PS Ai45t f-iiii^-^^ Si^ jS^^ 4 rjy. Also by Mr. Taber: Book of "The Dalai Lama," comic opera, in two acts. (A collaboration with W. N. S. Ivins, the composer.) cp "Northern Lights & Shadows," (Greening & Co., London, Eng. Price, 5s.) cp And "Chained Lig,htnin^" Key and Sounder in Mexico THE vivid plot of "Chained Lightning" is replete with stirring incidents that are illuminated by accurate sidelights on Mexico and its peculiar people. One cannot read it without understanding better the reason for that unhappy country's present state of anarchy. It is an interesting and instruc- tive book for boys and girls of all ages from nine to ninety, and will be enjoyed especially by railroaders who kno^w, and have grown to love, the "rails and wires." "Chained Lightning" has to do with the thrilling adventures of two young Ameri- cans, railway telegraphers, who seek their fortunes in Mexico, and who find there — but read the story! A part of it has appeared as a serial in "St. Nicholas," but the book gives the complete narrative, and is elab- orately illustrated by some of the best artists from photographs taken by the author and his friend M. Ravelle. Published by THE MACMILLAN CO.. New York. Price, $1.25. Order direct from the publishers, or from St. Paul Book & Stationery Co. St. Paul, Minn. nn[F ^nn ooocx)oSVoo oo-^oooooo nn Pi ^ ^ T l nn Stray Gold A Rambler's Clean-up By "R%.T.;^Wv 1^ pRE 1^ o ^or-etched \sy hi::. St. Paul Book & Stationery Co St. Paul, Minn. □ n[F ^nn o ragEi <^ lihsej o 000000(^00 oo-TSoooooo nn P- ^ ^ I nn Copyright 1915 By Ralph Graham Taber op A. C. McClur^ & Co., Chicago Jobbers OCT -I 1915 V>^ 'C1.A411754 To tKe Assay ers: The Conglomerate These verses were ventured at various times, In various places and various climes; In the tropical South, where the blood runs hot, Where red passions riot and God is forgot; In the chill Arctic Circle, whose ice and cold Imperil the stoical seeker for gold; In the marvelous West, where the ranges call To the soul of the rambler to cross them all; In the Orient old, with its mystic lore; On the oceans that battle from shore to shore; In populous cities ; on desert and plain. They are touch-stones, testing his fanciful brain. Cradled by R. G. T. cp The Crucible These stray nuggets From life's luring trails Placered by the cheerful Rambler Consigned to Lovers of Lyrical Lore With a modest request To sample the contents And make no claim for damage Should an acid test Disprove the label. cp To My Critics: Knock if you must; boost if you can — Either will make me a happier man. Though you may class them as doggerel rhymes, Mention them anyhow— these are hard times— Which 'astray Gold" may alleviate, If you will help it circulate! L' Envoi. cp A debt of gratitude I'd pay To Pegasus, who bears The weariness of life away, With all its worldly cares; "Who takes us on his tireless wings Beyond the distant skies To drink from the eternal springs Of Fancy's paradise. My debt to him is greater far Than I could ever pay, Though diamond were every star And mine the Milky Way! "R. G. T. EartK's RicKest Ore. cp Life is worth living here below, Though the roads be rough and hilly, If we have a lifelong friend or so Who will back us, willy-nilly. Would that it might be mine to share With all my readers such friendship rare As these two friends to the Rambler bear- So here's to ''Ollie & Billy." "R. G. T." Gran Merci to the First Assay ers: The Rambler's grateful acknowledgments to the Editors of Alnslee's, Criterion, Life, Independent, Mmisey's, Saint Nicholas, Truth, Town Topics, Vogue, and Youth's Companion, for their kindness in permitting him to include in this collection such of these gold-bearing specimens as were tested by them some years ago in the touch-stone pages of their publications. cJd stray Gold 13 The Better Song 17 The Loon 22 The Driver's Story 23 The Missing- Man 30 In The Confessional 32 From The Depths 35 The Blind 37 Roncevaux ,. . 39 At Avalon 41 British Columbia 42 Unrest 42 Gadzooks 43 The Cream of the Milking 45 The Oldest Inhabitant 47 The Dark 48 To Elbert Hubbard 49 Love's First Touch 50 A Question 51 The Song of the Worlds 53 Toujours 54 The Birth of Love 55 Choose 56 The Brightest Star 57 An Autograph 57 The Waters of Fate 58 Hello Central 59 La Demi-Vierge 61 The Bachelor 61 A Prodigal 63 The Inner Light 64 The Rag-Picker 64 The Real Hero 65 My Prayer 65 The First Christmas 66 The Scoffer 68 A Flower 69 Passim 70 CONCENTRATES Continued The Song- of Azrael 71 Life 72 The Birth of Iris 73 Much in Little 73 My Triad 74 Do You Believe in Fairies 76 Weavers All 79 Nature's Paean 8 Fidus Achates S2 Shall We Gather at the River 83 Seeing- Red 85 The Old Prospector 86 The Old Prospector's Reply 87 Why the B. P. O. E 89 Thou and I 9i Pards 93 The Double Inquest 9 7 Be Warned 100 Jack 101 Playing tlie Game 104 Death Valley 105 Bakins 106 A Klondyke Epitaph ll)7 The Yukon Version 107 The Stream 108 Without Appeal 110 By the Sea 112 A Parable 113 To Fit a Clown 115 The Gate That Lures 120 Easter 122 His Crowning Sin 125 Wannagan 127 The Cross-roads 129 The Shirker 132 The Worker 133 You Find What You Seek 134 The Search for Faith 136 Griggsby 138 At Griggsby 140 Graine d'Amour 145 CONCENTRATES Concluded cp Love's Prayer 145 The Charm 146 My Yachting- Girl 146 Not the Husk but the Corn 147 A Fair Coquette 148 The Chorus Girl 149 Beatrice 151 The Monk 152 Not a Paradox 153 Explained 153 Misfits 154 Love's Contrary 154 Love's Thorns 155 Blest Folly 156 From the Club Window 157 A Pensioner 158 An Aquariumistic Parable 159 'Nature's Coquette 161 A Recipe 162 In the Wing-s 163 Semper Idem 165 From Apartment 39 166 When Swearing- Off 168 The Heaviest Straw 169 You Wonder Why? 170 Laddie's Secret 171 The Mysterious Guests 172 I. In Our Street 174 II. In Our Hospital 175 III. At Home 176 Arctic Voices 178 The Rainbow's End 186 Dig Down 188 Life's Treasures 189 Post Scriptum 190 Stray Gold. An Incident of the Placers. cp NOT an ounce o' dnst — Clean bust ! A lost year, Slavin' here; Workin' th' shovel an' pick an' pan, Livin' on grub not fit fer a man An ' dreams o ' strikin ' it rich ! Reckon I've dug my last ditch — Down to hard-pan, bed-rock, at last, With all them pipe-dreams past : Dreams about goin' back home some day With a sackful o' nuggets, an' — Hellow, thar ! Say ! W'at d'ye mean — That is, come in, Pard. Ye s 'prised me a bit — I was thinkin' hard — Wasn't spectin' a call — That's all. Draw up here ; ye look done. Hoss petered? This trail aint no fun. What 1 Fifty mile ? Ye say Ye've done fifty mile today? Sho ! Take it easy ; stretch out across Th' fireplace. Stranger; I'll see t' yer hoss. [13]- Gosh! No wonder yer critter 'vS beat With that load holdin' down his feet — What ye got in 'm — lead? Hey? What was that ye said? Nuggets ? Gold-dust — gold ? W'y.. them saddle-bags 'ud hold Over a hundred-weight, I 'low — Yer laughin ' — guyin ' me ! How ? Goin ' home ? Got enough ? Wall, Stranger, it's kind o' rough — Not as I envy ye yer luck — But it's hard on an ole chap w'at's stuck To a prospeck hole, through thick an' thin. As I 've did, an ' then not make it win — It's apt, I say, ter make him rile When a tenderfoot strikes sich a pile. Sho ! Derned ef he ain't asleep! He's too trustin' t' keep Them nuggets long. — Ef I was like some He'd go from hyar to Kingdom Come — A.n' me? I reckon the eastern trail Wouldn 't find me no snail ! — A measly, low-down idee ! What's got inter me T' make me figger sich a thing? Shows what hard luck '11 bring fl4] A poor feller to, who 's alius bin Toler'ble free from sin. — But them bags was heavy, as — gold! What '11 they fetch when sold ? A hunderd-weight : forty thousan', rouo'li No wonder he said 'twas 'nough ! Wat's he did, that he should light On sieh a find as that ! 'Taint right. An' me a-slavin' long Onnothin'. Whar's th' wrong Ef I lets daylight inter th' cuss. Tumble him down a shaft — no muss — ■ x\n ' vamoose on his boss ? He wouldn't know no loss; An' I'd hev made a raise at last — Hold on! I'm mebbe too fast! P'raps th' feller's shammin'! — No; That snore's an honest enough un. Sol Not th' gun — I reckon this Ole knife aint so apt t' miss — 'Twouldn't be pleasant to only wing The lad — the knife's th' thing! How he sleeps ! I kin feel his breath- He haint no thought o' death. [15] A leetle lower down — hyar^ — one blow, An' th' trick 'ud be Say ! Wake up ! Hello ! Hell, but th ' boy is sound asleep ! What 'm I shakin' ye fer? To keep Yer circulation up ! Reckon ye want t ' sup ! An' th' kettle's biled. Besides, my friend, 'Taint jest healthy, I apperhend, Fer ye, with that gold fer yer piller, t' snore Hyar on my cabin floor. Suthin' might happen. I don't say what. Take a bite — an' git, w'ile yer gold ye've got An' yer life's yer own! Eh? How? What 're ye laughin' at now?" 'Tain't no joke, I tell ye— What's that? Not gold ? Only some quartz to assay? Sold? Sold! Thank God! But take my advice: Don't ye never joke that way twice — Some fellers can't take that kind o' a joke. Ye've done yer feed? Fill yer pipe an' smoke. Sorry th' jug's out. Will I jine you? Wall, I don't keer ef I do! [16] THE BETTER SONG. cp Ye call this lonesome, Stranger f Wall, when ye stop to think That it's forty miles from anywhere Ye kin find a drop to drink, P'r'aps 'tis a trifle lonesomelike ; To a feller what only knows Sech kempany as th' town kin give 'Tis lonesome, I suppose ; Bat to me thar's kempany enough, 'nd a dern sight better, too ; I wouldn't swap the friends I hev Fer th' best ye ever knew. Ye'd like to know 'em? Easy 'nough, Ef ye've only th' mind to try. We'll hev to put th' candle out, Fer th ' critters 're summat shy ; 'nd ye '11 hev to sit on th' stoop hyar, still, 'nd use yer eyes 'ncl ears — That 's how I 've kim to make my friends ; I've done it fer twentv vears. 17 Now cast yer eyes across th ' lake To th' p'int whar th' moonlight ends 'nd that pine on th' ridge thar cuts th' sky That pine-tree's one o' my friends. Ef ye listen right, ye kin hear 'im sing, 'nd his v'ice is sweet 'nd low. Ye ought t' hear 'im lead th' quire AVhen th ' warm chinook-winds blow ! Right under him, at th' water's edge, Thar's a salt-lick, whar th' deer Come down at night. Ye kin see 'em pass When th' moon is shinin' clear — Jest shadders black agin th' stars. That make no sort o ' sound, 'nless Big Tom stampedes th ' herd ; He's sometimes prowlin' round. Big Tom? He's another friend o' mine. I reckon thar aint nowhere A bigger mountain-cat ner him Awearin' yaller hair. Shoot him? No, stranger; I reckon not. He's never done nothin' to me. I pick no quarrel with anyone. So long 's they lets me be. 18 Besides, thar's a music in his v'ice That 's solemn-like 'nd grand AVhen that roar o' his comes rollin' down Across th' valley-land, 'nd all th ' n 'ises o ' th ' night 're sudden hushed, until Ye seem t ' hear th ' starlight fall, It gets so awful still. Ye think it's quiet now? Why, man. Thar's more 'n a thousand notes O ' livin ' breathin ' critters here Atr,vin ' t ' bust their throats : 'tween th' crickets 'nd frogs 'nd katydids, 'nd th' owl in that big fir-tree, 'nd th' splashin' trout, 'nd th' rustlin' pines, Thar's a regular jubilee. Thar's th' cry o' th' loon thar on th' ]fiko! That's th' one unhappy note. That goes agin th' grain; 't makes A lump rise in my throat ; Fer it brings back other — younger — days. Spite o' all that I kin do. I mightn't mind it so much, ef — well. Ye see, her name was Lou ; 19 'nd when that big, black, lonesome bird Her name so sadly calls It seems like mockin ' o ' my thoughts ; 'nd my spirits alius falls; Fer thar wont no callin' bring her back — Er this c^bin, I opine, 'ucl hev a rose-bush by th' door, 'nd a mornin '-glory vine ; 'nd th' floor 'd be white, 'nd th' dishes 'd shine, 'nd best o' all, thar 'd be A sweet-faced gal asitting' thar With a lovin' smile fer me. It was only th' same old story, sir, With nothin' about it strange. We two was young in them old days, 'nd kim West, fer a change, With a hope some day to go back rich, flighty hard we tried ; But th' prospeck didn't pan out well— 'nd Lou fell sick — 'nd died. 20 She lies down yander, by th' lake, On that little rise o ' ground AVhar ye noticed th' clearin' when ye kim, With heartsease growin' round. She alius loved them blossoms best — I 'm hopin ' that she knows That they are thar 'nd that I 'm here, To see as how they grows. But thar ! I've said enough to show Why I 'm content to stay, 'nd why I feel less lonesome here Than any place away; 'nd th' crickets, 'nd frogs, 'nd katydids, 'nd th' owl in that big fir-tree, 'nd th' splashin' trout, 'nd th' rustlin' leaves 're kempany 'nough f er me — Till th' sun may rise on a better day — 'nd I'm hopin' 'twont be long — When with her. in th' Better Place, 111 hear Th ' only better song ! 21 THE LOON. cp Calling, calling, with notes that pour Their tremulous measure from shore to shore, Sad with the sadness the wilderness knows, A plaintive melody ebbs and flows. With its coming, a hush like death Falls on the Forest ; with bated breath Each dweller wild its own note stills To hark to the voice that the silence fills. Sorrowful, shuddering, yet so clear That it startles and thrills each wakeful ear, As it mournfully searches the darkness through For ''Loo-oo-oo ! Loo-oo-oo-oo !" ^ 22 THE DRIVER'S STORY. cp Ye see that cabin up thar in th' pines? It's mostly hidden by them trailin' vines, 'Ceptin' the window, which, jest like an eye, Watches th' trail yere fer th' passer-by. 'Twarn't long ago — an' yet it seems an age Since when, on rattlin' past yere with th' stage. That window used to be th' framin place Fer old Bill Miller's purty darter's face. I alius noticed it, bercuss, ye see. She 'd wave her hand an ' blow a kiss to me — An' .sich-like favors hyarabouts, as yet, Aint numerous enough to quite ferget. Ye needn't cock yer eye like that an' smile! That friendliness o' hern lit many a mile 0' dusty trail fer me; but on th' sq'ar', 'Twarn't nothin' more'n friendliness, that thar. I couldn't hope fer more'n that from her. Why, she was like them fine princesses were In that thar book she give t' me last Fall,— 'Ceptin' that she was purtier'n 'em all. 23 Yer right ; I knowed her well. Ye see, I UvSed T' stop thar, jest t' keep old Bill amoosed. Th' old man set a powerful store by me. Though why he should I couldn 't rightly see, An' Bess was alius watchin' down th' trail Fer me bercuss I used t ' tote th ' mail. So things went on ; an ' letters kim fer her ; But I — I didn't anj^thin' infer. It was th' fust snow — that off leader, Pete. Had a hard time t ' keep his slipp 'ry feet — A smirkin' sort o' cuss dim up an took A seat by me at Butte. I gave a look An' said that seat I reckoned mine t' fill. I was about t' give th' cuss a spill When, lookin' at th' measly critter's face, It struck me I'd no mail fer Miller's place — An' like a flash it come t' me that it Mought have been him as had them letters writ. That was enough. T let him settle down; An' when we'd struck th' rise beyond th' town I up an' axed ef he was goin' through. ''Narry," savs he; '^Bill Miller's ranch '11 do." 24 I wasn't minded fer to pick a fuss, An' yet I couldn't help but ax th' cuss AA^har he was from. He wasn't fazed th" least, But ans'ered, off-hand like, ''From way down East." ''How d'ye know Bill Miller?" "Don't," says he. "Then why 're ye goin' tharV He winked at me An' I could choked th' cuss I reckon, glad. As he replied that Bill a darter had. "I come to know her," he explained, "last year When she was at th' seminary, near To whar I lived." I alius thought that Bill Had bin a fool to send Bess East, to fill Her purty head with notions — but, ye see. To give th' old man p'ints I wasn't free. I set him down at Miller's. Thar an' then I knowed thar warn't no chance fer other men; An' so it proved. No, sir; ye havn't guessed — Ye couldn't, though yer keen enough — th' rest As f oiler eel. 25 Old Bill owned th' ''Silver Queen," Th' which I reckon, panned a million clean. That thar's the how he sent Bess East t' 1 'arn T ' be a lady, at some fool consarn As didn't spoil her quite, but whar she met An ' come t ' love that cuss — an ' loves him yet ! An' he — I reckon he had heered about Th' way Bill Miller's Silver Queen panned out. Though p 'raps I 'm wrong ; he may hev loved her, too — As no man half a man could help but do, Arter that I swapped routes, an' tuk a run Acrosst th' plains a trip 'r so, fer fun. It kind o' riled, ye know, t' pass this way An' miss th' friendliness Bess used t' pay. I reckon I'd bin runnin' east'ard vStill But that another chap kim long t' fill This seat beside me — pumped me all th' way About that cuss who'd come to Bill's to stay. That made me twig that mought be summat wrong, So I swapped back agin, an' kim along. 