Their thoughts, on God intent, ne'er roam 
 While listening to His Word, and so 
 
 They take the lesson home ! " 
 
 Columbus, Ga., January 20, 1879. 
 
 77 
 
A HOLIDAY RETROSPECT. 
 
 'Twas the day after Christmas — and all through the house 
 
 The toys were much scattered — a regular chouse ; 
 
 The old folks had headaches ; the young ones, with pain, 
 
 Were saying they'd never eat pound-cake again. 
 
 The housemaid was scolding of things disarranged, 
 
 And vowing that she would soon go deranged. 
 
 There was cake on the sofa, nutshells on the floor ; 
 
 The carpets were dirty, the curtains all tore ; 
 
 The new doll was broken — one arm out of socket. 
 
 And the family portrait was spoiled by a rocket ; 
 
 The piano looked tired ; its polish so fine 
 
 Was scratched o'er by glasses and stained up with wine. 
 
 The mirror, before which the belle often lingers, 
 
 Was streaked all over with sticky fingers. 
 
 Noah's Ark was upset, and a copy of Byron 
 
 Held in — as a book-mark — a child's toy iron. 
 
 The furniture felt as tho' it just had been varnished ; 
 
 While a " Life of Beecher," in gilt, was all tarnished. 
 
 The clock needed winding, as did also some zephyr 
 
 Which lay on the floor, as if "that's what 'twas left for!" 
 
 The dining-room looked as tho' there'd been a party. 
 
 And all who attended were healthy and hearty. 
 
 The bones of a turkey looked ghastly and white, 
 
 And the punch-bowl as if it had been in a fight. 
 
 The man o' the house looked as dull as a log, 
 
 And said, as he saw where they'd spilt some egg-nogg : 
 
 " If I live 'til next Christmas, which my head seems to doubt, 
 
 And this court knows itself, there'll be no * blow-out.' 
 
 I'll save all the money the doctors don't get. 
 
 And I'll spend it a little different — you bet! 
 
 Why, with what has been wasted and ruined just here 
 
 A poor family would be content for a year. 
 
 Pshaw! I feel like I'd like to get into a passion! 
 
 Just to think of me toadying because 'tis fashion! 
 
 Entertaining, receiving — maybe good people, 
 
 Whom I don't see as often as I do the church steeple. 
 
 78 
 
Can't I keep their friendship without throwing away 
 The money that maybe I'll be needing some day? 
 I'll try the experiment, and at the end of the year, 
 Whether I make or lose, to my mind it is clear, 
 Tho' it may not be 'fashion,' and some call you a 'boor,' 
 It's best when you do give to give to the poor." 
 
 A QUESTION. 
 
 Why is it that in theaters ^ 
 
 And other places of resort 
 Where songs are sung- 
 Or rhymes are rung. 
 
 Which are of the comic (?) sort, 
 That those which are most welcome, 
 
 Or rather gain the most eclat, 
 Are filled with anything but praise 
 For those ycleped mothers-in-law ? 
 
 Do those who listen and applaud 
 
 Ever give the subject a thought. 
 How a mother-in-law has worked and toiled- 
 
 Has strained, and strived, and wrought. 
 To bring her daughter to that perfection 
 
 (The aim of a mother's life), 
 And fit her to become, some day, 
 
 A faithful, loving wife ? 
 
 Let's banish all such songs and rhymes. 
 
 No matter by whom writ ; 
 For to create a smile at a mother's expense 
 
 Is a prostitution of wit. 
 And let us instead give praise to her 
 
 Who, carrying out God's law. 
 Gave birth to the one you love, 
 
 And became your mother-in-law. 
 
 Columbus, Ga., Nov. 16, 1878. 
 
 79 
 
THE CANDIDATE. 
 
 Who is it loves the working man, 
 And calls him friend and neighbor, 
 
 And says he always loves to clasp 
 The horny hand of labor ? 
 
 The candidate. 
 
 Who is it loves the farmer well. 
 And calls him honest granger ; 
 
 And vows to admiration, else 
 He'd like to be a stranger ? 
 
 The candidate. 
 
 Who is it loves the wealthy man. 
 And vows his views are right 
 
 On greenbacks, bonds and national debt. 
 And swears he's his delight ? 
 
 The candidate. 
 
 Who is it tells the poor man 
 
 He works for his relief. 
 And how the bloated bondholder 
 
 He'll speedily bring to grief? 
 
 The candidate. 
 
 Who is it in the newspaper 
 
 Puts "cards" which he intends 
 The public to think are written by 
 "Many Voters," and "Many Friends"? 
 The candidate. 
 
 Who is it promises everything 
 
 That his constituents ask, 
 Yet when he gets elected claims 
 " 'Tis too much of a task"? 
 
 The candidate. 
 
 And who is it that believes all this, 
 
 And on whom the candidate dotes — 
 And who go up on election day 
 And put in their honest votes? 
 
 We, the people. 
 August 13. 1878. SO 
 
A WILDE DISCUSSION. 
 
 At the club quite a crowd had assembled, 
 And the hour was pleasantly whiled, 
 
 Till somebody asked, "What's aesthetics? 
 And what made Oscar Wilde ? " 
 
 "Why, being entirely too utterly utter; 
 In fact, a sort of sesthetic child. 
 Quite too awfully fond of the beautiful. 
 Is what has made Oscar Wilde." 
 
 " No, 'tain't," said another ; " it's a lot of big fools 
 With more money than brains — to be mild — 
 Who think our American idea tame, 
 And so, run after Oscar — wild." 
 
 "Well, ah! yes — as it's the — ah! — 'latest craze' 
 To be aesthetically beguiled. 
 Why, it's the crazy craze, you know, 
 Which is making Oscar Wilde." 
 
 "No, aesthetics in the fine art's a science — 
 
 Treating of the theory and philosophy of taste ; 
 And I don't see how an indulgence in that 
 Could run Oscar's mind to waste." 
 
 " Oh ! you don't understand the thing, my dear boy ! 
 What he means is — not the man's wild ; 
 He alludes to the English sensation. 
 
 When he asks what made Oscar Wilde." 
 
 " Well, then, the question was wrong. 
 
 And I'd swear, until Bibles were piled, 
 He should have asked ' What made Oscar insane ? ' 
 And not 'What made Oscar wild?'" 
 
 The more one explained the more it got mixed, 
 
 Until finally a motion was filed 
 That the matter be referred to the Enquirer-Sun, 
 
 To explain what made Oscar Wilde. 
 
 Columbus, Ga., .January, 1882. 
 
 81 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN PENCIL ON PIECE OF 
 FOOLSCAP PAPER. 
 
 KEPT WRAPPED AROUND THE PHOTOGRAPH OF HIS WIFE. 
 
 I looked at your picture today 
 
 And tried to imagine you dead, 
 And this is what, in my mind, 
 
 If so, I would have said : 
 
 You have been a great friend to me. 
 
 And made me — my home and my hearth — 
 
 The happiest, nearest and dearest 
 I've ever had on this earth. 
 
 Now that you're buried, I tell you. 
 Like a seed that is under ground, 
 
 I see in your vine-like glory 
 A shelter I ne'er before found. 
 
 It's the lot of human nature 
 
 To most admire the sun 
 When evening is coming o'er us 
 
 And the day is nearly done. 
 
 Our day is almost over. 
 
 We are rapidly reaching the night, 
 
 And I want to pay you this tribute 
 Before you pass from my sight. 
 
 Man often forgets his God 
 
 In the attractions and joys of the world. 
 And worships some brazen image 
 
 Before into eternity hurled. 
 
 But, like the thief on the cross repentant. 
 
 He cries out " Father forgive," 
 So I ask you now while loving 
 
 Pardon me while I live. 
 
 82 
 
And on that last day 
 
 When in judgment you are asked to appear, 
 Think of my trials and troubles 
 
 And remember I loved you here. 
 
 "CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME." 
 
 I had read in the Wilmington papers 
 
 And heard from pulpits, too. 
 Heart-rending appeals in aid of 
 
 The poor in Timbuctoo. 
 
 Also how different societies 
 
 Were gathering garments old 
 To help old " Lo, the poor Indian," 
 
 In his efforts to keep out the cold. 
 
 And I thought to myself, happy people, 
 Who, having no poor of their own. 
 
 Sought those of another nation. 
 As well as another zone ! 
 
 Musing thus, I slowly meandered 
 
 To that part of the town called the " coast,' 
 
 And what little I saw was enough 
 To make me ashamed of my boast. 
 
 There and elsewhere was a poverty 
 Pleading, not only for clothes. 
 
 But actually in want of a meal 
 And a pallet on which to repose. 
 
 Strikes me if pulpits and papers 
 
 Could make it "the fashion" to roam 
 
 'Mongst the poor and the needy here, 
 They'd begin their charity at home. 
 
 Clayton House, Nov. 4. 
 
 83 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER'S LAMENT. 
 
 Well, if ever I was worried ! 
 
 If ever I was flurried ! 
 If ever I felt it did a woman behoove 
 
 To swear like any layman, 
 
 'Twas when a lot of draymen 
 Were helping me October ist to move. 
 
 What, with the breaking and the scratching, 
 
 And the things that will need patching. 
 To make them look a little like they used to do before, 
 
 'Pon my word, I don't deceive 
 
 When I tell you I believe 
 'Twould be cheaper to buy a new set from the store. 
 
 And a husband! He's no help! 
 
