PS 3531 
 .E234 
 N5 
 1922 
 Copy 1 
 
 •^ TV T T ^-> T^ ^t 
 
 s NICK 4 
 
 55 NACKS 4 
 
 JS THE FIRESIDE FANCIES OF A ^ 
 
 ^ PIPE DREAMER gj 
 
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 JS ^. 
 
 JS^ REV. W. T. PEARMAN St 
 
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'Wtk backs'' 
 
 The Fireside Fancies of a Pipe Dreamer 
 
 by 
 
 REV. w)^T/PEARMAN 
 
 Idle moments flitting fast, 
 Dreaming o'er the now, the past, 
 Filled with aspirations great. 
 Doing naught but dream and wait ! 
 Shall I rue the hours thus spent. 
 Waiting for some great event 
 That may happen ere I die ; 
 Idle moments flitting by? 
 
 Compiled, copyrighted and published by his wife, 
 
 ELSIE PEARMAN. 
 
 ELKIN, N. C. JULY, 1922. 
 
 (3) 
 
P'p 
 
 5 3> 
 
 
 ^Edtcatinn 
 
 Sweet sharer of my earthly state, 
 
 Or weal or woe, for ever true. 
 Thank Heaven for the kindly fate 
 
 Which led .my early steps to you. 
 Though years their mellowing shadows cast 
 
 O'er all the path we two have led, -^ 
 Fond recollections of the past 
 
 Behold thee watching round my bed. 
 And as those days in thought return 
 
 Of thy fond care so kind, so true, 
 My very life doth eager burn 
 
 To prove my gratitude to you. 
 Queen of my life! With homage great, 
 This Book to Thee I dedicate. 
 
 OCU.B77819 
 (4) 
 
1lBtr0spectT0n 
 
 , Alack a day! Well, well! Likewise, Ah me! 
 
 Yet once again, as many times gone by, I find myself in 
 cosey ingle-nook, beside a cheerful burning fire upon an open 
 hearth. My old briar pipe, companionable and glowing, be- 
 tween my lips, and the gong of the old Dutch clock tolling out, 
 in measured beat, the witching hour of twelve. 
 
 One — two — three — instinctively I tell each stroke off as it 
 falls. 
 
 Four — five — six — yes, I know, the old, old year is dying 
 fast. 
 
 Seven — eight — nine-r— how still everything seems around me. 
 
 Ten — eleven — twelve — the requiem of another year is sung. 
 
 Yes, back into the past, gone forever, sinks nineteen 
 
 hundred and ■ , with all its hopes realized or disappointed. 
 
 All its joys and sorrows, gladness and pain gone forever. 
 
 "Ah me!" and I gaze up into the wreathing blue smoke 
 of my beloved pipe. 
 
 Ther«, methinks, I see in mystic, vapory form, the Old 
 Year, with his load of many days, before my eyes. His 
 shoulders bent beneath their weary burden of trials and dis- 
 appointments, cares and woes, joys and pleasures, happiness, 
 success, all bearing down upon him. Cheerful his mien, though 
 with a fleeting thought of sorrov/ on his brow, as if of one, 
 who, going, feign would linger. 
 
 What hopes of eager hearts welcomed his coming! Some 
 to be realized in full fruition, others, alas, too often crushed 
 and lost. 
 
 Good fortunes made or ruined within the narrow span that 
 marked his career. 
 
 Glad lovers joined in Holy Union here, will mark in gold 
 this falling leaf of time. 
 
 And lonely mourners, grieving o'er life's companions gone 
 for aye, will paint, with trembling hand, the sombre hues of 
 woe across time's passing page. 
 
 The happy Mother, Heaven-blessed, will register forever 
 in her heart the year when first the joys of Motherhood became 
 her portion. 
 
 And yet, how many stand beside a tiny bier, and wail and 
 weep for joys forever gone? 
 
 (5) 
 
Ambition, crowned with glory and success must be the 
 portion of full many an one. 
 
 And so, in counter-balance, failure has been the lot of 
 others in the motley crowd of life. 
 
 And crowding here, within the smoke-wreath curled, 
 methinks I see the faces by the score, (nay should I not the 
 rather say the legion,) of those I have described, and others 
 with them. 
 
 Faces whereon I read of love, and peace, and happiness, 
 of hatred, woe, despair. 
 
 Innocent childhood, bubbling over with mirth and glee. 
 
 Youth and maidenhood, full of the anticipation of the 
 future, rather than anything of a retrospective nature. 
 
 Men and women in the full zenith of their life and 
 strength, with happiness, peace, joy and sunshine, or woe, 
 hatred, envy, malice and wickedness depicted upon their brows. 
 
 Old age, in feebleness, full of another looking forward than 
 that portrayed by youth. Either the cheerful anticipation of 
 a longed-for, restful peace enlightens the wrinkled countenance 
 with a beauty all its own — or the haggard and fearful gaze of 
 one who dreads the future and its unknown possibilities distort 
 the features, until, in seeming, all likeness to its Divine 
 Authorship is lost. 
 
 But the year is passing — nay, is past beyond recall. 
 
 If we have had our trials and our woes, I see that we have 
 been given the needful strength to bear them. And they have 
 here and there been alleviated by unanticipated joys and 
 pleasures. 
 
 We have, I see, grown older, and the old world has jogged 
 along and added another cycle to its rings of time. 
 
 Still, if we have learned the lesson of the year, however 
 imperfectly, we have grown wiser and better in its passing. 
 
 Farewell, Old Year! My fire is growing dim. My pipe re- 
 quires another match to enable me once more to frame my 
 dreams in its mystic halo of smoke. And ere I turn in fancy 
 toward thy bright young successor, I will seek the repose of a 
 deeper dreaming, and then, rising betimes, greet in introspec- 
 tion the Glad New Year. 
 
 Yet once again. Old Year, farewell! No human eye shall 
 greet thee more. No human power shall ever stay thy course, 
 launched in the vasty deeps of All Eternity. Farewell! 
 
 (6) 
 
gt:ernttD 
 
 It is only the thought of a dreamer! 
 
 You say with a curling lip! 
 Say! How can you know of the things to be? 
 Of life or oblivion for you and me? 
 Of the yea or the nay of Eternity? 
 
 That we are God's workmanship? 
 
 It is only the thought of a dreamer! 
 
 And your voice still holds the sneer, 
 And you question the proof that before you lies, 
 In the woods and the fields, in the hills and the skies. 
 In the wonder of God's realities, 
 
 As you pose as a world-wise seer. 
 
 It is only the thought of a dreamer! 
 
 You scoif in your days of ease; 
 And you mock at hypocrisy you say, 
 With its two-sided coat, to suit each way. 
 And long-visaged cant, which, day by day. 
 
 Makes prayers, that God to please. 
 
 It is only the thought of a dreamer! 
 
 But say! Should Eternity prove 
 To be a reality after all. 
 
 Will you want on the hills and the rocks to call, 
 To shield you from wrath with oblivion's pall? 
 
 Or trust in Redeeming Love? 
 
 It is only the thought of a dreamer! 
 
 But a dreamer whose mortal ken 
 Surpassing the sphere of our earthly life. 
 Its joy and contentment, its woe or its strife, 
 Bickering, envy, and hatred e'er rife. 
 
 Sees Life Everlasting for men. 
 
 It is only the thought of a dreamer! 
 
 Yet a thought and a dream that is true. 
 Man's destiny wi-apped in this bright golden dream, 
 That justice and mercy unite 'neath the beam 
 From Calvary's Cross; of a love all supreme. 
 And Life Everlasting for you. 
 
 (7) 
 
l^00lung ^-htctd 
 
 Again the evening hour finds me beside my glowing hearth, 
 a misty haze arising from my pipe, whilst around my head there 
 hover prophetic visions as dreamily I gaze up into the smoke- 
 wreaths and ponder upon the future. 
 
 This glad New Year, now opening, with all its wealth of 
 unknown possibilities — what of good or evil will its passing 
 days unfold? 
 
 Just at this moment, on fleeting wing, allured by the 
 fitful Jade, ^'Fancy," thought flew far past the meagre limits of 
 a single year, and so — still on and on, into the great beyond of 
 unborn ages, the mind prophetic drifted dreamily away. 
 
 This little child, that day by day flitters in happy ignor- 
 ance his hours away, must some day reach, God willing, to man's 
 estate; and take upon his shoulders in deadly earnest his share 
 of life's hard battle. 
 
 But where that share may lead him, who can tell? 
 
 Glancing a-head, along the vista of his future years, I see 
 a young man striving to achieve the right. Mounting each 
 obstacle courageously. Defeated often, undoubtedly, still 
 never discouraged; but rather, with a faith, firm and strong, 
 holding to truth as to the lodestone of his journey. Forging 
 each individual link of life so that in the end the chain may be 
 complete. 
 
 In this wise shall the child fulfill his destined course, and 
 life for him, a perfect cycle, will terminate in the roseat sunset 
 of a day well spent. 
 
 But see, the gathering clouds of blue ephemeral haze, that 
 hover round the lamp-glow's softened light, are peopling fast, 
 with many a bright-hued fancy. 
 
 The young year opening bears the thoughts afar, and 
 crowds the brain with fancies vast and weird. And foremost 
 comes, with ever growing and oft repeated insistence, the 
 Query: — "What strides of giant intellect shall man achieve in 
 the ages yet unborn?" 
 
 Beneath the sea we journey to and fro! 
 
 And with our man-made v/ings invade the sky! 
 
 Friend talks v/ith friend — though half a sphere separate 
 them. 
 
