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A WHISTLING FARMER 
 
 BY 
 
 H. W. RANDOLPH 
 
 i^ 
 
 THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 440 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
 MGMXX 
 
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 Copyright, 1920, by 
 The Neale Publishing Company 
 
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 A WHISTLING FARMER 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Progress 11 
 
 Farmer Jones 20 
 
 The Better Land 23 
 
 Forgotten 25 
 
 The Brooklet and the Child 29 
 
 The Thief of Time 31 
 
 The Rolling Stone 35 
 
 Temper 36 
 
 The Way of the World 37 
 
 The Streamlet 40 
 
 The Indian and the Buffalo 42 
 
 Jim Johnson and His Wife 47 
 
 The Death of John Barleycorn 50 
 
 God's Country 51 
 
 Waiting 65 
 
 Destiny 65 
 
 The Fairy 67 
 
 The Sower 73 
 
 The True Source 73 
 
 The Traveling Salesman 74 
 
 Dishonor 79 
 
 Burn's Statue 79 
 
 The Proposal 80 
 
 The Ships, they All Go Down 83 
 
 The Death of the Flowers 84 
 
 In After Years 85 
 
 Rock Me to Sleep 87 
 
 Venus 89 
 
 The Wedding Ring of Charley Ox 92 
 
 The Trees 95 
 
 The Warning 97 
 
 Johnny Jolt 99 
 
 Pleas Prewett's Watch 101 
 
 7 
 
8 Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Squieeels in the Forest 108 
 
 Hope 143 
 
 Is THIS THE Land 143 
 
 There's Life in the Tassel 145 
 
 Bob White 146 
 
 The Stolen Baby 152 
 
 Mary Glover 154 
 
 I Still Miss Thee 158 
 
 Tired Out 159 
 
 The Bent of All Things 160 
 
 My Country 161 
 
 Goodness 162 
 
 The Columbia River 162 
 
 Execution 164 
 
 I AM A Woman Still 164 
 
 Life 166 
 
 Friendship 167 
 
 These Three 168 
 
 The Battle of Bunker Hill 169 
 
 Meanness Shows 174 
 
 The Laws that Are 176 
 
 The Nightingale 177 
 
 The Spirit 178 
 
 The Goddess of Liberty 179 
 
 Crossing the Delaware ....181 
 
 The Intent is All 183 
 
 The Better Life 184 
 
 The Matterhorn 185 
 
 The Witches of Salem Town 186 
 
 The Ways of God 187 
 
 A Bad Exchange 188 
 
 The Granting Spring 190 
 
 I Love 191 
 
 A Hopeless Bachelor 194 
 
 Homesick 195 
 
 The Babe in the Tree 195 
 
 Bedbugs 196 
 
 The Hidden Goal 198 
 
 The Storm 199 
 
Contents 9 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Bessie Bounton 200 
 
 Elsie Clark 203 
 
 The Leaves that Fall 204 
 
 The Pleasant Way 204 
 
 Advice 205 
 
 Dorothy Barfoote 206 
 
 Sometime 216 
 
 What's the Trouble 216 
 
 To a Dead Fly 217 
 
 A Passing World 221 
 
 Avis Linnell 222 
 
 War 224 
 
 Out for a Ramble 226 
 
 Rebuked 227 
 
 The Goddess op Hope .* . . 232 
 
 In the Spring 233 
 
 The Mystery of Man 235 
 
 A Borrowed Tool 238 
 
 Brothers in Nature 239 
 
 Old Dapple Gray 240 
 
 The Cliff Dwellers 241 
 
 The Unknown 243 
 
 Going Back Home * 243 
 
 The Source 244 
 
 My Daily Prayer 246 
 
 The Greed of One Man 247 
 
 At the Front 248 
 
 The Twig that's Bent 248 
 
 Had I A Wing 249 
 
 The Fairy 250 
 
 The Palace Queen 261 
 
 Why Not 263 
 
 Faith 264 
 
 Hello! In the Morning 265 
 
 The Lady I Love 266 
 
 True Religion 267 
 
 The Orchards of Our Youth 268 
 
 A Foundling 270 
 
 Promptness 271 
 
10 Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Here and There 272 
 
 A Whistling Farmer 272 
 
 When We Lived on the Farm 277 
 
 Migratory Man 278 
 
 The Meadow Lark 279 
 
 Daybreak 280 
 
 The Heirs . 281 
 
 Kate Shelly ^ . . . 398 
 
 My Heart and I 2,99 
 
 The Soldiers Farewell 301 
 
 The Coming Age 303 
 
 The Things that Live 305 
 
 At Rest 305 
 
 Dissatisfied I . . . 306 
 
 Beyond 307 
 
 The Wreck at Eden, Colorado 308 
 
 Carmel by the Sea 311 
 
 The Fleeting Day 312 
 
 The Home 312 
 
 Poesy 314 
 
 Capito Hill Statue 314 
 
 Compensation 315 
 
 My Darling Jim 316 
 
 Our Old Home 319 
 
 Dreams 322 
 
 The One to Choose 323 
 
 The Bird 324 
 
 My Friend 327 
 
 The Aged Traveler 332 
 
 The Rose 333 
 
 Salinda Hanlon's Song 334 
 
 Old Lige Reams ^ . 335 
 
 The Civil Engineer 350 
 
 A Tragedy of Hudson Bay 354 
 
 My Dog and I 362 
 
 What Does it Mean to be an American .... 378 
 
 The Plea of Arthur Alden 379 
 
 Memories 388 
 
 The Maid in Blue 390 
 
A WHISTLING FARMER 
 
 PROGRESS 
 
 To gratify a passion 
 
 That is born within the soul, 
 And finds its sweetest pleasures 
 
 In a long and pleasant stroll 
 Through the varied fields of Nature, 
 
 Whose mysteries unfold 
 A language that is written in the rocks; 
 
 To leave behind the haunts of men. 
 
 And meditate, and dream. 
 Or formulate some daring plan. 
 
 And fortify the scheme. 
 Or scale, perchance, the lofty peaks, 
 
 Or loiter by the stream, 
 In communion with the worlds that lie beyond; 
 
 I went walking in the country, 
 
 In the evening cool and still. 
 When the sun yet threw his shadow 
 
 From the mountain and the hill; 
 But I tarried long to ponder 
 
 O'er an old decaying mill 
 That had ground in the time of our fathers. 
 
 And its water wheel was silent. 
 Where the stream once swirled and hissed, 
 II 
 
12 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And I wondered if the farmer, 
 
 With his heavy load of grist, 
 And the crowds around the river 
 
 Are now as sadl}^ missed 
 As they were in the days of our childhood. 
 
 And its roads were long deserted; 
 
 And the dam was washed away; 
 And the mill a mass of ruins. 
 
 Where the children came to play; 
 And the miller, — aye, the miller. 
 
 He had slept for many a day 
 In some forgotten grave in the churchyard. 
 
 In a spirit of adventure 
 I had stolen through its door, 
 
 That had fallen from its hinges now 
 These many years before ! 
 
 And here I heard the saddest whisper, 
 ''Nevermore, and nevermore, — 
 
 Nevermore, for the mill and the miller!" 
 
 And I found the ancient wreckage 
 
 Of the hopper and the burrs 
 That had wrought so close together 
 
 All along the passing years. 
 And I said, within me, truly 
 
 They both deserve our tears, 
 As a link, in this chain of evolution. 
 
 And musing in its window. 
 
 With my arms upon its sill, — 
 
 A-drowsing o'er the river 
 And the ruins of the mill, — 
 
 I saw the gulf that lies between 
 The sleeper on the hill. 
 
 And the being that we worship as our God. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 13 
 
 Like some vision onward sweeping, 
 
 Now, I saw this homely cast: 
 Here, the miller stood before me, 
 
 And there, went hurrying past. 
 Anon, his work vras finished. 
 
 And his mill was closed at last; 
 But time was ever busy with decay. 
 
 And I felt a tinge of sorrow. 
 
 As I groped amid the gloom. 
 Where dissolution's slimy hand 
 
 Was found in every room. 
 And while I through its portal swept. 
 
 To greet the world abloom. 
 And ponder o'er the feeble works of man, 
 
 I heard the calling of the quail. 
 
 Along the silent wood, 
 Where the mother sallies forth 
 
 With her merry little brood, 
 Through the yard and through the garden 
 
 Where the miller's cabin stood, 
 In an age of the older pioneers. 
 
 And here the two creators left 
 
 For all a passing gleam : 
 In fell decay the one, I found, 
 
 Was drooping with its beam; 
 The other smiled at tide and time, 
 
 While pointing to the stream 
 That glides along forever in its youth. 
 
 And now, it seems, some mystery 
 
 Had wrought this tragic scene, 
 For, just beyond the river, lay 
 
 A valley, rich and green, 
 
14 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 With every indication there 
 That life was just as keen 
 As it was in the days of the miller. 
 
 Its golden han^est fields a-sweep; 
 
 The tinkling of the bell, 
 And cozy cots still nestled deep 
 
 Beneath the shad}^ swell, 
 And, oh, so many things I saw 
 
 That all must know so well, 
 In a long and happy life upon the farm. 
 
 Out where the noble forest trees 
 
 Their giant branches fling. 
 And music from the songsters oft 
 
 Along the valleys ring. 
 Embellishing the trend of life, 
 
 Where man is ever king, — 
 The thought, the deed, the destiny of all. 
 
 Bewitching as the blushing rose 
 That's fawning in the June, — 
 
 Enraptured as a mother's love. 
 When baby learns to croon, — 
 
 Is the garner of the harvest there 
 Beneath the harvest moon, 
 
 A-bringing in the fruitage of the fields. 
 
 The fragrance of its meadow lands; 
 
 The curlew's loud refrain, 
 The swiftness of the ardent mate, 
 
 The nesting down the lane, 
 Recalling hopes of other years, — 
 
 But death, alas, in vain, 
 A weeping willow's trembling o'er her grave. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 15 
 
 And while amid this peaceful rest, 
 
 The shades of evening fall, 
 And higher mount the shadow-lines 
 
 Upon the cotter's wall, 
 A hush of silence swings afar 
 
 And hovers over all 
 The fields and lanes and herds of homing kine. 
 
 And, strolling up the river here, 
 
 Along its winding shore, 
 I caught the faintest murmur of 
 
 Some long and distant roar; 
 And soon I gained an eminence 
 
 And saw the waters pour 
 From a dam as high as the Niagara. 
 
 And, wondering, full long I sought 
 
 The miller and his mill, 
 And close I studied evers^ foot 
 
 Of ground along the hill; 
 But nothing, save some wires 
 
 That were singing dirges still 
 For those who are gone now forever — 
 
 And here, I found the hand of progress. 
 
 Not the miller's wooden wheel. 
 Nor the slow and tedious waiting, 
 
 For the flour and the meal, 
 But the strong and steady working 
 
 Of the swiftly flying steel 
 That strangled the mill and the miller. 
 
 Of former things, so changed they were, 
 
 I scarcely found a trace : 
 The crudeness of the pioneer. 
 
 The contour of his face. 
 
1 6 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 The modern man had come along 
 
 To ornament the place: 
 The builder, with his trowel and his square. 
 
 With admiration deep I saw 
 
 The wonders he displays, 
 Nor time, nor space may fathom it, 
 
 So wonderful its maze. 
 While leaping from its dark abode 
 
 In thunderbolts ablaze, 
 It's startling all the thinkers of the age. 
 
 Unfolding now, through vistas dim 
 
 A brilliant city lay. 
 With factories of vast extent 
 
 Along the ocean's quay; 
 And flags from every nation far, 
 
 A-flutter in its bay. 
 To traffic, and to trade around the globe, — 
 
 From Europe, and the Orient, 
 
 And Nippon's flowery strand. 
 And countries of the Occident 
 
 Where Russian shores expand, 
 And all the islands of the seas. 
 
 And each, and every land. 
 Where man has found the pleasures of a home. 
 
 With endless toil he puts to flight, 
 
 Those puny efforts old, 
 He's yonder, weighing out the stars. 
 
 Or dashing for the pole, 
 'Mid frightful storms and temperatures 
 
 This daring, spirit bold — 
 Goes on and on, regardless of the past. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 17 
 
 His rifle's swept the bow away, 
 
 The helmet, and the lance; 
 And woe betide the noble steeds 
 
 That champ the bit and prance ! 
 The jungles and the lion's den, 
 
 And all that vast expanse. 
 Will be fruitful as the gardens by and by. 
 
 To mark the spot where eminence 
 
 Lies slumbering in the dust, 
 He lightly chips the stone away, 
 
 That hides the marble's bust, 
 That points us to a heritage, 
 
 Bequeathed us as a trust 
 By those who fell upon some field of strife. 
 
 And, he apes the sprite that deftly spreads 
 
 The velvet o'er the flower, 
 And notes the thread the spider spins 
 
 Around her dainty bower, 
 And weaves away the whole night long 
 
 Beneath this subtle power 
 That dissipates the darkness, like the sun. 
 
 The boundless forest fades away, 
 
 The marshy moors are drained. 
 The vineyard's flinging back its smiles 
 
 The pruning knife has trained. 
 And that which he has failed to trace 
 
 Is brushed aside and chained, 
 Awaiting yet, the fullness of its time. 
 
 Existing in a thousand shades 
 
 Of majesty and art. 
 He leaps the most stupendous streams. 
 
 And stabs the mountain's heart, 
 
1 8 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And piles Ms wares of industry 
 
 Upon the trader's mart, 
 To gratify the yearnings of our race. 
 
 And here, among the minds of men, 
 I've seen this forward leap, — 
 
 This spirit, still unsatisfied. 
 That ever slumbers deep, 
 
 And all the nations of the earth 
 Arousing, as from sleep, 
 
 Exulting in a hope that never dies. 
 
 And I've found it all around me: 
 
 In the mower, as it mows. 
 And the language of the planter 
 
 That is talking as it goes. 
 And the waters of the river, 
 
 With its whisper as it flows, 
 In speaking of its growth upon the ocean 
 
 And I've found it in the reaper. 
 That is binding up the grain, 
 
 And the power of the engine. 
 And the beauty of the train. 
 
 And in that mighty motor, 
 That we call the human brain. 
 
 As it labors for the betterment of man. 
 
 And I've found it in the cottage. 
 So inviting, with its flowers. 
 
 And in the blessings that are born 
 Of labor's shorter hours, 
 
 And the meetings, and the greetings. 
 Out among the leafy bowers. 
 
 Where joy abideth ever in the country. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 19 
 
 And l\e found it in the buildings 
 
 For the orphans and the blind, 
 And the soldier, and the sailor, 
 
 And the weak and feeble mind, 
 And in a host of charities, 
 
 For which the world has pined 
 Since time leads us back to antiquity. 
 
 And IVe found it in the trimness 
 
 Of the arbor and the lawn. 
 Like a hope that springeth ever 
 
 At the coming of the dawn. 
 And in that peaceful slumber 
 
 When the working day is gone, 
 And the toiler sinks to rest among his family. 
 
 And I've found it in a struggle 
 
 For the freedom of the mind, 
 That has wounded superstition now 
 
 And left it, faint, behind. 
 And ushered in an era, too. 
 
 Of marvels more sublime 
 Than anything the ancient Records show. 
 
 And I've found it in the factory, 
 
 In the shuttle and the loom. 
 That are turning out the fabrics 
 
 For the bride, and for the groom, 
 And it's always stamped with modesty 
 
 Upon the cheeks that bloom; 
 For labor is the savior of the world. 
 
 And it's present on the ocean, 
 
 In its flight around the earth, — 
 And the hamlet and the village 
 
 That are springing into birth, — 
 
20 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Yet, many of our countrymen 
 
 Still fail to know its worth; 
 For progress is the hope of future ages. 
 
 EoU on and on, thou blessed source, 
 
 Of endless progress, roll! 
 That all who be may find at last 
 
 A culminating goal 
 In some sequestered vale of death 
 
 That liberates the soul, 
 To rise again upon a higher plane. 
 
 FARMER JONES 
 
 My wife she makes her coffee fine, 
 And I just drink it down like wine ; 
 And so I love this helper mine, 
 Because she's sweet as honey. 
 
 And we got married long ago. 
 How long? Let's see! Well, I don't know,- 
 For time glides by with such a flow 
 When two are hap'ly mated. 
 
 And still it seems, since now and then 
 The years are round, 'bout six or ten, 
 But I'd not wage a penny when 
 We stood before the altar. 
 
 And we've some children, — three or four, — 
 I think that's right; but I'm not sure. 
 Hey there, you kids, behind the door, 
 Come out and let me count you ! 
 
A Whistling Farmer 21 
 
 There's Mat and May and Till and Ted, 
 And twins upstairs that's still in bed, 
 And what's that, Molly, what you said 
 About the ones that's absent? 
 
 ^h}^ yes, that's sol There's some at school, 
 There's John and Jay and Jude and Jule, 
 And Helen here upon her stool 
 To mend the children's clothing. 
 
 And, oh, my heart, there 's some more still : 
 There's Ben and Gabe and Frank and Will, 
 That early went our ranks to fill, 
 And fight the German nation. 
 
 NoAv that seems strange as strange can be, 
 But I've not counted them, you see. 
 Since our dear sons went 'er the sea 
 To spread the cause of freedom. 
 
 But then, of course, we're growing old; 
 And yet such things are needless told, — 
 For why of late, our feet get cold. 
 When wife and I go riding. 
 
 But we don 't care ; we 're happy still. 
 When death comes by and leaves a chill. 
 For, she and I have had our fill. 
 Of life's exquisite pleasures. 
 
 And yet we're strong, — both she and I, — 
 In limb, and nerve, and sparkling eye, 
 And, well, we know the reason wh}^ : 
 It's love for one another. 
 
 And in the midst of all that's wrong, 
 This love has been our hobby long. 
 
22 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Assisted by some dear old song, 
 They've bound our hearts together. 
 
 And in this field of changeless right 
 In which we've found so much delight, 
 Preserving still with all our might, 
 We stand upon our honor. 
 
 And pray, what more may mortals do 
 Than fearlessly to thus pursue 
 The ways of peace, — and justice, too, — 
 That fail so oft our neighbor? 
 
 These flour sacks and hams of meat. 
 And things our soldiers love to eat, 
 'Fore God, we think, they're far more sweet 
 Than any prayer that's offered. 
 
 The golden rule's the rule for us, 
 For oft it smothers down a fuss. 
 And when it don't, we take a buss, 
 And jolly on together. 
 
 And so we love our fellow mgin. 
 And do for him whate'er we can. 
 Because we think the better plan 
 Extends beyond the fam'ly. 
 
 And of the sick, and of the poor, 
 Who knock and knock upon our door. 
 Sometimes almost a half a score 
 Depart and leave their blessings. 
 
 And thus it's been since we were wed; 
 The worthy ones are always fed. 
 And early then we're off to bed 
 And lose ourselves in slumber. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 23 
 
 With no regrets for what we've done, 
 We calmly slumber, every one, 
 Till mounts again the rising sun, 
 Beyond the distant mountains. 
 
 And so we've lived an honest life, — 
 .Myself, my children, and my wife, — 
 And by such means we've buried strife 
 Too deep for resurrection. 
 
 And as we've lived we hope to die, 
 Nor do you need to ask us why, 
 For we expect some by and by 
 Will find us blessed forever. 
 
 Out yonder where the wild woods wave. 
 And cawing crows and ravens rave. 
 Some day you '11 find our humble grave : 
 Asleep, — beside our children. 
 
 And what may lie beyond that room. 
 Wherein no flowers ever bloom, — 
 Beyond, afar, beyond the tomb, — 
 We leave this with the Master. 
 
 THE BETTER LAND 
 
 Addressing its mate, a little bird said: 
 
 "My dearest, let's fly far away, far away, 
 
 To a region that's covered all over with bread, 
 
 Where pleasures abide all the day, all the day; 
 
 ''Where the shot of the hunter is scarce ever heard, 
 And the hawks never hide in the sky, 
 
24 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Oh, it's a blessed retreat for each little bird, — 
 It's the home of the sweet by and by. 
 
 "Where the storms never rise, and the floods never 
 come, 
 
 And there's never a thought of the drouth. 
 In that haven of rest, where the wild pheasant drums, 
 
 In that beautiful land of the south. 
 
 "Where the sun rises bright in the soft, gentle mom, 
 Bringing pleasures that few will believe. 
 
 And it sparkles all day o'er the wide fields of corn. 
 Till it sinks to its rest in the eve." 
 
 "What! Exchange our old home and our glade in 
 the hills 
 
 For a sunshine that 's bright in the morn ; 
 And broad flowing rivers and murmuring rills 
 
 For a few paltry acres of corn? 
 
 " I 'd fight to the death for the 1 and of my birth. 
 With a beak that is strong in its might ; 
 
 For all other lands are a pigmy of worth 
 Wlien this one has vanished from sight. 
 
 "There's the nest that we built in yon tall swinging 
 tree. 
 
 In the heyday of life 's early morn ; 
 And my heart ever leaps at the sight of the sea, 
 
 And the place where our birdlings were born. 
 
 "And here's where I welcomed ray first peep of day, 
 And here's where I first made a flight; 
 
 And here I shall live till the ^Master shall say: 
 'Your evening has merged into night. ' " 
 
A Whistling Farmer 25 
 
 FORGOTTEN 
 
 Near a cove along the mountains, — 
 
 And a river deep and bold 
 Where the dashings of the fountains 
 
 Carry down their sands of gold, — 
 There's a valley, like a treasure 
 Lying prone beneath the sky, 
 "Where the toilers smile with pleasure 
 
 'er their fields of corn and rye ; 
 And a mansion, decked with beauty, 
 
 Like the smiling of a bride. 
 In the autumn of the season 
 And the quiet eventide. 
 
 In the quiet eventide it was, 
 
 In the quiet eventide, — 
 In the autumn of the season 
 And the quiet eventide. 
 
 And here a man was walking out, 
 
 Slowly walking to and fro. 
 And a-walking and a-talking sad 
 
 In muffled murmurs low. 
 And then an inspiration came 
 
 And his thoughts began to flow, 
 A-thinking in, and drinking in, 
 
 The times of long ago. 
 And near him now departed friends 
 
 Went strolling down the lane. 
 And he himself was sound asleep, — 
 A little child again. 
 
 A little child again he was, 
 
 A little child again, — 
 And he himself was sound asleep 
 A little child again. 
 
26 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And, then, in looking backward, 
 
 He wondered long to know. 
 How time had fled so rapidly 
 
 In walking to and fro; 
 And what he'd done along the years, 
 
 That are leading to the shore. 
 Where time and opportunities 
 
 Alas ! will be no more. 
 Another turn, upon life's road. 
 
 And he, a full-grown man, 
 Had seen so many cherished hopes 
 All wrecked upon the strand, 
 
 All wrecked upon the strand they were, 
 
 All wrecked upon the strand, — 
 He'd seen so many cherished hopes 
 All wrecked upon the strand. 
 
 And when he turned him round about, — 
 
 An old and feeble man, — 
 And sought within his cloistered home 
 
 To consummate his plan, 
 Much proof he found, in looking o'er 
 
 His records, dim and old, — 
 Ambition rife, had wrecked his life. 
 
 For preference and gold. 
 And when the last turn in his road 
 
 "Was breaking on his sight, 
 With years of youth and jollity, 
 A-merging into night, 
 
 A-merging into night, so dark, 
 
 A-merging into night, — 
 With years of youth and jollity 
 A-merging into night; 
 
 'Twas then he called his friends around, — 
 In whispers soft and low, — 
 
A Whistling Farmer 27 
 
 And he told tliem he had troubles that 
 
 The world should never know; 
 But in the evening of his life 
 
 He had evolved a plan, 
 To scatter wide his millions for 
 
 The betterment of man. 
 ''This guilty gold, and stocks and bonds, 
 
 And fields of corn and cotton. 
 And must I leave them all behind, 
 To die and be forgotten? 
 To die and be forgotten here, 
 
 To die and be forgotten, — 
 And must I leave them all behind 
 To die and be forgotten?" 
 
 And while the shades of evening crept 
 
 Around him, cold and still. 
 He sought behind his bolted dooi^. 
 
 The making of his will. 
 But, suddenly, some steps he heard, 
 
 Come stealing down the hall, 
 And open flung his door wide. 
 
 T^ith dark, and dismal scrawl : 
 ''No lock nor key can hinder me!'* 
 
 The phantom said, and bowed. 
 Then in its place were crape and lace, 
 A coffin and a shroud, 
 
 A coffin and a shroud were there, 
 
 A coffin and a shroud, — 
 Then in its place were crape and lace, 
 A coffin and a shroud. 
 
 "Ho, guardsmen, friends, and servants all! 
 
 There's thieves within my room. 
 They come and go, like shadows, though. 
 
 As noiseless as the tomb." 
 
28 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 ''Where, master, where?" "Why, there and 
 there ! 
 See, the leader wears a frown. 
 Advance, my guardsmen, fearlessly, — 
 
 Advance, and cut them down!" 
 They bore him to his chamber like 
 
 Some slow, and solemn pall, 
 Then all the guards, and servants, too, 
 Went mutt 'ring down the hall, 
 
 A-mutt'ring down the hall, they went. 
 A-mutt'ring down the hall, — 
 
 Then all his guards, and servants, too. 
 Went mutt 'ring down the hall. 
 
 "Remorse," he cried, "remorse at last,— 
 
 Remorse, for life gind death! 
 My feeble pulse, my failing heart, 
 
 Alas, my fleeting breath!" 
 For he had seen, upon the hill. 
 
 His richly tinseled tomb. 
 And guards about its iron rail 
 Where gaudy flowers bloom. 
 But while the throng still surged along. 
 
 Admiring much the scene, 
 He heard no sighs for him who lies 
 Asleep beneath the green. 
 
 Asleep beneath the green out theio 
 
 Asleep beneath the green, — 
 He heard no sighs for him who lies 
 Asleep beneath the green. 
 
 No more, I see him walking now, 
 
 A-walking to and fro, 
 A-walking and a-talking now 
 
 In muffled murmurs low; 
 
A Whistling Farmer 29 
 
 Nor is there aught to stir him now, 
 And cause his thoughts to flow, 
 A-thinking in and drinking in 
 
 The times of long ago, 
 Nor does he see departed friends 
 
 Go strolling down the lane, 
 For he has fallen fast asleep, 
 A little child again. 
 
 A little child again, alas! 
 A little child again, — 
 For he has fallen fast asleep 
 A little child again. 
 
 To shadow forth the sum 
 
 Of man's existence here, 
 A brain was given him 
 To think, and conjure up 
 The servitude of thought. 
 
 A beacon, as it were, — 
 A beacon light to flood 
 The pathways of the mind. 
 
 Along the road to where. 
 
 THE BROOKLET AND THE CHILD 
 
 When the sunshine of the morning 
 
 Comes a-bounding o'er the hills. 
 And youthful hearts are swept away 
 
 By Nature's subtle thrills. 
 In the summer of the season. 
 
 When the songster sings his lay, 
 A little child had wandered off. 
 
 Along the branch to play. 
 And as she loitered on its brink. 
 
 Intent upon her theme, 
 
30 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 I heard the prattle of her talk 
 About the passing stream. 
 
 "How bright your tiny waters glide, 
 
 How wonderfully fair; 
 And oft I dream of you by night 
 
 Above our winding stair. 
 And won't you tell me, little brook, 
 
 Tell me the reason why. 
 That you were made in such a way 
 
 That you can never die; 
 While I am born of tender flesh, 
 
 And flourish for a day, 
 And, like the stubble of the fields, 
 
 I wither and decay? 
 And why should this, my portion be, 
 
 And all my pleasures sever. 
 While night and day continually 
 
 You babble on forever/' 
 ''Nay, nay, not true, my little miss,'' 
 
 The brooklet made reply, 
 ''The Lord hath made us much alike, 
 
 You'll learn this by and by. 
 And still, a change will come to you. 
 
 As one will come to me. 
 When I am buried deep at last 
 
 Beneath the briny sea. 
 And while I sleep a season there. 
 
 Embraced within its wave. 
 You, too, will find a resting-place. 
 
 Within your narrow grave. 
 
 "But we will rise again, sweet child, 
 I, when drifting in my cloud, 
 And you, immensity may seek, 
 Untrammeled by your shroud. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 31 
 
 This long refreshing sleep is but 
 
 A blessing in disguise, — 
 A screen that hides the missing link, 
 
 That penetrates the skies. 
 Have faith, my little sister, faith. 
 
 The laws of growth must win, 
 And in some future summertime. 
 
 We two will meet again. 
 Not here, along this shelving bank, 
 
 Beneath this tangled heather. 
 But yonder, in the depths of space, 
 
 Among the endless ether. 
 And while I grace some setting sun, 
 
 With tints of purple grand, 
 I'll watch for you, my little friend. 
 
 Out in your spirit land. 
 Now, go and join j^our mates again 
 
 In prank of childish play. 
 My master's calling for me loud, — 
 
 My master, gravity. 
 And seek the broader realm of life, 
 
 Where love and hope abides 
 For naught can change your destiny, 
 
 God's providence provides. 
 
 THE THIEF OF TIME 
 
 ''To-MORROv^," says the thief of time, 
 '* To-morrow, — that will do." 
 So every age and every clime 
 These fallacies pursue. 
 
 Her work we see in many things 
 Around us every day, 
 
32 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And unto all, she sweetly sings 
 The summertime away. 
 
 But unto some, — the very wise, — 
 
 She passes out of sight. 
 Where she can flaunt her thin disguise. 
 
 She takes the most delight. 
 
 The indolent have been her field 
 
 Of operations long ; 
 And here she dearly loves to wield 
 
 Her tantalizing song. 
 
 Go, rouse the sluggard from his sleep, 
 
 The idler from his play; 
 And listen, while their murmurs sweep, 
 
 In cadences away. 
 
 The farmer says his grain can wait, 
 
 And off he goes to town; 
 The watcher slumbers by his gate; 
 
 The maiden, by her gown. 
 
 The angler's nodding o'er his rod, — 
 
 Some turtle steals his baitj 
 When evening comes, he'll homeward plod. 
 
 Deploring, loud, his fate. 
 
 "To-morrow," said the thief of time, 
 "To-morrow, — that will do," 
 So every age and every clime 
 These fallacies pursue. 
 
 A messenger, upon his steed. 
 Went dashing far and wide. 
 
 Nor did he stay, nor stop to plead. 
 But ever, loudly cried: 
 
A Whistling Farmer 33 
 
 A flood, a flood! — an awful flood 
 
 Comes dashing down the vale! 
 Be quick to fly, or else your blood 
 
 Will crimson wide its trail. ' ' 
 
 But some, they tarried for the show, 
 
 To watch the waters rave. 
 And down the churchyard, in a row, 
 
 You '11 find them in their grave. 
 
 Ihey heard the song the siren sings, 
 
 And prone they were to list. 
 And beggars oft, as well as kings, 
 
 Are numbered with the missed. 
 
 I saw a j^outh of noble mien, 
 
 Retiring for the night. 
 And through another window pane, 
 
 A trembling maiden white. 
 
 In agitation, to and fro, 
 
 She paced, alone, the floor. 
 And then she turned, with mutters low, 
 
 The lock upon her door. 
 
 Adown the pathway, — swiftly now, 
 
 The hour was growing late, — 
 And then she paused and made a vow. 
 
 And slammed aloud the gate. 
 
 The moon rose o'er the distant hills, — 
 
 A softly brilliant moon, — 
 But love had fled for one who thrills 
 
 A lady's heart in June. 
 
 The flowers that her lover bought 
 Lay wilting in his room. 
 
34 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Until the lady, whom he sought, 
 In disappointed gloom 
 
 Burned all the letters he had sent, 
 
 To light her kitchen fire ; 
 And now his days and nights are spent 
 
 In dissipating ire. 
 
 For she who waited for him long 
 Could wait for him no more, — 
 
 With cheery music and the song, 
 His rapping on the door. 
 
 And thus it was the deed was done. 
 
 Without a word of strife; 
 And promptness here, again, had won 
 
 A true, and noble wife. 
 
 Like streams that turn the wheels around 
 With constancy and power, 
 
 His rival came and searched the town 
 For every fragrant flower. 
 
 And these he laid upon the arm. 
 
 Of one he loved so well, 
 With what result and lasting charm, 
 
 I scarcely need to tell. 
 
 The waters went upon their way. 
 
 The mill was left behind, 
 And long the years, and sad the day. 
 
 The millers ceased to grind. 
 
 And — so it is : " To-morrow yet, — 
 To-morrow," says the thief. 
 
 *' To-morrow, with its sad regret. 
 To-morrow, with its grief!" 
 
A Whistling Farmer 35 
 
 THE ROLLING STONE 
 
 Down the brooklet, down the river, 
 Down the ages that have flown, 
 
 Rolling over, rolling over. 
 Once I met a little stone. 
 
 Down the mountain, down the valley, 
 Down the sloping of the hill, — 
 
 Always plodding on its journey. 
 Always rolling over still. 
 
 'Whither now? I pray you tell me. 
 
 Every movement means a loss, 
 Why not stop and rest forever 
 
 Here, beneath this golden moss?" 
 
 Aye, my friend," replied the bowlder, 
 "There's a being wiser still, 
 
 Than His creature, who has asked me, 
 Why I'm rolling down the hill. 
 
 'Hearest thou yon warbling songster? 
 
 He but answers with his song 
 The command of his Creator: 
 
 'Move along, sir, move along.' 
 
 * Yonder sweep His starry systems ; 
 
 Here's the motion of His wave, 
 See, the Master's moving ever. 
 
 There's no rest, this side the grave. 
 
36 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 *' Here's His spring, beside the pond, sir, 
 Gusliing forth with sparkling life, 
 And whither now ? glass of water. 
 For your daughter and your wife. 
 
 "Wisdom lieth all around us, 
 
 Ever sounding loud her gong, 
 God hath spoken. Why upbraid him? 
 Move along, sir, move along 1 
 
 ''I'm a bowlder, you're my brother. 
 Both are subject to His laws. 
 And I warn you, my kinsman. 
 Nature never seeks a pause. 
 
 "And, with all there is of motion, 
 God is wonderfully strong, 
 And He's told us, through creation: 
 'Move along, sir, move along!' " 
 
 TEMPER 
 
 If temper in your friend should show, 
 
 Go thou straightway and bow to him, 
 For temper, let me tell you so. 
 
 Is well-nigh all there is to him. 
 For what is man without this flame, 
 
 That ever burns its way along? — 
 Just rotten wood and flimsy shame. 
 
 Unless he's strong, extremely strong. 
 In temper, then, go seek your prize. 
 
 And gladly hail it with delight. 
 For in this principle there lies 
 
 The luminosity of might. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 37 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 I SUPPOSE you've heard this story 
 
 With its never-ending din, 
 Like some goblin, gray and hoary, 
 
 Ever trying to break in. 
 Yes, you've doubtless heard it often, 
 
 Knocking, knocking, on your door. 
 But, for fear some one's forgotten, 
 
 I am telling it once more. 
 
 Billy Bottle had a brother, 
 
 And this brother owned a mill, — 
 Bang and rattle down the valley, 
 
 Where the tumbling waters spill. 
 And their father, back in childhood. 
 
 He had taught his boys how, — 
 One, to saw, and saw the lumber. 
 
 And the other one to plow. 
 And so, Johnny, Johnny Bottle, — 
 
 He was master of his mill, 
 And his brother, Billy Bottle, 
 
 Owned a villa o'er the hill. 
 And they prospered in their business, 
 
 With their labor and their trade. 
 And they always banked some money. 
 
 Every venture that they made. 
 But now Johnny, he grew restless, — 
 
 As a miller often will, — 
 With this clatter, hang, and rattle, 
 
 That is ever at it still. 
 And the trees, they grew so slowly. 
 
 That in time, it was, he found, 
 
3^ A Whistling Farmer 
 
 That the farmers made more money, 
 
 From the tillage of the ground. 
 So he went and told his brother, 
 
 How he longed to get away, 
 And be mowing of the meadow. 
 
 And a-tossing of the hay. 
 And they talked the matter over, 
 
 As two brothers often will, 
 But Billy saw tke farm alone, 
 
 Not the miller and his mill. 
 
 And while he led his brother out 
 
 Far strolling arm in arm, 
 Of this and that, in glowing terms. 
 
 He told about the farm. 
 Now, these brothers had an uncle, 
 
 Isaac Walton, if you will. 
 Who had often looked with pleasure 
 
 On the profits of the mill; 
 And this uncle was a farmer. 
 
 And he owned a strapping farm, 
 That was ample with its acres 
 
 Any ruralist to charm. 
 And its richness and its fruitage 
 
 Furnished many with a theme; 
 And its buildings and its beauty 
 
 Were as haunting as a dream; 
 And his success was so noted 
 
 That no longer was it told, 
 ''Look at Walton! See the wizard. 
 
 Every venture turns to gold." 
 And ere long these two had traded, 
 
 Consunmiating every wish; 
 So the one could raise potatoes, 
 
 And the other one could fish. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 39 
 
 And Johnny told his wife of this, 
 
 When he got home again, 
 And danced him all around the room. 
 
 And brought his fiddle in, 
 And played ' ' Old Arkansas, ' ' he did. 
 
 With all his youthful skill. 
 Because he thought he'd made a hit 
 
 In trading off his mill. 
 And Walton bought a lot of hooks, 
 
 A basket, and some line, 
 And smiled so much his friends declared : 
 
 "It's fishing on his mind!" 
 But when at last he'd settled down. 
 
 It wasn't very long, 
 Until his neighbors all could see 
 
 The mill was going wrong. 
 And oft it was the water wheel. 
 
 Or else the saw to file, 
 And Walton's face began to change, — 
 
 A-wearing off the smile. 
 
 And yet he had a longing still. 
 
 Expressive of a wish, 
 And then he'd take his hook and line 
 
 And saunter off to fish. 
 And time it was, and time again. 
 
 When Walton was away. 
 The sawlog men would come to mill 
 
 And wait for him all day. 
 And so it was he lost his trade, — 
 
 The custom of his mill, — 
 Because the fish will better bite 
 
 When everything is still. 
 And Johnny, too, his friends all saw 
 
 He couldn't farm at all; 
 
40 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 For once lie went to planting corn, 
 
 Commencing in the fall. 
 And yet, this man, he knew it all 
 
 Around his mill and saw, 
 But on the farm, he spent some years 
 
 In learning gee! and haw! 
 And some declare he's often seen, 
 
 When days are warm £ind still. 
 To take his chair out on the porch 
 
 And listen to the mill. 
 Or while he sits around his home, 
 
 His mind seems all a blank. 
 And loud he plays the fiddle while 
 
 The weeds are growing rank. 
 
 So these traders both got worsted, 
 
 As such traders always will. 
 When the farmer leaves his farming. 
 
 And the miller leaves his mill. 
 And the mill lies there in ruins, 
 
 On the margin of the stream, 
 And the fields where Walton labored 
 
 They are nothing but a dream. 
 So I leave this lesson with you, 
 
 For there 's many trading still, — 
 Trading, trading, many trading, 
 
 For a poorhouse o 'er the hill. 
 
 THE STREAMLET 
 
 Murmur on along the valley. 
 Little streamlet, murmur on. 
 
 Graceful flitting in your sally. 
 Till the gladsome day is gone. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 41 
 
 Over rocks and riffles gliding, 
 
 As you ever onward pour, 
 Here in peeping, there in hiding, 
 
 'Neath the shelving on the shore. 
 And, to burnish off some gravel, 
 
 Hesitating oft awhile. 
 Then continuing your travel, 
 
 Playful as a little child. 
 Here you eddy, almost creeping. 
 
 Scarcely moving on at all. 
 Then you're dashing, or you're leaping 
 
 O'er some tiny waterfall. 
 And how I envy all your sweetness, 
 
 As you gently onward glide. 
 First at leisure, then in fieetness. 
 
 Past the charming countryside. 
 Flashing out to glimpse some lover, 
 
 Mumbling blessings on his soul, 
 Then retreating, swift, to cover. 
 
 Lest he should thy smile behold. 
 Past the hamlet and the city, 
 
 Growing deeper, growing strong. 
 Slowly changing from thy ditty. 
 
 Into louder, coarser song. 
 Past the workman, at his labor. 
 
 Past the beauty-spots of worth, 
 Ever helpful as a neighbor. 
 
 Barring not the best of earth. 
 Always pleasant, always singing 
 
 Songs of cheerfulness, thou art, 
 And to others ever bringing, 
 
 Gladness to a longing heart. 
 Circling on, and on for ever, 
 
 Down, and downward still you go. 
 Soon to join some stately river. 
 
 And to mingle with its flow. 
 
42 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 THE INDIAN AND THE BUFFALO 
 
 And are these all that's left of thee, 
 These fragments of antiquity, 
 This wily bull, that breathes his last, 
 Symbolic of an age that's past, 
 And he who stoops o'er thee alone. 
 Past monarch of an ancient throne, — 
 This savage here, who seems to see 
 The storm that has o'erwhelmed thee. 
 And does he smile at thy last breath, 
 That ends thy wild career in death? 
 Nay, nay, indeed ; no smile is there, 
 For in this picture he must share 
 This selfsame fate, some afterwhile, 
 That robs him of the faintest smile, 
 And throws a frown across his brow. 
 And holds him dumb, and speechless now. 
 
 And from these plains, far stretching on. 
 These two companions now are gone 
 From every hill and every shore 
 That knew them once, but nevermore 
 Shall hear again their mighty tread; 
 For all of these long since have fled 
 The beauty-spots of plain and crest, 
 Wide sprinkled o'er the boundless West. 
 And where the torrent wears its cleft, 
 Some bleaching bones alone are left. 
 Through all the stretches of our land, 
 And far beyond the Rio Grande; 
 And eastward yet, along the shore. 
 Where the Atlantic's doleful roar 
 
A Whistling Farmer 43 
 
 Sounds like a dirge, when storms arise, 
 And chant their requiem to the skies. 
 
 And so they're gone, these tribes of yore, 
 From every mountain, stream, and shore. 
 This savage, with his tattered tent. 
 That claimed this wealthy continent. 
 And where it dwelt, — this savage race, — 
 Another's come to take its place. 
 And why this change, this wondrous change ? 
 To wild crude men it seemeth strange. 
 But in our own discerning mind. 
 We see a providence that's kind. 
 
 And is it best that we are here, 
 To break and till, and reap the mere, 
 For other ones, whose sterile ground, 
 In regions vast, are strewn around? 
 Let's think of these, all these that's gone, 
 As like the night before the dawn. 
 Consoled by all this mighty host. 
 Extending now, from coast to coast. 
 A thousand now, where once before. 
 But one was found, from shore to shore. 
 And these improvements, all so grand, 
 Far strewn around on every hand, 
 And where were they, had we not come. 
 To plan and build for home sweet home ? 
 
 True, some isolated wigwams stood 
 Along the stream, or by the wood. 
 And here they'd stay till game was gone, 
 And then the band went moving on. 
 While all around these riches lay. 
 With ne'er a thought of husbandry. 
 
44 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 For this wild savage with his frown 
 Was all too proud to till the ground. 
 And then the Lord came by one day, 
 And vowed he'd drive these men away, 
 And give the land to one more wise, — 
 Some one with pluck and enterprise. 
 To turn the sod, and sow the plain. 
 That He had meant for fruits and grain. 
 
 "And now," said He, "I warn you all. 
 Your ways are not my ways at all, 
 And if you don't arouse from sleep. 
 Between these oceans, wide and deep, 
 I'll have to treat you as I've done 
 In all the lands beneath the sun. 
 Selecting but the tried and best. 
 And drive all others farther West." 
 And ere He went upon His way, 
 He warned them He'd return some day, 
 To see if they had changed their plan, 
 And sought to cultivate the land. 
 But while the years they came and went. 
 These savages, they seemed content 
 To sally forth and bend the bow, 
 To slay the wily buffalo. 
 
 And yet, these men of sluggish brains, 
 Who moved about upon the plains, 
 Refused to heed the words of God, 
 Who bade them go and turn the sod. 
 And then it was, Columbus come, — 
 And probably passed around some rum, 
 And lured these natives to his ship. 
 And then he loosed the anchor's grip. 
 And sailed he eastward o'er the main. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 45 
 
 Until he reached the coast of Spain. 
 And there, before his sovereigns told 
 The story that will ne'er grow old. 
 
 But that was in a slothful age. 
 
 Long years before this modern rage 
 
 Of steam, and gas, and whisperings, 
 
 Or man had thought of flying wings. 
 
 And yet, the Lord once more returned. 
 
 And found these natives unconcerned. 
 
 For while two hundred years went by, 
 
 This roving race made no reply. 
 
 Nor was there found a field of grain, 
 
 On all this vast extending plain. 
 
 Nor cities built, nor compact formed, 
 
 To meet invasion's threatening storm. 
 
 For still these native hunters thought 
 
 The Lord would leave what he had wrought, — 
 
 For savages, and idle hands, — 
 
 The wealth of all these endless lands. 
 
 And so he sang his wild songs still, 
 And lived the life a savage will, 
 Who dreameth not of God's one plan. 
 That still exalts our fellow-man. 
 Yes, the years went by, — two hundred now, — 
 Nor was there found a single plow. 
 To break the sod and stir the soil, 
 Nor e 'en a man who sought its toil. 
 And now, the Lord was wroth, and said : 
 "The world cries out for other bread." 
 And then He sent the Mayflower o'er. 
 To plant some seeds along the shore, 
 And chop, and hew, and clear the wood, 
 Along the stream where Plymouth stood. 
 
46 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And North they spread to Canada, 
 And down the coast to Florida; 
 And while the ax and rifle rang, 
 And onward swift the builders sprang, 
 More deeply yet toward the West 
 These poor deluded natives pressed. 
 For other ships behind this trailed, 
 And o'er the wide Atlantic sailed, 
 And landings made along the shore, 
 And built where none had built before. 
 And cities sprang on every side; 
 And commerce swept the oceans wide; 
 And bread was sent to every shore, 
 Around the earth to feed the poor. 
 
 < i 
 
 And then the Lord was heard to say: 
 
 I hail thee oft, America!" 
 
 And there He stood, and smiled, and smiled, 
 
 And said He loved His youngest child. 
 
 And press, " said He, ''press boldly on; 
 
 For scarce your day has seen its dawn. 
 
 And of this race, that's gone before. 
 
 No enmity to them I bore, 
 
 But none shall occupy my land. 
 
 Unless I find they still expand. 
 
 And love your soil, and keep it new, 
 
 If not, in time, I'll damn you, too. 
 
 For here's the gem of greatest worth, 
 
 These vales that fructify the earth ! ' ' 
 
 Then come, my friends, let's take a hand 
 
 In all the glories of our land, 
 
 And show our God we're worthy men. 
 
 And mean to be until the end. 
 
 And then I'm sure, He'll laugh out loud, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 47 
 
 And say, because He feels so proud: 
 "Behold in these, — these broader minds, 
 Here's where the vine of progress twines, 
 These Lincolns, and these Jeffersons, 
 And these immortal AYashingtons, 
 And all the rest that helped to lay 
 The keel that floats America." 
 
 JIM JOHNSON AND HIS WIFE 
 
 Jim Johnson, he got up one mom, 
 
 And Jim walked down to town, 
 And when he'd reached the business part. 
 
 He walked and walked around; 
 Until, at last, along the way 
 
 He found a big saloon. 
 Then Jim walked in and called for grog. 
 
 And there he drank till noon. 
 And danced his jigs, and sang his songs. 
 
 And had a world of fun. 
 Until he whispered o'er the bar: 
 
 "I've not a cent of mun." 
 And then it was, they threw him out. 
 
 Upon the stony street. 
 And blacked his eyes, and broke his nose, 
 
 And kicked him with their feet. 
 But Jim, he made so loud a noise, 
 
 While yet they held him down. 
 The cops come running through the streets. 
 
 From all the dives in town. 
 And then they took him off to jail, — 
 
 Behind some prison bars, — 
 And Jim looked like a slaughter house, 
 
 A-bleeding from his scars. 
 
48 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And yet, next day they lined him up, 
 
 Along with forty more. 
 And every man along the line 
 
 Was evidently poor. 
 And Jim, they give him thirty days. 
 
 And made him pay a fine, 
 And sent him off a-pounding rock, 
 
 To pacify his mind. 
 And when he got that straightened up. 
 
 He went and drank some more, 
 For Jim, you see, had done this thing 
 
 A hundred times before. 
 
 And then his wife, she come to town, 
 
 With twins upon her arm, 
 And she said: "Jim was always good 
 
 When he was on the farm. 
 He'd milk the cows, and churn the cream, 
 
 And hoe the cabbage patch. 
 And as for generosity. 
 
 You couldn't find his match. 
 And we are farmers, Jim and I, 
 
 And lead a farmer's life. 
 And there we're held in high respect. 
 
 As 'Johnson and his wife.' 
 And while we live among our friends 
 
 Along the shady lane, 
 Some strangers oft come in to sup. 
 
 And shelter from the rain. 
 And Jim, you see, won't charge a cent. 
 
 No matter who may come, 
 And oft he's said they ought to do 
 
 The same with beer and rum. 
 Instead, they've gone and beat him up. 
 
 And took him off to jail, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 49 
 
 And coming into town this morn, 
 
 I found his bloody trail. 
 And then I sought the magistrate, 
 
 The mayor of the town ; 
 But when he saw my tearful face, 
 
 He met me with a frown. 
 And when I spoke about our home 
 
 Along the shady lane, 
 At me he smiled derisively. 
 
 And said to call again. 
 And while I plead the best I could. 
 
 With this, my sobbing tone. 
 As like a flash he turned away 
 
 And left me there alone. 
 God help these babies that we've got. 
 
 These twins upon my arm, 
 If this keeps on much longer now 
 
 We're bound to lose our farm." 
 
 And you, my friends, take my advice: 
 
 When you go down to town, 
 And when you reach the business part, 
 
 And walk and walk around, 
 Don't go and do as Jimmy did, — 
 
 Don't hunt the big saloon. 
 And walk right in and order grog, 
 
 And drink and drink till noon; 
 And dance your jigs, and sing your songs 
 
 And whisper o'er the bar; 
 For if you do you '11 soon find out 
 
 The gates are not ajar. 
 '*^And what became of her," you ask, 
 
 **With twins upon her arm? 
 And was her prophecy correct. 
 
 About their little farm?" 
 
50 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And shame, as well, the state, 
 And shame onr cities, great and small. 
 
 Providing such a fate. 
 For Jim 's been gone these many years. 
 
 But other Jims, alas, 
 Have come to take Jim Johnson's place, 
 
 Asleep beneath the grass. 
 And while they lost their little home 
 
 Along the shady lane. 
 Where travelers, aweary, sought 
 
 A shelter from the rain, 
 More poignant yet than all of this 
 
 Is that eternal blight 
 That comes to haunt a ruined life, 
 
 And make it dark as night. 
 
 THE DEATH OF JOHN BARLEYCORN 
 
 It's up to you, John Barleycorn, 
 
 It is, as sure as you are born! 
 
 And so we've come, your grace to warn, 
 
 And break your demijohn. 
 
 And go and lock your brewery up. 
 
 And smash your kegs, and every cup, 
 
 For ne'er again we'll drink a sup. 
 
 Of poison o'er your counter. 
 
 And, John, this thing has come to stay, 
 
 As sure as light brings on the day, 
 
 Or men grow feeble, old, and gray, 
 
 Along the passing years. 
 
 And for your plight, John Barleycorn, 
 
 All broken-hearted and forlorn. 
 
 The world has naught but endless scorn 
 
 For those who seek her ruin. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 51 
 
 But, John, know this, you're only one 
 
 That 's cursed our race since we begun, 
 
 And played their pranks, and had their fun, 
 
 Before they slept forever. 
 
 But I'll not mention these to you, — 
 
 Although the list is long and true, — 
 
 For you'll have all that you can do 
 
 To make an honest living. 
 
 Nor am I sorry for you, John, 
 
 As like to those you preyed upon, 
 
 For you were such a heartless don, 
 
 A-grasping after money. 
 
 And, John, you scoffed at mothers' tears, 
 
 And had for them but passing sneers. 
 
 And mocked all decency for years, 
 
 And made your god your whiskey. 
 
 And for all this, I '11 say to thee : 
 
 When thou art gone, thy grave shall be 
 
 As lost as though you slept at sea. 
 
 Beneath the briny ocean. 
 
 And none shall come to shed a tear. 
 
 Above thy mold that slumbers here, 
 
 Nor speak thy name, unless to sneer. 
 
 Thy heartless avocation. 
 
 And glad's the day, John Barleycorn, 
 
 And glad's the eve, and glad's the morn. 
 
 When men can't find a single horn 
 
 In all the blessed city. 
 