 I'd rather do it all myself; 
 For it seems to me 'twas his delight— the sinner! — 
 
 Just when I was working busy, 
 
 And my poor head growing dizzy. 
 For him to say, "My dear, what time is dinner?" 
 
 If the landlords only knew 
 
 The trouble they put us to, 
 W^ith this moving, and its attendant discontent. 
 
 Instead of raising the price, 
 
 They'd follow my advice, 
 And "let" us all the houses free of rent. 
 
 I oft the time have seen 
 
 When I thought " a change of scene " 
 Would be pleasant — just to get in a new groove; 
 
 And how I would arrange. 
 
 In the house all new and strange, 
 The furniture and things we'd have to move. 
 
 84 
 
But now? I don't move any more! 
 
 My bones are aching — sore ! 
 And I've told my husband, too, in language terse, 
 
 That when next I move away 
 
 He needn't get a dray; 
 When I'm moved again he'll have to hire a hearse ! 
 
 Columbus, Ga., October, 1878. 
 
 EARTH'S ANGELS. 
 
 Religion teaches us, 'mid all our 'plaints. 
 That in Heaven only dwell the saints ; 
 And yet I fancy — tho' I have a dearth 
 Of knowledge great — I've seen on earth 
 A something much their like — an order 
 Which, if not of Heaven itself, is of its border. 
 Unlike the saints who're robed in white, 
 These I speak of dress as black as night, 
 And, silent, move along our streets in pairs, 
 Without a note of what's called "world affairs." 
 Watch them, as I've done, and you'll see 
 They seek the huts where all is misery ; 
 Where lie the sick, the poor, th' afflicted. 
 Yea, be it pestilence, they're not restricted ; 
 But seek them out, and, succor giving, 
 'Tend to the dead, then help the living; 
 Without a hope of any fee or 'ward 
 Save that they crave from our dear Lord. 
 They silent work, and 'neath their hood 
 Have thoughts of naught but doing good. 
 "Sisters of Mercy" they're called, I know, 
 (Mayhap the reader says, "And rightly so!") 
 And it does seem as if in Heaven above. 
 Where dwells the God of Mercy and of Love, 
 To draw us closer to Him and learn His worth, 
 He sends, as guides, these angels of the earth. 
 
 Columbus, Ga., April 12, 1879. 
 
STRAWS. 
 
 1 dink it voss a sin 
 
 Dot dem shtraw liads was " called in " 
 So early like de fifteend of September, 
 
 Van everybody knows 
 
 It needer hails nor shnows 
 Down Soud until some time in December. 
 
 Id's well enough up Nord 
 
 To make fashions and so fort 
 For wedder vot vill suit deir baromeders ; 
 
 Bud de difference down Soud 
 
 Is yoost as big — aboud — 
 As der voss in second-hand dermoneders. 
 
 Now off a man he ain'd got tin, 
 
 Und dem shtraw hads voss called "in," 
 Voss id better dot — ven he voss so flat — 
 
 He keep up mit der fashions, 
 
 Und go shord on his rations, 
 Yoost to please de poys who holler, " Shoot dot had !" 
 
 I dink it don'd voss so ; 
 
 Id is better for to go, 
 No madder what dem fashion fellers said, 
 
 A liddle behind de shtyle, 
 
 Yed knowing all de vile 
 You ain'd wanting in de sense vot's in de head. 
 
 Now I ax you vich is besd, 
 
 Und den I gib you resd, 
 Ain'd it better for a man to mind his gains 
 
 Den id is to ape de shtyles 
 
 Which is changin' all de viles, 
 Und shows he hafe more money got den brains ? 
 
 m 
 
For dose who can afford id, 
 
 Id's well enough to lord id, 
 But, meanwhile, I dell you righd now flat, 
 
 I dink id's improbriety, 
 
 Off you move in good sociedy. 
 To holler ad annudder, "Shoot dot had!" 
 
 TO MY DOG. 
 
 Ever ready to attend me, 
 
 Ever ready to defend me, 
 Strange it is that, though as dumb as any log, 
 
 You do all that I command you. 
 
 And make me understand you. 
 Though you cannot even read or write — you dog ! 
 
 Sad when I leave your sight. 
 You welcome me with delight — 
 
 Jumping up and down as lively as a frog ; 
 You seem to try to show 
 What none other e'er could know, 
 
 And that is, that you please me — you dog! 
 
 Why is it human beings, 
 
 With their boast of wise far-seeings 
 
 Into futurity, and e'en its epilogue. 
 Often fail among their kind 
 To show, with all their mind. 
 
 As much affection as you do — you dog ? 
 
 This question, so prolific, 
 I'll leave for the scientific — 
 I do not claim to be a pedagogue ; 
 
 But meanwhile, if not amiss, 
 I'll make the application this : 
 "Actions speak louder than words" — you dog! 
 
 Columbus, Ga. 
 
 87 
 
'TOM COLLINS" AND "COLLINS GRAVES." 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK CLIPPER. 
 
 Frank Queen! I'm an "Old Subscriber," 
 "Constant Reader," and all of that sort; 
 
 But I want to ask you a question — 
 Has bothered me worse 'n a wart. 
 
 Out of seventeen newspapers sent me, 
 Sixteen were "marked," and said 
 
 They regretted to state to their readers 
 
 That their old friend Tom Collins was dead. 
 
 Now, I never knew Mr. Collins — 
 
 I 've heard of him and from him quite oft, 
 
 And I fancied, at times, he imagined 
 I was a little inclined to be soft. 
 
 But be that as it may, here 's the question 
 Which my simple mind propounds : 
 
 How could Tom Collins die and be buried 
 In sixteen different towns? 
 
 Not only the newspapers say so, 
 
 But even the poet raves 
 In twenty-one verses of " poetry," 
 
 And all about " Collins Graves." 
 
 He has " Died in Augusta, Georgia ; " 
 And he 's " Died in Augusta, Maine ; " 
 
 He has "Died in Massachusetts;" 
 And died over and over again ! 
 
 Now, I claim if Tom Collins is dead, 
 
 Dying once, did his level best ; 
 And I think the papers are wrong 
 
 Not to give him and his " graves " a rest. 
 
Poets may tell of "Collins Graves," 
 
 And how many times he died; 
 But I '11 bet if Tom Collins could talk, 
 
 He'd say "some of them poets lied! " 
 
 P. S. — I learned since I wrote the above. 
 That I 've been a kind o' chawed ; 
 "Collins Graves" is a mill-dam hero, 
 
 And "Tom Collins"— "a dam old fraud!" 
 
 Augusta, Ga., July 3, 1874. 
 
 WHEN. 
 
 'When did you love me first?" I asked. 
 
 Her head hung low. 
 And, wondering, she answered : 
 " Love, I do not know. 
 It seems as if 'twere always ! 
 
 I cannot tell 
 When, or what time, 
 
 I came under its spell. 
 My love is like a dream, in this : 
 
 Confusion bringing 
 When I try to tell 
 
 Of what had no beginning. 
 Love hath not age, or date ; 
 
 It is like music — pleasant — 
 And takes no note of time. 
 
 Except the present. 
 Why ask me ' When ' ? Art not content 
 
 To hear me vow 
 I've loved since first I saw you, 
 
 And love you now ? 
 • Where was it ? ' Oh ! my darling, 
 
 It, too, seems like a dream ! 
 But, I remember this much : 
 
 You treated me to ice cream." 
 
TO LEILA, ON BEING ASKED TO SUGGEST 
 A SUBJECT. 
 
 Tell us the tale of old times, 
 
 Tell it in your prettiest rhymes — 
 Tell of the times 
 
 When under the limes 
 Hope was joyous ; 
 
 All was bright, 
 And even the nights. 
 
 With Heaven's bright lights, 
 Were clearer 
 
 And dearer 
 Than those dark days 
 
 Which followed the ways 
 In field or tent 
 
 That our soldiers went. 
 The power you possess is vast ; 
 
 Test it now ! 
 And write of " the past." 
 
 Columbus, Ga., April 30, 1879. 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 Write of the past ? Oh ! absent friend. 
 You little know how this would end 
 
 In hour of grief and sorrow deep, 
 From happiness to turn and weep. 
 Ah, no ! 
 
 Bring up the past from shades of woe ? 
 ' 'T would haunt my steps where'er I go ; 
 
 Into my soul its voice would creep, 
 
 Spectres would mock my peaceful sleep. 
 Ah, no ! 
 
 What! call forth from their hidden lair 
 The cruel serpents lurking there, 
 
 And feel once more their stinging smart 
 As they lap the life-blood from my heart? 
 
 Ah, no ! 
 90 
 
The past ! Why, friend, the past is dead, 
 Long buried in its lowly bed. 
 " Resurgara " is not on the stone 
 
 Which covers all the joy that 's flown. 
 Ah, no ! 
 
 The sky of hope was bright, 'tis true, 
 But the dark shadows came there too. 
 
 And hid away from mortal sight 
 
 The visions that were wondrous bright. 
 Write of it ? Ah, no ! 
 
 The bitter past I would forget, 
 And 'tis without one vain regret 
 
 Rosy lips to mine are pressed 
 
 And baby heads rest on my breast. 
 'Tis well! 
 
 LEILA G. S. 
 Augusta, Ga., May 13, 1879. 
 
 WHY? 
 
 Why is it when any one pleases us 
 We're a little reluctant to show it, 
 
 While the moment one makes us angry 
 W^e're so ready to let him know it ? 
 