 And with instant flash on heaven's ethereal wave, without 
 ;he assistance of even a wire as guide, our messages can be 
 
 (8) 
 
transmitted to earth's remotest bound. 
 
 And yet the cry arises, " 'tis only now begun !" as it might 
 have done; aye, and in some minds doubtless did, in those old 
 days when Watt led captive the mighty giant, Steam, from 
 bubbling kettle-spout, and harnessed him as man's untiring 
 slave. 
 
 Ah! What strides Old Time has witnessed since that day! 
 
 Then, all was rest and peace! Now, with hurry-scurry, all 
 aglow, man rushes from his cradle to his grave! 
 
 Yet still we cry, "too slow!" and forge ahead — annihilating 
 time and space. 
 
 But not-with-standing all the turmoil and strife of the 
 present age as compared with those leisurely and peaceful days 
 of yore, it still remains the fact that the weft of each little 
 individual life must daily run the course allotted to it in the 
 one great plan, which the Master Weaver of all destinies, hath 
 designed. 
 
 Hurry as he may. Old Father Time, with all his lightning 
 speed and chameleon-like changes, must surely admit that there 
 are some things today that do not change with the fleeting 
 moment, but come and go as here-to-fore. Aye, and ever shall — 
 
 "Till the Sun grows cold. 
 And the Stars are old. 
 And the Leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!" 
 
 Fair Cupid still will reign supreme, and entangle many a 
 youth and maiden within the bondage of love's golden chain. 
 And day and night will pass ere Young Dan forswear himself or 
 "Love's Young Dream!" 
 
 The miser still will clutch his golden god, and hug it, as 
 a lover, to his breast. 
 
 The thief, the murderer, the man of vice, still rampant, blat- 
 ant, or stealthy, as is his wont, will, as of yore, prowl or rage 
 along his wicked way. 
 
 And the Star of Peace, from Manger-bed, shall shed its 
 lustre all the world around, till time and space shall vanish with 
 the dawn of God's Eternity. 
 
 But see what crowds of phantoms mingle here and there 
 amidst the smoke-wreaths circling around my inglenook to- 
 night. 
 
 Again a question frames itself within my busy brain. 
 "What shall the passing days bestow, before the year, so 
 young and fresh and verdant here today, shall fade away and 
 be for ever lost in yesterday?" 
 
 (9) 
 
Joy to each waiting heart may come betimes; whilst sorrow 
 shall lay its chastening hand upon the heads of many standing 
 today in eager, expectant anticipation of what the future has 
 in store for them. 
 
 The grim last visitor must be the lot of hundreds who to- 
 day are hale and strong; whilst many a creaking gate will yet 
 remain and hang on rusty hinges to the end. 
 
 But enough of such somber and doleful thoughts. What 
 place have they at this first up-springing of the Glad New Year? 
 The courageous heart will ever meet its fate cheerily, and will 
 not shrink with fear of what that destiny may be. The joy 
 each day bestows it will take in good faith, and, in the very 
 happiness of living, it will sing. 
 
 From such a heart glad songs of praise must arise in recog- 
 nition of the Father's hand, from which all the blessings of life 
 come. Praise and thanksgiving for the good bestowed. No 
 weeping and mourning in the evil hour, (which comes at times 
 alike to all,) but the rather, with coui'age set, and purpose 
 firm, accepting good or evil with true faith, knowing that all 
 is well. 
 
 Ah me! how rapidly pass these fleeting hours! 
 
 Firelight grows dim, and the time for drowsy thoughts 
 draws near. Thoup^hts fraught with downy pillows, well-aired 
 beds, and dreams, compared with which poor pipe dreams are 
 but dull and prosy in their making. 
 
 And yet, could I but picture on my written page all that 
 I see whilst gazing upon the fantastic shapes curling around 
 my head, methinks I'd arouse mankind to higher, nobler deeds, 
 just by the telling. 
 
 But no! My faltering pen craves forgivness, that in so 
 crude and shuffling a manner these irradiant fancies should be 
 clothed and thus masqueraded in so poor a guise. 
 
 Still let the thought be taken as the deed, and my poor en- 
 deavor to present them as in living, speaking pictures, be ac- 
 cepted as kindly meant. 
 
 Try for once, dear reader, if you chance to be a smoker, 
 lie back in your old chair and watch the curl, the ring, the 
 spiral, and each fantastic shape your smoke assumes. 
 
 Then, with mental vision people these same with human 
 forms divine. And having done so, take your halting pen, and 
 find what lumbering, limping, feeble folk will follow in its ink- 
 tracks o'er the page. 
 
 Enough, dear Fellow Smoker, as excuse to you, who have 
 perchance the dreamer's cult, and can, at will, indulge as I 
 
 (10) 
 
have done, my only dope the sweet and fragfi'ant weed. 
 
 But what, to you, Fair Lady, can I offer in explanation 
 here? For you no pipe dream holds enticing arms to solace 
 and begTiile the passing hour. But then, by way of consola- 
 tion, you, with all your wealth of beauty, form and grace, can 
 add the facile pen, the busy tongue, whose power of eloquence 
 no man can vie. 
 
 You need no dope of sweet narcotic weed, to fill your brain 
 with fancies many hued, or guide your pen in telling of the 
 same ! 
 
 But once again the parting way draws near, and we, dear 
 Reader, as all good things here on earth, must, by the inevita- 
 ble law of fate, be sunder riven for a while, and in devious 
 paths depart. 
 
 Hoping ere long to meet you once again, I bid you — 
 
 ADIEU! 
 
 (11) 
 
VxtUTchtx ^tII TOnrtalizBS 
 
 Real poets, 'tis said are born, never made, the factory- 
 turned scribe all are scorning; yet still there are poets — so 
 called — I'm afraid who better had died in the horning. For 
 with the rhyme demon their nature is cursed, and verses like 
 "Rippling Rhymes" jingle; they sit and look wise, then turn on 
 their worst; (to kill 'em our very hands tingle.) They're 
 rhyming, and chiming, and climbing forsooth, up ways that in 
 grammar are shaky; they'd lie for a rhyme, if a blank drew the 
 truth — their morals and life both are quaky. — 'Tis bad when a 
 layman committeth the crime of taking his pen or his pencil, 
 and soiling fair paper with jingles or rhyme, then slopping it 
 round with a stencil. But that is pure innocence, modest and 
 mild, and you and I very well know it — compared with that 
 being, fanatical, wild, — the Parson who poses as poet! 
 
 4*r< 
 
 TOarB TOoraliztng'' 
 
 What's a thought? A word unspoken. What's a word? 
 A thought with wings. Silence this, whilst still unbroken hurt 
 or comfort never brings. But that other in the speaking joy 
 or ill to others bears, wand'ring far, its mission seeking, easing 
 pain or adding cares. 
 
 What's a seed? A plant still dormant. What's a plant? 
 A seed expressed. That — may shadow bring, or torment. This 
 — yet lies in lifeless rest. But a seed, a thought, when planted, 
 must develop plant or word; for the germ of life once granted 
 henceforth will be seen and heard. 
 
 Would you have, at final summing, aught to garner save 
 ill weeds, when the harvest-home is coming? See you scatter 
 honest seeds. For the seed-time aye foretelleth what the 
 harvest vintage bears; peace and profit ever swelleth sowing 
 wheat instead of tares. 
 
 Thus a word, a deed, pertaineth to the nature and the 
 kind of the seed-thought each containeth in the garner of the 
 mind. Watch then with a wise inspecting seed-thoughts you 
 let scatt'ring fall, choose with care, e'er recollecting, words are 
 gone beyond recall. 
 
 (12) 
 
Kb^p Smtlin* ^l0ng 
 
 Though sometimes your sunshine with clouds be o'ercast, 
 "Keep Smilin' Along" every day. The gloom and the shadow 
 will shortly be past and you can assist them away. "Keep 
 Smilin' Along!" 'tis the word of good cheer! ''Keep Smilin' 
 Along!" stretching out toward each ear! The clouds and the 
 shadows will soon disappear, "Keep Smilin' Along!" come 
 what may. Doth sickness o'ertake you? Misfortunes come 
 fast? "Keep Smilin' Along!" every day; you'll soon be re- 
 joicing, the dark days all past, and happiness yours by the way. 
 Then grin, and right with you the world's grin will come; and 
 jovial enjoyment will enter your home; your life will be happy, 
 which erstwhile was bum; "Keep Smilin' Along!" then, I say. 
 With laughter and sunshine, and innocent mirth; "Keep Smilin' 
 Along!" every day. 'Twere better by far, though you owned 
 all the earth, and scowled in a sour-visaged way. Come down 
 from your perch if your dignity wears such solemn expressions 
 and super-fine airs that smilin' or laughter your countenance 
 tears; "Keep Smilin' Along!" all the day. Your sunshine con- 
 tagious will e'er be, if you "Keep Smilin' Along!" every day. 
 Such jovial behavior you never will rue, nor ever have troubles 
 to pay. Then chuck up your head, find your risible string, pull 
 gently, and soon you'll be wanting to sing, because you are try- 
 ing this very best thing. "Keep Smilin' Along!" every day. 
 
 (13) 
 
Batching 3t! 
 
 The wind was tearing along at a sixty mile gait, laden 
 with ice and snow. 
 
 All day long an old-fashioned blizzard had reigned 
 supreme. Traffic, other than pedestrian, was absolutely sus- 
 pended. 
 
 Tired, frozen and bad-tempered, I had reached home 
 nearly two hours behind my accustomed time. 
 
