PS 3505 
 .R68 15 
 1901 
 Copy 1 
 
 [OMPSON 'S 
 
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Class ^/^ii^^vi^d' 
 
 Book i_^^^x<r 
 
 Gopyright^^ /24/ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT, 
 
In THOMPSON'S 
 WOODJ <^^S^ 
 
 THE, BLV£ SKY PRI,SS 
 
 H I 
 
 J^ O 
 
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 \1 
 
Of this book there have been printed two hun- 
 dred and seventy-jive copies on L. L. Brown s 
 hand-made paper^ and twenty-Jive copies on 
 Japan Vellum. This being number / y ^ 
 
 THE LiSfiABY OF 
 
 
 Two COr-lES Hecbveo 
 
 T^3r^r 
 
 ^l^' 11 \%Y\ 
 
 •?4 2 li 
 
 CpF~qiOHT ENTRY 
 
 
 O-t^t / U-.ici p f 
 
 /9ci 
 
 CLASS Oy XXa IHo, 
 
 
 t c!i o 1 L 
 
 
 L... co^-Y a 
 
 
 Copyright y i()Oi^ by 
 Langworthy i^ Stevens 
 
DEDICATED TO 
 KATE SHURTLEFF CRISSEY 
 
Acknowledgements are herewith made 
 TO The Youth's Companion, The Chicago 
 Evening Post, and Art in Dress, for 
 permission to reprint in this book va- 
 rious contributions which originally 
 appeared in their columns. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Introductory Sketch 
 
 7 
 
 In Thompson's Woods 
 
 i6 
 
 Mother's Sunbonnet 
 
 i8 
 
 The Song of Songs 
 
 19 
 
 **Ma's Attic" 
 
 20 
 
 A Picture 
 
 22 
 
 Immortality 
 
 23 
 
 Mother 
 
 23 
 
 Resurrection Chant 
 
 24 
 
 Fear 
 
 26 
 
 A Golden Wedding Verse 
 
 27 
 
 The Zithern Player 
 
 28 
 
 Hope's Valentine 
 
 29 
 
 Father's Coat 
 
 30 
 
 Lucy's Boy 
 
 32 
 
 In Thompson's Store 
 
 34 
 
 Pioneers of the Prairies 
 
 36 
 
 On a Photograph of a Boy 
 
 38 
 
 A Milkweed Pod 
 
 39 
 
 A Wish 
 
 40 
 
OT long after he had 
 abandoned the spoon 
 as an instrument for 
 conveying food from 
 his plate to his mouth, 
 the Boy became the vic- 
 tim of an absorbing and 
 loverly sentimentality. 
 But it was not his fault. That he was 
 prematurely forced into the role of Ro- 
 meo, at a stage of juvenile immaturity, 
 and compelled to act the Lover before he 
 had formed any definite ideas of what 
 constitutes a satisfactory suitor or the 
 line of conduct most becoming to such 
 an ardent personage, was due to the affec- 
 tional precocity and maidenly perse- 
 verance of a certain small, witching and 
 vivacious young miss. 
 
 To those who are wise in the affairs 
 of the heart may be left the explanation 
 of the fact that childhood in the city en- 
 joys a much longer period of immunity 
 from the attacks of the Sly Archer than 
 in the country ,where the embryo woman 
 in short dresses is a shameless coquette at 
 
 7 
 
a time when the boy of her own years re- 
 gards her as a petty nuisance, if he so 
 much as recognizes her existence. But 
 of this fact there can be no question. 
 
 It was, therefore, while he was still 
 **afraid of the dark" that the boy became 
 the object of a tender conspiracy and re- 
 ceived a gratuitous and almost compul- 
 sory initiation into the mysteries and 
 vicissitudes of rural courtship. It is true 
 that, during this probationary stage of 
 his training in the arts of love-making, he 
 steadfastly regarded the New Teacher as 
 the supreme mistress of his heart, brought 
 to her the biggest and rosiest apples that 
 the gnarled old "Maiden Blush" trees in 
 the West Orchard yielded, searched the 
 pasture for the lustiest violets that they 
 might be timidly laid upon her desk, and 
 would have spurned the thought that the 
 time might come when he would cease 
 to pay her his fondest adorations. But, 
 by grace of some strange law of perver- 
 sitv, he suffered no rebukes of conscience 
 on this score, nor was he aware of any du- 
 plicity of conduct as he progressed from 
 8 
 
indifference and stupidity to becoming 
 ardor under the skilful tutelage of his 
 small preceptor. 
 