26 He was a slender little chap, this one, Who, though he'd plenty questions, ans'ered none. Aclimbin' up th' slope, we both was still ; But as we reached th' rise o' this hyar hill, By Miller's cabin thar we spied them two. Bill Miller's Bess an' him, acomin' through Th' pines jest yonder. Right yere, with a frown But nary word, my little chap lep' down An' laid fer 'em. I pulled up short, an' they Come along do^ii to see what was to pay ; An ' when he clapped his sneaky eyes upon Th' little chap I'd brung, he looked to run, But didn't — fer ye see th' little skeet Had drawed a gun an ' kivered him complete ! Jest how it happened I don 't know ; but Bess, Lookin' at me, an' then at them, no less AVhite'n the new-fell snow upon th' ground, Turned to th' little chap, an', with a bound, Grabbed the six-shooter — then, as cool as me, Kivered her cringin' lover. ''Now," says she, ''I half-way guess — ^^this aint no time to lie. What has he done, that he desarves to die 1 ' ' 27 ^ ' Done ! ' ' sobbed th ' little chap ; but said no more, Fer down his cheeks th' tears begun t' pour An' choked him up; an' jest then I began To savey clo 'es don 't alius make a man ; For this yere little skeet was jest a lass. Who'd follered him, bereuss — but let that pass. Bess laughed. I hope I'll never hear again A laugh like that o' hern, so full o' pain. An' then she handed up th' gun to me. ^'I reckon you'll know what to do," says she; ^ ' Take these two with ye — guard 'em like yer life— An' when ye reach town, make 'em man an' wife!"' I said I reckoned ef I failed I'd pay His funeral expenses on th' way. An ' so Bess left us. An ' I wheeled 'em down. An ' saw him marry her that night in town. Old Bill instanter tuk his gal away — They're some'ers now in Europe, so they say— 28 An ' I 'm agoin ' to swap acrosst th ' range ; I feel as if I 'd got t ' have a change. Why don't I stay? She mought come back? I guess Ye don 't know much about sich gals as Bess ! 29 THE MISSING MAN. One Wolf— And Another One. cp A lone wolf howled in the tamarack vsvvamp, A¥here a man had staggered away. And the ghostly gleam of a cold moonbeam Disclosed where the missing man lay. The missing man roused at the lone wolf's howl. And raised the flask at his side, And, shuddering there in the moon's cold glare, Took one last drink — and died. The gaunt wolf cowered, but did not run; He crouched with gleaming eyes, And his blood-red tongue from his lean chops hung As he gloated over his prize. The following day the lone wolf lay And lazily blinked in the sun; And the bones stripped bare bore evidence there That his work had been well done. ao To the logging-camps of our frozen North The mails bring stained requests. Mis-spelt and crude, that serve for food For the Rum-seller's idle jests. The bones still lie where the wolves may spy This work of tivo of their clan ; — And a woman in tears still pens her fears, Seeking news of her missing man. IN THE CONFESSIONAL. Believe me, Father ! My one desire — The thing that burned like living fire Within my breast — Was but to find him and make him mend Her broken heart — the wrong to end — And leave to God the rest. He should wed her. No other thought Was mine. No more than this I sought. Though happiness Might never be for her again. She should at least be spared the pain, The shame — the soul's distress. I found him. How, it matters not. Few words I used. Bluntly I told him what I tliought. He seemed amused. Hotly I persevered. And he — but sneered. Then, with dumb fury, in my rage I sprang, intent Upon his lying throat to wage An argument 32 More potent than the one My tongue had spun. Hushed were his taunts, in terror merged; Lost was his mocking art. It was a giant's strength that surged Up from my bursting heart ; Some Demon urged ]\Iy hands to do their part, And like a vise my fingers clung, Tight, and tighter yet, All of their steel-like muscles strung To the pitch my fury set ; And there they hung Till he should own his debt. How shall I say what followed? AVhy Should I pause — or hesitate? Who shall question Fate"? Dear God ! Was I to blame That, in my blindness. Justice came My purpose to deny? The Debt was owned; the debt was paid. Not as I willed, nor planned, But Fate. Too late my hand Fell from his strangled throat. Never again its lying note Could e'er deceive a maid. And she? I should have told her all. As conscience urged me to. The while I watched her hot tears fall — Each one a drop that scarred my soul, Torturing it beyond control. Then first the truth I knew : That woman, strength and weakness wed, Once loving, loves for aye, Whether for good or ill ; is led The greatest evil to forgive; To suffer all, so love may live, Though love should love betray. FROM THE DEPTHS. cp The blue above and the blue below ; ^lidway from land to land. Cool from the mouth of midnight blow Sea-breaths heavy with brine ; And on the plunging bows I stand And dream, if she were mine ! Deep as the sullen waves that break Against the lifting bows Are the thoughts that in my soul awake Longings vast and vain — High as the starry dome, the vows ; Dumb as the night, the pain. She was a woman. AVhat need for more? That word ''woman" conveys the store Of what is best. Who can fathom, or comprehend How human and divine contend Within a woman's breast? Strength and weakness, subtly blent Into a tuneful instrument Which, touched aright. Yields to the world its sweetest song: That is a woman. But touch it wrong. The song is ended quite. I love her. She may never know, Nor ever care. The art to win the song divine From woman's heart was never mine. That gift is rare. My one endeavor brought me nought but woe. I had no ready tongue at need; I lacked the skill That he possessed, a maid to woo, With honied words — vows seeming true — Her heart to thrill. ]\Iy poor heart could but dumbly silent plead. 'Tis over. Here, neath the stars, alone. Bound for I care not where, I may own what my heart has ever known : That I love her mor(^ and more ; Though I ne'er may hope her love to wear, Nor tell how I adore. The blue above and the blue beloAv ; ]\lidway from land to land; Cool from the mouth of midnight blow; Sea-breaths heavy with brine ; And on the plunging bows T stand And dream : If she were mine ! 36 THE BLIND. op Over the drowsy land The loving hand Of evening laid its hush ; A thrush Contentedly its downy feathers preened And nestled closer neath the leaves that screened Its nest. As came a man within whose heart unrest Lay heavily, and whose thought Knew not the thing his soul, distempered. sought. A ray of moonlight fell. Piercing the dreamy shadows of the dell ; And one tall, stately pine, AVith needles fine, A witching tracery cast. At last He spoke: ''How like a spear The moonlight falls ! The sky — how coldly clear, Like polished steel, making a prison cell Of this poor earth that mortals love so well ; And o'er the enshrouding gloom There fitly rests the silence of a tomb!" 37 Waked by the angry wind, AVith fury blind And deafening roar The billows lash the shore. Black clouds go scurrying by Across the sky, And all the shuddering forest, tempest-tossed, Moans like a spirit lost, As comes a man within whose heart the light Of new-born happiness glows passing bright. He breasts the storm without a thought Of all the havoc that it may have wrought : ' ' Welcome, the wind 's embrace ! What charming grace The waving trees display ! Their lulling song Echoes the harping of some Angel throng ; The breaking waves. Like laughing knaves. Their chorus lend!" So he his way doth wend. And so alone doth Nature's mystic art Attune her moods to every human. heart. The wakened soul doth its own music find In nature 's moods — to nature 's music blind ! 38 1 RONCEVAUX. cp (After Alfred de Vi^ny) I love the sound of the hunter's horn In the depth of the silent wood. Whether it signal the hind at bay. Or voice the hunter's mood; The golden echo of each pure note 'er many a forest mile The north wind carries fitfully. From leafy aisle to aisle. At times, alone, in the early morn T have wakened its sound to hear. And have listened to it, sometimes with a smile, But oftener with a tear; For its sad, prophetic note is filled With the strains of long ago : The challenges blown by knights of eld, Ere grim death laid them low. Oh, mountains oi azure blue, whose crests Are kissed by the bluer sky ! Land adorecl; Rocks of Frpuzona, Who have seen the bravest die ! 39 Cascades of silvery white, from snows Eternal as the seas, To which they rush in torrents of foam From the heights of the Pyrenees ! Mountains frozen, yet flower-bedecked ; Throne of the seasons four ; With thy snow-clad, ice-capped pinnacles, Where only the eagles soar ! It is there, at th,y feet, that one should sit P^'or there one needs must hear The tender air of a distant horn Whose note still echoes clear. Soul of the ''Soul of Chivalry:" Do you not speak again In the melancholy note of the horn That echoes o'er mount and plain? Roncevaux, ah Roncevaux ! In thy dark vale's sombre deep Doth not the noble soul of Roland Still lonely vigil keep ? 40 AT AVALON. The day awakes, as from a pleasant dream, And turning- toward the sun, a golden smile Liglits all the drowsy sea. The birds with song Herald the advent of her rising lord; And she, the Day, with virgin arms upraised. In rapture drains the measure of his love. The homing birds sing on, with softened flow; The sated bloj^soms droop their tender heads; Then, with a pei^eeful sigh of full content, She gives one blushing kiss, one fleeting smile. One last responsive gleam from ocean's depths. And veils her gentle eyes ; and sleeps ! ^ 41 BRITISH COLUMBIA. dp A land where the mountains meet the sea In a boisterous embrace. Where the summer sun and the North-Avind free War for the primal place ; Where the sturdy hemlock, birch and pine, Each sheltered valley claim. And Arctic mosses intertwine AVith the goldenrod aflame. qccio UNREST. cp Here is the mountain, there is the sea. Each a symbol of destiny : AVhat though the mountain top cleaves the sky. What though the clouds kiss its pinnacles high ? AVhat though the ocean caresses the shore, AFurmuring secrets the billows roll o'er? Cold is the kiss that the white vapors weave ; Barren the secret the sea-shells receive. 42 The heart of the wave in its wild unrest Longingly lifts toward the mountain's crest; The deep-prisoned heart of the mountain cave Sighs to embrace the cool, ocean wave ; Yet were stern nature to wed these twain Each would strive for its freedom again ! cpcpcp GADZOOKS ! cp AVhat boy is there, who, having heard The morning songs of bee and bird And marked the gorgeous butterfly Upon its voyage toward the sky ; AYho knows the swimming-pool amid The shady willows safely hid; AVho pictures in his glowing mind The spot where he perchance could find A fisher's nest beside the creek, A squirrel playing hide and seek, A berry-bush with promise bent To lade the air with sweet content — With such bright visions filling up Unto the brim the tempting cup, 43 Has not been forced to drain the dregs Of misery, the while his legs With lagging gait, unto the school Have carried him, to seem the fool And win the dunce-cap or the rod From some pedantic, shriveled clod A¥ho thinks to flog to learning's goal Each prisoned but rebellious soul — The while, through windows high, the lad IMay see the swallows soaring glad, That, as they dip and dart and skim. With freedom seem to mock at him ! 'Tis little strange that lie should miss His lessons on a day like this, ' But passing strange it is that he. When grown to grave maturity. Should such a day at school recall And deem it happiest of all. ^ 44 « THE CREAM OF THE MILKING. cp With heads above the mangers bent, The cattle munch in slow content The fragrant hay, AVhich to the stable-loft has lent A memory of May ; The while, with golden ringlets pressed To Mooley's flank, and pail at rest Between her knees, Fair Polly sits, in apron dressed, Amilking at her ease. Her petticoats are tucked with care About her, and reveal a pair Of dainty feet And just a tantalizing share Of ankles trim and neat ; And as the slender streams begin To beat a merry, tuneful din Upon the pail. Her gawky lover shuffles in. With tongue and heart that fail. 45 In awkward silence then his eyes Tell plainly what he vainly tries To say to her — Which Polly, quite contrariwise. Refuses to infer. The creamy foam within the ]^ail ^lounts swiftly upward toward the bail; The milking 's done ; And he. who would her heart assail. Still lingers dumbly on. He lifts the milk-pail and the stool And, feeling more and more the fool. Beside her goes ; And thinks he'd give the world to school His tongue to tell his woes. Then from the pail filled to the brim He spills a mite, alack, and him To task she takes ; 4 But he, with resolution grim, A noble effort makes : ''I'm glad I did it, Polly dear; J For like this brimming bucket here You've filled niA^ heart 46 So brimming full, 'twill break, I fear. Unless it spills a part. "Stop laughing at me, Polly, do! Of course I did 'nt mean that you ]\Iy heart had filled With milk ! 'Tis full of love as true As e'er a man's heart thrilled. ' ' T 've told it in a clumsy way I know — but there: Come, Polly! Say That you will fill My heart and life and all for aye." And Polly laughs. "I will!" cpcp THE OLDEST INHABITANT. cp The first song of the robin Sets my poor old heart a-throbbin' And I find myself a-sobbin' For the thoughts I can't express; For the song-birds are our brothers: All of us old Nature mothers, And with their love-songs she smothers All our human cussedness. 47 THE DARK. dp The hour when sunbeams fade and die And twilight shrouds them in a pall; When hushed is every song-bird's cry, And hesitating dew-drops fall To touch with heaven 's tears the rose And scatter fleeting pearl-drops shy Upon the new-mown mead, that knows The night wind's low, complaining sigh; The hours when, in the deepening gloom, The children cuddle by the fire And fill the shadows of the room AVith fear-imagined spectres dire ; When ghostly corners by the stair An aspect new and strange assume. And one becomes a griffin's lair. And one an entrance to a tomb ; This hour is loved the best of all l)y age, whose lonely heart mny trace, The whi^e, the glowing embers fall, Th(^ lines of each beloved face. And glean a touch of solace still. As longing memories recall The forms that only thus may fill The vacant chairs beside the wall. 48 TO ELBERT HUBBARD. A Prophecy, May 8, 1915. cp The Gates have opened wide to you; j\Ien say your work is done. But men are wrong. If they but knew, Your work has just begun. 