 GOD'S COUNTRY 
 
 I SAW the grandest picture once 
 
 That man has ever seen. 
 With high encircling mountain chains, 
 
 And valleys spread between ; 
 
52 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And round and round its dizzy heights, 
 
 The bridle-path and road, 
 And in its gorges deep below, 
 
 A seething torrent flowed. 
 And far and near the country flung 
 
 Her wide extending arms, 
 And everywhere the vistas lent 
 
 Their most exquisite charms. 
 And justice smiled upon them all. 
 
 While pointing to her plan, 
 "Where equal weal and equal woes 
 
 The heritage of man. 
 
 Who wrought this picture ? do you ask. 
 
 Who spread this lovely scene, — 
 With forest deep and rivers flow, 
 
 And valleys rolled between? 
 Why, He it was, who made my heart. 
 
 As well this flashing eye, 
 And while all this you may behold 
 
 How futile seems reply. 
 And here the needs of happiness 
 
 Are thickly strewn around. 
 For God lives in the country wide ; 
 
 The devil lives in town. 
 
 I'll tell you how I found this out. 
 
 Some forty years ago: 
 One day, when I went fishing trout, 
 
 Along with Kitty Snow; 
 And while we sat upon a log 
 
 That lay across the brook. 
 We watched the travel on the road 
 
 Behind a shady nook. 
 '*And with this travel here," said I, 
 
 *'The fish will never bite." 
 
A Whistling Farmer 53 
 
 And yet we stayed and stayed till I 
 
 Was mad enough to fight. 
 But I was so wrapt up in her 
 
 I didn 't dare to pout, 
 And this was once she tangled me, 
 
 And turned me square about. 
 And all was done so nicely, too. 
 
 And in a proper way, 
 And when the fogs had passed along, 
 
 I scarce knew what to say. 
 And smiling now, my sweetheart said, 
 
 ''Let's weigh this travel out; 
 Let's take our pads and write it down 
 
 And find what they're about. 
 I 've heard old Nick lives down in town. 
 
 The Lord, among the woods. 
 Let 's find what each of these produce : 
 
 The traffic, and the goods." 
 And unto this I gave assent, 
 
 "With scarce a moment's thought, 
 But presently I saw the point, 
 
 And found that I was caught. 
 For Kit, she chose the rural route, 
 
 And I, the blasted town, 
 
 And there she sat the livelong day 
 
 And wrote the products down. 
 And oft I heard her tittering, — 
 
 For she was feeling fine, — 
 While I, like Job, I stood and held 
 
 This vacant pad of mine. 
 Of course she was a country lass, 
 
 And I was reared in town, 
 And when I saw what she had done 
 
 She made me take a frown. 
 
54 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 For while the hours dragged along, 
 
 I scarcely wrote a bit, 
 And yet my lady wrote so much 
 
 I thought she'd never quit. 
 And, true it was, I'd known her long. 
 
 And she was always sweet, - 
 But now, to-day, she seemed awry. 
 
 In taking my defeat. 
 
 And so the morning hours went 
 
 Without a single trout. 
 And there I sat, like some old man, 
 
 Afflicted with the gout. 
 And then I spoke of luncheon time, 
 
 The middle of the day. 
 But still she smiled the sweetest smile. 
 
 And swiftly wrote away. 
 And here I left her all alone 
 
 And sought our swinging boat. 
 And yet, she scarcely looked around. 
 
 The while she wrote and wrote. 
 
 The day passed on, the evening came. 
 
 The sun was sinking low. 
 And gruffly now I raised my voice. 
 
 And told her we must go. 
 At this she quickly turned around. 
 
 And left our shady nook, 
 And like an eliin tripped 
 
 The margin of the brook. 
 And while I pushed our boat away 
 
 My lady sat behind, 
 And sang a ditty soft and low, 
 
 To pacify my mind. 
 And then she opened out her pad 
 
 And read to me a part. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 55 
 
 And such an endless mass she had, 
 
 It made my temper smart. 
 And while the waters roared aloud, — 
 
 As waters often will, — 
 Above all this her voice arose 
 
 As though the bay were still. 
 
 And while she read and smiled at me, — 
 
 At last I broke an oar, 
 And backward in the boat I went. 
 
 Far madder than before. 
 And while I slowly paddled on. 
 
 My lassie ever read, 
 And this is only just a part 
 
 Of what my lover said : 
 
 *I saw some brilliant buds expand 
 
 Into a perfect bloom, 
 And maidens came and gathered these, 
 
 To decorate their room. 
 And then the vans began to pass 
 
 A-rumble down the road, 
 Beside a meadow doodled nice, 
 
 Some farmers lately mowed. 
 I read the labels as they went, 
 
 Of honey, milk, and cream. 
 And many of the loads I saw 
 
 AVould stall the strongest team. 
 And then there passed along the way 
 
 A herd of fattened kine. 
 And slowly trudging at their heels, 
 
 A hundred head of swine. 
 And sheep and lambs in flocks so vast 
 
 I'm sure I could not tell. 
 Led on and on along the road, 
 
 Behind a tinkling bell. 
 
56 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And every kind of fowl I saw, — 
 
 Like turkeys, geese, and ducks, — 
 And these were piled in crates so liigh 
 
 They loaded down the trucks. 
 And wheat and corn and barley bags, 
 
 Potatoes, oats, and hay. 
 Like clouds they were that overcast 
 
 The universal way. 
 
 *'And bales of wool and timber trains, 
 
 And timothy and flax. 
 And loads of cotton from the South, 
 
 And horses, mules, and jacks. 
 And grapes, I saw, with oranges, 
 
 And baskets full of plums. 
 All products of the country frank 
 
 From which our living comes. 
 And cantaloupes and turnips rolled 
 
 Along the dusty way, 
 And pickles vied with onions oft 
 
 Throughout the busy day. 
 And cheese and eggs, and butter, too, 
 
 Along with hides and wax. 
 And hubbard squash, with hazelnuts 
 
 To fill the smaller cracks. 
 And oft I saw the terrapin, 
 
 The salmon, and the eel. 
 As well as cod and mackerel 
 
 That makes a splendid meal. 
 And coffee, tea and chocolate, 
 
 And peppermint, and salt, 
 And beer, that's made from barley mash, 
 
 That ferments into malt. 
 And peas and beans and radishes. 
 
 And lettuce on the side. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 57 
 
 As constantly they moved along 
 
 As does the ocean tide. 
 And snipes there were, and pheasant, too, 
 
 The plover, and the quail, 
 And wagon- after wagonload 
 
 Of bonny cottontail. 
 And hick'ry wood, all dry and nice, 
 
 For wealthy folk to burn, 
 And yams, I saw, I do believe, 
 
 As big as granny's churn. 
 
 'And by me passed some loads of bones 
 
 To fertilize the lands, 
 And pretty Polly oft I heard 
 
 Among the moving vans. 
 And 'possum for the colored race 
 
 And sugar from the tree. 
 And cat and bass and pike there was 
 
 That I could plainly see. 
 And lemons for the lemonade, 
 
 And cherries for the pie, 
 And broilers from the poultry-yards. 
 
 To make a Sunday fry. 
 And turtles, from the swampy lands, 
 
 The curlew, and the frog, 
 And cranberries and rice as well 
 
 That hanker for the bog. 
 And cider, from the cidermill. 
 
 And melons from the vine, 
 And from the vineyard o'er the hill 
 
 A dozen casks of wine. 
 And all around us everywhere 
 
 The fields were turning brown, 
 For God lives in the country sweet; 
 
 The devil lives in town; 
 
58 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And don't you get impatient, dear, 
 . For I am almost through, 
 And yet I think I 'd better read 
 
 Another line or two. 
 And then I'll listen with delight 
 
 To many things you wrote, 
 For I can manage this, you know, 
 
 Or any other boat. 
 And when we reach my father's farm, 
 
 Some distance down the bay, 
 We'll tell them of our fishing trip 
 
 And how we spent the day. 
 
 *'And coal there was in quantities. 
 
 And gold and silver ore, 
 And other things went dashing by 
 
 I never saw before; 
 And lime that looked as white as snow, 
 
 That's burned in many kilns, 
 In countries vast, — that's strewn around 
 
 Among the distant hills. 
 And sand and gravel moved along 
 
 In never-ending strings, 
 And water from the waterworks 
 
 Around the mineral springs. 
 And jugs and jars of pottery. 
 
 That's made from Potter's clay. 
 A host of these went moving on. 
 
 And on, along the way. 
 And copper, from the copper mines. 
 
 And lead and iron ore. 
 The barges on the river near, 
 
 A mighty tonnage bore. 
 And oils, — from the oil fields, — 
 
 That's shipped away in tanks. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 59 
 
 And brick went by continually, 
 
 That's made along the banks; 
 And from the quarries near at hand, 
 
 Some onyx-mottled rocks, 
 And marble that is used to build 
 
 Our finest city blocks ; 
 And granite, for our monuments. 
 
 And cars of Bedford lime, 
 And cobble-stones for making roads, — 
 
 That's useful all the time; 
 And alum, that is hidden down 
 
 Among its mother earth. 
 And crayons made from common chalk 
 
 Possessing much of worth; 
 
 'And quite a bit of asbestos. 
 
 Aluminum and tin. 
 And glass, that's cut to make it glint. 
 
 And some of which they spin. 
 And, oh, the wonders that I saw 
 
 From creeping plant and tree, 
 From all the countries of the world 
 
 And river, lake, and sea ! 
 And everything the heart could wish 
 
 To beautify the home. 
 And wean the mind from worry's way 
 
 And banish all its gloam. 
 The earth gave up the best she had. 
 
 From every vale and hill; 
 And at my feet a song I heard, — 
 
 The waters of the rill." 
 
 'Excuse me. Kit, I thought you said 
 
 'Another line or two,' 
 And then you'd lay your pad aside 
 And do as others do." 
 
6o A Whistling Farmer 
 
 *'I did, and yet I think it best 
 
 I finish out my note; 
 So lay your paddle down awhile 
 
 And let the dory floats 
 And prunes, oh, yes; I most forgot 
 
 The luscious little prune, 
 And rhubarb, too; well, I declare, — 
 
 For making sauce in June. 
 And mustard, from the mustard plant, 
 
 And raisins from the vine, 
 And starch to make the linen stiff 
 
 That hangs upon the line. 
 And ice there was, that went along 
 
 For storage near the bay. 
 Where men go out and often cut 
 
 A thousand tons a day. 
 
 ''And corn I saw, the brush that's used 
 
 To make the lady's broom, 
 And tiger pelts of every kind 
 
 To decorate her room. 
 And then I saw some venison 
 
 Upon a noble stag, 
 And elk and bear and other game 
 
 Behind a weary nag. 
 And hemp there was, and sisal grass 
 
 That 's used in making rope ; 
 And offal from the slaughter house 
 
 To manufacture soap. 
 And green bananas, — such a load 
 
 They weighed the steamer down! — 
 Along with cocoanuts, of course, — 
 
 The largest nut in town. 
 And rubber, from the rubber trees 
 
 To make the rubber tire 
 
A Whistling Farmer 6i 
 
 That hums along the way so fast 
 
 It sets the roads afire. 
 And willows, from the willow with, 
 
 To weave the willow ware, 
 And bristles from the coarser swine 
 
 As well as plaster hair. 
 And dates and figs and cinnamon 
 
 I saw with common sage, 
 And other things I failed to catch 
 
 In this elusive age. 
 And oft I saw the hickorynut, 
 
 The walnut, and the beech, 
 For boys who had gathered them 
 
 A wagonload of each. 
 
 'And then tomatoes, ripe and red. 
 
 And sorghum, if you will. 
 And flour from the miller 's chest 
 
 That runs the watermill. 
 And barrels full of sassafras. 
 
 And ginger for the cake, 
 And tallow candles that are used 
 
 At every Irish wake. 
 And ginseng from the shady vales. 
 
 And wahoo from the soil, 
 And aromatic packages 
 
 Of pungent pennyroy'l. 
 And close behind some rosin come. 
 
 For rosining the bow. 
 And that was why I danced a jig. 
 
 As when you asked to know.'* 
 
 But when our boat had ground at last 
 
 The gravel on the shore. 
 She threw her writings overboard, 
 
 And vowed she'd read no more. 
 
62 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And then she took me by the arm, 
 
 And, like a mother, said, — 
 A pickle now in either hand, 
 
 And not a bite of bread, — 
 ''I want to tell you something, Frank, 
 
 There's nothing grows in town, 
 Except the bloom of poverty. 
 
 That wears a ragged gown; 
 And blasted hopes and suicides. 
 
 And murders every night, 
 And robbers, who will only work 
 
 To keep their pistols bright. 
 And pestilence and drunkenness, 
 
 And villainy and greed. 
 And fiends of every known degree 
 
 That infamy can breed. 
 
 ''Give me the pleasures born of hope, 
 
 The greening of the fields, 
 And singing birds and stately woods. 
 
 And pure and simple meals, 
 The pliant sod to tread upon. 
 
 The golden sun its crown, 
 For God lives in the country, dear, 
 
 But never lives in town. 
 I see Him in the sparkling dews. 
 
 Resplendent in the morn. 
 And meet Him daily, face to face, 
 
 In every leaf that's born. 
 In tones of tinkling melody 
 
 I find Him in the brook. 
 And often turn myself around 
 
 In wonderment to look. 
 And for my lagging faith He sends 
 
 The whisper of the trees, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 63 
 
 And comes to cool my parching brow 
 
 In every passing breeze. 
 And when the day begins to break, 
 
 And clouds begin to blush, 
 The morning finds me swept away 
 
 With Nature 's blessed hush ; 
 The evening folds me in her arms. 
 
 So hallowed and calm, 
 My heart throbs out its gratitude. 
 
 So full of thanks I am! 
 And like some prophecy of old, 
 
 I hear this true command, 
 Outspoken from a thousand things 
 
 Around on every hand : 
 
 'These bounties, that around you lie, 
 
 All these I freely give, 
 The Lord cries out to every one: 
 
 ' ' Come unto Me and live ! 
 Out here among my harvest fields, 
 
 A-billow with their grain. 
 Where softly floats the gentle breeze 
 
 Across the verdant plain ! " * " 
 
 THE PARTING 
 
 Will you cherish me, my dearest. 
 
 Will you idolize my name, 
 Above the plaudits' loudest sweep, 
 
 Around the brow of fame? 
 Will you wait, and long, and linger 
 
 For my coming through the years. 
 And will you call my name and listen 
 
 As you hesitate in tears? 
 
64 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And will you plant for me a flower, 
 
 Like the one that's in my room, 
 And come out and break the silence 
 
 That must linger round my tomb, 
 And sing for me, my favorite song, 
 
 In the evening of the day, 
 Come and hold a sweet communion. 
 
 Ere I molder into clay? 
 
 And when your labors are all finished, 
 
 And you're kneeling by your chair, 
 Will you mention me, my dearest, — 
 
 Will you mention me in prayer? 
 And will you teach our baby daughter. 
 
 When you fold her to your breast. 
 There is light beyond the darkness. 
 
 And the master knoweth best ? 
 
 And give her all my little trinkets. 
 
 And my picture on the wall, 
 And brush away her tears of sorrow, 
 
 That are waiting for us all? 
 Aye, your answer, that's been given. 
 
 Given all along the years, 
 In your actions that were stronger 
 
 Than your language, or your tears. 
 
 And it's finished. While I'm waiting 
 
 Death comes stealing through my gate. 
 In this hour of my departure, 
 
 He has lingered until late. 
 There 's my baby, I have kissed her, — 
 
 Kissed you all a last good-by. 
 In the arms of my Creator, 
 
 What a pleasure thus to lie ! 
 
A Whistling Farmer 65 
 
 WAITING 
 
 And, oh, for the sound of a voice that's still, 
 And the gladsome smile of a beaming face,- 
 
 As I ramble alone by the tockUng rill, 
 AVhere memories fondly enfold the place ! 
 
 And, oh, for the touch of a hand that lies. 
 Forever encircling a pulseless breast, 
 
 And a prattling tongue and the flashing eyes 
 That are wrapt in the folds of eternal rest! 
 
 For I am alone and depressed, my dear, 
 And I longingly look to the rounding hill. 
 
 And upon your tomb I'm leaving a tear. 
 That will bind us both in the future still. 
 
 And wait for me, love, by that pearly gate, 
 For my step is slow, and my form is bent; 
 
 And the day is gone and the eve is late, 
 While biding my time ere I go — content ! 
 
 DESTINY 
 
 Where destiny has made her home 
 
 For ages in the past, 
 The seekers after truth have found 
 
 Her hiding-place at last. 
 
 And if its fields of mental worth. 
 Why, then, we feed the brain; 
 
 And if some prowess wonderful, 
 The physical we train. 
 
66 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 By specializing thus, we know, 
 
 All prodigies unfold. 
 And looking o'er the page of time, 
 
 The story's easy told. 
 
 And while the tinker ever seeks 
 To grasp the whole domain, — 
 
 All scattered thus, his energies 
 Are very quickly slain. 
 
 Then study well the lives of men. 
 And note how they proceed ; 
 
 One object always in their mind. 
 Alone they ever heed. 
 
 In love or war, it matters not, 
 One constant thought pursue; 
 
 And Destiny, e'en Destiny, 
 Will step aside for you. 
 
 Behold the thought Columbus had 
 Before that mighty dawn, 
 
 And what was that, they say he said ? 
 ''Sail on, my men, sail on!" 
 
 And Grant, upon his battle-fields, 
 When doubters asked him, ''Why?" 
 
 Amid the storms of shot and shell 
 He had but one reply. 
 
 The bogies of the world have been 
 
 The destiny of man. 
 It's undermined his energies. 
 
 And ruined every plan. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 67 
 
 THE FAIRY NUMBER ONE 
 
 One evening in my garden, late, 
 
 I heard some fairy say: 
 But recently, as when our God 
 
 Had gone so far away, — 
 To reconstruct again, perchance. 
 
 The ruins of some sun 
 That, out amid the fogs of time, 
 
 Had met another one. 
 And while the grandest music still 
 
 Arose and died away. 
 And pleasures one can ne'er forget 
 
 Beguiled the passing day ; 
 At two I left the holy place, — 
 
 When nodding heads recline 
 From viands that are often rich 
 
 And draughts of sparkling wine. 
 Unseen by all that joyous throng, 
 
 I scaled its dazzling height, 
 To cleave the outer depths of space 
 
 And dare the darksome night. 
 How many million leagues I came 
 
 To me is all unknown, 
 As, like the instant flash of thought, 
 
 I hurried on alone; 
 Past suns, and moons, and asteroids, 
 
 And Jupiter, and Mars, 
 And past a never-ending flood 
 
 Of great and brilliant stars 
 And systems reaching out in space, 
 
 Where grandeur ever blends 
 With power, symmetry and grace, 
 
 And wonder never ends. 
 
68 A Whistling I^'armer 
 
 And here and there, as time went on, 
 I stopped, to fast and pray, 
 
 And, oh, the sights that I have seen 
 Since God has gone away! 
 
 ^'Here, on this planet, as I lay 
 
 Lone resting by a stream, 
 I saw two feeble women yoked 
 
 And driven as a team. 
 And men still held the reins behind, 
 
 With bloody whips at play. 
 At sight of which, with bleeding heart, 
 
 I turned my face away. 
 And as they jolted o'er the roads, 
 
 I followed close behind, 
 By ruins old now covered o'er 
 
 With ivy's clinging vine. 
 And what was once a fruitful plain, 
 
 Now tangled in decay. 
 Where mighty pillars, heaped and blent, 
 
 In desolation lay. 
 Long hours we spent upon the road, 
 
 Among the sandy cones, 
 Near jackal dens and howling wolves 
 
 And heaps of human bones. 
 And turning round a ledge of rocks 
 
 That long before us lay, 
 I saw a dozen squalid huts 
 
 Some distance down the way ; 
 And in their midst a chapel stood. 
 
 With 'dobe walls of brown. 
 And poverty was everywhere 
 
 In every face and gown. 
 And he who used the whip before. 
 
 With saintly face and fair, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 69 
 
 Bowed down, and in a solemn tone 
 Commenced his Sunday prayer: 
 
 'Be this our supplication, Lord, — 
 
 It's ever unto Thee, — 
 Since thou hast called us forth 
 
 Upon life's stormy sea. 
 For a few brief years to strive 
 
 Among- the sons of men. 
 And then in death, with Thy command, 
 
 Thou call'st us back again. 
 For a time, — as 'twere, a day, — 
 
 AVe pluck Thy flowers and rave, 
 And turning, hide our face in grief, 
 
 And lay them on the grave. 
 
 'Prime ]\Iover of the Universe, 
 
 And Love, and Boundless Grace, 
 ^lay we not hope some future day 
 
 To meet Thee face to face? 
 An humble and a contrite child, 
 
 At last, before Thee stand. 
 And feel the glowing touch, dear Lord, 
 
 Of Thine extended hand. 
 O God, we long and long for Thee, 
 
 Deep hidden amid Thy stars! 
 Come forth, and flood the world with light, 
 
 And fling aside Thy bars. 
 For dark and drear and lonely are 
 
 Our pathways down the years, 
 With Thee, our dearest friend, far off, 
 
 Beyond this vale of tears. 
 And bless us all collectively. 
 
 And these, Thy favored ones. 
 And grant a special blessing, Lord, 
 
 To all Thy holy sons. 
 
70 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And now, Lord, God Almighty, 
 
 Grant the boon of our lives : 
 Wilt thou not come and speak again 
 
 To these, our erring wives; 
 Who still, we find, from pole to pole, — 
 
 Embracing every land, — 
 Are seeking, even now, dear Lord, 
 
 To controvert Thy plan?' 
 And then, with boundless fervency. 
 
 While all the heads were bowed, 
 And men were shouting everywhere 
 
 'Amensl' among the crowd, 
 I tipped a Bible, deep in dust, 
 
 Upon a shelf so high; 
 It sounded like a pistol shot. 
 
 As on the floor it lie : 
 And while a circle formed around 
 
 This wonder on the floor. 
 In deep disgust, I walked out through 
 
 The keyhole in the door. 
 
 "And now, beyond this misery 
 
 My route of travel lay. 
 And soon I sighted in the east 
 
 A bright and sparkling bay; 
 And drawing near, behold, I saw 
 
 A cloud of fire and smoke, 
 And soon upon my startled gaze 
 
 A line of battle broke. 
 And mighty shot, like rainbow hues, 
 
 Went arching from the bay. 
 And myriads answered from the land, 
 
 And went the other way. 
 And oft the bugle called the charge, 
 
 And oft it called retreat, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 71 
 
 And thousands o'er tlie bloody fields 
 
 Lay dying at my feet. 
 And from the city, sorely pressed, 
 
 An endless pageant poured, 
 From conflagrations everywhere, 
 
 More deadly than the sword. 
 And now, from all this deadly strife 
 
 And butchery and flame, 
 I turned me round about at last. 
 
 With sorrow mixed with shame. 
 
 'And once again I sought relief 
 
 Long weary miles away, 
 Among the highest mountain peaks 
 
 Alone, to fast and pray. 
 For all this grief and wickedness, 
 
 And all this shameful sin, 
 Will be rebuked and cast away 
 
 When God comes home again. 
 But ere I reached my fasting-place 
 
 That I had swiftly sought, 
 I found another field of blood 
 
 That enmity had wrought. 
 Where little children cried for bread, 
 
 And star^^ing cantons lay, 
 I heard the bugle sound again 
 
 In battle's stern array. 
 
 And here and there and everywhere, 
 
 I failed in all my plans. 
 For wreck and ruin followed me 
 
 Through many fertile lands. 
 For still I saw the smoke by day, 
 
 And fires gleamed by night. 
 And thunders shook the distant bay 
 
 With diemonlike delight; 
 
72 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And war's alarm filled all the earth, 
 
 And none were left to pray, 
 And life was burdened unto death 
 
 Since God had gone away. 
 Alas! I fear another storm 
 
 Is hidden in the gloam, 
 As in the days of Cataline, 
 
 Or Nero, down in Rome; 
 For then, we know, enormous strength 
 
 Was centered in the few, 
 And looking at one nation now, 
 
 "We find the same is true. 
 And conquest was the leading thought 
 
 Outlined in every plan, 
 But not more so, perhaps, than now. 
 
 With one designing man. 
 And history shows the strongest minds 
 
 And boldest nations won, 
 In leading on to victory 
 
 Across some Eubicon. 
 But now, alas! — alas, for this. 
 
 For they themselves had lost. 
 And they, and all the earth beside, 
 
 Were doomed to pay the cost. 
 For soon the night of darkness spread 
 
 Her pinions o 'er the world, 
 And backward, with a frightful crash, 
 
 Advancing thought was hurled; 
 And nations died, and cities fell, 
 
 And palaces were rent. 
 And man become a child again 
 
 With feebleness content. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 73 
 
 THE SOWER 
 
 Behold, a sower went forth to sow, 
 In the languid breath of the season's glow. 
 And near to the brink of a river's flow, 
 That beautiful River of Jordan! 
 
 And he sowed a prayer along with his grain, 
 To stifle the heat of the scorching plain 
 And the Lord sent down some showers of rain 
 B}^ the beautiful River of Jordan. 
 
 And as for the tares, and the poor stony lands. 
 And the blight that comes when the chinch expands, 
 A bountiful crop for the toiler stands 
 By the beautiful River of Jordan. 
 
 And the Savior heard of this righteous man, 
 Whose piety now was filling the land, 
 And then his wonderful sermon was planned 
 Near the beautiful River of Jordan. 
 
 Enshrouded in myst 'ry, we know not his name. 
 His nation, his country, or whence that he came ; 
 But Christ leads him on to still greater fame. 
 By the beautiful River of Jordan. 
 
 THE TRUE SOURCE 
 
 T PRAY," says the brooklet, 
 **I pray to the ground, 
 
 And I," says the river, 
 "To brooks all around. 
 
74 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 ''And making my journey 
 Along through the land, 
 I heave to the wave-crest, 
 And grow and expand. 
 
 ''Come, float on my bosom 
 And jolly with me, 
 And view the great cities 
 En route to the sea!" 
 
 "And I," says the raindrop, 
 "I pray to the cloud, 
 Where storms ever mumble 
 Their mutterings loud; 
 
 ' ' Away then, — away then, 
 I fly to the earth, 
 And give to the thirsty 
 A newness of birth. 
 
 "And loudly I patter, 
 And patter amain. 
 Till cotters roll over 
 And slumber again." 
 
 ' ' Ah, ha ! " says the grass-blade 
 A-peep from its sod, 
 
 "I pray to Jehovah, — 
 Jehovah 's my God. ' ' 
 
 THE TRAVELING SALESMAN 
 
 There's a village on the railway, — where I travel to 
 and fro, 
 To take the merchant's order for his goods, — 
 
A Whistling Farmer 75 
 
 In a wide and fertile vallej^ where the sweetest waters 
 flow, 
 'Neath the shadows of the overhanging woods. 
 
 And when my circuit's finished, and I reach this 
 point again, 
 I laj" aside my worry and my strife, 
 For I know three smiling faces will be waiting for 
 my train. 
 In the persons of my babies and my wife. 
 
 Unpretentious was this village in the years of long 
 ago, 
 Unpretentious, is this little village still. 
 But here I've found the purest lives that mortals 
 ever know. 
 Surrounded by their holdings that they till. 
 
 There's a romance in the countrj^ — in the whisper 
 of its trees. 
 Like the babble of a language that is old, 
 And a mystery that surrounds it like the mumble of 
 the bees, 
 "\iVhich the wisdom of the ages hasn't told. 
 
 It's the fountain-source of knowledge, it's the pure 
 and wholesome air, 
 It 's the struggle for the summit of the hill ; 
 It's this pleading voice of Nature that is present 
 everywhere. 
 That soothes the nervous tension of the will. 
 
 It's the warble of the songster, it's the waters at the 
 mill, 
 It's the gliding of the onward-flowing stream. 
 
76 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 It's the cradle-song of Mother, and the murmur of 
 the rill 
 That paint the vivid visions of their dream. 
 
 It's the scenes that lie around them, it's the undu- 
 lating plains. 
 It 's this beauty that is present with its charms ; 
 It's the clouds of silver lining and the purifying 
 rains, 
 And the matron, with her baby in her arms. 
 
 It's the growth of vegetation that so constantly ap- 
 peals, 
 It's the turning of the turf beneath the plow, 
 And the clothing of the landscape and the greening 
 of the fields 
 That bring a smile of pleasure to the brow. 
 
 It's the lowing of the cattle and the whinny of the 
 foal, 
 
 It's the crowing of the coek'rel in the morn, 
 It's this zenith of perfection and the acme of the soul. 
 
 Where the famous of the earth are always born. 
 
 It's the hazing of the distance, it's the efforts of the 
 eye, 
 It's the purple tints of morning in the East, 
 It's the 'doodle in the meadow and the billow of 
 the rye, 
 And the jollity that's flowing at the feast. 
 
 It's the creamy mists of evening, it's a welcome for 
 the birth, 
 It's the infant that is nursing at the breast: 
 Here's the cord that binds together all the noble of 
 the earth, 
 In a pathway leading on to perfect rest. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 77 
 
 It's the absence of confusion, it's the quietude of 
 night 
 That brings refreshing slumber in its wake, 
 It's the boating on the river and the flying of the 
 kite, 
 And the skating in the vrinter on the lake. 
 
 It's this cheerful disposition and the freedom from 
 restraint, 
 In these roomy, rural regions of the West, 
 And the maiden in her garden, — who is never known 
 to paint, — 
 That tells the truest story and the best. 
 
 It's the distance down the valleys and the objects far 
 away 
 That give a broader impulse to the mind 
 Than do choked and narrow cities with their dingy 
 walls of clay, 
 And the smutty-smelling odors that we find. 
 
 It's the greeting of the neighbor, it's the grasping 
 of his hand, 
 It's the open-hearted gushings on the wold. 
 Here's the answer for the seeker and the witching 
 of the wand 
 Adown the passing ages that have told. 
 
 It's the purifying waters, it's the bubble of the 
 springs. 
 It's the solvent that is hidden in the ground, 
 And the calling, ever calling, of so many blessed 
 things 
 That caps the final climax with a crown. 
 
78 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 In these rural vales of beauty there is room enough 
 for all, 
 And a heritage for each and every man; 
 In some wide and fertile valley where the tumbling 
 water's fall, 
 Creation has prescribed an ample plan. 
 
 I've a lovely little cottage in this village by the sea 
 That is dearer to my heart than is my life, 
 
 And the pleasures it affords me, they are sacred 
 unto me. 
 It's the dwelling of my babies and my wife. 
 
 While I labor late and early, and I travel far and 
 wide, 
 There's a sweetly solemn thought upon my mind, 
 And my heart is ever throbbing like the ocean's flaw- 
 ing tide, 
 When all that's dear to me is left behind. 
 
 And when my train is stalling in some dark and 
 dreary dell. 
 Here 's a message that has often come to me : 
 And it's from my wife and babies and it seems to 
 sweetly tell 
 That all's well in the cottage by the sea. 
 
 In the keeping of that cottage and its pure and sim- 
 ple love, 
 That is shorn of all deceit and hidden art, 
 All my happiness on earth and my hopes of heaven 
 above, 
 I've entrusted, — every jewel of my heart. 
 
 For I love my dear old homestead and its ocean 
 breezes free, 
 With a love that is stronger than my life, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 79 
 
 And when at last I come to die, I am trusting it 
 will be 
 In the arms of my babies and my wife. 
 
 DISHONOR 
 
 Dishonors east abroad, 
 Are but a painless pang, 
 But when they reach the home, 
 So frightful is their stab 
 That many swing the blow 
 That malice would inflict. 
 
 BURNS' STATUE 
 
 City Park, Denver 
 
 Before thee, Burns, I sit me down, 
 
 To gaze awhile upon thy face, 
 And note how e'en thy simple gown 
 
 Thy flowing figure giveth grace. 
 Surrounded here by all these trees, 
 
 Transported, rapt, thou seem'st to stand. 
 As though this scene thy vision sees 
 
 Were like thy own, thy native land. 
 If not, why gaze on all who pass. 
 
 Unswerving, still, thy constant eye? 
 Or is it she, — more dear, alas ! — 
 
 Is Highland Mary passing by? 
 Or dost thou see the "Bonnie Doone," 
 
 Wild rambling onward in its flow, 
 And hear the songster's merry tune. 
 
 As in thy life, long years a^o? 
 
8o A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Or does the Afton onward glide, 
 
 With memories of other days, 
 And stir thy soul with Scottish pride, 
 
 Wild bursting forth among thy lays? 
 And with this book that's open part. 
 
 And with thy ever-ready quill, 
 Come, Burns, of what is in thy heart, 
 
 And art thou ever writing still? 
 Instead some mouse with ruined nest, 
 
 If thou hadst only lived to-day. 
 Thy thought had been with the oppressed,- 
 
 The marsh 'ling hosts along the way. 
 But let thy peaceful image stand, — 
 
 E'en though the present be ignored?— 
 All statuelike, serene, and grand. 
 
 Among the scenes thy life adored. 
 
 THE PROPOSAL 
 
 T 'was evening, and the stars were bright, 
 And eastward, far, the moon arose; 
 
 As hallowed as some gladsome night, 
 When lovers meet around the rose. 
 
 And like to this, one pressed his suit, — 
 A noble youth, supremely grand, — 
 
 And yet the lady cold and mute, 
 Disdainful still, withdrew her hand. 
 
 Still he did urge, as strength will do, 
 And plied his wits her love to win, 
 
 For he'd a heart as bold and true 
 As ever beat a breast within. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 8i 
 
 For now, thought he, the time has come, 
 When I should know the truth at last, 
 
 And if the eve be cold and glum, 
 I'll brace myself against the blast. 
 
 So, there, beneath the vault above, 
 
 A-tremble, with his passion mad. 
 Beneath her feet he cast his love 
 
 And every hope in life he had. 
 
 And while they near the flowers stood, 
 Now face to face, — themselves alone, — 
 
 Outlined against the somber wood. 
 Like statues cut from living stone. 
 
 The lady turned, with flashing eyes. 
 And emphasized them with her hands. 
 
 And straightway thus, she made replies. 
 As sternly as they were commands : 
 
 Some hills there are we cannot climb, 
 So rugged lies their weary height. 
 
 And long since now, I once found mine. 
 And you '11 find yours this very night. 
 
 And like ourselves, each one may find. 
 Their dream of love all torn apart. 
 
 To leave its impress on the mind. 
 And feebler make the pulsing heart. 
 
 Through all of life that's short or long. 
 And day and night, and storm and sun, 
 
 This love may still return and throng 
 Around us each and every one. 
 
82 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 ''Then let us part as best we may, 
 And rue the hour in which we met, 
 And here's my hand, and let us pray 
 In years to come we may forget. 
 
 ''Forget these moonlit evenings here 
 That, oh ! so swiftly seemed to roll. 
 When your departure, drawing near. 
 Drew forth the gushings of my soul. 
 
 "Or with the sky o'ercast above. 
 
 And all around as drear and dark. 
 How sang I still my songs of love. 
 As gladsome as the merry lark. 
 
 "But now, out through some window pane, 
 I'll muse me oft, in my distress, 
 Nerveracked amid this tangled skein. 
 How long, my God, I cannot guess. 
 
 "While you may seek in distant lands 
 Diversion from this tragic scene. 
 And press, perchance, another's hands. 
 This broken heart of yours to wean." 
 
 "Forget these arms that clung to me, 
 
 And all these tears that flowed with mine! 
 Ah, tell me, dear, how may this be? 
 The very thought seems so unkind ! ' ' 
 
 And she loved him, and he loved her 
 As with a love none can forget — 
 
 And they got married, — dear, oh, dear ! — 
 Nor have they rued the hour yet. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 83 
 
 THE SHIPS, THEY ALL GO DOWN 
 
 A CHILD there was who played upon 
 
 The smoothly shaven lawn, 
 And in his play he stopped to ask 
 For one forever gone, 
 ''Oh, Mother dear, pray tell me true," 
 
 Said little Johnny Brown, 
 ' ' Pray tell me where the ships all go\" 
 ''The ships, thej^ all go down, my child, 
 The ships, they all go down." 
 
 "And passengers and merchantmen, 
 That sail about the seas, — 
 Oh, Mother, what of these, pray tell, 
 
 And, mother, what of these?" 
 And then his Mother spoke again. 
 To little Johnny Brown, 
 "Among the crash of battle loud 
 The ships, they all go down, my child, 
 The ships, they all go down." 
 
 "And, Mother, may I ask once more, 
 When death is drawing nigh 
 Do little children crowd around 
 Upon the decks and cry?" 
 "In war, my dear, there is no love. 
 But all is hateful frown, 
 And even where our children ride, 
 The ships, they all go down, my child, 
 The ships, they all go down." 
 
84 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 
 
 I AM dying, says the flower, in the season of the year, 
 I am dying, like my comrades all around. 
 
 And there's no one left to cheer me nor to shed a 
 single tear, 
 As I sink beneath the surface of the ground, 
 As I sink beneath the surface of the ground, 
 As I sink beneath the surface of the ground, 
 
 And there's no one left to cheer me nor to shed a 
 single tear. 
 As I sink beneath the surface of the ground. 
 
 But I've left some seeds behind me that will live 
 when I am gone, 
 When the birdies spread again their joyous wing, 
 And the storms have all departed, and the vernal 
 season comes. 
 In the rapture and the glory of the spring. 
 In the rapture and the glory of the spring. 
 In the rapture and the glory of the spring. 
 When the storms have all departed and the vernal 
 season comes, 
 In the rapture and the glory of the spring. 
 
 So I'll live and bloom forever while the cycles pass 
 away, 
 And I'll beautify the garden and the lawn, 
 Nor shall I long be resting here, amid this clammy 
 clay, 
 In the autumn of the season — when I 'm gone, 
 In the autumn of the season — when I'm gone, 
 In the autumn of the season — when I'm gone, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 85 
 
 Nor shall I long be resting here, amid this clammy 
 clay, 
 In the autumn of the season — when I'm gone. 
 
 IN AFTER YEARS 
 
 And do you know, ere you've grown old 
 To shield you from the heat and cold, 
 It's best you hoard a bunch of gold 
 For after years. 
 
 And should some friend enhance your wit, 
 And plead with you to garner it. 
 Go thou straightway and save a bit. 
 For after years. 
 
 Nor will you lose a bit of glee 
 Or pleasure strewn along life's lea 
 In practicing economy 
 For after years. 
 
 For in these things of simpleness 
 That leave behind so much distress, 
 The whole of them, you'll learn to bless 
 In after years. 
 
 For in this field that many leave. 
 And later on return to grieve. 
 The gods of pleasure love to weave, 
 For after years. 
 
 And hear, Youth: Where'er you roam 
 Beneath this vault of heaven's dome, 
 Go forth and plan yourself a home 
 For after years. 
 
86 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And make of this a castle staid, 
 With deep and strong foundations laid, 
 That none may come and thee upbraid 
 In after years. 
 
 And let this thought that seems divine, 
 Around your heart its tendrils twine, 
 And sway j^our soul and point your mind 
 To after j'-ears. 
 
 For while this siren sweetly sings. 
 So swift is time upon his wings, 
 That, ere you know, you'll feel his stings 
 In after years. 
 
 And some may say when thou art old, 
 And all thy limbs are dull and cold: 
 "And, yrhither now, has fled thy gold 
 For after years?" 
 
 And when thine eyes are all a-blear 
 And indistinctly sound you hear, 
 And every shadow brings a fear, 
 In after years, 
 
 And do you think these will return, — 
 These precious moments that you burn. 
 If so, some day you'll better learn, — 
 In after years. 
 
 In after years, — it seemeth long 
 While youth is yet so bright and strong, 
 But, aye, too soon you'll find you're wrong 
 In after years. 
 
 And these may find you deep in debt, 
 And worrj^ bring you much regret. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 87 
 
 And fain you would the past forget 
 In after years. 
 
 Then, while you sift, watch close the sieve. 
 The simple life's the life to live, 
 For this alone can pleasure give 
 In after years. 
 
 The simple drink, the simple food. 
 The frown for all that's low and rude, 
 For longer life and sweeter mood 
 In after years, 
 
 And for each thought, and for each deed. 
 Let ''Honor!" be thy sacred creed. 
 That in the end no hearts may bleed 
 In after years. 
 
 And, like the child that lies asleep, 
 Thy conscience clear forever keep. 
 And of this sowing thou shalt reap 
 In after years. 
 
 ROCK ME TO SLEEP 
 Song 
 
 There's a rock-me-to-sleep way of leading this life. 
 
 In social communion with neighbors and friends, 
 At home or abroad with our children and wife, 
 
 On which every pleasure of all still depends. 
 Then, rock me to sleep in this cradle of love, 
 
 Oh, rock-a-bye, baby, and sing me a song. 
 And sweet be the tune, like some choir above. 
 
 While hastening manhood is dashing along. 
 
8S A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Oh, rock me to sleep, oh, rock me to sleep, 
 Then rock me to sleep in this cradle of love ! 
 
 And open the music and sing me a song, 
 For deep in the twilight the long shadows creep, 
 
 And night with its darkness comes stealing along. 
 
 For fain in this cradle again I would rest. 
 
 Away from the sorrows of life 's dire alarms, 
 A-rocking and rocking as though I were pressed 
 
 Once more in the clasp of my dear mother's arms; 
 Then, rock me to sleep in this cradle of love, 
 
 Oh, rock-a-bye, baby, and sing me a song. 
 And soft be the tune like some choir above. 
 
 While hastening manhood is dashing along. 
 
 Oh, rock me to sleep, oh, rock me to sleep, 
 Then rock me to sleep in this cradle of love ! 
 
 And open the music and strike me a chord. 
 For deep in the twilight the long shadows creep. 
 
 As night with its darkness steals over the sward. 
 
 Away, like the dewdrop, — away with our youth. 
 
 Away with this manhood that's passing away! 
 Away, like the leaflet, the babe of the wildwood 
 
 That lies in the forest in feeble decay! 
 Then, rock me to sleep in this cradle of death. 
 
 Oh, rock-a-bye, baby, and sing me a song, 
 And sweet be the music and soft as a breath, 
 
 While hastening manhood is dashing along ; 
 
 Oh, rock me to sleep, oh, rock me to sleep, 
 Then rock me to sleep in this cradle once more. 
 
 And turn to the music and sing me a song, 
 For, Mary, sweet Mary, life's struggles are o'er. 
 
 And darker and deeper the shadowings throng. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 89 
 
 VENUS 
 
 When Veniis walked along 
 The vale that's known as death, 
 She turned and said to all: 
 'I pray you come not here 
 In search of my abode, 
 For in this loathsome grave 
 I shall not lay me down 
 As other ones have done 
 To mingle with the dust ; 
 For one hath come to me, 
 And touched my longing heart 
 With an immortal flame; 
 And softly hath he said : 
 'Go thou upon thy way 
 Through all the lapse of time, 
 And lay thy witchery 
 Upon the hearts of men. 
 That they may imitate 
 The glory of thy name.' 
 And so, I pass me on 
 Beyond, this dreamless sleep. 
 For it were sad indeed 
 To leave this beauty here 
 In moldering decay, 
 And be forgotten all 
 By every passing age. 
 And so I stand aside. 
 And ceaseless warnings give 
 To every passerby, 
 That while some monument 
 May tower to the skies 
 
go A Whistling Farmer 
 
 In memory of me ; 
 
 No one shall point with pride 
 
 To superscriptions here, 
 
 Deep hewn upon the stone, 
 
 That on the morrow may 
 
 Be drifting fields of sand. 
 
 For I shall not be found 
 
 Among these ruins thus, 
 
 Nor shall I be content 
 
 In utter banishment 
 
 Within some dungeon dark. 
 
 No, this shall never be. 
 
 For see, these features mine, 
 
 So full of beauty they. 
 
 My God hath taken them 
 
 And touched the setting sun; 
 
 And from this glowing brow 
 
 He lifts his brush of fire. 
 
 And lo, the rainbow leaps 
 
 Across the eastern sky. 
 
 And so I warnings give 
 
 To each and every one 
 
 That I shall not be found 
 
 Within this cheerless tomb. 
 
 But out among the vales, 
 
 Where starry eves invite 
 
 The elf-folk of the wood, 
 
 Or where the range heaves high 
 
 Her undulating crest 
 
 Aglow at eventide, 
 
 As when the crimson clouds 
 
 In grandeur bank themselves 
 
 Around the setting sun. 
 
 Go there, my friends, go there 
 
 And seek for my retreat 
 
 Among the landscape wild. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 91 
 
 That lieth strewn around 
 The islands of the earth. 
 Go there and search for me, 
 And I shall be at home 
 In every bud that hangs 
 In trembling hope around, 
 And every blade of grass. 
 And every greening field 
 ^lay claim me as their own. 
 For I have thrown aside 
 This weary load of flesh, 
 That doth so hedge about 
 The stumbling feet of all. 
 Nor shall I seek again 
 The grosser things of life, 
 As once I gladly did 
 In that remembered past, 
 When I as captives led 
 The haughty lords of Greece 
 Around the festal board ; 
 And queened it over all 
 The mighty men of state, 
 When Athens ruled the world 
 In royal pomp and pride. 
 Yes. the gi^osser things of life. — 
 I 've left them all behind ; 
 For men have come at last 
 To meekly bow them down 
 Before my sacred throne. 
 And hail me with delight 
 In every fragrant flower. 
 And such my God hath said. 
 For He hath sought me out 
 And whispered in mine ear: 
 'Thy beauty shall not fade. 
 The stars may dim at last. 
 
92 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And earth grow aged and old, 
 But thou, fair Venus, thou, — 
 But thou shalt never die!' " 
 
 THE WEDDING EING OF CHARLEY OX 
 
 A RING I bought, — a plain gold ring, — 
 
 All burnished off so bright, 
 And of its possibilities 
 
 I dreamed me through the night. 
 
 For now this ring, this plain gold ring 
 
 That I had lately bought. 
 It seemed to me continually 
 
 With endless pleasures fraught. 
 
 For every ring, — a wedding ring. 
 
 It seems to cast a spell. 
 O'er every bliss that heaven knows. 
 
 And these alone they tell. 
 
 And of the darkness on ahead 
 
 No mention is there heard. 
 Of strife and hate and enmity, 
 
 There's not a spoken word. 
 
 And so the first around me pressed, 
 
 These joys born of heaven, 
 And over all this second state 
 
 These pleasures cast their leaven. 
 
 And strange, I thought, a thing so small 
 Could paint a scene like this, 
 
 And elevate the mind of man 
 With such exquisite bliss. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 93 
 
 And lead him on, and on, along 
 
 The beauty paths of earth. 
 And charm him with its ecstasy, 
 
 And fill his heart with mirth! 
 
 And there I lay upon my couch 
 
 And mused the night away, 
 As only one can ever muse 
 
 Before his wedding day. 
 
 For in these things I saw that I 
 
 Must leave my home behind. 
 And Mother's kiss and Father's smile, — 
 
 They rankled in my mind. 
 
 And others that I dearly loved, 
 
 Like Bess and Frank and Will, 
 Entreating long throughout the night. 
 
 They pressed around me still. 
 
 And circling on, and ever on, 
 
 Before me passed a scene 
 Of golden grain and stately wood 
 
 And meadows rolled between. 
 
 The fields where I had labored long 
 
 From childhood's early day. 
 As, like a flash, before my eyes 
 
 They seemed to pass away. 
 
 And plain within this circle now, 
 
 Amid the evening gloam. 
 Among the rest at last I saw 
 
 The passing of my home. 
 
 And everything that passed along. 
 It seemed to chide me so, 
 
94 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And plead they, each and every one 
 ''Don't go, my dear, don't go!" 
 
 And what a flood of memories 
 Filled out the passing night, 
 
 And nearly all of life they seemed 
 They brought me such delight. 
 
 And e 'en the room I called my own. 
 
 Its pleadings ever fell. 
 O'er all my calculations when 
 
 I came to say farewell. 
 
 And well it might, for in this room 
 
 I wrote my first to Jo, 
 And how I tried, and tried again, — 
 
 My hand, it trembled so. 
 
 And how, at last I asked myself: 
 ''Am I to leave all this. 
 
 And find within a maiden's arms 
 Buch unreserved bliss. 
 
 And then it was this wedding ring 
 Blazed out a stream of light, 
 
 And like some burning meteor 
 Illumined all the night. 
 
 And darted here, and darted there. 
 And all about my room, 
 
 And this so swift, I often failed 
 To trace it in the gloom. 
 
 And sparks it flung along the way. 
 And mad it seemed to be. 
 
 And on its way it loudly hissed, — 
 And hissed continually. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 95 
 
 And when it stopped I saw a frown, 
 
 Then, like some giant tall, 
 This ring rose up confronting me, 
 
 And towered over all. 
 
 And who art thou, it said aloud, 
 That would these scenes adore?'* 
 
 And passing now, it gruffly bowed, 
 And, silent, said no more. 
 
 And when all these had gone their way, — 
 
 These horrors of the night. 
 Near by my couch, in easy reach, 
 
 I saw another light. 
 
 And this was, oh ! so beautiful 
 
 That I can never tell, 
 How like a gift from God it came 
 
 And all around me fell. 
 
 And, with that smile to gaze upon, 
 
 I roused me from my bed. 
 And on and on, and ever on, 
 
 AVe two together fled. 
 
 And now the years have flown so fast 
 My wife, she says they^re seven. 
 
 But I don't know, nor do I care. 
 Since love is born in heaven. 
 
 THE TREES 
 
 It's nice to live, and grow, and be 
 Familiar with each shrub and tree. 
 And every vale, and every road 
 That lies around our long abode. 
 
96 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And nice to grow where others grow, 
 And nice to see and hear and know 
 The faces that we've known so long, 
 All wreathed with smiles among the throng. 
 And sweeter far are all these things. 
 That long association brings, 
 Than aught I know of wealth or fame 
 That fickle fortune may proclaim. 
 For here the mind seems more at ease 
 Among these old companion trees, 
 
 ' ' And this one here, ' ' we tell our friends, — 
 
 "And this one here that lowly bends, — 
 Upon this linden by the road. 
 As children once we often rode. 
 And asked the travelers on the ground 
 How far it was to Grumley Town." 
 And this was sweet, but age, more dear, 
 Confronting stands before us here, 
 And points to every field that 's sown, 
 And every meadow that is mown. 
 And every place that lies around 
 The shady groves to Grumley Town, 
 And every brook, and waterfall, 
 So dear they are, — I love them all. 
 And how I pity those who roam 
 And leave behind their native home. 
 And hold but lightly all those things 
 The sacredness of memory brings. 
 And so it seems that age should be 
 Familiar with each grove and tree. 
 And every hill, and every road. 
 That lies around our long abode, 
 
 *'And see this tree," — we point to one 
 That sheds afar the burning sun, — 
 
 ''And this one here, 'twas but a sprig. 
 Long years ago, — about so big! 
 
A Whistling Farmer 97 
 
 But see it now; but see its growth, 
 
 And aye, my friend, behold us both ! ' ' 
 
 And while we muse, with eyes that fill, 
 
 This scene comes back and haunts us still, 
 
 For there 's no life that one can live 
 
 That can again such pleasures give 
 
 As rambling over, in our mind, 
 
 Some native grove we left behind. 
 
 And if the child these things could see, 
 
 Each one would go and plant a tree, 
 
 And talk to it, and hug it round, 
 
 And think of it as holy ground. 
 
 And could they feel what age can feel, 
 
 No woodman, with his ax of steel, 
 
 Should ever come and chop it down, 
 
 To lie and rot upon the ground. 
 
 And of you all, where'er you be, 
 
 I beg 3^ou: Go and plant a tree, 
 
 And let its branches widely spread 
 
 Above the living and the dead. 
 
 A sprig will do, — a tiny sprig, — 
 
 For time will make it strong and big, 
 
 And bid its life flow on and on. 
 
 For ages after you are gone. 
 
 So, choose your own, but as for me, 
 
 I dearly love the poplar tree. 
 
 THE WARNING 
 
 Through my window, partly open, 
 Through my door, wide ajar. 
 
 Comes a whisper, comes a token. 
 Like some spirit from afar, 
 
gS A Whistling Farmer 
 
 In the midniglit, in its darkness, 
 
 In the silence of the hour, 
 I was startled from my slumher 
 
 By a timepiece in the tower, 
 
 Gonging out its doleful warning. 
 
 With a sadness in its chime, 
 Gonged the midnight, gonged the morning, 
 
 Gonged the swiftly passing time ; 
 
 Gonged of waitings and of longings 
 Backward through my open door, 
 
 Gonged a footstep, lightly falling, 
 I shall never hear no more 
 
 Gonged my father's old plantation, 
 And the forest, held so dear, 
 
 Gonged the pleasures and temptations 
 That in youth are always near; 
 
 Gonged the seasons swiftly flying, 
 Gonged the sadness and the mirth, 
 
 Gonged the living and the dying 
 And the deeds of noble worth ; 
 
 Gonged a host of recollections 
 Scattered down along the years, 
 
 Gonged of home and sweet affections, 
 Gonged at last a flood of tears. 
 
