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POEMS 
 
 I By Mrs. C. J. ESDEN 
 
 rv"^ 
 
 19 18 
 
 Saulsbury Publishing Company 
 Baltimore 
 
POEMS 
 
 1 By Mrs. C. J. ESDEN T 
 
 19 18 
 
 Saulsbury Publishing Company 
 Baltimore 
 
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 c.<^ 
 
 
 MAY 31 1918 
 
 ©C1.A499214 
 
MRS. C. J. ESDEN 
 
Copyright, 1918 
 
 by 
 Mrs. C. J. EsDEN. 
 
POEMS 
 
 By Mrs. C. J. Esden. 
 
 JACK and William and Donald and Ruth 
 Are naughty children, to tell the truth; 
 They "sass" the teacher and break the rule, 
 And even play "hooky" and stay from school. 
 
 The neighbors complain when they're at home; 
 
 They never are quiet or let one alone; 
 
 They throw at your windows — track mud on your floor- 
 
 If you'll listen I'll tell you of several things more. 
 
 If Santa should hear how these children do bawl 
 He never would stop at their doorstep at all. 
 I've a notion to write and to tell him about it — 
 If he'd listen awhile, he never would doubt it. 
 
 Be careful my boy and my girl what you do. 
 If Old Santa finds you're naughty — I tell you it's tru«, 
 That he'll pass you right by and leave never a toy 
 For a bad little girl or a bad little boy. 
 
 ♦ ♦ ♦ 
 
 George Washington wuz how big, Pa? 
 
 When he cut down that tree? 
 Wuz he as big as Richard Thaw, 
 
 Or 'bout as big as me? 
 
 He must have been a fair-sized chap. 
 
 And had a good axe, too, 
 To cut a cherry-tree like that 
 
 Is pretty hard to do. 
 
8 
 
 I think he wuz a foxy kid 
 
 (Same kind as Dick and me), 
 
 And 'lowed to do jest what he did — 
 No bloomin' angel he! 
 
 I 'spose he didn't like that tree 
 (We're talkin' about it yet) — 
 
 An' got a axe, and then, by gee! 
 He whacked it down — you bet! 
 
 I think he got to be as great 
 
 As any man could be. 
 I'd like to do like him, first-rate; 
 
 His job would jest suit me. 
 
 But when you think in him you've found 
 
 A angel with a harp, 
 A foolin' 'round a cherry-tree. 
 
 Look out! His axe was sharp. 
 
 We cannot drink too deep the "cup o' pleasure" 
 Unless the dregs commingle with the wine. 
 
 We cannot find a friend who's up to measure. 
 He'll lack a little somewhere 'long the line. 
 
 We cannot do a thing but what will bore us, 
 
 If we persist in doing it too long; 
 If physically or mentally it will floor us. 
 
 It's sure, some day, to register as wrong. 
 
 What then? We still pursue the phantom — ever- 
 Seeming to see it close or far away. 
 
 I wonder after all here's over — whether 
 We'll still search on or realize, some day! 
 
9 
 
 Good-night, little baby, 
 
 Angels guard thy wee bed. 
 Heaven shower its blessings 
 Upon thy loved head. 
 
 I feel so impotent 
 
 To shield and to rear thee. 
 I would guardian angels 
 
 Be constantly near thee. 
 
 So precious art thou — 
 So much finer than gold: 
 
 Worth more to thy mother 
 Than jewels untold! 
 
 And worth more to God 
 Than all else He's created. 
 
 Of the "Work of His hands" 
 Thou hast been highest rated. 
 
 For thine immortal soul 
 
 Is dearer by far 
 Than the earth in its orbit, 
 
 Or sun, moon and star. 
 
 So sleep, litle baby, 
 
 Secure in thy nest. 
 Mother's love will make effort 
 
 To give thee her best. 
 And when that's insufficient 
 
 Trust God for the rest. 
 