49 LOVE'S FIRST TOUCH. cp 111 the dread moments when the rebellious soul I\Iasters its sentinels, throws wide the door, Lets in the light upon the faded images Within the secret depths of memory, And contemplates the wreck of promises. The blasted hopes, the unfulfilled desires. That mark the pathway of the wasted years, Eecalling, one by one, the days that were. Their dreams, ambitions, faiths and fallacies, There is one scene that dominates the whole, A masterpiece, immortal as the soul Howe'er the will may seek to blot it out: A face, whose ideal lineaments, engraved By one great master-touch upon the heart. Stand forth in vivid colors that defy The hand of time to mar or mellow them. tji 50 A QUESTION. cp Beneath the shade A little maid Sank down among the clover. Though indiscreet, The grasses sweet To slumber won her over; And as she slept, Dan Cupid crept, With elfish mischief teeming, To breathe a sigh On either eye. Then fled and left her dreaming. And now the maid Is sore afraid. For she beholds a wonder : As fair a man As heart could plan Or maiden vision ponder. With sigh and vow He woos her now, And. now would claim her answer ; And causes fear To disappear — For love's a necromancer, 51 And skilled to paint The sinner saint, Or prove the coward fearless, Or clothe bold vice With artifice Of virtues seeming peerless. She feels the bliss Of love 's first kiss Upon her dainty fingers. And then the charm Of kisses warm, As on her lips he lingers; And so she knows The rapturous throes That ne'er can be repeated — For heart that's won And left undone Can ne'er again be cheated. Were you or I To happen by And know that thus she's dreaming, That her light heart Would break to part With wluit is but a seeming, 52 Say : Would we wake The maid, to break The heart that she is staking ? Or would we let Her slumber yet, And guard her from awaking? qocpcp THE SONG OF THE WORLDS. cp What is the breath of the summer sky ? What does it whisper the roses. That all of their dainty petals sigh And blush at the tale it discloses? What have the murmuring leaves to tell? Of what is their low song treating, That the drooping buds of the shy harebell Are stealthily repeating? It is the secret nature hears In every zephyr blowing ; It is the secret of the spheres; The only one worth knowing ! 53 TOUJOURS. Le cceur de mon ami. dp Through all my days, on all my \^'ays, There is naught in the world but this: The dream divine that held you mine And the memory of your kiss. In that far time, that gentle clime. When I came in the sun to you, ]\Iy skies were bright, my world alight, { And to worship was all I knew. I Though dear desire, the flame, the fire, ]\Iay have died in a path of pain, \ Though youth be gone, the dream be done, ^ Can we say I have loved in vain? God sent you. Sweet, to guide my feet. Though in absence my heart be wrung. By frights and fears and bitter tears. And the song of my soul be sung. Through all my days, on all my ways. There is naught in the world but this: Your image fair, my heart's despair, And the joy it was mine to miss. 54 THE BIRTH OF LOVE. cp Yon held a flower one day between yonr lips Whose fragrance mingled with yonr own sweet breath. It seemed to glean delight from the eclipse, As if all bitterness had passed from death. And to your lips to cling, until to mine You pressed its dying petals — then your soul Through it my spirit thrilled, as might the wine Men called "The tears of Christ," because the vine AVhose rich life fed the luscious grapes was grown From the hot heart of the volcano lone. Unto my heart of hearts the perfume stole. And there, till death shall come, 'twill ever lie. Breathing a memory that ne'er can die Though all else crumble into finest dust — Since love lives ever, and forever must ]\Iy soul be thine and thy remembrance be The sweetest music in Eternity. 55 CHOOSE. cp The gleaming stars are longing to embrace The sunlight warm that they reflect so fair, But fate allots to each of them its place And coldly binds it there ; Yet now and then one too rebellious grows And shoots, a flaming meteor, through the sky — One fleeting glimpse of paradise it knows, And then is doomed to die ! Whose is the better fate : the star that stays Afar and constantly reflects the sun. Or that which, breaking from empyreal ways, A taste of heaven won ? I ^ 56 THE BRIGHTEST STAR. cp The brightest star that in the heavens burns May seem to wander ere the night be flown, But 'tis the world that from the star-light turns ; The star burns on, alone. True love is faithful as the constant star And shines the brightest in the darkest hour : The star burns on alone ; True love till life be done. cpcpcp AN AUTOGTRAPH. cp Upon this virgin page I write My autograph for you tonight With clumsy art. Far more enduring may I trace My name, and with a better grace. Upon your heart. 57 THE WATERS OF FATE. cp The ocean, with its moods, majestic, grand, Beating upon the sand With baffled power, But parallels life's storm-tossed hour Tempestuous. Yet here and there are shallow, stagnant ponds. Moss-hedged and strewn with fronds, Slime-clad and dank; No ripple ever stirs from bank to bank Their waters calm. Like these, some lives are quiet to the end: Emotions never rend Their depths unknown. Or stir their passions ; calm and lone, They suffer not. Barren the stagnant fate such lives enfold ; Better the ocean bold. The life that's deep. With power to laugh, to moan, to rage, to weep. To understand ! 58 HELLO, CENTRAL! Of all the voices that most delight There is one that is soft and sweet and low, AVhose call I obey, be it day or night, To whose cheery cadence and lyrical flow Full many a cherished moment I owe, Although its owner I have never known. But 'tis mine to hear it each hour or so : The musical voice of the girl at the 'phone. She asks, "What number?" in tones that might Be arrows stolen from Cupid's bow. For all of my senses they excite And pervade with a subtle, lingering glow; And I feel I would give the world to know And claim its source for my very own — And I will if it gives me but half a show — The musical voice of the girl at the 'phone. She must be beautiful, loving and bright, With a heart both tender and free, I trow ; And I know she is young, with a figure slight, For these two items she 's deigned to bestow ; 59 But further than this I 'm forbidden to go ; For the rest I must forage in fancy 's zone ; A¥hile dearer daily its accents grow, The musical voice of the girl at the 'phone. cp L 'envoi. Prince: Dan Cupid, our direst foe, Has never a dart from his quiver thrown That could equal this cause of my exquisite woe : The musical voice of the girl at the 'phone ! 60 ''LA DEMI-VIERGE." (Paris Salon, 1900.) op A maiden young and passing fair; No man might boast 'twas his to place A flush of shame upon her face, Or plant a sorrow there; And yet there lurks a smouldering tire Within her eyes, 'neath lashes long, That burn and throb Avith flashes strong Of ill-controlled desire. To wake the beast within the heart Of him who falls beneath their ray And prostrate at her feet to lay A soul debased : Her art ! cp qo C|0 THE BACHELOR. cp Death holds no horror in its varied guise That may compare in agony with this : To feel hot youth leap in the pulsing veins And all the pent up passion of the soul O'erflow and thrill the being 'neath the touch Of one replete to satisfy desire, 61 Yet know that, while the spirit thus is young. The heart untutored, virgin, undefiled, Despiteous Age has stolen unawares The outward semblance of the inner fires. Has streaked the hair with silver, lined the brow, Drained the young color from the shrunken cheeks, Shrivelled the skin and dimmed the lustrous eyes. Bowing the form beneath a growing load Of days, and months, and years. The tortured soul, So prisoned in a living sepulchre With fancies impotent and longings vain. And learning, all too late, that joyous Love Can ne'er in such a ruin find abode. Longs for and totters toward the restful grave. Though not unloving, yet imloved.unmourned. This is a curse to make the dead draw close The mouldering shrouds about their rotting bones And rest contented, in their musty graves. That Heaven spared them such a living doom ! 62 A PRODIGAL. A genial bachelor is the sun, Counting the lonely hours In his high estate, with never a mate To share his ethereal bowers ; But as he goes to his night's repose And the stars peep one by one. He wishes that he a youth might be. With "Love" in his lexicon. Then would he rise and, in some disguise. Beguile the Pleiades fair; The planets he 'd skirt, with Venus he 'd tiirt, No matter how Mars might glare ; With Saturn he'd joke, with Faye's Comet smoke. And the glittering Milky Way He would turn into punch and on nebulae lunch, Till his rays wouldn't fit him next dav! THE INNER LIGHT. cp No jewel gleams till torn from mother earth, And cut and ground ; and so, perchance, the best That lies within each mortal's erring heart By Nature stern is hidden, until Life, By some like cruel art, may conjure forth Its virtues, not for men to know, but God. cpcpcp THE RAG-PICKER. cp Bent and decrepit, on her lonely way In solitary wretchedness she goes ; And yet within that wreck of human clay A soul its clw^elling knows. And who can tell what precious thoughts may lie . , * Locked in her withered breast, beyond our ken, ]^ut clear to Him, wliose all-discerning eye Sees all the thoughts of men f 64 THE REAL HERO. There is many a hard-fought battle lost, And many a victory won, Where one alone may count the cost Or know what the war has done ; There is many a man in the dead of night Has faced his own bare soul. And there, alone, has fought the fight That enslaves or makes him whole ! cp I. MY PRAYER. cp Give us this day our daily task With strength enough to do it well. No other blessing need we ask; In this one all the others dwell. G5 THE FIRST CHRISTMAS. dp There wavS a Christmas long ago When Heaven was young; When its wide portals were aglow With songs unsung ; When no Archangel, with a sword Of flame to guard The habitation of the Lord. The entrance barred. The Empyrean then alone A Presence knew. And all without the inner throne Was empty blue ; And nothing was. and naught had been That Avas to be. Save the one AVill. that held, within. A thought of Three. This was the mystery that wrought The Saving One: From the infinitude of Thought There came a Son; 66 And with the Son, Love, heaven-blessed A Trmity Omnipotent to manifest Divinity. G7 THE SCOFFER. cp He stands alone within the darkened room, Silent and chill, from which her spirit fled ; With stony gaze, unheeding of the gloom, He looks upon his dead. But yesterday — a withered blossom blown By fleeting time from off the tree of life And lost within the fathomless unknown — This lived and was his wife. But yesterday — an alien to grief, Untaught by woes that now upon him weigh — He scorned her faith, he mocked at her be- lief: He cannot scoff today. He flings himself beside the senseless clay Dry-eyed; no tears have lightened his de- spair ; His trembling lips have never learned to pray, Yet now they move in prayer ! 68 A FLOWER. High on the mountain, where the chill winds blow Wooing the glaciers of eternal snow Whose heart of ice is proof against the sun, Close to a granite rock, he found. Nestling upon the lichen-covered ground. Where it a sterile resting-place had won, A tender violet of deepest blue. He gazed, enraptured ; and perchance it knew The love it had awakened in his heart. For, as he knelt, its soul's sweet incense free A promise breathed of immortality — In which a thing so pure might share a part. One by his side said, '''Tis the queen of flowers ! Stoop lower, love, and make the blossom ours. ' ' "Not ours but God's," he answered, passing on; "Perchance its mission has but just begun." 69 I PASSIM. '! Hushed in Nature's lullaby Lo, the old year drifts away, . With a silent exequy O'er the joys of yesterday. Buried fathoms deep are they 'Neath the hours that heavy lie, Sombre, wraith-like, cold and grey. Hushed in Nature's lullaby. Hushed in Nature's lullaby One more year is born today. All the whispering breezes sigh Promises of joys that may Prove but phantoms to betray » Longing hopes that fruitless lie, As the slow hours fade away. Hushed in Nature's lullaby. Hushed in Nature's lullaby All that is shall be some day ; And new worlds, mysteriously Wrought from out this world's decay. Drifting through the empyreal way. Naught shall dream of what may lie, v Under Time's relentless sway. Hushed in Nature's lullaby. 70 THE SONG OF AZRAEL. cp What is the world to me? A throne. What are its peoples? All my own. Who is my master ? I have none ; I rule alone. AVhat is the secret I guard so well? Is there a Heaven ? Is there a hell ? Is there a future life? To tell Would break my spell ! 71 LIFE. cp To laugh a little, Love a little, Grieve a little; Then To answer to the summons Of life's Great Amen. All over? Ended? Gone? Oh, God : Not just to hope — To know A day will dawn When we may meet again The one whose loss we mourn for Here below! cpcpcp 72 THE BIRTH OF IRIS. In the dark confines of the frozen zone Aurora stoops to kiss the crystal seas, With Hght caresses weaving rhapsodies Of prismic hues whose secret is God's own; The stately bergs, from their chill birthplace blown By the harsh chiding of the Arctic breeze, Drift aimlessly where e'er the wind decrees, When shiv'ring summer o'er their realm has flown. And silent pass adown the ocean stream, Gaunt, lonely sentinels upon the deep. Till, worn by wasting sun, fantastic grown. O'er shimmering minarets there glint and gleam A mj^riad mystic rays, that vigil keep To glean the rainbows by Aurora sown. cpcpcp JMITCH IN LITTLE. cp A cheering word, a loving deed. An hour well spent : By these alone we know the meed Of pure content. 73 MY TRIAD. cp I have a graveyard all my own Where I seek to bury my dead, With never a tear and never, a moan And never a burial read. Deep in my heart is my burial-ground AVhere I seek to lay them away ; But their ghosts remain, and follow me round Through many a night and day. Through many a weary day and night The ghosts of my dreams pursue, And refuse to stay buried out of sight, Spite of all that I can do; For each of my dreams to Hope was wed, 1 And hope will never die. But insists on resurrecting the dead f And whispering: ''Try again — TRY!" ; There's the ghost of the Rugged Labrador * With its rainbows trapped in stone And holding a world of wealth in store That I thought to make my own ; But my puny strength was not enough To set the mountain free ; And it lies there — diamonds in the rough — And still is calling to me. 74 With it the ghost of my bid for fame Just simply will not down, And it whispers, "Try again — be game; In the end you may win renow^n ! ' ' So I scribble each night for an hour or two Rubbish no one will buy — For my punk ideas always seem brand new^ And they give me the itch to try. Then there's the ghost of four years of life Adrift on a copper wave. It w^on't stay buried — spite of my wife, Who told me to dig its grave. It dogs my steps, and it tells me true : "I am here in Green Mountain high Waiting for you. Get busy ; do ; And finish that tunnel— TRY!" There's another that haunts me more than all And wakens a longing warm ; 'Tis the ghost of days beyond recall That were lived back on the farm; And the hope is with me day and night That sometime, ere I die, I may try it again — and try it right — And'^I'm going to TRY to TRY! 75 DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES? cp Do you believe in fairies? I do, And I think to believe in them pays : To those who have faith they are helpful and true As they were in our nursery days. This world has its terrible giants, too. Despite of that small hero, Jack, Warm friend of our youth, who, they say, killed a few. But who left a lot more to come back. There's that powerful giant. ''AVhat People May Say;" And the selfish one, ''What Do I Care;" * And his impudent brother, ''Get Out of My Way;" And their arrogant friend, ''You Don't Dare." The first sets the fashion for frivolous folk ; The next turns their heart into stone; The third will most certainly trouble invoke; The fourth 's fool temptations are known. 