 Things that I had long forgotten, 
 Gonged out boldly in the night, 
 
 Youth and beaut}^ stood before me 
 Robed in varied garments bright. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 99 
 
 Fame and honor and distinction, 
 Gonged a long and honeyed speech, 
 
 Fawned and smiled and stood before me 
 Just beyond my nervous reach. 
 
 In this maze of somber soundings. 
 
 Ghostlike in the horrid night, 
 Came a gong at last that found me 
 
 Trembling for the tardy light. 
 
 Stop ! " I cried, ' ' my heart is breaking ! 
 
 Stop the ringing of that bell ! " 
 But its gonging and its quaking 
 
 Still within my chamber fell, 
 
 Through my window, partly open, 
 
 Through my door, wide ajar. 
 Came that whisper, came that token. 
 
 Like some spirit from afar. 
 
 In the midnight, in its darkness, 
 
 In the silence of the hour, 
 Some bright angel must have spoken 
 
 Through the gonging of the tower. 
 
 JOHNNY JOLT 
 
 'If I have luck,'' I heard one say, 
 I'll be a wealthy man some day." 
 
 ' And I, if I but keep my health, ' ' 
 Another said, ''I'll gather wealth.' 
 And many more, in whispers soft, 
 They ever held this "if" aloft, 
 
100 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And spoke of it, as though some charm 
 
 Could put a muscle in the arm, 
 
 Or give to thought a thing of worth 
 
 That lays in tribute all the earth. 
 
 And so these ^ ' if s " and " if s " I found, 
 
 As thick as clods upon the ground, 
 
 Until one day I met a boy, — 
 
 So frank and free, and full of jo}^ 
 
 I stopped to talk with him awhile, 
 
 And ask about his constant smile. 
 
 ' ' And why all this, ' ' to him I said ; 
 
 ^'It seems you labor for your bread; 
 And wear old clothes that many shun, 
 And yet you have a world of fun. ' ' 
 
 ''Well, I don't care for 'ifs,' you see, 
 I make these 'ifs' look out for me. 
 As when I make a sudden bolt. 
 And cry: 'Look out for Johnny Jolt!' 
 And every ' if, ' it clears the track. 
 And sneaks around behind my back. 
 Oh, yes; I'm small, and yet I've found, 
 They know danged well when I'm around. 
 Some folks, I know, are full of ' if s, ' — 
 They're like a stream that's full of drif 's, 
 That clog the waters as they go, 
 And makes them lazy in their flow. 
 Not me, I labor like I play. 
 And Pa says I'll get rich some day. 
 Against small things, — this 'if and 'if,' 
 I square myself, and biff! and hiff! 
 To show the world what pluck can do 
 ThaFs got the grit to see it through. 
 And then I'm off, just like some colt. 
 And so, they call me 'Johnny Jolt.' " 
 
A Whistling Farmer loi 
 
 PLEAS PREWETT'S WATCH 
 
 My watch is my mentor, 
 
 And down through the night, 
 As snug as a bahy 
 
 Or wee little sprite, 
 Impinging, it whispers 
 
 And whispers to me 
 Of things I'd forgotten, — 
 
 As plain as can be. 
 
 Down under my pillow 
 
 This wee, tiny thing, 
 A-tick and a-titter, 
 
 Escapement and spring. 
 Awake, or a-slumber. 
 
 By day and by night, 
 It's telling me ever 
 
 Of time's hurried flight. 
 
 And oft, when I'm torpid, 
 
 It seemeth to sa.y, 
 Arouse thee, my master. 
 
 And hurry away! 
 The lark and the linnet 
 
 Are out in the sky, 
 I warn you this minute 
 
 To hurry and fly! 
 
 The day is advancing, 
 
 The hour is late, 
 Thy calling demands it, 
 
 For others await 
 
102 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Thy coming, — for council 
 And various things 
 
 That life with its duties 
 Incessantly brings." 
 
 And so, to thee ever, 
 
 I fly for relief, 
 In pleasures abounding, 
 
 In sickness and grief, 
 My faithful companion. 
 
 And prompter and guide. 
 Directing my movements. 
 
 Enhancing my pride ! 
 
 While some may deceive me 
 
 And laugh at my plight, 
 I turn to my timepiece 
 
 And find it all right. 
 And ever, my brother, — 
 
 Thou wee, little thing, 
 A-tick with escapement 
 
 A-iing and a-ting, 
 
 When darkness is fading 
 
 And daylight is near, 
 Down under my pillow 
 
 It seems I can hear 
 A gladness, a warning 
 
 Impinging for me 
 Along in the morning, — 
 
 As plain as can be. 
 
 "Arouse thee, my master," 
 
 It's saying again, 
 ''For all through the nighttime 
 
 You've peacefully lain. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 103 
 
 Arouse thee from slumber, 
 
 The night's fled away, 
 Why longer incumber 
 
 The beautiful day?" 
 
 And then, of a sudden. 
 
 It's changing so quick, 
 Outflinging and ringing 
 
 A beautiful tick, 
 Resounding triumphant 
 
 In cadences nice. 
 Like waters a-trickle 
 Down under the ice. 
 
 But only a moment 
 
 Of beautiful things 
 This jumble and grumble 
 
 Of tittering brings. 
 Resembling a language 
 
 In some foreign tongue. 
 That seemeth to mumble 
 
 Down deep in the lung. 
 
 Then oft I imagine 
 
 It's ranging so far 
 That earth is forgotten 
 
 And space is no bar 
 To many a wonder 
 
 Its musings unfold. 
 If I could unravel 
 
 The story that's told! 
 
 And yet, for my business, 
 
 Its language is plain, 
 And so, I consult it 
 
 Again and again, 
 
104 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Assured that its promptings 
 Will lead me aright, 
 
 On all of life's journey, 
 By day, and by night. 
 
 And oft, when I'm busy, 
 
 At morning and eve. 
 Its whisperings ever 
 
 Assail me and leave 
 A host of reminders. 
 
 Laid out for the day. 
 To village and hamlet 
 
 And friends far away. 
 
 As faithful as ever 
 
 This wee, tiny thing, 
 A-twang with escapement, 
 
 A-twing! and a-twing! 
 Never stopping to slumber, 
 
 With honesty bright, 
 The moments you number, 
 
 And keep them aright. 
 
 But aye, little brother. 
 
 While happy to-day, 
 I warn you that happiness 
 
 Passes away. 
 For rogues will assail thee. 
 
 And tear thee apart, 
 And twist thee, and maim thee, 
 
 With blundering art. 
 And put thee together. 
 
 As often they do, 
 O'erlooking some lever. 
 
 Or jewel, or screw; 
 
A Whistling Farmer 105 
 
 And cause thee to wabble, 
 
 And falter, and say: 
 Some thieves have undone me, — 
 
 A-twang! and a-twangi 
 Some plundering, blundering 
 
 Jeweler gang 
 That grabbed me, and stabbed me 
 
 With many a punch. 
 And tossed me and lost me 
 
 Down under a bunch 
 Of Ingersoll mouse-traps 
 
 They had in a box. 
 Along with some rubbers 
 
 And old dirty socks. 
 
 And since, dear old master, 
 
 So keenly I feel 
 Impending disaster 
 
 In mainspring and wheel, 
 I pray you, excuse me 
 
 From service awhile. 
 For they've so abused me 
 
 With chisel and file, 
 No more can you reckon 
 
 On what I may say. 
 Or heed when I beckon 
 
 Along by the way." 
 
 And while I may seek thee, 
 
 I'll seek thee in vain, 
 Down under my pillow, — 
 
 My watch and my chain; 
 And many a titter 
 
 Of suddenness quick, 
 Outflinging and ringing 
 
 A beautiful tick. 
 
io6 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And bounding triumphant 
 
 In ecstasy oft, 
 "When sweet admonitions, 
 
 In whisperings soft, 
 Have turned me from folly 
 
 And vanity's flight, 
 To deeds of humanity, 
 
 Mercy, and right. 
 
 An aid to my promptness, 
 
 A guide to my feet 
 In youth's early rompings 
 
 Of bitter and sweet. 
 When passions are strongest. 
 
 And urgent and keen, 
 And time seems the longest 
 
 Betwixt and between 
 The morning and evening 
 
 And close of the day, 
 When homeward the toilers 
 
 Are wending their way. 
 
 When business is over 
 
 And houses all close, 
 And minds are relaxing 
 
 For rest and repose. 
 How often thy promptings, 
 
 That I've overlooked. 
 Has caused me to mutter 
 
 For something unbooked: 
 Some item forgotten 
 
 As time fled away 
 In planning and plotting. 
 
 Along through the day. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 107 
 
 And then I shall miss you, 
 
 As soon as you're gone, — 
 At morning and evening. 
 
 And bedtime and dawn. 
 For, dear little comrade, 
 
 Companion and friend, 
 This heart that is beating. 
 
 Some time it will end. 
 And this smiling facelet, 
 
 So beaming to-day. 
 Like all that is mortal. 
 
 Will soon pass away. 
 And these little hands 
 
 That go round and round. 
 And this tiny spring. 
 
 That so bounds and bounds 
 And lever and casement. 
 
 And jewel and chain, 
 And shafting and crystal, 
 
 And all of this train 
 Will cease, and for ever, — 
 
 As if you had breath, — 
 And join with our vanguard 
 
 That's marching to death 
 Across the great desert 
 
 Of matter and rust 
 Composing our ocean, — 
 
 An ocean of dust. 
 
io8 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 THE SQUIRRELS IN THE FOREST 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 When God had formed the universe, with care He 
 
 planned 
 The many startling wonders that's found in every 
 
 land. 
 The glacial void He made, and towering summits 
 
 pale, 
 Too steep and rugged far for mortal foot to scale ; 
 And yet, that wide expanse upon the pathless deep, 
 Where still the tireless tides forever onward sweep. 
 As well, the new-born life he made, and hopeful 
 
 smile, and glee. 
 And growth, and progress all upon the land and sea. 
 And on each blade of grass, and each and all His 
 
 works, 
 A Master's hand we see before us ever lurks. 
 And to the rose He gave the crimson of its hue, 
 And sowed the distant worlds within a field of blue. 
 And while this subtle search goes on in every land, 
 Forever, on and on His endless fields expand. 
 So dim this mystery, as when the sun was young, 
 Before the pall of death around the moon was flung, — 
 As when her rivers dashed, and every flowery dell 
 Still swarmed life in that long ago. — ^Who can tell ? 
 Alas, for me and mine ! Too deep for mortal ken. 
 Too wild, the precipice to climb, too dark the dismal 
 
 glen. 
 
 After untold measures 
 
 Of the fleeting years. 
 And gladness and sadness, 
 
 And longing and tears, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 109 
 
 From the ages now gone, 
 
 The drowsing and dreaming, 
 To the slow coming dawn 
 
 Of this long sought gleaming; 
 And the flow of the ice. 
 
 And the storm cloud and frost, 
 When continents slept 
 
 Like a treasure that's lost. 
 And the shifting oceans, 
 
 The seas and the lakes, 
 And the volcanic crash 
 
 With its murderous quakes ; 
 And the rivers of stone. 
 
 And the fire and the flood. 
 And the carnage wrought 
 
 On her fields of blood; 
 And the savage nude. 
 
 And the dwellers in caves, 
 Where the spirit yearned 
 
 And shrieked and raved. 
 
 With pleasant emotions 
 
 Enraptured at last, 
 I turned from the dead 
 
 And the long buried past. 
 Like a bolt from the skies, 
 
 My senses are hurled, 
 And I drink from the fount 
 
 Of a beautiful world. 
 
 PART I 
 
 O'er some gray old ruin 
 That's covered with mold. 
 
 Where time out of mind 
 In silence has rolled, 
 
no A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Slow plodding, I wander 
 
 With pencil and book, 
 Where the sunbeams flirt 
 
 With the babbling brook. 
 And sitting me down 
 
 On the ledge of a rock, 
 Where the wild waves leap 
 
 With a plunging shock, 
 I'm writing a line 
 
 Of some wee little friends, 
 Whose soft, glossy coat 
 
 So gracefully blends 
 With the moss-covered granite, 
 
 Bestrewing the stream. 
 Near the clear bubbling fountains 
 
 That glitter and gleam 
 In the primeval forest, 
 
 With its vast solitudes. 
 Where the mysteries of Nature 
 
 Seem locked in the woods. 
 
 And here, in this covert, 
 
 Still laden with mast, 
 When the life-giving season 
 
 Was still throbbing fast, 
 I found a small squirrel 
 
 That lived all alone, 
 In this grand old forest, 
 
 That he called his home. 
 And like to the coon, 
 
 And the wild honey bee, 
 He'd built him a home 
 
 In a great hollow tree, 
 And here he was living 
 
 A riotous life. 
 
A Whistling Farmer iii 
 
 AVhen he dropped me a hint 
 
 That he needed a wife. 
 And soon after this, 
 
 When out on a lark, 
 He heard in the distance 
 
 A low, plaintive bark; 
 And musing, he murmured : 
 
 ''And what can this be?'' 
 Is this but the rasping 
 
 Of some aged tree 
 That, lodged in the forest 
 
 For years in the past, 
 Is seeking its former 
 
 Position at last ? 
 Or some little robin, — 
 
 TVith quivering breast, — 
 That strives in defense 
 
 Of her young and her nest?" 
 And then, once again, 
 
 From the woodland so dark, • 
 There broke on his senses 
 
 That low, plaintive bark. 
 And not like the sounding 
 
 Of one that's in peril. 
 But the low plaintive notes 
 
 Of a wee, maiden squirrel. 
 And quick as a flash now 
 
 He sprang to his feet, 
 Disdaining the nut he 
 
 Was starting to eat, 
 And frisking his tail that 
 
 Was bushy and stanch. 
 He flew like an arrow 
 
 From branch unto branch. 
 For true as the plummet, 
 
 And true as the line, 
 
112 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 This passion of passions 
 Is surely divine! 
 
 And when he had mounted 
 
 The hill's level crest, 
 He paused for a moment 
 
 In taking some rest, 
 And close to his hand now, 
 
 Among the green trees, — 
 Ever tossing and swinging 
 
 Away in the breeze, — 
 Was a ravishing vision 
 
 Of sweet maidenhood, 
 Bedecking with beauty 
 
 The shimmering wood. 
 And he smiled at her. 
 
 And she smiled at him. 
 While both were advancing, 
 
 Each one on their limb. 
 And he, like a monarch 
 
 That covets the earth, 
 With an unhidden pride 
 
 In his high, noble birth, 
 And she, like a lady. 
 
 Of the highest degree. 
 Advancing to welcome 
 
 Some proud majesty. 
 
 And when every greeting 
 
 Had gone by the way. 
 And his heart stood silent 
 
 For something to say, 
 Then he spoke of the weather, 
 
 The clouds and the rain. 
 And faltered and stammered,- 
 
 And stammered again. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 113 
 
 While she, with her vision 
 
 Demurely cast down, 
 Stood, pleading excuses 
 
 For toilet and gown. 
 And thus it was, humor 
 
 Went tossing about. 
 Like one that is angling 
 
 For some wary trout. 
 And flashed on the stage there, 
 
 In passing review, 
 A scene that's as old as 
 
 The Wandering Jew. 
 But, if ever a venture 
 
 Of ardent desire. 
 Came tripping along 
 
 With its youthful fire, 
 It was boldly routed 
 
 And speedily slain. 
 And the hours of pleasure 
 
 Continued again, 
 
 And swifter than ' ever 
 
 The time flew away, 
 Till the sun was engulfed 
 
 In the far distant bay. 
 Then slowly arising, 
 
 He graciously said. 
 With a debonair swing 
 
 Of his great massive head: 
 I call on my friends in 
 
 The cool eventide. 
 And mounting the branches. 
 
 We swing and we ride. 
 Till the shadows are looming 
 
 Away in the west. 
 
114 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And then I'm for home and 
 
 My soft, mossy nest. 
 There I eat from my stores, 
 
 That are juicy and fine, 
 And I drink to my fill from 
 
 The sugar tree's wine. 
 And life's such a pleasure 
 
 The long summer day! 
 I ramble and gambol 
 
 And frolic and play, 
 Till the goddess of night 
 
 Slips into her gown. 
 And, drawing the folds of 
 
 Her curtains around 
 My wee little mansion, 
 
 So lonely and still, 
 No sound, save the water. 
 
 That falls at the mill. 
 And then, I go walking 
 
 Alone on my floor. 
 And peep from my window, 
 
 And gaze from the door. 
 Till a vision unfolds 
 
 In the hush of the night, 
 Like a halo of glory 
 
 Encircled with light. 
 
 < ( 
 
 It's a beautiful home 
 
 In a great linden tree. 
 Where ever the birdies 
 
 Are singing to me, 
 And the mountains arise 
 
 And the meadows so green, 
 And the flashing spray 
 
 Of the blue lake is seen, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 115 
 
 And the river nearby, 
 
 With its swift, flowing tide, 
 Moves out to the brink 
 
 Of the ocean so wide. 
 And winding around on 
 
 The marge of the vales, 
 There's an endless webbing 
 
 Of beautiful trails 
 That lead to the summit 
 
 Of the rounding swells, 
 On the marginal brink ' 
 
 Of the dark, fragrant dells. 
 And the vine-covered bowers 
 
 On a distant knoll, 
 Where I love to loiter 
 
 And ponder and stroll. 
 In this grand old forest. 
 
 That all the day long. 
 Is mocking my folly 
 
 With pleasure and song. 
 And my heart goes out 
 
 For a soft friendly hand. 
 Like others I'm meeting 
 
 All over the land. 
 And, oh ! for a greeting. 
 
 And, oh! for a sigh, 
 In my dear little home 
 
 As the years go by. 
 
 'But time hurries, dearest, 
 And yet, ere we part, 
 
 I must unfold more clearly 
 The wish of my heart: 
 
 Some fairy queen I seek 
 To grace my lovely bowers. 
 
ii6 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Some congenial spirit dear 
 
 To speed away the hours 
 Of darkness and regret, — 
 
 A treasure, love, a light 
 For my window of sorrow, 
 
 Some gladness for to-day, 
 And pleasure for to-morrow. 
 
 And, then, to banish forever 
 
 This canker-worm of care 
 That seems so baneful now, 
 
 Existing everywhere ; 
 And half of all I have 
 
 I barter for a wife 
 To cheer me on my way 
 
 Adown the stream of life." 
 
 * ' But no, my friend, alas ! 
 
 These things can never be; 
 For other love I have 
 
 Sufficient unto me." 
 ''But you forget, dearest, 
 
 For ages in the past 
 My ancestors have ruled 
 
 The forest and the mast. 
 And none may here intrude 
 
 Or, even passing, roam 
 In marring the beauties 
 
 Around our regal home. 
 For my father, remember, 
 
 Was a ruler of Spain, 
 And my mother a duchess. 
 
 The Lord bless her name ! 
 And see, dearest, see me, 
 
 And see how I'm bred. 
 And see this, my stature, 
 
 And how I am fed. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 117 
 
 And as for a prowess, 
 
 I falter at none, — 
 No squirrel that ever 
 
 Has glanced at the sun ! 
 And my fur's just as soft 
 
 As the robe of the mole, 
 And my color resembles 
 
 The pure, native gold. 
 And please, dearest, please. 
 
 Just say you'll be mine, 
 And this day and this hour 
 
 Will be near divine." 
 
 Yes, I know your people, 
 
 Your prowess and name. 
 And I've seen you enter 
 
 The struggle for fame, 
 And hidden securely, 
 
 For hours and hours, 
 I've watched you displaying 
 
 Your wonderful powers, 
 And often, I grant you, 
 
 I've felt rather proud, 
 When I've seen you carried 
 
 Away by the crowd. 
 But what of the prowess, 
 
 The pride, of the whale. 
 That crushes the ship with 
 
 A stroke of his tail? 
 Away with your honors, 
 
 And your stores of wealth. 
 And your royal lineage 
 
 And cunning and stealth. 
 But one gift there is, 
 
 And just one alone, 
 
ii8 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 That the Master has sent 
 
 From His great gleaming throne 
 To gladden the youthful, 
 
 And strengthen the old, 
 That's bidding defiance 
 
 To honors and gold. 
 And, sir, that is love, 
 
 Pure love of the heart, 
 So lasting, e'en death 
 
 Cannot rend it apart; 
 Destroy this alone. 
 
 And all is destroyed. 
 And life is a vacuum. 
 
 And death is a void. 
 Nor would I exchange. 
 
 For one single hour. 
 This God-given rapture 
 
 Of wonderful power, 
 For all of earth's treasures, 
 
 And honors and fame. 
 Nor even for history's 
 
 Undying name. 
 You have much to admire,' 
 
 I grant you, but this, — 
 But this is the fountain 
 
 Of all earthly bliss. 
 No, no, indeed, sir; 
 
 Your scroll, you may furl, 
 For I am engaged to 
 
 A very nice squirrel." 
 
 Then white grew his face, 
 From these terrible blows, 
 
 As he clung to his limb 
 
 With his arms and his toes; 
 
A Whistling Farmer 119 
 
 As harshly, and sadly, 
 
 And, oft with a sigh, 
 A-tremble with passion, 
 
 He made this reply : 
 
 It was you who called from 
 
 The forest so dark, 
 'Twas you, too, who kindled 
 
 This long dormant spark!" 
 As he rose to his height, 
 
 And towering above her, 
 Declaring his hatred 
 
 For her absent lover. 
 And then he bowed to her, 
 
 And she bowed to him, 
 While homeward they turned. 
 
 Each one on their limb. 
 While the dark clouds covered 
 
 The blue of the sky. 
 And sharp forked lightnings 
 
 Were fast drawing nigh, 
 O'er the trail he went out, 
 
 With spirits so light. 
 And the spaces he leaped 
 
 Like a bird in its flight. 
 He was now falling short 
 
 In many a bound. 
 And he frothed in his rage 
 
 As he fell to the ground. 
 And he seemed to have aged 
 
 So much in a day. 
 While plodding with anger 
 
 Along by the way. 
 
 And when he had reached 
 His cottage at last. 
 
120 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 He went to his hoardings 
 
 To break his long fast, 
 Once there, he soon found out 
 
 That he could not eat, 
 Each morsel seemed bitter. 
 
 And nothing was sweet. 
 And then he went walking 
 
 Alone on his floor. 
 Where he'd walked and talked 
 
 So often before. 
 While a moan from his heart 
 
 Swept out on the air, 
 Like a moan of distress, 
 
 Like a wail of despair. 
 'Twas the ever old story, 
 
 Of unsated love, 
 The spent dreams of glory — 
 
 The cold, distant glove. 
 But, regaining composure, 
 
 And speaking aloud. 
 With the fire of youth 
 
 And a spirit still proud: 
 "Still, there is left for me 
 
 All my worldly goods, 
 These enchanted mountains 
 
 And the solemn woods ; 
 And hedged all around by 
 
 The towering rocks. 
 Are my beautiful gardens 
 
 Near the briar locks. 
 And my vast estates; 
 
 Wide, fertile, and grand. 
 That flash like the jewels 
 
 On a lady's soft hand; 
 And Ponduray, fair Ponduray, 
 
 My fickle IMary, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 121 
 
 And my river gray — 
 
 The beautiful gray — 
 And the belle of Boner's Ferry. 
 
 My river, so deep, 
 So wide and so strong, 
 
 Where the waves ever sweep 
 In murmurs along. 
 
 Ever turning and yearning 
 In their hurrying flight, 
 
 With never a rest through 
 The long weary night, 
 
 But onward and onward, 
 And still ever on. 
 
 And on to their home in the ocean. 
 
 ''But why should I worry, 
 
 There's other fine lands. 
 Where the mast-laden forest 
 
 Profusely expands. 
 Still, in all of my travels. 
 
 Around and around. 
 Not one single valley 
 
 Have I yet ever found, 
 That seems like home to me. 
 
 Here, my life I have spent. 
 And in sight of these waves, 
 
 I have builded my tent. 
 By my dead people's graves 
 
 That are far strewn around, 
 In many a covert 
 
 Of this holy ground. 
 And where should I go now. 
 
 To better my lot. 
 That fond recollections 
 
 May follow me not? 
 
122 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Will tlie promptings of youth 
 
 In time fade away, 
 Ere I slumher forever 
 
 In lasting decay; 
 What folly to mention 
 
 A problem like this, 
 As though one could gather 
 
 From strangers a bliss, 
 To equal this pleasant 
 
 Contentment of mind, 
 That distance would ruin 
 
 In leaving behind. ' ' 
 
 PART n 
 
 *'In the years that are gone, 
 
 How often I've heard 
 My grandfather telling, 
 
 With memory blurred. 
 Of some hunter's retreat, 
 
 Some pioneer's dream, 
 Wliere the rich soils mingle 
 
 With forest and stream, 
 When the Red Man's flight, 
 
 Then fairly begun, 
 Was shaping its course 
 
 With the bright Western sun. 
 And the buck and the bison 
 
 Were still on the throne, 
 And the crack of the rifle 
 
 As yet scarcely known; 
 Some old log cabins stood 
 
 Built under the hill, 
 Where the ferryboat played 
 
 So smoothly and still. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 123 
 
 And a few paltry acres 
 
 Were planted in corn, 
 In sight of the oak tree 
 
 Where father was born. 
 And here, while the seasons 
 
 Went gliding away, 
 To me, they were ever 
 
 Much like yesterday; 
 When all of this forest, 
 
 The glade and the glen. 
 In a silence yet slumbered. 
 
 Reverting to when 
 The horse and the saddle 
 
 Were the emblems of speed, 
 And the bit, and the bridle. 
 
 That guided the steed, 
 And a strong iron hand 
 
 Ever grasping the rein, 
 And a keen flashing eye. 
 
 And a wide-awake brain. 
 As onw^ard and onward 
 
 Forever he pressed, 
 With his eye on the foe. 
 
 And his face to the West. 
 
 "By the overland journey. 
 
 Across the wide plains. 
 Or sought by the foe in 
 
 The wild mountain chains. 
 He stayed not his journey, 
 
 No moment was lost. 
 Till his banner swung free 
 
 O'er the far Western coast. 
 And many a settler, 
 
 In joining his cause, 
 
124 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Was slain, scalped, and mangled 
 
 With savage applause. 
 But along his whole route, 
 
 Where the fierce conflict rung, 
 Full many a beautiful 
 
 City has sprung. 
 Where the plowman is driving 
 
 His teams far afield. 
 And the toilers are reaping 
 
 An abundant yield. 
 
 "But now, our golden age 
 
 Forever has fled. 
 And many are the friends 
 
 I mourn with the dead. 
 Not a landmark is left 
 
 In the old village here, 
 Where the tall buildings mount 
 
 Way up in the air, 
 And, wherever I go. 
 
 In strolling around. 
 My favorite timber 
 
 Is kissing the ground. 
 
 "And, thus, with the white man. 
 
 His folly pursuing. 
 The whole country's going 
 
 To wreck and ruin. 
 In a few more decades 
 
 The forest and plain 
 Will revert to unending 
 
 Dry deserts again. 
 I've worried and tried, 
 
 And long have I planned, 
 For something to loosen 
 
 The grip of his hand, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 125 
 
 But the time seemeth near 
 
 When my friends and me 
 Must flee for our lives 
 
 From my grandfather's tree. 
 For its plant, and its till, 
 
 And its sow, and its reap, 
 From the earliest dawn 
 
 Till it comes time to sleep, 
 But grandfather's gone, 
 
 With his once rohust form. 
 And how clearly he saw 
 
 The approaching storm." 
 
 PART III 
 
 *'Last eve at the spring, 
 
 When I was out walking, 
 Way down by the block house, 
 
 I heard noisy talking. 
 And all seemed confusion. 
 
 Excitement, and fear, 
 Like some deadly foeman 
 
 Were there lurking near. 
 Then hurrying homeward, 
 
 I barred every door. 
 And waited and listened 
 
 For the conflict's roar, 
 But after the darkness 
 
 In silence went by, 
 'They're frightened, by crackey!- 
 
 They're frightened!' said I. 
 But, next morning, instead 
 
 Of soldier and sword, 
 I found in the valley 
 
 A wonderful board 
 
126 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Of giant proportions, — 
 
 A hundred feet long, 
 All ribbed and bolted 
 
 Together so strong, 
 And a long bony finger 
 
 A-pointing the trail : 
 'Ten thousand beautiful 
 
 ' Lots for sale ! ' 
 And, merciful God, they are 
 
 Planning a town ; 
 For, men, I could see them 
 
 Out sighting around. 
 With flagpole and compass. 
 
 They bent to their lines. 
 Deep down in the timber 
 
 And wild, thorny vines, 
 And hilltop and valley. 
 
 And out by the moor, 
 Where no human footprint 
 
 Ever pressed there before. 
 And some time before this, 
 
 I'd noticed a man, 
 Away up the gulch there, 
 
 At work with a pan; 
 And often he'd mumble 
 
 And smile with delight; 
 And then in his pocket 
 
 He'd drop something bright. 
 And rushing to camp now, 
 
 He hurriedly told, 
 He'd found in the mountains 
 
 A pocket of gold. 
 And then off I hurried. 
 
 As never before. 
 For another long walk 
 
 On my old cottage floor. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 127 
 
 And, with meditation long 
 
 And resolution deep, 
 I felt the coming night 
 
 Would find me shorn of sleep ; 
 And such a vrorld of troubles — 
 
 They made my senses reel, 
 And seemed to lock my heart 
 
 As with a bolt of steel. 
 ' And why, ' I asked myself, 
 
 'Why tempt the laws of fate 
 Or seek to bar the way 
 
 Of man's estate? 
 Since unto me has come 
 
 The very day and hour 
 When I must bid adieu 
 
 To every smiling bower ? 
 And now, for yonder height, 
 
 .Since other lands have won. 
 To cast one longing look 
 
 Upon the setting sun. 
 How beautiful the scenes 
 
 Around me doth unfold, — 
 The forest and the river wide. 
 
 The bay and ocean bold ! 
 And yonder lie the vales ; 
 
 And here the hills are tossed ; 
 And spread around I see 
 
 The kingdom I have lost. 
 But why, regretful muse, 
 
 Since every hope is gone ! ' 
 And here I turned around 
 
 And strode me further on. 
 
 **And so I come at last 
 To say farewell to thee, 
 
128 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 My birthplace and my cradle, too, 
 
 Thou old and faithful tree. 
 But how can I forget! 
 
 "Will recollection fade? 
 Are other ties as strong 
 
 As those that youth has made? 
 No, no; I 'most forgot, — 
 
 I'm living in the past. 
 And so, I'll keep my home, 
 
 And meet my fate at last." 
 The twilight deepens fast, 
 
 And darker grows the glow 
 As homeward now he turns 
 
 "With feeble step and slow. 
 
 PART IV 
 
 And, when outraged nature 
 
 Could suffer no more, 
 He curled up in bed 
 
 And proceeded to snore, 
 And he dreamed a dream 
 
 Of the days that were gone, 
 "When pleasures were plenty 
 
 In youth's early daAvn, 
 And his dream led him onward, 
 
 And on through the maze, 
 To the full fruition 
 
 Of life, and its ways. 
 But ever, and always. 
 
 In the darkness, still, 
 Before him arose there 
 
 That scene o'er the hill; 
 And there was the mountain, 
 
 The pick, and the pan, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 129 
 
 And by him went dashing 
 
 That same plucky man 
 That labor and patience 
 
 Forever employs, 
 In building a city 
 
 And making a noise — 
 Just faintly, in starting 
 
 In its infant form, 
 But later grows louder. 
 
 Resembling a storm. 
 Here, a slow-moving object 
 
 Crept into his dream, 
 'Twas the ark of the desert, 
 
 'Twas an old ox team. 
 And shortly another 
 
 Came plodding along. 
 Assigned to its place in 
 
 The gathering throng. 
 And others, and others. 
 
 And still many a one, 
 Till the smudging shut out 
 
 The glare of the sun. 
 And out of the Southland, 
 
 The East, and the West, 
 Like clouds overcasting. 
 
 Around him they pressed — 
 The great and the strong now, 
 
 The young and the old — 
 And loudly they called them 
 
 For silver and gold. 
 And from every country. 
 
 And nation and tongue. 
 And every condition 
 
 The whole world among. 
 And Europe loud echoed 
 
 The call of the plain, 
 
130 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 While the New World welcomed 
 
 Again and again. 
 And the dash of our streams, 
 
 And the pinnacle bold, 
 Poured forth all their treasures 
 
 Of silver and gold. 
 And our country has prospered 
 
 In wealth and in fame. 
 And she's built for herself 
 
 An undying name. 
 And gone is the warfare. 
 
 And gone is the wail 
 That hung like a blight 
 
 O'er the Santa Fe trail, 
 And gone is the hunter. 
 
 And gone is the scout, 
 Who oft risked their lives 
 
 On that far northern route. 
 But not of this rumble 
 
 Just over the hill, 
 That grows ever louder, 
 
 And yet louder still. 
 For now it's a city 
 
 Of culture and worth, 
 Bespoken, and answered, 
 
 Around the whole earth. 
 Behold the builders here, 
 
 For love, for home, for lust, 
 One goes, another comes 
 
 And finds his scattered dust. 
 He, too, must build some 
 
 Rockribbed palace grand. 
 He's gone — another's here. 
 
 And, lo! the drifting sand! 
 With smiles for the sunshine 
 
 And frowns for the gloom. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 131 
 
 And then, a long sweet rest 
 In some friendly tomb. 
 
 PART V 
 
 But, how vain are the calls 
 
 Of a silken couch, 
 When the heart is locked 
 
 In a sullen grouch. 
 And thus do we find him, 
 
 All nerveless again, 
 By goblins, who torture 
 
 The wreck of his brain, 
 With chatter and clatter 
 
 And beckoning hands. 
 And mischievous snicker 
 
 While laying their plans. 
 The hag and the hellion, 
 
 The imp and the sprite, 
 Like a horrible stench 
 
 Polluting the night. 
 And a spirit in black. 
 
 With a foul, noisome breath, 
 Came to him and whispered: 
 
 **I'm the spirit of death! 
 And why all this trouble 
 
 Down here in the world — 
 Come, join with our band. 
 
 My dear little squirr'l, 
 It's only a trifle 
 
 From life to the grave, 
 'Tis life for the coward. 
 
 And death for the brave." 
 And then, he awakened, 
 
 Whirled over in bed, 
 
132 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And springing afoot 
 
 In a passion, lie said: 
 "What, how dare you thus, 
 
 When I've spent all my life 
 On the field of honor 
 
 And the lists of strife ! 
 I'd rather die the death 
 
 And rot on the ground, 
 And he torn by vultures 
 
 And scattered around. 
 But, if this be the course 
 
 The bravest pursue, 
 I'm ready to prove what 
 
 A bold heart can do." 
 And while he made ready, 
 
 With seeming delight. 
 This spirit of evil 
 
 Stepped back in the night. 
 Then, taking his paper, 
 
 His ink, and his pen, 
 He wrote a few words 
 
 To his one dearest friend, 
 And signing his name now, 
 
 With never a sigh. 
 With calmness, he murmured: 
 
 " I 'm ready to die. ' ' 
 And grabbing his knife. 
 
 He flew to his glass, 
 And gauging his arm for 
 
 A sure, fatal pass. 
 But one instant longer. 
 
 And this gleaming dart 
 Will plunge to the hilt 
 
 In his fluttering heart. 
 But he faltered a moment — 
 
 Abstracted, and still — 
 
A Whistling Farmer 133 
 
 Like some noble statue 
 
 Adorning the hill. 
 ''Pray, let me assist you 
 
 In your delicate task," 
 Said the spirit in black 
 
 To the squirrel at last. 
 And then, with her fingers 
 
 All dabbled in blood, 
 She made a death cross 
 
 O'er his pure fountain flood. 
 And her touch seemed to break 
 
 This magical spell, 
 And out from his throat 
 
 Leaped a horrible yell. 
 "It's murder! it's murder!" 
 
 He cried with a might, 
 ''It's murder! it's murder!" 
 
 Loud echoed the night. 
 And then, from his dresser, 
 
 He rushed to the door. 
 While flinging his knife 
 
 With a crash, to the floor. 
 "And what in the world now! 
 
 And what have I done? 
 And see how I tremble ! 
 
 And why should I run? 
 And was that, I wonder. 
 
 Some demon who fell. 
 That threw all about me 
 
 This magical spell? 
 In seeking to lure me 
 
 To the very brink 
 Of a tragedy here, 
 
 Before I could think? 
 Away with your falsehoods 
 
 And dastardly cries! 
 
134 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 You midniglit purveyor 
 
 Of slander and lies! 
 And thus, he hurled defiance 
 
 At the spirit in black, 
 But never an answer 
 
 Was ever sent back. 
 And waiting in silence 
 
 Alone where he stood, 
 Kepeating verbatim 
 
 The whispering wood: 
 **Ah, 'twas only a nightmare, 
 
 'Twas only a dream, 
 Or some passing riffle 
 
 In life's rugged stream. 
 I must try once again 
 
 For a few hours' rest," 
 He said as he looked for 
 
 The blood on his breast, 
 ''And may I be meeting 
 
 With more pleasant dreams, 
 And social companions 
 
 And sylvan streams." 
 And, while Morpheus watched 
 
 O'er his couch of ease, 
 He lay down to slumber 
 
 Among the green trees. 
 
 PART VI 
 
 And now to his slumber 
 Comes an intruding hand, 
 
 So gentle in its motion 
 It seems a magic wand; 
 
 A vapor, indistinct. 
 
 It beckons for the light, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 135 
 
 And broken, flings aside 
 
 The barricades of night. 
 And with its noiseless feet 
 
 It dashes through the door, 
 While sudden imprecations 
 
 From every corner pour. 
 And routing and clouting 
 
 These demons of night, 
 Old devils, and young devils, 
 
 Went, yelping, in flight. 
 And then, to his slumber, 
 
 As he lay in his bed. 
 The Great Spotless Spirit 
 
 Came to him and said: 
 *'My mission on earth is 
 
 The ending of strife. 
 For I am the Spirit — 
 
 The Spirit of Life. 
 And I bring glad tidings 
 
 From the Gracious Giver 
 Of pleasures eternal 
 
 Beyond the dark river. 
 And always, in passing 
 
 Along by the way, 
 To gladden some sorrow, 
 
 I stop but to say: 
 'These infinite promptings 
 
 The Master has given. 
 But faintly remind us 
 
 Of what is in heaven. 
 And what of your troubles, 
 
 Your hopes, and your plan? 
 All these I may hold in 
 
 The palm of my hand.' 
 And now, for a prowess 
 
 In all that you do — 
 
136 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 For weakness is fatal 
 
 For lovers that's true — 
 But stren^li, vital strength, 
 
 Can brave Fate's every trial, 
 And constantly wear 
 
 An affable smile. 
 And, there's more in grace, 
 
 And the gracious giver, 
 Than there is in pomp. 
 
 Or the pompous liver. 
 And be ever as firm 
 
 As the rugged mountain; 
 But your life must flow 
 
 Like the sweetest fountain. 
 And bow to this mandate, 
 
 That comes from above, 
 And stake all your fortune 
 
 On the altar of love. 
 And for love like this, 
 
 That knoweth no bounds, 
 You may stamp in the dust 
 
 All your glittering crowns. 
 Gro get you some flowers. 
 
 And a bonny, bright ring: 
 These mellow the hours 
 
 Of love and its sting. 
 And the ring you should keep 
 
 For that one cherished hour, 
 For the flash of its circle 
 
 Has a magical power. 
 And, at morn on the morrow. 
 
 At the first peep of day, 
 Make ample provision. 
 
 And scoff at delay. 
 For love is so fickle. 
 
 So keen, and so swift, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 137 
 
 It cuts like a sickle 
 
 In its stormy drift, 
 Resembling a vessel, 
 
 As it chops and it knocks 
 Against tlie fogbound coast 
 
 And the splintered rocks. 
 And go to her parents 
 
 And graciously say: 
 'I've a moment to spare 
 
 In passing to-day, 
 And see, I've a bunch 
 
 Of the red-beauty rose. 
 Which in rank profusion 
 
 In my garden grows; 
 Give these to my love. 
 
 Whose face is as fair 
 As the rose that perfumes 
 
 The sweet morning air.' 
 Then smiling politely. 
 
 When moving away, 
 With jestures becoming. 
 
 Turn around and say: 
 *I look to the adage, 
 
 A thousand years old. 
 That age only brightens 
 
 As if it were gold; 
 Stay never too long. 
 
 When making a call. 
 And bowing and smiling, 
 
 Depart from the hall. 
 And let all your actions 
 
 Be known to the worl', 
 A straightforward, upright. 
 
 And dignified squirrel. 
 Avoiding the brothel. 
 
 With all of its folly, 
 
138 A V7histling Farmer 
 
 And the low poison pens 
 
 Of pale pink Polly, 
 For these things are stabbing 
 
 Far more than the sword, 
 While virtue is yielding 
 
 A glorious reward. 
 But, with all due caution, 
 
 There are thousands of things, 
 Aside from flowers 
 
 And glittering rings. 
 For the most important 
 
 Transaction in life. 
 Is holding the love 
 
 Of some noble wife. 
 And now, little friend, 
 
 I am off on my way. 
 For millions await me 
 
 By night and by day. 
 In tragedies many — 
 
 In love, and in birth — 
 There are sore, bleeding hearts 
 
 All over the earth. 
 From poverty's cot 
 
 To the stations of wealth, 
 I enter them ever 
 
 With quiet and stealth. 
 And I sow here my seeds 
 
 With an unseen hand. 
 And then I'm away 
 
 To some foreign land.' 
 Then stroking his brow 
 
 With her soft finger tips. 
 And bending way over 
 
 And kissing his lips, 
 Said : ' Press on, till the turf 
 
 Is greening your grave, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 139 
 
 For hope never dies 
 
 In the hearts of the brave!' " 
 Then she vanished in space, 
 
 Like a thought that is flown, 
 "While her charge still slept 
 
 And slumbered alone. 
 
 PART vn 
 
 Adieu, and forever, 
 
 To all of those things, 
 That progress, advancing, 
 
 So endlessly brings. 
 And the primeval forest. 
 
 With its vast solitudes, 
 And the mysteries of Nature 
 
 Embraced in its woods. 
 And the drift of the ages, 
 
 That are passing along. 
 Only adding their mite 
 
 To the great endless throng; 
 For thousands of workmen 
 
 Have since swept away. 
 The deep-tangled woods 
 
 And the squirrels at play, 
 "With faith in the future. 
 
 With zeal, and a song. 
 The workers are pushing 
 
 The whole world along. 
 Way down in the earth. 
 
 While sluggards still sleep. 
 Enormous foundations 
 
 Are laid, strong and deep. 
 And, where silence once slept 
 
 Among the green trees, 
 
140 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And the wildflower tossed 
 
 Its head in the breeze, 
 And where the sly hunter 
 
 "Went stalking with stealth, 
 There are miles upon miles 
 
 Of splendor and wealth, 
 In a great throbbing city 
 
 That stands there to-day, 
 On the banks of the river 
 
 In sight of the bay; 
 And her ships of commerce. 
 
 With their sails unfurled. 
 Arrive and depart for 
 
 The ports of the world. 
 There's traffic and trade 
 
 With the warm southern isles, 
 And blubber and furs 
 
 From the cold arctic wilds. 
 Where many a long 
 
 Daring struggle has won 
 On the desolate coasts 
 
 Of the midnight sun; 
 Then, laden and sailing, 
 
 And steering for home. 
 Triumphant as Cassar 
 
 Returning to Rome. 
 And rattle and rumble 
 
 Of trolley and train. 
 Through canon and tunnel 
 
 And valley and plains, 
 A flash in the darkness. 
 
 E'er leaving behind 
 The mine and the mill 
 
 And the great city's grind. 
 A glimpse at the country 
 
 Revealing its charms; 
 
A Whistling Farmer 141 
 
 A call from the quail 
 
 In the brake of the farms; 
 The maid with her bucket, 
 
 Just out from the door, 
 "With a song in her heart 
 
 Like the meadowlarks pour; 
 A melody sweet 
 
 For the day that is done, 
 And a tweet! throttle! tweet! 
 
 To the fast-sinking sun. 
 Then back to the city 
 
 With her bustling marts 
 And her long colonnades 
 
 Of fanciful arts, 
 Her vast blocks of granite 
 
 And concrete and steel. 
 And the low, drowsy hum 
 
 Of the midnight wheel; 
 And driveway, and parkway, 
 
 And vast promenade, 
 With fountains and statues 
 
 Of marble arrayed; 
 And places of worship. 
 
 And the one sacred name. 
 And the eye that gloats 
 
 Upon panels of fame 
 In palace and mansion. 
 
 With stone upon stone. 
 That rival in splendor 
 
 The ages long gone. 
 And, oh! what a leap 
 
 From the old hollow tree. 
 Where the squirrels once rambled 
 
 And gamboled in glee, 
 To the wonderful strides 
 
 Of the children of men. 
 
142 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 From the rift in the rock, 
 
 And the low dingy den. 
 ''Evolution's" the thought, 
 
 Conception and birth, 
 From lower to higher 
 
 In the world of worth. 
 From hunter and herder, 
 
 And dust of the plains, 
 And hamlet and village 
 
 And pioneer trains 
 To cities of comfort 
 
 And pleasures and mirth. 
 And homes of refinement 
 
 That girdle the earth! 
 Time, with thy sickle, 
 
 Thou reapest so fast, 
 The forest, the jungle, 
 
 And the fields of mast! 
 For the lovers are gone 
 
 From their homes so dear. 
 And all are at rest 
 
 In their sepulcher here. 
 From their lands of promise, 
 
 And valley and hill, 
 "Where age after age 
 
 They were slumbering still. 
 And gone, they are gone 
 
 Like the shades of the night, 
 From river and rill 
 
 That sparkled so bright. 
 Making way for another 
 
 Of glorious birth, 
 Instead of some trifle 
 
 That cumbers the earth. 
 Untarnished by time. 
 
 Unsullied the plan 
 
A Whistling Farmer 143 
 
 Conceived by Jehovah 
 For the guidance of man. 
 
 HOPE 
 
 If hope is but the end of hope, 
 And there be nothing more, 
 
 How pleasant still to grope and grope. 
 As all have done before. 
 
 For every hope, it has a charm 
 
 Of pleasures still untold, 
 Assuaging much of life's alarm. 
 
 That never can grow old. 
 
 Then, let us still pursue in this, 
 That seems of life a part. 
 
 That throws a flood of silent bliss 
 Around our every heart. 
 
 And brighter makes the scenes afar, 
 
 Wherever we may roam, 
 Until at last we cross the bar, 
 
 Upon our journey home. 
 
 IS THIS THE LAND? 
 
 Is this the land Columbus found, 
 And this the very shore. 
 
 Where, to and fro the inlets wound 
 Four hundred years before? 
 
144 A. Whistling Farmer 
 
 Is this the land, this fruitful land, 
 Is this the new-found land? 
 It is. 
 
 And was it here that praises rang 
 Out o'er the boundless sea, 
 
 As when our fathers loudly sang 
 The anthems of the free? 
 
 Is this the land? Pray, tell me true: 
 
 Is this that western land? 
 It is. 
 
 And was it here that once they stood — 
 Around this sacred place — 
 
 And made this village by the wood, 
 The cradle of our race? 
 
 Is this the land, this blessed land, 
 
 Is this the promised land? 
 It is. 
 
 And was it here, upon this land, 
 Wherein a hope was born 
 
 Among some wild untutored band, 
 On that October morn? 
 
 This land of faith and hope and trust — 
 
 Is this the land he found ? 
 It is. 
 
 And was it this the savage claimed, 
 The whole of this wild land. 
 
 That Christianity has tamed. 
 And made forever grand? 
 
 It seems so strange — so passing strange- 
 
 That this should be the land! 
 It is. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 145 
 
 THERE'S LIFE IN THE TASSEL 
 
 Celia Christy's Song 
 
 There's one dear thought ever comes to me, 
 As sweet as the thyme on the fragrant lea, 
 Or the sparkling dews in the early morn, 
 When the breeze breaks over the tasseling corn. 
 And life, life — it's life in the tassel 
 
 And the fresh 'ning dews in the early morn! 
 And life, life — there's life in the tassel. 
 
 It's life in the germs of the tasseling corn! 
 
 And turn where I may in strolling around, 
 'er the mountain peaks or the dusty ground. 
 Near the slumbering dead in a new-made grave. 
 Or tossed by the storms of the ocean wave. 
 And life, life — there's life in the tassel 
 
 And the fresh 'ning dews of the early morn ! 
 And life, life — there's life in the tassel. 
 
 There 's life in the germs of the tasseling corn ! 
 
 And trust — let us trust after we are gone 
 There's something left and it still lives on. 
 Encircling the heart that will keep it warm, 
 There's something left in a spirit form. 
 And life, life — there's life in the tassel 
 
 And the fresh 'ning dews of the early morn ! 
 And life, life, there's life in the tassel, 
 
 There 's life in the germs of the tasseling corn ! 
 
146 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 BOB WHITE 
 
 Bob White, he whistles — beautiful! — 
 
 Upon his post, or rail, 
 And loud he calls, as evening falls. 
 
 Unto his mate the quail. 
 
 And in the springtime of the year 
 His plaintive suit is pressed, 
 
 And down the way I've heard him say: 
 ''My dear, it's time to nest." 
 
 And this is done, and neatly done. 
 
 While pleasant days go by, 
 In some lone spot or grassy plot, 
 
 Beyond the wheat and rye. 
 
 And while the mother bides her time, 
 Through sleepless nights awEike, 
 
 Old Bob, he '11 hide in meadows wide, 
 Or stroll beyond the brake. 
 
 Till silence flings her spell aside. 
 
 Then, lo ! some happy morn, 
 Where none intrude, you'll find the brood, 
 
 A-chipper 'neath the corn. 
 
 And ere the summer's passed and gone, 
 
 And autumn leaves are gold. 
 This growth and worth that fill the earth, 
 
 Is beautifully told. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 147 
 
 And when the storms of winter come, 
 
 And drifting snows abound, 
 With lusty shout old Bob calls out 
 
 To absent ones around. 
 
 And what a wail of warning breaks 
 
 Amid the evening gloam, 
 And long it's heard, till every bird 
 
 Is safely in its home. 
 
 And then he strolls around awhile, 
 
 And holds one foot up high, 
 And turns his head, as though he said: 
 
 ''The night is drawing nigh.*' 
 
 And while he seeks with diligence 
 A place that's safe and warm. 
 
 In nooks about, he points one out, — 
 A refuge from the storm. 
 
 And loudly now he calls his mate. 
 
 And she falls in behind, 
 And, bless the quail if one should fail 
 
 To "dress-parade" in line! 
 
 For Bob, they say, is awful cross, 
 
 And stem as he can be. 
 And of each quail, around the trail, 
 
 Demands efficiency. 
 
 And while they tramp in unison, 
 
 If you should like to know, 
 Old Bob, I lay, would gruffly say, 
 
 "We're tramping down the snow!" 
 
148 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 For then it is encircling, 
 They move around the trail, 
 
 Until the beak of strong and weak 
 Befouls another's tail. 
 
 And when the snow is trampled down, 
 They stop, and turn about, 
 
 And, wing to wing, they form a ring. 
 With faces turning out. 
 
 And when the long night-vigil starts, 
 
 Upon their circle hard. 
 They, all abreast, securely rest. 
 
 And have a perfect guard. 
 
 And thus we see ingenuity 
 Outcropping in their plan. 
 
 Nor have I more observed before 
 In aught, excepting man. 
 
 And credit here I must bestow — 
 And this, I give to Bob, 
 
 And yet from she it's not in me 
 That I would seek to rob! 
 
 But Bob, you see, he goes abroad, 
 And sees the world more wide. 
 
 Much more than she can ever see — 
 Or any other bride. 
 
 And so I give him credit here. 
 And loud his praises sing, 
 
 For having wrought — or even thought 
 About — a guarded ring. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 149 
 
 For while they dream the night away, 
 
 This circle forms a shield, 
 And there they are, much safer, far. 
 
 Than any beast afield. 
 
 And when this thought first had its birth 
 
 I hesitate to say, 
 And yet, I'd rob the present Bob, 
 
 And place him far away. 
 
 On down along the ages gone, 
 
 A million years or more — 
 But none can rob that ancient Bob, 
 
 That brought it to the fore. 
 
 For there was once a time, no doubt, 
 
 When circling, it was not, 
 But of this dawn, so long it's gone. 
 
 The wisest have forgot. 
 
 And while old Bob now shuts his ej^es, 
 
 And seems content to be. 
 From mother bird there comes a word, 
 
 That sounds like twee! twee! twee! 
 
 "And what of you, and you, and you, 
 
 And what of every one. 
 And what of play along the way. 
 