 But, oh! the comfort of it all when that haven of rest was 
 at last made in safety. 
 
 The loving hands of Wife and Bairnies that waited upon 
 me, and strove in many ways to dispel the gloomy scowl that 
 had settled upon my usually benign countenance. 
 
 And then the cheerful supper, with its favorite dishes all 
 just ready, waiting to appease a hunger which battling with 
 the elements had rendered even more than usually keen. 
 
 After that, the romping and fun with the youngsters to 
 take off any untoward stiffness of joints and limbs that the 
 journey home may have designed for me. 
 
 Then, with the little ones tucked up warm and cosey for 
 the night, an old-fashioned visit with her who the years of 
 closer relationship has not changed from the lass my young 
 heart courted in days of long ago. 
 
 But the hours creep on, and she too retires, leaving me 
 happily established beside my hearth, my rocking chair well 
 tilted and comfortable, my box of fragrant weed within easy 
 reach, and I, ready, pipe in hand, to load the same, light and 
 drop off into my usual nocturnal dream of smoky, filmy, vapor- 
 ing ecstasy. 
 
 With such a combination of circumstances as a prelude, I 
 could not wonder at the snort of impatience that I inadvertent- 
 ly emitted, as with the first puffs of smoke the word "celibacy!" 
 crept into my mind. 
 
 And yet, remembering what I had passed through within 
 the last few hours, perhaps the thought was not altogether sur- 
 prising. 
 
 At any rate I found myself in for it, for, try as I would, I 
 was unable to steer fancy's bark into another channel. 
 
 "Celibacy," I moralized, ''noun. Unmarried state; single 
 life." (Webster.) 
 
 A negative existence! 
 
 (14) 
 
Life an empty nut-shell! 
 
 Celibates, I pondered, who are they? 
 
 And for answer comes the thought — "Bachelors, male and 
 female!" and "Old Maids, female and male!" 
 
 See up yonder, in the mysterious wreathing frame, that 
 jovial faced fellow. How he hustles through life. Never a 
 care or a trouble. What matters it that he just "rooms" in 
 one place, and then "meals" where he finds himself? Variety 
 is the spice of life — and he gets it! Sometimes, perhaps, the 
 pie is a little too highly flavored with spice — "but after all, 
 don't yer know, it's pie. Old Fellow, pie, I say! Not the poor, 
 insipid bread and butter you unfortunate Benedicts have to 
 eternally crowd upon a jaded and degenerated appetite." 
 
 How he professes to pity those poor married fools, who 
 have bartered away their liberty — for what? Ah! WHAT? 
 
 "A piece of Rag! 
 A wisp of hair!" 
 
 "An eternal Interrogation Mark, (?) quizzing the going 
 and the coming of a poor fellow night and day!" 
 
 "An ever craving, never satisfied maw! Into which, in 
 an unending stream, one's hard-earned emolument must be 
 poured in an ever increasing volume, to ensure a semblance of 
 peace and comfort!" 
 
 "Poor Devils!" he sighs, and thanks the powers that be 
 that he has resisted temptation, and is, as ever, able to father 
 and mother himself through life at his own sweet will. 
 
 Proud, in his egotistical way, of his vaunted freedom, he 
 swaggers around, the living impersonation of bombast and self- 
 satisfied conceit. 
 
 Envious, perchance, of the quiet, domestic peace he pro- 
 fesses to so much despise. And for this reason the more bitter 
 in his denunciation of it. 
 
 How much, in years to come, when old-age creeps as an 
 insidious foe and takes him unawares, will he regret the years 
 of vain boasting, when he might have provided against the 
 lonely torture of mercenary attendants, and secured the de- 
 voted care of a loving wife. 
 
 But he has had his fling. One cannot eat the pie and keep 
 it too. 
 
 Why pity him? The labor is lost, for he rarely sees him- 
 self as an object needing to be pitied. 
 
 Still, and a gentle smile traverses my benign countenance, 
 I cannot but remember with grateful joy the companion who so 
 recently was sitting by my side, and shedding upon my soul 
 
 (15) 
 
the radiant sunshine of her love. Pity him? Yes indeed, I 
 do pity him, from the inmost recesses of my nature. 
 
 POOR DELUDED FELLOW! 
 
 In rapid succession there pass before my mental vision, 
 scene upon scene. So vivid and true to life are they, that the 
 moving pictures on the screens of many of the greatest and 
 best show-houses in the land, are but faded daguerreotypes in 
 comparison therewith. 
 
 A wide stretching prairie, lonesome and desolate. No 
 sign of human habitation or life greets the eye. Suddenly, in 
 the distance, a figure appears. As it approaches with sham- 
 bling, loping gait, we see that it is a mounted man. Nearer 
 and nearer he comes, and with the gaze of curiosity we watch 
 his approach. A tall, ungainly man, uncertain as to age. Hair 
 and beard of a growth, which, if it became the fashion, would 
 reduce every tonsorial artist in the land to penury and despair. 
 Habiliments that would drive the noted tradesmen of great 
 London's greater Bond Street to apoplexy or suicide. Skin, 
 where-ever disclosed, of a redish bronze, from exposure to 
 every element of the heavens and earth, as would cause the 
 "Noble Aborigrines" of our vast continent to blush with angry 
 envy. 
 
 Unkempt! Ungroomed!! Unclean!!! 
 
 And yet, a fellow-being upon that vast, wild, lonely ex- 
 panse, we feel strangely drawn towards him, and find it hard 
 to check ourselves from rushing to embrace him. 
 
 Such the hysterical influence of desolation. In the 
 crowded mart of a great city he would be an object to avoid. 
 Here, where all was still, and one seems forced back upon one's- 
 self for companionship, a welcome comrade. A God-send in 
 very deed. 
 
 As he draws near he welcomes us in free and easy man- 
 ner, and invites us to accompany him to his shack, (for so he 
 terms the hut in which he sleeps and eats.) The one-roomed 
 dwelling, built of turf, was not very inviting, either outside or 
 in. It being summer, most of the furnishings, which consisted 
 of an old cook-stove, a cot bed, (very dirty,) a large box for a 
 table with a lesser one used as a stool, a kettle and one frying- 
 pan, was distributed around in artistic, if negligent abandon- 
 ment, on the green-sward before the door of the hut. 
 
 Kindling a fire, he hastened, with true western hospitality, 
 to prepare the evening meal. Taking the frying-pan, which 
 was filled with a cake of cold, black grease, he set it over the 
 
 (16) 
 
Hre and proceeded to slice dried beef and other ingredients into 
 the fat. Soon a strong smelling mess was spluttering and 
 smoking over the flame. But some hours on horseback over 
 the open prairie gives the stomach strength to put pretty power- 
 ful blinders over the eyes, especially when the appetite is ap- 
 pealed to by a pungent and savory odor under the nose. 
 
 Without any adoo we set to work as soon as the culinary 
 process was completed, and rounded up a goodly meal to each 
 one's share. 
 
 During the meal, with unconscious and amusing brag- 
 gadocio, mine host talked of his free and untrammelled exis- 
 tence. No carping cares of wife or family for him. His was 
 the only life worth while. Master by day and night. No 
 one to dispute his claim. 
 
 Lonely? Certainly not! He always had his horse, his 
 dog, and the "critters" to talk to, and then there were the 
 chance travellers now and again, which enabled him to hear 
 what was going on back east. 
 
 But the evening twilight grew dim, and before long we be- 
 gan to chat about the country and the folk way back there in 
 civilization. Then through all his braggart air there crept a 
 minor chord of something near akin to regret. 
 
 But the night shadows fell apace, and the picture faded 
 from sight. 
 
 Another side of the story flashes before my eyes. 
 
 THE BACHELOR MAID! 
 
 See her in the busy city as she rushes hither and thither in 
 the turmoil of every-day business. Strong, self-reliant, shrewd, 
 she makes her way and holds her own with confidence against 
 her male competitors. Stronger sex you dare not say, for she 
 would laugh you to scorn. 
 
 Unchaperoned, she makes her way through life. Goes 
 where she pleases, spends or saves her money as she sees fit, 
 and is a kingdom unto herself of which the government is an 
 absolute monarchy, and she sits serenely and securely upon the 
 throne. 
 
 Frequently she will discourse learnedly upon the upbring- 
 ing of children, and, with tender solicitation, lecture her 
 married sisters upon the proper management of husbands and 
 families. 
 
 We smile over her foibles, and sigh, with loving regret at 
 the emptiness of her existence. 
 
 (17) 
 
But she needs none of our sympathy. She knows not that 
 she has missed God's neatest gift to woman; and if she had to 
 superintend her own re-making she would see that the old 
 design was carried out in every detail. 
 
 Poor Sister! May she never feel the need of all which she 
 has missed. 
 
 "It is not good that man should be alone." 
 
 Thus, at the beginning of all time, the Great Master 
 Mechanic of the Universe proclaimed. 
 
 From this standpoint one would infer that single blessed- 
 ness is not the highest ideal of life. 
 
 But there! Who ev«r attained to any "highest ideal?" 
 
 Still through the mist I see crowding faces of bachelors 
 and maids, old and young. 
 
 Faces placid and gay, sour and sweet, some good to dwell 
 upon, others that mar the image of the Divine pattern until it 
 seems impossible to trace a single feature, made "after Our 
 own image." 
 
 Faces that tell the story of disappointment, anger, vice, 
 and others full of that Grace which the world cannot give. 
 
 But fancy strays towards realms of connubial bliss. Ah! 
 that may be a story yet to tell. 
 