76 These are but a few of the hundreds we know, ]\Iany being far worse than these four. Some giants know you — think a moment or so, And you'll recognize those at your door. All of which brings me back to the Fairies again ; And I '11 show that the Fairies are near, To fight with our giants with might and with main Whenever we bid them appear: From these Fairies I'll name you will see what I mean : There is one that is called, ''Am I Right!" "What People May Say" will be conquered, I ween. If we call on this fairy to fight. Another is styled, "Wliy not make him a Friend?" He delights to strike "What Do I Care," And if but encouraged will soon put an end To that giant, whose friendships are rare. 77 ''If You Please" is a Fairy whom all of us know Will succeed, where ''Get Out of My Way'' Leads on to a quarrel, perhaps to a blow. So encourage this Fairy to stay ; And "Plain Common Sense" is the best, I confess. When ' ' You Don 't Dare ' ' is challenging you — But I've told you enough of the Fairies I guess To make you believe in them too. cpcpcp 78 WEAVERS ALL. To do the very best we can, And always to be trying To do a little better — then To crown it all by dying* ! It matters not how much we do Of work that life may give ns, There's always more, when we are through For all those who outlive us. The work the world contains in store Can be comx:)leted never, But we are given more and more To test our best endeavor. Is all of this to be for naught — This harvest we are gleaning? By every heart-beat we are taught That work has other meaning. Although I can but darkly see, I am content to leave it To Him who weaves Eternity And bids us help to weave it. 79 NATURE'S P^AN. cp Rhythmic is the universe; song its best expression. Everything has music of its own. Anthems of the ages gird the stars in their procession, Gleaming sentinels before the Throne. Land and ocean, hill and dale, plain and wood and river. Chant their choruses, majestic, grand. All are heard in Heaven by all life's Eternal Giver, Who alone can fully understand. Songs He hears from human hearts, save from those resistant, Guarding what they do not dare reveal ; Yet in each one's heart a thought, silent but insistent, Prompts us to confess what we conceal ; Urges to the final day ; and I ween is grateful When that day, releasing us from pain. Liberates our songs unsung from the pressure hateful That imprisoned each new-born refrain. 80 Ah, the songs our hearts might voice, were we like the river, Running true from source to ocean far, Open, fearless, unafraid, without cause to quiver When at last we cross the outer bar. Be assured the song released, winging on before us To the portal, where is noted all, There will add its melody to the swelling chorus Praising Him who heeds the sparrow's fall cjocpqo 81 FIDUS ACHATES. cp I have a tantalizing friend. But only death, I wot. Our foolish partnership can end — And even Death may not. Too oft' I know his actions show That he is not a friend, And yet I love the rascal so His motives I defend. Because of him I've often shed The bitterest of tears — But like most other tears, they're wed To laughter it appears. For him I fight with all my might. When he requires my aid ; And whether he be wrong or right The fight must still be made. I've bled for him full many times, And know I shall again ; I'm doomed to suffer for his crimes And share with him his pain ; Yet I'll defend him till the end Shall lay us on the shelf — So precious is this reckless friend — For he's MY OTHER SELF! 82 « "SHALL WE GATHEE AT THE RIVER?" ■ op When June is young and the fields are filled With the fragrant breath of flowers, When the birds begin their nests to build In the midst of the leafy bowers. When the murmuring brooks their melodies add To the music of the spheres, Then a wee, small voice in my heart is glad. For it wakens, and perseveres; And these are the things it whispers : '^I shall hound you till you die; You shall never be free from my virgent plea ; You shall never escape my cry. I will follow you up to Heaven — Or your cosy seat by the fire — But you will rejoice to hear my voice. For I am j^our heart 's desire ! ' ' And these are the things I wonder: Does the voice ring true? Must I go. When the world's attune with each new June. To the crystal streams I know? 83 Am I so innoculated With the virus of ' ' rod and fly ' ' That I'm bound to say I shall feel that way Till the very day I die ? Will it follow me up to Heaven — Or my hotter place lower down? Will Peter grin if I smuggle in A trunk-rod under my gown? Do you think I shall be arrested If I tear up the Golden Street In a search for bait? Am I doomed by fate To be thus indiscreet? Are there trout in the streams of Heaven? In the Styx are there channel-cat? Will Charon permit me to fish a bit From the stern of his gruesome flat? These are but natural questions To all who have the disease That cannot be cured — that must be endured. All join in the ''Chorus," please! 84 SEEING RED. cp In the eddying pool, where the shadows cool Play over the rushing stream. The brook trout lies with drowsy eyes, Till he catches a fluttering gleam; Then a plunging dash and a lightning flash His sinuous grace reveal. As his freedom ends and the lithe rod bends To the whir of the spinning reel. A keen suspense — to muscles tense The taut line swishes and sings. Swerves and plays, trembles and sways. As he fights the fight of kings ; Then a dip of the net you will never forget. As he at your mercy lies : The battle is done, and you have won A monarch for your prize ! qocpcp 85 9 THE OLD PROSPECTOR. * S A wanderer, searching for secrets That nature hides in her breast, Striving for keys to the mysteries That are locked in her treasure chest ; Sturdily hopeful ever, Trusting a fortunate turn Lies in his way and some lucky day Will give him a million to burn. He has followed trails of the Fairies ; For Will-o '-th '-wisps he has sought; Yet seldom to feel he has wasted the real For rainbows that cannot be caught. i His prize is all in the seeking : j It lies in the wandering far AVhere ranges lie that limit the sky, AVith Hope for his guiding star. There is nothing he has not ventured ; Nothing he has not dared. Dangers for him have given life vim, No matter how he has fared. Nor tropical wars and fevers, Nor Labrador's ice and cold. Could dim that star he has followed afar In his life-long search for gold. 86 To his star he is true, and his seasons Have flown like a fleeting dream, Yielding him naught but the final thought That life is but what it may seem. He cruises on in his rambles All over the luring world, And never will revSt from his hopeful quest Till the time when his sails are furled. cpcpcp THE OLD PROSPECTOR'S REPLY. cp He read the words I had written, And he said: ''You have painted true, For you knoAv me well ; but you do not tell ]\Ian3^ things that are known to you ; And you fail to describe the treasure My luck has bestowed on me — Though you certainly know how much I owe To that part of my history. ' ' Have you nothing to say of Freedom ? Is freedom a thing of worth? j\Iost of mankind are slaves, I find. To something or other on earth ; .87 They are hedged about by their masters ; Their lives are seldom their own ; They stand or fall at some beck or call. With Freedom a thing unknown, ''My freedom I risked in the desert. You found me there. It was well. But what does that count against the amount Of other things we could tell? We have threaded tight corners together On many a trail we have met, And you've fought my fight, whether wrong or right. Some things a man doesn't forget. ''Which is how I lay claim to a treasure, The richest the gods bestow. Should I not rejoice that I have my choice Of the greatest blessings I know? Those mortals are poor with their millions AVho have lived and who never have kenned What is worth far more than their golden store : The love of a faithful friend." 88 WHY THE B. P. O. 1^. cp Because we teach men charity ; And teach them, too, to know That "charity" is not the fee Men thoughtlessly bestow; That charity of only pence Is not the sort that He, Who came the Lord to evidence And died upon the tree. That w^e a better life might live. Taught unto those He led. The charity He bade men give To other things w^as wed: The charity He sought to teach Was that of being kind; To help the drowning sinner reach The shore, his sin behind; To give the poor the needed pence. But grant them also then The charity of common sense And aid them to be men; 89 To cheer all those in need of cheer ; To comfort those in pain; To dry an erring brother's tear And bid him try again. That charity the Master tanght Is registered above; But all men's giving counts for naught, If given without love. This is the Brotherhood we strive To teach the world to know; This is the secret why we thrive And ever greater grow. 90 THOU AND I. cp Whj^ sorrow over what the past has writ, AVhen neither God nor man can alter it ? Is not the future still our own to write In letters large? Why waste it, bit by bit? Is he not weak who would his screed blot out, His craven heart a prey to fear and doubt ? The strong man writes, nor cares that others read. For he alone knows what it is about. And whether he has writ for good or ill No one can truly estimate, until The final reckoning rolls up the scroll : Then figure if you can, the total bill. "Wiseacres deem it theirs all scrolls to read : What they themselves have written, do they heed ? What reader of them reads between the lines And comprehends the motives for each deed ? If there be final reckoning for those Who fill their scrolls with verses to the close, When the Recording One has read it all What will His verdict be? Who knows? Who knows? 91 This lesson Omar taught to me today ; And listening, I heard the Potter say : '^The garden of our youth lives in our hearts. ' ' Shall they yield flowers — or weeds — our Pots of Ciay? 92 PARDS. cfc) No use fer a measly yaller dawg, Stranger ? Mebbe he 's measly yaller to ye, But he 's stuck t ' me in all kinds o ' danger ; He aint no measly yaller to me — T' me all his yaller hair is golden, Same's that faithful ole heart o' his, Th' which is a true, likewise a bold un — As mebbe ye'd 'low ef his dander riz. Ye kin kick 'im out'n yer way, an' he'll stan^ it- He wouldn 't r 'ar on his own account ; But jest lay yer hand on me, Stranger, an it Fotches 'im up like a catamount. Is that a scar on his breast ? Well, ruther ! An inch too fur t' th' right, by luck, Er he wouldn' be hyar — ner me nuther. That scar's proof o' my pardner's pluck. How kim he by it ? Happened this way, sir : Arter a year in th' Sangre Range, I struck a find — th' Bonanza Placer. Made up my mind as how, fer a change. 93 I'd lay low an' pan it out quiet — Warn't no neighbors t' bother jest then; Leadville finds had kicked up a riot, Stampedin' most o' th' other men. Hid at th' work, till I struck a big pocket. — How big? Over two thousan' o' dirt! Think I could hold then ? Jest like a rocket. Streaked it t' town, like a fool fer a spurt. Likewise, I reckon as how I had un — Lord! Didn't last long. Got in th' game Feller named Slyke put up. He was a bad un ; Should a had ''Slick," stead o' Slyke fer a name. Wile I was buckin' Slyke, back o' my shoul- der That was a Greaser. He had a phiz Just one glim o' w'ich made ye feel colder — Jest like a rattler's, them eyes o' his. Moved like a snake, too. I never twigged it Wen th' cuss follered me out o' thar T' th' fandango, whar I jigged it An ' blew in w 'at I had left at th ' bar. 94 Nex' day, arter I'd slep' off th' danza. Me an' Pard meandered back up th' slope. Thinkin' o' nothin' but th' Bonanza — 'Taint no use. when yer dust 's gone, t ' mope. Got thar at bed-time, petered an' nappy — Leadin' a burro haint jest all fun — Eolled myself up in my big serape, Too dern tired t' look t' my gun. P'raps 'twas a couple o' hours I'd slep' fer: Thar was a growd an' a rush, an' a yell. Pard thar, who snoozed aside me, 'd lep' fer Suthin' 'r other — I couldn't quite tell. Fer. spite o' moonlight, thar in th' cabin It was a lot too dark to see — Only I saveyed ole Pard w^as a-nabbin' Suthin 'r other as wouldn't agree. I drawed my gun. but th ' dern thing buckled Back on th' trigger — thar Avas th' »sweep O' a knife — saw it flash — ^then th' feller knuckled Under an' fell, with Pard, in a heap. 95 Ole Pard whined, but he stuck right to it, Th' w'iles that critter squirmed an' choked — Jes' fer a minute — then Pard knew it AVas about over. He crawled an' poked That red nose o' his, hot an' drippin'. Inter my hand; an' then he keeled. Ef ye hev seed a loved one slippin' Inter th' shadder, ye know how I feeled. That's how it happened. Course 'twas th' Greaser. Pard pulled out, but th' Greaser was through, Reckon as how he'd a done fer me, sir, Ef ole Pard byar hadn't proved true. That's how he kim by the scar. I tell 'im That's made us ekal pards fer life. What did ye say, sir? How? Would T sell 'im! Stranger, say: would ye sell yer wife? 96 THE DOUBLE INQUEST. cp He claimed his name was "Donolme," Though known as '^Broncho Bill." He shorely could ride bronc's a few, An' joyed t' show his skill. He joyed jokes, too — no doubt o' that, He joyed a joke immense. He joyed a joke — but joyed it at Th ' other chap 's expense ! Th' boys diskivered Bill could shoot — AVe'd heard he'd made a kill — An ' no one but a stray galoot Would cared t' laugh at Bill. Bill 'gaged t' bust a ''Outlaw" fer Th' boss o' th' correll, An' what proceeded t' occur Is shorely fierce t' tell. Bill roped an' throwed an' bridled 'im An' cinched th' bridle tight, Afore that squealin' bunch o 'sin Could loose his dynamite, 97 An ' Bill, th ' minit that he riz, AVas on his back — an ' say : I 'low as how ole Bill got his — Thar shore was hell t ' pay ! I've saw a lot o' buckin stock, Th' kind that squeal an' bawl. But that thar outlaw shore could knock Th' tar out of 'em all. So much was doin' fer a spell We couldn't rightly see W'ich part was bronc' an' w'ich part Bill. They mixed it up so free. Till Bill whipped out his arsenal An' let a bullet iiy — Th' boys quit larfin fer a spell — I reckon so did I. I guess Bill only thought o' course, T ' give th ' boys a scare ; Don't think he reckoned on th' boss — Fergot th' boss was there. What happened then warn't fault o' Bill's. He mought as well o' tried T' ride that ball his weapon spills. Th' way that outlaw skyed. 