 'Twere better if this were reversed — 
 When made angry try to conceal it ; 
 
 But whenever any one pleases us. 
 
 If there's a smile can be brought, why reveal it. 
 
 TO MARK, ON HIS 17th BIRTHDAY. 
 
 If the other years we may spend on earth 
 Be as full of the sunshine you 've caused since birth, 
 I shall leave this world with the same regret 
 The birds have when, in council met, 
 They seek their roost as it's getting dark — 
 They miss their "sun," so I would mine — Mark. 
 91 
 
THE WATCHMAN. 
 
 Yes, I've been a watchman for nigh ten year, 
 And, as you say, have seen strange sights ; 
 
 And I've learned to know that great difference 
 Spoken of twixt days and nights. 
 
 For instance, I've seen some men 
 
 Who were held up as a " shinin' light" 
 
 By the people who saw 'em in daylight. 
 
 Who didn't shine worth a cent in the night. 
 
 On the contrary, morally speakin'. 
 
 Some of these 'ere shinin' lights 
 Give the watchman a great deal of bother. 
 
 And we have to take 'em home o' nights. 
 
 Then you ought to hear 'em palaver 
 
 'Bout ther feelin's, and sort of a dizziness 
 
 Which comes over them at the office 
 
 Where they'd been attendin' to business. 
 
 And they think they fool me; but I don't let on 
 
 No more than the stars in the sky. 
 Which twinkle and wink in a knowin' way, 
 
 Much's to say, "This twixt you and I." 
 
 But behind the great stars, thinks I to myself. 
 There's One keeps us always in sight. 
 
 Who knows all our actions and jots down our thoughts. 
 Be it in daylight or darkness of night. 
 
 So what's the use of deceivin'. 
 
 Be you millionaire or carryin' a hod? 
 
 You may fool the world for a lifetime. 
 But not the great Watchman, God. 
 
 Columbus, Ga., January, 1882. 
 92 
 
FICTION AND FACT. 
 
 I read that thar piece in your paper 
 About fairies at " Lover's Leap," 
 
 And I made up my mind that I'd go there 
 And see 'em 'afore I would sleep. 
 
 I footed it up 'bout three miles, 
 
 And on top o' the rock I sot, 
 And I wiped my eyes with my bandana, 
 
 For I tell ye 'twas powerful hot. 
 
 Well, I looked, and I looked, and I looked. 
 
 And then I put on my specs ; 
 But I couldn't see any fairies, 
 
 As was spoken of in your tex'. 
 
 The river was thar, and the rocks. 
 Likewise Alabama and her hills ; 
 
 But the only thing I saw unusual 
 Was a sign about Tutt's Liver Pills. 
 
 Not a sign did I see of a fairy 
 
 Flyin' 'round on the feathery rugs ; 
 
 But I did see, to my great confusion. 
 
 Sundry gnats, and mosquitoes, and bugs. 
 
 They stung me and bit me all over ; 
 
 They nipped me wherever I'd roam; 
 And some of them, "just kind o' sociable," 
 
 Clung to me after I got home. 
 
 It may not been a good day for fairies 
 To be flitting 'round in ther fanciful acts. 
 
 And I'm not findin' fault with the poet — 
 I'm just statin' a few flea-bitten facts. 
 
HIS EVIDENCE. 
 
 Do I know Bill Smith, the detective ? 
 
 Man with a red mustache 
 And a keen, sharp eye, indicative 
 
 Of one that's got pluck and dash ? 
 Well, I should surmise I did 
 
 Know him since my youth. 
 And what do 1 know of his character, 
 
 That is, for tellin' the truth? 
 Hold on a minute, I'll tell you : 
 
 Ye see that'd jis depend 
 On the manner of man that's questioner. 
 
 Whether an enemy or friend. 
 Society's enemy's his'n ! 
 
 But, Judge, he calls 'em thieves, 
 And in talkin' to them he's inventive. 
 
 And his language kind o' deceives. 
 Yes, I know Bill's accused o' lyin', 
 
 But by whom ? I mean no offense 
 To the legal profesh when I say 
 
 By the counsel who acts for defense. 
 Yes, I know it's "honorable profession," 
 
 And one that is highly reflective. 
 Sometime while "honors are easy," 
 
 I'd rather be the detective ; 
 For I can't understand how a lawyer 
 
 Can have a client, say a defaulter, 
 And take part of that money as pay 
 
 To save him from prison or halter. 
 Yes, sir, I'll answer your question. 
 
 You're wrong, if you think I'm loth. 
 I believe William Smith, the detective. 
 
 Always tells the truth, on oath ; 
 And I further believe that the prisoner 
 
 Should be hanged by the neck till dead. 
 And— all right. Sheriff— I'll hush. 
 
 Good day. Judge, 'nough said. 
 
 94 
 
A CLOSE "CALL." 
 
 How do, sah ! I jis call in to say 
 
 Dat de ves'ry accepts you as pastor, 
 An' I'm to sugges' de 'zact way 
 
 As will expedite matters mo' faster. 
 Our cong'ation is one ob de best ; 
 
 It's large, and — sometimes — devotional. 
 That is, when put to de test, 
 
 Or git in de mood call'd emotional. 
 Its membahs are " toney," well-bred. 
 
 Fack, sah. They're known as progressiv', 
 Excep' when anything's said 
 
 To change em' — den der aggressive. 
 They've had sev'ril changes ob late, 
 
 An' sev'ril new pastors, too. 
 Why this was, 'tis needless to state 
 
 To a man o' 'sperience like you. 
 So to make yo' paff light and smoove, 
 
 Make it easy, as 't wah, on de jints, 
 I po'pose, as a nes'cerry move, 
 
 Jis to post you on to a few pints. 
 What you M'ant to do in yo' teachin' 
 
 Is to light in onto somethin' dat's new, 
 An' let up on de tex' dey bin preachin' 
 
 'Way up from de year one an' two, 
 De people is tired o' hearin' 'em ! 
 
 Expounded fust one way'n tudder, 
 Till, 'stead bein' frightened an' fearin' 'em, 
 
 Dey's got used to "Cain killin' his brudder," 
 What dey want is a sort o' sensation, 
 
 Dat '11 please bofe de gents an' de ladies, 
 An' you want to put in yo' oration 
 
 More talk 'bout hebbin dan hades. 
 Dis preachin' all de time 'bout stealin' 
 
 An' lyin' an' cheatin', or, wuss'n all, 
 Bein' punished, is sort o' congealin'. 
 
 An' consid'ed by some as pussonal. 
 
 95 
 
An' doan say nothin' 'gin licker, 
 
 'Cause some of 'em sell it retail, 
 An' dey'd git offended much quicker 
 
 Dan white folks, who sell it wholesale. 
 Doan' be always axin' subscriptions ; 
 
 Ef you do, you'll be deposed. 
 Dey doan' like 'em of any 'scription, 
 
 Doan' k'yar ef real or supposed. 
 One preacher we had, Mister Gunney, 
 
 'Peared to be under dat 'ticular spell; 
 He was always tryin' to raise money ; 
 
 An' cong'ation dey raised — , well, 
 Dey all ruz up, an' went out 
 
 And leff Mr. G. in de lurch. 
 An' de deacons ! dey raise such a shout 
 
 Dat it like to a' busted de church. 
 An' doan' be makin' complaints. 
 
 Or tellin' ebby one dey is sinners; 
 Kind o' 'sinuate some o' 'em's saints; 
 
 Den you git 'vited to dinners. 
 In describin' de way up to glory 
 
 Make it easier, lighter 'n gladder, 
 Dan it is in dat ole time story 
 
 'Bout havin' to climb up a ladder. 
 Ring in a mo' modern version, 
 
 Dat'll make 'em put on mo' airs ; 
 Fo' dem fellers doan' wan' de exertion 
 
 Of eben crawlin' up "golden stairs." 
 Tell 'em dis de age o' impro'ment, 
 
 An' dat dis church will sooner or later 
 Be de pioneers in a movement 
 
 To send 'em up in a el'vator! 
 Dat'll catch 'em ! 'cause dey ain't spry, 
 
 An' eyesight some o' 'em's hazy. 
 But el'vator'll catch der eye, 
 
 'Cause all ob 'em's pow'ful lazy. 
 Ef you play 'em like dis, Mist. Ha'ason, 
 
 After you has 'cepted de "call," 
 Why yo' place be easy 'n compa'son 
 
To some dat's had it. Dat's all! 
 But ef you doan', you'll meet such a reversal 
 
 Ob opinion from dat crowd entire, 
 You'll think yo' conductin' rehearsal 
 
 Ob amachewers up in a choir. 
 Wha' dat .'' You decline de posish? 
 
 An' you can't flatter people dat way? 
 Well, I know dat cong'ation's wish. 
 
 So I'll hab to bid you goo' day ! 
 
 Washington, D. C, November 10. 
 
 TO FATHER CAMPBELL. 
 
 We should not wait till one is dead 
 
 'Ere words of honest praise are said. 
 
 What use to whisper then that he was good. 
 
 Or did kind acts whene'er he could ; 
 
 Or say he loved to alleviate distress, 
 
 And oft brought to wretched homes the happiness 
 
 Which had been a stranger until his face 
 
 Peered in among the poor in every place ? 
 
 I sometimes fancy when I do hear 
 Such eulogies poured into a dead man's ear 
 That the utterer, in his despair and destitution. 
 Wrongly thinks he's making "restitution." 
 