 It was while the springtime stirrings 
 of sentiment were still warm and throb- 
 bing in the hearts of swelling buds that 
 the Boy was impressed into the ranks of 
 the world's lovers. The day itself 
 impelled to an awakening of dormant 
 faculties. Its blossom-scented breath, 
 its broad, shimmering sunlight and its 
 subtle atmospheric suggestion of awak- 
 ening life touched every animate object 
 into lively sympathy with its own quick- 
 ened and sensitive but dream-laden spirit. 
 The irresistible revival of Romance was 
 in the air. 
 
 On his way to school that morning, 
 theBoy noticed that the calves inThomp- 
 son's pasture were frisking about in a 
 series of grotesque and ungainly gambols, 
 and that the swarms of butterflies which 
 scurried up from the glossy, chocolate- 
 hued margin of the drying mudpuddle, 
 in the center of the road, flashed their 
 yellow wings with unwonted animation 
 
 9 
 
and were dancing, with taunting and airy- 
 abandon, far over the pasture fence, be- 
 fore he could strike one of them down 
 with his palm-leaf hat. 
 
 Even Totman's spavined and su- 
 perannuated old gray horse,which grazed 
 and hobbled along the public highway, 
 paid tribute to the rare and energizing 
 qualities of the day by striking into a live- 
 ly shamble in response to the passing 
 shout of the Boy. 
 
 Lessons were an intrusion and an 
 irritation, and the suppressed activities of 
 the feminine contingent of the school 
 vented themselves in a running fire of 
 girlish giggles, while a fusillade of well- 
 masticated paper wads filled the air from 
 the Boy's Side of the room whenever the 
 teacher turned to explain the examples 
 on the black-board for the benefit of the 
 "B" arithmetic class. An epidemic of 
 thirst seized the entire school and before 
 First Recess the water pail in the front 
 entry had been visited by the majority of 
 the pupils. Restlessness was the prevail- 
 ing mood anda score of persistently raised 
 
 lO 
 
hands and snapping fingers were patiently 
 answered by the New Teacher, only to 
 provoke the monotonous and plaintive 
 repetition of the appeal: "Teacher, 
 please m' Igo'n sit with — "and the ques- 
 tion was invariably interrupted with an 
 affirmative answer. 
 
 By the time the school marched out, 
 in single file, for the Noon Hour, the un- 
 derstanding had become general that all 
 the pupils who were not obliged to re- 
 turn to their homes for dinner should take 
 their lunch pails and repair to Thomp- 
 son's Woods, the scene of immemorial 
 Sunday school picnics and Fourth of 
 July celebrations, there to spend the mid- 
 day intermission in frolics about the 
 weather-beaten and gaping lemonade 
 booths, in games upon the smooth, green 
 turf of the more open spaces, and in ram- 
 bles after violets, ground-nuts and crin- 
 kle root where the trees were huge and 
 moss-grown and the thick carpet of dead 
 leaves underfoot was but sparingly 
 sprinkled with tiny glints of sunlight. 
 
 The journey across Reinhart's 
 1 1 
 
meadow was made with a gleeful rush, 
 and the Boy soon seated himself tenta- 
 tively upon the edge of one of the picnic 
 benches, drew the refractory cover from 
 his dinner pail and took from within a 
 warped and heated rectangle of bread, 
 which exuded a heavy buttery fragrance 
 never to be forgotton by the boy who has 
 "carried" his dinner. He broke the 
 double layer of bread into two sections, 
 ate out the softer interior of the piece in 
 his right hand and was about to throw 
 away the skeleton of crust when the girl 
 with the two long braids abruptly sat 
 down beside him and said: 
 
 *'Oh,gimmeabite! I didn't bring 
 any dinner today and Tin awful hungry." 
 
 He handed her the broken pieces of 
 bread in his left hand; his face flushed 
 and his powers of speech became tem- 
 porarily paralyzed. 
 
 *'Say," she continued, "I'm going 
 to start the Needle's Eye. That big bare 
 spot over there's just the place for it. 
 Come on — let's!" 
 
 And without waiting for a reply she 
 
 12 
 
seized his hand and led him helplessly in- 
 to the treeless open, where they stood fac- 
 ing each other with hands joined and 
 arms uplifted. Their mates, by clasping 
 hands, quickly formed into a ring, which 
 was designed to rotate between the girl 
 with long braids and the Boy, passing be- 
 neath the arch formed by their up- 
 stretched arms. 
 
