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nub ot^i't Jliunuii 
 
 BY 
 
 MAZIE V. CARUTHERS 
 
 I 
 
 ; 
 
 PRINTED AT THE 
 
 SIGN OF THE 
 
 RAVEN 
 
 1912 
 
T^^.^U 
 
 Hk^ 
 
 fti^r>,i> 
 
 Copyrighted, 1912 
 MAZIE V. CARUTHERS 
 
 Permission is griven to reprint these poemt 
 
 by 
 
 Good HousekeepinK. New England 
 
 Magazine, Town Topics, Munaey. 
 
 Cosmopolitan, Lippincott's 
 
 Vogue, Brooklyn Life. 
 
 Collier's, Harper's 
 
 E>verybody'8, Smith's 
 
 and the 
 
 New York Sun, Herald and Times. 
 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE HOLY THORN 
 
 /gtAME Saint Joseph and his twelve 
 l|L To the shores of Britain; 
 ^^Christmas Day it was, and chill 
 On the crest of Weary- All Hill, 
 (So the legend's written.) 
 
 Welcome none the rude folk gave 
 
 (Oh, the Day so dreary.) 
 Blind their eyes, which could not see 
 That an holy man was he. 
 
 Homeless, faint and weary. 
 
 So the good Saint thrust his staff 
 
 Deep into the sod 
 
 Crossed it thrice in blessing there 
 Bade it bud and blossom fair 
 
 To the praise of God. 
 
 Thus, a miracle he wrought. 
 
 Centuries ago, 
 And since then on Christmas Morn, 
 Every year the Holy Thorn 
 
 Blossoms in the snow. 
 
 s: 
 
THE GUEST AT FOLLY'S INN 
 
 J5|UE road rune wide to Folly's Inn, 
 IIL Through pleasant fields and fair. 
 ^^ And scores of travelers come that way 
 To linger for a year or day— 
 Assured of welcome there. 
 
 Here precious things— love, honor, faith 
 
 Are lost or diced away; 
 Here, revel wearied, eyelids steep 
 And close in passion's poppied sleep. 
 
 Till comes the reckoning day! 
 
 Then we who've lodged at Folly's Inn 
 
 Would hide or steal away. 
 In vain! The Porter waits for toll. 
 His score each cowering, naked soul 
 
 Must pay. God! how I pay! 
 
 **-t> 
 
i 
 
 THE MASKER 
 
 AILY, I don my cap and bells 
 For all the world to see. 
 And play the role, which crucifies 
 The very heart of me. 
 
 But, if unshrinking, through the day 
 I do my bitter task, 
 
 Have I not earned the right, at night 
 To lay aside my mask? 
 
E 
 
 THE ROAD TO YESTERDAY 
 
 HE world is fair, blue skies o'er head— 
 My primrose path shows gay. 
 And yet— betimes, I look behind 
 And long with all my heart to find 
 The road to Yesterday. 
 
 Grass grown and faint the path may be; 
 No signs to point the way 
 Except a kiss, a memory, 
 A sigh, a sprig of rosmary— 
 These lead to Yesterday ! 
 
 What worth To-morrow's unborn hopes. 
 The fragrance of To-day, 
 When once my heart's desire and need 
 Is for the dim, sweet paths, that lead 
 Me into Yesterday? 
 
TRANSIENTS 
 
 APPINESS and I lived a long time together- 
 Fair days, foul days, all kinds of weather. 
 Watched we the moon rise, the sun reach ita 
 
 tether- 
 Happiness and I joyed a long while together! 
 
 Came to my hearth-fire one named Sorrow. 
 Oh, that bleak mom, with its somber to-morrow ! 
 From the gray skies no hope could I borrow. 
 Never less welcome a house-mate, than Sorrow ! 
 
 Weary and long the days that we went. 
 Sorrow, at length, gave place to Content, 
 Since then, the cahn of the years we have spent! 
 Sorrow and Joy gone— lingers Content. 
 
w 
 
 BROCELIANDE 
 
 HE borders of the ancient wood 
 
 Shut out a far world's din. 
 Like watchful sentinels, the trees 
 Whisper the pass word to the breeze. 
 That we may enter in. 
 
 Within the deep heart of the wood 
 
 Filter the pale sun beams. 
 Velvet with moss, grown high with fern. 
 The grreen aisle winds with many a tum- 
 
 The very way of Dreams. 
 