 Why not say it when the ear can hear. 
 And eyes grow brighter over words of cheer. 
 And so encourage the hearer to pursue 
 Love's labor, helped only by a few? 
 
 Believing this, excuse me, ray old friend. 
 Whose whitened hairs a charm doth lend 
 To thy bowed form, if what I've said 
 I dedicate to thee living, not dead. 
 
 97 
 
WHY I LIKE FIREMEN. 
 
 DEDICATED TO THE FIRE DEPARTMENT. 
 
 "Why am I fond of the firemen? 
 Those fellows that run to fire ? 
 Yes, sir, I'll tell you in half a minute — 
 That is, if you so desire. 
 
 "Well, sir, when I was a youngster, 
 
 * Pop ' was a good deal on his ' style,' 
 And anything short of a nabob 
 Use to kind o' raise his rile. 
 
 "Well, he used to think that firemen 
 Were 'very good men in their way,' 
 But they wasn't 'aristocratic,' 
 (That was the old man's lay). 
 
 "Well, one night, away in the winter. 
 We'd a party in honor of Grace, 
 Who was ' sweet sixteen * — and my sister, 
 Oh ! she'd the loveliest kind of a face. 
 
 "Well, all the 'good-nights' had been given, 
 And 'pop' had long gone to 'retire,' 
 When — all of a sudden — I started ! 
 Some one was yelling out ' fire ! ' 
 
 "The house was on fire all over — 
 
 It had started just under the stairs. 
 And I'd given myself up for lost, sir, 
 
 When crash ! went the windows by pairs ! 
 
 " 'Twas the firemen ! with ladders and axes. 
 They'd cut their way thro' with a bound. 
 And, catching each one of us children. 
 Landed us safe on the ground. 
 
 "Then father was saved — but the cheers 
 Were stopped by a sweet, pale face 
 That looked out of an upper window. 
 
 And cried out, ' Oh ! save me ! ' — 'twas Grace. 
 
 98 
 
'"Ere the echo was lost there were men 
 Between her and the fire's red glare, 
 And the voices of the crowd seemed hushed, 
 As if each were whispering a prayer. 
 
 "Grace was saved, sir; but a moment after 
 Came a cry — too late for the braves — 
 The wall fell — and — well, the old man, sir, 
 Put a monument over their graves. 
 
 "That's why I like the firemen — 
 'Those fellows that run to fires,' 
 And I think you'll find worse men, sir, 
 Under some of your 'big church' spires!" 
 
 Augusta, Ga., June 23, 1873. 
 
 DISCONTENT. 
 
 In the parlor sits the mistress, 
 
 Dressed in laces rare, 
 With jewels (worth a ransom) 
 
 On her hands and in her hair ; 
 While near and all around her 
 
 Are signs of greatest wealth. 
 Yet she sighs — and, sighing, wishes. 
 
 She 'd the chambermaid's good health. 
 
 Up in a small room sits a maiden. 
 
 With bright and golden hair. 
 Blue eyes, red-rosy cheeks. 
 
 And a form that's very rare. 
 Yet with all these happy evidences 
 
 Of beauty, youth and health. 
 She sighs — and, sighing, wishes 
 
 She had my lady's wealth. 
 
 South Poland, Me., November 3, 1893. 
 99 
 
"SHORT;" OR, PINKERTON'S MEN. 
 
 'Yes, sir! You're right — cards are bad. 
 
 Your name? Ah! Preacher Green. 
 Yes, sir, cards are bad ; 
 
 As I to my cost have seen. 
 Well, I'll tell you just how it was: 
 
 You see, I was the money clerk, 
 And I used to have three or four friends, 
 
 "Who 'd wait until I was done work, 
 Then they'd invite me out; 
 
 And as soon as we got in the street 
 One or the other of them 
 
 Was sure to propose a treat. 
 Well, of course, I couldn't do less 
 
 Than reciprocate, once in awhile; 
 And tho' I hadn't much money, 
 
 I was a great devotee of 'style.' 
 And so we went, till one night, 
 
 As usual, I went with my pards. 
 We chatted, we drank and smoked. 
 
 And then one of the boys proposed 'cards.' 
 'Poker' 's the game that was played; 
 
 And though the ' anty ' was only ten cents, 
 It seemed as if they were more plentiful 
 
 Than what others 'd call ' common sense ' ; 
 For 'threes,' and 'a straight,' and 'a flush,' 
 
 'A full,' 'four aces,' and a dare 
 To 'raise it,' was all I heard. 
 
 When I'd 'call' and show 'two pair.' 
 Well, I played, and played, and lost; 
 
 And when we quit at break o' day, 
 I'd not only lost my money, 
 
 But all the Express 'Pre-pay.' 
 
 100 
 
Next day, of course, I was short ; 
 
 Exposure was sure to be; 
 And, instead of mending the matter, 
 
 I held over a C. O. D. 
 It more than covered my loss ; 
 
 The balance? I played that night, 
 I won! played again, and — lost, 
 
 And, to crown it all, got tight. 
 
 kept 'lapping' the C. O. D.'s, 
 
 (Holding one over to pay the other); 
 But at last I was able to square, 
 
 Thro' a legacy left by my mother. 
 Now, I'm traveling — yes, sir, for health; 
 
 And as sure as you're a preacher, 
 I meddle with cards no more — 
 
 Experience, sir, 's a great teacher. 
 
 •'What d'ye mean, reverend sir, by saying 
 'Too thin,' and I'm 'caught in a pen'? 
 Handcuffs! Great God! I see it — 
 You're one of Pinkerton's men! 
 
 "So, this is the end, eh? And you — 
 
 Ah ! old fellow, you played it nice ; 
 And I feel, as you say, you've got me — 
 
 Got me tight as a vise. 
 But, tell me, how came you to tumble 
 
 To the part of the world I was in ? 
 And how the deuce did you know me? 
 
 And how my confidence win ? 
 Yes, I might have known that the company 
 
 Never lets a thief get away ; 
 And Pinkerton never lets up 
 
 'Till the Criminal Court 's had its say." 
 
 101 
 
"STAR AND CRITIC;" 
 OR, "THE JOURNALIST'S DEATH."- 
 
 Urged by friendship's iron grasp, 
 
 My wearied feet pursued 
 An object prized, long lost to view, 
 
 Amid life's multitude. 
 Thus, on and on, I restless went. 
 
 Still seeking — but in vain — 
 Amid all ranks, both high and low, 
 
 A journalist of fame. 
 Among his genial friends I went 
 
 To find of him some clew ; 
 But none could information give. 
 
 His whereabouts none knew. 
 'A clever fellow, too," they said; 
 "None better knew the art 
 By which he played, 'neath every guise, 
 
 The critic's able part. 
 His mighty pen a hydra seemed, 
 
 Exhaustless as his mind, 
 That could for every phase of life 
 
 Fit words of judgment find. 
 The rich and great throughout the land, 
 
 The poor in misery's den. 
 The haunts of vice or virtue fair, 
 
 Heard justice from his pen ; 
 Corruption's foul and festering plans 
 
 To public gaze laid bare. 
 Although its craven minions sought 
 
 To hide them from the glare 
 That with electric power gleamed 
 
 From out his magic pen ; 
 While victims of oppression hailed 
 
 Him champion true of men. 
 
 *Founded upon an incident which occurred at Washington, 
 D. C, during a recent visit. 
 
 102 
 
Our literary firmament 
 
 Hath lost, indeed a star 
 In him — the reflex great of truth 
 
 Amid contention's jar." 
 
 Thus, while the wine was freely poured, 
 
 Amid the banquet's mirth, 
 Each strove the other to outdo 
 
 In tribute to his worth. 
 
 "But where," I mentally asked, "is he, 
 The subject of this praise? 
 Death hath not claimed him — who will, then, 
 The veil of mystery raise?" 
 
 While musing thus, I walked down 
 
 The city's crowded ways, 
 And every manly form that passed 
 
 Full met my searching gaze. 
 Some motley newsboys, gathered 'round, 
 
 Cried "'Star' and ' Critic, 't sir?" 
 I started, for the sound I heard 
 
 Strange feelings seemed to stir. 
 "Star and Critic," did they say? 
 
 How like the other words they seemed ! 
 Yea ! something of the truth, perhaps, 
 
 May from that sound be gleaned. 
 I bought two papers, and, listening, stood 
 
 Till I heard an urchin say : 
 "Yes, Doc, a starving man's up there 
 
 In that house across the way. 
 Go look at his awful, bony frame, 
 
 And how his great eyes stare. 
 Say, Doc, come on and see him ; 
 
 He's right here on this square." 
 I felt the strange coincidence. 
 "Quick, boy! who's starved? — His name?" 
 "Why, he used to work for papers, sir; 
 
 But I don't know his name." 
 
 tEvenlng papers published in Washington. 
 103 
 
Then up the stairs I quickly strode 
 
 And toward a pallet went. 
 "Good God!" I cried, as o'er his frame 
 
 In anguish deep I bent. 
 "Why, Nat, rouse up and speak to Doc, 
 
 Old friend of bygone years." 
 Although the death-seal on his lips 
 
 Awoke my worst fears. 
 His dying eyes full on me glared ; 
 
 The parched lips strove in vain 
 To bid me welcome as of yore, 
 
 Or speak my well-known name. 
 "Too late! Too late!" I murmured low. 
 "Great God his exit stay! 
 Come, Nat, rouse up and take this draught," 
 
 Was all my strength could say. 
 With one convulsive jerk he turned 
 
 And stared me in the eye, 
 While with a maddening smile he said: 
 "Hush! Doc, did you hear that cry?" 
 We listened for the sound to come, 
 
 When, clear upon the air, 
 Beneath the window rang a voice : 
 "'Star' and 'Critic' there?" 
 "Ha! ha!" he laughed, with hideous glee; 
 "The newsboys know me well. 
 For day and night, and night and day, 
 
 They haunt me with that yell. 
 They play, you see, upon the words, 
 
 The 'Star' and 'Critic' famed. 
 And from the combination, me — 
 
 Me — 'the Starving Critic' named; 
 A title true for one long months 
 
 By dread disease laid low. 
 With ne'er a friendly hand to check 
 
 The fell destroyer's blow. 
 The hunger fiend upon me preys, 
 
 My brain is all that's left. 
 