 And truth to say, the hour of early dawn approaches fast. 
 
 Having turned down the light, shrouded in gloom which 
 is but slightly relieved by the faint flickerings from the ex- 
 piring embers upon the hearth, I seek the peaceful repose to 
 which the gentle and virtuous meditations of the passing hour 
 has entitled me. 
 
 GUTE NACHT. 
 
 (18) 
 
Secrets ^tnmhi 
 
 On a tree in a garden a little bird sat. 
 
 And chirrupped in innocent glee; 
 With sweet-smelling flowers tho earth was bespat, 
 
 Whilst blossoms of spring decked each tree. 
 With shouting and laughter the children around, 
 
 The air filled with sounds of delight; 
 Thus happiness, gladness and peace all abound 
 
 In this garden, from morning till night. 
 
 I spake to the little bird gently — I said, 
 
 "Now tell me, sweet Birdie, just why 
 The reason the sun shines so brightly o'er-head?" 
 
 "I'll tell you," he sang in reply; 
 "When thoughts are all turned to heaven's brightest light, 
 
 And joy-bells the tune of one's lay; 
 Then sorrow, unhappiness, anger take flight, 
 
 And gladness and mirth will hold sway." 
 
 To the flowers and the blossoms in query I turned, 
 
 "Your secret, I prithee, reveal," 
 My heart v/ith anxiety eagerly burned. 
 
 Lest they, the glad truth, should conceal. 
 "What makes you, dear flowers, such sweet odors exhale. 
 
 Take such beauty of form and of hue?" 
 "We are part of His plan, whose word cannot fail, 
 
 And are fed by His sun-shine and dew." 
 
 The birds and the flowers such answers gave forth. 
 
 To the children I eagerly cry, 
 "How can you of life discover the worth, 
 
 When each must most certainly die?" 
 With bright smiling faces, but wide opened eyes, 
 
 Each paused as they frisked o'er the sod; 
 And hastened to answer, with looks of surprise, 
 
 "Why Sir, 'tis the Gift of our God!" 
 
 (19) 
 
"^ yttiE Child" 
 
 The arrival of a little stranger within our home, with all 
 the accompanying paraphernalia of nurse and doctor, anxiety 
 and joy, colic and vocal exercise, flannel and paregoric, had for 
 some time disturbed our usually peaceful abode, and my noc- 
 turnal musings had had to be dispensed with in order that the 
 graver duties of "PATER FAMILIAS," could be well and care- 
 fully carried out. 
 
 At last, some lengthy period after the momentous event, 
 I found myself once more beside my cheerful hearth, and, sur- 
 rendering to its seductive charms, gave myself up unreservedly 
 to the pleasures of my wonted dreaming. 
 
 A dutiful and loving visit to the chamber overhead, where 
 I found my beloved companion and a wee morsel of red-hued 
 humanity snugly settled down for the night, must have been 
 accountable for the reverie into which I immediately fell. 
 
 "Is there anything half so holy 
 As the innocent love of a child?" 
 
 Dickens never penned a more beautiful thought amongst 
 the legions that flowed from his fertile brain, nor one more trite 
 and full of the inspiration of Divine Truth than that contained 
 in the two-lined Query quoted above. 
 
 Oh! the unquestioning faith and trust that is embodied in 
 such a love. How one's heart thrills at the thought of it. 
 How often has not such a love been the making of some man 
 or woman? The re-making — the re-generation of a crabbed, 
 old, twisted nature? 
 
 Thank God for the Little Children! 
 
 This old world of ours would be a sad and sorry habita- 
 tion were it not for the constant re-juvenation that it undergoes 
 through every strata of its make up. 
 
 With each succeeding year the fields, the woods, the moun- 
 tains and the valleys, the streams and rivers, the beasts and 
 birds, the fishes, the insects and the creeping things upon its 
 surface or within its deepest depths, producing, each after 
 their kind, bring fresh verdure and young life to gladden the 
 heart of man and his Maker. 
 
 And although it is an inexorable law that everything 
 earthly shall wax old, wither and die, and pass out of existence, 
 
 (20) 
 
yet, ere that passing, like shall be reproduced, and we, in 
 ages yet unborn, shall live again in those we leave behind ua. 
 
 The ancient pagan teaching of the transmigration of souls 
 was but a feeble reaching out of the soul that felt itself im- 
 mortal, and, for lack of knowledge of the Infinite, dreamed a 
 dream of perpetual existence, graded in kind in accordance with 
 the manner of the life spent whilst in human guise. 
 
 The almost universal hope, deep bedded in the human 
 heart, whether pagan or Christian, of whatever race, color, or 
 creed, that Eternal Life is the inheritance of mankind, sings, 
 with unfaltering melody, the song of joy in the belief that all 
 flesh is heir to the common lot of our first fore-father, Adam, 
 at whose creation, we are told, God "breathed into his nostrils 
 the breath of life." 
 
 Surely, since the Creator is Infinite and Eternal, the 
 breath which He breathed into His Created Son must also be 
 Eternal, and the inheritance must perforce have been handed 
 down from generation to generation. 
 
 Look at this little, helpless, feeble creature, scarce able 
 to move, lying upon his Mother's breast. With what care, 
 anxiety and suffering was it brought into this world. 
 
 And yet, the angels rejoiced because a man was bom! 
 
 See with what loving care that Mother fondles and 
 caresses it. What are her pains to her now? As nothing in 
 the contemplation of that wondrous miracle, the heaven-sent 
 gift of a clinging, dependent life, given to her to have and to 
 hold, to guide, guard and train, and to be hers FOREVER! 
 
 Earthly ties may in the course of time be broken. The 
 child may live to roam from the old roof-tree. But he is her's 
 P"'OREVER! She looks on beyond the shadows of earthly meet- 
 ings and partings to that Great Day, when the sea shall give up 
 its dead, and the parted ones of earth shall be the reunited ones 
 of Eternity. 
 
 Must not those helpless, clinging hands, which clasp con- 
 vulsively at her finger, form links, strong links, in the chain 
 that shall draw her Heavenward? 
 
 See that Father, bending over his loved wife, with her 
 dimpled, helpless babe. Does not his heart throb as he gazes 
 upon the mystery? Watch him as silently he wipes the mist 
 from his eyes and registers a vow that henceforth he will strive 
 to lead a cleaner, purer life, for the sake of the "Hostages to 
 
 (21) 
 
Fortune" which he has to offer. 
 
 And then, make mental note of the wisdom of that Old 
 Hebrew Seer, r/ho said: — 
 
 "And a little child shall lead them." 
 
 A little child! Ah! how the tongue clings to the simple 
 phrase, as though loath to drop so precious a pearl upon the 
 ears of an unsympathetic audience. 
 
 A little child! God bless the little children! 
 
 What potentialities lie dormant in the breast of "a little 
 child." 
 
 How, in its helpless dependency, it appeals to all that is 
 noblest, gentlest and best in the human heart. 
 
 Even the weary, way-worn, sin-cursed denizen of the 
 haunts of vice and crime feels some appeal to the better, 
 diviner nature that lies deep hidden and buried in the heart of 
 all, however low and degraded, as he contemplates the joys and 
 pleasures, the pains and sorrows of "a little child." 
 
 But we should remember that if they lead our thoughts 
 and aspirations heavenward, we, in our turn, must see that 
 our influence over them tends towards the celestial pathway. 
 For as surely as they in their early days may lead us to holier, 
 better ways of living, so we, as the years go by, may, (and 
 how sadly often we do,) draw them down from the higher plane 
 to the lower level of our earthly, hum-drum existence. 
 
 The Good Shepherd, when He had received the emphatic 
 declaration of Peter's love, in reply to His searching question — 
 "Lovest thou Me?" — admonished him to care for the little ones. 
 "Feed My lambs," was the command of special force which Pie 
 laid upon him. 
 
 "Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them 
 not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." 
 
 "Of Such?" 
 
 Innocence, love, faith, trust, hope, all childish attributes, 
 and all possessed by those who are heirs of Life Eternal in 
 Heaven. 
 
 "A little child shall lead them?" 
 
 Aye, indeed, lead them in the way everlasting. Lead them 
 into that "perfect love that casteth out fear." Lead them 
 into that unselfish love that "seeketh not her own." Into that 
 faith which layeth hold on the Life Everlasting as an ever 
 
 (22) 
 
present part of the life that now is. Into that innocence and 
 love which "thinketh no evil," which "envieth not and is kind." 
 Into that trust that is blind yet confiding; so that even a drunk- 
 en earthly father is followed with loving eagerness and joy. 
 Into the hope that looks forward to joys and pleasures yet to 
 come. The anticipation of the days yet to be. 
 
 With what care should we watch our steps lest our going 
 lead one of these little ones astray. 
 
 Listen to the words of Him who came from His Eternal 
 Home to be a child amongst men. To live, suffer and die that 
 He might lead the lost children of men back to their Heavenly 
 Father's Home. 
 
 "But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which be- 
 lieve in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged 
 about his neck and that he were drowned in the depths of the 
 sea." 
 
 What a warning, what a denunciation, from the lips of the 
 Divine Son of the Eternal Father. 
 
 How we should watch each word and each action, lest we 
 lead any to offend. 
 
 God give us all the grace and wisdom so to walk that our 
 lives shall be as beacons of light showing the way to those com- 
 ing after. 
 
 "A little child shall lead them!" 
 
 How true, when we consider the words of the Great 
 Saviour: — "Verily I say unto you. Except ye be converted, and 
 become as little children, ye shall not enter into the Kingdom 
 of Heaven." 
 