 With hands swaying and feet shuffl- 
 ing, the waiting circle began the chant: 
 
 With bow so neat, 
 
 And kiss so sweet; 
 
 We do intend, before we end, 
 
 This happy pair shall meet again! 
 
 Full well the Boy knew that he was 
 expected to express in actions the grace- 
 ful insinuations of the refrain. He 
 nodded his head with a stiff jerk at the 
 cue of the *'bow so neat," but at that 
 moment he caught the eye of a grinning 
 companion, and his courage for the re- 
 mainder of the ceremony deserted him. 
 There was an awkward and expectant 
 pause in the chant. Had it continued 
 long he would have turned and fled. But 
 it did not. His partner gave her long 
 
 13 
 
braids a quick, coquettish shake, leaned 
 saucily forward and exclaimed ! 
 
 "Kiss me — you little Ninny !" 
 
 He obeyed and the circle started 
 forward, winding under the archway of 
 arms and singing: 
 
 The needle's eye 
 
 That doth supply 
 
 The thread that runs so truly 
 
 O, many a lass have I let pass 
 
 Because I wanted you-ly ! 
 
 At the end of the last syllable she 
 pulled his hands down upon the neek 
 of the Solemn Girl. This captive took 
 the place of the initiator of the game 
 and the ceremony was repeated until the 
 clang of the First Bell warned the merry- 
 makers to return to the schoolhouse. 
 
 The crimson circles still glowed in 
 his cheeks long after he had taken his 
 seat. He dared not lift his eyes from his 
 book to look in the direction of the Girls' 
 Side. 
 
 The realization of his stupidity was 
 strong upon him, andhe wondered if She 
 would ever speak to him again. His 
 doubts, however, were of short duration. 
 
 H 
 
When he returned from the geography 
 recitation he found upon his desk a min- 
 utely folded piece of paper. It was lab- 
 oriously unfolded, and he then read this 
 assuring message: 
 
 if you love me as i love you 
 No knife can cut our love in to. 
 After school, that night, the girl 
 did not go ^*cross-lots" to her home, as 
 usual. Instead, she chose a longer way 
 by the road — and the Boy walked meek- 
 ly and awkwardly by her side! 
 
IN THOMPSON'S WOODS 
 
 WONDER if in Thomp- 
 son's woods 
 The violets push their mod- 
 est hoods 
 Through bedded leaves 
 which frosts and suns 
 Have wasted to frail skele- 
 tons — 
 
 Networks of silver veins to strain 
 Sunlight and shadow, dew and rain, 
 Into a nectar that shall thrill 
 Hearts of new violets, and fill. 
 With odors of the budding wood. 
 Each heart within each blushing hood. 
 
 I wonder if in Thompson's wood 
 The partridge rears her speckled brood. 
 And scuds away beneath the brush 
 When alien footsteps break the hush 
 That hangs above her mossy nest 
 And dwells within her mottled breast. 
 I wonder if the springtime brings 
 The whirr of countless pigeons' wings, 
 The thousand springtime signs and 
 
 sounds 
 With which my memory abounds. 
 i6 
 
I wonder if the summer's night 
 Is threaded by the wheeling flight 
 Of mad-cap whip-poor-will, whose cry. 
 Like wail of ghost, goes shud'ring by. 
 I wonder if the beeches wave 
 As soft a shimmer o'er your grave, 
 Sweet girl, as when the hunter's moon 
 Turned midnight into brightest noon, 
 And first I kissed you as we stood, — 
 That night of nights! — in Thompson's 
 Wood. 
 
MOTHER'S SUNBONNET 
 
 There are hats by the dozen and score 
 On their pegs in the shop windows 
 
 bright, 
 And bonnets with ribbons galore, 
 The eyes of each passer invite — 
 Some soft as the neck of a dove. 
 Or as apple blooms jeweled with dew; 
 Some fair as a day-dream of love. 
 And dearer, by far, it is true! — 
 But friends I would barter them all 
 And trim them with greenbacks and 
 
 gold 
 For a moment of time to recall 
 From the dust of the grave, as of old, 
 A patient and glorified face 
 And the checkered sunbonnet whose 
 
 brim 
 Was touched wdth a halo of grace 
 From mother's eyes, faded and dim! 
 
THE SONG OF SONGS 
 
 Ah! poet, vainly striving for a theme 
 To voice the unformed music of the 
 
 heart, 
 And catch within the cunning net of art 
 The faint elusive phantoms of thy dream: 
 
 Leave lonely tields, and yet more lonely 
 
 throngs, 
 And in the kindly twilight stand before 
 The meanest cabin; from its open door. 
 In low, sweet strains, will float the Song 
 
 of Songs, 
 
 As soft the mother's eyes yearn o'er her 
 child. 
 