 Broods silence o'er that haunted wood. 
 
 But, on the waving grass 
 A shadow falls— to fade again. 
 'Tis Merlin and his Vivien 
 
 Who watch us as we pass. 
 
THE AFTERMATH 
 
 S when the sunset's ruddy gold 
 Grows dull, and, gathering fold on fold 
 ^Fades quite away,— 
 Till but a glinunering light is seen. 
 The palest wraith, of what has been 
 A glorious day;— 
 
 In sad content, my heart and I 
 
 Resign us to our destiny— 
 
 'Tis happier so! 
 
 Let life's grey twilight shaddows fall. 
 
 If tender memories crown all 
 
 With afterglow! 
 

 A TWO-EDGED SWORD 
 
 AS not the shame that rankled worst 
 When rumor's tongue proved true- 
 That, I had borne courageously 
 As loyal women do— 
 
 What bowed me in the dust, to wring 
 Each day my heart anew. 
 
 Is knowing there has never been 
 The man I thought was You— 
 
GOD'S ACRE 
 
 ^Hjt ARM spring-time rain, fall softly here, 
 1J31 These graves are hallowed ground— 
 '•^^ But shower most tenderly I pray. 
 Upon one little mound. 
 
 Sweet summer roses, shed your wealth 
 
 Unstinted over all, 
 But where a human bud lies dead 
 
 Let whitest petals fall. 
 
 Chill autumn winds, blow never wild 
 Within this place of rest. 
 
 But croon for him a lullabye 
 
 Of dreams on mother's breast. 
 
 Pure winter snow, float gently down 
 On all the sleepers calm. 
 
 But fold my baby warm and close 
 As would his mother's arm. 
 
A MARCH DAY 
 
 DULL grrey sky, — all desolate 
 The fields, which seem to lie and wait 
 ^Some re-creating breath; 
 The bare-boughed trees make moan and sigh. 
 But sleeping nature lists the cry, 
 "Awake, from winter's death !" 
 
 A sudden, subtle change — a note 
 
 Trills sweetly from a bird's brave throat. 
 
 Of timid, patient cheer; 
 
 And earth responsive, feels the throes 
 
 Of new-bom life — awakes— and knows 
 
 That spring, at last, is here. 
 
i 
 
 BLIND 
 
 HE world had been peopled with shadows 
 
 A long and dreary time, 
 Where I groped alone in the growing dusk, 
 
 Till your dear hand grasped mine. 
 
 And God gave me this respite; 
 
 One brief, sweet hour of grace. 
 That I might see and memorize 
 
 The lineaments of your face! 
 
 Then, darkness fell. What matter? 
 
 My world was n'er so bright— 
 For your tender eyes are my light by day. 
 
 Your heart my rest at night! 
 

A BANKER OF SMILES 
 
 JF I knew the place where the joys of life 
 And its smiles, were bousrht and sold, 
 I'd comer that market and buy them in. 
 For your own to have and hold! 
 
 You should be banker of all this wealth— 
 On condition, that once in a while 
 
 You would honor my check for an "I Love you' 
 And a kiss, maybe, or a smile! 
 
» 
 
 A LENTEN COMPROMISE 
 
 O, lady of most mundane ways — 
 Erstwhile,— turned saint for forty days. 
 With mien austere! 
 Religious-like your heart is bent 
 On making me give up for Lent, 
 Some pleasure dear? 
 
 Amen. Thus I'll make strenuous trial 
 
 To do my best at self denial. 
 
 Since you petition. 
 
 And forty days, I will eschew 
 
 My greatest joy, the sight of you. 
 
 On this condition; 
 
 If I deny myself of you. 
 
 Don't think the same return is due 
 
 In compliment! 
 
 Nay, here's my point, if you'll agree 
 
 To give up every one, but me— 
 
 I'll aye keep Lent! 
 
VALENTINE A LA MODE 
 
 /||\H, dear disdainful lady mine 
 l|^I want you for my Valentine. 
 ^-^ Behold here all my stock in trade; 
 Much filthy lucre (Father made) 
 One limousine, one touring car, 
 A horse, at your disposal are, 
 A house in town— and, every May 
 We'll travel anjrwhere you say. 
 No crown or title do I bring. 
 But— money buys most anything. 
 And all that any mortal man 
 Could give you, that I swear I can ! 
 