 "Become as little children?" Trust and Obey!" That is 
 the child-like attitude which all must assume if they would 
 claim their heirship to the Kingdom of Heaven. 
 
 In these days of rush and hustle, of conceited, self-centered 
 materialism, how unlike the little child we all become. 
 
 At how early a period in life the very children develop in- 
 to little men and women with all the petty follies, and even 
 many of the sins of our older growth. 
 
 Happy the man who has the gfrace to continue a child at 
 heart whilst his days are passing by. How, in all that makes 
 for righteousness, does he overtop his selfish, egotistical, bom- 
 bastic neighbors. Truth to him is more than an abstract; it is 
 a dead sure reality. Faith is something forever springing fresh 
 and verdant within his bosom, to hold him close to the Ever- 
 
 (23) 
 
lasting. Gentleness, kindness, love, all mean paths in the way 
 of life for him to follow, leading "into green pastures and be- 
 side the still waters." 
 
 "A little child!" My heart goes forth in yearning, bound- 
 ing love at the very thought. 
 
 Give me the child-like faith that clings in loving confidence 
 to its earthly parent, trusting for all, hoping for all, believing 
 all, that I may so take hold on things eternal, trusting, hoping, 
 believing in the All-powerful, All-sufficient Love of my Heaven- 
 ly Father. 
 
 "A little child shall lead them." 
 
 With an added weight of responsibility resting upon my 
 shoulders, as becomes a family man, I passed silently to my 
 allotted chamber. 
 
 "Sleep Sweet!" 
 
 (24) 
 
Faith 
 
 Sitting beside my open window, dreaming 
 
 Of things which might have been, things yet to be, 
 With mem'ry's gentle glow around me streaming. 
 
 Or peering at the hopes a-head, I see 
 Full many a golden mesh of fancy's weaving 
 
 Behind me, broken and bedraggled lay; 
 Yet, looking out, I see with heart believing 
 
 The golden shimmer of a bright'ning day. 
 What though bright hopes behind me have been shattered? 
 
 I see full many a brilliant longing filled; 
 And o'er my backward way for ever scattered 
 
 Bright flowers of joy, that oft my heart have thrilled. 
 And as I look a-head, once more still dreaming 
 
 Of what the future hath for me in store; 
 I see on high the star of hope bright gleaming, 
 
 And still have courage, as in days of yore. 
 And holding fast faith in the Everlasting, 
 
 Firm in the truth — "He doth all things well;" 
 I journey on, all fear behind me casting; 
 
 Nor ever listening for some funeral knell. 
 For why should I, poor mortal, e'er be showing 
 
 My want of faith in gifts from Heaven above? 
 Nor let my heart responsively be glowing 
 
 In humble praise, for the All-Father's love. 
 
 (25) 
 
(SaitgES IBraad and Narram 
 
 Railroads are ^eat institutions, and like colleges, semi- 
 naries, high-schools and prize rings, are frequently the scene of 
 knock out blows handed out to innocence and ignorance, virtue 
 and profligacy the wide world over. 
 
 So to myself I ruminated the other evening, when, having 
 charged and lighted my old friend of briar, I lounged back to 
 luxuriate in dreamy meditations. 
 
 The thought perchance, was neither original or new. 
 
 Had even the ear-marks of age upon it. Never-the-less, 
 there it was, and it started the reverie I am about to relate. 
 As the idea went on it grew and expanded something like this: — 
 
 "Yes, no doubt, that is true, and railroads, as many others 
 institutions in this world, are run on gauges, broad and 
 narrow." 
 
 Steaming along over the broad, level prairies or undulating 
 plains and valleys of our land, the locomotive draws its load 
 of cars or freight over the broad gauges and glides easily 
 thereon. But when one has to surmount steeps — the hard 
 pulling or holding back of real mountain climbing — then we 
 find the roadway lessening in width, and discover that we have 
 to travel over more narrov/ gauges. 
 
 With my canvas covered with its favorite back-ground of 
 smoke and vapor, I see picture after picture rise before my in- 
 ward eye. 
 
 There is an old song which says: — 
 
 "Life is a railroad," 
 
 and I think in many ways the simile is wonderfully appropriate. 
 It certainly is a journey from the "here-to-fore" to the "here- 
 after" which we all must take, over gauges various. 
 
 Up-grade and down-grade, level running stretches, with 
 here and there a mountain height to scale, only to be rushed 
 pell-mell down into the valley on the other side, when we have 
 crossed the divide. 
 
 Tunnels long and short, cold, dank and shrouded in dark- 
 ness and mystery. ' Again, through s.-enery beautiful and 
 varied, or tiresome and monotonous. 
 
 Life! Ah! what is it? Where its commencement or its 
 close? Who can tell? A journey? Yes indeed! But whence 
 
 (26) 
 
came we, and whither are we going? 
 
 Though travelling on together, many seemingly in the 
 self-same car, (whether day-coach or Pullman,) still each soul 
 must leave the train alone, when fate -ihall fix its destination 
 reached, be it at some road crossing, water tank, wayside station 
 or the gi-eat terminal of a busy city. The ruling of the Inexor- 
 able law of destiny cannot be gainsaid 
 
 The Officials of the Road allow, no free passes, and they 
 carry no dead heads. 
 
 When the ticket has run out, the traveller is put off, willy- 
 nilly. 
 
 Many an one starting out in the earliest spring of life, 
 surrounded by parents, guardians, friends, under whose loving 
 and fostering care you would fancy there would be a long run 
 on a Grand Trunk Line; road-bed perfect, gauge broad, and 
 track laid with every care for the safety and comfort of the 
 passenger, has been dropped at some wayside crossing only a 
 few miles on the journey. Whilst others, travelling over some 
 poorly constructed local branch, on an old plug; or perhaps on 
 some narrow gauge line swarming up mountains of difl'iculty, 
 and through tunnels of sorrow, despair and doubt, have gone 
 on as through passengers to the journey's end. 
 
 But see! we are on the arrival platform of a big junction 
 depot. A magnificent trans-continental train is just pulling 
 in, and having secured our tickets, we step aboard. 
 
 We pass through from coach to coach. What a medley of 
 humanity we find. Priest and peasant, maid and matron, age 
 and youth, innocence and crime, all jumbled together. The 
 seats are crowded, and one has not the opportunity of selection. 
 Here, seated side by side, we see the good and the bad, the well- 
 groomed man and the ragged. 
 
 As the journey is resumed we find many strange com- 
 panions relieving the tedium of the way by the exchange of 
 thoughts or observations, who in any other possition in life 
 would scarcely deign to notice one another. And the full force 
 of the oft reiterated statement that "the introduction of the 
 railroad, with its democratic commingling of the people, has 
 been the greatest factor towards the breaking down of Caste 
 prejudices which India has ever experienced," comes upon us 
 with a renewed and redoubled power of conviction. 
 
 The conductor enters and commences to examine the tick- 
 ets in a brisk and business-like manner. Quietly we join him, 
 and looking over his shoulder make mental note and comment 
 
 (27) 
 
upon the destination of our fellow passengers. 
 
 This lithe-limbed youth, sprawling upon a corner seat in 
 the smoker, a heavy bull-dog pipe between his teeth, exhaling 
 clouds of sweet scented smoke, who with the easy and assured 
 egotism of adolescence is airing his opinions on every conceiv- 
 able subject upon his fellow travellers, is going as a freshman, 
 from his Western Home to some distant Eastern University. 
 How amusing he is in his frank conceit. His ticket shows good 
 for a lengthy journey, and he is making the best of it, in his 
 own peculiar way, in gi-atifying his selfish fondness of hear- 
 ing himself talk. Other journeys he may take here-after, but 
 this one will ever remain in his memory as a wonderful event 
 in his life. 
 
 Those children, with bags of books and lunch-boxes neatly 
 packed, who sing and frolic, and make such a commotion in 
 one end of the day coach, will soon leave us on their daily jaunt 
 to school. Gathering knowledge and enjoying the labor, 
 happy their lot and lives. 
 
 Ah! see this couple who seem to need so little of their 
 seat for occupation. Happy, but !-:elf-conscious, they sit whis- 
 pering sweet nothings to one another; gazing into each other's 
 eyes, and every now and then, as if unconsciously, clasping each 
 other's hands, only, with furtive glance around and embarrassed 
 quiet laugh, to release them forth-with. As we pause at their 
 seat, our friend, the Conductor, holds out his hand for their 
 tickets, and the Young Adonis fumbles in his pockets for the 
 printed slips. A little shower of white grain falls to the floor 
 from the disarranged coat and cravat. Then, as she, blushing 
 and laughing, turns to assist him, another similar stream of 
 white falls from the folds of ribbon and feathers of her hat 
 and joins the little pile which he has already shed. 
 
 What need to look at their tickets? Isn't honey-moon 
 written plain all over them? God bless them! May their 
 journey together be for ever over the easy-running, broad 
 gauge track of mutual love and happiness. 
 
 Here a busy Drummer, papers and pen in hand, is making 
 out his order-sheets for "The Firm!" and saving time by work- 
 ing on his journey. "Success, change at Good Fortune Junc- 
 tion," his ticket reads. 
 
 This sleek, portly, pompous gentleman, in the priestly garb, 
 who converses with affable condescension with his fellow travel- 
 lers, and who lays down the law of his own opinions with such 
 dogmatic energy, is travelling towards the goal of "Ecclesiastic 
 Preferment." 
 