10 
 
 WHAT IS HAPPINESS. 
 
 What constitutes the happiness we're seeking? 
 
 What man e'er lived who found the secret — new? 
 Were circumstances ever so in keeping 
 
 That that rare bird — Felicity — was true? 
 
 If we, perchance should salt its tail — and catch it, 
 We could not hold it: In our grasp 'twould die: 
 
 One moment — sweet elusive — what can match it? 
 Our bubble's broken — what's the use to cry? 
 
 ♦ ♦ ♦ 
 
 MY WISH. 
 
 If every star were a bell, dear 
 
 That hung in the purple dome, 
 I would bid them all ring — just to tell, dear. 
 Of my love for you — born — full grown. 
 
 If every wave of the sea, dear. 
 Would a message bring to the shore, 
 I would send every one straight to thee, dear, 
 Of my love they would speak evermore. 
 
 If every gem from the mine, dear, 
 
 Would sparkle with love's dazzling ray, 
 
 I would purchase them all to be thine, dear. 
 And clothe thee in splendor alway. 
 
 But if ocean and sky and the earth, dear, 
 Would consent thus my love to unfold, 
 
 The message would only be worth, dear, 
 The place in your heart it would hold. 
 
11 
 
 MAGIC OF A SMILE. 
 
 Mr. Billberry Brown, 
 Had a mouth that turned down, 
 His expression was glum and his brow wore a frown. 
 
 If you chanced him to meet. 
 As you walked down the street, 
 You would pass him by quickly if you were discreet. 
 
 He took his own way. 
 And had nothing to say. 
 And his face might be made out of papier-mache. 
 
 So cranky was he, 
 That soon all let him be, 
 He was limited then to his own company. 
 
 But it happened one day. 
 As Bill walked the highway, 
 That he met Jimmie Jones, always breezy and gay. 
 
 Jimmie's face wore a smile 
 You could see for a mile. 
 And he turned it, full force, on Bill Brown for awhile. 
 
 Did the frown hold its sway? 
 Did the smile fade away? 
 As soon see an icicle freeze the sun's ray. 
 
 Just as well expect iron to harden a flame, 
 
 Or to tell me that praise is less potent than blame. 
 
 If you don't think there's magic 
 In Jim's and your smile, 
 Wear your face that way sometime, you'll find it 
 worth while. 
 
 It'll do all I've claimed for it; give it a trial. 
 
12 
 
 LIFE'S OLD ROADWAY. 
 
 I like to climb up memory's hill, 
 
 And look back over the road I've come; 
 Take note of its turnings good and ill, 
 
 View its lights and shades in the setting sun. 
 
 As we first set out on our devious track, 
 
 Hope makes it "A Rosy Path" v^e view; 
 But as we go onward (we cannot turn back), 
 
 We come to rough places we must pass through. 
 
 We find that the stones and the brambles are there. 
 And pit-falls — if ever the straight road we leave; 
 
 But flowers of friendship to pluck and to wear, 
 
 And the magic-herb, love, heals the wounds we receive. 
 
 We can walk on the sunny side most of the time, 
 'Tis seldom the cloud overshadows the sun; 
 
 We're helped up steep places as onward we climb, 
 And courage makes easy the task we've begun. 
 
 I look back and wonder if I could now choose. 
 
 If a different road I would travel — if I 
 Would give up the path I have trodden and move 
 
 In a different circle — and thus would pass by 
 
 The old landmarks and friendships grown familiar and 
 dear, 
 
 To widen my path and to broaden my way? 
 No! I am glad, after all, that I have not to fear 
 
 I shall wander in strange parts at close of life's day. 
 
 I am glad that my home ties are just as they are, 
 I am glad of old friendships — I cling to them yet, 
 
 Life's scenes for me chosen — 'tis better by far 
 That its just as it is — I do not now regret. 
 