2 98 [ We oiih'^ glimpsed a streak — a fiare O' hide an' hair— that's all— An' thar was Bill up in th' air. A)i' takin' time t' fall! An' when Bill landed on th' ground An" straightened up t' see. Thar warn't no outlaw t' be found — Ef he excepted me. "I reckon," sa^^s Bill, mighty slow, "I reckon better stop That dern fool larfin — 'r I'll show That summat else kin drop ! ' ' A stray galoot had jined th' crowd. He thought Bill Avas a bluff. An' kep' on larfin good an' loud — Jes' couldn't larf enough. You'll guess th' rest. Bill swore th' grippe Had given him a cough ; "That coughin' made his finger slip. An' so his gun went off'. Bill sprung that honored chestnut grand. It shore greased his skiddoo. AVe held a double inquest, and It took in Donohue. 99 Our verdict? What we did was state "Both naturally died. Th' stranger got hivS temptin' fate; Bill 's was a suicide ! " cpcpcp BE WARNED. cp A little nerve, no bigger than a thread; A .jumping pain, that cleaves in twain the head; A muss ; a fuss ; and worse, a curse ; a dread ; A sudden resolution ; hasty tread ; An easy chair; a clench — a wrench — a yell, A groan ; a moan ; a torture flown, and — well, A vacancy within no tongue can tell. Where half a dozen tongues, or more, might dwell ! But you'll not have to bear this ill contrary, If you consult a dentist like Doc. Crary. 100 '^JACK." A good-lookin ' miiel ? I guess, sir ! Thar ain't nary better I say. I don't mind a bit to confess, sir, Thar aint enough money to pay Fer a bill-o'-sale from his owner — Wich th' same's Jerry Peters; that's me. Some folks says a muel's a Joner — They's deceived — with a capital "D. 7 J Wy sir, that thar muel — A kicker? Um — summat; all jack-muels is. Ef his front like his hind legs 'ud flicker He 'd win at th ' Frenchers ' Gran Priz. He's a whizzer at kickin's — an' bitin' — At both ends he's ekally smart; But it's only in play — thar's no spite in Th' make-up o' that critter's heart. Ye never hev been in th' tunnel. But I reckon ye savey a slope. Wen yer down it, it looks like a funnel. With a fur spark o' light, to give hope. 101 A thousand feet in, it's a melter — So hot that I wonder sometimes Wye the ore doesn't run like a smelter, Afore to th' surface it climbs. But t ' get back t ' Jack hyar, my muel : It was late in th ' season last year — Ef ye've talked with the boss mebbe you'll Have hearn of th' accident here. Thar was gas in th' tunnel. Th' drillers Had all gone down to th' shed; But I had been boovsin' at Miller's, An' nobody 'd told me, ner said That th' slope wasn't all right to work in. When th' time fer my shift kim aroun'. An' I wondered why Jack seemed ashirkin', Fer he seemed not to want t' go down. It was all right enough in th' level. But jest a piece down th' incline A puff o' gas kim, an' th' devil I thought had preempted th' mine. 102 I'd started t' give Jack a cussin' Wen th' gas struck — an' then, mighty queer, ]\Iy head spun aroun ', with a buzzin ' An' a ringin' o' bells in my ear. cp Th' rest o' w'at happened 's a blank, sir; But that I am standin ' hyar now I reckon I've Jack hyar t' thank, sir — Ole Jack hyar — who loves me, I 'low. Th' boys said they hadn't suspected As I had gone in, till they see Ole Jack comin' out, an' detected He was draggin' o' suthin. 'Twas me, An' his teeth was so luckily grippin' That skeercely a scar remains now Whar Jack my right shoulder w^as nippin' — But a deep mark's inside me, I 'low. AA^'ich is why I repeats that his owner With them folks kin never agree Wat holds that a muel's a Joner — They's deceived, with a capital "D." 103 PLAYING THE GAME. cp "When a player has gone the whole limit — Bet his whole pile on one card and lost — Is it time for him then to pick up his pen And figure on what it has cost? What matter the dead past's losses? Let the dead past bury its dead. Keep a stiff upper lip and stick to the ship. And you yet may win out ahead. There is no such a word as ' ' Failure, ' ' No matter how often he's tricked, For the man who will meet with a smile each defeat And will never admit that he's licked. So hitch up your old suspender; Take another hard cinch on your belt ; Throw open your vest and stick out your chest And never let on what you've felt. Keep 3^our tail up over the dashboard And your shoulder square in the hame. No matter the load, just stick to the road And never give up the game. 104 For every lane has a turning. And the wheel of fortune has, too; And some day 3'Ou'll find that the brake won't bind And the derned thing will spin for you. cpcpcp DEATH VALLEY. cp A still blue sky, a white dust plain, A shimmer of grey mesquite ; Month in, month out, not a drop of rain To temper the deadly heat. Dry bones their ghastly story tell. Even the cactus die. Scorching, blistering, shrivelling Hell: Death Valley in July! 105 '^BAKINS." cp He was ornary — just a cayuse That had suffered all kinds of abuse. With a saddle-gall sore and with spavins galore, Yet he'd run like a wild-fire when loose. His expression resembled a moose, With his long upper lip so profuse, And the whites of his eyes would express his surprise When I ventured to make him of use. But I labored : that old saddle-gall And those spavins were better by Fall, And by just being kind I induced him 'to mind And to come on a run at my call ; For he learned that I never would maul Nor abuse him. He'd come from his stall And, though crippled, he'd work like a regu- lar Turk. I imagine he loved me, that's all. 106 A KLONDYKE EPITAPH. cp A chap named Sommers lies below — Leastwise, he said that was his name. He struck the camp a month ago — And started out to thaw the same. He started out "to make it hot," Which might been welcomed later on When mercury, as like as not, Won't have no elevator on. He Avas a little premachoor, That 's all ; for in the heat of it He .jumped a claim — likewise, dead sure, He got about six feet of it. cpcpcp THE YUKON VERSION. cp "Praise God from whom all blessings flow; But likewise, don't forget That you must hustle here below Or never win a bet. Don't leave the flow to anyone. For blessings flow by fits: They hit the hustling son-of-a-gun, But miss the man who quits. 107 THE STREAM. cp Far aloft on the sleeping mount, Where the world's top woos the sky, A tiny spring uplifts, its source A silent mystery. Clear and pure are the crystal depths From which it ventures forth, Purged of the hidden fires below Whose passion gave it birth. Timidly it creeps beyond The sheltering rocks on high And plays along, through moss and fern, To its own sweet lullaby. Down and down, and ever down. With playmates now and then Joining it in its merry romp Through vale and wooded glen; Down through the widening ravine To the canyon wild and deep, Whose rugged boulders it avoids With many a laughing leap ; 1 Down and down, and ever down, Yet singing as it goes. Urged by its longing restlessly To haste where the river flows; » I 108 Down and down and ever down, To the river, flowing fast. And the moss and fern, the vale and glen, And the canyon wild are passed. The work of the world is now to do, Its burdens great to bear ; The shores may still be beautiful, But the river does not care; Doggedly it flows along And heeds not what may be, Intent on its laboring journey down To the calm of the distant sea. Spirit of Ch ildh ood : ]\Iark you well Your beautiful moss and fern ; For the stream of life flows on and on, And will never more return. Spirit of Boyhood'. Mark you well Your beautiful vale and glen ; For the stream of life flows on and on, And will never return again. Spirit of Manliood : ]\Iark you well The work of the world that 's yours ; For the stream of life flows on and on, And only its work endures ! 109 WITHOUT APPEAL. cp Song of the Winds: I blow As the laWvS of Nature compel ; A chilling blast from the frozen North, Or a hot simoon from Hell. The world has been my dwelling-place And plaything the cycles through ; But work or play, 'tis the same to me — I do what I have to do. Song of the Sea: I flow As the ]\Ioon and the Wind command — With laughing ripples I kiss the shore, > Or rage with a fury grand. ,i Men may compel both mountain and plain — The land is their own to hew — But they cannot harness my furious strength ; I do what I have to do. • Song of the Day: I come To the world with a message of cheer. T bring to all the blessings of health. Of hope, of relief from fear. I obey no one but the Sun, To whom I am constant and true. If men misuse me, I'm not to blame — I do what I have to do. 110 Song of the Night: I bring To weary and 'tired ones rest. To those who have found the day unkind I am welcome indeed, and blessed. Some deem me too short, or too long. But that rests with your point of view. I had no part in framing that; I do what I have to do. All nature obeys fixed laws, Save atoms that recognize none And who, in their folly, disobey. And must reap what they have sown. 4^- 111 BY THE SEA. cp High on the cliff, where the golden moon Hangs like God's sentinel m the sky. There is a cot; and the breakers croon To a child about to die. This is the song the breakers sing, For the wind 'to bear to the child above : ''Life at best, is a passing thing, But Heaven is endless love." The waves are still and the winds are still. A childless mother weeps o'er her dead! The silent moon, from the darkened hill, With the soul of the child has fled. 112 A PARABLE. cp In Paradise an Angel found one day A soul newborn to happiness, that seemed To lack perfected bliss. Upon it lay A shade of sadness. Quoth the Angel, ' ' Say If more than this of joy on earth you dreamed ? ' ' The troubled soul looked up, and trembling, spake : ' ' 'Tis but a mother 's heart that yearns for one On earth — my child — to whom each day I take My pilgrimage, and all endeavor make That he the sinful ways of life may shun. ' ' And this my sorrow : that he cannot know The anxious watch my loving spirit keeps, And I, alas, may never tell him so — May never speak a loving word, to show The way he may avoid the nether deeps." 113 The Angel smiled: ''When next to earth you wing, Cause him 'to read of Lazarus, to whom The Rich Man prayed with like desire. 'Twill bring This thought, perchance : If souls enduring doom To care so tender of the living cling. How greater then must be the tender care Which souls in Heaven toward their loved ones bear!" cpcpcp 114 TO FIT A CLOWN. cp One Christmas Eve, a time most clear To all the lovers of good cheer, A fool there was who entered in To Paradise, w4th thought to win A moiety of such happiness As only fools hope to possess. When he had passed the portals wide He sought for one to be his guide, That he might reap the fullest share Of joys he thought to harvest there ; And, as if answering his thought, A passing glimpse of one he caught Who danced along the sunlit way With lilting song and laughter gay. ''Hold, neighbor; wait for me!" he cried. The other paused, and when he spied The fool, he shook with merriment Until his very breath was spent ; Whereat the fool was much annoyed And sought the other to avoid. But uselessly — the other clung And in his ear these verses sung : 115 "Dear fool — for dear you are to me, As I will shortly be to thee. Pray give me just one reason why I should not laugh. Would have me cry And veil the sun with melancholy? Nay, that I '11 not ; for I am Folly, Dear to the heart of every fool, And laughter is my only rule. AA^ith glee I rule this wide domain. I laugh at woe; I laugh at pain. At all men reap of joy I laugh — ]\line is the kernel, theirs the chaff ; For though they reap and glean with care, I take their threshing for my share. And yet it does but just suffice To furnish out my Paradise. For this, my Paradise, is wide : Here all the dreams of earth abide, Decked out in such a wondrous way That those who see them often stay j And while away their span of life 4 Far from the world of work and strife. ! Here also every mortal's stored Of wishes quite a handsome hoard — * Yet never is the one content ' Who treasures them till life is spent, But burns his little lamp away — His lamp of life — both night and day, 116 I Feeding its wick with futile hope That wishes realized may ope' The magic door to happiness; Nor will he, while he lives, confess That he has reaped a single doubt, Until his lamp is spluttering out. Ah, then he finds the magic door A painted wall ; and nothing more ! Here, too, I keep a pair of wings That hither all men's money brings — You've heard that riches fly away? I'll show you how, and why, today. I've many other servants too, The busiest you ever knew. Dan Cupid is about the best; His aim is sure, his arrow blest With such a wondrous tip of folly No wonder Cupid's always .jolly. Another one is Avarice : Many a mortal fool I 'd miss. Had not his father felt the spell That Avarice can weave so well. Of course Extravagance is here — Although by fools he's called 'Good Cheer;' And also I've a wondrous vine That furnishes my fools with wine — T'will make a lion of an ass. To fight a foe, or woo a lass. 117 Have I no more ? Aye, many more ; 'Twould take too long to glance them o'er. I haven't time to name them all; So just one more : This will I call As mortals do; their nomenclature Has dubbed this servant 'Human Nature. For every error he'll produce An excellent well writ excuse, Like this: ^Although he's much to rue, liememher you are human, too; Who knoics but, were you placed as he, You might as great a sinner he!' " All this, and more, the poor fool heard, Yet answered not a single word; But as they passed along the way. They chanced upon a bower to stray That held the vision passing fair For which the fool had ventured there. Straightway he started in pursuit; And Folly, with a grave salute, Fell back a pace ; yet danced along With twinkling eyes and mocking song — For, ever as the other sped The luring vision quicker fled. Leading him over hill and plain. Through brake and brier and back again: 118 And when at last he thonght he neared His prize, the vision disappeared ! Fainting and sick at heart, he wept ; And snickering Folly backward crept To where he might indulge his glee And set his cabined laughter free; For well the Kingly Folly knew That all are myths that men pursue ; That ardent hopes are but a snare To capture mortals unaware; That life is but a shimmering gown Of cobwebs, wove to fit a clown. 119 THE GATE THAT LURES. ; A wanderer came to a gate of pearl I On a way both wide and bright. Where all who ventured thought to win The gift of a strange delight. The wanderer paused by the open gate To steal a glance within ; i But all he saw was a mirror there ! Reflecting half a sin. Half a sin ; for the other half The past had not lain bare ; i The future held the other half | That might be his to wear. 4 And, half in doubt, the wanderer stood ^ Before his mirrored heart. Where the half a sin, and more, was shown ; For the glass, with mystic art, | Revealed a smile that was half a tear, ! And a tear that was half a moan. The smile was his, but the tear, he knew Was only half his own. 120 Not alone was the wanderer. Others were crowding through The open gate, with never a thought Of the mirror all might view. AA^ha't of the ones who hesitate ? Shall the mirror be for naught? Or will they blot, with the half a tear. The half a sin they've wrought? rbcbcn 121 EASTER (a-la-mode.) The rich church opens wide its doors Through which a stylish pageant pours Of women clad in fine array Of rustling silks and bonnets gay, And men who, when the pastor prays, But drop their heads and tioorward gaze, Nor bend a knee lest that should mar Their trousers' perpendicular. In whispered murmurs each to each, They criticise the pastor's speech. The utterances of the choir, Each worthy neighbor's rich attire, The flowers that deck the altar and Such scandal as may come to hand ; But when the plate at length is passed, Ah, then the tongues are wagging fast : '''Tis wonderful how so and so. With all that he is known to owe, Can drop a glittering gold-piece in — Such ostentation is a sin ! Ha ! Do you note how Mistress Mean, Whose fortune is a million clean. But one small piece of silver gave? Such doling would disgrace a slave!" 