 (28) 
 
Sitting avai't, taking no notice of their chance fellow travel- 
 lers, scarsely speaking amongst themselves, is a little group 
 clothed in the habiliments of woe. Two little children, with 
 tear-dimmed faces, cling convulsively to the sides of a gentle 
 woman wearing the recent mourning of a new-made widow. 
 Grief and despair, seem to be looking from those wide strained 
 eyes, and sitting on that trembling lip. They are destined for 
 the "Vale of Tears." And in the baggage-car a-head is another, 
 a still and silent passenger, whose ticket has already been 
 punched, and who has started on his journey to the "Great Be- 
 yond." 
 
 How our hearts bleed for those we have left in the car of 
 mourning. May the balm of time's gentle hand soothe the ach- 
 ing hearts they bear, and may they soon be taking another 
 journey, out from that "Vale of Tears" towards which they 
 are now rushing, back, over green pastures and beside still 
 waters, until they reach the Depot of "Eternal Hope," there to 
 find the peace and consolation they are now needing so sadly. 
 
 Ah, me! but this train is full! Here is a murderer rushing 
 towards his "City of Refuge," there to lurk and hide in daily, 
 hourly dread of detection and punishment. 
 
 Again, a happy lover, fuming at the slowness of the 
 train, (which is consuming space at a mile-a-minute clip,) but 
 which place is so far out-distanced by the rapidity of his an- 
 ticipatory yearnings as he hurries towards his destination of 
 "Cupid's Rest," that he feels as though riding on a side-door 
 Pullman in a lumbering freight train. Striving in vain to hide 
 his impatience, he fidgets and snarls at the swift flying tele- 
 graph poles outside the window. Ah, Lad! the time of your 
 arrival will come at length. May you find, through all those 
 future journeys taken with "Her," that the realization is equal 
 in every respect to the anticipation. 
 
 This bucolic old gentleman journeys quite contentedly to 
 the "County Fair." And if in the end he reaches the Depot of 
 "Blue Ribbon," his life, to him, will not have been lived in vain. 
 
 But it is full time we left the train our-selves, unless we go 
 on to the unsavory Depot of "Bohemianism." 
 
 We ask the Conductor for correct rail-road time, and are 
 horrified to hear him say that it is four-forty-five, and that the 
 sun will rise in half an hour. 
 
 Therefore, as we are slowing down prior to entering the 
 busy City Depot of "Day-Work," we drop off at the Level Cross- 
 ing marked, "Last Snooze!" and creep away. 
 
 Zur ruh! 
 
 (29) 
 
mnt ^sttxxnmmt gntfuiries, and 
 
 Silvery Regent of the night, 
 Beaming down so soft and bright; 
 Tell me, is the story true? 
 "Did that cow jump over you?" 
 Orb the smallest in the sky. 
 Shining in the heavens on high — 
 Whisper gently from afar — 
 "Do you twinkle, Little Star?" 
 Stars and planets great and small, 
 Listen to my eager call! 
 Anxiously I wait reply, 
 "Are there cobwebs in the sky?" 
 
 Vain I waited Who's to blame? 
 
 Never one blarmed answer came! ~ 
 
 T0 H (EnmBt 
 
 Wondr'ous stranger of the sky. 
 Rushing towards the world so nigh, 
 With your tail as bright as new, 
 D'you wag it, or wags it you? 
 Traveller through Eternal Space, 
 With your beauty, strength and grace; 
 Great Celestial Gad-about! 
 Does your Mother know you're out? 
 Glorious wanderer of the night, 
 Causing terror, awe and fright, 
 Tell me, ere from view you whirl. 
 Has your tail the latest curl? 
 Though I waited for reply 
 With disdain the thing passed by. 
 
 (30) 
 
Shctrt CLxxis 
 
 Settling down in my usual cosy corner, my thoughts and 
 fancies wandered from the Highways to the Byways of Life; 
 (The "Back Alleys of Existence," as it were). In the gather- 
 ing clouds floating near the ceiling, my mental vision espied 
 many a straight and zig-zag upon the chart of the interesting 
 journey of life. 
 
 Ah! what a medley of criss-cross marking that chart often 
 shows. Points of distance united by sweeping lines full of 
 beautiful curves, whilst these are frequently interspersed by 
 others cutting off the bend in the road, taking away much of 
 the beauty and symetry of design, but, never-the-less, reduc- 
 ing the distance betwixt these aforesaid points considerably. 
 
 Short cuts? 
 
 Yes surely, short cuts! Leading down Back Alleys, over 
 vacant lots, across neighbors' freehold rights; but not- with- 
 standing all, undoubtedly, "Short Cuts!" 
 
 And I thought as I gazed on them: — "What are short cuts, 
 and whither do they lead?" 
 
 It was on an occasion in early life that I first made their 
 acquaintance. Lessons honestly studied, needing hours of 
 earnest application, led through legitimate paths towards the 
 goal of understanding and scholarship. But the same results 
 in times of test and examination were more easily gained by 
 the use of a "Pony": "temporarily!" 
 
 "Short Cuts?" Certainly. But final issues proved the 
 truth of the old adage: — "There is no Royal Road to Learning." 
 
 How many of we "children of ^n older growth" have to 
 acknowledge, when perhaps too late, that we have proved, by 
 hard-earned experience, the truth of this trite old saying? 
 
 What short cuts, in those far off school days, we have all of 
 us found time and again betwixt the house at home and the 
 old "swimmin' pool" a mile or more away, when the quarter- 
 mile walk to school was too much in such hot weather? 
 
 And when the day grew old, and we sneaked home in the 
 gathering twilight didn't Father know a "Short Cut" to the 
 wood shed? I guess so! And the "Short Cuts" that came 
 from switch or shingle left long impressions, Didn't they? 
 
 (31) 
 
And in the time when peaches and apples were swelling, 
 though still verdant with youth, wasn't it easy to find "Short 
 Cuts" to Farmer Blank's orchard? And didn't the result, even 
 when the visit was undiscovered at the time, sometimes lead us 
 to believe that we had discovered a "Short Cut" to that bourn 
 where : 
 
 "The apples cease fi-om troubling, 
 And stomach ache's at rest?" 
 
 'Nuff Sed! 
 
 ********* 
 
 Short Cuts! What are they? That depends upon the cut- 
 ter! 
 
 When you used to see sweet Angelica home from "Singin' 
 Skule," held in the little red brick School House just down the 
 lane, wasn't it a "Short Cut" to go around by the woods and 
 the meadows? Especially if those said meadows were divided 
 by an awkward stile or two. 
 
 And why, with life's road all before us, should not a three 
 mile stroll with a pretty girl, be a "Short Cut" towards good- 
 ness knows what, in seeing her to her home a quarter of a mile 
 away? 
 
 How often have not such "Short Cuts" as these led to the 
 fulfilment of a destiny? And then again, how often have they 
 not? 
 
 "Short Cuts there be in the aflFairs of men. 
 Which taken in the stride lead on to fortune?" 
 
 Well, yes, may-be, if you are sharper than the law! 
 
 Get-rich-quick schemes, that land the Schemer on the top 
 of the heap, and the schemed — well — out of sight! 
 
 "Short Cuts?" Oh! Certainly! But over thin ice. And 
 too, this is after all a double-barrelled "Short Cut," one way 
 leading from the good old-fashioned path of business rectitude 
 and truth, possibly successfully over the thin and rotten ice of 
 make-believe and sham to the harbor of "Questionable Safety," 
 to b.e found ready-made for all those whose roll is of sufficient 
 fatness; the other leading in an uncomfortably direct way to 
 the, Courts of Justice, and ending abruptly in that palace of 
 detected Cutters the Federal Prison. 
 
 Ah, me! the sadness of the moving show that flashes its 
 pictures upon the smoke clouds overhead at this moment. 
 
 ^ (32) 
 
First I see a youth, the only son of widowed Mother. He 
 seems to be a lad of much promise. But the over-indulgence 
 of a fond but foolish parent has failed to inculcate habits of 
 self-control. Wilful and self-indulgent, he throws away every 
 chance of success and advancement. Too lazy to seek means 
 for his own support, he forces himself upon his poor and in- 
 dulgent Mother. Squandering her small earnings in his more 
 than questionable pursuits. Gradually all show of respect and 
 affection disappear, and when pretence and cajolery fail to ac- 
 complish the end he has in view, he at length resorts to abuse 
 and even violence. 
 
 The scene changes. I see a darkened room. A man with 
 wild, bleared eyes, crouches over a dark, huddled bundle lying 
 heaped up before the empty stove. Through the window a 
 faint ray of moon-light plays, and it seems to concentrate its 
 pale light on that still and awful object upon the floor. 
 Grovelling, he crawls towards it, his eyes starting from his head 
 as in one long, fearful stare. He puts out a nervous, trembling 
 hand as if to touch it, but with a suppressed cry shudderingly 
 withdraws it. He clutches, with horrible energy, at his collar, 
 and pants for breath. Then, without another look, slinks away 
 and leaves the house. 
 
 And what is it that he has left behind him? In the pale, 
 flickering moonlight, see, a thickening stream seems to be 
 oozing from beneath it. 
 
 Ah! See the color! Red! Red! Red! 
 
 Neighbors found her stiff and cold. She had found a 
 "Short Cut" into Eternity over the road of a foolish, indulg- 
 ent love. 
 
 They catch him, red handed. And the swift justice of a 
 country-side lynching, lands him before the Bar of the 
 Judge Eternal over yet another "Short Cut!" 
 
 ********* 
 
 As I gaze the panorama of gloom and crime fades away. 
 