13 
 
 Often times I have felt my environment small, 
 
 Commonplace, unattractive, 0! quite without wings; 
 
 But knowing life better— we find that not all 
 Or half of its pleasure— consists just in things. 
 
 If we soar— in spirit— the wings will be given, 
 But earth has its beauty as well as the air, 
 
 Both ether and earth can form souls that are rare; 
 And both can be roadways that lead us to heaven. 
 
 <S> O *S* 
 
 THE WIFE'S LETTER. 
 
 What are you doing down there to-night, 
 
 My soldier man? 
 Whatever it is I'm sure it is right. 
 
 And the best that you can. 
 I am glad that as yet you are safe from harm. 
 And that last report was a false alarm. 
 Our "little boy blue" has grown so, dear. 
 You wouldn't believe it was him, I fear- 
 He talks about "daddy" the whole day through 
 And follows me 'round whatever I do — 
 And someway he's getting to look like you. 
 He says, "Tell daddy I love him, too," 
 And he kisses the paper right on this spot— 
 I think you'll feel it as likely as not. 
 May it keep you in mind 
 Of the left behind. 
 Don't forget — or regret— 
 You did right to go— 
 I want you to know; 
 So Adieu, 
 
 Lovingly, Sue. 
 
14 
 
 Inspired by the last words of Frohman as he stood on the 
 deck of the sinking Lusitania. 
 
 I stand on the deck of a fast-sinking ship 
 While the billows about me toss and roll, 
 
 Knowing each moment my feet may slip — 
 Surprised at the calmness that fills my soul. 
 
 I am gazing just now through a half -open door; 
 
 The mysterious Future is beck'ning to me, 
 The problems of Present life vex me no more 
 
 They are burying now in life's temporal sea. 
 
 'Tis a wonderful moment! Most wonderful far. 
 That has come to me since this existence was mine, 
 
 I soon now shall know what's behind the closed door — 
 The sun of the Future for me shall soon shine. 
 
 Exulting to feel that so soon I'll be free! 
 Surprised that so little of dread there should be. 
 
 The last word is spoken! 
 
 The last chain is broken! 
 The Book of Life ended — now Eternity! 
 
 ♦ ♦ ♦ 
 
 EVENING TIME IS BEST. 
 
 I love the morn, with its uprising sun, 
 
 That signifies another day's begun 
 
 And work must be accomplished ere 'tis done. 
 
 One feels the call upon his forces good: 
 He would not shirk the labor if he could; 
 'Tis forward, march! and like a quick'ning wine 
 The new day makes him fit to fall in line. 
 
16 
 
 At noon he halts and backward casts an eye 
 For some lost moments, gives a passing sigh. 
 But up and on! The afternoon's begun, 
 Still farther efforts ere the day is done. 
 
 The effort is, I grant you, life's great joy; 
 But ev'n this gold is mixed with some alloy, 
 But those who've passed the morning and mid-day 
 In worthy work and just as worthy play. 
 Will tell you that the evening time is best; 
 Its quiet, peaceful joys outweigh the rest. 
 
 In retrospect we live the morning o'er. 
 The midday conflict adds to memory's store. 
 Thus evening holds the past day's dear delight, 
 The sweetness of the rest, that comes with night 
 Anticipates, and all the landscape's bright 
 Beneath her star of Hope. The Good Book says aright, 
 Even though the day be dark— "At evening time it shall 
 be light!" 
 
 ^ ^ ^ 
 
 MY SOLDIER. 
 
 There's a picture that's painted on memory's wall. 
 And its colors will never grow dim — through the years. 
 
 In anguish and pride I will ever recall 
 
 One of life's greatest moments, that held me in thrall 
 And gave me the courage to smile through my tears. 
 
 'Tis a soldier in uniform, tall, strong and fair, 
 
 Well formed and good looking — blue eyes and brown hair, 
 
 And a soul that is noble — in body so fit. 
 