 Since first the day begun? 
 
 "And have you found some grains of com, 
 
 The reapers failed to reap. 
 And do you feel this ample meal 
 
 AYill bring refreshing sleep?'' 
 
150 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And smiling, all around the ring 
 Each quaily bows its head, 
 
 ''And I and I," they make reply; 
 For all are amply fed. 
 
 ''And what of you, my daughter, dear? 
 
 And what of you, my son? 
 And you and you, and others, too, 
 
 And each and every one? 
 
 "For, see, your dress is all awry, 
 And draggled are your feet. 
 
 And all with glee who 'Mother' me, 
 Should tidy look, and neat. 
 
 "And so, to all I give command, 
 Throughout the circle round, 
 
 And with your bill, exert your skill, 
 And smooth your feathers down. 
 
 "For I should be ashamed indeed 
 
 To see you all in bed, 
 Until each wing is glistening. 
 
 As smoothly as your head." 
 
 And there she stands and watches long 
 
 Among the shadows deep, 
 And o'er and o'er — there comes a snore — 
 
 For Bob is sound asleep. 
 
 And when all this the mother learned, 
 
 God knows; I cannot say; 
 And yet this skill she's using still 
 
 Must backward further lay, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 151 
 
 But when, or where, or why, or how, 
 
 All this is so entwined — 
 If you would know, you '11 have to go 
 
 To some far deeper mind. 
 
 And yet, she has her part to play; 
 
 And oft I've seen her strive. 
 With ruffled knot, and temper hot, 
 
 To keep these things alive. 
 
 And so it is with all that live: 
 
 They have their place to fiU, 
 And equal here they both appear, 
 
 And, doubtless, always will. 
 
 Nor have I aught of patience here, 
 
 For those who seek to rob. 
 The mead of good from motherhood, 
 
 And give it all to Bob. 
 
 For God hath wrought a noble work. 
 
 And given each a place, 
 'Tis so with bird, and so with herd, 
 
 And so with every race. 
 
 And each of these, they have their sphere, 
 
 That Nature has designed. 
 And of all wrought, I know of naught 
 
 That seemeth more refined. 
 
 And Bob still whistles — beautiful! — 
 
 Upon his post or rail, 
 And loud he calls, as evening falls, 
 
 Unto his mate the quail. 
 
152 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 THE STOLEN BABY 
 
 On the marge of a river, in moderate life 
 
 Lived a cotter's family of three 
 In youth's sturdy mold, the man and his wife 
 
 And a babe, still feeble and wee. 
 
 And the neighbors were few in those far-away 
 lands — 
 
 The home of the cougar and deer, 
 And the camp-fire's gleam and the wild savage bands 
 
 Still flaunted their shadows of fear. 
 
 And the season was warm, and the night was close, 
 
 Along by that noiseless shore, 
 And the cotters in sight of a desolate coast, 
 
 Were asleep by their wide-open door. 
 
 And the moon rose out of the broad, briny deep, 
 
 And it hazily hung in the air, 
 And the nightbirds twittered for sleep, sweet sleep, 
 
 As soft as an infant's prayer. 
 
 For the day had passed with never a cloud. 
 
 As beautiful days often do. 
 And they sang some hymns in the evening loud, 
 
 And they mentioned the falling dew. 
 
 But a storm came out of that beautiful sky, 
 
 And torrents of water came down. 
 And the river arose, and it rose so high, 
 
 It went dashing along with a bound. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 153 
 
 And the man and his wife still slumbered above 
 
 The cradled babe on the floor, 
 And a horseman, as swift as a message of love, 
 
 Went dashinor alonor bv the shore. 
 
 But the waters had swept all the bridges away, 
 In the storms of that terrible night — 
 
 Then a splash and a scream and a horse's wild neigh, 
 And both had vanished from sight. 
 
 And far o'er the lowlands the river now swept. 
 
 By valley and meadow and moor, 
 But the man and his wife unconsciously slept, 
 
 Near the innocent babe, as before. 
 
 And louder and louder this dangerous flood 
 
 Went dashing along to the sea. 
 Like some savage beast that, searching for blood. 
 
 In bounding from tree unto tree. 
 
 And soon this maddening stream had entered the 
 house. 
 
 And, spreading all over the floor, 
 It had stolen the baby — as sly as a mouse — 
 
 And fled through the wide-open door. 
 
 Yet, in that storm-lashed cradle the baby still slept, 
 
 With never a wailing cry. 
 While onward this merciless torrent yet swept. 
 
 Where the ocean wave leaps high. 
 
 And who will dare rescue this frail little bark, 
 That the dark swirling waters defy, 
 
154 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 But, like ]\Ioses of old and Noah and his ark, 
 The Master forever is nigh. 
 
 For a maiden had seen in a vision so bright, 
 
 The scene, that is herein portrayed, 
 And she hurried along through the storm of the 
 night 
 
 And she knelt by the river, and prayed. 
 
 ''Asleep in its cradle — and drifting to sea — 
 
 A wee, little baby!" she cried. 
 And the Lord saved the baby, now cooing with glee, 
 
 On the crest of the in-sweeping tide. 
 
 MARY GLOVER 
 
 I've a locket 
 In my pocket, 
 And I rock it 
 
 To and fro, 
 And I press it 
 And caress it 
 And I bless it 
 
 As I go. 
 
 Old and hoary, 
 Seems this story 
 That's before me 
 
 Here to-night, 
 But I greet it 
 When I meet it, 
 And repeat it 
 
 With delight. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 155 
 
 'Neath this cover 
 Lies my lover, 
 And above her 
 
 Is her name, 
 "^Vhen I'm nigh her 
 My desire 
 Leapeth higher, 
 
 Like a flame — 
 
 Leapeth higher, 
 Ever higher, 
 O'er the mire 
 
 Of the flesh, 
 Light as feather. 
 Strong as leather, 
 Seems this tether 
 
 Of the leash. 
 
 IMary Glover 
 ^as my lover. 
 Ere above her 
 
 Grew the sod. 
 Or she left me 
 And bereft me, 
 For the paradise 
 
 Of God. 
 
 No, she's not dead, 
 Because she fled 
 Before we wed, — 
 
 Long ago. 
 God, the reaper, 
 He will keep her 
 ^Vhile I weep her 
 
 Here below. 
 
156 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 For I meet her 
 Oft, and greet her, 
 Growing sweeter 
 
 Through the years; 
 And she's nearer 
 Now and dearer. 
 If not clearer 
 
 She appears. 
 
 And at evening, 
 When I'm leaving 
 Off my grieving — 
 
 For my bed — 
 O'er some sorrow 
 That I borrow 
 From the morrow, 
 
 Since she's fled: 
 
 I have asked her 
 Why her Master 
 Should have cast her 
 
 In the tomb, 
 Changing gladness 
 Into sadness 
 Next to madness 
 
 With its gloom. 
 
 But so broken 
 Seems the token 
 That she's spoken 
 
 To me here, 
 That I'm dreary — 
 Oft and teary — 
 And I weary 
 
 Year by year. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 157 
 
 God in spirit 
 Why not hear it 
 When I'm near it, 
 
 Mary dear, 
 Am I better, 
 As a debtor 
 To some fetter, 
 
 Wliile I'm here? 
 
 Can't you shake me, 
 Dear, and wake me. 
 Can't you make me 
 
 Understand, 
 Why its midnight, 
 Ere the daylight 
 Comes to brighten 
 
 Every land? 
 
 And this locket, 
 In my pocket, 
 Need I rock it 
 
 Any more — 
 Need I press it 
 And caress it, 
 While I bless it 
 
 O^er and o'er? 
 
 Aye, forever, 
 I shall never 
 Seek to sever 
 
 Any part, 
 Of these tidings 
 And confiding 
 That are gliding 
 
 Through my heart. 
 
158 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Still my lover, 
 Mary Glover's 
 Still my lover 
 
 True and kind, 
 Carnal cravings 
 Are but ravings, 
 Light as shavings. 
 
 In my mind. 
 
 I STILL MISS THEE 
 
 I STILL miss thee in my rambles, 
 And I fail to hear thy voice, 
 
 "Where the songster blithely gambols 
 And the scenery is choice; 
 
 Yes, I miss thee, dearest, miss thee, 
 When the eve is growing late. 
 
 In the moonlight where I kissed thee 
 By thy little garden gate. 
 
 Where the trees hang o'er the river, 
 And the current's swift and strong, 
 
 There'll be memories forever 
 That will all around me throng: 
 
 In the nighttime, ere I slumber. 
 At the breaking of the day, — 
 
 Scenes of pleasure without number 
 That can never pass away. 
 
 Other arms may clasp me tightly. 
 Other tears may flow with mine. 
 
 But no other can delight me 
 With a spirit so divine. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 159 
 
 As that one bright angel yonder, 
 
 On the sloping of the hill, 
 Where I often, musing, wander 
 
 In the summer evenings still. 
 
 TIRED OUT 
 
 And why should one 
 Sit here and write? 
 
 It won't be long 
 Till all is lost 
 In that long night 
 
 That holds the throng. 
 
 And monuments 
 Of granite rock. 
 
 And chiseled name — 
 Can such as these 
 Delay or block 
 
 A waning fame? 
 
 No, no, indeed! 
 For time will come 
 
 And fling her pall 
 O'er this huge stone 
 And make it dumb. 
 
 And scattered all. 
 
 And names in books, 
 And, what are they? 
 
 They last a spell. 
 Alas, for those 
 "Who pass away I 
 
 If they could tell ! 
 
i6o A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Nor names, nor books, 
 Nor monuments 
 
 Can ever stay 
 This blighting hand 
 That God hath sent, 
 
 To wield decay. 
 
 Commingling all 
 In one vast heap, 
 
 We choose our lot; 
 And here we lay 
 Us down to sleep — 
 
 And be forgot. 
 
 THE BENT OF ALL THINGS 
 
 When undisturbed by man, 
 Or foiled of its desire 
 In all that may exist, 
 Like gravitates to like. 
 And so, the grass grows on 
 Among its fellows green. 
 And feels a pride, maybe, 
 The same as you and I. 
 And thus with every life 
 That time shall ever know : 
 The beast will seek the beast. 
 And birds call back aloud 
 To other birds again — 
 An image of themselves. 
 And so this law lays hold 
 On every creature born. 
 And throws its charms around 
 The wayward feet of all. 
 
A Whistling Farmer i6i 
 
 And lurking in its lair, 
 As might a beast of prey, 
 It drives the savage on 
 To be a savage still. 
 And mingle with his own. 
 And if a doubt may be 
 Existing in your mind. 
 Go hide yourself a while 
 Within the jungle deep, 
 And list to every cry 
 That breaks the silence there. 
 
 MY COUNTRY 
 
 Heart of my heart, soul of my soul, 
 
 My country is to me, 
 IVe seen her destiny unfold 
 
 In matchless majesty, 
 The while she helps the fallen rise 
 
 And chimes along the sea. 
 In a struggle for humanity 
 That's marching on and on. 
 
 And let them weigh us, if they will, 
 
 And scrutinize our plan 
 That stamps upon the lowest brow 
 
 The Brotherhood of Man. 
 And this is but the early spring — 
 
 Our harvest will be grand ! — 
 In this struggle for humanity 
 That's marching on and on. 
 
 And so we hail, with ecstasy, 
 The morning, with its light, 
 
1 62 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And dare this venom of distrust 
 That's hidden in the night; 
 
 And vow to live, and vow to die, 
 In cherishing the right. 
 
 In this struggle for humanity 
 
 That's marching on and on. 
 
 GOODNESS 
 
 When goodness overflows the heart 
 The face bespeaks the inner flood. 
 
 And tunes to rapture, every part, 
 Angelic-like, with tingling blood. 
 
 THE COLTOIBIA RIVER 
 
 There's a grand old river, — 
 The Columbia River, 
 That's laughing and smiling 
 
 In evident glee, 
 While here it is gliding 
 And there it is tiding, 
 Some ponderous vessel 
 
 On down to the sea. 
 
 And over this river, — 
 
 This broad brimming river, — 
 
 Where hope ever lurks 
 
 In the floods of the stream, 
 At evening and morning 
 There's never a warning 
 That comes over one 
 
 Like the flash of a dream. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 163 
 
 And mild is the river, — 
 This peace-loving river, 
 Resembling an emblem 
 
 Of heaven above, — 
 Where lovers go boating. 
 And leisurely floating, 
 And music, sweet music, 
 
 Is mingled with love. 
 
 Enchanting, this river, — 
 This classical river, 
 AYith village and hamlet 
 
 And cities between. 
 And wonderful climate 
 Forever entwines it 
 With vineyards and orchards 
 
 And meadows of green. 
 
 And this is our river, — 
 Our own sacred river, — 
 But vessels may enter 
 
 From countries afar, 
 When empty or laden, 
 To traffic and trade in 
 The various nations 
 
 Outside of her bar. 
 
 beautiful river! — 
 
 Thou great Western river, — 
 
 As dear to our hearts 
 
 As the sweetest of flowers ! 
 Then go 3^e, and meet her, 
 And sail her and greet her. 
 And romp with your children 
 
 Among her green bowers. 
 
164 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 EXECUTION 
 
 It's simply rot, to plan and plot, 
 
 And never execute; 
 The thing for you and me to do, 
 
 Is go right off and do't. 
 
 The finest plan conceived by man 
 
 Is but an airy mite, 
 Unless the thing is on the wing, — 
 
 A-flutter in its flight. 
 
 I AM A WOMAN STILL 
 
 I AM a woman still, 
 For yet I hold me true 
 To God's eternal law. 
 And looking unto this, 
 I see a star of hope 
 Within the future hid; 
 And thitherward I turn 
 With gladness in my heart. 
 And while I note the drift 
 That all around me lies, 
 Unmoved, I bide my time. 
 And hope to find in this 
 That golden afternoon 
 Of blessed motherhood. 
 Unlike my sisters here, 
 That fret their lives away 
 In some secluded room, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 165 
 
 This prattling babe of mine 
 
 Will ever be to me 
 
 An inspiration strong 
 
 In my declining years. 
 
 And why? My God hath come 
 
 And walked along with me, 
 
 And pointed out the ways 
 
 And measure of my life. 
 
 The way that He designed, — 
 
 The ways of happiness, — 
 
 And unto these I bow 
 
 In mute submission down, 
 
 Remaining ever true 
 
 To His unchanging law. 
 
 For in His kingdom wrought 
 
 I am the tender vine. 
 
 And He, my stronger self, 
 
 He is the sturdy oak; 
 
 And so I look to him, 
 
 And leave to other hands 
 
 The destiny of State. 
 
 THEY MET NO MORE 
 
 They met and loved as lovers do 
 
 When heart responds to heart. 
 Until at last the wave went past, 
 . And then they drew apart. 
 
 The man was pleased beyond degree, 
 
 The lady never cried, 
 When, bowing low, they turned to go 
 
 To countries far and wide. 
 
1 66 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 The autumns came and cast the leaf, 
 
 The years wove out and in, 
 But this sweet thought the Lord had brought 
 
 Was never found again. 
 
 They roved afar in distant lands, 
 
 Attaining wealth and fame, 
 But ever still the eye would fill 
 
 At mention of a name. 
 
 Their steps sped not so swiftly now — 
 The two were growing old — 
 
 Yet still that face, and form and grace 
 Before them ever strolled. 
 
 '*And what is life?" they often asked; 
 
 A fickle thing, a breath ! ' ' 
 Outwailing, — he, as well as she, — 
 
 Until they slept in death. 
 
 LIFE 
 
 When stripped of all its fallacies 
 That modern follies bring, 
 
 You'll find in sweet realities, 
 Life's but a simple thing: 
 
 A glowing heart, a smiling face, 
 
 And tears for all distress. 
 
 And winsome ways, that leave a trace 
 Of lasting happiness. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 167 
 
 FRIENDSHIP 
 
 Should early friendship still prevail? 
 Old age alone can tell the tale; 
 For what the future still may hold 
 No mortal yet has ever told. 
 So, on your conduct much depends, 
 How long in life you hold your friends; 
 For this still wields a mighty sword 
 That all the ages have adored; 
 And wisdom bows before it oft 
 And bears its laurels high aloft. 
 So conduct, more than aught I know, 
 Should be the aim of high and low. 
 For this is where the secret lies 
 That grows with time and never dies. 
 Aside from this, who wins to-day. 
 To-morrow brings a swift decay, 
 O'erwhelming all, and all is lost. 
 Amid the storm and tempest tossed. 
 And of two friends, beware the loud. 
 And watch the gentler hold the crowd. 
 And this as well you doubtless know 
 And see it oft where'er you go; 
 The saddest, sweetest news e'er broke 
 Is always in a whisper spoke; 
 And should some loved one pout awhile, 
 Be slow to wrath and quick to smile, 
 For one sweet smile and graceful bow 
 Has often quelled a brewing row, 
 And held some friend secure and fast, 
 A heritage while life may last. 
 And thus it is, in books of old. 
 The writers oft these things have told 
 
1 68 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 With empliasis, and bated breath, 
 That left an imprint after death. 
 
 So on your conduct much depends, 
 How long in life you hold your friends, 
 For should attachment still prevail 
 Old age alone can tell the tale. 
 
 THESE THREE 
 
 There is a place more dear to me 
 
 Than all the gladsome morn, — 
 A place that lies along the sea, 
 
 Where liberty was born. 
 And how all this comes back again 
 
 And magic speeches fall, 
 From giant intellects within 
 
 That Philadelphia hall. 
 And while the bell tolls out the hour, — 
 
 All solemnly, and long, 
 For men of might, and men of power, 
 
 That dare oppose the wrong, — 
 Those fearless ones, I see them now. 
 
 As each one takes his place. 
 And calmly, too, they take that vow, — 
 
 A credit to our race. 
 And louder now, — ^the bell again, — 
 
 Its tolling seems to fall. 
 And far without, and deep within 
 
 That Philadelphia hall. 
 'Twas war ! At first our cause looked blue,- 
 
 The strongest heart might chill, — 
 But, pshaw! we knew a thing or two. 
 
 The slopes of Bunker Hill! 
 
A Whistling Farmer 169 
 
 But winter was upon us now, 
 
 And we were weak and poor, 
 And trouble showed upon our brow, 
 
 With wolves around the door. 
 And Valley Forge, so dark she lay, 
 
 She smiling set the king, 
 Till George, you know, went out to pray, — 
 
 And golly! what a spring! 
 
 THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL 
 
 There was darkness o'er the ocean, 
 And the night was hot and still, 
 
 When a fleet in Boston harbor 
 Lay in sight of Bunker Hill, 
 
 But the British slept so soundly 
 In their camps along the sea. 
 
 Not dreaming of a vigilance 
 That's born of liberty. 
 
 For this noble Declaration now 
 
 Had fired all the land, 
 And the grandest page in history 
 
 Was drawing close to hand. 
 
 And while their sentries called the hours, 
 Through that short, sultry night. 
 
 We were throwing up entrenchments 
 On a promontory's height. 
 
 And we planted there our cannon 
 In the midnight hours still. 
 
 And everj^ man had pledged his life 
 To die for Bunker Hill. 
 
1 70 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And now, the time had flown so fast, 
 And Venus rose so Mgh, 
 
 A mellow fringe of orange showed 
 Along the eastern sky. 
 
 And while the stars yet dimmer grew. 
 And darkness stole away, 
 
 Around the armies broke at last 
 The dawning of the day. 
 
 And farewell to the babies 
 And the wives of many tears. 
 
 And a hurried note to mother 
 By the youths of tender years; 
 
 And the sun had kissed the ocean. 
 And the fields of waving corn, 
 
 And sent congratulations to 
 A nation yet unborn. 
 
 And when the fogs had lifted. 
 And the mists had blown away. 
 
 There arose a mighty tumult. 
 From the British in the bay. 
 
 For they saw our forts a-building, 
 And the glitter of the gun, 
 
 And their anger kept on rising 
 Like the rising of the sun. 
 
 And now the battle opened 
 With the early morning light, 
 
 And Boston woke from slumbering. 
 But not from sudden fright. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 171 
 
 For our men continued laboring 
 
 Among the shot and shell, 
 With an ardor, and devotion, too, 
 
 That few have done so well. 
 
 Then silence swept across the bay, 
 
 And hope revived again, 
 In all save those who, on their steeds, 
 
 Had fled their fields of grain, 
 
 As messengers, to spread the news 
 Through all the friendly land. 
 
 And ask assistance for their friends. 
 With Prescott, and his band. 
 
 And while excitement grew apace. 
 
 The morning went so soon. 
 The sun had reached his zenith, 
 
 And the hour hand was noon. 
 
 And Howe had gone from Boston long 
 
 To land upon our shore, 
 And many who had gone with him 
 
 Would meet and part no more. 
 
 And they've landed, and they're forming, 
 And they're marching up the hill, 
 
 With an armament of splendor. 
 Flashing in the evening still. 
 
 And they're firing from their vessels 
 And their army on the shore, — 
 
 Such a storm of awful tumult 
 Boston never saw before. 
 
172 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 But, while marching, coolly marching, 
 Proudly marching up the hill, 
 
 There's a silence in our fortress, 
 That is surely boding ill. 
 
 ' ' How much nearer ? ' ' plead our soldiers, 
 As they draw a deadly aim, 
 
 ''How much nearer?" god of battles. 
 What a slaughter, what a shame ! 
 
 And they've reached that fatal distance. 
 See the white within the eye, 
 
 And a storm of fire greets them 
 When our fortress makes reply; 
 
 And we 've checked them, and they 're beaten. 
 And they 're flying from the scene. 
 
 And they've left a host behind them, 
 Dead, or dying, on the green. 
 
 In confusion, down the hillslope. 
 To their landing on the shore. 
 
 O'er a field of wide destruction, 
 Boston never saw before. 
 
 But they 're forming, and they 're marching. 
 Faintly marching up the hill. 
 
 With their army badly shattered, 
 In the sultry evening still. 
 
 And they 're sullen, with their madness, 
 And they'll stagger from the blow, 
 
 For our army's calmly waiting. 
 Like a tigress crouching low. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 173 
 
 Again, tlie crash and shock of battle, 
 Sweeps along our peaceful shore, 
 
 On the land, and on the ocean, 
 They come firing as before; 
 
 But again : ' ' Our point of vantage ! ' * 
 Hear our valiant Prescott cry. 
 
 As a crash of frightful carnage 
 From our fortress makes reply. 
 
 See them falter, see them quailing, 
 See them flying from the scene, 
 
 Another host is left behind them. 
 Dead, or dying, on the green. 
 
 ''Powder, powder!" cry our soldiers. 
 
 ''Will assistance never come? 
 Seest thou some flying squadron? 
 
 Hearest thou some friendly drum?" 
 
 And while they battle for their country — 
 
 And it's noble thus to die, 
 Two hundred British cannon now 
 
 i\Iake ready to reply. 
 
 Marching, marching, sadly marching, 
 
 Madly marching up the hill, 
 Tom, and bleeding, and protesting, 
 
 In the evening later still. 
 
 Again they're firing from their vessels, — 
 
 Not their army on the shore, 
 But the bayonet that glistens 
 
 Greets the cannons' steady roar. 
 
174 A. Whistling Farmer 
 
 And they've reached our thirty paces, 
 But you know the reason why, — 
 
 Why the fury of our fortress 
 Was so weakened in reply. 
 
 And while we failed to check them here. 
 And to hurl them from the scene. 
 
 Another host of silent forms 
 Lay bleeding on the green. 
 
 Noble soldiers, noble generals. 
 
 Noble cause, for which they fought ! 
 
 my country, looking backward. 
 What a century hath wrought! 
 
 To our army and its leaders, 
 In those midnight hours still. 
 
 And their bravery, and devotion 
 In the battle on the hill, — 
 
 Behold yon sacred monument, 
 As it towers to its height, 
 
 With its beacon ever burning, — 
 Ever burning for the right. 
 
 Throwing out a bright reflection, 
 To the world in darkness still, 
 
 Dedicated, with affection. 
 
 To our dead at Bunker Hill. 
 
 MEANNESS SHOWS 
 
 And what of thee, thou imp of earth, 
 That parents dared to give thee birth? 
 What wanton, craven beast was she. 
 And foul designing monster he. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 175 
 
 To plant such seed, and hail its growth, 
 That decency should damn you both. 
 And go thy way, thou offspring, go, — 
 Go weeping on, that all may know 
 Thy cruelties and hateful spite 
 Are but reflections of that night 
 AVhen every thought, and every deed. 
 Found pleasure most in hearts that bleed ! 
 Uncouth in form, and face, and look, 
 How dare you gaze upon the brook^ 
 Or seek the glass, and ramble o'er 
 This horrid thing, you stand before ? 
 For these things tell, without and in, 
 Unerring, as the cock the wind. 
 And lays life's story wholly bare 
 In words, all plainly written there. 
 These grooves that mar thy features deep, 
 Why grow they still, awake or sleep ? 
 Aye, these are records, ever^^ one. 
 As like the notches on the gun. 
 And what a string of them, I see. 
 And still they grow, continually. 
 And this one here that gaps apart, 
 This, doubtless, broke some trusting heart. 
 And threw a cloud before its sun, 
 E 're life had scarcely yet begun. 
 So deep it is, and wide, and strong. 
 It tells a story of some wrong, 
 No moralist, nor they who preach, 
 Nor prison bars, can ever reach. 
 And this one, too. less wide and deep. 
 Has doubtless caused some one to weep. 
 And left its notch upon the gun 
 As plainly as the other one; 
 And so each face that's marred and lined 
 Does but reflect the inner mind. 
 
176 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 THE LAWS THAT ARE 
 
 What made this vale so sweet and fair ; 
 And rounded off the hilltop there; 
 And sprinkled o'er this fairy scene 
 And endless carpeting of green; 
 And painted white the peaks with snow, 
 And made the dashing streams below? 
 Why, it was but the laws, my child, — 
 The ever never-ending laws. 
 
 For law it was that caused the birth 
 Of all we see upon the earth; 
 And flung the seeds o'er every plain, — 
 The seeds of fruit, and seeds of grain; 
 And brought to life each living thing. 
 From master man to mites that wing. 
 And law as well that flung afar 
 The endless fields of every star ; 
 And grandly made them, every one. 
 And made the moon, and made the sun ; 
 And swung them out in endless space ; 
 And ever holds them in their place. 
 And every greening blade of grass. 
 And every atom that we pass. 
 And every leaf, and every straw, — 
 All these are but results of law. 
 And so it is, from age to age. 
 We write this down on every page. 
 It's but the laws that are, my child, — 
 The ever never-ending laws. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 177 
 
 And while some few may try to sway 
 This never-ending mystery, 
 We find it still, howe'er it came, 
 Remaining ever still the same. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE 
 
 I HAIL thee, thou wizard, 
 When June flings her banner, 
 Aflash to the breeze 
 
 In the grand summertime, 
 While others are snoring, 
 Thy melody's pouring 
 Out over the forest, 
 
 A lullaby's chime. 
 Soft piercing the darkness. 
 That wonderful cadence, 
 Down deep in the valley 
 
 Alone I can hear, 
 Thy spritely outpourings, 
 I'm ever adoring, 
 And long for thy flutings 
 
 When evening is near. 
 Not thou, to the mountains 
 That dim in the distance. 
 But rather the shadows 
 
 Along by the vale, 
 Thou piper of evening, 
 Thy twitter is leaving, 
 The thought of another, 
 
 My sweet nightingale. 
 And that's why I hail thee. 
 When June flings her banner 
 Aflash to the breeze 
 
 In the grand summertime. 
 
178 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 When others are snoring 
 Thy melody's pouring 
 Out over the forest, — 
 A lullaby's chime. 
 
 THE SPIRIT 
 
 Ever, like the voice of a siren, 
 
 So musical and sweet, 
 
 Or the distant pipings 
 
 Of some dirge-like requiem, 
 
 thou enchantress. 
 
 Thou babbling babe of time. 
 
 Thou child of the eternal! 
 
 In the morning of birth, 
 
 The noontide of life. 
 
 Or the evening of death 
 
 Thou art ever present. 
 
 And, above the rush and madness 
 
 Of a distracted world. 
 
 We feel the touch 
 
 Of an unseen hand, 
 
 And hear thy gentle voice 
 
 That ever calls aloud: 
 
 ' ' Oh, come, thou wand 'ring one, — 
 
 Oh, come thou unto me ! ' ' 
 
 And ever, aye, forever, 
 
 With thy magic wand, — 
 
 Or the effulgent rays 
 
 Of the noonday sun 
 
 That floods the earth 
 
 In a halo of glory, — 
 
 Thou sowest the seeds 
 
 Of bread and flowers, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 179 
 
 And flinging thy mantle 
 Of green around the whole world, 
 Thou entwinest thy loving tendrils 
 About the heartstrings of men, 
 And makest of the crude earth 
 A habitation and a home. 
 
 THE GODDESS OF LIBERTY 
 
 Have you heard about our woman, 
 She's no mortal, she's no human. 
 Yet she is the grandest of all women 
 
 Ever born along the sea. 
 Just a word about this woman, 
 Neither mortal, neither human, 
 The pride of all our country 
 
 And the emblem of the free. 
 Descendant of a noble race, 
 
 And pure and sturdy stock, 
 But prouder of a heritage 
 
 Around the Plymouth Rock. 
 And she it was who waved that brand 
 
 When Columbus saw the light. 
 Guardian angel of the new-found land, 
 
 And queen of the starry night. 
 And she who urged our fathers on. 
 
 With motherly devotion, 
 The night they struck against the wrong 
 
 And made tea in the ocean. 
 And she was there at Faneuil Hall, 
 
 With balance-scales a-poise. 
 Weighing out justice to one and all 
 
 'Midst that historic noise. 
 And she was with Jones at Whitehaven, 
 
i8o A Whistling Farmer 
 
 She led him 'long the coast, 
 
 And she was with Perry 
 
 At the battle of Lake Erie, 
 When the British ships were lost. 
 And she was in love with Jefferson, 
 
 She laid a wreath on his grave, 
 And she adores still to-day 
 
 The noble and the brave. 
 And she touched the heart of Paul Revere, 
 
 She knew the day, the hour, 
 And she it was that led the way 
 
 To light the Old Church tower. 
 She wept for joy at our Yorktown, 
 
 And when the deed was done, 
 A halo of glory shone around 
 
 The name of "Washington. 
 She kissed the brow of Nathan Hale, 
 
 With a woman's prodigality, 
 And she left there the stamp that will never 
 fail. 
 
 The stamp of immortality. 
 
 thou storm-lashed and blood-splashed em- 
 blem of justice, 
 
 Ever leading thy children by land and sea, 
 Where flying shot and bursting shell, 
 And quiv'ring flesh their story tell, 
 'Mid clashing arms, and waves that swell 
 And reel and fall, and last farewell. 
 And pools of blood where some one fell. 
 
 Fell in the cause of freedom! 
 
 And what we've done, we'll do again. 
 
 To help the cause of freedom win, 
 
 And far from home I hear the din — 
 
 We're marching on to victory! 
 
A Whistling Farmer i8i 
 
 CROSSING THE DELAWARE 
 
 'TwAS Christmas night in seventy-six, 
 
 And frosty was the air, 
 But Washington had laid his plans 
 
 To cross the Delaware, 
 All night, they strove among the ice, 
 
 With naught to keep them warm, 
 And when they landed in the morn. 
 
 Enveloped in the storm. 
 Few scenes we find in war's alarm. 
 
 Of bravery, more rare. 
 For many a noble-hearted youth 
 
 Had crossed the Delaware, 
 The dangerous Delaware, 
 
 The icy Delaware, 
 For many a noble-hearted youth 
 
 Had crossed the Delaware. 
 
 And marching down to Trenton town, 
 
 Their enemies to snare, — 
 This fearless band of patriots. 
 
 That crossed the Delaware, — 
 And while the sluggish Hessian lay 
 
 A-toying with his dream. 
 No noisy sound of drum was heard 
 
 To echo down the stream, — 
 As silent as that starry host. 
 
 Whose endless fields expand, — 
 But every man had come to fight 
 
 For home and native land: 
 The freedom of his land. 
 
 The honor of his land! 
 
1 82 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 But every man had come to fight, 
 For home and native land. 
 
 When duty calls where danger lurks, 
 
 The bravest and the fair. 
 Are always ready with a heart. 
 
 To cross some Delaware. 
 A swift surprise and capture quick. 
 
 And thus the deed was done, 
 And o'er the field of battle rang 
 
 The name of Washington. 
 And now a thousand men we bore 
 
 As prisoners away. 
 And only four we left behind, 
 
 Upon that winter day, — 
 That brilliant winter day. 
 
 That stormy winter day; 
 And only four we left behind 
 
 Upon that winter day. 
 
 Ee turning now along the stream. 
 
 With ample time to spare. 
 They waved a token to their friends, 
 
 Beyond the Delaware. 
 And ere the sun had sunk to rest, 
 
 Or flashed a single gleam, 
 We find this band of fearless men 
 
 Eeturning up the stream. 
 And while their bands of music played 
 
 Some pieces, rich and rare, 
 They marched back to their boats again. 
 
 And crossed the Delaware, — 
 The noted Delaware, 
 
 The classic Delaware; 
 They marched back to their boats again, 
 
 And crossed the Delaware. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 183 
 
 THE INTENT IS ALL 
 
 If I be true in all my thought, 
 
 If I be ever true, 
 I need not fear what I have wrought, 
 
 Whatever I may do. 
 
 For God perceives in my design. 
 
 The whole of my desire, 
 Just as he sees this heart of mine 
 
 A-flounder in the mire. 
 
 And so my honor bears me on, 
 
 My honesty beside, 
 And so it will until I'm gone, 
 
 Whatever may betide. 
 
 For justice is my only thought. 
 
 And this, I still pursue, 
 And seek for kindness, as I ought, 
 
 In everything I do. 
 
 And when my own are housed and clad. 
 And comfort claims the day, 
 
 I may not stop because I'm glad. 
 And fritter life away; 
 
 My God hath called, and I must go, 
 
 And labor with a will. 
 For He demands this much, I know. 
 
 Of all his creatures still. 
 
184 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And so my days and nights abound 
 In constant usefulness, 
 
 And well I know, if I be crowned, 
 I can do nothing less. 
 
 THE BETTER LIFE 
 
 About all that we need 
 In this world of ours. 
 
 In clearing the shoals of strife, 
 Is a loaf of bread, 
 And a bunch of flowers, 
 
 And the love of a noble wife ; 
 
 And a plain old home, 
 And plenty of room. 
 
 And garments of cotton or wool ; 
 And a garden back, 
 Where the flowers can bloom. 
 
 And a heart that is always full ; 
 
 And a few dear friends, — 
 And only a few. 
 
 For numbers are always a care, — 
 And these should be 
 Congenial and true. 
 
 And free as the wide open air. 
 
 And a baby or two. 
 To strengthen the tie, 
 
 And to gladden the glowing dawn, 
 And to bathe our brow 
 When death is nigh. 
 
 And remember us when we're gone. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 185 
 
 And then, for the sick, 
 And those who are aged, 
 
 We should do whatever we can, 
 In alertness ever 
 Kesponding quick, 
 
 To the needs of our fellow-man. 
 
 THE MATTERHORN 
 
 Ghostlike in the tranquil evening, 
 Triumphantly greeting the morn, 
 
 As when thy clouds are leaving 
 The tip of the Matterhorn, 
 The glistening Matterhorn, 
 The ponderous Matterhorn, — 
 
 As when thy clouds are leaving 
 The tip of the Matterhorn. 
 
 Aglow in thy pristine beauty, 
 Remaining forever sublime, 
 
 Thou soldier of trust and duty. 
 Thou sentinel rock of Time, 
 Thou gladdening rock of Time, 
 Thou wonderful rock of Time, — 
 
 A soldier of trust and duty, 
 Thou sentinel rock of Time. 
 
 Surviving the countless ages. 
 And scoffing the world to scorn. 
 
 Thou prince of the mountain sages, 
 The tip of the Matterhorn, 
 The mystical Matterhorn, 
 The beautiful Matterhorn, — 
 
 Thou prince of the mountain sages, 
 The tip of the Matterhorn. 
 
1 86 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 THE WITCHES OF SALEM TOWN 
 
 Some witches once, — tlie story runs, — 
 
 Who lived in Salem town, 
 They spread their witchery abroad 
 
 In all the lands around ; 
 And made the cows give bloody milk, 
 
 By practicing their spells, 
 And brought about a world of woes 
 
 By drying up the wells; 
 And filled the land with awful plagues, 
 
 Of every known degree. 
 And then, we 're told, they sought to hide 
 
 This cunning infamy. 
 And while the witches further spread 
 
 Their maladies around. 
 In sore distress, the records say. 
 
 The folk of Salem town. 
 Led on by Cotton Mather now. 
 
 Sought out these grannies gray, 
 And charged them with a host of crimes 
 
 And led them all away, 
 To face, perchance, an awful charge. 
 
 Preferred against the witch, — 
 Or were she one of poverty, 
 
 Or one among the rich, — 
 Yes, led them off as prisoners. 
 
 And often made them tell 
 Of things that were impossible, — 
 
 And, now we know it well. 
 And judges sat on every case. 
 
 And oft it was they found, 
 So much of proof against the witch. 
 
 In court at Salem town, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 187 
 
 That she was led away to die 
 
 Among the faggots' blaze, 
 While ' ' Hallelujahs ! ' ' rent the air 
 
 In early Salem days. 
 But were they here, who'd say to-day, 
 
 They set the town afire, — 
 Those innocents of other times, 
 
 That Salem's loth to sire? 
 And, Lord, we pray they may return 
 
 To every town on earth, 
 That they may bear aloft a torch 
 
 Of common sense and worth; 
 That all may see how ignorance 
 
 Has swept the world around. 
 Not only here, but everywhere, — 
 
 As well as Salem town. 
 
 THE WAYS OF GOD 
 
 What prospects flash before pure youth ! 
 
 What dreams we have from day to day, 
 Till age comes by and tells the truth, — 
 
 Poor feeble age, that's found decay. 
 But what is truth when life is gone. 
 
 And deeper grows the evening gloam, 
 And cold and swift the night comes on 
 
 And calls us back to home, sweet home ? 
 To clods that lie beneath our feet. 
 
 And rivers wide and boundless sea. 
 For o'er and o'er all these repeat, 
 
 ''Come back to me ! Come back to me ! 
 Come back, ye aged and feeble ones; 
 
 And come, man of strength and pride. 
 And you, my daughters and my sons, 
 
 Come back to greet the flowing tide. 
 
i88 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And come, ye infants still at breast, 
 
 Come back to sleep beneath the sod, 
 And mingle with the dust and rest. 
 
 Along the way that leads to God, — 
 The ways of all that breathe and live : 
 
 The birth, the growth, the ripened grain, 
 Come back," he cries, ''and freely give 
 
 These gladsome pleasures back again ! ' ' 
 
 A BAD EXCHANGE 
 
 If I were you, 
 
 And you were me. 
 How different 
 
 We two would be. 
 For I'd be fat. 
 
 And you'd be lean. 
 And you'd be good. 
 
 And I'd be mean. 
 And I'd be short, 
 
 And you'd be long, 
 And I'd be weak, 
 
 And you'd be strong. 
 And you'd be rich, 
 
 And I'd be poor. 
 But poverty 
 
 Is such a bore! 
 Let's stay just where 
 
 We are, old man. 
 And try and do 
 
 The best we can. 
 For you'd be great, 
 
 And I'd be small. 
 And j^ou'd be out 
 
 If I should call. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 189 
 
 And you'd be swift, 
 
 And I'd be slow, 
 And then, we 'd drift 
 
 Apart, yoTi know. 
 And I'd wear rags 
 
 And beg my bread, 
 And you 'd drive by 
 
 Nor turn your head. 
 And leave me here 
 
 Upon the road, 
 To struggle on 
 
 Beneath my load. 
 And I should fret 
 
 And you'd be glad. 
 And this would make 
 
 Me glum and sad. 
 For I'd be spurned. 
 
 And you'd be blessed. 
 And you'd be gay. 
 
 And I distressed, 
 And I'd be shunned. 
 
 And you'd be sought, 
 And I'd be jailed, 
 
 And you would not. 
 And I'd be tried 
 
 In open court. 
 And you 'd sit by 
 
 And jolly o'er't, 
 And go and swear 
 
 Upon the stand, 
 That I had been 
 
 An awful man 
 My whole life long. 
 
 The same as now. 
 Since once I stole 
 
 My neighbor's cow. 
 
I go A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And you'd be kissed 
 
 By ladies, sure, 
 And I'd be hissed 
 
 From every door. 
 And all my friends 
 
 "Would be disgraced, 
 And all your crimes 
 
 Would be erased. 
 And I'd be left. 
 
 And you they'd call, 
 And you'd be it 
 
 At every ball. 
 And you'd be proud, 
 
 And drink your wine. 
 And that would break 
 
 This heart of mine. 
 And you'd be hailed 
 
 All o'er the land. 
 And I'd be scoffed 
 
 On every hand. 
 And I'd be old, 
 
 And you'd be young, 
 And you'd go free. 
 
 And I'd be hung. 
 Because I stole 
 
 My neighbor's cow. 
 That's feeding on 
 
 The common now. 
 
 THE GRANITE SPRING 
 
 Come to the granite spring, May, 
 Come to the granite spring, 
 
 Come when the songsters sing, May, 
 Come when the songsters sing! 
 
A Whistling Farmer igi 
 
 Come with your simple truth, May, 
 
 Come with your simple truth, 
 Gome in your glowing youth. May, 
 
 Come in your glowing youth. 
 And ere the sun has sunk, May, 
 
 And ere the sun has sunk, 
 Come to the shelving bank. May, 
 
 Come to the shelving bank. 
 
 But, oh, the years went by. 
 And the spring went dry. 
 
 And the rustic seat in the shade. 
 Like the one who trod 
 On that winding trail. 
 
 At last in the dust was laid. 
 
 I LOVE 
 
 I LOVE the summer's glow 
 And the winter's snow. 
 And the sleigher's shout 
 
 And the tinkling bell; 
 And the music sweet. 
 And the flying feet, 
 And the one dear pledge 
 
 That is treasured well; 
 
 And the plan that's laid, 
 And the vow that's made. 
 And the hope that brightens 
 
 The future's mist; 
 And the noble twain 
 That ever remain 
 The same as the day 
 
 They plighted their tryst; 
 
192 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And tlie fruitful tree, 
 And the children's glee, 
 That gladdens the glow 
 
 Of the evening hearth; 
 And the songs they sing. 
 And the joys they bring 
 As we near the brink 
 
 Of the cold, damp earth. 
 
 And I love the plot 
 By the ruined cot. 
 And a cooling draught 
 
 From grandfather's spring; 
 Where the ferns grow wild. 
 And the tulips smile 
 And the songsters flit 
 
 On hurrying wing; 
 
 And the sounds of spring, 
 And the woodland's ring, 
 And the plowman's song 
 
 In the distant field; 
 And the cloudy cloak 
 Of the curling smoke. 
 And the horn that's wound 
 
 For the noonday meal; 
 
 And the breeze that blows. 
 And the stream that flows. 
 And the brook that murmurs 
 
 Its gurgling tune; 
 And the man that tries, 
 And the maid that sighs 
 For a mild, clear day 
 
 In the coming June; 
 
A Whistling Farmer 193 
 
 And the dews that fall, 
 And the frosty sprawl 
 That looks like the work 
 
 Of a mj^stic hand; 
 And the tranquil night, 
 And the dawning light 
 That comes like a blessing 
 
 That some one 's planned ; 
 
 And the lark that soars, 
 And the storm that roars 
 A warning to all 
 
 O'er the oceans wide; 
 And the tide that turns, 
 And the moon that yearns 
 For the life once more 
 
 Of a youthful bride. 
 
 And the blood-red Mars, 
 And the twinkling stars, 
 And the hazv maze 
 
 Of the Milky Way; 
 And the rainbow's hue 
 And the azure blue, 
 That, deeper and darker, 
 
 Beyond us lay; 
 
 And the pith and pride 
 Of the landscape wide. 
 And the cloudlike curtain 
 
 That's hung so high; 
 And the gladsome play 
 Of the breaking day, 
 And the crimson flush 
 
 Of the evening sky; 
 
194 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And the forest deep, 
 And tlie valley's sweep, 
 And the flowers that gladden 
 
 The lonely trail; 
 And the maiden's await 
 By her swinging gate 
 For one who was lost 
 
 In the offing sail. 
 
 A HOPELESS BACHELOR 
 
 'And tell me now, ye moaning winds, 
 
 That round my dwelling rave. 
 Is there no place on all the earth 
 
 Where man may quiet have, — 
 No cavern underground for him. 
 
 Or howling wilderness. 
 Where woman never comes along 
 
 To mar his happiness?" 
 And, then, just like a raging storm, 
 
 I heard the wind reply: 
 * ' In all my travels 'round the earth, — 
 
 Not I, my friend, not I." 
 Likewise, a chorus seemed to break 
 
 The silence, far and near. 
 From everything possessing life: 
 
 ''Nor here, nor here, nor here." 
 The valleys joined the distant hills. 
 
 The insect, with its chant. 
 Poured forth denials all day long: 
 
 "We can't, we can't, we can't." 
 And all that breathe, and all that know,— 
 
 A voice from everything. 
 And great and small, and high and low, 
 
 And man, and fin, and wing. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 195 
 
 HOMESICK 
 
 I've traveled much, and yet, — alack !- 
 
 Wherever I may roam, 
 In fancy still I wander back 
 
 Around my youthful home. 
 Although its site was cold and drear, 
 
 And stony lay the lea. 
 Forever still it seemeth dear 
 
 And sacred unto me. 
 
 THE BABE IN THE TREE 
 
 And where are you going, 
 
 My dear little man. 
 Away down the road now 
 
 As fast as you can? 
 And day after day 
 
 Along where you've toed, 
 I find a wee track 
 
 In the dust of the road. 
 
 "Yes, I hurry along 
 
 Just as fast as I can. 
 When I go down the road, sir, 
 
 To visit Aunt Han. 
 You know where she lives, sir, 
 
 Down over the hill, 
 And she sleeps every night 
 
 With my old Uncle Bill. 
 And both are as funny 
 
 As funny can be, 
 
196 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 'Cause they found a wee babe 
 
 In an old hollow tree. 
 So I go every day 
 
 To their home o'er the hill 
 'Cause I love my Aunt Han 
 
 And my old Uncle Bill. 
 And Auntie, she told of 
 
 This tree, far away, 
 And I went out to hunt, 
 
 And I hunted all day, 
 And I found it at last, 
 
 AYith a hole near the ground, 
 But some old rotten wood, sir. 
 
 Was all that I found. 
 And I told them of this, 
 
 And they both laughed at me. 
 And they said there is more 
 
 In the old hollow tree." 
 
 BED BUGS 
 
 ''Come on there, you fellows! 
 
 The man's fast asleep. 
 Come on! Don't you hear me, 
 
 I just took a peep. 
 And slyly, I warn you. 
 
 As onward you creep. 
 And we'll all have a feast 
 On his carcass." 
 
 Then out from the drawers, 
 
 Majestic and tall. 
 And out from each crevice 
 
 And crack in the wall, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 197 
 
 The bugs all responded, 
 
 The great and the small, 
 Aflush with delight 
 At the prospect. 
 
 Resembling an army, 
 
 Advancing, they came. 
 The old and the young now. 
 
 The halt and the lame; 
 For vantage is vantage 
 
 In life's rugged game, 
 With darkness, and slumber 
 Assisting. 
 
 And now, from the vanguard. 
 
 As onward it flows: 
 '^Ye gods ain't he luscious!" 
 
 Says one on his nose, 
 While others approve it, 
 
 At work on his toes, — 
 When bugs are a-plenty 
 All summer. 
 
 But hark you! it seems there's 
 
 A skip in his snore, 
 "Let's quiet a moment 
 
 And let him roll o'er." 
 But all of a sudden 
 
 He utters a roar, 
 And flounces, and bounces 
 And tumbles. 
 
 And "Thunder and blazes! 
 
 What's that at my feet?" 
 And slam go the covers. 
 
 Exposing the sheet, 
 
igS A Whistling Farmer 
 
 But never a vermin 
 
 Is found in retreat, 
 For all have escaped 
 In the darkness. 
 
 And now on his belly, 
 And now on his back, 
 
 He thinks, — surely thinks, — 
 He has found something black, 
 
 And, gritting his teeth hard. 
 He gives it a crack. 
 
 But nothing is ever 
 Discovered. 
 
 Then raging, distracted. 
 He springs for his light, 
 
 And flooding his room 
 In the hush of the night, 
 
 He damns all creation 
 With all of his might, 
 
 'Cause bugs are a-plenty. 
 All summer. 
 
 THE HIDDEN GOAL 
 
 When evening comes, none should forget 
 
 That other suns have often set ; 
 
 And from the past, it seemeth plain, 
 
 This very sun will rise again. 
 
 And since, with ease, these things are done. 
 
 From day to day, and sun to sun, 
 
 May there not be some light ahead? 
 
 A light to rouse the slumb 'ring dead. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 199 
 
 And rend in twain this awful gloom, 
 
 And tear asunder every tomb, 
 
 And say to each : ' ' Arise, my friend ! 
 
 This death, that once you thought the end, 
 
 Was but a nap, — a short repose. 
 
 For man to guess, and God, who knows? 
 
 Arise, I say, and break this bond, 
 
 And smile at all that lies beyond. 
 
 For this is far too deep for you 
 
 To fathom God's eternal blue, 
 
 Or learn, as yet, the reasons why 
 
 He has decreed all flesh must die. 
 
 But this should not disturb your dream. 
 
 And why? Behold this placid stream 
 
 That comes to rest amid the sea, 
 
 But not for all eternity. 
 
 For yet, in time, that which has been 
 
 Will all return and be again. 
 
 And of this grave, that opens wide, 
 
 Man's like the stream that seeks the tide, — 
 
 A stream, that's ever flowing on, 
 
 And yet a stream that's never gone. 
 
 THE STORM 
 
 A DROP of rain fell down and down, 
 
 A thing of passing worth. 
 Until at last this tiny sphere 
 
 Had reached the waiting earth. 
 
 And then, another drop there was. 
 Of but the slightest weight. 
 
 And this, as well, went down and down 
 To join its little mate. 
 
200 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 As louder now the storm arose, 
 And wilder grew the night, 
 
 Some other drops went down and down 
 To join them in their flight. 
 
 And soon a shower these become. 
 
 Fast merging into rain. 
 And millions now went down and down, 
 
 A-flooding all the plain. 
 
 And sharply, too, the lightnings leaped 
 Out boldly from the cloud. 
 
 And thunders boomed and boomed again 
 Their mutterings more loud. 
 
 And swift the winds went das£ing by, 
 And streams began to roar. 
 
 And high and higher rose the flood, 
 O'erleaping every shore. 
 
 And darkness flung her robes afar. 
 
 Beneath an inky sky, 
 And death went by and by again 
 
 In waters dashing high. 
 
 BESSIE BOUNTON 
 
 In sight of the city. 
 In sound of the town 
 "Where wealth and beauty 
 Goes round and round, 
 Through the long, cold night 
 I'm still ungoT\Tied, 
 Ungowned on the Cutler Mountain. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 201 
 
 With rubbish and logs 
 For my hurable bed, 
 And these lurid flames 
 Encircling my head, 
 And this is the way that 
 I suffered and bled, — 
 And bled on the Cutler Mountain. 
 
 When lured to my death 
 By a fiendish brute, 
 And one who would rob 
 And burn and shoot, — 
 And how can I rest 
 In my grave so mute,^ 
 So mute on the Cutler ^Mountain ? 
 
 All burned to a crisp, 
 My eyes, face, and hair, 
 And frozen like marble 
 ]\Iy figure so fair. 
 Oh, agonies mine ! 
 My agonies share. 
 With me, on the Cutler ]\Iountain. 
 
 For I'm shot and burned 
 And stripped and froze, 
 And tortured for days 
 By a fly that blows. 
 And eaten by maggots, — 
 And God only knows 
 I'm here on the Cutler Mountain. 
 
 And these tortures here, 
 Amid the evening gloam. 
 Such sweet, sweet music 
 Beneath the starry dome. 
 
202 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And the portals open, 
 And the angels come, 
 They come to the Cutler Mountain. 
 
 To the wild eagle's scream, 
 And the dashing fountain, 
 And the funeral pyre 
 Of lone Bessie Bounton, 
 A long farewell for 
 My soul mounting 
 Beyond the Cutler Mountain. 
 
 Up higher and higher. 
 And higher and higher, 
 Beyond the range of earth, 
 Beyond the shot and fire. 
 And ever on beyond 
 All craving and desire, — 
 Beyond the Cutler Mountain. 
 
 Beyond the night of death. 
 And ever still I'm tossed, 
 Beyond, and still beyond, — 
 And yet I'm not lost, 
 Beyond the Milky Way 
 Its hazy fields I've crossed, — 
 Oh, mine forever, — hallelujah! 
 