 And, counting up the final score. 
 Remains one trifling item more ; 
 (Though sadly out of date, I know) 
 One faithful heart I give also. 
 
3 
 
 OLD LOVE LETTERS 
 
 CAST them wholesale to the flames 
 And watch them writhe and turn. 
 
 Like living, tortured thing's, they yield 
 Their secrets as they bum; 
 
 *'I love you" — in handwriting bold. 
 But whether Jack's or Ned's, 
 
 For life of me I cannot tell— 
 
 Both were such young hot-heads! 
 
 "My Darling's"— two or three, blaze out! 
 
 "Devotedly your Jim" — 
 Dear me! How very much in love 
 
 I thought I was with him ! 
 
 "I cannot live without you, Sweet!" — 
 Now, who on earth wrote this? 
 
 **I kiss your hands"— doubtless, because 
 *Twas all I let him kiss! 
 
 "My own!" Oh, love's monoply 
 
 Is bold! "My heart you broke" — 
 
 ■'Dearest"— My lovers' sighs, like wraiths 
 Have all gone up in smoke! 
 
 Not all. Remain some letters which 
 Shall have their pyre apart! 
 
 The others meant just— episodes. 
 But these — cost me my heart! 
 
WIRELESS MESSAGES 
 
 SALK about wireless messages! 
 They simply are not in it 
 Witli those that lovers, far and near. 
 Are sending: every minute. 
 
 A message never fails to reach 
 The heart for which 'tis meant — 
 "I love you" breathed into the air 
 Finds haven where 'tis sent. 
 
 Two hearts that bea I as one know well 
 The code and its vibrations, 
 Nor miles of space can interfere 
 When Cnpid sets up "stations"! 
 
@ 
 
 THE LOVERS' ALMANAC 
 
 HE almanac in which I peer 
 
 For fair or rainy weather. 
 
 Is Nancy's eyes, so darkly clear : 
 
 Sometimes, with sudden wrath they glow, 
 
 Storm signals flash, which plainly show 
 
 That clouds are going to gather ; — 
 
 Then,— when the storm has spent its force. 
 And tears still rain with sorrow, — 
 There's nothing to be done, of course. 
 Except to try a cautious kiss. 
 Which often lifts the heaviest mist. 
 And brings a fairer morrow ! 
 
 The mercury begins to rise. 
 The sun shines through the rain— 
 All glorious now, my Nancy's eyes! 
 And clearing atmosphere prevails, 
 No storm the perfect calm assails. 
 My world is fair again! 
 
St 
 
 A CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 IME was, as Christmas Eve grew near, 
 Of Santa and his twelve reindeer, 
 A little lad, I sat and dreamed — 
 A presence real the old Saint seemed. 
 And on the Night of Night, I'd hark 
 To hear his sleigh bells in the dark. 
 And watch, for fear to miss his face 
 When he came down the chimney place. 
 
 But now, though day dreams throng my mind. 
 No trace of Santa Glaus I find. 
 My Christmas saint has changed. Instead 
 Of jolly, wrinkled visage red. 
 Behold a lady where she stands. 
 The fairest maid in all the lands. 
 Her thrall am I for weal or woe- 
 Sweet Saint, whose crown is mistletoe. 
 
ai 
 
 A RECIPE FOR VACATION 
 
 AKE one suit case and partly fill 
 With oldest clothes and stoutest shoes. 
 But mix no frills nor anything 
 Which lack of care may spoil or lose; 
 
 Add an ang-ler's hooks and fishing rod. 
 Then a book or two, for an idle mood, 
 'Tis when at length on the grassy sod 
 One's favorite author seems most good; 
 
 Stock a fat lunch box, but never leave 
 
 The savor of hunger's sauce behind. 
 
 Add the spice of adventure, a love of romance. 
 
 To a heart at rest with itself and mankind. 
 
 Then up and away, far beyond the blue hills. 
 While the bosky woods are yet sweet with dew, 
 Where Nature* fs heart with her secrets thrills. 
 And the sunshine filters one's being through! 
 
 At the ebb of day pitch a leafy tent. 
 Let peace settle down from the sheltering sky. 
 And rest, in the haven of heart's content. 
 While the drowsy pines croon a lullabye! 
 