 And from her crooning lips, like incense 
 rare. 
 
 She breathes the vespers of her mother- 
 care 
 
 Above the lids its music hath beguiled ! 
 
 19 
 
-MA'S ATTIC" 
 
 Sometimes when I've been 'spesh'ly good 
 An' brought in heaps an' heaps of wood. 
 An' keptf'om muddyin' up the floor, 
 Hain't dragged my feet nor slammed the 
 
 door. 
 Ma says to me: *'If you'll take care 
 Not to upset the things up there 
 I wouldn't wonder if vou may 
 Go to the attic for your play." 
 Gee! Don't I like that attic room, 
 With grandma's spinning-wheel and 
 
 loom! 
 I tell you it's the bestest place 
 For boys to play — -just lots of space, 
 An' yet it's full of trumpery 
 That interests a boy like me. 
 Bags of good things to eat up there — 
 If you just happen to know where! — 
 Sweet flag and cherries that I got 
 
Out of old Thompson's pasture lot 
 Along th' banks of th' Mazon, 
 An' brought 'em home to nibble on. 
 There's grandpa Dowd's old hat and 
 
 cane — 
 I wisht he'd visit us again! — 
 But best of all what ma calls "truck" 
 Is my great grandpa's sword that's stuck 
 Behind the chest he took to sea. 
 It's just a little long forme, 
 But when I climb upon the lid 
 Of that old chest I'm Captain Kidd; 
 An' then I swing the sword an' say 
 Bad pirate words — but just in play! 
 Who cares for spider webs an' dirt 
 That's in the attic? They don't hurt! 
 They hain't another place to play 
 Like attics on a rainy day! 
 
A PICTURE 
 
 Is this your dream of Love: A piquant 
 
 face, 
 A girl in just her girlish, lissome grace? 
 Oh! this is not Love's picture as it stands 
 Within my heart ! Paint me two folded 
 
 hands 
 That tell of patient toil and pain and 
 
 prayer, 
 Hands that have lifted many another's 
 
 care 
 And made it light, as mother's hands 
 
 will do — 
 Then you have painted Love, sublime 
 
 and true ! 
 
 I c'C. 
 
IMMORTALIY 
 
 There is no death ! The flowers of Love 
 
 and Truth 
 Live on, and ever shall live, while 
 At that old fable Death we only smile, 
 As at a childish tale recalled in youth. 
 
 MOTHER 
 
 Lips voicing only God's sweet tender- 
 ness; 
 
 Far-seeing eyes for the incipient good. 
 
 And faithful hands that never cease to 
 brood 
 
 Above their own, content to serve and 
 bless ! 
 
RESURRECTION CHANT 
 
 Stirs the heart of bud and bird 
 With the resurrection word: 
 Hallelujah! 
 
 See the glad perennial birth, 
 Life again is Lord of earth, 
 Hallelujah! 
 
 "Christ is risen !" Song and flower 
 
 Shout the sweet triumphal hour. 
 
 Hallelujah! 
 
 Joy, not Sorrow, reigns to-day — 
 King of Kings shall reign for aye! — 
 Hallelujah! 
 
 Sleeping hopes put forth their bloom; 
 Song unseals the vanquished tomb. 
 Hallelujah ! 
 
Hail in every scented breath 
 Of bursting bud the doom of Death, 
 Hallelujah! 
 
 Love immortal from the soul 
 Every prison stone doth roll, 
 Hallelujah! 
 
 Hail the resurrection morn: 
 Christ in every heart new-born! 
 Hallelujah! 
 
FEAR 
 
 Once, like a hunted fugitive, I sped 
 Across the dreadful desert of Existence 
 
 drear — 
 Each shadow of its driving sands a Fear 
 Full-armed with lance of fateful, unspent 
 
 dread! 
 
 But now no more I fear, for spent and 
 
 fled 
 Is every phantom of potential ill; 
 Truth bids each lying sense be still; 
 Love fills all life, and Fear itself is dead! 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING VERSE 
 
 Count not the years like treasured gold ! 
 Love knows no hearts as young or old, 
 But mocks the flight of phantom Time, 
 Nor heeds the New Year's hollow chime. 
 Youth is before you, not behind; 
 A thousand golden summers wind 
 Before your happy foot-steps' tread — 
 Age cannot touch the truly-wed! 
 