 In sight of the city, 
 In sound of the town. 
 With its golden streets 
 And its jewel'd crown, 
 The New Jerusalem 
 At last I've found, — 
 The eternal God, and Heaven. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 203 
 
 ELSIE CLARK 
 
 A FLASH in the darkness, 
 
 A gleam in the dark, 
 A stranger to rashness, 
 
 A twittering lark. 
 Contending and mending. 
 And pleasantries sending. 
 Is Elsie, fair Elsie, 
 
 My own Elsie Clark. 
 My own Elsie, ever, 
 
 Of fair Eaton town. 
 Adjacent some rivers 
 
 Of lasting renown, — 
 The Piatt, and the Pudre, — 
 
 And beautiful town, 
 The colony town 
 Of pioneer days. 
 Away at the sunrise. 
 
 By meadow and park, 
 As freely her fun flies 
 
 At every remark. 
 And smiling and tripping 
 As onward she's skipping. 
 Is Elsie, dear Elsie, 
 My own Elsie Clark. 
 But aye, from this village, 
 
 From which you may tum,- 
 This gem, and its tillage. 
 
 In sight of Lucerne, 
 And scenes, far removed 
 
 From early childhood. 
 To blessings awaiting 
 
 A pure motherhood; 
 
204 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Elsie of Eaton, 
 
 May time still unfold 
 A life that will sweeten 
 With pleasures untold, 
 And ever dash onward 
 For life's noble mark, 
 My Elsie, sweet Elsie, 
 My own Elsie Clark! 
 
 THE LEAVES THAT FALL 
 
 Compute the grass upon the ground. 
 In all the fields here strewn around. 
 And every blade, it must come down, 
 And one by one, and one by one. 
 And one by one the leaflets fall, — 
 And one by one, and one bj^ one 
 But in the end death takes them all, — 
 And one by one, and one by one. 
 And one by one the days go by, 
 And one by one, and one by one. 
 As do the stars that fill the sky, 
 And one by one, and one by one, 
 And one by one the years glide on, 
 And one by one, and one hy one. 
 And ere we know they all are gone, 
 And one by one, and one by one. 
 
 THE PLEASANT WAY 
 
 The ways that wind are most unkind. 
 The pleasant way is straight. 
 
 The tangled way's the mangled way. 
 That many find too late. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 205 
 
 The rudest way's the lewdest way, 
 
 And full it is of sorrow, 
 And all who stray along this way 
 
 May fear the coming morrow. 
 But pleasant wa3^s and pleasant days, 
 
 They soothe the soul with pleasure. 
 And pluck the dart from every heart. 
 
 And leave a gladsome treasure. 
 Then let us live that we may give 
 
 To all some sweet affection, 
 And when we 're gone we '11 still live on 
 
 In fonder recollection. 
 
 ADVICE 
 
 To 'void the pangs of life 's distress. 
 What, most of all, should one possess ? — 
 What things that may be had by each, 
 What useful things within our reach? 
 Well, first of all, among this throng. 
 Each one should be extremely strong. 
 For out of this, — this root of Strength, 
 A host of branches spring at length. 
 And bud and blossom to amaze, 
 And show their worth in endless ways. 
 And of each branch that's pure and fair, 
 These should receive our constant care. 
 And Virtue here, she stands in front, 
 And naught should be allowed to stunt 
 The growth of this most godlike form 
 That might be warped by passion 's storm ; 
 And every care that thought can give 
 Should train it in the ways to live. 
 
2o6 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 For what is strength, at any price, 
 
 If Virtue yields to passing vice? 
 
 And next to these, I find the Truth 
 
 That should be sought by every youth ; 
 
 For Truth and Strength and Virtue are 
 
 The greatest things in life by far. 
 
 And search you may, but in these three 
 
 Man finds his earthly trinity. 
 
 And unto these all other things 
 
 Will turn their face, and spread their wings. 
 
 And Love herself is but the child 
 
 Of Strength and Virtue undefiled, 
 
 So all, and all, and all that be 
 
 Bow down before these sacred three. 
 
 DOROTHY BARFOOTE 
 
 'Way down along the Delaware, — 
 *Way down this shady thoroughfare,- 
 Wee's the maiden living there 
 
 With her curls; 
 She's the fairest of the fair. 
 Golden ringlets in her hair, 
 Lightly tripping as the air. 
 
 Like the squirr'ls. 
 
 With a temper few can rile, 
 So confiding is her smile. 
 She is laughing all the while 
 
 On the grass. 
 She's a stranger unto guile, 
 And the sweetest little child 
 In the city, by a mile, 
 
 That I pass. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 207 
 
 At your playhouse, where you've played, 
 Down the brooklet in the shade. 
 Where you often went to wade, 
 
 You may find 
 Deep impressions have been made. 
 By some lover down the glade. 
 That will never, never fade 
 
 From your mind. 
 
 For some playmate, once so proud, 
 Now so meekly in his shroud. 
 Will be missing from the crowd 
 
 Where you go; 
 Evening vespers tolling loud. 
 Empty spaces where he bowed, — 
 These may haunt you like a cloud 
 
 In its flow. 
 
 But the darkness of your veil 
 And the sadness of your wail 
 And the windings of your trail, — 
 
 These will pass, 
 Like the wreckage of the gale. 
 And your efforts that may fail, 
 And your beauty that will pale 
 
 Like the grass. 
 
 You will learn, though, by and by, 
 Consolation's always nigh, 
 Ever frowning on the sigh 
 
 Of the years, 
 Never trifle, asking why, 
 Floods of sunshine in the sky 
 Bring a twinkle to the eye 
 
 Filled with tears. 
 
2o8 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Like the shadows on the street, 
 Youth's as transient as it's sweet, 
 Or the strangers that you meet 
 
 On your way; 
 Blessings on your cottage neat. 
 And your dainty little feet, 
 In their movements ever fleet, 
 
 Day by day. 
 
 "Wisdom pineth for the sage, 
 
 . Knowledge cometh after age. 
 
 Youth is but a barren page 
 
 Newly born; 
 Often vexing in its rage. 
 But its future we may gauge 
 By its talents on the stage 
 
 In the morn. 
 
 Beauty lieth in your ways, 
 Virtue addeth many days. 
 Subtle venom oft betrays 
 
 With a kiss; 
 Shun the loafer with his gaze. 
 And the vulgar in the plays, 
 And a life that quickly slays, 
 
 Little miss; 
 
 And the fickleness of dress. 
 With its signals of distress. 
 And all ruthless showiness. 
 
 And you'll find, 
 In this restful simpleness. 
 Such a blissful happiness 
 In the easing of your breast, 
 
 And your mind. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 209 
 
 Modern follies often chase, 
 Swifter than the swiftest race, 
 Seeking stations, seeking place 
 
 Day and night; 
 Some with motives that are base 
 Plainly stamped upon their face, 
 Others wanting as to grace 
 
 In their flight. 
 
 What are vanities and pride. 
 More than pleasures crucified? 
 The indulgent may deride. 
 
 But it's SO; 
 All there is that's deified. 
 Only naturalness abides. 
 Else the ages all have lied, — 
 
 Well we know. 
 
 Hasty tempers blight and rend, 
 Smiling faces always mend. 
 Love should triumph to the end 
 
 Of your days; 
 With the volumes she has penned. 
 And the armies she can send. 
 May her empire still extend 
 These displays. 
 
 Modesty and gentle speech, — 
 These are always in your reach; 
 Like the pebbles on, the beach. 
 
 They are free; 
 What a sermon these could preach, 
 Bringing blessings unto each! 
 And a lesson they should teach 
 
 All who be. 
 
210 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Elfin creature, pure and sweet, 
 There's a wMsper down the street, 
 And it's flying awful fleet 
 
 Through the air; 
 That the neighbors, when they meet, 
 Ere they even stop to greet, 
 Seem delighted to repeat, 
 
 So beware! 
 
 All young ladies, they should know, 
 In life's struggles to and fro. 
 Many shadows come and go 
 
 And expand; 
 And this fruitage, high and low, 
 All the planters, when they mow, 
 Are but reaping what they sow. 
 
 As they planned. 
 
 You remember Dora Smock, 
 In her cottage down the block. 
 How she answered to a knock 
 
 On her door? 
 It was midnight by the clock. 
 When she turned that fatal lock, 
 And they found her and her frock 
 
 Smeared with gore. 
 
 Found her face, — and body, too. 
 Marred in death, and black and blue, 
 Gaping wounds, and not a few. 
 
 Lay open wide; 
 Blood had gushed and spurted through 
 Her silk and satin garments new, 
 And she'd been a mother, too. 
 
 Ere she died. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 211 
 
 You remember Clarence Stife, 
 And the romance of his life, 
 How it was, they found his knife 
 
 In her room? 
 She was once his noble wife. 
 Ere these whisperings were rife. 
 Long before this bloody strife 
 
 Sealed their doom. 
 
 And you may yet remember still. 
 The chase and capture on the hill, 
 And that wild exciting thrill 
 
 To old and young? 
 Down the river, near the mill, 
 "Where the moaning waters spill. 
 And that being, mute and still, 
 
 That they hung. 
 
 In our ropes of sand and slime, 
 Wound around the reels of time. 
 There are moments most sublime 
 
 For us all; 
 In the shadows of the chime. 
 There are many in their prime 
 Who are ever plotting crime 
 
 Ere they fall. 
 
 We have passions, when they're freed, 
 
 That we scarcely ever heed, 
 
 That can smash the strongest creed 
 
 In the land; 
 And so ruthless is their greed. 
 Thoughtful parents always lead, 
 Nor should any stop to plead, 
 
 But commgind. 
 
212 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Love's a stranger unto some, 
 Seeking respite in their rum, 
 They're as stagnant as the scum 
 
 On the bog; 
 Timid mortals, partly dumb, 
 Crowd the counters of the slum, 
 While they mumble o'er a crumb. 
 
 And their grog. 
 
 Dorothy Barfoote, time will wing, 
 Onward flowing like the spring. 
 And its echoes soon will ring 
 
 Womanhood. 
 While the merrymakers bring 
 Garlands, from the queen and king. 
 May all nature round you sing, — 
 
 As it should. 
 
 Quickly now, your star will rise, 
 Some fair Jupiter that lies 
 Deeply hidden, I surmise, 
 
 From your sight, 
 Will be master of your sighs, 
 And be flooding all your skies 
 And the gladness of your eyes 
 
 With delight. 
 
 Hark, this phantom draweth near, 
 That's been waiting year by year! 
 What its mission may be here. 
 
 None can tell. 
 Sharper than the sharpest spear. 
 It's an object many fear, 
 For it often brings a tear, — 
 
 And a knell. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 213 
 
 Patience now, for love must grow, 
 
 Only older ones may know 
 
 How these throbbing symptoms flow, 
 
 As they drift, 
 Stormlike, in their sweeping blow, 
 Darting hither, to and fro. 
 Shot from Cupid's magic bow, 
 
 Keen and swift. 
 
 All who hearken to this god, 
 Ere they slumber 'neath the sod, 
 Are the valiant, who have trod 
 
 On before; 
 Many doubters slowly plod, 
 These are only smoothly shod, 
 So's the nodder, with his nod 
 
 And his snore. 
 
 Dorothy, in dreams by night. 
 Comes a picture, clear and bright. 
 Painted by some passing wight, 
 
 I suppose; 
 Yet, so agile is the flight 
 Of this tiny little sprite. 
 Oft he giggles with delight 
 
 Ere he goes. 
 
 In this picture I can see 
 
 Glimpses of futurity. 
 
 Some fine country, wide and free. 
 
 Spread around, 
 There's the cottage, 'neath the tree, 
 And its owners, he and she, 
 "With their baby on their knee. 
 
 Neatly gowned. 
 
214 A. Whistling Farmer 
 
 Stretching onward down the lane, 
 On, and onward, yet again, 
 Homes of comfort dot the plain, 
 
 Far and near; 
 Endless fields of tossing grain, 
 Ever billowing amain, 
 Guaranteeing ample gain. 
 
 Year by year. 
 
 Stately forests, here and there. 
 Sparkling streamlets glint and glare. 
 Birds so happy fill the air 
 
 With their song; 
 Nooks of beauty, jeweled rare. 
 Winding driveways everywhere. 
 Nodding flowers peep and stare 
 
 All day long. 
 
 Here the creature meets his God, 
 Face to face in every clod, 
 And he loveth every rod 
 
 Of the lea; 
 And he looks to this, the sod. 
 Like the mason to his hod ; 
 Or the netter, netting cod, 
 
 To the sea. 
 
 And look to this, this cup of cheer, 
 Along the lines of honor, dear. 
 And life, and love, without a fear; 
 Bide your time. 
 
 And brush aside this passing tear. 
 That too often lingers near, 
 And bright you'll find existence here. 
 And sublime. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 215 
 
 And down this Delaware, some day, 
 And down this thoroughfare, I lay, 
 And who he is, I dare not say, 
 
 With his ring; 
 As when your thoughts are far away. 
 Within the staging of life's play, 
 All laden down with flowers gay 
 
 He will bring, 
 
 Gladness to your longing heart; 
 And with a suitor's ardent art, 
 And for a promise, ere you part. 
 
 He will plead, 
 And the quivers of his dart. 
 And the beauty of his chart, 
 And the richness of his mart 
 
 You will heed. 
 
 Blessings now, I trust, will be 
 Boundless as the open sea. 
 And your spirit just as free 
 
 As the bird 
 In the branches of the tree. 
 Overflowing in its glee, 
 With some joyous melody, 
 
 That you've heard. 
 
 And in the years not far away, 
 When I'm feeble, old and gray, 
 I should love to rest some day 
 
 On your lawn, 
 Or go sailing down the bay. 
 While your children romp and play. 
 And for this I often pray. 
 
 Ere I'm gone. 
 
2i6 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 SOMETIME 
 
 Sometime in the hush of evening, 
 
 Sometime when the sun is low, 
 As when at last we are leaving 
 
 The swish of the harbor's flow;" 
 Sometime when our hearts are beating 
 
 More faintly, and faintly still, 
 Sometime when our life's retreating 
 
 Disorderly over the hill. 
 May there come to all that's mortal. 
 
 The glimpse of a brighter road 
 That leadeth unto a portal 
 
 Of some celestial abode! 
 And whether it be oblivion 
 
 Or life in a higher sphere, 
 For all, it's an endless heaven 
 
 That stealeth awav our fear. 
 
 WHAT'S THE TROUBLE? 
 
 Some more money leaves our city, 
 Some more poverty at home. 
 
 Tell the mayor, sing the ditty, 
 Loud enough to startle Rome. 
 
 "What's the matter with our people? 
 
 Why this begging for a job? 
 Poor as mice beneath the steeple 
 
 That another comes to rob. 
 
 Build some factories, — we can do it,- 
 Build a wall around our home, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 217 
 
 If we don't, we'll surely rue it, 
 And they'll laugh at us in Rome. 
 
 See this long array of houses, 
 That stand empty on the hill. 
 
 And my blood within me rouses 
 When I see folks leaving still. 
 
 What's the matter with our city? 
 
 Who is gloating 'er her shame ? 
 Aye, there 's something more than pity 
 
 Needed to preserve her name. 
 
 All we have goes out to others; 
 
 Not a cent remains at home, 
 my sisters and my brothers. 
 
 How we bow us down to Rome. 
 
 TO A DEAD FLY 
 
 And what is this that I behold, 
 Out here among this stinging cold? 
 Aye, this is death I'm passing by. 
 The ghostly form of some dead fly. 
 And yet of this, this painless form. 
 What cares it now about the storm, 
 Or howling winds that come and go, 
 Or biting frost and drifting snow ? 
 And still, all this I'm passing by, — 
 All this was once a little fly. 
 And even now its wings are wide. 
 As oft they were before it died. 
 And yet, for truth, wee little fly. 
 In life I longed for thee to die. 
 
{( 
 
 2i8 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 But now I find you here to-day 
 
 As harmless as the trodden clay. 
 
 And like you seem a ball of frost, 
 
 Forever back and forward tossed, 
 
 And ever swinging in the storm. 
 
 Each day I pass your tiny form. 
 
 And often here what thoughts arise ! — 
 
 Deep thoughts, to which no one replies. 
 
 And musings oft o'erwhelm my brain, 
 
 And hopes and fears, an endless train. 
 
 And what of all this tangled thought, — 
 
 And strange conjectures this has brought. 
 
 For since, as now, you're safe in death, 
 
 I often pause and hold my breath. 
 
 Or softly murmur, passing by: 
 
 I, too, am but a helpless fly." 
 
 For yet, indeed, how may I tell 
 
 What all this is that once befell 
 
 So small a creature as you are, 
 
 That swings across my window bar? 
 
 And since thy fleeting life is gone. 
 
 And dissolution's sweeping on. 
 
 And every earthly pleasure's past 
 
 That once so strongly held you fast, 
 
 Before thy form, may I not bow. 
 
 In search of information now? 
 
 For this one query, often scoffed. 
 
 Has come to haunt my spirit oft, 
 
 And left me ever still aghast. 
 
 About the future and the past. 
 
 And what it is, I'd ask of thee. 
 
 To set my longing spirit free. 
 
 And bring to me a lasting bliss. 
 
 The query is, and that is this: 
 
 Had you a spirit like my own, 
 
 A spirit still to me unknown. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 219 
 
 That death released in passing by, 
 Had you a spirit, little fly? 
 Ah, silent still ? — as silent still. 
 As I shall be upon the hill. 
 And yet, sometime, poor little fly, 
 Let's hope together, you and I, 
 Sometime this screen will open wide, 
 On what as yet has been denied. 
 This weakness here, this timid part, 
 But this it is that makes us start. 
 And shivering stand amid the gloom 
 That hovers round our every tomb. 
 And since you're gone, may you repose 
 Beneath the fragrance of some rose, 
 And this may be beside my own. 
 Then we can rest in peace alone, — 
 In calm contentment as we lie, 
 Awaiting yet some by and by. 
 And once again, of thee out there, 
 Among this storm and frosty air. 
 Of thee I 'd ask, poor little fly : 
 Ere yet alone you came to die, 
 Were you cast off by all your friends, 
 On whom our pleasure most depends, 
 And scoffed and scorned, as though a fool, 
 And made the butt of ridicule 
 By high and low, and every one 
 With whom you met beneath the sun? 
 If so, my heart goes out to you, 
 And ever bleeds, and bleeds anew. 
 And here, once more, I'd ask of thee 
 That was, and yet again may be — 
 For if it be a truth that's told, 
 By Darwin, back in ages old, 
 My race, and all it e'er may be, 
 Was once as slight as this I see — 
 
220 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 So once again, before I turn 
 
 To other fields of less concern, 
 
 Again I'd ask, in passing by: 
 
 Had you a home in which to die, 
 
 A home, somewhere among your friends, 
 
 On which advancing age depends. 
 
 And pleasant hearth, and family ties. 
 
 On which the best of us relies. 
 
 Remaining still forever green. 
 
 Before you died upon this screen ? 
 
 Or did you bid adieu to kin 
 
 And vow you'd ne'er return again? 
 
 If naught of this, I know not why 
 
 You sought this stormy place to die. 
 
 Or were you shoo 'd from some warm room, 
 
 By mothers armed with kitchen broom, 
 
 Or slyly watched by toads and frogs; 
 
 And made the mark of snapping dogs ; 
 
 Or switched about by every tail, 
 
 Just like the beating of the flail, 
 
 Until, with hatred thus imbued, 
 
 And that foul imp, ingratitude. 
 
 You spread your tiny wings at last, 
 
 And vowed you'd bury all the past? 
 
 If this it was, poor little fly, 
 
 So oft it is, when death is nigh. 
 
 Each one of us is apt to find 
 
 Ingratitude is most unkind. 
 
 And was it this that caused your plight 
 
 And plunged you in this wintry night, 
 
 And sent you weeping down the years, 
 
 A stranger unto all but tears. 
 
 Until in time, the climax came, 
 
 And let you die a death of shame ? 
 
 If so, 'twere idle to deny. 
 
 These ruined hopes that round us lie 
 
A Whistling Farmer 221 
 
 Bestrew the earth from age to age, 
 
 And laugh at us from every page. 
 
 And hard it were, if you, unknown, 
 
 Should find an obscure grave alone! 
 
 But all around you wrecks abound 
 
 That, like yourself, remain uncrowned. 
 
 And while we stand, and wait, and sigh, 
 
 The ends and aims for which we try 
 
 Are like the ship that sails away 
 
 From some transparent inland bay, 
 
 To breast the ocean's outer swell. 
 
 Whose fate, no one may ever tell. 
 
 So full of hope are all aboard, 
 
 So happy when the ship's unmoored, 
 
 So like to life, the whole world o'er. 
 
 And fog and mist and unseen shore, 
 
 And every reef, and every shoal, 
 
 That seeks to rob us of our goal. 
 
 As when we go, as when we go. 
 
 To where, alas, as when we go. 
 
 I'd give my heart, torn from my breast 
 
 If I for sure knew all the rest. 
 
 Yes, I'd give it freely, could I see. 
 
 Beyond this grave of mystery; 
 
 And yet it seems, nor you nor I 
 
 Can glimpse these things, poor little fly ! 
 
 A PASSING WORLD 
 
 In vagueness here we struggle on, 
 Among this gloom surrounding, 
 
 And look to this, the early dawn, 
 As something most astounding. 
 
222 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 But wait awhile, until our earth 
 More brightly grows in rising, 
 
 And this will show in ways of worth 
 A host of things surprising. 
 
 But when all this has reached its noon, 
 And swings toward its setting, 
 
 Mankind will weep a passing boon 
 Through ages of regretting. 
 
 For yet this earth on which we live 
 Must die as we are dying; 
 
 And back to Nature's God must give 
 These beauties round us lying. 
 
 And of all life that we behold. 
 Each tender cord must sever, 
 
 And silent lie, and stark and cold, 
 And slumber on forever. 
 
 For while our earth still blooms to-day, 
 She has not always bloomed, 
 
 And she must answer with decay, 
 And be herself entombed. 
 
 AVIS LINNELL 
 
 How proud is man, how sad his fall ! 
 
 How keen is his disgrace. 
 How weak his plan, how black his pall, 
 
 How guilty seems his face ! 
 How bleak his day, how dark his night, 
 
 With not a star above, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 223 
 
 How weak his clay, how plain his fright, 
 
 How fickle seemeth love ! 
 How quick to stray, how keen to mar, 
 
 How saintly seemed his face, 
 How prone to pray, but, oh, that scar 
 
 No mortal can efface ! 
 Some darling son, some mother's hope 
 
 Of joy in after years. 
 His race is run, behold the rope. 
 
 And faces shorn of tears ! 
 He sleeps alone, who speaks his name, 
 
 Whose pardon can he crave. 
 Who can atone, who bear his shame, 
 
 Who weeps around his grave? 
 
 How bright her day, how fair her night, 
 
 With starry hosts above, 
 How pure her clay, how soft her light, 
 
 How constant seemeth love ! 
 How near in death, how dear in life. 
 
 How trusting, and how true, 
 How sweet her breath, how spurned as wife, 
 
 And yet, she never knew. 
 She's sleeping, too, how calm her sleep. 
 
 Out where the flowers bloom. 
 Among the dew, — where angels keep 
 
 Their vigils round her tomb. 
 Some locks of hair, some father's pride, — 
 
 His darling is no more; 
 So young, so fair, so crucified, — 
 
 The one we all adore ! 
 
224 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 WAR 
 
 An heir to tribulation, 
 Man's battle-cry rings out 
 Across the fields of strife, 
 And lays its blighting hand 
 On every field and flower. 
 And soon, forgetting all 
 The sacred things of life, 
 And like a royal beast 
 Forth springing on his way, 
 He lays in utter waste 
 The cotter's humble home. 
 And gladly marches on 
 In quest of other lands. 
 And here, where motherhood 
 Is totally forgot. 
 And every finer sense 
 Is trampled under foot, 
 "We find around us strewn 
 The evidences vast, 
 Of man's colossal shame. 
 And see these ruins here 
 Is where the village stood, 
 And yonder 's wailing cry 
 Is from an orphan child. 
 And what about this child, 
 On which the hopes of aU 
 Are based in after years. 
 And is it best it should 
 Be forced to stand and gaze 
 Upon this picture here. 
 And see its home in flames, 
 And call, and call aloud 
 
A Whistling Farmer 225 
 
 For those protecting arms 
 A mother's care and love 
 Alone can ever give? 
 Away with all of this, 
 Away with those who claim 
 That human progress calls 
 For such a sacrifice! 
 But while this cot may rise, 
 And stand as once before 
 Above these ruins here, 
 And sweetly hum again 
 The avenues of trade. 
 This child will ever see 
 The horrors of a day. 
 When pestilence and war 
 A mighty havoc wrought 
 Around its peaceful home, 
 And left a picture stamped 
 Upon its youthful brain 
 That time cannot efface. 
 The years go by apace, 
 The child is now a man. 
 And drying all his tears. 
 He bows before his God 
 And makes a new resolve; 
 And hateful seemeth now 
 The peaceful walks of life. 
 Reared in the midst of strife 
 And desolated homes, 
 Throughout the coming years 
 Impatiently he waits 
 To stab his fellow-man. 
 And *'War!" he shrieks aloud 
 To every passerby, 
 **I saw my parents die 
 Around their humble cot, 
 
226 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And from an orphan child 
 I 've ever longed for this. 
 'Revenge! revenge!' shall be 
 My constant battle-cry 
 As long as life may last.'' 
 
 OUT FOR A RAMBLE 
 
 And what is this, that smites my ear, 
 And what are all these sounds I hear, 
 This jahher) jabher, jabhering, 
 And huzz, and JiutyIj and flashing wingj 
 And endless calls, among the throng, 
 That ever sweep the ways along, 
 And leave impressions on the mind, 
 That some great ruler, wise and kind, 
 Hath deep implanted in the breast. 
 That all may be forever blessed? 
 For each of these, and every one. 
 They point toward the central sun. 
 And ''I am God!" proclaims the tide, 
 I swing across the oceans wide, 
 And rise and fall and rise again, 
 As lord of all its vast domain. ' ' 
 'And I am, too," proclaims the land. 
 Behold, I bloom on every hand. 
 And send my fruitage far and near. 
 O'er all the earth from year to year." 
 ''And I, as well," "And I," "And I," 
 I heard ten thousand tongues reply, 
 Loud rumbling down the mountain side. 
 And dashing o'er the valleys wide. 
 And drifting sand, and stone and sod, 
 And I, and I, and I am God!" 
 
 li 
 
 i I 
 
 a 
 
A Whistling Farmer 227 
 
 And none so great, and none so small, 
 
 But what this thought was left by all. 
 
 A portion here, a portion there, 
 
 The land, the ocean, and the air, 
 
 In life, or death, on every hand, 
 
 Or continents, or grains of sand, 
 
 Or wild green vales no foot hath trod. 
 
 They each one claim a part of God. 
 
 Or seek the sunbeam in its flight. 
 
 Or bow in awe before the night. 
 
 Or trail the comet in its course 
 
 Of frightful speed and doubtful force. 
 
 Or ask the bird about its song. 
 
 Or shrub, or tree, or creeping vine, 
 
 And all will tell you they're divine. 
 
 REBUKED 
 
 "When I and my friend,- 
 
 That's my dinner-pail,- 
 Went tripping along 
 
 O'er the factory trail, 
 I noticed a man 
 
 Out walking alone. 
 With a heavy heart 
 
 And a troubled moan. 
 Bewailing his fate 
 
 In life's early noon. 
 When nearing his gate 
 
 One morning in June. 
 But never a mention 
 
 Concerning his health, 
 Or grief that follows 
 
 The passing of wealth ; 
 
228 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 For lie owned the kine 
 
 On the distant hills, 
 And promising mines 
 
 And extensive mills, 
 And a mansion, too, 
 
 That was famed afar. 
 In sight of the deep 
 
 Blue ocean's bar. 
 And children, to humor 
 
 His fatherly pride, 
 And a lovely wife, 
 
 And estates beside. 
 And so vast were they, 
 
 "With scarcely a bound. 
 They encompassed the 
 
 Whole of Cameron town. 
 But his face was drawn, 
 
 And his look was sad. 
 And nothing to show 
 
 That his heart was glad. 
 So I hid from sight 
 
 As the man drew nigh, 
 For long I had sought 
 
 For some reason why. 
 And now, he had stopped, 
 
 And glancing around, 
 Again he Avas darting 
 
 Away with a bound; 
 As quickly and straight 
 
 As a homing bee, 
 To the cooling shades 
 
 Of a linden tree. 
 And watching him closely, 
 
 It was I that found, 
 That the man was digging 
 
 A hole in the srround. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 229 
 
 And lifting a vessel, 
 
 All battered and old, 
 I saw he was hiding 
 
 His glittering gold. 
 Then smoothing the soil, — 
 
 Never leaving a trace. 
 That any might ever 
 
 Discover the place. 
 And softly I murmured. 
 
 As he smoothed the sod, 
 "I've found the miser, 
 
 And the miser's god.'' 
 And while he was lying 
 
 Out under the shade. 
 Distinctly I heard the 
 
 Remarks that he made. 
 ''And oh! for a million 
 
 That jingles so fine. 
 Have I sought and sought 
 
 With this heart of mine !— 
 Where the waves dash high 
 
 O'er the pathless deep, 
 And the storm-king howls 
 
 With a furious leap. 
 And ever preserving, 
 
 With factory and mine, 
 Have I sought and sought 
 
 With this heart of mine ! 
 While happiness ever. 
 
 From others, I hear, 
 And pleasures are filling 
 
 The whole of the year, 
 Oh, wide, wide world 
 
 Overflowing with play, 
 And why is my heart 
 
 So heavy to-day?" 
 
230 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 'I know," said a cricket 
 
 Along by the road, 
 'I know the sorrows 
 
 Of an idler's load, 
 For you snore out here 
 
 In the shade all day. 
 While others are toiling 
 
 Their lives away." 
 And then, from the sap. 
 
 That's feeding the leaf: 
 ''And what an example 
 
 Of sadness and grief! 
 But I'm just as busy 
 
 As busy can be, 
 All over the earth 
 
 With meadow and tree. 
 And the fields, I give. 
 
 With their leaves unfurled. 
 The pleasures they find 
 
 In feeding the world." 
 ''And there's Mother Jones 
 
 That lives down the road. 
 Remarked an aged 
 
 And respectable toad, 
 "I was grieved, in passing 
 
 Her cottage to-day. 
 To find the old lady 
 
 Was out making hay. 
 And, ah, what a blessing, 
 
 If she had your gold. 
 Instead of your pouring it 
 
 Down in a hole ! ' ' 
 And I," said the wren, 
 
 With quivering breast, 
 A-tug at some linten 
 
 For lining her nest, — 
 
 < c 
 
A Whistling Farmer 231 
 
 ''Behold my contentment! 
 
 While laboring long, 
 Forever I'm singing 
 
 A twittering song." 
 And this from the ant 
 
 Out searching for food: 
 ''And I know the cancer 
 
 That's poisoned your mood. 
 For, day after day, 
 
 While others may reap, 
 I find you out here 
 
 In the meadow asleep!" 
 And grabbing his nose. 
 
 He gave it a jerk, 
 Commanding the sluggard 
 
 To toddle to work. 
 "And hike!" said the bee 
 
 In hurrying flight, 
 "For I know the sweetness 
 
 Of labor's delight, 
 In gathering honeys 
 
 From meadow and lawn. 
 To nourish my babies 
 
 Long after I'm gone." 
 And while he yet lay. 
 
 She folded her wing. 
 And square on his lip now 
 
 She gave him a sting. 
 And this, while a robin. 
 
 Just in from the field, 
 With a worm in her beak 
 
 For the little one's meal. 
 Was thinking, no doubt, — 
 
 But never a tweet! 
 Examples are golden, 
 
 And silence discreet. 
 
^32 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 THE GODDESS OF HOPE 
 
 Amon© these ruins here 
 That all around us lie, 
 Hope, eternal hope remains, 
 Forever still the same. 
 And unto her it is, 
 No faithless need apply, 
 Or cravens ever come 
 With lamentations loud, 
 For, while the weaker fall 
 Aweary by the way. 
 As like the rifted rocks. 
 Immovable she stands. 
 And points to every one 
 The haven of repose. 
 And with a grasp and strength 
 Of changeless attitude. 
 She indicates the way, 
 That ever open lies 
 Amid the breakers round. 
 And like, she seems to be, 
 A mother unto all. 
 And with a mother's love, 
 She ever cries aloud 
 To every passerby: 
 "When honors take the wing. 
 And poverty comes by 
 And claims you as her own, 
 
 weary, wandering man, 
 
 1 bid you not despair 
 
 At fortune's luckless way, 
 But come and bow you down 
 Before my changeless throne, 
 And make a new resolve." 
 
A Whistling Farmer 233 
 
 IN THE SPRING 
 
 When the sun shines bright 
 
 And the heat comes down, 
 And the grass peeps out 
 
 From the springtime ground, 
 'Ah, ha!" says the bat, 
 
 In his dungeon so deep. 
 As he yawns and he wakes 
 
 From a nine months' sleep, 
 'Ah, ha! for it's time 
 
 That all of us bats. 
 Were out on the wing 
 
 For some wee little gnats. ' ' 
 For the insect flies 
 
 And the wild birds sing, 
 And, oh, for the joys 
 
 Of an early spring ! 
 And the harsh winds cease 
 
 And the days wax long. 
 And the sun moves north 
 
 As he grows more strong. 
 And the snow-birds leave 
 
 And the pewees come. 
 And a rumbling's heard 
 
 From the pheasant's drum. 
 And, oh, for a sounding 
 
 I long since knew. 
 When the grouse cocks crowed 
 
 Like & hoo woo 00! 
 And the gophers all dug 
 
 In the black, moist earth. 
 And the world woke up 
 
 To a new-found birth. 
 
234 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And the earth seems glad 
 
 When the sun shines bright, 
 And the storms pass by 
 
 In their hurrying flight. 
 And the brooks glide on 
 
 With a new-found glee, 
 And hustle and hustle 
 
 In search of the sea. 
 And the cold lets up, 
 
 And the rains come down, 
 And the sap leaps out 
 
 From the warm moist ground. 
 And this is the time 
 
 That we all should know, 
 When the buds swell out 
 
 And the green leaves grow. 
 And the sun goes down, 
 
 And the clouds look red, 
 And the tools come out 
 
 From the farmer's shed. 
 For he's been abroad 
 
 And he's strolled all around, 
 And he finds no frost 
 
 Kemains in the ground. 
 And away to the farms 
 
 In the springtime thaw. 
 It's time for the seeds 
 
 And the gee! whoa! haw! 
 Way down in the cornfields 
 
 A-drilling in the grain. 
 All over the country 
 
 There's millions again, 
 And it's, ho, for the wheat! 
 
 And it's, ho, for the rye! 
 And it's gee! whoa! haw! 
 
 As the days go by. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 235 
 
 And it's cUck-ity clack 
 
 As the corn goes in, 
 For the corn's down low 
 
 In the old man's bin. 
 And the plowboys come 
 
 When the corn's all in, 
 And it's gee! whoa! haw! 
 
 All over again, 
 Till the corn's laid by 
 
 And the tools in store, 
 And the toilers are found 
 
 At their homes once more. 
 And here's to the farmer, — 
 
 And the one true king, — 
 When the ground thaws out 
 
 In the early spring ! 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF MAN 
 
 In vague conjectures oft, it seems to me, from out 
 the depths of space, discussing thus, there comes a 
 low sweet voice. And now, from whence cometh man ? 
 For of his origin, like that of his destiny, as yet, it 
 would appear, we may not know. And while the 
 rocks declare there was a time when he was not; 
 whether it be true or false, in some remote past, he 
 found a lodgment here upon our swinging globe, the 
 recipient, perchance, of converging congenialities: 
 The rudimental offspring of some tropical paradise. 
 But as to his sphere of action then, we can only conjec- 
 ture now ; and still it must have been, as it were, babes 
 in the manger, helpless little babes, male and female, 
 he and she. 
 
 But while the ages sped along, they grew, and they 
 
236 A Whistling Farmei* 
 
 waxed stronger and stronger day by day. And so it 
 was in the course of time, they stood forth fully devel- 
 oped : he, a robust man, and she, a mature woman. 
 
 And then, in the fullness of their strength and ma- 
 turity, they arose from their lowly state, and they 
 dressed themselves in the rude leaves of the forest, 
 and they went forth to view the beautiful things of 
 the world, which all around them lay in rich pro- 
 fusion strewn, — in the crimson of the cloud, in the 
 murmur of the stream, and the twinkling of the starry 
 fields above. And they were greatly pleased with 
 the prospects of life that lay before them. Lured 
 on and on, as they were, by a love of adventure and 
 the wonderful problems of creation, they wearied not 
 in their quest for more and more happiness, until they 
 had encompassed the uttermost ends of the earth. 
 
 And as they wander on, and yet forever on, to-day 
 we find them lost among the fruitful vales, and on 
 the morrow still continuing their way amid the 
 stretches vast of some primeval wood. Like our chil- 
 dren now, they gather as they go the flowers by 
 the way. And here and there they pause, enraptured 
 with the scenes that all around lie. Or touched with 
 the pleading cries of some wild bird for its lost mate, 
 they linger long in mutual pity oft. 
 
 But maturity has affections of its own, and it ever 
 hopes, and it ever dreams of these. And while they 
 passed along upon their journeying, they bethought 
 themselves, and they sat them down to rest among the 
 harmonious blendings of a primitive world, and they 
 saw, and they speculated long upon the ways of life, 
 and all its mysteries. And so it was, in the course 
 of time, that they learned to love. And they em- 
 braced one another, and they became man and wife. 
 And they sought out a beautiful location in the vales 
 that lay around, and here they tarried long, and 
 
A Whistling Farmer 237 
 
 tliey built for themselves a rude home in the wilder- 
 ness, and they brought forth a family of children. 
 And they went forth to labor in the various fields 
 of human endeavor, and they wrought patiently 
 throughout the short day that lay before them. And 
 they made ample provision for themselves and their 
 household. And when the evening came, aweary with 
 the trials and tribulations of life, they robed them- 
 selves again in the cold soils of the earth, and they 
 lay them down to sleep, in that long and peaceful 
 slumber that we know not of. 
 
 And they were the kings of the earth, and they 
 were the monarchs of the world. And they were the 
 weavers, and they were the workers, in every coun- 
 try fair, and every land where man has made himself 
 a home. And they were the beggars by the wayside, 
 pleading for alms. It matters not, since all of these 
 were of one flesh. And now they are gone ; yes, the 
 whole of them are gone forever. And those vast slabs 
 of stone, that were hewn from the mountainside, and 
 placed above their graves as a token of respect, — 
 what has become of these? Do they still serve the 
 purpose of their creation? No, verily; for all these 
 have perished as they perished ; and their very names, 
 and their occupations, and their handiwork, that 
 wrought and carved and built upon a thousand hills. 
 And where may this be found? Alas, all this lies 
 prostrate in the dust. And naught is there to-day 
 to indicate that they ever were, save those of their 
 progeny that they left behind them. 
 
 And of such is the mystery of man : his conception, 
 his growth, and all that backward lies, and that which 
 lies ahead, and mystifies the mind. And from his 
 hiding-place he comes among us still, he comes as a 
 helpless little babe, claiming our love, our sympa- 
 thies, and our blessings. And he grows to manhood 
 
238 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 among us; and he goes out into the world to look 
 around him. And he takes unto himself a helpmate, 
 and he lays his plans, and he begins to build. And 
 whether it be the building of a home, the building of 
 a city, or the building of an empire, it matters little. 
 For should he make mistakes, that ruin all his plans, 
 another comes along and finds a better way. And so 
 he labors on until the evening comes, and then he 
 lays aside his ledger or his pen, and calling for his 
 friends, he bids them all adieu, and starts again upon 
 that mysterious voyage from whence he came, — once 
 more, as it were, a mere atom of dust, drawn from 
 the inexhaustible nursery of the universe, to which 
 he can neither add nor subtract. And so the ages 
 pass along, the while we ever seek for more and 
 more light. 
 But find it not. 
 
 A BORROWED TOOL 
 
 Muck like we are a tool to-day, — 
 
 And this we only borrow, 
 And use a while along the way, 
 
 And then return to-morrow. 
 An implement, as if it were, 
 
 Belonging to our neighbor, 
 And constantly from year to year 
 
 We lead a life of labor. 
 And with this tool we sow and reap, 
 
 In many ways that's clever, 
 And weary, then, we fall asleep, 
 
 And slumber on forever. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 239 
 
 BROTHERS IN NATURE 
 
 One pleasant morn 
 A child was born, 
 
 A helpless mite, and wee, 
 And that same morn, 
 Near by, was born, 
 
 A tiny little tree. 
 And from their birth. 
 The air and earth 
 
 Upon them ever smiled, 
 For God, maybe, 
 He loves the tree 
 
 As dearly as the child. 
 And so these two 
 Together grew. 
 
 That had an even birth, 
 And this one throve, 
 And that one strove 
 
 To beautify the earth. 
 And while the child 
 That cooed and smiled 
 
 Grew up to be a man. 
 This tiny tree. 
 As all could see. 
 
 Continued to expand. 
 The years went by, — 
 I don't know why 
 
 The man should die so soon, — 
 For all can see. 
 It's not the tree 
 
 That brings the greatest boon. 
 
240 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And yet, maybe, 
 This guileless tree, 
 
 But kept abreast with God, 
 And never rent 
 His covenant. 
 
 Commanding it to plod. 
 But who would be 
 A forest tree, 
 
 Unnoticed in its falling. 
 To die, and rot. 
 And be forgot? — 
 
 The very thought's appalling. 
 
 OLD DAPPLE GRAY 
 
 Dim lies the scene, old Dapple Gray, — 
 Dim lies the scene, and far away, 
 As when a child I used to play 
 Around thy carriage wheel. 
 
 And since you're gone, old Dapple Gray, — 
 And since you're gone, time's slipped away 
 Until I find myself to-day 
 
 Like thee of other years. 
 
 And with thee, too, has gone thy post, 
 Where grandpa used to hitch thee most, 
 And where so oft I 've heard him boast 
 Thy noble qualities. 
 
 And e'en the barn, that held thy stall 
 And tiny crib along the wall, 
 All these have passed, for buildings tall, — 
 The Galoway Hotel. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 241 
 
 Yes, things have changed, old Dapple Gray, 
 Since oft I stopped along the way, 
 To pat thy neck, and feed thee hay, 
 Upon my way to school. 
 
 And all is new along the street, 
 Where throngs go by with flying feet. 
 And all the ones with whom I meet 
 Are strangers unto me. 
 
 As well thy pasture o'er the hill, — 
 That grandpa left me in his will, — 
 Where all was once so hushed and still. 
 There's naught but memories. 
 
 But like thyself, old Dapple Gray, 
 Each one of us is mostly clay. 
 And all, ere long, must pass away, 
 To mingle with the soil. 
 
 THE CLIFF DWELLERS 
 
 Behold these relics of a race 
 
 That lived so long ago, 
 That time has blotted every trace, 
 
 Like footprints made in snow. - 
 
 Here are the fragments of a man, 
 And there, a winding-sheet, 
 
 While science comes to search and scan 
 Along the silent street. 
 
 And now, — so long it seems to-day, — 
 
 The centuries have fled. 
 That man can never brush away 
 
 The mystery of the dead. 
 
242 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And of the relics that I saw, 
 
 Not one is used to-day. 
 Thus progress vindicates her law, 
 
 Since Mangus passed away. 
 
 Locked in the mountain's granite heart, 
 
 Their key was hidden well, 
 By those who came and played their part. 
 
 And vowed they'd never tell. 
 
 And histories may yet he writ 
 
 About this race that's lost, 
 And vague imaginations flit, 
 
 With reveries embossed. 
 
 But all that we may ever know. 
 
 Is supposition now. 
 While yet the seasons come and go, 
 
 Or why, or when, or how. 
 
 Except we see, in ages gone, 
 
 A people who have flown. 
 Before this intellectual dawn 
 
 Used hatchets made of stone. 
 
 And here the river flowed for them. 
 And here the babe was born. 
 
 Among these mortars, precious gems. 
 That ground their Indian corn. 
 
 And we, like they, some day may lie 
 
 Dim hidden on the shore. 
 And men may come and search and try 
 
 Our history to explore. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 243 
 
 Our cities, too, like theirs, may be 
 
 Dira fragments of the past, 
 Engulfed by Time's remorseless sea, 
 
 In mj'stery at last. 
 
 And where God's acre stands to-day. 
 
 And memories still bloom, 
 Profaning hands may come and lay 
 
 Their clutches on our tomb. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN 
 
 To fathom all there is of unresponsive man. 
 
 And lay before the world his skeleton of thought, — 
 
 A mighty task it seems, of endless magnitude ; 
 
 But when we come to that which lies beyond the 
 
 range of mortal vision here, — 
 How vain must ever be our searchino: after this ! 
 
 GOING BACK HOME 
 
 'Twill broader make the mind, I know. 
 
 And lighter make the rod. 
 To feast upon the scenes once more 
 
 Our youthful feet have trod. 
 'Twill bring a gladness to the heart, 
 
 And brighter make the eye. 
 And flush the face with youth again 
 
 That's swiftl}^ passing by, 
 To stroll out o'er the meadow lands 
 
 And listen to the lark, 
 And hunt for names among the woods 
 
 We cut upon its bark. 
 
244 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And seek again the dear old farm 
 
 Where once we felt so proud, 
 As when we drove our team afield 
 
 And like a farmer plowed. 
 And many things I know will be 
 
 As dear to me as when 
 A child I sat in wonderment 
 
 And listened to the wren. 
 The finest mansion on the hill 
 
 Is but a pile of stone, 
 Compared to simple cottages 
 
 Our early life has known. 
 And clods along the country roads 
 
 That bruised our tender feet 
 Are still more dear to us by far 
 
 Than any city street. 
 "We see the oak, outspreading wide. 
 
 The sugar tree and lin, 
 And all around an endless train 
 
 Comes flocking back again. 
 My trunk and I are on the train. 
 
 The gold that gilds the dome, — 
 With pleasure, this I leave behind. 
 
 To greet my youthful home. 
 
 THE SOURCE 
 
 Be careful, friends, whate'er you do, 
 For thought can make, or ruin, you. 
 For serpentlike, these often wind 
 Themselves around a passive mind. 
 And all night long, and day by day, 
 This thought may come, and steal away 
 The strongest efforts of the brain, 
 And bind them with an iron chain. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 245 
 
 And while your reason may rebel 
 In bursts of passion for a spell, 
 This fact remains forever true: 
 A thought can make a beast of you. 
 And all the things you ever wrought, 
 They're but an echo of your thought. 
 And if you trace them back again, 
 You'll find them hidden in your brain. 
 And so, it's plain enough to see 
 How thought can make or ruin thee. 
 And since all this is doubtless true, 
 There but remains one thing to do, 
 'Tis this : To seek and try to find 
 The bent that warps a passive mind. 
 And where it's crooked, make it straight 
 With blows of giant moral weight. 
 And like to this, each one is built. 
 With deeds of love, or deeds of guilt. 
 And all he's done, his acts proclaim, 
 With honors great, or lasting shame. 
 So here we find the saint or knave. 
 With monument, or Potter's grave. 
 Far strewn around on every hand, 
 Among the tombs of every land. 
 And why," says one, ''why so unkind, — 
 That e'en in death I cannot find 
 For these old bones a resting-place, 
 But w^hat they point to my disgrace?" 
 Ah, here's the answer, — forceful, plain: 
 The trouble lies within your brain." 
 Then say not this, of thy right hand: 
 If thou hadst wrought as I had planned, 
 I might have swept the earth amain, 
 Instead of this regretful stain." 
 
246 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 MY DAILY PRAYER 
 
 My God, if I should stray from thee, — 
 
 Or rather, from thy changeless laws — 
 Ope wide my thought, that 1 may see 
 
 Thy goodness still in every cause. 
 In all there is that doth unfold. 
 
 Not written down in doubtful books. 
 But hills and vales that I behold, 
 
 And tidal waves, and gliding brooks. 
 And let me see through all these things, 
 
 I may commune with Thee above. 
 Without so much as angel wings. 
 
 To gain Thy everlasting love. 
 That I may be the more inclined 
 
 Thy priceless counselings to heed. 
 Make strong my feet, and train my mind 
 
 Away from life's remorseless greed. 
 For Thou hast made me what I am, 
 
 And given me this heart's desire. 
 And should I stray, as like a lamb. 
 
 From pastures green into the mire, 
 My God, wilt Thou not call me back, 
 
 Among thy flowery fields below, 
 And point me out just what I lack, 
 
 And all that I should ever know? 
 That I may learn, while I behold 
 
 Thy wonders still without surprise. 
 Thou dost alone through these unfold 
 
 Before the gladness of mine eyes. 
 And teach me, God, the ways of life 
 
 Are simple as the passing stream, 
 If I but shun all hate and strife, 
 
 That lie outside Thy blessed scheme. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 247 
 
 And when, sometime, Thou callest me hence, 
 
 To where as yet I may not know, 
 My God, preserve my confidence 
 
 I'll find Thee still where'er I go. 
 
 THE GREED OF ONE MAN 
 
 YE nations, warring nations. 
 
 While your clang of battle swells, 
 Down at Verdun, patient Verdun, 
 
 And the distant Dardanelles, 
 With your scheming and your plan, 
 What wrecks you make of puny man. 
 But louder than your booming cannon, 
 
 Intonating far and wide. 
 Comes a voice of wrath commanding: 
 
 "Step aside, sir, step aside!" 
 And you, you monster, born of woman ! 
 
 And you, you demon, drunk with pride ! 
 Why, you 're not decent, you 're not human, 
 
 Step aside, sir, step aside ! 
 And you who pray for peace and plenty 
 
 And you who praise your foolish brave. 
 Still driving children under twenty 
 
 Downward to a horrid grave! 
 And you, and you, who love to plunder. 
 
 Applying still your greedy art 
 And smile at countries torn asunder, 
 
 To gratify a selfish heart. 
 And you, the horror of the nations, 
 
 And you, whose scheming all behold, 
 And you, and all your damned relations, 
 
 You're most the dastard in the fold. 
 
248 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 AT THE FRONT 
 
 Through faith it is we see beyond 
 The pale of human thought, 
 
 One glimpse, and, lo ! a brilliant dawn 
 Forth stands before us wrought. 
 
 THE TWIG THAT'S BENT 
 
 Who bent this twig that's grown so big 
 From such a small beginning, 
 
 Who, like some storm, has crushed this form 
 For yet another's sinning? 
 
 Or has some knife thus made its life 
 
 A wonderful contortion, 
 More hideous with cursedness. 
 
 Than ever was abortion? 
 
 Nay, nay! this bent was merely sent 
 
 To one and all, a teacher. 
 To show the love of God above 
 
 For every normal creature. 
 
 For all that's wrought, some one has brought 
 
 This unoffending cripple, 
 From whence, to-day no one can say, 
 
 Beyond his mother's nipple. 
 
 But down the line, some poisoned tine 
 
 Has left this germ of sorrow, 
 That reaps and mows and onward flows 
 
 As swiftly as an arrow. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 249 
 
 And this is law, without a flaw, 
 
 And not a soul should court it, 
 Nor is there one beneath the sun 
 
 That ever should support it. 
 
 If so, this sting will surely bring 
 
 An awful retribution, 
 And while it's rife a purer life 
 
 Appears the sole solution. 
 
 So while we grope, there seems no hope 
 
 Of gaining its removal. 
 And all He meant by what He sent 
 
 Should meet with our approval. 
 
 Perfection seems the Master's dream, 
 
 He culls and culls forever, 
 And seeks and longs among the throngs 
 
 Beyond his sacred river, 
 
 A perfect race of form and face. 
 
 From each and every nation. 
 And thus, through man, He yet may plan 
 
 More wonders of creation. 
 
 HAD I A WING 
 
 Had I a wing, that I might fly 
 
 To that fair shore, 
 Where life lives on, and none may die 
 
 For evermore; 
 
 Had I this wing, this tireless wing. 
 
 Of spread and might, — 
 This wing of strength, — that I might bring 
 
 To reach the light; 
 
250 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 This spirit wing, I pray, Lord, 
 
 This wing of hope, 
 This blessed wing and great reward 
 
 Of boundless scope! 
 
 If I but find this long-sought wing 
 
 Of endless sweep, 
 I'll rest me here and lie, and sing 
 
 My heart to sleep. 
 