AFTER THE OPERATION 
 
 BLUR of light— faint sounds that fret 
 My half —awakened brain. 
 Returning memory, and then, 
 The cruel power of pain. 
 
 My crippled body craves once more 
 In deep, drugged sleep to lie. 
 So nearly spent, why may not I 
 Be left in peace, to die? 
 
 But, piercing through the lethargy 
 Which would my will enthrall 
 (Help, Galilean Mary-Heart!) 
 My little children call! 
 
A HEART TO RENT 
 
 heart to rent! None need apply 
 Except a tenant who 
 Will gnarantee to occupy 
 The whole apartment through!! 
 
 Four rooms there are of goodly size. 
 And erstwhile there have been 
 As many tenants lodging there 
 As there is space within. 
 
 Their applications flattered me. 
 I hated to decline. 
 So portioned each his nook; inside 
 This roomy heart of mine. 
 
 And now I find four occupants 
 Too many are for me. 
 Since peacefully they will not live — 
 Each craves monopoly ! 
 
 That's why I advertise: "Clean, swept. 
 Four empty rooms for hire! " 
 But no one need apply who will 
 Not rent the flat entire!! 
 
SANCTUARY 
 
 HEN I have lost the baby's ring and chewed up 
 
 Sissy's doll. 
 And chased the white Angora up a a tree. 
 And rooted in the flower beds — my comon-sense 
 
 suggests 
 To lie in hiding, might be well for me! 
 
 So, scenting future punishment, I scuttle up the 
 
 stairs 
 And seek a spot to hide my guilty head. 
 For when my Master threatens, "Spare the stick 
 
 and spoil the dog!" 
 'Tis then I hustle underneath his bed! 
 
 There's a nook 'way up against the wall, acces- 
 sible to me. 
 
 Which can't be reach or prodded by his cane. 
 
 And here I crouch complacently, the while with 
 growing wrath 
 
 He pokes about to oust me— all in vain! 
 
 He calls me — tempts me with a bone. I will not 
 
 budge, not I ! 
 *'Come, Pompey!" he commands with grudging 
 
 smile 
 But dogs whose brains are working well, heed no 
 
 such siren voice; 
 They know that rod's in pickle all the while! 
 
 But when the kindly night has drawn a curtain 
 
 o'er my crimes. 
 My blessed Mistress seeks me out, instead. 
 Then, with a humbly wagging tail, I dare at last, 
 
 to leave 
 My vantage point beneath the Master's bed ! 
 
OMAR ON SANTA GLAUS 
 
 YSELF when young, precociously did mock 
 At all the other babies on our block. 
 
 '^'^Reviling tales of Santa Glaus as "fakes' 
 
 Their cherished Ghristmas sentiments to shock ! 
 
 Yea, more especially I loved to paint 
 Our parents masquerading as the Saint, 
 And when my playmates tearfully inquired: 
 'AiNT there A Santy Gkuis?" I'd scoff:' There aint" ! 
 
 But now, with kiddies to the count of five. 
 In Santa's cause with all m-y skill I strive; 
 That day my children find he's just their Dad, 
 I'll be the very sorriest man alive! 
 
THE EVOLUTION OF THE GRANDMOTHER 
 
 (§ 
 
 H, where are the Grannies of long ago, 
 
 The kind that we find in books. 
 
 Who loved to sit and knit all day 
 
 In the sheltered ingle-nooks? 
 
 They were always garbed in softest grey. 
 
 Wore their hair in soft, little curls. 
 
 And had generous pockets of peppermints 
 
 For good little boys anu girls! 
 
 They read "Pilgrim's Progress" and Baxter's 
 
 "Saint's Rest", 
 And oh, 'twas variety rare 
 To don a best cap and go out to tea. 
 Or play at two-hand solitaire! 
 This is at least what the story books say! 
 Now where are those Grannies of Yesterday? 
 
 All Grandmothers now refuse to grow grey. 
 
 Or old, at the years they mock. 
 
 Hair dressed la Pompadour, trim figure hooked 
 
 Into a smart princess frock! 
 
 Garbed a la chauffeuse, she runs her own car 
 
 Young as the youngest hei*self. 
 