 104 
 
And soon of that, old friend, you'll find 
 
 Poor Nat will be bereft. 
 Why didn't I drop some friend a line, 
 
 And thus let all them know? 
 Well, I did not want to bother them. 
 
 And, perhaps, 'tis better so. 
 They'd interfere with my thoughts. 
 
 And they could not hear what I hear; 
 For, Doc, you can believe it or not, 
 
 But, do you know that the angels come here ? 
 Yes; and they write down my thoughts, 
 
 Which are so free from this earth and its stain 
 That, as they whisper me words of comfort, 
 
 I feel I've not suffered in vain. 
 Raise me up. Doc ; the angels are coming ! 
 
 See ! — quick ! — hold up my head ! " 
 And with a smile on his handsome face. 
 
 He fell back in my arms — he was dead ! 
 
 From the busy streets, as the sun went down 
 And gilded the sky with its glare. 
 
 Came the mocking cry of the newsboys : 
 " Starvin' critic there!" 
 
 Columbus, Ga., October 3, 1884. 
 
 INGRATITUDE. 
 
 Some day — it may not be till age 
 
 Hath taken thee from off " life's fitful stage," 
 
 With form all shrunken and face, once fair. 
 
 Wan and wrinkled ; thy erstwhile raven hair 
 
 All whitened by the hand of Time, 
 
 And thou 'rt only fit for earth's cold slime — 
 
 Thou 'It learn that in the angel's book of lore. 
 
 Which the archangel keeps where all 's beatitude. 
 
 There 's no sin greater than ingratitude ! 
 
 105 
 
"THE PICK O' THE TIFFANY'S." 
 
 The postman brought me a letter, 
 Signed "Mrs. Maude de Miffanese," 
 
 Saying she'd send me a something — 
 In fact, "the pick o' the Tiffany's." 
 
 I had done her a favor down South 
 
 (Before she became "Mrs. Miffanese"), 
 
 But too slight to warrant or merit 
 
 Her sending "the pick o' the Tiffany's." 
 
 Of course, I was highly elated, 
 
 And as curious as all the Epiphanies ; 
 
 I mentally wondered what treasure 
 Could be "the pick o' the Tiffany's." 
 
 Thought of diamonds, statues and paintings — 
 How her husband (the antique Miffanese), 
 
 Being wealthy, could well afford 
 
 To give her her "pick o' the Tiffany's." 
 
 Next day by express came a box 
 Containing a card of the Miffanese, 
 
 And, in an inner case, sure enough. 
 
 Was a — well — "the pick o' the Tiffany's." 
 
 What was it? Well, 'twas engraved: 
 "To Matt— from Maude de Miffanese." 
 And an exquisite piece of work 
 
 Was this — "the pick o' the Tiffany's." 
 
 To be plain, 'twas a golden toothpick. 
 And encased in a golden sheath ; 
 
 But about as much use to me as an anchor. 
 For I haven't got any teeth ! 
 
 106 
 
THREE LETTERS. 
 
 TO HIS WIFE, AT THE SPRINGS. 
 Darling, the days drag drearily, 
 
 The nights are lonesome and long, 
 And my harp, as I thrum o'er its strings, 
 Seems to know but this one — one song : 
 Return, oh, return ! I am lonely, 
 
 I miss thy sweet, smiling face. 
 And "Home, Sweet Home," without thee 
 Seems to me but an empty place. 
 
 The night's warm breath, as it sadly steals in, 
 
 Seems to sigh an accompaniment faint 
 To my song, which has for its burden 
 This sweetest of all the heart's plaints : 
 Return, oh, return ! I am lonely, 
 
 I miss now thy dear cheery voice; 
 Return, and thus banishing sorrow, 
 Bid my heart as of old rejoice. 
 
 (P. S.— Private.) 
 
 The above, my darling, expresses 
 
 All that my fond heart feels, 
 And is written for show at the Springs, 
 But this to your good sense appeals : 
 
 Return, when your health is restored. 
 
 It is truth, now, not poetry, speaks; 
 I am as busy as busy can be, 
 
 And you'd better remain there six weeks. 
 
 T^ ^ , , TO THE COLONEL. 
 
 Dear Colonel : 
 
 Do come down and see me. 
 
 And I bet you'll be certain to say 
 
 That you had the jolliest time 
 You've had in many a day. 
 
 107 
 
Wife's gone off to the Springs — 
 
 Bag and baggage, children and maid ; 
 So I have the house to myself. 
 
 Come and see me! Don't be afraid. 
 I'm having a red-hot time ! 
 
 Have my meals sent in from the hotel, 
 And no one to "kick" or complain, 
 
 Not even if you'd raise — a yell. 
 I've had company every day, 
 
 To say nothing at all of the nights. 
 For them we devote as of old, 
 
 And that is to "seeing the sights." 
 My face is familiar at "faro," 
 
 And at "bunco" I'm a regular boss. 
 Got an elegant "turnout" from Gammel's, 
 
 And a fine three-minute horse. 
 I've laid in a stock of liquors 
 
 And the finest kind of cigars; 
 Am in with all the police 
 
 (Was always a favorite with "stars.") 
 So come down and see me, Colonel ; 
 
 From, your place it's just three days' run. 
 Come down, and I'll tell you, old boy, 
 
 I'll show you what 'tis to have fun. 
 The widow gives a party next week, 
 
 And as she is one of our set, 
 There'll be plenty of champagne and real, 
 
 For she knows how to give 'em, you bet. 
 So come ; I want you to see 
 
 How jolly I fix up these things ; 
 And the best of it all is, my wife 
 
 Stays six more weeks at the Springs. 
 Good-bye. I'll expect you, old boy ; 
 
 Come right from the train to T, 
 And you'll get a hearty welcome 
 
 From "yoor strooly, " Matt O'B. 
 
 108 
 
(Third Letter.) 
 TO THE COLONEL — IMPORTANT. 
 
 Dear Colonel : 
 
 The telegram sent this a. m., 
 
 Advising that you stay away, 
 I hasten to explain at once : 
 
 My wife arrived here today, 
 And I gather from what she says. 
 
 About how she "learned the ropes," 
 That my letters to her and to you 
 
 Got into the wrong envelopes ! 
 For she tells me a whole lot of stuff 
 
 I'd written you, and I guess 
 In the hurry of mailing 'em both, 
 
 I put on the wrong address. 
 I'll explain the next time I see you; 
 
 Meanwhile, "remember me," 
 And whenever you direct a letter 
 
 Just think of yours, O'B. 
 August, 1879. 
 
 ANSWER TO "A DOUBTER." 
 
 My advice to all — 
 
 King, prince or peasant — 
 Is : let the future alone, 
 
 And enjoy the present ! 
 If thou'rt loved now 
 
 Be content ; 
 Nor ask what 'twill be 
 
 When youth is spent. 
 
 If "sufhcient for the day 
 
 Is the evil thereof," 
 Why not the same 
 
 For the good thereof? 
 Youth should never 
 
 Anticipate sorrow. 
 Be happy today, 
 
 And — hope for tomorrow. 
 
 Morris Park, N.Y., Nov., 1893. 109 
 
THE CHILD AND THE FLOWER. 
 
 RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO MR. AND MRS. A. M. 
 MACMURPHY, OF AUGUSTA, GA. 
 
 Last summer I met a sweet child, 
 
 Who, taking me by the hand, 
 Said: "Come wi' me, and I show you 
 
 F'eetest fowers in all th' yan !" 
 I followed the bright little fairy 
 
 Into a garden fair, 
 And watched her glee and delight. 
 
 As she named all the flowers there. 
 One bush was broken ; she stopped, 
 
 And, heaving a heavy sigh, 
 She whispered close in mine ear, 
 
 " Dod let 'at fower die ! 
 Dess He thought 'twas too cold here. 
 
 It bowed all down in storm ; 
 'Twas pootiest fower in garden. 
 
 And Dod's dot it, teepin' it warm !" 
 
 * 
 s * 
 
 Autumn leaves were falling. 
 
 And the flowers had withered and fled, 
 
 When the news was sadly sent me : 
 
 "Our darling, Josie's, dead." 
 
 My thoughts go back to the garden. 
 And I remember with many a sigh, 
 
 Her sweet little voice, as she whispered : 
 " God let that flower die ! " 
 
 The wintry winds whistle and sing, 
 
 And the melody I catch from the storm 
 
 Forms a lullaby of the child's words, 
 "God's got it, keeping it warm." 
 