 THE FAIRY 
 No. II 
 
 PART I 
 
 One evening in the summertime. 
 When all around me seemed sublime 
 With sweet perfume the flowers lend, 
 And varied pleasures that attend 
 To wean the mind from earthly love, 
 And center it on things above; 
 I sought once more my old armchair, 
 Within my shady arbor, where 
 My mind is more responsive still, 
 Unto the musings of my will. 
 But soon, so pleasant was the air, 
 I fell to nodding in my chair, 
 Until I thought that some one spoke. 
 And then, I suddenly awoke. 
 And glanced around beneath the tree. 
 But nought was there, that I could see. 
 Some prank, perhaps, as oft before. 
 And here I sought my latticed door. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 251 
 
 And called my wife, but she was gone, 
 And then again I slumbered on. 
 But ere it was I slumbered long, 
 I woke again with something wrong. 
 And now a-flutter, like a bird. 
 Around my head I thought I heard, 
 And still, I sat, — still as a mouse, — 
 Maybe a burglar 's in the house. 
 And slyly here, I climbed the stair. 
 But all was silent everywhere. 
 'A dream," said I. No voice I heard. 
 Nor e'en the flutter of a bird. 
 Some passing fancy touched my brain. 
 So back I went to sleep again. 
 But ere I had commenced to snore, 
 I found myself aroused once more. 
 And now, my eyes I opened wide. 
 And just before me there, I spied 
 The sweetest, cutest little thing, 
 That moved before me like a swing. 
 And crossed my vision left to right, 
 And kept advancing in its flight, 
 A moment thus, in drawing near. 
 And then, as quickly disappear. 
 But soon I'd hear a tiny hum, 
 As back in place again it come. 
 And ever^^ movement of its flight 
 Convinced me that it wished to light. 
 And, repeating this, it came so close 
 That I could touch it now, almost. 
 But this was not my wish or will. 
 Meanwhile it kept advancing still, 
 For shorter now, and yet more slow. 
 Its arc of flight began to grow, 
 And kept advancing cautiously, 
 Until it lit upon my knee. 
 
252 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 A fairy! Yes, the sweetest thing 
 That ever raised a tiny wing. 
 And standing thus before me there, 
 Its presence hallowed all the air, 
 So grand it was, although so small, 
 It seemed to tower over all. 
 A spirit of the grand and good 
 Before me now serenely stood, 
 And bowing low, it softly said : 
 **I bring no tidings from the dead. 
 But rather to a world of life 
 Contending still in endless strife. ' ' 
 And I, in turn, I bowed my head, 
 And said I'd write what e'er was said. 
 And seated now upon my thumb, 
 I wrote his message as it come. 
 
 PART n 
 
 To all who live, and breathe and know, 
 
 Desire comes, to high and low. 
 
 And I'd be God, if I but could. 
 
 Just as I know all fairies would. 
 
 For all of ns still hope to rise 
 
 To heights where greater wisdom lies; 
 
 Yet, I grudge not my Master's name, 
 
 Nor do I seek for vulgar fame. 
 
 But merely what all creatures should, — 
 
 A greater field for greater good. 
 
 And then, through space extending wide, 
 
 I'd draw all men unto my side. 
 
 And tune the soul of every man 
 
 To vibrate with the Master's plan. 
 
 And, possessing now this godly part, 
 
 I'd put a song in every heart, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 253 
 
 And they who weep and they who moan 
 Should see my city and my throne, 
 For I should draw the veil aside 
 And show them what the Lord's denied. 
 For why should I remain concealed 
 Behind some starry, vaulted shield, 
 While all who wear this robe of flesh 
 Remain enthralled in such a mesh? 
 Yes, were I God I'd show my face. 
 And point to my abiding-place. 
 And help the weaker ones to rise, 
 And wipe the tears from others' eyes; 
 And some, I'd smite them with my rod, 
 And point them to the living God, 
 Or, better still to show my worth, 
 I'd build a hell right here on earth; 
 And every rascal boasting sin 
 I'd run him down and throw him in, 
 And let him perish, as he ought, 
 For all the meanness he has wrought. 
 It seems so long and far away 
 For one to wait the Judgment Day, 
 That men forget the Master's plan 
 By which he thought to govern man. 
 And yet He sits upon his throne 
 While all this devilment is known. 
 And still defers what now should be 
 Till some remote eternity. 
 My God, to Him I often say, 
 Whene'er I kneel me down to pray, 
 Canst Thou not see that which is done 
 By him who forward leads the Hun, 
 And tears our sacred temples down 
 To save the passing of his crown? 
 And this I've said before his throne, 
 But I'm so small and scarcely known 
 
254 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 The Lord but motions me aside, 
 
 For other ones more deified. 
 
 For see, I move from star to star, 
 
 And note conditions as they are; 
 
 But when I would these things report, 
 
 The Lord, He spurns me out of court, 
 
 And says: 'Begone, you little sprite!' 
 
 And scoffs and scorns with all His might. 
 
 True, He made all this, as well He should, 
 
 And when He made them, all were good, 
 
 But should He see these things to-day, 
 
 He'd wonder at them long, I lay. 
 
 And once of late I sought His court, 
 
 Extremely anxious to report. 
 
 For I had learned of many things 
 
 That flew like thought on tireless wings. 
 
 O'er vast dominions that I found 
 
 Extending all the world around. 
 
 In hidden chambers, where I went 
 
 On secret information bent, 
 
 I heard the arrogant and proud 
 
 Belch forth their torrents long and loud, 
 
 With trembling form and features pale 
 
 That made the weaker members quail. 
 
 And war it was for which they planned, — 
 
 A war embracing every land, 
 
 But God said : ' ' No ; let 's wait awhile. 
 
 And see what comes of it, my child." 
 
 Had I been He, I'd do something 
 
 "With this vain braggart of a king. 
 
 And smaller ones who sought to shirk 
 
 Have sent them toddling off to work. 
 
 And all who dared oppose my laws, 
 
 I'd stop right there and crack their jaws. 
 
 This building cities all around, 
 
 While others come and tear them down, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 255 
 
 When marching millions take the field 
 To stab and maim with clashing steel! 
 I tell you what, I'd show my hand 
 To all the world in every land. 
 Go back along the flight of time, 
 And view with me the awful crime 
 That's laid in ruins, from their birth, 
 The fairest countries of the earth, 
 In answer to some jealous cause 
 In conflict with the Master's laws. 
 Think you I'd wait a single hour. 
 If I were He, and had the power. 
 Nay, nay, indeed ! I 'd leave such drones 
 At best a heap of bleaching bones. 
 It makes me shudder when I think 
 How this one monarch loves to drink 
 The vitals from an only son, 
 "Whose manhood yet has scarce begun. 
 And well I know, had I my way, 
 I'd stop this hollow mockery, 
 And ere I slept, I'd lay a scheme 
 On every ocean, bay, and stream. 
 And sink these monsters all so deep, — 
 They 'd find down there eternal sleep ! 
 Nor should they float, and drill, and train 
 A single battleship again, 
 And every gun, and every sword. 
 And every fortress that's adored 
 Along the coast, to guard the town, 
 I'd go right off and tear them down. 
 That men might smooth the fields again 
 And sow them down with golden grain. 
 
256 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 PART in 
 
 ''I know of life, that prayer's a part, 
 
 For prayer brings comfort to the heart, 
 
 And hope is sweet, though hope should be 
 
 Enthroned within life's mystery. 
 
 But strange it seems that any one 
 
 Should pray for peace that knows the Hun; 
 
 And if I could, this very day, 
 
 I'd change all this without delay, 
 
 And crush the Hun, and order peace, 
 
 And watch all happiness increase 
 
 In every land beneath the sun. 
 
 As should have been since time begun. 
 
 I 've heard these prayers through endless years, 
 
 Poured forth amid a flood of tears, 
 
 In ruined homes where mothers beg. 
 
 And yet the Lord won't move a peg; 
 
 And why He's thus, there is a cause 
 
 That's found within his changeless laws, 
 
 And when I plead with Him to stop. 
 
 Else faith in prayer may lag and drop. 
 
 Till Bibles mold upon their shelves 
 
 And men rely upon themselves, 
 
 Absorbed in thought, I 've heard Him say, 
 
 'Remember well the Judgment Bay.' 
 
 And yet, from what I've heard, alas! 
 
 From invocations as I pass. 
 
 When battles hang upon the brink, 
 
 'Most every one would surely think 
 
 The Lord had taken full command 
 
 Of all the armies in the land. 
 
 One nation sees Him in the lion. 
 
 Another hears Him on the Rhine. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 257 
 
 Flung to and fro, from hand to hand, 
 I hear His name in every land, 
 And yet, such devilment prevails 
 That wreck and ruin never fails, 
 To leave behind the orphan's cry 
 That melts to tears the strongest eye. 
 
 PART IV 
 
 *If men could see, as each one should. 
 The rich rewards for all that's good, 
 And see as well the punishment 
 For every law that's ever rent. 
 What shouts would ring from shore to shore ! 
 And men would praise Him evermore! 
 If not for joy, they'd fear His rod, 
 And all would join in praising God. 
 And hate would die, and love would grow, 
 And happiness would onward flow 
 As if it were a mighty stream, 
 And man would realize his dream 
 Of peace on earth, for all mankind. 
 Just as the Master has designed; 
 And smiles would brighten every face, 
 And enmity would bow to grace; 
 And such a pleasure life would be 
 From age to age, — eternally. 
 And caste and cruelty, I'm sure. 
 Would slink away from every door. 
 And all that 's beautiful and good 
 Would flourish as it ever should, — 
 For all God's creatures, great and small, 
 A heritage for one and all. 
 But now, instead of what should be, 
 Just look around yourself and see 
 
258 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 The awful carnage that is wrought, 
 Because, forsooth, some one has taught, 
 That certain rulers in their line, 
 Though heartless scamps, are still divine, 
 And have a right to kill and maim 
 Without the slightest show of shame, 
 While all this loss, and strife and blood. 
 Rolls onward like a mighty flood, 
 Which but the exercise of thought 
 Could in a moment bring to naught, 
 The greatest monster time has known 
 To occupy an earthly throne! 
 And yet the Lord still trots his leg. 
 And vows He'll never move a peg. 
 
 PART V 
 
 ''And now, maybe, I've been too fast, 
 For I recall a frightful past. 
 When God had troubles of His own, 
 To guard against around His throne. 
 And Satan's still a menace there, 
 The same as every other where. 
 In ages gone, I tell you what, 
 He laid a dark and cunning plot, 
 And marshaled all the imps of hell, 
 And fought with God, until he fell. 
 Leastwise, He bound him up so tight, 
 And hurled him out amid the night. 
 That he remains until this hour, 
 A shadow but of former power. 
 So God may be, for aught I know. 
 More busy yet than men below. 
 So much to watch, so much to do, 
 In watching imps, and watching you! 
 
A Whistling Farmer 259 
 
 For not alone upon your earth, 
 
 Is sorrow found supplanting mirth, 
 
 But everywhere that life is found 
 
 The hopes of men are still uncrowned. 
 
 For all of these, the same as this. 
 
 Have sought in vain for mortal bliss, 
 
 And rise and fall, and rise again. 
 
 As do the waves upon the main. 
 
 In some fair land a nation's born, 
 
 And hope springs forward like the mom, 
 
 A city's built along the stream, 
 
 A great metropolis, a dream 
 
 Of boundless beauty, rich and great, 
 
 A monument for any State ! 
 
 And miles and miles, o'er templed hills, 
 
 The lap of wealth her grandeur spills. 
 
 And leaves behind a sea of domes. 
 
 That mark the sight of peaceful homes. 
 
 And gorgeous treasures here are found, 
 
 Where endless pleasures still abound. 
 
 In marble mansions, rich and rare. 
 
 Where vibrant music fills the air. 
 
 And then — But, hark! Whence comes this 
 
 sound, 
 That low sweet music has not drowned? 
 The hopes of peace, the distant gun, 
 The battle's lost, the battle's won. 
 The shouts of men, the mote, the mine. 
 The long dark circling battle-line. 
 And crumbling wall, and lurid flame, 
 And dying prayer, and, oh, the shame! 
 That God should still be ever nigh, 
 And lets a helpless nation die! 
 I go my way, and soon return, 
 The city's gone, and then I learn 
 
26o A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Invading armies tore it down, 
 And left its rnins on the ground. 
 But why enlarge upon the scene, 
 For all must know just what I mean? 
 And this goes on from year to year, 
 The same as you are doing here, 
 Like some wild charger, roughly shod, 
 In all the universe of God. 
 And here the beautiful and good 
 Are used as common kindling wood; 
 And treasured art and holy shrine 
 To these rude heathens less divine 
 Than clods that tumble through the air, 
 And fall beneath the tiller's share. 
 
 PART VI 
 
 ''And now, in time, should this prove true, 
 That God has all that He can do, 
 Don't trembling stand, like little elves, 
 But build your hopes upon yourselves. 
 Too many wait for some one else, 
 And look upon their grievous welts 
 As retribution from on high 
 Some one has left in passing by. 
 And yet, our God hath ample grace. 
 And this is held for every race. 
 That closer yet, and closer draws 
 Itself around His changeless laws. 
 And hope and faith that mortals claim. 
 All this should still remain the same. 
 For these are gifts from Him above, — 
 As tokens of His endless love. 
 But wrath and war and greed and lies 
 Are thinors that heartless men devise. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 261 
 
 And often these are so construed, 
 Among the ignorant and crude, 
 That declarations made by men 
 Are those of God revised again. 
 And now, I 'm gone, my mission leads 
 To other world that vainly pleads 
 For that which you are asking here. 
 In many lands, from year to year. 
 For these, like you, have ever sought, 
 But all their search has come to nought ; 
 For still they slaughter, maim, and kill, 
 The same as you are doing still. 
 Because some monster, like your own, 
 Sends forth an edict from his throne, 
 Outraging all that's just and good, 
 In youth, and age, and motherhood, 
 And piles with ruins every land. 
 To sate the avarice of man. 
 But when I come this way again, 
 I trust I'll find an endless train, 
 Commingling with the blaster's plan 
 In one vast Brotherhood of Man. 
 And glad I'll be to hear the shout 
 That all good men have brought about, 
 For things like these, which so defile. 
 Must have an ending after while, 
 If not, you'll backward go again. 
 To caves of rock and hairy men." 
 
 THE PALACE QUEEN 
 
 Will you sip with me, my dearest. 
 Will you take a bit of wine ? 
 
 It seems to me, insipid tea 
 Is nowhere near so fine. 
 
262 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Variety, I've heard it said, 
 
 Is near the spice of life, 
 And lovers still may taste at will, 
 
 As well as man and wife. 
 
 I've found a place, the finest place 
 
 Of any one I know. 
 Where pleading sighs expect replies. 
 
 My dearest, will you go? 
 
 The Palace Queen's this mansion is. 
 
 The passing eye to please, 
 Her lawns are clean and fresh and green, 
 
 And stately are her trees. 
 
 Just like a home, it seems to me. 
 Where friends are always near. 
 
 And no one rude, may there intrude. 
 To listen^ and to hear. 
 
 With Oriental draperies. 
 
 Her rooms are curtained fine. 
 
 And every room is all a-bloom. 
 For callers taking wine. 
 
 Her lights glow softly all night long. 
 
 Her pictures on the wall, 
 They seem to walk and laugh and talk 
 
 And beckon unto all. 
 
 And all there is, it gleams afar. 
 
 Profusely strewn around. 
 The stairs you mount are like the fount,— 
 
 The envy of the town. 
 
 Here wealth and beauty boweth low 
 Kesplendent with the gem, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 263 
 
 And maid and gent, on pleasure bent, 
 Are every one of them. 
 
 And low sweet music floats away 
 
 Voluptuously grand, 
 And bow and string their magic fling 
 
 Out from a master's hand. 
 
 Will you sup with me, my dearest, 
 
 Will you take a bit of wine? 
 'Twas Paul, you know, who told us so, — 
 
 And he was near divine. 
 
 WHY NOT? 
 
 I 'vE seen the flowers bloom and die, 
 And endless seasons passing by. 
 But these are naught to me, and why? 
 You need not ask, you need not ask. 
 For of them all I've no concern. 
 Then why should I a m'oment yearn, 
 When all and all, they soon return. 
 And start again, and start again? 
 And Venus there, I've seen her pass. 
 Like stubble oft, or withered grass. 
 But never once I 've said : ' ' Alas ! ' ' 
 For she returns, and still returns. 
 As well, the waves that leave the shore 
 Wben storms arise and billows roar. 
 For these come back and foam and pour 
 From day to day, and day to day. 
 Then, why not man, when he is gone, 
 Return again to greet the dawn. 
 And cycle on, and cycle on, 
 And on and on, and on and on? 
 
264 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 FAITH 
 
 Oh, be patient, my soul, 
 
 And it won't be long! 
 For it's tick, tick, tick, 
 
 And it's gong, gong, gong, 
 Till some grave will close 
 
 With a farewell song. 
 Like others who've gone before. 
 
 Let the trembling earth 
 And the mountains quake. 
 
 And the clouds grow dark 
 And the wild storms break, 
 
 I shall rest as serene 
 As some placid lake, — 
 
 A drop in the boundless matrix. 
 
 Sustained by a faith 
 
 That never shall fail, 
 I'm weighing my anchor 
 
 And trimming my sail. 
 Preparing to weather 
 
 The crash of the gale 
 That girdles the ocean of time. 
 
 So, be patient, my soul. 
 
 And it won't be long 
 For this tick, tick, tick. 
 
 And this gong, gong, gong. 
 Till this grave will ope' 
 
 With a welcoming song. 
 And hail, hail the glad day! 
 
A Whistling Farmer 265 
 
 HELLO ! IN THE MORNING 
 
 When I woke up one morning late, 
 
 And turned me o'er in bed, 
 I gently rubbed my eyes a bit 
 
 And then it was I said: 
 "Why, hello, Bill!" and "Hello, Bill! 
 And hello in the morning!" 
 
 Now Bill, you see, was fast asleep 
 
 O'er in another bed, 
 But straightway now he roused himself, 
 
 And unto me he said: 
 "Why, hello, Ted, and "Hello, Ted! 
 And hello in the morning!" 
 
 And then we two together sang. 
 
 Each one about his girl, 
 And while I sang for Mary dear. 
 
 He sang about his Pearl, 
 "Why. hello, May," and "Hello, Pearl! 
 And hello in the morning!" 
 
 And when we to our breakfast went, 
 
 Selecting each a chair. 
 We knelt, and while he prayed for Pearl, 
 
 I prayed for Mary, fair, 
 ' ' God bless my May ! ' ' and ' ' Bless my Pearl ! 
 And bless them in the morning!" 
 
 And with our ladies seated there, 
 
 Before we ate our bread, 
 We sang again for Pearl and May, 
 
 And they, for Bill and Ted. 
 "God bless my Bill!" and "Bless my Ted! 
 And bless them in the morning!" 
 
266 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 THE LADY I LOVE 
 
 There 's a look on the face of the lady I love, 
 
 And a gleam in her dark blue eye, 
 Exalting my hopes unto heaven above. 
 
 And will be till I die. 
 And will be till I die, I know. 
 
 And will be till I die ! — 
 Exalting my hopes unto heaven above, 
 
 And will be till I die. 
 
 And the flow of her hair's like a beautiful river, 
 
 When soft gentle wavelets go murmuring by, 
 And Edith, fair Edith, I 'm loving thee ever. 
 
 And shall be till I die, 
 And shall be till I die, I know, 
 
 And shall be till I die! — 
 And Edith, fair Edith, I'm loving thee ever. 
 
 And shall be till I die. 
 
 And the hearts of us both they are beating to- 
 gether. 
 And soul unto soul ever maketh reply. 
 Like a storm breaking wild o'er the low-lying 
 heather, 
 And will be till we die, 
 And will be till we die, I know. 
 
 And will be till we die. 
 Like a storm breaking T\dld o'er the low-lying 
 heather. 
 And will be till we die. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 267 
 
 Then out on some hill that is silent and rounding, 
 
 When the bright lights fade and the night 
 comes by, 
 I shall find here a peace that is ever abounding, 
 
 If you are resting nigh, 
 If you are resting nigh, my dear, 
 
 If you are resting nigh ! — 
 I shall find here a peace that 's ever abounding, 
 
 If you are resting nigh. 
 
 TRUE RELIGION 
 
 If you would know my inmost heart, 
 
 Seek not for this among my creeds, 
 For these are but a puny part. 
 
 Comparing with my daily deeds. 
 Then while I live, close watch me, friends, 
 
 And count my creeds as so much show, 
 For on my deeds all hope depends. 
 
 And in the end you'll surely know. 
 Yes, then you'll know just what I am. 
 
 If close you scan my hate and love. 
 And if I'm one, I'm fit to damn. 
 
 The other seeks a home above. 
 For creeds are cold and formal things. 
 
 And made to bend and twist about. 
 And often weak, and full of stings. 
 
 All strewn along our earthly route. 
 Then go and search the human heart, 
 
 And nail your faith to this alone, 
 Nor seek outside, for any part 
 
 That ever may for this atone. 
 Atone for that which I may lack. 
 
 While pointing to my written creeds 
 
268 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Instead of pay, and paying back 
 
 In honest coin and noble deeds. 
 For God will not accept a prayer 
 
 Of one who takes the smallest mite, 
 And mark it down, and call it fair, 
 
 And smile approval with delight, 
 Unless we pay for all our deeds. 
 
 The rightful measure of their worth, 
 No matter how, or what we plead, 
 
 Before we bid adieu to earth. 
 Then live this life, whoe 'er thou art, 
 
 A life of justice, true and kind, 
 And gain that gladness of the heart 
 
 That elevates the human mind. 
 
 THE ORCHARDS OF OUR YOUTH 
 
 Here lies the place far sweeter than 
 
 Creation ever flung 
 'er hill or vale, or mountain peak 
 
 To fascinate the young! 
 This orchard site that once we knew. 
 
 Far strewn around so grand. 
 How feeble now is all that's left, 
 
 As like this trembling hand ! 
 The willow twig and Jonathan, 
 
 The rambo and the spy, — 
 Oh, how the heart went out to these, 
 
 In other days gone by! 
 
 For this is where we often went 
 
 Ere we began to roam. 
 And sought afar, in distant lands, 
 
 To build ourselves a home. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 269 
 
 And here we Ve left our labors oft, 
 
 Our appetites to please, 
 And out we've gone a-strolling far 
 
 Among these dear old trees, 
 The winesap and the tallman sweet, 
 
 The harvest and the green, — 
 In longings oft the mind svfings back 
 
 To this remembered scene ! 
 
 But few to-day are left within 
 
 Our orchards o'er the hill, 
 And e'en our father's rustic cot 
 
 Deserted lies and still. 
 But here and there some roots are found. 
 
 That speak of times gone by. 
 And yonder, prone upon the ground, 
 
 A number of them lie: 
 The pairmain and the romanite. 
 
 The domini and straw, 
 In answer, these have bowed them down 
 
 To God's eternal law. 
 
 And farewell, then, to all of you 
 
 In meekness strewn around, — 
 Till we shall meet us once again, 
 
 A-slumber in the ground! 
 And let us trust, this slumbering 
 
 Is but another day, 
 Where age may not intrude herself 
 
 With blighting and decay. 
 The russet, and the maidenblush. 
 
 The cider and the June, 
 And Lord, we pray, and hope to find. 
 
 That death is but a boon ! 
 
270 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 A FOUNDLING 
 
 A STORM came out of the great northland, 
 
 And it moaned as it sadly tossed 
 A picture of deatli, with its frosty hand, 
 
 To a wee little baby lost. 
 
 ''It's only a foundling/' said one passing by, 
 
 "It's only a foundling frail. 
 Why bother myself? for soon it will die, 
 
 There's many another for sale." 
 
 And the night was dark, and the winds were cold. 
 And the snow lay deep on the ground, 
 
 And sad is the story, this story of old, — 
 "When a wee little baby is found. 
 
 And the barking dog, and the queaking gate. 
 
 And a long, loud rap on the door. 
 But the house rose not, for the hour was late ; 
 
 And the storm swept on as before. 
 
 Then a cry was heard, but they spoke no word, 
 As it echoed through parlor and hall. 
 
 And, wdth entrance denied, the little one cried. 
 In the folds of its coddling shawl. 
 
 And now from a form, that outran the storm, 
 There was heard a long wail of pity, 
 
 As the great trees bent and the Storm King sent 
 A mournful dirge o'er the city. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 271 
 
 We all are foundlings that some one has brought, 
 
 To soften the bite of the storm. 
 Then open your door, another has taught, 
 
 And rescue some frail little form. 
 
 PROMPTNESS 
 
 Don't wait till to-morrow! 
 
 To-day is the time, 
 The future may sorrow. 
 
 The present's sublime. 
 
 Be prompt to the minute, 
 And throttle delay, — 
 
 As swift as the linnet 
 Aflit by the way. 
 
 For promptness is ever 
 The queen of the land. 
 
 And nothing can sever 
 The grip of her hand. 
 
 So wishing and waiting 
 Is time thrown away. 
 
 When courting and mating, 
 To-day is the day. 
 
 For night bringeth slumber. 
 And dreams may invade 
 
 And hamper and cumber 
 The plans that are laid, 
 
 And change to illusions 
 
 Before it is day 
 A mix of confusions. 
 
 In passing away. 
 
272 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 HERE AND THERE 
 
 While man remaineth here, 
 His pleasures and his pains 
 Are things within himself; 
 But when he goes away 
 And hides among the dust, 
 Another comes along 
 And shapes his destiny. 
 
 A WHISTLING FARMER 
 
 When out along the road one day, 
 I heard a whistling farmer say: 
 *'I bow before my growing corn. 
 And wheat and oats, at eve and morn. 
 And thank the Lord for what he's sent 
 And then I feel that sweet content 
 That farmers yet more often feel 
 When bowing down before their meal. 
 And when its o'er, my folks all sing, 
 And I start out, a-whistling, 
 To see if all the stock are fed. 
 And every horse has got his bed. 
 And pat old Charley on his jowl. 
 And lead him out and let him roll. 
 And watch the gay old fellow prance 
 Among the fillies, Nell and Nance, 
 And hail my porkers in their sty 
 That watch me when I'm passing by. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 273 
 
 And play awhile with Dolly's colt, 
 
 And see the little rascal bolt 
 
 Way o'er the hill, around the spring, 
 
 And then come back a-whinnying. 
 
 I visit all the pigs and sows, 
 
 And sheep, and lambs and calves and cows ; 
 
 And while they close around me crowd. 
 
 It makes my heart feel awful proud 
 
 To see the pleasures I must bring, 
 
 Whene'er they hear me whistling. 
 
 For loud they bleat, and bawl and neigh, 
 
 When I go strolling down the way, 
 
 Until the leaders call a halt, 
 
 And turn to look me o'er for salt, 
 
 Or lumps of sugar that I bring. 
 
 When strolling out at evening. 
 
 And all around me here they come. 
 
 These friends of mine, although they're 
 
 dumb, 
 And circling close, they hem me in. 
 And watch, and wait, and plead again. 
 Until I pacify them all. 
 By some familiar act or call. 
 For I've some dainty for each one. 
 That I bestow before I'm done. 
 And call their names, and whisper low 
 Some words of love before I go. 
 And while I ever kindly speak, 
 I pat them gently on the cheek 
 Before I'm strolling on my way, 
 To call again another day. 
 And what a pleasure this can bring, — 
 I answer all by whistling. 
 Across the meadow lands, away 
 Where bunnies in the evening play, 
 
274 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Along the babbling of the rill, 
 That leads me down to Clayton's mill, — 
 Where pike are wont to leap and snap, — 
 To take a look at Bennie's trap, 
 And see if everything is right, 
 To lure the fish throughout the night. 
 And when I find that all is well, 
 I seat myself and rest a spell; 
 And ponder over many things 
 The tranquil evening hour brings. 
 And then, again, for home I am, 
 While all around is hashed and calm. 
 Save that wild bird 'way o'er the hill, 
 That some one 's named the whippoorwill. 
 And while I love to hear him sing, 
 I can't refrain from whistling. 
 And soon, I'm whistling past the barn. 
 And on my strolls around the tarn, 
 For ducks and geese upon the lake, — 
 They love to hear my whistles break. 
 For oft they greet me with a quach! 
 And flop their wings above their back. 
 Or stop and listen, still as mice. 
 As if to say: "It sounds so nice!" 
 And here I am at home again. 
 But all is silent now within, 
 Save now and then, my watchful cur 
 Sends forth a growl, as I draw near. 
 The lights are low; I take a peep, 
 And find my loved ones fast asleep. 
 And what a scene in that soft glow, — 
 I would to God all men might know! 
 My wife and little daughter lay. 
 While yet asleep, as if in play. 
 Our baby's lips enclosed her breast, 
 One hand was clasped, and one at rest. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 275 
 
 'Twas home and motherhood I saw, 
 The fruits of labor, love, and law. 
 And now my heart beat loud apace. 
 And then a smile o'erspread my face. 
 But while I looked and sh'd the pup. 
 My mouth began to pucker up. 
 Until I had to grab the thing, 
 To keep myself from whistling. 
 And here I opened wide the door, 
 And softly stole across the floor. 
 And up the winding stair, aglide, 
 And in a chamber, long and wide. 
 With scarce the semblance of a noise, 
 I pause before my sleeping boys. 
 And standing prone before them there, 
 I bow my head in silent prayer. 
 And ask that Frank and Wade and Ben 
 May grow at last to useful men. 
 And then I tuck the covers in. 
 And press their little hands again, 
 And leave a kiss on every brow. 
 And ere I'm gone I take a vow 
 That I will do whate'er I can 
 To make of each a noble man. 
 And then I sally forth again, 
 To bring some sticks of hickory in. 
 And split a bunch of kindling wood. 
 As every thoughtful farmer should. 
 And lay it down beside the stove. 
 To help the wife I dearly love. 
 And go and lock the henhouse tight, 
 To foil the thieves a-prowl by night, 
 And see that all the gates are shut. 
 And everything in place is put ; 
 And turn the power on the mill, 
 To pump some water o'er the hill, 
 
276 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 So all the cattle, when they pass 
 
 Along the pasture, out to grass, 
 
 The whole of them, from last to first, 
 
 May stop awhile and quench their thirst ; 
 
 And be content, at least till noon, 
 
 In these long sultry days in June. 
 
 And while around and 'round I go. 
 
 Some good-night tune I whistle low, 
 
 For there's a gladness in my heart. 
 
 To know that I have had a part 
 
 And planned and worked with all the rest 
 
 That's made this home of happiness. 
 
 And then it is I'm off for bed, 
 
 Since all I have are housed and fed. 
 
 And in the bath I take my seat, 
 
 And bathe awhile my weary feet, 
 
 And lock the house-doors for the night, 
 
 And wind the clock, and turn the light. 
 
 And raise the windows for some air, 
 
 And hang my trousers on the chair. 
 
 And then, a moment, bow my head, 
 
 And hail my wife, at last, in bed. 
 
 But while I plan, and do my part. 
 
 That brings a gladness to my heart, 
 
 So oft I hear my neighbors say 
 
 When I go by from day to day: 
 
 '' That's him out there ; that's old Tom King! 
 
 He makes his mun by whistling. ' ' 
 
 But I don't care what people say, 
 
 I tell you what, these things will pay: 
 
 A kindly word, a whistling tune, 
 
 Will make December mild as June. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 277 
 
 WHEN WE LIVED ON THE FARM 
 
 When we lived on the farm 
 
 In that long time ago, — 
 When we lived on the old-fashioned farm, 
 
 There was much to be learned 
 
 That you all ought to know, 
 When we lived out there on the farm. 
 
 There was seed to be sown 
 
 In the spring of the year, 
 When we lived on the old-fashioned farm; 
 
 And from morning till night 
 
 There was many a care 
 When we lived out there on the farm. 
 
 And we found lots of work, 
 And the days seemed so long, 
 
 When we lived on the old-fashioned farm, 
 But the air was so pure 
 That we all grew up strong, 
 
 When we lived out there on the farm. 
 
 And the pleasures we found 
 
 In that sweet rural life. 
 When we lived on the old-fashioned farm, 
 
 I'm recounting them oft 
 
 To my children and wife, — 
 When we lived out there on the farm. 
 
278 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 MIGRATORY MAN 
 
 Not I alone in youth's fair day, 
 
 While onward yet I strolled, 
 Not I alone saw Fortune's car 
 
 Before me ever rolled. 
 In all the. walks of life, they were, 
 
 Unfolding still their plans, 
 And north and south, and east and west. 
 
 In search of distant lands. 
 The farmers sought the countries new. 
 
 The miners sought the mine. 
 And bade farewell to every tie. 
 
 And left their friends behind. 
 For youth must build a castle high, 
 
 And gild its dazzling dome, 
 And yet this picture always lies 
 
 A thousand miles from home. 
 And so they went, my early friends. 
 
 Lone wandering afar. 
 Nor do I know until this day 
 
 Where many of them are. 
 And yet, some few of these I've found, — 
 
 Some names I held so dear; 
 And these had sought the Western wilds. 
 
 Among the pioneers. 
 And some, perchance, were lost at sea. 
 
 And sleep beneath the wave. 
 And other ones, for aught I know, 
 
 May fill a pauper's grave. 
 And Fortune's car is still in sight. 
 
 And ever will remain, 
 And year by year it 's teeming forth • 
 
 Across the distant plain. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 279 
 
 For youth is still the same to-day, 
 
 As I was in the morn, 
 In after years it is, we find, 
 
 Realities are horn. 
 
 THE MEADOW LARK 
 
 As fair as the sunshine, 
 As bright as the moon, 
 
 Away, like the winds, — far away, — 
 As tranquil as evening. 
 Some evening in June, 
 
 The meadow lark, hallows the day. 
 
 A blast from his trumpet, 
 A flash from his wing. 
 
 As he mounts like a rocket, so high ! 
 What a thrill of delight now 
 His lullaby brings. 
 
 As he floats, like a speck in the sky. 
 
 And the tune that he sings. 
 How it thrills with delight ! — 
 
 Far sweeter than aught I have heard, — 
 As upward and onward 
 He wheels in his flight, — 
 
 Is the song of this delicate bird. 
 
 **Away to the wheat-fields!'* 
 He calls to his mate, 
 
 "Away to the barley and rye!" 
 Away like an arrow 
 As swiftly and straight, 
 
 With a tweet, throttle, tweet, passing by. 
 
28o A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Away o'er the meadow, 
 Away o'er the grain, — 
 
 They are seeking a home for a nest, 
 Beyond the broad river 
 And valley and plain. 
 
 That lie far away to the west. 
 
 DAYBREAK 
 
 The quickening pulse of day comes on, 
 The shades of night in sadness flee. 
 
 And so, at last, the gladsome dawn, 
 A victor stands o'er land and sea. 
 
 Meanwhile, the hills, with dewy gleams. 
 Assistance lend, to help adorn; 
 
 And all the brooks^ and all the streams, 
 Exalting spring, to greet the mom. 
 
 Then, too, yon peak, cloudwrapt and weird, 
 And every vale, that smiling lies. 
 
 With promptness each, they join the bird. 
 That fills with rapture all the skies. 
 
 And thus we see the long, dark night. 
 Is chased around the whole of earth, 
 
 In full retreat, and constant flight, 
 A vanquished foe, by nobler worth. 
 
 And so we bless the brilliant morn 
 
 With what of hope the soul hath found. 
 
 As when, again, the sun is born, 
 That lagging faith may more abound : 
 
A Whistling Farmer 281 
 
 A faith in every law ordained, 
 
 Though nights may come, and storms may rage, 
 Since all of these have been sustained, 
 
 They will be yet from age to age. 
 
 Then let us rest this troubled mind. 
 Nor fear the darkness by the way. 
 
 And in the end, we all may find. 
 The dawning of another day. 
 
 THE HEIRS 
 
 All wrapt up in his princely pride, 
 A man once lived, and then he died. 
 And friends he had, afar and wide. 
 Declaring he had money. 
 
 And in his tomb of granite stone, 
 As costly as the world had known, — 
 They laid him down to sleep alone. 
 Like others, gone before him. 
 
 And while he slept there in his place, 
 All wound around with golden lace. 
 His heirs came on, and sought to trace 
 Their uncle's ample fortune. 
 
 And o'er the records, here and there, 
 With what few days they had to spare, 
 They searched the court-house everywhere, 
 But nothing was discovered. 
 
 Then up and down the land they went, 
 Upon their nervous mission bent. 
 For one and all was confident 
 That he was awful wealthy. 
 
282 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 But always still, from eve till morn, 
 The trail led back where he was born, 
 Around the groves that still adorn 
 The onward flowing river. 
 
 And while they closely searched around. 
 Among some vacant lots in town, 
 At last they said : ' ' We 've surely found 
 His box of hidden treasure. ' ' 
 
 But when they pried the boards apart, 
 As gladness swept through every heart,— 
 All empty now, it made them start. 
 For want of any money. 
 
 And yet, down there, some papers lay. 
 As yellow as the yellow clay. 
 But all the writer had to say: 
 
 ''I've squandered every penny. 
 
 "For I conceived ere life was done. 
 All men should live and have their fun. 
 Nor should they leave for any one 
 A single, blessed dollar. 
 
 "And this, to spur them on their way, 
 And make them strong, from day to day, 
 That none may stop, and idly say: 
 'I have some rich relation.' " 
 
 And this was all the writer said 
 Before in death he bowed his head. 
 Advising all to earn their bread, 
 By honest, daily labor. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 283 
 
 And while they stood around this ring, 
 With frowns that disappointments bring, 
 Their leader spoke, and said : ' ' By jing ! 
 We're like a lot of children." 
 
 And sternly then, in tones sublime 
 That ring above this jingling rhyme: 
 ' ' Come on, my friends, we 've ample time 
 To make ourselves a fortune!" 
 
 And straightway, then, they turned about. 
 With manhood strong, and lusty shout. 
 And home, they went, to take the route 
 That leads to independence. 
 
 And wide they scattered all around, 
 In lands remote, and country town. 
 And traders some, and some a-plow'n', 
 In search of peace and plenty. 
 
 And years went by, — full many years, — 
 All laden down with hopes and fears. 
 And pleasure came, as well as tears, 
 But all began to prosper. 
 
 For now they 'd learned that men of state, 
 And famous sage, and truly great. 
 Not one of these would ever wait 
 Another one's possessions. 
 
 And mind you, too, they'd gone to work. 
 In factories some, and some to clerk, 
 And scarce a thing they'd ever shirk 
 That meant accumulation. 
 
284 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And plenty came, and bowed him down, 
 O'er acres wide, and country town, 
 And jewels flashed on every gown 
 Of honest occupation. 
 
 But not for them enormous wealth 
 That seems to breed a life of stealth, 
 And robs its owner of his health, 
 A-toiling on forever. 
 
 But just enough, and nothing more, 
 A distance safe beyond the poor, 
 That none might come and grumble o'er 
 The fruitage of their labor. 
 
 And these are all alive to-day, 
 And o'er and o'er I've heard them say: 
 * ' 'Twas in the gladsome month of May 
 When we went hunting money; 
 
 ' ' And there we stood, erect and bold, 
 All peering down into that hole. 
 That never held an ounce of gold, 
 For any one's relation. 
 
 ''And ragged men stood there in place. 
 And youth and age, with anxious face, 
 And well-nigh all, we showed a trace 
 Of careless dissipation. 
 
 "For heirs, you see, are prone to wait 
 And boast them oft and dissipate. 
 Expecting much from some estate 
 Belonging unto others. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 285 
 
 ''For this old world she hath her ways, 
 Like hunting bear in childhood days, 
 When every log that rotting lays, 
 Seems one, among the forest.'' 
 
 So time went on for every one. 
 Much like the rise and setting sun, 
 And ere they knew, this race was won, — 
 This race for home and pleasure. 
 
 And every year, some time in ^lay. 
 When all of Nature seems at play. 
 And birds begin to build and lay, 
 They have a grand reunion. 
 
 And hunt, and fish, and rest the mind, 
 And have their sports of every kind, 
 And climb the trails that twist and wind 
 Themselves around the mountains. 
 
 And here, among some giant trees, 
 Where flowers bloom for busy bees, 
 They pitch their tents, and take their ease. 
 And laugh about their folly. 
 
 And thank their stars for all the past. 
 When follies held them ever fast, 
 For since they 've freed themselves at last, 
 They glory in their labors. 
 
 And yet each year, they still to-day. 
 This game of fortune-hunting play. 
 And lead their little tots astray, 
 To hunt for hidden treasure. 
 
286 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 So they may learn this folly too, 
 As older ones have come to do, 
 That late in life they may not rue 
 This nightmare of deception. 
 
 And when a proper place is found, — 
 Such as the vacant lots in town, — 
 Some grandpa hides beneath the ground 
 A box containing something. 
 
 And when the evening dews are damp, 
 He moves around among the camp. 
 And softly 'neath each hanging lamp, 
 He tells of uncle's fortune. 
 
 And little children crowd around. 
 From lands remote, and country town, — 
 All sleepy, and in nighty gown. 
 To hear the evening story. 
 
 And then he takes them on his knee. 
 As soberlike as he can be, 
 And leads them on, until they see 
 This folly of the ages. 
 
 And here his voice is low and soft. 
 And there he flings it high aloft, 
 And thus it is, for hours oft. 
 He seemeth not to worry. 
 
 And now, he's down beside the brook. 
 Or with the tots of Bonilook, 
 And so he's found in every nook. 
 Before the evening passes. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 287 
 
 And round and round the camp he goes, 
 And in the minds of youth he sows 
 This story that forever grows, — 
 About another's money. 
 
 And late at night he goes to bed, 
 When all the sky's a golden red. 
 And twinkling stars gleam overhead. 
 Presaging pleasant weather. 
 
 And when at last the stars are gone, 
 And morning brings the early dawn, 
 And shadows flit across the lawn, 
 Beneath the shady forest, 
 
 Outringing loud, there comes a cry, 
 As children call, and answer, ' * I ! " 
 And grandpa comes, with spirits high, 
 To lead the grand procession. 
 
 And round him now, with faces bland. 
 At least a score of children stand. 
 And each one speaks of something grand 
 Bequeathed them by their uncle. 
 
 And then he forms them all in line. 
 These tots of six, and eight, and nine, 
 And bows him down, with gestures kind. 
 And marches on before them. 
 
 And down the vale, beside the wood, 
 Where once an Indian village stood, 
 They find some holes that look so good 
 They stop awhile, to parley. 
 
288 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 But grandpa thinks some wigwam pole, 
 Instead their uncle's heaps of gold, 
 Has once reposed in every hole 
 
 That marks this ancient village. 
 
 * ' But now, ' ' said he, ' * way o 'er the hill, 
 A forest lies, beyond the mill. 
 Where, some affirm, are roaming still 
 The catamount and panther. 
 
 ''And where the beaver builds his dam. 
 When streams are low, and nights are calm. 
 And where the daring mountain ram 
 Leaps wildly o'er the crevice. 
 
 ''And like to this, some woodland deep. 
 Where torrents rush, and foam and sweep. 
 Our kinsman oft, when sound asleep. 
 He'd speak about his savings. 
 
 "And friends declare, ere he awoke. 
 While dreaming thus, he often spoke. 
 About some old majestic oak. 
 Outstanding in the open. 
 
 "But when awake, as all had feared. 
 No mention of this tree was heard. 
 Nor would he say a single word. 
 About the distant forest. 
 
 "And now, out there, it seems to me. 
 His wealth must lie beneath this tree. 
 And should we find it, we'll all be 
 As rich as any Morgan. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 289 
 
 "And come, let's go and search for this, 
 That may bestow such lasting bliss, 
 On every lad and every miss, — 
 And I'll lead on, directing!" 
 
 And on they went, along the way, 
 By sliding rocks and banks of clay. 
 Until the sun before them lay 
 High up, around the zenith. 
 
 But soon this orb, that shone so bright, 
 Began to darken from their sight, 
 And great huge clouds, as black as night. 
 Came bounding o'er the forest. 
 
 ' ' A storm, a storm ! ' ' the children cried, 
 While booming thunderbolts replied, 
 And lightning threw her curtains wide. 
 Out o'er the wailing woodlands. 
 
 And while the clouds grew darker still, 
 With rain the streams began to fill. 
 And soon, they might have run a mill. 
 On-sweeping down the valley. 
 
 And high and higher rose the flood. 
 Uprooting trees, and bush, and bud, 
 All loathsome, dark, and full of mud. 
 Commingling in its vortex. 
 
 But soon the storm had passed them by, 
 And bright the sun shone in the sky. 
 And on they went again, to try, 
 To find their uncle's fortune. 
 
290 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And now before them gently broke, 
 An open park of scattered oak, 
 And with a smile, their leader spoke, 
 And pointed straight before him. 
 
 And soon they stood beneath this tree, 
 That reared its head in majesty. 
 And paths led off, as all could see, 
 In various directions. 
 
 And on this tree, some signs were found. 
 Out-pointing here and there around, 
 And one there was that struck the ground, 
 Some distance in the open. 
 
 And grandpa walked straight out to this. 
 And every lad, and every miss. 
 They followed him, with childish bliss, — 
 So brightly shone the prospect. 
 
 And here it was, they quickly found, 
 A slight depression in the ground. 
 And indications lay around 
 
 That some one had been digging. 
 
 And grandpa dropped upon his knee. 
 The better thus to better see 
 What made this hole beneath the tree 
 Way out amid the forest. 
 
 And every child bent down as low, 
 All circling in an endless row. 
 And all excited, asked to know. 
 
 What grandpa thought about it. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 291 
 
 ''Why, yes, to me it seemeth clear, 
 That some one has been digging here. 
 And from the indications near, 
 
 It must have been onr kinsman. ' ' 
 
 And gazing long within this hole 
 The children thought was full of gold, 
 A scene came back, a story old, — 
 A story of his childhood. 
 
 And while each tot beneath the tree 
 Was all wrapt up in mystery, 
 Again he spoke, and said, said he: 
 ''Now, how shall we divide it? 
 
 ''And now, let's see just what you say, — 
 All you who came with me to-day, 
 And left your friends some miles away, — 
 Your friends that love you dearly. 
 
 "And shall we keep the whole of it, 
 And proudly live, our friends to twit, 
 And not reserve a single bit 
 
 For those we left behind us?" 
 
 And "yes! and yes!" they loudly said, 
 "And let them go and earn their bread. 
 As did our uncle who is dead. 
 
 And we, who found his treasure." 
 
 And then he hung his head for shame, 
 And to his mind a thought there came, 
 And each of us are much the same 
 Regarding distribution. 
 
292 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And while lie stood and mused a spell, 
 Loud shouts of joy arose and fell, 
 As every child began to tell 
 
 About the things they wanted. 
 
 '^And I shall have my hobby horse, 
 That 's what I will ! ' ' cried Harry Morse, 
 And Willie, too, ''Why yes, of course; 
 And we'll ride out together, 
 
 ''And canter, canter down the lane. 
 And whirl and canter back again. 
 Just like the soldiers do that train, — 
 The soldiers in the army." 
 
 And out spoke May, with much delight : 
 "Not I to train, and march, and fight; 
 But I shall have my diamonds bright, 
 And be a perfect lady; 
 
 "And wear the finest furs in town. 
 Above my jaunty silken gown. 
 And have m.y car to ride around; 
 And live a life of pleasure. ' ' 
 
 And so on down along the line. 
 Among these tots, from six to nine. 
 And each one spoke of something fine 
 To gratify their longing. 
 
 Then grandpa rose, and sought his spade 
 That near some spreading lindens laid. 
 And while his charges round him played, 
 He now began his labor. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 293 
 
 And while he smiled, and turned his head, 
 In solemn tones he gently said : 
 ' ' T\Tio knows but what some luckless dead 
 Lies here in peaceful slumber? 
 
 "And yet. perchance, we'd better see 
 What lies beneath this sturdy tree. 
 And if a million here should be, 
 
 "SVhat gladness that we found it ! " 
 
 And so the hours slipped away. 
 And still he delved among the clay, 
 While all around the children lay 
 And watched his every movement. 
 
 And while, at last, there comes a sound, 
 Dull mumbling down among the ground, 
 And, ' ■ Grandpa dear, and have you found 
 The money, that was hidden?" 
 
 ' ' Xot yet, and still, something I Ve struck 
 Down here among this sandy muck. 
 And if we have some decent luck 
 In what lies here before us, 
 
 "It seems to me, this spacious hole, 
 So huge it is, it may unfold. 
 At least some wagonloads of gold 
 For those who need it badly." 
 
 And then there was a wild pellmell. 
 From all the merry children fell, 
 And this continued quite a spell. 
 Exulting 'er their riches. 
 
294 A. Whistling Fanner 
 
 And while the romping children played, 
 Much louder now the grinding spade, 
 A hollow sounding noise it made, 
 Far down among the gravel. 
 
 And while with care he worked away. 
 He upward turned his face to say; 
 ''Be quiet there, for some one may 
 Be near enough to hear us. 
 
 ''And if they are. they'll claim, you see. 
 This hox and all beneath the tree. 
 And drive us off, and luckless we 
 Will never get a penny!'' 
 
 And over each and all once more 
 A silence fell, as ne'er before, 
 For tots, like men, despise the poor 
 And ragged clothes and squalor. 
 
 And soon before this silent throng 
 A box was seen, some four feet long 
 And deep and wide and awful strong. 
 And nailed as if forever. 
 
 And grandpa rose and softly spoke. 
 In whispers low, "It's solid oak. 
 And my! 'twill take a giant stroke 
 To rend the box asunder. 
 
 *'And quickly, now, my little Max, 
 Run yonder, son, and bring the ax. 
 And I'll give these some awful whacks, 
 And open out this treasure." 
 
A Whistling Farmer 295 
 
 And once again he sought the pit, 
 And bending low, he smiled a bit, 
 For all the past, he thought of it, 
 When he was like the children. 
 
 And with his ax, he'd brought along. 
 He struck these boards so hard and strong. 
 They sounded like some distant gong, 
 'Way off among the forest. 
 
 And while he chopped and mauled away, 
 Down there among the clammy clay, 
 The children all, I heard them say: 
 *'Dod bless our dear old uncle!'' 
 
 And soon, he chopped his way inside. 
 And through this hole, now long and wide, 
 A metal box the children spied. 
 All solid, locked, and rusty. 
 
 And over this he worked and pried. 
 And sought to lift it out, he tried. 
 And near it was his strength denied 
 This final consummation. 
 
 But when at last he brought it out. 
 They all agreed, beyond a doubt, 
 A chest like this, so huge and stout, 
 Must hold a world of money. 
 
 But when the lid lay open wide, 
 A shock sprang out to wound their pride. 
 And one and all, the children cried, 
 * * Our uncle has deceived us ! " 
 
296 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 For there, before their anxious look, 
 While one and all a-tremble shook, 
 Alone they saw a single book, 
 Of ponderous proportions. 
 
 But unto them, to stay their rage, 
 Their leader read the title page. 
 And said: ''Perchance, some learned sage 
 Has left you this, a treasure." 
 
 And then, assuming gestures bold, 
 To soothe their fears, he stood and told. 
 Of others who had found no gold. 
 And yet, some priceless papers. 
 
 For these, although of simple kind, 
 They so appealed unto the mind. 
 They broke the cords that often wind 
 Themselves around the shiftless. 
 
 *'And so with you, in years to come, 
 This book, maybe, you'll often thumb, 
 And make of it your closest chum. 
 And bless the day you found it. 
 
 ''For it may yet contain more gold. 
 When riper years for jou unfold, 
 Than any chest could ever hold. 
 Regardless of dimensions. 
 
 ' ' For this may teach each one of you 
 The ways of life you should pursue. 
 And take your hands, and lead you through 
 The pleasures of existence. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 297 
 
 "And point the right among the wrong, 
 And bid you shun the wicked throng, 
 And touch your heart with magic song, 
 And make your life worth living. 
 
 **For wealth," said he, "in time grows old, 
 Like sparkling gems and tinkling gold ; 
 At least this much we're often told 
 By many w^ho have tried it." 
 
 And when these things the children heard, 
 Deep silence in their midst appeared, 
 Nor was there one who had a word 
 To offer in rebuttal. 
 
 And here, well-nigh, our story ends, 
 Excepting yet some few amends. 
 On which a romance oft depends, 
 A-rounding at the finish. 
 
 'Twas evening now, and westward far 
 Soft lay the clouds, a crimson bar, 
 And just above, the evening star 
 Shone forth in all her splendor. 
 
 An evening such, the tender mind, 
 In after years, is apt to find. 
 Some incident has come to wind 
 Around the heart forever. 
 
 And grandpa now with pleasure shook, 
 "While over all he cast a look, 
 And high above, he held his book, — 
 This wondrous book of knowledge. 
 
298 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And while he stood and gently bowed, 
 In pleasant tones he spoke aloud, 
 And of his work, he felt as proud 
 
 As though he'd found a million. 
 
 For while deception seems unkind, 
 Sometimes it helps to free the mind, 
 "When youth is yet so much inclined 
 To wander from its moorings. 
 