122 All this, and more in equal vein, Is gossipped o'er and o'er again, Until the Benediction notes The time for donning overcoats And shoulder-capes, and gloves, and tiles, And all that Fashion's Court beguiles. You think that this is all? Oh, no; 'Tis but the prelude to the show That now the Avenue will thread With slow and duly measured tread — For all the world is now on view Upon the luring avenue. And hats are raised, and compliments Are passed upon the day 's events : "Why, So-and-so, how do you do? 'Twas very generous of you — Ah, Master Worldly, we'd a fear That we might fail to meet you here — And how is Mistress Mean ? No doubt That prosy sermon tired you out ; But then you're looking — Pardon me — So glad to see you. Dominie, Your sermon was the very best — We heard it with such interest!" 123 At home at length to talk it o'er And vote it all a beastly bore ; On courses five or six to dine. Each with its complement of wine, And the ensuing lethargy To sleep away, in time for tea ! Oh, IMother Nature : Lead my feet Out to thy pastures fair and sweet, Where birds are singing hymns of praise, And every budding branch betrays Its gratitude to Him on high Who looks upon them from the sky ; And whom they win, with joyous art. To still maintain a gracious heart, And overlook, (none other can,) The rank hypocrisy of Man. I I; 124 HIS CROWNING SIN. cp The Devil stood by the rich man's bed. "You have one minute, no more!" he said, And he chuckled merrily under his breath, ''One minute! Prepare for the Angel of Death!" The rich man opened his glassy eyes. "Are you not," he asked, "the Father of Lies?" The Devil bowed low: "I humbly own IMen called me so, until you were known." The rich man groaned. "Nor is that all," Continued the Devil; "great and small The King of Cheats acknowledged me— Until you taught them differently. "Not," he added, with gracious wit, "Not that I feel put out a bit. Indeed, I am grateful, friend, to you, And if I could, I Avould prove it, too." The rich man's eyes, with a sudden thought. Grew bright, and he said, "I'm sure you ought, If that is so, to grant me a day- Just one day more — it is all I pray." 125 *'I see," said the Devil; ''you want until You may have the time to write your will. To give you a day I have not the power. But I '11 do what I can : you may have an hour. ' ' Gone was the Devil. The rich man then With trembling fingers grasped his pen; Over the paper it travelled fast And the rich man's will was finished at last. "There!" said the rich man, as he signed, "The Devil, when he returns, will find, Despite his mortgage upon my past. That I have cheated him, too, at last." "Indeed?" The rich man looked around And close by his side the Devil he found. His Majesty chuckled: "Your will I've read, And I couldn 't have drawn it better ! " he said. , "But look!" cried the rich man: "I have willed All of my millions a church to build ! ' ' "Of all my agents," the Devil confessed, "A millionaire's church, mv friend, is best." 126 WANNAGAN. cp This is the song of the Lumber-Jack, Of the thing of muscle and bone That wars with the cold in the forests old And batters those forests into gold To furnish the Lumber- King's throne. This is the song of the Lumber- Jack, Of the thing of labor and sweat In the ice and snow of forty below. That the Lumber-King may warm in the glow Of the gold it aids him to get. This is the song of the Lumber-Jack, Who toils through the winters long For a dollar and thirty- four cents a day. That he hopes to get — till he calls for his pay And finds that he gets but a song! The winters are cruelly hard and long AVhere the pine and tamarack grow, And the muskeg swamps spread out for miles And miles wherever you go ; 'Tis the ugliest land beneath the sun, A limitless, treacherous bog; But friendly and fair when you compare Its owner, the Timber-Hog. 127 He sits in his office, puffs his cigar, And plans on waj^s to increase His Wannagan profits; and railway fares Are always prolific of fleece ; For they grow, in the twinkling of an eye. From the legal tariff per mile, On the Wannagan bill, which the camp-clerks fill. To a figure that makes him smile; And the railway fares are a bagatelle, Compared to the job-lot score Of things that the lumberjack must have And must buy from the Wannagan Store. The Dutchman, who bragged of his ''one per cent," Would hang his bald head in shame If he could but look at the Wannagan book And see how they work the game. To W. N. S. L : Dear Chum of Mine : Compose a song — A dissonance, so pure That it will typify the wrong Our Lumber-Jacks endure. No harmonies of sound will do For such a song as ithis ; It must be discords, through and through. That crash, and writhe, and hiss! 128 THE CROSS-ROADS. A "World Drama. cp * The Traveler: AVhen I come to the Cross-roads, which way shall I turn ? Do I know? :\rust I leave it entirely to fortune to learn Where to go ? Shall I linger and ponder, while others rush past ; Or shall I push onward, as blindly and fast, On the chance that kind fortune may lead me at last AVhere the streams of felicity iiow ? There are bars to both roads, at which all must pay toll, So they say. And some pay with a life, others pay with a soul. 3Iust all pay ? ^lany pay, it is said, with the thing valued most, But some pay with a song and some pay with a toast; And many laugh ''Charge it!" But these are a host 129 Who may have most to reckon some day ! AA^ithoiit chart, guide, nor compass, though, how can one tell ? No one can. Which road leads to Heaven, and which one to Hell? Foolish man ! Why not try to believe — why continue to doubt? Did the Christ really know when he pictured the route? They say that to die's the one way to find out, Which is not the most comforting plan. HE left for all messages marking the place Good and plain, But the wear of the centuries nearly efface What remain ; It is hopeless to try to decipher the scroll ; So much have the many years taken in toll. They have left but a blur of the once perfect whole, — AVhich will never be written again. The grim humor is that both Cross-roads may go. Like as not, To the one destination, where all here below Is forgot. 130 One may lead through rough places, one go round-a-bout, But there's no turning back, once you've chosen your route. I can hope for no method to ever find out Till I finish my journey — and rot ! The Devil, (sotto voce) Just so ! When they come to the Cross-roads, each one For himself: Some choose the gilt pavement. And madly they run After pelf; And some choose the cobbles that lead toward the hills. None knows which is wisest, for each has his ills; And I? Ha! I chuckle — and make out their bills And file them awav on my shelf! 131 THE SHIRKER. qo What are all the myriads of entities abound- ing? You are one and I am one, each of us a grain — ]\Iicrobes of the Infinite — mysteries confound- ing; Are we what we think we are, or are we all insane ? Is this life reality — life forever linking Worry, doubt, anxiety, trouble, sorrow, pain ? Do we really exist, or is it all in thinking? Are the lives of all of UvS figments of the brain? Tell me what the Ego is — and where situated ? How does it originate? What does it attain? When it takes its final flight, with existence sated, Will the efforts it has made prove entirely vain ? 132 These are just a very few of the puzzling queries That are always haunting me, and I cannot gain Answers that will satisfy any of the series, But am left to wondering. Will the end ex- plain "? cpcpciD THE AVORKER. cp God is! Of that we are as sure As that we do exist; And with that fact I rest secure, And cancel all the list Of idle questions that you ask. And ask, and ask in vain. Do we but well our earthly task, God's answer will be plain. 133 YOU FIND WHAT YOU SEEK. cp The Atheist'. A whir of wings ; two shadows swiftly pass ; I see a sparrow fall, no more to rise. A hawk soars off, in its steel claw^s a mass Of writhing agony — its morning prize ! Sneh are the histories that mark the plan Of savage Nature through the field of life : For every living thing, including man. To live is but to war — a constant strife. Ts there a God who marks the sparrow 's fall ? Then He must be a God whom tortures pleavse ; By fear alone to govern, if at all, You cowards who beseech Him on your knees. Think you that there could be a living God, Omnipotent, Eternal, Loving, Great, Who would permit His creatures to be trod Beneath this awful Juggernaut of Fate? He must be One who finds His joy in pain. ]\Iephisto must be He who rules it all. And God, like me, a puppet in His train, Who marks, but cannot stav, the sparrow's fall. 134 The Deist : God bears with your crazed, paganistic mind, Which, in the grandest music of the spheres, To all of Heaven's blessings deaf and blind. Hears naught, sees naught but pessimistic fears. Who has no soul for poetry or song — AVho in the rose can only see the thorn — Who helps to fill the world with cruel wrong — Better for him if he had not been born. And yet God gives to all the chance to mend ; To find our souls ; to teach our hearts to love ; To hear ; to see ; our idle fears to end ; To realize our gifts from Him above. God's mercies manifold surround us all; And even you, misguided one, should see His tender care embraces great and small — Else God M^ould not permit your kind to be. 135 THE SEARCH FOR FAITH. dp A child once strayed by a boundless sea, Watching the tall ships ply, With white wings charming the breezes free That whispered his lullaby. The tall ships drifted away to the east, Where the hopes of childhood lie ; Their high masts wore, as the breeze in- creased, To a line on the distant sky. A youth remained, where the child had been, With longings vague in his breast For something his youth had never seen. Though it sang on the billow's crest. A ship came up from the purple main And charmed his eager quest. But his ardent hope proved all in vain ; It faded into the west. A man stood watching the billows break, { Where the youth had been before, And far away lay the fading wake Of a ship that came no more. 136 He narrowly scanned the east and west In search of a bidden prore, Bnt nothing answered his heart's behest Save the breakers' mocking roar. Palsied and faint, an old man bent, AA^ith wearied eyes downcast, Grasping the staff whereon he leant To ponder his wasted past ; And there at length, beneath the rays Of his setting sun, a mast. The Cross of Christ, transfixed his gaze His ship was sighted at last ! 137 GRIGGSBY. By a "Volunteer." cp Clad with giant elms, the hillside Under shadow deep reposes, And the breeze is faintly laden AVith a perfume as of roses; Through the rustling green, the sunlight Bears a wealth of silver flashes From the scintillating river. Where against the rocks it dashes; In the leafy boughs, a robin, By the morning brightness bidden, Turns to wordless song the rapture In his scarlet bosom hidden ; Comes the low of distant cattle. And the wild bee's fitful droning; Far away, and faint, the church-bells Lazily their chimes are toning. Thus doth fancy paint the picture From the colors of my yearning, With the brush of recollection Back to Griggsby ever turning; 138 Back to Griggsby ever turning Till, the term of service over, May be realized the dreaming And the longing of the rover ; May be given him the rapture Of the robin in its homing; May be given him the ending, And the mending, of his roaming. ^ 139 AT aRIGGSBY. cp On the village street, where the cross-roads meet, The village church is standing, From its belfry small peals the Christmas call To the folk of Griggsby landing. Through the open door the lamp-lights pour A golden scintillation : A beacon bright in the deepening night To the gathering congregation. I In ' ' Sunday-best ' ' each one is dressed And, with that knowledge laden, Each man and lad finds a burden sad. | Not so the wife or maiden: ^ They do not share the conscious air With which the men are quaking; Their women's wit has formed to fit Their gowns of their own making. } Gems, too, they wear — unprized, yet rare : ; Bright eyes, to care unknowing. And pearls agleam rose-lips between, And cheeks with rich health glowing. 140 The village squire, who leads the choir, AVith high voice starts the singing Of the opening hymn, and is joined with vim That sets the white walls ringing. Then the prayer for, first, all souls accurst By sin ; for those in danger ; For the strong ; the weak ; the proud ; the meek ; For friend ; for foe ; for stranger ; For the rich ; the great ; the Church : the State — But why enumerate them? For many eyes close in a stolen doz>^ Ere the prayer can fully state them. Yet some have found their pulses bound Before the prayer has ended — (Though needs confess, not by its stress Of eloquence expended!) For watchful eyes the means devise To sly exchange of glances From lads and maids, and one small jade's AVith mirth unseemlv dances. 141 But note her when the prayer's ''Amen" Is said : demure, she rises. With eyes downbent and gaze intent Upon a gift she prizes. 'Tis leather-bound, with corners round. Its small fly-leaf secreting An added text, with this annexed: ' ' To Mollie, Christmas Greeting. ' ' She holds it so that he may know, Sly minx, that she is reading The words he wrote and dared to quote. Will she answer to his pleading? The pages turn. He hoped 'twould earn A glance ; but 'tis denied him. Indeed, there lies within her eyes No hint of aught to guide him. The hymns are through ; the sermon too ; The Benediction's spoken; And still he waits, while hope abates ; And still she gives no token. Restraint is o'er, and toward the door The congregation's turning. He waits awhile beside the aisle With blushing ears and burning; 142 ; I But on his brow a frown that now Bespeaks determination To guard the aisles and brave the smiles Of all the congregaticn. They crowd to hear, as she draws near, His bashful spoken greeting: ''I've waited here — a 'most a year — To see you home from meeting ! ' ' To crown his plight, she laughs outright ; But then, with swift contrition. Beneath his arm she slips a warm Soft pledge of her decision. And scarlet now his frowning brow; But what cares he for titters? She's filled for him his cup abrim And turned to sweet its bitters. Through starlit night, o'er pastures white With virgin snow, beside her He takes his way ; and who shall stay His right to guard and guide her? 143 From far and near the chimes they hear Of merry sleigh-hells ringing. And in his heart their echoes start A wordless anthem singing. Would that the way before them lay A league — or further, even. Too short, alas, the path they pass, Each step of which seems Heaven. Her door at length, nor found the strength To voice his heart's dumb yearning. , He says, '^ Goodnight," in bashful plight, I And from her door he 's turning ; ^ i But ah, the arts that love imparts! j She quickly bids him enter » "To warm himself." Straight then the elf Leads to the "best-room's" center, :; Where, overhead, the white and red Of mistletoe and holly Bestow at length his missing strength : He claims a kiss — and iMollv ! 