 In fact, matrimony may snare her again, 
 
 For Grandma wont stay on her shelf! 
 
 Late.st French novels and problem plays serve 
 
 To amuse her by day until dinner. 
 
 Then, "Bridge" until morning, and at thai gay 
 
 game 
 Grandmama plays the hand of a winner! 
 Then where are the Grannies of Yesterday? 
 Nobody knows, they have vanished to stay! 
 
"Cultivate literature on a little oat-meaV* 
 
 SIDNEY SMITH 
 
 ® 
 
 A REMONSTRANCE 
 
 AT -meal for daily bread! Great Scott! 
 
 I most decidedly will not— 
 Indeed, I'd never dare 
 
 Invite the lovely Muses Nine 
 To breakfast, luncheon and to dine 
 
 On such abstemious fare! 
 
 Nay — some vermouth and Gordon gin 
 With bitters subtly dashed therein, 
 
 I'd joyfully mix up. 
 
 And having warmed us up a bit 
 
 Down to good square meal we'd sit. 
 And eke proceed to sup; 
 
 On chicken gumbo a Creole, 
 
 And something served en casserole, 
 A salad and a sweet. 
 
 Of brandy, just a tiny snack. 
 To bum upon my coffee black; 
 
 This were a menu meet! 
 
 Then, lounging in my cushioned chair 
 Puffing thick clouds of smoke in air 
 
 In after-dinner quiet. 
 
 Nary a doubt in me would lurk 
 
 But that I shall do better work 
 Than on an oat-meal diet. 
 
» 
 
 THE ETERNAL FEMININE 
 
 ING a song of Spinsters! 
 
 My ]atch-key and my flat! 
 
 No brutal rnan to say to me; 
 
 "What have you done with that 
 
 Last dollar, I donated you 
 A month or so ago?' ' 
 
 I love my independence, still- 
 When bums the fire-light low, 
 
 I feel quite lonesome and so small — 
 Mabye I'll marry, after all! 
 
 Sing a song of wedded wives! 
 
 Three meals to plan per day, 
 A cook, to keep and pacify, 
 
 A husband to "obey"! 
 He's very dear, of course, but when 
 
 Both day and night, he's buried 
 Up to his eyes, in Wall Street stocks, 
 
 I'ts stupid to be married. 
 And there are moments, when I'd fain 
 
 Become a spinster once again!! 
 
A 
 
 SPRING MILLINERY 
 
 MAIDEN drew from its big white box 
 
 Her last year's best straw bonnet. 
 
 She twisted and turned it, but oh, dear me, ! 
 
 It had "has been" writ upon it! 
 
 So she vented her rage on the innocent 
 
 thing. 
 Poked holes in last year-old crown. 
 And then, to complete its destruction quite. 
 On its brim danced a vicious break -down! 
 
 The sorry chapeau remained where it fell. 
 
 For several days in a corner. 
 
 When the maiden, for want of something 
 
 to do 
 Pulled it out, like a feminine J. Horner* 
 She found, that because of the twists and 
 
 the dents. 
 The "creation", once perched on her pate. 
 Presented a style very chic of its own. 
 And now, wore a shape up-to date! 
 
 From this, will be seen that Dame Fashion 
 
 decrees 
 No style is too queer, or bizarre. 
 And 'tis comfort to know, when outlandish 
 
 you look, 
 Just that much more modish you are! 
 
AN UNSUNG HERO 
 
 ^JjfltHO comes here? A mass of wounds, 
 t[1|| Uttering groans and awe-some sounds. 
 Clothes naught else save rents galore — 
 Broken nose a-weeping gore. 
 Head tied up in bloody band. 
 Lacking fingers on each hand — 
 One eye closing, t'other hid 
 By a strangely puffed up lid. 
 Black and grimy, decked with scars— 
 Who's this battered son of Mars? 
 
 Listen to my piteous tale 
 
 And a hero's fate bewail; 
 
 He's the man who has been showing. 
 
 In a manner vastly knowing. 
 
 His young offspring, how to throw 
 
 Fire-crackers — to make them go. 
 
 How to make the cannon roar 
 
 As they did in '64; 
 
 Shooting with a pistol too. 
 
 As "we boys us«i to do". 
 
 His sad condition demonstrates 
 What is the day he celebrates. 
 In short, he shows us very plain. 
 The glorious Fourth is here again! 
 