 Of a courage that asked but to just "do his bit." 
 O, boys thou art worthy thy honors to bear! 
 
'Twas his last day at home and the last hour had come, 
 
 We were waiting outside, and he stood where the moon 
 
 Shone full on his face: 'Twas so noble and good; 
 
 So full of calm courage — I now understood 
 
 That nothing could sever his spirit from ours, 
 
 For both were immortal, and though cruel wars 
 
 Could shatter the casket — the jewel remained 
 
 Indestructible. Nor could spirit be maimed 
 
 But by act of his own. Had he selfishly stayed 
 
 When his country had called him, the soul, so dismayed 
 
 Would not have looked out at me, thus — unafraid. 
 
 I'm so glad that the picture has never a blot; 
 That to shirk from his duty — he never once thought. 
 And that beautiful face, showing spirit so fine! 
 Makes me cry out exultingly "I'm so glad he is mine!" 
 
 THE BABY'S DEAD 
 
 The Baby's dead. 
 
 Speak softly friend or foe, 
 Move gently to and fro, 
 And as you come and go 
 
 Pray — lightly tread. 
 
 No sound disturbs his sleep, 
 He's wrapped in slumber deep. 
 And they, who will, may weep, 
 'Twill bring no dread. 
 
 Small hands are folded now. 
 The ringlets on his brow 
 
 Lie undisturbed, 
 The parted lips seem smiling. 
 The work of death beguiling 
 
 To be deferred. 
 
17 
 
 Bring roses for his bed, 
 A pillow for his head 
 
 Of mignonette. 
 Robe him in gossamer, 
 Let there be no demur 
 
 Or base regret. 
 
 Beautiful in life — in death 
 No taint, or any breath 
 
 Of sin to mar. 
 Back to Immortal Morn, 
 He hath been safely borne 
 
 Without a scar. 
 
 And so we humbly pray 
 
 To meet him "Some sweet day." 
 
 Where he hath gone ; 
 For none will dare to say 
 That it is far away. 
 
 Up to the Throne. 
 
 »> *:« ♦> 
 
 COLORADO MEMORIES. 
 
 Just to hear the wind asoughing, 
 Through the Aspen and the Pine; 
 
 And the rushing of that river once again! 
 Just to feel the mountain breezes, 
 That stir one's pulse like wine; 
 
 And banish every thought of grief or pain. 
 
 O! I'd smell the Spruce and Balsam, 
 Along that mountain path; 
 
 That leads up, ever upward toward the sky! 
 Catch the little sun-beams twinkling, 
 In the dewdrops for their bath; 
 
 And listen for the blue-bird's morning cry! 
 
18 
 
 There is something in the crispness, 
 
 Of that early morning air; 
 That puts new vigor in the human frame. 
 
 There is something sweet and wholesome; 
 
 In that life, so free from care, 
 That brings one back to youth — ^and dreams again. 
 
 If we always bear the burdens, 
 
 Worldly prudence says we must; 
 We will miss the best and sweetest joys for aye. 
 
 This old world would keep us muzzled, 
 
 With our faces in the dust; 
 Let's rebel — sometimes, and lift them toward the sky. 
 
 ♦ ♦ ♦ 
 
 A THOUGHT; OR THE SOUL'S QUESTION. 
 
 I spend an hour in quiet contemplation, 
 
 Of things that be and that have been with me; 
 
 And marvel at the law of compensation. 
 That's evened up the record that I see. 
 
 We often fail to get the right perspective, 
 'Tis only near the end we see the whole 
 
 Of life's great picture — and, at last reflective. 
 Can calmly give the judgment of the soul. 
 
 The plan of life embraces pain and pleasure. 
 The sunshine and the shadow both are given; 
 
 Of blessings I've received a brim-full measure, 
 My sorrows have but held the balance even. 
 
 What then! If joy but hold the balance even, 
 When sorrow's weight into the scale is cast; 
 
 What profit for us in the life that's given, 
 If only this can be summed up at last? 
 