 And thus we've sought to plant the truth, 
 Within this field, that man pursueth 
 In early life, and tender youth. 
 
 For truth should be encouraged. 
 
 For on this rock, the great and small 
 And high and low and one and all 
 May nobly rise, or lowly fall. 
 
 Contingent on their pleasure. 
 
 And finis all, and here we rest. 
 With this implanted in the breast, 
 That none through life may be distressed. 
 Concerning means and money. 
 
 KATE SHELLY 
 
 Above the noises born of earth, 
 
 And thunderbolt and fire, 
 A hand was thrust, and voices cried: 
 
 ''Beloved, come up higher." 
 And then, a softly beaming light 
 
 Rose gently o'er the plain. 
 Illuminating all the night, — 
 
 So radiant its train. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 299 
 
 And music, from an unseen band, 
 
 With vibrant sweetness played, 
 Which swept with rapture all the land, 
 
 In honoring the maid. 
 Kate Shelly 's crossed the stream again, 
 
 That dark and stormy river, 
 And left behind the haunts of men 
 
 And Honey Creek forever. 
 
 MY HEART AND I 
 
 This ever-patient little heart of mine 
 A stranger seems to sleep and rest. 
 
 And pray, what godly impetus divine. 
 First gave thee motion in my breast? 
 
 Whose hand was it that sent thee bounding. 
 Now to, now fro, within this narrow cell? 
 
 Whose voice that spoke, in tones astounding? 
 I 've sought and sought ; but none can tell. 
 
 Ah, silent still, and speak but once to-day, 
 I'd treasure well the words you spoke, 
 
 Ere thou, upon thy dark and toilsome way, 
 Resum'st again thy noiseless stroke. 
 
 And how can pleasures gild thy dungeon walls, 
 Deprived of all this world of light. 
 
 While yet thy pulsing motions rise and fall, 
 Surrounded by eternal night? 
 
 Chained to thy post, thy station still denies 
 To thee and thine the light of day, 
 
 While all this world of beauty round thee lies, 
 As fragrant as the month of May. 
 
300 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And still, no helper ever comes to take thy oar, 
 And bid thee rest upon the stream. 
 
 Nor can thy vision glimpse the distant shore 
 Where changing landscapes glint and gleam. 
 
 And yet, thou art the fountain source, I know, 
 
 Of all these organs I possess. 
 But, ere this blood of mine began to flow, 
 
 I falter, even with a guess, 
 
 Why one should ever live and thrive and grow, 
 Without a heart or lung or breath. 
 
 Unless, maybe, the Lord has willed it so 
 That we live onward after death. 
 
 For if it were that we once blithely grew 
 A nerveless, senseless, thoughtless brain, 
 
 In reason's realm, it seems there's nothing new, — 
 And why should one not live again? 
 
 Meanwhile, thou art my servant yet each day. 
 And still my life is in thy hands. 
 
 And I, like thee, must grope along the way 
 Amid life's ever-changing sands. 
 
 And while I see afar with mortal eyes. 
 The greening fields that ever come and go. 
 
 And while each height is still a grand surprise, 
 The Great Beyond I may not know. 
 
 But these are transient, — all these passing scenes 
 That rise and fall like day and night; 
 
 The one great problem yet, whate'er it means, 
 Lies hidden still beyond my sight. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 301 
 
 And still, my little heart, go ever on and on, 
 In silence here within my longing breast; 
 
 Beyond this darkness yet may lie the dawn 
 For all, of sweet and tranquil rest. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL 
 
 ''I'm going to the army, Mag, 
 
 Behold my uniform ! 
 Our reg'ment now is all complete. 
 
 We're marching in the mom. 
 It's awful, dear, I know it is. 
 
 The love for you I bore. 
 But God has so created me 
 
 I love my country more. 
 I went this morn to watch the drill 
 
 Upon the village green. 
 And hundreds more, they followed me, 
 
 To gaze upon the scene. 
 Out where our flag was flying, Mag, 
 
 Above the army post. 
 And there I heard the noisy guns 
 
 On down along the coast. 
 And when I saw our enemies 
 
 Come stealing down the bay, 
 My spirit so possessed me, dear, 
 
 I could no longer stay. 
 For soon, I heard the smaller arms, 
 
 And saw the firing-lines. 
 And long the clang of battle rang 
 
 Among the open pines. 
 Yes, I'm going to the army now. 
 
 Our honor to sustain, 
 And years may pass for us, alas! 
 
 Ere I return again. 
 
302 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Go, call the children, — will you, dear' 
 
 From out their youthful play; 
 I want this picture in my heart 
 
 When I am far away; 
 For we may never meet again 
 
 Around the social board, 
 So fraught with danger is the life 
 
 That cherishes the sword." 
 
 And then a scene before me stood, 
 
 That words can never tell, 
 For while his wife and children wept, 
 
 The soldier said farewell. 
 I've seen him on the picket line. 
 
 And out upon the field. 
 And like a* wall of stone he stood 
 
 And grasped his trusty steel ; 
 And often, too, I've seen him sent 
 
 To execute some plan, — 
 Dash forward in the face of death 
 
 To meet his fellow-man. 
 And when the clang of battle slept, 
 
 I saw his mortal wound, 
 A smile upon his dying brow, 
 
 Upon the frozen ground. 
 And now he lies at Arlington, 
 
 Among the noble slain ; 
 For those who wait and watch for him, 
 
 He'll ne'er return again. 
 Pie '11 ne'er return again, alas! 
 
 I hasten to reply: 
 The spirits of our worthy dead 
 
 Are always passing by. 
 They cheer us on our lonely way 
 
 Across the vale and hill, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 303 
 
 And while we think of yonder tomb, 
 
 They're always with us still. 
 They live in sculptured marble now, 
 
 And decorate our walls, 
 And seem to press our hands again 
 
 Whene'er the evening falls. 
 And I, as well, I, too, avow. 
 
 What he has said before, — 
 Not that he loves his fam'ly less, 
 
 But loves his country more. 
 While navies build, and armies drill. 
 
 And endless forts expand, 
 Here lies the refuge of our hopes: 
 
 The love of native land. 
 
 THE COMING AGE 
 
 To those who wait as yet 
 
 The bourn of time unseen,— 
 To break the bonds at last 
 
 Of hidden birth, I mean, — 
 Sleep on awhile in peace! 
 
 And let the valleys green ; 
 The world is growing fast 
 
 In grandeur, day by day. 
 
 Sleep on, wee mite, sleep on ! 
 
 Till war's alarms are o'er. 
 And navies disappear 
 
 From every hostile shore, 
 And all this strife to-day. 
 
 In time, will be no more. 
 Among the many nations 
 
 Of the world. 
 
304 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Sleep on awhile, sleep on! 
 
 Until that coming age, 
 When truth, and truth alone 
 
 May grace the virgin page; 
 While honor stalks abroad 
 
 To greet the worthy sage. 
 And justice is proclaimed 
 
 Supreme in every land. 
 
 Sleep on awhile, sleep on! 
 
 Till caste has been forgot, 
 And lustful men, as such. 
 
 Are left to mold and rot. 
 And heartless greed for gold 
 
 In time will serve them not,- 
 The avaricious ones 
 
 That seek alone for gain. 
 
 Sleep on awhile, sleep on! 
 
 And see the law's delay, 
 Like other things now past, 
 
 This, too, must pass away ; 
 And love will take the place 
 
 Of all of this some day, 
 And man will truly love 
 
 His neighbor as himself. 
 
 Sleep on awhile! Some day 
 
 All men will see the light ; 
 For other ones have seen 
 
 Beyond the darksome night, 
 The dawning seemeth near, 
 
 The morning opens bright. 
 For those who yet must come 
 
 To occupy our place. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 305 
 
 THE THINGS THAT LIVE 
 
 Who aims at glitter and display, 
 
 And leaves no valued work behind, 
 All this must find a swift decay. 
 
 Too weak to hold the sober mind. 
 No lessons stamped upon the heart, 
 
 No guidepost left along the road. 
 No helping hand, to bear a part 
 
 In lessening our weary load. 
 So all we write, whate 'er the cost. 
 
 Unless it points to something good, 
 All this I count among the lost, — 
 
 It so has been, and always should. 
 
 AT REST 
 
 We had a little babe 
 
 That was all our own, 
 Her flesh, our flesh. 
 
 And bone, our bone! 
 The sweetest little child, — 
 
 Just about so high, 
 That played in our home 
 
 Till death came by, 
 grave, grave, grave, by her tombstone, 
 Way down in the earth 
 
 Where she long must lie! 
 grave, grave, grave, by her tombstone ! 
 And this took our baby 
 
 When death came by. 
 
3o6 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And gone is the babe 
 
 That was all our own. 
 She's gone to her rest 
 
 Near the Great White Throne. 
 Our own darling child 
 
 With her soft brown hair, 
 And all we have left 
 
 Is her little armchair. 
 And hope, hope, and hoping for ever, 
 That she's found a rest 
 
 In the Master's love. 
 And trust, trust, and trusting his promise. 
 And we'll find our baby 
 
 In heaven above. 
 
 DISSATISFIED 
 
 A WISH Cometh often, 
 
 Aflame with desire, 
 Some longing to soften 
 
 Our passions afire. 
 And, oh, to be master 
 
 Of all we survey ! 
 And laugh at disaster 
 
 And smile at decay; 
 And bask us forever 
 
 In gladness untold, 
 As like to some river 
 
 That never grows old ! 
 And, oh, for a pleasure 
 
 That never will cloy, — 
 Some blessing, a measure. 
 
 That none can destroy, 
 Some guidepost directing 
 
 Our footsteps along, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 307 
 
 Like music connecting 
 
 Our hearts with a song. 
 To sleep here, to slumber 
 
 In sweet ecstasy, 
 Where none may encumber 
 
 The beautiful way, 
 Giver of Pleasures, 
 
 We look unto thee, 
 Bestowing Thy treasures 
 
 So lavish and free! 
 
 BEYOND 
 
 In our moments, ever fleeting. 
 
 Sweet the memories they tell. 
 Still advancing and repeating: 
 
 ''All is well!" and "AU is well!" 
 All beyond this darksome river. 
 
 All beyond this fleeting day. 
 In the Master's presences ever. 
 
 Blessed for all eternity. 
 All beyond this grave before us. 
 
 All beyond this darksome night, 
 Afar, above, beneath, and o'er us 
 
 There may be yet a flood of light. 
 On beyond our every trouble, 
 
 On beyond our every grief, 
 Beyond this life, beyond this bubble. 
 
 Now so fragile and so brief. 
 On beyond this wild confusion, 
 
 On beyond this couch of sod, 
 Disillusioned, oar illusions, 
 
 In the bosom of our God. 
 On beyond these sore distresses. 
 
 On beyond this throbbing brain, 
 
3o8 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Swept within His glad caresses, 
 
 There to evermore remain. 
 On beyond this constant longing, 
 
 On beyond this endless fear, 
 Ever thronging, ever thronging 
 
 All around us year by year. 
 On beyond our every sorrow, 
 
 On beyond our every tear. 
 Over yonder, some to-morrow 
 
 May be waiting for us here. 
 On beyond this sickness, raging, 
 
 On beyond this death we die, 
 God, the Father, may be staging 
 
 Other plays that glorify. 
 
 THE WRECK AT EDEN, COLORADO ^ 
 
 Ever guarding the mountain pass. 
 
 And watching the plain, alert and fleet, 
 Comes the hour of death, 
 
 With its noiseless feet. 
 Stealing along the wreck-strewn coasts 
 Of time, the border lands of mystery. 
 
 Go break the news to Pueblo, 
 Of life's ever-changing ebb and flow, 
 
 Where matron, and maid, and man at the lever 
 Went down to their death 
 
 In that wild-plunging river. 
 In a low-lying valley. 
 Adjacent the fountain, 
 
 *At the time this took place, in so far as the loss of life is 
 concerned, it was said to have been the greatest railroad wreck 
 in the United States. No less than one hundred and seven 
 persons lost their lives by the washing away of a small bridge 
 at Eden, Colorado, a few miles out from the city of Pueblo. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 309 
 
 A stream flowing down 
 
 From the steppes of the mountain, 
 
 There is death in the wreckage, 
 
 The flood, and the sand, 
 And a thousand hearts are bleeding 
 For the loss of life at Eden, 
 A lonely little station there 
 
 Along the Rio Grande. 
 
 And the train was lost at Dry Creek, 
 
 A place where one can die quick. 
 
 Should troubles multiply 
 
 And rend the heart asunder. 
 
 And to the youth of tender age, 
 
 And to the grandsire, and to the sage. 
 
 And to the suicide, a haven. 
 
 For here 's a perfect grave in 
 
 The crazy bridge, and rushing deep, 
 
 And awful plunge, and frightful leap, 
 
 To death in the wreckage. 
 
 The flood, and the sand, 
 And a thousand hearts are bleeding 
 For the loss of life at Eden, — 
 A lonely little station there 
 
 Along the Rio Grande. 
 
 Twas on a stormy August eve, 
 
 And the date was number seven. 
 And the train that hurried on the way 
 
 Was the flyer, number Eleven, 
 On a long and tedious journey 
 To the Louisiana Fair. 
 But the story's soon forgotten, 
 Of a shaky bridge that's rotten. 
 And the human trap at Dry Creek, 
 The place where one can die quick. 
 
310 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 In a splintered mass of twisted beams, 
 And sobs, and moans, and muffled screams, 
 In the waters of tbe torrent, 
 
 And the wreckage, and the sand. 
 And a thousand hearts a-bleeding 
 For the loss of life at Eden, 
 A lonely little station there 
 
 Along the Rio Grande. 
 
 'Twas in the darksome night time, 
 And seemingly, the right time. 
 When pleasures reign supreme. 
 With love and hope content, 
 The flashing eye, and beaming face. 
 And pose of ease and cultured grace; 
 Inside the romping children played. 
 No thought of danger, undismayed. 
 Outside, the vivid lightnings flash. 
 Then lo ! a shock, a scream, a crash. 
 And death in the wreckage, 
 
 The flood, and the sand, 
 And a thousand hearts are bleeding 
 For the loss of life at Eden, 
 A lonely little station there 
 
 Along the Rio Grande. 
 
 And some were out for pleasure. 
 
 And some were going home. 
 With anxious friends awaiting 
 
 The train that ne'er would come. 
 Not a warning from the darkness. 
 Not a message from the wire. 
 And sweeping down the waters high, 
 The bridge was wrecked and gone, 
 And swiftly on her journey bent. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 311 
 
 The flyer swept along; not a flagman, 
 
 Not a signal, not a breath, 
 Not the swinging of a lantern 
 
 Across the road to death; 
 Not the blowing of a whistle. 
 
 Not the ringing of a bell. 
 And so silently and swiftly, 
 
 And not a soul to tell 
 Of the waters dashing onward, 
 
 And the wreckage, and the sand. 
 And a thousand hearts are bleeding 
 For the loss of life at Eden, 
 A lonely little station there. 
 
 Along the Rio Grande. 
 
 CARMEL BY THE SEA 
 
 There is majesty in motion, 
 
 There is poetry in pose, 
 The storms upon the ocean. 
 
 And the star that ever glows ; 
 But naught that I have ever seen 
 
 Is so beautiful to me 
 As ripples o'er thy coral strands 
 
 Sweet Carmel by the Sea. 
 
 I know of mountains miles in height, 
 
 With pinnacles so bold. 
 No eagle ever dares a flight 
 
 Where stormy blasts unfold ; 
 But why should I revert to these ? 
 
 My dearest, let us flee, 
 Adown the paths that wind around 
 
 Sweet Carmel by the Sea. 
 
312 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Let others seek the Arctic seas, 
 
 Or dare the dismal mines, 
 Give me my flowers and my bees 
 
 And California wines, 
 And never-ending pleasures, dear, 
 
 Like children in their glee. 
 That romp along this merry coast, 
 
 Sweet Carmel by the Sea. 
 
 THE FLEETING DAY 
 
 The fleeting day goes by 
 And yet we labor on. 
 To balance up the book 
 Of wistful memories; 
 And then, forgetting all 
 The worries of the world, 
 "We list the plaintive call 
 That all around us lies, 
 And find a drearaless sleep 
 Of endless slumbering, 
 And never wake to tell 
 Of mysteries beyond. 
 
 THE HOME 
 
 The home is where the heart is, 
 
 And where no homes abound, 
 
 No heart is strong enough 
 
 To bridge the dismal void. 
 
 And the home, it speaks of childhood, 
 
 And the toylands of youth, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 313 
 
 And brings to mind again 
 The cradle songs of old, 
 When mother used to sit 
 Low crooning in the room, 
 Above her needlework. 
 And the home, it speaks of love, 
 And points us back again 
 To our departed friends, 
 And throws upon the screen 
 A host of memories 
 That time cannot efface. 
 But later on in life 
 The home speaks louder still. 
 And never fails to cheer 
 The heart of every man. 
 And here, around his hearth. 
 Made sacred unto him 
 By every tie that binds, 
 A mighty host he is 
 Of superhuman strength. 
 And should the clouds of war 
 Rise darkling o'er the way. 
 And mutterings be heard 
 From some relentless foe, 
 He'll need no clanging drum 
 To stir the blood within 
 His patriotic breast. 
 And so, it's not for him. 
 His count ry calls aloud 
 When danger seemeth near. 
 For in the darksome night. 
 While others slumber on, 
 He leaves his couch behind, 
 And hastens to the front, 
 And vows to save his ho-me, 
 Or die a noble death 
 
314 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Upon the field, of strife. 
 And here, we have the man, 
 The grandest man of all, 
 Though humble he may be, — 
 The man who loves his home. 
 
 POESY 
 
 And who art thou, affirming oft, 
 
 That poesy is dead? 
 These thoughts of grandeur, flung aloft, 
 
 Have these forever fled? 
 And does this sunset flash in vain 
 
 His radiant displays, 
 And all this gorgeous evening train 
 
 Belong to other days? 
 And is this statue but a stone 
 
 Dragged from its resting-place. 
 Devoid of every touch and tone, 
 
 Kegardless of its grace? 
 If so, then beauty must have flown 
 
 Beyond the reach of all, 
 And weeps in solitude, — alone, — 
 
 The sadness of her fall. 
 
 CAPITOL HILL STATUE 
 
 DENVER 
 
 Grim warrior, on thy pedestal, 
 
 What enemies of late. 
 Look longingly from distant lands, 
 
 A menace to our State! 
 
A Whistling Farmer 315 
 
 What secret chambers canst thou see, 
 
 Where plots are being laid 
 By those whose open friendliness 
 
 Is constantly displayed? 
 And guard thou well our endless seas 
 
 With vigils, day and night, 
 And keep thy sword and rifle clean, 
 
 And all thy cannon bright. 
 If aught should ever come to cause 
 
 Thy watchfulness alarm, 
 Our factories are ready now; 
 
 The plowman on his farm 
 Can leave to others all he has. 
 
 His ripened fields to mow, 
 And join the flag he loves so well, 
 
 To meet a common foe. 
 For everything that we possess 
 
 Has come to us through tears 
 And orphans made on battlefields 
 
 These some four hundred years. 
 And in defense of these we stand, 
 
 And every man a host, 
 One hundred million strong at least 
 
 We are, from coast to coast. 
 So keep thy trusty rifle still 
 
 Securely in thy hand. 
 Prepared, with might, to stand and fight 
 
 For this your native land! 
 
 COMPENSATION 
 
 What matter tide and time, 
 And anxious years a few, 
 If one has found in life 
 A noble friend or two ? 
 
3i6 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 MY DAELING JIM 
 
 There's a sadness felt 
 In the stifling air, 
 And the songster weeps 
 
 On his homing limb, 
 And the clouds lie dark 
 In the distance there. 
 And naught have I heard 
 
 From my darling Jim. 
 
 And green is the grass 
 In that distant land 
 Where the miles sweep on 
 
 O'er a vast expanse, 
 And the vales are sweet 
 And the hills are grand, 
 In the vineclad fields 
 
 Of that sunny France. 
 
 And the time was morn, 
 And the dawning light. 
 Like a gleam of hope, 
 
 In the foreground lay, 
 And the lines led off 
 To the left and right, 
 As the sun broke forth 
 
 On that fateful day. 
 
 For lo ! in the stillness 
 That hovered around, 
 An ominous shot 
 From a distance fell. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 317 
 
 And a host lay there 
 On the crimson ground, 
 All silent in death 
 
 From a bursting shell. 
 
 And the noon came by, 
 And the lines grew thin. 
 As the wavering fields 
 
 Were captured and lost. 
 And the contest rang 
 With a frightful din. 
 Like an angry wave 
 On the ocean tossed. 
 
 And the forts they took ! 
 And the forts they lost ! 
 In many a charge 
 
 Of the clanging steel, 
 And backward and forward 
 The armies were tossed, 
 Like a ball that's swept 
 
 O'er a struggling field. 
 
 And bold in the face 
 Of carnage and death, 
 One soldier, there was, — 
 
 And I thought of him, 
 And my heart stood still 
 And I held my breath. 
 So fearful I was 
 
 For my darling Jim. 
 
 And the day wore on. 
 And the evening came. 
 And the shot still fell 
 Like a storm of hail, 
 
3i8 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And watching, at last 
 My mind grew dumb, 
 At a harvest of death 
 Where none ever quail. 
 
 And the moon rose high 
 O'er that ghastly scene, 
 And a brightness flung 
 
 For many a mile, 
 And searching, she found 
 On the grasses green, 
 Full many a mother's 
 
 Darling child. 
 
 And they called each name, 
 And reckoned the spoil, 
 Of those who had veered 
 To the left and right, 
 Ere the army slept 
 From its frightful toil, 
 As well as it could 
 Through the passing night. 
 
 And many a comrade 
 Was called and passed, 
 As friends stood there 
 
 With a silent glance. 
 But their hopes all fled. 
 And their friends at last. 
 To the vineclad hills 
 Of that sunny France. 
 
 And the morning broke 
 O'er the fields once more. 
 And the dead lay heaped 
 In their trenches there, — 
 
A Whistling Farmer 319 
 
 And my darling Jim, 
 In a pool of gore, 
 From a gunshot wound 
 In his curly hair. 
 
 OUR OLD HOME 
 
 Sue, I'm looking o'er our farm again; 
 
 Where once we worked so hard, 
 O'er things that both of us enjoyed. 
 
 That's now forever barred. 
 In passing o'er the rising ground 
 
 Along the southern road, 
 I watched the billow of the fields 
 
 That I had often mowed. 
 And called to mind a host of things 
 
 And pleasures that have flown, 
 In meditation, as I walked 
 
 Along the road alone. 
 How time can wreck our fondest hopes, 
 
 And blind our eyes with tears! — 
 We find at last in looking back 
 
 Along the flight of years. 
 I passed the garden on my way. 
 
 And turning down the lane, 
 I thought I heard the boys at play 
 
 Beyond the hills again. 
 'They're playing ball," I said aloud, 
 
 So lovely was the day. 
 But when I spoke, all merriment 
 
 Was quickly swept away. 
 And still I waited long to hear, 
 
 Once more that joyful sound. 
 In listening attitude intent, 
 
 While gazing on the ground. 
 
320 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And waiting thus, it seemed to me, 
 
 So many things appeared, 
 To break upon my listening ears, 
 
 That I had often heard. 
 'Way off among the southern woods, 
 
 I heard the hooting owl, 
 And from the monarch of his flock 
 
 The clarion of the fowl; 
 And laughing children on their way 
 
 A-chatter down the road, 
 Just like our own that went to school. 
 
 So happily they strode; 
 And out among our maple trees. 
 
 The songster in his glee; 
 And dashing homeward from the fields. 
 
 The faithful little bee. 
 And to my senses, now alert. 
 
 Among the sounds of morn, 
 One sound there was I '11 ne 'er forget, — 
 
 The sound of planting corn. 
 Glad sounds for us in days gone by. 
 
 The rural world employs, 
 But these were not the sounds I sought,— 
 
 The playgrounds of the boys, 
 I walked out to the northern gate, 
 
 And looked the pasture o'er. 
 But nought was there to indicate 
 
 "What I had heard before. 
 I called aloud, but called in vain. 
 
 For there was no reply, 
 'Twas but an echo of the past 
 
 I heard, in passing by. 
 And north and south and east and west, 
 
 I rambled o'er the farm. 
 And oft I 'd stop to view some spot 
 
 That held a magic charm. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 321 
 
 And to each field I said farewell, 
 
 And stroked its furrowed brow, 
 And promised all I'd soon return. 
 
 Among the dust, I trow. 
 Our fields and lanes and lines of fence 
 
 The same resemblance bore, 
 But other things we left behind, — 
 
 I found they were no more. 
 The spring, where we had often drunk, 
 
 And bathed our fevered brow, 
 Was gone, like many of our friends, 
 
 I cannot tell you how. 
 As well the home, in which we lived. 
 
 That saw our children's birth. 
 Had long since gone, like other things, 
 
 To mingle with the earth. 
 And, too, our barn of sturdy oak, 
 
 A refuge from the storm, 
 And these I sought, but all I found 
 
 Was there in spirit form. 
 But in their place, two others stood. 
 
 As strongly built as they, 
 But oh ! the thoughts that filled my heart, 
 
 I falter here to say. 
 I walked up to the house and rapped, — 
 
 Loud rapping on the door, — 
 A lady came and bowed to me 
 
 I never saw before. 
 And when I took a seat inside 
 
 And cast my eyes around, 
 I noticed, with a sweeping glance. 
 
 The lady sternly fro^vned. 
 **I beg your pardon, lady friend; 
 
 I used to live out here, 
 And every tree and every shrub 
 
 Hold memories still dear. 
 
322 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 You see, misfortune came to us 
 
 And wrecked a lovely home, 
 And now, that we are growing old 
 
 And find ourselves alone, 
 The mind goes back to other years^ 
 
 That youth can never feel. 
 For softer grows the aging heart, 
 
 As fire softens steel." 
 
 DREAMS 
 
 There are all kinds of dreams 
 
 That we meet with in life, 
 And some that are dripping 
 
 Like the blood from a knife. 
 There's the dreamer of the night, 
 
 And the dreamer of the day. 
 And thousands who are dreaming 
 
 Their whole lives away. 
 And many of these dreams 
 
 Have never yet been told. 
 Those dreams where the wildest 
 
 Of our passions will unfold. 
 Enshrined, they are floating 
 
 Out yonder in the sky. 
 Some vision of a lover that 
 
 Will never, never die. 
 And manj^ of these dreamers 
 
 They revel with delight. 
 In telling of the dreams they 
 
 Were dreaming in the night. 
 And yet, I love the dreamer most 
 
 That's dreaming all the day, — 
 Who sees bej^ond the misty years 
 
 His little ones at play, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 323 
 
 And a-smiling in the eve, 
 
 And a-smiling in the morn, 
 The dreamer who is dreaming 
 
 Of the future yet unborn. 
 And a greeting for his neighbor, 
 
 As he drives along the lane. 
 For the sowing and the reaping 
 
 And the harvest of the grain. 
 And a cottage in the valley. 
 
 And the lowing of the kine, 
 And the bees a-toting honey 
 
 From the blossom of the vine. 
 And the money's in the bank, 
 
 And the fodder's in the barn, 
 And a helper who is handy 
 
 With her needle and her yarn. 
 There's a pleasure in this dream, 
 
 And it has a lasting charm, 
 Overflowing, like the measure 
 
 That is found upon the farm. 
 So the sweetest dream of all : 
 
 For it drives away the gloam, — 
 Is the dreaming of the family, — 
 
 And the dreaming of the home. 
 
 THE ONE TO CHOOSE 
 
 With men of strength and character, 
 
 And morals in their place, 
 It's not a case of rarity. 
 
 To build a noble race. 
 For men are most, and most of all. 
 
 The stamina of life. 
 Supreme, within this sacred call, 
 
 Much more than any wife. 
 
324 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Then look to him, ye maidens fair, 
 
 And choose him as above, 
 And let not some deceiver share 
 
 The bounties of your love ; 
 For, know you not, the male is still 
 
 The most important part? 
 And only one of stren^h can fill 
 
 The gladness of your heart. 
 
 THE BIRD 
 
 Who sings to me 
 When I'm alone? 
 
 The little bird. 
 Far sweeter seem 
 Its mellow tones 
 
 Than aught I've heard. 
 
 As when I oft 
 My rambles take. 
 
 The birds are near. 
 And hail me gladly 
 Down the brake, 
 
 From year to year. 
 
 Fond memories 
 I have, so dear, 
 
 When yet a boy; 
 And then I often 
 Lingered near, 
 
 With childish joy. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 325 
 
 For oft it was, 
 
 Some grand old hymn 
 
 Escaped their throat, 
 And heaved the breast 
 And quaked the limb, 
 
 To shade the note. 
 
 And yet they labor 
 With their song, 
 
 As all may see, — 
 With hopes and fears 
 The whole day long, 
 
 The same as we. 
 
 The coldest blast 
 That sweeps the plain, 
 
 They dare to meet. 
 And scorn the tempest 
 Loud amain, 
 
 With barren feet. 
 
 The Lord, no doubt. 
 Hath sent the bird 
 A mother's love. 
 He whispered, and 
 She doubtless heard 
 His voice above. 
 
 Reposing all 
 
 Her trust in Him, 
 
 He keeps her warm. 
 While yet her chamber's 
 But a limb 
 
 Amid the storm. 
 
326 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And in the spring 
 She mounts the stage, 
 
 To find a home 
 Among the deepest 
 Foliage 
 
 That forms a dome. 
 
 For well she knows 
 That shortly death 
 
 Will hush her song, 
 And stay her heart, 
 And still her breath 
 
 In silence long. 
 
 And so she builds 
 Herself a nest. 
 
 And hums her lay, 
 And all the world 
 Has doubtless guessed 
 
 What she must say. 
 
 **The Lord hath given 
 Unto me 
 
 The seeds of life, 
 Behold the harvest 
 That's to be 
 
 Awaits the knife.*' 
 
 I saw her mate, 
 Athwart the sky, 
 
 In swift pursuit 
 And turned my head 
 In passing by. 
 
 In silence mute. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 327 
 
 They found a place 
 Beyond the hill 
 
 To build their nest, 
 Above some gently 
 Flowing rill — 
 
 You know the rest. 
 
 YouVe seen the eggs 
 That she has laid, 
 
 And heard the cry 
 Of little fledgelings 
 In the shade, — 
 
 And so have I. 
 
 It's done, — the great 
 Transaction's done! 
 
 Earth gives applause 
 From age to age. 
 And sun to sun. 
 
 Unto these laws. 
 
 MY FRIEND 
 
 For every patient soul 
 Who calmly bides his time, 
 All seasons have their June, 
 When brilliant flowers bloom 
 Among the wintry blast; 
 And greening fields protrude 
 Themselves before his sight. 
 And pleasant songs come back 
 From long departed birds. 
 
328 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And for eacli passing cloud, 
 Portentous with despair, 
 He has a winsome smile 
 That drives the gloom away. 
 And leaves an impress deep 
 On every human heart. 
 And while some passing storm 
 Makes dreary all the day, 
 And wailing winds moan round 
 His solitary home, 
 Attuned to other times. 
 His vision leaps the bounds 
 That lay around his feet, 
 And soaring high above 
 The worries of the world. 
 He sees the gentle spring 
 Peep o'er the distant hills. 
 And hears the bleating lamb 
 Upon the meadows near. 
 
 And oft I've heard it said: 
 **For him there is no night, 
 When shadows overcast 
 The gladsome hearts of men, 
 And leave them stranded there 
 "Without a gleam of hope. 
 And for the frowns of earth 
 That bar so oft the way 
 To pleasures strewn around, 
 He seemed to have a host 
 Of pleasant company 
 That ever spoke aloud 
 Of better times to come. 
 
 And while he moved along 
 Upon the tide of time, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 329 
 
 One thought possessed him much, 
 
 And this I've heard him oft 
 
 Repeating o'er and o'er, 
 
 As though he would impress 
 
 Upon the minds of all 
 
 The values that exist 
 
 In every passing hour. 
 *'It's the rising and the setting 
 
 Of the sun," he'd say, 
 *'And twinkling star. 
 
 And changing moon, 
 
 Until the reaper comes. 
 
 And bids us, — every one, — 
 
 Return unto the dust." 
 
 And this was years ago. 
 When childhood was no more. 
 And we had drawn apart, 
 Each one upon his way, — 
 And he, to write his books, 
 And I, to delve away. 
 My life upon the farm. 
 And while we stood upon 
 The parting of the way. 
 He gently bent him down 
 And whispered in my ear, 
 And told me of the plans 
 And labors of his life. 
 
 And from that very day 
 Ambition wrought in him 
 A deep and lasting change, 
 That gripped his very soul. 
 And chained him, like a slave, 
 To one eternal task. 
 
330 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And soon lie left his home, 
 And sought for quietude 
 Among the distant hills, 
 And here he reared alone 
 This cabin in the wood, 
 And gave his manhood strong, 
 And all the passing years, 
 To gratify a bent 
 That Nature plants within 
 The breast of every man. 
 Triumphant o'er the ways 
 And worries of the world, 
 He bent him to his task 
 Along the lines he loved, 
 And seemed to find in this 
 That tranquil happiness 
 That riches cannot give. 
 
 And all aglow with life, 
 
 I've seen him sally forth 
 
 In quest of some retreat. 
 
 Among the riven rocks 
 
 That piled themselves around 
 
 His lonely cabin home 
 
 And peopling the drear wastes 
 
 And silent pinnacles 
 
 With many a trenchant thought, 
 
 He flung the years away, 
 
 As many another might 
 
 The clods beneath the feet. 
 
 And, rich in fancy's wealth, 
 
 He'd paint some glowing scene 
 
 That rose before his sight. 
 
 And call to being there 
 
 The verdure of the fields, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 331 
 
 And make the flowers bloom 
 In gorgeous groups around, 
 And tune the songless birds 
 With endless melody. 
 
 But, hark ! The postman calls 
 Upon his whistle near, — 
 A long, and plaintive call, 
 That seems to indicate 
 Bereavement in my mail. . . . 
 And so my friend is gone ! 
 He sleeps the sleep of death 
 Beneath his favorite oak 
 That shades the rustic seat 
 Whereon, so long he sat, 
 When age had pilfered all 
 The vitals of his youth, 
 And left him there alone 
 To struggle with the world. 
 And since he is no more, 
 I shall redeem the pledge 
 That bosom friends exact 
 Of those remaining still ; 
 And o'er his humble grave 
 I'll place a fitting shaft, 
 To mark the resting-place 
 Of him who was my friend. 
 And these shall be the lines 
 In memory of him. 
 To show the worthy man 
 Who occupies this tomb. 
 And let the lines you find 
 In stanza number one 
 Be chiseled deep and wide. 
 That time may not efface 
 The simple tribute paid. 
 
332 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And while he sleeps his sleep, 
 Beneath the tree he loved, 
 In branches, high above, 
 The birds may sing for him 
 A requiem of peace. 
 
 THE AGED TRAVELER 
 
 Aged traveler on life's journey. 
 
 Ere the shades of evening fall. 
 Bring your chair and sit beside me, 
 
 'Neath the spreading lindens tall. 
 What of youth, with all its promise, 
 
 What of manhood, strong and bold. 
 What of age that creeps upon us, — 
 
 What do all of these unfold? 
 
 Time will tell you, — doubtless tell you, — 
 Time will tell you all of this. 
 
 Hast thou seen some glimpse of promise 
 
 In the scriptures, thou hast read. 
 Has this hope of life eternal 
 
 'Neath thy gladsome vision spread? 
 In thy heart an overflowing, 
 
 On thy face a saintly glee, — 
 Some sweet radiance of beauty 
 
 That the righteous only see. 
 
 Time will tell you, — surely tell you, — 
 Time will tell you everything. 
 
 What of all these ripened harvests 
 That are garnered in the sheaf. 
 
 And the oaken tree that slumbers 
 In the forest with its leaf; 
 
A Whistling Farmer 333 
 
 What of all that's sifting downward, — 
 Downward, downward, from the skies, 
 
 Nothing, nothing, nothing upward? — 
 Nothing's ever seen to rise. 
 
 Aye, the spirit, who hath seen it, 
 
 Yet, it liveth in our souls. 
 
 And its precious admonition 
 
 All around us still is rife, 
 
 This will tell you, — sweetly tell you 
 
 All the mysteries of life. 
 
 THE ROSE 
 
 There is a voice in things, outspoken 
 
 In a way, and once I chanced to hear 
 
 The language of a flower: 
 
 **And I am but the rose," a tiny voice 
 
 Proclaimed beside my garden wall, 
 
 "And I am but the rose, and yet I symbol 
 
 More than tongue can ever tell: 
 
 Arrayed in gorgeous hues of green 
 
 And purple cast, my buds my babies are; 
 
 And bloom, my daughters fair; and in my stem 
 
 Is seen the sturdy strength of man. 
 
 And such is my command, the grave and gay 
 
 Alike fill all the paths of earth that lead 
 
 To my abode. 
 
 And some with gladness come 
 
 And press me to their hearts, and smiling 
 
 Go their way. 
 
 And others, crushed with grief. 
 
 Around me linger long, and speak 
 
 In whispers 
 
334 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Low of some departed friend. 
 
 And so I represent the whole of life and death, 
 
 And these, I gather all within my glad embrace, 
 
 And standing thus between the altar and the tomb. 
 
 For every youthful soul I ring the years 
 
 Around with endless merriment, 
 
 And unto those who come with feeble steps and slow 
 
 I point them to the hopes and 
 
 Changeless promises the Lord hath written down 
 
 Within his sacred book. 
 
 SALINDA HANLON'S SONG 
 
 There 's a beautiful spring 
 Near my grandfather's barn, 
 
 'Neath a wide-spreading oak in the shade. 
 And a glimpse of his cot 
 Overlooking the tarn. 
 
 Where we all bowed our heads when he prayed. 
 
 Like some picture of home 
 As it hangs on the wall, 
 
 How the mind wanders down through the years 
 To the marge of that forest 
 So graceful and tall. 
 
 Demanding its tribute of tears ! 
 
 And it floods all my room 
 As I kneel by my bed ; 
 
 And it seems I am back there to-night. 
 In the chamber of death 
 I am bowing my head. 
 
 By the flare of a dim candle light. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 335 
 
 And I see our old church 
 That we built on the hill, 
 
 And our schoolhouse, a mile down the road ; 
 And dim in the distance, 
 The smoke of the mill, 
 
 And a glimpse of the streamlet that flowed. 
 
 And all of our family, 
 Surrounding the hearth. 
 
 And the table, that's spread for the meal, 
 Awaiting* with jollity, 
 Music and mirth, 
 
 The toilers, that come from the field. 
 
 OLD LIGE REAMS 
 
 My friend and I went out to walk 
 
 Along the village street. 
 And chat with old acquaintances 
 
 That one will often meet. 
 
 The day was soft and beautiful, 
 
 And as we strode along, 
 Way down around the corner far, 
 
 We heard a bawdy song. 
 
 And soon we passed the chapel by. 
 
 With bolted doors, a-near, 
 Locked up, they said, for want of funds,- 
 
 Which mostly went for beer. 
 
 And next we found along the way, 
 
 The ruins of the rink, 
 That made a deal of money once. 
 
 Which now is spent for drink. 
 
336 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 As well the tavern, that had been 
 
 A beauty in its day, 
 But long ago, the house was sold. 
 
 Because it didn't pay. 
 
 And business blocks that once had seen 
 
 The surging of the crowd. 
 So packed they were in other times, 
 
 The salesmen never bowed; 
 
 A refuge now, — the most of them, — 
 And all their windows broke. 
 
 Where idle loafers congregate 
 To spin their yarns and smoke. 
 
 And many places bore this sign, 
 Suspended from a nail: 
 ''My wife got sick. We're leaving town; 
 This property's for sale." 
 
 And so we sauntered on our way, 
 
 Until at last we'd come 
 To Reams 's place, around the block, 
 
 That sells the people rum. 
 
 And in we went, — my friend and I, — 
 
 To look the topers o'er. 
 And here we found a slaughter house. 
 
 That slaughters many poor. 
 
 And, my ! the air we found in there, 
 It almost took our breath, 
 ''That's him," said I; "that's old Lige Reams 
 That's drunk himself to death." 
 
A Whistling Farmer 337 
 
 And once he owned a vast estate, 
 
 Extending far and wide, 
 More beautiful than aught IVe seen 
 
 In all the countryside. 
 
 And rich he was, and then his home 
 
 Bore every modern art, 
 But after dissipating long, 
 
 He broke his people's heart. 
 
 From speculation, years ago, 
 
 He turned to drinking wine, 
 And this at last, his friends declare. 
 
 Has robbed him of his mind. 
 
 Of all the horrid things in life 
 
 That I have ever found. 
 The farmer is who tries to farm 
 
 And run a joint in town. 
 
 And such a story, that he tells, 
 
 About his passing wealth. 
 And this has helped, beyond a doubt, 
 
 To undermine his health. 
 
 IVe heard him tell it o'er and o'er, 
 
 When on his way from town, 
 All smeared with mud, beside the road, 
 
 "Where he was often found. 
 
 And now, perhaps, as soon as he 
 
 Has drained that glass of gin. 
 He'll try his best to hold this crowd. 
 
 And tell it o'er again. 
 
338 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 See that ! By heck ! before lie starts 
 
 He always takes a chew, 
 And then, maybe, he'll pass the plug 
 
 Around to me and you. 
 
 (( 
 
 Hey there, you blatant blatherskites! — 
 
 Go seat yourselves apart, 
 And let me tell these friends of mine 
 
 'Bout Darby and my cart." 
 
 That's it all right. He's off again, 
 
 I've heard it now for years, 
 And sometimes ere he's through with it, 
 
 His face is bathed in tears. 
 
 Let's take a seat and stop awhile, 
 
 And hear the story through; 
 I've known him since a little child. 
 
 And know the story's true. 
 
 And since he's settled in his chair. 
 And down his glass he's put. 
 
 He throws one leg across his knee 
 And trots his clumsy foot. 
 
 And now he straightens up a bit, 
 
 And frowns upon the din. 
 And quiet sweeps the room around, 
 
 As Lige is off again. 
 
 'Long years ago, I owned a colt, — 
 
 When yet a little boy, — 
 That gave to me, for care and feed, 
 
 A world of youthful joy. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 339 
 
 *'And this, my lords, was highly bred, 
 From pure Kentucky whip. 
 And Blue Grass, sirs, was all the grass 
 I ever saw him nip. 
 
 *'And father said he wanted me 
 To look ahead and plan. 
 So when the colt became a horse, 
 I, too, would be a man. 
 
 *'And all the plans he ever laid 
 "Were realized so soon ! 
 For I moved out to Iowa 
 Along the River Coon. 
 
 "And in the wagon that I drove, 
 I brought the finest girl 
 The Lord e 'er made, — I 'm sure of that, 
 Since first he formed the worl'. 
 
 ''And here it was we drove our stakes. 
 And built ourselves a home. 
 And so delighted were we both. 
 We vowed we'd never roam. 
 
 "The lands were new and beautiful, 
 And spread so far away, 
 The eye swept at a single leap 
 A thousand tons of hay. 
 
 "And here we broke the sodden lands, 
 Without a modern gang, 
 And while our oxen drew the plow. 
 We rode behind and sang. 
 
340 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 ''And then we broadly cast the seed, 
 Among the furrows deep, 
 And when the golden harvest came. 
 The reapers came to reap. 
 
 ''And still our range was limitless 
 For cattle o 'er the plains. 
 And fast we gathered through the years 
 A hoard of golden gains. 
 
 "And lands Were cheap, and neighbors few, 
 And these so far away. 
 In driving out to make our calls, 
 We often rode all day, 
 
 "And here I'd buy a piece of lamd. 
 And there another one. 
 Until, in time, it seemed to me. 
 They reached from sun to sun. 
 
 "And oft, so occupied, I was, 
 I'd scarcely change a stitch, 
 And then the news went floating out, — 
 ' Old Lige is getting rich. ' 
 
 "And while the years went gliding by 
 As pleasant as the May, 
 Around our cottage came at last 
 Some little ones to play. 
 
 "And, oh, those early pleasant times! 
 So oft they come again, 
 And whisper, whisper in my ears 
 Of things that might have been. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 341 
 
 **And then it was, the war broke out, 
 Between the North and South, 
 And horrid tales of carnage leaped 
 From every human mouth. 
 
 ''And prices rose and rose again. 
 And still they went on higher ; 
 And so you see, in spite of me, 
 They set my mind afire. 
 
 "And speculation grew so rife, 
 Ere long, I joined its ranks. 
 And presently I found myself 
 Tied up in sev'ral banks. 
 
 ' ' Of corn and cotton, — blast the rot ! 
 I mortgaged all I had, 
 And when our banks all failed at once, 
 I went completely mad. 
 
 "That day, my friends, I ceased to live, 
 Since then I eat my bread ; 
 But all the country round about 
 Will tell you that I'm dead. 
 
 "And so I am, so far as life 
 And pleasures ever note, 
 For I am but a bunch of trash. 
 Upon the stream afloat. 
 
 "And here it was that I commenced 
 My wanderings alone, 
 For all the lands that I possessed 
 Had now forever flown. 
 
342 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 ''And long, in some secluded spot, 
 I'd sit, with folded arms, 
 Or ramble on, and farther on, 
 Among my many farms. 
 
 ''And now, all kinds of trouble came, 
 I never saw before. 
 And soon the news came flying back : 
 'Old Lige is getting poor.' 
 
 "And long I pondered suicide 
 When I'd go out to walk; 
 But every time I'd raise my knife 
 My hand would always balk. 
 
 "And then I sold my chattels off, 
 And everything I found. 
 And what few dollars I had left 
 I hid them in the ground. 
 
 "And while I weaker grew each day, 
 From worry and distress, 
 I found a monster worse than this, — 
 That demon, drunkenness! 
 
 "For now, one day, I went to town, 
 And bought a keg of wine. 
 Unlike the one the Savior made 
 In Galilee so fine. 
 
 "And then I bought another keg, 
 And soon I bought some more, — 
 And such a pile of empty kegs, 
 I never had before, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 343 
 
 "Between two evils now I stood, 
 And both had swiftly come : 
 The one, it offered suicide. 
 The other proffered mm. 
 
 ' ' And death stood there and swung his scythe, 
 Keen cutting as a knife, 
 And rum held out, with trembling hand, 
 A bottle for my life. 
 
 "And there I stood in wonderment. 
 Between this double hell, 
 And then I fought with suicide. 
 Before I, wounded, fell. 
 
 "And still I made a blunder here. 
 That's filled me with regret, — 
 In choosing drink, instead of death, — 
 That I shall ne'er forget. 
 
 "But I was younger then, by far, 
 Than what I am to-day, 
 And so the wine that's beautiful, — 
 It led my feet astray. 
 
 "And all is lost, and ever yet, 
 I worship still my farm. 
 And while it lies in other hands, 
 It holds for me a charm, 
 
 "No other home, in all the world. 
 Can ever hold for me, — 
 Regardless of its ornaments. 
 Whatever they may be. 
 
344 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 **But now, among these ruins thick, 
 That all around me fell, 
 One thing I had, I made a vow, 
 That I would never sell. 
 
 *'And so I kept my father's horse, — 
 Old Darby was his name, — 
 For somehow, yet, it seemed to me, 
 He'd help to hide my shame. 
 
 ^'For, while affection for the home 
 May spread her wings and fly. 
 This love goes out to something else ; 
 For love can never die. 
 
 ''This may be Greek to younger ones, 
 But older ones, of course. 
 Have often seen the driver fall 
 Below his driving horse. 
 
 ''And so it was with me and mine, 
 I'd often make him speed. 
 To raise my self a notch or two. 
 In showing off my steed. 
 
 "And round the country much we went. 
 To distant parts alone. 
 For trouble seeks to hide herself, 
 Where she is little known. 
 
 "And then one day I hitched him up. 
 To drive him down to town, 
 And as we jogged along the road, 
 Now what, think you, we found ? 
 
A Whistling Farmer 345 
 
 A swarm of bees; and soon they lit 
 
 All o'er my horse's back, 
 And then I struck him such a blow, 
 
 And gave him such a crack, 
 
 The cart he kicked, and off he went, 
 
 And left me in the road, — 
 And then the bees all lit on me 
 
 As helpless as a toad. 
 
 Yes, on he went, and went to town, 
 
 And reaching it by noon. 
 He stopped to snort and blow a while, 
 
 In front of my saloon. 
 
 'And some one turned the horse around. 
 
 And here he comes again, 
 And, Lord! I thought of everything 
 
 That constitutes a sin. 
 
 ' But when he reached the bees and me, 
 
 He kinder geed! and hawed! 
 And then he came straight up to us. 
 
 And there he stood and pawed; 
 
 'And every time the horse would paw. 
 
 The bees would sting me more, 
 And 'Gosh!' said I, 'I guess these two 
 
 Are bound to get me, sure.' 
 
 'Meanwhile, I reasoned with him long, 
 
 While laying like a chunk; 
 But still he shook his head and pawed, — 
 
 Convinced that I was drunk. 
 
346 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 "He'd got me out of scrapes before, 
 But, Mister, if you please, 
 I shuddered when I saw my horse 
 A-working with the bees, 
 
 ' ' But close at hand some branches hung, — 
 A cluster, with their green, — 
 And presently the bees left me, 
 In following the queen, 
 
 ' * And, say, I loved that dear old horse, 
 "We'd been on many a spree, 
 And often, ere I'd reach the ditch, 
 I'd tie him to a tree, 
 
 "And there he'd stand, and wait and wait, 
 And presently he'd neigh, 
 Then I'd wake up and bluster around, 
 To find my horse some hay, 
 
 "And when he'd eaten all of this. 
 And I had drained my wines, 
 He'd rub his nose against my face. 
 And motion toward the lines. 
 
 "And on we'd go, along the road. 
 My Darby horse and me. 
 So deeply in the darksome night, 
 That neither one could see. 
 
 "But when we'd come in sight of home. 
 We'd always find a light, 
 Placed there for us by loving hands, — 
 A beacon in the night. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 347 
 
 ''And, regardless of my drunkenness, 
 
 Or how, or when I came. 
 This angel of another world 
 
 Was always just the same. 
 
 * * Through heat and cold, and raging storms, 
 No matter still how late, 
 This wife that was so kind and true 
 Would meet me at the gate. 
 
 "And when we'd found our way inside, 
 I'd stumble o'er the chairs, 
 And then, with endless kindness still, 
 She'd help me up the stairs. 
 
 **And often now she'd hide her face 
 Behind a flood of tears. 
 And then I'd promise o'er and o'er, — 
 As I had done for years. 
 
 ''And so the seasons came and went. 
 But I kept on pursuin' 
 The path that leaves us all at last 
 Upon the brink of ruin. 
 
 "And then my horse got old, you know, 
 He'd stumble along the way. 
 Just like we do, as age comes on, 
 With feebleness, and gray. 
 
 "And now old Darby's dead and gone. 
 And left me here alone. 
 And so's my wife, my children, too, — 
 And all my friends have flown. 
 
348 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 ''And then, afoot, to town I'd go. 
 As when the roads were fine. 
 And sometimes I'd be gone for days. 
 To buy a flask of wine. 
 
 ''And once, when I was musing o'er 
 My troubles and remorse, 
 It seemed to me that something said, 
 'Why not a hobby horse?' 
 
 < ( 
 
 And this I made, the best I could. 
 From boards, and broken post, 
 
 And when I had him all complete, 
 Ye gods! and what a ghost! 
 
 "And then it was I hitched him up. 
 And placed the cart behind, 
 And there I'd sit and ride all day, 
 To pacify my mind. 
 
 "And when the clouds grew dark and low, 
 And rains came pouring down, 
 I'd hail some farmer on the road. 
 And ask the way to town. 
 
 "And then my horse, I'd threaten him 
 With my old cowhide whip, 
 And when I found him slowing down, 
 I'd let profanity slip. 
 
 "And there I'd sit and ride all day. 
 Amid the raging blast, 
 In calling up the years that's gone. 
 And dreaming o'er the past, — 
 
A Whistling Farmer 349 
 
 'And of my horse, and friends and farm, 
 
 And of my children kind, 
 And graves would loom among the gloom. 
 
 And then, again, the wine. 
 
 'And here I'd jostle my cart again, 
 
 And rattle the wheels behind. 
 A-cantering down to Jolica town, 
 To buy a flask of wine. 
 
 'And then, one day, I lost my way. 
 And wandered round and round, 
 But pleased I was. because I thought 
 That I was nearing town, 
 
 'And friends of mine, they saw my plight. 
 
 And came and took me in, 
 And, oh, so pleasant burned the hearth ! 
 
 It seemed like home again. 
 
 'And stiU, the tevening dragged along. 
 
 The clock was striking ten. 
 And here I bowed and bowed me out. 
 And said I'd caU again. 
 