THE ZITHERN PLAYER 
 
 Over the zithern's strings 
 In vibrant wanderings 
 Her supple fingers glide; 
 Now soft as Lethean dreams, 
 Now swift as singing streams: 
 A fickle, slumb'rous tide! 
 
 What wraith of sad Despair 
 
 Guideth thy fingers fair 
 
 In mellow, dreamful grief? 
 
 A ghost of mournful wind 
 
 Whispering of Love unkind 
 
 To Autumn's lonely leaf! 
 * * ;5^ 
 
 Strike out a sweeter tune 
 Like the soft hint of June 
 Upon thy blushing cheek — 
 Of dewy blooms that tempt 
 The boisterous bees unkempt 
 Their honeved sweets to seek! 
 
 28 
 
HOPE'S VALENTINE 
 
 Thus would I write my heart's best val- 
 entine: 
 
 The wish that every weary soul may 
 know 
 
 Sweet rest; that those who thirst may 
 quaff the wine 
 
 Of heavenly inspiration, cup divine, 
 
 Kindling all being with its holy glow! 
 
 To those earth blinded souls who grope 
 
 and fear, 
 Nor lift their eyes to Hope's serenest sky, 
 My valentine would be a thought to clear 
 Each darkened sense, dispel the visions 
 
 drear 
 And for each specter show an angel nigh. 
 
FATHER'S COAT 
 
 It dangles from the chimney hook 
 Where it has hung a score of years — 
 A ragged coat! Yet as I look 
 Upon its faded folds, the tears 
 Once more in tender mists arise, 
 Touched with the light of childhood's 
 skies! 
 
 Among the rows of rustling corn 
 I catch the old coat's glint of brown; 
 It moves afield in gray of morn 
 Nor rests 'till evening settles down 
 And crickets chirp the cheering lay 
 That marks the soft decline of day. 
 
 Astride its smooth-worn collar band 
 A bare-foot boy is perched in state — 
 His bridle rein a brawny hand. 
 His goal the balsam-shaded gate 
 Where the tall charger drops his load 
 And plods adown the dusty road. 
 
 30 
 
What wealth of sweets from village store 
 Has hid within those pockets old! 
 More prized than gems from foreign 
 
 shore 
 Or all the Orient's wealth of gold, 
 The dear old coat sheds kindly grace 
 From him who hung it in its place! 
 
LUCY'S BOY 
 
 I never see a leetle shaver scud 
 
 F'm school t'reach th' nighest vacant lot; 
 
 'Thout thinking uv the cunnin' leetle 
 
 spud 
 That my own Lucy an' her man hes got. 
 
 I s'pose I'm biased in his favor — still, 
 His han'some pints t' me er jest es plain 
 Es sunshine on th' slope uv Beechum's 
 
 Hill, 
 Chasin' th' shadows 'crost th' growin' 
 
 grain. 
 
 I'd ruther hold that boy ag'inst my vest 
 An' watch him suck his chubby leetle 
 
 thumb 
 Than own the likeliest farm in all the 
 
 west 
 Er half th' golden lots in Kingdom 
 
 Come! 
 
 32 
 
There ain't a robin er a medder-lark 
 Thet's got a sweeter voice than Lucy's 
 
 boy; 
 An' I'd stop fam'ly prayers plumb short 
 
 t' hark 
 And hear him whistle "Come Ye Sons of 
 
 Joy"! 
 
 Th' apple blossoms siftin' f'm th' tree 
 Ain't half so sweet as Lucy's leetle chap ; 
 An' when he comes ag'in t' visit me 
 He'll camp — fust thing — in his ol' 
 grampa's lap! 
 
IN THOMPSON'S STORE 
 
 I've tramped this city o'er and o'er 
 An' hunted high an' low to find 
 A loaiin' place like Thompson's store, 
 Where them that's sociably inclined 
 Can sit an' talk with neighbor folks 
 An'spin their yarns an' crack their jokes. 
 
 I'mgoin' back again to where 
 
 I'll hear the old man Thompson call: 
 
 "Come, jine the circle! Take a chair!" 
 
 Why, bless my soul! I know 'em all; 
 
 Their kinks are jest as plaint' me 
 
 As doin' sums by rule o' three. 
 
 It makes me lonesome when I think 
 Of how we sat around the stove 
 In Thompson's store an' tipped the wink 
 An' gave Si' Biggs a gentle shove 
 When ol' maid Lucy came t'buy — 
 'Bout Christmas time — a man's black tie. 
 