19 
 
 We're forced, at last, to come to this conclusion, 
 
 God's "Scheme of Things" somehow our life includes; 
 
 But this belief but ends in our confusion, 
 
 If life ends here — its meaning, thought eludes. 
 
 Reply comes — ^both from savages and sages, 
 
 Instinctively it answers reason's cry; 
 This life is but the infancy of ages, 
 
 The soul must progress ere it knows the why. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 'Twas in the mellow autumn of the year 
 
 That David came to stay 
 
 Just one month and a day. 
 
 But now, alas! alway 
 The autumn-time will seem to me most drear. 
 
 For time, it would not tarry nor delay — 
 
 I would have held it fast, 
 
 I tried to make it last; 
 
 But 'twas so quickly past 
 Those happy weeks were like a summer's day. 
 
 For me the like can never come again — 
 
 For I'd not known before 
 
 What's hidden in the core 
 
 Of human love — and more, 
 No other love will ever seem the same. 
 
 I sometimes wonder what the good God means 
 
 To let things come to pass 
 
 That bring such pain — alas! 
 Does not happiness exist save in our dreams? 
 
 I should not question what Fate had to give, 
 
 For had my David stayed 
 
 As I in anguish prayed, 
 
 My heart is sore afraid 
 That love thus fettered might not always live. 
 
20 
 
 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 
 
 One sunny autumn afternoon 
 
 I idly strolled along; 
 Tho* frost had nipped the summer^s bloom 
 
 And hushed the warbler's song. 
 
 No hint of chill was in the air, 
 
 But hushed its very breath. 
 A brooding calm reigned everywhere, 
 
 But not the calm of death. 
 
 I wandered to a little wood, 
 
 Stripped bare of every leaf; 
 These, slightly ruffled where I stood 
 
 Showed bare brown earth beneath. 
 
 I saw a whisking squirrel run, 
 
 Disturbed by footfall light; 
 I watched the sinking western sun 
 
 Foretell the coming night. 
 
 I stood and worshiped sun and sky, 
 
 Reveling in silence deep. 
 My soul seemed lifted up on high — 
 
 My senses seemed to sleep. 
 
 I turned my footsteps, homeward bound, 
 
 And found the silence broke 
 By many a homely barn-yard sound 
 
 That eloquently spoke. 
 
 Of all the quiet peaceful joys 
 
 That wait to bless me there, 
 I count among them cheerful noise 
 
 A benediction prayer. 
 
21 
 
 I love the quiet of the hill, 
 
 I love the silent wood; 
 But also find the sounds — that fill 
 
 The evening air — seem good. 
 
 The Old Homestead is home, indeed, 
 
 Its meadow and its fields. 
 The old house, with its slanting roof 
 
 Protecting comfort yields. 
 
 I'm glad to feel, as on I go. 
 
 There's one place home to me. 
 To others it may seem but slow 
 
 And humble — I'll agree. 
 
 But when from boyhood up you view 
 
 Its every brush and tree, 
 It beats the towns or houses new — 
 It's home, sweet home, to me. 
 
 *S> ^2* *S* 
 
 A MOUNTAINEER'S STORY. 
 
 Far up the rugged mountain side 
 
 We stood alone — my love and I: 
 A narrow trail our steps to guide 
 
 To where the Peak towered— 'gainst the sky. 
 
 'Twas scene sublime, stern, solemn, grand: 
 
 Immensity inspires with awe: 
 How puerile, helpless, weak — is man 
 
 In face of nature in the raw! 
 
 My gaze was not unmixed with fear, 
 For now the sun hid from our eyes; 
 
 A brooding storm perchance was near; 
 We seemed so close to frowning skies! 
 