 "And straightway now I sought my cart, 
 And left the miles behind. 
 A-cantering down to Jolica town 
 To buy a flask of wine, 
 
 ' 'To buy a flask of wine,' I'd sing, — 
 ' To buy a flask of wine ! 
 A-cantering down to Jolica town 
 To buy a flask of wine I ' 
 
350 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 *'And then my shack, I'd often seek, — 
 My shack, so cold and still, — 
 And there I've prayed, and prayed aloud. 
 For rest upon the hill. 
 
 *^And some time, when the snows pile high 
 Around the lonesome tree. 
 Where I have lain and froze to death, 
 As stiff as one can be, 
 
 ''Some passerby along the way, — 
 Or skaters on the streams, — 
 May point me out, and smiling say : 
 'The end of old Lige Reams!' " 
 
 THE CIVIL ENGINEER 
 
 To all who ask of me, 
 
 I have but one reply, 
 
 For mine is a life of toil. 
 
 And here, among these fields 
 
 Of endless magnitude, 
 
 Year after year, I still pursue 
 
 These changeless mysteries. 
 
 For, mark you well, I have to do 
 
 With the upbuilding of the world. 
 
 And where these mountains pile 
 
 Their hoary peaks around. 
 
 With endless patience still 
 
 I cut the ways along. 
 
 That streams may onward flow 
 
 And trains pass through to other lands. 
 
 And where these bogs abound, 
 
 And vapors hide from view 
 
A Whistling Farmer 351 
 
 The dismal waters wide, 
 Along some grand canal, 
 I drive my grading-stake, 
 And, lo ! another vast domain 
 Awaits the pioneer. 
 And while I onward go 
 Adown the passing years, — 
 Equipped with every phase 
 Of scientific truth 
 That mighty minds have dug 
 From out the rubbish round, — 
 I lay my plans so well 
 That few have e'er escaped 
 My ultimate desire. 
 In proof of this, go East, 
 And ever eastward far. 
 Until you meet again 
 The rising of the sun; 
 Or move along the lines 
 Of travel to the West, 
 "Where, in majestic sweep, 
 The star of empire takes 
 Her everlasting way. 
 And you will find me there. 
 Outwailing yet aloud, 
 From all the lapse of time, 
 I speak a varied language still 
 From aqueduct and bridge 
 And many a moldering heap, 
 That history's long forgot. 
 And yet, amid all this, 
 I ever labor on, 
 That all the world may say: 
 *' Where yesterday the howling wolf 
 Awoke the dismal echoes of the night, 
 To-day a brilliant city stands. ' ' 
 
352 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Yes, mine's a life of toil. 
 
 For oft, while others slumber on, 
 
 In thought, I'm stealing down 
 
 The dim highways of the past, 
 
 And here and there I drag to light 
 
 The rude skeleton 
 
 Of some forgotten age. 
 
 For mine has ever been 
 
 A complexity of problems, 
 
 And ever must remain 
 
 A never-ending string 
 
 Of varied complications. 
 
 And yet, among them all, 
 
 I find some pleasure still 
 
 In every passing hour. 
 
 For oft, — when night comes down 
 
 And lays her baleful hand 
 
 Upon the light of day, 
 
 And silence grips again 
 
 The busy marts of trade, — 
 
 The midnight hour comes 
 
 And sounds aloud her gong 
 
 Ere yet, I am aware. 
 
 Nor do I often hear 
 
 The rattling of the car 
 
 Upon the stony street, 
 
 That sends a tremor through 
 
 The room in which I sit. 
 
 But let the past go by. 
 
 With all its vagueness swept 
 
 Beyond the grasp of man. 
 
 To meet the problems here 
 
 Confronting us to-day; 
 
 And try to penetrate 
 
 Those hidden mysteries, 
 
 The future must unfold, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 353 
 
 Aye, that's the engineer 
 
 The world is l(X)king for! 
 
 And so I find myself 
 
 Repeating o'er and o'er, 
 
 To all inquiring minds : 
 ''Mine is a life of toil." 
 
 And buoyed up by this, 
 
 And my perseverance here, 
 
 I've shaken this staid old world 
 
 As a child does her rattle-box. 
 
 For bear you this in mind, 
 
 That I am the factor still, 
 
 And I'm the influence. 
 
 And I'm the guide-post 
 
 On all of the highways 
 
 And byways of the earth; 
 
 And always, here I stand 
 
 And cry me out aloud 
 
 To every passerby: 
 ''Turn to the right, my friend. 
 
 For this is the better way." 
 
 And in these problems wrought, 
 
 I've found a happy life; 
 
 Forever still I live, 
 
 As the thought of my soul lives, 
 
 And I warp as it warps. 
 
 While I gravitate to the brink 
 
 Of an ultimate perfection, 
 
 Like the fabric that flows 
 
 From Time's unchanging loom. 
 
354 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 A TRAGEDY OF HUDSON BAY 
 
 One eve of late, 
 Before my grate, 
 
 To pass the time away, 
 I heard again 
 What long has been 
 
 The theme of Hudson Bay. 
 
 'Twas winter time, 
 When sleigh-bells chime 
 
 Delightfully and grand, 
 And snows lie deep. 
 And wild storms sweep 
 
 Across that northern land. 
 
 And far away 
 In Canada, 
 
 Where travelers are lost. 
 And great strong ships, 
 Beyond their slips, 
 
 Upon tlie rocks are tossed. 
 
 In days of yore. 
 Long, long before 
 
 The immigrant had come 
 To plan, and work. 
 And build the kirk, 
 
 And make the factories hum,- 
 
A Whistling Farmer 355 
 
 A vent'rous man 
 Conceived a plan, 
 
 Northwest his course to lay; 
 And, with his train, 
 He crossed the plain 
 
 In search of Hudson Bay. 
 
 And where they found 
 The richest ground. 
 
 They took, each one, a claim, 
 And on the silt, 
 A village built, 
 
 And gave to this a name, — 
 
 But miles away 
 From Hudson Bay, 
 
 Upon the prairies vast. 
 And here they wrought 
 With pleasure fraught, 
 
 Until their lives were past: 
 
 Out where the air 
 And dash and dare 
 
 Of such a life as this 
 "Will tinge and flood 
 With crimson blood 
 
 The cheeks of every miss. 
 
 And where the soul 
 Grows strong and bold. 
 
 With never once a fear ; 
 And where each mile's 
 An endless wild, 
 
 Along that vast frontier. 
 
356 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And where the youth 
 Must prove the truth 
 
 Of every prowess claimed, 
 Or lose the hand, 
 For which he 's planned, 
 
 And be forever shamed. 
 
 For maidens fair 
 Were plenty there. 
 
 Around the countryside. 
 And bright and gay, — 
 I dare to say, — 
 
 And fit for any bride. 
 
 And one fair maid, 
 "While thus arrayed. 
 
 Caused bitter rivalry, 
 Which grew and grew, 
 As things will do, 
 
 As every one may see. 
 
 May Manton tall 
 Was known by all; 
 
 With flashing eyes of blue. 
 As well no art 
 Could change her heart, 
 
 That beat forever true. 
 
 And there was yet, — 
 Ere I forget, — 
 
 Another in the land, 
 And he had sought. 
 And flowers brought, 
 
 To gain the lady's hand. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 357 
 
 And o'er and o'er, 
 Within her door, 
 
 He'd called to hear her sing; 
 And then one day 
 He stole away. 
 
 And bought a signet ring. 
 
 And others learned 
 That love still burned 
 
 A flame in Willie's heart, 
 And long they strove 
 To wreck his love 
 
 And drive the two apart. 
 
 But hate and scorn, 
 Alone were born, 
 
 For those who interfered; 
 And clans arose 
 And came to blows, 
 
 As older ones had feared. 
 
 And thus at last 
 The autumn passed. 
 
 And nights grew long and cold, 
 And more, each man, 
 Who joined the clan. 
 
 Grew desperately bold. 
 
 Then May and Will, 
 With cunning skill, 
 
 They planned to steal away, 
 To reach the post, 
 Along the coast, — 
 
 The post of Hudson Bay. 
 
35^ A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And so one night, — 
 One Christmas night, 
 
 When storms blew loud amain, 
 May Manton now. 
 And Willie Dow, 
 
 Essayed to cross the plain. 
 
 Though weary miles 
 And frightful tri'ls. 
 
 They knew before them lay, 
 In such a flight, 
 That stormy night, 
 
 In northern Canada. 
 
 But they were bold. 
 And friends they'd told 
 
 To mention this no more. 
 But, oh! the storm, — 
 The awful storm, — 
 
 That howled around their door! 
 
 But they were young 
 And highly strung. 
 
 And boldly faced the gale, 
 And dared the storm 
 That hid each form 
 
 Along the trappers' trail. 
 
 And vowing love. 
 They rose above 
 
 The elements around, — 
 The while their steeds, 
 Of racing breeds. 
 
 Sprang forward with a bound. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 359 
 
 They disappeared, 
 With hut a word 
 
 Of farewell to their friends, 
 Who saw ahead 
 A scene of dread, 
 A frightful mission lends. 
 
 But scarce they'd gone 
 Their way upon. 
 
 When others hove in sight, — 
 While curses fell, 
 And clanging bell 
 
 Made hideous the night. 
 
 For now this clan 
 Had laid a plan 
 
 To steal the maiden fair 
 And claim her hand, 
 As they had planned. 
 
 Her vast estates to share. 
 
 So down the trail 
 Amid the gale, 
 
 Two sleighs went dashing by, 
 While louder grew 
 The storm that blew, — 
 
 And darker hung the sky. 
 
 And with this blast 
 Increasing fast 
 
 The darkness of the night, 
 And not a rift 
 Above the drift 
 
 To guide the lovers ' flight. 
 
360 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 With whip at play, 
 They held their way 
 
 From intervening harm, 
 TiU oft, I wot. 
 Some random shot 
 
 Aroused them with alarm. 
 
 For close behind, 
 Through break and pine 
 
 And gently sloping hill, 
 This outlaw band 
 That cursed the land 
 
 Drew near, and nearer still. 
 
 And once they gained. 
 And near maintained 
 
 The leading sleigh beside. 
 And, with a shout. 
 Two men sprang out. 
 
 But missed the lovers wide. 
 
 And while their teams 
 And oaths and screams 
 
 Lent horror to the night, 
 Yet May and Will 
 Escaped them, still 
 
 Triumphant in their flight. 
 
 The night wore on, 
 But ere the dawn 
 
 Of that eventful day 
 They passed the post 
 Along the coast, — 
 
 The post of Hudson Bay. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 361 
 
 For while the storm 
 Hid every form, 
 
 Amid the darksome night, 
 And howling wolf 
 And flying hoof 
 
 Pursued them in their flight, — 
 
 Out, o'er a field. 
 That lay concealed, 
 
 They madly held their way, 
 Out o'er the ice, — 
 The rotten ice, — 
 
 The ice of Hudson Bay. 
 
 And years have flown 
 Since this was known, 
 
 And many Christmas days, 
 But not a word 
 Was ever heard 
 
 From either of the sleighs. 
 
 And yet, they say, 
 That stormy bay 
 
 Preserves this secret still, 
 Of how, and why. 
 They came to die, — 
 
 And doubtless always will. 
 
 And so, each night. 
 Each Christmas night, 
 
 In northern Canada, 
 This story old 
 Is often told, 
 
 To pass the time away. 
 
362 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 MY DOG AND I 
 
 Just why my dog should bark at night, 
 And whine and howl with all his might, 
 Has always been a mystery quite, 
 To me for years. 
 
 And why he leaps my team before, 
 And wags his tail before my door, 
 And seeks me out, and looks me o'er. 
 As oft he does. 
 
 And why my dog should love me so, 
 And watch me close, where'er I go, 
 And other things I'd like to know 
 About my dog. 
 
 For one, you see, he 's got no bed, 
 Or place to lay his weary head. 
 And yet, he loves his master Ted, 
 For all of that. 
 
 And to me, still he's always true. 
 No matter what I say or do, 
 Nor does he have his days of blue. 
 As does my wife. 
 
 And so I've thought of this a heap. 
 And oft at night, before I sleep, 
 I con it o'er, — this mystery deep 
 About my dog. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 363 
 
 And then, one day, we had a talk, 
 When he and I went out to walk, 
 Near by some cliffs, as white as chalk, 
 'Long down the road. 
 
 For we're as close as close can be; 
 I talk to him, and he to me, 
 So any one can plainly see 
 Just how we stand. 
 
 And when we'd talked awhile on game, 
 Another subject to me came, 
 But now, it seems an awful shame, 
 I spoke of this. 
 
 For then I said unto my dog, — 
 While I sat resting on a log, — 
 That old Tom Keets, who loves his grog, — 
 You watch him close. 
 
 A long time now, it seems to me. 
 My wife and Keets, as all can see. 
 They're just as thick as thick can be 
 When I'm not in. 
 
 And I'm afraid there's other Keets, 
 When I'm away she often meets. 
 Beside this one particular Keets 
 I speak about. 
 
 For late one eve, — of this I'm sure, — 
 A shadow passed across my door. 
 And likely, too, there were some more. 
 Not far away. 
 
364 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And will you watch, old Towser dear, 
 And will you watch, when I'm not near, 
 And shut one eye, so you'll appear 
 To be asleep? 
 
 ''Bow wow!'' said he, ''I see your plan," 
 Meanwhile, he stood and licked my hand, 
 ''That's what I will, — I'll watch each man 
 For all I'm worth. 
 
 *'For clear to me seems your appeal, 
 And well I know just how you feel, 
 'Cause other dogs have tried to steal 
 The bitch I love. 
 
 *'No doubt you've seen these sneaks aroun', 
 Some bulls and fices, one's a houn', 
 And some are white, and some are brown, 
 A mongrel lot. 
 
 **And these are here most all the time, 
 And slobber out their strings of slime. 
 And there's not one that's worth a dime, 
 I venture that." 
 
 And while these two together stood, 
 Along the road beside the wood, — 
 These mutual friends of brotherhood, — 
 And talked it o'er, 
 
 Once more it was Old Towser said, 
 The while he growled and shook his head, 
 ''If you'll provide some meat and bread 
 For me and mine. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 365 
 
 "And club tlie^^e curs from off the earth, 
 This mongrel horde of little worth, — 
 Not one of which could get a berth 
 That's worth a dang, — 
 
 ^hy, then, I'll watch all day and night, 
 And howl and bark and scratch and bite 
 The whole of them, with all my might. 
 That's what I'll do. 
 
 And you must do the same for me, 
 And use your gun, if need to be, — 
 And in the end I guess we'll see 
 Who runs this place." 
 
 And then I spoke to him and said, 
 ^Sure, Tow, I'll furnish meat and bread. 
 And build a house, and make a bed, 
 Where you can sleep. 
 
 And then ITl buy a band of brass. 
 Bright shining as the smoothest glass. 
 That all may see when e'er they pass. 
 The dog you are; 
 
 ' For this will show your pedigree, 
 Plain written down so all can see. 
 And prouder then I'm sure you'll be 
 Among vour friends. 
 
 'And, Tow, when all of this is done, 
 111 buy some buck and load my gun, 
 And then, by heck! we'll have some fun, 
 Among these curs. 
 
366 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 ''And every hound, and every bull, 
 I'll fill their hides so 'tarnal full,- 
 Again they'll never have a pull 
 Around your bitch. 
 
 And when in time your life may end, 
 On this one thing you may depend, 
 111 rear a stone, inscribed 'My Friend,' 
 Above your grave. 
 
 And while I live, I'll think of you. 
 And keep your tomb all fresh and new, 
 For no one else has been as true 
 As you have been." 
 
 Then Tow went leaping o'er the ground. 
 And whirled him to and fro around, 
 And barked so loud, he well-nigh drowned 
 The noisy train. 
 
 And then once more to me he come, 
 And hung his head, and seemed so glum, 
 As like men do, — as like to some, 
 Who stop to think. 
 
 And when I saw he seemed inclined 
 To speak the burden of his mind, 
 'Twas then I spoke in accents kind. 
 And said: "Go on," 
 
 And down he sat, and kinder bowed. 
 Then raised his head, and howled aloud. 
 As though he felt extremely proud 
 To have a chance. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 367 
 
 ''And how," said he, "about that bird? 
 Your wife, she's got a parrot bird, 
 And how he swears, — but then you 've heard 
 Him doing that. 
 
 ''And, Ted, look out, she's watching you, 
 And has that bird to help her, too, 
 And my ! the things they often do, 
 When you're away. 
 
 "For oft when you are round the brush. 
 That bird screams out, and makes a rush, 
 Until your wife, she bids him hush, 
 For fear you'll hear. 
 
 "And then, she takes him from the cage, 
 While both are in a crazy rage. 
 And what they say would fill a page — 
 I venture that. 
 
 "And o'er and o'er, I've heard him swear, 
 About some lady, young and fair, 
 And then your wife, she'll pull her hair, 
 And have a fit. 
 
 "And while that bird screams loud and hoarse. 
 And shakes the cage with all his force, 
 Your wife, she talks about divorce, 
 And rings her hands. 
 
 "And then, as oft when I draw nigh, 
 The bird turns round and asks me why. 
 Or else screams out a frightful cry, 
 And points at me 
 
368 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 **And says: 'You damned old spotted cur! 
 And what the hell you doing here? 
 It seems to me you're always near, 
 Wlien e'er we talk. 
 
 ^'And then your wife so oft she's said, 
 While hurling stovewood at my head : 
 'I'll put some poison in your bread, — 
 That's what I'll do.' 
 
 *'So, while this bird gets dainties sweet 
 All strewn around beneath his feet, 
 She flings to me some rotten meat, 
 And says: 'Begone!' 
 
 ( I 
 
 And, Ted, I've known of this so long, 
 It's got so awful rank and strong. 
 From what you said, I thought it wrong 
 To hold my tongue. 
 
 ^And while we are so far away, 
 I thought perhaps to-day's the day. 
 And time, and place, when I should say 
 Just what I have. 
 
 'But don't you tell what I have said. 
 For if you do, it's poisoned bread, 
 Or else some stovewood on my head. 
 As oft before. 
 
 And, Ted, my heart goes out to you. 
 For like as not, you're kind and true. 
 But things like these are nothing new 
 For married folk. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 369 
 
 "And now, before we move away, 
 About these things I've told to-day, — 
 I'd like to hear what you've to say 
 About all this. 
 
 ''And if you grieve, I'll grieve with you, 
 And do whate'er you tell me to. 
 And until death, you'll find me true 
 As any dog. 
 
 **And in the end, if you should find 
 It best to leave your home behind, 
 I'll still remain forever kind. 
 As I have been. 
 
 *'And, Ted, — my dear old master Ted," — 
 And here, down low he hung his head. 
 And mused awhile, and then he said, 
 ''I'd better not." 
 
 And forth once more he, circling, sprung, 
 As if upon some trail he hung, 
 Meanwhile, expanding wide his lung, 
 He bayed aloud. 
 
 And to and fro, and back he came. 
 As if in sight of fleeing game. 
 Except he circled much the same. 
 As on he went. 
 
 Amazed, at last I called him back. 
 And gave his ears a gentle crack. 
 For now to me, it seemed, alack ! 
 He'd daffy gone. 
 
370 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And then at me he slyly sent 
 A frowning look of discontent; 
 And well I knew just what it meant, 
 And held my tongue. 
 
 Except, in gentle words and kind, 
 I urged him on to speak his mind 
 About something he seemed inclined 
 To hold in check. 
 
 But still he stood and shook his head, 
 As though his heart from sorrow bled, 
 And then, once more, he firmly said, 
 '^'d better not." 
 
 And straightway now I left my log. 
 And, like a sailor full of grog, 
 I clenched my fist and trounced my dog. 
 For what he said. 
 
 And then he rose, without a word, 
 And such a howl I never heard, — 
 So sad it was, and awful weird, — 
 It made me think. 
 
 And o'er his features, soft and bland, 
 I saw a troubled look expand, 
 And yet, he stood and licked my hand. 
 For all of that. 
 
 And then he raised his head to mine. 
 Without the semblance of a whine. 
 And straightway now, in accents fine, 
 He told me this: 
 
A Whistling Farmer 371 
 
 *'And do you know, my master Ted, 
 I've told the truth in all I've said. 
 And don't you think I'm better dead 
 Than living thus. 
 
 ''And should I tell the same of you, — 
 And every word was gospel true, — 
 I'd like to know just what you'd do 
 About these things. 
 
 "For I'm afraid to eat or drink, 
 Nor do I dare to sleep a wink, 
 For lately, now, I've come to think 
 She'll get me, sure. 
 
 "And every time when you're away, 
 I hear these threats all through the day, 
 And just last eve I heard her say, 
 'I've got the stuff.' 
 
 "And further, Ted, I'll tell you true, 
 I've heard her say the same of you. 
 And then that bird, he'll cackle too. 
 And saw: 'Amen!' 
 
 "And so it's plain that I and you 
 Have got to see this trouble through. 
 And what you think we'd better do 
 About all this?" 
 
 And then I called him to my side. 
 And gazing at him, open-eyed, 
 I asked him if he ever lied 
 About my wife. 
 
372 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And while we two a- jangling stood, 
 Out there along the shady wood, 
 In madness now, I thought I should 
 Destroy my dog. 
 
 And in my rage I drew my knife, 
 And threats I made against his life, 
 Because he dared to charge my wife 
 With murdering. 
 
 And turning now, I plainly saw 
 His teeth, within his upper jaw. 
 And pointing off, he raised his paw, 
 And said: ''Come on! 
 
 'Come on, and let us damn with hate. 
 This bird and wife, your bosom mate. 
 And wreck their lives and seal their fate 
 Forevermore ! 
 
 'For they are each a cringing slave. 
 Unfitted for the true and brave. 
 And come ; let 's drive them to their grave. 
 And leave them there, 
 
 'Asleep, within some potters lot. 
 Way off in yon neglected spot. 
 Where they can rest, and be forgot 
 By all their friends ! ' ' 
 
 And plainer now, — and plain as day, — 
 These fogs before me passed away. 
 And ere I knew before me lay 
 The naked truth, — 
 
A Whistling Farmer 373 
 
 The hidden truth I'd failed to see. 
 This monster here that beckoned me, 
 This prince of hell, grim jealousy. 
 That caused my fall. 
 
 And when all this began to dawn, 
 I turned, to find my dog was gone; 
 And yet this phantom struggled on, 
 Around me still. 
 
 This nasty myth, this airy mite, 
 That haunts us all by day and night. 
 And seemeth still to take delight 
 In what it does. 
 
 And this I've seen in pigs a-sty, 
 And winging birds in passing by, 
 And beasts afield, when some wild cry 
 Presages strife. 
 
 And this was not my dog I saw, — 
 This thing that made him lift his paw, — 
 But something else, an unseen law 
 That grips us all. 
 
 And rambling on with brazen din, 
 It open flung the gates again. 
 And let the fiends of darkness in. 
 To plead their cause. 
 
 And plainly now they said to me : 
 'Hast thou not eyes? Canst thou not see 
 This breach that lies 'tween Hhee and she' 
 Still wider grows, — 
 
374 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 ''As like a stream that onward flows, 
 And deeper yet and deeper grows? 
 And were you men, you'd come to blows 
 Beyond a doubt. 
 
 ''And well you know this much is true 
 While in your ways you still pursue, 
 Your world is but your dog and you, 
 From day to day. 
 
 "And she as well, she hath her bird. 
 And oft it is your name is sneered, 
 And from you both, there's ne'er a word 
 To cheer you on. 
 
 ' ' But know this much, — ^you 're not alone, 
 Like snarling dogs that guard their bone. 
 For storms like these have often blown. 
 Before your day. 
 
 "In lands remote, where'er you look, 
 And on the page of every book. 
 For ages gone, this thing has shook 
 The very throne. 
 
 "Not always thus, — a dog or bird, — 
 As with you two has overheard ; 
 But some sly wink, or loving word. 
 Has turned the trick. 
 
 "And plunged the race in sore distress 
 Has some old king, or flippant Bess, 
 Which nations oft have failed to guess 
 For years to come." 
 
A Whistling Farmer 375 
 
 And while I stood and conjured long, 
 A host of things began to throng, 
 And all I saw, — and all was wrong 
 Beyond a doubt. 
 
 And such a pang I never felt. 
 As from a blow, the truth had dealt, 
 And soon my tears began to melt 
 Around remorse, — 
 
 Remorse for things, since past and gone. 
 When manhood first began to dawn, 
 And life and hope went flowing on 
 Like some mild stream. 
 
 And backward now, and backward fast. 
 The scenes of youth around me massed, 
 And ere they all before me passed, 
 I found relief. 
 
 Relief from all those ugly things, 
 That fill the heart with aching stings. 
 And unto many often brings 
 A ruined life. 
 
 And thus relieved, I made a vow 
 That brings a lasting pleasure now. 
 And wherefore this? and why? and how? 
 I must be brief. 
 
 For I had seen, as all should see. 
 In bird and dog and her and me, 
 A cheerless world of jealousy 
 Around our home. 
 
376 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 The dog was jealous of the bird; 
 The bird was jealous of the dog; 
 My wife was jealous, too, of me; 
 And I of her. 
 
 A never-ending jealous lot, 
 Forever boiling like a pot. 
 And day and night we kept it hot 
 Continually. 
 
 And now to me this thought occurred: 
 Before we had this dog and bird, 
 We two, we never had a word 
 That caused distress. 
 
 And then it was I turned around, 
 And home I went, with hurried bound ; 
 For well I knew that I had found 
 The truth at last. 
 
 And to my wife, these things I told. 
 Without reserve, in language bold, 
 And glad I was to now behold 
 Her smiling face. 
 
 And while I pointed to the past, 
 Within my arms I held her fast. 
 And both of us, we found at last 
 The road to peace. 
 
 'Twere long to tell how clear and bright 
 Around us shone this gladsome light, 
 Compared with that long, darksome night 
 We left behind. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 377 
 
 And let me warn you ere I close: 
 The world is full of heartless woes, 
 And this is only one that shows 
 Along the way. 
 
 But this, if still allowed to grow, — 
 This can a host of troubles show, 
 And of this one before I go 
 I wish to say : 
 
 Beware the bird of scandal tongue. 
 When social intercourse is sprung, 
 For this, alas! has often flung 
 Its evils far. 
 
 And birds there are without a wing. 
 Who pride themselves on tattling, 
 And leave behind some deadly sting, — 
 And go their way. 
 
 And dogs as well among our race. 
 Of low deceit and cunning face, 
 And all around they spread disgrace. 
 Where'er they go. 
 
 And of all such, you should beware, — 
 All those who would some secret bare, — 
 And clench your fist, and turn you square, 
 And walk away. 
 
 And lend your hand to minimize 
 This storm that threatens many skies. 
 And all who do are wisdom wise 
 In every land. 
 
378 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE AN 
 AMERICAN? 1 
 
 It means conformation to ideals of America, her 
 laws, her customs, and the American form of govern- 
 ment, the fundamental principles of which are found 
 in the Declaration of Independence and the Consti- 
 tution of the United States of America. It means 
 representation in deliberative bodies, and it means 
 a free school and an education for every child. It 
 means liberality; it means toleration; it means the 
 Brotherhood of Man. It means a broadening and 
 a deepening of that love that we have for our own, 
 for those in distant lands. It means a definite state- 
 ment, with definite aims in view; it means attach- 
 ment; it means patriotism, and it means abiding 
 faith in home and native land. It means kindness; 
 it means sympathy, and it means charity for every 
 friendly soul beneath the Stars and Stripes. It 
 means the elevation of our race, — in the physical, in 
 the moral, and in the intellectual world. And, in 
 times of stress, it means living for these, fighting for 
 these, and dying for these things upon the field of 
 honor. 
 
 Won 't you come with us, and be an American, that 
 in the hour of death you may say, with one of old: 
 ' ' I 've fought a good fight, I 've kept the faith ; hence- 
 forward, there is laid up for me treasures in heaven, 
 that rust cannot corrupt nor thieves break through 
 and steal.'' 
 
 *In answer to Baltimore. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 379 
 
 THE PLEA OF ARTHUR ALDEN 
 
 May I not live again, dear Lord? 
 May I not live again, — 
 And leave behind me here 
 These long and tedious hours, 
 So burdened with distress; 
 And every ache and pain, 
 And all this dreadful gloom 
 That comes, as if in glee. 
 To claim me as their own? 
 And why ? Behold my feet, — 
 These useless feet of mine, — 
 These feet of other days. 
 Which twinkled like the stars 
 And ever gloried in 
 The swiftness of the chase ! 
 But now, — alas for these ! 
 So dull and dead they are, 
 They cry them out aloud 
 For every passing crutch. 
 And yet, how like they are 
 My pale and puny hands, — 
 These hands that gladly sought 
 The labors of the fields. 
 And took such keen delight 
 In every manly sport, — 
 These drawn and twisted hands! 
 These weak and trembling hands 
 Have lost their cunning now, 
 And come to tell, with sobs, 
 Their story of decay. 
 And yet, full brothers they 
 
380 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And first of kin they are 
 
 To these, my dull and listless ears; 
 
 These watchmen, at their post. 
 
 These trusty sentinels. 
 
 That ever pointed out 
 
 The dangers that abound. 
 
 In all the walks of life. 
 
 These faithful ears of mine 
 
 That once so quickly caught 
 
 The rustling of the leaf, 
 
 And thrilled my very soul 
 
 With endless melodies, 
 
 As when the merry birds 
 
 Made vocal all the woods, 
 
 That spread themselves around 
 
 My early cottage home. 
 
 And, sacrificing all, 
 
 These, too, have come to lay 
 
 Their weary burden down 
 
 Beside my sightless eyes. 
 
 These brilliant orbs of blue! 
 
 These windows of the soul. 
 
 These bright, and sparkling eyes. 
 
 Of childhood, long ago. 
 
 These constant servants, mine. 
 
 That ever sought afar 
 
 Among the depths of space. 
 
 And laid by treasures here 
 
 For thoughts in after years. 
 
 And must these ever lie 
 
 In utter darkness thus? 
 
 And be content to know 
 
 In other times gone by 
 
 They labored with a zeal 
 
 Among the starry depths, 
 
 And helped with problems there, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 381 
 
 That Nature loves to hide 
 Among the cosmos deep? 
 These eyes, these sightless eyes, 
 And have they come at last 
 Unto the brink of life, 
 And taken their last review 
 Of every changing scene, 
 And hill, and glade, and vale, 
 And every passing cloud 
 That gently floats away 
 Upon the evening breeze ? 
 If so, farewell, bright world, 
 To all that vigor knew, — 
 "When vision swept afar 
 The mysteries of space. 
 And left a passing gleam 
 Of pleasant memories. 
 But now, away with this! 
 Away with every thought 
 That mortal vision bounds. 
 For on beyond, I look. 
 Beyond the distant star, 
 And hope to find in this 
 ^ Some lasting treasure there 
 That time cannot efface. 
 
 And what are all of these 
 Piled high around my room? 
 Behold this vast array 
 Of medications here. 
 And what are all of these 
 But vain and useless hopes? 
 Can these deceive the mind, 
 And make believe that life 
 Within these nostrums lies; 
 The very thought of this. 
 
382 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 The irony of fate, 
 
 A bubble swept along 
 
 Upon the passing stream. 
 
 As well we might decry 
 
 The setting of the sun, 
 
 Or seek to stay the tides 
 
 Upon the ocean there. 
 
 And so I bide me here 
 
 As best I can to-day, 
 
 Amid this swirling throng 
 
 Of transitory things; 
 
 And hope to find ere long 
 
 A better life beyond. 
 
 And what conjectures here 
 
 Fill out the passing time? 
 
 And what enormous swing 
 
 Between these two extremes, — 
 
 The swing of pleasures now, 
 
 And then again the swing 
 
 That ever outward goes. 
 
 And ends, I know not where. 
 
 And yet, amid all this — 
 
 Bright gleaming in between 
 
 The darkness of the hour, — 
 
 A never-failing source 
 
 Of consolation comes 
 
 And drives me on to ask: 
 
 May I not live again, dear Lord? 
 
 May I not live again 
 
 A life more beautiful than this. 
 
 Ere yet these eyes went forth 
 
 To join this silent tongue? 
 
 This vague and useless thing. 
 
 This hesitating tongue! 
 
 This clumsy tongue it was 
 
 That sent its warnings oft 
 
A Whistling Farmer 383 
 
 Adown the marhle halls, 
 And roused to life again 
 The lethargy of men: 
 This caustic member here, 
 That ever forged ahead 
 To meet some daring foe, — 
 Or else, mayhap, it was 
 This softly pleading tongue, 
 When honors claimed the day. 
 And strife was swept aside 
 By gentleness of speech. 
 But let occasion rise, 
 And once again was heard 
 This acrimonious tongue; 
 And, like a storm, it broke 
 Amid the thunderings; 
 And, laying down the law 
 Before some cringing horde, 
 It filled with dire alarm 
 The enemies of State, 
 And sent a quake of fear 
 Through every guilty soul. 
 But now I grieve to tell; 
 For now this useless tongue 
 Has ceased its babblings bold. 
 And waits the final call 
 To pleasures on beyond, — 
 Beyond the pale of man. 
 And ever on, beyond 
 These frightful sufferings. 
 Lord, who sent me here 
 Among this field of thorns. 
 And no provision made 
 To guard against distress, 
 Until I reach at last 
 The bosom of my God ? 
 
3^4 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 And so I plead for life 
 Beyond this brazen thief 
 That comes to steal away 
 My every vital part. 
 This enemy of mine 
 That seems delighted still 
 With every ache and painj 
 This demon leading on 
 Within my being here! 
 This wanton reveler 
 That glides about my room, 
 With malice in his heart, 
 And, ere I am aware, 
 He strikes, and strikes again 
 With many a cruel stab. 
 And, plying thus his trade, 
 He makes the gladsome day 
 A horror to behold, 
 And fills the quiet night 
 With endless miseries. 
 And this reserved for me ! 
 And this for every man 
 Who weeps aloud at birth, 
 And weeping on his way. 
 He passes into death. 
 And here he comes again. 
 This messenger of doom. 
 And swings aloft his scythe. 
 And with delight proclaims 
 My last remaining hour. 
 This heartless cavalier, 
 That goes from home to home 
 And leaves a flood of tears 
 On every smiling face. 
 This vile and shapeless thing 
 That none can e'er escape! 
 
A Whistling Farmer 385 
 
 This horrid beast of prey 
 That tears me with his fangs 
 Like as a vulture might! 
 And how I hate him still 
 With all my throbbing heart. 
 Where justice sits enthroned, 
 And honors lead the way, 
 To die upon the field, 
 As like a soldier bold, 
 Is but a passing thought ! 
 But when Old Age comes by 
 And calmly sits him down 
 Within my chamber here, 
 I am beside myself 
 With never-ending fears. 
 And what a thought is this, — 
 A woeful sounding thought,- — 
 That throws a pall of gloom 
 Across the paths of all, 
 And racks the strongest frame 
 With endless tremblings! 
 Decrepitude, aye, that word. 
 Of all the words I've known, 
 The most distressing still! 
 For while I slumber oft 
 In undisturbed repose, 
 Unbidden now, it comes. 
 And lays its blighting hands 
 On all that I possess: 
 Upon these organs here, 
 So splendidly equipped 
 For every useful phase 
 Of man's eternal needs; 
 Yes, upon each one of these. 
 And on my hopes as well, 
 Which ever bore me on 
 
386 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 Amid the changing scenes 
 Of all the passing years. 
 Yes, on every one of them! 
 And for my very life 
 Day after day it comes, 
 Until the whole is gone. 
 Decrepitude, Decrepitude! 
 How like a ghost you are! 
 And still you laugh aloud 
 At all my locks and keys; 
 And ever thus you stab 
 And stab and maim again, 
 And why? — ^to gratify a whim? 
 Or lies there far beyond 
 My very deepest thought, 
 Some blessing that awaits 
 My tardy footsteps still? — 
 A something hidden here 
 Within the infinite, — 
 Some blessing, let me trust, 
 Some blessing in disguise. 
 If so, a welcome then. 
 To all that Age can bring, 
 That death may sooner come 
 And claim me as her own! 
 And while grave doubts arise 
 Amid this crumbling clay, — 
 And boding images 
 Around me flaunt their wares, — 
 Forever still I find myself 
 Repeating o'er and o'er, 
 And ever, o'er and o'er: 
 
 May I not live again, dear Lord? 
 May I not live again 
 In some celestial realm, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 387 
 
 Where sorrows never come 
 
 To cloud my after years, 
 
 Nor fear, nor pain, nor death 
 
 May lay their blighting hands 
 
 On aught that I possess? 
 
 This sturdy manhood gone, 
 
 This buoyant spirit crushed, 
 
 This vitalizing force 
 
 A remnant of the past! 
 
 And all of these as well, — 
 
 This fast decaying bulk. 
 
 And dwindling energies 
 
 Of limb and frame and brain, — 
 
 Aye, that's it, — at last! 
 
 This poor, deluded brain. 
 
 And failing faculties ! 
 
 This store of reason gone. 
 
 This citadel of earth 
 
 That stood upon the sand, — 
 
 This fortress of the soul 
 
 In mute submission now 
 
 To God's eternal law; 
 
 This thing of grasp and strength 
 
 That sat in judgment long 
 
 And bowed him down to none! 
 
 But now, — alas for this! — 
 
 This ruined castle here. 
 
 This glimpse of glories gone, 
 
 This wreckage strewn around 
 
 In moldering decay ! 
 
 This monumental mind, 
 
 This councilor of State, 
 
 This king upon his throne, 
 
 How pitiful he seems 
 
 With every vestment gone. 
 
 How like he is to-day 
 
388 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 How like a little child 
 That's lost upon the lawn! 
 How like a suckling babe 
 That ever cries aloud 
 In searching for its Ma! 
 And, too, this bleeding lung, 
 And palpitating heart, — 
 For all of these have come 
 To reckon with the years; 
 And turning, one and all. 
 They call them out aloud 
 For help that lies beyond 
 The puny hand of man. 
 
 May I not live again, dear Lord,- 
 May I not live forever? 
 
 MEMORIES 
 
 To-day I was thinking. 
 And dreaming, and drinking 
 A wee little draught 
 
 From the dregs of the past, 
 "When o'er me came dashing, 
 And leaping, and crashing, 
 Some scenes from my childhood, 
 
 In years that have passed. 
 
 'Oh, sweet is the childhood 
 Of dreamland and wildwood!" 
 Transfixed by its beauties 
 
 I, whispering, said; 
 While onward before me, 
 Around me, and o'er me, 
 An endless procession 
 
 Of memories sped. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 389 
 
 Companions of past time, 
 Alas! since the last time 
 I met you at evening 
 
 And bade you farewell, 
 So many have left me 
 And sorely bereft me, — 
 I 'm lost in my sorrows 
 
 And scarcely can tell. 
 
 And yet, of this number 
 A-gone and a-slumber. 
 Who early in manhood 
 
 Were called to their rest, 
 I '11 mention Frank Clayton 
 And Everet Dayton, — 
 And one was my lover, 
 
 The truest and best. 
 
 And others before me, 
 Around me, and o'er me. 
 In memory's fancy 
 
 I saw in the crowd; 
 With jesture and smiling, 
 My spirit beguiling, 
 
 And some in the flesh yet. 
 
 And some in the shroud. 
 
 And, oh ! for this childhood 
 Of dreamland and wildwood 
 That haunts us forever 
 
 From evening till daAvn, — 
 When storms break around us, 
 And problems confound us. 
 We seek in our sorrows 
 
 The days that are gone. 
 
390 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 THE MAID IN BLUE 
 
 Some maids there are who wear the blue, 
 Advising us they're always true, 
 But, aye, my friends, whate'er you do, 
 Beware, beware! 
 
 And when you see this outward sign, 
 Let not deception fog your mind 
 For, sure, you see, she may design 
 To throw you down. 
 
 For once upon a time I knew 
 A lady dressed in robes of blue, 
 And still, it seems she was not true, — 
 For all of that. 
 
 And why ? Just note that human play 
 On further down along the way, 
 And in the end perchance you'll say: 
 ''She was a cheat." 
 
 That is, you know, if this be wrong, 
 That she unfolds the ways along, 
 And here it is, and just as strong 
 As one could wish: 
 
 'Twas Betty dear, you've seen her oft, — 
 The maid who holds her head aloft. 
 And when she speaks, her voice is soft 
 As gentle spring. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 391 
 
 And Betty, once she laid a plan, — 
 At least like this the story ran, 
 And vows she made she'd have a man 
 Of varied worth. 
 
 And yet she failed in some of this, — 
 When after years had brought no bliss, — 
 In just one way, and that was this: 
 A mother's pride; 
 
 A pride, in every child that's born, 
 With sprightly moods that may adorn, 
 Instead of one that many scorn 
 From day to day. 
 
 So, tumbling downward, went her plan, 
 Like others since our race began. 
 But with her blue she fooled her man, 
 And had her way. 
 
 And years before she sought the sod, 
 Or yet with age began to nod. 
 She made a vow she'd serve her God 
 In all she did. 
 
 'For now," said she, "this much I know: 
 My Maker doubtless made me so; 
 And while I'm here on earth below, 
 I'll keep His law. 
 
 'In this, of course, I've smashed the plan 
 Conceived by some designing man, 
 And from his codes I broke and ran, 
 For mercy's sake. 
 
392 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 ''For see, I had to weigh these two, 
 To find the path I should pursue: 
 And God I chose, and wouldn't you, 
 Instead of men? 
 
 ''That is, by this I mean to say. 
 Where Nature points the better way. 
 Her laws I keep, from day to day. 
 With all my heart. 
 
 "And here IVe ground my deepest thought. 
 And year by year, with patience wrought. 
 And this, of late, I've freely taught, 
 Without a fear. 
 
 "And not, that I would vengeance wreak. 
 On some poor man, that's grown so weak, 
 He scarcely can in whispers speak 
 Above his breath. 
 
 "For yet, my mate was always good, — 
 In this, I must be understood, — 
 And still, alas, he never could 
 Make glad my heart! 
 
 ' ' But this was not in social ways, 
 Or vast estates, or gems that blaze. 
 But higher up, where childhood lays 
 Its smiles around. 
 
 "For we had wealth, far strewn around. 
 Extending on, with scarce a bound. 
 And marts of trade, in every town 
 Of consequence. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 393 
 
 'And yet, I longed for something more, 
 Than bahes like these had brought before, 
 And this, I often pondered o'er, 
 With deep regret. 
 
 < < 
 
 And once, when I went out to stroll, 
 I had a thirsting in my soul, 
 And near at hand, I saw my goal, — 
 A cultured man. 
 
 And high he was in councils known, 
 And there he seemed to stand alone, 
 Like to the one who sought a throne,^ 
 Whom Brutus stabbed. 
 
 *'And while I faltered in my course. 
 And analyzed its every source. 
 It plainer grew, with greater force, 
 Before my eyes. 
 
 ''For this I'd seen so oft before. 
 Among the stock that men adore, 
 And here this law is practised o'er 
 The world at large. 
 
 **And who of this should ever doubt. 
 Why, this is but some crying tout. 
 And if the truth you'd know about. 
 Ask old John Zohn. 
 
 ''For he don't know the world is wide. 
 And every truth is still denied. 
 So you can take the other side. 
 And know you're right. 
 
394 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 **Aiid there he stays, within his groove, 
 
 And loud he vows he '11 never move ; 
 
 Among his stock he might improve, 
 
 With better blood. 
 
 "And more than that: Whatever is found 
 Among his buildings strewn around, 
 And fence and shed, and e'en his ground, 
 Bespeak the man. 
 
 **For nought is there that's ever planned. 
 And for our race in every land 
 Much better had he been unmanned, 
 To stop the breed. 
 
 '*And this I saw when on the farm, 
 Ere modesty had brought alarm. 
 As when I swung at father's arm. 
 And went abroad. 
 
 "Out o'er the pastures, far and near. 
 For well I love the stock to hear. 
 When every horse and eveiy steer 
 Is thoroughbred. 
 
 "And when we'd gone all these to see. 
 My father oft has said to me: 
 *A11 these have got their pedigree, — 
 Which I possess.' 
 
 "And so, I've thought it was my Pa 
 Who pointed out this higher law. 
 For every scrub was but a straw 
 Beneath his feet. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 395 
 
 "And there I learned this higher worth, 
 Of brute creation o'er the earth, 
 But of my race, I weep the dearth 
 That still prevails. 
 
 "And in these things I'd have you see 
 My thought was not alone for me. 
 But down through all posterity 
 The end I sought. 
 
 "And when my childhood was no more, 
 The things I learned in youth before 
 How oft they rapt upon my door, 
 I need not tell. 
 
 "For now, it was like this, you see. 
 My husband was not made for me. 
 But this at first I failed to see, 
 Until too late. 
 
 "And there I was tied up so tight, 
 For good, or bad, or wrong, or right. 
 Before the law, I dared not fight 
 The man I had. 
 
 "For he, — full well I knew he could 
 Support his claims as matters stood, 
 And in the courts, of course I should 
 Forever loose. 
 
 "And then I'd sob myself to sleep. 
 And wring my hands and often weep. 
 For this one thing, this secret deep, 
 I dare not tell. 
 
396 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 *'But while these mists before me rolled, 
 I found my spirit growing bold, 
 And unto me this prompter told 
 Another way: 
 
 **The ways of darkness strewn around 
 Among all classes that abound, 
 Which many of my race have found 
 Before my day. 
 
 "And while I hid my face in shame. 
 More closely yet this spirit came. 
 And spoke to me of lasting fame 
 Within my reach. 
 
 ( ( 
 
 And when all this I plainly saw, 
 More firmly yet I set my jaw, 
 And there I stood, and dared the law 
 Upon the books. 
 
 And now, perhaps it's best I should 
 Explain so I'll be understood; 
 For in these things a wondrous good, 
 Or evil, lies. 
 
 ''And here is where I'd call the State, — 
 For she is powerful and great. 
 And swing she can a mighty weight 
 For weal or woe. 
 
 ''And in our laws, I'd place this need, 
 That might with ease be guaranteed. 
 As now we do with every breed 
 Of stock we have, 
 
A Whistling Farmer 397 
 
 ''And not that I would still retain 
 Those things that leave a lasting stain, 
 But something else, that seems so plain 
 That all should see. 
 
 ''And every man that's fit to be 
 Connected with maternity. 
 The records on the books, you see. 
 Would show all this. 
 
 "But now, the way our race is farmed, 
 The maid it is, that's most alarmed, 
 And in this fray, she's poorly armed 
 To meet the foe. 
 
 "For in the male the germ is found, — 
 Where higher qualities abound, — 
 And motherhood, she's like the ground 
 That rears the seed. 
 
 "But equal still, within her sphere. 
 And greater oft she doth appear, 
 As when the child her hand must rear 
 And shape its course. 
 
 "And why should we endure this snare, 
 When aims in life will never square 
 With freckled face and crimson hair, 
 And all of that? 
 
 "And what of sickly children, such, 
 And whimperings at every touch, 
 And weaklings all that use a crutch 
 Continually ? 
 
398 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 ''And what of all this poisoned train 
 Transmitted down to youth again, 
 That points to countless millions slain 
 From age to age? 
 
 ''Is this a lawful husband sent, 
 That brings a life of discontent, 
 And why in law should this be meant, 
 And stand the test? 
 
 "And this is why I'd call the State, 
 To sponsor every bantam-weight; 
 And free the maid, and let his fate 
 Be what it might. 
 
 "And thus an outline of my plan. 
 And while it seems a baleful ban, 
 I'd force this scrub to be a man, 
 Or stand aside. 
 
 "And by such means I'd build a race, 
 So strongly built and full of grace. 
 Ere long, you'd see them take their place 
 And rule the world. 
 
 "But now, instead, instead, alas. 
 One clinks his gold, we let him pass, 
 And puny man, or braying ass. 
 It matters not. 
 
 "And so we have a mongrel horde, 
 Outbulging some, much like a gourd; 
 And others lank as any sword 
 That children wear. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 399 
 
 "And some are short, and some are long, 
 And some are weak, and some are strong. 
 And such a God-forsaken throng 
 I shame to tell. 
 
 ''To you, who stand before my child, 
 And point him out as one defiled. 
 With calmness, and my face unriled, 
 I answer back: 
 
 ** Whatever I've done, I had to do, 
 And this I hate much more than you, 
 But could I stop, and still be true 
 Unto my race? 
 
 *'Nay, nay! For this was not the plan, 
 Of Him who spoke and said to man: 
 'Go forth and subjugate the land 
 And all that is. 
 
 " 'And green the hills, and prove their worth, 
 And till and rear for home and hearth, 
 And fructify the whole of eai*th, 
 And make it glad.' 
 
 "And what He said was doubtless true, 
 In ages old or ages new, 
 But weakness here can never do 
 "What God designed. 
 
 "But men, — as yet the laws they make. 
 And wink they do at every rake. 
 And while his coin they gladly take, 
 They pass him on. 
 
400 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 {{ 
 
 But wait awhile. Another day 
 Is coining fast, and means to stay, 
 And when it comes, we'll drive away 
 This bastard child. 
 
 'More light!' the cry,— 'More light for all!' 
 Storm-swept around us comes the call, 
 That none, as I, maf stumbling fall 
 And be disgraced. 
 
 'But while these things arise and stand, 
 Like haunting ghosts in every land. 
 High time it seems that some one planned 
 A better way. 
 
 'For we've a pride, as well we ought. 
 In all this workmanship that's wrought. 
 But man, he spends near all his thought 
 In other ways. 
 
 ' And ^ there's his horse that weighs a ton, 
 And by his side, that puny one, 
 And things like this are being done 
 In every land. 
 
 Likewise his vineyards over there. 
 Where he has made improvements rare, 
 And every peach, and every pear, 
 They look to him. 
 
 'And, give him but a place to start. 
 In anj^ field of useful art, 
 And Godlike here he plays a part, — 
 Supremely grand. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 401 
 
 "But when he comes to face his own, 
 As all the past has clearly shown, 
 With doubtful look and mumbling tone. 
 He turns away, — 
 
 *'As though his child were lower down, 
 Than fruits or grains upon the ground. 
 Or horse, or hog, or barking hound. 
 That gets his care. 
 
 "And what he needs, this reckless dolt, 
 He needs some one his mind will jolt, 
 And turn his thought from calf and colt 
 Toward his child. 
 
 "And when I muse thefee things upon, 
 So oft I think of old John Zohn, 
 Of what a jinx, and what a don 
 The old man was. 
 
 "And there he sat before his jug. 
 And all the past he loved to hug, 
 And, filling high his foaming mug. 
 He drank to this. 
 
 "And so he lived his life along. 
 Unmoved by reason clear and strong. 
 Nor could he see a single wrong 
 In what he did. 
 
 "And every act that backward lay. 
 In some remote antiquity. 
 With frenzied speech, I've heard him say: 
 * Its holy ground ! ' 
 
402 A Whistling Farmer 
 
 ' ' But now he 's gone, and in his place 
 Another one has come to face 
 The greatest problem of our race, 
 Since we began. 
 
 ''And this, because we fail to see, 
 That we ourselves would better be, 
 If we would only prune the tree 
 That bears the seed. 
 
 "But while, as now, our efforts fail, 
 And children oft are weak and pale, 
 No grief ahead can e'er avail 
 To right this wrong. 
 
 "Nor may we hope that drugs and skill, 
 Nor doctor quack upon the hill, 
 Can ever give our little Will 
 A chance to live ; 
 
 "Or drive these shadows from his room. 
 And give his cheeks a ruddy bloom. 
 While death stands gloating o'er his tomb, 
 * And points to us, 
 
 "And says, with grimness on his face: 
 'Much worse this is than deep disgrace, 
 For thou hast sold thy child and race 
 For paltry gain.' 
 
 "And to you all I lay this deed, — 
 The fruits alone of selfish greed. 
 While one you loved stood by to plead 
 A higher law. 
 
A Whistling Farmer 403 
 
 <( 
 
 And pausing now, I leave tliis thought, 
 That reason to my senses brought, 
 And should my lesson come to naught, 
 I'll rest content, — 
 
 'Content to know, for what IVe done, 
 I've bared my heart to every one, 
 That I might rear this noble son 
 And go my way. 
 
 'And, go my way, the way I know 
 Reformers all have had to go. 
 But what of this, when one can show 
 A leader born? 
 
 "And so I see a brighter rift 
 Among these clouds that darkly drift, 
 Forever on, and onward swift. 
 Around my race, — 
 
 "A rift of gladness, clear and bright. 
 That sweeps my being with delight. 
 And makes the day, and makes the night 
 The same as one ; 
 
 * * The same for all who seek the good. 
 Expressed in yearning motherhood. 
 And by this thought IVe always stood. 
 To force reforms. 
 
 *'A stronger male, a nobler mate. 
 To guard the destiny of State, 
 And make our country truly great. 
 In sturdy menP' 
 
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