144 GRAINE D 'AMOUR. God wills the wandering wind to blow; And the hearts of men and M^omen, I trow, Are like seeds the winds are blowing : Some are barren, and some are bruised, And some are husbanded, yet not used, And many not worth the sowing; But when good seeds in a desert are found And the wild wind wafts them to fallow ground. Can the seeds be blamed for growing ? cpcpcp LOVE'S PRAYER. cp The road to Paradise lies straight before; Thy dear hands hold the key to it, and more ; One glimpse of it thine eyes have given me : Ah, Love, wouldst thou but open wide the door ! 145 THE CHARM. 'Tis not thy fair, soft, Titian hair. Though that is passing bright ; 'Tis not thy smile, that might beguile And change to day the night ; 'Tis not thy eyes, though dear I prize The sunshine that they dart. These but requite a dearer light : The lightness of thy heart! cpcpap MY YACHTING GIRL. cp My yachting girl, with cheeks aglow. Now loiters where the breezes blow. With witching charms that ne 'er before Were equalled on the sea or shore, Each dainty ringlet in distress Receives the ardent wind 's caress : He steals upon her unawares To seize a kiss, and naught he cares How prettily the maid may frown — The upstart will not be put down. A year of life I 'd gladly pay If I the wind might be today! 146 NOT THE HUSK, BUT THE CORN. New wine in old bottles, you all will agree, Is welcome to no one ; yet why should this be ? Priscilla, the witch, as her grandmother dressed. Looks just as bewitching, it must be con- fessed. It isn't the bottle; it isn't the dress: 'Tis the age of the contents ; no more and no less; And if the wine's old, and the maid young and free. We care not a rap what their wrappings may be! 147 A FAIR COQUETTE. She 's quite demure, and I am .sure A maid more innocent, More free from guile and heartless wil( Alluring charms ne'er bent To win a heart by every art That's to a maiden known; Yet while so good a maiden should Be loathe a fault to own, She heartlessly coquettes with me. Nor does it her abash When I declare her artful snare Is set for love of cash. She's but amused whene'er accused Of flirting out of reason — That is a sin she glories in Throughout the Church-Fair season ! i 148 THE CHORUS GIRL. cp The orchestra chairs we buy each night, No matter what the opera be ; To the ^tars who appear we're indifferent qnite, ('Tis none of them that we care to see,) But come to the theater, and we AA^ill presently see before us The star of the opera, you'll agree: A nameless girl in the chorus. Her gown is a web of fleecy white That falls a trifle below the knee. Her feet are tiny, her figure slight, And her curly golden locks are free ; She carols her notes with a roguish glee And a kick and a wink that floor us. Oh the star of the opera is she, A nameless girl in the chorus. We've sent her many a note polite. And we would be happy should fate decree That only her surly manager might Be tempted to answer our constant plea ; 149 But ueveF a syllable answers he And the door-keepers all ignore us The star of the opera's still to me A nameless girl in the chorus. L' envoi: Prince, if you have to her name the key Impart it — to joy restore UvS — By naming the star of our jubilee, A nameless girl in the chorus ! cpcfocb 150 BEATRICE. [Apologizing to the shade of D.] cp She was beautiful — if night, Utter dark, without one star. Motionless and silent, might Beautj^'s mantle seem to wear. She was good — if it suffice To bestow an alms of gold AVithout thought of sacrifice. With a hand, sans pity, cold. She was thoughtful — if a stream. With its babbling cadence low, Alight a sentient being seem, Alight be said a thought to know. She was prayerful — if eyes Beautiful as she was fair, Soulful, azure as the skies, Alight be said to utter prayer. She, who all of life mistook — She who never lived, is dead. From her hand has dropped the book That she held, but never read. 15] THE MONK. cp He may be fat or he may be lean ; He may be forty, or twenty; And his unctions smile or satisfied mien May counterfeit peace or plenty ; He may fast on roots of Latin or Greek, Or may feast upon legs of mutton, And never a wrinkle may mar his cheek, Though ascetic he be, or glutton ; And many a time he may heave a sigh At the sound of a sinner's laughter; But the sorrowful, pitying glance of his eye Doesn't presage a thought of hereafter, For down in the depths of his lonely soul He envies the lucky sinner Who can dream in peace of a heavenly goal While his wife is cooking his dinner; And as he makes himself ready for bed And broods o'er a broken suspender, -He vows that a man should be happy though wed To even a Witch of Endor. 152 NOT A PARADOX. cp Though Phyllis' smiles are wondrous bright, They do not change to day the night, Nor cast the sunshine into shade. For me the world is darker made By Phyllis' smiles. Though I, who long to make her mine, Admit her smiles to be divine, I cannot bear her smiles to see — You've guessed the reason? 'Tis at me That Phyllis smiles ! op ch dp EXPLAINED. cp AVhy doth the buvSy little bee Each shining hour employ To gather honey that not she. But others, will enjoy? The reason certainly is plain: With such sweet occupation. No bee has taken time to gain A business education. 153 MISFITS. cp Silk tiles oft ' crown an empty pate ; The wise man oft ' is called a clown ; The sinner's praised for virtues great; The saint oft' craves to paint the town. LOVE'S CONTRARY. cp The girl who seeks all men to please AVill seldom find one at her knees; Who never says her lover nay AVill find her lover 's love will stray ; The girl who is the greatest tease AVill hold to many hearts the keys ; The wilful girl who has her way Is loved forever and a day. 154 LOVE'S THORNS. I soughit for love and found his lair ; 'Twas hidden 'neath a blossom fair; The flower I viewed enraptured. " 'Tis Cupid's blossom rare," I thought. But when to pluck the flower I sought 'Twas but a thorn I captured. And so of love I pray beware ; His lightest touch may bring despair; The dainty favors he will share Are quickly wilted : A rose at night ; a thorn at dawn ; A withered leaf; a fragrance gone. The chilly morn will break upon A lover jilted. Love's roguish eyes were looking on. He smiled to see what I had won ; He did not heed my sorrow. ' ' The wound will heal, ' ' he laughing cried ; ''Your tears today will all be dried; By some new love tomorrow." And so of love have not a care. His dainty favor may not wear; 155 But he '11 bestow another rare When it has wilted. Another rose will bloom at dawn ; The other's thorn will soon be gone. The lover may be glad anon That he was jilted. cp c;o cb BLEST FOLLY. ]\Iany a fool has married a fool And both have been happy for life ; Bnt she's had a fool for a husband And he 's had a fool for a wife. Many a man has married a fool And thought it the wisest plan; And many a woman has married a fool Because she thought him a man; And many a man has wakened, And many a woman has, too. But to fall in love with some other fool And to think that that fool would do ! n [156 FROM THE CLUB WINDOW. cjo Vain little sister of Folly ! You go Like a shadow of sin o'er the pavement below, With feathers and ribbons aflutter ; With a smile rouge-lip deep for each man that you meet — But an envious sigh for each maid more discreet Than yourself, and your eyes on the gutter. Sad little sister of Folly : your sneer, Your harsh sounding laughter that grates on the ear, Your sorry attempt to seem jolly, Though meant to conceal it, but faintly dis- guise The broken heart, empty and achnig, that lies Within you, weak sister of Folly. Poor little sister of Folly ! AYe know That the shadow of sin on the paving below Comes from back of the draperies yellow That conceal him, who, from the club window above, T^Iarks his cinders of lust, his ashes of love : Yet we call him a Royal Good Fellow ! 157 A PENSIONER. cp He passes down the street with footsteps light, A hero, who has won his thousandth fight. No wreath of laurel crowns his furrowed brow; No honor to him does the world allow. And yet he bears such scars upon his breast As in old Feudal days might won a crest. His battle-cry has oft' the vanguard led And filled the hearts of those who heard Avith dread. His courage none can question : night and day Both find him ready for relentless fray ; And yet, sans glory and sans habitat. He slinks along : a vagrant Thomas Cat ! 158 AN AQUARIUMISTIC PARABLE. cp A lobster loved a mermaid fair Who dwelt beneath the wave And combed her wealth of golden hair Within her coral cave; He sought her on her pearly throne His passion to aver, And when he found the maid alone He murmured this to her: ' ' I love you so ! I love you so ! Ah, yes, indeed I do. I long to know some way to show My ardent love for you. The waves so blue may change their hue. The stars may cease to glow, But naught can change my love so true. Sweetheart, I love you so ! " He thought her won, but, entres nous. That heartless maid began A sad and painful thing to do, Undreamed of in his plan : She trimmed him; yes, I must confess, And as she pulled his limb. To fascinate that lobster great. She murmured this to him : 159 ' ' I love you so ; I love you so ; Ah, yes, indeed I do. I'd love to know the place where grow ]More lobsterettes like you. You're sweeter far than caviar, Or oysters, or shad roe ; A heart more sweet I '11 swear ne 'er beat- Sweetheart, I love you so!" That coral cavern, by the way, Was made of glass : a tank Wherein that mermaid pranked each day At quid pro quo per prank. That lobster was a millionaire, By virtue of his dad; And that was why that mermaid fair A diamond necklace had. ' ' I love you so ! I love you so ! " These words we're apt to rue, Unless we go a little slow And learn a thing or two ; And even then, the wisest men But lobsters green may show, AVhen they repeat that sentence sweet: "Sweetheart, I love you so!" 160 NATURE'S COQUETTE. dp 0, laughing sea ! For aye Your billows play, Care free, O'er sunken wrecks, where eyeless skulls Gaze upward at the circling gulls. And each chill wave Their sockets lave And kiss, in wanton glee; Down in your deep. The slime Of weeds that climb And creep Wraps sodden bones with murkish green; Slow crawling things glide through between, With eager eyes To strip each prize Your mocking waters reap; And where warm hearts once bravely beat Misshapen monsters find retreat! Dick Duffy, of Ainslee's, accepted and published the above, which had been returned by Edwin Sandys, of Outing, with the following note: "Oh, swollen head ! Oh. shaking hand ! Oh shrunken hat ! Oh, throbbing brow ! Slow crawling things -and all-be damned ! What you had then I'm dreading now ! " 161 A RECIPE. cp To a hundred pounds of sweetness Add a pound or two of cotton — Just enough to lend completeness To the curves of what she's got on — Saturate this well with laughter In a multitude of phases, Smiles for all who follow after, With a wink that quite amazes ; Just a dash of brainy brightness That may prove her somewhat knowing; Clothe with lingerie whose lightness Tempts the breezes softly blowing; Give a touch or two of powder, (Just a little on her face is By most anyone allowed her To enhance her charming graces;) Then a shade of pencil lightly Placed upon each eyebrow, gently, (If the thing is managed rightly None will guess, howe'er intently All may scan each glowing feature That's with these enchantments laden,) And the whole's the artful creature That is called a ''Summer Maiden." 162 IN THE WINGS. cp Said the property man To the plump soubrette, Who was smoking a propert}^ cigarette, ''You're a pleasure to see, But I think you'll agree That your greatest attractions are owing to me. ' ' Said the plump soubrette To the property man, As she tapped his cheek with her property fan, ''There isn't a doubt You have found me out, But I hope you won't whisper my secret about. ' ' Said the property man To the plump soubrette, As he toyed v/ith her property curls of jet. "From your head to your feet You are certainly sweet. But I am the fellow who made you complete. ' ' 163 Said the plump soubrette To the property man, With a glance at his bucket of property bran, ''It unpleasantly serves As a trial to my nerves, But I'm forced to admit you are on to my curves." cpcpcp 164 SEMPER IDEM. Who is the man whom the curious scan, AVhen the Star tosses him a bouquet ; Whose fortune in ''rocks" is displayed in the box For which he has nothing to pay ; Who conceitedly smiles at the villain's deep wiles, As he seeks the soubrette to betray — Till the play's hero bold knocks the dark vil- lain cold? 'Tis the playwright, who's having his day. And who is the man in the gallery's span. Who chokes, but has nothing to say; Who hasn't a laugh for the ^^'ittiest chaff. But who brushes the hot tears away When his neighbors applaud, and the play- wright laud As an author who 's certain to stay ; And who call him a peach, as they shout for a speech? Forsodth, 'tis the man wrote the play ! 165 FROM APARTMENT 39. dp Are you fond of classical music? Do you long for a rag-time waltz? Does your soul expand with a feeling grand When a high soprano vaults? Do the notes of a French horn thrill you? Is a clarionet a delight? To enjoy its sound, would you rise with a bound From your downy couch at night? Does the famous sextette from "Lucia," AVith Caruso hogging the score, Arouse your joy? Then come, my boy, And rent an apartment next door, Where all of these things will refresh you, And your over-worked, weary brain May find delight any hour of the night In trying to choose a refrain. There are French-horns and pianolas, Victrolas and clarionets. Poll parrots and cats, and in some of these flats ]\Iust be other obstreperous ''pets," 166 For they yowl from night till morning ; And they howl from morning till night; Not a moment you'll find without some kind Of exuberant noises to fight. So if you are sad and lonely For lack of a neighbor or two Just move to a fiat next door to me. That May alter your point of view ! cpcpcp 167 WHEN SWEARING OFF. I know why Robert, ''The Well-Beloved/' Clung to his cigarette; I know the fight with a congh that's tight, And I know what it is to wake at night In that cough 's cold, clammy sweat ; I know what he knew : that the Nicotine Way Helps, when one wants to forget The troubles of life and its feverish strife ; Poor Bob didn't care to share those with his wife. So he clung to his cigarette. But if Bob's lot had only been like to minCs To be left alone in the hills To tackle his fight with tobacco, it might Be i^ossible he would be living tonight And free from that one of his ills. And I wonder, while watching the black silhouette Of the pines 'gainst the darkening sky: Has Stevenson's ghost pre-empted a post By my shoulder tonight, when I need help most. To whisper: ''Stick to it— or die?" 168 THE HEAVIEST STRAW. cp A man may surrender the fortune he hath To preserve his name and his honor; He may lose every penny, yet master his wrath Growing fatter each day, and not wanner ; He may give up his sweetheart or mistress. or wife, And his grieving may turn into joking; But there's one thing he'll cling to as long as there's life: He never will give up his smoking. For the weed Is indeed The one thing here below That we never succeed In resigning; We can joke At the stroke When fate deals us a blow. But we choke If a smoke We're declining! 169 YOU WONDER WHY? cp Why do I cling to my cigarette? Because it encourages me to forget The cares of life ; their latent harm Is soothed to sleep by its subtle charm. AvS I breathe its fragrance cool, I feel That only the joys of life are real. And I revel in visions warm that rise In the smoke of the cigarette I prize. There fancy dwells, and a maiden fair. An impossible maiden called ''Voir Eclaire, Whose wonderful eyes see naught in me But the man I have always longed to be. She shuts her eyes to my sad mistakes, And her fairy wand my hope awakes And I dream of being that mortal yet — Which is why I cling to my cigarette ! 