 Columbus, Ga., December, 1882. 
 
 110 
 
TO EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 'Edwin Booth's hair, once so black, is now turning gray." 
 — Neiv York paper. 
 
 I read in a New York paper, Ned, 
 
 Which was sent me t'other day, 
 That your hair, which once was raven black. 
 
 Is turning slightly gray. 
 Well, I wouldn't be much surprised 
 
 If all your hair would shed, 
 For you've been killed in many a play 
 
 Since your debut in our woodshed. 
 Ah! those were "the glorious days," Ned — 
 
 We were healthy, hearty and ruddy ; 
 And the style of plays we then performed 
 
 Did not require much "study." 
 We made 'em all up on "the corner," 
 
 And 'd play 'em next day or night, 
 W^ith mother's old quilts for curtains, 
 
 And two or three "dips" for a light. 
 Ah me ! how the time does fly ! 
 
 Why, it seems but a year, no more, 
 Since we were playing in Gay street, 
 
 In "Old Town "—Baltimore. 
 I can remember some of "the company" — 
 
 There were John Sleeper (now called Clarke), 
 And Summerfield Barry, the elegant. 
 
 Who lived where now is the park; 
 And Hen Stuart (now Stuart Robson) — 
 
 I'll bet his head's not gray. 
 For when he'd try to be tragic 
 
 His laugh would drive it away ; 
 Nelse Sanderson (afterward Seymour), 
 
 Whom we called " Long-legged Nelse," 
 And John Ehlers (now an engraver). 
 
 And — let me see, now — who else ? 
 Oh, yes, Johnny Albaugh, " the favorite," 
 
 Who called it "The Chest of Iron"; 
 
 111 
 
Sam Chester (?) and Oliver Doud — 
 
 Him that they now call Byron ; 
 And " Lame-legged Lewis," our critic, 
 
 Who carried your father's basket. 
 And gave John E. O. his "opinion," 
 
 Or the old man himself if he'd ask it. 
 Speaking of critics, d'ye remember Gus K. ? 
 
 He's in St. Louis, and still with the press- 
 And Billy G , he's made a Bishop, 
 
 And M. J.'s a boss in the express. 
 
 Seems a long time — now that I've named 
 
 "The boys" with whom we used to play; 
 And my children sometimes tell me : 
 
 "Why, papa, you're gettin' right gray"! 
 So I've come to this 'ere conclusion : 
 
 We may guard a secret well, 
 But if ever Age gets hold of it, 
 
 Age is bound to tell ! 
 
 Columbus, Ga., November 10, 1878. 
 
 SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 Placing the little hats all in a row. 
 Ready for church on the morrow, you know ; 
 Washing wee faces and little black fists, 
 Getting them ready and fit to be kissed ; 
 Putting them into clean garments and white — 
 That is what mothers are doing tonight. 
 
 Spying out holes in the little worn hose, 
 Laying by shoes that are worn through the toes, 
 Looking o'er garments so faded and thin — 
 Who but a mother knows where to begin ? 
 Changing a button to make it look right — 
 That is what mothers are doing tonight. 
 
 Calling the little ones 'round her chair. 
 Hearing them lisp forth their evening prayer ; 
 Telling them stories of Jesus of old, 
 112 
 
Who loved to gather the lambs to His fold ; 
 Watching them listen with weary delight — 
 That is what mothers are doing tonight. 
 
 Creeping so softly to take a last peep, 
 After the little ones all are asleep ; 
 Anxious to know if the children are warm, 
 Tucking the blankets 'round each little form ; 
 Kissing each little face, rosy and bright — 
 That is what mothers are doing tonight. 
 
 Kneeling down gently beside the white bed, 
 Lowly and meekly she bows down her head. 
 Praying as only a mother can pray, 
 '* God guide and keep them from going astray." 
 
 SATURDAY NIGHT — LATER. 
 
 Placing the billiard balls all in a row, 
 Ready for playing a game, you know ; 
 Faces clean washed, and big, brawny fists 
 Grasping the cue so a shot won't be missed. 
 Handling the chalk so pure and white — 
 That 's what the fathers are doing tonight. 
 
 Spying out "holes in the wall," so queer, 
 
 Where the sign says they retail wine, whisky and beer ; 
 
 Looking at "bunko," or, further in, 
 
 At "poker" or "faro" about to begin; 
 
 Changing in "checks," or asking a "sight" — 
 
 That 's what some fathers are doing tonight. 
 
 Creeping up crookedly, trying their best 
 
 To look sober, yet shouting, "O give us a rest!" 
 
 Denying that ever they've taken a drink ; 
 
 "Been at the office" — where else does she think? 
 
 Swearing the clock's wrong, falling down tight — 
 
 That 's what the fathers are doing tonight. 
 
 Kneeling down gently beside the white bed. 
 The wife o'er the children bows down her head, 
 And praying as only a mother can pray, 
 Says, "God, keep them e'er from going his way." 
 
 113 
 
THE END OF THE SEASON. 
 
 The dining hall 's dark ; 
 
 The billiard room 's closed ; 
 The guests' rooms are vacant, 
 
 Where so many reposed. 
 
 The tel'graph office 
 
 Looks as if " closed for repairs ; " 
 Miss D. and Miss Gracie 
 
 Have just gone upstairs. 
 
 The "room clerk" looks lonesome; 
 
 The bell-boys lack orders, 
 And meanwhile sit in chairs 
 
 Once sought for by boarders. 
 
 The night watchman wanders 
 As usual through the house, 
 
 And all is as still 
 
 As the proverbial church mouse. 
 
 There 's a feeling of loneliness ; 
 
 "Music Hall" is deserted; 
 Cozy corners are empty, 
 
 Where belles and beaux flirted. 
 
 Still, by the light thro' the windows, 
 I grope my way to the stand. 
 
 And, in fancy, I listen 
 
 To soft strains from the band, 
 
 Led by J. Howard Richardson 
 
 (Man of musical power), 
 Directing Russeau and Hadley, 
 
 Van Vliet and Moldauer. 
 
 Again the hall 's crowded ! 
 
 The lights soft and mellow ; 
 All listen delighted, 
 
 Van Vliet 's playing the "cello." 
 
Moldauer's sweet violin 
 
 And Hadley's magic cornet, 
 
 With piano accompaniment, 
 Forms a delicious quintette. 
 
 The audience applauds. 
 
 The noise shakes the room. 
 
 And I'm wakened by the watchman 
 To find all is gloom. 
 
 But so sweet was the music, 
 
 So natural did it seem. 
 That I find it hard to realize 
 
 'Twas only a dream ! 
 
 The waking was sad ! 
 
 Would you like to know the reason ? 
 The watchman said " Git ! 
 It 's the end of the season ! " 
 Poland Springs, October 8, 1893. 
 
 SUNDAY VS. MONDAY. 
 
 Weak as a mortal man is. 
 
 He will not do on Sunday 
 Things forbid by Divine law — 
 
 Or, rather, things he 'd do on Monday. 
 
 For instance, he 'd not swindle, or cheat. 
 
 Or any trading try, 
 For — as every one has gone to church — 
 
 There's none to sell, or buy. 
 
 Nor will he, on the next day, do 
 The things he did on Sunday. 
 
 Preach "charity" then — he'll say 
 " Tush ! hush, man ! 'Tis Monday ! " 
 
 Ah ! ye who give but once a week, 
 And then " because 'tis Sunday," 
 
 Will pray, some day, that every day 
 In your lives had been a Sunday. 
 Columbus, Ga., Sept. 22, 1877. 115 
 
HOW MUCH WE ARE MISSED. 
 
 To those who think that when they are dead, 
 
 And their cold brow's been kissed, 
 Their death will cause a void in the world 
 
 And they be forever missed, 
 I'll tell a story, as 'twas told to me, 
 
 How a Lieutenant left his home, 
 And was forced by war and circumstance 
 
 In far-off scenes to roam. 
 Thro' all the grades he passed, till he 
 
 At length 'came old and tired, 
 And as a Colonel (of old times) 
 
 Was finally " Retired." 
 Long years had lapsed since he, a boy, 
 
 Had been in his native town. 
 And in that time had fairly won 
 
 Age, honor, and renown, 
 "How glad," he thought, "they'll welcome me 
 
 Back in the old town's streets ! " 
 But, strange to say, all pass him by — 
 
 No salutation greets ! 
 At last he sees his "college chum." 
 "Why, Vincent! How d'ye do?" 
 "I'm well," he said, as he shook his hand; 
 
 "But who, in thunder, 're you?" 
 " Why, don't you know me ? I'm your friend ! 
 
 Don't you remember Jewett Gay ? " 
 "Oh, yes! Why, howd'y, Lieut.! 
 
 I say — ain't you been away?" 
 Taken aback, he stammered — and then, 
 
 Unbidden came two tears, 
 As he answered, "Well — yes — Vin', 
 
 I've been absent just thirty years!" 
 
 116 
 
JUSTICE COURT REHASHED. 
 
 "Did you make the train?" "No," was the reply; 
 " It was made in the shop." 
 
 "I mean did you catch the train?" 
 
 "No; I caught a cold; the train is not infectious." 
 
 "Well, did you arrive at the train in time?" 
 
 "No, I arrived in an omnibus." 
 
 "Oh, what I mean is, did you board the train?" 
 
 " No, 'twas as much as I could do to pay my own 
 board." 
 