22 
 
 That morning, with a party gay, 
 On foot, we started from the Inn, 
 
 To climb Long's Peak we did essay, 
 And blithely did our task begin.- 
 
 I'd been beseiged by every one 
 
 To lead the party, for 'twas known 
 
 That I had climbed the Peak and won 
 The summit, twice, ere sun was down 
 
 But I had made the trip with men, 
 Who, strong and fit for such a task. 
 
 Could rest, and then go on again. 
 
 'Twas plain this party could not last. 
 
 I was in love — and heedless grown 
 Of all things else — I'll have to own: 
 
 And prospect of this day with her — 
 O'ercame my purpose to demur. 
 
 Also deceived, by sun so bright. 
 
 The mercury at seventy-eight, 
 I overlooked the fact that night 
 
 Might come upon us ere too late. 
 
 We two, beguiled by "Love's Young Dream," 
 Had gone ahead and had not known 
 
 That all the others, weary grown 
 
 Had turned them backward, one-by-one. 
 
 We called, but our halloo was vain 
 
 A single answer to evoke. 
 We tried it o'er and o'er again 
 
 But only mocking echoes woke. 
 
 I bade my dear one not to fear; 
 
 Tho' night and storm were coming fast 
 We'd find a shelter somewhere near, 
 
 If she could make her courage last. 
 
23 
 
 Could we descend the way we'd come? 
 
 I sought the trail with anxious eye. 
 Which of those paths would lead us home? 
 
 Which might mislead us on — to die? 
 
 For now was swiftly borne to mind 
 
 A tale of horror I had known; 
 Of tourists lost amidst a storm; 
 
 Discovery at break of dawn 
 
 (By searching party weary, worn), 
 Locked in each other's icy arms. 
 
 Remembered I the simple stone 
 That marked their resting-place, o'er-grown 
 
 With roses and with trailing vine. 
 
 She turned with me, and down the trail 
 We hurried fast — with hope 'twas right, 
 
 But though I chaffed, 'twould not avail 
 To hide from her the truth — my fright. 
 
 If this is but the way we came. 
 Our fears to nothing will amount; 
 
 We'll soon be down to earth again 
 And call those cowards to account. 
 
 My dear girl answered not a word. 
 
 She'd bravely started on ahead; 
 It seemed to me she scarcely heard; 
 
 Her weariness I sensed with dread. 
 
 My God! A snow flake! Then the wind — 
 An icy blast; — with sullen sigh 
 
 Whipped up the debris left behind; 
 We heard a mountain lion cry! 
 
 Then, all at once, she faltered — fell. 
 
 I took her in my arms once more; 
 In anguish begged her to lie still 
 
 And let me bear her on — before 
 
24 
 
 The snow should hide the path we trod; 
 
 She shivered in my arms and sighed: 
 But soon I knew that only God 
 
 Could save us — and to Him I cried. 
 
 For sudden darkness on us fell; 
 
 Then icy blast, and thick'ning snow: 
 And now the trail I could not tell, 
 
 And where to turn I did not know. 
 
 I wrapped my coat about my love, 
 And in my blouse I stumbled on: 
 
 My burden now unconscious grown; 
 With storm and darkness now I strove. 
 
 I dared not rest — I dared not wait, 
 
 For well I knew that pause meant death; 
 
 I scarce could draw my labored breath: 
 And feared that help would come too late. 
 
 God heard my prayer, I have no doubt. 
 He led me from false paths away, 
 
 'Twas He who turned my feet about 
 And guided me, when I did stray. 
 
 For lo! From out the wintry night 
 
 A beacon-light did I behold: 
 A pine-log cabin met my sight 
 
 'Twas better than a mine of gold. 
 
 And though my throat was parched and sore 
 And I could only breathe with pain, 
 
 I shouted help ! help ! o'er and o'er, 
 And made the welkin ring again. 
 
 There's not much more — my tale is told. 
 
 Two lonely miners heard my cry. 
 They succored us. She did not die. 
 
 My wife and I are growing old. 
 
^251 78 525 
 

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