17.0 LADDIE'S SECRET. op They needn't *tell me each twinklmg star That shines in heaven so bright Is a world like ours — I know what they are: Each one is a bicycle-light, And the little angels are coasting down The wonderful milky way To carry back to the Heavenly Throne The prayers we children pray. But I fear the angel who carries mine Has maybe punctured a tire On one of the comets along the line ; For I 've prayed with but one desire ; And I have repeated my prayer each night — I've had to whisper it though, 'Cause Mamma listens with all her might, And I don't want her to know. I don't want her to know, you see, 'Cause I think when the angels do Bring a wee little sister from Heaven to me. She'll be surprised. Don't you? 171 THE MYSTERIOUS GUESTS. cp I had three friends. I asked one day That they should dine with me ; But when they came I found that they Were six instead of three. My good wife whispered, '^We, at best. But five can hope to dine; Send one away." I did. The rest Remaining numbered nine. *'I too will go," a second cried. He left at once, and then. Although to count but eight I tried, I found remaining ten. *'Go call them back," my wife implored "I fear the third may go And leave behind, to share our board, A hungry score or so ! " The second one then straight returned. As might have been expected. He, with the ten, we quickly learned. Eleven made. Dejected, 172 We saw the first returning. He, With all the rest, turned around, And there, behold, were my friends three, Though six they still were found! cp (For those of you who yet may find :\Iy riddle too complex, I'll say: the friends I had in mind Were '^'S" and '^I" and ''X".) 171 I. IN OUR STREET. dp Just a little soldier, Cap and sword and gun, Fighting just like father — My, what lots of fun! Herman, (child of neighbor,) Leads the German band. Billy, with his weapons. Brings them to a stand ; Captures Herman's army — (Herman is alone. But imagination Has an army shown;) Throws them into prison, Holds them for reward. Herman pays a ransom At the point of sword. Ransom is an orange: (They're dividing it; Winning armies should be Generous a bit ! ) 174 Billy, from his combats, Is so nearly dead, Comes and whispers mother, '^Time to go to bed?" cpcpcp II. IN OUR HOSPITAL. cp I was awfully busy today. It's hard work being a nurse And bandage up wounded soldiers' heads; I don't know anything worse. The way those wounded boys act Is certainly a disgrace. Why, Billy looked really mad at first When I wanted to wash his face! And Brother Herman said, ''Dot, Don't try to do that to me!" And for a minute I guess he thought That Billy would never agree. But Billy's a regular brick. When Herman — mean thing — said that. Billy said gaily, ''Herman, you're wrong; Remember where we are at! 175 "Soldiers are always polite To nurses — and little girls, — 'Specially when they play with us men. Don 't let 's seem to be churls ! ' ' And he let me wash his face, Just as nice as nice could be; And I might have kissed him if I'd had time, But I hadn 't — cause he kissed me ! cpcpcp III. AT HOME. cp ]\l3^ Billy with Herman is playing "war," And Dot, Herman's sister, plays nurse; And I sit alone by my open door. Compelled to hear them rehearse. I am one of those who are left behind — For their fathers are volunteers; And I search and search the papers to find If either one's name appears. 176 I To look for the ''Dead and AVoimded" list Is a terrible thing to me. Should the name be there — could I have missed 1 And so — well I — Can't you see! Can't you other folks understand AYhat it is I am fearful for? To think there are people who call it ' ' grand ' ' — This terrible monster. War ! Our volunteers think they may honor gain — Or a pension, as like as not ; But what of their women, if the}^ be slain — Of Billy— of Herman and Dot? What would be left for them or for me, In all of this lonely land? Think of it, people; can't you see? Is it so vou can understand? 177 Arctic Voices. cp Among Arctic voyagers I am not aware that anyone has seriously attempted a collec- tion of Eskimo Folklore ; though, if authenti- cally obtained, it might be of exceptional in- terest. One reason may lie in the difficulty of persuading an Eskimo to discuss the sub- ject. It was only after acquiring something of his difficult tongue, and after years spent intimately with the Eskimos of Nachvack and Siglick, that I was able to induce three of the most intelligent of my Eskimo friends to tell me something of their pre-OhrivStian ex- istences, their conjurors, and their tribal folk- lore. The Eskimo is more fluent than most prim- itive people and poetic in his method of ex- pression. In the following prose poems I have closely followed a literal translation of what was told to me by Nusoyoaluk and Hinuk-Koliliguk, two men who, before' their conversion, had been tribal conjurors, and by Obolariak, one of the cleverest carvers of wal- rus ivory the North has ever produced. R. G. T. 178 ARCTIC VOICES. dp I Nusowyualuk Discourses. It is believed by our people. We of the Arctic Northland, Innuits, whom you call "heathen." That there is something after death — Life, that lives after the body. When we are dead where goes that life? If it is good, it helps its friends : Helps to drive out the reindeer ; Helps to bring in the walrus ; If it be bad, then you must look out- It may serve you ill-turns in hunting. We do not sacrifice to our dead. We bury their weapons with them. And meat, and drink, and other things. That the dead may enjoy the spirit of these Upon their longer journey. For everything has an unseen life — We cannot see, but we feel it. The conjurors say they can sometimes talk With lives that have gone before us. But this I have always doubted. 179 We cannot see these spirits of things, But it is thought that dogs can And that they fear the spirits. We ourselves do not fear them; For if they seek to do us harm, If they bring the famine down on us So that for us life is ended, We, perhaps, may be happier so : No more cold ; no more hunger. We like not the white men to rob the graves. If the stone lamp be taken, The life of the lamp goes out for the dead And the dead is left in darkness — Robbed of the life of the light and the fire — And the dead are our ancestors. You say that we, ourselves, rob the graves'? Not so ; for we pay. It is barter : If a stone dish be taken, we leave a knife ; And our dead ones then are contented. To rob, with us, is as bad as to kill. An Eskimo will do neither. 180 ' Koliliguk Contributes. I am Hinuk-Koliliguk, "Conjuror of Cape- lin;" That ivas my name. I am Christian now, And my Christian name is Enoch. I know that all conjurors fool themselves. And so they fool the people ; That the tales they tell are silly tales. The missionaries have said it. It is that some have wonderful dreams ; They believe them, and tell the people. It is also that when the people are ill And the conjurors think they can make them well. They almost always do so — So the people believe in the conjurors ; And the conjurors believe in themselves. And it is true they have knowledge : They know what is good for the body And know what is evil for it. My father was a conjuror, And my father's father before him; And both of them were honest men. I would have known no better. Had I not learned at the Mission. But you have asked me to tell the old tales: I will tell some of them truly. For the friendship of you, who ask it. 181 It is told that a long, long time ago, A strange tribe came in the summer To make war on our people, And drove them from our fishing-ground, AVhich was on the Bay of Siglick. To the North, the land is very high And on the high land is a mountain. It is more than a long day's journey To climb from the sea to the mountain top. To this mountain our people fled, Guided by their conjuror. They found very little there to eat And soon were near to starving. So they came to their conjuror and com- plained ; And he went into his topek. And after a time came out to them And promised them food on the morrow. On the morrow, he led them forth And further up the mountain ; And when they had come to a bed of snow, This he said to the people: ' ' Dig in this snow and you will find food ; Good food is there in plenty." The people did as he bade them; And in the snow they found a whale, 182 The flesh of it hard frozen. They ate the skin, and then the meat, And did not lack again for food Until the winter found them, Driving the strange men from the shore. So that they might return there. It was believed that the frozen whale Came at my ancestor 's bidding ; That he had conjured it from the sea. And all of them paid tribute. And it is true the whale was there : I, myself, have seen its bones High up on the mountain ; But I do not believe as they believed — I no longer believe in conjuring; And I have, too, another reason : It is said two conjurors tried their strength. And that the one of them boasted : ' ' I can turn the dry land into sea. ' ' And the other conjuror answered, "Then I would make it dry land again." And the first got into his kayak And went out over the water, Chanting loud with every stroke Till the people no longer heard him. 183 And the sea rolled in, and the people ran, The other conjuror with them. They had not believed it could be done And were near to paying for it. As the conjuror led the way for them He conjured harder and harder, And soon the waters ceased to rise, And finally receded. Then both the conjurors agreed With all the angry people That they would not repeat such things. And so they were forgiven. And it is true the sea once was Where now is land. I can show you Where you may find marks of the sea Upon our highest mountain. Can show you there both shells and bones — Bones of whales and fishes. Of a truth, the land is growing; The sea does not rise to where it did In the days when I was younger ; * And the marks of the sea are everywhere From the shore to the top of the mountain. And that is my other reason : For if the sea once covered the land. It might have lodged a whale there High up, where my people found it ; 184 And the cold and snow might keep it sweet To the time they came and ate it — But how the conjuror knew of it No Missionary has answered! cpcpcp Oboloriak Concludes with the Birth of the Moon. A very, very long time ago, There lived a very old woman, Very ugly, very bad tempered. So that the people wished her to die. But she would not die. As time Avent on. She seemed to grow no older. So the people called the conjuror And begged that he would find a way To rid them of their burden. The conjuror then conjured hard, But only learned the woman Possessed a charm he could not beat. The charm lay in her ooloo — Her stone knife used for cleaning, — iMade of some strange, shining stone. Like which there was no other. So then he called his brothers in And conjurors of other tribes That lived beyond the water. And all the conjurors soon came 185 And conjured hard together. And she was busy with a skin, And when they conjured harder She fiew away up in the sky, And carried her ooloo with her. You cannot see the old woman there. But you can see her ooloo, Which is that thing you call ''the moon; And when you cannot see it That shows that she is hunting And has her ooloo with her; And when it comes again to view It shows that she is home again And busy cleaning seal-skins. ciocbcio THE RAINBOW'S END. A Memorial to Unpublished Manuscripts Banished to the Attic. ^ : Unwelcome wanderers upon the face of the earth ; What words of pity, or unseemly mirth, Have greeted thee upon thy weary round. Ere this, thy final resting-place, was found ! 186 'er-burthened with an unknown poet 's name Didst thou start forth upon thy quest for fame, Too fondly trusted mortal hearts to fire And crown with immortality thy sire. Alas! Thy dream to deck a column's head And by the world admiring to be read Had no presentiment of that dire ill, The Editor, of arbitrary will; The Editor, wise harbinger of fate, AYho, armed with power despotic, guards the gate To fame ; greets members old with smiling lips, But slays new applicants with printed slips ! AVith countless scores of those cold legends, thou, '* Returned with thanks," may hide thy sul- lied brow. And pigeon-holed beneath them in the gloom, Remain till time shall bring him to the tomb ; Then may some loved one, loving still thy lord. Gain for him better, if less rich, reward. By resurrecting thee, his fancy's flame, With thee to flick one cobweb from his name. 187 DIG DOWN! . cp I have lived, I have loved, I have labored ; I have garnered both sorrow and bliss ; But there is not a page. From my youth to my age, That I now would be willing to miss. I have vaulted as high as the heavens, I have plunged to the deepest of hells ; I have sounded them all. From each center to wall. To discover where happiness dw^ells. They were sisters three. Pain. Grief, and Sorrow, Who embraced me and pointed the way. Till these Harpies are paid. Not a man nor a maid Can distinguish life's night from its day. We are blind to the greatest of blessings, Till misfortune the knowledge imparts That true happiness dwells, Not in heaven, nor hells : It is hidden deep down in our hearts. 188 LIFE'S TREASURES. cp "Old friends are best." I love the life that's free — To wander, at my will, o 'er land or sea, New scenes to view, New hands to shake. Each journey new New friends to make ; Yet when at last my heart of heart I test, T find it always whispering to me : "Old friends are best." Old friends are best. Though new ones may appear To fill the days with merriment and cheer. To banish care, To yield a store Of pleasures rare Unknown before, Yet when each night I lay me down to rest And count God's blesvsings that I hold most dear, Old friends are best ! 189 POST SCRIPTUM. To O. O. W., F. A. M., and W. N. S. I. ["Three Men in a Boat !"] cp In remembrance of the evil time When Hell had broken out And the little devils, had me by the throat, And you made those little devils climb And put them all to rout And prevented them from capturing my goat ; And one of you supplied an antidote; And one of you insured the leaky boat ; And one of j^ou the wreckage kept afloat, And calked it with his winter-overcoat! ''R. G. T." 190 To TKose Who Care. cp ''R. G. T." is a member of the stafi of the Great Northern Railway Company's Legal Department. He has had an adventurous life, due, perhaps, to his early training as a rail- way telegrapher. The temptation to see the world engendered by that occupation he graphically describes in ''Chained Light- ning," a railroad story of thrilling adventures in ^lexico, just published in book form by the ]\Iacmillan Company, New York. Though a native of Minnesota, ]\Ir. Taber has travelled extensively in Southern Europe. Northern Africa, Labrador and the LTngava country, the Rockies, Mexico, Central and South America; and in his rambles has en- joyed a varied experience as telegrapher and dispatcher, ( pitching ' ' Chained Lightning, ' ' ) and as journalist, editor, theatrical manager, explorer, prospector, miner, and attorney at law. If you have enjoyed reading ''Stray Gold, ' ' order one of the flexible leather-bound copies of the book, as a present for some 191 friend. If you wish a copy of "Chained Lightning" also, remit to us the price, $1.25, and it will be mailed to you. St. Paul Book & Stationery Co., St. Paul, Minn. ^.^