 Thankfully I turn to a brighter scene. A gallant rescue 
 from accident, possibly death, (the victim, a lovely maiden, the 
 hero a stalwart youth,) opens a Short Cut to a life of mutual 
 love and happiness. 
 
 And so it goes all through the journey of life. As the 
 years pass on we find at every turn Short Cuts, leading in all 
 directions. Some to fields of joy and happiness, others to 
 dark and dismal regions where no sun seems to shine. 
 
 With what care we need to chose the path over which we 
 would travel. Taking every advantage of those Cuts which 
 
 (33) 
 
lead to legitimate issues. Avoiding others, however tempting, 
 lest we fall by the way. 
 
 I must away. And blowing out the light, removing my 
 shoes, in stockened feet, I steal silently upstairs. 
 
 Bon soir. 
 
 ^ FBlI;er ?tt\xvC 
 
 When a feller's down wi' trouble, out o' collar, hungry, 
 sick, then's the time to show yer metal, show yer metal, show 
 it quick. Never pause to idly quibble o'er the ethics of ihe 
 case, but, my friend, be up and doin', doin' wi' a cheerful face. 
 For an ounce of "givin' " friendship, handed out wi' winnin' 
 smile, whips a ton of tearful chatter to a frazzle, by a mile. 
 For to talk wi' nasal cadence, and a sanctimonious tone, of the 
 errors he's committed by not stickin' to his own, will not help 
 the sick and hungry, who "lean days" are passin' through; 
 just remember his sad failure might some day occur to you. 
 Better far, wi' heart o'erflowin' from God's bounty, day by day, 
 give wi' lavish hands, bestowin' help for weaklin's on their way. 
 
 ♦^t==£^- 
 
 (34) 
 
ThB H:ermTt» 
 
 A weird old man, 
 
 With tattered garb, and unkept beard — 
 
 Whose hoary locks the wind, with playful glee 
 
 Had scattered o'er his wrinkled, thoughtful brow, 
 
 Whose eye, once bright and keen, had lost for aye 
 
 Its glittering strength of sight, which oft in youth 
 
 Had awed and troubled weaker-minded men — 
 
 Sat crouching, o'er a fire jf branches green, / 
 
 Which, to his body, now, seemed to impart 
 
 No strength or energy, as in days of yore. 
 
 And as he crouched his lips began to move, 
 
 As to himself he muttered, strange and low, 
 
 So that had aught been near they'd scarce have caught 
 
 A sound, but wondering to themselves, have said — 
 
 "What means this man thus talking to himself?" 
 
 But listen well, bend close thine ear and list, 
 
 And the strange words, that rumble from his mouth 
 
 Like distant thunder on a summer's eve, 
 
 Thou'lt hear. 
 
 "Thrice ten long years, apart from all the world, 
 
 Lodged in a cave, bearing this living death 
 
 With fortitude, that in God's good time, 
 
 The curse, which my foul body has sustained 
 
 May be removed, and I become an heir 
 
 To Life Eternal. Thus my life hath been, 
 
 With naught to tend or comfort any day. 
 
 But ever on, through all this length of years, 
 
 My sole companions the wild beasts and birds 
 
 That dv/ell amongst these woods. Thus have I lived 
 
 A Hermit." 
 
 Again grand silence. 
 With all its wealth of untold thought, 
 Around this old man reigns supreme. 
 And now his head is bowed upon his hands: — 
 Those hands that once were firm, and strong, and round, 
 But now are nerveless, weak, with shrivelled skin. 
 And as he sits, thus crouched, a shiver goes 
 From head to foot as with a rough, shrill scream, 
 As of delight to find so weak a foe 
 The wind now bursts upon him, and anew 
 
 (35) 
 
Scatters his locks, and opens up the rents 
 
 In his poor clothes, revealing thus the skin, 
 
 Which, like upon his hands, was shrivelled up, 
 
 And looks as though he lived from hand to mouth. 
 
 And scarce was satisfied. Thus lived this poor, wild soul. 
 
 Enduring fearful tortures, in the hope 
 
 That doing so, he might inherit Heaven; 
 
 Bearing his lot on earth with fortitude 
 
 That would have graced a better, nobler life. 
 
 And made it most sublime. 
 
 Thus, thus he lived, poor soul. 
 But not for long was he thus to endure 
 The tortures of his miserable life. 
 For, as he sat beside the mouldering fire, 
 A deeper shudder passes o'er his frame. 
 And he, as though endowed with wond'rous strength. 
 Leaped to his feet, and with a strange, wild look 
 Gazed all around him, and then suddenly 
 Changed that wild look to one of perfect peace. 
 And with a smile of wond'rous beauty, cried: — 
 "Lord Jesus, great Redeemer, here am I 
 Thy humble servant, and as thou hast bid 
 Me come and dwell with thee, fain would I come. 
 And now cruel world, farewell." 
 Thus having said, he sank upon his face. 
 Ne'er more to rise, until the glorious trump 
 Of God's Archangel through the world shall sound — 
 Quickening the dead, with its mysterious note. 
 That they may stand, as prisoners at the bar. 
 And be condemned or blest, by God, the Judge, 
 And His Almighty Son. 
 
 (N. B.: — The above poem was written during the writer's 
 sixteenth year. It has remained hidden these many years, but, 
 "A First Babe" it asks for a place in this, the first little volume 
 ever offered.) 
 
 (36) 
 
©ft Tnld Tales. 
 
 I had reached home rather past the usual hour, and so, 
 after attending to the wants of my inner man, the dear wife, 
 taking her maternal duties seriously, had gathered her little 
 brood together, and carried them off upstairs to the region of 
 by-lo land. 
 
 Comfortably stretched before the cheerful log fire in my 
 snuggery, the atmosphere around me gradually becoming 
 charged with the aroma of burning pine and my own particular 
 brand of man's comfort, I gave myself up to the witchery of 
 the hour and fell a-dreaming. 
 
 Over-head, the rhythmic tap of my dear one's foot, as she 
 rocked our youngest Olive-branch to sleep, mingled with the 
 crooning of an old time lullaby. It carried my fancy in a chan- 
 nel it had often travelled before. Yet, though worn by many 
 feet, as each succeeding generation, from remote ages, has 
 passed along its way, still, as we in turn take to its path, how 
 full of God's sweetest and freshest blossoms we find it, if, in 
 the journey, we search the hedge rows as we go. 
 
 Yes, methought, an "Oft Told Tale," as I listened to the 
 .song : — 
 
 "Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 
 
 Father will come to thee soon, 
 ' Rest, rest on Mother's breast, 
 
 Father will come to thee soon. 
 ; Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
 
 Silver sails all out of the v/e?t, 
 ' Under the silver moon. 
 
 Sleep, my little one, 
 
 Sleep, my pretty one, 
 
 Sleep." 
 
 but what does it mean to mankind? 
 
 A Mother's love, infinite in its self-sacrificing tenderness, 
 out-stretching, in its divine beauty and strength, all human 
 frailty and weakness, to shelter and protect from pain, danger 
 and distress the heaven-sent gift of a dependent life. 
 
 Ah! what do we mere men know of such a love as this, 
 save as it touches our lives from those dear ones, Mother, 
 Sifter, Wife, Sweetheart? 
 
 (37) 
 
But at the thought the curtain falls, and as it once more 
 rises, I find that the scene is set in the days of long ago. 
 
 Back over the intervening years fancy flashes, and once 
 more I am a little tad beside the knee of my sainted Mother. 
 
 All the dear old stories of childhood's days come surging 
 around me. Mother Goose empties her pack of loved and 
 cherished jingles over and over again but we never tire of their 
 simple beauty. We know the dear little people she sings of 
 intimatsly, and we love them all. Little Bo Peep, Tommy 
 Tucker, Little Boy Blue, Mary so Contrary, Simple Simon, and 
 all the rest, have played with us and sung to us all, and who 
 would be heartless enough to scoff at such friends, even when 
 we leave them behind with our kinder-garten studies. 
 
 "Oft told tales," you say? God bless you, so they are. 
 And God bless the dear Mothers, who in their loving hearts 
 cherish these tales for the little ones who love them. 
 
 Again tha scene changes, and pictured in the shimmering 
 fire-light I see the children's room. Night is falling, and the 
 Mother sits beside a little bed, her hand gently laid upon the 
 sunny head of a little lad, who is kneeling with claspe-' '^^-- ' 
 and bowed head, and reverently closed eyes at her kn 
 
 "Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me. 
 Bless Thy little lamb tonight. 
 Through the darkness be thou near me, 
 Keep me safe till morning light." 
 
 "All the day Thy hand hath led me. 
 And I thank Thee for Thy care. 
 Thou hast warmed me, clothed and fed me, 
 Listen to my evening prayer." 
 
 "Let my sins be all forgiven. 
 Bless the friends I love so well. 
 Take me, when I die, to Heaven, 
 Happy there with Three to dwell." 
 
 "Oft told tale?" Aye! but are we not the better for even 
 remembering those days of innocent faith? 
 
 But see! Yet another scene comes out of the mighty past. 
 
 A Sabbath evening, and the family, Father, Mother, Sis- 
 ters and Brothers are grouped around an old piano, at which 
 one of the girls is seated. One after another the hymns of 
 childhood are sung in sweet unison, enlivened at times by the 
 
 (38) 
 
harmony of various parts, supplied by the older members of th« 
 group. 
 
 "I think when I read that sweet story of old, 
 When Jesus was here among men, 
 How He called little children, like lambs, to his fold, 
 I should like to have been with Him then." 
 