 " Oh, you don't understand. Did you get aboard at 
 the depot? " 
 
 "No, I got lunch at the depot." 
 
 " Well, of all the dumb men I ever saw. Here, did 
 you go out on time ? " 
 
 "No, I had to pay cash." 
 
 "I mean did the cars go out on time?" 
 
 "No, they went out on the rails." 
 
 "I mean what time did the cars leave?" 
 
 " Leave who? " 
 
 "Why, leave the city?" 
 
 " Schedule time." 
 
 "What time was it?" 
 
 " When ? " 
 
 "Why, when the cars left?" 
 
 " Left where ? " 
 
 " Left the depot." 
 
 " Which depot? " 
 
 "The depot you were in." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "When you left the city." 
 
 "I don't understand you." 
 
 117 
 
"Well, see if you now can understand. You left the 
 city, didn't you ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir; couldn't take it with me." 
 
 "Well, where did you leave the city?" 
 
 "Why, where it is now — in Muscogee county." 
 
 "I mean what time was it when you left the city?" 
 
 "Time for me to leave." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because my money was out." 
 
 "Did you get a ticket in the city?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "How much money did you pay for it?" 
 
 " None." 
 
 "Well, how did you get the ticket?" 
 
 "The pawnbroker gave it to me." 
 
 "Did he sell railroad tickets?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, what kind of a ticket did he give you?" 
 
 "A pawn ticket." 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 "To keep." 
 
 "Yes, but what did you give him for the pawn 
 ticket?" 
 
 "My watch." 
 
 "What time was it by your watch?" 
 
 "Time to pawn it." 
 
 " O, I appeal to the court now to make this man 
 answer my question." 
 
 " Well, I'm ready." 
 
 " Did you see anybody you knew at the depot the 
 day you left ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "The engineer." 
 
 "Does he run on the road?" 
 
 " No, sir; he rides." 
 
 "I mean does he belong to the road?" 
 
 "No, sir; he is only hired by the month." 
 
 118 
 
"Well, he goes on the cars every day, doesn't he?" 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Well, what does he do?" 
 "He goes on the engine." 
 "What for?" 
 
 "One hundred dollars a month." 
 "Did you leave with him that day?" 
 "No, sir; he left before me." 
 "Why did you not go with him?" 
 " Because it's against the rules for passengers to ride 
 on the engine." 
 
 "Oh, then you got on the train?" 
 
 "No, sir; got on the platform." 
 
 "Where did you go to?" 
 
 "Went inside the car." 
 
 "Where did the car go?" 
 
 " After the engine." 
 
 "I mean what town did the train go to?" 
 
 "Went to every town on the line of road." 
 
 "Where did you go?" 
 
 " With the train." 
 
 "Where did you get off at?" 
 
 "Every town they stopped at." 
 
 "I mean where did you last get off?" 
 
 "Off this chair." 
 
 "What are you talking about?" 
 
 "Well, sir, been talking about an hour." 
 
 "Well, why don't you talk sense?" 
 
 "'Cause I have to answer your questions?" 
 
 Court took a recess. 
 
 119 
 
A LESSON ALL SHOULD LEARN. 
 
 Years ago, when a boy in Baltimore, 
 I'd a dear, good, kind old friend — 
 
 A book-keeper in a mercantile house. 
 On whom the firm did greatly depend. 
 
 We children had an idea, 
 
 As we looked upon his cheery old face. 
 That, if he were to sicken and die, 
 
 No other could e'er fill his place. 
 
 One day there was crape on the door. 
 And the house was closed for two hours ; 
 
 The old book-keeper lay in his coffin. 
 
 And was buried along with some flowers. 
 
 Next day we were astonished to see 
 The business conducted as sound 
 
 As if the old book-keeper were there, 
 Instead of dead and under the ground. 
 
 And we were still more surprised 
 
 When we learned that, without any grace, 
 The firm had the pick of a hundred. 
 
 Each of whom could well fill his place. 
 
 The lesson we then learned was this 
 (And 'tis one I would like to convey) : 
 
 Don't imagine yourself all-important. 
 For your place can be filled any day. 
 
 120 
 
A COMPARISON. 
 
 On a picnic today I was thinking 
 
 How much it resembled a life ; 
 Except that it differed in this — 
 
 We'd its pleasure instead of its strife. 
 
 Arrived on the grounds, all were gay, 
 
 And every one went in for sport ; 
 Each thought they never would tire — 
 
 That the day would be but too short. 
 
 Noon found the crowd quite scattered — 
 Little groups gathered under the trees — 
 
 Some eating, some reading, and others 
 
 Lying stretched on the ground at their ease. 
 
 Later, 'twas an effort to be merry, 
 
 And "the grounds," which at first they admired, 
 Came in for a share of complaint. 
 
 For its hills and vales made them tired. 
 
 The sun slowly sank, and the shadows 
 
 Were being lost in the gloam, 
 When, weary and dusty, the revelers 
 
 Were slowly wandering towards home. 
 
 Night came, and only a remembrance 
 
 Reminder of pleasures the best — 
 Weary eyes were closing in sleep ; 
 
 And oh ! how welcome came rest ! 
 
 Columbus, Ga., May 21, 1879. 
 
 121 
 
AN APPEAL TO THE 
 
 Show mercy while thou canst ! 
 
 Let not thy shoulders burdened be, 
 Nor thy soul lacking in what thou'dst like 
 
 Almighty God, some day, to show to thee. 
 
 Remember, 'tis not many months 
 
 Since Atlanta's Christian people all 
 Raised from the dust and made great 
 
 One who, until then, was Small ! 
 
 And shall he whose whole life was Christian — 
 Whose deeds made him divine, in fact — 
 
 Be hurled from his high place and power, 
 Because of one simple, thoughtless act ? 
 
 Forbid it ! Let not the fiat go forth 
 
 That the ungodly are more charitable than thou ; 
 For he has suffered more than it were possible 
 
 Had he, instead of one, broke every vow. 
 
 I pray you, pardon these ill-strung words. 
 
 I have not writ with preparation. 
 But on an impulse — Catholic 
 
 In its prayer for reparation. 
 
 I pray you, lift him up! The church hath need 
 Of just such men, who, purified by sorrow's song. 
 
 Are doubly armed against the sinful throng — 
 Who'd face St. Philip's right Arm-strong. 
 
 Kimball House, February 6, 1886. 
 
 122 
 
A MOVING STORY. 
 
 I've been helping a family to move, 
 Which moves me to honestly say, 
 
 If you want to test one's temper 
 
 Just be with them on " moving day." 
 
 "Tautological this," you'll remark, 
 " And out of the regular groove ; " 
 But it taught a logical lesson, 
 And proved I made a bad move. 
 
 For while I was doing my best 
 
 To help the mother of a sweet lass, 
 
 My foot slipped, and, falling down, 
 I smashed a large looking-glass. 
 
 Phew ! In a moment all was changed, 
 And she whom I thought so meek 
 
 Poured out more vituperation 
 
 Than a fish woman would in a week. 
 
 She and "her ma" got hold of me. 
 
 And the drayman he gave me a punch. 
 
 Which so unsettled my digestion 
 That I couldn't eat even a lunch. 
 
 Which moves me to say, as above. 
 Helping — sometimes — doesn't pay; 
 
 And if you want to test one's temper, 
 Just be with them on moving day. 
 
 Columbus, Ga., October 1, 1881. 
 
 123 
 
HOW HE WROTE HIS NAME IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 What shall I write — my name ? 
 
 Why, that's nothing — only a speck, 
 And of use to no one, save me, 
 
 Even when signed to a check. 
 If I do, what else could I add? 
 "Yours Respectfully" sounds rather tame; 
 And "Yours Only," you know, wouldn't do. 
 
 Because — Oh, how shall I write my name ? 
 I never was bothered before. 
 
 And wouldn't be now if your eyes 
 Were the only ones that'd see it ; 
 
 But, you know, there are lots of " Paul Prys," 
 And they'd want to know "Who's he?" 
 
 And "Where does he live?" and "Why 
 Does he write more than the rest ? " 
 
 And "D'ye like him better than I?" 
 "Yours Affectionately" wouldn't do; 
 
 And if I write just simple " Matt," 
 It might be the truth ; but then 
 
 The wise ones would call me a flat. 
 
 Come, "Truth" and "Sincerity" — 
 
 Bring " Candor " along — 
 And aid me with your advice ; 
 
 Bring "Brevity" with you, and tell me 
 How to settle all this in a trice ! 
 
 They came, and told me to write 
 "Sincere Friend," and afterwards sign; 
 
 So I take their advice, and add 
 "Yoor Strooly, Matt O'Brien." 
 
 124 
 
HOW TO BE HAPPY TODAY. 
 
 Glad hearts, as you gather 
 
 'Round your home hearth today, 
 Remember the heavy ones 
 
 Far, far away. 
 As you gaze on your children, 
 
 Happy and light, 
 Think of the homeless ones, 
 
 Wandering each night. 
 If, mayhap, you murmur 
 
 That by some you're forgot. 
 Think of the poorer ones. 
 
 And pity their lot. 
 As you sit at your table 
 
 Where plenty is spread. 
 Remember, there are some 
 
 Today without bread. 
 (stop and think.) 
 Few think of this 
 On a glad day like this, 
 When all 'round 'em they've everything nice ; 
 And I hope you'll excuse 
 My matter o' fact muse. 
 If I give you a bit of advice. 
 