THE AMATEUR HOUSEKEEPER 
 
 
 HAT shall I have for dinner? 
 
 Oh, what SHALL I have to-day? 
 
 Will a mutton ragout 
 
 Be sufficient for two. 
 
 Served up with an omelette souffle? 
 
 How many vegetables? 
 Shall it be salad or pease. 
 Potatoes and beans 
 Or parsnips and greens? 
 Someone advise me, please ! 
 
 What shall we eat? Each morning 
 
 I plan for the day's supplies. 
 
 But that night, to me steals 
 
 The starved specter of meals. 
 
 And— ''What for TO-MORROW?" it cries. 
 
 Breakfast, luncheon and dinner! 
 
 Three times a day without fail; 
 
 I must cudgel my brains 
 
 With scrupulous pains. 
 
 How to fill up the pampered male. 
 
 Mens* love cannot thrive on poor cooking, 
 (At least, so their mothers agree) 
 Thus, I beg on my knees 
 Some kind housekeeper, please 
 Give of your experience to me! 
 
THE WAY OF Al^{ AUTOMOBILE 
 
 ^|T'S up ID the hiils, then down with a swoop 
 ij And over the plain like a bird! 
 ^^It's scorching and skidding around every curve 
 Till most reckless instincts are stirred ! 
 
 It*s a race with the wind to challenge its speed, 
 A rush through vast spaces of air: 
 Long draughts of rare ozone, a lifting cf hearts,— 
 A flutter of wayward loose hair? 
 
 It's a skimming of thankye'mums quick hs a flash. 
 Going higher and higher and higher. 
 Till just as we're reaching the top o' the world 
 It's a Bzzz — TT and a punctured tireT 
 
AT BED TIME 
 
 ^HJtHEN' Mother goes off visiting 
 TJIB I get along all right, 
 ■** And do not miss her very much 
 Till bedtime comes, and night. 
 Of course Dad does the best he can 
 
 He hears me say my prayers. 
 Tucks me in tight, and says "Sweet 
 dreams". 
 Before he goes down stairs. 
 
 But Mother sits down on the bed. 
 
 And plays the Sand Man games. 
 She snoozles softly in my neck. 
 
 And whispers honey-names. 
 Fathers are nice, I wouldn't trade 
 
 Mine off for any other. 
 But when it's sleepy-time, I want 
 
 To cuddle up to Mother. 
 
1 
 
 THE SEVEN STAGES OF A TURKEY 
 
 (a thanksgiving elegy) 
 
 EHOLD me! My majestic mien. 
 
 My plumage golden bronze and green. 
 
 My scornful eye! 
 
 A gobbler turkey. Ah, full soon 
 
 An axe will strike my "crack 'o doom"— 
 
 And I must die! 
 
 Then next, when I am stark and dead — 
 With feathers lax and drooping head. 
 All done with living, 
 'Tis now, my carcass plump will be 
 Plucked, trussed, — and most uncomfortably 
 Stuffed for Thanksgiving. 
 
 Now see me on the serving table 
 Flanked 'round with ev'ry vegetable — 
 In all my glory ! 
 
 The children choose (?) my legs and wings. 
 They'd get them anyway, poor things. 
 (The old, old story!) 
 
 When dinner's over, though bereft 
 
 Of half my flesh, still there is left 
 
 Some good cold meat. 
 
 And with an eye towards Friday's dinner. 
 
 Cook says, — "I' slice this'ere up thinner. 
 
 It must be eat! " 
 
A pot-pourri, not just the same— 
 The festive board I grace again; 
 The chopping knife . 
 
 With here and there a seasoning dash 
 
 Of spice— has made me into Hash! 1 ! 
 
 Oh, such a life! 
 
 Next, neatly garnished, as a stew, 
 I make my farewell bow to you? 
 Not quite ; though very weak with age, 
 There's still one gamut more to run 
 Before my pilgrimage is done- 
 Soup's the last stage! 
 
 At length, my bones are picked and bare, 
 
 A skeleton! The winter air 
 
 Chills me clear through! ^ 
 
 I've served you long, you can t deny. 
 
 Still there's no doubt, you're glad as 1 
 
 To say ADIEU ! ! 
 
DEC 13 1912 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 873 280 4