 But the time flits by and the singing is over, and taking 
 "The Book," the Father reads: — "Let not your hearts be 
 troubled, ye believe in God, believe also in me." And so on to 
 the end of the chapter. Then, kneeling, he commends his loved 
 ones and himself into the keeping of the All-loving God and 
 Father. Separating after loving embraces, they seek repose. 
 
 "Oft told tales!" I seem to hear flung at me with sarcastic 
 aneer. Ygs, no doubt; but it were well for us all if we had just 
 such simple faith in these go-a-head days of doubt and ma- 
 terialism. 
 
 What kaleidoscopic changes are once more taking place 
 in the smoke clouds above my head. The bright, happy, yet 
 softened coloring of childhood's first days grows more intense, 
 and takes on a fuller, richer shade, as youth and maiden fair 
 walk across the stage. 
 
 Life seems to gain a deepe ', more real aspect as the years 
 roll on. 
 
 Dreams v/ithin dreams steal over me, as the filmy pictures 
 unravel in the misty atmosphere of my den. 
 
 Oh! the brave thoughts and manly aspii-ations thronging 
 the brains of the dear lads everywhere around us. 
 
 Ah! the tender fancies, the sacred wishes and holy dreams 
 v/af ting through and around those fair maiden heads we see. 
 
 "Bah!" I hear some hoary-headed old cynic exclaim, "such 
 sentimental tommy-rot! Oft told tales." 
 
 No doubt, my disgruntled Friend, but who would change 
 them? 
 
 Nay, rather crowd each brain with fancies rich and rare, 
 and raise the humble cry to the Great Artist, who designeth and 
 fashioneth each Heaven-sent fancy, that the realization may 
 have some of the beauty of the dreaming anticipation. 
 
 But across the fair loveliness of the scene unsightly 
 blotches appear. 
 
 The egotistical conceit of the newly fledged birdling with 
 its impatience towards all forms of parental restraint and au- 
 thority, seems likely to forever upset the equilibrium of the 
 home-nest. 
 
 (39) 
 
Reminiscent by nature, Father, Mother, or some other 
 elderly friend, may perhaps, with loving recollection of dear 
 ones long past over into the Great Beyond, often repeat their 
 stories of the days gone by. 
 
 With ill-concealed impatience, these nevir-gi-own lords and 
 ladies of creation, by look or whisper, strive to gather vulgar 
 amusement from the "prosing" of "chestnuts," little knowing 
 or heeding the wounds they give by their thoughtless rudeness. 
 
 What are the words I see in the smoke wreaths above me? 
 
 "Honor thy Father and thy Mother, that thy days may be 
 long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee." 
 
 And then again, like a college yell, I hear the cry, "Oft 
 told tales." 
 
 Yes, dear young people, 'tis truly an "oft told tale," and 
 never truer one told on this old earth. 
 
 What have these same dear ones, in the days of your in- 
 nocent and helpless childhood, not done and sacrificed for 
 your benefit? 
 
 How that Father has toiled and denied himself that you 
 might not know the horror of the demon "Want," gnawing at 
 your heart-strings. 
 
 What nights and days of tearful, prayerful watching that 
 dear Mother has spent over your helpless, and perhaps fever- 
 wracked form. 
 
 And then again, possibly the more selfish side of this 
 question must appeal to you in some measure. 
 
 It is the inevitable law of nature that all must grow 
 older, and the days will come when you too will feel the pang of 
 just such a heart-thrust as this. How much more poignant will 
 be the wound, if the canker worm of remorse for your treat- 
 ment of your own dear ones in days gone by, is mentally 
 corroding the sting. 
 
 ********* 
 The scene passes on. I enter a mammoth building. It is 
 thronged by an eager, attentive crov/d. Each individual seems 
 to rivet eyes, ears and every sense upon one man, who is stand- 
 ing upon a platform facing them and is talking with earnest 
 eloquence. 
 
 A great Revival is being held, and the people, wrought 
 upon by the spiritual fire and zeal of the Preacher, are roused 
 
 (40) 
 
and touched as only once or twice in a generation it is possible 
 to move them. 
 
 Everything seems ready for a great in-gathering. The 
 danger of delay has been eloquently depicted to the audience. 
 God's awful wrath at the unrepentant sinner shown with lurid 
 words of fire. But tonight the Love of the Great Eternal 
 Father, in the fullness of its all-embracing tenderness has been 
 dwelt upon with simple, direct and compelling force. In all the 
 vast throng there is scarcely a dry eye. 
 
 The discourse is ended, and a beautiful song of faith has 
 been well rendered, when suddenly a woman arises in the 
 midst of the audience, and begins to speak. She is plainly 
 dressed, and evidently belongs to the poorer classes. But the 
 appealing beauty of Faith shines from her face, with its halo 
 of snow-white hair, as she repeats the Twenty-third Psalm, 
 with an occasional running commentary upon the beloved 
 verses. 
 
 "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want." 
 
 Ah! Friends, I would you could all say that with me. 
 "My Shepherd!" praise His Holy Name. With such an one 
 watching over me how can "I want?" Wont you all, who know 
 not His love, take Him as your personal Shepherd now? 
 
 "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. 
 
 He leadeth me beside the still waters." 
 
 What loving, thoughtful, tender care He bestows on His 
 poor sheep! 
 
 "He restoreth my soul." 
 
 No use trying to have a grouch with Him! He restoreth 
 because He is a Shepherd that knows the weaknesses and the 
 failings of each individual member of His flock. 
 
 "He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness 
 For His name's sake." 
 
 Ah! that is the secret. Because I am His sheep He will 
 not let me go astray, for I have taken His Name, and for the 
 sake of that Name, He guides my feet into the "Paths of 
 Righteousness." 
 
 Wont you come to Him? 
 
 Some of you want to, but are afraid you will slide back 
 into the old life. But if you take His Name, and plead for 
 strength and guidance for the sake of that Name, He will lead 
 you into those paths of righteousness. He will not let you go if 
 you ask for help and support "For His Name's sake." 
 
 (41) 
 
"Yea though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, 
 
 I will fear no evil, 
 
 For Thou art with me. 
 Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me." 
 
 The triumphant song of the Ages: — "I will fear no evil!" 
 "Oh! Death! where is thy sting? Oh! Grave! where is thy vic- 
 tory?" Why should I fear? "Thou art with me." Blessed 
 assurance of everlasting strength behind my poor weakness. 
 
 "Thou preparest a table before me 
 In the presence of mine enemies. 
 Thou annointest my head with oil. 
 My cup runneth over." 
 Oh! the care of His everlesting love. No matter what 
 foes beset the path, He satisfieth our every need. 
 
 "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me 
 
 All the days of my life, 
 And I shall dwell in the House of the Lord 
 
 For ever." 
 
 The consummation of my faith as a Christian. For His 
 Name sake goodness and mercy shall be my lot all through life. 
 But not only so — for after this life is ended I shall go on 
 dwelling in His House. "For-ever!" guarantee of Everlasting 
 Life. The little span of our earthly existence is but a drop in 
 the Ocean of Eternity. Then, what are you going to do to 
 prepare for that time beyond? Come, Friend, whilst time is 
 yours! Oh! do not delay! 
 
 Again I hear the sneering taunt of some agnostic: — "Oft 
 told tales." 
 
 Yes, but thank God, ever new and ever true! 
 
 A country gi'ave yard, with its peace and rest, is portrayed 
 upon my ever changing canvas. An open grave, with a little 
 band of mourners gathered around. The casket is lowered, 
 and as the earth falls upon it with solemn thud, \ve hear the 
 words : — 
 
 "We therefore commit his body to the ground • earth to 
 
 (42) 
 
earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 
 
 Another "Oft told tale," Mr. Agnostic; but are not these 
 other words from the service also? And is it not well to have 
 them in our hearts, as a vital part of our faith, that they may 
 mean something more than "words, idle words!" when our time 
 shall come? 
 
 "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; for they rest 
 from their labors." 
 
 But time rushes on apace, and the "wee sma' hours" are 
 once more upon me. 
 
 With bowed head, and solemn mien, I leave my fireside, 
 and seek the reward of well-earned rest. 
 
 Schlar wohl. 
 
 (43) 
 
FlanriBrg f'0ppTBg. 
 
 (Dedicated, In Loving Memory to 
 
 "ARCHIE" 
 
 Who Sleeps In Flanders Field.) 
 
 In Yester-years for joy we stood, 
 
 And gentle, sweet repose; 
 But now, a Sainted Sisterhood 
 
 Our petals bright disclose. 
 For, in the countries "over there," 
 
 Where sleep our silent dead, ' 
 
 In serried ranks of blossomed fair, 
 
 God's Acre we bespread. 
 
 "Sleep, heroes, sleep," we softly sing; 
 
 And dew as tear-drops shed; 
 "May Guardian Angels' shelt'ring wing •' 
 
 O'ershade each lowly bed. 
 For Freedom dear your lives ye gave, 
 
 And Earth, her homage yields; 
 Whilst we poor Poppies, o'er each grave 
 
 Bloom on in, Flanders Fields." 
 
 "God's comfort spread in homes bereft." 
 
 (We softly breathe the prayer.) 
 "And wipe the tear from loved ones left 
 
 In sorrow and despair. 
 For duty nobly carried through 
 
 Much consolation yields • 
 Though hearts still yearn our loved ones, true; 
 
 Lying in Flanders Field." 
 
 (44) 
 
iiRR/VRY OF CONGRESS 1 
 
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