 Would you make Christmas brighter, 
 
 Your hearts all the lighter, 
 And your hopes of happiness hereafter more sure. 
 
 Make some family happy — 
 
 Don't just give them "taffy," 
 But take something substantial and give to the poor. 
 
 Columbus, Ga., December 24, 1879. 
 
 125 
 
FORGOTTEN. 
 
 Thro' a graveyard once I strayed, 
 
 And idly read, 
 On tombstones black with age, 
 The names of some were buried 
 
 In that " city of the dead." 
 
 From one grave I pushed aside 
 
 The weeds which it had overgrown 
 The startled lizards leaped as though 
 They were the only friends 
 This grave had ever known. 
 
 The rude fence had fallen, 
 And on a stone all crumbling — 
 
 Nay, almost rotten — 
 I read these words : 
 
 " He ne'er will be forgotten ! " 
 
 Who "he" was I never found out. 
 
 I asked of every one his name ; 
 None in the town knew it ! 
 
 And such, methought, is "fame!" 
 
 Man lives, is loved, and thinks 
 
 "For all time" he will be known; 
 
 Man dies — in a graveyard lies. 
 
 And his very name 
 
 Is washed from off the stone ! 
 
 Columbus, Ga., April 25, 1879. 
 
 126 
 
TO THE COOKS. 
 
 I'm willing to excuse you if the turkey is tough, 
 Or the beef or the chicken's too old; 
 
 For even if you did the buying, 
 I know buyers are sometimes sold. 
 
 And you've got to cook what's brought ye; 
 
 It's not your fault if what's called "spring lamb," 
 Like "fresh mutton" or a "loin of veal," 
 
 Has sprung from the loins of a ram. 
 
 You've done all that lies in your power, 
 
 When you've made them tender's you're able. 
 
 By boiling, parboiling and seasoning. 
 And sending them into the table. 
 
 But, when it comes down to coffee. 
 
 Or, for that matter, a cup of tea, 
 Why you cooks can't make it better 
 
 Is a perfect mystery to me. 
 
 'Tisn't only in cheap boarding-houses 
 
 That humanity suffers these ills, 
 But it takes in hotels as large — 
 
 Well, nearly as large as their bills. 
 
 Hence, I say there's excuse for tough turkey, 
 
 Lamb, or liver, or eggs a little offy, 
 But none on this earth I can see 
 
 For serving bad tea or bad coffee. 
 
 South Poland, Me., November, 1893. 
 
 127 
 
HIS ANSWER. 
 
 "Wilt thou take this woman as wedded wife, 
 To love, honor, and cherish thro' all your life ? " 
 
 The old priest paused, the church was still. 
 When a loud, manly voice rang out: "I will!" 
 And it seemed to me then as the words were uttered — 
 Not mumbled, or jumbled, or simply muttered, 
 But loud, and distinct, with a hearty intent. 
 That sounded, and bounded, as if it was meant, 
 Filling every nook of the grand church o'er, 
 Then rushed from the altar up to the door, 
 Telling it to thousands of listening ears. 
 And glad'ning the mother — in spite of her tears; 
 Then played 'round the columns — high up aloft. 
 And back thro' the church to the organ loft, 
 Where music, accompanying with glad'ning sound. 
 Rolled it back again, and new echoes found 
 'Mid cornice and capstones, with never a falter ; 
 Then down to the bride — and over the altar 
 Through an open window out into the air 
 And up through the sky to the angels there, 
 Until formed into prayer — then it came back to earth 
 And into the church where the words had birth. 
 Then out in the streets where all was rejoicing 
 And a thousand huzzas went up as if voicing 
 The general delight from valley to hill — 
 Over those words from the altar: "I will! I will!" 
 'Twas a joyous shout, and it sounded then 
 As if her world of friends were crying Amen ! 
 
 But I could not help thinking as I heard the strain 
 That all this pleasure was caused by Payne. 
 
 Kimball House, Nov. 25, 1885. 
 
 128 
 
WHEN 1 
 
 MARRY. 
 
 HE. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 When I marry, 
 
 When I marry, 
 
 You bet 
 
 D'ye think 
 
 I won't let 
 
 I'd let my husband 
 
 My wife get 
 
 Drink, 
 
 Me all upset 
 
 Or make billiard-balls 
 
 With such terms 
 
 Clink 
 
 As " My Pet," 
 
 Till the skies 
 
 Be she 
 
 Were near pink. 
 
 Blond or brunette ; 
 
 And then 
 
 Or me worry 
 
 Homeward slink, 
 
 And fret, 
 
 With his eyes 
 
 With trouble 
 
 All a-blink, 
 
 And debt, 
 
 To get 
 
 And a life of regret ; 
 
 "Just forty winks?" 
 
 Oh, no! 
 
 Oh, no! 
 
 My pleasure'U 
 
 I'd break 
 
 Be net; 
 
 Such a link. 
 
 For I'll be the boss, 
 
 Or make him 
 
 Old Hoss! 
 
 Put it in ink 
 
 And don't you forget ! 
 
 That I handle 
 
 
 The Chink, 
 
 
 So there'd be no loss. 
 
 
 For I'll be the boss ! 
 
 
 At least 
 
 
 That's what 
 
 
 I think. 
 
 RETROSPECT. 1 
 
 After years of married life, | 
 
 W'hich was free 
 
 from care and strife, 
 
 They found that Love had 
 
 ruled them without loss ; 
 
 And did as you 
 
 or I 
 
 Can do whene'er 
 
 we try. 
 
 And that is, to let Love 
 
 be "The Boss." 
 
 Columbus, Ga., December 1, 18t 
 
 2. 
 
 129 1 
 
AND SATAN SMILED. 
 
 Two gossips talked about a woman 
 
 They'd just met 
 By merest chance, for she 
 
 Was not exactly of their set; 
 She was above them, so to speak, 
 
 In very many ways. 
 And — in her church — 
 
 Was subject of a deal of praise. 
 These gossips marveled much 
 That men should seek her, 
 
 If such a saint ! 
 And hinted that her color 
 
 Came from paint ! 
 Then, whispering, laughed, 
 
 And said aloud, they'd heard 
 Her claims to goodliness, 
 
 But deemed them all absurd. 
 "For," said one, "if I do not mistake, 
 
 She wears false hair ! " 
 The other added, " And I guess 
 
 She's false as well as fair!" 
 They were joined by others, 
 
 Who seemed much awed 
 To hear them tell, as fact. 
 
 She was a fraud. 
 Of course they cried out "Shocking!" 
 " 'Twas sad ! So young, and so respected ! 
 But — between ourselves — 
 
 No more than we expected ! " 
 
 Separating, each went her way. 
 Telling to all she met in town 
 
 That she whom they thought pure 
 Was — positively — of bad renown! 
 
 130 
 
When one, in charity, defended her. 
 
 Claiming she was reviled ; 
 And they swore what they guessed was true ! 
 
 And Satan smiled! 
 
 Clayton House, Jan. 27, 1893. 
 
 "THE MOTHER'S PRAYER." 
 
 Written at the Exchange Hotel, Washington, D. C, at the 
 
 supper of "The Fenian Brotherhood," on St. Patrick's 
 
 Day, March 17th, 1864, and sung by me. 
 
 I am thinking, fondly thinking, of the dear ones far away, 
 
 Of the parting words of mother 
 As I left her on that day : 
 
 " My boy, you're going from us. 
 To a land more bright and fair ; 
 
 But don't forget Old Ireland, 
 For 'tis your mother's prayer 
 
 That Ireland's sons may break the chain 
 
 And set our country free." 
 
 Long years have passed, and mother has with them passed 
 
 away. 
 But mem'ry holds still fondly her words with kindly ray; 
 And though my heart be weary with waiting, watching care, 
 I'll ne'er forget Old Ireland or that dear mother's prayer. 
 The time is drawing near, I feel ; my mother's prayer 's 
 
 been heard ; 
 And brave sons of a noble race will give battle to the herd ; 
 And, oh ! 'twill be a happy time when I can tell them 
 
 there 
 " I've not forgot Old Ireland, or that dear mother's 
 
 prayer." 
 
 131 
 
AN OLD MAN'S ADVICE. 
 
 'Tis a custom in good business houses — 
 
 Elsewhere as well as right here — 
 To examine the books at the close of the old 
 
 Or beginning of every new year ; 
 To find out just how one stands, 
 
 Or whether there's profit or loss 
 In the efforts they've daily been making 
 
 To hoard up what some call dross. 
 If there's a profit, why, then, they're pleased; 
 
 If a loss, then they'll economize, 
 And redouble their efforts to make the next year 
 
 Bring them nearer their goal, their prize. 
 Now, if 'tis essential in business 
 
 To examine into temporal cares, 
 How much more important it is 
 
 To examine our spiritual affairs ! 
 To look over the pages of conscience — 
 
 To go from the first to the last — 
 And see if we've used the time well 
 
 That was given in the year just past. 
 Have we given a thought to the poor? 
 
 Have we turned a deaf ear to distress? 
 Has our worship of money been greater, 
 
 And our worship of God the less ? 
 Don't wait for a year to examine ; 
 
 Try to do it at least once a day ; 
 And you'll find my preaching of good, 
 
 If you'll only do as I say. 
 'Tis a very good way to begin, 
 
 And I hope in the end 'twill appear 
 That when you've gone over your books 
 
 They will foot up a prosperous new year. 
 
 Columbus, Ga., December 31, 1881. 
 
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