 34 
 
Gossip, of course, without no end! — 
 But harmless talk, for each one there 
 Was reckoned everybody's friend 
 An' bound t' see all treated fair. 
 I'd ruther sit in Thompson's store 
 Than tread the finest city floor. 
 
 We've settled weighty problems, too, 
 Around that red hot cannon stove; 
 An' words of wisdom, good an' true, 
 From out God's holy book of love 
 Were heard from honest lips intent 
 On some deep gospel argument. 
 
 No more of city life for me! 
 I'm goin' home to warm th' chair 
 That's waitin' with a welcome free 
 As God's green fields an' country air 
 In Thompson's store. Lord bless th' 
 
 place! 
 I's stocked with honest goods and grace! 
 
PIONEERS OF THE PRAIRIES 
 
 Sons of New England's stern and hardy 
 
 stock! 
 In rugged frame and sober, care-seamed 
 
 face, 
 Their early struggles, 'mid a soil of rock. 
 Have left, perchance, a dark and sombre 
 
 trace; 
 
 Sharp as the husk that hides the ripened 
 
 corn. 
 But sound of heart as is its hardy ear ! 
 I hold a better race was never born: 
 To wrong a fellow man its only fear! 
 
 In Northern woods they felled the giant 
 
 pine 
 And caught the spirit of its rugged 
 
 grace; — 
 Through prairies traced the furrow's 
 
 blackened line. 
 And grew in manhood with each patient 
 
 pace 
 
 :e! 
 
 36 
 
Thanks for your legacy of honest worth: 
 
 Your grand humility, your conscience 
 true; 
 
 A royal heritage! a kingly birth ! 
 
 Unstained and pure as morning's bright- 
 est dew ! 
 
 But greater thanks that we to-day may 
 
 scan, 
 In human symbol and in mortal sign. 
 The deathless lineage of Immortal Man, 
 Child of God's thought — the fatherhood 
 
 Divine ! 
 
ON THE PHOTOGRAPH OF A 
 
 BOY {To Little Piatt Meadowcroft) 
 
 Blue-eyed dreamer, tell me true: 
 
 Is the world as fair to you 
 
 As the smile that lights vourface 
 
 With its sweet and tearless grace? 
 
 Life: is it the glad surprise 
 
 That laughs at me from those dear eyes ? 
 
 And are the hearts of men as white 
 
 As that pure forehead kissed by light 
 
 And touched with curling strands of 
 
 gold? 
 Is this the face of soldier bold ? 
 And these a general's lips, that part 
 In smiles upspringing from the heart? 
 More like a thought of Love you seem 
 Than child of man or mortal dream; 
 And such I hold you, little friend, 
 For every mortal dream must end; 
 And only God's child shall endure 
 Forever gentle, sweet and pure! 
 
 38 
 
A MILKWEED POD 
 
 Only a bit of wayside folly — 
 A midge of Summer dancing along 
 To mingle with your Christmas holly, 
 Making the notes of the year's full song. 
 
A WISH 
 
 If wishes into sweet fulfillment turned 
 I'd tread again the dusty old turnpike, 
 Where sentinels of royal sumach burned 
 In knightly plume and nodding rusty 
 spike- 
 
 I'd rout the yellow butterflies that stay 
 In pulsing circles 'round each drying 
 
 pool, 
 And then I'd stop an hour or so and play 
 With all the boys about the Munger 
 
 school — 
 
 Build aqueducts of hollow smellage stalk 
 
 And prison dams for speckled "horny- 
 dace;" 
 
 Then ramble down the willow-shaded 
 walk 
 
 That skirts the millpond and its winding 
 race. 
 
 40 
 
When evening came I'd fire a big brush 
 heap, 
 
 Piled high with boughs of fresh cut ever- 
 green; 
 
 And w^atch the wild sparks upward dance 
 and leap, 
 
 Till all the sky swirled with their ghostly 
 sheen! 
 
HERE endeth the book, IN THOMP- 
 SON'S WOODS, as written by Forrest 
 Crissey. The cover, title page and end 
 paper designs are by Harry EverettTown- 
 send; the initial letters by Frank B. Rae 
 jr.; the whole being printed and sold by 
 Langworthy & Stevens, at the House of 
 the Blue Sky Press, 4732 Kenwood Ave- 
 nue, in Chicago, Illinois. Done in No- 
 vember, M CM I. 
 
^^^Bi^Ol 
 
DEC 27 1901 
 
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